New Orleans Republican. [volume] (New Orleans, La) 1867-1878, 1873-01-05
UNDER THE FOAM.

lucu VAIN 6tGtA IAAiIs5 AhO PtN"SA"AAE;
fears and ambitions of men leave traces be-
hind them, which, when colored by the Gu
rious superstitions of the populace, rival the
wild legends of the golden or iron age. OF
such, New Orleans is full. It's various popu-
lations, the incongruities of various man
ners, peculiarities and sympathies open
wide field for the exercise of the pen of the
novelist and essayist. Superstition yet lin
gers in its secret places, and strange religions
and beliefs find votaries among the elegant
and refined of its population, as we'll as
with the iowly habitues Of its quiet fau-
bourgs and intricate streets.
1t is our purpose, therefore, to select from
these local legends few romantic sketches
with which to amuse the public. That
which follows has never appeared in print
but is popularity known among class
familiar with it's details as
The Spectre of the Faabourg MRrisny.
In quiet little back street down in the
old Spanish quarter of the city stands
small red brick house, fashioned in the
architecture of different age Its quaint
an epoch with which few are familiar to-
day. 1t is an expressive looking edifice;
the eve fingers over it curiously, and as if
by instinct the beholder associates it in his
reflections with something of the marvellous.
Nor would he be in error. 1t has a singular
history, and marvellous things have been
done beneath the old worm-eaten roof.
Once the abode of beauty and refine
ment, echoing with the joyous laughter of
innocence and the gay prattle of happy
hearted infancy. it has, as is we'll known,
sterner memories. The groans of the dy-
ing, the agonies that follow on the heels of
bitter, revengeful passions, are curiously
wrought in its history. Blood has stained
its old oaken floors, and gaunt spectre, it
is said, harbors within the deserted walls,
to frighten away the curious and muse upon
the weird fortunes that have stamped it
with heritage of superstition.
Many years ago an old man lived there
with his only daughter, young, beautiful
creature, full of life and gladness. The
birds were not more musical, and the fresh,
pure voice made the old house and the
flower-clad walks around it jocund with
melody. The shadows that flashed and
f1ickered in the sunshine, that penciled the
graveled walks and played hide and seek in
the wreathed arbors were her only
companions.
Her father was an alchemist. A stern,
joyless old man, welded to delusive theo-
ries, and pursuing the ignuS totatS of per-
petual youth. His laboratory glowed with
midnight fires, and strange elixirs were
wrought from his crazed magination and
burning cruclbles. Solitude and his strange
infatuation. had impaired his faculties to
the dethronement of reason. But it left
steadfast the consuming idea that had
wrecked his life. He never doubted that
he should one day find the secret of life and
death; that he would yet distill the precious
liquid that would send fire and life through
his decrepid frame and restore his long lost
youth.
Perpetual musing upon one idea begets
insanity. The incipient fires, once stirred,
soon burn to consuming flame. SO it was
with him. He called his pursuit science.
He was ready to sacrifice everything for its
sue cess-his duty impelled him-and he
deemed others should as willingly torego
life for its attainment
One night the strange idea crept into his
head that from the flesh and blood and pal
pitating heart of some fresh young life the
wonderful elixir could be made. Such
would, in reality, be- the essence Of life,
why not its creator 1t was reasonable
true Why had he not Thought OF it be-
fore The means were at hand-his daugh-
ter. What if he destroyed her life tempo
rarily, he could restore it again, and with it
his own-not old and dccrepit, but young,
fresh, vigorous, full of life, youth, hope-a
perpetual inheritance, an intending happl-
ness. He would do it.
In the solitude of his dreary chamber-in
the glow of his heated furnaces-he bound
the screaming victim. The hora BILE appli-
ances of fire and torture were put at work.
The tender flesh cracked and burned until
naught but molten ashes was left OF the
beautiful girl. And yet his secret was still
a mystery. No life sprung from the burn
ing incense. The awful venture proved
fruitless and unavailing. His stake was
lost. Even his crazed mind felt in its dis
may the sickening horror OF the deed. A
sudden maniacal frenzy seized hlm-the
springs Of life snapped with the CONFUSION,
and the old man sunk to. the earth a corpse.
This is the legend. So it was told to us,
aud so we repeat it. The old house has
been deserted for century. and the super
stitious say that the spectre Of the alchemist
hauuts it drearily.
BE that as it may, the tale has ELECTED
curiosity, and many have sought to find in
the old house a solution of the mystery.
Visiting it recently. the writer carefully
picked his way across the crumbling
threshold and stood, with feeling APP
preaching awe, in the rooms OF the reputed
spectre.
Whether it was the chill OF the cool even
ing, or the sense of something marvellous
superinduced by superstitious terrors,
sense of uneasiness stole over me. The
dust of century lay thick upon the foor-
4 fine, feathery dust, almost impalpable to
the touch. Standing half Reconstruction,
half incredulOus in the spectre shadows,
soft rustling as of a silIien dress attracted
my attention. Startled by the unexpected
sound, a glanced hastily around but said
nothing d single dark shadOw-a some
thing III the air. reaching from the floor to a
hight Of three or four feet, met my gaze.
watched it receding, and was about pursu-
ing it when, casting my eye. on the floor, l
stood, in shuddering horror, contemplating
a spectacle that nearly froze my blood.