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PAPERS FROM OVERLOOK-HOUSE.
By Caspar Almore
PHILADELPHIA
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.
1866.
Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Eastern District
of Pennsylvania.
CONTENTS.
INTRODUCTORY LETTER 5
CHAPTER I. ARRIVAL AT THE VILLAGE 13
CHAPTER II. THE WELCOME AT OVERLOOK-HOUSE 18
CHAPTER III. THE CHRISTMAS LOG IN THE KITCHEN 33
CHAPTER IV. HOW THE OVERLOOK PAPERS CAME TO BE WRITTEN 47
I. DR. BENSON; OR THE LIVING MAN EMBALMED FOR TWENTY YEARS 51
II. THE GHOST AT FORD INN--NESHAMONY 75
III. MY FIRST ATTEMPT AT BIOGRAPHY;--OR, LITERATURE FOR A
FAIR WIDOW 91
IV. KATYDIDS:--A NEW CHAPTER IN NATURAL HISTORY 127
V. THE IMAGE-MAKER 139
VI. THE CLOUDS 142
VII. THE PROTECTOR DYING 145
VIII. THE INDIAN DREAM-CELL 149
IX. WILD FLOWERS GATHERED FOR MY WIFE 178
X. RIVERSDALE 181
XI. DR. SAMUEL STANHOPE SMITH AND THE HAUNTED HOUSE 198
XII. MRS. DIGBY'S ECONOMY 224
XIII. TO MY WIFE 236
XIV. FADING AWAY 237
INTRODUCTORY LETTER.
OVERLOOK HOUSE, _October 10, 1864_.
MY DEAR FRIEND:--At last, as if borne to you by some scape-grace of a
messenger, these papers, copied from the time-discoloured manuscripts,
so carefully preserved in the old book-case, which with its dark lustre,
its bright brass ornaments, is still the prominent object in our
library, are destined to reach the hands into which they should long ago
have been placed.
I well remember the evening on which you first heard of them, and
listened to my attempt to read them to you; perplexed as I was with the
faded lines, traced by fingers which can write no more.
You will not forget our drives, previously, during the day, and late in
the afternoon, in consequence of my week-day service in the old church.
Perhaps the ancient edifice would need the excuse of days of
architectural ignorance, but no Cathedral on earth can surpass it, in
its claim to occupy a place amid scenes of surpassing beauty and
sublimity. There it stands alone, on the slope of an immense hill, with
the whole range of the mountains from the water-gap to the wind-gap full
in view--glorious walls to sustain the great blue dome of heaven! The
great solitude of the road that winds along the grave-yard, has often
caused me to think of distant friends, and has riveted them to my soul
with still more indissoluble bonds. And the Great Friend has been the
great relief from oppressive loneliness, as I thus stood in one of the
beautiful gates of the Eternal Temple. As to that quiet grave-yard
itself, the "rhetoric of the dead" is there well spoken, and they whose
ashes are here deposited, do not find "second graves" in our short
memories.
You will tell me that all connected with my church is not always solemn.
Your perverse memory will never forget the leader of the choir; nay, the
useful man who was often choir itself. He sang at least with energy.
Unfortunately--oh well do I remember my fearful victory over my
features, when I first became cognizant of the fact; a victory at a time
when a smile had endangered my claims to due ministerial sobriety;
unfortunately he had the habit of marking time emphatically, by raising
himself on his toes, and simultaneously elevating his hand, his chin,
his eyes, and his hair. Yet that was but a slight trial to us both. The
man was better than either of us; and the first impression having
subsided, we found that he did well in calling forth the voices of the
congregation. You will recollect our return home, as we refused all
offers of hospitality, although the snow was falling, and we were warned
not to risk the drifts, promised by the rising wind. We would not be
detained, as we had set our hearts on passing the evening together in
the old mansion of my fathers. On we drove, the sound of the bells
sweeping in wild merriment over the great fields of snow, or rising to a
louder chime as we passed through the forest, under a thousand triumphal
arches, of boughs laden with white honors. Only once, and where the road
was in a ravine, was I afraid that you would be exposed some hours to
the storm, until we should hear the voices of hunters, and the bay of
their dogs, sent to seek us, after our custom, when any one is lost in
the snow. Happily we extricated ourselves, and soon saw the lights
gleaming from the windows of the house upon the hill.
How pleasant the welcome of our good old Caesar, the man of dark hue, who
had no desire to be the first man in the village, nor the second man at
Rome; but was all eagerness to have a place, however lowly, in the
Eternal City! Another glad welcome in the hall; a net-work of questions
from little threads of voices, and the seats before the great wood-fire,
one of the few remaining representatives of the profuse customs of the
fathers; one witness that our forests are not yet all swept away. Did we
not give ample tributes to the repast prepared by Caesar's wife! Two
hungry men rescued from snow waves, we proved that one could feast on
Dinah's poetry of food, and yet, in the ensuing night, behold no
magnificent bandit, with a beard that would have done credit to a Roman
Centurion, and a dagger that honored the sense of sublime danger, by the
assurance that if it was to give us our death-blow, it was no coarse
weapon; the grand villain peering over you with an eye in which the evil
fires take refuge when conscience is in ashes. You know that in that
coming night, you did not even see the "fair ladie," now your wife,
borne away from you, in a mysterious coach, by some ruffians clad in
splendid mantles, while you were palsied, and could not move to seize
the sword, or gun, or could not call for aid. How pleasant was that
evening! From your weed rose the cloud that no counterblast, royal or
plebeian, has ever yet been able to sweep away from the lips of men.
Knitting by her little stand, sat one, whom to name is to tell, in a
word, the great history of my best earthly happiness. I am sure her
sweet thoughts, when spoken, were as the fragrance of flowers over our
homelier fields; while her gentle sympathy added to our strength, and
her instinctive and pure impressions, aided our conceptions, as gentle
guides, and taught us how wisdom was linked to minds swayed by goodness.
What a bond has she been of our long-enduring friendship! We talked of
the old times--of the ancient famed hospitality of the house. We spoke
of those who came there at Christmas--when the hymn of Milton seemed to
be read in a grand audience chamber--at the Spring when the world seemed
again so young--at Autumn where the mountains and hills were all a glow,
as if angels had kindled them with a fire, burning, but not consuming
them, turning them into great altars, by which man could stand, and
offer his adoration. Then we spoke of the papers that had been read
among the assembled guests. I told you their history; a history further
recorded in the fourth chapter; the last of the four chapters
preliminary. These were written by my grandfather. As your curiosity was
awakened, I drew forth some of these, from the old book-case in the
library, and read them as I could. You insisted that I should decipher
them, and let you send them to the press; send them to some one of your
honorable publishers, so that many eyes could read, what few eyes have
rested on, in this distant solitude. Julia seconded the proposition.
What had I to do, but to obey! Some years have passed, and you have
often complained of my procrastination. Shall I make excuses? Excuses
are the shadows which the irresolute and idle, the evil, keep ever near,
as their refuge from just accusation. The moment you feel the least loss
of self-respect in seeking them, the moment you have to search to find
them, take heed of them. Those formed to be giants, often live in them,
and then life is consequently the life of the dwarf. I knew that I could
have sent the papers long ago, had I written two or three lines each
day, since I gave my promise. Julia, who, woman-like, always convicts me
when I excuse myself, and consoles me, and defends me, when I am in the
ashes, and contrite with self-upbraiding, who is never severe with me,
but when I spoil the children by keeping them up too late at night,
says, that I never allow a literary effort to encroach on my great
duties; that I have had so much to do, that I could not sooner perform
my promise. She laughs, and says that the dates I annex to my papers,
during my progress in this work, show how I was interrupted, and that if
the histories of intermediate parochial work were given, the book would
be a strange record. Often the sick and suffering have caused long
intervals to elapse in these labors. When I could attempt the work, the
change in the current of my associations has been a relief. Julia has
wished me to write histories of the lives of some of those, who composed
various papers in the old case. Of course, some of the authors have been
passing utterly from the minds of a race, that cannot remember, but the
least remnant of those who have gone before. We lament the ravages of
time. Multitudes are forgotten on the earth, whom it would be a blessing
to have in perpetual remembrance. Alas! we have also to confess, that
time conceals the story of innumerable others, when it is well that it
should be buried in its deepest oblivion.
I hope that I have copied these papers with commendable accuracy. We
trust that they will add to the happiness of those who read them, and
prove at the same time to be profitable. May they increase kind
impressions! May they sow seeds that shall have the sun and dew that
never falls on growth that is evil! Man has tablets in the heart, for
inscriptions greater, and more enduring, than those of the great ledges
of rock in the far East.
As one would hesitate to write the outlines of his coming destiny, if
such a pen of Providence could be ready for his hand, so he, who has any
love for others, would pause before he would carve, even in faintest
letters, one word on these, which could sully the surface, where the
indestructibility warns us, that all is an eternal record with Him,
whose eye is too pure to look upon iniquity. I need not attempt, like
authors of a former age, to solicit a favorable criticism, from the
"gentle reader." If I say, here, that the hall has rung with peals of
laughter, as some of the papers of the old book-case have been read,
that some have shed tears over the Ghost of Ford Inn, and said, it is
too sad, these assurances will not predispose one who shall open the
proposed volume, to utter a favorable opinion. These waifs must be cast
on the waters, like all other similar ventures. We must wait, and learn
where Providence shall waft them.
Will these papers outlive this decaying house? Will men love us because
we have sent them forth? Will we, because of them, be grasped with a
kindlier hand? Will they soften hearts in this trying world, and aid men
to a greater charity?
But I must pause. Lamps will grow dim. Warnings will come, that letters
may attain to too great prolixity. Readers are often not sufficiently
sagacious, to know that when Homer nods, he has a design. Can I apply,
what old Dr. South, the great and witty preacher said, when he printed
the sermon at the Royal mandate, that the Majesty of the Realm must
excuse the length of the discourse, inasmuch as he had not had time to
make it shorter? Or, shall I remember the severe speech, doubtless a
dutiful necessity, a knife to remove such a miserable vanity as often
makes men worse than useless; the severe speech of an Eastern Divine,
who, when the young preacher waited all day in vain for a compliment, to
his morning's discourse, and said, in desperation, as the evening waned
in the study, "Doctor, I hope that I did not weary your people with the
length of my discourse," had for reply the quiet answer, "No, sir; nor
by the depth of it."
So, as you have the infirmity of going to sleep over the most
interesting discourse, as the lamp is going out, as I am nervous,
sitting up at such a late hour, as the paper is all written over, and I
have none other near at hand, I release you. Go to sleep, but wake the
world to-morrow, and then say that I am your friend.
A friend of many years,
CASPAR ALMORE.
OVERLOOK.
CHAPTER I.
_ARRIVAL AT THE VILLAGE._
I stepped from the stage-sleigh, in the village of Overlook, at the
post-office: for there the driver stopped to leave his mail-bag. That
important article, which, as a boy, I used to regard with undefined
dread, for I associated it with a poor wretch, who was hung for laying
villanous hands upon one, in a desolate road, was the old-fashioned
leather sack, full of iron rivets.
Perhaps at the time when this writing may reach the press, such a
contrivance may have become antiquated; and therefore I had better add
to my description, that a weighty chain passed through iron rings, to
secure the opening; and finally, there was the brass padlock, at which
the Indian gazed with such contempt, when he said, "Brass lock upon
leather! that makes my knife laugh." I stepped from the heavy
stage-sleigh into the one sent for me by Judge Almore, and it was like
passing from a heavy craft on the waters, into one of lesser make, and
lighter burden. John Frake, the farmer at Overlook Manor, had driven
over for me. His horses seemed exhilarated by the bells, and we dashed
forward in splendid style. John Frake was a character; a real man in
energy, work, and talk; frank, and good-hearted.
As we drove along, in a loud voice, that permitted not a word to be lost
by the melody of the bells, he made his comments upon all things, and
especially on the inhabitants along the streets of the village.
"Dr. Norkin lives there," he said, pointing with his whip to a
comfortable house. And then as if pondering the beginning of a long
train of thought, he added,
"Those Yankees are unaccountable smart people."
"The doctor is a Yankee, then?"
"Oh no! there aint enough Yankee in him to make a spot on the map of
Massachusetts. Not but that the doctor has lots of common sense, and
keeps all that he has got ready for use, when wanted, as ready as my
plough to go through the ground. But those Yankees have the most
uncommon ways of putting things together; just as if you took something
out of the middle of the earth, and made it fit something on the top of
a mountain."
"Yes, but I don't see what Yankees have to do with the doctor."
"I'll tell you what I was thinking about. I was once at the mountains,
forty miles off, where there is a mineral spring. There is where ladies
and gentlemen go to drink water, eat all manner of things at the tavern,
and get well, when they never have been sick. Iron in the water at the
springs! Bless you; it would not divide the nails in a horse-shoe in a
month, to the whole army of the Revolution, if they had drunk of nothing
else. Well our judge and the family followed the fashion. Fashion is a
runaway horse that carries a great load of straw behind him, and
sometimes he has after him things much better than straw. I drove up to
bring them home. But the judge was taken sick just before I got there,
and sent for our doctor here, to come up and cure him. In the night,
after I got there, one of your uncommon Yankees, who seemed to be well
off, and to do fifty things, from what I could gather, to make money,
had a bad attack; unlike anything I ever heard of around here. He was
awful bad. I heard the racket, and went into his room.
"'My friend,' says I, 'you do look awful bad'--for I always speak my
honest sentiments, in a sick-room, or out of it. 'I thank you for your
sympathy,' says he--and yet somehow it sounded as if he didn't. I
presumed he didn't want any one to talk to him. 'Send down for Dr.
Norkin,' says the landlord. 'He is here;' this is what he said to the
sick man. 'He lives forty miles off--at Overlook. But he is here,
attending on Judge Almore--who has been ill.'
"The sick man, after a groan or two, raised himself up in his bed. It
was as good as the best apple, to see how quickly he seemed to ungear
his mind from his sick body. He gave a long thought. Then he said,
"'Did the judge send for that doctor, because he was in the house at the
time when he was taken sick? Or did he send all the way to Overlook for
him to come here to him?'
"'He sent for him to Overlook,' says the landlord, before I could put in
a word.
"'Then I'll see him,' says he--speaking quickly out, and firm like, as
if he was a king. Now wasn't that cute? I tell you such men think
faster, and a great way before other people. Well; it's a free country,
and all people aint bound to do their thinking alike."
We now came to the entrance of the lane, that led up to Overlook House.
Two large cherry trees stood on either side of the gate. I drew the
attention of my companion to them. They were very venerable, and their
winter boughs showed some signs of decay.
"Them big trees,"--said he. "Either of them, I'll engage is as old as
three average men. They say a man averages thirty years of life. Now
they are full ninety years old, and big at that."
"You have lived long with the judge?"
"Bless your heart, sir, long indeed. But he's a good man. There's few
that don't say so--well, thank God, it is those kind of people that
don't. When he speaks and acts, you feel that our Lord has taught him
his religion--just as we know it is Sunday, when we wake and hear the
church-bells ringing, and all the sun-light seems full of the sweet
sound, and all the sound as if it had gone through the bright sun. I do
love Sunday."
Here we were close to the house. "Come and see me," he said, "down at my
house there. It is not as big as the judge's, but then there is room in
it for a hearty welcome. I will give you a glass of good cider, or two,
or three, for that matter. As for wine, I never keep any. It seems to me
to be poor stuff, as if it was trying to be brandy, and couldn't." The
mission of the sleigh was now over. I and my trunks were at the porch of
the house. So the worthy farmer and I parted for the present.