Rookwood

"What—what didst see?"

"Peter Bradley sitting with a great book open on his knees; it were a Bible, I think, and he crying like a child."

"Art sure o' that?"

"The tears were falling fast upon the leaves," returned Burtenshaw; "but when I knocked at the door, he hastily shut up the book, and ordered me to be gone, in a surly tone, as if he were ashamed of being caught in the fact."

"I thought no tear had ever dropped from his eye," said the other. "Why, he laughed when his daughter Susan went off at the hall; and, when she died, folks said he received hush-money to say nought about it. That were a bad business, anyhow; and now that his grandson Luke be taken in the fact of housebreaking, he minds it no more, not he, than if nothing had happened."

"Don't be too sure of that," replied Burtenshaw; "he may be scheming summat all this time. Well, I've known Peter Bradley now these two-and-fifty years, and, excepting that one night, I never saw any good about him, and never heard of nobody who could tell who he be, or where he do come from."

"One thing's certain, at least," replied the other farmer—"he were never born at Rookwood. How he came here the devil only knows. Save us! what a crash!—this storm be all of his raising, I tell 'ee."

"He be—what he certainly will be," interposed another speaker, in a louder tone, and with less of apprehension in his manner than his comrade, probably from his nerves being better fortified with strong liquor. "Dost thou think, Samuel Plant, as how Providence would entrust the like o' him with the command of the elements? No—no, it's rank blasphemy to suppose such a thing, and I've too much of the true Catholic and apostate church about me, to stand by and hear that said."

"Maybe, then, he gets his power from the Prince of Darkness," replied Plant; "no man else could go on as he does—only look at him. He seems to be watching for the thunderbowt."

"I wish he may catch it, then," returned the other.

"That's an evil wish, Simon Toft, and thou mayst repent it."

"Not I," replied Toft; "it would be a good clearance to the neighborhood to get rid o' th' old croaking curmudgeon."

Whether or not Peter overheard the conversation, we pretend not to say, but at that moment a blaze of lightning showed him staring fiercely at the group.

"As I live, he's overheard you, Simon," exclaimed Plant. "I wouldn't be in your skin for a trifle."

"Nor I," added Burtenshaw.

"Let him overhear me," answered Toft; "who cares? he shall hear summat worth listening to. I'm not afraid o' him or his arts, were they as black as Beelzebuth's own; and to show you I'm not, I'll go and have a crack with him on the spot."

"Thou'rt a fool for thy pains, if thou dost, Friend Toft," returned Plant, "that's all I can say."

"Be advised by me, and stay here," seconded Burtenshaw, endeavoring to hold him back.

But Toft would not be advised—

Kings may be blest, but he was glorious,O'er all the ills of life victorious.

Staggering up to Peter, he laid a hard grasp upon his shoulder, and, thus forcibly soliciting his attention, burst into a loud horse-laugh.

But Peter was, or affected to be, too much occupied to look at him.

"What dost see, man, that thou starest so?"

"It comes, it comes—the rain—the rain—a torrent—a deluge—ha, ha! Blessed is the corpse the rain rains on. Sir Piers may be drenched through his leaden covering by such a downfall as that—splash, splash—fire and water and thunder, all together—is not that fine?—ha, ha! The heavens will weep for him, though friends shed not a tear. When did a great man's heir feel sympathy for his sire's decease? When did his widow mourn? When doth any man regret his fellow? Never! He rejoiceth—he maketh glad in his inmost heart—he cannot help it—it is nature. We all pray for—we all delight in each other's destruction. We were created to do so; or why else should we act thus? I never wept for any man's death, but I have often laughed. Natural sympathy!—out on the phrase! The distant heavens—the senseless trees—the impenetrable stones—shall regret you more than man shall bewail your death with more sincerity. Ay, 'tis well—rain on—splash, splash: it will cool the hell-fever. Down, down—buckets and pails, ha, ha!"

There was a pause, during which the sexton, almost exhausted by the frenzy in which he had suffered himself to be involved, seemed insensible to all around him.

"I tell you what," said Burtenshaw to Plant, "I have always thought there was more in Peter Bradley nor appears on the outside. He is not what he seems to be, take my word on it. Lord love you! do you think a man such as he pretends to be could talk in that sort of way—about nat'ral simpering?—no such thing."

When Peter recovered, his insane merriment broke out afresh, having only acquired fury by the pause.

"Look out, look out!" cried he; "hark to the thunder—list to the rain! Marked ye that flash—marked ye the clock-house—and the bird upon the roof? 'tis the rook—the great bird of the house, that hath borne away the soul of the departed. There, there—can you not see it? it sits and croaks through storm and rain, and never heeds at all—and wherefore should it heed? See, it flaps its broad black wings—it croaks—ha, ha! It comes—it comes."

And driven, it might be by the terror of the storm, from more secure quarters, a bird, at this instant, was dashed against the window, and fell to the ground.

"That's a call," continued Peter; "it will be over soon, and we must set out. The dead will not need to tarry. Look at that trail of fire along the avenue; dost see yon line of sparkles, like a rocket's tail? That's the path the corpse will take. St. Hermes's flickering fire, Robin Goodfellow's dancing light, or the blue flame of the corpse-candle, which I saw flitting to the churchyard last week, was not so pretty a sight—ha, ha! You asked me for a song a moment ago—you shall have one now without asking."

And without waiting to consult the inclinations of his comrades, Peter broke into the following wild strain with all the fervor of a half-crazed improvisatore:

THE CORPSE-CANDLE

Lambere flamma ταφος et circum funera pasci.

Through the midnight gloom did a pale blue lightTo the churchyard mirk wing its lonesome flight:—Thrice it floated those old walls round—Thrice it paused—till the grave it found.Over the grass-green sod it glanced,Over the fresh-turned earth it danced,Like a torch in the night-breeze quivering—Never was seen so gay a thing!Never was seen so blithe a sightAs the midnight dance of that blue light!Now what of that pale blue flame dost know?Canst tell where it comes from, or where it will go?Is it the soul, released from clay,Over the earth that takes its way,And tarries a moment in mirth and gleeWhere the corse it hath quitted interred shall be?Or is it the trick of some fanciful sprite,That taketh in mortal mischance delight,And marketh the road the coffin shall go,And the spot where the dead shall be soon laid low?Ask him who can answer these questions aright;I know not the cause of that pale blue light!

"I can't say I like thy song, Master Peter," said Toft, as the sexton finished his stave, "but if thou didst see a corpse-candle, as thou call'st thy pale blue flame, whose death doth it betoken?—eh!"

"Thine own," returned Peter, sharply.

"Mine! thou lying old cheat—dost dare to say that to my face? Why, I'm as hale and hearty as ever a man in the house. Dost think there's no life and vigor in this arm, thou drivelling old dotard?"

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 eldritch 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, neighbor," 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 sha'n'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 sha'n'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, neighbors," 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 II

THE FUNERAL ORATION

In northern customs duty was exprestTo friends departed by their funeral feast;Though I've consulted Hollingshed 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-humor 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 endeavor; 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 unlucky—for the funeral, I mean—we shall be drowned if we go."

"And drunk if we stay," rejoined Peter. "But never fear, it will hold up, depend upon it, long before we can start. Where have they put the prisoner?" asked he, with a sudden 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 corpse-candles, or that sort of thing. Something lively—something jolly—ha, ha!"

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

"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 ego 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."Ah, welladay!" that sexton gray 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 gray 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 clenched, the teeth were wrenched, 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, welladay!" that sexton gray 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.The 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 drowned 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 roared, 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 humor 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 STIRRUPOR 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 reposeMid 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 heeded the warning of Bess.Hilloah!"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.Hilloah!"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 glanceAt 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!"Hilloah!Bess was brought to her master—Dick steadfastly gazedAt 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 neighOf Black Bess, as she answered his cry "Hark-away!""Beset me, ye bloodhounds! in rear and in van;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;"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-chased massive silver flagon, filled with burnt claret, called the grace-cup. All the lights were removed, save two lofty wax flambeaux, which were placed to the back, and threw a lurid glare upon the group immediately about the body, consisting of Ranulph Rookwood and some other friends of the deceased. Dr. Small stood in front of the bier; and, under the directions of Peter Bradley, the tenantry and household were formed into a wide half-moon across the chamber. There was a hush of expectation, as Dr. Small looked gravely round; and even Jack Palmer, who was as little likely as any man to yield to an impression of the kind, felt himself moved by the scene.

The very orthodox Small, as is well known to our readers, held everything savoring of the superstitions of the Scarlet Woman in supreme abomination; and, entertaining such opinions, it can scarcely be supposed that a funeral oration would find much favor in his eyes, accompanied, as it was, with the accessories of censer, candle, and cup; all evidently derived from that period when, under the three-crowned pontiff's sway, the shaven priest pronounced his benediction o'er the dead, and released the penitent's soul from purgatorial flames, while he heavily mulcted the price of his redemption from the possessions of his successor. Small resented the idea of treading in such steps, as an insult to himself and his cloth. Was he, the intolerant of Papistry, to tolerate this? Was he, who could not endure the odor of Catholicism, to have his nostrils thus polluted—his garments thus defiled by actual contact with it? It was not to be thought of: and he had formally signified his declination to Mr. Coates, when a little conversation with that gentleman, and certain weighty considerations therein held forth—the advowson of the church of Rookwood residing with the family—and represented by him, as well as the placing in juxtaposition of penalties to be incurred by refusal, that the scruples of Small gave way; and, with the best grace he could muster, very reluctantly promised compliance.

With these feelings, it will be readily conceived that the doctor was not in the best possible frame of mind for the delivery of his exhortation. His spirit had been ruffled by a variety of petty annoyances, amongst the greatest of which was the condition to which the good cheer had reduced his clerk, Zachariah Trundletext, whose reeling eye, pendulous position, and open mouth proclaimed him absolutely incapable of office. Zachariah was, in consequence, dismissed, and Small commenced his discourse unsupported. But as our recording it would not probably conduce to the amusement of our readers, whatever it might to their edification, we shall pass it over with very brief mention. Suffice it to say, that the oration was so thickly interstrewn with lengthy quotations from the fathers,—Chrysostomus, Hieronymus, Ambrosius, Basilius, Bernardus, and the rest, with whose recondite Latinity, notwithstanding the clashing of their opinions with his own, the doctor was intimately acquainted, and which he moreover delighted to quote,—that his auditors were absolutely mystified and perplexed, and probably not without design. Countenances of such amazement were turned towards him, that Small, who had a keen sense of the ludicrous, could scarcely forbear smiling as he proceeded; and if we could suspect so grave a personage of waggery, we should almost think that, by way of retaliation, he had palmed some abstruse, monkish epicedium upon his astounded auditors.

The oration concluded, biscuits and confectionery were, according to old observance, handed to such of the tenantry as chose to partake of them. The serving of the grace-cup, which ought to have formed part of the duties of Zachariah, had he been capable of office, fell to the share of the sexton. The bowl was kissed, first by Ranulph, with lips that trembled with emotion, and afterward by his surrounding friends; but no drop was tasted—a circumstance which did not escape Peter's observation. Proceeding to the tenantry, the first in order happened to be Farmer Toft. Peter presented the cup, and as Toft was about to drain a deep draught of the wine, Peter whispered in his ear, "Take my advice for once, Friend Toft, and don't let a bubble of the liquid pass your lips. For every drop of the wine you drain, Sir Piers will have one sin the less, and you a load the heavier on your conscience. Didst never hear of sin-swallowing? For what else was this custom adopted? Seest thou not the cup's brim hath not yet been moistened? Well, as you will—ha, ha!" And the sexton passed onwards.