lthough I have no
warrant for asserting spirits do not return, yet I must say, all the
tales I have ever heard do not necessarily require any such
interpretation on them. It may be true, and so may everything which we
have no evidence against or for. If my opinion on the subject was to
be shaken by anything, it would be with the following story, which was
given to me by one whose veracity I have no reason to doubt.

There is, or rather was, a very ancient castle in Lancashire, near
Liverpool, called Castle de Bergh, which belongs to a noble family of
that name. Many years ago the possessor of the castle, Mr. de Burgh,
died, and the castle was then let out to various of the tenantry,
among whom was a carpenter. Two years after the death of Mr. de Burgh,
as this carpenter was employed in his workshop, about a quarter of a
mile from the castle, melting glue, it being evening, and only four of
his men with him, he perceived a gentleman in mourning passing the
lathe where the men were at work. He was immediately seized with a
violent trembling and weakness, his hair stood on end, and a clammy
sweat spread over his forehead. The lights were put out, he knew not
how, and at last, in fear and terror, he was obliged to return home.
On his arrival at the castle, as he was passing up the stairs, he
heard a footstep behind, and on turning round he perceived the same
apparition. He hastily entered his room, and bolted, locked, and
barred the door, but to his horror and surprise this offered no
impediment to his ghostly visiter, for the door sprang open at his
touch, and he entered the room! The apparition was seen by various
others, all of whom asserted it bore the strongest resemblance to
their deceased master! One gentleman spoke to him, and the spirit told
him "that he was not happy."

_Foley Place._ AN ANTIQUARY.

* * * * *

LINES.

(_For the Mirror._)

Upon the silent grassy bed,
Shall maiden's tears at eve be shed,
And friendship's self shall often there
Heave the sigh, and breathe the pray'r.
Young flowers of spring around shall bloom,
And summer's roses deck thy tomb.
The primrose ope its modest breast
Where thy lamented ashes rest,
And cypress branches lowly bend
Where thy lov'd form with clay shall blend.
The silver willow darkly wave
Above thy unforgotten grave,
And woodbine leaves will fondly creep,
Where * * lies in holy sleep.

_Sturminster.