Chapter II: Part 2

Well, gentlemen, it being the time of the annual fair, all the
town was crowded; every inn and tavern full, and my grandfather
applied in vain from one to the other for admittance. At length
he rode up to an old rackety inn that looked ready to fall to
pieces, and which all the rats would have run away from, if they
could have found room in any other house to put their heads. It
was just such a queer building as you see in Dutch pictures, with
a tall roof that reached up into the clouds; and as many garrets,
one over the other, as the seven heavens of Mahomet. Nothing had
saved it from tumbling down but a stork’s nest on the chimney,
which always brings good luck to a house in the Low Countries;
and at the very time of my grandfather’s arrival, there were two
of these long-legged birds of grace, standing like ghosts on the
chimney top. Faith, but they’ve kept the house on its legs to
this very day; for you may see it any time you pass through
Bruges, as it stands there yet; only it is turned into a
brewery—a brewery of strong Flemish beer; at least it was so when
I came that way after the battle of Waterloo.

My grandfather eyed the house curiously as he approached. It
might Not altogether have struck his fancy, had he not seen in
large letters over the door,

HEER VERKOOPT MAN GOEDEN DRANK.

My grandfather had learnt enough of the language to know that the
sign promised good liquor. “This is the house for me,” said he,
stopping short before the door.

The sudden appearance of a dashing dragoon was an event in an old
inn, frequented only by the peaceful sons of traffic. A rich
burgher of Antwerp, a stately ample man, in a broad Flemish hat,
and who was the great man and great patron of the establishment,
sat smoking a clean long pipe on one side of the door; a fat
little distiller of Geneva from Schiedam, sat smoking on the
other, and the bottle-nosed host stood in the door, and the
comely hostess, in crimped cap, beside him; and the hostess’
daughter, a plump Flanders lass, with long gold pendants in her
ears, was at a side window.

“Humph!” said the rich burgher of Antwerp, with a sulky glance at
the stranger.

“Der duyvel!” said the fat little distiller of Schiedam.

The landlord saw with the quick glance of a publican that the new
guest was not at all, at all, to the taste of the old ones; and
to tell the truth, he did not himself like my grandfather’s saucy
eye.

He shook his head—“Not a garret in the house but was full.”

“Not a garret!” echoed the landlady.

“Not a garret!” echoed the daughter.

The burgher of Antwerp and the little distiller of Schiedam
continued to smoke their pipes sullenly, eyed the enemy askance
from under their broad hats, but said nothing.

My grandfather was not a man to be browbeaten. He threw the reins
on his horse’s neck, cocked his hat on one side, stuck one arm
akimbo, slapped his broad thigh with the other hand—

“Faith and troth!” said he, “but I’ll sleep in this house this
very night!”

My grandfather had on a tight pair of buckskins—the slap went to
the landlady’s heart.

He followed up the vow by jumping off his horse, and making his
way past the staring Mynheers into the public room. May be you’ve
been in the barroom of an old Flemish inn—faith, but a handsome
chamber it was as you’d wish to see; with a brick floor, a great
fire-place, with the whole Bible history in glazed tiles; and
then the mantel-piece, pitching itself head foremost out of the
wall, with a whole regiment of cracked tea-pots and earthen jugs
paraded on it; not to mention half a dozen great Delft platters
hung about the room by way of pictures; and the little bar in one
corner, and the bouncing bar-maid inside of it with a red calico
cap and yellow ear-drops.

My grandfather snapped his fingers over his head, as he cast an
eye round the room: “Faith, this is the very house I’ve been
looking after,” said he.

There was some farther show of resistance on the part of the
garrison, but my grandfather was an old soldier, and an Irishman
to boot, and not easily repulsed, especially after he had got
into the fortress. So he blarney’d the landlord, kissed the
landlord’s wife, tickled the landlord’s daughter, chucked the
bar-maid under the chin; and it was agreed on all hands that it
would be a thousand pities, and a burning shame into the bargain,
to turn such a bold dragoon into the streets. So they laid their
heads together, that is to say, my grandfather and the landlady,
and it was at length agreed to accommodate him with an old
chamber that had for some time been shut up.

“Some say it’s haunted!” whispered the landlord’s daughter, “but
you’re a bold dragoon, and I dare say you don’t fear ghosts.”

“The divil a bit!” said my grandfather, pinching her plump cheek;
“but if I should be troubled by ghosts, I’ve been to the Red Sea
in my time, and have a pleasant way of laying them, my darling!”

And then he whispered something to the girl which made her laugh,
and give him a good-humored box on the ear. In short, there was
nobody knew better how to make his way among the petticoats than
my grandfather.

In a little while, as was his usual way, he took complete
possession of the house: swaggering all over it;—into the stable
to look after his horse; into the kitchen to look after his
supper. He had something to say or do with every one; smoked with
the Dutchmen; drank with the Germans; slapped the men on the
shoulders, tickled the women under the ribs:-never since the days
of Ally Croaker had such a rattling blade been seen. The landlord
stared at him with astonishment; the landlord’s daughter hung her
head and giggled whenever he came near; and as he turned his back
and swaggered along, his tight jacket setting off his broad
shoulders and plump buckskins, and his long sword trailing by his
side, the maids whispered to one another—“What a proper man!”

At supper my grandfather took command of the table d’hôte as
though he had been at home; helped everybody, not forgetting
himself; talked with every one, whether he understood their
language or not; and made his way into the intimacy of the rich
burgher of Antwerp, who had never been known to be sociable with
any one during his life. In fact, he revolutionized the whole
establishment, and gave it such a rouse, that the very house
reeled with it. He outsat every one at table excepting the little
fat distiller of Schiedam, who had sat soaking for a long time
before he broke forth; but when he did, he was a very devil
incarnate. He took a violent affection for my grandfather; so
they sat drinking, and smoking, and telling stories, and singing
Dutch and Irish songs, without understanding a word each other
said, until the little Hollander was fairly swampt with his own
gin and water, and carried off to bed, whooping and hiccuping,
and trolling the burthen of a Low Dutch love song.

Well, gentlemen, my grandfather was shown to his quarters, up a
huge Staircase composed of loads of hewn timber; and through long
rigmarole passages, hung with blackened paintings of fruit, and
fish, and game, and country frollics, and huge kitchens, and
portly burgomasters, such as you see about old-fashioned Flemish
inns, till at length he arrived at his room.

An old-times chamber it was, sure enough, and crowded with all
kinds of trumpery. It looked like an infirmary for decayed and
superannuated furniture; where everything diseased and disabled
was sent to nurse, or to be forgotten. Or rather, it might have
been taken for a general congress of old legitimate moveables,
where every kind and country had a representative. No two chairs
were alike: such high backs and low backs, and leather bottoms
and worsted bottoms, and straw bottoms, and no bottoms; and
cracked marble tables with curiously carved legs, holding balls
in their claws, as though they were going to play at ninepins.

My grandfather made a bow to the motley assemblage as he entered,
and having undressed himself, placed his light in the fire-place,
asking pardon of the tongs, which seemed to be making love to the
shovel in the chimney corner, and whispering soft nonsense in its
ear.

The rest of the guests were by this time sound asleep; for your
Mynheers are huge sleepers. The house maids, one by one, crept up
yawning to their attics, and not a female head in the inn was
laid on a pillow that night without dreaming of the Bold Dragoon.

My grandfather, for his part, got into bed, and drew over him one
of those great bags of down, under which they smother a man in
the Low Countries; and there he lay, melting between, two feather
beds, like an anchovy sandwich between two slices of toast and
butter. He was a warm-complexioned man, and this smothering
played the very deuce with him. So, sure enough, in a little
while it seemed as if a legion of imps were twitching at him and
all the blood in his veins was in fever heat.

He lay still, however, until all the house was quiet, excepting
the snoring of the Mynheers from the different chambers; who
answered one another in all kinds of tones and cadences, like so
many bull-frogs in a swamp. The quieter the house became, the
more unquiet became my grandfather. He waxed warmer and warmer,
until at length the bed became too hot to hold him.

“May be the maid had warmed it too much?” said the curious
gentleman, inquiringly.

“I rather think the contrary,” replied the Irishman. “But be that
as it may, it grew too hot for my grandfather.”

“Faith there’s no standing this any longer,” says he; so he
jumped out of bed and went strolling about the house.

“What for?” said the inquisitive gentleman.

“Why, to cool himself to be sure,” replied the other, “or perhaps
to find a more comfortable bed—or perhaps—but no matter what he
went for—he never mentioned; and there’s no use in taking up our
time in conjecturing.”

Well, my grandfather had been for some time absent from his room,
and was returning, perfectly cool, when just as he reached the
door he heard a strange noise within. He paused and listened. It
seemed as if some one was trying to hum a tune in defiance of the
asthma. He recollected the report of the room’s being haunted;
but he was no believer in ghosts. So he pushed the door gently
ajar, and peeped in.

Egad, gentlemen, there was a gambol carrying on within enough to
have astonished St. Anthony.

By the light of the fire he saw a pale weazen-faced fellow in a
long Flannel gown and a tall white night-cap with a tassel to it,
who sat by the fire, with a bellows under his arm by way of
bagpipe, from which he forced the asthmatical music that had
bothered my grandfather. As he played, too, he kept twitching
about with a thousand queer contortions; nodding his head and
bobbing about his tasselled night-cap.

My grandfather thought this very odd, and mighty presumptuous,
and was about to demand what business he had to play his wind
instruments in another gentleman’s quarters, when a new cause of
astonishment met his eye. From the opposite side of the room a
long-backed, bandy-legged chair, covered with leather, and
studded all over in a coxcomical fashion with little brass nails,
got suddenly into motion; thrust out first a claw foot, then a
crooked arm, and at length, making a leg, slided gracefully up to
an easy chair, of tarnished brocade, with a hole in its bottom,
and led it gallantly out in a ghostly minuet about the floor.

The musician now played fiercer and fiercer, and bobbed his head
and His nightcap about like mad. By degrees the dancing mania
seemed to seize upon all the other pieces of furniture. The
antique, long-bodied chairs paired off in couples and led down a
country dance; a three-legged stool danced a hornpipe, though
horribly puzzled by its supernumerary leg; while the amorous
tongs seized the shovel round the waist, and whirled it about the
room in a German waltz. In short, all the moveables got in
motion, capering about; pirouetting, hands across, right and
left, like so many devils, all except a great clothes-press,
which kept curtseying and curtseying, like a dowager, in one
corner, in exquisite time to the music;—being either too
corpulent to dance, or perhaps at a loss for a partner.

My grandfather concluded the latter to be the reason; so, being,
like a true Irishman, devoted to the sex, and at all times ready
for a frolic, he bounced into the room, calling to the musician
to strike up “Paddy O’Rafferty,” capered up to the clothes-press
and seized upon two handles to lead her out:—When, whizz!—the
whole revel was at an end. The chairs, tables, tongs, and shovel
slunk in an instant as quietly into their places as if nothing
had happened; and the musician vanished up the chimney, leaving
the bellows behind him in his hurry. My grandfather found himself
seated in the middle of the floor, with the clothes-press
sprawling before him, and the two handles jerked off and in his
hands.

“Then after all, this was a mere dream!” said the inquisitive
gentleman.

“The divil a bit of a dream!” replied the Irishman: “there never
was a truer fact in this world. Faith, I should have liked to see
any man tell my grandfather it was a dream.”

Well, gentlemen, as the clothes-press was a mighty heavy body,
and my grandfather likewise, particularly in rear, you may easily
suppose two such heavy bodies coming to the ground would make a
bit of a noise. Faith, the old mansion shook as though it had
mistaken it for an earthquake. The whole garrison was alarmed.
The landlord, who slept just below, hurried up with a candle to
inquire the cause, but with all his haste his daughter had
hurried to the scene of uproar before him. The landlord was
followed by the landlady, who was followed by the bouncing
bar-maid, who was followed by the simpering chambermaids all
holding together, as well as they could, such garments as they
had first lain hands on; but all in a terrible hurry to see what
the devil was to pay in the chamber of the bold dragoon.

My grandfather related the marvellous scene he had witnessed, and
the prostrate clothes-press, and the broken handles, bore
testimony to the fact. There was no contesting such evidence;
particularly with a lad of my grandfather’s complexion, who
seemed able to make good every word either with sword or
shillelah. So the landlord scratched his head and looked silly,
as he was apt to do when puzzled. The landlady scratched—no, she
did not scratch her head,—but she knit her brow, and did not seem
half pleased with the explanation. But the landlady’s daughter
corroborated it by recollecting that the last person who had
dwelt in that chamber was a famous juggler who had died of St.
Vitus’s dance, and no doubt had infected all the furniture.

This set all things to rights, particularly when the chambermaids
declared that they had all witnessed strange carryings on in that
room;—and as they declared this “upon their honors,” there could
not remain a doubt upon the subject.

“And did your grandfather go to bed again in that room?” said the
inquisitive gentleman.

“That’s more than I can tell. Where he passed the rest of the
night was a secret he never disclosed. In fact, though he had
seen much service, he was but indifferently acquainted with
geography, and apt to make blunders in his travels about inns at
night, that it would have puzzled him sadly to account for in the
morning.”

“Was he ever apt to walk in his sleep?” said the knowing old
gentleman.

“Never that I heard of.”

THE ADVENTURE OF THE GERMAN STUDENT

On a stormy night, in the tempestuous times of the French revolution, a young German was returning to his lodgings, at a late hour, across the old part of Paris. The lightning gleamed, and the loud claps of thunder rattled through the lofty, narrow streets—but I should first tell you something about this young German.

Gottfried Wolfgang was a young man of good family. He had studied for some time at Göttingen, but being of a visionary and enthusiastic character, he had wandered into those wild and speculative doctrines which have so often bewildered German students. His secluded life, his intense application, and the singular nature of his studies, had an effect on both mind and body. His health was impaired; his imagination diseased. He had been indulging in fanciful speculations on spiritual essences until, like Swedenborg, he had an ideal world of his own around him. He took up a notion, I do not know from what cause, that there was an evil influence hanging over him; an evil genius or spirit seeking to ensnare him and ensure his perdition. Such an idea working on his melancholy temperament produced the most gloomy effects. He became haggard and desponding. His friends discovered the mental malady preying upon him, and determined that the best cure was a change of scene; he was sent, therefore, to finish his studies amidst the splendours and gaieties of Paris.

Wolfgang arrived at Paris at the breaking out of the revolution. The popular delirium at first caught his enthusiastic mind, and he was captivated by the political and philosophical theories of the day: but the scenes of blood which followed shocked his sensitive nature; disgusted him with society and the world, and made him more than ever a recluse. He shut himself up in a solitary apartment in the _Pays Latin_, the quarter of students. There in a gloomy street not far from the monastic walls of the Sorbonne, he pursued his favourite speculations. Sometimes he spent hours together in the great libraries of Paris, those catacombs of departed authors, rummaging among their hoards of dusty and obsolete works in quest of food for his unhealthy appetite. He was, in a manner, a literary goul, feeding in the charnel house of decayed literature.

Wolfgang, though solitary and recluse, was of an ardent temperament, but for a time it operated merely upon his imagination. He was too shy and ignorant of the world to make any advances to the fair, but he was a passionate admirer of female beauty, and in his lonely chamber would often lose himself in reveries on forms and faces which he had seen, and his fancy would deck out images of loveliness far surpassing the reality.

While his mind was in this excited and sublimated state, a dream produced an extraordinary effect upon him. It was of a female face of transcendent beauty. So strong was the impression made, that he dreamt of it again and again. It haunted his thoughts by day, his slumbers by night; in fine, he became passionately enamoured of this shadow of a dream. This lasted so long, that it became one of those fixed ideas which haunt the minds of melancholy men, and are at times mistaken for madness.

Such was Gottfried Wolfgang, and such his situation at the time I mentioned. He was returning home late one stormy night, through some of the old and gloomy streets of the _Marais_, the ancient part of Paris. The loud claps of thunder rattled among the high houses of the narrow streets. He came to the Place de Grève, the square where public executions are performed. The lightning quivered about the pinnacles of the ancient Hôtel de Ville, and shed flickering gleams over the open space in front. As Wolfgang was crossing the square, he shrank back with horror at finding himself close by the guillotine. It was the height of the reign of terror, when this dreadful instrument of death stood ever ready, and its scaffold was continually running with the blood of the virtuous and the brave. It had that very day been actively employed in the work of carnage, and there it stood in grim array amidst a silent and sleeping city, waiting for fresh victims.

Wolfgang’s heart sickened within him, and he was turning shuddering from the horrible engine, when he beheld a shadowy form cowering as it were at the foot of the steps which led up to the scaffold. A succession of vivid flashes of lightning revealed it more distinctly. It was a female figure, dressed inblack. She was seated on one of the lower steps of the scaffold, leaning forward, her face hid in her lap, and her long dishevelled tresses hanging to the ground, streaming with the rain which fell in torrents. Wolfgang paused. There was something awful in this solitary monument of wo. The female had the appearance of being above the common order. He knew the times to be full of vicissitude, and that many a fair head, which had once been pillowed on down, now wandered houseless. Perhaps this was some poor mourner whom the dreadful axe had rendered desolate, and who sat here heartbroken on the strand of existence, from which all that was dear to her had been launched into eternity.

He approached, and addressed her in the accents of sympathy. She raised her head and gazed wildly at him. What was his astonishment at beholding, by the bright glare of the lightning, the very face which had haunted him in his dreams. It was pale and disconsolate, but ravishingly beautiful.

Trembling with violent and conflicting emotions, Wolfgang again accosted her. He spoke something of her being exposed at such an hour of the night, and to the fury of such a storm, and offered to conduct her to her friends. She pointed to the guillotine with a gesture of dreadful signification.

“I have no friend on earth!” said she.

“But you have a home,” said Wolfgang.

“Yes—in the grave!”

The heart of the student melted at the words.

“If a stranger dare make an offer,” said he, “without danger of being misunderstood, I would offer my humble dwelling as a shelter; myself as a devoted friend. I am friendless myself in Paris, and a stranger in the land; but if my life could be of service, it is at your disposal, and should be sacrificed before harm or indignity should come to you.”

There was an honest earnestness in the young man’s manner that had its effect. His foreign accent, too, was in his favour; it showed him not to be a hackneyed inhabitant of Paris. Indeed there is an eloquence in true enthusiasm that is not to be doubted. The homeless stranger confided herself implicitly to the protection of the student.

He supported her faltering steps across the Pont Neuf, and by the place where the statue of Henry the Fourth had been overthrown by the populace. The storm had abated, and the thunder rumbled at a distance. All Paris was quiet; that great volcano of human passion slumbered for a while, to gather fresh strength for the next day’s eruption. The student conducted his charge through the ancient streets of the _Pays Latin_, and by the dusky walls of the Sorbonne to the great, dingy hotel which he inhabited. The old portress who admitted them stared with surprise at the unusual sight of the melancholy Wolfgang with a female companion.

On entering his apartment, the student, for the first time, blushed at the scantiness and indifference of his dwelling. He had but one chamber—an old fashioned saloon—heavily carved and fantastically furnished with the remains of former magnificence, for it was one of those hotels in the quarter of the Luxembourg palace which had once belonged to nobility. It was lumbered with books and papers, and all the usual apparatus of a student, and his bed stood in a recess at one end.

When lights were brought, and Wolfgang had a better opportunity of contemplating the stranger, he was more than ever intoxicated by her beauty. Her face was pale, but of a dazzling fairness, set off by a profusion of raven hair that hung clustering about it. Her eyes were large and brilliant, with a singular expression approaching almost to wildness. As far as her black dress permitted her shape to be seen, it was of perfect symmetry. Her whole appearance was highly striking, though she was dressed in the simplest style. The only thing approaching to an ornament which she wore was a broad, black band round her neck, clasped by diamonds.

The perplexity now commenced with the student how to dispose of the helpless being thus thrown upon his protection. He thought of abandoning his chamber to her, and seeking shelter for himself elsewhere. Still he was so fascinated by her charms, there seemed to be such a spell upon his thoughts and senses, that he could not tear himself from her presence. Her manner, too, was singular and unaccountable. She spoke no more of the guillotine. Her grief had abated. The attentions of the student had first won her confidence, and then, apparently, her heart. She was evidently an enthusiast like himself, and enthusiasts soon understand each other.

In the infatuation of the moment Wolfgang avowed his passion for her. He told her the story of his mysterious dream, and how she had possessed his heart before he had even seen her. She was strangely affected by his recital, and acknowledged to have felt an impulse towards him equally unaccountable. It was the time for wild theory and wild actions. Old prejudices and superstitions were done away; every thing was under the sway of the “Goddess of Reason.” Among other rubbish of the old times, the forms and ceremonies of marriage began to be considered superfluous bonds for honourable minds. Social compacts were the vogue. Wolfgang was too much of a theorist not to be tainted by the liberal doctrines of the day.

“Why should we separate?” said he: “our hearts are united; in the eye of reason and honour we are as one. What need is there of sordid forms to bind high souls together?”

The stranger listened with emotion: she had evidently received illumination at the same school.

“You have no home nor family,” continued he; “let me be every thing to you, or rather let us be every thing to one another. If form is necessary, form shall be observed—there is my hand. I pledge myself to you for ever.”

“For ever?” said the stranger, solemnly.

“For ever!” repeated Wolfgang.

The stranger clasped the hand extended to her: “Then I am yours,” murmured she, and sank upon his bosom.

The next morning the student left his bride sleeping, and sallied forth at an early hour to seek more spacious apartments, suitable to the change in his situation. When he returned, he found the stranger lying with her head hanging over the bed, and one arm thrown over it. He spoke to her, but received no reply. He advanced to awaken her from her uneasy posture. On taking her hand, it was cold—there was no pulsation—her face was pallid and ghastly.—In a word—she was a corpse.

Horrified and frantic, he alarmed the house. A scene of confusion ensued. The police was summoned. As the officer of police entered the room, he started back on beholding the corpse.

“Great heaven!” cried he, “how did this woman come here?”

“Do you know any thing about her?” said Wolfgang, eagerly.

“Do I?” exclaimed the police officer: “she was guillotined yesterday!”

He stepped forward; undid the black collar round the neck of the corpse, and the head rolled on the floor!

The student burst into a frenzy. “The fiend! the fiend has gained possession of me!” shrieked he: “I am lost for ever!”

They tried to soothe him, but in vain. He was possessed with the frightful belief that an evil spirit had reanimated the dead body to ensnare him. He went distracted, and died in a madhouse.

Here the old gentleman with the haunted head finished his narrative.

“And is this really a fact?” said the inquisitive gentleman.

“A fact not to be doubted,” replied the other. “I had it from the best authority. The student told it me himself. I saw him in a madhouse at Paris.”

THE ADVENTURE OF THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE

As one story of the kind produces another, and as all the company
seemed fully engrossed by the topic, and disposed to bring their
relatives and ancestors upon the scene, there is no knowing how
many more ghost adventures we might have heard, had not a
corpulent old fox-hunter, who had slept soundly through the
whole, now suddenly awakened, with a loud and long-drawn yawn.
The sound broke the charm; the ghosts took to flight as though it
had been cock-crowing, and there was a universal move for bed.

“And now for the haunted chamber,” said the Irish captain, taking
his candle.

“Aye, who’s to be the hero of the night?” said the gentleman with
the ruined head.

“That we shall see in the morning,” said the old gentleman with
the nose: “whoever looks pale and grizzly will have seen the
ghost.”

“Well, gentlemen,” said the Baronet, “there’s many a true thing
said in jest. In fact, one of you will sleep in a room to-night—”

“What—a haunted room? a haunted room? I claim the adventure—and
I—and I—and I,” cried a dozen guests, talking and laughing at the
same time.

“No—no,” said mine host, “there is a secret about one of my rooms
on which I feel disposed to try an experiment. So, gentlemen,
none of you shall know who has the haunted chamber, until
circumstances reveal it. I will not even know it myself, but will
leave it to chance and the allotment of the housekeeper. At the
same time, if it will be any satisfaction to you, I will observe,
for the honor of my paternal mansion, that there’s scarcely a
chamber in it but is well worthy of being haunted.”

We now separated for the night, and each went to his allotted
room. Mine was in one wing of the building, and I could not but
smile at its resemblance in style to those eventful apartments
described in the tales of the supper table. It was spacious and
gloomy, decorated with lamp-black portraits, a bed of ancient
damask, with a tester sufficiently lofty to grace a couch of
state, and a number of massive pieces of old-fashioned furniture.
I drew a great claw-footed arm-chair before the wide fire-place;
stirred up the fire; sat looking into it, and musing upon the odd
stories I had heard; until, partly overcome by the fatigue of the
day’s hunting, and partly by the wine and wassail of mine host, I
fell asleep in my chair.

The uneasiness of my position made my slumber troubled, and laid
me at the mercy of all kinds of wild and fearful dreams; now it
was that my perfidious dinner and supper rose in rebellion
against my peace. I was hag-ridden by a fat saddle of mutton; a
plum pudding weighed like lead upon my conscience; the merry
thought of a capon filled me with horrible suggestions; and a
devilled leg of a turkey stalked in all kinds of diabolical
shapes through my imagination. In short, I had a violent fit of
the nightmare. Some strange indefinite evil seemed hanging over
me that I could not avert; something terrible and loathsome
oppressed me that I could not shake off. I was conscious of being
asleep, and strove to rouse myself, but every effort redoubled
the evil; until gasping, struggling, almost strangling, I
suddenly sprang bolt upright in my chair, and awoke.

The light on the mantel-piece had burnt low, and the wick was
divided; there was a great winding sheet made by the dripping
wax, on the side towards me. The disordered taper emitted a broad
flaring flame, and threw a strong light on a painting over the
fire-place, which I had not hitherto observed.

It consisted merely of a head, or rather a face, that appeared to
be staring full upon me, and with an expression that was
startling. It was without a frame, and at the first glance I
could hardly persuade myself that it was not a real face,
thrusting itself out of the dark oaken pannel. I sat in my chair
gazing at it, and the more I gazed the more it disquieted me. I
had never before been affected in the same way by any painting.
The emotions it caused were strange and indefinite. They were
something like what I have heard ascribed to the eyes of the
basilisk; or like that mysterious influence in reptiles termed
fascination. I passed my hand over my eyes several times, as if
seeking instinctively to brush away this allusion—in vain—they
instantly reverted to the picture, and its chilling, creeping
influence over my flesh was redoubled.

I looked around the room on other pictures, either to divert my
attention, or to see whether the same effect would be produced by
them. Some of them were grim enough to produce the effect, if the
mere grimness of the painting produced it—no such thing. My eye
passed over them all with perfect indifference, but the moment it
reverted to this visage over the fire-place, it was as if an
electric shock darted through me. The other pictures were dim and
faded; but this one protruded from a plain black ground in the
strongest relief, and with wonderful truth of coloring. The
expression was that of agony—the agony of intense bodily pain;
but a menace scowled upon the brow, and a few sprinklings of
blood added to its ghastliness. Yet it was not all these
characteristics—it was some horror of the mind, some inscrutable
antipathy awakened by this picture, which harrowed up my
feelings.

I tried to persuade myself that this was chimerical; that my
brain was confused by the fumes of mine host’s good cheer, and,
in some measure, by the odd stories about paintings which had
been told at supper. I determined to shake off these vapors of
the mind; rose from my chair, and walked about the room; snapped
my fingers; rallied myself; laughed aloud. It was a forced laugh,
and the echo of it in the old chamber jarred upon my ear. I
walked to the window; tried to discern the landscape through the
glass. It was pitch darkness, and howling storm without; and as I
heard the wind moan among the trees, I caught a reflection of
this accursed visage in the pane of glass, as though it were
staring through the window at me. Even the reflection of it was
thrilling.

How was this vile nervous fit, for such I now persuaded myself it
was, to be conquered? I determined to force myself not to look at
the painting but to undress quickly and get into bed. I began to
undress, but in spite of every effort I could not keep myself
from stealing a glance every now and then at the picture; and a
glance was now sufficient to distress me. Even when my back was
turned to it, the idea of this strange face behind me, peering
over my shoulder, was insufferable. I threw off my clothes and
hurried into bed; but still this visage gazed upon me. I had a
full view of it from my bed, and for some time could not take my
eyes from it. I had grown nervous to a dismal degree.

I put out the light, and tried to force myself to sleep;—all in
vain! The fire gleaming up a little, threw an uncertain light
about the room, leaving, however, the region of the picture in
deep shadow. What, thought I, if this be the chamber about which
mine host spoke as having a mystery reigning over it?—I had taken
his words merely as spoken in jest; might they have a real
import? I looked around. The faintly lighted apartment had all
the qualifications requisite for a haunted chamber. It began in
my infected imagination to assume strange appearances. The old
portraits turned paler and paler, and blacker and blacker; the
streaks of light and shadow thrown among the quaint old articles
of furniture, gave them singular shapes and characters. There was
a huge dark clothes-press of antique form, gorgeous in brass and
lustrous with wax, that began to grow oppressive to me.

Am I then, thought I, indeed, the hero of the haunted room? Is
there really a spell laid upon me, or is this all some
contrivance of mine host, to raise a laugh at my expense? The
idea of being hag-ridden by my own fancy all night, and then
bantered on my haggard looks the next day was intolerable; but
the very idea was sufficient to produce the effect, and to render
me still more nervous. Pish, said I, it can be no such thing. How
could my worthy host imagine that I, or any man would be so
worried by a mere picture? It is my own diseased imagination that
torments me. I turned in my bed, and shifted from side to side,
to try to fall asleep; but all in vain. When one cannot get
asleep by lying quiet, it is seldom that tossing about will
effect the purpose. The fire gradually went out and left the room
in darkness. Still I had the idea of this inexplicable
countenance gazing and keeping watch upon me through the
darkness. Nay, what was worse, the very darkness seemed to give
it additional power, and to multiply its terrors. It was like
having an unseen enemy hovering about one in the night. Instead
of having one picture now to worry me, I had a hundred. I fancied
it in every direction. And there it is, thought I,—and there, and
there,—with its horrible and mysterious expression, still gazing
and gazing on me. No if I must suffer this strange and dismal
influence, it were better face a single foe, than thus be haunted
by a thousand images of it.

Whoever has been in such a state of nervous agitation must know
that the longer it continues, the more uncontrollable it grows;
the very air of the chamber seemed at length infected by the
baleful presence of this picture. I fancied it hovering over me.
I almost felt the fearful visage from the wall approaching my
face,—it seemed breathing upon me. This is not to be borne, said
I, at length, springing out of bed. I can stand this no longer. I
shall only tumble and toss about here all night; make a very
spectre of myself, and become the hero of the haunted chamber in
good earnest. Whatever be the consequence. I’ll quit this cursed
room, and seek a night’s rest elsewhere. They can but laugh at me
at all events, and they’ll be sure to have the laugh upon me if I
pass a sleepless night and show them a haggard and wo-begone
visage in the morning.

All this was half muttered to myself, as I hastily slipped on my
clothes; which having done, I groped my way out of the room, and
down-stairs to the drawing-room. Here, after tumbling over two or
three pieces of furniture, I made out to reach a sofa, and
stretching myself upon it determined to bivouac there for the
night.

The moment I found myself out of the neighborhood of that strange
picture, it seemed as if the charm were broken. All its influence
was at an end. I felt assured that it was confined to its own
dreary chamber, for I had, with a sort of instinctive caution,
turned the key when I closed the door. I soon calmed down,
therefore, into a state of tranquillity; from that into a
drowsiness, and finally into a deep sleep; out of which I did not
awake, until the housemaid, with her besom and her matin song,
came to put the room in order. She stared at finding me stretched
upon the sofa; but I presume circumstances of the kind were not
uncommon after hunting dinners, in her master’s bachelor
establishment; for she went on with her song and her work, and
took no farther heed of me.

I had an unconquerable repugnance to return to my chamber; so I
found my way to the butler’s quarters, made my toilet in the best
way circumstances would permit, and was among the first to appear
at the breakfast table. Our breakfast was a substantial
fox-hunter’s repast, and the company were generally assembled at
it. When ample justice had been done to the tea, coffee, cold
meats, and humming ale, for all these were furnished in
abundance, according to the tastes of the different guests, the
conversation began to break out, with all the liveliness and
freshness of morning mirth.

“But who is the hero of the haunted chamber?—Who has seen the
ghost last night?” said the inquisitive gentleman, rolling his
lobster eyes about the table.

The question set every tongue in motion; a vast deal of
bantering; criticising of countenances; of mutual accusation and
retort took place. Some had drunk deep, and some were unshaven,
so that there were suspicious faces enough in the assembly. I
alone could not enter with ease and vivacity into the joke. I
felt tongue-tied—embarrassed. A recollection of what I had seen
and felt the preceding night still haunted my mind.

It seemed as if the mysterious picture still held a thrall upon
me. I thought also that our host’s eye was turned on me with an
air of curiosity. In short, I was conscious that I was the hero
of the night, and felt as if every one might read it in my looks.

The jokes, however, passed over, and no suspicion seemed to
attach to me. I was just congratulating myself on my escape, when
a servant came in, saying, that the gentleman who had slept on
the sofa in the drawing-room, had left his watch under one of the
pillows. My repeater was in his hand.

“What!” said the inquisitive gentleman, “did any gentleman sleep
on the sofa?”

“Soho! soho! a hare—a hare!” cried the old gentleman with the
flexible nose.

I could not avoid acknowledging the watch, and was rising in
great confusion, when a boisterous old squire who sat beside me,
exclaimed, slapping me on the shoulder, “’Sblood, lad! thou’rt
the man as has seen the ghost!”

The attention of the company was immediately turned to me; if my
face had been pale the moment before, it now glowed almost to
burning. I tried to laugh, but could only make a grimace; and
found all the muscles of my face twitching at sixes and sevens,
and totally out of all control.

It takes but little to raise a laugh among a set of fox-hunters.
There was a world of merriment and joking at my expense; and as I
never relished a joke overmuch when it was at my own expense, I
began to feel a little nettled. I tried to look cool and calm and
to restrain my pique; but the coolness and calmness of a man in a
passion are confounded treacherous.

Gentlemen, said I, with a slight cocking of the chin, and a bad
attempt at a smile, this is all very pleasant—ha! ha!—very
pleasant—but I’d have you know I am as little superstitious as
any of you—ha! ha!—and as to anything like timidity—you may
smile, gentlemen—but I trust there is no one here means to
insinuate that.—As to a room’s being haunted, I repeat,
gentlemen—(growing a little warm at seeing a cursed grin breaking
out round me)—as to a room’s being haunted, I have as little
faith in such silly stories as any one. But, since you put the
matter home to me, I will say that I have met with something in
my room strange and inexplicable to me—(a shout of laughter).
Gentlemen, I am serious—I know well what I am saying—I am calm,
gentlemen, (striking my flat upon the table)—by heaven I am calm.
I am neither trifling, nor do I wish to be trifled with—(the
laughter of the company suppressed with ludicrous attempts at
gravity). There is a picture in the room in which I was put last
night, that has had an effect upon me the most singular and
incomprehensible.

“A picture!” said the old gentleman with the haunted head. “A
picture!” cried the narrator with the waggish nose. “A picture! a
picture!” echoed several voices. Here there was an ungovernable
peal of laughter.

I could not contain myself. I started up from my seat—looked
round on the company with fiery indignation—thrust both my hands
into my pockets, and strode up to one of the windows, as though I
would have walked through it. I stopped short; looked out upon
the landscape without distinguishing a feature of it; and felt my
gorge rising almost to suffocation.

Mine host saw it was time to interfere. He had maintained an air
of Gravity through the whole of the scene, and now stepped forth
as if to shelter me from the overwhelming merriment of my
companions.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “I dislike to spoil sport, but you have had
your laugh, and the joke of the haunted chamber has been enjoyed.
I must now take the part of my guest. I must not only vindicate
him from your pleasantries, but I must reconcile him to himself,
for I suspect he is a little out of humor with his own feelings;
and above all, I must crave his pardon for having made him the
subject of a kind of experiment.

“Yes, gentlemen, there is something strange and peculiar in the
chamber to which our friend was shown last night. There is a
picture which possesses a singular and mysterious influence; and
with which there is connected a very curious story. It is a
picture to which I attach a value from a variety of
circumstances; and though I have often been tempted to destroy it
from the odd and uncomfortable sensations it produces in every
one that beholds it; yet I have never been able to prevail upon
myself to make the sacrifice. It is a picture I never like to
look upon myself; and which is held in awe by all my servants. I
have, therefore, banished it to a room but rarely used; and
should have had it covered last night, had not the nature of our
conversation, and the whimsical talk about a haunted chamber
tempted me to let it remain, by way of experiment, whether a
stranger, totally unacquainted with its story, would be affected
by it.”

The words of the Baronet had turned every thought into a
different channel: all were anxious to hear the story of the
mysterious picture; and for myself, so strongly were my feelings
interested, that I forgot to feel piqued at the experiment which
my host had made upon my nerves, and joined eagerly in the
general entreaty.

As the morning was stormy, and precluded all egress, my host was
glad of any means of entertaining his company; so drawing his
arm-chair beside the fire, he began—

THE ADVENTURE OF THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER

Many years since, when I was a young man, and had just left
Oxford, I was sent on the grand tour to finish my education. I
believe my parents had tried in vain to inoculate me with wisdom;
so they sent me to mingle with society, in hopes I might take it
the natural way. Such, at least, appears to be the reason for
which nine-tenths of our youngsters are sent abroad.

In the course of my tour I remained some time at Venice. The
romantic character of the place delighted me; I was very much
amused by the air of adventure and intrigue that prevailed in
this region of masks and gondolas; and I was exceedingly smitten
by a pair of languishing black eyes, that played upon my heart
from under an Italian mantle. So I persuaded myself that I was
lingering at Venice to study men and manners. At least I
persuaded my friends so, and that answered all my purpose.
Indeed, I was a little prone to be struck by peculiarities in
character and conduct, and my imagination was so full of romantic
associations with Italy, that I was always on the lookout for
adventure.

Every thing chimed in with such a humor in this old mermaid of a
city. My suite of apartments were in a proud, melancholy palace
on the grand canal, formerly the residence of a Magnifico, and
sumptuous with the traces of decayed grandeur. My gondolier was
one of the shrewdest of his class, active, merry, intelligent,
and, like his brethren, secret as the grave; that is to say,
secret to all the world except his master. I had not had him a
week before he put me behind all the curtains in Venice. I liked
the silence and mystery of the place, and when I sometimes saw
from my window a black gondola gliding mysteriously along in the
dusk of the evening, with nothing visible but its little
glimmering lantern, I would jump into my own zenduletto, and give
a signal for pursuit. But I am running away from my subject with
the recollection of youthful follies, said the Baronet, checking
himself; “let me come to the point.”

Among my familiar resorts was a Cassino under the Arcades on one
side of the grand square of St. Mark. Here I used frequently to
lounge and take my ice on those warm summer nights when in Italy
every body lives abroad until morning. I was seated here one
evening, when a group of Italians took seat at a table on the
opposite side of the saloon. Their conversation was gay and
animated, and carried on with Italian vivacity and gesticulation.

I remarked among them one young man, however, who appeared to
take no share, and find no enjoyment in the conversation; though
he seemed to force himself to attend to it. He was tall and
slender, and of extremely prepossessing appearance. His features
were fine, though emaciated. He had a profusion of black glossy
hair that curled lightly about his head, and contrasted with the
extreme paleness of his countenance. His brow was haggard; deep
furrows seemed to have been ploughed into his visage by care, not
by age, for he was evidently in the prime of youth. His eye was
full of expression and fire, but wild and unsteady. He seemed to
be tormented by some strange fancy or apprehension. In spite of
every effort to fix his attention on the conversation of his
companions, I noticed that every now and then he would turn his
head slowly round, give a glance over his shoulder, and then
withdraw it with a sudden jerk, as if something painful had met
his eye. This was repeated at intervals of about a minute, and he
appeared hardly to have got over one shock, before I saw him
slowly preparing to encounter another.

After sitting some time in the Cassino, the party paid for the
refreshments they had taken, and departed. The young man was the
last to leave the saloon, and I remarked him glancing behind him
in the same way, just as he passed out at the door. I could not
resist the impulse to rise and follow him; for I was at an age
when a romantic feeling of curiosity is easily awakened. The
party walked slowly down the Arcades, talking and laughing as
they went. They crossed the Piazzetta, but paused in the middle
of it to enjoy the scene. It was one of those moonlight nights so
brilliant and clear in the pure atmosphere of Italy. The
moon-beams streamed on the tall tower of St. Mark, and lighted up
the magnificent front and swelling domes of the Cathedral. The
party expressed their delight in animated terms. I kept my eye
upon the young man. He alone seemed abstracted and self-occupied.
I noticed the same singular, and, as it were, furtive glance over
the shoulder that had attracted my attention in the Cassino. The
party moved on, and I followed; they passed along the walks
called the Broglio; turned the corner of the Ducal palace, and
getting into a gondola, glided swiftly away.

The countenance and conduct of this young man dwelt upon my mind.
There was something in his appearance that interested me
exceedingly. I met him a day or two after in a gallery of
paintings. He was evidently a connoisseur, for he always singled
out the most masterly productions, and the few remarks drawn from
him by his companions showed an intimate acquaintance with the
art. His own taste, however, ran on singular extremes. On
Salvator Rosa in his most savage and solitary scenes; on Raphael,
Titian, and Corregio in their softest delineations of female
beauty. On these he would occasionally gaze with transient
enthusiasm. But this seemed only a momentary forgetfulness. Still
would recur that cautious glance behind, and always quickly
withdrawn, as though something terrible had met his view.