I did not die, but anguish stunn'd my senses into sleep.
How long entranced, or whither dived, no clue I have to find:
At last the gradual light of life came dawning o'er my mind;
And through my brain there thrill'd a cry,—a cry as shrill as birds
Of vulture or of eagle kind, but this was set to words:
"It's Edgar Huntley[32] in his cap and nightgown, I declares!
He's been a-walking in his sleep, and pitch'd all down the stairs!"
[OUR VILLAGE.]
BY A VILLAGER.
Our village, that's to say, not Miss Mitford's village, but our village of Bullock Smithy,