Of course all the inhabitants put on the gravest looks possible, and kept a sharp look-out, but still nearly a week passed and no tidings of a renewal of the visit of his ghostship occurred. Sunday morning came, and the matter was duly canvassed before the church door, prior to the arrival of the minister. A great many solemn shakes of the head and knowing winks were given on the subject. It was formally resolved that fires had better be kept burning in all the ovens for a fortnight, though it was pretty generally agreed that the ghost had been taken unawares, and that, whatever his business to that place might be, by keeping off the wall for a week, it was a pretty good sign that he did not want to show himself, and therefore he would be more cautious in future.
The ghost, notwithstanding all these sage conclusions, resolved to have his own way in the matter, and accordingly made his appearance that very evening—not in white, nor in the form of a man, but in black, and running on all fours, like a hyena, on the top of the wall, and even proceeded so far as to throttle a very inoffensive person, and one who never could have had any thing to do with the murder—if indeed the apparition was the ghost of the murdered soldier. The facts of this encounter are these.
Christopher Burger (such was the name of the person throttled) or “Stoffel Burger,” as his German friends delighted to dub him in abbreviation, was a stout, square-built young fellow, of about twenty-two, who could do his day’s work, and dance the whole night through in the bargain, without thinking of fatigue. He had fallen in love, at a quilting party, with Miss Susan Hanz, a blooming Dutch damsel of seventeen summers; and, like a straight-forward business-like German, as he was, he resolved to make her his wife. She was, in fact, just the girl to inspire Christopher with the sentimental. Short, thick, and as elegantly shaped as a churn, with a full, round, saucy face, lighted up with a pair of brilliant black eyes, and with a foot, which, if it was not one of the smallest, could go through “a straight four,” or, for that matter, if occasion required it, a regular “hoe down,” with a grace that actually made Christopher’s heart leap, as if it was going to jump out of his mouth. Nor were these her only claims to regard. The fair Susan was an only child, and her father had the reputation of possessing more than one stocking full of the real currency, carefully stowed away in the large walnut chest under the bed. Two or three broad farms also claimed ’Squire Hanz as owner, and spread themselves out very temptingly before the eager eyes of “Stoffel.” And then, what a hand at baking hot cakes!—his mouth actually watered at the thought. Added to all this, he well knew that if he succeeded in winning the heart of the fair Susan, no obstacle would be placed in the way of his happiness by the ’Squire. In this matter the ’Squire was exceedingly liberal; he imposed but one condition upon his daughter in relation to the man of her choice, and that was, that “he must be of a good German family.” To “Stoffel” there could be no objection on this score. His very name carried the recommendation with it. Moreover, the ’Squire had never had brother or sister, and therefore there were no rascally cousins to be mining the fortress in his absence. Had there been any, with stout purses in their fists, the matter would not have been quite so positive; for, as an arrangement of convenience, and to keep the money from the hands of grasping strangers, every man in the village of which we write made it a point to marry his cousin—if he could get her—and, if the truth must be told, the strong voice of parental command was seldom wanting to strengthen his suit.
Let it not be supposed, however, that a lady with such substantial claims had never been besieged with lovers. Such had been the case. But “Stoffel” having so far outstripped his rivals as to attain the honor of smoking a pipe alone with the ’Squire a few Sunday evenings previous to the time of which we write, the business was looked on as settled, and the whole bevy of Dutch beaux were off in the twinkling of an eye, like a flock of partridges when they have been shot at.
Christopher, thus having “a fair field and all the favor,” was not the man to neglect the advantage; so that, on the Sunday night in question, if an inquisitive eye had been placed at the key-hole of the ’Squire’s parlor door, he might have been seen, or heard, actually (we hope the ladies will skip this passage)—we say he might have been seen kissing Susan in the dark. Atrocious as this conduct was, however, on the part of “Stoffel,” we are bound, in recording a true narrative, to say that the lady was not to be frightened at trifles; so, instead of screaming out, and thus rousing the ’Squire and his blunderbuss, she took the matter coolly, and, resolving not to be outdone in civilities, gave him as good as he sent, and, throwing her arms around his neck, kissed him!! These, of course, are little attentions, on the part of lovers, which should not be wantonly, and without purpose, revealed to “the cold and heartless world,” and we only mention them to show that Christopher was a fellow with a pretty stout heart, and thus prepare our readers for the horrible outrage upon a brave man we are about to record. And considering, too, that all our lady readers have skipped the last passage, and are waiting breathlessly, we proceed.
It was now past twelve o’clock—we are ashamed to record it—for Christopher, whatever wrong he committed in going to the ’Squire’s every Sunday evening, when he returned, his conscience, on that score, was generally clear enough, as it was Sabbath no longer. We say it was past twelve, and Christopher set out for home. He had feasted on the best the ’Squire’s cellar afforded, and had made way with more than one mug of his best cider. The parting scene, on the part of Christopher, had been unusually tender. He was naturally an ardent lover, and the cider by no means decreased the strength of his attachment. He had used every argument to bring Susan to the point of acceptance—still she was coy. Yet Christopher was a man of discernment, and thought that a lady who would throw her arms around his neck and kiss him in the dark, (bless us! what will the ladies say to this?) could have no serious objection to him at bottom, and so, on the whole, he was in a very pleasant mood with himself, and with all mankind and womankind in the bargain, as gentlemen usually are when the lady has been kind, and the parting kiss has been freely given. He felt unusually happy, and could not restrain the kind feelings which bubbled up to his very lips and found vent in snatches of songs. He was rapidly approaching the wall—still he thought nothing of ghosts or hob-goblins, but was ruminating very intently upon the charms of the substantial little Dutch beauty, and was going over in his mind, very pleasantly, her qualifications to make him a happy man. He might be said to be in that state, when a man is walking yet dreaming. He was picturing a neat stone house, with every useful article of furniture bought and paid for, and with a horse and cow that he could call his own. Milk punch, too, naturally enough popped into his head, and then out again, to make room for thoughts of hot cakes swimming in butter. His song, however, still went on, as the music was not so difficult of execution as to require much thought in its performance—when the conclusion of a stanza seemed suddenly to have been frozen on his lips, and he started back with the ejaculation—
“Mine Got! vat ish dat? der spooke—der divel!”
The cause of his alarm the reader will understand, and so did “Stoffel.” He had heard it rumored that a ghost in white had been seen airing himself upon Chew’s wall, and he was not the man to scoff at rumor, and, even if he had been, there was the identical thing before him, slightly changed in appearance, it is true, not in white, nor sitting erect, but in black, running along the wall towards him, like a hyena or a bear; and, sure enough, as if to establish his character beyond the possibility of a doubt, rattling his chain with a clangor truly appalling.
In any other situation Christopher, perhaps, would have run, but in the present instance his limbs refused to do their work, his knees knocked together, his teeth set to chattering, and he seemed rooted to the spot. Nor can it be supposed that he was a coward, as we think the contrary has been clearly demonstrated in his valiant exploits in courting. The ghost, however, as if to settle the difficulty, to clear all doubt in the mind of Christopher, and to prevent any more profane exclamations, coolly descended from the wall, and before he knew where he was, knocked him down “with one blow of his tail,” as was afterwards affirmed.
“So,” said the ghost, “your time has come to die!”