Litchfield enquirer., 1857-04-02
The Last House in c. Street.

| l am not a believer Tn 6n0SLS III general l sec no good in them They comc--that is, are reported to come-so irrevclantly, purposely- so ridiculonsly, in short-tlat one's common sense as regards this world, ones supernatural fense of the other, are alike reyeted. Then nine out of ten capital ghost stories are so easily accounted for and in thc tenth, when all natural explanation fails, one who has etls- covered the extraordinary lfficulty there Is m all society in getting hold of that very slippery article called fao, is strongly inclined to shake dubious head, circulating, Evidence a qucston of evidence
 But my unbclief springs from no dogged or contemptuous skcpticism as to the possibility ]; ! however great the improbability--of that strange impression upon, or communication to, spirit ill matter, from spirit wholly immatcrial- zed, which is yulgarly called a ghost.' There is no crcdulity more blind no ignorance more childish, than that of the sage who tries to measure heaven and earth, and the things under the earth, with the two-foot rule of his own brains. Dare we presume to argue col- corning any mystery of the universe, It is ill., applicable, and therefore, impossible Promising these opinions, though simply as opinions, aln about to relate what l must confess is to me thorough ghost story t; its external and circumstantiai evidence being in- disputablr whilst its physiological causes and results, though not easy of explanation, arc still more difficult to be explained away. The ghost, Ike Hamlet's, was an honest ghost From her daughter-an old lady, whe, bless
 her good and gentle memory has since lcarucd the secrets of all things-l learnt this yeritable tale. My dear' said Mrs. MacArihur to melt was in the early days of table-moving, when young folk ridiculed and elder foked were shocked at the notion of calling up onc's de- parted ancestors into ones dinner-table, and learning the wonders of the angelic world by 1 the bobhings of hat, or the twrlings of plate ;-' My dcar,' continued the old lady, I do not like playing at ghosts
 Why not Do you believe in them?' "A little'
 Did you ever sec one 7
 Never. But once hcard-'
 She looked serious, as if she hardly liked to speak about it, either from sense of awe, or l from fear of ridicule. But no one could have lauged at any illusions of the gentle old lady, who never uttered a harsh or satrical word to 1 living soul and this evident awe was rather remarkable in one who had large stock of 1 common sense, little wonder, and no ideality l was rather curious to hear Mrs. MacAr- thurs ghost story.
 My dear, it was long time ago, so long that you may fancy forget aud confuse the circumstances But I do not. Sometimes 1 think one recollects more clearly things that happened in ones tecns--l was eighteen that year--than great many nearer events. And besides, had other reasons for remembering vividly every thing belonging to this time--for 1 was in love, you must know
 l She looked at mo with wild deprecating smile, as if hoping my youthfulness would not consider the thing so very impossible or ridicu- lous. No was all interest at once. In love with Mir. MacArthur,' I said, scarcely as a question, being at that Arcadan 1 time of life when one takes as q natural neces- sity, and believes as an undoubted truth, that every body marries his or her first love-
 No, my dear not with Mir. MacArthur" l was so astonishcd, so completely dumb 1 foundercd--for 1 had woven a sort of ideal round my good old frieud-that I'sutfered Mrs. 1 MacArthur to knit in silence for full five mi,l- | utes. My surprise was not lesseaed when she said, with little smile
 He was young gentleman of good parts | and he was very fond of me. Proud too, rather. For though you might not think it, my dear, l was actually beauty in those ! days'
 had very little doubt of it. The slight 1.-the figure, the tiny hands and fcct-if you had walked behind Mrs. MacArt.,ur you | might have taken her for a young woman still Certainly, people lived slower and easier in the last generation than in ours
 Yes, was tAe beauty of Bath Mr Es- crest fell in love with me there. l was much gratifed; for I had just been reading Miss Burncy's Ceeilia, aud thought kim exactly like Mortimer Delville. X very pretty tale, Ceciiia did you ever read it ?
 'No.' And, to arrive at her tale, leaped to the oRly conclusion which could reconcile the two facts of her having had a lover named Everest, and being now Mrs. MacArthur. Was it his ghost you sawH
 No, my dear, nc thank goodness, he is alive still. He calls hesc sometimes; he has been good friend to our family Ahv with a slow shake of the head, half pleased, half pensive, you would hardly believe, my dear, what very pretty fellow he was.
 One could scarcely smile at the odd phrase, pertaining to last-century novels and to the loves of our greatgrandmothers. I listened patiently to the wandering "reminiscences which still further delayed the ghost story
 But, Mrs. MacArthur, was it in Bath that you say or heard what think you were going to tell me! The ghost, yoa know? Don't call it that it sounds as if yon were laughing at it. And you must not, for 1t is really true as true as that sit here, an } old lady of seventy-6ve and that then Eas ? young gcntlewoman of eighteen. Nay, my dear, T will tell you all about it. , We had been staying in London, my father
 and mother, Mir. Everest, and l. Hs had persuaded them to take me he wanted to
 show me little of the world though it was but a marrow world, my dear--for he vas a
 law student, living poorly and working hard.