Urbana Union

Our Story-Teller.

THE ADVENTURES OF MY AUNT.

[From Irving's Tales of a Traveler.]

My aunt was a lady of large frame, strong mind and great resolution: she was what might be termed a manly woman. My uncle was a thin, puny little man, ever 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 the town to prescribe for him, made him take all their prescriptions, and dosed him with physic enough to cure a whole hospital. All was in vain. My uncle grew worse and worse notwithstanding all the dosing and nursing he underwent, until in the end he added another to the long list of matrimonial victims who had been killed with kindness.

And was it his ghost that appeared to her? asked the inquisitive gentleman who had questioned the former story teller.

You shall hear, replied the narrator.

My aunt took on mightily for the death of her dear husband. Perhaps she felt some compunction at having given him so much physic, and nursed him into the grave. At any rate, she did all that a widow could do in honor of his memory. She spared no expense in either the quantity or quality of her mourning weeds; wore a miniature of him about her neck, as large as a little sun-dial, and 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.

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 grey Derbyshire hills, with a murderer hanging in chains on a bleak height in full view. 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 picked up in the course of the day. They were afraid to venture alone about the gloomy black looking chambers.

My lady's maid, who was troubled with nerves, declared she could never sleep alone in such a ghastly rummaging old building; and the footman, who was a kind-hearted young fellow, did all in his power to cheer her up.

My aunt was struck with the lonely appearance of the house. Before going to bed, therefore, she examined well the fastenings of the doors and windows; locked up the places with her own hand, and carried the keys, together with a little box of money and jewels, to her room; for she was a noble woman and always saw to such 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 somewhat 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 whether they had been in good looks; for a roistering country squire of the neighborhood with whom she had flirted when a girl, had called there to welcome her to the country.

All of a sudden she thought she heard something move behind her. She looked hastily around but there was nothing to be seen. Nothing but the grimly-painted portrait of her poor dear man hanging against the wall.

She gave a hearty sigh to his memory, as she was accustomed to do whenever she spoke of him in company, and then went on adjusting her night dress, and thinking of the squire. Her sigh was re-echoed, or answered by a long drawn breath. She looked around again, but no one was to be seen. She ascribed these sounds to the wind oozing through the rat holes in the old mansion, and proceeded leisurely to put her head in papers, when all at once, she thought she perceived one of the eyes of the portrait move.

Her back was towards the portrait, but her eyes were fixed on its reflection in the glass. Well, as I was saying, she perceived one of the eyes move. So strange a circumstance, as you may well suppose, gave her a sudden shock. To assure herself of this fact she put one hand on her forehead as if rubbing it, peeped through her fingers, and moved the candle with the other hand. The light of the taper glared 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.

The chill was but transient. My aunt was almost as resolute a personage as your uncle, sir, (turning to the old story teller,) and became instantly calm and collected. She went on adjusting her dress. She even hummed an air, and did not even make a single false note. She casually overturned a dressing box; took a candle and picked up the articles 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.

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

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 who dreaded to stay alone in the servant's hall, brought up the rear, smelling a bottle of volatile salts, and expressing her terror of the ghostesses. "Ghost!" said my aunt resolutely; "I'll singe their whiskers for them."

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

"Pull down that picture!" cried my aunt. A heavy groan, and a sound like the chattering of teeth issued from the portrait. The servants shrunk back, the maid uttered a faint shriek and clung to the footman for support.

"Instantly!" added my aunt, with a stamping of the foot.

The picture was pulled down, and from a recess behind it, in which formerly had 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.

Well, and who was he?

A Knight of the Post, who had been smitten with the worth of the wealthy widow; rather a marauding Tarquin, who had stolen into her chamber to violate her purse, and rifle her strong box, when all the house would be asleep. In plain terms, 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 this hiding place for nefarious purposes, and had borrowed an eye from the portrait by way of a reconnoitering hole.

My aunt was a woman of spirit, and apt to take the law in her own hands. She ordered the fellow to be drawn through the horse pond, to cleanse away all offenses, and then to be well rubbed down with an oaken towel.

What became of him afterwards?

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