got
quite into the road. Then there were sure to be a host of fearful
anecdotes told of strange cries and groans, or of some hideous face
suddenly seen staring out of one of the windows. By degrees we ceased
to venture into these lonely grounds, but would stand at a distance
and throw stones at the building; and there was something fearfully
pleasing in the sound, as they rattled along the roof, or sometimes
struck some jingling fragments of glass out of the windows.

[Footnote 13: Acacias.]

The origin of this house was lost in the obscurity that covers the
early period of the province, while under the government of their high
mightinesses the states-general. Some reported it to have been a
country residence of Wilhelmus Kieft, commonly called the Testy, one
of the Dutch governors of New-Amsterdam; others said that it had been
built by a naval commander who served under Van Tromp, and who, on
being disappointed of preferment, retired from the service in disgust,
became a philosopher through sheer spite, and brought over all his
wealth to the province, that he might live according to his humour,
and despise the world. The reason of its having fallen to decay, was
likewise a matter of dispute; some said that it was in chancery, and
had already cost more than its worth in legal expenses; but the most
current, and, of course, the most probable account, was that it was
haunted, and that nobody could live quietly in it. There can, in fact,
be very little doubt that this last was the case, there were so many
corroborating stories to prove it,--not an old woman in the
neighbourhood but could furnish at least a score. There was a
gray-headed curmudgeon of a negro that lived hard by, who had a whole
budget of them to tell, many of which had happened to himself. I
recollect many a time stopping with my schoolmates, and getting him to
relate some. The old crone lived in a hovel, in the midst of a small
patch of potatoes and Indian corn, which his master had given him on
setting him free. He would come to us, with his hoe in his hand, and
as we sat perched, like a row of swallows, on the rail of the fence,
in the mellow twilight of a summer evening, he would tell us such
fearful stories, accompanied by such awful rollings of his white eyes,
that we were almost afraid of our own footsteps as we returned home
afterwards in the dark.

Poor old Pompey! many years are past since he died, and went to keep
company with the ghosts he