ets.
The duke returned from the hunting-field before the morning was past,
and retired with his mother to her private apartments for two or three
hours. On coming out his countenance was troubled. He received other
warnings, which were disregarded. The result may be anticipated. His
Grace was stabbed on the 23d August 1628 by John Felton, a
discontented lieutenant, at Portsmouth. When the news of the duke's
murder was brought to his mother, she received it with grief, but
without surprise. She had long foreseen what would happen.
"Apparitions," she said, "did not lie."

Lord Lyttelton, in the winter of 1778, left the metropolis with a
party of loose and dissipated companions to profane the Christmas by
riotous debaucheries, at his country house, near Epsom. They had not
long abandoned themselves to their desperate orgies, before a sudden
gloom came over the party by their host becoming extraordinarily
depressed in spirits and dejected of countenance. All his vivacity
departed, and he fled from his guests. Urged to make known the cause
of his uneasiness, he revealed the secret. He told them, that the
previous night, after retiring to bed, and his light extinguished, he
heard a noise resembling the fluttering of a bird at his window.
Looking to the window, he saw the figure of an unhappy female whom he
had betrayed, and who in consequence had committed suicide, standing
in the window recess. The form approached the foot of his bed, and,
pointing her finger to a dial which stood on the mantel-piece,
announced that if he did not take warning and repent, his life and
sins would be concluded at the same hour of the third day after the
visitation. By a preternatural light in the chamber he observed
distinctly everything around him. While the warning spirit was
speaking, he saw the time was twelve o'clock. Darkness came, and the
apparition disappeared. Lord Lyttelton's companions laughed at his
superstitious fears, and endeavoured to convince him that he must have
mistaken a dream for a real spiritual visitation. He felt somewhat
relieved by what they said, but was not altogether convinced or
reassured. The fatal night approached, and, with the connivance of
Lord Lyttelton's attendants, the guests put all the clocks in the
house an hour and a half too fast. They kept his lordship as lively as
possible, but when ten o'clock struck he was silent and depressed;
eleven struck, the depression deepened; twelve struck: "Thank God; I