Stories of Mystery

Stories of Mystery

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Stories of Mystery, by Various This
eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net
Title: Stories of Mystery The Ghost, by William D. O'connor; The
Four-Fifteen Express, by Amelia B. Edwards; The Signal-Man, by
Charles Dickens; The Haunted Ships, by Allan Cunningham; A Raft
That No Man Made, by Robert T.S. Lowell; The Invisible Princess, by
Francis O'Connor; The Advocate's Wedding-Day, by Catherine Crowe;
The Birthmark, by Nathaniel Hawthorne
Author: Various
Editor: Rossiter Johnson
Release Date: August 1, 2005 [EBook #16405]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STORIES
OF MYSTERY ***

Produced by Ron Swanson

LITTLE CLASSICS EDITED BY ROSSITER JOHNSON
STORIES OF MYSTERY

BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge 1914
COPYRIGHT, 1875, BY JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO. ALL RIGHTS
RESERVED
CONTENTS.
THE GHOST . . . . . . . . . . . . . _William D. O'Connor_
THE FOUR-FIFTEEN EXPRESS . . . . . . _Amelia B. Edwards_
THE SIGNAL-MAN . . . . . . . . . . . Charles Dickens THE HAUNTED
SHIPS . . . . . . . . . Allan Cunningham A RAFT THAT NO MAN
MADE . . . . . . _Robert T.S. Lowell_
THE INVISIBLE PRINCESS . . . . . . . _Francis O'Connor_
THE ADVOCATE'S WEDDING-DAY . . . . . Catherine Crowe THE
BIRTHMARK . . . . . . . . . . . Nathaniel Hawthorne * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

THE GHOST.
BY WILLIAM D. O'CONNOR.
At the West End of Boston is a quarter of some fifty streets, more or
less, commonly known as Beacon Hill.
It is a rich and respectable quarter, sacred to the abodes of Our First
Citizens. The very houses have become sentient of its prevailing
character of riches and respectability; and, when the twilight deepens
on the place, or at high noon, if your vision is gifted, you may see them
as long rows of Our First Giants, with very corpulent or very broad
fronts, with solid-set feet of sidewalk ending in square-toed curbstone,
with an air about them as if they had thrust their hard hands into their
wealthy pockets forever, with a character of arctic reserve, and portly

dignity, and a well-dressed, full-fed, self- satisfied, opulent, stony,
repellent aspect to each, which says plainly, "I belong to a rich family,
of the very highest respectability."
History, having much to say of Beacon Hill generally, has, on the
present occasion, something to say particularly of a certain street which
bends over the eminence, sloping steeply down to its base. It is an old
street,--quaint, quiet, and somewhat picturesque. It was young once,
though,--having been born before the Revolution, and was then given
to the city by its father, Mr. Middlecott, who died without heirs, and
did this much for posterity. Posterity has not been grateful to Mr.
Middlecott. The street bore his name till he was dust, and then got the
more aristocratic epithet of Bowdoin. Posterity has paid him by
effacing what would have been his noblest epitaph. We may expect,
after this, to see Faneuil Hall robbed of its name, and called Smith Hall!
Republics are proverbially ungrateful. What safer claim to public
remembrance has the old Huguenot, Peter Faneuil, than the old
Englishman, Mr. Middlecott? Ghosts, it is said, have risen from the
grave to reveal wrongs done them by the living; but it needs no ghost
from the grave to prove the proverb about republics.
Bowdoin Street only differs from its kindred, in a certain shady, grave,
old-fogy, fossil aspect, just touched with a pensive solemnity, as if it
thought to itself, "I'm getting old, but I'm highly respectable; that's a
comfort." It has, moreover, a dejected, injured air, as if it brooded
solemnly on the wrong done to it by taking away its original name and
calling it Bowdoin; but as if, being a very conservative street, it was
resolved to keep a cautious silence on the subject, lest the Union should
go to pieces. Sometimes it wears a profound and mysterious look, as if
it could tell something if it had a mind to, but thought it best not.
Something of the ghost of its father--it was the only child he ever
had!--walking there all the night, pausing at the corners to look up at
the