"Have a little patience, good Master Richard," replied Potts, turning up his provoking little visage, now charged with triumphant malice. "You shall come out presently. We are busy just now-engaged in binding the witch, as you see. Both keys are safely in my pocket, and I will send you one of them when we start for the river, good Master Richard. We lawyers are not to be overreached, you see-ha! ha!"

"You shall repent this conduct when I do get out," cried Richard, furiously. "Sparshot, I command you to bring the key instantly." But, encouraged by the attorney, the beadle affected not to hear Richard's angry vociferations, and the others were unable to aid the young man, if they had been so disposed, and all were too much interested in what was going forward to run off to the vicarage, and acquaint Sir Ralph with the circumstances in which his relatives were placed, even though enjoined to do so.

On being set free by Richard, Nance had flown quickly through the church, and passed out at the side door, and was making good her retreat at the back of the edifice, when her flying figure was descried by Jem Device, who, failing in his first attempt, had run round that way, fancying he should catch her.

He instantly dashed after her with all the fury of a bloodhound, and being possessed of remarkable activity, speedily overtook her, and, heedless of her threats and entreaties, secured her.

"Lemme go, Jem," she cried, "an ey win do thee a good turn one o' these days, when theaw may chonce to be i' th' same strait os me.' But seeing him inexorable, she added, "My granddame shan rack thy boans, sorely, lad, for this."

Jem replied by a coarse laugh of defiance, and dragging her along, delivered her to Master Potts and the beadle, who were then hurrying to the other door of the church. To prevent interruption, the cunning attorney, having ascertained that the two Asshetons were inside, instantly gave orders to have both doors locked, and the injunctions being promptly obeyed, he took possession of the keys himself, chuckling at the success of the stratagem. "A fair reprisal," he muttered; "this young milksop shall find he is no match for a skilful lawyer like me. Now, the cords— the cords!"

It was at sight of the bonds, which were quickly brought by Baggiley, that Nance uttered the piercing cry that had roused Richard's indignation. Feeling secure of his prisoner, and now no longer apprehensive of interruption, Master Potts was in no hurry to conclude the arrangements, but rather prolonged them to exasperate Richard. Little consideration was shown the unfortunate captive. The new shoes and stockings of which she had been so vain a short time before, were torn from her feet and limbs by the rude hands of the remorseless Jem and the beadle, and bent down by the main force of these two strong men, her thumbs and great toes were tightly bound together, crosswise, by the cords. The churchyard rang with her shrieks, and with his blood boiling with indignation at the sight, Richard redoubled his exertions to burst through the window and fly to her assistance. But, though Nicholas now lent his powerful aid to the task, their combined efforts to obtain liberation were unavailing; and with rage almost amounting to frenzy, Richard beheld the poor young woman borne shrieking away by her captors. Nor was Nicholas much less incensed, and he swore a deep oath when he did get at liberty that Master Potts should pay dearly for his rascally conduct.

9

THE APPARITION.

BEING THE SIXTH CHAPTER OF "INCIDENTS OF THE ROAD; or, PASSAGES FROM THE LIFE OF A COMMERCIAL TRAVELLER."

BY JOSEPH ANTHONY, JUN.

I think it is the weakness of mine eyes
That shapes this monstrous apparition.

It comes upon me:-art thou anything?

Art thou some god, some angel, or some devil,
That mak'st my blood cold and my hair to stare?
Speak to me, what thou art.

Julius Cæsar.

Ir may readily be imagined, from the pursuits of the writer of these sketches, that he must be not unfrequently thrown into the society of others of his brethren who, like himself, during their viatic experience, have met with a great variety of remarkable occurrences. Incidents which, from their singularity, far removed from commonplace events, and as illustrative of how much of the wonderful there is in the real, may be justly considered to possess sufficient interest to render them worthy of a chronicler.

Having given a few of the most remarkable events connected with his own experience, the writer purposes occasionally to introduce others derived from various members of his brotherhood.

Travellers, abroad or at home, ever have, and ever will tell strange stories. The wanderer, on his return, when surrounded by friends at the winter's hearth, has sometimes the misfortune to have amongst the hearers of the perhaps eventful narrative of his travels, some who are "dry as dust" matter-of-fact people, whose lives are as unvaried, uneventful, and methodical as that of a millhorse, and who receive with doubt and suspicion everything which, at the first blush, is not as clear and palpable as two and two making four, or ten being the half of twenty.

There are many, like the aged mamma of the returned tar, who, wishing to be informed of the wonderful things he had witnessed, heard, amidst other strange matters, that he had seen flying fish, which remarkable feature in natural history the old dame exhibited her acumen by at once discrediting. But when disbelieving the truths he told, and thereby forcing him to draw freely on the stores of his imagination, he discoursed most eloquently about mountains of sugar, prairies of silver, and rivers of rich red wine, then was he met with ready belief; for of a verity the old dame, arrectis auribus, listened and believed; for she knew that there were such things as sugar, silver, and wine, nor did she require one to rise from the dead to tell her they came from somewhere.

Such doubters and such believers who reject and receive that alone which they can or cannot reconcile to their limited knowledge and understanding, are the class for whom tales of the impossible are told, and who choose the dross, whilst the sterling ore lays at their feet unnoticed.

Believing, however, as I do, that my readers have not exercised such ratiocination as the old woman's, but have judged of the veracity by the internal evidence which these incidents have hitherto borne; so I content myself if, by the same ordeal, those about to be presented shall be estimated.

It is deemed necessary to make these remarks in preface to the strange event of "The Apparition" about to be related, as it contains matter that may be certainly pronounced to be somewhat of the marvellous. The principal actor therein, who is still living, had arrived at an advanced period of life when he communicated the circumstances of the spiritual visitation herein recounted, and from his being of a reserved disposition, and little given to conversation, from the earnestness of his manner, combined with the truthful and anxious expression of his countenance whilst describing the strange event, I was left but little room to exercise doubt as to the truth of his very remarkable narrative.

As, however, this paper will be devoted to the mystic and a spiritual visitation, the writer wishes it to be understood that he simply gives the story as he heard it; and although such a giant in intellect as the author of "Rassellas" believed in visits to earth by the denizens of spiritland; and Walter Scott, again, who was as confirmed a believer as the great lexicographer himself, or as any lad that ever whistled to keep his courage up; he is himself a non-convert, and very decided in his disbelief in such visitations. Indeed, for his part, although two such luminaries in the hemisphere of mind have been mentioned as having faith in the theory, the writer must confess, that he should be inclined to form a lower estimate than he otherwise might of any one who would for a moment hesitate to declare that he had not the slightest belief in the existence of any part or portion of the ghosty world. This is said, too, with a perfect recollection of the language which, embodying his own sentiments, the great moralist alluded to put in the mouth of Imlac.

"If all your fear be of apparitions," said the prince, "I will promise you safety; there is no danger from the dead. He that is once buried will be seen no more."

"That the dead are seen no more," said Imlac, "I will not undertake to maintain against the concurrent and unvaried testimony of all ages and of all nations. There is no people, rude or learned, among whom apparitions of the dead are not related or believed. This opinion, which prevails, as far as human nature is diffused, could become universal only by its truth; those that never heard of one another would not have agreed in a tale which nothing but experience can make credible. That it is doubted by single cavillers can very little weaken the general evidence; and some who deny it with their tongues confess it by their fears." Belief in such things is, I am well aware, far from uncommon. In my younger days I had ample illustration of the existence of such fearful faith in an agricultural district not a hundred miles distant from the banks of the beautiful Wye. Some very worthy country friends-a family whose progenitors, centuries ago, held the same delightful domain on which they now reside, and which has descended from sire to son, to use a phrase of the locality, "time out of mind”—were wont, on my visits to their hospitable fireside, whenever on a winter's night the conversation might that way turn, with facts in formidable array to combat my avowed scepticism as to the existence of ghostery. I believe my worthy friends regarded only as the exuberance of young wordy courage my often expressed desire to behold one of those interesting beings, which were said to flit at night about the neighbourhood, occasionally revealing themselves to those who

were indiscreet enough to venture, after nightfall, near the precincts where these night wanderers were known to beat their rounds.

There were two places, I well remember, where it was said no mortal might at night venture to tarry with impunity. One was a particular spot on the turnpike road which, according to tradition, had been the scene of a murder; the other was in a wood which, traversed by a footpath, afforded a short road from the adjacent town to some of the neighbouring villages, and of which, in the garish day, the natives always availed themselves, but by night, save when under the influence of something as inspiring as the juice of the Tuscan grape, never.

The wood in question was, and I have no doubt still is, haunted by the spirit of a long, long since defunct gentleman, popularly known by the euphonious appellation of "Old Vaughan." Extraordinary were the freaks which this perturbed spirit was wont to perform. Right wonderful were the shapes in which he had frequently appeared to the good people of the neighbourhood around. In some instances, he had revealed himself to travellers on the highway, which, it should be mentioned, passed through a part of the old gentleman's domain when he was in the flesh, and to which, as well as hamlet, wood, and dusky dell, his ghostly peregrinations sometimes extended.

The very startling eccentricities of this mystic and erratic spirit, and the wonderful feats by it performed, were, and I doubt not still are, faithfully chronicled and fearfully told by those who vegetate in the villages around. Nay, there was one startling fact connected with this spirit's restless movements, that I must confess, at the first blush, nonplussed my then inexperienced self, and that was the appearance, in summer and winter alike, of two palpable footprints, clearly defined at the foot of a tree. Now, this tree grew near to the footpath which traversed the wood before alluded to, and the impressions were such, as any homo standing with his back against the trunk of the said tree, and looking towards the path, would leave behind. The most remarkable feature in the case, and which the reader may suppose was forcibly dwelt upon by the believers, was the fact that although the grass grew in luxuriance around, not a single blade was ever known to spring in either of these significant footprints.

The reader will hardly be so obtuse as not at once to divine the cause of this. It was, of course, the spot where, in the hours "when churchyards yawn, and graves give up their dead," that restless spirit, yclept "Old Vaughan," took up his post, affording him as it did an opportunity of seeing any mortal who might pass that way. As has been already observed, however, although the path through the said wood offered a much shorter road from the town to the adjacent villages, it was by night carefully avoided, save now and then by some valiant son of the soil, rendered daring by potations deep. Such an one hath made the venture, and lived, too, to tell the tale; but never, even in his cups, again hath he dared the dangers of the dreary wood. What he then saw, is it not known at the cottage hearths? and is it not chronicled and fearfully told, that from that hour he has become a changed man?

Never shall I forget hearing, from the lips of one of the daring adventurers, a graphic account of a funeral procession beheld by him in the said wood. The mournful cavalcade, with all the paraphernalia of sombre trappings, took its way over the tree-tops 'neath the light of a crescent moon,

whilst music, deep, solemn, and mournful as ever swelled through holy aisle, accompanied it in its appalling progress. To his dying day will he, who was thus favoured by beholding the mysterious spectacle, assert and believe it was no dream. I must in candour confess, although the relator admitted it was something more than one or two glasses of treble-X, flanked by more than a thimbleful of mountain-dew, that had fired his courage to dare the passage of the wood, yet did the result of an examination of his phrenological index show the organ of imagination to be anything but largely developed. A firm believer was he that reality and no delusion was the tale he told; and in justice I must say, that although laughing at the story, I was constrained to admit that the narrator was a sterling character of worth and probity.

It is scarcely requisite to observe that his courage being artificially produced, was of a very temporary character, and, once having given way, his mind's eye became filled with strange visions; in such a moment a turbid brain and obfuscated visional organs will readily draw and paint images "palpable;" nor should I have been surprised if, instead of an account of a funeral procession, the bacchanalian ghost-defier had been prepared with an elaborate account of his visit to spirit-land, with minute particulars of the general habits and social economy of the inhabitants. The footprints to which I have alluded, no doubt, still remain under the same tree; and the fact of a blade of grass refusing therein to grow, may in some measure be accounted for, by the existence of the same spirit which would perchance lead you, gentle reader, having the opportunity, to seat yourself where a king had sat before you; and similarly influenced, the rustic by day often takes his stand in the footprints of the perturbed spirit he so much dreads, and which, in the shadowy night, he knows will in the self-same spot take up his position, and in the dark wood bid "congenial horrors, hail!"

As experiences in ghost-seeing may be said to be the subject of this paper, ere proceeding with the strange account of the apparition, I will briefly offer to the reader an adventure of my own, that occurred not many years ago, and which will be found to be not altogether without interest.

The churchyard of K is very prettily situated in the suburbs, and afford a delightful view of the very picturesque neighbourhood of that small yet interesting country-town. A wide gravel-path sweeps gracefully around, and takes again a course through the elevated centre of the churchyard, close to the old edifice, whose spire is the very counterpart of that of Harrow-on-the-Hill. Seen from a distance, the tapering part of the sacred structure, pointing the way to Heaven, appears to rise from a clump of trees. These, however, are plentifully scattered over the churchyard, bordering the wide path almost in every part; noble trees they are, whose branches form a delightful canopy over the footway, whilst, on the other side, they extend their shade, and shed their autumin tribute of leaves, like tears, over many a monument and lonely grave.

The words of the solitary-hearted Jacques were ever brought forcibly to my recollection whene'er, at eventide, I looked upon or sauntered beneath the brabenes of these trees

Under the shade of melancholy boughs,

Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time.