him a present of it.  Two days after this he departed for Scotland, and I never afterwards saw him.  He set out about six o’clock in the morning.  My father got up early that morning to take leave of him before his departure, at which he seemed vastly uneasy.  He took him in his arms, and said, “God bless you, my dear Cranstoun, when you come next, I hope your unhappy affair will be decided to our mutual satisfaction.”  To this Mr. Cranstoun replied, “Yes, sir, I hope in my favour; or if this should fail that you should hear of my death.  Be tender to,” continued he, “and comfort this poor thing,” turning towards me, “whom I love better than myself.”  Then my father look Mr. Cranstoun and myself in his arms, and we all three shed tears.  This was a very moving scene.  My father afterwards went out of the room, and fetched a silver dram-bottle, holding near half a pint, filled it with rum, and made a present of both to Mr. Cranstoun; bidding him keep the dram-bottle for his sake, and drink the liquor on the road; assuring him, that if he found himself sick or cold, the latter would prove a cordial to him.  Mr. Cranstoun then got into the post-chaise, and took his leave of Henley.

It will be proper to take notice in this place, by way of digression, of a very remarkable event, or rather series of events, that happened before Mr. Cranstoun’s last departure for Scotland.  One day whilst my mother and I were last in London, we were talking of the immortality of the soul; and the subject we were then upon led us insensibly to a discourse of apparitions; and that again to a promise we made each other, that the first of us who died should appear to the survivor, after death, if permitted so to do.  My mother dying first, in the manner already related, I sometimes retired into the room where she died, in hopes of seeing her.  Here I lay near half a year, earnestly desiring to see my mother, without being able either to see or hear any thing.  After this, my father lay in that room; but for some time neither saw nor heard any thing.  Afterwards, one night, he taxed me with being at his chamber door, rapping at it, rushing with my silk-gown, and refusing to answer him when he called to me.  My chamber was at a small distance from his, and into it he came the next morning:  demanding for what reason I had so frighted him.  To this I replied, “I had never been at his door, nor out of my bed the whole night.”  He then inquired of all the maids, who only lay in the house, whether any of them disturbed him; to which they all answered in the negative.  Soon after this, Mr. Cranstoun came to Henley, as has been already observed, and was put into a room, called the hall-chamber, over the great parlour; which was reckoned the best in the house.  Here he was shut out from the rest of the family.  Till October 1750, above a year after my mother’s death, no noise at all was heard, excepting that at Mr. Blandy’s chamber-door above mentioned.  But one morning in the beginning