It was past eleven at night when the hearse began to move, and the torches to stream, towards the place of burial. The abundance of meat and drink, and the mirth which got the better of sorrow, gave it more the look of a wedding than a funeral. All the pastoral chiefs of the district were present-they gazed on the singular extravagance of the scene wondering in what it was all to end. Many of them afterwards acknowledged that a presentiment of some coming calamity pressed upon them. "I'll tell ye, neighbour," said one; "I like none of these grand processions. Why should the living waste their means on the dead? Lay me in white linen-let a kind neighbour or two bear me to the grave-let a short prayer be said over me, and let a cup of good ale go round-for sorrow is ever dry-and that's the way Dick Dilsey, of Ashbocking, wishes to be buried." "And a wise way it is," said another pastoral proprietor; "the good green sward, say I. Plague on't, if I would like to be laid up like one of death's cut-anddry morsels for the worms, in a mouldy vault. It may do well enough for the lords, and the nobles, and other folk with carcasses which disease has rendered uneatable. But a man as wholesome as a breeze in May-as fresh as a new-moulded cheese, and as sweet as new-churned butter-a ten-foot grave, and a green sod for him-and that's what Hodge Guthram, of Thrandestone, thinks." "Ah! but, man," said John Choke band, of Latheringham, "ye speak like one of the simple men of Suffolk, who wished to be kings, for the sake of living ever on sweet cream and cheese-parings, Young Coldengame is laying the fouudation-stone of a house that is to give knights and nobles to the land. Ye will see him soon in a carriage with three churn staffs and a half cheese for a coat of arms; and his motto will be, My father's cat liked his neighbour's cream.' And ye know well, neighbours, this is more than likely. A crescent has been suggested instead of a cheese-the moon is made of green cheese-and therefore men call her the Suffolk lanthorn; but I have counselled him to stand by the cheese -I am a plain man, and like comprehensible things."

They had now reached the churchyard--a romantic burial-ground, overshaded by lines of lofty elms, underneath the boughs of which flashed a succession of torches. By the same wavering and uncertain light the reliques of an ancient gothic church might be seen, and rank after rank of tomb-stones, recording the restingplaces of the old worthies of the district. Before them yawned the vault destined to receive the first of the house of Neyland that had ever been buried in lead; the pilasters of the door gave room for two mourners with enormous torches, between which the coffin, richly covered with velvet, was borne down the broad stone stairs. A line of mourners, and a stream of torches, followed; and round the whole, the hinds of the district gathered, gazing at the piledup coffins of their old nobles, and wondering what took old Ned Neyland, the cow-feeder, among them.

The clergyman, with a voice which to those in the open air sounded as hollow as the proverbial voice from the grave, proceeded with the burial service; and, lifting up a handful of the dust at his feet, was about to cast it on the coffin, completing the symbolical presentation of sepulture-dust to dust. He was startled-and his hand stayed by a human figure, which, shrouded from head to foot, started from among the piled-up cof◄ fins, and cried out, "Edward Neyland, I forbid thy body to lie here!" "It is Ruth Rushbrook," whispered a voice or two, scarce audible with shuddering. "Woman," said the clergyman, with a mild beseeching voice, "I desire you to depart, or be silent-let dust be laid to dust-let the body, out of which the spirit has passed, moulder in peace. War not with inanimate clay; Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord."" "Hark ye, Sir Priest," said Ruth, "I interpret not what heaven says of a scene like this, but I will tell you what a frail and injured mortal thinks: that whoso lays the dust of the unrepenting sinner-the robber of the widow and the fatherless-the mover of his neighbour's landmark-whoso lays him, with words of scripture and with prayer, to mingle with the dust of the high-born, the high-souled, and brave-doth a wrong which will bring vengeance down on the living,

stone at Framlingham than have seen such a sight-for if that was not old mother Biblebelt, I'm the Christmas flowering thorn of Parham, and no longer Bill Boxhall." "And what if it be, lad?" said the other; "old dame Biblebelt won't bite thee, man; hang it, ye'll drop the torch." "Bite me,' said the first spokesman; "how could she bite me? for the old woman's dead-aye! deadas dead as a post, and as stiff as a crutch, and as cold as a stone. What the deuce could she be wanting here ! I'll hold thee it can be for no goodI shall find my brindled cow dead at the stake-or my wife Sue ready for her last linen. And yet I'm not sure that she's dead either-I know she's bed-fast; and old dame Clenche, who makes the gossip caudle, told me that her glass was run.'

dainties were ready; and the wine bottles stood in clusters, with their corks undrawn. Many a thirsty and expecting lip was there-and many an eye was turned to the door, expecting the heir-but no heir appeared-the church clock was striking twelve. A sudden rush of wind shook the roof, and made the winebottles clatter-flash succeeding flash of lightning followed-rain descended on the house like a brook; and the two tall oak-trees, which stood before the porch, were cast to the ground. The foot as of one running was heard and thick breathings the sound echoed on the pavement it was heard on the threshold-it ceased, and came no farther. "Some one has caught a fall," cried old John Copindale, of Gilsingame; and he ran to the door; and there lay Elias Neyland over an old carved stone which stood at the porch-his eyes were dilated, his nostrils expanded, his locks standing in stiffened curls-it seemed that death had frozen him up amid a fit of mortal horror-no one could look on him and keep from shuddering. They carried him into the chamber-they chafed his temples-they loosed his dress-no wound appeared-but life had utterly left him. At last a small wound was discovered in his left side -not straight, like the wound of a sword-nor round, like that of a ball; but forming a waving line, an inch in length, and deeper than it was necessary to go to expel life. Not a drop of blood flowed.

"Some one has stabbed him," said John Bloodmore; " and the weapon has been a comical one-but crooked though it was, a straight piece of steel could scarce have been more handy.” “That's no sword wound," said old Guthram, who had been a soldier in his youth;—“ no sword ever wrote its deeds in characters so crooked as that-it is a wound, nevertheless, and a deadly one. Who will heir the broad lands of Coldengame now?" "If it is not a sword wound," said young Lackland, the poacher," it is as little the wound of a ball-powder never gives lead the leisure to make such curious work. I wonder now how it has been done-it's a pretty secret. It's some o'er-sea fashion that's done with little din. I'll warrant, shot

and steel will go out of vogue, like Robin Hood's arrows." "Lead and steel!" said Harry Haselton; "any one may see it's the work of a more ethereal hand than what deals with such weapons. It's the death stroke of some evil spirit. Does it look like the deed of blade or bullet? Look at that face of horror-these eyes starting in terror from their sockets

these hands clenched and convulsed-and that wound which refuses to open and bleed. It's the angry spirit of his father-it's clear that no mortal could do the deed so deftly." "Aye, aye," said more mourners than one, "no doubt-no doubt-he was of a greedy and a sinful race-heaven has taken him into his own hand, and sent a spirit to smite him on his own threshold." "It is the work of heaven, indeed," said Mr. Horegrove, the clergyman; "and let the wicked be warned. With what weapon hath God smitten him?-with the weapon of wraththe sword of fire. It was no evil shape that came-it was the spirit of the tempest-the storm blew, and the fire came, and it smote the clay, and the clay fell. The heathen hath said, what lightning strikes is a thing accursed-I will not say with the heathen, since the lightning smites the green trees and the barren rocks; but I accept it as a sign of anger and sore displeasure-and all who hear me would do well to humble themselves in secret, and confess their sins to God, and seek for forgive

ness."

"Forgiveness!" said an old woman, a domestic of the house of Neyland, who stood at the door of the chamber, and heard imperfectly what the divine said; "would ye forgive the hand that slew the last hope of my master's house? Ye call him griping, and hard-hearted; but had ye nursed him on your knees, as I have done had ye carried him out of a dead mother's bosom, and dandled him, as these two hands have, in the sunny air-ye would feel as I feel, and pity an old woman's wail. Hold away, and let me look on him

the only one that never had aught but an open hand, and a warm heart, to me." And she stooped over the body, and shook her head sorrowfully, and dropt a tear or two.

The story of the death of Elias

Neyland flew over the land with something like a supernatural speed; and every mile that it went, some wild and wonderful embellishment was added. In those times the old beliefs of the district were in active force the minds of men had not been sobered down to doubt all, and believe nothing-the evil spirit of political writing was not then unchained and let loose among the multitude; and the fear of punishment in another world, for crimes wrought in this, was still the whip to hold men in order, which the poet has imagined. The tragic close of the line of Neyland was dramatised by the active imaginations of the peasantry. One had seen strange lights -a second had heard strange noises -and a third had seen a shape so wild and questionable, that he had no doubt the spirit of old Neyland, invoked by the powers of Ruth Rushbrook, had come back to earth to punish a disobedient son.

Several of the ruling names of the district-the Chiltons, the Peytons, the Malets, the Winthorps, and Gurdons, were there along with Mr. Horegrove, the divine, when an old man came pressing forward, with the sweat of fear, as well as of haste, on his brow-he looked on the body, and said, "Who doubts that a supernatural hand was here? I myself have seen a sight which will be ever before me, were I to live these threescore years and seven." "Old man," said the divine, "remember that you stand before a body on which the hand of God hath this evening been, and that your words are for the ears of devout menspeak, therefore, advisedly-we seek for truth-we wish not to find romance." "Romance!" said the old man, "what's that? But if it be aught of a man's invention, then I tell ye that truth is wilder than the wildest romance-truth, and truth only, shall I tell you.

"Look at this child;" and he held up an infant, which he had folded up very carefully in a long mantle; "this is my only grandchild; and wonder not that I love it. The child grew weak, and began to fade away, and I wrapt it up as you see, and came to pass it through a cloven ash at Coldengame, as my fathers have done before me, when

This wild tale was poured into no unbelieving ears. One rustic urged the divine to sally forth into the path where these shadows of perdition had passed, and subdue, and lay them, and hinder them from troubling men more. "An open Bible," said he," and a drawn sword, with the cross of Christ and the word of God on the blade, with a clever tongue and a clear conscience, will subdue the wildest fiend that ever howled. Was not the spirit of Dan Bloodmore laid by one of the monks of Thorington? and on the spot sprung a thorn, which blossoms every Christmas. Those who disbelieve will find the bush at Parham."

When all present had exhausted their conjectures, and the superstitious impulse was beginning to abate, they removed the body into a little chamber, with a window which opened upon the lawn; and returning to the wine, circulated the cup with a grave and a silent rapidity. The storm had for some time flown by, the moon had resumed her reign, and you might have seen the rooks pluming their drenched wings, on the pine-trees, for a mile around. All the marvellous stories of the dead and the wicked, which the district contained-were told with many a comment-it was still two hours from the morning light. "There was wild Tom Grimstone," said one, "you know Tom-(Why this wine grows better) he was passing through Dowsley church-yard, when his foot took an old skull, and Tom tumbled (This is what I call right stuff). So he turned round, and gave it a blow with his foot. "I would come and sup with ye to-night for all that has passed,' said Tom to the skull, if ye had the grace to ask me.' Now at midnight-(Another cup of wine, Gilsington, for I tell this story badly)-At midnight a voice came crying Come sup with me.' And Tom's grandame rose from her knees, and said, What voice is that?' and the voice answered, Ah! had it not been for thy prayers, Tom Grimstone should have supped with me in hell.' It's a true story-I have heard it a hundred times."

Ere he had done speaking, a voice, to which two or three were instantly joined, cried, "In heaven's name,

come here! Elias is up and gone, body as well as soul." All rushed into the chamber-it was floating with blood, but no body was to be found. "An evil spirit has entered the body, and walked away with it into the bottomless pit," said one."It is the hand of heaven," said a second. "The hand of the fiend, rather," said a third. "He has gone forth at the window,” said a fourth, leaping into the lawn; "and here's his blood staining all the grass -like the blood of a wounded deer." "I have lost the trace now," cried a fifth; "he has sunk into the earth here-the blood is scarce cooled on

the grass." "And here he lies,"

cried a sixth, "on this small narrow ridge-and half-a-dozen cows are running snuffing and marvelling round him; he's cold and stiff." "And there's a carved stone under him," said a seventh; "his blood has run freely over it-the curse of Coldengame's fulfilling." "It is fulfilling, indeed," said an old pious man, whose white hairs had not been abroad in the night damp for fifteen years. "Here stood the landmark of Ruth Rushbrook; and here have I seen her kneeling, crying for heaven's vengeance on the spoiler of the widow and the fatherless. buried the father yesterday, and here lies his only son to-night-his life's blood marking the boundary, and staining the stone land-mark, which in a fatal hour he removed. Let us carry this youth home; and when we see an evil deed done, and him that did it flourishing, let us think on the name of Neyland, and on the curse of Coldengame."

We

In

In the course of this wild story the current of the narrative has been allowed to meander according to all the varieties of popular belief. telling a tale which is old and mysterious-and perhaps can never be unravelled-it is best to relate all the various versions and comments in the order in which they come: it forms a curious history of traditional belief, and affords an opportunity to a reader desirous of signalizing his own sagacity of coming to a conclusion satisfactory at least to himself. I have not ventured any opinion of my own-I wish not to be wiser than other men-such a distinction would