"Rather a singular occurrence happened to me last year on the 14th of October, about half past twelve, P.M. I am thus particular about dates, because this event is one that forms an era in my life. I had been driving across the country in my gig, to visit a friend who had recently moved upon a farm. The localities were new to me, and the roads blind. Guideboards were few, and human beings fewer. In short, I got astray, and hadn't the remotest conception of what part of the country I was in. It was a cold, cloudy day, with a sort of drizzling Scotch mist that wet one to the bone. I plodded along in hopes of soon reaching some tavern, where I could bait my horse and get some dinner for myself. All at once, at a turn of the road, just after having crossed the Concord River, I perceived a stage coach coming towards me. I had heard no noise of wheels or horses' feet; but there it was. The road was narrow, and the coachman pulled up to let me work my way past. The vehicle was a queer old affair, that looked as if it had been dug out of some antediluvian stable yard. The curtains were brown with age and dust, and riddled with holes; the body was bare and worm-eaten, and the springs perfectly green with mould. The horses were thin and lank, and the harness in as sorry a condition as the coach. The driver's clothes, which were very old fashioned, hung about him in loose folds, and he gazed upon me with a strange, stony stare that was absolutely appalling; yet his lips unclosed as I worked past him, and he exclaimed in a harsh, croaking voice, 'One eye!' Thereupon two or three queer people poked their heads out of the coach window. There was one old woman with false teeth, in an unpleasant state of decay, and a voice like a parrot. 'One eye!' she shrieked, as she gazed on me with an eye as stony as the coachman. A pale, simpering miss smirked in my face, and cried, 'One eye!' and a military gentleman, with a ghastly frown, hissed forth the same words. I should have scrutinized the queer coach and the queer people closer, had not my horse—my good, old, quiet, steady horse—seized the bit in his mouth and started off at a dead run. I tried to saw him up, but it was no use; he ran for a couple of miles, and did not slacken till he had brought me to the door of an old, decayed tavern, where I resigned him to the charge of a lame hostler, and made my way into the house in search of the landlord. I found him at last—a poor, poverty-pinched man, who had been ruined by the railroad. He complained bitterly of the hard times. 'But,' said I, 'you must have some custom; the stage coaches——' 'Bless your soul,' replied he, 'there hasn't been a coach on this road for fifteen years.' 'What do you, mean?' said I; 'I met a coach and passengers two miles back, near the river.' The landlord turned pale. 'What day is this?' he asked. 'The 14th of October.' 'The 14th of October!' cried the landlord; 'I remember that date well. That day, fifteen years since, was the last trip of the old mail coach. It left here, with Bill Snaffle, the driver, and three insides, a military man, an old woman, and a young lady. They were never heard of after they left here. Their trail was followed as far as the bridge. It is supposed that the horses got frightened at something, and backed off into the Concord River. But I have heard,' added the landlord, in a hollow whisper, 'that on this anniversary the ghost of that coach and company may be seen upon the turnpike. More, I will tell you, in confidence, that I have seen them myself.' After this I was convinced that I had been favored—if favor it may be called—with a spiritual visitation."
The one-eyed gentleman looked me full in the face, as if to say, "What do you think of it?" It was useless to argue with him; so I only shook my head. He nodded his in a very mysterious manner, and fell to poking the fire with redoubled activity; and I bade him good night, and left him to pursue his occupation.
THE SEXTON OF ST. HUBERT'S.
A STORY OF OLD ENGLAND.
CHAPTER I.
THE QUEEN OF THE MAY.
In a remote region in the northern part of England, the people still cherish an attachment to old usages and sports, and hold the observance of Christmas, May-day, and other time-honored festivals, a sacred obligation. One village, in particular, is famous for its May-day sports, which, as the curate is a little withered antiquary, are conducted with great ceremony and fidelity to old authorities. The May-pole is brought home, garlanded, and decked with ribbons, to the sound of pipe and tabor, surrounded by a laughing throng of sturdy yeomen and buxom maidens. It is erected on the great green, in the centre of the village, to the universal delight of old and young, and the dancing commences round it with high glee. The scene presented is like that described by Goldsmith,—
"Where all the village train, from labor free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree;
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending as the old surveyed;
And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground,
And sleights of art and feats of strength went round."