aid promptly that the man
who told it of his own knowledge was the late Judge T. Wharton Collins;
that the incidents occurred about 1855, and that Judge McCaleb could
doubtless give the name of the notary public who had been an actor in the
affair. "Let us go to his office right now," said my obliging friend.

We went, found him, told him our errand. He remembered the story, was
confident of its entire verity, and gave a name, which, however, he begged
I would submit for verification to an aged notary public in another
street, a gentleman of the pure old Creole type. I went to him. He heard
the story through in solemn silence. From first to last I mentioned no
name, but at the end I asked:

"Now, can you tell me the name of the notary in that case?"

"Yes."

I felt a delicious tingling as I waited for the disclosure. He slowly
said:

"Dthere eeze wan troub' 'bout dat. To _which_ case do you _riffer? 'Cause,
you know, dey got t'ree, four case' like dat_. An' you better not mention
no name, 'cause you don't want git nobody in troub', you know.
Now dthere's dthe case of----. And dthere's dthe case of----. And dthere's
the case of----. He had to go away; yes; 'cause when _he_ make dthe dade
man make his will, he git _behine_ dthe dade man in bade, an' hole 'im up
in dthe bade."

I thanked him and departed, with but the one regret that the tale was true
so many more times than was necessary.

In all this collection the story of the so-called haunted house in Royal
street is the only one that must ask a place in literature as partly a
twice-told tale. The history of the house is known to thousands in the old
French quarter, and that portion which antedates the late war was told in
brief by Harriet Martineau as far back as when she wrote her book of
American travel. In printing it here I fulfill an oft-repeated promise;
for many a one has asked me if I would not, or, at least, why I did not,
tell its dark story.

So I have inventoried my entire exhibit--save one small matter. It turned
out after, all that the dear old Creole lady who had sold us the ancient
manuscript, finding old paper commanding so much more per ton than it ever
had commanded before, raked together three or four more leaves--stray
chips of her lovely little ancestress Francoise's workshop, or rather the
shakings of her basket of cherished records,--to wit, three Creole African
songs, which I have used elsewhere; one or two other scraps, of no value;