No. LXXVI.
I never dream, if I can possibly avoid it—when the thing is absolutely forced upon me, why that is another affair. On the evening of the second day of January, 1850, from some inexplicable cause, I lost all appetite for my pillow. I had, till past eleven, been engaged, in the perusal of Goethe’s Confessions of a Fair Saint. After a vain trial of the commonplace expedients, such as counting leaping sheep, up to a thousand and one; humming Old Hundred; and fixing my thoughts upon the heads of good parson Cleverly’s last Sabbath sermon, on perseverance; I, fortunately, thought of Joel Barlow’s Columbiad, and, after two or three pages, went, thankfully, to bed. I threw myself upon my right side, as I always do; for, being deaf—very—in the sinister ear, I thus exclude the nocturnal cries of fire, oysters, and murder.
I think I must have been asleep, full half an hour, by a capital Shrewsbury clock, that I keep in my chamber. It was, of course, on the dawning side of twelve—the very time, when dreams are true, or poets lie, which latter alternative is impossible. I was aroused, by the stroke of a deep-toned bell; and, in an instant, sat bolt upright, listening to the sound. I should have known it, among a thousand—it was the old passing bell of King’s Chapel. I am confident, as to the bell—it had the full, jarring sound, occasioned by the blockhead of a sexton, who cracked it, in 1814. I counted the strokes—one—two—three—an adult male, of course—and then the age—seventy-four was the number of the strokes of that good old bell, corresponding with the years of his pilgrimage—and then a pause—I almost expected another—so, doubtless, did he, poor man—but it came not!—Some old stager, thought I, has put up, for the long night; and the power of slumber was upon me, in a moment.
I slept—but it was a fitful sleep—and I dreamt such a dream, as none but a sexton of the old school can ever dream—
————“velut ægri somnia, vanæ
Fingentur species, ut nec pes, nec caput uni
Reddatur formæ.”
“Funeral baked meats,” and bride’s cake, and weepers, and wedding rings seemed oddly consorted together. At one moment, two very light and airy skeletons seemed to be engaged, in dancing the polka; and, getting angry, flung their skulls furiously at each other. I then fancied, that I saw old Grossman, driving his hearse at a full run, with the corpse of an intemperate old lady, not to the graveyard, but, by mistake, to the very shop, where she bought her Jamaica. I dare not relate the half of my dream, lest I should excite some doubt of my veracity. For aught I know, I might have dreamt on till midsummer, had not a hand been laid on my shoulder, and a change come over the spirit of my dream, in a marvellous manner—for I actually dreamt I was wider awake, than I often am, when Sirius rages, of a summer afternoon, and I am taking my comfort, in my postprandial chair.
Starting suddenly, I beheld the well known features of an old acquaintance and fellow-spadesman—“Don’t you know me?” “Yes,” said I—“no, I can’t say I do”—for I was confoundedly frightened—“Not know me! Haven’t we lifted, head and foot, together, for six and thirty years?” “Well, I suppose we have; but you are so deadly pale; and, will you be so kind as to take your hand from my shoulder; for it’s rather airy, at this season, you know, and your palm is like the hand of death.” “And such it is,” said he—“did you not hear my bell?” “Your bell?” I inquired, gazing more intently, at the little, white-haired, old man, that stood before me. “Even so, Abner,” he replied; “your old friend, and fellow-laborer, Martin Smith, is dead. I always had a solemn affection, for the passing bell. It sounded not so pleasantly, to be sure, in the neighborhood of theatres and gay hotels; and its good, old, solemnizing tones are no longer permitted to be heard. I longed to hear it, once more; and, after they had laid me out, and left me alone, I clapped on my great coat, over my shroud, as you see, and ran up to the church, and tolled my own death peal. When, more than one hundred years ago, in 1747, Dr. Caner took possession, in the old way, by entering, and closing the doors, and tolling the bell, as the Rev. Roger Price had done before, in 1729, he did not feel, that the church belonged to him, half so truly as I have felt, for many years, whenever I got a fair grip of that ancient bell-rope.”
“Martin,” said I, “this is rather a long speech, for a ghost; and must be wearying to the spirit; suppose you sit down.” This I said, because I really supposed the good, little, old man, contrary to all his known habits, was practising upon my credulity—perhaps upon my fears; and was playing a new year’s prank, in his old age: and I resolved, by the smallest touch of sarcasm in the world, to show him, that I was not so easily deceived. He made no reply; but, drawing my hand between his great coat and shroud, placed it over the region of his heart—“Good God! you are really dead then, Martin!” said I, for all was cold and still there. “I am,” he replied. “I have lived long—did you count the strokes of my bell?”—I nodded assent, for I could not speak.—“Four years beyond the scriptural measure of man’s pilgrimage. You are not so old as I am”—“No,” I replied.—“No, not quite,” said he.—“No, no, Martin,” said I, adjusting my night cap, “not by several years.”—“Well,” said the old man, with a sigh, “a few years make very little difference, when one has so many to answer for; those odd years are like a few odd shillings, in a very long account. I have come to ask you to go with me.”—A cold sweat broke through my skin, as quickly, as if it had been mere tissue paper; and my mind instantly sprang to the work of finding devices, for putting the old man off. “Surely,” said he, observing my reluctance, “you would not deny the request of a dying man.” “Perhaps not,” I replied, “but now that you are dead, dear Martin, for Heaven’s sake, what’s the use of it?”
The old man seemed to be pained, by my hesitation—“Abner,” said he, after a short pause, “you and I have had a goodly number of strange passages, at odd hours, down in that vault—are ye afeard, Abner—eh!”—“Why, as to that, Martin,” said I, “if you were a real, live sexton, I’d go with pleasure; but our relations are somewhat changed, you will admit. Besides, as I told you before, I cannot see the use of it.” I felt rather vexed, to be suspected of fear.
“You have the advantage of me, Abner Wycherly,” said Martin Smith, “being alive; and I have come to ask you to do a favor, for me, which I cannot do, for myself.”—“What is it?” said I, rather impatiently, perhaps.—“I want you to embalm my”—“Martin,” said I, interrupting him—“I can’t—I never embalmed in my life.” “You misunderstand me”—the old man replied—“I want you to embalm my memory; and preserve it, from the too common lot of our profession, who are remembered, often, as resurrectionists, and men of intemperate lives, and mysterious conversations. I want you to allow me a little niche, among your Dealings with the Dead. I shall take but little room, you see for yourself”—and then, in an under-tone, he said something about thinking more of the honor, than he should of a place in Westminster Abbey; which was very agreeable, to be sure, notwithstanding the sepulchral tone, in which it was uttered. Indeed I was surprised to find how very refreshing, to the spirits of an author, this species of extreme unction might be, administered even by a ghost.
“Martin,” said I, “I have always thought highly of your good opinion; but what can I say—how can I serve you?” “I am desirous,” said he, “of transmitting to my children a good name, which is better than riches.”—“Well, my worthy, old fellow-laborer,” I replied, “if that is all you want, the work is done to your hand, already. You will not suspect me of flattering you to your face, now that you are dead, Martin; and I can truly say, that I have heard thousands speak of you, with great kindness and respect, and never a lisp against you. All this I am ready to vouch for—but, for what purpose, do you ask me to go with you?”
“I wish you to go with me, and examine for yourself,” said the old man; “and then you can speak, of your own knowledge. Don’t refuse me—let us have one more of those cozy walks, Abner, under the old Chapel, and over that yard. I desire to talk over some things with you there, which can be better understood, upon the spot—and I want to explain one or two matters, so that you may be able to defend my reputation, should any censure be cast upon it, after I am gone.”—“I cannot go with you tonight, Martin,” said I; “I see a gleam in the East, already.”—“True,” said he, “I may be missed.”—For not more than the half of one second, I closed my eyes—and, in that twinkling of an eye, he was gone—but I heard him whisper, distinctly, as he went—“tomorrow night!”