LITMIR.BIZ

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is the corpse the rain rains on. Sir Piers may be drenched through his leaden covering by such a downfall as that — splash, splash — fire and water and thunder, all together — is not that fine? — ha, ha! The heavens will weep for him, though friends shed not a tear. When did a great man’s heir feel sympathy for his sire’s decease? When did his widow mourn? When doth any man regret his fellow? Never! He rejoiceth — he maketh glad in his inmost heart — he cannot help it — it is nature. We all pray for — we all delight in each other’s destruction. We were created to do so; or why else should we act thus? I never wept for any man’s death, but I have often laughed. Natural sympathy! — out on the phrase! The distant heavens — the senseless trees — the impenetrable stones — shall regret you more than man shall bewail your death with more sincerity. Ay, ’tis well — rain on — splash, splash: it will cool the hell-fever. Down, down — buckets and pails, ha, ha!”

      There was a pause, during which the sexton, almost exhausted by the frenzy in which he had suffered himself to be involved, seemed insensible to all around him.

      “I tell you what,” said Burtenshaw to Plant, “I have always thought there was more in Peter Bradley nor appears on the outside. He is not what he seems to be, take my word on it. Lord love you! do you think a man such as he pretends to be could talk in that sort of way — about nat’ral simpering? — no such thing.”

      When Peter recovered, his insane merriment broke out afresh, having only acquired fury by the pause.

      “Look out, look out!” cried he; “hark to the thunder — list to the rain! Marked ye that flash — marked ye the clock-house — and the bird upon the roof? ’tis the rook — the great bird of the house, that hath borne away the soul of the departed. There, there — can you not see it? it sits and croaks through storm and rain, and never heeds at all — and wherefore should it heed? See, it flaps its broad black wings — it croaks — ha, ha! It comes — it comes.”

      And driven, it might be by the terror of the storm, from more secure quarters, a bird, at this instant, was dashed against the window, and fell to the ground.

      “That’s a call,” continued Peter; “it will be over soon, and we must set out. The dead will not need to tarry. Look at that trail of fire along the avenue; dost see yon line of sparkles, like a rocket’s tail? That’s the path the corpse will take. St. Hermes’s flickering fire, Robin Goodfellow’s dancing light, or the blue flame of the corpse-candle, which I saw flitting to the churchyard last week, was not so pretty a sight — ha, ha! You asked me for a song a moment ago — you shall have one now without asking.”

      And without waiting to consult the inclinations of his comrades, Peter broke into the following wild strain with all the fervor of a half-crazed improvisatore:

      THE CORPSE-CANDLE

       Lambere flamma ταφος et circum funera pasci.

      Through the midnight gloom did a pale blue light

       To the churchyard mirk wing its lonesome flight:—

       Thrice it floated those old walls round —

       Thrice it paused — till the grave it found.

       Over the grass-green sod it glanced,

       Over the fresh-turned earth it danced,

       Like a torch in the night-breeze quivering —

       Never was seen so gay a thing!

       Never was seen so blithe a sight

       As the midnight dance of that blue light!

      Now what of that pale blue flame dost know?

       Canst tell where it comes from, or where it will go?

       Is it the soul, released from clay,

       Over the earth that takes its way,

       And tarries a moment in mirth and glee

       Where the corse it hath quitted interred shall be?

       Or is it the trick of some fanciful sprite,

       That taketh in mortal mischance delight,

       And marketh the road the coffin shall go,

       And the spot where the dead shall be soon laid low?

       Ask him who can answer these questions aright;

       I know not the cause of that pale blue light!

      “I can’t say I like thy song, Master Peter,” said Toft, as the sexton finished his stave, “but if thou didst see a corpse-candle, as thou call’st thy pale blue flame, whose death doth it betoken? — eh!”

      “Thine own,” returned Peter, sharply.

      “Mine! thou lying old cheat — dost dare to say that to my face? Why, I’m as hale and hearty as ever a man in the house. Dost think there’s no life and vigor in this arm, thou drivelling old dotard?”

      Upon which, Toft seized Peter by the throat with an energy that, but for the timely intervention of the company, who rushed to his assistance, the prophet might himself have anticipated the doom he prognosticated.

      Released from the grasp of Toft, who was held back by the bystanders, Peter again broke forth into his eldritch laugh; and staring right into the face of his adversary, with eyes glistening, and hands uplifted, as if in the act of calling down an imprecation on his head, he screamed, in a shrill and discordant voice, “Soh! you will not take my warning? you revile me — you flout me! ’Tis well! your fate shall prove a warning to all unbelievers —they shall remember this night, though you will not. Fool! fool! — your doom has long been sealed! I saw your wraith choose out its last lodgment on Halloween; I know the spot. Your grave is dug already — ha, ha!” And, with renewed laughter, Peter rushed out of the room.

      “Did I not caution thee not to provoke him, friend Toft?” said Plant; “it’s ill playing with edge-tools; but don’t let him fly off in that tantrum — one of ye go after him.”

      “That will I,” replied Burtenshaw; and he departed in search of the sexton.

      “I’d advise thee to make it up with Peter so soon as thou canst, neighbor,” continued Plant; “he’s a bad friend, but a worse enemy.”

      “Why, what harm can he do me?” returned Toft, who, however, was not without some misgivings. “If I must die, I can’t help it — I shall go none the sooner for him, even if he speak the truth, which I don’t think he do; and if I must, I sha’n’t go unprepared — only I think as how, if it pleased Providence, I could have wished to keep my old missus company some few years longer, and see those bits of lasses of mine grow up into women, and respectably provided for. But His will be done. I sha’n’t leave ’em quite penniless, and there’s one eye at least, I’m sure, won’t be dry at my departure.” Here the stout heart of Toft gave way, and he shed some few “natural tears,” which, however, he speedily brushed away. “I’ll tell you what, neighbors,” continued he, “I think we may all as well be thinking of going to our own homes, for, to my mind, we shall never reach the churchyard to-night.”

      “That you never will,” exclaimed a voice behind him; and Toft, turning round, again met the glance of Peter.

      “Come, come, Master Peter,” cried the good-natured farmer, “this be ugly jesting — ax pardon for my share of it — sorry for what I did — so give us thy hand, man, and think no more about it.”

      Peter extended his claw, and the parties were, apparently, once more upon terms of friendship.

      CHAPTER 2

       THE FUNERAL ORATION

       Table of Contents

       In northern customs duty was exprest

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