THE GREEN CHAMBER.
In my younger days, "ghost stories" were the most popular narratives extant, and the lady or gentleman who could recite the most thrilling adventure, involving a genuine spiritual visitant, was sure to be the lion or lioness of the evening party he enlivened (?) with the dismal details. The elder auditors never seemed particularly horrified or terror-stricken, however much gratified they were, but the younger members would drink in every word, "supping full of horrors." After listening to one of these authentic narratives, we used to be very reluctant to retire to our dormitories, and never ventured to get into bed till we had examined suspicious-looking closets, old wardrobes, and, indeed, every nook and corner that might be supposed to harbor a ghost or a ghoul.
Fortunately for the rising generation, these tales have gone out of fashion, and though some attempts to revive the taste have been made—as in the "Night Side of Nature"—such efforts have proved deplorable failures. The young people of to-day make light of ghosts. The spectres in the incantation scene of "Der Freyschutz" are received with roars of laughter, and even the statue in Don Giovanni seems "jolly," notwithstanding the illusive music of Mozart. We were about to remark that the age had outgrown superstition, but we remembered the Rochester knockings, and concluded to be modestly silent.
One evening, many years since—it was a blustering December evening—the wind howling as it dashed the old buttonwood limbs in its fury against the parlor windows of the country house where a few of us were assembled to pass the winter holidays, we gathered before a roaring fire of walnut and oak, which made every thing within doors as cheery and comfortable as all without was desolate and dreary. The window shutters were left unfastened, that the bright lamplight and ruddy firelight might stream afar upon the wintry waste, and perhaps guide some benighted wayfarer to a hospitable shelter.
We shall not attempt to describe the group, as any such portrait painting would not be germane to the matter more immediately in hand. Suffice it to say, that one of the youngsters begged aunt Deborah, the matron of the mansion, to tell us a ghost story,—"a real ghost story, aunt Deborah,"—for in those days we were terribly afraid of counterfeits, and hated to hear a narrative where the ghost turned out in the end to be no ghost after all, but a mere compound of flesh and blood like ourselves.
Aunt Deborah smiled at our earnestness, and tantalized our impatience by some of those little arts with which the practised story-teller enhances the value and interest of her narrative. She tapped her silver snuffbox, opened it deliberately, took a very delicate pinch of the Lundy Foot, shut the box, replaced it in her pocket, folded her hands before her, looked round a minute on the expectant group, and then began.
I shall despair of imparting to this cold pen-and-ink record of her story the inimitable conversational grace with which she embellished it. It made an indelible impression on my memory, and if I have never before repeated it, it was from a lurking fear that—though the old lady assured us it was "not to be found in any book or newspaper"—it might have found its way into print. However, as twenty years have elapsed, and I have never yet met with it in type, I will venture to give the outlines of the narrative.
Major Rupert Stanley, a "bold dragoon" in the service of his majesty George III., found himself, one dark and blustering night in autumn, riding towards London on the old York road. He had supped with a friend who lived at a village some distance off the road, and he was unfamiliar with the country. Though not raining, the air was damp, and the heavy, surcharged clouds threatened every moment to pour down their contents. But the major, though a young man, was an old campaigner; and with a warm cloak wrapped about him, and a good horse under him, would have cared very little for storm and darkness, had he felt sure of a good bed for himself, and comfortable quarters for his horse, when he had ridden far enough for the strength of his faithful animal. A good horseman cares as much for the comfort of his steed as for his own ease. To add to the discomfort of the evening, there was some chance of meeting highwaymen; but Major Stanley felt no uneasiness on that score, as, just before leaving his friend's house, he had examined his holster pistols, and freshly primed them. A brush with a highwayman would enhance the romance of a night journey.
So he jogged along; but mile after mile was passed, and no twinkling light in the distance gave notice of the appearance of the wished-for inn. The major's horse began to give unmistakable evidence of distress—stumbling once or twice, and recovering himself with difficulty. At last, a dim light suddenly appeared at a turn of the road. The horse pricked up his ears, and trotted forward with spirit, soon halting beside a one-story cottage. The major was disappointed, but he rode up to the door and rapped loudly with the but of his riding whip. The summons brought a sleepy cotter to the door.
"My good friend," said the major, "can you tell me how far it is to the next inn?"