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590 of so valuable a conquest. To be enabled to cross a church-yard, planted with yew-trees, “in the very witching time of night,” of a cold, damp, gusty, gloomy December, without any worse apprehension than that of mere mortal rheumatism or asthma—or to descend from the highest to the lowest apartments of an ancient family mansion alone, when all the rest of the house is asleep, without a candle, under the persuasion that one runs no greater risk than that of breaking a neck or a leg over the staircase—this indeed were a blessing, the full extent and magnitude of which we are far from being so philosophically hardy as to deny. But then, when we came to reflect on all that must be sacrificed for the attainment of such beatitude, supposing it to be attainable,—the thrilling delight of a ghost-story by a Christmas fire-side,—the more exalted sense which a lurking tendency to superstitious apprehension adds to our relish of the sublime in poetry,—nay, the very pleasure which in some unaccountable manner mingles itself with the real terrors which situations such as above described are calculated to engender,—we found ourselves necessarily driven to the conclusion, that the exemption, which before appeared so enviable, might be too dearly purchased. So far from hailing with triumphant expectation, we began to anticipate, with fear and concern, this decisive victory of the genius of physiology over the Prince of Darkness; we opened the important volume in a state of suspense, which, in comformity with the approved usage of our best novel writers, we may venture to term “agonizing;” and were really relieved to a degree far exceeding what we at that time thought it prudent to avow, when we found, after perusing it, that, notwithstanding the doctor’s eminent professional skill and sagacity, we were still able to address him in the words of Hamlet—

Shall we confess still further? It was already late in the evening when we laid down Dr Ferriar, intending to close our labours for the night; but our hands, carelessly wandering over the table, chanced to encounter “Tales of the Dead,” which lay at that time uncut before us. What a providential opportunity for making trial of Horatio’s philosophy! We drew our chairs nearer the fire, snuffed our candles, replenished our cups, and never budged from our positions till the clock struck two, by which time we had clean forgotten all the lessons our good physician had been giving us, and,

slowly and reluctantly departed to our beds; nor, if we had then met a legion of spectres at the stair’s head, waiting our arrival, would it have occurred to any of us to explain the phenomenon upon the principle of hallucination.

The “Pleasures of Superstition” form a distinct and peculiar class of those of the imagination; and, in a philosophical investigation of the sources from which they are derived, we soon discover that even those others which appear most of kin to them, must be traced in their descent through very different channels. The species of delight afforded by a tragedy, or an execution, may, to an unreflecting observer, appear very similar to that communicated by a well-authenticated ghost-story; yet, if the nature of the sentiment is at all to be inferred from its degrees of intensity, it will necessarily follow that the two cases are totally heterogeneous. To mention no other proofs of dissimilarity, a certain dignity of character and circumstances has always been considered as essential to the support of tragic interest, which loses its effect in proportion as it mixes itself with the every-day concerns of middling life, with customary scenes, and modern manners. So of an execution.—The impression produced upon the mind, by the idea of a dozen ordinary felons turned off in one morning before the door of Newgate, will not bear an instant’s comparison with that made by the similar situation of a Russel or a Sydney—a Marie Antoinette or a Louis Seize. The force and vividness of our superstitious impressions is varied according to the converse of this rule. A single example will suffice. Our souls are wrought to the height of tragic terror and pity by the murder of Prince Arthur, or of the “royal babes” in the Tower; while, if any author were so mad as to think of framing a tragedy upon the subject of that worthy Vicar of Warblington in Hants, who 5