Apparitions; or, The Mystery of Ghosts, Hobgoblins, and Haunted Houses Developed Part 12

Rebecca, when the night grew dark, Upon the Vigil of St. Mark, Observ'd by Paul, a roguish scout, Who guess'd the task she went about, Stepp'd to St. Stephen's church to see What youth her husband was to be.

Rebecca heard the screech-owl cry, And saw the black-bat round her fly; She sat till, wild with fear at last, Her blood grew cold, her pulse beat fast; And yet, rash maid, she stopp'd to see What youth her husband was to be.

Rebecca heard the midnight chime Ring out the yawning peal of time, When shrouded Paul, unlucky knave!

Rose, like a spectre from the grave, And cried--"_Fair maiden, come with me, For I your bridegroom am to be._"

Rebecca turned her head aside, Sent forth a horrid shriek--and died; While Paul confess'd himself in vain Rebecca never spoke again.

Ah! little, hapless girl, did she Think _Death_ her bridegroom was to be.

Rebecca, may thy story long Instruct the giddy and the young!

Fright not, fond youths, the timid fair: And you, too, gentle maids, beware; Nor seek, by dreadful arts, to see What youths your husbands are to be.

THE

FLOATING WONDER,

OR

_FEMALE SPECTRE_.

The bridge over the river Usk, near Caerleon, in Wales, is formed of wood, and very curiously constructed, the tide rising occasionally to the almost incredible height of fifty or sixty feet. The boards which compose the flooring of this bridge being designedly loose, in order to float with the tide, when it exceeds a certain height, are prevented from escaping only by little pegs at the end of them; which mode of fastening does not afford a very safe footing for the traveller, and some awkward accidents have been known to arise from this cause. The following singular adventure occurred about twenty years since to a female of the neighbourhood, as she was pa.s.sing it at night.

The heroine in question was a Mrs. Williams, who had been to spend a cheerful evening at a neighbour's house on the eastern side of the river, and was returning home at a decent hour. The night being extremely dark, she had provided herself with a lanthorn and candle, by the a.s.sistance of which she found her way to the bridge, and had already pa.s.sed part of the dangerous structure, when she unfortunately trod on a plank that had by some accident lost the tenons originally fixed to the ends of it, and had slipped from its proper situation; the faithless board yielded to the weight of the good lady, who was rather corpulent, and carried her through the flooring, with her candle and lanthorn, into the river. Fortunately, at the moment of falling, she was standing in such a position, as gave her a seat on the plank similar to that of a horseman on his nag. It may be easily imagined, that Mrs. Williams must have been dreadfully alarmed at this change of situation, as well as the difference of element. Blessed, however, with great presence of mind, and a patient endurance of evil, the good lady was not overwhelmed by her fall, but steadily maintained her seat on the board; taking care, at the same time, to preserve her candle lighted, rightly supposing it would serve as a guide to any one who might be able or willing to a.s.sist her. Thus bestriding the plank, our heroine was hurried down the river towards Newport, the bridge of which, she trusted, would stop her progress, or that she might alarm the inhabitants with her cries. In both her hopes, however, she was disappointed: the rapidity of a spring tide sent her through the arch with the velocity of an arrow discharged from a bow, and the good people of the town had long been wrapped in slumber. Thus situated, her prospect became each moment more desperate; her candle was nearly extinguished! and every limb so benumbed with cold, that she had the greatest difficulty in _keeping her saddle_.

Already she had reached the mouth of the Usk, and was on the point of encountering the turbulent waves of the British Channel, when the master of a fis.h.i.+ng-boat, who was returning from his nightly toils, discovered the gleaming of her taper, and bearing her calls for a.s.sistance, though he at first thought her a witch, yet ventured to approach this floating wonder, and happily succeeded in rescuing Mrs. Williams from a watery grave, and bringing her in safety to the sh.o.r.e in his boat.

Thus was the life of a fellow-creature preserved by a poor fisherman's courage, in not being daunted by what he at first conceived a mysterious light proceeding from some sprite or hobgoblin; but, from duly examining into causes, proved himself both a hero and friend.

POOR MARY,

_THE MAID OF THE INN_.

Who is she, the poor maniac, whose wildly fix'd eyes Seem a heart overcharg'd to express?

She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs; She never complains, but her silence implies The composure of settled distress.

No aid, no compa.s.sion, the maniac will seek; Cold and hunger awake not her care: Through her rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak On her poor wither'd bosom, half bare; and her cheek Has the deathly pale hue of despair.

Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day, Poor Mary the maniac has been!

The trav'ller remembers, who journey'd this way, No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay, As Mary the Maid of the Inn.

Her cheerful address fill'd the guests with delight, As she welcom'd them in with a smile: Her heart was a stranger to childish affright, And Mary would walk by the abbey at night, When the wind whistled down the dark aisle.

She lov'd; and young Richard had settled the day, And she hoped to be happy for life: But Richard was idle and worthless; and they Who knew him would pity poor Mary, and say, That she was too good for his wife.

'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night, And fast were the windows and door; Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright, And, smoking in silence with tranquil delight, They listen'd to hear the wind roar.

"'Tis pleasant," cried one, "seated by the fire-side, To hear the wind whistle without."

"A fine night for the abbey!" his comrade replied, "Methinks, a man's courage would now be well tried, Who should wander the ruins about.

"I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear The hoa.r.s.e ivy shake over my head; And could fancy I saw, half-persuaded by fear, Some ugly old abbot's white spirit appear, For this wind might awaken the dead!"

"I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried, "That Mary would venture there now."

"Then wager and lose!" with a sneer, he replied, "I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side, And faint if she saw a white cow."

"Will Mary this charge on her courage allow?"

His companion exclaim'd with a smile; "I shall win, for I know she will venture there now, And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough From the elder that glows in the aisle."

With fearless good humour did Mary comply, And her way to the abbey she bent; The night it was dark, and the wind it was high, And as hollowly howling it swept through the sky, She s.h.i.+ver'd with cold as she went.

O'er the path so well known still proceeded the maid, Where the abbey rose dim on the sight.

Through the gate-way she entered, she felt not afraid, Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade Seem'd to deepen the gloom of the night.

All around her was silent, save when the rude blast Howl'd dismally round the old pile; Over weed-cover'd fragments still fearless she past, And arriv'd in the innermost ruin at last, Where the elder-tree grew in the aisle.

Well pleas'd did she reach it, and quickly drew near, And hastily gather'd the bough; When the sound of a voice seem'd to rise on her ear-- She paus'd, and she listen'd all eager to hear, And her heart panted fearfully now.

The wind blew, the hoa.r.s.e ivy shook over her head, She listen'd--nought else could she hear; The wind ceas'd; her heart sunk in her bosom with dread, For she heard in the ruins distinctly the tread Of footsteps approaching her near.

Behind a white column, half breathless with fear, She crept to conceal herself there: That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear, And she saw in the moon-light two ruffians appear, And between them a corpse did they bear.

Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdle cold!

Again the rough wind hurried by-- It blew off the hat of the one,[C] and, behold, Even close to the foot of poor Mary it roll'd-- She felt, and expected to die.

"Curse the hat!" he exclaims. "Nay, come on, and first hide The dead body," his comrade replies.

She beheld them in safety pa.s.s on by her side, She seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied, And fast through the abbey she flies.

She ran with wild speed, she rush'd in at the door, She gaz'd horribly eager around: Then her limbs could support their faint burden no more, And exhausted and breathless she sunk on the floor, Unable to utter a sound.

Ere yet her cold lips could the story impart, For a moment the hat met her view--[D]

Her eyes from that object convulsively start, For, oh! G.o.d! what cold horror then thrill'd through her heart, When the name of her Richard she knew.

Where the old abbey stands on the common hard by, His gibbet is now to be seen: Not far from the road it engages the eye, The trav'ller beholds it, and thinks, with a sigh, Of poor Mary, the Maid of the Inn.

SOUTHEY'S POEMS.

FOOTNOTES:

[C] The hat of one of the ruffians.

[D] She knew it to be Richard's hat.