Chapter I: Prithee Send Me Back My Heart (2)

The _Standard_ declared: “‘The Lion and the Mouse’ is a play to be seen—it is imperfect and crude, but it is drama, strong, intense, undeniable.”

The _Tribune_ even went so far in its praise that it felt constrained to add: “As a sop to our national self-respect, however, we may remember that the author, Charles Klein, hails originally from this side of the Atlantic.”

PLAYHOUSE NOMENCLATURE.

The Names of Some Recently Christened Theaters Indicate a Painful Lack
of Propriety and Variety.

The announcement that David Belasco will manage the new theater to be built in Forty-Fourth Street, and will call it the Stuyvesant, adds another appropriately named house to the group that has been growing up in New York of late years. The Hudson, the New Amsterdam, the Knickerbocker, the Manhattan and the Astor are all indigenous of the soil and are to be commended.

Liberty is not bad, although, to be sure, it would be more happily situated in Philadelphia than in Gotham. The Quaker City is now to make a needed departure from its run on street nomenclature by calling the house now building the William Penn Theater.

Speaking of Pennsylvania, it was too bad Pittsburgh sank the historic Duquesne in “Belasco”—all right in itself, but the name Belasco loses its force as a distinctive title when duplicated too many times. Three cities now have theaters of this title—New York, Washington, and Pittsburgh.

And Shuberts, more’s the pity, will soon be as thick as huckleberries in August. The house that should be known by this name is the Princess in New York, which would thereby be exchanging a cognomen perfectly inappropriate in America, for one that would much better stand over one house in New York than over twenty elsewhere.

It is a thousand pities that the name Booth was suffered to vanish from over a theater’s doors when Booth’s, at the corner of Sixth Avenue and Twenty-Third Street, was pulled down. All that remains of it is a bust of Shakespeare in the side wall of McCreery’s, on the latter thoroughfare.

It is odd, too, when you come to think of it, that we have no Shakespeare Theater. It is a pity Charles Frohman did not use this—or at any rate Globe (the name of the house Shakespeare managed) rather than Empire. This might better have been Republic, which, when the Empire was opened in 1893, was still in the market, not having been affixed to the theater which Hammerstein built later and very soon passed over to Belasco. Another absolutely footless theater name in the United States is Savoy. Garrick is good, and Criterion not bad.

WHAT MAKES A PLAY?

English Managers Tell of the Methods They Employ In Estimating Value of
Manuscripts.

Not long since the _Grand Magazine_, of London, held a symposium of opinions from the leading English managers on the elements in a play which determined their acceptance or rejection of it. It cannot be said that the result may be read with much profit by the aspiring playwright. Doubtless those managers who, according to a footnote, declined “for one reason or another” to discuss the methods which governed their choice, were wiser in their day and generation than those who did. For, after all, it is a gamble. And what’s one man’s meat may be another’s poison.

Take, for example, the assertion of Frederick Harrison, of the London Haymarket. He declares:

“I must be quite alone when I read a play, secure from interruption, and read it through at a sitting, and rapidly. If it will not bear rapid reading there is generally something wrong—incoherence of story, clumsiness of dialogue, or something that detracts from the probability of success for the play.”

Contrast this method with an incident vouched for in the _Dramatic Mirror_ by the popular playwright Haddon Chambers, on his recent visit to this country. Speaking of one of his most successful plays, he said:

“Mr. Beerbohm Tree had the piece three months before he ever looked at it. Then, one day, I managed to read him the first two acts. The following day he was slightly indisposed and very courteously put me off. I saw him go into the Turkish bath, followed him, finished the reading then and there, and had the work accepted.”

Lewis Waller, the actor-manager, practically gets no further in the course of half a page report than telling the kind of play he does _not_ want—ordinary melodrama or a farcical comedy.

Frank Curzon, who rivals Charles Frohman in the number of theaters he manages, and who is now a partner with James K. Hackett in “Mr. Hopkinson” and other ventures in America, says, on the other hand:

“When I read a play, I do not care to which class it belongs. If it hits me hard enough I produce it.”

The recipe for George Edwardes, the great musical comedy producer, is first an idea that shall be simple in character but capable of elaboration in a way that shall give striking opportunities to the members of his company. Often the _locale_ or the background for the piece is selected long before the plot is attached to it.

W. H. Kendal, who frequently used to visit us with his wife—a sister of the late Tom Robertson, the teacup and saucer playwright—insists rather indefinitely that the characters shall live before him and that their story shall interest him.

Tom B. Davis, another musical comedy expert, in whose theater “Florodora” was brought out, thinks that the plot is not of supreme importance, but he wants the low comedian woven into the story in such a way that when the lovers find themselves in a predicament the audience shall know that it is he who will help them out. He also deems it advisable that “a dramatic situation shall be led up to in the finale of the first act, in which the baritone and the prima donna shall be the central figures.”

Altogether, Mr. Davis is the most explicit in his rules of any of the bunch, for of the two remaining entries for the _Grand’s_ symposium, Fred Terry—who originally produced “Sunday”—sums up the order in which the interesting factors in a play should be put as, first, Heart; second, Heart; third, Heart, and Cyril Maude, the English _Little Minister_, confines himself to the statement that he would not choose a gloomy play.

WHO WOULD NOT BE A BOY?

All Things Considered, He Is a Lucky Little Mortal, Though Perhaps He
Does Not Always Realize It Until He Has Passed That Age “When Thought Is
Speech, and Speech Is Truth.”

THE BOY.

By W. H. Pierce.

I wouldn’t be a single thing on earth
Except a boy;
And it’s just an accident of birth
That I’m a boy;
And, goodness gracious! When I stop and think
That I once trembled on the very brink
Of making my appearance here a girl
It fairly makes my ears and eyebrows curl—
But I’m a boy.

Just think of all the jolly fun there is
When you’re a boy!
I tell you, you’re just full of business
When you’re a boy.
There’s fires to build in all the vacant lots.
Go swimmin’, tie the fellers’ clothes in knots,
Tie tin-cans on the tails of dogs—why, gee!
The days ain’t half as long as they should be
When you’re a boy.

There’s lots of foolish things that make you tired
When you’re a boy;
There’s heaps of grouchy men that can’t be hired
To like a boy;
There’s wood to chop at home, and coal to bring,
And “Here, do this—do that—the other thing!”
And, worse than all, there’s girls—oh, holy smoke!
Are they a crime, or are they just a joke
Upon a boy?

And then, there’s always somebody to jaw
When you’re a boy—
Somebody always laying down the law
To every boy;
“Pick up your coat; see where you’ve put your hat;
Don’t stone the dog, don’t tease the poor old cat;
Don’t race around the house”—why, suffrin’ Moses!
The only time you have to practise things like those is
When you’re a boy!

And yet, I don’t believe I’d change a thing
For any boy;
You’ve got to laugh, to cry, to work, to sing,
To be a boy;
With all his thoughtless noise and care less play,
With all his heartfelt trials day by day,
With all his boyish hopes and all his fears,
I’d like to live on earth a thousand years
And be a boy.
_Chicago Times-Herald._

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

SONG OF THE MODERN ATONEMENT

By J. W. Foley.

Sumtimes i wisht i was a pirut so
i woodunt hafftoo go to skool uno
but fli mi skulankroasboans in the breez
ann berry awl mi treashur in the seez
neer sum lost iland ann sum uther day
ide kum ann dive fore it ann bare away
the spannish dubloons i had hidd ann ther
go back to the old town i livd in wenn
i was a boy ann settul down ann sho
um awl i am not prowd ur sweld uno.

then i wood bi the teecher a noo dres
fore she wood nede it badd enuf i gess
ann fownd a norfens hoam ann sel iskream
fore onley wott it kost ann it wood seam
a parradice on urth ann every day
ide give beafstake ann bukweet flower away
too awl the poor ann wenn thay past the hatt
ide dropp a hundered dollur bil in thatt
too maik the preecher gladd ann help him bi
owr way to thoas brite manshuns in the ski.

ann aftur wile i wood repent mi dedes
bi dooen things wich everybuddy nedes
ann spennden mi ilgoten welth to fownd
sum collidges with statchoos awl arownd
ann hayv a littul munney left soze i
woant be a popper wenn i kum too di.
then i wood urn foargivness fore mi past
ann be content to no thatt now at last
ime dooen good ann trien to atoan
fore dedes i did wile aftur welth aloan.
_Saturday Evening Post._

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

ADAM: THE MAN WHO NEVER WAS A BOY.

Of all the men the world has seen
Since Time his rounds began,
There’s one I pity every day—
Earth’s first and foremost man;
Just think of all the fun he missed
By failing to enjoy
The dear delights of youthtime,
For—he never was a boy.

He never stubbed his naked toe
Against a root or stone,
He never with a pin-hook fished
For minnows all alone;
He never sought the bumblebee
Among the daisies coy,
Nor felt its business end,
Because—he never was a boy.

He never hookey played, nor tied
A bright and shining pail,
Down in the alley all alone,
To a trusting poodle’s tail.
And when he home from swimmin’ came,
His pleasure to destroy
No slipper interfered,
Because—he never was a boy.

He might remember splendid times
In Eden’s bowers—yet
He never acted _Romeo_
To a six-year _Juliet_.
He never sent a valentine
Intended to annoy
His good but maiden aunt,
Because—he never was a boy.

He never cut a kite string, no,
Nor hid an Easter egg;
He never spoiled his pantaloons
A playin’ mumbley-peg.
He never from the attic stole
A ‘coon-hunt to enjoy,
Nor found the “old man” waiting,
For—he never was a boy.

I pity him, why should I not?
I even drop a tear;
He never knew how much he missed;
He never will, I fear.
And always when those dear old days
My memories employ,
I pity him, earth’s only man
Who—never was a boy.
_Pittsburgh Dispatch._

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

THE BOY WHO LIVES NEXT DOOR.

By S. E. Kiser.

The boy who lives next door
Has freckles on his face;
His ears are red and hang
Away out into space,
And when I hear a dog ki-yi
And see it flee in terror, I
Can quickly guess the cause—
’Tis merely that one more
Poor little victim knows
A boy resides next door.

He runs across the lawn
I’ve nursed with jealous care,
And, in the summer-time,
Knocks down the flowers there!
It seems to give him pure delight
To yell around with all his might,
And every week or so
A pebble finds its way
Against a light of glass
For which I have to pay.

He has no teeth in front,
His hands are cracked and brown,
Twice he has nearly burned
Our summer kitchen down!
He calls to people, “Hey! Watch out!”
And when they jump he whoops about—
I used to think if God
Would take him from below
Up to the sky I’d try
To bravely bear the blow!

The little child whose love
Is all to me, one day
Was stricken suddenly
When I was far away—
The boy who lives next door forgot
To yell around, but ran and brought
The doctor to the bed,
And when I came, at last
Shrank from me with a look
Of pity as I passed!

The boy who lives next door
Brought in his tops and gun,
And pocketfuls of trash
To please our little one;
He played beside my darling’s bed,
Turned cartwheels, and stood on his head
And God was good to me—
Let’s wait awhile before
We utterly condemn
“The boy who lives next door!”
_Old scrap book._

FADS OF FAMOUS PEOPLE.

Some of the Follies of Which Men and Women of Genius Have Been
Guilty—Queen Elizabeth Was Profane, Queen Victoria Was Superstitious,
While Bacon, Dickens, and Longfellow Were Confirmed Dandies.

No man or woman is so strong as to be wholly free from weakness. If a man occupies an humble sphere in life he usually is fortunate enough to keep his fads and follies from becoming known beyond his own circle of friends. If, on the other hand, he has attained sufficient distinction in the world to be called “famous,” he must reconcile himself to seeing the public in possession of all knowledge that has to do with his personal peculiarities.

=Descartes= had a small garden where he spent all the hours not
devoted to mental labor.

=Queen Elizabeth= was very profane, and when angry would kick and cuff
her maids.

=Matthew Arnold’s= dogs, cat, and canary bird are mentioned dozens of
times in his poems.

=Domitian= spent his leisure in catching flies and piercing them
through with a needle.

=William the Conqueror= was immoderately devoted to dog-fighting and
bear-baiting.

=David=, the artist, when not painting, amused himself by scraping on
an old fiddle.

=Mirabeau= loved dogs, and had a famous pet, Chico, to which he was
much attached.

=Mrs. Radcliffe= ate raw pork before going to work on a particularly
thrilling chapter.

=Pierex=, after work hours, busied himself in arranging and caring for
his coins and medals.

=Washington= was devoted to fox-hunting, and in the season usually
hunted twice a week.

=Socrates= was fond of playing with children, and was often seen busy
with them at their games.

=Mme. de Staël= always carried a bit of a stick in her hand and played
with it as an aid to conversation.

=Blackmore=, the novelist, was fond of gardening, and spent in that
amusement all he made by writing.

=Leigh Hunt=, when tired out with work, found relaxation in riding to
and fro on the London omnibuses.

=Dumas=, père, disliked a noise in the house while he was writing, and
kept a pet buzzard in his room.

=Vincent=, the landscape painter, disliked violets, and always avoided
a field or garden where they grew.

=Prince Rupert=, the cavalryman, was fond of chemistry, and invented
the glass drops called by his name.

=Berlioz=, though so famous as a composer, could play no instrument
except the guitar, and that very badly.

=Hazlitt= was an enormous drinker of strong tea, which completely
upset his nerves and made him miserable.

=Tycho Brahe=, “the Wizard of the Golden Nose,” always became sick at
the stomach whenever he saw a fox.

=Herrick=, the poet, was fond of pigs as pets, and taught one to
follow him about and to drink beer out of a mug.

=Francis Bacon= was very fond of fine clothes, and spent much of his
leisure in devising new costumes for court occasions.

=Edward Fitzgerald= was a vegetarian, and believed that in adopting
such a diet he had, to quote his own words, found “the great secret of
it all.”

=Charles Dickens= was fond of wearing gaudy jewelry, and the clanking
of his numerous gold chains announced his coming while he was yet some
distance away.

=Henry W. Longfellow= had a weakness for flowered waistcoats, and he
possessed many of gorgeous pattern and color.

=Queen Victoria= of England shared the common superstition about salt.
She would reprimand any guest who was unfortunate enough to spill it,
and throughout the remainder of the meal she would be disturbed and in
ill-humor.

The House and the Brain.

BY E. BULWER LYTTON.

“The House and the Brain” has been called by many critics the most
powerful and appalling story of the supernatural ever written in the
English language. It appeared in 1859 in the pages of _Blackwood’s
Magazine_, where it was read by thousands with a fascinated horror.
Sir Edward Hamley said of it: “So elusive is the atmosphere of the
tale, so vivid the description of its terrifying appearances, and so
effective their connection with the agency of a malignant being
possessed of supernatural powers,” that many were half convinced of
its actuality. Soon after its appearance in _Blackwood’s_, a gentleman
wrote to the editor of that magazine: “For God’s sake tell me what
truth there is in this terrible story! My daughter has known no rest
or peace since reading it.”

Its author, Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, was one who, like Scott, felt a
profound interest in the world of mystery. He believed in the occult
powers of nature and in the strange arts of those who sought to use
them. He himself “dived into wizard lore, equipped himself with
magical implements, and communed with mediums and spiritualists.” The
literature of alchemy and divination he studied with intense
eagerness. On one occasion he drew up what he called a “geomantic
figure,” by means of which he foretold the future of Disraeli. This
was before that brilliant personage was seriously regarded by his
associates; yet Bulwer Lytton accurately predicted his coming
political triumphs and the fact that he would be at some day Prime
Minister of England. After his famous ghost-story had appeared in
print, Bulwer Lytton saw that he had given to a short story an idea
too valuable for so slight a treatment. Therefore, when the tale was
subsequently reprinted, he suppressed the second half of it and made
the story end with the discovery of the secret chamber in the haunted
house. The latter part he made the basis of his weird and almost
equally powerful romance of mystery “A Strange Story” which was
published in 1862. This is constructed around the central notion that
there are arts which can indefinitely prolong human life; and in his
book the chief character is the human serpent, Margrave, infinitely
depraved, possessed of supernatural power and renewing his youth by
mystical arts so that he is ever young and capable of fresh evil even
at the end of centuries of his existence. The conception is no less
bold than fascinating, and it is worked out by its author in a
terrifying way. Yet nowhere does it attain to the pitch of horror and
to the power of affecting the human nerves which we find in the
earlier short story of which the original title was “The Haunters and
the Haunted.”

The story as printed here gives the complete text precisely as it was
first published in the pages of _Blackwood’s._

A friend of mine, who is a man of letters and a philosopher, said to me one day, as if between jest and earnest, “Fancy! since we last met I have discovered a haunted house in the midst of London.”

“Really haunted? and by what—ghosts?”

“Well, I can’t answer these questions; all I know is this: six weeks ago I and my wife were in search of a furnished apartment. Passing a quiet street, we saw on the window of one of the houses a bill, ‘Apartments Furnished.’ The situation suited us; we entered the house, liked the rooms, engaged them by the week, and left them the third day. No power on earth could have reconciled my wife to stay longer; and I don’t wonder at it.”

“What did you see?”

“Excuse me; I have no desire to be ridiculed as a superstitious dreamer, nor, on the other hand, could I ask you to accept on my affirmation what you would hold to be incredible, without the evidence of your own senses. Let me only say this: it was not so much what we saw or heard (in which you might fairly suppose that we were the dupes of our own excited fancy, or the victims of imposture in others) that drove us away, as it was an undefinable terror which seized both of us whenever we passed by the door of a certain unfurnished room, in which we neither saw nor heard anything; and the strangest marvel of all was that for once in my life I agreed with my wife, silly woman though she be, and allowed after the third night that it was impossible to stay a fourth in that house.

“Accordingly, on the fourth morning I summoned the woman who kept the house and attended on us, and told her that the rooms did not quite suit us, and we would not stay out our week. She said dryly:

“‘I know why; you have stayed longer than any other lodger. Few ever stayed a second night; none before you a third. But I take it that they have been very kind to you.’

“‘They—who?’ I asked, affecting a smile.

“‘Why, they who haunt the house, whoever they are; I don’t mind them; I remember them many years ago, when I lived in this house not as a servant; but I know they will be the death of me some day. I don’t care—I’m old and must die soon anyhow; and then I shall be with them, and in this house still.’

“The woman spoke with so dreary a calmness that really it was a sort of awe that prevented my conversing with her further. I paid for my week, and too happy were I and my wife to get off so cheaply.”

“You excite my curiosity,” said I; “nothing I should like better than to sleep in a haunted house. Pray give me the address of the one which you left so ignominiously.”

My friend gave me the address; and when we parted I walked straight toward the house thus indicated.

It is situated on the north side of Oxford Street, in a dull but respectable thoroughfare. I found the house shut up; no bill on the window, and no response to my knock. As I was turning away, a beer-boy, collecting pewter pots at the neighboring areas, said to me, “Do you want any one at that house, sir?”

“Yes; I heard it was to be let.”

“Let! Why, the woman who kept it is dead; has been dead these three weeks; and no one can be found to stay there, though Mr. J—— offered ever so much. He offered mother, who chars for him, one pound a week just to open and shut the windows, and she would not.”

“Would not! and why?”

“The house is haunted; and the old woman who kept it was found dead in her bed with her eyes wide open. They say the devil strangled her.”

“Pooh! You speak of Mr. J——. Is he the owner of the house?”

“Yes.”

“Where does he live?”

“In G—— Street, No. —.”

“What is he—in any business?”

“No, sir, nothing particular; a single gentleman.”

I gave the pot-boy the gratuity earned by his liberal information, and proceeded to Mr. J—— in G—— Street, which was close by the street that boasted the haunted house. I was lucky enough to find Mr. J—— at home; an elderly man with intelligent countenance and prepossessing manners.

I communicated my name and my business frankly. I said I heard the house was considered to be haunted; that I had a strong desire to examine a house with so equivocal a reputation; that I should be greatly obliged if he would allow me to hire it, though only for a night. I was willing to pay for that privilege whatever he might be inclined to ask.

“Sir,” said Mr. J——, with great courtesy, “the house is at your service for as short or as long a time as you please. Rent is out of the question; the obligation will be on my side, should you be able to discover the cause of the strange phenomena which at present deprive it of all value. I cannot let it, for I cannot even get a servant to keep it in order or answer the door.

“Unluckily, the house is haunted, if I may use that expression, not only by night but by day; though at night the disturbances are of a more unpleasant and sometimes of a more alarming character. The poor old woman who died in it three weeks ago was a pauper whom I took out of a workhouse; for in her childhood she had been known to some of my family, and had once been in such good circumstances that she had rented that house of my uncle. She was a woman of superior education and strong mind, and was the only person I could ever induce to remain in the house. Indeed, since her death, which was sudden, and the coroner’s inquest, which gave it a notoriety in the neighborhood, I have so despaired of finding any person to take charge of it, much more a tenant, that I would most willingly let it rent free for a year to any one who would pay its rates and taxes.”

“How long ago did the house acquire this character?”

“That I can scarcely tell you, but many years since; the old woman I spoke of said it was haunted when she rented it, between thirty and forty years ago. The fact is that my life has been spent in the East Indies, and in the civil service of the East India Company.

“I returned to England last year, on inheriting the fortune of an uncle, among whose possessions was the house in question. I found it shut up and uninhabited. I was told that it was haunted, and no one would inhabit it. I smiled at what seemed to me so idle a story.

“I spent some money in repainting and roofing it, added to its old-fashioned furniture a few modern articles, advertised it, and obtained a lodger for a year. He was a colonel retired on half pay. He came in with his family, a son and a daughter, and four or five servants; they all left the house the next day; and although they deponed that they had all seen something different, that something was equally terrible to all. I really could not in conscience sue, or even blame, the colonel for breach of agreement.

“Then I put in the old woman I have spoken of, and she was empowered to let the house in apartments. I never had one lodger who stayed more than three days. I do not tell you their stories; to no two lodgers have exactly the same phenomena been repeated. It is better that you should judge for yourself than enter the house with an imagination influenced by previous narratives; only be prepared to see and to hear something or other, and take whatever precautions you yourself please.”

“Have you never had a curiosity yourself to pass a night in that house?”

“Yes; I passed, not a night, but three hours in broad daylight alone in that house. My curiosity is not satisfied, but it is quenched. I have no desire to renew the experiment. You cannot complain, you see, sir, that I am not sufficiently candid; and unless your interest be exceedingly eager and your nerves unusually strong, I honestly add that I advise you _not_ to pass a night in that house.”

“My interest _is_ exceedingly keen,” said I; “and though only a coward will boast of his nerves in situations wholly unfamiliar to him, yet my nerves have been seasoned in such variety of danger that I have the right to rely on them, even in a haunted house.”

Mr. J—— said very little more; he took the keys of the house out of his bureau, and gave them to me; and, thanking him cordially for his frankness and his urbane concession to my wish, I carried off my prize.

Impatient for the experiment, as soon as I reached home I summoned my confidential servant—a young man of gay spirits, fearless temper, and as free from superstitious prejudice as any one I could think of.

“F——,” said I, “you remember in Germany how disappointed we were at not finding a ghost in that old castle which was said to be haunted by a headless apparition? Well, I have heard of a house in London which, I have reason to hope, is decidedly haunted. I mean to sleep there to-night. From what I hear, there is no doubt that something will allow itself to be seen or to be heard—something perhaps excessively horrible. Do you think, if I take you with me, I may rely on your presence of mind, whatever may happen?”

“Oh, sir; pray trust me!” said he, grinning with delight.

“Very well, then, here are the keys of the house; this is the address. Go now, select for me any bedroom you please; and since the house has not been inhabited for weeks, make up a good fire, air the bed well; see, of course, that there are candles as well as fuel. Take with you my revolver and my dagger—so much for my weapons—arm yourself equally well; and it we are not a match for a dozen ghosts, we shall be but a sorry couple of Englishmen.”

I was engaged for the rest of the day on business so urgent that I had not leisure to think much on the nocturnal adventure to which I had plighted my honor. I dined alone and very late, and while dining read, as is my habit. The volume I selected was one of Macaulay’s essays. I thought to myself that I would take the book with me; there was so much of healthfulness in the style, and practical life in the subjects, that it would serve as an antidote against the influences of superstitious fancy.

Accordingly, about half-past nine I put the book into my pocket and strolled leisurely toward the haunted house. I took with me a favorite dog—an exceedingly sharp, bold, and vigilant bull-terrier, a dog fond of prowling about strange ghostly corners and passages at night in search of rats, a dog of dogs for a ghost.

It was a summer night, but chilly, the sky somewhat gloomy and overcast; still there was a moon—faint and sickly, but still a moon—and if the clouds permitted, after midnight it would be brighter.

I reached the house, knocked, and my servant opened with a cheerful smile.

“All right, sir, and very comfortable.”

“Oh!” said I, rather disappointed; “have you not seen nor heard anything remarkable?”

“Well, sir, I must own that I have heard something queer.”

“What?—what?”

“The sound of feet pattering behind me; and once or twice small noises like whispers close at my ear; nothing more.”

“You are not at all frightened?”

“I! not a bit of it, sir!”

And the man’s bold look reassured me on one point, namely, that, happen what might, he would not desert me.

We were in the hall, the street-door closed, and my attention as now drawn to my dog. He had at first run in eagerly enough, but had sneaked back to the door, and was scratching and whining to get out. After I had patted him on the head and encouraged him gently, the dog seemed to reconcile himself to the situation, and followed me and F—— through the house, but keeping close at my heels, instead of hurrying inquisitively in advance, which was his usual and normal habit in all strange places.

We first visited the subterranean apartments, the kitchen and other offices, and especially the cellars, in which last were two or three bottles of wine still left in a bin, covered with cobwebs, and evidently, by their appearance, undisturbed for many years. It was clear that the ghosts were not wine-bibbers.

For the rest, we discovered nothing of interest. There was a gloomy little back-yard, with very high walls. The stones of this yard were very damp; and what with the damp and what with the dust and smoke-grime on the pavement, our feet left a slight impression where we passed.

And now appeared the first strange phenomenon witnessed by myself in this strange abode.

I saw, just before me, the print of a foot suddenly form itself, as it were. I stopped, caught hold of my servant, and pointed to it. In advance of that footprint as suddenly dropped another. We both saw it. I advanced quickly to the place; the footprint kept advancing before me; a small footprint—the foot of a child; the impression was too faint thoroughly to distinguish the shape, but it seemed to us both that it was the print of a naked foot.

This phenomenon ceased when we arrived at the opposite wall, nor did it repeat itself when we returned. We remounted the stairs and entered the rooms on the ground floor—a dining-parlor, a small back-parlor, and a still smaller third room that had probably been appropriated to a footman—all still as death.

We then visited the drawing-rooms, which seemed fresh and new. In the front room I seated myself in an armchair. F—— placed on the table the candlestick with which he had lighted us. I told him to shut the door. As he turned to do so, a chair opposite to me moved from the wall quickly and noiselessly, and dropped itself about a yard from my own chair, immediately fronting it.

“Why, this is better than the turning-tables,” said I laughing; and as I laughed, my dog put back his head and howled.

F——, coming back, had not observed the movement of the chair. He employed himself now in stilling the dog. I continued to gaze on the chair, and fancied I saw on it a pale, blue, misty outline of a human figure; but an outline so indistinct that I could only distrust my own vision. The dog was now quiet.

“Put back the chair opposite to me,” said I to F——; “put it back to the wall.”

F—— obeyed.

“Was that you, sir?” said he, turning abruptly.

“I—what?”

“Why, something struck me. I felt it sharply on the shoulder, just here.”

“No,” said I; “but we have jugglers present, and though we may not discover their tricks, we shall catch _them_ before they frighten _us_.”

We did not stay long in the drawing-rooms; in fact, they felt so damp and so chilly that I was glad to get to the fire up-stairs. We locked the doors of the drawing-rooms—a precaution which, I should observe, we had taken with all the rooms we had searched below.

The bedroom my servant had selected for me was the best on the floor; a large one, with two windows fronting the street. The four-posted bedstead, which took up no inconsiderable space, was opposite to the fire, which burned clear and bright; a door in the wall to the left, between the bed and the window, communicated with the room which my servant appropriated to himself. This last was a small room with a sofa-bed, and had no communication with the landing-place; no other door but that which conducted to the bedroom I was to occupy.

On either side of my fireplace was a cupboard, without locks, flush with the wall, and covered with the same dull-brown paper. We examined these cupboards; only hooks to suspend female dresses—nothing else. We sounded the walls; evidently solid—the outer walls of the building.

Having finished the survey of these apartments, warmed myself a few moments, and lighted my cigar, I then, still accompanied by F——, went forth to complete my reconnoiter. In the landing-place there was another door; it was closed firmly.

“Sir,” said my servant in surprise, “I unlocked this door with all the others when I first came in; it cannot have got locked from the inside, for it is a——”

Before he had finished his sentence, the door, which neither of us was then touching, opened quietly of itself. We looked at each other a single instant. The same thought seized both: some human agency might be detected here. I rushed in first, my servant followed. A small, blank, dreary room without furniture, a few empty boxes and hampers in a corner, a small window, the shutters closed—not even a fireplace—no other door but that by which we had entered, no carpet on the floor, and the floor seemed very old, uneven, worm-eaten, mended here and there, as was shown by the whiter patches on the wood; but no living being, and no visible place in which a living being could have hidden.

As we stood gazing round, the door by which we had entered closed as quietly as it had before opened; we were imprisoned.

For the first time I felt a creep of undefinable horror. Not so my servant.

“Why, they don’t think to trap us, sir; I could break that trumpery door with a kick of my foot.”

“Try first if it will open to your hand,” said I, shaking off the vague apprehension that had seized me, “while I open the shutters and see what is without.”

I unbarred the shutters; the window looked on the little back-yard I have before described; there was no ledge without, nothing but sheer descent. No man getting out of that window would have found any footing till he had fallen on the stones below.

F—— meanwhile was vainly attempting to open the door. He now turned round to me and asked my permission to use force. And I should here state, in justice to the servant, that, far from evincing any superstitious terror, his nerve, composure, and even gaiety amid circumstances so extraordinary, compelled my admiration and made me congratulate myself on having secured a companion in every way fitted to the occasion. I willingly gave him the permission he required. But, though he was a remarkably strong man, his force was as idle as his milder efforts; the door did not even shake to his stoutest kick.

Breathless and panting, he desisted. I then tried the door myself, equally in vain. As I ceased from the effort, again that creep of horror came over me; but this time it was more cold and stubborn. I felt as if some strange and ghastly exhalation were rising from the chinks of that rugged floor and filling the atmosphere with a venomous influence hostile to human life.

The door now very slowly and quietly opened as of its own accord. We precipitated ourselves onto the landing-place. We both saw a large, pale light—as large as the human figure, but shapeless and unsubstantial—move before us and ascend the stairs that led from the landing into the attics.

I followed the light, and my servant followed me. It entered, to the right of the landing, a small garret, of which the door stood open. I entered in the same instant. The light then collapsed into a small globule, exceedingly brilliant and vivid; rested a moment on a bed in the corner, quivered, and vanished.

We approached the bed and examined it—a half-tester, such as is commonly found in attics devoted to servants. On the drawers that stood near it we perceived an old faded silk kerchief, with the needle still left in the rent half repaired. The kerchief was covered with dust; probably it had belonged to the old woman who had last died there, and this might have been her sleeping-room.

I had sufficient curiosity to open the drawers; there were a few odds and ends of female dress, and two letters tied round with a narrow ribbon of faded yellow. I took the liberty to possess myself of the letters. We found nothing else in the room worth noticing, nor did the light reappear; but we distinctly heard, as we turned to go, a pattering footfall on the floor just before us.

We went through the other attics (in all four), the footfall still preceding us. Nothing to be seen, nothing but the footfall heard. I had the letters in my hand; just as I was descending the stairs I distinctly felt my wrist seized, and a faint, soft effort made to draw the letters from my clasp. I only held them the more tightly, and the effort ceased.

We regained the bedchamber appropriated to myself, and I then remarked that my dog had not followed us when we had left it. He was thrusting himself close to the fire and trembling. I was impatient to examine the letters; and while I read them my servant opened a little box in which he had deposited the weapons I had ordered him to bring, took them out, placed them on a table close at my bed-head, and then occupied himself in soothing the dog, who, however, seemed to heed him very little.

The letters were short; they were dated—the dates exactly thirty-five years ago. They were evidently from a lover to his mistress, or a husband to some young wife. Not only the terms of expression, but a distinct reference to a former voyage indicated the writer to have been a seafarer. The spelling and handwriting were those of a man imperfectly educated; but still the language itself was forcible. In the expressions of endearment there was a kind of rough, wild love; but here and there were dark, unintelligible hints at some secret not of love—some secret that seemed of crime.

“We ought to love each other,” was one of the sentences I remember, “for how every one else would execrate us if all was known.”

Again: “Don’t let any one be in the same room with you at night—you talk in your sleep.”

And again: “What’s done can’t be undone; and I tell you there’s nothing against us, unless the dead should come to life.”

Here was interlined, in a better handwriting (a female’s), “They do!”

At the end of the letter latest in date the same female hand had written these words:

“Lost at sea the 4th of June, the same day as——”

I put down the letters, and began to muse over their contents.

Fearing, however, that the train of thought into which I fell might unsteady my nerves, I fully determined to keep my mind in a fit state to cope with whatever of marvelous the advancing night might bring forth. I roused myself, laid the letters on the table, stirred up the fire, which was still bright and cheering, and opened my volume of Macaulay.

I read quietly enough till about half-past eleven. I then threw myself dressed upon the bed, and told my servant he might retire to his own room, but must keep himself awake. I bade him leave open the doors between the two rooms. Thus alone I kept two candles burning on the table by my bed-head. I placed my watch beside the weapons, and calmly resumed my Macaulay. Opposite to me the fire burned clear, and on the hearth-rug, seemingly asleep, lay the dog. In about twenty minutes I felt an exceedingly cold air pass by my cheek, like a sudden draft. I fancied the door to my right, communicating with the landing-place, must have got open; but no, it was closed.

I then turned my glance to the left, and saw the flames of the candles violently swayed as by a wind. At the same moment the watch beside the revolver softly slid from the table—softly, softly—no visible hand—it was gone. I sprang up, seizing the revolver with the one hand, the dagger with the other: I was not willing that my weapons should share the fate of the watch.

Thus armed, I looked round the floor: no sign of the watch. Three slow, loud, distinct knocks were now heard at the bed-head; my servant called out:

“Is that you, sir?”

“No; be on your guard.”

The dog now roused himself and sat on his haunches, his ears moving quickly backward and forward. He kept his eye fixed on me with a look so strange that he concentered all my attention on himself. Slowly he rose, all his hair bristling, and stood perfectly rigid, and with the same wild stare.

I had no time, however, to examine the dog. Presently my servant emerged from his room; and if I ever saw horror in the human face, it was then. I should not have recognized him had we met in the streets, so altered was every lineament. He passed by me quickly, saying, in a whisper that seemed scarcely to come from his lips:

“Run! run! It is after me!”

He gained the door to the landing, pulled it open, and rushed forth. I followed him into the landing involuntarily, calling him to stop; but, without heeding me, he bounded down the stairs, clinging to the balusters and taking several steps at a time. I heard, where I stood, the street-door open, heard it again clap to.

I was left alone in the haunted house.

It was but for a moment that I remained undecided whether or not to follow my servant; pride and curiosity alike forbade so dastardly a flight. I reentered my room, closing the door after me, and proceeded cautiously into the interior chamber. I encountered nothing to justify my servant’s terror.

I again carefully examined the walls, to see if there were any concealed door. I could find no trace of one—not even a seam in the dull-brown paper with which the room was hung. How then had the THING, whatever it was, which had so scared him, obtained ingress, except through my own chamber?

I returned to my room, shut and locked the door that opened upon the interior one, and stood on the hearth, expectant and prepared.

I now perceived that the dog had slunk into an angle of the wall, and was pressing close against it, as if literally striving to force his way into it. I approached the animal and spoke to it; the poor brute was evidently beside itself with terror. It showed all its teeth, the slaver dropping from its jaws, and would certainly have bitten me if I had touched it. It did not seem to recognize me. Whoever has seen at the Zoological Gardens a rabbit fascinated by a serpent, cowering in a corner, may form some idea of the anguish which the dog exhibited.

Finding all efforts to soothe the animal in vain, and fearing that his bite might be as venomous in that state as if in the madness of hydrophobia, I left him alone, placed my weapons on the table beside the fire, seated myself, and recommenced my Macaulay.

Perhaps, in order not to appear seeking credit for a courage, or rather a coolness, which the reader may conceive I exaggerate, I may be pardoned if I pause to indulge in one or two egotistical remarks.

As I hold presence of mind, or what is called courage, to be precisely proportioned to familiarity with the circumstances that lead to it, so I should say that I had been long sufficiently familiar with all experiments that appertain to the marvelous. I had witnessed many very extraordinary phenomena in various parts of the world—phenomena that would be either totally disbelieved if I stated them, or ascribed to supernatural agencies.

Now, my theory is that the supernatural is the impossible, and that what is called supernatural is only a something in the laws of nature of which we have been hitherto ignorant. Therefore, if a ghost rise before me, I have not the right to say, “So, then, the supernatural is possible,” but rather, “So, then, the apparition of a ghost is, contrary to received opinion, within the laws of nature, namely, not supernatural.”

Now, in all that I had hitherto witnessed, and indeed in all the wonders which the amateurs of mystery in our age record as facts, a material living agency is always required. On the Continent you will still find magicians who assert that they can raise spirits. Assume for a moment that they assert truly, still the living material form of the magician is present; he is the material agency by which, from some constitutional peculiarities, certain strange phenomena are represented to your natural senses.

Accept, again, as truthful the tales of spirit manifestation in America—musical or other sounds, writings on paper, produced by no discernible hand, articles of furniture moved without apparent human agency, or the actual sight and touch of hands, to which no bodies seem to belong—still there must be found the medium, or living being, with constitutional peculiarities capable of obtaining these signs.

In fine, in all such marvels, supposing even that there is no imposture, there must be a human being like ourselves, by whom or through whom the effects presented to human beings are produced. It is so with the now familiar phenomena of mesmerism or electro-biology; the mind of the person operated on is affected through a material living agent.

Nor, supposing it true that a mesmerized patient can respond to the will or passes of a mesmerizer a hundred miles distant, is the response less occasioned by a material being. It may be through a material fluid, call it Electric, call it Odic, call it what you will, which has the power of traversing space and passing obstacles, that the material effect is communicated from one to the other.

Hence, all that I had hitherto witnessed, or expected to witness, in this strange house, I believed to be occasioned through some agency or medium as mortal as myself; and this idea necessarily prevented the awe with which those who regard as supernatural things that are not within the ordinary operations of nature might have been impressed by the adventures of that memorable night.

As, then, it was my conjecture that all that was presented, or would be presented, to my senses, must originate in some human being gifted by constitution with the power so to present them, and having some motive so to do, I felt an interest in my theory which, in its way, was rather philosophical than superstitious. And I can sincerely say that I was in as tranquil a temper for observation as any practical experimentalist could be in awaiting the effects of some rare though perhaps perilous chemical combination. Of course, the more I kept my mind detached from fancy the more the temper fitted for observation would be obtained; and I therefore riveted eye and thought on the strong daylight sense in the page of my Macaulay.

I now became aware that something interposed between the page and the light: the page was overshadowed. I looked up and saw what I shall find it very difficult, perhaps impossible, to describe.

It was a darkness shaping itself out of the air in very undefined outline. I cannot say it was of a human form, and yet it had more of a resemblance to a human form, or rather shadow, than anything else. As it stood, wholly apart and distinct from the air and the light around it, its dimensions seemed gigantic; the summit nearly touched the ceiling.

While I gazed, a feeling of intense cold seized me. An iceberg before me could not more have chilled me; nor could the cold of an iceberg have been more purely physical. I feel convinced that it was not the cold caused by fear. As I continued to gaze, I thought—but this I cannot say with precision—that I distinguished two eyes looking down on me from the height. One moment I seemed to distinguish them clearly, the next they seemed gone; but two rays of a pale, blue light frequently shot through the darkness, as from the height on which I half believed, half doubted, that I had encountered the eyes.

I strove to speak; my voice utterly failed me. I could only think to myself, “Is this fear? it is _not_ fear!” I strove to rise, in vain; I felt as weighed down by an irresistible force. Indeed, my impression was that of an immense and overwhelming power opposed to my volition; that sense of utter inadequacy to cope with a force beyond men’s, which one may feel _physically_ in a storm at sea, in a conflagration, or when confronting some terrible wild beast, or rather, perhaps, the shark of the ocean, I felt _morally_. Opposed to my will was another will, as far superior to its strength as storm, fire, and shark are superior in material force to the force of men.