# Sylvester Sound the Somnambulist/Chapter 4

CHAPTER IV.
THE CHURCHYARD.
As the world has ever been governed by mysteries—by mysteries amazed—by mysteries amused—by mysteries excited, subdued, and kept in awe—he, who could be, by his hopes of immortality, prompted to grapple with, to open, and to spread completely out, the philosophy of mystery, would be, beyond all dispute, hailed by the mysterious as a benefactor to his species. It wouldn't, however, do here: there isn't room for it: and even if there were, such a profound interference with the progress of this history wouldn't be exactly correct; but that a mystery is an affair which doth exercise over the human mind an immense amount of influence is manifest in this, that upon the mysterious piece of business in question, Aunt Eleanor, during the whole morning dwelt.
She couldn't make it out!—and in the fact of its being apparently impossible to be made out, consists the chief beauty of a mystery:—she sent for her reverend friend, but he could throw no light at all upon the subject; feeling, however, bound to do something, he benevolently proffered his advice.
"With respect," said he, "to the horse affair, I have nothing whatever to say, being utterly unable to conjecture with justice either how it occurred, or who could have been the man, but, as far as the pastry matter is concerned, I have a few words of advice to offer. The same thing occurred to me some years ago, when I kept an academy near Chat Moss. I was constantly losing my pastry. Night after night it went with all the regularity imaginable. I couldn't tell how, but it went. I used even to lock the pantry-door and keep the key in my chamber: still it continued to go. Well, at length resolved to discover, if possible, the cause of all this, I, one evening, introduced a little gentle jalap, and patiently waited the result, which was this, that in the morning there was not a single youth in the establishment perfectly free from qualms! I then at once saw how the matter stood, of course! and although I took no apparent notice of the circumstance, my pastry was thenceforward safe. They wouldn't eat it, even when placed before them!—I couldn't ​persuade them to touch it! I therefore advise you, my dear madam, strongly to adopt the same course. It is certain to cure them! I know I have proved it to be a specific!"
Aunt Eleanor smiled: she moreover blushed: and, in order to hide that blush, she went to the sideboard, and having got out a decanter of sherry, placed it before him with a glass and some cake. The very sight of the wine—of which he was fond—made the reverend gentleman eloquent; but the moment he had tasted it down went the glass, and he made up one of the most extraordinary faces ever beheld!—he screwed up his nose, and compressed his lips, and while drawing the corners right down to his chin, looked precisely as if he had been taking something filthy.
"Good gracious!" exclaimed Aunt Eleanor, laughing; for really the pastor's face was irresistibly droll—"what on earth is the matter?"
The reverend gentleman shuddered and grunted, and shook his head, and pointed to the glass on the table, with the view of intimating his strong disapprobation of the wine.
"Do you not like the flavour of it?"
"No-o-o-o!" replied the reverend gentleman, shuddering, with even more violence than before. "It's phy-z-z-zic!"
"Dear me!" said Aunt Eleanor, "why, it came out of the very same bin as the last!"
The reverend gentleman did not care much about what particular bin it came out of—all he cared about was its peculiar flavour—which flavour really was, in his judgment, bad.
"Some trick has been played with that wine," he observed, as soon as he was able to unscrew his mouth, "depend upon it some trick has been played."
"Impossible, my dear sir!" exclaimed Aunt Eleanor, rising for a glass, with the view of tasting it herself. "Why, what!" she added, on putting her lips to it "what, in the name of goodness, can it be?"
"Filthy, isn't it?" observed the pastor.
"Filthy!" exclaimed Aunt Eleanor, and burst at once into a merry peal of laughter. "Excuse me," she added, as soon as she could; "pray excuse me: I know that I am very, very rude, but you really do make such a funny face!"
Well, that, in the reverend gentleman's view, was rich. He would, at that particular moment, have felt great pleasure in being informed what man, possessing anything like a palate, could swallow—as he had swallowed—half a glass, or more, of that stuff, without making up a face, which might be denominated fairly funny.
"Well," said Aunt Eleanor, who had been highly amused, and who then rang the bell, "we must rectify this."
"You will never be able to rectify that!" said the reverend gentleman; "that's past all rectification."
Aunt Eleanor—albeit, not much in the habit of laughing—laughed heartily again: and when Mary appeared, she gave her the key of the cellar, with the most tranquil face she could assume, and directed her to bring up a bottle of sherry.
​The pastor looked at Mary, with an expression which seemed to indicate that he strongly suspected that she had been at that decanter. Mary, however, took no notice of this: she received her instructions, and then left the room.
"It's really very unfortunate," said Aunt Eleanor, "that you should have tasted the very first glass out of that particular bottle!"
"My dear madam," returned the pastor, "depend upon this that I have not had the first glass."
"It was decantered yesterday: it has not since been touched."
"To your knowledge, it may not have been; but it strikes me forcibly that some one has been at it, substituting vinegar, or something of that sort, for three or four glasses of the wine."
"Oh! I should say." rejoined Aunt Eleanor, "that there was something in the bottle before the wine was put in."
The reverend gentleman, however, still adhered strictly to his original opinion, which the wine in the fresh bottle tended to confirm. That as something like wine! and he said so: he, moreover, drank half a pint of it, in order to take the taste of the other out of his mouth; and when this had been effectually accomplished, he briefly reverted to his gentle specific, and then, with many expressions of high consideration, took his leave.
Sylvester, during the whole of this time, was sleeping soundly on the sofa. He had been prevailed upon by his aunt to lie down immediately after he had made that apology for a breakfast: and, as, when he rose, which was not until just before dinner, he ate heartily again, all his fond aunt's apprehensions vanished.
He still, however, looked very languid and pale; and, in order to raise his spirits, she related what had occurred to her reverend friend, and then dwelt more at large upon the mysteries which characterised the preceding night; and after having indulged in a variety of conjectures, of which the majority were very ingenious she ordered the chaise, took him out for a drive, and then made every effort that affection could suggest, to amuse and to cheer him in the evening.
About nine o'clock, however, feeling very much fatigued, he retired to rest. Aunt Eleanor in general went to bed at ten, and so did the servants, usually; but on this particular occasion, cook and Mary—peace between them and Judkius not having been proclaimed—sat alone till past eleven, over a bright kitchen fire, conversing on the subject of recent events, and relating a variety of ghost stories to each other in justification of their respective views. These stories, which are always of a deeply interesting character, made them shudder; and, as some of them were indeed awful, they were aspired with so much dread, that they both felt extremely unwilling to move. They had, moreover, been so intent upon these tales of the imagination, that the candle burned down to the socket unperceived; for while cook, who retained the poker in her hand, kept on stirring the fire continually, Mary's eyes were fixed upon the brightest of the coals, in which she detected with much ingenuity the outlines of divers extraordinary faces.
At length, the wick, deserted by that pure flame which had enveloped ​it so long, and by which it had been so uninterruptedly warmed, sighed forth its dying breath. Cook smelt this: it reached her nostrils first; and, as experience had taught her to know in an instant what it was, she turned, on the impulse of the moment, with the view of consigning it at once to the fire. She had scarcely, however, touched the candlestick which contained it, when her blood chilled with horror, for she heard distinctly footsteps approaching. Mary heard those footsteps, too; but they had not time to glance at each other, before the kitchen-door absolutely opened, and they beheld a tall figure enveloped in a sheet. They tried to scream, but could not: terror had struck them dumb. They had risen from their seats, but stood utterly appalled.
The figure, apparently unconscious of their presence, now glided gradually through the kitchen, and turning into the passage which led to the pantry, disappeared. But, although they could not see it then, neither could speak, for they plainly heard it still.
Anon the figure again appeared, and their blood grew apparently colder than before; and while their strained eyeballs seemed ready to burst, they stood as if to that particular spot they had been absolutely riveted! Still the apparition seemed not to perceive them: it glided without turning its head back to the door at which it had entered, and when it had closed it with the utmost care, they saw the appalling spectre no more.
Now, although they were still half-dead with fright, and continued to tremble with unexampled violence, the very instant the figure had vanished, and all had become quite silent again, they simultaneously uttered a series of screams, of the loudest and most piercing character.
Sleeping, as he did, immediately over the kitchen, Judkins heard these frightful screams, and conceiving, from their nature, that they did, in reality, mean something, he leaped out of bed, and rushed into the passage: but as, by the light of the moon, he perceived, indistinctly, the figure approaching, he rushed back again without any loss of time; and, having locked his door in the twinkling of an eye, buried himself beneath the bedclothes in a state of indescribable terror.
The short space of time which the whole of this occupied, was indeed amazing. He had never displayed so much alacrity before—he had never in his life made so much haste. Under any other conceivable circumstances, he must have been utterly astonished at himself! he stopped for nothing—he was wonderfully active; no one who knew him could, for a moment, have imagined that he had so much activity in him.
The screaming, however, continued still; and, at length, Aunt Eleanor, throwing a cloak around her, descended with her night-lamp, to ascertain the cause. She experienced no difficulty, of course, in discovering from what particular part of the house those screams proceeded: she knew at once that they came from the kitchen, and hence, to the kitchen she quickly repaired; but the moment she lifted the latch of the door, cook and Mary sank upon their knees, and convulsively buried their faces in their hands.
"Why, what in the name of goodness," said Aunt Eleanor, "can be ​ The Ghost Stories interrupted.
​the meaning of all this! cook—Mary—Mary! Answer me, instantly—what does it mean?"
Cook, who at first imagined that the figure had returned, now summoned sufficient courage to raise her head; and the first words she uttered, were—"The gho-o-o-ost!"
"The what!" cried Aunt Eleanor.
"Oh, ma'am!" said Mary; "oh, my good gracious me! Oh, we've been frightened to death, ma'am—a ghost has been here, ma'am—a real ghost! oh!"
"Nonsense, Mary; how can you be so simple?"
"We saw it come in, ma'am," interposed cook; "and we saw it go out. Oh, it was—horrid!"
"Tut, tut—what on earth can be the matter with you both?"
"We saw it, ma'am—indeed we did!—we both of us saw it, ma'am, with our own eyes!"
"You saw it in imagination, merely. But, how is it that you are not in bed before this? Why it's half-past eleven o'clock! Have you both been asleep?"
"No ma'am," replied cook, "Mary and me have been talking."
"I perceive—I perceive it all clearly; you have been talking about ghosts: now tell me the truth, is it not so?"
"We had been talking about what we'd heard, ma'am; but as to this! I never saw anything plainer in my life."
"Ridiculous, cook: I am surprised that a person of your years should not know better! What's that!" she exclaimed, on hearing a noise above, produced apparently by the falling of some heavy weight. "Ring the gardener's bell. There is something going on, which 1 don't understand. Ring the bell."
"Ye-e-es, ma'am." said Mary, who, having been filled with fresh alarm by the noise above, was afraid to move even to the rope—"I am so frightened!"
Aunt Eleanor herself rang the bell, but no answer was returned. She rang it again with additional violence, and again!—and again!—still no answer. She couldn't of course pretend to account for it. She thought it very strange; and as the world at large may also think it strange, it will be, perhaps, as well at once to explain the real cause.
It has been already stated that it was not long before Judkins got into bed again. Nor was it. He got in any how. Nor did he care how! he wasn't particular. His object was to get into bed, and he got in. But, being extremely anxious to conceal himself effectually, he darted beneath the clothes, which were all on one side, and there lay for a time motionless upon the very brink of the bedstead. Of this fact, however, he was perfectly unconscious, and therefore, when he did attempt to turn, he fell heavily upon the floor. That the ghost had induced this, he at that awful moment had not the slightest doubt. But he was into bed again in an instant, and there—of course utterly heedless of the bell—he remained in perfect silence, until his mistress, tired of ringing, came up to his bedroom door and knocked.
​Judkins started! The knock alone seemed to convulse his whole frame. "Oh!" he exclaimed, "what have I done? what have I done? what have I done?"
"Judkins!" said his mistress, but as she had caught cold, her voice was not sufficiently clear to be recognised, "Judkins!"
"Leave me," he continued, "for heaven's sake leave me! I know I'm a miserable sinner, but leave me! Go somewhere else: you've mistaken the room: indeed you have: you have, I assure you!"
When Mary and cook—who had followed their mistress closely, for then they would not have lost sight of her for the world—heard these awful words uttered, they felt quite convinced that, whatever mistake the ghost might have made, he was then in the room with Judkins. They were sure of it!—perfectly sure: and conceiving that their mistress must have inspired the same conviction, they implored her, in trembling whispers, to retire. But no!—her mind was firm! She was resolved to know, if possible, the cause of this delusion, and, therefore, knocked loudly again at the door.
"Oh, pray go away," said Judkins, bitterly, "pray do!"
"Judkins!" exclaimed Aunt Eleanor, "Judkins!—'tis I!—your mistress!"
"You, ma'am! Oh, thank heaven! is it you?"
"Yes, 'tis I. What is the matter? Dress yourself instantly, and open the door."
Judkins, who felt of course greatly relieved, threw off the bedclothes, and slipped on his smalls, but when, pale and trembling, he opened the door, his countenance bore still an expression of terror.
"What is this, Judkins?" demanded Aunt Eleanor, "what can be the meaning of it all?"
"Oh," replied Judkins, who felt very ill, "the house is haunted: I know it is.—I've seen," he added, in a harsh unearthly whisper, "I've seen a horrid ghost."
"Where?" said Aunt Eleanor, "I have really no patience with you: where did you see it?"
"There!" replied Judkins, still in a whisper, pointing to the passage with startling effect, "There!"
"Are you all mad!" exclaimed Aunt Eleanor, perceiving that they looked towards the passage, as if apprehensive of the "ghost's" re-appearance; "or is it all done to alarm me? There is," she added, with an expression of intensity, "there is something, I fear, beneath the surface of this. If you have any bad design—if you are actuated by any unhallowed notions—if you have conspired together with the view of accomplishing any wicked object—pray, before you retire to rest, that heaven may turn your hearts!"
With all the eloquence of which they were capable, they implored her to believe that they were attached to her sincerely—that they had been, and would continue to be, faithful to the last—and that the proceedings of that awful night, were ascribable, justly, to no wicked motive—no base conspiracy—no bad design.
"I will speak to you all," she observedj "in the morning; but if—I ​say if—you have conspired together with any wicked object in view, may heaven forgive you. Good night."
She then returned to her chamber and locked the door, leaving them greatly distressed at the idea of its being supposed that they had entered into any such conspiracy. They very soon, however, reverted to the ghost, when Judkins exclaimed, with all the fervour at his command—"If I didn't see it, why I didn't; but if I didn't—I'm dumb!"
"We saw it, too," said cook.
"You did?"
"It came into the kitchen!"
"Didn't it look horrid?"
"Oh, hideous! Did you see it's face?"
"The figure was quite enough for me. I think I see it now!"
"Where!" cried Mary. "Oh—don't frighten us. Where?"
"No, no; I mean that I shall never forgot it! But let us go to bed: missis is angry—I know she's angry; I never saw her angry before—but I'm sure she's no cause! One may be wrong—two may be wrong—but we can't all be wrong. We all of us saw it; nothing can get over that! But, good night—good night."
Cook and Mary then retired, and when, with hearts still full of fear, they had got into bed, Mary went to sleep with this expression on her lips—"I'm sure I shall not get a wink to-night."
Now, while these scenes were being enacted at the cottage, dreadful excitement prevailed near the church, and as it is essential to the due appreciation of the cause of this excitement, that the whole of the particulars should be known, it will be correct to state those particulars here, with the names of the persons excited.
It happened then, that on that very evening, a party of influential men had assembled at a house, of which the sign was "The Crumpet and Crown." This party consisted of Messrs. Blinkum, Pokey, Bobber, Snorkins, and Quocks, who were joined by another highly influential person, named Obadiah Drant, who was really an immense politician!—who could tell what the Emperor of China thought, and what were the strictly private feelings of the Czar—who had the faculty of going over much more ground in the space of five minutes, than the Wandering Jew ever did in five years—and whose intimate associates appeared to be persons whom he called Billy Pitt, Harry Brougham, Johnny Russell, Charley Fox, and Bobby Peel.
It may moreover be remarked—for it is remarkable—that in England we very seldom meet with a church without perceiving a public-house at hand. Sometimes it is opposite, sometimes next door, and sometimes even in the very churchyard. But whatever the relative positions may be, they are almost invariably found to be within a few yards of each other, as if every inhabitant, like every representative of Cato, were expected to exclaim, "My bane and antidote are both before me!" Some, indeed, may ascribe this remarkable association to the spirits, and some may attribute it solely to the beer; to some it may suggest the idea of those bosom friends—brandy and bitters—while others may imagine that the common announcement of "Good entertainment for man and ​beast," refers to the two establishments; but whatever may be the meaning of this association, it is perfectly certain that the Crumpet and Crown was within twenty yards of the church—that the party assembled at the Crumpet and Crown had to go through that very churchyard—and that although the house was usually closed at ten, the argument in which they were engaged was not finished at eleven. They had still one little point to settle; a point, which they felt it to be their duty to settle before they parted, it being neither more nor less than "How the country could be saved from a sanguinary revolution?" Mr. Blinkum contended that unless a law were passed to protect the British butcher, an universal slaughter would be inevitable. Mr. Bobber thought that a poll-tax might avert it. Mr. Pokey begged to say, and to have it understood, that it could he averted only by an equitable adjustment; and while Mr. Snorkins declared it to be his unbought opinion, that it was to be done by an alteration in the iron trade alone, Mr. Quocks maintained that it could be done only by an immediate and unconditional repeal of the corn-laws. Eventually, however, Mr. Obadiah Drant recapituated the various arguments adduced, and having summed up with all his characteristic perspicuity, delivered his judgment to the effect that—Nothing could save this mighty nation from one chaotic mass of unextinguishable flames!
The point in question having thus been decided to the entire satisfaction of all concerned, the party broke up; and all, with the exception of Obadiah, who would have a glass at the bar, left the house, and proceeded homewards through the churchyard.
The churchyard! To the contemplative, how awful is a churchyard at midnight, when a solemn stillness pervades the scene over which, for a time, Death reigns triumphant! Who, without inspiring feelings of awe, can, at such a time reflect, that beneath the surface of that solemn scene, hearts that have throbbed with love, sympathy, and joy, and those from which sprang only baseness and crime, together perish?—that the marrowless bones of the noble and the base, the virtuous and the vicious, the intellectual and the animal, the lofty and the lowly, the generous and the selfish, the philanthropist and the misanthrope, lie levelled: some fleshless, some crumbled into dust, some crumbling fast, and some cased in corruption still; but all levelled, or distinguished only by the vanity of the living; while Death, upon the loftiest tomb, sits grinning at the distinction, conscious that they are all levelled, and that thus they will remain till the last trump shall sound, when his power will cease for ever?
Perhaps no one. But to those who had just left the Crumpet and Crown this scene was not awful at all. These reflections then did not occur to them—they didn't reflect upon anything of the sort. They wore all elated, thoughtless, careless, fearless: that is, they feared nothing, seeing nothing to fear: they were joyous, merry, happy, generous, friendly, and affectionate. But when they had got half way across the churchyard, Pokey, who was somewhat in advance of the rest, started back, with a look of horror, and with frightful effect exclaimed, "What's that?"
​"What's what?—what do you mean?" demanded Snorkins.
"Look there!" returned Pokey, with vehemence, pointing to a tall, white figure, which appeared to be contemplating the tombs.
And they did look there: and on the instant terror seized them. Two ran back to the Crumpet and Crown, and the rate at which they ran surpassed everything on record in the annals of running; but the rest didn't run, because they couldn't. They stood, as if struck with paralysis; they were as pale as any spectre could hope to be; and while their hearts ceased to perform their natural functions, and their quivering lips were livid with fear, their knees smote each other with a species of violence altogether unexampled. Well, what was to be done? There it was: a real, regular ghost! There was no mistake about it: there couldn't exist two opinions on the subject; but what was to be done? Should they run?—they couldn't. Should they call out?—they couldn't. Well, were they to stop there and watch till it vanished? They didn't at all like to do so, but what else could they do? Nothing. There they remained, and while they were there, in a state of speechless terror, Obadiah Drant, being a valiant man, on hearing the facts of the case stated by Bobber and Quocks, who had run back so bravely to the Crumpet and Crown, seized a carving-knife which lay near a huge round of beef, and while flourishing it boldly declared, with that vehemence for which he was distinguished, that as he cared no more for a ghost than he did for Bobby Peel, he'd go at once and "settle the swell!" which really was a very irreverent expression, and therefore extremely incorrect. But, seeing such valour displayed, Legge, the landlord, who had never seen a ghost, but who had a great desire to see one, did offer to accompany Obadiah Drant, and, despite the remonstrances of Mrs. Legge, actually quitted the house with him, leaving Bobber and Quocks to fill Mrs. Legge's mind with all sorts of horrors.
Legge, however, on reaching the churchyard, perceived that Obadiah somewhat relaxed, and, on mentioning this with all the delicacy of which he was capable, Obadiah pronounced this opinion:—That as spectres were "not sensible to feeling as to sight," it would not be at all a fair match. Still—with an assumption of valour, which was, in reality, a stranger to his heart—he went on: but he had no sooner reached the spot on which his friends stood, and beheld the white figure distinctly before him, than the carving-knife dropped, and he fell upon his knees, which would not then allow him to stand.
But Legge, who assumed nothing, was comparatively calm. He saw the figure and believed it to be a spirit, and therefore his heart did not beat with its wonted regularity, still, compared with the rest, he was tranquil and firm, he even proposed to approach the "spirit," and to ascertain, if possible, why it had appeared; but not one would accompany him—not one could accompany him—and, having at home a wife and five children, he didn't think it would be exactly prudent for him to go alone.
"But come, come!" said he, "we have nothing to fear. We have murdered no one, robbed no one, injured no one—why should we fear? It will not harm us. It may have something to communicate—some ​secret perhaps, which, until it has been revealed, will not allow it to rest. Let us go."
At this moment the figure—which, during the whole of the time, had been moving slowly from tomb to tomb—came towards them; but, as it advanced, they simultaneously receded, and continued to recede, looking constantly behind them, until they reached the gate, which they had no sooner passed, than, making themselves up for one grand effort, they darted towards the Crumpet and Crown with all the energy at their command.
The figure, notwithstanding this, continued to advance. It seemed to be in no haste whatever!—it took its own time; and, having passed the gate, appeared to have made up its mind to look in at the Crumpet and Crown. But the moment they perceived this apparent inclination on the part of the "spectre," they closed the door, locked it, shot both the bolts, and then rushed to the window in a state of breathless anxiety. They were not, however, kept here in that state long: they had in fact scarcely reached the window, when they saw it pass slowly and solemnly by, without appearing even to notice the house— which was a comfort to them all: they breathed again, and were again courageous—indeed so courageous that when they felt perfectly sure that it was gone, they went to the door again, in order to watch it. But it was not gone, although it was going, which was, in their judgment, the next best thing. They, therefore, did watch it—nay, they even followed it—at a most respectful distance it is true—still they followed it, and continued to follow it, for nearly twenty yards! when it vanished—they couldn't tell how; but it vanished—and that, too, into Aunt Eleanor's cottage! One thought he saw it walk through the brick wall; another conceived that it flew through the window; a third felt convinced that it opened the door; a fourth imagined that it darted through the pannels; but on the one grand point, they were all agreed—they all saw it enter the cottage.
And didn't they pity Aunt Eleanor? Yes! even from their souls they pitied her; but they returned to the Crumpet and Crown.
"Well!" said Mr. Pokey, "I never see such a job in my life! And didn't it smell?"
"I smelt nothing," observed the landlord.
"What, not brimstone?"
"No: not a bit of it,"
"I can't say as I smelt brimstone," interposed Mr. Bobber: "it seemed like the burning of charcoal, to me!"
"Charcoal!" exclaimed Mr. Blinkum; "it was just, for all the world, like burnt bones. You get the leg-bone of a bullock, and burn it, and see if it won't smell—oh—offal! and it stands to reason, that if the bones of a bullock smell, the bones of a man also will smell likewise."
"But has a spirit bones?" demanded Mr. Bobber.
"Why, if it hadn't, you fool, how could it hold together. A spirit is a skeleton—it must be a skeleton, because spirits have no flesh."
"What do you call it a spirit for?" inquired Mr. Quocks.
"Why, what do you call it?"
​ Mr. Pokey's powerful perception.
​"A ghost, to be sure."
"A ghost!" said Mr. Pokey. "I call it a wision!"
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Mr. Snorkins; "it's a apparition—that's what it is—and I'll bet you glasses round of it—come."
Hereupon Mr. Legge interposed an observation to the effect, that half the difference between ghosts, spirits, visions, and apparitions, wasn't much; but Obadiah, to whom nothing could be unknown, and who was consequently conversant with every species of spectre, contended loudly that the difference between them was as great as the difference between those familiar friends of his, Billy Pitt, Harry Brougham, Johnny Russell, and Bobby Peel. He, moreover, learnedly enlarged upon this; and, having adduced innumerable analogous cases, concluded by observing, with the view of proving the distinction beyond all doubt, that the appearance of "Billy Pitt" would be a spirit—that of "Harry Brougham" a vision—that of "Bobby Peel" an apparition—and that of "Johnny Russell" a ghost.
Meanwhile, the agitation of Mrs. Legge was excessive. Nothing could surpass it! nothing ever equalled it! Certain she was that she never should be able to get through the night. The state of her nerves was altogether frightful! Twenty times during the discussion had she begged of them to leave, but in vain: they could not be prevailed upon to move—they were perfectly deaf to her entreaties, so long as she continued to supply their demands; but when she at length announced her firm determination that they should'nt have another drop in her house that night, if she knew it, they made up their minds to go round by the road, shook Legge by the hand, and departed.
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