“What did you do?”
“It suddenly rushed on my mind,” said the divine, “that the stoical philosopher Athenodorus had eluded the horrors of such a vision by patiently pursuing his studies; and it shot at the same time across my mind, that I, a Christian divine, and a Steward of the Mysteries, had less reason to fear evil, and better matter on which to employ my thoughts, than was possessed by a Heathen, who was blinded even by his own wisdom. So, instead of betraying any alarm, or even turning my head around, I pursued my writing, but with a beating heart, I admit, and with a throbbing hand.”
“If you could write at all,” said the Colonel, “with such an impression on your mind, you may take the head of the English army for dauntless resolution.”
“Our courage is not our own, Colonel,” said the divine, “and not as ours should it be vaunted of. And again, when you speak of this strange vision as an impression on my fancy, and not a reality obvious to my senses, let me tell you once more, your worldly wisdom is but foolishness touching the things that are not worldly.”
“Did you not look again upon the mirror?” said the Colonel.
“I did, when I had copied out the comfortable text, ‘Thou shalt tread down Satan under thy feet.’”
“And what did you then see?”
“The reflection of the same Joseph Albany,” said Holdenough, “passing slowly as from behind my chair—the same in member and lineament that I had known him in his youth, excepting that his cheek had the marks of the more advanced age at which he died, and was very pale.”
“What did you then?”
“I turned from the glass, and plainly saw the figure which had made the reflection in the mirror retreating towards the door, not fast, nor slow, but with a gliding steady pace. It turned again when near the door, and again showed me its pale, ghastly countenance, before it disappeared. But how it left the room, whether by the door, or otherwise, my spirits were too much hurried to remark exactly; nor have I been able, by any effort of recollection, distinctly to remember.”