Prevod
V časih, ko je večina New Yorka ležala južno od Grand Street, je neki veseljaški možakar vsak večer obhodil krčme v družbi prijatelja po imenu Rooney. Ta junaški pivec je bil Dirck Van Dara, eden zadnjih trebušastih žlampavcev, ki so se s tako slovesno resnobnostjo predajali veseljačenju, preden so Angleži zavzeli njihovo miroljubno mesto. Naneslo je, da sta se Dirck in njegov pajdaš neko noč zadržala zunaj dlje kot navadno, in ob enajstih, ko so bili vsi pošteni ljudje že v posteljah, je začelo pršeti, tako da so se stražniki zavlekli spat v veže, Broadway pa je ostal povsem pust. Ko sta se vrla veseljačka primajala iz krčme blizu Wall Street in videla, kako v oknih točilnice ugašajo luči, sta se napotila proti severu, domov na Leonard Street, a komaj sta prišla do stare cerkve svetega Pavla, ju je ustavil nenavaden prizor: s cerkvenega pokopališča se je slišal jok, med grobovi pa je sijala fosforescentna svetloba. Rooney se je v hipu streznil, ne pa tudi Dirck Van Dara, ki je zavpil: »Tule bo zabava, prijatelj Rooney. Preplezajva zid. Če so mrtvi za ples, si bova izbrala soplesalki in jim pokazala, kako se dandanes plešejo golobja krilca.«
»Ne,« je vzkliknil drugi, »kdor gre med mrtve, ko ti vstanejo iz grobov, je pogubljen. Slišal sem, da moraš, če jim padeš v kremplje, ostati v vicah sto let, in noben duhovnik te ne more z molitvijo spraviti od tam.«
»Bah! Babje čenče! Pridi!« Potegnil je prijatelja za seboj in že sta bila čez ograjo. »Oho! Kaj pa imamo tukaj?« Ko je to izgovoril, se je izza nagrobnika dvignila shujšana prikazen, čarovnici podobno bitje, ki so mu cunje visele okoli usahlega telesa, lasje pa so mu skoraj povsem zakrivali obraz. Žvepleni hlapi so oba pripravili do kihanja in Rooney je pozneje prisegal, da so bila na drugem koncu pokopališča drobna bitja z režečimi se obrazi in lučkami na konicah repov. Stari holandski džin hitro stopi v glavo. Dirck je začel starko zbadati zaradi njenega razcapanega videza, a ga je utišala tako, da je iz kotla za seboj zajela neko tekočino in jo zlila po obeh obiskovalcih. Kar koli je že bilo, je peklo kakor ogenj, in z bolečim krikom sta preskočila zid precej živahneje kot prej v nasprotno smer ter jo kmalu na vso moč ucvrla. Nista še prišla daleč, ko je ura odbila dvanajst.
»Joj! Cela tropa jih gre za nama,« je zasopel Rooney. »Sveta Marija! Slišal sem, da si, če umreš polit s čarovniško brozgo, pogubljen tako na onem svetu kakor na tem. Pojdiva k očetu Donaganu. Au!«
Ob tem vzkliku je ubežnikoma zastavila pot ženska, ki ju je pogledala z nespodobnim pogledom in rekla: »Dirck Van Dara, tvoj oče nas je z lasuljo in čopom najprej namočil v Collectu, nato pa nas, ciprijanke, izgnal iz New Yorka. A mu odpustimo, in da bi to dokazale, te vabimo na naše slavje.«
Ob udarcu polnoči je ulico pred cerkvijo preplavila pisana množica, ki se je zdaj bližala in mahala z baklami, bleščečimi kakor zvezde. Sklenili so krog okoli Dircka in začeli plesati, on pa je brez pomišljanja zgrabil nimfo, ki ga je ogovorila, ter se pridružil rajanju. Razen njih ni bilo nikogar zunaj ali budnega in nobena beseda ni bila izrečena, medtem ko je ples postajal vse bolj divji ob zvokih srhljivih, nevidnih glasbil. Tu in tam je kdo pritisnil baklo ob Dirckovo telo in ga zahrbtno napadel od zadaj, pekoča bolečina pa ga je pripravila do še živahnejšega poskakovanja. Naposled so se kakor po tihem dogovoru obrnili proti Batteryju in v razposajenem diru odrajali po ulici. Rooney, čigar čuti so bili dotlej ujeti v omamo, je s krikom groze pobegnil, in ko se je ozrl, je videl, kako nesveta druščina izginja v megli kakor premikajoča se galaksija. Od tiste noči Dircka Van Data nihče več ni videl niti ni slišal o njem, krčmarji pa so čutili, da imajo zdaj manj razlogov za življenje.
Izvirnik
In the days when most of New York stood below Grand Street, a roistering fellow used to make the rounds of the taverns nightly, accompanied by a friend named Rooney. This brave drinker was Dirck Van Dara, one of the last of those swag-bellied topers that made merry with such solemnity before the English seized their unoffending town. It chanced that Dirck and his chum were out later than usual one night, and by eleven o'clock, when all good people were abed, a drizzle set in that drove the watch to sleep in doorways and left Broadway tenantless. As the two choice spirits reeled out of a hostelry near Wall Street and saw the lights go out in the tap-room windows they started up town to their homes in Leonard Street, but hardly had they come abreast of old St. Paul's when a strange thing stayed them: crying was heard in the churchyard and a phosphorescent light shone among the tombs. Rooney was sober in a moment, but not so Dirck Van Dara, who shouted, “Here is sport, friend Rooney. Let's climb the wall. If the dead are for a dance, we will take partners and show them how pigeons' wings are cut nowadays.”
“No,” exclaimed the other; “those must perish who go among the dead when they come out of their graves. I've heard that if you get into their clutches, you must stay in purgatory for a hundred years, and no priest can pray you out.”
“Bah! old wives' tales! Come on!” And pulling his friend with him, they were over the fence. “Hello! what have we here?” As he spoke a haggard thing arose from behind a tombstone, a witchlike creature, with rags falling about her wasted form and hair that almost hid her face. The twain were set a-sneezing by the fumes of sulphur, and Rooney swore afterwards that there were little things at the end of the yard with grinning faces and lights on the ends of their tails. Old Hollands are heady. Dirck began to chaff the beldam on her dilapidation, but she stopped his talk by dipping something from a caldron behind her and flinging it over both of her visitors. Whatever it was, it burned outrageously, and with a yell of pain they leaped the wall more briskly than they had jumped it the other way, and were soon in full flight. They had not gone far when the clock struck twelve.
“Arrah! there's a crowd of them coming after,” panted Rooney. “Ave Mary! I've heard that if you die with witch broth being thrown over you, you're done for in the next world, as well as this. Let us get to Father Donagan's. Wow!”
As he made this exclamation the fugitives found their way opposed by a woman, who looked at them with immodest eyes and said, “Dirck Van Dara, your sire, in wig and bob, turned us Cyprians out of New York, after ducking us in the Collect. But we forgive him, and to prove it we ask you to our festival.”
At the stroke of midnight the street before the church had swarmed with a motley throng, that now came onward, waving torches that sparkled like stars. They formed a ring about Dirck and began to dance, and he, nothing loth, seized the nymph who had addressed him and joined in the revel. Not a soul was out or awake except themselves, and no words were said as the dance went wilder to strains of weird and unseen instruments. Now and then one would apply a torch to the person of Dirck, meanly assailing him in the rear, and the smart of the burn made him feet it the livelier. At last they turned toward the Battery as by common consent, and went careering along the street in frolic fashion. Rooney, whose senses had thus far been pent in a stupor, fled with a yell of terror, and as he looked back he saw the unholy troop disappearing in the mist like a moving galaxy. Never from that night was Dirck Van Data seen or heard of more, and the publicans felt that they had less reason for living.
