CHAPTER VI.
THE GHOST HUNT.
In a village like Cotherstone, of which the inhabitants were tradesmen with plenty of time on their hands, labourers trained to thoughtless toil, and persons who, having retired from trade, were anxiously waiting to die, such an occurrence as that of the appearance of a ghost, could not fail to create a sensation. Nor did it. Nor was the sensation thus created either slight or ephemeral: it was deep—very deep—and, therefore, lasting. There was not one in the village upon whom the ghost had not made a powerful impression. Even the exemplary wife of Mr. Pokey who, during the whole of the morning, had been engaged upon a series of nice calculations, of which the result was that, as Pokey, since his marriage, had taken nearly five thousand ounces of snuff, and upwards of twenty-five thousand quarts of beer, (beer enough to deluge the village, and snuff sufficient to fill up his grave,) they would, had he saved the money thus squandered, have had more than five hundred pounds then to play with—even she, repudiating incredulity, became so excessively interested in the spirit, that she actually allowed Mr. Pokey in the evening to go up again to the Crumpet and Crown.
And, oh! what a theatre of excitement it was! Not only the party of the previous evening, but almost every man in the village was present; but, although Mr. Pokey came late, and was, moreover, hailed on his arrival with significance, they, being unwilling to wound his private feelings, did not then allude to the chaff.
Obadiah, of course, was there, and he was, as usual, very dictatorial and deep; but he had one grand object to achieve: he had to justify his conduct on the preceding night. He admitted that that conduct was not indicative of bravery: he freely admitted that it was not exactly characterised by that peculiar boldness for which he was ardently anxious to become distinguished: "But," said he, with much point, "you must view this affair in all its fructifying ramifications. Place before me anything tangible—anything with which I can grapple, my boys and then see how I'll act!"
"But you didn't even speak to it!" said Legge.
"Speak to it!" returned Obadiah. "Why, what's the good of speaking to a spirit? what's the good of arguing with a ghost? what principle, either moral, religious, social, political, or municipal, can you drive into the head of an apparition? Place brains before me—give me fructifying intelligence—give me Harry Brougham, or even Bobby Peel, my boys—and then you'd see how I'd go in; but the idea of speaking to a spectre!—pooh!—what's the good?"
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