they managed me."* Whoever has the women, is sure of the men, you may depend, Mr. Slick of Slickville gives us his word for it; "openly or secretly, directly or indirectly, they do contrive, somehow or another, to have their own way in the end, and though the men have the reins, the women tell 'em which way to drive." Of that fussy little General, Sir George Gorgon, Mr. Thackeray reports, that "he bullied his daughters, and seemed to bully his wife, who led him whither she chose." Elsewhere the same satirical limner presents to us, as a type, and no exceptional or uncommon one, a demure-looking woman perfect in all her duties, constant in house-bills and shirt-buttons, obedient to her lord, and anxious to please him in all things; silent, when you and he talk politics, or literature, or balderdash together, and if referred to, saying, with a smile of perfect humility, "Oh, women are not judges upon such and such matters; we leave learning and politics to men.' "Yes, poor Polly," says Jones, patting the back of Mrs. J.'s head good naturedly, "attend to the house, my dear; that's the best thing you can do, and leave the rest to us.' Jones loquitur. And then subauditur the satirist, apostrophising Jones. "Benighted idiot! She has long ago taken your measure and your friends'. She knows your obstinate points, and marches round them with the most curious art and patience, as you see an ant on a journey turn round an obstacle."§ All which may be taken, apropos of Caroline's tact with Georgius Rex, in illustration of the Lady's thesis in "Hudibras,"-speaking of and for her sex,

Casta ad virum

And if we had not weighty cause
To not appear in making laws,
We could, in spite of all your tricks,

And shallow formal politics,

Force you our managements t' obey,
As we to yours, in show, give way.||

will

matrona parendo imperat—that line of the old "mimic poet's," as Publius the Syrian is styled, has been popularised into a proverb.

* Punch's Complete Letter Writer, letter xxxv.

†The Clockmaker, Second Series, ch. ii.

Thackeray's Miscellanies, vol. iii. "The Bedford-Row Conspiracy."

§ Ibid., vol. ii. "Sketches and Travels in London."
Hudibras, "The Lady's Answer to the Knight."
Syrus.

THE GHOST'S HAND.

A CHRISTMAS STORY.

In the present day, Utility and Matter of Fact are more in vogue than anything that savours of the Imagination, therefore Ghost Stories, which are generally supposed to be creations of the imagination, are not so favourably received as in the days of our forefathers, when tales of spectral appearances and magic power were as eagerly listened to in baronial halls as in the peasant's lowly hut. Nevertheless, Table-turning and Spirit-rapping are the common talk of the day, and many who deny that they believe in spirits are still anxious to witness the extravagant exhibitions of those who cleverly perform seemingly marvellous and inexplicable acts. Still, there are a few who feel some interest in the old bona fide Ghost Story, and if there be any such among the readers of the New Monthly, they will, perhaps, not think me intruding upon their leisure if I relate a strange occurrence which happened to me many, many years ago, before a wrinkle had made its appearance upon my brow, or my once dark hair had assumed the silvery hue of declining years, and which, at the time, made a deep impression upon me.

My health had not been good, and I was recommended by my physician to spend three or four months in travelling abroad, free from all the fatigues and anxieties of business. I laid down for myself no plan, but went from place to place as the fancy took me, stopping where the beauty of the scenery charmed me, or where I met with agreeable companions. Towards the close of the lovely month of September, weary of racing from one hotel to another, I determined to halt for a few weeks at the pretty town of C-feld; the environs pleased me, and moreover I had one or two good introductions to the principal families in the neighbourhood, and was always sure of finding pleasant, well-educated companions at the table d'hôte among the officers of the Prussian regiment which was quartered there, for in those days, as I believe it is sometimes the case now, the officers in Germany generally dined at the best hotel in the town.

I rode and walked a great deal, for the weather was fine, and I had nothing better to do with myself. I had not long been located at C-feld before I had explored all the surrounding hills, valleys, and woods, but in no direction did I turn my steps oftener than to the picturesque little forest of C-feld. I was delighted with the loneliness of its winding paths, now with the branches of the tall trees on either side twining in a loving embrace as they met overhead, and almost excluding the light of day, and now turning into an open space upon which the sun poured its vivid rays, as if in double force, to revenge itself for not being able to penetrate the layers of thick foliage which hid the moss-grown trunks it longed to reach.

One side of this wood skirted a hill, where a lonely hermit had dwelt in years long gone by. Many straggling steps rudely cut in this hill, and often rendered slippery and unsafe by the knotted, twisted roots that forced their way through the ground, led down to the abode of the

hermit; and truly this holy man must have been a man of taste, for rarely have I seen a more charming spot. Many others must have been of the same opinion as myself, for a rustic bench had been placed not far from the small chapel, and on it the names of scores of visitors had been carefully carved.

Here I would bring my book and read by the hour, while I revelled to my heart's content in the perfect stillness around, or I would close the book, and permit my gaze to wander from the ever-changing clouds gliding over the blue expanse above, to the smiling landscape before me. As I said, the hermit had his chapel on the hill-side; beautiful clusters of various kinds of trees shaded the little building, while immediately in front a gurgling rivulet in its serpentine course was soon lost to view, and beyond, extending widely back, rose undulating field upon field of richly cultivated ground, so that though all was dark and gloomy above, the view beyond the valley was bright and cheering.

The door of the chapel was locked; often had I tried to wrench it open, for I had a strange curiosity to explore every nook of the tiny chamber, which had formed the double office of dwelling-house and place of worship to the aged recluse, who, it was said, had lived and died there. In some parts the door had given way, and apertures had been made through which I could peep, and I saw that it contained a rude altar, and on one side a stone bench. This, doubtless, served as a couch, but all was bare and cheerless within, and a shuddering, creeping feeling stole over me as I scanned the cold stone walls, and mentally I rejoiced that I was not condemned to pass the solitary life that this poor hermit must have done.

What could have him to seclude himself thus? What good had he gained by it? I determined to try to learn his history; something told me it was not a common one-that it would be worth unravelling.

My mind thus occupied with the past I left the chapel door, and returned to the rude bench where my poor book had long lain neglected. I took it up, and, finding my place, began again to read. I soon became absorbed in the tale, and forgot alike the hour and the place. The sun had long since set, and the twilight, so much admired by poets, was far advanced, still the balminess of the air and the quiet of the scene made me unwilling to return to the closeness and noise of an hotel. I lingered and lingered till every distant object began to assume the undefined appearance that approaching night loves to cast around her; then sighing, I was about to move, when I felt as if something pressed me gently on my shoulder, and glancing round I beheld, to my horror, a wrinkled hand there, as if detaining me. Slowly the trunkless hand moved away, and presently the door of the chapel noiselessly opening, the shadowy form of a bent old man, clad in a long, dark garment, with a girdle from which was suspended a cross, appeared in the doorway. Deep sorrow was depicted on the wasted countenance, and the hollow eyes were turned imploringly upon me, while with his left hand he beckoned me on, as his right arm hung handless by his side.

I started to my feet, but there I seemed to have grown to the earth; in vain I strove to move forwards or backwards-in vain! till, receding into the chapel, the figure reached one side of the wall, where the stone bench stood; then, pointing solemnly downwards, it suddenly faded from my sight. Now the iron spell which had paralysed my limbs and deprived

me of the power to use them seemed instantly loosened, and I rushed forward to gain the interior of the mysterious chapel; but my shoulder was grasped a second time by the same shrivelled, hateful hand, and my steps were stayed as if by a will over which I had no control. Slowly, and with a creaking, unearthly sound, the heavy wooden door swung on its hinges and closed, then followed the grating noise of a key being turned, and all was silent-silent as the tomb.

Was the hand gone? Though not a coward, I scarcely dared to look, but making an effort, as I called myself a fool, I did turn my head, and took a hurried glance. The dreaded object was no longer there, but in its place remained five red streaks, as though bloody fingers had come in contact with the coat! Some foul deed had been committed here, and was I, a stranger and a foreigner, destined to bring the secret of the dead to light? Nay, that could not be; my eyes must have deceived me— yet no-I was awake-there stood the chapel, not ten paces from me, and-and

Here my meditations were interrupted by the measured tread of horses, and presently a merry laugh reached me, and I recognised the voices of my friends, Hugo von Brempt and Theodor von Feldhorn.

66

By all that's sacred!" exclaimed Hugo. "There's the ghost of the aged hermit, which cannot tear itself, even in death, from its old haunts."

Nonsense, von Feldhorn, that's no spirit, but a creature of flesh and blood, up yonder. Hollo! who's there ?"

As it may be supposed, I was not long in joining my military friends, whom I found were returning from paying a visit at a château some miles off.

They joked me much on my love of solitude, told how they had taken me for the hermit's ghost, and wondered how I could venture to remain so late in the neighbourhood of that wood, which was known to be haunted. I tried hard to elicit from them all they knew on the subject, but found that it was not much, except that the peasantry around said the wood was infested with spirits, and that not even the bravest would approach its confines after dark. The young men did not ask me whether I had encountered any unearthly object, so I kept my own counsel, and joining in their gay and light conversation, accompanied them back to the town, and to my quarters there.

Several days passed without my gaining any information about the former occupant of the chapel on the hill-side, though I made inquiries in every direction where I thought I was likely to succeed. I had often again wandered through the wild paths of the forest, and remained till quite late near the chapel, without seeing anything supernatural, or hearing anything strange, and I began to look back upon my evening's adventure with the bloody hand and the old hermit as an extraordinary delusion of the mind, which it would be better for me not to repeat, for fear people might look upon me as deranged, until a curious dream took entire possession of my mind, and forcibly awoke my interest in the mysterious hermit, whose spirit could find no rest in the grave.

I dreamed that I was in a magnificent cathedral, decorated with lofty stained glass windows, superb marble pillars, and pictures on sacred subjects of countless value. The rich tones of the organ, and hundreds of human voices, poured forth volumes of sound in praise of the Lord of all.

Now

Every soul seemed touched and impressed with mingled feelings of awe and adoration. Every head was bowed, and every knee was bent. the high mass was over, and all was stir and bustle. The people-rich and poor, young and old-jostled against each other in their eagerness to gain one or other of the open doors. Streams upon streams of chattering, noisy beings flowed into the narrow streets leading from the sacred edifice, and one would have fancied that they were leaving a theatre rather than the house of God.

Soon the space around where I was standing was comparatively cleared; here and there alone a solitary figure still bent in pious prayer, and my eyes wandered carelessly from one to another, though I hardly saw them, for my spirit seemed to be wafting upwards with the full, delicious tones that yet lingered in my enchanted ear. I was recalled to earth by a female form, which I had not hitherto observed, rising from her knees close to my side. The beauty of her countenance and the gracefulness of her movements riveted my gaze, and involuntarily I followed the lady as she slowly turned towards a confessional, situated in rather a secluded part of the cathedral. As she drew near, she must have observed that it was already occupied, for she meekly waited, while she studied her book of prayer, until the person confessing had finished and had withdrawn ; she then went in. I, meanwhile, had placed myself behind a pillar, determined to stay until she came out, that I might once more have the pleasure of feasting my eyes upon her lovely features. What then was

my astonishment when I distinctly heard, far off as I was, every word the beautiful girl uttered to her confessor. It is needless that I should repeat it here-suffice it to say that it was a tale of secret love, and anxiety lest her passion should be discovered by her parents.

She had promised to meet her lover that night, but she could not go without having first confessed. "Where was the meeting to take place?" the priest demanded, in a tone which sounded to my ears more like the accents of a lover than that of a father confessor. But the trembling girl was so absorbed in her own fears that she heeded it not, and prayed the good father to pardon her if she declined to disclose that secret all else she would tell, but not that; she had promised faithfully that no power on earth should induce her to betray it. The priest urged powerfully, eloquently, that the church would not accept half her confidence; she must relieve her mind of all its weight; it was a great sin to conceal from the servant of the Lord in the holy confessional where she was to meet her lover. How could she expect to get absolution and obtain the intercession of the Holy Virgin if she would not disclose the whole truth? With torrents of tears, and trembling between her terror of displeasing the Blessed Virgin, and sorrow at having to break her word, she at length murmured the name of the trysting-place.

What further passed between the lady and her confessor I did not hear. Presently, however, she glided forth, but a thick veil concealed her features, and hid the traces of her deep emotion. I would have followed her, but a hand had clutched my shoulder, as a voice whispered in my ear, "Mark the priest!" I turned to see who was speaking-no living soul was near-but horror, even in my dream, had seized me; the wrinkled, bloody hand I too well knew was holding me fast! "The priest!" again was uttered, and I lost all power to disobey the voice.