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Upon which, Toft seized Peter by the throat, with an energy that, but for the timely intervention of the company, who rushed to his assistance, the prophet might himself have anticipated the doom he prognosticated.

Released from the grasp of Toft, who was held back by the bystanders, Peter again broke forth into his eltrich laugh; and staring right into the face of his adversary, with eyes glistening, and hands uplifted, as if in the act of calling down an imprecation on his head, he screamed, in a shrill and discordant voice, "Soh! you will not take my warning? you revile me-you flout me! 'Tis well! your fate shall prove a warning to all unbelievers-they shall remember this night, though you will not. Fool! fool!your doom has long been sealed! I saw your wraith choose out its last lodgment on Halloween; I know the spot. Your grave is dug already-ha, ha!" And, with renewed laughter, Peter rushed out of the room.

"Did I not caution thee not to provoke him, friend Toft?" said Plant; "it's ill playing with edge tools; but don't let him fly off in that tantrum- -one of ye go after him."

"That will I," replied Burtenshaw; and he departed in search of the sexton.

"I'd advise thee to make it up with Peter so soon as thou canst, neighbour," continued Plant; "he's a bad friend, but a worse enemy."

"Why, what harm can he do me?" returned Toft, who, however, was not without some misgivings. "If I must die, I can't help it-I shall go none the sooner for him, even if he speak the truth, which I don't think he do; and if I must, I shan't go unprepared-only I think as how, if it pleased Providence, I could have wished to keep my old missus company some few years longer, and see those bits of lasses of mine grow up into women, and respectably provided for. But His will be done. I shan't leave 'em quite penniless, and there's one eye at least, I'm sure, won't be dry at my departure." Here the stout heart of Toft gave way, and he shed some few "natural tears;" which, however, he speedily brushed away. "I'll tell you what, neighbours," continued he; "I think we may all as well be thinking of going to our own homes, for, to my mind, we shall never reach the churchyard to-night."

"That you never will," exclaimed a voice behind him; and Toft, turning round, again met the glance of Peter.

"Come, come, Master Peter," cried the good-natured farmer, "this be ugly jesting-ax pardon for my share of it-sorry for what I did so give us thy hand, man, and think no more

about it."

Peter extended his claw, and the parties were, apparently, once more upon terms of friendship.

CHAPTER I.

THE FUNERAL ORATION.

in northern customs duty was exprest
To friends departed by their funeral feast;
Though I've consulted Holingshed and Stow,
I find it very difficult to know,

Who, to refresh the attendants to the grave,
Burnt claret first, or Naples' biscuit gave.

KING: Art of Cookery.

Ceterum priusquam corpus humo injectâ contegatur, defunctus oratione funebri laudabatur.-DURAND.

A SUPPLY of spirits was here introduced; lights were brought at the same time, and placed upon a long oak table. The party gathering round it, ill-humour was speedily dissipated, and even the storm disregarded, in the copious libations that ensued. At this juncture, a loiterer appeared in the hall. His movements were unnoticed by all excepting the sexton, who watched his proceedings with some curiosity. The person walked to the window, appearing, so far as could be discovered, to eye the storm with great impatience. He then paced the hall rapidly backwards and forwards, and Peter fancied he could detect sounds of disappointment in his muttered exclamations. Again he returned to the window, as if to ascertain the probable duration of the shower. It was a hopeless endeavour; all was pitch-dark without; the lightning was now only seen at long intervals, but the rain still audibly descended in torrents. Apparently seeing the impossibility of controlling the elements, the person approached the table.

"What think you of the night, Mr. Palmer?" asked the sexton of Jack, for he was the anxious investigator of the weather. "Don't know-can't say-set in, I think-cursed unluckyfor the funeral, I mean we shall be drowned if we go."

Where

"And drunk if we stay," rejoined Peter. "But never fear, it will hold up, depend upon it, long before we can start. have they put the prisoner?" asked he, with a sucaon change of

manner.

"I know the room, but can't describe it; it's two or three doors down the lower corridor of the eastern gallery."

"Good. Who are on guard?”

"Titus Tyrconnel, and that swivel-eyed quill-driver, Coates." "Enough."

"Come, come, Master Peter," roared Toft, "let's have another stave. Give us one of your odd snatches. No more corpsecandles, or that sort of thing. Something lively-something jolly -ha, ha!"

"A good move," shouted Jack. "A lively song lillibullero from a death's head-ha, ha!"

from you

"My songs are all of a sort," returned Peter; "I am seldom asked to sing a second time. However, you are welcome to the merriest I have." And preparing himself, like certain other accomplished vocalists, with a few preliminary hems and haws, he struck forth the following doleful ditty:

THE OLD OAK COFFIN.

Sic cgo componi versus in ossa velim.-TIBULLUS.

In a churchyard, upon the sward, a coffin there was laid,
And leaning stood, beside the wood, a sexton on his spade.
A coffin old and black it was, and fashioned curiously,
With quaint device of carved oak, in hideous fantasie.

For here was wrought the sculptured thought of a tormented face,
With serpents lithe that round it writhe, in folded strict embrace.
Grim visages of grinning fiends were at each corner set,

And emblematic scrolls, mort-heads, and bones together met.

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Ah, well-a-day!" that sexton grey unto himself did cry,

"Beneath that lid much lieth hid-much awful mysterie.

It is an ancient coffin from the abbey that stood here;

Perchance it holds an abbot's bones, perchance those of a frere.

"In digging deep, where monks do sleep, beneath yon cloister shrined, That coffin old, within the mould, it was my chance to find;

The costly carvings of the lid I scraped full carefully,

In hope to get at name or date, yet nothing could I see.

"With pick and spade I've plied my trade for sixty years and more,
Yet never found, beneath the ground, shell strange as that before;
Full many coffins have I seen-have seen them deep or flat,
Fantastical in fashion-none fantastical as that."

And saying so, with heavy blow, the lid he shattered wide,
And, pale with fright, a ghastly sight that sexton grey espied;
A miserable sight it was, that loathsome corpse to see,
The last, last, dreary, darksome stage of fall'n humanity.

Though all was gone, save reeky bone, a green and grisly heap,
With scarce a trace of fleshly face, strange posture did it keep.

The hands were clench'd, the teeth were wrench'd, as if the wretch had risen,
E'en after death had ta'en his breath, to strive and burst his prison.

The neck was bent, the nails were rent, no limb or joint was straight;
Together glued, with blood imbued, black and coagulate.

And, as the sexton stooped him down to lift the coffin plank,
His fingers were defiled all o'er with slimy substance dank.

"Ah, well-a-day!" that sexton grey unto himself did cry,

"Full well I see how Fate's decree foredoomed this wretch to die;
A living man, a breathing man, within the coffin thrust,
Alack! alack! the agony ere he returned to dust!"

A vision drear did then appear unto that sexton's eyes:
Like that poor wight before him straight he in a coffin lies.
He lieth in a trance within that coffin close and fast;
Yet though he sleepeth now, he feels he shall awake at last.

he coffin then, by reverend men, is borne with footsteps slow,
Where tapers shine before the shrine, where breathes the requiem low;
And for the dead the prayer is said, for the soul that is not flown--
Then all is drown'd in hollow sound, the earth is o'er him thrown!

He draweth breath-he wakes from death to life more horrible;
To agony such agony! no living tongue may tell.

Die! die he must, that wretched one! he struggles-strives in vain;
No more heaven's light, nor sunshine bright, shall he behold again.

"Gramercy, Lord!" the sexton roar'd, awakening suddenly,
"If this be dream, yet doth it seem most dreadful so to die.
Oh, cast my body in the sea! or hurl it on the shore!

But nail me not in coffin fast-no grave will I dig more."

It was not difficult to discover the effect produced by this song, in the lengthened faces of the greater part of the audience. Jack Palmer, however, laughed loud and long.

"Bravo, bravo!" cried he; "that suits my humour exactly. I can't abide the thoughts of a coffin. No deal box for me."

"A gibbet might, perhaps, serve your turn as well,” muttered the sexton; adding aloud, "I am now entitled to call upon you; -a song! !-a song!"

"Ay, a song, Mr. Palmer, a song!" reiterated the hinds. "Yours will be the right kind of thing."

"Say no more," replied Jack. "I'll give you a chant composed upon Dick Turpin, the highwayman. It's no great shakes, to be sure, but it's the best I have." And, with a knowing wink at the sexton, he commenced, in the true nasal whine, the following strain:

ONE FOOT IN THE STIRRUP;

OR, TURPIN'S FIRST FLING.

Cum esset proposita fuga Turpi(n)s.—CICERO.

"One foot in the stirrup, one hand in the rein,
And the noose be my portion, or freedom I'll gain!

Oh! give me a seat in my saddle once more,

And these bloodhounds shall find that the chase is not o'er!"

Thus muttered Dick Turpin, who found, while he slept,

That the Philistines old on his slumbers had crept;
Had entrapped him as puss on her form you'd ensnare,
And that gone were his snappers--and gone was his mare.

Hilloah!

How Dick had been captured is readily told,
The pursuit had been hot, though the night had been cold;
So at daybreak, exhausted, he sought brief repose
Mid the thick of a corn-field, away from his foes.
But in vain was his caution-in vain did his steed,
Ever watchful and wakeful in moments of need,
With lip and with hoof on her master's cheek press-
He slept on, nor needed the warning of Bess.

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"Zounds! gem'men!" cried Turpin, "you've found me at fault,
And the highflying highwayman's come to a halt;

You have turned up a trump (for I weigh well my weight),
And the forty is yours, though the halter's my fate.
Well, come on't what will, you shall own when all's past,
That Dick Turpin, the Dauntless, was game to the last.
But, before we go further, I'll hold you a bet,
That one foot in my stirrup you won't let me set.

"A hundred to one is the odds I will stand,
A hundred to one is the odds you command
Here's a handful of goldfinches ready to fly
May I venture a foot in my stirrup to try?'
As he carelessly spoke, Dick directed a glance
At his courser, and motioned her slyly askance :-
You might tell by the singular toss of her head,
And the prick of her ears, that his meaning she read.

Hilloah!

With derision at first was Dick's wager received,
And his error at starting as yet unretrieved;
But when from his pocket the shiners he drew,
And offered to "make up the hundred to two,"
There were havers in plenty, and each whispered each,
The same thing, though varied in figure of speech,
"Let the fool act his folly-the stirrup of Bess!
He has put his foot in it already we guess!"

Hillcak!

Hilloak!

Bess was brought to her master-Dick steadfastly gazed
At the eye of his mare, then his foot quick upraised;
His toe touched the stirrup, his hand grasped the rein-
He was safe on the back of his courser again!
As the clarion, fray-sounding and shrill, was the neigh
Of Black Bess, as she answered his cry "Hark-away!"
Beset me, ye bloodhounds! in rear and in van;

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My foot's in the stirrup, and catch me who can !"

Hilloah!

There was riding and gibing mid rabble and rout,
And the old woods re-echoed the Philistines' shout!
There was hurling and whirling o'er brake and o'er brier,
But the course of Dick Turpin was swift as heaven's fire.
Whipping, spurring, and straining, would nothing avail,
Dick laughed at their curses, and scoffed at their wail;

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My foot's in the stirrup !"-thus rang his last cry;
"Bess has answered my call; now her mettle we'll try!"

Hilloah!

Uproarious applause followed Jack's song, when the joviality of the mourners was interrupted by a summons to attend in the state room. Silence was at once completely restored; and, in the best order they could assume, they followed their leader, Peter Bradley. Jack Palmer was amongst the last to enter, and remained a not incurious spectator of a by no means common scene.

Preparations had been made to give due solemnity to the ceremonial. The leaden coffin was fastened down, and enclosed in an outer case of oak, upon the lid of which stood a richly-chase

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