LITMIR.BIZ

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      The oration concluded, biscuits and confectionery were, according to old observance, handed to such of the tenantry as chose to partake of them. The serving of the grace-cup, which ought to have formed part of the duties of Zachariah, had he been capable of office, fell to the share of the sexton. The bowl was kissed, first by Ranulph, with lips that trembled with emotion, and afterward by his surrounding friends; but no drop was tasted — a circumstance which did not escape Peter’s observation. Proceeding to the tenantry, the first in order happened to be Farmer Toft. Peter presented the cup, and as Toft was about to drain a deep draught of the wine, Peter whispered in his ear, “Take my advice for once, Friend Toft, and don’t let a bubble of the liquid pass your lips. For every drop of the wine you drain, Sir Piers will have one sin the less, and you a load the heavier on your conscience. Didst never hear of sin-swallowing? For what else was this custom adopted? Seest thou not the cup’s brim hath not yet been moistened? Well, as you will — ha, ha!” And the sexton passed onwards.

      His work being nearly completed, he looked around for Jack Palmer, whom he had remarked during the oration, but could nowhere discover him. Peter was about to place the flagon, now almost drained of its contents, upon its former resting-place, when Small took it from his hands.

      “In poculi fundo residuum non relinque, admonisheth Pythagoras,” said he, returning the empty cup to the sexton.

      “My task here is ended,” muttered Peter, “but not elsewhere. Foul weather or fine, thunder or rain, I must to the church.”

      Bequeathing his final instructions to certain of the household who were to form part of the procession, in case it set out, he opened the hall door, and, the pelting shower dashing heavily in his face, took his way up the avenue, screaming, as he strode along, the following congenial rhymes:

      EPHIALTES

      I ride alone — I ride by night

       Through the moonless air on a courser white!

       Over the dreaming earth I fly,

       Here and there — at my fantasy!

       My frame is withered, my visage old,

       My locks are frore, and my bones ice cold.

       The wolf will howl as I pass his lair,

       The ban-dog moan, and the screech-owl stare.

       For breath, at my coming, the sleeper strains,

       And the freezing current forsakes his veins!

       Vainly for pity the wretch may sue —

       Merciless Mara no prayers subdue!

To his couch I flit — On his breast I sit! Astride! astride! astride! And one charm alone — A hollow stone! —23 Can scare me from his side!

      A thousand antic shapes I take;

       The stoutest heart at my touch will quake.

       The miser dreams of a bag of gold,

       Or a ponderous chest on his bosom rolled.

       The drunkard groans ‘neath a cask of wine;

       The reveller swelts ‘neath a weighty chine.

       The recreant turns, by his foes assailed,

       To flee! — but his feet to the ground are nailed.

       The goatherd dreams of his mountain-tops,

       And, dizzily reeling, downward drops.

      The murderer feels at his throat a knife,

       And gasps, as his victim gasped, for life!

       The thief recoils from the scorching brand;

       The mariner drowns in sight of land!

       Thus sinful man have I power to fray,

       Torture, and rack, but not to slay!

       But ever the couch of purity,

       With shuddering glance, I hurry by.

       Then mount! away! To horse! I say, To horse! astride! astride! The fire-drake shoots — The screech-owl hoots — As through the air I glide!

      * * * * *

23. In reference to this imaginary charm, Sir Thomas Browne observes, in his “Vulgar Errors.” “What natural effects can reasonably be expected, when, to prevent the Ephialtes, or Nightmare, we hang a hollow stone in our stables?” Grose also states, “that a stone with a hole in it, hung at the bed’s head, will prevent the nightmare, and is therefore called a hag-stone.” The belief in this charm still lingers in some districts, and maintains, like the horse-shoe affixed to the barn-door, a feeble stand against the superstition-destroying “march of intellect.”

      CHAPTER 3

       THE CHURCHYARD

       Table of Contents

       Methought I walked, about the mid of night, Into a churchyard.

      Webster: The White Devil.

      Lights streamed through the chancel window as the sexton entered the churchyard, darkly defining all the ramified tracery of the noble Gothic arch, and illumining the gorgeous dyes of its richly-stained glass, profusely decorated with the armorial bearings of the founder of the fane, and the many alliances of his descendants. The sheen of their blazonry gleamed bright in the darkness, as if to herald to his last home another of the line whose achievements it displayed. Glowing colorings, checkered like rainbow tints, were shed upon the broken leaves of the adjoining yew-trees, and upon the rounded grassy tombs.

      Opening the gate, as he looked in that direction, Peter became aware of a dark figure, enveloped in a large black cloak, and covered with a slouched hat, standing at some distance, between the window and the tree, and so intervening as to receive the full influence of the stream of radiance which served to dilate its almost superhuman stature. The sexton stopped. The figure remained stationary. There was something singular both in the costume and situation of the person. Peter’s curiosity was speedily aroused, and, familiar with every inch of the churchyard, he determined to take the nearest cut, and to ascertain to whom the mysterious cloak and hat belonged. Making his way over the undulating graves, and instinctively rounding the headstones that intercepted his path, he quickly drew near the object of his inquiry. From the moveless posture it maintained, the figure appeared to be unconscious of Peter’s approach. To his eyes it seemed to expand as he advanced. He was now almost close upon it, when his progress was arrested by a violent grasp laid on his shoulder. He started, and uttered an exclamation of alarm. At this moment a vivid flash of lightning illumined the whole churchyard, and Peter then thought he beheld, at some distance from him, two other figures, bearing upon their shoulders a huge chest, or, it might be, a coffin. The garb of these figures, so far as it could be discerned through the drenching rain, was fantastical in the extreme. The foremost seemed to have a long white beard descending to his girdle. Little leisure, however, was allowed Peter for observation. The vision no sooner met his glance than it disappeared, and nothing was seen but the glimmering tombstones — nothing heard but the whistling wind and the heavily-descending shower. He rubbed his eyes. The muffled figure had vanished, and not a trace could be discovered of the mysterious coffin-bearers, if such they were.

      “What have I seen?” mentally ejaculated Peter: “is this sorcery or treachery, or both? No body-snatchers would visit this place on a night like this, when the whole neighborhood is aroused. Can it be a vision I have seen? Pshaw! shall I juggle myself as I deceive these hinds? It was no bearded demon that I beheld, but the gipsy patrico, Balthazar. I knew him at once. But what meant that muffled figure; and whose arm could it have been that griped my shoulder? Ha! what

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