Chapter I: Part 1

Tales of a Traveller

By Washington Irving

Contents

PART FIRST—STRANGE STORIES BY A NERVOUS GENTLEMAN A HUNTING DINNER THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE THE ADVENTURE OF MY AUNT THE BOLD DRAGOON THE ADVENTURE OF THE GERMAN STUDENT THE ADVENTURE OF THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE THE ADVENTURE OF THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ITALIAN

PART SECOND—BUCKTHORNE AND HIS FRIENDS LITERARY LIFE A LITERARY DINNER THE CLUB OF QUEER FELLOWS THE POOR DEVIL AUTHOR BUCKTHORNE, OR THE YOUNG MAN OF GREAT EXPECTATIONS THE BOOBY SQUIRE THE STROLLING MANAGER

PART THIRD—THE ITALIAN BANDITTI THE INN AT TERRACINA THE ADVENTURE OF THE LITTLE ANTIQUARY THE ADVENTURE OF THE POPKINS FAMILY THE PAINTER’S ADVENTURE THE STORY OF THE BANDIT CHIEFTAIN THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ROBBER

PART FOURTH—THE MONEY DIGGERS HELL GATE KIDD THE PIRATE THE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER WOLFERT WEBBER; OR, GOLDEN DREAMS THE ADVENTURE OF SAM, THE BLACK FISHERMAN

PART FIRST STRANGE STORIES BY A NERVOUS GENTLEMAN

I’ll tell you more; there was a fish taken,
A monstrous fish, with, a sword by’s side, a long sword,
A pike in’s neck, and a gun in’s nose, a huge gun,
And letters of mart in’s mouth, from the Duke of Florence.
_Cleanthes_. This is a monstrous lie.
_Tony_. I do confess it.
Do you think I’d tell you truths!
—FLETCHER’S WIFE FOR A MONTH.

[The following adventures were related to me by the same nervous
gentleman who told me the romantic tale of THE STOUT GENTLEMAN,
published in Bracebridge Hall.

It is very singular, that although I expressly stated that story
to have been told to me, and described the very person who told
it, still it has been received as an adventure that happened to
myself. Now, I protest I never met with any adventure of the
kind. I should not have grieved at this, had it not been
intimated by the author of Waverley, in an introduction to his
romance of Peveril of the Peak, that he was himself the Stout
Gentleman alluded to. I have ever since been importuned by
letters and questions from gentlemen, and particularly from
ladies without number, touching what I had seen of the great
unknown.

Now, all this is extremely tantalizing. It is like being
congratulated on the high prize when one has drawn a blank; for I
have just as great a desire as any one of the public to penetrate
the mystery of that very singular personage, whose voice fills
every corner of the world, without any one being able to tell
from whence it comes. He who keeps up such a wonderful and
whimsical incognito: whom nobody knows, and yet whom every body
thinks he can swear to.

My friend, the nervous gentleman, also, who is a man of very shy,
Retired habits, complains that he has been excessively annoyed in
consequence of its getting about in his neighborhood that he is
the fortunate personage. Insomuch, that he has become a character
of considerable notoriety in two or three country towns; and has
been repeatedly teased to exhibit himself at blue-stocking
parties, for no other reason than that of being “the gentleman
who has had a glimpse of the author of Waverley.”

Indeed, the poor man has grown ten times as nervous as ever,
since he has discovered, on such good authority, who the stout
gentleman was; and will never forgive himself for not having made
a more resolute effort to get a full sight of him. He has
anxiously endeavored to call up a recollection of what he saw of
that portly personage; and has ever since kept a curious eye on
all gentlemen of more than ordinary dimensions, whom he has seen
getting into stage coaches. All in vain! The features he had
caught a glimpse of seem common to the whole race of stout
gentlemen; and the great unknown remains as great an unknown as
ever.]

A HUNTING DINNER

I was once at a hunting dinner, given by a worthy fox-hunting old
Baronet, who kept Bachelor’s Hall in jovial style, in an ancient
rook-haunted family mansion, in one of the middle counties. He
had been a devoted admirer of the fair sex in his young days; but
having travelled much, studied the sex in various countries with
distinguished success, and returned home profoundly instructed,
as he supposed, in the ways of woman, and a perfect master of the
art of pleasing, he had the mortification of being jilted by a
little boarding school girl, who was scarcely versed in the
accidence of love.

The Baronet was completely overcome by such an incredible defeat;
retired from the world in disgust, put himself under the
government of his housekeeper, and took to fox-hunting like a
perfect Jehu. Whatever poets may say to the contrary, a man will
grow out of love as he grows old; and a pack of fox hounds may
chase out of his heart even the memory of a boarding-school
goddess. The Baronet was when I saw him as merry and mellow an
old bachelor as ever followed a hound; and the love he had once
felt for one woman had spread itself over the whole sex; so that
there was not a pretty face in the whole country round, but came
in for a share.

The dinner was prolonged till a late hour; for our host having no
ladies in his household to summon us to the drawing-room, the
bottle maintained its true bachelor sway, unrivalled by its
potent enemy the tea-kettle. The old hall in which we dined
echoed to bursts of robustious fox-hunting merriment, that made
the ancient antlers shake on the walls. By degrees, however, the
wine and wassail of mine host began to operate upon bodies
already a little jaded by the chase. The choice spirits that
flashed up at the beginning of the dinner, sparkled for a time,
then gradually went out one after another, or only emitted now
and then a faint gleam from the socket.

Some of the briskest talkers, who had given tongue so bravely at
the first burst, fell fast asleep; and none kept on their way but
certain of those long-winded prosers, who, like short-legged
hounds, worry on unnoticed at the bottom of conversation, but are
sure to be in at the death. Even these at length subsided into
silence; and scarcely any thing was heard but the nasal
communications of two or three veteran masticators, who, having
been silent while awake, were indemnifying the company in their
sleep.

At length the announcement of tea and coffee in the cedar parlor
roused all hands from this temporary torpor. Every one awoke
marvellously renovated, and while sipping the refreshing beverage
out of the Baronet’s old-fashioned hereditary china, began to
think of departing for their several homes. But here a sudden
difficulty arose. While we had been prolonging our repast, a
heavy winter storm had set in, with snow, rain, and sleet, driven
by such bitter blasts of wind, that they threatened to penetrate
to the very bone.

“It’s all in vain,” said our hospitable host, “to think of
putting one’s head out of doors in such weather. So, gentlemen, I
hold you my guests for this night at least, and will have your
quarters prepared accordingly.”

The unruly weather, which became more and more tempestuous,
rendered The hospitable suggestion unanswerable. The only
question was, whether such an unexpected accession of company, to
an already crowded house, would not put the housekeeper to her
trumps to accommodate them.

“Pshaw,” cried mine host, “did you ever know of a Bachelor’s Hall
that was not elastic, and able to accommodate twice as many as it
could hold?” So out of a good-humored pique the housekeeper was
summoned to consultation before us all. The old lady appeared, in
her gala suit of faded brocade, which rustled with flurry and
agitation, for in spite of mine host’s bravado, she was a little
perplexed. But in a bachelor’s house, and with bachelor guests,
these matters are readily managed. There is no lady of the house
to stand upon squeamish points about lodging guests in odd holes
and corners, and exposing the shabby parts of the establishment.
A bachelor’s housekeeper is used to shifts and emergencies. After
much worrying to and fro, and divers consultations about the red
room, and the blue room, and the chintz room, and the damask
room, and the little room with the bow window, the matter was
finally arranged.

When all this was done, we were once more summoned to the
standing Rural amusement of eating. The time that had been
consumed in dozing after dinner, and in the refreshment and
consultation of the cedar parlor, was sufficient, in the opinion
of the rosy-faced butler, to engender a reasonable appetite for
supper. A slight repast had therefore been tricked up from the
residue of dinner, consisting of cold sirloin of beef; hashed
venison; a devilled leg of a turkey or so, and a few other of
those light articles taken by country gentlemen to ensure sound
sleep and heavy snoring.

The nap after dinner had brightened up every one’s wit; and a
great deal of excellent humor was expended upon the perplexities
of mine host and his housekeeper, by certain married gentlemen of
the company, who considered themselves privileged in joking with
a bachelor’s establishment. From this the banter turned as to
what quarters each would find, on being thus suddenly billeted in
so antiquated a mansion.

“By my soul,” said an Irish captain of dragoons, one of the most
merry and boisterous of the party—“by my soul, but I should not
be surprised if some of those good-looking gentlefolks that hang
along the walls, should walk about the rooms of this stormy
night; or if I should find the ghost of one of these long-waisted
ladies turning into my bed in mistake for her grave in the
church-yard.

“Do you believe in ghosts, then?” said a thin, hatchet-faced
gentleman, with projecting eyes like a lobster.

I had remarked this last personage throughout dinner-time for one
of Those incessant questioners, who seem to have a craving,
unhealthy appetite in conversation. He never seemed satisfied
with the whole of a story; never laughed when others laughed; but
always put the joke to the question. He could never enjoy the
kernel of the nut, but pestered himself to get more out of the
shell.

“Do you believe in ghosts, then?” said the inquisitive gentleman.

“Faith, but I do,” replied the jovial Irishman; “I was brought up
in the fear and belief of them; we had a Benshee in our own
family, honey.”

“A Benshee—and what’s that?” cried the questioner.

“Why an old lady ghost that tends upon your real Milesian
families, and wails at their window to let them know when some of
them are to die.”

“A mighty pleasant piece of information,” cried an elderly
gentleman, with a knowing look and a flexible nose, to which he
could give a whimsical twist when he wished to be waggish.

“By my soul, but I’d have you know it’s a piece of distinction to
be waited upon by a Benshee. It’s a proof that one has pure blood
in one’s veins. But, egad, now we’re talking of ghosts, there
never was a house or a night better fitted than the present for a
ghost adventure. Faith, Sir John, haven’t you such a thing as a
haunted chamber to put a guest in?”

“Perhaps,” said the Baronet, smiling, “I might accommodate you
even on that point.”

“Oh, I should like it of all things, my jewel. Some dark oaken
room, with ugly wo-begone portraits that stare dismally at one,
and about which the housekeeper has a power of delightful stories
of love and murder. And then a dim lamp, a table with a rusty
sword across it, and a spectre all in white to draw aside one’s
curtains at midnight—”

“In truth,” said an old gentleman at one end of the table, “you
put me in mind of an anecdote—”

“Oh, a ghost story! a ghost story!” was vociferated round the
board, every one edging his chair a little nearer.

The attention of the whole company was now turned upon the
speaker. He was an old gentleman, one side of whose face was no
match for the other. The eyelid drooped and hung down like an
unhinged window shutter. Indeed, the whole side of his head was
dilapidated, and seemed like the wing of a house shut up and
haunted. I’ll warrant that side was well stuffed with ghost
stories.

There was a universal demand for the tale.

“Nay,” said the old gentleman, “it’s a mere anecdote—and a very
commonplace one; but such as it is you shall have it. It is a
story that I once heard my uncle tell when I was a boy. But
whether as having happened to himself or to another, I cannot
recollect. But no matter, it’s very likely it happened to
himself, for he was a man very apt to meet with strange
adventures. I have heard him tell of others much more singular.
At any rate, we will suppose it happened to himself.”

“What kind of man was your uncle?” said the questioning
gentleman.

“Why, he was rather a dry, shrewd kind of body; a great
traveller, and fond of telling his adventures.”

“Pray, how old might he have been when this happened?”

“When what happened?” cried the gentleman with the flexible nose,
impatiently—“Egad, you have not given any thing a chance to
happen -—come, never mind our uncle’s age; let us have his
adventures.”

The inquisitive gentleman being for the moment silenced, the old
gentleman with the haunted head proceeded.

THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE

Many years since, a long time before the French revolution, my
uncle had passed several months at Paris. The English and French
were on better terms, in those days, than at present, and mingled
cordially together in society. The English went abroad to spend
money then, and the French were always ready to help them: they
go abroad to save money at present, and that they can do without
French assistance. Perhaps the travelling English were fewer and
choicer then, than at present, when the whole nation has broke
loose, and inundated the continent. At any rate, they circulated
more readily and currently in foreign society, and my uncle,
during his residence in Paris, made many very intimate
acquaintances among the French noblesse.

Some time afterwards, he was making a journey in the winter-time,
in that part of Normandy called the Pays de Caux, when, as
evening was closing in, he perceived the turrets of an ancient
chateau rising out of the trees of its walled park, each turret
with its high conical roof of gray slate, like a candle with an
extinguisher on it.

“To whom does that chateau belong, friend?” cried my uncle to a
meager, but fiery postillion, who, with tremendous jack boots and
cocked hat, was floundering on before him.

“To Monseigneur the Marquis de ——,” said the postillion, touching
his hat, partly out of respect to my uncle, and partly out of
reverence to the noble name pronounced. My uncle recollected the
Marquis for a particular friend in Paris, who had often expressed
a wish to see him at his paternal chateau. My uncle was an old
traveller, one that knew how to turn things to account. He
revolved for a few moments in his mind how agreeable it would be
to his friend the Marquis to be surprised in this sociable way by
a pop visit; and how much more agreeable to himself to get into
snug quarters in a chateau, and have a relish of the Marquis’s
well-known kitchen, and a smack of his superior champagne and
burgundy; rather than take up with the miserable lodgment, and
miserable fare of a country inn. In a few minutes, therefore, the
meager postillion was cracking his whip like a very devil, or
like a true Frenchman, up the long straight avenue that led to
the chateau.

You have no doubt all seen French chateaus, as every body travels
in France nowadays. This was one of the oldest; standing naked
and alone, in the midst of a desert of gravel walks and cold
stone terraces; with a cold-looking formal garden, cut into
angles and rhomboids; and a cold leafless park, divided
geometrically by straight alleys; and two or three noseless,
cold-looking statues without any clothing; and fountains spouting
cold water enough to make one’s teeth chatter. At least, such was
the feeling they imparted on the wintry day of my uncle’s visit;
though, in hot summer weather, I’ll warrant there was glare
enough to scorch one’s eyes out.

The smacking of the postillion’s whip, which grew more and more
intense the nearer they approached, frightened a flight of
pigeons out of the dove-cote, and rooks out of the roofs; and
finally a crew of servants out of the chateau, with the Marquis
at their head. He was enchanted to see my uncle; for his chateau,
like the house of our worthy host, had not many more guests at
the time than it could accommodate. So he kissed my uncle on each
cheek, after the French fashion, and ushered him into the castle.

The Marquis did the honors of his house with the urbanity of his
country. In fact, he was proud of his old family chateau; for
part of it was extremely old. There was a tower and chapel that
had been built almost before the memory of man; but the rest was
more modern; the castle having been nearly demolished during the
wars of the League. The Marquis dwelt upon this event with great
satisfaction, and seemed really to entertain a grateful feeling
towards Henry IV., for having thought his paternal mansion worth
battering down. He had many stories to tell of the prowess of his
ancestors, and several skull-caps, helmets, and cross-bows to
show; and divers huge boots and buff jerkins, that had been worn
by the Leaguers. Above all, there was a two-handled sword, which
he could hardly wield; but which he displayed as a proof that
there had been giants in his family.

In truth, he was but a small descendant from such great warriors.
When you looked at their bluff visages and brawny limbs, as
depicted in their portraits, and then at the little Marquis, with
his spindle shanks; his sallow lanthern visage, flanked with a
pair of powdered ear-locks, or _ailes de pigeon_, that seemed
ready to fly away with it; you would hardly believe him to be of
the same race. But when you looked at the eyes that sparkled out
like a beetle’s from each side of his hooked nose, you saw at
once that he inherited all the fiery spirit of his forefathers.
In fact, a Frenchman’s spirit never exhales, however his body may
dwindle. It rather rarefies, and grows more inflammable, as the
earthly particles diminish; and I have seen valor enough in a
little fiery-hearted French dwarf, to have furnished out a
tolerable giant.

When once the Marquis, as he was wont, put on one of the old
helmets that were stuck up in his hall; though his head no more
filled it than a dry pea its pease cod; yet his eyes sparkled
from the bottom of the iron cavern with the brilliancy of
carbuncles, and when he poised the ponderous two-handled sword of
his ancestors, you would have thought you saw the doughty little
David wielding the sword of Goliath, which was unto him like a
weaver’s beam.

However, gentlemen, I am dwelling too long on this description of
the Marquis and his chateau; but you must excuse me; he was an
old friend of my uncle’s, and whenever my uncle told the story,
he was always fond of talking a great deal about his host.—Poor
little Marquis! He was one of that handful of gallant courtiers,
who made such a devoted, but hopeless stand in the cause of their
sovereign, in the chateau of the Tuilleries, against the
irruption of the mob, on the sad tenth of August.

He displayed the valor of a preux French chevalier to the last;
flourished feebly his little court sword with a sa-sa! in face of
a whole legion of _sans-culottes_; but was pinned to the wall
like a butterfly, by the pike of a poissarde, and his heroic soul
was borne up to heaven on his _ailes de pigeon_.

But all this has nothing to do with my story; to the point then:—

When the hour arrived for retiring for the night, my uncle was
shown to his room, in a venerable old tower. It was the oldest
part of the chateau, and had in ancient times been the Donjon or
stronghold; of course the chamber was none of the best. The
Marquis had put him there, however, because he knew him to be a
traveller of taste, and fond of antiquities; and also because the
better apartments were already occupied. Indeed, he perfectly
reconciled my uncle to his quarters by mentioning the great
personages who had once inhabited them, all of whom were in some
way or other connected with the family. If you would take his
word for it, John Baliol, or, as he called him, Jean de Bailleul,
had died of chagrin in this very chamber on hearing of the
success of his rival, Robert the Bruce, at the battle of
Bannockburn; and when he added that the Duke de Guise had slept
in it during the wars of the League, my uncle was fain to
felicitate himself upon being honored with such distinguished
quarters.

The night was shrewd and windy, and the chamber none of the
warmest. An old, long-faced, long-bodied servant in quaint
livery, who attended upon my uncle, threw down an armful of wood
beside the fire-place, gave a queer look about the room, and then
wished him _bon repos_, with a grimace and a shrug that would
have been suspicious from any other than an old French servant.
The chamber had indeed a wild, crazy look, enough to strike any
one who had read romances with apprehension and foreboding. The
windows were high and narrow, and had once been loop-holes, but
had been rudely enlarged, as well as the extreme thickness of the
walls would permit; and the ill-fitted casements rattled to every
breeze. You would have thought, on a windy night, some of the old
Leaguers were tramping and clanking about the apartment in their
huge boots and rattling spurs. A door which stood ajar, and like
a true French door would stand ajar, in spite of every reason and
effort to the contrary, opened upon a long, dark corridor, that
led the Lord knows whither, and seemed just made for ghosts to
air themselves in, when they turned out of their graves at
midnight. The wind would spring up into a hoarse murmur through
this passage, and creak the door to and fro, as if some dubious
ghost were balancing in its mind whether to come in or not. In a
word, it was precisely the kind of comfortless apartment that a
ghost, if ghost there were in the chateau, would single out for
its favourite lounge.

My uncle, however, though a man accustomed to meet with strange
adventures, apprehended none at the time. He made several
attempts to shut the door, but in vain. Not that he apprehended
any thing, for he was too old a traveller to be daunted by a
wild-looking apartment; but the night, as I have said, was cold
and gusty, something like the present, and the wind howled about
the old turret, pretty much as it does round this old mansion at
this moment; and the breeze from the long dark corridor came in
as damp and chilly as if from a dungeon. My uncle, therefore,
since he could not close the door, threw a quantity of wood on
the fire, which soon sent up a flame in the great wide-mouthed
chimney that illumined the whole chamber, and made the shadow of
the tongs on the opposite wall, look like a long-legged giant. My
uncle now clambered on top of the half score of mattresses which
form a French bed, and which stood in a deep recess; then tucking
himself snugly in, and burying himself up to the chin in the
bed-clothes, he lay looking at the fire, and listening to the
wind, and chuckling to think how knowingly he had come over his
friend the Marquis for a night’s lodgings: and so he fell asleep.

He had not taken above half of his first nap, when he was
awakened by the clock of the chateau, in the turret over his
chamber, which struck midnight. It was just such an old clock as
ghosts are fond of. It had a deep, dismal tone, and struck so
slowly and tediously that my uncle thought it would never have
done. He counted and counted till he was confident he counted
thirteen, and then it stopped.

The fire had burnt low, and the blaze of the last faggot was
almost expiring, burning in small blue flames, which now and then
lengthened up into little white gleams. My uncle lay with his
eyes half closed, and his nightcap drawn almost down to his nose.
His fancy was already wandering, and began to mingle up the
present scene with the crater of Vesuvius, the French opera, the
Coliseum at Rome, Dolly’s chop-house in London, and all the
farrago of noted places with which the brain of a traveller is
crammed—in a word, he was just falling asleep.

Suddenly he was aroused by the sound of foot-steps that appeared
to be slowly pacing along the corridor. My uncle, as I have often
heard him say himself, was a man not easily frightened; so he lay
quiet, supposing that this might be some other guest; or some
servant on his way to bed. The footsteps, however, approached the
door; the door gently opened; whether of its own accord, or
whether pushed open, my uncle could not distinguish:—a figure all
in white glided in. It was a female, tall and stately in person,
and of a most commanding air. Her dress was of an ancient
fashion, ample in volume and sweeping the floor. She walked up to
the fire-place without regarding my uncle; who raised his
nightcap with one hand, and stared earnestly at her. She remained
for some time standing by the fire, which flashing up at
intervals cast blue and white gleams of light that enabled my
uncle to remark her appearance minutely.

Her face was ghastly pale, and perhaps rendered still more so by
the Blueish light of the fire. It possessed beauty, but its
beauty was saddened by care and anxiety. There was the look of
one accustomed to trouble, but of one whom trouble could not cast
down nor subdue; for there was still the predominating air of
proud, unconquerable resolution. Such, at least, was the opinion
formed by my uncle, and he considered himself a great
physiognomist.

The figure remained, as I said, for some time by the fire,
putting out first one hand, then the other, then each foot,
alternately, as if warming itself; for your ghosts, if ghost it
really was, are apt to be cold. My uncle furthermore remarked
that it wore high-heeled shoes, after an ancient fashion, with
paste or diamond buckles, that sparkled as though they were
alive. At length the figure turned gently round, casting a glassy
look about the apartment, which, as it passed over my uncle, made
his blood run cold, and chilled the very marrow in his bones. It
then stretched its arms toward heaven, clasped its hands, and
wringing them in a supplicating manner, glided slowly out of the
room.

My uncle lay for some time meditating on this visitation, for (as
he Remarked when he told me the story) though a man of firmness,
he was also a man of reflection, and did not reject a thing
because it was out of the regular course of events. However,
being, as I have before said, a great traveller, and accustomed
to strange adventures, he drew his nightcap resolutely over his
eyes, turned his back to the door, hoisted the bedclothes high
over his shoulders, and gradually fell asleep.

How long he slept he could not say, when he was awakened by the
voice of some one at his bed-side. He turned round and beheld the
old French servant, with his ear-locks in tight buckles on each
side of a long, lanthorn face, on which habit had deeply wrinkled
an everlasting smile. He made a thousand grimaces and asked a
thousand pardons for disturbing Monsieur, but the morning was
considerably advanced. While my uncle was dressing, he called
vaguely to mind the visitor of the preceding night. He asked the
ancient domestic what lady was in the habit of rambling about
this part of the chateau at night. The old valet shrugged his
shoulders as high as his head, laid one hand on his bosom, threw
open the other with every finger extended; made a most whimsical
grimace, which he meant to be complimentary:

“It was not for him to know any thing of _les braves fortunes_ of
Monsieur.”

My uncle saw there was nothing satisfactory to be learnt in this
quarter. After breakfast he was walking with the Marquis through
the modern apartments of the chateau; sliding over the well-waxed
floors of silken saloons, amidst furniture rich in gilding and
brocade; until they came to a long picture gallery, containing
many portraits, some in oil and some in chalks.

Here was an ample field for the eloquence of his host, who had
all the family pride of a nobleman of the _ancient regime_. There
was not a grand name in Normandy, and hardly one in France, that
was not, in some way or other, connected with his house. My uncle
stood listening with inward impatience, resting sometimes on one
leg, sometimes on the other, as the little Marquis descanted,
with his usual fire and vivacity, on the achievements of his
ancestors, whose portraits hung along the wall; from the martial
deeds of the stern warriors in steel, to the gallantries and
intrigues of the blue-eyed gentlemen, with fair smiling faces,
powdered ear-locks, laced ruffles, and pink and blue silk coats
and breeches; not forgetting the conquests of the lovely
shepherdesses, with hoop petticoats and waists no thicker than an
hour glass, who appeared ruling over their sheep and their swains
with dainty crooks decorated with fluttering ribbands.

In the midst of his friend’s discourse my uncle’s eyes rested on
a full-length portrait, which struck him as being the very
counterpart of his visitor of the preceding night.

“Methinks,” said he, pointing to it, “I have seen the original of
this portrait.”

“_Pardonnez moi_,” replied the Marquis politely, “that can hardly
be, as the lady has been dead more than a hundred years. That was
the beautiful Duchess de Longueville, who figured during the
minority of Louis the Fourteenth.”

“And was there any thing remarkable in her history.”

Never was question more unlucky. The little Marquis immediately
threw himself into the attitude of a man about to tell a long
story. In fact, my uncle had pulled upon himself the whole
history of the civil war of the Fronde, in which the beautiful
Duchess had played so distinguished a part. Turenne, Coligni,
Mazarin, were called up from their graves to grace his narration;
nor were the affairs of the Barricadoes, nor the chivalry of the
Pertcocheres forgotten. My uncle began to wish himself a thousand
leagues off from the Marquis and his merciless memory, when
suddenly the little man’s recollections took a more interesting
turn. He was relating the imprisonment of the Duke de
Longueville, with the Princes Condé and Conti, in the chateau of
Vincennes, and the ineffectual efforts of the Duchess to rouse
the sturdy Normans to their rescue. He had come to that part
where she was invested by the royal forces in the chateau of
Dieppe, and in imminent danger of falling into their hands.

“The spirit of the Duchess,” proceeded the Marquis, “rose with
her trials. It was astonishing to see so delicate and beautiful a
being buffet so resolutely with hardships. She determined on a
desperate means of escape. One dark unruly night, she issued
secretly out of a small postern gate of the castle, which the
enemy had neglected to guard. She was followed by her female
attendants, a few domestics, and some gallant cavaliers who still
remained faithful to her fortunes. Her object was to gain a small
port about two leagues distant, where she had privately provided
a vessel for her escape in case of emergency.

“The little band of fugitives were obliged to perform the
distance on foot. When they arrived at the port the wind was high
and stormy, the tide contrary, the vessel anchored far off in the
road, and no means of getting on board, but by a fishing shallop
that lay tossing like a cockle shell on the edge of the surf. The
Duchess determined to risk the attempt. The seamen endeavored to
dissuade her, but the imminence of her danger on shore, and the
magnanimity of her spirit urged her on. She had to be borne to
the shallop in the arms of a mariner. Such was the violence of
the wind and waves, that he faltered, lost his foothold, and let
his precious burden fall into the sea.

“The Duchess was nearly drowned; but partly through her own
struggles, partly by the exertions of the seamen, she got to
land. As soon as she had a little recovered strength, she
insisted on renewing the attempt. The storm, however, had by this
time become so violent as to set all efforts at defiance. To
delay, was to be discovered and taken prisoner. As the only
resource left, she procured horses; mounted with her female
attendants _en croupe_ behind the gallant gentlemen who
accompanied her; and scoured the country to seek some temporary
asylum.

“While the Duchess,” continued the Marquis, laying his forefinger
on my uncle’s breast to arouse his flagging attention, “while the
Duchess, poor lady, was wandering amid the tempest in this
disconsolate manner, she arrived at this chateau. Her approach
caused some uneasiness; for the clattering of a troop of horse,
at dead of night, up the avenue of a lonely chateau, in those
unsettled times, and in a troubled part of the country, was
enough to occasion alarm.

“A tall, broad-shouldered chasseur, armed to the teeth, galloped
ahead, and announced the name of the visitor. All uneasiness was
dispelled. The household turned out with flambeaux to receive
her, and never did torches gleam on a more weather-beaten,
travel-stained band than came tramping into the court. Such pale,
care-worn faces, such bedraggled dresses, as the poor Duchess and
her females presented, each seated behind her cavalier; while
half drenched, half drowsy pages and attendants seemed ready to
fall from their horses with sleep and fatigue.

“The Duchess was received with a hearty welcome by my ancestors.
She was ushered into the Hall of the chateau, and the fires soon
crackled and blazed to cheer herself and her train; and every
spit and stewpan was put in requisition to prepare ample
refreshments for the wayfarers.

“She had a right to our hospitalities,” continued the little
Marquis, drawing himself up with a slight degree of stateliness,
“for she was related to our family. I’ll tell you how it was: Her
father, Henry de Bourbon, Prince of Condé—”

“But did the Duchess pass the night in the chateau?” said my
uncle rather abruptly, terrified at the idea of getting involved
in one of the Marquis’s genealogical discussions.

“Oh, as to the Duchess, she was put into the apartment you
occupied last night; which, at that time, was a kind of state
apartment. Her followers were quartered in the chambers opening
upon the neighboring corridor, and her favorite page slept in an
adjoining closet. Up and down the corridor walked the great
chasseur, who had announced her arrival, and who acted as a kind
of sentinel or guard. He was a dark, stern, powerful-looking
fellow, and as the light of a lamp in the corridor fell upon his
deeply-marked face and sinewy form, he seemed capable of
defending the castle with his single arm.

“It was a rough, rude night; about this time of the
year.—_Apropos_—now I think of it, last night was the anniversary
of her visit. I may well remember the precise date, for it was a
night not to be forgotten by our house. There is a singular
tradition concerning it in our family.” Here the Marquis
hesitated, and a cloud seemed to gather about his bushy eyebrows.
“There is a tradition—that a strange occurrence took place that
night—a strange, mysterious, inexplicable occurrence.”

Here he checked himself and paused.

“Did it relate to that lady?” inquired my uncle, eagerly.

“It was past the hour of midnight,” resumed the Marquis—“when the
whole chateau—”

Here he paused again—my uncle made a movement of anxious
curiosity.

“Excuse me,” said the Marquis—a slight blush streaking his sullen
visage. “There are some circumstances connected with our family
history which I do not like to relate. That was a rude period. A
time of great crimes among great men: for you know high blood,
when it runs wrong, will not run tamely like blood of the
_canaille_—poor lady!—But I have a little family pride,
that—excuse me—we will change the subject if you please.”—

My uncle’s curiosity was piqued. The pompous and magnificent
introduction had led him to expect something wonderful in the
story to which it served as a kind of avenue. He had no idea of
being cheated out of it by a sudden fit of unreasonable
squeamishness. Besides, being a traveller, in quest of
information, considered it his duty to inquire into every thing.

The Marquis, however, evaded every question.

“Well,” said my uncle, a little petulantly, “whatever you may
think of it, I saw that lady last night.”

The Marquis stepped back and gazed at him with surprise.

“She paid me a visit in my bed-chamber.”

The Marquis pulled out his snuff-box with a shrug and a smile;
taking it no doubt for an awkward piece of English pleasantry,
which politeness required him to be charmed with. My uncle went
on gravely, however, and related the whole circumstance. The
Marquis heard him through with profound attention, holding his
snuff-box unopened in his hand. When the story was finished he
tapped on the lid of his box deliberately; took a long sonorous
pinch of snuff—

“Bah!” said the Marquis, and walked toward the other end of the
gallery.—

Here the narrator paused. The company waited for some time for
him to resume his narrative; but he continued silent.

“Well,” said the inquisitive gentleman, “and what did your uncle
say then?”

“Nothing,” replied the other.

“And what did the Marquis say farther?”

“Nothing.”

“And is that all?”

“That is all,” said the narrator, filling a glass of wine.

“I surmise,” said the shrewd old gentleman with the waggish
nose—“I surmise it was the old housekeeper walking her rounds to
see that all was right.”

“Bah!” said the narrator, “my uncle was too much accustomed to
strange sights not to know a ghost from a housekeeper!”

There was a murmur round the table half of merriment, half of
disappointment. I was inclined to think the old gentleman had
really an afterpart of his story in reserve; but he sipped his
wine and said nothing more; and there was an odd expression about
his dilapidated countenance that left me in doubt whether he were
in drollery or earnest.

“Egad,” said the knowing gentleman with the flexible nose, “this
story of your uncle puts me in mind of one that used to be told
of an aunt of mine, by the mother’s side; though I don’t know
that it will bear a comparison; as the good lady was not quite so
prone to meet with strange adventures. But at any rate, you shall
have it.”

THE ADVENTURE OF MY AUNT

My aunt was a lady of large frame, strong mind, and great
resolution; she was what might be termed a very manly woman. My
uncle was a thin, puny little man, very meek and acquiescent, and
no match for my aunt. It was observed that he dwindled and
dwindled gradually away, from the day of his marriage. His wife’s
powerful mind was too much for him; it wore him out. My aunt,
however, took all possible care of him, had half the doctors in
town to prescribe for him, made him take all their prescriptions,
_willy nilly_, and dosed him with physic enough to cure a whole
hospital. All was in vain. My uncle grew worse and worse the more
dosing and nursing he underwent, until in the end he added
another to the long list of matrimonial victims, who have been
killed with kindness.

“And was it his ghost that appeared to her?” asked the
inquisitive gentleman, who had questioned the former storyteller.

“You shall hear,” replied the narrator:—My aunt took on mightily
for the death of her poor dear husband! Perhaps she felt some
compunction at having given him so much physic, and nursed him
into his grave. At any rate, she did all that a widow could do to
honor his memory. She spared no expense in either the quantity or
quality of her mourning weeds; she wore a miniature of him about
her neck, as large as a little sun dial; and she had a
full-length portrait of him always hanging in her bed chamber.
All the world extolled her conduct to the skies; and it was
determined, that a woman who behaved so well to the memory of one
husband, deserved soon to get another.

It was not long after this that she went to take up her residence
in an old country seat in Derbyshire, which had long been in the
care of merely a steward and housekeeper. She took most of her
servants with her, intending to make it her principal abode. The
house stood in a lonely, wild part of the country among the gray
Derbyshire hills; with a murderer hanging in chains on a bleak
height in full view.

The servants from town were half frightened out of their wits, at
the idea of living in such a dismal, pagan-looking place;
especially when they got together in the servants’ hall in the
evening, and compared notes on all the hobgoblin stories they had
picked up in the course of the day. They were afraid to venture
alone about the forlorn black-looking chambers. My ladies’ maid,
who was troubled with nerves, declared she could never sleep
alone in such a “gashly, rummaging old building;” and the
footman, who was a kind-hearted young fellow, did all in his
power to cheer her up.

My aunt, herself, seemed to be struck with the lonely appearance
of the house. Before she went to bed, therefore, she examined
well the fastenings of the doors and windows, locked up the plate
with her own hands, and carried the keys, together with a little
box of money and jewels, to her own room; for she was a notable
woman, and always saw to all things herself. Having put the keys
under her pillow, and dismissed her maid, she sat by her toilet
arranging her hair; for, being, in spite of her grief for my
uncle, rather a buxom widow, she was a little particular about
her person. She sat for a little while looking at her face in the
glass, first on one side, then on the other, as ladies are apt to
do, when they would ascertain if they have been in good looks;
for a roystering country squire of the neighborhood, with whom
she had flirted when a girl, had called that day to welcome her
to the country.

All of a sudden she thought she heard something move behind her.
She Looked hastily round, but there was nothing to be seen.
Nothing but the grimly painted portrait of her poor dear man,
which had been hung against the wall. She gave a heavy sigh to
his memory, as she was accustomed to do, whenever she spoke of
him in company; and went on adjusting her nightdress. Her sigh
was re-echoed; or answered by a long-drawn breath. She looked
round again, but no one was to be seen. She ascribed these sounds
to the wind, oozing through the rat holes of the old mansion; and
proceeded leisurely to put her hair in papers, when, all at once,
she thought she perceived one of the eyes of the portrait move.

“The back of her head being towards it!” said the story-teller
with the ruined head, giving a knowing wink on the sound side of
his visage—“good!”

“Yes, sir!” replied drily the narrator, “her back being towards
the portrait, but her eye fixed on its reflection in the glass.”

Well, as I was saying, she perceived one of the eyes of the
portrait move. So strange a circumstance, as you may well
suppose, gave her a sudden shock. To assure herself cautiously of
the fact, she put one hand to her forehead, as if rubbing it;
peeped through her fingers, and moved the candle with the other
hand. The light of the taper gleamed on the eye, and was
reflected from it. She was sure it moved. Nay, more, it seemed to
give her a wink, as she had sometimes known her husband to do
when living! It struck a momentary chill to her heart; for she
was a lone woman, and felt herself fearfully situated.

The chill was but transient. My aunt, who was almost as resolute
a personage as your uncle, sir, (turning to the old
story-teller,) became instantly calm and collected. She went on
adjusting her dress. She even hummed a favorite air, and did not
make a single false note. She casually overturned a dressing box;
took a candle and picked up the articles leisurely, one by one,
from the floor, pursued a rolling pin-cushion that was making the
best of its way under the bed; then opened the door; looked for
an instant into the corridor, as if in doubt whether to go; and
then walked quietly out.

She hastened down-stairs, ordered the servants to arm themselves
with the first weapons that came to hand, placed herself at their
head, and returned almost immediately.

Her hastily levied army presented a formidable force. The steward
had a rusty blunderbuss; the coachman a loaded whip; the footman
a pair of horse pistols; the cook a huge chopping knife, and the
butler a bottle in each hand. My aunt led the van with a red-hot
poker; and, in my opinion, she was the most formidable of the
party. The waiting maid brought up the rear, dreading to stay
alone in the servants’ hall, smelling to a broken bottle of
volatile salts, and expressing her terror of the ghosteses.

“Ghosts!” said my aunt resolutely, “I’ll singe their whiskers for
them!”

They entered the chamber. All was still and undisturbed as when
she left it. They approached the portrait of my uncle.

“Pull me down that picture!” cried my aunt.

A heavy groan, and a sound like the chattering of teeth, was
heard from the portrait. The servants shrunk back. The maid
uttered a faint shriek, and clung to the footman.

“Instantly!” added my aunt, with a stamp of the foot.

The picture was pulled down, and from a recess behind it, in
which had formerly stood a clock, they hauled forth a
round-shouldered, black-bearded varlet, with a knife as long as
my arm, but trembling all over like an aspen leaf.

“Well, and who was he? No ghost, I suppose!” said the inquisitive
gentleman.

“A knight of the post,” replied the narrator, “who had been
smitten with the worth of the wealthy widow; or rather a
marauding Tarquin, who had stolen into her chamber to violate her
purse and rifle her strong box when all the house should be
asleep. In plain terms,” continued he, “the vagabond was a loose
idle fellow of the neighborhood, who had once been a servant in
the house, and had been employed to assist in arranging it for
the reception of its mistress. He confessed that he had contrived
his hiding-place for his nefarious purposes, and had borrowed an
eye from the portrait by way of a reconnoitering hole.”

“And what did they do with him—did they hang him?” resumed the
questioner.

“Hang him?—how could they?” exclaimed a beetle-browed barrister,
with a hawk’s nose—“the offence was not capital—no robbery nor
assault had been committed—no forcible entry or breaking into the
premises—”

“My aunt,” said the narrator, “was a woman of spirit, and apt to
take the law into her own hands. She had her own notions of
cleanliness also. She ordered the fellow to be drawn through the
horsepond to cleanse away all offences, and then to be well
rubbed down with an oaken towel.”

“And what became of him afterwards?” said the inquisitive
gentleman.

“I do not exactly know—I believe he was sent on a voyage of
improvement to Botany Bay.”

“And your aunt—” said the inquisitive gentleman—“I’ll warrant she
took care to make her maid sleep in the room with her after
that.”

“No, sir, she did better—she gave her hand shortly after to the
roystering squire; for she used to observe it was a dismal thing
for a woman to sleep alone in the country.”

“She was right,” observed the inquisitive gentleman, nodding his
head sagaciously—“but I am sorry they did not hang that fellow.”

It was agreed on all hands that the last narrator had brought his
tale to the most satisfactory conclusion; though a country
clergyman present regretted that the uncle and aunt, who figured
in the different stories, had not been married together. They
certainly would have been well matched.

“But I don’t see, after all,” said the inquisitive gentleman,
“that there was any ghost in this last story.”

“Oh, if it’s ghosts you want, honey,” cried the Irish captain of
dragoons, “if it’s ghosts you want, you shall have a whole
regiment of them. And since these gentlemen have been giving the
adventures of their uncles and aunts, faith and I’ll e’en give
you a chapter too, out of my own family history.”

THE BOLD DRAGOON; OR THE ADVENTURE OF MY GRANDFATHER.

My grandfather was a bold dragoon, for it’s a profession, d’ye
see, that has run in the family. All my forefathers have been
dragoons and died upon the field of honor except myself, and I
hope my posterity may be able to say the same; however, I don’t
mean to be vainglorious. Well, my grandfather, as I said, was a
bold dragoon, and had served in the Low Countries. In fact, he
was one of that very army, which, according to my uncle Toby,
“swore so terribly in Flanders.” He could swear a good stick
himself; and, moreover, was the very man that introduced the
doctrine Corporal Trim mentions, of radical heat and radical
moisture; or, in other words, the mode of keeping out the damps
of ditch water by burnt brandy. Be that as it may, it’s nothing
to the purport of my story. I only tell it to show you that my
grandfather was a man not easily to be humbugged. He had seen
service; or, according to his own phrase, “he had seen the
devil”—and that’s saying everything.

Well, gentlemen, my grandfather was on his way to England, for
which he intended to embark at Ostend;—bad luck to the place for
one where I was kept by storms and head winds for three long
days, and the divil of a jolly companion or pretty face to
comfort me. Well, as I was saying, my grandfather was on his way
to England, or rather to Ostend—no matter which, it’s all the
same. So one evening, towards nightfall, he rode jollily into
Bruges. Very like you all know Bruges, gentlemen, a queer,
old-fashioned Flemish town, once they say a great place for trade
and money-making, in old times, when the Mynheers were in their
glory; but almost as large and as empty as an Irishman’s pocket
at the present day.

Well, gentlemen, it was the time of the annual fair. All Bruges
was crowded; and the canals swarmed with Dutch boats, and the
streets swarmed with Dutch merchants; and there was hardly any
getting along for goods, wares, and merchandises, and peasants in
big breeches, and women in half a score of petticoats.

My grandfather rode jollily along in his easy, slashing way, for
he was a saucy, sunshiny fellow—staring about him at the motley
crowd, and the old houses with gable ends to the street and
storks’ nests on the chimneys; winking at the ya vrouws who
showed their faces at the windows, and joking the women right and
left in the street; all of whom laughed and took it in amazing
good part; for though he did not know a word of their language,
yet he always had a knack of making himself understood among the
women.