Part 10

"It is not long since one of the female inhabitants of these frantic territories gave the following occasion for a very pleasing entertainment. Some bricklayers happened to be at work here, to repair and clean the passage leading to the common sewer; who going to dinner, and leaving the ladder which descended to it, standing, the said unfortunate inhabitant had a sort of an odd notion, that the workmen had been prying into the secrets of the lower world, and therefore (nobody seeing her) she went down the ladder which led into the common sewer; and, in that subterraneous cavern, finding none to control or stop her passage, she travelled, with great pleasure and curiosity, till she came to _Tokenhouse Yard_, which is near half a mile. There it happened that a couple of young females, coming to the vault, heard a noise below, crying, '_Who the plague are ye? What d'ye make that noise for? What, is the devil in ye?_' Upon which, away flew the women, not staying to look behind them; and coming half-frightened into the house, said, the devil was in the vault. Accordingly, more company going, they still heard the same noise. Upon which they called out, and asked, '_Who's there? What are ye?_' '_The Devil_,' replied the traveller below. '_How came you there?_' said they. '_Nay, how the devil know I?_' answered the mad-woman. '_Why don't you bring me a candle, that I may find my way?_' Finding it certain to be a human voice, they feared somebody might accidentally have fallen in, and therefore they immediately went to work, to deliver the poor wretch from her suffocating thraldom, and found her a lamentable spectacle; so that they began to question her how she came there, and where she lived. She answered _that she was going to Hell, but had lost her way; that there were several in her company, who had got thither, and the gate was shut upon them; that she had lost her way, but should overtake them by and by_. These wild expressions made some of them fancy she was a mad-woman; and, after some consideration, they resolved to bring her hither; when she was presently owned, and the people that brought her let us into the story: but her head still runs on her journey, and she talks of little else."

THE MILKMAN

AND

_CHURCH-YARD GHOST_.

A man much addicted to the heinous sin of drunkenness, in coming home late one winter's night, had to cross Stepney church-yard; where, close to the foot path, a deep grave had been opened the day before. He, being very drunk, staggered into the grave; it was a great mercy he did not break his neck, or any of his limbs; but, as it rained hard all night, and the grave was so deep that he could not got out, he had but an uncomfortable bed. For some hours nobody passed by; till, shortly after the clock had struck four, a milkman, who had been to the cow-house for his milk, came by, and said to himself, "I wonder what o'clock it is." The man in the grave hallooed out, "Just gone four." The milkman seeing nobody, immediately conceived a ghost from one of the graves had answered him, and took to his heels with such rapidity, that when he reached an ale-house he was ready to faint; and, what added to his trouble, in running, he so jumbled his pails as to spill great part of his milk. The people who heard his relation, believed it must have been a ghost that had answered him. The tale went round, and would have been credited, perhaps, till now, had not the drunkard, sitting one day in the very alehouse the milkman had stopped at, on hearing the story repeated, with a hearty laugh acknowledged himself to be the ghost, and that he had much enjoyed the jumbling of the man's pails, as he ran away, and the loss which it occasioned him.

THE

FAKENHAM GHOST.

The lawns were dry in Euston Park; (Here truth inspires my tale) The lonely footpath, still and dark, Led over hill and dale.

Benighted was an ancient dame, And fearful haste she made To gain the vale of Fakenham, And hail its willow shade.

Her footsteps knew no idle stops, But follow'd faster still; And echo'd to the darksome copse That whisper'd on the hill.

Where clam'rous rooks, yet scarcely hush'd, Bespoke a peopled shade; And many a wing the foliage brush'd, And hov'ring circuits made.

The dappled herd of grazing deer, That sought the shades by day, Now started from her path with fear, And gave the stranger way.

Darker it grew; and darker fears Came o'er her troubled mind; When, now, a short quick step she hears Come patting close behind.

She turn'd; it stopt!--nought could she see Upon the gloomy plain! But, as she strove the sprite to flee, She heard the same again.

Now terror seiz'd her quaking frame: For, where the path was bare, The trotting ghost kept on the same! She mutter'd many a pray'r.

Yet once again, amidst her fright She tried what sight could do; When through the cheating glooms of night, A monster stood in view.

Regardless of whate'er she felt, It follow'd down the plain! She own'd her sins, and down she knelt, And said her pray'rs again.

Then on she sped; and hope grew strong, The white park-gate in view, Which, pushing hard, so long it swung, That ghost and all past through.

Loud fell the gate against the post, Her heart-strings like to crack, For much she fear'd the grisly ghost Would leap upon her back.

Still on, pat, pat, the goblin went, As it had done before; Her strength and resolution spent, She fainted at the door.

Out came her husband, much surpris'd, Out came her daughter dear; Good-natur'd souls, all unadvis'd Of what they had to fear.

The candle's gleam pierc'd through the night, Some short space o'er the green; And there the little trotting sprite Distinctly might be seen.

An _ass's foal_ had lost its dam Within the spacious park, And, simple as the playful lamb, Had follow'd in the dark.

No goblin he, nor imp of sin, No crimes he'd ever known. They took the shaggy stranger in, And rear'd him as their own.

His little hoofs would rattle round Upon the cottage floor; The matron learn'd to love the sound, That frighten'd her before.

A favourite the ghost became, And 'twas his fate to thrive; And long he liv'd, and spread his fame, And kept the joke alive.

For many a laugh went through the vale, And some conviction too; Each thought some other goblin tale Perhaps was just as true.

THE

UNFORTUNATE PRIEST,

AND

_DEAD BODY_.

In a province of Prussia, a man being dead, was carried, as is customary, into the church, the evening previous to the day of his interment. It is usual to place the corpse in an open coffin; and a priest, attended only by a boy of the choir, remains all night praying by the side of the dead body, and on the following day the friends of the deceased come to close up the coffin, and inter the corpse. On this occasion, after the evening service had been performed, every one retired from the church: and the priest, with the young chorister, withdrew to supper; but soon returned, and the former commenced the usual prayers. What was his astonishment, when he beheld the dead body rise from the coffin, and advance towards him. Terrified in the extreme, the priest flew to the font; and, conjuring the corpse to return to its proper station, showered holy water on him in abundance. But the obstinate and evil-minded spirit, disregarding the power of holy water, seized the unfortunate priest, threw him to the ground, and soon, by repeated blows, left him extended, without life, on the pavement. Having committed this act of barbarity, he appeared to return quietly to his coffin. On the following morning, the persons who came to prepare for the funeral, found the priest murdered, and the corpse, as before, in the coffin. Nothing could throw any light on this extraordinary event but the testimony of the boy, who had concealed himself on the first movement of the dead body, and who persisted in declaring, that he saw from his hiding-place the priest killed by the corpse. Conjecture, and endeavours to discover the truth, were alike vain, tormenting, and fruitless. Many resources were tried; for it was not every one that submitted themselves to the belief of a dead body rising to kill a priest, and then quietly resigning itself to the place of its consignment. Many years afterwards, a malefactor, condemned to death for various crimes, and brought to the torture, confessed, that having (for some unknown reason) conceived an implacable hatred against the priest in question, he had formed the design of thus avenging himself. Having found means to remain in the church, he seized the moment of the priest's retiring to supper, withdrew the dead body from the coffin, and placed himself in its stead, in the shroud and other appurtenances. After executing the murder of the priest, he returned the corpse to its place, and got unperceived out of the church, when the friends of the deceased came in the morning to attend the funeral.

THE

VIGIL OF SAINT MARK,

OR

_FATAL SUPERSTITION_.

Rebecca was the fairest maid That on the Danube's borders play'd; And many a handsome nobleman For her in tilt and tourney ran: While she, in secret, wished to see What youth her husband was to be.

Rebecca heard the gossips say, "Alone, from dusk till midnight, stay Within the church-porch drear and dark, Upon the Vigil of St. Mark; And, lovely maiden, you shall see What youth your husband is to be."

Rebecca, when the night grew dark, Upon the Vigil of St. Mark, Observ'd by Paul, a roguish scout, Who guess'd the task she went about, Stepp'd to St. Stephen's church to see What youth her husband was to be.

Rebecca heard the screech-owl cry, And saw the black-bat round her fly; She sat till, wild with fear at last, Her blood grew cold, her pulse beat fast; And yet, rash maid, she stopp'd to see What youth her husband was to be.

Rebecca heard the midnight chime Ring out the yawning peal of time, When shrouded Paul, unlucky knave! Rose, like a spectre from the grave, And cried--"_Fair maiden, come with me, For I your bridegroom am to be._"

Rebecca turned her head aside, Sent forth a horrid shriek--and died; While Paul confess'd himself in vain Rebecca never spoke again. Ah! little, hapless girl, did she Think _Death_ her bridegroom was to be.

Rebecca, may thy story long Instruct the giddy and the young! Fright not, fond youths, the timid fair: And you, too, gentle maids, beware; Nor seek, by dreadful arts, to see What youths your husbands are to be.

THE

FLOATING WONDER,

OR

_FEMALE SPECTRE_.

The bridge over the river Usk, near Caerleon, in Wales, is formed of wood, and very curiously constructed, the tide rising occasionally to the almost incredible height of fifty or sixty feet. The boards which compose the flooring of this bridge being designedly loose, in order to float with the tide, when it exceeds a certain height, are prevented from escaping only by little pegs at the end of them; which mode of fastening does not afford a very safe footing for the traveller, and some awkward accidents have been known to arise from this cause. The following singular adventure occurred about twenty years since to a female of the neighbourhood, as she was passing it at night.

The heroine in question was a Mrs. Williams, who had been to spend a cheerful evening at a neighbour's house on the eastern side of the river, and was returning home at a decent hour. The night being extremely dark, she had provided herself with a lanthorn and candle, by the assistance of which she found her way to the bridge, and had already passed part of the dangerous structure, when she unfortunately trod on a plank that had by some accident lost the tenons originally fixed to the ends of it, and had slipped from its proper situation; the faithless board yielded to the weight of the good lady, who was rather corpulent, and carried her through the flooring, with her candle and lanthorn, into the river. Fortunately, at the moment of falling, she was standing in such a position, as gave her a seat on the plank similar to that of a horseman on his nag. It may be easily imagined, that Mrs. Williams must have been dreadfully alarmed at this change of situation, as well as the difference of element. Blessed, however, with great presence of mind, and a patient endurance of evil, the good lady was not overwhelmed by her fall, but steadily maintained her seat on the board; taking care, at the same time, to preserve her candle lighted, rightly supposing it would serve as a guide to any one who might be able or willing to assist her. Thus bestriding the plank, our heroine was hurried down the river towards Newport, the bridge of which, she trusted, would stop her progress, or that she might alarm the inhabitants with her cries. In both her hopes, however, she was disappointed: the rapidity of a spring tide sent her through the arch with the velocity of an arrow discharged from a bow, and the good people of the town had long been wrapped in slumber. Thus situated, her prospect became each moment more desperate; her candle was nearly extinguished! and every limb so benumbed with cold, that she had the greatest difficulty in _keeping her saddle_. Already she had reached the mouth of the Usk, and was on the point of encountering the turbulent waves of the British Channel, when the master of a fishing-boat, who was returning from his nightly toils, discovered the gleaming of her taper, and bearing her calls for assistance, though he at first thought her a witch, yet ventured to approach this floating wonder, and happily succeeded in rescuing Mrs. Williams from a watery grave, and bringing her in safety to the shore in his boat.

Thus was the life of a fellow-creature preserved by a poor fisherman's courage, in not being daunted by what he at first conceived a mysterious light proceeding from some sprite or hobgoblin; but, from duly examining into causes, proved himself both a hero and friend.

POOR MARY,

_THE MAID OF THE INN_.

Who is she, the poor maniac, whose wildly fix'd eyes Seem a heart overcharg'd to express? She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs; She never complains, but her silence implies The composure of settled distress.

No aid, no compassion, the maniac will seek; Cold and hunger awake not her care: Through her rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak On her poor wither'd bosom, half bare; and her cheek Has the deathly pale hue of despair.

Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day, Poor Mary the maniac has been! The trav'ller remembers, who journey'd this way, No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay, As Mary the Maid of the Inn.

Her cheerful address fill'd the guests with delight, As she welcom'd them in with a smile: Her heart was a stranger to childish affright, And Mary would walk by the abbey at night, When the wind whistled down the dark aisle.

She lov'd; and young Richard had settled the day, And she hoped to be happy for life: But Richard was idle and worthless; and they Who knew him would pity poor Mary, and say, That she was too good for his wife.

'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night, And fast were the windows and door; Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright, And, smoking in silence with tranquil delight, They listen'd to hear the wind roar.

"'Tis pleasant," cried one, "seated by the fire-side, To hear the wind whistle without." "A fine night for the abbey!" his comrade replied, "Methinks, a man's courage would now be well tried, Who should wander the ruins about.

"I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear The hoarse ivy shake over my head; And could fancy I saw, half-persuaded by fear, Some ugly old abbot's white spirit appear, For this wind might awaken the dead!"

"I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried, "That Mary would venture there now." "Then wager and lose!" with a sneer, he replied, "I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side, And faint if she saw a white cow."

"Will Mary this charge on her courage allow?" His companion exclaim'd with a smile; "I shall win, for I know she will venture there now, And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough From the elder that glows in the aisle."

With fearless good humour did Mary comply, And her way to the abbey she bent; The night it was dark, and the wind it was high, And as hollowly howling it swept through the sky, She shiver'd with cold as she went.

O'er the path so well known still proceeded the maid, Where the abbey rose dim on the sight. Through the gate-way she entered, she felt not afraid, Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade Seem'd to deepen the gloom of the night.

All around her was silent, save when the rude blast Howl'd dismally round the old pile; Over weed-cover'd fragments still fearless she past, And arriv'd in the innermost ruin at last, Where the elder-tree grew in the aisle.

Well pleas'd did she reach it, and quickly drew near, And hastily gather'd the bough; When the sound of a voice seem'd to rise on her ear-- She paus'd, and she listen'd all eager to hear, And her heart panted fearfully now.

The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head, She listen'd--nought else could she hear; The wind ceas'd; her heart sunk in her bosom with dread, For she heard in the ruins distinctly the tread Of footsteps approaching her near.

Behind a white column, half breathless with fear, She crept to conceal herself there: That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear, And she saw in the moon-light two ruffians appear, And between them a corpse did they bear.

Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdle cold! Again the rough wind hurried by-- It blew off the hat of the one,[C] and, behold, Even close to the foot of poor Mary it roll'd-- She felt, and expected to die.

"Curse the hat!" he exclaims. "Nay, come on, and first hide The dead body," his comrade replies. She beheld them in safety pass on by her side, She seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied, And fast through the abbey she flies.

She ran with wild speed, she rush'd in at the door, She gaz'd horribly eager around: Then her limbs could support their faint burden no more, And exhausted and breathless she sunk on the floor, Unable to utter a sound.

Ere yet her cold lips could the story impart, For a moment the hat met her view--[D] Her eyes from that object convulsively start, For, oh! God! what cold horror then thrill'd through her heart, When the name of her Richard she knew.

Where the old abbey stands on the common hard by, His gibbet is now to be seen: Not far from the road it engages the eye, The trav'ller beholds it, and thinks, with a sigh, Of poor Mary, the Maid of the Inn.

SOUTHEY'S POEMS.

FOOTNOTES:

[C] The hat of one of the ruffians.

[D] She knew it to be Richard's hat.

GILES THE SHEPHERD,

_AND SPECTRE_.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Giles, ere he sleeps, his little flock must tell. From the fire-side with many a shrug he hies, Glad if the full-orb'd moon salute his eyes.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

And down a narrow lane, well known by day, With all his speed pursues his sounding way, In thought still half absorb'd, and chill'd with cold, When, lo! an object frightful to behold, A grisly _spectre_, cloth'd in silver grey, Around whose feet the waving shadows play, Stands in his path! He stops, and not a breath Heaves from his heart, that sinks almost to death. Loud the owl hallooes o'er his head unseen; All else is silence, dismally serene: Some prompt ejaculation, whisper'd low, Yet bears him up against the threat'ning foe; And thus poor Giles, though half inclin'd to fly, Mutters his doubts, and strains his stedfast eye. "'Tis not my crimes thou com'st here to reprove; No murders stain my soul, no perjur'd love: If thou'rt indeed what here thou seem'st to be, Thy dreadful mission cannot reach to me. By parents taught still to mistrust mine eyes, Still to approach each object of surprise, Lest fancy's formful vision should deceive In moonlight paths, or glooms of falling eve, 'Tis then's the moment when my mind should try To scan the motionless deformity; But oh, the fearful task!--yet well I know An aged ash, with many a spreading bough, (Beneath whose leaves I've found a summer's bow'r, Beneath whose trunk I've weather'd many a show'r) Stands singly down this solitary way, But far beyond where now my footsteps stay. 'Tis true, thus far I've come with heedless haste; No reck'ning kept, no passing objects trac'd: And can I then have reach'd that very tree? Or is its rev'rend form assum'd by thee?" The happy thought alleviates his pain; He creeps another step; then stops again; Till slowly as his noiseless feet drew near, Its perfect lineaments at once appear; Its crown of shiv'ring ivy whispering peace, And its white bark that fronts the moon's pale face. Now, while his blood mounts upward, now he knows The solid gain that from conviction flows; And strengthen'd confidence shall hence fulfil (With conscious innocence, more valued still) The dreariest task that winter nights can bring, By church-yard dark, or grove, or fairy ring; Still buoying up the timid mind of youth, Till loit'ring reason hoists the scale of truth. With those blest guardians, Giles his course pursues, Till numbering his heavy-sided ewes, Surrounding stilness tranquillize his breast, And shape the dreams that wait his hours of rest.

BLOOMFIELD'S _Farmer's Boy_.

A

MAN WITH HIS HEAD ON FIRE,

AND COVERED WITH BLOOD.

The following singular adventure is related by a military captain.