The Ghost of Dosoris

[Curly]

I just read about this very old ghost story. This is for you Nassau folks. Back in the 17th - 18th century there was a large parcel of land (Right near Glen Cove) that was called Dosoris. Its name in broken Latin means "the wifes dowery".

Back in the 18th century there was a gentleman that lived in Dosoris that was considered the areas drunk/hellraiser. He was always seen around the area riding a horse and drunk and disorderly. The resident wildman, disappeared for a while but was eventually found dead at the base of a large tree where he drank himself to death. Soon, folks began seeing strange things at night.

Folks say his ghost still rides at night. What used to be called Dosoris Lane (Now Lattington Rd) has its very own ghost. It is said that the hellraiser rides at night along the road, flying as fast as his horse can go, drinking and laughing as he goes. He passes over the old rock bridge that passes over Flagg Brook and continues toward the end of the road. as he approachs a large tree and the end of the line, his apperition enters the tree and disappears. The tree under which he was found dead. What has come to be known as the "Drinking Tree".

I thought it was a good, little known story. I wonder exactly where this is? Is the bridge still there? The tree? Anyone know anything about the story and or area?

[Toyandgadgetguy]

Interesting story!

[nocturnal396]

Very interesting! I'd love to know where this place is too, could be fun to check out one day when i'm bored and have some gas to burn.

[Curly]

I got the spot wrong. The tree stood at the end of Dosoris Lane where it meets Lattington Rd. Heres the Google of it...

[lubby]

i'd like to check this out too

[urethra franklin]

I've never heard this story, but those roads up in Glen Cove and Lattingtown can be spooky as hell at night. My dad grew up in Glen Cove and used to tell us ghost stories like that all the time, I bet he heard this one at some point.

In the late 20th century, there was a gentleman named urethra franklin who was known to get drunk and raise hell on the beach at Welwyn, just south of Dosoris Island on that sat image

[D E Russell]

The ghost story relative to Dosoris was one of several short stories written by John Treat Irving (nephew of Washington Irving), teh first of which was published in the 1830's. Several of them take place in the Dosoris-Glen Cove area. They were assembled later into an anthology called "The Van Gelder Papers." (The title is a bit of a printer's joke... Van Gelder paper was a quality of printing paper back in the 1830's.) This particular story was entitled Zadoc Town.

It contains the classic line about Glen Cove (then called Musketa Cove):

what Musquito Cove did not know was not worth knowing, and what Musquito Cove did not possess
was not worth possessing - unless it might be the money of other people.

On the whole, the stories are all of a "Legend of Sleepy Hollow" bent... "Ralph Craft" deals with a man bedeviled by a termagant wife, who sics Satan himself on her;"Nick Wansor's Adventure" involves the ghosts of Captain Kidd's crewmates still searching for his treasure (which legend claims was buried in Glen Cove or Port Washington... but then, no self-respecting waterfront community doesn't have its own legend of Kidd's treasure being buried within its borders).

Since Halloween is fast approaching, I'd be more than happy to post the whole short story. He was a fairly decent writer.

[The Commish]

D E, welcome to Bygone, I'd love to hear more....

[D E Russell]

Zadoc Town
by John Treat Irving



Dosoris Lane was a retired road, about a mile in length, in some parts running through open woodland, and in others so completely embowered in trees that twilight reigned there even at mid-day. There was a dreamy stillness about the place, which was apt to conjure up odd fancies in the mind of the loiterer, and he might have fancied himself in an old abbey, as he looked among the columned tree trunks, and the green arches overhead, until startled from his revery by the shrill cry of the blue-jaw, or the workmanlike tap of the woodpecker, as he scrambled around a tree trunk. Here and there a ray of sunlight, struggling through the overhanging branches, or the matted grape-vines which clambered over them, would stream across the road, or lie in golden flecks upon the dead leaves which strewed the ground.

Such at that time was Dosoris Lane, and even at the present day it retains much of its primitive character. The tide of travel, which has found its way to these regions, filling them with the hum of life, seems in a great measure to have spared this road. In earlier times, however, quiet and dreamlike as it seemed in the daytime, no spot was more astir than this after nightfall. Elves and spirits, and goblins of all denominations made it their haunt, and tales of unearthly doings which were taking place there, were rife throughout the country. At one time the ghost of a hard-drinking miller was seen galloping up and down the lane, astride of a huge demijohn which he was spurring, like a fiery charger — no doubt a retaliation for the spur which it had so often applied to him in his lifetime — always disappearing at a great tree, at the foot of which he had drank himself to death, and which, in commemoration of that event, is called the drinking tree to this day.

At another time, the ghost of one Billy Cowles — who had died long before of asthma — was seen patrolling the place. Billy was buried in a graveyard near by; and it was generally rumored that he was in search of breath, as he wheezed as he hurried along, and was always seen with his coat open, his shirt collar thrown back, and an old cravat in his hand.

These, and a number of other characters of the same kidney, made this vicinity their rendezvous, and many a strange prank and gambol was carried on there, until the place gained an evil name; wayfarers began to take a wide circuit to avoid its ill-omened neighborhood; the grass began to grow in its wagon track, and bold, indeed, was he who would venture to brave its perils after nightfall.

Just about this time, the place fell under the domination of one Parson Woolsey, a stern old clergyman and a large landholder, who looked narrowly after his own interests, and kept the whole country round in wholesome subjection. Neither ghost nor man was permitted to cross his path; loud prayer exercised the former, and a strong arm a long purse, and a rigid determination to enforce his own rights, kept the latter in his place.

The resolute old clergyman carried matters with a high hand until he died. He was buried under the shade of his own forests, where his gravestone still stands half eaten away by time and overrun by weeds and briars, with a figure of the sturdy parson in full canonicals carved on the top, scowling from the midst of a bag wig, and apparently keeping a grim watch over the precincts.

After his death his lands passed into the hands of a more degenerate race, and once more the powers of the air were rampant.

Not a great while after this, a person of no small repute, named Zadoc Town, dwelt in this neighborhood. He had come there a few years before from parts unknown. He was a thin, keen man, with sharp features and a pair of restless black eyes, placed so close to his nose that they seemed intended to look straight forward and in no other direction. Musquito Cove had been a quiet place enough before his arrival, dozing away under the weight of its own antiquity, believing in nothing, and looking upon all its greatness as departed from the earth when Parson Woolsey was buried, and somewhat disposed to think, as all shrewd towns are apt to do, that what Musquito Cove did not know was not worth knowing, and what Musquito Cove did not possess was not worth possessing — unless it might be the money of other people. But when Zadoc came he stirred them up; he removed the veil from their eyes, and soon had the town in a turmoil. He took up his abode on a narrow by-road at a short distance from the village, in a precise-looking house with green shutters, in which two holes were cut like eyes, giving the house as keen and wide-awake a look as its owner.

Here he dwelt under the shadow of two poplar trees, and of a sister as keen and straightforward in aspect as himself, and for whose energetic spirit and sharp tongue, it was said, he had a very wary deference.

Be that as it may, any restraint that he suffered at home only rendered him more restless abroad. He was here and there, up to his eyes in every man's matters; he called public meetings; he demonstrated to them the size of the world outside of the village; he denounced Quakerdom, then the prevailing epidemic of the place ; he talked of establishing schools, newspapers, periodicals, and banks; he failed in all! but succeeded in forming a fire insurance company, of which he was the president, and had all the honor, while a tight-fisted old farmer was made treasurer, and kept the funds in a stone pot buried in his cellar, whence he dug them up and counted them every night after saying his prayers and just before going to bed.

It happened shortly after Zadoc had been installed in his new office, that he had been passing an afternoon with an old friend named Tommy Croft, who lived at Buckram. Tommy was a sturdy, weather-beaten veteran, resembling in strength and toughness one of the oaks of his own woods. In his youth he had been a double-jointed, hard-fisted fellow, who could cudgel it with any man of his inches. He was noted for believing in no law but what he carried in his own arm, and for doubting every one's opinion but his own; and although a Quaker, and of course a hater of broils, it was whispered that he and his cudgel were sometimes at variance, and that his cudgel did not always carry out the precepts that he advocated. Be that as it may, he was a favorite with all; for he was frank, open-hearted, and never stubborn, except when he could not have his own way, and as Zadoc, though restless and persevering, was pliant, there was no collision between them — they were fast friends.

Zadoc had been passing the afternoon with his friend, and being tempted by Tommy's strong cider to linger longer than was his wont, the two sat gossiping at the door of the house, until the setting sun warned Zadoc that it was time to turn his face homeward. So taking his leave, he set out, and Tommy, with his cudgel under his arm, accompanied him several miles on his way. But at last the darkness, which increased as they went, rendering the road obscure, indicated to him that it was time to return, and bidding Zadoc “God-speed” he left him just as he was approaching the perilous regions of Dosoris.

Zadoc was pot-valiant just then, for at least a quart of Tommy's cider was buttoned tinder his jacket, distending his stomach and humming through his head, until he felt himself a match for the largest ghost that ever made Dosoris its haunt.

The principal scourge of this lane, of late years, had been the apparition of one Derrick Wilkinson, a hard-riding horse-jockey, who had broken his neck about twenty years before, and was said to patrol the lane from one end to the other, and even to waylay wayfarers, and at times to cudgel them soundly, and at others to lead them into all sorts of wild adventures.

Among others, there was a tale current that he had beset a hard-headed old negro, named Knot, as he was reeling homeward from a husking frolic, somewhat the worse for his potations, and had led him a helter-skelter chase, all night long, through bush and brier; at one time dragging him through the swamp, at the head of Flag Brook, and at another, ducking him in the Dosoris mill-pond, paying no regard to his entreaties for rest, but as he became weary, plying him with a fiery liquor of such potency as to keep up his strength and courage, and make him as reckless as the goblin himself; and that the negro had been banged about in this rakehelly manner, until the distant crow of a cock gave warning of the approach of day. The ghost then dashed at a tremendous rate into the fastnesses of Boggy Swamp, and with a loud yell, disappeared, not forgetting to bestow a hearty thwack on the head of Knot, which left him senseless. The story was laughed at by the young and incredulous; but the older inhabitants, who had grown gray and wise with their years, placed implicit faith in the tale. They had lived long in the world, and bad amassed a great fund of experience; and the most of them recollected that when they were boys, ghosts and hobgoblins were plenty. Moreover, it was certain that Knot was found on the morning after the adventures, lying at the foot of a large tree in Boggy Swamp, very drunk no doubt from the effects of the miraculous liquor, and very much stupefied-doubtless from the effects of the blow.

From this time, Knot became a standard authority on all subjects relating to the unseen world. From that date, too, Dosoris became more of a wizard lane than ever.

[D E Russell]

Zadoc Town had been one of Knot's most virulent opponents, and had once or twice, in broad daylight, and under the wing of his sister, openly avowed his utter disbelief of the whole story, and had even said that he would like to catch Derrick stopping him, "that was all."

Returning Tommy's salutation in a tone as valiant as his own, he strode boldly into the lane. It was not long, however, before the fumes of the cider began to evaporate, and as they disappeared, certain vague apprehensions took the place of the false courage which had so far supported him. All the tales which he had heard came crowding into his mind, He remembered, too, his own vaporings about ghosts and hobgoblins, and particularly about Derrick, and was not a little cowed at the recollection of the rash courage which he had showed in daylight. He kept a stealthy watch on the dim hedges at the roadside, and several times fancied that he saw a dusky figure flitting before him, but it always proved to be a bush or a rock. There was no sound to break the echo of his own footfall, except the creaking noise of the thousand insects which darkness had awakened into life. He cleared his throat loudly, and looked up towards the sky, but the interlaced branches shut out the stars, and overhead it looked as black as midnight. The sides of the road, too, were completely shut in by trees over-run by scrambling vines. He began to doubt whether it would not be better to retrace his steps, and spend the night under the hospitable roof of Tommy Croft; but he recollected the shrill-tongued sister at home, who had set her face against vagabondizing and rantipoling of all kinds, under both of which heads she particularly classed all indulgencies which conduced to irregularity or lateness of hours. Zadoc thought of this. If he braved the dark lane, he might escape its perils; if he did not, a warm reception at home was certain. “Egad,” thought he, “if I had but Betsey Town here to back me, I'd like to see Derrick tackle her! He'd catch a Tartar!”

Had he been elsewhere, he would have chuckled at the idea of such an encounter; but it was no time nor place for laughing, for he was at the very spot where the ghost was said to make its appearance, and he was debating in his mind as to the propriety of taking to his heels, when he was arrested by a voice at the roadside calling out: “Mr. Town, I'm waiting for you.”

Zadoc's knees shook under him, but before he could rouse himself, he was jerked off his feet, and whisked over the fence by a power which he could not resist.

“Follow!” said the voice. Zadoc saw in front of him the dim outline of a figure gliding swiftly through bush and brier, stopping at no impediment, and also felt himself impelled to follow. As they glided along through an opening in the wood he obtained a better view of his guide, and, to his horror, recognized the small jockey-cap, the lank, straight hair, and gray, glittering eyes of Derrick Wilkinson.

The cold perspiration stood on his forehead and his terror was not a little increased by hearing a heavy footstep following. He cast a stealthy glance over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of a figure as far behind as the other was before him. All hope of retreat was cut off, and, muttering a kind of rambling prayer, Zadoc followed the spectre until they came to a large tree at the head of Flag Brook. Here the ghost stopped, and, turning short around, glided up to Zadoc, and said, in a very respectful tone:

“Mr. Town, in starlight and storm, many a weary night I've waited for you. I’m Derrick Wilkinson! Be seated, sir.”

This confirmation of his previous knowledge was by no means consolatory. Derrick had always been a harem-scarem dare-devil during his lifetime, and Zadoc had strong misgivings that death might not have improved his character. He recollected, too, Knot's adventure, and his heart died within him. He, however, slid to the ground, as directed, and at the same time attempted to express some satisfaction at the desire evinced for his company, but the words stuck in his throat, and he could only move his lips without speaking.

“I'm told you've got up in the world since I left it,” said Derrick, by way of opening the conversation and of putting his companion at his ease.

Zadoc was wary, and as he did not understand the purport of the remark, he made a very non-committal answer.

“You've been a very busy man in the village,” said the apparition; “you've made great changes.”

“I've tried to do my duty,” replied Zadoc, deprecatingly, at the same time endeavoring to change his position in such a way as to catch sight of the other figure, which had followed at his heels, and which he now observed under a tree close by, apparently ready to back his fellow goblin in any unearthly project which he might have on foot.

“You have, Mr.Town, and I honor you for it,” replied Goblin, with strong emphasis. “I take a strong interest in the 'Cove' even yet. There were the Cowles and the Crofts and the Dyers and the Blarcoms and the Smiths and the Howlets, and dozens of others. They were rare boys in my day.”

“They are all dead and gone,” said Zadoc, as, beginning to feel less nervous, he grew more loquacious.

“I see most of them every day,” replied Goblin. “One or two of them have gone elsewhere; but I meet nearly all of them constantly. In fact, they sent me to see you.,”

Zadoc's hair began to bristle, for he had not imagined that this visitation was a concerted project of all the defunct worthies of the county. He made no reply, but sat with every sense on the alert, for he observed the attendant goblin drawing still nearer; and was apprehensive lest he might represent another of the departed worthies.

“Rumors of the great good that you have done have reached even us,” continued the ghost in a tone which was intended to be insinuating, but which, owing to the flimsy texture of its owner, was rather asthmatic.

Zadoc remained taciturn.

“We've heard among other things, that you've formed a company to insure against fire. Fire is a dreadful calamity, Mr. Town.”

“Very,” replied Zadoc.

“Fires are very prevalent where we are,” said the ghost; “in fact, they are the greatest drawbacks to the place. We all suffer from them.”

Zadoc moved uneasily in his seat.

“I think you insure against fire, Mr. Town; don't you?“

For a brief moment he felt that he was president of the insurance company, and here was a chance of turning an honest penny. He replied in the affirmative with some alacrity, and began to recapitulate the terms.

“Do you think, Mr. Town,” said Goblin, assuming a winning tone, and endeavoring to coax up a smile on his sinister features, “that you could insure us?”

“You?”

“Yes, me,” replied the Goblin, “and your other friends.”

“Against what?” inquired Zadoc.
“Fire. It's very warm where we live,” replied he; “and I've leave of absence till cockcrow. We thought that if we could get insured during the night, we would snap our fingers when I go back. We don't mind money, and it would be a praiseworthy act on your part to outwit ‘Old Scratch!’ It tells greatly in a man's favor to annoy the old gentleman, and that would, I can assure you. I know him well.”

Here was a dilemma; and Zadoc felt that his present position required adroit management.

“You don't mean to say” said he, evasively, “that all those respectable people — very respectable people — have gone to the dev-"

“Sir!” said the Goblin, “don't be uncivil, Sir! Wherever they are, I mean to say that the climate doesn't agree with them — being rather too tropical. I mean, too, that they want to be insured against fire. Do I make myself understood?”

There was something too positive in his manner to permit of further equivocation. Zadoc muttered something about his being unable to insure out of the county without consulting the stockholders, and that he feared the risk was “extra-hazardous”.

The goblin's eyes fairly glowed with fury as he said: “Refuse, if you dare! You are mine till cock-crow. Will you insure?”

Zadoc closed his eyes and muttered a prayer. The idea of getting the ill-will of the “Old Boy” by interfering between him and his property was not to be thought of for an instant, and he shook his head.

“Ha!” exclaimed the goblin, gnashing his teeth, “then here's at you.”

“And here's at thee!” exclaimed a voice behind him. “Ghost or devil, take that!” At the same time a heavy cudgel was flourished in the air; it descended on what appeared to be the very head of the goblin, and cleaving through bead and body hit hard against the ground. There was a bright flash, a puff of sulphurous smoke, and Zadoc found himself alone in the presence of his deliverer, Tommy Croft.

“Thee was hard beset, Zadoc,” said Tommy, “and thee was wrong in saying goblins ‘ere agin natur'; but thee withstood that fellow as thee should. I 'm very sorry, however, to hear that so many of our respected friends have got into such unpleasant quarters. Thee won't laugh at Old Knot again. It's very sartain I never saw so unsolid a thing as that goblin. The stick went clean through him, as if he was smoke. Pah! he smells like burnt gunpowder. Come Zadoc, let's be moving.”

Taking Zadoc under one arm and his trusty cudgel under the other, Tommy tramped through the woods and across the fields; nor did he relinquish the guardianship of his friend until he had seen him fairly housed beneath his own roof and under the vinegar eye of Sister Betsey, where he felt certain that neither goblin nor “Old Nick” himself would be hardy enough to disturb him.