the awful intermination; strong as his nerves were, they were not a match for his sensations; the figure passed on,--Mortimer sank to the ground; at length recovering, he, with slow and trembling steps, crept homewards: meeting a watchman at the outskirts of the town, he begged for his arm and assistance, and was conducted to his house; entering, he found his father and uncle just returned, after a search entirely unsuccessful: still leaning upon the watchman’s shoulder, with his knees tottering, his face staring, wild, and bloodless, he presented himself to his astonished friends. “Good Heavens! what is the matter?” said his father. “I have seen him,” replied he, in a hollow voice. “Seen whom?” said his uncle. “My dear deceased friend, William Hamilton.” The hearers eagerly inquired, when, where, how: before he could answer, there was a tap at the parlour window;--one light only glimmered on the table, in crowding too near which, some person overturned it, and it blew out; the tap was repeated, and a voice, pronouncing John Mortimer, was distinctly heard: the company, which had received the addition of Hodge, the footman, made no answer; a soft knock was heard at the street-door,--no attention was paid; the watchman declared his inability to return alone to his station, and the dawning morn found them all assembled in the same spot. The reflection of John at length operating, he imputed his apprehensions to some accidental resemblance, and he retired to rest;--after broken and confused slumbers, finding it in vain to hope for comfortable sleep, he was preparing to rise about ten, when the voice of his sister assailed his ears, calling, with phrenzy, upon her murdered Hamilton. As he was hastily equipping himself, he heard a loud scream at the door of his apartment, which quickly opened, and there appeared the very image which he had seen on the Downs the night before. Gazing intently, he faultered, “you certainly are Hamilton’s apparition.” “Apparition!” replied the figure; when the voice of Maria through a thin partition assailed his ears:--“my only love,--my murdered Hamilton, I will follow him to the grave.” Mortimer was staring on his visitant, but on the last words that issued from the next room, hastily rushed thither. Maria perceiving the spectre, stretched out her hands, but sank into insensibility. Mortimer rushed in, saw his sister again lifeless, and heard from the spectre the mildest tones of impassioned love; still, under the impression which had been conveyed so deeply the former night, he approached the figure--not without fear and trembling; but the spectre asking him, in a tone at once calm and pathetic, what caused the illness of his beloved Maria, and happening accidentally to touch him, John was convinced it was not only a visible, but a tangible spirit. “Good Heavens!” said Mortimer, “my dearest friend, Hamilton, you you--are are alive.” The figure, without answering