Mr. Merripall, having gathered that the tale was of a ghostly character, would not suffer the candles to be snuffed, but requested his mutes to sprinkle over them a pinch or two of salt, that they might burn appropriately blue. He would have given his gold repeater for a death-watch; and when a coffin bounced out to him from the fire (howbeit it might be carrying coals to Newcastle!) he hailed it as a pleasant omen. Messrs. Hatband and Stiflegig, catching the jocular infection, brightened up amazingly.

THREE CHURCHES IN A ROW

I.=

If you journey westward—ho,

Three churches all of a row,

Ever since the days of the Friars,

Have lifted to Heaven their ancient spires.

The bells of the third are heard to toll—

For Pauper, Dives?

Pastor, Cives?

For a rich or a poor man's soul?

Winding round the sandy mound

Coaches and four, feathers and pall,

Startle the simple villagers all!

Sable mutes, death's recruits!

Marshall the hearse to the holy ground.

Eight stout men the coffin bear—

What a creak is here! what a groan is there!

As the marching corps toil through the church door—

For the rich dead must be buried in lead;

Their pamper'd forms are too good for the worms!

They cheat in dust, as they cheated before.

Mumbles the parson, and mumbles the clerk,

Prayer, response,

All for the nonce!

Who shall shrive the soul of a shark?

Slides the coffin deep in the ground;

Earth knocks the lid with a hollow sound!

It lies in state, and the silver'd plate

Glares in the ghastly sepulchre round!

Death has his dole!

At last, at last the body's nail'd fast!

But who has the soul?

See a mourner slowly retire,

With a conscience ill at ease

For opening graves and burial fees,

He hath yet to pay his debt,—

Tho' Heaven delays, can Heaven forget?

Forget? As soon as the sun at noon.

That gilds yon spire,

Shall cease to roll—or that mourner's soul

Itself expire!

II.=

Swift the arrow, eagle's flight,

Thought, sensation, sound, and light!

But swift indeed is the spirit's speed

To the glory of day, or the darkness of night!

Who knocks at the brazen gate? A fare

By the ferryman row'd to the gulf of despair!

With hissing snakes twisted into a thong,

(“I drove you on earth, I drive you below,

Gee up! gee up! old Judas, gee ho!”)

A furious crone whipp'd a spirit along!—

Her blood-shot sight

Caught the ferryman's sprite;

“Welcome! welcome!” she shriek'd with delight,—

“Thy father is here for his gifts to me,

And here am I, his torment to be”—

(And the cruel crone

Lash'd out a groan!

A deep-drawn breath

From the ribs of death,

Where the undying worm gnaw'd the marrowless bone!)

“For what I have given thy brethren and thee!

Gold was to keep up our family name!'

Spirit

A penny-wise fame!

It has kept it up! for 'tis written in shame

On earth: and, behold! in that bright shining flame!

Old Man.

Death so soon to knock at thy door I

And send thee hither at forty and four.

Spirit.

My sire! my sire! unholy desire,

The hypocrite's guile,

Mask'd under a smile I

And avarice made me a pillow of fire;

The ill-gotten purse has carried its curse

Old Man.

Hath Jacob done better?

Spirit.

Nor better nor worse!

Losses and crosses, and sorrow and care

Have furrowed his cheeks and whitened his hair.

Betray'd in turn by the heart he betray'd,

Exalting his horn

To the finger of scorn,

He lies in the bed that his meanness has made.

Old Man.—Crone.

Our gold! our gold! ten thousand times told!

Thus to fly from the family fold.

Spirit.

Father! mother! my spirit is wrung:

Water! water! for parch'd is my tongue.

Is this fiery lake ne'er to be cross'd?

Are those wild sounds the shrieks of the lost?

And that stern angel sitting alone,

Lucifer crown'd, on his burning throne?

Old Man.

But how fares Jonathan, modest and meek?

My Meeting-House walking-stick thrice in the week!

Ere wife and cough

Carried me off,—

Instead of heathenish Latin and Greek,

I early taught him my maxims true,—

Do unto all as you'd have others do

To yourself, good Jonathan? Certainly not!

But learning never will boil the pot;—

A penny sav'd is a penny got;—

A groat per year is per day a pin;—

Let those (the lucky ones! ) laugh that win;—

Keep your shop, and your shop will keep you!

Grasps his clutch little or much?

Has his good round sum rolled into a plum?

A voice spake in thunder—“His time is not come!”

III.=

There is an eye that compasses all,

Good and ill in this earthly ball;

That pierces the dunnest, loneliest cell,

Where wickedness hides, and marks it well!

Years have wheeled their circles round,

And the ancient sexton re-opens the ground;

A weary man at the end of his span,—

Again the bell tolls a funeral sound,

And the nodding plumes pass down the hill,—

'Tis the time of the year when the buds appear,

And the blackbird pipes his music shrill;

On the breeze there is balm, and a holy calm,

Whispers the troubled heart, “Be still! ”

Ah! how chang'd since we saw him last,

That mourner of twenty long winters past!

He halts and bends as he slowly wends—

Bereft! bereft! what hath he done?

That death should smite his only son!

Fix'd to the sod,

Bitter tears his cheeks bedew;

His broken heart is buried too!

With gentle hand, and accents bland,

The man of God

Leads him forth—'tis silence deep,—

And fathers, mothers, children weep.

IV.=

For what man gives the world, he learns

Too late, how little it returns!

Nor counts he, till the funeral pall

Has made a shipwreck of his all,

His pleasures, pains; his losses, gains;

And finds that, bankrupt! naught remains.

In the watches of the night

E'en our very thoughts affright—

And see! before the mourner's sight

A dark and shadowy form appears;

Hark! a voice salutes his ears,

“ Hush thy sorrow, dry thy tears!

Father! 'twas to save thy son

From av'rice, cunning, passion, pride,

That he hath left the path untried,

The crooked path that worldlings run,

And, happy spirit! early died.

If thou couldst know who dwell below

In deep unutterable woe;

Or wing with me thy journey far

Above, where shines the morning star;

And hear the bright angelic choirs

(Casting their crowns before His feet,)

In choral hymns His praise repeat,

And strike their golden lyres—

Another sun would never rise,

And gild the azure vault of heaven,

Ere thy petition reach'd the skies

To be forgiven.”

Was it a dream?—The mournful man

Next morn his alter'd course began.

To his kindred he restor'd

What unjustly swelled his hoard.

With a meek, contented mind,

He liv'd in peace with all mankind;

And thus would gratefully prolong

To heaven his morn and evening song;—

I have no time to pray, to plead

For all the blessings that I need;

For what I have, a patriarch's days

Would only give me time to praise!—

He died in hope. Yon narrow cell

Guards his sleeping ashes well.

The rest can holy angels tell!....

“This will I carry with me to my pillow,” said Uncle Timothy. “My friends, good night.”