Harriet Beecher Stowe
Oldtown Fireside Stories
THE GHOST IN THE MILL
Come, Sam, tell us a story, said I, as Harry and I crept to his knees, in the glow of the bright evening firelight; while Aunt Lois was busily rattling the tea-things, and grandmamma, at the other end of the fireplace, was quietly setting the heel of a blue-mixed yarn stocking.
In those days we had no magazines and daily papers, each reeling off a serial story. Once a week, The Columbian Sentinel came from Boston with its slender stock of news and editorial; but all the multiform devicespictorial, narrative, and poeticalwhich keep the mind of the present generation ablaze with excitement, had not then even an existence. There was no theatre, no opera; there were in Oldtown no parties or balls, except, perhaps, the annual election, or Thanksgiving festival; and when winter came, and the sun went down at half-past four oclock, and left the long, dark hours of evening to be provided for, the necessity of amusement became urgent. Hence, in those days, chimney-corner story-telling became an art and an accomplishment. Society then was full of traditions and narratives which had all the uncertain glow and shifting mystery of the firelit hearth upon them. They were told to sympathetic audiences, by the rising and falling light of the solemn embers, with the hearth-crickets filling up every pause. Then the aged told their stories to the young,tales of early life; tales of war and adventure, of forest-days, of Indian captivities and escapes, of bears and wild-cats and panthers, of rattlesnakes, of witches and wizards, and strange and wonderful dreams and appearances and providences.
In those days of early Massachusetts, faith and credence were in the very air. Two-thirds of New England was then dark, unbroken forests, through whose tangled paths the mysterious winter wind groaned and shrieked and howled with weird noises and unaccountable clamors. Along the iron-bound shore, the stormful Atlantic raved and thundered, and dashed its moaning waters, as if to deaden and deafen any voice that might tell of the settled life of the old civilized world, and shut us forever into the wilderness. A good story-teller, in those days, was always sure of a warm seat at the hearthstone, and the delighted homage of children; and in all Oldtown there was no better story-teller than Sam Lawson.
Do, do, tell us a story, said Harry, pressing upon him, and opening very wide blue eyes, in which undoubting faith shone as in a mirror; and let it be something strange, and different from common.
Wal, I know lots o strange things, said Sam, looking mysteriously into the fire. Why, I know things, that ef I should tell,why, people might say they want so; but then they is so for all that.
Oh, do, do, tell us!
Why, I should scare ye to death, mebbe, said Sam doubtingly.
Oh, pooh! no, you wouldnt, we both burst out at once.
But Sam was possessed by a reticent spirit, and loved dearly to be wooed and importuned; and do he only took up the great kitchen-tongs, and smote on the hickory forestick, when it flew apart in the middle, and scattered a shower of clear bright coals all over the hearth.
Mercy on us, Sam Lawson! said Aunt Lois in an indignant voice, spinning round from her dishwashing.
Dont you worry a grain, Miss Lois, said Sam composedly. I see that are stick was een amost in two, and I thought Id jest settle it. Ill sweep up the coals now, he added, vigorously applying a turkey-wing to the purpose, as he knelt on the hearth, his spare, lean figure glowing in the blaze of the firelight, and getting quite flushed with exertion.
There, now! he said, when he had brushed over and under and between the fire-irons, and pursued the retreating ashes so far into the red, fiery citadel, that his finger-ends were burning and tingling, that ares done now as well as Hepsy herself could a done it. I allers sweeps up the haarth: I think its part o the mans bisness when he makes the fire. But Hepsys so used to seein me a-doin ont, that she dont see no kind o merit int. Its just as Parson Lothrop said in his sermon,folks allers overlook their common marcies
But come, Sam, that story, said Harry and I coaxingly, pressing upon him, and pulling him down into his seat in the corner.
Lordy massy, these ere young uns! said Sam. Theres never no contentin on em: ye tell em one story, and they jest swallows it as a dog does a gob o meat; and theyre all ready for another. What do ye want to hear now?
Now, the fact was, that Sams stories had been told us so often, that they were all arranged and ticketed in our minds. We knew every word in them, and could set him right if he varied a hair from the usual track; and still the interest in them was unabated. Still we shivered, and clung to his knee, at the mysterious parts, and felt gentle, cold chills run down our spines at appropriate places. We were always in the most receptive and sympathetic condition. To-night, in particular, was one of those thundering stormy ones, when the winds appeared to be holding a perfect mad carnival over my grandfathers house. They yelled and squealed round the corners; they collected in troops, and came tumbling and roaring down chimney; they shook and tattled the buttery-door and the sinkroom-door and the cellar-door and the chamber-door, with a constant undertone of squeak and clatter, as if at every door were a cold, discontented spirit, tired of the chill outside, and longing for the warmth and comfort within.
Wal, boys, said Sam confidentially, whatll ye have?
Tell us Come down, come down! we both shouted with one voice. This was, in our mind, an A No. 1 among Sams stories.
Ye musnt be frightened now, said Sam paternally.
Oh, no! we arnt frightened ever, said we both in one breath.
Not when ye go down the cellar arter cider? said Sam with severe scrutiny. Ef ye should be down cellar, and the candle should go out, now?
I aint, said I: I aint afraid of any thing. I never knew what it was to be afraid in my life.
Wal, then, said Sam, Ill tell ye. This eres what Capn Eb Sawin told me when I was a boy about your bigness, I reckon.
Capn Eb Sawin was a most respectable man. Your granther knew him very well; and he was a deacon in the church in Dedham afore he died. He was at Lexington when the fust gun was fired agin the British. He was a dreffle smart man, Capn Eb was, and driv team a good many years atween here and Boston. He married Lois Peabody, that was cousin to your granther then. Lois was a rael sensible woman; and Ive heard her tell the story as he told her, and it was jest as he told it to me,jest exactly; and I shall never forget it if I live to be nine hundred years old, like Mathuselah.
Ye see, along back in them times, there used to be a fellow come round these ere parts, spring and fall, a-peddlin goods, with his pack on his back; and his name was Jehiel Lommedieu. Nobody rightly knew where he come from. He wasnt much of a talker; but the women rather liked him, and kind o liked to have him round. Women will like some fellows, when men cant see no sort o reason why they should; and they liked this ere Lommedieu, though he was kind o mournful and thin and shad-bellied, and hadnt nothin to say for himself. But it got to be so, that the women would count and calculate so many weeks afore twas time for Lommedieu to be along; and theyd make up ginger-snaps and preserves and pies, and make him stay to tea at the houses, and feed him up on the best there was: and the story went round, that he was a-courtin Phebe Ann Parker, or Phebe Ann was a-courtin him,folks didnt rightly know which. Wal, all of a sudden, Lommedieu stopped comin round; and nobody knew why,only jest he didnt come. It turned out that Phebe Ann Parker had got a letter from him, sayin hed be along afore Thanksgiving; but he didnt come, neither afore nor at Thanksgiving time, nor arter, nor next spring: and finally the women they gin up lookin for him. Some said he was dead; some said he was gone to Canada; and some said he hed gone over to the Old Country.
Wal, as to Phebe Ann, she acted like a gal o sense, and married Bijah Moss, and thought no more bout it. She took the right view ont, and said she was sartin that all things was ordered out for the best; and it was jest as well folks couldnt always have their own way. And so, in time, Lommedieu was gone out o folkss minds, much as a last years apple-blossom.
Its relly affectin to think how little these ere folks is missed thats so much sot by. There aint nobody, ef theys ever so important, but what the world gets to goin on without em, pretty much as it did with em, though theres some little flurry at fust. Wal, the last thing that was in anybodys mind was, that they ever should hear from Lommedieu agin. But there aint nothin but what has its time o turnin up; and it seems his turn was to come.
Wal, ye see, twas the 19th o March, when Capn Eb Sawin started with a team for Boston. That day, there come on about the biggest snow-storm that thered been in them parts sence the oldest man could remember. Twas this ere fine, siftin snow, that drives in your face like needles, with a wind to cut your nose off: it made teamin pretty tedious work. Capn Eb was about the toughest man in them parts. Hed spent days in the woods a-loggin, and hed been up to the deestrict o Maine a-lumberin, and was about up to any sort o thing a man genally could be up to; but these ere March winds sometimes does set on a fellow so, that neither natur nor grace can stan em. The capn used to say he could stan any wind that blew one way t time for five minutes; but come to winds that blew all four pints at the same minit,why, they flustered him.
Wal, that was the sort o weather it was all day: and by sundown Capn Eb he got clean bewildered, so that he lost his road; and, when night came on, he didnt know nothin where he was. Ye see the country was all under drift, and the air so thick with snow, that he couldnt see a foot afore him; and the fact was, he got off the Boston road without knowin it, and came out at a pair o bars nigh upon Sherburn, where old Cack Sparrocks mill is.
Your granther used to know old Cack, boys. He was a drefful drinkin old crittur, that lived there all alone in the woods by himself a-tendin saw and grist mill. He wasnt allers jest what he was then. Time was that Cack was a pretty considably likely young man, and his wife was a very respectable woman,Deacon Amos Petengalls dater from Sherburn.
But ye see, the year arter his wife died, Cack he gin up goin to meetin Sundays, and, all the tithing-men and selectmen could do, they couldnt get him out to meetin; and, when a man neglects means o grace and sanctuary privileges, there aint no sayin what hell do next. Why, boys, jist think ont!an immortal crittur lyin round loose all day Sunday, and not puttin on so much as a clean shirt, when all spectable folks has on their best close, and is to meetin worshippin the Lord! What can you spect to come of it, when he lies idlin round in his old week-day close, fishing, or some sich, but what the Devil should be arter him at last, as he was arter old Cack?
Here Sam winked impressively to my grandfather in the opposite corner, to call his attention to the moral which he was interweaving with his narrative.
Wal, ye see, Capn Eb he told me, that when he come to them bars and looked up, and saw the dark a-comin down, and the storm a-thickenin up, he felt that things was gettin pretty considable serious. There was a dark piece o woods on ahead of him inside the bars; and he knew, come to get in there, the light would give out clean. So he jest thought hed take the hoss out o the team, and go ahead a little, and see where he was. So he driv his oxen up agin the fence, and took out the hoss, and got on him, and pushed along through the woods, not rightly knowin where he was goin.
Wal, afore long he see a light through the trees; and, sure enough, he come out to Cack Sparrocks old mill.
It was a pretty considable gloomy sort of a place, that are old mill was. There was a great fall of water that come rushin down the rocks, and fell in a deep pool; and it sounded sort o wild and lonesome: but Capn Eb he knocked on the door with his whip-handle, and got in.
There, to be sure, sot old Cack beside a great blazin fire, with his rum-jug at his elbow. He was a drefful fellow to drink, Cack was! For all that, there was some good in him, for he was pleasant-spoken and bliging; and he made the capn welcome.
Ye see, Cack, said Capn Eb, I m off my road, and got snowed up down by your bars, says he.
Want ter know! says Cack. Calculate youll jest have to camp down here till mornin, says he.
Wal, so old Cack he got out his tin lantern, and went with Capn Eb back to the bars to help him fetch along his critturs. He told him he could put em under the mill-shed. So they got the critturs up to the shed, and got the cart under; and by that time the storm was awful.
But Cack he made a great roarin fire, cause, ye see, Cack allers had slab-wood a plenty from his mill; and a roarin fire is jest so much company. It sort o keeps a fellows spirits up, a good fire does. So Cack he sot on his old teakettle, and made a swingeing lot o toddy; and he and Capn Eb were havin a tolable comfortable time there. Cack was a pretty good hand to tell stories; and Capn Eb warnt no way backward in that line, and kep up his end pretty well: and pretty soon they was a-roarin and haw-hawin inside about as loud as the storm outside; when all of a sudden, bout midnight, there come a loud rap on the door.
Lordy massy! whats that? says Cack. Folks is rather startled allers to be checked up sudden when they are a-carryin on and laughin; and it was such an awful blowy night, it was a little scary to have a rap on the door.
Wal, they waited a minit, and didnt hear nothin but the wind a-screechin round the chimbley; and old Cack was jest goin on with his story, when the rap come agin, hardern ever, as if itd shook the door open.
Wal, says old Cack, if tis the Devil, wed jest as goods open, and have it out with him to onst, says he; and so he got up and opened the door, and, sure enough, there was old Ketury there. Expect youve heard your grandma tell about old Ketury. She used to come to meetins sometimes, and her husband was one o the prayin Indians; but Ketury was one of the rael wild sort, and you couldnt no more convert her than you could convert a wild-cat or a painter [panther]. Lordy massy! Ketury used to come to meetin, and sit there on them Indian benches; and when the second bell was a-tollin, and when Parson Lothrop and his wife was comin up the broad aisle, and everybody in the house ris up and stood, Ketury would sit there, and look at em out o the corner o her eyes; and folks used to say she rattled them necklaces o rattlesnakes tails and wild-cat teeth, and sich like heathen trumpery, and looked for all the world as if the spirit of the old Sarpent himself was in her. Ive seen her sit and look at Lady Lothrop out o the corner o her eyes; and her old brown baggy neck would kind o twist and work; and her eyes they looked so, that twas enough to scare a body. For all the world, she looked jest as if she was a-workin up to spring at her. Lady Lothrop was jest as kind to Ketury as she always was to every poor crittur. Shed bow and smile as gracious to her when meetin was over, and she come down the aisle, passin oot o, meetin; but Ketury never took no notice. Ye see, Keturys father was one o them great powwows down to Marthas Vineyard; and people used to say she was set apart, when she was a child, to the sarvice o the Devil: any way, she never could be made nothin of in a Christian way. She come down to Parson Lothrops study once or twice to be catechised; but he couldnt get a word out o her, and she kind o seemed to sit scornful while he was a-talkin. Folks said, if it was in old times, Ketury wouldnt have been allowed to go on so; but Parson Lothrops so sort o mild, he let her take pretty much her own way. Everybody thought that Ketury was a witch: at least, she knew considable moren she ought to know, and so they was kind o fraid on her. Capn Eb says he never see a fellow seem scareder than Cack did when he see Ketury a-standin there.