at Naples, or a legion of spirits playing at skittles
with the crockery in the kitchen of the King of
Naples? We are not in the habit of denying
such phenomena as a devastating earthquake?
Truly no. But which is the more intelligible,
and the more reconcilable to our humble and
remote knowledge of the workings of the Almighty
Creator of the vast Universe—the earthquake
that swallowed Lisbon, or Mr. Mompesson's
spiritual drummer that "for an hour together would
beat Round-Heads and Cuckolds, the Tat-too,
and several other points of war, as well as any
drummer"? I am very sorry to find, in
connexion with these most ridiculous stories, such a
man as Mr. Owen asking, "If we are to reject
as fable the narratives here submitted, are we
not tacitly endorsing the logic of those who
argue that Jesus Christ never lived?" This
might be well enough for Spiritual Magazines
and such like, but O Mr. Owen, Mr. Owen, do
you find no internal evidence in the New
Testament, of a Divine commission and a Sacred
Truth, a little above Mompesson drummers,
Rochester knockings, and Stockwell breakages
of kitchen-ware?

It is utterly unavailing to collect any number
of names, and parade them as the names of
people who believe or who have believed in any
manifestation whatsoever, opposed to the
common sense and experience of mankind. Dr.
Johnson and many persons of his time,
considerably above the average in respect of intellect
and acquirement, believed in the Cock-lane
Ghost. The Cock-lane Ghost happened to be
found out—chiefly because it was so malicious
as to make a very serious charge against an
individual, and consequently imposed a peculiar
responsibility on persistent investigators. Otherwise,
it might not have been found out. But
if the Cock-lane Ghost had not been found out,
would that array of names have any right to
silence me, who utterly deny the spirituality of
Cock-lane? Not in the least. I should not set
merely myself against the names; I should set
against them—possibly with some warmth of
indignation—the reverent experience of mankind
in general, of GOD'S great ways and laws. "What
does the Lord mean by this? I am certainly
dying," said Mrs. Southcote in her extremity.
Had I been at her bedside, along with Mr.
SHARPE the engraver, and other unimpeachable
disciples, I would have taken leave to reply,
"What the Lord means, O Joanna, I, poor child
of clay that I am, do not undertake to say; but
as to what the Lord does not mean, I am
occasionally visited with glimpses of the truth; and
that He never meant to deify you on earth, and
that you cannot hide your swindling old
countenance in earth's kind bosom too soon, I
venture with confidence to asseverate. And I take
the liberty to say this, Mrs. Southcote, you
will please to observe, not in a knowledge of
the Lord's ways, but in a knowledge of your
ways."

O reader, possibly halting between spiritual
evenings in darkened drawing-rooms, and the
broad true world outside, think of that figure of
the dear beloved one dead. Think of the sacred
affections and secrets of the heart that have been
between you and that impassive image. Think
of the parting, think of the hope to meet again,
think of your agony of spirit, of your unspeakable
sorrow, or the struggle you have come
through under no eye but the eye of Heaven.
Then look at the professional lady or gentleman
in the dark corner—the Medium with the
hands on the mahogany table—who will make
you the tour of Europe, and (always with the
aid of a table) raise your beloved one in any
town or city on short notice, to pull any
chatterer by the skirt, or ring a bell, or play a
note or two on an accordion, or drivel out a
platitude in raps for the excitement of exhausted
gentility; and then ask yourself whether this
seems a fitting exponent of your love and
misery; whether this seems a fitting stage in the
progress of the soul; whether these ways are
like the ways of the Providence unto whom
all hearts are open and from whom no secrets
are hid.

To return to Mr. Owen. In the story of Mr.
Thompson, an Apparition of the Living, seen
by Mother and Daughter, the fetch or double
of a man lying in his ordinary night-shirt in
bed, is met by two ladies not specially
interested in him. The fetch is dressed in a blue
frock-coat, black satin waistcoat, black pantaloons,
and hat, with linen particularly fine,
and apparel carefully adjusted. There is the
same comfortable faith that no mistake was
possible in this case, as in every other. The ladies
could not have been deceived as to the person;
the story could not have become exaggerated.
It was certainly the fetch or double of the sick
man whom they met, dressed in his Sunday's
best; logical or illogical, the facts must be
accepted in their integrity. This story opens the
question of a spiritual life in clothes, and how a
ghost could dress itself with scrupulous care, and
with a special attention to its laundry. In the
aforesaid Spiritual Magazine of last month, there
is another story, "What was It?" similar to this
I have quoted from Mr. Owen. A gentleman
and his wife are seen driving in their chaise
along a certain road. They pass their
intimate friends and relations without speaking,
to their infinite terror and confusion; and
when, shortly after, they do actually appear in
good honest beef-fed flesh and blood, every one
cries out, "A ghost, a ghost!" horse, chaise,
rugs, caps, bonnets, reins, wheels—all ghosts
too! The Fata Morgana is a natural fact;
so is the mirage; so are certain stories of
ships, and horsemen, and armies, where never
actual ships or horsemen or armies were, or
could be; but meteorologists explain away all
this class of spectral illusions in a very
satisfactory manner; and I think that the ghostly
horse and chaise, with many other ghostly
circumstances, might also be explained away
scientifically, if worth the trouble of meeting with
gravity and earnestness. And granting even that
we cannot always find out the cause of everything,
is that a reason why we should straightway