Tales of a Traveller

always put the joke to the question. He could never enjoy the kernel of the nut, but pestered himself to get more out of the shell.
    “Do you believe in ghosts, then?” said the inquisitive gentleman.
    “Faith, but I do,” replied the jovial Irishman; “I was brought up in the fear and belief of them; we had a Benshee in our own family, honey.”
    “A Benshee—and what’s that?” cried the questioner.
    “Why an old lady ghost that tends upon your real Milesian families, and wails at their window to let them know when some of them are to die.”
    “A mighty pleasant piece of information,” cried an elderly gentleman, with a knowing look and a flexible nose, to which he could give a whimsical twist when he wished to be waggish.
    “By my soul, but I’d have you know it’s a piece of distinction to be waited upon by a Benshee. It’s a proof that one has pure blood in one’s veins. But, egad, now we’re talking of ghosts, there never was a house or a night better fitted than the present for a ghost adventure. Faith, Sir John, haven’t you such a thing as a haunted chamber to put a guest in?”
    “Perhaps,” said the Baronet, smiling, “I might accommodate you even on that point.”
    “Oh, I should like it of all things, my jewel. Some dark oaken room, with ugly wo-begone portraits that stare dismally at one, and about which the housekeeper has a power of delightful stories of love and murder. And then a dim lamp, a table with a rusty sword across it, and a spectre all in white to draw aside one’s curtains at midnight—”
    “In truth,” said an old gentleman at one end of the table, “you put me in mind of an anecdote—”
    “Oh, a ghost story! a ghost story!” was vociferated round the board, every one edging his chair a little nearer.
    The attention of the whole company was now turned upon the speaker. He was an old gentleman, one side of whose face was no match for the other. The eyelid drooped and hung down like an unhinged window shutter. Indeed, the whole side of his head was dilapidated, and seemed like the wing of a house shut up and haunted. I’ll warrant that side was well stuffed with ghost stories.
    There was a universal demand for the tale.
    “Nay,” said the old gentleman, “it’s a mere anecdote—and a very commonplace one; but such as it is you shall have it. It is a story that I once heard my uncle tell when I was a boy. But whether as having happened to himself or to another, I cannot recollect. But no matter, it’s very likely it happened to himself, for he was a man very apt to meet with strange adventures. I have heard him tell of others much more singular. At any rate, we will suppose it happened to himself.”
    “What kind of man was your uncle?” said the questioning gentleman.
    “Why, he was rather a dry, shrewd kind of body; a great traveller, and fond of telling his adventures.”
    “Pray, how old might he have been when this happened?”
    “When what happened?” cried the gentleman with the flexible nose, impatiently—“Egad, you have not given any thing a chance to happen -come, never mind our uncle’s age; let us have his adventures.”
    The inquisitive gentleman being for the moment silenced, the old gentleman with the haunted head proceeded.

THE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE.
    Many years since, a long time before the French revolution, my uncle had passed several months at Paris. The English and French were on better terms, in those days, than at present, and mingled cordially together in society. The English went abroad to spend money then, and the French were always ready to help them: they go abroad to save money at present, and that they can do without French assistance. Perhaps the travelling English were fewer and choicer then, than at present, when the whole nation has broke loose, and inundated the continent. At any rate, they circulated more readily and currently in foreign society, and my uncle, during his residence in Paris, made many very intimate acquaintances among the French noblesse.
    Some time afterwards, he was making a journey in the winter-time, in that part of Normandy called the Pays de Caux, when, as evening was closing in, he perceived the turrets of an ancient chateau rising out of the trees of its walled park, each turret with its high conical roof of gray slate, like a candle with an extinguisher on it.
    “To whom does that chateau belong, friend?” cried my uncle to a meager, but fiery postillion, who, with tremendous