One wintry evening, early in the year of our Lord one thousand seven
hundred and eighty, a keen north wind arose as it grew dark, and night
came on with black and dismal looks. A bitter storm of sleet, sharp,
dense, and icy-cold, swept the wet streets, and rattled on the trembling
windows. Signboards, shaken past endurance in their creaking frames,
fell crashing on the pavement; old tottering chimneys reeled and
staggered in the blast; and many a steeple rocked again that night, as
though the earth were troubled.
It was not a time for those who could by any means get light and warmth,
to brave the fury of the weather. In coffee-houses of the better sort,
guests crowded round the fire, forgot to be political, and told each
other with a secret gladness that the blast grew fiercer every minute.
Each humble tavern by the water-side had its group of uncouth figures
round the hearth, who talked of vessels foundering at sea, and all hands
lost; related many a dismal tale of shipwreck and drowned men, and
hoped that some they knew were safe, and shook their heads in doubt.
In private dwellings, children clustered near the blaze; listening with
timid pleasure to tales of ghosts and goblins, and tall figures clad
in white standing by bed-sides, and people who had gone to sleep in old
churches and being overlooked had found themselves alone there at the
dead hour of the night: until they shuddered at the thought of the dark
rooms upstairs, yet loved to hear the wind moan too, and hoped it would
continue bravely. From time to time these happy indoor people stopped to
listen, or one held up his finger and cried ‘Hark!’ and then, above the
rumbling in the chimney, and the fast pattering on the glass, was heard
a wailing, rushing sound, which shook the walls as though a giant’s hand
were on them; then a hoarse roar as if the sea had risen; then such a
whirl and tumult that the air seemed mad; and then, with a lengthened
howl, the waves of wind swept on, and left a moment’s interval of rest.
Cheerily, though there were none abroad to see it, shone the Maypole
light that evening. Blessings on the red--deep, ruby, glowing red--old
curtain of the window; blending into one rich stream of brightness, fire
and candle, meat, drink, and company, and gleaming like a jovial
eye upon the bleak waste out of doors! Within, what carpet like its
crunching sand, what music merry as its crackling logs, what perfume
like its kitchen’s dainty breath, what weather genial as its hearty
warmth! Blessings on the old house, how sturdily it stood! How did the
vexed wind chafe and roar about its stalwart roof; how did it pant
and strive with its wide chimneys, which still poured forth from their
hospitable throats, great clouds of smoke, and puffed defiance in its
face; how, above all, did it drive and rattle at the casement, emulous
to extinguish that cheerful glow, which would not be put down and seemed
the brighter for the conflict!
The profusion too, the rich and lavish bounty, of that goodly tavern! It
was not enough that one fire roared and sparkled on its spacious hearth;
in the tiles which paved and compassed it, five hundred flickering fires
burnt brightly also. It was not enough that one red curtain shut the
wild night out, and shed its cheerful influence on the room. In every
saucepan lid, and candlestick, and vessel of copper, brass, or tin
that hung upon the walls, were countless ruddy hangings, flashing and
gleaming with every motion of the blaze, and offering, let the eye
wander where it might, interminable vistas of the same rich colour. The
old oak wainscoting, the beams, the chairs, the seats, reflected it in
a deep, dull glimmer. There were fires and red curtains in the very eyes
of the drinkers, in their buttons, in their liquor, in the pipes they
smoked.
Mr Willet sat in what had been his accustomed place five years before,
with his eyes on the eternal boiler; and had sat there since the clock
struck eight, giving no other signs of life than breathing with a loud
and constant snore (though he was wide awake), and from time to time
putting his glass to his lips, or knocking the ashes out of his pipe,
and filling it anew. It was now half-past ten. Mr Cobb and long Phil
Parkes were his companions, as of old, and for two mortal hours and a
half, none of the company had pronounced one word.
Whether people, by dint of sitting together in the same place and the
same relative positions, and doing exactly the same things for a great
many years, acquire a sixth sense, or some unknown power of influencing
each other which serves them in its stead, is a question for philosophy
to settle. But certain it is that old John Willet, Mr Parkes, and Mr
Cobb, were one and all firmly of opinion that they were very jolly
companions--rather choice spirits than otherwise; that they looked at
each other every now and then as if there were a perpetual interchange
of ideas going on among them; that no man considered himself or his
neighbour by any means silent; and that each of them nodded occasionally
when he caught the eye of another, as if he would say, ‘You have
expressed yourself extremely well, sir, in relation to that sentiment,
and I quite agree with you.’
The room was so very warm, the tobacco so very good, and the fire so
very soothing, that Mr Willet by degrees began to doze; but as he had
perfectly acquired, by dint of long habit, the art of smoking in his
sleep, and as his breathing was pretty much the same, awake or asleep,
saving that in the latter case he sometimes experienced a slight
difficulty in respiration (such as a carpenter meets with when he is
planing and comes to a knot), neither of his companions was aware of the
circumstance, until he met with one of these impediments and was obliged
to try again.
‘Johnny’s dropped off,’ said Mr Parkes in a whisper.
‘Fast as a top,’ said Mr Cobb.
Neither of them said any more until Mr Willet came to another knot--one
of surpassing obduracy--which bade fair to throw him into convulsions,
but which he got over at last without waking, by an effort quite
superhuman.
‘He sleeps uncommon hard,’ said Mr Cobb.
Mr Parkes, who was possibly a hard-sleeper himself, replied with some
disdain, ‘Not a bit on it;’ and directed his eyes towards a handbill
pasted over the chimney-piece, which was decorated at the top with a
woodcut representing a youth of tender years running away very fast,
with a bundle over his shoulder at the end of a stick, and--to carry
out the idea--a finger-post and a milestone beside him. Mr Cobb likewise
turned his eyes in the same direction, and surveyed the placard as if
that were the first time he had ever beheld it. Now, this was a document
which Mr Willet had himself indited on the disappearance of his son
Joseph, acquainting the nobility and gentry and the public in general
with the circumstances of his having left his home; describing his dress
and appearance; and offering a reward of five pounds to any person or
persons who would pack him up and return him safely to the Maypole at
Chigwell, or lodge him in any of his Majesty’s jails until such time as
his father should come and claim him. In this advertisement Mr Willet
had obstinately persisted, despite the advice and entreaties of his
friends, in describing his son as a ‘young boy;’ and furthermore as
being from eighteen inches to a couple of feet shorter than he really
was; two circumstances which perhaps accounted, in some degree, for its
never having been productive of any other effect than the transmission
to Chigwell at various times and at a vast expense, of some
five-and-forty runaways varying from six years old to twelve.
Mr Cobb and Mr Parkes looked mysteriously at this composition, at each
other, and at old John. From the time he had pasted it up with his own
hands, Mr Willet had never by word or sign alluded to the subject, or
encouraged any one else to do so. Nobody had the least notion what his
thoughts or opinions were, connected with it; whether he remembered it
or forgot it; whether he had any idea that such an event had ever taken
place. Therefore, even while he slept, no one ventured to refer to it in
his presence; and for such sufficient reasons, these his chosen friends
were silent now.
Mr Willet had got by this time into such a complication of knots,
that it was perfectly clear he must wake or die. He chose the former
alternative, and opened his eyes.
‘If he don’t come in five minutes,’ said John, ‘I shall have supper
without him.’
The antecedent of this pronoun had been mentioned for the last time
at eight o’clock. Messrs Parkes and Cobb being used to this style of
conversation, replied without difficulty that to be sure Solomon was
very late, and they wondered what had happened to detain him.
‘He an’t blown away, I suppose,’ said Parkes. ‘It’s enough to carry a
man of his figure off his legs, and easy too. Do you hear it? It blows
great guns, indeed. There’ll be many a crash in the Forest to-night, I
reckon, and many a broken branch upon the ground to-morrow.’
‘It won’t break anything in the Maypole, I take it, sir,’ returned old
John. ‘Let it try. I give it leave--what’s that?’
‘The wind,’ cried Parkes. ‘It’s howling like a Christian, and has been
all night long.’
‘Did you ever, sir,’ asked John, after a minute’s contemplation, ‘hear
the wind say “Maypole”?’
‘Why, what man ever did?’ said Parkes.
‘Nor “ahoy,” perhaps?’ added John.
‘No. Nor that neither.’
‘Very good, sir,’ said Mr Willet, perfectly unmoved; ‘then if that
was the wind just now, and you’ll wait a little time without speaking,
you’ll hear it say both words very plain.’
Mr Willet was right. After listening for a few moments, they could
clearly hear, above the roar and tumult out of doors, this shout
repeated; and that with a shrillness and energy, which denoted that it
came from some person in great distress or terror. They looked at each
other, turned pale, and held their breath. No man stirred.
It was in this emergency that Mr Willet displayed something of that
strength of mind and plenitude of mental resource, which rendered him
the admiration of all his friends and neighbours. After looking at
Messrs Parkes and Cobb for some time in silence, he clapped his two
hands to his cheeks, and sent forth a roar which made the glasses dance
and rafters ring--a long-sustained, discordant bellow, that rolled
onward with the wind, and startling every echo, made the night a hundred
times more boisterous--a deep, loud, dismal bray, that sounded like a
human gong. Then, with every vein in his head and face swollen with the
great exertion, and his countenance suffused with a lively purple, he
drew a little nearer to the fire, and turning his back upon it, said
with dignity:
‘If that’s any comfort to anybody, they’re welcome to it. If it an’t,
I’m sorry for ‘em. If either of you two gentlemen likes to go out and
see what’s the matter, you can. I’m not curious, myself.’
While he spoke the cry drew nearer and nearer, footsteps passed the
window, the latch of the door was raised, it opened, was violently shut
again, and Solomon Daisy, with a lighted lantern in his hand, and the
rain streaming from his disordered dress, dashed into the room.
A more complete picture of terror than the little man presented, it
would be difficult to imagine. The perspiration stood in beads upon his
face, his knees knocked together, his every limb trembled, the power
of articulation was quite gone; and there he stood, panting for breath,
gazing on them with such livid ashy looks, that they were infected with
his fear, though ignorant of its occasion, and, reflecting his dismayed
and horror-stricken visage, stared back again without venturing to
question him; until old John Willet, in a fit of temporary insanity,
made a dive at his cravat, and, seizing him by that portion of his
dress, shook him to and fro until his very teeth appeared to rattle in
his head.
‘Tell us what’s the matter, sir,’ said John, ‘or I’ll kill you. Tell us
what’s the matter, sir, or in another second I’ll have your head under
the biler. How dare you look like that? Is anybody a-following of you?
What do you mean? Say something, or I’ll be the death of you, I will.’
Mr Willet, in his frenzy, was so near keeping his word to the very
letter (Solomon Daisy’s eyes already beginning to roll in an alarming
manner, and certain guttural sounds, as of a choking man, to issue from
his throat), that the two bystanders, recovering in some degree,
plucked him off his victim by main force, and placed the little clerk
of Chigwell in a chair. Directing a fearful gaze all round the room, he
implored them in a faint voice to give him some drink; and above all to
lock the house-door and close and bar the shutters of the room, without
a moment’s loss of time. The latter request did not tend to reassure
his hearers, or to fill them with the most comfortable sensations; they
complied with it, however, with the greatest expedition; and having
handed him a bumper of brandy-and-water, nearly boiling hot, waited to
hear what he might have to tell them.
‘Oh, Johnny,’ said Solomon, shaking him by the hand. ‘Oh, Parkes. Oh,
Tommy Cobb. Why did I leave this house to-night! On the nineteenth of
March--of all nights in the year, on the nineteenth of March!’
They all drew closer to the fire. Parkes, who was nearest to the door,
started and looked over his shoulder. Mr Willet, with great indignation,
inquired what the devil he meant by that--and then said, ‘God forgive
me,’ and glanced over his own shoulder, and came a little nearer.
‘When I left here to-night,’ said Solomon Daisy, ‘I little thought what
day of the month it was. I have never gone alone into the church after
dark on this day, for seven-and-twenty years. I have heard it said
that as we keep our birthdays when we are alive, so the ghosts of
dead people, who are not easy in their graves, keep the day they died
upon.--How the wind roars!’
Nobody spoke. All eyes were fastened on Solomon.
‘I might have known,’ he said, ‘what night it was, by the foul weather.
There’s no such night in the whole year round as this is, always. I
never sleep quietly in my bed on the nineteenth of March.’
‘Go on,’ said Tom Cobb, in a low voice. ‘Nor I neither.’
Solomon Daisy raised his glass to his lips; put it down upon the floor
with such a trembling hand that the spoon tinkled in it like a little
bell; and continued thus:
‘Have I ever said that we are always brought back to this subject in
some strange way, when the nineteenth of this month comes round? Do
you suppose it was by accident, I forgot to wind up the church-clock? I
never forgot it at any other time, though it’s such a clumsy thing that
it has to be wound up every day. Why should it escape my memory on this
day of all others?
‘I made as much haste down there as I could when I went from here, but
I had to go home first for the keys; and the wind and rain being dead
against me all the way, it was pretty well as much as I could do at
times to keep my legs. I got there at last, opened the church-door, and
went in. I had not met a soul all the way, and you may judge whether it
was dull or not. Neither of you would bear me company. If you could have
known what was to come, you’d have been in the right.
‘The wind was so strong, that it was as much as I could do to shut the
church-door by putting my whole weight against it; and even as it was,
it burst wide open twice, with such strength that any of you would have
sworn, if you had been leaning against it, as I was, that somebody was
pushing on the other side. However, I got the key turned, went into the
belfry, and wound up the clock--which was very near run down, and would
have stood stock-still in half an hour.
‘As I took up my lantern again to leave the church, it came upon me all
at once that this was the nineteenth of March. It came upon me with a
kind of shock, as if a hand had struck the thought upon my forehead;
at the very same moment, I heard a voice outside the tower--rising from
among the graves.’
Here old John precipitately interrupted the speaker, and begged that if
Mr Parkes (who was seated opposite to him and was staring directly over
his head) saw anything, he would have the goodness to mention it. Mr
Parkes apologised, and remarked that he was only listening; to which Mr
Willet angrily retorted, that his listening with that kind of expression
in his face was not agreeable, and that if he couldn’t look like other
people, he had better put his pocket-handkerchief over his head.
Mr Parkes with great submission pledged himself to do so, if again
required, and John Willet turning to Solomon desired him to proceed.
After waiting until a violent gust of wind and rain, which seemed to
shake even that sturdy house to its foundation, had passed away, the
little man complied:
‘Never tell me that it was my fancy, or that it was any other sound
which I mistook for that I tell you of. I heard the wind whistle through
the arches of the church. I heard the steeple strain and creak. I heard
the rain as it came driving against the walls. I felt the bells shake. I
saw the ropes sway to and fro. And I heard that voice.’
‘What did it say?’ asked Tom Cobb.
‘I don’t know what; I don’t know that it spoke. It gave a kind of cry,
as any one of us might do, if something dreadful followed us in a dream,
and came upon us unawares; and then it died off: seeming to pass quite
round the church.’
‘I don’t see much in that,’ said John, drawing a long breath, and
looking round him like a man who felt relieved.
‘Perhaps not,’ returned his friend, ‘but that’s not all.’
‘What more do you mean to say, sir, is to come?’ asked John, pausing in
the act of wiping his face upon his apron. ‘What are you a-going to tell
us of next?’
‘What I saw.’
‘Saw!’ echoed all three, bending forward.
‘When I opened the church-door to come out,’ said the little man, with
an expression of face which bore ample testimony to the sincerity of
his conviction, ‘when I opened the church-door to come out, which I did
suddenly, for I wanted to get it shut again before another gust of wind
came up, there crossed me--so close, that by stretching out my finger
I could have touched it--something in the likeness of a man. It was
bare-headed to the storm. It turned its face without stopping, and fixed
its eyes on mine. It was a ghost--a spirit.’
‘Whose?’ they all three cried together.
In the excess of his emotion (for he fell back trembling in his chair,
and waved his hand as if entreating them to question him no further),
his answer was lost on all but old John Willet, who happened to be
seated close beside him.
‘Who!’ cried Parkes and Tom Cobb, looking eagerly by turns at Solomon
Daisy and at Mr Willet. ‘Who was it?’
‘Gentlemen,’ said Mr Willet after a long pause, ‘you needn’t ask. The
likeness of a murdered man. This is the nineteenth of March.’
A profound silence ensued.
‘If you’ll take my advice,’ said John, ‘we had better, one and all, keep
this a secret. Such tales would not be liked at the Warren. Let us keep
it to ourselves for the present time at all events, or we may get into
trouble, and Solomon may lose his place. Whether it was really as he
says, or whether it wasn’t, is no matter. Right or wrong, nobody would
believe him. As to the probabilities, I don’t myself think,’ said Mr
Willet, eyeing the corners of the room in a manner which showed that,
like some other philosophers, he was not quite easy in his theory,
‘that a ghost as had been a man of sense in his lifetime, would be out
a-walking in such weather--I only know that I wouldn’t, if I was one.’
But this heretical doctrine was strongly opposed by the other three,
who quoted a great many precedents to show that bad weather was the very
time for such appearances; and Mr Parkes (who had had a ghost in his
family, by the mother’s side) argued the matter with so much ingenuity
and force of illustration, that John was only saved from having to
retract his opinion by the opportune appearance of supper, to which they
applied themselves with a dreadful relish. Even Solomon Daisy himself,
by dint of the elevating influences of fire, lights, brandy, and good
company, so far recovered as to handle his knife and fork in a highly
creditable manner, and to display a capacity both of eating and
drinking, such as banished all fear of his having sustained any lasting
injury from his fright.
Supper done, they crowded round the fire again, and, as is common on
such occasions, propounded all manner of leading questions calculated
to surround the story with new horrors and surprises. But Solomon Daisy,
notwithstanding these temptations, adhered so steadily to his original
account, and repeated it so often, with such slight variations, and with
such solemn asseverations of its truth and reality, that his hearers
were (with good reason) more astonished than at first. As he took John
Willet’s view of the matter in regard to the propriety of not bruiting
the tale abroad, unless the spirit should appear to him again, in which
case it would be necessary to take immediate counsel with the clergyman,
it was solemnly resolved that it should be hushed up and kept quiet.
And as most men like to have a secret to tell which may exalt their own
importance, they arrived at this conclusion with perfect unanimity.
As it was by this time growing late, and was long past their usual hour
of separating, the cronies parted for the night. Solomon Daisy, with a
fresh candle in his lantern, repaired homewards under the escort of long
Phil Parkes and Mr Cobb, who were rather more nervous than himself. Mr
Willet, after seeing them to the door, returned to collect his thoughts
with the assistance of the boiler, and to listen to the storm of wind
and rain, which had not yet abated one jot of its fury.