{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_26950/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_26950","id":"gutenberg_26950","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/26950","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Humour","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Ghost stories"],"text":"Produced by David Edwards, Marcia Brooks and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This\nbook was produced from scanned images of public domain\nmaterial from the Google Print project.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nHUMOROUS GHOST STORIES\n\n\n\n\nHUMOROUS GHOST\nSTORIES\n\nSELECTED, WITH AN INTRODUCTION\n\nBY\n\nDOROTHY SCARBOROUGH, PH.D.\n\nLECTURER IN ENGLISH, COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY\nAUTHOR OF \"THE SUPERNATURAL IN MODERN ENGLISH FICTION,\"\n\"FUGITIVE VERSES,\" \"FROM A SOUTHERN PORCH,\" ETC.\nCOMPILER OF \"FAMOUS MODERN GHOST STORIES\"\n\nG. P. PUTNAM'S SONS\n\nNEW YORK AND LONDON\n\nThe Knickerbocker Press\n\n1921\n\nCOPYRIGHT, 1921\n\nBY\n\nDOROTHY SCARBOROUGH\n\n_Printed in the United States of America_\n\n\n\n\n    To\n\n    DR. AND MRS. JOHN T. HARRINGTON\n\n    _Life flings miles and years between us,\n        It is true,--\n    But brings never to me dearer\n        Friends than you!_\n\n\n\n\nThe Humorous Ghost\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\n\nThe humorous ghost is distinctly a modern character. In early literature\nwraiths took themselves very seriously, and insisted on a proper show of\nrespectful fear on the part of those whom they honored by haunting. A\nmortal was expected to rise when a ghost entered the room, and in case\nhe was slow about it, his spine gave notice of what etiquette demanded.\nIn the event of outdoor apparition, if a man failed to bare his head in\nawe, the roots of his hair reminded him of his remissness. Woman has\nalways had the advantage over man in such emergency, in that her locks,\nbeing long and pinned up, are less easily moved--which may explain the\nfact (if it be a fact!) that in fiction women have shown themselves more\nself-possessed in ghostly presence than men. Or possibly a woman knows\nthat a masculine spook is, after all, only a man, and therefore may be\ncharmed into helplessness, while the feminine can be seen through by\nanother woman and thus disarmed. The majority of the comic apparitions,\ncuriously enough, are masculine. You don't often find women wraithed in\nsmiles--perhaps because they resent being made ridiculous, even after\nthey're dead. Or maybe the reason lies in the fact that men have\nwritten most of the comic or satiric ghost stories, and have\nchivalrously spared the gentler shades. And there are very few funny\nchild-ghosts--you might almost say none, in comparison with the number\nof grown-ups. The number of ghost children of any or all types is small\nproportionately--perhaps because it seems an unnatural thing for a child\nto die under any circumstances, while to make of him a butt for jokes\nwould be unfeeling. There are a few instances, as in the case of the\nghost baby mentioned later, but very few.\n\nAncient ghosts were a long-faced lot. They didn't know how to play at\nall. They had been brought up in stern repression of frivolities as\nhaunters--no matter how sportive they may have been in life--and in turn\nthey cowed mortals into a servile submission. No doubt they thought of\nmen and women as mere youngsters that must be taught their place, since\nany living person, however senile, would be thought juvenile compared\nwith a timeless spook.\n\nBut in these days of individualism and radical liberalism, spooks as\nwell as mortals are expanding their personalities and indulging in\ngreater freedom. A ghost can call his shade his own now, and exhibit any\nmood he pleases. Even young female wraiths, demanding latchkeys, refuse\nto obey the frowning face of the clock, and engage in light-hearted\nebullience to make the ghost of Mrs. Grundy turn a shade paler in\nhorror. Nowadays haunters have more fun and freedom than the haunted. In\nfact, it's money in one's pocket these days to be dead, for ghosts have\nno rent problems, and dead men pay no bills. What officer would\nwillingly pursue a ghostly tenant to his last lodging in order to serve\nsummons on him? And suppose a ghost brought into court demanded trial by\na jury of his peers? No--manifestly death has compensations not\nconnected with the consolations of religion.\n\nThe marvel is that apparitions were so long in realizing their\npossibilities, in improving their advantages. The specters in classic\nand medieval literature were malarial, vaporous beings without energy to\ndo anything but threaten, and mortals never would have trembled with\nfear at their frown if they had known how feeble they were. At best a\nrevenant could only rattle a rusty skeleton, or shake a moldy shroud, or\nclank a chain--but as mortals cowered before his demonstrations, he\ndidn't worry. If he wished to evoke the extreme of anguish from his\nhost, he raised a menacing arm and uttered a windy word or two. Now it\ntakes more than that to produce a panic. The up-to-date ghost keeps his\nskeleton in a garage or some place where it is cleaned and oiled and\nkept in good working order. The modern wraith has sold his sheet to the\nold clo'es man, and dresses as in life. Now the ghost has learned to\nhave a variety of good times, and he can make the living squirm far\nmore satisfyingly than in the past. The spook of to-day enjoys making\nhis haunted laugh even while he groans in terror. He knows that there's\nno weapon, no threat, in horror, to be compared with ridicule.\n\nThink what a solemn creature the Gothic ghost was! How little\noriginality and initiative he showed and how dependent he was on his own\natmosphere for thrills! His sole appeal was to the spinal column. The\nghost of to-day touches the funny bone as well. He adds new horrors to\nbeing haunted, but new pleasures also. The modern specter can be a\njoyous creature on occasion, as he can be, when he wishes, fearsome\nbeyond the dreams of classic or Gothic revenant. He has a keen sense of\nhumor and loves a good joke on a mortal, while he can even enjoy one on\nhimself. Though his fun is of comparatively recent origin--it's less\nthan a century since he learned to crack a smile--the laughing ghost is\nvery much alive and sportively active. Some of these new spooks are\nnotoriously good company. Many Americans there are to-day who would\ncourt being haunted by the captain and crew of Richard Middleton's Ghost\nShip that landed in a turnip field and dispensed drink till they\ndemoralized the denizens of village and graveyard alike. After that show\nof spirits, the turnips in that field tasted of rum, long after the\nghost ship had sailed away into the blue.\n\nThe modern spook is possessed not only of humor but of a caustic satire\nas well. His jest is likely to have more than one point to it, and he\ncan haunt so insidiously, can make himself so at home in his host's\nstudy or bedroom that a man actually welcomes a chat with him--only to\nfind out too late that his human foibles have been mercilessly flayed.\nPity the poor chap in H. C. Bunner's story, _The Interfering Spook_, for\ninstance, who was visited nightly by a specter that repeated to him all\nthe silly and trite things he had said during the day, a ghost,\nmoreover, that towered and swelled at every hackneyed phrase, till\nfinally he filled the room and burst after the young man proposed to his\nadmired one, and made subsequent remarks. Ghosts not only have\nappallingly long memories, but they possess a mean advantage over the\nliving in that they have once been mortal, while the men and women they\nhaunt haven't yet been ghosts. Suppose each one of us were to be haunted\nby his own inane utterances? True, we're told that we'll have to give\naccount Some Day for every idle word, but recording angels seem more\nsympathetic than a sneering ghost at one's elbow. Ghosts can satirize\nmore fittingly than anyone else the absurdities of certain psychic\nclaims, as witness the delightful seriousness of the story _Back from\nthat Bourne_, which appeared as a front page news story in the New York\n_Sun_ years ago. I should think that some of the futile, laggard\nmessenger-boy ghosts that one reads about nowadays would blush with\nshame before the wholesome raillery of the porgy fisherman.\n\nThe modern humorous ghost satirizes everything from the old-fashioned\nspecter (he's very fond of taking pot-shots at him) to the latest\npsychic manifestations. He laughs at ghosts that aren't experts in\nefficiency haunting, and he has a lot of fun out of mortals for being\nscared of specters. He loves to shake the lugubrious terrors of the past\nbefore you, exposing their hollow futility, and he contrives to create\nnew fears for you magically while you are laughing at him.\n\nThe new ghost hates conventionality and uses the old thrills only to\nshow what dead batteries they come from. His really electrical effects\nare his own inventions. He needs no dungeon keeps and monkish cells to\nplay about in--not he! He demands no rag nor bone nor clank of chain of\nhis old equipment to start on his career. He can start up a moving\npicture show of his own, as in Ruth McEnery Stuart's _The Haunted\nPhotograph_, and demonstrate a new kind of apparition. The ghost story\nof to-day gives you spinal sensations with a difference, as in the\nimmortal _Transferred Ghost_, by Frank R. Stockton, where the suitor on\nthe moonlit porch, attempting to tell his fair one that he dotes on her,\nsees the ghost of her ferocious uncle (who isn't dead!) kicking his\nheels against the railing, and hears his admonition that he'd better\nhurry up, as the live uncle is coming in sight. The thrill with which\nyou read of the ghost in Ellis Parker Butler's _The Late John Wiggins_,\nwho deposits his wooden leg with the family he is haunting, on the plea\nthat it is too materialistic to be worn with ease, and therefore they\nmust take care of it for him, doesn't altogether leave you even when you\ndiscover that the late John is a fraud, has never been a ghost nor used\na wooden leg. But a terrifying leg-acy while you do believe in it!\n\nThe new ghost has a more nimble and versatile tongue as well as wit. In\nthe older fiction and drama apparitions spoke seldom, and then merely as\n_ghosts_, not as individuals. And ghosts, like kings in drama, were of a\ndignity and must preserve it in their speech. Or perhaps the authors\nwere doubtful as to the dialogue of shades, and compromised on a few\nstately ejaculations as being safely phantasmal speaking parts. But\ncompare that usage with the rude freedom of some modern spooks, as John\nKendrick Bangs's spectral cook of Bangletop, who lets fall her h's and\ntwists grammar in a rare and diverting manner. For myself, I'd hate to\nbe an old-fashioned ghost with no chance to keep up with the styles in\nslang. Think of having always--and always--to speak a dead language!\n\nThe humorous ghost is not only modern, but he is distinctively American.\nThere are ghosts of all nationalities, naturally, but the spook that\nprovides a joke--on his host or on himself--is Yankee in origin and\ndevelopment. The dry humor, the comic sense of the incongruous, the\nwillingness to laugh at himself as at others, carry over into\nimmaterialization as characteristic American qualities and are preserved\nin their true flavor. I don't assert, of course, that Americans have\nbeen the only ones in this field. The French and English selections in\nthis volume are sufficient to prove the contrary. Gautier's _The Mummy's\nFoot_ has a humor of a lightness and grace as delicate as the princess's\nlittle foot itself. There are various English stories of whimsical\nhaunting, some of actual spooks and some of the hoax type. Hoax ghosts\nare fairly numerous in British as in American literature, one of the\nearly specimens of the kind being _The Specter of Tappington_ in the\n_Ingoldsby Legends_. The files of _Blackwood's Magazine_ reveal several\nexamples, though not of high literary value.\n\nOf the early specimens of the really amusing ghost that is an actual\nrevenant is _The Ghost Baby_, in _Blackwood's_, which shows originality\nand humor, yet is too diffuse for printing here. In that we have a\nconventional young bachelor, engaged to a charming girl, who is\nentangled in social complications and made to suffer mental torment\nbecause, without his consent, he has been chosen as the nurse and\nguardian of a ghost baby that cradles after him wherever he goes. This\nis a rich story almost spoiled by being poorly told. I sigh to think of\nthe laughs that Frank R. Stockton or John Kendrick Bangs or Gelett\nBurgess could have got out of the situation. There are other comic\nBritish spooks, as in Baring-Gould's _A Happy Release_, where a widow\nand a widower in love are haunted by the jealous ghosts of their\nrespective spouses, till the phantom couple take a liking to each other\nand decide to let the living bury their dead. This is suggestive of\nBrander Matthews's earlier and cleverer story of a spectral courtship,\nin _The Rival Ghosts_. Medieval and later literature gave us many\ninstances of a love affair or marriage between one spirit and one\nmortal, but it remained for the modern American to celebrate the\nnuptials of two ghosts. Think of being married when you know that you\nand the other party are going to live ever after--whether happily or no!\nTruly, the present terrors are more fearsome than the old!\n\nThe stories by Eden Phillpotts and Richard Middleton in this collection\nshow the diversity of the English humor as associated with apparitions,\nand are entertaining in themselves. The _Canterville Ghost_, by Oscar\nWilde, is one of his best short stories and is in his happiest vein of\nlaughing satire. This travesty on the conventional traditions of the\nwraith is preposterously delightful, one of the cleverest ghost stories\nin our language. Zangwill has written engagingly of spooks, with a\nlaughable story about Samuel Johnson. And there are others. But the fact\nremains that in spite of conceded and admirable examples, the humorous\nghost story is for the most part American in creation and spirit.\nWashington Irving might be said to have started that fashion in\nskeletons and shades, for he has given us various comic haunters, some\nreal and some make-believe. Frank R. Stockton gave his to funny spooks\nwith a riotous and laughing pen. The spirit in his _Transferred Ghost_\nis impudently deathless, and has called up a train of subsequent\nhaunters. John Kendrick Bangs has made the darker regions seem\ncomfortable and homelike for us, and has created ghosts so human and so\nfunny that we look forward to being one--or more. We feel downright\nneighborly toward such specters as the futile \"last ghost\" Nelson Lloyd\nevokes for us, as we appreciate the satire of Rose O'Neill's\nsophisticated wraith. The daring concept of Gelett Burgess's Ghost\nExtinguisher is altogether American. The field is still comparatively\nlimited, but a number of Americans have done distinctive work in it. The\nspecter now wears motley instead of a shroud, and shakes his jester's\nbells the while he rattles his bones. I dare any, however grouchy,\nreader to finish the stories in this volume without having a kindlier\nfeeling toward ghosts!\n\nD. S.\n\nNEW YORK,\n_March, 1921._\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n                                     PAGE\n\nINTRODUCTION: THE HUMOROUS GHOST      vii\n\nTHE CANTERVILLE GHOST                   3\n  BY OSCAR WILDE\n\nTHE GHOST-EXTINGUISHER                 51\n  BY GELETT BURGESS\n\n\"DEY AIN'T NO GHOSTS\"                  69\n  BY ELLIS PARKER BUTLER\n\nTHE TRANSFERRED GHOST                  89\n  BY FRANK R. STOCKTON\n\nTHE MUMMY'S FOOT                      109\n  BY THEOPHILE GAUTIER\n\nTHE RIVAL GHOSTS                      129\n  BY BRANDER MATTHEWS\n\nTHE WATER GHOST OF HARROWBY HALL      159\n  BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS\n\nBACK FROM THAT BOURNE                 175\n  ANONYMOUS\n\nTHE GHOST-SHIP                        187\n  BY RICHARD MIDDLETON\n\nTHE TRANSPLANTED GHOST                205\n  BY WALLACE IRWIN\n\nTHE LAST GHOST IN HARMONY             229\n  BY NELSON LLOYD\n\nTHE GHOST OF MISER BRIMPSON           247\n  BY EDEN PHILLPOTTS\n\nTHE HAUNTED PHOTOGRAPH                275\n  BY RUTH MCENERY STUART\n\nTHE GHOST THAT GOT THE BUTTON         295\n  BY WILL ADAMS\n\nTHE SPECTER BRIDEGROOM                315\n  BY WASHINGTON IRVING\n\nTHE SPECTER OF TAPPINGTON             341\n  COMPILED BY RICHARD BARHAM\n\nIN THE BARN                           385\n  BY BURGES JOHNSON\n\nA SHADY PLOT                          403\n  BY ELSIE BROWN\n\nTHE LADY AND THE GHOST                425\n  BY ROSE CECIL O'NEILL\n\n\n\n\nHUMOROUS GHOST STORIES\n\n\n\n\nTHE CANTERVILLE GHOST\n\n_An amusing chronicle of the tribulations of the Ghost of Canterville\nChase when his ancestral halls became the home of the American Minister\nto the Court of St. James._\n\nBY OSCAR WILDE\n\n\n\n\nThe Canterville Ghost\n\nBY OSCAR WILDE\n\n\nI\n\nWhen Mr. Hiram B. Otis, the American Minister, bought Canterville Chase,\neveryone told him he was doing a very foolish thing, as there was no\ndoubt at all that the place was haunted. Indeed, Lord Canterville\nhimself, who was a man of the most punctilious honor, had felt it his\nduty to mention the fact to Mr. Otis when they came to discuss terms.\n\n\"We have not cared to live in the place ourselves,\" said Lord\nCanterville, \"since my grand-aunt, the Dowager Duchess of Bolton, was\nfrightened into a fit, from which she never really recovered, by two\nskeleton hands being placed on her shoulders as she was dressing for\ndinner, and I feel bound to tell you, Mr. Otis, that the ghost has been\nseen by several living members of my family, as well as by the rector of\nthe parish, the Rev. Augustus Dampier, who is a Fellow of King's\nCollege, Cambridge. After the unfortunate accident to the Duchess, none\nof our younger servants would stay with us, and Lady Canterville often\ngot very little sleep at night, in consequence of the mysterious noises\nthat came from the corridor and the library.\"\n\n\"My Lord,\" answered the Minister, \"I will take the furniture and the\nghost at a valuation. I have come from a modern country, where we have\neverything that money can buy; and with all our spry young fellows\npainting the Old World red, and carrying off your best actors and\nprima-donnas, I reckon that if there were such a thing as a ghost in\nEurope, we'd have it at home in a very short time in one of our public\nmuseums, or on the road as a show.\"\n\n\"I fear that the ghost exists,\" said Lord Canterville, smiling, \"though\nit may have resisted the overtures of your enterprising impresarios. It\nhas been well known for three centuries, since 1584 in fact, and always\nmakes its appearance before the death of any member of our family.\"\n\n\"Well, so does the family doctor for that matter, Lord Canterville. But\nthere is no such thing, sir, as a ghost, and I guess the laws of Nature\nare not going to be suspended for the British aristocracy.\"\n\n\"You are certainly very natural in America,\" answered Lord Canterville,\nwho did not quite understand Mr. Otis's last observation, \"and if you\ndon't mind a ghost in the house, it is all right. Only you must remember\nI warned you.\"\n\nA few weeks after this, the purchase was concluded, and at the close of\nthe season the Minister and his family went down to Canterville Chase.\nMrs. Otis, who, as Miss Lucretia R. Tappan, of West 53d Street, had been\na celebrated New York belle, was now a very handsome, middle-aged woman,\nwith fine eyes, and a superb profile. Many American ladies on leaving\ntheir native land adopt an appearance of chronic ill-health, under the\nimpression that it is a form of European refinement, but Mrs. Otis had\nnever fallen into this error. She had a magnificent constitution, and a\nreally wonderful amount of animal spirits. Indeed, in many respects, she\nwas quite English, and was an excellent example of the fact that we have\nreally everything in common with America nowadays, except, of course,\nlanguage. Her eldest son, christened Washington by his parents in a\nmoment of patriotism, which he never ceased to regret, was a\nfair-haired, rather good-looking young man, who had qualified himself\nfor American diplomacy by leading the German at the Newport Casino for\nthree successive seasons, and even in London was well known as an\nexcellent dancer. Gardenias and the peerage were his only weaknesses.\nOtherwise he was extremely sensible. Miss Virginia E. Otis was a little\ngirl of fifteen, lithe and lovely as a fawn, and with a fine freedom in\nher large blue eyes. She was a wonderful Amazon, and had once raced old\nLord Bilton on her pony twice round the park, winning by a length and a\nhalf, just in front of the Achilles statue, to the huge delight of the\nyoung Duke of Cheshire, who proposed for her on the spot, and was sent\nback to Eton that very night by his guardians, in floods of tears.\nAfter Virginia came the twins, who were usually called \"The Stars and\nStripes,\" as they were always getting swished. They were delightful\nboys, and, with the exception of the worthy Minister, the only true\nrepublicans of the family.\n\nAs Canterville Chase is seven miles from Ascot, the nearest railway\nstation, Mr. Otis had telegraphed for a wagonette to meet them, and they\nstarted on their drive in high spirits. It was a lovely July evening,\nand the air was delicate with the scent of the pinewoods. Now and then\nthey heard a wood-pigeon brooding over its own sweet voice, or saw, deep\nin the rustling fern, the burnished breast of the pheasant. Little\nsquirrels peered at them from the beech-trees as they went by, and the\nrabbits scudded away through the brushwood and over the mossy knolls,\nwith their white tails in the air. As they entered the avenue of\nCanterville Chase, however, the sky became suddenly overcast with\nclouds, a curious stillness seemed to hold the atmosphere, a great\nflight of rooks passed silently over their heads, and, before they\nreached the house, some big drops of rain had fallen.\n\nStanding on the steps to receive them was an old woman, neatly dressed\nin black silk, with a white cap and apron. This was Mrs. Umney, the\nhousekeeper, whom Mrs. Otis, at Lady Canterville's earnest request, had\nconsented to keep in her former position. She made them each a low\ncurtsy as they alighted, and said in a quaint, old-fashioned manner, \"I\nbid you welcome to Canterville Chase.\" Following her, they passed\nthrough the fine Tudor hall into the library, a long, low room, paneled\nin black oak, at the end of which was a large stained glass window. Here\nthey found tea laid out for them, and, after taking off their wraps,\nthey sat down and began to look round, while Mrs. Umney waited on them.\n\nSuddenly Mrs. Otis caught sight of a dull red stain on the floor just by\nthe fireplace, and, quite unconscious of what it really signified, said\nto Mrs. Umney, \"I am afraid something has been spilled there.\"\n\n\"Yes, madam,\" replied the old housekeeper in a low voice, \"blood has\nbeen spilled on that spot.\"\n\n\"How horrid!\" cried Mrs. Otis; \"I don't at all care for blood-stains in\na sitting-room. It must be removed at once.\"\n\nThe old woman smiled, and answered in the same low, mysterious voice,\n\"It is the blood of Lady Eleanore de Canterville, who was murdered on\nthat very spot by her own husband, Sir Simon de Canterville, in 1575.\nSir Simon survived her nine years, and disappeared suddenly under very\nmysterious circumstances. His body has never been discovered, but his\nguilty spirit still haunts the Chase. The blood-stain has been much\nadmired by tourists and others, and cannot be removed.\"\n\n\"That is all nonsense,\" cried Washington Otis; \"Pinkerton's Champion\nStain Remover and Paragon Detergent will clean it up in no time,\" and\nbefore the terrified housekeeper could interfere, he had fallen upon his\nknees, and was rapidly scouring the floor with a small stick of what\nlooked like a black cosmetic. In a few moments no trace of the\nblood-stain could be seen.\n\n\"I knew Pinkerton would do it,\" he exclaimed, triumphantly, as he looked\nround at his admiring family; but no sooner had he said these words than\na terrible flash of lightning lit up the somber room, a fearful peal of\nthunder made them all start to their feet, and Mrs. Umney fainted.\n\n\"What a monstrous climate!\" said the American Minister, calmly, as he\nlit a long cheroot. \"I guess the old country is so overpopulated that\nthey have not enough decent weather for everybody. I have always been of\nopinion that emigration is the only thing for England.\"\n\n\"My dear Hiram,\" cried Mrs. Otis, \"what can we do with a woman who\nfaints?\"\n\n\"Charge it to her like breakages,\" answered the Minister; \"she won't\nfaint after that\"; and in a few moments Mrs. Umney certainly came to.\nThere was no doubt, however, that she was extremely upset, and she\nsternly warned Mr. Otis to beware of some trouble coming to the house.\n\n\"I have seen things with my own eyes, sir,\" she said, \"that would make\nany Christian's hair stand on end, and many and many a night I have not\nclosed my eyes in sleep for the awful things that are done here.\" Mr.\nOtis, however, and his wife warmly assured the honest soul that they\nwere not afraid of ghosts, and, after invoking the blessings of\nProvidence on her new master and mistress, and making arrangements for\nan increase of salary, the old housekeeper tottered off to her own room.\n\n\nII\n\nThe storm raged fiercely all that night, but nothing of particular note\noccurred. The next morning, however, when they came down to breakfast,\nthey found the terrible stain of blood once again on the floor. \"I don't\nthink it can be the fault of the Paragon Detergent,\" said Washington,\n\"for I have tried it with everything. It must be the ghost.\" He\naccordingly rubbed out the stain a second time, but the second morning\nit appeared again. The third morning also it was there, though the\nlibrary had been locked up at night by Mr. Otis himself, and the key\ncarried upstairs. The whole family were now quite interested; Mr. Otis\nbegan to suspect that he had been too dogmatic in his denial of the\nexistence of ghosts, Mrs. Otis expressed her intention of joining the\nPsychical Society, and Washington prepared a long letter to Messrs.\nMyers and Podmore on the subject of the Permanence of Sanguineous Stains\nwhen connected with Crime. That night all doubts about the objective\nexistence of phantasmata were removed forever.\n\nThe day had been warm and sunny; and, in the cool of the evening, the\nwhole family went out to drive. They did not return home till nine\no'clock, when they had a light supper. The conversation in no way turned\nupon ghosts, so there were not even those primary conditions of\nreceptive expectations which so often precede the presentation of\npsychical phenomena. The subjects discussed, as I have since learned\nfrom Mr. Otis, were merely such as form the ordinary conversation of\ncultured Americans of the better class, such as the immense superiority\nof Miss Fanny Devonport over Sarah Bernhardt as an actress; the\ndifficulty of obtaining green corn, buckwheat cakes, and hominy, even in\nthe best English houses; the importance of Boston in the development of\nthe world-soul; the advantages of the baggage-check system in railway\ntraveling; and the sweetness of the New York accent as compared to the\nLondon drawl. No mention at all was made of the supernatural, nor was\nSir Simon de Canterville alluded to in any way. At eleven o'clock the\nfamily retired, and by half-past all the lights were out. Some time\nafter, Mr. Otis was awakened by a curious noise in the corridor, outside\nhis room. It sounded like the clank of metal, and seemed to be coming\nnearer every moment. He got up at once, struck a match, and looked at\nthe time. It was exactly one o'clock. He was quite calm, and felt his\npulse, which was not at all feverish. The strange noise still continued,\nand with it he heard distinctly the sound of footsteps. He put on his\nslippers, took a small oblong phial out of his dressing-case, and opened\nthe door. Right in front of him he saw, in the wan moonlight, an old man\nof terrible aspect. His eyes were as red burning coals; long gray hair\nfell over his shoulders in matted coils; his garments, which were of\nantique cut, were soiled and ragged, and from his wrists and ankles hung\nheavy manacles and rusty gyves.\n\n\"My dear sir,\" said Mr. Otis, \"I really must insist on your oiling those\nchains, and have brought you for that purpose a small bottle of the\nTammany Rising Sun Lubricator. It is said to be completely efficacious\nupon one application, and there are several testimonials to that effect\non the wrapper from some of our most eminent native divines. I shall\nleave it here for you by the bedroom candles, and will be happy to\nsupply you with more, should you require it.\" With these words the\nUnited States Minister laid the bottle down on a marble table, and,\nclosing his door, retired to rest.\n\nFor a moment the Canterville ghost stood quite motionless in natural\nindignation; then, dashing the bottle violently upon the polished floor,\nhe fled down the corridor, uttering hollow groans, and emitting a\nghastly green light. Just, however, as he reached the top of the great\noak staircase, a door was flung open, two little white-robed figures\nappeared, and a large pillow whizzed past his head! There was evidently\nno time to be lost, so, hastily adopting the Fourth dimension of Space\nas a means of escape, he vanished through the wainscoting, and the\nhouse became quite quiet.\n\nOn reaching a small secret chamber in the left wing, he leaned up\nagainst a moonbeam to recover his breath, and began to try and realize\nhis position. Never, in a brilliant and uninterrupted career of three\nhundred years, had he been so grossly insulted. He thought of the\nDowager Duchess, whom he had frightened into a fit as she stood before\nthe glass in her lace and diamonds; of the four housemaids, who had gone\ninto hysterics when he merely grinned at them through the curtains on\none of the spare bedrooms; of the rector of the parish, whose candle he\nhad blown out as he was coming late one night from the library, and who\nhad been under the care of Sir William Gull ever since, a perfect martyr\nto nervous disorders; and of old Madame de Tremouillac, who, having\nwakened up one morning early and seen a skeleton seated in an arm-chair\nby the fire reading her diary, had been confined to her bed for six\nweeks with an attack of brain fever, and, on her recovery, had become\nreconciled to the Church, and broken off her connection with that\nnotorious skeptic, Monsieur de Voltaire. He remembered the terrible\nnight when the wicked Lord Canterville was found choking in his\ndressing-room, with the knave of diamonds halfway down his throat, and\nconfessed, just before he died, that he had cheated Charles James Fox\nout of L50,000 at Crockford's by means of that very card, and swore that\nthe ghost had made him swallow it. All his great achievements came back\nto him again, from the butler who had shot himself in the pantry because\nhe had seen a green hand tapping at the windowpane, to the beautiful\nLady Stutfield, who was always obliged to wear a black velvet band round\nher throat to hide the mark of five fingers burnt upon her white skin,\nand who drowned herself at last in the carp-pond at the end of the\nKing's Walk. With the enthusiastic egotism of the true artist, he went\nover his most celebrated performances, and smiled bitterly to himself as\nhe recalled to mind his last appearance as \"Red Reuben, or the Strangled\nBabe,\" his _debut_ as \"Gaunt Gibeon, the Blood-sucker of Bexley Moor,\"\nand the _furore_ he had excited one lovely June evening by merely\nplaying ninepins with his own bones upon the lawn-tennis ground. And\nafter all this some wretched modern Americans were to come and offer him\nthe Rising Sun Lubricator, and throw pillows at his head! It was quite\nunbearable. Besides, no ghost in history had ever been treated in this\nmanner. Accordingly, he determined to have vengeance, and remained till\ndaylight in an attitude of deep thought.\n\n\nIII\n\nThe next morning, when the Otis family met at breakfast, they discussed\nthe ghost at some length. The United States Minister was naturally a\nlittle annoyed to find that his present had not been accepted. \"I have\nno wish,\" he said, \"to do the ghost any personal injury, and I must say\nthat, considering the length of time he has been in the house, I don't\nthink it is at all polite to throw pillows at him,\"--a very just remark,\nat which, I am sorry to say, the twins burst into shouts of laughter.\n\"Upon the other hand,\" he continued, \"if he really declines to use the\nRising Sun Lubricator, we shall have to take his chains from him. It\nwould be quite impossible to sleep, with such a noise going on outside\nthe bedrooms.\"\n\nFor the rest of the week, however, they were undisturbed, the only thing\nthat excited any attention being the continual renewal of the\nblood-stain on the library floor. This certainly was very strange, as\nthe door was always locked at night by Mr. Otis, and the windows kept\nclosely barred. The chameleon-like color, also, of the stain excited a\ngood deal of comment. Some mornings it was a dull (almost Indian) red,\nthen it would be vermilion, then a rich purple, and once when they came\ndown for family prayers, according to the simple rites of the Free\nAmerican Reformed Episcopalian Church, they found it a bright\nemerald-green. These kaleidoscopic changes naturally amused the party\nvery much, and bets on the subject were freely made every evening. The\nonly person who did not enter into the joke was little Virginia, who,\nfor some unexplained reason, was always a good deal distressed at the\nsight of the blood-stain, and very nearly cried the morning it was\nemerald-green.\n\nThe second appearance of the ghost was on Sunday night. Shortly after\nthey had gone to bed they were suddenly alarmed by a fearful crash in\nthe hall. Rushing downstairs, they found that a large suit of old armor\nhad become detached from its stand, and had fallen on the stone floor,\nwhile seated in a high-backed chair was the Canterville ghost, rubbing\nhis knees with an expression of acute agony on his face. The twins,\nhaving brought their pea-shooters with them, at once discharged two\npellets on him, with that accuracy of aim which can only be attained by\nlong and careful practice on a writing-master, while the United States\nMinister covered him with his revolver, and called upon him, in\naccordance with Californian etiquette, to hold up his hands! The ghost\nstarted up with a wild shriek of rage, and swept through them like a\nmist, extinguishing Washington Otis's candle as he passed, and so\nleaving them all in total darkness. On reaching the top of the staircase\nhe recovered himself, and determined to give his celebrated peal of\ndemoniac laughter. This he had on more than one occasion found extremely\nuseful. It was said to have turned Lord Raker's wig gray in a single\nnight, and had certainly made three of Lady Canterville's French\ngovernesses give warning before their month was up. He accordingly\nlaughed his most horrible laugh, till the old vaulted roof rang and rang\nagain, but hardly had the fearful echo died away when a door opened,\nand Mrs. Otis came out in a light blue dressing-gown. \"I am afraid you\nare far from well,\" she said, \"and have brought you a bottle of Doctor\nDobell's tincture. If it is indigestion, you will find it a most\nexcellent remedy.\" The ghost glared at her in fury, and began at once to\nmake preparations for turning himself into a large black dog, an\naccomplishment for which he was justly renowned, and to which the family\ndoctor always attributed the permanent idiocy of Lord Canterville's\nuncle, the Hon. Thomas Horton. The sound of approaching footsteps,\nhowever, made him hesitate in his fell purpose, so he contented himself\nwith becoming faintly phosphorescent, and vanished with a deep\nchurchyard groan, just as the twins had come up to him.\n\nOn reaching his room he entirely broke down, and became a prey to the\nmost violent agitation. The vulgarity of the twins, and the gross\nmaterialism of Mrs. Otis, were naturally extremely annoying, but what\nreally distressed him most was that he had been unable to wear the suit\nof mail. He had hoped that even modern Americans would be thrilled by\nthe sight of a Specter in armor, if for no more sensible reason, at\nleast out of respect for their national poet Longfellow, over whose\ngraceful and attractive poetry he himself had whiled away many a weary\nhour when the Cantervilles were up in town. Besides it was his own suit.\nHe had worn it with great success at the Kenilworth tournament, and had\nbeen highly complimented on it by no less a person than the Virgin Queen\nherself. Yet when he had put it on, he had been completely overpowered\nby the weight of the huge breastplate and steel casque, and had fallen\nheavily on the stone pavement, barking both his knees severely, and\nbruising the knuckles of his right hand.\n\nFor some days after this he was extremely ill, and hardly stirred out of\nhis room at all, except to keep the blood-stain in proper repair.\nHowever, by taking great care of himself, he recovered, and resolved to\nmake a third attempt to frighten the United States Minister and his\nfamily. He selected Friday, August 17th, for his appearance, and spent\nmost of that day in looking over his wardrobe, ultimately deciding in\nfavor of a large slouched hat with a red feather, a winding-sheet\nfrilled at the wrists and neck, and a rusty dagger. Towards evening a\nviolent storm of rain came on, and the wind was so high that all the\nwindows and doors in the old house shook and rattled. In fact, it was\njust such weather as he loved. His plan of action was this. He was to\nmake his way quietly to Washington Otis's room, gibber at him from the\nfoot of the bed, and stab himself three times in the throat to the sound\nof low music. He bore Washington a special grudge, being quite aware\nthat it was he who was in the habit of removing the famous Canterville\nblood-stain by means of Pinkerton's Paragon Detergent. Having reduced\nthe reckless and foolhardy youth to a condition of abject terror, he\nwas then to proceed to the room occupied by the United States Minister\nand his wife, and there to place a clammy hand on Mrs. Otis's forehead,\nwhile he hissed into her trembling husband's ear the awful secrets of\nthe charnel-house. With regard to little Virginia, he had not quite made\nup his mind. She had never insulted him in any way, and was pretty and\ngentle. A few hollow groans from the wardrobe, he thought, would be more\nthan sufficient, or, if that failed to wake her, he might grabble at the\ncounterpane with palsy-twitching fingers. As for the twins, he was quite\ndetermined to teach them a lesson. The first thing to be done was, of\ncourse, to sit upon their chests, so as to produce the stifling\nsensation of nightmare. Then, as their beds were quite close to each\nother, to stand between them in the form of a green, icy-cold corpse,\ntill they became paralyzed with fear, and finally, to throw off the\nwinding-sheet, and crawl round the room, with white, bleached bones and\none rolling eyeball in the character of \"Dumb Daniel, or the Suicide's\nSkeleton,\" a _role_ in which he had on more than one occasion produced a\ngreat effect, and which he considered quite equal to his famous part of\n\"Martin the Maniac, or the Masked Mystery.\"\n\nAt half-past ten he heard the family going to bed. For some time he was\ndisturbed by wild shrieks of laughter from the twins, who, with the\nlight-hearted gayety of schoolboys, were evidently amusing themselves\nbefore they retired to rest, but at a quarter-past eleven all was still,\nand, as midnight sounded, he sallied forth. The owl beat against the\nwindow-panes, the raven croaked from the old yew-tree, and the wind\nwandered moaning round the house like a lost soul; but the Otis family\nslept unconscious of their doom, and high above the rain and storm he\ncould hear the steady snoring of the Minister for the United States. He\nstepped stealthily out of the wainscoting, with an evil smile on his\ncruel, wrinkled mouth, and the moon hid her face in a cloud as he stole\npast the great oriel window, where his own arms and those of his\nmurdered wife were blazoned in azure and gold. On and on he glided, like\nan evil shadow, the very darkness seeming to loathe him as he passed.\nOnce he thought he heard something call, and stopped; but it was only\nthe baying of a dog from the Red Farm, and he went on, muttering strange\nsixteenth century curses, and ever and anon brandishing the rusty dagger\nin the midnight air. Finally he reached the corner of the passage that\nled to luckless Washington's room. For a moment he paused there, the\nwind blowing his long gray locks about his head, and twisting into\ngrotesque and fantastic folds the nameless horror of the dead man's\nshroud. Then the clock struck the quarter, and he felt the time was\ncome. He chuckled to himself, and turned the corner; but no sooner had\nhe done so than, with a piteous wail of terror, he fell back, and hid\nhis blanched face in his long, bony hands. Right in front of him was\nstanding a horrible specter, motionless as a carven image, and monstrous\nas a madman's dream! Its head was bald and burnished; its face round,\nand fat, and white; and hideous laughter seemed to have writhed its\nfeatures into an eternal grin. From the eyes streamed rays of scarlet\nlight, the mouth was a wide well of fire, and a hideous garment, like to\nhis own, swathed with its silent snows the Titan form. On its breast was\na placard with strange writing in antique characters, some scroll of\nshame it seemed, some record of wild sins, some awful calendar of crime,\nand, with its right hand, it bore aloft a falchion of gleaming steel.\n\nNever having seen a ghost before, he naturally was terribly frightened,\nand, after a second hasty glance at the awful phantom, he fled back to\nhis room, tripping up in his long winding-sheet as he sped down the\ncorridor, and finally dropping the rusty dagger into the Minister's\njack-boots, where it was found in the morning by the butler. Once in the\nprivacy of his own apartment, he flung himself down on a small\npallet-bed, and hid his face under the clothes. After a time, however,\nthe brave old Canterville spirit asserted itself, and he determined to\ngo and speak to the other ghost as soon as it was daylight. Accordingly,\njust as the dawn was touching the hills with silver, he returned towards\nthe spot where he had first laid eyes on the grisly phantom, feeling\nthat, after all, two ghosts were better than one, and that, by the aid\nof his new friend, he might safely grapple with the twins. On reaching\nthe spot, however, a terrible sight met his gaze. Something had\nevidently happened to the specter, for the light had entirely faded from\nits hollow eyes, the gleaming falchion had fallen from its hand, and it\nwas leaning up against the wall in a strained and uncomfortable\nattitude. He rushed forward and seized it in his arms, when, to his\nhorror, the head slipped off and rolled on the floor, the body assumed a\nrecumbent posture, and he found himself clasping a white dimity\nbed-curtain, with a sweeping-brush, a kitchen cleaver, and a hollow\nturnip lying at his feet! Unable to understand this curious\ntransformation, he clutched the placard with feverish haste, and there,\nin the gray morning light, he read these fearful words:\n\n    YE OTIS GHOSTE\n    Ye Onlie True and Originale Spook,\n    Beware of Ye Imitationes.\n    All others are counterfeite.\n\nThe whole thing flashed across him. He had been tricked, foiled, and\noutwitted! The old Canterville look came into his eyes; he ground his\ntoothless gums together; and, raising his withered hands high above his\nhead, swore according to the picturesque phraseology of the antique\nschool, that, when Chanticleer had sounded twice his merry horn, deeds\nof blood would be wrought, and murder walk abroad with silent feet.\n\nHardly had he finished this awful oath when, from the red-tiled roof of\na distant homestead, a cock crew. He laughed a long, low, bitter laugh,\nand waited. Hour after hour he waited, but the cock, for some strange\nreason, did not crow again. Finally, at half-past seven, the arrival of\nthe housemaids made him give up his fearful vigil, and he stalked back\nto his room, thinking of his vain oath and baffled purpose. There he\nconsulted several books of ancient chivalry, of which he was exceedingly\nfond, and found that, on every occasion on which this oath had been\nused, Chanticleer had always crowed a second time. \"Perdition seize the\nnaughty fowl,\" he muttered, \"I have seen the day when, with my stout\nspear, I would have run him through the gorge, and made him crow for me\nan 'twere in death!\" He then retired to a comfortable lead coffin, and\nstayed there till evening.\n\n\nIV\n\nThe next day the ghost was very weak and tired. The terrible excitement\nof the last four weeks was beginning to have its effect. His nerves were\ncompletely shattered, and he started at the slightest noise. For five\ndays he kept his room, and at last made up his mind to give up the point\nof the blood-stain on the library floor. If the Otis family did not\nwant it, they clearly did not deserve it. They were evidently people on\na low, material plane of existence, and quite incapable of appreciating\nthe symbolic value of sensuous phenomena. The question of phantasmic\napparitions, and the development of astral bodies, was of course quite a\ndifferent matter, and really not under his control. It was his solemn\nduty to appear in the corridor once a week, and to gibber from the large\noriel window on the first and third Wednesdays in every month, and he\ndid not see how he could honorably escape from his obligations. It is\nquite true that his life had been very evil, but, upon the other hand,\nhe was most conscientious in all things connected with the supernatural.\nFor the next three Saturdays, accordingly, he traversed the corridor as\nusual between midnight and three o'clock, taking every possible\nprecaution against being either heard or seen. He removed his boots,\ntrod as lightly as possible on the old worm-eaten boards, wore a large\nblack velvet cloak, and was careful to use the Rising Sun Lubricator for\noiling his chains. I am bound to acknowledge that it was with a good\ndeal of difficulty that he brought himself to adopt this last mode of\nprotection. However, one night, while the family were at dinner, he\nslipped into Mr. Otis's bedroom and carried off the bottle. He felt a\nlittle humiliated at first, but afterwards was sensible enough to see\nthat there was a great deal to be said for the invention, and, to a\ncertain degree, it served his purpose. Still, in spite of everything he\nwas not left unmolested. Strings were continually being stretched across\nthe corridor, over which he tripped in the dark, and on one occasion,\nwhile dressed for the part of \"Black Isaac, or the Huntsman of Hogley\nWoods,\" he met with a severe fall, through treading on a butter-slide,\nwhich the twins had constructed from the entrance of the Tapestry\nChamber to the top of the oak staircase. This last insult so enraged him\nthat he resolved to make one final effort to assert his dignity and\nsocial position, and determined to visit the insolent young Etonians the\nnext night in his celebrated character of \"Reckless Rupert, or the\nHeadless Earl.\"\n\nHe had not appeared in this disguise for more than seventy years; in\nfact, not since he had so frightened pretty Lady Barbara Modish by means\nof it, that she suddenly broke off her engagement with the present Lord\nCanterville's grandfather, and ran away to Gretna Green with handsome\nJack Castletown, declaring that nothing in the world would induce her to\nmarry into a family that allowed such a horrible phantom to walk up and\ndown the terrace at twilight. Poor Jack was afterwards shot in a duel by\nLord Canterville on Wandsworth Common, and Lady Barbara died of a broken\nheart at Tunbridge Wells before the year was out, so, in every way, it\nhad been a great success. It was, however, an extremely difficult\n\"make-up,\" if I may use such a theatrical expression in connection with\none of the greatest mysteries of the supernatural, or, to employ a more\nscientific term, the higher-natural world, and it took him fully three\nhours to make his preparations. At last everything was ready, and he was\nvery pleased with his appearance. The big leather riding-boots that went\nwith the dress were just a little too large for him, and he could only\nfind one of the two horse-pistols, but, on the whole, he was quite\nsatisfied, and at a quarter-past one he glided out of the wainscoting\nand crept down the corridor. On reaching the room occupied by the twins,\nwhich I should mention was called the Blue Bed Chamber on account of the\ncolor of its hangings, he found the door just ajar. Wishing to make an\neffective entrance, he flung it wide open, when a heavy jug of water\nfell right down on him, wetting him to the skin, and just missing his\nleft shoulder by a couple of inches. At the same moment he heard stifled\nshrieks of laughter proceeding from the four-post bed. The shock to his\nnervous system was so great that he fled back to his room as hard as he\ncould go, and the next day he was laid up with a severe cold. The only\nthing that at all consoled him in the whole affair was the fact that he\nhad not brought his head with him, for, had he done so, the consequences\nmight have been very serious.\n\nHe now gave up all hope of ever frightening this rude American family,\nand contented himself, as a rule, with creeping about the passages in\nlist slippers, with a thick red muffler round his throat for fear of\ndraughts, and a small arquebus, in case he should be attacked by the\ntwins. The final blow he received occurred on the 19th of September. He\nhad gone downstairs to the great entrance-hall feeling sure that there,\nat any rate, he would be quite unmolested, and was amusing himself by\nmaking satirical remarks on the large Saroni photographs of the United\nStates Minister and his wife, which had now taken the place of the\nCanterville family pictures. He was simply but neatly clad in a long\nshroud, spotted with churchyard mold, had tied up his jaw with a strip\nof yellow linen, and carried a small lantern and a sexton's spade. In\nfact, he was dressed for the character of \"Jonas the Graveless, or the\nCorpse-Snatcher of Chertsey Barn,\" one of his most remarkable\nimpersonations, and one which the Cantervilles had every reason to\nremember, as it was the real origin of their quarrel with their\nneighbor, Lord Rufford. It was about a quarter-past two o'clock in the\nmorning, and, as far as he could ascertain, no one was stirring. As he\nwas strolling towards the library, however, to see if there were any\ntraces left of the blood-stain, suddenly there leaped out on him from a\ndark corner two figures, who waved their arms wildly above their heads,\nand shrieked out \"BOO!\" in his ear.\n\nSeized with a panic, which, under the circumstances, was only natural,\nhe rushed for the staircase, but found Washington Otis waiting for him\nthere with the big garden-syringe, and being thus hemmed in by his\nenemies on every side, and driven almost to bay, he vanished into the\ngreat iron stove, which, fortunately for him, was not lit, and had to\nmake his way home through the flues and chimneys, arriving at his own\nroom in a terrible state of dirt, disorder, and despair.\n\nAfter this he was not seen again on any nocturnal expedition. The twins\nlay in wait for him on several occasions, and strewed the passages with\nnutshells every night to the great annoyance of their parents and the\nservants, but it was of no avail. It was quite evident that his feelings\nwere so wounded that he would not appear. Mr. Otis consequently resumed\nhis great work on the history of the Democratic party, on which he had\nbeen engaged for some years; Mrs. Otis organized a wonderful clam-bake,\nwhich amazed the whole county; the boys took to lacrosse, euchre, poker,\nand other American national games, and Virginia rode about the lanes on\nher pony, accompanied by the young Duke of Cheshire, who had come to\nspend the last week of his holidays at Canterville Chase. It was\ngenerally assumed that the ghost had gone away, and, in fact, Mr. Otis\nwrote a letter to that effect to Lord Canterville, who, in reply,\nexpressed his great pleasure at the news, and sent his best\ncongratulations to the Minister's worthy wife.\n\nThe Otises, however, were deceived, for the ghost was still in the\nhouse, and though now almost an invalid, was by no means ready to let\nmatters rest, particularly as he heard that among the guests was the\nyoung Duke of Cheshire, whose grand-uncle, Lord Francis Stilton, had\nonce bet a hundred guineas with Colonel Carbury that he would play dice\nwith the Canterville ghost, and was found the next morning lying on the\nfloor of the card-room in such a helpless paralytic state that, though\nhe lived on to a great age, he was never able to say anything again but\n\"Double Sixes.\" The story was well known at the time, though, of course,\nout of respect to the feelings of the two noble families, every attempt\nwas made to hush it up, and a full account of all the circumstances\nconnected with it will be found in the third volume of Lord Tattle's\n_Recollections of the Prince Regent and his Friends_. The ghost, then,\nwas naturally very anxious to show that he had not lost his influence\nover the Stiltons, with whom, indeed, he was distantly connected, his\nown first cousin having been married _en secondes noces_ to the Sieur de\nBulkeley, from whom, as everyone knows, the Dukes of Cheshire are\nlineally descended. Accordingly, he made arrangements for appearing to\nVirginia's little lover in his celebrated impersonation of \"The Vampire\nMonk, or the Bloodless Benedictine,\" a performance so horrible that when\nold Lady Startup saw it, which she did on one fatal New Year's Eve, in\nthe year 1764, she went off into the most piercing shrieks, which\nculminated in violent apoplexy, and died in three days, after\ndisinheriting the Cantervilles, who were her nearest relations, and\nleaving all her money to her London apothecary. At the last moment,\nhowever, his terror of the twins prevented his leaving his room, and the\nlittle Duke slept in peace under the great feathered canopy in the Royal\nBedchamber, and dreamed of Virginia.\n\n\nV\n\nA few days after this, Virginia and her curly-haired cavalier went out\nriding on Brockley meadows, where she tore her habit so badly in getting\nthrough a hedge that, on their return home, she made up her mind to go\nup by the back staircase so as not to be seen. As she was running past\nthe Tapestry Chamber, the door of which happened to be open, she fancied\nshe saw someone inside, and thinking it was her mother's maid, who\nsometimes used to bring her work there, looked in to ask her to mend her\nhabit. To her immense surprise, however, it was the Canterville ghost\nhimself! He was sitting by the window, watching the ruined gold of the\nyellowing trees fly through the air, and the red leaves dancing madly\ndown the long avenue. His head was leaning on his hand, and his whole\nattitude was one of extreme depression. Indeed, so forlorn, and so much\nout of repair did he look, that little Virginia, whose first idea had\nbeen to run away and lock herself in her room, was filled with pity, and\ndetermined to try and comfort him. So light was her footfall, and so\ndeep his melancholy, that he was not aware of her presence till she\nspoke to him.\n\n\"I am so sorry for you,\" she said, \"but my brothers are going back to\nEton to-morrow, and then, if you behave yourself, no one will annoy\nyou.\"\n\n\"It is absurd asking me to behave myself,\" he answered, looking round in\nastonishment at the pretty little girl who had ventured to address him,\n\"quite absurd. I must rattle my chains, and groan through keyholes, and\nwalk about at night, if that is what you mean. It is my only reason for\nexisting.\"\n\n\"It is no reason at all for existing, and you know you have been very\nwicked. Mrs. Umney told us, the first day we arrived here, that you had\nkilled your wife.\"\n\n\"Well, I quite admit it,\" said the ghost, petulantly, \"but it was a\npurely family matter and concerned no one else.\"\n\n\"It is very wrong to kill anyone,\" said Virginia, who at times had a\nsweet puritan gravity, caught from some old New England ancestor.\n\n\"Oh, I hate the cheap severity of abstract ethics! My wife was very\nplain, never had my ruffs properly starched, and knew nothing about\ncookery. Why, there was a buck I had shot in Hogley Woods, a magnificent\npricket, and do you know how she had it sent to table? However, it is no\nmatter now, for it is all over, and I don't think it was very nice of\nher brothers to starve me to death, though I did kill her.\"\n\n\"Starve you to death? Oh, Mr. Ghost--I mean Sir Simon, are you hungry?\nI have a sandwich in my case. Would you like it?\"\n\n\"No, thank you, I never eat anything now; but it is very kind of you,\nall the same, and you are much nicer than the rest of your horrid, rude,\nvulgar, dishonest family.\"\n\n\"Stop!\" cried Virginia, stamping her foot, \"it is you who are rude, and\nhorrid, and vulgar, and as for dishonesty, you know you stole the paints\nout of my box to try and furbish up that ridiculous blood-stain in the\nlibrary. First you took all my reds, including the vermilion, and I\ncouldn't do any more sunsets, then you took the emerald-green and the\nchrome-yellow, and finally I had nothing left but indigo and Chinese\nwhite, and could only do moonlight scenes, which are always depressing\nto look at, and not at all easy to paint. I never told on you, though I\nwas very much annoyed, and it was most ridiculous, the whole thing; for\nwho ever heard of emerald-green blood?\"\n\n\"Well, really,\" said the Ghost, rather meekly, \"what was I to do? It is\na very difficult thing to get real blood nowadays, and, as your brother\nbegan it all with his Paragon Detergent, I certainly saw no reason why I\nshould not have your paints. As for color, that is always a matter of\ntaste: the Cantervilles have blue blood, for instance, the very bluest\nin England; but I know you Americans don't care for things of this\nkind.\"\n\n\"You know nothing about it, and the best thing you can do is to emigrate\nand improve your mind. My father will be only too happy to give you a\nfree passage, and though there is a heavy duty on spirits of every kind,\nthere will be no difficulty about the Custom House, as the officers are\nall Democrats. Once in New York, you are sure to be a great success. I\nknow lots of people there who would give a hundred thousand dollars to\nhave a grandfather, and much more than that to have a family ghost.\"\n\n\"I don't think I should like America.\"\n\n\"I suppose because we have no ruins and no curiosities,\" said Virginia,\nsatirically.\n\n\"No ruins! no curiosities!\" answered the Ghost; \"you have your navy and\nyour manners.\"\n\n\"Good evening; I will go and ask papa to get the twins an extra week's\nholiday.\"\n\n\"Please don't go, Miss Virginia,\" he cried; \"I am so lonely and so\nunhappy, and I really don't know what to do. I want to go to sleep and I\ncannot.\"\n\n\"That's quite absurd! You have merely to go to bed and blow out the\ncandle. It is very difficult sometimes to keep awake, especially at\nchurch, but there is no difficulty at all about sleeping. Why, even\nbabies know how to do that, and they are not very clever.\"\n\n\"I have not slept for three hundred years,\" he said sadly, and\nVirginia's beautiful blue eyes opened in wonder; \"for three hundred\nyears I have not slept, and I am so tired.\"\n\nVirginia grew quite grave, and her little lips trembled like\nrose-leaves. She came towards him, and kneeling down at his side,\nlooked up into his old withered face.\n\n\"Poor, poor ghost,\" she murmured; \"have you no place where you can\nsleep?\"\n\n\"Far away beyond the pinewoods,\" he answered, in a low, dreamy voice,\n\"there is a little garden. There the grass grows long and deep, there\nare the great white stars of the hemlock flower, there the nightingale\nsings all night long. All night long he sings, and the cold crystal moon\nlooks down, and the yew-tree spreads out its giant arms over the\nsleepers.\"\n\nVirginia's eyes grew dim with tears, and she hid her face in her hands.\n\n\"You mean the Garden of Death,\" she whispered.\n\n\"Yes, death. Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth,\nwith the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have\nno yesterday, and no to-morrow. To forget time, to forget life, to be at\npeace. You can help me. You can open for me the portals of death's\nhouse, for love is always with you, and love is stronger than death is.\"\n\nVirginia trembled, a cold shudder ran through her, and for a few moments\nthere was silence. She felt as if she was in a terrible dream.\n\nThen the ghost spoke again, and his voice sounded like the sighing of\nthe wind.\n\n\"Have you ever read the old prophecy on the library window?\"\n\n\"Oh, often,\" cried the little girl, looking up; \"I know it quite well.\nIt is painted in curious black letters, and is difficult to read. There\nare only six lines:\n\n    \"'When a golden girl can win\n    Prayer from out the lips of sin,\n    When the barren almond bears,\n    And a little child gives away its tears,\n    Then shall all the house be still\n    And peace come to Canterville.'\n\n\"But I don't know what they mean.\"\n\n\"They mean,\" he said, sadly, \"that you must weep with me for my sins,\nbecause I have no tears, and pray with me for my soul, because I have no\nfaith, and then, if you have always been sweet, and good, and gentle,\nthe angel of death will have mercy on me. You will see fearful shapes in\ndarkness, and wicked voices will whisper in your ear, but they will not\nharm you, for against the purity of a little child the powers of Hell\ncannot prevail.\"\n\nVirginia made no answer, and the ghost wrung his hands in wild despair\nas he looked down at her bowed golden head. Suddenly she stood up, very\npale, and with a strange light in her eyes. \"I am not afraid,\" she said\nfirmly, \"and I will ask the angel to have mercy on you.\"\n\nHe rose from his seat with a faint cry of joy, and taking her hand bent\nover it with old-fashioned grace and kissed it. His fingers were as cold\nas ice, and his lips burned like fire, but Virginia did not falter, as\nhe led her across the dusky room. On the faded green tapestry were\nbroidered little huntsmen. They blew their tasseled horns and with their\ntiny hands waved to her to go back. \"Go back! little Virginia,\" they\ncried, \"go back!\" but the ghost clutched her hand more tightly, and she\nshut her eyes against them. Horrible animals with lizard tails and\ngoggle eyes blinked at her from the carven chimney-piece, and murmured,\n\"Beware! little Virginia, beware! we may never see you again,\" but the\nghost glided on more swiftly, and Virginia did not listen. When they\nreached the end of the room he stopped, and muttered some words she\ncould not understand. She opened her eyes, and saw the wall slowly\nfading away like a mist, and a great black cavern in front of her. A\nbitter cold wind swept round them, and she felt something pulling at her\ndress. \"Quick, quick,\" cried the ghost, \"or it will be too late,\" and in\na moment the wainscoting had closed behind them, and the Tapestry\nChamber was empty.\n\n\nVI\n\nAbout ten minutes later, the bell rang for tea, and, as Virginia did not\ncome down, Mrs. Otis sent up one of the footmen to tell her. After a\nlittle time he returned and said that he could not find Miss Virginia\nanywhere. As she was in the habit of going out to the garden every\nevening to get flowers for the dinner-table, Mrs. Otis was not at all\nalarmed at first, but when six o'clock struck, and Virginia did not\nappear, she became really agitated, and sent the boys out to look for\nher, while she herself and Mr. Otis searched every room in the house. At\nhalf-past six the boys came back and said that they could find no trace\nof their sister anywhere. They were all now in the greatest state of\nexcitement, and did not know what to do, when Mr. Otis suddenly\nremembered that, some few days before, he had given a band of gipsies\npermission to camp in the park. He accordingly at once set off for\nBlackfell Hollow, where he knew they were, accompanied by his eldest son\nand two of the farm-servants. The little Duke of Cheshire, who was\nperfectly frantic with anxiety, begged hard to be allowed to go too, but\nMr. Otis would not allow him, as he was afraid there might be a scuffle.\nOn arriving at the spot, however, he found that the gipsies had gone,\nand it was evident that their departure had been rather sudden, as the\nfire was still burning, and some plates were lying on the grass. Having\nsent off Washington and the two men to scour the district, he ran home,\nand dispatched telegrams to all the police inspectors in the county,\ntelling them to look out for a little girl who had been kidnapped by\ntramps or gipsies. He then ordered his horse to be brought round, and\nafter insisting on his wife and the three boys sitting down to dinner,\nrode off down the Ascot road with a groom. He had hardly, however, gone\na couple of miles, when he heard somebody galloping after him, and,\nlooking round, saw the little Duke coming up on his pony, with his face\nvery flushed, and no hat. \"I'm awfully sorry, Mr. Otis,\" gasped out the\nboy, \"but I can't eat any dinner as long as Virginia is lost. Please\ndon't be angry with me; if you had let us be engaged last year, there\nwould never have been all this trouble. You won't send me back, will\nyou? I can't go! I won't go!\"\n\nThe Minister could not help smiling at the handsome young scapegrace,\nand was a good deal touched at his devotion to Virginia, so leaning down\nfrom his horse, he patted him kindly on the shoulders, and said, \"Well,\nCecil, if you won't go back, I suppose you must come with me, but I must\nget you a hat at Ascot.\"\n\n\"Oh, bother my hat! I want Virginia!\" cried the little Duke, laughing,\nand they galloped on to the railway station. There Mr. Otis inquired of\nthe station-master if anyone answering to the description of Virginia\nhad been seen on the platform, but could get no news of her. The\nstation-master, however, wired up and down the line, and assured him\nthat a strict watch would be kept for her, and, after having bought a\nhat for the little Duke from a linen-draper, who was just putting up his\nshutters, Mr. Otis rode off to Bexley, a village about four miles away,\nwhich he was told was a well-known haunt of the gipsies, as there was a\nlarge common next to it. Here they roused up the rural policeman, but\ncould get no information from him, and, after riding all over the\ncommon, they turned their horses' heads homewards, and reached the Chase\nabout eleven o'clock, dead-tired and almost heart-broken. They found\nWashington and the twins waiting for them at the gate-house with\nlanterns, as the avenue was very dark. Not the slightest trace of\nVirginia had been discovered. The gipsies had been caught on Brockley\nmeadows, but she was not with them, and they had explained their sudden\ndeparture by saying that they had mistaken the date of Chorton Fair, and\nhad gone off in a hurry for fear they should be late. Indeed, they had\nbeen quite distressed at hearing of Virginia's disappearance, as they\nwere very grateful to Mr. Otis for having allowed them to camp in his\npark, and four of their number had stayed behind to help in the search.\nThe carp-pond had been dragged, and the whole Chase thoroughly gone\nover, but without any result. It was evident that, for that night at any\nrate, Virginia was lost to them; and it was in a state of the deepest\ndepression that Mr. Otis and the boys walked up to the house, the groom\nfollowing behind with the two horses and the pony. In the hall they\nfound a group of frightened servants, and lying on a sofa in the library\nwas poor Mrs. Otis, almost out of her mind with terror and anxiety, and\nhaving her forehead bathed with eau de cologne by the old housekeeper.\nMr. Otis at once insisted on her having something to eat, and ordered up\nsupper for the whole party. It was a melancholy meal, as hardly anyone\nspoke, and even the twins were awestruck and subdued, as they were very\nfond of their sister. When they had finished, Mr. Otis, in spite of the\nentreaties of the little Duke, ordered them all to bed, saying that\nnothing more could be done that night, and that he would telegraph in\nthe morning to Scotland Yard for some detectives to be sent down\nimmediately. Just as they were passing out of the dining-room, midnight\nbegan to boom from the clock tower, and when the last stroke sounded\nthey heard a crash and a sudden shrill cry; a dreadful peal of thunder\nshook the house, a strain of unearthly music floated through the air, a\npanel at the top of the staircase flew back with a loud noise, and out\non the landing, looking very pale and white, with a little casket in her\nhand, stepped Virginia. In a moment they had all rushed up to her. Mrs.\nOtis clasped her passionately in her arms, the Duke smothered her with\nviolent kisses, and the twins executed a wild war-dance round the group.\n\n\"Good heavens! child, where have you been?\" said Mr. Otis, rather\nangrily, thinking that she had been playing some foolish trick on them.\n\"Cecil and I have been riding all over the country looking for you, and\nyour mother has been frightened to death. You must never play these\npractical jokes any more.\"\n\n\"Except on the ghost! except on the ghost!\" shrieked the twins, as they\ncapered about.\n\n\"My own darling, thank God you are found; you must never leave my side\nagain,\" murmured Mrs. Otis, as she kissed the trembling child, and\nsmoothed the tangled gold of her hair.\n\n\"Papa,\" said Virginia, quietly, \"I have been with the ghost. He is dead,\nand you must come and see him. He had been very wicked, but he was\nreally sorry for all that he had done, and he gave me this box of\nbeautiful jewels before he died.\"\n\nThe whole family gazed at her in mute amazement, but she was quite grave\nand serious; and, turning round, she led them through the opening in the\nwainscoting down a narrow secret corridor, Washington following with a\nlighted candle, which he had caught up from the table. Finally, they\ncame to a great oak door, studded with rusty nails. When Virginia\ntouched it, it swung back on its heavy hinges, and they found themselves\nin a little low room, with a vaulted ceiling, and one tiny grated\nwindow. Embedded in the wall was a huge iron ring, and chained to it was\na gaunt skeleton, that was stretched out at full length on the stone\nfloor, and seemed to be trying to grasp with its long fleshless fingers\nan old-fashioned trencher and ewer, that were placed just out of its\nreach. The jug had evidently been once filled with water, as it was\ncovered inside with green mold. There was nothing on the trencher but a\npile of dust. Virginia knelt down beside the skeleton, and, folding her\nlittle hands together, began to pray silently, while the rest of the\nparty looked on in wonder at the terrible tragedy whose secret was now\ndisclosed to them.\n\n\"Hallo!\" suddenly exclaimed one of the twins, who had been looking out\nof the window to try and discover in what wing of the house the room was\nsituated. \"Hallo! the old withered almond-tree has blossomed. I can see\nthe flowers quite plainly in the moonlight.\"\n\n\"God has forgiven him,\" said Virginia, gravely, as she rose to her feet,\nand a beautiful light seemed to illumine her face.\n\n\"What an angel you are!\" cried the young Duke, and he put his arm round\nher neck, and kissed her.\n\n\nVII\n\nFour days after these curious incidents, a funeral started from\nCanterville Chase at about eleven o'clock at night. The hearse was drawn\nby eight black horses, each of which carried on its head a great tuft of\nnodding ostrich-plumes, and the leaden coffin was covered by a rich\npurple pall, on which was embroidered in gold the Canterville\ncoat-of-arms. By the side of the hearse and the coaches walked the\nservants with lighted torches, and the whole procession was wonderfully\nimpressive. Lord Canterville was the chief mourner, having come up\nspecially from Wales to attend the funeral, and sat in the first\ncarriage along with little Virginia. Then came the United States\nMinister and his wife, then Washington and the three boys, and in the\nlast carriage was Mrs. Umney. It was generally felt that, as she had\nbeen frightened by the ghost for more than fifty years of her life, she\nhad a right to see the last of him. A deep grave had been dug in the\ncorner of the churchyard, just under the old yew-tree, and the service\nwas read in the most impressive manner by the Rev. Augustus Dampier.\nWhen the ceremony was over, the servants, according to an old custom\nobserved in the Canterville family, extinguished their torches, and, as\nthe coffin was being lowered into the grave, Virginia stepped forward,\nand laid on it a large cross made of white and pink almond-blossoms. As\nshe did so, the moon came out from behind a cloud, and flooded with its\nsilent silver the little churchyard, and from a distant copse a\nnightingale began to sing. She thought of the ghost's description of the\nGarden of Death, her eyes became dim with tears, and she hardly spoke a\nword during the drive home.\n\nThe next morning, before Lord Canterville went up to town, Mr. Otis had\nan interview with him on the subject of the jewels the ghost had given\nto Virginia. They were perfectly magnificent, especially a certain ruby\nnecklace with old Venetian setting, which was really a superb specimen\nof sixteenth-century work, and their value was so great that Mr. Otis\nfelt considerable scruples about allowing his daughter to accept them.\n\n\"My lord,\" he said, \"I know that in this country mortmain is held to\napply to trinkets as well as to land, and it is quite clear to me that\nthese jewels are, or should be, heirlooms in your family. I must beg\nyou, accordingly, to take them to London with you, and to regard them\nsimply as a portion of your property which has been restored to you\nunder certain strange conditions. As for my daughter, she is merely a\nchild, and has as yet, I am glad to say, but little interest in such\nappurtenances of idle luxury. I am also informed by Mrs. Otis, who, I\nmay say, is no mean authority upon Art,--having had the privilege of\nspending several winters in Boston when she was a girl,--that these gems\nare of great monetary worth, and if offered for sale would fetch a tall\nprice. Under these circumstances, Lord Canterville, I feel sure that you\nwill recognize how impossible it would be for me to allow them to remain\nin the possession of any member of my family; and, indeed, all such vain\ngauds and toys, however suitable or necessary to the dignity of the\nBritish aristocracy, would be completely out of place among those who\nhave been brought up on the severe, and I believe immortal, principles\nof Republican simplicity. Perhaps I should mention that Virginia is very\nanxious that you should allow her to retain the box, as a memento of\nyour unfortunate but misguided ancestor. As it is extremely old, and\nconsequently a good deal out of repair, you may perhaps think fit to\ncomply with her request. For my own part, I confess I am a good deal\nsurprised to find a child of mine expressing sympathy with medievalism\nin any form, and can only account for it by the fact that Virginia was\nborn in one of your London suburbs shortly after Mrs. Otis had returned\nfrom a trip to Athens.\"\n\nLord Canterville listened very gravely to the worthy Minister's speech,\npulling his gray moustache now and then to hide an involuntary smile,\nand when Mr. Otis had ended, he shook him cordially by the hand, and\nsaid: \"My dear sir, your charming little daughter rendered my unlucky\nancestor, Sir Simon, a very important service, and I and my family are\nmuch indebted to her for her marvelous courage and pluck. The jewels are\nclearly hers, and, egad, I believe that if I were heartless enough to\ntake them from her, the wicked old fellow would be out of his grave in a\nfortnight, leading me the devil of a life. As for their being heirlooms,\nnothing is an heirloom that is not so mentioned in a will or legal\ndocument, and the existence of these jewels has been quite unknown. I\nassure you I have no more claim on them than your butler, and when Miss\nVirginia grows up, I dare say she will be pleased to have pretty things\nto wear. Besides, you forget, Mr. Otis, that you took the furniture and\nthe ghost at a valuation, and anything that belonged to the ghost passed\nat once into your possession, as, whatever activity Sir Simon may have\nshown in the corridor at night, in point of law he was really dead, and\nyou acquired his property by purchase.\"\n\nMr. Otis was a good deal distressed at Lord Canterville's refusal, and\nbegged him to reconsider his decision, but the good-natured peer was\nquite firm, and finally induced the Minister to allow his daughter to\nretain the present the ghost had given her, and when, in the spring of\n1890, the young Duchess of Cheshire was presented at the Queen's first\ndrawing-room on the occasion of her marriage her jewels were the\nuniversal theme of admiration. For Virginia received the coronet, which\nis the reward of all good little American girls, and was married to her\nboy-lover as soon as he came of age. They were both so charming, and\nthey loved each other so much, that everyone was delighted at the match,\nexcept the old Marchioness of Dumbleton, who had tried to catch the Duke\nfor one of her seven unmarried daughters, and had given no less than\nthree expensive dinner-parties for that purpose, and, strange to say,\nMr. Otis himself. Mr. Otis was extremely fond of the young Duke\npersonally, but, theoretically, he objected to titles, and, to use his\nown words, \"was not without apprehension lest, amid the enervating\ninfluences of a pleasure-loving aristocracy, the true principles of\nRepublican simplicity should be forgotten.\" His objections, however,\nwere completely over-ruled, and I believe that when he walked up the\naisle of St. George's, Hanover Square, with his daughter leaning on his\narm, there was not a prouder man in the whole length and breadth of\nEngland.\n\nThe Duke and Duchess, after the honeymoon was over, went down to\nCanterville Chase, and on the day after their arrival they walked over\nin the afternoon to the lonely churchyard by the pinewoods. There had\nbeen a great deal of difficulty at first about the inscription on Sir\nSimon's tombstone, but finally it had been decided to engrave on it\nsimply the initials of the old gentleman's name, and the verse from the\nlibrary window. The Duchess had brought with her some lovely roses,\nwhich she strewed upon the grave, and after they had stood by it for\nsome time they strolled into the ruined chancel of the old abbey. There\nthe Duchess sat down on a fallen pillar, while her husband lay at her\nfeet smoking a cigarette and looking up at her beautiful eyes. Suddenly\nhe threw his cigarette away, took hold of her hand, and said to her,\n\"Virginia, a wife should have no secrets from her husband.\"\n\n\"Dear Cecil! I have no secrets from you.\"\n\n\"Yes, you have,\" he answered, smiling, \"you have never told me what\nhappened to you when you were locked up with the ghost.\"\n\n\"I have never told anyone, Cecil,\" said Virginia, gravely.\n\n\"I know that, but you might tell me.\"\n\n\"Please don't ask me, Cecil, I cannot tell you. Poor Sir Simon! I owe\nhim a great deal. Yes, don't laugh, Cecil, I really do. He made me see\nwhat Life is, and what Death signifies, and why Love is stronger than\nboth.\"\n\nThe Duke rose and kissed his wife lovingly.\n\n\"You can have your secret as long as I have your heart,\" he murmured.\n\n\"You have always had that, Cecil.\"\n\n\"And you will tell our children some day, won't you?\"\n\nVirginia blushed.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GHOST-EXTINGUISHER\n\nBY GELETT BURGESS\n\nFrom the _Cosmopolitan Magazine_, April, 1905. By permission of John\nBrisben Walker and Gelett Burgess.\n\n\n\n\nThe Ghost-Extinguisher\n\nBY GELETT BURGESS\n\n\nMy attention was first called to the possibility of manufacturing a\npracticable ghost-extinguisher by a real-estate agent in San Francisco.\n\n\"There's one thing,\" he said, \"that affects city property here in a\ncurious way. You know we have a good many murders, and, as a\nconsequence, certain houses attain a very sensational and undesirable\nreputation. These houses it is almost impossible to let; you can\nscarcely get a decent family to occupy them rent-free. Then we have a\ngreat many places said to be haunted. These were dead timber on my hands\nuntil I happened to notice that the Japanese have no objections to\nspooks. Now, whenever I have such a building to rent, I let it to Japs\nat a nominal figure, and after they've taken the curse off, I raise the\nrent, the Japs move out, the place is renovated, and in the market\nagain.\"\n\nThe subject interested me, for I am not only a scientist, but a\nspeculative philosopher as well. The investigation of those phenomena\nthat lie upon the threshold of the great unknown has always been my\nfavorite field of research. I believed, even then, that the Oriental\nmind, working along different lines than those which we pursue, has\nattained knowledge that we know little of. Thinking, therefore, that\nthese Japs might have some secret inherited from their misty past, I\nexamined into the matter.\n\nI shall not trouble you with a narration of the incidents which led up\nto my acquaintance with Hoku Yamanochi. Suffice it to say that I found\nin him a friend who was willing to share with me his whole lore of\nquasi-science. I call it this advisedly, for science, as we Occidentals\nuse the term, has to do only with the laws of matter and sensation; our\nscientific men, in fact, recognize the existence of nothing else. The\nBuddhistic philosophy, however, goes further.\n\nAccording to its theories, the soul is sevenfold, consisting of\ndifferent shells or envelopes--something like an onion--which are shed\nas life passes from the material to the spiritual state. The first, or\nlowest, of these is the corporeal body, which, after death, decays and\nperishes. Next comes the vital principle, which, departing from the\nbody, dissipates itself like an odor, and is lost. Less gross than this\nis the astral body, which, although immaterial, yet lies near to the\nconsistency of matter. This astral shape, released from the body at\ndeath, remains for a while in its earthly environment, still preserving\nmore or less definitely the imprint of the form which it inhabited.\n\nIt is this relic of a past material personality, this outworn shell,\nthat appears, when galvanized into an appearance of life, partly\nmaterialized, as a ghost. It is not the soul that returns, for the soul,\nwhich is immortal, is composed of the four higher spiritual essences\nthat surround the ego, and are carried on into the next life. These\nastral bodies, therefore, fail to terrify the Buddhists, who know them\nonly as shadows, with no real volition. The Japs, in point of fact, have\nlearned how to exterminate them.\n\nThere is a certain powder, Hoku informed me, which, when burnt in their\npresence, transforms them from the rarefied, or semi-spiritual,\ncondition to the state of matter. The ghost, so to speak, is\nprecipitated into and becomes a material shape which can easily be\ndisposed of. In this state it is confined and allowed to disintegrate\nslowly where it can cause no further annoyance.\n\nThis long-winded explanation piqued my curiosity, which was not to be\nsatisfied until I had seen the Japanese method applied. It was not long\nbefore I had an opportunity. A particularly revolting murder having been\ncommitted in San Francisco, my friend Hoku Yamanochi applied for the\nhouse, and, after the police had finished their examination, he was\npermitted to occupy it for a half-year at the ridiculous price of three\ndollars a month. He invited me to share his quarters, which were large\nand luxuriously furnished.\n\nFor a week, nothing abnormal occurred. Then, one night, I was awakened\nby terrifying groans followed by a blood-curdling shriek which seemed\nto emerge from a large closet in my room, the scene of the late\natrocity. I confess that I had all the covers pulled over my head and\nwas shivering with horror when my Japanese friend entered, wearing a\npair of flowered-silk pajamas. Hearing his voice, I peeped forth, to see\nhim smiling reassuringly.\n\n\"You some kind of very foolish fellow,\" he said. \"I show you how to fix\nhim!\"\n\nHe took from his pocket three conical red pastils, placed them upon a\nsaucer and lighted them. Then, holding the fuming dish in one\noutstretched hand, he walked to the closed door and opened it. The\nshrieks burst out afresh, and, as I recalled the appalling details of\nthe scene which had occurred in this very room only five weeks ago, I\nshuddered at his temerity. But he was quite calm.\n\nSoon, I saw the wraith-like form of the recent victim dart from the\ncloset. She crawled under my bed and ran about the room, endeavoring to\nescape, but was pursued by Hoku, who waved his smoking plate with\nindefatigable patience and dexterity.\n\nAt last he had her cornered, and the specter was caught behind a curtain\nof odorous fumes. Slowly the figure grew more distinct, assuming the\nconsistency of a heavy vapor, shrinking somewhat in the operation. Hoku\nnow hurriedly turned to me.\n\n\"You hully up, bling me one pair bellows pletty quick!\" he commanded.\n\nI ran into his room and brought the bellows from his fireplace. These\nhe pressed flat, and then carefully inserting one toe of the ghost into\nthe nozzle and opening the handles steadily, he sucked in a portion of\nthe unfortunate woman's anatomy, and dexterously squirted the vapor into\na large jar, which had been placed in the room for the purpose. Two more\noperations were necessary to withdraw the phantom completely from the\ncorner and empty it into the jar. At last the transfer was effected and\nthe receptacle securely stoppered and sealed.\n\n\"In formeryore-time,\" Hoku explained to me, \"old pliests sucked ghost\nwith mouth and spit him to inside of vase with acculacy. Modern-time\nmethod more better for stomach and epiglottis.\"\n\n\"How long will this ghost keep?\" I inquired.\n\n\"Oh, about four, five hundled years, maybe,\" was his reply. \"Ghost now\nchange from spilit to matter, and comes under legality of matter as\nusual science.\"\n\n\"What are you going to do with her?\" I asked.\n\n\"Send him to Buddhist temple in Japan. Old pliest use him for high\ncelemony,\" was the answer.\n\nMy next desire was to obtain some of Hoku Yamanochi's ghost-powder and\nanalyze it. For a while it defied my attempts, but, after many months of\npatient research, I discovered that it could be produced, in all its\nessential qualities, by means of a fusion of formaldehyde and\nhypophenyltrybrompropionic acid in an electrified vacuum. With this\nproduct I began a series of interesting experiments.\n\nAs it became necessary for me to discover the habitat of ghosts in\nconsiderable numbers, I joined the American Society for Psychical\nResearch, thus securing desirable information in regard to haunted\nhouses. These I visited persistently, until my powder was perfected and\nhad been proved efficacious for the capture of any ordinary house-broken\nphantom. For a while I contented myself with the mere sterilization of\nthese specters, but, as I became surer of success, I began to attempt\nthe transfer of ghosts to receptacles wherein they could be transported\nand studied at my leisure, classified and preserved for future\nreference.\n\nHoku's bellows I soon discarded in favor of a large-sized bicycle-pump,\nand eventually I had constructed one of my own, of a pattern which\nenabled me to inhale an entire ghost at a single stroke. With this\npowerful instrument I was able to compress even an adult life-sized\nghost into a two-quart bottle, in the neck of which a sensitive valve\n(patented) prevented the specter from emerging during process.\n\nMy invention was not yet, however, quite satisfactory. While I had no\ntrouble in securing ghosts of recent creation--spirits, that is, who\nwere yet of almost the consistency of matter--on several of my trips\nabroad in search of material I found in old manor houses or ruined\ncastles many specters so ancient that they had become highly rarefied\nand tenuous, being at times scarcely visible to the naked eye. Such\nelusive spirits are able to pass through walls and elude pursuit with\nease. It became necessary for me to obtain some instrument by which\ntheir capture could be conveniently effected.\n\nThe ordinary fire-extinguisher of commerce gave me the hint as to how\nthe problem could be solved. One of these portable hand-instruments I\nfilled with the proper chemicals. When inverted, the ingredients were\ncommingled in vacuo and a vast volume of gas was liberated. This was\ncollected in the reservoir provided with a rubber tube having a nozzle\nat the end. The whole apparatus being strapped upon my back, I was\nenabled to direct a stream of powerful precipitating gas in any desired\ndirection, the flow being under control through the agency of a small\nstopcock. By means of this ghost-extinguisher I was enabled to pursue my\nexperiments as far as I desired.\n\nSo far my investigations had been purely scientific, but before long the\ncommercial value of my discovery began to interest me. The ruinous\neffects of spectral visitations upon real estate induced me to realize\nsome pecuniary reward from my ghost-extinguisher, and I began to\nadvertise my business. By degrees, I became known as an expert in my\noriginal line, and my professional services were sought with as much\nconfidence as those of a veterinary surgeon. I manufactured the Gerrish\nGhost-Extinguisher in several sizes, and put it on the market, following\nthis venture with the introduction of my justly celebrated Gerrish\nGhost-Grenades. These hand-implements were made to be kept in racks\nconveniently distributed in country houses for cases of sudden\nemergency. A single grenade, hurled at any spectral form, would, in\nbreaking, liberate enough formaldybrom to coagulate the most perverse\nspirit, and the resulting vapor could easily be removed from the room by\na housemaid with a common broom.\n\nThis branch of my business, however, never proved profitable, for the\nappearance of ghosts, especially in the United States, is seldom\nanticipated. Had it been possible for me to invent a preventive as well\nas a remedy, I might now be a millionaire; but there are limits even to\nmodern science.\n\nHaving exhausted the field at home, I visited England in the hope of\nsecuring customers among the country families there. To my surprise, I\ndiscovered that the possession of a family specter was considered as a\npermanent improvement to the property, and my offers of service in\nridding houses of ghostly tenants awakened the liveliest resentment. As\na layer of ghosts I was much lower in the social scale than a layer of\ncarpets.\n\nDisappointed and discouraged, I returned home to make a further study of\nthe opportunities of my invention. I had, it seemed, exhausted the\npossibilities of the use of unwelcome phantoms. Could I not, I thought,\nderive a revenue from the traffic in desirable specters? I decided to\nrenew my investigations.\n\nThe nebulous spirits preserved in my laboratory, which I had graded and\nclassified, were, you will remember, in a state of suspended animation.\nThey were, virtually, embalmed apparitions, their inevitable decay\ndelayed, rather than prevented. The assorted ghosts that I had now\npreserved in hermetically sealed tins were thus in a state of unstable\nequilibrium. The tins once opened and the vapor allowed to dissipate,\nthe original astral body would in time be reconstructed and the\nwarmed-over specter would continue its previous career. But this\nprocess, when naturally performed, took years. The interval was quite\ntoo long for the phantom to be handled in any commercial way. My problem\nwas, therefore, to produce from my tinned Essence of Ghost a specter\nthat was capable of immediately going into business and that could haunt\na house while you wait.\n\nIt was not until radium was discovered that I approached the solution of\nmy great problem, and even then months of indefatigable labor were\nnecessary before the process was perfected. It has now been well\ndemonstrated that the emanations of radiant energy sent forth by this\nsurprising element defy our former scientific conceptions of the\nconstitution of matter. It was for me to prove that the vibratory\nactivity of radium (whose amplitudes and intensity are undoubtedly\nfour-dimensional) effects a sort of allotropic modification in the\nparticles of that imponderable ether which seems to lie halfway between\nmatter and pure spirit. This is as far as I need to go in my\nexplanation, for a full discussion involves the use of quaternions and\nthe method of least squares. It will be sufficient for the layman to\nknow that my preserved phantoms, rendered radio-active, would, upon\ncontact with the air, resume their spectral shape.\n\nThe possible extension of my business now was enormous, limited only by\nthe difficulty in collecting the necessary stock. It was by this time\nalmost as difficult to get ghosts as it was to get radium. Finding that\na part of my stock had spoiled, I was now possessed of only a few dozen\ncans of apparitions, many of these being of inferior quality. I\nimmediately set about replenishing my raw material. It was not enough\nfor me to pick up a ghost here and there, as one might get old mahogany;\nI determined to procure my phantoms in wholesale lots.\n\nAccident favored my design. In an old volume of _Blackwood's Magazine_ I\nhappened, one day, to come across an interesting article upon the battle\nof Waterloo. It mentioned, incidentally, a legend to the effect that\nevery year, upon the anniversary of the celebrated victory, spectral\nsquadrons had been seen by the peasants charging battalions of ghostly\ngrenadiers. Here was my opportunity.\n\nI made elaborate preparations for the capture of this job lot of\nphantoms upon the next anniversary of the fight. Hard by the fatal ditch\nwhich engulfed Napoleon's cavalry I stationed a corps of able\nassistants provided with rapid-fire extinguishers ready to enfilade the\nfamous sunken road. I stationed myself with a No. 4 model magazine-hose,\nwith a four-inch nozzle, directly in the path which I knew would be\ntaken by the advancing squadron.\n\nIt was a fine, clear night, lighted, at first, by a slice of new moon;\nbut later, dark, except for the pale illumination of the stars. I have\nseen many ghosts in my time--ghosts in garden and garret, at noon, at\ndusk, at dawn, phantoms fanciful, and specters sad and spectacular--but\nnever have I seen such an impressive sight as this nocturnal charge of\ncuirassiers, galloping in goblin glory to their time-honored doom. From\nafar the French reserves presented the appearance of a nebulous mass,\nlike a low-lying cloud or fog-bank, faintly luminous, shot with\nfluorescent gleams. As the squadron drew nearer in its desperate charge,\nthe separate forms of the troopers shaped themselves, and the galloping\nguardsmen grew ghastly with supernatural splendor.\n\nAlthough I knew them to be immaterial and without mass or weight, I was\nterrified at their approach, fearing to be swept under the hoofs of the\nnightmares they rode. Like one in a dream, I started to run, but in\nanother instant they were upon me, and I turned on my stream of\nformaldybrom. Then I was overwhelmed in a cloud-burst of wild warlike\nwraiths.\n\nThe column swept past me, over the bank, plunging to its historic fate.\nThe cut was piled full of frenzied, scrambling specters, as rank after\nrank swept down into the horrid gut. At last the ditch swarmed full of\nwrithing forms and the carnage was dire.\n\nMy assistants with the extinguishers stood firm, and although almost\nunnerved by the sight, they summoned their courage, and directed\nsimultaneous streams of formaldybrom into the struggling mass of\nfantoms. As soon as my mind returned, I busied myself with the huge\ntanks I had prepared for use as receivers. These were fitted with a\nmechanism similar to that employed in portable forges, by which the\nheavy vapor was sucked off. Luckily the night was calm, and I was\nenabled to fill a dozen cylinders with the precipitated ghosts. The\nsegregation of individual forms was, of course, impossible, so that men\nand horses were mingled in a horrible mixture of fricasseed spirits. I\nintended subsequently to empty the soup into a large reservoir and allow\nthe separate specters to reform according to the laws of spiritual\ncohesion.\n\nCircumstances, however, prevented my ever accomplishing this result. I\nreturned home, to find awaiting me an order so large and important that\nI had no time in which to operate upon my cylinders of cavalry.\n\nMy patron was the proprietor of a new sanatorium for nervous invalids,\nlocated near some medicinal springs in the Catskills. His building was\nunfortunately located, having been built upon the site of a once-famous\nsummer hotel, which, while filled with guests, had burnt to the ground,\nscores of lives having been lost. Just before the patients were to be\ninstalled in the new structure, it was found that the place was haunted\nby the victims of the conflagration to a degree that rendered it\ninconvenient as a health resort. My professional services were\nrequested, therefore, to render the building a fitting abode for\nconvalescents. I wrote to the proprietor, fixing my charge at five\nthousand dollars. As my usual rate was one hundred dollars per ghost,\nand over a hundred lives were lost at the fire, I considered this price\nreasonable, and my offer was accepted.\n\nThe sanatorium job was finished in a week. I secured one hundred and two\nsuperior spectral specimens, and upon my return to the laboratory, put\nthem up in heavily embossed tins with attractive labels in colors.\n\nMy delight at the outcome of this business was, however, soon\ntransformed to anger and indignation. The proprietor of the health\nresort, having found that the specters from his place had been sold,\nclaimed a rebate upon the contract price equal to the value of the\nmodified ghosts transferred to my possession. This, of course, I could\nnot allow. I wrote, demanding immediate payment according to our\nagreement, and this was peremptorily refused. The manager's letter was\ninsulting in the extreme. The Pied Piper of Hamelin was not worse\ntreated than I felt myself to be; so, like the piper, I determined to\nhave my revenge.\n\nI got out the twelve tanks of Waterloo ghost-hash from the storerooms,\nand treated them with radium for two days. These I shipped to the\nCatskills billed as hydrogen gas. Then, accompanied by two trustworthy\nassistants, I went to the sanatorium and preferred my demand for payment\nin person. I was ejected with contumely. Before my hasty exit, however,\nI had the satisfaction of noticing that the building was filled with\npatients. Languid ladies were seated in wicker chairs upon the piazzas,\nand frail anemic girls filled the corridors. It was a hospital of\nnervous wrecks whom the slightest disturbance would throw into a panic.\nI suppressed all my finer feelings of mercy and kindness and smiled\ngrimly as I walked back to the village.\n\nThat night was black and lowering, fitting weather for the pandemonium I\nwas about to turn loose. At ten o'clock, I loaded a wagon with the tanks\nof compressed cohorts, and, muffled in heavy overcoats, we drove to the\nsanatorium. All was silent as we approached; all was dark. The wagon\nconcealed in a grove of pines, we took out the tanks one by one, and\nplaced them beneath the ground-floor windows. The sashes were easily\nforced open, and raised enough to enable us to insert the rubber tubes\nconnected with the iron reservoirs. At midnight everything was ready.\n\nI gave the word, and my assistants ran from tank to tank, opening the\nstopcocks. With a hiss as of escaping steam the huge vessels emptied\nthemselves, vomiting forth clouds of vapor, which, upon contact with the\nair, coagulated into strange shapes as the white of an egg does when\ndropped into boiling water. The rooms became instantly filled with\ndismembered shades of men and horses seeking wildly to unite themselves\nwith their proper parts.\n\nLegs ran down the corridors, seeking their respective trunks, arms\nwrithed wildly reaching for missing bodies, heads rolled hither and yon\nin search of native necks. Horses' tails and hoofs whisked and hurried\nin quest of equine ownership until, reorganized, the spectral steeds\ngalloped about to find their riders.\n\nHad it been possible, I would have stopped this riot of wraiths long ere\nthis, for it was more awful than I had anticipated, but it was already\ntoo late. Cowering in the garden, I began to hear the screams of\nawakened and distracted patients. In another moment, the front door of\nthe hotel was burst open, and a mob of hysterical women in expensive\nnightgowns rushed out upon the lawn, and huddled in shrieking groups.\n\nI fled into the night.\n\nI fled, but Napoleon's men fled with me. Compelled by I know not what\nfatal astral attraction, perhaps the subtle affinity of the creature for\nthe creator, the spectral shells, moved by some mysterious mechanics of\nspiritual being, pursued me with fatuous fury. I sought refuge, first,\nin my laboratory, but, even as I approached, a lurid glare foretold me\nof its destruction. As I drew nearer, the whole ghost-factory was seen\nto be in flames; every moment crackling reports were heard, as the\nover-heated tins of phantasmagoria exploded and threw their supernatural\ncontents upon the night. These liberated ghosts joined the army of\nNapoleon's outraged warriors, and turned upon me. There was not enough\nformaldybrom in all the world to quench their fierce energy. There was\nno place in all the world safe for me from their visitation. No\nghost-extinguisher was powerful enough to lay the host of spirits that\nhaunted me henceforth, and I had neither time nor money left with which\nto construct new Gatling quick-firing tanks.\n\nIt is little comfort to me to know that one hundred nervous invalids\nwere completely restored to health by means of the terrific shock which\nI administered.\n\n\n\n\n\"DEY AIN'T NO GHOSTS\"\n\nBY ELLIS PARKER BUTLER\n\nFrom the _Century Magazine_, November, 1911. By permission of the\nCentury Company and Ellis Parker Butler.\n\n\n\n\n\"Dey Ain't No Ghosts\"\n\nBY ELLIS PARKER BUTLER\n\n\nOnce 'pon a time dey was a li'l' black boy whut he name was Mose. An'\nwhin he come erlong to be 'bout knee-high to a mewel, he 'gin to git\npowerful 'fraid ob ghosts, 'ca'se dat am sure a mighty ghostly location\nwhut he lib' in, 'ca'se dey 's a grabeyard in de hollow, an' a\nburyin'-ground on de hill, an' a cemuntary in betwixt an' between, an'\ndey ain't nuffin' but trees nowhar excipt in de clearin' by de shanty\nan' down de hollow whar de pumpkin-patch am.\n\nAn' whin de night come erlong, dey ain't no sounds _at_ all whut kin be\nheard in dat locality but de rain-doves, whut mourn out,\n\"Oo-_oo_-o-o-o!\" jes dat trembulous _an'_ scary, an' de owls, whut mourn\nout, \"Whut-_whoo_-o-o-o!\" more trembulous an' scary dan dat, an' de\nwind, whut mourn out, \"You-_you_-o-o-o!\" mos' scandalous' trembulous an'\nscary ob all. Dat a powerful onpleasant locality for a li'l' black boy\nwhut he name was Mose.\n\n'Ca'se dat li'l' black boy he so specially black he can't be seen in de\ndark _at_ all 'cept by de whites ob he eyes. So whin he go' outen de\nhouse _at_ night, he ain't dast shut he eyes, 'ca'se den ain't nobody\ncan see him in de least. He jes as invidsible as nuffin'. An' who know'\nbut whut a great, big ghost bump right into him 'ca'se it can't see him?\nAn' dat shore w'u'd scare dat li'l' black boy powerful' bad, 'ca'se\nyever'body knows whut a cold, damp pussonality a ghost is.\n\nSo whin dat li'l' black Mose go' outen de shanty at night, he keep' he\neyes wide open, you may be shore. By day he eyes 'bout de size ob\nbutter-pats, an' come sundown he eyes 'bout de size ob saucers; but whin\nhe go' outen de shanty at night, he eyes am de size ob de white chiny\nplate whut set on de mantel; an' it powerful' hard to keep eyes whut am\nde size ob dat from a-winkin' an' a-blinkin'.\n\nSo whin Hallowe'en come' erlong, dat li'l' black Mose he jes mek' up he\nmind he ain't gwine outen he shack _at_ all. He cogitate he gwine stay\nright snug in de shack wid he pa an' he ma, 'ca'se de rain-doves tek\nnotice dat de ghosts are philanderin' roun' de country, 'ca'se dey mourn\nout, \"Oo-_oo_-o-o-o!\" an' de owls dey mourn out, \"Whut-_whoo_-o-o-o!\"\nan' de wind mourn out, \"You-_you_-o-o-o!\" De eyes ob dat li'l' black\nMose dey as big as de white chiny plate whut set on de mantel by side de\nclock, an' de sun jes a-settin'.\n\nSo dat all right. Li'l' black Mose he scrooge' back in de corner by de\nfireplace, an' he 'low' he gwine stay dere till he gwine _to_ bed. But\nbyme-by Sally Ann, whut live' up de road, draps in, an' Mistah Sally\nAnn, whut is her husban', he draps in, an' Zack Badget an' de\nschool-teacher whut board' at Unc' Silas Diggs's house drap in, an' a\npowerful lot ob folks drap in. An' li'l' black Mose he seen dat gwine be\none s'prise-party, an' he right down cheerful 'bout dat.\n\nSo all dem folks shake dere hands an' 'low \"Howdy,\" an' some ob dem say:\n\"Why, dere's li'l' Mose! Howdy, li'l' Mose?\" An' he so please' he jes\ngrin' an' grin', 'ca'se he ain't reckon whut gwine happen. So byme-by\nSally Ann, whut live up de road, she say', \"Ain't no sort o' Hallowe'en\nlest we got a jack-o'-lantern.\" An' de school-teacher, whut board at\nUnc' Silas Diggs's house, she 'low', \"Hallowe'en jes no Hallowe'en _at_\nall 'thout we got a jack-o'-lantern.\" An' li'l' black Mose he stop'\na-grinnin', an' he scrooge' so far back in de corner he 'mos' scrooge\nfrough de wall. But dat ain't no use, 'ca'se he ma say', \"Mose, go on\ndown to de pumpkin-patch an' fotch a pumpkin.\"\n\n\"I ain't want to go,\" say' li'l' black Mose.\n\n\"Go on erlong wid yo',\" say' he ma, right commandin'.\n\n\"I ain't want to go,\" say' Mose ag'in.\n\n\"Why ain't yo' want to go?\" he ma ask'.\n\n\"'Ca'se I's afraid ob de ghosts,\" say' li'l' black Mose, an' dat de\nparticular truth an' no mistake.\n\n\"Dey ain't no ghosts,\" say' de school-teacher, whut board at Unc' Silas\nDiggs's house, right peart.\n\n\"'Co'se dey ain't no ghosts,\" say' Zack Badget, whut dat 'fear'd ob\nghosts he ain't dar' come to li'l' black Mose's house ef de\nschool-teacher ain't ercompany him.\n\n\"Go 'long wid your ghosts!\" say li'l' black Mose's ma.\n\n\"Wha' yo' pick up dat nomsense?\" say' he pa. \"Dey ain't no ghosts.\"\n\nAn' dat whut all dat s'prise-party 'low: dey ain't no ghosts. An' dey\n'low dey mus' hab a jack-o'-lantern or de fun all sp'iled. So dat li'l'\nblack boy whut he name is Mose he done got to fotch a pumpkin from de\npumpkin-patch down de hollow. So he step'outen de shanty an' he stan' on\nde doorstep twell he get' he eyes pried open as big as de bottom ob he\nma's wash-tub, mostly, an' he say', \"Dey ain't no ghosts.\" An' he put'\none foot on de ground, an' dat was de fust step.\n\nAn' de rain-dove say', \"OO-_oo_-o-o-o!\"\n\nAn' li'l' black Mose he tuck anudder step.\n\nAn' de owl mourn' out, \"Whut-_whoo_-o-o-o!\"\n\nAn' li'l' black Mose he tuck anudder step.\n\nAn' de wind sob' out, \"You-_you_-o-o-o!\"\n\nAn' li'l' black Mose he tuck one look ober he shoulder, an' he shut he\neyes so tight dey hurt round de aidges, an' he pick' up he foots an'\nrun. Yas, sah, he run' right peart fast. An' he say': \"Dey ain't no\nghosts. Dey ain't no ghosts.\" An' he run' erlong de paff whut lead' by\nde buryin'-ground on de hill, 'ca'se dey ain't no fince eround dat\nburyin'-ground _at_ all.\n\nNo fince; jes' de big trees whut de owls an' de rain-doves sot in an'\nmourn an' sob, an' whut de wind sigh an' cry frough. An byme-by somefin'\njes' _brush_' li'l' Mose on de arm, which mek' him run jes a bit more\nfaster. An' byme-by somefin' jes brush' li'l' Mose on de cheek, which\nmek' him run erbout as fast as he can. An' byme-by somefin' grab' li'l'\nMose by de aidge of he coat, an' he fight' an' struggle' an' cry out:\n\"Dey ain't no ghosts. Dey ain't no ghosts.\" An' dat ain't nuffin' but de\nwild brier whut grab' him, an' dat ain't nuffin' but de leaf ob a tree\nwhut brush' he cheek, an' dat ain't nuffin' but de branch ob a\nhazel-bush whut brush' he arm. But he downright scared jes de same, an'\nhe ain't lose no time, 'ca'se de wind an' de owls an' de rain-doves dey\nsignerfy whut ain't no good. So he scoot' past dat buryin'-ground whut\non de hill, an' dat cemuntary whut betwixt an' between, an' dat\ngrabeyard in de hollow, twell he come' to de pumpkin-patch, an' he\nrotch' down an' tek' erhold ob de bestest pumpkin whut in de patch. An'\nhe right smart scared. He jes' de mostest scared li'l' black boy whut\nyever was. He ain't gwine open he eyes fo' nuffin', 'ca'se de wind go,\n\"You-_you_-o-o-o!\" an' de owls go, \"Whut-_whoo_-o-o-o!\" an' de\nrain-doves go, \"Oo-_oo_-o-o-o!\"\n\nHe jes speculate', \"Dey ain't no ghosts,\" an' wish' he hair don't stand\non ind dat way. An' he jes cogitate', \"Dey ain't no ghosts,\" an' wish'\nhe goose-pimples don't rise up dat way. An' he jes 'low', \"Dey ain't no\nghosts,\" an' wish' he backbone ain't all trembulous wid chills dat way.\nSo he rotch' down, an' he rotch' down, twell he git' a good hold on dat\npricklesome stem of dat bestest pumpkin whut in de patch, an' he jes\nyank' dat stem wid all he might.\n\n\"_Let loosen my head!_\" say' a big voice all on a suddent.\n\nDat li'l' black boy whut he name is Mose he jump' 'most outen he skin.\nHe open' he eyes, an' he 'gin to shake like de aspen-tree, 'ca'se whut\ndat a-standin' right dar behint him but a 'mendjous big ghost! Yas, sah,\ndat de bigges', whites' ghost whut yever was. An' it ain't got no head.\nAin't got no head _at_ all! Li'l' black Mose he jes drap' on he knees\nan' he beg' an' pray':\n\n\"Oh, 'scuse me! 'Scuse me, Mistah Ghost!\" he beg'. \"Ah ain't mean no\nharm _at_ all.\"\n\n\"Whut for you try to take my head?\" ask' de ghost in dat fearsome voice\nwhut like de damp wind outen de cellar.\n\n\"'Scuse me! 'Scuse me!\" beg' li'l' Mose. \"Ah ain't know dat was yo'\nhead, an' I ain't know you was dar _at_ all. 'Scuse me!\"\n\n\"Ah 'scuse you ef you do me dis favor,\" say' de ghost. \"Ah got somefin'\npowerful _im_portant to say unto you, an' Ah can't say hit 'ca'se Ah\nain't got no head; an' whin Ah ain't got no head, Ah ain't got no mouf,\nan' whin Ah ain't got no mouf, Ah can't talk _at_ all.\"\n\nAn' dat right logical fo' shore. Can't nobody talk whin he ain't got no\nmouf, an' can't nobody have no mouf whin he ain't got no head, an' whin\nli'l' black Mose he look', he see' dat ghost ain't got no head _at_ all.\nNary head.\n\nSo de ghost say':\n\n\"Ah come on down yere fo' to git a pumpkin fo' a head, an' Ah pick' dat\n_ixact_ pumpkin whut yo' gwine tek, an' Ah don't like dat one bit. No,\nsah. Ah feel like Ah pick yo' up an' carry yo' away, an' nobody see you\nno more for yever. But Ah got somefin' powerful _im_portant to say unto\nyo', an' if yo' pick up dat pumpkin an' sot it on de place whar my head\nought to be, Ah let you off dis time, 'ca'se Ah ain't been able to talk\nfo' so long Ah right hongry to say somefin'.\"\n\nSo li'l' black Mose he heft up dat pumpkin, an' de ghost he bend' down,\nan' li'l' black Mose he sot dat pumpkin on dat ghostses neck. An' right\noff dat pumpkin head 'gin' to wink an' blink like a jack-o'-lantern, an'\nright off dat pumpkin head 'gin' to glimmer an' glow frough de mouf like\na jack-o'-lantern, an' right off dat ghost start' to speak. Yas, sah,\ndass so.\n\n\"Whut yo' want to say unto me?\" _in_quire' li'l' black Mose.\n\n\"Ah want to tell yo',\" say' de ghost, \"dat yo' ain't need yever be\nskeered of ghosts, 'ca'se dey ain't no ghosts.\"\n\nAn' whin he say dat, de ghost jes vanish' away like de smoke in July. He\nain't even linger round dat locality like de smoke in Yoctober. He jes\ndissipate' outen de air, an' he gone _in_tirely.\n\nSo li'l' Mose he grab' up de nex' bestest pumpkin an' he scoot'. An'\nwhin he come' to de grabeyard in de hollow, he goin' erlong same as\nyever, on'y faster, whin he reckon' he'll pick up a club _in_ case he\ngwine have trouble. An' he rotch' down an' rotch' down an' tek' hold of\na likely appearin' hunk o' wood whut right dar. An' whin he grab' dat\nhunk of wood----\n\n\"_Let loosen my leg!_\" say' a big voice all on a suddent.\n\nDat li'l' black boy 'most jump' outen he skin, 'ca'se right dar in de\npaff is six 'mendjus big ghostes an' de bigges' ain't got but one leg.\nSo li'l' black Mose jes natchully handed dat hunk of wood to dat bigges'\nghost, an' he say':\n\n\"'Scuse me, Mistah Ghost; Ah ain't know dis your leg.\"\n\nAn' whut dem six ghostes do but stand round an' confabulate? Yas, sah,\ndass so. An' whin dey do so, one say':\n\n\"'Pears like dis a mighty likely li'l' black boy. Whut we gwine do fo'\nto _re_ward him fo' politeness?\"\n\nAn' annuder say':\n\n\"Tell him whut de truth is 'bout ghostes.\"\n\nSo de bigges' ghost he say':\n\n\"Ah gwine tell yo' somefin' _im_portant whut yever'body don't know: Dey\n_ain't_ no ghosts.\"\n\nAn' whin he say' dat, de ghostes jes natchully vanish away, an' li'l'\nblack Mose he proceed' up de paff. He so scared he hair jes yank' at de\nroots, an' whin de wind go', \"Oo-_oo_-o-o-o!\" an' de owl go',\n\"Whut-_whoo_-o-o-o!\" an' de rain-doves go, \"You-_you_-o-o-o-!\" he jes\ntremble' an' shake'. An' byme-by he come' to de cemuntary whut betwixt\nan' between, an' he shore is mighty skeered, 'ca'se dey is a whole\ncomp'ny of ghostes lined up along de road, an' he 'low' he ain't gwine\nspind no more time palaverin' wid ghostes. So he step' offen de road fo'\nto go round erbout, an' he step' on a pine-stump whut lay right dar.\n\n\"_Git offen my chest!_\" say' a big voice all on a suddent, 'ca'se dat\nstump am been selected by de captain ob de ghostes for to be he chest,\n'ca'se he ain't got no chest betwixt he shoulders an' he legs. An' li'l'\nblack Mose he hop' offen dat stump right peart. Yes, _sah_; right peart.\n\n\"'Scuse me! 'Scuse me!\" dat li'l' black Mose beg' an' plead', an' de\nghostes ain't know whuther to eat him all up or not, 'ca'se he step on\nde boss ghostes's chest dat a-way. But byme-by they 'low they let him go\n'ca'se dat was an accident, an' de captain ghost he say', \"Mose, you\nMose, Ah gwine let you off dis time, 'ca'se you ain't nuffin' but a\nmisabul li'l' tremblin' nigger; but Ah want you should _re_mimimber one\nthing mos' particular'.\"\n\n\"Ya-yas, sah,\" say' dat li'l' black boy; \"Ah'll remimber. Whut is dat Ah\ngot to remimber?\"\n\nDe captain ghost he swell' up, an' he swell' up, twell he as big as a\nhouse, an' he say' in a voice whut shake' de ground:\n\n\"Dey ain't no ghosts.\"\n\nSo li'l' black Mose he bound to remimber dat, an' he rise' up an' mek' a\nbow, an' he proceed' toward home right libely. He do, indeed.\n\nAn' he gwine along jes as fast as he kin, whin he come' to de aidge ob\nde buryin'-ground whut on de hill, an' right dar he bound to stop,\n'ca'se de kentry round about am so populate' he ain't able to go frough.\nYas, sah, seem' like all de ghostes in de world habin' a conferince\nright dar. Seem' like all de ghosteses whut yever was am havin' a\nconvintion on dat spot. An' dat li'l' black Mose so skeered he jes fall'\ndown on a' old log whut dar an' screech' an' moan'. An' all on a suddent\nde log up and spoke:\n\n\"_Get offen me! Get offen me!_\" yell' dat log.\n\nSo li'l' black Mose he git' offen dat log, an' no mistake.\n\nAn' soon as he git' offen de log, de log uprise, an' li'l' black Mose he\nsee' dat dat log am de king ob all de ghostes. An' whin de king uprise,\nall de congergation crowd round li'l' black Mose, an' dey am about leben\nmillium an' a few lift over. Yas, sah; dat de reg'lar annyul Hallowe'en\nconvintion whut li'l' black Mose interrup'. Right dar am all de sperits\nin de world, an' all de ha'nts in de world, an' all de hobgoblins in de\nworld, an' all de ghouls in de world, an' all de spicters in de world,\nan' all de ghostes in de world. An' whin dey see li'l' black Mose, dey\nall gnash dey teef an' grin' 'ca'se it gettin' erlong toward dey-all's\nlunch-time. So de king, whut he name old Skull-an'-Bones, he step' on\ntop ob li'l' Mose's head, an' he say':\n\n\"Gin'l'min, de convintion will come to order. De sicretary please note\nwho is prisint. De firs' business whut come' before de convintion am:\nwhut we gwine do to a li'l' black boy whut stip' on de king an' maul'\nall ober de king an' treat' de king dat disrespictful'.\"\n\nAn li'l' black Mose jes moan' an' sob':\n\n\"'Scuse me! 'Scuse me, Mistah King! Ah ain't mean no harm _at_ all.\"\n\nBut nobody ain't pay no _at_tintion to him _at_ all, 'ca'se yevery one\nlookin' at a monstrous big ha'nt whut name Bloody Bones, whut rose up\nan' spoke.\n\n\"Your Honor, Mistah King, an' gin'l'min _an_' ladies,\" he say', \"dis am\na right bad case ob _lasy majesty_, 'ca'se de king been step on. Whin\nyivery li'l' black boy whut choose' gwine wander round _at_ night an'\nstip on de king ob ghostes, it ain't no time for to palaver, it ain't no\ntime for to prevaricate, it ain't no time for to cogitate, it ain't no\ntime do nuffin' but tell de truth, an' de whole truth, an' nuffin' but\nde truth.\"\n\nAn' all dem ghostes sicond de motion, an' dey confabulate out loud\nerbout dat, an' de noise soun' like de rain-doves goin',\n\"Oo-_oo_-o-o-o!\" an' de owls goin', \"Whut-_whoo_-o-o-o!\" an' de wind\ngoin', \"You-_you_-o-o-o!\" So dat risolution am passed unanermous, an' no\nmistake.\n\nSo de king ob de ghostes, whut name old Skull-an'-Bones, he place' he\nhand on de head ob li'l' black Mose, an' he hand feel like a wet rag,\nan' he say':\n\n\"Dey ain't no ghosts.\"\n\nAn' one ob de hairs whut on de head of li'l' black Mose turn' white.\n\nAn' de monstrous big ha'nt whut he name Bloody Bones he lay he hand on\nde head ob li'l' black Mose, an' he hand feel like a toadstool in de\ncool ob de day, an' he say':\n\n\"Dey ain't no ghosts.\"\n\nAn' anudder ob de hairs whut on de head ob li'l' black Mose turn' white.\n\nAn' a heejus sperit whut he name Moldy Pa'm place' he hand on de head ob\nli'l' black Mose, an' he hand feel like de yunner side ob a lizard, an'\nhe say':\n\n\"Dey ain't no ghosts.\"\n\nAn' anudder ob de hairs whut on de head ob li'l' black Mose turn white\n_as_ snow.\n\nAn' a perticklar bend-up hobgoblin he put' he hand on de head ob li'l'\nblack Mose, an' he mek' dat same _re_mark, an' dat whole convintion ob\nghostes an' spicters an' ha'nts an' yiver'thing, which am more 'n a\nmillium, pass by so quick dey-all's hands feel lak de wind whut blow\nouten de cellar whin de day am hot, an' dey-all say, \"Dey ain't no\nghosts.\" Yas, sah, dey-all say dem wo'ds so fas' it soun' like de wind\nwhin it moan frough de turkentine-trees whut behind de cider-priss. An'\nyivery hair whut on li'l' black Mose's head turn' white. Dat whut\nhappen' whin a li'l' black boy gwine meet a ghost convintion dat-a-way.\nDat's so he ain' gwine forgit to remimber dey ain't no ghostes. 'Ca'se\nef a li'l' black boy gwine imaginate dey _is_ ghostes, he gwine be\nskeered in de dark. An' dat a foolish thing for to imaginate.\n\nSo prisintly all de ghostes am whiff away, like de fog outen de holler\nwhin de wind blow' on it, an' li'l' black Mose he ain' see no ca'se for\nto remain in dat locality no longer. He rotch' down, an' he raise' up de\npumpkin, an' he perambulate' right quick to he ma's shack, an' he lift'\nup de latch, an' he open' de do', an' he yenter' in. An' he say':\n\n\"Yere's de pumpkin.\"\n\nAn' he ma an' he pa, an' Sally Ann, whut live up de road, an' Mistah\nSally Ann, whut her husban', an' Zack Badget, an' de school-teacher whut\nboard at Unc' Silas Diggs's house, an' all de powerful lot of folks whut\ncome to de doin's, dey all scrooged back in de cornder ob de shack,\n'ca'se Zack Badget he been done tell a ghost-tale, an' de rain-doves\ngwine, \"Oo-_oo_-o-o-o!\" an' de owls am gwine, \"Whut-_whoo_-o-o-o!\" and\nde wind it gwine, \"You-_you_-o-o-o!\" an' yiver'body powerful skeered.\n'Ca'se li'l' black Mose he come' a-fumblin' an' a-rattlin' at de do' jes\nwhin dat ghost-tale mos' skeery, an' yiver'body gwine imaginate dat he a\nghost a-fumblin' an' a-rattlin' at de do'. Yas, sah. So li'l' black Mose\nhe turn' he white head, an' he look' roun' an' peer' roun', an' he say':\n\n\"Whut you all skeered fo'?\"\n\n'Ca'se ef anybody skeered, he want' to be skeered too. Dat's natural.\nBut de school-teacher, whut live at Unc' Silas Diggs's house, she say':\n\n\"Fo' de lan's sake, we fought you was a ghost!\"\n\nSo li'l' black Mose he sort ob sniff an' he sort ob sneer, an' he 'low':\n\n\"Huh! dey ain't no ghosts.\"\n\nDen he ma she powerful took back dat li'l' black Mose he gwine be so\nuppetish an' contrydict folks whut know 'rifmeticks an' algebricks an'\ngin'ral countin' widout fingers, like de school-teacher whut board at\nUnc' Silas Diggs's house knows, an' she say':\n\n\"Huh! whut you know 'bout ghosts, anner ways?\"\n\nAn' li'l' black Mose he jes kinder stan' on one foot, an' he jes kinder\nsuck' he thumb, an' he jes kinder 'low':\n\n\"I don't know nuffin' erbout ghosts, 'ca'se dey ain't no ghosts.\"\n\nSo he pa gwine whop him fo' tellin' a fib 'bout dey ain' no ghosts whin\nyiver'body know' dey is ghosts; but de school-teacher, whut board at\nUnc' Silas Diggs's house, she tek' note de hair ob li'l' black Mose's\nhead am plumb white, an' she tek' note li'l' black Mose's face am de\ncolor ob wood-ash, so she jes retch' one arm round dat li'l' black boy,\nan' she jes snuggle' him up, an' she say':\n\n\"Honey lamb, don't you be skeered; ain' nobody gwine hurt you. How you\nknow dey ain't no ghosts?\"\n\nAn' li'l' black Mose he kinder lean' up 'g'inst de school-teacher whut\nboard at Unc' Silas Diggs's house, an' he 'low':\n\n\"'Ca'se--'ca'se--'ca'se I met de cap'n ghost, an' I met de gin'ral\nghost, an' I met de king ghost, an' I met all de ghostes whut yiver was\nin de whole worl', an' yivery ghost say' de same thing: 'Dey ain't no\nghosts.' An' if de cap'n ghost an' de gin'ral ghost an' de king ghost\nan' all de ghostes in de whole worl' don't know ef dar am ghostes, who\ndoes?\"\n\n\"Das right; das right, honey lamb,\" say' de school-teacher. And she\nsay': \"I been s'picious dey ain' no ghostes dis long whiles, an' now I\nknow. Ef all de ghostes say dey ain' no ghosts, dey _ain'_ no ghosts.\"\n\nSo yiver'body 'low' dat so 'cep' Zack Badget, whut been tellin' de\nghost-tale, an' he ain' gwine say \"Yis\" an' he ain' gwine say \"No,\"\n'ca'se he right sweet on de school-teacher; but he know right well he\ndone seen plinty ghostes in he day. So he boun' to be sure fust. So he\nsay' to li'l' black Mose:\n\n\"'T ain't likely you met up wid a monstrous big ha'nt whut live' down de\nlane whut he name Bloody Bones?\"\n\n\"Yas,\" say' li'l' black Mose; \"I done met up wid him.\"\n\n\"An' did old Bloody Bones done tol' you dey ain' no ghosts?\" say Zack\nBadget.\n\n\"Yas,\" say' li'l' black Mose, \"he done tell me perzackly dat.\"\n\n\"Well, if _he_ tol' you dey ain't no ghosts,\" say' Zack Badget, \"I got\nto 'low dey ain't no ghosts, 'ca'se he ain' gwine tell no lie erbout it.\nI know dat Bloody Bones ghost sence I was a piccaninny, an' I done met\nup wif him a powerful lot o' times, an' he ain't gwine tell no lie\nerbout it. Ef dat perticklar ghost say' dey ain't no ghosts, dey _ain't_\nno ghosts.\"\n\nSo yiver'body say':\n\n\"Das right; dey ain' no ghosts.\"\n\nAn' dat mek' li'l' black Mose feel mighty good, 'ca'se he ain' lak\nghostes. He reckon' he gwine be a heap mo' comfortable in he mind sence\nhe know' dey ain' no ghosts, an' he reckon' he ain' gwine be skeered of\nnuffin' never no more. He ain' gwine min' de dark, an' he ain' gwine\nmin' de rain-doves whut go', \"Oo-_oo_-o-o-o!\" an' he ain' gwine min' de\nowls whut go', \"Who-_whoo_-o-o-o!\" an' he ain' gwine min' de wind whut\ngo', \"You-_you_-o-o-o!\" nor nuffin', nohow. He gwine be brave as a lion,\nsence he know' fo' sure dey ain' no ghosts. So prisintly he ma say':\n\n\"Well, time fo' a li'l' black boy whut he name is Mose to be gwine up de\nladder to de loft to bed.\"\n\nAn' li'l' black Mose he 'low' he gwine wait a bit. He 'low' he gwine jes\nwait a li'l' bit. He 'low' he gwine be no trouble _at_ all ef he jes\nbeen let wait twell he ma she gwine up de ladder to de loft to bed, too.\nSo he ma she say':\n\n\"Git erlong wid yo'! Whut yo' skeered ob whin dey ain't no ghosts?\"\n\nAn' li'l' black Mose he scrooge', and he twist', an' he pucker' up de\nmouf, an' he rub' he eyes, an' prisintly he say' right low:\n\n\"I ain' skeered ob ghosts whut am, 'ca'se dey ain' no ghosts.\"\n\n\"Den whut _am_ yo' skeered ob?\" ask he ma.\n\n\"Nuffin,\" say' de li'l' black boy whut he name is Mose; \"but I jes feel\nkinder oneasy 'bout de ghosts whut ain't.\"\n\nJes lak white folks! Jes lak white folks!\n\n\n\n\nTHE TRANSFERRED GHOST\n\nBY FRANK R. STOCKTON\n\nFrom _The Lady or the Tiger? and Other Stories_. Copyright, 1884, by\nCharles Scribner's Sons. By permission of the publishers.\n\n\n\n\nThe Transferred Ghost\n\nBY FRANK R. STOCKTON\n\n\nThe country residence of Mr. John Hinckman was a delightful place to me,\nfor many reasons. It was the abode of a genial, though somewhat\nimpulsive, hospitality. It had broad, smooth-shaven lawns and towering\noaks and elms; there were bosky shades at several points, and not far\nfrom the house there was a little rill spanned by a rustic bridge with\nthe bark on; there were fruits and flowers, pleasant people, chess,\nbilliards, rides, walks, and fishing. These were great attractions; but\nnone of them, nor all of them together, would have been sufficient to\nhold me to the place very long. I had been invited for the trout season,\nbut should, probably, have finished my visit early in the summer had it\nnot been that upon fair days, when the grass was dry, and the sun was\nnot too hot, and there was but little wind, there strolled beneath the\nlofty elms, or passed lightly through the bosky shades, the form of my\nMadeline.\n\nThis lady was not, in very truth, my Madeline. She had never given\nherself to me, nor had I, in any way, acquired possession of her. But as\nI considered her possession the only sufficient reason for the\ncontinuance of my existence, I called her, in my reveries, mine. It may\nhave been that I would not have been obliged to confine the use of this\npossessive pronoun to my reveries had I confessed the state of my\nfeelings to the lady.\n\nBut this was an unusually difficult thing to do. Not only did I dread,\nas almost all lovers dread, taking the step which would in an instant\nput an end to that delightful season which may be termed the\nante-interrogatory period of love, and which might at the same time\nterminate all intercourse or connection with the object of my passion;\nbut I was, also, dreadfully afraid of John Hinckman. This gentleman was\na good friend of mine, but it would have required a bolder man than I\nwas at that time to ask him for the gift of his niece, who was the head\nof his household, and, according to his own frequent statement, the main\nprop of his declining years. Had Madeline acquiesced in my general views\non the subject, I might have felt encouraged to open the matter to Mr.\nHinckman; but, as I said before, I had never asked her whether or not\nshe would be mine. I thought of these things at all hours of the day and\nnight, particularly the latter.\n\nI was lying awake one night, in the great bed in my spacious chamber,\nwhen, by the dim light of the new moon, which partially filled the room,\nI saw John Hinckman standing by a large chair near the door. I was very\nmuch surprised at this for two reasons. In the first place, my host had\nnever before come into my room; and, in the second place, he had gone\nfrom home that morning, and had not expected to return for several days.\nIt was for this reason that I had been able that evening to sit much\nlater than usual with Madeline on the moonlit porch. The figure was\ncertainly that of John Hinckman in his ordinary dress, but there was a\nvagueness and indistinctness about it which presently assured me that it\nwas a ghost. Had the good old man been murdered? and had his spirit come\nto tell me of the deed, and to confide to me the protection of his\ndear--? My heart fluttered at what I was about to think, but at this\ninstant the figure spoke.\n\n\"Do you know,\" he said, with a countenance that indicated anxiety, \"if\nMr. Hinckman will return to-night?\"\n\nI thought it well to maintain a calm exterior, and I answered:\n\n\"We do not expect him.\"\n\n\"I am glad of that,\" said he, sinking into the chair by which he stood.\n\"During the two years and a half that I have inhabited this house, that\nman has never before been away for a single night. You can't imagine the\nrelief it gives me.\"\n\nAnd as he spoke he stretched out his legs, and leaned back in the chair.\nHis form became less vague, and the colors of his garments more distinct\nand evident, while an expression of gratified relief succeeded to the\nanxiety of his countenance.\n\n\"Two years and a half!\" I exclaimed. \"I don't understand you.\"\n\n\"It is fully that length of time,\" said the ghost, \"since I first came\nhere. Mine is not an ordinary case. But before I say anything more about\nit, let me ask you again if you are sure Mr. Hinckman will not return\nto-night.\"\n\n\"I am as sure of it as I can be of anything,\" I answered. \"He left\nto-day for Bristol, two hundred miles away.\"\n\n\"Then I will go on,\" said the ghost, \"for I am glad to have the\nopportunity of talking to someone who will listen to me; but if John\nHinckman should come in and catch me here, I should be frightened out of\nmy wits.\"\n\n\"This is all very strange,\" I said, greatly puzzled by what I had heard.\n\"Are you the ghost of Mr. Hinckman?\"\n\nThis was a bold question, but my mind was so full of other emotions that\nthere seemed to be no room for that of fear.\n\n\"Yes, I am his ghost,\" my companion replied, \"and yet I have no right to\nbe. And this is what makes me so uneasy, and so much afraid of him. It\nis a strange story, and, I truly believe, without precedent. Two years\nand a half ago, John Hinckman was dangerously ill in this very room. At\none time he was so far gone that he was really believed to be dead. It\nwas in consequence of too precipitate a report in regard to this matter\nthat I was, at that time, appointed to be his ghost. Imagine my\nsurprise and horror, sir, when, after I had accepted the position and\nassumed its responsibilities, that old man revived, became convalescent,\nand eventually regained his usual health. My situation was now one of\nextreme delicacy and embarrassment. I had no power to return to my\noriginal unembodiment, and I had no right to be the ghost of a man who\nwas not dead. I was advised by my friends to quietly maintain my\nposition, and was assured that, as John Hinckman was an elderly man, it\ncould not be long before I could rightfully assume the position for\nwhich I had been selected. But I tell you, sir,\" he continued, with\nanimation, \"the old fellow seems as vigorous as ever, and I have no idea\nhow much longer this annoying state of things will continue. I spend my\ntime trying to get out of that old man's way. I must not leave this\nhouse, and he seems to follow me everywhere. I tell you, sir, he haunts\nme.\"\n\n\"That is truly a queer state of things,\" I remarked. \"But why are you\nafraid of him? He couldn't hurt you.\"\n\n\"Of course he couldn't,\" said the ghost. \"But his very presence is a\nshock and terror to me. Imagine, sir, how you would feel if my case were\nyours.\"\n\nI could not imagine such a thing at all. I simply shuddered.\n\n\"And if one must be a wrongful ghost at all,\" the apparition continued,\n\"it would be much pleasanter to be the ghost of some man other than\nJohn Hinckman. There is in him an irascibility of temper, accompanied\nby a facility of invective, which is seldom met with. And what would\nhappen if he were to see me, and find out, as I am sure he would, how\nlong and why I had inhabited his house, I can scarcely conceive. I have\nseen him in his bursts of passion; and, although he did not hurt the\npeople he stormed at any more than he would hurt me, they seemed to\nshrink before him.\"\n\nAll this I knew to be very true. Had it not been for this peculiarity of\nMr. Hinckman, I might have been more willing to talk to him about his\nniece.\n\n\"I feel sorry for you,\" I said, for I really began to have a sympathetic\nfeeling toward this unfortunate apparition. \"Your case is indeed a hard\none. It reminds me of those persons who have had doubles, and I suppose\na man would often be very angry indeed when he found that there was\nanother being who was personating himself.\"\n\n\"Oh! the cases are not similar at all,\" said the ghost. \"A double or\n_doppelgaenger_ lives on the earth with a man; and, being exactly like\nhim, he makes all sorts of trouble, of course. It is very different with\nme. I am not here to live with Mr. Hinckman. I am here to take his\nplace. Now, it would make John Hinckman very angry if he knew that.\nDon't you know it would?\"\n\nI assented promptly.\n\n\"Now that he is away I can be easy for a little while,\" continued the\nghost; \"and I am so glad to have an opportunity of talking to you. I\nhave frequently come into your room, and watched you while you slept,\nbut did not dare to speak to you for fear that if you talked with me Mr.\nHinckman would hear you, and come into the room to know why you were\ntalking to yourself.\"\n\n\"But would he not hear you?\" I asked.\n\n\"Oh, no!\" said the other: \"there are times when anyone may see me, but\nno one hears me except the person to whom I address myself.\"\n\n\"But why did you wish to speak to me?\" I asked.\n\n\"Because,\" replied the ghost, \"I like occasionally to talk to people,\nand especially to someone like yourself, whose mind is so troubled and\nperturbed that you are not likely to be frightened by a visit from one\nof us. But I particularly wanted to ask you to do me a favor. There is\nevery probability, so far as I can see, that John Hinckman will live a\nlong time, and my situation is becoming insupportable. My great object\nat present is to get myself transferred, and I think that you may,\nperhaps, be of use to me.\"\n\n\"Transferred!\" I exclaimed. \"What do you mean by that?\"\n\n\"What I mean,\" said the other, \"is this: Now that I have started on my\ncareer I have got to be the ghost of somebody, and I want to be the\nghost of a man who is really dead.\"\n\n\"I should think that would be easy enough,\" I said. \"Opportunities must\ncontinually occur.\"\n\n\"Not at all! not at all!\" said my companion quickly. \"You have no idea\nwhat a rush and pressure there is for situations of this kind. Whenever\na vacancy occurs, if I may express myself in that way, there are crowds\nof applications for the ghost-ship.\"\n\n\"I had no idea that such a state of things existed,\" I said, becoming\nquite interested in the matter. \"There ought to be some regular system,\nor order of precedence, by which you could all take your turns like\ncustomers in a barber's shop.\"\n\n\"Oh dear, that would never do at all!\" said the other. \"Some of us would\nhave to wait forever. There is always a great rush whenever a good\nghost-ship offers itself--while, as you know, there are some positions\nthat no one would care for. And it was in consequence of my being in too\ngreat a hurry on an occasion of the kind that I got myself into my\npresent disagreeable predicament, and I have thought that it might be\npossible that you would help me out of it. You might know of a case\nwhere an opportunity for a ghost-ship was not generally expected, but\nwhich might present itself at any moment. If you would give me a short\nnotice, I know I could arrange for a transfer.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\" I exclaimed. \"Do you want me to commit suicide? Or\nto undertake a murder for your benefit?\"\n\n\"Oh, no, no, no!\" said the other, with a vapory smile. \"I mean nothing\nof that kind. To be sure, there are lovers who are watched with\nconsiderable interest, such persons having been known, in moments of\ndepression, to offer very desirable ghost-ships; but I did not think of\nanything of that kind in connection with you. You were the only person I\ncared to speak to, and I hoped that you might give me some information\nthat would be of use; and, in return, I shall be very glad to help you\nin your love affair.\"\n\n\"You seem to know that I have such an affair,\" I said.\n\n\"Oh, yes!\" replied the other, with a little yawn. \"I could not be here\nso much as I have been without knowing all about that.\"\n\nThere was something horrible in the idea of Madeline and myself having\nbeen watched by a ghost, even, perhaps, when we wandered together in the\nmost delightful and bosky places. But, then, this was quite an\nexceptional ghost, and I could not have the objections to him which\nwould ordinarily arise in regard to beings of his class.\n\n\"I must go now,\" said the ghost, rising: \"but I will see you somewhere\nto-morrow night. And remember--you help me, and I'll help you.\"\n\nI had doubts the next morning as to the propriety of telling Madeline\nanything about this interview, and soon convinced myself that I must\nkeep silent on the subject. If she knew there was a ghost about the\nhouse, she would probably leave the place instantly. I did not mention\nthe matter, and so regulated my demeanor that I am quite sure Madeline\nnever suspected what had taken place. For some time I had wished that\nMr. Hinckman would absent himself, for a day at least, from the\npremises. In such case I thought I might more easily nerve myself up to\nthe point of speaking to Madeline on the subject of our future\ncollateral existence; and, now that the opportunity for such speech had\nreally occurred, I did not feel ready to avail myself of it. What would\nbecome of me if she refused me?\n\nI had an idea, however, that the lady thought that, if I were going to\nspeak at all, this was the time. She must have known that certain\nsentiments were afloat within me, and she was not unreasonable in her\nwish to see the matter settled one way or the other. But I did not feel\nlike taking a bold step in the dark. If she wished me to ask her to give\nherself to me, she ought to offer me some reason to suppose that she\nwould make the gift. If I saw no probability of such generosity, I would\nprefer that things should remain as they were.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThat evening I was sitting with Madeline in the moonlit porch. It was\nnearly ten o'clock, and ever since supper-time I had been working myself\nup to the point of making an avowal of my sentiments. I had not\npositively determined to do this, but wished gradually to reach the\nproper point, when, if the prospect looked bright, I might speak. My\ncompanion appeared to understand the situation--at least, I imagined\nthat the nearer I came to a proposal the more she seemed to expect it.\nIt was certainly a very critical and important epoch in my life. If I\nspoke, I should make myself happy or miserable forever, and if I did not\nspeak I had every reason to believe that the lady would not give me\nanother chance to do so.\n\nSitting thus with Madeline, talking a little, and thinking very hard\nover these momentous matters, I looked up and saw the ghost, not a dozen\nfeet away from us. He was sitting on the railing of the porch, one leg\nthrown up before him, the other dangling down as he leaned against a\npost. He was behind Madeline, but almost in front of me, as I sat facing\nthe lady. It was fortunate that Madeline was looking out over the\nlandscape, for I must have appeared very much startled. The ghost had\ntold me that he would see me some time this night, but I did not think\nhe would make his appearance when I was in the company of Madeline. If\nshe should see the spirit of her uncle, I could not answer for the\nconsequences. I made no exclamation, but the ghost evidently saw that I\nwas troubled.\n\n\"Don't be afraid,\" he said--\"I shall not let her see me; and she cannot\nhear me speak unless I address myself to her, which I do not intend to\ndo.\"\n\nI suppose I looked grateful.\n\n\"So you need not trouble yourself about that,\" the ghost continued; \"but\nit seems to me that you are not getting along very well with your\naffair. If I were you, I should speak out without waiting any longer.\nYou will never have a better chance. You are not likely to be\ninterrupted; and, so far as I can judge, the lady seems disposed to\nlisten to you favorably; that is, if she ever intends to do so. There is\nno knowing when John Hinckman will go away again; certainly not this\nsummer. If I were in your place, I should never dare to make love to\nHinckman's niece if he were anywhere about the place. If he should catch\nanyone offering himself to Miss Madeline, he would then be a terrible\nman to encounter.\"\n\nI agreed perfectly to all this.\n\n\"I cannot bear to think of him!\" I ejaculated aloud.\n\n\"Think of whom?\" asked Madeline, turning quickly toward me.\n\nHere was an awkward situation. The long speech of the ghost, to which\nMadeline paid no attention, but which I heard with perfect distinctness,\nhad made me forget myself.\n\nIt was necessary to explain quickly. Of course, it would not do to admit\nthat it was of her dear uncle that I was speaking; and so I mentioned\nhastily the first name I thought of.\n\n\"Mr. Vilars,\" I said.\n\nThis statement was entirely correct; for I never could bear to think of\nMr. Vilars, who was a gentleman who had, at various times, paid much\nattention to Madeline.\n\n\"It is wrong for you to speak in that way of Mr. Vilars,\" she said. \"He\nis a remarkably well educated and sensible young man, and has very\npleasant manners. He expects to be elected to the legislature this\nfall, and I should not be surprised if he made his mark. He will do well\nin a legislative body, for whenever Mr. Vilars has anything to say he\nknows just how and when to say it.\"\n\nThis was spoken very quietly, and without any show of resentment, which\nwas all very natural, for if Madeline thought at all favorably of me she\ncould not feel displeased that I should have disagreeable emotions in\nregard to a possible rival. The concluding words contained a hint which\nI was not slow to understand. I felt very sure that if Mr. Vilars were\nin my present position he would speak quickly enough.\n\n\"I know it is wrong to have such ideas about a person,\" I said, \"but I\ncannot help it.\"\n\nThe lady did not chide me, and after this she seemed even in a softer\nmood. As for me, I felt considerably annoyed, for I had not wished to\nadmit that any thought of Mr. Vilars had ever occupied my mind.\n\n\"You should not speak aloud that way,\" said the ghost, \"or you may get\nyourself into trouble. I want to see everything go well with you,\nbecause then you may be disposed to help me, especially if I should\nchance to be of any assistance to you, which I hope I shall be.\"\n\nI longed to tell him that there was no way in which he could help me so\nmuch as by taking his instant departure. To make love to a young lady\nwith a ghost sitting on the railing nearby, and that ghost the\napparition of a much-dreaded uncle, the very idea of whom in such a\nposition and at such a time made me tremble, was a difficult, if not an\nimpossible, thing to do; but I forbore to speak, although I may have\nlooked my mind.\n\n\"I suppose,\" continued the ghost, \"that you have not heard anything that\nmight be of advantage to me. Of course, I am very anxious to hear; but\nif you have anything to tell me, I can wait until you are alone. I will\ncome to you to-night in your room, or I will stay here until the lady\ngoes away.\"\n\n\"You need not wait here,\" I said; \"I have nothing at all to say to you.\"\n\nMadeline sprang to her feet, her face flushed and her eyes ablaze.\n\n\"Wait here!\" she cried. \"What do you suppose I am waiting for? Nothing\nto say to me indeed!--I should think so! What should you have to say to\nme?\"\n\n\"Madeline!\" I exclaimed, stepping toward her, \"let me explain.\"\n\nBut she had gone.\n\nHere was the end of the world for me! I turned fiercely to the ghost.\n\n\"Wretched existence!\" I cried. \"You have ruined everything. You have\nblackened my whole life. Had it not been for you----\"\n\nBut here my voice faltered. I could say no more.\n\n\"You wrong me,\" said the ghost. \"I have not injured you. I have tried\nonly to encourage and assist you, and it is your own folly that has\ndone this mischief. But do not despair. Such mistakes as these can be\nexplained. Keep up a brave heart. Good-by.\"\n\nAnd he vanished from the railing like a bursting soap-bubble.\n\nI went gloomily to bed, but I saw no apparitions that night except those\nof despair and misery which my wretched thoughts called up. The words I\nhad uttered had sounded to Madeline like the basest insult. Of course,\nthere was only one interpretation she could put upon them.\n\nAs to explaining my ejaculations, that was impossible. I thought the\nmatter over and over again as I lay awake that night, and I determined\nthat I would never tell Madeline the facts of the case. It would be\nbetter for me to suffer all my life than for her to know that the ghost\nof her uncle haunted the house. Mr. Hinckman was away, and if she knew\nof his ghost she could not be made to believe that he was not dead. She\nmight not survive the shock! No, my heart could bleed, but I would never\ntell her.\n\nThe next day was fine, neither too cool nor too warm; the breezes were\ngentle, and nature smiled. But there were no walks or rides with\nMadeline. She seemed to be much engaged during the day, and I saw but\nlittle of her. When we met at meals she was polite, but very quiet and\nreserved. She had evidently determined on a course of conduct and had\nresolved to assume that, although I had been very rude to her, she did\nnot understand the import of my words. It would be quite proper, of\ncourse, for her not to know what I meant by my expressions of the night\nbefore.\n\nI was downcast and wretched, and said but little, and the only bright\nstreak across the black horizon of my woe was the fact that she did not\nappear to be happy, although she affected an air of unconcern. The\nmoonlit porch was deserted that evening, but wandering about the house I\nfound Madeline in the library alone. She was reading, but I went in and\nsat down near her. I felt that, although I could not do so fully, I must\nin a measure explain my conduct of the night before. She listened\nquietly to a somewhat labored apology I made for the words I had used.\n\n\"I have not the slightest idea what you meant,\" she said, \"but you were\nvery rude.\"\n\nI earnestly disclaimed any intention of rudeness, and assured her, with\na warmth of speech that must have made some impression upon her, that\nrudeness to her would be an action impossible to me. I said a great deal\nupon the subject, and implored her to believe that if it were not for a\ncertain obstacle I could speak to her so plainly that she would\nunderstand everything.\n\nShe was silent for a time, and then she said, rather more kindly, I\nthought, than she had spoken before:\n\n\"Is that obstacle in any way connected with my uncle?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I answered, after a little hesitation, \"it is, in a measure,\nconnected with him.\"\n\nShe made no answer to this, and sat looking at her book, but not\nreading. From the expression of her face, I thought she was somewhat\nsoftened toward me. She knew her uncle as well as I did, and she may\nhave been thinking that, if he were the obstacle that prevented my\nspeaking (and there were many ways in which he might be that obstacle),\nmy position would be such a hard one that it would excuse some wildness\nof speech and eccentricity of manner. I saw, too, that the warmth of my\npartial explanations had had some effect on her, and I began to believe\nthat it might be a good thing for me to speak my mind without delay. No\nmatter how she should receive my proposition, my relations with her\ncould not be worse than they had been the previous night and day, and\nthere was something in her face which encouraged me to hope that she\nmight forget my foolish exclamations of the evening before if I began to\ntell her my tale of love.\n\nI drew my chair a little nearer to her, and as I did so the ghost burst\ninto the room from the doorway behind her. I say burst, although no door\nflew open and he made no noise. He was wildly excited, and waved his\narms above his head. The moment I saw him, my heart fell within me. With\nthe entrance of that impertinent apparition, every hope fled from me. I\ncould not speak while he was in the room.\n\nI must have turned pale; and I gazed steadfastly at the ghost, almost\nwithout seeing Madeline, who sat between us.\n\n\"Do you know,\" he cried, \"that John Hinckman is coming up the hill? He\nwill be here in fifteen minutes; and if you are doing anything in the\nway of love-making, you had better hurry it up. But this is not what I\ncame to tell you. I have glorious news! At last I am transferred! Not\nforty minutes ago a Russian nobleman was murdered by the Nihilists.\nNobody ever thought of him in connection with an immediate ghost-ship.\nMy friends instantly applied for the situation for me, and obtained my\ntransfer. I am off before that horrid Hinckman comes up the hill. The\nmoment I reach my new position, I shall put off this hated semblance.\nGood-by. You can't imagine how glad I am to be, at last, the real ghost\nof somebody.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" I cried, rising to my feet, and stretching out my arms in utter\nwretchedness, \"I would to Heaven you were mine!\"\n\n\"I _am_ yours,\" said Madeline, raising to me her tearful eyes.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MUMMY'S FOOT\n\nBY THEOPHILE GAUTIER\n\nTranslated for this volume by Sara Goldman.\n\n\n\n\nThe Mummy's Foot\n\nBy THEOPHILE GAUTIER\n\n\nI had sauntered idly into the shop of one of those dealers in old\ncuriosities--\"bric-a-brac\" as they say in that Parisian _argot_, so\nabsolutely unintelligible elsewhere in France.\n\nYou have no doubt often glanced through the windows of some of these\nshops, which have become numerous since it is so fashionable to buy\nantique furniture, that the humblest stockbroker feels obliged to have a\nroom furnished in medieval style.\n\nSomething is there which belongs alike to the shop of the dealer in old\niron, the warehouse of the merchant, the laboratory of the chemist, and\nthe studio of the painter: in all these mysterious recesses, where but a\ndiscreet half-light filters through the shutters, the most obviously\nantique thing is the dust: the cobwebs are more genuine than the laces,\nand the old pear-tree furniture is more modern than the mahogany which\narrived but yesterday from America.\n\nThe warehouse of my dealer in bric-a-brac was a veritable Capharnauem;\nall ages and all countries seemed to have arranged a rendezvous there;\nan Etruscan terra cotta lamp stood upon a Boule cabinet, with ebony\npanels decorated with simple filaments of inlaid copper: a duchess of\nthe reign of Louis XV stretched nonchalantly her graceful feet under a\nmassive Louis XIII table with heavy, spiral oaken legs, and carvings of\nintermingled flowers and grotesque figures.\n\nIn a corner glittered the ornamented breastplate of a suit of\ndamaskeened armor of Milan. The shelves and floor were littered with\nporcelain cupids and nymphs, Chinese monkeys, vases of pale green\nenamel, cups of Dresden and old Sevres.\n\nUpon the denticulated shelves of sideboards, gleamed huge Japanese\nplaques, with red and blue designs outlined in gold, side by side with\nthe enamels of Bernard Palissy, with serpents, frogs, and lizards in\nrelief.\n\nFrom ransacked cabinets tumbled cascades of silvery-gleaming China silk,\nthe shimmering brocade pricked into luminous beads by a slanting\nsunbeam; while portraits of every epoch smiled through their yellowed\nvarnish from frames more or less tarnished.\n\nThe dealer followed me watchfully through the tortuous passages winding\nbetween the piles of furniture, warding off with his hands the perilous\nswing of my coat tail, observing my elbows with the disquieting concern\nof an antiquarian and a usurer.\n\nHe was an odd figure--this dealer; an enormous skull, smooth as a knee,\nwas surrounded by a scant aureole of white hair, which, by contrast,\nemphasized the salmon-colored tint of his complexion, and gave a wrong\nimpression of patriarchal benevolence, corrected, however, by the\nglittering of two small, yellow eyes which shifted in their orbits like\ntwo _louis d'or_ floating on quicksilver. The curve of his nose gave him\nan aquiline silhouette, which suggested the Oriental or Jewish type. His\nhands, long, slender, with prominent veins and sinews protruding like\nthe strings on a violin, with nails like the claws on the membraneous\nwings of the bat moved with a senile trembling painful to behold, but\nthose nervously quivering hands became firmer than pincers of steel, or\nthe claws of a lobster, when they picked up any precious object, an onyx\ncup, a Venetian glass, or a platter of Bohemian crystal. This curious\nold fellow had an air so thoroughly rabbinical and cabalistic, that,\nfrom mere appearance, he would have been burned at the stake three\ncenturies ago.\n\n\"Will you not buy something from me to-day, sir? Here is a kris from\nMalay, with a blade which undulates like a flame; look at these grooves\nfor the blood to drip from, these teeth reversed so as to tear out the\nentrails in withdrawing the weapon; it is a fine specimen of a ferocious\nweapon, and will be an interesting addition to your trophies; this\ntwo-handed sword is very beautiful--it is the work of Joseph de la Herz;\nand this _cauchelimarde_ with its carved guard--what superb\nworkmanship!\"\n\n\"No, I have enough weapons and instruments of carnage; I should like to\nhave a small figure, any sort of object which can be used for a paper\nweight; for I cannot endure those commonplace bronzes for sale at the\nstationers which one sees invariably on everybody's desk.\"\n\nThe old gnome, rummaging among his ancient wares, displayed before me\nsome antique bronzes--pseudo-antique, at least, fragments of malachite,\nlittle Hindu and Chinese idols, jade monkeys, incarnations of Brahma and\nVishnu, marvelously suitable for the purpose--scarcely divine--of\nholding papers and letters in place.\n\nI was hesitating between a porcelain dragon covered with constellations\nof warts, its jaws embellished with teeth and tusks, and a hideous\nlittle Mexican fetish, representing realistically the god\nVitziliputzili, when I noticed a charming foot, which at first I\nsupposed was a fragment of some antique Venus.\n\nIt had that beautiful tawny reddish tint, which gives the Florentine\nbronzes their warm, life-like appearance, so preferable to the verdigris\ntones of ordinary bronzes, which might be taken readily for statues in a\nstate of putrefaction; a satiny luster gleamed over its curves, polished\nby the amorous kisses of twenty centuries; for it must have been a\nCorinthian bronze, a work of the finest period, molded perhaps by\nLysippus himself.\n\n\"That foot will do,\" I said to the dealer, who looked at me with an\nironical, crafty expression, as he handed me the object I asked for, so\nthat I might examine it more carefully.\n\nI was surprised at its lightness. It was not a metal foot but in reality\na foot of flesh, an embalmed foot, a mummy's foot; on examining it more\nclosely, one could distinguish the grain of the skin, and the almost\nimperceptible imprint of the weave of the wrappings. The toes were\nslender, delicate, with perfect nails, pure and transparent as agate;\nthe great toe, slightly separated from the others, in the antique manner\nwas in pleasing contrast to the position of the other toes, and gave a\nsuggestion of the freedom and lightness of a bird's foot. The sole,\nfaintly streaked with almost invisible lines, showed that it had never\ntouched the ground, or come in contact with anything but the finest mats\nwoven from the rushes of the Nile, and the softest rugs of panther skin.\n\n\"Ha, ha! You want the foot of the Princess Hermonthis,\" said the dealer\nwith a strange, mocking laugh, staring at me with his owlish eyes. \"Ha,\nha, ha, for a paper weight! An original idea! an artist's idea! If\nanyone had told old Pharaoh that the foot of his adored daughter would\nbe used for a paper weight, particularly whilst he was having a mountain\nof granite hollowed out in which to place her triple coffin, painted and\ngilded, covered with hieroglyphics, and beautiful pictures of the\njudgment of souls, it would truly have surprised him,\" continued the\nqueer little dealer, in low tones, as though talking to himself.\n\n\"How much will you charge me for this fragment of a mummy?\"\n\n\"Ah, as much as I can get; for it is a superb piece; if I had the mate\nto it, you could not have it for less than five hundred francs--the\ndaughter of a Pharaoh! there could be nothing more choice.\"\n\n\"Assuredly it is not common; but, still, how much do you want for it?\nFirst, however, I want to acquaint you with one fact, which is, that my\nfortune consists of only five louis. I will buy anything that costs five\nlouis, but nothing more expensive. You may search my vest pockets, and\nmy most secret bureau drawers, but you will not find one miserable five\nfranc piece besides.\"\n\n\"Five louis for the foot of the Princess Hermonthis! It is very little,\ntoo little, in fact, for an authentic foot,\" said the dealer, shaking\nhis head and rolling his eyes with a peculiar rotary motion. \"Very well,\ntake it, and I will throw in the outer covering,\" he said, rolling it in\na shred of old damask--\"very beautiful, genuine damask, which has never\nbeen redyed; it is strong, yet it is soft,\" he muttered, caressing the\nfrayed tissue, in accordance with his dealer's habit of praising an\narticle of so little value, that he himself thought it good for nothing\nbut to give away.\n\nHe dropped the gold pieces into a kind of medieval pouch which was\nfastened at his belt, while he repeated:\n\n\"The foot of the Princess Hermonthis to be used for a paper weight!\"\n\nThen, fastening upon me his phosphorescent pupils he said, in a voice\nstrident as the wails of a cat which has just swallowed a fish bone:\n\n\"Old Pharaoh will not be pleased; he loved his daughter--that dear man.\"\n\n\"You speak of him as though you were his contemporary; no matter how old\nyou may be, you do not date back to the pyramids of Egypt,\" I answered\nlaughingly from the threshold of the shop.\n\nI returned home, delighted with my purchase.\n\nTo make use of it at once, I placed the foot of the exalted Princess\nHermonthis on a stack of papers--sketches of verses, undecipherable\nmosaics of crossed out words, unfinished articles, forgotten letters,\nposted in the desk drawer, a mistake often made by absent-minded people;\nthe effect was pleasing, bizarre, and romantic.\n\nHighly delighted with this decoration, I went down into the street, and\ntook a walk with all the importance and pride proper to a man who has\nthe inexpressible advantage over the passersby he elbows, of possessing\na fragment of the Princess Hermonthis, daughter of Pharaoh.\n\nI thought people who did not possess, like myself, a paper weight so\ngenuinely Egyptian, were objects of ridicule, and it seemed to me the\nproper business of the sensible man to have a mummy's foot upon his\ndesk.\n\nHappily, an encounter with several friends distracted me from my\nraptures over my recent acquisition, I went to dinner with them, for it\nwould have been hard for me to dine alone.\n\nWhen I returned at night, with my brain somewhat muddled by the effects\nof a few glasses of wine, a vague whiff of oriental perfume tickled\ndelicately my olfactory nerves. The heat of the room had warmed the\nnatron, the bitumen, and the myrrh in which the _paraschites_ who\nembalmed the dead had bathed the body of the Princess; it was a\ndelicate, yet penetrating perfume, which four thousand years had not\nbeen able to dissipate.\n\nThe Dream of Egypt was for the Eternal; its odors have the solidity of\ngranite, and last as long.\n\nIn a short time I drank full draughts from the black cup of sleep; for\nan hour or two all remained in obscurity; Oblivion and Nothingness\nsubmerged me in their somber waves.\n\nNevertheless the haziness of my perceptions gradually cleared away,\ndreams began to brush me lightly in their silent flight.\n\nThe eyes of my soul opened, and I saw my room as it was in reality. I\nmight have believed myself awake, if I had not had a vague consciousness\nthat I was asleep, and that something very unusual was about to take\nplace.\n\nThe odor of myrrh had increased in intensity, and I had a slight\nheadache, which I very naturally attributed to several glasses of\nchampagne that we had drunk to unknown gods, and to our future success.\n\nI scrutinized my room with a feeling of expectation, which there was\nnothing to justify. Each piece of furniture was in its usual place; the\nlamp, softly shaded by the milky whiteness of its ground crystal globe,\nburned upon the console, the water colors glowed from under the Bohemian\nglass; the curtains hung in heavy drooping folds; everything suggested\ntranquility and slumber.\n\nNevertheless, after a few moments the quiet of the room was disturbed,\nthe woodwork creaked furtively, the ash-covered log suddenly spurted out\na blue flame, and the surfaces of the plaques seemed like metallic eyes,\nwatching, like myself, for what was about to happen.\n\nBy chance my eyes fell on the table on which I had placed the foot of\nthe Princess Hermonthis.\n\nInstead of remaining in the state of immobility proper to a foot which\nhas been embalmed for four thousand years, it moved about in an agitated\nmanner, twitching, leaping about over the papers like a frightened frog;\none might have thought it in contact with a galvanic battery; I could\nhear distinctly the quick tap of the little heel, hard as the hoof of a\ngazelle.\n\nI became rather dissatisfied with my purchase, for I like paper weights\nof sedentary habits--besides I found it very unnatural for feet to move\nabout without legs, and I began to feel something closely resembling\nfear.\n\nSuddenly I noticed a movement of one of the folds of my curtains, and I\nheard a stamping like that made by a person hopping about on one foot.\nI must admit that I grew hot and cold by turns, that I felt a mysterious\nbreeze blowing down my back, and that my hair stood on end so suddenly\nthat it forced my night-cap to a leap of several degrees.\n\nThe curtains partly opened, and I saw the strangest figure possible\nadvancing.\n\nIt was a young girl, as coffee-coloured as Amani the dancer, and of a\nperfect beauty of the purest Egyptian type. She had slanting\nalmond-shaped eyes, with eyebrows so black that they appeared blue; her\nnose was finely chiseled, almost Grecian in its delicacy; she might have\nbeen taken for a Corinthian statue of bronze, had not her prominent\ncheekbones and rather African fullness of lips indicated without a doubt\nthe hieroglyphic race which dwelt on the banks of the Nile.\n\nHer arms, thin, spindle shaped, like those of very young girls, were\nencircled with a kind of metal ornament, and bracelets of glass beads;\nher hair was twisted into little cords; on her breast hung a green paste\nidol, identified by her whip of seven lashes as Isis, guide of souls--a\ngolden ornament shone on her forehead, and slight traces of rouge were\nvisible on the coppery tints of her cheeks.\n\nAs for her costume, it was very odd.\n\nImagine a _pagne_ made of narrow strips bedizened with red and black\nhieroglyphics, weighted with bitumen, and apparently belonging to a\nmummy newly unswathed.\n\nIn one of those flights of fancy usual in dreams, I could hear the\nhoarse, rough voice of the dealer of bric-a-brac reciting in a\nmonotonous refrain, the phrase he had kept repeating in his shop in so\nenigmatic a manner.\n\n\"Old Pharaoh will not be pleased--he loved his daughter very much--that\ndear man.\"\n\nOne peculiar detail, which was hardly reassuring, was that the\napparition had but one foot, the other was broken off at the ankle.\n\nShe approached the table, where the mummy's foot was fidgeting and\ntossing about with redoubled energy. She leaned against the edge, and I\nsaw her eyes fill with pearly tears.\n\nAlthough she did not speak, I fully understood her feelings. She looked\nat the foot, for it was in truth her own, with an expression of\ncoquettish sadness, which was extremely charming; but the foot kept\njumping and running about as though it were moved by springs of steel.\n\nTwo or three times she stretched out her hand to grasp it, but did not\nsucceed.\n\nThen began between the Princess Hermonthis and her foot, which seemed to\nbe endowed with an individuality of its own, a very bizarre dialogue, in\nan ancient Coptic tongue, such as might have been spoken thirty\ncenturies before, among the sphinxes of the Land of Ser; fortunately,\nthat night I understood Coptic perfectly.\n\nThe Princess Hermonthis said in a tone of voice sweet and tremulous as\nthe tones of a crystal bell:\n\n\"Well, my dear little foot, you always flee from me, yet I took the best\nof care of you; I bathed you with perfumed water, in a basin of\nalabaster; I rubbed your heel with pumice stone, mixed with oil of palm;\nyour nails were cut with golden scissors, and polished with a\nhippopotamus' tooth; I was careful to select for you painted and\nembroidered _tatbebs_, with turned up toes, which were the envy of all\nthe young girls of Egypt; on your great toe, you wore rings representing\nthe sacred Scarab, and you supported one of the lightest bodies that\ncould be desired by a lazy foot.\"\n\nThe foot answered in a pouting, regretful voice:\n\n\"You know well that I no longer belong to myself. I have been bought and\npaid for; the old dealer knew what he was about. He bears you a grudge\nfor having refused to marry him. This is a trick he has played on you.\nThe Arab who forced open your royal tomb, in the subterranean pits of\nthe Necropolis of Thebes, was sent there by him. He wanted to prevent\nyou from attending the reunion of the shades, in the cities of the lower\nworld. Have you five pieces of gold with which to ransom me?\"\n\n\"Alas, no! My jewels, my rings, my purses of gold and of silver have all\nbeen stolen from me,\" answered the Princess Hermonthis with a sigh.\n\n\"Princess,\" I then cried out, \"I have never kept possession of anyone's\nfoot unjustly; even though you have not the five louis which it cost me,\nI will return it to you gladly; I should be wretched, were I the cause\nof the lameness of so charming a person as the Princess Hermonthis.\"\n\nI delivered this discourse in a courtly, troubadour-like manner, which\nmust have astonished the beautiful Egyptian.\n\nShe looked at me with an expression of deepest gratitude, and her eyes\nbrightened with bluish lights.\n\nShe took her foot, which this time submitted, and, like a woman about to\nput on her brodekin, she adjusted it to her leg with great dexterity.\n\nThis operation finished, she took a few steps about the room, as though\nto assure herself that she was in reality no longer lame.\n\n\"Ah, how happy my father will be, he who was so wretched because of my\nmutilation--he who, from the day of my birth, set a whole nation to work\nto hollow out a tomb so deep that he might preserve me intact until that\nsupreme last day, when souls must be weighed in the scales of Amenti!\nCome with me to my father; he will be happy to receive you, for you have\ngiven me back my foot.\"\n\nI found this proposition quite natural. I decked myself out in a\ndressing-gown of huge sprawling design, which gave me an extremely\nPharaohesque appearance; I hurriedly put on a pair of Turkish slippers,\nand told the Princess Hermonthis that I was ready to follow her.\n\nBefore setting out, Hermonthis detached from her necklace the little\ngreen paste image and placed it on the scattered papers which strewed\nthe table.\n\n\"It is no more than right,\" she said smilingly, \"that I should replace\nyour paper weight.\"\n\nShe gave me her hand, which was soft and cool as the skin of a serpent,\nand we departed.\n\nFor a time we sped with the rapidity of an arrow, through a misty\nexpanse of space, in which almost indistinguishable silhouettes flashed\nby us, on the right and left.\n\nFor an instant we saw nothing but sea and sky.\n\nA few minutes later, towering obelisks, pillars, the sloping outlines of\nthe sphinx, were designed against the horizon.\n\nWe had arrived.\n\nThe princess conducted me to the side of a mountain of red granite in\nwhich there was an aperture so low and narrow that, had it not been\nmarked by two monoliths covered with bizarre carvings, it would have\nbeen difficult to distinguish from the fissures in the rock.\n\nHermonthis lighted a torch and led the way.\n\nThe corridors were hewn through the living rock. The walls, with panels\ncovered with hieroglyphics, and representations of allegorical\nprocessions, must have been the work of thousands of hands for thousands\nof years; the corridors, of an interminable length, ended in square\nrooms, in the middle of which pits had been constructed, to which we\ndescended by means of _crampons_ or spiral staircases. These pits led us\ninto other rooms, from which opened out other corridors embellished in\nthe same bizarre manner with sparrow-hawks, serpents coiled in circles,\nthe symbolic tau, pedum, and baris, prodigious works which no living eye\nshould ever see, interminable legends in granite which only the dead\nthroughout eternity have time to read.\n\nAt last we reached a hall so vast, so boundless, so immeasurable, that\nits limits could not be discerned. As far as the eye could see, extended\nfiles of gigantic columns, between which sparkled livid stars of yellow\nlight. These glittering points of light revealed incalculable depths\nbeyond.\n\nThe Princess Hermonthis, still holding my hand, greeted graciously the\nmummies of her acquaintance.\n\nMy eyes gradually became accustomed to the shadowy twilight, and I began\nto distinguish the objects around me.\n\nI saw, seated upon their thrones, the kings of the subterranean races.\nThey were dignified old personages, or dried up, shriveled,\nwrinkled-like parchment, and blackened with naphtha and bitumen. On\ntheir heads they wore pschents of gold, and their breastplates and\ngorgets scintillated with precious stones; their eyes had the fixedness\nof the sphinx, and their long beards were whitened by the snows of\ncenturies. Behind them stood their embalmed subjects, in the rigid and\nconstrained postures of Egyptian art, preserving eternally the attitudes\nprescribed by the hieratic code. Behind the subjects, the cats, ibixes,\nand crocodiles contemporary with them, rendered still more monstrous by\ntheir wrappings, mewed, beat their wings, and opened and closed their\nhuge jaws in foolish grimaces.\n\nAll the Pharaohs were there--Cheops, Chephrenes, Psammetichus, Sesostri,\nAmenoteph, all the dark-skinned rulers of the country of the pyramids,\nand the royal sepulchers; on a still higher platform sat enthroned the\nkings Chronos, and Xixouthros, who were contemporary with the deluge,\nand Tubal-Cain, who preceded it.\n\nThe beard of King Xixouthros had grown to such lengths that it had\nalready wound itself seven times around the granite table against which\nhe leaned, lost in reverie, as though in slumber.\n\nFurther in the distance, through a dim exhalation, across the mists of\neternities, I beheld vaguely the seventy-two pre-Adamite kings, with\ntheir seventy-two peoples, vanished forever.\n\nThe Princess Hermonthis, after allowing me a few moments to enjoy this\ndizzying spectacle, presented me to Pharaoh, her father, who nodded to\nme in a most majestic manner.\n\n\"I have found my foot--I have found my foot!\" cried the Princess,\nclapping her little hands, with every indication of uncontrollable joy.\n\"It was this gentleman who returned it to me.\"\n\nThe races of Kheme, the races of Nahasi, all the races, black, bronze,\nand copper-colored, repeated in a chorus:\n\n\"The Princess Hermonthis has found her foot.\"\n\nXixouthros himself was deeply affected.\n\nHe raised his heavy eyelids, stroked his moustache, and regarded me with\nhis glance charged with the centuries.\n\n\"By Oms, the dog of Hell, and by Tmei, daughter of the Sun and of Truth,\nhere is a brave and worthy young man,\" said Pharaoh, extending toward me\nhis scepter which terminated in a lotus flower. \"What recompense do you\ndesire?\"\n\nEagerly, with that audacity which one has in dreams, where nothing seems\nimpossible, I asked him for the hand of the Princess Hermonthis. Her\nhand in exchange for her foot, seemed to me an antithetical recompense,\nin sufficiently good taste.\n\nPharaoh opened wide his eyes of glass, surprised at my pleasantry, as\nwell as my request.\n\n\"From what country are you, and what is your age?\"\n\n\"I am a Frenchman, and I am twenty-seven years old, venerable Pharaoh.\"\n\n\"Twenty-seven years old! And he wishes to espouse the Princess\nHermonthis, who is thirty centuries old!\" exclaimed in a chorus all the\nthrones, and all the circles of nations.\n\nHermonthis alone did not seem to think my request improper.\n\n\"If you were even two thousand years old,\" continued the old king, \"I\nwould gladly bestow upon you the Princess; but the disproportion is too\ngreat; besides, our daughters must have husbands who will last, and you\nno longer know how to preserve yourselves. Of the last persons who were\nbrought here, scarcely fifteen centuries ago, nothing now remains but a\npinch of ashes. Look! my flesh is as hard as basalt, my bones are bars\nof steel. I shall be present on the last day, with the body and features\nI had in life. My daughter Hermonthis will last longer than a statue of\nbronze. But at that time the winds will have dissipated the last grains\nof your dust, and Isis herself, who knew how to recover the fragments of\nOsiris, would hardly be able to recompose your being. See how vigorous I\nstill am, and how powerful is the strength of my arm,\" said he, shaking\nmy hand in the English fashion, in a way that cut my fingers with my\nrings.\n\nHis grasp was so strong that I awoke, and discovered my friend Alfred,\nwho was pulling me by the arm, and shaking me, to make me get up.\n\n\"Oh, see here, you maddening sleeper! Must I have you dragged into the\nmiddle of the street, and have fireworks put off close to your ear, in\norder to waken you? It is afternoon. Don't you remember that you\npromised to call for me and take me to see the Spanish pictures of M.\nAguada?\"\n\n\"Good heavens! I forgot all about it,\" I answered, dressing hurriedly.\n\"We can go there at once--I have the permit here on my table.\" I crossed\nover to get it; imagine my astonishment when I saw, not the mummy's foot\nI had bought the evening before, but the little green paste image left\nin its place by the Princess Hermonthis!\n\n\n\n\nTHE RIVAL GHOSTS\n\nBY BRANDER MATTHEWS\n\nFrom _Tales of Fantasy and Fact_, by Brander Matthews. Copyright, 1886,\nby Harper Brothers. By permission of the publishers and Brander\nMatthews.\n\n\n\n\nThe Rival Ghosts\n\nBY BRANDER MATTHEWS\n\n\nThe good ship sped on her way across the calm Atlantic. It was an\noutward passage, according to the little charts which the company had\ncharily distributed, but most of the passengers were homeward bound,\nafter a summer of rest and recreation, and they were counting the days\nbefore they might hope to see Fire Island Light. On the lee side of the\nboat, comfortably sheltered from the wind, and just by the door of the\ncaptain's room (which was theirs during the day), sat a little group of\nreturning Americans. The Duchess (she was down on the purser's list as\nMrs. Martin, but her friends and familiars called her the Duchess of\nWashington Square) and Baby Van Rensselaer (she was quite old enough to\nvote, had her sex been entitled to that duty, but as the younger of two\nsisters she was still the baby of the family)--the Duchess and Baby Van\nRensselaer were discussing the pleasant English voice and the not\nunpleasant English accent of a manly young lordling who was going to\nAmerica for sport. Uncle Larry and Dear Jones were enticing each other\ninto a bet on the ship's run of the morrow.\n\n\"I'll give you two to one she don't make 420,\" said Dear Jones.\n\n\"I'll take it,\" answered Uncle Larry. \"We made 427 the fifth day last\nyear.\" It was Uncle Larry's seventeenth visit to Europe, and this was\ntherefore his thirty-fourth voyage.\n\n\"And when did you get in?\" asked Baby Van Rensselaer. \"I don't care a\nbit about the run, so long as we get in soon.\"\n\n\"We crossed the bar Sunday night, just seven days after we left\nQueenstown, and we dropped anchor off Quarantine at three o'clock on\nMonday morning.\"\n\n\"I hope we sha'n't do that this time. I can't seem to sleep any when the\nboat stops.\"\n\n\"I can, but I didn't,\" continued Uncle Larry, \"because my stateroom was\nthe most for'ard in the boat, and the donkey-engine that let down the\nanchor was right over my head.\"\n\n\"So you got up and saw the sun rise over the bay,\" said Dear Jones,\n\"with the electric lights of the city twinkling in the distance, and the\nfirst faint flush of the dawn in the east just over Fort Lafayette, and\nthe rosy tinge which spread softly upward, and----\"\n\n\"Did you both come back together?\" asked the Duchess.\n\n\"Because he has crossed thirty-four times you must not suppose he has a\nmonopoly in sunrises,\" retorted Dear Jones. \"No; this was my own\nsunrise; and a mighty pretty one it was too.\"\n\n\"I'm not matching sunrises with you,\" remarked Uncle Larry calmly;\n\"but I'm willing to back a merry jest called forth by my sunrise against\nany two merry jests called forth by yours.\"\n\n\"I confess reluctantly that my sunrise evoked no merry jest at all.\"\nDear Jones was an honest man, and would scorn to invent a merry jest on\nthe spur of the moment.\n\n\"That's where my sunrise has the call,\" said Uncle Larry, complacently.\n\n\"What was the merry jest?\" was Baby Van Rensselaer's inquiry, the\nnatural result of a feminine curiosity thus artistically excited.\n\n\"Well, here it is. I was standing aft, near a patriotic American and a\nwandering Irishman, and the patriotic American rashly declared that you\ncouldn't see a sunrise like that anywhere in Europe, and this gave the\nIrishman his chance, and he said, 'Sure ye don't have'm here till we're\nthrough with 'em over there.'\"\n\n\"It is true,\" said Dear Jones, thoughtfully, \"that they do have some\nthings over there better than we do; for instance, umbrellas.\"\n\n\"And gowns,\" added the Duchess.\n\n\"And antiquities.\"--this was Uncle Larry's contribution.\n\n\"And we do have some things so much better in America!\" protested Baby\nVan Rensselaer, as yet uncorrupted by any worship of the effete\nmonarchies of despotic Europe. \"We make lots of things a great deal\nnicer than you can get them in Europe--especially ice-cream.\"\n\n\"And pretty girls,\" added Dear Jones; but he did not look at her.\n\n\"And spooks,\" remarked Uncle Larry, casually.\n\n\"Spooks?\" queried the Duchess.\n\n\"Spooks. I maintain the word. Ghost, if you like that better, or\nspecters. We turn out the best quality of spook----\"\n\n\"You forget the lovely ghost stories about the Rhine and the Black\nForest,\" interrupted Miss Van Rensselaer, with feminine inconsistency.\n\n\"I remember the Rhine and the Black Forest and all the other haunts of\nelves and fairies and hobgoblins; but for good honest spooks there is no\nplace like home. And what differentiates our spook--_spiritus\nAmericanus_--from the ordinary ghost of literature is that it responds\nto the American sense of humor. Take Irving's stories, for example. The\n'Headless Horseman'--that's a comic ghost story. And Rip Van\nWinkle--consider what humor, and what good humor, there is in the\ntelling of his meeting with the goblin crew of Hendrik Hudson's men! A\nstill better example of this American way of dealing with legend and\nmystery is the marvelous tale of the rival ghosts.\"\n\n\"The rival ghosts!\" queried the Duchess and Baby Van Rensselaer\ntogether. \"Who were they?\"\n\n\"Didn't I ever tell you about them?\" answered Uncle Larry, a gleam of\napproaching joy flashing from his eye.\n\n\"Since he is bound to tell us sooner or later, we'd better be resigned\nand hear it now,\" said Dear Jones.\n\n\"If you are not more eager, I won't tell it at all.\"\n\n\"Oh, do, Uncle Larry! you know I just dote on ghost stories,\" pleaded\nBaby Van Rensselaer.\n\n\"Once upon a time,\" began Uncle Larry--\"in fact, a very few years\nago--there lived in the thriving town of New York a young American\ncalled Duncan--Eliphalet Duncan. Like his name, he was half Yankee and\nhalf Scotch, and naturally he was a lawyer, and had come to New York to\nmake his way. His father was a Scotchman who had come over and settled\nin Boston and married a Salem girl. When Eliphalet Duncan was about\ntwenty he lost both of his parents. His father left him enough money to\ngive him a start, and a strong feeling of pride in his Scotch birth; you\nsee there was a title in the family in Scotland, and although\nEliphalet's father was the younger son of a younger son, yet he always\nremembered, and always bade his only son to remember, that this ancestry\nwas noble. His mother left him her full share of Yankee grit and a\nlittle old house in Salem which had belonged to her family for more than\ntwo hundred years. She was a Hitchcock, and the Hitchcocks had been\nsettled in Salem since the year 1. It was a great-great-grandfather of\nMr. Eliphalet Hitchcock who was foremost in the time of the Salem\nwitchcraft craze. And this little old house which she left to my friend,\nEliphalet Duncan, was haunted.\"\n\n\"By the ghost of one of the witches, of course?\" interrupted Dear Jones.\n\n\"Now how could it be the ghost of a witch, since the witches were all\nburned at the stake? You never heard of anybody who was burned having a\nghost, did you?\" asked Uncle Larry.\n\n\"That's an argument in favor of cremation, at any rate,\" replied Dear\nJones, evading the direct question.\n\n\"It is, if you don't like ghosts. I do,\" said Baby Van Rensselaer.\n\n\"And so do I,\" added Uncle Larry. \"I love a ghost as dearly as an\nEnglishman loves a lord.\"\n\n\"Go on with your story,\" said the Duchess, majestically overruling all\nextraneous discussion.\n\n\"This little old house at Salem was haunted,\" resumed Uncle Larry. \"And\nby a very distinguished ghost--or at least by a ghost with very\nremarkable attributes.\"\n\n\"What was he like?\" asked Baby Van Rensselaer, with a premonitory shiver\nof anticipatory delight.\n\n\"It had a lot of peculiarities. In the first place, it never appeared to\nthe master of the house. Mostly it confined its visitations to unwelcome\nguests. In the course of the last hundred years it had frightened away\nfour successive mothers-in-law, while never intruding on the head of the\nhousehold.\"\n\n\"I guess that ghost had been one of the boys when he was alive and in\nthe flesh.\" This was Dear Jones's contribution to the telling of the\ntale.\n\n\"In the second place,\" continued Uncle Larry, \"it never frightened\nanybody the first time it appeared. Only on the second visit were the\nghost-seers scared; but then they were scared enough for twice, and they\nrarely mustered up courage enough to risk a third interview. One of the\nmost curious characteristics of this well-meaning spook was that it had\nno face--or at least that nobody ever saw its face.\"\n\n\"Perhaps he kept his countenance veiled?\" queried the Duchess, who was\nbeginning to remember that she never did like ghost stories.\n\n\"That was what I was never able to find out. I have asked several people\nwho saw the ghost, and none of them could tell me anything about its\nface, and yet while in its presence they never noticed its features, and\nnever remarked on their absence or concealment. It was only afterwards\nwhen they tried to recall calmly all the circumstances of meeting with\nthe mysterious stranger that they became aware that they had not seen\nits face. And they could not say whether the features were covered, or\nwhether they were wanting, or what the trouble was. They knew only that\nthe face was never seen. And no matter how often they might see it, they\nnever fathomed this mystery. To this day nobody knows whether the ghost\nwhich used to haunt the little old house in Salem had a face, or what\nmanner of face it had.\"\n\n\"How awfully weird!\" said Baby Van Rensselaer. \"And why did the ghost go\naway?\"\n\n\"I haven't said it went away,\" answered Uncle Larry, with much dignity.\n\n\"But you said it _used_ to haunt the little old house at Salem, so I\nsupposed it had moved. Didn't it?\" the young lady asked.\n\n\"You shall be told in due time. Eliphalet Duncan used to spend most of\nhis summer vacations at Salem, and the ghost never bothered him at all,\nfor he was the master of the house--much to his disgust, too, because he\nwanted to see for himself the mysterious tenant at will of his property.\nBut he never saw it, never. He arranged with friends to call him\nwhenever it might appear, and he slept in the next room with the door\nopen; and yet when their frightened cries waked him the ghost was gone,\nand his only reward was to hear reproachful sighs as soon as he went\nback to bed. You see, the ghost thought it was not fair of Eliphalet to\nseek an introduction which was plainly unwelcome.\"\n\nDear Jones interrupted the story-teller by getting up and tucking a\nheavy rug more snugly around Baby Van Rensselaer's feet, for the sky was\nnow overcast and gray, and the air was damp and penetrating.\n\n\"One fine spring morning,\" pursued Uncle Larry, \"Eliphalet Duncan\nreceived great news. I told you that there was a title in the family in\nScotland, and that Eliphalet's father was the younger son of a younger\nson. Well, it happened that all Eliphalet's father's brothers and\nuncles had died off without male issue except the eldest son of the\neldest son, and he, of course, bore the title, and was Baron Duncan of\nDuncan. Now the great news that Eliphalet Duncan received in New York\none fine spring morning was that Baron Duncan and his only son had been\nyachting in the Hebrides, and they had been caught in a black squall,\nand they were both dead. So my friend Eliphalet Duncan inherited the\ntitle and the estates.\"\n\n\"How romantic!\" said the Duchess. \"So he was a baron!\"\n\n\"Well,\" answered Uncle Larry, \"he was a baron if he chose. But he didn't\nchoose.\"\n\n\"More fool he!\" said Dear Jones, sententiously.\n\n\"Well,\" answered Uncle Larry, \"I'm not so sure of that. You see,\nEliphalet Duncan was half Scotch and half Yankee, and he had two eyes to\nthe main chance. He held his tongue about his windfall of luck until he\ncould find out whether the Scotch estates were enough to keep up the\nScotch title. He soon discovered that they were not, and that the late\nLord Duncan, having married money, kept up such state as he could out of\nthe revenues of the dowry of Lady Duncan. And Eliphalet, he decided that\nhe would rather be a well-fed lawyer in New York, living comfortably on\nhis practice, than a starving lord in Scotland, living scantily on his\ntitle.\"\n\n\"But he kept his title?\" asked the Duchess.\n\n\"Well,\" answered Uncle Larry, \"he kept it quiet. I knew it, and a friend\nor two more. But Eliphalet was a sight too smart to put 'Baron Duncan of\nDuncan, Attorney and Counselor at Law,' on his shingle.\"\n\n\"What has all this got to do with your ghost?\" asked Dear Jones,\npertinently.\n\n\"Nothing with that ghost, but a good deal with another ghost. Eliphalet\nwas very learned in spirit lore--perhaps because he owned the haunted\nhouse at Salem, perhaps because he was a Scotchman by descent. At all\nevents, he had made a special study of the wraiths and white ladies and\nbanshees and bogies of all kinds whose sayings and doings and warnings\nare recorded in the annals of the Scottish nobility. In fact, he was\nacquainted with the habits of every reputable spook in the Scotch\npeerage. And he knew that there was a Duncan ghost attached to the\nperson of the holder of the title of Baron Duncan of Duncan.\"\n\n\"So, besides being the owner of a haunted house in Salem, he was also a\nhaunted man in Scotland?\" asked Baby Van Rensselaer.\n\n\"Just so. But the Scotch ghost was not unpleasant, like the Salem ghost,\nalthough it had one peculiarity in common with its transatlantic\nfellow-spook. It never appeared to the holder of the title, just as the\nother never was visible to the owner of the house. In fact, the Duncan\nghost was never seen at all. It was a guardian angel only. Its sole duty\nwas to be in personal attendance on Baron Duncan of Duncan, and to warn\nhim of impending evil. The traditions of the house told that the Barons\nof Duncan had again and again felt a premonition of ill fortune. Some of\nthem had yielded and withdrawn from the venture they had undertaken, and\nit had failed dismally. Some had been obstinate, and had hardened their\nhearts, and had gone on reckless to defeat and to death. In no case had\na Lord Duncan been exposed to peril without fair warning.\"\n\n\"Then how came it that the father and son were lost in the yacht off the\nHebrides?\" asked Dear Jones.\n\n\"Because they were too enlightened to yield to superstition. There is\nextant now a letter of Lord Duncan, written to his wife a few minutes\nbefore he and his son set sail, in which he tells her how hard he has\nhad to struggle with an almost overmastering desire to give up the trip.\nHad he obeyed the friendly warning of the family ghost, the letter would\nhave been spared a journey across the Atlantic.\"\n\n\"Did the ghost leave Scotland for America as soon as the old baron\ndied?\" asked Baby Van Rensselaer, with much interest.\n\n\"How did he come over,\" queried Dear Jones--\"in the steerage, or as a\ncabin passenger?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" answered Uncle Larry, calmly, \"and Eliphalet didn't\nknow. For as he was in no danger, and stood in no need of warning, he\ncouldn't tell whether the ghost was on duty or not. Of course he was on\nthe watch for it all the time. But he never got any proof of its\npresence until he went down to the little old house of Salem, just\nbefore the Fourth of July. He took a friend down with him--a young\nfellow who had been in the regular army since the day Fort Sumter was\nfired on, and who thought that after four years of the little\nunpleasantness down South, including six months in Libby, and after ten\nyears of fighting the bad Indians on the plains, he wasn't likely to be\nmuch frightened by a ghost. Well, Eliphalet and the officer sat out on\nthe porch all the evening smoking and talking over points in military\nlaw. A little after twelve o'clock, just as they began to think it was\nabout time to turn in, they heard the most ghastly noise in the house.\nIt wasn't a shriek, or a howl, or a yell, or anything they could put a\nname to. It was an undeterminate, inexplicable shiver and shudder of\nsound, which went wailing out of the window. The officer had been at\nCold Harbor, but he felt himself getting colder this time. Eliphalet\nknew it was the ghost who haunted the house. As this weird sound died\naway, it was followed by another, sharp, short, blood-curdling in its\nintensity. Something in this cry seemed familiar to Eliphalet, and he\nfelt sure that it proceeded from the family ghost, the warning wraith of\nthe Duncans.\"\n\n\"Do I understand you to intimate that both ghosts were there together?\"\ninquired the Duchess, anxiously.\n\n\"Both of them were there,\" answered Uncle Larry. \"You see, one of them\nbelonged to the house, and had to be there all the time, and the other\nwas attached to the person of Baron Duncan, and had to follow him there;\nwherever he was, there was that ghost also. But Eliphalet, he had\nscarcely time to think this out when he heard both sounds again, not one\nafter another, but both together, and something told him--some sort of\nan instinct he had--that those two ghosts didn't agree, didn't get on\ntogether, didn't exactly hit it off; in fact, that they were\nquarreling.\"\n\n\"Quarreling ghosts! Well, I never!\" was Baby Van Rensselaer's remark.\n\n\"It is a blessed thing to see ghosts dwell together in unity,\" said Dear\nJones.\n\nAnd the Duchess added, \"It would certainly be setting a better example.\"\n\n\"You know,\" resumed Uncle Larry, \"that two waves of light or of sound\nmay interfere and produce darkness or silence. So it was with these\nrival spooks. They interfered, but they did not produce silence or\ndarkness. On the contrary, as soon as Eliphalet and the officer went\ninto the house, there began at once a series of spiritualistic\nmanifestations--a regular dark seance. A tambourine was played upon, a\nbell was rung, and a flaming banjo went singing around the room.\"\n\n\"Where did they get the banjo?\" asked Dear Jones, sceptically.\n\n\"I don't know. Materialized it, maybe, just as they did the tambourine.\nYou don't suppose a quiet New York lawyer kept a stock of musical\ninstruments large enough to fit out a strolling minstrel troupe just on\nthe chance of a pair of ghosts coming to give him a surprise party, do\nyou? Every spook has its own instrument of torture. Angels play on\nharps, I'm informed, and spirits delight in banjos and tambourines.\nThese spooks of Eliphalet Duncan's were ghosts with all modern\nimprovements, and I guess they were capable of providing their own\nmusical weapons. At all events, they had them there in the little old\nhouse at Salem the night Eliphalet and his friend came down. And they\nplayed on them, and they rang the bell, and they rapped here, there, and\neverywhere. And they kept it up all night.\"\n\n\"All night?\" asked the awe-stricken Duchess.\n\n\"All night long,\" said Uncle Larry, solemnly; \"and the next night too.\nEliphalet did not get a wink of sleep, neither did his friend. On the\nsecond night the house ghost was seen by the officer; on the third night\nit showed itself again; and the next morning the officer packed his\ngripsack and took the first train to Boston. He was a New Yorker, but he\nsaid he'd sooner go to Boston than see that ghost again. Eliphalet\nwasn't scared at all, partly because he never saw either the domiciliary\nor the titular spook, and partly because he felt himself on friendly\nterms with the spirit world, and didn't scare easily. But after losing\nthree nights' sleep and the society of his friend, he began to be a\nlittle impatient, and to think that the thing had gone far enough. You\nsee, while in a way he was fond of ghosts, yet he liked them best one at\na time. Two ghosts were one too many. He wasn't bent on making a\ncollection of spooks. He and one ghost were company, but he and two\nghosts were a crowd.\"\n\n\"What did he do?\" asked Baby Van Rensselaer.\n\n\"Well he couldn't do anything. He waited awhile, hoping they would get\ntired; but he got tired out first. You see, it comes natural to a spook\nto sleep in the daytime, but a man wants to sleep nights, and they\nwouldn't let him sleep nights. They kept on wrangling and quarreling\nincessantly; they manifested and they dark-seanced as regularly as the\nold clock on the stairs struck twelve; they rapped and they rang bells\nand they banged the tambourine and they threw the flaming banjo about\nthe house, and, worse than all, they swore.\"\n\n\"I did not know that spirits were addicted to bad language,\" said the\nDuchess.\n\n\"How did he know they were swearing? Could he hear them?\" asked Dear\nJones.\n\n\"That was just it,\" responded Uncle Larry; \"he could not hear them--at\nleast, not distinctly. There were inarticulate murmurs and stifled\nrumblings. But the impression produced on him was that they were\nswearing. If they had only sworn right out, he would not have minded it\nso much, because he would have known the worst. But the feeling that the\nair was full of suppressed profanity was very wearing, and after\nstanding it for a week he gave up in disgust and went to the White\nMountains.\"\n\n\"Leaving them to fight it out, I suppose,\" interjected Baby Van\nRensselaer.\n\n\"Not at all,\" explained Uncle Larry. \"They could not quarrel unless he\nwas present. You see, he could not leave the titular ghost behind him,\nand the domiciliary ghost could not leave the house. When he went away\nhe took the family ghost with him, leaving the house ghost behind. Now\nspooks can't quarrel when they are a hundred miles apart any more than\nmen can.\"\n\n\"And what happened afterwards?\" asked Baby Van Rensselaer, with a pretty\nimpatience.\n\n\"A most marvelous thing happened. Eliphalet Duncan went to the White\nMountains, and in the car of the railroad that runs to the top of Mount\nWashington he met a classmate whom he had not seen for years, and this\nclassmate introduced Duncan to his sister, and this sister was a\nremarkably pretty girl, and Duncan fell in love with her at first sight,\nand by the time he got to the top of Mount Washington he was so deep in\nlove that he began to consider his own unworthiness, and to wonder\nwhether she might ever be induced to care for him a little--ever so\nlittle.\"\n\n\"I don't think that is so marvelous a thing,\" said Dear Jones, glancing\nat Baby Van Rensselaer.\n\n\"Who was she?\" asked the Duchess, who had once lived in Philadelphia.\n\n\"She was Miss Kitty Sutton, of San Francisco, and she was a daughter of\nold Judge Sutton, of the firm of Pixley & Sutton.\"\n\n\"A very respectable family,\" assented the Duchess.\n\n\"I hope she wasn't a daughter of that loud and vulgar old Mrs. Sutton\nwhom I met at Saratoga one summer four or five years ago?\" said Dear\nJones.\n\n\"Probably she was,\" Uncle Larry responded.\n\n\"She was a horrid old woman. The boys used to call her Mother Gorgon.\"\n\n\"The pretty Kitty Sutton with whom Eliphalet Duncan had fallen in love\nwas the daughter of Mother Gorgon. But he never saw the mother, who was\nin Frisco, or Los Angeles, or Santa Fe, or somewhere out West, and he\nsaw a great deal of the daughter, who was up in the White Mountains. She\nwas traveling with her brother and his wife, and as they journeyed from\nhotel to hotel Duncan went with them, and filled out the quartette.\nBefore the end of the summer he began to think about proposing. Of\ncourse he had lots of chances, going on excursions as they were every\nday. He made up his mind to seize the first opportunity, and that very\nevening he took her out for a moonlight row on Lake Winipiseogee. As he\nhanded her into the boat he resolved to do it, and he had a glimmer of\nsuspicion that she knew he was going to do it, too.\"\n\n\"Girls,\" said Dear Jones, \"never go out in a rowboat at night with a\nyoung man unless you mean to accept him.\"\n\n\"Sometimes it's best to refuse him, and get it over once for all,\" said\nBaby Van Rensselaer, impersonally.\n\n\"As Eliphalet took the oars he felt a sudden chill. He tried to shake it\noff, but in vain. He began to have a growing consciousness of impending\nevil. Before he had taken ten strokes--and he was a swift oarsman--he\nwas aware of a mysterious presence between him and Miss Sutton.\"\n\n\"Was it the guardian-angel ghost warning him off the match?\" interrupted\nDear Jones.\n\n\"That's just what it was,\" said Uncle Larry. \"And he yielded to it, and\nkept his peace, and rowed Miss Sutton back to the hotel with his\nproposal unspoken.\"\n\n\"More fool he,\" said Dear Jones. \"It will take more than one ghost to\nkeep me from proposing when my mind is made up.\" And he looked at Baby\nVan Rensselaer.\n\n\"The next morning,\" continued Uncle Larry, \"Eliphalet overslept himself,\nand when he went down to a late breakfast he found that the Suttons had\ngone to New York by the morning train. He wanted to follow them at once,\nand again he felt the mysterious presence overpowering his will. He\nstruggled two days, and at last he roused himself to do what he wanted\nin spite of the spook. When he arrived in New York it was late in the\nevening. He dressed himself hastily, and went to the hotel where the\nSuttons were, in the hope of seeing at least her brother. The guardian\nangel fought every inch of the walk with him, until he began to wonder\nwhether, if Miss Sutton were to take him, the spook would forbid the\nbanns. At the hotel he saw no one that night, and he went home\ndetermined to call as early as he could the next afternoon, and make an\nend of it. When he left his office about two o'clock the next day to\nlearn his fate, he had not walked five blocks before he discovered that\nthe wraith of the Duncans had withdrawn his opposition to the suit.\nThere was no feeling of impending evil, no resistance, no struggle, no\nconsciousness of an opposing presence. Eliphalet was greatly encouraged.\nHe walked briskly to the hotel; he found Miss Sutton alone. He asked her\nthe question, and got his answer.\"\n\n\"She accepted him, of course?\" said Baby Van Rensselaer.\n\n\"Of course,\" said Uncle Larry. \"And while they were in the first flush\nof joy, swapping confidences and confessions, her brother came into the\nparlor with an expression of pain on his face and a telegram in his\nhand. The former was caused by the latter, which was from Frisco, and\nwhich announced the sudden death of Mrs. Sutton, their mother.\"\n\n\"And that was why the ghost no longer opposed the match?\" questioned\nDear Jones.\n\n\"Exactly. You see, the family ghost knew that Mother Gorgon was an awful\nobstacle to Duncan's happiness, so it warned him. But the moment the\nobstacle was removed, it gave its consent at once.\"\n\nThe fog was lowering its thick, damp curtain, and it was beginning to be\ndifficult to see from one end of the boat to the other. Dear Jones\ntightened the rug which enwrapped Baby Van Rensselaer, and then withdrew\nagain into his own substantial coverings.\n\nUncle Larry paused in his story long enough to light another of the tiny\ncigars he always smoked.\n\n\"I infer that Lord Duncan\"--the Duchess was scrupulous in the bestowal\nof titles--\"saw no more of the ghosts after he was married.\"\n\n\"He never saw them at all, at any time, either before or since. But they\ncame very near breaking off the match, and thus breaking two young\nhearts.\"\n\n\"You don't mean to say that they knew any just cause or impediment why\nthey should not forever after hold their peace?\" asked Dear Jones.\n\n\"How could a ghost, or even two ghosts, keep a girl from marrying the\nman she loved?\" This was Baby Van Rensselaer's question.\n\n\"It seems curious, doesn't it?\" and Uncle Larry tried to warm himself by\ntwo or three sharp pulls at his fiery little cigar. \"And the\ncircumstances are quite as curious as the fact itself. You see, Miss\nSutton wouldn't be married for a year after her mother's death, so she\nand Duncan had lots of time to tell each other all they knew. Eliphalet\ngot to know a good deal about the girls she went to school with; and\nKitty soon learned all about his family. He didn't tell her about the\ntitle for a long time, as he wasn't one to brag. But he described to\nher the little old house at Salem. And one evening towards the end of\nthe summer, the wedding-day having been appointed for early in\nSeptember, she told him that she didn't want a bridal tour at all; she\njust wanted to go down to the little old house at Salem to spend her\nhoneymoon in peace and quiet, with nothing to do and nobody to bother\nthem. Well, Eliphalet jumped at the suggestion: it suited him down to\nthe ground. All of a sudden he remembered the spooks, and it knocked him\nall of a heap. He had told her about the Duncan banshee, and the idea of\nhaving an ancestral ghost in personal attendance on her husband tickled\nher immensely. But he had never said anything about the ghost which\nhaunted the little old house at Salem. He knew she would be frightened\nout of her wits if the house ghost revealed itself to her, and he saw at\nonce that it would be impossible to go to Salem on their wedding trip.\nSo he told her all about it, and how whenever he went to Salem the two\nghosts interfered, and gave dark seances and manifested and materialized\nand made the place absolutely impossible. Kitty listened in silence, and\nEliphalet thought she had changed her mind. But she hadn't done anything\nof the kind.\"\n\n\"Just like a man--to think she was going to,\" remarked Baby Van\nRensselaer.\n\n\"She just told him she could not bear ghosts herself, but she would not\nmarry a man who was afraid of them.\"\n\n\"Just like a girl--to be so inconsistent,\" remarked Dear Jones.\n\nUncle Larry's tiny cigar had long been extinct. He lighted a new one,\nand continued: \"Eliphalet protested in vain. Kitty said her mind was\nmade up. She was determined to pass her honeymoon in the little old\nhouse at Salem, and she was equally determined not to go there as long\nas there were any ghosts there. Until he could assure her that the\nspectral tenant had received notice to quit, and that there was no\ndanger of manifestations and materializing, she refused to be married at\nall. She did not intend to have her honeymoon interrupted by two\nwrangling ghosts, and the wedding could be postponed until he had made\nready the house for her.\"\n\n\"She was an unreasonable young woman,\" said the Duchess.\n\n\"Well, that's what Eliphalet thought, much as he was in love with her.\nAnd he believed he could talk her out of her determination. But he\ncouldn't. She was set. And when a girl is set, there's nothing to do but\nto yield to the inevitable. And that's just what Eliphalet did. He saw\nhe would either have to give her up or to get the ghosts out; and as he\nloved her and did not care for the ghosts, he resolved to tackle the\nghosts. He had clear grit, Eliphalet had--he was half Scotch and half\nYankee and neither breed turns tail in a hurry. So he made his plans and\nhe went down to Salem. As he said good-by to Kitty he had an impression\nthat she was sorry she had made him go; but she kept up bravely, and\nput a bold face on it, and saw him off, and went home and cried for an\nhour, and was perfectly miserable until he came back the next day.\"\n\n\"Did he succeed in driving the ghosts away?\" asked Baby Van Rensselaer,\nwith great interest.\n\n\"That's just what I'm coming to,\" said Uncle Larry, pausing at the\ncritical moment, in the manner of the trained story-teller. \"You see,\nEliphalet had got a rather tough job, and he would gladly have had an\nextension of time on the contract, but he had to choose between the girl\nand the ghosts, and he wanted the girl. He tried to invent or remember\nsome short and easy way with ghosts, but he couldn't. He wished that\nsomebody had invented a specific for spooks--something that would make\nthe ghosts come out of the house and die in the yard. He wondered if he\ncould not tempt the ghosts to run in debt, so that he might get the\nsheriff to help him. He wondered also whether the ghosts could not be\novercome with strong drink--a dissipated spook, a spook with delirium\ntremens, might be committed to the inebriate asylum. But none of these\nthings seemed feasible.\"\n\n\"What did he do?\" interrupted Dear Jones. \"The learned counsel will\nplease speak to the point.\"\n\n\"You will regret this unseemly haste,\" said Uncle Larry, gravely, \"when\nyou know what really happened.\"\n\n\"What was it, Uncle Larry?\" asked Baby Van Rensselaer. \"I'm all\nimpatience.\"\n\nAnd Uncle Larry proceeded:\n\n\"Eliphalet went down to the little old house at Salem, and as soon as\nthe clock struck twelve the rival ghosts began wrangling as before. Raps\nhere, there, and everywhere, ringing bells, banging tambourines,\nstrumming banjos sailing about the room, and all the other\nmanifestations and materializations followed one another just as they\nhad the summer before. The only difference Eliphalet could detect was a\nstronger flavor in the spectral profanity; and this, of course, was only\na vague impression, for he did not actually hear a single word. He\nwaited awhile in patience, listening and watching. Of course he never\nsaw either of the ghosts, because neither of them could appear to him.\nAt last he got his dander up, and he thought it was about time to\ninterfere, so he rapped on the table, and asked for silence. As soon as\nhe felt that the spooks were listening to him he explained the situation\nto them. He told them he was in love, and that he could not marry unless\nthey vacated the house. He appealed to them as old friends, and he laid\nclaim to their gratitude. The titular ghost had been sheltered by the\nDuncan family for hundreds of years, and the domiciliary ghost had had\nfree lodging in the little old house at Salem for nearly two centuries.\nHe implored them to settle their differences, and to get him out of his\ndifficulty at once. He suggested that they had better fight it out then\nand there, and see who was master. He had brought down with him all\nneedful weapons. And he pulled out his valise, and spread on the table a\npair of navy revolvers, a pair of shotguns, a pair of dueling-swords,\nand a couple of bowie knives. He offered to serve as second for both\nparties, and to give the word when to begin. He also took out of his\nvalise a pack of cards and a bottle of poison, telling them that if they\nwished to avoid carnage they might cut the cards to see which one should\ntake the poison. Then he waited anxiously for their reply. For a little\nspace there was silence. Then he became conscious of a tremulous\nshivering in one corner of the room, and he remembered that he had heard\nfrom that direction what sounded like a frightened sigh when he made the\nfirst suggestion of the duel. Something told him that this was the\ndomiciliary ghost, and that it was badly scared. Then he was impressed\nby a certain movement in the opposite corner of the room, as though the\ntitular ghost were drawing himself up with offended dignity. Eliphalet\ncouldn't exactly see those things, because he never saw the ghosts, but\nhe felt them. After a silence of nearly a minute a voice came from the\ncorner where the family ghost stood--a voice strong and full, but\ntrembling slightly with suppressed passion. And this voice told\nEliphalet it was plain enough that he had not long been the head of the\nDuncans, and that he had never properly considered the characteristics\nof his race if now he supposed that one of his blood could draw his\nsword against a woman. Eliphalet said he had never suggested that the\nDuncan ghost should raise his hand against a woman, and all he wanted\nwas that the Duncan ghost should fight the other ghost. And then the\nvoice told Eliphalet that the other ghost was a woman.\"\n\n\"What?\" said Dear Jones, sitting up suddenly. \"You don't mean to tell me\nthat the ghost which haunted the house was a woman?\"\n\n\"Those were the very words Eliphalet Duncan used,\" said Uncle Larry;\n\"but he did not need to wait for the answer. All at once he recalled the\ntraditions about the domiciliary ghost, and he knew that what the\ntitular ghost said was the fact. He had never thought of the sex of a\nspook, but there was no doubt whatever that the house ghost was a woman.\nNo sooner was this firmly fixed in Eliphalet's mind than he saw his way\nout of the difficulty. The ghosts must be married!--for then there would\nbe no more interference, no more quarreling, no more manifestations and\nmaterializations, no more dark seances, with their raps and bells and\ntambourines and banjos. At first the ghosts would not hear of it. The\nvoice in the corner declared that the Duncan wraith had never thought of\nmatrimony. But Eliphalet argued with them, and pleaded and pursuaded and\ncoaxed, and dwelt on the advantages of matrimony. He had to confess, of\ncourse, that he did not know how to get a clergyman to marry them; but\nthe voice from the corner gravely told him that there need be no\ndifficulty in regard to that, as there was no lack of spiritual\nchaplains. Then, for the first time, the house ghost spoke, a low,\nclear, gentle voice, and with a quaint, old-fashioned New England\naccent, which contrasted sharply with the broad Scotch speech of the\nfamily ghost. She said that Eliphalet Duncan seemed to have forgotten\nthat she was married. But this did not upset Eliphalet at all; he\nremembered the whole case clearly, and he told her she was not a married\nghost, but a widow, since her husband had been hanged for murdering her.\nThen the Duncan ghost drew attention to the great disparity in their\nages, saying that he was nearly four hundred and fifty years old, while\nshe was barely two hundred. But Eliphalet had not talked to juries for\nnothing; he just buckled to, and coaxed those ghosts into matrimony.\nAfterwards he came to the conclusion that they were willing to be\ncoaxed, but at the time he thought he had pretty hard work to convince\nthem of the advantages of the plan.\"\n\n\"Did he succeed?\" asked Baby Van Rensselaer, with a woman's interest in\nmatrimony.\n\n\"He did,\" said Uncle Larry. \"He talked the wraith of the Duncans and the\nspecter of the little old house at Salem into a matrimonial engagement.\nAnd from the time they were engaged he had no more trouble with them.\nThey were rival ghosts no longer. They were married by their spiritual\nchaplain the very same day that Eliphalet Duncan met Kitty Sutton in\nfront of the railing of Grace Church. The ghostly bride and bridegroom\nwent away at once on their bridal tour, and Lord and Lady Duncan went\ndown to the little old house at Salem to pass their honeymoon.\"\n\nUncle Larry stopped. His tiny cigar was out again. The tale of the rival\nghosts was told. A solemn silence fell on the little party on the deck\nof the ocean steamer, broken harshly by the hoarse roar of the\nfog-horn.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WATER GHOST OF HARROWBY HALL\n\nBY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS\n\nFrom _The Water Ghost, and other Stories_, by John Kendrick Bangs.\nCopyright, 1904, by Harper Brothers. By permission of the publishers and\nJohn Kendrick Bangs.\n\n\n\n\nThe Water Ghost of Harrowby Hall\n\nBY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS\n\n\nThe trouble with Harrowby Hall was that it was haunted, and, what was\nworse, the ghost did not content itself with merely appearing at the\nbedside of the afflicted person who saw it, but persisted in remaining\nthere for one mortal hour before it would disappear.\n\nIt never appeared except on Christmas Eve, and then as the clock was\nstriking twelve, in which respect alone was it lacking in that\noriginality which in these days is a _sine qua non_ of success in\nspectral life. The owners of Harrowby Hall had done their utmost to rid\nthemselves of the damp and dewy lady who rose up out of the best bedroom\nfloor at midnight, but without avail. They had tried stopping the clock,\nso that the ghost would not know when it was midnight; but she made her\nappearance just the same, with that fearful miasmatic personality of\nhers, and there she would stand until everything about her was\nthoroughly saturated.\n\nThen the owners of Harrowby Hall caulked up every crack in the floor\nwith the very best quality of hemp, and over this were placed layers of\ntar and canvas; the walls were made waterproof, and the doors and\nwindows likewise, the proprietors having conceived the notion that the\nunexorcised lady would find it difficult to leak into the room after\nthese precautions had been taken; but even this did not suffice. The\nfollowing Christmas Eve she appeared as promptly as before, and\nfrightened the occupant of the room quite out of his senses by sitting\ndown alongside of him and gazing with her cavernous blue eyes into his;\nand he noticed, too, that in her long, aqueously bony fingers bits of\ndripping seaweed were entwined, the ends hanging down, and these ends\nshe drew across his forehead until he became like one insane. And then\nhe swooned away, and was found unconscious in his bed the next morning\nby his host, simply saturated with sea-water and fright, from the\ncombined effects of which he never recovered, dying four years later of\npneumonia and nervous prostration at the age of seventy-eight.\n\nThe next year the master of Harrowby Hall decided not to have the best\nspare bedroom opened at all, thinking that perhaps the ghost's thirst\nfor making herself disagreeable would be satisfied by haunting the\nfurniture, but the plan was as unavailing as the many that had preceded\nit.\n\nThe ghost appeared as usual in the room--that is, it was supposed she\ndid, for the hangings were dripping wet the next morning, and in the\nparlor below the haunted room a great damp spot appeared on the\nceiling. Finding no one there, she immediately set out to learn the\nreason why, and she chose none other to haunt than the owner of the\nHarrowby himself. She found him in his own cosey room drinking\nwhiskey--whiskey undiluted--and felicitating himself upon having foiled\nher ghost-ship, when all of a sudden the curl went out of his hair, his\nwhiskey bottle filled and overflowed, and he was himself in a condition\nsimilar to that of a man who has fallen into a water-butt. When he\nrecovered from the shock, which was a painful one, he saw before him the\nlady of the cavernous eyes and seaweed fingers. The sight was so\nunexpected and so terrifying that he fainted, but immediately came to,\nbecause of the vast amount of water in his hair, which, trickling down\nover his face, restored his consciousness.\n\nNow it so happened that the master of Harrowby was a brave man, and\nwhile he was not particularly fond of interviewing ghosts, especially\nsuch quenching ghosts as the one before him, he was not to be daunted by\nan apparition. He had paid the lady the compliment of fainting from the\neffects of his first surprise, and now that he had come to he intended\nto find out a few things he felt he had a right to know. He would have\nliked to put on a dry suit of clothes first, but the apparition declined\nto leave him for an instant until her hour was up, and he was forced to\ndeny himself that pleasure. Every time he would move she would follow\nhim, with the result that everything she came in contact with got a\nducking. In an effort to warm himself up he approached the fire, an\nunfortunate move as it turned out, because it brought the ghost directly\nover the fire, which immediately was extinguished. The whiskey became\nutterly valueless as a comforter to his chilled system, because it was\nby this time diluted to a proportion of ninety per cent of water. The\nonly thing he could do to ward off the evil effects of his encounter he\ndid, and that was to swallow ten two-grain quinine pills, which he\nmanaged to put into his mouth before the ghost had time to interfere.\nHaving done this, he turned with some asperity to the ghost, and said:\n\n\"Far be it from me to be impolite to a woman, madam, but I'm hanged if\nit wouldn't please me better if you'd stop these infernal visits of\nyours to this house. Go sit out on the lake, if you like that sort of\nthing; soak the water-butt, if you wish; but do not, I implore you, come\ninto a gentleman's house and saturate him and his possessions in this\nway. It is damned disagreeable.\"\n\n\"Henry Hartwick Oglethorpe,\" said the ghost, in a gurgling voice, \"you\ndon't know what you are talking about.\"\n\n\"Madam,\" returned the unhappy householder, \"I wish that remark were\nstrictly truthful. I was talking about you. It would be shillings and\npence--nay, pounds, in my pocket, madam, if I did not know you.\"\n\n\"That is a bit of specious nonsense,\" returned the ghost, throwing a\nquart of indignation into the face of the master of Harrowby. \"It may\nrank high as repartee, but as a comment upon my statement that you do\nnot know what you are talking about, it savors of irrelevant\nimpertinence. You do not know that I am compelled to haunt this place\nyear after year by inexorable fate. It is no pleasure to me to enter\nthis house, and ruin and mildew everything I touch. I never aspired to\nbe a shower-bath, but it is my doom. Do you know who I am?\"\n\n\"No, I don't,\" returned the master of Harrowby. \"I should say you were\nthe Lady of the Lake, or Little Sallie Waters.\"\n\n\"You are a witty man for your years,\" said the ghost.\n\n\"Well, my humor is drier than yours ever will be,\" returned the master.\n\n\"No doubt. I'm never dry. I am the Water Ghost of Harrowby Hall, and\ndryness is a quality entirely beyond my wildest hope. I have been the\nincumbent of this highly unpleasant office for two hundred years\nto-night.\"\n\n\"How the deuce did you ever come to get elected?\" asked the master.\n\n\"Through a suicide,\" replied the specter. \"I am the ghost of that fair\nmaiden whose picture hangs over the mantelpiece in the drawing-room. I\nshould have been your great-great-great-great-great-aunt if I had lived,\nHenry Hartwick Oglethorpe, for I was the own sister of your\ngreat-great-great-great-grandfather.\"\n\n\"But what induced you to get this house into such a predicament?\"\n\n\"I was not to blame, sir,\" returned the lady. \"It was my father's fault.\nHe it was who built Harrowby Hall, and the haunted chamber was to have\nbeen mine. My father had it furnished in pink and yellow, knowing well\nthat blue and gray formed the only combination of color I could\ntolerate. He did it merely to spite me, and, with what I deem a proper\nspirit, I declined to live in the room; whereupon my father said I could\nlive there or on the lawn, he didn't care which. That night I ran from\nthe house and jumped over the cliff into the sea.\"\n\n\"That was rash,\" said the master of Harrowby.\n\n\"So I've heard,\" returned the ghost. \"If I had known what the\nconsequences were to be I should not have jumped; but I really never\nrealized what I was doing until after I was drowned. I had been drowned\na week when a sea-nymph came to me and informed me that I was to be one\nof her followers forever afterwards, adding that it should be my doom to\nhaunt Harrowby Hall for one hour every Christmas Eve throughout the rest\nof eternity. I was to haunt that room on such Christmas Eves as I found\nit inhabited; and if it should turn out not to be inhabited, I was and\nam to spend the allotted hour with the head of the house.\"\n\n\"I'll sell the place.\"\n\n\"That you cannot do, for it is also required of me that I shall appear\nas the deeds are to be delivered to any purchaser, and divulge to him\nthe awful secret of the house.\"\n\n\"Do you mean to tell me that on every Christmas Eve that I don't happen\nto have somebody in that guest-chamber, you are going to haunt me\nwherever I may be, ruining my whiskey, taking all the curl out of my\nhair, extinguishing my fire, and soaking me through to the skin?\"\ndemanded the master.\n\n\"You have stated the case, Oglethorpe. And what is more,\" said the water\nghost, \"it doesn't make the slightest difference where you are, if I\nfind that room empty, wherever you may be I shall douse you with my\nspectral pres----\"\n\nHere the clock struck one, and immediately the apparition faded away. It\nwas perhaps more of a trickle than a fade, but as a disappearance it was\ncomplete.\n\n\"By St. George and his Dragon!\" ejaculated the master of Harrowby,\nwringing his hands. \"It is guineas to hot-cross buns that next Christmas\nthere's an occupant of the spare room, or I spend the night in a\nbathtub.\"\n\nBut the master of Harrowby would have lost his wager had there been\nanyone there to take him up, for when Christmas Eve came again he was in\nhis grave, never having recovered from the cold contracted that awful\nnight. Harrowby Hall was closed, and the heir to the estate was in\nLondon, where to him in his chambers came the same experience that his\nfather had gone through, saving only that, being younger and stronger,\nhe survived the shock. Everything in his rooms was ruined--his clocks\nwere rusted in the works; a fine collection of water-color drawings was\nentirely obliterated by the onslaught of the water ghost; and what was\nworse, the apartments below his were drenched with the water soaking\nthrough the floors, a damage for which he was compelled to pay, and\nwhich resulted in his being requested by his landlady to vacate the\npremises immediately.\n\nThe story of the visitation inflicted upon his family had gone abroad,\nand no one could be got to invite him out to any function save afternoon\nteas and receptions. Fathers of daughters declined to permit him to\nremain in their houses later than eight o'clock at night, not knowing\nbut that some emergency might arise in the supernatural world which\nwould require the unexpected appearance of the water ghost in this on\nnights other than Christmas Eve, and before the mystic hour when weary\nchurchyards, ignoring the rules which are supposed to govern polite\nsociety, begin to yawn. Nor would the maids themselves have aught to do\nwith him, fearing the destruction by the sudden incursion of aqueous\nfemininity of the costumes which they held most dear.\n\nSo the heir of Harrowby Hall resolved, as his ancestors for several\ngenerations before him had resolved, that something must be done. His\nfirst thought was to make one of his servants occupy the haunted room at\nthe crucial moment; but in this he failed, because the servants\nthemselves knew the history of that room and rebelled. None of his\nfriends would consent to sacrifice their personal comfort to his, nor\nwas there to be found in all England a man so poor as to be willing to\noccupy the doomed chamber on Christmas Eve for pay.\n\nThen the thought came to the heir to have the fireplace in the room\nenlarged, so that he might evaporate the ghost at its first appearance,\nand he was felicitating himself upon the ingenuity of his plan, when he\nremembered what his father had told him--how that no fire could\nwithstand the lady's extremely contagious dampness. And then he\nbethought him of steam-pipes. These, he remembered, could lie hundreds\nof feet deep in water, and still retain sufficient heat to drive the\nwater away in vapor; and as a result of this thought the haunted room\nwas heated by steam to a withering degree, and the heir for six months\nattended daily the Turkish baths, so that when Christmas Eve came he\ncould himself withstand the awful temperature of the room.\n\nThe scheme was only partially successful. The water ghost appeared at\nthe specified time, and found the heir of Harrowby prepared; but hot as\nthe room was, it shortened her visit by no more than five minutes in the\nhour, during which time the nervous system of the young master was\nwell-nigh shattered, and the room itself was cracked and warped to an\nextent which required the outlay of a large sum of money to remedy. And\nworse than this, as the last drop of the water ghost was slowly\nsizzling itself out on the floor, she whispered to her would-be\nconqueror that his scheme would avail him nothing, because there was\nstill water in great plenty where she came from, and that next year\nwould find her rehabilitated and as exasperatingly saturating as ever.\n\nIt was then that the natural action of the mind, in going from one\nextreme to the other, suggested to the ingenious heir of Harrowby the\nmeans by which the water ghost was ultimately conquered, and happiness\nonce more came within the grasp of the house of Oglethorpe.\n\nThe heir provided himself with a warm suit of fur under-clothing.\nDonning this with the furry side in, he placed over it a rubber garment,\ntight-fitting, which he wore just as a woman wears a jersey. On top of\nthis he placed another set of under-clothing, this suit made of wool,\nand over this was a second rubber garment like the first. Upon his head\nhe placed a light and comfortable diving helmet, and so clad, on the\nfollowing Christmas Eve he awaited the coming of his tormentor.\n\nIt was a bitterly cold night that brought to a close this twenty-fourth\nday of December. The air outside was still, but the temperature was\nbelow zero. Within all was quiet, the servants of Harrowby Hall awaiting\nwith beating hearts the outcome of their master's campaign against his\nsupernatural visitor.\n\nThe master himself was lying on the bed in the haunted room, clad as\nhas already been indicated, and then----\n\nThe clock clanged out the hour of twelve.\n\nThere was a sudden banging of doors, a blast of cold air swept through\nthe halls, the door leading into the haunted chamber flew open, a splash\nwas heard, and the water ghost was seen standing at the side of the heir\nof Harrowby, from whose outer dress there streamed rivulets of water,\nbut whose own person deep down under the various garments he wore was as\ndry and as warm as he could have wished.\n\n\"Ha!\" said the young master of Harrowby. \"I'm glad to see you.\"\n\n\"You are the most original man I've met, if that is true,\" returned the\nghost. \"May I ask where did you get that hat?\"\n\n\"Certainly, madam,\" returned the master, courteously. \"It is a little\nportable observatory I had made for just such emergencies as this. But,\ntell me, is it true that you are doomed to follow me about for one\nmortal hour--to stand where I stand, to sit where I sit?\"\n\n\"That is my delectable fate,\" returned the lady.\n\n\"We'll go out on the lake,\" said the master, starting up.\n\n\"You can't get rid of me that way,\" returned the ghost. \"The water won't\nswallow me up; in fact, it will just add to my present bulk.\"\n\n\"Nevertheless,\" said the master, firmly, \"we will go out on the lake.\"\n\n\"But, my dear sir,\" returned the ghost, with a pale reluctance, \"it is\nfearfully cold out there. You will be frozen hard before you've been out\nten minutes.\"\n\n\"Oh no, I'll not,\" replied the master. \"I am very warmly dressed. Come!\"\nThis last in a tone of command that made the ghost ripple.\n\nAnd they started.\n\nThey had not gone far before the water ghost showed signs of distress.\n\n\"You walk too slowly,\" she said. \"I am nearly frozen. My knees are so\nstiff now I can hardly move. I beseech you to accelerate your step.\"\n\n\"I should like to oblige a lady,\" returned the master, courteously, \"but\nmy clothes are rather heavy, and a hundred yards an hour is about my\nspeed. Indeed, I think we would better sit down here on this snowdrift,\nand talk matters over.\"\n\n\"Do not! Do not do so, I beg!\" cried the ghost. \"Let me move on. I feel\nmyself growing rigid as it is. If we stop here, I shall be frozen\nstiff.\"\n\n\"That, madam,\" said the master slowly, and seating himself on an\nice-cake--\"that is why I have brought you here. We have been on this\nspot just ten minutes; we have fifty more. Take your time about it,\nmadam, but freeze, that is all I ask of you.\"\n\n\"I cannot move my right leg now,\" cried the ghost, in despair, \"and my\noverskirt is a solid sheet of ice. Oh, good, kind Mr. Oglethorpe, light\na fire, and let me go free from these icy fetters.\"\n\n\"Never, madam. It cannot be. I have you at last.\"\n\n\"Alas!\" cried the ghost, a tear trickling down her frozen cheek. \"Help\nme, I beg. I congeal!\"\n\n\"Congeal, madam, congeal!\" returned Oglethorpe, coldly. \"You have\ndrenched me and mine for two hundred and three years, madam. To-night\nyou have had your last drench.\"\n\n\"Ah, but I shall thaw out again, and then you'll see. Instead of the\ncomfortably tepid, genial ghost I have been in my past, sir, I shall be\niced-water,\" cried the lady, threateningly.\n\n\"No, you won't, either,\" returned Oglethorpe; \"for when you are frozen\nquite stiff, I shall send you to a cold-storage warehouse, and there\nshall you remain an icy work of art forever more.\"\n\n\"But warehouses burn.\"\n\n\"So they do, but this warehouse cannot burn. It is made of asbestos and\nsurrounding it are fireproof walls, and within those walls the\ntemperature is now and shall forever be 416 degrees below the zero\npoint; low enough to make an icicle of any flame in this world--or the\nnext,\" the master added, with an ill-suppressed chuckle.\n\n\"For the last time let me beseech you. I would go on my knees to you,\nOglethorpe, were they not already frozen. I beg of you do not doo----\"\n\nHere even the words froze on the water-ghost's lips and the clock struck\none. There was a momentary tremor throughout the ice-bound form, and the\nmoon, coming out from behind a cloud, shone down on the rigid figure of\na beautiful woman sculptured in clear, transparent ice. There stood the\nghost of Harrowby Hall, conquered by the cold, a prisoner for all time.\n\nThe heir of Harrowby had won at last, and to-day in a large storage\nhouse in London stands the frigid form of one who will never again flood\nthe house of Oglethorpe with woe and sea-water.\n\nAs for the heir of Harrowby, his success in coping with a ghost has made\nhim famous, a fame that still lingers about him, although his victory\ntook place some twenty years ago; and so far from being unpopular with\nthe fair sex, as he was when we first knew him, he has not only been\nmarried twice, but is to lead a third bride to the altar before the year\nis out.\n\n\n\n\nBACK FROM THAT BOURNE\n\nANONYMOUS\n\nFrom the New York _Sun_. By permission of the editor.\n\n\n\n\nBack from That Bourne\n\nANONYMOUS\n\n     _Practical Working of Materialization in Maine. A\n     Strange Story from Pocock Island--A Materialized Spirit\n     that Will not Go back. The First Glimpse of what May\n     yet Cause very Extensive Trouble in this World._\n\n(The _Sun_, Saturday, December 19, 1874.)\n\n\nWe are permitted to make extracts from a private letter which bears the\nsignature of a gentleman well known in business circles, and whose\nveracity we have never heard called in question. His statements are\nstartling and well-nigh incredible, but if true, they are susceptible of\neasy verification. Yet the thoughtful mind will hesitate about accepting\nthem without the fullest proof, for they spring upon the world a social\nproblem of stupendous importance. The dangers apprehended by Mr. Malthus\nand his followers become remote and commonplace by the side of this new\nand terrible issue.\n\nThe letter is dated at Pocock Island, a small township in Washington\nCounty, Maine, about seventeen miles from the mainland and nearly\nmidway between Mt. Desert and the Grand Menan. The last state census\naccords to Pocock Island a population of 311, mostly engaged in the\nporgy fisheries. At the Presidential election of 1872 the island gave\nGrant a majority of three. These two facts are all that we are able to\nlearn of the locality from sources outside of the letter already\nreferred to.\n\nThe letter, omitting certain passages which refer solely to private\nmatters, reads as follows:\n\n\"But enough of the disagreeable business that brought me here to this\nbleak island in the month of November. I have a singular story to tell\nyou. After our experience together at Chittenden I know you will not\nreject statements because they are startling.\n\n\"My friend, there is upon Pocock Island a materialized spirit which (or\nwho) refuses to be dematerialized. At this moment and within a quarter\nof a mile from me as I write, a man who died and was buried four years\nago, and who has exploited the mysteries beyond the grave, walks, talks,\nand holds interviews with the inhabitants of the island, and is, to all\nappearances, determined to remain permanently upon this side of the\nriver. I will relate the circumstances as briefly as I can.\"\n\n\nJOHN NEWBEGIN\n\n\"In April, 1870, John Newbegin died and was buried in the little\ncemetery on the landward side of the island. Newbegin was a man of\nabout forty-eight, without family or near connections, and eccentric to\na degree that sometimes inspired questions as to his sanity. What money\nhe had earned by many seasons' fishing upon the banks was invested in\nquarters of two small mackerel schooners, the remainder of which\nbelonged to John Hodgeson, the richest man on Pocock, who was estimated\nby good authorities to be worth thirteen or fourteen thousand dollars.\n\n\"Newbegin was not without a certain kind of culture. He had read a good\ndeal of the odds and ends of literature and, as a simple-minded islander\nexpressed it in my hearing, knew more bookfuls than anybody on the\nisland. He was naturally an intelligent man; and he might have attained\ninfluence in the community had it not been for his utter aimlessness of\ncharacter, his indifference to fortune, and his consuming thirst for\nrum.\n\n\"Many yachtsmen who have had occasion to stop at Pocock for water or for\nharbor shelter during eastern cruises, will remember a long, listless\nfigure, astonishingly attired in blue army pants, rubber boots, loose\ntoga made of some bright chintz material, and very bad hat, staggering\nthrough the little settlement, followed by a rabble of jeering brats,\nand pausing to strike uncertain blows at those within reach of the dead\nsculpin which he usually carried round by the tail. This was John\nNewbegin.\"\n\n\nHIS SUDDEN DEATH\n\n\"As I have already remarked, he died four years ago last April. The\n_Mary Emmeline_, one of the little schooners in which he owned, had\nreturned from the eastward, and had smuggled, or 'run in' a quantity of\nSt. John brandy. Newbegin had a solitary and protracted debauch. He was\nmissed from his accustomed walks for several days, and when the\nislanders broke into the hovel where he lived, close down to the seaweed\nand almost within reach of the incoming tide, they found him dead on the\nfloor, with an emptied demijohn hard by his head.\n\n\"After the primitive custom of the island, they interred John Newbegin's\nremains without coroner's inquest, burial certificate, or funeral\nservices, and in the excitement of a large catch of porgies that summer,\nsoon forgot him and his friendless life. His interest in the _Mary\nEmmeline_ and the _Prettyboat_ recurred to John Hodgeson; and as nobody\ncame forward to demand an administration of the estate, it was never\nadministered. The forms of law are but loosely followed in some of these\nmarginal localities.\"\n\n\nHIS REAPPEARANCE AT POCOCK\n\n\"Well, my dear ----, four years and four months had brought their quota\nof varying seasons to Pocock Island when John Newbegin reappeared under\nthe following circumstances:\n\n\"In the latter part of last August, as you may remember, there was a\nheavy gale all along our Atlantic coast. During this storm the squadron\nof the Naugatuck Yacht Club, which was returning from a summer cruise as\nfar as Campobello, was forced to take shelter in the harbor to the\nleeward of Pocock Island. The gentlemen of the club spent three days at\nthe little settlement ashore. Among the party was Mr. R---- E----, by\nwhich name you will recognize a medium of celebrity, and one who has\nbeen particularly successful in materializations. At the desire of his\ncompanions, and to relieve the tedium of their detention, Mr.\nE---- improvised a cabinet in the little schoolhouse at Pocock, and gave\na _seance_, to the delight of his fellow yachtsmen and the utter\nbewilderment of such natives as were permitted to witness the\nmanifestations.\n\n\"The conditions appeared unusually favorable to spirit appearances and\nthe _seance_ was upon the whole perhaps the most remarkable that Mr.\nE---- ever held. It was all the more remarkable because the surroundings\nwere such that the most prejudiced skeptic could discover no possibility\nof trickery.\n\n\"The first form to issue from the wood closet which constituted the\ncabinet, when Mr. E---- had been tied therein by a committee of old\nsailors from the yachts, was that of an Indian chief who announced\nhimself as Hock-a-mock, and who retired after dancing a 'Harvest Moon'\n_pas seul_, and declaring himself in very emphatic terms, as opposed to\nthe present Indian policy of the Administration. Hock-a-mock was\nsucceeded by the aunt of one of the yachtsmen, who identified herself\nbeyond question by allusion to family matters and by displaying the scar\nof a burn upon her left arm, received while making tomato catsup upon\nearth. Then came successively a child whom none present recognized, a\nFrench Canadian who could not talk English, and a portly gentleman who\nintroduced himself as William King, first Governor of Maine. These in\nturn reentered the cabinet and were seen no more.\n\n\"It was some time before another spirit manifested itself, and Mr. E----\ngave directions that the lights be turned down still further. Then the\ndoor of the wood closet was slowly opened and a singular figure in\nrubber boots and a species of Dolly Varden garment emerged, bringing a\ndead fish in his right hand.\"\n\n\nHIS DETERMINATION TO REMAIN\n\n\"The city men who were present, I am told, thought that the medium was\nmasquerading in grotesque habiliments for the more complete astonishment\nof the islanders, but these latter rose from their seats and exclaimed\nwith one consent: 'It is John Newbegin!' And then, in not unnatural\nterror of the apparition they turned and fled from the schoolroom,\nuttering dismal cries.\n\n\"John Newbegin came calmly forward and turned up the solitary kerosene\nlamp that shed uncertain light over the proceedings. He then sat down in\nthe teacher's chair, folded his arms, and looked complacently about him.\n\n\"'You might as well untie the medium,' he finally remarked. 'I propose\nto remain in the materialized condition.'\n\n\"And he did remain. When the party left the schoolhouse among them\nwalked John Newbegin, as truly a being of flesh and blood as any man of\nthem. From that day to this, he has been a living inhabitant of Pocock\nIsland, eating, drinking, (water only) and sleeping after the manner of\nmen. The yachtsmen who made sail for Bar Harbor the very next morning,\nprobably believe that he was a fraud hired for the occasion by Mr.\nE----. But the people of Pocock, who laid him out, dug his grave, and\nput him into it four years ago, know that John Newbegin has come back to\nthem from a land they know not of.\"\n\n\nA SINGULAR MEMBER OF SOCIETY\n\n\"The idea, of having a ghost--somewhat more condensed it is true than\nthe traditional ghost--as a member was not at first overpleasing to the\n311 inhabitants of Pocock Island. To this day, they are a little\nsensitive upon the subject, feeling evidently that if the matter got\nabroad, it might injure the sale of the really excellent porgy oil\nwhich is the product of their sole manufacturing interest. This\nreluctance to advertise the skeleton in their closet, superadded to the\nslowness of these obtuse, fishy, matter-of-fact people to recognize the\ntranscendent importance of the case, must be accepted as explanation of\nthe fact that John Newbegin's spirit has been on earth between three and\nfour months, and yet the singular circumstance is not known to the whole\ncountry.\n\n\"But the Pocockians have at last come to see that a spirit is not\nnecessarily a malevolent spirit, and accepting his presence as a fact in\ntheir stolid, unreasoning way, they are quite neighborly and sociable\nwith Mr. Newbegin.\n\n\"I know that your first question will be: 'Is there sufficient proof of\nhis ever having been dead?' To this I answer unhesitatingly, 'Yes.' He\nwas too well-known a character and too many people saw the corpse to\nadmit of any mistake on this point. I may add here that it was at one\ntime proposed to disinter the original remains, but that project was\nabandoned in deference to the wishes of Mr. Newbegin, who feels a\nnatural delicacy about having his first set of bones disturbed from\nmotives of mere curiosity.\"\n\n\nAN INTERVIEW WITH A DEAD MAN\n\n\"You will readily believe that I took occasion to see and converse with\nJohn Newbegin. I found him affable and even communicative. He is\nperfectly aware of his doubtful status as a being, but is in hopes that\nat some future time there may be legislation that shall correctly define\nhis position and the position of any spirit who may follow him into the\nmaterial world. The only point upon which he is reticent is his\nexperience during the four years that elapsed between his death and his\nreappearance at Pocock. It is to be presumed that the memory is not a\npleasant one: at least he never speaks of this period. He candidly\nadmits, however, that he is glad to get back to earth and that he\nembraced the very first opportunity to be materialized.\n\n\"Mr. Newbegin says that he is consumed with remorse for the wasted years\nof his previous existence. Indeed, his conduct during the past three\nmonths would show that this regret is genuine. He has discarded his\neccentric costume, and dresses like a reasonable spirit. He has not\ntouched liquor since his reappearance. He has embarked in the porgy oil\nbusiness, and his operations already rival that of Hodgeson, his old\npartner in the _Mary Emmeline_ and the _Prettyboat_. By the way,\nNewbegin threatens to sue Hodgeson for his individed quarter in each of\nthese vessels, and this interesting case therefore bids fair to be\nthoroughly investigated in the courts.\n\n\"As a business man, he is generally esteemed on the Island, although\nthere is a noticeable reluctance to discount his paper at long dates. In\nshort, Mr. John Newbegin is a most respectable citizen (if a dead man\ncan be a citizen) and has announced his intention of running for the\nnext Legislature!\"\n\n\nIN CONCLUSION\n\n\"And now, my dear ----, I have told you the substance of all I know\nrespecting this strange, strange case. Yet, after all, why so strange?\nWe accepted materialization at Chittenden. Is this any more than the\nlogical issue of that admission? If the spirit may return to earth,\nclothed in flesh and blood and all the physical attributes of humanity,\nwhy may it not remain on earth as long as it sees fit?\n\n\"Thinking of it from whatever standpoint, I cannot but regard John\nNewbegin as the pioneer of a possibly large immigration from the spirit\nworld. The bars once down, a whole flock will come trooping back to\nearth. Death will lose its significance altogether. And when I think of\nthe disturbance which will result in our social relations, of the\noverthrow of all accepted institutions, and of the nullification of all\nprinciples of political economy, law, and religion, I am lost in\nperplexity and apprehension.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE GHOST-SHIP\n\nBY RICHARD MIDDLETON\n\nFrom _The Ghost-Ship_ by Richard Middleton. Published by permission of\nMitchell Kennerley, and taken from the volume, _The Ghost-Ship and Other\nStories_.\n\n\n\n\nThe Ghost-Ship\n\nBY RICHARD MIDDLETON\n\n\nFairfield is a little village lying near the Portsmouth Road, about\nhalfway between London and the sea. Strangers, who now and then find it\nby accident, call it a pretty, old-fashioned place; we who live in it\nand call it home don't find anything very pretty about it, but we should\nbe sorry to live anywhere else. Our minds have taken the shape of the\ninn and the church and the green, I suppose. At all events, we never\nfeel comfortable out of Fairfield.\n\nOf course the cockneys, with their vasty houses and noise-ridden\nstreets, can call us rustics if they choose; but for all that, Fairfield\nis a better place to live in than London. Doctor says that when he goes\nto London his mind is bruised with the weight of the houses, and he was\na cockney born. He had to live there himself when he was a little chap,\nbut he knows better now. You gentlemen may laugh--perhaps some of you\ncome from London-way, but it seems to me that a witness like that is\nworth a gallon of arguments.\n\nDull? Well, you might find it dull, but I assure you that I've listened\nto all the London yarns you have spun to-night, and they're absolutely\nnothing to the things that happen at Fairfield. It's because of our way\nof thinking, and minding our own business. If one of your Londoners was\nset down on the green of a Saturday night when the ghosts of the lads\nwho died in the war keep tryst with the lasses who lie in the\nchurchyard, he couldn't help being curious and interfering, and then the\nghosts would go somewhere where it was quieter. But we just let them\ncome and go and don't make any fuss, and in consequence Fairfield is the\nghostiest place in all England. Why, I've seen a headless man sitting on\nthe edge of the well in broad daylight, and the children playing about\nhis feet as if he were their father. Take my word for it, spirits know\nwhen they are well off as much as human beings.\n\nStill, I must admit that the thing I'm going to tell you about was queer\neven for our part of the world, where three packs of ghost-hounds hunt\nregularly during the season, and blacksmith's great-grandfather is busy\nall night shoeing the dead gentlemen's horses. Now that's a thing that\nwouldn't happen in London, because of their interfering ways; but\nblacksmith he lies up aloft and sleeps as quiet as a lamb. Once when he\nhad a bad head he shouted down to them not to make so much noise, and\nin the morning he found an old guinea left on the anvil as an apology.\nHe wears it on his watch-chain now. But I must get on with my story; if\nI start telling you about the queer happenings at Fairfield, I'll never\nstop.\n\nIt all came of the great storm in the spring of '97, the year that we\nhad two great storms. This was the first one, and I remember it well,\nbecause I found in the morning that it had lifted the thatch of my\npigsty into the widow's garden as clean as a boy's kite. When I looked\nover the hedge, widow--Tom Lamport's widow that was--was prodding for\nher nasturtiums with a daisy grubber. After I had watched her for a\nlittle I went down to the Fox and Grapes to tell landlord what she had\nsaid to me. Landlord he laughed, being a married man and at ease with\nthe sex. \"Come to that,\" he said, \"the tempest has blowed something into\nmy field. A kind of a ship I think it would be.\"\n\nI was surprised at that until he explained that it was only a\nghost-ship, and would do no hurt to the turnips. We argued that it had\nbeen blown up from the sea at Portsmouth, and then we talked of\nsomething else. There were two slates down at the parsonage and a big\ntree in Lumley's meadow. It was a rare storm.\n\nI reckon the wind had blown our ghosts all over England. They were\ncoming back for days afterward with foundered horses, and as footsore as\npossible, and they were so glad to get back to Fairfield that some of\nthem walked up the street crying like little children. Squire said that\nhis great-grandfather's great-grandfather hadn't looked so dead-beat\nsince the battle of Naseby, and he's an educated man.\n\nWhat with one thing and another, I should think it was a week before we\ngot straight again, and then one afternoon I met the landlord on the\ngreen, and he had a worried face. \"I wish you'd come and have a look at\nthat ship in my field,\" he said to me. \"It seems to me it's leaning real\nhard on the turnips. I can't bear thinking what the missus will say when\nshe sees it.\"\n\nI walked down the lane with him, and, sure enough, there was a ship in\nthe middle of his field, but such a ship as no man had seen on the water\nfor three hundred years, let alone in the middle of a turnipfield. It\nwas all painted black, and covered with carvings, and there was a great\nbay-window in the stern, for all the world like the squire's\ndrawing-room. There was a crowd of little black cannon on deck and\nlooking out of her port-holes, and she was anchored at each end to the\nhard ground. I have seen the wonders of the world on picture-postcards,\nbut I have never seen anything to equal that.\n\n\"She seems very solid for a ghost-ship,\" I said, seeing that landlord\nwas bothered.\n\n\"I should say it's a betwixt and between,\" he answered, puzzling it\nover; \"but it's going to spoil a matter of fifty turnips, and missus\nshe'll want it moved.\" We went up to her and touched the side, and it\nwas as hard as a real ship. \"Now, there's folks in England would call\nthat very curious,\" he said.\n\nNow, I don't know much about ships, but I should think that that\nghost-ship weighed a solid two hundred tons, and it seemed to me that\nshe had come to stay; so that I felt sorry for landlord, who was a\nmarried man. \"All the horses in Fairfield won't move her out of my\nturnips,\" he said, frowning at her.\n\nJust then we heard a noise on her deck, and we looked up and saw that a\nman had come out of her front cabin and was looking down at us very\npeaceably. He was dressed in a black uniform set off with rusty gold\nlace, and he had a great cutlass by his side in a brass sheath. \"I'm\nCaptain Bartholomew Roberts,\" he said in a gentleman's voice, \"put in\nfor recruits. I seem to have brought her rather far up the harbor.\"\n\n\"Harbor!\" cried landlord. \"Why, you're fifty miles from the sea!\"\n\nCaptain Roberts didn't turn a hair. \"So much as that, is it?\" he said\ncoolly. \"Well, it's of no consequence.\"\n\nLandlord was a bit upset at this. \"I don't want to be unneighborly,\" he\nsaid, \"but I wish you hadn't brought your ship into my field. You see,\nmy wife sets great store on these turnips.\"\n\nThe captain took a pinch of snuff out of a fine gold box that he pulled\nout of his pocket, and dusted his fingers with a silk handkerchief in a\nvery genteel fashion. \"I'm only here for a few months,\" he said, \"but\nif a testimony of my esteem would pacify your good lady, I should be\ncontent,\" and with the words he loosed a great gold brooch from the neck\nof his coat and tossed it down to landlord.\n\nLandlord blushed as red as a strawberry. \"I'm not denying she's fond of\njewelry,\" he said; \"but it's too much for half a sackful of turnips.\"\nIndeed it was a handsome brooch.\n\nThe captain laughed. \"Tut, man!\" he said, \"it's a forced sale, and you\ndeserve a good price. Say no more about it,\" and nodding good day to us,\nhe turned on his heel and went into the cabin. Landlord walked back up\nthe lane like a man with a weight off his mind. \"That tempest has blowed\nme a bit of luck,\" he said; \"the missus will be main pleased with that\nbrooch. It's better than blacksmith's guinea any day.\"\n\n'97 was Jubilee year--the year of the second Jubilee, you remember, and\nwe had great doings at Fairfield, so that we hadn't much time to bother\nabout the ghost-ship, though, anyhow, it isn't our way to meddle in\nthings that don't concern us. Landlord he saw his tenant once or twice\nwhen he was hoeing his turnips, and passed the time of day and\nlandlord's wife wore her new brooch to church every Sunday. But we\ndidn't mix much with the ghosts at any time, all except an idiot lad\nthere was in the village, and he didn't know the difference between a\nman and a ghost, poor innocent! On Jubilee day, however, somebody told\nCaptain Roberts why the church bells were ringing, and he hoisted a\nflag and fired off his guns like a loyal Englishman. 'T is true the guns\nwere shotted, and one of the round shot knocked a hole in Farmer\nJohnstone's barn, but nobody thought much of that in such a season of\nrejoicing.\n\nIt wasn't till our celebrations were over that we noticed that anything\nwas wrong in Fairfield. 'T was shoemaker who told me first about it one\nmorning at the Fox and Grapes. \"You know my great-great-uncle?\" he said\nto me.\n\n\"You mean Joshua, the quiet lad?\" I answered, knowing him well.\n\n\"Quiet!\" said shoemaker, indignantly. \"Quiet you call him, coming home\nat three o'clock every morning as drunk as a magistrate and waking up\nthe whole house with his noise!\"\n\n\"Why, it can't be Joshua,\" I said, for I knew him for one of the most\nrespectable young ghosts in the village.\n\n\"Joshua it is,\" said shoemaker; \"and one of these nights he'll find\nhimself out in the street if he isn't careful.\"\n\nThis kind of talk shocked me, I can tell you, for I don't like to hear a\nman abusing his own family, and I could hardly believe that a steady\nyoungster like Joshua had taken to drink. But just then in came butcher\nAylwin in such a temper that he could hardly drink his beer. \"The young\npuppy! The young puppy!\" he kept on saying, and it was some time before\nshoemaker and I found out that he was talking about his ancestor that\nfell at Senlac.\n\n\"Drink?\" said shoemaker, hopefully, for we all like company in our\nmisfortunes, and butcher nodded grimly. \"The young noodle!\" he said,\nemptying his tankard.\n\nWell, after that I kept my ears open, and it was the same story all over\nthe village. There was hardly a young man among all the ghosts of\nFairfield who didn't roll home in the small hours of the morning the\nworse for liquor. I used to wake up in the night and hear them stumble\npast my house, singing outrageous songs. The worst of it was that we\ncouldn't keep the scandal to ourselves, and the folk at Greenhill began\nto talk of \"sodden Fairfield\" and taught their children to sing a song\nabout us:\n\n    Sodden Fairfield, sodden Fairfield,\n      Has no use for bread and butter,\n    Rum for breakfast, rum for dinner,\n      Rum for tea, and rum for supper!\n\nWe are easy-going in our village, but we didn't like that.\n\nOf course we soon found out where the young fellows went to get the\ndrink, and landlord was terribly cut up that his tenant should have\nturned out so badly; but his wife wouldn't hear of parting with the\nbrooch, so he couldn't give the captain notice to quit. But as time went\non, things grew from bad to worse, and at all hours of the day you\nwould see those young reprobates sleeping it off on the village green.\nNearly every afternoon a ghost-wagon used to jolt down to the ship with\na lading of rum, and though the older ghosts seemed inclined to give the\ncaptain's hospitality the go-by, the youngsters were neither to hold nor\nto bind.\n\nSo one afternoon when I was taking my nap, I heard a knock at the door,\nand there was parson, looking very serious, like a man with a job before\nhim that he didn't altogether relish.\n\n\"I'm going down to talk to the captain about all this drunkenness in the\nvillage, and I want you to come with me,\" he said straight out.\n\nI can't say that I fancied the visit much myself, and I tried to hint to\nparson that as, after all, they were only a lot of ghosts, it didn't\nmuch matter.\n\n\"Dead or alive, I'm responsible for their good conduct,\" he said, \"and\nI'm going to do my duty and put a stop to this continued disorder. And\nyou are coming with me, John Simmons.\"\n\nSo I went, parson being a persuasive kind of man.\n\nWe went down to the ship, and as we approached her, I could see the\ncaptain tasting the air on deck. When he saw parson, he took off his hat\nvery politely, and I can tell you that I was relieved to find that he\nhad a proper respect for the cloth. Parson acknowledged his salute, and\nspoke out stoutly enough.\n\n\"Sir, I should be glad to have a word with you.\"\n\n\"Come on board, sir; come on board,\" said the captain, and I could tell\nby his voice that he knew why we were there.\n\nParson and I climbed up an uneasy kind of ladder, and the captain took\nus into the great cabin at the back of the ship, where the bay-window\nwas. It was the most wonderful place you ever saw in your life, all full\nof gold and silver plate, swords with jeweled scabbards, carved oak\nchairs, and great chests that looked as though they were bursting with\nguineas. Even parson was surprised, and he did not shake his head very\nhard when the captain took down some silver cups and poured us out a\ndrink of rum. I tasted mine, and I don't mind saying that it changed my\nview of things entirely. There was nothing betwixt and between about\nthat rum, and I felt that it was ridiculous to blame the lads for\ndrinking too much of stuff like that. It seemed to fill my veins with\nhoney and fire.\n\nParson put the case squarely to the captain, but I didn't listen much to\nwhat he said. I was busy sipping my drink and looking through the window\nat the fishes swimming to and fro over landlord's turnips. Just then it\nseemed the most natural thing in the world that they should be there,\nthough afterward, of course, I could see that that proved it was a\nghost-ship.\n\nBut even then I thought it was queer when I saw a drowned sailor float\nby in the thin air, with his hair and beard all full of bubbles. It was\nthe first time I had seen anything quite like that at Fairfield.\n\nAll the time I was regarding the wonders of the deep, parson was telling\nCaptain Roberts how there was no peace or rest in the village owing to\nthe curse of drunkenness, and what a bad example the youngsters were\nsetting to the older ghosts. The captain listened very attentively, and\nput in a word only now and then about boys being boys and young men\nsowing their wild oats. But when parson had finished his speech, he\nfilled up our silver cups and said to parson with a flourish:\n\n\"I should be sorry to cause trouble anywhere where I have been made\nwelcome, and you will be glad to hear that I put to sea to-morrow night.\nAnd now you must drink me a prosperous voyage.\"\n\nSo we all stood up and drank the toast with honor, and that noble rum\nwas like hot oil in my veins.\n\nAfter that, captain showed us some of the curiosities he had brought\nback from foreign parts, and we were greatly amazed, though afterward I\ncouldn't clearly remember what they were. And then I found myself\nwalking across the turnips with parson, and I was telling him of the\nglories of the deep that I had seen through the window of the ship. He\nturned on me severely.\n\n\"If I were you, John Simmons,\" he said, \"I should go straight home to\nbed.\" He has a way of putting things that wouldn't occur to an ordinary\nman, has parson, and I did as he told me.\n\nWell, next day it came on to blow, and it blew harder and harder, till\nabout eight o'clock at night I heard a noise and looked out into the\ngarden. I dare say you won't believe me,--it seems a bit tall even to\nme,--but the wind had lifted the thatch of my pigsty into the widow's\ngarden a second time. I thought I wouldn't wait to hear what widow had\nto say about it, so I went across the green to the Fox and Grapes, and\nthe wind was so strong that I danced along on tiptoe like a girl at the\nfair. When I got to the inn, landlord had to help me shut the door. It\nseemed as though a dozen goats were pushing against it to come in out of\nthe storm.\n\n\"It's a powerful tempest,\" he said, drawing the beer. \"I hear there's a\nchimney down at Dickory End.\"\n\n\"It's a funny thing how these sailors know about the weather,\" I\nanswered. \"When captain said he was going to-night, I was thinking it\nwould take a capful of wind to carry the ship back to sea; and now\nhere's more than a capful.\"\n\n\"Ah, yes,\" said landlord; \"it's to-night he goes true enough, and mind\nyou, though he treated me handsome over the rent, I'm not sure it's a\nloss to the village. I don't hold with gentrice, who fetch their drink\nfrom London instead of helping local traders to get their living.\"\n\n\"But you haven't got any rum like his,\" I said, to draw him out.\n\nHis neck grew red above his collar, and I was afraid I'd gone too far;\nbut after a while he got his breath with a grunt.\n\n\"John Simmons,\" he said, \"if you've come down here this windy night to\ntalk a lot of fool's talk, you've wasted a journey.\"\n\nWell, of course then I had to smooth him down with praising his rum, and\nHeaven forgive me for swearing it was better than captain's. For the\nlike of that rum no living lips have tasted save mine and parson's. But\nsomehow or other I brought landlord round, and presently we must have a\nglass of his best to prove its quality.\n\n\"Beat that if you can,\" he cried, and we both raised our glasses to our\nmouths, only to stop halfway and look at each other in amaze. For the\nwind that had been howling outside like an outrageous dog had all of a\nsudden turned as melodious as the carol-boys of a Christmas eve.\n\n\"Surely that's not my Martha,\" whispered landlord, Martha being his\ngreat-aunt who lived in the loft overhead.\n\nWe went to the door, and the wind burst it open so that the handle was\ndriven clean into the plaster of the wall, but we didn't think about\nthat at the time; for over our heads, sailing very comfortably through\nthe windy stars, was the ship that had passed the summer in landlord's\nfield. Her port-holes and her bay-window were blazing with lights, and\nthere was a noise of singing and fiddling on her decks. \"He's gone!\"\nshouted landlord above the storm, \"and he's taken half the village with\nhim.\" I could only nod in answer, not having lungs like bellows of\nleather.\n\nIn the morning we were able to measure the strength of the storm, and\nover and above my pigsty, there was damage enough wrought in the village\nto keep us busy. True it is that the children had to break down no\nbranches for the firing that autumn, since the wind had strewn the woods\nwith more than they could carry away. Many of our ghosts were scattered\nabroad, but this time very few came back, all the young men having\nsailed with captain; and not only ghosts, for a poor half-witted lad was\nmissing, and we reckoned that he had stowed himself away or perhaps\nshipped as cabin-boy, not knowing any better.\n\nWhat with the lamentations of the ghost girls and the grumblings of\nfamilies who had lost ancestors, the village was upset for a while, and\nthe funny thing was that it was the folk who had complained most of the\ncarryings-on of the youngsters who made most noise now that they were\ngone. I hadn't any sympathy with shoemaker or butcher, who ran about\nsaying how much they missed their lads, but it made me grieve to hear\nthe poor bereaved girls calling their lovers by name on the village\ngreen at nightfall. It didn't seem fair to me that they should have lost\ntheir men a second time, after giving up life in order to join them, as\nlike as not. Still, not even a spirit can be sorry forever, and after a\nfew months we made up our mind that the folk who had sailed in the ship\nwere never coming back; and we didn't talk about it any more.\n\nAnd then one day, I dare say it would be a couple of years after, when\nthe whole business was quite forgotten, who should come trapesing along\nthe road from Portsmouth but the daft lad who had gone away with the\nship without waiting till he was dead to become a ghost. You never saw\nsuch a boy as that in all your life. He had a great rusty cutlass\nhanging to a string at his waist, and he was tattooed all over in fine\ncolors, so that even his face looked like a girl's sampler. He had a\nhandkerchief in his hand full of foreign shells and old-fashioned pieces\nof small money, very curious, and he walked up to the well outside his\nmother's house and drew himself a drink as if he had been nowhere in\nparticular.\n\nThe worst of it was that he had come back as soft-headed as he went, and\ntry as we might, we couldn't get anything reasonable out of him. He\ntalked a lot of gibberish about keelhauling and walking the plank and\ncrimson murders--things which a decent sailor should know nothing about,\nso that it seemed to me that for all his manners captain had been more\nof a pirate than a gentleman mariner. But to draw sense out of that boy\nwas as hard as picking cherries off a crab-tree. One silly tale he had\nthat he kept on drifting back to, and to hear him you would have thought\nthat it was the only thing that happened to him in his life.\n\n\"We was at anchor,\" he would say, \"off an island called the Basket of\nFlowers, and the sailors had caught a lot of parrots and we were\nteaching them to swear. Up and down the decks, up and down the decks,\nand the language they used was dreadful. Then we looked up and saw the\nmasts of the Spanish ship outside the harbor. Outside the harbor they\nwere, so we threw the parrots into the sea, and sailed out to fight. And\nall the parrots were drowneded in the sea, and the language they used\nwas dreadful.\"\n\nThat's the sort of boy he was--nothing but silly talk of parrots when we\nasked him about the fighting. And we never had a chance of teaching him\nbetter, for two days after he ran away again, and hasn't been seen\nsince.\n\nThat's my story, and I assure you that things like that are happening at\nFairfield all the time. The ship has never come back, but somehow, as\npeople grow older, they seem to think that one of these windy nights\nshe'll come sailing in over the hedges with all the lost ghosts on\nboard. Well, when she comes, she'll be welcome. There's one ghost lass\nthat has never grown tired of waiting for her lad to return. Every night\nyou'll see her out on the green, straining her poor eyes with looking\nfor the mast-lights among the stars. A faithful lass you'd call her, and\nI'm thinking you'd be right.\n\nLandlord's field wasn't a penny the worse for the visit; but they do say\nthat since then the turnips that have been grown in it have tasted of\nrum.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TRANSPLANTED GHOST\n\nA CHRISTMAS STORY\n\nBY WALLACE IRWIN\n\nFrom _Everybody's Magazine_. By permission of _Everybody's_ and Wallace\nIrwin.\n\n\n\n\nThe Transplanted Ghost\n\nA CHRISTMAS STORY\n\nBY WALLACE IRWIN\n\n\nWhen Aunt Elizabeth asked me to spend Christmas with her at Seven Oaks\nshe appended a peculiar request to her letter. \"Like a good fellow,\" she\nwrote, \"won't you drop off at Perkinsville, Ohio, on your way, and take\na look at Gauntmoor Castle? They say it's a wonderful old pile; and its\nhistory is in many ways connected with that of our own family. As long\nas you're the last of the Geoffray Pierreponts, such things ought to\ninterest you.\" Like her auburn namesake who bossed the Thames of yore,\nsweet, red-haired, romantic autocrat, Aunt Elizabeth! Her wishes were\ncommands.\n\n\"What the deuce is Aunt Elizabeth up to now?\" I asked Tim Cole, my law\npartner, whom I found in my rooms smoking my tobacco. \"Why should I be\ninspecting Gauntmoor Castle--and what is a castle named Gauntmoor doing\nin Perkinsville, Ohio, anyway? Perkinsville sounds like the Middle West,\nand Gauntmoor sounds like the Middle Ages.\"\n\n\"Right in both analyses,\" said the pipe-poaching Tim. \"Castle Gauntmoor\n_is_ from the Middle Ages, and we all know about where in Ohio\nPerkinsville is. But is it possible that you, twenty-seven years old and\na college graduate, haven't heard of Thaddeus Hobson, the Marvelous\nMillionaire?\" I shook my head. \"The papers have been full of Hobson in\nthe past two or three years,\" said Tim. \"It was in 1898, I think, that\nFate jumped Thaddeus Hobson to the golden Olympus. He was first head\nsalesman in the village hardware store, then he formulated so successful\na scheme to clean up the Tin Plate Combine that he put away a fabulous\nnumber of millions in a year, and subsequently went to England. Finally\nhe set his heart on Norman architecture. After a search he found the\nancient Castle Gauntmoor still habitable and for sale. He thrilled the\nBritish comic papers by his offer to buy the castle and move it to\nAmerica. Hobson saw the property, telegraphed to London, and closed the\ndeal in two hours. And an army of laborers at once began taking the\nGauntmoor to pieces, stone by stone.\n\n\"Transporting that relic to America involved a cost in labor and\ningenuity comparable with nothing that has yet happened. Moving the\nGreat Pyramid would be a lighter job, perhaps. Thousands of tons of\nscarred and medieval granite were carried to the railroads, freighted to\nthe sea, and dragged across the Atlantic in whopping big lighters\nchartered for the job. And the next the newspapers knew, the monster\nwas set up in Perkinsville, Ohio.\"\n\n\"But why did he do it?\" I asked.\n\n\"Who knows?\" said Tim. \"Ingrowing sentiment--unlimited capital--wanted\nto do something for the Home Town, probably; wanted to beautify the\nvillage that gave him his start--and didn't know how to go at it. Well,\nso long!\" he called out, as I seized my hat and streaked for the train.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was dinner time when the train pulled in at Perkinsville. The town\nwas as undistinguished as I expected. I was too hungry to care about\ncastles at the moment, so I took the 'bus for the Commercial Hotel, an\nestablishment that seemed to live up to its name, both in sentiment and\nin accommodation. The landlord, Mr. Spike, referred bitterly to the\ncastle, which, he explained, was, by its dominating presence, \"spoilin'\nthe prosperous appearance of Perkinsville.\" Dinner over, he led me to a\nside porch.\n\n\"How does Perkinsville look with that--with that curio squattin' on top\nof it?\" asked Mr. Spike sternly, as he pointed over the local livery\nstable, over Smith Brothers' Plow Works, over Odd Fellows' Hall, and up,\nup to the bleak hills beyond, where, poised like a stony coronet on a\ngiant's brow, rose the great Norman towers and frowning buttresses of\nGauntmoor Castle. I rubbed my eyes. No, it _couldn't_ be real--it must\nbe a wizard's work!\n\n\"What's old Hobson got out of it?\" said Mr. Spike in my ear. \"Nothin'\nbut an old stone barn, where he can set all day nursin' a grouch and\nkeepin' his daughter Anita--they do say he does--under lock and key for\nfear somebody's goin' to marry her for her money.\"\n\nMr. Spike looked up at the ramparts defiantly, even as the Saxon churl\nmust have gazed in an earlier, far sadder land.\n\n\"It's romantic,\" I suggested.\n\n\"Yes, _darn_ rheumatic,\" agreed Mr. Spike.\n\n\"Is it open for visitors?\" I asked innocently.\n\n\"Hobson?\" cackled Spike. \"He'd no more welcome a stranger to that place\nthan he'd welcome--a ghost. He's a hol-ee terror, Hobson!\"\n\nMr. Spike turned away to referee a pool game down in the barroom.\n\nThe fires of a December sunset flared behind Gauntmoor and cast the grim\nshadows of Medievalism over Mediocrity, which lay below. Presently the\nlight faded, and I grew tired of gazing. Since Hobson would permit no\ntourists to inspect his castle, why was I here on this foolish trip?\nAlready I was planning to wire Aunt Elizabeth a sarcastic reference to\nbeing marooned at Christmas with a castle on my hands, when a voice at\nmy shoulder said suddenly:\n\n\"Mr. Hobson sends his compliments, sir, and wants to know would Mr.\nPierrepont come up to Gauntmoor for the night?\"\n\nA groom in a plum-colored livery stood at my elbow. A light station\nwagon was waiting just outside. How the deuce did Hobson know my name?\nWhat did he want of me at Gauntmoor this time of night? Yet prospects of\nbed and breakfast away from the Commercial lured me strangely.\n\n\"Sure, Mr. Pierrepont will be delighted,\" I announced, leaping into the\nvehicle, and soon we were mounting upward, battling with the winds\naround the time-scarred walls. The wagon stopped at the great gate. A\nhorn sounded from within, the gate swung open, a drawbridge fell with a\nhideous creaking of machinery, and we passed in, twenty or thirty feet\nabove the snow-drifted moat. Beyond the portcullis a dim door swung\nopen. Some sort of seneschal met us with a light and led us below the\ntwilight arches, where beyond, I could catch glimpses of the baileys and\ncourts and the donjon tower against the heavy ramparts.\n\nThe wind hooted through the high galleries as we passed; but the west\nwing, from its many windows and loopholes, blazed with cheerful yellow\nlight. It looked nearly cozy. Into a tall, gaunt tower we plunged, down\na winding staircase, and suddenly we came into a vast hall, stately with\ntapestries and innumerable monkish carvings--and all brightly lighted\nwith electricity!\n\nA little fat man sat smoking in a chair near the fire. When I entered he\nwas in his shirt sleeves, reading a newspaper, but when a footman\nannounced my name the little man, in a state of great nervousness,\njumped to his feet and threw on a coat, fidgeting painfully with the\narmholes. As he came toward me, I noticed that he was perfectly bald. He\nlooked dyspeptic and discontented, like a practical man trying vainly to\nadjust his busy habits to a lazy life. Obviously he didn't go with the\nrest of the furniture.\n\n\"Pleased to see you, Mr. Pierrepont,\" he said, looking me over carefully\nas if he thought of buying me. \"Geoffray Pierrepont--tut, tut!--ain't it\nqueer!\"\n\n\"Queer!\" I said rather peevishly. \"What's queer about it?\"\n\n\"Excuse me, did I say queer? I didn't mean to be impolite, sir--I was\njust thinking, that's all.\"\n\nYou could hear the demon Army of the Winds scaling the walls outside.\n\n\"Maybe you thought it kind of abrupt, Mr. Pierrepont, me asking you up\nhere so unceremonious,\" he said. \"My daughter Annie, she tells me I\nought to live up to the looks of the place; but I've got my notions. To\ntell you the truth, I'm in an awful quandary about this Antique Castle\nbusiness and when I heard you was at the hotel, I thought you might help\nme out some way. You see you----\"\n\nHe led me to a chair and offered me a fat cigar.\n\n\"Young man,\" he said, \"when you get your head above water and make good\nin the world--if you ever do--don't fool with curios, don't monkey with\nantiques. Keep away from castles. They're like everything else sold by\ncurio dealers--all humbug. Look nice, yes. But get 'em over to America\nand they either fall to pieces or the paint comes off. Whether it's a\nchair or a castle--same old story. The sly scalawags that sell you the\ngoods won't live up to their contracts.\"\n\n\"Hasn't Gauntmoor all the ancient inconveniences a Robber Baron could\nwish?\" I asked.\n\n\"It ain't,\" announced Mr. Hobson. \"Though it looks all right to a\nstranger, perhaps. There may be castles in the Old World got it on\nGauntmoor for size--thank God I didn't buy 'em!--but for looks you can't\nbeat Gauntmoor.\"\n\n\"Comfortable?\" I asked.\n\n\"Can't complain. Modern plumbed throughout. Hard to heat, but I put an\nelectric-light plant in the cellar. Daughter Annie's got a Colonial\nsuite in the North Tower.\"\n\n\"Well,\" I suggested, \"if there's anything the castle lacks, you can buy\nit.\"\n\n\"There's one thing money _can't_ buy,\" said Mr. Hobson, leaning very\nclose and speaking in a sibilant whisper. \"And that's ghosts!\"\n\n\"But who wants ghosts?\" I inquired.\n\n\"Now look here,\" said Mr. Hobson. \"I'm a business man. When I bought\nGauntmoor, the London scalawags that sold it to me gave me distinctly to\nunderstand that this was a Haunted Castle. They showed me a haunted\nchamber, showed me the haunted wall where the ghost walks, guaranteed\nthe place to be the Spook Headquarters of the British Isles--and see\nwhat I got!\" He snapped his fingers in disgust.\n\n\"No results?\"\n\n\"Results? Stung! I've slept in that haunted room upstairs for a solid\nyear. I've gazed night after night over the haunted rampart. I've even\nhired spiritualists to come and cut their didoes in the towers and\ndonjon keep. No use. You can't get ghosts where they ain't.\"\n\nI expressed my sympathy.\n\n\"I'm a plain man,\" said Hobson. \"I ain't got any ancestors back of\nfather, who was a blacksmith, and a good one, when sober. Somebody\nelse's ancestors is what I looked for in this place--and I've got 'em,\ntoo, carved in wood and stone in the chapel out back of the tower. But\nstatues and carvings ain't like ghosts to add tone to an ancient\nlineage.\"\n\n\"Is there any legend?\" I asked.\n\n\"Haven't you heard it?\" he exclaimed, looking at me sharply out of his\nsmall gray eyes. \"It seems, 'way back in the sixteenth century, there\nwas a harum-scarum young feller living in a neighboring castle, and he\ntook an awful shine to Lady Katherine, daughter of the Earl of Cummyngs,\nwho was boss of this place at that time. Now the young man who loved\nMiss--I mean Lady--Katherine was a sort of wild proposition. Old man\nwouldn't have him around the place; but young man kept hanging on till\nEarl ordered him off. Finally the old gent locked Lady Kitty in the\ndonjon tower,\" said Mr. Hobson.\n\n\"Too much shilly-shallying in _this_ generation,\" he went on. \"Every\nhouse that's got a pretty girl ought to have a donjon keep. I've got\nboth.\" He paused and wiped his brow.\n\n\"This fresh young kid I'm telling you about, he thought he knew more\nthan the old folks, so he got a rope ladder and climbed up the masonry\none night, intending to bust into the tower where the girl was. But just\nas he got half across the wall--out yonder--his foot slipped and he\nbroke his neck in the moat below. Consequence, Lady Kitty goes crazy and\nold Earl found dead a week later in his room. It was Christmas Eve when\nthe boy was killed. That's the night his ghost's supposed to walk along\nthe ramparts, give a shriek, and drop off--but the irritating thing\nabout it all is, it don't ever happen.\"\n\n\"And now, Mr. Hobson,\" I said, throwing away the butt of my cigar, \"why\nam _I_ here? What have _I_ got to do with all this ghost business?\"\n\n\"I _want_ you to stay,\" said Hobson, beseechingly. \"To-morrow night's\nChristmas Eve. I've figured it out that your influence, somehow, you\nbeing of the same blood, as it were, might encourage the ghost to come\nout and save the reputation of the castle.\"\n\nA servant brought candles, and Hobson turned to retire.\n\n\"The same blood!\" I shouted after him. \"What on earth is the _name_ of\nthe ghost?\"\n\n\"When he was alive his name was--Sir Geoffray de Pierrepont,\" said\nThaddeus Hobson, his figure fading into the dimness beyond.\n\nI followed the servant with the candle aloft through chill and carven\ncorridors, through galleries lined with faded portraits of forgotten\nlords. \"Wheels!\" I kept saying to myself. \"The old man evidently thinks\nit takes a live Pierrepont to coax a dead one,\" and I laughed nervously\nas I entered the vast brown bedroom. I had to get on a chair in order to\nclimb into the four-poster, a cheerful affair that looked like a royal\nfuneral barge. At my head I noticed a carved device, seven mailed hands\nsnatching at a sword with the motto: \"CAVE ADSUM!\"\n\n\"Beware, I am here!\" I translated. Who was here? Ghosts? Fudge! What\nhideous scenes had this chamber beheld of yore? What might not happen\nhere now? Where, by the way, was old Hobson's daughter, Anita? Might not\nanything be possible? I covered my head with the bedclothes.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNext morning being mild and bright for December, and Thaddeus Hobson and\nhis mysterious daughter not having showed up for breakfast, I amused\nmyself by inspecting the exterior of the castle. In daylight I could see\nthat Gauntmoor, as now restored, consisted of only a portion of the\noriginal structure. On the west side, near a sheer fall of forty or\nfifty feet, stood the donjon tower, a fine piece of medieval barbarism\nwith a peaked roof. And, sure enough! I saw it all now. Running along\nthe entire west side of the castle was a wonderful wall, stretching\nabove the moat to a dizzy height. It was no difficult matter to mount\nthis wall from the courtyard, above which it rose no more than eight or\nten feet. I ascended by a rude sentry's staircase, and once on top I\ngazed upward at the tall medieval prison-place, which reared above me\nlike a clumsy stone chimney. Just as I stood, at the top of the wall, I\nwas ten or twelve feet below the lowest window of the donjon tower.\nThis, then, was the wall that the ancient Pierrepont had scaled, and\nyonder was the donjon window that he had planned to plunder on that\nfatal night so long ago. And this was where Pierrepont the Ghost was\nsupposed to appear!\n\nHow the lover of spectral memory had managed to scale that wall from the\noutside, I could not quite make out. But once _on_ the wall, it was no\ntrick to snatch the damsel from her durance vile. Just drop a long rope\nladder from the wall to the moat, then crawl along the narrow ledge--got\nto be careful with a job like that--then up to the window of the donjon\nkeep, and away with the Lady Fair. Why, that window above the ramparts\nwould be an easy climb for a fellow with strong arms and a little nerve,\nas the face of the tower from the wall to the window was studded with\nancient spikes and the projecting ends of beams.\n\nI counted the feet, one, two, three--and as I looked up at the window,\na small, white hand reached out and a pink slip of paper dropped at my\nfeet. It read:\n\nDEAR SIR: I'm Miss Hobson. I'm locked in the donjon tower. Father always\nlocks me here when there's a young man about. It's a horrid,\nuncomfortable place. Won't you hurry and go?\n\nYours respectfully,\n\nA. HOBSON.\n\nI knew it was easy. I swung myself aloft on the spikes and stones\nleading to the donjon window. When I was high enough I gazed in, my chin\nabout even with the sill. And there I saw the prettiest girl I ever\nbeheld, gazing down at a book tranquilly, as though gentlemanly rescuers\nwere common as toads around that tower. She wore something soft and\ngolden; her hair was night-black, and her eyes were that peculiar shade\nof gray that--but what's the use?\n\n\"Pardon,\" I said, holding on with my right hand, lifting my hat with my\nleft. \"Pardon, am I addressing Miss Annie Hobson?\"\n\n\"You are not,\" she replied, only half looking up. \"You are addressing\nMiss Anita Hobson. Calling me Annie is another little habit father ought\nto break himself of.\" She went on reading.\n\n\"Is that a very interesting book?\" I asked, because I didn't like to go\nwithout saying something more.\n\n\"It isn't!\" She arose suddenly and hurled the book into a corner. \"It's\nAnthony Hope--and if there's anything I hate it's him. Father always\ngives me _Prisoner of Zenda_ and _Ivanhoe_ to read when he locks me into\nthis donjon. Says I ought to read up on the situation. Do you think so?\"\n\n\"There are some other books in the library,\" I suggested. \"Bernard Shaw\nand Kipling, you know. I'll run over and get you one.\"\n\n\"That's fine--but no!\" she besought, reaching out her hand to detain me.\n\"No, don't go! If you went away you'd never come back. They never do.\"\n\n\"Who never do?\"\n\n\"The young men. The very instant father sees one coming he pops me in\nthe tower and turns the key. You see,\" she explained, \"when I was in\nItaly I was engaged to a duke--he was a silly little thing and I was\nglad when he turned out bogus. But father took the deception awfully to\nheart and swore I should never be married for my money. Yet I don't see\nwhat else a young girl can expect,\" she added quite simply.\n\nI could have mentioned several hundred things.\n\n\"He has no right!\" I said sternly. \"It's barbarous for him to treat a\ngirl that way--especially his daughter.\"\n\n\"Hush!\" she said. \"Dad's a good sort. But you can't measure him by other\npeople's standards. And yet--oh, it's maddening, this life! Day after\nday--loneliness. Nothing but stone walls and rusty armor and books.\nWe're rich, but what do we get out of it? I have nobody of my own age\nto talk to. How the years are passing! After a while--I'll be--an old\nmaid. I'm twenty-one now!\" I heard a sob. Her pretty head was bowed in\nher hands.\n\nDesperately I seized the bars of the window and miraculously they\nparted. I leaned across the sill and drew her hands gently down.\n\n\"Listen to me,\" I said. \"If I break in and steal you away from this,\nwill you go?\"\n\n\"Go?\" she said. \"Where?\"\n\n\"My aunt lives at Seven Oaks, less than an hour from here by train. You\ncan stay there till your father comes to his reason.\"\n\n\"It's quite like father _never_ to come to his reason,\" she reflected.\n\"Then I should have to be self-supporting. Of course, I should\nappreciate employment in a candy shop--I think I know all the principal\nkinds.\"\n\n\"Will you go?\" I asked.\n\n\"Yes,\" she replied simply, \"I'll go. But how can I get away from here?\"\n\n\"To-night,\" I said, \"is Christmas Eve, when Pierrepont the Ghost is\nsupposed to walk along the wall--right under this window. You don't\nbelieve that fairy story, do you?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Neither do I. But can't you see? The haunted wall begins at my window\non one end of the castle and ends at your window on the other. The bars\nof your cell, I see, are nearly all loose.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she laughed, \"I pried them out with a pair of scissors.\"\n\nI could hear Hobson's voice across the court giving orders to servants.\n\n\"Your father's coming. Remember to-night,\" I whispered.\n\n\"Midnight,\" she said softly, smiling out at me. I could have faced\nflocks and flocks of dragons for her at that moment. The old man was\ncoming nearer. I swung to the ground and escaped into a ruined court.\n\nWell, the hours that followed were anxious and busy for me. I worked in\nthe glamour of romance like a soldier about to do some particularly\nbrave and foolish thing. From the window of my room I looked down on the\nnarrow, giddy wall below. It _was_ a brave and foolish thing. Among the\nrubbish in an old armory I found a coil of stout rope, forty or fifty\nfeet of it. This I smuggled away. From a remote hall I borrowed a\nCrusader's helmet and spent the balance of the afternoon in my room\npracticing with a sheet across my shoulders, shroud-fashion.\n\nWe dined grandly at eight, the old man and I. He drank thirstily and\nchatted about the ghost, as you might discuss the chances in a coming\nathletic event. After what seemed an age he looked at his watch and\ncried: \"Whillikens! Eleven o'clock already! Well, I'll be going up to\nwatch from the haunted room. I think, Jeff, that you'll bring me luck\nto-night.\"\n\n\"I am sure I shall!\" I answered sardonically, as he departed.\n\nThree quarters of an hour later, wearing the Crusader's helmet and\nswathed in a bedsheet, I let myself down from the window to the haunted\nwall below. It was moonlight, bitter cold as I crouched on the wall,\nwaiting for the stroke of twelve, when I should act the spook and walk\nalong that precarious ledge to rescue Anita.\n\nThe \"haunted wall,\" I observed from where I stood, was shaped like an\nirregular crescent, being in plain view of Hobson's \"haunted room\" at\nthe middle, but not so at its north and south ends, where my chamber and\nAnita's tower were respectively situated. I pulled out my watch from\nunder my winding-sheet. Three minutes of twelve. I drew down the vizor\nof my helmet and gathered up my cerements preparatory to walking the\nhundred feet of wall which would bring me in sight of the haunted room\nwhere old Hobson kept his vigil. Two minutes, one minute I waited,\nwhen--I suddenly realized I was not alone.\n\nA man wearing a long cloak and a feather in his cap was coming toward me\nalong the moonlit masonry. Aha! So I was not the only masquerading swain\ncalling on the captive princess in the prison tower. A jealous pang shot\nthrough me as I realized this.\n\nThe man was within twenty feet of me, when I noticed something. He was\nnot walking on the wall. _He was walking on air, three or four feet\nabove the wall._ Nearer and nearer came the man--the Thing--now into\nthe light of the moon, whose beams seemed to strike through his misty\ntissue like the thrust of a sword. I was horribly scared. My knees\nloosened under me, and I clutched the vines at my back to save me from\nfalling into the moat below. Now I could see his face, and somehow fear\nseemed to leave me. His expression was so young and human.\n\n\"Ghost of the Pierrepont,\" I thought, \"whether you walk in shadow or in\nlight, you lived among a race of Men!\"\n\nHis noble, pallid face seemed to burn with its own pale light, but his\neyes were in darkness. He was now within two yards of me. I could see\nthe dagger at his belt. I could see the gory cut on his forehead. I\nattempted to speak, but my voice creaked like a rusty hinge. He neither\nheeded nor saw me; and when he came to the spot where I stood, he did\nnot turn out for me. He walked _through_ me! And when next I saw him he\nwas a few feet beyond me, standing in mid-air over the moat and gazing\nup at the high towers like one revisiting old scenes. Again he floated\ntoward me and poised on the wall four feet from where I stood.\n\n\"What do you here to-night?\" suddenly spoke, or seemed to speak, a voice\nthat was like the echo of a silence.\n\nNo answer came from my frozen tongue. Yet I would gladly have spoken,\nbecause somehow I felt a great sympathy for this boyish spirit.\n\n\"It has been many earth-years,\" he said, \"since I have walked these\ntowers. And ah, cousin, it has been many miles that I have been called\nto-night to answer the summons of my race. And this fortress--what power\nhas moved it overseas to this mad kingdom? Magic!\"\n\nHis eyes seemed suddenly to blaze through the shadows.\n\n\"Cousin,\" he again spoke, \"it is to you that I come from my far-off\nEnglish tomb. It was your need called me. It is no pious deed brings you\nto this wall to-night. You are planning to pillage these towers\nunworthily, even as I did yesterday. Death was my portion, and broken\nhearts to the father I wronged and the girl I sought.\"\n\n\"But it is the father wrongs the girl here,\" I heard myself saying.\n\n\"He who rules these towers to-day is of stern mind but loving heart,\"\nsaid the ghost. \"Patience. By the Star that redeems the world, love\nshould not be won _to-night_ by stealth, but by--love.\"\n\nHe raised his hands toward the tower, his countenance radiant with an\nundying passion.\n\n\"_She_ called to me and died,\" he said, \"and her little ghost comes not\nto earth again for any winter moon or any summer wind.\"\n\n\"But you--you come often?\" my voice was saying.\n\n\"No,\" said the ghost, \"only on Christmas Eve. Yule is the tide of\nspecters; for then the thoughts of the world are so beautiful that they\nenter our dreams and call us back.\"\n\nHe turned to go, and a boyish, friendly smile rested a moment on his\npale face.\n\n\"Farewell, Sir Geoffray de Pierrepont,\" he called to me.\n\nInto the misty moonlight the ghost floated to that portion of the wall\ndirectly opposite the haunted room. From where I stood I could not see\nthis chamber. After a moment I shook my numb senses to life. My first\ninstinct was one of strong human curiosity, which impelled me to follow\nfar enough to see the effect of the apparition on old Hobson, who must\nbe watching at the window.\n\nI tiptoed a hundred feet along the wall and peered around a turret up to\na room above, where Hobson's head could easily be seen in a patch of\nlight. The ghost, at that moment, was walking just below, and the effect\non the old man, appalling though it was, was ludicrous as well. He was\nleaning far out of the window, his mouth wide open; and the entire disk\nof his fat, hairless head was as pallid as the moon itself. The specter,\nwho was now rounding the curve of the wall near the tower, swerved\nsuddenly, and as suddenly seemed to totter headlong into the abyss\nbelow. As he dropped, a wild laugh broke through the frosty air. It\nwasn't from the ghost. It came from above--yes, it emanated from\nThaddeus Hobson, who had, apparently, fallen back, leaving the window\nempty. Lights began breaking out all over the castle. In another moment\nI should be caught in my foolish disguise. With the courage of a coward,\nI turned and ran full tilt along the dizzy ledge and back to my window,\nwhere I lost no seconds scrambling up the rope that led to my room.\n\nWith all possible haste I threw aside my sheet and helmet and started\ndownstairs. I had just wrestled with a ghost; I would now have it out\nwith the old man. The castle seemed ablaze below. I saw the flash of a\nlight skirt in the picture gallery, and Anita, pale as the vision I had\nso lately beheld, came running toward me.\n\n\"Father--saw it!\" she panted. \"He had some sort of sinking spell--he's\nbetter now--isn't it awful!\" She clung to me, sobbing hysterically.\n\nBefore I realized what I had done, I was holding her close in my arms.\n\n\"Don't!\" I cried. \"It was a good ghost--he had a finer spirit than mine.\nHe came to-night for you, dear, and for me. It was a foolish thing we\nplanned.\"\n\n\"Yes, but I wanted, I wanted to go!\" she sobbed now crying frankly on my\nshoulder.\n\n\"You _are_ going with me,\" I said fiercely, raising her head. \"But not\nover any ghost-ridden breakneck wall. We're going this time through the\nbig front door of this old castle, American fashion, and there'll be an\nautomobile waiting outside and a parson at the other end of the line.\"\n\nWe found Thaddeus Hobson alone, in the vast hall looking blankly at the\nfire.\n\n\"Jeff,\" he said solemnly, \"you sure brought me luck to-night if you can\ncall it such being scared into a human icicle. Br-r-r! Shall I ever get\nthe cold out of my backbone? But somehow, somehow that foggy feller\noutside sort of changed my look on things. It made me feel _kinder_\ntoward living folks. Ain't it strange!\"\n\n\"Mr. Hobson,\" I said, \"I think the ghost has made us _all_ see things\ndifferently. In a word, sir, I have a confession to make--if you don't\nmind.\"\n\nAnd I told him briefly of my accidental meeting with Anita in the\ndonjon, of the practical joke we planned, of our sudden meeting with the\n_real_ ghost on the ramparts. Mr. Hobson listened, his face growing\nredder and redder. At the finish of my story he suddenly leaped to his\nfeet and brought his fist down on the table with a bang.\n\n\"Well, you little devils!\" he said admiringly, and burst into loud\nlaughter. \"You're a spunky lad, Jeff. And there ain't any doubt that the\nde Pierreponts are as good stuff as you can get in the ancestry\nbusiness. The Christmas supper is spread in the banquet hall. Come, de\nPierrepont, will you sup with the old Earl?\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe huge oaken banquet hall, lined with rich hangings, shrunk us to\ndwarfs by its vastness. Golden goblets were at each place. A butler,\ndressed in antique livery, threw a red cloak over Hobson's fat\nshoulders. It was a whim of the old man's.\n\nAs we took our places, I noticed the table was set for four.\n\n\"Whose is the extra place?\" I asked.\n\nThe old man at first made no reply. At last he turned to me earnestly\nand said: \"Do you believe in ghosts?\"\n\n\"No,\" I replied. \"Yet how else can I explain that vision I saw on the\nramparts?\"\n\n\"Is the fourth place for him?\" Anita almost whispered.\n\nThe old man nodded mutely and raised a golden goblet.\n\n\"To the Transplanted Ghost!\" I said. It was an empty goblet that I\ntouched to my lips.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LAST GHOST IN HARMONY\n\nBY NELSON LLOYD\n\nFrom _Scribner's Magazine_. Copyright, 1907, by Charles Scribner's Sons.\nBy permission of the publishers and Nelson Lloyd.\n\n\n\n\nThe Last Ghost in Harmony\n\nBY NELSON LLOYD\n\n\nFrom his perch on the blacksmith's anvil he spoke between the puffs of\nhis post-prandial pipe. The fire in the forge was out and the day was\ngoing slowly, through the open door of the shop and the narrow windows,\nwestward to the mountains. In the advancing shadow, on the pile of\nbroken wheels on the work-bench, on keg and barrel, they sat puffing\ntheir post-prandial pipes and listening.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFor a partner in business I want a truthful man, but for a companion\ngive me one with imagination. To my mind imagination is the spice of\nlife. There is nothing so uninteresting as a fact, for when you know it\nthat is the end of it. When life becomes nothing but facts it won't be\nworth living; yet in a few years the race will have no imagination left.\nIt is being educated out. Look at the children. When I was young the\nbogey man was as real to me as pa and nearly as much to be feared of,\nbut just yesterday I was lectured for merely mentioning him to my neffy.\nSo with ghosts. We was taught to believe in ghosts the same as we was in\nAdam or Noar. Nowadays nobody believes in them. It is unscientific, and\nif you are superstitious you are considered ignorant and laughed at.\nGhosts are the product of the imagination, but if I imagine I see one he\nis as real to me as if he actually exists, isn't he? Therefore he does\nexist. That's logic. You fellows have become scientific and admits only\nwhat you see and feel, and don't depend on your imagination for\nanything. Such being the case, I myself admit that the sperrits no\nlonger ha'nt the burying-ground or play around your houses. I admit it\nbecause the same condition exact existed in Harmony when I was there,\nand because of what was told me by Robert J. Dinkle about two years\nafter he died, and because of what occurred between me and him and the\nRev. Mr. Spiegelnail.\n\nHarmony was a highly intellectual town. About the last man there with\nany imagination or interesting ideas, excepting me, of course, was\nRobert J. Dinkle. Yet he had an awful reputation, and when he died it\nwas generally stated privately that the last landmark of ignorance and\nsuperstition had been providentially removed. You know he had always\nbeen seeing things, but we set it down to his fondness for hard cider or\nhis natural prepensity for joshing. With him gone there was no one left\nto report the doings of the sperrit-world. In fact, so widespread was\nthe light of reason, as the Rev. Mr. Spiegelnail called it, that the\nburying-ground became a popular place for moonlight strolls. Even I\nwalked through it frequent on my way home from Miss Wheedle's, with\nwhom I was keeping company, and it never occurred to me to go any faster\nthere, or to look back over my shoulder, for I didn't believe in such\nfoolishness. But to the most intellectual there comes times of doubt\nabout things they know nothing of nor understand. Such a time come to\nme, when the wind was more mournfuller than usual in the trees, and the\nclouds scudded along overhead, casting peculiar shadders. My imagination\ngot the best of my intellect. I hurried. I looked back over my shoulder.\nI shivered, kind of. Natural I see nothing in the burying-ground, yet at\nthe end of town I was still uneasy-like, though half laughing at myself.\nIt was so quiet; not a light burned anywhere, and the square seemed\nlonelier than the cemetery, and the store was so deserted, so ghostly in\nthe moonlight, that I just couldn't keep from peering around at it.\n\nThen, from the empty porch, from the empty bench--empty, I swear, for I\ncould see plain, so clear was the night--from absolute nothing come as\npleasant a voice as ever I hear.\n\n\"Hello!\" it says.\n\nMy blood turned icy-like and the chills waved up and down all through\nme. I couldn't move.\n\nThe voice came again, so natural, so familiar, that I warmed some, and\nrubbed my eyes and stared.\n\nThere, sitting on the bench, in his favorite place, was the late Robert\nJ. Dinkle, gleaming in the moonlight, the front door showing right\nthrough him.\n\n\"I must appear pretty distinct,\" he says in a proud-like way. \"Can't you\nsee me very plain?\"\n\nSee him plain! I should think so. Even the patches on his coat was\nvisible, and only for the building behind him, he never looked more\nnatural, and hearing him so pleasant, set me thinking. This, says I, is\nthe sperrit of the late Robert J. Dinkle. In life he never did me any\nharm and in his present misty condition is likely to do less; if he is\nlooking for trouble I'm not afraid of a bit of fog. Such being the case,\nI says, I shall address him as soon as I am able.\n\nBut Robert got tired waiting, and spoke again in an anxious tone, a\nlittle louder, and ruther complaining, \"Don't I show up good?\" says he.\n\n\"I never see you looking better,\" I answered, for my voice had came\nback, and the chills were quieter, and I was fairly ca'm and dared even\nto move a little nearer.\n\nA bright smile showed on his pale face. \"It is a relief to be seen at\nlast,\" he cried, most cheerful. \"For years I've been trying to do a\nlittle ha'nting around here, and no one would notice me. I used to think\nmebbe my material was too delicate and gauzy, but I've conceded that,\nafter all, the stuff is not to blame.\"\n\nHe heaved a sigh so natural that I forgot all about his being a ghost.\nIndeed, taken all in all, I see that he had improved, was solemner, had\na sweeter expression and wasn't likely to give in to his old prepensity\nfor joshing.\n\n\"Set down and we will talk it over,\" he went on most winning. \"Really, I\ncan't do any harm, but please be a little afraid and then I will show up\ndistincter. I must be getting dim now.\"\n\n\"You are,\" says I, for though I was on the porch edging nearer him most\nbold, I could hardly see him.\n\nWithout any warning he gave an awful groan that brought the chills\nwaving back most violent. I jumped and stared, and as I stared he stood\nout plainer and solider in the moonlight.\n\n\"That's better,\" he said with a jolly chuckle; \"now you do believe in\nme, don't you? Well, set there nervous-like, on the edge of the bench\nand don't be too ca'm-like, or I'll disappear.\"\n\nThe ghost's orders were followed explicit. But with him setting there so\nnatural and pleasant it was hard to be frightened and more than once I\nforgot. He, seeing me peering like my eyesight was bad, would give a\ngroan that made my blood curdle. Up he would flare again, gleaming in\nthe moonlight full and strong.\n\n\"Harmony's getting too scientific, too intellectual,\" he said, speaking\nvery melancholic. \"What can't be explained by arithmetic or geography is\nput down as impossible. Even the preachers encourage such idees and talk\nabout Adam and Eve being allegories. As a result, the graveyard has\nbecome the slowest place in town. You simply can't ha'nt anything\naround here. A man hears a groan in his room and he gets up and closes\nthe shutters tighter, or throws a shoe at a rat, or swears at the wind\nin the chimney. A few sperrits were hanging around when I was first\ndead, but they were complaining very bad about the hard times. There\nused to be plenty of good society in the burying-ground, they said, but\none by one they had to quit. All the old Berrys had left. Mr. Whoople\nretired when he was taken for a white mule. Mrs. Morris A. Klump, who\nonce oppyrated 'round the deserted house beyond the mill had gave up in\ndisgust just a week before my arrival. I tried to encourage the few\nremaining, explained how the sperritualists were working down the valley\nand would strike town any time, but they had lost all hope--kept fading\naway till only me was left. If things don't turn for the better soon I\nmust go, too. It's awful discouraging. And lonely! Why folks ramble\naround the graves like even I wasn't there. Just last night my boy Ossy\ncame strolling along with the lady he is keeping company with, and where\ndo you s'pose they set down to rest, and look at the moon and talk about\nthe silliest subjecks? Right on my headstone! I stood in front of them\nand did the ghostliest things till I was clean tired out and\ndiscouraged. They just would not pay the least attention.\"\n\nThe poor old ghost almost broke down and cried. Never in life had I\nknown him so much affected, and it went right to my heart to see him\nwiping his eyes with his handkercher and snuffling.\n\n\"Mebbe you don't make enough noise when you ha'nt,\" says I most\nsympathetic.\n\n\"I do all the regular acts,\" says he, a bit het up by my remark. \"We\nalways were kind of limited. I float around and groan, and talk foolish,\nand sometimes I pull off bedclothes or reveal the hiding-place of buried\ntreasure. But what good does it do in a town so intellectual as\nHarmony?\"\n\nI have seen many folks who were down on their luck, but never one who so\nappealed to me as the late Robert J. Dinkle. It was the way he spoke,\nthe way he looked, his general patheticness, his very helplessness, and\ndeservingness. In life I had known him well, and as he was now I liked\nhim better. So I did want to do something for him. We sat studying for a\nlong time, him smoking very violent, blowing clouds of fog outen his\npipe, me thinking up some way to help him. And idees allus comes to them\nwho sets and waits.\n\n\"The trouble is partly as you say, Robert,\" I allowed after a bit, \"and\nagain partly because you can't make enough noise to awaken the\nslumbering imagination of intellectual Harmony. With a little natural\nhelp from me though, you might stir things up in this town.\"\n\nYou never saw a gladder smile or a more gratefuller look than that poor\nsperrit gave me.\n\n\"Ah,\" he says, \"with your help I could do wonders. Now who'll we begin\non?\"\n\n\"The Rev. Mr. Spiegelnail,\" says I, \"has about all the imagination left\nin Harmony--of course excepting me.\"\n\nRobert's face fell visible. \"I have tried him repeated and often,\" he\nsays, kind of argumentative-like. \"All the sign he made was to complain\nthat his wife talked in her sleep.\"\n\nI wasn't going to argue--not me. I was all for action, and lost no time\nin starting. Robert J., he followed me like a dog, up through town to\nour house, where I went in, leaving him outside so as not to disturb\nmother. There I got me a hammer and nails with the heavy lead sinker\noffen my fishnet, and it wasn't long before the finest tick-tack you\never saw was working against the Spiegelnails' parlor window, with me in\na lilac-bush operating the string that kept the weight a-swinging.\nBefore the house was an open spot where the moon shone full and clear,\nwhere Robert J. walked up and down, about two feet off the ground,\nwaving his arms slow-like and making the melancholiest groans. Now I\nhave been to _Uncle Tom's Cabin_ frequent, but in all my life I never\nsee such acting. Yet what was the consequences? Up went the window\nabove, and the Rev. Mr. Spiegelnail showed out plain in the moonlight.\n\n\"Who is there?\" he called very stern. You had otter see Robert then. It\nwas like tonic to him. He rose up higher and began to beat his arms most\nviolent and to gurgle tremendous. But the preacher never budged.\n\n\"You boys otter be ashamed of yourselves,\" he says in a severe voice.\n\n\"Louder, louder,\" I calls to Robert J., in answering which he began the\nmost awful contortions.\n\n\"You can hear me perfectly plain,\" says the dominie, now kind of\nsad-like. \"It fills my old heart with sorrow to see that yous all have\ngone so far astray.\"\n\nHearing that, so calm, so distinct, so defiant, made Robert J. stop\nshort and stare. To remind him I gave the weight an extra thump, and it\nwas so loud as to bring forth Mrs. Spiegelnail, her head showing plain\nas she peered out over the preacher's shoulder. The poor discouraged\nghost took heart, striking his tragicest attitude, one which he told me\nafterwards was his pride and had been got out of a book. But what was\nthe result?\n\n\"Does you hear anyone in the bushes, dear?\" inquires Mr. Spiegelnail,\ncocking his ears and listening.\n\n\"It must be Ossy Dinkle and them bad friends of his,\" says she, in her\nsour tone.\n\nPoor Robert! Hearing that, he about gave up hope.\n\n\"Don't I show up good?\" he asks in an anxious voice.\n\n\"I can see you distinct,\" says I, very sharp. \"You never looked better.\"\n\nDown went the window--so sudden, so unexpected that I did not know what\nto make of it. Robert J. thought he did, and over me he came floating,\nmost delighted.\n\n\"I must have worked,\" he said, laughing like he'd die, a-doubling up and\nholding his sides to keep from splitting. \"At last I have showed up\ndistinct; at last I am of some use in the world. You don't realize what\na pleasure it is to know that you are fulfilling your mission and living\nup to your reputation.\"\n\nPoor old ghost! He was for talking it all over then and there and\nsettled down on a soft bunch of lilacs, and fell to smoking fog and\nchattering. It did me good to see him so happy and I was inclined to\npuff up a bit at my own success in the ha'nting line. But it was not for\nlong. The rattle of keys warned us. The front door flew open and out\nbounded the Rev. Mr. Spiegelnail, clearing the steps with a jump, and\nflying over the lawn. All thought of the late Robert J. Dinkle left me\nthen, for I had only a few feet start of my pastor. You see I shouldn't\na-hurried so only I sung bass in the choir and I doubt if I could have\nconvinced him that I was working in the interests of Science and Truth.\nFleeing was instinct. Gates didn't matter. They were took on the wing,\nand down the street I went with the preacher's hot breath on my neck.\nBut I beat him. He tired after the first spurt and was soon left behind,\nso I could double back home to bed.\n\nRobert, he was for giving up entirely.\n\n\"I simply won't work,\" says he to me, when I met him on the store porch\nthat next night. \"A hundred years ago such a bit of ha'nting would have\ncaused the town to be abandoned; to-day it is attributed to natural\ncauses.\"\n\n\"Because,\" says I, \"we left behind such evidences of material\nmanifestations as strings and weights on the parlor window.\"\n\n\"S'pose we work right in the house?\" says he, brightening up. \"You can\nhide in the closet and groan while I act.\"\n\nNow did you ever hear anything innocenter than that? Yet he meant it so\nwell I did not even laugh.\n\n\"I'm too fond of my pastor,\" I says, \"to let him catch me in his closet.\nA far better spot for our work is the short cut he takes home from\nchurch after Wednesday evening meeting. We won't be so loud, but more\ndignified, melancholier, and tragic. You overacted last night, Robert,\"\nI says. \"Next time pace up and down like you were deep in thought and\nsigh gentle. Then if he should see you it would be nice to take his arm\nand walk home with him.\"\n\nI think I had the right idea of ha'nting, and had I been able to keep up\nRobert J. Dinkle's sperrits and to train him regular I could have\naroused the slumbering imagination of Harmony, and brought life to the\nburying-ground. But he was too easy discouraged. He lacked perseverance.\nFor if ever Mr. Spiegelnail was on the point of seeing things it was\nthat night as he stepped out of the woods. He had walked slow and\nmeditating till he come opposite where I was. Now I didn't howl or\ngroan or say anything particular. What I did was to make a noise that\nwasn't animal, neither was it human, nor was it regulation ghostly. As I\nhad stated to the late Robert J. Dinkle, what was needed for ha'nting\nwas something new and original. And it certainly ketched Mr.\nSpiegelnail's attention. I see him stop. I see his lantern shake. It\nappeared like he was going to dive into the bushes for me, but he\nchanged his mind. On he went, quicker, kind as if he wasn't afraid, yet\nwas, on to the open, where the moon brought out Robert beautiful as he\npaced slowly up and down, his head bowed like he was studying. Still the\npreacher never saw him, stepped right through him, in fact. I give the\ndreadful sound again. That stopped him. He turned, raised the lantern\nbefore him, put his hand to his ear, and seemed to be looking intense\nand listening. Hardly ten feet away stood Robert, all a-trembling with\nexcitement, but the light that showed through him was as steady as a\nrock, as the dominie watched and listened, so quiet and ca'm. He lowered\nthe lantern, rubbed his hands across his eyes, stepped forward and\nlooked again. The ghost was perfect. As I have stated, he was excited\nand his sigh shook a little, but he was full of dignity and sadity. He\nshouldn't have lost heart so soon. I was sure then that he almost showed\nup plain to the preacher and he would have grown on Mr. Spiegelnail had\nhe kept on ha'nting him instead of giving in because that one night the\npastor walked on to the house fairly cool. He did walk quicker, I know,\nand he did peer over his shoulder twicet and I did hear the kitchen door\nbang in a relieved way. But when we consider the stuff that ghosts are\nmade of we hadn't otter expect them to be heroes. They are too foggy and\ngauzy to have much perseverance--judging at least from Robert J.\n\n\"I simply can't work any more,\" says he, when I came up to him, as he\nsat there in the path, his elbows on his knees, his head on his hands,\nhis eyes studying the ground most mournful.\n\n\"But Robert----\" I began, thinking to cheer him up.\n\nHe didn't hear; he wouldn't listen--just faded away.\n\nHad he only held out there is no telling what he might have done in his\nline. Often, since then, have I thought of him and figgered on his\ntremendous possibilities. That he had possibilities I am sure. Had I\nonly realized it that last night we went out ha'nting, he never would\nhave got away from me. But the realization came too late. It came in\nchurch the very next Sunday, with the usual announcements after the long\nprayer, as Mr. Spiegelnail was leaning over the pulpit eying the\ncongregation through big smoked glasses.\n\nSays he in a voice that was full of sadness: \"I regret to announce that\nfor the first time in twenty years union services will be held in this\ntown next Sabbath.\" Setting in the choir, reading my music marks, I\nheard the preacher's words and started, for I saw at once that something\nunusual was happening, or had happened, or was about to happen.\n\"Unfortunately,\" said Mr. Spiegelnail, continuing, \"I shall have to turn\nmy pulpit over to Brother Spiker of the Baptist Church, for my failing\neyesight renders it necessary that I go at once to Philadelphia, to\nconsult an oculist. Some of my dear brethren may think this an unusual\nstep, but I should not desert them without cause. They may think,\nperhaps, that I am making much ado about nothing and could be treated\njust as well in Harrisburg. To such let me explain that I am suffering\nfrom astigmatism. It is not so much that I cannot see, but that I sees\nthings which I know are not there--a defect in sight which I feel needs\nthe most expert attention. Sunday-school at half-past nine; divine\nservice at eleven. I take for my text 'And the old men shall see\nvisions.'\"\n\nHow I did wish the late Robert J. Dinkle could have been in church that\nmorning. It would have so gladdened his heart to hear that he had partly\nworked, for if he worked partly, then surely, in time, he would have\nworked complete. For me, I was just wild with excitement, and was so\nbusy thinking of him and how glad he would be, that I didn't hear the\nsermon at all, and in planning new ways of ha'nting I forgot to sing in\nthe last anthem. You see, I figgered lively times ahead for Harmony--a\ngeneral return to the good old times when folks had imagination and had\nsomething more in their heads than facts. I had only to get Robert\nagain, and with him working it would not be long till all the old Berrys\nand Mrs. Klump showed up distinct and plain. But I wasn't well posted in\nthe weak characters of shades, for I thought, of course, I could find my\nsperrit friend easy when night came. Yet I didn't. I set on the store\nporch shivering till the moon was high up over the ridge. He just\nwouldn't come. I called for him soft-like and got no answer. Down to the\nburying-ground I went and set on his headstone. It was the quietest\nplace you ever see. The clouds was scudding overhead; the wind was\nsighing among the leaves; and through the trees the moon was gleaming so\nclear and distinct you could almost read the monnyments. It was just a\nnight when things should have been lively there--a perfect night for\nha'nting. I called for Robert. I listened. He never answered. I heard\nonly a bull-frog a-bellering in the pond, a whippoor-will whistling in\nthe grove, and a dog howling at the moon.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GHOST OF MISER BRIMPSON\n\nBY EDEN PHILLPOTTS\n\nFrom _Tales of the Tenements_, by Eden Phillpotts. Published in America\nby John Lane Company, and in England by John Murray. By permission of\nthe publishers and Eden Phillpotts.\n\n\n\n\nThe Ghost of Miser Brimpson\n\nBY EDEN PHILLPOTTS\n\n\nI\n\nPenniless and proud he was; and that pair don't draw a man to pleasant\nplaces when they be in double harness. There's only one thing can stop\n'em if they take the bit between their teeth, and that's a woman. So\nthere, you might say, lies the text of the tale of Jonathan Drake, of\nDunnabridge Farm, a tenement in the Forest of Dartymoor. 'Twas Naboth's\nvineyard to Duchy, and the greedy thing would have given a very fair\nprice for it, without a doubt; but the Drake folk held their land, and\nwouldn't part with it, and boasted a freehold of fifty acres in the very\nmidst of the Forest. They did well, too, and moved with the times, and\nkept their heads high for more generations than I can call home; and\nthen they comed to what all families, whether gentle or simple, always\ncome to soon or late. And that's a black sheep for bell-wether. Bad uns\nthere'll be in every generation of a race; but the trouble begins when a\nbad un chances to be up top; and if the head of the family is a\ndrunkard, or a spendthrift, or built on too free and flowing a pattern\nfor this work-a-day shop, then the next generation may look out for\nsqualls, as the sailor-men say.\n\n'Twas Jonathan's grandfather that did the harm at Dunnabridge. He had\nsport in his blood, on his mother's side, and 'twas horses ran him into\ntrouble. He backed 'em, and was ruined; and then his son bred 'em, and\ndidn't do very much better. So, when the pair of 'em dropped out of the\nhunt, and died with their backs to the wall, one after t'other, it\nlooked as if the game was up for them to follow. By good chance,\nhowever, Tom Drake had but one child--a boy--the Jonathan as I be\ntelling about; and when his father and grandfather passed away, within a\nyear of each other, Dunnabridge was left to Tom's widow and her son, him\nthen being twenty-two. She was for selling Dunnabridge and getting away\nfrom Dartymoor, because the place had used her bad, and she hated the\nsight of it; but Jonathan, a proud chap even then, got the lawyers to\nlook into the matter, and they told him that 'twasn't vital for\nDunnabridge to be sold, though it might ease his pocket, and smooth his\nfuture to do so, 'specially as Duchy wanted the place rather bad, and\nhad offered the value of it. And Jonathan's mother was on the side of\nDuchy, too, and went on her knees to the man to sell; but he wouldn't.\nHe had a bee in his bonnet sometimes, and he said that all the Drakes\nwould rise out of their graves to Widecombe churchyard, and haunt his\nrising up and going down if he were to do such a thing, just to suit\nhis own convenience, and be rid of the place. So he made a plan with the\ncreditors. It figured out that his father and grandfather had owed near\na thousand pound between them; and Jonathan actually set himself to pay\nit off to the last penny. 'Twas the labor of years; but by the time he\nwas thirty-three he done it--at what cost of scrimping and screwing,\nonly his mother might have told. She never did tell, however, for she\ndied two year before the last item was paid. Some went as far as to\ndeclare that 'twas her son's miserly ways hurried her into her grave;\nand, for all I know, they may have done so, for 'tis certain, in her\nhusband's life, she had a better time. Tom was the large-hearted, juicy,\neasy sort, as liked meat on the table, and plenty to wash it down; and\nhe loved Mercy Jane Drake very well; and, when he died, the only thought\nthat troubled him was leaving her; and the last thing he advised his son\nwas to sell Dunnabridge, and take his mother off the Moor down to the\n\"in country\" where she'd come from.\n\nBut Jonathan was made of different stuff, and 'twas rumored by old\npeople that had known the family for several generations that he favored\nan ancient forefather by name of Brimpson Drake. This bygone man was a\nmiser and the richest of the race. He'd lived in the days when we were\nat war with France and America, and when Princetown sprang up, and a\ngert war-prison was built there to cage all the chaps we got on our\nhands through winning such a lot o' sea battles. And Miser Brimpson was\nsaid to have made thousands by helping rich fellows to escape from the\nprison. Truth and falsehood mixed made up his story as 'twas handed\ndown. But one thing appeared to be fairly true about it; which was, that\nwhen the miser died, and Dunnabridge went to his cousin, the horseracer,\nnot a penny of his fortune ever came into the sight of living men. So\nsome said 'twas all nonsense, and he never had no money at all, but only\npretended to it; and others again, declared that he knew too well who'd\nfollow in his shoes at Dunnabridge, and hid his money accordingly, so\nthat no Drake should have it. For he hated his heirs as only a miser can\nhate 'em.\n\nSo things stood when Mercy Jane died and Jonathan was left alone. He\npaid all his relations' debts, and he had his trouble and the honor of\nbeing honorable for his pains. Everybody respected him something\nwonderful; but, all the same, a few of his mother's friends always did\nsay that 'twas a pity he put his dead father's good name afore his\nliving mother's life. However, we'm not built in the pattern of our\nfellow-creatures, and 'tis only fools that waste time blaming a man for\nbeing himself.\n\nJonathan went his stern way; and then, in the lonely days after his\nparent was taken, when he lived at Dunnabridge, with nought but two\nhinds and a brace of sheep-dogs, 'twas suddenly borne in upon his narrow\nsight that there might be other women still in the world, though his\nmother had gone out of it. And he also discovered, doubtless, that a\nhome without a woman therein be merely the cruel mockery of what a home\nshould be.\n\nA good few folk watched Jonathan to see what he'd do about it, and no\ndoubt a maiden here and there was interested too; because, though a\nterrible poor man, he wasn't bad to look at, though rather hard about\nthe edge of the jaw, and rather short and stern in his manners to human\ncreatures and beasts alike.\n\nAnd then beginned his funny courting--if you can call it courting, where\na poor man allows hisself the luxury of pride at the wrong time, and\nmakes a show of hisself in consequence. At least that's my view; but you\nmust know that a good few, quite as wise as me, took t'other side, and\nheld that Jonathan covered his name with glory when he changed his mind\nabout Hyssop Burges. That was her bitter name, but a pleasanter girl\nnever walked on shoe-leather. She was Farmer Stonewer's niece to White\nWorks, and he took her in for a charity, and always said that 'twas the\nbest day's work as ever he had done. A straight, hardworking, cheerful\nsort of a girl, with nothing to name about her very special save a fine\nshape and a proud way of holding her head in the air and looking her\nfellow creatures in the eyes. Proud she was for certain, and terrible\npartickler as to her friends; but there happened to be that about\nJonathan that made flint to her steel. He knowed she was penniless, or\nhe'd not have looked at her twice; and when, after a short, fierce sort\nof courting, she took him, everybody felt pleased about it but Farmer\nStonewer, who couldn't abide the thought of losing Hyssop, though his\nwife had warned him any time this four year that 'twas bound to happen.\n\nFarmer and the girl were sitting waiting for Jonathan one night; and she\nwas a bit nervous, and he was trying for to calm her.\n\n\"Jonathan must be told,\" she says. \"It can't go on no longer.\"\n\n\"Then tell him,\" says her uncle. \"Good powers!\" he says; \"to see you,\none would think the news was the worst as could ever fall between a pair\no' poor lovers, instead of the best.\"\n\n\"I know him a lot better than you,\" she tells Farmer; \"and I know how\nplaguey difficult he can be where money's the matter. He very near\nthrowed me over when, in a weak moment, I axed him to let me buy my own\ntokening-ring. Red as a turkey's wattles did he flame, and said I'd\ninsulted him; and now, when he hears the secret, I can't for the life of\nme guess how he'll take it.\"\n\n\"'Twas a pity you didn't tell him when he offered for you,\" declared\nHyssop's aunt. \"Proud he is as a silly peacock, and terrible frightened\nof seeming to look after money, or even casting his eye where it bides;\nbut he came to you without any notion of the windfall, and he loved you\nfor yourself, like an honest man; and you loved him the same way; and\nright well you know that if your old cousin had left you five thousand\npound instead of five hundred, Jonathan Drake was the right chap for\nyou. He can't blame himself, for not a soul on Dartymoor but us three\nhas ever heard tell about the money.\"\n\n\"But he'll blame me for having money at all,\" answered the girl. \"He\nsaid a dozen times afore he offered for me, that he'd never look at a\nwoman if she'd got more cash than what he had himself. That's why I\ncouldn't bring myself to confess to it--and lose him. And, after we was\ntokened, it got to be harder still.\"\n\n\"Why not bide till you'm married, then?\" asked Mrs. Stonewer. \"Since it\nhave gone so long, let it go longer, and surprise him with the news on\nthe wedding-night--eh, James?\"\n\n\"No,\" answered Farmer. \"'Enough is as good as a feast.' 'Tis squandering\nblessings to do that at such a time. Keep the news till some rainy day,\nwhen he's wondering how to get round a tight corner. That's the moment\nto tell him; and that's the moment he's least likely to make a face at\nthe news.\"\n\nBut Hyssop wouldn't put it off no more; she said as she'd not have any\nfurther peace till the murder was out. And that very night, sure enough\nwhen Jonathan comed over from Dunnabridge for his bit of love-making,\nand the young couple had got the farm parlor to themselves, she plumped\nit out, finding him in a very kindly mood. They never cuddled much, for\nhe wasn't built that way; but he'd not disdain to sit beside her and\nput his arm around her now and again, when she picked up his hand and\ndrew it round. Then, off and on, she'd rub her cheek against his\nmutton-chop whiskers, till he had to kiss her in common politeness.\n\nWell, Hyssop got it out--Lord alone knows how, as she said afterwards.\nShe got it out, and told him that an old, aged cousin had died, and left\nher a nice little skuat[1] of money; and how she'd never touched a penny\nbut let it goody in the bank; and how she prayed and hoped 'twould help\n'em to Dunnabridge; and how, of course, he must have the handling of it,\nbeing a man, and so cruel clever in such things. She went on and on,\npretty well frightened to stop and hear him. But, after she'd said it\nover about a dozen times, her breath failed her, and she shut her mouth,\nand tried to smile, and looked up terrible anxious and pleading at\nJonathan.\n\nHis hard gray eyes bored into her like a brace of gimlets, and in return\nfor all her talk he axed but one question.\n\n\"How long have you had this here money?\" he said.\n\nShe told the truth, faltering and shaking under his glare.\n\n\"Four years and upwards, Jonathan.\"\n\n\"That's years and years afore I axed you to marry me?\"\n\n\"Yes, Jonathan.\"\n\n\"And you remember what I said about never marrying anybody as had more\nthan what I have?\"\n\n\"Yes, Jonathan.\"\n\n\"And you full know how many a time I told you that, after I paid off all\nmy father's debts, I had nought left, and 'twould be years afore I could\nbuild up anything to call money?\"\n\n\"Yes, Jonathan.\"\n\n\"Very well, then!\" he cried out, and his brow crooked down and his fists\nclenched. \"Very well, you've deceived me deliberate, and if you'd do\nthat in one thing, you would in another. I'm going out of this house\nthis instant moment, and you can tell your relations why 'tis. I'm\nterrible sorry, Hyssop Burges, for no man will ever love you better than\nwhat I did; and so you'd have lived to find out when all this here\ncourting tomfoolery was over, and you'd come to be my wife. But now I'll\nhave none of you, for you've played with me. And so--so I'll bid you\ngood-bye!\"\n\nHe went straight out without more speech; and she tottered, weeping, to\nher uncle and aunt. They couldn't believe their senses; and Jimmy\nStonewer declared thereon that any man who could make himself such a\nmasterpiece of a fool as Jonathan had done that night, was better out of\nthe marriage state than in it. He told Hyssop as she'd had a marvelous\nescape from a prize zany; and his wife said the same. But the girl\ncouldn't see it like that. She knowed Jonathan weren't a prize zany,\nand his raging pride didn't anger her, for she admired it something\nwonderful, and it only made her feel her loss all the crueller to see\nwhat a terrible rare, haughty sort of a chap he was. There were a lot of\nother men would have had her, and twice as many again, if they'd known\nabout the money; but they all seemed as tame as robins beside her hawk\nof a Jonathan. She had plenty of devil in her, too, when it came to the\nfighting pitch; and now, while he merely said that the match was broken\noff through a difference of opinion, and gave no reason for it, she set\nto work with all her might to get him back again, and used her\nlove-sharpened wits so well as she knew how, to best him into matrimony.\n\n\nII\n\nIn truth she made poor speed. Jonathan was always civil afterwards; but\nyou might as soon have tried to thaw an iceberg with a box of matches as\nto get him round again by gentleness and affection. He was the sort that\ncan't be won with kindness. He felt he'd treated the world better than\nthe world had treated him, and the thought shriveled his heart a bit.\nAlways shy and suspicious, you might say; and yet, underneath it, the\nmost honorable and upright and high-minded man you could wish to meet.\nHyssop loved him like her life, and she got a bit poorly in health after\ntheir sad quarrel. Then chance willed it that, going down from\nPrincetown to Plymouth by train--to see a chemist, and get something to\nmake her eat--who should be in the selfsame carriage but Mr. Drake and\nhis hind, Thomas Parsons.\n\nThere was others there, too; and it fell out that an old fellow as\nknowed Jonathan's grandfather before him, brought up the yarn about\nMiser Brimpson, and asked young Drake if he took any stock in it.\n\nOf course the man pooh-poohed such foolery, and told the old chap not to\ntalk nonsense like that in the ear of the nineteenth century; but when\nJonathan and Parsons had got out of the train--which they did do at\nYelverton station--Hyssop, as knowed the old man, axed him to tell more\nabout the miser; and he explained, so well as he knew how, that Brimpson\nDrake had made untold thousands out of the French and American\nprisoners, and that, without doubt, 'twas all hidden even to this day at\nDunnabridge.\n\n\"Of course Jonathan's too clever to believe such a tale--like his father\nbefore him; but his grandfather believed it, and the old blid spent half\nhis time poking about the farm. Only, unfortunately, he didn't have no\nluck. But 'tis there for sure; and if Jonathan had enough faith he'd\ncome by it--not by digging and wasting time and labor, but by doing what\nis right and proper when you'm dealing with such matters.\"\n\n\"And what might that be?\" axed Miss Burges.\n\nJust then, however, the train for Plymouth ran up, and the old man told\nher that he'd explain some other time.\n\n\"This generation laughs at such things,\" he said; \"but they laugh best\nwho laugh last, and, for all we can say to the contrary, 'tis nought but\nhis conceit and pride be standing between that stiff-necked youth and\nthe wealth of a bank.\"\n\nHyssop, she thought a lot upon this; but she hadn't no need to go to the\nold chap again, as she meant to do, for when she got home, her\nuncle--Farmer Stonewer--knowed all about the matter, and told her how\n'twas a very rooted opinion among the last generation that a miser's\nspirit never could leave its hidden hoard till the stuff was brought to\nlight, and in human hands once more.\n\n\"Millions of good money has been found in that manner, if all we hear is\ntrue,\" declared Farmer Jimmy; \"and if one miser has been known to walk,\nwhich nobody can deny, then why shouldn't another? Them as believe in\nsuch dark things--and I don't say I do, and I don't say I don't--them as\nknow of such mysteries happening in their own recollection, or in the\nmemory of their friends, would doubtless say that Miser Brimpson still\ncreeps around his gold now and again; and if that money be within the\nfour corners of Dunnabridge Farm, and if Jonathan happed to be on the\nlookout on the rightful night and at the rightful moment, 'tis almost\nany odds but he might see his forbear sitting over his money-bags like a\nhen on a clutch of eggs, and so recover the hoard.\"\n\n\"But faith's needed for such a deed,\" Mrs. Stonewer told her niece; \"and\nthat pig-headed creature haven't no faith. Too proud, he is, to believe\nin anything he don't understand. 'Twas even so with Lucifer afore him.\nIf you told him--Jonathan--this news, he'd rather let the money go than\nset off ghost-hunting in cold blood. Yet there it is: and a\nhumbler-minded fashion of chap, with the Lord on his side, and a\ntrustful heart in his bosom, might very like recover all them tubs of\ncash the miser come by.\"\n\n\"And then he'd have thousands to my poor tens,\" said Hyssop. \"Not that\nhe'd ever come back to me now, I reckon.\"\n\nBut, all the same, she knowed by the look in Jonathan's eye when they\nmet, that he loved her still, and that his silly, proud heart was\nhungering after her yet, though he'd rather have been drawn under a\nharrow than show a spark of what was burning there.\n\nAnd so, upon this nonsense about a buried treasure she set to work again\nto use her brains, and see if there might be any road out of the trouble\nby way of Miser Brimpson's ghost.\n\nWhat she did, none but them as helped her ever knew, until the story\ncomed round to me; but 'twas the cleverest thing that ever I heard of a\nmaiden doing, and it worked a wonder. In fact, I can't see but a single\nobjection to the plot, though that was a serious thing for the girl. It\nlay in the fact that there had to be a secret between Hyssop and her\nhusband; and she kept it close as the grave until the grave itself\nclosed over him. Yet 'twas an innocent secret, too; and, when all's\nsaid, 'tisn't a wedded pair in five hundred as haven't each their one\nlittle cupboard fast locked, with the key throwed away.\n\nSix months passed by, and Jonathan worked as only he knowed how to work,\nand tried to forget his sad disappointment by dint of toil. Early and\nlate he labored, and got permission to reclaim a bit of moor for a\n\"newtake,\" and so added a very fair three acres to his farm. He noticed\nabout this time that his hind, Parsons, did oft drag up the subject of\nMiser Brimpson Drake; and first Jonathan laughed, and then he was\nangered, and bade Thomas hold his peace. But, though a very obedient and\nhumble sort of man, Parsons would hark back to the subject, and tell how\nhis father had known a man who was own brother to a miser; and how, when\nthe miser died, his own brother had seen him clear as truth in the\nchimley-corner of his room three nights after they'd buried him; and how\nthey made search, and found, not three feet from where the ghost had\nstood, a place in the wall with seventeen golden sovereigns hid in it,\nand a white witch's cure for glanders. Thomas Parsons swore on the Book\nto this; and he said, as a certain fact, that New Year's Night was the\ntime most misers walked; and he advised Jonathan not to be dead to his\nown interests.\n\n\"At least, as a thinking man, that believes in religion and the powers\nof the air, in Bible word, you might give it a chance,\" said Thomas; and\nthen Jonathan told him to shut his mouth, and not shame Dunnabridge by\ntalking such childish nonsense.\n\nThe next autumn Jonathan went up beyond Exeter to buy some of they\nblack-faced, horned Scotch sheep, and he wanted for Parsons to go with\nhim; but his man falled ill the night afore, and so young Hacker went\ninstead.\n\nDrake reckoned then that Thomas Parsons would have to leave, for\nDunnabridge weren't a place for sick folk; and he'd made up his mind\nafter he came back to turn the old chap off; but Thomas was better when\nthe master got home, so the question of sacking him was let be, and\nJonathan contented himself by telling Tom that, if he falled ill again,\n'twould be the last time. And Parsons said that was as it should be; but\nhe hoped that at his age--merely sixty-five or thereabout--he wouldn't\nbe troubled with his breathing parts again for half a score o' years at\nleast. He added that he'd done his work as usual while the master was\naway; but he didn't mention that Hyssop Burges had made so bold as to\ncall at Dunnabridge with a pony and cart, and that she'd spent a tidy\nlong time there, and gone all over the house and farmyard, among other\nplaces, afore she drove off again.\n\nAnd the next chapter of the story was told by Jonathan himself to his\ntwo men on the first day of the following year.\n\nThere was but little light of morning just then, and the three of 'em\nwere putting down some bread and bacon and a quart of tea by candlelight\nin the Dunnabridge kitchen, when Thomas saw that his master weren't\neating nothing to name. Instead, he went out to the barrel and drawed\nhimself a pint of ale, and got along by the peat fire with it, and stuck\nhis boots so nigh the scads as he dared without burning 'em.\n\n\"What's amiss?\" said Thomas. \"Don't say you'm sick, master. And if you\nbe, I lay no liquor smaller than brandy will fetch you round.\"\n\n\"I ban't sick,\" answered Jonathan shortly.\n\nHe seemed in doubt whether to go on. Then he resolved to do so.\n\n\"There was a man in the yard last night,\" he said; \"and, if I thought as\neither of you chaps knowed anything about it, I'd turn you off this\ninstant, afore you'd got the bacon out of your throats.\"\n\n\"A man? Never!\" cried Parsons.\n\n\"How was it the dog didn't bark?\" asked Hacker.\n\n\"How the devil do I know why he didn't bark?\" answered Jonathan, dark as\nnight, and staring in the fire. One side of his face was red with the\nflames, and t'other side blue as steel along of the daylight just\nbeginning to filter in at the window.\n\n\"All I can say is this,\" he added. \"I turned in at half-after ten, just\nafter that brace of old fools to Brownberry went off to see the New Year\nin. I slept till midnight; then something woke me with a start. What\n'twas, I can't tell, but some loud sound near at hand, no doubt. I was\ngoing off again when I heard more row--a steady sound repeated over and\nover. And first I thought 'twas owls; and then I heard 'twas not. You\nmight have said 'twas somebody thumping on a barrel; but, at any rate, I\nwoke up, and sat up, and found the noise was in the yard.\n\n\"I looked out of my chamber window then, and the moon was bright as day,\nand the stars sparkling likewise; and there, down by 'the Judge's Table'\nwhere the thorn-tree grows, I see a man standing by the old barrel as\nplain as I see you chaps now.\"\n\n\"The Judge's Table\" be a wonnerful curiosity at Dunnabridge, and if you\ngo there you'll do well to ax to see it. 'Tis a gert slab of moorstone\nsaid to have come from Crokern Torr, where the tinners held theer\nparliament in the ancient times. Now it bides over a water-trough with a\nwhite-thorn tree rising up above.\n\nJonathan took his breath when he'd got that far, and fetched his pipe\nout of his pocket and lighted it. Then he drank off half the beer, and\nspat in the fire, and went on.\n\n\"A man so tall as me, if not taller. He'd got one of them old white\nbeaver hats on his head, and he wore a flowing white beard, so long as\nmy plough-horse's tail, and he walked up and down, up and down over the\nstones, like a sailor walks up and down on the deck of a ship. I shouted\nto the chap, but he didn't take no more notice than the moon. Up and\ndown he went; and then I told him, if he wasn't off inside two minutes,\nI'd get my fowling-piece and let fly. Still he paid no heed; and I don't\nmind saying to you men that, for half a second, I felt creepy-crawly and\ngoose-flesh down the back. But 'twas only the cold, I reckon, for my\nwindow was wide open, and I'd been leaning out of it for a good while\ninto ten degrees of frost.\n\n\"After that, I got angry, and went down house and hitched the gun off\nthe hooks over the mantelpiece, and ran out, just as I was, in nought\nbut my boots and my nightshirt. The hour was so still as the grave at\nfirst, and the moon shone on the river far below and lit up the eaves\nand windows; and then, through the silence, I heard Widecombe bells\nringing in the New Year. But the old night-bird in his top hat was gone.\nNot a hair of his beard did he leave behind. I looked about, and then up\ncame the dog, barking like fury, not knowing who I was, dressed that\nway, till he heard my voice. And that's the tale; and who be that\ncurious old rascal I'd much like to know.\"\n\nThey didn't answer at first, and the daylight gained on 'em. Then old\nParsons spoke up, and wagged his head and swore that 'twas no man his\nmaster had seen, but a creature from the other world.\n\n\"I'll lay my life,\" he said, \"'twas the spectrum of Miser Brimpson as\nyou saw walking; and I'll take oath by the New Year that 'twas his way\nto show where his stuff be buried. For God's sake,\" he says, \"if you\ndon't want to get into trouble with unknown creatures, go out and pull\nup the cobblestones, and see if there's anything underneath 'em.\"\n\nBut Jonathan made as though the whole thing was nonsense, and wouldn't\nlet neither Thomas nor Hacker move a pebble. Only, the next day, he went\noff to a very old chap called Samuel Windeatt, whose father had been a\nboy at the time of the War Prison, and was said to have seen and known\nMiser Brimpson in the flesh. And the old man declared that, in his\nchildish days, he'd heard of the miser, and that he certainly wore a\nbeaver hat and had a white beard a yard long. So Jonathan came home\nagain more thoughtful than afore, and finally--though he declared that\nhe was ashamed to do it--he let Tom overpersuade him; and two days after\nthe three men set to work where Drake had seen the spectrum.\n\nThey dug and they dug, this way and that; and Jonathan found nought, and\nParsons found nought; but Hacker came upon a box, and they dragged it\nout of the earth, and underneath of it was another box like the first.\nThey was a pair of old rotten wood chests, by the look of them, made of\nboards nailed together with rusty nails. No locks or keys they had; but\nthat was no matter, for they fell abroad at a touch, and inside of them\nwas a lot of plate--candlesticks, snuffers, tea-kettles, table silver,\nand the like.\n\n\"Thunder!\" cried out Jonathan. \"'Tis all pewter trash, not worth a\nfive-pound note! Us'll dig again.\"\n\nAnd dig they did for a week, till the farmyard in that place was turned\nover like a trenched kitchen-garden. But not another teaspoon did they\nfind.\n\nMeantime, however, somebody as understood such things explained to young\nDrake that the stuff unearthed was not pewter, nor yet Britannia metal\nneither, but old Sheffield plate, and worth plenty of good money at\nthat.\n\nJonathan felt too mazed with the event to do anything about it for a\nmonth; then he went to Plymouth, and took a few pieces of the find in\nhis bag. And the man what he showed 'em to was so terrible interested\nthat nothing would do but he must come up to Dunnabridge and see the\nlot. He offered two hundred and fifty pound for the things on the nail;\nso Jonathan saw very clear that they must be worth a good bit more. They\nhaggled for a week, and finally the owner went up to Exeter and got\nanother chap to name a price. In the long run, the dealers halved the\nthings, and Jonathan comed out with a clear three hundred and fifty-four\npound.\n\n\nIII\n\nHe wasn't very pleased to talk about his luck, and inquisitive people\ngot but little out of him on the subject; but, of course, Parsons and\nHacker spoke free and often on the subject, for 'twas the greatest\nadventure as had ever come to them in their lives; and, from telling the\ntale over and over old Parsons got to talk about it as if he'd seen the\nghost himself.\n\nThen, after he'd chewed over the matter for a space of three or four\nmonths, and spring was come again, Jonathan Drake went off one night to\nWhite Works, just the same as he used to do when he was courting Hyssop\nBurges; and there was the little party as usual, with Mrs. Stonewer\nknitting, and Farmer reading yesterday's newspaper, and Hyssop sewing in\nher place by her aunt.\n\n\"Well!\" says Farmer Jimmy, \"wonders never cease! And to see you again\nhere be almost so big a wonder as that they tell about of the old\nmiser's tea-things. I'm sure we all give you joy, Jonathan; and I\nneedn't tell you as we was cruel pleased to hear about it.\"\n\nThe young man thanked them very civilly, and said how 'twas a coorious\ncome-along-of-it, and he didn't hardly know what to think of the matter\neven to that day.\n\n\"I should reckon 'twas a bit of nonsense what I'd dreamed,\" he said;\n\"but money's money, as who should know better than me? And, by the same\ntoken, I want a few words with Hyssop if she'm willing to give me ten\nminutes of her time.\"\n\n\"You'm welcome, Mr. Drake,\" she said.\n\nHe started at the surname; but she got up, and they went off just in\nthe usual way to the parlor; and when they was there, she sat down in\nher old corner of the horsehair sofa and looked at him. But he didn't\nsit down--not at first. He walked about fierce and talked fierce.\n\n\"I'll ax one question afore I go on, and, if the answer's what I fear,\nI'll trouble you no more,\" he said. \"In a word, be you tokened again? I\nsuppose you be, for you're not the sort to go begging. Say it quick if\n'tis so, and I'll be off and trouble you no further.\"\n\n\"No, Mr. Drake. I'm free as the day you--you throwed me over,\" she\nanswered, in a very quiet little voice.\n\nHe snorted at that, but was too mighty thankful to quarrel with the\nwords. She could see he began to grow terrible excited now; and he\nwalked up and down, taking shorter and shorter strides this way and\nthat, like a hungry caged tiger as knows his bit of horse-flesh be on\nthe way.\n\nAt last he bursts out again.\n\n\"There was a lot of lies told about that old plate us found at\nDunnabridge. But the truth of the matter is, that I sold it for three\nhundred and fifty-four pounds.\"\n\n\"So Tom Parsons told uncle. A wonderful thing; and we sat up all night\ntalking about it, Mr. Drake.\"\n\n\"For God's sake call me 'Jonathan'!\" he cried out; \"and tell me--tell me\nwhat the figure of your legacy was. You must tell me--you can't withhold\nit. 'Tis life or death--to me.\"\n\nShe'd never seen him so excited, but very well knowed what was in his\nmind.\n\n\"If you must know, you must,\" she answered. \"I thought I told you\nwhen--when----\"\n\n\"No, you didn't. I wouldn't bide to hear. Whatever 'twas, you'd got more\nthan me, and that was all I cared about; but now, if by good fortune\n'tis less than mine, you understand----\"\n\n\"Of course 'tis less. A hundred and eighty pound and the interest--a\nlittle over two hundred in all--is what I've gotten.\"\n\n\"Thank God!\" he said.\n\nThen he axed her if she could marry him still, or if she knew too much\nabout his ways and his ideas to care about doing so.\n\nAnd she took him again.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nYou see, Hyssop Burges was my mother, and when father died I had the\nrights of the story from her. By that time the old people at White Works\nand Tom Parsons was all gone home, and the secret remained safe enough\nwith Hyssop herself.\n\nThe great difficulty was to put half her money and more, slap into\nJonathan's hands without his knowing how it got there; and, even when\nthe game with the ghost was hit upon, 'twas hard to know how to do it\nclever. Hyssop wanted to hide golden sovereigns at Dunnabridge; but her\nuncle, with wonnerful wit, pointed out that they'd all be dated; and to\nget three hundred sovereigns and more a hundred years old could never\nhave been managed. Then old Thomas, who was in the secret, of course,\nand played the part of Miser Brimpson, and got five pounds for doing it\nso clever, and another five after from his master, when the stuff was\nfound--he thought upon trinkums and jewels; and finally Mrs. Stonewer,\nas had a friend in the business, said that Sheffield plate would do the\ntrick. And she was right. The plate was bought for three hundred and\neighty pound, and kept close at White Works till 'twas known that\nJonathan meant to go away and bide away some days. Then my mother drove\nacross with it; and Thomas made the cases wi' old rotten boards, and\nthey drove a slant hole under the cobbles, and got all vitty again long\nafore young Drake came back home.\n\n\"Me and Jonathan was wedded in the fall of that year,\" said my mother to\nme when she told the tale. \"And, come the next New Year's Night, he was\nat our chamber window as the clock struck twelve, and bided there\nlooking out into the yard for an hour, keen as the hawk that he was. He\nthought I must be asleep; but well I knowed he was seeking for an old\nman in a beaver hat wi' a long white beard, and well I knowed he'd never\nsee him again. Of course your father took good care not to tell me the\nnext morning that he'd been on the lookout for the ghost.\"\n\nAnd my mother, in her own last days, oft dwelt on that trick; and\nsometimes she'd say, as the time for meeting father got nearer and\nnearer, \"I wonder if 'twill make any difference in heaven, where no\nsecrets be hid?\" And, knowing father so well as I had, I felt very sure\nas it might make a mighty lot of difference. So, in my crafty way, I\nhedged, and told mother that, for my part, I felt sartain there were\nsome secrets that wouldn't even be allowed to come out at Judgment Day,\nfor fear of turning heaven into t'other place; and that this was one of\n'em. She always used to fret at that, however.\n\n\"I want for it to come out,\" she'd say. \"And, if Jonathan don't know, I\nshall certainly tell him. I've kept it in long enough, and I can't trust\nmyself to do it no more. He've got to know, and, with all eternity to\nget over it and forgive me in, I have a right to be hopeful that he\nwill.\"\n\nHyssop Drake died in that fixed resolve; and I'm sure I trust that, when\n'tis my turn to join my parents again, I shall find no shadow between\n'em. But there's a lot of doubt about it--knowing father.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[1] Skuat, windfall.\n\n\n\n\nTHE HAUNTED PHOTOGRAPH\n\nBY RUTH McENERY STUART\n\nFrom _Harper's Bazar_, June, 1909. By permission of _Harper's Bazar_.\n\n\n\n\nThe Haunted Photograph\n\nBY RUTH McENERY STUART\n\n\nTo the ordinary observer it was just a common photograph of a cheap\nsummer hotel. It hung sumptuously framed in plush, over the Widow\nMorris's mantel, the one resplendent note in an otherwise modest home,\nin a characteristic Queen Anne village.\n\nOne had only to see the rapt face of its owner as she sat in her weeds\nbefore the picture, which she tearfully pronounced \"a strikin'\nlikeness,\" to sympathize with the townsfolk who looked askance at the\nbereaved woman, even while they bore with her delusion, feeling sure\nthat her sudden sorrow had set her mind agog.\n\nWhen she had received the picture through the mail, some months before\nthe fire which consumed the hotel--a fire through which she had not\npassed, but out of which she had come a widow--she proudly passed it\naround among the friends waiting with her at the post-office, replying\nto their questions as they admired it:\n\n\"Oh, yes! That's where he works--if you can call it work. He's the head\nsteward in it. All that row o' winders where you see the awnin's down,\nthey're his--an' them that ain't down, they're his, too--that is to say,\nit's his jurisdiction.\n\n\"You see, he's got the whip hand over the cook an' the sto'eroom, an'\nthat key don't go out o' his belt unless he knows who's gettin'\nwhat--an' he's firm. Morris always was. He's like the iron law of the\nEphesians.\"\n\n\"What key?\"\n\nIt was an old lady who held the picture at arm's length, the more\nclosely to scan it, who asked the question. She asked it partly to know,\nas neither man nor key appeared in the photograph, and partly to parry\nthe \"historic allusion\"--a disturbing sort of fire for which Mrs. Morris\nwas rather noted and which made some of her most loyal townsfolk a bit\nshy of her.\n\n\"Oh, I ain't referrin' to the picture,\" she hastened to explain. \"I mean\nthe keys thet he always carries in his belt. The reg'lar joke there is\nto call him 'St. Peter,' an' he takes it in good part, for, he declares,\nif there _is_ such a thing _as_ a similitude to the kingdom o' Heaven\n_in_ a hotel, why, it's in the providential supply department which, in\na manner, hangs to his belt. He always humors a joke--'specially on\nhimself.\"\n\nNo one will ever know through what painful periods of unrequited longing\nthe Widow Morris had sought solace in this, her only cherished \"relic,\"\nafter the \"half hour of sky-works\" which had made her, in her own\nvernacular, \"a lonely, conflagrated widow, with a heart full of ashes,\"\nbefore the glad moment when it was given her to discern in it an\nunsuspected and novel value. First had come, as a faint gleam of\ncomfort, the reflection that although her dear lost one was not in\nevidence in the picture, he had really been inside the building when the\nphotograph was taken, and so, of course, _he must be in there yet_!\n\nAt first she experienced a slight disappointment that her man was not\nvisible, at door or window. But it was only a passing regret. It was\nreally better to feel him surely and broadly within--at large in the\ngreat house, free to pass at will from one room to another. To have had\nhim fixed, no matter how effectively, would have been a limitation. As\nit was, she pressed the picture to her bosom as she wondered if,\nperchance, he would not some day come out of his hiding to meet her.\n\nIt was a muffled pleasure and tremulously entertained at first, but the\nvery whimsicality of it was an appeal to her sensitized imagination, and\nso, when finally the thing did really happen, it is small wonder that it\ncame somewhat as a shock.\n\nIt appears that one day, feeling particularly lonely and forlorn, and\nhaving no other comfort, she was pressing her tear-stained face against\nthe row of window-shutters in the room without awnings, this being her\nnearest approach to the alleged occupant's bosom, when she was suddenly\nstartled by a peculiar swishing sound, as of wind-blown rain, whereupon\nshe lifted her face to perceive that it was indeed raining, and then,\nglancing back at the photograph, she distinctly saw her husband rushing\nfrom one window to another, drawing down the sashes on the side of the\nhouse that would have been exposed to the real shower whose music was in\nher ears.\n\nThis was a great discovery, and, naturally enough, it set her weeping,\nfor, she sobbed, it made her feel, for a minute, that she had lost her\nwidowhood and that, after the shower, he'd be coming home.\n\nIt might well make any one cry to suddenly lose the pivot upon which his\nemotions are swung. At any rate, Mrs. Morris cried. She said that she\ncried all night, first because it seemed so spooky to see him whose\nremains she had so recently buried on faith, waiving recognition in the\ndebris, dashing about now in so matter-of-fact a way.\n\nAnd then she wept because, after all, he did not come.\n\nThis was the formal beginning of her sense of personal companionship in\nthe picture--companionship, yes, of delight in it, for there is even\ndelight in tears--in some situations in life. Especially is this true of\none whose emotions are her only guides, as seems to have been the case\nwith the Widow Morris.\n\nAfter seeing him draw the window-sashes--and he had drawn them _down_,\nignoring her presence--she sat for hours, waiting for the rain to stop.\nIt seemed to have set in for a long spell, for when she finally fell\nasleep, \"from sheer disappointment, 'long towards morning,\" it was\nstill raining, but when she awoke the sun shone and all the windows in\nthe picture were up again.\n\nThis was a misleading experience, however, for she soon discovered that\nshe could not count upon any line of conduct by the man in the hotel, as\nthe fact that it had one time rained in the photograph at the same time\nthat it rained outside was but a coincidence and she was soon surprised\nto perceive all quiet along the hotel piazza, not even an awning\nflapping, while the earth, on her plane, was torn by storms.\n\nOn one memorable occasion when her husband had appeared, flapping the\nwindow-panes from within with a towel, she had thought for one brief\nmoment that he was beckoning to her, and that she might have to go to\nhim, and she was beginning to experience terror, with shortness of\nbreath and other premonitions of sudden passing, when she discovered\nthat he was merely killing flies, and she flurriedly fanned herself with\nthe asbestos mat which she had seized from the stove beside her, and\nstaggered out to a seat under the mulberries, as she stammered:\n\n\"I do declare, Morris'll be the death of me yet. He's 'most as much care\nto me dead as he was alive--I made sure--made sure he'd come after me!\"\n\nThen, feeling her own fidelity challenged, she hastened to add:\n\n\"Not that I hadn't rather go to him than to take any trip in the world,\nbut--but I never did fancy that hotel, and since I've got used to seein'\nhim there so constant, I feel sure that's where we'd put up. My belief\nis, anyway, that if there's hereafters for some things, there's\nhereafters for all. From what I can gather, I reckon I'm a kind of a\ncross between a Swedenborgian and a Gates-ajar--that, of course,\nengrafted on to a Methodist. Now, that hotel, when it was consumed by\nfire, which to it was the same as mortal death, why, it either ascended\ninto Heaven, in smoke, or it fell, in ashes--to the other place. If it\ndied worthy, like as not it's undergoin' repairs now for a 'mansion,'\njasper cupalos, an'--but, of course, such as that could be run up in a\ntwinklin'.\n\n\"Still, from what I've heard, it's more likely gone _down_ to its\ndeserts. It would seem hard for a hotel with so many awned-off corridors\nan' palmed embrasures with teet-a-teet sofas, to live along without\nsin.\"\n\nShe stood on her step-ladder, wiping the face of the picture as she\nspoke, and as she began to back down she discovered the cat under her\nelbow, glaring at the picture.\n\n\"Yes, Kitty! Spit away!\" she exclaimed. \"Like as not you see even more\nthan I do!\"\n\nAnd as she slipped the ladder back into the closet, she remarked--this\nto herself, strictly:\n\n\"If it hadn't 'a' been for poor puss, I'd 'a' had a heap more pleasure\nout o' this picture than what I have had--or will be likely to have\nagain. The way she's taken on, I've almost come to hate it!\"\n\nA serpent had entered her poor little Eden--even the green-eyed monster\nconstrictor, who, if given full swing, would not spare a bone of her\nmeager comfort.\n\nA neighbor who chanced to come in at the time, unobserved overheard the\nlast remark, and Mrs. Morris, seeing that she was there, continued in an\nunchanged tone, while she gave her a chair:\n\n\"Of course, Mis' Withers, you can easy guess who I refer to. I mean that\ncombly-featured wench that kep' the books an' answered the telephone at\nthe hotel--when she found the time from her meddlin'. Somehow, I never\nthought about her bein' _burned in_ with Morris till puss give her away.\nPuss never did like the girl when she was alive, an' the first time I\nsee her scratch an' spit at the picture, just the way she used to do\nwhenever _she_ come in sight, why, it just struck me like a clap o'\nthunder out of a clear sky that puss knew who she was a-spittin' at--an'\nI switched around sudden--an' glanced up sudden--an'----\n\n\"Well, what I seen, I seen! There was that beautied-up typewriter\nsettin' in the window-sill o' Morris's butler's pantry--an' if she\ndidn't wink at me malicious, then I don't know malice when I see it. An'\nshe used her fingers against her nose, too, most defiant and impolite.\nSo I says to puss I says, 'Puss,' I says, 'there's _goin's on_ in that\nhotel, sure as fate. Annabel Bender has got the better o' me, for\nonce!' An', tell the truth, it did spoil the photograph for me for a\nwhile, for, of course, after that, if I didn't see him somewheres on the\nwatch for his faithful spouse, I'd say to myself, 'He's inside there\nwith that pink-featured hussy!'\n\n\"You know, a man's a man, Mis' Withers--'specially Morris, an' with his\nlawful wife cut off an' indefinitely divorced by a longevitied\nfamily--an' another burned in with him--well, his faithfulness is put to\na trial by fire, as you might say. So, as I say, it spoiled the picture\nfor me, for a while.\n\n\"An', to make matters worse, it wasn't any time before I recollected\nthat Campbellite preacher thet was burned in with them, an' with that my\nimagination run riot, an' I'd think to myself, '_If_ they're inclined,\nthey cert'n'y have things handy!' Then I'd ketch myself an' say,\n'Where's your faith in Scripture, Mary Marthy Matthews, named after two\nBible women an' born daughter to an apostle? What's the use?' I'd say,\nan' so, first an' last, I'd get a sort o' alpha an' omega comfort out o'\nthe passage about no givin' in marriage. Still, there'd be times, pray\nas I would, when them three would loom up, him an' her--_an'_ the\nCampbellite preacher. I know his license to marry would run out _in\ntime_, but for eternity, of course we don't know. Seem like everything\nwould last forever--an' then again, if I've got a widow's freedom,\nMorris must be classed as a widower, if he's anything.\n\n\"Then I'd get some relief in thinkin' about his disposition. Good as he\nwas, Morris was fickle-tasted, not in the long run, but day in an' day\nout, an' even if he'd be taken up with her he'd get a distaste the\nminute he reelized she'd be there interminable. That's Morris. Why,\ndidn't he used to get nervous just seein' _me_ around, an' me his own\nselected? An' didn't I use to make some excuse to send him over to Mame\nMaddern's ma's ma's--so's he'd be harmlessly diverted? She was full o'\ntalk, and she was ninety-odd an' asthmatic, but he'd come home from them\nvisits an' call me his child wife. I've had my happy moments!\n\n\"You know a man'll get tired of himself, even, if he's condemned to it\ntoo continual, and think of that blondinetted typewriter for a steady\ndiet--to a man like Morris! Imagine her when her hair dye started to\ngive out--green streaks in that pompadour! So, knowin' my man, I'd take\ncourage an' I'd think, 'Seein' me cut off, he'll soon be wantin' me more\nthan ever'--an' so he does. It's got so now that, glance up at that\nhotel any time I will, I can generally find him on the lookout, an'\nmany's the time I've stole in an' put on a favoryte apron o' his with\nblue bows on it, when we'd be alone an' nobody to remark about me\nbreakin' my mournin'. Dear me, how full o' b'oyancy he was--a regular\nboy at thirty-five, when he passed away!\"\n\nWas it any wonder that her friends exchanged glances while Mrs. Morris\nentertained them in so droll a way? Still, as time passed and she not\nonly brightened in the light of her delusion, but proceeded to meet the\nconditions of her own life by opening a small shop in her home, and when\nshe exhibited a wholesome sense of profit and loss, her neighbors were\nquite ready to accept her on terms of mental responsibility.\n\nWith occupation and a modest success, emotional disturbance was surely\ngiving place to an even calm, when, one day, something happened.\n\nMrs. Morris sat behind her counter, sorting notions, puss asleep beside\nher, when she heard the swish of thin silk, with a breath of familiar\nperfume, and, looking up, whom did she see but the blond lady of her\ntroubled dreams striding bodily up to the counter, smiling as she\nswished.\n\nAt the sight the good woman first rose to her feet, and then as suddenly\ndropped--flopped--breathless and white--backward--and had to be revived,\nso that for the space of some minutes things happened very fast--that\nis, if we may believe the flurried testimony of the blonde, who, in\ngoing over it, two hours later, had more than once to stop for breath.\n\n\"Well, say!\" she panted. \"Did you ever! _Such_ a turn as took her! I\nhadn't no more 'n stepped in the door when she succumbed, green as the\nGanges, into her own egg-basket--an' it full! An' she was on the eve o'\nfloppin' back into the prunin' scizzor points up, when I scrambled over\nthe counter, breakin' my straight-front in two, which she's welcome to,\npoor thing! Then I loaned her my smellin'-salts, which she held her\nbreath against until it got to be a case of smell or die, an' she\nsmelt! Then it was a case of temporary spasms for a minute, the salts\nspillin' out over her face, but when the accident evaporated, an' she\nopened her eyes, rational, I thought to myself, 'Maybe she don't know\nshe's keeled an' would be humiliated if she did,' so I acted callous,\nan' I says, offhand like, I says, pushin' her apron around behind her\nover its _vice versa_, so's to cover up the eggs, which I thought had\nbetter be broke to her gently, I says, 'I just called in, Mis' Morris,\nto borry your recipe for angel-cake--or maybe get you to bake one for\nus' (I knew she baked on orders). An' with that, what does she do but go\nover again, limp as wet starch, down an' through every egg in that\nbasket, solid _an'_ fluid!\n\n\"Well, by this time, a man who had seen her at her first worst an' run\nfor a doctor, he come in with three, an' whilst they were bowin' to each\nother an' backin', I giv' 'er stimulus an' d'rectly she turned upon me\none rememberable gaze, an' she says, 'Doctors,' says she, 'would you\nthink they'd have the gall to try to get me to cook for 'em? They've\nordered angel-ca----' An' with that, over she toppled again, no pulse\nnor nothin', same as the dead!\"\n\nWhile the blonde talked she busied herself with her loosely falling\nlocks, which she tried vainly to entrap.\n\n\"An' yet you say she ain't classed as crazy? I'd say it of her, sure!\nAn' so old Morris is dead--burned in that old hotel! Well, well! Poor\nold fellow! Dear old place! What times I've had!\"\n\nShe spoke through a mouthful of gilt hairpins and her voice was as an\nAEolian harp.\n\n\"An' he burned in it--an' she's a widow yet! Yes, I did hear there'd\nbeen a fire, but you never can tell. I thought the chimney might 'a'\nburned out--an' I was in the thick of bein' engaged to the night clerk\nat the Singin' Needles Hotel at Pineville at the time--an' there's no\nregular mail there. I thought the story might be exaggerated. Oh no, I\ndidn't marry the night clerk. I'm a bride now, married to the head\nsteward, same rank as poor old Morris--an' we're just _as_ happy! I used\nto pleg Morris about _her_ hair, but I'd have to let up on that now.\nMine's as red again as hers. No, not my hair--_mine's_ hair. It's as red\nas a flannen drawer, every bit an' grain!\n\n\"But, say,\" she added, presently, \"when she gets better, just tell her\nnever mind about that reci-pe. I copied it out of her reci-pe book\nwhilst she was under the weather, an' dropped a dime in her cash-drawer.\nI recollect how old Morris used to look forward to her angel-cakes\nweek-ends he'd be goin' home, an' you know there's nothin' like havin'\nammunition, in marriage, even if you never need it. Mine's in that frame\nof mind now that transforms my gingerbread into angel-cake, but the time\nmay come when I'll have to beat my eggs to a fluff even for angel-cake,\nso's not to have it taste like gingerbread to him.\n\n\"Oh no, he's not with me this trip. I just run down for a lark to show\nmy folks my ring an' things, an' let 'em see it's really so. He give me\nconsiderable jewelry. His First's taste run that way, an' they ain't no\nchildren.\n\n\"Yes, this amethyst is the weddin'-ring. I selected that on account of\nhim bein' a widower. It's the nearest I'd come to wearin' second\nmournin' for a woman I can't exactly grieve after. The year not bein' up\nis why he stayed home this trip. He didn't like to be seen traversin'\nthe same old haunts with Another till it _was_ up. I wouldn't wait\nbecause, tell the truth, I was afraid. He ain't like a married man with\nme about money yet, an' it's liable to seize him any day. He might say\nthat he couldn't afford the trip, or that we couldn't, which would\namount to the same thing. I rather liked him bein' a little ticklish\nabout goin' around with me for a while. It's one thing to do a thing an'\nanother to be brazen about it--it----\n\n\"But if she don't get better\"--the reversion was to the Widow\nMorris--\"if she don't get her mind poor thing! there's a fine insane\nasylum just out of Pineville, an' I'd like the best in the world to look\nout for her. It would make an excuse for me to go in. They say they have\nhigh old times there. Some days they let the inmates do 'most any old\nthing that's harmless. They even give 'em unpoisonous paints an' let 'em\npaint each other up. One man insisted he was a barber-pole an' ringed\nhimself accordingly, an' then another chased him around for a stick of\npeppermint candy. Think of all that inside a close fence, an' a town so\ndull an' news-hungry----\n\n\"Yes, they say Thursdays is paint days, an', of course, Fridays, they\nare scrub days. They pass around turpentine an' hide the matches. But,\nof course, Mis' Morris may get the better of it. 'Tain' every woman that\ncan stand widowin', an' sometimes them that has got the least out of\nmarriage will seem the most deprived to lose it--so they say.\"\n\nThe blonde was a person of words.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen Mrs. Morris had fully revived and, after a restoring \"night's\nsleep\" had got her bearings, and when she realized clearly that her\nsupposed rival had actually shown up in the flesh, she visibly braced\nup. Her neighbors understood that it must have been a shock \"to be\nsuddenly confronted with any souvenir of the hotel fire\"--so one had\nexpressed it--and the incident soon passed out of the village mind.\n\nIt was not long after this incident that the widow confided to a friend\nthat she was coming to depend upon Morris for advice in her business.\n\n\"Standing as he does, in that hotel door--between two worlds, as you\nmight say--why, he sees both ways, and oftentimes he'll detect an event\n_on the way to happening_, an' if it don't move too fast, why, I can\nhustle an' get the better of things.\" It was as if she had a private\nwire for advance information--and she declared herself happy.\n\nIndeed, a certain ineffable light such as we sometimes see in the eyes\nof those newly in love came to shine from the face of the widow, who did\nnot hesitate to affirm, looking into space as she said it:\n\n\"Takin' all things into consideration, I can truly say that I have never\nbeen so truly and ideely married as since my widowhood.\" And she smiled\nas she added:\n\n\"Marriage, the earthly way, is vicissitudinous, for everybody knows that\nanything is liable to happen to a man at large.\"\n\nThere had been a time when she lamented that her picture was not\n\"life-sized\" as it would seem so much more natural, but she immediately\nreflected that that hotel would never have gotten into her little house,\nand that, after all, the main thing was having \"him\" under her own roof.\n\nAs the months passed Mrs. Morris, albeit she seemed serene and of\npeaceful mind, grew very white and still. Fire is white in its ultimate\nintensity. The top, spinning its fastest, is said to \"sleep\"--and the\ndancing dervish is \"still.\" So, misleading signs sometimes mark the\ndanger-line.\n\n\"Under-eating and over-thinking\" was what the doctor said while he felt\nher translucent wrist and prescribed nails in her drinking-water. If he\nsecretly knew that kind nature was gently letting down the bars so that\na waiting spirit might easily pass--well, he was a doctor, not a\nminister. His business was with the body, and he ordered repairs.\n\nShe was only thirty-seven and \"well\" when she passed painlessly out of\nlife. It seemed to be simply a case of going.\n\nThere were several friends at her bedside the night she went, and to\nthem she turned, feeling the time come:\n\n\"I just wanted to give out that the first thing I intend to do when I'm\nrelieved is to call by there for Morris\"--she lifted her weary eyes to\nthe picture as she spoke--\"for Morris--and I want it understood that\nit'll be a vacant house from the minute I depart. So, if there's any\nother woman that's calculatin' to have any carryin's-on from them\nwindows--why, she'll be disappointed--she or they. The one obnoxious\nperson I thought was in it _wasn't_. My imagination was tempted of Satan\nan' I was misled. So it must be sold for just what it is--just a\nphotographer's photograph. If it's a picture with a past, why, everybody\nknows what that past is, and will respect it. I have tried to conquer\nmyself enough to bequeath it to the young lady I suspicioned, but human\nnature is frail, an' I can't quite do it, although doubtless she would\nlike it as a souvenir. Maybe she'd find it a little too souvenirish to\nsuit my wifely taste, and yet--if a person is going to die----\n\n\"I suppose I might legate it to her, partly to recompense her for her\ndiscretion in leaving that hotel when she did--an' partly for undue\nsuspicion----\n\n\"There's a few debts to be paid, but there's eggs an' things that'll pay\nthem, an' there's no need to have the hen settin' in the window showcase\nany longer. It was a good advertisement, but I've often thought it\nmight be embarrassin' to her.\" She was growing weaker, but she roused\nherself to amend:\n\n\"Better raffle the picture for a dollar a chance an' let the proceeds go\nto my funeral--an' I want to be buried in the hotel-fire general grave,\ncommingled with him--an' what's left over after the debts are paid, I\nbequeath to _her_--to make amends--an' if she don't care to come for it,\nlet every widow in town draw for it. But she'll come. 'Most any woman'll\ntake any trip, if it's paid for--But look!\" she raised her eyes\nexcitedly toward the mantel, \"Look! What's that he's wavin'? It\nlooks--oh yes, it is--it's our wings--two pairs--mine a little smaller.\nI s'pose it'll be the same old story--I'll never be able to keep up--to\nkeep up with him--an' I've been so hap----\n\n\"Yes, Morris--I'm comin'----\"\n\nAnd she was gone--into a peaceful sleep from which she easily passed\njust before dawn.\n\nWhen all was well over, the sitting women rose with one accord and went\nto the mantel, where one even lighted an extra candle more clearly to\nscan the mysterious picture.\n\nFinally one said:\n\n\"You may think I'm queer, but it does look different to me already!\"\n\n\"So it does,\" said another, taking the candle. \"Like a house for rent. I\ndeclare, it gives me the cold shivers.\"\n\n\"I'll pay my dollar gladly, and take a chance for it,\" whispered a\nthird, \"but I wouldn't let such a thing as that enter my happy home----\"\n\n\"Neither would I!\"\n\n\"Nor me, neither. I've had trouble enough. My husband's first wife's\nportrait has brought me discord enough--an' it was a straight likeness.\nI don't want any more pictures to put in the hen-house loft.\"\n\nSo the feeling ran among the wives.\n\n\"Well,\" said she who was blowing out the candle, \"I'll draw for it--an'\ntake it if I win it, an' consider it a sort of inheritance. I never\ninherited anything but indigestion.\"\n\nThe last speaker was a maiden lady, and so was she who answered,\nchuckling:\n\n\"That's what I say! Anything for a change. There'd be some excitement in\na picture where a man was liable to show up. It's more than I've got\nnow. I do declare it's just scandalous the way we're gigglin', an' the\npoor soul hardly out o' hearin'. She had a kind heart, Mis' Morris had,\nan' she made herself happy with a mighty slim chance----\"\n\n\"Yes, she did--and I only wish there'd been a better man waitin' for her\nin that hotel.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE GHOST THAT GOT THE BUTTON\n\nBY WILL ADAMS\n\nFrom _Collier's Weekly_, May 24, 1913. By permission of _Collier's\nWeekly_ and Will Adams.\n\n\n\n\nThe Ghost that Got the Button\n\nBY WILL ADAMS\n\n\nOne autumn evening, when the days were shortening and the darkness fell\nearly on Hotchkiss and the frost was beginning to adorn with its fine\nglistening lace the carbine barrels of the night sentries as they walked\npost, Sergeants Hansen and Whitney and Corporal Whitehall had come to\nStone's room after supper, feeling the need common to all men in the\nfirst cold nights of the year for a cozy room, a good smoke, and\ncongenial companionship.\n\nThe steam heat, newly turned on, wheezed and whined through the\nradiator: the air was blue and dense with tobacco smoke; the three\nsergeants reposed in restful, if inelegant attitudes, and Whitehall, his\nfeet on the window sill and his wooden chair tilted back, was holding\nforth between puffs at a very battered pipe about an old colored woman\nwho kept a little saloon in town.\n\n\"So she got mad at those K troop men,\" he said. \"An' nex' day when\nTurner stopped there for a drink she says: 'You git outer yere! You men\nfum de Arsenic wid de crossbones on you caps, I ain't lettin' you in;\nbut de Medical Corpses an' de Non-efficient Officers, dey may come.'\"\n\nThe laugh that followed was interrupted by the approach of a raucous,\nshrieking noise that rose and fell in lugubrious cadence. \"What the\ndeuce!\" exclaimed Whitehall, starting up.\n\n\"That's Bill,\" explained Stone. \"Bill Sullivan. He thinks he's singin'.\nFunny you never heard him before, Kid, but then he's not often taken\nthat way, thank the Lord.\"\n\n\"Come in, Bill,\" he called, \"an' tell us what's the matter. Feel sick?\nWhere's the pain?\" he asked as big Bill appeared in the doorway.\n\n\"Come in, hombre, an' rest yo'self,\" invited Whitney, and hospitably\nhanded over his tobacco-pouch. \"What was that tune yo'all were singin'\nout yonder?\"\n\n\"Thanks,\" responded Bill, settling down. \"That there tune was 'I Wonder\nWhere You Are To-night, My Love.'\"\n\n\"Sounded like 'Sister's Teeth Are Plugged with Zinc,'\" commented\nWhitney.\n\n\"Or 'Lookin' Through the Knot Hole in Papa's Wooden Leg,'\" said\nWhitehall.\n\n\"Or 'He Won't Buy the Ashman a Manicure Set,'\" added Stone.\n\n\"No,\" reiterated Bill solemnly. \"It was like I told yer; 'I Wonder Where\nYou Are To-night, My Love,' and it's a corker, too! I seen a feller an'\na goil sing it in Kelly's Voddyville Palace out ter Cheyenne onct. Foist\nhe'd sing one voise an' then she'd sing the nex'. He was dressed like a\nsoldier, an' while he sang they was showin' tabloids o' what the goil\nwas a-doin' behind him; an' then when she sang her voise he'd be in the\ntabloid, an' when it got ter the last voise, an' he was dyin' on a\nstretcher in a ambulance, everybody in the house was a-cryin' so yer\ncould hardly hear her. It was great! My!\" continued Bill, spreading out\nhis great paws over the radiator, \"ain't this the snappy evenin'? Real\ncold. Somehow it 'minds me of the cold we had in China that time of the\nBoxers, after we'd got ter the Legations; the nights was cold just like\nthis is.\"\n\n\"Why, Bill,\" said Whitney, \"I never knew yo'all were there then. Why did\nyo' never tell us befo'? What were yo' with?\"\n\n\"Fourteenth Infantry,\" responded Bill proudly. \"It's a great ol'\nregiment--don't care if they _are_ doughboys.\"\n\n\"What company was you in?\" inquired Hansen, ponderously taking his pipe\nfrom his mouth and breaking silence for the first time.\n\n\"J Company, same as this.\"\n\nAt this reply Stone opened his mouth abruptly to say something, but\nthought better of it and shut up again.\n\n\"It was blame cold them nights a week or so after we was camped in the\nTemple of Agriculture (that's what they called it--I dunno why), but\nsay! the heat comin' up from Tientsin was fryin'! It was jus' boilin',\nbakin', an' bubblin'--worse a heap than anythin' we'd had in the\nislands. We chucked away mos' every last thing on that hike but canteens\nan' rifles. It was a darn fool thing ter do--the chuckin' was, o'\ncourse--but it come out all right, 'cause extree supplies follered us up\non the Pie-ho in junks. Ain't that a funny name fer a river? Pie-ho?\nEvery time I got homesick I'd say that river, an' then I'd see Hogan's\nDairy Lunch fer Ladies an' Gents on the ol' Bowery an' hear the kid Mick\nHogan yellin': 'Draw one in the dark! White wings--let her flop!\nPie-ho!' an' it helped me a heap.\" Bill settled himself and stretched.\n\n\"But what I really wanted to tell youse about,\" said he, \"was somepin'\nthat happened one o' these here cold nights. It gits almighty cold there\nin September, an' it was sure the spookiest show I ever seen. Even Marm\nHaggerty's table rappin's in Hester Street never come up to it.\n\n\"There was three of us fellers who ran in a bunch them days: me an' Buck\nDugan, my bunkie, from the Bowery like me (he was a corporal), an' Ranch\nFields--we called him that 'cause he always woiked on a ranch before he\ncome into the Fourteenth. They was great fellers, Buck an' Ranch was.\nBuck, now--yer couldn't phase him, yer couldn't never phase him, no\nmatter what sort o' job yer put him up against he'd slide through slick\nas a greased rat. The Cap'n, he knew it, too. Onct when we was fightin'\nan' hadn't no men to spare, he lef' Buck on guard over about\ntwenty-five Boxer prisoners in a courtyard an' tells him he dassent let\none escape. But Buck wants ter git into the fight with the rest of the\nboys, an' when he finds that if he leaves them Chinos loose in the yard\nalone they'll git out plenty quick, what does he do but tie 'em tight up\nby their pigtails to some posts. He knows they can't undo them tight\nknots backwards, an' no Chink would cut his pigtail if he _did_ have a\nknife--he'd die foist--an' so Buck skidoos off to the fight, an', sure\nenough, when the Cap'n wants them Boxers, they're ready, tied up an'\nwaitin'. That was his sort, an', gee, but he was smart!\n\n\"We was all right int'rested in them Allies, o' course, an' watched 'em\nclost; but, 'Bill,' says Buck ter me one night, 'its been woikin in me\nnut that these here fellers ain't so different from what we know\na'ready. Excep' fer their uniform an' outfits, we've met 'em all before\nbut the Japs. Why, look a-here,' says he, 'foist, there's the white\nmen--the English--ain't they jus' like us excep' that they're thicker\nan' we're longer? An' their Injun niggers--ain't we seen their clothes\nin the comic op'ras an' them without their clothes in the monkey cage at\nCentral Park? An' their Hong-kong China Regiment an' all the other\nChinos is jus' the same as yer meet in the pipe joints in Mott Street.\nThen,' says he, 'come all the Dagos. These leather necks of Macaroni\nDagos we've seen a swarmin' all over Mulberry Bend an' Five Points; the\nSauerkraut Dagos looks fer all the woild like they was goin' ter a\nSchuetzenfest up by High Bridge; the Froggie Dagos you'll find packed in\nthem Frenchy restaraws in the Thirties--where yer git blue wine--and\nthem Vodki Dagos only needs a pushcart ter make yer think yer in Baxter\nStreet.'\n\n\"Buck, he could sure talk, but Ranch, he wasn't much on chin-chin.\nLittle an' dark an' quiet he was, an' jus' crazy fer dogs. Any old\nmutt'd do fer him--jus' so's it was in the shape of a pup. He was fair\nwild fer 'em. He picked up a yeller cur out there the day after the\nYangtsin fight, an' that there no-account, mangy, flea-bitten mutt had\nter stay with us the whole time. If the pup didn't stand in me an' Buck\nan' Ranch, he swore he'd quit too, so we had to let him come, an' he\nmessed an' bunked with our outfit right along. Ranch named him Daggett,\nafter the Colonel, which was right hard on the C. O., but I bet Ranch\nthought he was complimentin' him. Why, Ranch considered himself honored\nif any of the pup's fleas hopped off on him. The pup he kep' along with\nus right through everything; Ranch watchin' him like the apple of his\neye, an' he hardly ever was out of our sight, till one night about a\nweek after we quartered in the temple he didn't turn up fer supper. He\nwas always so reg'lar at his chow that Ranch he begin ter git the\nsquirms an' when come taps an' Daggett hadn't reported, Ranch had the\nrazzle-dazzles.\n\n\"Nex' mornin' the foist thing he must go hunt that pup, an' went a\nscoutin' all day, me an' Buck helpin' him--but nary pup; an' come\nanother supper without that miser'ble mutt, an' Ranch was up an alley\nall right, all right. He was all wore out, an' I made him hit the bunk\nearly an' try ter sleep; but, Lord! No sooner he'd drop off 'n he git\nter twitchin' an' hitchin' an' wake up a-yelpin' fer Daggett. Long about\ntaps, Buck, who's been out on a private reconnoissance, comes back an'\nwhispers ter me: 'Ssst, Bill! The cur's found! Don't tell Ranch; the\nbloke'd die of heart failure. I struck his trail an' follered it--an'\nsay, Bill, what'n thunder do yer think? Them heathen Chinos has _et\nhim_!' Lord, now, wouldn't that jolt youse? Them Chinos a-eatin'\nDaggett! It give me an awful jar, an' Buck he felt it, too. That there\nmutt had acted right decent, an' we knew Ranch would have bats in the\nbelfry fer fair if he hoid tell o' the pup's finish; so says Buck;\n'Let's not tell him, 'cause he's takin' on now like he'd lost mother an'\nfather an' best goil an' all, an' if he knew Daggett was providin' chow\nfer Chinos he'd go clean bug house an' we'd have ter ship him home ter\nSt. Elizabeth.'\n\n\"I says O. K. ter that, an' we made it up not ter let on ter Ranch; an'\nnow here comes the spook part yer been a-waitin' fer.\n\n\"Four or five nights later I was on guard, an' my post was the farthest\nout we had on the north. There was an ol' road out over that way, an'\nI'd hoid tell it led ter a ol' graveyard, but I hadn't never been there\nmyself an' hadn't thought much about it till 'long between two an'\nthree o'clock, as I was a-hikin' up an down, when somepin' comes\na-zizzin' down the road hell-fer-leather on to me, a-yellin' somepin'\nfierce. Gee, but I was skeered! I made sure it was a spook, an' there\nwasn't a bit o' breath left in me. I was all to the bad that time fer\nsure. Before I had time ter think even, that screamin', streakin' thing\nwas on me an a-grabbin' roun' my knees; an' then I see it was one o'\nthem near-Christian Chinos, an' he's skeered more'n me even. His eyes\nhad popped clean out'n their slits, an' his tongue was hangin' out by\nthe roots, he was that locoed. I raised the long yell fer corporal of\nthe guard, which happened, by good luck, ter be Buck, an' when he come\na-runnin', thinkin' from the whoops I give we was bein' rushed by the\nhole push of Boxers, the two of us began proddin' at the Chink ter find\nout what was doin'. Took us some time, too, with him bein' in such a\nflutter an' hardly able ter even hand out his darn ol' pigeon English,\nthat sounds like language comin' out of a sausage machine. When we did\nsavvy his line of chop-suey talk, we found out he'd seen a ghost in the\ngraveyard, an' not only seen it but he knew who the spook was an' all\nabout him. We was gittin' some serious ourselves an' made him tell us.\n\n\"Seems it was a mandarin--that's a sort o' Chink police-court judge\n(till I got ter Tientsin I always thought they was little oranges), an'\nthis tangerine's--I mean mandarin's--name was Wu Ti Ming, an' he'd been\na high mucky-muckraker in his day, which was two or three hundred years\nback. But the Emprer caught him deep in some sort o' graft an' _took\naway his button_ an' all o' his dough.\n\n\"'Lord!' says Buck when we come ter this, 'don't that prove what\nheathens Chinks is? Only one button ter keep on their clothes with, an'\nthe Emprer he kin take it away! What did this here Judge Ming do then,\nJohn? Use string or pins?' This here John didn't seem ter savvy, but he\nsaid that the mandarin took on so fer his button an' his loss of pull in\nthe ward that it was sure sad ter see, an' by an' by the Emprer got busy\nagain with him an' had him finished up fer keeps; had him die the 'death\nof a thousand cuts,' says John. It sounded fierce ter me, but Buck he\nsays:\n\n\"'Pshaw! Anybody who's been shaved reg'lar by them lady barbers on\nFourth Avenyer would 'a' give the Emprer the merry ha-ha----'\n\n\"After Ming was cut up they took the remains of his corpse an' planted\nhim in this here graveyard up the road; but he wouldn't stay planted an'\nbegan doin' stunts at night, 'topside walkee-walkee' an' a-huntin' fer\nhis lost button. He'd used ter have the whole country scared up, but fer\nthe last twenty years he'd kep' right quiet an' had hardly ever come\nout; but now sence the foreign devils come (ain't that a sweet name fer\nus?) he's up an' at it again worse than ever, an' the heathens is on\ntheir ear. Fer four nights now they'd seen him, wrapped in a blue robe,\nwaitin' an' a-huntin' behind tombstones an' walkin' round an' round the\ngraveyard lie a six days' race fer the belt at Madison Square. John had\njus' seen him on the wall, an' that was why he come chargin' down the\nroad like forty cats.\n\n\"'Will Mr. Ming's sperrit walk till he gits that button back?' Buck\nasts. John says: 'Sure.'\n\n\"'Well,' says Buck, 'why don't yer give him one?'\n\n\"'No can give. Only Emplor, only Son of Heaven give.'\n\n\"'Well, look here,' says Buck, 'we sand rabbits ain't no sons of Heaven,\nbut I'll be darned if we couldn't spare a button ter lay the ghost of a\npore busted police-court judge, who's lost his job an' his tin, if\n_that's_ all he wants back. What time does he come out at, John? Could\nwe see him ter-morrer night?' 'Sure could we,' says John; 'he'll show us\nthe way, but he won't wait with us; he's bad enough fer his.'\n\n\"So Buck takes John an' goes back ter the guard shack, as it's most time\nfer relief, an' after I got back we told John ter git the hook, an' we\ntalked things over, an' Buck he was just wild ter see if he couldn't lay\nthat Chino ghost. His talents was achin' ter git action on him; anythin'\nlike that got up his spunk. Says I:\n\n\"'Maybe Ranch kin help. We'll tell him ter-morrer after guard mount.\nIt'll take his mind off Daggett.'\n\n\"'No, yer don't,' says Buck. 'Don't yer dare tell him. He's nervous as a\ncat over the pup as it is, an' this spook business is awful skeery; I'm\nfeelin' woozy over it meself. I'm all off when it comes ter ghosts--that\nis, if it's a real ghost. And things here in Pekin' is so funny the odds\nis all in favor of its bein' the sure thing. I ain't afeard o' no kinds\no' people, but I sure git cold feet when I'm up against a ghost.\nWouldn't that jar youse? An' me a soldier; when it's a soldier's whole\nbusiness not ter _git_ cold feet. But I'm bound I'll have a show at that\nol' spook even if it _does_ skeer me out o' my growth. Only don't yer\ndare tell Ranch.'\n\n\"Nex' night, right after eleven o'clock rounds, me an' Buck slipped\nouter our blankets, sneaked out past the guard, an' met John, who was\nwaitin' fer us in the road jus' beyond where the last sentry woulder\nseen him. It was cold as git out. Jus' the same kind o' early cold as\nto-night, an' John's teeth was chatterin' like peas in a box--he was\nsome loco with skeer, too, you bet.\n\n\"'Which way?' says Buck, an' John spouts a lot o' dope-joint lingo an'\ntakes us up a side alley, where there's a whole bunch o' Chinos waitin'\nfer us, an' they begun a kowtowin' an' goin' on like we was the whole\ncheese. Turned out that John had jollied 'em that the Melican soldier\nmans was big medicine an' would make Judge Ming quit the midnight hike\nan' cut out scarin' 'em blue. That jus' suited Buck; he was all there\nwhen it come ter play commander in chief. He swelled up an' give 'em a\nbundle o' talk that John put in Chino fer 'em, an' then finished up by\nshowin' 'em a button--a ol' United States Army brass button he'd cut off\nhis blue blouse--an' tol' 'em he was goin' ter bury it in Ming's grave\nso as ter keep him bedded down.\n\n\"An' them simple idiots was pleased ter death, an' the whole outfit\nescorted us over ter the graveyard, but they shied at the gate (Lord, I\nhated ter see 'em go--even if they _was_ heathens!), an' let John take\nus in an' show us where ter wait. He put us in behind a pile o' little\nrocks in about the middle o' the place near where Judge Ming hung out,\nan' then retired on the main body at the double, leavin' us two in\noutpost alone there together. I hadn't never been ter a Chino buryin'\nground before, an' night time wasn't extree pleasant fer a foist\nintroduce. There was a new moon that night--a little shavin' of a thing\nthat hardly gave no light, an' from where we was there was a twisty pine\ntree branch that struck out right acrost it like a picture card--two fer\nfive. The graveyard was all dark an' quiet, with little piles o' rocks\nan' stone tables ter mark the graves, an' a four- or five-foot wall\nrunnin' all round it; an' somehow, without nothin' stirrin' at all, the\nwhole blame place seemed chock full o' movin' shadders. There wasn't a\nsound neither; not the least little thing; jus' them shadders; an' the\nharder yous'd look at 'em the more they seemed ter move. It was cold,\ntoo, like I told yer--bitin' cold--an' me an' Buck squatted there tight\ntogether an' mos' friz. We waited, an' we waited, an' _we waited_, an'\nwe got skeerder, an' skeerder, an' _skeerder_, an', gee! how we\nshivered! Every minute we thought we'd see Judge Ming, but a long time\nwent by an' he didn't come an' he _didn't_ come. There we set, strung up\ntight an' ready ter snap like a banjo string, but nothin' ter see but\nthe shakin' shadders an' nothin' ter hear--nothin' but jus' dead, dead\nsilence.\n\n\"All of a suddent Buck (he kin hear a pin drop a mile away) nearly nips\na piece out'n my arm as he grips me. 'Listen!' says he.\n\n\"I listened an' listened, but I didn't hear nothin', an' I told him so.\n\n\"'Yes, yer do, yer bloke yer,' he whispers, 'Listen. Strain your years.'\n\n\"Then way off I did begin ter hear somepin'. It was a long, funny, waily\ncry, sort o' like the way cats holler at each other at night. 'Oh-oo-oo,\noh-oo-oo!' like that, an' it come nearer an' nearer. Then all of a\nsuddent somepin' popped up on the graveyard wall about a hundred yards\naway--somepin' all blue-gray against the hook o' the moon--an' began\nwalkin' up an' down an' hollerin'. I knew it was sayin' words, but I was\nso far to the bad I didn't know nothin' an' couldn't make it out. I\nnever thought a feller's heart could bang so hard against his ribs\nwithout bustin' out, an' me hair riz so high me campaign hat was three\ninches off'n me head. I hope ter the Lord I'll never be so frightened\nagain in all my livin' days. I set there in a transom from fear an' friz\nter the spot. I don't know nothin' o' what Buck was doin', as my lamps\nwas glued ter the spook. It jumped down from the wall, callin' an'\nwhistlin' an' begin runnin' round the little stone heaps. I seen it was\ncomin' our way, but I couldn't move or make a sound; I jus' set. All of\na suddent Buck he jumps up an' makes a dash an' a leap at the spook, an'\nthere's a terrible yellin' an' they both comes down crash at the foot of\na rock pile, rollin' on the little pebbles; but Buck is on top an' the\nspook underneath an' lettin' off the most awful screeches. Gosh, they\njus' ripped the air, them spooks' yells did, an' they turned my spell\nloose an' I howled fer all I was worth. Then Buck, he commenced\na-yawpin' too, but me an' the spook we was both raisin' so much noise I\ndidn't savvy what he said fer some time. Then I found he was cussin' me\nout.\n\n\"'Come here, you forsaken ---- ----,' he howls. 'Quit yellin'! I say _quit\nyellin'_! Don't yer see who this is? Come here an' help me.'\n\n\"'You think I'm goin' ter tech that Ming spook?' I shrieks.\n\n\"'You miser'ble loony,' he yells back, 'can't yer see it ain't no Ming?\nIt's Ranch!'\n\n\"Well, so it was. It was Ranch skeered stiff an' hollerin' fer dear life\nat bein' jumped on an' waked up in the middle of a graveyard that-a-way.\nPore ol' feller had had Daggett on his mind, an' went sleepwalkin' an'\nhuntin' wrapped in his blanket.\n\n\"'An',' says Buck ter me, 'if youse hadn't been in such a dope dream\nwith skeer, you'd 'a' sensed what he was a-yellin'. He was callin'\n\"Oh-oo-oo, oh-oo-oo, here Daggett! Here, boy!\" an' then he'd whistle an'\ncall again: \"Here, Daggett! Here, Daggett!\" That's how I knew it was\nRanch; an', besides, he told me onct that he sleepwalked when he got\nworried. But you, you white livered--' an' then he cussed me out some\nmore.\n\n\"'Smarty,' I says, 'if yer knew so blame well it was Ranch, why did yer\ngive him the flyin' tackle like yer done an' git him all woiked up like\nthis?'\n\n\"'Well,' says Buck sort o' sheepy, 'I was some woiked up meself, an'\ntime he come along I give him the spook's tackle without thinkin'; I was\ntoo skeered ter think. Hush, Ranch. Hush, old boy. It's jus' me'n Bill.\nNobody shan't hoit yer.'\n\n\"We comforted pore ol' Ranch an' fixed him up, an' then when he felt\nbetter told him about things--all but how Daggett was et--an' I wrapped\nhis blanket around him an' took him back ter quarters while Buck went\na-lookin' fer John an' his gang.\n\n\"He found 'em about half a mile off, in front of a Mott Street joss\nhouse, all prayin' an' burnin' punk an' huddled together, skeered green\nfrom the yellin's they'd heard. Buck, he give 'em a long chin-chin about\nlayin' the ghost, an' how Judge Ming wouldn't never come back no more;\nan' then he dragged 'em all back (they pullin' at the halter shanks with\nyears laid back an' eyes rollin'), ter him bury his United States button\non Ming's rock pile. He dropped it in solemn, an' said what the Chinks\ntook ter be a prayer; but it was really the oath he said. Buck havin'\nonct been a recruitin' sergeant, knew it by heart all the way from 'I do\nsolemnly swear' ter 'so help me, Gawd.' Buck says I oughter seen them\ngrateful Chinos then: they'd 'a' give him the whole Chino Umpire if they\ncould. They got down an' squirmed an' kissed his hands an' his feet an'\nhis sleeve. They wanted ter escort him back ter camp, but he bucked at\nthat, an' said no, as he was out without pass an' not itchin' fer his\narrival ter be noticed none.\n\n\"After that we took toins watchin' Ranch at night, an' got him another\nmutt ter love, an' he didn't wander any more, so Judge Ming seemed\nsatisfied with his United States button, an' kep' quiet. But them Chinks\nwas the gratefullest gang yer ever seen. They brought us presents;\nthings ter eat--fruit, poultry, eggs, an' all sorts of chow, some of it\nmighty funny lookin', but it tasted all right; we lived high, we three.\nThe other fellers was wild ter know how we woiked it. An' I tell yer I\nain't never been skeered o' ghosts sence--that is, not ter speak\nof--_much_!\"\n\nBill, paused, drew a long breath, and looked at the clock. \"Gee!\" said\nhe, \"most nine o'clock. I got ter go over ter K troop ter see Sergeant\nKeefe a minute--I promised him. Adios, fellers. Thanks fer the smokin'.\"\n\n\"Keep the change, hombre. Thanks for yo' tale,\" shouted Whitney after\nhim as he disappeared down the hall.\n\n\"Well!!\" said Stone, and looked at Hansen.\n\n\"Well!!\" responded Hansen. The big Swede shook with laughter. \"Iss he\nnot the finest liar! Yess? I wass in the Fourteenth myselluf. That wass\nmy company--Chay. He wass not even the army in then--in nineteen\nhund'erd.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Stone, \"I knew, but I wasn't goin' to spoil his bloomin'\nyarn. I happened to see his enlistment card only this mornin', and the\nonly thing he was ever in before was the Twenty-third Infantry after\nthey came back from the Islands. He's never even been out of the\nStates.\"\n\n\"But where did he get it from?\" asked Whitney. \"His imagination is equal\nto most anything but gettin' so many facts straight. Of co'se I noticed\nthings yere an' there--but the most of it was O. K.\"\n\n\"I tell you,\" said Hansen, grinning, \"he got it from an old Fourteenth\nman--Dan Powerss--at practice camp last Chuly. He an' I wass often\ntalking of China. He wuss in my old company an' wass then telling me how\nhe an' the other fellerss all that extra chow got. I tank Bill he hass a\ngoot memory.\"\n\n\"But the nerve of him!\" cried Whitehall, \"tryin' ter pass that off on us\nwith Hansen sittin' right there.\"\n\n\"It iss one thing he may have forgot,\" smiled Hansen.\n\n\"Well, who cares anyway?\" said Stone. \"It was a blame good story. An'\nnow clear out, all of you. I want to hit the bunk. Reveille does seem to\ncome so early these cold mornin's. Gee! I wish I knew of some kind of\nbutton that would keep _me_ lyin' down when Shorty wants me to get up\nan' call the roll.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE SPECTER BRIDEGROOM\n\nBY WASHINGTON IRVING\n\n\n\n\nThe Specter Bridegroom\n\nA TRAVELER'S TALE[2]\n\nBY WASHINGTON IRVING\n\n    He that supper for is dight,\n    He lyes full cold, I trow, this night!\n    Yestreen to chamber I him led,\n    This night Gray-Steel has made his bed.\n    SIR EGER, SIR GRAHAME, AND SIR GRAY-STEEL.\n\n\nOn the summit of one of the heights of the Odenwald, a wild and romantic\ntract of Upper Germany, that lies not far from the confluence of the\nMain and the Rhine, there stood, many, many years since, the Castle of\nthe Baron Von Landshort. It is now quite fallen to decay, and almost\nburied among beech trees and dark firs; above which, however, its old\nwatch tower may still be seen, struggling, like the former possessor I\nhave mentioned, to carry a high head, and look down upon the neighboring\ncountry.\n\nThe baron was a dry branch of the great family of Katzenellenbogen,[3]\nand inherited the relics of the property, and all the pride of his\nancestors. Though the warlike disposition of his predecessors had much\nimpaired the family possessions, yet the baron still endeavored to keep\nup some show of former state. The times were peaceable, and the German\nnobles, in general, had abandoned their inconvenient old castles,\nperched like eagles' nests among the mountains, and had built more\nconvenient residences in the valleys; still the baron remained proudly\ndrawn up in his little fortress, cherishing with hereditary inveteracy,\nall the old family feuds; so that he was on ill terms with some of his\nnearest neighbors, on account of disputes that had happened between\ntheir great-great-grandfathers.\n\nThe baron had but one child, a daughter; but nature, when she grants but\none child, always compensates by making it a prodigy; and so it was with\nthe daughter of the baron. All the nurses, gossips, and country cousins\nassured her father that she had not her equal for beauty in all Germany;\nand who should know better than they? She had, moreover, been brought up\nwith great care under the superintendence of two maiden aunts, who had\nspent some years of their early life at one of the little German\ncourts, and were skilled in all branches of knowledge necessary to the\neducation of a fine lady. Under their instructions she became a miracle\nof accomplishments. By the time she was eighteen, she could embroider to\nadmiration, and had worked whole histories of the saints in tapestry,\nwith such strength of expression in their countenances, that they looked\nlike so many souls in purgatory. She could read without great\ndifficulty, and had spelled her way through several church legends, and\nalmost all the chivalric wonders of the Heldenbuch. She had even made\nconsiderable proficiency in writing; could sign her own name without\nmissing a letter, and so legibly, that her aunts could read it without\nspectacles. She excelled in making little elegant good-for-nothing\nlady-like nicknacks of all kinds; was versed in the most abstruse\ndancing of the day; played a number of airs on the harp and guitar; and\nknew all the tender ballads of the Minnelieders by heart.\n\nHer aunts, too, having been great flirts and coquettes in their younger\ndays, were admirably calculated to be vigilant guardians and strict\ncensors of the conduct of their niece; for there is no duenna so rigidly\nprudent, and inexorably decorous, as a superannuated coquette. She was\nrarely suffered out of their sight; never went beyond the domains of the\ncastle, unless well attended, or rather well watched; had continual\nlectures read to her about strict decorum and implicit obedience; and,\nas to the men--pah!--she was taught to hold them at such a distance, and\nin such absolute distrust, that, unless properly authorized, she would\nnot have cast a glance upon the handsomest cavalier in the world--no,\nnot if he were even dying at her feet.\n\nThe good effects of this system were wonderfully apparent. The young\nlady was a pattern of docility and correctness. While others were\nwasting their sweetness in the glare of the world, and liable to be\nplucked and thrown aside by every hand, she was coyly blooming into\nfresh and lovely womanhood under the protection of those immaculate\nspinsters, like a rosebud blushing forth among guardian thorns. Her\naunts looked upon her with pride and exultation, and vaunted that though\nall the other young ladies in the world might go astray, yet, thank\nHeaven, nothing of the kind could happen to the heiress of\nKatzenellenbogen.\n\nBut, however scantily the Baron Von Landshort might be provided with\nchildren, his household was by no means a small one; for Providence had\nenriched him with abundance of poor relations. They, one and all,\npossessed the affectionate disposition common to humble relatives; were\nwonderfully attached to the baron, and took every possible occasion to\ncome in swarms and enliven the castle. All family festivals were\ncommemorated by these good people at the baron's expense; and when they\nwere filled with good cheer, they would declare that there was nothing\non earth so delightful as these family meetings, these jubilees of the\nheart.\n\nThe baron, though a small man, had a large soul, and it swelled with\nsatisfaction at the consciousness of being the greatest man in the\nlittle world about him. He loved to tell long stories about the dark old\nwarriors whose portraits looked grimly down from the walls around, and\nhe found no listeners equal to those that fed at his expense. He was\nmuch given to the marvelous, and a firm believer in all those\nsupernatural tales with which every mountain and valley in Germany\nabounds. The faith of his guests exceeded even his own: they listened to\nevery tale of wonder with open eyes and mouth, and never failed to be\nastonished, even though repeated for the hundredth time. Thus lived the\nBaron Von Landshort, the oracle of his table, the absolute monarch of\nhis little territory, and happy, above all things, in the persuasion\nthat he was the wisest man of the age.\n\nAt the time of which my story treats, there was a great family gathering\nat the castle, on an affair of the utmost importance: it was to receive\nthe destined bridegroom of the baron's daughter. A negotiation had been\ncarried on between the father and an old nobleman of Bavaria, to unite\nthe dignity of their houses by the marriage of their children. The\npreliminaries had been conducted with proper punctilio. The young people\nwere betrothed without seeing each other, and the time was appointed for\nthe marriage ceremony. The young Count Von Altenburg had been recalled\nfrom the army for the purpose, and was actually on his way to the\nbaron's to receive his bride. Missives had even been received from him\nfrom Wurtzburg, where he was accidentally detained, mentioning the day\nand hour when he might be expected to arrive.\n\nThe castle was in a tumult of preparation to give him a suitable\nwelcome. The fair bride had been decked out with uncommon care. The two\naunts had superintended her toilet, and quarreled the whole morning\nabout every article of her dress. The young lady had taken advantage of\ntheir contest to follow the bent of her own taste; and fortunately it\nwas a good one. She looked as lovely as youthful bridegroom could\ndesire; and the flutter of expectation heightened the luster of her\ncharms.\n\nThe suffusions that mantled her face and neck, the gentle heaving of the\nbosom, the eye now and then lost in reverie, all betrayed the soft\ntumult that was going on in her little heart. The aunts were continually\nhovering around her; for maiden aunts are apt to take great interest in\naffairs of this nature. They were giving her a world of staid counsel\nhow to deport herself, what to say, and in what manner to receive the\nexpected lover.\n\nThe baron was no less busied in preparations. He had, in truth, nothing\nexactly to do; but he was naturally a fuming bustling little man, and\ncould not remain passive when all the world was in a hurry. He worried\nfrom top to bottom of the castle with an air of infinite anxiety; he\ncontinually called the servants from their work to exhort them to be\ndiligent; and buzzed about every hall and chamber, as idly restless and\nimportunate as a blue-bottle fly on a warm summer's day.\n\nIn the meantime the fatted calf had been killed; the forests had rung\nwith the clamor of the huntsmen; the kitchen was crowded with good\ncheer; the cellars had yielded up whole oceans of _Rheinwein_ and\n_Fernewein_; and even the great Heidelberg tun had been laid under\ncontribution. Everything was ready to receive the distinguished guest\nwith _Saus und Braus_ in the true spirit of German hospitality--but the\nguest delayed to make his appearance. Hour rolled after hour. The sun,\nthat had poured his downward rays upon the rich forest of the Odenwald,\nnow just gleamed along the summits of the mountains. The baron mounted\nthe highest tower, and strained his eyes in hope of catching a distant\nsight of the count and his attendants. Once he thought he beheld them;\nthe sounds of horns came floating from the valley, prolonged by the\nmountain echoes. A number of horsemen were seen far below, slowly\nadvancing along the road; but when they had nearly reached the foot of\nthe mountain, they suddenly struck off in a different direction. The\nlast ray of sunshine departed--the bats began to flit by in the\ntwilight--the road grew dimmer and dimmer to the view; and nothing\nappeared stirring in it but now and then a peasant lagging homeward\nfrom his labor.\n\nWhile the old castle at Landshort was in this state of perplexity, a\nvery interesting scene was transacting in a different part of the\nOdenwald.\n\nThe young Count Von Altenburg was tranquilly pursuing his route in that\nsober jog-trot way in which a man travels toward matrimony when his\nfriends have taken all the trouble and uncertainty of courtship off his\nhands, and a bride is waiting for him, as certainly as a dinner at the\nend of his journey. He had encountered at Wurtzburg a youthful companion\nin arms with whom he had seen some service on the frontiers: Herman Von\nStarkenfaust, one of the stoutest hands and worthiest hearts of German\nchivalry, who was now returning from the army. His father's castle was\nnot far distant from the old fortress of Landshort, although an\nhereditary feud rendered the families hostile, and strangers to each\nother.\n\nIn the warm-hearted moment of recognition, the young friends related all\ntheir past adventures and fortunes, and the count gave the whole history\nof his intended nuptials with a young lady whom he had never seen, but\nof whose charms he had received the most enrapturing descriptions.\n\nAs the route of the friends lay in the same direction, they agreed to\nperform the rest of their journey together; and, that they might do it\nthe more leisurely, set off from Wurtzburg at an early hour, the count\nhaving given directions for his retinue to follow and overtake him.\n\nThey beguiled their wayfaring with recollections of their military\nscenes and adventures; but the count was apt to be a little tedious, now\nand then, about the reputed charms of his bride and the felicity that\nawaited him.\n\nIn this way they had entered among the mountains of the Odenwald, and\nwere traversing one of its most lonely and thickly wooded passes. It is\nwell known that the forests of Germany have always been as much infested\nby robbers as its castles by specters; and at this time the former were\nparticularly numerous, from the hordes of disbanded soldiers wandering\nabout the country. It will not appear extraordinary, therefore, that the\ncavaliers were attacked by a gang of these stragglers, in the midst of\nthe forest. They defended themselves with bravery, but were nearly\noverpowered, when the count's retinue arrived to their assistance. At\nsight of them the robbers fled, but not until the count had received a\nmortal wound. He was slowly and carefully conveyed back to the city of\nWurtzburg, and a friar summoned from a neighboring convent who was\nfamous for his skill in administering to both soul and body; but half of\nhis skill was superfluous; the moments of the unfortunate count were\nnumbered.\n\nWith his dying breath he entreated his friend to repair instantly to the\ncastle of Landshort, and explain the fatal cause of his not keeping his\nappointment with his bride. Though not the most ardent of lovers, he\nwas one of the most punctilious of men, and appeared earnestly\nsolicitous that his mission should be speedily and courteously executed.\n\"Unless this is done,\" said he, \"I shall not sleep quietly in my grave!\"\nHe repeated these last words with peculiar solemnity. A request, at a\nmoment so impressive, admitted no hesitation. Starkenfaust endeavored to\nsoothe him to calmness; promised faithfully to execute his wish, and\ngave him his hand in solemn pledge. The dying man pressed it in\nacknowledgment, but soon lapsed into delirium--raved about his\nbride--his engagements--his plighted word; ordered his horse, that he\nmight ride to the castle of Landshort; and expired in the fancied act of\nvaulting into the saddle.\n\nStarkenfaust bestowed a sigh and a soldier's tear on the untimely fate\nof his comrade, and then pondered on the awkward mission he had\nundertaken. His heart was heavy, and his head perplexed; for he was to\npresent himself an unbidden guest among hostile people, and to damp\ntheir festivity with tidings fatal to their hopes. Still, there were\ncertain whisperings of curiosity in his bosom to see this far-famed\nbeauty of Katzenellenbogen, so cautiously shut up from the world; for he\nwas a passionate admirer of the sex, and there was a dash of\neccentricity and enterprise in his character that made him fond of all\nsingular adventure.\n\nPrevious to his departure he made all due arrangements with the holy\nfraternity of the convent for the funeral solemnities of his friend, who\nwas to be buried in the cathedral of Wurtzburg near some of his\nillustrious relatives; and the mourning retinue of the count took charge\nof his remains.\n\nIt is now high time that we should return to the ancient family of\nKatzenellenbogen, who were impatient for their guest, and still more for\ntheir dinner; and to the worthy little baron, whom we left airing\nhimself on the watch-tower.\n\nNight closed in, but still no guest arrived. The baron descended from\nthe tower in despair. The banquet, which had been delayed from hour to\nhour, could no longer be postponed. The meats were already overdone; the\ncook in an agony; and the whole household had the look of a garrison\nthat had been reduced by famine. The baron was obliged reluctantly to\ngive orders for the feast without the presence of the guest. All were\nseated at table, and just on the point of commencing, when the sound of\na horn from without the gate gave notice of the approach of a stranger.\nAnother long blast filled the old courts of the castle with its echoes,\nand was answered by the warder from the walls. The baron hastened to\nreceive his future son-in-law.\n\nThe drawbridge had been let down, and the stranger was before the gate.\nHe was a tall, gallant cavalier mounted on a black steed. His\ncountenance was pale, but he had a beaming, romantic eye, and an air of\nstately melancholy.\n\nThe baron was a little mortified that he should have come in this\nsimple, solitary style. His dignity for a moment was ruffled, and he\nfelt disposed to consider it a want of proper respect for the important\noccasion, and the important family with which he was to be connected. He\npacified himself, however, with the conclusion, that it must have been\nyouthful impatience which had induced him thus to spur on sooner than\nhis attendants.\n\n\"I am sorry,\" said the stranger, \"to break in upon you thus\nunseasonably----\"\n\nHere the baron interrupted with a world of compliments and greetings;\nfor, to tell the truth, he prided himself upon his courtesy and\neloquence.\n\nThe stranger attempted, once or twice, to stem the torrent of words, but\nin vain, so he bowed his head and suffered it to flow on. By the time\nthe baron had come to a pause, they had reached the inner court of the\ncastle; and the stranger was again about to speak, when he was once more\ninterrupted by the appearance of the female part of the family leading\nforth the shrinking and blushing bride. He gazed on her for a moment as\none entranced; it seemed as if his whole soul beamed forth in the gaze,\nand rested upon that lovely form. One of the maiden aunts whispered\nsomething in her ear; she made an effort to speak; her moist blue eye\nwas timidly raised; gave a shy glance of inquiry on the stranger; and\nwas cast again to the ground. The words died away; but there was a\nsweet smile playing about her lips, and a soft dimpling of the cheek\nthat showed her glance had not been unsatisfactory. It was impossible\nfor a girl of the fond age of eighteen, highly predisposed for love and\nmatrimony, not to be pleased with so gallant a cavalier.\n\nThe late hour at which the guest had arrived left no time for parley.\nThe baron was peremptory, and deferred all particular conversation until\nthe morning, and led the way to the untasted banquet.\n\nIt was served up in the great hall of the castle. Around the walls hung\nthe hard-favored portraits of the heroes of the house of\nKatzenellenbogen, and the trophies which they had gained in the field\nand in the chase. Hacked corselets, splintered jousting spears, and\ntattered banners were mingled with the spoils of sylvan warfare; the\njaws of the wolf and the tusks of the boar grinned horribly among\ncross-bows and battle-axes, and a huge pair of antlers branched\nimmediately over the head of the youthful bridegroom.\n\nThe cavalier took but little notice of the company or the entertainment.\nHe scarcely tasted the banquet, but seemed absorbed in admiration of his\nbride. He conversed in a low tone that could not be overheard--for the\nlanguage of love is never loud; but where is the female ear so dull that\nit cannot catch the softest whisper of the lover? There was a mingled\ntenderness and gravity in his manner, that appeared to have a powerful\neffect upon the young lady. Her color came and went as she listened with\ndeep attention. Now and then she made some blushing reply, and when his\neye was turned away, she would steal a sidelong glance at his romantic\ncountenance and heave a gentle sigh of tender happiness. It was evident\nthat the young couple were completely enamored. The aunts, who were\ndeeply versed in the mysteries of the heart, declared that they had\nfallen in love with each other at first sight.\n\nThe feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for the guests were all\nblessed with those keen appetites that attend upon light purses and\nmountain air. The baron told his best and longest stories, and never had\nhe told them so well, or with such great effect. If there was anything\nmarvelous, his auditors were lost in astonishment; and if anything\nfacetious, they were sure to laugh exactly in the right place. The\nbaron, it is true, like most great men, was too dignified to utter any\njoke but a dull one; it was always enforced, however, by a bumper of\nexcellent Hockheimer; and even a dull joke, at one's own table, served\nup with jolly old wine, is irresistible. Many good things were said by\npoorer and keener wits that would not bear repeating, except on similar\noccasions; many sly speeches whispered in ladies' ears, that almost\nconvulsed them with suppressed laughter; and a song or two roared out by\na poor, but merry and broad-faced cousin of the baron that absolutely\nmade the maiden aunts hold up their fans.\n\nAmidst all this revelry, the stranger guest maintained a most singular\nand unseasonable gravity. His countenance assumed a deeper cast of\ndejection as the evening advanced; and, strange as it may appear, even\nthe baron's jokes seemed only to render him the more melancholy. At\ntimes he was lost in thought, and at times there was a perturbed and\nrestless wandering of the eye that bespoke a mind but ill at ease. His\nconversations with the bride became more and more earnest and\nmysterious. Lowering clouds began to steal over the fair serenity of her\nbrow, and tremors to run through her tender frame.\n\nAll this could not escape the notice of the company. Their gayety was\nchilled by the unaccountable gloom of the bridegroom; their spirits were\ninfected; whispers and glances were interchanged, accompanied by shrugs\nand dubious shakes of the head. The song and the laugh grew less and\nless frequent; there were dreary pauses in the conversation, which were\nat length succeeded by wild tales and supernatural legends. One dismal\nstory produced another still more dismal, and the baron nearly\nfrightened some of the ladies into hysterics with the history of the\ngoblin horseman that carried away the fair Leonora; a dreadful story\nwhich has since been put into excellent verse, and is read and believed\nby all the world.\n\nThe bridegroom listened to this tale with profound attention. He kept\nhis eyes steadily fixed on the baron, and, as the story drew to a close,\nbegan gradually to rise from his seat, growing taller and taller, until,\nin the baron's entranced eye, he seemed almost to tower into a giant.\nThe moment the tale was finished, he heaved a deep sigh and took a\nsolemn farewell of the company. They were all amazement. The baron was\nperfectly thunder-struck.\n\n\"What! going to leave the castle at midnight? Why, everything was\nprepared for his reception; a chamber was ready for him if he wished to\nretire.\"\n\nThe stranger shook his head mournfully and mysteriously; \"I must lay my\nhead in a different chamber to-night!\"\n\nThere was something in this reply, and the tone in which it was uttered,\nthat made the baron's heart misgive him; but he rallied his forces and\nrepeated his hospitable entreaties.\n\nThe stranger shook his head silently, but positively, at every offer;\nand, waving his farewell to the company, stalked slowly out of the hall.\nThe maiden aunts were absolutely petrified--the bride hung her head, and\na tear stole to her eye.\n\nThe baron followed the stranger to the great court of the castle, where\nthe black charger stood pawing the earth and snorting with impatience.\nWhen they had reached the portal, whose deep archway was dimly lighted\nby a cresset, the stranger paused, and addressed the baron in a hollow\ntone of voice which the vaulted roof rendered still more sepulchral.\n\n\"Now that we are alone,\" said he, \"I will impart to you the reason of my\ngoing. I have a solemn, an indispensable engagement----\"\n\n\"Why,\" said the baron, \"cannot you send someone in your place?\"\n\n\"It admits of no substitute--I must attend it in person--I must away to\nWurtzburg cathedral----\"\n\n\"Ay,\" said the baron, plucking up spirit, \"but not until\nto-morrow--to-morrow you shall take your bride there.\"\n\n\"No! no!\" replied the stranger, with tenfold solemnity, \"my engagement\nis with no bride--the worms! the worms expect me! I am a dead man--I\nhave been slain by robbers--my body lies at Wurtzburg--at midnight I am\nto be buried--the grave is waiting for me--I must keep my appointment!\"\n\nHe sprang on his black charger, dashed over the drawbridge, and the\nclattering of his horses' hoofs was lost in the whistling of the night\nblast.\n\nThe baron returned to the hall in the utmost consternation, and related\nwhat had passed. Two ladies fainted outright, others sickened at the\nidea of having banqueted with a specter. It was the opinion of some,\nthat this might be the wild huntsman, famous in German legend. Some\ntalked of mountain sprites, of wood-demons, and of other supernatural\nbeings, with which the good people of Germany have been so grievously\nharassed since time immemorial. One of the poor relations ventured to\nsuggest that it might be some sportive evasion of the young cavalier,\nand that the very gloominess of the caprice seemed to accord with so\nmelancholy a personage. This, however, drew on him the indignation of\nthe whole company, and especially of the baron, who looked upon him as\nlittle better than an infidel; so that he was fain to abjure his heresy\nas speedily as possible, and come into the faith of the true believers.\n\nBut whatever may have been the doubts entertained, they were completely\nput to an end by the arrival, next day, of regular missives confirming\nthe intelligence of the young count's murder, and his interment in\nWurtzburg cathedral.\n\nThe dismay at the castle may well be imagined. The baron shut himself up\nin his chamber. The guests, who had come to rejoice with him, could not\nthink of abandoning him in his distress. They wandered about the courts,\nor collected in groups in the hall, shaking their heads and shrugging\ntheir shoulders at the troubles of so good a man; and sat longer than\never at table, and ate and drank more stoutly than ever, by way of\nkeeping up their spirits. But the situation of the widowed bride was the\nmost pitiable. To have lost a husband before she had even embraced\nhim--and such a husband! if the very specter could be so gracious and\nnoble, what must have been the living man! She filled the house with\nlamentations.\n\nOn the night of the second day of her widowhood, she had retired to her\nchamber, accompanied by one of her aunts who insisted on sleeping with\nher. The aunt, who was one of the best tellers of ghost stories in all\nGermany, had just been recounting one of her longest, and had fallen\nasleep in the very midst of it. The chamber was remote, and overlooked a\nsmall garden. The niece lay pensively gazing at the beams of the rising\nmoon, as they trembled on the leaves of an aspen-tree before the\nlattice. The castle-clock had just tolled midnight, when a soft strain\nof music stole up from the garden. She rose hastily from her bed, and\nstepped lightly to the window. A tall figure stood among the shadows of\nthe trees. As it raised its head, a beam of moonlight fell upon the\ncountenance. Heaven and earth! she beheld the Specter Bridegroom! A loud\nshriek at that moment burst upon her ear, and her aunt, who had been\nawakened by the music, and had followed her silently to the window, fell\ninto her arms. When she looked again, the specter had disappeared.\n\nOf the two females, the aunt now required the most soothing, for she was\nperfectly beside herself with terror. As to the young lady, there was\nsomething, even in the specter of her lover, that seemed endearing.\nThere was still the semblance of manly beauty; and though the shadow of\na man is but little calculated to satisfy the affections of a love-sick\ngirl, yet, where the substance is not to be had, even that is consoling.\nThe aunt declared she would never sleep in that chamber again; the\nniece, for once, was refractory, and declared as strongly that she would\nsleep in no other in the castle: the consequence was, that she had to\nsleep in it alone: but she drew a promise from her aunt not to relate\nthe story of the specter, lest she should be denied the only melancholy\npleasure left her on earth--that of inhabiting the chamber over which\nthe guardian shade of her lover kept its nightly vigils.\n\nHow long the good old lady would have observed this promise is\nuncertain, for she dearly loved to talk of the marvelous, and there is a\ntriumph in being the first to tell a frightful story; it is, however,\nstill quoted in the neighborhood, as a memorable instance of female\nsecrecy, that she kept it to herself for a whole week; when she was\nsuddenly absolved from all further restraint, by intelligence, brought\nto the breakfast table one morning, that the young lady was not to be\nfound. Her room was empty--the bed had not been slept in--the window was\nopen, and the bird had flown!\n\nThe astonishment and concern with which the intelligence was received,\ncan only be imagined by those who have witnessed the agitation which the\nmishaps of a great man cause among his friends. Even the poor relations\npaused for a moment from the indefatigable labors of the trencher, when\nthe aunt, who had at first been struck speechless, wrung her hands, and\nshrieked out, \"The goblin! the goblin! She's carried away by the\ngoblin!\"\n\nIn a few words she related the fearful scene of the garden, and\nconcluded that the specter must have carried off his bride. Two of the\ndomestics corroborated the opinion, for they had heard the clattering of\na horse's hoofs down the mountain about midnight, and had no doubt that\nit was the specter on his black charger, bearing her away to the tomb.\nAll present were struck with the direful probability; for events of the\nkind are extremely common in Germany, as many well-authenticated\nhistories bear witness.\n\nWhat a lamentable situation was that of the poor baron! What a\nheart-rending dilemma for a fond father, and a member of the great\nfamily of Katzenellenbogen! His only daughter had either been rapt away\nto the grave, or he was to have some wood-demon for a son-in-law, and,\nperchance, a troop of goblin grandchildren. As usual, he was completely\nbewildered and all the castle in an uproar. The men were ordered to take\nhorse, and scour every road and path and glen of the Odenwald. The baron\nhimself had just drawn on his jack-boots, girded on his sword, and was\nabout to mount his steed to sally forth on the doubtful quest, when he\nwas brought to a pause by a new apparition. A lady was seen approaching\nthe castle, mounted on a palfrey, attended by a cavalier on horseback.\nShe galloped up to the gate, sprang from her horse, and falling at the\nbaron's feet, embraced his knees. It was his lost daughter, and her\ncompanion--the Specter Bridegroom! The baron was astounded. He looked at\nhis daughter, then at the specter, and almost doubted the evidence of\nhis senses. The latter, too, was wonderfully improved in his appearance\nsince his visit to the world of spirits. His dress was splendid, and set\noff a noble figure of manly symmetry. He was no longer pale and\nmelancholy. His fine countenance was flushed with the glow of youth, and\njoy rioted in his large dark eye.\n\nThe mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier (for in truth, as you must\nhave known all the while, he was no goblin) announced himself as Sir\nHerman Von Starkenfaust. He related his adventure with the young count.\nHe told how he had hastened to the castle to deliver the unwelcome\ntidings, but that the eloquence of the baron had interrupted him in\nevery attempt to tell his tale. How the sight of the bride had\ncompletely captivated him, and that to pass a few hours near her, he had\ntacitly suffered the mistake to continue. How he had been sorely\nperplexed in what way to make a decent retreat, until the baron's goblin\nstories had suggested his eccentric exit. How, fearing the feudal\nhostility of the family, he had repeated his visits by stealth--had\nhaunted the garden beneath the young lady's window--had wooed--had\nwon--had borne away in triumph--and, in a word, had wedded the fair.\n\nUnder any other circumstances the baron would have been inflexible, for\nhe was tenacious of paternal authority, and devoutly obstinate in all\nfamily feuds; but he loved his daughter; he had lamented her as lost; he\nrejoiced to find her still alive; and, though her husband was of a\nhostile house, yet, thank Heaven, he was not a goblin. There was\nsomething, it must be acknowledged, that did not exactly accord with his\nnotions of strict veracity, in the joke the knight had passed upon him\nof his being a dead man; but several old friends present, who had served\nin the wars, assured him that every stratagem was excusable in love, and\nthat the cavalier was entitled to especial privilege, having lately\nserved as a trooper.\n\nMatters, therefore, were happily arranged. The baron pardoned the young\ncouple on the spot. The revels at the castle were resumed. The poor\nrelations overwhelmed this new member of the family with loving\nkindness; he was so gallant, so generous--and so rich. The aunts, it is\ntrue, were somewhat scandalized that their system of strict seclusion\nand passive obedience should be so badly exemplified, but attributed it\nall to their negligence in not having the windows grated. One of them\nwas particularly mortified at having her marvelous story marred, and\nthat the only specter she had ever seen should turn out a counterfeit;\nbut the niece seemed perfectly happy at having found him substantial\nflesh and blood--and so the story ends.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[2] The erudite reader, well versed in good-for-nothing lore, will\nperceive that the above Tale must have been suggested to the old Swiss\nby a little French anecdote, a circumstance said to have taken place at\nParis.\n\n[3] _I. e._, CAT'S-ELBOW. The name of a family of those parts very\npowerful in former times. The appellation, we are told, was given in\ncompliment to a peerless dame of the family, celebrated for her fine\narm.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SPECTER OF TAPPINGTON\n\nCOMPILED BY RICHARD BARHAM\n\n\n\n\nThe Specter of Tappington\n\nFrom _The Ingoldsby Legends_\n\nCOMPILED BY RICHARD BARHAM\n\n\n\"It is very odd, though; what can have become of them?\" said Charles\nSeaforth, as he peeped under the valance of an old-fashioned bedstead,\nin an old-fashioned apartment of a still more old-fashioned manor-house;\n\"'tis confoundedly odd, and I can't make it out at all. Why, Barney,\nwhere are they?--and where the d----l are you?\"\n\nNo answer was returned to this appeal; and the lieutenant, who was, in\nthe main, a reasonable person--at least as reasonable a person as any\nyoung gentleman of twenty-two in \"the service\" can fairly be expected to\nbe--cooled when he reflected that his servant could scarcely reply\nextempore to a summons which it was impossible he should hear.\n\nAn application to the bell was the considerate result; and the footsteps\nof as tight a lad as ever put pipe-clay to belt sounded along the\ngallery.\n\n\"Come in!\" said his master. An ineffectual attempt upon the door\nreminded Mr. Seaforth that he had locked himself in. \"By Heaven! this\nis the oddest thing of all,\" said he, as he turned the key and admitted\nMr. Maguire into his dormitory.\n\n\"Barney, where are my pantaloons?\"\n\n\"Is it the breeches?\" asked the valet, casting an inquiring eye round\nthe apartment;--\"is it the breeches, sir?\"\n\n\"Yes, what have you done with them?\"\n\n\"Sure then your honor had them on when you went to bed, and it's\nhereabouts they'll be, I'll be bail\"; and Barney lifted a fashionable\ntunic from a cane-backed arm-chair, proceeding in his examination. But\nthe search was vain; there was the tunic aforesaid, there was a\nsmart-looking kerseymere waistcoat; but the most important article of\nall in a gentleman's wardrobe was still wanting.\n\n\"Where _can_ they be?\" asked the master, with a strong accent on the\nauxiliary verb.\n\n\"Sorrow a know I knows,\" said the man.\n\n\"It _must_ have been the devil, then, after all, who has been here and\ncarried them off!\" cried Seaforth, staring full into Barney's face.\n\nMr. Maguire was not devoid of the superstition of his countrymen, still\nhe looked as if he did not quite subscribe to the _sequitur_.\n\nHis master read incredulity in his countenance. \"Why, I tell you,\nBarney, I put them there, on that arm-chair, when I got into bed; and,\nby Heaven! I distinctly saw the ghost of the old fellow they told me\nof, come in at midnight, put on my pantaloons, and walk away with them.\"\n\n\"May be so,\" was the cautious reply.\n\n\"I thought, of course, it was a dream; but then--where the d----l are\nthe breeches?\"\n\nThe question was more easily asked than answered. Barney renewed his\nsearch, while the lieutenant folded his arms, and, leaning against the\ntoilet, sunk into a reverie.\n\n\"After all, it must be some trick of my laughter-loving cousins,\" said\nSeaforth.\n\n\"Ah! then, the ladies!\" chimed in Mr. Maguire, though the observation\nwas not addressed to him; \"and will it be Miss Caroline or Miss Fanny,\nthat's stole your honor's things?\"\n\n\"I hardly know what to think of it,\" pursued the bereaved lieutenant,\nstill speaking in soliloquy, with his eye resting dubiously on the\nchamber-door. \"I locked myself in, that's certain; and--but there must\nbe some other entrance to the room--pooh! I remember--the private\nstaircase; how could I be such a fool?\" and he crossed the chamber to\nwhere a low oaken doorcase was dimly visible in a distant corner. He\npaused before it. Nothing now interfered to screen it from observation;\nbut it bore tokens of having been at some earlier period concealed by\ntapestry, remains of which yet clothed the walls on either side the\nportal.\n\n\"This way they must have come,\" said Seaforth; \"I wish with all my heart\nI had caught them!\"\n\n\"Och! the kittens!\" sighed Mr. Barney Maguire.\n\nBut the mystery was yet as far from being solved as before. True, there\n_was_ the \"other door\"; but then that, too, on examination, was even\nmore firmly secured than the one which opened on the gallery--two heavy\nbolts on the inside effectually prevented any _coup de main_ on the\nlieutenant's _bivouac_ from that quarter. He was more puzzled than ever;\nnor did the minutest inspection of the walls and floor throw any light\nupon the subject: one thing only was clear--the breeches were gone! \"It\nis _very_ singular,\" said the lieutenant.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTappington (generally called Tapton) Everard is an antiquated but\ncommodious manor-house in the eastern division of the county of Kent. A\nformer proprietor had been high-sheriff in the days of Elizabeth, and\nmany a dark and dismal tradition was yet extant of the licentiousness of\nhis life, and the enormity of his offenses. The Glen, which the keeper's\ndaughter was seen to enter, but never known to quit, still frowns darkly\nas of yore; while an ineradicable blood-stain on the oaken stair yet\nbids defiance to the united energies of soap and sand. But it is with\none particular apartment that a deed of more especial atrocity is said\nto be connected. A stranger guest--so runs the legend--arrived\nunexpectedly at the mansion of the \"Bad Sir Giles.\" They met in\napparent friendship; but the ill-concealed scowl on their master's brow\ntold the domestics that the visit was not a welcome one; the banquet,\nhowever, was not spared; the wine-cup circulated freely--too freely,\nperhaps--for sounds of discord at length reached the ears of even the\nexcluded serving-men, as they were doing their best to imitate their\nbetters in the lower hall. Alarmed, some of them ventured to approach\nthe parlor, one, an old and favored retainer of the house, went so far\nas to break in upon his master's privacy. Sir Giles, already high in\noath, fiercely enjoined his absence, and he retired; not, however,\nbefore he had distinctly heard from the stranger's lips a menace that\n\"there was that within his pocket which could disprove the knight's\nright to issue that or any other command within the walls of Tapton.\"\n\nThe intrusion, though momentary, seemed to have produced a beneficial\neffect; the voices of the disputants fell, and the conversation was\ncarried on thenceforth in a more subdued tone, till, as evening closed\nin, the domestics, when summoned to attend with lights, found not only\ncordiality restored, but that a still deeper carouse was meditated.\nFresh stoups, and from the choicest bins, were produced; nor was it till\nat a late, or rather early hour, that the revelers sought their\nchambers.\n\nThe one allotted to the stranger occupied the first floor of the\neastern angle of the building, and had once been the favorite apartment\nof Sir Giles himself. Scandal ascribed this preference to the facility\nwhich a private staircase, communicating with the grounds, had afforded\nhim, in the old knight's time, of following his wicked courses unchecked\nby parental observation; a consideration which ceased to be of weight\nwhen the death of his father left him uncontrolled master of his estate\nand actions. From that period Sir Giles had established himself in what\nwere called the \"state apartments,\" and the \"oaken chamber\" was rarely\ntenanted, save on occasions of extraordinary festivity, or when the yule\nlog drew an unusually large accession of guests around the Christmas\nhearth.\n\nOn this eventful night it was prepared for the unknown visitor, who\nsought his couch heated and inflamed from his midnight orgies, and in\nthe morning was found in his bed a swollen and blackened corpse. No\nmarks of violence appeared upon the body; but the livid hue of the lips,\nand certain dark-colored spots visible on the skin, aroused suspicions\nwhich those who entertained them were too timid to express. Apoplexy,\ninduced by the excesses of the preceding night, Sir Giles's confidential\nleech pronounced to be the cause of his sudden dissolution. The body was\nburied in peace; and though some shook their heads as they witnessed the\nhaste with which the funeral rites were hurried on, none ventured to\nmurmur. Other events arose to distract the attention of the retainers;\nmen's minds became occupied by the stirring politics of the day; while\nthe near approach of that formidable armada, so vainly arrogating itself\na title which the very elements joined with human valor to disprove,\nsoon interfered to weaken, if not obliterate, all remembrance of the\nnameless stranger who had died within the walls of Tapton Everard.\n\nYears rolled on: the \"Bad Sir Giles\" had himself long since gone to his\naccount, the last, as it was believed, of his immediate line; though a\nfew of the older tenants were sometimes heard to speak of an elder\nbrother, who had disappeared in early life, and never inherited the\nestate. Rumors, too, of his having left a son in foreign lands, were at\none time rife; but they died away, nothing occurring to support them:\nthe property passed unchallenged to a collateral branch of the family,\nand the secret, if secret there were, was buried in Denton churchyard,\nin the lonely grave of the mysterious stranger. One circumstance alone\noccurred, after a long-intervening period, to revive the memory of these\ntransactions. Some workmen employed in grubbing an old plantation, for\nthe purpose of raising on its site a modern shrubbery, dug up, in the\nexecution of their task, the mildewed remnants of what seemed to have\nbeen once a garment. On more minute inspection, enough remained of\nsilken slashes and a coarse embroidery, to identify the relics as having\nonce formed part of a pair of trunk hose; while a few papers which fell\nfrom them, altogether illegible from damp and age, were by the unlearned\nrustics conveyed to the then owner of the estate.\n\nWhether the squire was more successful in deciphering them was never\nknown; he certainly never alluded to their contents; and little would\nhave been thought of the matter but for the inconvenient memory of one\nold woman, who declared she heard her grandfather say, that when the\n\"strange guest\" was poisoned, though all the rest of his clothes were\nthere, his breeches, the supposed repository of the supposed documents,\ncould never be found. The master of Tapton Everard smiled when he heard\nDame Jones's hint of deeds which might impeach the validity of his own\ntitle in favor of some unknown descendant of some unknown heir; and the\nstory was rarely alluded to, save by one or two miracle-mongers, who had\nheard that others had seen the ghost of old Sir Giles, in his night-cap,\nissue from the postern, enter the adjoining copse, and wring his shadowy\nhands in agony, as he seemed to search vainly for something hidden among\nthe evergreens. The stranger's death-room had, of course, been\noccasionally haunted from the time of his decease; but the periods of\nvisitation had latterly become very rare--even Mrs. Botherby, the\nhousekeeper, being forced to admit that, during her long sojourn at the\nmanor, she had never \"met with anything worse than herself\"; though, as\nthe old lady afterwards added upon more mature reflection, \"I must say I\nthink I saw the devil _once_.\"\n\nSuch was the legend attached to Tapton Everard, and such the story which\nthe lively Caroline Ingoldsby detailed to her equally mercurial cousin,\nCharles Seaforth, lieutenant in the Hon. East India Company's second\nregiment of Bombay Fencibles, as arm-in-arm they promenaded a gallery\ndecked with some dozen grim-looking ancestral portraits, and, among\nothers, with that of the redoubted Sir Giles himself. The gallant\ncommander had that very morning paid his first visit to the house of his\nmaternal uncle, after an absence of several years passed with his\nregiment on the arid plains of Hindostan, whence he was now returned on\na three years' furlough. He had gone out a boy--he returned a man; but\nthe impression made upon his youthful fancy by his favorite cousin\nremained unimpaired, and to Tapton he directed his steps, even before he\nsought the home of his widowed mother--comforting himself in this breach\nof filial decorum by the reflection that, as the manor was so little out\nof his way, it would be unkind to pass, as it were, the door of his\nrelatives, without just looking in for a few hours.\n\nBut he found his uncle as hospitable, and his cousin more charming than\never; and the looks of one, and the requests of the other, soon\nprecluded the possibility of refusing to lengthen the \"few hours\" into\na few days, though the house was at the moment full of visitors.\n\nThe Peterses were from Ramsgate; and Mr., Mrs., and the two Miss\nSimpkinsons, from Bath, had come to pass a month with the family; and\nTom Ingoldsby had brought down his college friend the Honorable Augustus\nSucklethumbkin, with his groom and pointers, to take a fortnight's\nshooting. And then there was Mrs. Ogleton, the rich young widow, with\nher large black eyes, who, people did say, was setting her cap at the\nyoung squire, though Mrs. Botherby did not believe it; and, above all,\nthere was Mademoiselle Pauline, her _femme de chambre_, who\n\"_mon-Dieu'd_\" everything and everybody, and cried \"_Quel horreur!_\" at\nMrs. Botherby's cap. In short, to use the last-named and much-respected\nlady's own expression, the house was \"choke-full\" to the very\nattics--all save the \"oaken chamber,\" which, as the lieutenant expressed\na most magnanimous disregard of ghosts, was forthwith appropriated to\nhis particular accommodation. Mr. Maguire meanwhile was fain to share\nthe apartment of Oliver Dobbs, the squire's own man; a jocular proposal\nof joint occupancy having been first indignantly rejected by\n\"Mademoiselle,\" though preferred with the \"laste taste in life\" of Mr.\nBarney's most insinuating brogue.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"Come, Charles, the urn is absolutely getting cold; your breakfast will\nbe quite spoiled: what can have made you so idle?\" Such was the morning\nsalutation of Miss Ingoldsby to the _militaire_ as he entered the\nbreakfast-room half an hour after the latest of the party.\n\n\"A pretty gentleman, truly, to make an appointment with,\" chimed in Miss\nFrances. \"What is become of our ramble to the rocks before breakfast?\"\n\n\"Oh! the young men never think of keeping a promise now,\" said Mrs.\nPeters, a little ferret-faced woman with underdone eyes.\n\n\"When I was a young man,\" said Mr. Peters, \"I remember I always made a\npoint of----\"\n\n\"Pray, how long ago was that?\" asked Mr. Simpkinson from Bath.\n\n\"Why, sir, when I married Mrs. Peters, I was--let me see--I was----\"\n\n\"Do pray hold your tongue, P., and eat your breakfast!\" interrupted his\nbetter half, who had a mortal horror of chronological references; \"it's\nvery rude to tease people with your family affairs.\"\n\nThe lieutenant had by this time taken his seat in silence--a\ngood-humored nod, and a glance, half-smiling, half-inquisitive, being\nthe extent of his salutation. Smitten as he was, and in the immediate\npresence of her who had made so large a hole in his heart, his manner\nwas evidently _distrait_, which the fair Caroline in her secret soul\nattributed to his being solely occupied by her _agremens_: how would she\nhave bridled had she known that they only shared his meditations with a\npair of breeches!\n\nCharles drank his coffee and spiked some half-dozen eggs, darting\noccasionally a penetrating glance at the ladies, in hope of detecting\nthe supposed waggery by the evidence of some furtive smile or conscious\nlook. But in vain; not a dimple moved indicative of roguery, nor did the\nslightest elevation of eyebrow rise confirmative of his suspicions.\nHints and insinuations passed unheeded--more particular inquiries were\nout of the question--the subject was unapproachable.\n\nIn the meantime, \"patent cords\" were just the thing for a morning's\nride; and, breakfast ended, away cantered the party over the downs,\ntill, every faculty absorbed by the beauties, animate and inanimate,\nwhich surrounded him. Lieutenant Seaforth of the Bombay Fencibles\nbestowed no more thought upon his breeches than if he had been born on\nthe top of Ben Lomond.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAnother night had passed away; the sun rose brilliantly, forming with\nhis level beams a splendid rainbow in the far-off west, whither the\nheavy cloud, which for the last two hours had been pouring its waters on\nthe earth, was now flying before him.\n\n\"Ah! then, and it's little good it'll be the claning of ye,\"\napostrophized Mr. Barney Maguire, as he deposited, in front of his\nmaster's toilet, a pair of \"bran new\" jockey boots, one of Hoby's\nprimest fits, which the lieutenant had purchased in his way through\ntown. On that very morning had they come for the first time under the\nvalet's depurating hand, so little soiled, indeed, from the turfy ride\nof the preceding day, that a less scrupulous domestic might, perhaps,\nhave considered the application of \"Warren's Matchless,\" or oxalic acid,\naltogether superfluous. Not so Barney: with the nicest care had he\nremoved the slightest impurity from each polished surface, and there\nthey stood, rejoicing in their sable radiance. No wonder a pang shot\nacross Mr. Maguire's breast as he thought on the work now cut out for\nthem, so different from the light labors of the day before; no wonder he\nmurmured with a sigh, as the scarce dried window-panes disclosed a road\nnow inch deep in mud! \"Ah! then, it's little good claning of ye!\"--for\nwell had he learned in the hall below that eight miles of a stiff clay\nsoil lay between the manor and Bolsover Abbey, whose picturesque ruins,\n\n    \"Like ancient Rome, majestic in decay,\"\n\nthe party had determined to explore. The master had already commenced\ndressing, and the man was fitting straps upon a light pair of\ncrane-necked spurs, when his hand was arrested by the old\nquestion--\"Barney, where are the breeches?\"\n\nThey were nowhere to be found!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMr. Seaforth descended that morning, whip in hand, and equipped in a\nhandsome green riding-frock, but no \"breeches and boots to match\" were\nthere: loose jean trousers, surmounting a pair of diminutive\nWellingtons, embraced, somewhat incongruously, his nether man, _vice_\nthe \"patent cords,\" returned, like yesterday's pantaloons, absent\nwithout leave. The \"top-boots\" had a holiday.\n\n\"A fine morning after the rain,\" said Mr. Simpkinson from Bath.\n\n\"Just the thing for the 'ops,\" said Mr. Peters. \"I remember when I was a\nboy----\"\n\n\"Do hold your tongue, P.,\" said Mrs. Peters--advice which that exemplary\nmatron was in the constant habit of administering to \"her P.\" as she\ncalled him, whenever he prepared to vent his reminiscences. Her precise\nreason for this it would be difficult to determine, unless, indeed, the\nstory be true which a little bird had whispered into Mrs. Botherby's\near--Mr. Peters, though now a wealthy man had received a liberal\neducation at a charity school, and was apt to recur to the days of his\nmuffin-cap and leathers. As usual, he took his wife's hint in good part,\nand \"paused in his reply.\"\n\n\"A glorious day for the ruins!\" said young Ingoldsby. \"But Charles, what\nthe deuce are you about? you don't mean to ride through our lanes in\nsuch toggery as that?\"\n\n\"Lassy me!\" said Miss Julia Simpkinson, \"won't yo' be very wet?\"\n\n\"You had better take Tom's cab,\" quoth the squire.\n\nBut this proposition was at once over-ruled; Mrs. Ogleton had already\nnailed the cab, a vehicle of all others the best adapted for a snug\nflirtation.\n\n\"Or drive Miss Julia in the phaeton?\" No; that was the post of Mr.\nPeters, who, indifferent as an equestrian, had acquired some fame as a\nwhip while traveling through the midland counties for the firm of\nBagshaw, Snivelby, and Ghrimes.\n\n\"Thank you, I shall ride with my cousins,\" said Charles, with as much\n_nonchalance_ as he could assume--and he did so; Mr. Ingoldsby, Mrs.\nPeters, Mr. Simpkinson from Bath, and his eldest daughter with her\n_album_, following in the family coach. The gentleman-commoner \"voted\nthe affair d----d slow,\" and declined the party altogether in favor of\nthe gamekeeper and a cigar. \"There was 'no fun' in looking at old\nhouses!\" Mrs. Simpkinson preferred a short _sejour_ in the still-room\nwith Mrs. Botherby, who had promised to initiate her in that grand\n_arcanum_, the transmutation of gooseberry jam into Guava jelly.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"Did you ever see an old abbey before, Mrs. Peters?\"\n\n\"Yes, miss, a French one; we have got one at Ramsgate; he teaches the\nMiss Joneses to parley-voo and is turned of sixty.\"\n\nMiss Simpkinson closed her album with an air of ineffable disdain.\n\nMr. Simpkinson from Bath was a professed antiquary, and one of the\nfirst water; he was master of Gwillim's Heraldry, and Mill's History of\nthe Crusades; knew every plate in the Monasticon; had written an essay\non the origin and dignity of the office of overseer, and settled the\ndate on a Queen Anne's farthing. An influential member of the\nAntiquarian Society, to whose \"Beauties of Bagnigge Wells\" he had been a\nliberal subscriber, procured him a seat at the board of that learned\nbody, since which happy epoch Sylvanus Urban had not a more\nindefatigable correspondent. His inaugural essay on the President's\ncocked hat was considered a miracle of erudition; and his account of the\nearliest application of gilding to gingerbread, a masterpiece of\nantiquarian research. His eldest daughter was of a kindred spirit: if\nher father's mantle had not fallen upon her, it was only because he had\nnot thrown it off himself; she had caught hold of its tail, however,\nwhile it yet hung upon his honored shoulders. To souls so congenial,\nwhat a sight was the magnificent ruin of Bolsover! its broken arches,\nits mouldering pinnacles, and the airy tracery of its half-demolished\nwindows. The party were in raptures; Mr. Simpkinson began to meditate an\nessay, and his daughter an ode: even Seaforth, as he gazed on these\nlonely relics of the olden time, was betrayed into a momentary\nforgetfulness of his love and losses; the widow's eye-glass turned from\nher _cicisbeo's_ whiskers to the mantling ivy; Mrs. Peters wiped her\nspectacles; and \"her P.\" supposed the central tower \"had once been the\ncounty jail.\" The squire was a philosopher, and had been there often\nbefore, so he ordered out the cold tongue and chickens.\n\n\"Bolsover Priory,\" said Mr. Simpkinson, with the air of a\nconnoisseur--\"Bolsover Priory was founded in the reign of Henry the\nSixth, about the beginning of the eleventh century. Hugh de Bolsover had\naccompanied that monarch to the Holy Land, in the expedition undertaken\nby way of penance for the murder of his young nephews in the Tower. Upon\nthe dissolution of the monasteries, the veteran was enfeoffed in the\nlands and manor, to which he gave his own name of Bowlsover, or\nBee-owls-over (by corruption Bolsover)--a Bee in chief, over three Owls,\nall proper, being the armorial ensigns borne by this distinguished\ncrusader at the siege of Acre.\"\n\n\"Ah! that was Sir Sidney Smith,\" said Mr. Peters; \"I've heard tell of\nhim, and all about Mrs. Partington, and----\"\n\n\"P. be quiet, and don't expose yourself!\" sharply interrupted his lady.\nP. was silenced, and betook himself to the bottled stout.\n\n\"These lands,\" continued the antiquary, \"were held in grand serjeantry\nby the presentation of three white owls and pot of honey----\"\n\n\"Lassy me! how nice!\" said Miss Julia. Mr. Peters licked his lips.\n\n\"Pray give me leave, my dear--owls and honey, whenever the king should\ncome a rat-catching into this part of the country.\"\n\n\"Rat-catching!\" ejaculated the squire, pausing abruptly in the\nmastication of a drumstick.\n\n\"To be sure, my dear sir; don't you remember the rats came under the\nforest laws--a minor species of venison? 'Rats and mice, and such small\ndeer,' eh?--Shakespeare, you know. Our ancestors ate rats ('The nasty\nfellows!' shuddered Miss Julia, in a parenthesis); and owls, you know,\nare capital mousers----\"\n\n\"I've seen a howl,\" said Mr. Peters; \"there's one in the Sohological\nGardens--a little hook-nosed chap in a wig--only its feathers and----\"\n\nPoor P. was destined never to finish a speech.\n\n\"_Do_ be quiet!\" cried the authoritative voice; and the would-be\nnaturalist shrank into his shell, like a snail in the \"Sohological\nGardens.\"\n\n\"You should read Blount's _Jocular Tenures_, Mr. Ingoldsby,\" pursued\nSimpkinson. \"A learned man was Blount! Why, sir, His Royal Highness the\nDuke of York once paid a silver horse-shoe to Lord Ferrers----\"\n\n\"I've heard of him,\" broke in the incorrigible Peters; \"he was hanged at\nthe Old Bailey in a silk rope for shooting Dr. Johnson.\"\n\nThe antiquary vouchsafed no notice of the interruption; but, taking a\npinch of snuff, continued his harangue.\n\n\"A silver horse-shoe, sir, which is due from every scion of royalty who\nrides across one of his manors; and if you look into the penny county\nhistories, now publishing by an eminent friend of mine, you will find\nthat Langhale in Co. Norf. was held by one Baldwin _per saltum,\nsufflatum, et pettum_; that is, he was to come every Christmas into\nWestminster Hall, there to take a leap, cry hem! and----\"\n\n\"Mr. Simpkinson, a glass of sherry?\" cried Tom Ingoldsby, hastily.\n\n\"Not any, thank you, sir. This Baldwin, surnamed _Le----_\"\n\n\"Mrs. Ogleton challenges you, sir; she insists upon it,\" said Tom still\nmore rapidly, at the same time filling a glass, and forcing it on the\n_scavant_, who, thus arrested in the very crisis of his narrative,\nreceived and swallowed the potation as if it had been physic.\n\n\"What on earth has Miss Simpkinson discovered there?\" continued Tom;\n\"something of interest. See how fast she is writing.\"\n\nThe diversion was effectual; every one looked towards Miss Simpkinson,\nwho, far too ethereal for \"creature comforts,\" was seated apart on the\ndilapidated remains of an altar-tomb, committing eagerly to paper\nsomething that had strongly impressed her; the air--the eye in a \"fine\nfrenzy rolling\"--all betokened that the divine _afflarus_ was come. Her\nfather rose, and stole silently towards her.\n\n\"What an old boar!\" muttered young Ingoldsby; alluding, perhaps, to a\nslice of brawn which he had just begun to operate upon, but which, from\nthe celerity with which it disappeared, did not seem so very difficult\nof mastication.\n\nBut what had become of Seaforth and his fair Caroline all this while?\nWhy, it so happened that they had been simultaneously stricken with the\npicturesque appearance of one of those high and pointed arches, which\nthat eminent antiquary, Mr. Horseley Curties, has described in his\n_Ancient Records_, as \"a _Gothic_ window of the _Saxon_ order\"; and then\nthe ivy clustered so thickly and so beautifully on the other side, that\nthey went round to look at that; and then their proximity deprived it of\nhalf its effect, and so they walked across to a little knoll, a hundred\nyards off, and in crossing a small ravine, they came to what in Ireland\nthey call \"a bad step,\" and Charles had to carry his cousin over it; and\nthen when they had to come back, she would not give him the trouble\nagain for the world, so they followed a better but more circuitous\nroute, and there were hedges and ditches in the way, and stiles to get\nover and gates to get through, so that an hour or more had elapsed\nbefore they were able to rejoin the party.\n\n\"Lassy me!\" said Miss Julia Simpkinson, \"how long you have been gone!\"\n\nAnd so they had. The remark was a very just as well as a very natural\none. They were gone a long while, and a nice cosy chat they had; and\nwhat do you think it was all about, my dear miss?\n\n\"O lassy me! love, no doubt, and the moon, and eyes, and nightingales,\nand----\"\n\nStay, stay, my sweet young lady; do not let the fervor of your feelings\nrun away with you! I do not pretend to say, indeed, that one or more of\nthese pretty subjects might not have been introduced; but the most\nimportant and leading topic of the conference was--Lieutenant Seaforth's\nbreeches.\n\n\"Caroline,\" said Charles, \"I have had some very odd dreams since I have\nbeen at Tappington.\"\n\n\"Dreams, have you?\" smiled the young lady, arching her taper neck like a\nswan in pluming. \"Dreams, have you?\"\n\n\"Ah, dreams--or dream, perhaps, I should say; for, though repeated, it\nwas still the same. And what do you imagine was its subject?\"\n\n\"It is impossible for me to divine,\" said the tongue; \"I have not the\nleast difficulty in guessing,\" said the eye, as plainly as ever eye\nspoke.\n\n\"I dreamt--of your great-grandfather!\"\n\nThere was a change in the glance--\"My great-grandfather?\"\n\n\"Yes, the old Sir Giles, or Sir John, you told me about the other day:\nhe walked into my bedroom in his short cloak of murrey-colored velvet,\nhis long rapier, and his Raleigh-looking hat and feather, just as the\npicture represents him; but with one exception.\"\n\n\"And what was that?\"\n\n\"Why, his lower extremities, which were visible, were those of a\nskeleton.\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"Well, after taking a turn or two about the room, and looking round him\nwith a wistful air, he came to the bed's foot, stared at me in a manner\nimpossible to describe--and then he--he laid hold of my pantaloons;\nwhipped his long bony legs into them in a twinkling; and strutting up to\nthe glass, seemed to view himself in it with great complacency. I tried\nto speak, but in vain. The effort, however, seemed to excite his\nattention; for, wheeling about, he showed me the grimmest-looking\ndeath's head you can well imagine, and with an indescribable grin\nstrutted out of the room.\"\n\n\"Absurd! Charles. How can you talk such nonsense?\"\n\n\"But, Caroline--the breeches are really gone.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOn the following morning, contrary to his usual custom, Seaforth was the\nfirst person in the breakfast parlor. As no one else was present, he did\nprecisely what nine young men out of ten so situated would have done; he\nwalked up to the mantelpiece, established himself upon the rug, and\nsubducting his coat-tails one under each arm, turned towards the fire\nthat portion of the human frame which it is considered equally\nindecorous to present to a friend or an enemy. A serious, not to say\nanxious, expression was visible upon his good-humored countenance, and\nhis mouth was fast buttoning itself up for an incipient whistle, when\nlittle Flo, a tiny spaniel of the Blenheim breed--the pet object of Miss\nJulia Simpkinson's affections--bounced out from beneath a sofa, and\nbegan to bark at--his pantaloons.\n\nThey were cleverly \"built,\" of a light-grey mixture, a broad stripe of\nthe most vivid scarlet traversing each seam in a perpendicular direction\nfrom hip to ankle--in short, the regimental costume of the Royal Bombay\nFencibles. The animal, educated in the country, had never seen such a\npair of breeches in her life--_Omne ignotum pro magnifico!_ The scarlet\nstreak, inflamed as it was by the reflection of the fire, seemed to act\non Flora's nerves as the same color does on those of bulls and turkeys;\nshe advanced at the _pas de charge_, and her vociferation, like her\namazement, was unbounded. A sound kick from the disgusted officer\nchanged its character, and induced a retreat at the very moment when the\nmistress of the pugnacious quadruped entered to the rescue.\n\n\"Lassy me! Flo, what _is_ the matter?\" cried the sympathizing lady, with\na scrutinizing glance leveled at the gentleman.\n\nIt might as well have lighted on a feather bed. His air of imperturbable\nunconsciousness defied examination; and as he would not, and Flora could\nnot, expound, that injured individual was compelled to pocket up her\nwrongs. Others of the household soon dropped in, and clustered round the\nboard dedicated to the most sociable of meals; the urn was paraded\n\"hissing hot,\" and the cups which \"cheer, but not inebriate,\" steamed\nredolent of hyson and pekoe; muffins and marmalade, newspapers, and\nFinnan haddies, left little room for observation on the character of\nCharles's warlike \"turn-out.\" At length a look from Caroline, followed\nby a smile that nearly ripened to a titter, caused him to turn abruptly\nand address his neighbor. It was Miss Simpkinson, who, deeply engaged in\nsipping her tea and turning over her album, seemed, like a female\nChrononotonthologos, \"immersed in cogibundity of cogitation.\" An\ninterrogatory on the subject of her studies drew from her the confession\nthat she was at that moment employed in putting the finishing touches to\na poem inspired by the romantic shades of Bolsover. The entreaties of\nthe company were of course urgent. Mr. Peters, \"who liked verses,\" was\nespecially persevering, and Sappho at length compliant. After a\npreparatory hem! and a glance at the mirror to ascertain that her look\nwas sufficiently sentimental, the poetess began:--\n\n    \"There is a calm, a holy feeling,\n      Vulgar minds, can never know,\n    O'er the bosom softly stealing,--\n      Chasten'd grief, delicious woe!\n    Oh! how sweet at eve regaining\n      Yon lone tower's sequester'd shade--\n    Sadly mute and uncomplaining----\"\n\n\"--Yow!--yeough!--yeough!--yow!--yow!\" yelled a hapless sufferer from\nbeneath the table. It was an unlucky hour for quadrupeds; and if \"every\ndog will have his day,\" he could not have selected a more unpropitious\none than this. Mrs. Ogleton, too, had a pet--a favorite pug--whose squab\nfigure, black muzzle, and tortuosity of tail, that curled like a head of\ncelery in a salad-bowl, bespoke his Dutch extraction. Yow! yow! yow!\ncontinued the brute--a chorus in which Flo instantly joined. Sooth to\nsay, pug had more reason to express his dissatisfaction than was given\nhim by the muse of Simpkinson; the other only barked for company.\nScarcely had the poetess got through her first stanza, when Tom\nIngoldsby, in the enthusiasm of the moment, became so lost in the\nmaterial world, that, in his abstraction, he unwarily laid his hand on\nthe cock of the urn. Quivering with emotion, he gave it such an unlucky\ntwist, that the full stream of its scalding contents descended on the\ngingerbread hide of the unlucky Cupid. The confusion was complete; the\nwhole economy of the table disarranged--the company broke up in most\nadmired disorder--and \"vulgar minds will never know\" anything more of\nMiss Simpkinson's ode till they peruse it in some forthcoming Annual.\n\nSeaforth profited by the confusion to take the delinquent who had caused\nthis \"stramash\" by the arm, and to lead him to the lawn, where he had a\nword or two for his private ear. The conference between the young\ngentlemen was neither brief in its duration nor unimportant in its\nresult. The subject was what the lawyers call tripartite, embracing the\ninformation that Charles Seaforth was over head and ears in love with\nTom Ingoldsby's sister; secondly, that the lady had referred him to\n\"papa\" for his sanction; thirdly, and lastly, his nightly visitations\nand consequent bereavement. At the two first times Tom smiled\nsuspiciously--at the last he burst out into an absolute \"guffaw.\"\n\n\"Steal your breeches! Miss Bailey over again, by Jove,\" shouted\nIngoldsby. \"But a gentleman, you say--and Sir Giles, too. I am not sure,\nCharles, whether I ought not to call you out for aspersing the honor of\nthe family.\"\n\n\"Laugh as you will, Tom--be as incredulous as you please. One fact is\nincontestable--the breeches are gone! Look here--I am reduced to my\nregimentals; and if these go, to-morrow I must borrow of you!\"\n\nRochefoucault says, there is something in the misfortunes of our very\nbest friends that does not displease us; assuredly we can, most of us,\nlaugh at their petty inconveniences, till called upon to supply them.\nTom composed his features on the instant, and replied with more gravity,\nas well as with an expletive, which, if my Lord Mayor had been within\nhearing might have cost him five shillings.\n\n\"There is something very queer in this, after all. The clothes, you say,\nhave positively disappeared. Somebody is playing you a trick; and, ten\nto one, your servant had a hand in it. By the way, I heard something\nyesterday of his kicking up a bobbery in the kitchen, and seeing a\nghost, or something of that kind, himself. Depend upon it, Barney is in\nthe plot.\"\n\nIt now struck the lieutenant at once, that the usually buoyant spirits\nof his attendant had of late been materially sobered down, his loquacity\nobviously circumscribed, and that he, the said lieutenant, had actually\nrung his bell three several times that very morning before he could\nprocure his attendance. Mr. Maguire was forthwith summoned, and\nunderwent a close examination. The \"bobbery\" was easily explained. Mr.\nOliver Dobbs had hinted his disapprobation of a flirtation carrying on\nbetween the gentleman from Munster and the lady from the Rue St. Honore.\nMademoiselle had boxed Mr. Maguire's ears, and Mr. Maguire had pulled\nMademoiselle upon his knee, and the lady had _not_ cried _Mon Dieu_! And\nMr. Oliver Dobbs said it was very wrong; and Mrs. Botherby said it was\n\"scandalous,\" and what ought not to be done in any moral kitchen; and\nMr. Maguire had got hold of the Honorable Augustus Sucklethumbkin's\npowder-flask, and had put large pinches of the best Double Dartford into\nMr. Dobbs's tobacco-box; and Mr. Dobbs's pipe had exploded, and set fire\nto Mrs. Botherby's Sunday cap; and Mr. Maguire had put it out with the\nslop-basin, \"barring the wig\"; and then they were all so \"cantankerous,\"\nthat Barney had gone to take a walk in the garden; and then--then Mr.\nBarney had seen a ghost.\n\n\"A what? you blockhead!\" asked Tom Ingoldsby.\n\n\"Sure then, and it's meself will tell your honor the rights of it,\" said\nthe ghost-seer. \"Meself and Miss Pauline, sir--or Miss Pauline and\nmeself, for the ladies comes first anyhow--we got tired of the\nhobstroppylous scrimmaging among the ould servants, that didn't know a\njoke when they seen one: and we went out to look at the comet--that's\nthe rorybory-alehouse, they calls him in this country--and we walked\nupon the lawn--and divil of any alehouse there was there at all; and\nMiss Pauline said it was bekase of the shrubbery maybe, and why wouldn't\nwe see it better beyonst the tree? and so we went to the trees, but\nsorrow a comet did meself see there, barring a big ghost instead of it.\"\n\n\"A ghost? And what sort of a ghost, Barney?\"\n\n\"Och, then, divil a lie I'll tell your honor. A tall ould gentleman he\nwas, all in white, with a shovel on the shoulder of him, and a big torch\nin his fist--though what he wanted with that it's meself can't tell, for\nhis eyes were like gig-lamps, let alone the moon and the comet, which\nwasn't there at all--and 'Barney,' says he to me--'cause why he knew\nme--'Barney,' says he, 'what is it you're doing with the _colleen_\nthere, Barney?'--Divil a word did I say. Miss Pauline screeched, and\ncried murther in French, and ran off with herself; and of course meself\nwas in a mighty hurry after the lady, and had no time to stop palavering\nwith him any way: so I dispersed at once, and the ghost vanished in a\nflame of fire!\"\n\nMr. Maguire's account was received with avowed incredulity by both\ngentlemen; but Barney stuck to his text with unflinching pertinacity. A\nreference to Mademoiselle was suggested, but abandoned, as neither party\nhad a taste for delicate investigations.\n\n\"I'll tell you what, Seaforth,\" said Ingoldsby, after Barney had\nreceived his dismissal, \"that there is a trick here, is evident; and\nBarney's vision may possibly be a part of it. Whether he is most knave\nor fool, you best know. At all events, I will sit up with you to-night,\nand see if I can convert my ancestor into a visiting acquaintance.\nMeanwhile your finger on your lip!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n    'Twas now the very witching time of night,\n    When churchyards yawn, and graves give up their dead.\n\nGladly would I grace my tale with decent horror, and therefore I do\nbeseech the \"gentle reader\" to believe, that if all the _succedanea_ to\nthis mysterious narrative are not in strict keeping, he will ascribe it\nonly to the disgraceful innovations of modern degeneracy upon the sober\nand dignified habits of our ancestors. I can introduce him, it is true,\ninto an old and high-roofed chamber, its walls covered in three sides\nwith black oak wainscoting, adorned with carvings of fruit and flowers\nlong anterior to those of Grinling Gibbons; the fourth side is clothed\nwith a curious remnant of dingy tapestry, once elucidatory of some\nScriptural history, but of _which_ not even Mrs. Botherby could\ndetermine. Mr. Simpkinson, who had examined it carefully, inclined to\nbelieve the principal figure to be either Bathsheba, or Daniel in the\nlions' den; while Tom Ingoldsby decided in favor of the king of Bashan.\nAll, however, was conjecture, tradition being silent on the subject. A\nlofty arched portal led into, and a little arched portal led out of,\nthis apartment; they were opposite each other, and each possessed the\nsecurity of massy bolts on its interior. The bedstead, too, was not one\nof yesterday, but manifestly coeval with days ere Seddons was, and when\na good four-post \"article\" was deemed worthy of being a royal bequest.\nThe bed itself, with all the appurtenances of palliasse, mattresses,\netc., was of far later date, and looked most incongruously comfortable;\nthe casements, too, with their little diamond-shaped panes and iron\nbinding, had given way to the modern heterodoxy of the sash-window. Nor\nwas this all that conspired to ruin the costume, and render the room a\nmeet haunt for such \"mixed spirits\" only as could condescend to don at\nthe same time an Elizabethan doublet and Bond Street inexpressibles.\n\nWith their green morocco slippers on a modern fender, in front of a\ndisgracefully modern grate, sat two young gentlemen, clad in \"shawl\npattern\" dressing-gowns and black silk stocks, much at variance with\nthe high cane-backed chairs which supported them. A bunch of\nabomination, called a cigar, reeked in the left-hand corner of the mouth\nof one, and in the right-hand corner of the mouth of the other--an\narrangement happily adapted for the escape of the noxious fumes up the\nchimney, without that unmerciful \"funking\" each other, which a less\nscientific disposition of the weed would have induced. A small pembroke\ntable filled up the intervening space between them, sustaining, at each\nextremity, an elbow and a glass of toddy--thus in \"lonely pensive\ncontemplation\" were the two worthies occupied, when the \"iron tongue of\nmidnight had tolled twelve.\"\n\n\"Ghost-time's come!\" said Ingoldsby, taking from his waistcoat pocket a\nwatch like a gold half-crown, and consulting it as though he suspected\nthe turret-clock over the stables of mendacity.\n\n\"Hush!\" said Charles; \"did I not hear a footstep?\"\n\nThere was a pause--there _was_ a footstep--it sounded distinctly--it\nreached the door it hesitated, stopped, and--passed on.\n\nTom darted across the room, threw open the door, and became aware of\nMrs. Botherby toddling to her chamber, at the other end of the gallery,\nafter dosing one of the housemaids with an approved julep from the\nCountess of Kent's \"Choice Manual.\"\n\n\"Good-night, sir!\" said Mrs. Botherby.\n\n\"Go to the d----l!\" said the disappointed ghost-hunter.\n\nAn hour--two--rolled on, and still no spectral visitation; nor did aught\nintervene to make night hideous; and when the turret-clock sounded at\nlength the hour of three, Ingoldsby, whose patience and grog were alike\nexhausted, sprang from his chair, saying:\n\n\"This is all infernal nonsense, my good fellow. Deuce of any ghost shall\nwe see to-night; it's long past the canonical hour. I'm off to bed; and\nas to your breeches, I'll insure them for the next twenty-four hours at\nleast, at the price of the buckram.\"\n\n\"Certainly.--Oh! thank'ee--to be sure!\" stammered Charles, rousing\nhimself from a reverie, which had degenerated into an absolute snooze.\n\n\"Good-night, my boy! Bolt the door behind me; and defy the Pope, the\nDevil, and the Pretender!\"\n\nSeaforth followed his friend's advice, and the next morning came down to\nbreakfast dressed in the habiliments of the preceding day. The charm was\nbroken, the demon defeated; the light greys with the red stripe down the\nseams were yet _in rerum natura_, and adorned the person of their lawful\nproprietor.\n\nTom felicitated himself and his partner of the watch on the result of\ntheir vigilance; but there is a rustic adage, which warns us against\nself-gratulation before we are quite \"out of the wood.\"--Seaforth was\nyet within its verge.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA rap at Tom Ingoldsby's door the following morning startled him as he\nwas shaving--he cut his chin.\n\n\"Come in, and be d----d to you!\" said the martyr, pressing his thumb on\nthe scarified epidermis. The door opened, and exhibited Mr. Barney\nMaguire.\n\n\"Well, Barney, what is it?\" quoth the sufferer, adopting the vernacular\nof his visitant.\n\n\"The master, sir----\"\n\n\"Well, what does he want?\"\n\n\"The loanst of a breeches, plase your honor.\"\n\n\"Why, you don't mean to tell me--By Heaven, this is too good!\" shouted\nTom, bursting into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. \"Why, Barney, you\ndon't mean to say the ghost has got them again?\"\n\nMr. Maguire did not respond to the young squire's risibility; the cast\nof his countenance was decidedly serious.\n\n\"Faith, then, it's gone they are sure enough! Hasn't meself been looking\nover the bed, and under the bed, and _in_ the bed, for the matter of\nthat, and divil a ha'p'orth of breeches is there to the fore at\nall:--I'm bothered entirely!\"\n\n\"Hark'ee! Mr. Barney,\" said Tom, incautiously removing his thumb, and\nletting a crimson stream \"incarnadine the multitudinous\" lather that\nplastered his throat--\"this may be all very well with your master, but\nyou don't humbug _me_, sir:--Tell me instantly what have you done with\nthe clothes?\"\n\nThis abrupt transition from \"lively to severe\" certainly took Maguire by\nsurprise, and he seemed for an instant as much disconcerted as it is\npossible to disconcert an Irish gentleman's gentleman.\n\n\"Me? is it meself, then, that's the ghost to your honor's thinking?\"\nsaid he after a moment's pause, and with a slight shade of indignation\nin his tones; \"is it I would stale the master's things--and what would I\ndo with them?\"\n\n\"That you best know: what your purpose is I can't guess, for I don't\nthink you mean to 'stale' them, as you call it; but that you are\nconcerned in their disappearance, I am satisfied. Confound this\nblood!--give me a towel, Barney.\"\n\nMaguire acquitted himself of the commission. \"As I've a sowl, your\nhonor,\" said he, solemnly, \"little it is meself knows of the matter: and\nafter what I seen----\"\n\n\"What you've seen! Why, what _have_ you seen?--Barney, I don't want to\ninquire into your flirtations; but don't suppose you can palm off your\nsaucer eyes and gig-lamps upon me!\"\n\n\"Then, as sure as your honor's standing there, I saw him: and why\nwouldn't I, when Miss _Pauline_ was to the fore as well as meself,\nand----\"\n\n\"Get along with your nonsense--leave the room, sir!\"\n\n\"But the master?\" said Barney, imploringly; \"and without a\nbreeches?--sure he'll be catching cowld----!\"\n\n\"Take that, rascal!\" replied Ingoldsby, throwing a pair of pantaloons\nat, rather than to, him: \"but don't suppose, sir, you shall carry on\nyour tricks here with impunity; recollect there is such a thing as a\ntreadmill, and that my father is a county magistrate.\"\n\nBarney's eye flashed fire--he stood erect, and was about to speak; but,\nmastering himself, not without an effort, he took up the garment, and\nleft the room as perpendicular as a Quaker.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"Ingoldsby,\" said Charles Seaforth, after breakfast, \"this is now past a\njoke; to-day is the last of my stay; for, notwithstanding the ties which\ndetain me, common decency obliges me to visit home after so long an\nabsence. I shall come to an immediate explanation with your father on\nthe subject nearest my heart, and depart while I have a change of dress\nleft. On his answer will my return depend! In the meantime tell me\ncandidly--I ask it in all seriousness, and as a friend--am I not a dupe\nto your well-known propensity to hoaxing? have you not a hand in----\"\n\n\"No, by heaven, Seaforth; I see what you mean: on my honor, I am as much\nmystified as yourself; and if your servant----\"\n\n\"Not he:--If there be a trick, he at least is not privy to it.\"\n\n\"If there _be_ a trick? why, Charles, do you, think----\"\n\n\"I know not _what_ to think, Tom. As surely as you are a living man, so\nsurely did that spectral anatomy visit my room again last night, grin in\nmy face, and walk away with my trousers; nor was I able to spring from\nmy bed, or break the chain which seemed to bind me to my pillow.\"\n\n\"Seaforth!\" said Ingoldsby, after a short pause, \"I will--But hush! here\nare the girls and my father. I will carry off the females, and leave you\na clear field with the governor: carry your point with him, and we will\ntalk about your breeches afterwards.\"\n\nTom's diversion was successful; he carried off the ladies _en masse_ to\nlook at a remarkable specimen of the class _Dodecandria\nMonogynia_--which they could not find--while Seaforth marched boldly up\nto the encounter, and carried \"the governor's\" outworks by a _coup de\nmain_. I shall not stop to describe the progress of the attack; suffice\nit that it was as successful as could have been wished, and that\nSeaforth was referred back again to the lady. The happy lover was off at\na tangent; the botanical party was soon overtaken; and the arm of\nCaroline, whom a vain endeavor to spell out the Linnaean name of a\ndaffy-down-dilly had detained a little in the rear of the others, was\nsoon firmly locked in his own.\n\n        What was the world to them,\n    Its noise, its nonsense and its \"breeches\" all?\n\nSeaforth was in the seventh heaven; he retired to his room that night as\nhappy as if no such thing as a goblin had ever been heard of, and\npersonal chattels were as well fenced in by law as real property. Not so\nTom Ingoldsby: the mystery--for mystery there evidently was--had not\nonly piqued his curiosity, but ruffled his temper. The watch of the\nprevious night had been unsuccessful, probably because it was\nundisguised. To-night he would \"ensconce himself\"--not indeed \"behind\nthe arras\"--for the little that remained was, as we have seen, nailed to\nthe wall--but in a small closet which opened from one corner of the\nroom, and by leaving the door ajar, would give to its occupant a view of\nall that might pass in the apartment. Here did the young ghost-hunter\ntake up a position, with a good stout sapling under his arm, a full\nhalf-hour before Seaforth retired for the night. Not even his friend did\nhe let into his confidence, fully determined that if his plan did not\nsucceed, the failure should be attributed to himself alone.\n\nAt the usual hour of separation for the night, Tom saw, from his\nconcealment, the lieutenant enter his room, and after taking a few turns\nin it, with an expression so joyous as to betoken that his thoughts were\nmainly occupied by his approaching happiness, proceed slowly to disrobe\nhimself. The coat, the waistcoat, the black silk stock, were gradually\ndiscarded; the green morocco slippers were kicked off, and then--ay, and\nthen--his countenance grew grave; it seemed to occur to him all at once\nthat this was his last stake--nay, that the very breeches he had on were\nnot his own--that to-morrow morning was his last, and that if he lost\n_them_--A glance showed that his mind was made up; he replaced the\nsingle button he had just subducted, and threw himself upon the bed in a\nstate of transition--half chrysalis, half grub.\n\nWearily did Tom Ingoldsby watch the sleeper by the flickering light of\nthe night-lamp, till the clock striking one, induced him to increase the\nnarrow opening which he had left for the purpose of observation. The\nmotion, slight as it was, seemed to attract Charles's attention; for he\nraised himself suddenly to a sitting posture, listened for a moment, and\nthen stood upright upon the floor. Ingoldsby was on the point of\ndiscovering himself, when, the light flashing full upon his friend's\ncountenance, he perceived that, though his eyes were open, \"their sense\nwas shut\"--that he was yet under the influence of sleep. Seaforth\nadvanced slowly to the toilet, lit his candle at the lamp that stood on\nit, then, going back to the bed's foot, appeared to search eagerly for\nsomething which he could not find. For a few moments he seemed restless\nand uneasy, walking round the apartment and examining the chairs, till,\ncoming fully in front of a large swing-glass that flanked the\ndressing-table, he paused as if contemplating his figure in it. He now\nreturned towards the bed; put on his slippers, and, with cautious and\nstealthy steps, proceeded towards the little arched doorway that opened\non the private staircase.\n\nAs he drew the bolt, Tom Ingoldsby emerged from his hiding-place; but\nthe sleep-walker heard him not; he proceeded softly downstairs, followed\nat a due distance by his friend; opened the door which led out upon the\ngardens; and stood at once among the thickest of the shrubs, which there\nclustered round the base of a corner turret, and screened the postern\nfrom common observation. At this moment Ingoldsby had nearly spoiled all\nby making a false step: the sound attracted Seaforth's attention--he\npaused and turned; and, as the full moon shed her light directly upon\nhis pale and troubled features, Tom marked, almost with dismay, the\nfixed and rayless appearance of his eyes:\n\n    There was no speculation in those orbs\n    That he did glare withal.\n\nThe perfect stillness preserved by his follower seemed to reassure him;\nhe turned aside, and from the midst of a thickest laurustinus drew forth\na gardener's spade, shouldering which he proceeded with great rapidity\ninto the midst of the shrubbery. Arrived at a certain point where the\nearth seemed to have been recently disturbed, he set himself heartily\nto the task of digging, till, having thrown up several shovelfuls of\nmould, he stopped, flung down his tool, and very composedly began to\ndisencumber himself of his pantaloons.\n\nUp to this moment Tom had watched him with a wary eye; he now advanced\ncautiously, and, as his friend was busily engaged in disentangling\nhimself from his garment, made himself master of the spade. Seaforth,\nmeanwhile, had accomplished his purpose: he stood for a moment with\n\n    His streamers waving in the wind,\n\noccupied in carefully rolling up the small-clothes into as compact a\nform as possible, and all heedless of the breath of heaven, which might\ncertainly be supposed at such a moment, and in such a plight, to \"visit\nhis frame too roughly.\"\n\nHe was in the act of stooping low to deposit the pantaloons in the grave\nwhich he had been digging for them, when Tom Ingoldsby came close behind\nhim, and with the flat side of the spade----\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe shock was effectual; never again was Lieutenant Seaforth known to\nact the part of a somnambulist. One by one, his breeches--his\ntrousers--his pantaloons--his silk-net tights--his patent cords--his\nshowy greys with the broad red stripe of the Bombay Fencibles were\nbrought to light--rescued from the grave in which they had been buried,\nlike the strata of a Christmas pie; and after having been well aired by\nMrs. Botherby, became once again effective.\n\nThe family, the ladies especially, laughed; the Peterses laughed; the\nSimpkinsons laughed;--Barney Maguire cried \"Botheration!\" and _Ma'mselle\nPauline_, \"_Mon Dieu!_\"\n\nCharles Seaforth, unable to face the quizzing which awaited him on all\nsides, started off two hours earlier than he had proposed:--he soon\nreturned, however; and having, at his father-in-law's request, given up\nthe occupation of Rajah-hunting and shooting Nabobs, led his blushing\nbride to the altar.\n\nMr. Simpkinson from Bath did not attend the ceremony, being engaged at\nthe Grand Junction meeting of _Scavans_, then, congregating from all\nparts of the known world in the city of Dublin. His essay, demonstrating\nthat the globe is a great custard, whipped into coagulation by\nwhirlwinds and cooked by electricity--a little too much baked in the\nIsle of Portland, and a thought underdone about the Bog of Allen--was\nhighly spoken of, and narrowly escaped obtaining a Bridgewater prize.\n\nMiss Simpkinson and her sister acted as brides-maids on the occasion;\nthe former wrote an _epithalamium_, and the latter cried \"Lassy me!\" at\nthe clergyman's wig. Some years have since rolled on; the union has been\ncrowned with two or three tidy little off-shoots from the family tree,\nof whom Master Neddy is \"grandpapa's darling,\" and Mary Anne mamma's\nparticular \"Sock.\" I shall only add, that Mr. and Mrs. Seaforth are\nliving together quite as happily as two good-hearted, good-tempered\nbodies, very fond of each other, can possibly do; and that, since the\nday of his marriage, Charles has shown no disposition to jump out of\nbed, or ramble out of doors o' nights--though from his entire devotion\nto every wish and whim of his young wife, Tom insinuates that the fair\nCaroline does still occasionally take advantage of it so far as to \"slip\non the breeches.\"\n\n\n\n\nIN THE BARN\n\nBY BURGES JOHNSON\n\nFrom the _Century Magazine_, June, 1920. By permission of the Century\nCompany and Burges Johnson.\n\n\n\n\nIn the Barn\n\nBY BURGES JOHNSON\n\n\nThe moment we had entered the barn, I regretted the rash good nature\nwhich prompted me to consent to the plans of those vivacious young\nstudents. Miss Anstell and Miss Royce and one or two others, often\nleaders in student mischief, I suspect, were the first to enter, and\nthey amused themselves by hiding in the darkness and greeting the rest\nof our party as we entered with sundry shrieks and moans such as are\ncommonly attributed to ghosts. My wife and I brought up the rear,\ncarrying the two farm lanterns. She had selected the place after an\namused consideration of the question, and I confess I hardly approved\nher judgment. But she is native to this part of the country, and she had\nassured us that there were some vague traditions hanging about the\nbuilding that made it most suitable for our purposes.\n\nIt was a musty old place, without even as much tidiness as is usually\nfound in barns, and there was a dank smell about it, as though\ngenerations of haymows had decayed there. There were holes in the floor,\nand in the dusk of early evening it was necessary for us to pick our\nway with the greatest care. It occurred to me then, in a premonitory\nsort of way, that if some young woman student sprained her ankle in this\nabsurd environment, I should be most embarrassed to explain it.\nApparently it was a hay barn, whose vague dimensions were lost in\nshadow. Rafters crossed its width about twenty feet above our heads, and\nhere and there a few boards lay across the rafters, furnishing foothold\nfor anyone who might wish to operate the ancient pulley that was\ndoubtless once used for lifting bales. The northern half of the floor\nwas covered with hay to a depth of two or three feet. How long it had\nactually been there I cannot imagine. It was extremely dusty, and I\nfeared a recurrence of my old enemy, hay fever; but it was too late to\noffer objection on such grounds, and my wife and I followed our\nchattering guides, who disposed themselves here and there on this\nancient bed of hay, and insisted that we should find places in the\ncenter of their circle.\n\nAt my suggestion, the two farm lanterns had been left at a suitable\ndistance, in fact, quite at the other side of the barn, and our only\nlight came from the rapidly falling twilight of outdoors, which found\nits way through a little window and sundry cracks high in the eaves\nabove the rafters.\n\nThere was something about the place, now that we were settled and no\nlonger occupied with adjustments of comfort, that subdued our spirits,\nand it was with much less hilarity that the young people united in\ndemanding a story. I looked across at my wife, whose face was faintly\nvisible within the circle. I thought that even in the half-light I\nglimpsed the same expression of amused incredulity which she had worn\nearlier in the day when I had yielded to the importunities of a\ndeputation of my students for this ghost-story party on the eve of a\nholiday.\n\n\"There is no reason,\" I thought to myself, repeating the phrases I had\nused then--\"there is no reason why I should not tell a ghost story.\nTrue, I had never done so before, but the literary attainments which\nhave enabled me to perfect my recent treatise upon the 'Disuse of the\nComma' are quite equal to impromptu experimentation in the field of\npsychic phenomena.\" I was aware that the young people themselves hardly\nexpected serious acquiescence, and that, too, stimulated me. I cleared\nmy throat in a prefatory manner, and silence fell upon the group. A\nlight breeze had risen outside, and the timbers of the barn creaked\npersistently. From the shadows almost directly overhead there came a\nfaint clanking. It was evidently caused by the rusty pulley-wheel which\nI had observed there as we entered. An iron hook at the end of an\nancient rope still depended from it, and swung in the lightly stirring\nair several feet above our heads, directly over the center of our\ncircle.\n\nSome curious combination of influences--perhaps the atmosphere of the\nplace, added to the stimulation of the faintly discernible faces around\nme, and my impulse to prove my own ability in this untried field of\nnarration--gave me a sudden sense of being inspired. I found myself\nvoicing fancies as though they were facts, and readily including\nimaginary names and data which certainly were not in any way\npremeditated.\n\n\"This barn stands on the old Creed place,\" I began. \"Peter Creed was its\nlast owner, but I suppose that it has always been and always will be\nknown as the Turner barn. A few yards away to the south you will find\nthe crumbling brick-work and gaping hollows of an old foundation, now\novergrown with weeds that almost conceal a few charred timbers. That is\nall that is left of the old Ashley Turner house.\"\n\nI cleared my throat again, not through any effort to gain time for my\nthoughts, but to feel for a moment the satisfaction arising from the\nintent attitude of my audience, particularly my wife, who had leaned\nforward and was looking at me with an expression of startled surprise.\n\n\"Ashley Turner must have had a pretty fine-looking farm here thirty\nyears or so ago,\" I continued, \"when he brought his wife to it. This\nbarn was new then. But he was a ne'er-do-well, with nothing to be said\nin his favor, unless you admit his fame as a practical joker. Strange\nhow the ne'er-do-well is often equipped with an extravagant sense of\nhumor! Turner had a considerable retinue among the riffraff boys of the\nneighborhood, who made this barn a noisy rendezvous and followed his\nhints in much whimsical mischief. But he committed most of his practical\njokes when drunk, and in his sober moments he abused his family and let\nhis wife struggle to keep up the acres, assisted only by a\nhalf-competent man of all work. Finally he took to roving. No one knew\nhow he got pocket-money; his wife could not have given him any. Then\nsomeone discovered that he was going over to Creed's now and then, and\neverything was explained.\"\n\nThis concise data of mine was evidently not holding the close attention\nof my youthful audience. They annoyed me by frequent pranks and\nwhisperings. No one could have been more surprised at my glibness than I\nmyself, except perhaps my wife, whose attitude of strained attention had\nnot relaxed. I resumed my story.\n\n\"Peter Creed was a good old-fashioned usurer of the worst type. He went\nto church regularly one day in the week and gouged his neighbors--any\nthat he could get into his clutches--on the other six. He must have been\nlending Turner drinking money, and everyone knew what the security must\nbe.\n\n\"At last there came a day when the long-suffering wife revolted. Turner\nhad come home extra drunk and in his most maudlin humor. Probably he\nattempted some drunken prank upon his over-taxed helpmate. Old Ike, the\nhired man, said that he thought Turner had rigged up some scare for her\nin the barn and that he had never heard anything so much like straight\ntalking from his mistress, either before or since, and he was working in\nthe woodshed at the time, with the door shut. Shortly after that tirade\nAshley Turner disappeared, and no one saw or heard of him or thought\nabout him for a couple of years except when the sight of his\ntired-looking wife and scrawny children revived the recollection.\n\n\"At last, on a certain autumn day, old Peter Creed turned up here at the\nTurner place. I imagine Mrs. Turner knew what was in store for her when\nhis rusty buggy came in sight around the corner of the barn. At any\nrate, she made no protest, and listened meekly to his curt statement\nthat he held an overdue mortgage, with plenty of back interest owing,\nand it was time for her to go. She went. Neither she nor anyone else\ndoubted Creed's rights in the matter, and, after all, I believe it got a\nbetter home for her somewhere in the long run.\"\n\nI paused here in my narration to draw breath and readjust my leg, which\nhad become cramped. There was a general readjustment and shifting of\nposition, with some levity. It was darker now. The rafters above us were\ninvisible, and the faces about me looked oddly white against the shadowy\nbackground. After a moment or two of delay I cleared my throat sharply\nand continued.\n\n\"Old Creed came thus into possession of this place, just as he had come\nto own a dozen others in the county. He usually lived on one until he\nwas able to sell it at a good profit over his investment; so he settled\ndown in the Turner house, and kept old Ike because he worked for little\nor nothing. But he seemed to have a hard time finding a purchaser.\n\n\"It must have been about a year later when an unexpected thing happened.\nCreed had come out here to the barn to lock up--he always did that\nhimself--when he noticed something unusual about the haymow--this\nhaymow--which stood then about six feet above the barn floor. He looked\ncloser through the dusk, and saw a pair of boots; went nearer, and found\nthat they were fitted to a pair of human legs whose owner was sound\nasleep in his hay. Creed picked up a short stick and beat on one boot.\n\n\"'Get out of here,' he said, 'or I'll have you locked up.' The sleeper\nwoke in slow fashion, sat up, grinned, and said:\n\n\"'Hello, Peter Creed.' It was Ashley Turner, beyond question. Creed\nstepped back a pace or two and seemed at a loss for words. An object\nslipped from Turner's pocket as he moved, slid along the hay, and fell\nto the barn floor. It was a half-filled whisky-flask.\n\n\"No one knows full details of the conversation that ensued, of course.\nSuch little as I am able to tell you of what was said and done comes\nthrough old Ike, who watched from a safe distance outside the barn,\nready to act at a moment's notice as best suited his own safety and\nwelfare. Of one thing Ike was certain--Creed lacked his usual\nbrowbeating manner. He was apparently struggling to assume an unwonted\nfriendliness. Turner was very drunk, but triumphant, and his\nsatisfaction over what he must have felt was the practical joke of his\nlife seemed to make him friendly.\n\n\"'I kept 'em all right,' he said again and again. 'I've got the proof. I\nwasn't working for nothing all these months. I ain't fool enough yet to\nthrow away papers even when I'm drunk.'\n\n\"To the watchful Ike's astonishment, Creed evidently tried to persuade\nhim to come into the house for something to eat. Turner slid off the\nhaymow, found his steps too unsteady, laughed foolishly, and suggested\nthat Creed bring some food to him there. 'Guess I've got a right to\nsleep in the barn or house, whichever I want,' he said, leering into\nCreed's face. The old usurer stood there for a few minutes eying Turner\nthoughtfully. Then he actually gave him a shoulder back onto the hay,\nsaid something about finding a snack of supper, and started out of the\nbarn. In the doorway he turned, looked back, then walked over to the\nedge of the mow and groped on the floor until he found the whisky-flask,\npicked it up, tossed it into Turner's lap, and stumbled out of the barn\nagain.\"\n\nI was becoming interested in my own story and somewhat pleased with the\nfluency of it, but my audience annoyed me. There was intermittent\nwhispering, with some laughter, and I inferred that one or another\nwould occasionally stimulate this inattention by tickling a companion\nwith a straw. Miss Anstell, who is so frivolous by nature that I\nsometimes question her right to a place in my classroom, I even\nsuspected of irritating the back of my own neck in the same fashion.\nNaturally, I ignored it.\n\n\"Peter Creed,\" I repeated, \"went into the house. Ike hung around the\nbarn, waiting. He was frankly curious. In a few minutes his employer\nreappeared, carrying a plate heaped with an assortment of scraps. Ike\npeered and listened then without compunction.\n\n\"'It's the best I've got,' he heard Creed say grudgingly. Turner's tones\nwere now more drunkenly belligerent.\n\n\"'It had better be,' he said loudly. 'And I'll take the best bed after\nto-night.' Evidently he was eating and muttering between mouthfuls. 'You\nmight have brought me another bottle.'\n\n\"'I did,' said Creed, to the listening Ike's great astonishment. Turner\nlaughed immoderately.\n\n\"A long silence followed. Turner was either eating or drinking. Then he\nspoke again, more thickly and drowsily.\n\n\"'Damn unpleasant that rope. Why don't you haul it up out of my way?'\n\n\"'It don't hurt you any,' said Creed.\n\n\"'Don't you wish it would?' said Turner, with drunken shrewdness. 'But I\ndon't like it. Haul it away.'\n\n\"'I will,' said Creed.\n\n\"There was a longer silence, and then there came an intermittent rasping\nsound. A moment later Creed came suddenly from the barn. Ike fumbled\nwith a large rake, and made as though to hang it on its accustomed peg\nnear the barn door. Creed eyed him sharply. 'Get along to bed,' he\nordered, and Ike obeyed.\n\n\"That was a Saturday night. On Sunday morning Ike went to the barn later\nthan usual and hesitatingly. Even then he was first to enter. He found\nthe drunkard's body hanging here over the mow, just about where we are\nsitting, stark and cold. It was a gruesome end to a miserable\nhome-coming.\"\n\nMy audience was quiet enough now. Miss Anstell and one or two others\ngiggled loudly, but it was obviously forced, and found no further echo.\nThe breeze which had sprung up some time before was producing strange\ncreakings and raspings in the old timbers, and the pulley-wheel far\nabove us clanked with a dismal repetitious sound, like the tolling of a\ncracked bell.\n\nI waited a moment, well satisfied with the effect, and then continued.\n\n\"The coroner's jury found it suicide, though some shook their heads\nmeaningly. Turner had apparently sobered up enough to stand, and, making\na simple loop around his neck by catching the rope through its own hook,\nhad then slid off the mow. The rope which went over the pulley-wheel up\nthere in the roof ran out through a window under the eaves, and was made\nfast near the barn door outside, where anyone could haul on it. Creed\ntestified the knot was one he had tied many days before. Ike was a\ntimorous old man, with a wholesome fear of his employer, and he\nsupported the testimony and made no reference to his eavesdropping of\nthe previous evening, though he heard Creed swear before the jury that\nhe did not recognize the tramp he had fed and lodged. There were no\npapers in Turner's pockets; only a few coins, and a marked pocket-knife\nthat gave the first clue to his identity.\n\n\"A few of the neighbors said that it was a fitting end, and that the\nverdict was a just one. Nevertheless, whisperings began and increased.\nPeople avoided Creed and the neighborhood. Rumors grew that the barn was\nhaunted. Passers-by on the road after dark said they heard the old\npulley-wheel clanking when no breeze stirred, much as you hear it now.\nSome claim to have heard maudlin laughter. Possible purchasers were\nfrightened away, and Creed grew more and more solitary and misanthropic.\nOld Ike hung on, Heaven knows why, though I suppose Creed paid him some\nsort of wage.\n\n\"Rumors grew. Folks said that neither Ike nor Creed entered this barn\nafter a time, and no hay was put in, though Creed would not have been\nCreed if he had not sold off the bulk of what he had, ghost or no ghost.\nI can imagine him slowly forking it out alone, daytimes, and the amount\nof hay still here proves that even he finally lost courage.\"\n\nI paused a moment, but though there was much uneasy stirring about, and\nthe dismal clanking directly above us was incessant, no one of my\naudience spoke. It was wholly dark now, and I think all had drawn closer\ntogether.\n\n\"About ten years ago people began calling Creed crazy.\" Here I was\nforced to interrupt my own story. \"I shall have to ask you, Miss\nAnstell, to stop annoying me. I have been aware for some moments that\nyou are brushing my head with a straw, but I have ignored it for the\nsake of the others.\" Out of the darkness came Miss Anstell's voice,\nprotesting earnestly, and I realized from the direction of the sound\nthat in the general readjustment she must have settled down in the very\ncenter of our circle, and could not be the one at fault. One of the\nothers was childish enough to simulate a mocking burst of raucous\nlaughter, but I chose to ignore it.\n\n\"Very well,\" said I, graciously; \"shall I go on?\"\n\n\"Go on,\" echoed a subdued chorus.\n\n\"It was the night of the twenty-eighth of May, ten years ago----\"\n\n\"Not the twenty-eighth,\" broke in my wife's voice, sharply; \"that is\nto-day's date.\" There was a note in her voice that I hardly recognized,\nbut it indicated that she was in some way affected by my narration, and\nI felt a distinct sense of triumph.\n\n\"It was the night of May twenty-eighth,\" I repeated firmly.\n\n\"Are you making up this story?\" my wife's voice continued, still with\nthe same odd tone.\n\n\"I am, my dear, and you are interrupting it.\"\n\n\"But an Ashley Turner and later a Peter Creed owned this place,\" she\npersisted almost in a whisper, \"and I am sure you never heard of them.\"\n\nI confess that I might wisely have broken off my story then and called\nfor a light. There had been an hysterical note in my wife's voice, and I\nwas startled at her words, for I had no conscious recollection of either\nname; yet I felt a resultant exhilaration. Our lanterns had grown\nstrangely dim, though I was certain both had been recently trimmed and\nfilled; and from their far corner of the barn they threw no light\nwhatever into our circle. I faced an utter blackness.\n\n\"On that night,\" said I, \"old Ike was wakened by sounds as of someone\nfumbling to unbar and open the housedoor. It was an unwonted hour, and\nhe peered from the window of his little room. By the dim starlight--it\nwas just before dawn--he could see all of the open yard and roadway\nbefore the house, with the great barn looming like a black and sinister\nshadow as its farther barrier. Crossing this space, he saw the figure of\nPeter Creed, grotesquely stooped and old in the obscuring gloom, moving\nslowly, almost gropingly, and yet directly, as though impelled, toward\nthe barn's overwhelming shadow. Slowly he unbarred the great door,\nswung it open, and entered the blacker shadows it concealed. The door\nclosed after him.\n\n\"Ike in his secure post of observation did not stir. He could not. Even\nto his crude imagining there was something utterly horrible in the\nthought of Creed alone at that hour in just such black darkness as this,\nwith the great timbered chamber haunted at least by its dread memories.\nHe could only wait, tense and fearful of he knew not what.\n\n\"A shriek that pierced the silence relaxed his tension, bringing almost\na sense of relief, so definite had been his expectancy. But it was a\nburst of shrill laughter, ribald, uncanny, undeniable, accompanying the\nshriek that gave him power of motion. He ran half naked a quarter of a\nmile to the nearest neighbor's and told his story.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"They found Creed hanging, the rope hooked simply around his neck. It\nwas a silent jury that filed from the barn that morning after viewing\nthe body. 'Suicide,' said they, after Ike, shivering and stammering, had\ntestified, harking back to the untold evidence of that other morning\nyears before. Yes, Creed was dead, with a terrible look on his wizen\nface, and the dusty old rope ran through its pulley-wheel and was fast\nto a beam high above.\n\n\"'He must of climbed to the beam, made the rope fast, and jumped,' said\nthe foreman, solemnly. 'He must of, he must of,' repeated the man,\nparrot-like, while the sweat stood out on his forehead, 'because there\nwasn't no other way; but as God is my judge, the knot in the rope and\nthe dust on the beam ain't been disturbed for years.'\"\n\nAt this dramatic climax there was an audible sigh from my audience. I\nsat quietly for a time, content to allow the silence and the atmosphere\nof the place, which actually seemed surcharged with influences not of my\ncreation, to add to the effect my story had caused. There was scarcely a\nmovement in our circle; of that I felt sure. And yet once more, out of\nthe almost tangible darkness above me, something seemed to reach down\nand brush against my head. A slight motion of air, sufficient to disturb\nmy rather scanty locks, was additional proof that I was the butt of some\nprank that had just missed its objective. Then, with a fearful\nsuddenness, close to my ear burst a shrill discord of laughter, so\nuncanny and so unlike the usual sound of student merriment that I\nstarted up, half wondering if I had heard it. Almost immediately after\nit the heavy darkness was torn again by a shriek so terrible in its\nintensity as completely to differentiate it from the other cries which\nfollowed.\n\n\"Bring a light!\" cried a voice that I recognized as that of my wife,\nthough strangely distorted by emotion. There was a great confusion.\nYoung women struggled from their places and impeded one another in the\ndarkness; but finally, and it seemed an unbearable delay, someone\nbrought a single lantern.\n\nIts frail light revealed Miss Anstell half upright from her place in the\ncenter of our circle, my wife's arms sustaining her weight. Her face, as\nwell as I could see it, seemed darkened and distorted, and when we\nforced her clutching hands away from her bared throat we could see, even\nin that light, the marks of an angry, throttling scar entirely\nencircling it. Just above her head the old pulley-rope swayed menacingly\nin the faint breeze.\n\nMy recollection is even now confused as to the following moments and our\nstumbling escape from that gruesome spot. Miss Anstell is now at her\nhome, recovering from what her physician calls mental shock. My wife\nwill not speak of it. The questions I would ask her are checked on my\nlips by the look of utter terror in her eyes. As I have confessed to\nyou, my own philosophy is hard put to it to withstand not so much the\ncommunity attitude toward what they are pleased to call my taste in\npractical joking, but to assemble and adjust the facts of my\nexperience.\n\n\n\n\nA SHADY PLOT\n\nBY ELSIE BROWN\n\nThis story was submitted as a class exercise in one of my short-story\nclasses at Columbia University. At my request the author, Elsie Brown,\ncontributed it to this volume.\n\n\n\n\nA Shady Plot\n\nBY ELSIE BROWN\n\n\nSo I sat down to write a ghost story.\n\nJenkins was responsible.\n\n\"Hallock,\" he had said to me, \"give us another on the supernatural this\ntime. Something to give 'em the horrors; that's what the public wants,\nand your ghosts are live propositions.\"\n\nWell, I was in no position to contradict Jenkins, for, as yet, his\nmagazine had been the only one to print my stuff. So I had said,\n\"Precisely!\" in the deepest voice I was capable of, and had gone out.\n\nI hadn't the shade of an idea, but at the time that didn't worry me in\nthe least. You see, I had often been like that before and in the end\nthings had always come my way--I didn't in the least know how or why. It\nhad all been rather mysterious. You understand I didn't specialize in\nghost stories, but more or less they seemed to specialize in me. A ghost\nstory had been the first fiction I had written. Curious how that idea\nfor a plot had come to me out of nowhere after I had chased inspiration\nin vain for months! Even now whenever Jenkins wanted a ghost, he called\non me. And I had never found it healthy to contradict Jenkins. Jenkins\nalways seemed to have an uncanny knowledge as to when the landlord or\nthe grocer were pestering me, and he dunned me for a ghost. And somehow\nI'd always been able to dig one up for him, so I'd begun to get a bit\ncocky as to my ability.\n\nSo I went home and sat down before my desk and sucked at the end of my\npencil and waited, but nothing happened. Pretty soon my mind began to\nwander off on other things, decidedly unghostly and material things,\nsuch as my wife's shopping and how on earth I was going to cure her of\nher alarming tendency to take every new fad that came along and work it\nto death. But I realized _that_ would never get me any place, so I went\nback to staring at the ceiling.\n\n\"This writing business _is_ delightful, isn't it?\" I said sarcastically at\nlast, out loud, too. You see, I had reached the stage of imbecility when\nI was talking to myself.\n\n\"Yes,\" said a voice at the other end of the room, \"I should say it is!\"\n\nI admit I jumped. Then I looked around.\n\nIt was twilight by this time and I had forgotten to turn on the lamp.\nThe other end of the room was full of shadows and furniture. I sat\nstaring at it and presently noticed something just taking shape. It was\nexactly like watching one of these moving picture cartoons being put\ntogether. First an arm came out, then a bit of sleeve of a stiff white\nshirtwaist, then a leg and a plaid skirt, until at last there she was\ncomplete,--whoever she was.\n\nShe was long and angular, with enormous fishy eyes behind big\nbone-rimmed spectacles, and her hair in a tight wad at the back of her\nhead (yes, I seemed able to see right through her head) and a jaw--well,\nit looked so solid that for the moment I began to doubt my very own\nsenses and believe she was real after all.\n\nShe came over and stood in front of me and glared--yes, positively\nglared down at me, although (to my knowledge) I had never laid eyes on\nthe woman before, to say nothing of giving her cause to look at me like\nthat.\n\nI sat still, feeling pretty helpless I can tell you, and at last she\nbarked:\n\n\"What are you gaping at?\"\n\nI swallowed, though I hadn't been chewing anything.\n\n\"Nothing,\" I said. \"Absolutely nothing. My dear lady, I was merely\nwaiting for you to tell me why you had come. And excuse me, but do you\nalways come in sections like this? I should think your parts might get\nmixed up sometimes.\"\n\n\"Didn't you send for me?\" she crisped.\n\nImagine how I felt at that!\n\n\"Why, no. I--I don't seem to remember----\"\n\n\"Look here. Haven't you been calling on heaven and earth all afternoon\nto help you write a story?\"\n\nI nodded, and then a possible explanation occurred to me and my spine\ngot cold. Suppose this was the ghost of a stenographer applying for a\njob! I had had an advertisement in the paper recently. I opened my mouth\nto explain that the position was filled, and permanently so, but she\nstopped me.\n\n\"And when I got back to the office from my last case and was ready for\nyou, didn't you switch off to something else and sit there driveling so\nI couldn't attract your attention until just now?\"\n\n\"I--I'm very sorry, really.\"\n\n\"Well, you needn't be, because I just came to tell you to stop bothering\nus for assistance; you ain't going to get it. We're going on Strike!\"\n\n\"What!\"\n\n\"You don't have to yell at me.\"\n\n\"I--I didn't mean to yell,\" I said humbly. \"But I'm afraid I didn't\nquite understand you. You said you were----\"\n\n\"Going on strike. Don't you know what a strike is? Not another plot do\nyou get from us!\"\n\nI stared at her and wet my lips.\n\n\"Is--is that where they've been coming from?\"\n\n\"Of course. Where else?\"\n\n\"But my ghosts aren't a bit like you----\"\n\n\"If they were people wouldn't believe in them.\" She draped herself on\nthe top of my desk among the pens and ink bottles and leaned towards me.\n\"In the other life _I_ used to write.\"\n\n\"You did!\"\n\nShe nodded.\n\n\"But that has nothing to do with my present form. It might have, but I\ngave it up at last for that very reason, and went to work as a reader on\na magazine.\" She sighed, and rubbed the end of her long eagle nose with\na reminiscent finger. \"Those were terrible days; the memory of them made\nme mistake purgatory for paradise, and at last when I attained my\npresent state of being, I made up my mind that something should be done.\nI found others who had suffered similarly, and between us we organized\n'The Writer's Inspiration Bureau.' We scout around until we find a\nwriter without ideas and with a mind soft enough to accept impression.\nThe case is brought to the attention of the main office, and one of us\nassigned to it. When that case is finished we bring in a report.\"\n\n\"But I never saw you before----\"\n\n\"And you wouldn't have this time if I hadn't come to announce the\nstrike. Many a time I've leaned on your shoulder when you've thought\n_you_ were thinking hard--\" I groaned, and clutched my hair. The very\nidea of that horrible scarecrow so much as touching me! and wouldn't my\nwife be shocked! I shivered. \"But,\" she continued, \"that's at an end.\nWe've been called out of our beds a little too often in recent years,\nand now we're through.\"\n\n\"But my dear madam, I assure you I have had nothing to do with that. I\nhope I'm properly grateful and all that, you see.\"\n\n\"Oh, it isn't you,\" she explained patronizingly. \"It's those Ouija board\nfanatics. There was a time when we had nothing much to occupy us and\nused to haunt a little on the side, purely for amusement, but not any\nmore. We've had to give up haunting almost entirely. We sit at a desk\nand answer questions now. And such questions!\"\n\nShe shook her head hopelessly, and taking off her glasses wiped them,\nand put them back on her nose again.\n\n\"But what have I got to do with this?\"\n\nShe gave me a pitying look and rose.\n\n\"You're to exert your influence. Get all your friends and acquaintances\nto stop using the Ouija board, and then we'll start helping you to\nwrite.\"\n\n\"But----\"\n\nThere was a footstep outside my door.\n\n\"John! Oh, John!\" called the voice of my wife.\n\nI waved my arms at the ghost with something of the motion of a beginner\nwhen learning to swim.\n\n\"Madam, I must ask you to leave, and at once. Consider the impression if\nyou were seen here----\"\n\nThe ghost nodded, and began, very sensibly, I thought, to demobilize and\nevaporate. First the brogans on her feet grew misty until I could see\nthe floor through them, then the affection spread to her knees and\ngradually extended upward. By this time my wife was opening the door.\n\n\"Don't forget the strike,\" she repeated, while her lower jaw began to\ndisintegrate, and as my Lavinia crossed the room to me the last vestige\nof her ear faded into space.\n\n\"John, why in the world are you sitting in the dark?\"\n\n\"Just--thinking, my dear.\"\n\n\"Thinking, rubbish! You were talking out loud.\"\n\nI remained silent while she lit the lamps, thankful that her back was\nturned to me. When I am nervous or excited there is a muscle in my face\nthat starts to twitch, and this pulls up one corner of my mouth and\ngives the appearance of an idiotic grin. So far I had managed to conceal\nthis affliction from Lavinia.\n\n\"You know I bought the loveliest thing this afternoon. Everybody's wild\nover them!\"\n\nI remembered her craze for taking up new fads and a premonitory chill\ncrept up the back of my neck.\n\n\"It--it isn't----\" I began and stopped. I simply couldn't ask; the\npossibility was too horrible.\n\n\"You'd never guess in the world. It's the duckiest, darlingest Ouija\nboard, and so cheap! I got it at a bargain sale. Why, what's the matter,\nJohn?\"\n\nI felt things slipping.\n\n\"Nothing,\" I said, and looked around for the ghost. Suppose she had\nlingered, and upon hearing what my wife had said should suddenly\nappear----Like all sensitive women, Lavinia was subject to hysterics.\n\n\"But you looked so funny----\"\n\n\"I--I always do when I'm interested,\" I gulped. \"But don't you think\nthat was a foolish thing to buy?\"\n\n\"Foolish! Oh, John! Foolish! And after me getting it for you!\"\n\n\"For me! What do you mean?\"\n\n\"To help you write your stories. Why, for instance, suppose you wanted\nto write an historical novel. You wouldn't have to wear your eyes out\nover those musty old books in the public library. All you'd have to do\nwould be to get out your Ouija and talk to Napoleon, or William the\nConqueror, or Helen of Troy--well, maybe not Helen--anyhow you'd have\nall the local color you'd need, and without a speck of trouble. And\nthink how easy writing your short stories will be now.\"\n\n\"But Lavinia, you surely don't believe in Ouija boards.\"\n\n\"I don't know, John--they are awfully thrilling.\"\n\nShe had seated herself on the arm of my chair and was looking dreamily\nacross the room. I started and turned around. There was nothing there,\nand I sank back with relief. So far so good.\n\n\"Oh, certainly, they're thrilling all right. That's just it, they're a\ndarn sight too thrilling. They're positively devilish. Now, Lavinia, you\nhave plenty of sense, and I want you to get rid of that thing just as\nsoon as you can. Take it back and get something else.\"\n\nMy wife crossed her knees and stared at me through narrowed lids.\n\n\"John Hallock,\" she said distinctly. \"I don't propose to do anything of\nthe kind. In the first place they won't exchange things bought at a\nbargain sale, and in the second, if you aren't interested in the other\nworld _I_ am. So there!\" and she slid down and walked from the room\nbefore I could think of a single thing to say. She walked very huffily.\n\nWell, it was like that all the rest of the evening. Just as soon as I\nmentioned Ouija boards I felt things begin to cloud up; so I decided to\nlet it go for the present, in the hope that she might be more reasonable\nlater.\n\nAfter supper I had another try at the writing, but as my mind continued\na perfect blank I gave it up and went off to bed.\n\nThe next day was Saturday, and it being near the end of the month and a\nparticularly busy day, I left home early without seeing Lavinia.\nUnderstand, I haven't quite reached the point where I can give my whole\ntime to writing, and being bookkeeper for a lumber company does help\nwith the grocery bills and pay for Lavinia's fancy shopping. Friday had\nbeen a half holiday, and of course when I got back the work was piled up\npretty high; so high, in fact, that ghosts and stories and everything\nelse vanished in a perfect tangle of figures.\n\nWhen I got off the street car that evening my mind was still churning.\nI remember now that I noticed, even from the corner, how brightly the\nhouse was illuminated, but at the time that didn't mean anything to me.\nI recall as I went up the steps and opened the door I murmured:\n\n\"Nine times nine is eighty-one!\"\n\nAnd then Gladolia met me in the hall.\n\n\"Misto Hallock, de Missus sho t'inks you's lost! She say she done 'phone\nyou dis mawnin' to be home early, but fo' de lawd's sake not to stop to\nargify now, but get ready fo' de company an' come on down.\"\n\nSome memory of a message given me by one of the clerks filtered back\nthrough my brain, but I had been hunting three lost receipts at the\ntime, and had completely forgotten it.\n\n\"Company?\" I said stupidly. \"What company?\"\n\n\"De Missus's Ouija boahrd pahrty,\" said Gladolia, and rolling her eyes\nshe disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.\n\nI must have gone upstairs and dressed and come down again, for I\npresently found myself standing in the dimly lighted lower hall wearing\nmy second best suit and a fresh shirt and collar. But I have no\nrecollections of the process.\n\nThere was a great chattering coming from our little parlor and I went\nover to the half-opened door and peered through.\n\nThe room was full of women--most of them elderly--whom I recognized as\nbelonging to my wife's Book Club. They were sitting in couples, and\nbetween each couple was a Ouija board! The mournful squeak of the legs\nof the moving triangular things on which they rested their fingers\nfilled the air and mixed in with the conversation. I looked around for\nthe ghost with my heart sunk down to zero. What if Lavinia should see\nher and go mad before my eyes! And then my wife came and tapped me on\nthe shoulder.\n\n\"John,\" she said in her sweetest voice, and I noticed that her cheeks\nwere very pink and her eyes very bright. My wife is never so pretty as\nwhen she's doing something she knows I disapprove of, \"John, dear I know\nyou'll help us out. Mrs. William Augustus Wainright 'phoned at the last\nmoment to say that she couldn't possibly come, and that leaves poor\nLaura Hinkle without a partner. Now, John, I know _some_ people can work\na Ouija by themselves, but Laura can't, and she'll just have a horrible\ntime unless you----\"\n\n\"Me!\" I gasped. \"Me! I won't----\" but even as I spoke she had taken my\narm, and the next thing I knew I was sitting with the thing on my knees\nand Miss Laura Hinkle opposite, grinning in my face like a flirtatious\ncrocodile.\n\n\"I--I won't----\" I began.\n\n\"Now, Mr. Hallock, don't you be shy.\" Miss Laura Hinkle leaned forward\nand shook a bony finger almost under my chin.\n\n\"I--I'm not! Only I say I won't----!\"\n\n\"No, it's very easy, really. You just put the tips of your fingers\nright here beside the tips of my fingers----\"\n\nAnd the first thing I knew she had taken my hands and was coyly holding\nthem in the position desired. She released them presently, and the\nlittle board began to slide around in an aimless sort of way. There\nseemed to be some force tugging it about. I looked at my partner, first\nwith suspicion, and then with a vast relief. If she was doing it, then\nall that talk about spirits----Oh, I did hope Miss Laura Hinkle was\ncheating with that board!\n\n\"Ouija, dear, won't you tell us something?\" she cooed, and on the\ninstant the thing seemed to take life.\n\nIt rushed to the upper left hand corner of the board and hovered with\nits front leg on the word \"Yes.\" Then it began to fly around so fast\nthat I gave up any attempt to follow it. My companion was bending\nforward and had started to spell out loud:\n\n\"'T-r-a-i-t-o-r.' Traitor! Why, what does she mean?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" I said desperately. My collar felt very tight.\n\n\"But she must mean something. Ouija, dear, won't you explain yourself\nmore fully?\"\n\n\"'A-s-k-h-i-m!' Ask him. Ask who, Ouija?\"\n\n\"I--I'm going.\" I choked and tried to get up but my fingers seemed stuck\nto that dreadful board and I dropped back again.\n\nApparently Miss Hinkle had not heard my protest. The thing was going\naround faster than ever and she was reading the message silently, with\nher brow corrugated, and the light of the huntress in her pale blue\neyes.\n\n\"Why, she says it's you, Mr. Hallock. What _does_ she mean? Ouija, won't\nyou tell us who is talking?\"\n\nI groaned, but that inexorable board continued to spell. I always did\nhate a spelling match! Miss Hinkle was again following it aloud:\n\n\"'H-e-l-e-n.' Helen!\" She raised her voice until it could be heard at\nthe other end of the room. \"Lavinia, dear, do you know anyone by the\nname of Helen?\"\n\n\"By the name of----? I can't hear you.\" And my wife made her way over to\nus between the Book Club's chairs.\n\n\"You know the funniest thing has happened,\" she whispered excitedly.\n\"Someone had been trying to communicate with John through Mrs. Hunt's\nand Mrs. Sprinkle's Ouija! Someone by the name of Helen----\"\n\n\"Why, _isn't_ that curious!\"\n\n\"What is?\"\n\nMiss Hinkle simpered.\n\n\"Someone giving the name of Helen has just been calling for your husband\nhere.\"\n\n\"But we don't know anyone by the name of Helen----\"\n\nLavinia stopped and began to look at me through narrowed lids much as\nshe had done in the library the evening before.\n\nAnd then from different parts of the room other manipulators began to\nreport. Every plagued one of those five Ouija boards was calling me by\nname! I felt my ears grow crimson, purple, maroon. My wife was looking\nat me as though I were some peculiar insect. The squeak of Ouija boards\nand the murmur of conversation rose louder and louder, and then I felt\nmy face twitch in the spasm of that idiotic grin. I tried to straighten\nmy wretched features into their usual semblance of humanity, I tried\nand----\n\n\"Doesn't he look sly!\" said Miss Hinkle. And then I got up and fled from\nthe room.\n\nI do not know how that party ended. I do not want to know. I went\nstraight upstairs, and undressed and crawled into bed, and lay there in\nthe burning dark while the last guest gurgled in the hall below about\nthe wonderful evening she had spent. I lay there while the front door\nshut after her, and Lavinia's steps came up the stairs and--passed the\ndoor to the guest room beyond. And then after a couple of centuries\nelapsed the clock struck three and I dozed off to sleep.\n\nAt the breakfast table the next morning there was no sign of my wife. I\nconcluded she was sleeping late, but Gladolia, upon being questioned,\nonly shook her head, muttered something, and turned the whites of her\neyes up to the ceiling. I was glad when the meal was over and hurried\nto the library for another try at that story.\n\nI had hardly seated myself at the desk when there came a tap at the door\nand a white slip of paper slid under it. I unfolded it and read:\n\n     \"DEAR JOHN,\n\n     \"I am going back to my grandmother. My lawyer will\n     communicate with you later.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" I cried. \"Oh, I wish I was dead!\"\n\nAnd:\n\n\"That's exactly what you ought to be!\" said that horrible voice from the\nother end of the room.\n\nI sat up abruptly--I had sunk into a chair under the blow of the\nletter--then I dropped back again and my hair rose in a thick prickle on\nthe top of my head. Coming majestically across the floor towards me was\na highly polished pair of thick laced shoes. I stared at them in a sort\nof dreadful fascination, and then something about their gait attracted\nmy attention and I recognized them.\n\n\"See here,\" I said sternly. \"What do you mean by appearing here like\nthis?\"\n\n\"_I_ can't help it,\" said the voice, which seemed to come from a point\nabout five and a half feet above the shoes. I raised my eyes and\npresently distinguished her round protruding mouth.\n\n\"Why can't you? A nice way to act, to walk in sections----\"\n\n\"If you'll give me time,\" said the mouth in an exasperated voice, \"I\nassure you the rest of me will presently arrive.\"\n\n\"But what's the matter with you? You never acted this way before.\"\n\nShe seemed stung to make a violent effort, for a portion of a fishy eye\nand the end of her nose popped into view with a suddenness that made me\njump.\n\n\"It's all your fault.\" She glared at me, while part of her hair and her\nplaid skirt began slowly to take form.\n\n\"My fault!\"\n\n\"Of course. How can you keep a lady up working all night and then expect\nher to retain all her faculties the next day? I'm just too tired to\nmaterialize.\"\n\n\"Then why did you bother?\"\n\n\"Because I was sent to ask when your wife is going to get rid of that\nOuija board.\"\n\n\"How should I know! I wish to heaven I'd never seen you!\" I cried. \"Look\nwhat you've done! You've lost me my wife, you've lost me my home and\nhappiness, you've----you've----\"\n\n\"Misto Hallock,\" came from the hall outside, \"Misto Hallock, I's gwine\nt' quit. I don't like no hoodoos.\" And the steps retreated.\n\n\"You've----you've lost me my cook----\"\n\n\"I didn't come here to be abused,\" said the ghost coldly. \"I--I----\"\n\nAnd then the door opened and Lavinia entered. She wore the brown hat and\ncoat she usually travels in and carried a suitcase which she set down\non the floor.\n\nThat suitcase had an air of solid finality about it, and its lock leered\nat me brassily.\n\nI leaped from my chair with unaccustomed agility and sprang in front of\nmy wife. I must conceal that awful phantom from her, at any risk!\n\nShe did not look at me, or--thank heaven!--behind me, but fixed her\ninjured gaze upon the waste-basket, as if to wrest dark secrets from it.\n\n\"I have come to tell you that I am leaving,\" she staccatoed.\n\n\"Oh, yes, yes!\" I agreed, flapping my arms about to attract attention\nfrom the corner. \"That's fine--great!\"\n\n\"So you want me to go, do you?\" she demanded.\n\n\"Sure, yes--right away! Change of air will do you good. I'll join you\npresently!\" If only she would go till Helen could _de_-part! I'd have\nthe devil of a time explaining afterward, of course, but anything would\nbe better than to have Lavinia see a ghost. Why, that sensitive little\nwoman couldn't bear to have a mouse say boo at her--and what would she\nsay to a ghost in her own living-room?\n\nLavinia cast a cold eye upon me. \"You are acting very queerly,\" she\nsniffed. \"You are concealing something from me.\"\n\nJust then the door opened and Gladolia called, \"Mis' Hallock! Mis'\nHallock! I've come to tell you I'se done lef' dis place.\"\n\nMy wife turned her head a moment. \"But why, Gladolia?\"\n\n\"I ain't stayin' round no place 'long wid dem Ouija board contraptions.\nI'se skeered of hoodoos. I's done gone, I is.\"\n\n\"Is that all you've got to complain about?\" Lavinia inquired.\n\n\"Yes, ma'am.\"\n\n\"All right, then. Go back to the kitchen. You can use the board for\nkindling wood.\"\n\n\"Who? Me touch dat t'ing? No, ma'am, not dis nigger!\"\n\n\"I'll be the coon to burn it,\" I shouted. \"I'll be glad to burn it.\"\n\nGladolia's heavy steps moved off kitchenward.\n\nThen my Lavinia turned waspishly to me again. \"John, there's not a bit\nof use trying to deceive me. What is it you are trying to conceal from\nme?\"\n\n\"Who? Me? Oh, no,\" I lied elaborately, looking around to see if that\ndratted ghost was concealed enough. She was so big, and I'm rather a\nsmallish man. But that was a bad move on my part.\n\n\"John,\" Lavinia demanded like a ward boss, \"you are hiding some_body_ in\nhere! Who is it?\"\n\nI only waved denial and gurgled in my throat. She went on, \"It's bad\nenough to have you flirt over the Ouija board with that hussy----\"\n\n\"Oh, the affair was quite above-board, I assure you, my love!\" I cried,\nleaping lithely about to keep her from focusing her gaze behind me.\n\nShe thrust me back with sudden muscle. \"_I will_ see who's behind you!\nWhere is that Helen?\"\n\n\"Me? I'm Helen,\" came from the ghost.\n\nLavinia looked at that apparition, that owl-eyed phantom, in plaid skirt\nand stiff shirtwaist, with hair skewed back and no powder on her nose. I\nthrew a protecting husbandly arm about her to catch her when she should\nfaint. But she didn't swoon. A broad, satisfied smile spread over her\nface.\n\n\"I thought you were Helen of Troy,\" she murmured.\n\n\"I used to be Helen of Troy, New York,\" said the ghost. \"And now I'll be\nmoving along, if you'll excuse me. See you later.\"\n\nWith that she telescoped briskly, till we saw only a hand waving\nfarewell.\n\nMy Lavinia fell forgivingly into my arms. I kissed her once or twice\nfervently, and then I shoved her aside, for I felt a sudden strong\ndesire to write. The sheets of paper on my desk spread invitingly before\nme.\n\n\"I've got the bulliest plot for a ghost story!\" I cried.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LADY AND THE GHOST\n\nBY ROSE CECIL O'NEILL\n\nFrom the _Cosmopolitan Magazine_. By permission of John Brisben Walker\nand Rose O'Neill.\n\n\n\n\nThe Lady and the Ghost\n\nBY ROSE CECIL O'NEILL\n\n\nIt was some moments before the Lady became rationally convinced that\nthere was something occurring in the corner of the room, and then the\nactual nature of the thing was still far from clear.\n\n\"To put it as mildly as possible,\" she murmured, \"the thing verges upon\nthe uncanny\"; and, leaning forward upon her silken knees, she attended\nupon the phenomenon.\n\nAt first it had seemed like some faint and unexplained atmospheric\nderangement, occasioned, apparently, neither by an opened window nor by\na door. Some papers fluttered to the floor, the fringes of the hangings\nsoftly waved, and, indeed, it would still have been easy to dismiss the\nmatter as the effect of a vagrant draft had not the state of things\nsuddenly grown unmistakably unusual. All the air of the room, it then\nappeared, rushed even with violence to the point and there underwent\nwhat impressed her as an aerial convulsion, in the very midst and\nwell-spring of which, so great was the confusion, there seemed to appear\nat intervals almost the semblance of a shape.\n\nThe silence of the room was disturbed by a book that flew open with\nfluttering leaves, the noise of a vase of violets blown over, from which\nthe perfumed water dripped to the floor, and soft touchings all around\nas of a breeze passing through a chamber full of trifles.\n\nThe ringlets of the Lady's hair were swept forward toward the corner\nupon which her gaze was fixed, and in which the conditions had now grown\nso tense with imminent occurrence and so rent with some inconceivable\nthroe that she involuntarily rose, and, stepping forward against the\npressure of her petticoats which were blown about her ankles, she\nimpatiently thrust her hand into the----\n\nShe was immediately aware that another hand had received it, though with\na far from substantial envelopment, and for another moment what she saw\nbefore her trembled between something and nothing. Then from the\nprecarious situation there slowly emerged into dubious view the shape of\na young man dressed in evening clothes over which was flung a mantle of\nvoluminous folds such as is worn by ghosts of fashion.\n\n\"The very deuce was in it!\" he complained; \"I thought I should never\nmaterialize.\"\n\nShe flung herself into her chair, confounded; yet, even in the shock of\nthe emergency, true to herself, she did not fail to smooth her ruffled\nlocks.\n\nHer visitor had been scanning his person in a dissatisfied way, and with\nsome vexation he now ejaculated: \"Beg your pardon, my dear, but are my\nfeet on the floor, or where in thunder are they?\"\n\nIt was with a tone of reassurance that she confessed that his\npatent-leathers were the trivial matter of two or three inches from the\nrug. Whereupon, with still another effort, he brought himself down until\nhis feet rested decently upon the floor. It was only when he walked\nabout to examine the bric-a-brac that a suspicious lightness was\ndiscernible in his tread.\n\nWhen he had composed himself by the survey, effecting it with an air of\ngreat insouciance, which, however, failed to conceal the fact that his\nheart was beating somewhat wildly, he approached the Lady.\n\n\"Well, here we are again, my love!\" he cried, and devoured her hands\nwith ghostly kisses. \"It seems an eternity that I've been struggling\nback to you through the outer void and what-not. Sometimes, I confess I\nall but despaired. Life is not, I assure you, all beer and skittles for\nthe disembodied.\"\n\nHe drew a long breath, and his gaze upon her and the entire chamber\nseemed to envelop all and cherish it.\n\n\"Little room, little room! And so you are thus! Do you know,\" he\ncontinued, with vivacity, \"I have wondered about it in the grave, and I\ncould hardly sleep for this place unpenetrated. Heigho! What a lot of\nthings we leave undone! I dashed this off at the time, the literary\npassion strong in me, thus:\n\n    \"Now, when all is done, and I lie so low,\n      I cannot sleep for this, my only care;\n    For though of that dim place I could not know;\n      That where my heart was fain I did not go,\n        Nor saw you musing there!\n\n\"Well, well, these things irk a ghost so. Naturally, as soon as possible\nI made my way back--to be satisfied--to be satisfied that you were still\nmine.\" He bent a piercing look upon her.\n\n\"I observe by the calendar on your writing-table that some years have\nelapsed since my----um----since I expired,\" he added, with a faint\nblush. It appears that the matter of their dissolution is, in\nconversation, rather kept in the background by well-bred ghosts.\n\n\"Heigho! How time does fly! You'll be joining me soon, my dear.\"\n\nShe drew herself splendidly up, and he was aware of her beauty in the\nfull of its tenacious excellence--of the delicate insolence of Life\nlooking upon Death--of the fact _that she had forgotten him_.\n\nHe rose, and confronted this, his trembling hands thrust into his\npockets, then turned away to hide the dismay of his countenance. He was,\nhowever, a spook of considerable spirit, and in a jiffy he met the\noccasion. To her blank, indignant gaze he drew a card from his case,\nand, taking a pencil from the secretary, wrote, beneath the name:\n\n    Quiet to the breast\n      Wheresoe'er it be,\n    That gave an hour's rest\n      To the heart of me.\n    Quiet to the breast\n      Till it lieth dead,\n    And the heart be clay\n      Where I visited.\n    Quiet to the breast,\n      Though forgetting quite\n    The guest it sheltered once;\n      To the heart, good night!\n\nHanding her the card he bowed, and, through force of habit, turned to\nthe door, forgetting that his ghostly pressure would not turn the knob.\n\nAs the door did not open, with a sigh of recollection for his spiritual\ncondition, he prepared to disappear, casting one last look at the\nfaithless Lady. She was still looking at the card in her hand, and the\ntears ran down her face.\n\n\"She has remembered,\" he reflected; \"how courteous!\" For a moment it\nseemed he could contain his disappointment, discreetly removing himself\nnow at what he felt was the vanishing-point, with the customary\nreticence of the dead, but feeling overcame him. In an instant he had\nher in his arms, and was pouring out his love, his reproaches, the story\nof his longing, his doubts, his discontent, and his desperate journey\nback to earth for a sight of her. \"And, ah!\" cried he, \"picture my agony\nat finding that you had forgotten. And yet I surmised it in the gloom.\nI divined it by my restlessness and my despair. Perhaps some lines that\noccurred to me will suggest the thing to you--you recall my old knack\nfor versification?\n\n    \"Where the grasses weep\n      O'er his darkling bed,\n    And the glow-worms creep,\n      Lies the weary head\n    Of one laid deep, who cannot sleep:\n      The unremembered dead.\"\n\nHe took a chair beside her, and spoke of their old love for each other,\nof his fealty through all transmutations; incidentally of her beauty, of\nher cruelty, of the light of her face which had illumined his darksome\nway to her--and of a lot of other things--and the Lady bowed her head,\nand wept.\n\nThe hours of the night passed thus: the moon waned, and a pallor began\nto tinge the dusky cheek of the east, but the eloquence of the visitor\nstill flowed on, and the Lady had his misty hands clasped to her\nreawakened bosom. At last a suspicion of rosiness touched the curtain.\nHe abruptly rose.\n\n\"I cannot hold out against the morning,\" he said; \"it is time all good\nghosts were in bed.\"\n\nBut she threw herself on her knees before him, clasping his ethereal\nwaist with a despairing embrace.\n\n\"Oh, do not leave me,\" she cried, \"or my love will kill me!\"\n\nHe bent eagerly above her. \"Say it again--convince me!\"\n\n\"I love you,\" she cried, again and again and again, with such an anguish\nof sincerity as would convince the most skeptical spook that ever\nrevisited the glimpses of the moon.\n\n\"You will forget again,\" he said.\n\n\"I shall never forget!\" she cried. \"My life will henceforth be one\ncontinual remembrance of you, one long act of devotion to your memory,\none oblation, one unceasing penitence, one agony of waiting!\"\n\nHe lifted her face, and saw that it was true.\n\n\"Well,\" said he, gracefully wrapping his cloak about him, \"well, now I\nshall have a little peace.\"\n\nHe kissed her, with a certain jaunty grace, upon her hair, and prepared\nto dissolve, while he lightly tapped a tattoo upon his leg with the\ndove-colored gloves he carried.\n\n\"Good-by, my dear!\" he said; \"henceforth I shall sleep o' nights; my\nheart is quite at rest.\"\n\n\"But mine is breaking,\" she wailed, madly trying once more to clasp his\nvanishing form.\n\nHe threw her a kiss from his misty finger-tips, and all that remained\nwith her, besides her broken heart, was a faint disturbance of the air.\n\nTHE END\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's Notes:\n\nPage 25--Possible typo, but left it as the original. \"...and contented\nhimself, as a rule, with creeping about the passages in =list=\nslippers,...\"\n\nPage 25--arquebuse--printer typo corrected to arquebus.\n\nPage 231--setting--printer typo corrected to sitting.\n\nPage 255--missing word \"have\" inserted to: \"But now I'll none of you,\nfor you've played with me.\"\n\nPage 304--Potential typo. \"...walkin' round an' round the graveyard\n=lie= a six days' race fer the belt at Madison Square.\"\n\nPage 325--inpatient--typo corrected to impatient. Although inpatient is\na valid word, it is incorrectly used in this instance.\n\nPage 345--is--printer typo corrected to in.\n\nPage 408--Possible typo, but left it as in the original. \"...then the\n=affection= spread to her knees and gradually extended upward.\"\n\nSeveral instances of variant spelling of reci-pe and recipe. Left as in\nthe original.\n\n\n\n\nFrom\nA Southern Porch\n\nBy\n\nDorothy Scarborough\n\n_A Book of Whimsy_\n\nThe author does not preach the lost art of loafing. No! Nothing so\ndirect as preaching. She merely loafs,--consistently, restfully,\ndelightfully, but with an almost fatal hypnotic persuasiveness. She is a\nsort of stationary Pied Piper, luring the unwary reader to her\nsun-flecked porch, to watch with her the queer procession of created\nthings go by,--from lovers and ghosts to lizards and toads.\n\nUnder the spell, convinced that loafing is better than doing, the reader\nstays and chuckles over the quiet humor and quaint fancies. He gets away\nfinally,--all delightful experiences must end in this work-a-day\nworld,--still chuckling, but with a renewed sense of life and life's\nvalues.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nG. P. Putnam's Sons\n\nNew York London\n\n\n\n\nThe\nKiltartan\nPoetry Book\n\n_Prose Translations from the Irish_\n\nBy\n\nLady Gregory\n\nAuthor of \"Irish Folk-History Plays,\" \"Seven Short\nPlays,\" \"Our Irish Theatre,\" etc.\n\nCertainly no single individual has done more than Lady Gregory to revive\nthe Irish Literature, and to bring again to light the brave old legends,\nthe old heroic poems. From her childhood, the author has studied this\nancient language, and has collected most of her material from close\nassociation with the peasants who have inherited these poems and tales.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nG. P. Putnam's Sons\n\nNew York London","title":"Humorous Ghost Stories","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":97976}