University of Virginia Library

28. CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE GOBLIN SWAMP.

The sun was not above half an hour high when
we took our departure from the Brakes; and the
heat of the atmosphere was beginning to yield to the
partial distillation of the dew, and the slow invasion
of the night breeze. The road lay principally along
the river, upon a bank some ten or twelve feet above
the tide, shaded with low black-jacks, dogwood, cedar,
or tall pines. It occasionally digressed to head
an inlet, or thread a brake; and sometimes extended,
with a single meandering track, through the neighbouring
fields, which were guarded,—according to a
common arrangement in the Old Dominion,—by a
succession of peculiarly inconvenient, rickety and
weather-worn gates, that dragged heavily upon their
wooden hinges, and swung to again, with a misdirected
aim at their awkward bolts, to the imminent
peril of the tails of all wayfaring animals that travelled
through them.

In a short time, we reached a point where the road
turned abruptly from the river and took an inland
direction, making a circuit of a mile or more, to pass
the famous Apple-pie, which it does at some distance

below the old mill, so conspicuous in my former
sketches. At this turn Ned Hazard proposed that
we should perform the rest of our journey on foot.
He wished to show me the Goblin Swamp; a region
of marsh, about half a mile distant, formed by the
diffusion of the Apple-pie over the flat grounds, near
its confluence with the James River. An old road
had once traversed the swamp at this place; and the
remains of the causeway were yet, Ned affirmed,
sufficiently solid to afford a passage to pedestrains;
besides, the Goblin Swamp showed to great advantage
about twilight.

We accordingly committed our little companions
to the guardianship of Carey; and, quitting the coach,
entered a wood that bordered the road, where we
soon found ourselves involved in a labyrinth of young
pine-trees springing up so close together as almost
to forbid a passage through them. The ground was
strewed with a thick coat of pine-straw,—as the yellow
sheddings of this tree are called,—so slippery as
to render it difficult to walk over it; and the tangled
branches caught in our clothes, and frequently struck
our hats from our heads. But we succeeded at last
in gaining an obscure path, so much embowered in
shade as to be scarcely discernible. This conducted
us through the mazes of the wood, and in a few
moments we emerged upon the confines of an open
country.

Before us lay a plain, surrounded by forest which
in front towered above a copse that sprang from an
extensive marsh at the further extremity of the

plain. The earth was clothed with a thin vesture
of parched grass; and the still distinct furrows of ancient
cornfields furnished proof that the tract had
been, at some remote period, under cultivation, but
long since abandoned, perhaps on account of its sterility.
A few clumps of meager persimmon-trees
were scattered over this forsaken region, and deep
gullies, washed into the gravelly soil, exposed to
view its signal poverty.

Somewhere near the middle of this open ground
stood a solitary, low brick chimney, conspicuous for
its ample fire-place, and surrounded by a heap of
ruins, to which a more striking air of desolation was
added by a luxuriant growth of weeds that had
taken root in the rank compost formed by the wreck
of household timber. Amongst these relics of former
habitation were the vestiges of a draw-well, choked
by the wash of the land; the weeds sprang from its
mouth; and the tall post, with the crotch in its upper
extremity, still supported the long piece of timber that
balanced the bucket, according to a device yet in
use in many parts of the country. Immediately
around the ruin, in what was once the curtilage of
the dwelling, a few crabbed fruit-trees, with chalky
joints, and bowed down with years, flung their almost
leafless and distorted limbs athwart the mouldering
homestead. There were also to be seen, about fifty
paces off, a black heap of dross, and some faint
traces of the fire of a former smithy, of which the
evidence was more unequivocal in the remains of a
door, on which was burnt the figure of a horse-shoe.

When we arrived at this spot the sun was just
peering, with his enlarged disk, through the upper
branches of the trees, in the western horizon. The
clouds were gorgeous with the golden and purple
tints that give such magnificence to our summer
evenings; and the waning light, falling on the volume
of forest around us, communicated a richer
gloom to its shades, and magnified the gigantic
branches of some blasted oaks on the border of the
plain, as they were seen relieved against the clear
sky. Long and distorted shadows fell from every
weed, bush and tree, and contributed, with the forlorn
aspect of the landscape, to impress us with an
undefined and solemn sensation, that for a moment
threw us into silence. Flights of crows traversed the
air above our heads, and sang out their discordant
vespers, as they plied their way to a distant roost;
the fish hawk had perched upon the highest naked
branch of the tallest oak, and at intervals was seen
to stretch forth his wing and ruffle his feathers, as if
adjusting his position for the night. All animated
objects that inhabited this region seemed to be busy
with individual cares; and the nocturnal preparations
for rest or prey resounded from every quarter.

Hazard, taking advantage of the impression made
by the sombre imagery around us, as we marched
onward to the ruin, threw out some hints that we
were now upon a haunted spot, and began to converse
in a lower tone, and walk closer to my side,
with an air of mystery and fear, put on to sort with

the nature of the story he was telling. The ruin, he
informed me, was formerly the habitation of Mike
Brown, who had strange doings with the devil, and
both Mike and his companion were frequently seen
in the swamp after dark; the negroes, he said, and
many of the white people about the country, held this
place in great terror; which, he believed, was one
reason why the road that formerly crossed the marsh
at this place, had been disused. Certainly, the devil
and Mike Brown could not have chosen a more secluded
and barren waste for their pranks.

At length we reached the opposite side of the plain,
where it became necessary to halt, and examine more
minutely our road. Ned was under great embarrassment
to discover the old causeway. The shrubbery
had grown up so thick as to render this a task
of uncertain accomplishment. There were several
paths leading into the morass, made by the tramp of
cattle. These so far perplexed my companion, that
he was obliged to confess his ignorance of the right
way. We determined, however, to go on; the approaching
night began already to darken our view,
and the undertaking seemed to be sufficiently perilous,
even in daylight. I kept pace with Hazard,
and shared with him the difficulties of a path that at
every step became more intricate; until, at last, we
found ourselves encompassed by deep pools of stagnant
water, with a footing no better than that afforded
by a mossy islet, scarcely large enough for one
person to stand upon, where we were obliged to cling
to the bushes for support; whilst the soft texture of

the earth yielded to our weight, and let in the water
above our shoe-tops.

Here Ned began to swear that the place was
strangely altered since he had last visited it, and to
charge himself with a loss of memory, in not knowing
better how to get through this wilderness. He
protested that Mike Brown or his comrade had bewitched
him, and brought him into this dilemma, as
a punishment for his rashness. “I wish their devli-ships,”
he continued, “would condescend to favour
us with the assistance of one of their imps, until we
might arrive safely beyond the confines of their
cursed dominion. What ho, good Mr. Belzebub!”
he cried out jocularly, “have you no mercy on two
foolish travellers?”

Ned had no sooner made this invocation, which
he did at the top of his voice, than we heard, at a
distance from us, the indistinct rustling of leaves, as
of one brushing through them, and the frequent plash
of a footstep treading through the marsh. The sounds
indicated the movement of the object towards us,
and it became obvious that something was fast making
its way to the spot where we stood.

“Truly,” said Ned, “that Mr. Belzebub is a polite
and civil demon. He scarce has notice of our
distresses, before he comes himself to relieve them.”

By this time a grotesque figure became faintly
visible through the veil of twigs and branches that
enveloped us. All that we could discern was the
murky outline of something resembling a man. His
stature was uncommonly low and broad; apparently

he wore no coat, and upon what seemed his head
was an odd-shaped cap, that fitted closely to his
skull.

“Who goes there?” cried Ned briskly, as the figure
came to a halt, and looked wildly about; “ghost
or devil?”

“Neither,” replied the figure, with a husky voice,
—such as that of a man with a bad cold,—and at
the same instant stepping boldly before us, “but an
old sinner, who is a little of both: a sort of cast-away,
that has more gray hairs than brains; yet not
so much of a buzzard as to be ignorant that the round-about
way is often the nearest home.” Hereupon,
the figure broke out into a loud, hollow, and unnatural
laugh.

“What, Hafen? Is it possible? what, in the name
of the foul fiend, brings you here?” cried out Ned,
recognizing the speaker, who was Hafen Blok, a
short, thick-set, bandy-legged personage, bearing all
the marks of an old man, with a strangely weather-beaten
face, that was intersected by as many drains
as the rugged slope of a sand-hill. He had a large
mouth, disfigured with tobacco, and unprovided with
any show of teeth. He had moreover a small upturned
nose, a low forehead, and diminutive eyes that
glistened beneath projecting brows of grizzled and
shaggy hair. For a man verging upon sixty-five, his
frame was uncommonly vigorous; although it was
apparent that he was lame of one leg. His head-gear,
which had attracted our attention even at a
distance, was nothing more than the remnant of an

antique cocked hat, now divested of its flaps, so as to
form a close, round cap. His scraggy throat was
covered with a prurient beard of half an inch in
length, and laid open to view between the collar of
a coarse brown shirt. Across his arm was flung a
coat of some homely material, with huge metal buttons
appearing to view; and his trowsers and shoes
were covered with the mud of the swamp. A belt
crossed his shoulder, to which was suspended a bag
of hempen cloth; and in his hand he bore two or
three implements for trapping. There was a saucy
waggishness in his gestures, of which the effect was
heightened by the fox-like expression of his countenance,
and the superlatively vagabond freedom of his
manners.

“You are well met, Hafen,” continued Ned.
“The devil of the swamp could never have sent us
a better man. How are we to get through the
bog?”

“It is easy enough, Mister Ned Hazard, for a
traveller that knows a tussock from a bulrush,” replied
Hafen.

“And pray, how old should he be to arrive at
that knowledge?”

“He should be old enough to catch a black snake
in the water, Mister Ned; or, at least, he ought to
have cut his eye-teeth,” said Hafen, with another
of his strange, hollow laughs.

“Save your jest for dry land, old fellow!” interrupted
Hazard, “and tell us plainly how we shall
find our way to Swallow Barn without going round.”

“They that have the folly to get in, ought to
carry wit enough with them to get out,” replied
Hafen dryly.

“Come, old gentleman,” said Ned, with a tone of
entreaty, “we shall take an ague if you keep us here.
It grows late; and if we can save a mile by crossing
the swamp, who knows but you may be all the better
for it when we get safe to the other side?”

“You see, sir,” said Hafen, with more respect in
his manner than before, “a fool's counsel is sometimes
worth the weighing; but an old dog, you know
Mister Ned, can't alter his way of barking; so you
and that gentleman must excuse my saucy tongue;
and if you will follow me, I will put you across the
swamp as clean as a bridge of gold. Though I don't
mean to insinuate, Mister Hazard, that you couldn't
soon learn the way yourself.”

Saying this, he conducted us back to the margin
of the marsh, and passing some distance higher up,
entered the thicket again by the path of the old
causeway, along which we proceeded with no other
caution than carefully to step in the places pointed
out by Hafen, who led the way with the vigorous
motion of a man in the prime of life; and in a brief
space we found ourselves in safety on the opposite
side.

Here we gave our guide a liberal reward for his
services, that so elated the old man as to rouse all
his talkativeness.

Hafen is a person of some notoriety in this district.
He is a Hessian by birth, and came to America with

Count Donop, during the war of the Revolution, as a
drummer, not above fourteen years old; and he was
present at the action at Red Bank on the Delaware,
when that unfortunate officer met his fate. He was
afterwards engaged in the southern campaigns, when
he found means to desert to the American lines in
time to witness the surrender of Lord Cornwallis.
At the close of the war Hafen took up his quarters
in the neighbourhood of Williamsburg, where he set
up the trade of a tinker, as being most congenial with
his vagrant propensities. Being a tolerable performer
on the violin, he contrived to amass a sufficient
capital to purchase an instrument, with which he
ever afterwards sweetened his cares and divided his
business, wandering through the country, where he
mended the kettles, and fiddled himself into the good
graces, of every family, within the circuit of his peregrinations.
This career was interrupted by but one
episode, which happened in the year seventeen hundred
and ninety-one, when, being attacked by an
unusual restlessness, he enlisted in the army, and
marched with St. Clair against the Indians. The
peppering that he got in the disastrous event of that
expedition, brought him home in the following year
with a more pacific temper and a lame leg. It was
like Cincinnatus returning to his plough. He took up
his nippers and fiddle again, and devoted himself to
the affairs of the kitchen and parlour. Being one of
those mortals whose carelessness of accommodation
is mathematically proportioned to their aversion to
labour, Hafen was equally idle and ragged, and contrived
generally, by a shrewd and droll humour, to
keep himself in good quarters, though upon a footing
that rendered him liable at all times to be dismissed
without ceremony. He has always been distinguished
for his stores of old ballads; and the women
about the families where he gained a seat in
the corner of the kitchen fire, were indebted to him
for the most accepted versions of the Gosport Tragedy,
Billy Taylor, and some other lamentable ditties
recording the fates of “true lovyers” and “ladies fair
and free,” which he taught them to sing in long
metre, with a touching sadness, and agreeably to
their authentic nasal tunes. Besides this, he was
the depository of much of the legendary lore of the
neighbourhood, picked up from the old people of the
Revolutionary time: and, according to his own account,
he had a familiar acquaintance with sundry
witches, and was on good terms with every reputable
ghost that haunted any house along the James
river.

These characteristics gave him many immunities,
and often gained him access to bower and hall; and
as he was gifted with a sagacity that always knew
how to flatter his patrons, he was universally regarded
as a well-meaning, worthless, idle stroller,
who, if he could not make himself useful, was at
least in nobody's way. On all festive occasions
his violin was an ample recommendation; and as
he could tell fortunes, and sing queer old songs, he
was connected in the imaginations of the younger
folks with agreeable associations. From these

causes he was seldom an unwelcome visitant; and
not being fastidious on the score of personal entertainment,
he was well content to get his supper in the
kitchen, a dram,—for which he had the craving of the
daughter of the horseleech,—and the privilege of a
corner in the hay-loft.

Of late Hafen had lost some favour by his increasing
propensity for drink, and by the suspicion, that
stood upon pretty strong proofs, of not being over
scrupulous in his regard for the rights of property.
Besides, for many years past, his tinkering had fallen
into disuse, by reason, as he said, of these Yankee
pedlars breaking up his honest calling. So that, at
this time, Hafen may be considered like an old
hound whose nose has grown cold. His employments
are, in consequence, of a much more miscellaneous
character than formerly.

Such was the individual who had rescued us from
the perils of the swamp, and who now, having
brought us to firm ground, had no further pretext for
keeping our company. But he was not so easily
shaken off. His predominant love of gossip took
advantage of the encouragement he had already
met, and he therefore strode resolutely in our footsteps,
a little in the rear, talking partly to himself
and partly to us, without receiving any response.
At length, finding that no further notice was likely
to be taken of him, he ventured to say in a doubtful
tone—

“The next time the gentlemen have a fancy to
cross this way, perhaps they'll think a few pennies

in the tinker's pouch, better than a pair of swamp
stockings.”

“And many thanks beside, Hafen,” said I. “But
how came you to be so close at hand this evening?”

“O sir,” replied Hafen, availing himself of this
overture, and coming up to our side, “bless you!
this is a quite natural sort of place to me. I am too
good for nothing to be afraid of spirits, for I am not
worth the devil's fetching, sir;” here he laughed in
his usual singular way. “The swamp is a very
good mother to me, although I am a simple body,
and can pick up a penny where rich folks would
never think of looking for it.”

“How is that?” I asked.

“There is a power of muskrats about these parts,
sir,” he replied, “and with the help of these tools,”
holding up his snares, “I can sometimes gather a
few ninepences with no more cost than a wet pair
of breeches, which is fisherman's luck, sir, and of no
account, excepting a little rheumatism, and not even
that, if a man has plenty of this sort of physic.”

So saying, he thrust his hand into his bag, and
pulled out a green flask that contained a small supply
of whiskey.

“Perhaps the gentlemen wouldn't be above taking
a taste themselves?” he continued, “for it's a
mighty fine thing against the ague.”

We excused ourselves; and Hafen put the flask
to his mouth, and smacking his lips as he concluded
his draught, observed—

“It's a kind of milk for old people, and not bad
for young ones.”

“What success have you had to-day, with your
traps?” I inquired.

“I have come off poorly,” he replied; “the vermin
are getting shy, and not like what they used to be.
Now, I have got no more than two rats. Some
days even I don't get that much.”

“Then, I take it, Hafen, that you do not thrive
much in the world,” I remarked.

“Ah, sir,” replied Hafen, still holding the flask in
his hand, and beginning to moralize, “it is a great
help to a man's conscience to know that he earns
his bread lawfully: a poor man's honesty is as
good as a rich man's gold. I am a hobbling sort
of person, and no better than I ought to be, but
I never saw any good come out of deceit. Virtue
is its own reward, as the parson says; and
away goes the devil when he finds the door shut
against him. I am no scholar, but I have found
that out without reading books—”

At this moment the half smothered cluck of a
fowl was heard from Hafen's bag.

“God never sends mouths,” continued Hafen,
“but he sends meat, and any man who has sense
enough to be honest, will never want wit to know
how to live; but he must plough with such oxen as
he has. Some people have bad names, but all are
not thieves that dogs bark at.”

“So, you have only taken two muskrats to-day?”

said Ned. “Have you nothing else in the
bag?”

“Nothing else, Mister Hazard.”

“Are they dead or alive?” asked Ned.

“Oh dead! dead as old Adam! they were
swinging by their necks long enough to strangle
nine lives out of them.”

“This swamp is haunted, Hafen,” said Ned
archly.

“Yes, sir,” replied Hafen, “there are certainly
some queer doings here sometimes. But, for my
share, I never saw any thing in these hobgoblins to
make an honest man afraid. All that you have to
do is to say your prayers, and that will put any devilish
thing out of heart.”

“Did you ever know a dead muskrat,” asked
Ned, “to be changed into a live pullet? Now, master
honest tinker! I can conjure up a devil to do
that very thing.”

Here Hafen put on a comic leer, and hesitated for
a moment, as if collecting himself, whilst he was
heard giving out a confused chuckling laugh. At
length he observed,—

“Mister Ned Hazard has always got some trick.
I often tell folks Mister Hazard is a pleasant man.”

“See now,” said Hazard, striking the bag with his
hand, “does not that sound marvellously like a
clucking hen?”

“Oh, I grant you,” exclaimed Hafen, assuming a
tone of surprise, “I had like to have forgotten; when

I said there was nothing but the rats in my bag, I set
no account upon a pullet that Sandy Walker gave
me this evening, for putting a few rivets in his copper
still.”

“Come, Hafen,” said Ned, “no lies amongst
friends. Sandy Walker never owned a still in his
life.”

“Did I say a still, Mister Hazard? I spoke in a
sort of uncertain way, which was as much as to signify,—”
said Hafen, puzzling his brain for a better account
of the matter, and twisting his face into some
shrewd contortions, which at last ended by his coming
close to Hazard, and putting his finger against his
nose, as he said in a half whisper, “it was an old
grudge against Sandy that I had, upon account of
his abusing me before company for drinking, and insinuating
that I made free with a shirt that his wife
lost from the line in a high wind, last April, and some
other old scores I had. So, I thought a pullet was
small damages enough for such a scandal. Pick-up
law is the cheapest law for a poor man, Mister Hazard;
and possession is nine points out of ten. Isn't
that true?” Here he laughed again.

“I think a gentleman who brags so much of his
honesty and virtue, might practise a better code. But
as between you and Sandy,” said Ned, “your merits
are so nearly equal, that take what you can, and keep
what you get, is a pretty sound rule; although you
are like to get the best of that bargain.”

“Oh,” replied Hafen, “I want nothing more than
justice.”

The night was now closing in fast. We were
walking along a narrow tongue of land that stretched
into the swamp, from the bosom of which, on either
side, arose a forest of lofty trees, whose topmost
branches were traced upon the sky with that bold
configuration that may be remarked at the twilight,
whilst the dusk rapidly thickened below, and flung
its increasing gloom upon our path. Here and there
a lordly cypress occurred to view, springing forth
from the stagnant pool, and reposing in lurid shade.
Half sunk in ooze, rotted the bole and bough of fallen
trees, coated with pendant slime. The ground
over which we trod took an easy impression from
our footsteps; and the chilling vapour of the marsh,
mingled with the heavy dew, was to be felt in the
dampness of our clothes, and compelled us to button
up our coats.

This dreary region was neither silent nor inanimate;
but its inhabitants corresponded to the genius
of the place. Clouds of small insects, crossed now
and then by a whizzing beetle, played their fantastic
gambols around our heads, displaying their minute
and active forms against the western horizon, as they
marshalled us upon our way. The night-hawk arose,
at intervals, with a hoarse scream into this fading
light, and swept across it with a graceful motion,
sometimes whirling so near that we could hear the
rush of his wing, and discern the white and spectral
spot upon it, as he darted past our eyes. Thousands
of fire-flies lit up the gloom, and sped about like
sprites in masquerade; at one moment lifting their

masks, as if to allure pursuit, and instantly again
vanishing, as in a prankish jest. A populous congregation
of frogs piped from the secret chambers
of the fen with might and main. The whip-poor-will
reiterated, with a fatiguing and melancholy recurrence,
his sharp note of discord. The little catadid
pierced the air with his shrill music. The foxfire,—
as the country people call it,—glowed hideously from
the cold and matted bosom of the marsh; and, far
from us, in the depths of darkness, the screech-owl
sat upon his perch, brooding over the slimy pool, and
whooping out a dismal curfew, that fell upon the ear
like the cries of a tortured ghost.

We trudged briskly upon our way, but almost
without exchanging words; for the assemblage of
striking objects in the scene had lulled us into silence.
I do not wonder that a solitary traveller should grow
superstitious, amidst such incentives to his imagination.
Hafen followed our steps, and, as I fancied,
completely subdued by faintheartedness. I thought
he walked closer on our skirts than a man perfectly
at ease would do, and his loquacity was entirely
gone. He firmly believed in the stories of the Goblin
Swamp, and I was anxious to get them from his
own lips, as Hazard had given me to understand that
I could not meet a better chronicler. With this purpose,
I gave him timely encouragement to follow us
to Swallow Barn. And now, having passed the confines
of the wood, we found but little to attract our
attention for the rest of the journey.

“You must tell me the story of Mike Brown tonight,”

said I to Hafen, as I invited him to bear us
company.

In an instant, Hafen's imagination was full of the
comforts of the kitchen at Swallow Barn, as well as
of the self consequence that belongs to a genuine
story-teller. He consented with a saucy alacrity,
and then remarked,—

“That the gentlemen always knew how to get
something to please them out of Hafen; and that he
always did like himself to keep company with quality.”

It was after candlelight when we arrived at Swallow
Barn.