Chapter X: The Scaffold (1)

Oh! judge none lost, but wait and see,
With hopeful pity, not disdain;
The depth of the abyss may be
The measure of the height of pain.--HOUSEHOLD WORDS.

When Valentine's little family circle received information of the verdict that laid low their last hopes, Phaedra met the misfortune with that sad resignation which we often see in those whom either time or sorrow has aged, and which we are apt to think owes its calmness as much to the exhausted energies of the sufferer as to any higher cause. Fannie heard the issue of the trial with wild grief, and a day and night of illness intervened before she could go and see the condemned.

The conviction of Valentine was immediately followed by the arraignment of Governor. The trial of the latter was even shorter than that of the former had been. He was ably defended by the counsel employed by his master; but nothing could have saved him. And the jury, without leaving their seats, brought in their verdict of "Guilty." His sentence followed immediately. It was, however, pitiable to observe that the poor wretch did not understand one-half of what had been done or said during the whole course of his trial. And when he was conducted back to the prison, and locked in with Valentine, he said to the latter:

"Well, Walley, ole marse up dere on de bench put a black nightcap on his head, an' said somethin' 'r other 'bout hangin'; but I reckon he only did it to scare me, 'cause I saw by his face how his heart was a softening all de time."

After his condemnation to death, Valentine's friends were more devoted to him than ever. Day and night, one or more of the brethren of the church was with him. And one sister, especially, who was known by the name of "Sister Dely," divided her attentions between him and his little family, who equally, or more, needed comfort. Again the papers were filled with descriptions of this "extraordinary boy," as Valentine was called. Interviews held with him by clergymen were reported at length. His likeness was taken in prison, and wood-cutted in a pamphlet report of his trial. In a word, the unhappy young man became for a while a local notoriety. And this was ascribable, not to the nature of the catastrophe, which, unfortunately, was but too common in that section of country, but to the individuality and character of the condemned.

And another circumstance connected with this tragedy was so strange that I must not omit to record it. A rumor got out that old Portiphar had betrayed Valentine into the hands of the law, and that a number of negroes in secret meeting had sworn the death of the traitor whenever and wherever either one of them could take him. This matter was carefully investigated by those most interested; but though they could obtain no sort of satisfactory information, yet their suspicions, instead of being dissipated, were so strongly confirmed, that it was deemed advisable for the officers who had arrested Valentine to come out under oath with the declaration that Portiphar had not by the remotest hint put them upon the track, but that the discovery of the fugitive under the disguise of female apparel had been entirely accidental.

This declaration, duly sworn to and attested, was embodied in a short address to be read to the negroes, printed on handbills, and posted and distributed all over the city and surrounding country. And for some little time this was supposed to be quite sufficient to allay excitement and insure security. But in a day or two it became evident, in some way, that the negroes did not believe the sworn statement of the police officers. And as it was thought best to get rid of unsafe property, Portiphar, who had lurked in concealment for some weeks, was sold by his master to a New Orleans trader, and the neighborhood breathed freely again.

The petition to the Executive for the pardon of Valentine, got up under the auspices of Oswald Waring's widow, failed of success, as every one had predicted that it must. And when this last little glimmering light of earthly hope went down, Valentine sedulously addressed himself to preparation for eternity.

It was piteous to observe Governor at this time. Any one, to have seen him, must have perceived at once that he was no subject for capital punishment. But no one, except his master and Valentine, was the least interested in him. Alas! poor wretch, he was not even interested in himself! When the refusal of the Executive to pardon Valentine had been received, it was affecting to see the efforts of Governor to console what he supposed to be the disappointment of his fellow-prisoner.

"Don't you mind, Walley! Dey's only doin' dis to scare we! Sho! dey's no more gwine to hang we, nor dey's gwine to heave so much money in de fire! Sho! we's too walable. I heern de gemmen all say what fine, walable men we was--'specially me! Sho! dere's muscle for you!" said Governor, drawing himself up, jerking forward both arms with a strong impetus, and then clapping his hands upon his nether limbs.

"Sho! You think dey's gwine to let all dat here go to loss? Ef it were only whippin' now, dey might do it! but making all dis here muscle dead? Sho! what de use o' dead nigger? What good dat do? Sho!"

And, with this strong expletive of contempt, Governor sat down. Strange and sad as was the fact, this poor, stupid creature was thoroughly persuaded that his own and Valentine's life were perfectly safe. He knew that, living, he himself was worth at least twelve or fifteen hundred dollars, for he had more than once heard himself so appraised; and that, dead, he was worth just so much less than nothing as the cost of his burial would be. And from these facts he drew the inference that he was far too valuable to be executed. And he persisted in looking upon the whole train of events, comprising his arrest, imprisonment, trial and condemnation, with all the pageantry of court-room, judges, lawyers, juries and officers, only as a solemn show, got up to frighten him and his fellow prisoner. Nothing could disabuse him of this illusion; for, if once any idea got fixed in his poor, thick head, it was just impossible to dislodge it. In vain Valentine endeavored to enlighten him as to his true position; Governor would reply, with a compassionate look:

"Oh, sho! you's scared, Walley! you's scared! Tell me! I knows better! Dey's not such fools as to hang we! ca'se what would be de use, you know! Sho!"

The Methodist preacher exhorted and prayed with Governor, to as little purpose. He could not be made to believe in the fact of his fast-approaching death.

"Oh, sho, Walley! I doesn't say nuffin' 't all afore dem, 'cause you see 'taint right to give de back answer to de ministers; but dey's league 'long o' de oders, Walley! Dey's league 'long o' de oders. Can't scare dis chile wid no sich! Tell you, Walley, dead nigger ain't no use, but dead expense! So what de use o' hanging of him? Sho!"

This interjection usually finished the argument.

The day of execution approached. Valentine divided his time between preparation for death, interviews with his family and friends, and the composition of an address that he wished to deliver upon the scaffold. This address embodied a great portion of Valentine's life--experiences, as they are already known to the reader. When it was finished in manuscript, it was submitted to the perusal of the attendant clergymen. Some among them warmly approved the address, and declared it to be the most eloquent appeal they had ever met. Others reserved their opinion for the time, and afterward asserted that it was the most powerful sermon that they had ever seen or heard.

The day before the execution came. And now I must inform you that it is to "Sister Dely" I am indebted for the report of the scenes that occurred in her presence in the condemned cell that day. Dely had obtained leave from her mistress, Mrs. Hewitt, to go to the prison, to take leave of her Valentine.

It was about ten o'clock, on Thursday, the 23d of December, when she reached the city. All the town was preparing for Christmas. When she entered the condemned cell, she found no one there except the two prisoners. There were two cot bedsteads at opposite sides of the cell, and one small iron stove against the wall, between the beds, and directly opposite the door by which she entered.

On her right hand, as she came in, sat Governor upon his cot, watching, with lazy interest, the employment of his fellow-prisoner, which, in sooth, was strange enough for one of his position.

Valentine was standing at the little table, and engaged in ironing out a cravat, while on the cot near him lay spread out a shirt just ironed, a satin vest, newly pressed, and a full suit of black broadcloth, well brushed.

And Dely knew at a glance that the poor fellow, true to his habits of neatness to the last, was preparing to present a proper appearance upon the scaffold.

"Was there no one to do that for you, Valentine?" said Dely, after her first greeting.

"No, child, there was not. Mother and poor Fannie are in too much trouble to think of such a thing."

"I would have done it for you, Valentine."

"No matter, child; it is done now," said the young man, laying the folded cravat upon the cot, and then turning around and sitting down by the side of Dely.

"I wish, Delia, that you would try to open the eyes of Governor to the realities of his position. Poor fellow! he is fully persuaded that to-morrow, instead of being executed, we shall be set at liberty."

Delia turned her eyes in wonder toward Governor, who sat upon the side of his cot, smiling and shaking his head in the most incredulous manner. Delia shrank from the task that Valentine would have imposed upon her, and only said:

"We will pray for him, Brother Valentine. Governor, won't you kneel down with us, and pray for yourself?"

Governor said that, as praying could not do anybody any harm, he reckoned he would, to please Dely, though he did not see the use of it.

They all knelt, and this humble handmaid of the Lord, who was peculiarly gifted in prayer, offered up a fervent petition in behalf of the prisoners, and especially for Governor.

They had just risen from their knees, when the door of the cell was opened, and the jailer entered, accompanied by another official, who nodded to the inmates, and then, beckoning to Valentine, requested him to step forward.

Valentine obeyed, and the man, drawing a measuring-line from his pocket, told him to stand up straight. Valentine drew himself up with as much composure as ever he had shown when, in his earlier days, he was getting himself fitted for a Sunday suit of clothes. The operator proceeded to measure his subject across the shoulders. And when this was done, he stopped, drew a paper and pencil from his pocket, and, leaning on Valentine's late ironing table, put down some figures. Then he took the line again, and carefully measured him from the crown of his head to the heels of his shoes, and made a second note.

Then telling Valentine that he was done with him, he beckoned to Governor, who had been looking on with open-mouthed amazement, and who now came forward, and braced himself up with the utmost alacrity and cheerfulness. Indeed, he was smiling from ear to ear, as he exclaimed, triumphantly:

"Tell you all so! We ain't had no winter clothes guv us yet, and dey's done sent de tailor to fit us!"

The operator with the line, on hearing this, dropped his measure, and, with emotions divided between astonishment and compassion, gazed at the poor wretch, who remained smiling in delight. No one else spoke, and, after a moment, the official picked up his line and resumed his work.

"Wen'll de clothes be ready for me?" inquired Governor, with great interest.

"I am not taking your size for clothes," answered the operator, gravely.

"No! What den?" inquired Governor, in astonishment, but without the least suspicion of the truth.

"Don't you know?"

"No! I doesn't! What is it?"

"Well, you know, at least, that you are to die to-morrow. And I am measuring you for your coffin."

Governor made no reply, neither did the smile pass at once from his face. He no longer refused to believe in his approaching fate, but the idea was very slow in penetrating his brain.

The carpenter, having now completed his errand, left the cell in company with the turnkey. Governor went and resumed his seat upon the side of his cot, and remained perfectly silent, only not as cheerful as he had been, and occasionally putting up his hand and rubbing his head, and seeming to ponder. At last he said, dubiously, however:

"Brother Walley, honey, I'se beginnin' to be 'fraid, arter all, dat dey tends for to hang us, sure 'nough! Dey wouldn't carry de nonsense dis far 'out dey did, would dey? 'Sides which, dey wouldn't go to de 'xpense o' coffins, would dey?"

"No, Governor," said Valentine, going over and sitting down beside him, and taking his hand and continuing: "Governor, by this hour to-morrow you and I will be over all our earthly troubles."

Slowly, slowly the truth was making its way to Governor's consciousness. His face clouded over, but he seemed to grow more stupid every instant. To all Valentine's speeches he answered never one word, not seeming to hear or to understand them.

Dely could not bear this. Bursting into tears, she went and dropped upon her knees before Governor, and took his two hands in hers, and wept over them, and begged and prayed him, for his soul's sake, to listen to her words. Governor was only a recent acquaintance; he was not, as Valentine was, an old friend; yet it almost broke her gentle heart to see him thus--so stolid, so unconscious, so insensible.

They were interrupted again, this time by a clergyman and one other gentleman, a member of the church.

Dely was now obliged to return home. She took an affectionate leave of Valentine and of Governor, telling them that she should pray for them constantly, and that she should be on her knees, praying for them, in their last hour of trial.

The minister found Valentine well prepared to meet his doom. But when he turned his attention to the other condemned man, he found, to his dismay, that he could not make the slightest impression upon Governor. The unhappy creature no longer doubted what his doom would be; but, as I said before, the truth very slowly entered his mind; and, alas! as it entered it seemed to press him down, and down, into deeper and more hopeless apathy, until at last he sat there silent, senseless, crushed. They could not pray with him; they could only pray for him.

The next day, Christmas Eve, dawned brightly for almost all the world--darkly enough for the condemned.

An early hour of the morning had been appointed for the farewell interview between the prisoners and their families. Such partings are always distressing beyond conception, and I shrink from the pain of saying much about them.

Governor had but few friends, his fellow-slaves, who came over very early in the morning to take leave of him, and who, finding him so apathetic, went away comforted, with the belief "that Governor did not seem to mind it."

His miserable wife came alone, to drop weeping at his feet, and implore his dying forgiveness for the part she had had in bringing him to this awful pass.

Governor, partially aroused from his torpor, awoke sufficiently to put his arm around her shoulders, and say:

"Don't cry, chile; I doesn't bear you no malice. You couldn't help it, chile, no more 'an I could; things was too much for us bofe. Don't cry; I loves you same as ever."

This gentleness almost broke the penitent woman's heart, and she went away weeping bitterly, wringing her hands and wishing most sincerely it were possible for her, the most guilty one, to die in her husband's stead. After this visit Governor sank into a still deeper stupor of despair, from which nothing had power to arouse him.

Directly after this followed the last interview between Valentine and his little family.

Phaedra and Fannie came in, accompanied by old Elisha, who carried little Coralie in his arms. I cannot describe the anguish of this parting.

Phaedra perhaps bore it best of all, with a strange hopeless fortitude that reminded one of Governor's stolidity, only saying that though life was sorrowful even at its happiest, it was, thank Heaven! short at its longest; and that she should not be many days behind her son.

But Fannie was wild with sorrow, and utterly inconsolable. When the moment of final separation arrived, she fainted, and was borne from the cell, as one dead, in the arms of the old preacher. Phaedra followed, leading little Coralie.

The execution was to be a public one. And the authorities published a card in the daily papers, formally inviting the masters of the city and the surrounding country to give their slaves a holiday upon this day, to enable the latter to attend the execution of Valentine and Governor. And as the morning advanced toward noon so numerous was the multitude of negroes that gathered in from all parts of the country, and so great was the excitement that prevailed among them, that the powers saw the mistake they had made by issuing this general invitation, and felt great alarm as to the result.

The marshal called upon the militia and the city guards to turn out and muster around the scaffold to insure the safe custody of the prisoners and the execution of the sentence.

The scaffold was erected upon a gentle elevation, on the west suburb of the city. A crowd of many thousands, each moment augmented, was gathered upon the ground. But the two companies of militia made a way through this forest of human beings, and formed around the foot of the scaffold.

It was about eleven o'clock that the prisoners were placed in a close van, in company with the marshal and a clergyman, and escorted by a detachment of the city guards, were driven to the place of execution. The presence of the guards was needed to force a passage through the compact and highly-excited crowd. The prison van was kept carefully closed, and the condemned with their attendants remained invisible until the procession had passed safely through that stormy sea of human beings and gained the security of the hollow square formed by the bayonets of the militia around the scaffold.

The van drew up at the foot of the steps leading to the platform. The police officer that stood behind the vehicle jumped down and opened the door, and handed out the prisoners, who were followed closely by the marshal and the clergyman.

The marshal immediately took charge of Governor, to lead him up the stairs.

The clergyman drew Valentine's arm within his own, to follow.

And the police officer was joined by the deputy marshal, who brought up the rear.

And so the sad procession ascended those fatal stairs--Governor in a deep stupor, or looking as if he did not understand what all this pageant meant; Valentine with grave composure, as if he felt the awful solemnity of the moment, and was prepared to meet it. The scaffold was very high, and was reached by a flight of more than twenty steps.

When the prisoners and their escort gained the platform they stood in full view of every individual of that vast concourse of people. Their appearance was hailed by acclamation from the multitude below, and huzzas of encouragement or defiance, shouts of derision and cries of sympathy were mingled in one indistinguishable _melee_ of noise.

The prisoners were not prematurely clad in the habiliments of the grave, as is usual upon such occasions, but were attired in ordinary citizen's dress.

Governor wore his best Sunday suit of "pepper and salt" casinet, and looked a huge, shapeless figure of a negro, in which the sooty skin could scarcely be distinguished from the sooty clothes.

Valentine looked very well, though pale and worn. He wore a suit of black broadcloth, with a white cravat and gloves, and his natural ringlets were arranged with that habitual regard to order and neatness which was with him a second nature.

Valentine held in his hands the manuscript address that he wished to make to the assembly. He had been promised by the authorities an opportunity of delivering this address, before the parting prayers should be said. He stood now with his copy in his hand, only waiting for the noise to subside before his commencing. Governor stood by his side, in stolid insensibility.

But Valentine had been deceived to the last moment. He was not to be permitted to deliver his address; the authorities feared too much its exciting effect upon the tumultuous assembly below. The marshal had received his instructions, and had given private orders to his deputy and assistants.

Valentine was still letting his eyes rove over the "multitudinous sea" of heads, waiting for a calm in which he might be heard, when his eye fell upon Major Hewitt, who had been absent all day at the capital, and had but just returned from his last fruitless attempt to move the Executive in behalf of the condemned, and who, without leaving his saddle, had ridden up at once to the scene of execution. He could not penetrate the crowd, but remained on horseback on its outskirts. At the same moment the figure of Major Hewitt caught the eye of Governor, and roused him from the torpor of despair into which he had fallen--roused him to an agony of entreaty, and, stretching out his arms to his master, he cried, with a loud voice that thrilled to the hearts of all present:

"Oh, marster! I allus looked up to you as if you were my father and my God! Save me now! save me from under the gallows! Oh, marster----"

Major Hewitt turned precipitately and galloped away from the scene.

The condemned were not aware that they stood upon the fatal trapdoor. They did not notice, either, that, at a signal from the marshal, the attending clergyman stepped aside and the deputy and assistants gathered in a little group behind. Governor still had his arms extended in wild entreaty after his flying master, and Valentine was still waiting for silence, when suddenly, in the twinkling of an eye, their arms were bound, the cords slipped over their heads, the caps drawn over their eyes, the spring of the bolt touched, and, without one instant's warning, or one word of prayer or benediction, they fell, and swung beneath sky and earth.

"In the name of Heaven! why have you done this thing?" asked the terribly-shocked minister, who was altogether unprepared for the suddenness of the execution.

"In another five minutes an attempt would have been made at rescue," answered that official.

* * * * *

This tragedy spoiled the Christmas festivities of many more than were immediately connected with the sufferers. If the reader cares to follow the sad fortunes of the survivors, I have only to tell them that Phaedra outlived her son but one short month; and Mrs. Waring kindly took Fannie and her child away from the scene and associations of their calamity, to her own quiet and beautiful country home in East Feliciana. Major Hewitt is a "sadder," and, let us hope, "a wiser man," since he no longer closes his ears to the complaints of his suffering people.

One word more. The tragic story in which I have endeavored to interest you is, in all its essential features, strictly true. Not that I mean to say that in all the scenes word followed word precisely in the order here set down, though generally the language used has been faithful to the letter, and always to the spirit of the facts. Valentine and Governor lived, suffered, sinned, and finally together died, for the causes and in the manner related. My means of minute information were very good. The tragedy occurred but a few years ago, in a neighborhood with which I am familiar. It excited at the time great local interest, but never probably got beyond "mere mention" in any but the local papers. In relating it I have delivered "a round, unvarnished tale," and have not colored the truth with any adventitious hue of fancy. The subject was too sacred, in its dark sorrow, for such trifling. Only, for the sake of some survivors, a change of names and a slight change of localities has been deemed proper.

THE SPECTRE REVELS.

TALE OF ALL HALLOW EVE.

Black spirits and white,
Blue spirits and gray,
Mingle, mingle, mingle,
Ye that mingle may.--SHAKESPEARE.

O'er all these hung a shadow and a fear!
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,
That said as plain as whisper in the ear,
The place is haunted!--THOMAS HOOD.

"Did I ever see a ghost, friends? Um-m--Well! ghost is not the modern name for such an apparition. It is called 'imagination,' 'optical illusion,' fancy, fever, or something else--never 'ghost,' which makes no difference in the nature of the thing, however. 'A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.' Yes! I have--I have gone through more than seeing them--I have known them!"

"Ghosts?"

"No, I repeat to you the term is obsolete--optical illusions. Though to be sure the ghostly experience that has left the deepest impression upon my mind--and that this anniversary especially recalls, was no optical illusion."

"What! was it a real ghost story, though? and did it happen to you?"

"You shall hear."

It was the thirty-first of October, All Hallow's Eve, a ghostly season, as every one properly posted in ghostly lore knows very well. A dreary storm of rain and wind was beating against the windows; but the fire on the old sitting-room hearth was burning warmly, the candles were not yet lighted, our father, the pastor, had not returned from a sick call, and with a delightful show of expectation we all gathered around the fire to hear Aunt Madeleine's ghost story.

It is now more years than I care to remember, she began, since we moved from the old forest of St. Mary's, up to the town of W.

Our family then consisted of our grandmother, Mrs. Hawkins, my sister Alice (your mother, dears), and two old family servants, Hector and his wife Cassandra.

That removal was the first great memorable epoch in my own and my sister's lives. We had never seen anything approaching nearer to a town than the little hamlet of St. Inigoes, and though W. was just exactly the drowsiest old city that ever slept through centuries and slept itself to death, yet to us, coming from the forest farm, it seemed a very miracle of life, enterprise and excitement.

We reached our home in Church street just about the last of October.

At first the change was delightful to us. We were never weary of exploring the streets and reading the signs, and--as we gained confidence and ventured into the shops--of examining the marvelous treasures of silks and satins and laces and jewelry and china, and "all that's bought and sold in city marts."

I recall the first six months of our residence in W., while the novelty still lasted and all was beautiful illusion, and think that no mere worldly event can ever give me such true pleasure again.

Ally and I told each other over and over again that "the city was the true Arcadia!" that there all poetry, romance and adventure was to be found, and that it was like scenes in the "Arabian Nights."

We were never weary of exploring new quarters--even the narrow, squalid lanes and alleys with their dilapidated houses and ragged denizens, had a grotesque attraction for us--and often we would stand gazing at some wretched tenement, with falling timbers and stuffed windows, and speculate about the life of the people within.

And besides the wonders of treasures and pleasures--there was the daily recurring astonishment at the convenience of the place.

We could scarcely get used to the idea that when we wanted a skein of silk or a paper of needles, it was only necessary to go across the street, or around the corner to get them, instead of putting the mare to the gig and riding seven miles to the nearest store; or that when we went out to tea, we had only to walk a square or so, instead of driving from three to ten miles; or that we might stay out until bedtime, instead of ordering the horses to start for home at sunset.

And then the comfort of being able to walk out dry shod over the clean pavement, in all weathers, instead of in the winter being obliged to ride in a carriage, plunging axletree deep through lanes of mud and water, or worse still, being weather-bound by the state of the roads.

In fact, so charmed were we all with this walking with impunity at unaccustomed times and seasons, that the old carryall gathered dust in the coach house, and Jenny, the mare, accumulated fat in the stable.

But if the autumn in the city seemed so delightful to us rustics, what shall I say of the winter, when the lecture rooms and concert halls were thrown open, and when evening parties were given? There seemed to us no end of enchantments.

I should have told you that when we first went to town we had but one acquaintance there. It was with the family of our Uncle and Aunt Rackaway. They had a large family of growing sons and daughters, of which our dear Cousin Will (your own respected father, girls), was the eldest, the handsomest, the wildest, and the best beloved. Will Rackaway soon initiated us into all the innocent amusements of the season--took us to evening meetings, lectures, concerts, exhibitions of every sort, except the theatre, which our grandmother could not be persuaded to regard as an innocent amusement.

We were a social family, and soon collected around us a very agreeable neighborhood circle, some one or two of whom would drop in upon us every evening when we were at home, or else invite us out. Ally and I extended our acquaintance among young people whose parents occasionally gave dancing parties, at which we were always present, and which, therefore, our good grandmother felt bound to sometimes reciprocate. You are not to suppose that our days passed in a round of fashionable dissipation. Nonsense! nothing of the sort. We were rather a staid, domestic family--but upon the whole what a contrast this to the long, monotonous evenings in the farm house!

Well, so passed that winter, so full of future consequences--that winter in which Ally's gentle spirit first won the heart of her wild Cousin Will. All pleasures pall! Before the season was over, the streets, the shops, the shows--all the wonders and glories of the city had lost their attraction with their novelty.

When the spring came, we had grown just a little weary of city life. With April, a spring fever for sowing, and planting, and pruning, and training came upon us. But, alas! there was nowhere to sow or plant--our back yard was flagged, and our front one paved. And there was nothing to prune or train--four forlorn trees, trimmed by city authorities into the shape of upright mops, standing upon the hard pavement before our door, were the only apologies for vegetation near us, and they looked as exiled and homesick as ourselves. Mrs. Hawkins also missed her chickens and turkeys, and we all felt the loss of the cows.

"Ah, if we could only get a house away to ourselves, a house in the suburbs, with ground around it, where we could be private, and have shade trees and a garden, and cows and poultry, and all that, within easy walk to the city, how happy I should be," said grandmother, sighing.

"Ah, yes! if we only could! then we should enjoy the pleasures of both city and country life," said I.

"'Oh, that would be joyful, joyful, joyful, joyful!'" exclaimed Ally, quoting the chorus of a popular hymn.

"Ah! well, we must keep our eyes open, and see what we can find," said our grandmother.

The street upon which we lived was narrow and closely built up. It led down half a mile to a long bridge that crossed the river. Consequently this street was the great thoroughfare of country people coming into town, to market, or to shop, or upon any other errand.

Among those who came every day was one old man, who was quite an eccentric character, and who is still remembered by the aged inhabitants of W----. Dr. H---- always wore a cocked hat, a powdered wig, a black velvet coat, double waistcoat, ruffled shirt, knee breeches, long hose and silver buckles, and carried a gold-headed cane, keeping up in his age the style and costume of his youth.

He came in town every morning in a gig driven by a servant as old and as quaint as himself.

He returned every evening.

The doctor was a never-failing object of interest to us. The little information we could get respecting him only whetted our curiosity to a keener edge. We learned from Cousin Will that he had no family and no society; that he lived alone in a secluded country house, called the Willow Cottage, with no companion except the aged servant seen always with him; that he had a traditional reputation of having possessed great skill in his profession, and that he now followed a limited practice among his old contemporaries in the city.

So much of authentic facts.

Besides these it was rumored that, years before, he had married a lovely young girl, who had been persuaded or forced to sacrifice her youth and beauty and a prior attachment, to his wealth and age and infirmities; whose short life had been embittered by his jealousies, and whose sudden death, under suspicious circumstances, had not left him free from imputations of the gravest character.

This was all we could learn of the doctor; and you may depend that our interest in him was deepened and darkened. We watched him with closer attention. His hard, sharp features, his deep-set eyes, whitened hair, and thin, bent figure, took on a sinister appearance, or we fancied so.

However that might be, we felt more shocked than grieved when one morning the news came that the doctor was found at daybreak dead in his bed, with dark marks upon his neck as from the pressure of a thumb and finger!

The news spread like wildfire. The long-closed doors of the Willow Cottage flew open to the public, and its darkened chambers to the sunlight. Crowds flocked thither; the old servant was examined and discharged, no suspicion attaching to him; the coroner's inquest met, and, after a session of twelve hours, rendered its sapient verdict: "Found dead," which, of course, greatly enlightened the public mind. The old servant obtained a home in the almshouse, and the Willow Cottage passed to the next of kin.

These events occurred in the month of May. About the middle of June the weather became so hot, the streets so dusty, that the city grew intolerable to us. During winter the town of W---- had afforded a pleasant contrast to the country; during summer it was quite the opposite. In the height of our discontent one morning Will Rackaway came in.

"The Willow Cottage is for rent! Here is a chance for you!"

"The Willow Cottage for rent! Oh, that is delightful," said Ally and I in a breath.

"Who has the renting of it?" inquired grandmother.

"Well, the agent is out of town; but I got the key from his clerk, and if you'll order Jenny put to the carryall, I'll drive you out there to look at it. I think it will be let cheap, for the associations of the place are so gloomy that none but a strong-minded woman like Aunt----"

"A Christian woman, you mean, Will."

"Well, yes, a Christian woman, like Aunt, would venture to live in it."

Mrs. Hawkins had in the meantime put her hand to the bell, summoned Hector, and given him an order to get the carryall ready for a drive. We were soon in the carriage, and half an hour's drive took us down the street, across the long bridge to the other side of the river, and to the Willow Cottage.

There is, as I have noticed always, a remarkable fitness in the names given to country houses. This was certainly the case with the present one. There was not a willow near the place.

A few yards from the end of the bridge, and to the right hand of the highway, a disused, grass-grown road led through a close thicket of evergreens, some quarter of a mile on to an open level area, of about a hundred acres of exhausted land, grown up in broom sedge and completely surrounded by the pine forest.

In the midst of this area stood a red stone cottage, consisting of a central building of two stories, flanked each side by wings of one story in height. The central building was finished by a gable roof front, with a large single fan-shaped window just above the front portico.

The cottage stood in the midst of a garden of about one acre, shaded with many trees and surrounded by a substantial stone wall, parallel to which, on the inside, was a hedge of evergreens, and on the outside another hedge of climbing and intertwining wild rose, eglantine and blackberry vines.

An iron gate, very rusty and dilapidated, admitted us to the grass-grown walk that led between two rows of black-oak trees to the front portico of the central building.

We entered a small front hall, behind which was a large, square parlor, in the rear of which was a long dining-room. The wings on the right and left consisted each of a bedchamber, entered from the front hall. There was but one room above stairs, a large chamber immediately over the parlor in the central building, and lighted by the fan-light in the front gable.

The kitchen, laundry and servants' rooms were in another building in the rear of the cottage; they were not joined together, but stood, as it were, back to back, presenting to each other a dead wall without door or window, and about two feet apart, thus forming a blind alley.

I have been thus particular in describing the house, that you may better understand the story that follows.

"The builder who designed this was certainly demented," said one of the party, pointing to the blind alley, with its waste of wall.

Will laughed.

"I have noticed, Madeleine, that quite as much of character is shown in the construction of houses as in the cut of physiognomies."

"But, upon the whole, I like it," said the other.

And so said every one.

There was a stable, a coachhouse, a henhouse, a smokehouse, and, in fact, every possible accommodation for the household. The fruit trees and vines were teeming with fruit, which also lay ripening or decaying in great quantities upon the ground. The rose bushes had spread the grass with a warmer hue and sweeter covering.

We filled our old carryall with fruit and our hands with flowers and prepared to return home. Ally was in ecstacies. So was Cousin Will. So was our grandmother, as much as a self-possessed and dignified matron of the old school could be said to be. As for myself, I could not sleep that night for thinking of our removal to the fine old place. We had unanimously resolved to take it.

Alas! we had reckoned without our landlord. Upon inquiry of the agent next day we learned that the place was already let to a man who intended to make it a house of summer resort, for which its convenient distance from the city, its cool and shady and secluded site, and its extensive grounds, numerous shade trees and fine fruit, and many other good points, peculiarly adapted it.

We were very much disappointed, but our regret was somewhat modified when we ascertained that it was let at a preposterous rate of rent, that a prudent woman like our grandmother never would have undertaken to pay. So we resigned ourselves to the inevitable.

However, in a week or two we were so fortunate as to rent a small, neat house on the opposite side of the road from the Willow Cottage, and nearer to the bridge. We immediately moved into our new home; and grandmother sent Hector down into the country to bring up her poultry, and drive up her cows--a business that he took but three days to accomplish.

We were thus settled in our suburban residence, with which, by the way, we were not quite content. It was too small, too exposed to the rays of the sun, the dust of the road and the eyes of the passengers; it was too new also, and the shrubs and flowers had not had time to grow, and then--we had been disappointed of Willow Cottage.

In addition to these drawbacks, and even worse than these, was the fact that we were annoyed all day long and every day by the troops of visitors, on foot and on horseback, in sulkies and buggies, all bound for the Willow Cottage.

And, worst of all, we were disturbed all night by the noisy passage of these revelers returning home.

On Sundays and Sunday nights this was insufferable. It seemed as if ten times as many revelers went out in the day and came back ten times as much intoxicated and as noisy in the night! Our poor old Cassandra vowed that when we changed the farm for the city house it was bad enough, but when we changed the city house for the suburban cottage, "we jest did it--jumped right out'n de fryin' pan inter de fire!"

However, a terrible event soon occurred at the Willow Cottage that crowded everything else out of our heads.

It was the night of the Fourth of July. All day long crowd after crowd had passed our house on their way out there. From early in the morning until late at night the road was kept clouded with the dust, that settled upon everything in and around our house. We were glad when, late at night, the revelry seemed to cease, and we were permitted to be at peace.

We retired, and, exhausted by the exciting annoyances of the day, I fell asleep. I know not how long I had slept, when I was suddenly aroused by the noise of many persons hurrying past the house in apparently a state of great excitement. In another moment I perceived that all the family had been aroused as well as myself. They hurried into my room, which was the front chamber of the second floor, and thus from a secure point commanded the street. We all crowded to the two windows, left the candles unlighted that we might not be seen, and remained as mute as mice that we might not be heard.

The stars were very bright, and we could distinctly see the hurrying crowd in the road below. Some were running in the direction of the Willow Cottage, while others were hastening thence. These opposite parties, meeting, would exchange a few vehement words and gestures, and then speed upon their several ways.

At last a man, running against another immediately under the window, inquired:

"For Heaven's sake, what is the matter at the Willow Cottage?"

"Don't stop me, for the Lord's sake! O'Donnegan, the landlord, has killed young Keats, the only son of Colonel Keats! I am running to fetch his father!"

"Heavens and earth! another murder within that accursed house! That is the third!" exclaimed the questioner, in a voice of horror.

The men separated in opposite directions, the one running toward the town, the other toward the scene of the outrage. The same questions and the same answers were quietly heard between other meeting parties, who separated, running in opposite ways, as the first had done. The dreadful news was thus confirmed.

We drew back our heads and looked each other in the face in consternation. We knew none of the parties concerned, yet we could not compose ourselves to sleep that night.

The next day was a terrible one to the friends of the murdered and the murderer.

Once more--the third time--a coroner's inquest sat upon a dead body at the Willow Cottage. But this time their verdict, made up after a careful investigation and patient deliberation, was of a more fatal character. It was that "The deceased came to his death by blows upon the head from a bludgeon in the hands of Patrick O'Donnegan."

O'Donnegan, who was under arrest, awaiting the verdict, was then fully committed to stand his trial at the approaching session of the criminal court.

The establishment at the Willow Cottage was broken up, the furniture sold, the house closed, and the premises once more advertised for rent. But now with the bad odor hanging around the place, no one wished to take it, and the house remained idle upon the proprietor's hands.

Meantime the trial of O'Donnegan approached. He was arraigned, convicted and sentenced, in a shorter space of time than I ever heard of in the trial of any criminal. Many people thought that the prosecution was conducted in a vindictive spirit, and that the friends of the deceased exerted every faculty, sparing neither influence nor expense in the pursuit of a conviction. They retained the best counsel in the country to assist the State's attorney, while on the other hand the poor wretch of a prisoner had no defense except that appointed for him by the court. However that might be, in the short space of one month from the time of committing the homicide, he was sentenced to die, and in six weeks from his conviction he expiated his crime upon the scaffold.

It was about the middle of September, of that eventful year, when a rumor arose--as all rumors arise, mysteriously--that the Willow Cottage was haunted; that ghostly lights flitted through its chambers; that ghostly revelers held midnight orgies in its deserted halls; and that the murderer and the murdered still played their game at ninepins, or waged their last war along its lonely corridors.

While these reports were rife in the neighborhood, our Grandmother Hawkins turned a deaf ear, or threw in a good-humored, sarcastic word to the marvel-mongers--upon one occasion launching at them and us the time-honored proverb:

"You will never see anything worse than yourselves, my dears."

"I believe you, mistress, honey! for long as I lib on dis yeth, and feared as I is o' ghoses, I nebber see nothin' worse nor myse'f yet--dough, the Lord betune me an' harm, I sartinly saw de debbil once--I did," observed old Cassy, sapiently.

"If no one else takes the Willow Cottage beforehand, just wait until my term is up here, and then if Mr. Buzzard will let it to a small, quiet family on anything like reasonable terms, you'll see how we meet spectres," said our grandmother.

"Too late, Aunt Rachel! The Willow Cottage is let," exclaimed Will Rackaway, who had a few minutes previously joined our party.

"Let, is it? Ah! well, I hope it is not to another rum-seller!"

"No, indeed! to another guess tenant! to Colonel Manly, of the ---- regiment, who is now ordered to join General Armistead, in Florida, and who takes the cottage as a pleasant country home for his wife and children during his absence."

"Hum-m me! then we shall have neighbors. I am very well reconciled," said Mrs. Hawkins.

A few weeks after this conversation the new tenants were settled in the Willow Cottage, and the colonel embarked for Florida.

Grandmother Hawkins was rather slow and ceremonious in all her dealings with society. Therefore she "took her time" in calling upon Mrs. Manly. Consequently, upon the very morning that she set out to pay that lady a visit she met a train of furniture drays proceeding from the premises, and heard to her great astonishment that the family were moving away.

"And they have been only here a week!" exclaimed the old lady, by unmitigated astonishment thrown for a moment off her guard.

Significant looks and mysterious gestures were the only comments made by the servants upon the subject.

And Mrs. Hawkins, thinking it improper to push inquiries in that quarter, sent in her respects and good wishes to Mrs. Manly, and then, without having alighted from her carryall, gave the order to turn the horse's head homeward.

You may judge the surprise with which we heard the news of this flitting; but as our grandmother had asked no questions, she could give us no information.

Others, however, were not so discreet. Inquiries were made and answered, and soon the news flew all over the country that Mrs. Manly, upon account of the mysterious noises that nightly disturbed her rest, found it impossible to live in the house.

The cottage remained idle for some weeks, and then was taken by another family, who stayed ten days, then vanished--whispering the same cause for their abandonment of the premises.

The excitement of the neighborhood increased. There was nothing talked of but the haunted house. Large parties visited the spot during daylight, who, after the most curious investigation, found nothing unusual about the looks of the place. But no tenant could be induced to take it, and it remained idle for several weeks, at the end of which time a family from down the country moved up, and reading of this fine place to let, and not knowing its "haunted" reputation, engaged it at once. The name of the newcomers was Ferguson. The neighborhood waited the event in deep interest.

Upon the day after their settlement at the cottage, as we were just about to sit down to our very early breakfast, there was a knock at the door, followed by the entrance of a good-looking, motherly, colored woman, who announced herself as "Aunt Hannah, ole Marse Josh Ferguson's 'oman," and stood waiting.

"Well, Hannah, you look tired--sit down on that stool and let us know how we can do you good," said Mrs. Hawkins.

"Thanky, mist'ess--no time to sit, honey; 'deed I hasn't--I come to see if you would 'form me where I could buy a little drap o' cream, for ole marse coffee. Our cows; hasn't riv' from below yet."

"You cannot buy cream at all in this neighborhood, but I will supply your master, with great pleasure, until his cows come home."

"Thanky, mist'ess! thanky, honey! I 'cepts of it wid all de comfort in life! An' if so be you-dem wants any plums, or pears, or squinches, for 'serves, we'd s'ply you in like manner."

After this Aunt Hannah came every morning for her pitcher of cream. One morning I overheard her talking with Cassy in the kitchen.

"How you dew likes your new place?" inquired Cassy.

"Hush, honey!" exclaimed the other, with an air of deep mystery.

"Lord! 'deed, now?" whispered Cassy.

"Trufe I'm telling you!" replied Hannah.

"Do any one sturve you o' nights?"

"Hush, honey!"

"Who?"

"Dead people."

"The Lord betune us and harm!"

"Hush, honey! Don't let on! We's gwine 'way; but de family don't want it should be known as dey leave for sich a cause."

"I unnerstans! The saints betune us an' sin!"

A few days after this conversation Mr. Ferguson's family left the Willow Cottage; and the excitement of the neighborhood upon the subject of the haunted homestead received a tremendous impetus. As it had been once visited from motives of incredulous curiosity, it was now avoided in the spirit of superstitious dread. It was believed to be unlucky to the visitor. All the worst rumors about the former proprietors were revived and credited. It was said that a curse rested upon the house where marriage faith and friendship's trust and hospitality's laws had each in succession been basely betrayed--upon the house of three reputed murders!

Only Mrs. Hawkins stoutly stood up for the defense of the Willow Cottage.

"Three murders! nonsense! three stage plays! The doctor's young wife fretted herself into illness, and died of heart disease, poor thing. She was not, therefore, murdered. The old doctor himself lived to a good age and died in a fit. Was he murdered? I guess the coroner's jury knew! The unhappy young man Keats lost his life in a sinful revel--a warning to all youth. What guilt, then, rests upon the comfortable home and beautiful garden? Did they suggest wine-bibbing and brawling? Pshaw! I am ashamed of people's want of logic. Only wait until my term is up here, and then see if I do not move into the house, and stay in it, too!"