No. LXXVII.
I verily believe, that ghosts are the most punctual people in the world, especially if they were ever sextons, after the flesh. The last stroke of twelve had not ceased ringing in my ears, when that icy palm was again laid upon my shoulder; and Martin Smith stood by the side of my bed.
“Well, Martin,” said I, “since you have taken the trouble to come out again, and upon such a stormy night withal, I cannot refuse your request.”—It seemed to me, that I rose to put on my garments, and found them already on; and had scarcely prepared to go, with my old friend, to the Chapel, before we were in the middle of the broad aisle. Dreams are marvellous things, certainly—all this was a dream, I suppose—for, if it was not—what was it?
There seemed to be an oppressive weight, upon the mind of my old friend, connected, doubtless, with those explanations, which he had proposed to make, upon the spot. We sat down, near Governor Shirley’s monument. “Abner,” said he, “I wish, before I am buried, to make a clean breast, and to confess my misdeeds.”—“I cannot believe, Martin,” I replied, “that there is a very heavy, professional load upon your conscience. If there is, I know not what will become of the rest of us. But I will hearken to all you may choose to reveal.”—“Well,” resumed the old man, with a sigh, “I have tried to be conscientious, but we are all liable to error—we are are all fallible creatures, especially sextons. I have been sexton here, for six and thirty years; and I am often painfully reminded, that, in the year 1815, I was rather remiss, in dusting the pews.”—“Have you any other burden upon your conscience?”—“I have,” he replied; and, rising, requested me to follow him.
He went out into the yard, and walked near the northerly corner, where Dr. Caner’s house formerly stood, which was afterwards occupied, as the Boston Athenæum, and, more recently, gave place to the present Savings Bank. “Here,” said he, “thirty years ago, Dinah Furbush, a worthy, negro woman, was buried. The careless carpenter made her coffin one foot too short; and, to conceal his blunder, chopped off Dinah’s head, and, clapping it between her feet, nailed down the lid. This scandalous transaction came to my knowledge, and I grieve to say, that I never communicated it to the wardens.”—“Well, Martin,” said I, “what more?”—“Nothing, thank Heaven!” he replied. Giving way to an irresistible impulse, I broke forth into a roar of laughter, so long and loud, that three watchmen gathered to the wall, and seeing Martin Smith, whom they well knew, with the bottom of his shroud, exhibited below his great coat, they dropped their hooks and rattles, and ran for their lives. Martin walked slowly back to the church, and I followed.
He walked in, among the tombs—thousands of spirits seemed to welcome his advent—but, as I crossed the threshold, at the tramp of a living foot, they vanished, in a moment.
“How many corpses have you lifted, my old friend, in your six and thirty years of office?” “About five thousand,” he replied, “exclusive of babies. It is a very grateful employment, when one becomes used to it.”
“I have heard,” continued Martin, “that the office of executioner, in Paris, is highly respectable, and has been hereditary, for many years, in the family of the Sansons. I have done all in my power, to elevate our profession; and it is my highest ambition, that the office should continue in my family; and that my descendants may be sextons, till the graves shall give up their dead, and death itself be swallowed up in victory.” I was sensibly touched, by the enthusiasm of this good old official; for I honor the man, who honors his calling. I could not refrain from saying a few kind and respectful words, of the old man’s son and successor. He was moved—“The eyes of ghosts,” said he, “are tearless, or I should weep. You have heard,” continued the old man, in a low, tremulous voice, “that, when the mother of Washington was complimented, by some distinguished men, upon the achievements of her son, she went on with her knitting, saying, ‘Well, George always was a good boy’—now, I need say no more of Frank; and, in truth, I can say no less. I knew he would be a sexton. He has forgotten it, I dare say; but he was not satisfied with the first go-cart he ever had, till he had fashioned it, like a hearse. He took hold right, from the beginning. When I resigned, and gave him the keys, and felt, that I should no more walk up and down the broad aisle, as I had done, for so many years, I wept like a child.”
“Yours has been a hale old age. You have always been temperate, I believe,” said I.—“No,” the old man replied, “I have always been abstinent. Like yourself, I use no intoxicating drink, upon any occasion, nor tobacco, in any of its forms, and we have come, as you say, to a hale old age. I have seen drunken sextons squirt tobacco juice over the coffin and pall; and let the corpse go by the run; and I know more than one successor of St. Peter, in this city, who smoke and chew, from morning to night; and give the sextons great trouble, in cleaning up after them.”
We had advanced midway, among the tombs.—“It is awfully cold and dark here, Martin,” said I, “and I hear something, like a mysterious breathing in the air; and, now and then, it seems as if a feather brushed my cheek.”—“Is it unpleasant?” said the old man.—“Not particularly agreeable,” I replied.—“The spirits are aware, that another is added to their number,” said he, “and even the presence of one, in the flesh, will scarcely restrain them from coming forth. I will send them back to their dormitories.” He lighted a spirit lamp, not in the vulgar sense of that word, but a lamp, before whose rays no spirit, however determined, could stand, for an instant.
There is comfort, even in a farthing rush light—I felt warmer. “What a subterraneous life you must have had of it,” said I, “and how many tears and sighs you must have witnessed!” “Why yes,” he replied, with a shake of the head, and a sigh, “the duties of my office have given to my features an expression of universal compassion—a sort of omnibus look, which has caused many a mourner to say—‘Ah, Mr. Smith, I see how much you feel for me.’ And I’m sure I did; not perhaps quite so keenly as I might, if I had been less frequently encored in the performance of my melancholy part. Yes,” continued the old man—“I have witnessed tears and sighs, and deep grief, and shallow, and raving—for a month, and life-long; very proper tears, gushing from the eyes of widows, already wooed and won; and from the eyes of widowers, who, in a right melancholy way, had predetermined the mothers, for their orphan children. But passages have occurred, now and then, all in my sad vocation, pure and holy, and soul-stirring enough, to give pulse to a heart of stone.”
The old man took from his pocket a master key, and beckoned me to follow. He opened an ancient tomb. The mouldy shells were piled one upon another, and a few rusty fragments of that flimsy garniture, which was in vogue of old, had fallen on the bricks below.
“Sacred to the memory!” said the old man, with a sad, significant smile, upon his intelligent features, as he removed the coffin of a child. I looked into the little receptacle, as he raised the lamp. “This,” said he, “was the most beautiful boy I ever buried.” “This?” said I, for the little narrow house contained nothing but a small handful of grayish dust. “Aye,” he replied, “I see; it is all gone now—it is twelve years since I looked at it last—there were some remnants of bones then, and a lock or two of golden hair. This small deposit was one of the first that I made, in this melancholy savings bank. Six-and-thirty years! So tender and so frail a thing may well be turned to dust.
“Time is an alchymist, Abner, as you and I well know. If tears could have embalmed, it would not have been thus. I have never witnessed such agony. The poor, young mother lies there. She was not seventeen, when she died. In a luckless hour, she married a very gentlemanly sot, and left her native home, for a land of strangers. Hers was the common fate of such unequal bargains. He wasted her little property, died of intemperance, and left her nothing, but this orphan boy. And all the love of her warm, young heart was turned upon this child. It had, to be sure, the sweetest, catching smile, that I ever beheld.
“Their heart strings seemed twisted together—the child pined; and the mother grew pale and wan. They waned together. The child died first. The poor, lone, young mother seemed frantic; and refused to part with her idol. After the little thing was made ready for the tomb, she would not suffer it to be removed. It was laid upon the bed, beside her. On the following day, I carried the coffin to the house; and, leaving it below, went up, with a kind neighbor, to the chamber, hoping to prevail upon the poor thing, to permit us to remove the body of the child. She was holding her little boy, clasped in her arms—their lips were joined together—‘It is a pity to awaken her,’ said the neighbor, who attended me—I put my hand upon her forehead—‘Nothing but the last trump will awaken her,’ said I—‘she is dead.’”
“Well, Martin,” said I, “pray let us talk of something else—where is old Isaac Johnson, the founder of the city, who was buried, in this lot, in 1630?”—“Ah”—the old man replied—“the prophets, where are they! I believe you may as well look among the embers, after a conflagration, for the original spark.”
“You must know many curious things, Martin,” said I, “concerning this ancient temple.”—“I do,” said he, “of my own knowledge, and still more, by tradition; and some things, that neither the wardens nor vestry wot of. If I thought I might trust you, Abner, in a matter of such moment, but”—“Did I ever deceive you, Martin,” said I, “while living; and do you think I would take advantage of your confidence, now you are a ghost?”—“Pardon me, Abner,” he replied, for he saw, that he had wounded my feelings, “but the matter, to which I allude, were it made public, would produce terrible confusion—but I will trust you—meet me here, at ten minutes before twelve, on Sabbath night—three low knocks upon the outer door—at present I can reveal no more.”—“No postponement, on account of the weather?” I inquired.—“None,” the old man replied, and locked up the tomb.
“Did you ever see Dr. Caner,” I inquired, as we ascended into the body of the church.—“That,” replied Martin Smith, “is rather a delicate question. In the very year, in which I was born, 1776, the Rev. Doctor Henry Caner, then an old man, carried off the church plate, 2800 ounces of silver, the gift of three kings; of which not a particle has ever been recovered: and, in lieu thereof, he left behind his fervent prayers, that God would “change the hearts of the rebels.” This the Almighty has never seen fit to do—so that the society have not only lost the silver, but the benefit of Dr. Caner’s prayers. No, Abner, I have never seen Dr. Caner, according to the flesh, but—ask me nothing further, on this highly exciting subject, till we meet again.”
I awoke, sorely disturbed—Martin had vanished.