The New York herald. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1840-1920, 1875-08-07
ASPIRATIONS.


Endor to tho anxious mind Of Saul, and of
the ghost Of Hercules to Ulysses, and OF the
weird sisters to Macbeth, the existence of
apparitions has been problem to the scien-
titic and the devout. Like the evil genius
which came to Manfred these appartions
sometimes appear as ga dusk and awful
figure" Sometimes it is as an old man COW
cred with a mantle sometimes it is voice
speaking out of the darkness, the voice of
familiar and loved friend bidding the nearer
prepare for death sometimes MS Martin
Luther testified, they come in the form OF the
incarnate fend himself. How far these
legends, which begin with the beginning OF
literature and find their counterpart in the
stories of everyday life, are the results of the
imagination, or of irritability of the nervous
system or of legerdemain, it would be too
curious a problem for us to solve. We have
had apparitions from the beginning, and we
suppose we shall have them to tho end
Every poet ana every dreamer and every
poor, foolish prophet and philosopher, like
the unfortunate Robert Dale Owen, who went
clean daft the other day because the spirit of
Katie King turned out to be mschievous
vagabond playing upon his credulity will
have theory as to their origin.
We are disposed to believe in apparitions
more devoutly from the Appearances that we
have seen in our political life during the last
few years. How many really dead men, SO
dead that the inscriptions on their monuments
are moss-covered, do we see moving to and
fro over the face of the EARTH There was
the ghost of Braxton Bragg, whom we remem-
Der in our early childhood days as the hero
of one of Zachary Taylor's legends. This
ghost was seen walking in Texas not many
months ago. It's conversations were actually
written down and printed in the journals of
the day. Yet everybody knows that Braxton
Bragg has been dead these many long years,
that he died even before the rebellion, and
that he was duly buried. From Kentucky we
have a strange story describing the appear
ance of the ghost of Cassius NJ. Clay. This
singular apparltion fioated into the hall of
democratic convention and made speech,
which was published at the time After the
speech the phantom vanished into darkness.
Everybody knows that Cassius M. Clay died
in the far distant Russia, amid the snow and
cold, and that the hyperborean blasts of the
merciless North sing requiem over his
grave Only the other day we read in great
detail how the spirit of one who was distin-
guished in his day was gently floating from
town to town in Texas, followed by groups
of admiring friends, mainly women, and
speaking in deep, dull, sepulchral voice.
This was no other than the apparition of the
famous Jefferson Davis, whose death we all
remember, for it was a fall that made great
noise in the land. This uneasy ghost seems
to be doomed forever to walk the earth,
probably as an expiration for his sin. AS he
has been seen in Texas there is no reason
why he should not make his appearance in
New York.
Here, buried away in the corner of the
column of sporting intelligence, We find
another strange story to the effect that the
npparition of the late Ben Butler was seen
on board of yacht off the coast of Massa-
chusetts sailing in q match against another
yacht commanded by the ghost of once
According to the story these phantom ships.
commanded by phantom captains, ran merrily
before the wind and vanished into the waves.
Yet we know that Benjamin F. Butler was
gathered to his fathers last November and
that Rufus Hatch fell before the destroying
arm of Jay Gould And here, all the way from
Ohio, we hear of two apparitions taking part
in the canvass. There is the ghost of the
blatant Sam Carey, who died q republican
and temperance orator about twenty years
ago. His phantom is now preaching democ-
racy, reputation and unlimited grog to the
untcrrifed politicians. The other is the gen.
lie, benign apparition of Pendleton-the
courteous, lamented Pendleton-who was
suffocated under O mass of irredeemable paper
currency some six years ago, and who hos
been resting in peace during these recent tur-
moils. Now his gentle ghost visits the scene
of his former labors and vexes the souls of the
Aliens and Humans.
Coming to our own city, we have other ap-
partitions. There was probably no death more
lamented Attic time than that of our glorious
old friend, Uncle Dick, who died full of years
and wealth and fortune, and was buried in the
national capital in the crypt intended for
Washington, at the end of the short term of
Congress We dwell fondly upon our recol-
lections of Uncle Dick. We recall that benip-
nant smile that illuminated Wall street, the
wit that once set tables in q roar, the enthu-
siasm that frightened every dark hour, that
courageous intellect which took the whole
world in its grasp and dealt with kingdoms
and dynasties as our ordinary operators now
do with telegraph shares and mining stocks.
But he has gone, and his soul is with
the saints, we trust, and here is his ghost
striding the street even as he lived, and in
cold earthly tone advocating the formation