“Why, Sir, the place is called Queen Elizabeth’s turret, to this day, because she took such a fancy to it; and it was pleasant enough to be sure, for it overlooked the widest part of the lake;—this bench had velvet trappings enough then, I warrant.” “I have no pleasure in remembering Elizabeth;” said Willoughton, as he turned to look for his friend. “No!—not in remembering the wisest princess that ever reigned?” said Mr. Simpson. “No: her wisdom partook too much of craft, and her policy of treachery; and her cruelty to poor Mary is a bloody hand in her escutcheon, that will for ever haunt the memory of her.” “You are too ardent,” observed Mr. Simpson; “much may be said on her conduct on that head.” “She inspires me only with aversion and horror,” replied Willoughton. “She gives other people the horrors, too,” said the villager. “How do you mean, friend?” “There are strange stories told, Sir, if one could but believe them;—there are old men now in the parish, who say they have seen her about the castle here, dressed in a great ruff about her neck, just as she is in her picture; they knew her by that.” Here Mr. Simpson, giving Willoughton a look of sly congratulation, on his having met with a person of taste seemingly so congenial with his own, burst forth into a laugh, or rather a shout, that made every echo of the ruin vocal, his friend smile, and the old man stare; who, somewhat gravely, proceeded—— “They say, too, she has been seen sitting there, in that very window, when there was but just light enough to see her by.” “A ghost in a ruff and farthingale!” exclaimed Mr. Simpson, in exultation;—“that is, surely, the very perfection of propriety in the ghost-costume;” and again the roar of laughter rolled round every turret of the castle. “Why does that strike you as so absurd?” asked Willoughton; “this is only a ghost representing the familiar image of the person when alive. Can it be more ridiculous than the Scotch plaid for the supernatural being, whom we call a witch? And yet, when you and I used to discuss the taste of ghost-dresses, you did not object to that appearance; but justified it, as one with which popular superstition was familiar.” “Yes,” replied Simpson; “but though the ruff and farthingale accompany our idea of Queen Elizabeth, it is of her, as a living character, not in that of her apparition.” “And yet,” rejoined Willoughton; “if you remain in this ruin, half an hour longer, till you can scarcely distinguish the walls, you will feel less inclined to laugh at Queen Elizabeth’s ghost in a ruff and farthingale.” “Perhaps I might,” said Mr. Simpson, “if you had not let me so much into the secret of effect in these cases. Yet I question whether it would have been possible for Elizabeth’s picture, arrayed in that ridiculous court-dress, supposing it actually to appear, to extort from me any thing but laughter.”