Imagine to yourself, reader, a fire-place large enough to roast an ox whole,
and within which a common wagon load of wood might be absorbed in such
a speedy manner as to horrify one of our city economical house wives—though
now, it was late in summer and of course no such pile of combustibles enlivened
the scene—besides, it was night, and the culinary operations of the day
were over. A few blazing fagots of rich pine, however, still threw a lurid
glare over the murky atmosphere, and here and there sat the several domestics
of the establishment; some nodding until they almost tumbled into the
fire, but speedily regaining the perpendicular without ever opening their eyes,
or giving any evidence of discomposure, except a loud snort, perhaps, and
then dosing away again as comfortably as ever. Others were conversing
without exhibiting any symptoms of weariness or drowsiness.

In one corner of the fire-place sat old Sylvia, a Moor, who had accompanied
the father of the Governor (a British naval officer) all the way from
Africa, the birth place of his Excellency. She had straight hair, which was
now white as the driven snow, and hung in long matted locks about her
shoulders, not unlike a bunch of candles. She was by the negroes called
outlandish, and talked a sort of jargon entirely different from the broken

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of that race. She was a general scape-goat for the whole plantation, and held
in especial dread by the Ethiopian tribe. She was not asleep, nor dozing,
but sat rocking her body back and forth, without moving the stool, and humming
a most mournful and monotonous ditty, all the while throwing her large
stealthy eyes around the room. In the opposite corner sat a regular hangeron
of the establishment, and one of those who kept a greedy eye always
directed towards the fleshpots, whenever he kept them open at all. His name
was June, and he wore an old cast-off coat of the Governor's, the waist buttons
of which just touched his hips, while the skirts hung down to the ground
in straight lines, or rather in the rear of the perpendicular, as if afraid of the
constant kicking which his heels kept up against them when walking His
legs were bandied, and set so much in the middle of the foot, as to render it
rather a difficult matter to tell which end went foremost. His face was of
the true African stamp: large mouth, flat nose, and a brow, overhung with
long, plaited queus, like so many whip cords, cut off short and even all round,
and now quite grey. The expression of his countenance was full of mirthfulness
and good humor, mixed with just enough of shrewdness to redeem it
from utter vacuity. There was a slight degree of cunning twinkled from his
small terrapin-looking eye, but wholly swallowed up, by his large mouth, kept
constantly on the stretch. He had the run of the kitchen; and, for these
perquisites, was expected and required to perform no other labor than running
and riding errands to and from the capital; and it is because he will sometimes
be thus employed, that we have been so particular in describing him,
and because he was the banjo player to all the small fry at Temple Farm.
He had his instrument across his lap, on the evening in question, his hands
in the very attitude of playing, his eyes closed, and every now and then, as
he rose up from a profound inclination to old Somnus, twang, twang, went
the strings, accompanied by some negro doggrel, just lazily let slip through
his lips in half utterance, such as the following:

“Massa is a wealthy man, and all de nebor's know it,
“Keeps good liquors in his house, and always says, here goes it.”

The last words were lost in another declination of the head, until cat-gut
and voice became merged in a grunt or snort, when he would start up, perhaps
strain his eyes wide open, and go on again:

“Sister Sally's mighty sick, oh what de debil ails her.
“She used to eat good beef and beans, but now her stomach fails her.”

The last words spun out again into a drawl to accompany a monotonous
symphony, until all were lost together, by his head being brought in wonderful
propinquity to his heels in the ashes.

While old June thus kept up a running accompaniment to Sylvia's Moorish
monotony, on the opposite side of the fire; the front of the circle was
occupied by more important characters.

Old Essex, the major domo of the establishment, sat there in all the panoply
of state. He was a tall, dignified old negro, with his hair queued up
behind and powdered all over, and not a little of it sprinkled upon the red
collar of his otherwise scrupulously clean livery. He wore small clothes
and knee-buckles, and was altogether a fine specimen of the gentlemanly
old family servant. He felt himself just as much a part and parcel of the
Governor's family, as if he had been related to it by blood. The manners of
Essex were very far above his mental culture; this, no one could perceive by
a slight and superficial observation, because he had acquired a most admirable
tact (like some of his betters,) by which he never travelled beyond his
depth; added to this, whatever he did say, was in the most appropriate manner,
narrowly discerning nice shades of character, and suiting his replies to
every one who addressed him. For instance, were a gentleman to alight at

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the Hall door, and meet old Essex, he would instantly receive the attentions
due to a gentleman; whereas, were a gentlemanly dressed man to come, who
feared that his whole importance might not be impressed upon this important
functionary, Essex would instantly elevate his dignity in exact proportion to
the fussiness of his visitor. Alas! the days of Essex's class are fast fading
away. Many of them survived the Revolution, but the Mississippi fever has
nearly made them extinct.

On the present occasion, though presumed to be not upon his dignity, the
old Major sat with folded arms and a benignant, but yet contemptuous smile
playing upon his features, illumined as they were by the lurid fire light, while
Martin, the carpenter, told one of the most marvelous and wonder-stirring
stories of the headless corpse, ever heard within those walls, teeming, as they
were, with the marvelous. Essex had often heard stories first told over the
gentlemens' wine, and then the kitchen version, and of course knew how to
estimate them exactly: now that before mentioned incredulous smile began
to spread until he was forced to laugh outright as Martin capped the climax
of his tale of horror, by some supernatural appearance of blue flames over the
grave. Not so the other domestics, male and female, clustering around his
chair; they were worked up to the highest pitch of the marvelous. Even old
June ceased to twang his banjo, and at length got his eyes wide open, as the
carpenter came to the sage conclusion, that the place would be haunted.

It was really wonderful, with what rapidity this same point was arrived at
by every negro upon the plantation, numbering more than a hundred; and
these having wives and connexions on neighboring plantations, the news that
Temple Farm was haunted, became a settled matter for ten miles round, in
less than a week, and so it has remained from that day to this.

On the occasion alluded to, the story-teller for the night had worked his
audience up to such a pitch of terror, that not one individual dared stir for
his life, every one seeming to apprehend an instant apparition. This effect
on their terrified imaginations, was not a little heightened by the storm raging
without. The distant thunder had been some time reverberating from the
shores of the bay, mingling with the angry roar of the waves as they splashed
and foamed against the beach, breaking and then retreating for a fresh onset.

It was yet quite early in the evening, and all the white family had gone to
the house of one of the neighboring gentry to spend the evening. No one
was apprehending their return for some hours, when a thundering clatter of
horses and wheels were heard on the gravelled road, followed by several loud
peals upon the knocker of the hall door. A lurid glare of lightning at the
same instant flashed athwart the sky, tinging every living and inanimate
thing, to the farthest corner of the room, with a bluish silver white, and revealing
the mansion-house, on the opposite side of the yard, through the window,
in magnified proportions like some giant castle looming up for an instant in
goblin outlines, and then vanishing amidst a most astounding and overwhelming
crash. During this terrible uproar of the elements, and a deluging torrent
of rain, the same incessant rattle of the knocker was kept up on the hall
door. No one dared to answer it except old Essex, who sat pinioned to
the floor by the poor affrighted creatures clinging to his legs, and arms,
and neck; his lips moving all the while in threatening pantomine, vainly
endeavoring to be heard amidst the screams around him, and the continuous
roar overhead. At every pause in the furious storm, rap—rap—
rap went the knocker, a signal for the closer gathering of the terrified
domestics. At length the storm took breath, allowing a small interval of
repose, which old Essex taking advantage of, threw the crowd from him,
in despair of getting his subordinate to answer the summons, and rushed
across the court and into the back door of the mansion-house himself, and
speedily let go the fastenings of the hall door. Stern, and schooled as he

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was in the outward show of calmness, borrowed from his betters, the old
Major's knees knocked a little as he threw open the hall door and let the light
of the lamp fall over the portico and gravelled road.

There stood at the threshold of the door, three persons, two males and a
female dressed in black, with black silk masks over their faces. The lady
was leaning upon the arm of him who appeared the younger of her two
companions, while a carriage and four horses stood opposite the door. The
elder of the visitors requested leave to enter for a moment's shelter from the
furious peltings of the storm. Essex knew the hospitable habits of the place
too well to have paused thus long, had he not been confounded by the studious
appearance of mystery in his visitors, and apprehension for the safety of
his master's goods and chattels; but these impressions lasted only for a moment,
when the old fellow again resumed his courtly air and bowed them into the hall
with inimitable grace. His unerring tact had already discovered that these, if
robbers at all, were not of the common sort, and were of no ordinary address.
One attitude, a wave of the hand, the general air, was enough for the practised
eye of the major domo, to discover that they were no ruffians; besides,
there was a shrinking, a clinging dependence about the lady, which at once
interested him. If he was surprised at this singular visit, thus far, how much
more so, when he saw them, after entering the hall, walk straight up to the
picture of a soldier in armor, hanging against the wall. It was the wellknown
portrait of Gen. Elliot, half brother to the Governor, and one of the
most renowned soldiers, as well as unfortunate men of his day.[5] Before
this picture, the mysterious three stood, the two males conversing in a suppressed
voice, while the young lady sobbed audibly and most painfully, and,
finally became so much affected that a chair had to be brought her, which, she
turned towards the picture, gazing upon it and weeping by turns. Old
Essex handed her a glass of wine and water, which she declined. They
presently moved opposite to the full length picture of the Governor, in his
court dress, and examined it stadionsly and with some interest, but not of the
painful sort with which they had looked at the other. The lady soon returned
to her former position, and there she clung, until removed almost by force; one
gentleman taking her under each arm.

As they left the hall, the elder of the two threw a sealed packet upon the
table, stopping to turn up the direction, and place it in so conspicuous a place
as to be sure to attract attention. The steps were put up, the door shut and
offering Essex a piece of coin, the whip cracked and the coach and four moved
away as it had come, leaving the old Major in sad perplexity, whether the
whole occurrences of the night had not been a part of the goblin stories of Old
Martin, among the frightened domestics. The sight of the package, was a
sure guarantee that it was no such dream of the imagination, and he turned it
over and examined it most carefully, seal and surperscription. Not being able
to read even the outside, he of course made little progress with its contents, but
he examined the coat of arms upon the seal with the eyes of one not entirely
unaccustomed to such things—coming to the sage conclusion, that the writer
was some body at all events. He did not return to his late affrighted colleagues
in the kitchen, but seated himself to wait the return of the family.

The storm was now clearing away, and there was a prospect that he would
not long be left to chew the cud of sweet and bitter fancies. He was presently
aroused by the sound of horses and carriages, and soon after by the
entrance of the whole party, which had by this time received several accessions.
These with sundry other matters appertaining thereto, will found in
the next chapter.

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