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THE GRIMSBY GHOST.

CHAP. I.

In the town of Grimsby-

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But stop," says the Courteous and Prudent Reader, «are there any such things as Ghosts? »

"Any Ghostesses!» cries Superstition, who settled long since in the country, near a churchyard, on a rising ground, «any Ghostesses! Ay, man lots on 'em! bushels on 'em! Why, there's one as walks in our parish, reg'lar as the clock strikes twelve-and always the same round-over church-stile, round the corner, through the gap, into Short's Spinney, and so along into our close, where he takes a drink at the pump,for ye see he died in liquor,-and then arter he 's squentched hisself wanishes into waper. Then there's the ghost of old Beales, as goes o' nights and sews tares in his neighbour's wheats-I've often seed un in seed time. They do say that Black Ben, the Poacher, have riz, and what's more, walked slap through all the Squire's steel-traps without springin on 'em. And then there's Bet Hawkey as murdered her own hinfant-only the poor babby hadn't larned to walk, and so can't appear agin her. »

But not to refer only to the ignorant and illiterate vulgar, there are units, tens, hundreds, thousands of wellbred and educated persons, Divines, Lawyers, military, and especially

VOL. III.

54

naval officers, Artists, Authors, Players, Schoolmasters and Governesses, and fine ladies, who secretly believe that the dead are on visiting terms with the living-nay, the great Doctor Johnson himself, affirmed solemnly that he had a call from his late mother, who had been buried many years. Ask at the right time, and in the right manner only affect a belief, though you have it not so that the party may feel assured of sympathy and insured against ridicule, and ninetenths of mankind will confess a faith in Apparitions. It is in truth an article in the creed of our natural religion corollary of the recognition of the immortality of the soul. The presence of spirits-visible or invisible-is an innate idea, as exemplified by the instinctive night terror of infancy, and recently so touchingly illustrated by the evidence of the poor little colliery-girl, who declared that she sang, whiles, at her subterranean task, but never when she was alone in the dark.n

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It is from this cause that the Poems and Ballads on spectral subjects have derived their popularity for instance, Margaret's Ghost-Mary's Dream-and the Ghost of Admiral Hosier

not to forget the Drama, with that awful Phantom in Hamlet, whose word, in favour of the Supernatural, we all feel to be worth a thousand pound. »

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And then the Spectre in Don Giovanni?'»

No. That Marble Walker, with his audible tramp, tramp, tramp, on the staircase, is too substantial for my theory. It was a Ghost invented expressly for the Materialists; but is as inadmissible amongst genuine Spirits as that wooden one described by old W. the ship-owner-namely, the figure-head of the Britannia, which appeared to him, he declared, on the very night that she found a watery grave off Cape Cod. . Well-after that-go on. »

CHAP. II.

In the town of Grimsby, at the corner of Swivel-strect, there is a litle chandler's-shop, which was kept for many years by a widow of the name of Mullins. She was a care

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ful, thrifty body, a perfect woman of business, with a sharp gray eye to the main chance, a quick car for the ring of good or bad metal, and a close hand at the counter. Indeed, she was apt to give such scrimp weight and measure, that her customers invariably manoeuvred to be served by her daughter, who was supposed to be more liberal at the scale, by a full ounce in the pound. The man and maid servants it is true, who bought on commission, did not care much about the matter; but the poor hungry father, the poor frugal mother, the little ragged girl, and the little dirty boy, all retained their pence in their hands, till they could thrust them, with their humble requests for ounces or half-ounces of tea, brown sugar, or single Gloster, towards Miss Mullins, who was supposed to better their dealings, if dealings they might be called, where no deal of any thing was purchased. She was a tall, bony female, of about thirty years of age, but apparently forty, with a very homely set of features, and the staid, sedate carriage of a spinster who feels herself to be set in for a single life. There was indeed « no love nonsense » about her; and as to romance, she had never so much as looked into a novel or read a line of poetry in her life-her thoughts, her feelings, her actions, were all like her occupation, of the most plain, prosaic character-the retailing of soap, starch, sandpaper, red-herrings, and Flanders brick. Except Sundays, when she went twice to chapel, her days were divided between the little back-parlour and the front shop-between a patchwork counterpane which she had been stitching at for ten long years, and that other counter work to which she was summoned, every few minutes, by the importunities of a little bell, that rang every customer in, like the new year, and then rang him out again like the old one. It was her province, moreover, to set down all unready money orders on a slate, but the widow took charge of the books, or rather the book, in which every item of account was entered, with a rigid punctuality that would have done honour to a regular counting-house clerk.

Under such management the little chandler's-shop was a thriving concern, and with the frugal, not to say parsimonious

habits of mother and daughter, enabled the former to lay by annually her one or two hundred pounds, so that miss Mullins was in a fair way of becoming a fortune, when towards the autumn of 1838 the widow was suddenly taken ill at her book, in the very act of making out a little bill, which alas she never lived to sum up. The disorder progressed so rapidly that on the second day she was given over by the doctor, and on the third by the apothecary, having lost all power of swallowing his medicines. The distress of her daughter, thus threatened with the sudden rending of her only tie in the world, may be conceived; while, to add to her affliction, her dying parent, though perfectly sensible, was unable, from a paralysis of the organs of speech, to articulate a single word. She tried nevertheless to speak, with a singular perseverance, but all her struggles for utterance were in vain. Her eyes rolled frightfully, the muscles about the mouth worked convulsively, and her tongue actually writhed till she foamed at the lips, but without producing more than such an unintelligible sound as is sometimes heard from the deaf and dumb. It was evident. from the frequency and vehemence of these efforts that she had something of the last importance to communicate, and which her weeping daughter at last implored her to make known by means of signs.

"Had she any thing weighing heavy on her mind?» The sick woman nodded her head.

« Did she want any one to be sent for? »

The head was shaken.

"Was it about making her will?»

Another mute negative.

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Did she wish to have further medical advice? »

A gesture of great impatience.

« Would she try to write down her meaning?

"

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The head nodded, and the writing-materials were immediately procured. The dying woman was propped up in bed, a lead-pencil was placed in her right-hand, and a quire of foolscap was set before her. With extreme difficulty she contrived to scribble the single word MARY; but before she could form another letter, the hand suddenly dropped, scratching

a long mark, like what the Germans call a Devotion Stroke, from the top to the bottom of the paper,-her face assumed an intense expression of despair-there was a single deep groan -then a heavy sigh-and the Widow Mullins was a corpse!

CHAP. III.

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Gracious! How shocking!» cries Morbid Curiosity. And to die, too, without telling her secret! What could the poor creature have on her mind to lay so heavy! I'd give the world to know what it was! A shocking murder, perhaps, and the remains of her poor Husband buried Lord knows where so that nobody can enjoy the horrid discovery- and the digging of him up!»

No, madam-nor the boiling and parboiling of his viscera to detect traces of poison.

To be sure not. It's a sin and shame, it is, for people to go out of the world with such mysteries confined to their own bosom. But perhaps it was only a hoard of money that she had saved up in private ? »

Very possibly, madam. In fact, Mrs. Humphreys, the carpenter's wife, who was present at the death, was so firmly of that persuasion, that before the body was cold, although not the Searcher, she had exercised a right of search in every pot, pan, box, basket, drawer, cup-board, chimney-in short, every hole and corner in the premises.

«Ay, and I'll be bound discovered a heap of golden guineas in an old teapot.

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No, madam not a dump. At least, not in the teapot but in a hole near the sink-she found—

"What, Sir?-pray what?»

Two black-beetles, ma'am, and a money-spinner.

CHAP. IV.

Well, the corpse of the deceased Widow received the usual rites. It was washed-laid out-and according to old provincial custom, strewed with rosemary and other sweet herbs. A plate full of salt was placed on the chest-one lighted candle

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