Literary Cadet, And Saturday Evening Bulletin

MR. NOLAN.

Some years ago, a woman who rented a snug house in Dublin, alarmed the neighborhood with a strange story of a ghost, dressed as a female in black robes, that opened the curtains of her bed, surrounded by an illumination like lightning, and, with a countenance which showed its owner to be laboring under some heavy burden, beckoned the woman to follow her. The person haunted called in two relations to sleep with her the next night, but they were also equally frightened with groans and an uncommon noise, and left the house the next day. The occupier of the house still persisted that she was not only haunted, but threatened by the ghost; and to this she made the most solemn oaths, as well as imprecations, and accordingly took lodgings in a neighboring street. The story having gone abroad, hundreds were daily drawn by curiosity into the street where the haunted house was; and, it becoming the subject of conversation every where, Mr. Nolan, so well known for his poetical and political abilities, took up a sporting bet that he would suffer himself to be locked up in the house one whole night, without the company of any human being. About nine o'clock he went, and was shut up; but for the sake of defence against any improper practices, he took with him a dog and a case of loaded pistols. He was not released till six o'clock the next morning, when he was found by his companions—fast asleep. The following stanzas will best show the situation of his mind during the time of his vigils. Suffice it to say, he saw no ghost, though he heard a great deal of noise, and loudly threatened to shoot the first person who should approach him, whether of this world or the other. The discreet ghost desisted, and the people in that neighborhood got rid of their fears.

If from the cerements of the silent dead
Our long departed friends could rise anew
Why feel a horror, or conceive a dread,
To see again those friends whom once we knew?
Father of all! thou giv'st not to our ken
To view beyond the ashes of the grave;
'Tis not the idle tales of busy men
That can the mind appal—the truly brave,
Seated on reason's adamantine throne,
Can please the soul, and fears no ills unknown:
O! if the flinty prison of the grave
Could loose its doors, and let the spirit flee
Why not return the wise, the just, the brave
And let once more the pride of ages free?
Why not restore a Socrates again?
Or give thee Newton, as the first of men!
In this lone room where now I patient wait,
To try if souls departed can appear,
O could a Burgh escape his prison gate.
Or could I think La Touche's form I near
Why fear to view the shades which long must be
Sacred to freedom and to charity:
A little onward in the path of life.
And all must stretch in death their mortal frame:
A few short struggles and the weary strife.
And blot the frail memorial of our name.
Torn from the promontory's lofty brow,
In time the rooted oak itself lies low.