wandering fires,
of a pale bluish light, that move about like tapers in the open air,
and are supposed to designate the way some corpse is to go. One was
seen at Lanyler, late at night, hovering up and down, along the bank
of the Istwith, and was watched by the neighbours until they were
tired, and went to bed. Not long afterwards there came a comely
country lass, from Montgomeryshire, to see her friends, who dwelt on
the opposite side of the river. She thought to ford the stream at the
very place where the light had been first seen, but was dissuaded on
account of the height of the flood. She walked to and fro along the
bank, just where the candle had moved, waiting for the subsiding of
the water. She at length endeavored to cross, but the poor girl was
drowned in the attempt.[6]

[Footnote 6: Aubrey's Miscel.]

There was something mournful in this little anecdote of rural
superstition, that seemed to affect all the listeners. Indeed, it is
curious to remark how completely a conversation of the kind will
absorb the attention of a circle, and sober down its gayety, however
boisterous. By degrees I noticed that every one was leaning forward
over the table, with eyes earnestly fixed upon the parson; and at the
mention of corpse-candles which had been seen about the chamber of a
young lady who died on the eve of her wedding-day, Lady Lillycraft
turned pale.

I have witnessed the introduction of stories of the kind into various
evening circles; they were often commenced in jest, and listened to
with smiles; but I never knew the most gay or the most enlightened of
audiences, that were not, if the conversation continued for any length
of time, completely and solemnly interested in it. There is, I
believe, a degree of superstition lurking in every mind; and I doubt
if any one can thoroughly examine all his secret notions and impulses,
without detecting it, hidden, perhaps, even from himself. It seems, in
fact, to be a part of our nature, like instinct in animals, acting
independently of our reason. It is often found existing in lofty
natures, especially those that are poetical and aspiring. A great and
extraordinary poet of our day, whose life and writings evince a mind
subject to powerful exaltations, is said to believe in omens and
secret intimations. Caesar, it is well known, was greatly under the
influence of such belief; and Napoleon had his good and evil days, and
his presiding star.

As to the worthy parson, I hav