Logansport Pharos-Tribune from Logansport, Indiana • Page 2

TALES. Julian Hawthorne "Writes a Quaint Autobiography. Kxpcrlciices In the Occult Recounted by Moans of Pen and The Shadow on the and Other Mysteries. 1SB1.1 It often happens to people of my profession to be asked to teil a ghost story by if possible, a ghost story of their own experiencing. It has happened tj me, at any rate; and 1 have uniformly failed to make a good showing.

Whether this because my material was worse than the average, I know not; but I incline to think it was more because I handled it badly. 1 am no hand to give wee narratives. My obj.yt is to Teach the point of the story by the shortest route, and so have done it. Exit put the shade over the latap. When I was a boy of twelve or tli'r- I used to sit and watch a folding a pencil, moving to and fro over a sheet of paper.

The place was suita- Txte for ghosts and all who were familiar with it declared it to be haunted. It an ancient Italian villa, or castle, perched on a hill ol the town Apennines, overlooking a wide valley, with a historic river winding througTi it. There was a tower at one end of it. in a political captive had been to- prisoned more than two hundred Defore. An owl now occupies the gloomy chamber in which he used to languish; but after sunset it would flap noiselessly round the battlements of tower, emitting its soft, long-drawn cry.

Bats there were ateo in abundance. And several times, as I lay on tiled roof up aloft, watching the fjreat comet that arched across the horizon of the valley, I have heard 1 my -name called in the air, just over parapet. There was a clean drop of seventy feet to the ground. In the body of the edifice there was a sort of cell, or oratory, massively constructed of stone, with groined ceiling. This was the special abiding place of the ghost.

One. night my sister, having occasion to go there, set the candle on the mantel-piece. As she was stoop- Ing over a chest in the corner she aioticed her shadow glide along the Turning, she saw that the caa- had been placed on the table several yards from its former position. But no one except herself was in that part of the house. An immense place it was, with of forty large rooms.

As there -were only five of us in the family, we had a suite of' five or six apartments. My bedroom was at the end of west wing; five rooms opening into another intervened between that xme and a huge reception hall in the center of the building. Often in the -dark of the night I have waked up and some one pacing to and fro in these rooms, and the rustle of a long skirt sweeping on the bare wooden I used to suppose it was ray another; and it was not until some years later that I discovered that it was my something else. As to that, I can only say that none of had the least fear of ghosts, or "knew that anybody feared them. We lad never been frightened by injudicious means.

However, to go back to that hand. It a white, well-shaped, woman's hand, with long slender fingers, and a turquoise ring on one finger. I must not make a mystery of this. It was the hand oi a fair young American lady years afterwards, leaped or feU from a steamboat in Long Island sound, and so vanished from this But the time I write of, she was a woman -of happy and singular intelligence, and was a graduate of a famous 'western college. Greek, and the Cal- THE GHOSTLY FES' DKCTEK.

cnllts, was as familiar to her as figs and jjrapes were to me. Either her education, or a natural bias of mind, onfffc rendered her rather skeptical in liews; nowadays, she might have been called an agnostic. Nevertheless sbe possessed (though she herself despised and ridiculed it) that still unexplained power or susceptibility that we- have agreed to call mediumistic. She was a "writing medium." It was the era of the Fox Sisters, and of Home. Spiritualism has not lost its novelty.

Science has delivered no verdict, and nobody knows whether to believe or not. But there was an. English lady living' near poetry was read by all England and America, who was a believer, and often discoursed with earnestness on the subject; and one day she said: "If we only had a medium!" Whereupon, this-American £irl-graduate that I speak of, out of the kindness of her heart, but with some reluctance, intimated believec had some little faculty in that -way but that she could not, herself place the least credence in the supernatural origin of the phenomena. To make a long story short-f or who could resist the urging little brown-eyed woman of genius, who was a lyric in medium consented to an experiment; and for a couple of weeko thereafter, while sevea or eight of us sat round the table in the great Italian hall, the pencil in her vntte liiind would driven along tho iaper, now under one unseen impulse, low under another, she regarding it vith a look half apprehensive, half in- redulous; but all of us hugely inter- sted. Our deceased friends and rela- ives announced themselves, one after another, and expressed sentiments of unimpeachable morality and virtuouu what anyone would have expected of such good and re- persons; and the thing was a trifle monotonous, and the medium was writing that more useful ways of employing one's leisure might be found; when uM of a sudden.

Draw up closer, the story begins here. 3er hand which had been moving methodically along under the direction of. spirit of my maternal grandfather, and had just written the words, "we studv causes" was suddenly and vio- seized upon as it were by a new ind turbulent influence almost knocking the pencil out of her fingers and flurrying it onward in a quite original landwriting uncouth and heedless and moreover incorrect in orthography. The medium started and looked a wave of interest ran round the circle, she bent forward and spoke out the words: "I speak with Mr. Hawthorne, I want his sympathy." My father laughed.

He had depre- and made fun of the whole business from the beginning. But with the courtesy of a man of the world, and an ex-consul of the United States, he consented to listen to u. communication which seemed to eonvey such urgency. Who was the vehement petitioner? In the course of the next half hour we had as much of her history as she ever confided to us. Her name was Mary Rondel.

She was born in Boston a hundred years before. She had died THE SHADOW ON THE there, in pain and misery, while still a young woman. Her troubles had their source in a certain member of our own. family with whom she had been ultimately acquainted. She was not hap- ny even yet, and Mr.

Hawthorne's sympathy she must and would have. But how shall I indicate the weird, curious andyet pathetic impression that was produced, not more by the matter than by the manner of her communications? Mary Eondel was bitterly in earnest; she would be heard; she upset the propriety of all our other spiritual friends; it was in vain that they attempted to assure us that she was a bad, improper, untruthful, ill-conditioned creature. In the midst of their pious homilies she would swoop down, snatch the pencil and send it staggering in violent evolutions along the page; her language was anything but ventional; nay, it sometimes became indiscreet, if not scandalous. Occasionally our refined little medium would protest, and remove her hand from the table. But no sooner did she resume, then Mary was at it again.

She would not be denied. She was a temperament, a will, a person. Of all our long procession of communicants, she alone showed an unmistakable and vivid individuality. would have had we met her on the street. She had been waiting in the dark void of the unseen world, for the better part of a century, for" an opportunity to speak and declare herself, and she was not going to let it go unimproved And yet the poor creature knew not what ot only that she admired Mr.

Hawthorne's sympathy. But what good it was to do her, or by what right she demanded it, we were not informed. He assured her that he would not and did not sympathize with her, hoping, thereby, to pacify her and so get rid of her. Now, the sequel was strange: we returned to America too or three years later, and four years after that my father died. Some venerable maiden cousins of ours sent us, some months subsequently, a box of old books and papers that had belonged to our family in the last century.

Among the books was a dilapidated copy of Sir Phillip Sydnpy's "Arcadia," bearing date 1586. On the fly-leaves were the autographs of a number of our ancestors, from the first emigrant down to Daniel Hawthorne, who, history says, commanded a privateer during revolution. And on the broad margin at the bottom of the tenth page was inscribed, in faded brown ink, a woman's name: "Mary Eondel." It is before me as I write, an ill-formed name, but showing character. After some reflection, I remembered the circumstances under which I had seen that name Searching further into the book I eaine upon the love sonnets and stanzas in the latter part of the volume; but several of these had been marked round with a pen; and such glosses written in the margin as "Pray, mistris, read this;" or "Read this as if I myself spake it." Some of these writings were in the chirography of Daniel Hawthorne; others, in another hand. I surmised that the book had once been read, jointly, by two lovers, who had taken this indirect means of intimating their sentiments.

The longer I meditated upon the matter, the more interested I became. At last I wrote letter to those old maiden cousins, and, without saying anything about the spiritual experience in the Italian I inquired whether they were cognizant of any family traditions connected with a person called Mary Here is their reply: "DEAR Cousin A Miss Mary Sondol, of Boston, knew one of your great uncles. Daniel Hawthorne, about J775. flc-t flstorait yo'u, It Is not creditublB to either party. It ended unfortunately had been some talk of a marriage, but their relations were broken off, and I am unable to say what became the young woman.

Your undo afterwards fitted out a privateer," etc. No; I don't pretend to explain it. I (imply give you the facts. Take off the shade from the lamp. That is enough Pc-r one evening.

JULIAN EAWTIIOKXE. ADVIC'c FOR HOUSEWIVES. What to Say Wicn Your Husband Praises Your Cooking. How often you and I have heard gentlemen blandly and magnanimoxtsly remark that a woman looks more beauti- a.nd more desirable when delicately preparing some dainty in the kitchen when thrumming her guitar in the parlor. How shallow those men are, or else how shallow they consider us.

Do we not know that they speak thus straight from the palate, and never from the eye or the heart? Once I had a sister-in-law who loved mince pies, but who detested the making and the baking of them; so she used to say to me, with the most soulful and lamb-like expression in her eyes: "0, you do make the most delicious pies I ever ate. Now, I can't make them good for anything. And, here she would assume a positively envious don't know how pretty you look with your sleeves turned up and your kitchen apron on and your hands fluttering over the flaky crust," and she would sigh until I fancied she was dying of envy. May I be forgiven, for I was very young, but I actually believed her. And the result was that she fairly reveled in mince pies of my making, and was on the high road to dyspepsia, when one day I overheard her telling a friend with little hysterical shrieks of mirth, how she was flattering me, so she would not have to make the pastry.

"Well, that was ten years ago; and I would believe some things then with my eyes wide open that you could not get me to believe now with them shut one of them is that you or I look more desirable gowned in a work apron, with our cheeks burnt scarlet and blisters on our arms, than we do in cool, soft silks, smiling into somebody's eyes, in the parlor. If it be necessary for women to do their own work, I like to see them do it cheerfully and lightheartedly; if they can afford servants, I like to see them keep a steady hand and a calm eye on the work in the kitchen, but I do not wish to hear any man tell his wife that she -looks better in the kitchen than she does in the parlor. That means simply that he appreciates her more as a cook than as a wife. So, dear, if husband ever says that to you, smile at him like an angel and reply: "Yes, sweetheart; and I think you, too, would look more desirable and more manly carrying up coal, in a flannel shirt and blue overalls, than going to the opera in a dress suit a.nd a white eamcMJia." See how he relishes that, Hig-ginson, in West Tlic Western Sctllers' (Itoneu Specific. With every advance of emigration into the far West, a new demand is created for Hostetter's Stomach Bit ters.

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