The Essential Works of William Harrison Ainsworth. William Harrison Ainsworth
Naples’ biscuit gave.
King: Art of Cookery.
Ceterum priusquam corpus humo injectâ contegatur, defunctus oratione funebri laudabatur. —Durand.
A supply of spirits was here introduced; lights were brought at the same time, and placed upon a long oak table. The party gathering round it, ill-humor was speedily dissipated, and even the storm disregarded, in the copious libations that ensued. At this juncture, a loiterer appeared in the hall. His movements were unnoticed by all excepting the sexton, who watched his proceedings with some curiosity. The person walked to the window, appearing, so far as could be discovered, to eye the storm with great impatience. He then paced the hall rapidly backwards and forwards, and Peter fancied he could detect sounds of disappointment in his muttered exclamations. Again he returned to the window, as if to ascertain the probable duration of the shower. It was a hopeless endeavor; all was pitch-dark without; the lightning was now only seen at long intervals, but the rain still audibly descended in torrents. Apparently seeing the impossibility of controlling the elements, the person approached the table.
“What think you of the night, Mr. Palmer?” asked the sexton of Jack, for he was the anxious investigator of the weather.
“Don’t know — can’t say — set in, I think — cursed unlucky — for the funeral, I mean — we shall be drowned if we go.”
“And drunk if we stay,” rejoined Peter. “But never fear, it will hold up, depend upon it, long before we can start. Where have they put the prisoner?” asked he, with a sudden change of manner.
“I know the room, but can’t describe it; it’s two or three doors down the lower corridor of the eastern gallery.”
“Good. Who are on guard?”
“Titus Tyrconnel and that swivel-eyed quill-driver, Coates.”
“Enough.”
“Come, come, Master Peter,” roared Toft, “let’s have another stave. Give us one of your odd snatches. No more corpse-candles, or that sort of thing. Something lively — something jolly — ha, ha!”
“A good move,” shouted Jack. “A lively song from you— lillibullero from a death’s-head — ha, ha!”
“My songs are all of a sort,” returned Peter; “I am seldom asked to sing a second time. However, you are welcome to the merriest I have.” And preparing himself, like certain other accomplished vocalists, with a few preliminary hems and haws, he struck forth the following doleful ditty:
THE OLD OAK COFFIN
Sic ego componi versus in ossa velim. —Tibullus.
In a churchyard, upon the sward, a coffin there was laid,
And leaning stood, beside the wood, a sexton on his spade.
A coffin old and black it was, and fashioned curiously,
With quaint device of carved oak, in hideous fantasie.
For here was wrought the sculptured thought of a tormented face,
With serpents lithe that round it writhe, in folded strict embrace.
Grim visages of grinning fiends were at each corner set,
And emblematic scrolls, mort-heads, and bones together met.
“Ah, welladay!” that sexton gray unto himself did cry,
“Beneath that lid much lieth hid — much awful mysterie.
It is an ancient coffin from the abbey that stood here;
Perchance it holds an abbot’s bones, perchance those of a frere.
“In digging deep, where monks do sleep, beneath yon cloister shrined,
That coffin old, within the mould, it was my chance to find;
The costly carvings of the lid I scraped full carefully,
In hope to get at name or date, yet nothing could I see.
“With pick and spade I’ve plied my trade for sixty years and more,
Yet never found, beneath the ground, shell strange as that before;
Full many coffins have I seen — have seen them deep or flat,
Fantastical in fashion — none fantastical as that.”
And saying so, with heavy blow, the lid he shattered wide,
And, pale with fright, a ghastly sight that sexton gray espied;
A miserable sight it was, that loathsome corpse to see,
The last, last, dreary, darksome stage of fall’n humanity.
Though all was gone, save reeky bone, a green and grisly heap,
With scarce a trace of fleshly face, strange posture did it keep.
The hands were clenched, the teeth were wrenched, as if the wretch had risen,
E’en after death had ta’en his breath, to strive and burst his prison.
The neck was bent, the nails were rent, no limb or joint was straight;
Together glued, with blood imbued, black and coagulate.
And, as the sexton stooped him down to lift the coffin plank,
His fingers were defiled all o’er with slimy substance dank.
“Ah, welladay!” that sexton gray unto himself did cry,
“Full well I see how Fate’s decree foredoomed this wretch to die;
A living man, a breathing man, within the coffin thrust,
Alack! alack! the agony ere he returned to dust!”
A vision drear did then appear unto that sexton’s eyes;
Like that poor wight before him straight he in a coffin lies.
He lieth in a trance within that coffin close and fast;
Yet though he sleepeth now, he feels he shall awake at last.
The coffin, then, by reverend men, is borne with footsteps slow,
Where tapers shine before the shrine, where breathes the requiem low;
And for the dead the prayer is said, for the soul that is not flown — Then all is drowned in hollow sound, the earth is o’er him thrown!
He draweth breath — he wakes from death to life more horrible;
To agony! such agony! no living tongue may tell.
Die! die he must, that wretched one! he struggles — strives in vain;
No more Heaven’s light, nor sunshine bright, shall he behold again.
“Gramercy, Lord!” the sexton roared, awakening suddenly,
“If this be dream, yet doth it seem most dreadful so to die.
Oh, cast my body in the sea! or hurl it on the shore!
But nail me not in coffin fast — no grave will I dig more.”
It was not difficult to discover the effect produced by this song, in the lengthened faces of the greater part of the audience. Jack Palmer, however, laughed loud and long.
“Bravo, bravo!” cried he; “that suits my humor exactly. I can’t abide the thoughts of a coffin. No deal box for me.”
“A gibbet might, perhaps, serve your turn as well,” muttered the sexton; adding aloud, “I am now entitled to call upon you; — a song! — a song!”
“Ay, a song, Mr. Palmer, a song!” reiterated the hinds. “Yours will be the right kind of thing.”
“Say no more,” replied Jack. “I’ll give you a chant composed upon Dick Turpin,