University of Virginia Library

THE
APPARITION.

The question whether the incorporeal essence,
after its departure from this terrestrial sphere, has
in any instance been permitted to resume the shape
of mortality, and appear to the outward senses of
its former associates, has agitated the minds of the
most enlightened for centuries, and we are still as
much in the dark as we were the hour speculation
began. There are, it must be allowed, many well
authenticated circumstances, calculated to fix the
belief of the credulous; nay, more, to stagger the
cooler judgment of the sceptic. Some, it is true,
may be traced to natural causes, while others defy
the subtilty of human reason to elucidate—for instance,
the preternatural visitation, which announced
to Roscommon the poet, while yet a boy, the death
of his father, and that which indicated to Miles Peter
Andrews the sudden dissolution of Lord Littleton,
if we admit their authenticity, put all theories
at defiance, and the sceptic must shield himself by
placing them to the account of remarkable coincidence.
For the truth of the fact which I am about
to relate. I vouch without hesitation. I knew the
hero of the event, and place the most implicit reliance

on his statements, though in making the avowal,
I may be charged with superstition, ridiculous in the
enlightened age in which we live. In the autumn
of 1810, returning from the western part of Pennsylvania,
I closed my day's journey at Clark's ferry,
on the Susquehanna, at that time one of the most
romantic and picturesque spots that ever delighted
the eye of the lover of nature. Immediately in front
of the tavern rolled the expanded and noble river,
from the surface of which was heard the horn of the
passing boatman, as he bore along the product of
the wealthy country, through which the river and
its tributaries flow. On the opposite side rose a
lofty and extended mountain, frowning in all the
wildness of nature, save that midway appeared a
hut, and a small clearance, though the spot seemed
inaccessible to the foot of man, a place where the
eagle might build his eyry, without fear or molestation.
Looking up the river, on the point of an island,
the eye was presented with a building of a better
order of architecture, which proved that refinement
had already made considerable progress, while the
extended view down the river, which pursued its
course through the bosom of the lofty and uncultivated
mountains, was such as bade defiance to the
art of man to heighten. Considerable innovations
have since been made upon the wildness of the scene.
Turnpike roads and canals are merciless destroyers
of primitive scenery and romantic feelings; but as
it appears they can be converted to more practical
use than the latter, our good citizens of the west
will have but little reason to complain of the innovation.

As I alighted from my horse, a group of farmers
and travellers were seated beneath the piazza. I
saluted them, and took a seat among them. Their
conversation had been interrupted by my approach,
but, on my being seated, several voices desired Mr.
Jones to proceed with his story.

Mr. Jones was a portly personage, with a jolly
red countenance, which plainly indicated that he

did not belong to that school of philosophers who
despise the flesh pots of Egypt, or that class of politicians
who advocate an excise on strong waters.
He was dressed in plain drab apparel, and wore a
slouched hat of the same colour, and from the meal-dust
about his person, I at once put Mr. Jones down
for a thrifty miller. After a preparatory hem, he
commenced his narrative, nearly in the following
words.

“Neighbours, most of you remember farmer
Grimes, who lived on Wild-cat Run, and who hung
himself about five years ago, out of spite at having
lost five hundred dollars, that he loaned Job Worson
on usury?”

“I knew him bravely,” replied one of the company.
“He sued Worson before the court at Carlisle,
and though he had David Watts for his attorney,
and where could he have found a better? he
was cast, which took a cool fifty more from his ill-gotten
gains, to pay the costs, besides another fifty
for his lawyer's fee. If you had seen old Grimes's
face when the jury brought in a verdict against him,
you would have thought it enough to frighten even
an usurer back to honesty. He could not stand this
blow; so he went home, and hung himself in his
orchard the next day. Remember Grimes? bless
you, Mr. Jones, I remember him as well as I do my
own father.”

“Very well,” continued the miller, “you may
also remember, if you were ever in Wild-cat creek
settlement, that his farm adjoined mine.” This important
fact being also within the knowledge of the
other, Jones proceeded: “After the burial of neighbour
Grimes, many strange stories were circulated
through the country, as how that he had been seen
walking about his farm at midnight, with a rope
around his neck, and then of a sudden, he would
start towards the orchard, and quick as lightning he
would suspend himself from the bough of an apple
tree, where he would hang until the cocks crew in
the morning, when he would vanish.”

“I have heard as much,” replied the other, “and
more too, that Job Worson could not sleep at nights
for months afterwards, for the old man, as soon as
Job would fall into a doze, was heard dancing in
his room, rattling his money-bag. This I heard
straight from the lips of Job's brother's wife's sister,
and may therefore be relied on for truth. It made
a prodigious talk at the time.”

“These stories,” continued the miller, “had very
little effect on me, for though I was his next neighbour,
and sat on the corner's jury when he was cut
down, yet he had not appeared to me, and I found
that the people of Millerstown, Carlisle, and those
about the ferry here, knew more about his appearing
than we of the Wild-cat settlement. So I put it
down to the account of humbug and gossip. But my
day was to come.”

“And I'll warrant you it did come.”

“It did.”

“I knew it would: you were always a scoffer, Mr.
Jones, but you have learnt that it is a dangerous
thing to scoff at the devil and his doings.” This
remark was made by a small personage, whom I
took for a tailor, from the skein of thread around his
neck, and thimble on his finger.

“About six months after the death of Grimes,”
continued the miller, “business called me up to Shirleysburg,
and, by the way, it was to settle an account
of long standing with that very Job Worson, who,
you know, while he lived in these parts, had the
name of being slow at wiping off old scores. Well,
he seemed to thrive at Shirley, for weeds, as the
saying is, flourish in a poor soil, and Shirley is poor
enough for that matter, though it is a somewhat noted
place, on account of the old fort that stood there
during the Indian wars. Those were piping times,
neighbours, and bullets may be picked up at this
day in the road as you descend the hill a short distance
north-west of the village. Worson spoke of
Grimes, and made sport of the old usurer having
hung himself out of vexation. He also told me many

stories that were current about Shirley, as how that
he could not rest in peace in his grave. I had now
heard these tales so often, and from so many different
sources, that I began to think that there might be
some truth in them, though we of the Wild-cat settlement,
who should have known most, knew less of
the matter than other people.”

“It is not unfrequently the case,” observed a
sober looking personage, “that a man has to travel
abroad to learn the occurrences of his own fireside.”

Mr. Jones nodded assent to the remark, and proceeded
in his narrative:

“Having closed my business with Worson, I left
Shirley to return home, and having a long dreary
ride without company, I turned over in my mind
all the different stories I had heard respecting neighbour
Grimes. My mind began to waver, and somehow,
when I entered the Shades of Death, which
was after night-fall, and you know, even at mid-day
it is a gloomy part of the road, I did not feel altogether
as bold as a man ought to feel on such an
occasion. I fancied there was an unusual sound in
the wind as it moaned through the old pines, and
more than once my blood crawled chilly through my
veins, at the indistinct view of a projecting rock, or
the moss covered trunk of some tree that the storm
had snapped and riven. Even the tread of my horse
sounded hollow on the earth; his steps were short,
and in quick succession; his ears were raised; he
shyed at every object, and moved more briskly at
every sound. He evidently partook of the fears of
his rider.”

“I have often heard,” said the tailor, “that a horse
can see a ghost as soon as a man can, unless as how
the man be born with a caul before his eyes, and
then they say he can see the very air as it blows.
But I should not wonder if he saw spooks, or somewhat
of the kind in the Shades of Death, for it is a
frightful place to pass at the lone hour of night, and
never shall I forget the first time I travelled that

road. It was a stormy night in the month of November—”

“Don't interrupt Mr. Jones's story,” cried one,
whose leather apron and sooty visage proved him to
be the blacksmith, and whose curiosity was already
stretched on tenter hooks.

The miller resumed the account of his adventure:

“The alarm which evidently possessed my horse
increased my own. The acuteness of my senses
became more than natural. The moon had not yet
risen, yet I imagined my sight could penetrate the
darkness that surrounded me, and that sounds which
at any other time would have been inaudible, were
now clear and distinct. I was all eye, and all ear;
for every part of my body seemed to be endowed
with the sense of seeing and hearing. I felt lighter
than I had ever felt before, and my horse moved
with unusual freedom, yet the sound of his tread
was heavy and appalling. It was the only mortal
sound to be heard, and that circumstance gave it an
indescribable influence over my imagination. It
proved to me that I was alone, and in such a spot as
superstition and credulity would delight to people
with beings the most fearful and inimical to our nature,
and if roused, I alone was responsible to them.
I urged my horse forward, hoping to outstrip my
fears, but the repeated echoes of his hoofs increased
my terror. I had now rode some distance, and believed
I was about emerging from the Shades, when
a frightful noise, between a groan and a yell, startled
me, and suddenly a white figure darted across my
path and disappeared. My horse stopped; he was
going at full speed, and the sudden shock threw me
to the ground. I was more dead than alive with
fright, and when I regained my horse, I found the
poor animal still standing in the same spot, and
trembling like an aspen leaf.”

“I'll warrant you,” replied the tailor. “Did you
not say that the figure that startled him was white?”

“Nearly white; rather of a drab colour.”

“I would have sworn to as much,” continued the

tailor, “for old Grimes always dressed in a drab
suit; but what could he have been doing so far from
his orchard, passes my learning.”

“And I myself was at a loss how to resolve the
difficulty,” continued the miller, “unless, indeed,
that gloomy and lonely place was selected to produce
a more lasting impression on my mind. Having
regained my horse, I leaped into the saddle, and
plied the lash without mercy, until I had passed the
Shades. I then rode more moderately, and endeavoured
to account for the sound I had heard, and
the object of which I had had but a momentary
glance. Speculation was unsatisfactory. I became
bewildered, and yet neither before nor since that
hour have I ever experienced such a vividness of
imagination, combined with quickness of corporeal
perception. New ties between the body and the
mind appeared to have been created. Still I rode
on, but all idea of time and space had vanished.
The horse was left to his own guidance, for my mind
was wandering; when suddenly I was awakened by
the shrill neigh of the animal. The moon was just
rising. I looked around, and to my no small satisfaction,
beheld that I was on the border of Grimes's
farm, which adjoined my own. I checked my horse
a moment to reflect. By crossing my neighbour's
farm, I should save a circuit of nearly a mile. It
was an object at that late hour, for I was weary and
feverish both in body and mind. I pulled down the
fence, and entered the field.”

“Rather than have done as much,” exclaimed the
tailor, “I would have crawled ten miles on my hands
and knees, at any hour in the four and twenty. It
was little else than challenging the devil and his
works. What do you say, neighbour Sledge?”

“For my part,” replied the smith, “I should have
considered the highway the safest, for, mark you,
the moon was just rising.”

“And Mr. Jones would have found it the safest
too, I reckon,” remarked the tailor, which was accompanied
by a Lord Burleigh nod.

“You are perfectly right,” continued Jones, “for
after crossing the first field, I found myself in the
very orchard in which the usurer had put an end to
his existence. The whole scene of the coroner's jury
came fresh upon my mind. His pale and distorted
countenance, and stiffened form, were again before
me. I strove to banish the image, but it was impossible:
and its appalling power increased as I drew
nigh the spot where he had fulfilled his dreadful determination.
The wind was high, and the dark clouds
that were rapidly flying indicated an approaching
storm. The light of the moon was occasionally obscured
by the passing clouds. I drew nigher to the
fatal spot, and I found it impossible to turn my gaze
in an opposite direction. My eyes searched eagerly
to single that tree out from the rest. At length I
discovered it, and standing beneath it, the outline of
a human figure. I at first doubted my senses, but
as the moon gleamed forth, I was convinced that
there was no delusion. Cold drops of perspiration
drenched my limbs. I shook as if an ague fit had
been on me. Still I could not remove my eyes from
the fearful object. I gazed until it assumed the appearance
of the suicide. Yes, he stood before me in
shape as palpable to the sight, as either of you at
present.” The miller's voice became husky at the
recollection, and his rude auditory listened in breathless
suspense. He moistened his lips and proceeded.
“I ejaculated a prayer for mercy. The figure was
still before me; to remove my eyes from it was impossible;
my faculties were paralyzed, and I felt as
if desperation were coming over me. I made one
desperate effort; it was for life or death. I lashed
the horse; he darted off, and speedily bore me beyond
the dreaded influence of the spectre. When I
arrived at the door of my house, my horse was white
with foam, and I was trembling and pale as ashes.”

“I was thinking,” said the tailor, “that it would
have been better to have kept to the highway.”

Jones nodded assent, and continued.

“The noise I made on entering the yard, awoke

my son. He dressed himself and descended. I had
not yet dismounted. He saw my confusion, and the
state of the horse, and inquired into the cause; but
I had resolved to keep that night's adventure to myself,
and accordingly evaded his question. I gave the
horse to his care, and hurried to my bed more dead
than alive. I soon slept, from absolute exhaustion;
but the fearful events of the night assumed a thousand
different shapes, and were not an instant absent
from my imagination. I arose about noon, faint and
feverish, having been but slightly refreshed by my
sleep. My son was curious to know what had thus
affected me, but I touched not on the subject to any
one of the family, secretly determining to sift the
mystery myself. The day closed, and I went to bed
as usual, but as the hour approached at which the object
had appeared to me on the preceding night, I
quietly arose, descended, and directed my steps towards
my neighbour's orchard. The moon was just
rising as I came within a hundred yards of the well-known
tree. I looked about, but perceived nothing.
I advanced more than half the distance, when I again
beheld the figure. I endeavoured to be as collected
as man could be under such circumstances. My
heart throbbed violently, and my fears increased;
still the desire to satisfy my doubts rooted me to the
spot. Every moment the resemblance of the spectre
to Grimes became stronger. I had fully satisfied
myself of the identity, when it waved a red cloth
extended in its right hand, as if it wished me to depart.
I saw the bloody cloth, and heard it flap in
the breeze. It would have been madness longer to
have provoked my fate. I obeyed the warning, and
fled. Would you not all have done the same.”

“Certainly, if I had not been spell-bound,” replied
the tailor.

“I hastened to my bed, and arose as usual the following
morning, but did not open my lips to my
family concerning the events of the night. My wife
and son perceived that there was something unusual
on my mind, and endeavoured to find it out, but I

evaded their inquiries. I was reserved and abstracted
during the day. My mind was occupied with one
engrossing subject. I viewed it in all its various
aspects, and reproached myself with weakness and
cowardice, for not speaking to the spectre, and ascertaining
the cause of this fearful visitation. What
had I to dread from an interview? I had neither
wronged him living, nor cast obloquy on his memory.
On the contrary, I had always conducted myself as
became a good neighbour. These reflections emboldened
me to sift the matter, and accordingly I
again sallied forth at midnight with my rifle on my
shoulder.”

“This was the third time!” exclaimed the tailor
in a tremulous voice, “and I have never heard of a
ghost yet that would not speak after seeing a man
three times.”

“Unless, indeed,” said the blacksmith gravely,
“it was the ghost of a dumb person, and such, for
the most part, I take it, continue silent forever.”

“That admits of an argument,” rejoined the
other,” and if so be as how you will listen to me for
five minutes, I will clearly prove to you, that by the
laws of nature, the ghost of a dumb man may talk
as glibly as the ghost of a lawyer.”

“Very well, neighbour,” replied the blacksmith,
“but as old Grimes was not dumb, we will hear Mr.
Jones out before we settle that there matter.”

The miller continued:—“As I approached the orchard,
I breathed with increased difficulty; there
was an unnatural weight about my heart, and my
brain was in a whirl. I trembled in every joint, and
could scarcely drag one limb after the other. Was
the cause of this change within myself, or was I labouring
under external influence? I dreaded the
latter; still I moved on, for my determination was
fixed. The object at length appeared to me again.
I will not attempt to describe my sensations at that
moment. I stood as if all the functions of vitality
had forsaken me. My eyes were fixed on it, but for
a time I was deprived of the power of vision. When

my sight returned, it was still there. I summoned
resolution to speak to it, but such was my agitation
that my voice died in a whisper; I again exerted myself,
and cried, “In heaven's name, speak”—it
waved a red cloth—“if I can be of service—if there
be any thing you would impart to mortal ear”—the
cloth still waved me from it—My limbs became
stiffened with desperation—my whole mind was
centred in one object—“By heaven!” I cried—

“You should not have sworn on such an occasion,”
gravely observed the tailor.

“True, I should not, but I did swear that I would
not stir until I learnt the purport of that mysterious
visitation. “Speak,” I continued, “what is it disturbs
your rest, and calls you back from the eternal
world to the world of time?” It still waved me to
depart. “I am not to be baffled now.—Speak, or a
rifle ball shall quickly end all my doubts.”—It still
remained silent, and the red cloth was waved in a
more agitated manner—“Speak”—no answer was
returned—I raised my rifle to my shoulder, took deliberate
aim;—“speak or perish,” I cried; the bloody
cloth was waved in defiance—I fired; the spectre
fell, and my ears were saluted with a demoniac
laugh. I sunk senseless upon the earth.”

“I would not have been in your place for all old
Grimes died possessed of,” said the tailor.

“When I revived,” continued the miller,” “the
first object that struck my sight was a figure bending
over me.—`Avaunt! back to your native hell,' I
shrieked. It clasped me in its arms, and raised me;
I shuddered, and every instant expected to be flown
away with.”

“And did it remain silent all this while?”

“Yes; but at length it spoke.”

“And what did it say?” inquired the tailor, every
feature of his fox-like countenance indicative of impatience.

“Father, what the devil ails you?”

“Ha!”

“It was my son, who, observing my abstraction

during the day, determined to keep an eye upon
me.”

“And the ghost?”

“Was a suit of Grimes's clothes, stuffed with
straw to frighten the crows from the cornfield.”

“But the object you saw in the Shades of Death?”

“Was a large hog belonging to a shingle-maker,
who had recently built himself a cabin among the
hemlocks.”

“You are a wag, Mr. Jones, but, mark me, your
day will come.”

“Perhaps so. I have seen many similar ghosts
since, but have never been so much frightened as on
this occasion.”