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 light
To 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 sight
As 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 glee
Where 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
