At the Ghost Hour. The House of the Unbelieving Thomas

by Paul Heyse

she could count a pretty little sum laid by in her stocking, she forgave the stupid peasants whose persecutions had made her life so wretched.

Yet even here, in the city, the reputation of holding converse with evil spirits clung to her; and inquisitive school-boys, who had once, goaded by insatiable curiosity, ventured through the doorway as far as the entrance to the court, pointed to the four small windows above the stable, with childish awe, and whispered in each other's ears all manner of goblin-tales of the Blockenberg and the Devil's dances. The most impudent among them finally took courage, called with a loud, but trembling voice: "Old witch! Old witch!" in the quiet court, and threw a stone against the stable-door; whereupon the whole troop scattered in a hasty flight, while even the sparrows, terrified by the unwonted clamor, flew out from the dry branches of the chestnut with shrill cries.

That the witch remained invisible, added not a little to the superstitious dread in which she was held. Her child, however, was regarded by the neighbors with mingled sympathy and admiration. They could not understand how she kept her red cheeks and laughing eyes amid such depressing surroundings; they must say, that any one who had at his baptism renounced the devil and all his works, could hardly bring himself to marry a girl out of this haunted house. Yet they watched the graceful little figure as long as they could see her hat-ribbon wave in the wind, and her short skirt blow about her trim ankles.

So far, all seemed orderly and natural in the house of "The Unbelieving Thomas," and the report of ghostly rendezvous there seemed ill-founded. But the narrator of this true story is now, at last, forced to the confession that, in the closest proximity to these two innocent beings, there was installed a ghost, pure and simple, of whose presence neither the occupants of the house nor the dwellers in that street had the slightest intimation.

It is averred that the souls of the dead, when they leave their bodies, do not pass directly to heaven or hell; but, according to the Romish belief, into purgatory, there to await the day of judgment and the resurrection of the body; or, according to the Protestant confession, into an intermediate state, where they bide in a condition of uncertain expectancy, like that of earthly travelers in a way station. In this supernal region there prevails a certain monotony of existence unrelieved even by the arrival of newly-released souls who, for the most part, bear upon their pallid features the sorrowful trace of a reluctant parting.

It is true that spirits of the higher order, those who while yet upon earth were raised above the sordid misery of life, and who viewed all occurrences in the light of eternity, soon find their way about in the gray twilight of this aerial realm,

and enjoy meeting a kindred soul now and then among the noiseless throng of disembodied spirits, and holding converse with those whom they had come to revere for their virtuous deeds during their earthly life. So that here, where perfect equality and universal brotherhood are generally supposed to hold sway, there is a line of distinction between the great and small, to which no one offers the least objection. For, as no outward advantage is attached to the greater prestige which the nobler souls enjoy, no one finds cause for envy in the exalted intercourse with which, their hours are filled; while the great majority long ardently for the coarser pleasures of their past life.

In this painless intermediate state, the more worthy or distinguished souls are pursued by only one annoyance, namely, the ever-increasing curiosity of those yet living upon earth, who delight to summon the spirits of great kings, sages and artists to compulsory interviews. This disgraceful amusement has been the fashion at intervals from time immemorial, as when, for example, the Witch of Endor summoned the spirit of the high priest Samuel to appear before Saul.