This is a modern-English version of Tales of a Traveller, originally written by Irving, Washington. It has been thoroughly updated, including changes to sentence structure, words, spelling, and grammar—to ensure clarity for contemporary readers, while preserving the original spirit and nuance. If you click on a paragraph, you will see the original text that we modified, and you can toggle between the two versions.

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Tales of a Traveller

By Washington Irving


Contents

PART FIRST—STRANGE STORIES BY A NERVOUS GENTLEMAN
A HUNTING DINNER
THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE
THE ADVENTURE OF MY AUNT
THE BOLD DRAGOON
THE ADVENTURE OF THE GERMAN STUDENT
THE ADVENTURE OF THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE
THE ADVENTURE OF THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER
THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ITALIAN

PART SECOND—BUCKTHORNE AND HIS FRIENDS
LITERARY LIFE
A LITERARY DINNER
THE CLUB OF QUEER FELLOWS
THE POOR DEVIL AUTHOR
BUCKTHORNE, OR THE YOUNG MAN OF GREAT EXPECTATIONS
THE BOOBY SQUIRE
THE STROLLING MANAGER

PART THIRD—THE ITALIAN BANDITTI
THE INN AT TERRACINA
THE ADVENTURE OF THE LITTLE ANTIQUARY
THE ADVENTURE OF THE POPKINS FAMILY
THE PAINTER’S ADVENTURE
THE STORY OF THE BANDIT CHIEFTAIN
THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ROBBER

PART FOURTH—THE MONEY DIGGERS
HELL GATE
KIDD THE PIRATE
THE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER
WOLFERT WEBBER; OR, GOLDEN DREAMS
THE ADVENTURE OF SAM, THE BLACK FISHERMAN

PART FIRST
STRANGE STORIES BY A NERVOUS GENTLEMAN

I’ll tell you more; there was a fish taken,
A monstrous fish, with, a sword by’s side, a long sword,
A pike in’s neck, and a gun in’s nose, a huge gun,
And letters of mart in’s mouth, from the Duke of Florence.
Cleanthes. This is a monstrous lie.
Tony. I do confess it.
Do you think I’d tell you truths!
—FLETCHER’S WIFE FOR A MONTH.

I’ll tell you more; there was a fish caught,
A huge fish, with a sword at its side, a long sword,
A pike in its neck, and a big gun in its nose,
And letters of marque in its mouth, from the Duke of Florence.
Cleanthes. This is a total lie.
Tony. I admit it.
Do you think I’d tell you the truth!
—FLETCHER’S WIFE FOR A MONTH.

[The following adventures were related to me by the same nervous gentleman who told me the romantic tale of THE STOUT GENTLEMAN, published in Bracebridge Hall.

[The following adventures were shared with me by the same anxious man who told me the romantic story of THE STOUT GENTLEMAN, published in Bracebridge Hall.]

It is very singular, that although I expressly stated that story to have been told to me, and described the very person who told it, still it has been received as an adventure that happened to myself. Now, I protest I never met with any adventure of the kind. I should not have grieved at this, had it not been intimated by the author of Waverley, in an introduction to his romance of Peveril of the Peak, that he was himself the Stout Gentleman alluded to. I have ever since been importuned by letters and questions from gentlemen, and particularly from ladies without number, touching what I had seen of the great unknown.

It's quite unusual that, even though I clearly stated that this story was told to me and described the very person who shared it, it's still been taken as an adventure that happened to me. Honestly, I’ve never had an adventure like that. I wouldn’t have minded this if it hadn’t been suggested by the author of Waverley, in the introduction to his novel Peveril of the Peak, that he was the Stout Gentleman mentioned. Since then, I’ve been bombarded with letters and questions from various gentlemen and especially from countless ladies, asking about what I experienced regarding the great unknown.

Now, all this is extremely tantalizing. It is like being congratulated on the high prize when one has drawn a blank; for I have just as great a desire as any one of the public to penetrate the mystery of that very singular personage, whose voice fills every corner of the world, without any one being able to tell from whence it comes. He who keeps up such a wonderful and whimsical incognito: whom nobody knows, and yet whom every body thinks he can swear to.

Now, all of this is incredibly tempting. It’s like being praised for a huge achievement when you haven’t accomplished anything at all; because I have just as strong a desire as anyone else to uncover the mystery of that unique individual whose voice echoes everywhere, yet no one can figure out where it comes from. This person maintains such an amazing and quirky anonymity: nobody knows him, but everyone feels they can recognize him.

My friend, the nervous gentleman, also, who is a man of very shy, Retired habits, complains that he has been excessively annoyed in consequence of its getting about in his neighborhood that he is the fortunate personage. Insomuch, that he has become a character of considerable notoriety in two or three country towns; and has been repeatedly teased to exhibit himself at blue-stocking parties, for no other reason than that of being “the gentleman who has had a glimpse of the author of Waverley.”

My friend, the anxious guy, who is very shy and keeps to himself, is really bothered because people in his neighborhood have found out that he’s the lucky guy. As a result, he’s become quite well-known in a few small towns and has been repeatedly asked to show up at gatherings for no other reason than being “the guy who has met the author of Waverley.”

Indeed, the poor man has grown ten times as nervous as ever, since he has discovered, on such good authority, who the stout gentleman was; and will never forgive himself for not having made a more resolute effort to get a full sight of him. He has anxiously endeavored to call up a recollection of what he saw of that portly personage; and has ever since kept a curious eye on all gentlemen of more than ordinary dimensions, whom he has seen getting into stage coaches. All in vain! The features he had caught a glimpse of seem common to the whole race of stout gentlemen; and the great unknown remains as great an unknown as ever.]

Indeed, the poor man has become ten times more nervous than ever since he learned, from a reliable source, who the hefty gentleman was; and he will never forgive himself for not making a stronger effort to get a good look at him. He has anxiously tried to recall what he saw of that portly figure; and since then, he has kept a watchful eye on all gentlemen of above-average size that he has seen getting into stagecoaches. All in vain! The features he barely caught a glimpse of seem typical of all stout gentlemen; and the great unknown remains as much of a mystery as ever.

A HUNTING DINNER

I was once at a hunting dinner, given by a worthy fox-hunting old Baronet, who kept Bachelor’s Hall in jovial style, in an ancient rook-haunted family mansion, in one of the middle counties. He had been a devoted admirer of the fair sex in his young days; but having travelled much, studied the sex in various countries with distinguished success, and returned home profoundly instructed, as he supposed, in the ways of woman, and a perfect master of the art of pleasing, he had the mortification of being jilted by a little boarding school girl, who was scarcely versed in the accidence of love.

I once attended a hunting dinner hosted by a respectable old Baronet who lived alone in a lively manner at an old family mansion haunted by rooks, located in one of the midlands. In his younger days, he was a dedicated admirer of women. However, after traveling extensively and studying women in various countries with notable success, he returned home thinking he was well-educated about women and a master at charming them. To his dismay, he was dumped by a young boarding school girl who barely knew the basics of love.

The Baronet was completely overcome by such an incredible defeat; retired from the world in disgust, put himself under the government of his housekeeper, and took to fox-hunting like a perfect Jehu. Whatever poets may say to the contrary, a man will grow out of love as he grows old; and a pack of fox hounds may chase out of his heart even the memory of a boarding-school goddess. The Baronet was when I saw him as merry and mellow an old bachelor as ever followed a hound; and the love he had once felt for one woman had spread itself over the whole sex; so that there was not a pretty face in the whole country round, but came in for a share.

The Baronet was completely crushed by such an unbelievable loss; he withdrew from the world in disgust, let his housekeeper take charge, and threw himself into fox-hunting like a true enthusiast. No matter what poets might claim otherwise, a man will fall out of love as he gets older; and a pack of foxhounds can chase away even the memory of a school crush. When I saw him, the Baronet was as cheerful and relaxed an old bachelor as anyone who ever followed a hound; the love he once had for one woman had expanded to include all women, so there wasn’t a pretty face in the entire countryside that he didn’t take an interest in.

The dinner was prolonged till a late hour; for our host having no ladies in his household to summon us to the drawing-room, the bottle maintained its true bachelor sway, unrivalled by its potent enemy the tea-kettle. The old hall in which we dined echoed to bursts of robustious fox-hunting merriment, that made the ancient antlers shake on the walls. By degrees, however, the wine and wassail of mine host began to operate upon bodies already a little jaded by the chase. The choice spirits that flashed up at the beginning of the dinner, sparkled for a time, then gradually went out one after another, or only emitted now and then a faint gleam from the socket.

The dinner went on until late since our host had no women in the house to invite us to the living room, and the wine kept its strong grip, unmatched by its rival, the tea kettle. The old hall where we dined rang with loud fox-hunting laughter that made the ancient antlers shake on the walls. Gradually, though, the wine and cheer from our host started to take effect on bodies that were already a bit worn out from the hunt. The lively spirits that shone at the start of the dinner sparkled for a while, then slowly faded one by one, or only occasionally flickered weakly from their source.

Some of the briskest talkers, who had given tongue so bravely at the first burst, fell fast asleep; and none kept on their way but certain of those long-winded prosers, who, like short-legged hounds, worry on unnoticed at the bottom of conversation, but are sure to be in at the death. Even these at length subsided into silence; and scarcely any thing was heard but the nasal communications of two or three veteran masticators, who, having been silent while awake, were indemnifying the company in their sleep.

Some of the fastest talkers, who had been so bold at the beginning, fell asleep quickly; and only a few of those long-winded speakers kept going, who, like short-legged hounds, quietly linger at the bottom of the conversation but are sure to stick around until the end. Even they eventually went quiet; and hardly anything was heard except for the nasal sounds of two or three seasoned chewers, who, having stayed silent while awake, were making up for it in their sleep.

At length the announcement of tea and coffee in the cedar parlor roused all hands from this temporary torpor. Every one awoke marvellously renovated, and while sipping the refreshing beverage out of the Baronet’s old-fashioned hereditary china, began to think of departing for their several homes. But here a sudden difficulty arose. While we had been prolonging our repast, a heavy winter storm had set in, with snow, rain, and sleet, driven by such bitter blasts of wind, that they threatened to penetrate to the very bone.

Finally, the announcement of tea and coffee in the cedar parlor brought everyone out of their temporary daze. Everyone felt wonderfully refreshed, and while sipping the revitalizing drink from the Baronet’s old-fashioned family china, they started to think about heading home. However, a sudden problem arose. While we had been lingering over our meal, a severe winter storm had hit, with snow, rain, and sleet, driven by such harsh winds that they felt like they could cut right through to the bone.

“It’s all in vain,” said our hospitable host, “to think of putting one’s head out of doors in such weather. So, gentlemen, I hold you my guests for this night at least, and will have your quarters prepared accordingly.”

“It's pointless,” said our welcoming host, “to think about stepping outside in this weather. So, gentlemen, I consider you my guests for tonight at least, and I'll make sure your accommodations are ready.”

The unruly weather, which became more and more tempestuous, rendered The hospitable suggestion unanswerable. The only question was, whether such an unexpected accession of company, to an already crowded house, would not put the housekeeper to her trumps to accommodate them.

The wild weather, which grew increasingly stormy, made the kind suggestion impossible to ignore. The only question was whether having such an unexpected group of guests in an already packed house would force the housekeeper to pull out all the stops to make room for them.

“Pshaw,” cried mine host, “did you ever know of a Bachelor’s Hall that was not elastic, and able to accommodate twice as many as it could hold?” So out of a good-humored pique the housekeeper was summoned to consultation before us all. The old lady appeared, in her gala suit of faded brocade, which rustled with flurry and agitation, for in spite of mine host’s bravado, she was a little perplexed. But in a bachelor’s house, and with bachelor guests, these matters are readily managed. There is no lady of the house to stand upon squeamish points about lodging guests in odd holes and corners, and exposing the shabby parts of the establishment. A bachelor’s housekeeper is used to shifts and emergencies. After much worrying to and fro, and divers consultations about the red room, and the blue room, and the chintz room, and the damask room, and the little room with the bow window, the matter was finally arranged.

“Come on,” said the host, “have you ever seen a Bachelor’s Hall that wasn’t flexible and could fit twice as many people as it really could?” So, in a good-natured frustration, the housekeeper was called in front of everyone. The elderly woman arrived in her fancy but worn brocade dress, which rustled with excitement and anxiety, because despite the host’s bravado, she was a bit confused. But in a bachelor’s house, especially with bachelor guests, these things are usually handled smoothly. There’s no lady of the house getting finicky about putting guests in odd spots or showing off the shabby areas of the place. A bachelor’s housekeeper is used to adapting and handling unexpected situations. After a lot of back and forth, and various discussions about the red room, the blue room, the chintz room, the damask room, and the little room with the bow window, everything was finally sorted out.

When all this was done, we were once more summoned to the standing Rural amusement of eating. The time that had been consumed in dozing after dinner, and in the refreshment and consultation of the cedar parlor, was sufficient, in the opinion of the rosy-faced butler, to engender a reasonable appetite for supper. A slight repast had therefore been tricked up from the residue of dinner, consisting of cold sirloin of beef; hashed venison; a devilled leg of a turkey or so, and a few other of those light articles taken by country gentlemen to ensure sound sleep and heavy snoring.

Once everything was done, we were called back to enjoy the usual country meal. The time spent dozing after dinner, along with the refreshment and chats in the cedar parlor, was enough, in the rosy-faced butler's opinion, to create a proper appetite for supper. A light meal had been arranged from the leftovers of dinner, which included cold roast beef, chopped-up venison, a spicy turkey leg, and a few other light items that country gentlemen often have to guarantee a good night's sleep and some heavy snoring.

The nap after dinner had brightened up every one’s wit; and a great deal of excellent humor was expended upon the perplexities of mine host and his housekeeper, by certain married gentlemen of the company, who considered themselves privileged in joking with a bachelor’s establishment. From this the banter turned as to what quarters each would find, on being thus suddenly billeted in so antiquated a mansion.

The nap after dinner had lifted everyone's spirits, and a lot of great humor was directed at the troubles of the host and his housekeeper by a few married guys in the group, who felt entitled to joke about a bachelor’s home. From there, the teasing shifted to where each person would end up if they were suddenly assigned to stay in such an old mansion.

“By my soul,” said an Irish captain of dragoons, one of the most merry and boisterous of the party—“by my soul, but I should not be surprised if some of those good-looking gentlefolks that hang along the walls, should walk about the rooms of this stormy night; or if I should find the ghost of one of these long-waisted ladies turning into my bed in mistake for her grave in the church-yard.

“By my soul,” said an Irish dragoon captain, one of the most cheerful and lively of the group—“by my soul, I wouldn’t be surprised if some of those good-looking folks hanging along the walls started wandering around the rooms on this stormy night; or if I found the ghost of one of those long-waisted ladies mistakenly appearing in my bed instead of her grave in the churchyard."

“Do you believe in ghosts, then?” said a thin, hatchet-faced gentleman, with projecting eyes like a lobster.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” asked a skinny, sharp-featured guy, with bulging eyes like a lobster.

I had remarked this last personage throughout dinner-time for one of Those incessant questioners, who seem to have a craving, unhealthy appetite in conversation. He never seemed satisfied with the whole of a story; never laughed when others laughed; but always put the joke to the question. He could never enjoy the kernel of the nut, but pestered himself to get more out of the shell.

I noticed this last person all through dinner as one of those nonstop questioners who seem to have a bizarre, insatiable need for conversation. He never seemed satisfied with a complete story; he never laughed when others did, but always questioned the joke. He could never enjoy the essence of the matter and instead frustrated himself trying to get more out of the details.

“Do you believe in ghosts, then?” said the inquisitive gentleman.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” asked the curious man.

“Faith, but I do,” replied the jovial Irishman; “I was brought up in the fear and belief of them; we had a Benshee in our own family, honey.”

“Sure I do,” replied the cheerful Irishman; “I was raised to both fear and believe in them; we had a Banshee in our own family, dear.”

“A Benshee—and what’s that?” cried the questioner.

“A Banshee—and what’s that?” shouted the person asking.

“Why an old lady ghost that tends upon your real Milesian families, and wails at their window to let them know when some of them are to die.”

“Why is there an old lady ghost that watches over your real Milesian families and wails at their window to warn them when some of them are about to die?”

“A mighty pleasant piece of information,” cried an elderly gentleman, with a knowing look and a flexible nose, to which he could give a whimsical twist when he wished to be waggish.

“A really nice bit of information,” exclaimed an elderly man, with a knowing look and a flexible nose that he could twist in a funny way whenever he wanted to be humorous.

“By my soul, but I’d have you know it’s a piece of distinction to be waited upon by a Benshee. It’s a proof that one has pure blood in one’s veins. But, egad, now we’re talking of ghosts, there never was a house or a night better fitted than the present for a ghost adventure. Faith, Sir John, haven’t you such a thing as a haunted chamber to put a guest in?”

“Honestly, you should know it’s quite an honor to be attended to by a Banshee. It shows you have pure blood in your veins. But, wow, since we’re talking about ghosts, there’s never been a house or a night better suited for a ghost story than tonight. Seriously, Sir John, don’t you have a haunted room to put a guest in?”

“Perhaps,” said the Baronet, smiling, “I might accommodate you even on that point.”

"Maybe," said the Baronet, smiling, "I could help you with that too."

“Oh, I should like it of all things, my jewel. Some dark oaken room, with ugly wo-begone portraits that stare dismally at one, and about which the housekeeper has a power of delightful stories of love and murder. And then a dim lamp, a table with a rusty sword across it, and a spectre all in white to draw aside one’s curtains at midnight—”

“Oh, I would love that more than anything, my dear. A dark oak room, with grim portraits that look sadly at you, and the housekeeper has some fantastic stories of love and murder to share. And then a dim lamp, a table with a rusty sword on it, and a ghost in white to pull back the curtains at midnight—”

“In truth,” said an old gentleman at one end of the table, “you put me in mind of an anecdote—”

“In truth,” said an old man at one end of the table, “you remind me of a story—”

“Oh, a ghost story! a ghost story!” was vociferated round the board, every one edging his chair a little nearer.

“Oh, a ghost story! A ghost story!” was shouted around the table, everyone scooting their chairs a little closer.

The attention of the whole company was now turned upon the speaker. He was an old gentleman, one side of whose face was no match for the other. The eyelid drooped and hung down like an unhinged window shutter. Indeed, the whole side of his head was dilapidated, and seemed like the wing of a house shut up and haunted. I’ll warrant that side was well stuffed with ghost stories.

The whole group was now focused on the speaker. He was an older man, and one side of his face didn’t match the other. One eyelid drooped down like a broken window shutter. In fact, the entire side of his head looked worn out, almost like a part of a house that was boarded up and spooky. I bet that side was packed with ghost stories.

There was a universal demand for the tale.

There was a widespread demand for the story.

“Nay,” said the old gentleman, “it’s a mere anecdote—and a very commonplace one; but such as it is you shall have it. It is a story that I once heard my uncle tell when I was a boy. But whether as having happened to himself or to another, I cannot recollect. But no matter, it’s very likely it happened to himself, for he was a man very apt to meet with strange adventures. I have heard him tell of others much more singular. At any rate, we will suppose it happened to himself.”

“No,” said the old gentleman, “it’s just a little story—and a pretty ordinary one; but you can have it as it is. It’s a tale I once heard my uncle share when I was a kid. I can’t remember if it happened to him or someone else, but it doesn’t really matter. It’s quite possible it happened to him, as he was the kind of guy who often found himself in unusual situations. I’ve heard him talk about other stories that were much more remarkable. Anyway, let’s just assume it happened to him.”

“What kind of man was your uncle?” said the questioning gentleman.

“What kind of guy was your uncle?” asked the man.

“Why, he was rather a dry, shrewd kind of body; a great traveller, and fond of telling his adventures.”

"Well, he was quite a clever, practical guy; a seasoned traveler, and loved sharing his stories."

“Pray, how old might he have been when this happened?”

"Please, how old could he have been when this happened?"

“When what happened?” cried the gentleman with the flexible nose, impatiently—“Egad, you have not given any thing a chance to happen -—come, never mind our uncle’s age; let us have his adventures.”

“When did that happen?” exclaimed the man with the flexible nose, impatiently. “Honestly, you haven’t let anything happen—come on, forget about our uncle’s age; let’s hear about his adventures.”

The inquisitive gentleman being for the moment silenced, the old gentleman with the haunted head proceeded.

The curious man was quiet for the moment, and the older man with the troubled expression continued.

THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE

Many years since, a long time before the French revolution, my uncle had passed several months at Paris. The English and French were on better terms, in those days, than at present, and mingled cordially together in society. The English went abroad to spend money then, and the French were always ready to help them: they go abroad to save money at present, and that they can do without French assistance. Perhaps the travelling English were fewer and choicer then, than at present, when the whole nation has broke loose, and inundated the continent. At any rate, they circulated more readily and currently in foreign society, and my uncle, during his residence in Paris, made many very intimate acquaintances among the French noblesse.

Many years ago, long before the French Revolution, my uncle spent several months in Paris. Back then, the English and French got along better than they do now and mixed easily in social settings. The English traveled abroad to spend their money, while the French were always eager to welcome them; nowadays, they travel to save money and can do that without any help from the French. It’s possible that there were fewer and more selective English travelers back then compared to now, when it seems like the entire nation has flooded the continent. Regardless, they integrated more smoothly into foreign society, and during his time in Paris, my uncle formed many close friendships with French nobility.

Some time afterwards, he was making a journey in the winter-time, in that part of Normandy called the Pays de Caux, when, as evening was closing in, he perceived the turrets of an ancient chateau rising out of the trees of its walled park, each turret with its high conical roof of gray slate, like a candle with an extinguisher on it.

Some time later, he was traveling in the winter in that part of Normandy known as the Pays de Caux when, as evening fell, he saw the towers of an old chateau emerging from the trees of its walled park, each tower topped with a tall conical roof made of gray slate, like a candle with a snuffer on it.

“To whom does that chateau belong, friend?” cried my uncle to a meager, but fiery postillion, who, with tremendous jack boots and cocked hat, was floundering on before him.

“To whom does that chateau belong, my friend?” called my uncle to a thin but spirited postillion, who, wearing large boots and a cocked hat, was struggling on ahead of him.

“To Monseigneur the Marquis de ——,” said the postillion, touching his hat, partly out of respect to my uncle, and partly out of reverence to the noble name pronounced. My uncle recollected the Marquis for a particular friend in Paris, who had often expressed a wish to see him at his paternal chateau. My uncle was an old traveller, one that knew how to turn things to account. He revolved for a few moments in his mind how agreeable it would be to his friend the Marquis to be surprised in this sociable way by a pop visit; and how much more agreeable to himself to get into snug quarters in a chateau, and have a relish of the Marquis’s well-known kitchen, and a smack of his superior champagne and burgundy; rather than take up with the miserable lodgment, and miserable fare of a country inn. In a few minutes, therefore, the meager postillion was cracking his whip like a very devil, or like a true Frenchman, up the long straight avenue that led to the chateau.

“To Monseigneur the Marquis de ——,” said the postillion, tipping his hat, partly out of respect for my uncle and partly out of reverence for the noble name just mentioned. My uncle remembered the Marquis as a close friend in Paris, who had often expressed a desire to host him at his family chateau. My uncle was an experienced traveler who knew how to take advantage of situations. He thought for a moment about how pleasant it would be for his friend the Marquis to be pleasantly surprised by an unexpected visit; and how much more enjoyable it would be for him to stay in the comfort of a chateau, enjoy the Marquis's famous kitchen, and savor his excellent champagne and burgundy, rather than endure the poor accommodations and terrible food at a country inn. So, in just a few minutes, the skinny postillion was cracking his whip like a devil, or like a true Frenchman, up the long, straight avenue that led to the chateau.

You have no doubt all seen French chateaus, as every body travels in France nowadays. This was one of the oldest; standing naked and alone, in the midst of a desert of gravel walks and cold stone terraces; with a cold-looking formal garden, cut into angles and rhomboids; and a cold leafless park, divided geometrically by straight alleys; and two or three noseless, cold-looking statues without any clothing; and fountains spouting cold water enough to make one’s teeth chatter. At least, such was the feeling they imparted on the wintry day of my uncle’s visit; though, in hot summer weather, I’ll warrant there was glare enough to scorch one’s eyes out.

You’ve probably all seen French chateaus since everyone visits France these days. This was one of the oldest ones; standing bare and alone in the middle of a barren stretch of gravel paths and cold stone terraces. It had a formal garden that looked stiff, carved into sharp angles and geometric shapes, and a bare, leafless park divided by straight pathways. There were a couple of noseless, cold-looking statues with no clothes on, and fountains spraying cold water that could make your teeth chatter. At least, that was the vibe on the chilly day of my uncle’s visit; though in the hot summer sun, I bet it was bright enough to hurt your eyes.

The smacking of the postillion’s whip, which grew more and more intense the nearer they approached, frightened a flight of pigeons out of the dove-cote, and rooks out of the roofs; and finally a crew of servants out of the chateau, with the Marquis at their head. He was enchanted to see my uncle; for his chateau, like the house of our worthy host, had not many more guests at the time than it could accommodate. So he kissed my uncle on each cheek, after the French fashion, and ushered him into the castle.

The crack of the driver's whip grew louder as they got closer, scaring a flock of pigeons out of the dove-cote, rooks off the roofs, and finally, a group of servants out of the chateau, led by the Marquis. He was thrilled to see my uncle since his chateau, like our kind host’s house, didn’t have many more guests than it could handle. So he kissed my uncle on each cheek, following the French custom, and guided him into the castle.

The Marquis did the honors of his house with the urbanity of his country. In fact, he was proud of his old family chateau; for part of it was extremely old. There was a tower and chapel that had been built almost before the memory of man; but the rest was more modern; the castle having been nearly demolished during the wars of the League. The Marquis dwelt upon this event with great satisfaction, and seemed really to entertain a grateful feeling towards Henry IV., for having thought his paternal mansion worth battering down. He had many stories to tell of the prowess of his ancestors, and several skull-caps, helmets, and cross-bows to show; and divers huge boots and buff jerkins, that had been worn by the Leaguers. Above all, there was a two-handled sword, which he could hardly wield; but which he displayed as a proof that there had been giants in his family.

The Marquis hosted his guests with the charm of his upbringing. In fact, he took pride in his old family chateau; part of it was extremely ancient. There was a tower and chapel that had been built way before anyone could remember, but the rest of the castle was more modern, having been nearly destroyed during the wars of the League. The Marquis talked about this event with great pride and seemed genuinely grateful to Henry IV. for thinking his family home was worth tearing down. He had many stories to share about the bravery of his ancestors, along with several skull-caps, helmets, and cross-bows to show off, as well as various large boots and leather jerkins that had been worn by the Leaguers. Above all, there was a two-handled sword that he could barely lift, but he proudly displayed it as proof that there had been giants in his family.

In truth, he was but a small descendant from such great warriors. When you looked at their bluff visages and brawny limbs, as depicted in their portraits, and then at the little Marquis, with his spindle shanks; his sallow lanthern visage, flanked with a pair of powdered ear-locks, or ailes de pigeon, that seemed ready to fly away with it; you would hardly believe him to be of the same race. But when you looked at the eyes that sparkled out like a beetle’s from each side of his hooked nose, you saw at once that he inherited all the fiery spirit of his forefathers. In fact, a Frenchman’s spirit never exhales, however his body may dwindle. It rather rarefies, and grows more inflammable, as the earthly particles diminish; and I have seen valor enough in a little fiery-hearted French dwarf, to have furnished out a tolerable giant.

In reality, he was just a distant descendant of those great warriors. When you looked at their strong faces and muscular bodies in their portraits, and then compared them to the little Marquis, with his skinny legs and pale, lantern-like face framed by a pair of powdered sideburns, or ailes de pigeon, that looked like they could take off at any moment, it was hard to believe he belonged to the same lineage. But when you looked into his eyes, which sparkled like a beetle's on either side of his hooked nose, you could instantly see that he had inherited all the fiery spirit of his ancestors. In fact, a Frenchman's spirit never fades, no matter how his body shrinks. Instead, it becomes more intense and combustible as his physical form diminishes; and I have witnessed enough bravery in a small, fiery-hearted Frenchman to have made a decent-sized giant.

When once the Marquis, as he was wont, put on one of the old helmets that were stuck up in his hall; though his head no more filled it than a dry pea its pease cod; yet his eyes sparkled from the bottom of the iron cavern with the brilliancy of carbuncles, and when he poised the ponderous two-handled sword of his ancestors, you would have thought you saw the doughty little David wielding the sword of Goliath, which was unto him like a weaver’s beam.

When the Marquis, as usual, put on one of the old helmets displayed in his hall, it fit him as poorly as a dry pea fits in its pod. Still, his eyes shone from the depths of that iron helmet like bright gems, and when he lifted the heavy two-handed sword of his ancestors, you would have thought you were seeing brave little David holding Goliath's sword, which looked as big as a weaver’s beam to him.

However, gentlemen, I am dwelling too long on this description of the Marquis and his chateau; but you must excuse me; he was an old friend of my uncle’s, and whenever my uncle told the story, he was always fond of talking a great deal about his host.—Poor little Marquis! He was one of that handful of gallant courtiers, who made such a devoted, but hopeless stand in the cause of their sovereign, in the chateau of the Tuilleries, against the irruption of the mob, on the sad tenth of August.

However, gentlemen, I’m spending too much time describing the Marquis and his chateau; please bear with me. He was an old friend of my uncle’s, and whenever my uncle shared the story, he loved to talk a lot about his host. —Poor little Marquis! He was one of the few brave courtiers who made a dedicated but ultimately futile effort to support their king in the chateau of the Tuileries against the mob on that tragic tenth of August.

He displayed the valor of a preux French chevalier to the last; flourished feebly his little court sword with a sa-sa! in face of a whole legion of sans-culottes; but was pinned to the wall like a butterfly, by the pike of a poissarde, and his heroic soul was borne up to heaven on his ailes de pigeon.

He showed the bravery of a noble French knight until the end; weakly waved his small court sword with a sa-sa! in front of a whole army of sans-culottes; but was pinned to the wall like a butterfly by a fishmonger’s pike, and his heroic spirit was lifted up to heaven on his ailes de pigeon.

But all this has nothing to do with my story; to the point then:—

But all of this has nothing to do with my story; let's get to the point then:—

When the hour arrived for retiring for the night, my uncle was shown to his room, in a venerable old tower. It was the oldest part of the chateau, and had in ancient times been the Donjon or stronghold; of course the chamber was none of the best. The Marquis had put him there, however, because he knew him to be a traveller of taste, and fond of antiquities; and also because the better apartments were already occupied. Indeed, he perfectly reconciled my uncle to his quarters by mentioning the great personages who had once inhabited them, all of whom were in some way or other connected with the family. If you would take his word for it, John Baliol, or, as he called him, Jean de Bailleul, had died of chagrin in this very chamber on hearing of the success of his rival, Robert the Bruce, at the battle of Bannockburn; and when he added that the Duke de Guise had slept in it during the wars of the League, my uncle was fain to felicitate himself upon being honored with such distinguished quarters.

When it was time to go to bed, my uncle was taken to his room in an old tower. This was the oldest part of the chateau and had once served as the Donjon or stronghold; naturally, the room wasn't the best. The Marquis had placed him there because he knew my uncle appreciated history and antiques, and also because the nicer rooms were already taken. In fact, he convinced my uncle to accept the room by mentioning the illustrious figures who had once stayed there, all of whom were somehow connected to the family. If you believe him, John Baliol, or as he referred to him, Jean de Bailleul, had died of grief in this very room upon hearing about his rival Robert the Bruce’s success at the battle of Bannockburn; and when he added that the Duke de Guise had slept there during the Wars of the League, my uncle couldn't help but feel proud to be staying in such distinguished quarters.

The night was shrewd and windy, and the chamber none of the warmest. An old, long-faced, long-bodied servant in quaint livery, who attended upon my uncle, threw down an armful of wood beside the fire-place, gave a queer look about the room, and then wished him bon repos, with a grimace and a shrug that would have been suspicious from any other than an old French servant. The chamber had indeed a wild, crazy look, enough to strike any one who had read romances with apprehension and foreboding. The windows were high and narrow, and had once been loop-holes, but had been rudely enlarged, as well as the extreme thickness of the walls would permit; and the ill-fitted casements rattled to every breeze. You would have thought, on a windy night, some of the old Leaguers were tramping and clanking about the apartment in their huge boots and rattling spurs. A door which stood ajar, and like a true French door would stand ajar, in spite of every reason and effort to the contrary, opened upon a long, dark corridor, that led the Lord knows whither, and seemed just made for ghosts to air themselves in, when they turned out of their graves at midnight. The wind would spring up into a hoarse murmur through this passage, and creak the door to and fro, as if some dubious ghost were balancing in its mind whether to come in or not. In a word, it was precisely the kind of comfortless apartment that a ghost, if ghost there were in the chateau, would single out for its favourite lounge.

The night was sharp and windy, and the room wasn't the warmest. An old, long-faced servant in a funny uniform, who worked for my uncle, tossed an armful of firewood beside the fireplace, gave a strange look around the room, and then wished him bon repos with a grimace and a shrug that would have raised suspicion coming from anyone other than an old French servant. The room had a wild, chaotic appearance that would unsettle anyone who had read romances, making them feel uneasy and foreboding. The windows were high and narrow, once used as loopholes, but had been clumsily enlarged as much as the thick walls would allow; the poorly fitting window frames rattled with every gust. On a windy night, you might have thought the old Leaguers were stomping around the room in their heavy boots and noisy spurs. A door that stood slightly open, like a typical French door, remained ajar despite any reason or effort to close it, leading to a long, dark corridor that seemed to go who knows where, perfect for ghosts to wander around in when they rose from their graves at midnight. The wind would drift into this hallway with a rough murmur, creaking the door back and forth as if some uncertain ghost was trying to decide whether to come in or not. In short, it was exactly the kind of uncomfortable room that a ghost, if any existed in the chateau, would choose as its favorite haunt.

My uncle, however, though a man accustomed to meet with strange adventures, apprehended none at the time. He made several attempts to shut the door, but in vain. Not that he apprehended any thing, for he was too old a traveller to be daunted by a wild-looking apartment; but the night, as I have said, was cold and gusty, something like the present, and the wind howled about the old turret, pretty much as it does round this old mansion at this moment; and the breeze from the long dark corridor came in as damp and chilly as if from a dungeon. My uncle, therefore, since he could not close the door, threw a quantity of wood on the fire, which soon sent up a flame in the great wide-mouthed chimney that illumined the whole chamber, and made the shadow of the tongs on the opposite wall, look like a long-legged giant. My uncle now clambered on top of the half score of mattresses which form a French bed, and which stood in a deep recess; then tucking himself snugly in, and burying himself up to the chin in the bed-clothes, he lay looking at the fire, and listening to the wind, and chuckling to think how knowingly he had come over his friend the Marquis for a night’s lodgings: and so he fell asleep.

My uncle, though someone who was used to encountering strange adventures, felt none at that moment. He tried several times to shut the door, but it wouldn't close. Not that he was scared; he was too seasoned a traveler to be intimidated by a wild-looking room. The night, as I mentioned, was cold and windy, a bit like tonight, and the wind howled around the old turret, much like it does around this old mansion now. The breeze from the long dark corridor was damp and chilly, almost like it came from a dungeon. So, since he couldn’t close the door, my uncle tossed a pile of wood onto the fire, which quickly blazed in the big chimney, lighting up the whole room and casting a shadow of the tongs on the opposite wall that looked like a tall, gangly giant. My uncle then climbed on top of the stack of mattresses that formed a French bed, which was tucked away in a deep alcove. Cocooning himself snugly and burying himself up to his chin in the blankets, he lay there watching the fire, listening to the wind, and chuckling to himself, pleased with how cleverly he had managed to stay with his friend the Marquis for the night. And then he fell asleep.

He had not taken above half of his first nap, when he was awakened by the clock of the chateau, in the turret over his chamber, which struck midnight. It was just such an old clock as ghosts are fond of. It had a deep, dismal tone, and struck so slowly and tediously that my uncle thought it would never have done. He counted and counted till he was confident he counted thirteen, and then it stopped.

He had barely taken half of his first nap when he was woken up by the clock in the chateau's turret above his room, which struck midnight. It was exactly the kind of old clock that ghosts love. It had a deep, gloomy tone, and struck so slowly and painfully that my uncle thought it might never stop. He counted and counted until he was sure he counted thirteen, and then it finally stopped.

The fire had burnt low, and the blaze of the last faggot was almost expiring, burning in small blue flames, which now and then lengthened up into little white gleams. My uncle lay with his eyes half closed, and his nightcap drawn almost down to his nose. His fancy was already wandering, and began to mingle up the present scene with the crater of Vesuvius, the French opera, the Coliseum at Rome, Dolly’s chop-house in London, and all the farrago of noted places with which the brain of a traveller is crammed—in a word, he was just falling asleep.

The fire had died down, and the last log was almost out, burning with small blue flames that occasionally flickered into little white sparks. My uncle lay with his eyes half closed and his nightcap pulled down nearly to his nose. His mind was already drifting, starting to mix the current scene with the crater of Vesuvius, the French opera, the Coliseum in Rome, Dolly’s chop-house in London, and all the jumble of famous places that a traveler’s mind is filled with—in short, he was just about to fall asleep.

Suddenly he was aroused by the sound of foot-steps that appeared to be slowly pacing along the corridor. My uncle, as I have often heard him say himself, was a man not easily frightened; so he lay quiet, supposing that this might be some other guest; or some servant on his way to bed. The footsteps, however, approached the door; the door gently opened; whether of its own accord, or whether pushed open, my uncle could not distinguish:—a figure all in white glided in. It was a female, tall and stately in person, and of a most commanding air. Her dress was of an ancient fashion, ample in volume and sweeping the floor. She walked up to the fire-place without regarding my uncle; who raised his nightcap with one hand, and stared earnestly at her. She remained for some time standing by the fire, which flashing up at intervals cast blue and white gleams of light that enabled my uncle to remark her appearance minutely.

Suddenly, he was awakened by the sound of footsteps slowly pacing along the corridor. My uncle, as he often mentioned, was not easily scared; so he stayed still, thinking it might be another guest or a servant heading to bed. However, the footsteps got closer to the door; it gently opened, and whether it was pushed or opened by itself, my uncle couldn't tell: a figure all in white glided in. It was a woman, tall and imposing, with a commanding presence. Her dress was from an earlier time, large and trailing on the floor. She walked up to the fireplace without acknowledging my uncle, who lifted his nightcap with one hand and stared intently at her. She stood by the fire for a while, which flickered up at intervals, casting blue and white glimmers of light, allowing my uncle to observe her appearance in detail.

Her face was ghastly pale, and perhaps rendered still more so by the Blueish light of the fire. It possessed beauty, but its beauty was saddened by care and anxiety. There was the look of one accustomed to trouble, but of one whom trouble could not cast down nor subdue; for there was still the predominating air of proud, unconquerable resolution. Such, at least, was the opinion formed by my uncle, and he considered himself a great physiognomist.

Her face was deathly pale, which might have been made even paler by the blue light of the fire. It had a certain beauty, but that beauty was overshadowed by worry and stress. She looked like someone who was used to hardship, yet trouble couldn’t break or defeat her; there was still a strong sense of proud, unyielding determination about her. That was at least how my uncle saw it, and he thought of himself as quite the expert on reading faces.

The figure remained, as I said, for some time by the fire, putting out first one hand, then the other, then each foot, alternately, as if warming itself; for your ghosts, if ghost it really was, are apt to be cold. My uncle furthermore remarked that it wore high-heeled shoes, after an ancient fashion, with paste or diamond buckles, that sparkled as though they were alive. At length the figure turned gently round, casting a glassy look about the apartment, which, as it passed over my uncle, made his blood run cold, and chilled the very marrow in his bones. It then stretched its arms toward heaven, clasped its hands, and wringing them in a supplicating manner, glided slowly out of the room.

The figure stayed by the fire for a while, putting out one hand, then the other, then each foot, one after the other, as if trying to warm itself; because your ghosts, if it really was a ghost, tend to be cold. My uncle also noted that it was wearing high-heeled shoes, an old style, with sparkling paste or diamond buckles that looked almost alive. Eventually, the figure turned slowly around, casting a glassy gaze around the room, which, when it landed on my uncle, made his blood run cold and chilled him to the bone. It then raised its arms toward the heavens, clasped its hands, and wrung them in a pleading way before gliding slowly out of the room.

My uncle lay for some time meditating on this visitation, for (as he Remarked when he told me the story) though a man of firmness, he was also a man of reflection, and did not reject a thing because it was out of the regular course of events. However, being, as I have before said, a great traveller, and accustomed to strange adventures, he drew his nightcap resolutely over his eyes, turned his back to the door, hoisted the bedclothes high over his shoulders, and gradually fell asleep.

My uncle lay there for a while thinking about this visit, because (as he mentioned when he told me the story) even though he was a strong-minded person, he was also contemplative and didn’t dismiss something just because it was unusual. However, being, as I’ve said before, a great traveler and used to strange experiences, he pulled his nightcap firmly over his eyes, turned his back to the door, pulled the blankets up high over his shoulders, and eventually fell asleep.

How long he slept he could not say, when he was awakened by the voice of some one at his bed-side. He turned round and beheld the old French servant, with his ear-locks in tight buckles on each side of a long, lanthorn face, on which habit had deeply wrinkled an everlasting smile. He made a thousand grimaces and asked a thousand pardons for disturbing Monsieur, but the morning was considerably advanced. While my uncle was dressing, he called vaguely to mind the visitor of the preceding night. He asked the ancient domestic what lady was in the habit of rambling about this part of the chateau at night. The old valet shrugged his shoulders as high as his head, laid one hand on his bosom, threw open the other with every finger extended; made a most whimsical grimace, which he meant to be complimentary:

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep when he was woken up by someone at his bedside. He turned around and saw the old French servant, with his ear-locks tightly tied on each side of a long, lantern-like face, which was permanently wrinkled into a smile from years of habit. The servant made a thousand faces and apologized profusely for waking him, but the morning was already quite advanced. While my uncle got dressed, he vaguely remembered the visitor from the previous night. He asked the old servant which lady usually roamed around this part of the chateau at night. The old valet shrugged his shoulders up to his ears, placed one hand on his chest, and dramatically opened the other hand with all fingers spread out; he made a very silly face that he intended to be flattering.

“It was not for him to know any thing of les braves fortunes of Monsieur.”

“It wasn't for him to know anything about les braves fortunes of Monsieur.”

My uncle saw there was nothing satisfactory to be learnt in this quarter. After breakfast he was walking with the Marquis through the modern apartments of the chateau; sliding over the well-waxed floors of silken saloons, amidst furniture rich in gilding and brocade; until they came to a long picture gallery, containing many portraits, some in oil and some in chalks.

My uncle realized there was nothing worthwhile to learn in this area. After breakfast, he walked with the Marquis through the modern parts of the chateau, gliding over the polished floors of elegant rooms, surrounded by furniture adorned with gold and brocade, until they reached a long gallery filled with many portraits, some painted in oil and others done in chalk.

Here was an ample field for the eloquence of his host, who had all the family pride of a nobleman of the ancient regime. There was not a grand name in Normandy, and hardly one in France, that was not, in some way or other, connected with his house. My uncle stood listening with inward impatience, resting sometimes on one leg, sometimes on the other, as the little Marquis descanted, with his usual fire and vivacity, on the achievements of his ancestors, whose portraits hung along the wall; from the martial deeds of the stern warriors in steel, to the gallantries and intrigues of the blue-eyed gentlemen, with fair smiling faces, powdered ear-locks, laced ruffles, and pink and blue silk coats and breeches; not forgetting the conquests of the lovely shepherdesses, with hoop petticoats and waists no thicker than an hour glass, who appeared ruling over their sheep and their swains with dainty crooks decorated with fluttering ribbands.

Here was a perfect opportunity for the eloquence of his host, who had all the family pride of a nobleman from the old regime. There wasn’t a prominent name in Normandy, and hardly one in France, that wasn’t in some way connected to his family. My uncle stood there, feeling impatient inside, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, as the little Marquis passionately talked about the achievements of his ancestors, whose portraits lined the wall; from the martial feats of the stern warriors in armor to the romances and intrigues of the blue-eyed gentlemen, with fair, smiling faces, powdered sideburns, fancy ruffles, and pink and blue silk coats and pants; not to mention the victories of the lovely shepherdesses, with hoop skirts and waists as slim as an hourglass, who seemed to rule over their sheep and lovers with delicate staffs adorned with fluttering ribbons.

In the midst of his friend’s discourse my uncle’s eyes rested on a full-length portrait, which struck him as being the very counterpart of his visitor of the preceding night.

In the middle of his friend's conversation, my uncle's eyes landed on a full-length portrait that he felt looked just like the guest he had the night before.

“Methinks,” said he, pointing to it, “I have seen the original of this portrait.”

“I think,” he said, pointing to it, “I have seen the original of this portrait.”

Pardonnez moi,” replied the Marquis politely, “that can hardly be, as the lady has been dead more than a hundred years. That was the beautiful Duchess de Longueville, who figured during the minority of Louis the Fourteenth.”

Excuse me,” said the Marquis politely, “that can't be possible, as the lady has been dead for over a hundred years. That was the beautiful Duchess de Longueville, who was prominent during the reign of Louis the Fourteenth.”

“And was there any thing remarkable in her history.”

“And was there anything remarkable in her history?”

Never was question more unlucky. The little Marquis immediately threw himself into the attitude of a man about to tell a long story. In fact, my uncle had pulled upon himself the whole history of the civil war of the Fronde, in which the beautiful Duchess had played so distinguished a part. Turenne, Coligni, Mazarin, were called up from their graves to grace his narration; nor were the affairs of the Barricadoes, nor the chivalry of the Pertcocheres forgotten. My uncle began to wish himself a thousand leagues off from the Marquis and his merciless memory, when suddenly the little man’s recollections took a more interesting turn. He was relating the imprisonment of the Duke de Longueville, with the Princes Condé and Conti, in the chateau of Vincennes, and the ineffectual efforts of the Duchess to rouse the sturdy Normans to their rescue. He had come to that part where she was invested by the royal forces in the chateau of Dieppe, and in imminent danger of falling into their hands.

Never was a question more unfortunate. The little Marquis immediately took on the pose of someone about to tell a long story. In fact, my uncle had brought upon himself the entire history of the civil war of the Fronde, in which the beautiful Duchess had played such a notable role. Turenne, Coligni, Mazarin, were summoned from their graves to enhance his narration; nor were the events of the Barricadoes, or the chivalry of the Pertcocheres forgotten. My uncle began to wish he were a thousand leagues away from the Marquis and his relentless memory when suddenly the little man's recollections took a more engaging turn. He was recounting the imprisonment of the Duke de Longueville, along with Princes Condé and Conti, in the chateau of Vincennes, and the unsuccessful attempts of the Duchess to motivate the resilient Normans to come to their rescue. He had gotten to the part where she was besieged by the royal forces in the chateau of Dieppe, and was in real danger of falling into their hands.

“The spirit of the Duchess,” proceeded the Marquis, “rose with her trials. It was astonishing to see so delicate and beautiful a being buffet so resolutely with hardships. She determined on a desperate means of escape. One dark unruly night, she issued secretly out of a small postern gate of the castle, which the enemy had neglected to guard. She was followed by her female attendants, a few domestics, and some gallant cavaliers who still remained faithful to her fortunes. Her object was to gain a small port about two leagues distant, where she had privately provided a vessel for her escape in case of emergency.

“The spirit of the Duchess,” the Marquis continued, “grew stronger through her challenges. It was incredible to see such a delicate and beautiful person face so many hardships with such determination. She decided on a desperate way to escape. One dark, wild night, she quietly slipped out of a small side gate of the castle that the enemy had failed to guard. She was followed by her female attendants, a few servants, and some brave knights who still remained loyal to her cause. Her goal was to reach a small port about two leagues away, where she had secretly arranged for a ship to take her away in case of an emergency.”

“The little band of fugitives were obliged to perform the distance on foot. When they arrived at the port the wind was high and stormy, the tide contrary, the vessel anchored far off in the road, and no means of getting on board, but by a fishing shallop that lay tossing like a cockle shell on the edge of the surf. The Duchess determined to risk the attempt. The seamen endeavored to dissuade her, but the imminence of her danger on shore, and the magnanimity of her spirit urged her on. She had to be borne to the shallop in the arms of a mariner. Such was the violence of the wind and waves, that he faltered, lost his foothold, and let his precious burden fall into the sea.

The small group of fugitives had to cover the distance on foot. When they reached the port, the wind was strong and stormy, the tide was against them, and the ship was anchored far off, with no way to get on board except by a fishing boat that was bouncing around like a cork on the edge of the waves. The Duchess decided to take the risk. The sailors tried to talk her out of it, but the danger she faced on shore and her courageous spirit pushed her forward. She had to be carried to the boat in the arms of a sailor. The wind and waves were so intense that he stumbled, lost his grip, and let his precious cargo fall into the sea.

“The Duchess was nearly drowned; but partly through her own struggles, partly by the exertions of the seamen, she got to land. As soon as she had a little recovered strength, she insisted on renewing the attempt. The storm, however, had by this time become so violent as to set all efforts at defiance. To delay, was to be discovered and taken prisoner. As the only resource left, she procured horses; mounted with her female attendants en croupe behind the gallant gentlemen who accompanied her; and scoured the country to seek some temporary asylum.

The Duchess was nearly drowned, but thanks to her own struggles and the efforts of the sailors, she made it to land. Once she had regained some strength, she insisted on trying again. However, the storm had become so fierce that it thwarted all attempts. Waiting meant getting caught and captured. With no other options, she arranged for horses, riding with her female attendants on the back behind the brave gentlemen who were with her, and they rode across the countryside in search of a safe place to hide.

“While the Duchess,” continued the Marquis, laying his forefinger on my uncle’s breast to arouse his flagging attention, “while the Duchess, poor lady, was wandering amid the tempest in this disconsolate manner, she arrived at this chateau. Her approach caused some uneasiness; for the clattering of a troop of horse, at dead of night, up the avenue of a lonely chateau, in those unsettled times, and in a troubled part of the country, was enough to occasion alarm.

“While the Duchess,” the Marquis continued, placing his finger on my uncle’s chest to capture his waning attention, “while the Duchess, poor thing, was wandering through the storm in such a sad way, she reached this chateau. Her arrival caused some concern; the sound of a group of horses galloping up the driveway of a secluded chateau in the middle of the night, during those uncertain times and in a troubled region, was enough to raise alarm.

“A tall, broad-shouldered chasseur, armed to the teeth, galloped ahead, and announced the name of the visitor. All uneasiness was dispelled. The household turned out with flambeaux to receive her, and never did torches gleam on a more weather-beaten, travel-stained band than came tramping into the court. Such pale, care-worn faces, such bedraggled dresses, as the poor Duchess and her females presented, each seated behind her cavalier; while half drenched, half drowsy pages and attendants seemed ready to fall from their horses with sleep and fatigue.

A tall, broad-shouldered soldier, fully armed, rode ahead and announced the visitor's name. All tension faded away. The household came out with torches to welcome her, and never had the flames illuminated a more worn-down, travel-stained group than the one that marched into the courtyard. The poor Duchess and her ladies had such pale, exhausted faces and such messy dresses, each sitting behind her escort; meanwhile, half-soaked, half-asleep pages and attendants looked ready to topple off their horses from exhaustion.

“The Duchess was received with a hearty welcome by my ancestors. She was ushered into the Hall of the chateau, and the fires soon crackled and blazed to cheer herself and her train; and every spit and stewpan was put in requisition to prepare ample refreshments for the wayfarers.

“The Duchess was warmly welcomed by my ancestors. She was taken into the Hall of the chateau, where the fires quickly crackled and blazed to lift her spirits and those of her entourage; and every spit and stewpan was brought out to prepare plenty of food for the travelers."

“She had a right to our hospitalities,” continued the little Marquis, drawing himself up with a slight degree of stateliness, “for she was related to our family. I’ll tell you how it was: Her father, Henry de Bourbon, Prince of Condé—”

“She had a right to our hospitality,” continued the little Marquis, standing a bit taller with a hint of formality, “because she was related to our family. Let me explain: Her father, Henry de Bourbon, Prince of Condé—”

“But did the Duchess pass the night in the chateau?” said my uncle rather abruptly, terrified at the idea of getting involved in one of the Marquis’s genealogical discussions.

“But did the Duchess stay the night at the chateau?” my uncle asked rather abruptly, scared at the thought of getting caught up in one of the Marquis’s family tree discussions.

“Oh, as to the Duchess, she was put into the apartment you occupied last night; which, at that time, was a kind of state apartment. Her followers were quartered in the chambers opening upon the neighboring corridor, and her favorite page slept in an adjoining closet. Up and down the corridor walked the great chasseur, who had announced her arrival, and who acted as a kind of sentinel or guard. He was a dark, stern, powerful-looking fellow, and as the light of a lamp in the corridor fell upon his deeply-marked face and sinewy form, he seemed capable of defending the castle with his single arm.

“Oh, regarding the Duchess, she was placed in the room you stayed in last night; which, at that time, was a sort of state room. Her attendants were housed in the rooms off the nearby corridor, and her favorite page slept in a nearby closet. The big chasseur, who had announced her arrival, was pacing up and down the corridor, acting like a kind of guard. He was a dark, serious, intimidating-looking guy, and as the light from a lamp in the corridor hit his sharply defined face and muscular build, he looked like he could defend the castle all on his own.”

“It was a rough, rude night; about this time of the year.—Apropos—now I think of it, last night was the anniversary of her visit. I may well remember the precise date, for it was a night not to be forgotten by our house. There is a singular tradition concerning it in our family.” Here the Marquis hesitated, and a cloud seemed to gather about his bushy eyebrows. “There is a tradition—that a strange occurrence took place that night—a strange, mysterious, inexplicable occurrence.”

“It was a rough, harsh night; around this time of year.—By the way—now that I think of it, last night was the anniversary of her visit. I can easily recall the exact date because it was a night our household will never forget. There’s a unique tradition regarding it in our family.” Here the Marquis paused, and a shadow seemed to pass over his bushy eyebrows. “There is a tradition—that a strange event happened that night—a strange, mysterious, inexplicable event.”

Here he checked himself and paused.

Here he stopped and took a moment.

“Did it relate to that lady?” inquired my uncle, eagerly.

“Did it have to do with that woman?” my uncle asked eagerly.

“It was past the hour of midnight,” resumed the Marquis—“when the whole chateau—”

“It was past midnight,” the Marquis continued—“when the whole chateau—”

Here he paused again—my uncle made a movement of anxious curiosity.

Here he paused again—my uncle shifted in a way that showed his anxious curiosity.

“Excuse me,” said the Marquis—a slight blush streaking his sullen visage. “There are some circumstances connected with our family history which I do not like to relate. That was a rude period. A time of great crimes among great men: for you know high blood, when it runs wrong, will not run tamely like blood of the canaille—poor lady!—But I have a little family pride, that—excuse me—we will change the subject if you please.”—

“Excuse me,” said the Marquis, a slight blush touching his gloomy face. “There are some things in our family history that I’m not comfortable sharing. It was a rough time. A period filled with terrible deeds by powerful people: after all, noble blood, when it goes bad, won’t just behave like the blood of the common people—poor lady!—But I have a bit of family pride, so—if you don’t mind—let’s change the subject, shall we?”

My uncle’s curiosity was piqued. The pompous and magnificent introduction had led him to expect something wonderful in the story to which it served as a kind of avenue. He had no idea of being cheated out of it by a sudden fit of unreasonable squeamishness. Besides, being a traveller, in quest of information, considered it his duty to inquire into every thing.

My uncle's curiosity was sparked. The grand and impressive introduction made him expect something amazing in the story it led to. He had no idea he would be let down by a sudden attack of unreasonable discomfort. Plus, as a traveler in search of knowledge, he felt it was his duty to look into everything.

The Marquis, however, evaded every question.

The Marquis, however, dodged every question.

“Well,” said my uncle, a little petulantly, “whatever you may think of it, I saw that lady last night.”

“Well,” my uncle said, a bit irritably, “whatever you think about it, I saw that woman last night.”

The Marquis stepped back and gazed at him with surprise.

The Marquis stepped back and looked at him in surprise.

“She paid me a visit in my bed-chamber.”

“She visited me in my bedroom.”

The Marquis pulled out his snuff-box with a shrug and a smile; taking it no doubt for an awkward piece of English pleasantry, which politeness required him to be charmed with. My uncle went on gravely, however, and related the whole circumstance. The Marquis heard him through with profound attention, holding his snuff-box unopened in his hand. When the story was finished he tapped on the lid of his box deliberately; took a long sonorous pinch of snuff—

The Marquis pulled out his snuff box with a shrug and a smile, probably thinking it was just an awkward form of English politeness that he had to pretend to enjoy. My uncle, however, continued seriously and shared the entire story. The Marquis listened intently, keeping his snuff box closed in his hand. Once the story was done, he tapped the lid of his box slowly and took a long, loud pinch of snuff—

“Bah!” said the Marquis, and walked toward the other end of the gallery.—

“Bah!” said the Marquis, and walked to the other end of the gallery.—


Here the narrator paused. The company waited for some time for him to resume his narrative; but he continued silent.

Here the narrator paused. The group waited for a while for him to continue his story, but he remained silent.

“Well,” said the inquisitive gentleman, “and what did your uncle say then?”

“Well,” said the curious gentleman, “what did your uncle say next?”

“Nothing,” replied the other.

“Nothing,” replied the other person.

“And what did the Marquis say farther?”

“And what else did the Marquis say?”

“Nothing.”

"Nothing."

“And is that all?”

"Is that it?"

“That is all,” said the narrator, filling a glass of wine.

"That's it," said the narrator, pouring a glass of wine.

“I surmise,” said the shrewd old gentleman with the waggish nose—“I surmise it was the old housekeeper walking her rounds to see that all was right.”

“I guess,” said the clever old man with the funny nose—“I guess it was the old housekeeper doing her rounds to make sure everything was okay.”

“Bah!” said the narrator, “my uncle was too much accustomed to strange sights not to know a ghost from a housekeeper!”

“Bah!” said the narrator, “my uncle was way too familiar with strange sights not to be able to tell a ghost from a housekeeper!”

There was a murmur round the table half of merriment, half of disappointment. I was inclined to think the old gentleman had really an afterpart of his story in reserve; but he sipped his wine and said nothing more; and there was an odd expression about his dilapidated countenance that left me in doubt whether he were in drollery or earnest.

There was a buzz around the table, a mix of laughter and disappointment. I was tempted to believe the old man actually had more of his story left to tell, but he just sipped his wine and said nothing more. There was a strange look on his worn face that made me unsure if he was joking or serious.

“Egad,” said the knowing gentleman with the flexible nose, “this story of your uncle puts me in mind of one that used to be told of an aunt of mine, by the mother’s side; though I don’t know that it will bear a comparison; as the good lady was not quite so prone to meet with strange adventures. But at any rate, you shall have it.”

“Wow,” said the aware gentleman with the flexible nose, “your uncle's story reminds me of one that my aunt from my mom's side used to tell; although I’m not sure it can compete, since the good lady wasn’t really the type to have unusual adventures. But still, I’ll share it with you.”

THE ADVENTURE OF MY AUNT

My aunt was a lady of large frame, strong mind, and great resolution; she was what might be termed a very manly woman. My uncle was a thin, puny little man, very meek and acquiescent, and no match for my aunt. It was observed that he dwindled and dwindled gradually away, from the day of his marriage. His wife’s powerful mind was too much for him; it wore him out. My aunt, however, took all possible care of him, had half the doctors in town to prescribe for him, made him take all their prescriptions, willy nilly, and dosed him with physic enough to cure a whole hospital. All was in vain. My uncle grew worse and worse the more dosing and nursing he underwent, until in the end he added another to the long list of matrimonial victims, who have been killed with kindness.

My aunt was a tall woman with a strong mind and a lot of determination; she was what you might call a very masculine woman. My uncle was a thin, weak little man, very submissive and compliant, and he couldn't stand up to my aunt. It was noticed that he gradually withered away from the day they got married. His wife's strong mind was too much for him; it drained him. However, my aunt did everything she could to take care of him, had half the doctors in town treating him, made him follow all their prescriptions, willy nilly, and gave him enough medicine to cure an entire hospital. All of it was pointless. My uncle got worse and worse despite all the treatment and care, until in the end, he became just another one of those married men who have been killed by too much kindness.

“And was it his ghost that appeared to her?” asked the inquisitive gentleman, who had questioned the former storyteller.

“And was it his ghost that showed up to her?” asked the curious gentleman, who had questioned the previous storyteller.

“You shall hear,” replied the narrator:—My aunt took on mightily for the death of her poor dear husband! Perhaps she felt some compunction at having given him so much physic, and nursed him into his grave. At any rate, she did all that a widow could do to honor his memory. She spared no expense in either the quantity or quality of her mourning weeds; she wore a miniature of him about her neck, as large as a little sun dial; and she had a full-length portrait of him always hanging in her bed chamber. All the world extolled her conduct to the skies; and it was determined, that a woman who behaved so well to the memory of one husband, deserved soon to get another.

“You’ll hear,” replied the narrator:—My aunt was incredibly upset over the death of her beloved husband! Maybe she felt guilty for having given him so much medicine and nursing him to his end. Regardless, she did everything a widow could do to honor his memory. She spared no expense in the amount or quality of her mourning attire; she wore a locket of him around her neck, as big as a small sundial; and she had a full-length portrait of him always hanging in her bedroom. Everyone praised her actions to the highest degree; and it was decided that a woman who treated the memory of one husband so well deserved to find another soon.

It was not long after this that she went to take up her residence in an old country seat in Derbyshire, which had long been in the care of merely a steward and housekeeper. She took most of her servants with her, intending to make it her principal abode. The house stood in a lonely, wild part of the country among the gray Derbyshire hills; with a murderer hanging in chains on a bleak height in full view.

It wasn't long after this that she moved to an old estate in Derbyshire, which had mainly been looked after by a steward and housekeeper. She brought most of her servants with her, planning to make it her main home. The house was located in a remote, rugged area of the country among the gray hills of Derbyshire, with a murderer hanging in chains visible on a dreary height.

The servants from town were half frightened out of their wits, at the idea of living in such a dismal, pagan-looking place; especially when they got together in the servants’ hall in the evening, and compared notes on all the hobgoblin stories they had picked up in the course of the day. They were afraid to venture alone about the forlorn black-looking chambers. My ladies’ maid, who was troubled with nerves, declared she could never sleep alone in such a “gashly, rummaging old building;” and the footman, who was a kind-hearted young fellow, did all in his power to cheer her up.

The town servants were completely spooked at the thought of living in such a gloomy, pagan-looking place; especially when they gathered in the servants' hall in the evening to swap all the creepy stories they'd heard throughout the day. They were too scared to walk alone through the eerie, dark rooms. My ladies’ maid, who struggled with anxiety, said she could never sleep alone in such a "ghastly, rundown old building;" and the footman, a good-hearted young man, did everything he could to lift her spirits.

My aunt, herself, seemed to be struck with the lonely appearance of the house. Before she went to bed, therefore, she examined well the fastenings of the doors and windows, locked up the plate with her own hands, and carried the keys, together with a little box of money and jewels, to her own room; for she was a notable woman, and always saw to all things herself. Having put the keys under her pillow, and dismissed her maid, she sat by her toilet arranging her hair; for, being, in spite of her grief for my uncle, rather a buxom widow, she was a little particular about her person. She sat for a little while looking at her face in the glass, first on one side, then on the other, as ladies are apt to do, when they would ascertain if they have been in good looks; for a roystering country squire of the neighborhood, with whom she had flirted when a girl, had called that day to welcome her to the country.

My aunt seemed to be really struck by how lonely the house looked. Before going to bed, she made sure to check all the locks on the doors and windows, secured the silverware herself, and took the keys along with a small box of money and jewels to her room. She was quite the capable woman and managed everything herself. After placing the keys under her pillow and sending her maid away, she sat at her vanity to fix her hair; despite her sadness over my uncle, she was still a rather attractive widow who paid attention to her appearance. She spent a little time examining her face in the mirror, first from one angle and then from another, as women often do when they want to see if they look good. That day, a boisterous local landowner, with whom she had flirted as a young girl, had dropped by to welcome her back to the area.

All of a sudden she thought she heard something move behind her. She Looked hastily round, but there was nothing to be seen. Nothing but the grimly painted portrait of her poor dear man, which had been hung against the wall. She gave a heavy sigh to his memory, as she was accustomed to do, whenever she spoke of him in company; and went on adjusting her nightdress. Her sigh was re-echoed; or answered by a long-drawn breath. She looked round again, but no one was to be seen. She ascribed these sounds to the wind, oozing through the rat holes of the old mansion; and proceeded leisurely to put her hair in papers, when, all at once, she thought she perceived one of the eyes of the portrait move.

All of a sudden, she thought she heard something move behind her. She looked around quickly, but there was nothing there. Nothing except the grimly painted portrait of her late husband, which hung on the wall. She let out a heavy sigh in his memory, as she usually did whenever she talked about him in company, and continued to adjust her nightdress. Her sigh was echoed or responded to by a long breath. She looked around again, but no one was there. She attributed these sounds to the wind seeping through the rat holes of the old mansion and calmly began to put her hair in curlers when, all of a sudden, she thought she saw one of the eyes of the portrait move.

“The back of her head being towards it!” said the story-teller with the ruined head, giving a knowing wink on the sound side of his visage—“good!”

“The back of her head facing it!” said the storyteller with the damaged head, giving a knowing wink with the good side of his face—“great!”

“Yes, sir!” replied drily the narrator, “her back being towards the portrait, but her eye fixed on its reflection in the glass.”

“Yes, sir!” replied the narrator dryly, “her back turned to the portrait, but her gaze locked on its reflection in the glass.”

Well, as I was saying, she perceived one of the eyes of the portrait move. So strange a circumstance, as you may well suppose, gave her a sudden shock. To assure herself cautiously of the fact, she put one hand to her forehead, as if rubbing it; peeped through her fingers, and moved the candle with the other hand. The light of the taper gleamed on the eye, and was reflected from it. She was sure it moved. Nay, more, it seemed to give her a wink, as she had sometimes known her husband to do when living! It struck a momentary chill to her heart; for she was a lone woman, and felt herself fearfully situated.

Well, as I was saying, she noticed one of the eyes in the portrait moving. Such a strange occurrence, as you can imagine, gave her a sudden shock. To cautiously confirm what she saw, she pressed one hand to her forehead as if rubbing it, peeked through her fingers, and moved the candle with her other hand. The light from the candle shone on the eye and reflected off it. She was convinced it moved. Even more, it looked like it winked at her, just like her husband used to do when he was alive! It sent a momentary chill to her heart because she was alone and felt very vulnerable.

The chill was but transient. My aunt, who was almost as resolute a personage as your uncle, sir, (turning to the old story-teller,) became instantly calm and collected. She went on adjusting her dress. She even hummed a favorite air, and did not make a single false note. She casually overturned a dressing box; took a candle and picked up the articles leisurely, one by one, from the floor, pursued a rolling pin-cushion that was making the best of its way under the bed; then opened the door; looked for an instant into the corridor, as if in doubt whether to go; and then walked quietly out.

The chill was only temporary. My aunt, who was nearly as determined as your uncle, sir, (turning to the old storyteller,) quickly became calm and composed. She continued adjusting her dress. She even hummed a favorite tune and hit every note perfectly. She casually knocked over a makeup box, grabbed a candle, and picked up the items one by one from the floor, chased after a rolling pin cushion that was trying to escape under the bed, then opened the door, glanced into the hallway for a moment, as if unsure whether to go, and then quietly stepped out.

She hastened down-stairs, ordered the servants to arm themselves with the first weapons that came to hand, placed herself at their head, and returned almost immediately.

She rushed downstairs, told the servants to grab the nearest weapons, took the lead, and quickly came back.

Her hastily levied army presented a formidable force. The steward had a rusty blunderbuss; the coachman a loaded whip; the footman a pair of horse pistols; the cook a huge chopping knife, and the butler a bottle in each hand. My aunt led the van with a red-hot poker; and, in my opinion, she was the most formidable of the party. The waiting maid brought up the rear, dreading to stay alone in the servants’ hall, smelling to a broken bottle of volatile salts, and expressing her terror of the ghosteses.

Her quickly assembled army was quite impressive. The steward had an old blunderbuss; the coachman had a loaded whip; the footman carried a pair of horse pistols; the cook wielded a large chopping knife, and the butler had a bottle in each hand. My aunt led the charge with a red-hot poker, and honestly, she was the most intimidating of the group. The waiting maid lagged behind, fearing to be left alone in the servants’ hall, which smelled of a broken bottle of volatile salts, and she kept voicing her fear of ghosts.

“Ghosts!” said my aunt resolutely, “I’ll singe their whiskers for them!”

“Ghosts!” my aunt said firmly, “I’ll burn their whiskers for them!”

They entered the chamber. All was still and undisturbed as when she left it. They approached the portrait of my uncle.

They entered the room. Everything was quiet and untouched, just like when she had left it. They walked up to the portrait of my uncle.

“Pull me down that picture!” cried my aunt.

“Take that picture down for me!” my aunt shouted.

A heavy groan, and a sound like the chattering of teeth, was heard from the portrait. The servants shrunk back. The maid uttered a faint shriek, and clung to the footman.

A deep groan and a noise like chattering teeth came from the portrait. The servants recoiled. The maid let out a quiet scream and held onto the footman.

“Instantly!” added my aunt, with a stamp of the foot.

“Right away!” added my aunt, stamping her foot.

The picture was pulled down, and from a recess behind it, in which had formerly stood a clock, they hauled forth a round-shouldered, black-bearded varlet, with a knife as long as my arm, but trembling all over like an aspen leaf.

The picture was taken down, and from a space behind it, where a clock used to be, they pulled out a round-shouldered man with a black beard, holding a knife as long as my arm, but shaking all over like a leaf in the wind.

“Well, and who was he? No ghost, I suppose!” said the inquisitive gentleman.

"Well, who was he then? Not a ghost, I assume!" said the curious gentleman.

“A knight of the post,” replied the narrator, “who had been smitten with the worth of the wealthy widow; or rather a marauding Tarquin, who had stolen into her chamber to violate her purse and rifle her strong box when all the house should be asleep. In plain terms,” continued he, “the vagabond was a loose idle fellow of the neighborhood, who had once been a servant in the house, and had been employed to assist in arranging it for the reception of its mistress. He confessed that he had contrived his hiding-place for his nefarious purposes, and had borrowed an eye from the portrait by way of a reconnoitering hole.”

“A knight of the post,” replied the narrator, “who had been taken by the worth of the wealthy widow; or rather a sneaky Tarquin, who had crept into her room to steal her money and raid her strongbox while the whole house was asleep. In simpler terms,” he continued, “the vagabond was a lazy good-for-nothing from the neighborhood, who had once worked as a servant in the house and had been tasked with getting it ready for its mistress. He admitted that he had set up his hiding spot for his shady purposes and had borrowed a view from the portrait to use as a lookout.”

“And what did they do with him—did they hang him?” resumed the questioner.

“And what did they do with him—did they hang him?” the questioner asked again.

“Hang him?—how could they?” exclaimed a beetle-browed barrister, with a hawk’s nose—“the offence was not capital—no robbery nor assault had been committed—no forcible entry or breaking into the premises—”

“Hang him?—how could they?” exclaimed a thick-browed lawyer, with a sharp nose—“the crime wasn't that serious—no robbery or assault was committed—no forced entry or breaking into the property—”

“My aunt,” said the narrator, “was a woman of spirit, and apt to take the law into her own hands. She had her own notions of cleanliness also. She ordered the fellow to be drawn through the horsepond to cleanse away all offences, and then to be well rubbed down with an oaken towel.”

“My aunt,” said the narrator, “was a strong-willed woman who often took matters into her own hands. She had her own ideas about cleanliness too. She told the guy to be dragged through the horse pond to wash away all his wrongdoings, and then to be thoroughly scrubbed down with an oaken towel.”

“And what became of him afterwards?” said the inquisitive gentleman.

“And what happened to him after that?” asked the curious gentleman.

“I do not exactly know—I believe he was sent on a voyage of improvement to Botany Bay.”

“I’m not really sure—I think he was sent on a trip for self-improvement to Botany Bay.”

“And your aunt—” said the inquisitive gentleman—“I’ll warrant she took care to make her maid sleep in the room with her after that.”

“And your aunt—” said the curious gentleman—“I’m sure she made her maid sleep in the room with her after that.”

“No, sir, she did better—she gave her hand shortly after to the roystering squire; for she used to observe it was a dismal thing for a woman to sleep alone in the country.”

“No, sir, she did even better—she soon offered her hand to the boisterous squire; she used to say it was a sad thing for a woman to sleep alone in the countryside.”

“She was right,” observed the inquisitive gentleman, nodding his head sagaciously—“but I am sorry they did not hang that fellow.”

“She was right,” the curious gentleman noted, nodding his head wisely—“but I’m sorry they didn’t hang that guy.”

It was agreed on all hands that the last narrator had brought his tale to the most satisfactory conclusion; though a country clergyman present regretted that the uncle and aunt, who figured in the different stories, had not been married together. They certainly would have been well matched.

Everyone agreed that the last storyteller had wrapped up his story in the best way possible; although a local clergyman in attendance wished that the uncle and aunt, who appeared in the various tales, had been married to each other. They definitely would have made a great couple.

“But I don’t see, after all,” said the inquisitive gentleman, “that there was any ghost in this last story.”

“But I don’t see, after all,” said the curious gentleman, “that there was any ghost in this last story.”

“Oh, if it’s ghosts you want, honey,” cried the Irish captain of dragoons, “if it’s ghosts you want, you shall have a whole regiment of them. And since these gentlemen have been giving the adventures of their uncles and aunts, faith and I’ll e’en give you a chapter too, out of my own family history.”

“Oh, if it's ghosts you want, sweetheart,” shouted the Irish captain of dragoons, “if it's ghosts you want, you’ll get an entire regiment of them. And since these gentlemen have been sharing the stories of their uncles and aunts, I might as well share a chapter from my own family history.”

THE BOLD DRAGOON;
OR THE ADVENTURE OF MY GRANDFATHER.

My grandfather was a bold dragoon, for it’s a profession, d’ye see, that has run in the family. All my forefathers have been dragoons and died upon the field of honor except myself, and I hope my posterity may be able to say the same; however, I don’t mean to be vainglorious. Well, my grandfather, as I said, was a bold dragoon, and had served in the Low Countries. In fact, he was one of that very army, which, according to my uncle Toby, “swore so terribly in Flanders.” He could swear a good stick himself; and, moreover, was the very man that introduced the doctrine Corporal Trim mentions, of radical heat and radical moisture; or, in other words, the mode of keeping out the damps of ditch water by burnt brandy. Be that as it may, it’s nothing to the purport of my story. I only tell it to show you that my grandfather was a man not easily to be humbugged. He had seen service; or, according to his own phrase, “he had seen the devil”—and that’s saying everything.

My grandfather was a brave dragoon, which is a profession that runs in the family. All my ancestors were dragoons and died on the battlefield, except for me, and I hope my descendants can say the same; however, I'm not trying to boast. Anyway, my grandfather, as I mentioned, was a bold dragoon and had served in the Low Countries. In fact, he was part of the very army that, according to my Uncle Toby, “swore so terribly in Flanders.” He could curse with the best of them himself and was also the one who introduced the idea Corporal Trim talks about, of radical heat and radical moisture; in other words, how to keep the dampness from ditch water at bay with burnt brandy. Regardless of that, it doesn’t really relate to the main point of my story. I just mention it to illustrate that my grandfather was a man not easily deceived. He had seen action; or, in his own words, “he had seen the devil”—and that says it all.

Well, gentlemen, my grandfather was on his way to England, for which he intended to embark at Ostend;—bad luck to the place for one where I was kept by storms and head winds for three long days, and the divil of a jolly companion or pretty face to comfort me. Well, as I was saying, my grandfather was on his way to England, or rather to Ostend—no matter which, it’s all the same. So one evening, towards nightfall, he rode jollily into Bruges. Very like you all know Bruges, gentlemen, a queer, old-fashioned Flemish town, once they say a great place for trade and money-making, in old times, when the Mynheers were in their glory; but almost as large and as empty as an Irishman’s pocket at the present day.

Well, gentlemen, my grandfather was heading to England, planning to set sail from Ostend. That place brought me nothing but bad luck, as I got stuck there for three long days due to storms and headwinds, and not a cheerful companion or pretty face to make it better. Anyway, as I was saying, my grandfather was making his way to England, or rather to Ostend—doesn’t really matter, it’s all the same. So one evening, just around dusk, he cheerfully rode into Bruges. I’m sure you all know Bruges, gentlemen—a quirky, old-fashioned Flemish town that was once a bustling center for trade and making money in the old days, back when the Mynheers were thriving; but now it’s almost as big and as empty as an Irishman’s pocket.

Well, gentlemen, it was the time of the annual fair. All Bruges was crowded; and the canals swarmed with Dutch boats, and the streets swarmed with Dutch merchants; and there was hardly any getting along for goods, wares, and merchandises, and peasants in big breeches, and women in half a score of petticoats.

Well, gentlemen, it was the time of the annual fair. All of Bruges was packed; the canals were filled with Dutch boats, and the streets were bustling with Dutch merchants. It was almost impossible to move through the crowd of goods, wares, and merchandise, along with peasants in baggy pants and women in a dozen petticoats.

My grandfather rode jollily along in his easy, slashing way, for he was a saucy, sunshiny fellow—staring about him at the motley crowd, and the old houses with gable ends to the street and storks’ nests on the chimneys; winking at the ya vrouws who showed their faces at the windows, and joking the women right and left in the street; all of whom laughed and took it in amazing good part; for though he did not know a word of their language, yet he always had a knack of making himself understood among the women.

My grandfather rode happily along in his easy, carefree way, because he was a cheeky, cheerful guy—looking around at the colorful crowd and the old houses with gable roofs facing the street and stork nests on the chimneys; winking at the ladies who peeked out from the windows, and joking with the women in the street; all of whom laughed and took it in great stride; for even though he didn’t know a word of their language, he always had a talent for making himself understood among the women.

Well, gentlemen, it being the time of the annual fair, all the town was crowded; every inn and tavern full, and my grandfather applied in vain from one to the other for admittance. At length he rode up to an old rackety inn that looked ready to fall to pieces, and which all the rats would have run away from, if they could have found room in any other house to put their heads. It was just such a queer building as you see in Dutch pictures, with a tall roof that reached up into the clouds; and as many garrets, one over the other, as the seven heavens of Mahomet. Nothing had saved it from tumbling down but a stork’s nest on the chimney, which always brings good luck to a house in the Low Countries; and at the very time of my grandfather’s arrival, there were two of these long-legged birds of grace, standing like ghosts on the chimney top. Faith, but they’ve kept the house on its legs to this very day; for you may see it any time you pass through Bruges, as it stands there yet; only it is turned into a brewery—a brewery of strong Flemish beer; at least it was so when I came that way after the battle of Waterloo.

Well, gentlemen, since it was the time of the annual fair, the whole town was packed; every inn and tavern was full, and my grandfather tried in vain from one to another for a place to stay. Eventually, he rode up to an old, rickety inn that looked ready to fall apart, and even the rats would have left if they could have found space in any other house to hide. It was just the kind of strange building you see in Dutch paintings, with a tall roof reaching up into the clouds, and more garrets stacked on top of each other than the seven heavens of Muhammad. The only thing that kept it from collapsing was a stork’s nest on the chimney, which always brings good luck to a house in the Low Countries; and at the moment of my grandfather's arrival, there were two of these graceful, long-legged birds standing like ghosts on the chimney top. Honestly, they've kept the house standing to this day; you can still see it any time you pass through Bruges, as it’s still there—only now it's turned into a brewery—a brewery for strong Flemish beer; at least it was when I passed by after the battle of Waterloo.

My grandfather eyed the house curiously as he approached. It might Not altogether have struck his fancy, had he not seen in large letters over the door,

My grandfather looked at the house with curiosity as he got closer. He might not have been very impressed if he hadn’t noticed the big letters over the door,

HEER VERKOOPT MAN GOEDEN DRANK.

HEER SELLS MAN GOOD DRINK.

My grandfather had learnt enough of the language to know that the sign promised good liquor. “This is the house for me,” said he, stopping short before the door.

My grandfather had picked up enough of the language to understand that the sign promised good liquor. “This is the place for me,” he said, stopping right in front of the door.

The sudden appearance of a dashing dragoon was an event in an old inn, frequented only by the peaceful sons of traffic. A rich burgher of Antwerp, a stately ample man, in a broad Flemish hat, and who was the great man and great patron of the establishment, sat smoking a clean long pipe on one side of the door; a fat little distiller of Geneva from Schiedam, sat smoking on the other, and the bottle-nosed host stood in the door, and the comely hostess, in crimped cap, beside him; and the hostess’ daughter, a plump Flanders lass, with long gold pendants in her ears, was at a side window.

The sudden arrival of a charming dragoon was quite an event at an old inn, mostly visited by the easygoing local merchants. A wealthy burgher from Antwerp, a stately and well-built man wearing a wide Flemish hat, who was the prominent figure and main patron of the place, sat on one side of the door, smoking a clean, long pipe. On the other side, a chunky little distiller from Geneva, hailing from Schiedam, was also smoking. The portly host stood in the doorway, while the attractive hostess, wearing a frilly cap, stood next to him; their daughter, a plump Flanders girl with long gold earrings, was at a side window.

“Humph!” said the rich burgher of Antwerp, with a sulky glance at the stranger.

“Humph!” said the wealthy merchant of Antwerp, casting a sullen look at the stranger.

“Der duyvel!” said the fat little distiller of Schiedam.

“Damn it!” said the fat little distiller of Schiedam.

The landlord saw with the quick glance of a publican that the new guest was not at all, at all, to the taste of the old ones; and to tell the truth, he did not himself like my grandfather’s saucy eye.

The landlord noticed with the quick glance of a bartender that the new guest was definitely not to the liking of the regulars; and to be honest, he didn’t really like my grandfather’s cheeky gaze either.

He shook his head—“Not a garret in the house but was full.”

He shook his head—“There isn't a single attic in the house that isn't full.”

“Not a garret!” echoed the landlady.

“Not a attic!” echoed the landlady.

“Not a garret!” echoed the daughter.

“Not a loft!” echoed the daughter.

The burgher of Antwerp and the little distiller of Schiedam continued to smoke their pipes sullenly, eyed the enemy askance from under their broad hats, but said nothing.

The merchant of Antwerp and the small distiller of Schiedam kept smoking their pipes in silence, glancing warily at the enemy from beneath their wide-brimmed hats, but said nothing.

My grandfather was not a man to be browbeaten. He threw the reins on his horse’s neck, cocked his hat on one side, stuck one arm akimbo, slapped his broad thigh with the other hand—

My grandfather was not someone to be pushed around. He tossed the reins over his horse's neck, tilted his hat to one side, placed one hand on his hip, and slapped his strong thigh with the other hand—

“Faith and troth!” said he, “but I’ll sleep in this house this very night!”

"Honestly!" he said, "but I'm sleeping in this house tonight!"

My grandfather had on a tight pair of buckskins—the slap went to the landlady’s heart.

My grandfather was wearing a snug pair of buckskin pants—the sound hit the landlady right in the feels.

He followed up the vow by jumping off his horse, and making his way past the staring Mynheers into the public room. May be you’ve been in the barroom of an old Flemish inn—faith, but a handsome chamber it was as you’d wish to see; with a brick floor, a great fire-place, with the whole Bible history in glazed tiles; and then the mantel-piece, pitching itself head foremost out of the wall, with a whole regiment of cracked tea-pots and earthen jugs paraded on it; not to mention half a dozen great Delft platters hung about the room by way of pictures; and the little bar in one corner, and the bouncing bar-maid inside of it with a red calico cap and yellow ear-drops.

He followed up on his vow by jumping off his horse and making his way past the staring gentlemen into the public room. Maybe you’ve been in the barroom of an old Flemish inn—what a beautiful room it was, just as you'd hope to see; with a brick floor, a big fireplace featuring the entire Bible story in glazed tiles; and then the mantelpiece, jutting out from the wall, displaying a whole collection of cracked teapots and earthen jugs; not to mention half a dozen large Delft platters hanging around the room like pictures; and the little bar in one corner, with a lively barmaid inside wearing a red calico cap and yellow earrings.

My grandfather snapped his fingers over his head, as he cast an eye round the room: “Faith, this is the very house I’ve been looking after,” said he.

My grandfather snapped his fingers above his head as he looked around the room. “Wow, this is exactly the house I’ve been keeping an eye on,” he said.

There was some farther show of resistance on the part of the garrison, but my grandfather was an old soldier, and an Irishman to boot, and not easily repulsed, especially after he had got into the fortress. So he blarney’d the landlord, kissed the landlord’s wife, tickled the landlord’s daughter, chucked the bar-maid under the chin; and it was agreed on all hands that it would be a thousand pities, and a burning shame into the bargain, to turn such a bold dragoon into the streets. So they laid their heads together, that is to say, my grandfather and the landlady, and it was at length agreed to accommodate him with an old chamber that had for some time been shut up.

There was some further resistance from the garrison, but my grandfather was an experienced soldier and, being Irish, he was not easily turned away, especially once he had entered the fortress. So he sweet-talked the landlord, kissed the landlord’s wife, flirted with the landlord’s daughter, and playfully poked the barmaid under the chin. Everyone agreed it would be a shame and a disgrace to throw such a bold soldier out on the street. So they put their heads together—meaning my grandfather and the landlady—and eventually decided to give him an old room that had been closed up for a while.

“Some say it’s haunted!” whispered the landlord’s daughter, “but you’re a bold dragoon, and I dare say you don’t fear ghosts.”

“Some say it’s haunted!” whispered the landlord’s daughter, “but you’re a brave soldier, and I bet you don’t fear ghosts.”

“The divil a bit!” said my grandfather, pinching her plump cheek; “but if I should be troubled by ghosts, I’ve been to the Red Sea in my time, and have a pleasant way of laying them, my darling!”

“The devil not at all!” said my grandfather, pinching her chubby cheek; “but if I ever have to deal with ghosts, I’ve been to the Red Sea in my time, and I know a good way to send them off, my dear!”

And then he whispered something to the girl which made her laugh, and give him a good-humored box on the ear. In short, there was nobody knew better how to make his way among the petticoats than my grandfather.

And then he quietly told the girl something that made her laugh and playfully slap him on the cheek. In short, no one knew better how to charm the ladies than my grandfather.

In a little while, as was his usual way, he took complete possession of the house: swaggering all over it;—into the stable to look after his horse; into the kitchen to look after his supper. He had something to say or do with every one; smoked with the Dutchmen; drank with the Germans; slapped the men on the shoulders, tickled the women under the ribs:-never since the days of Ally Croaker had such a rattling blade been seen. The landlord stared at him with astonishment; the landlord’s daughter hung her head and giggled whenever he came near; and as he turned his back and swaggered along, his tight jacket setting off his broad shoulders and plump buckskins, and his long sword trailing by his side, the maids whispered to one another—“What a proper man!”

In a little while, as he usually did, he took over the house completely: strutting around everywhere—checking on his horse in the stable; heading into the kitchen for his dinner. He had something to say or do with everyone; he smoked with the Dutch guys; drank with the Germans; slapped the men on the shoulders and tickled the women under the ribs: never since the days of Ally Croaker had such a lively character been seen. The landlord stared at him in shock; the landlord’s daughter looked down and giggled whenever he got close; and as he turned his back and walked away with confidence, his fitted jacket emphasizing his broad shoulders and snug pants, and his long sword dragging by his side, the maids whispered to each other—“What a handsome guy!”

At supper my grandfather took command of the table d’hôte as though he had been at home; helped everybody, not forgetting himself; talked with every one, whether he understood their language or not; and made his way into the intimacy of the rich burgher of Antwerp, who had never been known to be sociable with any one during his life. In fact, he revolutionized the whole establishment, and gave it such a rouse, that the very house reeled with it. He outsat every one at table excepting the little fat distiller of Schiedam, who had sat soaking for a long time before he broke forth; but when he did, he was a very devil incarnate. He took a violent affection for my grandfather; so they sat drinking, and smoking, and telling stories, and singing Dutch and Irish songs, without understanding a word each other said, until the little Hollander was fairly swampt with his own gin and water, and carried off to bed, whooping and hiccuping, and trolling the burthen of a Low Dutch love song.

At dinner, my grandfather took over the communal table like he owned the place; he helped everyone, including himself; chatted with everyone, regardless of whether he understood their language or not; and formed a bond with the wealthy merchant from Antwerp, who was known for being unsociable his entire life. In fact, he completely transformed the atmosphere of the establishment, making the whole house feel alive. He stayed at the table longer than anyone else except for the chubby distiller from Schiedam, who had been soaking up the drinks for a while before he finally joined in; but when he did, he was like a force of nature. He quickly became very fond of my grandfather, so they sat drinking, smoking, sharing stories, and singing Dutch and Irish songs, completely oblivious to what the other was saying, until the little Dutchman was completely overwhelmed by his own gin and water and was taken off to bed, whooping and hiccupping, while crooning the chorus of a Dutch love song.

Well, gentlemen, my grandfather was shown to his quarters, up a huge Staircase composed of loads of hewn timber; and through long rigmarole passages, hung with blackened paintings of fruit, and fish, and game, and country frollics, and huge kitchens, and portly burgomasters, such as you see about old-fashioned Flemish inns, till at length he arrived at his room.

Well, gentlemen, my grandfather was taken to his room, up a big staircase made of a lot of carved wood; and through long, winding hallways, decorated with darkened paintings of fruit, fish, game, and rural festivities, along with large kitchens and plump mayors, like you see in old-fashioned Flemish inns, until finally he reached his room.

An old-times chamber it was, sure enough, and crowded with all kinds of trumpery. It looked like an infirmary for decayed and superannuated furniture; where everything diseased and disabled was sent to nurse, or to be forgotten. Or rather, it might have been taken for a general congress of old legitimate moveables, where every kind and country had a representative. No two chairs were alike: such high backs and low backs, and leather bottoms and worsted bottoms, and straw bottoms, and no bottoms; and cracked marble tables with curiously carved legs, holding balls in their claws, as though they were going to play at ninepins.

It was definitely an old-fashioned room, filled with all sorts of junk. It looked like a hospital for worn-out and retired furniture, where everything broken and unwanted went to be taken care of or forgotten. Or maybe it seemed more like a gathering of all sorts of old furniture, with pieces from every kind and every place represented. No two chairs were the same: there were tall backs and short backs, leather seats and wool seats, straw seats, and some with no seats at all; and cracked marble tables with oddly carved legs, holding balls in their claws, as if they were about to play a game of ninepins.

My grandfather made a bow to the motley assemblage as he entered, and having undressed himself, placed his light in the fire-place, asking pardon of the tongs, which seemed to be making love to the shovel in the chimney corner, and whispering soft nonsense in its ear.

My grandfather gave a nod to the colorful group as he walked in, and after taking off his coat, he set his light by the fireplace, apologizing to the tongs, which looked like they were flirting with the shovel in the chimney corner, whispering sweet nothings in its ear.

The rest of the guests were by this time sound asleep; for your Mynheers are huge sleepers. The house maids, one by one, crept up yawning to their attics, and not a female head in the inn was laid on a pillow that night without dreaming of the Bold Dragoon.

The rest of the guests were now fast asleep because your gentlemen are heavy sleepers. The maids, one by one, quietly headed up to their attics while yawning, and not a single woman at the inn went to bed that night without dreaming about the Bold Dragoon.

My grandfather, for his part, got into bed, and drew over him one of those great bags of down, under which they smother a man in the Low Countries; and there he lay, melting between, two feather beds, like an anchovy sandwich between two slices of toast and butter. He was a warm-complexioned man, and this smothering played the very deuce with him. So, sure enough, in a little while it seemed as if a legion of imps were twitching at him and all the blood in his veins was in fever heat.

My grandfather, for his part, got into bed and pulled over himself one of those huge down blankets they use to completely cover people in the Low Countries. There he lay, melting between two feather beds, like an anchovy sandwich tucked between two slices of toast and butter. He had a warm complexion, and this suffocating warmth was really doing a number on him. Sure enough, after a little while, it felt like a bunch of imps were tugging at him and all the blood in his veins was boiling.

He lay still, however, until all the house was quiet, excepting the snoring of the Mynheers from the different chambers; who answered one another in all kinds of tones and cadences, like so many bull-frogs in a swamp. The quieter the house became, the more unquiet became my grandfather. He waxed warmer and warmer, until at length the bed became too hot to hold him.

He stayed still, though, until the whole house was quiet, except for the snoring of the Mynheers from the different rooms; they responded to each other in all sorts of tones and rhythms, like a bunch of bullfrogs in a swamp. The quieter the house got, the more restless my grandfather became. He grew warmer and warmer, until finally the bed was too hot for him to stay in.

“May be the maid had warmed it too much?” said the curious gentleman, inquiringly.

"Maybe the maid heated it too much?" said the curious gentleman, asking.

“I rather think the contrary,” replied the Irishman. “But be that as it may, it grew too hot for my grandfather.”

“I think the opposite,” replied the Irishman. “But regardless, it got too hot for my grandfather.”

“Faith there’s no standing this any longer,” says he; so he jumped out of bed and went strolling about the house.

“Honestly, I can’t take this anymore,” he says; so he jumped out of bed and started walking around the house.

“What for?” said the inquisitive gentleman.

“What for?” asked the curious guy.

“Why, to cool himself to be sure,” replied the other, “or perhaps to find a more comfortable bed—or perhaps—but no matter what he went for—he never mentioned; and there’s no use in taking up our time in conjecturing.”

“Why, to cool off, of course,” replied the other, “or maybe to find a more comfortable place to sleep—or maybe—but it doesn’t really matter why he went—he never said; and there's no point in wasting our time guessing.”

Well, my grandfather had been for some time absent from his room, and was returning, perfectly cool, when just as he reached the door he heard a strange noise within. He paused and listened. It seemed as if some one was trying to hum a tune in defiance of the asthma. He recollected the report of the room’s being haunted; but he was no believer in ghosts. So he pushed the door gently ajar, and peeped in.

Well, my grandfather had been out of his room for a while and was coming back, perfectly calm, when just as he got to the door, he heard a strange noise inside. He stopped and listened. It sounded like someone was trying to hum a tune despite having asthma. He remembered the rumor that the room was haunted, but he didn't believe in ghosts. So he gently pushed the door open a bit and peeked inside.

Egad, gentlemen, there was a gambol carrying on within enough to have astonished St. Anthony.

Wow, guys, there was a wild party going on that would have shocked St. Anthony.

By the light of the fire he saw a pale weazen-faced fellow in a long Flannel gown and a tall white night-cap with a tassel to it, who sat by the fire, with a bellows under his arm by way of bagpipe, from which he forced the asthmatical music that had bothered my grandfather. As he played, too, he kept twitching about with a thousand queer contortions; nodding his head and bobbing about his tasselled night-cap.

By the light of the fire, he saw a pale, thin-faced guy in a long flannel gown and a tall white nightcap with a tassel, sitting by the fire with a bellows under his arm instead of a bagpipe, creating the wheezy music that had troubled my grandfather. As he played, he kept moving around with all sorts of strange contortions, nodding his head and bouncing around with his tasselled nightcap.

My grandfather thought this very odd, and mighty presumptuous, and was about to demand what business he had to play his wind instruments in another gentleman’s quarters, when a new cause of astonishment met his eye. From the opposite side of the room a long-backed, bandy-legged chair, covered with leather, and studded all over in a coxcomical fashion with little brass nails, got suddenly into motion; thrust out first a claw foot, then a crooked arm, and at length, making a leg, slided gracefully up to an easy chair, of tarnished brocade, with a hole in its bottom, and led it gallantly out in a ghostly minuet about the floor.

My grandfather found this very strange and incredibly presumptuous, and he was about to ask what right he had to play his wind instruments in someone else's space when something else caught his attention. Across the room, a long-backed, crooked-legged chair covered in leather, decorated in a silly way with little brass nails, suddenly came to life; it pushed out a claw foot, then a bent arm, and finally, making a gesture, smoothly slid over to an easy chair made of tarnished brocade that had a hole in its bottom, and led it in a ghostly dance around the floor.

The musician now played fiercer and fiercer, and bobbed his head and His nightcap about like mad. By degrees the dancing mania seemed to seize upon all the other pieces of furniture. The antique, long-bodied chairs paired off in couples and led down a country dance; a three-legged stool danced a hornpipe, though horribly puzzled by its supernumerary leg; while the amorous tongs seized the shovel round the waist, and whirled it about the room in a German waltz. In short, all the moveables got in motion, capering about; pirouetting, hands across, right and left, like so many devils, all except a great clothes-press, which kept curtseying and curtseying, like a dowager, in one corner, in exquisite time to the music;—being either too corpulent to dance, or perhaps at a loss for a partner.

The musician played harder and harder, bobbing his head and his nightcap around like crazy. Gradually, the dancing fever seemed to take over all the other pieces of furniture. The old, long-bodied chairs paired up and led a country dance; a three-legged stool did a hornpipe, though it was hilariously confused by its extra leg; while the flirtatious tongs grabbed the shovel around the waist and twirled it around the room in a German waltz. In short, everything was in motion, leaping around, spinning, hands across, right and left, like a bunch of demons, except for a large clothes-press that kept curtseying in one corner, like an old lady, perfectly in time with the music—too heavy to dance, or maybe just unsure of a partner.

My grandfather concluded the latter to be the reason; so, being, like a true Irishman, devoted to the sex, and at all times ready for a frolic, he bounced into the room, calling to the musician to strike up “Paddy O’Rafferty,” capered up to the clothes-press and seized upon two handles to lead her out:—When, whizz!—the whole revel was at an end. The chairs, tables, tongs, and shovel slunk in an instant as quietly into their places as if nothing had happened; and the musician vanished up the chimney, leaving the bellows behind him in his hurry. My grandfather found himself seated in the middle of the floor, with the clothes-press sprawling before him, and the two handles jerked off and in his hands.

My grandfather figured that was the reason; so, being a true Irishman, devoted to having a good time and always up for some fun, he jumped into the room, calling for the musician to play “Paddy O’Rafferty.” He danced over to the clothes-press and grabbed two handles to pull her out:—When, whoosh!—the whole party came to an end. The chairs, tables, tongs, and shovel quickly returned to their places as if nothing had happened; and the musician disappeared up the chimney, leaving the bellows behind in his rush. My grandfather found himself sitting in the middle of the floor, with the clothes-press sprawled out before him, holding the two handles that had just come off.

“Then after all, this was a mere dream!” said the inquisitive gentleman.

“Then after all, this was just a dream!” said the curious gentleman.

“The divil a bit of a dream!” replied the Irishman: “there never was a truer fact in this world. Faith, I should have liked to see any man tell my grandfather it was a dream.”

“The devil a bit of a dream!” replied the Irishman: “there never was a truer fact in this world. Honestly, I would have liked to see any man tell my grandfather it was a dream.”

Well, gentlemen, as the clothes-press was a mighty heavy body, and my grandfather likewise, particularly in rear, you may easily suppose two such heavy bodies coming to the ground would make a bit of a noise. Faith, the old mansion shook as though it had mistaken it for an earthquake. The whole garrison was alarmed. The landlord, who slept just below, hurried up with a candle to inquire the cause, but with all his haste his daughter had hurried to the scene of uproar before him. The landlord was followed by the landlady, who was followed by the bouncing bar-maid, who was followed by the simpering chambermaids all holding together, as well as they could, such garments as they had first lain hands on; but all in a terrible hurry to see what the devil was to pay in the chamber of the bold dragoon.

Well, gentlemen, since the clothes press was really heavy, and so was my grandfather, especially in the rear, you can imagine that when two heavy objects hit the ground, it made quite a noise. Honestly, the old mansion shook like it thought there was an earthquake. It freaked the whole place out. The landlord, who was sleeping just below, rushed up with a candle to find out what was going on, but in his hurry, his daughter got to the scene of chaos before he did. The landlord was followed by the landlady, then the lively barmaid, and finally the flustered chambermaids, all of them trying to hold onto whatever clothes they could grab in their rush, but they were all in a serious hurry to see what was happening in the bold dragoon's room.

My grandfather related the marvellous scene he had witnessed, and the prostrate clothes-press, and the broken handles, bore testimony to the fact. There was no contesting such evidence; particularly with a lad of my grandfather’s complexion, who seemed able to make good every word either with sword or shillelah. So the landlord scratched his head and looked silly, as he was apt to do when puzzled. The landlady scratched—no, she did not scratch her head,—but she knit her brow, and did not seem half pleased with the explanation. But the landlady’s daughter corroborated it by recollecting that the last person who had dwelt in that chamber was a famous juggler who had died of St. Vitus’s dance, and no doubt had infected all the furniture.

My grandfather shared the incredible scene he had witnessed, and the collapsed clothes-press and broken handles proved it. There was no arguing against such evidence, especially coming from a guy like my grandfather, who looked tough enough to back up his words with either a sword or a stick. So the landlord scratched his head and looked foolish, which he often did when he was confused. The landlady didn’t scratch her head, but she frowned and didn’t seem too happy with the explanation. However, the landlady’s daughter backed it up by remembering that the last person who lived in that room was a famous juggler who had died from St. Vitus's dance, which probably cursed all the furniture.

This set all things to rights, particularly when the chambermaids declared that they had all witnessed strange carryings on in that room;—and as they declared this “upon their honors,” there could not remain a doubt upon the subject.

This made everything right again, especially when the chambermaids said they had all seen weird things happening in that room; and since they said this "on their honor," there was no doubt about it.

“And did your grandfather go to bed again in that room?” said the inquisitive gentleman.

“And did your grandfather go to bed again in that room?” asked the curious gentleman.

“That’s more than I can tell. Where he passed the rest of the night was a secret he never disclosed. In fact, though he had seen much service, he was but indifferently acquainted with geography, and apt to make blunders in his travels about inns at night, that it would have puzzled him sadly to account for in the morning.”

"That's more than I can say. Where he spent the rest of the night was a secret he never shared. In fact, even though he had traveled a lot, he wasn't very familiar with geography and often made mistakes finding inns at night, which would have left him confused the next morning."

“Was he ever apt to walk in his sleep?” said the knowing old gentleman.

“Was he ever likely to sleepwalk?” said the wise old gentleman.

“Never that I heard of.”

"Never heard of that."

THE ADVENTURE OF THE GERMAN STUDENT

On a stormy night, in the tempestuous times of the French revolution, a young German was returning to his lodgings, at a late hour, across the old part of Paris. The lightning gleamed, and the loud claps of thunder rattled through the lofty, narrow streets—but I should first tell you something about this young German.

On a stormy night during the chaotic times of the French Revolution, a young German was heading back to his place late at night through the historic streets of Paris. Lightning flashed, and the loud thunder boomed through the tall, narrow streets—but first, I should tell you a bit about this young German.

Gottfried Wolfgang was a young man of good family. He had studied for some time at Göttingen, but being of a visionary and enthusiastic character, he had wandered into those wild and speculative doctrines which have so often bewildered German students. His secluded life, his intense application, and the singular nature of his studies, had an effect on both mind and body. His health was impaired; his imagination diseased. He had been indulging in fanciful speculations on spiritual essences until, like Swedenborg, he had an ideal world of his own around him. He took up a notion, I do not know from what cause, that there was an evil influence hanging over him; an evil genius or spirit seeking to ensnare him and ensure his perdition. Such an idea working on his melancholy temperament produced the most gloomy effects. He became haggard and desponding. His friends discovered the mental malady preying upon him, and determined that the best cure was a change of scene; he was sent, therefore, to finish his studies amidst the splendours and gaieties of Paris.

Gottfried Wolfgang was a young man from a good family. He had studied for a while at Göttingen, but being a visionary and enthusiastic person, he had gotten lost in those wild and speculative ideas that often confuse German students. His isolated lifestyle, intense focus, and the unusual nature of his studies took a toll on both his mind and body. His health declined, and his imagination became troubled. He had been indulging in fanciful ideas about spiritual essences until, like Swedenborg, he had created an ideal world around him. He came to believe, for reasons unknown to me, that an evil influence was hanging over him; an evil spirit or force trying to trap him and lead him to ruin. This thought, combined with his already melancholic nature, had a profoundly negative impact. He became gaunt and depressed. His friends noticed the mental illness affecting him and decided that the best remedy was a change of scenery; so, he was sent to complete his studies amid the splendors and excitement of Paris.

Wolfgang arrived at Paris at the breaking out of the revolution. The popular delirium at first caught his enthusiastic mind, and he was captivated by the political and philosophical theories of the day: but the scenes of blood which followed shocked his sensitive nature; disgusted him with society and the world, and made him more than ever a recluse. He shut himself up in a solitary apartment in the Pays Latin, the quarter of students. There in a gloomy street not far from the monastic walls of the Sorbonne, he pursued his favourite speculations. Sometimes he spent hours together in the great libraries of Paris, those catacombs of departed authors, rummaging among their hoards of dusty and obsolete works in quest of food for his unhealthy appetite. He was, in a manner, a literary goul, feeding in the charnel house of decayed literature.

Wolfgang arrived in Paris right as the revolution was starting. At first, he was swept up in the excitement and captivated by the political and philosophical ideas of the time. But the bloody scenes that followed shocked him deeply; they made him feel disgusted with society and the world, and turned him into even more of a recluse. He locked himself away in a lonely apartment in the Pays Latin, the student district. There, on a dark street not far from the monastic walls of the Sorbonne, he continued his favorite musings. Sometimes, he would spend hours in the great libraries of Paris, those tombs of long-gone authors, digging through their piles of dusty and outdated works to satisfy his unhealthy craving. In a way, he was like a literary ghoul, feeding in the graveyard of decayed literature.

Wolfgang, though solitary and recluse, was of an ardent temperament, but for a time it operated merely upon his imagination. He was too shy and ignorant of the world to make any advances to the fair, but he was a passionate admirer of female beauty, and in his lonely chamber would often lose himself in reveries on forms and faces which he had seen, and his fancy would deck out images of loveliness far surpassing the reality.

Wolfgang, despite being a loner and introvert, had a passionate nature, but for a while, it only fueled his imagination. He was too shy and inexperienced to approach women, but he was an avid admirer of female beauty. In his isolated room, he would often get lost in daydreams about the shapes and faces he had seen, and his imagination would create visions of beauty that far exceeded reality.

While his mind was in this excited and sublimated state, a dream produced an extraordinary effect upon him. It was of a female face of transcendent beauty. So strong was the impression made, that he dreamt of it again and again. It haunted his thoughts by day, his slumbers by night; in fine, he became passionately enamoured of this shadow of a dream. This lasted so long, that it became one of those fixed ideas which haunt the minds of melancholy men, and are at times mistaken for madness.

While his mind was in this thrilled and elevated state, a dream had an extraordinary impact on him. It was of a woman's face of stunning beauty. The impression was so strong that he dreamt of it repeatedly. It haunted his thoughts during the day and his sleep at night; in short, he became passionately infatuated with this vision of a dream. This went on for so long that it became one of those fixed ideas that torment the minds of melancholic individuals and are sometimes mistaken for madness.

Such was Gottfried Wolfgang, and such his situation at the time I mentioned. He was returning home late one stormy night, through some of the old and gloomy streets of the Marais, the ancient part of Paris. The loud claps of thunder rattled among the high houses of the narrow streets. He came to the Place de Grève, the square where public executions are performed. The lightning quivered about the pinnacles of the ancient Hôtel de Ville, and shed flickering gleams over the open space in front. As Wolfgang was crossing the square, he shrank back with horror at finding himself close by the guillotine. It was the height of the reign of terror, when this dreadful instrument of death stood ever ready, and its scaffold was continually running with the blood of the virtuous and the brave. It had that very day been actively employed in the work of carnage, and there it stood in grim array amidst a silent and sleeping city, waiting for fresh victims.

Such was Gottfried Wolfgang, and such was his situation at the time I mentioned. He was heading home late one stormy night, through some of the old and gloomy streets of the Marais, the historic part of Paris. The loud claps of thunder echoed among the tall buildings in the narrow streets. He arrived at the Place de Grève, the square where public executions took place. The lightning flashed around the tops of the ancient Hôtel de Ville, casting flickering light over the open space in front. As Wolfgang crossed the square, he recoiled in horror upon realizing he was close to the guillotine. It was the height of the reign of terror when this dreadful instrument of death was always ready, its scaffold constantly stained with the blood of the virtuous and the brave. It had been used earlier that day for more executions, and it stood there in grim readiness amidst a silent and sleeping city, waiting for new victims.

Wolfgang’s heart sickened within him, and he was turning shuddering from the horrible engine, when he beheld a shadowy form cowering as it were at the foot of the steps which led up to the scaffold. A succession of vivid flashes of lightning revealed it more distinctly. It was a female figure, dressed inblack. She was seated on one of the lower steps of the scaffold, leaning forward, her face hid in her lap, and her long dishevelled tresses hanging to the ground, streaming with the rain which fell in torrents. Wolfgang paused. There was something awful in this solitary monument of wo. The female had the appearance of being above the common order. He knew the times to be full of vicissitude, and that many a fair head, which had once been pillowed on down, now wandered houseless. Perhaps this was some poor mourner whom the dreadful axe had rendered desolate, and who sat here heartbroken on the strand of existence, from which all that was dear to her had been launched into eternity.

Wolfgang's heart sank, and he turned away in horror from the dreadful device when he noticed a shadowy figure huddled at the bottom of the steps leading up to the scaffold. A series of bright flashes of lightning illuminated her more clearly. It was a woman in black. She sat on one of the lower steps of the scaffold, leaning forward, her face buried in her lap, with her long, tangled hair draping down to the ground, soaked by the pouring rain. Wolfgang hesitated. There was something haunting about this lonely figure of sorrow. The woman seemed to be of a higher status. He recognized that these were turbulent times, and many a beautiful person, once pampered in luxury, now wandered without a home. Perhaps this was a grieving woman rendered desolate by the terrifying axe, sitting here heartbroken on the edge of existence, from which everything she once held dear had been cast into eternity.

He approached, and addressed her in the accents of sympathy. She raised her head and gazed wildly at him. What was his astonishment at beholding, by the bright glare of the lightning, the very face which had haunted him in his dreams. It was pale and disconsolate, but ravishingly beautiful.

He approached and spoke to her with a sympathetic tone. She lifted her head and looked at him frantically. He was shocked to see, illuminated by the bright light of the lightning, the very face that had haunted his dreams. It was pale and filled with despair, yet stunningly beautiful.

Trembling with violent and conflicting emotions, Wolfgang again accosted her. He spoke something of her being exposed at such an hour of the night, and to the fury of such a storm, and offered to conduct her to her friends. She pointed to the guillotine with a gesture of dreadful signification.

Trembling with intense and mixed emotions, Wolfgang approached her again. He mentioned that it was dangerous for her to be out at this hour during such a storm and offered to take her to her friends. She pointed to the guillotine with a gesture that carried a terrible meaning.

“I have no friend on earth!” said she.

“I have no friends on this planet!” she said.

“But you have a home,” said Wolfgang.

“But you have a home,” Wolfgang said.

“Yes—in the grave!”

"Yes—in the grave!"

The heart of the student melted at the words.

The student's heart melted at the words.

“If a stranger dare make an offer,” said he, “without danger of being misunderstood, I would offer my humble dwelling as a shelter; myself as a devoted friend. I am friendless myself in Paris, and a stranger in the land; but if my life could be of service, it is at your disposal, and should be sacrificed before harm or indignity should come to you.”

“If a stranger feels comfortable making an offer,” he said, “without the risk of being misunderstood, I would like to offer my modest home as a place of refuge; myself as a loyal friend. I am alone in Paris, and a foreigner in this land; but if my life can be of help, it’s yours to use, and I would sacrifice it before allowing any harm or disrespect to come to you.”

There was an honest earnestness in the young man’s manner that had its effect. His foreign accent, too, was in his favour; it showed him not to be a hackneyed inhabitant of Paris. Indeed there is an eloquence in true enthusiasm that is not to be doubted. The homeless stranger confided herself implicitly to the protection of the student.

There was a sincere earnestness in the young man's demeanor that made an impression. His foreign accent worked in his favor too; it indicated that he wasn't just another typical Parisian. In fact, there's a kind of eloquence in genuine enthusiasm that’s impossible to overlook. The homeless stranger fully entrusted herself to the student’s protection.

He supported her faltering steps across the Pont Neuf, and by the place where the statue of Henry the Fourth had been overthrown by the populace. The storm had abated, and the thunder rumbled at a distance. All Paris was quiet; that great volcano of human passion slumbered for a while, to gather fresh strength for the next day’s eruption. The student conducted his charge through the ancient streets of the Pays Latin, and by the dusky walls of the Sorbonne to the great, dingy hotel which he inhabited. The old portress who admitted them stared with surprise at the unusual sight of the melancholy Wolfgang with a female companion.

He assisted her unsteady steps across the Pont Neuf, past the spot where the statue of Henry the Fourth had been toppled by the crowd. The storm had calmed, and thunder could be heard rumbling in the distance. All of Paris was quiet; that great volcano of human emotion was resting for a moment, gathering strength for the next day’s outburst. The student guided her through the ancient streets of the Pays Latin, alongside the dim walls of the Sorbonne, to the large, shabby hotel where he lived. The elderly doorkeeper who let them in looked on in surprise at the unusual sight of the gloomy Wolfgang with a female companion.

On entering his apartment, the student, for the first time, blushed at the scantiness and indifference of his dwelling. He had but one chamber—an old fashioned saloon—heavily carved and fantastically furnished with the remains of former magnificence, for it was one of those hotels in the quarter of the Luxembourg palace which had once belonged to nobility. It was lumbered with books and papers, and all the usual apparatus of a student, and his bed stood in a recess at one end.

On entering his apartment, the student felt embarrassed for the first time by how bare and neglected his place was. He had just one room—an old-fashioned living room—heavily carved and oddly decorated with remnants of past grandeur, since it was one of those hotels in the Luxembourg palace area that had once belonged to the nobility. It was filled with books and papers, along with all the usual stuff a student had, and his bed was tucked away in a corner at one end.

When lights were brought, and Wolfgang had a better opportunity of contemplating the stranger, he was more than ever intoxicated by her beauty. Her face was pale, but of a dazzling fairness, set off by a profusion of raven hair that hung clustering about it. Her eyes were large and brilliant, with a singular expression approaching almost to wildness. As far as her black dress permitted her shape to be seen, it was of perfect symmetry. Her whole appearance was highly striking, though she was dressed in the simplest style. The only thing approaching to an ornament which she wore was a broad, black band round her neck, clasped by diamonds.

When the lights were turned on and Wolfgang had a better chance to take in the stranger, he was even more captivated by her beauty. Her face was pale, yet radiantly fair, framed by a thick mane of black hair that fell around her. Her eyes were large and bright, with a unique expression that nearly bordered on wildness. From what he could see of her figure through her black dress, it was perfectly proportioned. Overall, her appearance was incredibly striking, even though she was dressed very simply. The only accessory she had was a wide black band around her neck, fastened with diamonds.

The perplexity now commenced with the student how to dispose of the helpless being thus thrown upon his protection. He thought of abandoning his chamber to her, and seeking shelter for himself elsewhere. Still he was so fascinated by her charms, there seemed to be such a spell upon his thoughts and senses, that he could not tear himself from her presence. Her manner, too, was singular and unaccountable. She spoke no more of the guillotine. Her grief had abated. The attentions of the student had first won her confidence, and then, apparently, her heart. She was evidently an enthusiast like himself, and enthusiasts soon understand each other.

The confusion began for the student about how to take care of the vulnerable person now relying on him. He considered leaving his room for her and finding somewhere else to stay. However, he was so drawn to her beauty that he couldn't pull himself away from her. Her behavior was also strange and mysterious. She no longer mentioned the guillotine. Her sorrow had eased. The student's kindness had gained her trust and seemingly her affection. She clearly shared his passion, and people with strong interests quickly connect with each other.

In the infatuation of the moment Wolfgang avowed his passion for her. He told her the story of his mysterious dream, and how she had possessed his heart before he had even seen her. She was strangely affected by his recital, and acknowledged to have felt an impulse towards him equally unaccountable. It was the time for wild theory and wild actions. Old prejudices and superstitions were done away; every thing was under the sway of the “Goddess of Reason.” Among other rubbish of the old times, the forms and ceremonies of marriage began to be considered superfluous bonds for honourable minds. Social compacts were the vogue. Wolfgang was too much of a theorist not to be tainted by the liberal doctrines of the day.

In a moment of passion, Wolfgang confessed his love for her. He shared the story of his mysterious dream and how she had captured his heart before he even met her. She was oddly moved by his story and admitted that she felt a similar unexplainable attraction toward him. It was a time for wild ideas and bold actions. Old prejudices and superstitions faded away; everything was under the influence of the “Goddess of Reason.” Among the other outdated beliefs, marriage rituals were starting to be seen as unnecessary restrictions for honorable individuals. Social agreements were in fashion. Wolfgang was too much of a theorist to not be influenced by the progressive ideas of the time.

“Why should we separate?” said he: “our hearts are united; in the eye of reason and honour we are as one. What need is there of sordid forms to bind high souls together?”

“Why should we separate?” he said. “Our hearts are united; in the eyes of reason and honor, we are one. What’s the point of unpleasant formalities to tie together noble souls?”

The stranger listened with emotion: she had evidently received illumination at the same school.

The stranger listened with deep feeling: she had clearly been enlightened at the same school.

“You have no home nor family,” continued he; “let me be every thing to you, or rather let us be every thing to one another. If form is necessary, form shall be observed—there is my hand. I pledge myself to you for ever.”

“You have no home or family,” he continued; “let me be everything to you, or better yet, let’s be everything to each other. If we need to make it official, we can do that—here’s my hand. I promise myself to you forever.”

“For ever?” said the stranger, solemnly.

"For ever?" said the stranger, gravely.

“For ever!” repeated Wolfgang.

“Forever!” repeated Wolfgang.

The stranger clasped the hand extended to her: “Then I am yours,” murmured she, and sank upon his bosom.

The stranger took the hand offered to her: “Then I’m yours,” she murmured and collapsed against him.

The next morning the student left his bride sleeping, and sallied forth at an early hour to seek more spacious apartments, suitable to the change in his situation. When he returned, he found the stranger lying with her head hanging over the bed, and one arm thrown over it. He spoke to her, but received no reply. He advanced to awaken her from her uneasy posture. On taking her hand, it was cold—there was no pulsation—her face was pallid and ghastly.—In a word—she was a corpse.

The next morning, the student left his bride sleeping and went out early to find a larger place that was more suited to his new situation. When he came back, he saw the stranger lying with her head hanging off the bed and one arm draped over it. He talked to her but got no response. He moved closer to wake her from her uncomfortable position. When he took her hand, it was cold—there was no pulse—her face was pale and lifeless. In short—she was a corpse.

Horrified and frantic, he alarmed the house. A scene of confusion ensued. The police was summoned. As the officer of police entered the room, he started back on beholding the corpse.

Horrified and frantic, he raised the alarm in the house. A scene of chaos followed. The police were called. As the officer stepped into the room, he recoiled at the sight of the corpse.

“Great heaven!” cried he, “how did this woman come here?”

“Good heavens!” he exclaimed, “how did this woman get here?”

“Do you know any thing about her?” said Wolfgang, eagerly.

“Do you know anything about her?” Wolfgang asked eagerly.

“Do I?” exclaimed the police officer: “she was guillotined yesterday!”

“Do I?” said the police officer. “She was executed yesterday!”

He stepped forward; undid the black collar round the neck of the corpse, and the head rolled on the floor!

He stepped forward, unfastened the black collar around the neck of the corpse, and the head rolled on the floor!

The student burst into a frenzy. “The fiend! the fiend has gained possession of me!” shrieked he: “I am lost for ever!”

The student erupted in a frenzy. “The monster! The monster has taken over me!” he screamed. “I’m doomed forever!”

They tried to soothe him, but in vain. He was possessed with the frightful belief that an evil spirit had reanimated the dead body to ensnare him. He went distracted, and died in a madhouse.

They tried to calm him down, but it didn’t work. He was consumed by the terrifying belief that an evil spirit had brought the dead body back to life to trap him. He became unhinged and died in a mental hospital.

Here the old gentleman with the haunted head finished his narrative.

Here, the old man with the haunted expression finished his story.

“And is this really a fact?” said the inquisitive gentleman.

“And is this really true?” asked the curious gentleman.

“A fact not to be doubted,” replied the other. “I had it from the best authority. The student told it me himself. I saw him in a madhouse at Paris.”

“A fact that's beyond doubt,” replied the other. “I heard it from the best source. The student told me himself. I saw him in a mental hospital in Paris.”

THE ADVENTURE OF THE MYSTERIOUS PICTURE

As one story of the kind produces another, and as all the company seemed fully engrossed by the topic, and disposed to bring their relatives and ancestors upon the scene, there is no knowing how many more ghost adventures we might have heard, had not a corpulent old fox-hunter, who had slept soundly through the whole, now suddenly awakened, with a loud and long-drawn yawn. The sound broke the charm; the ghosts took to flight as though it had been cock-crowing, and there was a universal move for bed.

As one ghost story leads to another, and since everyone was completely absorbed in the topic and eager to share stories about their relatives and ancestors, it’s hard to say how many more ghost experiences we might have heard if not for a fat old fox hunter who had been sound asleep throughout it all and suddenly woke up with a loud, drawn-out yawn. The noise shattered the spell; the ghosts vanished as if it were dawn, and everyone got up to head to bed.

“And now for the haunted chamber,” said the Irish captain, taking his candle.

“And now for the haunted room,” said the Irish captain, grabbing his candle.

“Aye, who’s to be the hero of the night?” said the gentleman with the ruined head.

“Aye, who’s going to be the hero of the night?” said the man with the messed up head.

“That we shall see in the morning,” said the old gentleman with the nose: “whoever looks pale and grizzly will have seen the ghost.”

“That we’ll find out in the morning,” said the old man with the prominent nose. “Whoever looks pale and tired will have seen the ghost.”

“Well, gentlemen,” said the Baronet, “there’s many a true thing said in jest. In fact, one of you will sleep in a room to-night—”

“Well, gentlemen,” said the Baronet, “a lot of truth can be found in humor. Actually, one of you will be sleeping in a room tonight—”

“What—a haunted room? a haunted room? I claim the adventure—and I—and I—and I,” cried a dozen guests, talking and laughing at the same time.

“What—a haunted room? A haunted room? I'm all in for the adventure—and I—and I—and I,” shouted a dozen guests, chatting and laughing all at once.

“No—no,” said mine host, “there is a secret about one of my rooms on which I feel disposed to try an experiment. So, gentlemen, none of you shall know who has the haunted chamber, until circumstances reveal it. I will not even know it myself, but will leave it to chance and the allotment of the housekeeper. At the same time, if it will be any satisfaction to you, I will observe, for the honor of my paternal mansion, that there’s scarcely a chamber in it but is well worthy of being haunted.”

“No—no,” said the host, “there’s a secret about one of my rooms that I want to experiment with. So, gentlemen, none of you will know which one has the haunted room until it’s revealed by circumstances. I won’t even know myself; I’ll leave it to chance and the housekeeper’s decision. At the same time, if it makes you feel better, I’ll say, for the pride of my family home, that there’s hardly a room in it that isn’t worthy of being haunted.”

We now separated for the night, and each went to his allotted room. Mine was in one wing of the building, and I could not but smile at its resemblance in style to those eventful apartments described in the tales of the supper table. It was spacious and gloomy, decorated with lamp-black portraits, a bed of ancient damask, with a tester sufficiently lofty to grace a couch of state, and a number of massive pieces of old-fashioned furniture. I drew a great claw-footed arm-chair before the wide fire-place; stirred up the fire; sat looking into it, and musing upon the odd stories I had heard; until, partly overcome by the fatigue of the day’s hunting, and partly by the wine and wassail of mine host, I fell asleep in my chair.

We split up for the night and each headed to our assigned rooms. Mine was in one wing of the building, and I couldn't help but smile at how much it resembled those memorable rooms described in the stories shared at the dinner table. It was big and dark, decorated with blackened portraits, a bed with old damask, a tall tester that would suit a royal bed, and several heavy pieces of vintage furniture. I pulled up a big claw-footed armchair in front of the large fireplace, stoked the fire, sat there staring into it, and reflecting on the strange stories I had heard; until, partly worn out from the day’s hunting and partly from the food and drinks I had enjoyed, I dozed off in my chair.

The uneasiness of my position made my slumber troubled, and laid me at the mercy of all kinds of wild and fearful dreams; now it was that my perfidious dinner and supper rose in rebellion against my peace. I was hag-ridden by a fat saddle of mutton; a plum pudding weighed like lead upon my conscience; the merry thought of a capon filled me with horrible suggestions; and a devilled leg of a turkey stalked in all kinds of diabolical shapes through my imagination. In short, I had a violent fit of the nightmare. Some strange indefinite evil seemed hanging over me that I could not avert; something terrible and loathsome oppressed me that I could not shake off. I was conscious of being asleep, and strove to rouse myself, but every effort redoubled the evil; until gasping, struggling, almost strangling, I suddenly sprang bolt upright in my chair, and awoke.

The discomfort of my situation made my sleep restless, leaving me vulnerable to all sorts of wild and frightening dreams; it was then that my treacherous dinner and supper rebelled against my peace. I was haunted by a heavy saddle of mutton; a plum pudding weighed heavily on my conscience; the cheerful thought of a capon filled me with terrible ideas; and a spicy turkey leg loomed in various horrifying forms in my mind. In short, I was having a severe nightmare. A strange, undefined evil seemed to hang over me that I couldn't shake off; something awful and repulsive weighed me down that I couldn’t escape. I realized I was asleep and tried to wake myself up, but every attempt intensified the terror; until gasping, struggling, almost choking, I suddenly shot upright in my chair and woke up.

The light on the mantel-piece had burnt low, and the wick was divided; there was a great winding sheet made by the dripping wax, on the side towards me. The disordered taper emitted a broad flaring flame, and threw a strong light on a painting over the fire-place, which I had not hitherto observed.

The light on the mantelpiece had burned down low, and the wick was split; there was a large mess of wax dripped on my side. The crooked candle gave off a bright, flickering flame and cast a strong light on a painting above the fireplace that I hadn’t noticed before.

It consisted merely of a head, or rather a face, that appeared to be staring full upon me, and with an expression that was startling. It was without a frame, and at the first glance I could hardly persuade myself that it was not a real face, thrusting itself out of the dark oaken pannel. I sat in my chair gazing at it, and the more I gazed the more it disquieted me. I had never before been affected in the same way by any painting. The emotions it caused were strange and indefinite. They were something like what I have heard ascribed to the eyes of the basilisk; or like that mysterious influence in reptiles termed fascination. I passed my hand over my eyes several times, as if seeking instinctively to brush away this allusion—in vain—they instantly reverted to the picture, and its chilling, creeping influence over my flesh was redoubled.

It was just a head, or rather a face, that seemed to be staring right at me, with an expression that was shocking. It had no frame, and at first glance, I could barely convince myself that it wasn't a real face, pushing itself out of the dark oak panel. I sat in my chair staring at it, and the more I looked, the more uneasy I became. I had never felt the same way about any painting before. The emotions it stirred were strange and vague. They were similar to what I’ve heard about the gaze of a basilisk; or that mysterious effect in reptiles known as fascination. I passed my hand over my eyes several times, as if trying to instinctively wipe away this illusion—but it was in vain; my gaze quickly returned to the image, and its chilling, creeping effect on my skin only intensified.

I looked around the room on other pictures, either to divert my attention, or to see whether the same effect would be produced by them. Some of them were grim enough to produce the effect, if the mere grimness of the painting produced it—no such thing. My eye passed over them all with perfect indifference, but the moment it reverted to this visage over the fire-place, it was as if an electric shock darted through me. The other pictures were dim and faded; but this one protruded from a plain black ground in the strongest relief, and with wonderful truth of coloring. The expression was that of agony—the agony of intense bodily pain; but a menace scowled upon the brow, and a few sprinklings of blood added to its ghastliness. Yet it was not all these characteristics—it was some horror of the mind, some inscrutable antipathy awakened by this picture, which harrowed up my feelings.

I looked around the room at the other pictures, either to distract myself or to see if they would have the same effect on me. Some of them were so grim that they should have worked, if it was just the harshness of the painting that did it—not at all. My gaze passed over them all without any interest, but the moment it returned to the face above the fireplace, it felt like an electric shock ran through me. The other pictures were dull and faded, but this one stood out against a simple black background with incredible clarity and true colors. The expression showed agony—real, intense bodily pain—yet there was a menacing scowl on its brow, and a few splatters of blood added to its creepiness. But it wasn’t just these features; it was some mental horror, some unexplainable dislike triggered by this picture, that deeply unsettled me.

I tried to persuade myself that this was chimerical; that my brain was confused by the fumes of mine host’s good cheer, and, in some measure, by the odd stories about paintings which had been told at supper. I determined to shake off these vapors of the mind; rose from my chair, and walked about the room; snapped my fingers; rallied myself; laughed aloud. It was a forced laugh, and the echo of it in the old chamber jarred upon my ear. I walked to the window; tried to discern the landscape through the glass. It was pitch darkness, and howling storm without; and as I heard the wind moan among the trees, I caught a reflection of this accursed visage in the pane of glass, as though it were staring through the window at me. Even the reflection of it was thrilling.

I tried to convince myself that this was just my imagination; that my head was being clouded by the cheerful vibes from the host and, to some extent, by the strange stories about paintings shared during dinner. I decided to shake off these mental fogs, got up from my chair, and walked around the room; snapped my fingers; encouraged myself; laughed out loud. It was a forced laugh, and hearing it echo in the old room felt uncomfortable. I walked over to the window and tried to see the landscape through the glass. It was completely dark outside, with a howling storm; and as I listened to the wind wail among the trees, I saw a reflection of that cursed face in the window, as if it was staring back at me. Even the reflection itself was unsettling.

How was this vile nervous fit, for such I now persuaded myself it was, to be conquered? I determined to force myself not to look at the painting but to undress quickly and get into bed. I began to undress, but in spite of every effort I could not keep myself from stealing a glance every now and then at the picture; and a glance was now sufficient to distress me. Even when my back was turned to it, the idea of this strange face behind me, peering over my shoulder, was insufferable. I threw off my clothes and hurried into bed; but still this visage gazed upon me. I had a full view of it from my bed, and for some time could not take my eyes from it. I had grown nervous to a dismal degree.

How was I supposed to overcome this awful anxiety attack, which I convinced myself it was? I decided to force myself not to look at the painting and to quickly undress and get into bed. I started undressing, but no matter how hard I tried, I kept stealing glances at the picture, and even a quick look was enough to upset me. Even when my back was turned to it, the thought of that strange face behind me, watching over my shoulder, was unbearable. I tossed off my clothes and jumped into bed, but that face still stared at me. I had a clear view of it from my bed and couldn't tear my eyes away for a while. I was extremely anxious.

I put out the light, and tried to force myself to sleep;—all in vain! The fire gleaming up a little, threw an uncertain light about the room, leaving, however, the region of the picture in deep shadow. What, thought I, if this be the chamber about which mine host spoke as having a mystery reigning over it?—I had taken his words merely as spoken in jest; might they have a real import? I looked around. The faintly lighted apartment had all the qualifications requisite for a haunted chamber. It began in my infected imagination to assume strange appearances. The old portraits turned paler and paler, and blacker and blacker; the streaks of light and shadow thrown among the quaint old articles of furniture, gave them singular shapes and characters. There was a huge dark clothes-press of antique form, gorgeous in brass and lustrous with wax, that began to grow oppressive to me.

I turned off the light and tried to force myself to sleep, but it was useless! The fire flickered weakly, casting an uncertain glow around the room, but leaving the area with the picture in deep shadow. What if this is the room my host mentioned as having a mystery? I had only taken his words as a joke; could they actually mean something? I looked around. The dimly lit room had all the qualities of a haunted chamber. In my overactive imagination, it started to take on strange shapes. The old portraits became increasingly pale and darker; the light and shadow playing among the quirky old furniture gave them unusual shapes and characters. There was a huge, dark wardrobe with an antique design, adorned with brass and shining with wax, that started to feel oppressive to me.

Am I then, thought I, indeed, the hero of the haunted room? Is there really a spell laid upon me, or is this all some contrivance of mine host, to raise a laugh at my expense? The idea of being hag-ridden by my own fancy all night, and then bantered on my haggard looks the next day was intolerable; but the very idea was sufficient to produce the effect, and to render me still more nervous. Pish, said I, it can be no such thing. How could my worthy host imagine that I, or any man would be so worried by a mere picture? It is my own diseased imagination that torments me. I turned in my bed, and shifted from side to side, to try to fall asleep; but all in vain. When one cannot get asleep by lying quiet, it is seldom that tossing about will effect the purpose. The fire gradually went out and left the room in darkness. Still I had the idea of this inexplicable countenance gazing and keeping watch upon me through the darkness. Nay, what was worse, the very darkness seemed to give it additional power, and to multiply its terrors. It was like having an unseen enemy hovering about one in the night. Instead of having one picture now to worry me, I had a hundred. I fancied it in every direction. And there it is, thought I,—and there, and there,—with its horrible and mysterious expression, still gazing and gazing on me. No if I must suffer this strange and dismal influence, it were better face a single foe, than thus be haunted by a thousand images of it.

Am I really the hero of this haunted room? Is there actually a spell cast on me, or is this just a trick by my host to make fun of me? The thought of being tormented by my own imagination all night and then teased about how I look the next day was unbearable; but just thinking about it was enough to make me even more anxious. Come on, I told myself, it can’t be anything like that. How could my host think that I, or any man, would be so disturbed by a mere picture? It’s my own twisted imagination that’s causing me this distress. I tossed and turned in bed, trying to fall asleep, but it was useless. When you can’t sleep by lying still, moving around rarely helps. The fire gradually went out, leaving the room in darkness. Yet, I could still feel the idea of that unexplainable face watching me from the shadows. What’s worse, the darkness seemed to amplify its power and increase its horrors. It felt like having an unseen enemy lurking in the night. Instead of one image tormenting me, I had a hundred. I imagined it in every direction. And there it is, I thought—there and there—with its horrifying and mysterious expression, still staring at me. If I have to endure this strange and gloomy influence, it would be better to face one enemy rather than be haunted by a thousand versions of it.

Whoever has been in such a state of nervous agitation must know that the longer it continues, the more uncontrollable it grows; the very air of the chamber seemed at length infected by the baleful presence of this picture. I fancied it hovering over me. I almost felt the fearful visage from the wall approaching my face,—it seemed breathing upon me. This is not to be borne, said I, at length, springing out of bed. I can stand this no longer. I shall only tumble and toss about here all night; make a very spectre of myself, and become the hero of the haunted chamber in good earnest. Whatever be the consequence. I’ll quit this cursed room, and seek a night’s rest elsewhere. They can but laugh at me at all events, and they’ll be sure to have the laugh upon me if I pass a sleepless night and show them a haggard and wo-begone visage in the morning.

Whoever has been in such a state of nervous stress knows that the longer it lasts, the more unmanageable it becomes; the very air in the room eventually felt tainted by the disturbing presence of that picture. I imagined it hovering over me. I almost felt the terrifying face from the wall getting closer to mine—it seemed to be breathing on me. I can't take this anymore, I finally said, jumping out of bed. I can't handle this. I’ll just toss and turn all night; I’ll make a complete wreck of myself and become the main character of a haunted room for real. Whatever happens, I’m leaving this cursed room to find a place to sleep. They might laugh at me anyway, but they’ll definitely have a good laugh if I end up with a sleepless night and show up in the morning looking haggard and miserable.

All this was half muttered to myself, as I hastily slipped on my clothes; which having done, I groped my way out of the room, and down-stairs to the drawing-room. Here, after tumbling over two or three pieces of furniture, I made out to reach a sofa, and stretching myself upon it determined to bivouac there for the night.

All of this was half-mumbled to myself as I quickly got dressed. Once I was done, I felt my way out of the room and downstairs to the living room. Here, after stumbling over a couple of pieces of furniture, I managed to reach a couch and decided to crash there for the night.

The moment I found myself out of the neighborhood of that strange picture, it seemed as if the charm were broken. All its influence was at an end. I felt assured that it was confined to its own dreary chamber, for I had, with a sort of instinctive caution, turned the key when I closed the door. I soon calmed down, therefore, into a state of tranquillity; from that into a drowsiness, and finally into a deep sleep; out of which I did not awake, until the housemaid, with her besom and her matin song, came to put the room in order. She stared at finding me stretched upon the sofa; but I presume circumstances of the kind were not uncommon after hunting dinners, in her master’s bachelor establishment; for she went on with her song and her work, and took no farther heed of me.

The moment I stepped out of the neighborhood of that strange painting, it felt like the spell was broken. Its influence was gone. I felt sure it was stuck in its own gloomy room because, instinctively, I had locked the door when I left. I quickly relaxed into a calm state, then into a drowsiness, and finally fell into a deep sleep. I didn’t wake up until the housekeeper, with her broom and morning song, came in to tidy up the room. She was surprised to find me sprawled on the sofa, but I guessed this sort of thing wasn't unusual after hunting dinners at her master's bachelor pad, so she continued with her song and her work, ignoring me after that.

I had an unconquerable repugnance to return to my chamber; so I found my way to the butler’s quarters, made my toilet in the best way circumstances would permit, and was among the first to appear at the breakfast table. Our breakfast was a substantial fox-hunter’s repast, and the company were generally assembled at it. When ample justice had been done to the tea, coffee, cold meats, and humming ale, for all these were furnished in abundance, according to the tastes of the different guests, the conversation began to break out, with all the liveliness and freshness of morning mirth.

I really didn't want to go back to my room, so I headed to the butler’s quarters, got myself ready as well as I could given the situation, and was one of the first to arrive at the breakfast table. Our breakfast was a hearty meal fit for a fox hunter, and most of the guests were already gathered. Once we had fully enjoyed the tea, coffee, cold meats, and refreshing beer, all provided in plenty to suit everyone's tastes, the conversation started flowing with all the liveliness and energy of morning cheer.

“But who is the hero of the haunted chamber?—Who has seen the ghost last night?” said the inquisitive gentleman, rolling his lobster eyes about the table.

“But who is the hero of the haunted room?—Who saw the ghost last night?” said the curious gentleman, rolling his lobster-like eyes around the table.

The question set every tongue in motion; a vast deal of bantering; criticising of countenances; of mutual accusation and retort took place. Some had drunk deep, and some were unshaven, so that there were suspicious faces enough in the assembly. I alone could not enter with ease and vivacity into the joke. I felt tongue-tied—embarrassed. A recollection of what I had seen and felt the preceding night still haunted my mind.

The question got everyone talking; there was a lot of teasing, judging each other's looks, and back-and-forth accusations. Some people had drunk too much, and others looked unkempt, so there were plenty of wary faces in the crowd. I alone couldn’t join in the fun easily. I felt awkward and embarrassed. The memory of what I had experienced the night before still lingered in my mind.

It seemed as if the mysterious picture still held a thrall upon me. I thought also that our host’s eye was turned on me with an air of curiosity. In short, I was conscious that I was the hero of the night, and felt as if every one might read it in my looks.

It felt like the mysterious picture still had a hold on me. I also noticed that our host was watching me with an air of curiosity. In short, I was aware that I was the center of attention that night and felt like everyone could see it on my face.

The jokes, however, passed over, and no suspicion seemed to attach to me. I was just congratulating myself on my escape, when a servant came in, saying, that the gentleman who had slept on the sofa in the drawing-room, had left his watch under one of the pillows. My repeater was in his hand.

The jokes, however, went unnoticed, and no one seemed to suspect me. I was just feeling relieved about my close call when a servant came in, saying that the guy who had slept on the sofa in the living room had left his watch under one of the pillows. He was holding my repeater.

“What!” said the inquisitive gentleman, “did any gentleman sleep on the sofa?”

“What!” said the curious gentleman, “did any guy sleep on the sofa?”

“Soho! soho! a hare—a hare!” cried the old gentleman with the flexible nose.

“Soho! soho! a hare—a hare!” shouted the old man with the flexible nose.

I could not avoid acknowledging the watch, and was rising in great confusion, when a boisterous old squire who sat beside me, exclaimed, slapping me on the shoulder, “’Sblood, lad! thou’rt the man as has seen the ghost!”

I couldn’t help but notice the watch, and I was getting up in a flurry of embarrassment when a loud old squire sitting next to me shouted, giving me a slap on the shoulder, “’Sblood, dude! You’re the one who saw the ghost!”

The attention of the company was immediately turned to me; if my face had been pale the moment before, it now glowed almost to burning. I tried to laugh, but could only make a grimace; and found all the muscles of my face twitching at sixes and sevens, and totally out of all control.

The company's attention quickly shifted to me; if my face had been pale just a moment ago, it now felt like it was on fire. I tried to laugh, but all I could manage was a grimace, and I realized all the muscles in my face were twitching wildly and completely out of my control.

It takes but little to raise a laugh among a set of fox-hunters. There was a world of merriment and joking at my expense; and as I never relished a joke overmuch when it was at my own expense, I began to feel a little nettled. I tried to look cool and calm and to restrain my pique; but the coolness and calmness of a man in a passion are confounded treacherous.

It takes very little to get a laugh from a group of fox hunters. They were having a great time joking around at my expense, and since I don’t take jokes well when I'm the target, I started to feel a bit annoyed. I tried to appear collected and calm and to hold back my frustration, but the calmness of someone who's really angry can be very deceptive.

Gentlemen, said I, with a slight cocking of the chin, and a bad attempt at a smile, this is all very pleasant—ha! ha!—very pleasant—but I’d have you know I am as little superstitious as any of you—ha! ha!—and as to anything like timidity—you may smile, gentlemen—but I trust there is no one here means to insinuate that.—As to a room’s being haunted, I repeat, gentlemen—(growing a little warm at seeing a cursed grin breaking out round me)—as to a room’s being haunted, I have as little faith in such silly stories as any one. But, since you put the matter home to me, I will say that I have met with something in my room strange and inexplicable to me—(a shout of laughter). Gentlemen, I am serious—I know well what I am saying—I am calm, gentlemen, (striking my flat upon the table)—by heaven I am calm. I am neither trifling, nor do I wish to be trifled with—(the laughter of the company suppressed with ludicrous attempts at gravity). There is a picture in the room in which I was put last night, that has had an effect upon me the most singular and incomprehensible.

"Guys," I said, tilting my chin slightly and attempting a weak smile, "this is all very nice—ha! ha!—really nice—but I want you to know I'm as unsuperstitious as any of you—ha! ha!—and as for being timid—you can laugh, guys—but I hope no one here is trying to imply that. As for a room being haunted, I’ll say again, gentlemen—(getting a bit heated at the sight of a ridiculous grin spreading around me)—as for a room being haunted, I have as little belief in those silly stories as anyone. But since you've brought it up, I will admit that I've experienced something in my room that’s strange and inexplicable to me—(a burst of laughter). Gentlemen, I'm serious—I know exactly what I'm saying—I am calm, gentlemen, (slapping my hand on the table)—by heavens, I am calm. I'm not joking, nor do I want to be made a joke of—(the laughter from the group quieted down with ridiculous attempts at seriousness). There’s a painting in the room I was in last night that affected me in the most peculiar and bewildering way."

“A picture!” said the old gentleman with the haunted head. “A picture!” cried the narrator with the waggish nose. “A picture! a picture!” echoed several voices. Here there was an ungovernable peal of laughter.

“A picture!” said the old man with the haunted look. “A picture!” shouted the narrator with the playful nose. “A picture! a picture!” several voices chimed in. Then, uncontrollable laughter erupted.

I could not contain myself. I started up from my seat—looked round on the company with fiery indignation—thrust both my hands into my pockets, and strode up to one of the windows, as though I would have walked through it. I stopped short; looked out upon the landscape without distinguishing a feature of it; and felt my gorge rising almost to suffocation.

I couldn't hold back anymore. I jumped up from my seat—glared at the room with intense anger—shoved both my hands into my pockets, and marched over to one of the windows, as if I were about to walk right through it. I suddenly stopped; looked out at the view without even noticing any details; and felt like I was going to choke from my frustration.

Mine host saw it was time to interfere. He had maintained an air of Gravity through the whole of the scene, and now stepped forth as if to shelter me from the overwhelming merriment of my companions.

Mine host saw it was time to step in. He had kept a serious demeanor throughout the whole scene, and now he approached as if to protect me from the sheer joy of my friends.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “I dislike to spoil sport, but you have had your laugh, and the joke of the haunted chamber has been enjoyed. I must now take the part of my guest. I must not only vindicate him from your pleasantries, but I must reconcile him to himself, for I suspect he is a little out of humor with his own feelings; and above all, I must crave his pardon for having made him the subject of a kind of experiment.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I don’t want to ruin the fun, but you’ve had your laughs, and the joke about the haunted room has been shared. Now I need to defend my guest. I have to not only clear him of your teasing, but also help him come to terms with his own feelings, as I think he’s a bit upset with himself; and most importantly, I need to ask for his forgiveness for making him the subject of a sort of experiment.

“Yes, gentlemen, there is something strange and peculiar in the chamber to which our friend was shown last night. There is a picture which possesses a singular and mysterious influence; and with which there is connected a very curious story. It is a picture to which I attach a value from a variety of circumstances; and though I have often been tempted to destroy it from the odd and uncomfortable sensations it produces in every one that beholds it; yet I have never been able to prevail upon myself to make the sacrifice. It is a picture I never like to look upon myself; and which is held in awe by all my servants. I have, therefore, banished it to a room but rarely used; and should have had it covered last night, had not the nature of our conversation, and the whimsical talk about a haunted chamber tempted me to let it remain, by way of experiment, whether a stranger, totally unacquainted with its story, would be affected by it.”

“Yes, gentlemen, there’s something odd and unusual in the room our friend was shown last night. There’s a painting that has a unique and mysterious effect, and it’s connected to a very interesting story. I value this painting for various reasons, and although I’ve often thought about destroying it because of the strange and unsettling feelings it gives to everyone who sees it, I’ve never managed to go through with that. It’s a painting I don’t like to look at myself, and my servants are all scared of it. So, I’ve kept it in a rarely used room, and I would have had it covered last night if our conversation and the lighthearted talk about a haunted room hadn’t tempted me to leave it out as an experiment to see if a stranger, completely unaware of its story, would be affected by it.”

The words of the Baronet had turned every thought into a different channel: all were anxious to hear the story of the mysterious picture; and for myself, so strongly were my feelings interested, that I forgot to feel piqued at the experiment which my host had made upon my nerves, and joined eagerly in the general entreaty.

The Baronet's words had redirected everyone's thoughts: everyone was eager to hear the story behind the mysterious picture; as for me, I was so caught up in my feelings that I forgot to be annoyed by the experiment my host had played on my nerves and eagerly joined in the collective request.

As the morning was stormy, and precluded all egress, my host was glad of any means of entertaining his company; so drawing his arm-chair beside the fire, he began—

As the morning was stormy and kept everyone inside, my host was grateful for any way to entertain his guests; so he pulled his armchair next to the fire and started—

THE ADVENTURE OF THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER

Many years since, when I was a young man, and had just left Oxford, I was sent on the grand tour to finish my education. I believe my parents had tried in vain to inoculate me with wisdom; so they sent me to mingle with society, in hopes I might take it the natural way. Such, at least, appears to be the reason for which nine-tenths of our youngsters are sent abroad.

Many years ago, when I was a young man and had just graduated from Oxford, I was sent on a grand tour to complete my education. I think my parents had tried unsuccessfully to teach me wisdom, so they sent me out to socialize, hoping I would pick it up naturally. At least, that seems to be why most of our young people are sent abroad.

In the course of my tour I remained some time at Venice. The romantic character of the place delighted me; I was very much amused by the air of adventure and intrigue that prevailed in this region of masks and gondolas; and I was exceedingly smitten by a pair of languishing black eyes, that played upon my heart from under an Italian mantle. So I persuaded myself that I was lingering at Venice to study men and manners. At least I persuaded my friends so, and that answered all my purpose. Indeed, I was a little prone to be struck by peculiarities in character and conduct, and my imagination was so full of romantic associations with Italy, that I was always on the lookout for adventure.

During my trip, I spent some time in Venice. I was charmed by the romantic vibe of the city; the sense of adventure and intrigue that surrounded the masks and gondolas really entertained me. I also found myself captivated by a pair of soulful black eyes that caught my heart from beneath an Italian cloak. I convinced myself I was in Venice to learn about people and their behaviors. At least, that’s what I told my friends, and that served my purpose just fine. Honestly, I had a tendency to notice quirks in people's personalities and actions, and my imagination was so filled with romantic ideas about Italy that I was always on the lookout for adventure.

Every thing chimed in with such a humor in this old mermaid of a city. My suite of apartments were in a proud, melancholy palace on the grand canal, formerly the residence of a Magnifico, and sumptuous with the traces of decayed grandeur. My gondolier was one of the shrewdest of his class, active, merry, intelligent, and, like his brethren, secret as the grave; that is to say, secret to all the world except his master. I had not had him a week before he put me behind all the curtains in Venice. I liked the silence and mystery of the place, and when I sometimes saw from my window a black gondola gliding mysteriously along in the dusk of the evening, with nothing visible but its little glimmering lantern, I would jump into my own zenduletto, and give a signal for pursuit. But I am running away from my subject with the recollection of youthful follies, said the Baronet, checking himself; “let me come to the point.”

Everything blended together in such a way in this old, enchanting city. My apartment was in a grand, somewhat sad palace on the grand canal, which used to be the home of a Magnifico, filled with remnants of faded glory. My gondolier was one of the sharpest in his profession—energetic, cheerful, smart, and, like his fellow gondoliers, as secretive as the grave; by that, I mean secretive to everyone except me. I hadn’t had him for a week before he showed me the ins and outs of Venice. I enjoyed the quiet and allure of the city, and whenever I saw from my window a dark gondola gliding mysteriously through the evening dimness, with only its tiny flickering lantern visible, I would hop into my own little boat and signal for a chase. But I’m getting sidetracked with these youthful memories, the Baronet said, catching himself; “let me get to the point.”

Among my familiar resorts was a Cassino under the Arcades on one side of the grand square of St. Mark. Here I used frequently to lounge and take my ice on those warm summer nights when in Italy every body lives abroad until morning. I was seated here one evening, when a group of Italians took seat at a table on the opposite side of the saloon. Their conversation was gay and animated, and carried on with Italian vivacity and gesticulation.

Among my favorite hangouts was a casino underneath the arcades on one side of St. Mark's grand square. I often would relax there and enjoy ice cream on those warm summer nights when everyone in Italy stays out until morning. One evening, I was sitting there when a group of Italians sat down at a table on the other side of the room. Their conversation was lively and animated, full of Italian energy and gestures.

I remarked among them one young man, however, who appeared to take no share, and find no enjoyment in the conversation; though he seemed to force himself to attend to it. He was tall and slender, and of extremely prepossessing appearance. His features were fine, though emaciated. He had a profusion of black glossy hair that curled lightly about his head, and contrasted with the extreme paleness of his countenance. His brow was haggard; deep furrows seemed to have been ploughed into his visage by care, not by age, for he was evidently in the prime of youth. His eye was full of expression and fire, but wild and unsteady. He seemed to be tormented by some strange fancy or apprehension. In spite of every effort to fix his attention on the conversation of his companions, I noticed that every now and then he would turn his head slowly round, give a glance over his shoulder, and then withdraw it with a sudden jerk, as if something painful had met his eye. This was repeated at intervals of about a minute, and he appeared hardly to have got over one shock, before I saw him slowly preparing to encounter another.

I noticed one young man among them who didn’t seem to be involved in the conversation or enjoy it at all, even though he was trying to pay attention. He was tall and slim, with an incredibly attractive appearance. His features were nice but gaunt. He had a lot of black, shiny hair that curled softly around his head, contrasting sharply with his very pale skin. His brow looked worn; deep lines seemed to have been etched into his face by worry, not age, since he was clearly in the prime of his youth. His eyes were expressive and full of intensity, but they seemed wild and unstable. He looked like he was haunted by some strange worry or fear. Despite trying hard to focus on what his friends were saying, I noticed that every now and then, he would slowly turn his head, glance over his shoulder, and then jerk it back suddenly as if he had seen something distressing. This happened roughly every minute, and it seemed like he barely recovered from one shock before getting ready to face another.

After sitting some time in the Cassino, the party paid for the refreshments they had taken, and departed. The young man was the last to leave the saloon, and I remarked him glancing behind him in the same way, just as he passed out at the door. I could not resist the impulse to rise and follow him; for I was at an age when a romantic feeling of curiosity is easily awakened. The party walked slowly down the Arcades, talking and laughing as they went. They crossed the Piazzetta, but paused in the middle of it to enjoy the scene. It was one of those moonlight nights so brilliant and clear in the pure atmosphere of Italy. The moon-beams streamed on the tall tower of St. Mark, and lighted up the magnificent front and swelling domes of the Cathedral. The party expressed their delight in animated terms. I kept my eye upon the young man. He alone seemed abstracted and self-occupied. I noticed the same singular, and, as it were, furtive glance over the shoulder that had attracted my attention in the Cassino. The party moved on, and I followed; they passed along the walks called the Broglio; turned the corner of the Ducal palace, and getting into a gondola, glided swiftly away.

After sitting for a while in the Cassino, the group paid for their drinks and left. The young man was the last to exit the saloon, and I noticed him looking back in the same way just as he walked out the door. I couldn’t help but feel the urge to get up and follow him; I was at an age when a romantic curiosity was easily sparked. The group strolled slowly down the Arcades, chatting and laughing as they went. They crossed the Piazzetta but paused in the middle to take in the view. It was one of those moonlit nights, incredibly bright and clear in Italy's crisp atmosphere. The moonlight shone on the tall tower of St. Mark, illuminating the magnificent facade and curving domes of the Cathedral. The group expressed their excitement in lively conversation. I kept my gaze on the young man. He alone seemed distant and lost in thought. I noticed the same odd, almost secretive glance over his shoulder that had caught my attention back in the Cassino. The group moved on, and I followed; they walked along the paths called the Broglio, turned the corner of the Ducal Palace, and hopped into a gondola, gliding away swiftly.

The countenance and conduct of this young man dwelt upon my mind. There was something in his appearance that interested me exceedingly. I met him a day or two after in a gallery of paintings. He was evidently a connoisseur, for he always singled out the most masterly productions, and the few remarks drawn from him by his companions showed an intimate acquaintance with the art. His own taste, however, ran on singular extremes. On Salvator Rosa in his most savage and solitary scenes; on Raphael, Titian, and Corregio in their softest delineations of female beauty. On these he would occasionally gaze with transient enthusiasm. But this seemed only a momentary forgetfulness. Still would recur that cautious glance behind, and always quickly withdrawn, as though something terrible had met his view.

The young man’s expression and behavior stuck in my mind. There was something about his look that drew me in. A day or two later, I ran into him in an art gallery. He clearly knew his stuff, as he always pointed out the most impressive pieces, and the few comments he made to his friends showed he had a deep understanding of the art. However, his taste was quite unusual. He focused on Salvator Rosa’s most wild and lonely scenes, as well as Raphael, Titian, and Correggio’s soft portrayals of female beauty. Occasionally, he would gaze at these with brief enthusiasm, but it felt like just a momentary distraction. He would still glance back cautiously, quickly looking away, as if something horrifying had caught his eye.

I encountered him frequently afterwards. At the theatre, at balls, at concerts; at the promenades in the gardens of San Georgio; at the grotesque exhibitions in the square of St. Mark; among the throng of merchants on the Exchange by the Rialto. He seemed, in fact, to seek crowds; to hunt after bustle and amusement; yet never to take any interest in either the business or gayety of the scene. Ever an air of painful thought, of wretched abstraction; and ever that strange and recurring movement, of glancing fearfully over the shoulder. I did not know at first but this might be caused by apprehension of arrest; or perhaps from dread of assassination. But, if so, why should he go thus continually abroad; why expose himself at all times and in all places?

I ran into him often after that. At the theater, at balls, at concerts; at the strolls in the gardens of San Georgio; at the bizarre shows in St. Mark's Square; among the crowd of merchants in the Exchange by the Rialto. It seemed like he sought out crowds, chasing after activity and fun; yet he showed no interest in either the business or the liveliness around him. He always had an air of deep thought, of miserable distraction; and that peculiar, recurring habit of glancing nervously over his shoulder. At first, I thought this might be due to fear of arrest or maybe even fear of being killed. But if that were the case, why did he keep going out like this; why put himself at risk all the time and in every place?

I became anxious to know this stranger. I was drawn to him by that Romantic sympathy that sometimes draws young men towards each other. His melancholy threw a charm about him in my eyes, which was no doubt heightened by the touching expression of his countenance, and the manly graces of his person; for manly beauty has its effect even upon man. I had an Englishman’s habitual diffidence and awkwardness of address to contend with; but I subdued it, and from frequently meeting him in the Cassino, gradually edged myself into his acquaintance. I had no reserve on his part to contend with. He seemed on the contrary to court society; and in fact to seek anything rather than be alone.

I became curious about this stranger. I was attracted to him by that Romantic connection that sometimes pulls young men towards each other. His sadness gave him a charm in my eyes, which was likely enhanced by the poignant expression of his face and the strong features of his body; because masculine beauty has an impact even on other men. I had to overcome my Englishman’s typical shyness and awkwardness in conversation, but I managed to do that. From often seeing him at the casino, I gradually worked my way into his circle. I didn’t have to deal with any hesitation on his part. On the contrary, he seemed to seek out social interaction and was looking for anything but solitude.

When he found I really took an interest in him he threw himself entirely upon my friendship. He clung to me like a drowning man. He would walk with me for hours up and down the place of St. Mark—or he would sit until night was far advanced in my apartment; he took rooms under the same roof with me; and his constant request was, that I would permit him, when it did not incommode me, to sit by me in my saloon. It was not that he seemed to take a particular delight in my conversation; but rather that he craved the vicinity of a human being; and above all, of a being that sympathized with him. “I have often heard,” said he, “of the sincerity of Englishmen—thank God I have one at length for a friend!”

When he realized that I really liked him, he totally leaned into our friendship. He clung to me like someone about to drown. He would walk with me for hours around St. Mark's or sit in my apartment until late at night; he even rented a room in the same building as me. He constantly asked if he could sit by me in my living room whenever it wasn’t too much trouble. It wasn’t that he seemed to enjoy my conversation that much; he just needed to be close to another person, especially someone who understood him. “I’ve heard a lot about how sincere English people are—thank God I finally have one as a friend!”

Yet he never seemed disposed to avail himself of my sympathy other than by mere companionship. He never sought to unbosom himself to me; there appeared to be a settled corroding anguish in his bosom that neither could be soothed “by silence nor by speaking.” A devouring melancholy preyed upon his heart, and seemed to be drying up the very blood in his veins. It was not a soft melancholy—the disease of the affections; but a parching, withering agony. I could see at times that his mouth was dry and feverish; he almost panted rather than breathed; his eyes were bloodshot; his cheeks pale and livid; with now and then faint streaks athwart them—baleful gleams of the fire that was consuming his heart. As my arm was within his, I felt him press it at times with a convulsive motion to his side; his hands would clinch themselves involuntarily, and a kind of shudder would run through his frame. I reasoned with him about his melancholy, and sought to draw from him the cause—he shrunk from all confiding. “Do not seek to know it,” said he, “you could not relieve it if you knew it; you would not even seek to relieve it—on the contrary, I should lose your sympathy; and that,” said he, pressing my hand convulsively, “that I feel has become too dear to me to risk.”

Yet he never seemed willing to take advantage of my sympathy beyond just our time together. He never tried to open up to me; there seemed to be a deep, lasting pain in him that couldn't be eased "by silence nor by speaking." A consuming sadness weighed on his heart and seemed to sap the very life from his veins. It wasn't a gentle sadness—the kind that affects your feelings—but a harsh, withering torment. I could sometimes see that his mouth was dry and feverish; he almost panted rather than breathed; his eyes were bloodshot; his cheeks were pale and lifeless, with faint lines across them—ominous signs of the fire burning through his heart. As my arm was linked with his, I felt him grasp it sometimes with a tight, convulsive motion against his side; his hands would clench involuntarily, and a shiver would run through him. I tried to talk to him about his sadness and wanted to understand what caused it—but he avoided all trust. "Don’t try to know it," he said, "you couldn’t help if you knew; you wouldn’t even want to help—in fact, I would lose your sympathy; and that," he said, gripping my hand tightly, "that I feel has become too precious to risk."

I endeavored to awaken hope within him. He was young; life had a thousand pleasures in store for him; there is a healthy reaction in the youthful heart; it medicines its own wounds—

I tried to inspire hope in him. He was young; life had countless pleasures waiting for him; there's a natural healing in a young heart; it heals its own wounds—

“Come, come,” said I, “there is no grief so great that youth cannot outgrow it.”—“No! no!” said he, clinching his teeth, and striking repeatedly, with the energy of despair, upon his bosom—“It is here—here—deep-rooted; draining my heart’s blood. It grows and grows, while my heart withers and withers! I have a dreadful monitor that gives me no repose—that follows me step by step; and will follow me step by step, until it pushes me into my grave!”

“Come on,” I said, “there's no pain too big that young people can't move past it.” —“No! No!” he replied, clenching his teeth and hitting his chest repeatedly with the strength of despair. “It's here—here—so deep inside; draining my heart's blood. It just keeps growing while my heart keeps withering! I have a terrible reminder that never lets me rest; it follows me everywhere and will keep following me until it drives me to my grave!”

As he said this he gave involuntarily one of those fearful glances over his shoulder, and shrunk back with more than usual horror. I could not resist the temptation to allude to this movement, which I supposed to be some mere malady of the nerves. The moment I mentioned it his face became crimsoned and convulsed—he grasped me by both hands: “For God’s sake,” exclaimed he, with a piercing agony of voice—“never allude to that again; let us avoid this subject, my friend; you cannot relieve me, indeed you cannot relieve me; but you may add to the torments I suffer;—at some future day you shall know all.”

As he said this, he instinctively glanced over his shoulder, and recoiled with even more horror than usual. I couldn't help but mention this reaction, which I thought might just be some nerve issue. The moment I brought it up, his face turned bright red and twisted—he grabbed my hands tightly: “For God’s sake,” he exclaimed, his voice filled with pain—“never bring that up again; let’s steer clear of this topic, my friend; you can’t help me, you really can’t help me; but you can make my suffering worse;—one day you will know everything.”

I never resumed the subject; for however much my curiosity might be aroused, I felt too true compassion for his sufferings to increase them by my intrusion. I sought various ways to divert his mind, and to arouse him from the constant meditations in which he was plunged. He saw my efforts, and seconded them as far as in his power, for there was nothing moody or wayward in his nature; on the contrary, there was something frank, generous, unassuming, in his whole deportment. All the sentiments that he uttered were noble and lofty. He claimed no indulgence; he asked no toleration. He seemed content to carry his load of misery in silence, and only sought to carry it by my side. There was a mute beseeching manner about him, as if he craved companionship as a charitable boon; and a tacit thankfulness in his looks, as if he felt grateful to me for not repulsing him.

I never brought up the topic again; no matter how curious I was, I felt too much compassion for his pain to make it worse by pushing further. I tried different ways to distract him and pull him out of his constant thoughts. He noticed my efforts and supported them as much as he could, because he wasn’t moody or difficult; in fact, he was quite open, generous, and humble in how he carried himself. Every sentiment he expressed was noble and inspiring. He didn’t ask for sympathy or understanding. He seemed okay with shouldering his burden of suffering in silence, only wanting me to share it with him. There was a silent plea in him, as if he longed for companionship as an act of kindness; and a quiet gratitude in his expressions, as if he appreciated that I didn’t push him away.

I felt this melancholy to be infectious. It stole over my spirits; Interfered with all my gay pursuits, and gradually saddened my life; yet I could not prevail upon myself to shake off a being who seemed to hang upon me for support. In truth, the generous traits of character that beamed through all this gloom had penetrated to my heart. His bounty was lavish and open-handed. His charity melting and spontaneous. Not confined to mere donations, which often humiliate as much as they relieve. The tone of his voice, the beam of his eye, enhanced every gift, and surprised the poor suppliant with that rarest and sweetest of charities, the charity not merely of the hand, but of the heart. Indeed, his liberality seemed to have something in it of self-abasement and expiation. He humbled himself, in a manner, before the mendicant. “What right have I to ease and affluence,” would he murmur to himself, “when innocence wanders in misery and rags?”

I found this sadness to be contagious. It took over my mood, interfered with all my joyful activities, and gradually darkened my life; yet I couldn't bring myself to shake off someone who seemed to rely on me for support. The truth is, the generous qualities that shone through all this gloom had touched my heart. His kindness was abundant and sincere. His charity was warm and genuine. It wasn’t just about giving money, which often makes people feel as small as it helps them. The tone of his voice and the sparkle in his eye enhanced every gift, surprising the poor person asking for help with that rare and sweetest form of generosity, which comes not just from the pocket but from the heart. In fact, his generosity seemed to involve a sense of humility and atonement. He kind of humbled himself in front of the beggar. “What right do I have to comfort and wealth,” he would murmur to himself, “when innocence suffers in misery and rags?”

The Carnival time arrived. I had hoped that the gay scenes which then Presented themselves might have some cheering effect. I mingled with him in the motley throng that crowded the place of St. Mark. We frequented operas, masquerades, balls. All in vain. The evil kept growing on him; he became more and more haggard and agitated. Often, after we had returned from one of these scenes of revelry, I have entered his room, and found him lying on his face on the sofa: his hands clinched in his fine hair, and his whole countenance bearing traces of the convulsions of his mind.

The Carnival season arrived. I had hoped that the joyful scenes around us might have a positive impact. I mixed with him in the colorful crowd at St. Mark’s Square. We attended operas, masquerades, and balls. All in vain. The trouble only deepened for him; he became increasingly haggard and restless. Often, after we returned from these festive gatherings, I would enter his room and find him lying face down on the sofa, his hands tangled in his beautiful hair, and his entire expression reflecting the turmoil in his mind.

The Carnival passed away; the season of Lent succeeded; Passion week arrived. We attended one evening a solemn service in one of the churches; in the course of which a grand piece of vocal and instrumental music was performed relating to the death of our Saviour.

The Carnival was over; Lent began; Passion Week came. We went to a solemn service one evening at a church, where a grand piece of vocal and instrumental music was performed about the death of our Savior.

I had remarked that he was always powerfully affected by music; on this occasion he was so in an extraordinary degree. As the peeling notes swelled through the lofty aisles, he seemed to kindle up with fervor. His eyes rolled upwards, until nothing but the whites were visible; his hands were clasped together, until the fingers were deeply imprinted in the flesh. When the music expressed the dying agony, his face gradually sunk upon his knees; and at the touching words resounding through the church, “Jesu mori,” sobs burst from him uncontrolled. I had never seen him weep before; his had always been agony rather than sorrow. I augured well from the circumstance. I let him weep on uninterrupted. When the service was ended we left the church. He hung on my arm as we walked homewards, with something of a softer and more subdued manner; instead of that nervous agitation I had been accustomed to witness. He alluded to the service we had heard. “Music,” said he, “is indeed the voice of heaven; never before have I felt more impressed by the story of the atonement of our Saviour. Yes, my friend,” said he, clasping his hands with a kind of transport, “I know that my Redeemer liveth.”

I had noticed that he was always deeply moved by music; on this occasion, it was especially intense. As the resonant notes filled the tall aisles, he seemed to ignite with passion. His eyes rolled back, leaving only the whites visible; his hands were clasped tightly, digging into his skin. When the music portrayed the agony of death, his face slowly fell to his knees; and upon hearing the touching words echoing through the church, “Jesu mori,” he broke into uncontrollable sobs. I had never seen him cry before; his feelings had always been more about torment than sadness. I felt hopeful about this moment. I let him cry without interruption. When the service ended, we left the church. He leaned on my arm as we made our way home, with a softer, more subdued demeanor; a contrast to the nervous agitation I was used to seeing. He mentioned the service we had just attended. “Music,” he said, “truly is the voice of heaven; never before have I felt so moved by the story of our Savior's atonement. Yes, my friend,” he said, clasping his hands in a kind of ecstasy, “I know that my Redeemer lives.”

We parted for the night. His room was not far from mine, and I heard him for some time busied in it. I fell asleep, but was awakened before daylight. The young man stood by my bed-side, dressed for travelling. He held a sealed packet and a large parcel in his hand, which he laid on the table. “Farewell, my friend,” said he, “I am about to set forth on a long journey; but, before I go, I leave with you these remembrances. In this packet you will find the particulars of my story. When you read them, I shall be far away; do not remember me with aversion. You have been, indeed, a friend to me. You have poured oil into a broken heart,—but you could not heal it.—Farewell—let me kiss your hand—I am unworthy to embrace you.” He sunk on his knees, seized my hand in despite of my efforts to the contrary, and covered it with kisses. I was so surprised by all this scene that I had not been able to say a word.

We said goodbye for the night. His room was close to mine, and I could hear him moving around for a while. I fell asleep, but woke up before dawn. The young man was standing by my bedside, ready to travel. He held a sealed envelope and a large package in his hand, which he placed on the table. “Goodbye, my friend,” he said, “I’m about to head off on a long journey; but before I leave, I want to give you these mementos. In this envelope, you’ll find the details of my story. When you read it, I’ll be far away; please don’t remember me with anger. You have truly been a friend to me. You have soothed my broken heart—but you couldn’t heal it. Goodbye—let me kiss your hand—I don’t deserve to hug you.” He dropped to his knees, took my hand despite my attempts to stop him, and covered it with kisses. I was so taken aback by the whole scene that I couldn’t say a word.

But we shall meet again, said I, hastily, as I saw him hurrying towards the door.

But we will meet again, I said quickly, as I saw him rushing toward the door.

“Never—never in this world!” said he, solemnly. He sprang once more to my bed-side—seized my hand, pressed it to his heart and to his lips, and rushed out of the room.

“Never—never in this world!” he said seriously. He jumped once more to my bedside—grabbed my hand, pressed it to his heart and to his lips, and rushed out of the room.

Here the Baronet paused. He seemed lost in thought, and sat looking upon the floor and drumming with his fingers on the arm of his chair.

Here the Baronet paused. He appeared to be deep in thought, staring at the floor and drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair.

“And did this mysterious personage return?” said the inquisitive gentleman. “Never!” replied the Baronet, with a pensive shake of the head: “I never saw him again.” “And pray what has all this to do with the picture?” inquired the old gentleman with the nose—“True!” said the questioner—“Is it the portrait of this crack-brained Italian?” “No!” said the Baronet drily, not half liking the appellation given to his hero; “but this picture was inclosed in the parcel he left with me. The sealed packet contained its explanation. There was a request on the outside that I would not open it until six months had elapsed. I kept my promise, in spite of my curiosity. I have a translation of it by me, and had meant to read it, by way of accounting for the mystery of the chamber, but I fear I have already detained the company too long.”

“And did this mysterious person come back?” asked the curious gentleman. “Never!” replied the Baronet, shaking his head thoughtfully. “I never saw him again.” “And what does all of this have to do with the picture?” inquired the older gentleman with the prominent nose. “True!” said the questioner. “Is it the portrait of this crazy Italian?” “No!” said the Baronet dryly, not really liking the term used for his hero. “But this picture was included in the package he left with me. The sealed packet contained its explanation. There was a note on the outside asking me not to open it until six months had passed. I kept my promise, despite my curiosity. I have a translation of it with me, and I intended to read it to explain the mystery of the room, but I’m afraid I’ve already taken up too much of everyone’s time.”

Here there was a general wish expressed to have the manuscript read; particularly on the part of the inquisitive gentleman. So the worthy Baronet drew out a fairly written manuscript, and wiping his spectacles, read aloud the following story:

Here, everyone expressed a general desire to have the manuscript read, especially the curious gentleman. So, the esteemed Baronet pulled out a neatly written manuscript, wiped his glasses, and read aloud the following story:

THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ITALIAN

I was born at Naples. My parents, though of noble rank, were limited in fortune, or rather my father was ostentatious beyond his means, and expended so much in his palace, his equipage, and his retinue, that he was continually straitened in his pecuniary circumstances. I was a younger son, and looked upon with indifference by my father, who, from a principle of family pride, wished to leave all his property to my elder brother.

I was born in Naples. My parents, although of noble status, didn't have much money. My father was flashy beyond his means and spent so much on his palace, his carriages, and his entourage that he was always struggling financially. I was a younger son and my father viewed me with indifference because, due to family pride, he wanted to leave all his property to my older brother.

I showed, when quite a child, an extreme sensibility. Every thing affected me violently. While yet an infant in my mother’s arms, and before I had learnt to talk, I could be wrought upon to a wonderful degree of anguish or delight by the power of music. As I grew older my feelings remained equally acute, and I was easily transported into paroxysms of pleasure or rage. It was the amusement of my relatives and of the domestics to play upon this irritable temperament. I was moved to tears, tickled to laughter, provoked to fury, for the entertainment of company, who were amused by such a tempest of mighty passion in a pigmy frame. They little thought, or perhaps little heeded the dangerous sensibilities they were fostering. I thus became a little creature of passion, before reason was developed. In a short time I grew too old to be a plaything, and then I became a torment. The tricks and passions I had been teased into became irksome, and I was disliked by my teachers for the very lessons they had taught me.

I showed, when I was just a child, an extreme sensitivity. Everything affected me intensely. Even as an infant in my mother’s arms, before I could talk, music could bring me to an extraordinary state of anguish or joy. As I got older, my feelings stayed just as intense, and I could easily be swept into fits of pleasure or rage. My family and the household staff found it entertaining to tease this sensitive temperament. I was brought to tears, tickled into laughter, and provoked to anger for the amusement of company, who found it funny to see such a whirlwind of powerful emotions in a small child. They didn’t realize, or perhaps didn't care, about the dangerous sensitivities they were encouraging. I became a little being of passion long before my reason developed. Soon enough, I became too old to be a toy, and then I turned into a nuisance. The tricks and emotions I had been playfully provoked into became tiresome, and my teachers disliked me for the very things they had taught me.

My mother died; and my power as a spoiled child was at an end. There was no longer any necessity to humor or tolerate me, for there was nothing to be gained by it, as I was no favorite of my father. I therefore experienced the fate of a spoiled child in such situation, and was neglected or noticed only to be crossed and contradicted. Such was the early treatment of a heart, which, if I am judge of it at all, was naturally disposed to the extremes of tenderness and affection.

My mother passed away, and my privileges as a spoiled child came to an end. There was no longer any reason to indulge or put up with me, since there was nothing to be gained from it, as I wasn’t my father’s favorite. As a result, I went through the typical experiences of a spoiled child in such circumstances, being neglected or acknowledged only to be opposed and contradicted. This was the early treatment of a heart that, if I can assess it, was naturally inclined towards extremes of tenderness and affection.

My father, as I have already said, never liked me—in fact, he never Understood me; he looked upon me as wilful and wayward, as deficient in natural affection:—it was the stateliness of his own manner; the loftiness and grandeur of his own look that had repelled me from his arms. I always pictured him to myself as I had seen him clad in his senatorial robes, rustling with pomp and pride. The magnificence of his person had daunted my strong imagination. I could never approach him with the confiding affection of a child.

My father, as I’ve already mentioned, never liked me—in fact, he never understood me; he saw me as stubborn and unpredictable, lacking in natural affection. It was the dignity of his demeanor, the grandeur of his presence that pushed me away from him. I always imagined him as I had seen him dressed in his senator's robes, exuding pomp and pride. His impressive stature intimidated my vivid imagination. I could never approach him with the trusting love of a child.

My father’s feelings were wrapped up in my elder brother. He was to be the inheritor of the family title and the family dignity, and every thing was sacrificed to him—I, as well as every thing else. It was determined to devote me to the church, that so my humors and myself might be removed out of the way, either of tasking my father’s time and trouble, or interfering with the interests of my brother. At an early age, therefore, before my mind had dawned upon the world and its delights, or known any thing of it beyond the precincts of my father’s palace, I was sent to a convent, the superior of which was my uncle, and was confided entirely to his care.

My father’s emotions were focused on my older brother. He was set to inherit the family title and honor, and everything was sacrificed for him—myself included. It was decided that I would be devoted to the church, so that my moods and presence wouldn't be a burden to my father or interfere with my brother’s future. Therefore, at a young age, before I had any real understanding of the world and its pleasures, or knew anything beyond the confines of my father’s estate, I was sent to a convent, where my uncle was the head, and I was placed completely in his care.

My uncle was a man totally estranged from the world; he had never relished, for he had never tasted its pleasures; and he deemed rigid self-denial as the great basis of Christian virtue. He considered every one’s temperament like his own; or at least he made them conform to it. His character and habits had an influence over the fraternity of which he was superior. A more gloomy, saturnine set of beings were never assembled together. The convent, too, was calculated to awaken sad and solitary thoughts. It was situated in a gloomy gorge of those mountains away south of Vesuvius. All distant views were shut out by sterile volcanic heights. A mountain stream raved beneath its walls, and eagles screamed about its turrets.

My uncle was a man completely disconnected from the world; he had never enjoyed any of its pleasures because he had never experienced them. He believed that strict self-denial was the foundation of Christian virtue. He viewed everyone else's temperament as similar to his own, or at least tried to make them fit into it. His personality and habits influenced the group he led. You’d never find a more somber and serious bunch of people gathered together. The convent itself also prompted sad and lonely thoughts. It was located in a dark valley of the mountains far south of Vesuvius. All distant views were blocked by barren volcanic peaks. A mountain stream rushed beneath its walls, and eagles screeched around its towers.

I had been sent to this place at so tender an age as soon to lose all Distinct recollection of the scenes I had left behind. As my mind expanded, therefore, it formed its idea of the world from the convent and its vicinity, and a dreary world it appeared to me. An early tinge of melancholy was thus infused into my character; and the dismal stories of the monks, about devils and evil spirits, with which they affrighted my young imagination, gave me a tendency to superstition, which I could never effectually shake off. They took the same delight to work upon my ardent feelings that had been so mischievously exercised by my father’s household.

I had been sent to this place at such a young age that I soon lost all clear memories of the scenes I had left behind. As my mind developed, it shaped its view of the world based on the convent and its surroundings, and it struck me as a dreary place. This early sense of sadness was woven into my character, and the gloomy stories the monks told about devils and evil spirits, which terrified my young imagination, gave me a lingering tendency toward superstition that I could never fully shake off. They took the same pleasure in stirring my intense emotions that had been so mischievously exploited by my father's household.

I can recollect the horrors with which they fed my heated fancy during an eruption of Vesuvius. We were distant from that volcano, with mountains between us; but its convulsive throes shook the solid foundations of nature. Earthquakes threatened to topple down our convent towers. A lurid, baleful light hung in the heavens at night, and showers of ashes, borne by the wind, fell in our narrow valley. The monks talked of the earth being honey-combed beneath us; of Streams of molten lava raging through its veins; of caverns of sulphurous flames roaring in the centre, the abodes of demons and the damned; of fiery gulfs ready to yawn beneath our feet. All these tales were told to the doleful accompaniment of the mountain’s thunders, whose low bellowing made the walls of our convent vibrate.

I can remember the nightmares that filled my imagination during an eruption of Vesuvius. We were far from the volcano, with mountains in between us; but its violent shakes rattled the very foundations of the earth. Earthquakes threatened to bring down our convent towers. A dim, ominous light hung in the sky at night, and clouds of ash, carried by the wind, fell into our narrow valley. The monks spoke of the ground being filled with tunnels beneath us; of streams of molten lava coursing through its veins; of caverns filled with sulfurous flames roaring at the center, the homes of demons and the damned; of fiery chasms ready to open up beneath our feet. All these stories were shared amid the thunder of the mountain, whose deep rumbling made the walls of our convent shake.

One of the monks had been a painter, but had retired from the world, and embraced this dismal life in expiation of some crime. He was a melancholy man, who pursued his art in the solitude of his cell, but made it a source of penance to him. His employment was to portray, either on canvas or in waxen models, the human face and human form, in the agonies of death and in all the stages of dissolution and decay. The fearful mysteries of the charnel house were unfolded in his labors—the loathsome banquet of the beetle and the worm.—I turn with shuddering even from the recollection of his works. Yet, at that time, my strong, but ill-directed imagination seized with ardor upon his instructions in his art. Any thing was a variety from the dry studies and monotonous duties of the cloister. In a little while I became expert with my pencil, and my gloomy productions were thought worthy of decorating some of the altars of the chapel.

One of the monks had been a painter but had retired from the world to live this bleak life as a way to atone for some crime. He was a somber man who practiced his art in the solitude of his cell, turning it into a form of penance. His work involved depicting, either on canvas or in wax models, the human face and form in the agonies of death and in all the stages of decay. The terrifying mysteries of the charnel house came to life in his creations—the grotesque feast of beetles and worms. I shudder even at the thought of his works. Yet, during that time, my strong but misdirected imagination eagerly embraced his teachings in art. Anything was a welcome change from the dry studies and monotonous tasks of the cloister. Before long, I became skilled with my pencil, and my dark creations were considered worthy enough to adorn some of the altars in the chapel.

In this dismal way was a creature of feeling and fancy brought up. Every thing genial and amiable in my nature was repressed and nothing brought out but what was unprofitable and ungracious. I was ardent in my temperament; quick, mercurial, impetuous, formed to be a creature all love and adoration; but a leaden hand was laid on all my finer qualities. I was taught nothing but fear and hatred. I hated my uncle, I hated the monks, I hated the convent in which I was immured. I hated the world, and I almost hated myself, for being, as I supposed, so hating and hateful an animal.

In this bleak way, a being full of emotions and imagination was raised. Everything kind and friendly in my nature was suppressed, and only what was unproductive and unpleasant was encouraged. I was passionate by nature; quick, changeable, impulsive, made to be a being full of love and devotion; but a heavy hand weighed down all my better qualities. I was taught nothing but fear and resentment. I hated my uncle, I hated the monks, I hated the convent where I was confined. I hated the world, and I almost hated myself for being, as I thought, such a hateful and despicable person.

When I had nearly attained the age of sixteen, I was suffered, on one occasion, to accompany one of the brethren on a mission to a distant part of the country. We soon left behind us the gloomy valley in which I had been pent up for so many years, and after a short journey among the mountains, emerged upon the voluptuous landscape that spreads itself about the Bay of Naples. Heavens! How transported was I, when I stretched my gaze over a vast reach of delicious sunny country, gay with groves and vineyards; with Vesuvius rearing its forked summit to my right; the blue Mediterranean to my left, with its enchanting coast, studded with shining towns and sumptuous villas; and Naples, my native Naples, gleaming far, far in the distance.

When I was almost sixteen, I was allowed, on one occasion, to go with one of the brethren on a mission to a distant part of the country. We quickly left behind the gloomy valley where I had been stuck for so many years, and after a short journey through the mountains, we emerged into the stunning landscape surrounding the Bay of Naples. Wow! I was overwhelmed with joy as I looked out over a vast expanse of beautiful sunny countryside, filled with groves and vineyards; with Vesuvius rising sharply to my right; the blue Mediterranean to my left, with its charming coast dotted with shining towns and luxurious villas; and Naples, my beloved Naples, sparkling far in the distance.

Good God! was this the lovely world from which I had been excluded! I Had reached that age when the sensibilities are in all their bloom and freshness. Mine had been checked and chilled. They now burst forth with the suddenness of a retarded spring. My heart, hitherto unnaturally shrunk up, expanded into a riot of vague, but delicious emotions. The beauty of nature intoxicated, bewildered me. The song of the peasants; their cheerful looks; their happy avocations; the picturesque gayety of their dresses; their rustic music; their dances; all broke upon me like witchcraft. My soul responded to the music; my heart danced in my bosom. All the men appeared amiable, all the women lovely.

Good God! Was this the beautiful world I had been kept away from! I had reached that age when feelings are at their peak and most vibrant. Mine had been stifled and suppressed. Now, they erupted suddenly like a late spring. My heart, which had been unnaturally constricted, opened up in a flurry of vague but delightful emotions. The beauty of nature overwhelmed and amazed me. The songs of the farmers, their cheerful faces, their joyful activities, the colorful brightness of their clothes, their folk music, their dances—all of it hit me like magic. My soul responded to the music; my heart was dancing inside me. All the men seemed kind, and all the women were beautiful.

I returned to the convent, that is to say, my body returned but my heart and soul never entered there again. I could not forget this glimpse of a beautiful and a happy world; a world so suited to my natural character. I had felt so happy while in it; so different a being from what I felt myself while in the convent—that tomb of the living. I contrasted the countenances of the beings I had seen, full of fire and freshness and enjoyment, with the pallid, leaden, lack-lustre visages of the monks; the music of the dance, with the droning chant of the chapel. I had before found the exercises of the cloister wearisome; they now became intolerable. The dull round of duties wore away my spirit; my nerves became irritated by the fretful tinkling of the convent bell; evermore dinging among the mountain echoes; evermore calling me from my repose at night, my pencil by day, to attend to some tedious and mechanical ceremony of devotion.

I went back to the convent; my body returned, but my heart and soul never did. I couldn’t shake off the memory of that glimpse into a beautiful and happy world, one that felt so right for me. I had felt so joyful there, so unlike the person I became in the convent—a living tomb. I compared the faces of the people I had seen, full of passion, vitality, and joy, with the pale, dull, lifeless expressions of the monks. The lively music of the dance stood in stark contrast to the monotonous chant of the chapel. What used to feel like a tiring routine in the cloister now felt unbearable. The endless cycle of duties drained my spirit; the irritating chime of the convent bell frayed my nerves, echoing among the mountains, constantly calling me away from my nighttime rest and from sketching during the day, dragging me into tedious and mechanical rituals of devotion.

I was not of a nature to meditate long, without putting my thoughts into action. My spirit had been suddenly aroused, and was now all awake within me. I watched my opportunity, fled from the convent, and made my way on foot to Naples. As I entered its gay and crowded streets, and beheld the variety and stir of life around me, the luxury of palaces, the splendor of equipages, and the pantomimic animation of the motley populace, I seemed as if awakened to a world of enchantment, and solemnly vowed that nothing should force me back to the monotony of the cloister.

I wasn't the kind of person to think for long without taking action. My spirit had been suddenly stirred, and I was fully alert now. I seized my chance, escaped from the convent, and walked to Naples. As I entered its lively and bustling streets, taking in the diversity and energy of life around me, the opulence of the palaces, the grandeur of the carriages, and the lively gestures of the colorful crowd, it felt as if I had been awakened to a magical world, and I vowed that nothing would force me back into the dullness of the cloister.

I had to inquire my way to my father’s palace, for I had been so young on leaving it, that I knew not its situation. I found some difficulty in getting admitted to my father’s presence, for the domestics scarcely knew that there was such a being as myself in existence, and my monastic dress did not operate in my favor. Even my father entertained no recollection of my person. I told him my name, threw myself at his feet, implored his forgiveness, and entreated that I might not be sent back to the convent.

I had to ask for directions to my father's palace because I was so young when I left that I didn't know where it was. It was hard to get in to see my father since the staff hardly recognized that I even existed, and my monk's outfit didn't help. Even my father didn't remember me. I told him my name, fell at his feet, begged for his forgiveness, and pleaded not to be sent back to the convent.

He received me with the condescension of a patron rather than the kindness of a parent. He listened patiently, but coldly, to my tale of monastic grievances and disgusts, and promised to think what else could be done for me. This coldness blighted and drove back all the frank affection of my nature that was ready to spring forth at the least warmth of parental kindness. All my early feelings towards my father revived; I again looked up to him as the stately magnificent being that had daunted my childish imagination, and felt as if I had no pretensions to his sympathies. My brother engrossed all his care and love; he inherited his nature, and carried himself towards me with a protecting rather than a fraternal air. It wounded my pride, which was great. I could brook condescension from my father, for I looked up to him with awe as a superior being, but I could not brook patronage from a brother, who, I felt, was intellectually my inferior. The servants perceived that I was an unwelcome intruder in the paternal mansion, and, menial-like, they treated me with neglect. Thus baffled at every point; my affections outraged wherever they would attach themselves, I became sullen, silent, and despondent. My feelings driven back upon myself, entered and preyed upon my own heart. I remained for some days an unwelcome guest rather than a restored son in my father’s house. I was doomed never to be properly known there. I was made, by wrong treatment, strange even to myself; and they judged of me from my strangeness.

He welcomed me with the attitude of a patron rather than the warmth of a parent. He listened patiently but distantly to my complaints about life in the monastery, promising to think about what else could be done for me. This coldness stifled and pushed away all the genuine affection I had that was ready to emerge at the slightest sign of parental warmth. All my early feelings towards my father came rushing back; I looked up to him again as the impressive figure that had intimidated my childhood imagination, feeling unworthy of his sympathy. My brother received all his care and love; he inherited their bond and treated me more like a protector than a brother. This hurt my pride, which was considerable. I could accept condescension from my father because I viewed him with respect as a superior being, but I couldn't accept patronizing behavior from a brother whom I felt was intellectually beneath me. The servants noticed that I was an unwelcome guest in the family home, treating me with indifference like a menial. So, frustrated at every turn and feeling my affections scorned whenever they tried to attach themselves, I became sullen, quiet, and hopeless. My feelings turned inward and began to weigh on my heart. For several days, I remained an unwelcome visitor rather than a welcomed son in my father’s home. I was never going to be truly known there. The way I was treated made me feel foreign even to myself, and they judged me based on that strangeness.

I was startled one day at the sight of one of the monks of my convent, gliding out of my father’s room. He saw me, but pretended not to notice me; and this very hypocrisy made me suspect something. I had become sore and susceptible in my feelings; every thing inflicted a wound on them. In this state of mind I was treated with marked disrespect by a pampered minion, the favorite servant of my father. All the pride and passion of my nature rose in an instant, and I struck him to the earth.

I was taken aback one day when I saw one of the monks from my convent slipping out of my dad’s room. He spotted me but acted like he didn’t see me; that little bit of deceit made me suspicious. I had become sensitive and easily hurt; everything felt like a blow to me. In that mindset, I faced blatant disrespect from a spoiled servant, my father’s favorite. In an instant, all my pride and anger flared up, and I knocked him to the ground.

My father was passing by; he stopped not to inquire the reason, nor indeed could he read the long course of mental sufferings which were the real cause. He rebuked me with anger and scorn; he summoned all the haughtiness of his nature, and grandeur of his look, to give weight to the contumely with which he treated me. I felt I had not deserved it—I felt that I was not appreciated—I felt that I had that within me which merited better treatment; my heart swelled against a father’s injustice. I broke through my habitual awe of him. I replied to him with impatience; my hot spirit flushed in my cheek and kindled in my eye, but my sensitive heart swelled as quickly, and before I had half vented my passion I felt it suffocated and quenched in my tears. My father was astonished and incensed at this turning of the worm, and ordered me to my chamber. I retired in silence, choking with contending emotions.

My dad was passing by; he stopped not to ask what was wrong, nor could he understand the long struggle I was going through that was really the issue. He scolded me with anger and disdain; he drew on all the pride of his character and the seriousness of his expression to add weight to the insult he hurled at me. I felt I didn’t deserve it—I felt unappreciated—I felt that I had something within me that deserved better treatment; my heart swelled against my father’s unfairness. I broke through my usual respect for him. I responded to him with irritation; my fiery spirit flushed my cheeks and sparked in my eyes, but my sensitive heart swelled just as quickly, and before I could fully express my anger, I found it suffocated and extinguished in my tears. My father was shocked and furious at this unexpected reaction, and he ordered me to my room. I went away in silence, struggling with conflicting emotions.

I had not been long there when I overheard voices in an adjoining apartment. It was a consultation between my father and the monk, about the means of getting me back quietly to the convent. My resolution was taken. I had no longer a home nor a father. That very night I left the paternal roof. I got on board a vessel about making sail from the harbor, and abandoned myself to the wide world. No matter to what port she steered; any part of so beautiful a world was better than my convent. No matter where I was cast by fortune; any place would be more a home to me than the home I had left behind. The vessel was bound to Genoa. We arrived there after a voyage of a few days.

I hadn't been there long when I overheard voices in the next room. It was my father talking to the monk about how to quietly get me back to the convent. I'd made up my mind. I no longer had a home or a father. That very night, I left my family's house. I boarded a ship that was about to set sail from the harbor and gave myself up to the wide world. It didn't matter where the ship was headed; any part of such a beautiful world was better than my convent. No matter where fate took me, anywhere would feel more like home than the place I had left behind. The ship was headed to Genoa. We arrived there after a few days of traveling.

As I entered the harbor, between the moles which embrace it, and beheld the amphitheatre of palaces and churches and splendid gardens, rising one above another, I felt at once its title to the appellation of Genoa the Superb. I landed on the mole an utter stranger, without knowing what to do, or whither to direct my steps. No matter; I was released from the thraldom of the convent and the humiliations of home! When I traversed the Strada Balbi and the Strada Nuova, those streets of palaces, and gazed at the wonders of architecture around me; when I wandered at close of day, amid a gay throng of the brilliant and the beautiful, through the green alleys of the Aqua Verdi, or among the colonnades and terraces of the magnificent Doria Gardens, I thought it impossible to be ever otherwise than happy in Genoa.

As I entered the harbor, surrounded by the jetties, and took in the stunning view of the palaces, churches, and beautiful gardens stacked upon each other, I instantly understood why it was called Genoa the Superb. I landed on the jetty as a complete stranger, unsure of what to do or where to go. But it didn’t matter; I was free from the constraints of the convent and the disappointments of home! As I walked down the Strada Balbi and the Strada Nuova, those streets lined with palaces, and admired the architectural wonders around me; as I strolled in the evening, among a lively crowd of the stylish and the lovely, through the lush paths of the Aqua Verdi, or among the columns and terraces of the stunning Doria Gardens, I thought it was impossible to ever be anything but happy in Genoa.

A few days sufficed to show me my mistake. My scanty purse was exhausted, and for the first time in my life I experienced the sordid distress of penury. I had never known the want of money, and had never adverted to the possibility of such an evil. I was ignorant of the world and all its ways; and when first the idea of destitution came over my mind its effect was withering. I was wandering pensively through the streets which no longer delighted my eyes, when chance led my stops into the magnificent church of the Annunciata.

A few days were enough to show me my mistake. My thin wallet was drained, and for the first time in my life I felt the grim anxiety of being broke. I had never experienced the lack of money and had never thought about the possibility of such a hardship. I was naive to the world and all its ways; and when the thought of poverty first crossed my mind, it was crushing. I was wandering sadly through the streets that no longer brought me joy, when fate led my steps into the magnificent church of the Annunciata.

A celebrated painter of the day was at that moment superintending the placing of one of his pictures over an altar. The proficiency which I had acquired in his art during my residence in the convent had made me an enthusiastic amateur. I was struck, at the first glance, with the painting. It was the face of a Madonna. So innocent, so lovely, such a divine expression of maternal tenderness! I lost for the moment all recollection of myself in the enthusiasm of my art. I clasped my hands together, and uttered an ejaculation of delight. The painter perceived my emotion. He was flattered and gratified by it. My air and manner pleased him, and he accosted me. I felt too much the want of friendship to repel the advances of a stranger, and there was something in this one so benevolent and winning that in a moment he gained my confidence.

A famous painter was currently overseeing the placement of one of his paintings above an altar. The skills I had developed in his art during my time at the convent had made me a passionate amateur. At first glance, I was captivated by the painting. It was the face of a Madonna—so innocent, so beautiful, with a divine expression of maternal love! For a moment, I completely lost myself in my enthusiasm for art. I clasped my hands together and let out an exclamation of joy. The painter noticed my reaction. He felt flattered and pleased by it. My demeanor and presence seemed to appeal to him, and he approached me. I was feeling the lack of friendship too much to push away the advances of a stranger, and there was something so kind and charming about him that he quickly earned my trust.

I told him my story and my situation, concealing only my name and rank. He appeared strongly interested by my recital; invited me to his house, and from that time I became his favorite pupil. He thought he perceived in me extraordinary talents for the art, and his encomiums awakened all my ardor. What a blissful period of my existence was it that I passed beneath his roof. Another being seemed created within me, or rather, all that was amiable and excellent was drawn out. I was as recluse as ever I had been at the convent, but how different was my seclusion. My time was spent in storing my mind with lofty and poetical ideas; in meditating on all that was striking and noble in history or fiction; in studying and tracing all that was sublime and beautiful in nature. I was always a visionary, imaginative being, but now my reveries and imaginings all elevated me to rapture.

I shared my story and situation with him, only keeping my name and rank a secret. He seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say; he invited me to his home, and from that moment on, I became his favorite student. He believed he saw extraordinary talent in me for the art, and his praise ignited my passion. What a wonderful time it was for me living under his roof. It felt like a new version of myself was being created, or rather, all of my better qualities were being brought out. I was as much of a recluse as I had been at the convent, but my solitude was entirely different. I spent my time filling my mind with grand and poetic ideas; pondering everything striking and noble in history or fiction; studying and tracing all that was sublime and beautiful in nature. I had always been a dreamer, a creative soul, but now my daydreams and fantasies lifted me to a state of bliss.

I looked up to my master as to a benevolent genius that had opened to me a region of enchantment. I became devotedly attached to him. He was not a native of Genoa, but had been drawn thither by the solicitation of several of the nobility, and had resided there but a few years, for the completion of certain works he had undertaken. His health was delicate, and he had to confide much of the filling up of his designs to the pencils of his scholars. He considered me as particularly happy in delineating the human countenance; in seizing upon characteristic, though fleeting expressions and fixing them powerfully upon my canvas. I was employed continually, therefore, in sketching faces, and often when some particular grace or beauty or expression was wanted in a countenance, it was entrusted to my pencil. My benefactor was fond of bringing me forward; and partly, perhaps, through my actual skill, and partly by his partial praises, I began to be noted for the expression of my countenances.

I looked up to my master like a kind genius who had introduced me to a world of magic. I became deeply attached to him. He wasn't originally from Genoa but had moved there due to the requests of several nobles and had only lived there a few years to finish some projects he had started. His health was fragile, and he often had to rely on his students to help complete his designs. He thought I had a unique talent for capturing the human face, especially those distinctive yet fleeting expressions and making them prominent on my canvas. As a result, I was constantly sketching faces, and whenever a specific grace or beauty or expression was needed for a portrait, it was given to me to paint. My benefactor enjoyed showcasing me, and perhaps because of my actual talent and his enthusiastic praise, I started to gain recognition for my expressive portraits.

Among the various works which he had undertaken, was an historical piece for one of the palaces of Genoa, in which were to be introduced the likenesses of several of the family. Among these was one entrusted to my pencil. It was that of a young girl, who as yet was in a convent for her education. She came out for the purpose of sitting for the picture. I first saw her in an apartment of one of the sumptuous palaces of Genoa. She stood before a casement that looked out upon the bay, a stream of vernal sunshine fell upon her, and shed a kind of glory round her as it lit up the rich crimson chamber. She was but sixteen years of age—and oh, how lovely! The scene broke upon me like a mere vision of spring and youth and beauty. I could have fallen down and worshipped her. She was like one of those fictions of poets and painters, when they would express the beau ideal that haunts their minds with shapes of indescribable perfection.

Among the various projects he had taken on was a historical piece for one of the palaces in Genoa, which was to include portraits of several family members. One of these was assigned to me. It was a portrait of a young girl who was still in a convent for her education. She came out to sit for the picture. I first saw her in a room of one of the grand palaces in Genoa. She stood by a window that overlooked the bay, a stream of spring sunshine streaming in and casting a sort of glow around her as it illuminated the rich crimson room. She was only sixteen years old—and oh, how beautiful! The scene struck me like a vision of spring, youth, and beauty. I could have fallen to my knees and worshipped her. She resembled one of those creations of poets and painters when they want to capture the beau idéal that fills their minds with shapes of indescribable perfection.

I was permitted to sketch her countenance in various positions, and I Fondly protracted the study that was undoing me. The more I gazed on her the more I became enamoured; there was something almost painful in my intense admiration. I was but nineteen years of age; shy, diffident, and inexperienced. I was treated with attention and encouragement, for my youth and my enthusiasm in my art had won favor for me; and I am inclined to think that there was something in my air and manner that inspired interest and respect. Still the kindness with which I was treated could not dispel the embarrassment into which my own imagination threw me when in presence of this lovely being. It elevated her into something almost more than mortal. She seemed too exquisite for earthly use; too delicate and exalted for human attainment. As I sat tracing her charms on my canvas, with my eyes occasionally riveted on her features, I drank in delicious poison that made me giddy. My heart alternately gushed with tenderness, and ached with despair. Now I became more than ever sensible of the violent fires that had lain dormant at the bottom of my soul. You who are born in a more temperate climate and under a cooler sky, have little idea of the violence of passion in our southern bosoms.

I was allowed to sketch her face in different positions, and I eagerly stretched out the study that was consuming me. The more I looked at her, the more I fell in love; my intense admiration was almost painful. I was only nineteen, shy, unsure of myself, and inexperienced. People treated me with attention and encouragement because my youth and enthusiasm for my art had earned their favor. I think there was something in my demeanor that sparked their interest and respect. Still, the kindness directed at me couldn’t ease the embarrassment my imagination caused when I was near this beautiful woman. It made her seem almost beyond human. She appeared too perfect for everyday life; too fragile and elevated for humans to attain. As I sat sketching her beauty on my canvas, occasionally fixating on her features, I absorbed a sweet poison that made me dizzy. My heart alternated between overflowing with affection and aching with despair. I became increasingly aware of the intense feelings that had been simmering deep within my soul. Those of you born in a cooler climate have little idea of the depth of passion we feel in our southern hearts.

A few days finished my task; Bianca returned to her convent, but her image remained indelibly impressed upon my heart. It dwelt on my imagination; it became my pervading idea of beauty. It had an effect even upon my pencil; I became noted for my felicity in depicting female loveliness; it was but because I multiplied the image of Bianca. I soothed, and yet fed my fancy, by introducing her in all the productions of my master. I have stood with delight in one of the chapels of the Annunciata, and heard the crowd extol the seraphic beauty of a saint which I had painted; I have seen them bow down in adoration before the painting: they were bowing before the loveliness of Bianca.

A few days after I finished my task, Bianca went back to her convent, but her image was deeply etched in my heart. It lingered in my mind; it became my ultimate idea of beauty. It even influenced my artwork; I became known for my ability to capture female beauty, but that was simply because I multiplied Bianca’s image. I satisfied and inspired my imagination by featuring her in all of my master’s works. I stood in one of the chapels of the Annunciata with great joy, listening to the crowd praise the angelic beauty of a saint I had painted; I saw them bow down in worship before the painting: they were bowing before Bianca's loveliness.

I existed in this kind of dream, I might almost say delirium, for upwards of a year. Such is the tenacity of my imagination that the image which was formed in it continued in all its power and freshness. Indeed, I was a solitary, meditative being, much given to reverie, and apt to foster ideas which had once taken strong possession of me. I was roused from this fond, melancholy, delicious dream by the death of my worthy benefactor. I cannot describe the pangs his death occasioned me. It left me alone and almost broken-hearted. He bequeathed to me his little property; which, from the liberality of his disposition and his expensive style of living, was indeed but small; and he most particularly recommended me, in dying, to the protection of a nobleman who had been his patron.

I lived in this kind of dream, I might even call it a delirium, for over a year. My imagination was so strong that the image created in it remained vivid and fresh. In fact, I was a solitary, reflective person, often lost in my thoughts and prone to nurturing ideas that had once taken hold of me. I was pulled from this fond, melancholy, pleasant dream by the death of my dear benefactor. I can’t express the pain his death caused me. It left me alone and almost heartbroken. He left me his small property, which, due to his generous nature and lavish lifestyle, was indeed quite limited. He specifically urged me, as he was dying, to seek the protection of a nobleman who had been his patron.

The latter was a man who passed for munificent. He was a lover and an encourager of the arts, and evidently wished to be thought so. He fancied he saw in me indications of future excellence; my pencil had already attracted attention; he took me at once under his protection; seeing that I was overwhelmed with grief, and incapable of exerting myself in the mansion of my late benefactor, he invited me to sojourn for a time in a villa which he possessed on the border of the sea, in the picturesque neighborhood of Sestri de Ponenti.

The latter was a man known for being generous. He loved and supported the arts and clearly wanted to be seen that way. He thought he detected signs of future talent in me; my drawing had already caught some attention. He immediately took me under his wing; noticing that I was consumed by sorrow and unable to focus in the home of my late benefactor, he invited me to stay for a while at a villa he owned by the sea, in the beautiful area of Sestri de Ponenti.

I found at the villa the Count’s only son, Filippo: he was nearly of my age, prepossessing in his appearance, and fascinating in his manners; he attached himself to me, and seemed to court my good opinion. I thought there was something of profession in his kindness, and of caprice in his disposition; but I had nothing else near me to attach myself to, and my heart felt the need of something to repose itself upon. His education had been neglected; he looked upon me as his superior in mental powers and acquirements, and tacitly acknowledged my superiority. I felt that I was his equal in birth, and that gave an independence to my manner which had its effect. The caprice and tyranny I saw sometimes exercised on others, over whom he had power, were never manifested towards me. We became intimate friends, and frequent companions. Still I loved to be alone, and to indulge in the reveries of my own imagination, among the beautiful scenery by which I was surrounded.

I found the Count’s only son, Filippo, at the villa. He was almost my age, good-looking, and had a charming personality. He attached himself to me and seemed eager to win my approval. I sensed there was something a bit insincere in his kindness and a touch of whimsy in his behavior, but I didn’t have anyone else close by to connect with, and my heart needed something to lean on. His education had been lacking; he viewed me as superior in intelligence and accomplishments and silently recognized my superiority. I knew I was his equal in terms of background, which gave me a sense of independence that influenced how I interacted with him. The whims and cruelty I sometimes saw him display towards others didn’t appear when it came to me. We became close friends and spent a lot of time together. Still, I enjoyed being alone and immersing myself in my own thoughts amid the beautiful scenery around me.

The villa stood in the midst of ornamented grounds, finely decorated With statues and fountains, and laid out into groves and alleys and shady bowers. It commanded a wide view of the Mediterranean, and the picturesque Ligurian coast. Every thing was assembled here that could gratify the taste or agreeably occupy the mind. Soothed by the tranquillity of this elegant retreat, the turbulence of my feelings gradually subsided, and, blending with the romantic spell that still reigned over my imagination, produced a soft voluptuous melancholy.

The villa was situated among beautifully landscaped grounds, adorned with statues and fountains, and arranged into groves, paths, and shady arbors. It offered a broad view of the Mediterranean and the scenic Ligurian coast. Everything was here to please the senses and engage the mind. Comforted by the serenity of this stylish getaway, the chaos of my emotions slowly faded, and combined with the romantic charm that still lingered in my imagination, it created a gentle, indulgent melancholy.

I had not been long under the roof of the Count, when our solitude was enlivened by another inhabitant. It was a daughter of a relation of the Count, who had lately died in reduced circumstances, bequeathing this only child to his protection. I had heard much of her beauty from Filippo, but my fancy had become so engrossed by one idea of beauty as not to admit of any other. We were in the central saloon of the villa when she arrived. She was still in mourning, and approached, leaning on the Count’s arm. As they ascended the marble portico, I was struck by the elegance of her figure and movement, by the grace with which the mezzaro, the bewitching veil of Genoa, was folded about her slender form.

I hadn't been at the Count's place for long when our solitude was brightened by another resident. She was the daughter of a relative of the Count, who had recently passed away in tough times, leaving this only child in his care. I had heard a lot about her beauty from Filippo, but my imagination had been so captured by one idea of beauty that it couldn't accept any other. We were in the main lounge of the villa when she arrived. She was still wearing mourning clothes and came over, leaning on the Count's arm. As they walked up the marble porch, I was struck by the elegance of her figure and movements, and by the way the mezzaro, the enchanting veil of Genoa, was draped around her slim form.

They entered. Heavens! what was my surprise when I beheld Bianca before me. It was herself; pale with grief; but still more matured in loveliness than when I had last beheld her. The time that had elapsed had developed the graces of her person; and the sorrow she had undergone had diffused over her countenance an irresistible tenderness.

They walked in. Wow! I was so surprised when I saw Bianca in front of me. It was really her; pale from sadness, but even more beautiful than the last time I saw her. The time that had passed had enhanced her features, and the pain she had experienced gave her face an irresistible softness.

She blushed and trembled at seeing me, and tears rushed into her eyes, for she remembered in whose company she had been accustomed to behold me. For my part, I cannot express what were my emotions. By degrees I overcame the extreme shyness that had formerly paralyzed me in her presence. We were drawn together by sympathy of situation. We had each lost our best friend in the world; we were each, in some measure thrown upon the kindness of others. When I came to know her intellectually, all my ideal picturings of her were confirmed. Her newness to the world, her delightful susceptibility to every thing beautiful and agreeable in nature, reminded me of my own emotions when first I escaped from the convent. Her rectitude of thinking delighted my judgment; the sweetness of her nature wrapped itself around my heart; and then her young and tender and budding loveliness, sent a delicious madness to my brain.

She blushed and trembled when she saw me, and tears filled her eyes because she remembered who she used to see me with. As for me, I can't put into words what I felt. Gradually, I got over the intense shyness that had once frozen me around her. We were connected by our shared situation. We had both lost our closest friend in the world; we were, to some extent, relying on the kindness of others. When I got to know her intellectually, all the ideal images I had of her were confirmed. Her innocence about the world and her delightful sensitivity to everything beautiful and enjoyable in nature reminded me of my own feelings when I first left the convent. Her clear thinking impressed me, the sweetness of her nature wrapped around my heart, and her young and tender beauty sent a thrilling wave of excitement through my mind.

I gazed upon her with a kind of idolatry, as something more than mortal; and I felt humiliated at the idea of my comparative unworthiness. Yet she was mortal; and one of mortality’s most susceptible and loving compounds; for she loved me!

I looked at her with a kind of idolization, as if she were more than human; and I felt ashamed at how unworthy I was in comparison. Yet she was human; and one of the most tender and loving beings of humanity; because she loved me!

How first I discovered the transporting truth I cannot recollect; I believe it stole upon me by degrees, as a wonder past hope or belief. We were both at such a tender and loving age; in constant intercourse with each other; mingling in the same elegant pursuits; for music, poetry, and painting were our mutual delights, and we were almost separated from society, among lovely and romantic scenery! Is it strange that two young hearts thus brought together should readily twine round each other?

How I first discovered the overwhelming truth, I can’t really remember; I think it gradually dawned on me, like a wonder beyond hope or belief. We were both at such a young and loving age; always in constant contact with each other; sharing the same refined interests; music, poetry, and painting were our shared passions, and we were almost cut off from society, surrounded by beautiful and romantic scenery! Is it surprising that two young hearts brought together like this would naturally connect with each other?

Oh, gods! what a dream—a transient dream! of unalloyed delight then passed over my soul! Then it was that the world around me was indeed a paradise, for I had a woman—lovely, delicious woman, to share it with me. How often have I rambled over the picturesque shores of Sestri, or climbed its wild mountains, with the coast gemmed with villas, and the blue sea far below me, and the slender Pharo of Genoa on its romantic promontory in the distance; and as I sustained the faltering steps of Bianca, have thought there could no unhappiness enter into so beautiful a world. Why, oh, why is this budding season of life and love so transient—why is this rosy cloud of love that sheds such a glow over the morning of our days so prone to brew up into the whirlwind and the storm!

Oh, gods! What a dream—a fleeting dream! It filled my soul with pure joy! In that moment, the world around me was truly a paradise because I had a beautiful, enchanting woman to share it with me. How many times have I wandered along the picturesque shores of Sestri or climbed its wild mountains, with the coast dotted with villas and the blue sea far below me, and the slender Faro of Genoa on its romantic promontory in the distance? As I supported the shaky steps of Bianca, I thought that no unhappiness could possibly enter such a beautiful world. Why, oh, why is this blossoming season of life and love so short-lived—why is this rosy cloud of love that casts such a glow over the morning of our days so likely to turn into a whirlwind and a storm?

I was the first to awaken from this blissful delirium of the affections. I had gained Bianca’s heart: what was I to do with it? I had no wealth nor prospects to entitle me to her hand. Was I to take advantage of her ignorance of the world, of her confiding affection, and draw her down to my own poverty? Was this requiting the hospitality of the Count?—was this requiting the love of Bianca?

I was the first to wake up from this blissful haze of feelings. I had won Bianca’s heart: what was I supposed to do with it? I had no money or future to deserve her hand. Should I take advantage of her naivety, of her trusting love, and pull her down into my own poverty? Was this how I repaid the Count's hospitality?—was this how I repaid Bianca’s love?

Now first I began to feel that even successful love may have its bitterness. A corroding care gathered about my heart. I moved about the palace like a guilty being. I felt as if I had abused its hospitality—as if I were a thief within its walls. I could no longer look with unembarrassed mien in the countenance of the Count. I accused myself of perfidy to him, and I thought he read it in my looks, and began to distrust and despise me. His manner had always been ostentatious and condescending, it now appeared cold and haughty. Filippo, too, became reserved and distant; or at least I suspected him to be so. Heavens!—was this mere coinage of my brain: was I to become suspicious of all the world?—a poor surmising wretch; watching looks and gestures; and torturing myself with misconstructions. Or if true—was I to remain beneath a roof where I was merely tolerated, and linger there on sufferance? “This is not to be endured!” exclaimed I; “I will tear myself from this state of self-abasement; I will break through this fascination and fly—Fly?—whither?—from the world?—for where is the world when I leave Bianca behind me?”

Now I started to realize that even a successful love can have its downsides. A heavy anxiety settled around my heart. I walked through the palace feeling like a guilty person. I felt as if I had abused its hospitality—like a thief hiding inside. I could no longer look the Count in the eye without feeling embarrassed. I accused myself of disloyalty to him, and I thought he could see it in my expression, starting to distrust and look down on me. His behavior had always been showy and condescending, but now it felt cold and arrogant. Filippo also became distant and reserved; or at least that's what I suspected. Good grief!—was this just my imagination? Was I going to become suspicious of everyone?—a miserable, paranoid person; always analyzing looks and gestures; and torturing myself with misunderstandings. Or if it was true—was I meant to stay under a roof where I was merely tolerated, just enduring it? “I can’t keep living like this!” I exclaimed; “I will pull myself out of this state of humiliation; I will break free of this spell and escape—Escape?—where to?—from the world?—because what is the world without Bianca?”

My spirit was naturally proud, and swelled within me at the idea of being looked upon with contumely. Many times I was on the point of declaring my family and rank, and asserting my equality, in the presence of Bianca, when I thought her relatives assumed an air of superiority. But the feeling was transient. I considered myself discarded and contemned by my family; and had solemnly vowed never to own relationship to them, until they themselves should claim it.

My spirit was naturally proud, and I felt a sense of defiance at the thought of being looked down on. There were many times I almost revealed my family background and status to assert my equality in front of Bianca when I felt her relatives acted superior. But that feeling was short-lived. I felt abandoned and disdained by my family and had vowed not to acknowledge any connection to them until they recognized it first.

The struggle of my mind preyed upon my happiness and my health. It seemed as if the uncertainty of being loved would be less intolerable than thus to be assured of it, and yet not dare to enjoy the conviction. I was no longer the enraptured admirer of Bianca; I no longer hung in ecstasy on the tones of her voice, nor drank in with insatiate gaze the beauty of her countenance. Her very smiles ceased to delight me, for I felt culpable in having won them.

The conflict in my mind weighed heavily on my happiness and health. It felt as though the uncertainty of being loved would be less unbearable than actually knowing it and yet not being able to enjoy that certainty. I was no longer the captivated admirer of Bianca; I no longer hung on every note of her voice in bliss, nor did I gaze at her beauty with an insatiable hunger. Her smiles no longer brought me joy, as I felt guilty for having earned them.

She could not but be sensible of the change in me, and inquired the cause with her usual frankness and simplicity. I could not evade the inquiry, for my heart was full to aching. I told her all the conflict of my soul; my devouring passion, my bitter self-upbraiding. “Yes!” said I, “I am unworthy of you. I am an offcast from my family—a wanderer—a nameless, homeless wanderer, with nothing but poverty for my portion, and yet I have dared to love you—have dared to aspire to your love!”

She couldn't help but notice the change in me and asked about it with her usual honesty and straightforwardness. I couldn't avoid her question because my heart was aching with emotion. I shared the turmoil in my soul: my consuming passion and my harsh self-criticism. “Yes!” I said, “I am unworthy of you. I am rejected by my family—a wanderer—a nameless, homeless wanderer, with nothing but poverty to my name, and yet I've dared to love you—have dared to hope for your love!”

My agitation moved her to tears; but she saw nothing in my situation so hopeless as I had depicted it. Brought up in a convent, she knew nothing of the world, its wants, its cares;—and, indeed, what woman is a worldly casuist in matters of the heart!—Nay, more—she kindled into a sweet enthusiasm when she spoke of my fortunes and myself. We had dwelt together on the works of the famous masters. I had related to her their histories; the high reputation, the influence, the magnificence to which they had attained;—the companions of princes, the favorites of kings, the pride and boast of nations. All this she applied to me. Her love saw nothing in their greatest productions that I was not able to achieve; and when I saw the lovely creature glow with fervor, and her whole countenance radiant with the visions of my glory, which seemed breaking upon her, I was snatched up for the moment into the heaven of her own imagination.

My agitation brought her to tears, but she didn’t see my situation as hopeless as I described it. Raised in a convent, she knew nothing about the world, its needs, or its worries; and honestly, what woman really understands the complexities of love! Moreover, she became genuinely excited when talking about my future and myself. We had spent time discussing the works of famous masters. I shared their stories—their high reputations, their influence, and the greatness they achieved—being companions of princes, favorites of kings, and the pride of nations. She applied all of this to me. Her love saw no difference between their greatest works and what I could accomplish; and when I witnessed her glowing with enthusiasm, her face lit up by the visions of my future success that seemed to emerge for her, I was momentarily transported into the bliss of her imagination.

I am dwelling too long upon this part of my story; yet I cannot help Lingering over a period of my life, on which, with all its cares and conflicts, I look back with fondness; for as yet my soul was unstained by a crime. I do not know what might have been the result of this struggle between pride, delicacy, and passion, had I not read in a Neapolitan gazette an account of the sudden death of my brother. It was accompanied by an earnest inquiry for intelligence concerning me, and a prayer, should this notice meet my eye, that I would hasten to Naples, to comfort an infirm and afflicted father.

I'm spending too much time on this part of my story, but I can't help but linger on a time in my life that, despite all its worries and conflicts, I remember fondly; because my soul was still untouched by crime. I can only imagine what might have come from the clash between pride, sensitivity, and passion if I hadn't come across a newspaper article from Naples about my brother's sudden death. It included a heartfelt request for news about me, and a plea, in case I saw this notice, to hurry to Naples to comfort our sick and troubled father.

I was naturally of an affectionate disposition; but my brother had never been as a brother to me; I had long considered myself as disconnected from him, and his death caused me but little emotion. The thoughts of my father, infirm and suffering, touched me, however, to the quick; and when I thought of him, that lofty, magnificent being, now bowed down and desolate, and suing to me for comfort, all my resentment for past neglect was subdued, and a glow of filial affection was awakened within me.

I was naturally a caring person; but my brother had never acted like a real brother to me. I had long felt disconnected from him, and his death didn’t affect me much. However, thinking about my father, who was weak and suffering, deeply moved me. When I imagined him, that noble and impressive man, now brought low and in despair, pleading with me for comfort, all my anger over past neglect faded away, and I felt a surge of love for him as my father.

The predominant feeling, however, that overpowered all others was transport at the sudden change in my whole fortunes. A home—a name—a rank—wealth awaited me; and love painted a still more rapturous prospect in the distance. I hastened to Bianca, and threw myself at her feet. “Oh, Bianca,” exclaimed I, “at length I can claim you for my own. I am no longer a nameless adventurer, a neglected, rejected outcast. Look—read, behold the tidings that restore me to my name and to myself!”

The main feeling that overwhelmed all the others was excitement at the sudden change in my entire situation. A home—a name—a status—wealth were all waiting for me; and love painted an even more thrilling picture in the future. I rushed to Bianca and dropped to my knees in front of her. “Oh, Bianca,” I cried, “finally I can claim you as mine. I’m no longer a nameless wanderer, a forgotten, rejected outcast. Look—read, see the news that brings me back to my name and to who I am!”

I will not dwell on the scene that ensued. Bianca rejoiced in the reverse of my situation, because she saw it lightened my heart of a load of care; for her own part she had loved me for myself, and had never doubted that my own merits would command both fame and fortune.

I won’t focus on what happened next. Bianca was happy about my change in luck because she saw it lifted a weight off my shoulders; as for her, she had loved me for who I am and never doubted that my own qualities would win me both recognition and success.

I now felt all my native pride buoyant within me; I no longer walked with my eyes bent to the dust; hope elevated them to the skies; my soul was lit up with fresh fires, and beamed from my countenance.

I now felt my natural pride swelling inside me; I no longer walked with my eyes glued to the ground; hope lifted them to the heavens; my spirit was ignited with new energy, and it shone from my face.

I wished to impart the change in my circumstances to the Count; to let him know who and what I was, and to make formal proposals for the hand of Bianca; but the Count was absent on a distant estate. I opened my whole soul to Filippo. Now first I told him of my passion; of the doubts and fears that had distracted me, and of the tidings that had suddenly dispelled them. He overwhelmed me with congratulations and with the warmest expressions of sympathy. I embraced him in the fullness of my heart. I felt compunctious for having suspected him of coldness, and asked him forgiveness for having ever doubted his friendship.

I wanted to share the changes in my situation with the Count; to let him know who I was and make a formal proposal for Bianca’s hand. But the Count was away at a distant estate. I opened my heart to Filippo. For the first time, I told him about my passion, the doubts and fears that had troubled me, and the news that had suddenly lifted them. He showered me with congratulations and the warmest expressions of sympathy. I embraced him with all my heart. I felt guilty for having doubted his warmth and asked for his forgiveness for ever questioning his friendship.

Nothing is so warm, and enthusiastic as a sudden expansion of the heart between young men. Filippo entered into our concerns with the most eager interest. He was our confidant and counsellor. It was determined that I should hasten at once to Naples to re-establish myself in my father’s affections and my paternal home, and the moment the reconciliation was effected and my father’s consent insured, I should return and demand Bianca of the Count. Filippo engaged to secure his father’s acquiescence; indeed, he undertook to watch over our interests, and was the channel through which we were to correspond.

Nothing is as warm and enthusiastic as a sudden connection between young men. Filippo jumped into our situation with great interest. He became our confidant and adviser. We decided that I should immediately head to Naples to win back my father’s affection and my place in the family home. As soon as I reconciled with my father and got his approval, I would return and ask the Count for Bianca’s hand. Filippo promised to get his father's agreement; in fact, he took it upon himself to look out for our interests and served as our means of communication.

My parting with Bianca was tender—delicious—agonizing.

My goodbye with Bianca was sweet—amazing—painful.

It was in a little pavilion of the garden which had been one of our favorite resorts. How often and often did I return to have one more adieu—to have her look once more on me in speechless emotion—to enjoy once more the rapturous sight of those tears streaming down her lovely cheeks—to seize once more on that delicate hand, the frankly accorded pledge of love, and cover it with tears and kisses! Heavens! There is a delight even in the parting agony of two lovers worth a thousand tame pleasures of the world. I have her at this moment before my eyes—at the window of the pavilion, putting aside the vines that clustered about the casement—her light form beaming forth in virgin white—her countenance all tears and smiles—sending a thousand and a thousand adieus after me, as, hesitating, in a delirium of fondness and agitation, I faltered my way down the avenue.

It was in a little pavilion in the garden that had been one of our favorite spots. How many times did I come back for one last goodbye—to have her gaze at me in silent emotion—to revel once more in the sight of those tears streaming down her beautiful cheeks—to take that delicate hand, a genuine promise of love, and cover it with tears and kisses! Oh, there’s a joy even in the painful parting of two lovers that’s worth a thousand boring pleasures of the world. I can see her right now—at the window of the pavilion, pushing aside the vines that surrounded the frame—her light figure glowing in pure white—her face a mix of tears and smiles—sending countless farewells after me as, hesitating, in a frenzy of love and anxiety, I made my way down the path.

As the bark bore me out of the harbor of Genoa, how eagerly my eyes Stretched along the coast of Sestri, till it discerned the villa gleaming from among trees at the foot of the mountain. As long as day lasted, I gazed and gazed upon it, till it lessened and lessened to a mere white speck in the distance; and still my intense and fixed gaze discerned it, when all other objects of the coast had blended into indistinct confusion, or were lost in the evening gloom.

As the boat carried me out of the harbor of Genoa, I eagerly scanned the coastline of Sestri until I spotted the villa shining through the trees at the foot of the mountain. I kept looking at it for as long as there was daylight, until it shrank to just a tiny white dot in the distance; yet I still managed to see it even when everything else along the coast faded into a blurred confusion or disappeared into the evening darkness.

On arriving at Naples, I hastened to my paternal home. My heart yearned for the long-withheld blessing of a father’s love. As I entered the proud portal of the ancestral palace, my emotions were so great that I could not speak. No one knew me. The servants gazed at me with curiosity and surprise. A few years of intellectual elevation and development had made a prodigious change in the poor fugitive stripling from the convent. Still that no one should know me in my rightful home was overpowering. I felt like the prodigal son returned. I was a stranger in the house of my father. I burst into tears, and wept aloud. When I made myself known, however, all was changed. I who had once been almost repulsed from its walls, and forced to fly as an exile, was welcomed back with acclamation, with servility. One of the servants hastened to prepare my father for my reception; my eagerness to receive the paternal embrace was so great that I could not await his return; but hurried after him.

Upon arriving in Naples, I rushed to my family home. My heart longed for the long-awaited blessing of a father's love. As I stepped through the grand entrance of the family palace, my emotions were so intense that I couldn't speak. No one recognized me. The staff looked at me with curiosity and surprise. A few years of intellectual growth and development had transformed the poor runaway kid from the convent. Still, it was overwhelming that no one knew me in my rightful home. I felt like the prodigal son returning. I was a stranger in my father’s house. I burst into tears and cried out loud. However, when I revealed my identity, everything changed. I, who had once been almost thrown out of its walls and forced to flee as an exile, was welcomed back with cheers and deference. One of the servants hurried to prepare my father for my arrival; my eagerness to receive my father's embrace was so great that I couldn't wait for him to return and quickly followed after him.

What a spectacle met my eyes as I entered the chamber! My father, whom I had left in the pride of vigorous age, whose noble and majestic bearing had so awed my young imagination, was bowed down and withered into decrepitude. A paralysis had ravaged his stately form, and left it a shaking ruin. He sat propped up in his chair, with pale, relaxed visage and glassy, wandering eye. His intellects had evidently shared in the ravage of his frame. The servant was endeavoring to make him comprehend the visitor that was at hand. I tottered up to him and sunk at his feet. All his past coldness and neglect were forgotten in his present sufferings. I remembered only that he was my parent, and that I had deserted him. I clasped his knees; my voice was almost stifled with convulsive sobs. “Pardon—pardon—oh my father!” was all that I could utter. His apprehension seemed slowly to return to him. He gazed at me for some moments with a vague, inquiring look; a convulsive tremor quivered about his lips; he feebly extended a shaking hand, laid it upon my head, and burst into an infantine flow of tears.

What a sight met my eyes as I walked into the room! My father, whom I had left in the prime of his life, whose noble and impressive stature had so amazed my young imagination, was now hunched over and shriveled with age. A paralysis had ravaged his once-mighty body, leaving it a trembling wreck. He sat propped up in his chair, with a pale, relaxed face and a glassy, unfocused gaze. His mind had clearly suffered along with his body. The servant was trying to help him understand that a visitor had arrived. I stumbled over to him and fell to my knees at his feet. All his past indifference and neglect were forgotten in light of his current suffering. I remembered only that he was my father and that I had abandoned him. I held onto his knees; my voice was nearly choked with sobs. “Forgive me—oh my father!” was all I could say. His awareness seemed to slowly come back to him. He looked at me for a few moments with a vague, questioning expression; a convulsive shudder passed over his lips; he weakly reached out a trembling hand, placed it on my head, and broke down in a flood of tears.

From that moment he would scarcely spare me from his sight. I appeared the only object that his heart responded to in the world; all else was as a blank to him. He had almost lost the powers of speech, and the reasoning faculty seemed at an end. He was mute and passive; excepting that fits of child-like weeping would sometimes come over him without any immediate cause. If I left the room at any time, his eye was incessantly fixed on the door till my return, and on my entrance there was another gush of tears.

From that moment on, he barely took his eyes off me. I seemed to be the only thing his heart cared about in the world; everything else was just empty to him. He had nearly lost the ability to speak, and his ability to think seemed to be gone. He was silent and unresponsive, except for occasional fits of child-like weeping that would come over him for no obvious reason. Whenever I left the room, his gaze was constantly on the door until I came back, and when I reentered, there would be another wave of tears.

To talk with him of my concerns, in this ruined state of mind, would have been worse than useless; to have left him, for ever so short a time, would have been cruel, unnatural. Here then was a new trial for my affections. I wrote to Bianca an account of my return and of my actual situation; painting in colors vivid, for they were true, the torments I suffered at our being thus separated; for to the youthful lover every day of absence is an age of love lost. I enclosed the letter in one to Filippo, who was the channel of our correspondence. I received a reply from him full of friendship and sympathy; from Bianca full of assurances of affection and constancy.

Talking to him about my concerns in this messed-up state of mind would have been worse than pointless; leaving him, even for a little while, would have been cruel and unnatural. So here was a new challenge for my feelings. I wrote to Bianca about my return and my current situation, describing in bright colors—because they were true—the pain I felt from our separation; for a young lover, each day apart feels like an eternity of love wasted. I enclosed the letter in one to Filippo, who was our link for communication. I got a reply from him filled with friendship and sympathy, while Bianca’s response was full of promises of love and loyalty.

Week after week, month after month elapsed, without making any change in my circumstances. The vital flame, which had seemed nearly extinct when first I met my father, kept fluttering on without any apparent diminution. I watched him constantly, faithfully—I had almost said patiently. I knew that his death alone would set me free; yet I never at any moment wished it. I felt too glad to be able to make any atonement for past disobedience; and, denied as I had been all endearments of relationship in my early days, my heart yearned towards a father, who, in his age and helplessness, had thrown himself entirely on me for comfort. My passion for Bianca gained daily more force from absence; by constant meditation it wore itself a deeper and deeper channel. I made no new friends nor acquaintances; sought none of the pleasures of Naples which my rank and fortune threw open to me. Mine was a heart that confined itself to few objects, but dwelt upon those with the intenser passion. To sit by my father, and administer to his wants, and to meditate on Bianca in the silence of his chamber, was my constant habit. Sometimes I amused myself with my pencil in portraying the image that was ever present to my imagination. I transferred to canvas every look and smile of hers that dwelt in my heart. I showed them to my father in hopes of awakening an interest in his bosom for the mere shadow of my love; but he was too far sunk in intellect to take any more than a child-like notice of them.

Week after week, month after month passed by without changing my situation. The spark of life, which had seemed almost gone when I first met my father, kept flickering on without any clear sign of fading. I watched him constantly, faithfully—I would almost say patiently. I knew that only his death would set me free; yet I never wished for it. I felt too grateful to have a chance to atone for my past disobedience; and, having been deprived of any familial affection in my early years, my heart longed for a father who, in his old age and helplessness, had relied completely on me for comfort. My love for Bianca grew stronger every day due to her absence; through constant reflection, it carved itself deeper and deeper into my heart. I didn't make any new friends or seek out the pleasures of Naples, which my social status and wealth could easily provide. My heart was one that focused on few things but loved them with intense passion. Sitting by my father, meeting his needs, and thinking about Bianca in the stillness of his room became my daily routine. Sometimes, I entertained myself by sketching the image that was always in my mind. I brought to life on canvas every look and smile of hers that lingered in my heart. I showed them to my father in the hope of sparking some interest in him for the mere shadow of my love; but he was too far gone mentally to take more than a child-like notice of them.

When I received a letter from Bianca it was a new source of solitary luxury. Her letters, it is true, were less and less frequent, but they were always full of assurances of unabated affection. They breathed not the frank and innocent warmth with which she expressed herself in conversation, but I accounted for it from the embarrassment which inexperienced minds have often to express themselves upon paper. Filippo assured me of her unaltered constancy. They both lamented in the strongest terms our continued separation, though they did justice to the filial feeling that kept me by my father’s side.

When I got a letter from Bianca, it felt like a new kind of solitary luxury. Her letters, though less frequent, were always filled with expressions of unwavering love. They didn't have the genuine and innocent warmth she showed in person, but I understood that this was often the challenge for inexperienced people when trying to write down their feelings. Filippo assured me that her loyalty hadn't changed. They both expressed their deep sadness about our ongoing separation, even though they acknowledged the sense of duty that kept me by my father's side.

Nearly eighteen months elapsed in this protracted exile. To me they were so many ages. Ardent and impetuous by nature, I scarcely know how I should have supported so long an absence, had I not felt assured that the faith of Bianca was equal to my own. At length my father died. Life went from him almost imperceptibly. I hung over him in mute affliction, and watched the expiring spasms of nature. His last faltering accents whispered repeatedly a blessing on me—alas! how has it been fulfilled!

Nearly eighteen months passed in this long exile. For me, it felt like ages. With my passionate and impulsive nature, I can hardly imagine how I would have managed such a lengthy absence if I hadn’t been sure that Bianca's faith was as strong as my own. Finally, my father passed away. His life slipped away almost unnoticed. I sat beside him in silent sorrow, watching the final struggles of his body. His last shaky words repeatedly offered me a blessing—oh, how it has been fulfilled!

When I had paid due honors to his remains, and laid them in the tomb of our ancestors, I arranged briefly my affairs; put them in a posture to be easily at my command from a distance, and embarked once more, with a bounding heart, for Genoa.

When I had paid my respects to his remains and placed them in the family tomb, I quickly organized my affairs, made them manageable from afar, and set off once again, with an eager heart, for Genoa.

Our voyage was propitious, and oh! what was my rapture when first, in the dawn of morning, I saw the shadowy summits of the Apennines rising almost like clouds above the horizon. The sweet breath of summer just moved us over the long wavering billows that were rolling us on towards Genoa. By degrees the coast of Sestri rose like a sweet creation of enchantment from the silver bosom of the deep. I behold the line of villages and palaces studding its borders. My eye reverted to a well-known point, and at length, from the confusion of distant objects, it singled out the villa which contained Bianca. It was a mere speck in the landscape, but glimmering from afar, the polar star of my heart.

Our journey was fortunate, and oh! how thrilled I was when, at dawn, I first saw the shadowy peaks of the Apennines rising almost like clouds above the horizon. The gentle summer breeze guided us over the long, undulating waves that were carrying us toward Genoa. Gradually, the coast of Sestri emerged like a beautiful scene from a dream from the silver surface of the sea. I could see the line of villages and palaces along its edge. My gaze returned to a familiar spot, and eventually, amidst the confusion of distant sights, I focused on the villa where Bianca was. It was just a tiny dot in the landscape, but shining from afar, the guiding star of my heart.

Again I gazed at it for a livelong summer’s day; but oh how different the emotions between departure and return. It now kept growing and growing, instead of lessening on my sight. My heart seemed to dilate with it. I looked at it through a telescope. I gradually defined one feature after another. The balconies of the central saloon where first I met Bianca beneath its roof; the terrace where we so often had passed the delightful summer evenings; the awning that shaded her chamber window—I almost fancied I saw her form beneath it. Could she but know her lover was in the bark whose white sail now gleamed on the sunny bosom of the sea! My fond impatience increased as we neared the coast. The ship seemed to lag lazily over the billows; I could almost have sprung into the sea and swam to the desired shore.

Again I stared at it for an entire summer day; but oh, how different the feelings between leaving and returning. It kept getting bigger instead of fading from my view. My heart felt like it was expanding with it. I looked at it through a telescope. I gradually made out one feature after another. The balconies of the central lounge where I first met Bianca under its roof; the terrace where we often spent lovely summer evenings; the awning that shaded her bedroom window—I almost imagined I saw her figure beneath it. If only she knew her lover was in the boat whose white sail was now shining on the sunny surface of the sea! My eager impatience grew as we got closer to the coast. The ship seemed to drift lazily over the waves; I could almost have jumped into the sea and swum to the shore I longed for.

The shadows of evening gradually shrouded the scene, but the moon arose in all her fullness and beauty and shed the tender light so dear to lovers, over the romantic coast of Sestri. My whole soul was bathed in unutterable tenderness. I anticipated the heavenly evenings I should pass in wandering with Bianca by the light of that blessed moon.

The evening shadows slowly covered the scene, but the moon rose in all her fullness and beauty, casting the gentle light that lovers cherish over the romantic coast of Sestri. My entire being was filled with indescribable tenderness. I looked forward to the beautiful evenings I would spend wandering with Bianca in the glow of that lovely moon.

It was late at night before we entered the harbor. As early next morning as I could get released from the formalities of landing I threw myself on horseback and hastened to the villa. As I galloped round the rocky promontory on which stands the Faro, and saw the coast of Sestri opening upon me, a thousand anxieties and doubts suddenly sprang up in my bosom. There is something fearful in returning to those we love, while yet uncertain what ills or changes absence may have effected. The turbulence of my agitation shook my very frame. I spurred my horse to redoubled speed; he was covered with foam when we both arrived panting at the gateway that opened to the grounds around the villa. I left my horse at a cottage and walked through the grounds, that I might regain tranquillity for the approaching interview. I chid myself for having suffered mere doubts and surmises thus suddenly to overcome me; but I was always prone to be carried away by these gusts of the feelings.

It was late at night when we finally got into the harbor. As soon as I could get through the landing formalities the next morning, I jumped on my horse and hurried to the villa. As I galloped around the rocky point where the lighthouse stands and saw the coast of Sestri coming into view, a thousand anxieties and doubts hit me all at once. There’s something terrifying about returning to loved ones while unsure of what troubles or changes time apart may have brought. The intensity of my agitation shook me to my core. I urged my horse to go faster; he was covered in foam by the time we both arrived, panting, at the gate leading to the villa grounds. I left my horse at a cottage and walked through the gardens to calm myself before the upcoming meeting. I scolded myself for letting doubts and speculation overwhelm me so quickly, but I’ve always been susceptible to these emotional surges.

On entering the garden everything bore the same look as when I had left it; and this unchanged aspect of things reassured me. There were the alleys in which I had so often walked with Bianca; the same shades under which we had so often sat during the noontide. There were the same flowers of which she was fond; and which appeared still to be under the ministry of her hand. Everything around looked and breathed of Bianca; hope and joy flushed in my bosom at every step. I passed a little bower in which we had often sat and read together. A book and a glove lay on the bench. It was Bianca’s glove; it was a volume of the Metestasio I had given her. The glove lay in my favorite passage. I clasped them to my heart. “All is safe!” exclaimed I, with rapture, “she loves me! she is still my own!”

As I entered the garden, everything looked just as it did when I had left; this unchanging sight gave me comfort. There were the paths where I had often walked with Bianca, the same shady spots where we had frequently sat during the afternoon. The flowers she loved were still thriving, seeming to be cared for by her touch. Everything around felt and smelled of Bianca; hope and joy surged within me with each step. I passed a little gazebo where we often sat and read together. A book and a glove were lying on the bench. It was Bianca’s glove; the book was the Metastasios I had given her. The glove lay on my favorite passage. I held them to my heart. "All is well!" I exclaimed with joy, "she loves me! She is still mine!"

I bounded lightly along the avenue down which I had faltered so slowly at my departure. I beheld her favorite pavilion which had witnessed our parting scene. The window was open, with the same vine clambering about it, precisely as when she waved and wept me an adieu. Oh! how transporting was the contrast in my situation. As I passed near the pavilion, I heard the tones of a female voice. They thrilled through me with an appeal to my heart not to be mistaken. Before I could think, I felt they were Bianca’s. For an instant I paused, overpowered with agitation. I feared to break in suddenly upon her. I softly ascended the steps of the pavilion. The door was open. I saw Bianca seated at a table; her back was towards me; she was warbling a soft melancholy air, and was occupied in drawing. A glance sufficed to show me that she was copying one of my own paintings. I gazed on her for a moment in a delicious tumult of emotions. She paused in her singing; a heavy sigh, almost a sob followed. I could no longer contain myself. “Bianca!” exclaimed I, in a half smothered voice. She started at the sound; brushed back the ringlets that hung clustering about her face; darted a glance at me; uttered a piercing shriek and would have fallen to the earth, had I not caught her in my arms.

I walked happily down the avenue where I had hesitated so slowly when I left. I saw her favorite pavilion, the place where we said our goodbyes. The window was open, with the same vine growing around it, just like when she waved and cried as I departed. Oh! how amazing the difference in my situation was. As I passed by the pavilion, I heard a woman’s voice. It sent shivers through me, calling to my heart unmistakably. Before I could think, I knew it was Bianca’s. For a moment I stopped, overwhelmed with emotion. I was scared to interrupt her suddenly. I quietly climbed the steps to the pavilion. The door was open. I saw Bianca sitting at a table; her back was to me; she was singing a soft, sad tune and focused on drawing. A quick look showed me that she was copying one of my paintings. I watched her for a moment, caught up in a wave of feelings. She paused her singing; a heavy sigh, almost a sob, followed. I could no longer hold back. “Bianca!” I called out in a half-choked voice. She jumped at the sound, pushed back the curls that framed her face, looked at me wide-eyed, screamed sharply, and would have fallen if I hadn’t caught her in my arms.

“Bianca! my own Bianca!” exclaimed I, folding her to my bosom; my voice stifled in sobs of convulsive joy. She lay in my arms without sense or motion. Alarmed at the effects of my own precipitation, I scarce knew what to do. I tried by a thousand endearing words to call her back to consciousness. She slowly recovered, and half opening her eyes—“where am I?” murmured she faintly. “Here,” exclaimed I, pressing her to my bosom. “Here! close to the heart that adores you; in the arms of your faithful Ottavio!”

“Bianca! My dear Bianca!” I exclaimed, pulling her into my embrace, my voice choked with sobs of overwhelming joy. She lay in my arms, unresponsive and still. Panicking at my own rashness, I hardly knew what to do. I tried a thousand sweet words to bring her back to reality. She slowly came to, and as she half-opened her eyes, she murmured faintly, “Where am I?” “Here,” I exclaimed, holding her close. “Here! Right next to the heart that loves you; in the arms of your loyal Ottavio!”

“Oh no! no! no!” shrieked she, starting into sudden life and terror—“away! away! leave me! leave me!”

“Oh no! No! No!” she screamed, jolting to life in panic—“Go away! Go away! Leave me! Leave me!”

She tore herself from my arms; rushed to a corner of the saloon, and covered her face with her hands, as if the very sight of me were baleful. I was thunderstruck—I could not believe my senses. I followed her, trembling, confounded. I endeavored to take her hand, but she shrunk from my very touch with horror.

She pulled away from me, hurried to a corner of the bar, and hid her face in her hands as if just seeing me was painful. I was shocked—I couldn't believe what was happening. I went after her, shaking and confused. I tried to take her hand, but she recoiled from my touch in terror.

“Good heavens, Bianca,” exclaimed I, “what is the meaning of this? Is this my reception after so long an absence? Is this the love you professed for me?”

“Good heavens, Bianca,” I exclaimed, “what does this mean? Is this how I’m welcomed after being gone for so long? Is this the love you said you had for me?”

At the mention of love, a shuddering ran through her. She turned to me a face wild with anguish. “No more of that! no more of that!” gasped she—“talk not to me of love—I—I—am married!”

At the mention of love, she shuddered. She turned to me, her face wild with anguish. “No more of that! No more of that!” she gasped. “Don't talk to me about love—I—I—am married!”

I reeled as if I had received a mortal blow. A sickness struck to my very heart. I caught at a window frame for support. For a moment or two, everything was chaos around me. When I recovered, I beheld Bianca lying on a sofa; her face buried in a pillow, and sobbing convulsively. Indignation at her fickleness for a moment overpowered every other feeling.

I was stunned as if I'd been hit with a devastating blow. A deep sickness hit me at my core. I grasped the window frame for support. For a moment, everything around me felt chaotic. When I finally came to my senses, I saw Bianca lying on a sofa, her face buried in a pillow, sobbing uncontrollably. For a moment, my anger at her inconsistency overshadowed all my other feelings.

“Faithless—perjured—” cried I, striding across the room. But another glance at that beautiful being in distress, checked all my wrath. Anger could not dwell together with her idea in my soul.

“Faithless—perjured—” I shouted, striding across the room. But another look at that beautiful person in distress stopped all my anger. I couldn't feel rage alongside the thought of her in my heart.

“Oh, Bianca,” exclaimed I, in anguish, “could I have dreamt of this; could I have suspected you would have been false to me?”

“Oh, Bianca,” I exclaimed in agony, “could I have dreamed of this; could I have suspected that you would be untrue to me?”

She raised her face all streaming with tears, all disordered with emotion, and gave me one appealing look—“False to you!—they told me you were dead!”

She lifted her tear-streaked face, visibly shaken with emotion, and gave me a desperate look—“Betraying you!—they said you were dead!”

“What,” said I, “in spite of our constant correspondence?”

“What,” I asked, “after all our ongoing communication?”

She gazed wildly at me—“correspondence!—what correspondence?”

She stared at me in shock—“correspondence!—what correspondence?”

“Have you not repeatedly received and replied to my letters?”

“Have you not gotten and responded to my letters multiple times?”

She clasped her hands with solemnity and fervor—“As I hope for mercy, never!”

She held her hands together seriously and passionately—“As I hope for mercy, never!”

A horrible surmise shot through my brain—“Who told you I was dead?”

A terrible thought raced through my mind—“Who told you I was dead?”

“It was reported that the ship in which you embarked for Naples perished at sea.”

“It was reported that the ship you took to Naples sank at sea.”

“But who told you the report?”

“But who informed you about the report?”

She paused for an instant, and trembled—

She paused for a moment and shook slightly—

“Filippo!”

“Filippo!”

“May the God of heaven curse him!” cried I, extending my clinched fists aloft.

“May the God of heaven curse him!” I shouted, raising my clenched fists high.

“Oh do not curse him—do not curse him!” exclaimed she—“He is—he is —my husband!”

“Oh, please don’t curse him—don’t curse him!” she exclaimed. “He is—he is—my husband!”

This was all that was wanting to unfold the perfidy that had been practised upon me. My blood boiled like liquid fire in my veins. I gasped with rage too great for utterance. I remained for a time bewildered by the whirl of horrible thoughts that rushed through my mind. The poor victim of deception before me thought it was with her I was incensed. She faintly murmured forth her exculpation. I will not dwell upon it. I saw in it more than she meant to reveal. I saw with a glance how both of us had been betrayed. “’Tis well!” muttered I to myself in smothered accents of concentrated fury. “He shall account to me for this!”

This was all I needed to expose the betrayal that had been played on me. My blood boiled like liquid fire in my veins. I gasped with rage too intense to put into words. I stood there for a moment, overwhelmed by the torrent of awful thoughts racing through my mind. The poor victim of deception in front of me thought I was angry with her. She weakly offered her excuses. I won’t go into it. I saw more in it than she intended to show. With one look, I understood that both of us had been betrayed. “That’s fine!” I muttered to myself through gritted teeth of pure rage. “He will answer to me for this!”

Bianca overhead me. New terror flashed in her countenance. “For mercy’s sake do not meet him—say nothing of what has passed—for my sake say nothing to him—I only shall be the sufferer!”

Bianca heard me. A new wave of fear crossed her face. “Please, for the love of all that's good, don’t talk to him—don’t mention anything that’s happened—for my sake, don’t say anything to him—I’ll be the one who suffers!”

A new suspicion darted across my mind—“What!” exclaimed I—“do you then fear him—is he unkind to you—tell me,” reiterated I, grasping her hand and looking her eagerly in the face—“tell me—dares he to use you harshly!”

A new suspicion flashed in my mind—“What!” I exclaimed—“do you really fear him? Is he unkind to you? Tell me,” I urged, grabbing her hand and looking eagerly into her face—“tell me—does he dare to treat you poorly?”

“No! no! no!” cried she faltering and embarrassed; but the glance at her face had told me volumes. I saw in her pallid and wasted features; in the prompt terror and subdued agony of her eye a whole history of a mind broken down by tyranny. Great God! and was this beauteous flower snatched from me to be thus trampled upon? The idea roused me to madness. I clinched my teeth and my hands; I foamed at the mouth; every passion seemed to have resolved itself into the fury that like a lava boiled within my heart. Bianca shrunk from me in speechless affright. As I strode by the window my eye darted down the alley. Fatal moment! I beheld Filippo at a distance! My brain was in a delirium—I sprang from the pavilion, and was before him with the quickness of lightning. He saw me as I came rushing upon him—he turned pale, looked wildly to right and left, as if he would have fled, and trembling drew his sword.

“No! no! no!” she cried, faltering and embarrassed, but the look on her face told me everything. I saw the pale and wasted features, the instant terror and subdued agony in her eyes—it revealed a whole story of a mind crushed by oppression. My God! Was this beautiful flower taken from me just to be trampled on? The thought drove me to madness. I gritted my teeth and fists; I was seething with rage; every emotion seemed to boil over into the fury that roared within my heart. Bianca shrank back from me in silent fear. As I strode past the window, my gaze shot down the alley. In that moment, I saw Filippo in the distance! My mind was in a frenzy—I leaped from the pavilion and was before him in the blink of an eye. He saw me charging at him—he turned pale, looked frantically to his right and left as if he wanted to escape, and trembling, drew his sword.

“Wretch!” cried I, “well may you draw your weapon!”

"Wretch!" I shouted, "it's no wonder you pulled out your weapon!"

I spake not another word—I snatched forth a stiletto, put by the sword which trembled in his hand, and buried my poniard in his bosom. He fell with the blow, but my rage was unsated. I sprang upon him with the blood-thirsty feeling of a tiger; redoubled my blows; mangled him in my frenzy, grasped him by the throat, until with reiterated wounds and strangling convulsions he expired in my grasp. I remained glaring on the countenance, horrible in death, that seemed to stare back with its protruded eyes upon me. Piercing shrieks roused me from my delirium. I looked round and beheld Bianca flying distractedly towards us. My brain whirled. I waited not to meet her, but fled from the scene of horror. I fled forth from the garden like another Cain, a hell within my bosom, and a curse upon my head. I fled without knowing whither—almost without knowing why—my only idea was to get farther and farther from the horrors I had left behind; as if I could throw space between myself and my conscience. I fled to the Apennines, and wandered for days and days among their savage heights. How I existed I cannot tell—what rocks and precipices I braved, and how I braved them, I know not. I kept on and on—trying to outtravel the curse that clung to me. Alas, the shrieks of Bianca rung for ever in my ear. The horrible countenance of my victim was for ever before my eyes. “The blood of Filippo cried to me from the ground.” Rocks, trees, and torrents all resounded with my crime.

I didn’t say another word—I pulled out a dagger, set aside the sword that shook in his hand, and plunged my knife into his chest. He collapsed with the blow, but my anger wasn’t satisfied. I jumped on him with the bloodthirsty intensity of a tiger; I struck him repeatedly, leaving him mangled in my frenzy, grasped him by the throat, until he died in my grip from the multiple wounds and choking convulsions. I kept staring at his face, horrendous in death, that seemed to glare back at me with its bulging eyes. Screams pulled me out of my madness. I looked around and saw Bianca running towards us in a panic. My mind was spinning. I didn’t wait to meet her; I fled the scene of horror. I ran out of the garden like another Cain, hell raging inside me, and a curse on my head. I fled without knowing where to go—almost without knowing why—my only thought was to get as far away as possible from the horrors I had left behind, as if I could distance myself from my conscience. I ran to the Apennines, wandering for days among their wild heights. I can’t explain how I survived—what rocks and cliffs I faced, and how I faced them, I don’t know. I just kept going—trying to outrun the curse that clung to me. Sadly, Bianca's screams echoed endlessly in my ears. The terrible face of my victim stayed forever in my sight. “The blood of Filippo cried to me from the ground.” Rocks, trees, and streams all echoed with the reminder of my crime.

Then it was I felt how much more insupportable is the anguish of remorse than every other mental pang. Oh! could I but have cast off this crime that festered in my heart; could I but have regained the innocence that reigned in my breast as I entered the garden at Sestri; could I but have restored my victim to life, I felt as if I could look on with transport even though Bianca were in his arms.

Then I realized how much more unbearable the pain of guilt is than any other mental suffering. Oh! if only I could have let go of this crime that was eating away at my heart; if only I could have regained the innocence that filled me when I entered the garden at Sestri; if only I could have brought my victim back to life, it felt like I could have watched happily even if Bianca were in his arms.

By degrees this frenzied fever of remorse settled into a permanent malady of the mind. Into one of the most horrible that ever poor wretch was cursed with. Wherever I went, the countenance of him I had slain appeared to follow me. Wherever I turned my head I beheld it behind me, hideous with the contortions of the dying moment. I have tried in every way to escape from this horrible phantom; but in vain. I know not whether it is an illusion of the mind, the consequence of my dismal education at the convent, or whether a phantom really sent by heaven to punish me; but there it ever is—at all times—in all places—nor has time nor habit had any effect in familiarizing me with its terrors. I have travelled from place to place, plunged into amusements—tried dissipation and distraction of every kind—all—all in vain.

Gradually, this intense feeling of guilt settled into a lasting mental condition. One of the worst that any unfortunate soul could be burdened with. No matter where I went, the face of the person I killed seemed to follow me. Anytime I turned my head, I saw it behind me, twisted by the agony of the final moments. I've tried every way to escape this terrible phantom; but it was all for nothing. I don’t know if it’s just a trick of my mind, a result of my gloomy upbringing at the convent, or if it’s a real ghost sent by fate to punish me; but it’s always there—at all times—in every place—neither time nor routine has helped me become accustomed to its horrors. I have traveled from place to place, thrown myself into hobbies—attempted every form of distraction and escape—all—all in vain.

I once had recourse to my pencil as a desperate experiment. I painted an exact resemblance of this phantom face. I placed it before me in hopes that by constantly contemplating the copy I might diminish the effect of the original. But I only doubled instead of diminishing the misery.

I once turned to my pencil as a last resort. I drew an exact likeness of this ghostly face. I set it in front of me, hoping that by constantly looking at the copy, I could lessen the impact of the original. But instead of easing my pain, I only intensified it.

Such is the curse that has clung to my footsteps—that has made my life a burthen—but the thoughts of death, terrible. God knows what I have suffered. What days and days, and nights and nights, of sleepless torment. What a never-dying worm has preyed upon my heart; what an unquenchable fire has burned within my brain. He knows the wrongs that wrought upon my poor weak nature; that converted the tenderest of affections into the deadliest of fury. He knows best whether a frail erring creature has expiated by long-enduring torture and measureless remorse, the crime of a moment of madness. Often, often have I prostrated myself in the dust, and implored that he would give me a sign of his forgiveness, and let me die.—

Such is the curse that has followed me—that has made my life a burden—but the thoughts of death are terrifying. God knows what I have endured. What days and nights of sleepless torment. What a never-ending agony has gnawed at my heart; what an insatiable fire has raged in my brain. He knows the wrongs that have been inflicted on my fragile nature; that turned the deepest affection into the deadliest rage. He knows best whether a weak, flawed being has atoned for a moment of madness through prolonged suffering and endless remorse. Time and time again, I have thrown myself to the ground, begging for a sign of his forgiveness and wishing for death.

Thus far had I written some time since. I had meant to leave this record of misery and crime with you, to be read when I should be no more. My prayer to heaven has at length been heard. You were witness to my emotions last evening at the performance of the Miserere; when the vaulted temple resounded with the words of atonement and redemption. I heard a voice speaking to me from the midst of the music; I heard it rising above the pealing of the organ and the voices of the choir; it spoke to me in tones of celestial melody; it promised mercy and forgiveness, but demanded from me full expiation. I go to make it. To-morrow I shall be on my way to Genoa to surrender myself to justice. You who have pitied my sufferings; who have poured the balm of sympathy into my wounds, do not shrink from my memory with abhorrence now that you know my story. Recollect, when you read of my crime I shall have atoned for it with my blood!

So far, I had written this a while ago. I intended to leave this account of suffering and wrongdoing for you, to be read when I’m gone. My prayer to heaven has finally been answered. You saw how I felt last night during the performance of the Miserere; when the grand temple echoed with the words of atonement and redemption. I heard a voice calling to me from the music; it rose above the sound of the organ and the choir; it spoke to me in heavenly tones; it promised mercy and forgiveness, but asked for complete atonement in return. I’m going to make that happen. Tomorrow, I’ll be heading to Genoa to turn myself in. You, who have felt pity for my suffering and offered comfort to my wounds, please don’t turn away from my memory with disgust now that you know my story. Remember, by the time you read about my crime, I will have atoned for it with my blood!

When the Baronet had finished, there was an universal desire expressed to see the painting of this frightful visage. After much entreaty the Baronet consented, on condition that they should only visit it one by one. He called his housekeeper and gave her charge to conduct the gentlemen singly to the chamber. They all returned varying in their stories: some affected in one way, some in another; some more, some less; but all agreeing that there was a certain something about the painting that had a very odd effect upon the feelings.

When the Baronet was done, everyone wanted to see the painting of that terrifying face. After a lot of pleading, the Baronet agreed, but only if they could see it one at a time. He called his housekeeper and instructed her to take the gentlemen to the room individually. They all came back with different accounts: some were more affected than others, but they all agreed there was something about the painting that had a strange impact on their emotions.

I stood in a deep bow window with the Baronet, and could not help expressing my wonder. “After all,” said I, “there are certain mysteries in our nature, certain inscrutable impulses and influences, that warrant one in being superstitious. Who can account for so many persons of different characters being thus strangely affected by a mere painting?”

I stood in a deep bow window with the Baronet, and I couldn't help but express my amazement. “You know,” I said, “there are some mysteries about our nature, some confusing impulses and influences, that make it reasonable to be superstitious. Who can explain why so many different people are so strangely impacted by just a painting?”

“And especially when not one of them has seen it!” said the Baronet with a smile.

“And especially when none of them has seen it!” said the Baronet with a smile.

“How?” exclaimed I, “not seen it?”

“How?” I exclaimed, “You haven't seen it?”

“Not one of them?” replied he, laying his finger on his lips in sign of secrecy. “I saw that some of them were in a bantering vein, and I did not choose that the memento of the poor Italian should be made a jest of. So I gave the housekeeper a hint to show them all to a different chamber!”

“None of them?” he asked, putting his finger to his lips as a sign of secrecy. “I noticed some of them were in a playful mood, and I didn’t want the memory of the poor Italian to be mocked. So, I hinted to the housekeeper to show them all to another room!”

Thus end the Stories of the Nervous Gentleman.

Thus end the Stories of the Nervous Gentleman.

PART SECOND
BUCKTHORNE AND HIS FRIENDS

“’Tis a very good world that we live in,
To lend, or to spend, or to give in;
But to beg, or to borrow, or get a man’s own,
’Tis the very worst world, sir, that ever was known.”
—LINES FROM AN INN WINDOW.

“It’s a pretty good world we live in,
To lend, spend, or give;
But to beg, borrow, or take what’s yours,
It’s the absolute worst world, sir, that’s ever existed.”
—LINES FROM AN INN WINDOW.

LITERARY LIFE

Among the great variety of characters which fall in a traveller’s way, I became acquainted during my sojourn in London, with an eccentric personage of the name of Buckthorne. He was a literary man, had lived much in the metropolis, and had acquired a great deal of curious, though unprofitable knowledge concerning it. He was a great observer of character, and could give the natural history of every odd animal that presented itself in this great wilderness of men. Finding me very curious about literary life and literary characters, he took much pains to gratify my curiosity.

Among the many interesting people I met during my time in London, I got to know a quirky guy named Buckthorne. He was a writer who had spent a lot of time in the city and had gathered a wealth of unusual, though not very useful, knowledge about it. He was a keen observer of people and could tell you all about every strange character you came across in this vast sea of humanity. Since I was really interested in literary life and the personalities that come with it, he made a point to satisfy my curiosity.

“The literary world of England,” said he to me one day, “is made up of a number of little fraternities, each existing merely for itself, and thinking the rest of the world created only to look on and admire. It may be resembled to the firmament, consisting of a number of systems, each composed of its own central sun with its revolving train of moons and satellites, all acting in the most harmonious concord; but the comparison fails in part, inasmuch as the literary world has no general concord. Each system acts independently of the rest, and indeed considers all other stars as mere exhalations and transient meteors, beaming for awhile with false fires, but doomed soon to fall and be forgotten; while its own luminaries are the lights of the universe, destined to increase in splendor and to shine steadily on to immortality.”

“The literary scene in England,” he said to me one day, “is made up of a bunch of little groups, each only looking out for itself and thinking the rest of the world exists just to observe and admire. It’s kind of like the sky, made up of several systems, each with its own central star surrounded by its orbiting moons and satellites, all working together in harmony; but the analogy falls short because the literary world lacks overall harmony. Each group operates independently of the others and actually views all other stars as mere illusions and fleeting meteors, shining for a bit with fake brilliance, but destined to fade away and be forgotten; while its own stars are the true lights of the universe, meant to grow in brilliance and shine steadily into immortality.”

“And pray,” said I, “how is a man to get a peep into one of these systems you talk of? I presume an intercourse with authors is a kind of intellectual exchange, where one must bring his commodities to barter, and always give a quid pro quo.”

“And tell me,” I said, “how is someone supposed to get a glimpse into one of these systems you’re talking about? I assume interacting with authors is a sort of intellectual exchange, where you have to bring something to the table to trade and always provide a quid pro quo.”

“Pooh, pooh—how you mistake,” said Buckthorne, smiling; “you must never think to become popular among wits by shining. They go into society to shine themselves, not to admire the brilliancy of others. I thought as you do when I first cultivated the society of men of letters, and never went to a blue-stocking coterie without studying my part beforehand as diligently as an actor. The consequence was, I soon got the name of an intolerable proser, and should in a little while have been completely excommunicated had I not changed my plan of operations. From thenceforth I became a most assiduous listener, or if ever I were eloquent, it was tête-a-tête with an author in praise of his own works, or what is nearly as acceptable, in disparagement of the works of his contemporaries. If ever he spoke favorably of the productions of some particular friend, I ventured boldly to dissent from him, and to prove that his friend was a blockhead; and much as people say of the pertinacity and irritability of authors, I never found one to take offence at my contradictions. No, no, sir, authors are particularly candid in admitting the faults of their friends.

“Come on, you’ve got it all wrong,” Buckthorne said with a smile. “You can’t think you’ll get popular with clever people just by showing off. They go out to dazzle others, not to admire someone else’s shine. I used to think like you when I first started hanging out with writers, and I’d go to literary gatherings prepared like an actor with my lines. The result was, I quickly earned a reputation as a boring talker, and I would have been totally shut out if I hadn’t changed my approach. From then on, I became a dedicated listener, or if I ever spoke a lot, it was one-on-one with an author, praising their work or, just as popular, criticizing the work of their peers. If they ever praised a particular friend’s work, I’d confidently argue against them, proving that their friend was an idiot; and despite what people say about authors being stubborn and sensitive, I never found one who was offended by my disagreements. No, no, writers are pretty open about the flaws in their friends’ work.

“Indeed, I was extremely sparing of my remarks on all modern works, excepting to make sarcastic observations on the most distinguished writers of the day. I never ventured to praise an author that had not been dead at least half a century; and even then I was rather cautious; for you must know that many old writers have been enlisted under the banners of different sects, and their merits have become as complete topics of party prejudice and dispute, as the merits of living statesmen and politicians. Nay, there have been whole periods of literature absolutely taboo’d, to use a South Sea phrase. It is, for example, as much as a man’s reputation is worth, in some circles, to say a word in praise of any writers of the reign of Charles the Second, or even of Queen Anne; they being all declared to be Frenchmen in disguise.”

“Honestly, I was really careful about what I said regarding modern works, except for making sarcastic comments about the most notable writers of the time. I never dared to compliment an author who hadn't been dead for at least fifty years; and even then, I was pretty cautious. You see, many old writers have been claimed by different groups, and their value has sparked as much party bias and argument as the achievements of current politicians. In fact, there have been entire periods of literature that are completely taboo’d, to use a phrase from the South Sea. For instance, in some circles, it could ruin a man's reputation just to praise any writers from the time of Charles the Second or even Queen Anne; they're all considered to be Frenchmen in disguise.”

“And pray, then,” said I, “when am I to know that I am on safe grounds; being totally unacquainted with the literary landmarks and the boundary lines of fashionable taste?”

“And please tell me,” I said, “when will I know that I’m on solid ground, since I have no idea about the literary landmarks and the boundaries of good taste?”

“Oh,” replied he, there is fortunately one tract of literature that forms a kind of neutral ground, on which all the literary world meet amicably; lay down their weapons and even run riot in their excess of good humor, and this is, the reigns of Elizabeth and James. Here you may praise away at a venture; here it is ‘cut and come again,’ and the more obscure the author, and the more quaint and crabbed his style, the more your admiration will smack of the real relish of the connoisseur; whose taste, like that of an epicure, is always for game that has an antiquated flavor.

“Oh,” he replied, “fortunately, there’s one area of literature that serves as a common ground where everyone in the literary world can gather happily; they put down their defenses and even indulge in their joy, and that's the reigns of Elizabeth and James. Here, you can praise freely; here, it's ‘cut and come again,’ and the more obscure the author and the more unusual and difficult his style, the more your admiration will reflect the true appreciation of a connoisseur; whose taste, much like that of a gourmet, always craves something with an old-school flavor.”

“But,” continued he, “as you seem anxious to know something of literary society I will take an opportunity to introduce you to some coterie, where the talents of the day are assembled. I cannot promise you, however, that they will be of the first order. Somehow or other, our great geniuses are not gregarious, they do not go in flocks, but fly singly in general society. They prefer mingling, like common men, with the multitude; and are apt to carry nothing of the author about them but the reputation. It is only the inferior orders that herd together, acquire strength and importance by their confederacies, and bear all the distinctive characteristics of their species.”

“But,” he continued, “since you seem eager to learn about literary society, I’ll take the chance to introduce you to a group where today’s talents come together. I can’t guarantee they’ll be the best of the best, though. For some reason, our great geniuses aren’t social creatures; they don’t stick together but generally prefer to stand out in society on their own. They like to blend in, like regular people, with the crowd and usually only carry their author reputation with them. It’s the lesser talents that band together, gain strength and importance through their connections, and display all the traits typical of their kind.”

A LITERARY DINNER

A few days after this conversation with Mr. Buckthorne, he called upon me, and took me with him to a regular literary dinner. It was given by a great bookseller, or rather a company of booksellers, whose firm surpassed in length even that of Shadrach, Meschach, and Abednego.

A few days after my conversation with Mr. Buckthorne, he stopped by and invited me to a formal literary dinner. It was hosted by a prominent bookseller, or actually a group of booksellers, whose company name was longer than that of Shadrach, Meschach, and Abednego.

I was surprised to find between twenty and thirty guests assembled, most of whom I had never seen before. Buckthorne explained this to me by informing me that this was a “business dinner,” or kind of field day, which the house gave about twice a year to its authors. It is true, they did occasionally give snug dinners to three or four literary men at a time, but then these were generally select authors; favorites of the public; such as had arrived at their sixth and seventh editions. “There are,” said he, “certain geographical boundaries in the land of literature, and you may judge tolerably well of an author’s popularity, by the wine his bookseller gives him. An author crosses the port line about the third edition and gets into claret, but when he has reached the sixth and seventh, he may revel in champagne and burgundy.”

I was surprised to find between twenty and thirty guests gathered, most of whom I had never seen before. Buckthorne explained this to me by saying that this was a “business dinner,” or some kind of event the house held about twice a year for its authors. It’s true that they occasionally hosted cozy dinners for three or four literary figures at a time, but these were usually select authors; the favorites of the public; those who had made it to their sixth and seventh editions. “There are,” he said, “certain geographical boundaries in the world of literature, and you can get a good idea of an author’s popularity by the wine their bookseller serves them. An author makes the jump to the port line around the third edition and transitions to claret, but once they hit the sixth and seventh editions, they can indulge in champagne and burgundy.”

“And pray,” said I, “how far may these gentlemen have reached that I see around me; are any of these claret drinkers?”

“And I ask,” I said, “how far have these gentlemen gotten that I see around me; are any of them drinking claret?”

“Not exactly, not exactly. You find at these great dinners the common steady run of authors, one, two, edition men—or if any others are invited they are aware that it is a kind of republican meeting—You understand me—a meeting of the republic of letters, and that they must expect nothing but plain substantial fare.”

“Not really, not really. At these big dinners, you usually see the same steady group of authors, one or two publishing guys—or if there are any other guests invited, they know it’s like a kind of democratic gathering—you get what I mean—a gathering of the literary community, and they should expect nothing but simple, hearty food.”

These hints enabled me to comprehend more fully the arrangement of the table. The two ends were occupied by two partners of the house. And the host seemed to have adopted Addison’s ideas as to the literary precedence of his guests. A popular poet had the post of honor, opposite to whom was a hot-pressed traveller in quarto, with plates. A grave-looking antiquarian, who had produced several solid works, which were much quoted and little read, was treated with great respect, and seated next to a neat, dressy gentleman in black, who had written a thin, genteel, hot-pressed octavo on political economy that was getting into fashion. Several three-volume duodecimo men of fair currency were placed about the centre of the table; while the lower end was taken up with small poets, translators, and authors, who had not as yet risen into much notice.

These clues helped me understand better the layout of the table. The two ends were taken by two partners from the firm. The host seemed to have followed Addison’s ideas about the order of his literary guests. A well-known poet held the place of honor, facing a trendy traveler with a quarto book, complete with illustrations. A serious-looking antiquarian, who had published several significant works that were frequently quoted but rarely read, was treated with great respect and seated next to a neat, stylish man in black, who had written a slim, fashionable octavo on political economy that was gaining popularity. Several notable three-volume duodecimo authors were scattered around the center of the table, while the lower end was occupied by lesser-known poets, translators, and writers who hadn’t yet gained much recognition.

The conversation during dinner was by fits and starts; breaking out here and there in various parts of the table in small flashes, and ending in smoke. The poet, who had the confidence of a man on good terms with the world and independent of his bookseller, was very gay and brilliant, and said many clever things, which set the partner next him, in a roar, and delighted all the company. The other partner, however, maintained his sedateness, and kept carving on, with the air of a thorough man of business, intent upon the occupation of the moment. His gravity was explained to me by my friend Buckthorne. He informed me that the concerns of the house were admirably distributed among the partners. “Thus, for instance,” said he, “the grave gentleman is the carving partner who attends to the joints, and the other is the laughing partner who attends to the jokes.”

The conversation during dinner was sporadic, sparking up in different parts of the table in quick bursts, then fading away. The poet, who had the confidence of someone who was well-liked and not relying on his publisher, was very cheerful and witty, making clever remarks that had the partner next to him laughing loudly and entertained the whole table. The other partner, however, kept his composure and focused on carving, presenting himself as a serious business person dedicated to the task at hand. My friend Buckthorne explained his seriousness to me. He told me that the responsibilities of the business were well divided among the partners. “For example,” he said, “the serious gentleman is in charge of carving the meat, while the other one handles the jokes.”

The general conversation was chiefly carried on at the upper end of the table; as the authors there seemed to possess the greatest courage of the tongue. As to the crew at the lower end, if they did not make much figure in talking, they did in eating. Never was there a more determined, inveterate, thoroughly-sustained attack on the trencher, than by this phalanx of masticators. When the cloth was removed, and the wine began to circulate, they grew very merry and jocose among themselves. Their jokes, however, if by chance any of them reached the upper end of the table, seldom produced much effect. Even the laughing partner did not seem to think it necessary to honor them with a smile; which my neighbour Buckthorne accounted for, by informing me that there was a certain degree of popularity to be obtained, before a bookseller could afford to laugh at an author’s jokes.

The main conversation took place at the upper end of the table, where the speakers seemed to have the most confidence. As for the group at the lower end, they may not have been big talkers, but they were serious eaters. There has never been such a relentless, enthusiastic attack on the food as by this group of diners. Once the tablecloth was removed and the wine started flowing, they became very cheerful and playful among themselves. However, their jokes, if they happened to reach the upper end of the table, usually didn’t have much impact. Even the one who usually laughs didn’t feel the need to reward them with a smile, which my neighbor Buckthorne explained by saying that a bookseller needs to be somewhat popular before he can afford to laugh at an author’s jokes.

Among this crew of questionable gentlemen thus seated below the salt, my eye singled out one in particular. He was rather shabbily dressed; though he had evidently made the most of a rusty black coat, and wore his shirt-frill plaited and puffed out voluminously at the bosom. His face was dusky, but florid—perhaps a little too florid, particularly about the nose, though the rosy hue gave the greater lustre to a twinkling black eye. He had a little the look of a boon companion, with that dash of the poor devil in it which gives an inexpressibly mellow tone to a man’s humor. I had seldom seen a face of richer promise; but never was promise so ill kept. He said nothing; ate and drank with the keen appetite of a gazetteer, and scarcely stopped to laugh even at the good jokes from the upper end of the table. I inquired who he was. Buckthorne looked at him attentively. “Gad,” said he, “I have seen that face before, but where I cannot recollect. He cannot be an author of any note. I suppose some writer of sermons or grinder of foreign travels.”

Among this group of questionable gentlemen seated below the salt, I noticed one in particular. He was dressed rather poorly; still, he had made the most of a worn black coat and wore his shirt frill plaited and puffed out impressively at the chest. His face was dark, but flushed—maybe a bit too flushed, especially around the nose, though the rosy color made his twinkling black eye stand out even more. He had a bit of the look of a good-time buddy, with a hint of the down-and-out that adds an indescribably warm tone to a man's humor. I had rarely seen a face with such potential; but never had potential been so poorly realized. He didn’t say anything; he ate and drank with the ravenous appetite of a newspaper editor and hardly laughed, even at the good jokes coming from the head of the table. I asked who he was. Buckthorne looked at him closely. “Wow,” he said, “I’ve seen that face before, but I can’t remember where. He can’t be a well-known author. I guess he must be some writer of sermons or a chronicler of foreign travel.”

After dinner we retired to another room to take tea and coffee, where we were re-enforced by a cloud of inferior guests. Authors of small volumes in boards, and pamphlets stitched in blue paper. These had not as yet arrived to the importance of a dinner invitation, but were invited occasionally to pass the evening “in a friendly way.” They were very respectful to the partners, and indeed seemed to stand a little in awe of them; but they paid very devoted court to the lady of the house, and were extravagantly fond of the children. I looked round for the poor devil author in the rusty black coat and magnificent frill, but he had disappeared immediately after leaving the table; having a dread, no doubt, of the glaring light of a drawing-room. Finding nothing farther to interest my attention, I took my departure as soon as coffee had been served, leaving the port and the thin, genteel, hot-pressed, octavo gentlemen, masters of the field.

After dinner, we moved to another room for tea and coffee, where we were joined by a crowd of lesser guests. Authors of small books in simple covers and pamphlets stitched in blue paper. They hadn't yet reached the status of receiving a dinner invitation but were occasionally invited to spend the evening "in a friendly way." They were very respectful to the hosts and seemed a bit in awe of them; however, they were overly attentive to the lady of the house and showed extravagant affection for the children. I looked around for the poor author in the worn black coat and fantastic collar, but he had disappeared right after leaving the table, probably scared of the harsh lights of the drawing room. Finding nothing else to hold my interest, I left as soon as the coffee was served, leaving the port and the thin, genteel, hot-pressed octavo gentlemen in charge.

THE CLUB OF QUEER FELLOWS

I think it was but the very next evening that in coming out of Covent Garden Theatre with my eccentric friend Buckthorne, he proposed to give me another peep at life and character. Finding me willing for any research of the kind, he took me through a variety of the narrow courts and lanes about Covent Garden, until we stopped before a tavern from which we heard the bursts of merriment of a jovial party. There would be a loud peal of laughter, then an interval, then another peal; as if a prime wag were telling a story. After a little while there was a song, and at the close of each stanza a hearty roar and a vehement thumping on the table.

I think it was just the very next evening that, while leaving Covent Garden Theatre with my quirky friend Buckthorne, he suggested we take another look at life and character. Since I was open to any kind of exploration, he led me through a bunch of narrow alleys and streets around Covent Garden until we stopped in front of a pub where we could hear the sounds of a lively party inside. There would be a loud burst of laughter, followed by a pause, then another round of laughter, as if a great storyteller was sharing a funny tale. After a little while, someone started singing, and at the end of each verse, there was a hearty cheer and loud banging on the table.

“This is the place,” whispered Buckthorne. “It is the ‘Club of Queer Fellows.’ A great resort of the small wits, third-rate actors, and newspaper critics of the theatres. Any one can go in on paying a shilling at the bar for the use of the club.”

“This is the place,” whispered Buckthorne. “It’s the ‘Club of Queer Fellows.’ A popular hangout for small-minded people, mediocre actors, and theater critics. Anyone can enter by paying a shilling at the bar for club access.”

We entered, therefore, without ceremony, and took our seats at a lone table in a dusky corner of the room. The club was assembled round a table, on which stood beverages of various kinds, according to the taste of the individual. The members were a set of queer fellows indeed; but what was my surprise on recognizing in the prime wit of the meeting the poor devil author whom I had remarked at the booksellers’ dinner for his promising face and his complete taciturnity. Matters, however, were entirely changed with him. There he was a mere cypher: here he was lord of the ascendant; the choice spirit, the dominant genius. He sat at the head of the table with his hat on, and an eye beaming even more luminously than his nose. He had a quiz and a fillip for every one, and a good thing on every occasion. Nothing could be said or done without eliciting a spark from him; and I solemnly declare I have heard much worse wit even from noblemen. His jokes, it must be confessed, were rather wet, but they suited the circle in which he presided. The company were in that maudlin mood when a little wit goes a great way. Every time he opened his lips there was sure to be a roar, and sometimes before he had time to speak.

We walked in casually and took our seats at a lone table in a dim corner of the room. The club members were gathered around a table filled with drinks of all kinds, catering to everyone's taste. The group was definitely a strange bunch; but I was shocked to recognize the prime wit of the gathering as the poor author I had noticed at the booksellers’ dinner for his promising appearance and complete silence. However, he was a completely different person now. There he was a nobody: here he was the star of the show; the standout talent, the leader of the group. He sat at the head of the table with his hat on, and his eyes shining even more brightly than his nose. He had a joke and a playful jab for everyone, and something clever for every occasion. Nothing could be said or done without getting a reaction from him; and I can honestly say I’ve heard much worse humor even from nobles. His jokes were admittedly a bit corny, but they fit perfectly with the atmosphere he led. The crowd was in that sentimental mood where a little humor goes a long way. Every time he spoke, there was bound to be a laugh, sometimes even before he had a chance to say anything.

We were fortunate enough to enter in time for a glee composed by him expressly for the club, and which he sang with two boon companions, who would have been worthy subjects for Hogarth’s pencil. As they were each provided with a written copy, I was enabled to procure the reading of it.

We were lucky enough to arrive just in time for a happy song he wrote specifically for the club, which he performed with two close friends who would have made great subjects for Hogarth’s painting. Since each of them had a written copy, I was able to get a copy to read.

Merrily, merrily push round the glass,
And merrily troll the glee,
For he who won’t drink till he wink is an ass,
So neighbor I drink to thee.
Merrily, merrily puddle thy nose,
Until it right rosy shall be;
For a jolly red nose, I speak under the rose,
Is a sign of good company.

Happily, happily pass around the drink,
And cheerfully sing with glee,
For anyone who won’t drink till they’re tipsy is a fool,
So neighbor, I drink to you.
Happily, happily wet your nose,
Until it’s a nice rosy shade;
For a jolly red nose, I say quietly,
Is a sign of good company.

We waited until the party broke up, and no one but the wit remained. He sat at the table with his legs stretched under it, and wide apart; his hands in his breeches pockets; his head drooped upon his breast; and gazing with lack-lustre countenance on an empty tankard. His gayety was gone, his fire completely quenched.

We waited until the party ended, and the only one left was the witty guy. He sat at the table with his legs stretched out and apart; his hands in his pants pockets; his head hanging down on his chest; and staring blankly at an empty beer mug. His cheer was gone, and his spark had completely faded.

My companion approached and startled him from his fit of brown study, introducing himself on the strength of their having dined together at the booksellers’.

My friend came over and interrupted him from his deep thinking, introducing himself based on the fact that they had eaten together at the bookstore.

“By the way,” said he, “it seems to me I have seen you before; your face is surely the face of an old acquaintance, though for the life of me I cannot tell where I have known you.”

"By the way," he said, "I feel like I’ve seen you before; your face definitely looks familiar, but I can't figure out where I know you from."

“Very likely,” said he with a smile; “many of my old friends have forgotten me. Though, to tell the truth, my memory in this instance is as bad as your own. If, however, it will assist your recollection in any way, my name is Thomas Dribble, at your service.”

“Very likely,” he said with a smile; “a lot of my old friends have forgotten me. To be honest, my memory in this case is as bad as yours. If it helps jog your memory at all, my name is Thomas Dribble, at your service.”

“What, Tom Dribble, who was at old Birchell’s school in Warwickshire?”

“What, Tom Dribble, who went to the old Birchell’s school in Warwickshire?”

“The same,” said the other, coolly.

"The same," said the other, calmly.

“Why, then we are old schoolmates, though it’s no wonder you don’t recollect me. I was your junior by several years; don’t you recollect little Jack Buckthorne?”

“Why, then we’re old schoolmates, though it’s no surprise you don’t remember me. I was a few years younger than you; don’t you remember little Jack Buckthorne?”

Here then ensued a scene of school-fellow recognition; and a world of talk about old school times and school pranks. Mr. Dribble ended by observing, with a heavy sigh, “that times were sadly changed since those days.”

Here, a scene unfolded where old classmates recognized each other, leading to a lot of conversations about their school days and the pranks they pulled. Mr. Dribble concluded with a heavy sigh, saying, “things have really changed since then.”

“Faith, Mr. Dribble,” said I, “you seem quite a different man here from what you were at dinner. I had no idea that you had so much stuff in you. There you were all silence; but here you absolutely keep the table in a roar.”

“Faith, Mr. Dribble,” I said, “you seem like a totally different person here compared to how you were at dinner. I had no idea you had so much to offer. Back then you were completely quiet; but here you have everyone in stitches.”

“Ah, my dear sir,” replied he, with a shake of the head and a shrug of the shoulder, “I’m a mere glow-worm. I never shine by daylight. Besides, it’s a hard thing for a poor devil of an author to shine at the table of a rich bookseller. Who do you think would laugh at any thing I could say, when I had some of the current wits of the day about me? But here, though a poor devil, I am among still poorer devils than myself; men who look up to me as a man of letters and a bel esprit, and all my jokes pass as sterling gold from the mint.”

“Ah, my dear sir,” he replied, shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders, “I’m just a glow-worm. I never shine in daylight. Besides, it’s tough for a struggling author to stand out at the table of a wealthy bookseller. Who do you think would take anything I say seriously when I’m surrounded by some of the most clever minds of the time? But here, even though I'm struggling, I’m with people who are even worse off than I am; they look up to me as a man of letters and a witty thinker, and all my jokes are received like real currency.”

“You surely do yourself injustice, sir,” said I; “I have certainly heard more good things from you this evening than from any of those beaux esprits by whom you appear to have been so daunted.”

"You really underestimate yourself, sir," I said; "I've definitely heard more good things from you tonight than from any of those clever minds who seem to have intimidated you."

“Ah, sir! but they have luck on their side; they are in the fashion— there’s nothing like being in fashion. A man that has once got his character up for a wit, is always sure of a laugh, say what he may. He may utter as much nonsense as he pleases, and all will pass current. No one stops to question the coin of a rich man; but a poor devil cannot pass off either a joke or a guinea, without its being examined on both sides. Wit and coin are always doubted with a threadbare coat.

“Ah, sir! But they’ve got luck on their side; they’re in style— there’s nothing like being in style. A man who has established his reputation as a wit is always guaranteed a laugh, no matter what he says. He can spout as much nonsense as he wants, and it will all be accepted. No one bothers to question the currency of a wealthy person; meanwhile, a poor guy can’t get away with either a joke or a dollar without it being scrutinized from every angle. Wit and money are always doubted when you’re in worn-out clothes.”

“For my part,” continued he, giving his hat a twitch a little more on one side, “for my part, I hate your fine dinners; there’s nothing, sir, like the freedom of a chop-house. I’d rather, any time, have my steak and tankard among my own set, than drink claret and eat venison with your cursed civil, elegant company, who never laugh at a good joke from a poor devil, for fear of its being vulgar. A good joke grows in a wet soil; it flourishes in low places, but withers on your d—d high, dry grounds. I once kept high company, sir, until I nearly ruined myself; I grew so dull, and vapid, and genteel. Nothing saved me but being arrested by my landlady and thrown into prison; where a course of catch-clubs, eight-penny ale, and poor-devil company, manured my mind and brought it back to itself again.”

“For my part,” he continued, adjusting his hat slightly to one side, “I can’t stand your fancy dinners; there’s nothing like the freedom of a casual pub. I’d much rather have my steak and a pint with my own crowd than drink wine and eat fancy game with your annoying polite, upscale company, who never laugh at a good joke from an average guy for fear it might be seen as improper. A good joke thrives in a relaxed environment; it grows in low places but dies out on your posh, uptight turf. I used to hang out with the high-class crowd until I nearly ruined myself; I became so dull, bland, and pretentious. The only thing that saved me was getting arrested by my landlady and thrown into jail; a dose of casual pubs, cheap beer, and down-to-earth company helped restore my sanity.”

As it was now growing late we parted for the evening; though I felt anxious to know more of this practical philosopher. I was glad, therefore, when Buckthorne proposed to have another meeting to talk over old school times, and inquired his school-mate’s address. The latter seemed at first a little shy of naming his lodgings; but suddenly assuming an air of hardihood—“Green Arbour court, sir,” exclaimed he—“number—in Green Arbour court. You must know the place. Classic ground, sir! classic ground! It was there Goldsmith wrote his Vicar of Wakefield. I always like to live in literary haunts.”

As it was getting late, we said our goodbyes for the evening; even though I was eager to learn more about this practical philosopher. I was happy when Buckthorne suggested having another get-together to reminisce about old school days and asked for his classmate's address. At first, the other guy seemed a bit hesitant to share where he lived, but then he took a bold stance and said, “Green Arbour Court, sir,” he exclaimed—“number—in Green Arbour Court. You must know the place. It's classic ground, sir! Classic ground! That’s where Goldsmith wrote his Vicar of Wakefield. I always enjoy living in literary hotspots.”

I was amused with this whimsical apology for shabby quarters. On our Way homewards Buckthorne assured me that this Dribble had been the prime wit and great wag of the school in their boyish days, and one of those unlucky urchins denominated bright geniuses. As he perceived me curious respecting his old school-mate, he promised to take me with him, in his proposed visit to Green Arbour court.

I was entertained by this quirky apology for the cramped living conditions. On our way home, Buckthorne told me that this Dribble had been the funniest guy and biggest joker at their school when they were kids, one of those unfortunate kids labeled as bright geniuses. Seeing that I was curious about his old school friend, he promised to take me with him on his planned visit to Green Arbour Court.

A few mornings afterwards he called upon me, and we set forth on our expedition. He led me through a variety of singular alleys, and courts, and blind passages; for he appeared to be profoundly versed in all the intricate geography of the metropolis. At length we came out upon Fleet Market, and traversing it, turned up a narrow street to the bottom of a long steep flight of stone steps, named Break-neck Stairs. These, he told me, led up to Green Arbour court, and that down them poor Goldsmith might many a time have risked his neck. When we entered the court, I could not but smile to think in what out-of-the-way corners genius produces her bantlings! And the muses, those capricious dames, who, forsooth, so often refuse to visit palaces, and deny a single smile to votaries in splendid studies and gilded drawing-rooms,—what holes and burrows will they frequent to lavish their favors on some ragged disciple!

A few mornings later, he came to see me, and we set off on our adventure. He guided me through various unique alleys, courts, and hidden paths; he seemed to know the complicated layout of the city very well. Finally, we emerged onto Fleet Market, and after crossing it, we turned up a narrow street leading to a long, steep flight of stone steps called Break-neck Stairs. He mentioned that these steps led up to Green Arbour court, and that poor Goldsmith must have taken his life in his hands coming down them many times. Once we entered the court, I couldn't help but smile thinking about the unexpected places where creativity brings forth its creations! And the muses, those unpredictable ladies, who often refuse to grace palaces and completely ignore those dedicated in luxurious studies and gilded drawing-rooms—what nooks and crannies will they choose to bestow their blessings on some scruffy student!

This Green Arbour court I found to be a small square of tall and Miserable houses, the very intestines of which seemed turned inside out, to judge from the old garments and frippery that fluttered from every window. It appeared to be a region of washerwomen, and lines were stretched about the little square, on which clothes were dangling to dry. Just as we entered the square, a scuffle took place between two viragos about a disputed right to a washtub, and immediately the whole community was in a hubbub. Heads in mob caps popped out of every window, and such a clamor of tongues ensued that I was fain to stop my ears. Every Amazon took part with one or other of the disputants, and brandished her arms dripping with soapsuds, and fired away from her window as from the embrazure of a fortress; while the swarms of children nestled and cradled in every procreant chamber of this hive, waking with the noise, set up their shrill pipes to swell the general concert.

This Green Arbour court I found to be a small square filled with tall, rundown houses, whose insides seemed totally exposed, judging by the old clothes and junk that fluttered from every window. It looked like a neighborhood full of washerwomen, with lines strung across the little square where clothes were hanging to dry. Just as we entered the square, a fight broke out between two women over a shared washtub, and suddenly the whole place was in an uproar. Heads in mob caps popped out of every window, and the noise was so loud that I had to cover my ears. Every woman picked a side in the argument, waving her arms covered in soapy water and shouting from her window like she was defending a fortress; meanwhile, the kids snuggled in every crowded corner of this hive, waking up to the chaos and adding their loud voices to the mix.

Poor Goldsmith! what a time must he have had of it, with his quiet Disposition and nervous habits, penned up in this den of noise and vulgarity. How strange that while every sight and sound was sufficient to embitter the heart and fill it with misanthropy, his pen should be dropping the honey of Hybla. Yet it is more than probable that he drew many of his inimitable pictures of low life from the scenes which surrounded him in this abode. The circumstance of Mrs. Tibbs being obliged to wash her husband’s two shirts in a neighbor’s house, who refused to lend her washtub, may have been no sport of fancy, but a fact passing under his own eye. His landlady may have sat for the picture, and Beau Tibbs’ scanty wardrobe have been a facsimile of his own.

Poor Goldsmith! What a tough time he must have had with his quiet nature and anxious habits, trapped in this loud, crude environment. It’s so odd that while everything around him could make someone bitter and misanthropic, he was able to write such beautiful prose. But it’s likely that he drew many of his unique depictions of everyday life from the scenes around him in this place. The fact that Mrs. Tibbs had to wash her husband’s two shirts at a neighbor's house, because they wouldn't lend her their washbasin, might not have been just a figment of imagination but something he witnessed himself. His landlady could have posed for that scene, and Beau Tibbs' meager wardrobe might have been just like his own.

It was with some difficulty that we found our way to Dribble’s lodgings. They were up two pair of stairs, in a room that looked upon the court, and when we entered he was seated on the edge of his bed, writing at a broken table. He received us, however, with a free, open, poor devil air, that was irresistible. It is true he did at first appear slightly confused; buttoned up his waistcoat a little higher and tucked in a stray frill of linen. But he recollected himself in an instant; gave a half swagger, half leer, as he stepped forth to receive us; drew a three-legged stool for Mr. Buckthorne; pointed me to a lumbering old damask chair that looked like a dethroned monarch in exile, and bade us welcome to his garret.

It was a bit challenging for us to find Dribble’s place. It was up two flights of stairs, in a room that overlooked the courtyard. When we walked in, he was sitting on the edge of his bed, writing at a rickety table. He greeted us with a casual, friendly vibe that was hard to resist. It's true that he seemed a little flustered at first; he buttoned his waistcoat a bit higher and tucked in a loose piece of linen. But he pulled himself together right away; with a mix of swagger and a smirk, he stepped forward to greet us. He grabbed a three-legged stool for Mr. Buckthorne, pointed me to an old, shabby damask chair that looked like a dethroned king in exile, and welcomed us to his attic.

We soon got engaged in conversation. Buckthorne and he had much to say about early school scenes; and as nothing opens a man’s heart more than recollections of the kind, we soon drew from him a brief outline of his literary career.

We quickly started chatting. Buckthorne and he had a lot to share about their early school experiences, and since nothing makes a person more open than reminiscing about those times, we quickly got him to share a brief overview of his writing career.

THE POOR DEVIL AUTHOR

I began life unluckily by being the wag and bright fellow at school; and I had the farther misfortune of becoming the great genius of my native village. My father was a country attorney, and intended that I should succeed him in business; but I had too much genius to study, and he was too fond of my genius to force it into the traces. So I fell into bad company and took to bad habits. Do not mistake me. I mean that I fell into the company of village literati and village blues, and took to writing village poetry.

I started off on the wrong foot by being the jokester and the smart kid at school; and I had the added misfortune of being considered the big talent in my hometown. My dad was a small-town lawyer and wanted me to follow in his footsteps, but I was too talented to focus on studying, and he was too proud of my talent to push me to conform. So, I got involved with the wrong crowd and picked up some bad habits. Don’t get me wrong. I mean that I got mixed up with the local intellectuals and the moody types and started writing local poetry.

It was quite the fashion in the village to be literary. We had a little knot of choice spirits who assembled frequently together, formed ourselves into a Literary, Scientific, and Philosophical Society, and fancied ourselves the most learned philos in existence. Every one had a great character assigned him, suggested by some casual habit or affectation. One heavy fellow drank an enormous quantity of tea; rolled in his armchair, talked sententiously, pronounced dogmatically, and was considered a second Dr. Johnson; another, who happened to be a curate, uttered coarse jokes, wrote doggerel rhymes, and was the Swift of our association. Thus we had also our Popes and Goldsmiths and Addisons, and a blue-stocking lady, whose drawing-room we frequented, who corresponded about nothing with all the world, and wrote letters with the stiffness and formality of a printed book, was cried up as another Mrs. Montagu. I was, by common consent, the juvenile prodigy, the poetical youth, the great genius, the pride and hope of the village, through whom it was to become one day as celebrated as Stratford-on-Avon.

It was quite fashionable in the village to be literary. We had a small group of like-minded individuals who often got together, formed a Literary, Scientific, and Philosophical Society, and believed ourselves to be the most knowledgeable thinkers around. Each person had a unique persona assigned to them, based on some random habit or quirk. One serious guy drank a ridiculous amount of tea, rolled in his armchair, spoke in a pompous way, and was regarded as a second Dr. Johnson; another, who happened to be a curate, made crude jokes, wrote silly rhymes, and was seen as the Swift of our group. We also had our own Popes, Goldsmiths, and Addisons, along with a blue-stocking lady whose drawing room we often visited. She wrote letters about trivial matters to everyone and used the stiffness and formality of a printed book, earning her the reputation of another Mrs. Montagu. I was, by common agreement, the youthful prodigy, the poetic youth, the great genius, the pride and hope of the village, through whom it was destined to become as famous as Stratford-on-Avon one day.

My father died and left me his blessing and his business. His blessing brought no money into my pocket; and as to his business it soon deserted me: for I was busy writing poetry, and could not attend to law; and my clients, though they had great respect for my talents, had no faith in a poetical attorney.

My father passed away and left me his blessing and his business. His blessing didn’t bring me any money, and his business quickly left me as well. I was too busy writing poetry to focus on law, and while my clients respected my talent, they didn’t trust a poet as their attorney.

I lost my business therefore, spent my money, and finished my poem. It was the Pleasures of Melancholy, and was cried up to the skies by the whole circle. The Pleasures of Imagination, the Pleasures of Hope, and the Pleasures of Memory, though each had placed its author in the first rank of poets, were blank prose in comparison. Our Mrs. Montagu would cry over it from beginning to end. It was pronounced by all the members of the Literary, Scientific, and Philosophical Society the greatest poem of the age, and all anticipated the noise it would make in the great world. There was not a doubt but the London booksellers would be mad after it, and the only fear of my friends was, that I would make a sacrifice by selling it too cheap.

I lost my business, spent my money, and finished my poem. It was called The Pleasures of Melancholy, and everyone was raving about it. The Pleasures of Imagination, the Pleasures of Hope, and the Pleasures of Memory, while each had put their author among the top poets, seemed like dull prose in comparison. Our Mrs. Montagu would cry over it from start to finish. All the members of the Literary, Scientific, and Philosophical Society declared it the greatest poem of the age, and everyone expected it to create a buzz in the larger world. There was no doubt that the London booksellers would be eager for it, and my friends' only concern was that I might end up selling it too cheaply.

Every time they talked the matter over they increased the price. They reckoned up the great sums given for the poems of certain popular writers, and determined that mine was worth more than all put together, and ought to be paid for accordingly. For my part, I was modest in my expectations, and determined that I would be satisfied with a thousand guineas. So I put my poem in my pocket and set off for London.

Every time they discussed it, they raised the price. They tallied up the huge amounts paid for the works of some popular writers and concluded that my poem was worth more than all of them combined and should be compensated accordingly. As for me, I kept my expectations modest and decided that I would be happy with a thousand guineas. So I tucked my poem in my pocket and headed off to London.

My journey was joyous. My heart was light as my purse, and my head full of anticipations of fame and fortune. With what swelling pride did I cast my eyes upon old London from the heights of Highgate. I was like a general looking down upon a place he expects to conquer. The great metropolis lay stretched before me, buried under a home-made cloud of murky smoke, that wrapped it from the brightness of a sunny day, and formed for it a kind of artificial bad weather. At the outskirts of the city, away to the west, the smoke gradually decreased until all was clear and sunny, and the view stretched uninterrupted to the blue line of the Kentish Hills.

My journey was joyful. My heart was as light as my wallet, and my head was full of dreams of fame and fortune. With how much pride I looked down at old London from the heights of Highgate. I felt like a general surveying a place he plans to conquer. The great city lay stretched out before me, shrouded in a homemade cloud of thick smoke that blocked out the brightness of a sunny day, creating an artificial kind of gloomy weather. On the outskirts of the city to the west, the smoke gradually cleared, revealing a bright, sunny view that stretched uninterrupted to the blue line of the Kentish Hills.

My eye turned fondly to where the mighty cupola of St. Paul’s swelled Dimly through this misty chaos, and I pictured to myself the solemn realm of learning that lies about its base. How soon should the Pleasures of Melancholy throw this world of booksellers and printers into a bustle of business and delight! How soon should I hear my name repeated by printers’ devils throughout Pater Noster Row, and Angel Court, and Ave Maria Lane, until Amen corner should echo back the sound!

My eye turned fondly to where the grand dome of St. Paul’s rose softly through this hazy chaos, and I imagined the serious world of knowledge that surrounds its base. How soon would the Joys of Reflection turn this world of booksellers and printers into a flurry of activity and excitement! How soon would I hear my name called out by the printers’ assistants throughout Pater Noster Row, Angel Court, and Ave Maria Lane, until Amen Corner echoed with the sound!

Arrived in town, I repaired at once to the most fashionable publisher. Every new author patronizes him of course. In fact, it had been determined in the village circle that he should be the fortunate man. I cannot tell you how vaingloriously I walked the streets; my head was in the clouds. I felt the airs of heaven playing about it, and fancied it already encircled by a halo of literary glory.

Arriving in town, I immediately went to the trendiest publisher. Every new author goes to him, of course. In fact, the village had already decided that he would be the lucky one. I can't even describe how proud I felt walking through the streets; I was on cloud nine. I felt the fresh air around me and imagined it already wrapped in a halo of literary success.

As I passed by the windows of bookshops, I anticipated the time when my work would be shining among the hotpressed wonders of the day; and my face, scratched on copper, or cut in wood, figuring in fellowship with those of Scott and Byron and Moore.

As I walked by the windows of bookstores, I looked forward to the day when my work would be displayed alongside the popular masterpieces of the time; and my face, etched in copper or carved in wood, would be seen next to those of Scott, Byron, and Moore.

When I applied at the publisher’s house there was something in the loftiness of my air, and the dinginess of my dress, that struck the clerks with reverence. They doubtless took me for some person of consequence, probably a digger of Greek roots, or a penetrator of pyramids. A proud man in a dirty shirt is always an imposing character in the world of letters; one must feel intellectually secure before he can venture to dress shabbily; none but a great scholar or a great genius dares to be dirty; so I was ushered at once to the sanctum sanctorum of this high priest of Minerva.

When I applied at the publisher's office, there was something about my lofty demeanor and the shabby state of my clothes that impressed the clerks with respect. They probably thought I was someone important, maybe an expert on Greek literature or an archaeologist. A confident man in a dirty shirt is always an impressive figure in the literary world; you have to be intellectually secure to dress that poorly; only a true scholar or genius would dare to look unkempt. So, I was immediately taken to the inner sanctum of this high priest of wisdom.

The publishing of books is a very different affair now-a-days from what it was in the time of Bernard Lintot. I found the publisher a fashionably-dressed man, in an elegant drawing-room, furnished with sofas and portraits of celebrated authors, and cases of splendidly bound books. He was writing letters at an elegant table. This was transacting business in style. The place seemed suited to the magnificent publications that issued from it. I rejoiced at the choice I had made of a publisher, for I always liked to encourage men of taste and spirit.

Publishing books today is a completely different experience than it was during Bernard Lintot's time. I found the publisher to be a stylishly dressed man in a chic drawing room, furnished with sofas, portraits of famous authors, and shelves of beautifully bound books. He was writing letters at a classy table. This was conducting business with flair. The atmosphere seemed perfect for the impressive publications that came from it. I was glad about my choice of publisher because I've always wanted to support people with taste and passion.

I stepped up to the table with the lofty poetical port that I had Been accustomed to maintain in our village circle; though I threw in it something of a patronizing air, such as one feels when about to make a man’s fortune. The publisher paused with his pen in his hand, and seemed waiting in mute suspense to know what was to be announced by so singular an apparition.

I approached the table with the grand style I usually had in our village gatherings, though I added a bit of a condescending vibe, like someone about to change a person’s life. The publisher paused with his pen in hand, seemingly waiting in silent suspense to see what this unusual sight was going to reveal.

I put him at his ease in a moment, for I felt that I had but to come, see, and conquer. I made known my name, and the name of my poem; produced my precious roll of blotted manuscript, laid it on the table with an emphasis, and told him at once, to save time and come directly to the point, the price was one thousand guineas.

I put him at ease right away because I knew I just needed to come in, see, and impress him. I introduced myself and the title of my poem, then pulled out my valuable manuscript full of corrections, placed it on the table with emphasis, and told him straight up, to save time, that the price was one thousand guineas.

I had given him no time to speak, nor did he seem so inclined. He Continued looking at me for a moment with an air of whimsical perplexity; scanned me from head to foot; looked down at the manuscript, then up again at me, then pointed to a chair; and whistling softly to himself, went on writing his letter.

I didn’t give him a chance to say anything, and he didn’t seem interested either. He kept looking at me for a moment with a quirky expression of confusion; he took me in from head to toe; glanced at the manuscript, then back at me, then pointed to a chair; and while softly whistling to himself, continued writing his letter.

I sat for some time waiting his reply, supposing he was making up his mind; but he only paused occasionally to take a fresh dip of ink; to stroke his chin or the tip of his nose, and then resumed his writing. It was evident his mind was intently occupied upon some other subject; but I had no idea that any other subject should be attended to and my poem lie unnoticed on the table. I had supposed that every thing would make way for the Pleasures of Melancholy.

I sat for a while waiting for his response, thinking he was just deciding what to say; but he only took breaks now and then to dip his pen in ink, stroke his chin or the tip of his nose, and then went back to writing. It was clear his mind was focused on something else entirely; but I couldn’t believe he had another topic to think about while my poem was sitting there unnoticed on the table. I thought everything else would take a backseat to the Pleasures of Melancholy.

My gorge at length rose within me. I took up my manuscript; thrust it into my pocket, and walked out of the room: making some noise as I went, to let my departure be heard. The publisher, however, was too much busied in minor concerns to notice it. I was suffered to walk down-stairs without being called back. I sallied forth into the street, but no clerk was sent after me, nor did the publisher call after me from the drawing-room window. I have been told since, that he considered me either a madman or a fool. I leave you to judge how much he was in the wrong in his opinion.

My stomach finally turned. I grabbed my manuscript, shoved it into my pocket, and walked out of the room, making some noise to announce my departure. The publisher, though, was too caught up in small matters to notice. I was allowed to walk down the stairs without anyone calling me back. I stepped out onto the street, but no clerk followed me, and the publisher didn’t shout after me from the drawing-room window. I’ve been told since then that he thought I was either crazy or stupid. I’ll let you decide how wrong he was in that judgment.

When I turned the corner my crest fell. I cooled down in my pride and my expectations, and reduced my terms with the next bookseller to whom I applied. I had no better success: nor with a third: nor with a fourth. I then desired the booksellers to make an offer themselves; but the deuce an offer would they make. They told me poetry was a mere drug; everybody wrote poetry; the market was overstocked with it. And then, they said, the title of my poem was not taking: that pleasures of all kinds were worn threadbare; nothing but horrors did now-a-days, and even these were almost worn out. Tales of pirates, robbers, and bloody Turks might answer tolerably well; but then they must come from some established well-known name, or the public would not look at them.

When I turned the corner, my hopes were dashed. I toned down my pride and expectations and lowered my terms with the next bookseller I approached. I had no better luck with the third or the fourth. I then asked the booksellers to make me an offer, but not one of them would. They told me poetry was in oversupply; everyone was writing it, and the market was flooded. Plus, they said, the title of my poem wasn’t appealing: all kinds of pleasures were played out; only horrors worked nowadays, and even those were getting old. Stories about pirates, robbers, and bloody Turks might do decently, but they had to come from a well-known name, or the public wouldn't pay attention.

At last I offered to leave my poem with a bookseller to read it and judge for himself. “Why, really, my dear Mr.—a—a—I forget your name,” said he, cutting an eye at my rusty coat and shabby gaiters, “really, sir, we are so pressed with business just now, and have so many manuscripts on hand to read, that we have not time to look at any new production, but if you can call again in a week or two, or say the middle of next month, we may be able to look over your writings and give you an answer. Don’t forget, the month after next—good morning, sir—happy to see you any time you are passing this way”—so saying he bowed me out in the civilest way imaginable. In short, sir, instead of an eager competition to secure my poem I could not even get it read! In the mean time I was harassed by letters from my friends, wanting to know when the work was to appear; who was to be my publisher; but above all things warning me not to let it go too cheap.

At last, I offered to leave my poem with a bookseller for him to read and judge for himself. “Well, really, my dear Mr.—uh—I'm sorry, I forgot your name,” he said, glancing at my worn coat and shabby shoes, “honestly, sir, we’re really busy right now and have so many manuscripts to get through that we don’t have time to look at anything new. But if you can check back in a week or two, or say around the middle of next month, we might be able to go over your work and give you a response. Don’t forget, the month after next—good morning, sir—it was nice to see you anytime you’re in the area”—and with that, he politely ushered me out. In short, instead of a fierce competition to secure my poem, I couldn’t even get it read! Meanwhile, I was bombarded with letters from friends asking when the work would be published, who my publisher would be, but most importantly warning me not to sell it too cheaply.

There was but one alternative left. I determined to publish the poem myself; and to have my triumph over the booksellers, when it should become the fashion of the day. I accordingly published the Pleasures of Melancholy and ruined myself. Excepting the copies sent to the reviews, and to my friends in the country, not one, I believe, ever left the bookseller’s warehouse. The printer’s bill drained my purse, and the only notice that was taken of my work was contained in the advertisements paid for by myself.

There was only one option left. I decided to publish the poem myself and to have my victory over the booksellers when it became popular. So, I published the Pleasures of Melancholy and ended up ruining myself. Aside from the copies sent to the reviews and to my friends in the countryside, not one, as far as I know, ever left the bookseller’s warehouse. The printer’s bill emptied my wallet, and the only attention my work got was from the ads I paid for myself.

I could have borne all this, and have attributed it as usual to the mismanagement of the publisher, or the want of taste in the public: and could have made the usual appeal to posterity, but my village friends would not let me rest in quiet. They were picturing me to themselves feasting with the great, communing with the literary, and in the high course of fortune and renown. Every little while, some one came to me with a letter of introduction from the village circle, recommending him to my attentions, and requesting that I would make him known in society; with a hint that an introduction to the house of a celebrated literary nobleman would be extremely agreeable.

I could have handled all of this and just blamed it on the publisher’s mismanagement or the public’s lack of taste. I might have made the usual plea to future generations, but my friends from the village wouldn’t let me relax. They imagined me dining with the influential, mingling with the literary crowd, and enjoying a rise in fortune and fame. Every so often, someone would come to me with a letter of introduction from the village, recommending themselves and asking me to help them fit in with society—and hinting that an introduction to a famous literary nobleman would be very appreciated.

I determined, therefore, to change my lodgings, drop my correspondence, and disappear altogether from the view of my village admirers. Besides, I was anxious to make one more poetic attempt. I was by no means disheartened by the failure of my first. My poem was evidently too didactic. The public was wise enough. It no longer read for instruction. “They want horrors, do they?” said I, “I’faith, then they shall have enough of them.” So I looked out for some quiet retired place, where I might be out of reach of my friends, and have leisure to cook up some delectable dish of poetical “hell-broth.”

I decided to change my living situation, stop all my correspondence, and completely disappear from the view of my village fans. Besides, I was eager to make one more attempt at poetry. I definitely wasn’t discouraged by the failure of my first piece. My poem was obviously too teachy. The audience was smart enough. They weren’t reading for lessons anymore. “They want horror, huh?” I said, “Well then, they'll get plenty of it.” So I started looking for a quiet, secluded place where I could be away from my friends and have the time to create some appealing mix of poetic “hell-broth.”

I had some difficulty in finding a place to my mind, when chance threw me in the way Of Canonbury Castle. It is an ancient brick tower, hard by “merry Islington;” the remains of a hunting-seat of Queen Elizabeth, where she took the pleasures of the country, when the neighborhood was all woodland. What gave it particular interest in my eyes, was the circumstance that it had been the residence of a poet. It was here Goldsmith resided when he wrote his Deserted Village. I was shown the very apartment. It was a relique of the original style of the castle, with pannelled wainscots and gothic windows. I was pleased with its air of antiquity, and with its having been the residence of poor Goldy.

I struggled a bit to find my bearings when I stumbled upon Canonbury Castle. It’s an old brick tower, right near “cheerful Islington;” the remnants of a hunting lodge used by Queen Elizabeth, where she enjoyed the countryside when the area was all forest. What caught my attention most was that it had once been home to a poet. This is where Goldsmith lived when he wrote his Deserted Village. I was shown the very room. It still had elements of the original style of the castle, with paneled walls and Gothic windows. I liked its old-fashioned charm and the fact that it had been the home of poor Goldy.

“Goldsmith was a pretty poet,” said I to myself, “a very pretty poet; though rather of the old school. He did not think and feel so strongly as is the fashion now-a-days; but had he lived in these times of hot hearts and hot heads, he would have written quite differently.”

“Goldsmith was a nice poet,” I said to myself, “a really nice poet; though more from the old school. He didn’t think and feel as intensely as people do these days; but if he had lived in today’s world of passionate hearts and fiery heads, he would have written quite differently.”

In a few days I was quietly established in my new quarters; my books all arranged, my writing desk placed by a window looking out into the field; and I felt as snug as Robinson Crusoe, when he had finished his bower. For several days I enjoyed all the novelty of change and the charms which grace a new lodgings before one has found out their defects. I rambled about the fields where I fancied Goldsmith had rambled. I explored merry Islington; ate my solitary dinner at the Black Bull, which according to tradition was a country seat of Sir Walter Raleigh, and would sit and sip my wine and muse on old times in a quaint old room, where many a council had been held.

In a few days, I was settled into my new place; my books were all organized, my writing desk was by a window looking out at the field, and I felt as cozy as Robinson Crusoe after he finished his shelter. For several days, I enjoyed all the excitement of change and the appeal of new digs before I discovered their flaws. I wandered through the fields where I imagined Goldsmith had wandered. I explored lively Islington; had my solo dinner at the Black Bull, which, according to legend, was a country home of Sir Walter Raleigh, and I would sit and sip my wine, reflecting on the past in a charming old room where many councils had taken place.

All this did very well for a few days: I was stimulated by novelty; inspired by the associations awakened in my mind by these curious haunts, and began to think I felt the spirit of composition stirring within me; but Sunday came, and with it the whole city world, swarming about Canonbury Castle. I could not open my window but I was stunned with shouts and noises from the cricket ground. The late quiet road beneath my window was alive with the tread of feet and clack of tongues; and to complete my misery, I found that my quiet retreat was absolutely a “show house!” the tower and its contents being shown to strangers at sixpence a head.

All this went well for a few days: I was excited by the new experiences; inspired by the memories these interesting places brought back to me, and I started to think I felt the urge to create stirring within me; but then Sunday arrived, and with it the entire city crowd, swarming around Canonbury Castle. I couldn’t open my window without being overwhelmed by shouts and sounds from the cricket field. The once quiet street below my window was buzzing with footsteps and chatter; and to add to my frustration, I discovered that my peaceful retreat was actually a “show house!” The tower and its contents were being shown to strangers for sixpence a person.

There was a perpetual tramping up-stairs of citizens and their families, to look about the country from the top of the tower, and to take a peep at the city through the telescope, to try if they could discern their own chimneys. And then, in the midst of a vein of thought, or a moment of inspiration, I was interrupted, and all my ideas put to flight, by my intolerable landlady’s tapping at the door, and asking me, if I would “jist please to let a lady and gentleman come in to take a look at Mr. Goldsmith’s room.”

There was a constant stream of people and their families going upstairs to check out the view from the top of the tower and to take a look at the city through the telescope, trying to spot their own chimneys. Then, just when I was in the middle of a thought or a moment of inspiration, I was interrupted, and all my ideas were scattered, by my annoying landlady knocking on the door and asking me if I would "just please let a lady and gentleman come in to see Mr. Goldsmith’s room."

If you know anything what an author’s study is, and what an author is himself, you must know that there was no standing this. I put a positive interdict on my room’s being exhibited; but then it was shown when I was absent, and my papers put in confusion; and on returning home one day, I absolutely found a cursed tradesman and his daughters gaping over my manuscripts; and my landlady in a panic at my appearance. I tried to make out a little longer by taking the key in my pocket, but it would not do. I overheard mine hostess one day telling some of her customers on the stairs that the room was occupied by an author, who was always in a tantrum if interrupted; and I immediately perceived, by a slight noise at the door, that they were peeping at me through the key-hole. By the head of Apollo, but this was quite too much! with all my eagerness for fame, and my ambition of the stare of the million, I had no idea of being exhibited by retail, at sixpence a head, and that through a key-hole. So I bade adieu to Canonbury Castle, merry Islington, and the haunts of poor Goldsmith, without having advanced a single line in my labors.

If you know anything about what an author’s workspace is like and who an author really is, then you must understand that this couldn’t be tolerated. I explicitly forbade anyone from showing my room; however, it was still shown when I wasn’t there, and my papers were thrown into disarray. When I came home one day, I found some annoying tradesman and his daughters staring at my manuscripts, while my landlady panicked at my arrival. I tried to keep my privacy a little longer by taking the key with me, but it didn’t work. One day, I overheard my landlady telling some of her customers on the stairs that the room was occupied by an author who got really upset if interrupted, and I immediately noticed a slight sound at the door indicating they were peeking at me through the keyhole. By the head of Apollo, this was absolutely too much! Despite my eagerness for fame and my ambition to be in the spotlight, I had no intention of being put on display like that, with people peering through a keyhole for a small fee. So, I said goodbye to Canonbury Castle, cheerful Islington, and the favorite spots of poor Goldsmith, without having written a single line of my work.

My next quarters were at a small white-washed cottage, which stands not far from Hempstead, just on the brow of a hill, looking over Chalk farm, and Camden town, remarkable for the rival houses of Mother Red Cap and Mother Black Cap; and so across Cruckskull common to the distant city.

My next few months were spent in a small whitewashed cottage, which is located not far from Hempstead, just at the top of a hill, overlooking Chalk Farm and Camden Town, known for the competing pubs of Mother Red Cap and Mother Black Cap; and then across Cruckskull Common to the far-off city.

The cottage is in no wise remarkable in itself; but I regarded it with reverence, for it had been the asylum of a persecuted author. Hither poor Steele had retreated and lain perdue when persecuted by creditors and bailiffs; those immemorial plagues of authors and free-spirited gentlemen; and here he had written many numbers of the Spectator. It was from hence, too, that he had despatched those little notes to his lady, so full of affection and whimsicality; in which the fond husband, the careless gentleman, and the shifting spendthrift, were so oddly blended. I thought, as I first eyed the window, of his apartment, that I could sit within it and write volumes.

The cottage isn't remarkable on its own, but I looked at it with respect because it had been a refuge for a persecuted author. Poor Steele had hidden here when he was chased by creditors and bailiffs—those age-old troubles for writers and free-spirited men—and it’s where he wrote many issues of the Spectator. It was also from this place that he sent those little notes to his lady, filled with affection and quirkiness; in which the loving husband, the careless gentleman, and the reckless spendthrift were so interestingly mixed. As I first glanced at the window of his room, I thought that I could sit inside and write volumes.

No such thing! It was haymaking season, and, as ill luck would have it, immediately opposite the cottage was a little alehouse with the sign of the load of hay. Whether it was there in Steele’s time or not I cannot say; but it set all attempt at conception or inspiration at defiance. It was the resort of all the Irish haymakers who mow the broad fields in the neighborhood; and of drovers and teamsters who travel that road. Here would they gather in the endless summer twilight, or by the light of the harvest moon, and sit round a table at the door; and tipple, and laugh, and quarrel, and fight, and sing drowsy songs, and dawdle away the hours until the deep solemn notes of St. Paul’s clock would warn the varlets home.

No way! It was haymaking season, and, as bad luck would have it, right across from the cottage was a small pub with a sign of a load of hay. I can't say if it was there back in Steele's time, but it completely ruined any chance of inspiration or creativity. It was the hangout for all the Irish haymakers who cut the large fields nearby, along with drovers and teamsters passing through. They would gather there in the endless summer twilight or by the light of the harvest moon, sitting around a table at the door; drinking, laughing, arguing, fighting, singing sleepy songs, and wasting away the hours until the deep, serious chimes of St. Paul’s clock signaled it was time for the lads to head home.

In the day-time I was still less able to write. It was broad summer. The haymakers were at work in the fields, and the perfume of the new-mown hay brought with it the recollection of my native fields. So instead of remaining in my room to write, I went wandering about Primrose Hill and Hempstead Heights and Shepherd’s Field, and all those Arcadian scenes so celebrated by London bards. I cannot tell you how many delicious hours I have passed lying on the cocks of new-mown hay, on the pleasant slopes of some of those hills, inhaling the fragrance of the fields, while the summer fly buzzed above me, or the grasshopper leaped into my bosom, and how I have gazed with half-shut eye upon the smoky mass of London, and listened to the distant sound of its population, and pitied the poor sons of earth toiling in its bowels, like Gnomes in “the dark gold mine.”

During the day, I found it even harder to write. It was the height of summer. The haymakers were out in the fields, and the scent of freshly cut hay reminded me of my hometown fields. So instead of staying in my room to write, I wandered around Primrose Hill, Hempstead Heights, and Shepherd’s Field, along with all those picturesque places that London poets often celebrate. I can't tell you how many wonderful hours I've spent lying on piles of freshly cut hay on the gentle slopes of those hills, breathing in the scent of the fields, while summer flies buzzed overhead or grasshoppers hopped into my lap. I gazed with half-closed eyes at the smoky mass of London and listened to the distant sounds of its residents, feeling sympathy for the poor souls toiling in its depths, like Gnomes in "the dark gold mine."

People may say what they please about Cockney pastorals; but after all, there is a vast deal of rural beauty about the western vicinity of London; and any one that has looked down upon the valley of Westend, with its soft bosom of green pasturage, lying open to the south, and dotted with cattle; the steeple of Hempstead rising among rich groves on the brow of the hill, and the learned height of Harrow in the distance; will confess that never has he seen a more absolutely rural landscape in the vicinity of a great metropolis.

People can say whatever they want about Cockney countryside; but really, there's a lot of rural beauty in the western area of London. Anyone who has gazed down at the Westend valley, with its gentle, green pastures stretching to the south and scattered with cattle; the Hempstead steeple peeking through lush groves on the hilltop, and the notable height of Harrow in the distance; will admit that they have never seen a more truly rural landscape near a major city.

Still, however, I found myself not a whit the better off for my frequent change of lodgings; and I began to discover that in literature, as in trade, the old proverb holds good, “a rolling stone gathers no moss.”

Still, I found that I wasn't any better off for constantly changing my places to stay, and I started to realize that in literature, just like in business, the old saying is true: “a rolling stone gathers no moss.”

The tranquil beauty of the country played the very vengeance with me. I could not mount my fancy into the termagant vein. I could not conceive, amidst the smiling landscape, a scene of blood and murder; and the smug citizens in breeches and gaiters, put all ideas of heroes and bandits out of my brain. I could think of nothing but dulcet subjects. “The pleasures of spring”—“the pleasures of solitude”—“the pleasures of tranquillity”—“the pleasures of sentiment”—nothing but pleasures; and I had the painful experience of “the pleasures of melancholy” too strongly in my recollection to be beguiled by them.

The peaceful beauty of the countryside affected me profoundly. I couldn't get my imagination into a furious mood. Surrounded by the cheerful landscape, I just couldn't picture a scene filled with blood and murder; the contented townsfolk in their pants and boots completely erased any thoughts of heroes and villains from my mind. All I could think about were sweet themes. "The joys of spring"—"the joys of being alone"—"the joys of peace"—"the joys of emotion"—just nothing but joys; and I had the painful memory of "the joys of sadness" too fresh to be fooled by them.

Chance at length befriended me. I had frequently in my ramblings loitered about Hempstead Hill; which is a kind of Parnassus of the metropolis. At such times I occasionally took my dinner at Jack Straw’s Castle. It is a country inn so named. The very spot where that notorious rebel and his followers held their council of war. It is a favorite resort of citizens when rurally inclined, as it commands fine fresh air and a good view of the city.

Chance eventually came to my aid. During my walks, I often hung out around Hempstead Hill, which is like a creative hub for the city. Sometimes, I grabbed lunch at Jack Straw’s Castle, a country inn by that name. It’s the very place where that infamous rebel and his followers held their meetings. It's a popular spot for city folks looking to enjoy some country vibes, as it offers fresh air and a great view of the city.

I sat one day in the public room of this inn, ruminating over a beefsteak and a pint of port, when my imagination kindled up with ancient and heroic images. I had long wanted a theme and a hero; both suddenly broke upon my mind; I determined to write a poem on the history of Jack Straw. I was so full of my subject that I was fearful of being anticipated. I wondered that none of the poets of the day, in their researches after ruffian heroes, had ever thought of Jack Straw. I went to work pell-mell, blotted several sheets of paper with choice floating thoughts, and battles, and descriptions, to be ready at a moment’s warning. In a few days’ time I sketched out the skeleton of my poem, and nothing was wanting but to give it flesh and blood. I used to take my manuscript and stroll about Caen Wood, and read aloud; and would dine at the castle, by way of keeping up the vein of thought.

I was sitting one day in the common room of this inn, thinking over a steak and a pint of port, when my imagination sparked with images of the past and heroism. I had long wanted a topic and a hero; both suddenly came to me, and I decided to write a poem about the history of Jack Straw. I was so invested in my subject that I was worried someone else might beat me to it. I was surprised that none of the poets around had ever considered Jack Straw in their search for rugged heroes. I dove into writing frantically, staining several sheets of paper with my favorite ideas, battles, and descriptions, hoping to be ready at a moment's notice. After a few days, I outlined the framework of my poem, and all that was left was to expand it. I would take my manuscript and walk around Caen Wood, reading aloud, and I would have dinner at the castle to keep my inspiration flowing.

I was taking a meal there, one day, at a rather late hour, in the public room. There was no other company but one man, who sat enjoying his pint of port at a window, and noticing the passers-by. He was dressed in a green shooting coat. His countenance was strongly marked. He had a hooked nose, a romantic eye, excepting that it had something of a squint; and altogether, as I thought, a poetical style of head. I was quite taken with the man, for you must know I am a little of a physiognomist: I set him down at once for either a poet or a philosopher.

I was having a meal there one day, pretty late, in the public room. The only other person was a man sitting by the window, enjoying his pint of port and watching the people passing by. He was wearing a green shooting coat. His face was very distinctive. He had a hooked nose and a romantic-looking eye, although it kind of squinted; overall, I thought he had a poetic vibe. I was really intrigued by him because, you see, I have a bit of an interest in reading faces: I immediately figured he was either a poet or a philosopher.

As I like to make new acquaintances, considering every man a volume of human nature, I soon fell into conversation with the stranger, who, I was pleased to find, was by no means difficult of access. After I had dined, I joined him at the window, and we became so sociable that I proposed a bottle of wine together; to which he most cheerfully assented.

As someone who enjoys meeting new people, viewing each person as a fascinating part of humanity, I quickly struck up a conversation with the stranger, who I was happy to discover was quite approachable. After having dinner, I went over to join him at the window, and we chatted so comfortably that I suggested we share a bottle of wine together, to which he happily agreed.

I was too full of my poem to keep long quiet on the subject, and began to talk about the origin of the tavern, and the history of Jack Straw. I found my new acquaintance to be perfectly at home on the topic, and to jump exactly with my humor in every respect. I became elevated by the wine and the conversation. In the fullness of an author’s feelings, I told him of my projected poem, and repeated some passages; and he was in raptures. He was evidently of a strong poetical turn.

I was too excited about my poem to stay quiet for long, so I started talking about the history of the tavern and Jack Straw. I discovered that my new friend was completely knowledgeable about the subject and really clicked with my sense of humor. The wine and the conversation lifted my spirits. Caught up in the emotions of being an author, I shared my plans for a poem and recited some lines; he was thrilled. He clearly had a strong poetic flair.

“Sir,” said he, filling my glass at the same time, “our poets don’t look at home. I don’t see why we need go out of old England for robbers and rebels to write about. I like your Jack Straw, sir. He’s a home-made hero. I like him, sir. I like him exceedingly. He’s English to the back bone, damme. Give me honest old England, after all; them’s my sentiments, sir!”

“Sir,” he said, pouring my drink at the same time, “our poets don’t seem to see what's around them. I don’t understand why we have to look outside of old England for robbers and rebels to write about. I like your Jack Straw, sir. He’s a home-grown hero. I really like him, sir. I like him a lot. He’s English through and through, damn it. Give me honest old England, after all; those are my feelings, sir!”

“I honor your sentiments,” cried I zealously. “They are exactly my own. An English ruffian for poetry is as good a ruffian for poetry as any in Italy or Germany, or the Archipelago; but it is hard to make our poets think so.”

“I appreciate your feelings,” I exclaimed passionately. “They’re exactly what I think. An English thug who loves poetry is just as good as any thug who loves poetry in Italy, Germany, or the Archipelago; but it's difficult to get our poets to see it that way.”

“More shame for them!” replied the man in green. “What a plague would they have?” What have we to do with their Archipelagos of Italy and Germany? Haven’t we heaths and commons and high-ways on our own little island? Aye, and stout fellows to pad the hoof over them too? Come, sir, my service to you—I agree with you perfectly.”

“More shame on them!” replied the man in green. “What trouble are they causing?” What do we care about their islands in Italy and Germany? Don’t we have our own heaths, commons, and highways on our little island? Yeah, and tough guys to roam over them too? Come on, sir, I’m at your service—I completely agree with you.”

“Poets in old times had right notions on this subject,” continued I; “witness the fine old ballads about Robin Hood, Allen A’Dale, and other staunch blades of yore.”

“Poets in the past had the right ideas about this,” I continued; “just look at the great old ballads about Robin Hood, Allen A’Dale, and other brave heroes from back then.”

“Right, sir, right,” interrupted he. “Robin Hood! He was the lad to cry stand! to a man, and never flinch.”

“Yeah, sir, yeah,” he interrupted. “Robin Hood! He was the guy who would shout stop! to a man, and never back down.”

“Ah, sir,” said I, “they had famous bands of robbers in the good old times. Those were glorious poetical days. The merry crew of Sherwood Forest, who led such a roving picturesque life, ‘under the greenwood tree.’ I have often wished to visit their haunts, and tread the scenes of the exploits of Friar Tuck, and Clym of the Clough, and Sir William of Coudeslie.”

“Ah, sir,” I said, “they had famous groups of robbers back in the good old days. Those were glorious, poetic times. The cheerful gang of Sherwood Forest, who lived such an adventurous, picturesque life ‘under the greenwood tree.’ I’ve often wished to explore their hideouts and walk the paths of the adventures of Friar Tuck, Clym of the Clough, and Sir William of Coudeslie.”

“Nay, sir,” said the gentleman in green, “we have had several very pretty gangs since their day. Those gallant dogs that kept about the great heaths in the neighborhood of London; about Bagshot, and Hounslow, and Black Heath, for instance—come, sir, my service to you. You don’t drink.”

“Nah, sir,” said the guy in green, “we’ve had a few really nice groups since their time. Those brave dogs that roamed the big heaths around London; places like Bagshot, Hounslow, and Black Heath, for instance—here’s to you, sir. You’re not drinking.”

“I suppose,” said I, emptying my glass—“I suppose you have heard of the famous Turpin, who was born in this very village of Hempstead, and who used to lurk with his gang in Epping Forest, about a hundred years since.”

“I guess,” I said, downing my drink—“I guess you’ve heard of the infamous Turpin, who was born right in this village of Hempstead, and who used to hide out with his gang in Epping Forest, around a hundred years ago.”

“Have I?” cried he—“to be sure I have! A hearty old blade that; sound as pitch. Old Turpentine!—as we used to call him. A famous fine fellow, sir.”

“Have I?” he exclaimed. “Of course I have! A hearty old guy that; as solid as ever. Old Turpentine!—that’s what we used to call him. A really great guy, sir.”

“Well, sir,” continued I, “I have visited Waltham Abbey, and Chinkford Church, merely from the stories I heard, when a boy, of his exploits there, and I have searched Epping Forest for the cavern where he used to conceal himself. You must know,” added I, “that I am a sort of amateur of highwaymen. They were dashing, daring fellows; the last apologies that we had for the knight errants of yore. Ah, sir! the country has been sinking gradually into tameness and commonplace. We are losing the old English spirit. The bold knights of the post have all dwindled down into lurking footpads and sneaking pick-pockets. There’s no such thing as a dashing gentlemanlike robbery committed now-a-days on the king’s highway. A man may roll from one end of England to the other in a drowsy coach or jingling post-chaise without any other adventure than that of being occasionally overturned, sleeping in damp sheets, or having an ill-cooked dinner.

"Well, sir," I continued, "I've visited Waltham Abbey and Chinkford Church, just because of the stories I heard as a kid about his adventures there, and I’ve searched Epping Forest for the cave where he used to hide. You should know," I added, "that I'm kind of a hobbyist when it comes to highwaymen. They were bold and daring characters; the last remnants we had of the knights-errant from back in the day. Ah, sir! The country has been gradually becoming dull and ordinary. We're losing the old English spirit. The brave knights of the road have all turned into lurking thieves and sneaky pickpockets. There's no such thing as an exciting, gentlemanly robbery on the king's highway these days. A man can travel from one end of England to the other in a sleepy coach or clattering post-chaise with nothing more exciting happening than occasionally getting flipped over, sleeping on damp sheets, or having a poorly cooked dinner."

“We hear no more of public coaches being stopped and robbed by a well-mounted gang of resolute fellows with pistols in their hands and crapes over their faces. What a pretty poetical incident was it for example in domestic life, for a family carriage, on its way to a country seat, to be attacked about dusk; the old gentleman eased of his purse and watch, the ladies of their necklaces and ear-rings, by a politely-spoken highwayman on a blood mare, who afterwards leaped the hedge and galloped across the country, to the admiration of Miss Carolina the daughter, who would write a long and romantic account of The adventure to her friend Miss Juliana in town. Ah, sir! we meet with nothing of such incidents now-a-days.”

"We don't hear about public coaches getting stopped and robbed by a well-mounted gang of determined guys with guns and masks anymore. What a beautiful, poetic moment it would be in everyday life for a family carriage, on its way to a country house, to be attacked at dusk; the elderly man relieved of his wallet and watch, the ladies giving up their necklaces and earrings to a polite highwayman on a fast horse, who would then jump the hedge and ride off across the fields, much to the admiration of Miss Carolina, the daughter, who would write a long and romantic account of the adventure to her friend Miss Juliana in the city. Ah, sir! We don’t see anything like that these days."

“That, sir,”—said my companion, taking advantage of a pause, when I stopped to recover breath and to take a glass of wine, which he had just poured out—“that, sir, craving your pardon, is not owing to any want of old English pluck. It is the effect of this cursed system of banking. People do not travel with bags of gold as they did formerly. They have post notes and drafts on bankers. To rob a coach is like catching a crow; where you have nothing but carrion flesh and feathers for your pains. But a coach in old times, sir, was as rich as a Spanish galleon. It turned out the yellow boys bravely; and a private carriage was a cool hundred or two at least.”

“That, sir,” my companion said, seizing a moment when I paused to catch my breath and sip from the glass of wine he had just poured, “that, sir, if you’ll excuse me, isn’t due to any lack of good old English courage. It’s the result of this damned banking system. People don’t carry bags of gold like they used to. They have promissory notes and drafts from banks. Robbing a coach now is like trying to catch a crow; you end up with nothing but dead flesh and feathers for your trouble. But a coach in the old days, sir, was as valuable as a Spanish galleon. It used to be filled with gold coins, and a private carriage could easily hold a hundred or two at least.”

I cannot express how much I was delighted with the sallies of my new acquaintance. He told me that he often frequented the castle, and would be glad to know more of me; and I promised myself many a pleasant afternoon with him, when I should read him my poem, as it proceeded, and benefit by his remarks; for it was evident he had the true poetical feeling.

I can't express how delighted I was with the witty banter of my new friend. He mentioned that he often visited the castle and would love to get to know me better. I looked forward to many enjoyable afternoons with him, during which I could read him my poem as it developed and benefit from his feedback, as it was clear he had a genuine appreciation for poetry.

“Come, sir!” said he, pushing the bottle, “Damme, I like you!—You’re a man after my own heart; I’m cursed slow in making new acquaintances in general. One must stand on the reserve, you know. But when I meet with a man of your kidney, damme my heart jumps at once to him. Them’s my sentiments, sir. Come, sir, here’s Jack Straw’s health! I presume one can drink it now-a-days without treason!”

“Come on, sir!” he said, sliding the bottle over, “Damn it, I like you! You’re a man after my own heart; I usually take forever to make new friends. One has to be cautious, you know. But when I meet someone like you, damn, my heart just leaps to them. That’s how I feel, sir. Come on, here’s to Jack Straw’s health! I hope it’s safe to drink to that nowadays!”

“With all my heart,” said I gayly, “and Dick Turpin’s into the bargain!”

“With all my heart,” I said cheerfully, “and Dick Turpin's thrown in for good measure!”

“Ah, sir,” said the man in green, “those are the kind of men for poetry. The Newgate kalendar, sir! the Newgate kalendar is your only reading! There’s the place to look for bold deeds and dashing fellows.”

“Ah, sir,” said the man in green, “those are the types of men for poetry. The Newgate calendar, sir! The Newgate calendar is all you should read! That’s where you find bold actions and daring characters.”

We were so much pleased with each other that we sat until a late hour. I insisted on paying the bill, for both my purse and my heart were full; and I agreed that he should pay the score at our next meeting. As the coaches had all gone that run between Hempstead and London he had to return on foot, He was so delighted with the idea of my poem that he could talk of nothing else. He made me repeat such passages as I could remember, and though I did it in a very mangled manner, having a wretched memory, yet he was in raptures.

We enjoyed each other's company so much that we stayed until late. I insisted on covering the bill since both my wallet and my heart were full; I agreed that he could pay the next time we met. Since all the coaches between Hempstead and London were gone, he had to walk back. He was so excited about my poem that it was all he wanted to talk about. He asked me to repeat any parts I could remember, and even though I messed it up because my memory is terrible, he still loved it.

Every now and then he would break out with some scrap which he would Misquote most terribly, but would rub his hands and exclaim, “By Jupiter, that’s fine! that’s noble! Damme, sir, if I can conceive how you hit upon such ideas!”

Every now and then, he would throw out some quote that he would totally misquote, but he would rub his hands together and exclaim, “By Jupiter, that’s great! That’s impressive! I swear, sir, I can’t understand how you come up with such ideas!”

I must confess I did not always relish his misquotations, which sometimes made absolute nonsense of the passages; but what author stands upon trifles when he is praised? Never had I spent a more delightful evening. I did not perceive how the time flew. I could not bear to separate, but continued walking on, arm in arm with him past my lodgings, through Camden town, and across Crackscull Common, talking the whole way about my poem.

I have to admit, I didn't always appreciate his misquotations, which sometimes completely distorted the passages; but what author cares about small details when receiving praise? I had never spent a more enjoyable evening. I didn’t even notice how quickly time passed. I couldn't bear to say goodbye, so we kept walking, arm in arm, past my place, through Camden Town, and across Crackscull Common, chatting the entire time about my poem.

When we were half-way across the common he interrupted me in the midst of a quotation by telling me that this had been a famous place for footpads, and was still occasionally infested by them; and that a man had recently been shot there in attempting to defend himself.

When we were halfway across the field, he interrupted my quotation to tell me that this had been a well-known spot for muggers and that they were still sometimes around; and that a man had recently been shot there while trying to defend himself.

“The more fool he!” cried I. “A man is an idiot to risk life, or even limb, to save a paltry purse of money. It’s quite a different case from that of a duel, where one’s honor is concerned. For my part,” added I, “I should never think of making resistance against one of those desperadoes.”

“Such a fool!” I exclaimed. “It’s stupid for someone to risk their life, or even their health, just to save a measly amount of money. That’s completely different from a duel, where your honor is at stake. As for me,” I continued, “I would never consider resisting one of those thugs.”

“Say you so?” cried my friend in green, turning suddenly upon me, and putting a pistol to my breast, “Why, then have at you, my lad!—come, disburse! empty! unsack!”

“Is that what you say?” my friend in green exclaimed, suddenly turning to me and pointing a pistol at my chest. “Well then, here we go, my friend!—let’s see it! Hand it over! Spill it!”

In a word, I found that the muse had played me another of her tricks, and had betrayed me into the hands of a footpad. There was no time to parley; he made me turn my pockets inside out; and hearing the sound of distant footsteps, he made one fell swoop upon purse, watch, and all, gave me a thwack over my unlucky pate that laid me sprawling on the ground; and scampered away with his booty.

In short, I realized that my inspiration had pulled another fast one on me and led me straight into the hands of a mugger. There was no time to negotiate; he made me empty my pockets. Hearing footsteps in the distance, he suddenly grabbed my purse, watch, and everything else, gave me a hard slap on the head that sent me crashing to the ground, and ran off with my stuff.

I saw no more of my friend in green until a year or two afterwards; when I caught a sight of his poetical countenance among a crew of scapegraces, heavily ironed, who were on the way for transportation. He recognized me at once, tipped me an impudent wink, and asked me how I came on with the history of Jack Straw’s castle.

I didn’t see my friend in green again until a year or two later when I spotted his poetic face among a group of troublemakers, heavily chained, who were being taken away for transport. He recognized me immediately, gave me a cheeky wink, and asked how I was doing with the story of Jack Straw’s castle.

The catastrophe at Crackscull Common put an end to my summer’s campaign. I was cured of my poetical enthusiasm for rebels, robbers, and highwaymen. I was put out of conceit of my subject, and what was worse, I was lightened of my purse, in which was almost every farthing I had in the world. So I abandoned Sir Richard Steele’s cottage in despair, and crept into less celebrated, though no less poetical and airy lodgings in a garret in town.

The disaster at Crackscull Common brought my summer campaign to a halt. I lost my excitement for writing about rebels, robbers, and highwaymen. I became disillusioned with my subject, and, even worse, I was left with almost no money at all. So I gave up Sir Richard Steele’s cottage in despair and moved into a less famous but still just as poetic and airy attic in town.

I see you are growing weary, so I will not detain you with any more of my luckless attempts to get astride of Pegasus. Still I could not consent to give up the trial and abandon those dreams of renown in which I had indulged. How should I ever be able to look the literary circle of my native village in the face, if I were so completely to falsify their predictions. For some time longer, therefore, I continued to write for fame, and of course was the most miserable dog in existence, besides being in continual risk of starvation.

I see you’re getting tired, so I won’t keep you with any more of my unsuccessful attempts to ride Pegasus. Still, I couldn’t agree to give up trying and abandon those dreams of fame that I had entertained. How could I ever face the literary community in my hometown if I totally proved their predictions wrong? So, for a while longer, I kept writing for recognition, and of course, I was the most miserable person alive while constantly risking starvation.

I have many a time strolled sorrowfully along, with a sad heart and an empty stomach, about five o’clock, and looked wistfully down the areas in the west end of the town; and seen through the kitchen windows the fires gleaming, and the joints of meat turning on the spits and dripping with gravy; and the cook maids beating up puddings, or trussing turkeys, and have felt for the moment that if I could but have the run of one of those kitchens, Apollo and the muses might have the hungry heights of Parnassus for me. Oh, sir! talk of meditations among the tombs—they are nothing so melancholy as the meditations of a poor devil without penny in pouch, along a line of kitchen windows towards dinner-time.

Many times I’ve walked sadly along, with a heavy heart and an empty stomach, around five o’clock, and looked longingly down the alleyways in the west end of town. I’ve seen through the kitchen windows the fires glowing, with joints of meat turning on the spits and dripping with gravy, and the cooks whipping up puddings or prepping turkeys. For a moment, I felt that if I could just step into one of those kitchens, I’d forget Parnassus and its hungry heights. Oh, sir! They say meditating among tombs is the most depressing thing, but it’s nothing compared to the thoughts of a poor soul with no money in their pocket, standing in front of kitchen windows around dinner time.

At length, when almost reduced to famine and despair, the idea all at once entered my head, that perhaps I was not so clever a fellow as the village and myself had supposed. It was the salvation of me. The moment the idea popped into my brain, it brought conviction and comfort with it. I awoke as from a dream. I gave up immortal fame to those who could live on air; took to writing for mere bread, and have ever since led a very tolerable life of it. There is no man of letters so much at his ease, sir, as he that has no character to gain or lose. I had to train myself to it a little, however, and to clip my wings short at first, or they would have carried me up into poetry in spite of myself. So I determined to begin by the opposite extreme, and abandoning the higher regions of the craft, I came plump down to the lowest, and turned creeper.

Finally, when I was nearly starving and feeling hopeless, the thought suddenly struck me that maybe I wasn’t as smart as the village and I had believed. That thought saved me. As soon as it entered my mind, it brought me reassurance and clarity. I felt like I woke up from a dream. I gave up on the idea of achieving greatness for those who could survive on nothing; I started writing just to make a living, and since then, I’ve led a pretty decent life doing it. No writer is as comfortable as someone who has nothing to prove or lose. I had to work on adjusting to that mindset a bit, and at first, I had to rein in my ambitions, or I would have been swept up into poetry against my will. So I decided to start by going to the opposite extreme, leaving the lofty heights of the craft and diving straight into the basics, and became a journeyman.

“Creeper,” interrupted I, “and pray what is that?” Oh, sir! I see you are ignorant of the language of the craft; a creeper is one who furnishes the newspapers with paragraphs at so much a line, one that goes about in quest of misfortunes; attends the Bow-street office; the courts of justice and every other den of mischief and iniquity. We are paid at the rate of a penny a line, and as we can sell the same paragraph to almost every paper, we sometimes pick up a very decent day’s work. Now and then the muse is unkind, or the day uncommonly quiet, and then we rather starve; and sometimes the unconscionable editors will clip our paragraphs when they are a little too rhetorical, and snip off twopence or threepence at a go. I have many a time had my pot of porter snipped off of my dinner in this way; and have had to dine with dry lips. However, I cannot complain. I rose gradually in the lower ranks of the craft, and am now, I think, in the most comfortable region of literature.

“Creeper,” I interrupted, “what exactly is that?” Oh, sir! I can see you're not familiar with the lingo of our profession; a creeper is someone who provides newspapers with short pieces for a fee per line, someone who searches for misfortunes, visits the Bow Street office, the courts, and every other shady spot of trouble and wrongdoing. We get paid a penny a line, and since we can sell the same piece to almost every paper, we sometimes make a pretty good day’s wage. Occasionally, the inspiration runs dry, or the day is unusually slow, and then we struggle to make ends meet; and sometimes the ruthless editors will cut our pieces when they’re a bit too dramatic, docking us a couple of pence at a time. I’ve often had my drinks taken from my meal like this and had to eat with parched lips. Still, I can’t complain. I’ve worked my way up through the lower ranks of the field, and now, I believe, I'm in the most comfortable part of the literary world.

“And pray,” said I, “what may you be at present!” “At present,” said he, “I am a regular job writer, and turn my hand to anything. I work up the writings of others at so much a sheet; turn off translations; write second-rate articles to fill up reviews and magazines; compile travels and voyages, and furnish theatrical criticisms for the newspapers. All this authorship, you perceive, is anonymous; it gives no reputation, except among the trade, where I am considered an author of all work, and am always sure of employ. That’s the only reputation I want. I sleep soundly, without dread of duns or critics, and leave immortal fame to those that choose to fret and fight about it. Take my word for it, the only happy author in this world is he who is below the care of reputation.”

“And so,” I asked, “what do you do now?” “Right now,” he replied, “I'm a freelance writer, and I do just about anything. I charge by the sheet for rewriting others' work; I do translations; I write mediocre articles to fill up reviews and magazines; I compile travel and adventure pieces, and I provide theater reviews for newspapers. All this writing, as you can see, is done anonymously; it doesn’t bring any fame, except within the industry, where I’m known as a jack-of-all-trades and can always find work. That’s all the recognition I want. I sleep peacefully, without worrying about creditors or critics, and I leave lasting fame to those who want to stress and struggle over it. Believe me, the only truly happy writer in this world is one who doesn’t have to worry about their reputation.”

The preceding anecdotes of Buckthorne’s early schoolmate, and a variety of peculiarities which I had remarked in himself, gave me a strong curiosity to know something of his own history. There was a dash of careless good humor about him that pleased me exceedingly, and at times a whimsical tinge of melancholy ran through his humor that gave it an additional relish. He had evidently been a little chilled and buffeted by fortune, without being soured thereby, as some fruits become mellower and sweeter, from having been bruised or frost-bitten. He smiled when I expressed my desire. “I have no great story,” said he, “to relate. A mere tissue of errors and follies. But, such as it is, you shall have one epoch of it, by which you may judge of the rest.” And so, without any farther prelude, he gave me the following anecdotes of his early adventures.

The earlier stories about Buckthorne’s schoolmate and some unusual traits I noticed about him sparked my strong curiosity to learn more about his background. He had a hint of carefree humor that I found really appealing, and sometimes there was a quirky touch of sadness in his jokes that made them even more enjoyable. It was clear that he had faced some tough times and had been knocked around by life, but it hadn't made him bitter, much like how some fruits become sweeter and better after being bruised or frostbitten. He smiled when I shared my interest. “I don’t have much of a story to tell,” he said, “just a series of mistakes and silly moments. But, you can have one part of it, and then you can get a sense of the rest.” And with that, without any more buildup, he shared with me the following stories about his early adventures.

BUCKTHORNE, OR THE YOUNG MAN OF GREAT EXPECTATIONS

I was born to very little property, but to great expectations; which is perhaps one of the most unlucky fortunes that a man can be born to. My father was a country gentleman, the last of a very ancient and honorable, but decayed family, and resided in an old hunting lodge in Warwickshire. He was a keen sportsman and lived to the extent of his moderate income, so that I had little to expect from that quarter; but then I had a rich uncle by the mother’s side, a penurious, accumulating curmudgeon, who it was confidently expected would make me his heir; because he was an old bachelor; because I was named after him, and because he hated all the world except myself.

I was born with very little money, but with high expectations, which is probably one of the unluckiest situations a person can be born into. My father was a country gentleman, the last of an old and respected but faded family, and lived in an old hunting lodge in Warwickshire. He was an enthusiastic sportsman and lived right up to his modest income, so I didn’t have much to expect from that side; however, I had a wealthy uncle on my mother’s side, a miserly hoarder who everyone believed would make me his heir because he was an old bachelor, I was named after him, and he disliked everyone in the world except for me.

He was, in fact, an inveterate hater, a miser even in misanthropy, and hoarded up a grudge as he did a guinea. Thus, though my mother was an only sister, he had never forgiven her marriage with my father, against whom he had a cold, still, immovable pique, which had lain at the bottom of his heart, like a stone in a well, ever since they had been school boys together. My mother, however, considered me as the intermediate being that was to bring every thing again into harmony, for she looked upon me as a prodigy—God bless her. My heart overflows whenever I recall her tenderness: she was the most excellent, the most indulgent of mothers. I was her only child; it was a pity she had no more, for she had fondness of heart enough to have spoiled a dozen!

He was, in fact, a relentless hater, even stingy with his negativity, and held onto a grudge like it was treasure. So, even though my mother was his only sister, he never forgave her for marrying my father, against whom he held a cold, unshakeable resentment that had been buried in his heart, like a stone at the bottom of a well, ever since they were schoolboys together. My mother, however, saw me as the bridge that would restore harmony, thinking of me as a miracle—God bless her. My heart swells whenever I think of her kindness: she was the most wonderful, most forgiving of mothers. I was her only child; it’s a shame she didn’t have more, because she had enough love in her heart to spoil a dozen!

I was sent, at an early age, to a public school, sorely against my mother’s wishes, but my father insisted that it was the only way to make boys hardy. The school was kept by a conscientious prig of the ancient system, who did his duty by the boys intrusted to his care; that is to say, we were flogged soundly when we did not get our lessons. We were put into classes and thus flogged on in droves along the highways of knowledge, in the same manner as cattle are driven to market, where those that are heavy in gait or short in leg have to suffer for the superior alertness or longer limbs of their companions.

I was sent to a public school at a young age, much to my mother’s dismay, but my father insisted it was the only way to toughen boys up. The school was run by a strict teacher from the old school who was dedicated to his students; in other words, we were punished harshly when we didn’t learn our lessons. We were sorted into classes and punished in large groups along the pathways of education, much like cattle being herded to the market, where those who were slower or shorter had to endure the consequences for the faster or taller ones.

For my part, I confess it with shame, I was an incorrigible laggard. I have always had the poetical feeling, that is to say, I have always been an idle fellow and prone to play the vagabond. I used to get away from my books and school whenever I could, and ramble about the fields. I was surrounded by seductions for such a temperament. The school-house was an old-fashioned, white-washed mansion of wood and plaister, standing on the skirts of a beautiful village. Close by it was the venerable church with a tall Gothic spire. Before it spread a lovely green valley, with a little stream glistening along through willow groves; while a line of blue hills that bounded the landscape gave rise to many a summer day dream as to the fairy land that lay beyond.

Honestly, I admit it with embarrassment, I was a hopeless procrastinator. I've always had a creative spirit, meaning I've always been a bit lazy and inclined to wander. Whenever I could, I escaped from my books and school to roam around the fields. There were so many temptations for someone like me. The schoolhouse was an old, whitewashed building made of wood and plaster, located on the edge of a charming village. Nearby stood the ancient church with its tall Gothic spire. In front of it stretched a beautiful green valley, with a small stream sparkling as it flowed through willow groves; while a line of blue hills at the edge of the landscape inspired many summer daydreams about the magical land that lay beyond.

In spite of all the scourgings I suffered at that school to make me love my book, I cannot but look back upon the place with fondness. Indeed, I considered this frequent flagellation as the common lot of humanity, and the regular mode in which scholars were made. My kind mother used to lament over my details of the sore trials I underwent in the cause of learning; but my father turned a deaf ear to her expostulations. He had been flogged through school himself, and swore there was no other way of making a man of parts; though, let me speak it with all due reverence, my father was but an indifferent illustration of his own theory, for he was considered a grievous blockhead.

Despite all the punishment I endured at that school to make me appreciate my studies, I can’t help but look back at the place with affection. In fact, I regarded this frequent discipline as part of the human experience and the standard way that students were shaped. My caring mother used to worry about the tough challenges I faced in the name of education, but my father ignored her concerns. He had been beaten in school himself and insisted there was no other way to develop a capable person; however, I must say with all respect, my father wasn’t the best example of his own theory, as he was seen as quite foolish.

My poetical temperament evinced itself at a very early period. The Village church was attended every Sunday by a neighboring squire—the lord of the manor, whose park stretched quite to the village, and whose spacious country seat seemed to take the church under its protection. Indeed, you would have thought the church had been consecrated to him instead of to the Deity. The parish clerk bowed low before him, and the vergers humbled themselves into the dust in his presence. He always entered a little late and with some stir, striking his cane emphatically on the ground; swaying his hat in his hand, and looking loftily to the right and left, as he walked slowly up the aisle, and the parson, who always ate his Sunday dinner with him, never commenced service until he appeared. He sat with his family in a large pew gorgeously lined, humbling himself devoutly on velvet cushions, and reading lessons of meekness and lowliness of spirit out of splendid gold and morocco prayer-books. Whenever the parson spoke of the difficulty of the rich man’s entering the kingdom of heaven, the eyes of the congregation would turn towards the “grand pew,” and I thought the squire seemed pleased with the application.

My poetic side showed itself at a very young age. Every Sunday, a nearby squire—the lord of the manor—attended the village church. His estate extended right up to the village, and his large country house seemed to look after the church. Honestly, it felt like the church had been dedicated to him instead of to God. The parish clerk bowed deeply before him, and the vergers practically grovelled in his presence. He always arrived a bit late, making a scene as he struck his cane emphatically on the ground, waving his hat around while glancing loftily to the right and left as he strolled slowly up the aisle. The parson, who always had Sunday dinner with him, wouldn’t start the service until he showed up. He sat with his family in a fancy pew upholstered in fine fabric, devoutly lowering himself onto velvet cushions, reading lessons on humility and kindness from beautiful gold and leather-bound prayer books. Whenever the parson mentioned how hard it is for a rich person to enter the kingdom of heaven, the congregation would look towards the “grand pew,” and I thought the squire seemed to enjoy the reference.

The pomp of this pew and the aristocratical air of the family struck My imagination wonderfully, and I fell desperately in love with a little daughter of the squire’s about twelve years of age. This freak of fancy made me more truant from my studies than ever. I used to stroll about the squire’s park, and would lurk near the house to catch glimpses of this little damsel at the windows, or playing about the lawns, or walking out with her governess.

The grandeur of this pew and the aristocratic vibe of the family caught my attention in a big way, and I fell head over heels for the squire’s little daughter, who was about twelve years old. This whimsy distracted me from my studies more than ever. I would wander around the squire’s park and hang around near the house to catch glimpses of this little girl at the windows, playing on the lawns, or walking with her governess.

I had not enterprise or impudence enough to venture from my concealment; indeed, I felt like an arrant poacher, until I read one or two of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, when I pictured myself as some sylvan deity, and she a coy wood nymph of whom I was in pursuit. There is something extremely delicious in these early awakenings of the tender passion. I can feel, even at this moment, the thrilling of my boyish bosom, whenever by chance I caught a glimpse of her white frock fluttering among the shrubbery. I now began to read poetry. I carried about in my bosom a volume of Waller, which I had purloined from my mother’s library; and I applied to my little fair one all the compliments lavished upon Sacharissa.

I didn't have the guts or the confidence to leave my hiding spot; honestly, I felt like a total sneaky thief until I read a couple of Ovid's Metamorphoses. Then, I imagined myself as some woodland god and her as a shy forest nymph I was chasing after. There's something incredibly delightful about these early feelings of love. I can still feel that excitement in my chest whenever I caught a glimpse of her white dress fluttering in the bushes. I started reading poetry. I took a book of Waller from my mom's library and carried it around with me, applying all the sweet words meant for Sacharissa to my little crush.

At length I danced with her at a school ball. I was so awkward a booby, that I dared scarcely speak to her; I was filled with awe and embarrassment in her presence; but I was so inspired that my poetical temperament for the first time broke out in verse; and I fabricated some glowing lines, in which I be-rhymed the little lady under the favorite name of Sacharissa. I slipped the verses, trembling and blushing, into her hand the next Sunday as she came out of church. The little prude handed them to her mamma; the mamma handed them to the squire, the squire, who had no soul for poetry, sent them in dudgeon to the school-master; and the school-master, with a barbarity worthy of the dark ages, gave me a sound and peculiarly humiliating flogging for thus trespassing upon Parnassus.

Finally, I danced with her at a school dance. I was so awkward that I could hardly speak to her; I felt a mix of awe and embarrassment in her presence. But I was so inspired that for the first time, my poetic side came out in verse, and I wrote some passionate lines, calling her by the endearing name of Sacharissa. I nervously slid the verses into her hand the following Sunday as she left church. The little prude gave them to her mom; her mom passed them to the squire, who had no appreciation for poetry and angrily sent them to the schoolmaster. Then the schoolmaster, with a cruelty reminiscent of the dark ages, gave me a hard and particularly humiliating punishment for daring to tread upon the realm of poetry.

This was a sad outset for a votary of the muse. It ought to have cured me of my passion for poetry; but it only confirmed it, for I felt the spirit of a martyr rising within me. What was as well, perhaps, it cured me of my passion for the young lady; for I felt so indignant at the ignominious horsing I had incurred in celebrating her charms, that I could not hold up my head in church.

This was a disappointing start for someone devoted to poetry. It should have made me give up my passion for it, but instead, it only strengthened it, as I felt the spirit of a martyr awakening inside me. On the bright side, it also helped me move on from my crush on the young lady; I was so embarrassed by the humiliation I faced while praising her beauty that I couldn't even hold my head high in church.

Fortunately for my wounded sensibility, the midsummer holydays came on, and I returned home. My mother, as usual, inquired into all my school concerns, my little pleasures, and cares, and sorrows; for boyhood has its share of the one as well as of the others. I told her all, and she was indignant at the treatment I had experienced. She fired up at the arrogance of the squire, and the prudery of the daughter; and as to the school-master, she wondered where was the use of having school-masters, and why boys could not remain at home and be educated by tutors, under the eye of their mothers. She asked to see the verses I had written, and she was delighted with them; for to confess the truth, she had a pretty taste in poetry. She even showed to them to the parson’s wife, who protested they were charming, and the parson’s three daughters insisted on each having a copy of them.

Luckily for my sensitive feelings, the summer holidays arrived, and I went home. My mom, as always, asked about everything related to school, my little joys, worries, and sorrows, since boyhood includes a bit of all those things. I shared everything with her, and she was outraged by how I had been treated. She got upset about the squire's arrogance and the daughter’s prude attitude. As for the schoolmaster, she questioned the point of having schoolmasters at all and wondered why boys couldn't just stay home and be taught by tutors under their mothers’ supervision. She wanted to see the poems I had written, and she loved them; to be honest, she had a good eye for poetry. She even showed them to the parson’s wife, who claimed they were lovely, and the parson’s three daughters insisted on each getting a copy.

All this was exceedingly balsamic, and I was still more consoled and encouraged, when the young ladies, who were the blue-stockings of the neighborhood, and had read Dr. Johnson’s lives quite through, assured my mother that great geniuses never studied, but were always idle; upon which I began to surmise that I was myself something out of the common run. My father, however, was of a very different opinion, for when my mother, in the pride of her heart, showed him my copy of verses, he threw them out of the window, asking her “if she meant to make a ballad monger of the boy.” But he was a careless, common-thinking man, and I cannot say that I ever loved him much; my mother absorbed all my filial affection.

All this felt really uplifting, and I felt even more comforted and encouraged when the young women, who were the bookworms of the neighborhood and had read through Dr. Johnson’s lives, assured my mom that true geniuses never studied but were always idle. This led me to think that I might be quite special in some way. However, my dad had a very different view. When my mom proudly showed him my poem, he threw it out the window and asked her if she was trying to turn me into a ballad writer. But he was a careless, ordinary man, and I can’t say I ever loved him much; my mom got all my affection.

I used occasionally, during holydays, to be sent on short visits to the uncle, who was to make me his heir; they thought it would keep me in his mind, and render him fond of me. He was a withered, anxious-looking old fellow, and lived in a desolate old country seat, which he suffered to go to ruin from absolute niggardliness. He kept but one man-servant, who had lived, or rather starved, with him for years. No woman was allowed to sleep in the house. A daughter of the old servant lived by the gate, in what had been a porter’s lodge, and was permitted to come into the house about an hour each day, to make the beds, and cook a morsel of provisions.

I would occasionally be sent for short visits to my uncle during holidays, since they thought it would keep me in his thoughts and make him fond of me. He was a frail, anxious-looking old man who lived in a rundown country house, which he let decay out of sheer stinginess. He only had one male servant who had lived, or more accurately, starved, with him for years. No woman was allowed to stay in the house. The daughter of the old servant lived by the gate in what used to be the porter’s lodge and was allowed to come into the house for about an hour each day to make the beds and prepare a little food.

The park that surrounded the house was all run wild; the trees grown out of shape; the fish-ponds stagnant; the urns and statues fallen from their pedestals and buried among the rank grass. The hares and pheasants were so little molested, except by poachers, that they bred in great abundance, and sported about the rough lawns and weedy avenues. To guard the premises and frighten off robbers, of whom he was somewhat apprehensive, and visitors, whom he held in almost equal awe, my uncle kept two or three blood-hounds, who were always prowling round the house, and were the dread of the neighboring peasantry. They were gaunt and half-starved, seemed ready to devour one from mere hunger, and were an effectual check on any stranger’s approach to this wizard castle.

The park around the house was completely overgrown; the trees were misshapen, the fish ponds were stagnant, and the urns and statues had toppled from their pedestals, hidden among the tall grass. The hares and pheasants weren’t disturbed too much, except by poachers, so they multiplied rapidly and roamed the rough lawns and weedy paths. To protect the property and scare off thieves, whom he was somewhat worried about, as well as visitors, whom he regarded with almost equal fear, my uncle kept two or three bloodhounds that constantly patrolled around the house and were feared by the local villagers. They were skinny and half-starved, looking like they might attack out of sheer hunger, and effectively deterred any strangers from approaching this enchanted castle.

Such was my uncle’s house, which I used to visit now and then during The holydays. I was, as I have before said, the old man’s favorite; that is to say, he did not hate me so much as he did the rest of the world. I had been apprised of his character, and cautioned to cultivate his good-will; but I was too young and careless to be a courtier; and indeed have never been sufficiently studious of my interests to let them govern my feelings. However, we seemed to jog on very well together; and as my visits cost him almost nothing, they did not seem to be very unwelcome. I brought with me my gun and fishing-rod, and half supplied the table from the park and the fishponds.

My uncle’s house was a place I used to visit occasionally during the holidays. I was, as I mentioned before, his favorite; in other words, he didn’t dislike me as much as he did everyone else. I had been warned about his personality and advised to win his favor, but I was too young and carefree to play those games; honestly, I’ve never been the type to prioritize my own interests over my feelings. Still, we got along pretty well, and since my visits cost him almost nothing, they didn’t seem too unwelcome. I brought along my gun and fishing rod, often providing half the food for the table from the park and the fishponds.

Our meals were solitary and unsocial. My uncle rarely spoke; he pointed for whatever he wanted, and the servant perfectly understood him. Indeed, his man John, or Iron John, as he was called in the neighborhood, was a counterpart of his master. He was a tall, bony old fellow, with a dry wig that seemed made of cow’s tail, and a face as tough as though it had been made of bull’s hide. He was generally clad in a long, patched livery coat, taken out of the wardrobe of the house; and which bagged loosely about him, having evidently belonged to some corpulent predecessor, in the more plenteous days of the mansion. From long habits of taciturnity, the hinges of his jaws seemed to have grown absolutely rusty, and it cost him as much effort to set them ajar, and to let out a tolerable sentence, as it would have done to set open the iron gates of a park, and let out the family carriage that was dropping to pieces in the coach-house.

Our meals were lonely and awkward. My uncle rarely spoke; he simply pointed to whatever he wanted, and the servant understood him perfectly. In fact, his servant John, or Iron John as he was known around town, was just like his master. He was a tall, skinny old guy, with a dry wig that looked like it was made from a cow's tail, and a face as tough as bullhide. He usually wore a long, patchy livery coat from the house's wardrobe, which hung loosely on him, clearly having belonged to some larger predecessor from the more prosperous times of the mansion. Because he was so used to being quiet, his jaw seemed to have rusted shut, and it took him just as much effort to open his mouth and say a decent sentence as it would to pry open the iron gates of a park and let out a family carriage that was falling apart in the coach-house.

I cannot say, however, but that I was for some time amused with my uncle’s peculiarities. Even the very desolateness of the establishment had something in it that hit my fancy. When the weather was fine I used to amuse myself, in a solitary way, by rambling about the park, and coursing like a colt across its lawns. The hares and pheasants seemed to stare with surprise, to see a human being walking these forbidden grounds by day-light. Sometimes I amused myself by jerking stones, or shooting at birds with a bow and arrows; for to have used a gun would have been treason. Now and then my path was crossed by a little red-headed, ragged-tailed urchin, the son of the woman at the lodge, who ran wild about the premises. I tried to draw him into familiarity, and to make a companion of him; but he seemed to have imbibed the strange, unsocial character of every thing around him; and always kept aloof; so I considered him as another Orson, and amused myself with shooting at him with my bow and arrows, and he would hold up his breeches with one hand, and scamper away like a deer.

I can't deny that I was entertained for a while by my uncle’s quirks. Even the emptiness of the place had a charm that caught my interest. When the weather was nice, I would spend my time wandering through the park, running across the lawns like a young horse. The hares and pheasants seemed surprised to see a person walking these forbidden grounds in daylight. Sometimes I entertained myself by tossing stones or shooting at birds with a bow and arrows; using a gun would have been a betrayal. Occasionally, I’d cross paths with a little red-headed, raggedy boy, the son of the woman at the lodge, who roamed around the area. I tried to befriend him and make him my companion, but he seemed to have absorbed the strange, unfriendly vibe of everything around him and always kept his distance. So, I thought of him as another wild child and had fun shooting at him with my bow and arrows while he held up his pants with one hand and dashed away like a deer.

There was something in all this loneliness and wildness strangely pleasing to me. The great stables, empty and weather-broken, with the names of favorite horses over the vacant stalls; the windows bricked and boarded up; the broken roofs, garrisoned by rooks and jackdaws; all had a singularly forlorn appearance: one would have concluded the house to be totally uninhabited, were it not for a little thread of blue smoke, which now and then curled up like a corkscrew, from the centre of one of the wide chimneys, when my uncle’s starveling meal was cooking.

There was something oddly comforting about all this loneliness and wildness to me. The huge stables, empty and worn down by the weather, with the names of beloved horses over the empty stalls; the windows bricked and boarded up; the broken roofs, occupied by rooks and jackdaws; all had a uniquely sad look: one might have thought the house was completely deserted, if it weren't for a small spiral of blue smoke that occasionally curled up like a corkscrew from the center of one of the wide chimneys, when my uncle was cooking his meager meal.

My uncle’s room was in a remote corner of the building, strongly secured and generally locked. I was never admitted into this strong-hold, where the old man would remain for the greater part of the time, drawn up like a veteran spider in the citadel of his web. The rest of the mansion, however, was open to me, and I sauntered about it unconstrained. The damp and rain which beat in through the broken windows, crumbled the paper from the walls; mouldered the pictures, and gradually destroyed the furniture. I loved to rove about the wide, waste chambers in bad weather, and listen to the howling of the wind, and the banging about of the doors and window-shutters. I pleased myself with the idea how completely, when I came to the estate, I would renovate all things, and make the old building ring with merriment, till it was astonished at its own jocundity.

My uncle’s room was in a far corner of the building, heavily secured and usually locked. I was never allowed inside this fortress, where the old man stayed for most of the time, like a seasoned spider in the center of its web. However, the rest of the mansion was open to me, and I wandered through it freely. The damp and rain that seeped in through the broken windows ruined the wallpaper, rotting the pictures and slowly destroying the furniture. I loved to explore the vast, empty rooms in bad weather, listening to the howling wind and the banging of the doors and window-shutters. I entertained myself with the thought of how completely I would renovate everything when I inherited the estate, making the old building come alive with joy, until it was amazed by its own happiness.

The chamber which I occupied on these visits was the same that had been my mother’s, when a girl. There was still the toilet-table of her own adorning; the landscapes of her own drawing. She had never seen it since her marriage, but would often ask me if every thing was still the same. All was just the same; for I loved that chamber on her account, and had taken pains to put every thing in order, and to mend all the flaws in the windows with my own hands. I anticipated the time when I should once more welcome her to the house of her fathers, and restore her to this little nestling-place of her childhood.

The room I stayed in during these visits was the same one my mother had when she was a girl. Her own vanity was still there, along with the landscapes she had drawn. She hadn’t seen it since getting married, but she would often ask me if everything was still the same. Everything was just as it had been; I loved that room because of her, and I took care to keep everything in order and fixed all the flaws in the windows myself. I looked forward to the time when I could welcome her back to her childhood home and bring her back to this little haven from her past.

At length my evil genius, or, what perhaps is the same thing, the muse, inspired me with the notion of rhyming again. My uncle, who never went to church, used on Sundays to read chapters out of the Bible; and Iron John, the woman from the lodge, and myself, were his congregation. It seemed to be all one to him what he read, so long as it was something from the Bible: sometimes, therefore, it would be the Song of Solomon; and this withered anatomy would read about being “stayed with flagons and comforted with apples, for he was sick of love.” Sometimes he would hobble, with spectacle on nose, through whole chapters of hard Hebrew names in Deuteronomy; at which the poor woman would sigh and groan as if wonderfully moved. His favorite book, however, was “The Pilgrim’s Progress;” and when he came to that part which treats of Doubting Castle and Giant Despair, I thought invariably of him and his desolate old country seat. So much did the idea amuse me, that I took to scribbling about it under the trees in the park; and in a few days had made some progress in a poem, in which I had given a description of the place, under the name of Doubting Castle, and personified my uncle as Giant Despair.

Eventually, my bad luck, or what might be the same thing, inspiration, hit me with the idea of writing rhymes again. My uncle, who never attended church, would read chapters from the Bible on Sundays, and Iron John, the woman from the lodge, and I were his audience. He seemed indifferent about what he read, as long as it came from the Bible: sometimes it would be the Song of Solomon, and this old man would read about being “stayed with flagons and comforted with apples, for he was sick of love.” Other times, he’d struggle through entire chapters filled with tough Hebrew names in Deuteronomy, causing the poor woman to sigh and groan as if deeply affected. However, his favorite book was “The Pilgrim’s Progress,” and whenever he reached the part about Doubting Castle and Giant Despair, I always thought of him and his lonely old estate. The idea amused me so much that I started scribbling about it under the trees in the park; within a few days, I had made some progress on a poem where I described the place as Doubting Castle and depicted my uncle as Giant Despair.

I lost my poem somewhere about the house, and I soon suspected that my uncle had found it; as he harshly intimated to me that I could return home, and that I need not come and see him again until he should send for me.

I lost my poem somewhere in the house, and I quickly suspected that my uncle had found it; he bluntly hinted to me that I could go home and that I should not visit him again until he called for me.

Just about this time my mother died.—I cannot dwell upon this circumstance; my heart, careless and wayworn as it is, gushes with the recollection. Her death was an event that perhaps gave a turn to all my after fortunes. With her died all that made home attractive, for my father was harsh, as I have before said, and had never treated me with kindness. Not that he exerted any unusual severity towards me, but it was his way. I do not complain of him. In fact, I have never been of a complaining disposition. I seem born to be buffeted by friends and fortune, and nature has made me a careless endurer of buffetings.

Just around this time, my mom passed away. I can’t linger on this; my heart, though worn and careless, aches at the memory. Her death changed everything for me. With her gone, all that made home feel welcoming disappeared, because my dad was harsh, as I mentioned before, and had never shown me kindness. He didn’t treat me with any extra cruelty, it was just his way. I’m not complaining about him. Honestly, I've never been the type to complain. It seems like I've always been tossed around by friends and fate, and nature has made me someone who just endures these challenges.

I now, however, began to grow very impatient of remaining at school, to be flogged for things that I did not like. I longed for variety, especially now that I had not my uncle’s to resort to, by way of diversifying the dullness of school with the dreariness of his country seat. I was now turned of sixteen; tall for my age, and full of idle fancies. I had a roving, inextinguishable desire to see different kinds of life, and different orders of society; and this vagrant humor had been fostered in me by Tom Dribble, the prime wag and great genius of the school, who had all the rambling propensities of a poet.

I was starting to get really impatient about staying in school, getting punished for things I didn't care about. I craved some variety, especially now that I couldn't go to my uncle's place to break up the monotony of school with the gloominess of his country home. I had just turned sixteen; I was tall for my age and full of daydreams. I had this intense, unquenchable desire to experience different lifestyles and social classes; and this restless feeling had been encouraged in me by Tom Dribble, the school's chief jokester and creative genius, who had all the wandering instincts of a poet.

I used to set at my desk in the school, on a fine summer’s day, and instead of studying the book which lay open before me, my eye was gazing through the window on the green fields and blue hills. How I envied the happy groups seated on the tops of stage-coaches, chatting, and joking, and laughing, as they were whirled by the school-house, on their way to the metropolis. Even the wagoners trudging along beside their ponderous teams, and traversing the kingdom, from one end to the other, were objects of envy to me. I fancied to myself what adventures they must experience, and what odd scenes of life they must witness. All this was doubtless the poetical temperament working within me, and tempting me forth into a world of its own creation, which I mistook for the world of real life.

I used to sit at my desk in school on a beautiful summer day, and instead of studying the book in front of me, my eyes would drift out the window to the green fields and blue hills. I envied the happy groups sitting on top of stagecoaches, chatting, joking, and laughing as they passed by the school on their way to the city. Even the wagon drivers trudging along with their heavy teams, traveling across the country from one end to the other, made me wish I could trade places with them. I imagined the adventures they must have and the quirky scenes of life they must see. All of this was definitely my poetic nature stirring within me, tempting me to escape into a world of imagination that I mistook for real life.

While my mother lived, this strange propensity to roam was counteracted by the stronger attractions of home, and by the powerful ties of affection, which drew me to her side; but now that she was gone, the attractions had ceased; the ties were severed. I had no longer an anchorage ground for my heart; but was at the mercy of every vagrant impulse. Nothing but the narrow allowance on which my father kept me, and the consequent penury of my purse, prevented me from mounting the top of a stage-coach and launching myself adrift on the great ocean of life.

While my mother was alive, this strange urge to wander was kept in check by the stronger pull of home and the deep affection that drew me to her. But now that she was gone, those pulls had vanished; the ties were broken. I no longer had a safe place for my heart and was left vulnerable to every wandering thought. The only thing stopping me from getting on top of a stagecoach and setting off into the vast sea of life was my father's limited allowance and the resulting emptiness of my wallet.

Just about this time the village was agitated for a day or two, by the passing through of several caravans, containing wild beasts, and other spectacles for a great fair annually held at a neighboring town.

Around this time, the village was stirred up for a day or two by the arrival of several caravans carrying wild animals and other attractions for a big fair held every year in a nearby town.

I had never seen a fair of any consequence, and my curiosity was Powerfully awakened by this bustle of preparation. I gazed with respect and wonder at the vagrant personages who accompanied these caravans. I loitered about the village inn, listening with curiosity and delight to the slang talk and cant jokes of the showmen and their followers; and I felt an eager desire to witness this fair, which my fancy decked out as something wonderfully fine.

I had never seen a fair that really mattered, and my curiosity was strongly stirred by all the hustle and bustle of preparation. I looked with respect and amazement at the wandering characters who traveled with these caravans. I hung around the village inn, listening with curiosity and joy to the slang and silly jokes of the showmen and their crew; and I felt a strong desire to see this fair, which my imagination painted as something incredibly impressive.

A holyday afternoon presented, when I could be absent from the school from noon until evening. A wagon was going from the village to the fair. I could not resist the temptation, nor the eloquence of Tom Dribble, who was a truant to the very heart’s core. We hired seats, and set off full of boyish expectation. I promised myself that I would but take a peep at the land of promise, and hasten back again before my absence should be noticed.

A holiday afternoon arrived when I could skip school from noon until evening. A wagon was going from the village to the fair. I couldn’t resist the temptation, nor the persuasive words of Tom Dribble, who was a true truant at heart. We rented seats and set off, filled with youthful excitement. I told myself I would just take a quick look at the land of promise and hurry back before anyone noticed I was gone.

Heavens! how happy I was on arriving at the fair! How I was enchanted with the world of fun and pageantry around me! The humors of Punch; the feats of the equestrians; the magical tricks of the conjurors! But what principally caught my attention was—an itinerant theatre; where a tragedy, pantomime, and farce were all acted in the course of half an hour, and more of the dramatis personae murdered, than at either Drury Lane or Covent Garden in a whole evening. I have since seen many a play performed by the best actors in the world, but never have I derived half the delight from any that I did from this first representation.

Wow! I was so happy when I arrived at the fair! I was enchanted by the fun and excitement all around me! The humor of Punch, the skills of the performers, the magical tricks of the magicians! But what really grabbed my attention was an traveling theater, where a tragedy, pantomime, and farce were all performed in just half an hour, with more characters getting killed than at either Drury Lane or Covent Garden in a whole evening. I’ve seen many plays performed by the best actors in the world since then, but I’ve never enjoyed any as much as I did this first performance.

There was a ferocious tyrant in a skull cap like an inverted porringer, and a dress of red baize, magnificently embroidered with gilt leather; with his face so be-whiskered and his eyebrows so knit and expanded with burnt cork, that he made my heart quake within me as he stamped about the little stage. I was enraptured too with the surpassing beauty of a distressed damsel, in faded pink silk, and dirty white muslin, whom he held in cruel captivity by way of gaining her affections; and who wept and wrung her hands and flourished a ragged pocket handkerchief from the top of an impregnable tower, of the size of a band-box.

There was a fierce tyrant wearing a skull cap that looked like an upside-down bowl, dressed in a brilliantly embroidered red fabric; his face was heavily bearded and his eyebrows were thick and darkened with burnt cork, making my heart race as he stomped around the small stage. I was also captivated by the stunning beauty of a distressed damsel, dressed in faded pink silk and dirty white muslin, whom he kept in cruel captivity to win her love; she cried and wrung her hands while waving a tattered handkerchief from the top of a tower, about the size of a hatbox.

Even after I had come out from the play, I could not tear myself from the vicinity of the theatre; but lingered, gazing, and wondering, and laughing at the dramatis personae, as they performed their antics, or danced upon a stage in front of the booth, to decoy a new set of spectators.

Even after I left the play, I couldn't pull myself away from the area around the theater; I lingered, watching, wondering, and laughing at the characters as they showed off their antics or danced on stage in front of the booth to attract a new crowd of spectators.

I was so bewildered by the scene, and so lost in the crowd of sensations that kept swarming upon me that I was like one entranced. I lost my companion Tom Dribble, in a tumult and scuffle that took place near one of the shows, but I was too much occupied in mind to think long about him. I strolled about until dark, when the fair was lighted up, and a new scene of magic opened upon me. The illumination of the tents and booths; the brilliant effect of the stages decorated with lamps, with dramatic groups flaunting about them in gaudy dresses, contrasted splendidly with the surrounding darkness; while the uproar of drums, trumpets, fiddles, hautboys, and cymbals, mingled with the harangues of the showmen, the squeaking of Punch, and the shouts and laughter of the crowd, all united to complete my giddy distraction.

I was so confused by the scene and completely overwhelmed by the flood of sensations that I felt like I was in a trance. I lost track of my friend Tom Dribble in the chaos and commotion near one of the shows, but I was too caught up in my thoughts to worry about him. I wandered around until it got dark, when the fair was lit up, revealing a new magical scene. The lights on the tents and booths, the stunning effect of the stages adorned with lamps, and the dramatic groups parading around in bright costumes stood out brilliantly against the surrounding darkness. Meanwhile, the noise of drums, trumpets, fiddles, oboes, and cymbals mixed with the showmen's speeches, the squeaks of Punch, and the cheers and laughter of the crowd all came together to add to my dizzying excitement.

Time flew without my perceiving it. When I came to myself and thought of the school, I hastened to return. I inquired for the wagon in which I had come: it had been gone for hours. I asked the time: it was almost midnight! A sudden quaking seized me. How was I to get back to school? I was too weary to make the journey on foot, and I knew not where to apply for a conveyance. Even if I should find one, could I venture to disturb the school-house long after midnight? to arouse that sleeping lion, the usher, in the very midst of his night’s rest? The idea was too dreadful for a delinquent school-boy. All the horrors of return rushed upon me—my absence must long before this have been remarked—and absent for a whole night? A deed of darkness not easily to be expiated. The rod of the pedagogue budded forth into tenfold terrors before my affrighted fancy. I pictured to myself punishment and humiliation in every variety of form; and my heart sickened at the picture. Alas! how often are the petty ills of boyhood as painful to our tender natures, as are the sterner evils of manhood to our robuster minds.

Time flew by without me noticing. When I finally came to my senses and thought about school, I rushed to head back. I asked about the wagon I had taken; it had left hours ago. I checked the time: it was almost midnight! A sudden panic hit me. How was I supposed to get back to school? I was too tired to walk, and I had no idea where to get a ride. Even if I did find one, how could I possibly disturb the schoolhouse long after midnight? To wake up the usher from his deep sleep? That thought was too terrifying for a guilty student. All the dread of returning overwhelmed me—my absence must have been noticed by now—and being gone for an entire night? That was a serious mistake that wouldn’t be easily forgiven. The thought of the teacher's punishment filled my mind with fear. I imagined every kind of punishment and humiliation; it made my heart sink. How often are the little troubles of childhood just as painful to us as the harsher challenges of adulthood are to stronger minds.

I wandered about among the booths, and I might have derived a lesson from my actual feelings, how much the charms of this world depend upon ourselves; for I no longer saw anything gay or delightful in the revelry around me. At length I lay down, wearied and perplexed, behind one of the large tents, and covering myself with the margin of the tent cloth to keep off the night chill, I soon fell fast asleep.

I wandered around the booths and realized that the appeal of this world really depends on how we feel; I stopped seeing anything fun or enjoyable in the festivities around me. Eventually, I lay down, exhausted and confused, behind one of the big tents. Covering myself with the edge of the tent cloth to block the night chill, I quickly fell asleep.

I had not slept long, when I was awakened by the noise of merriment within an adjoining booth. It was the itinerant theatre, rudely constructed of boards and canvas. I peeped through an aperture, and saw the whole dramatis personae, tragedy, comedy, pantomime, all refreshing themselves after the final dismissal of their auditors. They were merry and gamesome, and made their flimsy theatre ring with laughter. I was astonished to see the tragedy tyrant in red baize and fierce whiskers, who had made my heart quake as he strutted about the boards, now transformed into a fat, good humored fellow; the beaming porringer laid aside from his brow, and his jolly face washed from all the terrors of burnt cork. I was delighted, too, to see the distressed damsel in faded silk and dirty muslin, who had trembled under his tyranny, and afflicted me so much by her sorrows, now seated familiarly on his knee, and quaffing from the same tankard. Harlequin lay asleep on one of the benches; and monks, satyrs, and Vestal virgins were grouped together, laughing outrageously at a broad story told by an unhappy count, who had been barbarously murdered in the tragedy. This was, indeed, novelty to me. It was a peep into another planet. I gazed and listened with intense curiosity and enjoyment. They had a thousand odd stories and jokes about the events of the day, and burlesque descriptions and mimickings of the spectators who had been admiring them. Their conversation was full of allusions to their adventures at different places, where they had exhibited; the characters they had met with in different villages; and the ludicrous difficulties in which they had occasionally been involved. All past cares and troubles were now turned by these thoughtless beings into matter of merriment; and made to contribute to the gayety of the moment. They had been moving from fair to fair about the kingdom, and were the next morning to set out on their way to London.

I hadn't slept long when I was woken up by the sounds of laughter coming from a nearby booth. It was the traveling theater, roughly put together with boards and canvas. I peeked through a small opening and saw the whole cast—tragedy, comedy, pantomime—relaxing after their final performance. They were cheerful and playful, filling their makeshift theater with laughter. I was surprised to see the tragic figure in red fabric and wild whiskers, who had once made my heart race as he strutted across the stage, now turned into a jolly, good-natured guy; his heavy hat had been removed, and his face was free of any frightening makeup. I also felt pleased to see the distressed damsel in worn silk and dirty muslin, who had been so frightened by him and had made me feel her pain, now casually sitting on his lap, sharing a drink from the same mug. Harlequin was asleep on one of the benches, and monks, satyrs, and Vestal virgins were gathered together, laughing wildly at a vulgar joke shared by a count who had been brutally murdered in the play. This was something new for me. It felt like a glimpse into another world. I watched and listened with great curiosity and enjoyment. They had a thousand quirky stories and jokes about the day’s events, along with ridiculous impressions of the audience who had been watching them. Their conversation was filled with references to their experiences in various places where they had performed, the characters they had encountered in different towns, and the humorous mishaps they had found themselves in. All their past worries and troubles had been turned by these carefree people into sources of laughter, adding to the joy of the moment. They had been traveling from fair to fair throughout the kingdom and were set to leave for London the next morning.

My resolution was taken. I crept from my nest, and scrambled through a hedge into a neighboring field, where I went to work to make a tatterdemalion of myself. I tore my clothes; soiled them with dirt; begrimed my face and hands; and, crawling near one of the booths, purloined an old hat, and left my new one in its place. It was an honest theft, and I hope may not hereafter rise up in judgment against me.

My decision was made. I quietly left my hiding spot and squeezed through a hedge into a nearby field, where I set out to make a mess of myself. I ripped my clothes, got them dirty, smeared my face and hands, and, crawling close to one of the booths, stole an old hat, leaving my new one behind. It was a fair theft, and I hope it doesn’t come back to haunt me later.

I now ventured to the scene of merrymaking, and, presenting myself before the dramatic corps, offered myself as a volunteer. I felt terribly agitated and abashed, for “never before stood I in such a presence.” I had addressed myself to the manager of the company. He was a fat man, dressed in dirty white; with a red sash fringed with tinsel, swathed round his body. His face was smeared with paint, and a majestic plume towered from an old spangled black bonnet. He was the Jupiter tonans of this Olympus, and was surrounded by the interior gods and goddesses of his court. He sat on the end of a bench, by a table, with one arm akimbo and the other extended to the handle of a tankard, which he had slowly set down from his lips as he surveyed me from head to foot. It was a moment of awful scrutiny, and I fancied the groups around all watching us in silent suspense, and waiting for the imperial nod.

I now made my way to the party scene and, introducing myself to the theater troupe, volunteered to join. I felt extremely nervous and embarrassed because “I had never been in such a presence before.” I approached the company manager. He was a heavyset man dressed in dirty white, with a red sash decorated with tinsel wrapped around his body. His face was covered in makeup, and a grand feather plume rose from an old sequined black hat. He was the king of this stage, surrounded by the gods and goddesses of his troupe. He sat at the end of a bench next to a table, one arm cocked at his side and the other reaching for a tankard, which he had just lowered from his lips as he examined me from head to toe. It was a moment of intense scrutiny, and I imagined the groups around us watching in silent anticipation, waiting for his royal approval.

He questioned me as to who I was; what were my qualifications; and what terms I expected. I passed myself off for a discharged servant from a gentleman’s family; and as, happily, one does not require a special recommendation to get admitted into bad company, the questions on that head were easily satisfied. As to my accomplishments, I would spout a little poetry, and knew several scenes of plays, which I had learnt at school exhibitions. I could dance—, that was enough; no further questions were asked me as to accomplishments; it was the very thing they wanted; and, as I asked no wages, but merely meat and drink, and safe conduct about the world, a bargain was struck in a moment.

He asked me who I was, what my qualifications were, and what terms I was expecting. I pretended to be a discharged servant from a gentleman's household, and luckily, you don't need a special recommendation to get into bad company, so those questions were easily answered. As for my skills, I could recite a bit of poetry and knew several scenes from plays that I had learned during school performances. I could dance—that was enough; no one asked me any more about my skills. It was exactly what they were looking for, and since I didn't ask for wages but just food, drink, and safe passage through life, a deal was made in no time.

Behold me, therefore transformed of a sudden from a gentleman student to a dancing buffoon; for such, in fact, was the character in which I made my debut. I was one of those who formed the groups in the dramas, and were principally, employed on the stage in front of the booth, to attract company. I was equipped as a satyr, in a dress of drab frize that fitted to my shape; with a great laughing mask, ornamented with huge ears and short horns. I was pleased with the disguise, because it kept me from the danger of being discovered, whilst we were in that part of the country; and, as I had merely to dance and make antics, the character was favorable to a debutant, being almost on a par with Simon Snug’s part of the Lion, which required nothing but roaring.

So here I am, suddenly transformed from a gentleman student into a dancing clown; that’s really the role I debuted in. I was one of those performers who made up the crowds in the plays and was primarily on stage in front of the booth to attract an audience. I was dressed as a satyr, in a snug outfit made of drab fabric; I wore a big laughing mask, decorated with large ears and short horns. I liked the costume because it protected me from being recognized while we were in that area; plus, since all I had to do was dance and act silly, the role was perfect for a newcomer, much like Simon Snug’s part as the Lion, which only required roaring.

I cannot tell you how happy I was at this sudden change in my situation. I felt no degradation, for I had seen too little of society to be thoughtful about the differences of rank; and a boy of sixteen is seldom aristocratical. I had given up no friend; for there seemed to be no one in the world that cared for me, now my poor mother was dead. I had given up no pleasure; for my pleasure was to ramble about and indulge the flow of a poetical imagination; and I now enjoyed it in perfection. There is no life so truly poetical as that of a dancing buffoon.

I can’t express how happy I was with this sudden change in my situation. I didn’t feel any sense of degradation because I had seen so little of society to really care about differences in status; and a sixteen-year-old rarely has an aristocratic mindset. I hadn’t lost any friends, since it seemed like no one in the world cared about me now that my poor mother was gone. I hadn’t given up any pleasures either, because my enjoyment came from wandering around and indulging my poetic imagination, which I was now able to do perfectly. There’s no life more truly poetic than that of a dancing fool.

It may be said that all this argued grovelling inclinations. I do not think so; not that I mean to vindicate myself in any great degree; I know too well what a whimsical compound I am. But in this instance I was seduced by no love of low company, nor disposition to indulge in low vices. I have always despised the brutally vulgar; and I have always had a disgust at vice, whether in high or low life. I was governed merely by a sudden and thoughtless impulse. I had no idea of resorting to this profession as a mode of life; or of attaching myself to these people, as my future class of society. I thought merely of a temporary gratification of my curiosity, and an indulgence of my humors. I had already a strong relish for the peculiarities of character and the varieties of situation, and I have always been fond of the comedy of life, and desirous of seeing it through all its shifting scenes.

It might be said that all this suggests my tendency to grovel. I don’t believe that’s the case; not that I intend to justify myself too much—I know well enough what a quirky mix I am. But in this instance, I wasn't tempted by a love for low company or a desire to indulge in petty vices. I have always looked down on the grossly crude, and I've always found vice unpleasant, whether it's in high or low society. I was simply driven by a sudden and thoughtless impulse. I never intended to take up this profession as a way of life or to associate with these people as my future social circle. I was just thinking about a temporary satisfaction of my curiosity and indulging my whims. I had already developed a strong appreciation for the quirks of character and the variety of situations, and I’ve always enjoyed the comedy of life, eager to witness it through all its changing scenes.

In mingling, therefore, among mountebanks and buffoons I was protected by the very vivacity of imagination which had led me among them. I moved about enveloped, as it were, in a protecting delusion, which my fancy spread around me. I assimilated to these people only as they struck me poetically; their whimsical ways and a certain picturesqueness in their mode of life entertained me; but I was neither amused nor corrupted by their vices. In short, I mingled among them, as Prince Hal did among his graceless associates, merely to gratify my humor.

As I interacted with con artists and entertainers, I was shielded by the very creativity that had drawn me to them. I wandered about wrapped in a comforting illusion that my imagination created for me. I connected with these people only in a poetic sense; their quirky behaviors and a certain charm in their lifestyle amused me, but I was neither entertained nor tainted by their flaws. In short, I spent time with them, like Prince Hal did with his wild friends, just to indulge my own sense of humor.

I did not investigate my motives in this manner, at the time, for I was too careless and thoughtless to reason about the matter; but I do so now, when I look back with trembling to think of the ordeal to which I unthinkingly exposed myself, and the manner in which I passed through it. Nothing, I am convinced, but the poetical temperament, that hurried me into the scrape, brought me out of it without my becoming an arrant vagabond.

I didn’t think much about my motives back then because I was too careless and thoughtless to consider it; but I reflect on it now, feeling anxious about the ordeal I unknowingly put myself through and how I managed to get through it. I’m convinced that only my poetic nature, which got me into trouble, also helped me get out of it without becoming a complete drifter.

Full of the enjoyment of the moment, giddy with the wildness of animal spirits, so rapturous in a boy, I capered, I danced, I played a thousand fantastic tricks about the stage, in the villages in which we exhibited; and I was universally pronounced the most agreeable monster that had ever been seen in those parts. My disappearance from school had awakened my father’s anxiety; for I one day heard a description of myself cried before the very booth in which I was exhibiting; with the offer of a reward for any intelligence of me. I had no great scruple about letting my father suffer a little uneasiness on my account; it would punish him for past indifference, and would make him value me the more when he found me again. I have wondered that some of my comrades did not recognize in me the stray sheep that was cried; but they were all, no doubt, occupied by their own concerns. They were all laboring seriously in their antic vocations, for folly was a mere trade with the most of them, and they often grinned and capered with heavy hearts. With me, on the contrary, it was all real. I acted con amore, and rattled and laughed from the irrepressible gayety of my spirits. It is true that, now and then, I started and looked grave on receiving a sudden thwack from the wooden sword of Harlequin, in the course of my gambols; as it brought to mind the birch of my school-master. But I soon got accustomed to it; and bore all the cuffing, and kicking, and tumbling about, that form the practical wit of your itinerant pantomime, with a good humor that made me a prodigious favorite.

Caught up in the moment, exhilarated by the wild energy of youth, I frolicked, danced, and performed a thousand crazy tricks on stage in the towns where we showcased our acts. Everyone called me the most entertaining creature they had ever seen around there. My sudden absence from school had worried my dad; one day, I even overheard a description of myself being announced outside the very booth where I was performing, along with a reward for any information about me. I didn't mind letting my dad feel a little anxious about me; it would remind him of how he had treated me before and make him appreciate me more when we reunited. I’ve often wondered why none of my friends recognized me as the missing kid they were looking for, but they were probably too caught up in their own lives. They were all seriously working in their silly jobs, as for most of them, being foolish was just a way to make a living, and they often smiled and danced despite feeling down. For me, though, it was all genuine. I performed with passion and laughed uncontrollably from the pure joy I felt. It's true that occasionally I would jump and act serious after getting unexpectedly whacked by Harlequin’s wooden sword during my antics, as it reminded me of the birch from my schoolmaster. But I quickly got used to it and handled all the slaps, kicks, and tumbles that came with the clever antics of our traveling show with a good humor that made me incredibly popular.

The country campaign of the troupe was soon at an end, and we set off for the metropolis, to perform at the fairs which are held in its vicinity. The greater part of our theatrical property was sent on direct, to be in a state of preparation for the opening of the fairs; while a detachment of the company travelled slowly on, foraging among the villages. I was amused with the desultory, hap-hazard kind of life we led; here to-day, and gone to-morrow. Sometimes revelling in ale-houses; sometimes feasting under hedges in the green fields. When audiences were crowded and business profitable, we fared well, and when otherwise, we fared scantily, and consoled ourselves with anticipations of the next day’s success.

The country tour of the troupe was soon over, and we headed to the city to perform at the fairs held nearby. Most of our theatrical equipment was sent ahead to get ready for the fairs' opening, while a smaller group from the company traveled slowly, gathering supplies from the villages. I found the random, carefree lifestyle we led amusing; we were here today and gone tomorrow. Sometimes we enjoyed drinks at pubs, other times we had meals under hedges in the green fields. When the audiences were large and business was good, we did well, and when it wasn't, we managed with little and comforted ourselves with hopes for the next day's success.

At length the increasing frequency of coaches hurrying past us, covered with passengers; the increasing number of carriages, carts, wagons, gigs, droves of cattle and flocks of sheep, all thronging the road; the snug country boxes with trim flower gardens twelve feet square, and their trees twelve feet high, all powdered with dust; and the innumerable seminaries for young ladies and gentlemen, situated along the road, for the benefit of country air and rural retirement; all these insignia announced that the mighty London was at hand. The hurry, and the crowd, and the bustle, and the noise, and the dust, increased as we proceeded, until I saw the great cloud of smoke hanging in the air, like a canopy of state, over this queen of cities.

Eventually, the increasing number of coaches rushing past us, packed with passengers; the growing variety of carriages, carts, wagons, gigs, herds of cattle, and flocks of sheep, all crowding the road; the cozy country houses with neatly maintained flower gardens just twelve feet square, and their trees standing twelve feet tall, all coated in dust; and the countless schools for young ladies and gentlemen located along the road, taking advantage of the fresh country air and peaceful surroundings; all these signs indicated that the great city of London was near. The rush, the crowd, the hustle and bustle, the noise, and the dust all intensified as we moved forward, until I spotted the massive cloud of smoke hanging in the air like a grand canopy over this queen of cities.

In this way, then, did I enter the metropolis; a strolling vagabond; on the top of a caravan with a crew of vagabonds about me; but I was as happy as a prince, for, like Prince Hal, I felt myself superior to my situation, and knew that I could at any time cast it off and emerge into my proper sphere.

In this way, I entered the city; a wandering drifter; on top of a caravan with a group of misfits around me; but I was as happy as a prince, because, like Prince Hal, I felt above my situation and knew that I could leave it behind at any moment and step back into my rightful place.

How my eyes sparkled as we passed Hyde-park corner, and I saw splendid equipages rolling by, with powdered footmen behind, in rich liveries, and fine nosegays, and gold-headed canes; and with lovely women within, so sumptuously dressed and so surpassingly fair. I was always extremely sensible to female beauty; and here I saw it in all its fascination; for, whatever may be said of “beauty unadorned,” there is something almost awful in female loveliness decked out in jewelled state. The swan-like neck encircled with diamonds; the raven locks, clustered with pearls; the ruby glowing on the snowy bosom, are objects that I could never contemplate without emotion; and a dazzling white arm clasped with bracelets, and taper transparent fingers laden with sparkling rings, are to me irresistible. My very eyes ached as I gazed at the high and courtly beauty that passed before me. It surpassed all that my imagination had conceived of the sex. I shrunk, for a moment, into shame at the company in which I was placed, and repined at the vast distance that seemed to intervene between me and these magnificent beings.

How my eyes sparkled as we passed Hyde Park Corner, and I saw elegant carriages rolling by, with powdered footmen in rich livery, holding fine bouquets and gold-headed canes; and with beautiful women inside, dressed lavishly and incredibly lovely. I've always been very aware of female beauty, and here I saw it in all its allure; because, no matter what they say about "natural beauty," there's something almost overwhelming about a woman’s beauty when it's adorned with jewels. The swan-like neck surrounded by diamonds; the raven hair, clustered with pearls; the ruby glowing against a fair chest, are sights that always move me; and a dazzling white arm wrapped in bracelets, with slim, clear fingers covered in sparkling rings, are simply irresistible to me. My eyes ached as I looked at the high and noble beauty passing by. It surpassed everything I had ever imagined about women. For a moment, I felt ashamed of the company I was with and regretted the huge distance that seemed to separate me from these magnificent beings.

I forbear to give a detail of the happy life which I led about the skirts of the metropolis, playing at the various fairs, held there during the latter part of spring and the beginning of summer. This continual change from place to place, and scene to scene, fed my imagination with novelties, and kept my spirits in a perpetual state of excitement.

I’ll skip the details of the wonderful life I had on the outskirts of the city, performing at the different fairs that took place there during late spring and early summer. This constant shifting from one location to another and from one scene to the next fueled my imagination with new experiences and kept my spirits in a constant state of excitement.

As I was tall of my age I aspired, at one time, to play heroes in tragedy; but after two or three trials, I was pronounced, by the manager, totally unfit for the line; and our first tragic actress, who was a large woman, and held a small hero in abhorrence, confirmed his decision.

Since I was taller than most kids my age, I once wanted to play heroic roles in serious dramas. However, after two or three attempts, the manager declared me completely unsuitable for the role. Our lead actress, who was a large woman and had little tolerance for a small hero, backed up his decision.

The fact is, I had attempted to give point to language which had no point, and nature to scenes which had no nature. They said I did not fill out my characters; and they were right. The characters had all been prepared for a different sort of man. Our tragedy hero was a round, robustious fellow, with an amazing voice; who stamped and slapped his breast until his wig shook again; and who roared and bellowed out his bombast, until every phrase swelled upon the ear like the sound of a kettle-drum. I might as well have attempted to fill out his clothes as his characters. When we had a dialogue together, I was nothing before him, with my slender voice and discriminating manner. I might as well have attempted to parry a cudgel with a small sword. If he found me in any way gaining ground upon him, he would take refuge in his mighty voice, and throw his tones like peals of thunder at me, until they were drowned in the still louder thunders of applause from the audience.

The truth is, I tried to give meaning to words that had none and life to scenes that felt lifeless. They said my characters weren’t fully developed, and they were right. The characters had all been designed for a different kind of actor. Our tragic hero was a big, boisterous guy with an incredible voice; he stomped and slapped his chest until his wig shook; and he roared and bellowed his dialogue, making every line hit the ear like the sound of a drum. I might as well have tried to fill out his costume as to develop my characters. Whenever we had a conversation, I was nothing compared to him, with my soft voice and refined manner. It was like trying to block a heavy club with a small sword. If he felt I was gaining on him, he would retreat into his powerful voice and unleash it like thunder at me, until it got drowned out by the even louder applause from the audience.

To tell the truth, I suspect that I was not shown fair play, and that there was management at the bottom; for without vanity, I think I was a better actor than he. As I had not embarked in the vagabond line through ambition, I did not repine at lack of preferment; but I was grieved to find that a vagrant life was not without its cares and anxieties, and that jealousies, intrigues, and mad ambition were to be found even among vagabonds.

To be honest, I suspect I didn't get a fair shot, and that there was some manipulation going on; I truly believe I was a better actor than he was. I didn’t choose the wandering lifestyle out of ambition, so I didn’t feel sorry for myself over not getting recognition; however, I was upset to realize that a life on the road came with its own worries and stress, and that jealousy, scheming, and crazy ambition existed even among drifters.

Indeed, as I become more familiar with my situation, and the delusions of fancy began to fade away, I discovered that my associates were not the happy careless creatures I had at first imagined them. They were jealous of each other’s talents; they quarrelled about parts, the same as the actors on the grand theatres; they quarrelled about dresses; and there was one robe of yellow silk, trimmed with red, and a head-dress of three rumpled ostrich feathers, which were continually setting the ladies of the company by the ears. Even those who had attained the highest honors were not more happy than the rest; for Mr. Flimsey himself, our first tragedian, and apparently a jovial, good-humored fellow, confessed to me one day, in the fullness of his heart, that he was a miserable man. He had a brother-in-law, a relative by marriage, though not by blood, who was manager of a theatre in a small country town. And this same brother, (“a little more than kin, but less than kind,”) looked down upon him, and treated him with contumely, because forsooth he was but a strolling player. I tried to console him with the thoughts of the vast applause he daily received, but it was all in vain. He declared that it gave him no delight, and that he should never be a happy man until the name of Flimsey rivalled the name of Crimp.

As I got to know my situation better and the fantasies I had started to fade, I realized that my colleagues weren’t the carefree, happy people I had initially thought. They were envious of each other's talents; they argued over roles, just like actors in big theaters; they fought over costumes; and there was one yellow silk dress, trimmed with red, and a headpiece with three messy ostrich feathers that constantly caused drama among the women in the group. Even those who had achieved the highest honors weren’t any happier than the others; Mr. Flimsey, our lead tragedian and seemingly a cheerful, good-natured guy, confided in me one day that he felt miserable. His brother-in-law, related by marriage but not blood, managed a theater in a small town and looked down on him, treating him poorly because he was “just a strolling player.” I tried to cheer him up with thoughts of the loud applause he received every day, but it was useless. He said it brought him no joy and that he would never be happy until the name Flimsey was as well-known as the name Crimp.

How little do those before the scenes know of what passes behind; how little can they judge, from the countenances of actors, of what is passing in their hearts. I have known two lovers quarrel like cats behind the scenes, who were, the moment after, ready to fly into each other’s embraces. And I have dreaded, when our Belvidera was to take her farewell kiss of her Jaffier, lest she should bite a piece out of his cheek. Our tragedian was a rough joker off the stage; our prime clown the most peevish mortal living. The latter used to go about snapping and snarling, with a broad laugh painted on his countenance; and I can assure you that, whatever may be said of the gravity of a monkey, or the melancholy of a gibed cat, there is no more melancholy creature in existence than a mountebank off duty.

How little do those in the audience know about what happens behind the scenes; how little can they judge, from the expressions of the actors, what is going on in their hearts. I've seen two lovers fight like cats backstage, who, just moments later, were ready to throw themselves into each other’s arms. And I’ve worried, when our Belvidera was set to say her goodbye kiss to her Jaffier, that she might actually bite his cheek. Our tragic actor was a rough joker offstage; our top clown was the most irritable person alive. The clown would walk around snapping and snarling, with a big fake laugh plastered on his face; and I can assure you that, no matter what people say about the seriousness of a monkey or the sadness of a grumpy cat, there is no sadder creature in existence than a performer off duty.

The only thing in which all parties agreed was to backbite the manager, and cabal against his regulations. This, however, I have since discovered to be a common trait of human nature, and to take place in all communities. It would seem to be the main business of man to repine at government. In all situations of life into which I have looked, I have found mankind divided into two grand parties;—those who ride and those who are ridden. The great struggle of life seems to be which shall keep in the saddle. This, it appears to me, is the fundamental principle of politics, whether in great or little life. However, I do not mean to moralize; but one cannot always sink the philosopher.

The only thing everyone agreed on was to gossip about the manager and scheme against his rules. I've since realized this is a common aspect of human nature and happens in every community. It seems like the main concern of people is to complain about authority. In every situation I've examined, I’ve noticed humanity divided into two main groups: those who have power and those who don’t. The ongoing struggle in life seems to be about who stays in control. To me, this is the basic principle of politics, whether in major or minor matters. However, I’m not trying to preach; it’s just hard to completely ignore the philosopher within.

Well, then, to return to myself. It was determined, as I said, that I was not fit for tragedy, and unluckily, as my study was bad, having a very poor memory, I was pronounced unfit for comedy also: besides, the line of young gentlemen was already engrossed by an actor with whom I could not pretend to enter into competition, he having filled it for almost half a century. I came down again therefore to pantomime. In consequence, however, of the good offices of the manager’s lady, who had taken a liking to me, I was promoted from the part of the satyr to that of the lover; and with my face patched and painted, a huge cravat of paper, a steeple-crowned hat, and dangling, long-skirted, sky-blue coat, was metamorphosed into the lover of Columbine. My part did not call for much of the tender and sentimental. I had merely to pursue the fugitive fair one; to have a door now and then slammed in my face; to run my head occasionally against a post; to tumble and roll about with Pantaloon and the clown; and to endure the hearty thwacks of Harlequin’s wooden sword.

Alright, back to my story. It was decided, as I mentioned, that I wasn't suited for tragedy, and unfortunately, since my memory was terrible, I was also deemed unfit for comedy. On top of that, the role of young gentlemen was already taken by an actor who had been doing it for nearly fifty years, and I couldn't hope to compete with him. So, I ended up back in pantomime. However, thanks to the manager's wife, who liked me, I got promoted from the role of the satyr to that of the lover. With my face painted and patched up, a huge paper cravat, a tall hat, and a long, flowing sky-blue coat, I was transformed into Columbine's lover. My role didn’t require much tenderness or sentimentality. I just had to chase after the runaway girl, get doors slammed in my face, run into posts every now and then, tumble around with Pantaloon and the clown, and take some solid hits from Harlequin's wooden sword.

As ill luck would have it, my poetical temperament began to ferment within me, and to work out new troubles. The inflammatory air of a great metropolis added to the rural scenes in which the fairs were held; such as Greenwich Park; Epping Forest; and the lovely valley of the West End, had a powerful effect upon me. While in Greenwich Park I was witness to the old holiday games of running down hill; and kissing in the ring; and then the firmament of blooming faces and blue eyes that would be turned towards me as I was playing antics on the stage; all these set my young blood, and my poetical vein, in full flow. In short, I played my character to the life, and became desperately enamored of Columbine. She was a trim, well-made, tempting girl, with a rougish, dimpling face, and fine chestnut hair clustering all about it. The moment I got fairly smitten, there was an end to all playing. I was such a creature of fancy and feeling that I could not put on a pretended, when I was powerfully affected by a real emotion. I could not sport with a fiction that came so near to the fact. I became too natural in my acting to succeed. And then, what a situation for a lover! I was a mere stripling, and she played with my passion; for girls soon grow more adroit and knowing in these than your awkward youngsters. What agonies had I to suffer. Every time that she danced in front of the booth and made such liberal displays of her charms, I was in torment. To complete my misery, I had a real rival in Harlequin; an active, vigorous, knowing varlet of six-and-twenty. What had a raw, inexperienced youngster like me to hope from such a competition?

Unfortunately, my poetic nature started to get stirred up inside me, leading to new troubles. The intense atmosphere of a big city mixed with the countryside settings of the fairs—like Greenwich Park, Epping Forest, and the beautiful valley of the West End—had a strong impact on me. While in Greenwich Park, I witnessed the old holiday games of running downhill and kissing in the ring, along with the sea of smiling faces and bright blue eyes that turned towards me as I performed antics on stage; all of this sent my youthful energy and creativity into overdrive. In short, I fully embraced my role and fell desperately in love with Columbine. She was a stylish, attractive girl with a playful, dimpled face and beautiful chestnut hair framing it. The moment I truly fell for her, all pretense in my acting vanished. I was so filled with emotion that I couldn’t fake it when I was deeply affected by something real. I couldn’t joke around with a story that felt so close to reality. I became too genuine in my performance to succeed. And what a tough spot for a lover! I was just a young boy while she toyed with my feelings; girls quickly become more skilled and savvy in these matters than awkward guys like me. Oh, the agony I had to endure. Every time she danced in front of the booth and showed off her charms, I was in pain. To make matters worse, I had a real rival in Harlequin, an active and confident guy of twenty-six. What hope did a naive, inexperienced kid like me have against such competition?

I had still, however, some advantages in my favor. In spite of my change of life, I retained that indescribable something which always distinguishes the gentleman; that something which dwells in a man’s air and deportment, and not in his clothes; and which it is as difficult for a gentleman to put off as for a vulgar fellow to put on. The company generally felt it, and used to call me little gentleman Jack. The girl felt it too; and in spite of her predilection for my powerful rival, she liked to flirt with me. This only aggravated my troubles, by increasing my passion, and awakening the jealousy of her parti-colored lover.

I still had some advantages on my side. Despite my change in lifestyle, I kept that indescribable quality that always sets a gentleman apart; that quality that comes from a man’s demeanor and presence, not his clothing; and which is just as hard for a gentleman to shed as it is for a common man to acquire. People generally sensed it and used to call me little gentleman Jack. The girl felt it too; and even though she had a soft spot for my strong rival, she enjoyed flirting with me. This only made my troubles worse, by intensifying my feelings and stirring up the jealousy of her colorful suitor.

Alas! think what I suffered, at being obliged to keep up an ineffectual chase after my Columbine through whole pantomimes; to see her carried off in the vigorous arms of the happy Harlequin; and to be obliged, instead of snatching her from him, to tumble sprawling with Pantaloon and the clown; and bear the infernal and degrading thwacks of my rival’s weapon of lath; which, may heaven confound him! (excuse my passion) the villain laid on with a malicious good-will; nay, I could absolutely hear him chuckle and laugh beneath his accursed mask—I beg pardon for growing a little warm in my narration. I wish to be cool, but these recollections will sometimes agitate me. I have heard and read of many desperate and deplorable situations of lovers; but none, I think, in which true love was ever exposed to so severe and peculiar a trial.

Oh, think about what I went through, having to keep up a pointless chase after my Columbine throughout entire performances; watching her being swept away in the strong arms of that lucky Harlequin; and instead of rescuing her from him, ending up tumbling down with Pantaloon and the clown, enduring the brutal and humiliating hits from my rival’s wooden weapon; which, may heaven curse him! (forgive my passion) that scoundrel struck with such cruel delight; I could practically hear him chuckling and laughing under his cursed mask—I apologize for getting a bit fired up while telling this. I wish to stay calm, but these memories sometimes stir me up. I’ve heard and read about many desperate and heartbreaking situations involving lovers; but none, I believe, have subjected true love to such a harsh and unique trial.

This could not last long. Flesh and blood, at least such flesh and blood as mine, could not bear it. I had repeated heartburnings and quarrels with my rival, in which he treated me with the mortifying forbearance of a man towards a child. Had he quarrelled outright with me, I could have stomached it; at least I should have known what part to take; but to be humored and treated as a child in the presence of my mistress, when I felt all the bantam spirit of a little man swelling within me—gods, it was insufferable!

This couldn't go on for long. Flesh and blood, at least my flesh and blood, couldn't handle it. I had constant heartburn and arguments with my rival, where he treated me with the condescending patience of an adult dealing with a kid. If he had confronted me directly, I could have handled it; at least I would have known where I stood. But being coddled and treated like a child in front of my crush, while I felt all the little-man pride swelling up inside me—oh man, it was unbearable!

At length we were exhibiting one day at West End fair, which was at that time a very fashionable resort, and often beleaguered by gay equipages from town. Among the spectators that filled the front row of our little canvas theatre one afternoon, when I had to figure in a pantomime, was a party of young ladies from a boarding-school, with their governess. Guess my confusion, when, in the midst of my antics, I beheld among the number my quondam flame; her whom I had be-rhymed at school; her for whose charms I had smarted so severely; tho cruel Sacharissa! What was worse, I fancied she recollected me; and was repeating the story of my humiliating flagellation, for I saw her whispering her companions and her governess. I lost all consciousness of the part I was acting, and of the place where I was. I felt shrunk to nothing, and could have crept into a rat-hole—unluckily, none was open to receive me. Before I could recover from my confusion, I was tumbled over by Pantaloon and the clown; and I felt the sword of Harlequin making vigorous assaults, in a manner most degrading to my dignity.

Finally, we were performing one day at the West End fair, which was a hot spot at the time, often crowded with fancy carriages from the city. Among the spectators filling the front row of our little canvas theater one afternoon, when I had to appear in a pantomime, was a group of young ladies from a boarding school, along with their governess. Imagine my embarrassment when, in the middle of my antics, I spotted my former crush; the one I had written poems about in school; the one whose beauty had caused me so much pain; the cruel Sacharissa! To make matters worse, I thought she remembered me and was sharing stories about my humiliating punishment, as I saw her whispering to her friends and her governess. I lost all awareness of the character I was playing and where I was. I felt like I shrank to nothing and could have disappeared into a mouse hole—unfortunately, none were available. Before I could regain my composure, I was knocked over by Pantaloon and the clown; and I felt Harlequin's sword making aggressive attacks in a way that was incredibly demeaning to my dignity.

Heaven and earth! was I again to suffer martyrdom in this ignominious manner, in the knowledge, and even before the very eyes of this most beautiful, but most disdainful of fair ones? All my long-smothered wrath broke out at once; the dormant feelings of the gentleman arose within me; stung to the quick by intolerable mortification, I sprang on my feet in an instant; leaped upon Harlequin like a young tiger; tore off his mask; buffeted him in the face, and soon shed more blood on the stage than had been spilt upon it during a whole tragic campaign of battles and murders.

Heaven and earth! Was I really going to suffer like this again, especially in front of this gorgeous yet haughty woman? All my long-suppressed anger erupted instantly; the gentleman inside me awoke. Stung by unbearable humiliation, I jumped to my feet right away; pounced on Harlequin like a young tiger; ripped off his mask; hit him in the face, and soon spilled more blood on the stage than had been shed during an entire tragic series of battles and murders.

As soon as Harlequin recovered from his surprise he returned my assault with interest. I was nothing in his hands. I was game to be sure, for I was a gentleman; but he had the clownish advantages of bone and muscle. I felt as if I could have fought even unto the death; and I was likely to do so; for he was, according to the vulgar phrase, “putting my head into Chancery,” when the gentle Columbine flew to my assistance. God bless the women; they are always on the side of the weak and the oppressed.

As soon as Harlequin got over his shock, he hit back hard. I was nothing but a toy in his hands. I was eager to fight, since I was a gentleman, but he had the physical advantages of strength and size. I felt like I could fight to the bitter end, and it looked like I might need to, because he was, as the saying goes, “putting my head into Chancery,” when the lovely Columbine rushed to help me. God bless women; they're always on the side of the weak and the oppressed.

The battle now became general; the dramatis personae ranged on either side. The manager interfered in vain. In vain were his spangled black bonnet and towering white feathers seen whisking about, and nodding, and bobbing, in the thickest of the fight. Warriors, ladies, priests, satyrs, kings, queens, gods and goddesses, all joined pell-mell in the fray. Never, since the conflict under the walls of Troy, had there been such a chance medley warfare of combatants, human and divine. The audience applauded, the ladies shrieked and fled from the theatre, and a scene of discord ensued that baffles all description.

The battle now erupted completely; the characters lined up on both sides. The manager's attempts to intervene were pointless. His flashy black hat and tall white feathers flailed around, nodding and bouncing amid the chaos of the fight. Warriors, ladies, priests, satyrs, kings, queens, gods, and goddesses all jumped into the fray together. Never, since the battle outside the walls of Troy, had there been such a chaotic mix of combatants, both human and divine. The audience clapped, the ladies screamed and ran from the theater, and a scene of chaos broke out that is beyond description.

Nothing but the interference of the peace officers restored some degree of order. The havoc, however, that had been made among dresses and decorations put an end to all farther acting for that day. The battle over, the next thing was to inquire why it was begun; a common question among politicians, after a bloody and unprofitable war; and one not always easy to be answered. It was soon traced to me, and my unaccountable transport of passion, which they could only attribute to my having run a muck. The manager was judge and jury, and plaintiff in the bargain, and in such cases justice is always speedily administered. He came out of the fight as sublime a wreck as the Santissìma Trinidada. His gallant plumes, which once towered aloft, were drooping about his ears. His robe of state hung in ribbands from his back, and but ill concealed the ravages he had suffered in the rear. He had received kicks and cuffs from all sides, during the tumult; for every one took the opportunity of slyly gratifying some lurking grudge on his fat carcass. He was a discreet man, and did not choose to declare war with all his company; so he swore all those kicks and cuffs had been given by me, and I let him enjoy the opinion. Some wounds he bore, however, which were the incontestible traces of a woman’s warfare. His sleek rosy cheek was scored by trickling furrows, which were ascribed to the nails of my intrepid and devoted Columbine. The ire of the monarch was not to be appeased. He had suffered in his person, and he had suffered in his purse; his dignity too had been insulted, and that went for something; for dignity is always more irascible the more petty the potentate. He wreaked his wrath upon the beginners of the affray, and Columbine and myself were discharged, at once, from the company.

Nothing but the intervention of the peace officers brought some order back. However, the chaos that had been caused among dresses and decorations ended any further performances for the day. With the fight over, the next question was why it started, a common inquiry among politicians after a bloody and pointless war—one that’s not always easy to answer. It was quickly traced back to me and my inexplicable outburst of anger, which they could only explain as me having run a muck. The manager served as judge, jury, and plaintiff all in one, and in such situations, justice is usually quick to be served. He emerged from the conflict as messed up as the Santissìma Trinidada. His once grand plumes now drooped around his ears. His ceremonial robe hung in tatters from his back, barely hiding the damage he’d taken. He endured kicks and punches from every side during the chaos, as everyone seized the chance to settle some hidden grudge against his plump figure. He was a sensible man and chose not to declare war on his entire company, so he claimed all those kicks and punches were my doing, and I let him keep that belief. Some injuries, however, bore undeniable signs of a woman’s battle. His smooth, rosy cheek was marked by trickling lines, attributed to the nails of my bold and devoted Columbine. The monarch’s anger was not going to be calmed. He had suffered physically and financially; his dignity had also been insulted, which mattered, as dignity is always more irritable the more petty the ruler. He unleashed his fury on those who started the fight, and both Columbine and I were immediately dismissed from the company.

Figure me, then, to yourself, a stripling of little more than sixteen; a gentleman by birth; a vagabond by trade; turned adrift upon the world; making the best of my way through the crowd of West End fair; my mountebank dress fluttering in rags about me; the weeping Columbine hanging upon my arm, in splendid, but tattered finery; the tears coursing one by one down her face; carrying off the red paint in torrents, and literally “preying upon her damask cheek.”

Picture me, if you can, as a young guy just over sixteen; a gentleman by birth; a wanderer by trade; cast out into the world; doing my best to navigate through the bustling West End crowd; my jester outfit in tatters around me; the sad Columbine clinging to my arm, dressed in beautiful but worn-out clothes; tears streaming down her face, washing away the red makeup in rivulets, essentially “devouring her rosy complexion.”

The crowd made way for us as we passed and hooted in our rear. I felt the ridicule of my situation, but had too much gallantry to desert this fair one, who had sacrificed everything for me. Having wandered through the fair, we emerged, like another Adam and Eve, into unknown regions, and “had the world before us where to choose.” Never was a more disconsolate pair seen in the soft valley of West End. The luckless Columbine cast back many a lingering look at the fair, which seemed to put on a more than usual splendor; its tents, and booths, and parti-colored groups, all brightening in the sunshine, and gleaming among the trees; and its gay flags and streamers playing and fluttering in the light summer airs. With a heavy sigh she would lean on my arm and proceed. I had no hope or consolation to give her; but she had linked herself to my fortunes, and she was too much of a woman to desert me.

The crowd cleared a path for us as we walked by, shouting after us. I felt the embarrassment of my situation, but I was too noble to abandon her, the one who had given up everything for me. After wandering through the fair, we stepped out, like a modern Adam and Eve, into the unknown, and “had the world before us where to choose.” Never had a more heartbroken pair been seen in the gentle valley of West End. The unfortunate Columbine looked back longingly at the fair, which seemed more dazzling than usual; its tents, booths, and colorful groups all shining in the sunlight and glimmering among the trees; its cheerful flags and streamers dancing in the warm summer breeze. With a deep sigh, she leaned on my arm and kept walking. I had no comfort or hope to offer her; but she had tied her fate to mine, and she was too much of a woman to abandon me.

Pensive and silent, then, we traversed the beautiful fields that lie behind Hempstead, and wandered on, until the fiddle, and the hautboy, and the shout, and the laugh, were swallowed up in the deep sound of the big bass drum, and even that died away into a distant rumble. We passed along the pleasant sequestered walk of Nightingale lane. For a pair of lovers what scene could be more propitious?—But such a pair of lovers! Not a nightingale sang to soothe us: the very gypsies who were encamped there during the fair, made no offer to tell the fortunes of such an ill-omened couple, whose fortunes, I suppose, they thought too legibly written to need an interpreter; and the gypsey children crawled into their cabins and peeped out fearfully at us as we went by. For a moment I paused, and was almost tempted to turn gypsey, but the poetical feeling for the present was fully satisfied, and I passed on. Thus we travelled, and travelled, like a prince and princess in nursery chronicle, until we had traversed a part of Hempstead Heath and arrived in the vicinity of Jack Straw’s castle.

Pensive and silent, we walked through the beautiful fields behind Hempstead and continued on until the sound of the fiddle, the oboe, the shouts, and the laughter faded into the deep thump of the big bass drum, which eventually went distant and quiet. We strolled along the nice, secluded path of Nightingale Lane. What setting could be more perfect for a couple in love?—But what a pair of lovers we were! Not a nightingale sang to comfort us: even the gypsies camped there during the fair made no attempt to tell the fortunes of such a cursed couple, whose fates, I guess, they felt were too obvious to need a reader; and the gypsy children crawled into their cabins and peeked out nervously at us as we passed. For a moment I hesitated, nearly tempted to join the gypsies, but my poetic feelings about the present were completely fulfilled, so I moved on. We continued our journey, like a prince and princess from a children's story, until we crossed a part of Hempstead Heath and reached the area near Jack Straw’s Castle.

Here, wearied and dispirited, we seated ourselves on the margin of the hill, hard by the very mile-stone where Whittington of yore heard the Bow bells ring out the presage of his future greatness. Alas! no bell rung in invitation to us, as we looked disconsolately upon the distant city. Old London seemed to wrap itself up unsociably in its mantle of brown smoke, and to offer no encouragement to such a couple of tatterdemalions.

Here, tired and downhearted, we sat on the edge of the hill, right by the mile marker where Whittington once heard the Bow bells ring, predicting his future success. Unfortunately, no bell rang to invite us as we looked longingly at the distant city. Old London seemed to wrap itself up unwelcomingly in its cloak of brown smoke, offering no encouragement to a couple of ragamuffins like us.

For once, at least, the usual course of the pantomime was reversed. Harlequin was jilted, and the lover had earned off Columbine in good earnest. But what was I to do with her? I had never contemplated such a dilemma; and I now felt that even a fortunate lover may be embarrassed by his good fortune. I really knew not what was to become of me; for I had still the boyish fear of returning home; standing in awe of the stern temper of my father, and dreading the ready arm of the pedagogue. And even if I were to venture home, what was I to do with Columbine? I could not take her in my hand, and throw myself on my knees, and crave his forgiveness and his blessing according to dramatic usage. The very dogs would have chased such a draggle-tailed beauty from the grounds.

For once, at least, the usual storyline of the pantomime was flipped. Harlequin got dumped, and the lover really did win Columbine’s heart. But what was I supposed to do with her? I had never thought I’d be in such a situation; and I now realized that even a lucky lover can feel awkward about his good fortune. I honestly didn’t know what would happen to me; I still had that boyish fear of going home, intimidated by my father’s stern demeanor, and dreading the swift hand of the teacher. And even if I did decide to go home, what was I supposed to do with Columbine? I couldn’t just take her by the hand, drop to my knees, and beg for my father’s forgiveness and blessing like they do in the plays. Even the dogs would have chased away such a ragged beauty from the yard.

In the midst of my doleful dumps, some one tapped me on the shoulder, and looking up I saw a couple of rough sturdy fellows standing behind me. Not knowing what to expect I jumped on my legs, and was preparing again to make battle; but I was tripped up and secured in a twinkling.

In the middle of my gloomy mood, someone tapped me on the shoulder, and when I looked up, I saw a couple of tough, sturdy guys standing behind me. Not knowing what to expect, I jumped to my feet and got ready to fight again, but I was quickly tripped up and caught.

“Come, come, young master,” said one of the fellows in a gruff, but good-humored tone, “don’t let’s have any of your tantrums; one would have thought that you had had swing enough for this bout. Come, it’s high time to leave off harlequinading, and go home to your father.”

“Come on, young master,” said one of the guys in a rough but friendly tone, “let's skip the tantrums; you’d think you’d had enough fun for one day. It’s time to stop goofing around and go home to your dad.”

In fact I had a couple of Bow street officers hold of me. The cruel Sacharissa had proclaimed who I was, and that a reward had been offered throughout the country for any tidings of me; and they had seen a description of me that had been forwarded to the police office in town. Those harpies, therefore, for the mere sake of filthy lucre, were resolved to deliver me over into the hands of my father and the clutches of my pedagogue.

In fact, I had a couple of Bow Street officers catch me. The cruel Sacharissa had announced who I was and that a reward was being offered across the country for any news about me; they had seen a description of me that had been sent to the police station in town. Those greedy officers, therefore, just for the sake of making some money, were determined to hand me over to my father and the grip of my tutor.

It was in vain that I swore I would not leave my faithful and Afflicted Columbine. It was in vain that I tore myself from their grasp, and flew to her; and vowed to protect her; and wiped the tears from her cheek, and with them a whole blush that might have vied with the carnation for brilliancy. My persecutors were inflexible; they even seemed to exult in our distress; and to enjoy this theatrical display of dirt, and finery, and tribulation. I was carried off in despair, leaving my Columbine destitute in the wide world; but many a look of agony did I cast back at her, as she stood gazing piteously after me from the brink of Hempstead Hill; so forlorn, so fine, so ragged, so bedraggled, yet so beautiful.

It was pointless for me to swear that I wouldn’t leave my loyal and troubled Columbine. It was pointless to tear myself away from their hold and rush to her; to promise to protect her; to wipe the tears from her cheek, taking away a whole blush that could compete with a bright flower for its beauty. My tormentors were relentless; they even seemed to take pleasure in our suffering and enjoy this dramatic display of dirt, glamour, and hardship. I was taken away in despair, leaving my Columbine helpless in the vast world; but I cast many a pained glance back at her as she stood sadly watching me from the edge of Hempstead Hill; so miserable, so elegant, so tattered, so disheveled, yet so beautiful.

Thus ended my first peep into the world. I returned home, rich in good-for-nothing experience, and dreading the reward I was to receive for my improvement. My reception, however, was quite different from what I had expected. My father had a spice of the devil in him, and did not seem to like me the worse for my freak, which he termed “sowing my wild oats.” He happened to have several of his sporting friends to dine with him the very day of my return; they made me tell some of my adventures, and laughed heartily at them. One old fellow, with an outrageously red nose, took to me hugely. I heard him whisper to my father that I was a lad of mettle, and might make something clever; to which my father replied that “I had good points, but was an ill-broken whelp, and required a great deal of the whip.” Perhaps this very conversation raised me a little in his esteem, for I found the red-nosed old gentleman was a veteran fox-hunter of the neighborhood, for whose opinion my father had vast deference. Indeed, I believe he would have pardoned anything in me more readily than poetry; which he called a cursed, sneaking, puling, housekeeping employment, the bane of all true manhood. He swore it was unworthy of a youngster of my expectations, who was one day to have so great an estate, and would he able to keep horses and hounds and hire poets to write songs for him into the bargain.

Thus ended my first glimpse into the world. I went home, filled with useless experiences, dreading the consequences of my “improvement.” However, my welcome was totally different from what I had anticipated. My father had a bit of a devilish side and didn’t seem to mind my antics, which he called “sowing my wild oats.” He happened to have some of his sporting friends over for dinner the same day I returned; they made me share some of my adventures, laughing heartily at them. One older guy, with a ridiculously red nose, took a liking to me. I overheard him tell my father that I was a spirited kid and could turn out to be something impressive; my father responded that “I had good qualities, but was an unruly pup and needed a lot of discipline.” Perhaps this conversation raised my status a bit in his eyes, because I found out that the red-nosed gentleman was a local veteran fox-hunter whose opinion my father respected greatly. In fact, I think he would have forgiven me for anything more easily than for poetry, which he called a cursed, sneaky, whiny pastime that ruined true manhood. He insisted it was unworthy of a kid like me, who was destined to inherit such a grand estate and would be able to keep horses and hounds and even hire poets to write songs for him on top of that.

I had now satisfied, for a time, my roving propensity. I had exhausted the poetical feeling. I had been heartily buffeted out of my love for theatrical display. I felt humiliated by my exposure, and was willing to hide my head anywhere for a season; so that I might be out of the way of the ridicule of the world; for I found folks not altogether so indulgent abroad as they were at my father’s table. I could not stay at home; the house was intolerably doleful now that my mother was no longer there to cherish me. Every thing around spoke mournfully of her. The little flower-garden in which she delighted was all in disorder and overrun with weeds. I attempted, for a day or two, to arrange it, but my heart grew heavier and heavier as I labored. Every little broken-down flower that I had seen her rear so tenderly, seemed to plead in mute eloquence to my feelings. There was a favorite honeysuckle which I had seen her often training with assiduity, and had heard her say it should be the pride of her garden. I found it grovelling along the ground, tangled and wild, and twining round every worthless weed, and it struck me as an emblem of myself: a mere scatterling, running to waste and uselessness. I could work no longer in the garden.

I had, for a while, satisfied my wandering urge. I had drained the emotional well of poetry. I had been thoroughly pushed away from my love for the theater. I felt ashamed of my exposure and wanted to hide away for a while, out of reach from the world's ridicule, as I found people weren’t as forgiving outside as they were at my dad’s table. I couldn’t stay home; the house felt unbearably gloomy now that my mom was no longer there to care for me. Everything around me was a sad reminder of her. The little flower garden she loved was a mess and overrun with weeds. I tried for a day or two to tidy it up, but my heart grew heavier with each attempt. Every little dying flower I had seen her nurture seemed to silently plead to my emotions. There was a favorite honeysuckle I had often watched her carefully train, and I remembered her saying it would be the pride of her garden. I found it lying on the ground, tangled and wild, intertwined with every worthless weed, and it felt like a symbol of myself: just a drifter, wasting away and becoming useless. I couldn’t work in the garden any longer.

My father sent me to pay a visit to my uncle, by way of keeping the old gentleman in mind of me. I was received, as usual, without any expression of discontent; which we always considered equivalent to a hearty welcome. Whether he had ever heard of my strolling freak or not I could not discover; he and his man were both so taciturn. I spent a day or two roaming about the dreary mansion and neglected park; and felt at one time, I believe, a touch of poetry, for I was tempted to drown myself in a fish-pond; I rebuked the evil spirit, however, and it left me. I found the same red-headed boy running wild about the park, but I felt in no humor to hunt him at present. On the contrary, I tried to coax him to me, and to make friends with him, but the young savage was untameable.

My dad sent me to visit my uncle to remind him of me. As usual, I was welcomed without any sign of displeasure, which we always took as a warm greeting. I couldn't tell if he had heard about my wandering off or not; he and his servant were both pretty quiet. I spent a couple of days wandering around the gloomy old house and the overgrown park. At one point, I think I almost felt a bit poetic because I was tempted to drown myself in a pond, but I pushed that dark thought away, and it left me. I saw the same red-headed kid running around the park, but I wasn't in the mood to chase him right now. Instead, I tried to get him to come over and be friends, but the little wild child wouldn’t be tamed.

When I returned from my uncle’s I remained at home for some time, for my father was disposed, he said, to make a man of me. He took me out hunting with him, and I became a great favorite of the red-nosed squire, because I rode at everything; never refused the boldest leap, and was always sure to be in at the death. I used often however, to offend my father at hunting dinners, by taking the wrong side in politics. My father was amazingly ignorant—so ignorant, in fact, as not to know that he knew nothing. He was staunch, however, to church and king, and full of old-fashioned prejudices. Now, I had picked up a little knowledge in politics and religion, during my rambles with the strollers, and found myself capable of setting him right as to many of his antiquated notions. I felt it my duty to do so; we were apt, therefore, to differ occasionally in the political discussions that sometimes arose at these hunting dinners.

When I got back from my uncle's, I stayed home for a while because my dad wanted to shape me into a man. He took me hunting with him, and I quickly became a favorite of the red-nosed squire because I was fearless; I never backed down from a tough jump and always made sure to be around when it was time to catch the game. However, I often annoyed my dad at hunting dinners by taking the opposite stance in political talks. My dad was incredibly clueless—so clueless, in fact, that he didn’t even realize how much he didn’t know. Still, he was very loyal to the church and the monarchy, holding onto a lot of outdated beliefs. Meanwhile, I had picked up some insights about politics and religion on my travels with the performers, and I found myself able to correct many of his old-fashioned ideas. I felt it was my responsibility to do so; as a result, we often disagreed during the political debates that popped up at those hunting dinners.

I was at that age when a man knows least and is most vain of his knowledge; and when he is extremely tenacious in defending his opinion upon subjects about which he knows nothing. My father was a hard man for any one to argue with, for he never knew when he was refuted. I sometimes posed him a little, but then he had one argument that always settled the question; he would threaten to knock me down. I believe he at last grew tired of me, because I both out-talked and outrode him. The red-nosed squire, too, got out of conceit of me, because in the heat of the chase, I rode over him one day as he and his horse lay sprawling in the dirt. My father, therefore, thought it high time to send me to college; and accordingly to Trinity College at Oxford was I sent.

I was at that age when a guy knows the least but thinks he knows everything, and when he stubbornly defends his opinions on topics he knows nothing about. My dad was tough to argue with because he never realized when he was proven wrong. I would sometimes challenge him a bit, but he had one go-to response that always ended the debate: he’d threaten to knock me down. I think he eventually got fed up with me because I could talk faster and ride better than he could. The red-nosed squire also lost interest in me after I rode over him one day while he and his horse were sprawled out in the dirt during a hunt. So, my dad decided it was time to send me to college; I ended up at Trinity College, Oxford.

I had lost my habits of study while at home; and I was not likely to find them again at college. I found that study was not the fashion at college, and that a lad of spirit only ate his terms; and grew wise by dint of knife and fork. I was always prone to follow the fashions of the company into which I fell; so I threw by my books, and became a man of spirit. As my father made me a tolerable allowance, notwithstanding the narrowness of his income, having an eye always to my great expectations, I was enabled to appear to advantage among my fellow-students. I cultivated all kinds of sports and exercises. I was one of the most expert oarsmen that rowed on the Isis. I boxed and fenced. I was a keen huntsman, and my chambers in college were always decorated with whips of all kinds, spurs, foils, and boxing gloves. A pair of leather breeches would seem to be throwing one leg out of the half-open drawers, and empty bottles lumbered the bottom of every closet.

I had lost my study habits while at home, and I wasn’t likely to pick them up again at college. I noticed that studying wasn’t the norm at college, and that a spirited guy just made it through by eating well and getting smart through good meals. I was always inclined to follow the trends of those around me, so I set my books aside and embraced the life of a spirited man. My father gave me a decent allowance, despite his limited income, always keeping in mind my great future prospects, which allowed me to stand out among my classmates. I got into all sorts of sports and activities. I became one of the best rowers on the Isis. I boxed and fenced. I was an enthusiastic hunter, and my dorm room was always filled with various whips, spurs, foils, and boxing gloves. A pair of leather breeches often seemed to be sticking out of the half-open drawers, and empty bottles cluttered up the bottom of every closet.

I soon grew tired of this, and relapsed into my vein of mere poetical indulgence. I was charmed with Oxford, for it was full of poetry to me. I thought I should never grow tired of wandering about its courts and cloisters; and visiting the different college halls. I used to love to get in places surrounded by the colleges, where all modern buildings were screened from the sight; and to walk about them in twilight, and see the professors and students sweeping along in the dusk in their caps and gowns. There was complete delusion in the scene. It seemed to transport me among the edifices and the people of old times. It was a great luxury, too, for me to attend the evening service in the new college chapel, and to hear the fine organ and the choir swelling an anthem in that solemn building; where painting and music and architecture seem to combine their grandest effects.

I quickly got tired of this and slipped back into my habit of just enjoying poetry. I was enchanted by Oxford because it felt so poetic to me. I thought I would never tire of wandering through its courts and cloisters and visiting the various college halls. I loved finding spots surrounded by the colleges, where all modern buildings were hidden from view, and walking around during twilight, watching the professors and students glide by in the dusk in their caps and gowns. The scene was completely enchanting. It felt like I had been transported back to the times of old, among the buildings and people from that era. It was also a great indulgence for me to attend the evening service in the new college chapel and listen to the beautiful organ and choir singing an anthem in that solemn space, where painting, music, and architecture seemed to come together in their most impressive forms.

I became a loiterer, also, about the Bodleian library, and a great dipper into books; but too idle to follow any course of study or vein of research. One of my favorite haunts was the beautiful walk, bordered by lofty elms, along the Isis, under the old gray walls of Magdalen College, which goes by the name of Addison’s Walk; and was his resort when a student at the college. I used to take a volume of poetry in my hand, and stroll up and down this walk for hours.

I became a regular at the Bodleian library and a big fan of diving into books; however, I was too lazy to commit to any specific study or research. One of my favorite spots was the beautiful path lined with tall elm trees along the Isis, beneath the old gray walls of Magdalen College, known as Addison’s Walk; it was a place he frequented when he was a student there. I would carry a book of poetry and walk back and forth along this path for hours.

My father came to see me at college. He asked me how I came on with my studies; and what kind of hunting there was in the neighborhood. He examined my sporting apparatus; wanted to know if any of the professors were fox-hunters; and whether they were generally good shots; for he suspected this reading so much was rather hurtful to the sight. Such was the only person to whom I was responsible for my improvement: is it matter of wonder, therefore, that I became a confirmed idler?

My dad came to visit me at college. He asked me how my classes were going and what kind of hunting was available nearby. He checked out my gear and wanted to know if any of the professors hunted foxes and if they were good shots, since he thought that studying so much might be bad for my eyesight. He was the only person I felt accountable to for my progress, so is it any surprise that I turned into a lazy student?

I do not know how it is, but I cannot be idle long without getting in love. I became deeply smitten with a shopkeeper’s daughter in the high street; who in fact was the admiration of many of the students. I wrote several sonnets in praise of her, and spent half of my pocket-money at the shop, in buying articles which I did not want, that I might have an opportunity of speaking to her. Her father, a severe-looking old gentleman, with bright silver buckles and a crisp, curled wig, kept a strict guard on her; as the fathers generally do upon their daughters in Oxford; and well they may. I tried to get into his good graces, and to be sociable with him; but in vain. I said several good things in his shop, but he never laughed; he had no relish for wit and humor. He was one of those dry old gentlemen who keep youngsters at bay. He had already brought up two or three daughters, and was experienced in the ways of students.

I don’t know why, but I can’t stay idle for long without falling in love. I got seriously infatuated with a shopkeeper’s daughter on the high street, who was actually the envy of many students. I wrote a bunch of sonnets praising her and spent half of my pocket money at the shop buying stuff I didn’t need just to have a chance to talk to her. Her dad, a stern-looking old guy with shiny silver buckles and a neatly styled wig, kept a tight hold on her, like most fathers do with their daughters in Oxford—and it’s understandable. I tried to win him over and be friendly, but it was no use. I said several clever things in his shop, but he never laughed; he had no appreciation for wit or humor. He was one of those dry old men who keep young people at a distance. He had already raised a couple of daughters and knew all the tricks of students.

He was as knowing and wary as a gray old badger that has often been hunted. To see him on Sunday, so stiff and starched in his demeanor; so precise in his dress; with his daughter under his arm, and his ivory-headed cane in his hand, was enough to deter all graceless youngsters from approaching.

He was as wise and cautious as an old gray badger that had been hunted many times. To see him on Sunday, so stiff and formal in his manner; so neat in his clothing; with his daughter by his side and his ivory-headed cane in hand, was enough to scare off all the unruly kids from coming near.

I managed, however, in spite of his vigilance, to have several Conversations with the daughter, as I cheapened articles in the shop. I made terrible long bargains, and examined the articles over and over, before I purchased. In the meantime, I would convey a sonnet or an acrostic under cover of a piece of cambric, or slipped into a pair of stockings; I would whisper soft nonsense into her ear as I haggled about the price; and would squeeze her hand tenderly as I received my halfpence of change, in a bit of whity-brown paper. Let this serve as a hint to all haberdashers, who have pretty daughters for shop-girls, and young students for customers. I do not know whether my words and looks were very eloquent; but my poetry was irresistible; for, to tell the truth, the girl had some literary taste, and was seldom without a book from the circulating library.

I managed, though he was always watching, to have several conversations with the daughter while I bargained over items in the shop. I haggled for a long time and examined the products repeatedly before buying. In the meantime, I would slip a sonnet or an acrostic under a piece of fabric or into a pair of stockings; I would whisper sweet nonsense in her ear as I debated the price, and gently squeeze her hand as I collected my change in a little brown paper bag. Let this be a tip to all shopkeepers with pretty daughters working behind the counter and young students as customers. I’m not sure if my words and looks were very persuasive, but my poetry was hard to resist; honestly, the girl had a bit of literary taste and usually had a book from the library with her.

By the divine power of poetry, therefore, which is irresistible with the lovely sex, did I subdue the heart of this fair little haberdasher. We carried on a sentimental correspondence for a time across the counter, and I supplied her with rhyme by the stockingful. At length I prevailed on her to grant me an assignation. But how was it to be effected? Her father kept her always under his eye; she never walked out alone; and the house was locked up the moment that the shop was shut. All these difficulties served but to give zest to the adventure. I proposed that the assignation should be in her own chamber, into which I would climb at night. The plan was irresistible. A cruel father, a secret lover, and a clandestine meeting! All the little girl’s studies from the circulating library seemed about to be realised. But what had I in view in making this assignation? Indeed I know not. I had no evil intentions; nor can I say that I had any good ones. I liked the girl, and wanted to have an opportunity of seeing more of her; and the assignation was made, as I have done many things else, heedlessly and without forethought. I asked myself a few questions of the kind, after all my arrangements were made; but the answers were very unsatisfactory. “Am I to ruin this poor thoughtless girl?” said I to myself. “No!” was the prompt and indignant answer. “Am I to run away with her?” “Whither—and to what purpose?” “Well, then, am I to marry her!”—“Pah! a man of my expectations marry a shopkeeper’s daughter!” “What, then, am I to do with her?” “Hum—why.—Let me get into her chamber first, and then consider”—and so the self-examination ended.

By the divine power of poetry, which is irresistible to attractive women, I won over the heart of this charming little shopkeeper. We exchanged romantic letters for a while across the counter, and I supplied her with poems by the bunch. Eventually, I convinced her to meet me. But how would we pull it off? Her father always kept a close watch on her; she never went out alone, and the house was locked up as soon as the shop closed. All these challenges only made the adventure more exciting. I suggested that we meet in her room, and I would climb in at night. The plan was too tempting to resist. A strict father, a secret lover, and a hidden rendezvous! All the little girl’s reading from the library seemed about to come true. But what was my intention in setting up this meeting? Honestly, I’m not sure. I had no bad intentions; nor can I say I had any good ones. I liked her and wanted to see more of her, and the meeting was arranged, as I often did with other things, without much thought. I asked myself a few questions after finalizing everything, but the answers were unsatisfying. “Am I going to ruin this poor naïve girl?” I thought. “No!” was the swift and outraged reply. “Am I going to elope with her?” “Where—and for what reason?” “So, am I going to marry her?”—“No way! A guy like me marrying a shopkeeper’s daughter!” “Then what am I supposed to do with her?” “Hmm—let me just get into her room first, and then figure it out”—and that’s where my self-reflection stopped.

Well, sir, “come what come might,” I stole under cover of the darkness to the dwelling of my dulcinea. All was quiet. At the concerted signal her window was gently opened. It was just above the projecting bow-window of her father’s shop, which assisted me in mounting. The house was low, and I was enabled to scale the fortress with tolerable ease. I clambered with a beating heart; I reached the casement; I hoisted my body half into the chamber and was welcomed, not by the embraces of my expecting fair one, but by the grasp of the crabbed-looking old father in the crisp curled wig.

Well, sir, “come what come might,” I snuck through the darkness to my sweetheart’s house. Everything was quiet. At the agreed signal, her window was gently opened. It was just above her father's shop’s bow-window, which helped me climb up. The house was low, so I was able to scale the fortress fairly easily. My heart was racing as I climbed; I reached the window; I pulled myself halfway into the room and was greeted, not by the warm embrace of my waiting lady, but by the grip of her grumpy old father in his fancy curled wig.

I extricated myself from his clutches and endeavored to make my retreat; but I was confounded by his cries of thieves! and robbers! I was bothered, too, by his Sunday cane; which was amazingly busy about my head as I descended; and against which my hat was but a poor protection. Never before had I an idea of the activity of an old man’s arm, and hardness of the knob of an ivory-headed cane. In my hurry and confusion I missed my footing, and fell sprawling on the pavement. I was immediately surrounded by myrmidons, who I doubt not were on the watch for me. Indeed, I was in no situation to escape, for I had sprained my ankle in the fall, and could not stand. I was seized as a housebreaker; and to exonerate myself from a greater crime I had to accuse myself of a less. I made known who I was, and why I came there. Alas! the varlets knew it already, and were only amusing themselves at my expense. My perfidious muse had been playing me one of her slippery tricks. The old curmudgeon of a father had found my sonnets and acrostics hid away in holes and corners of his shop; he had no taste for poetry like his daughter, and had instituted a rigorous though silent observation. He had moused upon our letters; detected the ladder of ropes, and prepared everything for my reception. Thus was I ever doomed to be led into scrapes by the muse. Let no man henceforth carry on a secret amour in poetry.

I pulled myself away from his grip and tried to make my escape, but his shouts of "Thieves!" and "Robbers!" stopped me in my tracks. I was also annoyed by his Sunday cane, which was making quite a fuss around my head as I was leaving, and my hat offered little protection. I had never realized how quick an old man's arm could be or how hard the tip of an ivory-headed cane was. In my rush and panic, I lost my footing and fell flat on the pavement. I was quickly surrounded by his goons, who I’m sure had been waiting for me. Honestly, I had no chance of getting away since I had sprained my ankle in the fall and couldn’t stand. They grabbed me like I was a burglar; to lessen my punishment, I had to admit to a lesser crime. I explained who I was and why I was there. Unfortunately, they already knew and were just having fun at my expense. My untrustworthy muse had pulled one of her sneaky tricks on me. The old miserly father had found my poems and acrostics hidden away in various spots in his shop; he didn't share his daughter's love for poetry and had been keeping a close, silent eye on things. He had discovered our letters, found the ladder of ropes, and set everything up for my capture. And so, I was doomed to be led into trouble by the muse. Let no one from now on conduct a secret romance through poetry.

The old man’s ire was in some measure appeased by the pummelling of my head, and the anguish of my sprain; so he did not put me to death on the spot. He was even humane enough to furnish a shutter, on which I was carried back to the college like a wounded warrior. The porter was roused to admit me; the college gate was thrown open for my entry; the affair was blazed abroad the next morning, and became the joke of the college from the buttery to the hall.

The old man’s anger was partly calmed by me getting my head beaten and the pain from my sprain, so he didn’t kill me on the spot. He was even kind enough to provide a shutter, and I was carried back to the college like a wounded soldier. The porter was called to let me in; the college gate was opened for me to enter; the news spread the next morning, and it turned into a joke across the college from the buttery to the hall.

I had leisure to repent during several weeks’ confinement by my sprain, which I passed in translating Boethius’ Consolations of Philosophy. I received a most tender and ill-spelled letter from my mistress, who had been sent to a relation in Coventry. She protested her innocence of my misfortunes, and vowed to be true to me “till death.” I took no notice of the letter, for I was cured, for the present, both of love and poetry. Women, however, are more constant in their attachments than men, whatever philosophers may say to the contrary. I am assured that she actually remained faithful to her vow for several months; but she had to deal with a cruel father whose heart was as hard as the knob of his cane. He was not to be touched by tears or poetry; but absolutely compelled her to marry a reputable young tradesman; who made her a happy woman in spite of herself, and of all the rules of romance; and what is more, the mother of several children. They are at this very day a thriving couple and keep a snug corner shop, just opposite the figure of Peeping Tom at Coventry.

I had time to regret my situation during several weeks of being cooped up because of my sprain, which I spent translating Boethius’ Consolations of Philosophy. I received a very sweet but poorly written letter from my girlfriend, who had been sent to stay with a family member in Coventry. She insisted she was not to blame for my troubles and promised to be faithful to me “till death.” I ignored the letter because I had moved on, at least for now, from both love and poetry. However, women tend to be more loyal in their feelings than men, no matter what philosophers might argue. I’ve been told that she actually stayed true to her promise for several months; but she had to contend with a harsh father whose heart was as tough as his cane. He was unmoved by tears or poetry and forced her to marry a respectable young tradesman, who made her happy despite herself and despite all the rules of romance; and what’s more, she became the mother of several children. They are still a successful couple today and run a cozy little shop right across from the statue of Peeping Tom in Coventry.

I will not fatigue you by any more details of my studies at Oxford, though they were not always as severe as these; nor did I always pay as dear for my lessons. People may say what they please, a studious life has its charms, and there are many places more gloomy than the cloisters of a university.

I won’t bore you with more details about my studies at Oxford, even though they weren't always as tough as this; nor did I always pay so much for my lessons. People can say what they want, but a life of studying has its perks, and there are definitely many places more dreary than the university cloisters.

To be brief, then, I lived on in my usual miscellaneous manner, gradually getting a knowledge of good and evil, until I had attained my twenty-first year. I had scarcely come of age when I heard of the sudden death of my father. The shock was severe, for though he had never treated me with kindness, still he was my father, and at his death I felt myself alone in the world.

To keep it short, I continued living my usual unpredictable life, slowly learning about right and wrong, until I turned twenty-one. I had barely reached adulthood when I heard about my father's unexpected death. It hit me hard because, even though he had never been kind to me, he was still my father, and when he died, I felt completely alone in the world.

I returned home to act as chief mourner at his funeral. It was attended by many of the sportsmen of the country; for he was an important member of their fraternity. According to his request his favorite hunter was led after the hearse. The red-nosed fox-hunter, who had taken a little too much wine at the house, made a maudlin eulogy of the deceased, and wished to give the view halloo over the grave; but he was rebuked by the rest of the company. They all shook me kindly by the hand, said many consolatory things to me, and invited me to become a member of the hunt in my father’s place.

I went home to be the main mourner at his funeral. Many of the country's athletes attended because he was a significant part of their community. As he requested, his favorite hunting dog was led behind the hearse. The overly tipsy fox-hunter gave an emotional speech about the deceased and wanted to shout the hunting call over the grave, but the others in the group scolded him. They all shook my hand kindly, offered me comforting words, and invited me to take my father's place in the hunt.

When I found myself alone in my paternal home, a crowd of gloomy feelings came thronging upon me. It was a place that always seemed to sober me, and bring me to reflection. Now, especially, it looked so deserted and melancholy; the furniture displaced about the room; the chairs in groups, as their departed occupants had sat, either in whispering tête-à-têtes, or gossiping clusters; the bottles and decanters and wine-glasses, half emptied, and scattered about the tables—all dreary traces of a funeral festival. I entered the little breakfasting room. There were my father’s whip and spurs hanging by the fire-place, and his favorite pointer lying on the hearth-rug. The poor animal came fondling about me, and licked my hand, though he had never before noticed me; and then he looked round the room, and whined, and wagged his tail slightly, and gazed wistfully in my face. I felt the full force of the appeal. “Poor Dash!” said I, “we are both alone in the world, with nobody to care for us, and we’ll take care of one another.” The dog never quitted me afterwards.

When I found myself alone in my dad's house, a wave of sad feelings washed over me. It was a place that always seemed to ground me and make me think. Now, especially, it looked so empty and depressing; the furniture was scattered around the room; the chairs were grouped together, just like when their former occupants were sitting there, either in quiet conversations or in gossiping groups; the bottles, decanters, and half-empty wine glasses were strewn across the tables—all sad reminders of a mourning gathering. I walked into the small breakfast room. There were my dad’s whip and spurs hanging by the fireplace, and his beloved pointer lying on the rug. The poor dog came over to me, licking my hand, even though he had never paid attention to me before; then he looked around the room, whimpered, wagged his tail a bit, and gazed up at me with longing. I felt the weight of that look. “Poor Dash,” I said, “we’re both alone in the world, with nobody to care for us, so we’ll look after each other.” The dog never left my side after that.

I could not go into my mother’s room: my heart swelled when I passed Within sight of the door. Her portrait hung in the parlor, just over the place where she used to sit. As I cast my eyes on it I thought it looked at me with tenderness, and I burst into tears. My heart had long been seared by living in public schools, and buffeting about among strangers who cared nothing for me; but the recollection of a mother’s tenderness was overcoming.

I couldn't go into my mom's room: my heart ached when I passed by the door. Her portrait hung in the living room, right above where she used to sit. When I looked at it, it seemed to gaze back at me with love, and I started crying. My heart had been hardened by years in public schools, surrounded by strangers who didn’t care about me; but the memory of my mom's love was too powerful to resist.

I was not of an age or a temperament to be long depressed. There was a reaction in my system that always brought me up again at every pressure; and indeed my spirits were most buoyant after a temporary prostration. I settled the concerns of the estate as soon as possible; realized my property, which was not very considerable, but which appeared a vast deal to me, having a poetical eye that magnified everything; and finding myself, at the end of a few months, free of all farther business or restraint, I determined to go to London and enjoy myself. Why should not I?—I was young, animated, joyous; had plenty of funds for present pleasures, and my uncle’s estate in the perspective. Let those mope at college and pore over books, thought I, who have their way to make in the world; it would be ridiculous drudgery in a youth of my expectations.

I wasn't old enough or the type of person to stay depressed for long. My system always bounced back from any setback, and in fact, I felt even more cheerful after a short slump. I took care of the estate matters as quickly as I could; I sold off my property, which wasn't much, but to me, it seemed like a lot since I had an imaginative perspective that made everything seem bigger. After a few months, once I was free of all responsibilities, I decided to head to London and have some fun. Why shouldn't I? I was young, full of energy, and happy; I had enough money for some enjoyment right now and my uncle’s estate to look forward to. Let those who have to make their way in the world stick to their books at college; it would be silly hard work for someone with my future ahead of me.

Well, sir, away to London I rattled in a tandem, determined to take the town gaily. I passed through several of the villages where I had played the jack-pudding a few years before; and I visited the scenes of many of my adventures and follies, merely from that feeling of melancholy pleasure which we have in stepping again into the footprints of foregone existence, even when they have passed among weeds and briars. I made a circuit in the latter part of my journey, so as to take in West End and Hempstead, the scenes of my last dramatic exploit, and of the battle royal of the booth. As I drove along the ridge of Hempstead Hill, by Jack Straw’s castle, I paused at the spot where Columbine and I had sat down so disconsolately in our ragged finery, and looked dubiously upon London. I almost expected to see her again, standing on the hill’s brink, “like Niobe all tears;”—mournful as Babylon in ruins!

Well, sir, I sped off to London in a tandem, excited to take on the city. I went through several villages where I had performed as a jester a few years back; and I revisited the places of many of my adventures and mischiefs, drawn by that bittersweet joy we feel when we step back into the memories of our past, even when they’ve been overrun by weeds and thorns. I made a detour later in my journey to include the West End and Hempstead, the sites of my last dramatic performance and the epic showdown at the booth. As I drove along the ridge of Hempstead Hill, near Jack Straw's castle, I stopped at the spot where Columbine and I had sat down so sadly in our tattered costumes, looking doubtfully at London. I almost expected to see her again, standing on the edge of the hill, “like Niobe all tears”—as mournful as Babylon in ruins!

“Poor Columbine!” said I, with a heavy sigh, “thou wert a gallant, generous girl—a true woman, faithful to the distressed, and ready to sacrifice thyself in the cause of worthless man!”

“Poor Columbine!” I said with a heavy sigh, “you were a brave, generous girl—a true woman, loyal to those in need, and willing to sacrifice yourself for a worthless man!”

I tried to whistle off the recollection of her; for there was always Something of self-reproach with it. I drove gayly along the road, enjoying the stare of hostlers and stable-boys as I managed my horses knowingly down the steep street of Hempstead; when, just at the skirts of the village, one of the traces of my leader came loose. I pulled up; and as the animal was restive and my servant a bungler, I called for assistance to the robustious master of a snug ale-house, who stood at his door with a tankard in his hand. He came readily to assist me, followed by his wife, with her bosom half open, a child in her arms, and two more at her heels. I stared for a moment as if doubting my eyes. I could not be mistaken; in the fat, beer-blown landlord of the ale-house I recognized my old rival Harlequin, and in his slattern spouse, the once trim and dimpling Columbine.

I tried to shake off the memory of her because it always came with some guilt. I happily drove down the road, enjoying the looks from the stable hands and hostlers as I skillfully managed my horses down the steep street of Hempstead. Just as I reached the edge of the village, one of the traces on my lead horse came loose. I stopped, and since the horse was restless and my servant was inept, I asked the burly owner of a cozy pub for help while he stood at his door holding a tankard. He quickly came over to help me, followed by his wife, whose top was half open, holding a child in her arms with two more kids trailing behind her. I stared for a moment as if I couldn't believe my eyes. I couldn't be wrong; in the plump, beer-bellied landlord of the pub, I recognized my old rival Harlequin, and in his disheveled wife, the once neat and cheerful Columbine.

The change of my looks, from youth to manhood, and the change of my circumstances, prevented them from recognizing me. They could not suspect, in the dashing young buck, fashionably dressed, and driving his own equipage, their former comrade, the painted beau, with old peaked hat and long, flimsy, sky-blue coat. My heart yearned with kindness towards Columbine, and I was glad to see her establishment a thriving one. As soon as the harness was adjusted, I tossed a small purse of gold into her ample bosom; and then, pretending give my horses a hearty cut of the whip, I made the lash curl with a whistling about the sleek sides of ancient Harlequin. The horses dashed off like lightning, and I was whirled out of sight, before either of the parties could get over their surprise at my liberal donations. I have always considered this as one of the greatest proofs of my poetical genius. It was distributing poetical justice in perfection.

The change in my appearance, from youth to adulthood, along with my new circumstances, made it hard for them to recognize me. They couldn't suspect that the dashing young guy, stylish and driving his own carriage, was their former friend, the flamboyant dandy in an old, worn-out hat and a long, flimsy sky-blue coat. My heart felt warm towards Columbine, and I was happy to see her doing well. Once the harness was set, I tossed a small bag of gold into her generous arms; then, pretending to give my horses a good whip, I made the lash crack loudly against the shiny sides of old Harlequin. The horses took off like a shot, and I disappeared from view before either group could process their surprise at my generous gifts. I’ve always seen this as one of the greatest examples of my poetic talent. It was the perfect act of poetic justice.

I now entered London en cavalier, and became a blood upon town. I took fashionable lodgings in the West End; employed the first tailor; frequented the regular lounges; gambled a little; lost my money good-humoredly, and gained a number of fashionable good-for-nothing acquaintances. Had I had more industry and ambition in my nature, I might have worked my way to the very height of fashion, as I saw many laborious gentlemen doing around me. But it is a toilsome, an anxious, and an unhappy life; there are few beings so sleepless and miserable as your cultivators of fashionable smiles.

I now entered London like a true gentleman and became part of the social scene. I rented a stylish place in the West End, hired the best tailor, hung out at the popular spots, gambled a bit, lost my money cheerfully, and made a bunch of fashionable yet useless friends. If I had been more motivated and ambitious, I might have worked my way to the top of the social ladder, just like many hardworking guys around me. But that life is tough, stressful, and unhappy; few people are as restless and miserable as those who chase after trendy smiles.

I was quite content with that kind of society which forms the frontiers of fashion, and may be easily taken possession of. I found it a light, easy, productive soil. I had but to go about and sow visiting cards, and I reaped a whole harvest of invitations. Indeed, my figure and address were by no means against me. It was whispered, too, among the young ladies, that I was prodigiously clever, and wrote poetry; and the old ladies had ascertained that I was a young gentleman of good family, handsome fortune, and “great expectations.”

I was really happy with that kind of society that sets the trends and is easy to get into. I found it to be a light, easy, and rewarding environment. All I had to do was hand out my business cards, and I collected a whole bunch of invitations in return. In fact, my appearance and charm definitely worked in my favor. It was even rumored among the young women that I was incredibly smart and wrote poetry; and the older women had figured out that I was a young man from a good family, with a nice fortune, and “great expectations.”

I now was carried away by the hurry of gay life, so intoxicating to a young man; and which a man of poetical temperament enjoys so highly on his first tasting of it. That rapid variety of sensations; that whirl of brilliant objects; that succession of pungent pleasures. I had no time for thought; I only felt. I never attempted to write poetry; my poetry seemed all to go off by transpiration. I lived poetry; it was all a poetical dream to me. A mere sensualist knows nothing of the delights of a splendid metropolis. He lives in a round of animal gratifications and heartless habits. But to a young man of poetical feelings it is an ideal world; a scene of enchantment and delusion; his imagination is in perpetual excitement, and gives a spiritual zest to every pleasure.

I was swept away by the excitement of vibrant life, which is so intoxicating for a young man and especially enjoyable for someone with a poetic temperament experiencing it for the first time. The fast-paced variety of sensations, the whirlwind of dazzling sights, the constant stream of intense pleasures left me with no time to think; I was purely in the moment. I never tried to write poetry because it felt like it all evaporated before it could form. I lived in poetry; it was all a poetic dream for me. A straightforward sensualist doesn’t grasp the delights of a magnificent city. He gets caught up in a cycle of physical pleasures and empty routines. But for a young man with poetic feelings, it’s an ideal world, a scene of wonder and illusion; his imagination is always stimulated, adding a spiritual thrill to every pleasure.

A season of town life somewhat sobered me of my intoxication; or rather I was rendered more serious by one of my old complaints—I fell in love. It was with a very pretty, though a very haughty fair one, who had come to London under the care of an old maiden aunt, to enjoy the pleasures of a winter in town, and to get married. There was not a doubt of her commanding a choice of lovers; for she had long been the belle of a little cathedral town; and one of the prebendaries had absolutely celebrated her beauty in a copy of Latin verses.

A season of city life somewhat sobered my excitement; or rather, I became more serious because of one of my old issues—I fell in love. It was with a very pretty, though very proud girl, who had come to London under the care of her old aunt to enjoy the winter festivities and to get married. There was no doubt she had plenty of admirers; she had long been the beauty of a small cathedral town, and one of the church officials had even praised her looks in a poem written in Latin.

I paid my court to her, and was favorably received both by her and her aunt. Nay, I had a marked preference shown me over the younger son of a needy baronet, and a captain of dragoons on half pay. I did not absolutely take the field in form, for I was determined not to be precipitate; but I drove my equipage frequently through the street in which she lived, and was always sure to see her at the window, generally with a book in her hand. I resumed my knack at rhyming, and sent her a long copy of verses; anonymously to be sure; but she knew my handwriting. They displayed, however, the most delightful ignorance on the subject. The young lady showed them to me; wondered who they could be written by; and declared there was nothing in this world she loved so much as poetry: while the maiden aunt would put her pinching spectacles on her nose, and read them, with blunders in sense and sound, that were excruciating to an author’s ears; protesting there was nothing equal to them in the whole elegant extracts.

I paid attention to her, and both she and her aunt welcomed me warmly. In fact, I was given a clear preference over the younger son of a struggling baronet and a captain of dragoons on half pay. I didn’t fully put myself out there, as I was determined to take my time; but I often drove my carriage through the street where she lived, always hoping to see her at the window, usually with a book in her hand. I picked up my gift for rhyming again and sent her a long poem; anonymously, of course, but she recognized my handwriting. They, however, showed a delightful lack of understanding about it. The young lady shared them with me, speculated about who the author could be, and stated that there was nothing she loved more than poetry, while her maiden aunt put on her tight spectacles and read them, making mistakes in meaning and sound that were painful for an author to hear, insisting there was nothing like them in all the elegant excerpts.

The fashionable season closed without my adventuring to make a declaration, though. I certainly had encouragement. I was not perfectly sure that I had effected a lodgment in the young lady’s heart; and, to tell the truth, the aunt overdid her part, and was a little too extravagant in her liking of me. I knew that maiden aunts were not apt to be captivated by the mere personal merits of their nieces’ admirers, and I wanted to ascertain how much of all this favor I owed to my driving an equipage and having great expectations.

The fashionable season wrapped up without me taking a chance to make a declaration, though I definitely had some encouragement. I wasn't entirely sure if I had managed to win the young lady's heart; to be honest, her aunt went a bit overboard and was a little too enthusiastic about me. I realized that maiden aunts typically aren't swayed by just the personal charms of their nieces' suitors, and I wanted to figure out how much of this favor I owed to my fancy carriage and my promising future.

I had received many hints how charming their native town was during the summer months; what pleasant society they had; and what beautiful drives about the neighborhood. They had not, therefore, returned home long, before I made my appearance in dashing style, driving down the principal street. It is an easy thing to put a little quiet cathedral town in a buzz. The very next morning I was seen at prayers, seated in the pew of the reigning belle. All the congregation was in a flutter. The prebends eyed me from their stalls; questions were whispered about the aisles after service, “who is he?” and “what is he?” and the replies were as usual—“A young gentleman of good family and fortune, and great expectations.”

I had heard a lot about how charming their hometown was during the summer, how great the company was, and how beautiful the drives around the area were. So, not long after they returned home, I made my entrance in style, cruising down the main street. It's pretty easy to stir things up in a quiet little cathedral town. The very next morning, I was spotted at church, sitting in the pew of the town's reigning beauty. The whole congregation was buzzing. The clergy watched me from their seats; whispers floated around the aisles after the service, asking, “Who is he?” and “What’s his story?” The usual replies followed—“A young gentleman from a good family, with wealth and great prospects.”

I was pleased with the peculiarities of a cathedral town, where I found I was a personage of some consequence. I was quite a brilliant acquisition to the young ladies of the cathedral circle, who were glad to have a beau that was not in a black coat and clerical wig.

I was happy with the quirks of a cathedral town, where I discovered I was someone of significance. I was quite an impressive addition to the young ladies of the cathedral scene, who were thrilled to have a guy who wasn't wearing a black coat and a clerical wig.

You must know that there was a vast distinction between the classes of society of the town. As it was a place of some trade, there were many wealthy inhabitants among the commercial and manufacturing classes, who lived in style and gave many entertainments. Nothing of trade, however, was admitted into the cathedral circle—faugh! the thing could not be thought of. The cathedral circle, therefore, was apt to be very select, very dignified, and very dull. They had evening parties, at which the old ladies played cards with the prebends, and the young ladies sat and looked on, and shifted from one chair to another about the room, until it was time to go home.

You should know that there was a big difference between the social classes in town. Since it was a place with some commerce, there were quite a few wealthy residents among the business and manufacturing sectors who lived well and hosted many parties. However, nothing related to trade was accepted in the cathedral circle—ugh! The idea was just unthinkable. So, the cathedral circle tended to be very exclusive, very formal, and very boring. They held evening gatherings where the older ladies played cards with the clergy, while the younger ladies sat and watched, shifting from one chair to another until it was time to leave.

It was difficult to get up a ball, from the want of partners, the Cathedral circle being very deficient in dancers; and on those occasions, there was an occasional drafting among the dancing men of the other circle, who, however, were generally regarded with great reserve and condescension by the gentlemen in powdered wigs. Several of the young ladies assured me, in confidence, that they had often looked with a wistful eye at the gayety of the other circle, where there was such plenty of young beaux, and where they all seemed to enjoy themselves so merrily; but that it would be degradation to think of descending from their sphere.

It was hard to organize a dance because there weren't enough partners, as the Cathedral circle had very few dancers. During those times, they would occasionally borrow some of the dancing men from the other circle, who were usually looked at with a mix of suspicion and disdain by the gentlemen in powdered wigs. Several young ladies confided in me that they often longed to join in the fun of the other circle, where there were plenty of young men and everyone seemed to be having a great time. However, they felt it would be beneath them to think about moving down from their social level.

I admired the degree of old-fashioned ceremony and superannuated courtesy that prevailed in this little place. The bowings and courtseyings that would take place about the cathedral porch after morning service, where knots of old gentlemen and ladies would collect together to ask after each other’s health, and settle the card party for the evening. The little presents of fruits and delicacies, and the thousand petty messages that would pass from house to house; for in a tranquil community like this, living entirely at ease, and having little to do, little duties and little civilities and little amusements, fill up the day. I have smiled, as I looked from my window on a quiet street near the cathedral, in the middle of a warm summer day, to see a corpulent powdered footman in rich livery, carrying a small tart on a large silver salver. A dainty titbit, sent, no doubt, by some worthy old dowager, to top off the dinner of her favorite prebend.

I appreciated the level of old-fashioned ceremony and outdated courtesy that existed in this little town. The bows and curtsies that happened by the cathedral entrance after morning service, where groups of older gentlemen and ladies would gather to check on each other’s health and plan the evening card game. The small gifts of fruits and treats, and the countless little messages that would travel from house to house; in a peaceful community like this, where everyone lived comfortably and had little to do, those small duties, civilities, and amusements filled the day. I've smiled as I looked out my window onto a quiet street near the cathedral on a warm summer day, watching a stout, powdered footman in fancy attire carrying a small tart on a large silver tray. A delightful little treat, likely sent by some esteemed older lady, to complement the dinner of her favorite prebend.

Nothing could be more delectable, also, than the breaking up of one of their evening card parties. Such shaking of hands such mobbing up in cloaks and tippets! There were two or three old sedan chairs that did the duty of the whole place; though the greater part made their exit in clogs and pattens, with a footman or waiting-maid carrying a lanthorn in advance; and at a certain hour of the night the clank of pattens and the gleam of these jack lanthorns, here and there, about the quiet little town, gave notice that the cathedral card party had dissolved, and the luminaries were severally seeking their homes. To such a community, therefore, or at least to the female part of it, the accession of a gay, dashing young beau was a matter of some importance. The old ladies eyed me with complacency through their spectacles, and the young ladies pronounced me divine. Everybody received me favorably, excepting the gentleman who had written the Latin verses on the belle.—Not that he was jealous of my success with the lady, for he had no pretensions to her; but he heard my verses praised wherever he went, and he could not endure a rival with the muse.

Nothing could be more delightful than the end of one of their evening card parties. There were handshakes and everyone was bundled up in cloaks and shawls! A couple of old sedan chairs served the whole place, although most people left in clogs and pattens, with a footman or maid carrying a lantern in front; and at a certain hour of the night, the sound of pattens and the glow of these lanterns scattered around the quiet little town signaled that the cathedral card party had wrapped up and everyone was heading home. For this community, especially the women, the arrival of a charming, dashing young man was a big deal. The older ladies looked at me with approval through their glasses, and the younger ones called me divine. Everyone welcomed me, except for the gentleman who had written the Latin verses about the beauty. Not that he was jealous of my success with her; he didn't think he had a chance with her at all, but he heard my verses praised everywhere he went, and he couldn’t stand having a rival in poetry.

I was thus carrying every thing before me. I was the Adonis of the Cathedral circle; when one evening there was a public ball which was attended likewise by the gentry of the neighborhood. I took great pains with my toilet on the occasion, and I had never looked better. I had determined that night to make my grand assault on the heart of the young lady, to batter it with all my forces, and the next morning to demand a surrender in due form.

I was completely in my element. I was the star of the Cathedral crowd; one evening there was a public ball that also attracted the local elite. I spent a lot of time getting ready for the event, and I had never looked better. That night, I was set on making my big move on the heart of the young lady, to win her over with everything I had, and the next morning, I planned to ask for a commitment in style.

I entered the ball-room amidst a buzz and flutter, which generally took place among the young ladies on my appearance. I was in fine spirits; for to tell the truth, I had exhilarated myself by a cheerful glass of wine on the occasion. I talked, and rattled, and said a thousand silly things, slap-dash, with all the confidence of a man sure of his auditors; and every thing had its effect.

I walked into the ballroom to the usual buzz and excitement that always followed my arrival. I was in great spirits; honestly, I had lifted my mood with a cheerful glass of wine for the occasion. I chatted and joked around, saying a thousand silly things without holding back, with all the confidence of someone who knows their audience well; and everything made an impact.

In the midst of my triumph I observed a little knot gathering together in the upper part of the room. By degrees it increased. A tittering broke out there; and glances were cast round at me, and then there would be fresh tittering. Some of the young ladies would hurry away to distant parts of the room, and whisper to their friends; wherever they went there was still this tittering and glancing at me. I did not know what to make of all this. I looked at myself from head to foot; and peeped at my back in a glass, to see if any thing was odd about my person; any awkward exposure; any whimsical tag hanging out—no—every thing was right. I was a perfect picture.

In the middle of my success, I noticed a small group forming in the upper part of the room. Slowly, it grew larger. Laughter erupted from there, and I caught people glancing at me, followed by more giggles. Some of the young women quickly moved to different parts of the room to whisper to their friends; no matter where they went, there were still giggles and looks thrown my way. I was confused by all of this. I checked myself from head to toe and even peeked at my back in a mirror to see if anything was off about me—any awkward exposure, any strange tag sticking out—nope, everything was fine. I looked great.

I determined that it must be some choice saying of mine, that was handled about in this knot of merry beauties, and I determined to enjoy one of my good things in the rebound.

I decided it must be something clever I said, shared among this group of joyful women, and I was set on enjoying one of my good moments in return.

I stepped gently, therefore, up the room, smiling at every one as I passed, who I must say all smiled and tittered in return. I approached the group, smirking and perking my chin, like a man who is full of pleasant feeling, and sure of being well received. The cluster of little belles opened as I advanced.

I walked softly into the room, smiling at everyone as I went by, and I have to say they all smiled and giggled back. I moved toward the group, smirking and lifting my chin, like someone who's feeling really good and confident about being welcomed. The group of little ladies parted as I got closer.

Heavens and earth! whom should I perceive in the midst of them, but my early and tormenting flame, the everlasting Sacharissa! She was grown up, it is true, into the full beauty of womanhood, but showed by the provoking merriment of her countenance, that she perfectly recollected me, and the ridiculous flagellations of which she had twice been the cause.

Heavens and earth! Who should I see among them but my long-time and torturous crush, the forever enchanting Sacharissa! It’s true she had matured into the full beauty of womanhood, but the playful look on her face made it clear that she remembered me well, including the embarrassing moments she had caused me twice.

I saw at once the exterminating cloud of ridicule that was bursting over me. My crest fell. The flame of love went suddenly out in my bosom; or was extinguished by overwhelming shame. How I got down the room I know not; I fancied every one tittering at me. Just as I reached the door, I caught a glance of my mistress and her aunt, listening to the whispers of my poetic rival; the old lady raising her hands and eyes, and the face of the young one lighted up with scorn ineffable. I paused to see no more; but made two steps from the top of the stairs to the bottom. The next morning, before sunrise, I beat a retreat; and did not feel the blushes cool from my tingling cheeks until I had lost sight of the old towers of the cathedral.

I immediately felt the overwhelming wave of ridicule crashing down on me. My confidence took a nosedive. The spark of love flickered out in my heart, or it was snuffed out by crushing shame. I have no idea how I made it out of the room; I could almost hear everyone snickering at me. Just as I reached the door, I caught a glimpse of my girlfriend and her aunt, listening to the whispers of my poetic competitor; the old lady was raising her hands and eyes, while the young woman's face showed pure scorn. I didn’t want to see any more, so I took two quick steps down the stairs. The next morning, before dawn, I made my escape; and I didn’t feel the heat of embarrassment leave my cheeks until I had lost sight of the old cathedral towers.

I now returned to town thoughtful and crestfallen. My money was nearly spent, for I had lived freely and without calculation. The dream of love was over, and the reign of pleasure at an end. I determined to retrench while I had yet a trifle left; so selling my equipage and horses for half their value, I quietly put the money in my pocket and turned pedestrian. I had not a doubt that, with my great expectations, I could at any time raise funds, either on usury or by borrowing; but I was principled against both one and the other; and resolved, by strict economy, to make my slender purse hold out, until my uncle should give up the ghost; or rather, the estate.

I returned to town feeling deep in thought and disappointed. My money was almost gone because I had lived freely and without a care. The dream of love was over, and the time of pleasure had ended. I decided to cut back while I still had a little left; so I sold my carriage and horses for half their worth, quietly pocketed the cash, and started walking everywhere. I had no doubt that, given my high hopes, I could easily get funds either through loans or by borrowing; but I was against both options and determined to make my limited money last until my uncle passed away—or rather, until I inherited the estate.

I stayed at home, therefore, and read, and would have written; but I had already suffered too much from my poetical productions, which had generally involved me in some ridiculous scrape. I gradually acquired a rusty look, and had a straightened, money-borrowing air, upon which the world began to shy me. I have never felt disposed to quarrel with the world for its conduct. It has always used me well. When I have been flush, and gay, and disposed for society, it has caressed me; and when I have been pinched, and reduced, and wished to be alone, why, it has left me alone, and what more could a man desire?—Take my word for it, this world is a more obliging world than people generally represent it.

I stayed home and read, and I would have written too, but I had already gone through too much pain with my poetry, which usually got me into some awkward situations. I slowly started to look worn out, and I had a stressed, money-borrowing vibe that made people avoid me. I've never felt the need to argue with the world about how it treats me. It's always been good to me. When I've been doing well, feeling cheerful, and wanting company, it's embraced me; and when I've been struggling, down, and wanting to be left alone, it has respected that and let me be – what more could anyone want? Believe me, this world is more accommodating than most people say it is.

Well, sir, in the midst of my retrenchment, my retirement, and my studiousness, I received news that my uncle was dangerously ill. I hastened on the wings of an heir’s affection to receive his dying breath and his last testament. I found him attended by his faithful valet, old Iron John; by the woman who occasionally worked about the house; and by the foxy-headed boy, young Orson, whom I had occasionally hunted about the park.

Well, sir, during my cutbacks, my retirement, and my serious study, I got word that my uncle was seriously ill. I rushed with the urgency of a concerned heir to be there for his final moments and his last wishes. I found him being cared for by his loyal servant, old Iron John; by the woman who sometimes helped out around the house; and by the young, sly-headed boy, Orson, who I had sometimes chased around the park.

Iron John gasped a kind of asthmatical salutation as I entered the room, and received me with something almost like a smile of welcome. The woman sat blubbering at the foot of the bed; and the foxy-headed Orson, who had now grown to be a lubberly lout, stood gazing in stupid vacancy at a distance.

Iron John let out a wheezy sort of greeting as I walked into the room and greeted me with what looked almost like a welcoming smile. The woman was crying at the foot of the bed, and the now clumsy Orson, who had grown into a big oaf, stood staring blankly off in the distance.

My uncle lay stretched upon his back. The chamber was without a fire, or any of the comforts of a sick-room. The cobwebs flaunted from the ceiling. The tester was covered with dust, and the curtains were tattered. From underneath the bed peeped out one end of his strong box. Against the wainscot were suspended rusty blunderbusses, horse pistols, and a cut-and-thrust sword, with which he had fortified his room to defend his life and treasure. He had employed no physician during his illness, and from the scanty relics lying on the table, seemed almost to have denied himself the assistance of a cook.

My uncle lay on his back. The room had no fire or any of the comforts of a sickroom. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling. The canopy was covered in dust, and the curtains were frayed. One end of his strongbox peeked out from underneath the bed. Rusty blunderbusses, horse pistols, and a sword hung against the wall, which he had used to fortify his room to protect his life and treasures. He hadn’t seen a doctor during his illness, and from the meager leftovers on the table, it looked like he had barely let himself have any food prepared.

When I entered the room he was lying motionless; with his eyes fixed and his mouth open; at the first look I thought him a corpse. The noise of my entrance made him turn his head. At the sight of me a ghastly smile came over his face, and his glazing eye gleamed with satisfaction. It was the only smile he had ever given me, and it went to my heart. “Poor old man!” thought I, “why would you not let me love you?—Why would you force me to leave you thus desolate, when I see that my presence has the power to cheer you?”

When I walked into the room, he was lying there still; his eyes were fixed, and his mouth was open. At first glance, I thought he was dead. The sound of my entrance made him turn his head. When he saw me, a twisted smile spread across his face, and his dull eyes lit up with satisfaction. It was the only smile he'd ever given me, and it touched my heart. “Poor old man!” I thought, “Why wouldn’t you let me love you?—Why would you make me leave you so alone, when I can see that just my presence brings you some joy?”

“Nephew,” said he, after several efforts, and in a low gasping voice —“I am glad you are come. I shall now die with satisfaction. Look,” said he, raising his withered hand and pointing—“look—in that box on the table you will find that I have not forgotten you.”

“Nephew,” he said, after struggling a bit and in a low, breathy voice, “I’m glad you’re here. I can die peacefully now. Look,” he said, raising his frail hand and pointing, “look—in that box on the table, you’ll see that I haven’t forgotten you.”

I pressed his hand to my heart, and the tears stood in my eyes. I sat down by his bed-side, and watched him, but he never spoke again. My presence, however, gave him evident satisfaction—for every now and then, as he looked at me, a vague smile would come over his visage, and he would feebly point to the sealed box on the table. As the day wore away, his life seemed to wear away with it. Towards sunset, his hand sunk on the bed and lay motionless; his eyes grew glazed; his mouth remained open, and thus he gradually died.

I pressed his hand to my heart, and tears filled my eyes. I sat down by his bedside and watched him, but he never spoke again. However, my presence clearly pleased him—every now and then, as he looked at me, a faint smile would appear on his face, and he would weakly point to the sealed box on the table. As the day went on, his life seemed to slip away with it. Toward sunset, his hand fell on the bed and lay still; his eyes became glazed; his mouth stayed open, and gradually, he passed away.

I could not but feel shocked at this absolute extinction of my kindred. I dropped a tear of real sorrow over this strange old man, who had thus reserved his smile of kindness to his deathbed; like an evening sun after a gloomy day, just shining out to set in darkness. Leaving the corpse in charge of the domestics, I retired for the night.

I couldn't help but feel shocked by the complete loss of my family. I shed a genuine tear of sorrow for this strange old man, who had saved his smile of kindness for his deathbed; like the evening sun breaking through after a gloomy day, only to set into darkness. After leaving the body in the care of the staff, I went to bed for the night.

It was a rough night. The winds seemed as if singing my uncle’s requiem about the mansion; and the bloodhounds howled without as if they knew of the death of their old master. Iron John almost grudged me the tallow candle to burn in my apartment and light up its dreariness; so accustomed had he been to starveling economy. I could not sleep. The recollection of my uncle’s dying scene and the dreary sounds about the house, affected my mind. These, however, were succeeded by plans for the future, and I lay awake the greater part of the night, indulging the poetical anticipation, how soon I would make these old walls ring with cheerful life, and restore the hospitality of my mother’s ancestors.

It was a tough night. The winds felt like they were singing my uncle’s funeral song about the mansion, and the bloodhounds howled outside as if they sensed the death of their old master. Iron John seemed to begrudge me the tallow candle to light up my dreary room; he was so used to being miserly. I couldn’t sleep. The memory of my uncle’s last moments and the gloomy sounds around the house haunted me. However, I soon shifted to thinking about the future, and I spent most of the night awake, dreaming about how I would soon fill these old walls with lively energy and bring back the warmth of my mother’s family’s hospitality.

My uncle’s funeral was decent, but private, I knew there was nobody That respected his memory; and I was determined that none should be summoned to sneer over his funeral wines, and make merry at his grave. He was buried in the church of the neighboring village, though it was not the burying place of his race; but he had expressly enjoined that he should not be buried with his family; he had quarrelled with the most of them when living, and he carried his resentments even into the grave.

My uncle's funeral was proper but private. I knew there was no one who truly respected his memory, and I was set on making sure no one was called in to mock his funeral drinks or celebrate at his grave. He was buried in the church of the nearby village, although it wasn't the family burial site. Still, he had specifically insisted on not being buried with his family; he had fought with most of them while he was alive, and he took his grudges even to the grave.

I defrayed the expenses of the funeral out of my own purse, that I might have done with the undertakers at once, and clear the ill-omened birds from the premises. I invited the parson of the parish, and the lawyer from the village to attend at the house the next morning and hear the reading of the will. I treated them to an excellent breakfast, a profusion that had not been seen at the house for many a year. As soon as the breakfast things were removed, I summoned Iron John, the woman, and the boy, for I was particular of having every one present and proceeding regularly. The box was placed on the table. All was silence. I broke the seal; raised the lid; and beheld—not the will, but my accursed poem of Doubting Castle and Giant Despair!

I covered the funeral costs myself so I could deal with the undertakers right away and get rid of the bad vibes from the place. I invited the local priest and the village lawyer to come to the house the next morning for the reading of the will. I treated them to a fantastic breakfast, a spread that hadn’t been seen in the house for ages. Once the breakfast dishes were cleared away, I called in Iron John, the woman, and the boy because I wanted everyone there and to follow the process properly. The box was placed on the table. There was complete silence. I broke the seal, lifted the lid, and saw—not the will, but my cursed poem about Doubting Castle and Giant Despair!

Could any mortal have conceived that this old withered man; so taciturn, and apparently lost to feeling, could have treasured up for years the thoughtless pleasantry of a boy, to punish him with such cruel ingenuity? I could now account for his dying smile, the only one he had ever given me. He had been a grave man all his life; it was strange that he should die in the enjoyment of a joke; and it was hard that that joke should be at my expense.

Could anyone have imagined that this old, frail man, so quiet and seemingly devoid of emotions, could have held onto a carefree remark from a boy for years, just to get back at him with such cruel cleverness? Now I understood his dying smile, the only one he ever gave me. He had been a serious man his whole life; it was odd that he would die enjoying a joke, and it was tough that the joke was at my expense.

The lawyer and the parson seemed at a loss to comprehend the matter. “Here must be some mistake,” said the lawyer, “there is no will here.”

The lawyer and the pastor appeared confused by the situation. “There must be some mistake,” the lawyer said, “there’s no will here.”

“Oh,” said Iron John, creaking forth his rusty jaws, “if it is a will you are looking for, I believe I can find one.”

“Oh,” said Iron John, opening his rusty jaws, “if you’re looking for a will, I think I can help you find one.”

He retired with the same singular smile with which he had greeted me on my arrival, and which I now apprehended boded me no good. In a little while he returned with a will perfect at all points, properly signed and sealed and witnessed; worded with horrible correctness; in which he left large legacies to Iron John and his daughter, and the residue of his fortune to the foxy-headed boy; who, to my utter astonishment, was his son by this very woman; he having married her privately; and, as I verily believe, for no other purpose than to have an heir, and so baulk my father and his issue of the inheritance. There was one little proviso, in which he mentioned that having discovered his nephew to have a pretty turn for poetry, he presumed he had no occasion for wealth; he recommended him, however, to the patronage of his heir; and requested that he might have a garret, rent free, in Doubting Castle.

He left with the same distinct smile he had given me when I arrived, a smile that I now feared meant trouble for me. After a little while, he came back with a will that was perfect in every way, properly signed, sealed, and witnessed; it was worded with such precise correctness. In it, he left large legacies to Iron John and his daughter, and the rest of his fortune to the foxy-headed boy, who, to my complete shock, was his son with this very woman; he had married her secretly, and I truly believe it was solely to have an heir and prevent my father and his descendants from inheriting. There was a small condition in which he noted that he had discovered his nephew had a talent for poetry, so he figured he didn’t really need wealth; he did, however, recommend him to the patronage of his heir and requested that he be given a rent-free garret in Doubting Castle.

Mr. Buckthorne had paused at the death of his uncle, and the downfall of his great expectations, which formed, as he said, an epoch in his history; and it was not until some little time afterwards, and in a very sober mood, that he resumed his particolored narrative.

Mr. Buckthorne had stopped after the death of his uncle and the collapse of his big dreams, which he said marked a significant moment in his life; and it wasn't until some time later, in a very serious mood, that he continued with his colorful story.

After leaving the domains of my defunct uncle, said he, when the gate Closed between me and what was once to have been mine, I felt thrust out naked into the world, and completely abandoned to fortune. What was to become of me? I had been brought up to nothing but expectations, and they had all been disappointed. I had no relations to look to for counsel or assistance. The world seemed all to have died away from me. Wave after wave of relationship had ebbed off, and I was left a mere hulk upon the strand. I am not apt to be greatly cast down, but at this, time I felt sadly disheartened. I could not realize my situation, nor form a conjecture how I was to get forward.

After leaving my late uncle's estate, he said, when the gate closed between me and what was supposed to be mine, I felt thrown out into the world, completely left to chance. What was going to happen to me? I had only been raised with expectations, and they had all let me down. I didn't have any family to turn to for advice or help. It felt like everyone and everything had vanished from my life. One connection after another had faded away, and I was left as a mere shell on the shore. I'm not usually one to get overly down, but at that moment, I felt really discouraged. I couldn't grasp my situation, nor could I figure out how I was going to move forward.

I was now to endeavor to make money. The idea was new and strange to me. It was like being asked to discover the philosopher’s stone. I had never thought about money, other than to put my hand into my pocket and find it, or if there were none there, to wait until a new supply came from home. I had considered life as a mere space of time to be filled up with enjoyments; but to have it portioned out into long hours and days of toil, merely that I might gain bread to give me strength to toil on; to labor but for the purpose of perpetuating a life of labor was new and appalling to me. This may appear a very simple matter to some, but it will be understood by every unlucky wight in my predicament, who has had the misfortune of being born to great expectations.

I was now trying to make money. The idea was new and weird to me. It felt like being asked to find the philosopher’s stone. I had never thought about money, except to reach into my pocket and see if there was any there, or if it was empty, to wait for a new supply to come from home. I saw life as just a stretch of time to be filled with enjoyment; but to break it down into long hours and days of hard work, only so I could earn enough to keep going; to work just to keep the cycle of work going was new and terrifying to me. This might seem like a straightforward idea to some, but it will resonate with anyone in my situation who has the misfortune of being born with high expectations.

I passed several days in rambling about the scenes of my boyhood; partly because I absolutely did not know what to do with myself, and partly because I did not know that I should ever see them again. I clung to them as one clings to a wreck, though he knows he must eventually cast himself loose and swim for his life. I sat down on a hill within sight of my paternal home, but I did not venture to approach it, for I felt compunction at the thoughtlessness with which I had dissipated my patrimony. But was I to blame, when I had the rich possessions of my curmudgeon of an uncle in expectation?

I spent several days wandering around the places of my childhood, partly because I had no idea what to do with myself and partly because I wasn’t sure I’d ever see them again. I held on to them like someone clinging to a sinking ship, even though I knew I eventually had to let go and swim for my life. I sat down on a hill where I could see my family home, but I didn’t dare to go closer because I felt guilty about how carelessly I had wasted my inheritance. But was it really my fault when I was expecting my miserly uncle’s fortune?

The new possessor of the place was making great alterations. The house was almost rebuilt. The trees which stood about it were cut down; my mother’s flower-garden was thrown into a lawn; all was undergoing a change. I turned my back upon it with a sigh, and rambled to another part of the country.

The new owner of the place was making major changes. The house was nearly rebuilt. The trees around it were chopped down; my mother’s flower garden was turned into a lawn; everything was changing. I turned away from it with a sigh and wandered off to another part of the countryside.

How thoughtful a little adversity makes one. As I came in sight of the school-house where I had so often been flogged in the cause of wisdom, you would hardly have recognized the truant boy who but a few years since had eloped so heedlessly from its walls. I leaned over the paling of the playground, and watched the scholars at their games, and looked to see if there might not be some urchin among them, like I was once, full of gay dreams about life and the world. The play-ground seemed smaller than when I used to sport about it. The house and park, too, of the neighboring squire, the father of the cruel Sacharissa, had shrunk in size and diminished in magnificence. The distant hills no longer appeared so far off, and, alas! no longer awakened ideas of a fairy land beyond.

How much a bit of hardship can make you reflect. As I approached the schoolhouse where I had often been punished in the name of learning, you wouldn’t even recognize the runaway kid who had once escaped its walls so carelessly. I leaned over the fence of the playground, watching the students at their games, hoping to spot a little kid among them, like I once was, full of bright dreams about life and the world. The playground seemed smaller than when I used to play there. The house and grounds of the nearby landowner, the father of the cruel Sacharissa, seemed to have shrunk in size and lost their grandeur. The distant hills no longer looked so far away, and sadly, they no longer sparked thoughts of a magical land beyond.

As I was rambling pensively through a neighboring meadow, in which I had many a time gathered primroses, I met the very pedagogue who had been the tyrant and dread of my boyhood. I had sometimes vowed to myself, when suffering under his rod, that I would have my revenge if ever I met him when I had grown to be a man. The time had come; but I had no disposition to keep my vow. The few years which had matured me into a vigorous man had shrunk him into decrepitude. He appeared to have had a paralytic stroke. I looked at him, and wondered that this poor helpless mortal could have been an object of terror to me! That I should have watched with anxiety the glance of that failing eye, or dreaded the power of that trembling hand! He tottered feebly along the path, and had some difficulty in getting over a stile. I ran and assisted him. He looked at me with surprise, but did not recognize me, and made a low bow of humility and thanks. I had no disposition to make myself known, for I felt that I had nothing to boast of. The pains he had taken and the pains he had inflicted had been equally useless. His repeated predictions were fully verified, and I felt that little Jack Buckthorne, the idle boy, had grown up to be a very good-for-nothing man.

As I was wandering thoughtfully through a nearby meadow, where I had often picked primroses, I ran into the very teacher who had been the tyrant and fear of my childhood. I had occasionally promised myself, while enduring his punishment, that I would get my revenge if I ever saw him again as an adult. The moment had arrived; but I didn’t feel like keeping that promise. The few years that had turned me into a strong man had reduced him to frailty. He seemed to have suffered a stroke. I looked at him and wondered how this poor, helpless person could have once been a source of fear for me! That I had anxiously watched the flicker in that failing eye or feared the power of that trembling hand! He stumbled slowly along the path and struggled to climb over a stile. I hurried to help him. He looked at me in surprise but didn’t recognize me, and he bowed with humility and gratitude. I didn’t feel like revealing my identity, as I realized I had nothing to boast about. The effort he had put in and the pain he had caused were equally pointless. His constant predictions had all come true, and I knew that little Jack Buckthorne, the lazy boy, had grown up to be a pretty useless man.

This is all very comfortless detail; but as I have told you of my follies, it is meet that I show you how for once I was schooled for them.

This is all pretty uncomfortable to discuss; but since I’ve shared my mistakes with you, it’s only fair that I show you how I was taught a lesson because of them.

The most thoughtless of mortals will some time or other have this day of gloom, when he will be compelled to reflect. I felt on this occasion as if I had a kind of penance to perform, and I made a pilgrimage in expiation of my past levity.

The most careless people will eventually face a day of sadness when they have to think about their lives. On this day, I felt like I needed to do some sort of penance, so I went on a journey to make up for my past frivolity.

Having passed a night at Leamington, I set off by a private path which leads up a hill, through a grove, and across quiet fields, until I came to the small village, or rather hamlet of Lenington. I sought the village church. It is an old low edifice of gray stone on the brow of a small hill, looking over fertile fields to where the proud towers of Warwick Castle lifted themselves against the distant horizon. A part of the church-yard is shaded by large trees. Under one of these my mother lay buried. You have, no doubt, thought me a light, heartless being. I thought myself so—but there are moments of adversity which let us into some feelings of our nature, to which we might otherwise remain perpetual strangers.

After spending the night in Leamington, I took a private path that led up a hill, through a grove, and across peaceful fields until I arrived at the small village, or rather hamlet, of Lenington. I searched for the village church. It’s an old, low building made of gray stone on the top of a small hill, overlooking fertile fields and the impressive towers of Warwick Castle rising against the distant horizon. Part of the churchyard is shaded by large trees. Under one of these, my mother is buried. You’ve probably thought of me as a carefree, superficial person. I used to think that about myself too—but there are moments of hardship that reveal feelings within us that we might otherwise remain unaware of.

I sought my mother’s grave. The weeds were already matted over it, and the tombstone was half hid among nettles. I cleared them away and they stung my hands; but I was heedless of the pain, for my heart ached too severely. I sat down on the grave, and read over and over again the epitaph on the stone. It was simple, but it was true. I had written it myself. I had tried to write a poetical epitaph, but in vain; my feelings refused to utter themselves in rhyme. My heart had gradually been filling during my lonely wanderings; it was now charged to the brim and overflowed. I sank upon the grave and buried my face in the tall grass and wept like a child. Yes, I wept in manhood upon the grave, as I had in infancy upon the bosom of my mother. Alas! how little do we appreciate a mother’s tenderness while living! How heedless are we in youth, of all her anxieties and kindness. But when she is dead and gone; when the cares and coldness of the world come withering to our hearts; when we find how hard it is to find true sympathy, how few love us for ourselves, how few will befriend us in our misfortunes; then it is we think of the mother we have lost. It is true I had always loved my mother, even in my most heedless days; but I felt how inconsiderate and ineffectual had been my love. My heart melted as I retraced the days of infancy, when I was led by a mother’s hand and rocked to sleep in a mother’s arms, and was without care or sorrow. “Oh, my mother!” exclaimed I, burying my face again in the grass of the grave—“Oh, that I were once more by your side; sleeping, never to wake again, on the cares and troubles of this world!”

I looked for my mother’s grave. The weeds had already grown thick over it, and the tombstone was mostly hidden by nettles. I cleared them away, and they stung my hands, but I didn’t care about the pain because my heart ached too much. I sat down on the grave and read the epitaph on the stone over and over. It was simple, but it was true. I had written it myself. I tried to create a poetic epitaph, but I couldn’t; my feelings wouldn’t come out in rhyme. My heart had been filling up during my lonely wandering, and it was now overflowing. I collapsed on the grave and buried my face in the tall grass, weeping like a child. Yes, I cried as a man on the grave, just as I had as a baby in my mother’s arms. It’s sad how little we appreciate a mother’s love while she’s alive! We take for granted all her worries and kindness when we’re young. But when she’s gone; when the harshness and coldness of the world weigh down on us; when we realize how hard it is to find true sympathy, how few love us for who we are, how few will stand by us in tough times; that’s when we think of the mother we’ve lost. It’s true I always loved my mother, even in my most careless days; but I realized how thoughtless and ineffective my love had been. My heart softened as I remembered my early days when I was guided by my mother’s hand, rocked to sleep in her arms, and was without worry or sorrow. “Oh, my mother!” I cried again, burying my face in the grass on the grave—“Oh, how I wish I could be by your side once more; sleeping, never to wake again, free from the cares and troubles of this world!”

I am not naturally of a morbid temperament, and the violence of my emotion gradually exhausted itself. It was a hearty, honest, natural discharge of griefs which had been slowly accumulating, and gave me wonderful relief. I rose from the grave as if I had been offering up a sacrifice, and I felt as if that sacrifice had been accepted.

I’m not usually an overly emotional person, and the intensity of my feelings eventually wore off. It was a genuine, honest release of sorrows that had been building up over time and it felt amazing. I got up feeling rejuvenated, as if I had just made a sacrifice, and I felt like that sacrifice had been recognized.

I sat down again on the grass, and plucked, one by one, the weeds from her grave; the tears trickled more slowly down my cheeks, and ceased to be bitter. It was a comfort to think that she had died before sorrow and poverty came upon her child, and that all his great expectations were blasted.

I sat down again on the grass and pulled out the weeds from her grave, one by one; the tears flowed more slowly down my cheeks and stopped being bitter. It was comforting to think that she had passed away before sorrow and poverty fell on her child, and that all his high hopes had been shattered.

I leaned my cheek upon my hand and looked upon the landscape. Its quiet beauty soothed me. The whistle of a peasant from an adjoining field came cheerily to my ear. I seemed to respire hope and comfort with the free air that whispered through the leaves and played lightly with my hair, and dried the tears upon my cheek. A lark, rising from the field before me, and leaving, as it were, a stream of song behind him as he rose, lifted my fancy with him. He hovered in the air just above the place where the towers of Warwick Castle marked the horizon; and seemed as if fluttering with delight at his own melody. “Surely,” thought I, “if there were such a thing as transmigration of souls, this might be taken for some poet, let loose from earth, but still revelling in song, and carolling about fair fields and lordly towns.”

I rested my cheek on my hand and gazed at the landscape. Its quiet beauty calmed me. The cheerful whistle of a farmer from a nearby field reached my ears. I felt like I was breathing in hope and comfort with the fresh air that whispered through the leaves, played gently with my hair, and dried the tears on my cheek. A lark rose from the field in front of me, leaving a stream of song behind as it soared, lifting my spirits with it. It hovered in the air just above where the towers of Warwick Castle lined the horizon, seeming to flutter with joy at its own melody. “Surely,” I thought, “if soul migration were real, this could be a poet, set free from the earth, still delighting in song and singing about beautiful fields and grand towns.”

At this moment the long forgotten feeling of poetry rose within me. A Thought sprung at once into my mind: “I will become an author,” said I. “I have hitherto indulged in poetry as a pleasure, and it has brought me nothing but pain. Let me try what it will do, when I cultivate it with devotion as a pursuit.”

At that moment, the long-forgotten feeling of poetry welled up inside me. An idea suddenly struck me: “I will become a writer,” I said. “Up until now, I’ve treated poetry as a hobby, and all it has brought me is pain. Let me see what happens when I embrace it with dedication as a serious pursuit.”

The resolution, thus suddenly aroused within me, heaved a load from off my heart. I felt a confidence in it from the very place where it was formed. It seemed as though my mother’s spirit whispered it to me from her grave. “I will henceforth,” said I, “endeavor to be all that she fondly imagined me. I will endeavor to act as if she were witness of my actions. I will endeavor to acquit myself in such manner, that when I revisit her grave there may, at least, be no compunctious bitterness in my tears.”

The decision that suddenly stirred inside me lifted a weight off my heart. I felt a sense of assurance from the very source of it. It was as if my mother's spirit was whispering it to me from her grave. “From now on,” I said, “I will try to be everything she believed I could be. I will act as if she is watching my actions. I will strive to conduct myself in a way that, when I return to her grave, there will at least be no painful regret in my tears.”

I bowed down and kissed the turf in solemn attestation of my vow. I plucked some primroses that were growing there and laid them next my heart. I left the church-yard with my spirits once more lifted up, and set out a third time for London, in the character of an author.

I bent down and kissed the ground as a serious affirmation of my promise. I picked some primroses that were growing there and placed them close to my heart. I left the graveyard feeling uplifted again and headed off for London a third time, this time as a writer.

Here my companion made a pause, and I waited in anxious suspense; hoping to have a whole volume of literary life unfolded to me. He seemed, however, to have sunk into a fit of pensive musing; and when after some time I gently roused him by a question or two as to his literary career. “No,” said he smiling, “over that part of my story I wish to leave a cloud. Let the mysteries of the craft rest sacred for me. Let those who have never adventured into the republic of letters, still look upon it as a fairy land. Let them suppose the author the very being they picture him from his works; I am not the man to mar their illusion. I am not the man to hint, while one is admiring the silken web of Persia, that it has been spun from the entrails of a miserable worm.”

Here my companion paused, and I waited nervously, hoping to hear an entire volume of literary experiences. However, he seemed to have fallen into deep thought, and when I gently brought him back with a question or two about his writing journey, he smiled and said, “No, I prefer to keep that part of my story a mystery. I want the secrets of the craft to remain sacred for me. Let those who have never ventured into the literary world see it as a fairy tale. Let them imagine the author as the ideal figure they envision from his works; I won’t be the one to ruin their illusion. I won’t be the one to suggest, while someone admires the fine silk of Persia, that it comes from the insides of a miserable worm.”

“Well,” said I, “if you will tell me nothing of your literary history, let me know at least if you have had any farther intelligence from Doubting Castle.”

“Well,” I said, “if you're not going to share anything about your writing history, at least tell me if you've heard anything more from Doubting Castle.”

“Willingly,” replied he, “though I have but little to communicate.”

"Willingly," he replied, "though I have very little to share."

THE BOOBY SQUIRE

A long time elapsed, said Buckthorne, without my receiving any accounts of my cousin and his estate. Indeed, I felt so much soreness on the subject, that I wished, if possible, to shut it from my thoughts. At length chance took me into that part of the country, and I could not refrain from making some inquiries.

A long time went by, Buckthorne said, without me hearing anything about my cousin and his estate. Honestly, I was so upset about it that I wanted to push it out of my mind. Finally, by chance, I found myself in that part of the country, and I couldn't help but ask a few questions.

I learnt that my cousin had grown up ignorant, self-willed, and clownish. His ignorance and clownishness had prevented his mingling with the neighboring gentry. In spite of his great fortune he had been unsuccessful in an attempt to gain the hand of the daughter of the parson, and had at length shrunk into the limits of such society as a mere man of wealth can gather in a country neighborhood.

I found out that my cousin had grown up clueless, stubborn, and foolish. His ignorance and foolishness kept him from socializing with the local gentry. Despite his wealth, he failed in his attempt to win the daughter of the pastor and eventually withdrew into the limited circles that a wealthy man can gather in a rural area.

He kept horses and hounds and a roaring table, at which were collected the loose livers of the country round, and the shabby gentlemen of a village in the vicinity. When he could get no other company he would smoke and drink with his own servants, who in their turns fleeced and despised him. Still, with all this apparent prodigality, he had a leaven of the old man in him, which showed that he was his true-born son. He lived far within his income, was vulgar in his expenses, and penurious on many points on which a gentleman would be extravagant. His house servants were obliged occasionally to work on the estate, and part of the pleasure grounds were ploughed up and devoted to husbandry.

He kept horses and hounds and threw loud parties, where the local party crowd and the less reputable gentlemen from a nearby village gathered. When he couldn't find anyone else to hang out with, he'd smoke and drink with his own servants, who in turn took advantage of him and looked down on him. Still, despite all this apparent extravagance, there was a hint of the old man in him, proving he was his genuine son. He lived well within his means, was tacky in his spending, and was stingy on many things where a gentleman would be lavish. His household staff occasionally had to work on the estate, and part of the gardens was plowed up and turned into farmland.

His table, though plentiful, was coarse; his liquors strong and bad; and more ale and whiskey were expended in his establishment than generous wine. He was loud and arrogant at his own table, and exacted a rich man’s homage from his vulgar and obsequious guests.

His table was full but rough; his drinks were strong and terrible; and more ale and whiskey were consumed in his place than good wine. He was loud and arrogant at his own table and demanded respect from his crass and fawning guests.

As to Iron John, his old grandfather, he had grown impatient of the tight hand his own grandson kept over him, and quarrelled with him soon after he came to the estate. The old man had retired to a neighboring village where he lived on the legacy of his late master, in a small cottage, and was as seldom seen out of it as a rat out of his hole in daylight.

As for Iron John, his elderly grandfather had become tired of the strict control his grandson had over him and ended up arguing with him shortly after arriving at the estate. The old man had moved to a nearby village, where he lived off the inheritance from his late master in a small cottage, and was rarely seen outside of it, much like a rat stays hidden in its hole during the day.

The cub, like Caliban, seemed to have an instinctive attachment to his mother. She resided with him; but, from long habit, she acted more as servant than as mistress of the mansion; for she toiled in all the domestic drudgery, and was oftener in the kitchen than the parlor. Such was the information which I collected of my rival cousin, who had so unexpectedly elbowed me out of all my expectations.

The cub, like Caliban, seemed to have a natural bond with his mother. She lived with him, but out of habit, she acted more like a servant than the head of the household; she handled all the chores and spent more time in the kitchen than the living room. This is what I learned about my rival cousin, who had so unexpectedly pushed me aside in all my hopes.

I now felt an irresistible hankering to pay a visit to this scene of my boyhood; and to get a peep at the odd kind of life that was passing within the mansion of my maternal ancestors. I determined to do so in disguise. My booby cousin had never seen enough of me to be very familiar with my countenance, and a few years make great difference between youth and manhood. I understood he was a breeder of cattle and proud of his stock. I dressed myself, therefore, as a substantial farmer, and with the assistance of a red scratch that came low down on my forehead, made a complete change in my physiognomy.

I now felt an irresistible urge to visit the place of my childhood and to get a glimpse of the unusual life going on in the mansion of my maternal ancestors. I decided to go in disguise. My clueless cousin had never seen enough of me to recognize my face, and a few years make a big difference from youth to adulthood. I understood he was a cattle breeder and proud of his livestock. So, I dressed up as a prosperous farmer and, with the help of a red mark that ran low on my forehead, completely changed my appearance.

It was past three o’clock when I arrived at the gate of the park, and Was admitted by an old woman, who was washing in a dilapidated building which had once been a porter’s lodge. I advanced up the remains of a noble avenue, many of the trees of which had been cut down and sold for timber. The grounds were in scarcely better keeping than during my uncle’s lifetime. The grass was overgrown with weeds, and the trees wanted pruning and clearing of dead branches. Cattle were grazing about the lawns, and ducks and geese swimming in the fishponds.

It was past three o’clock when I got to the park gate, and an old woman let me in. She was cleaning up in a rundown building that used to be the porter’s lodge. I walked along what was left of a grand avenue, with many of the trees cut down and sold for lumber. The grounds were hardly better maintained than they were during my uncle's time. The grass was overrun with weeds, and the trees needed pruning and needed to be cleared of dead branches. Cattle were grazing on the lawns, and ducks and geese were swimming in the fishponds.

The road to the house bore very few traces of carriage wheels, as my cousin received few visitors but such as came on foot or on horseback, and never used a carriage himself. Once, indeed, as I was told, he had had the old family carriage drawn out from among the dust and cobwebs of the coachhouse and furbished up, and had drove, with his mother, to the village church to take formal possession of the family pew; but there was such hooting and laughing after them as they passed through the village, and such giggling and bantering about the church door, that the pageant had never made a reappearance.

The road to the house showed very few signs of carriage wheels, since my cousin rarely had visitors who didn’t arrive on foot or horseback, and he never used a carriage himself. Once, I was told, he had the old family carriage pulled out from the dust and cobwebs of the coach house and cleaned up, and he drove with his mother to the village church to officially take possession of the family pew. However, there was so much hooting and laughing as they passed through the village, and so much giggling and teasing by the church door, that the spectacle never happened again.

As I approached the house, a legion of whelps sallied out barking at me, accompanied by the low howling, rather than barking, of two old worn-out bloodhounds, which I recognized for the ancient life-guards of my uncle. The house had still a neglected, random appearance, though much altered for the better since my last visit. Several of the windows were broken and patched up with boards; and others had been bricked up to save taxes. I observed smoke, however, rising from the chimneys; a phenomenon rarely witnessed in the ancient establishment. On passing that part of the house where the dining-room was situated, I heard the sound of boisterous merriment; where three or four voices were talking at once, and oaths and laughter were horribly mingled.

As I walked up to the house, a bunch of pups rushed out barking at me, along with the low howling—more like howling than barking—of two old, tired bloodhounds, which I recognized as my uncle's ancient guard dogs. The house still looked a bit shabby and haphazard, although it had definitely improved since my last visit. Some of the windows were broken and patched up with boards, while others had been bricked up to save on taxes. I noticed smoke rising from the chimneys, which was something you rarely saw in that old place. As I passed the part of the house where the dining room was located, I heard loud laughter and chatter; several voices were talking over each other, and swearing and laughter were mixed together in a chaotic way.

The uproar of the dogs had brought a servant to the door, a tall, hard-fisted country clown, with a livery coat put over the under-garments of a ploughman. I requested to see the master of the house, but was told he was at dinner with some “gemmen” of the neighborhood. I made known my business and sent in to know if I might talk with the master about his cattle; for I felt a great desire to have a peep at him at his orgies. Word was returned that he was engaged with company, and could not attend to business, but that if I would “step in and take a drink of something, I was heartily welcome.” I accordingly entered the hall, where whips and hats of all kinds and shapes were lying on an oaken table, two or three clownish servants were lounging about; everything had a look of confusion and carelessness.

The loud barking of the dogs brought a servant to the door, a tall, tough-looking country guy, wearing a livery coat over the work clothes of a farmer. I asked to see the master of the house, but was told he was having dinner with some "gentlemen" from the neighborhood. I explained my business and asked if I could speak with the master about his cattle; I was very eager to see him at his feast. I received word that he was busy with guests and couldn't attend to business, but that if I wanted to "come in and have a drink," I was more than welcome. So, I went into the hall, where whips and hats of all sorts were scattered on an oak table, two or three awkward servants were hanging around; everything looked chaotic and messy.

The apartments through which I passed had the same air of departed gentility and sluttish housekeeping. The once rich curtains were faded and dusty; the furniture greased and tarnished. On entering the dining-room I found a number of odd, vulgar-looking, rustic gentlemen seated round a table, on which were bottles, decanters, tankards, pipes, and tobacco. Several dogs were lying about the room, or sitting and watching their masters, and one was gnawing a bone under a side-table.

The apartments I walked through had the same vibe of lost elegance and messy living. The once lavish curtains were faded and dusty; the furniture was grimy and tarnished. When I entered the dining room, I saw a group of odd-looking, rough gentlemen gathered around a table filled with bottles, decanters, tankards, pipes, and tobacco. Several dogs were lounging around the room, or sitting and watching their owners, and one was chewing on a bone under a side table.

The master of the feast sat at the head of the board. He was greatly altered. He had grown thick-set and rather gummy, with a fiery, foxy head of hair. There was a singular mixture of foolishness, arrogance, and conceit in his countenance. He was dressed in a vulgarly fine style, with leather breeches, a red waistcoat, and green coat, and was evidently, like his guests, a little flushed with drinking. The whole company stared at me with a whimsical muggy look, like men whose senses were a little obfuscated by beer rather than wine.

The host of the party sat at the head of the table. He looked quite different. He had become stocky and a bit soft in the face, with a bright, fiery head of hair. There was a strange mix of foolishness, arrogance, and self-importance in his expression. He was dressed in a tastelessly fancy way, with leather pants, a red vest, and a green coat, and was clearly a bit tipsy from drinking, just like his guests. The whole group stared at me with a silly, dazed look, like guys whose minds were a bit foggy from beer instead of wine.

My cousin, (God forgive me! the appellation sticks in my throat,) my cousin invited me with awkward civility, or, as he intended it, condescension, to sit to the table and drink. We talked, as usual, about the weather, the crops, politics, and hard times. My cousin was a loud politician, and evidently accustomed to talk without contradiction at his own table. He was amazingly loyal, and talked of standing by the throne to the last guinea, “as every gentleman of fortune should do.” The village exciseman, who was half asleep, could just ejaculate, “very true,” to every thing he said.

My cousin, (God forgive me! that title feels awkward to say,) invited me with an uncomfortable politeness, or, as he meant it, superiority, to sit at the table and drink. We chatted, like always, about the weather, the crops, politics, and tough times. My cousin was a loud supporter of his party and clearly used to talking without being challenged at his own table. He was incredibly loyal and said he would stand by the throne until the last guinea, “as any gentleman of means should do.” The village tax collector, who was half asleep, could only mumble, “very true,” to everything he said.

The conversation turned upon cattle; he boasted of his breed, his mode of managing it, and of the general management of his estate. This unluckily drew on a history of the place and of the family. He spoke of my late uncle with the greatest irreverence, which I could easily forgive. He mentioned my name, and my blood began to boil. He described my frequent visits to my uncle when I was a lad, and I found the varlet, even at that time, imp as he was, had known that he was to inherit the estate.

The conversation shifted to cattle; he bragged about his breed, how he handled it, and the overall management of his property. Unfortunately, this led to a story about the place and the family. He talked about my late uncle with complete disrespect, which I could easily overlook. He mentioned my name, and I could feel my blood boiling. He recounted my frequent visits to my uncle when I was a kid, and I realized that the jerk, even back then, knew he was going to inherit the estate.

He described the scene of my uncle’s death, and the opening of the will, with a degree of coarse humor that I had not expected from him, and, vexed as I was, I could not help joining in the laugh, for I have always relished a joke, even though made at my own expense. He went on to speak of my various pursuits; my strolling freak, and that somewhat nettled me. At length he talked of my parents. He ridiculed my father: I stomached even that, though with great difficulty. He mentioned my mother with a sneer—and in an instant he lay sprawling at my feet.

He described the scene of my uncle’s death and the reading of the will with a level of crude humor I hadn’t expected from him. As annoyed as I was, I couldn’t help but laugh, because I’ve always enjoyed a joke, even if it was at my own expense. He continued to talk about my various interests, including my love for wandering around, which bothered me a bit. Eventually, he started talking about my parents. He made fun of my dad, which I managed to handle, though it was tough. He mentioned my mom with a sneer—and in an instant, he was lying sprawled at my feet.

Here a scene of tumult succeeded. The table was nearly overturned. Bottles, glasses, and tankards, rolled crashing and clattering about the floor. The company seized hold of both of us to keep us from doing farther mischief. I struggled to get loose, for I was boiling with fury. My cousin defied me to strip and fight him on the lawn. I agreed; for I felt the strength of a giant in me, and I longed to pummel him soundly.

Here, a chaotic scene unfolded. The table was almost flipped over. Bottles, glasses, and tankards crashed and clattered to the floor. The group grabbed both of us to stop us from causing more trouble. I struggled to break free, filled with rage. My cousin dared me to take off my clothes and fight him on the lawn. I agreed because I felt like a giant and really wanted to give him a good beating.

Away then we were borne. A ring was formed. I had a second assigned me in true boxing style. My cousin, as he advanced to fight, said something about his generosity in showing me such fair play, when I had made such an unprovoked attack upon him at his own table.

Away we went. A circle was formed. I had a second appointed to me, just like in boxing. As my cousin stepped forward to fight, he remarked on his generosity in giving me such fair play, considering I had launched an unprovoked attack on him at his own table.

“Stop there!” cried I, in a rage—“unprovoked!—know that I am John Buckthorne, and you have insulted the memory of my mother.”

“Stop right there!” I shouted angrily. “For no reason!—just so you know, I’m John Buckthorne, and you’ve disrespected my mother’s memory.”

The lout was suddenly struck by what I said. He drew back and reflected for a moment.

The guy suddenly realized what I meant. He stepped back and thought for a moment.

“Nay, damn it,” said he, “that’s too much—that’s clear another thing. I’ve a mother myself, and no one shall speak ill of her, bad as she is.”

“Nah, damn it,” he said, “that’s too much—that’s completely different. I have a mother too, and no one gets to speak badly about her, no matter how flawed she is.”

He paused again. Nature seemed to have a rough struggle in his rude bosom.

He paused again. It felt like nature was having a tough battle inside him.

“Damn it, cousin,” cried he, “I’m sorry for what I said. Thou’st served me right in knocking me down, and I like thee the better for it. Here’s my hand. Come and live with me, and damme but the best room in the house, and the best horse in the stable, shall be at thy service.”

“Damn it, cousin,” he shouted, “I’m sorry for what I said. You were right to knock me down, and I actually like you more for it. Here’s my hand. Come live with me, and I swear the best room in the house and the best horse in the stable will be yours.”

I declare to you I was strongly moved at this instance of nature breaking her way through such a lump of flesh. I forgave the fellow in a moment all his crimes of having been born in wedlock and inheriting my estate. I shook the hand he offered me, to convince him that I bore him no ill will; and then making my way through the gaping crowd of toad-eaters, bade adieu to my uncle’s domains forever. This is the last I have seen or heard of my cousin, or of the domestic concerns of Doubting Castle.

I have to say, I was really struck by this moment of nature pushing its way through such a mass of flesh. I instantly forgave the guy for all his past wrongs, like being born from a marriage and getting my inheritance. I shook the hand he extended to show him that I held no grudges; then I navigated my way through the eager crowd of sycophants and said goodbye to my uncle’s land for good. This is the last I’ve seen or heard from my cousin or the family matters at Doubting Castle.

THE STROLLING MANAGER

As I was walking one morning with Buckthorne, near one of the Principal theaters, he directed my attention to a group of those equivocal beings that may often be seen hovering about the stage-doors of theaters. They were marvellously ill-favored in their attire, their coats buttoned up to their chins; yet they wore their hats smartly on one side, and had a certain knowing, dirty-gentlemanlike air, which is common to the subalterns of the drama. Buckthorne knew them well by early experience.

As I was walking one morning with Buckthorne near one of the major theaters, he pointed out a group of those ambiguous characters that you often see hanging around the stage doors of theaters. They looked surprisingly rough in their outfits, their coats buttoned up to their chins; yet they wore their hats stylishly tilted to one side and had a certain cocky, scruffy-gentleman vibe, which is typical of the lower ranks in the theater world. Buckthorne was familiar with them from his early experiences.

These, said he, are the ghosts of departed kings and heroes; fellows who sway sceptres and truncheons; command kingdoms and armies; and after giving way realms and treasures over night, have scarce a shilling to pay for a breakfast in the morning. Yet they have the true vagabond abhorrence of all useful and industrious employment; and they have their pleasures too: one of which is to lounge in this way in the sunshine, at the stage-door, during rehearsals, and make hackneyed theatrical jokes on all passers-by.

These, he said, are the spirits of long-gone kings and heroes; guys who wield scepters and staffs; rule over kingdoms and armies; and after giving away realms and treasures overnight, barely have a penny to spend on breakfast in the morning. Yet they share a true vagabond's disdain for any useful or industrious work; and they have their fun too: one of which is to hang out like this in the sunshine, at the stage door, during rehearsals, and make tired theatrical jokes about everyone who walks by.

Nothing is more traditional and legitimate than the stage. Old scenery, old clothes, old sentiments, old ranting, and old jokes, are handed down from generation to generation; and will probably continue to be so, until time shall be no more. Every hanger-on of a theater becomes a wag by inheritance, and flourishes about at tap-rooms and six-penny clubs, with the property jokes of the green-room.

Nothing is more classic and genuine than the stage. Old sets, old costumes, old feelings, old rants, and old jokes are passed down from generation to generation; and they'll likely keep being shared until the end of time. Every backstage worker at a theater becomes a comedian by tradition, and they thrive in bars and low-cost clubs, sharing the usual jokes from the green room.

While amusing ourselves with reconnoitring this group, we noticed one in particular who appeared to be the oracle. He was a weather-beaten veteran, a little bronzed by time and beer, who had no doubt, grown gray in the parts of robbers, cardinals, Roman senators, and walking noblemen.

While entertaining ourselves by observing this group, we noticed one person in particular who seemed to be the wise one. He was a weathered veteran, a bit tanned from age and beer, who had undoubtedly grown gray among robbers, cardinals, Roman senators, and aristocrats.

“There’s something in the set of that hat, and the turn of that physiognomy, that is extremely familiar to me,” said Buckthorne. He looked a little closer. “I cannot be mistaken,” added he, “that must be my old brother of the truncheon, Flimsey, the tragic hero of the strolling company.”

“There's something about the way that hat sits and the look on that face that feels really familiar to me,” Buckthorne said. He leaned in a bit. “I can't be wrong,” he added, “that must be my old brother with the stick, Flimsey, the tragic hero of the traveling theater.”

It was he in fact. The poor fellow showed evident signs that times went hard with him; he was so finely and shabbily dressed. His coat was somewhat threadbare, and of the Lord Townly cut; single-breasted, and scarcely capable of meeting in front of his body; which, from long intimacy, had acquired the symmetry and robustness of a beer-barrel. He wore a pair of dingy white stockinet pantaloons, which had much ado to reach his waistcoat; a great quantity of dirty cravat; and a pair of old russet-colored tragedy boots.

It was really him. The poor guy clearly showed that times were tough for him; he was dressed both nicely and poorly. His coat was a bit worn out and cut in the Lord Townly style; it was single-breasted and barely closed in the front, with a body that had grown round and solid from years of familiarity—like a beer barrel. He had on a pair of faded white stocking pants that struggled to meet his waistcoat, a lot of a dirty cravat, and an old pair of brown tragedy boots.

When his companions had dispersed, Buckthorne drew him aside and made Himself known to him. The tragic veteran could scarcely recognize him, or believe that he was really his quondam associate “little gentleman Jack.” Buckthorne invited him to a neighboring coffee-house to talk over old times; and in the course of a little while we were put in possession of his history in brief.

When his friends had scattered, Buckthorne pulled him aside and introduced himself. The troubled veteran could hardly recognize him or believe that he was actually his former associate "little gentleman Jack." Buckthorne invited him to a nearby coffee shop to reminisce about the past, and soon after, we learned his story in a nutshell.

He had continued to act the heroes in the strolling company for some time after Buckthorne had left it, or rather had been driven from it so abruptly. At length the manager died, and the troop was thrown into confusion. Every one aspired to the crown; every one was for taking the lead; and the manager’s widow, although a tragedy queen, and a brimstone to boot, pronounced it utterly impossible to keep any control over such a set of tempestuous rascallions.

He kept playing the heroes in the traveling troupe for a while after Buckthorne had left, or more accurately, had been kicked out so suddenly. Eventually, the manager passed away, and the group was thrown into chaos. Everyone wanted to take the spotlight; everyone was eager to lead. The manager's widow, though she was a dramatic figure and very demanding, declared it completely impossible to manage such a group of wild troublemakers.

Upon this hint I spoke, said Flimsey—I stepped forward, and offered my services in the most effectual way. They were accepted. In a week’s time I married the widow and succeeded to the throne. “The funeral baked meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage table,” as Hamlet says. But the ghost of my predecessor never haunted me; and I inherited crowns, sceptres, bowls, daggers, and all the stage trappings and trumpery, not omitting the widow, without the least molestation.

Upon this suggestion, I spoke up, said Flimsey—I stepped forward and offered my help in the most effective way. They accepted it. In a week, I married the widow and took the throne. "The funeral leftovers coldly set the marriage table," as Hamlet puts it. But the ghost of my predecessor never bothered me; and I inherited crowns, scepters, bowls, daggers, and all the theatrical props and nonsense, including the widow, without any trouble at all.

I now led a flourishing life of it; for our company was pretty strong And attractive, and as my wife and I took the heavy parts of tragedy, it was a great saving to the treasury. We carried off the palm from all the rival shows at country fairs; and I assure you we have even drawn full houses, and being applauded by the critics at Bartlemy fair itself, though we had Astley’s troupe, the Irish giant, and “the death of Nelson” in wax-work to contend against.

I was now living a successful life; our group was quite strong and appealing, and since my wife and I took on the more challenging roles in tragedy, it really helped save money. We consistently outperformed all the other shows at country fairs, and I can honestly say we've even had full audiences, receiving applause from critics at Bartlemy fair itself, even with Astley’s troupe, the Irish giant, and the wax figure of “the death of Nelson” competing against us.

I soon began to experience, however, the cares of command. I discovered that there were cabals breaking out in the company, headed by the clown, who you may recollect was a terribly peevish, fractious fellow, and always in ill-humor. I had a great mind to turn him off at once, but I could not do without him, for there was not a droller scoundrel on the stage. His very shape was comic, for he had to turn his back upon the audience and all the ladies were ready to die with laughing. He felt his importance, and took advantage of it. He would keep the audience in a continual roar, and then come behind the scenes and fret and fume and play the very devil. I excused a great deal in him, however, knowing that comic actors are a little prone to this infirmity of temper.

I soon started to feel the pressure of being in charge. I found out that there were cliques forming in the company, led by the clown, who you might remember was a really grumpy and difficult guy, always in a bad mood. I really thought about firing him right away, but I couldn’t manage without him because there wasn't a funnier guy on stage. His very physique was comedic, as he had to turn his back to the audience, and all the ladies were ready to burst out laughing. He knew he was important and took full advantage of that. He kept the audience in stitches, then would come backstage and get all worked up, causing chaos. I let a lot of his behavior slide, knowing that comic actors can be a bit temperamental like that.

I had another trouble of a nearer and dearer nature to struggle with; which was, the affection of my wife. As ill luck would have it, she took it into her head to be very fond of me, and became intolerably jealous. I could not keep a pretty girl in the company, and hardly dared embrace an ugly one, even when my part required it. I have known her to reduce a fine lady to tatters, “to very rags,” as Hamlet says, in an instant, and destroy one of the very best dresses in the wardrobe; merely because she saw me kiss her at the side scenes;—though I give you my honor it was done merely by way of rehearsal.

I had another more personal issue to deal with, and that was my wife’s affection. Unfortunately, she became very attached to me and got incredibly jealous. I couldn’t even have a beautiful woman around without her getting upset, and I barely dared to hug an unattractive one, even when it was part of my role. I’ve seen her turn a classy lady into shreds, “to very rags,” as Hamlet puts it, in an instant, and ruin one of the best dresses in the closet just because she caught me kissing her during a rehearsal; I swear it was just for practice.

This was doubly annoying, because I have a natural liking to pretty faces, and wish to have them about me; and because they are indispensable to the success of a company at a fair, where one has to vie with so many rival theatres. But when once a jealous wife gets a freak in her head there’s no use in talking of interest or anything else. Egad, sirs, I have more than once trembled when, during a fit of her tantrums, she was playing high tragedy, and flourishing her tin dagger on the stage, lest she should give way to her humor, and stab some fancied rival in good earnest.

This was really frustrating because I naturally like pretty faces and enjoy having them around me; plus, they’re essential for a successful show at a fair, where you have to compete with so many other theaters. But once a jealous wife gets an idea in her head, it’s pointless to talk about interest or anything else. Honestly, I’ve shaken in my boots more than once when, during one of her outbursts, she was performing serious drama, waving her fake dagger on stage, worried she might lose her cool and actually stab some imagined rival for real.

I went on better, however, than could be expected, considering the weakness of my flesh and the violence of my rib. I had not a much worse time of it than old Jupiter, whose spouse was continually ferreting out some new intrigue and making the heavens almost too hot to hold him.

I actually did better than I expected, given my physical weakness and the intensity of my struggle. I didn't have a much tougher time than old Jupiter, whose wife was always uncovering some new affair and making life almost unbearable for him.

At length, as luck would have it, we were performing at a country fair, when I understood the theatre of a neighboring town to be vacant. I had always been desirous to be enrolled in a settled company, and the height of my desire was to get on a par with a brother-in-law, who was manager of a regular theatre, and who had looked down upon me. Here was an opportunity not to be neglected. I concluded an agreement with the proprietors, and in a few days opened the theatre with great eclát.

Eventually, as fate would have it, we were performing at a country fair when I learned that the theater in a nearby town was available. I had always wanted to be part of a permanent company, and my greatest wish was to be on the same level as my brother-in-law, who managed a professional theater and had always looked down on me. This was an opportunity I couldn't pass up. I made a deal with the owners, and within a few days, we opened the theater with great fanfare.

Behold me now at the summit of my ambition, “the high top-gallant of my joy,” as Thomas says. No longer a chieftain of a wandering tribe, but the monarch of a legitimate throne—and entitled to call even the great potentates of Covent Garden and Drury Lane cousin.

Look at me now at the peak of my dreams, “the highest point of my joy,” as Thomas puts it. No longer a leader of a wandering tribe, but the ruler of a rightful throne—and I can even call the great rulers of Covent Garden and Drury Lane my relatives.

You no doubt think my happiness complete. Alas, sir! I was one of the Most uncomfortable dogs living. No one knows, who has not tried, the miseries of a manager; but above all, of a country management—no one can conceive the contentions and quarrels within doors, the oppressions and vexations from without.

You probably think I'm completely happy. Unfortunately, sir! I was one of the most uncomfortable people around. No one understands, unless they’ve experienced it themselves, the struggles of a manager; but especially those of a rural manager—no one can imagine the conflicts and arguments inside, the pressures and frustrations from the outside.

I was pestered with the bloods and loungers of a country town, who infested my green-room, and played the mischief among my actresses. But there was no shaking them off. It would have been ruin to affront them; for, though troublesome friends, they would have been dangerous enemies. Then there were the village critics and village amateurs, who were continually tormenting me with advice, and getting into a passion if I would not take it:—especially the village doctor and the village attorney; who had both been to London occasionally, and knew what acting should be.

I was constantly bothered by the locals and idle folks from the country town, who crowded my green room and caused chaos among my actresses. But there was no getting rid of them. It would have been disastrous to confront them; because, although they were annoying friends, they could easily become dangerous enemies. Then there were the village critics and amateur enthusiasts who relentlessly pestered me with their advice, getting upset if I didn’t take it—especially the village doctor and the village lawyer, both of whom had been to London a few times and thought they understood how acting should be done.

I had also to manage as arrant a crew of scapegraces as were ever collected together within the walls of a theatre. I had been obliged to combine my original troupe with some of the former troupe of the theatre, who were favorites with the public. Here was a mixture that produced perpetual ferment. They were all the time either fighting or frolicking with each other, and I scarcely knew which mood was least troublesome. If they quarrelled, everything went wrong; and if they were friends, they were continually playing off some confounded prank upon each other, or upon me; for I had unhappily acquired among them the character of an easy, good natured fellow, the worst character that a manager can possess.

I also had to deal with a completely unruly group of troublemakers that were ever gathered in a theater. I had to merge my original group with some members of the former theater troupe, who were popular with the audience. This combination created constant chaos. They were always either fighting or messing around with each other, and I could hardly tell which situation was less of a hassle. If they argued, everything would go wrong; and when they were friendly, they constantly played annoying pranks on each other or on me. Unfortunately, I had gained a reputation among them as an easygoing, good-natured guy, which is the worst reputation a manager can have.

Their waggery at times drove me almost crazy; for there is nothing so Vexatious as the hackneyed tricks and hoaxes and pleasantries of a veteran band of theatrical vagabonds. I relished them well enough, it is true, while I was merely one of the company, but as manager I found them detestable. They were incessantly bringing some disgrace upon the theatre by their tavern frolics, and their pranks about the country town. All my lectures upon the importance of keeping up the dignity of the profession, and the respectability of the company were in vain. The villains could not sympathize with the delicate feelings of a man in station. They even trifled with the seriousness of stage business. I have had the whole piece interrupted, and a crowded audience of at least twenty-five pounds kept waiting, because the actors had hid away the breeches of Rosalind, and have known Hamlet stalk solemnly on to deliver his soliloquy, with a dish-clout pinned to his skirts. Such are the baleful consequences of a manager’s getting a character for good nature.

Their joking around sometimes drove me almost crazy; there's nothing as annoying as the same old tricks, pranks, and jokes from a group of seasoned theater misfits. I enjoyed them enough when I was just part of the company, but as the manager, I found them unbearable. They constantly brought disgrace upon the theater with their barroom antics and their pranks around the town. All my speeches about the importance of maintaining the dignity of the profession and the respectability of the company were useless. The clowns couldn't understand the serious mindset of someone in my position. They even messed around with serious stage business. I’ve had to stop the entire show and keep an audience of at least twenty-five pounds waiting because the actors hid away Rosalind's pants, and I've seen Hamlet walk on to deliver his soliloquy with a dishcloth pinned to his costume. Such are the unfortunate results of a manager being known for being easygoing.

I was intolerably annoyed, too, by the great actors who came down starring, as it is called, from London. Of all baneful influences, keep me from that of a London star. A first-rate actress going the rounds of the country theatres, is as bad as a blazing comet, whisking about the heavens, and shaking fire, and plagues, and discords from its tail.

I was incredibly annoyed by the famous actors who came down starring, as they say, from London. Of all harmful influences, keep me away from a London star. A top-notch actress traveling to all the local theaters is just as destructive as a blazing comet, racing through the sky and scattering fire, disasters, and chaos in its wake.

The moment one of these “heavenly bodies” appeared on my horizon, I was sure to be in hot water. My theatre was overrun by provincial dandies, copper-washed counterfeits of Bond street loungers; who are always proud to be in the train of an actress from town, and anxious to be thought on exceeding good terms with her. It was really a relief to me when some random young nobleman would come in pursuit of the bait, and awe all this small fry to a distance. I have always felt myself more at ease with a nobleman than with the dandy of a country town.

The moment one of these “heavenly bodies” showed up on my horizon, I knew I'd be in trouble. My theater was flooded with provincial wannabes, cheap imitations of the trendsetters from Bond Street; they always took pride in being around an actress from the city and were eager to be seen as being on great terms with her. It was a real relief when some random young nobleman would walk in after the allure and scare all these small-time guys away. I've always felt more comfortable around a nobleman than a dandy from a small town.

And then the injuries I suffered in my personal dignity and my managerial authority from the visits of these great London actors. Sir, I was no longer master of myself or my throne. I was hectored and lectured in my own green-room, and made an absolute nincompoop on my own stage. There is no tyrant so absolute and capricious as a London star at a country theatre.

And then the damage to my personal dignity and my authority as a manager from the visits of these famous London actors. I was no longer in control of myself or my position. I was bullied and lectured in my own green room, making me look like a complete fool on my own stage. There is no tyrant so demanding and unpredictable as a London star at a small-town theatre.

I dreaded the sight of all of them; and yet if I did not engage them, I was sure of having the public clamorous against me. They drew full houses, and appeared to be making my fortune; but they swallowed up all the profits by their insatiable demands. They were absolute tape-worms to my little theatre; the more it took in, the poorer it grew. They were sure to leave me with an exhausted public, empty benches, and a score or two of affronts to settle among the townsfolk, in consequence of misunderstandings about the taking of places.

I dreaded seeing all of them; yet if I didn’t work with them, I knew the public would be furious with me. They attracted large crowds and seemed to be making me rich, but they consumed all the profits with their endless demands. They were like parasites to my small theater; the more money it made, the poorer it became. I was certain they would leave me with an exhausted audience, empty seats, and a handful of grievances to deal with among the townspeople due to misunderstandings about reserving seats.

But the worst thing I had to undergo in my managerial career was patronage. Oh, sir, of all things deliver me from the patronage of the great people of a country town. It was my ruin. You must know that this town, though small, was filled with feuds, and parties, and great folks; being a busy little trading and manufacturing town. The mischief was that their greatness was of a kind not to be settled by reference to the court calendar, or college of heraldry. It was therefore the most quarrelsome kind of greatness in existence. You smile, sir, but let me tell you there are no feuds more furious than the frontier feuds, which take place on these “debatable lands” of gentility. The most violent dispute that I ever knew in high life, was one that occurred at a country town, on a question of precedence between the ladies of a manufacturer of pins and a manufacturer of needles.

But the worst thing I had to deal with in my management career was favoritism. Oh, please, save me from the favoritism of the influential people in a small town. It was my downfall. You should know that this town, while small, was full of rivalries, factions, and important figures; it was a bustling little trading and manufacturing hub. The problem was that their status wasn’t something you could reference in a court calendar or a heraldry college. This made for the most contentious kind of status imaginable. You might laugh, but let me tell you, there are no rivalries more intense than the frontier disputes that happen in these “disputed territories” of respectability. The most extreme disagreement I ever witnessed in high society took place in a small town over a matter of precedence between the wives of a pin manufacturer and a needle manufacturer.

At the town where I was situated there were perpetual altercations of the kind. The head manufacturer’s lady, for instance, was at daggers drawings with the head shopkeeper’s, and both were too rich and had too many friends to be treated lightly. The doctor’s and lawyer’s ladies held their heads still higher; but they in their turn were kept in check by the wife of a country banker, who kept her own carriage; while a masculine widow of cracked character, and second-hand fashion, who lived in a large house, and was in some way related to nobility, looked down upon them all. She had been exiled from the great world, but here she ruled absolute. To be sure her manners were not over-elegant, nor her fortune over-large; but then, sir, her blood—oh, her blood carried it all hollow, there was no withstanding a woman with such blood in her veins.

In the town where I lived, there were constant arguments like that. The wife of the head manufacturer, for example, was at odds with the head shopkeeper’s wife, and both were wealthy and had too many friends to be dismissed easily. The wives of the doctor and the lawyer held themselves even higher, but they were kept in check by the wife of a country banker who had her own carriage. Meanwhile, a somewhat questionable widow, who had seen better days in fashion and lived in a large house, looked down on all of them; she had some connection to nobility. She had been pushed out of high society, but here she ruled supreme. Of course, her manners weren’t very refined, and her wealth wasn’t vast, but, sir, her lineage—oh, her lineage made up for everything; no one could resist a woman with such noble blood in her veins.

After all, she had frequent battles for precedence at balls and assemblies, with some of the sturdy dames of the neighborhood, who stood upon their wealth and their reputations; but then she had two dashing daughters, who dressed as fine as dragons, and had as high blood as their mother, and seconded her in everything. So they carried their point with high heads, and every body hated, abused, and stood in awe of the Fantadlins.

After all, she often had to fight for attention at parties and gatherings against some of the strong-willed ladies in the area, who prided themselves on their wealth and status. But she had two stylish daughters, who dressed impressively and had as much social status as their mother, and they supported her in everything. So they got their way with confidence, and everyone either despised, criticized, or feared the Fantadlins.

Such was the state of the fashionable world in this self-important little town. Unluckily I was not as well acquainted with its politics as I should have been. I had found myself a stranger and in great perplexities during my first season; I determined, therefore, to put myself under the patronage of some powerful name, and thus to take the field with the prejudices of the public in my favor. I cast round my thoughts for the purpose, and in an evil hour they fell upon Mrs. Fantadlin. No one seemed to me to have a more absolute sway in the world of fashion. I had always noticed that her party slammed the box door the loudest at the theatre; had most beaux attending on them; and talked and laughed loudest during the performance; and then the Miss Fantadlins wore always more feathers and flowers than any other ladies; and used quizzing glasses incessantly. The first evening of my theatre’s reopening, therefore, was announced in flaring capitals on the play bills, “under the patronage of the Honorable Mrs. Fantadlin,”

The fashionable world in this pretentious little town was quite something. Unfortunately, I wasn't as familiar with its politics as I should have been. During my first season, I found myself feeling like an outsider and totally confused. So, I decided to align myself with a powerful name to gain the public's favor. I thought about it, and in a moment of bad judgment, I settled on Mrs. Fantadlin. No one seemed to have more influence in the fashion scene than her. I’d always noticed that her party made the loudest entrance at the theater, had the most admirers surrounding them, and talked and laughed the most during the show. Plus, the Miss Fantadlins always wore more feathers and flowers than any other women and were constantly using their opera glasses. So, the first night of my theater's reopening was advertised in bold letters on the posters: "under the patronage of the Honorable Mrs. Fantadlin."

Sir, the whole community flew to arms! The banker’s wife felt her Dignity grievously insulted at not having the preference; her husband being high bailiff, and the richest man in the place. She immediately issued invitations for a large party, for the night of the performance, and asked many a lady to it whom she never had noticed before. The fashionable world had long groaned under the tyranny of the Fantadlins, and were glad to make a common cause against this new instance of assumption.—Presume to patronize the theatre! insufferable! Those, too, who had never before been noticed by the banker’s lady, were ready to enlist in any quarrel, for the honor of her acquaintance. All minor feuds were therefore forgotten. The doctor’s lady and the lawyer’s lady met together; and the manufacturer’s lady and the shopkeeper’s lady kissed each other, and all, headed by the banker’s lady, voted the theatre a bore, and determined to encourage nothing but the Indian Jugglers, and Mr. Walker’s Eidonianeon.

Sir, the whole community rallied! The banker's wife felt her dignity severely insulted for not being given preferential treatment, her husband being the high bailiff and the richest man in town. She quickly sent out invitations for a big party on the night of the performance and invited many ladies she had never acknowledged before. The fashionable crowd had long suffered under the dominance of the Fantadlins and was eager to unite against this latest display of arrogance. —How dare they try to take over the theater! Unbearable! Even those who had never been recognized by the banker's wife were ready to join any fight for the sake of her friendship. All petty feuds were put aside. The doctor's wife and the lawyer's wife came together; the manufacturer's wife and the shopkeeper's wife hugged each other, and all, led by the banker's wife, agreed that the theater was a bore and resolved to support only the Indian Jugglers and Mr. Walker's Eidonianeon.

Alas for poor Pillgarlick! I little knew the mischief that was brewing against me. My box book remained blank. The evening arrived, but no audience. The music struck up to a tolerable pit and gallery, but no fashionables! I peeped anxiously from behind the curtain, but the time passed away; the play was retarded until pit and gallery became furious; and I had to raise the curtain, and play my greatest part in tragedy to “a beggarly account of empty boxes.”

Alas for poor Pillgarlick! I had no idea of the trouble that was coming my way. My box book stayed empty. The evening came, but there was no audience. The music started for a decent pit and gallery, but no fashionable crowd! I peeked nervously from behind the curtain, but time went by; the show was delayed until the pit and gallery got angry; and I had to lift the curtain and perform my biggest role in tragedy to “a measly count of empty boxes.”

It is true the Fantadlins came late, as was their custom, and entered like a tempest, with a flutter of feathers and red shawls; but they were evidently disconcerted at finding they had no one to admire and envy them, and were enraged at this glaring defection of their fashionable followers. All the beau-monde were engaged at the banker’s lady’s rout. They remained for some time in solitary and uncomfortable state, and though they had the theatre almost to themselves, yet, for the first time, they talked in whispers. They left the house at the end of the first piece, and I never saw them afterwards.

It’s true that the Fantadlins arrived late, as usual, and stormed in like a whirlwind, with a flurry of feathers and red shawls; but they were clearly thrown off by the fact that there was no one there to admire or envy them, and they were furious about the obvious absence of their trendy followers. Everyone from high society was busy at the banker’s wife’s gathering. They spent some time in a lonely and awkward silence, and even though they had the theater almost to themselves, for the first time, they spoke in whispers. They left after the first act, and I never saw them again.

Such was the rock on which I split. I never got over the patronage of the Fantadlin family. It became the vogue to abuse the theatre and declare the performers shocking. An equestrian troupe opened a circus in the town about the same time, and rose on my ruins. My house was deserted; my actors grew discontented because they were ill paid; my door became a hammering-place for every bailiff in the county; and my wife became more and more shrewish and tormenting, the more I wanted comfort.

That was the breaking point for me. I never recovered from the support I lost from the Fantadlin family. It became popular to criticize the theatre and call the performers awful. At the same time, a circus opened in town and thrived while I was falling apart. My theatre was empty; my actors were unhappy because they weren't paid well; my door was constantly knocked on by every bailiff in the county; and my wife got increasingly nagging and unbearable just when I needed comfort the most.

The establishment now became a scene of confusion and peculation. I Was considered a ruined man, and of course fair game for every one to pluck at, as every one plunders a sinking ship. Day after day some of the troupe deserted, and like deserting soldiers, carried off their arms and accoutrements with them. In this manner my wardrobe took legs and walked away; my finery strolled all over the country; my swords and daggers glittered in every barn; until at last my tailor made “one fell swoop,” and carried off three dress coats, half a dozen doublets, and nineteen pair of flesh-colored pantaloons.

The place turned into a chaotic mess and a hotbed for theft. I was seen as a broken man and an easy target for everyone to take advantage of, just like people loot a sinking ship. Day after day, some of the performers left, and like soldiers who abandon their posts, they took their belongings with them. Because of this, my wardrobe literally vanished; my fancy clothes spread all over the countryside; my swords and daggers were displayed in every barn; until finally, my tailor made a huge grab and took three dress coats, six doublets, and nineteen pairs of flesh-colored pantaloons.

This was the “be all and the end all” of my fortune. I no longer hesitated what to do. Egad, thought I, since stealing is the order of the day, I’ll steal too. So I secretly gathered together the jewels of my wardrobe; packed up a hero’s dress in a handkerchief, slung it on the end of a tragedy sword, and quietly stole off at dead of night—“the bell then beating one,”—leaving my queen and kingdom to the mercy of my rebellious subjects, and my merciless foes, the bum-bailiffs.

This was the ultimate point of my fortune. I no longer hesitated about what to do. Wow, I thought, since stealing is all the rage, I’ll steal too. So I quietly gathered the jewels from my wardrobe, packed a hero's outfit in a handkerchief, slung it on the end of a dramatic sword, and quietly slipped away in the dead of night—“the bell then striking one”—leaving my queen and kingdom at the mercy of my rebellious subjects, and my ruthless enemies, the bum bailiffs.

Such, sir, was the “end of all my greatness.” I was heartily cured of All passion for governing, and returned once more into the ranks. I had for some time the usual run of an actor’s life. I played in various country theatres, at fairs, and in barns; sometimes hard pushed; sometimes flush, until on one occasion I came within an ace of making my fortune, and becoming one of the wonders of the age.

Such, sir, was the “end of all my greatness.” I was completely cured of any desire to govern and went back to being just one of the crowd. For a while, I lived the typical life of an actor. I performed in different rural theaters, at fairs, and in barns; sometimes I was struggling, sometimes I was doing well, until one time I came very close to making my fortune and becoming one of the wonders of the age.

I was playing the part of Richard the Third in a country barn, and Absolutely “out-Heroding Herod.” An agent of one of the great London theatres was present. He was on the lookout for something that might be got up as a prodigy. The theatre, it seems, was in desperate condition—nothing but a miracle could save it. He pitched upon me for that miracle. I had a remarkable bluster in my style, and swagger in my gait, and having taken to drink a little during my troubles, my voice was somewhat cracked; so that it seemed like two voices run into one. The thought struck the agent to bring me out as a theatrical wonder; as the restorer of natural and legitimate acting; as the only one who could understand and act Shakespeare rightly. He waited upon me the next morning, and opened his plan. I shrunk from it with becoming modesty; for well as I thought of myself, I felt myself unworthy of such praise.

I was playing Richard the Third in a barn in the countryside, really going all out. An agent from one of the major London theaters was there, looking for something that could be showcased as extraordinary. The theater, it turned out, was in serious trouble—only a miracle could save it. He decided I could be that miracle. I had a noticeable confidence in my style and a swagger in my walk, and since I had started drinking a bit during my rough times, my voice was a little off; it sounded like two voices mixed into one. The agent had the idea to present me as a theatrical marvel; as the one who could revive natural and authentic acting; as the only person who could truly understand and perform Shakespeare correctly. He came to see me the next morning and shared his plan. I pulled back from it with the right amount of humility; even though I had a good opinion of myself, I felt I didn’t deserve such high praise.

“’Sblood, man!” said he, “no praise at all. You don’t imagine that I think you all this. I only want the public to think so. Nothing so easy as gulling the public if you only set up a prodigy. You need not try to act well, you must only act furiously. No matter what you do, or how you act, so that it be but odd and strange. We will have all the pit packed, and the newspapers hired. Whatever you do different from famous actors, it shall be insisted that you are right and they were wrong. If you rant, it shall be pure passion; if you are vulgar, it shall be a touch of nature. Every one shall be prepared to fall into raptures, and shout and yell, at certain points which you shall make. If you do but escape pelting the first night, your fortune and the fortune of the theatre is made.”

“'Damn it, man!” he said, “no praise at all. You don’t really think I believe that about you. I just want the audience to think so. It’s easy to fool the public if you just create a spectacle. You don’t need to act well; you just need to act wildly. It doesn’t matter what you do or how you perform, as long as it’s odd and unusual. We’ll fill the audience, and we’ll get the newspapers on our side. Whatever you do that’s different from famous actors, we’ll insist that you’re right and they were wrong. If you rant, it will be pure passion; if you’re vulgar, it will be a touch of nature. Everyone will be ready to get excited and shout at certain moments you create. If you just avoid getting booed on the first night, your success and the theater’s success are assured.”

I set off for London, therefore, full of new hopes. I was to be the restorer of Shakespeare and nature, and the legitimate drama; my very swagger was to be heroic, and my cracked voice the standard of elocution. Alas, sir! my usual luck attended me. Before I arrived in the metropolis, a rival wonder had appeared. A woman who could dance the slack rope, and run up a cord from the stage to the gallery with fire-works all round her. She was seized on by the management with avidity; she was the saving of the great national theatre for the season. Nothing was talked of but Madame Saqui’s fire-works and flame-colored pantaloons; and nature, Shakespeare, the legitimate drama, and poor Pillgarlick were completely left in the lurch.

I set off for London, filled with new hopes. I was going to be the one to bring back Shakespeare and nature, and the real drama; my swagger was meant to be heroic, and my rough voice the benchmark for speech. Unfortunately, my usual luck followed me. Before I even got to the city, a rival sensation had emerged. A woman who could walk on a tightrope and climb up a rope from the stage to the gallery amidst fireworks. The management eagerly grabbed her; she was the savior of the great national theatre for the season. All anyone talked about were Madame Saqui’s fireworks and her bright-colored pants; and nature, Shakespeare, the real drama, and poor Pillgarlick were completely forgotten.

However, as the manager was in honor bound to provide for me, he kept his word. It had been a turn-up of a die whether I should be Alexander the Great or Alexander the copper-smith; the latter carried it. I could not be put at the head of the drama, so I was put at the tail. In other words, I was enrolled among the number of what are called useful men; who, let me tell you, are the only comfortable actors on the stage. We are safe from hisses and below the hope of applause. We fear not the success of rivals, nor dread the critic’s pen. So long as we get the words of our parts, and they are not often many, it is all we care for. We have our own merriment, our own friends, and our own admirers; for every actor has his friends and admirers, from the highest to the lowest. The first-rate actor dines with the noble amateur, and entertains a fashionable table with scraps and songs and theatrical slip-slop. The second-rate actors have their second-rate friends and admirers, with whom they likewise spout tragedy and talk slip-slop; and so down even to us; who have our friends and admirers among spruce clerks and aspiring apprentices, who treat us to a dinner now and then, and enjoy at tenth hand the same scraps and songs and slip-slop that have been served up by our more fortunate brethren at the tables of the great.

However, the manager was obligated to take care of me, so he kept his promise. It was a toss-up whether I would be Alexander the Great or Alexander the copper-smith; the latter won. I couldn’t be at the front of the drama, so I ended up at the back. In other words, I was part of what are called useful men; and let me tell you, they are the only comfortable actors on stage. We’re safe from boos and out of reach of applause. We don’t worry about rivals' success or dread the critic’s review. As long as we get our lines, and they’re usually not many, that’s all we care about. We have our own fun, our own friends, and our own fans; every actor has their friends and admirers, from the best to the worst. The top actors dine with noble amateurs and entertain high-society gatherings with bits and songs and theatrical nonsense. The second-rate actors have their second-rate friends and fans, with whom they also perform tragedy and chat nonsense; and this goes down even to us, who have our friends and admirers among neat clerks and aspiring apprentices, who treat us to dinner now and then and enjoy, at several removes, the same bits and songs and nonsense that have been served up by our more fortunate peers at the tables of the elite.

I now, for the first time in my theatrical life, knew what true pleasure is. I have known enough of notoriety to pity the poor devils who are called favorites of the public. I would rather be a kitten in the arms of a spoiled child, to be one moment petted and pampered, and the next moment thumped over the head with the spoon. I smile, too, to see our leading actors, fretting themselves with envy and jealousy about a trumpery renown, questionable in its quality and uncertain in its duration. I laugh, too, though of course in my sleeve, at the bustle and importance and trouble and perplexities of our manager, who is harassing himself to death in the hopeless effort to please every body.

For the first time in my acting career, I truly understood what real pleasure is. I've experienced enough fame to feel sorry for those poor souls labeled as public favorites. I'd rather be a kitten in a spoiled child's arms—one moment getting all the love and attention, and the next moment getting smacked on the head with a spoon. I also chuckle at our leading actors, who stress themselves out with envy and jealousy over a flimsy fame that is questionable in quality and uncertain in how long it lasts. I laugh inwardly, of course, at the chaos, significance, and struggles of our manager, who's exhausting himself trying to keep everyone happy.

I have found among my fellow subalterns two or three quondam managers, who, like myself, have wielded the sceptres of country theatres; and we have many a sly joke together at the expense of the manager and the public. Sometimes, too, we meet like deposed and exiled kings, talk over the events of our respective reigns; moralize over a tankard of ale, and laugh at the humbug of the great and little world; which, I take it, is the very essence of practical philosophy.

I've come across a couple of former managers among my fellow subalterns who, like me, have run local theaters. We often share a few jokes at the manager's and the audience's expense. Occasionally, we get together like ousted and exiled rulers, reminiscing about our times in charge; we reflect over a pint of beer and laugh at the nonsense of both the big and small world, which I believe is the core of practical wisdom.

Thus end the anecdotes of Buckthorne and his friends. A few mornings after our hearing the history of the ex-manager, he bounced into my room before I was out of bed.

Thus end the stories of Buckthorne and his friends. A few mornings after we heard the tale of the former manager, he burst into my room before I had gotten out of bed.

“Give me joy! give me joy!” said he, rubbing his hands with the utmost glee, “my great expectations are realized!”

“Give me joy! Give me joy!” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands with pure delight, “my big dreams have come true!”

I stared at him with a look of wonder and inquiry. “My booby cousin is dead!” cried he, “may he rest in peace! He nearly broke his neck in a fall from his horse in a fox-chase. By good luck he lived long enough to make his will. He has made me his heir, partly out of an odd feeling of retributive justice, and partly because, as he says, none of his own family or friends know how to enjoy such an estate. I’m off to the country to take possession. I’ve done with authorship.—That for the critics!” said he, snapping his fingers. “Come down to Doubting Castle when I get settled, and egad! I’ll give you a rouse.” So saying he shook me heartily by the hand and bounded off in high spirits.

I stared at him in shock and confusion. “My crazy cousin is dead!” he exclaimed, “may he rest in peace! He almost broke his neck when he fell from his horse during a fox hunt. Luckily, he lived just long enough to write his will. He made me his heir, both out of a strange sense of retribution and because, as he put it, none of his own family or friends know how to appreciate such wealth. I’m heading to the countryside to claim my inheritance. I’m done with writing.—That’s for the critics!” he said, snapping his fingers. “Come down to Doubting Castle once I get settled, and I swear! I’ll throw you a party.” With that, he shook my hand enthusiastically and dashed off in great spirits.

A long time elapsed before I heard from him again. Indeed, it was but a short time since that I received a letter written in the happiest of moods. He was getting the estate into fine order, everything went to his wishes, and what was more, he was married to Sacharissa: who, it seems, had always entertained an ardent though secret attachment for him, which he fortunately discovered just after coming to his estate.

A long time passed before I heard from him again. In fact, it was only a short while ago that I received a letter filled with happiness. He was getting the estate in great shape, everything was going his way, and what’s more, he had married Sacharissa, who, it turns out, had always secretly loved him, which he luckily found out just after arriving at his estate.

“I find,” said he, “you are a little given to the sin of authorship which I renounce. If the anecdotes I have given you of my story are of any interest, you may make use of them; but come down to Doubting Castle and see how we live, and I’ll give you my whole London life over a social glass; and a rattling history it shall be about authors and reviewers.”

“I think,” he said, “you have a bit of a tendency towards the sin of writing, which I've given up. If the stories I've shared about my life interest you, feel free to use them; but come down to Doubting Castle and see how we live, and I’ll tell you about my entire London life over a drink; and it will be an exciting tale about authors and reviewers.”


If ever I visit Doubting Castle, and get the history he promises, the Public shall be sure to hear of it.

If I ever visit Doubting Castle and learn the story he's promising, the public will definitely hear about it.

PART THIRD
THE ITALIAN BANDITTI

THE INN AT TERRACINA

Crack! crack! crack! crack! crack!

Crack! crack! crack! crack! crack!

“Here comes the estafette from Naples,” said mine host of the inn at Terracina, “bring out the relay.”

“Here comes the courier from Naples,” said the innkeeper at Terracina, “bring out the relay.”

The estafette came as usual galloping up the road, brandishing over his head a short-handled whip, with a long knotted lash; every smack of which made a report like a pistol. He was a tight square-set young fellow, in the customary uniform—a smart blue coat, ornamented with facings and gold lace, but so short behind as to reach scarcely below his waistband, and cocked up not unlike the tail of a wren. A cocked hat, edged with gold lace; a pair of stiff riding boots; but instead of the usual leathern breeches he had a fragment of a pair of drawers that scarcely furnished an apology for modesty to hide behind.

The courier came riding up the road as usual, waving a short-handled whip with a long knotted lash above his head; each crack echoed like a gunshot. He was a solid, well-built young guy in the standard uniform—a sharp blue coat decorated with contrasting facings and gold lace, but so short in the back that it barely reached his waistband, sticking up like a wren's tail. He wore a cocked hat trimmed with gold lace, a pair of stiff riding boots, and instead of the typical leather breeches, he had a piece of a pair of drawers that barely offered any cover for modesty.

The estafette galloped up to the door and jumped from his horse.

The courier rode up to the door and jumped off his horse.

“A glass of rosolio, a fresh horse, and a pair of breeches,” said he, “and quickly—I am behind my time, and must be off.”

“A glass of rosolio, a fresh horse, and a pair of breeches,” he said, “and quickly—I’m running late and need to go.”

“San Genaro!” replied the host, “why, where hast thou left thy garment?”

“San Genaro!” replied the host, “why, where have you left your clothes?”

“Among the robbers between this and Fondi.”

“Among the thieves between here and Fondi.”

“What! rob an estafette! I never heard of such folly. What could they hope to get from thee?”

“What! Rob an escort? I’ve never heard of such foolishness. What do they think they could get from you?”

“My leather breeches!” replied the estafette. “They were bran new, and shone like gold, and hit the fancy of the captain.”

“My leather breeches!” replied the messenger. “They were brand new, shiny like gold, and caught the captain's eye.”

“Well, these fellows grow worse and worse. To meddle with an estafette! And that merely for the sake of a pair of leather breeches!”

“Well, these guys just keep getting worse. To interfere with a courier! Just for a pair of leather pants!”

The robbing of a government messenger seemed to strike the host with More astonishment than any other enormity that had taken place on the road; and indeed it was the first time so wanton an outrage had been committed; the robbers generally taking care not to meddle with any thing belonging to government.

The robbery of a government messenger seemed to shock the host more than any other crime that had happened on the road; and in fact, it was the first time such a senseless act had occurred; the robbers usually made sure not to touch anything related to the government.

The estafette was by this time equipped; for he had not lost an instant in making his preparations while talking. The relay was ready: the rosolio tossed off. He grasped the reins and the stirrup.

The messenger was now ready; he hadn't wasted a moment preparing while he talked. The horse was set, and the drink was finished. He took hold of the reins and the stirrup.

“Were there many robbers in the band?” said a handsome, dark young man, stepping forward from the door of the inn.

“Were there a lot of robbers in the gang?” asked a good-looking, dark-haired young man, stepping out from the door of the inn.

“As formidable a band as ever I saw,” said the estafette, springing into the saddle.

“As impressive a group as I’ve ever seen,” said the messenger, jumping into the saddle.

“Are they cruel to travellers?” said a beautiful young Venetian lady, who had been hanging on the gentleman’s arm.

“Are they mean to travelers?” said a beautiful young Venetian lady, who had been leaning on the gentleman’s arm.

“Cruel, signora!” echoed the estafette, giving a glance at the lady as he put spurs to his horse. “Corpo del Bacco! they stiletto all the men, and as to the women—”

“Cruel, ma'am!” shouted the messenger, glancing at the lady as he kicked his horse into gear. “Corpo del Bacco! they stab all the men, and as for the women—”

Crack! crack! crack! crack! crack!—the last words were drowned in the smacking of the whip, and away galloped the estafette along the road to the Pontine marshes.

Crack! crack! crack! crack! crack!—the final words were lost in the sound of the whip, and the messenger sped away down the road to the Pontine marshes.

“Holy Virgin!” ejaculated the fair Venetian, “what will become of us!”

“Holy Virgin!” exclaimed the beautiful Venetian, “what's going to happen to us!”

The inn of Terracina stands just outside of the walls of the old town of that name, on the frontiers of the Roman territory. A little, lazy, Italian town, the inhabitants of which, apparently heedless and listless, are said to be little better than the brigands which surround them, and indeed are half of them supposed to be in some way or other connected with the robbers. A vast, rocky height rises perpendicularly above it, with the ruins of the castle of Theodoric the Goth, crowning its summit; before it spreads the wide bosom of the Mediterranean, that sea without flux or reflux. There seems an idle pause in every thing about this place. The port is without a sail, excepting that once in a while a solitary felucca may be seen, disgorging its holy cargo of baccala, the meagre provision for the Quaresima or Lent. The naked watch towers, rising here and there along the coast, speak of pirates and corsairs which hover about these shores: while the low huts, as stations for soldiers, which dot the distant road, as it winds through an olive grove, intimate that in the ascent there is danger for the traveller and facility for the bandit.

The inn of Terracina sits just outside the walls of the old town of the same name, on the edge of the Roman territory. It’s a small, laid-back Italian town whose residents seem careless and indifferent, and it's said they are hardly any better than the bandits who surround them; in fact, many are believed to be somehow connected to the thieves. A massive, rocky cliff rises steeply above it, featuring the ruins of Theodoric the Goth's castle at its peak; in front of it sprawls the wide expanse of the Mediterranean, a sea without tides. Everything here feels stuck in time. The port has no sails, except for the occasional sighting of a lone felucca unloading its sacred cargo of baccala, the scant fare for Lent. The bare watchtowers scattered along the coast hint at pirates and corsairs lurking nearby, while the small huts used as soldier outposts dot the distant road winding through an olive grove, suggesting that travelers face danger and bandits have the upper hand.

Indeed, it is between this town and Fondi that the road to Naples is Mostly infested by banditti. It winds among rocky and solitary places, where the robbers are enabled to see the traveller from a distance from the brows of hills or impending precipices, and to lie in wait for him, at the lonely and difficult passes.

Indeed, it's between this town and Fondi that the road to Naples is mostly filled with bandits. It twists through rocky and isolated areas, where the robbers can spot travelers from afar atop hills or steep cliffs, and ambush them at the lonely and challenging spots.

At the time that the estafette made this sudden appearance, almost in cuerpo, the audacity of the robbers had risen to an unparalleled height. They had their spies and emissaries in every town, village, and osteria, to give them notice of the quality and movements of travellers. They did not scruple to send messages into the country towns and villas, demanding certain sums of money, or articles of dress and luxury; with menaces of vengeance in case of refusal. They had plundered carriages; carried people of rank and fortune into the mountains and obliged them to write for heavy ransoms; and had committed outrages on females who had fallen in their power.

At the time the courier showed up unexpectedly, almost in person, the audacity of the robbers had reached an all-time high. They had spies and informants in every town, village, and tavern, keeping them informed about the status and movements of travelers. They were not shy about sending messages to rural towns and villas, demanding certain amounts of money or items of clothing and luxury, threatening revenge if their demands were ignored. They had robbed carriages, kidnapped people of wealth and status, taking them to the mountains and forcing them to write for large ransoms, and had committed assaults on women who fell into their hands.

The police exerted its rigor in vain. The brigands were too numerous And powerful for a weak police. They were countenanced and cherished by several of the villages; and though now and then the limbs of malefactors hung blackening in the trees near which they had committed some atrocity; or their heads stuck upon posts in iron cages made some dreary part of the road still more dreary, still they seemed to strike dismay into no bosom but that of the traveller.

The police tried hard but without success. The criminals were too many and too strong for the weak police force. They were supported and protected by several villages; and even though here and there the bodies of wrongdoers hung rotting in the trees where they had committed their crimes, or their heads were displayed on posts in iron cages along the road, making the area even more depressing, it seemed to scare no one except the occasional traveler.

The dark, handsome young man; and the Venetian lady, whom I have mentioned, had arrived early that afternoon in a private carriage, drawn by mules and attended by a single servant. They had been recently married, were spending the honeymoon in travelling through these delicious countries, and were on their way to visit a rich aunt of the young lady’s at Naples.

The dark, good-looking young man and the Venetian woman I mentioned arrived that afternoon in a private carriage pulled by mules and accompanied by a single servant. They had just gotten married and were spending their honeymoon traveling through these beautiful countries, on their way to visit a wealthy aunt of the young woman’s in Naples.

The lady was young, and tender and timid. The stories she had heard along the road had filled her with apprehension, not more for herself than for her husband; for though she had been married almost a month, she still loved him almost to idolatry. When she reached Terracina the rumors of the road had increased to an alarming magnitude; and the sight of two robbers’ skulls grinning in iron cages on each side of the old gateway of the town brought her to a pause. Her husband had tried in vain to reassure her. They had lingered all the afternoon at the inn, until it was too late to think of starting that evening, and the parting words of the estafette completed her affright.

The woman was young, delicate, and shy. The stories she had heard on the way had filled her with fear, not just for herself but for her husband too; even though they had been married for almost a month, her love for him was strong. By the time she reached Terracina, the rumors she had heard had grown more alarming, and seeing two robbers’ skulls grinning in iron cages on either side of the old town gate made her stop in her tracks. Her husband had tried to comfort her, but it didn’t work. They had spent the entire afternoon at the inn, and by then, it was too late to think about leaving that evening. The parting words of the courier added to her fear.

“Let us return to Rome,” said she, putting her arm within her husband’s, and drawing towards him as if for protection—“let us return to Rome and give up this visit to Naples.”

“Let’s go back to Rome,” she said, linking her arm with her husband’s and leaning toward him as if seeking protection—“let’s go back to Rome and cancel this trip to Naples.”

“And give up the visit to your aunt, too,” said the husband.

“And give up the visit to your aunt, too,” said the husband.

“Nay—what is my aunt in comparison with your safety,” said she, looking up tenderly in his face.

“Nah—what does my aunt matter when it comes to your safety?” she said, looking up at him gently.

There was something in her tone and manner that showed she really was Thinking more of her husband’s safety at that moment than of her own; and being recently married, and a match of pure affection, too, it is very possible that she was. At least her husband thought so. Indeed, any one who has heard the sweet, musical tone of a Venetian voice, and the melting tenderness of a Venetian phrase, and felt the soft witchery of a Venetian eye, would not wonder at the husband’s believing whatever they professed.

There was something in her tone and manner that revealed she was genuinely more concerned about her husband’s safety at that moment than her own; and being recently married, especially in a relationship built on true affection, it’s very possible she was. At least her husband thought so. In fact, anyone who has heard the sweet, musical tone of a Venetian voice, the heartfelt tenderness of a Venetian phrase, and felt the enchanting charm of a Venetian gaze would understand why the husband believed whatever they expressed.

He clasped the white hand that had been laid within his, put his arm round her slender waist, and drawing her fondly to his bosom—“This night at least,” said he, “we’ll pass at Terracina.”

He held her white hand that rested in his, wrapped his arm around her slim waist, and pulled her close to his chest—“At least tonight,” he said, “we’ll spend it in Terracina.”

Crack! crack! crack! crack! crack!

Crack! crack! crack! crack! crack!

Another apparition of the road attracted the attention of mine host and his guests. From the road across the Pontine marshes, a carriage drawn by half a dozen horses, came driving at a furious pace—the postillions smacking their whips like mad, as is the case when conscious of the greatness or the munificence of their fare. It was a landaulet, with a servant mounted on the dickey. The compact, highly finished, yet proudly simple construction of the carriage; the quantity of neat, well-arranged trunks and conveniences; the loads of box coats and upper benjamins on the dickey—and the fresh, burly, gruff-looking face at the window, proclaimed at once that it was the equipage of an Englishman.

Another sight on the road grabbed the attention of the host and his guests. From the road across the Pontine marshes, a carriage pulled by six horses came racing by—the riders cracking their whips like crazy, knowing they had an important passenger. It was a landaulet, with a servant sitting up top. The sturdy, well-crafted, yet elegantly simple design of the carriage, the number of neatly arranged trunks and luggage, the piles of overcoats and top hats on the roof—and the fresh, stout, gruff-looking face at the window, all clearly indicated that this belonged to an Englishman.

“Fresh horses to Fondi,” said the Englishman, as the landlord came bowing to the carriage door.

“Fresh horses to Fondi,” said the Englishman, as the landlord bowed to the carriage door.

“Would not his Excellenza alight and take some refreshment?”

"Wouldn't His Excellency like to get down and have some refreshments?"

“No—he did not mean to eat until he got to Fondi!”

“No—he didn’t plan to eat until he got to Fondi!”

“But the horses will be some time in getting ready—”

“But the horses will take a while to get ready—”

“Ah.—that’s always the case—nothing but delay in this cursed country.”

“Ah—that’s always the way—just constant delays in this damn country.”

“If his Excellenza would only walk into the house—”

“If his Excellency would just come into the house—”

“No, no, no!—I tell you no!—I want nothing but horses, and as quick as possible. John! see that the horses are got ready, and don’t let us be kept here an hour or two. Tell him if we’re delayed over the time, I’ll lodge a complaint with the postmaster.”

“No, no, no!—I’m telling you no!—I only want horses, and I want them fast. John! make sure the horses are ready, and don’t keep us waiting for an hour or two. Tell him if we’re delayed beyond that, I’ll file a complaint with the postmaster.”

John touched his hat, and set off to obey his master’s orders, with the taciturn obedience of an English servant. He was a ruddy, round-faced fellow, with hair cropped close; a short coat, drab breeches, and long gaiters; and appeared to have almost as much contempt as his master for everything around him.

John tipped his hat and headed out to follow his master's orders, showing the quiet obedience of an English servant. He was a cheerful, round-faced guy with closely cropped hair; wearing a short coat, dull-colored trousers, and long boots; and seemed to share his master's disdain for everything around him.

In the mean time the Englishman got out of the carriage and walked up and down before the inn, with his hands in his pockets: taking no notice of the crowd of idlers who were gazing at him and his equipage. He was tall, stout, and well made; dressed with neatness and precision, wore a travelling-cap of the color of gingerbread, and had rather an unhappy expression about the corners of his mouth; partly from not having yet made his dinner, and partly from not having been able to get on at a greater rate than seven miles an hour. Not that he had any other cause for haste than an Englishman’s usual hurry to get to the end of a journey; or, to use the regular phrase, “to get on.”

In the meantime, the Englishman got out of the carriage and walked back and forth in front of the inn with his hands in his pockets, ignoring the crowd of onlookers who were staring at him and his vehicle. He was tall, heavyset, and well-built; dressed neatly and precisely, wearing a traveling cap the color of gingerbread, and had a somewhat unhappy look around the corners of his mouth, partly because he hadn't had dinner yet and partly because he hadn't been able to travel any faster than seven miles an hour. Not that he had any other reason to be in a hurry besides the typical Englishman’s rush to reach the end of a journey, or as the saying goes, “to get on.”

After some time the servant returned from the stable with as sour a look as his master.

After a while, the servant came back from the stable with a look as sour as his master's.

“Are the horses ready, John?”

“Are the horses set, John?”

“No, sir—I never saw such a place. There’s no getting anything done. I think your honor had better step into the house and get something to eat; it will be a long while before we get to Fundy.”

“No, sir—I’ve never seen a place like this. Nothing gets done here. I think you should go into the house and grab something to eat; it’s going to be a while before we reach Fundy.”

“D—n the house—it’s a mere trick—I’ll not eat anything, just to spite them,” said the Englishman, still more crusty at the prospect of being so long without his dinner.

“Damn the house—it’s just a trick—I won’t eat anything, just to spite them,” said the Englishman, even more annoyed at the thought of going so long without his dinner.

“They say your honor’s very wrong,” said John, “to set off at this late hour. The road’s full of highwaymen.”

“They’re saying you’re making a mistake,” John said, “to head out at this late hour. The road is full of robbers.”

“Mere tales to get custom.”

“Just stories to get orders.”

“The estafette which passed us was stopped by a whole gang,” said John, increasing his emphasis with each additional piece of information.

“The courier that went by us was stopped by a whole group,” said John, emphasizing more with each new detail.

“I don’t believe a word of it.”

“I don’t believe any of it.”

“They robbed him of his breeches,” said John, giving at the same time a hitch to his own waist-band.

“They took his pants,” said John, adjusting his own waistband at the same time.

“All humbug!”

“All nonsense!”

Here the dark, handsome young man stepped forward and addressing the Englishman very politely in broken English, invited him to partake of a repast he was about to make. “Thank’ee,” said the Englishman, thrusting his hands deeper into his pockets, and casting a slight side glance of suspicion at the young man, as if he thought from his civility he must have a design upon his purse.

Here, the attractive young man stepped forward and politely addressed the Englishman in halting English, inviting him to join in a meal he was about to prepare. “Thank you,” replied the Englishman, pushing his hands further into his pockets and casting a wary glance at the young man, as if he suspected that his politeness masked a hidden motive for his wallet.

“We shall be most happy if you will do us that favor,” said the lady, in her soft Venetian dialect. There was a sweetness in her accents that was most persuasive. The Englishman cast a look upon her countenance; her beauty was still more eloquent. His features instantly relaxed. He made an attempt at a civil bow. “With great pleasure, signora,” said he.

“We would be very pleased if you could do us that favor,” said the lady in her soft Venetian accent. There was a sweetness in her voice that was very convincing. The Englishman looked at her face; her beauty was even more expressive. His features instantly softened. He tried to give a polite bow. “It would be my pleasure, signora,” he said.

In short, the eagerness to “get on” was suddenly slackened; the determination to famish himself as far as Fondi by way of punishing the landlord was abandoned; John chose the best apartment in the inn for his master’s reception, and preparations were made to remain there until morning.

In short, the urge to “get going” suddenly faded; the decision to starve himself all the way to Fondi to punish the landlord was dropped; John picked the best room in the inn for his master’s arrival, and they got ready to stay there until morning.

The carriage was unpacked of such of its contents as were indispensable for the night. There was the usual parade of trunks and writing-desks, and portfolios, and dressing-boxes, and those other oppressive conveniences which burden a comfortable man. The observant loiterers about the inn door, wrapped up in great dirt-colored cloaks, with only a hawk’s eye uncovered, made many remarks to each other on this quantity of luggage that seemed enough for an army. And the domestics of the inn talked with wonder of the splendid dressing-case, with its gold and silver furniture that was spread out on the toilette table, and the bag of gold that chinked as it was taken out of the trunk. The strange “Milor’s” wealth, and the treasures he carried about him, were the talk, that evening, over all Terracina.

The carriage was unpacked of the essentials for the night. There was the typical display of trunks, writing desks, portfolios, dressing boxes, and those other cumbersome items that weigh down a comfortable person. The curious onlookers by the inn door, wrapped in large, dirt-colored cloaks with just their keen eyes visible, exchanged many comments about the amount of luggage that seemed enough for an army. The inn staff spoke in awe of the beautiful dressing case, with its gold and silver fixtures laid out on the vanity, and the bag of gold that jingled as it was taken from the trunk. That evening, the mysterious “Milor’s” wealth and the treasures he carried became the talk of all Terracina.

The Englishman took some time to make his ablutions and arrange his dress for table, and after considerable labor and effort in putting himself at his ease, made his appearance, with stiff white cravat, his clothes free from the least speck of dust, and adjusted with precision. He made a formal bow on entering, which no doubt he meant to be cordial, but which any one else would have considered cool, and took his seat.

The Englishman spent some time freshening up and getting dressed for dinner. After a lot of effort to look comfortable, he appeared with a stiff white tie, his clothes spotless, and perfectly arranged. He entered with a formal bow that he probably intended to be friendly, but anyone else would have seen it as indifferent, and then he took his seat.

The supper, as it was termed by the Italian, or dinner, as the Englishman called it, was now served. Heaven and earth, and the waters under the earth, had been moved to furnish it, for there were birds of the air and beasts of the earth and fish of the sea. The Englishman’s servant, too, had turned the kitchen topsy-turvy in his zeal to cook his master a beefsteak; and made his appearance loaded with ketchup, and soy, and Cayenne pepper, and Harvey sauce, and a bottle of port wine, from that warehouse, the carriage, in which his master seemed desirous of carrying England about the world with him. Every thing, however, according to the Englishman, was execrable. The tureen of soup was a black sea, with livers and limbs and fragments of all kinds of birds and beasts, floating like wrecks about it. A meagre winged animal, which my host called a delicate chicken, was too delicate for his stomach, for it had evidently died of a consumption. The macaroni was smoked. The beefsteak was tough buffalo’s flesh, and the countenance of mine host confirmed the assertion. Nothing seemed to hit his palate but a dish of stewed eels, of which he ate with great relish, but had nearly refunded them when told that they were vipers, caught among the rocks of Terracina, and esteemed a great delicacy.

Dinner, as it was called by the Italians, or supper, as the English referred to it, was now served. Everything imaginable had been gathered to prepare it, with birds from the sky, beasts from the land, and fish from the sea on the table. The Englishman's servant had also turned the kitchen upside down in his eagerness to cook a steak for his master; he appeared carrying bottles of ketchup, soy sauce, cayenne pepper, Harvey sauce, and a bottle of port wine, as if his master wanted to take a taste of England around the world with him. However, everything was horrible, according to the Englishman. The soup was a dark mess, with bits of liver and pieces of various birds and animals floating like wreckage. A skinny bird that my host called a delicate chicken was too delicate for his stomach, having clearly died from a sickness. The macaroni was smoky. The steak was tough buffalo meat, and my host's expression confirmed this. Nothing seemed to please his taste buds except a dish of stewed eels, which he enjoyed greatly until he learned they were vipers caught among the rocks of Terracina and regarded as a delicacy.

In short, the Englishman ate and growled, and ate and growled, like a cat eating in company, pronouncing himself poisoned by every dish, yet eating on in defiance of death and the doctor. The Venetian lady, not accustomed to English travellers, almost repented having persuaded him to the meal; for though very gracious to her, he was so crusty to all the world beside, that she stood in awe of him. There is nothing, however, that conquers John Bull’s crustiness sooner than eating, whatever may be the cookery; and nothing brings him into good humor with his company sooner than eating together; the Englishman, therefore, had not half finished his repast and his bottle, before he began to think the Venetian a very tolerable fellow for a foreigner, and his wife almost handsome enough to be an Englishwoman.

In short, the Englishman ate and growled, and ate and growled, like a cat eating in company, declaring every dish poisoned, yet continuing to eat in defiance of death and the doctor. The Venetian lady, not used to English travelers, almost regretted convincing him to join the meal; for although he was very polite to her, he was so grumpy to everyone else that she felt intimidated by him. However, nothing breaks through John Bull's grumpiness faster than food, no matter how it's prepared; and nothing puts him in a better mood with his company than sharing a meal. So, before he had even finished his meal and his drink, he started to think the Venetian was a pretty decent guy for a foreigner, and his wife was almost attractive enough to be an Englishwoman.

In the course of the repast the tales of robbers which harassed the mind of the fair Venetian, were brought into discussion. The landlord and the waiter served up such a number of them as they served up the dishes, that they almost frightened away the poor lady’s appetite. Among these was the story of the school of Terracina, still fresh in every mind, where the students were carried up the mountains by the banditti, in hopes of ransom, and one of them massacred, to bring the parents to terms for the others. There was a story also of a gentleman of Rome, who delayed remitting the ransom demanded for his son, detained by the banditti, and received one of his son’s ears in a letter with information that the other would be remitted to him soon, if the money were not forthcoming, and that in this way he would receive the boy by instalments until he came to terms.

During the meal, the stories of robbers that troubled the mind of the lovely Venetian came up for discussion. The landlord and the waiter shared so many of them, just like they served the dishes, that they nearly scared away the poor lady’s appetite. Among these was the tale of the Terracina school, still vivid in everyone’s memory, where the students were taken up the mountains by bandits, hoping for ransom, and one was massacred to pressure the parents for the others. There was also the story of a gentleman from Rome who delayed sending the ransom that was demanded for his son, who was held by the bandits, and received one of his son's ears in a letter, with a note saying that the other would be sent back to him soon if the money didn't come through, meaning he would receive the boy in pieces until he paid up.

The fair Venetian shuddered as she heard these tales. The landlord, like a true story-teller, doubled the dose when he saw how it operated. He was just proceeding to relate the misfortunes of a great English lord and his family, when the Englishman, tired of his volubility, testily interrupted him, and pronounced these accounts mere traveller’s tales, or the exaggerations of peasants and innkeepers. The landlord was indignant at the doubt levelled at his stories, and the innuendo levelled at his cloth; he cited half a dozen stories still more terrible, to corroborate those he had already told.

The beautiful Venetian shuddered when she heard these stories. The landlord, being a true storyteller, amped up the drama when he saw how it affected her. He was just about to share the misfortunes of a prominent English lord and his family when the Englishman, tired of his rambling, sharply interrupted him and claimed these accounts were just traveler’s tales or exaggerations from peasants and innkeepers. The landlord was outraged by the doubt cast on his stories and the insinuation about his reputation; he recounted half a dozen even more terrible tales to back up the ones he had already shared.

“I don’t believe a word of them,” said the Englishman.

“I don’t believe a single word they say,” said the Englishman.

“But the robbers had been tried and executed.”

"But the robbers had been tried and executed."

“All a farce!”

"Totally a joke!"

“But their heads were stuck up along the road.”

“But their heads were stuck up along the road.”

“Old skulls accumulated during a century.”

“Old skulls collected over a hundred years.”

The landlord muttered to himself as he went out at the door, “San Genaro, come sono singolari questi Inglesi.”

The landlord muttered to himself as he walked out the door, “San Genaro, how strange these English are.”

A fresh hubbub outside of the inn announced the arrival of more travellers; and from the variety of voices, or rather clamors, the clattering of horses’ hoofs, the rattling of wheels, and the general uproar both within and without, the arrival seemed to be numerous. It was, in fact, the procaccio, and its convoy—a kind of caravan of merchandise, that sets out on stated days, under an escort of soldiery to protect it from the robbers. Travellers avail themselves of the occasion, and many carriages accompany the procaccio. It was a long time before either landlord or waiter returned, being hurried away by the tempest of new custom. When mine host appeared, there was a smile of triumph on his countenance.—“Perhaps,” said he, as he cleared away the table, “perhaps the signor has not heard of what has happened.”

A loud commotion outside the inn signaled the arrival of more travelers; and from the mix of voices, or rather shouts, the sound of horses' hooves, the clattering of wheels, and the general chaos both inside and outside, it was clear there were many people arriving. It was, in fact, the procaccio and its convoy—a kind of merchandise caravan that sets off on specific days, guarded by soldiers to protect it from robbers. Travelers take advantage of this occasion, and many carriages follow the procaccio. It took a while for either the landlord or the waiter to return, as they were caught up in the rush of new customers. When the host finally appeared, he had a triumphant smile on his face. “Maybe,” he said as he cleared the table, “maybe the signor hasn’t heard what’s happened.”

“What?” said the Englishman, drily.

“What?” said the Brit, dryly.

“Oh, the procaccio has arrived, and has brought accounts of fresh exploits of the robbers, signor.”

“Oh, the procaccio has arrived and brought news of the robbers' latest exploits, sir.”

“Pish!”

"Ugh!"

“There’s more news of the English Milor and his family,” said the host, emphatically.

“There's more news about the English Milor and his family,” said the host, emphatically.

“An English lord.-What English lord?”

"Which English lord?"

“Milor Popkin.”

“Milor Popkin.”

“Lord Popkin? I never heard of such a title!”

“Lord Popkin? I've never heard of that title!”

O Sicuro—a great nobleman that passed through here lately with his Milady and daughters—a magnifico—one of the grand councillors of London—un almanno.”

O Sicuro—a great nobleman who recently passed through here with his Lady and daughters—a magnificent figure—one of the grand councillors of London—a friend.”

“Almanno—almanno?—tut! he means alderman.”

"Almanno—almanno?—ugh! he means alderman."

“Sicuro, aldermanno Popkin, and the principezza Popkin, and the signorina Popkin!” said mine host, triumphantly. He would now have entered into a full detail, but was thwarted by the Englishman, who seemed determined not to credit or indulge him in his stories. An Italian tongue, however, is not easily checked: that of mine host continued to run on with increasing volubility as he conveyed the fragments of the repast out of the room, and the last that could be distinguished of his voice, as it died away along the corridor, was the constant recurrence of the favorite word Popkin—Popkin—Popkin—pop—pop—pop.

“Sure, Alderman Popkin, and Princess Popkin, and Miss Popkin!” said the host, proudly. He would have gone into more detail, but the Englishman, who seemed set on not believing or entertaining his stories, interrupted him. However, an Italian chat is hard to stop: the host kept talking with growing enthusiasm as he carried the leftover food out of the room, and the last thing that could be heard of his voice, fading down the corridor, was the repeated use of his favorite word Popkin—Popkin—Popkin—pop—pop—pop.

The arrival of the procaccio had indeed filled the house with stories as it had with guests. The Englishman and his companions walked out after supper into the great hall, or common room of the inn, which runs through the centre building; a gloomy, dirty-looking apartment, with tables placed in various parts of it, at which some of the travellers were seated in groups, while others strolled about in famished impatience for their evening’s meal. As the procaccio was a kind of caravan of travellers, there were people of every class and country, who had come in all kinds of vehicles; and though they kept in some measure in separate parties, yet the being united under one common escort had jumbled them into companionship on the road. Their formidable number and the formidable guard that accompanied them, had prevented any molestation from the banditti; but every carriage had its tale of wonder, and one vied with another in the recital. Not one but had seen groups of robbers peering over the rocks; or their guns peeping out from among the bushes, or had been reconnoitred by some suspicious-looking fellow with scowling eye, who disappeared on seeing the guard.

The arrival of the procaccio had really filled the house with stories just as it had with guests. The Englishman and his friends walked out after dinner into the great hall, or common room of the inn, which runs through the center of the building; a dark, dirty-looking space, with tables set up in various spots where some travelers sat in groups while others wandered around, anxiously waiting for their evening meal. Since the procaccio was a sort of caravan of travelers, there were people from every class and country, arriving in all kinds of vehicles; and although they mostly stuck to their own groups, the shared journey under one common escort brought them together. Their large numbers and the strong guard that accompanied them kept the bandits at bay; yet each carriage had its own story of wonder, and they all competed to share their tales. Every single one had seen groups of robbers peering over the rocks, or guns sticking out from the bushes, or had been checked out by some suspicious-looking guy with a scowling face, who disappeared upon seeing the guard.

The fair Venetian listened to all these stories with that eager curiosity with which we seek to pamper any feeling of alarm. Even the Englishman began to feel interested in the subject, and desirous of gaining more correct information than these mere flying reports.

The fair Venetian listened to all these stories with the eager curiosity we use to soothe any feelings of fear. Even the Englishman started to feel interested in the topic and wanted to get more accurate information than just these passing rumors.

He mingled in one of the groups which appeared to be the most respectable, and which was assembled round a tall, thin person, with long Roman nose, a high forehead, and lively prominent eye, beaming from under a green velvet travelling-cap with gold tassel. He was holding forth with all the fluency of a man who talks well and likes to exert his talent. He was of Rome; a surgeon by profession, a poet by choice, and one who was something of an improvvisatore. He soon gave the Englishman abundance of information respecting the banditti.

He joined one of the groups that seemed the most respectable, gathered around a tall, thin person with a long Roman nose, a high forehead, and lively, prominent eyes shining from under a green velvet travel cap with a gold tassel. He was speaking with all the fluency of someone who communicates well and enjoys showcasing his talent. He was from Rome, a surgeon by profession, a poet by choice, and somewhat of an improv artist. He quickly provided the Englishman with plenty of information about the bandits.

“The fact is,” said he, “that many of the people in the villages among the mountains are robbers, or rather the robbers find perfect asylum among them. They range over a vast extent of wild impracticable country, along the chain of Apennines, bordering on different states; they know all the difficult passes, the short cuts and strong-holds. They are secure of the good-will of the poor and peaceful inhabitants of those regions, whom they never disturb, and whom they often enrich. Indeed, they are looked upon as a sort of illegitimate heroes among the mountain villages, and some of the frontier towns, where they dispose of their plunder. From these mountains they keep a look-out upon the plains and valleys, and meditate their descents.”

"The truth is," he said, "that many of the people living in the villages in the mountains are robbers, or rather, the robbers find a perfect refuge with them. They roam across a vast, difficult landscape along the Apennines, which borders different states; they know all the tough routes, shortcuts, and strongholds. They have the support of the poor and peaceful locals, whom they never bother and often help financially. In fact, they're seen as a kind of illegitimate heroes in the mountain villages and some of the border towns, where they sell their stolen goods. From these mountains, they keep watch over the plains and valleys, planning their next moves."

“The road to Fondi, which you are about to travel, is one of the places most noted for their exploits. It is overlooked from some distance by little hamlets, perched upon heights. From hence, the brigands, like hawks in their nests, keep on the watch for such travellers as are likely to afford either booty or ransom. The windings of the road enable them to see carriages long before they pass, so that they have time to get to some advantageous lurking-place from whence to pounce upon their prey.”

"The road to Fondi that you're about to travel is well-known for its infamous stories. It's overlooked from a distance by small villages perched on high ground. From there, the bandits, like hawks in their nests, keep an eye out for travelers who might offer either valuables or a ransom. The twists and turns of the road allow them to spot carriages long before they arrive, giving them time to hide in a good place to ambush their targets."

“But why does not the police interfere and root them out?” said the Englishman.

“But why doesn't the police step in and get rid of them?” said the Englishman.

“The police is too weak and the banditti are too strong,” replied the improvvisatore. “To root them out would be a more difficult task than you imagine. They are connected and identified with the people of the villages and the peasantry generally; the numerous bands have an understanding with each other, and with people of various conditions in all parts of the country. They know all that is going on; a gens d’armes cannot stir without their being aware of it. They have their spies and emissaries in every direction; they lurk about towns, villages, inns,—mingle in every crowd, pervade every place of resort. I should not be surprised,” said he, “if some one should be supervising us at this moment.”

“The police are too weak, and the criminals are too strong,” replied the improviser. “Rooting them out would be a harder task than you think. They’re connected to the people in the villages and the rural population overall; the many gangs have agreements with each other and with people from various backgrounds across the country. They know everything that’s happening; a police officer can't move without them knowing about it. They have spies and informants everywhere; they hang around towns, villages, inns—blending in with every crowd, infiltrating every social spot. I wouldn’t be surprised,” he said, “if someone is watching us right now.”

The fair Venetian looked round fearfully and turned pale.

The beautiful Venetian looked around nervously and went pale.

“One peculiarity of the Italian banditti” continued the improvvisatore, “is that they wear a kind of uniform, or rather costume, which designates their profession. This is probably done to take away from its skulking lawless character, and to give it something of a military air in the eyes of the common people; or perhaps to catch by outward dash and show the fancies of the young men of the villages. These dresses or costumes are often rich and fanciful. Some wear jackets and breeches of bright colors, richly embroidered; broad belts of cloth; or sashes of silk net; broad, high-crowned hats, decorated with feathers of variously-colored ribbands, and silk nets for the hair.

“One unusual thing about the Italian bandits,” continued the storyteller, “is that they wear a sort of uniform, or rather a costume, that signifies their profession. This is likely meant to distance it from its sneaky, lawless nature and to give it a more military look in the eyes of the common people; or maybe to attract the attention and admiration of the young men in the villages with their flashy appearance. These outfits are often elaborate and eye-catching. Some wear jackets and trousers in bright colors, richly embroidered; wide fabric belts; or silk sashes; tall, broad-brimmed hats adorned with feathers and colorful ribbons, as well as silk nets for their hair.”

“Many of the robbers are peasants who follow ordinary occupations in the villages for a part of the year, and take to the mountains for the rest. Some only go out for a season, as it were, on a hunting expedition, and then resume the dress and habits of common life. Many of the young men of the villages take to this kind of life occasionally from a mere love of adventure, the wild wandering spirit of youth and the contagion of bad example; but it is remarked that they can never after brook a long continuance in settled life. They get fond of the unbounded freedom and rude license they enjoy; and there is something in this wild mountain life checquered by adventure and peril, that is wonderfully fascinating, independent of the gratification of cupidity by the plunder of the wealthy traveller.”

“Many of the robbers are farmers who have regular jobs in the villages for part of the year and retreat to the mountains for the rest. Some only go out for a season, like a hunting trip, and then return to their regular clothes and everyday life. Many of the young men from the villages occasionally choose this lifestyle simply for the thrill, the adventurous spirit of youth, and the influence of bad examples; but it's noted that they can never tolerate a long return to settled life afterward. They grow attached to the limitless freedom and rough lifestyle they experience; and there’s something about this wild mountain life filled with adventure and danger that is incredibly enticing, aside from the thrill of stealing from wealthy travelers.”

Here the improvvisatore was interrupted by a lively Neapolitan lawyer. “Your mention of the younger robbers,” said he, “puts me in mind of an adventure of a learned doctor, a friend of mine, which happened in this very neighborhood.”

Here the improviser was interrupted by a spirited Neapolitan lawyer. “Your mention of the younger thieves,” he said, “reminds me of an adventure of a knowledgeable doctor, a friend of mine, that took place right in this neighborhood.”

A wish was of course expressed to hear the adventure of the doctor by all except the improvvisatore, who, being fond of talking and of hearing himself talk, and accustomed moreover to harangue without interruption, looked rather annoyed at being checked when in full career.

Everyone, except the improviser, clearly wanted to hear about the doctor's adventure. The improviser, who loved to talk and listen to himself, and was used to speaking uninterrupted, seemed quite annoyed at being interrupted while he was in full flow.

The Neapolitan, however, took no notice of his chagrin, but related The following anecdote.

The Neapolitan, however, didn’t acknowledge his frustration and shared the following story.

THE ADVENTURE OF THE LITTLE ANTIQUARY

My friend the doctor was a thorough antiquary: a little, rusty, musty Old fellow, always groping among ruins. He relished a building as you Englishmen relish a cheese, the more mouldy and crumbling it was, the more it was to his taste. A shell of an old nameless temple, or the cracked walls of a broken-down amphitheatre, would throw him into raptures; and he took more delight in these crusts and cheese parings of antiquity than in the best-conditioned, modern edifice.

My friend the doctor was a serious history buff: a short, rusty, old guy who was always digging around in ruins. He enjoyed a building like you Brits enjoy cheese; the more moldy and crumbling it was, the more he loved it. The shell of a forgotten temple or the cracked walls of a ruined amphitheater would make him ecstatic; he got way more joy from these remnants of the past than from the best-kept modern buildings.

He had taken a maggot into his brain at one time to hunt after the Ancient cities of the Pelasgi which are said to exist to this day among the mountains of the Abruzzi; but the condition of which is strangely unknown to the antiquaries. It is said that he had made a great many valuable notes and memorandums on the subject, which he always carried about with him, either for the purpose of frequent reference, or because he feared the precious documents might fall into the hands of brother antiquaries. He had therefore a large pocket behind, in which he carried them, banging against his rear as he walked.

He had once gotten obsessed with searching for the ancient cities of the Pelasgi, which are rumored to still exist in the mountains of Abruzzi, yet their condition remains oddly unknown to historians. It's said that he took many valuable notes and memos on the topic, which he always kept with him, either for easy reference or because he was worried those important documents might end up in the hands of fellow historians. As a result, he had a large pocket in the back where he carried them, thumping against him as he walked.

Be this as it may; happening to pass a few days at Terracina, in the course of his researches, he one day mounted the rocky cliffs which overhang the town, to visit the castle of Theodoric. He was groping about these ruins, towards the hour of sunset, buried in his reflections,—his wits no doubt wool-gathering among the Goths and Romans, when he heard footsteps behind him.

Be that as it may, while spending a few days in Terracina during his research, he one day climbed the rocky cliffs that overlook the town to visit Theodoric’s castle. He was wandering around the ruins as the sun was setting, lost in thought—his mind probably wandering among the Goths and Romans—when he heard footsteps behind him.

He turned and beheld five or six young fellows, of rough, saucy demeanor, clad in a singular manner, half peasant, half huntsman, with fusils in their hands. Their whole appearance and carriage left him in no doubt into what company he had fallen.

He turned and saw five or six young guys with rough, cheeky attitudes, dressed in a strange way, part peasant and part hunter, with guns in their hands. Their whole look and behavior made it clear which crowd he had just entered.

The doctor was a feeble little man poor, in look and poorer in purse. He had but little money in his pocket; but he had certain valuables, such as an old silver watch, thick as a turnip, with figures on it large enough for a clock, and a set of seals at the end of a steel chain, that dangled half down to his knees; all which were of precious esteem, being family reliques. He had also a seal ring, a veritable antique intaglio, that covered half his knuckles; but what he most valued was, the precious treatise on the Pelasgian cities, which, he would gladly have given all the money in his pocket to have had safe at the bottom of his trunk in Terracina.

The doctor was a frail little man, shabby in appearance and even poorer in finances. He didn’t have much cash on him, but he owned some treasured items, like an old silver watch that was thick as a turnip, with numbers large enough to be seen from a distance, and a set of seals on a steel chain that hung down to his knees. These were considered very valuable since they were family heirlooms. He also had a seal ring, a genuine antique intaglio, that covered half his knuckles; but what he cherished most was a valuable treatise on the Pelasgian cities, for which he would have gladly traded all the money in his pocket just to keep it safe at the bottom of his trunk in Terracina.

However, he plucked up a stout heart; at least as stout a heart as he could, seeing that he was but a puny little man at the hest of times. So he wished the hunters a “buon giorno.” They returned his salutation, giving the old gentleman a sociable slap on the back that made his heart leap into his throat.

However, he gathered his courage; at least as much as he could, considering he was just a small man most of the time. So he wished the hunters a "good morning." They returned his greeting, giving the old gentleman a friendly slap on the back that made his heart race.

They fell into conversation, and walked for some time together among The heights, the doctor wishing them all the while at the bottom of the crater of Vesuvius. At length they came to a small osteria on the mountain, where they proposed to enter and have a cup of wine together. The doctor consented; though he would as soon have been invited to drink hemlock.

They started talking and walked together for a while among the heights, with the doctor wishing they were at the bottom of the Vesuvius crater instead. Eventually, they reached a small osteria on the mountain and decided to go in for a cup of wine. The doctor agreed, but he would have preferred to be asked to drink hemlock instead.

One of the gang remained sentinel at the door; the others swaggered into the house; stood their fusils in a corner of the room; and each drawing a pistol or stiletto out of his belt, laid it, with some emphasis, on the table. They now called lustily for wine; drew benches round the table, and hailing the doctor as though he had been a boon companion of long standing, insisted upon his sitting down and making merry. He complied with forced grimace, but with fear and trembling; sitting on the edge of his bench; supping down heartburn with every drop of liquor; eyeing ruefully the black muzzled pistols, and cold, naked stilettos. They pushed the bottle bravely, and plied him vigorously; sang, laughed, told excellent stories of robberies and combats, and the little doctor was fain to laugh at these cut-throat pleasantries, though his heart was dying away at the very bottom of his bosom.

One of the gang kept watch at the door while the others swaggered into the house, leaned their guns against a corner of the room, and each pulled out a pistol or dagger from his belt, placing it emphatically on the table. They loudly called for wine, pulled benches around the table, and greeted the doctor as if he were an old friend, insisting that he sit down and join in the fun. He obliged with a forced smile, but he was filled with fear and anxiety, sitting on the edge of his bench and feeling heartburn with every sip of liquor; he glanced nervously at the black-muzzled pistols and cold, bare daggers. They pushed the bottle enthusiastically and urged him on, singing, laughing, and sharing thrilling stories of robberies and fights. The little doctor felt compelled to laugh at their violent humor, even though his heart was sinking deep inside him.

By their own account they were young men from the villages, who had Recently taken up this line of life in the mere wild caprice of youth. They talked of their exploits as a sportsman talks of his amusements. To shoot down a traveller seemed of little more consequence to them than to shoot a hare. They spoke with rapture of the glorious roving life they led; free as birds; here to-day, gone to-morrow; ranging the forests, climbing the rocks, scouring the valleys; the world their own wherever they could lay hold of it; full purses, merry companions; pretty women.—The little antiquary got fuddled with their talk and their wine, for they did not spare bumpers. He half forgot his fears, his seal ring, and his family watch; even the treatise on the Pelasgian cities which was warming under him, for a time faded from his memory, in the glowing picture which they drew. He declares that he no longer wonders at the prevalence of this robber mania among the mountains; for he felt at the time, that had he been a young man and a strong man, and had there been no danger of the galleys in the background, he should have been half tempted himself to turn bandit.

By their own account, they were young guys from the villages who had recently taken up this way of life on a whim of youth. They talked about their adventures like a sportsman discusses his pastimes. Shooting a traveler seemed to matter to them about as much as shooting a hare. They spoke excitedly about the amazing life they led, free as birds; here today, gone tomorrow; roaming the forests, climbing the rocks, exploring the valleys; the world was theirs wherever they could seize it; filled with cash, cheerful friends, and attractive women. The little antiquarian got tipsy from their words and their wine, as they didn’t hold back on the drinks. He almost forgot his worries, his seal ring, and his family watch; even the study on the Pelasgian cities that he had been thinking about slipped from his mind for a while, caught up in the exciting picture they painted. He admits that he no longer wonders why the bandit lifestyle was so popular in the mountains; because at that moment, he felt that if he had been a young, strong man, and there was no risk of being sent to the galleys, he would have been tempted to become a bandit himself.

At length the fearful hour of separating arrived. The doctor was suddenly called to himself and his fears, by seeing the robbers resume their weapons. He now quaked for his valuables, and above all for his antiquarian treatise. He endeavored, however, to look cool and unconcerned; and drew from out of his deep pocket a long, lank, leathern purse, far gone in consumption, at the bottom of which a few coin chinked with the trembling of his hand.

At last, the dreaded moment of separation came. The doctor was jolted back to reality and his worries as he saw the robbers pick up their weapons again. He was now anxious about his valuables, especially his rare book. However, he tried to appear calm and unfazed; he pulled out a long, thin leather wallet from his deep pocket, which was worn out and nearly empty, where a few coins rattled as his hand shook.

The chief of the party observed this movement; and laying his hand upon the antiquary’s shoulder—“Harkee! Signor Dottore!” said he, “we have drank together as friends and comrades, let us part as such. We understand you; we know who and what you are; for we know who every body is that sleeps at Terracina, or that puts foot upon the road. You are a rich man, but you carry all your wealth in your head. We can’t get at it, and we should not know what to do with it, if we could. I see you are uneasy about your ring; but don’t worry your mind; it is not worth taking; you think it an antique, but it’s a counterfeit—a mere sham.”

The leader of the group noticed this movement and placed his hand on the antiquarian's shoulder. "Listen up, Doctor!" he said. "We've shared drinks as friends and comrades, so let's part like that. We know who you are; we know everyone who sleeps in Terracina or sets foot on the road. You're a wealthy man, but you keep all your riches in your mind. We can't access it, and even if we could, we wouldn't know what to do with it. I can see you're worried about your ring, but don't stress about it; it's not worth stealing. You think it's an antique, but it's just a fake—a total sham."

Here the doctor would have put in a word, for his antiquarian pride was touched.

Here the doctor would have chimed in, as his pride in antiquities was piqued.

“Nay, nay,” continued the other, “we’ve no time to dispute about it. Value it as you please. Come, you are a brave little old signor—one more cup of wine and we’ll pay the reckoning. No compliments—I insist on it. So—now make the best of your way back to Terracina; it’s growing late—buono viaggio!—and harkee, take care how you wander among these mountains.”

“Nah, nah,” the other continued, “we don’t have time to argue about it. Value it however you want. Come on, you’re a brave little old man—one more cup of wine and we’ll settle the bill. No flattery—I’m insisting. So—now make sure you head back to Terracina; it’s getting late—safe travels!—and hey, be careful wandering around these mountains.”

They shouldered their fusils, sprang gaily up the rocks, and the little doctor hobbled back to Terracina, rejoicing that the robbers had let his seal ring, his watch, and his treatise escape unmolested, though rather nettled that they should have pronounced his veritable intaglio a counterfeit.

They grabbed their rifles, bounced happily up the rocks, and the little doctor limped back to Terracina, glad that the robbers had allowed his seal ring, his watch, and his treatise to go untouched, though a bit annoyed that they called his genuine intaglio a fake.

The improvvisatore had shown many symptoms of impatience during this recital. He saw his theme in danger of being taken out of his hands by a rival story-teller, which to an able talker is always a serious grievance; it was also in danger of being taken away by a Neapolitan, and that was still more vexatious; as the members of the different Italian states have an incessant jealousy of each other in all things, great and small. He took advantage of the first pause of the Neapolitan to catch hold again of the thread of the conversation.

The improvvisatore had shown plenty of signs of impatience during this performance. He felt his theme was at risk of being snatched away by a competing storyteller, which is always a major annoyance for a skilled speaker; it was even more frustrating that it could be taken over by a Neapolitan, since people from the various Italian states are constantly jealous of each other in all matters, big and small. He seized the first break in the Neapolitan's storytelling to regain control of the conversation.

“As I was saying,” resumed he, “the prevalence of these banditti is so extensive; their power so combined and interwoven with other ranks of society—”

“As I was saying,” he continued, “the presence of these bandits is so widespread; their influence is so intertwined with other layers of society—”

“For that matter,” said the Neapolitan, “I have heard that your government has had some understanding with these gentry, or at least winked at them.”

“For that matter,” said the Neapolitan, “I’ve heard that your government has had some kind of deal with these folks, or at least turned a blind eye to them.”

“My government?” said the Roman, impatiently.

"My government?" the Roman said, impatiently.

“Aye—they say that Cardinal Gonsalvi—”

"Yeah—they say that Cardinal Gonsalvi—"

“Hush!” said the Roman, holding up his finger, and rolling his large eyes about the room.

“Hush!” said the Roman, holding up his finger and rolling his big eyes around the room.

“Nay-I only repeat what I heard commonly rumored in Rome,” replied the other, sturdily. “It was whispered that the Cardinal had been up to the mountain, and had an interview with some of the chiefs. And I have been told that when honest people have been kicking their heels in the Cardinal’s anti-chamber, waiting by the hour for admittance, one of these stiletto-looking fellows has elbowed his way through the crowd, and entered without ceremony into the Cardinal’s presence.

“Nah—I’m just saying what I’ve heard people talking about in Rome,” the other replied confidently. “It was rumored that the Cardinal went up to the mountain and met with some of the leaders. And I’ve been told that while good people have been waiting in the Cardinal’s antechamber for hours to get in, one of those shady-looking guys has pushed his way through the crowd and entered the Cardinal’s presence without any formalities."

“I know,” replied the Roman, “that there have been such reports; and it is not impossible that government may have made use of these men at particular periods, such as at the time of your abortive revolution, when your carbonari were so busy with their machinations all over the country. The information that men like these could collect, who were familiar, not merely with all the recesses and secret places of the mountains, but also with all the dark and dangerous recesses of society, and knew all that was plotting in the world of mischief; the utility of such instruments in the hands of government was too obvious to be overlooked, and Cardinal Gonsalvi as a politic statesman, may, perhaps, have made use of them; for it is well known the robbers, with all their atrocities, are respectful towards the church, and devout in their religion.”

“I know,” replied the Roman, “that there have been such reports; and it’s not impossible that the government may have used these men at certain times, like during your failed revolution, when your carbonari were busy with their schemes all over the country. The information that guys like these could gather, who were familiar not just with all the nooks and hidden spots in the mountains, but also with all the dark and dangerous corners of society, and who knew everything that was being plotted in the world of mischief; the usefulness of such resources in the hands of the government was too obvious to ignore, and Cardinal Gonsalvi, being a savvy politician, may have used them; because it’s well known that even robbers, with all their crimes, hold a certain respect for the church and are devout in their faith.”

“Religion!—religion?” echoed the Englishman.

"Religion!—religion?" echoed the Englishman.

“Yes—religion!” repeated the improvvisatore. “Scarce one of them but will cross himself and say his prayers when he hears in his mountain fastness the matin or the ave maria bells sounding from the valleys. They will often confess themselves to the village priests, to obtain absolution; and occasionally visit the village churches to pray at some favorite shrine. I recollect an instance in point: I was one evening in the village of Frescati, which lies below the mountains of Abruzzi. The people, as usual in fine evenings in our Italian towns and villages, were standing about in groups in the public square, conversing and amusing themselves. I observed a tall, muscular fellow, wrapped in a great mantle, passing across the square, but skulking along in the dark, as if avoiding notice. The people, too, seemed to draw back as he passed. It was whispered to me that he was a notorious bandit.”

“Yes—religion!” repeated the improviser. “Almost all of them will cross themselves and say their prayers when they hear the morning or the ave maria bells ringing from the valleys in their mountain homes. They often confess to the village priests to get absolution and occasionally visit the village churches to pray at some favorite shrine. I remember a specific instance: one evening, I was in the village of Frescati, which is located below the Abruzzi mountains. As usual on nice evenings in our Italian towns and villages, people were gathered in groups in the public square, talking and enjoying themselves. I noticed a tall, muscular guy wrapped in a big cloak, moving across the square, but creeping along in the dark as if he wanted to avoid being seen. The people seemed to step back as he walked by. I was whispered to that he was a famous bandit.”

“But why was he not immediately seized?” said the Englishman.

“But why wasn't he grabbed right away?” said the Englishman.

“Because it was nobody’s business; because nobody wished to incur the vengeance of his comrades; because there were not sufficient gens d’armes near to insure security against the numbers of desperadoes he might have at hand; because the gens d’armes might not have received particular instructions with respect to him, and might not feel disposed to engage in the hazardous conflict without compulsion. In short, I might give you a thousand reasons, rising out of the state of our government and manners, not one of which after all might appear satisfactory.”

“Because it was no one’s concern; because no one wanted to face the anger of their friends; because there weren’t enough police nearby to guarantee safety against the number of dangerous people he could have around; because the police might not have been given specific instructions regarding him, and might not want to get involved in a risky fight without being forced to. In short, I could give you a thousand reasons, stemming from the state of our government and society, none of which might seem satisfactory in the end.”

The Englishman shrugged his shoulders with an air of contempt.

The Englishman shrugged his shoulders in a dismissive way.

“I have been told,” added the Roman, rather quickly, “that even in your metropolis of London, notorious thieves, well known to the police as such, walk the streets at noon-day, in search of their prey, and are not molested unless caught in the very act of robbery.”

“I’ve been informed,” the Roman said, a bit hurriedly, “that even in your big city of London, infamous thieves, known to the police, stroll through the streets at noon, looking for their next victim, and aren’t bothered unless they’re caught red-handed.”

The Englishman gave another shrug, but with a different expression.

The Englishman shrugged again, but with a different look on his face.

“Well, sir, I fixed my eye on this daring wolf thus prowling through the fold, and saw him enter a church. I was curious to witness his devotions. You know our spacious, magnificent churches. The one in which he entered was vast and shrouded in the dusk of evening. At the extremity of the long aisles a couple of tapers feebly glimmered on the grand altar. In one of the side chapels was a votive candle placed before the image of a saint. Before this image the robber had prostrated himself. His mantle partly falling off from his shoulders as he knelt, revealed a form of Herculean strength; a stiletto and pistol glittered in his belt, and the light falling on his countenance showed features not unhandsome, but strongly and fiercely charactered. As he prayed he became vehemently agitated; his lips quivered; sighs and murmurs, almost groans burst from him; he beat his breast with violence, then clasped his hands and wrung them convulsively as he extended them towards the image. Never had I seen such a terrific picture of remorse. I felt fearful of being discovered by him, and withdrew. Shortly after I saw him issue from the church wrapped in his mantle; he recrossed the square, and no doubt returned to his mountain with disburthened conscience, ready to incur a fresh arrear of crime.”

“Well, sir, I fixed my gaze on this bold wolf prowling through the fold and saw him enter a church. I was curious to see his devotions. You know our spacious, magnificent churches. The one he entered was vast and dimly lit by the evening. At the far end of the long aisles, a couple of candles flickered weakly on the grand altar. In one of the side chapels, there was a votive candle placed before the image of a saint. The robber had knelt down in front of this image. His cloak had slipped off his shoulders as he knelt, revealing a body of Herculean strength; a stiletto and pistol sparkled in his belt, and the light illuminating his face showed features that weren't unattractive but were distinctly strong and fierce. As he prayed, he became intensely agitated; his lips trembled; sighs and murmurs, almost groans, escaped him; he beat his chest violently, then clasped his hands and wrung them convulsively as he extended them toward the image. I had never seen such a terrifying display of remorse. I was afraid of being discovered by him, so I backed away. Shortly after, I saw him come out of the church wrapped in his cloak; he crossed the square again and probably returned to his mountain with a relieved conscience, ready to take on a new load of crime.”

The conversation was here taken up by two other travellers, recently arrived, Mr. Hobbs and Mr. Dobbs, a linen-draper and a green-grocer, just returning from a tour in Greece and the Holy Land: and who were full of the story of Alderman Popkins. They were astonished that the robbers should dare to molest a man of his importance on ’change; he being an eminent dry-salter of Throgmorton street, and a magistrate to boot.

The conversation was then joined by two other travelers, Mr. Hobbs and Mr. Dobbs, a linen dealer and a greengrocer, who had just returned from a trip to Greece and the Holy Land. They were eager to share the story of Alderman Popkins. They were shocked that the robbers would dare to attack someone as important as him on the exchange, considering he was a well-known dry-salter from Throgmorton Street and a magistrate as well.

In fact, the story of the Popkins family was but too true; it was attested by too many present to be for a moment doubted; and from the contradictory and concordant testimony of half a score, all eager to relate it, the company were enabled to make out all the particulars.

In fact, the story of the Popkins family was all too real; there were too many witnesses for it to be doubted even for a second; and from the conflicting and agreeing accounts of a handful of people, all eager to share it, the group was able to piece together all the details.

THE ADVENTURE OF THE POPKINS FAMILY

It was but a few days before that the carriage of Alderman Popkins had driven up to the inn of Terracina. Those who have seen an English family carriage on the continent, must know the sensation it produces. It is an epitome of England; a little morsel of the old island rolling about the world—every thing so compact, so snug, so finished and fitting. The wheels that roll on patent axles without rattling; the body that hangs so well on its springs, yielding to every motion, yet proof against every shock. The ruddy faces gaping out of the windows; sometimes of a portly old citizen, sometimes of a voluminous dowager, and sometimes of a fine fresh hoyden, just from boarding school. And then the dickeys loaded with well-dressed servants, beef-fed and bluff; looking down from their heights with contempt on all the world around; profoundly ignorant of the country and the people, and devoutly certain that every thing not English must be wrong.

Just a few days earlier, Alderman Popkins' carriage had pulled up to the inn in Terracina. Anyone who has seen an English family carriage in Europe knows the impression it makes. It’s a snapshot of England; a little piece of the old island traveling around the globe—everything so neat, so cozy, so well put together. The wheels roll smoothly on patented axles without making a sound; the body is perfectly balanced on its springs, responding to every movement while being resistant to any bump. The rosy faces peeking out from the windows—sometimes of a stout old gentleman, sometimes of an imposing matron, and sometimes of a lively young lady just out of boarding school. And then the seats filled with well-dressed servants, well-fed and hearty; looking down from their perches with disdain at everyone around them; profoundly unaware of the country and the people, firmly believing that everything not English must be wrong.

Such was the carriage of Alderman Popkins, as it made its appearance at Terracina. The courier who had preceded it, to order horses, and who was a Neapolitan, had given a magnificent account of the riches and greatness of his master, blundering with all an Italian’s splendor of imagination about the alderman’s titles and dignities; the host had added his usual share of exaggeration, so that by the time the alderman drove up to the door, he was Milor—Magnifico—Principe—the Lord knows what!

Such was the arrival of Alderman Popkins as he pulled up at Terracina. The courier who had gone ahead to arrange for horses, a Neapolitan, had given a grand story about his master’s wealth and importance, mixing in an Italian's flair for exaggeration about the alderman’s titles and status; the host had thrown in his own usual embellishments, so by the time the alderman reached the door, he was being referred to as Milor—Magnifico—Principe—who knows what else!

The alderman was advised to take an escort to Fondi and Itri, but he refused. It was as much as a man’s life was worth, he said, to stop him on the king’s highway; he would complain of it to the ambassador at Naples; he would make a national affair of it. The principezza Popkins, a fresh, motherly dame, seemed perfectly secure in the protection of her husband, so omnipotent a man in the city. The signorini Popkins, two fine bouncing girls, looked to their brother Tom, who had taken lessons in boxing; and as to the dandy himself, he was sure no scaramouch of an Italian robber would dare to meddle with an Englishman. The landlord shrugged his shoulders and turned out the palms of his hands with a true Italian grimace, and the carriage of Milor Popkins rolled on.

The alderman was advised to take a bodyguard to Fondi and Itri, but he turned it down. He claimed it was as dangerous as risking a man's life to stop him on the king’s highway; he would report it to the ambassador in Naples and make it a national issue. Principezza Popkins, a warm and nurturing woman, seemed completely confident in her husband’s protection, as he was a powerful man in the city. The Popkins sisters, two lively young girls, looked to their brother Tom, who had taken boxing lessons; as for the dandy himself, he was sure no Italian thug would dare mess with an Englishman. The landlord shrugged and made a gesture with his hands typical of an Italian, and the carriage of Milor Popkins rolled on.

They passed through several very suspicious places without any molestation. The Misses Popkins, who were very romantic, and had learnt to draw in water colors, were enchanted with the savage scenery around; it was so like what they had read in Mrs. Radcliffe’s romances, they should like of all things to make sketches. At length, the carriage arrived at a place where the road wound up a long hill. Mrs. Popkins had sunk into a sleep; the young ladies were reading the last works of Sir Walter Scott and Lord Byron, and the dandy was hectoring the postilions from the coach box. The Alderman got out, as he said, to stretch his legs up the hill. It was a long winding ascent, and obliged him every now and then to stop and blow and wipe his forehead with many a pish! and phew! being rather pursy and short of wind. As the carriage, however, was far behind him, and toiling slowly under the weight of so many well-stuffed trunks and well-stuffed travellers, he had plenty of time to walk at leisure.

They went through several shady spots without any trouble. The Misses Popkins, who were quite romantic and had learned to paint with watercolors, were delighted by the wild scenery around them; it reminded them so much of what they read in Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels that they wished they could make sketches. Eventually, the carriage reached a spot where the road climbed a long hill. Mrs. Popkins had fallen asleep; the young ladies were reading the latest works of Sir Walter Scott and Lord Byron, while the dandy was bossing the postilions from the coach box. The Alderman got out, claiming he needed to stretch his legs on the hill. It was a long, twisting climb, which forced him to stop every now and then to catch his breath and wipe his forehead with frequent pish! and phew! since he was a bit out of shape and short of breath. However, since the carriage was far behind him, struggling slowly under the weight of so many stuffed trunks and well-fed passengers, he had plenty of time to stroll leisurely.

On a jutting point of rock that overhung the road nearly at the summit of the hill, just where the route began again to descend, he saw a solitary man seated, who appeared to be tending goats. Alderman Popkins was one of your shrewd travellers that always like to be picking up small information along the road, so he thought he’d just scramble up to the honest man, and have a little talk with him by way of learning the news and getting a lesson in Italian. As he drew near to the peasant he did not half like his looks. He was partly reclining on the rocks wrapped in the usual long mantle, which, with his slouched hat, only left a part of a swarthy visage, with a keen black eye, a beetle brow, and a fierce moustache to be seen. He had whistled several times to his dog which was roving about the side of the hill. As the Alderman approached he rose and greeted him. When standing erect he seemed almost gigantic, at least in the eyes of Alderman Popkins; who, however, being a short man, might be deceived.

On a rocky outcrop that hung over the road near the top of the hill, just as the path started to go downhill again, he spotted a lone man sitting there, apparently taking care of goats. Alderman Popkins was the kind of shrewd traveler who always liked to gather little bits of information along the way, so he figured he’d climb up to the man and have a chat to learn the news and pick up some Italian. As he got closer to the peasant, he wasn’t too sure about his appearance. The guy was partly lounging on the rocks, wrapped in a long cloak that, along with his slouched hat, only left part of his dark face visible, with a sharp black eye, a heavy brow, and a fierce mustache. He had whistled several times to his dog that was wandering around the hillside. When Alderman Popkins approached, the man stood up and greeted him. When he was upright, he looked almost gigantic, at least in Alderman Popkins’s eyes, who, being a short man, might have been misled.

The latter would gladly now have been back in the carriage, or even on ’change in London, for he was by no means well pleased with his company. However, he determined to put the best face on matters, and was beginning a conversation about the state of the weather, the baddishness of the crops, and the price of goats in that part of the country, when he heard a violent screaming. He ran to the edge of the rock, and, looking over, saw away down the road his carriage surrounded by robbers. One held down the fat footman, another had the dandy by his starched cravat, with a pistol to his head; one was rummaging a portmanteau, another rummaging the principezza’s pockets, while the two Misses Popkins were screaming from each window of the carriage, and their waiting maid squalling from the dickey.

He would have happily been back in the carriage or even in the marketplace in London, because he was not at all pleased with the people he was with. Still, he decided to stay positive and started a conversation about the weather, the poor crop yields, and the price of goats in that region when he suddenly heard violent screaming. He rushed to the edge of the rock and looked down the road to see his carriage surrounded by robbers. One was holding down the overweight footman, another had the dandy by his starched cravat with a pistol to his head; one was searching a suitcase, another was rifling through the principezza’s pockets, while the two Misses Popkins were screaming from each window of the carriage, and their maid was yelling from the dickey.

Alderman Popkins felt all the fury of the parent and the magistrate Roused within him. He grasped his cane and was on the point of scrambling down the rocks, either to assault the robbers or to read the riot act, when he was suddenly grasped by the arm. It was by his friend the goatherd, whose cloak, falling partly off, discovered a belt stuck full of pistols and stilettos. In short, he found himself in the clutches of the captain of the band, who had stationed himself on the rock to look out for travellers and to give notice to his men.

Alderman Popkins was filled with the anger of both a parent and a judge. He grabbed his cane and was about to rush down the rocks to either attack the robbers or read them the riot act when suddenly a hand grabbed his arm. It was his friend the goatherd, whose cloak had partially slipped off to reveal a belt loaded with pistols and daggers. In short, he realized he was in the grip of the leader of the gang, who had positioned himself on the rock to watch for travelers and signal his men.

A sad ransacking took place. Trunks were turned inside out, and all the finery and the frippery of the Popkins family scattered about the road. Such a chaos of Venice beads and Roman mosaics; and Paris bonnets of the young ladies, mingled with the alderman’s night-caps and lamb’s wool stockings, and the dandy’s hair-brushes, stays, and starched cravats.

A sad looting happened. Trunks were completely turned inside out, and all the fancy stuff from the Popkins family was strewn across the road. There was a chaotic mix of Venice beads and Roman mosaics; Paris bonnets belonging to the young ladies were tangled up with the alderman’s nightcaps, lamb’s wool stockings, and the dandy’s hairbrushes, corsets, and starched cravats.

The gentlemen were eased of their purses and their watches; the ladies of their jewels, and the whole party were on the point of being carried up into the mountain, when fortunately the appearance of soldiery at a distance obliged the robbers to make off with the spoils they had secured, and leave the Popkins family to gather together the remnants of their effects, and make the best of their way to Fondi.

The men lost their wallets and watches; the women lost their jewelry, and the whole group was about to be taken up into the mountains when, thankfully, the sight of soldiers in the distance forced the robbers to flee with their loot, leaving the Popkins family to collect what was left and make their way to Fondi.

When safe arrived, the alderman made a terrible blustering at the inn; threatened to complain to the ambassador at Naples, and was ready to shake his cane at the whole country. The dandy had many stories to tell of his scuffles with the brigands, who overpowered him merely by numbers. As to the Misses Popkins, they were quite delighted with the adventure, and were occupied the whole evening in writing it in their journals. They declared the captain of the band to be a most romantic-looking man; they dared to say some unfortunate lover, or exiled nobleman: and several of the band to be very handsome young men—“quite picturesque!”

When they arrived safely, the alderman made a huge fuss at the inn; he threatened to complain to the ambassador in Naples and was ready to shake his cane at everyone. The dandy had plenty of stories about his run-ins with the brigands, who easily overpowered him with their numbers. As for the Misses Popkins, they were thrilled by the adventure and spent the whole evening writing about it in their journals. They declared the leader of the band to be a very romantic-looking man; they speculated he might be a tragic lover or an exiled nobleman, and said several members of the gang were quite handsome young men—“so picturesque!”

“In verity,” said mine host of Terracina, “they say the captain of the band is un galant uomo.”

“In truth,” said the host of Terracina, “they say the captain of the band is a charming man.”

“A gallant man!” said the Englishman. “I’d have your gallant man hang’d like a dog!”

“A brave man!” said the Englishman. “I’d have your brave man hanged like a dog!”

“To dare to meddle with Englishmen!” said Mr. Hobbs.

“To dare to mess with Englishmen!” said Mr. Hobbs.

“And such a family as the Popkinses!” said Mr. Dobbs.

“And what a family the Popkinses are!” said Mr. Dobbs.

“They ought to come upon the country for damages!” said Mr. Hobbs.

“They should come to the country for compensation!” said Mr. Hobbs.

“Our ambassador should make a complaint to the government of Naples,” said Mr. Dobbs.

“Our ambassador should file a complaint with the government of Naples,” Mr. Dobbs said.

“They should be requested to drive these rascals out of the country,” said Hobbs.

"They should be asked to kick these troublemakers out of the country," said Hobbs.

“If they did not, we should declare war against them!” said Dobbs.

“If they don’t, we should go to war with them!” said Dobbs.

The Englishman was a little wearied by this story, and by the ultra zeal of his countrymen, and was glad when a summons to their supper relieved him from a crowd of travellers. He walked out with his Venetian friends and a young Frenchman of an interesting demeanor, who had become sociable with them in the course of the conversation. They directed their steps toward the sea, which was lit up by the rising moon. The Venetian, out of politeness, left his beautiful wife to be escorted by the Englishman. The latter, however, either from shyness or reserve, did not avail himself of the civility, but walked on without offering his arm. The fair Venetian, with all her devotion to her husband, was a little nettled at a want of gallantry to which her charms had rendered her unaccustomed, and took the proffered arm of the Frenchman with a pretty air of pique, which, however, was entirely lost upon the phlegmatic delinquent.

The Englishman was a bit tired of this story and the overenthusiasm of his fellow countrymen, and he was relieved when a call to dinner freed him from a crowd of travelers. He walked out with his Venetian friends and a young Frenchman of interesting demeanor, who had become friendly with them during their conversation. They headed toward the sea, which was illuminated by the rising moon. The Venetian man, out of politeness, allowed his beautiful wife to be escorted by the Englishman. The latter, however, either out of shyness or reserve, didn’t take advantage of the courtesy and walked ahead without offering his arm. The lovely Venetian, despite her devotion to her husband, was slightly annoyed by the lack of chivalry, which she wasn't used to due to her charms, and accepted the offered arm of the Frenchman with a hint of irritation that was completely lost on the unflappable Englishman.

Not far distant from the inn they came to where there was a body of soldiers on the beach, encircling and guarding a number of galley slaves, who were permitted to refresh themselves in the evening breeze, and to sport and roll upon the sand.

Not far from the inn, they arrived at a place where a group of soldiers was stationed on the beach, surrounding and guarding several galley slaves. The slaves were allowed to enjoy the evening breeze and play around on the sand.

“It was difficult,” the Frenchman observed, “to conceive a more frightful mass of crime than was here collected. The parricide, the fratricide, the infanticide, who had first fled from justice and turned mountain bandit, and then, by betraying his brother desperadoes, had bought a commutation of punishment, and the privilege of wallowing on the shore for an hour a day, with this wretched crew of miscreants!”

“It was hard,” the Frenchman noted, “to imagine a more terrifying collection of crimes than what we have here. The parricide, the fratricide, the infanticide, who first escaped from justice and became a mountain bandit, and then, by betraying his fellow outlaws, had secured a lighter sentence and the chance to spend an hour a day on the shore with this miserable group of criminals!”

The remark of the Frenchman had a strong effect upon the company, particularly upon the Venetian lady, who shuddered as she cast a timid look at this horde of wretches at their evening relaxation. “They seemed,” she said, “like so many serpents, wreathing and twisting together.”

The Frenchman's comment had a powerful impact on the group, especially on the Venetian woman, who shuddered as she glanced nervously at the crowd of miserable people enjoying their evening. “They looked,” she said, “like a bunch of snakes, coiling and twisting together.”

The Frenchman now adverted to the stories they had been listening to at the inn, adding, that if they had any further curiosity on the subject, he could recount an adventure which happened to himself among the robbers and which might give them some idea of the habits and manners of those beings. There was an air of modesty and frankness about the Frenchman which had gained the good-will of the whole party, not even excepting the Englishman. They all gladly accepted his proposition; and as they strolled slowly up and down the seashore, he related the following adventure.

The Frenchman now referred to the stories they had been listening to at the inn, adding that if they were curious to know more, he could share an adventure he had with robbers that might give them some insight into the habits and customs of those people. There was a sense of modesty and openness about the Frenchman that had won the goodwill of the entire group, including the Englishman. They all eagerly accepted his offer, and as they walked slowly along the shore, he shared the following adventure.

THE PAINTER’S ADVENTURE

I am an historical painter by profession, and resided for some time in the family of a foreign prince, at his villa, about fifteen miles from Rome, among some of the most interesting scenery of Italy. It is situated on the heights of ancient Tusculum. In its neighborhood are the ruins of the villas of Cicero, Sulla, Lucullus, Rufinus, and other illustrious Romans, who sought refuge here occasionally, from their toils, in the bosom of a soft and luxurious repose. From the midst of delightful bowers, refreshed by the pure mountain breeze, the eye looks over a romantic landscape full of poetical and historical associations. The Albanian mountains, Tivoli, once the favorite residence of Horace and Maecenas; the vast deserted Campagna with the Tiber running through it, and St. Peter’s dome swelling in the midst, the monument—as it were, over the grave of ancient Rome.

I’m a historical painter by trade and lived for a while with a foreign prince at his villa, about fifteen miles from Rome, in one of the most beautiful areas of Italy. It's located on the heights of ancient Tusculum. Nearby are the ruins of the villas of Cicero, Sulla, Lucullus, Rufinus, and other famous Romans, who occasionally came here to escape their hard work and relax in this soft, luxurious setting. From the lovely gardens, refreshed by the clean mountain breeze, you can enjoy a stunning view of a landscape full of poetic and historical significance. You can see the Albanian mountains, Tivoli, once the favorite retreat of Horace and Maecenas; the vast deserted Campagna with the Tiber running through it, and St. Peter’s dome rising in the middle, standing as a monument over the grave of ancient Rome.

I assisted the prince in the researches he was making among the classic ruins of his vicinity. His exertions were highly successful. Many wrecks of admirable statues and fragments of exquisite sculpture were dug up; monuments of the taste and magnificence that reigned in the ancient Tusculan abodes. He had studded his villa and its grounds with statues, relievos, vases, and sarcophagi; thus retrieved from the bosom of the earth.

I helped the prince with his research among the ancient ruins nearby. He was very successful. Many amazing statues and beautiful sculptures were uncovered; reminders of the style and grandeur that once filled the ancient Tusculan homes. He had decorated his villa and its grounds with statues, reliefs, vases, and sarcophagi, all recovered from deep within the earth.

The mode of life pursued at the villa was delightfully serene, diversified by interesting occupations and elegant leisure. Every one passed the day according to his pleasure or occupation; and we all assembled in a cheerful dinner party at sunset. It was on the fourth of November, a beautiful serene day, that we had assembled in the saloon at the sound of the first dinner-bell. The family were surprised at the absence of the prince’s confessor. They waited for him in vain, and at length placed themselves at table. They first attributed his absence to his having prolonged his customary walk; and the first part of the dinner passed without any uneasiness. When the dessert was served, however, without his making his appearance, they began to feel anxious. They feared he might have been taken ill in some alley of the woods; or, that he might have fallen into the hands of robbers. At the interval of a small valley rose the mountains of the Abruzzi, the strong-hold of banditti. Indeed, the neighborhood had, for some time, been infested by them; and Barbone, a notorious bandit chief, had often been met prowling about the solitudes of Tusculum. The daring enterprises of these ruffians were well known; the objects of their cupidity or vengeance were insecure even in palaces. As yet they had respected the possessions of the prince; but the idea of such dangerous spirits hovering about the neighbourhood was sufficient to occasion alarm.

The lifestyle at the villa was wonderfully peaceful, filled with engaging activities and refined relaxation. Everyone spent their day according to their own preferences or tasks, and we all gathered for a cheerful dinner at sunset. On the fourth of November, a beautifully calm day, we had come together in the salon at the sound of the dinner bell. The family was surprised by the absence of the prince's confessor. They waited for him in vain and eventually took their seats at the table. Initially, they thought he was just taking a longer walk, and the first part of the dinner went by without any concern. However, when dessert was served and he still hadn't shown up, they began to worry. They feared he might have fallen ill in some secluded part of the woods or, worse, have encountered robbers. Beyond a small valley were the Abruzzi mountains, a hideout for bandits. The area had been troubled by them for a while, and Barbone, a well-known bandit leader, had often been spotted roaming the remote areas of Tusculum. The bold actions of these criminals were widely known; even those in palaces were not safe from their greed or revenge. So far, they had left the prince's property untouched, but the thought of such dangerous individuals lurking nearby was enough to cause concern.

The fears of the company increased as evening closed in. The prince ordered out forest guards, and domestics with flambeaux to search for the confessor. They had not departed long, when a slight noise was heard in the corridor of the ground floor. The family were dining on the first floor, and the remaining domestics were occupied in attendance. There was no one on the ground floor at this moment but the house keeper, the laundress, and three field laborers, who were resting themselves, and conversing with the women.

The company's fear grew as evening fell. The prince sent out forest guards and staff with torches to look for the confessor. They hadn't been gone long when a faint noise was heard in the ground floor corridor. The family was dining on the first floor, and the other staff were busy attending to them. At that moment, the only ones on the ground floor were the housekeeper, the laundress, and three field workers who were taking a break and chatting with the women.

I heard the noise from below, and presuming it to be occasioned by the return of the absentee, I left the table, and hastened down stairs, eager to gain intelligence that might relieve the anxiety of the prince and princess. I had scarcely reached the last step, when I beheld before me a man dressed as a bandit; a carbine in his hand, and a stiletto and pistols in his belt. His countenance had a mingled expression of ferocity and trepidation. He sprang upon me, and exclaimed exultingly, “Ecco il principe!”

I heard the noise from below, and assuming it was caused by the return of the absentee, I left the table and hurried downstairs, eager to find out something that might ease the anxiety of the prince and princess. I had barely reached the last step when I saw a man in front of me, dressed like a bandit; a carbine in his hand and a stiletto and pistols in his belt. His face showed a mix of fierceness and fear. He jumped at me and exclaimed triumphantly, “Here’s the prince!”

I saw at once into what hands I had fallen, but endeavored to summon up coolness and presence of mind. A glance towards the lower end of the corridor showed me several ruffians, clothed and armed in the same manner with the one who had seized me. They were guarding the two females and the field laborers. The robber, who held me firmly by the collar, demanded repeatedly whether or not I were the prince. His object evidently was to carry off the prince, and extort an immense ransom. He was enraged at receiving none but vague replies; for I felt the importance of misleading him.

I immediately realized who I was dealing with, but I tried to stay calm and think clearly. A quick look at the far end of the hallway revealed several thugs, dressed and armed just like the one who had grabbed me. They were watching over the two women and the field workers. The robber, who had a tight grip on my collar, kept asking me if I was the prince. It was clear that he wanted to kidnap the prince and demand a huge ransom. He got angry when I only gave vague answers; I knew it was crucial to throw him off.

A sudden thought struck me how I might extricate myself from his clutches. I was unarmed, it is true, but I was vigorous. His companions were at a distance. By a sudden exertion I might wrest myself from him and spring up the staircase, whither he would not dare to follow me singly. The idea was put in execution as soon as conceived. The ruffian’s throat was bare: with my right hand I seized him by it, just between the mastoides; with my left hand I grasped the arm which held the carbine. The suddenness of my attack took him completely unawares; and the strangling nature of my grasp paralyzed him. He choked and faltered. I felt his hand relaxing its hold, and was on the point of jerking myself away and darting up the staircase before he could recover himself, when I was suddenly seized by some one from behind.

A sudden thought hit me about how I could get away from him. I may have been unarmed, but I was strong. His friends were a little way off. If I made a quick move, I could break free from him and dash up the staircase, where he wouldn't dare follow me alone. I acted on the idea as soon as I had it. The thug’s throat was exposed: I grabbed him by it with my right hand, right between the muscles at the back of his neck; with my left hand, I seized the arm that held the carbine. The surprise of my attack caught him completely off guard, and the force of my grip stunned him. He gasped and hesitated. I sensed his hand loosening its grip, and I was just about to jerk free and race up the staircase before he could get himself together when someone suddenly grabbed me from behind.

I had to let go my grasp. The bandit, once more released, fell upon me with fury, and gave me several blows with the butt end of his carbine, one of which wounded me severely in the forehead, and covered me with blood. He took advantage of my being stunned to rifle me of my watch and whatever valuables I had about my person.

I had to let go of my grip. The bandit, now free again, attacked me with rage and hit me several times with the butt of his rifle, one of which severely wounded me in the forehead and left me covered in blood. He took advantage of me being dazed to steal my watch and any valuables I had on me.

When I recovered from the effects of the blow, I heard the voice of the chief of the banditti, who exclaimed “Quello e il principe, siamo contente, audiamo!” (It is the prince, enough, let us be off.) The band immediately closed round me and dragged me out of the palace, bearing off the three laborers likewise.

When I came to after the hit, I heard the voice of the leader of the bandits, who shouted, “It’s the prince, that’s enough, let’s go!" The group quickly surrounded me and pulled me out of the palace, taking the three workers with them as well.

I had no hat on, and the blood was flowing from my wound; I managed to staunch it, however, with my pocket-handkerchief, which I bound round my forehead. The captain of the band conducted me in triumph, supposing me to be the prince. We had gone some distance before he learnt his mistake from one of the laborers. His rage was terrible. It was too late to return to the villa and endeavor to retrieve his error, for by this time the alarm must have been given, and every one in arms. He darted at me a furious look; swore I had deceived him, and caused him to miss his fortune; and told me to prepare for death. The rest of the robbers were equally furious. I saw their hands upon their poinards; and I knew that death was seldom an empty menace with these ruffians.

I wasn't wearing a hat, and blood was running from my wound; I managed to stop it with my pocket handkerchief, which I tied around my forehead. The band’s captain led me in triumph, thinking I was the prince. We had traveled a good distance before he found out his mistake from one of the laborers. His anger was intense. It was too late to go back to the villa and try to fix his mistake, because by then the alarm must have been raised, and everyone would be on guard. He shot me a furious look, claimed I had deceived him and made him miss his chance at fortune, and told me to get ready for death. The rest of the robbers were just as angry. I saw their hands on their daggers, and I knew that death was rarely an empty threat with these criminals.

The laborers saw the peril into which their information had betrayed me, and eagerly assured the captain that I was a man for whom the prince would pay a great ransom. This produced a pause. For my part, I cannot say that I had been much dismayed by their menaces. I mean not to make any boast of courage; but I have been so schooled to hardship during the late revolutions, and have beheld death around me in so many perilous and disastrous scenes that I have become, in some measure callous to its terrors. The frequent hazard of life makes a man at length as reckless of it as a gambler of his money. To their threat of death, I replied: “That the sooner it was executed, the better.” This reply seemed to astonish the captain, and the prospect of ransom held out by the laborers, had, no doubt, a still greater effect on him. He considered for a moment; assumed a calmer manner, and made a sign to his companions, who had remained waiting for my death warrant. “Forward,” said he, “we will see about this matter by and bye.”

The workers realized the danger their information had put me in and quickly assured the captain that I was a guy the prince would pay a hefty ransom for. This caused a moment of hesitation. As for me, I can't say I was too shaken by their threats. I don’t want to brag about bravery, but I've been toughened by the hardships of recent revolutions and have seen death all around me in so many dangerous and disastrous situations that I’ve become somewhat numb to its fright. The constant threat to life eventually makes a person as reckless about it as a gambler is about their money. When they threatened me with death, I replied, “The sooner it happens, the better.” This response seemed to shock the captain, and the possibility of ransom mentioned by the workers surely had an even bigger impact on him. He thought for a moment, took on a calmer demeanor, and signaled to his crew, who had been waiting for my death sentence. “Let’s move on,” he said, “we’ll figure this out later.”

We descended rapidly towards the road of la Molara, which leads to Rocca Priori. In the midst of this road is a solitary inn. The captain ordered the troop to halt at the distance of a pistol shot from it; and enjoined profound silence. He then approached the threshold alone with noiseless steps. He examined the outside of the door very narrowly, and then returning precipitately, made a sign for the troop to continue its march in silence. It has since been ascertained that this was one of those infamous inns which are the secret resorts of banditti. The innkeeper had an understanding with the captain, as he most probably had with the chiefs of the different bands. When any of the patroles and gens d’armes were quartered at his house, the brigands were warned of it by a preconcerted signal on the door; when there was no such signal, they might enter with safety and be sure of welcome. Many an isolated inn among the lonely parts of the Roman territories, and especially on the skirts of the mountains, have the same dangerous and suspicious character. They are places where the banditti gather information; where they concert their plans, and where the unwary traveller, remote from hearing or assistance, is sometimes betrayed to the stiletto of the midnight murderer.

We quickly made our way down to the road of la Molara, which leads to Rocca Priori. There’s a lonely inn right in the middle of this road. The captain ordered the troop to stop at a distance of a pistol shot from it and insisted on complete silence. He then approached the door by himself, moving quietly. He closely examined the outside of the door, and after quickly returning, signaled for the troop to continue marching in silence. It was later discovered that this was one of those notorious inns that serve as hidden spots for bandits. The innkeeper was likely in cahoots with the captain, as he probably was with the leaders of various gangs. Whenever patrols or gendarmes stayed at his place, the bandits were warned by a prearranged signal on the door; without that sign, they could safely enter and expect a warm welcome. Many isolated inns in the remote areas of the Roman territories, especially on the edges of the mountains, have the same risky and suspicious vibe. They are places where bandits gather intel, where they plan their moves, and where unsuspecting travelers, far from help or ears, are sometimes led to the knife of a nighttime killer.

After pursuing our road a little farther, we struck off towards the Woody mountains which envelope Rocca Priori. Our march was long and painful, with many circuits and windings; at length we clambered a steep ascent, covered with a thick forest, and when we had reached the centre, I was told to seat myself on the earth. No sooner had I done so, than at a sign from their chief, the robbers surrounded me, and spreading their great cloaks from one to the other, formed a kind of pavilion of mantles, to which their bodies might be said to seem as columns. The captain then struck a light, and a flambeau was lit immediately. The mantles were extended to prevent the light of the flambeau from being seen through the forest. Anxious as was my situation, I could not look round upon this screen of dusky drapery, relieved by the bright colors of the robbers’ under-dresses, the gleaming of their weapons, and the variety of strong-marked countenances, lit up by the flambeau, without admiring the picturesque effect of the scene. It was quite theatrical.

After going a bit further along our path, we turned towards the forested mountains surrounding Rocca Priori. Our journey was exhausting and filled with many twists and turns. Finally, we climbed a steep slope covered in thick trees, and when we reached the top, I was told to sit on the ground. As soon as I did, at a signal from their leader, the robbers surrounded me and opened their large cloaks to create a sort of tent with their garments, standing like columns around me. The captain then struck a match, and a torch was quickly lit. They spread the cloaks to keep the torchlight from escaping through the trees. Despite my anxious situation, I couldn't help but admire the striking scene created by the darkness of the cloaks, accented by the bright colors of the robbers' clothing, the glint of their weapons, and the strong features of their faces illuminated by the torchlight. It was quite a show.

The captain now held an ink-horn, and giving me pen and paper, ordered me to write what he should dictate. I obeyed. It was a demand, couched in the style of robber eloquence, “that the prince should send three thousand dollars for my ransom, or that my death should be the consequence of a refusal.”

The captain now held an ink container, and giving me a pen and paper, instructed me to write down what he dictated. I complied. It was a demand, phrased in the language of a thief, “that the prince should send three thousand dollars for my ransom, or my death would be the result of a refusal.”

I knew enough of the desperate character of these beings to feel assured this was not an idle menace. Their only mode of insuring attention to their demands, is to make the infliction of the penalty inevitable. I saw at once, however, that the demand was preposterous, and made in improper language.

I knew enough about the desperate nature of these individuals to be sure this was not just an empty threat. Their only way of ensuring that their demands get noticed is by making the consequences unavoidable. However, I realized immediately that the demand was ridiculous and expressed in inappropriate language.

I told the captain so, and assured him, that so extravagant a sum would never be granted; that I was neither friend or relative of the prince, but a mere artist, employed to execute certain paintings. That I had nothing to offer as a ransom but the price of my labors; if this were not sufficient, my life was at their disposal: it was a thing on which I sat but little value.

I told the captain that such an outrageous amount would never be approved; that I wasn’t a friend or relative of the prince, just an artist hired to create some paintings. I said I had nothing to offer as a ransom except for what I earned from my work; if that wasn’t enough, they could do whatever they wanted with my life: it was something I valued very little.

I was the more hardy in my reply, because I saw that coolness and hardihood had an effect upon the robbers. It is true, as I finished speaking the captain laid his hand upon his stiletto, but he restrained himself, and snatching the letter, folded it, and ordered me, in a peremptory tone, to address it to the prince. He then despatched one of the laborers with it to Tusculum, who promised to return with all possible speed.

I was more confident in my response because I noticed that staying calm and bold affected the robbers. It’s true that as I finished speaking, the captain put his hand on his dagger, but he held back. He grabbed the letter, folded it, and firmly told me to address it to the prince. Then he sent one of the workers to Tusculum with it, who assured me he would return as quickly as possible.

The robbers now prepared themselves for sleep, and I was told that I might do the same. They spread their great cloaks on the ground, and lay down around me. One was stationed at a little distance to keep watch, and was relieved every two hours. The strangeness and wildness of this mountain bivouac, among lawless beings whose hands seemed ever ready to grasp the stiletto, and with whom life was so trivial and insecure, was enough to banish repose. The coldness of the earth and of the dew, however, had a still greater effect than mental causes in disturbing my rest. The airs wafted to these mountains from the distant Mediterranean diffused a great chilliness as the night advanced. An expedient suggested itself. I called one of my fellow prisoners, the laborers, and made him lie down beside me. Whenever one of my limbs became chilled I approached it to the robust limb of my neighbor, and borrowed some of his warmth. In this way I was able to obtain a little sleep.

The robbers got ready to sleep, and I was told I could do the same. They spread their large cloaks on the ground and lay down around me. One of them stayed at a distance to keep watch, changing every two hours. The strangeness and wildness of this mountain camp, surrounded by lawless people whose hands seemed always ready to grab a knife, made it hard to relax. The coldness of the ground and the dew had an even bigger impact than my worries in making it difficult to rest. The winds blowing in from the distant Mediterranean brought a chill as the night went on. An idea came to me. I called over one of my fellow prisoners, one of the laborers, and had him lie down next to me. Whenever one of my limbs got cold, I moved it closer to his strong limb to share some of his warmth. This way, I managed to get a bit of sleep.

Day at length dawned, and I was roused from my slumber by the voice of the chieftain. He desired me to rise and follow him. I obeyed. On considering his physiognomy attentively, it appeared a little softened. He even assisted me in scrambling up the steep forest among rocks and brambles. Habit had made him a vigorous mountaineer; but I found it excessively toilsome to climb those rugged heights. We arrived at length at the summit of the mountain.

Day finally broke, and I was awakened from my sleep by the chieftain's voice. He asked me to get up and follow him. I complied. As I looked closely at his face, it seemed a bit gentler. He even helped me navigate the steep forest filled with rocks and thorns. He was used to the climb and was a strong mountaineer, but I found it really exhausting to scale those rough heights. Eventually, we made it to the top of the mountain.

Here it was that I felt all the enthusiasm of my art suddenly awakened; and I forgot, in an instant, all perils and fatigues at this magnificent view of the sunrise in the midst of the mountains of Abruzzi. It was on these heights that Hannibal first pitched his camp, and pointed out Rome to his followers. The eye embraces a vast extent of country. The minor height of Tusculum, with its villas, and its sacred ruins, lie below; the Sabine hills and the Albanian mountains stretch on either hand, and beyond Tusculum and Frescati spreads out the immense Campagna, with its line of tombs, and here and there a broken aqueduct stretching across it, and the towers and domes of the eternal city in the midst.

Here I suddenly felt all the excitement of my art come alive; in an instant, I forgot all dangers and exhaustion as I took in the stunning view of the sunrise among the mountains of Abruzzi. It was on these heights that Hannibal first set up his camp and showed his followers the way to Rome. The view covers a vast area. Below are the lower hills of Tusculum, with its villas and ancient ruins; to either side stretch the Sabine hills and the Albanian mountains, and beyond Tusculum and Frescati lies the immense Campagna, dotted with tombs and the remains of broken aqueducts, with the towers and domes of the eternal city in the center.

Fancy this scene lit up by the glories of a rising sun, and bursting upon my sight, as I looked forth from among the majestic forests of the Abruzzi. Fancy, too, the savage foreground, made still more savage by groups of the banditti, armed and dressed in their wild, picturesque manner, and you will not wonder that the enthusiasm of a painter for a moment overpowered all his other feelings.

Imagine this scene illuminated by the beauty of a rising sun, suddenly appearing before me as I gazed out from the grand forests of the Abruzzi. Picture, too, the wild foreground, made even more savage by groups of bandits, armed and dressed in their rugged, striking style, and you won't be surprised that a painter's enthusiasm momentarily overwhelmed all his other emotions.

The banditti were astonished at my admiration of a scene which familiarity had made so common in their eyes. I took advantage of their halting at this spot, drew forth a quire of drawing-paper, and began to sketch the features of the landscape. The height, on which I was seated, was wild and solitary, separated from the ridge of Tusculum by a valley nearly three miles wide; though the distance appeared less from the purity of the atmosphere. This height was one of the favorite retreats of the banditti, commanding a look-out over the country; while, at the same time, it was covered with forests, and distant from the populous haunts of men.

The bandits were surprised by my admiration of a scene that had become so ordinary to them. I seized the moment while they paused at this spot, pulled out a stack of drawing paper, and started sketching the features of the landscape. The hill I was on was wild and solitary, separated from the ridge of Tusculum by a valley that was almost three miles wide; although, the distance seemed shorter because of the clear atmosphere. This hill was one of the bandits' favorite hideouts, offering a view over the countryside, and it was also covered in forests, far from crowded areas.

While I was sketching, my attention was called off for a moment by the cries of birds and the bleatings of sheep. I looked around, but could see nothing of the animals that uttered them. They were repeated, and appeared to come from the summits of the trees. On looking more narrowly, I perceived six of the robbers perched on the tops of oaks, which grew on the breezy crest of the mountain, and commanded an uninterrupted prospect. From hence they were keeping a look-out, like so many vultures; casting their eyes into the depths of the valley below us; communicating; with each other by signs, or holding discourse in sounds, which might be mistaken by the wayfarer for the cries of hawks and crows, or the bleating of the mountain flocks. After they had reconnoitred the neighborhood, and finished their singular discourse, they descended from their airy perch, and returned to their prisoners. The captain posted three of them at three naked sides of the mountain, while he remained to guard us with what appeared his most trusty companion.

While I was sketching, I was momentarily distracted by the sounds of birds and the bleating of sheep. I looked around but couldn't see any of the animals making those noises. The sounds came again and seemed to be coming from the tops of the trees. When I looked more closely, I noticed six robbers perched on the branches of oaks growing on the wind-swept peak of the mountain, which provided a clear view. From there, they were watching over the valley below us, like vultures; scanning the depths of the valley, they communicated with each other using gestures or sounds that could be mistaken for the calls of hawks and crows, or the bleats of mountain sheep. After they had surveyed the area and finished their strange conversation, they climbed down from their high spot and went back to their prisoners. The captain stationed three of them at three bare sides of the mountain while he stayed to guard us with what seemed to be his most trusted companion.

I had my book of sketches in my hand; he requested to see it, and after having run his eye over it, expressed himself convinced of the truth of my assertion, that I was a painter. I thought I saw a gleam of good feeling dawning in him, and determined to avail myself of it. I knew that the worst of men have their good points and their accessible sides, if one would but study them carefully. Indeed, there is a singular mixture in the character of the Italian robber. With reckless ferocity, he often mingles traits of kindness and good humor. He is often not radically bad, but driven to his course of life by some unpremeditated crime, the effect of those sudden bursts of passion to which the Italian temperament is prone. This has compelled him to take to the mountains, or, as it is technically termed among them, “andare in Campagna.” He has become a robber by profession; but like a soldier, when not in action, he can lay aside his weapon and his fierceness, and become like other men.

I held my sketchbook in my hand; he asked to see it, and after glancing through it, he seemed convinced of my claim that I was a painter. I thought I noticed a spark of friendliness emerging in him, and I decided to take advantage of it. I realized that even the worst people have their redeeming qualities and softer sides if you pay close attention to them. There's a unique blend in the character of the Italian robber. With reckless brutality, he often shows glimpses of kindness and humor. He’s often not completely bad, but pushed into this lifestyle by some unplanned crime, the result of those sudden emotional bursts that are typical of the Italian temperament. This has forced him to retreat to the mountains, or what they call “andare in Campagna.” He has turned to robbery as a profession; yet like a soldier, when not active, he can put aside his weapon and fierceness and act like other men.

I took occasion from the observations of the captain on my sketchings, to fall into conversation with him. I found him sociable and communicative. By degrees I became completely at my ease with him. I had fancied I perceived about him a degree of self-love, which I determined to make use of. I assumed an air of careless frankness, and told him that, as artist, I pretended to the power of judging of the physiognomy; that I thought I perceived something in his features and demeanor which announced him worthy of higher fortunes. That he was not formed to exercise the profession to which he had abandoned himself; that he had talents and qualities fitted for a nobler sphere of action; that he had but to change his course of life, and in a legitimate career, the same courage and endowments which now made him an object of terror, would ensure him the applause and admiration of society.

I took the opportunity to chat with the captain about my sketches. I found him friendly and open. Gradually, I became completely comfortable with him. I thought I noticed a degree of self-importance in him, which I decided to use to my advantage. I acted casually and told him that, as an artist, I believed I could judge people's faces; that I thought I saw something in his features and behavior that suggested he deserved better fortunes. I said he wasn't meant for the job he had chosen; that he had talents and qualities suited for a greater purpose; that if he changed his life path, the same courage and skills that currently made him feared would win him the respect and admiration of society.

I had not mistaken my man. My discourse both touched and excited him. He seized my hand, pressed it, and replied with strong emotion, “You have guessed the truth; you have judged me rightly.” He remained for a moment silent; then with a kind of effort he resumed. “I will tell you some particulars of my life, and you will perceive that it was the oppression of others, rather than my own crimes, that drove me to the mountains. I sought to serve my fellow-men, and they have persecuted me from among them.” We seated ourselves on the grass, and the robber gave me the following anecdotes of his history.

I wasn’t wrong about him. My words both moved and stirred him. He took my hand, held it tightly, and replied with deep emotion, “You’ve figured it out; you’ve understood me correctly.” He paused for a moment, then, with some effort, continued. “I’ll share some details about my life, and you’ll see that it was the oppression from others, not my own wrongdoings, that led me to the mountains. I wanted to help my fellow humans, and they’ve driven me away from them.” We sat down on the grass, and the robber shared the following stories from his life.

THE STORY OF THE BANDIT CHIEFTAIN

I am a native of the village of Prossedi. My father was easy enough In circumstances, and we lived peaceably and independently, cultivating our fields. All went on well with us until a new chief of the sbirri was sent to our village to take command of the police. He was an arbitrary fellow, prying into every thing, and practising all sorts of vexations and oppressions in the discharge of his office.

I am from the village of Prossedi. My father was fairly comfortable, and we lived peacefully and independently, working on our fields. Everything was going well for us until a new chief of police was assigned to our village. He was a controlling guy, snooping into everything and enforcing all kinds of annoyances and oppressions in his role.

I was at that time eighteen years of age, and had a natural love of justice and good neighborhood. I had also a little education, and knew something of history, so as to be able to judge a little of men and their actions. All this inspired me with hatred for this paltry despot. My own family, also, became the object of his suspicion or dislike, and felt more than once the arbitrary abuse of his power. These things worked together on my mind, and I gasped after vengeance. My character was always ardent and energetic; and acted upon by my love of justice, determined me by one blow to rid the country of the tyrant.

I was eighteen at the time and had a natural love for justice and community. I also had some education and knew a bit about history, which helped me judge people and their actions. All of this fueled my hatred for this petty tyrant. My family also became targets of his suspicion or dislike and faced his arbitrary abuse of power more than once. These experiences weighed heavily on my mind, and I yearned for revenge. I was always passionate and energetic, and driven by my sense of justice, I decided to take action to free the country from the tyrant in one decisive blow.

Full of my project I rose one morning before peep of day, and concealing a stiletto under my waistcoat—here you see it!—(and he drew forth a long keen poniard)—I lay in wait for him in the outskirts of the village. I knew all his haunts, and his habit of making his rounds and prowling about like a wolf, in the gray of the morning; at length I met him, and attacked him with fury. He was armed, but I took him unawares, and was full of youth and vigor. I gave him repeated blows to make sure work, and laid him lifeless at my feet.

Filled with determination for my project, I got up one morning before dawn and hid a dagger under my jacket—here it is!—(and he pulled out a long sharp knife)—I waited for him on the edge of the village. I knew all his regular spots and how he liked to roam around like a wolf in the early morning. Eventually, I confronted him and attacked with rage. He was armed, but I caught him off guard and was full of youthful energy. I struck him multiple times to make sure he was finished and left him lifeless at my feet.

When I was satisfied that I had done for him, I returned with all haste to the village, but had the ill-luck to meet two of the sbirri as I entered it. They accosted me and asked if I had seen their chief. I assumed an air of tranquillity, and told them I had not. They continued on their way, and, within a few hours, brought back the dead body to Prossedi. Their suspicions of me being already awakened, I was arrested and thrown into prison. Here I lay several weeks, when the prince, who was Seigneur of Prossedi, directed judicial proceedings against me. I was brought to trial, and a witness was produced who pretended to have seen me not far from the bleeding body, and flying with precipitation, so I was condemned to the galleys for thirty years.

When I was sure I had helped him, I hurried back to the village, but I was unlucky enough to run into two officers as I entered. They approached me and asked if I'd seen their chief. I played it cool and said I hadn't. They went on their way, and a few hours later, they returned with the dead body to Prossedi. With their suspicions already raised, I was arrested and thrown into prison. I stayed there for several weeks, until the prince, who was the lord of Prossedi, initiated legal proceedings against me. I was put on trial, and a witness came forward who claimed to have seen me near the bloody body and fleeing quickly, so I was sentenced to thirty years in the galleys.

“Curse on such laws,” vociferated the bandit, foaming with rage; “curse on such a government, and ten thousand curses on the prince who caused me to be adjudged so rigorously, while so many other Roman princes harbor and protect assassins a thousand times more culpable. What had I done but what was inspired by a love of justice and my country? Why was my act more culpable than that of Brutus, when he sacrificed Caesar to the cause of liberty and justice?”

“Damn these laws,” shouted the bandit, fuming with anger; “damn this government, and a thousand curses on the prince who sentenced me so harshly, while so many other Roman princes shelter and defend assassins who are a thousand times more guilty. What did I do but act out of a love for justice and my country? Why was my action worse than Brutus’s when he killed Caesar for the sake of liberty and justice?”

There was something at once both lofty and ludicrous in the rhapsody of this robber chief, thus associating himself with one of the great names of antiquity. It showed, however, that he had at least the merit of knowing the remarkable facts in the history of his country. He became more calm, and resumed his narrative.

There was something both grand and ridiculous in the passionate speech of this robber leader, as he linked himself to one of the great names from history. It did show, however, that he at least had the sense to know the significant events in his country’s history. He became more composed and continued with his story.

I was conducted to Civita Vecchia in fetters. My heart was burning with rage. I had been married scarce six months to a woman whom I passionately loved, and who was pregnant. My family was in despair. For a long time I made unsuccessful efforts to break my chain. At length I found a morsel of iron which I hid carefully, endeavored with a pointed flint to fashion it into a kind of file. I occupied myself in this work during the night-time, and when it was finished, I made out, after a long time, to sever one of the rings of my chain. My flight was successful.

I was taken to Civita Vecchia in chains. My heart was filled with anger. I had just been married for six months to a woman I loved deeply, who was pregnant. My family was devastated. For a long time, I struggled unsuccessfully to break my chains. Finally, I found a piece of iron that I hid carefully, and I tried to shape it into a sort of file using a pointed flint. I worked on this at night, and after a long time, I managed to cut through one of the rings of my chain. I successfully escaped.

I wandered for several weeks in the mountains which surround Prossedi, and found means to inform my wife of the place where I was concealed. She came often to see me. I had determined to put myself at the head of an armed band. She endeavored for a long time to dissuade me; but finding my resolution fixed, she at length united in my project of vengeance, and brought me, herself, my poniard.

I wandered in the mountains around Prossedi for several weeks and managed to let my wife know where I was hiding. She visited me often. I had decided to lead an armed group. At first, she tried hard to talk me out of it, but when she realized I was set on my decision, she eventually supported my plan for revenge and even brought me my dagger.

By her means I communicated with several brave fellows of the Neighboring villages, who I knew to be ready to take to the mountains, and only panting for an opportunity to exercise their daring spirits. We soon formed a combination, procured arms, and we have had ample opportunities of revenging ourselves for the wrongs and injuries which most of us have suffered. Every thing has succeeded with us until now, and had it not been for our blunder in mistaking you for the prince, our fortunes would have been made.

Through her, I got in touch with several brave guys from the nearby villages, who I knew were eager to head to the mountains and were just waiting for a chance to show their adventurous side. We quickly put together a group, gathered weapons, and we’ve had plenty of chances to get back at those who wronged us. Everything has gone well for us so far, and if it hadn’t been for our mistake in thinking you were the prince, we would have been successful by now.

Here the robber concluded his story. He had talked himself into companionship, and assured me he no longer bore me any grudge for the error of which I had been the innocent cause. He even professed a kindness for me, and wished me to remain some time with them. He promised to give me a sight of certain grottos which they occupied beyond Villetri, and whither they resorted during the intervals of their expeditions. He assured me that they led a jovial life there; had plenty of good cheer; slept on beds of moss, and were waited upon by young and beautiful females, whom I might take for models.

Here the robber finished his story. He had talked his way into friendship and assured me he no longer held any grudge against me for the mistake that I had unknowingly caused. He even claimed to have a liking for me and wanted me to stay with them for a while. He promised to show me some grottos they used beyond Villetri, where they hung out during their breaks from their adventures. He told me they lived a carefree life there, had plenty of food and drink, slept on beds of moss, and were attended to by young and beautiful women, whom I could use as inspiration.

I confess I felt my curiosity roused by his descriptions of these grottos and their inhabitants; they realized those scenes in robber-story which I had always looked upon as mere creations of the fancy. I should gladly have accepted his invitation, and paid a visit to those caverns, could I have felt more secure in my company.

I admit I was intrigued by his descriptions of those caves and the people living there; they brought to life those scenes from adventure stories that I had always thought were just products of imagination. I would have happily accepted his invitation to explore those caverns if I had felt more comfortable with my company.

I began to find my situation less painful. I had evidently propitiated the good-will of the chieftain, and hoped that he might release me for a moderate ransom. A new alarm, however, awaited me. While the captain was looking out with impatience for the return of the messenger who had been sent to the prince, the sentinel who had been posted on the side of the mountain facing the plain of la Molara, came running towards us with precipitation. “We are betrayed!” exclaimed he. “The police of Frescati are after us. A party of carabiniers have just stopped at the inn below the mountain.” Then laying his hand on his stiletto, he swore, with a terrible oath, that if they made the least movement towards the mountains, my life and the lives of my fellow-prisoners should answer for it.

I started to feel my situation was less painful. I had clearly won the goodwill of the chieftain and hoped he might let me go for a reasonable ransom. However, a new alarm was waiting for me. While the captain was anxiously watching for the messenger who had been sent to the prince, the guard stationed on the mountain side facing the plain of la Molara came rushing towards us in a panic. “We’re betrayed!” he shouted. “The police from Frescati are after us. A group of carabiniers just stopped at the inn down the mountain.” Then, placing his hand on his stiletto, he swore, with a fierce oath, that if they made any move toward the mountains, my life and the lives of my fellow prisoners would pay the price.

The chieftain resumed all his ferocity of demeanor, and approved of what his companion said; but when the latter had returned to his post, he turned to me with a softened air: “I must act as chief,” said he, “and humor my dangerous subalterns. It is a law with us to kill our prisoners rather than suffer them to be rescued; but do not be alarmed. In case we are surprised keep by me; fly with us, and I will consider myself responsible for your life.”

The chieftain returned to his fierce demeanor and agreed with what his companion said; but when the latter went back to his post, he turned to me with a softer expression: “I have to act as chief,” he said, “and manage my risky underlings. We have a rule that says we should kill our prisoners instead of letting them be rescued; but don’t worry. If we’re caught off guard, stick close to me; escape with us, and I’ll take responsibility for your safety.”

There was nothing very consolatory in this arrangement, which would have placed me between two dangers; I scarcely knew, in case of flight, which I should have most to apprehend from, the carbines of the pursuers, or the stilettos of the pursued. I remained silent, however, and endeavored to maintain a look of tranquillity.

There was nothing particularly comforting about this setup, which would have put me between two threats. I hardly knew, if I tried to escape, which I should fear more—the guns of the pursuers or the knives of the pursued. I stayed quiet, though, and tried to keep a calm expression.

For an hour was I kept in this state of peril and anxiety. The robbers, crouching among their leafy coverts, kept an eagle watch upon the carabiniers below, as they loitered about the inn; sometimes lolling about the portal; sometimes disappearing for several minutes, then sallying out, examining their weapons, pointing in different directions and apparently asking questions about the neighborhood; not a movement or gesture was last upon the keen eyes of the brigands. At length we were relieved from our apprehensions. The carabiniers having finished their refreshment, seized their arms, continued along the valley towards the great road, and gradually left the mountain behind them. “I felt almost certain,” said the chief, “that they could not be sent after us. They know too well how prisoners have fared in our hands on similar occasions. Our laws in this respect are inflexible, and are necessary for our safety. If we once flinched from them, there would no longer be such thing as a ransom to be procured.”

For an hour, I was stuck in this scary and anxious situation. The robbers, hiding among the leaves, kept a close watch on the soldiers below as they hung around the inn; sometimes lounging by the entrance, sometimes disappearing for a few minutes, then coming out to check their weapons, pointing in different directions and seemingly asking questions about the area; not a single movement or gesture escaped the sharp eyes of the brigands. Finally, we were relieved from our worries. The soldiers, having finished their break, grabbed their weapons, continued down the valley toward the main road, and gradually left the mountain behind. “I felt almost certain,” said the leader, “that they couldn’t follow us. They know too well how prisoners have ended up in our hands in similar situations. Our rules in this regard are strict and necessary for our safety. If we ever backed down from them, there wouldn’t be any chance of getting a ransom.”

There were no signs yet of the messenger’s return. I was preparing to resume my sketching, when the captain drew a quire of paper from his knapsack—“Come,” said he, laughing, “you are a painter; take my likeness. The leaves of your portfolio are small; draw it on this.” I gladly consented, for it was a study that seldom presents itself to a painter. I recollected that Salvator Rosa in his youth had voluntarily sojourned for a time among the banditti of Calabria, and had filled his mind with the savage scenery and savage associates by which he was surrounded. I seized my pencil with enthusiasm at the thought. I found the captain the most docile of subjects, and after various shifting of positions, I placed him in an attitude to my mind.

There were still no signs of the messenger coming back. I was getting ready to start sketching again when the captain pulled out a stack of paper from his backpack. "Come on," he said, laughing, "you're an artist; draw my portrait. The pages in your sketchbook are small; use this instead." I happily agreed, as this was an opportunity that rarely comes for a painter. I remembered that Salvator Rosa had spent some time with the bandits in Calabria when he was young, soaking in the wild landscapes and rough company around him. I grabbed my pencil with excitement at the thought. I found the captain to be the easiest subject to work with, and after changing his position several times, I finally got him into the pose I wanted.

Picture to yourself a stern, muscular figure, in fanciful bandit costume, with pistols and poniards in belt, his brawny neck bare, a handkerchief loosely thrown around it, and the two ends in front strung with rings of all kinds, the spoils of travellers; reliques and medals hung on his breast; his hat decorated with various-colored ribbands; his vest and short breeches of bright colors and finely embroidered; his legs in buskins or leggins. Fancy him on a mountain height, among wild rocks and rugged oaks, leaning on his carbine as if meditating some exploit, while far below are beheld villages and villas, the scenes of his maraudings, with the wide Campagna dimly extending in the distance.

Imagine a tough, muscular figure in a flashy bandit outfit, with pistols and daggers strapped to his belt, his strong neck exposed, a handkerchief loosely around it, and the ends in front adorned with various rings, trophies from travelers; mementos and medals hanging from his chest; his hat decorated with colorful ribbons; his vest and short pants in bright colors and intricately embroidered; his legs in boots or leggings. Picture him on a mountain peak, surrounded by wild rocks and rugged oak trees, leaning on his rifle as if contemplating some daring act, while far below you can see villages and houses, the sites of his raids, with the vast countryside fading into the distance.

The robber was pleased with the sketch, and seemed to admire himself upon paper. I had scarcely finished, when the laborer arrived who had been sent for my ransom. He had reached Tusculum two hours after midnight. He brought me a letter from the prince, who was in bed at the time of his arrival. As I had predicted, he treated the demand as extravagant, but offered five hundred dollars for my ransom. Having no money by him at the moment, he had sent a note for the amount, payable to whomever should conduct me safe and sound to Rome. I presented the note of hand to the chieftain; he received it with a shrug. “Of what use are notes of hand to us?” said he, “who can we send with you to Rome to receive it? We are all marked men, known and described at every gate and military post, and village church-door. No, we must have gold and silver; let the sum be paid in cash and you shall be restored to liberty.”

The robber was happy with the sketch and seemed to admire himself on paper. I had just finished when the worker arrived who had been sent for my ransom. He got to Tusculum two hours after midnight. He brought me a letter from the prince, who was in bed when he arrived. As I had predicted, he thought the demand was ridiculous but offered five hundred dollars for my ransom. Since he didn't have any cash on hand at the moment, he had sent a note for the amount, payable to whoever safely brought me to Rome. I showed the note to the leader; he accepted it with a shrug. “What good are notes to us?” he said, “who can we send with you to Rome to collect it? We are all wanted men, known and described at every gate, military post, and village church. No, we need gold and silver; the money must be paid in cash, and you will be freed.”

The captain again placed a sheet of paper before me to communicate His determination to the prince. When I had finished the letter and took the sheet from the quire, I found on the opposite side of it the portrait which I had just been tracing. I was about to tear it off and give it to the chief.

The captain placed a sheet of paper in front of me again to convey His decision to the prince. After I finished the letter and took the sheet from the pile, I discovered the portrait I had just drawn on the other side. I was about to rip it off and give it to the chief.

“Hold,” said he, “let it go to Rome; let them see what kind of looking fellow I am. Perhaps the prince and his friends may form as good an opinion of me from my face as you have done.”

“Wait,” he said, “let it go to Rome; let them see what I look like. Maybe the prince and his friends will think as highly of me as you do just by looking at my face.”

This was said sportively, yet it was evident there was vanity lurking at the bottom. Even this wary, distrustful chief of banditti forgot for a moment his usual foresight and precaution in the common wish to be admired. He never reflected what use might be made of this portrait in his pursuit and conviction.

This was said playfully, but it was clear there was some vanity beneath the surface. Even this cautious, suspicious leader of outlaws momentarily overlooked his usual carefulness and vigilance in the common desire for admiration. He never considered how this image could be used against him in his pursuit and capture.

The letter was folded and directed, and the messenger departed again For Tusculum. It was now eleven o’clock in the morning, and as yet we had eaten nothing. In spite of all my anxiety, I began to feel a craving appetite. I was glad, therefore, to hear the captain talk something of eating. He observed that for three days and nights they had been lurking about among rocks and woods, meditating their expedition to Tusculum, during which all their provisions had been exhausted. He should now take measures to procure a supply. Leaving me, therefore, in the charge of his comrade, in whom he appeared to have implicit confidence, he departed, assuring me, that in less than two hours we should make a good dinner. Where it was to come from was an enigma to me, though it was evident these beings had their secret friends and agents throughout the country.

The letter was folded and sent off, and the messenger left again for Tusculum. It was now eleven in the morning, and we still hadn't eaten anything. Despite my worries, I started to feel really hungry. So, I was relieved to hear the captain mention food. He noted that they had been hiding out in the rocks and woods for three days and nights, planning their trip to Tusculum, and had run out of supplies. He planned to find a way to get more food. He left me in the care of his friend, who he seemed to trust completely, and assured me that we’d have a good dinner in less than two hours. I had no idea where it would come from, though it was clear these guys had their secret contacts throughout the country.

Indeed, the inhabitants of these mountains and of the valleys which they embosom are a rude, half civilized set. The towns and villages among the forests of the Abruzzi, shut up from the rest of the world, are almost like savage dens. It is wonderful that such rude abodes, so little known and visited, should be embosomed in the midst of one of the most travelled and civilized countries of Europe. Among these regions the robber prowls unmolested; not a mountaineer hesitates to give him secret harbor and assistance. The shepherds, however, who tend their flocks among the mountains, are the favorite emissaries of the robbers, when they would send messages down to the valleys either for ransom or supplies. The shepherds of the Abruzzi are as wild as the scenes they frequent. They are clad in a rude garb of black or brown sheep-skin; they have high conical hats, and coarse sandals of cloth bound round their legs with thongs, similar to those worn by the robbers. They carry long staffs, on which as they lean they form picturesque objects in the lonely landscape, and they are followed by their ever-constant companion, the dog. They are a curious, questioning set, glad at any time to relieve the monotony of their solitude by the conversation of the passerby, and the dog will lend an attentive ear, and put on as sagacious and inquisitive a look as his master.

The people living in these mountains and the valleys they surround are a rough, half-civilized group. The towns and villages hidden within the forests of the Abruzzi, isolated from the outside world, resemble savage dens. It’s astonishing that such crude dwellings, so little known and rarely visited, are located in the midst of one of the most traveled and civilized countries in Europe. In these areas, robbers roam freely; no mountaineer hesitates to offer them secret refuge and help. However, the shepherds who watch over their flocks in the mountains are the preferred messengers for the robbers when they need to send messages down to the valleys for ransom or supplies. The shepherds of the Abruzzi are as wild as the landscapes they inhabit. They wear rough clothing made from black or brown sheepskin, high conical hats, and coarse sandals wrapped around their legs with thongs, similar to what the robbers wear. They carry long staffs that they lean on, making them striking figures in the lonely scenery, and they are always accompanied by their loyal dogs. They are a curious, inquisitive bunch, eager to break the monotony of their solitude with conversations with passersby, and the dogs listen attentively, mimicking the curious and sharp expressions of their masters.

But I am wandering from my story. I was now left alone with one of the robbers, the confidential companion of the chief. He was the youngest and most vigorous of the band, and though his countenance had something of that dissolute fierceness which seems natural to this desperate, lawless mode of life, yet there were traits of manly beauty about it. As an artist I could not but admire it. I had remarked in him an air of abstraction and reverie, and at times a movement of inward suffering and impatience. He now sat on the ground; his elbows on his knees, his head resting between his clenched fists, and his eyes fixed on the earth with an expression of sad and bitter rumination. I had grown familiar with him from repeated conversations, and had found him superior in mind to the rest of the band. I was anxious to seize every opportunity of sounding the feelings of these singular beings. I fancied I read in the countenance of this one traces of self-condemnation and remorse; and the ease with which I had drawn forth the confidence of the chieftain encouraged me to hope the same with his followers.

But I'm getting off track. I was now left alone with one of the robbers, the chief's trusted companion. He was the youngest and most energetic of the group, and even though his face showed the kind of wild fierceness typical of this reckless, lawless lifestyle, there were also signs of manly beauty. As an artist, I couldn't help but admire it. I noticed he had an air of deep thought and daydreaming, and at times showed signs of inner pain and impatience. He was now sitting on the ground, with his elbows on his knees, his head resting between his clenched fists, and his eyes fixed on the ground with an expression of sad and bitter contemplation. I had become familiar with him through our conversations and found him more intelligent than the others in the group. I wanted to take every chance I could to understand the feelings of these unique individuals. I thought I saw signs of self-judgment and remorse in his face, and the way I had gained the trust of the chief made me hopeful I could do the same with his followers.

After a little preliminary conversation, I ventured to ask him if he did not feel regret at having abandoned his family and taken to this dangerous profession. “I feel,” replied he, “but one regret, and that will end only with my life;” as he said this he pressed his clenched fists upon his bosom, drew his breath through his set teeth, and added with deep emotion, “I have something within here that stifles me; it is like a burning iron consuming my very heart. I could tell you a miserable story, but not now—another time.”—He relapsed into his former position, and sat with his head between his hands, muttering to himself in broken ejaculations, and what appeared at times to be curses and maledictions. I saw he was not in a mood to be disturbed, so I left him to himself. In a little time the exhaustion of his feelings, and probably the fatigues he had undergone in this expedition, began to produce drowsiness. He struggled with it for a time, but the warmth and sultriness of mid-day made it irresistible, and he at length stretched himself upon the herbage and fell asleep.

After a brief conversation, I took the chance to ask him if he felt any regret about leaving his family and choosing this dangerous profession. “I feel only one regret,” he replied, “and that will end only with my life;” as he said this, he pressed his clenched fists against his chest, inhaled sharply through his clenched teeth, and added with intense emotion, “There’s something inside me that suffocates me; it’s like a burning iron consuming my heart. I could share a miserable story, but not now—some other time.” He fell back into his previous position and sat with his head in his hands, muttering to himself in broken phrases, which sometimes sounded like curses and angry remarks. I could see he wasn’t in the mood to be interrupted, so I left him alone. After a while, the exhaustion of his emotions and probably the fatigue from this journey started to make him drowsy. He fought it for a bit, but the heat and humidity of midday made it irresistible, and eventually, he laid down on the grass and fell asleep.

I now beheld a chance of escape within my reach. My guard lay before me at my mercy. His vigorous limbs relaxed by sleep; his bosom open for the blow; his carbine slipped from his nerveless grasp, and lying by his side; his stiletto half out of the pocket in which it was usually carried. But two of his comrades were in sight, and those at a considerable distance, on the edge of the mountain; their backs turned to us, and their attention occupied in keeping a look-out upon the plain. Through a strip of intervening forest, and at the foot of a steep descent, I beheld the village of Rocca Priori. To have secured the carbine of the sleeping brigand, to have seized upon his poniard and have plunged it in his heart, would have been the work of an instant. Should he die without noise, I might dart through the forest and down to Rocca Priori before my flight might be discovered. In case of alarm, I should still have a fair start of the robbers, and a chance of getting beyond the reach of their shot.

I saw an opportunity to escape that was right in front of me. My guard was at my mercy. He lay asleep, his strong body relaxed; his chest exposed for the strike; his gun had slipped from his lifeless hand and was lying next to him; his dagger was half out of the pocket where he usually kept it. Only two of his buddies were in sight, and they were far away, on the edge of the mountain, with their backs to us, focused on watching the plain. Through a narrow strip of forest, at the bottom of a steep slope, I spotted the village of Rocca Priori. It would have taken no time at all to grab the sleeping brigand's gun, take his dagger, and stab him in the heart. If he died quietly, I could sprint through the forest and down to Rocca Priori before anyone noticed I was gone. If there was any alarm, I would still have a good head start on the robbers, giving me a chance to get out of range of their shots.

Here then was an opportunity for both escape and vengeance; perilous, indeed, but powerfully tempting. Had my situation been more critical I could not have resisted it. I reflected, however, for a moment. The attempt, if successful, would be followed by the sacrifice of my two fellow prisoners, who were sleeping profoundly, and could not be awakened in time to escape. The laborer who had gone after the ransom might also fall a victim to the rage of the robbers, without the money which he brought being saved. Besides, the conduct of the chief towards me made me feel certain of speedy deliverance. These reflections overcame the first powerful impulse, and I calmed the turbulent agitation which it had awakened.

Here was a chance for both escape and revenge; risky, for sure, but incredibly tempting. If my situation had been more critical, I wouldn’t have been able to resist it. I took a moment to think, though. If I succeeded, it would mean sacrificing my two fellow prisoners, who were deeply asleep and wouldn’t wake up in time to get away. The worker who had gone for the ransom could also become a victim of the robbers' anger, especially if he came back without the money. Plus, the way the chief treated me made me confident I would be rescued soon. These thoughts helped me push aside the intense urge I felt, and I calmed the restless agitation it caused.

I again took out my materials for drawing, and amused myself with sketching the magnificent prospect. It was now about noon, and every thing seemed sunk into repose, like the bandit that lay sleeping before me. The noon-tide stillness that reigned over these mountains, the vast landscape below, gleaming with distant towns and dotted with various habitations and signs of life, yet all so silent, had a powerful effect upon my mind. The intermediate valleys, too, that lie among mountains have a peculiar air of solitude. Few sounds are heard at mid-day to break the quiet of the scene. Sometimes the whistle of a solitary muleteer, lagging with his lazy animal along the road that winds through the centre of the valley; sometimes the faint piping of a shepherd’s reed from the side of the mountain, or sometimes the bell of an ass slowly pacing along, followed by a monk with bare feet and bare shining head, and carrying provisions to the convent.

I took out my drawing materials again and entertained myself by sketching the stunning view. It was around noon, and everything seemed to be at rest, like the bandit sleeping in front of me. The midday stillness that enveloped these mountains, the expansive landscape below sparkling with distant towns and scattered with various homes and signs of life, yet all so quiet, had a strong impact on my mind. The valleys nestled among the mountains also have a unique feeling of solitude. At midday, few sounds break the tranquility of the scene. Sometimes, you can hear the whistle of a lone mule driver moving slowly with his lethargic animal along the road that winds through the valley; other times, it's the faint notes of a shepherd’s flute from the mountainside, or the distant sound of a donkey’s bell as it walks slowly, followed by a monk with bare feet and a shaven head, carrying supplies to the convent.

I had continued to sketch for some time among my sleeping companions, when at length I saw the captain of the band approaching, followed by a peasant leading a mule, on which was a well-filled sack. I at first apprehended that this was some new prey fallen into the hands of the robbers, but the contented look of the peasant soon relieved me, and I was rejoiced to hear that it was our promised repast. The brigands now came running from the three sides of the mountain, having the quick scent of vultures. Every one busied himself in unloading the mule and relieving the sack of its contents.

I had been sketching for a while among my sleeping friends when I finally saw the band’s leader approaching, followed by a peasant with a mule carrying a well-filled sack. At first, I feared this was some new victim caught by the robbers, but the peasant's happy demeanor quickly reassured me, and I was glad to hear that it was our promised meal. The brigands came rushing in from three sides of the mountain, drawn in like vultures. Everyone got busy unloading the mule and taking out the sack’s contents.

The first thing that made its appearance was an enormous ham of a color and plumpness that would have inspired the pencil of Teniers. It was followed by a large cheese, a bag of boiled chestnuts, a little barrel of wine, and a quantity of good household bread. Everything was arranged on the grass with a degree of symmetry, and the captain presenting me his knife, requested me to help myself. We all seated ourselves round the viands, and nothing was heard for a time but the sound of vigorous mastication, or the gurgling of the barrel of wine as it revolved briskly about the circle. My long fasting and the mountain air and exercise had given me a keen appetite, and never did repast appear to me more excellent or picturesque.

The first thing to show up was a huge ham that was so colorful and plump it could have inspired a painter like Teniers. Next came a large cheese, a bag of boiled chestnuts, a small barrel of wine, and a good amount of fresh bread. Everything was laid out on the grass in a neat and orderly way, and the captain handed me his knife, asking me to help myself. We all gathered around the food, and for a while, the only sounds were the sounds of hearty eating and the gurgling of the wine barrel as it was passed around. My long fast, combined with the mountain air and exercise, had given me a big appetite, and I had never seen a meal that felt more delicious or beautiful.

From time to time one of the band was despatched to keep a look-out upon the plain: no enemy was at hand, and the dinner was undisturbed.

From time to time, one of the group was sent to keep an eye on the plain: there was no enemy around, and dinner went on without interruption.

The peasant received nearly twice the value of his provisions, and set off down the mountain highly satisfied with his bargain. I felt invigorated by the hearty meal I had made, and notwithstanding that the wound I had received the evening before was painful, yet I could not but feel extremely interested and gratified by the singular scenes continually presented to me. Every thing seemed pictured about these wild beings and their haunts. Their bivouacs, their groups on guard, their indolent noon-tide repose on the mountain brow, their rude repast on the herbage among rocks and trees, every thing presented a study for a painter. But it was towards the approach of evening that I felt the highest enthusiasm awakened.

The peasant got almost double the value of his supplies and headed down the mountain feeling really pleased with his deal. I felt refreshed from the hearty meal I had prepared, and even though the wound I got the night before was painful, I couldn’t help but feel extremely fascinated and happy about the unique scenes constantly unfolding around me. Everything looked like a painting with these wild people and their environments. Their camps, their watchful groups, their lazy afternoon rest at the mountain’s edge, their simple meals on the grass among the rocks and trees—all of it was a perfect subject for an artist. But it was as evening approached that I felt the most excitement rise within me.

The setting sun, declining beyond the vast Campagna, shed its rich yellow beams on the woody summits of the Abruzzi. Several mountains crowned with snow shone brilliantly in the distance, contrasting their brightness with others, which, thrown into shade, assumed deep tints of purple and violet. As the evening advanced, the landscape darkened into a sterner character. The immense solitude around; the wild mountains broken into rocks and precipices, intermingled with vast oak, cork, and chestnuts; and the groups of banditti in the foreground, reminded me of those savage scenes of Salvator Rosa.

The setting sun, sinking beyond the vast countryside, cast its warm yellow light on the wooded peaks of the Abruzzi. Several snow-capped mountains sparkled in the distance, their brightness standing out against others that, thrown into shadow, took on deep shades of purple and violet. As the evening wore on, the landscape took on a more serious tone. The immense solitude around; the wild mountains broken up by rocks and cliffs, mixed with large oak, cork, and chestnut trees; and the groups of bandits in the foreground reminded me of those wild scenes painted by Salvator Rosa.

To beguile the time the captain proposed to his comrades to spread before me their jewels and cameos, as I must doubtless be a judge of such articles, and able to inform them of their nature. He set the example, the others followed it, and in a few moments I saw the grass before me sparkling with jewels and gems that would have delighted the eyes of an antiquary or a fine lady. Among them were several precious jewels and antique intaglios and cameos of great value, the spoils doubtless of travellers of distinction. I found that they were in the habit of selling their booty in the frontier towns. As these in general were thinly and poorly peopled, and little frequented by travellers, they could offer no market for such valuable articles of taste and luxury. I suggested to them the certainty of their readily obtaining great pieces for these gems among the rich strangers with which Rome was thronged.

To pass the time, the captain suggested to his comrades that they show me their jewels and cameos, since I must surely be able to judge their worth and inform them about them. He led the way, and the others followed suit. In just a few moments, I saw the grass in front of me sparkling with jewels and gems that would have thrilled the eyes of a collector or an elegant lady. Among them were several precious stones and antique intaglios and cameos of considerable value, likely taken from distinguished travelers. I learned that they usually sold their loot in the frontier towns. Since these towns were generally sparsely populated, poorly attended by travelers, they provided no market for such valuable items of taste and luxury. I suggested to them that they would easily find rich strangers in Rome, where they could sell these gems for a good price.

The impression made upon their greedy minds was immediately apparent. One of the band, a young man, and the least known, requested permission of the captain to depart the following day in disguise for Rome, for the purpose of traffick; promising on the faith of a bandit (a sacred pledge amongst them) to return in two days to any place he might appoint. The captain consented, and a curious scene took place. The robbers crowded round him eagerly, confiding to him such of their jewels as they wished to dispose of, and giving him instructions what to demand. There was bargaining and exchanging and selling of trinkets among themselves, and I beheld my watch, which had a chain and valuable seals, purchased by the young robber merchant of the ruffian who had plundered me, for sixty dollars. I now conceived a faint hope that if it went to Rome, I might somehow or other regain possession of it.

The impact on their greedy minds was obvious right away. One of the gang, a young man who was the least known, asked the captain for permission to leave the next day in disguise for Rome to do some business; he promised, on the honor of a bandit (a serious pledge among them), to return in two days to wherever the captain chose. The captain agreed, and an interesting scene unfolded. The thieves gathered around him eagerly, handing over the jewels they wanted to sell and giving him instructions on what to ask for. There was a lot of haggling, trading, and selling of trinkets among them, and I saw my watch—complete with a chain and valuable seals—being bought by the young robber from the thug who had stolen it from me, for sixty dollars. I began to foster a faint hope that if it made it to Rome, I might somehow get it back.

In the mean time day declined, and no messenger returned from Tusculum.

In the meantime, the day faded, and no messenger came back from Tusculum.

The idea of passing another night in the woods was extremely disheartening; for I began to be satisfied with what I had seen of robber life. The chieftain now ordered his men to follow him, that he might station them at their posts, adding, that if the messenger did not return before night they must shift their quarters to some other place.

The thought of spending another night in the woods was really discouraging; I was starting to feel like I had seen enough of life as a robber. The chieftain then told his men to follow him so he could position them at their posts, adding that if the messenger didn’t return before nightfall, they would have to move to another location.

I was again left alone with the young bandit who had before guarded me: he had the same gloomy air and haggard eye, with now and then a bitter sardonic smile. I was determined to probe this ulcerated heart, and reminded him of a kind of promise he had given me to tell me the cause of his suffering.

I was once again left alone with the young bandit who had guarded me before: he had the same dark expression and tired eyes, occasionally flashing a bitter, sarcastic smile. I was determined to dig into this wounded heart and reminded him of a sort of promise he had made to share the reason for his pain.

It seemed to me as if these troubled spirits were glad of an opportunity to disburthen themselves; and of having some fresh undiseased mind with which they could communicate. I had hardly made the request but he seated himself by my side, and gave me his story in, as nearly as I can recollect, the following words.

It felt like these troubled souls were relieved to have a chance to unload their burdens and talk to someone with a fresh, untainted perspective. As soon as I asked, he sat down next to me and shared his story in what I remember roughly as the following words.

THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ROBBER

I was born at the little town of Frosinone, which lies at the skirts of the Abruzzi. My father had made a little property in trade, and gave me some education, as he intended me for the church, but I had kept gay company too much to relish the cowl, so I grew up a loiterer about the place. I was a heedless fellow, a little quarrelsome on occasions, but good-humored in the main, so I made my way very well for a time, until I fell in love. There lived in our town a surveyor, or land bailiff, of the prince’s who had a young daughter, a beautiful girl of sixteen. She was looked upon as something better than the common run of our townsfolk, and kept almost entirely at home. I saw her occasionally, and became madly in love with her, she looked so fresh and tender, and so different to the sunburnt females to whom I had been accustomed.

I was born in the small town of Frosinone, which sits at the foot of the Abruzzi mountains. My father had managed to acquire a little property through trade and provided me with some education, as he planned for me to join the church. However, I had spent too much time in lively company to enjoy the idea of a clerical life, so I ended up being a drifter around town. I was a carefree guy, a bit quarrelsome at times, but mostly good-natured, which allowed me to get along quite well for a while—until I fell in love. In our town lived a surveyor, or land bailiff, for the prince who had a young daughter, a stunning girl of sixteen. She was seen as someone special, better than the average townsfolk, and usually stayed at home. I would see her occasionally and became completely infatuated with her; she looked so fresh and delicate, so different from the sunburned women I was used to.

As my father kept me in money, I always dressed well, and took all Opportunities of showing myself to advantage in the eyes of the little beauty. I used to see her at church; and as I could play a little upon the guitar, I gave her a tune sometimes under her window of an evening; and I tried to have interviews with her in her father’s vineyard, not far from the town, where she sometimes walked. She was evidently pleased with me, but she was young and shy, and her Father kept a strict eye upon her, and took alarm at my attentions, for he had a bad opinion of me, and looked for a better match for his daughter. I became furious at the difficulties thrown in my way, having been accustomed always to easy success among the women, being considered one of the smartest young fellows of the place.

Since my dad supported me financially, I always dressed nicely and looked for chances to impress the pretty girl. I used to see her at church, and since I could play a bit on the guitar, I would sometimes play a tune outside her window in the evenings. I also tried to meet her in her dad’s vineyard, not far from town, where she walked sometimes. She clearly liked me, but she was young and shy, and her father kept a close watch on her. He became alarmed by my attention because he had a low opinion of me and was hoping for a better match for his daughter. I got really frustrated with the obstacles in my way since I was used to being successful with women, and everyone thought I was one of the most charming young guys around.

Her father brought home a suitor for her; a rich farmer from a neighboring town. The wedding-day was appointed, and preparations were making. I got sight of her at her window, and I thought she looked sadly at me. I determined the match should not take place, cost what it might. I met her intended bridegroom in the market-place, and could not restrain the expression of my rage. A few hot words passed between us, when I drew my stiletto, and stabbed him to the heart. I fled to a neighboring church for refuge; and with a little money I obtained absolution; but I did not dare to venture from my asylum.

Her father brought home a suitor for her—a wealthy farmer from a nearby town. The wedding day was set, and preparations were underway. I spotted her at her window, and it seemed like she looked sadly at me. I decided that the wedding would not happen, no matter the cost. I ran into her future husband in the market and couldn’t hold back my anger. A few heated words were exchanged, and then I pulled out my stiletto and stabbed him in the heart. I escaped to a nearby church for safety and managed to pay for absolution with a little money, but I didn’t dare leave my hiding place.

At that time our captain was forming his troop. He had known me from boyhood, and hearing of my situation, came to me in secret, and made such offers that I agreed to enlist myself among his followers. Indeed, I had more than once thought of taking to this mode of life, having known several brave fellows of the mountains, who used to spend their money freely among us youngsters of the town. I accordingly left my asylum late one night, repaired to the appointed place of meeting; took the oaths prescribed, and became one of the troop. We were for some time in a distant part of the mountains, and our wild adventurous kind of life hit my fancy wonderfully, and diverted my thoughts. At length they returned with all their violence to the recollection of Rosetta. The solitude in which I often found myself gave me time to brood over her image, and as I have kept watch at night over our sleeping camp in the mountains, my feelings have been roused almost to a fever.

At that time, our captain was assembling his group. He had known me since childhood, and upon learning about my situation, he came to me privately and made offers that led me to agree to join his followers. In fact, I had considered this way of life before, having known several brave guys from the mountains who spent their money freely among us young people in town. So, I left my safe place late one night, went to the designated meeting spot, took the required oaths, and became part of the group. We spent some time in a remote area of the mountains, and I really enjoyed our adventurous lifestyle; it distracted me from my thoughts. Eventually, the memories of Rosetta came flooding back with all their intensity. The solitude I often experienced gave me plenty of time to think about her, and as I kept watch over our sleeping camp in the mountains at night, my feelings were stirred up to the point of feverishness.

At length we shifted our ground, and determined to make a descent upon the road between Terracina and Naples. In the course of our expedition, we passed a day or two in the woody mountains which rise above Frosinone. I cannot tell you how I felt when I looked down upon the place, and distinguished the residence of Rosetta. I determined to have an interview with her; but to what purpose? I could not expect that she would quit her home, and accompany me in my hazardous life among the mountains. She had been brought up too tenderly for that; and when I looked upon the women who were associated with some of our troop, I could not have borne the thoughts of her being their companion. All return to my former life was likewise hopeless; for a price was set upon my head. Still I determined to see her; the very hazard and fruitlessness of the thing made me furious to accomplish it.

At last, we changed our plans and decided to head for the road between Terracina and Naples. During our journey, we spent a day or two in the wooded mountains overlooking Frosinone. I can’t describe how I felt when I looked down at the place and recognized Rosetta's home. I wanted to meet her, but for what reason? I couldn’t expect her to leave her home and join me in my risky life among the mountains. She had been raised too gently for that; and when I thought about the women who were with some of our group, I couldn’t bear the thought of her being around them. Going back to my old life was also impossible since there was a bounty on my head. Still, I was determined to see her; the very danger and futility of it made me desperate to make it happen.

It is about three weeks since I persuaded our captain to draw down to the vicinity of Frosinone, in hopes of entrapping some of its principal inhabitants, and compelling them to a ransom. We were lying in ambush towards evening, not far from the vineyard of Rosetta’s father. I stole quietly from my companions, and drew near to reconnoitre the place of her frequent walks.

It’s been about three weeks since I convinced our captain to head towards Frosinone, hoping to capture some of the main residents and force them to pay a ransom. We were lying in wait in the evening, not far from the vineyard owned by Rosetta’s father. I quietly slipped away from my companions and got closer to check out the area where she often walked.

How my heart beat when, among the vines, I beheld the gleaming of a white dress! I knew it must be Rosetta’s; it being rare for any female of the place to dress in white. I advanced secretly and without noise, until putting aside the vines, I stood suddenly before her. She uttered a piercing shriek, but I seized her in my arms, put my hand upon her mouth and conjured her to be silent. I poured out all the frenzy of my passion; offered to renounce my mode of life, to put my fate in her hands, to fly with her where we might live in safety together. All that I could say, or do, would not pacify her. Instead of love, horror and affright seemed to have taken possession of her breast.—She struggled partly from my grasp, and filled the air with her cries. In an instant the captain and the rest of my companions were around us. I would have given anything at that moment had she been safe out of our hands, and in her father’s house. It was too late. The captain pronounced her a prize, and ordered that she should be borne to the mountains. I represented to him that she was my prize, that I had a previous claim to her; and I mentioned my former attachment. He sneered bitterly in reply; observed that brigands had no business with village intrigues, and that, according to the laws of the troop, all spoils of the kind were determined by lot. Love and jealousy were raging in my heart, but I had to choose between obedience and death. I surrendered her to the captain, and we made for the mountains.

How my heart raced when, among the vines, I saw a flash of white fabric! I knew it had to be Rosetta’s since it was uncommon for any local woman to wear white. I quietly approached, until I parted the vines and suddenly stood in front of her. She let out a piercing scream, but I wrapped my arms around her, put my hand over her mouth, and urged her to be quiet. I poured out all my passionate feelings; I offered to give up my way of life, to put my fate in her hands, to escape with her so we could live safely together. No matter what I said or did, I could not calm her down. Instead of love, fear and terror seemed to have taken over her. She struggled out of my grasp and filled the air with her cries. In moments, the captain and the rest of my companions surrounded us. I would have given anything for her to be safely back in her father’s house at that moment. But it was too late. The captain declared her a prize and ordered her to be taken to the mountains. I pointed out that she was my prize, that I had an earlier claim to her, and I mentioned my past feelings for her. He sneered back, saying that brigands had no time for village dramas and that, according to the rules of the group, all spoils like her were decided by chance. Love and jealousy burned in my heart, but I had to choose between following orders and death. I surrendered her to the captain, and we headed for the mountains.

She was overcome by affright, and her steps were so feeble and faltering, and it was necessary to support her. I could not endure the idea that my comrades should touch her, and assuming a forced tranquillity, begged that she might be confided to me, as one to whom she was more accustomed. The captain regarded me for a moment with a searching look, but I bore it without flinching, and he consented, I took her in my arms: she was almost senseless. Her head rested on my shoulder, her mouth was near to mine. I felt her breath on my face, and it seemed to fan the flame which devoured me. Oh, God! to have this glowing treasure in my arms, and yet to think it was not mine!

She was completely terrified, her steps were shaky and unsteady, and she needed support. I couldn't stand the thought of my friends touching her, so I forced myself to stay calm and asked to be the one to carry her, since she was more comfortable with me. The captain looked at me closely for a moment, but I held his gaze without flinching, and he agreed. I lifted her into my arms; she was nearly unconscious. Her head rested on my shoulder, her mouth near mine. I could feel her breath on my face, and it seemed to ignite the longing inside me. Oh, God! To hold this beautiful treasure in my arms, and yet to realize she wasn’t mine!

We arrived at the foot of the mountain. I ascended it with difficulty, particularly where the woods were thick; but I would not relinquish my delicious burthen. I reflected with rage, however, that I must soon do so. The thoughts that so delicate a creature must be abandoned to my rude companions, maddened me. I felt tempted, the stiletto in my hand, to cut my way through them all, and bear her off in triumph. I scarcely conceived the idea, before I saw its rashness; but my brain was fevered with the thought that any but myself should enjoy her charms. I endeavored to outstrip my companions by the quickness of my movements; and to get a little distance ahead, in case any favorable opportunity of escape should present. Vain effort! The voice of the captain suddenly ordered a halt. I trembled, but had to obey. The poor girl partly opened a languid eye, but was without strength or motion. I laid her upon the grass. The captain darted on me a terrible look of suspicion, and ordered me to scour the woods with my companions, in search of some shepherd who might be sent to her father’s to demand a ransom.

We reached the base of the mountain. I climbed it with difficulty, especially where the woods were dense; but I refused to let go of my precious burden. However, I was filled with anger at the thought that I would have to soon abandon her. The idea that such a delicate creature would be left with my rough companions drove me wild. I felt tempted, with the dagger in my hand, to fight my way through them all and take her away in victory. I barely had time to think about it before I saw how reckless it was; but my mind was consumed with the thought that anyone but me should enjoy her beauty. I tried to move faster than my companions, hoping to get a little ahead in case a chance to escape came up. Futile effort! The captain suddenly commanded us to stop. I was shaken but had to comply. The poor girl partly opened a weary eye, but she lacked strength or movement. I laid her on the grass. The captain shot me a fierce look of suspicion and ordered me to scour the woods with my companions in search of a shepherd who could be sent to her father to demand a ransom.

I saw at once the peril. To resist with violence was certain death; but to leave her alone, in the power of the captain!—I spoke out then with a fervor inspired by my passion and my despair. I reminded the captain that I was the first to seize her; that she was my prize, and that my previous attachment for her should make her sacred among my companions. I insisted, therefore, that he should pledge me his word to respect her; otherwise I should refuse obedience to his orders. His only reply was, to cock his carbine; and at the signal my comrades did the same. They laughed with cruelty at my impotent rage. What could I do? I felt the madness of resistance. I was menaced on all hands, and my companions obliged me to follow them. She remained alone with the chief—yes, alone and almost lifeless!—

I instantly saw the danger. Fighting back would mean certain death, but leaving her with the captain?! I spoke up with a passion fueled by my love and despair. I reminded the captain that I was the first to claim her; she was my prize, and my previous feelings for her should make her untouchable among my crew. I insisted that he promise me he would respect her; otherwise, I would refuse to follow his orders. His only response was to cock his gun, and at that signal, my fellow crew members did the same. They cruelly laughed at my helpless anger. What could I do? I realized resistance was madness. I was threatened from all sides, and my companions forced me to go with them. She was left alone with the chief—yes, alone and nearly lifeless!

Here the robber paused in his recital, overpowered by his emotions. Great drops of sweat stood on his forehead; he panted rather than breathed; his brawny bosom rose and fell like the waves of a troubled sea. When he had become a little calm, he continued his recital.

Here, the robber paused in his story, overwhelmed by his emotions. Large beads of sweat formed on his forehead; he gasped instead of breathed; his muscular chest rose and fell like the waves of a restless sea. When he had collected himself a bit, he continued his tale.

I was not long in finding a shepherd, said he. I ran with the rapidity of a deer, eager, if possible, to get back before what I dreaded might take place. I had left my companions far behind, and I rejoined them before they had reached one-half the distance I had made. I hurried them back to the place where we had left the captain. As we approached, I beheld him seated by the side of Rosetta. His triumphant look, and the desolate condition of the unfortunate girl, left me no doubt of her fate. I know not how I restrained my fury.

I didn't take long to find a shepherd, he said. I ran like a deer, hoping to get back before the thing I feared could happen. I had left my friends far behind, and I caught up with them before they had even covered half the distance I had. I rushed them back to where we had left the captain. As we got closer, I saw him sitting next to Rosetta. His triumphant expression and the sad state of the unfortunate girl made it clear what her fate was. I don't know how I kept my anger in check.

It was with extreme difficulty, and by guiding her hand, that she was made to trace a few characters, requesting her father to send three hundred dollars as her ransom. The letter was despatched by the shepherd. When he was gone, the chief turned sternly to me: “You have set an example,” said he, “of mutiny and self-will, which if indulged would be ruinous to the troop. Had I treated you as our laws require, this bullet would have been driven through your brain. But you are an old friend; I have borne patiently with your fury and your folly; I have even protected you from a foolish passion that would have unmanned you. As to this girl, the laws of our association must have their course.” So saying, he gave his commands, lots were drawn, and the helpless girl was abandoned to the troop.

It was extremely difficult, and with her hand guided, she managed to write a few characters, asking her father to send three hundred dollars as her ransom. The letter was sent by the shepherd. Once he was gone, the chief turned to me sharply: “You have set a bad example,” he said, “of rebellion and stubbornness, which, if allowed to continue, would destroy the group. If I had treated you according to our laws, I would have shot you. But you are an old friend; I’ve put up with your rage and your foolishness; I even saved you from a foolish obsession that would have weakened you. As for this girl, the rules of our group must be followed.” With that, he gave his orders, lots were drawn, and the helpless girl was left to the group.

Here the robber paused again, panting with fury and it was some moments before he could resume his story.

Here the robber paused again, breathing heavily with anger, and it took him a few moments to continue his story.

Hell, said he, was raging in my heart. I beheld the impossibility of avenging myself, and I felt that, according to the articles in which we stood bound to one another, the captain was in the right. I rushed with frenzy from the place. I threw myself upon the earth; tore up the grass with my hands, and beat my head, and gnashed my teeth in agony and rage. When at length I returned, I beheld the wretched victim, pale, dishevelled; her dress torn and disordered. An emotion of pity for a moment subdued my fiercer feelings. I bore her to the foot of a tree, and leaned her gently against it. I took my gourd, which was filled with wine, and applying it to her lips, endeavored to make her swallow a little. To what a condition was she recovered! She, whom I had once seen the pride of Frosinone, who but a short time before I had beheld sporting in her father’s vineyard, so fresh and beautiful and happy! Her teeth were clenched; her eyes fixed on the ground; her form without motion, and in a state of absolute insensibility. I hung over her in an agony of recollection of all that she had been, and of anguish at what I now beheld her. I darted round a look of horror at my companions, who seemed like so many fiends exulting in the downfall of an angel, and I felt a horror at myself for being their accomplice.

Hell, he said, was raging in my heart. I saw that avenging myself was impossible, and I realized that, based on the agreements we had with each other, the captain was right. I rushed out of there in a frenzy. I threw myself on the ground, ripped up the grass with my hands, and banged my head, gnashing my teeth in agony and rage. When I finally came back, I saw the miserable victim, pale and disheveled; her dress was torn and messy. For a moment, the emotion of pity calmed my fierce feelings. I carried her to the foot of a tree and leaned her gently against it. I grabbed my gourd, which was filled with wine, and tried to get her to drink a little. Look at the state she was in! She, who I had once seen as the pride of Frosinone, who not long ago had been playing in her father’s vineyard, so fresh, beautiful, and happy! Her teeth were clenched; her eyes were fixed on the ground; her body was motionless, completely unresponsive. I hovered over her, in anguish, recalling all that she had been and feeling deep sorrow for what I now saw. I shot a look of horror at my companions, who appeared like fiends reveling in the downfall of an angel, and I felt disgusted with myself for being part of it.

The captain, always suspicious, saw with his usual penetration what was passing within me, and ordered me to go upon the ridge of woods to keep a look-out upon the neighborhood and await the return of the shepherd. I obeyed, of course, stifling the fury that raged within me, though I felt for the moment that he was my most deadly foe.

The captain, always wary, sensed what was going on inside me and told me to head up to the ridge of the woods to keep an eye on the area and wait for the shepherd to come back. I did as I was told, suppressing the anger that boiled inside me, even though I felt for a moment that he was my biggest enemy.

On my way, however, a ray of reflection came across my mind. I perceived that the captain was but following with strictness the terrible laws to which we had sworn fidelity. That the passion by which I had been blinded might with justice have been fatal to me but for his forbearance; that he had penetrated my soul, and had taken precautions, by sending me out of the way, to prevent my committing any excess in my anger. From that instant I felt that I was capable of pardoning him.

On my way, though, a thought struck me. I realized that the captain was just strictly following the harsh rules we had promised to uphold. The intense feelings that had clouded my judgment could have rightfully been deadly for me, except for his patience; he understood my inner turmoil and took steps, by sending me away, to stop me from losing control in my rage. From that moment on, I knew I was ready to forgive him.

Occupied with these thoughts, I arrived at the foot of the mountain. The country was solitary and secure; and in a short time I beheld the shepherd at a distance crossing the plain. I hastened to meet him. He had obtained nothing. He had found the father plunged in the deepest distress. He had read the letter with violent emotion, and then calming himself with a sudden exertion, he had replied coldly, “My daughter has been dishonored by those wretches; let her be returned without ransom, or let her die!”

Occupied with these thoughts, I reached the base of the mountain. The countryside was peaceful and safe; soon, I spotted the shepherd in the distance crossing the plain. I hurried to meet him. He hadn’t achieved anything. He had found the father in deep distress. He had read the letter with intense emotion, and then, after a sudden effort to calm himself, he replied coldly, “My daughter has been dishonored by those scoundrels; she should be returned without ransom, or let her die!”

I shuddered at this reply. I knew, according to the laws of our troop, her death was inevitable. Our oaths required it. I felt, nevertheless, that, not having been able to have her to myself, I could become her executioner!

I shuddered at this response. I knew that, according to our group's rules, her death was unavoidable. Our promises demanded it. Still, I felt that, having never been able to have her for myself, I could be the one to carry out her execution!

The robber again paused with agitation. I sat musing upon his last Frightful words, which proved to what excess the passions may be carried when escaped from all moral restraint. There was a horrible verity in this story that reminded me of some of the tragic fictions of Danté.

The robber paused again, clearly unsettled. I sat, reflecting on his last terrifying words, which showed how far passions can go when they break free from all moral limits. There was a chilling truth in this story that reminded me of some of the tragic tales of Dante.

We now came to a fatal moment, resumed the bandit. After the report of the shepherd, I returned with him, and the chieftain received from his lips the refusal of the father. At a signal, which we all understood, we followed him some distance from the victim. He there pronounced her sentence of death. Every one stood ready to execute his order; but I interfered. I observed that there was something due to pity, as well as to justice. That I was as ready as any one to approve the implacable law which was to serve as a warning to all those who hesitated to pay the ransoms demanded for our prisoners, but that, though the sacrifice was proper, it ought to be made without cruelty. The night is approaching, continued I; she will soon be wrapped in sleep; let her then be despatched. All that I now claim on the score of former fondness for her is, let me strike the blow. I will do it as surely, but more tenderly than another.

We now reached a critical moment, the bandit said. After the shepherd's report, I went back with him, and the chieftain heard the father’s refusal from him. At a signal that we all understood, we followed him a short way away from the victim. There, he issued her death sentence. Everyone was ready to follow his orders, but I stepped in. I pointed out that we needed to show some mercy, as well as justice. I was just as willing as anyone to support the harsh law meant to deter those who hesitated to pay the ransoms for our prisoners, but while the sacrifice was necessary, it should be done without cruelty. Night is coming, I continued; she will soon fall asleep, so let her be put to rest then. All I ask, given my past affection for her, is to strike the blow myself. I will do it just as surely, but more gently than anyone else.

Several raised their voices against my proposition, but the captain Imposed silence on them. He told me I might conduct her into a thicket at some distance, and he relied upon my promise.

Several people spoke out against my suggestion, but the captain silenced them. He told me I could take her to a thicket nearby, and he was counting on my word.

I hastened to seize my prey. There was a forlorn kind of triumph at having at length become her exclusive possessor. I bore her off into the thickness of the forest. She remained in the same state of insensibility and stupor. I was thankful that she did not recollect me; for had she once murmured my name, I should have been overcome. She slept at length in the arms of him who was to poniard her. Many were the conflicts I underwent before I could bring myself to strike the blow. My heart had become sore by the recent conflicts it had undergone, and I dreaded lest, by procrastination, some other should become her executioner. When her repose had continued for some time, I separated myself gently from her, that I might not disturb her sleep, and seizing suddenly my poniard, plunged it into her bosom. A painful and concentrated murmur, but without any convulsive movement, accompanied her last sigh. So perished this unfortunate.

I rushed to claim my prize. There was a bittersweet sense of victory in finally being her sole possessor. I carried her deeper into the forest. She remained completely unaware and in a daze. I was relieved that she didn't recognize me; if she had even whispered my name, I would have been overwhelmed. She finally slept in the arms of the one who was meant to kill her. I faced many inner battles before I could bring myself to deliver the fatal blow. My heart ached from the recent struggles it had faced, and I worried that if I delayed, someone else might take on the role of her executioner. After she had been sleeping for a while, I quietly pulled away from her to avoid waking her and, seizing my dagger, plunged it into her chest. A painful yet contained murmur escaped her lips, but there was no convulsive movement as she let out her final breath. And thus, this unfortunate soul met her end.

He ceased to speak. I sat horror-struck, covering my face with my hands, seeking, as it were, to hide from myself the frightful images he had presented to my mind. I was roused from this silence by the voice of the captain. “You sleep,” said he, “and it is time to be off. Come, we must abandon this height, as night is setting in, and the messenger is not returned. I will post some one on the mountain edge, to conduct him to the place where we shall pass the night.”

He stopped speaking. I sat there in shock, covering my face with my hands, trying to hide from myself the terrifying images he had put in my head. I was pulled out of this silence by the captain's voice. “You’re dozing off,” he said, “and it’s time to go. Come on, we need to leave this spot since night is falling and the messenger hasn’t come back. I’ll send someone to the edge of the mountain to guide him to where we’ll be spending the night.”

This was no agreeable news to me. I was sick at heart with the dismal story I had heard. I was harassed and fatigued, and the sight of the banditti began to grow insupportable to me.

This wasn't good news for me. I felt miserable about the depressing story I had just heard. I was stressed and exhausted, and the sight of the bandits was becoming unbearable.

The captain assembled his comrades. We rapidly descended the forest which we had mounted with so much difficulty in the morning, and soon arrived in what appeared to be a frequented road. The robbers proceeded with great caution, carrying their guns cocked, and looking on every side with wary and suspicious eyes. They were apprehensive of encountering the civic patrole. We left Rocca Priori behind us. There was a fountain near by, and as I was excessively thirsty, I begged permission to stop and drink. The captain himself went, and brought me water in his hat. We pursued our route, when, at the extremity of an alley which crossed the road, I perceived a female on horseback, dressed in white. She was alone. I recollected the fate of the poor girl in the story, and trembled for her safety.

The captain gathered his team. We quickly descended the forest that we had climbed so painfully in the morning and soon reached what looked like a well-traveled road. The robbers moved with great caution, their guns loaded and ready, scanning the area with alert and suspicious eyes. They were worried about running into the town patrol. We had left Rocca Priori behind us. There was a fountain nearby, and since I was extremely thirsty, I asked if I could stop to drink. The captain went and filled his hat with water for me. We continued on our way when, at the end of an alley crossing the road, I saw a woman on horseback dressed in white. She was alone. I remembered the fate of the poor girl from the story and felt a wave of fear for her safety.

One of the brigands saw her at the same instant, and plunging into the bushes, he ran precipitately in the direction towards her. Stopping on the border of the alley, he put one knee to the ground, presented his carbine ready for menace, or to shoot her horse if she attempted to fly, and in this way awaited her approach. I kept my eyes fixed on her with intense anxiety. I felt tempted to shout, and warn her of her danger, though my own destruction would have been the consequence. It was awful to see this tiger crouching ready for a bound, and the poor innocent victim wandering unconsciously near him. Nothing but a mere chance could save her. To my joy, the chance turned in her favor. She seemed almost accidentally to take an opposite path, which led outside of the wood, where the robber dare not venture. To this casual deviation she owed her safety.

One of the bandits spotted her at the same moment and hurried into the bushes, running quickly in her direction. He stopped at the edge of the alley, knelt down, aimed his rifle menacingly, ready to shoot her horse if she tried to escape, and waited for her to come closer. I watched her with intense worry. I was tempted to shout and warn her of the danger, even though that would mean my own doom. It was terrifying to see this predator poised to pounce while the poor, unsuspecting victim wandered nearby. Only pure luck could save her. Fortunately, luck was on her side. She seemingly took an opposite path by chance, leading her out of the woods where the robber wouldn’t dare go. This random detour saved her life.

I could not imagine why the captain of the band had ventured to such a distance from the height, on which he had placed the sentinel to watch the return of the messengers. He seemed himself uneasy at the risk to which he exposed himself. His movements were rapid and uneasy; I could scarce keep pace with him. At length, after three hours of what might be termed a forced march, we mounted the extremity of the same woods, the summit of which we had occupied during the day; and I learnt with satisfaction, that we had reached our quarters for the night.

I couldn't understand why the captain of the group had gone so far from the high point where he had stationed the lookout to watch for the messengers' return. He seemed anxious about the danger he was putting himself in. His movements were quick and restless; I could hardly keep up with him. Finally, after three hours of what could be called a forced march, we reached the edge of the same woods we had occupied during the day, and I was pleased to learn that we had arrived at our resting place for the night.

“You must be fatigued,” said the chieftain; “but it was necessary to survey the environs, so as not to be surprised during the night. Had we met with the famous civic guard of Rocca Priori you would have seen fine sport.” Such was the indefatigable precaution and forethought of this robber chief, who really gave continual evidences of military talent.

“You must be tired,” said the chieftain; “but it was important to check the surroundings to avoid being caught off guard at night. If we had encountered the famous civic guard of Rocca Priori, it would have been quite a show.” This was the tireless caution and planning of this bandit leader, who truly demonstrated ongoing military skill.

The night was magnificent. The moon rising above the horizon in a cloudless sky, faintly lit up the grand features of the mountains, while lights twinkling here and there, like terrestrial stars, in the wide, dusky expanse of the landscape, betrayed the lonely cabins of the shepherds. Exhausted by fatigue, and by the many agitations I had experienced, I prepared to sleep, soothed by the hope of approaching deliverance. The captain ordered his companions to collect some dry moss; he arranged with his own hands a kind of mattress and pillow of it, and gave me his ample mantle as a covering. I could not but feel both surprised and gratified by such unexpected attentions on the part of this benevolent cut-throat: for there is nothing more striking than to find the ordinary charities, which are matters of course in common life, flourishing by the side of such stern and sterile crime. It is like finding the tender flowers and fresh herbage of the valley growing among the rocks and cinders of the volcano.

The night was stunning. The moon rose above the horizon in a clear sky, softly illuminating the majestic mountains, while lights flickered here and there, like earthly stars, in the vast, dim expanse of the landscape, revealing the isolated cabins of the shepherds. Worn out from fatigue and the many stresses I had faced, I got ready to sleep, comforted by the hope of impending rescue. The captain instructed his companions to gather some dry moss; he personally set up a makeshift mattress and pillow from it and offered me his large cloak as a blanket. I couldn’t help but feel both surprised and touched by such unexpected kindness from this kind-hearted outlaw: for there’s nothing more striking than discovering the simple acts of kindness, which are typically taken for granted in everyday life, thriving alongside such harsh and unforgiving crime. It’s like finding delicate flowers and fresh grass in a valley growing among the rocks and ashes of a volcano.

Before I fell asleep, I had some farther discourse with the captain, who seemed to put great confidence in me. He referred to our previous conversation of the morning; told me he was weary of his hazardous profession; that he had acquired sufficient property, and was anxious to return to the world and lead a peaceful life in the bosom of his family. He wished to know whether it was not in my power to procure him a passport for the United States of America. I applauded his good intentions, and promised to do everything in my power to promote its success. We then parted for the night. I stretched myself upon my couch of moss, which, after my fatigues, felt like a bed of down, and sheltered by the robber’s mantle from all humidity, I slept soundly without waking, until the signal to arise.

Before I went to sleep, I had more conversation with the captain, who seemed to really trust me. He brought up our chat from that morning; he told me he was tired of his dangerous job, that he'd made enough money, and he wanted to go back to the world and live a peaceful life with his family. He asked if I could help him get a passport for the United States. I praised his good intentions and promised to do everything I could to help make it happen. We then said goodnight. I lay down on my bed of moss, which felt like a down mattress after my tiring day, and covered by the robber’s cloak to keep dry, I slept soundly without waking up until the time to get up.

It was nearly six o’clock, and the day was just dawning. As the place where we had passed the night was too much exposed, we moved up into the thickness of the woods. A fire was kindled. While there was any flame, the mantles were again extended round it; but when nothing remained but glowing cinders, they were lowered, and the robbers seated themselves in a circle.

It was almost six o'clock, and the day was just starting. Since the spot where we had spent the night was too exposed, we moved deeper into the woods. A fire was lit. While there was any flame, the blankets were spread around it again; but when only glowing coals were left, they were lowered, and the robbers sat down in a circle.

The scene before me reminded me of some of those described by Homer. There wanted only the victim on the coals, and the sacred knife, to cut off the succulent parts, and distribute them around. My companions might have rivalled the grim warriors of Greece. In place of the noble repasts, however, of Achilles and Agamemnon, I beheld displayed on the grass the remains of the ham which had sustained so vigorous an attack on the preceding evening, accompanied by the reliques of the bread, cheese, and wine.

The scene in front of me reminded me of some described by Homer. All that was missing was the victim on the coals and the sacred knife to slice off the tender parts and share them around. My friends could have competed with the fierce warriors of Greece. Instead of the grand feasts of Achilles and Agamemnon, I saw laid out on the grass the leftovers of the ham that had been attacked so eagerly the night before, along with the remnants of bread, cheese, and wine.

We had scarcely commenced our frugal breakfast, when I heard again an Imitation of the bleating of sheep, similar to what I had heard the day before. The captain answered it in the same tone. Two men were soon after seen descending from the woody height, where we had passed the preceding evening. On nearer approach, they proved to be the sentinel and the messenger. The captain rose and went to meet them. He made a signal for his comrades to join him. They had a short conference, and then returning to me with eagerness, “Your ransom is paid,” said he; “you are free!”

We had just started our simple breakfast when I heard again a sound that imitated the bleating of sheep, similar to what I had heard the day before. The captain responded in the same way. Shortly after, we saw two men coming down from the wooded hill where we had spent the previous evening. As they got closer, we realized they were the guard and the messenger. The captain stood up to meet them. He signaled for his companions to join him. They had a brief discussion, and then returned to me excitedly. “Your ransom is paid,” he said; “you are free!”

Though I had anticipated deliverance, I cannot tell you what a rush of delight these tidings gave me. I cared not to finish my repast, but prepared to depart. The captain took me by the hand; requested permission to write to me, and begged me not to forget the passport. I replied, that I hoped to be of effectual service to him, and that I relied on his honor to return the prince’s note for five hundred dollars, now that the cash was paid. He regarded me for a moment with surprise; then, seeming to recollect himself, “E giusto,” said he, “eccoloadio!”[1] He delivered me the note, pressed my hand once more, and we separated. The laborers were permitted to follow me, and we resumed with joy our road towards Tusculum.

Though I had been looking forward to freedom, I can't express how thrilled these news made me. I didn’t care to finish my meal and got ready to leave. The captain took my hand, asked if he could write to me, and pleaded with me not to forget the passport. I responded that I hoped to be of real help to him and that I trusted his integrity to return the prince’s note for five hundred dollars now that the cash had been paid. He looked at me for a moment in surprise; then, seeming to gather his thoughts, “E giusto,” he said, “eccoloadio!”[1] He handed me the note, squeezed my hand once more, and we parted ways. The workers were allowed to follow me, and we joyfully continued our journey towards Tusculum.

[1] It is just—there it is—adieu!

__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ It’s just—here it is—goodbye!

The artist ceased to speak; the party continued for a few moments to pace the shore of Terracina in silence. The story they had heard had made a deep impression on them, particularly on the fair Venetian, who had gradually regained her husband’s arm. At the part that related to the young girl of Frosinone, she had been violently affected; sobs broke from her; she clung close to her husband, and as she looked up to him as if for protection, the moon-beams shining on her beautifully fair countenance showed it paler than usual with terror, while tears glittered in her fine dark eyes. “O caro mio!” would she murmur, shuddering at every atrocious circumstance of the story.

The artist stopped talking, and the group continued to walk along the shore of Terracina in silence for a few moments. The story they had just heard had made a strong impact on them, especially on the beautiful Venetian woman, who had slowly leaned back into her husband’s arm. When the tale reached the part about the young girl from Frosinone, it affected her deeply; she broke into sobs and held tightly onto her husband. As she looked up at him for comfort, the moonlight shining on her strikingly beautiful face made it look paler than usual with fear, while tears sparkled in her lovely dark eyes. “O caro mio!” she whispered, shuddering at every horrifying detail of the story.

“Corragio, mia vita!” was the reply, as the husband gently and fondly tapped the white hand that lay upon his arm.

“Courage, my life!” was the reply, as the husband gently and affectionately tapped the pale hand that rested on his arm.

The Englishman alone preserved his usual phlegm, and the fair Venetian was piqued at it.

The Englishman remained calm as usual, and the beautiful Venetian was annoyed by it.

She had pardoned him a want of gallantry towards herself, though a sin of omission seldom met with in the gallant climate of Italy, but the quiet coolness which he maintained in matters which so much affected her, and the slow credence which he had given to the stories which had filled her with alarm, were quite vexatious.

She had forgiven him for being unchivalrous toward her, even though that's not something you often see in the romantic atmosphere of Italy. However, his calm indifference to issues that deeply affected her, and the way he took his time to believe the stories that had alarmed her, were really frustrating.

“Santa Maria!” said she to husband as they retired for the night, “what insensible beings these English are!”

“Santa Maria!” she said to her husband as they went to bed for the night, “what clueless people these English are!”

In the morning all was bustle at the inn at Terracina.

In the morning, the inn at Terracina was full of activity.

The procaccio had departed at day-break, on its route towards Rome, but the Englishman was yet to start, and the departure of an English equipage is always enough to keep an inn in a bustle. On this occasion there was more than usual stir; for the Englishman having much property about him, and having been convinced of the real danger of the road, had applied to the police and obtained, by dint of liberal pay, an escort of eight dragoons and twelve foot-soldiers, as far as Fondi.

The carriage had left at dawn on its way to Rome, but the Englishman was still getting ready to go, and the departure of an English coach always creates a hustle and bustle at an inn. This time there was even more excitement than usual; the Englishman had a lot of valuables with him and, aware of the actual dangers on the road, he had approached the police. After paying generously, he managed to get an escort of eight dragoon soldiers and twelve infantry soldiers to accompany him as far as Fondi.

Perhaps, too, there might have been a little ostentation at bottom, from which, with great delicacy be it spoken, English travellers are not always exempt; though to say the truth, he had nothing of it in his manner. He moved about taciturn and reserved as usual, among the gaping crowd in his gingerbread-colored travelling cap, with his hands in his pockets. He gave laconic orders to John as he packed away the thousand and one indispensable conveniencies of the night, double loaded his pistols with great sang-froid, and deposited them in the pockets of the carriage, taking no notice of a pair of keen eyes gazing on him from among the herd of loitering idlers. The fair Venetian now came up with a request made in her dulcet tones, that he would permit their carriage to proceed under protection of his escort. The Englishman, who was busy loading another pair of pistols for his servant, and held the ramrod between his teeth, nodded assent as a matter of course, but without lifting up his eyes. The fair Venetian was not accustomed to such indifference. “O Dio!” ejaculated she softly as she retired, “como sono freddi questi Inglesi.” At length off they set in gallant style, the eight dragoons prancing in front, the twelve foot-soldiers marching in rear, and carriages moving slowly in the centre to enable the infantry to keep pace with them. They had proceeded but a few hundred yards when it was discovered that some indispensable article had been left behind.

Maybe there was a bit of showing off beneath it all, and, to be fair, English travelers aren’t always free from that. However, to be honest, he didn’t display any of it in his behavior. He moved around quietly and reservedly as usual, among the gawking crowd in his gingerbread-colored travel cap, with his hands in his pockets. He gave brief orders to John as he packed away the numerous necessary items for the night, double loaded his pistols with cool composure, and placed them in the carriage pockets, oblivious to a pair of sharp eyes watching him from the crowd of idle onlookers. The beautiful Venetian approached with a request in her sweet voice, asking if he would allow their carriage to move under his escort. The Englishman, busy loading another pair of pistols for his servant and holding the ramrod between his teeth, nodded in agreement as a matter of course but without looking up. The beautiful Venetian was not used to such indifference. “Oh God!” she softly exclaimed as she stepped back, “how cold these Englishmen are.” Finally, they set off in impressive style, with eight dragoons prancing in front, twelve foot-soldiers marching behind, and carriages moving slowly in the middle to keep pace with the infantry. They had only gone a few hundred yards when they discovered that some essential item had been left behind.

In fact, the Englishman’s purse was missing, and John was despatched to the inn to search for it.

In fact, the Englishman’s wallet was missing, and John was sent to the inn to look for it.

This occasioned a little delay, and the carriage of the Venetians drove slowly on. John came back out of breath and out of humor; the purse was not to be found; his master was irritated; he recollected the very place where it lay; the cursed Italian servant had pocketed it. John was again sent back. He returned once more, without the purse, but with the landlord and the whole household at his heels. A thousand ejaculations and protestations, accompanied by all sorts of grimaces and contortions. “No purse had been seen—his excellenza must be mistaken.”

This caused a slight delay, and the Venetian carriage moved slowly. John came back panting and in a bad mood; the purse was missing. His master was annoyed; he remembered exactly where it was. That cursed Italian servant had taken it. John was sent back again. He returned yet again, without the purse, but with the landlord and the entire staff following him. There were countless exclamations and protests, accompanied by all kinds of facial expressions and gestures. “No purse had been seen—your excellency must be mistaken.”

No—his excellenza was not mistaken; the purse lay on the marble table, under the mirror: a green purse, half full of gold and silver. Again a thousand grimaces and contortions, and vows by San Genario, that no purse of the kind had been seen.

No—his excellency was not wrong; the purse was on the marble table, under the mirror: a green purse, half full of gold and silver. Again, a thousand grimaces and twists, and promises to San Gennaro that no purse like that had been seen.

The Englishman became furious. “The waiter had pocketed it. The landlord was a knave. The inn a den of thieves—it was a d——d country—he had been cheated and plundered from one end of it to the other—but he’d have satisfaction—he’d drive right off to the police.”

The Englishman was furious. “The waiter had taken it. The landlord was a crook. The inn was a den of thieves—it was a damned country—he had been cheated and robbed from one end to the other—but he’d get justice—he’d head straight to the police.”

He was on the point of ordering the postilions to turn back, when, on rising, he displaced the cushion of the carriage, and the purse of money fell chinking to the floor.

He was about to tell the drivers to turn back when, as he stood up, he knocked the cushion of the carriage, and the purse of money tumbled out, clinking on the floor.

All the blood in his body seemed to rush into his face. “D—n the purse,” said he, as he snatched it up. He dashed a handful of money on the ground before the pale, cringing waiter. “There—be off,” cried he; “John, order the postilions to drive on.”

All the blood in his body seemed to rush into his face. “Damn the purse,” he said as he grabbed it. He threw a handful of money on the ground in front of the pale, cowering waiter. “There—go away,” he shouted; “John, tell the drivers to move on.”

Above half an hour had been exhausted in this altercation. The Venetian carriage had loitered along; its passengers looking out from time to time, and expecting the escort every moment to follow. They had gradually turned an angle of the road that shut them out of sight. The little army was again in motion, and made a very picturesque appearance as it wound along at the bottom of the rocks; the morning sunshine beaming upon the weapons of soldiery.

More than half an hour had passed in this argument. The Venetian carriage had lingered; its passengers peering out occasionally, anticipating the escort to arrive at any moment. They had slowly rounded a bend in the road that hid them from view. The small army was on the move again, creating a very picturesque sight as it wound its way along at the base of the rocks, with the morning sun gleaming on the soldiers' weapons.

The Englishman lolled back in his carriage, vexed with himself at what had passed, and consequently out of humor with all the world. As this, however, is no uncommon case with gentlemen who travel for their pleasure, it is hardly worthy of remark.

The Englishman slouched in his carriage, annoyed with himself about what had happened, and so he was in a bad mood with everyone. However, since this is not an unusual situation for gentlemen traveling for leisure, it hardly warrants a comment.

They had wound up from the coast among the hills, and came to a part of the road that admitted of some prospect ahead.

They had traveled from the coast into the hills and reached a section of the road that offered a view ahead.

“I see nothing of the lady’s carriage, sir,” said John, leaning over from the coach box.

“I don’t see the lady’s carriage anywhere, sir,” said John, leaning over from the coach box.

“Hang the lady’s carriage!” said the Englishman, crustily; “don’t plague me about the lady’s carriage; must I be continually pestered with strangers?”

“Hang the lady’s carriage!” said the Englishman, gruffly; “don’t bother me about the lady’s carriage; must I always be hassled by strangers?”

John said not another word, for he understood his master’s mood. The road grew more wild and lonely; they were slowly proceeding in a foot pace up a hill; the dragoons were some distance ahead, and had just reached the summit of the hill, when they uttered an exclamation, or rather shout, and galloped forward. The Englishman was aroused from his sulky revery. He stretched his head from the carriage, which had attained the brow of the hill. Before him extended a long hollow defile, commanded on one side by rugged, precipitous heights, covered with bushes and scanty forest trees. At some distance he beheld the carriage of the Venitians overturned; a numerous gang of desperadoes were rifling it; the young man and his servant were overpowered and partly stripped, and the lady was in the hands of two of the ruffians.

John said nothing more because he understood his master’s mood. The road became wilder and lonelier; they were slowly making their way up the hill at a walking pace. The soldiers were some distance ahead and had just reached the top when they shouted and galloped forward. The Englishman was pulled out of his gloomy thoughts. He leaned his head out of the carriage as it reached the crest of the hill. Before him stretched a long, narrow valley, bordered on one side by steep, rugged cliffs covered with bushes and sparse trees. In the distance, he saw the overturned carriage of the Venetians; a large group of outlaws was looting it. The young man and his servant were overpowered and partly stripped, while the lady was in the grasp of two of the thugs.

The Englishman seized his pistols, sprang from his carriage, and called upon John to follow him. In the meantime, as the dragoons came forward, the robbers who were busy with the carriage quitted their spoil, formed themselves in the middle of the road, and taking deliberate aim, fired. One of the dragoons fell, another was wounded, and the whole were for a moment checked and thrown in confusion. The robbers loaded again in an instant. The dragoons had discharged their carbines, but without apparent effect; they received another volley, which, though none fell, threw them again into confusion. The robbers were loading a second time, when they saw the foot soldiers at hand.—“Scampa via!” was the word. They abandoned their prey, and retreated up the rocks; the soldiers after them. They fought from cliff to cliff, and bush to bush, the robbers turning every now and then to fire upon their pursuers; the soldiers scrambling after them, and discharging their muskets whenever they could get a chance. Sometimes a soldier or a robber was shot down, and came tumbling Among the cliffs. The dragoons kept firing from below, whenever a robber came in sight.

The Englishman grabbed his pistols, jumped out of his carriage, and urged John to follow him. In the meantime, as the dragoons approached, the robbers who were busy with the carriage abandoned their loot, positioned themselves in the middle of the road, and took careful aim before shooting. One of the dragoons fell, another was injured, and for a moment, the entire group was halted and thrown into chaos. The robbers quickly reloaded. The dragoons had fired their carbines, but it seemed to have no effect; they received another volley, which, although no one was hit, caused them to again lose their composure. The robbers were loading again when they spotted the infantry nearby. “Scampa via!” was the call. They left their loot behind and retreated up the rocks, with the soldiers chasing after them. They fought from cliff to cliff and bush to bush, with the robbers occasionally turning back to shoot at their pursuers and the soldiers scrambling after them, taking shots with their muskets whenever they could. Occasionally, either a soldier or a robber would be shot down, tumbling among the cliffs. The dragoons kept shooting from below whenever a robber was in sight.

The Englishman hastened to the scene of action, and the balls discharged at the dragoons had whistled past him as he advanced. One object, however, engrossed his attention. It was the beautiful Venetian lady in the hands of two of the robbers, who, during the confusion of the fight, carried her shrieking up the mountains. He saw her dress gleaming among the bushes, and he sprang up the rocks to intercept the robbers as they bore off their prey. The ruggedness of the steep and the entanglements of the bushes, delayed and impeded him. He lost sight of the lady, but was still guided by her cries, which grew fainter and fainter. They were off to the left, while the report of muskets showed that the battle was raging to the right.

The Englishman rushed to the scene, and the bullets fired at the dragoons whizzed past him as he moved forward. One thing, however, captured his full attention. It was the beautiful Venetian lady, being taken by two of the robbers, who, amid the chaos of the fight, carried her, screaming, up the mountains. He spotted her dress shining through the bushes, and he climbed the rocks to intercept the robbers as they took her away. The rough terrain and the tangled underbrush slowed him down. He lost sight of the lady, but he could still hear her cries, which grew softer and softer. They were moving to the left, while the sound of gunfire indicated that the battle was raging to the right.

At length he came upon what appeared to be a rugged footpath, faintly worn in a gully of the rock, and beheld the ruffians at some distance hurrying the lady up the defile. One of them hearing his approach let go his prey, advanced towards him, and levelling the carbine which had been slung on his back, fired. The ball whizzed through the Englishman’s hat, and carried with it some of his hair. He returned the fire with one of his pistols, and the robber fell. The other brigand now dropped the lady, and drawing a long pistol from his belt, fired on his adversary with deliberate aim; the ball passed between his left arm and his side, slightly wounding the arm. The Englishman advanced and discharged his remaining pistol, which wounded the robber, but not severely. The brigand drew a stiletto, and rushed upon his adversary, who eluded the blow, receiving merely a slight wound, and defending himself with his pistol, which had a spring bayonet. They closed with one another, and a desperate struggle ensued. The robber was a square-built, thick-set, man, powerful, muscular, and active. The Englishman, though of larger frame and greater strength, was less active and less accustomed to athletic exercises and feats of hardihood, but he showed himself practised and skilled in the art of defence. They were on a craggy height, and the Englishman perceived that his antagonist was striving to press him to the edge.

Eventually, he found what looked like a rough footpath, barely worn into a gully of rock, and saw the thugs in the distance forcing the woman up the narrow pass. One of them, hearing him come closer, let go of his captive, moved toward him, and aimed the carbine slung over his back, firing at him. The bullet whizzed by, ripping through the Englishman’s hat and taking some of his hair with it. He fired back with one of his pistols, hitting the robber. The other thug then dropped the woman and pulled out a long pistol from his belt, taking careful aim and shooting at his opponent; the bullet grazed between the Englishman’s left arm and side, giving him a minor wound. The Englishman moved forward and fired his remaining pistol, hitting the robber but not severely. The thug brandished a stiletto and charged at him, but the Englishman dodged the attack, sustaining only a slight injury, and defended himself with his pistol, which had a spring bayonet. They grappled fiercely, resulting in a desperate struggle. The robber was stocky, muscular, and strong. The Englishman, though larger and stronger, was less agile and not as used to physical challenges, but he proved skilled in the art of defense. They were on a rocky height, and the Englishman noticed that his opponent was trying to push him towards the edge.

A side glance showed him also the robber whom he had first wounded, Scrambling up to the assistance of his comrade, stiletto in hand. He had, in fact, attained the summit of the cliff, and the Englishman saw him within a few steps, when he heard suddenly the report of a pistol and the ruffian fell. The shot came from John, who had arrived just in time to save his master.

A quick glance revealed the thief he had wounded earlier, scrambling up to help his partner, a knife in hand. He had actually reached the top of the cliff, and the Englishman saw him just a few steps away when he suddenly heard the bang of a gun, and the thug fell. The shot was fired by John, who had arrived just in time to save his master.

The remaining robber, exhausted by loss of blood and the violence of the contest, showed signs of faltering. His adversary pursued his advantage; pressed on him, and as his strength relaxed, dashed him headlong from the precipice. He looked after him and saw him lying motionless among the rocks below.

The last robber, weakened from blood loss and the intensity of the fight, began to show signs of giving in. His opponent took advantage of this; he pressed harder, and as the robber's strength faded, he pushed him off the edge of the cliff. He turned to look and saw him lying still among the rocks below.

The Englishman now sought the fair Venetian. He found her senseless on the ground. With his servant’s assistance he bore her down to the road, where her husband was raving like one distracted.

The Englishman now looked for the beautiful Venetian. He found her unconscious on the ground. With his servant's help, he carried her down to the road, where her husband was shouting like someone out of control.

The occasional discharge of fire-arms along the height showed that a Retreating fight was still kept up by the robbers. The carriage was righted; the baggage was hastily replaced; the Venetian, transported with joy and gratitude, took his lovely and senseless burthen in his arms, and the party resumed their route towards Fondi, escorted by the dragoons, leaving the foot soldiers to ferret out the banditti. While on the way John dressed his master’s wounds, which were found not to be serious.

The occasional gunfire from the heights indicated that the robbers were still fighting a retreat. The carriage was set back upright, the luggage was quickly put back in place, and the Venetian, filled with joy and gratitude, lifted his beautiful but unconscious companion into his arms. The group continued on their journey to Fondi, accompanied by the dragoons, while the foot soldiers went to track down the bandits. Along the way, John dressed his master's wounds, which turned out to be not serious.

Before arriving at Fondi the fair Venetian had recovered from her swoon, and was made conscious of her safety and of the mode of her deliverance. Her transports were unbounded; and mingled with them were enthusiastic ejaculations of gratitude to her deliverer. A thousand times did she reproach herself for having accused him of coldness and insensibility. The moment she saw him she rushed into his arms, and clasped him round the neck with all the vivacity of her nation.

Before reaching Fondi, the fair Venetian had come to from her faint and was aware of her safety and how she had been rescued. Her joy was overwhelming; along with it were heartfelt exclamations of thanks to her savior. She cursed herself a thousand times for accusing him of being cold and insensitive. The moment she saw him, she ran into his arms and hugged him around the neck with all the enthusiasm typical of her people.

Never was man more embarrassed by the embraces of a fine woman.

Never has a man felt more awkward about being hugged by an attractive woman.

“My deliverer! my angel!” exclaimed she.

“My savior! My angel!” she exclaimed.

“Tut! tut!” said the Englishman.

"Ugh! Ugh!" said the Englishman.

“You are wounded!” shrieked the fair Venetian, as she saw the blood upon his clothes.

“You're hurt!” shrieked the beautiful Venetian when she saw the blood on his clothes.

“Pooh—nothing at all!”

"Pooh—absolutely nothing!"

“O Dio!” exclaimed she, clasping him again round the neck and sobbing on his bosom.

“O God!” she exclaimed, wrapping her arms around his neck again and crying on his chest.

“Pooh!” exclaimed the Englishman, looking somewhat foolish; “this is all nonsense.”

“Pooh!” the Englishman said, looking a bit silly; “this is all nonsense.”

PART FOURTH
THE MONEY DIGGERS

(FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER)

Now I remember those old women’s words
Who in my youth would tell me winter’s tales;
And speak of spirits and ghosts that glide by night
About the place where treasure had been hid.
—MARLOW’S JEW OF MALTA.

Now I remember the words of those old women
Who used to tell me stories about winter in my youth;
And talk about spirits and ghosts that drift by at night
Around the spot where treasure was hidden.
—MARLOW’S JEW OF MALTA.

HELL GATE

About six miles from the renowned city of the Manhattoes, and in that Sound, or arm of the sea, which passes between the main land and Nassau or Long Island, there is a narrow strait, where the current is violently compressed between shouldering promontories, and horribly irritated and perplexed by rocks and shoals. Being at the best of times a very violent, hasty current, its takes these impediments in mighty dudgeon; boiling in whirlpools; brawling and fretting in ripples and breakers; and, in short, indulging in all kinds of wrong-headed paroxysms. At such times, woe to any unlucky vessel that ventures within its clutches.

About six miles from the famous city of Manhattan, in the stretch of water that lies between the mainland and Nassau or Long Island, there’s a narrow strait where the current is forcefully squeezed between rising land masses and is extremely agitated by rocks and shallow areas. Even under the best conditions, it’s a very turbulent and fast-moving current, reacting angrily to these obstacles; it churns in whirlpools, rushes and stirs in ripples and waves, and essentially throws fits in every possible way. During these times, any unfortunate boat that dares to enter its grip is in serious trouble.

This termagant humor is said to prevail only at half tides. At low water it is as pacific as any other stream. As the tide rises, it begins to fret; at half tide it rages and roars as if bellowing for more water; but when the tide is full it relapses again into quiet, and for a time seems almost to sleep as soundly as an alderman after dinner. It may be compared to an inveterate hard drinker, who is a peaceable fellow enough when he has no liquor at all, or when he has a skin full, but when half seas over plays the very devil.

This fierce humor is said to show up only at half tides. At low tide, it’s as calm as any other stream. As the tide comes in, it starts to stir; at half tide, it rages and roars as if begging for more water; but when the tide is full, it quiets down again and for a while seems almost to sleep as soundly as a politician after dinner. It’s like a heavy drinker, who is a pretty easygoing guy when he's completely sober or completely drunk, but when he's tipsy, he can become a real nightmare.

This mighty, blustering, bullying little strait was a place of great Difficulty and danger to the Dutch navigators of ancient days; hectoring their tub-built barks in a most unruly style; whirling them about, in a manner to make any but a Dutchman giddy, and not unfrequently stranding them upon rocks and reefs. Whereupon out of sheer spleen they denominated it Hellegat (literally Hell Gut) and solemnly gave it over to the devil. This appellation has since been aptly rendered into English by the name of Hell Gate; and into nonsense by the name of Hurl Gate, according to certain foreign intruders who neither understood Dutch nor English. May St. Nicholas confound them!

This powerful, boisterous little strait was a place of great difficulty and danger for the Dutch navigators of old; bullying their tub-built ships in a very unruly way; tossing them around in a manner that would make anyone but a Dutchman dizzy, and often leaving them stranded on rocks and reefs. Out of sheer frustration, they called it Hellegat (literally Hell Gut) and officially handed it over to the devil. This name has since been fittingly translated into English as Hell Gate; and into nonsense as Hurl Gate, according to certain foreign intruders who didn’t understand Dutch or English. May St. Nicholas confuse them!

From this strait to the city of the Manhattoes the borders of the Sound are greatly diversified; in one part, on the eastern shore of the island of Manhata and opposite Blackwell’s Island, being very much broken and indented by rocky nooks, overhung with trees which give them a wild and romantic look.

From this strait to the city of Manhattan, the edges of the Sound are very varied; in one area, on the eastern shore of the island of Manhattan and across from Blackwell’s Island, it is quite rugged and filled with rocky inlets, shaded by trees that give it a wild and romantic appearance.

The flux and reflux of the tide through this part of the Sound is extremely rapid, and the navigation troublesome, by reason of the whirling eddies and counter currents. I speak this from experience, having been much of a navigator of these small seas in my boyhood, and having more than once run the risk of shipwreck and drowning in the course of divers holiday voyages, to which in common with the Dutch urchins I was rather prone.

The flow and ebb of the tide in this part of the Sound is very fast, and navigating it can be tricky because of the swirling eddies and opposing currents. I know this from experience, having spent a lot of my childhood navigating these smaller seas and having risked shipwreck and drowning more than once during various holiday trips, which I, like the Dutch kids, was quite prone to.

In the midst of this perilous strait, and hard by a group of rocks called “the Hen and Chickens,” there lay in my boyish days the wreck of a vessel which had been entangled in the whirlpools and stranded during a storm. There was some wild story about this being the wreck of a pirate, and of some bloody murder, connected with it, which I cannot now recollect. Indeed, the desolate look of this forlorn hulk, and the fearful place where it lay rotting, were sufficient to awaken strange notions concerning it. A row of timber heads, blackened by time, peered above the surface at high water; but at low tide a considerable part of the hull was bare, and its great ribs or timbers, partly stripped of their planks, looked like the skeleton of some sea monster. There was also the stump of a mast, with a few ropes and blocks swinging about and whistling in the wind, while the sea gull wheeled and screamed around this melancholy carcass.

In the middle of this dangerous channel, right next to a group of rocks called “the Hen and Chickens,” there was a shipwreck from my childhood that had gotten caught in the whirlpools and crashed during a storm. There was some wild rumor that it belonged to a pirate and involved a bloody murder, but I can’t remember the details now. The desolate appearance of this sad wreck and the spooky spot where it lay decaying were enough to stir up strange ideas about it. A row of timber heads, darkened by age, peeked above the water at high tide; but at low tide, a good part of the hull was exposed, and its large ribs or beams, partly stripped of planks, looked like the skeleton of some sea monster. There was also a stump of a mast, with a few ropes and blocks swinging and whistling in the wind, while seagulls circled and screamed around this sad carcass.

The stories connected with this wreck made it an object of great awe to my boyish fancy; but in truth the whole neighborhood was full of fable and romance for me, abounding with traditions about pirates, hobgoblins, and buried money. As I grew to more mature years I made many researches after the truth of these strange traditions; for I have always been a curious investigator of the valuable, but obscure branches of the history of my native province. I found infinite difficulty, however, in arriving at any precise information. In seeking to dig up one fact it is incredible the number of fables which I unearthed; for the whole course of the Sound seemed in my younger days to be like the straits of Pylorus of yore, the very region of fiction. I will say nothing of the Devil’s Stepping Stones, by which that arch fiend made his retreat from Connecticut to Long Island, seeing that the subject is likely to be learnedly treated by a worthy friend and contemporary historian[2] whom I have furnished with particulars thereof. Neither will I say anything of the black man in a three-cornered hat, seated in the stern of a jolly boat who used to be seen about Hell Gate in stormy weather; and who went by the name of the Pirate’s Spuke, or Pirate’s Ghost, because I never could meet with any person of stanch credibility who professed to have seen this spectrum; unless it were the widow of Manus Conklin, the blacksmith of Frog’s Neck, but then, poor woman, she was a little purblind, and might have been mistaken; though they said she saw farther than other folks in the dark. All this, however, was but little satisfactory in regard to the tales of buried money about which I was most curious; and the following was all that I could for a long time collect that had anything like an air of authenticity.

The stories surrounding this wreck filled my young imagination with wonder; but really, the entire neighborhood was rich with tales and romance for me, filled with legends about pirates, mischievous beings, and hidden treasure. As I grew older, I conducted many investigations to uncover the truth behind these strange stories; I’ve always been a curious seeker of the valuable but obscure parts of the history of my home region. However, I found it incredibly difficult to find any concrete information. In trying to uncover one fact, I discovered an incredible number of myths; the whole area of the Sound seemed to me in my younger days like the ancient straits of Pylorus, a true realm of fiction. I won't mention the Devil’s Stepping Stones, from which that arch fiend made his escape from Connecticut to Long Island, as I’m sure a worthy friend and contemporary historian [2] will cover that topic in depth, and I’ve provided him with specific details. Nor will I talk about the mysterious man in a three-cornered hat, who was seen in a boat around Hell Gate during storms and was known as the Pirate’s Spuke, or Pirate’s Ghost, because I never encountered anyone trustworthy who claimed to have seen this apparition; except for the widow of Manus Conklin, the blacksmith from Frog’s Neck, but poor woman, she was a bit short-sighted and might have been mistaken; although they said she could see farther than others in the dark. Nevertheless, all this was not very satisfying regarding the tales of hidden treasure that I was most interested in; and for a long time, this was all I could gather that had any semblance of authenticity.

[2] For a very interesting account of the Devil and his Stepping Stones, see the learned memoir read before the New York Historical Society since the death of Mr. Knickerbocker, by his friend, an eminent jurist of the place.

[2] For an engaging account of the Devil and his Stepping Stones, check out the insightful memoir presented to the New York Historical Society after Mr. Knickerbocker's death, written by his friend, a distinguished local lawyer.

KIDD THE PIRATE

In old times, just after the territory of the New Netherlands had been wrested from the hands of their High Mightinesses, the Lords States General of Holland, by Charles the Second, and while it was as yet in an unquiet state, the province was a favorite resort of adventurers of all kinds, and particularly of buccaneers. These were piratical rovers of the deep, who made sad work in times of peace among the Spanish settlements and Spanish merchant ships. They took advantage of the easy access to the harbor of the Manhattoes, and of the laxity of its scarcely-organized government, to make it a kind of rendezvous, where they might dispose of their ill-gotten spoils, and concert new depredations. Crews of these desperadoes, the runagates of every country and clime, might be seen swaggering, in open day, about the streets of the little burgh; elbowing its quiet Mynheers; trafficking away their rich outlandish plunder, at half price, to the wary merchant, and then squandering their gains in taverns; drinking, gambling, singing, swearing, shouting, and astounding the neighborhood with sudden brawl and ruffian revelry.

In the past, right after the area of New Netherlands was taken from the control of their High Mightinesses, the Lords States General of Holland, by Charles the Second, and while things were still unsettled, the province became a popular spot for all kinds of adventurers, especially buccaneers. These were pirate raiders who wreaked havoc during peacetime among Spanish settlements and merchant ships. They exploited the easy access to the harbor of Manhattan and the loose grip of its poorly organized government to turn it into a hangout where they could sell their stolen goods and plan new attacks. Groups of these outlaws, misfits from all over, could be seen swaggering around the streets of the small town in broad daylight, pushing past its quiet residents; they traded their exotic plunder at half price to cautious merchants and then wasted their earnings in taverns, drinking, gambling, singing, swearing, shouting, and shocking the neighborhood with sudden fights and rowdy celebrations.

At length the indignation of government was aroused, and it was determined to ferret out this vermin brood from, the colonies. Great consternation took place among the pirates on finding justice in pursuit of them, and their old haunts turned to places of peril. They secreted their money and jewels in lonely out-of-the-way places; buried them about the wild shores of the rivers and sea-coast, and dispersed themselves over the face of the country.

At last, the government’s anger was stirred up, and they decided to root out this pack of criminals from the colonies. The pirates were filled with fear upon realizing that justice was hunting them down, and their former hideouts became dangerous places. They stashed their money and jewels in remote, hidden spots; buried them along the wild riverbanks and coastlines, and scattered themselves across the country.

Among the agents employed to hunt them by sea was the renowned Captain Kidd. He had long been a hardy adventurer, a kind of equivocal borderer, half trader, half smuggler, with a tolerable dash of the pickaroon. He had traded for some time among the pirates, lurking about the seas in a little rakish, musquito-built vessel, prying into all kinds of odd places, as busy as a Mother Carey’s chicken in a gale of wind.

Among the agents sent out to hunt them by sea was the famous Captain Kidd. He had been a tough adventurer for a long time, someone who straddled the line between being a trader and a smuggler, with a bit of a pirate spirit. He had been trading for a while among the pirates, moving around the seas in a fast, sleek little boat, poking into all sorts of strange places, as active as a hen in a storm.

This nondescript personage was pitched upon by government as the very man to command a vessel fitted out to cruise against the pirates, since he knew all their haunts and lurking-places: acting upon the shrewd old maxim of “setting a rogue to catch a rogue.” Kidd accordingly sailed from New York in the Adventure galley, gallantly armed and duly commissioned, and steered his course to the Madeiras, to Bonavista, to Madagascar, and cruised at the entrance of the Red Sea. Instead, however, of making war upon the pirates, he turned pirate himself: captured friend or foe; enriched himself with the spoils of a wealthy Indiaman, manned by Moors, though commanded by an Englishman, and having disposed of his prize, had the hardihood to return to Boston, laden with wealth, with a crew of his comrades at his heels.

This unremarkable individual was chosen by the government as the perfect person to command a ship outfitted to hunt down pirates, since he knew all their hideouts and secret spots: following the clever old saying of “setting a rogue to catch a rogue.” Kidd then set sail from New York on the Adventure galley, fully armed and officially commissioned, directing his course to the Madeiras, Bonavista, Madagascar, and patrolling the entrance of the Red Sea. However, instead of waging war on the pirates, he became one himself: capturing both friends and foes; he enriched himself with the loot from a wealthy Indiaman, crewed by Moors but commanded by an Englishman, and after selling his prize, had the boldness to return to Boston, loaded with riches, with a crew of his comrades following him.

His fame had preceded him. The alarm was given of the reappearance of this cut-purse of the ocean. Measures were taken for his arrest; but he had time, it is said, to bury the greater part of his treasures. He even attempted to draw his sword and defend himself when arrested; but was secured and thrown into prison, with several of his followers. They were carried to England in a frigate, where they were tried, condemned, and hanged at Execution Dock. Kidd died hard, for the rope with which he was first tied up broke with his weight, and he tumbled to the ground; he was tied up a second time, and effectually; from whence arose the story of his having been twice hanged.

His fame had preceded him. An alert went out about the return of this ocean thief. Steps were taken to capture him, but it's said he had time to hide most of his treasure. He even tried to draw his sword and fight back when they came to arrest him; however, he was subdued and thrown into prison alongside several of his crew. They were taken to England on a frigate, where they were tried, found guilty, and hanged at Execution Dock. Kidd had a tough time, as the rope used to hang him the first time broke under his weight, and he fell to the ground. He was tied up again, and this time, it worked; hence, the story that he was hanged twice arose.

Such is the main outline of Kidd’s history; but it has given birth to an innumerable progeny of traditions. The circumstance of his having buried great treasures of gold and jewels after returning from his cruising set the brains of all the good people along the coast in a ferment. There were rumors on rumors of great sums found here and there; sometimes in one part of the country, sometimes in another; of trees and rocks bearing mysterious marks; doubtless indicating the spots where treasure lay hidden; of coins found with Moorish characters, the plunder of Kidd’s eastern prize, but which the common people took for diabolical or magic inscriptions.

This is the basic outline of Kidd’s story, but it has led to countless myths and tales. The fact that he buried a huge treasure of gold and jewels after returning from his voyages got everyone along the coast buzzing. There were endless rumors of large amounts of treasure discovered in various places; sometimes in one area, sometimes in another; about trees and rocks with strange markings that surely pointed to where treasure was buried; and coins found with Moorish writing, which were actually from Kidd’s eastern loot, but that the locals believed were demonic or magical symbols.

Some reported the spoils to have been buried in solitary unsettled places about Plymouth and Cape Cod; many other parts of the Eastern coast, also, and various places in Long Island Sound, have been gilded by these rumors, and have been ransacked by adventurous money-diggers.

Some people claimed that the treasure was buried in remote, untamed spots near Plymouth and Cape Cod; many other areas along the Eastern coast, as well as various locations in Long Island Sound, have also been touched by these rumors and have been searched by daring treasure hunters.

In all the stories of these enterprises the devil played a conspicuous part. Either he was conciliated by ceremonies and invocations, or some bargain or compact was made with him. Still he was sure to play the money-diggers some slippery trick. Some had succeeded so far as to touch the iron chest which contained the treasure, when some baffling circumstance was sure to take place. Either the earth would fall in and fill up the pit or some direful noise or apparition would throw the party into a panic and frighten them from the place; and sometimes the devil himself would appear and bear off the prize from their very grasp; and if they visited the place on the next day, not a trace would be seen of their labors of the preceding night.

In all the stories about these ventures, the devil had a prominent role. Either he was appeased through rituals and calls, or some deal was made with him. Yet, he was always sure to pull some tricky stunt on the treasure hunters. Some had even managed to reach the iron chest that held the treasure, only for some frustrating event to happen. Either the ground would cave in and fill the hole, or some terrifying noise or ghostly sight would send everyone into a panic and make them flee; sometimes the devil himself would show up and take the treasure right from their hands. And if they returned the next day, not a single sign of their efforts from the night before would be found.

Such were the vague rumors which for a long time tantalized without gratifying my curiosity on the interesting subject of these pirate traditions. There is nothing in this world so hard to get at as truth. I sought among my favorite sources of authentic information, the oldest inhabitants, and particularly the old Dutch wives of the province; but though I flatter myself I am better versed than most men in the curious history of my native province, yet for a long time my inquiries were unattended with any substantial result.

Such were the vague rumors that for a long time teased but never satisfied my curiosity about these pirate traditions. There’s nothing in this world harder to uncover than the truth. I looked among my go-to sources of reliable information, the oldest locals, especially the old Dutch women of the area; but even though I think I know more than most about the fascinating history of my hometown, my inquiries didn’t yield any solid results for a long time.

At length it happened, one calm day in the latter part of summer, that I was relaxing myself from the toils of severe study by a day’s amusement in fishing in those waters which had been the favorite resort of my boyhood. I was in company with several worthy burghers of my native city. Our sport was indifferent; the fish did not bite freely; and we had frequently changed our fishing ground without bettering our luck. We at length anchored close under a ledge of rocky coast, on the eastern side of the island of Manhata. It was a still, warm day. The stream whirled and dimpled by us without a wave or even a ripple, and every thing was so calm and quiet that it was almost startling when the kingfisher would pitch himself from the branch of some dry tree, and after suspending himself for a moment in the air to take his aim, would souse into the smooth water after his prey. While we were lolling in our boat, half drowsy with the warm stillness of the day and the dullness of our sport, one of our party, a worthy alderman, was overtaken by a slumber, and, as he dozed, suffered the sinker of his drop-line to lie upon the bottom of the river. On waking, he found he had caught something of importance, from the weight; on drawing it to the surface, we were much surprised to find a long pistol of very curious and outlandish fashion, which, from its rusted condition, and its stock being worm-eaten and covered with barnacles, appeared to have been a long time under water. The unexpected appearance of this document of warfare occasioned much speculation among my pacific companions. One supposed it to have fallen there during the revolutionary war. Another, from the peculiarity of its fashion, attributed it to the voyagers in the earliest days of the settlement; perchance to the renowned Adrian Block, who explored the Sound and discovered Block Island, since so noted for its cheese. But a third, after regarding it for some time, pronounced it to be of veritable Spanish workmanship.

Finally, one calm day towards the end of summer, I was taking a break from the stress of intense studying by spending the day fishing in those waters that had been my childhood favorite. I was with several respectable citizens from my hometown. Our fishing was not great; the fish weren't biting, and we had often switched our spots without any improvement in luck. Eventually, we anchored close to a rocky ledge on the eastern side of the island of Manhattan. It was a still, warm day. The stream swirled gently by us without a wave or even a ripple, and everything was so calm and quiet that it was almost surprising when a kingfisher would dive from the branch of a dry tree, hovering for a moment to aim before plunging into the smooth water for its catch. While we lounged in our boat, half-drowsy from the warm stillness of the day and the monotony of our fishing, one of our group, a respectable alderman, dozed off, allowing the sinker of his drop-line to rest on the river bottom. When he woke up, he discovered he had caught something significant due to the weight; as he pulled it to the surface, we were shocked to find a long pistol with a very strange and unusual design, which, due to its rusted state and the stock being rotten and covered in barnacles, seemed to have been underwater for a long time. The unexpected discovery of this weapon sparked much curiosity among my peaceful companions. One thought it might have fallen there during the Revolutionary War. Another, noting its odd shape, speculated it belonged to the early settlers; perhaps to the famous Adrian Block, who explored the Sound and discovered Block Island, now famous for its cheese. But a third, after examining it for a while, declared it to be of genuine Spanish craftsmanship.

“I’ll warrant,” said he, “if this pistol could talk it would tell strange stories of hard fights among the Spanish Dons. I’ve not a doubt but it’s a relique of the buccaneers of old times.”

“I'll bet,” he said, “if this pistol could talk, it would share some wild stories about tough battles with the Spanish nobles. I have no doubt it's a relic from the old-time pirates.”

“Like enough,” said another of the party. “There was Bradish the pirate, who at the time Lord Bellamont made such a stir after the buccaneers, buried money and jewels somewhere in these parts or on Long-Island; and then there was Captain Kidd—”

“Probably,” said another member of the group. “There was Bradish the pirate, who, during the time Lord Bellamont made such a fuss about the buccaneers, buried money and jewels somewhere around here or on Long Island; and then there was Captain Kidd—”

“Ah, that Kidd was a daring dog,” said an iron-faced Cape Cod whaler. “There’s a fine old song about him, all to the tune of:

“Ah, that Kidd was a bold guy,” said an iron-faced Cape Cod whaler. “There’s a great old song about him, all to the tune of:

‘My name is Robert Kidd,
As I sailed, as I sailed.’

‘My name is Robert Kidd,
As I sailed, as I sailed.’

And it tells how he gained the devil’s good graces by burying the Bible:

And it explains how he won the devil's favor by burying the Bible:

‘I had the Bible in my hand,
    As I sailed, as I sailed,
And I buried it in the sand,
    As I sailed.’

‘I had the Bible in my hand,
    As I sailed, as I sailed,
And I buried it in the sand,
    As I sailed.’

Egad, if this pistol had belonged to him I should set some store by it out of sheer curiosity. Ah, well, there’s an odd story I have heard about one Tom Walker, who, they say, dug up some of Kidd’s buried money; and as the fish don’t seem to bite at present, I’ll tell it to you to pass away time.”

Wow, if this pistol had been his, I would definitely be interested in it just out of curiosity. Anyway, there’s a strange story I’ve heard about a guy named Tom Walker, who apparently dug up some of Kidd’s buried treasure; and since the fish aren’t biting right now, I’ll share it with you to kill some time.”

THE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER

A few miles from Boston, in Massachusetts, there is a deep inlet winding several miles into the interior of the country from Charles Bay, and terminating in a thickly-wooded swamp, or morass. On one side of this inlet is a beautiful dark grove; on the opposite side the land rises abruptly from the water’s edge, into a high ridge on which grow a few scattered oaks of great age and immense size. It was under one of these gigantic trees, according to old stories, that Kidd the pirate buried his treasure. The inlet allowed a facility to bring the money in a boat secretly and at night to the very foot of the hill. The elevation of the place permitted a good look-out to be kept that no one was at hand, while the remarkable trees formed good landmarks by which the place might easily be found again. The old stories add, moreover, that the devil presided at the hiding of the money, and took it under his guardianship; but this, it is well-known, he always does with buried treasure, particularly when it has been ill gotten. Be that as it may, Kidd never returned to recover his wealth; being shortly after seized at Boston, sent out to England, and there hanged for a pirate.

A few miles from Boston in Massachusetts, there’s a deep inlet that winds several miles into the countryside from Charles Bay, ending in a thickly wooded swamp. On one side of this inlet, there’s a lovely dark grove; on the opposite side, the land rises steeply from the water’s edge into a high ridge where a few scattered, ancient oak trees grow. It’s said that under one of these giant trees, Kidd the pirate buried his treasure. The inlet made it easy to secretly bring the money in a boat at night right to the base of the hill. The height of the spot allowed for a good lookout to make sure no one was nearby, while the remarkable trees served as good landmarks to find the spot again. According to the old stories, the devil was present when the money was hidden and took it under his protection; but it’s well-known that he always does this with buried treasure, especially when it's been obtained through wrongdoing. Regardless, Kidd never came back to claim his riches, as he was soon captured in Boston, sent to England, and hanged as a pirate.

About the year 1727, just at the time when earthquakes were prevalent in New England, and shook many tall sinners down upon their knees, there lived near this place a meagre miserly fellow of the name of Tom Walker. He had a wife as miserly as himself; they were so miserly that they even conspired to cheat each other. Whatever the woman could lay hands on she hid away; a hen could not cackle but she was on the alert to secure the new-laid egg. Her husband was continually prying about to detect her secret hoards, and many and fierce were the conflicts that took place about what ought to have been common property. They lived in a forlorn-looking house, that stood alone and had an air of starvation. A few straggling savin trees, emblems of sterility, grew near it; no smoke ever curled from its chimney; no traveller stopped at its door. A miserable horse, whose ribs were as articulate as the bars of a gridiron, stalked about a field where a thin carpet of moss, scarcely covering the ragged beds of pudding-stone, tantalized and balked his hunger; and sometimes he would lean his head over the fence, looked piteously at the passer-by, and seem to petition deliverance from this land of famine.

Around 1727, when earthquakes were common in New England and caused many sinners to fall to their knees, there lived near this place a skinny, stingy man named Tom Walker. His wife was just as miserly as he was; they were so cheap that they even plotted to cheat each other. Whatever she could get her hands on, she hid away; if a hen laid an egg, she was quick to secure it. Her husband was always sneaking around trying to find her hidden stash, leading to many fierce arguments over what should have been shared. They lived in a run-down house that stood alone and looked like it was starving. A few scraggly savin trees, symbols of barrenness, grew nearby; no smoke ever rose from its chimney, and no travelers ever stopped at their door. A pitiful horse, whose ribs were as obvious as the bars of a grill, wandered around a field where a thin layer of moss barely covered the rocky ground, teasing his hunger. Sometimes he would lean his head over the fence, look sadly at passersby, and seem to beg for a way out of this place of hunger.

The house and its inmates had altogether a bad name. Tom’s wife was a tall termagant, fierce of temper, loud of tongue, and strong of arm. Her voice was often heard in wordy warfare with her husband; and his face sometimes showed signs that their conflicts were not confined to words. No one ventured, however, to interfere between them; the lonely wayfarer shrunk within himself at the horrid clamor and clapper-clawing; eyed the den of discord askance, and hurried on his way, rejoicing, if a bachelor, in his celibacy.

The house and its residents had a terrible reputation. Tom’s wife was a tall, fierce woman with a fiery temper, a loud voice, and strong arms. Her voice frequently echoed with arguments against her husband, and his face sometimes bore evidence that their fights went beyond just words. No one dared to step in between them; passersby would shrink back at the horrible noise and fighting, glance warily at the place of conflict, and hurry on, feeling relieved, especially if they were single, about their bachelor status.

One day that Tom Walker had been to a distant part of the neighborhood, he took what he considered a short cut homewards through the swamp. Like most short cuts, it was an ill-chosen route. The swamp was thickly grown with great gloomy pines and hemlocks, some of them ninety feet high; which made it dark at noon-day, and a retreat for all the owls of the neighborhood. It was full of pits and quagmires, partly covered with weeds and mosses; where the green surface often betrayed the traveller into a gulf of black smothering mud; there were also dark and stagnant pools, the abodes of the tadpole, the bull-frog, and the water-snake, and where trunks of pines and hemlocks lay half drowned, half rotting, looking like alligators, sleeping in the mire.

One day, after Tom Walker had been to a far part of the neighborhood, he decided to take what he thought was a shortcut home through the swamp. Like most shortcuts, it was a poorly chosen path. The swamp was densely filled with towering, gloomy pines and hemlocks, some reaching up to ninety feet tall; this made it dark even in the middle of the day and a hiding spot for all the owls around. It was riddled with pits and muddy spots, partly covered with weeds and moss; the green surface often deceived travelers, leading them into deep, suffocating mud. There were also dark, stagnant pools, home to tadpoles, bullfrogs, and water snakes, where the trunks of pines and hemlocks lay half-submerged and half-decayed, resembling alligators resting in the muck.

Tom had long been picking his way cautiously through this treacherous forest; stepping from tuft to tuft of rushes and roots which afforded precarious footholds among deep sloughs; or pacing carefully, like a cat, among the prostrate trunks of trees; startled now and then by the sudden screaming of the bittern, or the quacking of a wild duck, rising on the wing from some solitary pool. At length he arrived at a piece of firm ground, which ran out like a peninsula into the deep bosom of the swamp. It had been one of the strongholds of the Indians during their wars with the first colonists. Here they had thrown up a kind of fort which they had looked upon as almost impregnable, and had used as a place of refuge for their squaws and children. Nothing remained of the Indian fort but a few embankments gradually sinking to the level of the surrounding earth, and already overgrown in part by oaks and other forest trees, the foliage of which formed a contrast to the dark pines and hemlocks of the swamp.

Tom had been carefully making his way through the dangerous forest; stepping from clump to clump of rushes and roots that provided unstable footing among deep bogs; or moving cautiously, like a cat, among the fallen trunks of trees; startled now and then by the sudden cry of a bittern or the quacking of a wild duck taking off from a lonely pond. Finally, he reached a patch of solid ground that jutted out like a peninsula into the heart of the swamp. This had once been a stronghold for the Indians during their conflicts with the early colonists. Here, they had built a kind of fort that they believed was nearly impossible to breach and used it as a refuge for their women and children. All that was left of the Indian fort were a few earth mounds slowly sinking to the level of the surrounding ground, already partly covered by oaks and other trees, whose leaves contrasted with the dark pines and hemlocks of the swamp.

It was late in the dusk of evening that Tom Walker reached the old fort, and he paused there for a while to rest himself. Any one but he would have felt unwilling to linger in this lonely, melancholy place, for the common people had a bad opinion of it from the stories handed down from the time of the Indian wars; when it was asserted that the savages held incantations here and made sacrifices to the evil spirit. Tom Walker, however, was not a man to be troubled with any fears of the kind.

It was late in the evening when Tom Walker arrived at the old fort, and he stopped there for a while to catch his breath. Anyone else would have felt uneasy staying in this lonely, sad spot, as the locals had a negative view of it from tales passed down since the Indian wars, claiming that the natives performed rituals there and made sacrifices to a dark spirit. However, Tom Walker was not someone to be bothered by such fears.

He reposed himself for some time on the trunk of a fallen hemlock, listening to the boding cry of the tree-toad, and delving with his walking-staff into a mound of black mould at his feet. As he turned up the soil unconsciously, his staff struck against something hard. He raked it out of the vegetable mould, and lo! a cloven skull with an Indian tomahawk buried deep in it, lay before him. The rust on the weapon showed the time that had elapsed since this death blow had been given. It was a dreary memento of the fierce struggle that had taken place in this last foothold of the Indian warriors.

He rested for a while on the trunk of a fallen hemlock, listening to the ominous call of a tree-toad and probing with his walking stick into a pile of dark soil at his feet. As he turned the soil without thinking, his stick hit something hard. He dug it out from the dirt, and there it was—a split skull with an Indian tomahawk buried deep in it, lying right in front of him. The rust on the weapon showed how much time had passed since this fatal blow was dealt. It was a grim reminder of the fierce battle that had occurred in this last stronghold of the Indian warriors.

“Humph!” said Tom Walker, as he gave the skull a kick to shake the dirt from it.

“Humph!” said Tom Walker, kicking the skull to shake off the dirt.

“Let that skull alone!” said a gruff voice.

“Leave that skull alone!” said a rough voice.

Tom lifted up his eyes and beheld a great black man, seated directly Opposite him on the stump of a tree. He was exceedingly surprised, having neither seen nor heard any one approach, and he was still more perplexed on observing, as well as the gathering gloom would permit, that the stranger was neither negro nor Indian. It is true, he was dressed in a rude, half Indian garb, and had a red belt or sash swathed round his body, but his face was neither black nor copper color, but swarthy and dingy and begrimed with soot, as if he had been accustomed to toil among fires and forges. He had a shock of coarse black hair, that stood out from his head in all directions; and bore an axe on his shoulder.

Tom looked up and saw a tall black man sitting right across from him on a tree stump. He was really surprised since he hadn't seen or heard anyone come close, and he was even more confused when he noticed, as much as the growing darkness allowed, that the stranger was neither black nor Indian. It was true that he wore a rough, somewhat Indian outfit and had a red belt or sash wrapped around his waist, but his face was neither black nor copper; it was dark and dirty, covered in soot as if he had been working around fires and forges. He had a wild mass of coarse black hair sticking out in all directions and carried an axe on his shoulder.

He scowled for a moment at Tom with a pair of great red eyes.

He glared at Tom for a moment with a pair of big red eyes.

“What are you doing in my grounds?” said the black man, with a hoarse growling voice.

“What are you doing on my property?” said the black man, with a rough, gravelly voice.

“Your grounds?” said Tom, with a sneer; “no more your grounds than mine: they belong to Deacon Peabody.”

“Your property?” Tom said with a sneer; “it's no more yours than it is mine: it belongs to Deacon Peabody.”

“Deacon Peabody be d——d,” said the stranger, “as I flatter myself he will be, if he does not look more to his own sins and less to his neighbor’s. Look yonder, and see how Deacon Peabody is faring.”

“Deacon Peabody can go to hell,” said the stranger, “and I think he will, if he doesn’t pay more attention to his own sins and less to those of his neighbors. Look over there and see how Deacon Peabody is doing.”

Tom looked in the direction that the stranger pointed, and beheld one of the great trees, fair and flourishing without, but rotten at the core, and saw that it had been nearly hewn through, so that the first high wind was likely to blow it down. On the bark of the tree was scored the name of Deacon Peabody. He now looked round and found most of the tall trees marked with the names of some great men of the colony, and all more or less scored by the axe. The one on which he had been seated, and which had evidently just been hewn down, bore the name of Crowninshield; and he recollected a mighty rich man of that name, who made a vulgar display of wealth, which it was whispered he had acquired by buccaneering.

Tom looked in the direction the stranger was pointing and saw one of the great trees, beautiful and thriving on the outside but decayed at its core. He noticed it had nearly been cut through, so the next strong wind could easily knock it down. The tree's bark was marked with the name Deacon Peabody. He then looked around and saw that most of the tall trees were tagged with the names of some notable figures from the colony, all more or less scarred by the axe. The one he had been sitting on, which had clearly just been chopped down, was labeled with the name Crowninshield; he remembered a very wealthy man by that name who flaunted his riches, rumored to have gained it through piracy.

“He’s just ready for burning!” said the black man, with a growl of triumph. “You see I am likely to have a good stock of firewood for winter.”

“He's just ready to burn!” said the Black man, with a triumphant growl. “You see, I'm likely to have a good supply of firewood for the winter.”

“But what right have you,” said Tom, “to cut down Deacon Peabody’s timber?”

“But what right do you have,” Tom said, “to cut down Deacon Peabody’s trees?”

“The right of prior claim,” said the other. “This woodland belonged to me long before one of your white-faced race put foot upon the soil.”

“The right of first claim,” said the other. “This forest was mine long before any of your pale-skinned kind stepped onto this land.”

“And pray, who are you, if I may be so bold?” said Tom.

“And may I ask who you are, if I can be so bold?” said Tom.

“Oh, I go by various names. I am the Wild Huntsman in some countries; the Black Miner in others. In this neighborhood I am known by the name of the Black Woodsman. I am he to whom the red men devoted this spot, and now and then roasted a white man by way of sweet-smelling sacrifice. Since the red men have been exterminated by you white savages, I amuse myself by presiding at the persecutions of quakers and anabaptists; I am the great patron and prompter of slave dealers, and the grand master of the Salem witches.”

“Oh, I go by many names. In some places, I’m the Wild Huntsman; in others, the Black Miner. In this area, I’m known as the Black Woodsman. I’m the one to whom the Native Americans dedicated this land, and occasionally roasted a white man as a fragrant offering. Since you white savages wiped out the Native Americans, I’ve taken to overseeing the persecution of Quakers and Anabaptists; I’m the main supporter and instigator of slave traders, and the grand master of the Salem witches.”

“The upshot of all which is, that, if I mistake not,” said Tom, sturdily, “you are he commonly called Old Scratch.”

“The bottom line is, if I’m not mistaken,” said Tom confidently, “you’re the one they usually call Old Scratch.”

“The same at your service!” replied the black man, with a half civil nod.

“The same here for you!” replied the black man, giving a somewhat polite nod.

Such was the opening of this interview, according to the old story, though it has almost too familiar an air to be credited. One would think that to meet with such a singular personage in this wild, lonely place, would have shaken any man’s nerves; but Tom was a hard-minded fellow, not easily daunted, and he had lived so long with a termagant wife, that he did not even fear the devil.

Such was the start of this interview, according to the old tale, although it sounds too familiar to be true. You’d think that encountering such a peculiar character in this wild, desolate spot would rattle anyone’s nerves; but Tom was a tough-minded guy, not easily intimidated, and after spending so long with a difficult wife, he didn’t even fear the devil.

It is said that after this commencement they had a long and earnest Conversation together, as Tom returned homewards. The black man told him of great sums of money which had been buried by Kidd the pirate, under the oak trees on the high ridge not far from the morass. All these were under his command and protected by his power, so that none could find them but such as propitiated his favor. These he offered to place within Tom Walker’s reach, having conceived an especial kindness for him: but they were to be had only on certain conditions. What these conditions were, may easily be surmised, though Tom never disclosed them publicly. They must have been very hard, for he required time to think of them, and he was not a man to stick at trifles where money was in view. When they had reached the edge of the swamp the stranger paused.

It’s said that after this meeting, they had a long and serious conversation as Tom headed home. The black man told him about huge amounts of money that had been buried by Kidd the pirate, under the oak trees on the high ridge not far from the marsh. All of this was under his control and protected by his power, so that only those who earned his favor could find it. He offered to make it accessible to Tom Walker, having taken a special liking to him, but there were certain conditions. What those conditions were can be easily guessed, though Tom never revealed them publicly. They must have been very tough, since he needed time to consider them, and he wasn't someone to hesitate over details when money was involved. When they reached the edge of the swamp, the stranger paused.

“What proof have I that all you have been telling me is true?” said Tom.

“What proof do I have that everything you’ve been telling me is true?” Tom asked.

“There is my signature,” said the black man, pressing his finger on Tom’s forehead. So saying, he turned off among the thickets of the swamp, and seemed, as Tom said, to go down, down, down, into the earth, until nothing but his head and shoulders could be seen, and so on until he totally disappeared.

“There’s my mark,” said the Black man, pressing his finger on Tom’s forehead. With that, he moved into the thickets of the swamp and seemed, as Tom described, to sink, sink, sink into the ground, until only his head and shoulders were visible, and then he completely vanished.

When Tom reached home he found the black print of a finger burnt, as it were, into his forehead, which nothing could obliterate.

When Tom got home, he noticed a black fingerprint burned into his forehead that nothing could erase.

The first news his wife had to tell him was the sudden death of Absalom Crowninshield, the rich buccaneer. It was announced in the papers with the usual flourish, that “a great man had fallen in Israel.”

The first news his wife had to share with him was the unexpected death of Absalom Crowninshield, the wealthy pirate. It was reported in the newspapers with the typical flair, stating that “a great man had fallen in Israel.”

Tom recollected the tree which his black friend had just hewn down, and which was ready for burning. “Let the freebooter roast,” said Tom, “who cares!” He now felt convinced that all he had heard and seen was no illusion.

Tom remembered the tree that his Black friend had just cut down, and which was ready to be burned. “Let the thief roast,” said Tom, “who cares!” He now felt sure that everything he had heard and seen was no illusion.

He was not prone to let his wife into his confidence; but as this was an uneasy secret, he willingly shared it with her. All her avarice was awakened at the mention of hidden gold, and she urged her husband to comply with the black man’s terms and secure what would make them wealthy for life. However Tom might have felt disposed to sell himself to the devil, he was determined not to do so to oblige his wife; so he flatly refused out of the mere spirit of contradiction. Many and bitter were the quarrels they had on the subject, but the more she talked the more resolute was Tom not to be damned to please her. At length she determined to drive the bargain on her own account, and if she succeeded, to keep all the gain to herself.

He wasn’t the type to share his thoughts with his wife, but since this was an uncomfortable secret, he decided to confide in her. The mention of hidden gold sparked her greed, and she pushed her husband to accept the black man’s deal to secure a fortune for life. No matter how tempted Tom might have been to sell his soul, he was set on not doing it just to satisfy his wife; so he flatly refused simply out of spite. They had many heated arguments about it, but the more she insisted, the more determined Tom became not to damn himself for her sake. Eventually, she decided to make the deal on her own terms, planning to keep all the profits for herself if she succeeded.

Being of the same fearless temper as her husband, she sat off for the old Indian fort towards the close of a summer’s day. She was many hour’s absent. When she came back she was reserved and sullen in her replies. She spoke something of a black man whom she had met about twilight, hewing at the root of a tall tree. He was sulky, however, and would not come to terms; she was to go again with a propitiatory offering, but what it was she forebore to say.

Being just as fearless as her husband, she set out for the old Indian fort near the end of a summer day. She was gone for several hours. When she returned, she was quiet and moody in her responses. She mentioned something about a Black man she had encountered around dusk, chopping at the base of a tall tree. He was grumpy, though, and wouldn’t agree to anything; she would need to go back with a peace offering, but she didn't say what it was.

The next evening she sat off again for the swamp, with her apron heavily laden. Tom waited and waited for her, but in vain: midnight came, but she did not make her appearance; morning, noon, night returned, but still she did not come. Tom now grew uneasy for her safety; especially as he found she had carried off in her apron the silver tea pot and spoons and every portable article of value. Another night elapsed, another morning came; but no wife. In a word, she was ever heard of more.

The next evening she set off again for the swamp, her apron loaded down. Tom waited and waited for her, but it was no use: midnight came, but she didn't show up; morning, noon, and night passed, but still she was gone. Tom started to worry about her safety, especially since he realized she had taken the silver teapot, spoons, and everything else of value in her apron. Another night went by, another morning came; but no wife. In short, she was never heard from again.

What was her real fate nobody knows, in consequence of so many pretending to know. It is one of those facts that have become confounded by a variety of historians. Some asserted that she lost her way among the tangled mazes of the swamp and sunk into some pit or slough; others, more uncharitable, hinted that she had eloped with the household booty, and made off to some other province; while others assert that the tempter had decoyed her into a dismal quagmire, on top of which her hat was found lying. In confirmation of this, it was said a great black man with an axe on his shoulder was seen late that very evening coming out of the swamp, carrying a bundle tied in a check apron, with an air of surly triumph.

What really happened to her is unknown because so many people claim to know. It's one of those facts that have been confused by various historians. Some claimed she got lost in the tangled maze of the swamp and fell into a pit or muddy area; others, less kind, suggested she ran off with the household valuables and escaped to another region; while some insisted that a tempter lured her into a dreary bog, where her hat was found lying. To support this, it was reported that a large black man with an axe over his shoulder was seen late that evening coming out of the swamp, carrying a bundle tied in a checkered apron, looking quite proud.

The most current and probable story, however, observes that Tom Walker grew so anxious about the fate of his wife and his property that he sat out at length to seek them both at the Indian fort. During a long summer’s afternoon he searched about the gloomy place, but no wife was to be seen. He called her name repeatedly, but she was no where to be heard. The bittern alone responded to his voice, as he flew screaming by; or the bull-frog croaked dolefully from a neighboring pool. At length, it is said, just in the brown hour of twilight, when the owls began to hoot and the bats to flit about, his attention was attracted by the clamor of carrion crows that were hovering about a cypress tree. He looked and beheld a bundle tied in a check apron and hanging in the branches of a tree; with a great vulture perched hard by, as if keeping watch upon it. He leaped with joy, for he recognized his wife’s apron, and supposed it to contain the household valuables.

The most recent and likely story, however, notes that Tom Walker became so worried about his wife and his property that he spent a long time searching for them at the Indian fort. During a long summer afternoon, he wandered around the dark area, but there was no sign of his wife. He called her name over and over, but she was nowhere to be heard. Only the bittern responded to his voice, screaming by, or the bullfrog croaked sadly from a nearby pond. Finally, it is said, just as twilight began to set in and owls started to hoot and bats flitted about, he was drawn to the noisy crows gathered around a cypress tree. He looked and saw a bundle tied in a checkered apron hanging from the branches of a tree, with a large vulture perched nearby, as if keeping watch. He jumped for joy when he recognized his wife’s apron, thinking it contained their household valuables.

“Let us get hold of the property,” said he consolingly to himself, “and we will endeavor to do without the woman.”

“Let’s secure the property,” he said reassuringly to himself, “and we’ll try to manage without the woman.”

As he scrambled up the tree the vulture spread its wide wings, and sailed off screaming into the deep shadows of the forest. Tom seized the check apron, but, woful sight! found nothing but a heart and liver tied up in it.

As he climbed up the tree, the vulture spread its large wings and flew off, screaming into the dark shadows of the forest. Tom grabbed the check apron, but, to his dismay, found nothing inside but a heart and liver wrapped up in it.

Such, according to the most authentic old story, was all that was to be found of Tom’s wife. She had probably attempted to deal with the black man as she had been accustomed to deal with her husband; but though a female scold is generally considered a match for the devil, yet in this instance she appears to have had the worst of it. She must have died game, however: from the part that remained unconquered. Indeed, it is said Tom noticed many prints of cloven feet deeply stamped about the tree, and several handfuls of hair that looked as if they had been plucked from the coarse black shock of the woodsman. Tom knew his wife’s prowess by experience. He shrugged his shoulders as he looked at the signs of a fierce clapper-clawing. “Egad,” said he to himself, “Old Scratch must have had a tough time of it!”

According to the most reliable old tale, that was all that was left of Tom’s wife. She had probably tried to handle the black man the same way she dealt with her husband; but even though a woman who scolds is often seen as a match for the devil, in this case, she seems to have come out worse. She must have fought hard, though, judging by the part that remained undefeated. In fact, it’s said that Tom noticed many imprints of cloven feet deeply marked around the tree, along with several handfuls of hair that seemed like it had been pulled from the rough black hair of the woodsman. Tom knew about his wife’s strength from experience. He shrugged as he looked at the signs of a fierce struggle. “Wow,” he thought to himself, “Old Scratch must have really had a hard time!”

Tom consoled himself for the loss of his property by the loss of his wife; for he was a little of a philosopher. He even felt something like gratitude towards the black woodsman, who he considered had done him a kindness. He sought, therefore, to cultivate a farther acquaintance with him, but for some time without success; the old black legs played shy, for whatever people may think, he is not always to be had for calling for; he knows how to play his cards when pretty sure of his game.

Tom comforted himself for losing his property by also losing his wife; after all, he was somewhat of a philosopher. He even felt a bit of gratitude toward the black woodsman, whom he thought had done him a favor. He tried to get to know him better, but for a while, he had no luck; the old black man was elusive, because despite what people might think, he isn’t always available just on demand; he knows how to play his cards when he’s pretty sure of his position.

At length, it is said, when delay had whetted Tom’s eagerness to the quick, and prepared him to agree to any thing rather than not gain the promised treasure, he met the black man one evening in his usual woodman dress, with his axe on his shoulder, sauntering along the edge of the swamp, and humming a tune. He affected to receive Tom’s advance with great indifference, made brief replies, and went on humming his tune.

Eventually, it's said that when the wait had sharpened Tom's desire to the point of impatience, making him ready to agree to anything to get the promised treasure, he encountered the black man one evening. The man was dressed in his usual woodsman attire, with an axe slung over his shoulder, strolling along the edge of the swamp and humming a tune. He pretended to receive Tom's approach with complete indifference, gave short answers, and continued humming his tune.

By degrees, however, Tom brought him to business, and they began to haggle about the terms on which the former was to have the pirate’s treasure. There was one condition which need not be mentioned, being generally understood in all cases where the devil grants favors; but there were others about which, though of less importance, he was inflexibly obstinate. He insisted that the money found through his means should be employed in his service. He proposed, therefore, that Tom should employ it in the black traffic; that is to say, that he should fit out a slave ship. This, however, Tom resolutely refused; he was bad enough, in all conscience; but the devil himself could not tempt him to turn slave dealer.

Gradually, Tom got him to agree on the terms for how he would claim the pirate's treasure. There was one condition that didn't need to be stated, as it was understood in all situations where the devil grants favors; but there were other terms, which, although less significant, he was completely uncompromising about. He insisted that the money obtained through his efforts should be used for his purposes. He suggested that Tom should use it for the black market trade, specifically to outfit a slave ship. However, Tom firmly refused; he was certainly bad enough already, but even the devil couldn't tempt him into becoming a slave trader.

Finding Tom so squeamish on this point, he did not insist upon it, but proposed instead that he should turn usurer; the devil being extremely anxious for the increase of usurers, looking upon them as his peculiar people.

Finding Tom so sensitive about this, he didn’t push the issue, but instead suggested that he could become a loan shark, the devil being very eager for more loan sharks, seeing them as his special kind of people.

To this no objections were made, for it was just to Tom’s taste.

To this, no one objected, because it was exactly to Tom's liking.

“You shall open a broker’s shop in Boston next month,” said the black man.

“You're going to open a broker's shop in Boston next month,” said the Black man.

“I’ll do it to-morrow, if you wish,” said Tom Walker.

“I’ll do it tomorrow, if you want,” said Tom Walker.

“You shall lend money at two per cent a month.”

"You will lend money at two percent a month."

“Egad, I’ll charge four!” replied Tom Walker.

“Wow, I'll charge four!” replied Tom Walker.

“You shall extort bonds, foreclose mortgages, drive the merchant to bankruptcy—”

“You will squeeze out loans, take back mortgages, and push the merchant into bankruptcy—”

“I’ll drive him to the d—-l,” cried Tom Walker, eagerly.

“I'll take him to the devil,” shouted Tom Walker, excitedly.

“You are the usurer for my money!” said the black legs, with delight. “When will you want the rhino?”

“You're the loan shark for my money!” said the black legs, excitedly. “When do you need the rhino?”

“This very night.”

"Tonight."

“Done!” said the devil.

"All set!" said the devil.

“Done!” said Tom Walker.—So they shook hands and struck a bargain.

“Done!” said Tom Walker. —So they shook hands and made a deal.

A few days’ time saw Tom Walker seated behind his desk in a counting house in Boston. His reputation for a ready-moneyed man, who would lend money out for a good consideration, soon spread abroad. Every body remembers the days of Governor Belcher, when money was particularly scarce. It was a time of paper credit. The country had been deluged with government bills; the famous Land Bank had been established; there had been a rage for speculating; the people had run mad with schemes for new settlements; for building cities in the wilderness; land jobbers went about with maps of grants, and townships, and Eldorados, lying nobody knew where, but which every body was ready to purchase. In a word, the great speculating fever which breaks out every now and then in the country, had raged to an alarming degree, and body was dreaming of making sudden fortunes from nothing. As usual, the fever had subsided; the dream had gone off, and the imaginary fortunes with it; the patients were left in doleful plight, and the whole country resounded with the consequent cry of “hard times.”

A few days later, Tom Walker was sitting behind his desk in an office in Boston. His reputation as a guy who had cash on hand and would lend money for a good return quickly spread. Everyone remembers the days of Governor Belcher when money was particularly hard to come by. It was a time when paper currency was all the rage. The country had been flooded with government bills; the famous Land Bank had been set up; there was a craze for speculation; people were going wild with plans for new settlements, dreaming of building cities in the wilderness; land speculators were going around with maps of grants and townships and imaginary wealth that no one could quite place, but everyone was eager to buy. In short, the huge speculation fever that flares up from time to time in the country had taken hold in a serious way, and everyone was dreaming of striking it rich from nothing. As usual, the excitement faded; the dreams disappeared along with the imagined fortunes; the hopeful investors were left in a miserable state, and the entire country echoed with the resulting cries of "hard times."

At this propitious time of public distress did Tom Walker set up as a usurer in Boston. His door was soon thronged by customers. The needy and the adventurous; the gambling speculator; the dreaming land jobber; the thriftless tradesman; the merchant with cracked credit; in short, every one driven to raise money by desperate means and desperate sacrifices, hurried to Tom Walker.

At this opportune moment of public hardship, Tom Walker established himself as a loan shark in Boston. His door quickly became crowded with customers. The needy and the bold; the gambling speculator; the hopeful land dealer; the careless tradesman; the merchant with poor credit; in short, anyone forced to raise money through desperate measures and sacrifices rushed to Tom Walker.

Thus Tom was the universal friend of the needy, and he acted like a “friend in need;” that is to say, he always exacted good pay and good security. In proportion to the distress of the applicant was the hardness of his terms. He accumulated bonds and mortgages; gradually squeezed his customers closer and closer; and sent them, at length, dry as a sponge from his door.

Thus, Tom was the go-to friend for those in need, and he acted like a “friend in need;” that is to say, he always demanded good payment and solid guarantees. The more desperate the person asking for help, the tougher his terms became. He collected bonds and mortgages, gradually tightened the screws on his customers, and eventually sent them away completely drained.

In this way he made money hand over hand; became a rich and mighty man, and exalted his cocked hat upon ’change. He built himself, as usual, a vast house, out of ostentation; but left the greater part of it unfinished and unfurnished out of parsimony. He even set up a carriage in the fullness of his vain-glory, though he nearly starved the horses which drew it; and as the ungreased wheels groaned and screeched on the axle trees, you would have thought you heard the souls of the poor debtors he was squeezing.

In this way, he made money like crazy, became rich and powerful, and proudly wore his top hat on the trading floor. He built himself, as usual, a huge house just to show off, but left most of it unfinished and unfurnished because he was cheap. He even got a carriage out of his excessive pride, although he nearly starved the horses that pulled it; and as the squeaky wheels groaned and screeched on the axles, it sounded like the souls of the poor debtors he was exploiting.

As Tom waxed old, however, he grew thoughtful. Having secured the good things of this world, he began to feel anxious about those of the next. He thought with regret on the bargain he had made with his black friend, and set his wits to work to cheat him out of the conditions. He became, therefore, all of a sudden, a violent church-goer. He prayed loudly and strenuously as if heaven were to be taken by force of lungs. Indeed, one might always tell when he had sinned most during the week, by the clamor of his Sunday devotion. The quiet Christians who had been modestly and steadfastly travelling Zion-ward, were struck with self-reproach at seeing themselves so suddenly outstripped in their career by this new-made convert. Tom was as rigid in religious, as in money matters; he was a stern supervisor and censurer of his neighbors, and seemed to think every sin entered up to their account became a credit on his own side of the page. He even talked of the expediency of reviving the persecution of quakers and anabaptists. In a word, Tom’s zeal became as notorious as his riches.

As Tom grew older, he became more reflective. After securing all the good things in life, he started to worry about what comes after. He regretted the deal he had made with his black friend and began plotting ways to escape its terms. Suddenly, he became an ardent churchgoer. He prayed loudly and passionately as if he could win heaven with his voice alone. In fact, you could always tell how much he had sinned during the week by the noise of his Sunday worship. The quiet Christians who had been steadily working towards their faith felt a pang of guilt watching this newly converted man surpass them so quickly. Tom was as strict in his religious beliefs as he was with money; he was a harsh critic and monitor of his neighbors and seemed to believe that every sin they committed added to his own moral credit. He even suggested reviving the persecution of Quakers and Baptists. In short, Tom’s zeal became as well-known as his wealth.

Still, in spite of all this strenuous attention to forms, Tom had a Lurking dread that the devil, after all, would have his due. That he might not be taken unawares, therefore, it is said he always carried a small Bible in his coat pocket. He had also a great folio Bible on his counting-house desk, and would frequently be found reading it when people called on business; on such occasions he would lay his green spectacles on the book, to mark the place, while he turned round to drive some usurious bargain.

Still, despite all this intense focus on appearances, Tom had a nagging fear that the devil would eventually get what he deserved. To avoid being caught off guard, it's said he always kept a small Bible in his coat pocket. He also had a large folio Bible on his office desk and could often be seen reading it when people came by for business; during those times, he would set his green glasses on the book to mark his place while he turned to negotiate some shady deal.

Some say that Tom grew a little crack-brained in his old days, and that fancying his end approaching, he had his horse new shod, saddled and bridled, and buried with his feet uppermost; because he supposed that at the last day the world would be turned upside down; in which case he should find his horse standing ready for mounting, and he was determined at the worst to give his old friend a run for it. This, however, is probably a mere old wives’ fable. If he really did take such a precaution it was totally superfluous; at least so says the authentic old legend, which closes his story in the following manner:

Some people say that Tom went a bit crazy in his old age, and thinking his end was near, he had his horse re-shod, saddled, and bridled, and buried with its feet sticking up. He believed that on Judgment Day the world would be flipped upside down; in that case, he would find his horse ready to ride, and he was set on giving his old friend one last run. However, this is probably just an old wives' tale. If he actually took such a precaution, it was completely unnecessary; at least that's what the authentic old legend says, which concludes his story like this:

On one hot afternoon in the dog days, just as a terrible black thunder-gust was coming up, Tom sat in his counting-house in his white linen cap and India silk morning-gown. He was on the point of foreclosing a mortgage, by which he would complete the ruin of an unlucky land speculator for whom he had professed the greatest friendship. The poor land jobber begged him to grant a few months’ indulgence. Tom had grown testy and irritated and refused another day.

On a hot afternoon during the dog days of summer, just as a fierce black thunderstorm was approaching, Tom sat in his office wearing his white linen cap and silk morning robe. He was about to finalize a mortgage foreclosure that would completely ruin an unfortunate land speculator he had claimed to care for deeply. The struggling land dealer pleaded with him for a few extra months' relief. Tom had become annoyed and frustrated and refused to give him even one more day.

“My family will be ruined and brought upon the parish,” said the land jobber.

“My family will be destroyed and brought down by the community,” said the land jobber.

“Charity begins at home,” replied Tom, “I must take care of myself in these hard times.”

“Charity starts at home,” Tom replied, “I have to look after myself during these tough times.”

“You have made so much money out of me,” said the speculator.

“You’ve made so much money off me,” said the speculator.

Tom lost his patience and his piety—“The devil take me,” said he, “if I have made a farthing!”

Tom lost his patience and his faith—“The devil take me,” he said, “if I’ve made a dime!”

Just then there were three loud knocks at the street door. He stepped out to see who was there. A black man was holding a black horse which neighed and stamped with impatience.

Just then, there were three loud knocks at the front door. He stepped outside to see who it was. A Black man was holding a black horse that neighed and stamped its feet with impatience.

“Tom, you’re come for!” said the black fellow, gruffly. Tom shrunk back, but too late. He had left his little Bible at the bottom of his coat pocket, and his big Bible on the desk buried under the mortgage he was about to foreclose: never was sinner taken more unawares. The black man whisked him like a child astride the horse and away he galloped in the midst of a thunder-storm. The clerks stuck their pens behind their ears and stared after him from the windows. Away went Tom Walker, dashing down the street; his white cap bobbing up and down; his morning-gown fluttering in the wind, and his steed striking fire out of the pavement at every bound. When the clerks turned to look for the black man he had disappeared.

“Tom, you’re done for!” said the black guy, gruffly. Tom shrank back, but it was too late. He had left his small Bible at the bottom of his coat pocket and his big Bible on the desk buried under the mortgage he was about to foreclose: never was a sinner caught more off guard. The black man whisked him up like a child onto a horse and away they galloped in the middle of a thunderstorm. The clerks stuck pens behind their ears and stared after him from the windows. Off went Tom Walker, sprinting down the street; his white cap bobbing up and down; his robe flapping in the wind, and his horse striking sparks from the pavement with every jump. When the clerks turned to look for the black man, he had vanished.

Tom Walker never returned to foreclose the mortgage. A countryman who lived on the borders of the swamp, reported that in the height of the thunder-gust he had heard a great clattering of hoofs and a howling along the road, and that when he ran to the window he just caught sight of a figure, such as I have described, on a horse that galloped like mad across the fields, over the hills and down into the black hemlock swamp towards the old Indian fort; and that shortly after a thunder-bolt fell in that direction which seemed to set the whole forest in a blaze.

Tom Walker never came back to foreclose on the mortgage. A nearby farmer, who lived on the edge of the swamp, reported that during the height of the thunderstorm, he heard a loud clattering of hooves and howling on the road. When he rushed to the window, he barely caught a glimpse of a figure, like the one I described, riding a horse that galloped wildly across the fields, over the hills, and down into the dark hemlock swamp toward the old Indian fort. Shortly after, a lightning bolt struck in that direction, which seemed to set the entire forest ablaze.

The good people of Boston shook their heads and shrugged their shoulders, but had been so much accustomed to witches and goblins and tricks of the devil in all kinds of shapes from the first settlement of the colony, that they were not so much horror-struck as might have been expected. Trustees were appointed to take charge of Tom’s effects. There was nothing, however, to administer upon. On searching his coffers all his bonds and mortgages were found reduced to cinders. In place of gold and silver, his iron chest was filled with chips and shavings; two skeletons lay in his stable instead of his half-starved horses, and the very next day his great house took fire and was burnt to the ground.

The good people of Boston shook their heads and shrugged their shoulders, but they had become so used to witches, goblins, and all sorts of devilish tricks since the colony was first settled that they weren’t as horrified as one might expect. Trustees were appointed to manage Tom’s belongings. However, there was nothing to manage. When they searched his coffers, all his bonds and mortgages were found turned to ashes. Instead of gold and silver, his iron chest was filled with chips and shavings; two skeletons lay in his stable in place of his half-starved horses, and the very next day his grand house caught fire and burned to the ground.

Such was the end of Tom Walker and his ill-gotten wealth. Let all griping money-brokers lay this story to heart. The truth of it is not to be doubted. The very hole under the oak trees, from whence he dug Kidd’s money, is to be seen to this day; and the neighboring swamp and old Indian fort is often haunted in stormy nights by a figure on horseback, in a morning-gown and white cap, which is doubtless the troubled spirit of the usurer. In fact, the story has resolved itself into a proverb, and is the origin of that popular saying prevalent throughout New-England, of “The Devil and Tom Walker.”

That was the end of Tom Walker and his ill-gotten fortune. Let all greedy moneylenders take this story to heart. It’s a truth that cannot be doubted. The exact spot under the oak trees where he dug up Kidd’s treasure can still be seen today; and the nearby swamp and old Indian fort are often haunted on stormy nights by a figure on horseback, wearing a morning gown and white cap, which is surely the restless spirit of the moneylender. In fact, the story has become a common saying and is the source of the popular phrase used throughout New England: “The Devil and Tom Walker.”

Such, as nearly as I can recollect, was the tenor of the tale told by the Cape Cod whaler. There were divers trivial particulars which I have omitted, and which wiled away the morning very pleasantly, until the time of tide favorable for fishing being passed, it was proposed that we should go to land, and refresh ourselves under the trees, until the noontide heat should have abated.

As far as I can remember, that was the main point of the story shared by the Cape Cod whaler. There were several minor details I left out, and they made the morning quite enjoyable, until the right time for fishing had passed. It was suggested that we head to shore and relax under the trees until the midday heat cooled down.

We accordingly landed on a delectable part of the island of Mannahatta, in that shady and embowered tract formerly under dominion of the ancient family of the Hardenbrooks. It was a spot well known to me in the course of the aquatic expeditions of my boyhood. Not far from where we landed, was an old Dutch family vault, in the side of a bank, which had been an object of great awe and fable among my schoolboy associates. There were several mouldering coffins within; but what gave it a fearful interest with us, was its being connected in our minds with the pirate wreck which lay among the rocks of Hell Gate. There were also stories of smuggling connected with it, particularly during a time that this retired spot was owned by a noted burgher called Ready Money Prevost; a man of whom it was whispered that he had many and mysterious dealings with parts beyond seas. All these things, however, had been jumbled together in our minds in that vague way in which such things are mingled up in the tales of boyhood.

We landed on a lovely part of Mannahatta, in that shady and secluded area that used to belong to the old Hardenbrook family. This place was familiar to me from my childhood adventures on the water. Not far from where we landed was an old Dutch family vault set into a bank, which had always been a source of great fear and stories among my school friends. Inside were several decaying coffins; however, what made it particularly intriguing to us was its connection to the pirate shipwreck that lay among the rocks at Hell Gate. There were also stories of smuggling associated with it, especially during the time this quiet spot was owned by a well-known businessman named Ready Money Prevost; a man rumored to have many mysterious dealings with far-off places. All these ideas had blended together in our minds in that vague way that childhood tales often do.

While I was musing upon these matters my companions had spread a repast, from the contents of our well-stored pannier, and we solaced ourselves during the warm sunny hours of mid-day under the shade of a broad chestnut, on the cool grassy carpet that swept down to the water’s edge. While lolling on the grass I summoned up the dusky recollections of my boyhood respecting this place, and repeated them like the imperfectly remembered traces of a dream, for the entertainment of my companions. When I had finished, a worthy old burgher, John Josse Vandermoere, the same who once related to me the adventures of Dolph Heyliger, broke silence and observed, that he recollected a story about money-digging which occurred in this very neighborhood. As we knew him to be one of the most authentic narrators of the province we begged him to let us have the particulars, and accordingly, while we refreshed ourselves with a clean long pipe of Blase Moore’s tobacco, the authentic John Josse Vandermoere related the following tale.

While I was thinking about these things, my friends had set up a meal from our well-stocked bag, and we enjoyed ourselves during the warm midday hours under the shade of a large chestnut tree, relaxing on the cool grassy area that stretched down to the water's edge. As I lay on the grass, I recalled the vague memories of my childhood related to this place and shared them with my friends like the fading fragments of a dream. When I finished, a respected old citizen, John Josse Vandermoere, who once told me the adventures of Dolph Heyliger, broke the silence and mentioned that he remembered a story about treasure digging that happened right in this area. Knowing him to be one of the most reliable storytellers in the province, we asked him to share the details, and while we enjoyed a nice long smoke from Blase Moore’s tobacco, the genuine John Josse Vandermoere told us the following tale.

WOLFERT WEBBER; OR, GOLDEN DREAMS

In the year of grace one thousand seven hundred and—blank—for I do not remember the precise date; however, it was somewhere in the early part of the last century, there lived in the ancient city of the Manhattoes a worthy burgher, Wolfert Webber by name. He was descended from old Cobus Webber of the Brille in Holland, one of the original settlers, famous for introducing the cultivation of cabbages, and who came over to the province during the protectorship of Oloffe Van Kortlandt, otherwise called the Dreamer. The field in which Cobus Webber first planted himself and his cabbages had remained ever since in the family, who continued in the same line of husbandry, with that praiseworthy perseverance for which our Dutch burghers are noted. The whole family genius, during several generations was devoted to the study and development of this one noble vegetable; and to this concentration of intellect may doubtless be ascribed the prodigious size and renown to which the Webber cabbages attained.

In the year 1700-something—because I can’t remember the exact date; it was somewhere in the early part of the last century—there lived a respectable citizen in the old city of Manhattan named Wolfert Webber. He was a descendant of old Cobus Webber from the Brille in Holland, one of the original settlers known for bringing cabbage farming to the area, and who came to the province during the rule of Oloffe Van Kortlandt, also known as the Dreamer. The land where Cobus Webber first settled and planted his cabbages has stayed in the family ever since, as they continued this line of farming with the admirable persistence for which our Dutch citizens are known. For several generations, the entire family focused their talent and efforts on studying and improving this one noble vegetable; this dedication is surely responsible for the extraordinary size and fame that the Webber cabbages achieved.

The Webber dynasty continued in uninterrupted succession; and never did a line give more unquestionable proofs of legitimacy. The eldest son succeeded to the looks, as well as the territory of his sire; and had the portraits of this line of tranquil potentates been taken, they would have presented a row of heads marvellously resembling in shape and magnitude the vegetables over which they reigned.

The Webber dynasty carried on without interruption, and no family line has shown clearer signs of legitimacy. The eldest son inherited both the appearance and the lands of his father; if portraits had been painted of this line of calm rulers, they would have shown a lineup of heads that closely resembled the vegetables they governed.

The seat of government continued unchanged in the family mansion:—a Dutch-built house, with a front, or rather gable-end of yellow brick, tapering to a point, with the customary iron weathercock at the top. Every thing about the building bore the air of long-settled ease and security. Flights of martins peopled the little coops nailed against the walls, and swallows built their nests under the eaves; and every one knows that these house-loving birds bring good luck to the dwelling where they take up their abode. In a bright sunny morning in early summer, it was delectable to hear their cheerful notes, as they sported about in the pure, sweet air, chirping forth, as it were, the greatness and prosperity of the Webbers.

The government maintained its headquarters in the family mansion: a Dutch-built house with a yellow brick front, shaped like a gable and tapering to a point, topped with the usual iron weathercock. Everything about the building exuded a sense of long-established comfort and security. Flights of martins filled the small coops attached to the walls, and swallows constructed their nests under the eaves; everyone knows that these home-loving birds bring good luck to the places they choose to live. On a bright sunny morning in early summer, it was delightful to hear their cheerful songs as they flitted around in the fresh, sweet air, as if celebrating the greatness and prosperity of the Webbers.

Thus quietly and comfortably did this excellent family vegetate under the shade of a mighty button-wood tree, which by little and little grew so great as entirely to overshadow their palace. The city gradually spread its suburbs round their domain. Houses sprung up to interrupt their prospects. The rural lanes in the vicinity began to grow into the bustle and populousness of streets; in short, with all the habits of rustic life they began to find themselves the inhabitants of a city.

Thus quietly and comfortably did this wonderful family thrive under the shade of a huge button-wood tree, which gradually grew so large that it completely overshadowed their palace. The city slowly spread its suburbs around their estate. Houses popped up, blocking their views. The country lanes nearby began to transform into busy streets filled with people; in short, along with all the routines of country life, they started to realize they were now living in a city.

Still, however, they maintained their hereditary character, and Hereditary possessions, with all the tenacity of petty German princes in the midst of the Empire. Wolfert was the last of the line, and succeeded to the patriarchal bench at the door, under the family tree, and swayed the sceptre of his fathers, a kind of rural potentate in the midst of a metropolis.

Still, they held on to their inherited status and possessions, just like the minor German princes within the Empire. Wolfert was the last of his family, taking his place on the patriarchal bench at the door, beneath the family tree, and held the power of his ancestors, a sort of rural ruler in the heart of a big city.

To share the cares and sweets of sovereignty, he had taken unto himself a help-mate, one of that excellent kind called stirring women; that is to say, she was one of those notable little housewives who are always busy when there is nothing to do. Her activity however, took one particular direction; her whole life seemed devoted to intense knitting; whether at home or abroad; walking or sitting, her needles were continually in motion, and it is even affirmed that by her unwearied industry she very nearly supplied her household with stockings throughout the year. This worthy couple were blessed with one daughter, who was brought up with great tenderness and care; uncommon pains had been taken with her education, so that she could stitch in every variety of way; make all kinds of pickles and preserves, and mark her own name on a sampler. The influence of her taste was seen also in the family garden, where the ornamental began to mingle with the useful; whole rows of fiery marigolds and splendid hollyhocks bordered the cabbage-beds; and gigantic sunflowers lolled their broad, jolly faces over the fences, seeming to ogle most affectionately the passers-by.

To share the joys and challenges of being in charge, he had taken a partner, one of those remarkable women who are always busy, even when there's nothing to do. However, her energy took one specific form; her whole life seemed dedicated to knitting intensely. Whether at home or out and about, walking or sitting, her needles were always moving, and it's even said that her tireless work nearly kept her family stocked with socks all year round. This lovely couple had one daughter, who was raised with a lot of love and care. Considerable effort was put into her education, so she could sew in various ways, make all kinds of pickles and preserves, and stitch her name onto a sampler. Her taste also influenced the family garden, where decorative plants started to mix with vegetables; rows of bright marigolds and stunning hollyhocks lined the cabbage beds, and huge sunflowers leaned over the fences, seeming to smile warmly at anyone passing by.

Thus reigned and vegetated Wolfert Webber over his paternal acres, peaceably and contentedly. Not but that, like all other sovereigns, he had his occasional cares and vexations. The growth of his native city sometimes caused him annoyance. His little territory gradually became hemmed in by streets and houses, which intercepted air and sunshine. He was now and then subject to the irruptions of the border population, that infest the streets of a metropolis, who would sometimes make midnight forays into his dominions, and carry off captive whole platoons of his noblest subjects. Vagrant swine would make a descent, too, now and then, when the gate was left open, and lay all waste before them; and mischievous urchins would often decapitate the illustrious sunflowers, the glory of the garden, as they lolled their heads so fondly over the walls. Still all these were petty grievances, which might now and then ruffle the surface of his mind, as a summer breeze will ruffle the surface of a mill-pond; but they could not disturb the deep-seated quiet of his soul. He would seize a trusty staff, that stood behind the door, issue suddenly out, and anoint the back of the aggressor, whether pig or urchin, and then return within doors, marvellously refreshed and tranquillized.

Thus Wolfert Webber ruled and lived off his family land, peacefully and contentedly. However, like all rulers, he had his occasional worries and frustrations. The growth of his hometown sometimes bothered him. His small estate was gradually surrounded by streets and buildings, blocking air and sunlight. Now and then, he dealt with the intrusions of the local troublemakers who swarm the streets of a big city; they would sometimes raid his territory at night, taking away whole groups of his finest subjects. Stray pigs would occasionally invade when the gate was left open and ruin everything in their path. Mischievous kids would often chop off the heads of the famous sunflowers, the pride of his garden, as they leaned over the walls. Still, all these were minor annoyances that might occasionally disturb his thoughts, like a summer breeze stirring the surface of a calm pond, but they couldn’t shake the deep calm of his spirit. He would grab a trusty staff that stood by the door, rush out suddenly, and strike back at the offender, whether pig or kid, then go back inside feeling remarkably refreshed and calm.

The chief cause of anxiety to honest Wolfert, however, was the growing prosperity of the city. The expenses of living doubled and trebled; but he could not double and treble the magnitude of his cabbages; and the number of competitors prevented the increase of price; thus, therefore, while every one around him grew richer, Wolfert grew poorer, and he could not, for the life of him, perceive how the evil was to be remedied.

The main source of anxiety for honest Wolfert was the city's increasing prosperity. The cost of living had doubled and tripled, but he couldn't multiply the size of his cabbages; plus, the number of competitors stopped prices from rising. So, while everyone around him was getting wealthier, Wolfert was getting poorer, and he couldn't figure out how to fix the problem.

This growing care which increased from day to day, had its gradual effect upon our worthy burgher; insomuch, that it at length implanted two or three wrinkles on his brow; things unknown before in the family of the Webbers; and it seemed to pinch up the corners of his cocked hat into an expression of anxiety, totally opposite to the tranquil, broad-brimmed, low-crowned beavers of his illustrious progenitors.

This increasing concern that grew every day gradually affected our respectable townsman; so much so that it eventually caused a couple of wrinkles to appear on his forehead—something unheard of in the Webber family before. It also seemed to pull the corners of his cocked hat into a look of worry, which was completely different from the calm, wide-brimmed, low-crowned hats of his distinguished ancestors.

Perhaps even this would not have materially disturbed the serenity of his mind had he had only himself and his wife to care for; but there was his daughter gradually growing to maturity; and all the world knows when daughters begin to ripen no fruit or flower requires so much looking after. I have no talent at describing female charms, else fain would I depict the progress of this little Dutch beauty. How her blue eyes grew deeper and deeper, and her cherry lips redder and redder; and how she ripened and ripened, and rounded and rounded in the opening breath of sixteen summers, until, in her seventeenth spring, she seemed ready to burst out of her bodice like a half-blown rose-bud.

Perhaps this wouldn’t have significantly disturbed his peace of mind if he only had himself and his wife to think about; but then there was his daughter, gradually maturing, and everyone knows that when daughters come of age, they require more attention than any fruit or flower. I have no knack for describing feminine beauty, or else I would love to portray the development of this little Dutch beauty. How her blue eyes became deeper and her cherry lips redder; and how she matured and shaped up in the fresh air of sixteen summers, until, in her seventeenth spring, she appeared ready to burst out of her bodice like a half-open rosebud.

Ah, well-a-day! could I but show her as she was then, tricked out on a Sunday morning in the hereditary finery of the old Dutch clothes-press, of which her mother had confided to her the key. The wedding dress of her grandmother, modernized for use, with sundry ornaments, handed down as heirlooms in the family. Her pale brown hair smoothed with buttermilk in flat waving lines on each side of her fair forehead. The chain of yellow virgin gold, that encircled her neck; the little cross, that just rested at the entrance of a soft valley of happiness, as if it would sanctify the place. The—but pooh!—it is not for an old man like me to be prosing about female beauty: suffice it to say, Amy had attained her seventeenth year. Long since had her sampler exhibited hearts in couples desperately transfixed with arrows, and true lovers’ knots worked in deep blue silk; and it was evident she began to languish for some more interesting occupation than the rearing of sunflowers or pickling of cucumbers.

Ah, what a day! If only I could show her as she was then, all dressed up on a Sunday morning in the inherited finery from the old Dutch clothes cupboard, to which her mother had given her the key. The wedding dress of her grandmother, updated for wearing, with various ornaments passed down as heirlooms in the family. Her pale brown hair smoothed with buttermilk in flat waves on either side of her fair forehead. The chain of yellow gold that circled her neck; the little cross that just rested at the entrance of a soft valley of happiness, as if it wanted to bless the place. The—but never mind!—it's not for an old man like me to ramble on about female beauty: let’s just say, Amy had turned seventeen. Long ago, her sampler had displayed hearts in pairs, desperately pierced by arrows, and true lovers’ knots stitched in deep blue silk; and it was clear she was starting to yearn for something more interesting to do than raising sunflowers or pickling cucumbers.

At this critical period of female existence, when the heart within a damsel’s bosom, like its emblem, the miniature which hangs without, is apt to be engrossed by a single image, a new visitor began to make his appearance under the roof of Wolfert Webber. This was Dirk Waldron, the only son of a poor widow, but who could boast of more fathers than any lad in the province; for his mother had had four husbands, and this only child, so that though born in her last wedlock, he might fairly claim to be the tardy fruit of a long course of cultivation. This son of four fathers united the merits and the vigor of his sires. If he had not a great family before him, he seemed likely to have a great one after him; for you had only to look at the fresh gamesome youth, to see that he was formed to be the founder of a mighty race.

At this critical time in a young woman's life, when her heart, much like the small pendant she wears, can easily become fixated on a single image, a new visitor started showing up at Wolfert Webber's house. This was Dirk Waldron, the only son of a poor widow, but he could claim more fathers than any boy in the area; his mother had had four husbands, and he was her only child, so even though he was born in her last marriage, he could rightfully be seen as the product of a long history of nurturing. This son of four fathers combined the strengths and energy of his dads. Though he didn’t have a big family background, he seemed destined to create one; all you had to do was look at the lively, cheerful young man to see that he was meant to be the founder of a great lineage.

This youngster gradually became an intimate visitor of the family. He talked little, but he sat long. He filled the father’s pipe when it was empty, gathered up the mother’s knitting-needle, or ball of worsted when it fell to the ground; stroked the sleek coat of the tortoise-shell cat, and replenished the teapot for the daughter from the bright copper kettle that sung before the fire. All these quiet little offices may seem of trifling import, but when true love is translated into Low Dutch, it is in this way that it eloquently expresses itself. They were not lost upon the Webber family. The winning youngster found marvellous favor in the eyes of the mother; the tortoise-shell cat, albeit the most staid and demure of her kind, gave indubitable signs of approbation of his visits, the tea-kettle seemed to sing out a cheering note of welcome at his approach, and if the sly glances of the daughter might be rightly read, as she sat bridling and dimpling, and sewing by her mother’s side, she was not a wit behind Dame Webber, or grimalkin, or the tea-kettle in good-will.

This young guy gradually became a regular visitor to the family. He didn’t talk much, but he stayed for a long time. He refilled the father’s pipe when it was empty, picked up the mother’s knitting needle or ball of yarn when it fell, stroked the smooth coat of the tortoiseshell cat, and filled the daughter’s teapot from the shiny copper kettle that sang by the fire. These quiet little acts might seem trivial, but when true love is expressed in simple ways, it resonates deeply. The Webber family definitely noticed. The charming young guy was very much favored by the mother; the tortoiseshell cat, although the most reserved and dignified of her kind, clearly showed approval of his visits, the tea kettle seemed to cheerfully sing a welcome song when he arrived, and if the playful glances from the daughter could be interpreted correctly—sitting next to her mother, brimming with joy while sewing—she was just as fond of him as her mother, the cat, or the teapot.

Wolfert alone saw nothing of what was going on. Profoundly wrapt up in meditation on the growth of the city and his cabbages, he sat looking in the fire, and puffing his pipe in silence. One night, however, as the gentle Amy, according to custom, lighted her lover to the outer door, and he, according to custom, took his parting salute, the smack resounded so vigorously through the long, silent entry as to startle even the dull ear of Wolfert. He was slowly roused to a new source of anxiety. It had never entered into his head, that this mere child, who, as it seemed but the other day, had been climbing about his knees, and playing with dolls and baby-houses, could all at once be thinking of love and matrimony. He rubbed his eyes, examined into the fact, and really found that while he had been dreaming of other matters, she had actually grown into a woman, and what was more, had fallen in love. Here were new cares for poor Wolfert. He was a kind father, but he was a prudent man. The young man was a very stirring lad; but then he had neither money or land. Wolfert’s ideas all ran in one channel, and he saw no alternative in case of a marriage, but to portion off the young couple with a corner of his cabbage garden, the whole of which was barely sufficient for the support of his family.

Wolfert didn’t notice anything happening around him. Deeply absorbed in thoughts about the growth of the city and his cabbages, he sat staring into the fire, silently puffing on his pipe. One night, though, as the gentle Amy, following her usual routine, took her lover to the outer door, and he, following tradition, kissed her goodbye, the sound of the smooch echoed loudly through the long, quiet hallway, startling even Wolfert. He gradually became aware of a new concern. It had never crossed his mind that this little girl, who just the other day had been climbing onto his knees and playing with dolls and toy houses, could suddenly be thinking about love and marriage. He rubbed his eyes, looked into the situation, and realized that while he had been lost in thought, she had actually grown up and, even more, had fallen in love. This brought new worries for poor Wolfert. He was a caring father, but also a cautious one. The young man was lively, but he had neither money nor land. Wolfert’s thoughts always went in one direction, and he saw no option in the event of a marriage except to give the young couple a small piece of his cabbage garden, which was barely enough to support his family.

Like a prudent father, therefore, he determined to nip this passion in the bud, and forbade the youngster the house, though sorely did it go against his fatherly heart, and many a silent tear did it cause in the bright eye of his daughter. She showed herself, however, a pattern of filial piety and obedience. She never pouted and sulked; she never flew in the face of parental authority; she never fell into a passion, or fell into hysterics, as many romantic novel-read young ladies would do. Not she, indeed! She was none such heroical rebellious trumpery, I warrant ye. On the contrary, she acquiesced like an obedient daughter; shut the street-door in her lover’s face, and if ever she did grant him an interview, it was either out of the kitchen window, or over the garden fence.

Like a sensible dad, he decided to squash this passion right from the start and kicked the young guy out of the house, even though it broke his heart and caused his daughter to shed many silent tears. Still, she was a shining example of respect and obedience. She never pouted or sulked; she never challenged her parents’ authority; she never threw a fit or freaked out like many young women who read romantic novels would. Not her! She was not about that dramatic rebellion, believe me. Instead, she went along with it like a good daughter, shutting the door in her boyfriend's face, and if she ever sneaked him a meeting, it was either through the kitchen window or over the garden fence.

Wolfert was deeply cogitating these things in his mind, and his brow wrinkled with unusual care, as he wended his way one Saturday afternoon to a rural inn, about two miles from the city. It was a favorite resort of the Dutch part of the community from being always held by a Dutch line of landlords, and retaining an air and relish of the good old times. It was a Dutch-built house, that had probably been a country seat of some opulent burgher in the early time of the settlement. It stood near a point of land, called Corlears Hook, which stretches out into the Sound, and against which the tide, at its flux and reflux, sets with extraordinary rapidity. The venerable and somewhat crazy mansion was distinguished from afar, by a grove of elms and sycamores that seemed to wave a hospitable invitation, while a few weeping willows with their dank, drooping foliage, resembling falling waters, gave an idea of coolness, that rendered it an attractive spot during the heats of summer.

Wolfert was deep in thought as he made his way to a rural inn about two miles from the city one Saturday afternoon. It was a popular spot for the Dutch community because it was always run by Dutch landlords and had a charm that reminded people of the good old days. The inn was a Dutch-built house that likely used to be the country home of a wealthy burgher from the early days of the settlement. It was situated near a point of land called Corlears Hook, which juts out into the Sound, where the tide flows in and out with surprising speed. The old and slightly ramshackle mansion could be seen from a distance, marked by a grove of elms and sycamores that seemed to invite visitors in. A few weeping willows, with their lush, drooping branches like cascading water, added to the coolness of the place, making it a refreshing retreat during the summer heat.

Here, therefore, as I said, resorted many of the old inhabitants of the Manhattoes, where, while some played at the shuffle-board and quoits and ninepins, others smoked a deliberate pipe, and talked over public affairs.

Here, as I mentioned, many of the old residents of Manhattan gathered, where some played shuffleboard, quoits, and ninepins, while others casually smoked a pipe and discussed current events.

It was on a blustering autumnal afternoon that Wolfert made his visit to the inn. The grove of elms and willows was stripped of its leaves, which whirled in rustling eddies about the fields.

It was a windy autumn afternoon when Wolfert visited the inn. The grove of elms and willows had lost its leaves, which swirled in rustling gusts around the fields.

The ninepin alley was deserted, for the premature chilliness of the day had driven the company within doors. As it was Saturday afternoon, the habitual club was in session, composed principally of regular Dutch burghers, though mingled occasionally with persons of various, character and country, as is natural in a place of such motley population.

The ninepin alley was empty, as the early chill of the day had sent everyone inside. Since it was Saturday afternoon, the usual club was meeting, mostly made up of regular Dutch citizens, but also occasionally mixed with people of different backgrounds and nationalities, which is common in such a diverse community.

Beside the fire-place, and in a huge leather-bottomed armchair, sat the dictator of this little world, the venerable Rem, or, as it was pronounced, Ramm Rapelye.

Beside the fireplace, in a large leather-armchair, sat the ruler of this small world, the esteemed Rem, or as it was pronounced, Ramm Rapelye.

He was a man of Walloon race, and illustrious for the antiquity of his line, his great grandmother having been the first white child born in the province. But he was still more illustrious for his wealth and dignity: he had long filled the noble office of alderman, and was a man to whom the governor himself took off his hat. He had maintained possession of the leathern-bottomed chair from time immemorial; and had gradually waxed in bulk as he sat in his seat of government, until in the course of years he filled its whole magnitude. His word was decisive with his subjects; for he was so rich a man, that he was never expected to support any opinion by argument. The landlord waited on him with peculiar officiousness; not that he paid better than his neighbors, but then the coin of a rich man seems always to be so much more acceptable. The landlord had always a pleasant word and a joke, to insinuate in the ear of the august Ramm. It is true, Ramm never laughed, and, indeed, maintained a mastiff-like gravity, and even surliness of aspect, yet he now and then rewarded mine host with a token of approbation; which, though nothing more nor less than a kind of grunt, yet delighted the landlord more than a broad laugh from a poorer man.

He was a man of Walloon heritage, well-known for the distinguished history of his family, as his great-grandmother was the first white child born in the province. However, he was even more famous for his wealth and status: he had long held the noble position of alderman, and the governor himself would take off his hat for him. He had possessed the leather-bottomed chair for as long as anyone could remember, and over time, he had grown so large from sitting in his government seat that he eventually filled its entire space. His word was final among his subjects; he was so wealthy that people didn't expect him to argue his opinions. The landlord attended to him with special attentiveness; it wasn't that he paid better than others, but the money of a rich man always seemed to be more valued. The landlord always had a friendly word and a joke to share with the esteemed Ramm. It's true that Ramm never laughed and maintained a serious, even grumpy demeanor, yet occasionally he would reward the landlord with a sign of approval, which, though nothing more than a grunt, pleased the landlord more than a hearty laugh from someone less affluent.

“This will be a rough night for the money-diggers,” said mine host, as a gust of wind howled round the house, and rattled at the windows.

“This is going to be a tough night for the gold diggers,” said the host, as a strong wind howled around the house and rattled the windows.

“What, are they at their works again?” said an English half-pay captain, with one eye, who was a frequent attendant at the inn.

“What, are they working on their stuff again?” said an English retired captain with one eye, who often visited the inn.

“Aye, are they,” said the landlord, “and well may they be. They’ve had luck of late. They say a great pot of money has been dug up in the field, just behind Stuyvesant’s orchard. Folks think it must have been buried there in old times by Peter Stuyvesant, the Dutch Governor.”

“Yeah, they are,” said the landlord, “and they have every reason to be. They've been lucky lately. They say a huge stash of money has been found in the field, just behind Stuyvesant's orchard. People think it must have been buried there a long time ago by Peter Stuyvesant, the Dutch Governor.”

“Fudge!” said the one-eyed man of war, as he added a small portion of water to a bottom of brandy.

“Darn it!” said the one-eyed man of war, as he added a small splash of water to the bottom of his brandy.

“Well, you may believe, or not, as you please,” said mine host, somewhat nettled; “but every body knows that the old governor buried a great deal of his money at the time of the Dutch troubles, when the English red-coats seized on the province. They say, too, the old gentleman walks; aye, and in the very Same dress that he wears in the picture which hangs up in the family house.”

“Well, you can believe it or not, it’s up to you,” said the host, a bit annoyed; “but everyone knows that the old governor buried a lot of his money during the Dutch troubles when the English redcoats took over the province. They also say the old man haunts the place; yes, and in the exact same outfit he wears in the painting that hangs in the family home.”

“Fudge!” said the half-pay officer.

“Fudge!” said the retired officer.

“Fudge, if you please!—But didn’t Corney Van Zandt see him at midnight, stalking about in the meadow with his wooden leg, and a drawn sword in his hand, that flashed like fire? And what can he be walking for, but because people have been troubling the place where he buried his money in old times?”

“Fudge, if you don’t mind!—But didn’t Corney Van Zandt spot him at midnight, wandering around in the meadow with his wooden leg and a sword drawn in his hand, which sparkled like fire? And what could he possibly be walking for, except because people have been messing with the spot where he buried his money back in the day?”

Here the landlord was interrupted by several guttural sounds from Ramm Rapelye, betokening that he was laboring with the unusual production of an idea. As he was too great a man to be slighted by a prudent publican, mine host respectfully paused until he should deliver himself. The corpulent frame of this mighty burgher now gave all the symptoms of a volcanic mountain on the point of an eruption. First, there was a certain heaving of the abdomen, not unlike an earthquake; then was emitted a cloud of tobacco smoke from that crater, his mouth; then there was a kind of rattle in the throat, as if the idea were working its way up through a region of phlegm; then there were several disjointed members of a sentence thrown out, ending in a cough; at length his voice forced its way in the slow, but absolute tone of a man who feels the weight of his purse, if not of his ideas; every portion of his speech being marked by a testy puff of tobacco smoke.

Here, the landlord was interrupted by several deep sounds from Ramm Rapelye, indicating that he was struggling to come up with an idea. Since he was too important to be ignored by a careful innkeeper, the host respectfully paused until he expressed himself. The hefty body of this influential man now showed all the signs of a volcano about to erupt. First, there was a slight movement in his stomach, not unlike an earthquake; then a cloud of cigarette smoke was released from his mouth; next, there was a kind of throat rattle, as if the idea was pushing its way through some congestion; then several disconnected fragments of a sentence were spat out, ending in a cough; finally, his voice emerged slowly, but firmly, like a man who feels the weight of his wallet, if not his thoughts; each part of his speech was punctuated by an irritated puff of smoke.

“Who talks of old Peter Stuyvesant’s walking?—puff—Have people no respect for persons?—puff—puff—Peter Stuyvesant knew better what to do with his money than to bury it—puff—I know the Stuyvesant family—puff—every one of them—puff—not a more respectable family in the province—puff—old standers—puff—warm householders—puff—none of your upstarts—puff—puff—puff.—Don’t talk to me of Peter Stuyvesant’s walking—puff—puff—puff—puff.”

“Who talks about old Peter Stuyvesant’s walking?—puff—Do people not have any respect for individuals?—puff—puff—Peter Stuyvesant knew better ways to handle his money than to just bury it—puff—I know the Stuyvesant family—puff—each and every one of them—puff—there isn’t a more respectable family in the province—puff—they're old residents—puff—established homeowners—puff—not a bunch of upstarts—puff—puff—puff.—Don’t mention Peter Stuyvesant’s walking—puff—puff—puff—puff.”

Here the redoubtable Ramm contracted his brow, clasped up his mouth, till it wrinkled at each corner, and redoubled his smoking with such vehemence, that the cloudly volumes soon wreathed round his head, as the smoke envelopes the awful summit of Mount Etna.

Here, the formidable Ramm furrowed his brow, pressed his lips together until they wrinkled at the corners, and intensified his smoking with such fervor that thick clouds quickly swirled around his head, like smoke surrounding the ominous peak of Mount Etna.

A general silence followed the sudden rebuke of this very rich man. The subject, however, was too interesting to be readily abandoned. The conversation soon broke forth again from the lips of Peechy Prauw Van Hook, the chronicler of the club, one of those narrative old men who seem to grow incontinent of words, as they grow old, until their talk flows from them almost involuntarily.

A general silence followed the sudden reprimand from this very rich man. However, the topic was too intriguing to be easily dropped. The conversation soon resumed from Peechy Prauw Van Hook, the club’s storyteller, one of those older men who seem to lose their filter as they age, until their words spill out almost automatically.

Peechy, who could at any time tell as many stories in an evening as his hearers could digest in a month, now resumed the conversation, by affirming that, to his knowledge, money had at different times been dug up in various parts of the island. The lucky persons who had discovered them had always dreamt of them three times beforehand, and what was worthy of remark, these treasures had never been found but by some descendant of the good old Dutch families, which clearly proved that they had been buried by Dutchmen in the olden time.

Peechy, who could tell as many stories in one evening as his audience could handle in a month, picked up the conversation again by stating that, to his knowledge, money had been dug up in various spots on the island at different times. The fortunate individuals who found it had always dreamed of it three times beforehand, and interestingly, these treasures were only ever discovered by descendants of the good old Dutch families, clearly indicating that they had been buried by Dutchmen long ago.

“Fiddle-stick with your Dutchmen!” cried the half-pay officer. “The Dutch had nothing to do with them. They were all buried by Kidd, the pirate, and his crew.”

“Get lost with your Dutchmen!” shouted the half-pay officer. “The Dutch had nothing to do with them. They were all buried by Kidd, the pirate, and his crew.”

Here a key-note was touched that roused the whole company. The name of Captain Kidd was like a talisman in those times, and was associated with a thousand marvellous stories.

Here a key-note was struck that energized the whole group. The name of Captain Kidd was like a magic charm back then and was linked to a thousand incredible stories.

The half-pay officer was a man of great weight among the peaceable members of the club, by reason of his military character, and of the gunpowder scenes which, by his own account, he had witnessed.

The half-pay officer held a significant position among the peaceful members of the club, due to his military background and the explosive events he claimed to have seen.

The golden stories of Kidd, however, were resolutely rivalled by the tales of Peechy Prauw, who, rather than suffer his Dutch progenitors to be eclipsed by a foreign freebooter, enriched every spot in the neighborhood with the hidden wealth of Peter Stuyvesant and his contemporaries.

The legendary stories of Kidd, however, were strongly challenged by the tales of Peechy Prauw, who, instead of allowing his Dutch ancestors to be overshadowed by a foreign pirate, added value to every place in the area with the untapped wealth of Peter Stuyvesant and his peers.

Not a word of this conversation was lost upon Wolfert Webber. He returned pensively home, full of magnificent ideas of buried riches. The soil of his native island seemed to be turned into gold-dust; and every field teemed with treasure. His head almost reeled at the thought how often he must have heedlessly rambled over places where countless sums lay, scarcely covered by the turf beneath his feet. His mind was in a vertigo with this whirl of new ideas. As he came in sight of the venerable mansion of his forefathers, and the little realm where the Webbers had so long and so contentedly flourished, his gorge rose at the narrowness of his destiny.

Not a word of this conversation went over Wolfert Webber's head. He returned home, deep in thought, filled with grand ideas about hidden treasures. The soil of his island felt like it was sprinkled with gold dust; every field seemed to be bursting with wealth. He was almost dizzy at the idea of how many times he had mindlessly wandered over places where untold riches lay, barely covered by the grass beneath his feet. His mind was spinning with a flood of new thoughts. As he approached the old family mansion and the small domain where the Webbers had thrived for so long, he felt frustrated by the limitations of his life.

“Unlucky Wolfert!” exclaimed he, “others can go to bed and dream themselves into whole mines of wealth; they have but to seize a spade in the morning, and turn up doubloons like potatoes; but thou must dream of hardship, and rise to poverty—must dig thy field from year’s end to year’s end, and—and yet raise nothing but cabbages!”

“Poor Wolfert!” he exclaimed, “others can go to bed and dream themselves into entire fortunes; they just need to grab a shovel in the morning and find doubloons like they’re digging up potatoes; but you have to dream of hard times and wake up to poverty—you have to toil away in your fields all year long, and—and still only end up with cabbages!”

Wolfert Webber went to bed with a heavy heart; and it was long before the golden visions that disturbed his brain, permitted him to sink into repose. The same visions, however, extended into his sleeping thoughts, and assumed a more definite form. He dreamt that he had discovered an immense treasure in the centre of his garden. At every stroke of the spade he laid bare a golden ingot; diamond crosses sparkled out of the dust; bags of money turned up their bellies, corpulent with pieces of eight, or venerable doubloons; and chests, wedged close with moidores, ducats, and pistareens, yawned before his ravished eyes, and vomited forth their glittering contents.

Wolfert Webber went to bed feeling really down, and it took a long time for the bright visions that filled his mind to let him fall asleep. Those same visions, though, carried into his dreams, taking on a clearer shape. He dreamed he had found a huge treasure in the middle of his garden. With every stroke of the shovel, he uncovered a gold bar; diamond crosses flashed out of the dirt; bags of money flipped over, stuffed with pieces of eight or old doubloons; and chests, crammed with moidores, ducats, and pistareens, opened up before his amazed eyes and spilled out their shiny contents.

Wolfert awoke a poorer man than ever. He had no heart to go about his daily concerns, which appeared so paltry and profitless; but sat all day long in the chimney-corner, picturing to himself ingots and heaps of gold in the fire. The next night his dream was repeated. He was again in his garden, digging, and laying open stores of hidden wealth. There was something very singular in this repetition. He passed another day of reverie, and though it was cleaning-day, and the house, as usual in Dutch households, completely topsy-turvy, yet he sat unmoved amidst the general uproar.

Wolfert woke up feeling poorer than ever. He had no motivation to deal with his daily responsibilities, which seemed so trivial and worthless. Instead, he spent all day in the corner by the fireplace, imagining bars and piles of gold in the flames. The next night, the same dream came back. He found himself in his garden again, digging up and revealing hidden treasures. There was something very strange about this repetition. He spent another day lost in thought, and even though it was cleaning day and the house was, as usual in Dutch homes, completely messy, he remained unfazed amid the chaos.

The third night he went to bed with a palpitating heart. He put on his red nightcap, wrong side outwards for good luck. It was deep midnight before his anxious mind could settle itself into sleep. Again the golden dream was repeated, and again he saw his garden teeming with ingots and money-bags.

The third night he went to bed with a racing heart. He put on his red nightcap, wearing it inside out for good luck. It was well past midnight before his worried mind could calm down enough to sleep. Once more, the golden dream came back, and again he saw his garden filled with gold bars and money bags.

Wolfert rose the next morning in complete bewilderment. A dream three times repeated was never known to lie; and if so, his fortune was made.

Wolfert woke up the next morning completely confused. A dream that happened three times is never known to be a lie; if that's the case, his fortune was made.

In his agitation he put on his waistcoat with the hind part before, and this was a corroboration of good luck. He no longer doubted that a huge store of money lay buried somewhere in his cabbage-field, coyly waiting to be sought for, and he half repined at having so long been scratching about the surface of the soil, instead of digging to the centre.

In his anxiety, he put on his vest backward, and this was seen as a sign of good luck. He no longer doubted that a huge stash of money was buried somewhere in his cabbage patch, just waiting to be discovered, and he partly regretted having spent so long just scratching the surface of the soil instead of digging deep.

He took his seat at the breakfast-table full of these speculations; asked his daughter to put a lump of gold in to his tea, and on handing his wife a plate of slap-jacks, begging her to help herself to a doubloon.

He sat down at the breakfast table filled with these thoughts; asked his daughter to put a lump of gold in his tea, and while handing his wife a plate of pancakes, suggested she help herself to a doubloon.

His grand care now was how to secure this immense treasure without it being known. Instead of working regularly in his grounds in the day-time, he now stole from his bed at night, and with spade and pickaxe, went to work to rip up and dig about his paternal acres, from one end to the other. In a little time the whole garden, which had presented such a goodly and regular appearance, with its phalanx of cabbages, like a vegetable army in battle array, was reduced to a scene of devastation, while the relentless Wolfert, with nightcap on head, and lantern and spade in hand, stalked through the slaughtered ranks, the destroying angel of his own vegetable world.

His main concern now was how to secure this enormous treasure without anyone finding out. Instead of working in his fields during the day, he now sneaked out of bed at night and, armed with a spade and pickaxe, began tearing up and digging through his family’s land from one end to the other. Before long, the entire garden, which had looked so neat and orderly with its rows of cabbages like a vegetable army ready for battle, was turned into a scene of destruction, while the relentless Wolfert, with a nightcap on his head and a lantern and spade in hand, moved through the wreckage like the angel of destruction in his own vegetable kingdom.

Every morning bore testimony to the ravages of the preceding night in cabbages of all ages and conditions, from the tender sprout to the full-grown head, piteously rooted from their quiet beds like worthless weeds, and left to wither in the sunshine. It was in vain Wolfert’s wife remonstrated; it was in vain his darling daughter wept over the destruction of some favorite marygold. “Thou shalt have gold of another guess-sort,” he would cry, chucking her under the chin; “thou shalt have a string of crooked ducats for thy wedding-necklace, my child.” His family began really to fear that the poor man’s wits were diseased. He muttered in his sleep at night of mines of wealth, of pearls and diamonds and bars of gold. In the day-time he was moody and abstracted, and walked about as if in a trance. Dame Webber held frequent councils with all the old women of the neighborhood, not omitting the parish dominie; scarce an hour in the day but a knot of them might be seen wagging their white caps together round her door, while the poor woman made some piteous recital. The daughter, too, was fain to seek for more frequent consolation from the stolen interviews of her favored swain, Dirk Waldron. The delectable little Dutch songs with which she used to dulcify the house grew less and less frequent, and she would forget her sewing and look wistfully in her father’s face as he sat pondering by the fireside.

Every morning showed the damage from the previous night in cabbages of all kinds, from young sprouts to fully grown heads, pitifully ripped from their peaceful places like worthless weeds and left to dry out in the sun. Wolfert’s wife tried to protest in vain; his beloved daughter cried over the loss of her favorite marigold. “You’ll get gold of a different kind,” he would say, playfully lifting her chin; “you’ll have a string of crooked ducats for your wedding necklace, my child.” His family really began to worry that the poor man was losing his mind. He mumbled in his sleep about mines of wealth, pearls, diamonds, and bars of gold. During the day, he was moody and lost in thought, wandering around as if in a daze. Dame Webber held frequent meetings with all the local older women, including the parish minister; there was hardly an hour in the day when a group of them could be seen shaking their heads together outside her door, while the poor woman shared her sad story. The daughter also sought more comfort from the secret meetings with her favorite, Dirk Waldron. The delightful little Dutch songs that used to fill the house became less and less frequent, and she would forget her sewing and gaze longingly at her father’s face as he sat deep in thought by the fireside.

Wolfert caught her eye one day fixed on him thus anxiously, and for a moment was roused from his golden reveries—“Cheer up, my girl,” said he, exultingly, “why dost thou droop?—thou shalt hold up thy head one day with the—and the Schenaerhorns, the Van Hornes, and the Van Dams—the patroon himself shall be glad to get thee for his son!”

Wolfert caught her gaze one day as she looked at him with concern, and for a moment he was pulled from his blissful thoughts. “Cheer up, my girl,” he said excitedly, “why are you so down? One day, you’ll hold your head high with the Schenaerhorns, the Van Hornes, and the Van Dams—the patroon himself will be eager to have you as his daughter-in-law!”

Amy shook her head at this vain-glorious boast, and was more than ever in doubt of the soundness of the good man’s intellect.

Amy shook her head at this boastful claim and was even more unsure about the sanity of the good man's mind.

In the meantime Wolfert went on digging, but the field was extensive, and as his dream had indicated no precise spot, he had to dig at random. The winter set in before one-tenth of the scene of promise had been explored. The ground became too frozen and the nights too cold for the labors of the spade. No sooner, however, did the returning warmth of spring loosen the soil, and the small frogs begin to pipe in the meadows, but Wolfert resumed his labors with renovated zeal. Still, however, the hours of industry were reversed. Instead of working cheerily all day, planting and setting out his vegetables, he remained thoughtfully idle, until the shades of night summoned him to his secret labors. In this way he continued to dig from night to night, and week to week, and month to month, but not a stiver did he find. On the contrary, the more he digged the poorer he grew. The rich soil of his garden was digged away, and the sand and gravel from beneath were thrown to the surface, until the whole field presented an aspect of sandy barrenness.

In the meantime, Wolfert continued digging, but the field was huge, and since his dream hadn’t pointed to a specific spot, he had to dig randomly. Winter came before he had explored even one-tenth of the promising area. The ground became too frozen, and the nights too cold for him to use his spade. However, as soon as the warmth of spring returned, softening the soil, and the small frogs began to croak in the meadows, Wolfert eagerly got back to work. Yet, his work hours were different now. Instead of happily working all day planting and arranging his vegetables, he sat idle, deep in thought, until nightfall called him to his secret digging. He kept this up day after day, week after week, and month after month, but he didn’t find a single coin. In fact, the more he dug, the poorer he became. The rich soil of his garden was removed, and the sand and gravel underneath were brought to the surface, leaving the whole field looking barren and sandy.

In the meantime the seasons gradually rolled on. The little frogs that had piped in the meadows in early spring, croaked as bull-frogs in the brooks during the summer heats, and then sunk into silence. The peach tree budded, blossomed, and bore its fruit. The swallows and martins came, twittered about the roof, built their nests, reared their young, held their congress along the eaves, and then winged their flight in search of another spring. The caterpillar spun its winding-sheet, dangled in it from the great buttonwood tree that shaded the house, turned into a moth, fluttered with the last sunshine of summer, and disappeared; and finally the leaves of the buttonwood tree turned yellow, then brown, then rustled one by one to the ground, and whirling about in little eddies of wind and dust, whispered that winter was at hand.

In the meantime, the seasons passed by gradually. The little frogs that had sung in the meadows in early spring croaked like bullfrogs in the brooks during the summer heat and then fell silent. The peach tree budded, bloomed, and bore its fruit. The swallows and martins arrived, chirped around the roof, built their nests, raised their young, held their meetings along the eaves, and then took off to find another spring. The caterpillar spun its cocoon, hung from the large buttonwood tree that shaded the house, turned into a moth, flitted with the last sunlight of summer, and vanished; and finally, the leaves of the buttonwood tree turned yellow, then brown, and rustled one by one to the ground, swirling in little eddies of wind and dust, whispering that winter was coming.

Wolfert gradually awoke from his dream of wealth as the year declined. He had reared no crop to supply the wants of his household during the sterility of winter. The season was long and severe, and for the first time the family was really straightened in its comforts. By degrees a revulsion of thought took place in Wolfert’s mind, common to those whose golden dreams have been disturbed by pinching realities. The idea gradually stole upon him that he should come to want. He already considered himself one of the most unfortunate men in the province, having lost such an incalculable amount of undiscovered treasure, and now, when thousands of pounds had eluded his search, to be perplexed for shillings and pence was cruel in the extreme.

Wolfert slowly woke up from his dream of wealth as the year came to an end. He hadn’t grown any crops to meet his household’s needs during the harsh winter. The season was long and tough, and for the first time, the family was really struggling with basic comforts. Gradually, a shift in Wolfert’s thoughts occurred, something common for those whose golden dreams have been shattered by harsh realities. The thought gradually crept into his mind that he might face hardship. He already saw himself as one of the most unfortunate men in the province, having lost an unimaginable amount of undiscovered treasure, and now, after searching in vain for thousands of pounds, to worry about nickels and dimes felt incredibly cruel.

Haggard care gathered about his brow; he went about with a money-seeking air, his eyes bent downwards into the dust, and carrying his hands in his pockets, as men are apt to do when they have nothing else to put into them. He could not even pass the city almshouse without giving it a rueful glance, as if destined to be his future abode.

Worried lines creased his forehead; he walked around with a desperate look, his eyes glued to the ground, and his hands shoved in his pockets, like people do when they have nothing else to hold. He couldn’t even walk by the city’s homeless shelter without giving it a sad look, as if it was meant to be his future home.

The strangeness of his conduct and of his looks occasioned much speculation and remark. For a long time he was suspected of being crazy, and then every body pitied him; at length it began to be suspected that he was poor, and then every body avoided him.

The oddness of his behavior and appearance sparked a lot of gossip and curiosity. For a while, people thought he was crazy, and then everyone felt sorry for him; eventually, it started to seem like he was broke, and then everyone kept their distance.

The rich old burghers of his acquaintance met him, outside of the door when he called, entertained him hospitably on the threshold, pressed him warmly by the hand on parting, shook their heads as he walked away, with the kind-hearted expression of “poor Wolfert,” and turned a corner nimbly, if by chance they saw him approaching as they walked the streets. Even the barber and cobbler of the neighborhood, and a tattered tailor in an alley hard by, three of the poorest and merriest rogues in the world, eyed him with that abundant sympathy which usually attends a lack of means, and there is not a doubt but their pockets would have been at his command, only that they happened to be empty.

The wealthy old townspeople he knew greeted him at the door when he arrived, welcomed him warmly at the threshold, shook his hand affectionately when he left, and shook their heads with a sympathetic “poor Wolfert” as he walked away. They turned a corner quickly if they happened to see him coming while they strolled through the streets. Even the barber, the cobbler from the neighborhood, and a shabby tailor in a nearby alley, three of the poorest and happiest guys you could find, looked at him with a generous sympathy that often comes with being broke, and there’s no doubt their pockets would have been open to him if they hadn’t been empty.

Thus every body deserted the Webber mansion, as if poverty were contagious, like the plague; every body but honest Dirk Waldron, who still kept up his stolen visits to the daughter, and indeed seemed to wax more affectionate as the fortunes of his mistress were on the wane.

So everyone left the Webber mansion, as if poverty were contagious like the plague; everyone except honest Dirk Waldron, who continued his secret visits to the daughter and actually seemed to become more affectionate as his mistress’s fortunes declined.

Many months had elapsed since Wolfert had frequented his old resort, the rural inn. He was taking a long lonely walk one Saturday afternoon, musing over his wants and disappointments, when his feet took instinctively their wonted direction, and on awaking out of a reverie, he found himself before the door of the inn. For some moments he hesitated whether to enter, but his heart yearned for companionship; and where can a ruined man find better companionship than at a tavern, where there is neither sober example nor sober advice to put him out of countenance?

Many months had passed since Wolfert had visited his old hangout, the rural inn. One Saturday afternoon, he was taking a long, lonely walk, lost in thought about his wants and disappointments, when his feet instinctively found their way to the inn. After a moment of hesitation about whether to go in, he felt a strong desire for company; after all, where can a broken man find better company than at a bar, where there's no sober example or good advice to make him feel out of place?

Wolfert found several of the old frequenters of the tavern at their usual posts, and seated in their usual places; but one was missing, the great Ramm Rapelye, who for many years had filled the chair of state. His place was supplied by a stranger, who seemed, however, completely at home in the chair and the tavern. He was rather under-size, but deep-chested, square, and muscular. His broad shoulders, double joints, and bow-knees, gave tokens of prodigious strength. His face was dark and weather-beaten; a deep scar, as if from the slash of a cutlass, had almost divided his nose, and made a gash in his upper lip, through which his teeth shone like a bull-dog’s. A mass of iron gray hair gave a grizzly finish to his hard-favored visage. His dress was of an amphibious character. He wore an old hat edged with tarnished lace, and cocked in martial style, on one side of his head; a rusty blue military coat with brass buttons, and a wide pair of short petticoat trousers, or rather breeches, for they were gathered up at the knees. He ordered every body about him with an authoritative air; talked in a brattling voice, that sounded like the crackling of thorns under a pot; damned the landlord and servants with perfect impunity, and was waited upon with greater obsequiousness than had ever been shown to the mighty Ramm himself.

Wolfert found several of the regulars at the tavern in their usual spots, but one was missing: the great Ramm Rapelye, who had held the important seat for many years. A stranger occupied his place, yet he seemed completely at ease in both the chair and the tavern. He was somewhat short but deep-chested, stocky, and muscular. His broad shoulders, double joints, and bow legs suggested incredible strength. His face was dark and weathered; a deep scar, like a cut from a sword, almost split his nose and left a gash in his upper lip, through which his teeth resembled those of a bulldog. A thick mass of iron-gray hair added a rugged look to his rough face. His outfit had a mixed style. He wore an old hat adorned with tarnished lace, tilted to one side of his head, a faded blue military coat with brass buttons, and a wide pair of short trousers, or rather breeches, which were gathered at the knees. He commanded everyone around him with an authoritative air; his voice was a harsh crackling sound, like thorns burning in a pot; he cursed the landlord and staff without any consequences, and he was treated with more deference than had ever been shown to the mighty Ramm himself.

Wolfert’s curiosity was awakened to know who and what was this stranger who had thus usurped absolute sway in this ancient domain. He could get nothing, however, but vague information. Peechy Prauw took him aside, into a remote corner of the hall, and there in an under-voice, and with great caution, imparted to him all that he knew on the subject. The inn had been aroused several months before, on a dark stormy night, by repeated long shouts, that seemed like the howlings of a wolf. They came from the water-side; and at length were distinguished to be hailing the house in the seafaring manner. “House-a-hoy!” The landlord turned out with his head-waiter, tapster, hostler, and errand boy—that is to say with his old negro Cuff. On approaching the place from whence the voice proceeded, they found this amphibious-looking personage at the water’s edge, quite alone, and seated on a great oaken sea-chest. How he came there, whether he had been set on shore from some boat, or had floated to land on his chest, nobody could tell, for he did not seem disposed to answer questions, and there was something in his looks and manners that put a stop to all questioning. Suffice it to say, he took possession of a corner room of the inn, to which his chest was removed with great difficulty. Here he had remained ever since, keeping about the inn and its vicinity. Sometimes, it is true, he disappeared for one, two, or three days at a time, going and returning without giving any notice or account of his movements. He always appeared to have plenty of money, though often of very strange, outlandish coinage; and he regularly paid his bill every evening before turning in.

Wolfert's curiosity was piqued to find out who this stranger was that had taken control of this old place. However, he could only gather vague details. Peechy Prauw pulled him aside into a quiet corner of the hall and, speaking softly and cautiously, shared everything he knew. Several months earlier, on a dark, stormy night, the inn had been stirred by long, echoing shouts that sounded like wolf howls. The shouts came from the water's edge and eventually turned into calls for the inn in a nautical way: "House-a-hoy!" The landlord, along with his head waiter, bartender, stableman, and errand boy—his old African American servant Cuff—went out to check. As they approached the source of the voice, they found an odd-looking man sitting alone on a large oak sea chest at the water’s edge. No one could explain how he got there, whether he had been dropped off by a boat or had somehow floated to shore on his chest, as he didn't seem inclined to answer questions, and there was something about him that discouraged further inquiry. It’s enough to say he took a corner room in the inn, which his chest was moved to with great effort. He had been staying there ever since, often hanging around the inn and nearby areas. Sometimes, it was true, he would vanish for one, two, or three days without any notice or explanation of where he had gone. He always seemed to have plenty of money, often in unusual, foreign coins, and he consistently paid his bill each night before going to bed.

He had fitted up his room to his own fancy, having slung a hammock from the ceiling instead of a bed, and decorated the walls with rusty pistols and cutlasses of foreign workmanship. A great part of his time was passed in this room, seated by the window, which commanded a wide view of the Sound, a short old-fashioned pipe in his mouth, a glass of rum toddy at his elbow, and a pocket telescope in his hand, with which he reconnoitred every boat that moved upon the water. Large square-rigged vessels seemed to excite but little attention; but the moment he descried any thing with a shoulder-of-mutton sail, or that a barge, or yawl, or jolly boat hove in sight, up went the telescope, and he examined it with the most scrupulous attention.

He had outfitted his room to suit his taste, hanging a hammock from the ceiling instead of a bed and decorating the walls with rusty pistols and foreign cutlasses. He spent a lot of time in this room, sitting by the window, which had a wide view of the Sound, an old-fashioned pipe in his mouth, a glass of rum toddy next to him, and a pocket telescope in his hand, with which he scanned every boat that moved on the water. Large square-rigged vessels didn’t seem to catch his interest much; however, the moment he spotted anything with a shoulder-of-mutton sail, or saw a barge, yawl, or jolly boat appear, the telescope went up, and he examined it with meticulous attention.

All this might have passed without much notice, for in those times the province was so much the resort of adventurers of all characters and climes that any oddity in dress or behavior attracted but little attention. But in a little while this strange sea monster, thus strangely cast up on dry land, began to encroach upon the long-established customs and customers of the place; to interfere in a dictatorial manner in the affairs of the ninepin alley and the bar-room, until in the end he usurped an absolute command over the little inn. It was in vain to attempt to withstand his authority. He was not exactly quarrelsome, but boisterous and peremptory, like one accustomed to tyrannize on a quarter deck; and there was a dare-devil air about every thing he said and did, that inspired a wariness in all bystanders. Even the half-pay officer, so long the hero of the club, was soon silenced by him; and the quiet burghers stared with wonder at seeing their inflammable man of war so readily and quietly extinguished.

All of this could have gone mostly unnoticed, since during that time the province attracted adventurers of all types and from all over, so any peculiarities in dress or behavior drew little attention. But before long, this bizarre sea creature, strangely washed up on land, started to interfere with the long-standing customs and regulars of the area; he began dictating terms in the ninepin alley and the bar, until eventually he took complete control of the little inn. It was pointless to try to resist his authority. He wasn’t exactly argumentative, but he was loud and commanding, like someone used to bossing people around on a ship; and there was a reckless vibe to everything he said and did that made everyone around him cautious. Even the retired officer, who had long been the club’s star, was quickly silenced by him; and the quiet townsfolk stared in amazement at how easily their volatile naval officer was subdued.

And then the tales that he would tell were enough to make a peaceable man’s hair stand on end. There was not a sea fight, or marauding or free-booting adventure that had happened within the last twenty years but he seemed perfectly versed in it. He delighted to talk of the exploits of the buccaneers in the West-Indies and on the Spanish Main. How his eyes would glisten as he described the waylaying of treasure ships, the desperate fights, yard arm and yard arm—broadside and broad side—the boarding and capturing of large Spanish galleons! with what chuckling relish would he describe the descent upon some rich Spanish colony; the rifling of a church; the sacking of a convent! You would have thought you heard some gormandizer dilating upon the roasting a savory goose at Michaelmas as he described the roasting of some Spanish Don to make him discover his treasure—a detail given with a minuteness that made every rich old burgher present turn uncomfortably in his chair. All this would be told with infinite glee, as if he considered it an excellent joke; and then he would give such a tyrannical leer in the face of his next neighbor, that the poor man would be fain to laugh out of sheer faint-heartedness. If any one, however, pretended to contradict him in any of his stories he was on fire in an instant. His very cocked hat assumed a momentary fierceness, and seemed to resent the contradiction.—“How the devil should you know as well as I! I tell you it was as I say!” and he would at the same time let slip a broadside of thundering oaths and tremendous sea phrases, such as had never been heard before within those peaceful walls.

And then the stories he told were enough to make a calm person’s hair stand on end. There wasn’t a sea battle, or pirate raid, or adventure from the last twenty years that he didn’t seem to know all about. He loved to talk about the exploits of the buccaneers in the West Indies and on the Spanish Main. His eyes would light up as he described ambushes of treasure ships, fierce battles, side by side—broadside against broadside—the boarding and capturing of huge Spanish galleons! With what delight he would recount attacks on wealthy Spanish colonies, robbing a church, and plundering a convent! You’d think you were hearing a glutton go on about roasting a delicious goose at Christmas as he detailed the torture of some Spanish nobleman to get him to reveal his treasure—a detail so vivid it made every rich old merchant present squirm in his seat. All of this was told with endless joy, as if he saw it as a great joke; and then he would give such a malicious grin at his neighbor that the poor guy felt compelled to laugh just out of nervousness. If anyone dared to disagree with any of his stories, he would erupt in an instant. His cocked hat would take on an angry look, as if it were offended by the contradiction. “How the hell would you know better than I do! I’m telling you it happened exactly as I say!” and he would unleash a barrage of booming curses and epic sea phrases that had never been heard before within those peaceful walls.

Indeed, the worthy burghers began to surmise that he knew more of these stories than mere hearsay. Day after day their conjectures concerning him grew more and more wild and fearful. The strangeness of his manners, the mystery that surrounded him, all made him something incomprehensible in their eyes. He was a kind of monster of the deep to them—he was a merman—he was behemoth—he was leviathan—in short, they knew not what he was.

Indeed, the respectable townspeople started to suspect that he knew more about these stories than just gossip. Day after day, their theories about him became wilder and more frightening. His odd behavior and the mystery surrounding him made him completely incomprehensible to them. He was like a creature from the depths—a merman—he was behemoth—he was leviathan—in short, they had no idea what he was.

The domineering spirit of this boisterous sea urchin at length grew quite intolerable. He was no respecter of persons; he contradicted the richest burghers without hesitation; he took possession of the sacred elbow chair, which time out of mind had been the seat of sovereignty of the illustrious Ramm Rapelye. Nay, he even went so far in one of his rough jocular moods, as to slap that mighty burgher on the back, drink his toddy and wink in his face, a thing scarcely to be believed. From this time Ramm Rapelye appeared no more at the inn; his example was followed by several of the most eminent customers, who were too rich to tolerate being bullied out of their opinions, or being obliged to laugh at another man’s jokes. The landlord was almost in despair, but he knew not how to get rid of this sea monster and his sea-chest, which seemed to have grown like fixtures, or excrescences on his establishment.

The overpowering attitude of this loud sea urchin eventually became unbearable. He didn’t care about people's status; he openly challenged the wealthiest townsfolk without a second thought; he took over the prestigious armchair that had long been the throne of the esteemed Ramm Rapelye. What's more, he even went as far as to slap that powerful burgher on the back during one of his rough, joking moments, drink his toddy, and wink right in his face—a sight almost unbelievable. After that, Ramm Rapelye stopped coming to the inn, and several other prominent patrons followed suit, unwilling to let themselves be pushed around or forced to laugh at someone else’s jokes. The landlord was nearly desperate, but he didn't know how to get rid of this sea monster and his sea chest, which seemed to have become permanent fixtures or growths in his establishment.

Such was the account whispered cautiously in Wolfert’s ear, by the narrator, Peechy Prauw, as he held him by the button in a corner of the hall, casting a wary glance now and then towards the door of the bar-room, lest he should be overheard by the terrible hero of his tale.

Such was the account quietly whispered in Wolfert’s ear by the storyteller, Peechy Prauw, as he grabbed him by the button in a corner of the hall, glancing nervously now and then at the door of the bar-room, in case he might be overheard by the fearsome hero of his story.

Wolfert took his seat in a remote part of the room in silence; impressed with profound awe of this unknown, so versed in freebooting history. It was to him a wonderful instance of the revolutions of mighty empires, to find the venerable Ramm Rapelye thus ousted from the throne; a rugged tarpaulin dictating from his elbow chair, hectoring the patriarchs, and filling this tranquil little realm with brawl and bravado.

Wolfert quietly sat down in a secluded corner of the room, deeply impressed by this unknown figure, so knowledgeable about piracy history. To him, it was an amazing example of the shifts in powerful empires, seeing the respected Ramm Rapelye unseated from his position; a tough sailor commanding from his armchair, bullying the elders and turning this peaceful little place into a scene of chaos and bravado.

The stranger was on this evening in a more than usually communicative mood, and was narrating a number of astounding stories of plunderings and burnings upon the high seas. He dwelt upon them with peculiar relish, heightening the frightful particulars in proportion to their effect on his peaceful auditors. He gave a long swaggering detail of the capture of a Spanish merchantman. She was laying becalmed during a long summer’s day, just off from an island which was one of the lurking places of the pirates. They had reconnoitred her with their spy-glasses from the shore, and ascertained her character and force. At night a picked crew of daring fellows set off for her in a whale boat. They approached with muffled oars, as she lay rocking idly with the undulations of the sea and her sails flapping against the masts. They were close under her stern before the guard on deck was aware of their approach. The alarm was given; the pirates threw hand grenades on deck and sprang up the main chains sword in hand.

The stranger was in an unusually chatty mood that evening, sharing a bunch of incredible stories about lootings and fires on the high seas. He relished the details, intensifying the terrifying specifics to maximize their impact on his calm listeners. He gave an elaborate account of capturing a Spanish merchant ship. It was anchored quietly on a long summer day, just off an island known to be a hideout for pirates. They had watched her from the shore with their binoculars, figuring out her type and how well-armed she was. At night, a select group of brave guys set out for her in a small whale boat. They came up quietly with muffled oars as she swayed lazily with the waves, her sails flapping against the masts. They got right underneath her before the guard on deck noticed their approach. The alarm was sounded; the pirates threw grenades onto the deck and climbed up the main chains with swords in hand.

The crew flew to arms, but in great confusion some were shot down, others took refuge in the tops; others were driven overboard and drowned, while others fought hand to hand from the main deck to the quarter deck, disputing gallantly every inch of ground. There were three Spanish gentlemen on board with their ladies, who made the most desperate resistance; they defended the companion-way, cut down several of their assailants, and fought like very devils, for they were maddened by the shrieks of the ladies from the cabin. One of the Dons was old and soon despatched. The other two kept their ground vigorously, even though the captain of the pirates was among their assailants. Just then there was a shout of victory from the main deck. “The ship is ours!” cried the pirates.

The crew grabbed their weapons, but in the chaos, some were shot, others took shelter in the rigging; some were thrown overboard and drowned, while others fought fiercely from the main deck to the quarterdeck, courageously defending every inch of the ship. Three Spanish gentlemen were on board with their ladies, putting up a desperate fight; they defended the stairway, took down several attackers, and fought like demons, driven mad by the screams of the ladies in the cabin. One of the Dons was old and quickly killed. The other two held their ground fiercely, even though the pirate captain was among their attackers. At that moment, a victory shout erupted from the main deck. “The ship is ours!” yelled the pirates.

One of the Dons immediately dropped his sword and surrendered; the other, who was a hot-headed youngster, and just married, gave the captain a slash in the face that laid all open. The captain just made out to articulate the words “no quarter.”

One of the Dons quickly dropped his sword and gave up; the other, a hot-headed young guy who had just gotten married, slashed the captain across the face, leaving a deep cut. The captain barely managed to say the words “no quarter.”

“And what did they do with their prisoners?” said Peechy Prauw, eagerly.

“And what did they do with their prisoners?” asked Peechy Prauw, excitedly.

“Threw them all overboard!” said the merman.

“Threw them all overboard!” said the merman.

A dead pause followed this reply. Peechy Prauw shrunk quietly back like a man who had unwarily stolen upon the lair of a sleeping lion. The honest burghers cast fearful glances at the deep scar slashed across the visage of the stranger, and moved their chairs a little farther off. The seaman, however, smoked on without moving a muscle, as though he either did not perceive or did not regard the unfavorable effect he had produced upon his hearers.

A dead silence followed this reply. Peechy Prauw quietly recoiled like someone who had unknowingly stumbled upon the den of a sleeping lion. The honest townsfolk exchanged nervous glances at the deep scar etched across the stranger's face and scooted their chairs a little farther away. The seaman, however, continued to smoke without a hint of motion, as if he either didn’t notice or didn’t care about the negative impression he had made on his audience.

The half-pay officer was the first to break the silence; for he was Continually tempted to make ineffectual head against this tyrant of the seas, and to regain his lost consequence in the eyes of his ancient companions. He now tried to match the gunpowder tales of the stranger by others equally tremendous. Kidd, as usual, was his hero, concerning whom he had picked up many of the floating traditions of the province. The seaman had always evinced a settled pique against the red-faced warrior. On this occasion he listened with peculiar impatience. He sat with one arm a-kimbo, the other elbow on a table, the hand holding on to the small pipe he was pettishly puffing; his legs crossed, drumming with one foot on the ground and casting every now and then the side glance of a basilisk at the prosing captain. At length the latter spoke of Kidd’s having ascended the Hudson with some of his crew, to land his plunder in secrecy.

The half-pay officer was the first to break the silence because he was constantly tempted to take a futile stand against this tyrant of the seas and regain his lost status in the eyes of his old companions. He now tried to counter the stranger's outrageous gunpowder stories with equally incredible ones of his own. Kidd, as usual, was his hero, and he had picked up many of the local legends about him. The seaman had always shown a lasting annoyance toward the red-faced warrior. This time, he listened with particular impatience. He sat with one arm on his hip, the other elbow resting on the table, the hand clinging to the small pipe he was irritably puffing; his legs crossed, tapping one foot on the ground and occasionally throwing a sidelong glance like a basilisk at the long-winded captain. Finally, the captain spoke about how Kidd had sailed up the Hudson with some of his crew to secretly land his stolen goods.

“Kidd up the Hudson!” burst forth the seaman, with a tremendous oath; “Kidd never was up the Hudson!”

“Kidd up the Hudson!” shouted the sailor, swearing loudly; “Kidd was never up the Hudson!”

“I tell you he was,” said the other. “Aye, and they say he buried a quantity of treasure on the little flat that runs out into the river, called the Devil’s Dans Kammer.”

“I tell you he was,” said the other. “Yeah, and they say he buried a bunch of treasure on the little flat that juts out into the river, called the Devil’s Dans Kammer.”

“The Devil’s Dans Kammer in your teeth!” cried the seaman. “I tell you Kidd never was up the Hudson—what the plague do you know of Kidd and his haunts?”

“Damn it all, you’re barking up the wrong tree!” shouted the sailor. “I’m telling you Kidd never set foot in the Hudson—what the hell do you know about Kidd and his hideouts?”

“What do I know?” echoed the half-pay officer; “why, I was in London at the time of his trial, aye, and I had the pleasure of seeing him hanged at Execution Dock.”

“What do I know?” the retired officer repeated; “well, I was in London during his trial, and I even had the chance to see him hanged at Execution Dock.”

“Then, sir, let me tell you that you saw as pretty a fellow hanged as ever trod shoe leather. Aye!” putting his face nearer to that of the officer, “and there was many a coward looked on, that might much better have swung in his stead.”

"Then, sir, let me tell you that you saw one of the best-looking guys hanged who ever walked in shoes. Aye!" As he leaned closer to the officer, he added, "And there were plenty of cowards watching who would be better off hanging in his place."

The half-pay officer was silenced; but the indignation thus pent up in his bosom glowed with intense vehemence in his single eye, which kindled like a coal.

The half-pay officer was quiet; but the anger building up inside him burned fiercely in his one eye, which sparkled like a glowing ember.

Peechy Prauw, who never could remain silent, now took up the word, and in a pacifying tone observed that the gentleman certainly was in the right. Kidd never did bury money up the Hudson, nor indeed in any of those parts, though many affirm the fact. It was Bradish and others of the buccaneers who had buried money, some said in Turtle Bay, others on Long-Island, others in the neighborhood of Hell Gate. Indeed, added he, I recollect an adventure of Mud Sam, the negro fisherman, many years ago, which some think had something to do with the buccaneers. As we are all friends here, and as it will go no farther, I’ll tell it to you.

Peechy Prauw, who could never keep quiet, chimed in with a calming tone and noted that the gentleman was definitely right. Kidd never buried money up the Hudson or anywhere in that area, even though many claim he did. It was Bradish and some of the other pirates who buried their treasure—some say in Turtle Bay, others on Long Island, and some around Hell Gate. In fact, he continued, I remember a story about Mud Sam, the black fisherman, from many years ago, which some believe is connected to the pirates. Since we’re all friends here and it won’t go any further, I’ll share it with you.

“Upon a dark night many years ago, as Sam was returning from fishing in Hell Gate—”

“On a dark night many years ago, as Sam was coming back from fishing in Hell Gate—”

Here the story was nipped in the bud by a sudden movement from the unknown, who, laying his iron fist on the table, knuckles downward, with a quiet force that indented the very boards, and looking grimly over his shoulder, with the grin of an angry bear. “Heark’ee, neighbor,” said he, with significant nodding of the head, “you’d better let the buccaneers and their money alone—they’re not for old men and old women to meddle with. They fought hard for their money, they gave body and soul for it, and wherever it lies buried, depend upon it he must have a tug with the devil who gets it.”

The story was cut off abruptly by a sudden action from the stranger, who slammed his fist down on the table, knuckles first, with a force that left an impression in the wood. He glanced grimly over his shoulder, looking like an angry bear. “Listen up, neighbor,” he said, nodding significantly, “you’d be wise to stay away from the buccaneers and their treasure—they’re not for old men and women to mess with. They fought fiercely for their fortune, putting everything on the line for it, and whoever tries to claim it will have to face a tough battle with the devil.”

This sudden explosion was succeeded by a blank silence throughout the room. Peechy Prauw shrunk within himself, and even the red-faced officer turned pale. Wolfert, who, from a dark corner of the room, had listened with intense eagerness to all this talk about buried treasure, looked with mingled awe and reverence on this bold buccaneer, for such he really suspected him to be. There was a chinking of gold and a sparkling of jewels in all his stories about the Spanish Main that gave a value to every period, and Wolfert would have given any thing for the rummaging of the ponderous sea-chest, which his imagination crammed full of golden chalices and crucifixes and jolly round bags of doubloons.

This sudden explosion was followed by a heavy silence in the room. Peechy Prauw shrank back, and even the red-faced officer turned pale. Wolfert, who had been listening intently from a dark corner, was filled with a mix of awe and respect for this daring pirate, as he suspected him to be. The clinking of gold and the glint of jewels in his tales about the Spanish Main added a worth to every moment, and Wolfert would have given anything to rummage through the heavy sea chest that his imagination filled with golden chalices, crucifixes, and cheerful bags of doubloons.

The dead stillness that had fallen upon the company was at length interrupted by the stranger, who pulled out a prodigious watch of curious and ancient workmanship, and which in Wolferts’ eyes had a decidedly Spanish look. On touching a spring it struck ten o’clock; upon which the sailor called for his reckoning, and having paid it out of a handful of outlandish coin, he drank off the remainder of his beverage, and without taking leave of any one, rolled out of the room, muttering to himself as he stamped up-stairs to his chamber.

The eerie silence that had settled over the group was finally broken by the stranger, who pulled out an enormous watch with intricate, old-fashioned craftsmanship that seemed distinctly Spanish to Wolfert. When he pressed a button, it chimed ten o’clock, prompting the sailor to ask for his bill. After paying with a handful of unusual coins, he downed the rest of his drink and, without saying goodbye to anyone, stumbled out of the room, mumbling to himself as he clomped up the stairs to his room.

It was some time before the company could recover from the silence into which they had been thrown. The very footsteps of the stranger, which were heard now and then as he traversed his chamber, inspired awe.

It took a while for the company to shake off the silence they had been plunged into. Even the stranger's footsteps, which echoed occasionally as he moved around his room, filled them with a sense of awe.

Still the conversation in which they had been engaged was too interesting not to be resumed. A heavy thunder-gust had gathered up unnoticed while they were lost in talk, and the torrents of rain that fell forbade all thoughts of setting off for home until the storm should subside. They drew nearer together, therefore, and entreated the worthy Peechy Prauw to continue the tale which had been so discourteously interrupted. He readily complied, whispering, however, in a tone scarcely above his breath, and drowned occasionally by the rolling of the thunder, and he would pause every now and then, and listen with evident awe, as he heard the heavy footsteps of the stranger pacing overhead.

The conversation they were having was too interesting not to keep going. A heavy thunderstorm had built up unnoticed while they were deep in discussion, and the downpour made it impossible to think about heading home until the storm passed. They moved closer together and asked the kind Peechy Prauw to continue the story that had been so rudely interrupted. He agreed but whispered in a barely audible tone, drowned out occasionally by the thunder. He would pause from time to time, listening with clear fear as he heard the heavy footsteps of the stranger walking above them.

The following is the purport of his story.

The following is the gist of his story.

THE ADVENTURE OF SAM, THE BLACK FISHERMAN
COMMONLY DENOMINATED MUD SAM

Every body knows Mud Sam, the old negro fisherman who has fished about the Sound for the last twenty or thirty years. Well, it is now many years since that Sam, who was then a young fellow, and worked on the farm of Killian Suydam on Long Island, having finished his work early, was fishing, one still summer evening, just about the neighborhood of Hell Gate. He was in a light skiff, and being well acquainted with the currents and eddies, he had been able to shift his station with the shifting of the tide, from the Hen and Chickens to the Hog’s back, and from the Hog’s back to the Pot, and from the Pot to the Frying-pan; but in the eagerness of his sport Sam did not see that the tide was rapidly ebbing; until the roaring of the whirlpools and rapids warned him of his danger, and he had some difficulty in shooting his skiff from among the rocks and breakers, and getting to the point of Blackwell’s Island. Here he cast anchor for some time, waiting the turn of the tide to enable him to return homewards.

Everyone knows Mud Sam, the old Black fisherman who has fished around the Sound for the last twenty or thirty years. Well, many years ago, Sam, who was then a young man working on Killian Suydam's farm on Long Island, finished his work early and went fishing one still summer evening near Hell Gate. He was in a small skiff, and since he was familiar with the currents and eddies, he moved his position with the changing tide, going from the Hen and Chickens to the Hog’s back, then from the Hog’s back to the Pot, and from the Pot to the Frying-pan. But in his excitement, Sam didn’t notice that the tide was quickly going out until the roaring of the whirlpools and rapids alerted him to his danger. He had a hard time navigating his skiff away from the rocks and breakers to reach Blackwell’s Island. There, he anchored for a while, waiting for the tide to turn so he could head back home.

As the night set in it grew blustering and gusty. Dark clouds came bundling up in the west; and now and then a growl of thunder or a flash of lightning told that a summer storm was at hand. Sam pulled over, therefore, under the lee of Manhattan Island, and coasting along came to a snug nook, just under a steep beetling rock, where he fastened his skiff to the root of a tree that shot out from a cleft and spread its broad branches like a canopy over the water. The gust came scouring along; the wind threw up the river in white surges; the rain rattled among the leaves, the thunder bellowed worse than that which is now bellowing, the lightning seemed to lick up the surges of the stream; but Sam, snugly sheltered under rock and tree, lay crouched in his skiff, rocking upon the billows, until he fell asleep. When he awoke all was quiet. The gust had passed away, and only now and then a faint gleam of lightning in the east showed which way it had gone. The night was dark and moonless; and from the state of the tide Sam concluded it was near midnight. He was on the point of making loose his skiff to return homewards, when he saw a light gleaming along the water from a distance, which seemed rapidly approaching. As it drew near he perceived that it came from a lanthorn in the bow of a boat which was gliding along under shadow of the land. It pulled up in a small cove, close to where he was. A man jumped on shore, and searching about with the lanthorn exclaimed, “This is the place—here’s the Iron ring.” The boat was then made fast, and the man returning on board, assisted his comrades in conveying something heavy on shore. As the light gleamed among them, Sam saw that they were five stout, desperate-looking fellows, in red woollen caps, with a leader in a three-cornered hat, and that some of them were armed with dirks, or long knives, and pistols. They talked low to one another, and occasionally in some outlandish tongue which he could not understand.

As night fell, the wind started to pick up and blow fiercely. Dark clouds gathered in the west, and now and then, a rumble of thunder or a flash of lightning signaled that a summer storm was coming. Sam decided to pull over under the shelter of Manhattan Island and, while coasting along, found a cozy spot beneath a steep rocky outcropping. There, he tied his skiff to the root of a tree that grew from a crack in the rock, spreading its wide branches like a canopy over the water. The wind whipped through, sending white waves up the river; the rain pattered against the leaves, the thunder roared louder than anything heard now, and the lightning seemed to race along the water's surface. But Sam, comfortably sheltered under the rock and tree, curled up in his skiff, rocking on the waves until he fell asleep. When he woke up, everything was calm. The gusts had passed, and every now and then, a faint flash of lightning in the east indicated its direction. The night was dark and without moonlight; from the state of the tide, Sam figured it was close to midnight. Just as he was about to untie his skiff to head home, he noticed a light shimmering on the water from a distance that seemed to be coming closer quickly. As it approached, he realized it was coming from a lantern on the front of a boat that was gliding along the shoreline. The boat pulled into a small cove near where he was. A man jumped onto the shore and, searching around with the lantern, shouted, “This is the place—here’s the Iron ring.” The boat was secured, and the man went back on board to help his partners bring something heavy ashore. As the light flickered among them, Sam saw that there were five tough, intimidating-looking men in red wool caps, with a leader in a three-cornered hat, and some were carrying daggers or long knives and pistols. They spoke quietly to each other, occasionally using a strange language that he couldn’t understand.

On landing they made their way among the bushes, taking turns to relieve each other in lugging their burthen up the rocky bank. Sam’s curiosity was now fully aroused, so leaving his skiff he clambered silently up the ridge that overlooked their path. They had stopped to rest for a moment, and the leader was looking about among the bushes with his lanthorn. “Have you brought the spades?” said one. “They are here,” replied another, who had them on his shoulder. “We must dig deep, where there will be no risk of discovery,” said a third.

On landing, they made their way through the bushes, taking turns to help each other carry their load up the rocky bank. Sam’s curiosity was fully piqued, so he left his boat and quietly climbed up the ridge that overlooked their path. They had paused to rest for a moment, and the leader was searching among the bushes with his lantern. “Did you bring the shovels?” one asked. “They’re right here,” replied another, who had them slung over his shoulder. “We need to dig deep, where there’s no chance of being discovered,” said a third.

A cold chill ran through Sam’s veins. He fancied he saw before him a gang of murderers, about to bury their victim. His knees smote together. In his agitation he shook the branch of a tree with which he was supporting himself as he looked over the edge of the cliff.

A cold shiver ran through Sam’s veins. He thought he saw a group of murderers preparing to bury their victim. His knees knocked together. In his panic, he shook the branch of a tree that he was leaning on while looking over the edge of the cliff.

“What’s that?” cried one of the gang. “Some one stirs among the bushes!”

“What’s that?” shouted one of the group. “Someone’s moving in the bushes!”

The lanthorn was held up in the direction of the noise. One of the red-caps cocked a pistol, and pointed it towards the very lace where Sam was standing. He stood motionless—breathless; expecting the next moment to be his last. Fortunately, his dingy complexion was in his favor, and made no glare among the leaves.

The lantern was raised toward the sound. One of the red-caps aimed a pistol at the very spot where Sam was standing. He stood frozen—breathless; bracing for what he thought might be his last moment. Luckily, his grimy complexion worked in his favor, blending in with the shadows among the leaves.

“’Tis no one,” said the man with the lanthorn. “What a plague! you would not fire off your pistol and alarm the country.”

“It's no one,” said the man with the lantern. “What a nuisance! You wouldn't want to fire your pistol and cause a commotion.”

The pistol was uncocked; the burthen was resumed, and the party slowly toiled up the bank. Sam watched them as they went; the light sending back fitful gleams through the dripping bushes, and it was not till they were fairly out of sight that he ventured to draw breath freely. He now thought of getting back to his boat, and making his escape out of the reach of such dangerous neighbors; but curiosity was all-powerful with poor Sam. He hesitated and lingered and listened. By and bye he heard the strokes of spades.

The gun was uncocked; the load was picked up again, and the group slowly climbed up the bank. Sam watched them as they moved, the light flickering through the wet bushes, and it wasn't until they were completely out of sight that he dared to breathe easily. He considered going back to his boat and escaping from such dangerous neighbors, but curiosity had a strong hold on poor Sam. He hesitated, lingered, and listened. Eventually, he heard the sound of shovels.

“They are digging the grave!” said he to himself; the cold sweat started upon his forehead. Every stroke of a spade, as it sounded through the silent groves, went to his heart; it was evident there was as little noise made as possible; every thing had an air of mystery and secrecy. Sam had a great relish for the horrible—a tale of murder was a treat for him; and he was a constant attendant at executions. He could not, therefore, resist an impulse, in spite of every danger, to steal nearer, and overlook the villains at their work. He crawled along cautiously, therefore, inch by inch; stepping with the utmost care among the dry leaves, lest their rustling should betray him. He came at length to where a steep rock intervened between him and the gang; he saw the light of their lanthorn shining up against the branches of the trees on the other side. Sam slowly and silently clambered up the surface of the rock, and raising his head above its naked edge, beheld the villains immediately below him, and so near that though he dreaded discovery, he dared not withdraw lest the least movement should be heard. In this way he remained, with his round black face peering over the edge of the rock, like the sun just emerging above the edge of the horizon, or the round-cheeked moon on the dial of a clock.

“They're digging the grave!” he thought to himself, as a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. Each strike of the spade, echoing through the quiet woods, hit him hard; it was clear they were trying to make as little noise as possible. Everything felt shrouded in mystery and secrecy. Sam had a strong taste for the macabre—a story of murder thrilled him; he was a frequent spectator at executions. So, despite the danger, he couldn’t resist the urge to sneak closer and watch the criminals at work. He crept along carefully, inch by inch, stepping with extreme caution on the dry leaves to avoid revealing his presence. Eventually, he reached a steep rock that separated him from the group; he could see the light of their lantern flickering against the branches of the trees on the other side. Sam slowly and silently climbed the rock, and raising his head above its bare edge, he spotted the criminals right below him, so close that even though he feared being discovered, he couldn’t move, fearing even the slightest sound would give him away. He stayed there, his round black face peering over the rock's edge, like the sun just rising above the horizon, or the full moon on the face of a clock.

The red-caps had nearly finished their work; the grave was filled up, and they were carefully replacing the turf. This done, they scattered dry leaves over the place. “And now,” said the leader, “I defy the devil himself to find it out.”

The red-caps had almost finished their work; the grave was filled, and they were carefully putting the turf back. Once that was done, they spread dry leaves over the spot. “Now,” said the leader, “I challenge the devil himself to uncover it.”

“The murderers!” exclaimed Sam involuntarily.

“The killers!” exclaimed Sam involuntarily.

The whole gang started, and looking up, beheld the round black head of Sam just above them. His white eyes strained half out of their orbits; his white teeth chattering, and his whole visage shining with cold perspiration.

The whole gang jumped, and looking up, saw Sam's round black head just above them. His white eyes bulged halfway out of their sockets; his white teeth were chattering, and his entire face was glistening with cold sweat.

“We’re discovered!” cried one.

“We've been discovered!” cried one.

“Down with him!” cried another.

“Get him out of here!” cried another.

Sam heard the cocking of a pistol, but did not pause for the report. He scrambled over rock and stone, through bush and briar; rolled down banks like a hedgehog; scrambled up others like a catamount. In every direction he heard some one or other of the gang hemming him in. At length he reached the rocky ridge along the river; one of the red-caps was hard behind him. A steep rock like a wall rose directly in his way; it seemed to cut off all retreat, when he espied the strong cord-like branch of a grape-vine reaching half way down it. He sprang at it with the force of a desperate man, seized it with both hands, and being young and agile, succeeded in swinging himself to the summit of the cliff. Here he stood in full relief against the sky, when the red-cap cocked his pistol and fired. The ball whistled by Sam’s head. With the lucky thought of a man in an emergency, he uttered a yell, fell to the ground, and detached at the same time a fragment of the rock, which tumbled with a loud splash into the river.

Sam heard the click of a gun being cocked but didn’t stop to hear the shot. He scrambled over rocks and stones, pushed through bushes and thorns; rolled down banks like a hedgehog; climbed up others like a mountain lion. In every direction, he could hear one of the gang closing in on him. Finally, he reached the rocky ridge by the river; one of the guys in red was right behind him. A steep rock wall blocked his way, seeming to cut off all escape, when he noticed a thick grapevine branch reaching halfway down. He jumped for it with the desperation of a man in trouble, grabbed it with both hands, and being young and agile, managed to swing himself to the top of the cliff. Here he stood outlined against the sky when the red-capped guy cocked his gun and fired. The bullet whizzed past Sam’s head. With the quick thinking of someone in a crisis, he let out a yell, dropped to the ground, and at the same time loosened a chunk of rock that fell with a loud splash into the river.

“I’ve done his business,” said the red-cap, to one or two of his comrades as they arrived panting. “He’ll tell no tales, except to the fishes in the river.”

“I’ve handled his business,” said the red-cap to a couple of his friends as they showed up out of breath. “He won’t spill any secrets, except to the fish in the river.”

His pursuers now turned off to meet their companions. Sam sliding silently down the surface of the rock, let himself quietly into his skiff, cast loose the fastening, and abandoned himself to the rapid current, which in that place runs like a mill-stream, and soon swept him off from the neighborhood. It was not, however, until he had drifted a great distance that he ventured to ply his oars; when he made his skiff dart like an arrow through the strait of Hell Gate, never heeding the danger of Pot, Frying-pan, or Hog’s-back itself; nor did he feel himself thoroughly secure until safely nestled in bed in the cockloft of the ancient farm-house of the Suydams.

His pursuers now went off to meet their friends. Sam quietly slid down the rock, got into his small boat, untied it, and let the strong current carry him away, which flowed there like a mill stream, quickly taking him far from the area. It wasn't until he had drifted a long way that he dared to use his oars; then he made his boat speed through the narrow of Hell Gate, not paying attention to the dangers of Pot, Frying-pan, or Hog’s-back itself; nor did he feel completely safe until he was snug in bed in the upper room of the old farmhouse belonging to the Suydams.

Here the worthy Peechy paused to take breath and to take a sip of the gossip tankard that stood at his elbow. His auditors remained with open mouths and outstretched necks, gaping like a nest of swallows for an additional mouthful.

Here the worthy Peechy paused to catch his breath and take a sip from the gossip tankard that was beside him. His listeners stayed with their mouths agape and necks craned, eager for another bit of gossip.

“And is that all?” exclaimed the half-pay officer.

“And is that it?” exclaimed the part-time officer.

“That’s all that belongs to the story,” said Peechy Prauw.

"That's everything that relates to the story," said Peechy Prauw.

“And did Sam never find out what was buried by the redcaps?” said Wolfert, eagerly; whose mind was haunted by nothing but ingots and doubloons.

“And did Sam never find out what was buried by the redcaps?” asked Wolfert, eagerly; whose mind was occupied solely with thoughts of gold bars and doubloons.

“Not that I know of; he had no time to spare from his work; and to tell the truth, he did not like to run the risk of another race among the rocks. Besides, how should he recollect the spot where the grave had been digged? every thing would look different by daylight. And then, where was the use of looking for a dead body, when there was no chance of hanging the murderers?”

“Not that I know of; he didn’t have any time to take away from his work; and honestly, he didn’t want to take the risk of another run-in among the rocks. Plus, how would he remember where the grave had been dug? Everything would look different in daylight. And really, what would be the point of searching for a dead body when there was no chance of hanging the murderers?”

“Aye, but are you sure it was a dead body they buried?” said Wolfert.

“Aye, but are you sure it was a dead body they buried?” said Wolfert.

“To be sure,” cried Peechy Prauw, exultingly. “Does it not haunt in the neighborhood to this very day?”

"Of course," shouted Peechy Prauw, excitedly. "Doesn't it still linger in the area to this very day?"

“Haunts!” exclaimed several of the party, opening their eyes still wider and edging their chairs still closer.

“Haunts!” exclaimed several of the group, widening their eyes even more and scooting their chairs in closer.

“Aye, haunts,” repeated Peechy; “has none of you heard of father red-cap that haunts the old burnt farm-house in the woods, on the border of the Sound, near Hell Gate?”

“Aye, haunts,” repeated Peechy; “has none of you heard of Father Red-Cap who haunts the old burned farmhouse in the woods, on the edge of the Sound, near Hell Gate?”

“Oh, to be sure, I’ve heard tell of something of the kind, but then I took it for some old wives’ fable.”

“Oh, for sure, I’ve heard about something like that, but I thought it was just an old wives’ tale.”

“Old wives’ fable or not,” said Peechy Prauw, “that farmhouse stands hard by the very spot. It’s been unoccupied time out of mind, and stands in a wild, lonely part of the coast; but those who fish in the neighborhood have often heard strange noises there; and lights have been seen about the wood at night; and an old fellow in a red cap has been seen at the windows more than once, which people take to be the ghost of the body that was buried there. Once upon a time three soldiers took shelter in the building for the night, and rummaged it from top to bottom, when they found old father red-cap astride of a cider-barrel in the cellar, with a jug in one hand and a goblet in the other. He offered them a drink out of his goblet, but just as one of the soldiers was putting it to his mouth-Whew! a flash of fire blazed through the cellar, blinded every mother’s son of them for several minutes, and when they recovered their eye-sight, jug, goblet, and red-cap had vanished, and nothing but the empty cider-barrel remained.”

“Whether it’s an old wives’ tale or not,” said Peechy Prauw, “that farmhouse is right by the spot. It’s been empty for ages and is located in a wild, lonely part of the coast; however, local fishermen have often heard strange noises there, and lights have been seen around the woods at night. An old man in a red cap has also been spotted at the windows more than once, which people believe to be the ghost of the person buried there. Once, three soldiers took shelter in the farmhouse for the night and searched it from top to bottom. They found old father red-cap sitting on a cider barrel in the cellar, with a jug in one hand and a goblet in the other. He offered them a drink from his goblet, but just as one of the soldiers was bringing it to his lips—Whew! A flash of fire burst through the cellar, blinding all of them for several minutes. When they regained their sight, the jug, goblet, and red-cap had disappeared, leaving only the empty cider barrel behind.”

Here the half-pay officer, who was growing very muzzy and sleepy, and nodding over his liquor, with half-extinguished eye, suddenly gleamed up like an expiring rushlight.

Here the retired officer, who was becoming quite drowsy and tipsy, dozing off over his drink with his half-closed eye, suddenly flickered to life like a dying candle.

“That’s all humbug!” said he, as Peechy finished his last story.

"That’s all nonsense!” he said, as Peechy wrapped up his last story.

“Well, I don’t vouch for the truth of it myself,” said Peechy Prauw, “though all the world knows that there’s something strange about the house and grounds; but as to the story of Mud Sam, I believe it just as well as if it had happened to myself.”

“Well, I can’t guarantee it’s true,” said Peechy Prauw, “but everyone knows there’s something odd about the house and its grounds; as for the tale of Mud Sam, I believe it just as much as if it had happened to me.”

The deep interest taken in this conversation by the company, had made them unconscious of the uproar that prevailed abroad, among the elements, when suddenly they were all electrified by a tremendous clap of thunder. A lumbering crash followed instantaneously that made the building shake to its foundation. All started from their seats, imagining it the shock of an earthquake, or that old father red-cap was coming among them in all his terrors. They listened for a moment, but only heard the rain pelting against the windows, and the wind howling among the trees. The explosion was soon explained by the apparition of an old negro’s bald head thrust in at the door, his white goggle eyes contrasting with his jetty poll, which was wet with rain and shone like a bottle. In a jargon but half intelligible he announced that the kitchen chimney had been struck with lightning.

The deep interest that the group had in this conversation made them unaware of the chaotic weather outside until they were jolted by a massive clap of thunder. A loud crash quickly followed, making the building shake to its core. Everyone jumped from their seats, thinking it was an earthquake or that an old terrifying figure was coming for them. They listened for a moment but only heard the rain pounding against the windows and the wind howling through the trees. The source of the noise was soon revealed when an old Black man's bald head popped in through the door, his white wide-open eyes contrasting sharply with his dark, rain-soaked head that shone like a bottle. In a barely understandable mix of words, he announced that the kitchen chimney had been struck by lightning.

A sullen pause of the storm, which now rose and sunk in gusts, produced a momentary stillness. In this interval the report of a musket was heard, and a long shout, almost like a yell, resounded from the shore. Every one crowded to the window; another musket shot was heard, and another long shout, that mingled wildly with a rising blast of wind. It seemed as if the cry came up from the bosom of the waters; for though incessant flashes of lightning spread a light about the shore, no one was to be seen.

A gloomy lull in the storm, which now ebbed and flowed in gusts, created a brief moment of silence. During this pause, a gunshot rang out, followed by a long shout, almost a scream, echoing from the shore. Everyone rushed to the window; another gunshot sounded, and another long shout mixed chaotically with the increasing wind. It felt like the cry was rising up from the depths of the water; even though constant flashes of lightning illuminated the shore, no one could be seen.

Suddenly the window of the room overhead was opened, and a loud halloo uttered by the mysterious stranger. Several hailings passed from one party to the other, but in a language which none of the company in the bar-room could understand; and presently they heard the window closed, and a great noise overhead as if all the furniture were pulled and hauled about the room. The negro servant was summoned, and shortly after was seen assisting the veteran to lug the ponderous sea-chest down stairs.

Suddenly, the window of the room above opened, and a loud shout came from the mysterious stranger. Several calls went back and forth between the two parties, but in a language that no one in the bar could understand. Soon after, they heard the window close and a loud commotion overhead, as if all the furniture were being dragged around the room. The Black servant was called, and shortly after, he was seen helping the veteran carry the heavy sea chest downstairs.

The landlord was in amazement. “What, you are not going on the water in such a storm?”

The landlord was amazed. “What, you’re not going out on the water in a storm like this?”

“Storm!” said the other, scornfully, “do you call such a sputter of weather a storm?”

“Storm!” said the other, mockingly, “is this little bit of weather what you call a storm?”

“You’ll get drenched to the skin—You’ll catch your death!” said Peechy Prauw, affectionately.

“You’ll get completely soaked—you’ll get really sick!” said Peechy Prauw, fondly.

“Thunder and lightning!” exclaimed the merman, “don’t preach about weather to a man that has cruised in whirlwinds and tornadoes.”

“Thunder and lightning!” the merman exclaimed, “don’t lecture me about the weather when I’ve sailed through whirlwinds and tornadoes.”

The obsequious Peechy was again struck dumb. The voice from the water was again heard in a tone of impatience; the bystanders stared with redoubled awe at this man of storms, which seemed to have come up out of the deep and to be called back to it again. As, with the assistance of the negro, he slowly bore his ponderous sea-chest towards the shore, they eyed it with a superstitious feeling; half doubting whether he were not really about to embark upon it, and launch forth upon the wild waves. They followed him at a distance with a lanthorn.

The overly eager Peechy was once again left speechless. The voice from the water was heard again, sounding impatient; the onlookers stared in even greater awe at this stormy figure, as if he had emerged from the depths and was being called back. With the help of the Black man, he slowly carried his heavy sea chest toward the shore, and they watched it with a superstitious sense, half-wondering if he was truly about to set sail on it and head out into the rough sea. They followed him from a distance with a lantern.

“Douse the light!” roared the hoarse voice from the water. “No one wants light here!”

“Turn off the light!” shouted the raspy voice from the water. “No one wants light here!”

“Thunder and lightning!” exclaimed the veteran; “back to the house with you!”

“Thunder and lightning!” shouted the veteran; “get back to the house!”

Wolfert and his companions shrunk back is dismay. Still their curiosity would not allow them entirely to withdraw. A long sheet of lightning now flickered across the waves, and discovered a boat, filled with men, just under a rocky point, rising and sinking with the heavy surges, and swashing the water at every heave. It was with difficulty held to the rocks by a boat hook, for the current rushed furiously round the point. The veteran hoisted one end of the lumbering sea-chest on the gunwale of the boat; he seized the handle at the other end to lift it in, when the motion propelled the boat from the shore; the chest slipped off from the gunwale, sunk into the waves, and pulled the veteran headlong after it. A loud shriek was uttered by all on shore, and a volley of execrations by those on board; but boat and man were hurried away by the rushing swiftness of the tide. A pitchy darkness succeeded; Wolfert Webber indeed fancied that He distinguished a cry for help, and that he beheld the drowning man beckoning for assistance; but when the lightning again gleamed along the water all was drear and void. Neither man nor boat was to be seen; nothing but the dashing and weltering of the waves as they hurried past.

Wolfert and his friends pulled back in shock. Still, their curiosity wouldn’t let them pull away completely. A bright flash of lightning lit up the waves, revealing a boat full of men, just under a rocky point, bobbing up and down with the heavy swells and sloshing water with every movement. It was barely held to the rocks by a boat hook, as the current rushed fiercely around the point. The veteran lifted one end of the heavy sea chest onto the side of the boat; he grabbed the handle on the other end to lift it in, but the movement pushed the boat away from the shore. The chest slipped off the side, sank into the waves, and pulled the veteran in after it. A loud scream came from everyone on shore, followed by a chorus of curses from those on the boat; but both the man and the boat were swept away by the swift tide. A deep darkness followed; Wolfert Webber thought he heard a cry for help and thought he saw the drowning man signaling for assistance. But when the lightning flashed again along the water, everything was bleak and empty. There was no sign of the man or the boat, just the chaos of the waves rushing by.

The company returned to the tavern, for they could not leave it before the storm should subside. They resumed their seats and gazed on each other with dismay. The whole transaction had not occupied five minutes and not a dozen words had been spoken. When they looked at the oaken chair they could scarcely realize the fact that the strange being who had so lately tenanted it, full of life and Herculean vigor, should already be a corpse. There was the very glass he had just drunk from; there lay the ashes from the pipe which he had smoked as it were with his last breath. As the worthy burghers pondered on these things, they felt a terrible conviction of the uncertainty of human existence, and each felt as if the ground on which he stood was rendered less stable by this awful example.

The group went back to the tavern because they couldn’t leave until the storm passed. They took their seats again and looked at each other with shock. The entire event had lasted no more than five minutes and only a handful of words had been exchanged. When they glanced at the oak chair, they could barely comprehend that the strange person who had recently occupied it, full of life and strength, was now a lifeless body. There was the very glass he had just drunk from; there were the ashes from the pipe he had smoked, as if it were his last breath. As the concerned townsfolk thought about these things, they felt a deep realization of the unpredictability of human life, and each felt as if the ground beneath them was less stable because of this shocking reality.

As, however, the most of the company were possessed of that valuable philosophy which enables a man to bear up with fortitude against the misfortunes of his neighbors, they soon managed to console themselves for the tragic end of the veteran. The landlord was happy that the poor dear man had paid his reckoning before he went.

As most of the group had that valuable mindset that helps a person cope with the misfortunes of others, they quickly found a way to comfort themselves after the tragic fate of the veteran. The landlord felt relieved that the poor man had settled his bill before he left.

“He came in a storm, and he went in a storm; he came in the night, and he went in the night; he came nobody knows from whence, and he has gone nobody knows where. For aught I know he has gone to sea once more on his chest and may land to bother some people on the other side of the world! Though it’s a thousand pities,” added the landlord, “if he has gone to Davy Jones that he had not left his sea-chest behind him.”

“He arrived in a storm, and he left in a storm; he came at night, and he went at night; nobody knows where he came from, and nobody knows where he went. For all I know, he might have gone back to sea with his chest and could show up to trouble someone on the other side of the world! Though it’s a real shame,” added the landlord, “if he’s ended up with Davy Jones that he didn’t leave his sea chest behind.”

“The sea-chest! St. Nicholas preserve us!” said Peechy Prauw. “I’d not have had that sea-chest in the house for any money; I’ll warrant he’d come racketing after it at nights, and making a haunted house of the inn. And as to his going to sea on his chest, I recollect what happened to Skipper Onderdonk’s ship on his voyage from Amsterdam.

“The sea chest! St. Nicholas, save us!” exclaimed Peechy Prauw. “I wouldn’t want that sea chest in the house for any amount of money; I bet he’d come crashing around after it at night, turning the inn into a haunted house. And as for him going to sea on his chest, I remember what happened to Skipper Onderdonk’s ship on his journey from Amsterdam."

“The boatswain died during a storm, so they wrapped him up in a sheet, and put him in his own sea-chest, and threw him overboard; but they neglected in their hurry-skurry to say prayers over him—and the storm raged and roared louder than ever, and they saw the dead man seated in his chest, with his shroud for a sail, coming hard after the ship; and the sea breaking before him in great sprays like fire, and there they kept scudding day after day and night after night, expecting every moment to go to wreck; and every night they saw the dead boatswain in his sea-chest trying to get up with them, and they heard his whistle above the blasts of wind, and he seemed to send great seas mountain high after them, that would have swamped the ship if they had not put up the dead lights. And so it went on till they lost sight of him in the fogs of Newfoundland, and supposed he had veered ship and stood for Dead Man’s Isle. So much for burying a man at sea without saying prayers over him.”

“The boatswain died in a storm, so they wrapped him in a sheet, put him in his own sea chest, and tossed him overboard. But in their rush, they forgot to say prayers for him—and the storm howled louder than ever. They saw the dead man sitting in his chest, with his shroud as a sail, chasing after the ship, with the sea crashing in front of him like fire. They kept sailing day after day and night after night, expecting to wreck at any moment; every night they saw the dead boatswain in his sea chest trying to catch up with them, and they heard his whistle above the howling wind. He seemed to send huge waves crashing behind them that would have sunk the ship if they hadn't put up the dead lights. This went on until they lost sight of him in the fogs of Newfoundland, assuming he had turned his ship toward Dead Man’s Isle. So much for burying a man at sea without saying prayers for him.”

The thunder-gust which had hitherto detained the company was now at an end. The cuckoo clock in the hall struck midnight; every one pressed to depart, for seldom was such a late hour trespassed on by these quiet burghers. As they sallied forth they found the heavens once more serene. The storm which had lately obscured them had rolled aways and lay piled up in fleecy masses on the horizon, lighted up by the bright crescent of the moon, which looked like a silver lamp hung up in a palace of clouds.

The storm that had kept everyone inside was finally over. The cuckoo clock in the hallway chimed midnight, and everyone was eager to leave since it was rare for these quiet townsfolk to be out so late. As they stepped outside, they discovered the sky was calm again. The storm that had recently surrounded them had moved on and was now sitting in fluffy clouds on the horizon, illuminated by the bright crescent of the moon, which looked like a silver lamp hanging in a palace of clouds.

The dismal occurrence of the night, and the dismal narrations they had made, had left a superstitious feeling in every mind. They cast a fearful glance at the spot where the buccaneer had disappeared, almost expecting to see him sailing on his chest in the cool moonshine. The trembling rays glittered along the waters, but all was placid; and the current dimpled over the spot where he had gone down. The party huddled together in a little crowd as they repaired homewards; particularly when they passed a lonely field where a man had been murdered; and he who had farthest to go and had to complete his journey alone, though a veteran sexton, and accustomed, one would think to ghosts and goblins, yet went a long way round, rather than pass by his own church-yard.

The gloomy events of the night, along with the bleak stories they had shared, left everyone feeling superstitious. They cast nervous looks at the spot where the pirate had vanished, almost expecting to see him floating on his back in the cool moonlight. The trembling beams sparkled on the water, but everything was calm; the water gently rippled over the place where he had sunk. The group huddled close together as they headed home, especially when they passed a lonely field where a man had been killed; and the one who had the farthest to go, despite being an experienced gravedigger used to handling ghosts and ghouls, chose to take a long way around rather than walk past his own graveyard.

Wolfert Webber had now carried home a fresh stock of stories and notions to ruminate upon. His mind was all of a whirl with these freebooting tales; and then these accounts of pots of money and Spanish treasures, buried here and there and every where about the rocks and bays of this wild shore, made him almost dizzy.

Wolfert Webber had just brought home a new collection of stories and ideas to think about. His mind was spinning with these adventurous tales; the stories of big money and Spanish treasures hidden here, there, and everywhere among the rocks and bays of this rugged coast made him feel almost lightheaded.

“Blessed St. Nicholas!” ejaculated he, half aloud, “is it not possible to come upon one of these golden hoards, and so make one’s self rich in a twinkling. How hard that I must go on, delving and delving, day in and day out, merely to make a morsel of bread, when one lucky stroke of a spade might enable me to ride in my carriage for the rest of my life!”

“Blessed St. Nicholas!” he exclaimed, half to himself, “Isn’t it possible to stumble upon one of these golden treasures and get rich in an instant? It’s so frustrating that I have to keep digging and digging, day in and day out, just to earn a bit of bread, when one lucky swing of a spade could allow me to ride in my carriage for the rest of my life!”

As he turned over in his thoughts all that he had been told of the singular adventure of the black fisherman, his imagination gave a totally different complexion to the tale. He saw in the gang of redcaps nothing but a crew of pirates burying their spoils, and his cupidity was once more awakened by the possibility of at length getting on the traces of some of this lurking wealth. Indeed, his infected fancy tinged every thing with gold. He felt like the greedy inhabitant of Bagdad, when his eye had been greased with the magic ointment of the dervise, that gave him to see all the treasures of the earth. Caskets of buried jewels, chests of ingots, bags of outlandish coins, seemed to court him from their concealments, and supplicate him to relieve them from their untimely graves.

As he reflected on everything he had heard about the strange adventure of the black fisherman, his imagination gave the story a completely different twist. He pictured the group of redcaps as nothing more than a band of pirates burying their loot, and his greed was once again stirred by the chance of finally uncovering some of this hidden treasure. In fact, his infected imagination colored everything in gold. He felt like the greedy resident of Bagdad, when his eyes had been anointed with the magic oil of the dervish, allowing him to see all the treasures of the world. Caskets filled with jewels, chests of gold bars, and bags of exotic coins seemed to beckon to him from their hiding places, begging him to free them from their early graves.

On making private inquiries about the grounds said to be haunted by father red-cap, he was more and more confirmed in his surmise. He learned that the place had several times been visited by experienced money-diggers, who had heard Mud Sam’s story, though none of them had met with success. On the contrary, they had always been dogged with ill luck of some kind or other, in consequence, as Wolfert concluded, of their not going to work at the proper time, and with the proper ceremonials. The last attempt had been made by Cobus Quackenbos, who dug for a whole night and met with incredible difficulty, for as fast as he threw one shovel full of earth out of the hole, two were thrown in by invisible hands. He succeeded so far, however, as to uncover an iron chest, when there was a terrible roaring, and ramping, and raging of uncouth figures about the hole, and at length a shower of blows, dealt by invisible cudgels, that fairly belabored him off the forbidden ground. This Cobus Quackenbos had declared on his death-bed, so that there could not be any doubt of it. He was a man that had devoted many years of his life to money-digging, and it was thought would have ultimately succeeded, had he not died suddenly of a brain fever in the alms-house.

After looking into the rumors about the haunted grounds of Father Red-Cap, he became increasingly convinced of his suspicions. He found out that experienced treasure hunters had visited the site several times and had heard Mud Sam’s story, but none had been successful. Instead, they seemed to be plagued by bad luck, which Wolfert concluded was due to not working at the right time or following the proper rituals. The most recent attempt was made by Cobus Quackenbos, who dug all night and faced incredible challenges—every time he managed to remove a shovel full of dirt, two more would mysteriously fill the hole. However, he was able to uncover an iron chest before a terrifying commotion of strange figures surrounded the hole, and he was ultimately beaten off the cursed ground by invisible clubs. Cobus Quackenbos confirmed this on his deathbed, leaving no doubt about the encounter. He had spent many years searching for treasure and was believed to have eventually succeeded if he hadn’t suddenly died of a brain fever in the poorhouse.

Wolfert Webber was now in a worry of trepidation and impatience; fearful lest some rival adventurer should get a scent of the buried gold. He determined privately to seek out the negro fisherman and get him to serve as guide to the place where he had witnessed the mysterious scene of interment. Sam was easily found; for he was one of those old habitual beings that live about a neighborhood until they wear themselves a place in the public mind, and become, in a manner, public characters. There was not an unlucky urchin about the town that did not know Mud Sam the fisherman, and think that he had a right to play his tricks upon the old negro. Sam was an amphibious kind of animal, something more of a fish than a man; he had led the life of an otter for more than half a century, about the shores of the bay, and the fishing grounds of the Sound. He passed the greater part of his time on and in the water, particularly about Hell Gate; and might have been taken, in bad weather, for one of the hobgoblins that used to haunt that strait. There would he be seen, at all times, and in all weathers; sometimes in his skiff, anchored among the eddies, or prowling, like a shark about some wreck, where the fish are supposed to be most abundant. Sometimes seated on a rock from hour to hour, looming through mist and drizzle, like a solitary heron watching for its prey. He was well acquainted with every hole and corner of the Sound; from the Wallabout to Hell Gate, and from Hell Gate even unto the Devil’s Stepping Stones; and it was even affirmed that he knew all the fish in the river by their Christian names.

Wolfert Webber was filled with anxiety and impatience, worried that some rival adventurer might catch wind of the buried gold. He decided to privately find the Black fisherman and ask him to guide him to the spot where he had seen the mysterious burial. Sam was easy to locate; he was one of those familiar characters that linger in a neighborhood until they become well-known and somewhat of a public figure. Every unfortunate kid in town knew Mud Sam the fisherman and felt entitled to play tricks on the old man. Sam was like a creature of the water, more fish than human; he had lived like an otter for over fifty years along the shores of the bay and the fishing spots of the Sound. He spent most of his time in and around the water, especially at Hell Gate, and could have been mistaken for one of the mischievous spirits said to haunt that strait during bad weather. You could see him at any time, in any weather; sometimes in his small boat, anchored among the currents, or swimming around a wreck, where fish were thought to be plentiful. Other times, he would sit on a rock for hours, appearing through the mist and drizzle like a solitary heron waiting for its catch. He was familiar with every nook and cranny of the Sound; from the Wallabout to Hell Gate, and from Hell Gate to the Devil’s Stepping Stones; it was even said that he knew all the fish in the river by their names.

Wolfert found him at his cabin, which was not much larger than a tolerable dog-house. It was rudely constructed of fragments of wrecks and drift-wood, and built on the rocky shore, at the foot of the old fort, just about what at present forms the point of the Battery. A “most ancient and fish-like smell” pervaded the place. Oars, paddles, and fishing-rods were leaning against the wall of the fort; a net was spread on the sands to dry; a skiff was drawn up on the beach, and at the door of his cabin lay Mud Sam himself, indulging in a true negro’s luxury—sleeping in the sunshine.

Wolfert found him at his cabin, which was barely bigger than an average doghouse. It was crudely built from pieces of wreckage and driftwood, situated on the rocky shore at the base of the old fort, right where the Battery is today. A “really old and fishy smell” filled the air. Oars, paddles, and fishing rods were leaning against the fort wall; a net was spread out on the sand to dry; a small boat was pulled up on the beach, and at the door of his cabin lay Mud Sam himself, enjoying a true African American luxury—sleeping in the sun.

Many years had passed away since the time of Sam’s youthful adventure, and the snows of many a winter had grizzled the knotty wool upon his head. He perfectly recollected the circumstances, however, for he had often been called upon to relate them, though in his version of the story he differed in many points from Peechy Prauw; as is not unfrequently the case with authentic historians. As to the subsequent researches of money-diggers, Sam knew nothing about them; they were matters quite out of his line; neither did the cautious Wolfert care to disturb his thoughts on that point. His only wish was to secure the old fisherman as a pilot to the spot, and this was readily effected. The long time that had intervened since his nocturnal adventure had effaced all Sam’s awe of the place, and the promise of a trifling reward roused him at once from his sleep and his sunshine.

Many years had passed since Sam's youthful adventure, and the winters had turned the wool on his head gray. He remembered the details perfectly, though he often shared them, and his version of the story differed in many ways from Peechy Prauw's, as is often the case with actual historians. As for the later pursuits of treasure hunters, Sam didn’t know anything about them; they were beyond his interests, and the cautious Wolfert didn’t want to bother him with that. His only goal was to have the old fisherman guide him to the spot, which was easily accomplished. The long time that had passed since his nighttime adventure had faded all of Sam’s fears about the place, and the promise of a small reward stirred him from his sleep and his daydreams.

The tide was adverse to making the expedition by water, and Wolfert was too impatient to get to the land of promise, to wait for its turning; they set off, therefore, by land. A walk of four or five miles brought them to the edge of a wood, which at that time covered the greater part of the eastern side of the island. It was just beyond the pleasant region of Bloomen-dael. Here they struck into a long lane, straggling among trees and bushes, very much overgrown with weeds and mullein stalks as if but seldom used, and so completely overshadowed as to enjoy but a kind of twilight. Wild vines entangled the trees and flaunted in their faces; brambles and briars caught their clothes as they passed; the garter-snake glided across their path; the spotted toad hopped and waddled before them, and the restless cat-bird mewed at them from every thicket. Had Wolfert Webber been deeply read in romantic legend he might have fancied himself entering upon forbidden, enchanted ground; or that these were some of the guardians set to keep a watch upon buried treasure. As it was, the loneliness of the place, and the wild stories connected with it, had their effect upon his mind.

The tide was not in their favor for a water expedition, and Wolfert was too eager to reach the promised land to wait for it to change; so they set off on foot instead. A walk of four or five miles brought them to the edge of a forest that at that time covered most of the eastern side of the island, just past the pleasant area of Bloomen-dael. Here, they entered a long, winding path among trees and bushes, heavily overgrown with weeds and mullein stalks, as if it wasn't used often, and so completely shaded that it felt almost like twilight. Wild vines tangled with the trees and hung down in their way; brambles and thorns snagged their clothes as they walked; a garter snake slithered across their path; a spotted toad hopped and waddled in front of them, and the restless catbird called out from every thicket. If Wolfert Webber had been well-versed in romantic tales, he might have imagined himself stepping into forbidden, enchanted territory or thought that these were guardians watching over hidden treasure. As it was, the solitude of the place and the wild stories connected to it did affect his thoughts.

On reaching the lower end of the lane they found themselves near the shore of the Sound, in a kind of amphitheatre, surrounded by forest tree. The area had once been a grass-plot, but was now shagged with briars and rank weeds. At one end, and just on the river bank, was a ruined building, little better than a heap of rubbish, with a stack of chimneys rising like a solitary tower out of the centre. The current of the Sound rushed along just below it, with wildly-grown trees drooping their branches into its waves.

As they reached the lower end of the lane, they found themselves by the shore of the Sound, in a sort of amphitheater surrounded by trees. The area had once been a grassy spot but was now overrun with briars and thick weeds. At one end, right on the riverbank, stood a ruined building that was little more than a pile of debris, with a chimney stack rising like a lone tower from the center. The current of the Sound flowed swiftly just below it, with wild trees hanging their branches into the waves.

Wolfert had not a doubt that this was the haunted house of father red-cap, and called to mind the story of Peechy Prauw. The evening was approaching, and the light falling dubiously among these places, gave a melancholy tone to the scene, well calculated to foster any lurking feeling of awe or superstition. The night-hawk, wheeling about in the highest regions of the air, emitted his peevish, boding cry. The woodpecker gave a lonely tap now and then on some hollow tree, and the firebird,[3] as he streamed by them with his deep-red plumage, seemed like some genius flitting about this region of mystery.

Wolfert had no doubt that this was the haunted house of Father Red-Cap, and he remembered the story of Peechy Prauw. Evening was approaching, and the light filtering weakly among these places cast a melancholic vibe over the scene, perfect for stirring any hidden feelings of dread or superstition. The night-hawk, soaring high in the sky, let out its annoying, ominous cry. The woodpecker occasionally tapped on some hollow tree, and the firebird, as it flew past with its deep-red feathers, seemed like a spirit wandering through this mysterious area.

[3] Orchard Oreole.

Orchard Oriole.

They now came to an enclosure that had once been a garden. It extended along the foot of a rocky ridge, but was little better than a wilderness of weeds, with here and there a matted rose-bush, or a peach or plum tree grown wild and ragged, and covered with moss. At the lower end of the garden they passed a kind of vault in the side of the bank, facing the water. It had the look of a root-house. The door, though decayed, was still strong, and appeared to have been recently patched up. Wolfert pushed it open. It gave a harsh grating upon its hinges, and striking against something like a box, a rattling sound ensued, and a skull rolled on the floor. Wolfert drew back shuddering, but was reassured on being informed by Sam that this was a family vault belonging to one of the old Dutch families that owned this estate; an assertion which was corroborated by the sight of coffins of various sizes piled within. Sam had been familiar with all these scenes when a boy, and now knew that he could not be far from the place of which they were in quest.

They arrived at an area that used to be a garden. It stretched along the base of a rocky ridge, but it was mostly just a wild mess of weeds, with a few tangled rose bushes and wild, overgrown peach and plum trees covered in moss. At the far end of the garden, they came across a kind of vault built into the bank facing the water. It looked like an old root cellar. The door, although weathered, was still sturdy and seemed to have been recently repaired. Wolfert pushed it open. It creaked loudly on its hinges, and when it hit something like a box, there was a rattling sound, and a skull rolled across the floor. Wolfert recoiled in horror, but Sam reassured him that this was a family vault belonging to one of the old Dutch families that owned the estate. This was confirmed by the sight of coffins of various sizes piled inside. Sam had been familiar with this place as a boy and now realized they were getting close to the location they were searching for.

They now made their way to the water’s edge, scrambling along ledges of rocks, and having often to hold by shrubs and grape-vines to avoid slipping into the deep and hurried stream. At length they came to a small cove, or rather indent of the shore. It was protected by steep rocks and overshadowed by a thick copse of oaks and chestnuts, so as to be sheltered and almost concealed. The beach sloped gradually within the cove, but the current swept deep and black and rapid along its jutting points. Sam paused; raised his remnant of a hat, and scratched his grizzled poll for a moment, as he regarded this nook: then suddenly clapping his hands, he stepped exultingly forward, and pointing to a large iron ring, stapled firmly in the rock, just where a broad shelve of stone furnished a commodious landing-place. It was the very spot where the red-caps had landed. Years had changed the more perishable features of the scene; but rock and iron yield slowly to the influence of time. On looking more narrowly, Wolfert remarked three crosses cut in the rock just above the ring, which had no doubt some mysterious signification. Old Sam now readily recognized the overhanging rock under which his skiff had been sheltered during the thunder-gust. To follow up the course which the midnight gang had taken, however, was a harder task. His mind had been so much taken up on that eventful occasion by the persons of the drama, as to pay but little attention to the scenes; and places looked different by night and day. After wandering about for some time, however, they came to an opening among the trees which Sam thought resembled the place. There was a ledge of rock of moderate height like a wall on one side, which Sam thought might be the very ridge from which he overlooked the diggers. Wolfert examined it narrowly, and at length described three crosses similar to those above the iron ring, cut deeply into the face of the rock, but nearly obliterated by the moss that had grown on them. His heart leaped with joy, for he doubted not but they were the private marks of the buccaneers, to denote the places where their treasure lay buried. All now that remained was to ascertain the precise spot; for otherwise he might dig at random without coming upon the spoil, and he has already had enough of such profitless labor. Here, however, Sam was perfectly at a loss, and, indeed, perplexed him by a variety of opinions; for his recollections were all confused. Sometimes he declared it must have been at the foot of a mulberry tree hard by; then it was just beside a great white stone; then it must have been under a small green knoll, a short distance from the ledge of rock: until at length Wolfert became as bewildered as himself.

They made their way to the water's edge, scrambling over rocky ledges and often grabbing onto shrubs and grapevines to avoid slipping into the deep, fast-flowing stream. Eventually, they reached a small cove, or rather a dent in the shore. It was protected by steep rocks and shaded by a dense group of oaks and chestnuts, making it sheltered and almost hidden. The beach sloped gently within the cove, but the current rushed deep, dark, and quickly around its jutting points. Sam paused, lifted his tattered hat, and scratched his gray hair for a moment as he looked at this spot. Then, suddenly clapping his hands, he stepped forward excitedly, pointing to a large iron ring securely bolted into the rock, right where a wide shelf of stone provided a good landing area. This was the exact spot where the red-caps had landed. Time had changed the more fragile features of the scene, but rock and iron change slowly. Looking closer, Wolfert noticed three crosses carved into the rock just above the ring, which surely held some mysterious meaning. Old Sam easily recognized the overhanging rock where his skiff had been sheltered during the thunderstorm. However, following the path the midnight gang had taken was a more challenging task. He had been so focused on the people involved during that eventful night that he hadn’t paid much attention to the surroundings, and places looked different by day than night. After wandering around for a while, they came to an opening among the trees that Sam thought looked familiar. There was a moderate-height rock ledge like a wall on one side, which Sam believed might be the very ridge where he had watched the diggers. Wolfert examined it closely, and eventually spotted three crosses similar to those above the iron ring, deeply carved into the rock but nearly hidden by the moss that had grown over them. His heart jumped with joy, as he believed these were the private marks of the buccaneers, indicating where their treasure was buried. All that remained was to figure out the exact spot; otherwise, he might dig randomly without finding the treasure, and he had already experienced enough of that kind of frustrating work. However, Sam was completely at a loss and confused him with different opinions, as his memories were all jumbled. Sometimes he insisted it had to be at the base of a nearby mulberry tree; then he thought it was right next to a big white stone; then he said it must have been under a small green mound a short distance from the rock ledge—until eventually Wolfert became as bewildered as he was.

The shadows of evening were now spreading themselves over the woods, and rock and tree began to mingle together. It was evidently too late to attempt anything farther at present; and, indeed, Wolfert had come unprepared with implements to prosecute his researches. Satisfied, therefore, with having ascertained the place, he took note of all its landmarks, that he might recognize it again, and set out on his return homeward, resolved to prosecute this golden enterprise without delay.

The evening shadows were now spreading over the woods, blending rock and tree together. It was clearly too late to try anything more right now; besides, Wolfert hadn’t brought the tools needed to continue his research. So, feeling satisfied that he’d found the spot, he noted all its landmarks to recognize it later and started his journey home, determined to pursue this exciting project without delay.

The leading anxiety which had hitherto absorbed every feeling being now in some measure appeased, fancy began to wander, and to conjure up a thousand shapes and chimeras as he returned through this haunted region. Pirates hanging in chains seemed to swing on every tree, and he almost expected to see some Spanish Don, with his throat cut from ear to ear, rising slowly out of the ground, and shaking the ghost of a money-bag.

The overwhelming anxiety that had consumed all his feelings was now somewhat calmed, and his imagination started to roam, conjuring up countless images and illusions as he walked back through this eerie area. Pirates hanging in chains seemed to swing from every tree, and he nearly expected to see some Spanish nobleman, with his throat sliced open, slowly rising from the ground and shaking the ghost of a money bag.

Their way back lay through the desolate garden, and Wolfert’s nerves had arrived at so sensitive a state that the flitting of a bird, the rustling of a leaf, or the falling of a nut was enough to startle him. As they entered the confines of the garden, they caught sight of a figure at a distance advancing slowly up one of the walks and bending under the weight of a burthen. They paused and regarded him attentively. He wore what appeared to be a woollen cap, and still more alarming, of a most sanguinary red. The figure moved slowly on, ascended the bank, and stopped at the very door of the sepulchral vault. Just before entering he looked around. What was the horror of Wolfert when he recognized the grizzly visage of the drowned buccaneer. He uttered an ejaculation of horror. The figure slowly raised his iron fist and shook it with a terrible menace. Wolfert did not pause to see more, but hurried off as fast as his legs could carry him, nor was Sam slow in following at his heels, having all his ancient terrors revived. Away, then, did they scramble, through bush and brake, horribly frightened at every bramble that tagged at their skirts, nor did they pause to breathe, until they had blundered their way through this perilous wood and had fairly reached the high-road to the city.

Their way back was through the empty garden, and Wolfert’s nerves were so frayed that the fluttering of a bird, the rustling of a leaf, or the dropping of a nut was enough to startle him. As they entered the garden, they spotted a figure in the distance moving slowly up one of the paths, struggling under a heavy load. They stopped to watch him closely. He wore what looked like a woolen cap, and even more alarming, it was a bright blood-red. The figure continued on, climbed the bank, and paused right at the door of the grim vault. Just before going in, he glanced around. Wolfert was horrified when he recognized the ghastly face of the drowned pirate. He let out a gasp of terror. The figure slowly raised his iron fist and shook it threateningly. Wolfert didn’t stick around to see more; he bolted away as fast as he could run, with Sam quickly trailing behind, all his old fears resurfacing. They scrambled away, through bushes and brambles, terrified by every thorn that snagged at their clothes, and didn’t stop to catch their breath until they stumbled out of that dangerous woods and onto the main road to the city.

Several days elapsed before Wolfert could summon courage enough to prosecute the enterprise, so much had he been dismayed by the apparition, whether living dead, of the grizzly buccaneer. In the meantime, what a conflict of mind did he suffer! He neglected all his concerns, was moody and restless all day, lost his appetite; wandered in his thoughts and words, and committed a thousand blunders. His rest was broken; and when he fell asleep, the nightmare, in shape of a huge money-bag, sat squatted upon his breast. He babbled about incalculable sums; fancied himself engaged in money digging; threw the bed-clothes right and left, in the idea that he was shovelling among the dirt, groped under the bed in quest of the treasure, and lugged forth, as he supposed, an inestimable pot of gold.

Several days went by before Wolfert could gather the courage to continue with his plan, so shaken he was by the vision, whether it was living or dead, of the fearsome buccaneer. In the meantime, he endured a whirlwind of thoughts! He neglected all his responsibilities, was moody and restless all day, lost his appetite, wandered in his thoughts and speech, and made a thousand mistakes. His sleep was disturbed; and when he did manage to fall asleep, the nightmare, shaped like a huge money-bag, weighed down on his chest. He mumbled about vast sums of money; imagined he was digging for treasure; threw the bedcovers aside, thinking he was shoveling dirt, groped under the bed for the treasure, and pulled out what he believed to be an invaluable pot of gold.

Dame Webber and her daughter were in despair at what they conceived a returning touch of insanity. There are two family oracles, one or other of which Dutch housewives consult in all cases of great doubt and perplexity: the dominie and the doctor. In the present instance they repaired to the doctor. There was at that time a little, dark, mouldy man of medicine famous among the old wives of the Manhattoes for his skill not only in the healing art, but in all matters of strange and mysterious nature. His name was Dr. Knipperhausen, but he was more commonly known by the appellation of the High German doctor.[4] To him did the poor women repair for counsel and assistance touching the mental vagaries of Wolfert Webber.

Dame Webber and her daughter were in despair over what they believed was a return of insanity. There are two family advisors that Dutch housewives turn to in times of great doubt and confusion: the minister and the doctor. In this case, they went to the doctor. At that time, there was a small, dark, moldy man of medicine who was well-known among the old wives of Manhattan for his expertise not only in healing but also in all matters of the strange and mysterious. His name was Dr. Knipperhausen, but he was more commonly called the High German doctor. To him, the poor women went for advice and help regarding the mental peculiarities of Wolfert Webber.

[4] The same, no doubt, of whom mention is made in the history of Dolph Heyliger.

[4] Definitely the same person mentioned in the story of Dolph Heyliger.

They found the doctor seated in his little study, clad in his dark camblet robe of knowledge, with his black velvet cap, after the manner of Boorhaave, Van Helmont, and other medical sages: a pair of green spectacles set in black horn upon his clubbed nose, and poring over a German folio that seemed to reflect back the darkness of his physiognomy. The doctor listened to their statement of the symptoms of Wolfert’s malady with profound attention; but when they came to mention his raving about buried money, the little man pricked up his ears. Alas, poor women! they little knew the aid they had called in.

They found the doctor sitting in his small study, wearing his dark robe of knowledge and a black velvet cap, just like Boorhaave, Van Helmont, and other medical experts. He had a pair of green glasses made of black horn perched on his nose and was engrossed in a German book that seemed to mirror the darkness of his features. The doctor listened intently as they described Wolfert’s symptoms, but his ears perked up when they mentioned his ranting about buried money. Unfortunately, the poor women had no idea what kind of help they had brought in.

Dr. Knipperhausen had been half his life engaged in seeking the short cuts to fortune, in quest of which so many a long lifetime is wasted. He had passed some years of his youth in the Harz mountains of Germany, and had derived much valuable instruction from the miners, touching the mode of seeking treasure buried in the earth. He had prosecuted his studies also under a travelling sage who united all the mysteries of medicine with magic and legerdemain. His mind, therefore, had become stored with all kinds of mystic lore: he had dabbled a little in astrology, alchemy, and divination; knew how to detect stolen money, and to tell where springs of water lay hidden; in a word, by the dark nature of his knowledge he had acquired the name of the High German doctor, which is pretty nearly equivalent to that of necromancer. The doctor had often heard rumors of treasure being buried in various parts of the island, and’ had long been anxious to get on the traces of it. No sooner were Wolfert’s waking and sleeping vagaries confided to him, than he beheld in them the confirmed symptoms of a case of money-digging, and lost no time in probing it to the bottom. Wolfert had long been sorely depressed in mind by the golden secret, and as a family physician is a kind of father confessor, he was glad of the opportunity of unburthening himself. So far from curing, the doctor caught the malady from his patient. The circumstances unfolded to him awakened all his cupidity; he had not a doubt of money being buried somewhere in the neighborhood of the mysterious crosses, and offered to join Wolfert in the search. He informed him that much secrecy and caution must be observed in enterprises of the kind; that money is only to be digged for at night; with certain forms and ceremonies; the burning of drugs; the repeating of mystic words, and above all, that the seekers must be provided with a divining rod, which had the wonderful property of pointing to the very spot on the surface of the earth under which treasure lay hidden. As the doctor had given much of his mind to these matters, he charged himself with all the necessary preparations, and, as the quarter of the moon was propitious, he undertook to have the divining rod ready by a certain night.[5]

Dr. Knipperhausen had spent half his life looking for shortcuts to wealth, which many people waste their entire lives chasing. He spent part of his youth in the Harz mountains of Germany, learning a lot from miners about how to find treasures buried in the ground. He also studied under a traveling sage who combined the secrets of medicine with magic and tricks. Because of this, his mind was filled with all kinds of mystical knowledge: he dabbled a bit in astrology, alchemy, and fortune-telling; he knew how to find stolen money and locate hidden springs of water; in short, due to the dark nature of his knowledge, he earned the title of High German doctor, which is pretty much the same as calling him a necromancer. The doctor had often heard rumors of buried treasure across the island and had long been eager to follow the leads. As soon as Wolfert shared his strange waking and sleeping habits, the doctor recognized them as strong signs of a treasure-hunting case and wasted no time diving into it. Wolfert had been feeling very troubled about the golden secret, and since a family physician often acts like a confessor, he was relieved to finally share his burden. Instead of curing him, the doctor caught the same obsession from his patient. The details Wolfert revealed sparked all his greed; he was convinced that treasure was buried somewhere near those mysterious crosses, and he offered to join Wolfert in the quest. He told him that secrecy and caution were crucial in such endeavors; treasure hunting could only happen at night, and required certain rituals: burning herbs, reciting mystical phrases, and, most importantly, having a divining rod that miraculously pointed to the exact spot on the earth where treasure was hidden. Since the doctor had devoted much thought to these matters, he took responsibility for all the necessary preparations, and, since the moon phase was favorable, he promised to have the divining rod ready by a certain night.[5]

[5] The following note was found appended to this paper in the handwriting of Mr. Knickerbocker. “There has been much written against the divining rod by those light minds who are ever ready to scoff at the mysteries of nature, but I fully join with Dr. Knipperhausen in giving it my faith. I shall not insist upon its efficacy in discovering the concealment of stolen goods, the boundary-stones of fields, the traces of robbers and murderers, or even the existence of subterraneous springs and streams of water; albeit, I think these properties not easily to be discredited; but of its potency in discovering vein of precious metal, and hidden sums of money and jewels, I have not the least doubt. Some said that the rod turned only in the hands of persons who had been born in particular months of the year; hence astrologers had recourse to planetary influence when they would procure a talisman. Others declared that the properties of the rod were either an effect of chance, or the fraud of the holder, or the work of the devil. Thus sayeth the reverend Father Gaspard Schott in his Treatise on Magic. ‘Propter haec et similia argumenta audacter ego pronuncio vim conversivam virgulae befurcatae nequaquam naturalem esse, sed vel casa vel fraude virgulam tractantis vel ope diaboli,’ etc.
    “Georgius Agricula also was of opinion that it was a mere delusion of the devil to inveigle the avaricious and unwary into his clutches, and in his treatise ‘de re Metallica,’ lays particular stress on the mysterious words pronounced by those persons who employed the divining rod during his time. But I make not a doubt that the divining rod is one of those secrets of natural magic, the mystery of which is to be explained by the sympathies existing between physical things operated upon by the planets, and rendered efficacious by the strong faith of the individual. Let the divining rod be properly gathered at the proper time of the moon, cut into the proper form, used with the necessary ceremonies, and with a perfect faith in its efficacy, and I can confidently recommend it to my fellow-citizens as an infallible means of discovering the various places on the island of the Manhattoes where treasure hath been buried in the olden time. D.K.”]

[5] The following note was found attached to this paper in Mr. Knickerbocker's handwriting: “A lot has been said against the divining rod by those quick to mock the mysteries of nature, but I completely agree with Dr. Knipperhausen in believing in its effectiveness. I won't insist on its ability to find hidden stolen goods, the boundary markers of fields, or the traces of robbers and murderers, or even the existence of underground springs and streams; although, I believe these abilities are not easily dismissed. However, I have no doubt about its power to locate veins of precious metals and hidden amounts of money and jewels. Some claimed that the rod only moved in the hands of people born in certain months, which led astrologers to seek planetary influence when trying to create a talisman. Others argued that the rod's properties were simply due to chance, fraud by the user, or the work of the devil. This is echoed by the reverend Father Gaspard Schott in his Treatise on Magic. ‘For these reasons and similar arguments, I boldly declare that the power of the divining rod is by no means natural, but either by chance or the fraud of the person handling the rod or by the devil's intervention,’ etc.
“Georgius Agricola also believed it was merely a deception of the devil intended to entrap the greedy and unsuspecting, and in his treatise ‘de re Metallica,’ he emphasizes the mysterious words spoken by those who used the divining rod in his day. But I am convinced that the divining rod is one of those secrets of natural magic, where its mystery is explained by the connections between physical things influenced by the planets, and made effective by the strong faith of the individual. If the divining rod is properly harvested at the right time of the moon, shaped correctly, used with the required rituals, and with complete faith in its effectiveness, I can confidently recommend it to my fellow citizens as a foolproof way to find the various places on the island of Manhattoes where treasure has been buried in the past. D.K.”]

Wolfert’s heart leaped with joy at having met with so learned and able a coadjutor. Every thing went on secretly, but swimmingly. The doctor had many consultations with his patient, and the good women of the household lauded the comforting effect of his visits. In the meantime, the wonderful divining rod, that great key to nature’s secrets, was duly prepared. The doctor had thumbed over all his books of knowledge for the occasion; and Mud Sam was engaged to take them in his skiff to the scene of enterprise; to work with spade and pick-axe in unearthing the treasure; and to freight his bark with the weighty spoils they were certain of finding.

Wolfert's heart soared with happiness at having met such a knowledgeable and capable partner. Everything was going on quietly, but smoothly. The doctor had numerous meetings with his patient, and the kind women in the household praised the soothing impact of his visits. In the meantime, the amazing divining rod, that great key to nature's mysteries, was properly prepared. The doctor had gone through all his books for the occasion, and Mud Sam was hired to take them in his boat to the site of their venture, to dig with spade and pick-axe to uncover the treasure, and to load his boat with the valuable finds they were sure to discover.

At length the appointed night arrived for this perilous undertaking. Before Wolfert left his home he counselled his wife and daughter to go to bed, and feel no alarm if he should not return during the night. Like reasonable women, on being told not to feel alarm, they fell immediately into a panic. They saw at once by his manner that something unusual was in agitation; all their fears about the unsettled state of his mind were roused with tenfold force: they hung about him entreating him not to expose himself to the night air, but all in vain. When Wolfert was once mounted on his hobby, it was no easy matter to get him out of the saddle. It was a clear starlight night, when he issued out of the portal of the Webber palace. He wore a large napped hat tied under the chin with a handkerchief of his daughter’s, to secure him from the night damp, while Dame Webber threw her long red cloak about his shoulders, and fastened it round his neck.

At last, the night came for this risky venture. Before Wolfert left home, he advised his wife and daughter to go to bed and not to worry if he didn’t come back during the night. Like any sensible women, being told not to worry only made them panic. They noticed something was off with him and all their concerns about his troubled mind surged back stronger than ever. They surrounded him, pleading with him not to expose himself to the night air, but it was no use. Once Wolfert got fixated on something, it was hard to get him to back down. It was a clear, starlit night when he stepped out of the Webber palace. He wore a large napped hat tied under his chin with one of his daughter's handkerchiefs to protect himself from the night chill, while Dame Webber wrapped a long red cloak around his shoulders and secured it at his neck.

The doctor had been no less carefully armed and accoutred by his housekeeper, the vigilant Frau Ilsy, and sallied forth in his camblet robe by way of surtout; his black velvet cap under his cocked hat, a thick clasped book under his arm, a basket of drugs and dried herbs in one hand, and in the other the miraculous rod of divination.

The doctor had been just as well-prepared and equipped by his attentive housekeeper, the watchful Frau Ilsy, and set out in his camblet robe as an overcoat; his black velvet cap under his tricorn hat, a thick clasped book tucked under his arm, a basket of drugs and dried herbs in one hand, and in the other, the miraculous rod of divination.

The great church clock struck ten as Wolfert and the doctor passed by the church-yard, and the watchman bawled in hoarse voice a long and doleful “All’s well!” A deep sleep had already fallen upon this primitive little burgh; nothing disturbed this awful silence, excepting now and then the bark of some profligate night-walking dog, or the serenade of some romantic cat. It is true, Wolfert fancied more than once that he heard the sound of a stealthy footfall at a distance behind them; but it might have been merely the echo of their own steps echoing along the quiet streets. He thought also at one time that he saw a tall figure skulking after them—stopping when they stopped, and moving on as they proceeded; but the dim and uncertain lamp light threw such vague gleams and shadows, that this might all have been mere fancy.

The church clock chimed ten as Wolfert and the doctor walked past the churchyard, and the watchman shouted in a raspy voice a long and mournful "All's well!" A deep sleep had already settled over this small town; nothing disrupted the eerie silence except now and then the bark of some wayward night dog or the serenade of a wandering cat. Wolfert thought more than once that he heard the sound of quiet footsteps behind them, but it could have just been the echo of their own steps along the quiet streets. He also thought he saw a tall figure lurking behind them—stopping when they stopped and moving on as they walked; however, the dim and flickering lamplight cast such vague shadows that it might have all been just his imagination.

They found the negro fisherman waiting for them, smoking his pipe in the stern of his skiff, which was moored just in front of his little cabin. A pick-axe and spade were lying in the bottom of the boat, with a dark lanthorn, and a stone jug of good Dutch courage, in which honest Sam no doubt, put even more faith than Dr. Knipperhausen in his drugs.

They found the Black fisherman waiting for them, smoking his pipe in the back of his small boat, which was tied up right in front of his little cabin. A pickaxe and a shovel were lying in the bottom of the boat, along with a dark lantern and a stone jug of good Dutch courage, which honest Sam probably relied on even more than Dr. Knipperhausen relied on his medicines.

Thus then did these three worthies embark in their cockleshell of a skiff upon this nocturnal expedition, with a wisdom and valor equalled only by the three wise men of Gotham, who went to sea in a bowl. The tide was rising and running rapidly up the Sound. The current bore them along, almost without the aid of an oar. The profile of the town lay all in shadow. Here and there a light feebly glimmered from some sick chamber, or from the cabin window of some vessel at anchor in the stream. Not a cloud obscured the deep starry firmament, the lights of which wavered on the surface of the placid river; and a shooting meteor, streaking its pale course in the very direction they were taking, was interpreted by the doctor into a most propitious omen.

So, these three brave souls set off in their tiny boat on this night adventure, with wisdom and courage matched only by the three wise men of Gotham who went to sea in a bowl. The tide was rising and flowing swiftly up the Sound. The current carried them along, almost without needing to use the oars. The town's outline was completely in shadow. Here and there, a light flickered weakly from a sickroom or from the window of a boat anchored in the stream. Not a cloud blocked the deep, starry sky, whose lights danced on the surface of the calm river; and a shooting star, streaking across the sky in the direction they were headed, was seen by the doctor as a very lucky sign.

In a little while they glided by the point of Corlears Hook with the rural inn which had been the scene of such night adventures. The family had retired to rest, and the house was dark and still. Wolfert felt a chill pass over him as they passed the point where the buccaneer had disappeared. He pointed it out to Dr. Knipperhausen. While regarding it, they thought they saw a boat actually lurking at the very place; but the shore cast such a shadow over the border of the water that they could discern nothing distinctly. They had not proceeded far when they heard the low sounds of distant oars, as if cautiously pulled. Sam plied his oars with redoubled vigor, and knowing all the eddies and currents of the stream, soon left their followers, if such they were, far astern. In a little while they stretched across Turtle bay and Kip’s bay, then shrouded themselves in the deep shadows of the Manhattan shore, and glided swiftly along, secure from observation. At length Sam shot his skiff into a little cove, darkly embowered by trees, and made it fast to the well known iron ring. They now landed, and lighting the lanthorn, gathered their various implements and proceeded slowly through the bushes. Every sound startled them, even that of their footsteps among the dry leaves; and the hooting of a screech owl, from the shattered chimney of father red-cap’s ruin, made their blood run cold.

In a little while, they glided past Corlears Hook, where the rural inn had been the site of so many night adventures. The family had gone to bed, and the house was dark and quiet. Wolfert felt a chill as they passed the spot where the buccaneer had vanished. He pointed it out to Dr. Knipperhausen. As they looked, they thought they saw a boat actually lurking right there, but the shadows from the shore made it hard to see anything clearly. They hadn’t gone far when they heard the soft sounds of distant oars, as if someone was pulling them cautiously. Sam rowed with renewed energy, and knowing all the currents and eddies of the stream, he soon left their pursuers, if that’s what they were, far behind. Before long, they crossed Turtle Bay and Kip’s Bay, then cloaked themselves in the deep shadows of the Manhattan shore, moving swiftly and safely out of sight. Finally, Sam steered the skiff into a small cove, darkly surrounded by trees, and secured it to the familiar iron ring. They landed, lit the lantern, gathered their various tools, and began to make their way slowly through the bushes. Every sound startled them, even the crunching of their footsteps on the dry leaves; and the hoot of a screech owl from the broken chimney of Father Red-Cap’s ruin sent chills down their spines.

In spite of all Wolfert’s caution in taking note of the landmarks, it was some time before they could find the open place among the trees, where the treasure was supposed to be buried. At length they came to the ledge of rock; and on examining its surface by the aid of the lanthorn, Wolfert recognized the three mystic crosses. Their hearts beat quick, for the momentous trial was at hand that was to determine their hopes.

Despite all of Wolfert's careful attention to the landmarks, it took them a while to find the clear spot among the trees where the treasure was thought to be buried. Eventually, they arrived at the rocky ledge; and using the lantern to examine its surface, Wolfert identified the three mysterious crosses. Their hearts raced, for the crucial moment was approaching that would decide their fate.

The lanthorn was now held by Wolfert Webber, while the doctor produced the divining rod. It was a forked twig, one end of which was grasped firmly in each hand, while the centre, forming the stem, pointed perpendicularly upwards. The doctor moved this wand about, within a certain distance of the earth, from place to place, but for some time without any effect, while Wolfert kept the light of the lanthorn turned full upon it, and watched it with the most breathless interest. At length the rod began slowly to turn. The doctor grasped it with greater earnestness, his hand trembling with the agitation of his mind. The wand continued slowly to turn, until at length the stem had reversed its position, and pointed perpendicularly downward; and remained pointing to one spot as fixedly as the needle to the pole.

The lantern was now held by Wolfert Webber, while the doctor took out the divining rod. It was a forked twig, with one end held firmly in each hand, while the center, acting as the stem, pointed straight up. The doctor moved this wand around, close to the ground, shifting from place to place, but for a while, nothing happened. Meanwhile, Wolfert kept the lantern’s light focused on it, watching with intense interest. Finally, the rod began to slowly turn. The doctor held it more firmly, his hand trembling with anxiety. The wand continued to turn until the stem flipped around and pointed straight down, staying fixed on one spot as steadily as a compass needle points to the north.

“This is the spot!” said the doctor in an almost inaudible tone.

“This is the spot!” said the doctor in a barely audible voice.

Wolfert’s heart was in his throat.

Wolfert's heart was pounding.

“Shall I dig?” said Sam, grasping the spade.

“Should I start digging?” Sam asked, holding the spade.

Pots tousends, no!” replied the little doctor, hastily. He now ordered his companions to keep close by him and to maintain the most inflexible silence. That certain precautions must be taken, and ceremonies used to prevent the evil spirits which keep about buried treasure from doing them any harm. The doctor then drew a circle round the place, enough to include the whole party. He next gathered dry twigs and leaves, and made a fire, upon which he threw certain drugs and dried herbs which he had brought in his basket. A thick smoke rose, diffusing a potent odor, savoring marvellously of brimstone and assafoetida, which, however grateful it might be to the olfactory nerves of spirits, nearly strangled poor Wolfert, and produced a fit of coughing and wheezing that made the whole grove resound. Doctor Knipperhausen then unclasped the volume which he had brought under his arm, which was printed in red and black characters in German text. While Wolfert held the lanthorn, the doctor, by the aid of his spectacles, read off several forms of conjuration in Latin and German. He then ordered Sam to seize the pick-axe and proceed to work. The close-bound soil gave obstinate signs of not having been disturbed for many a year. After having picked his way through the surface, Sam came to a bed of sand and gravel, which he threw briskly to right and left with the spade.

Pots tousends, no!” the little doctor replied quickly. He instructed his companions to stay close to him and to remain completely silent. Certain precautions needed to be taken, and rituals were necessary to protect them from the evil spirits that guard buried treasure. The doctor then drew a circle around the area, large enough to include the entire group. He gathered dry twigs and leaves and started a fire, into which he tossed some medicines and dried herbs he had brought in his basket. A thick smoke rose, releasing a strong smell reminiscent of brimstone and assafoetida, which might have been pleasant to the spirits but nearly choked poor Wolfert, causing him to cough and wheeze loudly throughout the grove. Doctor Knipperhausen then opened the book he had carried, printed in red and black German text. While Wolfert held the lantern, the doctor read several conjurations in Latin and German, aided by his spectacles. He ordered Sam to grab the pickaxe and start digging. The tightly packed soil showed stubborn signs of not having been disturbed for many years. After breaking through the surface, Sam hit a layer of sand and gravel, which he quickly tossed aside with the spade.

“Hark!” said Wolfert, who fancied he heard a trampling among the dry leaves, and a rustling through the bushes. Sam paused for a moment, and they listened. No footstep was near. The bat flitted about them in silence; a bird roused from its nest by the light which glared up among the trees, flew circling about the flame. In the profound stillness of the woodland they could distinguish the current rippling along the rocky shore, and the distant murmuring and roaring of Hell Gate.

“Listen!” said Wolfert, who thought he heard something stirring among the dry leaves and rustling in the bushes. Sam stopped for a moment, and they listened. There were no footsteps nearby. The bat moved around them quietly; a bird, disturbed from its nest by the light shining through the trees, flew in circles around the flame. In the deep stillness of the woods, they could hear the water flowing along the rocky shore, and the distant sound of Hell Gate’s murmuring and roaring.

Sam continued his labors, and had already digged a considerable hole. The doctor stood on the edge, reading formulae every now and then from the black letter volume, or throwing more drugs and herbs upon the fire; while Wolfert bent anxiously over the pit, watching every stroke of the spade. Any one witnessing the scene thus strangely lighted up by fire, lanthorn, and the reflection of Wolfert’s red mantle, might have mistaken the little doctor for some foul magician, busied in his incantations, and the grizzled-headed Sam as some swart goblin, obedient to his commands.

Sam kept working and had already dug a decent-sized hole. The doctor stood at the edge, occasionally reading formulas from the old black-letter book, or tossing more drugs and herbs into the fire, while Wolfert leaned over the pit, anxiously watching every stroke of the spade. Anyone seeing this scene, oddly illuminated by the fire, lantern, and the reflection of Wolfert’s red cloak, might have mistaken the little doctor for some dark sorcerer focused on his spells, and the grizzled Sam for some shadowy goblin, dutifully following his orders.

At length the spade of the fisherman struck upon something that sounded hollow. The sound vibrated to Wolfert’s heart. He struck his spade again.

At last, the fisherman’s spade hit something that sounded hollow. The sound resonated in Wolfert’s heart. He hit his spade again.

“’Tis a chest,” said Sam.

“It's a chest,” said Sam.

“Full of gold, I’ll warrant it!” cried Wolfert, clasping his hands with rapture.

“Filled with gold, I swear!” exclaimed Wolfert, clasping his hands in delight.

Scarcely had he uttered the words when a sound from overhead caught his ear. He cast up his eyes, and lo! by the expiring light of the fire he beheld, just over the disk of the rock, what appeared to be the grim visage of the drowned buccaneer, grinning hideously down upon him.

Scarcely had he spoken when a sound from above caught his attention. He looked up, and there it was! In the fading light of the fire, he saw, just above the rock, what seemed to be the terrifying face of the drowned pirate, grinning grotesquely at him.

Wolfert gave a loud cry and let fall the lanthorn. His panic communicated itself to his companions. The negro leaped out of the hole, the doctor dropped his book and basket and began to pray in German. All was horror and confusion. The fire was scattered about, the lanthorn extinguished. In their hurry-skurry they ran against and confounded one another. They fancied a legion of hobgoblins let loose upon them, and that they saw by the fitful gleams of the scattered embers, strange figures in red caps gibbering and ramping around them. The doctor ran one way, Mud Sam another, and Wolfert made for the water side. As he plunged struggling onwards through bush and brake, he heard the tread of some one in pursuit.

Wolfert let out a loud scream and dropped the lantern. His panic spread to his friends. The Black man jumped out of the hole, the doctor dropped his book and basket and started to pray in German. It was all chaos and terror. The fire was scattered, and the lantern was out. In their rush, they bumped into each other and were confused. They imagined a horde of goblins released upon them and thought they saw strange figures in red caps dancing around them in the flickering light of the scattered embers. The doctor ran one way, Mud Sam another, and Wolfert headed for the water. As he pushed forward through the bushes, he heard someone following him.

He scrambled frantically forward. The footsteps gained upon him. He felt himself grasped by his cloak, when suddenly his pursuer was attacked in turn: a fierce fight and struggle ensued—a pistol was discharged that lit up rock and bush for a period, and showed two figures grappling together—all was then darker than ever. The contest continued—the combatants clenched each other, and panted and groaned, and rolled among the rocks. There was snarling and growling as of a cur, mingled with curses in which Wolfert fancied he could recognize the voice of the buccaneer. He would fain have fled, but he was on the brink of a precipice and could go no farther.

He rushed forward in a panic. The footsteps were getting closer. He felt someone grab his cloak when suddenly his pursuer was attacked in turn: a fierce fight broke out—a gunshot illuminated the rocks and bushes for a moment, revealing two figures struggling together—then everything went darker than before. The fight went on—the fighters were locked together, breathing heavily and groaning, rolling among the rocks. There were growling sounds like a dog, mixed with curses that Wolfert thought he recognized as the voice of the buccaneer. He wanted to run, but he was at the edge of a cliff and couldn’t go any further.

Again the parties were on their feet; again there was a tugging and struggling, as if strength alone could decide the combat, until one was precipitated from the brow of the cliff and sent headlong into the deep stream that whirled below. Wolfert heard the plunge, and a kind of strangling bubbling murmur, but the darkness of the night hid every thing from view, and the swiftness of the current swept every thing instantly out of hearing. One of the combatants was disposed of, but whether friend or foe Wolfert could not tell, nor whether they might not both be foes. He heard the survivor approach and his terror revived. He saw, where the profile of the rocks rose against the horizon, a human form advancing. He could not be mistaken: it must be the buccaneer. Whither should he fly! a precipice was on one side; a murderer on the other. The enemy approached: he was close at hand. Wolfert attempted to let himself down the face of the cliff. His cloak caught in a thorn that grew on the edge. He was jerked from off his feet and held dangling in the air, half choaked by the string with which his careful wife had fastened the garment round his neck. Wolfert thought his last moment had arrived; already had he committed his soul to St. Nicholas, when the string broke and he tumbled down the bank, bumping from rock to rock and bush to bush, and leaving the red cloak fluttering like a bloody banner in the air.

Again, the parties were on their feet; again, there was a tugging and struggling, as if strength alone could determine the outcome of the fight, until one was shoved from the edge of the cliff and sent plunging into the rushing stream below. Wolfert heard the splash and a kind of strangled bubbling noise, but the darkness of the night concealed everything from sight, and the swift current quickly carried everything out of earshot. One of the fighters was dealt with, but whether they were a friend or an enemy, Wolfert couldn’t tell, nor could he be sure if they were both enemies. He heard the remaining fighter coming closer, and his fear surged again. He saw a figure approaching against the horizon where the rocks rose. He couldn't be mistaken: it had to be the buccaneer. Where could he escape to? A cliff was on one side; a killer on the other. The enemy drew nearer: he was almost there. Wolfert tried to lower himself down the cliff face. His cloak caught on a thorn at the edge. He was yanked off his feet and left dangling in the air, half-choked by the string his careful wife had used to fasten the garment around his neck. Wolfert thought his last moment had come; he had already committed his soul to St. Nicholas when the string broke and he tumbled down the bank, bouncing from rock to rock and bush to bush, with the red cloak fluttering like a bloody banner in the air.

It was a long while before Wolfert came to himself. When he opened his eyes the ruddy streaks of the morning were already shooting up the sky. He found himself lying in the bottom of a boat, grievously battered. He attempted to sit up but was too sore and stiff to move. A voice requested him in friendly accents to lie still. He turned his eyes toward the speaker: it was Dirk Waldron. He had dogged the party, at the earnest request of Dame Webber and her daughter, who, with the laudable curiosity of their sex, had pried into the secret consultations of Wolfert and the doctor. Dirk had been completely distanced in following the light skiff of the fisherman, and had just come in time to rescue the poor money-digger from his pursuer.

It took a while for Wolfert to regain his senses. When he opened his eyes, the first light of morning was already breaking in the sky. He found himself lying in the bottom of a boat, badly hurt. He tried to sit up but was too sore and stiff to move. A voice kindly urged him to lie still. He turned to see who it was: it was Dirk Waldron. He had followed the group at the strong request of Dame Webber and her daughter, who, with their typical curiosity, had snooped on the secret meetings between Wolfert and the doctor. Dirk had fallen far behind while chasing the fisherman's small boat and had arrived just in time to save the poor treasure seeker from his pursuer.

Thus ended this perilous enterprise. The doctor and Mud Sam severally found their way back to the Manhattoes, each having some dreadful tale of peril to relate. As to poor Wolfert, instead of returning in triumph, laden with bags of gold, he was borne home on a shutter, followed by a rabble route of curious urchins. His wife and daughter saw the dismal pageant from a distance, and alarmed the neighborhood with their cries: they thought the poor man had suddenly settled the great debt of nature in one of his wayward moods. Finding him, however, still living, they had him conveyed speedily to bed, and a jury of old matrons of the neighborhood assembled to determine how he should be doctored. The whole town was in a buzz with the story of the money-diggers. Many repaired to the scene of the previous night’s adventures: but though they found the very place of the digging, they discovered nothing that compensated for their trouble. Some say they found the fragments of an oaken chest and an iron pot lid, which savored strongly of hidden money; and that in the old family vault there were traces of holes and boxes, but this is all very dubious.

Thus ended this risky adventure. The doctor and Mud Sam each made their way back to Manhattan, both with some scary story of danger to share. As for poor Wolfert, instead of returning in glory, loaded with bags of gold, he was carried home on a door, followed by a crowd of curious kids. His wife and daughter saw the gloomy scene from a distance and alarmed the neighborhood with their screams; they thought the poor man had suddenly passed away in one of his odd moods. However, finding him still alive, they quickly got him to bed, and a group of local women gathered to decide how he should be treated. The whole town buzzed with the tale of the treasure hunters. Many went to check out the site of the previous night’s escapades; but although they found exactly where the digging had happened, they discovered nothing that was worth their effort. Some claim they found pieces of an oak chest and an iron pot lid, which suggested hidden treasure; and that in the old family crypt there were signs of holes and boxes, but this is all quite questionable.

In fact, the secret of all this story has never to this day been discovered: whether any treasure was ever actually buried at that place, whether, if so, it was carried off at night by those who had buried it; or whether it still remains there under the guardianship of gnomes and spirits until it shall be properly sought for, is all matter of conjecture. For my part I incline to the latter opinion; and make no doubt that great sums lie buried, both there and in many other parts of this island and its neighborhood, ever since the times of the buccaneers and the Dutch colonists; and I would earnestly recommend the search after them to such of my fellow citizens as are not engaged in any other speculations.

In fact, the secret of this whole story has never been figured out to this day: whether any treasure was ever actually buried in that spot, whether it was taken away at night by those who buried it, or whether it still remains there under the watch of gnomes and spirits until someone properly looks for it, is all just guesswork. Personally, I lean toward the latter idea; and I have no doubt that there are valuable amounts buried, both there and in many other places on this island and nearby, ever since the days of the buccaneers and the Dutch settlers. I would strongly recommend that those of my fellow citizens who aren't involved in any other ventures search for it.

There were many conjectures formed, also, as to who and what was the strange man of the seas who had domineered over the little fraternity at Corlears Hook for a time; disappeared so strangely, and reappeared so fearfully. Some supposed him a smuggler stationed at that place to assist his comrades in landing their goods among the rocky coves of the island. Others that he was a buccaneer; one of the ancient comrades either of Kidd or Bradish, returned to convey away treasures formerly hidden in the vicinity. The only circumstance that throws any thing like a vague light over this mysterious matter is a report that prevailed of a strange foreign-built shallop, with the look of a piccaroon, having been seen hovering about the Sound for several days without landing or reporting herself, though boats were seen going to and from her at night: and that she was seen standing out of the mouth of the harbor, in the gray of the dawn after the catastrophe of the money-diggers.

There were many theories about who the strange man of the seas was, who had taken control of the small community at Corlears Hook for a while, mysteriously vanished, and then returned in a terrifying way. Some thought he was a smuggler stationed there to help his friends sneak their goods into the rocky coves of the island. Others believed he was a buccaneer, one of the old crew members of Kidd or Bradish, back to retrieve treasures that had been hidden nearby. The only thing that sheds some light on this mysterious situation is a rumor about a strange foreign-built boat, resembling a pirate ship, being seen lingering in the Sound for several days without docking or announcing itself, even though boats were spotted going to and from her at night; and that she was seen sailing out of the harbor entrance in the early morning light after the incident with the treasure hunters.

I must not omit to mention another report, also, which I confess is rather apocryphal, of the buccaneer, who was supposed to have been drowned, being seen before daybreak, with a lanthorn in his hand, seated astride his great sea-chest and sailing through Hell Gate, which just then began to roar and bellow with redoubled fury.

I can’t forget to mention another report, which I admit is somewhat questionable, about the buccaneer who was thought to have drowned. He was spotted before dawn, holding a lantern, sitting on his massive sea chest and sailing through Hell Gate, which at that moment started to roar and bellow with increased intensity.

While all the gossip world was thus filled with talk and rumor, poor Wolfert lay sick and sorrowful in his bed, bruised in body and sorely beaten down in mind. His wife and daughter did all they could to bind up his wounds both corporal and spiritual. The good old dame never stirred from his bedside, where she sat knitting from morning till night; while his daughter busied herself about him with the fondest care. Nor did they lack assistance from abroad. Whatever may be said of the desertions of friends in distress, they had no complaint of the kind to make. Not an old wife of the neighborhood but abandoned her work to crowd to the mansion of Wolfert Webber, inquire after his health and the particulars of his story. Not one came, moreover, without her little pipkin of pennyroyal, sage, balm, or other herb-tea, delighted at an opportunity of signalizing her kindness and her doctorship. What drenchings did not the poor Wolfert undergo, and all in vain. It was a moving sight to behold him wasting away day by day; growing thinner and thinner and ghastlier and ghastlier, and staring with rueful visage from under an old patchwork counterpane upon the jury of matrons kindly assembled to sigh and groan and look unhappy around him.

While everyone was buzzing with gossip and rumors, poor Wolfert lay sick and sad in his bed, hurt physically and mentally exhausted. His wife and daughter did everything they could to heal him, both in body and spirit. The kind old woman never left his side, sitting by his bed and knitting from morning until night, while his daughter cared for him with the utmost affection. They also had support from the community. Despite what people say about friends abandoning those in distress, they had no complaints about that. Every old neighbor woman dropped what she was doing to rush to Wolfert Webber's home, checking on his health and hearing his story. Each one brought along a small pot of pennyroyal, sage, balm, or other herbal tea, eager to show her kindness and skills as a healer. Poor Wolfert endured countless remedies, all in vain. It was a heartbreaking sight to see him wasting away, growing thinner and more ghostly by the day, staring with a pained expression from beneath an old patchwork quilt at the group of caring women gathered around him, sighing and looking unhappy.

Dirk Waldron was the only being that seemed to shed a ray of sunshine into this house of mourning. He came in with cheery look and manly spirit, and tried to reanimate the expiring heart of the poor money-digger, but it was all in vain. Wolfert was completely done over. If any thing was wanting to complete his despair, it was a notice served upon him in the midst of his distress, that the corporation were about to run a new street through the very centre of his cabbage garden. He saw nothing before him but poverty and ruin; his last reliance, the garden of his forefathers, was to be laid waste, and what then was to become of his poor wife and child?

Dirk Waldron was the only person who seemed to bring a bit of light into this house of grief. He entered with a cheerful expression and a strong spirit, trying to revive the fading heart of the unfortunate gold seeker, but it was all pointless. Wolfert was completely defeated. If anything could deepen his despair, it was the notice he received during his sorrow that the city planned to build a new street right through the middle of his cabbage garden. All he could see ahead was poverty and ruin; his last hope, the garden of his ancestors, was about to be destroyed, and what would happen to his poor wife and child then?

His eyes filled with tears as they followed the dutiful Amy out of the room one morning. Dirk Waldron was seated beside him; Wolfert grasped his hand, pointed after his daughter, and for the first time since his illness broke the silence he had maintained.

His eyes filled with tears as he watched Amy leave the room one morning. Dirk Waldron was sitting next to him; Wolfert took his hand, pointed after his daughter, and for the first time since his illness, he broke the silence he had kept.

“I am going!” said he, shaking his head feebly, “and when I am gone—my poordaughter—”

“I’m going!” he said, shaking his head weakly, “and when I’m gone—my poor daughter—”

“Leave her to me, father!” said Dirk, manfully—“I’ll take care of her!”

“Leave her to me, Dad!” said Dirk confidently. “I’ll look after her!”

Wolfert looked up in the face of the cheery, strapping youngster, and saw there was none better able to take care of a woman.

Wolfert looked up at the cheerful, strong young man and realized that no one was better suited to take care of a woman.

“Enough,” said he, “she is yours!—and now fetch me a lawyer—let me make my will and die.”

“Enough,” he said, “she’s yours! Now get me a lawyer—let me make my will and get it over with.”

The lawyer was brought—a dapper, bustling, round-headed little man, Roorback (or Rollebuck, as it was pronounced) by name. At the sight of him the women broke into loud lamentations, for they looked upon the signing of a will as the signing of a death-warrant. Wolfert made a feeble motion for them to be silent. Poor Amy buried her face and her grief in the bed-curtain. Dame Webber resumed her knitting to hide her distress, which betrayed itself, however, in a pellucid tear, that trickled silently down and hung at the end of her peaked nose; while the cat, the only unconcerned member of the family, played with the good dame’s ball of worsted, as it rolled about the floor.

The lawyer arrived—a stylish, busy little guy named Roorback (or Rollebuck, as it was pronounced). When the women saw him, they burst into loud cries of sorrow, as they viewed the signing of a will as like signing a death warrant. Wolfert weakly signaled for them to be quiet. Poor Amy hid her face and her sadness in the bed curtain. Dame Webber picked up her knitting again to mask her distress, which, nonetheless, showed through in a clear tear that silently rolled down and hung from the tip of her pointed nose, while the cat, the only indifferent member of the family, played with the good dame’s ball of yarn as it rolled around the floor.

Wolfert lay on his back, his nightcap drawn over his forehead; his eyes closed; his whole visage the picture of death. He begged the lawyer to be brief, for he felt his end approaching, and that he had no time to lose. The lawyer nibbed his pen, spread out his paper, and prepared to write.

Wolfert lay on his back, his nightcap pulled down over his forehead; his eyes closed; his entire face looked like he was dead. He urged the lawyer to be quick, as he felt his end coming and had no time to waste. The lawyer dipped his pen, spread out his paper, and got ready to write.

“I give and bequeath,” said Wolfert, faintly, “my small farm—”

“I give and bequeath,” said Wolfert, quietly, “my small farm—”

“What—all!” exclaimed the lawyer.

“Wait, what?” exclaimed the lawyer.

Wolfert half opened his eyes and looked upon the lawyer.

Wolfert half-opened his eyes and looked at the lawyer.

“Yes—all” said he.

“Yes, all,” he said.

“What! all that great patch of land with cabbages and sunflowers, which the corporation is just going to run a main street through?”

“What! That whole big piece of land with cabbages and sunflowers that the city is just going to put a main road through?”

“The same,” said Wolfert, with a heavy sigh and sinking back upon his pillow.

“The same,” said Wolfert, with a heavy sigh as he sank back onto his pillow.

“I wish him joy that inherits it!” said the little lawyer, chuckling and rubbing his hands involuntarily.

“I wish him joy that comes with it!” said the little lawyer, laughing and rubbing his hands without thinking.

“What do you mean?” said Wolfert, again opening his eyes.

“What do you mean?” Wolfert said, opening his eyes again.

“That he’ll be one of the richest men in the place!” cried little Rollebuck.

“That he’ll be one of the wealthiest guys around here!” shouted little Rollebuck.

The expiring Wolfert seemed to step back from the threshold of existence: his eyes again lighted up; he raised himself in his bed, shoved back his red worsted nightcap, and stared broadly at the lawyer.

The dying Wolfert appeared to pull away from the edge of life: his eyes brightened again; he lifted himself in bed, pushed back his red wool nightcap, and gazed intently at the lawyer.

“You don’t say so!” exclaimed he.

"You don't say that!" he exclaimed.

“Faith, but I do!” rejoined the other. “Why, when that great field and that piece of meadow come to be laid out in streets, and cut up into snug building lots—why, whoever owns them need not pull off his hat to the patroon!”

“Of course I do!” the other replied. “I mean, when that big field and that patch of meadow get turned into streets and divided into cozy building lots—whoever owns them won’t have to tip their hat to the landlord!”

“Say you so?” cried Wolfert, half thrusting one leg out of bed, “why, then I think I’ll not make my will yet!”

“Is that so?” shouted Wolfert, half sticking one leg out of bed, “well then, I guess I won’t make my will just yet!”

To the surprise of everybody the dying man actually recovered. The vital spark which had glimmered faintly in the socket, received fresh fuel from the oil of gladness, which the little lawyer poured into his soul. It once more burnt up into a flame.

To everyone's surprise, the dying man actually got better. The faint spark that had barely flickered in him was reignited by the oil of joy that the little lawyer poured into his soul. It burned brightly once again.

Give physic to the heart, ye who would revive the body of a spirit-broken man! In a few days Wolfert left his room; in a few days more his table was covered with deeds, plans of streets and building lots. Little Rollebuck was constantly with him, his right-hand man and adviser, and instead of making his will, assisted in the more agreeable task of making his fortune. In fact, Wolfert Webber was one of those worthy Dutch burghers of the Manhattoes whose fortunes have been made, in a manner, in spite of themselves; who have tenaciously held on to their hereditary acres, raising turnips and cabbages about the skirts of the city, hardly able to make both ends meet, until the corporation has cruelly driven streets through their abodes, and they have suddenly awakened out of a lethargy, and, to their astonishment, found themselves rich men.

Give strength to the heart, you who want to revive the body of a spirit-broken man! In a few days, Wolfert left his room; a few days later, his table was covered with deeds, plans for streets, and building lots. Little Rollebuck was always with him, acting as his right-hand man and advisor, and instead of making his will, he helped with the more enjoyable task of building his fortune. In fact, Wolfert Webber was one of those respectable Dutch citizens of Manhattan whose wealth has been made, in a way, despite their own efforts; who have stubbornly held onto their family land, growing turnips and cabbages on the outskirts of the city, often struggling to make ends meet, until the city has ruthlessly cut through their properties, and they have suddenly awakened from their slumber, astonished to find themselves wealthy.

Before many months had elapsed a great bustling street passed through the very centre of the Webber garden, just where Wolfert had dreamed of finding a treasure. His golden dream was accomplished; he did indeed find an unlooked-for source of wealth; for, when his paternal lands were distributed into building lots, and rented out to safe tenants, instead of producing a paltry crop of cabbages, they returned him an abundant crop of rents; insomuch that on quarter day, it was a goodly sight to see his tenants rapping at his door, from morning to night, each with a little round-bellied bag of money, the golden produce of the soil.

Before many months had passed, a busy street went straight through the middle of the Webber garden, right where Wolfert had imagined finding treasure. His golden dream came true; he actually found an unexpected source of wealth. When his family land was divided into building lots and rented out to reliable tenants, instead of yielding a meager harvest of cabbages, it brought him a plentiful return in rent. So much so, that on rent collection day, it was a nice sight to see his tenants knocking at his door from morning to night, each with a small round bag of money, the golden fruits of the land.

The ancient mansion of his forefathers was still kept up, but instead of being a little yellow-fronted Dutch house in a garden, it now stood boldly in the midst of a street, the grand house of the neighborhood; for Wolfert enlarged it with a wing on each side, and a cupola or tea room on top, where he might climb up and smoke his pipe in hot weather; and in the course of time the whole mansion was overrun by the chubby-faced progeny of Amy Webber and Dirk Waldron.

The old family mansion was still standing, but instead of being a small yellow Dutch house in a garden, it now stood prominently in the middle of the street, the grandest house in the neighborhood. Wolfert had expanded it with a wing on each side and added a cupola or tea room on top, where he could climb up and smoke his pipe during the hot weather. Over time, the entire mansion was filled with the chubby-faced children of Amy Webber and Dirk Waldron.

As Wolfert waxed old and rich and corpulent, he also set up a great gingerbread-colored carriage drawn by a pair of black Flanders mares with tails that swept the ground; and to commemorate the origin of his greatness he had for a crest a fullblown cabbage painted on the pannels, with the pithy motto Alles Kopf that is to say, ALL HEAD; meaning thereby that he had risen by sheer head-work.

As Wolfert grew older, richer, and heavier, he also acquired an impressive gingerbread-colored carriage pulled by a pair of black Flanders mares with tails that brushed the ground. To celebrate the origins of his success, he had a full-blown cabbage painted on the panels as his crest, along with the catchy motto Alles Kopf, which means ALL HEAD; signifying that he had achieved his wealth solely through his intelligence.

To fill the measure of his greatness, in the fullness of time the renowned Ramm Rapelye slept with his fathers, and Wolfert Webber succeeded to the leathern-bottomed arm-chair in the inn parlor at Corlears Hook; where he long reigned greatly honored and respected, insomuch that he was never known to tell a story without its being believed, nor to utter a joke without its being laughed at.

To complete his legacy, in due time the famous Ramm Rapelye passed away, and Wolfert Webber took over the leather-bottomed armchair in the inn's parlor at Corlears Hook, where he was long regarded with great honor and respect. He was never known to tell a story that wasn't believed or to make a joke that didn't get laughed at.


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