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John T. Irving
Zadoc Town.
A LEGEND OF DOSORIS.
By J. T. Irving.
Not far from the great throbbing city of New-York, and on the borders of a beautifully indented bay, called Hempstead Harbor, there stood about half-a-century since, a little sleepy town, named Mosquito Cove, which, being very materially protected from invasion by its name, was a kind of terra incognita to the rest of the world. In its immediate neighborhood were the villages of Wolver Hollow, Cedar Swamp, Duck Pond, Buckram, and Matinicock—all sturdy towns of great repute among their own inhabitants, and of strong tenacity of name; for, although Mosquito Cove in after-times became Glen Cove, the others still vaunted their ancient titles with vain-glorious obstinacy. Not far from Mosquito Cove was a retired road, about a mile in length, in some parts running through open woodland, and in others so completely embowered in trees, that twilight reigned there even at mid-day. There was a dreamy stillness about the place, which was apt to conjure up odd fancies in the mind of the loiterer, and he might have fancied himself in some old abbey, as he looked among the columned tree-trunks and the green arches overhead, until startled from his reverie by the shrill cry of the blue jay, or the workmanlike tap of the wood-pecker, as he scrambled around a tree-trunk. Here and there a ray of sunlight, straggling through the overhanging branches, or the matted grape-vines which clambered over them, would stream across the road, or lie in golden flecks upon the dead leaves which strewed the ground.
Such at that time was Dosoris lane; and, even at the present day, it retains much of its primitive character. The tide of travel, which has found its way to these regions, filling them with the hum of life, seems, in a great measure, to have spared this lane. In earlier times, however, quiet and dream-like as it seemed in the day-time, no spot was more astir than this after night-fall. Elves and spirits, and goblins of all denominations, made it their haunt, and tales of unearthly doings, which had taken place there were rife through the country round. At one time the ghost of a hard-drinking miller was seen galloping up and down the lane, astride of a huge demijohn, which he was spurring like a fiery charger—no doubt, a retaliation for the spur which it had so often applied to him in his life-time—always disappearing at a great oak-tree, at the foot of which he had drank himself to death, and which, in commemoration of that event, is called the drinking-tree to this day. At another time, the ghost of one Billy Cowles, who had died long before of asthma, and was buried in a small graveyard at the head of the lane, was seen patrolling the place. It was generally rumored that he was in search of breath, as he wheezed as he hurried along, and was always seen with his coat open, his shirt-collar thrown back, and an old cravat in his hand. These, and a number of other characters of the same kidney, made this vicinity their rendezvous, and many a weird prank and gambol were carried on there, until the place gained an evil name; wayfarers began to take a wide circuit to avoid its fated neighborhood; the grass began to grow in its wagon-track, and bold, indeed, was he who would venture to brave its perils after night-fall.
Just about this time, the place fell under the domination of one Parson Woolsey, a stern old clergyman and a large landholder, who looked narrowly after his own interests, and kept the whole country round in wholesome subjection. Neither ghost nor man was permitted to cross his path; loud prayer exorcised the former, and a strong arm, a long purse, and a rigid determination to enforce his own rights, kept the latter in his place.
The resolute old clergyman carried matters with a high hand until he died. He was buried under the shade of his own forests, where his gravestone still stands, half-eaten away by time, and over-run by weeds and briars, with a figure of the sturdy parson in full canonicals carved on the top, scowling from the midst of a bag wig, and apparently keeping a grim watch over the precincts. After his death, his lands passed into the hands of a more degenerate race, and once more the powers of the air were rampant. Not a great while after this, there dwelt in this neighborhood a person of no small repute, named Zadoc Town. He had come there a few years previous, from parts unknown. He was a thin, keen man, with sharp features, and a pair of restless black eyes, placed so close to his nose, that they seemed intended to look straight forward, and in no other direction. Mosquito Cove had been a quiet place enough before his arrival, dozing away under the weight of its own antiquity, believing in nothing, and looking upon all greatness as departed from the earth when Parson Woolsey was buried, and some-what disposed to think, as all shrewd towns are apt to do, that what Mosquito Cove did not know was not worth knowing, and what Mosquito Cove did not possess was not worth possessing, unless it might be the money of other people. But when Zadoc came, he stirred them up, he removed the veil from their eyes, and soon had the town in a turmoil. He took up his abode on a narrow by-road, at a short distance from the village, in a precise-looking house with green shutters, in which two holes were cut like eyes, giving the house as keen and wide-awake a look as its owner.
Here he dwelt under the shadow of two poplar-trees, and of a sister as keen and straight-forward in aspect as himself, and for whose energetic spirit and sharp tongue, it was said, he had a very wary deference. Be that as it may, any restraint that he suffered at home only rendered him more restless abroad. He was here and there, up to his eyes in every man's matters, except his own. He called public meetings; he demonstrated to them the size of the world outside of the village; he denounced Quakerdom, then the prevailing epidemic of the place; he talked of establishing schools, newspapers, periodicals, and banks. He failed in all! but succeeded in forming a fire- insurance company, of which he was the president, and had all the honor, while a tight-fisted old farmer was made treasurer, and kept the funds in a stone pot, buried in his cellar, whence he dug them up and counted them every night, after saying his prayers, and just before going to bed.
It chanced that shortly after Zadoc had been installed in his new office, that he had been passing an afternoon with an old friend named Tommy Croft, who lived at Buckram. Tommy was a sturdy, weather-beaten veteran, resembling, in strength and toughness, one of the oaks of his own woods. In his youth he had been a double-jointed, hard-fisted fellow, who could cudgel it with any man of his inches. He was noted for believing in no law but what he carried in his own arm, and for doubting every one's opinion but his own; and, although a Quaker, and, of course, a hater of broils, it was whispered that he and his cudgel were sometimes at variance, and that his cudgel did not always carry out the precepts which he advocated. Be that as it may, he was a favorite with all; for he was frank, open-hearted, and never stubborn, except when he could not have his own way; and as Zadoc, though restless and persevering, was pliant, there was no collision between them—they were fast friends.
As I said before, Zadoc had been passing the afternoon with his friend, and, being tempted by Tommy's home-browed ale, to linger longer than was his wont, the two sat gossiping at the door of the house, until the setting sun warned Zadoc that it was time to turn his face homeward. So, taking his leave, he set out, and Tommy, with his cudgel under his arm, accompanied him several miles on his way. But at last the darkness, which increased as they went, rendering the road obscure, indicated to him that it was time to return, and bidding Zadoc "God speed!" he left him just as he was approaching the perilous regions of Dosoris.
Zadoc was pot-valiant just then; for at least a quart of Tommy's ale was buttoned under his jacket, distending his stomach and humming through his head, until he felt himself a match for the largest ghost that had ever made Dosoris its haunt.
The principal scourge of this lane, of late years, had been the apparition of one Derrick Wilkinson, a hard-riding horse jockey, who had broken his neck about twenty years before, and was said to patrol the lane from one end to the other, and even to waylay wayfarers, and at times to cudgel them soundly, and at others to lead them into all sorts of wild adventures.
Among others, there was a tale current of his having beset a hard-headed old negro, named Knot, as he was reeling homeward from a husking frolic, somewhat the worse for his potations, and had led him a helter-skelter chase, all night long, through bush and brier: at one time dragging him through the swamp at the head of a small stream called Flag Brook, and at another, ducking him in the Dosoris mill-pond, paying no regard to his entreaties for rest, but, as he became weary, plying him with a fiery liquor of such potency as to keep up his strength and courage, and make him as reckless as the goblin himself; and that the negro had been banged about in this rakehelly manner until the distant crow of a cock gave warning of the approach of day. The ghost then dashed at a tremendous rate into the fastnesses of Boggy Swamp, and, with a loud yell, disappeared, not forgetting to bestow a hearty thwack on the head of Knot, which left him senseless.
The story was laughed at by the young and incredulous; but the older inhabitants, who had grown gray and wise with their years, placed implicit faith in the tale. They had lived long in the world, and had amassed a great fund of experience; and the most of them recollected that when they were boys, ghosts and hobgoblins were plenty. Moreover, it was certain that Knot was found on the morning after the adventure, lying at the foot of a large tree in Boggy Swamp, very drunk—no doubt, from the effects of the miraculous liquor, and very much stupefied—doubtless, from the effects of the blow.
From this time, Knot became a standard authority on all subjects relating to the unseen world. From that date, too, Dosoris became more of a wizard lane than ever.
Zadoc Town had been one of Knot's most virulent opponents, and had once or twice, in broad daylight, and under the wing of his sister, openly avowed his atter disbelief of the whole story, and had even said, that he would like to catch Derrick stopping him, "that was all!"
Returning Tommy's salutation in a tone as valiant as his own, he strode boldly into the lane. It was not long, however, before the fumes of the ale began to evaporate, and as they disappeared, certain vague apprehensions took the place of the false courage which had so far supported him. All the tales which he had heard came crowding into his mind. He remembered, too, his own vaporings about ghosts and hobgoblins, and particularly about Derrick, and was not a little cowed at the recollection of the rash courage which he had showed in daylight. He kept a stealthy watch on the dim hedges at the road-side, and, several times, fancied that he saw a dusky figure flitting before him, but it always proved to be a bush or a rock. There was no sound to break the echo of his own footfall, except the creaking noise of the thousand insects which darkness had awakened into life. He cleared his throat loudly, and looked up toward the sky, but the interlaced branches shut out the stars, and overhead it looked as black as midnight, The sides of the road, too, were completely shut in by trees over-run by scrambling vines. He began to doubt whether it would not be better to retrace his steps, and spend the night under the hospitable roof of Tommy Croft; but he recollected the shrill-tongued sister at home, who had set her face against vagabondizing and rantipoling of all kinds, under both of which heads she particularly classed all indulgences which conduced to irregularity or lateness of hours, Zadoc thought of this, If he braved the dark lane, he might escape its perils; if he did not, a warm reception at home was certain, "Egad!" thought he, "if I but had Betsey Town here to back me, I'd like to see Derrick tackle her! He’d catch a Tartar!"
Had he been elsewhere, he would have chuckled at the idea of such an encounter; but it was no time nor place for laughing, for he was at the very spot the ghost was said to make its appearance, and he was debating in his mind as to the propriety of taking to his heels when he was arrested by a voice at the road-side calling out, "Mr. Town, I'm waiting for you!"
Zadoc's knees shook under him, but before he could rouse him he was jerked off his feet, and whisked over the fence by a power which he could not resist.
"Follow!" said the voice.
Zadoc saw, in front of him, the dim outline of a figure gliding swiftly through bush and brier, stopping at no impediment, and also felt himself impelled to follow. As they glided along through an opening in the wood, he obtained a better view of his guide, and, to his horror, recognized the small jockey-cap, the lank, straight hair, and gray, glittering eyes of Derrick Wilkinson.
The cold perspiration stood on his forehead, and his terror was not a little increased by hearing a heavy step following them. He cast a stealthy glance over his shoulder, and caught a glimpse of a figure as far behind as the other was before him. All hope of retreat was cut off, and muttering a kind of rambling prayer, Zadoc followed the spectre until they came to a large tree at the head of Flag Brook. Here the ghost stopped, and turning short round, glided up to Zadoc, and said, in a very respectful tone:
"Mr. Town, in starlight and storm, many a weary night I've waited for you. I'm Derrick Wilkinson! Be seated, Sir!"
This confirmation of his previous knowledge was by no means consolatory. Derrick had always been a harum-scarum dare-devil during his life-time, and Zadoc had strong misgivings that death might not have improved his character. He recollected, too, Knot's adventure, and his heart died within him. He, however, slid to the ground, as directed, and at the same time attempted to express some satisfaction at the desire evinced for his acquaintance, but the words stuck in his throat, and he could only move his lips without speaking.
"I'm told you've got up in the world since I left it," said Derrick, by way of opening the conversation, and of putting his companion at his ease.
Zadoc was wary, and as he did not understand the purport of the remark, he made a very non-committal answer.
"You've been a very busy man in the village," said the apparition; "you've made great changes."
"I've tried to do my duty," replied Zadoc, deprecatingly, at the same time endeavoring to change his position in such a way as to catch sight of the other figure, which had followed at his heels, and which he now observed under a tree close by, apparently ready to back his fellow-goblin in any unearthly project which he might have on foot.
"You have, Mr. Town; and I honor you for it," replied Goblin with strong emphasis. "I take a strong interest in the 'Cove,' even yet. There were the Cowles, and the Crofts, and the Dyhers, and the Blareoms, and the Smiths, and the Howlets, and dozens of others: they were rare boys in my day."
"They are all dead and gone," said Zadoc, as, beginning to feel less nervous, he grew more loquacious.
"I see most of them every day," replied Goblin; "one or two of them have gone elsewhere, but I meet nearly all of them constantly: in fact, they sent me to see you."
Zadoc's hair began to bristle, for he had not imagined that this visitation was a concerted project of all the defunct worthies of the town. He made no reply, but sat with every sense on the alert; for he observed the attendant goblin drawing still nearer, and was apprehensive lest he might represent another of the departed worthies.
"Rumors of the great good that you have done have reached even us," continued the ghost in a tone which was intended to be insinuating, but which, owing to the flimsy texture of its owner, was rather asthmatic.
Zadoc remained taciturn.
"We've heard, among other things, that you've formed a company to insure against fire. A fire is a dreadful calamity, Mr. Town."
"Very!" replied Zadoc.
"Fires are very prevalent where we are," said the ghost; "in fact, they are the greatest drawback to the place. We all suffer from them."
Zadoc moved uneasily in his seat.
"I think you insure against fire, Mr. Town, don't you?"
For a brief moment he felt that he was president of the insurance company, and that here was a chance of turning an honest penny. He replied in the affirmative with some alacrity, and began to recapitulate the terms.
"Do you think, Mr. Town," said the goblin, assuming a winning tone, and endeavoring to coax up a smile on his sinister features, "you could insure us?"
"You"
"Yes, me," replied the goblin, "and your other friends."
"Against what!" inquired Zadoc.
"Fire. It's very warm where we live," replied he; "and I've leave of absence till cock-crow. We thought if we could get insured during the night, we would snap our fingers when I go back. We don't mind money, and it would be a praiseworthy act on your part to out-wit Old Scratch. It tells greatly in a man's favor to annoy the old gentleman, and that would, I can assure you. I know him well."
Here was a dilemma, and Zadoc felt that his present position required adroit management.
"You don't mean to say," said he, evasively, "that all those very respectable people—very respectable people—have gone to the dev———"
"Whist!" said the goblin, "do n't be uncivil, Sir. Wherever they are, I mean to say that the climate doesn't agree with them—being rather too tropical. I mean, too, that they want to be insured against fire. Do I make myself understood?"
There was something too positive to permit of farther equivocation. Zadoc muttered something about his being unable to insure out of the county without consulting the stockholders, and that he feared the risk was "extra hazardous."
The goblin's eyes fairly glowed with fury as he said, "Refuse, if you dare! You are mine till cock-crow! Will you insure?"
Zadoc closed his eyes, and muttered a prayer. The idea of getting the ill-will of the "Old Boy" by interfering between him and his property was not to be thought of for an instant, and he shook his head.
"Ha!" exclaimed the goblin, gnashing his teeth, "then here's at you!"
"And here's at thee!" exclaimed a voice behind him. "Ghost or devil, take that!" At the same time, a heavy cudgel was flourished in the air; it descended on what appeared to be the very head of the goblin, and cleaving through head and body, rang hard against the ground. There was a bright flash, a puff of sulphurous smoke, a loud discordant scream in the tree-tops, and Zadoc found himself alone in the presence of his deliverer, Tommy Croft.
"Thee was hard bested, Zadoc," said Tommy, "and thee was wrong in saying goblins were ag'in natur, but thee withstood that fellow as thee should. I'm very sorry, however, to hear that so many of our respected friends have got into such unpleasant quarters. Thee won't laugh at old Knot again. It's very sartain I never saw so unsubstantial a thing as that goblin; the stick went clean through him, as if he was smoke. Pah! he smells like burnt gunpowder. Come, Zadoc, let's be moving."
Taking Zadoc under one arm, and his trusty cudgel under the other, Tommy tramped through the woods and across the fields; nor did he relinquish the guardianship of his friend until he had seen him fairly housed beneath his own roof, and under the vinegar eye of Sister Betsey, where he felt certain that neither hobgoblin, nor Old Nick himself, would be hardy enough to disturb him.