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t I [ A NEW YORKER'S EXPERIENCE WITH A STRANGE OLD CO LONIAL MANSION. A Nerve Racking Night—Some Start ling Incidents Which Seemed Impossible of Rational Explanation. By T. D. Sullivan. fCongressman-Elect from New York City.) THIS is, I think, the strangest ex perience in a career that has not been monotonous. It is true, and at one time I had some trouble keeping It out of the papers. Now there is no more reason for keeping quiet about It, so 1 may as well tell the whole story for the first ame. The reason why I need not keep the secret any longer is because a big, old fashioned red brick building was torn down this year. It was once a private residence, then an office building, and now its site is the site of a steel sky scraper. That is the way New \ork grows. But at the time this narrative deals with the house was a residence—a big, rambling, roomy old residence at that, remodeled from a colonial mansion. There was a young fellow, whose father had been a dear friend of mine. He had recently married. His bride had taken a fancy to the house and her husband, being rich and eager to grati fy any whim of hers, had bought it in at a sheriff’s sale of uptown property. The purchaser is now a United States congressman. I have not permission to use his name. So I will call him Clarke. His chief opponent at the sale was a real estate dealer—O'Gorman is near enough to his real name to suit present purposes. This O’Gorman was a shrewd, shifty, unscrupulous chap, who had visions of the great future of the upper west side; visions that later came true. “If you ever get dissatisfied with the old place I’ll take it off your hands at the figure of my best bid to-day,” he -said to Clarke after the sale. Clarke, laughed at him: gave orders for the house's renovation and sailed ■with his bride for Europe 9I1 a six months’ trip. The Trouble Begins. I was sitting in my office one day about half a year later when Clarke sauntered in. I saw from his face he was bothered about something. After our first greeting he came to the point. “I’ve made a bad investment in that old Bartholf house,” he said. The colonial builder’s name had been Jan Bartholf. and the house was still re ferred to in the neighborhood by his same. “Doesn’t Mrs. Clarke like the place us much as she expected to?” I asked him. {"She hasn’t had a chance to-judge of It,” he said, “and I don't mean that she shall. The house is haunted.” “Haunted? What nonsense!” “That’s what I thought when I came home last week from Europe and found that not a single day’s work had been done on the repairs I ordered,” an swered Clarke. “I went to the con tractor and he calmfy informed me he wouldn't touch the job and that I fcould have my money back. He said that ghosts had frightened his work men half to death; that he’d seen and heard things there that couldn't be ex plained, and that every man fh his employ would strike if he ordered them to work there.” “And you believed all that rot?” I liiighed. No, replied Clarke, seriously I didn't. I thought he was lying. I went over the house myself and—well, what he said was true. You can guy me .f you like, old man, but the house is haunted and I’m going to get rid of it.” “I suppose white monsters clattered their chains at you,” I hazarded, “and you ran a block before you identified the hideous specters as a pack of mice scampering in the loose plastering of the walls?” "If you take it that way,” he said, offended at my guying, “there’s no use inviting- any more of your jokes by telling you what really happened to me there'. I’m going to hunt up O’Gorman, tell him the truth about the place and see if his offer to buy it still holds good. He may be willing to pay some thing for it as a land speculation. He never could get a tenant to stay there.” Now Clarke’s absolute sincerity be gan to make an impression on me. I saw he was terribly In earnest; that he believed he was telling the truth, and that he was really ready to sell the valuable property for a song. “Look here. Clarke,” I said, “I’m sorry I guyed you. But it all seems so absurd. You know as well as I do that there are no such things as ghosts. Don't be foolish and give up the place •ill you've made sure. What are you going to do this evening?” “Nothing especial. Why?” “Come and dine with me. Then we’ll take a box of cigars, a bundle of can dles and a light lunch along and go together to tliis naunted house of yours dor the ui- ht. I've always wanted tc. see a ghost. Maybe I can find some explanation for it all." My first idea, on hearing his 3tory, had been that O’Gorman, in order to gain possession of the property he coveted, had bribed the contractor to spring that ghost yarn. But when Clarke himself had apparently seen or heard something to verity the crazy belief the affair began to take on a more serious aspect. A Night Investigation. I took a long nap that afternoon to obviate the chance of going to sleep during the vigil, and promptly at ten that evening I started, with Clarke, for the Bartholf mansion. It was, as I said, a rambling old brick dwelling and built in colonial days by an eccentric Dutchman, con cerning whom some odd stories still survived. The neighbors, it seems, had regarded him as a sort of wizard or magician. As we walked up the uneven path to the front porch the old pile of brick looked in the moonlight like the reg ular dime-novel “haunted house,” and as Clarke let us in through the great blackened oak doors the darkness of the huge hall seemed to rush forward to meet us. We set about our preparations in a businesslike way. We established our headquarters for the night in the big drawing-room to the right of the hall. We lighted a half dozen candles, stuck them in the rusty iron sconces about j the wall, and set about examining the room. The walls were lined with faded j tapestry; one or two old half-defaced pictures hung here and there, notably one of old Jan Bartholf himself, which w'as directly above the mantel. Sev eral pieces of furniture occupied the bare floor, whose hardwood boards were warped by dampness and neglect. We made sure that no hiding place lor lurking mischief makers existed within the four walls of the apartment. Then, candle in hand, we made a systematic detour of the whole dusty, creaking house. “Well,” said Clarke, as we reached the top of the widft staircase on our return toward the ground floor, “if there’d been a man or even a mouse concealed anywhere we’d have found him. Let’s go back to the drawing room. and—why, it’s dark down there!” We were half way downstairs as he spoke. On our way up the light of the candles in the drawing-room sconces had cast a giowvacross the hall. Now. except where illuminated by the two candles in our hands, the whole lower floor was in dense blackness. Ghostly Mystery. “What do you think now?” asked Clarke. I made no reply, but ran down the remaining steps into the drawing room. The smell of extinguished can dles filled the room. All was dark save where a broad patch of moonlight from the one unshuttered window fell on the floor. In the very center of that patch was an old mahogany rocking chair. It was rocking with a quiet, regular motion, as if some invisible guest were taking his ease and swaying himself to sleep. “Do you see that?” whispered Clarke over my shoulder. “That’s what I saw when 1 came up here in broad day light.” “It’s—it’s a current of air,” I ex plained. But even as I said it I knew that no real draught could enter that j closed room with force enough to blow j out six candles and start a heavy chair ! into motion. Moreover, the air in the j room was dead and motionless. "I never used to believe in this sort of thing any more than you do.” said Clarke, “but who can doubt it now?” “I can doubt it,” I answered. “Help rne light these candles in the sconces, and we’ll make another inspection of the room.” We lighted the candles. As we- set foot in the room the chair had ceased rocking. We once more made the rounds of the apartment, patting the tapestry against the walls with our hands, looking under each bit of fur niture, sounding the bricked-up fire place. and in other ways making sure no trick was played on us by human agency. “If anybody is putting up this line of practical joking,” I said, ‘‘he can’t do anything while we’re in here. If it’s a ghost—” The sound as of some one sobbing and panting for breath came to us, while L was speaking. It seemed to be in Ihe room, within arms’ length of us. “That’s easily explained,” I said, as Clarke grabbed my arm. “The wind in he empty passages of the house and the chimney makes—” “It’s growing dark,” interrupted my companion. I looked up. Only two of the six candles were burning. Even as I looked, first one and then another cf those remaining two lights went out. It wTas as though some one had passed along that side of the room and ex tinguished them. We were in total darkness, for I had closed that one open window shutter. In the dense blackness, as I groped for a. match, I could hear that great rocking chair slowly begin to creak back and forth. I found a match at last, and struck it. Wj relighted the candles. Then I turned to look at the rocker. It was standing motionless. We stared hopeless’ into each oth cr's faces. I hope mine wasn't as scared and white as Clarke’s. “And this is the sort of house you advise me to bring my bride to!” he said at last. “We’ve seen enough. I’m going home.” “You’re going to spend the night here, as you promised,” I answered. “This ghost seems to be a harmless sort of creature. As long as he con tents himself with puffing out candles and making chairs rock, he can’t both er us -greatly. Let’s have a smoke and talk it over.” I sat down in the ghostly rocker and lighted a cigar. I kept a keen eye on the candles, resolved to get some clew, if possible, to the way they were ex tinguished. Clarke threw himself on a sofa at the other side of the room. “It's no use." he-said. “I’ll get rid of the house as soon as I can and at any terms. I’m sorry, because my wife had set her heart on living here. With a little repair tins would be an ideal home. Except for the ghost. What are you doing?” The Ghost. I had risen to my feet and come to the' middle of the room. The rocker in which I had been sitting was in the shadow. The candles as we had rear ranged them were all at the lower end of the room, near the big mantelpiece. As I had sat idly listening to Clarke’s complaint my gaze had chanced to fall on old Jan Bartholf’s picture. I could have sworn that 1 saw the eyes in the tarnished face close and then open, “I’m just strolling around for cxei* cise,” I said, carelessly. “It makes one so nervous to sit still in here and—” As I got to this point my steps had carried me, in a circuitous route, to the mantel. With a sudden motion and exerting all my strength I seized the big pic ture and wrenched it from its fasten ings. It fell to the floor with a crash, and there, in a great hole in the wall which the canvas had covered, crouched a human body. With a second sweep of the arm I seized it as it was about to vanish into the dark passage behind the opening, and pulled it into the room, where it tumbled headiong on the floor. “There’s your ghost, Clarke,” I said, brushing the dust off my clothes and watching the figure scramble to its feet. “You’re a clever chap, O’Gorman, but you’re not clever enough. That’s all the trouble with you. Now’, Clarke, if you’ll keep your hands on this worthy house haunter I’m going on an exploring expedition.” Clarkq had the struggling fellow by the throat, and I lighted an extra can dle and clambered up into the hole above the mantel. “I’ll be back’ in a minute,” I said. The aperture led to a passageway nearly three feet wide that ran the en tire length of the house, being de pressed to a height of about three feet at places, where the windows inter vened. This explained the unusually deep window seats I had noted. The inner walls of the passage (those near est the rooms) were honeycombed with augur” holes, whose aspect showed them to have been bored many years before. Secret Passages. Through these apertures it had been a simple matter for O'Gorman to de tect the whereabouts of the candles in the sconces, and, by a sudden puff, to blow them out. The threadbare tapes try did not obstruct the air, and one could see dimly through it. The pas sage ran clear around the house, be tween outer and inner walls, connect ing by ladders with a similar secret passage on the floor above. A ladder descended from the ground floor pas sage to a space between the drawing room flooring and the cellar ceiling. This space was quite large enough to admit the body of a man. As I glanced into it I could see the draw’ing-room candle 'light filtering through the cracks in the flooring. A slender bladed knife thrust through the cJacks at the right place Avould readily ac count for the rocking of the chair. One light push of the knife point would se{ it in motion. Old Jan Bartholf must have had odd theories on the subject of building. What may have been the original ob ject of these passages, peep-holes, etc., no one can tell. Whether he sought to spy on his family or guests, or wheth er lie feared he might one day need shelter from justice or from Indians, I don’t know. Perhaps to foster the pop ular belief in his magic powers. But the secret chambers were there; and O’Gorman had made clever use of them. But for his folly in using the cut-out eye holes in the portrait In or der to watch us from a better point of view, he would assuredly have gained his point and bought the house of Clarke for a song. O Gorman confessed to us that, wnue wandering over the house with a view to buying it. just before Clarke had outbid him, he had blundered on the secret passage behind Bartholf’s pic ture. The idea of scaring Clarke into selling cheap had occurred to him soon after. On O’Gorman giving us a written confession. Clarke (greatly against my advice) let the fellow go. He was so much relieved to find the house was not really haunted, he said, that he hadn’t the heart to drag the whole story into the public prints by prosecuting the swindler. (Copyright. XiHfti. By Joseph R Bowie#.) THE OLD FOLKS AT HOME Are Never Without Pe*ru-na in the Home for Catarrhal Diseases. MR and MRS JCHWANDT, J*anborn, Minn. KK and ms. JNO. O.ATKiNSON.' Independence, Ho. Remarkable Cures Effected By Pe-ru-na. Under date of January 10, 1S97, Dr. Hartman received the following letter: “ My wife has been a sufferer from a complication of diseases for the past twenty-five years. Her case has baffled the skill of some of the most noted phy sicians. One of her worst troubles was chronic constipation of several years’ standing. She was also passing through that most critical period in the life ot a woman—change of life. “ In June, 1895, I wrote to you about her case. You advised a course of Peruna and Manalin, which we at once commenced, and have to say it com pletely cured her. “About the same time I wrote you about my own case of catarrh, which had been of twenty-five years’ standing. At times I was almost past going. / commenced to use Peruna according to your Instructions and continued Its use tor about a year, and it has com pletely cured me. Your remedies do all that you claim for them, and even more. ”—John O. Atkinson. In a letter dated January 1, 1900, Mr. Atkinson says, after five years’exper ience with Peruna : “I will ever continue to speak a good word for Peruna. I am still cured of catarrh. John O. Atkinson, Inde pendence, Mo., Box 272. Mrs. Alla Scliwandt, Sanborn, Minn.< writes: “ / have been troubled with rheuma tism and catarrh for t» enty-fiveyears. Could not sleep day or night. After having used Peruna I can sleep and nothing bothers me now. ft I ever am affected with any kind of sickness Peruna will be the medicine / shall use. My son was cured of catarrh of the larynx by Peruna.”—Mrs. Alla Schwandt. Why Old People are Especially Liable to Systemic Catarrh. When old age comeson, catarrhal dis eases come also. Systemic catarrh is almost universal in old people. This explains why Peruna has become so indispensable to old people. Peruna is their safeguard. Peruna is the only remedy yet devised that entirely meets these cases. Nothing but an effective systemic remedy can cure them. 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