So wild a night
had never been known in all that region, but toward morning the storm had
blown itself out of breath and day dawned bright and clear. At about
eight o’clock that morning the Rev. Henry Galbraith, a well-known and
highly esteemed Lutheran minister, arrived on foot at his house, a mile
and a half from the Deluse place. Mr. Galbraith had been for a month in
Cincinnati. He had come up the river in a steamboat, and landing at
Gallipolis the previous evening had immediately obtained a horse and
buggy and set out for home. The violence of the storm had delayed him
over night, and in the morning the fallen trees had compelled him to
abandon his conveyance and continue his journey afoot. “But where did you pass the night?” inquired his wife, after he had
briefly related his adventure. “With old Deluse at the ‘Isle of Pines,’” {372} was the laughing reply;
“and a glum enough time I had of it. He made no objection to my
remaining, but not a word could I get out of him.”

Fortunately for the interests of truth there was present at this
conversation Mr. Robert Mosely Maren, a lawyer and _littérateur_ of
Columbus, the same who wrote the delightful “Mellowcraft Papers.”
Noting, but apparently not sharing, the astonishment caused by Mr.
Galbraith’s answer this ready-witted person checked by a gesture the
exclamations that would naturally have followed, and tranquilly inquired:
“How came you to go in there?”

This is Mr. Maren’s version of Mr. Galbraith’s reply:

“I saw a light moving about the house, and being nearly blinded by the
sleet, and half frozen besides, drove in at the gate and put up my horse
in the old rail stable, where it is now. I then rapped at the door, and
getting no invitation went in without one. The room was dark, but having
matches I found a candle and lit it. I tried to enter the adjoining
room, but the door was fast, and although I heard the old man’s heavy
footsteps in there he made no response to my calls. There was no fire on
the hearth, so I made one and laying [_sic_] down before it with my
overcoat under my head, prepared myself for sleep. Pretty soon the door
that I had tried silently opened and the old man came in, carrying a
candle. I spoke to him pleasantly, apologizing for my intrusion, but he
took no notice of me. He seemed to be searching for something, though
his eyes were unmoved in their sockets. I wonder if he ever walks in his
sleep. He took a circuit a part of the way round the room, and went out
the same way he had come in. Twice more before I slept he came back into
the room, acting precisely the same way, and departing as at first. In
the intervals I heard him tramping all over the house, his footsteps
distinctly audible in the pauses of the storm. When I woke in the
morning he had already gone out.”

Mr. Maren attempted some further questioning, but was unable longer to
restrain the family’s tongues; the story of Deluse’s death and burial
came out, greatly to the good minister’s astonishment. “The explanation of your adventure is very simple,” said Mr. Maren. “I
don’t believe old Deluse walks in his sleep—not in his present one; but
you evidently dream in yours.”

And to this view of the matter Mr. Galbraith was compelled reluctantly to
assent. Nevertheless, a late hour of the next night found these two gentlemen,
accompanied by a son of the minister, in the road in front of the old
Deluse house. There was a light inside; it appeared now at one window
and now at another. The three men advanced to the door. Just as they
reached it there came from the interior a confusion of the most appalling
sounds—the clash of weapons, steel against steel, sharp explosions as of
firearms, shrieks of women, groans and the curses of men in combat! The
investigators stood a moment, irresolute, frightened. Then Mr. Galbraith
tried the door. It was fast. But the minister was a man of courage, a
man, moreover, of Herculean strength. He retired a pace or two and
rushed against the door, striking it with his right shoulder and bursting
it from the frame with a loud crash. In a moment the three were inside. Darkness and silence! The only sound was the beating of their hearts. Mr. Maren had provided himself with matches and a candle. With some
difficulty, begotten of his excitement, he made a light, and they
proceeded to explore the place, passing from room to room. Everything
was in orderly arrangement, as it had been left by the sheriff; nothing
had been disturbed. A light coating of dust was everywhere. A back door
was partly open, as if by neglect, and their first thought was that the
authors of the awful revelry might have escaped. The door was opened,
and the light of the candle shone through upon the ground. The expiring
effort of the previous night’s storm had been a light fall of snow; there
were no footprints; the white surface was unbroken. They closed the door
and entered the last room of the four that the house contained—that
farthest from the road, in an angle of the building. Here the candle in
Mr. Maren’s hand was suddenly extinguished as by a draught of air. Almost immediately followed the sound of a heavy fall. When the candle
had been hastily relighted young Mr. Galbraith was seen prostrate on the
floor at a little distance from the others. He was dead. In one hand
the body grasped a heavy sack of coins, which later examination showed to
be all of old Spanish mintage. Directly over the body as it lay, a board
had been torn from its fastenings in the wall, and from the cavity so
disclosed it was evident that the bag had been taken. Another inquest was held: another _post-mortem_ examination failed to
reveal a probable cause of death. Another verdict of “the visitation of
God” left all at liberty to form their own conclusions. Mr. Maren
contended that the young man died of excitement. A FRUITLESS ASSIGNMENT


HENRY SAYLOR, who was killed in Covington, in a quarrel with Antonio
Finch, was a reporter on the Cincinnati _Commercial_. In the year 1859 a
vacant dwelling in Vine street, in Cincinnati, became the center of a
local excitement because of the strange sights and sounds said to be
observed in it nightly. According to the testimony of many reputable
residents of the vicinity these were inconsistent with any other
hypothesis than that the house was haunted. Figures with something
singularly unfamiliar about them were seen by crowds on the sidewalk to
pass in and out. No one could say just where they appeared upon the open
lawn on their way to the front door by which they entered, nor at exactly
what point they vanished as they came out; or, rather, while each
spectator was positive enough about these matters, no two agreed. They
were all similarly at variance in their descriptions of the figures
themselves. Some of the bolder of the curious throng ventured on several
evenings to stand upon the doorsteps to intercept them, or failing in
this, get a nearer look at them.