Many a real Manfred has trembled as he called up the phantom of Astarte; many a modern Brutus has gazed at midnight on the evil spirit of his Cæsar; many a modern Macbeth points to the vacant chair of his Banquo, the ghost in his seat, and he mentally exclaims,—“Hence, horrible shadow! unreal mockery, hence!” IDA. Aye, and many a false heart, like Marmion, hears, as his life ebbs on the battle-field, the phantom voice of Constance Beverly: “The monk, with unavailing cares, Exhausted all the church’s prayers. Ever he said, that, close and near, A lady’s voice was in his ear, And that the priest he could not hear, For that she ever sung: ‘In the lost battle, borne down by the flying, Where mingles war’s rattle with groans of the dying’— So the notes rung.” We read in Moreton an exquisite story of the trial of a murderer, who had with firmness pleaded—“not guilty.” On a sudden, casting his eyes on the witness-box, he exclaimed, “This is not fair; no one is allowed to be witness in his own case.” The box was empty, as you may suppose; but the eye of his conscience saw his bleeding victim glaring on him, and ready to swear to his murder. He felt that his fate was sealed, and pleaded guilty to the crime. “——Deeds are done on earth, Which have their punishment ere the earth closes Upon the perpetrators. Be it the working Of the remorse-stained fancy, or the vision Distinct and real of unearthly being: All ages witness that, beside the couch Of the fell homicide, oft stalks the ghost Of him he slew, or shows his shadowy wound.” It is this utter humiliation of the spirit, and the conviction of our polluted nature, that rankle so intensely in the wounded heart; and thence the repentant sinner feels so deeply that awful truth, that there is a Being infinitely more pure and godlike than himself. EV. A very fertile source of spectral illusion is the devotion to peculiar studies and deep reflection on interesting subjects. Mons. Esquirol records the hallucination of a lady, who had been reading a terrific account of the execution of a criminal. Ever after, in all her waking hours, and in every place, she saw above her left eye the phantom of a bloody head, wrapped in black crape,—a thing so horrible to her, that she repeatedly attempted the commission of suicide. And of another lady, who had dipped so deeply into a history of witches, that she became convinced of her having, like Tam O’Shanter’s lady of the “cutty sark,” been initiated into their mysteries, and officiated at their “sabbath” ceremonies. Monsieur Andral, in his youth, saw in La Pitié the putrid body of a child covered with _larvæ_, and during the next morning, the spectre of this corpse lying on his table was as perfect as reality.