, that the 'Lord Warden's Tomb' is a reminiscence of Kirkby
Stephen, and that 'The Cry of the Peacock' is a suggestion from the Vale
of Mallerstang.

If the ghost is not always visible in the tale, it is at least born of
it.

Thus if there be no actual ghost in 'Ill-Steekit Ephraim' or in 'The
Blackfriars Wynd' there are at least sufficiently 'ghostly' occurrences.

Again, in 'Apud Corstopitum' Penchrysa is held to haunt the Roman Wall
beside the limestone crags; Tynemouth Priory is thought to be revisited
by Prior Olaf whenever the wind stays long in the eastern airt, and the
'outbye' moors beside 'The Bower' may now be haunted by the spirit of
'Muckle-Mouthed Meg.'

The stories marked by an asterisk have already been published in the
_Border Magazine_; 'In the Cliff Land of the Danes' appeared originally
in the _Northern Counties Magazine_ under the title of 'An Antiquary's
Letter' (supposed to have been dictated by John Hall Stevenson of
Skelton Castle, author of _Crazy Tales_, to his friend the Reverend
Laurence Sterne at Coxwold), and has been slightly altered, as has also
'The Muniment Room,' which appeared in the _Queen_ and the _Newcastle
Weekly Chronicle_. He desires to thank the various editors concerned and
the Northern Newspaper Syndicate for their courtesy in permitting
republication.

In his _Letters on Demonology and Witchcraft_, written nearly one
hundred years ago, Sir Walter Scott says apologetically at the close of
the book: 'Even the present fashion of the world seems to be ill-suited
for studies of this fantastic nature; and the most ordinary mechanic has
learning sufficient to laugh at the figments which in former times were
believed by persons far advanced in the deepest knowledge of the age.'

But surely the belief in, and love of ghosts will persist 'as long as
the moon endureth,' for fancy, imagination, and conscience combine
against materialism, be it never so scientific, and even if the vision
of the affrighted criminal be subjective it is a terrible reality to
himself.

'_What! not see that little boy with the bloody pantaloons?_' exclaimed
the secret murderer, so much to the horror of his comrade that he
requested him, if he had anything on his mind, to make a clear
conscience as far as confession could do it.[1] And, further, it is but
some seventeen years since the present writer was taken to see a certain
nonagenarian--one Bobby Dawson--for some fifty years, if memory serve,
whi