“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!”
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.