“It is the natural effects of darkness, and that only,” answered Mr. Vernon; “as children cannot properly distinguish objects around them in the dark, their imagination, which is always smitten with the marvellous, shapes them out extraordinary figures, by enlarging or contracting what they look at, just as circumstances govern. Upon this, the notion of their weakness easily persuades them they are utterly unable to resist those monsters, which they think armed to hurt them. Terror thus obtains possession of them, and too frequently impresses fears which have the worst consequences.”
“They would be ashamed,” said Mr. Friendly, “if they saw in open day what often gives them so much fright by night.”
“It was for all the world,” said Lambert, “just as if I saw it; but I needed only touch it, and then I knew very well what it was.”
“Oh, yes,” said Charlotte, “you have given us a very admirable proof of your courage. Needed only touch it! And therefore, I suppose, you would have had me touch the door, but that I pushed you forward.”
“It becomes you well to talk about my fear,” said Lambert; “you that got behind poor Felix.”
“And poor little Dorothy behind me,” added the sly Felix.
“Come,” said Mr. Friendly, “I can see you have nothing to reproach each other with. But Lambert’s notion is not, upon that account, less rational; for, as in all the monstrous shapes that we image out continually to ourselves, we have but natural accidents to fear, we may ward off all danger by the sense of feeling, which distinguishes what frequently deceives the sight. It is the neglect of this precaution in our infancy, that makes so many of us fancy ghosts in every object round about us. I remember on this head, a story, comical enough, which I will tell you.”
The four children now came round their father, crying out, “A story! oh, a story!” and their father thus began it:—