On Ghosts

What a different earth do we inhabit from that on which our forefathers
dwelt! The antediluvian world, strode over by mammoths, preyed upon by
the megatherion, and peopled by the offspring of the Sons of God, is a
better type of the earth of Homer, Herodotus, and Plato, than the
hedged-in cornfields and measured hills of the present day. The globe
was then encircled by a wall which paled in the bodies of men, whilst
their feathered thoughts soared over the boundary; it had a brink, and
in the deep profound which it overhung, men's imaginations,
eagle-winged, dived and flew, and brought home strange tales to their
believing auditors. Deep caverns harboured giants; cloud-like birds cast
their shadows upon the plains; while far out at sea lay islands of
bliss, the fair paradise of Atlantis or El Dorado sparkling with untold
jewels. Where are they now? The Fortunate Isles have lost the glory that
spread a halo round them; for who deems himself nearer to the golden
age, because he touches at the Canaries on his voyage to India? Our only
riddle is the rise of the Niger; the interior of New Holland, our only
terra incognita; and our sole mare incognitum, the north-west passage.
But these are tame wonders, lions in leash; we do not invest Mungo Park,
or the Captain of the Hecla, with divine attributes; no one fancies that
the waters of the unknown river bubble up from hell's fountains, no
strange and weird power is supposed to guide the ice-berg, nor do we
fable that a stray pick-pocket from Botany Bay has found the gardens of
the Hesperides within the circuit of the Blue Mountains. What have we
left to dream about? The clouds are no longer the charioted servants of
the sun, nor does he any more bathe his glowing brow in the bath of
Thetis; the rainbow has ceased to be the messenger of the Gods, and
thunder longer their awful voice, warning man of that which is to come.
We have the sun which has been weighed and measured, but not understood;
we have the assemblage of the planets, the congregation of the stars,
and the yet unshackled ministration of the winds:--such is the list of
our ignorance.