The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly Magazine, April 1844

Of many a battle-plain,
And lavished strength and life;
My guerdon is a chain!

V

‘I brought a true heart brave,
A spirit bold and free,
Free as the ocean wave;
My country! unto thee.

VI

‘I had not thought to start
Before thy stinging frown;
Wo for the trusting heart!
Wo for the laurel crown!’

    Shelter Island. Mary Gardiner.

A VERITABLE GHOST STORY

‘There are more things in heaven and earth
Than are dreamed of in our philosophy.’

Some forty years since, an elderly English gentleman, who had been successful in his pursuit after wealth in the British metropolis, determined upon purchasing an estate in the country, upon which he might retire and enjoy the residue of life in unostentatious ease and quiet. He was a man of elegant tastes and fond of antiquarian pursuits. This latter predilection induced him, in his various summer journeyings in England, to select from among those old inns or taverns which are invariably to be met with in every ancient borough or market-town, the most respectable one, as the place at which he would put up; and when ‘mine host’ gave token of being a gentleman, his companionship would generally be requested, through a card by the waiter, bearing the compliments of the guest, with a hope that it might be convenient for the landlord to favor him with his company over a bottle of wine. This was the almost invariable plan adopted, when he was unaccompanied with his ‘better half.’ It will readily be conceived that in these tête-à-tête gossipings, a great fund of anecdote and legendary tales had been gleaned, which were made subservient to the entertainment of friends when assembled around the social board. It is from this fund of gossip to which I have so often listened, that I propose to select one which, owing to my close relationship to the stout gentleman, has been to me a source of no little interest, even as a ‘thrice-told tale.’ The incident occurred at the time when he was in search of the estate to which I have alluded in the commencement of this sketch.

It was late in the evening, in the spring of the year, when he arrived at the destined stopping-place for the night, which if I remember rightly was the ancient borough of St. Albans. Here he selected an inn according to his usual taste; an old rambling disjointed patch-work piece of architecture, the gradual accumulation of many preceding generations, where might be seen rude carvings of grinning nondescript monsters supporting the projecting stories as they each hung over the side-walk; large and small casement windows, with square mullions and gothic arches, and many a gabled roof fronting on the street, where at their junction the continuous gutters projected in the form of long pipes, which in rainy weather discharged cataracts of water, deluging the unfortunate pedestrian who should unwittingly prefer the side-walk to the rough paved road. In the centre of this pile of buildings was the gate-way, large enough to admit coaches with outside passengers; and under its ample, shadowy shelter would be found the entrance to the building itself. On one side was the door to the tap-room, used by post-boys, servants, and the like class, while on the opposite side the glazed door led to the coffee-room and the more respectable apartments. Here Boniface would present himself whenever a carriage drove up, to give a hearty welcome to his guests. The interior, in accordance with the outside, was composed of low, spacious rooms, wainscoated in oaken pannels, blackened with age, but brightly polished by continued rubbings. The furniture was of a past century; the floors worm-eaten but of scrupulous cleanliness, their centres covered with modern or perchance Turkish carpets. The mullioned windows with their appropriate leaden-lozenged casements, glazed with glass of various shades of green, were ornamented with curtains, not hung for show but intended to be used nightly.

Into one of these rooms our elderly gentleman was ceremoniously shown by the obsequious waiter; and here, after the hearty meal was ended and the newspaper run through, the evening was spent, as the reader will perhaps anticipate, in company with ‘mine host.’ It was spring, as I have before said; cold and cheerless without, but within a bright blazing fire, and a table upon which sparkled generous wine, ‘that maketh glad the heart of man,’ gave earnest of comfortable quarters. You may fancy the stout gentleman and his companion honest Boniface, no shadow, each seated in arm chairs of creditable proportions, whiling away the evening hour with many a tale; a fragment of one of which we will now just touch upon.

‘And you really think the tile which you have dug up from below the foundation in the cellar, to be of the date of Julius Cæsar; and infer from it that a roof has sheltered this spot for two thousand years? It is a hallowed thought to reflect upon the crowd of spirits which must hover over and around us, if we suppose, as some do, that when we leave this tabernacle of clay, we shall continue to linger in the midst of our old haunts; and that these spirits are the unseen and unfelt witnesses of our every act. It may be mere fancy, but I am inclined to think there is more truth in the thought than cold philosophy is willing to admit.’

‘Then, Sir, you are a believer in ghosts?’ observed Boniface.

‘Why, no; I cannot say truly that I am, though I have oftentimes longed to make an acquaintance with one. By the way, I should think this building of nooks and corners was admirably adapted for the carrying out some marvel of the sort. Pray, is there not some hobgoblin or merry sprite playing his antics about your premises, my worthy host?’

Hereupon Boniface looked doubtingly, and feeling his way before committing himself, he at last admitted that ‘there was some idle story of the kind, but for his part, he put no faith in such silly things.’

‘Well, of course,’ said his guest, ‘it must be some particular room that is thus honored?’

‘Well?’ was the deferential rejoinder, in a tone denoting a wish to hear the deduction.

‘Then, if it is a bed-chamber, snug and comfortable, do me the favor to apportion it to me for the night.’

‘Most certainly, if you are serious,’ rejoined Boniface; ‘it shall be made ready immediately; but I assure you that my patrons seldom give it the preference.’

Hereupon the bell was rung, and the waiter presenting himself, was requested to direct the chamber-maid to prepare the large room, and to see that the bed was well aired, and to tell Boots to take the gentleman’s trunk up, to kindle a fire, and to see that every thing was tidy.

The evening was thus whiled away until the hour of eleven had arrived, when the great stillness of the house betokened the time for retiring. Accordingly, the chamber-maid was summoned, and with a candle in each hand, she led the way up a wide stair-case, graced with twisted bannisters and of easy ascent, terminating on a long corridor, the floor full of uncertain undulations, running the entire length of the building. At the end was a door, which upon opening, discovered a room of large proportions, with a low ceiling divided into square compartments. Here our traveller was no sooner installed and left alone, than he locked the door; then with candle in hand he began to examine each crack and cranny, but could find nothing suspicious. There were few things in it worthy of note, excepting a large bed with drawn curtains of dazzling whiteness; a most ample hearth, on which was blazing a bundle of dry faggots, sending forth a warm, cheerful light into the room, more powerful than both the candles. This huge fire-place, with its concomitant ornament, a profusely-carved mantel-piece of the usual time-stained oak, was at least five feet high, and more than two feet broad; its ingenious workmanship occupied his attention, and kept him for some time engaged in curious admiration of its exquisite quaintness. The other furniture consisted of chairs, a chest-of-drawers, and a table, all the work of a former age. An easy chair was placed in the middle of the room, in which the stout gentleman composed himself luxuriously for a short time. The room however was too large to be easily warmed, and he soon abandoned it for the bed, but not before he had raked the remaining brands together and extinguished the candles. Not feeling at once the influence of the drowsy god, he abandoned himself to many fanciful speculations. He marvelled why it was that the concurrence of all ages and nations, enlightened or ignorant, savage or civilized, should have so uniformly led to the belief in good and evil spirits wandering at large on the earth, not subject to the laws of matter, save in the sensation of sight and hearing. The creditable phalanx of names of distinguished persons who had placed their veracity on the side of believers, as having themselves been visited by the inhabitants of the other world, was opposed by his own experience; for although he had frequently thought he had been so honored, yet upon investigating the cause, he had invariably found it to be a mere delusion.

It was not long however that he was suffered thus to enjoy himself; for hearing a slight noise near the fire-place, he turned his head, and saw a deformed, dwarfish body emerge from the shadowy part of the room, proceed stealthily toward the fire, over which he rubbed his thin, attenuated hands, and then placing them under their opposite arms, he hugged himself in evident comfort. The fire had by this time so far dwindled away as to be only a handful of smouldering embers, which cast but an exceedingly feeble and uncertain light, sufficient only to reveal the general outline of the pigmy spectre. The old gentleman, with strained eyes, attentively observed his motions, till from very weariness, caused by looking through a light so dim, he began to doubt whether he saw truly: he reasoned with himself, but with no satisfactory result; till at last, desirous of ‘making assurance doubly sure,’ he gently enlarged his look-out in the slightly-opened curtains in order that he might more attentively observe the room; but all was darkness, save in the immediate vicinity of the fire. The removal of the curtain however had made a rustling noise, which had given the alarm to the spectre-imp, who immediately vanished into the gloom of the apartment on the side of the fire-place.

This was no sooner observed by the wide-awake old gentleman, than he jumped out of bed, resolved to give chase; but although stout gentlemen are generally no-wise active, not a second had elapsed before he reached the hearth, and scattering the embers in order to obtain more light, he looked carefully around, but no trace of the phantom could be seen. A few seconds more, and one of the candles was lighted, when the room was again subjected to a more rigid scrutiny; but all to no purpose; for the door remained locked, and the closet-doors were equally secure; nothing was under the bed, nor behind the table; the easy-chair could afford no shelter; in the front of every lower tier of pannels was some article of furniture, which effectually prevented their being used suddenly; beside, how could the furniture be reädjusted? The upper ones were too high to be at all likely to afford the means of such quick concealment. Hence he was completely mystified, amazed, perplexed. His mental powers were in a whirl; until at length he became perfectly bewildered, and concluded that he had been dreaming, or had been taking a short trot on a night-mare; and with this latter idea he returned, shivering like an ague, to his cold bed. The candle was now suffered to burn, and pillowing his head high, so as to see all around, the curtains having been previously withdrawn, he determined to keep vigilant watch. At length becoming composed and comfortably warm, he distinctly recalled the whole train of thought which had preceded the appearance of the strange phantom. Finally, he concluded that if it were all a dream, an illusion, never was a dream or an illusion so like reality. He must from henceforth doubt the evidence of his senses. Thus he reasoned and doubted, doubted and reasoned, until the candle’s light and all around had faded into dimness. Slumber gradually usurped its sway, and he slept till late next morning. On awaking, the whole affair was too vividly remembered, for him to settle down into a belief that he had dreamed. He was determined to satisfy himself. It was not long before his feet were in his slippers; and throwing on his dressing-gown, he went the round of another and still another examination, with no more satisfactory result than before; until at last, tired with conjecture, he dismissed it from his mind, and completed his toilet.

At the breakfast-table, he simply remarked, in reply to the inquiry if he had slept well, that he had dreamed the room was haunted by a dwarfish ghost, but he pretended to believe that it was only a dream.

‘There!’ rejoined the auditor; ‘others have dreamed the same thing!’

The discussion of the creature-comforts on the table was too interesting to permit a discussion of discomforts, and inquiry was silenced.

The morning sun was shining brightly, tempting the healthful to enjoy his cheerful beams. It was not long therefore before our traveller was seen taking the direction to the old abbey-church. The sight of such ancient buildings was always keenly relished by him, by reason of his antiquarian tastes; but in this instance, it led to the clearing up of the last night’s mystery; for in his rambles around this immense pile of architecture, he literally ‘stumbled upon’ an old friend, who was connected with the parish affairs, and was consequently enabled to give much interest to his descriptions of the place. The last night’s events were of course not forgotten; in fact it was all circumstantially detailed, even to a minute description of the dwarf.

‘Well, well,’ was the reply, ‘I think I can show you the living facsimile of your fancied dream; the only thing which puzzles me is to account for his entrance to your chamber. Let us step into the house adjoining the inn, and you shall judge for yourself.’

They accordingly adjourned to the place indicated; and there the very imp himself was actually felt and handled! It required some coaxing, not unmixed with threats, before he could be prevailed upon to unfold the secrets of his prison-house, but they were finally extorted. It seemed, that up stairs, on a level with the haunted chamber, was a closet, immediately back of the fire-place with the carved oaken mantelpiece, once side of which, it will be remembered, was at least two feet wide; and its curious carvings were so adroitly made as to conceal the cracks of that part which opened as a door: this, if even left ajar, would still be in shadow from the fire on the hearth, and consequently an instant of time was only necessary for the person near by to make his escape, and to effectually conceal the mode by which it was accomplished. The brick jam was of course hollow, and led to the back of the closet in the next house; which, being pannelled all around, and situated against a solid wall, as was supposed, had eluded discovery after the builders had passed away. How this misshapen piece of humanity had re-discovered it, I never knew; but I fancy that, accidentally being in the closet at the time when there had been a noise made in the fire-place, either from kindling a fire or cleaning it; and hearing this noise distinctly, might have suggested to him to try the back; which, opening inside of the secret passage, might have been forced from its spring-catch; while the holes in the carved work of the mantel enabled him to see if any one was in the room; and thus prevent an intrusion which would lead to his detection.

    G. R. V.

RÊVES ET SOUVENIRS

I

I remember roaming lonely by the mournful forest streams,
The loveliness and melody of childhood’s happy dreams;
Pale flowers, the vermeil-tinted, lightly fanned by vernal breeze,
Whose fitful breath went sighingly among the solemn trees;
Sunny streamlets, gushing clearly in their fresh and tameless glee,
Sparkling onward, ever onward, toward a golden summer sea.
Fairy isles of green were sleeping on its softly-heaving breast,
Where the chime of waves low rippling forever lulled to rest.
The slanting sunbeams wandered through each quiet vale and dell,
Shaded glen, and gray old cavern, where the foamy cascade fell;
And birds, the starry-wing’d, flitting through the rich perfume,
Filled with their gladsome minstrelsy the depths of leafy gloom.

II

I remember, I remember, in my musings sad and lone,
The beauty and the brightness, that have vanished, and are gone,
Rosy clouds at eve reposing in the crimson-curtained west,
Mocking with their tranquil splendor the human heart’s unrest.
They are gliding through my visions, as they used to do of yore,
Yet the gentle thoughts they wakened, shall they come back no more?
Oh! many an hour I lingered to watch their gorgeous dyes
In soft and shadowy outlines against the purple skies;
Through their regal halls, air-woven, the parting radiance streamed,
Ever varying like the opal’s hue: and often have I deemed
They were come with tender message, in the holy hush of even,
From the Loved of years departed, spirit-guardians in Heaven!