intricacies of being, and snatched there- | from secrets dark and dread, now stood vainly and frantically, as of old, seeking for that great central point to which the might of mind ever aspires, yet can never, in mortality, hope to attain. But this man, even within the narrow whirling circle of the human, had he not with desperate hand seized upon the operative power of nature, and profanely wrested its prerogatives to his own wrong purposes? The occult and daring investigations of the physician tended not in the direction of that golden track which leads to the knowledge and development of the harmonies of creation, which is the end and aim of a philosophy holy and wise; but rather, for his heavier curse, in that false path of discordancy and opposition, by which the springs of the great machinery are disordered and broken. After a short space, Dr. Klindinger turned away, and opening a cabinet of inlaid ebony, took from it a little phial filled with a beautiful vermilion liquor, clear and pure as the loveliest rose diamond. He removed the stopper, and an odor so exquisite filled the apartment that it might well seem as if wafted from the bowers of the primal Eden. He poured a few drops into a little cup of crystal water, and entering an inner apartment, approached a couch, upon which lay the motionless figure of the Creole: he lay in a painful and rigid attitude, and it could scarcely be ascertained whether indeed he slept, or was not locked in the clasp of some hideous cataleptic death. The old expression was still on the face, the paleness of which was so intense that one could not but gaze with awe, questioning within himself whether here were not before him the silent and deserted abode of a departed intelligence. The physician stooped over the couch, and gently poured through the half-open lips of its occupant a portion of the red and perfumed liquor. There was an instant movement-the eyes gradually opened, and the frame became instinct with life. The Creole started up with a convulsive movement, and gazed upon the doctor with that look so often described in all its strange and undefinable horror. not, after all, as I have done, those princes of the crucible and furnace." Now another figure appeared in the room, hovering with threatening air over the couch of the Creole. This was a shape dark and shadowy, bearing in every lineament a fearfully exact likeness to the mysterious Diego-a resemblance vivid and distinct indeed, yet with a certain singular dissimilarity. Could it be imagined that the earthly and degraded form of the Creole had actually put on the lucid robe of immortality, leaving behind all the grossness of the mortal frame, then could this strange apparition be easily realized; but there still lay the half-recumbent figure of Diego, looking convulsively upward, and seeming to claim a certain affinity to the shape which hovered above. The physician regarded the dual figures with an expression somewhat approaching to awe, and yet with a mixture of defiance and evil passion impossible to describe. The shadow seemed ever and anon to emit cries of despair; in its lineaments were depicted unutterable misery and pain, yet mingled with a sort of sad and majestic sublimity. "Torment me not!" it was heard to say. "Let the hour of forgiveness come. Thou and I shall meet again!" Gazing down on the horrible aspect of the Creole, it seemed to writhe with agony. Face to face now stood the two, looking fixedly on each other with frenzy nameless and unknown; then the voice sounded no more; the shadowy presence faded into air, and with a sigh of relief the physician walked slowly away. Some days after this inexplicable scene, as Padre Boboli was walking in his cassock from the church, he saw outside the humble hotel of the village a party of travellers, who seemed seeking for a further mode of conveyance on their journey. Just as the padre was about to accost one of the group, he saw crossing the narrow pathway the tall figure of Dr. Klindinger. As he approached, one of the travellers, a man of noble and distinguished air, started back with a look of amazement and terror, as if he could not trust the evidence of his senses. The doctor, on his part, seemed not less startled; he paused, changed color, and finally walked on with hurried steps. The gentleman approached the priest, and said in a very agitated voice: "Of a verity," exclaimed the physician, with a hoarse laugh, "why, old Simon Magus could not have done it better, neither could the great Albertus himself. "May I beg, Signor Padre, that you Ah!" he said in lower tones, "they worked ❘ will give me some information with regard to the person whom I have just now seen -that tall man who has so quickly disappeared ?" "Certainly, signor," said the padre. "That is our resident physician, Dr. Klindinger, a stranger who some time since settled mysteriously in our locality. He is a singular man," continued the padre," as you, signor, might easily learn were I to tell you all I know of him." "Dr. Klindinger!" said the stranger. "Ah! truly good padre, you are mistaken; that undoubtedly is not But," continued he, "I do not wish to say more on this subject." "Truly, signor," said the reverend father impatiently, "it would be desirable that you should, if possible, give every information in your power relative to the said Dr. Klindinger. There are strange rumors abroad with regard to him and his Creole servant-that diabolical being! And methinks it would be more conducive to the benefit of our rustic community had the said Dr. Klindinger never been seen among us." 66 Creole servant, did you say?" questioned the gentleman. "How extraordinary!" He thought for a few moments with evident terror, and then turning to the priest, said: "Good padre, as I and my fellow travellers intend remaining here for the night, I shall, if you condescend to wait upon us, communicate to you all I know of this so-called Dr. Klindinger." The priest called at the appointed hour, was received by the stranger, and then a very singular narrative came to be related. "He, Signor Padre, whom you call Dr. Klindinger, was once known by the name of Arnold von Ebhrenstein, a man famous for his devotedness to the cause of science. Going to one of the West Indian Islands, he there met a young and lovely girl, whom he married, and who was ruined by the base passion of a certain Signor Alonzo de Castro, a Spanish Creole, who had been a discarded lover. A terrible revenge was taken by the frantic husband. Hate seemed to have transformed Arnold von Ebhrenstein into a fiend: he murdered, barbarously murdered this man, and immediately disappeared from the island, taking with him the body of his enemy." "How, signor?" said the priest, with starting eyes; "what do you say? took with him the body of the Creole ?" "Ay, truly, reverend padre, did he; but for what purpose is not understood." The countenance of the priest grew deadly pale; he muttered and crossed himself, the very picture of the most extreme and abject fear. "O signor, signor! this is dreadful !" "Explain, good padre,” said the gentle man. "Did I not tell you, signor, that the doctor had with him a Creole servant-a horrible, hideous being, who is the plague of every one around him?” The stranger listened, half curiously, half fearfully, as if with some hidden thought, which, however, assumed no distinct shape. The priest went on: 66 Signor, have you seen, ever seen this Creole who was murdered ?" "Yes, good padre; he was a man of remarkable appearance-handsome in an eminent degree." That evening the padre contrived, by means of Bianca, to introduce the stranger into the garden of the doctor's residence, where Diego was listlessly wandering up and down. The Creole went on, pacing slowly, then turned round, and revealed fully to the beholders the entire horror of his hideous visage. The stranger uttered a terrible cry, and fell at length totally insensible to the ground. At this moment, attracted by the noise, appeared the pale face of Dr. Klindinger, who beheld with dismay the spectacle before him, whereby he felt convinced the mystery of his life had been, by some strange accident, discovered. Next morning, the lifeless body of Diego was found carefully disposed upon a couch, bearing no trace of its former frightful expression. Of Dr. Klindinger, notwithstanding the most rigorous search made for him in all directions, no further intelligence could be ever after obtained; but he assuredly left behind him recollections, which could not easily be effaced, of both himself and his Creole servant Diego. From Fraser's Magazine. THE LAST HOUSE IN C STREET. "Why not? Do you believe in them?" "A little." "Did you ever see one ?" "Never. But once I heard—” She looked serious, as if she hardly liked to speak about it, cither from a sense of awe or from fear of ridicule. But no one could have laughed at any illusions of the gentle old lady, who never uttered a harsh or satirical word to a living soul; and this evident awe was rather remarkable in one who had a large stock of common sense, little wonder, and no ideality. I AM not a believer in ghosts in general; table, and learning the wonders of the anI see no good in them. They come-that gelic world by the bobbings of a hat or is, are reported to come-so irrelevantly, the twirlings of a plate-" My dear," conpurposelessly-so ridiculously, in short-tinued the old lady, "I do not like playthat one's common sense as regards this ing at ghosts." world, one's supernatual sense of the other, are alike revolted. Then nine out of ten "capital ghost stories" are so easily accounted for; and in the tenth, when all natural explanation fails, one who has discovered the extraordinary difficulty there is in all society in getting hold of that very slippery article called a fact, is strongly inclined to shake a dubious head, ejaculating, "Evidence! a question of evidence!" But my unbelief springs from no dogged or contemptuous scepticism as to the possibility-however great the improbability -of that strange impression upon or communication to, spirit in matter, from spirit wholly immaterialized, which is vulgarly called "a ghost." There is no credulity 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 small two-foot rule of his own brains. Dare we presume to argue concerning any mystery of the universe, "It is inexplicable, and therefore impossible"? Premising these opinions, though simply as opinions, I am about to relate what I must confess is to me a thorough ghost story; its external and circumstantial evidence being indisputable, while its psychological causes and results, though not easy of explanation, are still more difficult to be explained away. The ghost, like Hamlet's, was "an honest ghost." From her daughter an old lady, who, bless her good and gentle memory! has since learned the secrets of all things-I learned this veritable tale. "My dear," said Mrs. MacArthur to me -it was in the early days of table-moving, when young folk ridiculed and elder folk were shocked at the notion of calling up one's departed ancestors into one's dinner I was rather curious to hear Mrs. MacArthur's ghost story. But I do not. "My dear, it was a long time ago-so long that you may fancy I forget and confuse the circumstances. Sometimes I think one recollects more clearly things that happened in one's teens -I was eighteen that year-than a great many nearer events. And besides, I had other reasons for remembering vividly everything belonging to this time-for I was in love, you must know." She looked at me with a mild, deprecating smile, as if hoping my youthfulness would not consider the thing so very impossible or ridiculous. No; I was all interest at once. "In love with Mr. MacArthur," I said, scarcely as a question, being at that Arcadian time of life when one takes as a natural necessity, and believes as an undoubted truth, that everybody marries his or her first love. "No, my dear; not with Mr. MacArthur." I was so astonished, so completely dumb-foundered-for I had woven a sort of ideal round my good old friend—that I suffered Mrs. MacArthur to knit in silence for full five minutes. My surprise was not lessened when she said, with a little smile: "He was a young gentleman of good parts; and he was very fond of me. Proud, too, rather. For though you might not think it, my dear, I was actually a beauty in those days." I had very little doubt of it. The slight, lithe figure, the tiny hands and feet-if you had walked behind Mrs. MacArthur you might have taken her for a young woman still. Certainly, people lived slower and easier in the last generation than in ours. street-the last house there, looking on to the river. He was very fond of the river; and often of evenings, when his work was too heavy to let him take us to Ranelagh or to the play, he used to walk with my father and mother and me, up and down the Temple Gardens. Were you ever in the Temple Gardens? It is a pretty place now-a quiet, gray nook in the midst of noise and bustle; the stars look wonderful through those great trees; but still it is not like what it was then, when I was a girl." Ah! no; impossible. "Yes, I was the beauty of Bath. Mr. "It was in the Temple Gardens, my dear, Everest fell in love with me there. I was that I remember we took our last walk much gratified; for I had just been read--my mother, Mr. Everest, and I-before ing Miss Burney's Cecilia, and I thought him exactly like Mortimer Delvil. A very pretty tale, Cecilia; did you ever read it ?" "No." And, to arrive at her tale, I leaped to the only 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 saw ?" "No, my dear, no; thank goodness, he is alive still. He calls here sometimes; he has been a good friend to our family. Ah!" with a slow shake of the head, half pleased, half pensive, "you would hardly believe, my dear, what a very pretty fellow he was." One could scarcely smile at the odd phrase, pertaining to last-century novels and to the loves of our great-grandmothers. I listened patiently to the wandering reminiscences which still further delayed the ghost story. "But, Mrs. MacArthur, was it in Bath that you saw or heard what I think you were going to tell me? The ghost, you know ?" "Don't call it that; it sounds as if you were laughing at it. And you must not, for it is really true; as true as that I sit here, an old lady of seventy-five; and that then I was a young gentlewoman of eighteen. Nay, my dear, I will tell you all about it. "We had been staying in London, my father and mother, Mr. Everest, and I. He had persuaded them to take me; he wanted to show me a little of the world, though it was but a narrow world, my dear for he was a law student, living poorly and working hard. He took lodgings for us near the Temple, in C VOL. XXXIX.—NO. IV. she went home to Bath. She was very anxious and restless to go, being too delicate for London gaieties. Besides she had a large family at home, of which I was the eldest; and we were anxiously expecting the youngest in a month or two. Nevertheless, my dear mother had gone about with me, taken me to all the shows and sights that I, a hearty and happy girl, longed to see, and entered into them with almost as great enjoyment as my own. "But to-night she was pale, rather grave, and steadfastly bent on returning home. "We did all we could to persuade her to the contrary, for on the next night but one was to have been the crowning treat of all our London pleasures: we were to see Hamlet at Drury-lane, with John Kemble and Sarah Siddons! Think of that, my dear. Ah! you have no such sights now. Even my grave father longed to go, and urged in his mild way that we should put off our departure. mother was determined. But my "At last Mr. Everest said- (I could show you the very spot where he stood, with the river-it was high water-lapping against the wall, and the evening sun shining on the Southwark houses opposite.) He said-it was very wrong, of course, my dear; but then he was in love, and might be excused "Leave them behind-leave them be- | In this case, I have ceased to blame myself hind!' She mused over the words. or others. Whatever was, being past, 'What say you, Dorothy?" was right to be, and could not have been otherwise. "I was silent. In very truth, I had never been parted from her in all my life. It had never crossed my mind to wish to part from her, or to enjoy any pleasure without her, till-till within the last three months. Mother, don't suppose I-' 6 "But here I caught sight of Mr. Everest, and stopped. "Pray continue, Mistress Dorothy.' "No, I could not. He looked so vexed, so hurt; and we had been so happy together. Also, we might not meet again for years, for the journey between London and Bath was then a serious one, even to lovers; and he worked very hard-had few pleasures in his life. It did indeed seem almost selfish of my mother. "Though my lips said nothing, perhaps my sad eyes said only too much, and my mother felt it. "She walked with us a few yards, slowly and thoughtfully. I could see her now, with her pale, tired face, under the cherrycolored ribbons of her hood. She had been very handsome as a young woman, and was most sweet-looking still-my dear, good mother! "Dorothy, we will no more discuss this. I am very sorry, but I must go home. However, I will persuade your father to remain with you till the week's end. Are you satisfied? 666 No,' was the first filial impulse of my heart; but Mr. Everest pressed my arm with such an entreating look, that almost against my will I answered, 'Yes.' "Mr. Everest overwhelmed my mother with his delight and gratitude. She walked up and down for some time longer, leaning on his arm-she was very fond of him; then stood looking on the river, upwards and downwards. "I suppose this is my last walk in London. Thank you for all the care you have taken of me. And when I am gone home -mind, oh! mind, Edmond, that you take special care of Dorothy.' "These words, and the tone in which they were spoken, fixed themselves on my mind-first, from gratitude, not unmingled with regret, as if I had not been so considerate to her as she to me; afterwards -But we often err, my dear, in dwelling too much on that word. We finite creatures have only to deal with 'now'nothing whatever to do with 'afterwards.' 66 My mother went home next morning, alone. We were to follow in a few days, though she would not allow us to fix any time. Her departure was so hurried that I remember nothing about it, save her answer to my father's urgent desirealmost command-that if anything was amiss she would immediately let him know. "Under all circumstances, wife,' he reiterated, this you promise?" "I promise.' "Though when she was gone he declared she need not have said it so earnestly, since we should be at home almost as soon as the slow Bath coach could take her and bring us a letter. And besides, there was nothing likely to happen. But he fidgeted a good deal, being unused to her absence in their happy wedded life. He was, like most men, glad to blame any body but himself, and the whole day, and the next, was cross at intervals with both Edmond and me; but we bore it-and patiently. "It will be all right when we get him to the theatre. He has no real cause for anxiety about her. What a dear woman she is, and a precious-your mother, Dorothy!' "I rejoiced to hear my lover speak thus, and thought there hardly ever was young gentlewoman so blessed as I. Ah! you "We went to the play. know nothing of what a play is, now-adays. You never saw John Kemble and Mrs. Siddons. Though in dresses and shows it was far inferior to the Hamlet you took me to see last week, my dear— and though I perfectly well remember being on the point of laughing when in the most solemn scene, it became clearly evident that the ghost had been drinking. Strangely enough, no after events connected therewith-nothing subsequent ever drove from my mind the vivid impression of this my first play. Strange, also, that the play should have been Hamlet. Do you think that Shakspeare believed in-in what people call' ghosts ?"" I could not say; but I thought Mrs. MacArthur's ghost was very long in coming. "Don't, my dear-don't; do anything but laugh at it." |