fear of having to answer for a murder, incredulously as he pretended to speak, Hunks turned out of the house, growling and threatening. "Is he gone?" asked Will, when he regained his senses" gone not to come back?"—and having heard his mother's gentle assurances, he let his head fall on her shoulder, weeping while he continued: "Mother, mother, it would destroy the little life I have! I could not bear it for an hour! The dread I am in of it was born with me! When I was a child of four years, I had dreams of it, and I remember them to this day; they used to come in such crowds round my cradle! As I grew up, you saw and you know my weakness. I could never sit still in the dark, nor even in the daylight out of doors in lonesome places. Now in my youth—a lad—almost a man-I am ashamed to speak of my inward troubles. Mother, you do not know me-I do not know myself! I walk out sometimes down by the river, and, listening to the noise of the water over the rocks, where it is shallow, and to the rustling of the trees as they nod in the twilight, voices and shrieks come round mesometimes they break in my ears-and I have turned to see what thing it was that spoke, and thought some grey tree at my side had only just changed and become motionless, and seemed as if a moment before, it had been something else, and had a tongue, and said the words that frightened me!-Oh, it was but yester evening I ran home from the river-side, and felt no heart within me till I had come in here to the fireside, and seen you moving near me! "You know the lone house all in ruins upon the hill-I fear it, mother, more than my tongue can tell you! I have been taken through it, in my dreams, in terrible company, and here I could describe to you its bleak apartments, one by one-its vaults, pitch dark, and half-filled with stones and rubbish, and choked up with weeds-its winding, creeping stair-cases, and its flapping windowsI know them all, though my feet never yet crossed its threshold !— Never, mother-though I have gone near it, to enter it, and see if what I had dreamt of it was true-and I went in the first light of the morning; but when close by the old door-way, the rustle of the shrubs and weeds startled me, and I thought-but sure that was fancy-that some one called me in by name-and then I turned and raced down the hill, never looking back till I came to the meadow ground where cows and sheep are always grazing, and heard the dogs barking in the town, and voices of the children at play! "Will, my king," said his mother, soothingly, "this is all mere childishness at your years. God is above us and around us; and even if evil and strange things are allowed to be on earth, he will shield us from all harm. Arouse up like a man! for, indeed, your time of boyhood is passing-nay, it has passed with other lads not much older; only you have been poorly and weakly from your cradle, Will. Come, go to sleep; and before you lie down, pray for better health and strength to-morrow." "To-morrow!" he repeated-" and did my step-father say any thing of to-morrow?" His mother answered him evasively, and he resumed,—“ Oh, how I fear to-morrow!-oh, mother, you have loved me, and you do love me for my weakness, my ill-health, and my dutifulness—and you loved my father-oh, for his sake as well as mine, mother, keep me from what I am threatened with!—keep me from it, if you would keep me alive another day!" He went into his little sleeping apartment, stricken to the very soul with supernatural fears. After spending a miserable night, he stole out of the house next morning, and wandered about the private walks adjacent to the town, until he thought his step-father might have arisen and taken his usual walk to the Tap. But as the lad was about to re-enter the house, Hunks met him at the threshold. Will shrunk back; to his surprise and comfort, however, his fears now seemed illfounded. The man bid him good morrow in as cheerful and kind a tone as he could command, shook his hand, tapped him on the head, and left the house. Delighted, though still agitated, Will sought his mother within doors, told her his good omens, and spent a happy day. At dinner, too, notwithstanding Hunks' presence, the mother and son enjoyed themselves, so amiable had the despot become, at least in appearance. When their meal was over, Hunks, as if to attain the height of civility, invited Will to go out with him for a walk by the river— "and let's have Barker (Will's dog) for company," continued Hunks; "he may show us sport with a rat, or such like, Will." Accordingly, the three strolled out together, Will leading the way by many a well-known sedge or tuft of bushes, or undermined bank, the resorts of the water-rat, and sometimes of the outlaw otter; and Barker upheld his character, by starting, hunting down, and killing one of the first-mentioned animals. As twilight came on, they turned their faces towards the little town. They entered it. Its little hum of life was now hushed; its streets silent, and almost deserted; its doors and windows barred and bolted, and the sounds of the rushing river and the thumping mill were the only ones which filled the air. The clock pealed ten as they continued their way. Hunks had grown suddenly silent and reserved. They passed the old Gothic church, and now were passing the gate which led into its burial-ground. Hunks stopped short. His grey, bad eye fell on the lad-" Will,” he said, "I be thinking we've walked enough for this time." 66 Enough, indeed,-and thank you for your company-and good night, father," answered Will, trying to smile, though he began to tremble. "Good night then, my man-and here be your watch-light,"and Hunks drew a dark lantern from his huge pocket. 'Nay, I want no light home," said Will; "I know the way so well; and 'tis not very dark; and you know you can't do without it on your post." My post?" Hunks laughed villanously-" your post, you mean, Will; take it; I be thinking I shall sleep sound to-night without a dead-light—as if I were a corpse to need it. Come along." "You cannot have the heart to ask me!" cried Will, stepping back. 'Pho, my man"-Hunks clutched him by the shoulder with one hand, with the other unlocked the gate and flung it open-" In with you; you'll like it so in a few nights, you'll wish no better post; the dead chaps be civil enough; only treat them well, and let them walk awhile, and they make very good company." dragged Will closer to the gate. 66 He "Have mercy!" shrieked the wretched lad, trying to kneel, or kill me first, father, to make me company for them, if that will please you." "Get in !" roared the savage-" get in !-ay, hollo out, and twist about, so, and I'll pitch your shivering carcass half way across the churchyard!"-he forced him in from the gate-" stop a bit, nowthere be your lantern"-he set it down on a tomb-stone-" so, good night-yonder's your box-just another word-don't you be caught strolling too near the murderer's corner, over there, or you may trip and fall among the things that turn and twine on the ground, like roots of trees, to guard him." With a new and piercing shriek, Will clung close to his fell tormentor. Hunks, partially carrying into effect a threat he had uttered, tore the lad's hands away, tossed him to some distance, strode out at the gate, locked it, and Will was alone with horror. At first an anguish of fear kept him stupified and stationary. He had fallen on a freshly-piled grave, to which mechanically his fingers clung and his face joined, in avoidance of the scene around. But he soon recollected what clay it was he clung to, and at the thought he started up, and, hushed as the sleepers around him, made some observations. High walls quite surrounded the churchyard, as if to part him from the habitable world. His lamp was burning upon the tombstone where Hunks had placed it-one dim red spot amid the thick darkness. The church clock now tolled eleven. It ceased; his ears ached in the resumed silence, and he listened and stared about him for what he feared. Whispers seemed to arise near him. He ran for his lamp, snatched it up, and instinctively hurried to the watch-box. Oh, he wished it made of solid rock!-it was chiefly framed of glass, useless as the common air to his terrors! He shut his eyes, and pressed his palms upon them-vain subterfuge! The fevered spirit within him brought before his mind's vision worse things than the churchyard could yawn up, were all that superstition has fancied of it true. looked out from his watch-box in refuge from himself. He That evening a half-moon had risen early, and, at this moment, was sinking in gathering clouds behind distant hills. As he vaguely noticed the circumstance, he felt more and more desolate. Simultaneously with the disappearance of the planet, the near clock began again to strike-he knew what hour! Each stroke smote his ear as if it would crack the nerve; at the last, he shrieked out delirious! He had a pause from agony, then a struggle for departing reason, and then he was at rest. At day-break his step-father found him asleep. He led him home. Will sat down to breakfast, smiling, but did not speak a word. Often, during the day, his now brilliant eye turned to the west; but why, his mother could not tell; until, as the evening made up her couch of clouds there, drawing around her the twilight for drapery, he left the house with an unusually vigorous step, and stood at the gate of the churchyard. Again he took up his post. Again the hour of twelve pealed from the old church, but now he did not fear it. When it had fully sounded, he clapped his hands, laughed, and shouted. The imaginary whispers he had heard the previous night-small, cautious whispers-came round him again; first, from a distance, then, nearer and nearer. At last he shaped them into words"Let us walk," they said-"though he watches us, he fears us.' He!-'twas strange to hear the dim dead speak to a living man, of himself! the maniac laughed again at the fancy, and replied to them : "Ay, come! appear! I give leave for it. Ye are about in crowds, I know, not yet daring to take up your old bodies till I please; but, up with them!-Graves, split on, and yield me my subjects! for am I not king of the churchyard? Obey me!-ay, now your mouths gape-and what a yawning!—are ye musical, too?-a jubilee of groans !-out with it, in the name of Death!— blast it about like giants carousing!" "Well blown!-and now a thousand heads popped up at once their eyes fixed on mine, as if to ask my further leave for a resur rection; and they know I am good-humoured now, and grow upward, accordingly, like a grove of bare trees that have no sap in them. And now they move; passing along in rows, like trees, too, that glide by one on a bank, while one sails merrily down the river —and all stark staring still: and others stand bolt upright against their own headstones to contemplate. I wonder what they think of! Move! move! young, old, boys, men, pale girls, and palsied grandmothers-my churchyard can never hold 'em! And yet how they pass each other from corner to corner! I think they make way through one another's bodies, as they do in the grave. They'll dance anon. Minuets, at least. Why, they begin already!-and what partners!-a tall, genteel young officer takes out our village witch of the wield-she that died at Christmas-and our last rector smirks to a girl of fifteen-ha, ha! yon tattered little fellow is a radical, making a leg to the old duchess!-music! music!-Go, some of you that look on there, and toll the dead bell! Well done! they tie the murderer to the bell-rope by the neck (though he was hanged before), and the bell swings out merrily! but what face is here?" It was the vision of a child's face, which he believed he caught staring at him through the glass of his watch-box-the face of an only brother who had died young. The wretch's laughter changed into tears and low wailings. By the time that his mother came to seek him, just at day-break, he was, however, again laughing; but in such a state as to frighten mirth from her heart and lips till the day she died. As has been said, symptoms of positive insanity did not long continue to appear in his words or actions; yet when he recovered, there was still a change in him-a dark and disagreeable change, under the inveterate confirmation of which, the curious student of human nature may, at this moment, observe him in his native village. SOLITUDE. HIGH on the bare bleak hills the shepherd lies, And well the fox's curning learns to know. |