"What misfortune, sir?"

"The misfortune which made a Cyclops of me--the loss of my left eye."

"Never, sir. Pray how was it?"

"Put out by the cinder of a locomotive," growled the one-eyed gentleman, seizing the poker and stirring up the fire viciously. "Bad things these railroads, sir," he added, when he had demolished a huge fragment of sea coal. "Only last week--little boy playing on bank in his father's garden--little dog ran on the track--boy went down to call him off--express train came along--forty-five miles an hour and no stoppages--ran over boy and dog--agonized parents sought for the remains--nothing found except one shoe, the buckle of his hatband, and bra.s.s collar of the dog."

"Extraordinary!"

"No, sir; not extraordinary," said the one-eyed gentleman. "I maintain it's a common occurrence. Sir, I keep a railroad journal at home, as large as a family Bible. It is filled with brief accounts--_brief_, mind you--of railroad accidents. Next year I shall have to buy another book."

"Then you are a decided enemy of railroads?"

"Decided!" said the one-eyed gentleman. "Their prevalence and extent is a proof that the age is lapsing into barbarism. Ah! you remember the stage coaches?"

"Certainly."

"Well, sir," said the one-eyed gentleman, warmly, "travelling was travelling in those days; sir, it was a pleasure. The coaches were fast enough for any reasonable man; ten miles an hour, including stoppages.

Ah!" he added, smacking his lips, "what a fine thing it was to start on a journey of a glorious October morning, when every thing looked bright and smiling! You mounted to the box or the roof, well wrapped up in your greatcoat and shawl, with your trunk safely strapped upon the rack behind. The driver was a man of substance--solid, of a gravity tempered with humor, a giant in a brown box-coat, with gray hat and mittens. How he handled the ribbons and took his cattle through Elm Street! How the long bridges rumbled and thundered as we bowled along away, away into the country! The country! it _was_ the country then; inhabited by country people, not peopled with a mixed society of farmers and cits, six o' one and half a dozen of t'other. How nicely we glided along!

There were birds, in those days, singing by the roadside; now the confounded locomotives have scared them all off. By and by we came to a tavern. Out rushed a troop of hostlers and keepers skilled in horse flesh. The cattle were just allowed to wet their lips, water was dashed on their legs and feet, and then, after the parcels and papers had been tossed off, away we went again. Five miles farther on, we pulled up to change. The fresh team was led out, bright, shining, and glittering, in tip-top condition. The driver descended to stretch his legs and personally superintend the putting to of the fresh horses. When he mounted the box again, his experienced eye glanced rapidly at the team, and then, with an 'all right--let 'em go!' we were on the road once more."

The one-eyed gentleman paused, after this flow of eloquence, and gazed pensively into the midst of the glowing coals. After a few moments'

silence, he resumed:--

"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 pa.s.sengers 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 s.e.xTON 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 st.u.r.dy 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."

It was a delightful spring, that of 17--, and a softer sky never before smiled upon the village-green of Redwood, upon the 1st of May; and among the merry damsels dancing round the May-pole, no heart was happier, and no step was lighter, than that of Margaret Ellis, who, for the first time, joined in the sports of the day. She was a child of May, and this was the sixteenth anniversary of her birthday. A gay brunette, her sparkling eyes had all the fire and the mirth of the sunny and pa.s.sionate south, while no lighter or more delicate foot than hers could have been found upon the merry green. A rich bloom mantled on her cheek, her lips were fresh and red, and her regular teeth, displayed as she panted in the dance, were white as unsullied snow. A tight little bodice, and a milk-white frock, set off the charms of her person in the best manner. Then there was an air of gayety and innocence about her which delighted every good-natured observer; and all the villagers allowed that Margaret Ellis deserved the tiara of flowers that crowned her Queen of the May. She blushed at the tokens of good will and approbation, as she placed her hand in that of a young and rustic stranger, who led her off triumphantly at the head of the dancers. The youth was fair-haired, ruddy, athletic, and active; and those who saw them in the dance could not help acknowledging that they were a lovely pair.

There was one who regarded them with eyes of jealous displeasure. This was a man of forty, of a handsome face and figure, but swarthy, dark-haired, and melancholy. He bent over the seat upon which old Farmer Ellis and his dame were seated, and whispered, "Do you know the young man who is dancing with your daughter?"

"Ah! he be a right good young mon, I warrant me," said the dame. "He do come fra the next county. William Evans, he calls himself."

"He calls himself!--umph!" muttered the person who had first spoken.

"But what do others call him? Who knows any thing about him? Who can vouch for his character? I would not suffer a daughter of mine to be gadding about, and dancing with a stranger."

"Whoy, for the matter o' that," said Farmer Ellis, "you were nought but a stranger yourself, when you first did come to see us, Maister Pembroke. We didn't know you were the s.e.xton of St. Hubert's. And yet you turned out a right good friend to me, mon; for when ye first knew me, things were deadly cross wi' me. What wi' the rot among my sheep, and the murrain among my cattle, I were all but ruined. Short crops and a hard landlord are bitter bad things. But you were the salvation of me, and I'll work my fingers to the bone, but what you shall have your own again, John Pembroke."

"There is one way in which you can liquidate your debt."

"Name it, Maister Pembroke," said the farmer, eagerly.

"No matter," muttered the s.e.xton, and a hollow sigh escaped his lips.

"I had an idea, but it is gone. Touching the stranger, in whom you both repose such confidence. In what manner does he earn his daily bread?"

"Whoy," said the farmer, "in the way that Adam did, mon. He do say he is a gardener."

"A likely tale!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the s.e.xton. "Look at his hands. Why, his fingers are delicate and white. Your gardener has h.o.r.n.y fingers, and a palm of iron."

"Dang it! so they be!" cried Ellis. "Well, I never noticed that afore.

Whoy, dame, he may be an impostor And though he be so cruel koind, and deadly fond of the girl, now, he may forsake--may----"

"Look at, them, now," said the s.e.xton of St. Hubert's. "See how he grasps her hand; and how, as he whispers his soft, insinuating flattery in her ear, she blushes and smiles upon him. d.a.m.nation!"

"Whoy, John!" exclaimed Dame Ellis; "what would the rector say to hear thee? Thou art surely distraught."

And now, as Margaret, flushed and panting with exercise, was suffering her partner to lead her towards her seat, her father beckoned her to approach.

"Come hither, girl," said he. The smiling maiden obeyed. "Margaret,"

said the old man, "thou knowest I love thee. I ha' always been cruel koind to thee, and so has thy mother, girl. If any harm was to happen to thee, I should take it desperately to heart. I should, indeed. It would kill thy father, Margaret. Now, William Evans may be a good young man, and he may not; but we must beware of strangers. Wait till we have tried him a bit. Many a handsome nag turns out a vicious one.

So it be my pleasure, and the dame's, that thou dost not dance any more to-day wi' William Evans; and even if he speaks to thee, be a little offish loike to him."

The poor girl sighed. "I hope, sir," said she, glancing at the s.e.xton, "that no person possessed of an unhappy and suspicious temper has been prejudicing you against poor William. I hope Mr. Pembroke----"

"Hush, girl--hush!" cried Ellis. "Doant thee say a word against that man. But for him we mought all ha' been beggars. Do as I bid thee, girl, and doan't thee ask no questions; for you know I've got no head to argury."

Margaret slowly sank into a seat. The s.e.xton leaned over her, and addressed to her some commonplace remarks, to all of which she returned answer in monosyllables. When the music recommenced a lively air, William advanced, and solicited her hand for the next dance. Poor Margaret bent her eyes upon the ground, and falteringly refused.

Thinking he could not have heard her rightly, Evans again asked the question, and received, a second time, the same answer. For a moment his countenance expressed astonishment; the next there was a look of grief, and then his lip curled, and drawing himself up proudly, he stalked away. He was followed by the s.e.xton of St. Hubert's, who overtook him, and laid his hand upon his shoulder. William turned fiercely, and endeavored to shake off the grasp.

"Young man," said the s.e.xton, "you are discovered!"

"Discovered!" exclaimed William. "What do you mean?"

"You understand me," said the s.e.xton; "your manners, your language, your figure, contradict the story you have fabricated. Margaret shall never be your victim. With her your boasted arts are valueless!"

"If you were a gentleman----" said William.

"Ha, ha!" laughed the s.e.xton of St. Hubert's. "Is this the resentment of a rustic? Go, young man; you have exposed yourself."