THE RED MANTLE.[1]
From the German.
Many years before the beginning of the thirty-years’ war, a young artisan of Bremen, travelling to perfect himself in his trade, entered a little market-town, not far distant from the frontiers of the Netherlands, one evening after a long day’s journey. Every corner of the inn was already taken possession of by a caravan of waggoners: and the landlord, who thought, perhaps, he discovered something of the landlouper in his frank, care-defying countenance, advised him, without much circumlocution, to walk on to the next village. Our weary traveller had nothing for it but to take his bundle on his back again, muttering all the while curses on this hard-hearted publican between his teeth.
All of a sudden the host seemed to be seized with a fit of compassion. “Hark ye, my lad,” he cried, “upon second thoughts, I think I can stow ye away for the night. There is room enough in the castle there, it is not inhabited, and I have the key.” In this offer, which Frank (that was our hero’s name) gladly accepted, there was however more of the show than the substance of kindness. The knavish host had suspected the nature of the stranger’s complimentary expressions, and resolved to revenge himself by the agency of a roistering spirit which haunted the castle.
The residence of which he spoke stood upon an abrupt hill, which overhung the town, straight before the door of the inn, from which it was only separated by the road, and a small trouting stream. On account of its pleasant situation, it was still kept in repair and well furnished, and employed by its owner as a hunting-box. He used it, however, only in the daytime. As soon as the stars showed themselves, he marched out with all his attendants, to avoid the tricks played upon them at night by the ghost,—for by day it was quiet enough.
The sun had gone down, and a dark night set in, when Frank reached the door of the old building under the guidance of mine host, who carried a good supper and a bottle of wine in a basket. He had also brought along with him two candlesticks and a pair of wax tapers; for as no one dared to await the approach of twilight in the castle, all such movables had been discarded as useless. By the way, Frank cast more than one anxious glance at these costly preparations, for he remembered the low state of his finances. “The light in the lantern is enough to show me to bed, and I am too sleepy to be long of finding my way thither. By the time I awake, the sun will be up.”
“I will not conceal from you,” replied the host, “that there is a report of the castle’s being haunted. But never fear, you see we are within call if any thing should happen. The household will be astir this whole blessed night; and, after all, I have lived in the place for thirty years, and never seen any thing. I have heard noises to be sure, but they must have come from the cats and mice in the granary. In case of the worst, however, I have brought these lights, for we know that ghosts always shun them.”
It was no lie that he had never seen a ghost in the castle; for he had taken precious care never to set a foot in it after sunset. Even on this occasion, he kept on the safe side of the door, handing the victuals to his guest, describing the way to the state apartments, and galloping down hill to the eminent hazard of his neck. Frank stepped fearlessly into the deserted abode, firmly convinced that the story of the ghost was mere nonsense. He had been advised by a wise man, when he set out on his journey, never to believe more than one-half of what he heard, and experience had taught him to disbelieve the other.
Following the landlord’s directions, he mounted a spiral staircase, and reached a door which he opened with the key. A long sombre gallery, which echoed again to his sounding steps, brought him to a stately hall, out of which he passed by a side-door into a suite of apartments, furnished with the utmost luxury and elegance. He selected for his bedroom the most cheerful, from the windows of which he looked down upon the inn, and could hear every word that was spoken there. He lighted his wax candles, set himself to supper, and ate with the relish and composure of a nobleman of Otaheite. The big-bellied bottle guaranteed him against thirst. As long as his teeth were busied, he never once thought of the ghost. If at some distant noise timidity would cry “there it comes,” courage instantly answered, “nonsense! it’s the cats and rats battling.” But, during the half hour of digestion, terror whispered three anxious suggestions in his ear, for one answer that courage was able to frame.
He took care to shut and bolt the door before fear had completely mastered him, and sat down upon a seat in the bow-window. He opened the lattice, and, in order to dissipate the thick-coming fancies that were creeping over him, he looked to the skies, examined the physiognomy of the moon, and counted how often the stars were snuffed.[2] The street beneath him was deserted, and, notwithstanding mine host’s story of the nightly bustle in his inn, the door was shut, the lights were extinguished, and every thing was quiet as a churchyard. The night-watch blew his horn, and filled the whole air with his sonorous voice as he announced the hour—so directly under the window, that Frank might have held a conversation with him, for company’s sake, if there had been any chance of the dignitary’s venturing to abide a challenge from so suspicious a locality.
It may be a pleasing recreation to philosophize on the pleasures of solitude in a populous city, full of bustle as a bee-hive, to represent her as the loveliest playmate of man, exaggerate all her most winning features, and sigh for her embrace. But in her native home, in some deep wood, or old deserted castle, where desolate walls and vaults awaken horror, and nothing breathes the breath of life save the melancholy owl—she is by no means the most agreeable companion for the timid night-wanderer, especially if he is in momentary expectation of a visit from a ghost. In such a situation, a conversation with the watchman from the window may have more attractions than the perusal of the most pathetic eulogy of solitude. Had Mr Zimmerman chanced to find himself in our hero’s situation, in Castle Rummelsburg, on the Westphalian frontier, he would have gained excellent hints for a much more interesting treatise on Sociality than that which, in all probability, some tiresome assembly set him to write about Solitude.
Midnight is the name of the hour at which the spiritual world awakes to life and activity, when grosser animal nature lies buried in deep slumber. Frank naturally preferred getting over that anxious period in his sleep; so he shut the window, made once more the round of the apartment, peeped into every nook and corner, snuffed the candles that they might give more light, and stretched himself upon the bed, which felt extremely soft to his weary limbs. He could not, however, fall asleep so soon as he wished. A slight palpitation of the heart, which he attributed to a degree of feverishness caused by the extreme heat of the day, kept him awake for a short time, which he employed in uttering a more earnest prayer than he had said for a long time. This exercise had its usual effect; it was followed by a sweet sleep. An hour
- ↑ Sir Walter Scott, in the preface to the volume of his poems containing “The Doom of Devorgoil,” has these words:—“The story of the ghostly Barber is told in many countries; but the best narrative founded on the passage, is the tale called ‘Stumme Liebe,’ among the legends of Musæus.” The episode in that beautiful tale to which Sir Walter refers, is now presented to the English reader—we believe for the first time.
- ↑ The meteors called shooting stars are, in the popular mythology of some districts of Germany, believed to be the snuff of the bright candles of the firmament, thrown away instead of being put into a pair of snuffers.
