My aunt was a lady of large frame, strong mind, and great resolution; she was what might be termed a very manly¹ woman. My uncle was a thin, puny² little man, very meek³ and acquiescent⁴, and no match for my aunt. It was observed that he dwindled⁵ 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 town to prescribe for him, made him take all their prescriptions⁶, willy nilly, and dosed him with physic enough to cure a whole hospital. All was in vain. My uncle grew worse and worse the more dosing and nursing he underwent, until in the end he added another to the long list of matrimonial victims, who have been killed with kindness.  
“And was it his ghost that appeared to her?” asked the inquisitive⁷ gentleman, who had questioned the former storyteller.
 
“You shall hear,” replied the narrator:—My aunt took on mightily⁸ for the death of her poor dear husband! Perhaps she felt some compunction at having given him so much physic, and nursed him into his grave. At any rate, she did all that a widow could do to honor his memory. She spared no expense in either the quantity or quality of her mourning weeds; she wore a miniature of him about her neck, as large as a little sun dial; and she had a full-length portrait of him always hanging in her bed chamber⁹. All the world extolled¹⁰ her conduct to the skies; and it was determined¹¹, 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 steward¹² and housekeeper¹³. She took most of her servants with her, intending to make it her principal abode¹⁴. The house stood in a lonely, wild part of the country among the gray Derbyshire hills; with a murderer hanging in chains on a bleak¹⁶ height in full view.
 
The servants from town were half frightened out of their wits, at the idea of living in such a dismal¹⁷, pagan-looking place; especially when they got together in the servants’ hall in the evening, and compared notes on all the hobgoblin stories they had picked up in the course of the day. They were afraid to venture alone about the forlorn black-looking chambers¹⁸. My ladies’ maid, who was troubled with nerves, declared she could never sleep alone in such a “gashly, rummaging¹⁹ old building;” and the footman, who was a kind-hearted young fellow, did all in his power to cheer her up.
 
My aunt, herself, seemed to be struck with the lonely appearance of the house. Before she went to bed, therefore, she examined well the fastenings of the doors and windows, locked up the plate with her own hands, and carried the keys, together with a little box of money and jewels, to her own room; for she was a notable woman, and always saw to all 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 buxom²⁰ widow, she was a little 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 ascertain²¹ if they have been in good looks; for a roystering country squire²² of the neighborhood, with whom she had flirted²³ when a girl, had called that day to welcome her to the country.
 
All of a sudden she thought she heard something move behind her. She Looked hastily round, but there was nothing to be seen. Nothing but the grimly painted portrait of her poor dear man, which had been hung against the wall. She gave a heavy sigh to his memory, as she was accustomed to do, whenever she spoke²⁴ of him in company; and went on adjusting her nightdress. Her sigh was re-echoed; or answered by a long-drawn²⁵ breath. She looked round again, but no one was to be seen. She ascribed these sounds to the wind, oozing²⁶ through the rat holes of the old mansion²⁷; and proceeded leisurely²⁸ to put her hair in papers, when, all at once, she thought she perceived one of the eyes of the portrait move.
 
“The back of her head being towards it!” said the story-teller with the ruined head, giving a knowing wink²⁹ on the sound side of his visage—“good!”
 
“Yes, sir!” replied drily the narrator, “her back being towards the portrait, but her eye fixed³⁰ on its reflection in the glass.”
 
Well, as I was saying, she perceived one of the eyes of the portrait move. So strange a circumstance, as you may well suppose, gave her a sudden shock. To assure herself cautiously of the fact, she put one hand to her forehead, as if rubbing it; peeped through her fingers, and moved the candle with the other hand. The light of the taper³¹ gleamed on the eye, and was reflected from it. She was sure it moved. Nay³², more, it seemed to give her a wink, as she had sometimes known her husband to do when living! It struck a momentary³³ chill to her heart; for she was a lone¹⁵ woman, and felt herself fearfully situated³⁴.
 
The chill was but transient. My aunt, who was almost as resolute³⁵ a personage as your uncle, sir, (turning to the old story-teller,) became instantly calm and collected. She went on adjusting her dress. She even hummed a favorite air, and did not make a single false note. She casually³⁶ overturned a dressing³⁷ box; took a candle and picked up the articles leisurely, 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 the servants to arm themselves with the first weapons that came to hand, placed herself at their head, and returned almost immediately.
 
Her hastily levied³⁸ army presented a formidable force. The steward had a rusty³⁹ 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 poker⁴⁰; and, in my opinion, she was the most formidable of the party. The waiting maid brought up the rear, dreading⁴¹ to stay alone in the servants’ hall, smelling to a broken bottle of volatile⁴² salts, and expressing her terror of the ghosteses.
 
“Ghosts!” said my aunt resolutely⁴³, “I’ll singe⁴⁴ their whiskers for them!”
 
They entered the chamber. All was still and undisturbed as when she left it. They approached the portrait of my uncle.
 
“Pull me down that picture!” cried my aunt.
 
A heavy groan⁴⁵, and a sound like the chattering⁴⁶ of teeth, was heard from the portrait. The servants shrunk back. The maid uttered a faint shriek⁴⁷, and clung to the footman.
 
“Instantly!” added my aunt, with a stamp of the foot.
 
The picture was pulled down, and from a recess⁴⁸ behind it, in which had formerly⁴⁹ stood a clock, they hauled forth⁵⁰ 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? No ghost, I suppose!” said the inquisitive gentleman.
 
“A knight⁵¹ of the post,” replied the narrator, “who had been smitten⁵² with the worth of the wealthy widow; or rather a marauding Tarquin, who had stolen into her chamber to violate her purse and rifle her strong box when all the house should be asleep. In plain terms,” continued he, “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 contrived⁵³ his hiding-place for his nefarious⁵⁴ purposes, and had borrowed an eye from the portrait by way of a reconnoitering hole.”
 
“And what did they do with him—did they hang him?” resumed the questioner.
 
“Hang him?—how could they?” exclaimed a beetle-browed barrister, with a hawk’s nose—“the offence was not capital—no robbery nor assault had been committed—no forcible entry or breaking into the premises—”
 
“My aunt,” said the narrator, “was a woman of spirit, and apt to take the law into her own hands. She had her own notions of cleanliness also. She ordered the fellow to be drawn through the horsepond to cleanse⁵⁵ away all offences, and then to be well rubbed down with an oaken towel.”
 
“And what became of him afterwards?” said the inquisitive gentleman.
 
“I do not exactly know—I believe he was sent on a voyage of improvement to Botany Bay.”
 
“And your aunt—” said the inquisitive gentleman—“I’ll warrant she took care to make her maid sleep in the room with her after that.”
 
“No, sir, she did better—she gave her hand shortly after to the roystering squire; for she used to observe it was a dismal thing for a woman to sleep alone in the country.”
 
“She was right,” observed the inquisitive gentleman, nodding his head sagaciously—“but I am sorry they did not hang that fellow.”
 
It was agreed on all hands that the last narrator had brought his tale to the most satisfactory conclusion; though a country clergyman present regretted that the uncle and aunt, who figured in the different stories, had not been married together. They certainly would have been well matched.
 
“But I don’t see, after all,” said the inquisitive gentleman, “that there was any ghost in this last story.”
 
“Oh, if it’s ghosts you want, honey,” cried the Irish captain of dragoons, “if it’s ghosts you want, you shall have a whole regiment⁵⁶ of them. And since these gentlemen have been giving the adventures of their uncles and aunts, faith and I’ll e’en give you a chapter too, out of my own family history.”