My peculiar relation to the writer of the following narratives is such
that I must ask the reader to overlook the absence of explanation as
to how they came into my possession. Withal, my knowledge of him
is so meager that I should rather not undertake to say if he were himself
persuaded of the truth of what he relates; certainly such inquiries
as I have thought it worth while to set about have not in every instance
tended to confirmation of the statements made. Yet his style,
for the most part devoid alike of artifice and art, almost baldly simple
and direct, seems hardly compatible with the disingenuousness of a merely
literary intention; one would call it the manner of one more concerned
for the fruits of research than for the flowers of expression.
In transcribing his notes and fortifying their claim to attention by
giving them something of an orderly arrangement, I have conscientiously
refrained from embellishing them with such small ornaments of diction
as I may have felt myself able to bestow, which would not only have
been impertinent, even if pleasing, but would have given me a somewhat
closer relation to the work than I should care to have and to avow.
- A. B.
PRESENT AT A HANGING
An old man named Daniel Baker, living near Lebanon, Iowa, was suspected
by his neighbors of having murdered a peddler who had obtained permission
to pass the night at his house. This was in 1853, when peddling
was more common in the Western country than it is now, and was attended
with considerable danger. The peddler with his pack traversed
the country by all manner of lonely roads, and was compelled to rely
upon the country people for hospitality. This brought him into
relation with queer characters, some of whom were not altogether scrupulous
in their methods of making a living, murder being an acceptable means
to that end. It occasionally occurred that a peddler with diminished
pack and swollen purse would be traced to the lonely dwelling of some
rough character and never could be traced beyond. This was so
in the case of “old man Baker,” as he was always called.
(Such names are given in the western “settlements” only
to elderly persons who are not esteemed; to the general disrepute of
social unworth is affixed the special reproach of age.) A peddler
came to his house and none went away - that is all that anybody knew.
Seven years later the Rev. Mr. Cummings, a Baptist minister well known
in that part of the country, was driving by Baker’s farm one night.
It was not very dark: there was a bit of moon somewhere above the light
veil of mist that lay along the earth. Mr. Cummings, who was at
all times a cheerful person, was whistling a tune, which he would occasionally
interrupt to speak a word of friendly encouragement to his horse.
As he came to a little bridge across a dry ravine he saw the figure
of a man standing upon it, clearly outlined against the gray background
of a misty forest. The man had something strapped on his back
and carried a heavy stick - obviously an itinerant peddler. His
attitude had in it a suggestion of abstraction, like that of a sleepwalker.
Mr. Cummings reined in his horse when he arrived in front of him, gave
him a pleasant salutation and invited him to a seat in the vehicle -
“if you are going my way,” he added. The man raised
his head, looked him full in the face, but neither answered nor made
any further movement. The minister, with good-natured persistence,
repeated his invitation. At this the man threw his right hand
forward from his side and pointed downward as he stood on the extreme
edge of the bridge. Mr. Cummings looked past him, over into the
ravine, saw nothing unusual and withdrew his eyes to address the man
again. He had disappeared. The horse, which all this time
had been uncommonly restless, gave at the same moment a snort of terror
and started to run away. Before he had regained control of the
animal the minister was at the crest of the hill a hundred yards along.
He looked back and saw the figure again, at the same place and in the
same attitude as when he had first observed it. Then for the first
time he was conscious of a sense of the supernatural and drove home
as rapidly as his willing horse would go.
On arriving at home he related his adventure to his family, and early
the next morning, accompanied by two neighbors, John White Corwell and
Abner Raiser, returned to the spot. They found the body of old
man Baker hanging by the neck from one of the beams of the bridge, immediately
beneath the spot where the apparition had stood. A thick coating
of dust, slightly dampened by the mist, covered the floor of the bridge,
but the only footprints were those of Mr. Cummings’ horse.
In taking down the body the men disturbed the loose, friable earth of
the slope below it, disclosing human bones already nearly uncovered
by the action of water and frost. They were identified as those
of the lost peddler. At the double inquest the coroner’s
jury found that Daniel Baker died by his own hand while suffering from
temporary insanity, and that Samuel Morritz was murdered by some person
or persons to the jury unknown.
A COLD GREETING
This is a story told by the late Benson Foley of San Francisco:
“In the summer of 1881 I met a man named James H. Conway, a resident
of Franklin, Tennessee. He was visiting San Francisco for his
health, deluded man, and brought me a note of introduction from Mr.
Lawrence Barting. I had known Barting as a captain in the Federal
army during the civil war. At its close he had settled in Franklin,
and in time became, I had reason to think, somewhat prominent as a lawyer.
Barting had always seemed to me an honorable and truthful man, and the
warm friendship which he expressed in his note for Mr. Conway was to
me sufficient evidence that the latter was in every way worthy of my
confidence and esteem. At dinner one day Conway told me that it
had been solemnly agreed between him and Barting that the one who died
first should, if possible, communicate with the other from beyond the
grave, in some unmistakable way - just how, they had left (wisely, it
seemed to me) to be decided by the deceased, according to the opportunities
that his altered circumstances might present.
“A few weeks after the conversation in which Mr. Conway spoke
of this agreement, I met him one day, walking slowly down Montgomery
street, apparently, from his abstracted air, in deep thought.
He greeted me coldly with merely a movement of the head and passed on,
leaving me standing on the walk, with half-proffered hand, surprised
and naturally somewhat piqued. The next day I met him again in
the office of the Palace Hotel, and seeing him about to repeat the disagreeable
performance of the day before, intercepted him in a doorway, with a
friendly salutation, and bluntly requested an explanation of his altered
manner. He hesitated a moment; then, looking me frankly in the
“‘I do not think, Mr. Foley, that I have any longer a claim
to your friendship, since Mr. Barting appears to have withdrawn his
own from me - for what reason, I protest I do not know. If he
has not already informed you he probably will do so.’
“‘But,’ I replied, ‘I have not heard from Mr.
“‘Heard from him!’ he repeated, with apparent surprise.
‘Why, he is here. I met him yesterday ten minutes before
meeting you. I gave you exactly the same greeting that he gave
me. I met him again not a quarter of an hour ago, and his manner
was precisely the same: he merely bowed and passed on. I shall
not soon forget your civility to me. Good morning, or - as it
may please you - farewell.’
“All this seemed to me singularly considerate and delicate behavior
on the part of Mr. Conway.
“As dramatic situations and literary effects are foreign to my
purpose I will explain at once that Mr. Barting was dead. He had
died in Nashville four days before this conversation. Calling
on Mr. Conway, I apprised him of our friend’s death, showing him
the letters announcing it. He was visibly affected in a way that
forbade me to entertain a doubt of his sincerity.
“‘It seems incredible,’ he said, after a period of
reflection. ‘I suppose I must have mistaken another man
for Barting, and that man’s cold greeting was merely a stranger’s
civil acknowledgment of my own. I remember, indeed, that he lacked
“‘Doubtless it was another man,’ I assented; and the
subject was never afterward mentioned between us. But I had in
my pocket a photograph of Barting, which had been inclosed in the letter
from his widow. It had been taken a week before his death, and
was without a mustache.”
A WIRELESS MESSAGE
In the summer of 1896 Mr. William Holt, a wealthy manufacturer of Chicago,
was living temporarily in a little town of central New York, the name
of which the writer’s memory has not retained. Mr. Holt
had had “trouble with his wife,” from whom he had parted
a year before. Whether the trouble was anything more serious than
“incompatibility of temper,” he is probably the only living
person that knows: he is not addicted to the vice of confidences.
Yet he has related the incident herein set down to at least one person
without exacting a pledge of secrecy. He is now living in Europe.
One evening he had left the house of a brother whom he was visiting,
for a stroll in the country. It may be assumed - whatever the
value of the assumption in connection with what is said to have occurred
- that his mind was occupied with reflections on his domestic infelicities
and the distressing changes that they had wrought in his life.
Whatever may have been his thoughts, they so possessed him that he observed
neither the lapse of time nor whither his feet were carrying him; he
knew only that he had passed far beyond the town limits and was traversing
a lonely region by a road that bore no resemblance to the one by which
he had left the village. In brief, he was “lost.”
Realizing his mischance, he smiled; central New York is not a region
of perils, nor does one long remain lost in it. He turned about
and went back the way that he had come. Before he had gone far
he observed that the landscape was growing more distinct - was brightening.
Everything was suffused with a soft, red glow in which he saw his shadow
projected in the road before him. “The moon is rising,”
he said to himself. Then he remembered that it was about the time
of the new moon, and if that tricksy orb was in one of its stages of
visibility it had set long before. He stopped and faced about,
seeking the source of the rapidly broadening light. As he did
so, his shadow turned and lay along the road in front of him as before.
The light still came from behind him. That was surprising; he
could not understand. Again he turned, and again, facing successively
to every point of the horizon. Always the shadow was before -
always the light behind, “a still and awful red.”
Holt was astonished - “dumfounded” is the word that he used
in telling it - yet seems to have retained a certain intelligent curiosity.
To test the intensity of the light whose nature and cause he could not
determine, he took out his watch to see if he could make out the figures
on the dial. They were plainly visible, and the hands indicated
the hour of eleven o’clock and twenty-five minutes. At that
moment the mysterious illumination suddenly flared to an intense, an
almost blinding splendor, flushing the entire sky, extinguishing the
stars and throwing the monstrous shadow of himself athwart the landscape.
In that unearthly illumination he saw near him, but apparently in the
air at a considerable elevation, the figure of his wife, clad in her
night-clothing and holding to her breast the figure of his child.
Her eyes were fixed upon his with an expression which he afterward professed
himself unable to name or describe, further than that it was “not
of this life.”
The flare was momentary, followed by black darkness, in which, however,
the apparition still showed white and motionless; then by insensible
degrees it faded and vanished, like a bright image on the retina after
the closing of the eyes. A peculiarity of the apparition, hardly
noted at the time, but afterward recalled, was that it showed only the
upper half of the woman’s figure: nothing was seen below the waist.
The sudden darkness was comparative, not absolute, for gradually all
objects of his environment became again visible.
In the dawn of the morning Holt found himself entering the village at
a point opposite to that at which he had left it. He soon arrived
at the house of his brother, who hardly knew him. He was wild-eyed,
haggard, and gray as a rat. Almost incoherently, he related his
“Go to bed, my poor fellow,” said his brother, “and
- wait. We shall hear more of this.”
An hour later came the predestined telegram. Holt’s dwelling
in one of the suburbs of Chicago had been destroyed by fire. Her
escape cut off by the flames, his wife had appeared at an upper window,
her child in her arms. There she had stood, motionless, apparently
dazed. Just as the firemen had arrived with a ladder, the floor
had given way, and she was seen no more.
The moment of this culminating horror was eleven o’clock and twenty-five
minutes, standard time.
Having murdered his brother-in-law, Orrin Brower of Kentucky was a fugitive
from justice. From the county jail where he had been confined
to await his trial he had escaped by knocking down his jailer with an
iron bar, robbing him of his keys and, opening the outer door, walking
out into the night. The jailer being unarmed, Brower got no weapon
with which to defend his recovered liberty. As soon as he was
out of the town he had the folly to enter a forest; this was many years
ago, when that region was wilder than it is now.
The night was pretty dark, with neither moon nor stars visible, and
as Brower had never dwelt thereabout, and knew nothing of the lay of
the land, he was, naturally, not long in losing himself. He could
not have said if he were getting farther away from the town or going
back to it - a most important matter to Orrin Brower. He knew
that in either case a posse of citizens with a pack of bloodhounds would
soon be on his track and his chance of escape was very slender; but
he did not wish to assist in his own pursuit. Even an added hour
of freedom was worth having.
Suddenly he emerged from the forest into an old road, and there before
him saw, indistinctly, the figure of a man, motionless in the gloom.
It was too late to retreat: the fugitive felt that at the first movement
back toward the wood he would be, as he afterward explained, “filled
with buckshot.” So the two stood there like trees, Brower
nearly suffocated by the activity of his own heart; the other - the
emotions of the other are not recorded.
A moment later - it may have been an hour - the moon sailed into a patch
of unclouded sky and the hunted man saw that visible embodiment of Law
lift an arm and point significantly toward and beyond him. He
understood. Turning his back to his captor, he walked submissively
away in the direction indicated, looking to neither the right nor the
left; hardly daring to breathe, his head and back actually aching with
a prophecy of buckshot.
Brower was as courageous a criminal as ever lived to be hanged; that
was shown by the conditions of awful personal peril in which he had
coolly killed his brother-in-law. It is needless to relate them
here; they came out at his trial, and the revelation of his calmness
in confronting them came near to saving his neck. But what would
you have? - when a brave man is beaten, he submits.
So they pursued their journey jailward along the old road through the
woods. Only once did Brower venture a turn of the head: just once,
when he was in deep shadow and he knew that the other was in moonlight,
he looked backward. His captor was Burton Duff, the jailer, as
white as death and bearing upon his brow the livid mark of the iron
bar. Orrin Brower had no further curiosity.
Eventually they entered the town, which was all alight, but deserted;
only the women and children remained, and they were off the streets.
Straight toward the jail the criminal held his way. Straight up
to the main entrance he walked, laid his hand upon the knob of the heavy
iron door, pushed it open without command, entered and found himself
in the presence of a half-dozen armed men. Then he turned.
Nobody else entered.
On a table in the corridor lay the dead body of Burton Duff.