| NEGRO LIF& IN AMERICA. 357

a ELIT

cee cts ea LAA LOE

_ ever else might come in use for a shelter, on these occasions. Of

 

eyes, and covering up heads under blankets, petticoats, or what-

course, as everybody knows, when the bodily eyes are thus out of
the lists, the spiritual eyes are uncommonly vivacious and perspi-
cacious; and therefore there were abundance of full-length por-
traits of the ghost, abundantly sworn and testified to, which, as
is often the case with portraits, agreed with each other in no par-
ticular, except the common family peculiarity of the ghost tribe
—the wearing of a white sheet. ‘he poor souls were not versed
in ancient history, and did not know that Shakspeare had authen-
ticated this costume, by telling how

“the sheeted dead
Did squeak and gibber in the streets of Rome.”

And therefore their all hitting upon this isa striking fact in pneu-
matology, which we recommend to the attention of spiritual media
generally.

Be it as it may, we have private reasons for knowing that a tall
figure in a white sheet did walk, at the most approved ghostly
hours, around the Legree premises—pass out the doors, glide
about the house—disappear at intervals, and, re-appearing, pass
up the silent stair-way into that fatal garret; and that, in the
morning, the entry doors were all found shut and locked as firmly
as ever.

Legree could not help overhearing this whispering ; and it was
all the more exciting to him from the pains that were taken to
conceal it from him. He drank more brandy than usual, held
up his head briskly, and swore louder than ever in the day-time ;
but he had bad dreams, and the visions of his head on his bed
were anything but agreeable. The night after Tom's body had
been carried away he rode to the next town for a carouse, and had
a high one. Got home late and tired; locked his door, took out
the key, and went to bed.

After all, let a man take what pains he may to hush it down, a
human soul is an awful, ghostly, unquiet possession fora bad man
to have. Who knows the metes and bounds of it? Who knows
all its awful perhapses—those shudderings and tremblings which
it can no more live down than it can outlive its own eternity ?
What a fool is he who locks his door to keep out spirits, who has
in his own bosom a spirit he dares not meet alone—whose voice,
smothered far down, and piled over with mountains of earthliness,
is yet like the forewarning trumpet of doom!

But Legree locked his door and set a chair against it; he set a
night-lamp at the head of his bed; and he put his pistols there,
He examined the catchings and fastenings of the windows, and
then swore he “ didn’t care for the devil and all his angels,” and
went to sleep.

Well, he slept, for he was tired—slept soundly. But, finally,

 

— —_—— a