THE CRIER OF CLAIFE.

'As I sat anonder yon green tree,Yon green tree, yon green tree—As I sat anonder yon green treeA Christmas day in the morning.'29The words could be heard distinctly, and almost unconsciously the two men stood to listen; but directly the voices ceased the student asked if they had not better begin, as the time was passing rapidly.'Ay,' replied Abraham, 'we han it to do, an' we'd better ger it ower.'Without any more words they entered theporch, and at once made a circle around them with leaves of Vervain, Bay, and Holly. The old man gave to his companion a branch of Wiggintree,27and firmly held another little bough, as with his disengaged hand he scattered a powder upon the embers. A faint odour floated around them, as they chanted a singular Latin prayer; and no sooner was the last word uttered than a strain of sweet sad music, too inexpressibly soft and mournful to be of earth, was heard. Every moment it seemed to be dying away in a delicious cadence, but again and again was the weird melody taken up by the invisible singers, as the listeners sank to their knees spell-bound. An icy breath of wind hissed round the porch, however, and called the entranced men to their senses, and suddenly the student grasped the arm of his aged companion, and cried, in a terrified voice—'Abraham, the spell works. Behold!'The old man gazed in the direction pointed out, and, to his inexpressible horror, saw a procession wending its way towards the porch. It consisted of a stream of figures wrapped up in grave-clothes, gleaming white in the dim light. With solemn and noiseless steps the ghastlyobjects approached the circle in which stood the venturesome men, and, as they drew nearer, the faces of the first two could be seen distinctly, for the blazing powder cast a lurid glow upon them, and made them even more ghastly.Both spectators had almost unconsciously recognised the features of several of the villagers, when they were aroused from their lethargy of terror by the appearance of one face, which seemed to linger longer than its predecessors had done. Abraham at once saw that the likeness was that of the man by his side, and the clergyman sank to the ground in a swoon.For some time the old man was too much affected by the lingering face to think of restoring the unconscious man at his feet; but at length the clashing of the bells over his head, as they rang forth a Christmas greeting, called him to himself, and he bent over the prostrate form of his friend. The minister soon recovered, but as he was too weak to walk, the old man ran to the belfry to beg the ringers to come to his assistance. When these men came round to the porch the fire was still burning, the flickering flames of various colours casting dancing shadows upon the walls.'Abraham,' said one of the ringers, 'there's bin some wizzard wark goin' on here, an' yo' sin what yo'n getten by it.''Han yo' bin awsin to raise th' devul, an' Kesmus-eve an' o'?' asked another, in a low and terrified voice.With a satirical smile, Abraham answered the last speaker: 'It dusn't need o' this mak' o' things to raise th' devul, lad. He's nare so far fra' thuse as wants him.'Bearing the clergyman in their arms, the men walked through the village, but they did not separate without having, in return for the confidence Abraham reposed in them by confiding to them the secret of the vigil, promised strict secrecy as to what they had witnessed.Abraham's companion soon recovered from the shock, but not before the story of the night-watch had gone the round of the village. Many were the appeals made to the old herbalist to reveal his strangely-acquired knowledge, but Abraham remained sternly obdurate, remarking to each of his questioners—'Yo'll know soon enough, mebbi.'The clergyman, however, was in a more awkward position, and his parishioners soon madehim aware how unwise he had been in giving way to the desire to pry into futurity; for, when any of them were ill and he expressed a kindly wish for their recovery, it was by no means unusual for the sick person to reply—'Yo could tell me heaw it will end iv yo' loiked.'This oftentimes being followed by a petition from the assembled relatives—'Will yo tell us if he wir one o' th' processioners?'Ultimately Abraham's companion went away, in the hope of returning when the memory of the watch should have become less keen, but, before a few months had passed away, news came of his death, after a violent attack of fever caught during a visit to a wretched hovel in the fishing village where he was staying. By the next December, all the people whose features the old herbalist had recognised during the procession had been carried to the churchyard; but, although several men offered to accompany Abraham to the porch on the forthcoming Christmas-eve, he dared not again go through the spells and undergo the terrors of a church-porch vigil.30THE CRIER OF CLAIFE.UPONa wild winter night, some centuries ago, the old man who plied the ferry-boat on Windermere, and who lived in a lonely cottage on the Lancashire side of the Lake, was awakened from his sleep by an exceedingly shrill and terrible shriek, which seemed to come from the opposite shore. The wind was whistling and moaning round the house, and for a little while the ferryman and his family fancied that the cry by which they had been disturbed was nothing more than one of the mournful voices of the storm; but soon again came another shriek, even more awe-inspiring than the former one, and this was followed by smothered shouts and groans of a most unearthly nature.Against the wishes of his terrified relatives, who clung to him, and besought him to remainindoors, the old fellow bravely determined to cross the water, and heeding not the prayers of his wife and daughter, he unfastened his boat, and rowed away. The two women, clasped in each other's arms, trembling with fear, stood at the little door, and endeavoured to make out the form of their protector; but the darkness was too deep for them to see anything upon the lake. At intervals, however, the terrible cry rang out through the gloom, and shrieks and moans were heard loud above the mysterious noises of the night.In a state of dreadful suspense and terror the women stood for some time, but at length they saw the boat suddenly emerge from the darkness, and shoot into the little cove. To their great surprise, however, the ferryman, who could be seen sitting alone, made no effort to land, and make his way to the cottage; so, fearing that something dreadful had happened to him, and, impelled by love, they rushed to the side of the lake. They found the old man speechless, his face as white and blanched as the snow upon the Nab, and his whole body trembling under the influence of terror, and they immediately led him to the cottage, butthough appealed to, to say what terrible object he had seen, he made no other response than an occasional subdued moan. For several days he remained in that state, deaf to their piteous entreaties, and staring at them with wild-looking eyes; but at length the end came, and, during the gloaming of a beautiful day, he died, without having revealed to those around him what he had seen when, in answer to the midnight cry, he had rowed the ferry-boat across the storm-ruffled lake.After the funeral had taken place the women left the house, its associations being too painful to permit of their stay, and went to live at Hawkshead, whence two sturdy men, with their respective families, removed to the ferry. The day following that of the arrival of the new-comers was rough and wild, and, soon after darkness had hidden everything in its sable folds, across the lake came the fearful cry, followed by a faint shout for a boat, and screams and moans. The men, hardy as they were, and often as they had laughed at the story told by the widow of the dead man, no sooner heard the first shriek ring through the cottage than they were smitten with terror.Profiting, however, by the experience of their predecessor, and influenced by fear, they did not make any attempt to cross the lake, and the cries continued until some time after midnight.Afterwards, whenever the day closed gloomily, and ushered in a stormy night, and the wind lashed the water of the lake into fury, the terrible noises were heard with startling distinctness, until at length the dwellers in the cottage became so accustomed to the noises as not to be disturbed by them, or, if disturbed, to fall asleep again after an ejaculation of 't' crier!' Pedlars and others who had to cross the lake, however, were not so hardened, and after a time the ferry-boat was almost disused, for the superstitious people did not dare to cross the haunted water, save in the broad daylight of summer.It therefore struck the two individuals who were most concerned in the maintenance of the ferry that if they intended to live they must do something to rid the place of its bad name, and of the unseen being who had driven away all their patrons. In their extremity they asked each other who should help them, if not theholy monks, who had come over the sea to the abbey in the Valley of Deadly Night Shade; and one of the ferrymen at once set out for Furness. No sooner had he set eyes upon the stately pile erected by the Savignian and his companions than his heart felt lighter, for he had a simple faith in the marvellous power of the white-robed men, whose voices were seldom if ever heard, save when lifted in worship during one of their seven daily services.Knocking at the massive door, he was received by a ruddy-looking servitor, who ushered him into the presence of the abbot. The ferryman soon told his story, and begged that a monk might return with him to lay the troubled spirit, and after hearing the particulars of the visitation, the abbot granted the request, making a proviso, however, that the abbey coffers should not be forgotten when the lake was freed from the fiend.No sooner had the visitor finished the meal set before him by the hospitable monks than, in company with one of the holy men, he set out homeward. As, by a rule of his order, the monk was not permitted to converse, the journey was not an enlivening one, and theferryman was heartily glad when they reached his cottage.The first night passed without any alarm, the monk and his hosts spending the dreary hours in watching and waiting. The following day, however, was as stormy as the worst enemy of the ferry could have wished, and, when night fell, all the dwellers in the cottage, as well as the silent monk, gathered together again to wait for the cries, but some hours passed without any other sounds having been heard than those caused by the restless wind, as it swept over the lake and among the trees. The Cistercian was beginning to imagine himself the victim of an irreverent practical joke, and that the stories of the spectral crier which had reached the distant abbey long before the ferryman's visit were a pack of falsehoods, when about midnight, he suddenly jumped from the chair upon which he was dozing by the wood fire, hastily made the sign of the cross, and hurriedly commended himself to the protection of his patron saint, for sharp and clear came the dread cry, followed rapidly by a number of shrieks and groans and a smothered appeal for a boat.In an instant one of the men, with couragedoubtless inspired by the presence of the holy man, shouldered the oars and opened the door, and the monk at once stepped into the open air and hurried to the lake, the men following at a respectful distance. The white-robed father was the first to get into the boat, and the ferrymen hoped that he intended to go alone, but he called upon them to propel the boat to the middle of the lake, and much as they disliked the task, as it was on their behalf that the monk was about to combat the evil spirit, they could not well refuse to accompany him.When they were about half-way across the lake the wind suddenly lulled, and once more they heard the awful scream, and this time it sounded as though the crier was quite close to them. The occupants of the boat were terribly frightened, and one of them, after suddenly shrieking 'he's here,' fainted, and lay still at the bottom of the boat, while the monk and the other man stared straight before them, as though petrified.There was a fourth person present, a grim and ghastly figure, with the trappings of this life still dangling about its withered and shrunken limbs, and a gaping wound in itspallid throat. For a few minutes there was a dead silence, but at last it was broken by the monk, who rapidly muttered a prayer for protection against evil spirits, and then took a bottle from a pocket of his robe, and sprinkled a few drops of holy water upon himself and the ferryman, who remained in the same statuesque attitude, and upon the unconscious occupant of the bottom of the boat. After this ceremony, he opened a little book, and, in a sonorous voice, intoned the form for the exorcism of a wandering soul, concluding withVade ad Gehennam!when to the infinite relief of the ferryman, and probably of the monk also, the ghastly figure forthwith vanished.The Cistercian asked to be immediately taken to the shore, and when he neared the house, the little book was again brought into requisition, and the spirit's visits, should it ever again put in an appearance, limited to an old and disused quarry, a distance from the cottage.31From that time to this, the wild, lonely place has indeed been desolate and deserted, the boldest people of the district not having sufficient courage to venture near it at nightfall, and the more timid ones shunning the locality evenat noonday. These folks aver that even yet, despite the prayers and exorcisms of the white-robed Cistercian from Furness, whenever a storm descends upon the lake, the Crier escapes from his temporary prison house, and revisits the scene of his first and second appearance to men, and that on such nights, loud above the echoed rumble of the thunder, and the lonely sough of the wind, the benighted wayfarer still hears the wild shrieks and the muffled cry for a boat.THE DEMON OF THE OAK.ONCEa fortress and a mansion, but now, unfortunately, little more than a noble ruin, Hoghton Tower stands on one of the most commanding sites in Lancashire. From the fine old entrance-gate a beautiful expanse of highly-cultivated land slopes down and stretches away to the distant sea, glimmering like a strip of molten silver; and on either hand there are beautiful woods, in the old times 'so full of tymber that a man passing through could scarce have seen the sun shine in the middle of the day.' At the foot of these wooded heights a little river ripples through a wild ravine, and meanders through the rich meadows to the proud Ribble. From the building itself, however, the glory has departed. Over the noble gateway, with its embattled towers, and in one of the fast-decaying wainscots,the old family arms, with the motto,Mal Gre le Tort, still remain; but these things, and a few mouldering portraits, are all that are left there to tell of the stately women who, from the time of Elizabeth down to comparatively modern days, pensively watched the setting sun gild the waters of the far-off Irish Sea, and dreamed of lovers away in the wars—trifling things to be the only unwritten records of the noble men who buckled on their weapons, and climbed into the turrets to gaze over the road along which would come the expected besieging parties. Gone are the gallants and their ladies, the roystering Cavalier and the patient but none the less brave Puritan, for, as Isaac Ambrose has recorded, during the troublous times of the Restoration, the place, with its grand banqueting chamber, its fine old staircases, and quaint little windows, was 'a colledge for religion.' The old Tower resounds no more with the gay song of the one or the solemn hymn of the other,'Men may come, and men may go,'and an old tradition outlives them all.To this once charming mansion there came,long ago, a young man, named Edgar Astley. His sable garments told that he mourned the loss of a relative or friend; and he had not been long at the Tower before it began to be whispered in the servants'-hall that 'the trappings and the suits of woe' were worn in memory of a girl who had been false to him, and who had died soon after her marriage to his rival. This story in itself was sufficient to throw a halo of romance around the young visitor; but when it was rumoured that domestics, who had been returning to the Tower late at night, had seen strange-coloured lights burning in Edgar's room, and that, even at daybreak, the early risers had seen the lights still unextinguished, and the shadow of the watcher pass across the curtains, an element of fear mingled with the feelings with which he was regarded.There was much in the visitor calculated to deepen the impressions by which the superstitious domestics were influenced, for, surrounded by an atmosphere of gloom, out of which he seemed to start when any of them addressed him, and appearing studiously to shun all the society which it was possible forhim to avoid, he spent most of his time alone, seated beneath the spreading branches of the giant oak tree at the end of the garden, reading black-letter volumes, and plunged in meditation. Not that he was in any way rude to his hosts; on the contrary, he was almost chivalrous in his attention to the younger members of the family and to the ladies of the house, who, in their turn, regarded him with affectionate pity, and did their utmost to wean him from his lonely pursuits. Yet, although he would willingly accompany them through the woods, or to the distant town, the approach of the gloaming invariably found him in his usual place beneath the shadow of the gnarled old boughs, either poring over his favourite books, or, with eyes fixed upon vacancy, lost in a reverie.Time would, the kind people thought, bring balm to his wounds, and in the meanwhile they were glad to have their grief-stricken friend with them; and fully appreciating their sympathy, Edgar came and went about the place and grounds just as the whim of the moment took him. This absence of curiosity on the part of the members of the family was, however,amply compensated for by the open wonder with which many of the domestics regarded the young stranger; and before he had been many months in the house his nightly vigils were the theme of many a serious conversation in the kitchen, where, in front of a cosy fire, the gossips gathered to compare notes.Unable to repress their vulgar curiosity, or to gratify it in any more honourable or less dangerous manner, it was determined that one of the domestics should, at the hour of twelve, creep to the door of the visitor's chamber, and endeavour to discover what was the nature of those pursuits which rendered lights necessary during the whole of the night. The selection was soon made, and after a little demur the chosen one agreed to perform the unpleasant task.At midnight, therefore, the trembling ambassador made his way to the distant door, and after a little hesitation, natural enough under the circumstances, he stooped, and gazed through a hole in the dried oak whence a knot had fallen. Edgar Astley was seated at a little table, an old black-looking book withhuge clasps open before him. With one hand he shaded his eyes from the light which fell upon his face from the flames of many colours dancing in a tall brazen cup. Suddenly, however, he turned from his book, and put a few pinches of a bright-looking powder to the burning matter in the stand. A searching and sickly odour immediately filled the room, and the quivering flames blazed upwards with increased life and vigour as the student turned once more to the ponderous tome, and, after hastily glancing down its pages, muttered: 'Strange that I cannot yet work the spell. All things named here have I sought for and found, even blood of bat, dead man's hand, venom of viper, root of gallows mandrake, and flesh of unbaptized and strangled babe. Am I, then, not to succeed until I try the charm of charms at the risk of life itself? And yet,' said he, unconscious of the presence of the terrified listener, 'what should I fear? So far have I gone uninjured, and now will I proceed to the triumphant or the bitter end. Once I would have given the future happiness of my soul to have called her by my name, and now what is this paltry life to me that I shouldhesitate to risk it in this quest, and perhaps win one glimpse of her face?'There was a moment of silence as the student bent his head over the book, but though no other person was visible, the listener, to his horror, quickly heard a sharp hissing voice ask, 'And wouldst thou not even yet give thy soul in exchange for speech with thy once betrothed?' The student hastily stood erect, and rapidly cried: 'Let me not be deceived! Whatever thou art, if thou canst bring her to me my soul shall be thine now and for ever!'There was a dead hush for a minute or two, during which the lout at the door heard the beating of his own heart, and then the invisible being again spoke: 'Be it so. Thou hast but one spell left untried. When that has been done thou shalt have thy reward. Beneath the oak at midnight she shall be brought to thee. Darest thou first behold me?''I have no fear,' calmly replied the student, but such was not the state of the petrified listener, for no sooner had the lights commenced to burn a weird blue than he sank fainting against the door.When he came to consciousness he waswithin the awful room, the student having dragged him in when he fell.'What art thou, wherefore dost thou watch me at this hour, and what hast thou seen?' sternly demanded Edgar, addressing the terrified boor, and in few and trembling words the unhappy domestic briefly answered the queries; but the student did not permit him to leave the chamber, through the little window of which the dawn was streaming, before he had sworn that not a word as to anything he had seen or heard should pass his lips. The solemnity of the vow was deepened by the mysterious and awful threats with which it was accompanied, and the servant, therefore, loudly protested to his fellows that he had not seen or heard anything, but that, overcome by his patient watching, he had fallen asleep at the door; and many were the congratulations which followed when it was imagined what the consequences would have been had he been discovered in his strange resting-place.The day following that of the adventure passed over without anything remarkable beyond the absence of Edgar from his usual seat under the shade of the giant oak, but the night set instormily, dark clouds scudded before the wind, which swept up from the distant sea, and moaned around the old tower, whirling the fallen leaves in fantastic dances about the garden and the green, and shaking in its rage even the iron boughs of the oak. The household had retired early, and at eleven o'clock only Edgar and another were awake. In the student's chamber the little lamp was burning and the book lay open as usual, and Edgar pored over the pages, but at times he glanced impatiently at the quaint clock. At length, with a sigh of relief, he said, sternly and sadly, 'The time draws nigh, and once more we shall meet!' He then gathered together a few articles from different corners of the room and stepped out upon the broad landing, passed down the noble old staircase, and out from the hall. Here he was met by a cold blast of wind, which shrieked round him, as though rejoicing over its prey; and as Edgar was battling with it, a man emerged from a recess and joined him.The night was quite dark, not a star or a rift in the sky visible, and the two men could hardly pick their way along the well-known path.They reached the oak tree, however, and Edgar placed the materials at its foot, and at once, with a short wand, drew a large circle around the domestic and himself. This done, he placed a little cauldron on the grass, and filled it with a red powder, which, although the wind was roaring through the branches above, immediately blazed up with a steady flame.The old mastiffs chained under the gateway began to howl dismally; but, regardless of the omen,32Edgar struck the ground three times with his hazel stick, and cried in a loud voice: 'Spirit of my love, I conjure thee obey my words, and verily and truly come to me this night!'Hardly had he spoken when a shadowy figure of a beautiful child appeared, as though floating around the magic ring. The servant sank upon his knees, but the student regarded it not, and it vanished, and the terrified listener again heard Edgar's voice as he uttered another conjuration. No sooner had he begun this than terrible claps of thunder were heard, lightning flashed round the tree, flocks of birds flew across the garden and dashed themselves against the window of the student's chamber,where a light still flickered; and, loud above the noises of the storm, cocks could be heard shrilly crowing, and owls uttering their mournful cries. In the midst of this hubbub the necromancer calmly went on with his incantation, concluding with the dread words: 'Spirit of my love, I conjure thee to fulfil my will without deceit or tarrying, and without power over my soul or body earthly or ghostly! If thou comest not, then let the shadow and the darkness of death be upon thee for ever and ever!'As the last word left his lips the storm abated its violence, and comparative silence followed. Suddenly the little flame in the cauldron flared up some yards in height, and sweet voices chanting melodiously could be heard. 'Art thou prepared to behold the dead?' asked an invisible being.'I am!' undauntedly answered Edgar.An appearance as of a thick mist gathered opposite him, and slowly, in the midst of it, the outlines of a beautiful human face, with mournful eyes, in which earthly love still lingered, could be discerned.Clad in the garments of the grave, the betrothed of Edgar Astley appeared before him.For some time the young man gazed upon her as though entranced, but at length he slowly extended his arms as though to embrace the beautiful phantom. The domestic fell upon his face like one stricken by death, the spectre vanished, and again the pealing thunder broke forth.'Thou art for ever mine,' cried a hissing voice; but as the words broke upon the ears of the two men, the door of the mansion was flung open, and the old baronet and a number of the servants, who had been disturbed by the violence of the storm, the howling of the dogs, and the shrill cries of the birds, rushed forth.'Come not near me if ye would save yourselves,' cried the necromancer.'We would save thee,' shouted the old man, still advancing. 'In nomine Patris,' said he, solemnly, as he neared the magic circle; and no sooner had the words left his lips than sudden stillness fell upon the scene; the lightning no longer flashed round the oak; and, as the flame in the cauldron sank down, the moon broke through a cloud, and threw her soft light over the old garden.Edgar was leaning against the oak tree, hiseyes fixed in the direction where the image of his betrothed had appeared; and when they led him away, it was as one leads a trusting child, for the light of reason had left him. The unfortunate domestic, being less sensitive, retained his faculties; but he ever afterwards bore upon his wrist, as if deeply burned into the flesh, the marks of a broad thumb and fingers. This strange appearance he was wont to explain to stray visitors, by saying that when, terrified almost out of his wits, he fell to the ground, his hand was outside the magic circle, and 'summat' seized him; which lucid explanation was generally followed up by an old and privileged servitor, who remarked, 'Tha'll t'hev mooar marks nor thuse on tha' next toime asHegrabs tha', mi lad.'THE BLACK COCK.'AY,'said Old 'Lijah, 'I mind one time when they said th' Owd Lad hissel appear't i' broad dayleet, an' wir seen bi hunderts o' fowk, owd an' yung.'There was a dead silence for a little while as the listeners gathered nearer the blazing fire, two or three of them getting a little further away from the door, against which the wind was dashing the snow, and then 'Lijah resumed: 'When I wir a lad, me an' mi mestur wer ast to a berryin. Ther wer a deeol o' drink stirrin, th' coffee pot, wi th' lemon peel hangin aat, gooin abaat fray one side to th' tother fast enough, and at last o' wer ready, but just as they wer baan to lift th' coffin a clap o' thunder shuke th' varra glasses o' th' table.'Th' chaps as hed howd stopped a bit an' lukt raand, but th' deead chap's feythur shouted, "Come on, lads, or wist be late, an' th' paasonwaynt berry;" so they piked off, but no sooner hed they getten' i' th' street nor a lad i' th' craad cried out, "Heigh, chaps, luk at th' black cock34on th' top o' th' coffin," an' sure enough theer it wor. One o' th' beerers said directly as they'd enough to carry wi'out ony passingers, an' up wi' his fist an' knockt it off, but it wer on ageean in a minit, an one bi' one they o' hed a slap at it, but every time it wer knockt off back it flew to it' place at th' deead mon's feet, so at last th' owd mon give th' word of command, an' off they startit wi' th' looad. Th' craad geet bigger afooar they reached th' owd country church wheer he hed to be berried, an' th' fowk geet a throwin stooans at th' black bird, an' hittin it wi' sticks an' shaatin at it, but it stuck theer like a fixter.'After a while we reached th' graveyart, an' th' paason come deawn th' road fray th' church door to meet th' coffin, an' he wer just baan to start th' service when he see th' brid an' stopped.'"What han yo' got theere?" he says, lukin varra vext, for he thowt some marlock wer gooin on. "What han yo' theere, men?"'Th' owd feythur stepped forrut an' towdhim what hed happent, an' as nooan on 'em could freetun it off it peeark naythur wi' sticks or stooans or sweearin.'"It's a strange tale," said th' vicar, "but we moant hev no brids here! Yo' fowk keep eaut o' th' graveyart nobbut thuse as is invitet to th' funeral! I'll settle him for yo!" an' so sayin he grabbed howd o' th' cock, an' walked o'er th' graves wi' it to a place wheer th' bruk run under th' hedges, an' then he bent deawn o' th' floor an' dipped th' bird i'th' watter, an' held it theer for abaat a quarter ov an hour.'No sooner had he getten up, heawever, nor th' brid flew up eaut o' th' watter quite unhort, an' hopped o'er th' grass to th' coffin an' peearkt ageean as if nowt hed happent.'Th' vicar lukt varra consarnt for a while, an' skrat his yed as he staret at th' fowk.'Theer's summat not reet abaat that brid,' he said, 'but that's no rayson why we shouldn't bury th' deead!' an' he pottert off toart th' grave, an' th' beerers carriet th' coffin to th' side, an' th' sarvice wer gone through, wi' th' bird harkenin every word like a Christian.'Th' chaps then startit o' lowerin th' coffin into th' grave, an' th' brid still stuck o' th'peeark, an' it wer nobbut when th' hole wer filled, as it came above graand ageean, an' theer it set on th' maand.'A craad o' fowk waited abaat an' hung on th' graveyart wo' till th' edge o' dark, an' then they piket off whoam, for they begun to think as mebbi it were th' Owd Lad hissel, but a twothree on us stopped till it wer neet afooar we went after 'em, th' cock sittin theear just th' same as it hed done i' th' dayleet.'It were usual i' thuse days to watch th' graves for a few neets, for ther wer a deeal o' resurrectionin' gooin on i'o' directions, th' body-snatchers hevin mooar orders than they could attend to; but though th' deead chap's feythur offert brass an' plenty o' drink an' meyt to anybody as ud keep a look aat, not one dar do it, an' th' deead mon wer laft to tek care o' hissel, or for th' brid to mind him.'Soon after dayleet th' next mornin I went wi' a twothree moor young chaps to see heaw th' place lukt, an' th' grave hedn't bin brokken into, but th' brid had flown, and fray that day to this I could never find aat ayther wheer it coom fray or went to, but I heeart as th' vicar said it met be th' Owd Lad claimin' his own.'THE INVISIBLE BURDEN.ATthe junction of the four cross roads, gleaming white in the hot sunshine and hawthorn-bounded, and marked by the parallel ruts made by the broad wheels of the country carts, the old public house of theWyresdale Armswas scarcely ever without a number of timber wagons or hay carts about its open door, the horses quietly munching from the nose-bags and patiently waiting until their owners or drivers should emerge from the sanded kitchen.Nathan Peel's hostelry was the half-way house for all the farmers and cart-drivers in the district, and generally quiet enough at night time, but from its capacious kitchen roars of laughter rang out many a summer afternoon, as the carters and yeomen told their droll stories.On one of these occasions, when the sun was blazing outside, and shimmering upon the sands and the distant sea, and through the open window the perfume of the may-blossom stole gently, a quaint looking old fellow, whose face had been bronzed by three-score summers and winters, happened to mention an occurrence as having taken place about the time of 'th' quare weddin',' and a chorus of voices at once called upon him for the story.'It's quite forty year sin,' he said thoughtfully, 'an' I wir quite a young chap then, an' ready for any marlock. I could dance too wi' hear an' thear one, an' no weddin' wir reet wi'aat axin' me. This one I'm baan to tell abaat heawivir wir Mester Singleton's owdest son o' th' Dyke Farm, an' as he wir weddin' th' prattiest lass i' o' th' country side, varra nigh everybody wir theear, 'specially as Mester Singleton hed given it aat ther'd be a welcome for onnybody. A string o' nearly twenty conveyances, milk carts, an' shandrys, an' gigs, went to th' church wi' fowk o' seein' 'em wed; but comin' back, young Adam started off wi' his young wife as if he wir mad, an' isted o' gooin' th' owd road across th' Stone Brig, an'through th' Holme meadow he pelted off through th' Ingleton Road an' th' Owd Horse Lane. Th' mare seemed to know what th' young chap wir up to, an' to enter into th' spirit o't' thing an' off hoo went like th' woint, th' string o' shandrys an' milk carts an' gigs peltin' on at after abaat a mile behint, an' th' fowk laughin' an' shaatin' at th' fun. Th' gate into th' Owd Horse Lane wir wide open, so th' fowk wir disappointed as expected to gain a minnit or two wi' Adam hevin' to get daan theer to oppen it, an' into th' lane th' mare dashed, an' on hoo went as if th' shandry an' Adam an' his wife wir nowt behint her. Abaat midway i'th' lane heawever th' road dipped a bit, an' th' watter fra a spring i'th' bank ran o'er it, an' just afoor th' shandry reyched it th 'mare stopped o' of a sudden, an' Adam flew aat o'er th' horse's back an' pitched into th' hedge like leetnin'. Th' wife shaated as if he wir kilt, but he'd no bones brokken, an' when we geet up to him he crept aat o'th' prickles wi' a shame-faced look as if he'd bin catcht thievin'. Ther wir some rare jokin' as he climbed up to th' side of his wife an' lasht the mare for another start, butit wir no use, th' mare couldn't stir th' conveyance. Adam lasht away at her, but stir it hoo couldn't, an' at last eight or ten on us set to an' turned th' wheels for twenty or thirty yards an' it wir th' same as if it wir a timber-wagon, it wir that heavy. It wir th' same wi' every one o'th' conveyances, not one could be got o'er th' watter only wi' eight or ten on us toilin' an' slavin' at th' wheels, no matter heaw th' horse strained an' pulled. Nobody could make aat what it wir, an' th' Vicar came an' look't abaat but could find nowt. He said, heawever, th' Owd Lad had some hand in it, an' he warned th' fowk not to use th' road when they could help it. Many an' many a time heawivir, I see carts stuck theear bi' th' day together, for some chaps wouldn't be persuaded not to go through th' lane, for it wir a short cut, an' other chaps went i' nowt but darin' when they'd hed a sup o' drink. It went on for some years like that, an' fowk came fray far an' near to see it. I'd gettin' wed mysen and hed a farm on the Holme, but I used to go raand to it bi'th' owd road across the Brig, but one day, a breet hot day, I'd mi little lad i'th cart an' he bothert mi to go through th' lane, he wantit to see th' OwdLad he said, an' as he started o' cryin' abaat it, I went. Well, the cart stuck i'th' owd place bi th' runnin' watter, an' th' little lad wir deleeted. I geet daan an' took howd o'th' wheel, for I knew it wir no use usin' the whip, an' th' horse wir sweatin' as if it wir rare an' 'freetont, when little Will shaated aat o' ov a sudden 'Feythar, I con see him!' 'See what?' I sang aat, an' broad dayleet as it wir, mi knees wir quakin'. 'A little chap i'th' cart,' he said, 'a fat little chap wi' a red neet cap on.' 'Wheer is he?' I shaated, for I couldn't see owt. 'Theer on th' cart tail,' he said, an' then he shaated 'Why, he's gone,' an' no sooner hed he spokken than th' horse started off wi' th' cart as if it hed nowt behint it.Thir never wir a cart stuck theer at after that, an' th' Vicar said it wir because little Will hed persayved th' Feeorin, an' as Will hed th' gift o' seein' feeorin an' sich like because he wir born at midneet.APPENDIX.COMPARATIVE NOTES.1.Belief in the appearance of the Skriker, Trash, or Padfoot, as the apparition is named in Lancashire, or Padfooit, as it is designated in Yorkshire, is still very prevalent in certain parts of the two counties. This boggart is invariably looked upon as the forerunner of death, and it is supposed that only the relatives of persons about to die, or the unfortunate doomed persons themselves, ever see the apparition.Of quite a distinct class to that of the 'Skrikin' Woman,' an appearance which, at a but recent period, obtained for a lane at Warrington the reputation of being haunted, the Padfoot seems to be peculiar to Lancashire and Yorkshire, unless, indeed, the Welsh Gwyllgi or Dog of Darkness, and the Shock of the Norfolk seaboard, are of the same family. In Norfolk, the spectre, as it does in Lancashire, portends death, but I have been unable to find any Welsh story of the apparition with a more tragic ending than fright and illness.As the Trash generally takes the form of a large shaggy dog or small bear, can the superstition be an offshoot from that old Aryan belief which gave so important an office to the dog as a messenger from the world of the dead, and an attendant upon the dying, or has the grim idea come down to us from the ancient times, when, as the Rev. S. Baring Gould says, 'It was the custom to bury a dog or a boar alive under the corner-stone of a church, that its ghost might haunt the neighbourhood, and drive off any who would profane it—i.e.witches or warlocks'?2.In most of these stories of compacts with the Evil One it is singular how little is received in exchange for the soul. In a few instances poverty bargains for untold wealth, or ugliness and age for youth and loveliness, but generally it is for the baremeans of prolonging or supporting life that the daring and despairing one enters into the everlasting agreement. In fact, as a French authoress has said, it is 'for a mouthful of bread to nourish their debilitated stomachs, and the bundle of sticks which warms again their benumbed limbs.' In Sussex it would appear, from what a country-lad told the Rev. S. Baring Gould, that half-a-crown is the price Satan pays for a soul,—a letter addressed to the Evil One, and containing an offer of the soul, bringing a response in that practical form, if placed under the pillow at night.In Normandy it is considered sufficient to make the compact binding for the acceptance to be simply a verbal one; but in Lancashire the formal parchment deed, with its signatures in blood, is indispensable.3.Old Isaac, it would seem, was not disappointed when he came to make use of his handful of money, and probably, therefore, he had spent it before he told the story, for in all instances where the fairies are recorded as rewarding mortals with money, any revelation as to its source is invariably followed by the gift being turned to bits of paper or leaves.4.Although there appears to have been some little confusion in the mind of the old farmer as to the rank in the world of faerie held by his little benefactor, he seems to have designated him correctly, for although the general idea of Puck is that of a mere mischief-loving and mischief-working sprite, such as is painted by Drayton, Shakspere credits Puck not only with wanton playfulness, but also with industry, for in the second act of the 'Midsummer Night's Dream,' the fairy, addressing the sprite, says:

'As I sat anonder yon green tree,Yon green tree, yon green tree—As I sat anonder yon green treeA Christmas day in the morning.'29

'As I sat anonder yon green tree,Yon green tree, yon green tree—

As I sat anonder yon green treeA Christmas day in the morning.'29

The words could be heard distinctly, and almost unconsciously the two men stood to listen; but directly the voices ceased the student asked if they had not better begin, as the time was passing rapidly.

'Ay,' replied Abraham, 'we han it to do, an' we'd better ger it ower.'

Without any more words they entered theporch, and at once made a circle around them with leaves of Vervain, Bay, and Holly. The old man gave to his companion a branch of Wiggintree,27and firmly held another little bough, as with his disengaged hand he scattered a powder upon the embers. A faint odour floated around them, as they chanted a singular Latin prayer; and no sooner was the last word uttered than a strain of sweet sad music, too inexpressibly soft and mournful to be of earth, was heard. Every moment it seemed to be dying away in a delicious cadence, but again and again was the weird melody taken up by the invisible singers, as the listeners sank to their knees spell-bound. An icy breath of wind hissed round the porch, however, and called the entranced men to their senses, and suddenly the student grasped the arm of his aged companion, and cried, in a terrified voice—

'Abraham, the spell works. Behold!'

The old man gazed in the direction pointed out, and, to his inexpressible horror, saw a procession wending its way towards the porch. It consisted of a stream of figures wrapped up in grave-clothes, gleaming white in the dim light. With solemn and noiseless steps the ghastlyobjects approached the circle in which stood the venturesome men, and, as they drew nearer, the faces of the first two could be seen distinctly, for the blazing powder cast a lurid glow upon them, and made them even more ghastly.

Both spectators had almost unconsciously recognised the features of several of the villagers, when they were aroused from their lethargy of terror by the appearance of one face, which seemed to linger longer than its predecessors had done. Abraham at once saw that the likeness was that of the man by his side, and the clergyman sank to the ground in a swoon.

For some time the old man was too much affected by the lingering face to think of restoring the unconscious man at his feet; but at length the clashing of the bells over his head, as they rang forth a Christmas greeting, called him to himself, and he bent over the prostrate form of his friend. The minister soon recovered, but as he was too weak to walk, the old man ran to the belfry to beg the ringers to come to his assistance. When these men came round to the porch the fire was still burning, the flickering flames of various colours casting dancing shadows upon the walls.

'Abraham,' said one of the ringers, 'there's bin some wizzard wark goin' on here, an' yo' sin what yo'n getten by it.'

'Han yo' bin awsin to raise th' devul, an' Kesmus-eve an' o'?' asked another, in a low and terrified voice.

With a satirical smile, Abraham answered the last speaker: 'It dusn't need o' this mak' o' things to raise th' devul, lad. He's nare so far fra' thuse as wants him.'

Bearing the clergyman in their arms, the men walked through the village, but they did not separate without having, in return for the confidence Abraham reposed in them by confiding to them the secret of the vigil, promised strict secrecy as to what they had witnessed.

Abraham's companion soon recovered from the shock, but not before the story of the night-watch had gone the round of the village. Many were the appeals made to the old herbalist to reveal his strangely-acquired knowledge, but Abraham remained sternly obdurate, remarking to each of his questioners—

'Yo'll know soon enough, mebbi.'

The clergyman, however, was in a more awkward position, and his parishioners soon madehim aware how unwise he had been in giving way to the desire to pry into futurity; for, when any of them were ill and he expressed a kindly wish for their recovery, it was by no means unusual for the sick person to reply—

'Yo could tell me heaw it will end iv yo' loiked.'

This oftentimes being followed by a petition from the assembled relatives—

'Will yo tell us if he wir one o' th' processioners?'

Ultimately Abraham's companion went away, in the hope of returning when the memory of the watch should have become less keen, but, before a few months had passed away, news came of his death, after a violent attack of fever caught during a visit to a wretched hovel in the fishing village where he was staying. By the next December, all the people whose features the old herbalist had recognised during the procession had been carried to the churchyard; but, although several men offered to accompany Abraham to the porch on the forthcoming Christmas-eve, he dared not again go through the spells and undergo the terrors of a church-porch vigil.30

UPONa wild winter night, some centuries ago, the old man who plied the ferry-boat on Windermere, and who lived in a lonely cottage on the Lancashire side of the Lake, was awakened from his sleep by an exceedingly shrill and terrible shriek, which seemed to come from the opposite shore. The wind was whistling and moaning round the house, and for a little while the ferryman and his family fancied that the cry by which they had been disturbed was nothing more than one of the mournful voices of the storm; but soon again came another shriek, even more awe-inspiring than the former one, and this was followed by smothered shouts and groans of a most unearthly nature.

Against the wishes of his terrified relatives, who clung to him, and besought him to remainindoors, the old fellow bravely determined to cross the water, and heeding not the prayers of his wife and daughter, he unfastened his boat, and rowed away. The two women, clasped in each other's arms, trembling with fear, stood at the little door, and endeavoured to make out the form of their protector; but the darkness was too deep for them to see anything upon the lake. At intervals, however, the terrible cry rang out through the gloom, and shrieks and moans were heard loud above the mysterious noises of the night.

In a state of dreadful suspense and terror the women stood for some time, but at length they saw the boat suddenly emerge from the darkness, and shoot into the little cove. To their great surprise, however, the ferryman, who could be seen sitting alone, made no effort to land, and make his way to the cottage; so, fearing that something dreadful had happened to him, and, impelled by love, they rushed to the side of the lake. They found the old man speechless, his face as white and blanched as the snow upon the Nab, and his whole body trembling under the influence of terror, and they immediately led him to the cottage, butthough appealed to, to say what terrible object he had seen, he made no other response than an occasional subdued moan. For several days he remained in that state, deaf to their piteous entreaties, and staring at them with wild-looking eyes; but at length the end came, and, during the gloaming of a beautiful day, he died, without having revealed to those around him what he had seen when, in answer to the midnight cry, he had rowed the ferry-boat across the storm-ruffled lake.

After the funeral had taken place the women left the house, its associations being too painful to permit of their stay, and went to live at Hawkshead, whence two sturdy men, with their respective families, removed to the ferry. The day following that of the arrival of the new-comers was rough and wild, and, soon after darkness had hidden everything in its sable folds, across the lake came the fearful cry, followed by a faint shout for a boat, and screams and moans. The men, hardy as they were, and often as they had laughed at the story told by the widow of the dead man, no sooner heard the first shriek ring through the cottage than they were smitten with terror.Profiting, however, by the experience of their predecessor, and influenced by fear, they did not make any attempt to cross the lake, and the cries continued until some time after midnight.

Afterwards, whenever the day closed gloomily, and ushered in a stormy night, and the wind lashed the water of the lake into fury, the terrible noises were heard with startling distinctness, until at length the dwellers in the cottage became so accustomed to the noises as not to be disturbed by them, or, if disturbed, to fall asleep again after an ejaculation of 't' crier!' Pedlars and others who had to cross the lake, however, were not so hardened, and after a time the ferry-boat was almost disused, for the superstitious people did not dare to cross the haunted water, save in the broad daylight of summer.

It therefore struck the two individuals who were most concerned in the maintenance of the ferry that if they intended to live they must do something to rid the place of its bad name, and of the unseen being who had driven away all their patrons. In their extremity they asked each other who should help them, if not theholy monks, who had come over the sea to the abbey in the Valley of Deadly Night Shade; and one of the ferrymen at once set out for Furness. No sooner had he set eyes upon the stately pile erected by the Savignian and his companions than his heart felt lighter, for he had a simple faith in the marvellous power of the white-robed men, whose voices were seldom if ever heard, save when lifted in worship during one of their seven daily services.

Knocking at the massive door, he was received by a ruddy-looking servitor, who ushered him into the presence of the abbot. The ferryman soon told his story, and begged that a monk might return with him to lay the troubled spirit, and after hearing the particulars of the visitation, the abbot granted the request, making a proviso, however, that the abbey coffers should not be forgotten when the lake was freed from the fiend.

No sooner had the visitor finished the meal set before him by the hospitable monks than, in company with one of the holy men, he set out homeward. As, by a rule of his order, the monk was not permitted to converse, the journey was not an enlivening one, and theferryman was heartily glad when they reached his cottage.

The first night passed without any alarm, the monk and his hosts spending the dreary hours in watching and waiting. The following day, however, was as stormy as the worst enemy of the ferry could have wished, and, when night fell, all the dwellers in the cottage, as well as the silent monk, gathered together again to wait for the cries, but some hours passed without any other sounds having been heard than those caused by the restless wind, as it swept over the lake and among the trees. The Cistercian was beginning to imagine himself the victim of an irreverent practical joke, and that the stories of the spectral crier which had reached the distant abbey long before the ferryman's visit were a pack of falsehoods, when about midnight, he suddenly jumped from the chair upon which he was dozing by the wood fire, hastily made the sign of the cross, and hurriedly commended himself to the protection of his patron saint, for sharp and clear came the dread cry, followed rapidly by a number of shrieks and groans and a smothered appeal for a boat.

In an instant one of the men, with couragedoubtless inspired by the presence of the holy man, shouldered the oars and opened the door, and the monk at once stepped into the open air and hurried to the lake, the men following at a respectful distance. The white-robed father was the first to get into the boat, and the ferrymen hoped that he intended to go alone, but he called upon them to propel the boat to the middle of the lake, and much as they disliked the task, as it was on their behalf that the monk was about to combat the evil spirit, they could not well refuse to accompany him.

When they were about half-way across the lake the wind suddenly lulled, and once more they heard the awful scream, and this time it sounded as though the crier was quite close to them. The occupants of the boat were terribly frightened, and one of them, after suddenly shrieking 'he's here,' fainted, and lay still at the bottom of the boat, while the monk and the other man stared straight before them, as though petrified.

There was a fourth person present, a grim and ghastly figure, with the trappings of this life still dangling about its withered and shrunken limbs, and a gaping wound in itspallid throat. For a few minutes there was a dead silence, but at last it was broken by the monk, who rapidly muttered a prayer for protection against evil spirits, and then took a bottle from a pocket of his robe, and sprinkled a few drops of holy water upon himself and the ferryman, who remained in the same statuesque attitude, and upon the unconscious occupant of the bottom of the boat. After this ceremony, he opened a little book, and, in a sonorous voice, intoned the form for the exorcism of a wandering soul, concluding withVade ad Gehennam!when to the infinite relief of the ferryman, and probably of the monk also, the ghastly figure forthwith vanished.

The Cistercian asked to be immediately taken to the shore, and when he neared the house, the little book was again brought into requisition, and the spirit's visits, should it ever again put in an appearance, limited to an old and disused quarry, a distance from the cottage.31

From that time to this, the wild, lonely place has indeed been desolate and deserted, the boldest people of the district not having sufficient courage to venture near it at nightfall, and the more timid ones shunning the locality evenat noonday. These folks aver that even yet, despite the prayers and exorcisms of the white-robed Cistercian from Furness, whenever a storm descends upon the lake, the Crier escapes from his temporary prison house, and revisits the scene of his first and second appearance to men, and that on such nights, loud above the echoed rumble of the thunder, and the lonely sough of the wind, the benighted wayfarer still hears the wild shrieks and the muffled cry for a boat.

ONCEa fortress and a mansion, but now, unfortunately, little more than a noble ruin, Hoghton Tower stands on one of the most commanding sites in Lancashire. From the fine old entrance-gate a beautiful expanse of highly-cultivated land slopes down and stretches away to the distant sea, glimmering like a strip of molten silver; and on either hand there are beautiful woods, in the old times 'so full of tymber that a man passing through could scarce have seen the sun shine in the middle of the day.' At the foot of these wooded heights a little river ripples through a wild ravine, and meanders through the rich meadows to the proud Ribble. From the building itself, however, the glory has departed. Over the noble gateway, with its embattled towers, and in one of the fast-decaying wainscots,the old family arms, with the motto,Mal Gre le Tort, still remain; but these things, and a few mouldering portraits, are all that are left there to tell of the stately women who, from the time of Elizabeth down to comparatively modern days, pensively watched the setting sun gild the waters of the far-off Irish Sea, and dreamed of lovers away in the wars—trifling things to be the only unwritten records of the noble men who buckled on their weapons, and climbed into the turrets to gaze over the road along which would come the expected besieging parties. Gone are the gallants and their ladies, the roystering Cavalier and the patient but none the less brave Puritan, for, as Isaac Ambrose has recorded, during the troublous times of the Restoration, the place, with its grand banqueting chamber, its fine old staircases, and quaint little windows, was 'a colledge for religion.' The old Tower resounds no more with the gay song of the one or the solemn hymn of the other,

'Men may come, and men may go,'

'Men may come, and men may go,'

and an old tradition outlives them all.

To this once charming mansion there came,long ago, a young man, named Edgar Astley. His sable garments told that he mourned the loss of a relative or friend; and he had not been long at the Tower before it began to be whispered in the servants'-hall that 'the trappings and the suits of woe' were worn in memory of a girl who had been false to him, and who had died soon after her marriage to his rival. This story in itself was sufficient to throw a halo of romance around the young visitor; but when it was rumoured that domestics, who had been returning to the Tower late at night, had seen strange-coloured lights burning in Edgar's room, and that, even at daybreak, the early risers had seen the lights still unextinguished, and the shadow of the watcher pass across the curtains, an element of fear mingled with the feelings with which he was regarded.

There was much in the visitor calculated to deepen the impressions by which the superstitious domestics were influenced, for, surrounded by an atmosphere of gloom, out of which he seemed to start when any of them addressed him, and appearing studiously to shun all the society which it was possible forhim to avoid, he spent most of his time alone, seated beneath the spreading branches of the giant oak tree at the end of the garden, reading black-letter volumes, and plunged in meditation. Not that he was in any way rude to his hosts; on the contrary, he was almost chivalrous in his attention to the younger members of the family and to the ladies of the house, who, in their turn, regarded him with affectionate pity, and did their utmost to wean him from his lonely pursuits. Yet, although he would willingly accompany them through the woods, or to the distant town, the approach of the gloaming invariably found him in his usual place beneath the shadow of the gnarled old boughs, either poring over his favourite books, or, with eyes fixed upon vacancy, lost in a reverie.

Time would, the kind people thought, bring balm to his wounds, and in the meanwhile they were glad to have their grief-stricken friend with them; and fully appreciating their sympathy, Edgar came and went about the place and grounds just as the whim of the moment took him. This absence of curiosity on the part of the members of the family was, however,amply compensated for by the open wonder with which many of the domestics regarded the young stranger; and before he had been many months in the house his nightly vigils were the theme of many a serious conversation in the kitchen, where, in front of a cosy fire, the gossips gathered to compare notes.

Unable to repress their vulgar curiosity, or to gratify it in any more honourable or less dangerous manner, it was determined that one of the domestics should, at the hour of twelve, creep to the door of the visitor's chamber, and endeavour to discover what was the nature of those pursuits which rendered lights necessary during the whole of the night. The selection was soon made, and after a little demur the chosen one agreed to perform the unpleasant task.

At midnight, therefore, the trembling ambassador made his way to the distant door, and after a little hesitation, natural enough under the circumstances, he stooped, and gazed through a hole in the dried oak whence a knot had fallen. Edgar Astley was seated at a little table, an old black-looking book withhuge clasps open before him. With one hand he shaded his eyes from the light which fell upon his face from the flames of many colours dancing in a tall brazen cup. Suddenly, however, he turned from his book, and put a few pinches of a bright-looking powder to the burning matter in the stand. A searching and sickly odour immediately filled the room, and the quivering flames blazed upwards with increased life and vigour as the student turned once more to the ponderous tome, and, after hastily glancing down its pages, muttered: 'Strange that I cannot yet work the spell. All things named here have I sought for and found, even blood of bat, dead man's hand, venom of viper, root of gallows mandrake, and flesh of unbaptized and strangled babe. Am I, then, not to succeed until I try the charm of charms at the risk of life itself? And yet,' said he, unconscious of the presence of the terrified listener, 'what should I fear? So far have I gone uninjured, and now will I proceed to the triumphant or the bitter end. Once I would have given the future happiness of my soul to have called her by my name, and now what is this paltry life to me that I shouldhesitate to risk it in this quest, and perhaps win one glimpse of her face?'

There was a moment of silence as the student bent his head over the book, but though no other person was visible, the listener, to his horror, quickly heard a sharp hissing voice ask, 'And wouldst thou not even yet give thy soul in exchange for speech with thy once betrothed?' The student hastily stood erect, and rapidly cried: 'Let me not be deceived! Whatever thou art, if thou canst bring her to me my soul shall be thine now and for ever!'

There was a dead hush for a minute or two, during which the lout at the door heard the beating of his own heart, and then the invisible being again spoke: 'Be it so. Thou hast but one spell left untried. When that has been done thou shalt have thy reward. Beneath the oak at midnight she shall be brought to thee. Darest thou first behold me?'

'I have no fear,' calmly replied the student, but such was not the state of the petrified listener, for no sooner had the lights commenced to burn a weird blue than he sank fainting against the door.

When he came to consciousness he waswithin the awful room, the student having dragged him in when he fell.

'What art thou, wherefore dost thou watch me at this hour, and what hast thou seen?' sternly demanded Edgar, addressing the terrified boor, and in few and trembling words the unhappy domestic briefly answered the queries; but the student did not permit him to leave the chamber, through the little window of which the dawn was streaming, before he had sworn that not a word as to anything he had seen or heard should pass his lips. The solemnity of the vow was deepened by the mysterious and awful threats with which it was accompanied, and the servant, therefore, loudly protested to his fellows that he had not seen or heard anything, but that, overcome by his patient watching, he had fallen asleep at the door; and many were the congratulations which followed when it was imagined what the consequences would have been had he been discovered in his strange resting-place.

The day following that of the adventure passed over without anything remarkable beyond the absence of Edgar from his usual seat under the shade of the giant oak, but the night set instormily, dark clouds scudded before the wind, which swept up from the distant sea, and moaned around the old tower, whirling the fallen leaves in fantastic dances about the garden and the green, and shaking in its rage even the iron boughs of the oak. The household had retired early, and at eleven o'clock only Edgar and another were awake. In the student's chamber the little lamp was burning and the book lay open as usual, and Edgar pored over the pages, but at times he glanced impatiently at the quaint clock. At length, with a sigh of relief, he said, sternly and sadly, 'The time draws nigh, and once more we shall meet!' He then gathered together a few articles from different corners of the room and stepped out upon the broad landing, passed down the noble old staircase, and out from the hall. Here he was met by a cold blast of wind, which shrieked round him, as though rejoicing over its prey; and as Edgar was battling with it, a man emerged from a recess and joined him.

The night was quite dark, not a star or a rift in the sky visible, and the two men could hardly pick their way along the well-known path.They reached the oak tree, however, and Edgar placed the materials at its foot, and at once, with a short wand, drew a large circle around the domestic and himself. This done, he placed a little cauldron on the grass, and filled it with a red powder, which, although the wind was roaring through the branches above, immediately blazed up with a steady flame.

The old mastiffs chained under the gateway began to howl dismally; but, regardless of the omen,32Edgar struck the ground three times with his hazel stick, and cried in a loud voice: 'Spirit of my love, I conjure thee obey my words, and verily and truly come to me this night!'

Hardly had he spoken when a shadowy figure of a beautiful child appeared, as though floating around the magic ring. The servant sank upon his knees, but the student regarded it not, and it vanished, and the terrified listener again heard Edgar's voice as he uttered another conjuration. No sooner had he begun this than terrible claps of thunder were heard, lightning flashed round the tree, flocks of birds flew across the garden and dashed themselves against the window of the student's chamber,where a light still flickered; and, loud above the noises of the storm, cocks could be heard shrilly crowing, and owls uttering their mournful cries. In the midst of this hubbub the necromancer calmly went on with his incantation, concluding with the dread words: 'Spirit of my love, I conjure thee to fulfil my will without deceit or tarrying, and without power over my soul or body earthly or ghostly! If thou comest not, then let the shadow and the darkness of death be upon thee for ever and ever!'

As the last word left his lips the storm abated its violence, and comparative silence followed. Suddenly the little flame in the cauldron flared up some yards in height, and sweet voices chanting melodiously could be heard. 'Art thou prepared to behold the dead?' asked an invisible being.

'I am!' undauntedly answered Edgar.

An appearance as of a thick mist gathered opposite him, and slowly, in the midst of it, the outlines of a beautiful human face, with mournful eyes, in which earthly love still lingered, could be discerned.

Clad in the garments of the grave, the betrothed of Edgar Astley appeared before him.

For some time the young man gazed upon her as though entranced, but at length he slowly extended his arms as though to embrace the beautiful phantom. The domestic fell upon his face like one stricken by death, the spectre vanished, and again the pealing thunder broke forth.

'Thou art for ever mine,' cried a hissing voice; but as the words broke upon the ears of the two men, the door of the mansion was flung open, and the old baronet and a number of the servants, who had been disturbed by the violence of the storm, the howling of the dogs, and the shrill cries of the birds, rushed forth.

'Come not near me if ye would save yourselves,' cried the necromancer.

'We would save thee,' shouted the old man, still advancing. 'In nomine Patris,' said he, solemnly, as he neared the magic circle; and no sooner had the words left his lips than sudden stillness fell upon the scene; the lightning no longer flashed round the oak; and, as the flame in the cauldron sank down, the moon broke through a cloud, and threw her soft light over the old garden.

Edgar was leaning against the oak tree, hiseyes fixed in the direction where the image of his betrothed had appeared; and when they led him away, it was as one leads a trusting child, for the light of reason had left him. The unfortunate domestic, being less sensitive, retained his faculties; but he ever afterwards bore upon his wrist, as if deeply burned into the flesh, the marks of a broad thumb and fingers. This strange appearance he was wont to explain to stray visitors, by saying that when, terrified almost out of his wits, he fell to the ground, his hand was outside the magic circle, and 'summat' seized him; which lucid explanation was generally followed up by an old and privileged servitor, who remarked, 'Tha'll t'hev mooar marks nor thuse on tha' next toime asHegrabs tha', mi lad.'

'AY,'said Old 'Lijah, 'I mind one time when they said th' Owd Lad hissel appear't i' broad dayleet, an' wir seen bi hunderts o' fowk, owd an' yung.'

There was a dead silence for a little while as the listeners gathered nearer the blazing fire, two or three of them getting a little further away from the door, against which the wind was dashing the snow, and then 'Lijah resumed: 'When I wir a lad, me an' mi mestur wer ast to a berryin. Ther wer a deeol o' drink stirrin, th' coffee pot, wi th' lemon peel hangin aat, gooin abaat fray one side to th' tother fast enough, and at last o' wer ready, but just as they wer baan to lift th' coffin a clap o' thunder shuke th' varra glasses o' th' table.

'Th' chaps as hed howd stopped a bit an' lukt raand, but th' deead chap's feythur shouted, "Come on, lads, or wist be late, an' th' paasonwaynt berry;" so they piked off, but no sooner hed they getten' i' th' street nor a lad i' th' craad cried out, "Heigh, chaps, luk at th' black cock34on th' top o' th' coffin," an' sure enough theer it wor. One o' th' beerers said directly as they'd enough to carry wi'out ony passingers, an' up wi' his fist an' knockt it off, but it wer on ageean in a minit, an one bi' one they o' hed a slap at it, but every time it wer knockt off back it flew to it' place at th' deead mon's feet, so at last th' owd mon give th' word of command, an' off they startit wi' th' looad. Th' craad geet bigger afooar they reached th' owd country church wheer he hed to be berried, an' th' fowk geet a throwin stooans at th' black bird, an' hittin it wi' sticks an' shaatin at it, but it stuck theer like a fixter.

'After a while we reached th' graveyart, an' th' paason come deawn th' road fray th' church door to meet th' coffin, an' he wer just baan to start th' service when he see th' brid an' stopped.

'"What han yo' got theere?" he says, lukin varra vext, for he thowt some marlock wer gooin on. "What han yo' theere, men?"

'Th' owd feythur stepped forrut an' towdhim what hed happent, an' as nooan on 'em could freetun it off it peeark naythur wi' sticks or stooans or sweearin.

'"It's a strange tale," said th' vicar, "but we moant hev no brids here! Yo' fowk keep eaut o' th' graveyart nobbut thuse as is invitet to th' funeral! I'll settle him for yo!" an' so sayin he grabbed howd o' th' cock, an' walked o'er th' graves wi' it to a place wheer th' bruk run under th' hedges, an' then he bent deawn o' th' floor an' dipped th' bird i'th' watter, an' held it theer for abaat a quarter ov an hour.

'No sooner had he getten up, heawever, nor th' brid flew up eaut o' th' watter quite unhort, an' hopped o'er th' grass to th' coffin an' peearkt ageean as if nowt hed happent.

'Th' vicar lukt varra consarnt for a while, an' skrat his yed as he staret at th' fowk.

'Theer's summat not reet abaat that brid,' he said, 'but that's no rayson why we shouldn't bury th' deead!' an' he pottert off toart th' grave, an' th' beerers carriet th' coffin to th' side, an' th' sarvice wer gone through, wi' th' bird harkenin every word like a Christian.

'Th' chaps then startit o' lowerin th' coffin into th' grave, an' th' brid still stuck o' th'peeark, an' it wer nobbut when th' hole wer filled, as it came above graand ageean, an' theer it set on th' maand.

'A craad o' fowk waited abaat an' hung on th' graveyart wo' till th' edge o' dark, an' then they piket off whoam, for they begun to think as mebbi it were th' Owd Lad hissel, but a twothree on us stopped till it wer neet afooar we went after 'em, th' cock sittin theear just th' same as it hed done i' th' dayleet.

'It were usual i' thuse days to watch th' graves for a few neets, for ther wer a deeal o' resurrectionin' gooin on i'o' directions, th' body-snatchers hevin mooar orders than they could attend to; but though th' deead chap's feythur offert brass an' plenty o' drink an' meyt to anybody as ud keep a look aat, not one dar do it, an' th' deead mon wer laft to tek care o' hissel, or for th' brid to mind him.

'Soon after dayleet th' next mornin I went wi' a twothree moor young chaps to see heaw th' place lukt, an' th' grave hedn't bin brokken into, but th' brid had flown, and fray that day to this I could never find aat ayther wheer it coom fray or went to, but I heeart as th' vicar said it met be th' Owd Lad claimin' his own.'

ATthe junction of the four cross roads, gleaming white in the hot sunshine and hawthorn-bounded, and marked by the parallel ruts made by the broad wheels of the country carts, the old public house of theWyresdale Armswas scarcely ever without a number of timber wagons or hay carts about its open door, the horses quietly munching from the nose-bags and patiently waiting until their owners or drivers should emerge from the sanded kitchen.

Nathan Peel's hostelry was the half-way house for all the farmers and cart-drivers in the district, and generally quiet enough at night time, but from its capacious kitchen roars of laughter rang out many a summer afternoon, as the carters and yeomen told their droll stories.

On one of these occasions, when the sun was blazing outside, and shimmering upon the sands and the distant sea, and through the open window the perfume of the may-blossom stole gently, a quaint looking old fellow, whose face had been bronzed by three-score summers and winters, happened to mention an occurrence as having taken place about the time of 'th' quare weddin',' and a chorus of voices at once called upon him for the story.

'It's quite forty year sin,' he said thoughtfully, 'an' I wir quite a young chap then, an' ready for any marlock. I could dance too wi' hear an' thear one, an' no weddin' wir reet wi'aat axin' me. This one I'm baan to tell abaat heawivir wir Mester Singleton's owdest son o' th' Dyke Farm, an' as he wir weddin' th' prattiest lass i' o' th' country side, varra nigh everybody wir theear, 'specially as Mester Singleton hed given it aat ther'd be a welcome for onnybody. A string o' nearly twenty conveyances, milk carts, an' shandrys, an' gigs, went to th' church wi' fowk o' seein' 'em wed; but comin' back, young Adam started off wi' his young wife as if he wir mad, an' isted o' gooin' th' owd road across th' Stone Brig, an'through th' Holme meadow he pelted off through th' Ingleton Road an' th' Owd Horse Lane. Th' mare seemed to know what th' young chap wir up to, an' to enter into th' spirit o't' thing an' off hoo went like th' woint, th' string o' shandrys an' milk carts an' gigs peltin' on at after abaat a mile behint, an' th' fowk laughin' an' shaatin' at th' fun. Th' gate into th' Owd Horse Lane wir wide open, so th' fowk wir disappointed as expected to gain a minnit or two wi' Adam hevin' to get daan theer to oppen it, an' into th' lane th' mare dashed, an' on hoo went as if th' shandry an' Adam an' his wife wir nowt behint her. Abaat midway i'th' lane heawever th' road dipped a bit, an' th' watter fra a spring i'th' bank ran o'er it, an' just afoor th' shandry reyched it th 'mare stopped o' of a sudden, an' Adam flew aat o'er th' horse's back an' pitched into th' hedge like leetnin'. Th' wife shaated as if he wir kilt, but he'd no bones brokken, an' when we geet up to him he crept aat o'th' prickles wi' a shame-faced look as if he'd bin catcht thievin'. Ther wir some rare jokin' as he climbed up to th' side of his wife an' lasht the mare for another start, butit wir no use, th' mare couldn't stir th' conveyance. Adam lasht away at her, but stir it hoo couldn't, an' at last eight or ten on us set to an' turned th' wheels for twenty or thirty yards an' it wir th' same as if it wir a timber-wagon, it wir that heavy. It wir th' same wi' every one o'th' conveyances, not one could be got o'er th' watter only wi' eight or ten on us toilin' an' slavin' at th' wheels, no matter heaw th' horse strained an' pulled. Nobody could make aat what it wir, an' th' Vicar came an' look't abaat but could find nowt. He said, heawever, th' Owd Lad had some hand in it, an' he warned th' fowk not to use th' road when they could help it. Many an' many a time heawivir, I see carts stuck theear bi' th' day together, for some chaps wouldn't be persuaded not to go through th' lane, for it wir a short cut, an' other chaps went i' nowt but darin' when they'd hed a sup o' drink. It went on for some years like that, an' fowk came fray far an' near to see it. I'd gettin' wed mysen and hed a farm on the Holme, but I used to go raand to it bi'th' owd road across the Brig, but one day, a breet hot day, I'd mi little lad i'th cart an' he bothert mi to go through th' lane, he wantit to see th' OwdLad he said, an' as he started o' cryin' abaat it, I went. Well, the cart stuck i'th' owd place bi th' runnin' watter, an' th' little lad wir deleeted. I geet daan an' took howd o'th' wheel, for I knew it wir no use usin' the whip, an' th' horse wir sweatin' as if it wir rare an' 'freetont, when little Will shaated aat o' ov a sudden 'Feythar, I con see him!' 'See what?' I sang aat, an' broad dayleet as it wir, mi knees wir quakin'. 'A little chap i'th' cart,' he said, 'a fat little chap wi' a red neet cap on.' 'Wheer is he?' I shaated, for I couldn't see owt. 'Theer on th' cart tail,' he said, an' then he shaated 'Why, he's gone,' an' no sooner hed he spokken than th' horse started off wi' th' cart as if it hed nowt behint it.

Thir never wir a cart stuck theer at after that, an' th' Vicar said it wir because little Will hed persayved th' Feeorin, an' as Will hed th' gift o' seein' feeorin an' sich like because he wir born at midneet.

COMPARATIVE NOTES.

1.

Belief in the appearance of the Skriker, Trash, or Padfoot, as the apparition is named in Lancashire, or Padfooit, as it is designated in Yorkshire, is still very prevalent in certain parts of the two counties. This boggart is invariably looked upon as the forerunner of death, and it is supposed that only the relatives of persons about to die, or the unfortunate doomed persons themselves, ever see the apparition.

Of quite a distinct class to that of the 'Skrikin' Woman,' an appearance which, at a but recent period, obtained for a lane at Warrington the reputation of being haunted, the Padfoot seems to be peculiar to Lancashire and Yorkshire, unless, indeed, the Welsh Gwyllgi or Dog of Darkness, and the Shock of the Norfolk seaboard, are of the same family. In Norfolk, the spectre, as it does in Lancashire, portends death, but I have been unable to find any Welsh story of the apparition with a more tragic ending than fright and illness.

As the Trash generally takes the form of a large shaggy dog or small bear, can the superstition be an offshoot from that old Aryan belief which gave so important an office to the dog as a messenger from the world of the dead, and an attendant upon the dying, or has the grim idea come down to us from the ancient times, when, as the Rev. S. Baring Gould says, 'It was the custom to bury a dog or a boar alive under the corner-stone of a church, that its ghost might haunt the neighbourhood, and drive off any who would profane it—i.e.witches or warlocks'?

2.

In most of these stories of compacts with the Evil One it is singular how little is received in exchange for the soul. In a few instances poverty bargains for untold wealth, or ugliness and age for youth and loveliness, but generally it is for the baremeans of prolonging or supporting life that the daring and despairing one enters into the everlasting agreement. In fact, as a French authoress has said, it is 'for a mouthful of bread to nourish their debilitated stomachs, and the bundle of sticks which warms again their benumbed limbs.' In Sussex it would appear, from what a country-lad told the Rev. S. Baring Gould, that half-a-crown is the price Satan pays for a soul,—a letter addressed to the Evil One, and containing an offer of the soul, bringing a response in that practical form, if placed under the pillow at night.

In Normandy it is considered sufficient to make the compact binding for the acceptance to be simply a verbal one; but in Lancashire the formal parchment deed, with its signatures in blood, is indispensable.

3.

Old Isaac, it would seem, was not disappointed when he came to make use of his handful of money, and probably, therefore, he had spent it before he told the story, for in all instances where the fairies are recorded as rewarding mortals with money, any revelation as to its source is invariably followed by the gift being turned to bits of paper or leaves.

4.

Although there appears to have been some little confusion in the mind of the old farmer as to the rank in the world of faerie held by his little benefactor, he seems to have designated him correctly, for although the general idea of Puck is that of a mere mischief-loving and mischief-working sprite, such as is painted by Drayton, Shakspere credits Puck not only with wanton playfulness, but also with industry, for in the second act of the 'Midsummer Night's Dream,' the fairy, addressing the sprite, says:

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