Bret Harte

“ A commodious mansion which stood on the right of the road as you enter Pultneyville surrounded by stately poplars and a high fence surmounted by a cheval de frise of broken glass, looked to the passing and footsore pedestrian like the genius of seclusion and solitude. ”

“ I live at Pultneyville. I have always had a passion for the marvelous, and have been distinguished for my facility in tracing out mysteries, and solving enigmatical occurrences. On the night of the 17th June, 1845, I left my office and walked homeward. The night was bright and starlight. I was revolving in my mind the words of a singular item I had just read in the Times. I had reached the darkest portion of the road, and found myself mechanically repeating: “An elderly gentleman a week ago left his lodgings on the Kent Road,” when suddenly I heard a step behind me. ”

“ I have been requested to tell my story in my own langwidge, though, being no schollard, mind cannot conceive. I think my master is a brute. Do not know that he has ever attempted to poison my missus—which is too good for him, and how she ever came to marry him, heart only can tell—but believe him to be capable of any such hatrosity. Have heard him swear dreadful because of not having his shaving water at 9 o’clock precisely. Do not know whether he ever forged a will or tried to get my missus’ property although, not having confidence in the man, should not be surprised if he had done so. ”