appeals to divine justice may have been answered by Him who sees the secrets of all hearts than that modes of trial should have prevailed so long and so generally, from some of which no person could ever have escaped without an interposition of Providence.  Thus it has appeared to me in my calm and unbiassed judgment.  Yet I confess I should want faith to make the trial.  May it not be, that by such means in dark ages, and among blind nations, the purpose is effected of preserving conscience and the belief of our immortality, without which the life of our life would be extinct?  And with regard to the conjurers of the African and American savages, would it be unreasonable to suppose that, as the most elevated devotion brings us into fellowship with the Holy Spirit, a correspondent degree of wickedness may effect a communion with evil intelligences?  These are mere speculations which I advance for as little as they are worth.  My serious belief amounts to this, that preternatural impressions are sometimes communicated to us for wise purposes: and that departed spirits are sometimes permitted to manifest themselves.

Stranger.—If a ghost, then, were disposed to pay you a visit, you would be in a proper state of mind for receiving such a visitor?

Montesinos.—I should not credit my senses lightly; neither should I obstinately distrust them, after I had put the reality of the appearance to the proof, as far as that were possible.

Stranger.—Should you like to have an opportunity afforded you?

Montesinos.—Heaven forbid!  I have suffered so much in dreams from conversing with those whom even in sleep I knew to be departed, that an actual presence might perhaps be more than I could bear.

Stranger.—But if it were the spirit of one with whom you had no near ties of relationship or love, how then would it affect you?

Montesinos.—That would of course be according to the circumstances on both sides.  But I entreat you not to imagine that I am any way desirous of enduring the experiment.

Stranger.—Suppose, for example, he were to present himself as I have done; the purport of his coming friendly; the place and opportunity suiting, as at present; the time also considerately chosen—after dinner; and the spirit not more abrupt in his appearance nor more formidable in aspect than the being who now addresses you?

Montesinos.—Why, sir, to so substantial a ghost, and of such respectable appearance, I might, perhaps, have courage enough to say with Hamlet,

“Thou com’st in such a questionable shape,
That I will speak to thee!”

Stranger.—Then, sir, let me introduce myself in that character, now that our conversation has conducted us so happily to the point.  I told you truly that I was English by birth, but that I came from a more distant country than America, and had long been naturalised there.  The country whence I come is not the New World, but the other one: and I now declare myself in sober earnest to be a ghost.

Montesinos.—A ghost!

Stranger.—A veritable ghost, and an honest one, who went out of the world with so good a character that he will hardly escape canonisation if ever you get a Roman Catholic king upon the throne.  And now what test do you require?

Montesinos.—I can detect no smell of brimstone; and the candle burns as it did before, without the slightest tinge of blue in its flame.  You look, indeed, like a spirit of health, and I might be disposed to give entire belief to that countenance, if it were not for the tongue that belongs to it.  But you are a queer spirit, whether good or evil!

Stranger.—The headsman thought so, when he made a ghost of me almost three hundred years ago.  I had a character through life of loving a jest, and did not belie it at the last.  But I had also as general a reputation for sincerity, and of that also conclusive proof was given at the same time.  In serious truth, then, I am a disembodied spirit, and the form in which I now manifest myself is subject to none of the accidents of matter.  You are still incredulous!  Feel, then, and be convinced!

My incomprehensible guest extended his hand toward me as he spoke.  I held forth mine to accept it, not, indeed, believing him, and yet not altogether without some apprehensive emotion, as if I were about to receive an electrical shock.  The effect was more startling than electricity would have produced.  His hand had neither weight nor substance; my fingers, when they would have closed upon it, found nothing that they could grasp: it was intangible, though it had all the reality of form.

“In the name of God,” I exclaimed, “who are you, and wherefore are you come?”

“Be not alarmed,” he replied.  “Your reason, which has shown you the possibility of such an appearance as you now witness, must have convinced you also that it would never be permitted for an evil end.  Examine my features well, and see if you do not recognise them.  Hans Holbein was excellent at a likeness.”

I had now for the first time in my life a distinct sense of that sort of porcupinish motion over the whole scalp which is so frequently described by the Latin poets.  It was considerably allayed by the benignity of his countenance and the manner of his speech, and after looking him steadily in the face I ventured to say, for the likeness had previously struck me, “Is it Sir Thomas More?”

“The same,” he made answer, and lifting up his chin, displayed a circle round the neck brighter in colour than the ruby.  “The marks of martyrdom,” he continued, “are our insignia of honour.  Fisher and I have the purple collar, as Friar Forrest and Cranmer have the robe of fire.”

A mingled feeling of fear and veneration kept me silent, till I perceived by his look that he expected and encouraged me to speak; and collecting my spirits as well as I could, I asked him wherefore he had thought proper to appear, and why to me rather than to any other person?

He replied, “We reap as we have sown.  Men bear with them from this world into the intermediate state their habits of mind and stores of knowledge, their dispositions and affections and desires; and these become a part of our punishment, or of our reward, according to their kind.  Those persons, therefore, in whom the virtue of patriotism has predominated continue to regard with interest their native land, unless it be so utterly sunk in degradation that the moral relationship between them is dissolved.  Epaminondas can have no sympathy at this time with Thebes, nor Cicero with Rome, nor Belisarius with the imperial city of the East.  But the worthies of England retain their affection for their noble country, behold its advancement with joy, and when serious danger appears to threaten the goodly structure of its institutions they feel as much anxiety as is compatible with their state of beatitude.”

Montesinos.—What, then, may doubt and anxiety consist with the happiness of heaven?

Sir Thomas More.—Heaven and hell may be said to begin on your side the grave.  In the intermediate state conscience anticipates with unerring certainty the result of judgment.  We, therefore, who have done well can have no fear for ourselves.  But inasmuch as the world has any hold upon our affections we are liable to that anxiety which is inseparable from terrestrial hopes.  And as parents who are in bliss regard still with parental love the children whom they have left on earth, we, in like manner, though with a feeling different in kind and inferior in degree, look with apprehension upon the perils of our country.

      “sub pectore forti
Vivit adhuc patriæ pietas; stimulatque sepultum
Libertatis amor: pondus mortale necari
Si potuit, veteres animo post funera vires
Mansere,