wind, with a few whortle berries and cranberries growing in them, in shallower places bent grass, and on the shores wild peas; but not a tree or shrub on the whole island, which is about thirty miles long, and from one and a half to two wide, shaped like a bow, tapering off at both ends, with a lake in it fifteen miles long. 'The sand drifts in a gale like snow, and blows up into high cones. These dance about sometimes, and change places, and 'when they do they oncover dead bodies of poor critters that 'have been overtaken there.' The story is related by Sam Slick, as he heard it from a person who had frequently visited it to catch the horses that are to be found there, running wild in large herds:

name.

'In the year 1802, the ship, Princess Amelia, was wrecked here, having the furniture of the Queen's father, Prince Edward, on board, and a number of recruits, sodger officers and their wives and women-servants. There were two hundred souls of them altogether, and they all perished. About that period, some piratical vagabonds used to frequent there, for there was no regular establishment kept on the island then; and it's generally supposed some of the poor people of that misfortunate ship reached the shore in safety, and were murdered by the wreckers for their property. Well, the Prince sends down Captain Torrens, of the 29th regiment, I think it was, from Halifax, to inquire after the missin ship, and as luck would have it, he was wrecked too, and pretty nearly lost his life in trying to drag others through the surf, for he was a man that didn't know what danger, or fear either, was, except by There were but few that could be rescued before the vessel went to pieces. Well, he stationed them that survived, at one end of the island, and off he goes to the other, so as to extend his look-out for aid, as far as he could; but first they had to bury the dead that floated up from the troop-ship, and gather up such of the Prince's effects as came ashore and were worth saving. It was an awful task, and took them a long time, for the grave was as large as a cellar, almost. There they are, just where that long bent grass grows. Having done this, and finding arms in the Government shelter-but, off he goes alone to the other end of the island. One day, having made the circuit of the lower half here, he returned about dusk to where we now are. Where you see that little hillock, there was a small hut in those days, that bad fireworks in it, and some food, and chairs and tables, that had been saved out of wrecks, which were placed there for distressed people, and there were printed instructions in French and English, telling them what to do to keep themselves alive till they could be taken off. Well, he made up a fire, hauled down some bay out of the loft, and made up a bed in one corner, and went out to take a walk along by the side of the lake, afore he turned in. As he returned, he was surprised to see his dog standing at the door, looking awful skeered, growlin', barkin', and yelpin' like mad. The first thing he saw inside was a lady sitting on one side of the fire, with long, dripping hair hanging over her shoulders, her face pale as death, and having nothing on but a loose, soiled white dress, that was as wet as if she had just come out of the sea, and had sand sticking to it, as if she had been rolled over in the breakers. Good heavens! Madam,' said he, 'who are you, and where did you come from?'

'But she didn't speak to him, and only held up her hand before him, and he saw one of the forefingers was cut off, and was still bleeding. Well, he turned round, and opened a case that he had picked up in the morning from the drift-ship, in which was materials for bandagin' the wound, and was goin'

to offer her some assistance, when she rose up sudden, slipped past him, and went out of the door, and walked off. Well, he followed and called to her, and begged her to stop, but on she went, and, thinkin' she was out of her mind, he ran after her, and the faster he went, the swifter she raced, till she came to the lake, and dove right into it, head-foremost.

'Well, he stood some time there, considerin' and ponderin' over what had happened, and at last he strolled back and sat down by the fire, a good deal puzzled and he looked at the primin' of his gun, and went out and kneeled down, and, takin' off his hat, held his head close to the ground, to see if anybody was a movin' between him and the horizon; and findin' there warn't, and feelin' tired-for he had been on his feet all day-he returned to the hut again, and who should be there but the self-same lady, in the self-same place. Now," said he to himself, "don't go to near her, it's evidently onpleasant to her, but she has some communication to make.' Well, what do you think? it's a positive fact, she held up the mutilated hand again. He paused some time afore he spoke, and took a good look at her, to be sure there was no mistake, and to be able to identify her afterwards, if necessary.

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"Why," sais he, after scrutinizin' of her (for he was a man, was the brave Captain Torrens, that the devil himself couldn't daunt), "why," sais he, "it ain't possible! Why, Mrs. Copeland, is that you?" for he knew her as well as I know you. She was the wife of Dr. Copeland, of the 7th regiment, and was well known at Halifax, and beloved by all who knowed her. She just bowed her head, and then held up her hand and showed the bloody stump of her finger, "I have it," sais he, "murdered for the sake of your ring! She bowed her head. Well," said he, "I'll track the villain out till he is shot or hanged." Well, she looked sad, and made no sign. "Well," sais he, "I'll leave no stone unturned to recover the ring, and restore it to your family." Well, she smiled, bowed her head, and rose up and waved her hand to him to stand out of the way, and he did, and she slipped by him, and then turned back and held up both hands, as if she was pushin' some one back, and retreated that way, makin' the same motion; and he took the hint, shut to the door, and sat down to digest this curious scene.'-Sam Slick's Wise Saws and Modern Instances, vol. í. pp. 327-332.

The narrative proceeds to relate that Captain Torrens obtained the names of some of the most notorious wreckers, one of whom he heard lived at a solitary place called Salmon Island. He found, however, that the man and his family had removed to Labrador, and following them thither, contrived to lodge in their house while hunting and fishing in the neighbourhood, and one evening, in the father's absence, he put on a splendid ring, which attracted the notice of the daughters, and it was handed round among them to be admired; thus leading one of the girls to say it was not so pretty as the one daddy got off the lady's finger at Sable Island.' The mother hastily said the girl meant one that was bought of a Frenchman, who picked it up on the sand there, and Torrens presently expressed his desire of seeing and buying it, but he was answered that it had been left with a watchmaker at Halifax, who had given twenty shillings for it, and promised more if it should sell for a greater sum. There were at that time only two watchmakers at Halifax, and in the window of one the captain saw a ring answering to the description given by the woman. Going into the shop, he asked its history, and

was told the same account as the mother had given him. He at once laid down the twenty shillings, adding, 'If the owner 'wants more, tell him to bring the finger that was cut off to get it, and then come to me.'

The ring was identified by the ladies of the regiment, and by the Prince himself, for it was a curious old family jewel, and it was of course restored to Mrs. Copeland's friends in England. Captain Torrens was ordered home, and no more was heard of the wreckers.

Nor can we refrain from quoting the famous apparition at Messina, which has been recently well told by Lady Herbert, in the Month' for last November:

In the year 1784, there was a terrible earthquake at Messina. . . the only thing which escaped was the cathedral, and people attributed its safety to a miracle. A few years after this event, the Chevalier, a man of noble French family, one of whose brothers was a distinguished general-officer, and the other a minister at Berlin, visited Messina for the purpose of seeing the scene of devastation, and of making researches among the monuments and ruins. He was of the Order of Knights of Malta, and a priest: a man of high character, of cultivated intellect, and of great physical courage. He arrived at Messina on a summer day, and getting the key of the cathedral from the Custode, for it was after Vespers, commenced copying the inscriptions, and examining the building. His researches occupied him so long that he did not see that the day was waning, and when he turned to go out by the door by which he had come in, he found it locked. He tried the other doors, but all were equally closed. The Custode, having let him in some hours before, and concluding he had gone away, had locked up the building and gone home. The Chevalier shouted in vain, the earthquake had destroyed all the houses in the neighbourhood, and there was no one to hear his cries. He had, therefore, no alternative but to submit to his fate, and to make up his mind to spend the night in the Cathedral. He looked round for some place to establish himself. Everything was of marble, except the confessionals, and in one of these he ensconced himself in a comfortable chair, and tried to go to sleep. Sleep, however, was not so easy. The strangeness of the situation, the increasing darkness, and the superstition that the strongest minded man might be supposed to feel under the circnmstances, effectually banished any feeling of drowsiness. There was a large clock in the tower of the cathedral, of which the tones sounded more nearly and solemnly within the building than without. The Chevalier, with the intensity of hearing which sleepliness gives, listened to every stroke of the clock, first ten, then the quarters, then twelve o'clock, As the last stroke of midnight died away, he perceived, suddenly, a light appearing at the high altar. The altar-candles seemed suddenly to be lighted, and a figure in a monk's dress and cowl walked out from a niche at the back of the altar. Turning when he reached the front of the altar, the figure exclaimed in a deep and solemn voice, "Is there any priest here who will say a mass for the repose of my soul?" No answer followed, and the monk slowly passed down the church, passing by the confessional where the Chevalier was sitting. As he passed, his eyes being naturally rivetted on the figure, the Chevalier saw that the face under the cowl was that of a dead man. Entire darkness followed, but when the clock struck the half-hour, the same events occurred, the same light appeared, and the same figure, the same question was asked, and no answer returned, and the same monk, illuminated by the same unearthly light, walked slowly down the church.

'Now, the Chevalier was a bold man, and he resolved. if the same thing occurred again, that he would answer the question and say the mass. As the clock struck one, the altar was again lighted, the monk again appeared, and when he once more exclaimed, "Is there any Christian priest here who would say a mass for the repose of my soul?" the Chevalier boldly stepped out of the confessional, and replied in a firm voice, "I will." He then walked up to the altar, where he found everything prepared for the celebration, and summoning up all his courage, celebrated the sacred rite. At its conclusion the monk spoke as follows: "For one hundred and forty years every night I have asked this question, and until to-night in vain. You have conferred on me an inestimable benefit. There is nothing I would not do for you in return, but there is only one thing in my power, and that is to give you notice when the hour of your own death approaches. The Chevalier heard no more. He fell down in a swoon, and was found the next morning by the Custode, very early, at the foot of the altar. After a while he recovered, and went away. He returned to Venice, where he was then living, and wrote down the circumstances above related, which he also told to several of his intimate friends. He steadily asserted and maintained that he was never wider awake, or more completely in possession of his reasoning faculties than he was that night, until the moment when the monk had done speaking.

Three years afterwards he called his friends and took leave of them. They asked him if he was going on a journey. He said, "Yes, and one from which there was no return." He then told them that the night before, the Monk of Messina had appeared to him and told him that he was to die in three days. His friends laughed at him, and told him, which was true, that he seemed perfectly well. But he persisted in his statements, made every preparation, and on the third day was found dead in his bed. This story was well known to all his friends and contemporaries. Curiously enough, on the Cathedral of Messina being restored a few years after, the skeleton of a monk was found, walled up, in his monk's dress and cowl, in the very place which the Chevalier had always described as the one from which the spectre had appeared.'-The Month, Vol. i. No. XXIX. pp. 455-7.

Lady Herbert's party tried to find the niche; but it had been covered by a more recent screen.

When all the European countries and even the New World have such striking beliefs in common, there is no supposing that they can all be entirely devoid of foundation. The voice of innocent blood assuredly cries from the ground, and when we look at the remarkable expiation enjoined by the law in cases of untraced murder, as an actual guilt incurred by the very soil of the country, it does seem as if, in spite of the one great expiation, which 'speaketh better things than the blood of Abel,' a stain might still attach to the spot where a victim lies concealed, and thus cause the strange, freakish, sometimes grotesque as well as terrible manifestations that haunt the spot. Nor indeed does there seem to us, considering how absolutely ignorant we are of the spirit world, to be any inherent impossibility that the soul or the phantom shape of one who has done some great wrong should haunt the spot, seeking long in vain for one who should repair the evil.

Such is a story-unfortunately without fixed place or date

of a Roman Catholic chaplain, who haunted a library, seeking long for some one who would speak to him and hear his story. He had been a careless jovial man, and one day, when just going out hunting had received a letter, which he had reason to think contained a confession, perilous to the interests of many, and unwilling to give up his sport, as he must do if he were known to have had the letter, he hid it away in the library, to be produced at his convenience. Out hunting, he was thrown from his horse and broke his neck, and ever since he had appeared in the room at certain hours of the evening, longing to remove and destroy the dangerous letter, but having no bodily limbs, unable to do it himself, and without power to entreat any still corporeal being to do it for him, until he had first been addressed. In like manner, Souvestte relates, in his Sans Culottes Bas Breton,' a fine Breton legend of a farmer who had stealthily 'removed his neighbour's landmark' in his lifetime, ever flitting disembodied round the stone, longing to restore it.

There is a beautiful class of tales too in which the ghost might seem a manifestation either of the hovering spirit of the departed or of a guardian angel in this shape. Such are the stories of the dead mother who appeared to her children as they were running down an old stone stair in a ruined castle, when a few steps more would have carried them headlong into a gaping vault; of the father, recently deceased, whose still familiar call brought his son away from under a sheltering tree, which the next moment was shattered by lightning, and of the mysterious companion who joined and convoyed a traveller up a lane in which a robber was lurking to attack him.

The theory that the wraith or spirit really communicates with the living, according to their power of receptivity, is the pervading one in Mrs. Crowe's 'Night Side of Nature;' a book in which the arguments are sometimes striking, though the large number of marvels there collected, some on evidence insufficient and others with evidence suppressed, has cast a certain degree of discredit on it. Her quotations do in fact almost establish the possibility that certain appearances in church-yards or over graves, may have a material existence and physical cause, i.e., the escape of gases which make themselves visible in the dark to persons of peculiarly sensitive organizations. In this we fully acquiesce, having ourselves known of a person who beheld a luminous appearance in a church-yard, where her companion. could discern nothing. Such appearances it may well be believed would be more visible over the hastily found hiding place of the corpse of one murdered than over a properly made grave, and we thus obtain an almost material means of accounting for such apparitions as those of the Bow-brig sisters, though