Chapter Twenty Five.
The Ghosts at the Grange.
Whether I believe in ghosts, fetches, hobgoblins, table spirits, and the rest of the lights and shades of the supernatural world, is a question that we will not stop to discuss, but if these pages should meet the eye of any person who can introduce me to a haunted house, I shall be his debtor. Now, when I say a haunted house, I must place a few stipulations upon my acceptance of the said house, so I will at once state what I want.
I want one of those comfortably (old-fashioned) furnished, quaint, gabled houses, shut up and deserted on account of supernatural tenants who will not be evicted; a house sacred to dust, spiders, and silence, where the damp has crept in here, and the mildew there, where dry rot and desolation have fixed their abodes, where the owl hoots and the chimney swallow builds, undisturbed by the cheering fumes of a fire; where the once trim garden is weed-grown and wild; pedestals overturned; moss and ivy rampant; fountains choked, and nature having it all her own way as she has had it for years. That’s the sort of place I want to meet with, one that nobody will take, and when I present myself, the agent will laugh in his sleeve, and gladly accept me as tenant on lease for a trivial rent. Yes, the agent will laugh in his sleeve at my folly in taking the place on lease, and eagerly getting the document prepared and signed.
But then about the murder once committed in the far chamber—the noises—the rustling of silk dresses—the groans—the spots on the floor—the steps along the passages—the opening and closing doors—and other horrors that have scared people to death? Well, by God’s help, and the exercise of a little observation, and putting of that and that together, I fancy I could get over those little troubles in time, for if the released souls of Hades, that once strutted upon this world’s stage, can come back to perform such pitiful duties as to get in table legs and hats, bang doors, rattle chains, and rustle about o’ nights, why e’en let them; and as I before hinted, I’ll try and get used to that part of the trouble. The birds would still be welcome visitants, for I must own to a weakness for the feathered tribe, while on their part I can easily conceive that they would be discriminating in their choice of chimneys; the mildew and damp must, of course, be ousted, along with the dust and dry rot, while, as to the spiders and their works, why, much as their untiring industry and patience must be admired, out they must go too. And after all said and done, I fancy that a spider deserves a little better treatment at our hands. As to his character: it is too bad to associate him with so much craft and insidiousness. Why, what does the poor thing do but toil hard for its living? and I maintain that friend Arachne is as reputable a member of insect society as the much-vaunted busy bee.
“Oh!” some one will say; “but look at the nasty murdering thing and the poor flies struggling in its net, while the dear bees live upon nectar and honey!”
Who killed and murdered most wilfully all those poor unfortunate chuckle-headed drones this summer, eh?
But to my haunted house once more. What a crusade against rats and mice—what inspecting of old furniture—and sending this to the lumber-room, and that to be polished and rubbed up—what choosing of suitable new objects, and fitting up the old-fashioned rooms again, mingling just enough of the modern to add to the comfort of the old, without destroying its delicious quaintness. For I like an old house, with its crooks and corners, and bo-peep passages, and closets, and steps, and ins and outs, wainscots, old pictures, and memories of the past. Why, no one with a thinking apparatus of his own can be dull in such a place for calling up the scenes of the past, and trying to trace the old place’s history.
Then, again, the garden. How glorious to leave to nature her beauties, and only take away the foul and rank; cutting back here and rescuing there, and bringing the neglected place into a charming wilderness—a place that nature has robbed of its old formal primness, and, setting art at defiance, made it her own.