*****
At a short distance from Kirby Malhamdale church, on the banks of the Aire, was a small cottage, the residence of the Rev. Mr. ——, the rector of the parish, [General Bibo mentioned his name, but I shall not, for if I did some of his descendants might address themselves to the Table Book, and contradict the story of their ancestor having been engaged in so strange an adventure as that contained in the sequel of this legend.] Mr. —— had from his earliest years been addicted to scientific and literary pursuits, and was generally in his study till a late hour. On this eventful night he was sitting at a table strewed with divers ancient tomes, intently perusing an old Genevan edition of the Institutes of John Calvin. While thus employed, and buried in profound meditation, the awful and death-like stillness was broken, and he was roused from his reverie by a hurried and violent knocking at the door. He started from his chair, and rushing out to ascertain the cause of this strange interruption, beheld Kitchen with a face as pale as a winding-sheet. “Kitchen, what brings you here at this untimely hour?” asked the clergyman. The boy was silent, and appeared under the influence of extreme terror. Mr. ——, on repeating the question, had a confused and indistinct account given him of all the circumstances. The relation finished, Mr. —— looked at the boy, and thus addressed him: “Yes, I thought some evil would come of your misdeeds; for some time past your conduct has been very disorderly, you having long set a bad example to the lads of Malhamdale. But this is no time for upbraiding. I will accompany you, and together we will abide the result of your rash engagement.”
Mr. —— and the boy left the rectory, and proceeded along the road leading to the church-yard; as they entered the sacred precinct, the clock of the venerable pile told the hour of midnight. It was a beautiful night—scarcely a cloud broke the cerulean appearance of the heavens—countless stars studded heaven’s deep blue vault—the moon was glowing in her highest lustre, and shed a clear light on the old grey church tower and the distant hills—scarcely a breeze stirred the trees, then in their fullest foliage—every inmate of the village-inn[134] was at rest—there was not a sound, save the murmuring of the lone mountain river, and the deep-toned baying of the watchful sheep-dog.
Mr. —— looked around, but, seeing no one, said to the boy, “Surely you have been dreaming—your tale is some illusion, some chimera of the brain. The occurrences of the day have been embodied in your visions, and the over excitement created by the scene at the tomb has worked upon your imagination.”
“Oh no, sir!” said Kitchen, “but his eyes which glared so fearfully upon me could not have been a deception. I saw his tall figure, and heard his hollow sepulchral voice sing those too well-remembered lines, but—Heavens! did you not see it?” He started, and drawing nearer to the priest, pointed to the eastern window of the edifice. Mr. —— looked in the direction, and saw a dark shadowy form gliding amid the tombstones. It approached, and as its outline became more distinctly marked, he recognised the mysterious being described to him in his study by the terrified boy.—The figure stopped, and looking long and earnestly at them said, “One! two! How is this? I have one more guest than I invited; but it matters not, all is ready, follow me—
“Amidst the cold graves of the coffin’d dead,
Is the table deck’d and the banquet spread.”
The figure waved its arm impatiently, and beckoning them to follow moved on in the precise and measured step of an old soldier. Having reached the eastern window, it turned the corner of the building, and proceeded directly to the old green stone, near Thompson’s grave. The thick branches of an aged yew-tree partially shaded the spot from the silver moonlight, which was peacefully falling on the neighbouring graves, and gave to this particular one a more sombre and melancholy character than the rest. Here was, indeed, a table spread, and its festive preparations formed a striking contrast with the awful mementos strewed around. Never in the splendid and baronial halls of De Clifford,[135] never in the feudal mansion of the Nortons,[136] nor in the refectory of the monks of Sawley, had a more substantial banquet been spread. Nothing was wanting there of roast or boiled—the stone was plentifully decked; yet it was a fearful sight to see, where till now but the earthworm had ever revelled, a banquet prepared as for revelry. The boy looked on the stone, and as he gazed on the smoking viands a strange thought crossed his brow—at what fire were those provisions cooked. The seats placed around were coffins, and Kitchen every instant seemed to dread lest their owners should appear, and join the sepulchral banquet. Their ghostly host having placed himself at the head of the table, motioned his guests to do the same, and they did so accordingly. Mr. —— then in his clerical character rose to ask the accustomed blessing, when he was interrupted. “It cannot be,” said the stranger as he rose; “I cannot hear at my board a protestant grace. When I trod the earth as a mortal, the catholic religion was the religion of the land! It was the blessed faith of my forefathers, and it was mine. Within those walls I have often listened to the solemnization of the mass, but now how different! listen!” He ceased. The moon was overcast by a passing cloud, the great bell tolled, a screech-owl flew from the tower, lights were seen in the building, and through one of the windows Mr. —— beheld distinctly the bearings of the various hatchments, and a lambent flame playing over the monument of the Lamberts—music swelled through the aisles, and unseen beings with voices wilder than the unmeasured notes
Of that strange lyre, whose strings
The genii of the breezes sweep,
chanted not a Gratias agimus, but a De Profundis. All was again still, and the stranger spoke, “What you have heard is my grace. Is not a De Profundis the most proper one to be chanted at the banquet of the dead?”
Mr. ——, who was rather an epicure, now glanced his eye over the board, and finding that that necessary appendage to a good supper, salt, was wanting, said, in an astonished tone, “Why, where’s the salt?” when immediately the stranger and his feast vanished, and of all that splendid banquet nothing remained, save the mossy stone whereon it was spread.