“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.
No. LXXVIII.
I know not why, but the idea of another meeting with Martin Smith, notwithstanding my affectionate respect, for that good old man, disturbed me so much, that I resolved, to be out of his way, by keeping awake. But, in defiance of my very best efforts, strengthened by a bowl of unsugared hyson, at half past eleven, if I err not, I fell into a profound slumber; and, at the very appointed moment, found myself, at the Chapel door. At the third knock, it opened, with an almost alarming suddenness—I quietly entered—and the old man closed it softly, after me.
“In ten minutes,” said he, “the congregation will assemble.”—“What,” I inquired, “at this time of night?”—“Be silent,” said he, rather angrily, as I thought; and, drawing me, by the arm, to the north side of the door, he shoved me against the Vassal monument, with a force, that I would not have believed it possible, for any modern ghost to exert. “Be still and listen,” said he. “In 1782, my dear, old pastor, Dr. Freeman, came here, as Reader; and became Rector, in 1787. Dr. Caner was inducted, in 1747, and continued Rector, twenty-nine years; for, as I told you, he went off with the plate, in 1776. There were no Rectors, between those two. Brockwell and Troutbeck were Caner’s assistants only: the first died in 1755, and the last left, the year before Dr. Caner.”
“Well,” continued the old man, “never reveal what I am about to tell you, Abner Wycherly—the Trinitarians have never surrendered their claims, upon this Church; and, precisely at midnight, upon every Sabbath, since 1776, Dr. Caner and the congregation have gathered here; and the Church service has been performed, just as it used to be, before the revolution. They make short work of it, rarely exceeding fifteen minutes—hush, for your life—they are coming!”