Deep grief, especially the grief of bereavement,
not unfrequently acts as a conjuror-up of
the spirits of the departed. I have myself held, in
a dream, no doubt, converse with the dead. The
following instance of the extent to which
imagination can carry us with a little assistance, is
more remarkable. A somewhat parallel case is
related by Sir Walter Scott as having occurred
to himself at Abbotsford.

A friend of mine, some years ago, lived
happily in one of the towns of North America.
His family consisted of himself, his wife, two
children, and two of his wife's sisters, one of
whom was married to his brother. My friend
had determined to remove from the town and
take up his residence in a country-house; for
building which all the plans were arranged;
when just as the workmen were about to begin,
his wife sickened and died. He had been
greatly attached to her, and could not endure to
remain even for a few weeks in a house where
every room and piece of furniture reminded
him of the loss he had sustained. He therefore
caused a log-hut to be erected near the site
chosen for the country-house; and, as soon as
the weather would permit, he removed thither
with his family.

Two or three evenings after their arrival in
this new home—long after the children had gone
to bed, and just as the elder members of the family
were about to retire—my friend, who had been
walking up and down the room, came and stood
at one of the windows and looked out upon the
lawn. The candles were lighted upon the table,
and Mr. T. had not stood there many minutes
when he called to his sister, who was just
leaving the room, and said, "Come here,
Ellen, and tell me what you see." She looked
out accordingly, but not wishing to say what
she saw, she merely observed, "I see the lawn,
and the trees at the end of it." "Yes," he
said, "but you see something more." "Well,"
she said, after some hesitation, "I see Fanny
sitting in her arm-chair at the end of the
garden."

They then called the servant, one who had
been long with them, and, without saying
anything to her, bade her look out on the lawn.
"Oh, sir!" she exclaimed immediately, "there
is Mrs. Henry sitting in her chair."

There was now the evidence of three
persons. What they saw could scarcely be an
illusion, and my friend was preparing to go
out and ascertain what the appearance was,
when his sister, taking up the candle, went
into the next room, and the figure instantly
vanished. She came in again, put the light in
its former place, and again the figure appeared.
They then saw that by removing the light and
bringing it back they could make the figure go
and come at their pleasure. After a very short
time they discovered the cause of this strange
effect.

In the drawing-room there was an arm-chair
exactly similar to the arm-chair in which Mrs.
Henry had sat the night before her death. Over
this chair was thrown a lady's dressing-gown, like
the dressing-gown of the deceased. This formed
the robe of the figure. A hearth-brush, which
chanced to have been put out of its right place,
was pushed up in such a manner as that the
border of it seemed to form the frill of a nightcap.
By taking these things away, they removed the
whole apparition; by replacing them exactly,
they built it up again. Had not a mere accident
led to the discovery of the real cause of
this apparition in the garden, the three
witnesses would probably, to their dying days, have
been firmly persuaded that the spirit of Mrs.
Henry had come to visit them in their new
home; and the fact of its having been seen by
three persons would have given weight and
apparent reality to the story. For imagination
had so coloured up the rough fabric of chance,
that it gave the exact likeness of the friend
whom they had lost.

Apparitions of this sort often spring from
some physical derangement, which, acting on
the sight, causes one to see things which really
do not exist, and sometimes to hear sounds
which have not in reality vibrated. Bodily
weakness, a disordered state of health, loss of
blood, will often produce organic deceptions of
this class.

A lady-friend of mine told me a curious
instance of this, which happened to her own maid.
The young woman, who was subject to inflammation
of the lungs, had generally to be leeched
when these attacks came on. Frequently after
the loss of blood she would see persons and
things which she knew perfectly at the time
could not be real. During the Crimean war she
and her mistress were residing in an hotel in
Constantinople, and the maids' workroom, which
was a very small one, was at the top of the
house, while the bedrooms were below. The
door of this room did not fasten very well—
no uncommon occurrence in Turkish hotels.
She often missed little articles, such as
cottons, scissors, and so forth, and naturally
wished to discover by whom they were taken.
One day, while weak from recent illness and loss
of blood, she went up-stairs to fetch something
for her mistress, and on entering the room
perceived a man seated on a corner of the sofa.
Her first thought was that she had caught the
thief in the act; but the next moment, perceiving
the illusion, and determining to overcome
it, she walked straight up to the place where
the man seemed to be, with his eyes fixed on
her. As she approached, the figure appeared to
glide along the sofa without rising or taking its
eyes from her, until, reaching the other corner,
it remained stationary there. She then went
up to it, and, putting her hand where the head
seemed to be, brought it violently down on the
sofa. Although assured of the deception, she
hurried, pale and trembling, back to her mistress,
to whom she recounted the adventure.

There are other causes, however, for such
apparitions. The early training of young children
has often much to do with them. A
child who has been often frightened by threats
of Bogie, will have its mind so filled with a