Introduction of Tales of a Traveller by Washington Irving This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Introducing by Greg Giordano Tales of a Traveller by Washington Irving Introduction Part I Strange Stories by a Nervous Gentleman I'll tell you more. There was a fish taken.  Clintus, this is a monstrous lie. Tony, I do confess it. Do you think I tell you truths? Fletcher's wife for a month. The following adventures were related to me by the same nervous gentleman who told me the romantic tale of the stout gentleman published in Bracebridge Hall. It is very singular that, although I expressly stated that story to have been told to me, and described the very person who told it, still it has been received as an adventure that happened to myself. Now, I protest, I never met with any adventure of the kind. I should not have grieved at this, had it not been intimated by the author of Waverly, in an introduction to his romance of Peverell of the Peak, that he was himself the stout gentleman alluded to. I have ever since been importuned by letters and questions from gentlemen, and particularly from ladies without number, touching what I had seen of the great unknown. Now, all this is extremely tantalizing. It is like being congratulated on the high prize when one has drawn a blank, for I have just as great a desire as any one of the public to penetrate the mystery of that very singular personage, whose voice fills every corner of the world, without any one being able to tell from whence it comes. He who keeps up such a wonderful and whimsical incognito, whom nobody knows, and yet whom everybody thinks he can swear to. My friend, the nervous gentleman also, who was a man of very shy, retired habits, complains that he has been excessively annoyed in consequence of his getting about in his neighborhood that he is the fortunate personage, in so much that he has become a character of considerable notoriety in two or three country towns, and has been repeatedly teased to exhibit himself at blue-stocking parties, for no other reason than that of being, quote, the gentleman who has had a glimpse of the author of Waverly, end quote. Indeed, the poor man has grown ten times as nervous as ever, since he has discovered, on such good authority, who this doubt gentleman was, and will never forgive himself for not having made a more resolute effort to get a full sight of him. He is anxiously endeavored to call up a recollection of what he saw, of that portly personage, and has ever since kept a curious eye on all gentlemen of more than ordinary dimensions, whom he has seen getting into stagecoaches, all in vain. The features he had caught a glimpse of seem common to the whole race of stout gentlemen, and the great unknown remained as great and unknown as ever. I was once at a hunting-dinner, given by a worthy fox-hunting old Baronette, who kept Bachelors Hall in jovial style, in an ancient, rook-haunted family mansion in one of the Middle Counties. He had been a devoted admirer of the fair sex in his young days, but having travelled much, studied the sex in various countries with distinguished success, and returned home profoundly instructed, as he supposed, in the ways of woman, and a perfect master of the art of pleasing. He had the mortification of being jilted by a little, a boarding-school girl who was scarcely versed in the accidents of love. The baronette was completely overcome by such an incredible defeat, retired from the world and disgust, died himself under the government of his housekeeper, and took to fox-hunting like a perfect jay-hoo. Whatever poets may say to the contrary, a man will grow out of love as he grows old, and a pack of foxhounds may chase out of his heart even the memory of a boarding-school goddess. The baronette was when I saw him as Mary and Mellow and an old bachelor, as ever followed a hound, and the love he had once felt for one woman had spread itself over the whole sex, so that there was not a pretty face in the whole country round, but came in for a share. The dinner was prolonged till a late hour, for our host having no ladies in his household to summon us to the drawing-room. The bottle maintained its true bachelor sway, unrivaled by its potent enemy, the teak-headle. The old hall on which we dined echoed to bursts of robustious foxhunting merriment that made the ancient antlers shake on the walls. By degrees, however, the wine and wasale of mine host began to operate upon bodies already a little jaded by the chase. The choice spirits had flashed up at the beginning of the dinner, sparkled for a time, then gradually went out, one after another, were only emitted now and then, a faint gleam from the socket. Some of the briskest talkers, who had given tongue so bravely at the first burst, fell fast asleep, and none kept on their way but certain of those long-winded prosers, who, like short-legged hounds, were ray on unnoticed at the bottom of conversation, but are sure to be in at the death. Even these at length subsided into silence, and scarcely anything was heard but the nasal communications of two or three veteran masticators, who, having been silent while awake, were indemnifying the company in their sleep. At length the announcement of tea and coffee in the cedar parlor roused all hands from this temporary torpor. Everyone awoke marvelously renovated, and while sipping the refreshing beverage out of the baronet's old-fashioned hereditary china, began to think of departing for their several homes. But here a sudden difficulty arose. While we had been prolonging our repast, a heavy winter storm had set in, with snow, rain and sleet, driven by such bitter blasts of wind, that they threatened to penetrate to the very bone. "'It's all in vain,' said our hospitable host, to think of putting one's head out of doors and such weather. So, gentlemen, I hold you my guests for this night at least, and will have your quarters prepared accordingly. The unruly weather, which became more and more tempestuous, rendered the hospitable suggestion unanswerable. The only question was, whether such an unexpected accession of company, to an already-credit house, would not put the housekeeper to her trumps to accommodate them. "'Masha!' cried my host. Did you ever know of a bachelor's hall that was not elastic and able to accommodate twice as many as it could hold? So, out of a good-humored peak, the housekeeper was summoned to consultation before us all. The old lady appeared, in her gala suit of faded brocade, which wrestled with flurry and agitation. For, in spite of my host's rivado, she was a little perplexed. But in the bachelor's house, and with bachelor guests, these matters are readily managed. There is no lady of the house to stand upon squeamish points about lodging guests in odd holes and corners, and exposing the shabby parts of the establishment. A bachelor's housekeeper is used to shifts and emergencies, after much worrying to and fro, and diverse consultations about the red room and the blue room and the chintz room and the damask room and the little room with the bow window. The matter was finally arranged. When all this was done, we were once summoned in the standing rural amusement of eating. The time that had been consumed in dozing after dinner, and in the refreshment and consultation of the cedar parlor, was sufficient, in the opinion of the rosy-faced butler, to engender a reasonable appetite for supper. A slight repast had therefore been tricked up from the residue of dinner, consisting of cold sirloin of beef, hashed venison, a deviled leg of a turkey or so, and a few other of those light articles taken by country gentlemen to ensure sound sleep and heavy snoring. The nap after dinner had brightened up everyone's wits, and with a great deal of excellent humor was expended upon the perplexities of my host and his housekeeper by a certain married gentleman of the company, who considered themselves privileged in joking with the bachelor's establishment. From this the banter turned as to what quarters each would find, unbeing thus suddenly billeted and so antiquated a mansion. By my soul! said an Irish captain of dragoons, one of the most merry and boisterous of the party. By my soul! but I should not be surprised if some of those good-looking, gentle folks that hang along the walls should walk about the rooms of this stormy night, or if I should find the ghost of one of these long-wasted ladies turning into my bed in mistake for her grave in the church-yard. Do you believe in ghosts, then? said a thin, hatchet-faced gentleman, with projecting eyes like a lobster. I had remarked this last personage throughout dinner-time for one of those incessant questioners who seemed to have a craving, unhealthy appetite in conversation. He never seemed satisfied with the whole of a story, never laughed when others laughed, but always put the joke to the question. He could never enjoy the kernel of the nut, but pestered himself to get more out of the shell. Do you believe in ghosts, then? said the inquisitive gentleman. Faith, but I do! replied the jovial Irishman. I was brought up in the fear and belief of them. We had a banshee in our own family, honey. Hey, banshee! And what's that? cried the questioner. Why an old lady-ghost that tends upon your real Belasian families, and wails at their window to let them know when some of them are to die?  But I'd have you know that it's a piece of distinction to be weighted upon by a banshee. It's a proof that one has pure blood in one's veins. But he gad! Now we're talking of ghosts. There never was a house, or a night, better fitted than the present, for a ghost-adventure. Faith, Sir John, haven't you such a thing as a haunted chamber to put a guest in? Perhaps, said the Baronette, smiling, I might accommodate you even on that point. Oh, I should like it, of all things, my jewel! Some dark, oaken room with ugly, woe-begone portraits, that stare dismally at one, and about which the housekeeper has a power of delightful stories of love and murder. And then a dim lamp, a table with a rusty sword across it, and a spectre, all in white, to draw aside one's curtains at midnight. In truth! said an old gentleman at one end of the table, you puts me in mind of an anecdote. Oh, a ghost story!  The attention of the whole company was now turned upon the speaker. He was an old gentleman, one side of whose face was no match for the other. The eyelid drooped and hung down like an unhinged window-shutter.  A warrant that side was well stuffed with ghost stories. There was a universal demand for the tale. Nay! said the old gentleman, it's a mere anecdote, and a very common place one. But such as it is, you shall have it. It is a story that I once heard my uncle tell when I was a boy, that whether is having happened to himself or to another, I cannot recollect. But no matter, it's very likely it happened to himself, for he was a man very apt to meet with strange adventures. I have heard him tell of others much more singular. At any rate, we will suppose it happened to himself. What kind of man was your uncle? said the questioning gentleman. Why, he was rather a dry, shrewd kind of body, a great traveller and fond of telling his adventures. Pray! How old might he have been when this happened? When what happened? cried the gentleman with the flexible nose impatiently. He gad you have not given anything a chance to happen. Come, never mind our uncle's age, let us have his adventures. The inquisitive gentleman, being for the moment silenced. The old gentleman with the haunted head proceeded. CHAPTER TWO ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE Many years since, a long time before the French Revolution, my uncle had passed several months at Paris. The English and French were on better terms in those days than at present, and mingled cordially together in society. The English went abroad to spend money then, and the French were always ready to help them. They go abroad to save money at present, and that they can do without French assistance. Perhaps the travelling English refuer and choicer then, than at present, when the whole nation has broke loose and inundated the continent. At any rate, they circulated more readily and currently in foreign society. And my uncle, during his residence in Paris, made many very intimate acquaintances among the French nobelies. Some time afterwards he was making a journey in the wintertime, in that part of Normandy called the Paix-de-Coup. When, as evening was closing in, he perceived the turrets of an ancient chateau rising out of the trees of its walled park, each turret with its high conical roof of grey slate, like a candle with an extinguisher on it. To whom does that chateau belong, my friend? Cried my uncle to a meager, but fiery postillian, who, with tremendous jack-boots and cocked hat, was floundering on before him. To Monsignor, the Marquede, said that postillian, touching his hat, partly out of respect to my uncle, and partly out of reverence to the noble name pronounced. My uncle recollected the Marquede for a particular friend in Paris who had often expressed a wish to see him at his paternal chateau. My uncle was an old traveller, one that knew how to turn things to account. He revolved for a few moments in his mind how agreeable it would be to his friend the Marquede to be surprised in this sociable way by a pop visit, and how much more agreeable to himself to get into snug quarters in the chateau, and have a relish of that Marquede's well-known kitchen and a smack of his superior champagne and burgundy, rather than take up with a miserable laundry and miserable fare of a country inn. In a few minutes, therefore, the meager postillian was cracking his whip like a very devil, or like a true Frenchman, up the long straight avenue that led to the chateau. You have no doubt all seen French chateaus as everybody travels in France nowadays. This was one of the oldest, standing naked in the loan in the midst of a desert of gravel walks and cold stone terraces. With a cold-looking formal garden cut into angles and rhomboids, and a cold, leafless park divided geometrically by straight alleys, and two or three noseless, cold-looking statues without any clothing, and fountains spouting cold water enough to make one's teeth chatter. At least such was the feeling they imparted on the wintry day of my uncle's visit, though in hot summer weather. A warrant there was glare enough to scorch one's eyes out. The smacking of the postillian's whip, which grew more and more intense the nearer they approached, frightened the flight of pigeons out of the dove-coat, and rooks out of the roofs, and finally a crew of servants out of the chateau, with the marquee at their head. He was enchanted to see my uncle, for his chateau, like the house of a worthy host, had not many more guests at the time than they could accommodate. So he kissed my uncle on each cheek after the French fashion, and ushered him into the castle. The marquee did the honors of his house with the urbanity of his country. In fact, he was proud of his old family chateau, for part of it was extremely old. There was a tower and chapel that had been built almost before the memory of man. But the rest was more modern. The castle hadn't been nearly demolished during the wars of the League. The marquee dwelt upon this event with great satisfaction, and seemed really to entertain a grateful feeling towards Henry IV, for having thought his paternal mansion worth battering down. He had many stories to tell over the prowess of his ancestors, and several skull caps, helmets, and crossbows to show, and diverse huge boots and buff jerkens that had been worn by the Leaguers. Above all, there was a two-handled sword, which he could hardly wield, but which he displayed as a proof that there had been giants in his family. In truth, he was but a small descendant from such great warriors, when he looked at their bluff visages and brawny limbs, as depicted in their portraits. And then at the little marquee, with his spindle shanks, his salo lantern visage flanked with a pair of powdered ear-locks, or ales de pigeon, that seemed ready to fly away with it, you would hardly believe him to be one of the same race. But when you looked at the eyes that sparkled out like a beetle's from each side of his hooked nose, you saw at once that he inherited all of the fiery spirit of his forefathers. In fact, a Frenchman's spirit never exhales. However, his body may dwindle. It rather rarefies and grows more inflammable, as the earthly particles diminish. And I was seen valour enough and a little fiery-headed French dwarf to have furnished out a tolerable giant. When once the marquee, as he was wont, put on one of the old helmets that were stuck up in his hall, though his head no more filled it than a dry pea, its peas cod. Yet his eyes sparkled from the bottom of the iron cavern, with the brilliancy of carbuncles. And when he poised the ponderous two-handled sword of his ancestors, he would have thought you saw the doubty little David wielding the sword of Goliath, which was unto him like a weaver's beam. However, gentlemen, I am dwelling too long on the description of the marquee and his chateau. But you must excuse me. He was an old friend of my uncle's. And whenever my uncle told the story, he was always fond of talking a great deal about his host. Poor little marquee! He was of that handful of gallant courtiers, who made such a devoted but hopeless stand in the cause of their sovereign, in the chateau of the Tullarys, against the eruption of the mob on the sad tenth of August. He displayed the valour of a pre- French chevalier to the last, flourished feebly his little court sword, with a sa, sa, in face of a whole legion of sans-coulettes, but was pinned to the wall like a butterfly, by the pike of a façade. And his heroic soul was born up to heaven on his ales de pigeonne. But all this has nothing to do with my story. To the point, then, when the hour arrived for retiring for the night, my uncle was shown to his room in a venerable old tower. It was the oldest part of the chateau, and had in ancient times been the Don John or Stronghold. Of course, the chamber is none of the best. The marquee put him there, however, because he knew him to be a traveller of taste, and fond of antiquities, and also because the better apartments were already occupied. Indeed, he perfectly reconciled my uncle to his quarters, by mentioning the great personages who had once inhabited them, all of whom were in some way or other connected with the family. If he would take his word for it, John Balluel, or as he was called, Jean de Ballet, had died of chagrin in his very chamber, on hearing of the success of his rival, Robert the Bruce, at the Battle of Bonnackburn. And when he added that the Duke de Geys had slept in it during the Wars of the League, my uncle was feigned to facilitate himself upon being honoured as such distinguished quarters. The night was shrewd and windy, and the chamber none of the warmest.  The chamber had indeed a wild, crazy look, enough to strike any one who had read romances with apprehension and foreboding. The windows were high and narrow, and once been loopholes, but had been rudely enlarged as well as the extreme thickness of the walls would permit. And the ill-fitted casements rattled to every breeze. You would have thought on a windy night, some of the old leaguers were tramping and clanking about the apartment, and their huge boots and rattling spurs. A door would stood ajar, and like a true French door would stand ajar, and spite of every reason and effort to the contrary, opened upon a long dark corridor that led the Lord's nose wither, and seemed just made for ghost to air themselves in, and they turned out of their graves at midnight. The wooden spring up into a hoarse murmur through this passage, and creaked the door to and fro, as if some dubious ghost were balancing in its mind, whether to come in or not. In a word it was precisely the kind of comfortless apartment that a ghost, if ghost there were in that chateau, would single out for its favorite lounge. My uncle, however, though a man accustomed to meet with strange adventures, apprehended none at the time. He made several attempts to shut the door, but in vain. Not that he apprehended anything, for he was too old a traveller to be daunted by a wild-looking apartment. But the night, as I have said, was cold and gusty, something like the present, and the wind howled about the old turret, pretty much as it does around this old mansion at this moment, and the breeze from the long dark corridor came in as damp and chilly as if from a dungeon. My uncle, therefore, since he could not close the door, threw a quantity of wood on the fire, but soon set up a flame in the great white-mouthed chimney that illumined the whole chamber, and made the shadow of the tongs on the opposite wall look like a long-legged giant. My uncle now clambered on top of the half-score of mattresses, which former French bed, and which stood in a deep recess, and tucking himself snugly in, and burying himself up to the chin in his bedclothes. He lay looking at the fire, listening to the wind, and chuckling to think how knowingly he had come over his friend Marquis for a night's lodgings, and so he fell asleep. He not taken above half of his first nap, and he was awakened by the clock of the chateau, and the turret over his chamber, which struck midnight. It was just such an old clock as ghosts are fond of. It had a deep, dismal tone, and struck so slowly and tediously that my uncle thought it would never have done. He counted and counted till he was confident he counted thirteen, and then it stopped.  Which now and then lengthened up into little white gleams.  His fancy was already wandering, and began to mingle up the present scene with the creator of Vesuvius, the French opera, the Colosseum at Rome, Dolly's Chop House in London, and all the ferrague of noted places with which the brain of a traveller is crammed. In no word, he was just falling asleep. Suddenly he was aroused by the sound of footsteps that appeared to be slowly pacing along the corridor. My uncle, as I have often heard him say himself, was a man not easily frightened, so he lay quiet, supposing that this might be some other guest, or some servant on his way to bed. The footsteps, however, approached the door. The door generally opened, whether of its own accord, or whether pushed open, but my uncle could not distinguish. A figure all in white lighted in. He was a female, tall and stately in person, and of a most commanding heir. Her dress was of an ancient fashion, ample in volume and sweeping the floor. She walked up to the fireplace without regarding my uncle, who raised his nightcap with one hand, and stared earnestly at her. She remained for some time, standing by the fire, which flashing up at intervals cast blue and white gleams of light that enabled my uncle to remark her appearance minutely. Her face was ghastly pale, and perhaps rendered still more so by the bluish light of the fire. It possessed beauty, but its beauty was saddened by care and anxiety. There was the look of one accustomed to trouble, but of one whom trouble could not cast down nor subdue, for there was still the predominating air of proud, unconquerable resolution. Such at least was the opinion formed by my uncle, and he considered himself a great physiognomist. The figure remained, as I said, for some time by the fire, putting out first one hand, then the other, then each foot, alternately, as if warming itself. For your ghosts, if ghosts it really was, are apt to be cold. My uncle further more remarked that it wore high-heeled shoes, after an ancient fashion, with paced or diamond buckles that sparkled as though they were alive. At length the figure turned gently round, casting a glassy look about the apartment, which, as it passed over my uncle, made his blood run cold, and chilled the very marrow in his bones, and then stretched its arms toward heaven, clasped its hands, and ringing them in a supplicating manner, glutted slowly out of the room. My uncle lay for some time meditating on his visitation. For, as he remarked when he told me the story, though a man of firmness, he was also a man of reflection, and did not reject the thing because it was out of the regular course of events. However, being as I have before said, a great traveler, and accustomed to strange adventures, he drew his nightcap resolutely over his eyes, turned his back to the door, hoisted the bed-clothes high over his shoulders, and gradually fell asleep. How long he slept, he could not say, when he was awakened by the voice of someone at his bedside. He turned round and beheld the old French servant, with his earlocks and tight buckles on each side of a long, lanthorn face, on which habitat deeply wrinkled an everlasting smile. He made a thousand grimaces and asked a thousand pardons for disturbing months here, but the morning was considerably advanced. When my uncle was dressing, he called vaguely to mind the visitor of the preceding night. He asked, the ancient domestic, what lady was in the habit of rambling about this part of the chateau at night. The old valet shrugged his shoulders as high as his head, laid one hand on his bosom, through open the other with every finger extended, made a most whimsical grimace, which he meant to be complementary. It was not for him to know anything of les braves fortrons de Mancière. My uncle saw there was nothing satisfactory to be learnt in this quarter. After breakfast he was walking with the marquis through the modern apartments of the chateau, sliding over the well-waxed floors of silken saloons amidst furniture rich in gilding and brocade, until they came to a long picture gallery containing many portraits, some in oil and some in chalks. Here was an ample field for the eloquence of his host, who had all the family pride of a nobleman of the ancient regime. There was not a grand name in Normandy, and hardly one in France that was not, in some way or other, connected with his house. My uncle stood listening with inward impatience, resting sometimes on one leg, sometimes on the other, as the little marquis decanted, with his usual fire and fovacity, on the achievements of his ancestors, his portraits hung along the wall, from the marshal deeds of the stern warriors and steel, to the gallantries and intrigues of the blue-eyed gentlemen, with fair smiling faces, powdered earlocks, laced ruffles, and pink and blue silk coats and breeches, not forgetting the conquests of the lovely shepherdesses, with hoop petticoats and waist no thicker than an hourglass, who appeared ruling over their sheep and their swains, with a dainty crook decorated with fluttering ribbons.  Me thinks, said he, pointing to it, I have seen the original of this portrait. Pardon, moi, replied the marquis politely, that can hardly be, as the lady has been dead more than a hundred years. That was the beautiful duchess de Longville, who figured during the minority of Louis XIV. And was there anything remarkable in her history? Never was question more unlucky. The little marquis immediately threw himself into the attitude of a man about to tell a long story. In fact, my uncle had put upon himself the whole history of the Civil War of the Front, in which the beautiful duchess had played so distinguished a part. Turin, Galigny, Mazarin were called up from their graves to grace's narration, nor were the affairs of the Veracados, nor the chivalry of the Perteshars, nor the chivalry of the Pertes Cauchers, forgotten. My uncle began to wish himself a thousand leagues off from the marquis, and his merciless memory, when suddenly the little man's recollections took a more interesting turn. He was relating the imprisonment of the duch de Longville, with the princes Condi and Conti, and the chateau of Vincennes, and the ineffectual efforts of the duchess to rouse the sturdy Normans to their rescue. He had come to that part where she was invested by the royal forces in the chateau of Dieppe, and in imminent danger of falling into their hands. The spirits of the duchess, proceeded the marquis, rose with her trials. It was astonishing to see so delicate and beautiful a being, buffets so resolutely with hardship. She determined on a desperate means of escape. One dark, unruly night, she issued secretly out of a small, host her and gate to the castle, which the enemy had neglected to guard. She was followed by her female attendants, a few domestics, and some gallant cavaliers who still remained faithful to her fortunes. Her object was to gain a small port about two leagues distant, where she had privately provided a vessel for her escape in case of emergency. The little band of fugitives were obliged to perform the distance on foot. When they arrived at the port, the wind was high and stormy, the tide contrary. The vessel anchored far off in the road, in no means of getting on board, but by a fishing-challop that lay tossing like a cockle-shell on the edge of the surf. The duchess determined to risk the attempt. The seamen endeavored to dissuade her, but the imminence of her danger on shore, and the magnanimity of her spirit urged her on. She had to be borne to the shallot in the arms of a mariner. Such was the violence of the wind and waves. That he faltered, lost his foothold, and that his precious burden fall into the sea. The duchess was nearly drowned, but partly through her own struggles, partly by the exertions of the seamen she got to land. As soon as she had a little recovered strength, she insisted on renewing the attempt. The storm, however, had by this time become so violent as it set all efforts at defiance. To delay was to be discovered and taken prisoner. As the only resource left, she procured horses, mounted with her female attendants, on group behind the gallant gentleman who accompanied her, and scoured the country to seek some temporary asylum. Well, the duchess continued the marquee, laying his forefinger on my uncle's breast, to arouse his flagging attention. Well, the duchess, poor lady, was wandering amid the tempest in his disconsolate manner. She arrived at this chateau. Her approach caused some uneasiness for the clattering of a troop of horse at dead of night up the avenue of a lonely chateau. In those unsettled times, and in a troubled part of the country, was enough to occasion alarm. A tall, broad-shouldered, chasseur, armed to the teeth, galloped ahead and announced the name of the visitor. All uneasiness was dispelled. The household turned out with flambeau to receive her, and never did torches gleam on a more weather beaten, travel-stained band, and came tramping into the court. Such pale, care-worn faces, such bedraggled dresses, as the poor duchess and her females presented, each seated behind her cavalier, while half drenched, half drowsy pages in attendance, seemed ready to fall from their horses with sleep and fatigue. The duchess was received with a hearty welcome by my ancestors. She was ushered into the hall of the chateau, and the fire soon crackled and blazed to cheer herself and her train, and every spit and stoop hand was put in requisition to prepare ample refreshments for the wayfarers. She had her right to our hospitalities, continued the little Marquis, drawing himself up with a slight degree of statelyness. For she was related to our family. I'll tell you how it was. Her father, Henry de Bourbon, Prince of Cundey, but did the duchess pass the night in the chateau, said my uncle, rather abruptly, terrified at the idea of getting involved in one of the Marquis' genealogical discussions. Oh, as to the duchess! She was put into the apartment you occupied last night, which at that time was the kind of State Department. Her followers were quartered in the chambers opening upon the neighboring corridor, and her favorite page slept in an adjoining closet. Up and down the corridor walked the great chasseur, who had announced her arrival, and who acted as a kind of sentinel or guard. He was a dark, stern, powerful-looking fellow, and as the light of a lamp in the corridor fell upon his deeply marked face and similarly formed, he seemed capable of defending the castle with his single arm. It was a rough, rude night about that time of the year. About this time of the year, at the propo, now I think of it. Last night was the anniversary of her visit. I may well remember the precise date, for it was a night not to be forgotten by our house. There is a singular tradition concerning in our family. Here the Marquis hesitated, and the clouds seemed to gather about his bushy eyebrows. There is a tradition that his strange occurrence took place that night, a strange, mysterious, inexplicable occurrence. Here he checked himself and paused. Did it relate to that lady, inquired my uncle eagerly? It was past the hour of midnight, resumed the Marquis, when the whole shat-toe. Here he paused again. My uncle made a movement of anxious curiosity. Excuse me, said the Marquis, a slight blush streaking his soul on visage. There are some circumstances connected with our family history, which I do not like to relate. That was a rude period, a time of great crimes among great men. For you know, high blood, when there runs wrong, will not run tamely, like the blood of the canal, poor lady. But I have a little family pride that, excuse me, we will change the subject if you please. My uncle's curiosity was piqued. The pompous and magnificent introduction had led him to expect something wonderful in the story, to which it served as a kind of avenue. He had no idea of being cheated out of it by a sudden fit of unreasonable squeamishness. Besides, being a traveler, in quest of information, considered his duty to inquire into everything. The Marquis, however, evaded every question. Well, said my uncle, a little petulently, but every you may think of it, I saw that lady last night. The Marquis stepped back and gazed at him with surprise. She paid me a visit in my bed-chamber. The Marquis pulled out his snuff-box with a shrug and a smile, taking it no doubt for an awkward piece of Inchler's tree, which politeness required him to be charmed with. My uncle went on gravely, however, and related the whole circumstance. The Marquis heard him through with profound attention, holding his snuff-box unopened in his hand. When the story was finished, he tapped the lid of his box deliberately. Took a long, sonorous pinch of snuff. Baha! said the Marquis, and walked toward the other end of the gallery. Here the narrator paused. The company waited for some time for him to resume his narrative, but he continued silent. Well, said the inquisitive gentleman, and what did your uncle say then? Nothing, replied the other. And what did the Marquis say farther? Nothing. And is that all? That is all, said the narrator, filling a glass of wine. I surmise, said the shrewd old gentleman with the waggish nose. I surmise there was the old housekeeper walking her rounds, to see that all was right. Baha! said the narrator. My uncle was too much accustomed to strange sites, not to know a ghost from a housekeeper. There was a murmur round the table, half of merriment, half of disappointment. I was inclined to think the old gentleman had really an aft part of his story in reserve. But he sipped his wine and said nothing more. And there was an odd expression about his dilapidated countenance that left me in doubt, whether he were in jollery or earnest. He, God! said the knowing gentleman with the flexible nose. The story of your uncle puts me in mind of one that used to be told of an ant of mine, by the mother's side, though I don't know that it will bear a comparison, as the good lady was not quite so prone to meet with strange adventures. But at any rate you shall have it. CHAPTER III. THE ADVENTURE OF MY ANT. My aunt was a lady of large frame, strong mind and great resolution. She was what might be termed a very manly woman. My uncle was a thin, puny little man, very meek and acquiescent, and no match for my aunt. It was observed that he dwindled and dwindled gradually away from the day of his marriage. His wife's powerful mind was too much for him. It wore him out. My aunt, however, took all possible care of him, had half the doctors in town to prescribe for him, made him take all their prescriptions willy-nilly, and dosed him with psychic enough to cure a whole hospital. All was in vain. My uncle grew worse and worse, the more dosing and nursing he underwent. Until in the end he added another to the long list of matrimonial victims who have been killed with kindness. And was it his ghost that appeared to her? asked the inquisitive gentleman who had questioned the former storyteller. You shall hear, replied the narrator. My aunt took on mightily for the death of her poor dear husband. Perhaps she felt some compunction at having given him so much psychic and nursed him into his grave. At any rate, she did all that a widow could do to honour his memory. She spared no expense in either the quantity or quality of her mourning weeds. She wore a miniature of him about her neck, as large as a little sundial, and she had a full-length portrait of him always hanging in her bed-chamber. All the world extolled her conduct to the skies, and it was determined that a woman who behaved so well to the memory of one husband deserved soon to get another. It was not long after this that she went to take up her residence in an old country seat on Derbyshire, which had long been in the care of merely a steward and housekeeper. She took most of her servants with her, intending to make it her principal abode. The house stood in a lonely, wild part of the country, among the gray, derbyshire hills, with a murderer hanging in chains on a bleak height and full view. The servants from town were half frightened out of their wits at the idea of living in such a dismal, pagan-looking place, especially when they got together in the servants' hall in the evening, and compared notes on all the Hobgoblin stories they had picked up in the course of the day. They were afraid to venture alone about the four-long black-looking chambers. By ladies made, who was troubled with nerves, declared she would never sleep alone in such a gashly, rummaging old building, and the footman, who was a kind heart of a young fellow, did all in his power to cheer her up. My aunt herself seemed to be struck with the lonely appearance of the house, before she went to bed therefore, and she examined well the fastenings of the doors and windows, locked up the plate with her own hands, and carried the keys, together with a little box of money and jewels, to her own room. For she was a notable woman, and she always saw to all things herself. Having put the keys under her pillow and dismissed her maid, she sat by her toilet arranging her hair, for, being, in spite of her grief for my uncle, rather a buxom woman, she was a little particular about her person. She sat for a little while looking at her face in the glass. First on one side, then on the other, as ladies are apt to do, when they would ascertain if they have been in good looks. For a roistering country squire of the neighborhood, with whom she had flirted when a girl, had called that day to welcome her to the country. All of a sudden she thought she heard something move behind her. She looked hastily round, but there was nothing to be seen. Nothing but the grimly painted portrait of her poor dear man, which had been hung against the wall. She gave a heavy sigh to his memory, as she was accustomed to do, whenever she spoke of him in company, and went on adjusting her night-dress. Her sigh was re-echoed, or answered by a long drawn breath. She looked round again, but no one was to be seen. She ascribed these sounds to the wind, oozing through the rat-holes of the old mansion, and proceeded leisurely to put her hair in papers. When, all at once, she thought she perceived one of the eyes of the portrait move. The back of her head being towards it, said the storyteller, with the ruined head, giving a knowing wink on the sound side of his visage. Good! Yes, sir! replied dryly the narrator, her back being towards the portrait, but her eye fixed on its reflection in the glass. Well, as I was saying, she perceived one of the eyes of the portrait move. So strange a circumstance, as you may well suppose, gave her a sudden shock. To assure herself cautiously of the fact, she put one hand to her forehead, as if rubbing it, peep through her fingers, and moved the candle with the other. The light of the taper gleamed on the eye, and was reflected from it. She was sure it moved. Nay! More it seemed to give her a wink, as she had sometimes known her husband to do in living. It struck a momentary chill to her heart, for she was a lone woman, and felt herself fearfully situated. The chill was but transient. My aunt, who was almost as resolute a personage as your uncle, sir, turning to the old storyteller, became instantly calm and collected. She went on adjusting her dress. She even hummed a favorite air, and did not make a single false note. She casually overturned a dressing box, took a candle, and picked up the articles leisurely, one by one, from the floor, pursued a rolling pincushion that was making the best of its way under the bed, and opened the door, looked for an instant into the corridor, as if in doubt whether to go, and then walked quietly out. She hastened downstairs, ordered the servants to arm themselves with the first weapons that came to hand, placed herself at their head, and returned almost immediately. Her hastily levied army presented a formidable force. The steward had a rusty blunderbuss, the coachman a loaded whip, the footman a pair of horse pistols, the cook a huge chopping knife, and the butler a bottle in each hand. My aunt led the van with a red hot poker. In my opinion, she was the most formidable of the party. The waiting maid brought up the rear, dreading to stay alone in the servant's hall, smelling to a broken bottle of volatile salts, and expressing her terror of the ghostesses. Ghosts, said my aunt resolutely, I'll singe their whiskers for them. They entered the chamber, all was still and undisturbed, as when she left it, they approached the portrait of my uncle. Pull me down that picture! cried my aunt. A heavy groan and a sound like the chattering of teeth was heard from the portrait. The servants shrunk back. The maid uttered a faint shriek and clung to the footman. Instantly added my aunt with a stamp of the foot. The picture was pulled down, and from a recess behind it, in which had formerly stood a clock, they hauled forth a round-shouldered black-bearded varlet with a knife as long as my arm, but trembling all over like an aspen leaf. Well, and who was he? No ghost, I suppose, said the inquisitive gentleman. A knight of the post, replied the narrator, who had been smitten with the worth of the wealthy widow, or rather a marauding Tarkin, who had stolen into her chamber to violate her purse and rifle her strongbox when all the house should be asleep. In plain terms, continued he, the vagabond was a loose idle fellow of the neighborhood, who had once been a servant in the house, and had been employed to assist in arranging it for the reception of its mistress. He confessed that he had contrived his hiding place for his nefarious purposes, and had borrowed an eye from the portrait by way of a reconnoitering whole. And what did they do with him? Did they hang him? resumed the questioner. Hang him? How could they? exclaimed a beetle-browed barrister with a hawk's nose. The offence was not capital. No robbery nor assault had been committed. No forcible entry or breaking into the premises. My aunt, said the narrator, was a woman of spirit and apt to take the law into her own hands. She had her own notions of cleanliness also. She ordered the fellow to be drawn through the horse-pond to cleanse away all offences, and then to be well rubbed down with an oaken towel. And what became of him afterwards? said the inquisitive gentleman. I do not exactly know. I believe he besent on a voyage of improvement to Botany Bay. And your aunt? said the inquisitive gentleman. A warrant she took care to make her maid sleep in the room with her after that. No, sir. She did better. She gave her hand shortly after to the roistering squire, for she used to observe it was a dismal thing for a woman to sleep alone in the country. She was right, observed the inquisitive gentleman, nodding his head sagaciously. But I am sorry they did not hang that fellow. It was agreed on all hands that the last narrator had brought his tail to the most satisfactory conclusion, though a country clergyman present regretted that the uncle and aunt, who figured in the different stories, had not been married together, they certainly would have been well matched. But I don't see after all, said the inquisitive gentleman, that there was any ghost in his last story. Oh, if it's ghost you want, honey! cried the Irish captain of Dragoons. If it's ghost you want, you shall have a whole regiment of them. And since these gentlemen have been giving to the adventures of their uncles and aunts, faith in I'll even give you a chapter two, out of my own family history. End of Chapter 3. Recording by Greg Giordano. Newport Ritchie, Florida. Chapter 4 of Tales of a Traveller by Washington Irving. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Greg Giordano. Chapter 4. Bold Dragoon. Or the adventure of my grandfather. My grandfather was a bold Dragoon, for it's a profession, do you see, that has run in the family. All my forefathers have been Dragoons and died upon the field of honor, except myself, and I hope my posterity may be able to say the same. However, I don't mean to be vain glorious. Well, my grandfather, as I said, was a bold Dragoon, and had served in the Low Countries. In fact, he was one of that very army which, according to my Uncle Toby, swore so terribly in Flanders. He could swear a good stick himself, and moreover, was the very man that introduced the doctrine Corporal Trim mentions of radical heat and radical moisture, or, in other words, the mode of keeping out the damps of ditch water by burnt brandy. But that, as it may, is nothing to the purport of my story. I only tell it to show you that my grandfather was a man not easily to be humbugged. He had seen service, or, according to his own phrase, he had seen the devil, and that's saying everything. Well, gentlemen, my grandfather was on his way to England, for which he intended to embark at Austin, bad luck to the place for one, where I was kept by storms and headwinds for three long days, and the devil of a jolly companion of pretty face to comfort me. Well, as I was saying, my grandfather was on his way to England, or rather to Austin, no matter which. It's all the same. So one evening, toward nightfall, he rolled jolly into bruises, very like y'all know bruises, gentlemen, a queer, old-fashioned Flemish town, once they say a great place for trade and money making in old times, when the mineers were in their glory, but almost as large and as empty as an Irishman's pocket at the present day. Well, gentlemen, it was the time of the annual fair. All bruises was crowded, and the canals swarmed with Dutch boats, and the streets swarmed with Dutch merchants, and there was hardly any getting along for goods, wares and merchandises, and peasants and big breeches, and women and half a score of petticoats. My grandfather rode jolly along in his easy, slashing way, for he was a saucy, sunshiny fellow, staring about him at the motley crowd, and the old houses with gable ends to the streets, and storks' nests on the chimpanzees, winking at the ah-yout rows who showed their faces at the windows, and joking the women right and left in the streets, all of whom laughed and took it in an amazing good part, for though he did not know a word of their language, yet he always had a knack of making himself understood among the women. Well, gentlemen, it was 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 rickety inn that looked ready to fall to pieces, in 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 clear 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 Mohammed. Nothing had saved it from tumbling down but a stork nest on the chimney, which always brings good luck to a house in the Low Countries. Had 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 have 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 has 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. Here verculpt mon good and drunk. 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 burger of antwerp, a stately ample man, and a broad Flemish hat, and who was the great man and great patron of the establishment, set smoking a clean long pipe on one side of the door. A fat little distiller of Geneva, from Scheidem, set 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's daughter, a plump flander's lass, with a long gold penance in her ears, was at a side window. Hm! said the rich burger of antwerp with a sulky glance at the butcher.  The landlord saw, with a 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 what was full. Not a garret! echoed the landlady. Not a garret! echoed the daughter. The burger of antwerp, and the little distiller of Scheidem, continued to smoke their pipe sullenly. I'd the envious scants from under their broad hats, but said nothing. My grandfather was not a man to be brow-beaten. He threw the reins on his horse's neck, clocked his hat on one side, stuck one arm a kimbo, slapped his broad thigh with the other hand. Faith and trough! said he, but I'll sleep in this house this very night. My grandfather had on a tight pair of buck-skins. 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 minners into the public room. Maybe you've been in the bar room of an old Flemish inn. Faith, but a handsome chamber it was, as you'd wish to see, with a brick floor, a great fireplace, with the whole Bible history and glazed tiles, and then the mantelpiece pitching itself head foremost out of the wall, with a whole regiment of cracked teapots and earthen jugs paraded on it, not to mention half a dozen delft-platters hung about the room by way of pictures, and little bar in one corner, and the bouncing bar made inside of it with a red calico cap and yellow eardrops. 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 father's show of resistance on the part of the garrison, but my grandfather was an old soldier and an Irishman to boot, and uneasily repulsed, especially after he had gotten to the fortress. So he blarned the landlord, kissed the landlord's life, tickled the landlord's daughter, chucked the bar made under the chin, and it was agreed on all hands that it would be a thousand pitties and a burning shame into the bargain to turn such a bold dragoon into the streets.   The devil a bit, said my grandfather, pinching her plump cheek, but if I should be troubled by ghosts, I'd be into 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 humoured 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 Dutchman, drank with the Germans, slapped the men on his shoulders, tickled the women under the ribs, ever since the days of Alde Kroker at 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 sitting off his broad shoulders and plump buck-skins 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 to hote, 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 burger ransom-werp, who had never been known to be sociable with anyone during his life. In fact, he revolutionized the whole establishment and gave it such a rouse that the very house reeled with it. He out-sat every one at table accepting the little fat distiller of Scheidem, 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, and to the little Hollander was fairly swamped with his own gin and water, and carried off to bed, whooping and hiccuping, and trolling the birthing of a low Dutch love-song. Well, gentlemen, my grandfather was shown to his quarters, up a huge staircase, composed of loaves of hewn timber, and through long rigamarole passages, hung with blackened paintings of fruit and fish and game and country frolics and huge kitchens and portly burger-masters, 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, for 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. New 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 nine pins. My grandfather made a bow to the motley assemblage as he entered, and, having undressed himself, placed his light in the fireplace, 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 moneers are huge sleepers. The housemaids, one by one, crept up yawning to their attics, and at 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 huge, 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, complexion man, and this smothering played the very deuce with him. So sure enough, in little while it seemed as if a legion of imps were twitching at him, and all the blood in his veins were in fever heat. He lay still, however, until all the house was quiet, accepting the snoring of the moneers from the different chambers, who answered one another in all kinds of tongs and cadences, like so many bullfrogs 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. Maybe the maid had warmed it too much, said the curious gentleman inquiringly. I'd 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 the more comfortable bed. Or perhaps, by 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, and just as he reached the door he heard a strange noise within. He paused and listened. It seemed as if someone was trying to hum a tune in defiance of the asthma. He recollected the report of the rooms being haunted, but he was no believer in ghosts, so he pushed the door gently ajar and peeped in. Ega, gentlemen! there was a gamble carrying on within enough to astonish St. Anthony. By the light of the fire he saw a pale, weasen-faced fellow, and a long flannel gown, and a tall white nightcap, with a tassel to it, who sat by the fire, with the bellows under his arm, by way of bagpipe, from which he forced the asthmaical 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 tassel nightcap. My grandfather thought this very odd, and mighty presumptuous, and it 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 cox-comical 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, slotted gracefully up to an easy chair, of tarnished brocade with a hole in its bottom, and let gallantly out in a ghostly minuet about the floor. The musician now played fiercer and fiercer, and bobbed his head in his nightcap about like mad, by degrees the dancing mania seemed to seize upon all the other pieces of furniture. The antique, low-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 tongue seized the shovel round the waist, and whirled it about the room in the German waltz. In short, all the movables got in motion, capering about, piruetting, hands across, right and left, like so many devils, all except a great clothes-press, which kept curtsying and curtsying like a dowager, and one corner, an 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 patio 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 shovels slunk in an instant as quietly into their places as if nothing had happened.  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 devil 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 barmaid, who was followed by the simpering chambermaids all holding together, as well as they could, such garments as they had first laid 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 marvelous scene he had witnessed in the prostrate clothes-press and the broken handles for 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 shelly. 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 did 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 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 carrying 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 ends 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. End of CHAPTER IV CHAPTER V ADVENTURE OF THE MISTERIOUS 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 hole 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.  That we shall see in the morning, said the old gentleman with the nose. Whoever looks pale and grisly will have seen the ghost. Well, gentlemen, said the Baronet, there's many a true thing said ingest. In fact, one of you will sleep in a room tonight. What? A haunted room? A haunted room? I claimed the adventure. An eye! An eye! An eye! I tried a dozen guests talking and laughing at the same time. No, no, said my host. There's a secret about one of my rooms in 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 honour 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 and 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 Damascus, 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 armchair before the wide fireplace, stirred up the fire, sat looking into it, and using upon the odd stories I had heard, until, partly overcome by the fatigue of the day's hunting, and partly by the wine and wine-sale of mine-host, I fell asleep in my chair. The uneasiness of my position made any 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.  The merry thought of a capon filled me with horrible suggestions, and a deviled leg of a turkey stalked in all kinds of diabolical shapes through my imagination. In short, I had a violent fit to the nightmare. Some strange and definite evil seemed hanging over me. They could not avert. Something terrible and loathsome oppressed me that I could not shake it 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 both upright in my chair, and awoke. The light on the mantle-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 fireplace, which I had not hitherto observed. It consisted merely of a head, or rather a face. It 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 there was not a real face, thrusting itself out of the dark, oaken panel. 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 and reptiles termed fascination.  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 will 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 fireplace, it was as if an electric shock darted through me. The other pictures were dim and faded. But this one protruded from a plain background in the strongest relief, and with wonderful truth of coloring. The expression was that of agony. The agony of intense, bodily pain. But the 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 unscrupable and typically 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 mind hosts good cheer, and, in some measure, by the odd stories about paintings which have 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 these 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 the 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, through 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 my host spoke, as having a mystery raining over it? I had taken his words merely as spoken and jest. Might they have a real import? I looked around. The faintly-ledded 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-closed press of antique form, gorgeous and brass and lustrous with wax, that began to grow oppressive to me. And then I thought, indeed, the hero of the haunted room. Is there really a spell laid upon me? Or is this all some contrivance of my host to raise a laugh at my expense? The idea of being haggred and 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 affect 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! But it's horrible, a mysterious expression, still gazing and gazing on me. No. I must suffer the 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 the 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, but give her a specter of myself and become the hero of the haunted chamber in good earnest.  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 woe-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 downstairs to the drawing-room. Here, after tumbling over two or three pieces of furniture, I made out to reach a sofa, and, searching myself upon it, determined to bevwack 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 this sort of instinctive caution, turned a key when I closed the door. I soon calmed down, therefore, into a state of tranquility, from that into a drowsiness and finally into a deep sleep, out of which I did not awake until the housemaid, with her beasome and her meton song, came to put the room in order. She stared at finding me stretched upon the sofa, but I presumed 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 a 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 foxhunter'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 those were furnished in abundance according to the taste of the different guests, the conversation began to break out, though the liveliness and freshness of morning mirth. But who was 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, criticizing of countenances, of mutual accusation and retort took place. Some had drunk deep, and some were unshaven, so they 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 I 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 everyone 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 living-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?' "'So ho! So ho! A hare! A hare!' cried the old gentleman with a 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, "'Splod, lad! Thou art the man! I've seen the ghost!' The attention of the company was immediately turned to me. If my face had been pale long before, it now glowed almost to burning. I tried to laugh, but could make only 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 merry-ment and joking at my expense.  I tried to look cool and calm and to restrain my peak, but the coolness and calmness of a man in a passion are confounded treacherous. "'Gentlemen!' said I, the slay cocking of the chin, and a bad attempt at a smile. This is all very pleasant. Very pleasant. But to have you know I am as little superstitious as any of you, and 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 of gravity. There is a picture in the room 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. My unhost 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 generally 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 bandaged it to a room, but rarely used, and should have had it covered last night. And not the nature of our conversation, and the whimsical talk about a haunted chamber attempted 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 peaked at the experiment which my host had made upon my nerves, and joined eagerly in the general entreaty. As the morning was storming and precluded all egress, my host was glad of any means of entertaining his company. So drawing his armchair beside the fire, he began.