Watertown republican. [volume] (Watertown, Wis.) 1860-1906, 1879-06-04
THE MIDNIGHT VISITOR.

LII IlN younger ShODo OOCIlCo
were the most popular narratives ex-
taut, and the lady or gentleman who
could relate the most thrilling adven-
ture, involving q genuine spiritual WISH
tant, was sure to be the lion or liOness
OF the evening party he enlivened ()
with the dismal details. The elder au-
ditors never seemed particularly hori-
fed or terrified, however gratifed they
were, but the younger members drank
in every word, "supping full of hor-
rors." After listening TO one Of those
authentic narratives, we used to be very
reluctant to retire to cur dOrmitorieS,
and never ventured to get into bed I'M
til we had examined suspicious-looking
wardrobes, old closets, and indeed every
nook and corner that might be sup
posed to harbor ghost or ghoul.
Fortunately for the rising generation,
these tales have gone out of fashion, and
though some attempts to revive the
taste have been made-as In the
'tNight Side of Nature"-such efforts
have proved deplorable failures. The
young people of to-day make light of
ghosts. The spectres in the incanta
ton scene of Der Fryschutz are received
with roars of laughter, and even the
statue in Don Giovanni seems Jolly"
Notwithstanding the Elusive music of
Mozart. We were about to remark that
the aged had outgrowed superstition,
but he remembered the Rochester
knockings, and concluded to be modest
ly silent.
One evening, many years since-it
was clustering December evening, the
wind bowling as it dashed the old but
tonwood limbs in its fury against the
parlor windows of the country house
where few of us were assembled to
pass the winter holidays-we gathered
before a roaring fire of walnut and oak,
which made everything within doors as
comfortable and CHEEKY as everything
without was desolate and dIeary. The
window shutters were left unfastened.
that the bright freight and ruddy lamp
light might stream afar upon the whit
ry waste, and perhaps guide some be-
nighted traveller to hospitable shelter.
We will not attempt to describe the
group, as any such notwithstanding
would not be germane to the matter i'm
that one of the youngsters begged Aunt
Deborah, the nlatron of the mansion,
to tell US q ghost story-a real ghost
story-for in those days we were terri
bly, afraid of counterfeits, and hated to
hear narrative where the 6 host turned
out to be no ghost at all. but a mere
compound of flesh and blood like our
selves. Aunt Deborah smiled at our
earnestness, and tantalized our impa-
tience by some of those little arts with
which the practical story-teller enhan-
ces the value and interest of her nara
tive. She tapped her silver snuf-box,
opened it deliberately, took a very del
icate pinch Of the Lundy Foot, shut the
box, replaced it in her pocket, folded
her hands before her, looked round on
the expectant group, and then began.
shall despair Of imparting to this
cold pen and ink record of her story
the inimitable conversational grace with
which she embellished it. 1t made an
indellible impression on my memory,
and If / never before repeated it, it was
from a lurking fear although the
old lady assured me it was mot to be
found ii any book or newspaper it
might have found its way into print.
However, as twenty years have elapsed
and L have never yet met with 1t In
type. | will venture to give the outlines
of the narrative:
Major Rupert Stanley, "a bold dra-
goon' in the service of his majesty
George LII, found himself one dark and
clustering night in autumn, riding to-
wards London on the old York road.
He had supped with friend who lived
at village some distance off the road,
and hewas unfamiliar with the country.
Though no. raining, the air was damp,
and the heavy surcharged clouds threat
ened every moment to discharge its con-
tents. But the major, though young
man, was an old campaigner, and with
warm cloak wrapped around him,
and good horse under him, would
have cared very little for storm and
darkness had he felt sure of good bed
for himself, and comfortable quarters
for his horse when he had ridden for
the strength of his faithful animal. A
good horseman cares as much for the
comfort of his steed as for his own
ease.
To add to the discomforts Of the even
ing, there was some chance of meeting
highwaymen; but Major Stanley felt no
IbOooIbSoo OlI llIdG OCOlO do JuSL UOlOIC
leaving his friends house he had exam
ined his holster pistols, and freshly prim-
ed them. A brush with highwayman
would enchance the romance of night
journey.
So he logged along, but mile after
mile was passed and no twinkling light
IN the distance gave indication of the
wished-for inn. The maj or's horse gave
unmistakable signs of distress-stumb-
ling once or twice and recovering him
self with difficulty. At last dim light
suddenly appeared at the turn of the
road. The horse pricked up his ears
and started forward with spirit, soon
stopping before one-story cottage. The
major was disappointed, but he rode UP
to the door and raped loudly with the
butt of his riding-whip. The summons
brought sleepy cottager to the door,
"My good friend" said the major.