ve vexed knavish attorneys by
discovering long-hidden deeds. Sometimes they have enticed highwaymen
into dark corners of woods, and there the wretched criminal finds in
their bags (for ghosts of this breed have good substantial luggage)
nothing but a halter and a bit of silver (value exactly 13-1/2_d._) to
pay the hangman. When he turns to the owner, he has vanished.
Occasionally, they are the legends told by some passing traveller from
distant lands--probably genuine superstitions in their origin, but
amplified by tradition into marvellous exactitude of detail, and
garnished with long gossiping conversations. Such a ghost, which, on the
whole, is my favourite, is the mysterious Owke Mouraski. This being,
whether devil or good spirit no man knows, accompanied a traveller for
four years through the steppes of Russia, and across Norway, Turkey, and
various other countries. On the march he was always seen a mile to the
left of the party, keeping parallel with them, in glorious indifference
to roads. He crossed rivers without bridges, and the sea without ships.
Everywhere, in the wild countries, he was known by name and dreaded; for
if he entered a house, some one would die there within a year. Yet he
was good to the traveller, going so far, indeed, on one occasion, as to
lend him a horse, and frequently treating him to good advice. Towards
the end of the journey Owke Mouraski informed his companion that he was
'the inhabitant of an invisible region,' and afterwards became very
familiar with him. The traveller, indeed, would never believe that his
friend was a devil, a scepticism of which De Foe doubtfully approves.
The story, however, must be true, because, as De Foe says, he saw it in
manuscript many years ago; and certainly Owke is of a superior order to
most of the pot-house ghosts.

De Foe, doubtless, had an insatiable appetite for legends of this kind,
talked about them with infinite zest in innumerable gossips, and
probably smoked pipes and consumed ale in abundance during the process.
The ghosts are the substantial creations of the popular fancy, which no
longer nourished itself upon a genuine faith in a more lofty order of
spiritual beings. It is superstition become gross and vulgar before it
disappears for ever. Romance and poetry have pretty well departed from
these ghosts, as from the witches of the period, who are little better
than those who still linger in our country villages and fill corners of
newspapers,