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Some Famous Ghosts Of The National Capitol

(Philadelphia _Press_, Oct. 2, 1898)

The Capitol at Washington is probably the most thoroughly haunted
building in the world.

Not less than fifteen well-authenticated ghosts infest it, and some of
them are of a more than ordinarily alarming character.

What particularly inspires this last remark is the fact that the Demon
Cat is said to have made its appearance again, after many years of
absence. This is a truly horrific apparition, and no viewless specter
such as the invisible grimalkin that even now trips people up on the
stairs of the old mansion which President Madison and his wife, Dolly,
occupied, at the corner of Eighteenth Street and New York Avenue, after
the White House was burned by the British. That, indeed, is altogether
another story; but the feline spook of the Capitol possesses attributes
much more remarkable, inasmuch as it has the appearance of an ordinary
pussy when first seen, and presently swells up to the size of an
elephant before the eyes of the terrified observer.

The Demon Cat, in whose regard testimony of the utmost seeming
authenticity was put on record thirty-five years ago, has been missing
since 1862. One of the watchmen on duty in the building shot at it then,
and it disappeared. Since then, until now, nothing more has been heard
of it, though one or two of the older policemen of the Capitol force
still speak of the spectral animal in awed whispers.

Their work, when performed in the night, requires more than ordinary
nerve, inasmuch as the interior of the great structure is literally
alive with echoes and other suggestions of the supernatural. In the
daytime, when the place is full of people and the noises of busy life,
the professional guides make a point of showing persons how a whisper
uttered when standing on a certain marble block is distinctly audible at
another point quite a distance away, though unheard in the space

A good many phenomena of this kind are observable in various parts of
the Capitol, and the extent to which they become augmented in
strangeness during the silence of the night may well be conceived. The
silence of any ordinary house is oppressive sometimes to the least
superstitious individual. There are unaccountable noises, and a weird
and eerie sort of feeling comes over him, distracting him perhaps from
the perusal of his book. He finds himself indulging in a vague sense of
alarm, though he cannot imagine any cause for it.

Such suggestions of the supernatural are magnified a thousand fold in
the Capitol, when the watchman pursues his lonely beat through the great
corridors whose immense spaces impress him with a sense of solitariness,
while the shadows thrown by his lantern gather into strange and menacing

One of the most curious and alarming of the audible phenomena observable
in the Capitol, so all the watchmen say, is a ghostly footstep that
seems to follow anybody who crosses Statuary Hall at night. It was in
this hall, then the chamber of the House of Representatives, that John
Quincy Adams died--at a spot indicated now by a brass tablet set in a
stone slab, where stood his desk. Whether or not it is his ghost that
pursues is a question open to dispute, though it is to be hoped that the
venerable ex-President rests more quietly in his grave. At all events,
the performance is unpleasant, and even gruesome for him who walks
across that historic floor, while the white marble statues of dead
statesmen placed around the walls seem to point at him with outstretched
arms derisively. Like the man in Coleridge's famous lines he

"--walks in fear and dread,
Because he knows a frightful fiend doth close behind him tread."

At all events he is uncertain lest such may be the case. And, of course,
the duties of the watchman oblige him, when so assigned, to patrol the
basement of the building, where all sorts of hobgoblins lie in wait.

One of the Capitol policemen was almost frightened out of his wits one
night when a pair of flaming eyes looked out at him from the vaults
under the chamber of the House of Representatives where the wood is
stored for the fires. It was subsequently ascertained that the eyes in
question were those of a fox, which, being chevied through the town, had
sought refuge in the cellar of the edifice occupied by the national
Legislature. The animal was killed for the reason which obliges a white
man to slay any innocent beast that comes under his power.

But, speaking of the steps which follow a person at night across the
floor of Statuary Hall, a bold watchman attempted not long ago to
investigate them on scientific principles. He suspected a trick, and so
bought a pair of rubber shoes, with the aid of which he proceeded to
examine into the question. In the stillness of the night he made a
business of patrolling that portion of the principal Government edifice,
and, sure enough, the footsteps followed along behind him. He cornered
them; it was surely some trickster! There was no possibility for the
joker to get away. But, a moment later, the steps were heard in another
part of the hall; they had evaded him successfully. Similar experiments
were tried on other nights, but they all ended in the same way.

Four years ago there died in Washington an old gentleman who had been
employed for thirty-five years in the Library of Congress. The quarters
of that great book collection, while housed in the Capitol, were
distressingly restricted, and much of the cataloguing was done by the
veteran mentioned in a sort of vault in the sub-cellar. This vault was
crammed with musty tomes from floor to ceiling, and practically no air
was admitted. It was a wonder that he lived so long, but, when he came
to die, he did it rather suddenly. Anyhow, he became paralyzed and
unable to speak, though up to the time of his actual demise he was able
to indicate his wants by gestures. Among other things, he showed plainly
by signs that he wished to be conveyed to the old library.

This wish of his was not obeyed, for reasons which seemed sufficient to
his family, and, finally, he relinquished it by giving up the ghost. It
was afterward learned that he had hidden, almost undoubtedly, $6000
worth of registered United States bonds among the books in his
sub-cellar den--presumably, concealed between the leaves of some of the
moth-eaten volumes of which he was the appointed guardian. Certainly,
there could be no better or less-suspected hiding-place, but this was
just where the trouble came in for the heirs, in whose interest the
books were vainly searched and shaken, when the transfer of the library
from the old to its new quarters was accomplished. The heirs cannot
secure a renewal of the bonds by the Government without furnishing proof
of the loss of the originals, which is lacking, and, meanwhile, it is
said that the ghost of the old gentleman haunts the vault in the
sub-basement which he used to inhabit, looking vainly for the missing

The old gentleman referred to had some curious traits, though he was by
no means a miser--such as the keeping of every burnt match that he came
across. He would put them away in the drawer of his private desk,
together with expired street-car transfers--the latter done up in neat
bundles, with India-rubber bands.

Quite an intimate friend he had, named Twine, who lost his grip on the
perch, so to speak, about six years back. Mr. Twine dwelt during the
working hours of the day in a sort of cage of iron, like that of
Dreyfus, in the basement of the Capitol. As a matter of fact, Dreyfus
does not occupy a cage at all; the notion that he does so arises from a
misunderstanding of the French word "case," which signifies a hut.

However, Twine's cage was a real one of iron wire, and inside of it he
made a business of stamping the books of the library with a mixture made
of alcohol and lampblack. If the observation of casual employees about
the Capitol is to be trusted, Mr. Twine's ghost is still engaged at
intervals in the business of stamping books at the old stand, though his
industry must be very unprofitable since the Government's literary
collection has been moved out of the Capitol.

Ghosts are supposed to appertain most appropriately to the lower
regions, inasmuch as the ancients who described them first consigned
the blessed as well as the damned to a nether world. Consequently, it is
not surprising to find that phantoms of the Capitol are mostly relegated
to the basement.

Exceptions are made in the case of Vice-President Wilson, who, as will
be remembered, died in his room at the Senate end of the building, and
also with respect to John Quincy Adams, whose nocturnal perambulations
are so annoying to the watchmen. Mr. Wilson is only an occasional
visitor on the premises, it is understood, finding his way thither,
probably, when nothing else of importance is "up," so to speak, in the
spiritual realm which now claims him for its own. It is related that on
one occasion he nearly frightened to death a watchman who was guarding
the coffin of a Tennessee Senator who was lying in state in the Senate
Chamber. The startle was doubtless uncontemplated, inasmuch as the
Senator was too well bred a man to take anybody unpleasantly by

There was a watchman, employed quite a while ago as a member of the
Capitol police, who was discharged finally for drunkenness. No faith,
therefore, is to be placed in his sworn statement, which was actually
made, to the effect that on a certain occasion he passed through the old
Hall of Representatives--now Statuary Hall--and saw in session the
Congress of 1848, with John Quincy Adams and many other men whose names
have long ago passed into history. It was, if the word of the witness is
to be believed, a phantom legislative crew, resembling in kind if not in
character the goblins which Rip Van Winkle encountered on his trip to
the summits of the storied Catskills.

But--to come down to things that are well authenticated and sure,
comparatively speaking--the basement of the Capitol, as has been said,
is the part of the building chiefly haunted. Beneath the hall of the
House of Representatives strolls by night a melancholy specter, with
erect figure, a great mustache, and his hands clasped behind him. Who he
is nobody has ever surmised; he might be, judging from his aspect, a
foreigner in the diplomatic service, but that is merely guess. Watchmen
at night have approached him in the belief that he was an intruder, but
he has faded from sight instantly, like a picture on a magic-lantern

At precisely 12.30 of the clock every night, so it is said, the door of
the room occupied by the Committee on Military and Militia of the Senate
opens silently, and there steps forth the figure of General Logan,
recognizable by his long black hair, military carriage, and the hat he
was accustomed to wear in life.

Logan was the chairman of this committee, and, if report be credited, he
is still supervising its duties.

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