06 - PD Goth by Various

Immerse yourself in a chilling collection of eerie tales carefully selected from the vast library of Project Gutenberg, brought to life through the captivating narration of BellonaTimes.

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:01):
Section six of p D. Goth This is a LibriVox recording.
All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more
information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. This
recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. The
Last Revel in Prince Hall by Charles M. Skinner young Man,

(00:28):
I'll give thee five dollars a week to be caretaker
in Prince Hall, said Quaker Quidd to fiddler Matthews on
an autumn evening. Young Matthews had just been taunting the
old gentleman with being afraid to sleep on his own domain,
and as the eyes of all the tavern loungers were
on him, he could hardly decline so flattering a proposition,

(00:50):
So after some hemming and hawing, he said he would
take the Quaker at his word. He played but two
or three more tunes that evening, did Peter Matthews, and
played them rather sadly. Then, as Quid had finished his
mulled cider and departed, he took his homeward way in
thoughtful mood. Prince Hall stood in a lonely weed grown

(01:11):
garden near Chester, Pennsylvania, and thither repaired. Peter as next
day's twilight shut down with a mattress, blanket, comestibles, his
beloved fiddle, and a flask of whiskey. Ensconcing himself in
the room that was least depressing in appearance, he stuffed
rag into the vacant panes, lighted a candle, started a

(01:33):
blaze in the fireplace, and ate his supper. Not so
bad a place, after all, mumbled Peter, as he warmed
himself at the fire and the flask. Then, taking out
his violin, he began to play the echo of his
music emphasized the emptiness of the house. The damp got
into the string so that they sounded tubby, and there

(01:56):
were unintentional quavers in the melody whenever the trees swung
againgainst the windows and splashed them with rain, or when
a distant shutter fell a creaking. Finally, he stirred the fire,
bolted the door, snuffed his candle, took a courageous pull
at the liquor, flung off his coat and shoes, rolled
his blanket around him, stretched himself on the mattress, and

(02:19):
fell asleep. He was awakened by well, he could not
say what exactly. Only he became suddenly as wide awake
as ever he had been in his life, and listened
for some sound that he knew was going to come
out of the roar of the wind and the slamming,
grating and whistling about the house. Yes, there it was

(02:43):
a tread and a clank on the stair. The door
so tightly bolted flew open, and there entered a dark
figure with steeple, crowned hat, cloak, jack boots, sword and corselet.
The terrified Fidther wanted to howl, but his voice was gone.
I am Peter, Prince, Governor General of his Swedish Majesty's

(03:07):
American colonies, and builder of this house, said the figure.
Tis the night of the autumnal equinox, when my friends
meet here for revel. Take thy fiddle and come play,
but speak not. And whether he wished or no, Peter
was drawn to follow the figure, which he could make

(03:29):
out by the phosphor gleam of it. Downstairs they went,
doors swinging open before them, and along corridors that clanked
to the stroke of the specter's boot heels. Now they
came to the ancient reception room, and as they entered it.
Peter was dazzled. The floor was smooth, with wax logs

(03:49):
snapping in the fireplace. Though the flame was somewhat blue,
the old hangings and portraits looked fresh, and in the
light of wax candles. A hundred people in the brave
array of old times walked, courtesied, and seemed to laugh
and talk together. As the fiddler appeared, every eye was
turned on him in a disquieting way, And when he

(04:13):
addressed himself to his bottle, from every throat came a
hollow laugh. Finding his way to a chair, he sank
into it and put his instrument in position. At the
first note, the couples took hands, and as he struck
into a jig, they began to circle, swiftly, leaping wondrous high.

(04:33):
Faster went the music. For the whiskey was at work
in Peter's noddle, and wilder grew the dance. It was
as if the storm had come in through the windows
and was blowing these people hither and yon around and around.
The fiddler vaguely wondered at himself, for he had never
played so well, though he had never heard the tune before.

(04:54):
Now loomed Governor printz in the middle of the room,
and extending his hand, he ordered the dance to see
thou hast played well, fiddler, he said, and shalt be paid. Then,
at his signal came two nigro men tugging at a
strong box that prints unlocked. It was filled with gold pieces.

(05:15):
Hold thy fiddle bag, commanded the Governor, and Peter did so,
watching open mouthed the transfer of a double handful of
treasure from box to sack. Another such handful followed, and
another at the fourth. Peter could no longer contain himself.
He forgot the injunction not to speak, and shouted gleefully,

(05:38):
Lord Harry, here's luck. There was a shriek of demon laughter.
The scene was lost in darkness, and Peter fell insensible.
In the morning, a tavern haunting friend, anxious to know
if Peter had met with any adventure, entered the house
and went cautiously from room to room, calling on the

(05:58):
watcher to show himself. There was no response. At last
he stumbled on the whiskey bottle empty and knew that
Peter must be near. Sure enough, there he lay in
the great room, with dust and mold thick on everything.
And his fiddles smashed into a thousand pieces. Peter, on

(06:19):
being awakened, looked ruefully about him, then sprang up and
eagerly demanded his money. What money, asked his friend. The
fiddler clutched at his green bag, opened it, shook it.
There was nothing, nor was there any delay in Peter's
exit from that mansion. And when, twenty four hours after

(06:41):
the house went up in flames, he averred that the
coasts had set it afire, and that he knew where
they had brought their coals from. End of Section six