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YOL. II
The Midnight Mass.
BY T. D. iI’GEE.
I.
Whore the mountains, gray and weary,;
Watch above the valley pass,
Come the frieze-clad upland people, •
To the midnight Mass ;
Where the red stream rushes hoarsely
Through the bridge o’ergrown with
grass,
Come the whispering troops of neighbors,
To the Midnight Mass !
11.
No moon walks heaven’s high hall as mis
tress,
No stars pierce the drifting rack,
Only wind-gusts cry back, whining,
Like dogs on a dubious track,
Hark ! there comes a startling echo,
Upward through the central arch !
’Tis the swollen flood that carries
Captive off, a raft of larch.
111.
Shines a light; it is the Chapel—
Softly, ’tis the hour of God;
Poor and small, yet* far more lowly
Was the infant Christ’s abode;
Rude and stony is the pavement,
Plain and bare the altar-stone ;
Ruder was the crib of Rethlehem
Over which the East Star shone.
IV.
Con jit cor ! God of ages,
Mercy’s everlasting source !
I have sinned, oh ! do Thou give me
Strength to stem my passion’s force I
Me a culpa ! mea culpa !
Saviour of the world and me,
By thy passion, oh ! have mercy,
* Thorn-crown’d of Calvary !
V.
Gloria in excel sis Deo !
Shout the paean to the sky !
Eyes of faith, in yon poor stable,
See disguised Divinity.
Gloria in e:ccelsis Deo !
Christ, the hope of man, is born 1
Shout the anthem 1 join the angels !
’Tis our Saviour’s natal morn.
YI.
Praise to God, the Eternal Father,
Who of clay created man !
Prake to Christ, who trod the wine
press
Till the atonement overran !
Praise to Him, the Holy Spirit,
Who inform’d our souls with grace !
Alleluia ! ’tis the morning
Os redemption for our race !
[From Dickon’s All the Year Bound.]
ACiHOST STORY.
f CONCLUDED.]
The Inspector soon made his appear
ance, causing himself to be announced
as the builder from Barton, come to see
about certain repairs; in this character he
was able to go over every portion of the
house after holding a conversation with
the Colonel and the ladies. Before -he
left, it was settled that two Constables
should he sent to pass the night at the
Lodge unknown to the servants. They
were to be led in by Miss Fearon, at a
door opening’ from the terrace to one of
the sitting-rooms, after the house had
been closed for the night. Tiiis was
easily effected; and the men, with dark
lanterns, were stationed,one at the foot of
the stairs, the other on the landing half
way up. They hau been here in perfect
silence and darkness nearly an hour, when
the sound of a heavy door grating on
rusty hinges made the one on the land
ing o-rasp his truncheon and hold his
lantern in readiness. Footsteps came
softly down, and something seemed to
brush by. He struck at it as it passed,
and at the same time turned on his light,
calling, “Look out below, mate !” Noth
ing was visible. There was a low moan
ing cry as he struck, but he felt no re
sistance. The man at the foot of the
stairs heard the sound, quickly turned
his lantern on in that direction, and
rushed down the passage as if in pursuit,
followed by the other at full speed. The
noise roused some of the household, who,
when they had summoned courage to ap
pear, were confounded at finding them
selves met by guardians instead of dis
turbers of the peace.
The two policemen were utterly puz
zled. Both had distinctly heard the great
door open, and the descending footsteps,
as well as the low cry, like the cry of
someone in fear of pain. Each had felt
something flit by, but both described it
a* more like a cold blast of wind than any
boiily thing. They had both run to try
and prevent its escape, but, on reaching
the end of the passage, where it was
crested by another in the form of aT,
noth’ng was to be seen. They were
q-uite certain that no door had been
opened on either side, and this part of
the home terminated in the cross passage,
the only access to the principal sitting
rooms and vestibule being through a
passage-room, or the kitchen, which was
built out. Loth these doors of communi
cation were always locked at night, and
were now fist. The rooms were ex
amined, bu’ no traces of any invader
were perceptible in either. While this
was going 01 below', Eleanor, who had
sat up in her father’s room, had, at the
fiist sound of any movement, gone at
once to the bedrooms occupied by the
maids, every one oi whom, including the
suspected Sarah, she found quietly
asleep.
After this signal failure on the part of
the police, the ghost became an e.-tab
tished fact, and the place became inin
habitable. Servant after servant ;ave
warning; Mrs Wilkins became hvieri
cal; the cook took to drinking—‘her
spirits was that low',” she said in excise:
and, except the stoical Sarah, who “over
knowed the ghost do no harm as log as
let alone,” everybody was more or less
unnerved.
A few weeks after these occurrence the
Colonel’s medical attendant having adised
his trying some new galvanic treatment,
the family had to move up to tow.—
Effie and Lucy were glad enough t go,
both, sharing to a certain degree, i the
alarm felt by the servants, though jach
in'her different way. Effie inclird to
the supernatural view, while Lucvlield
fast to her burglarious theory, for she
said, “How could a ghost, an immserial
beinsr, break her thread and string 5
C 7
It was now late in the Sprint aud
most of the neighboring families Id left
the country; so the Fearons hi not
many adieux to make, except anug the
#ew poor people with whom the held
relations, Manorbere being removJ from
any closely inhabited part of the cpntry.
There was an old bed-ridden wnan to
whom the girls had shown kindns. and
they went over one morning to ay her
their farewell visit. The farry had
been much liked, and their suiLn de
parture was a regret to ad. “Aldeur!
said the old dame, “I heerd as )w you
was a goin’ to flit! Well, it ill be a
loss to me, though I did not see u olten,
bein’ at a distance. But it w some
thing to think of, that I miglhave a
look of your bright faces when )u stop
ped in your rides to say a kimfiord, or
bring me a little dainty nows ai thens.
I’m main sorry to lose ye, you; ladies,
but I ain’t no ways surprised. )ne docs
stay long at Manorbere. The gst drives
’em out, all on eiru”
“You don’t seem to believe is when
we say its on account of papa’s alth that
we are going away. But yoUtnow he
came to these parts express' for the
hunting; aud as, siuce his adent, he
I has never been able to go oi there is
nothing to keep us here.”
AUGUSTA, GA., FEBRUARY 19, 1870.
I “Ah ! yes. No doubt Acre’s reasons.
There’s always reasons.- But still it
comes to this; none does stay in that
house; and it’s my belief the ghost drives
’em away, say what they will.”
“But what is the ghost ? What does
it do ? What brings it there ? Do tell
us,” said Effie.
“Well, ladies, I can only tell you what
I’ve lieerd. You see, the Clendons—the
family as Manorbere belonged to—was
always a baddish lot. They were all
wild, from father to son, and they drank,
and they gambled, and they was in bad
ways from year’s end to year’s end, and
run through most of their money. And
then they would go abroad out of the way,
and the place was shut up, and let go to
rack and ruin. The old house was pulled
down because they thought it was not
worth repairing. (It had got into the
creditors hand by that.) Ah, it was a
fine place was the Lodge when I remem
ber it, afore the trees was cut down, and
the park ploughed up, and sold off bit by
bit.”
“How long ago was that ?”
“A matter of fifty years—or nighcr
sixty, maybe. When the last Clendons
came back here to Wide, there warn’t
above half left. But the great house
was there still; only part was shut, be
cause it warn’t sound and safe. They
was a gladsome set, them Clendons, but
the gentry about did not take to them
much, and I don’t think they cared
whether they did or no. They had their
friends from Loudon staying down here,
months tog. uier, I French folk and the
goiu’son at the Lodge was the talk of
the country.
“There was gaming, and dancing, and
play-acting, it was said, goin’ on every
night; and there was some new dances
they had learned in France, and they was
thought indecent here in England. . I
must say they w'ere pleasant to look at,
all those people—pretty, and gay, and
merry. I would go out to my gate to
see ’em come by such a many together,
all talking aud laughing, riding and driv
ing, and pic-niok ig about. They didu’t
care what they spent, you see, the Clen
dons didn’t, for they didu’t pay anybody,
and they knew F couldn’t last; so it was
a short life and a merry one for them.
They lived mostly in the new wing, what
is the house now. It was called new,
though I heerd say more nor a hundred
years old; and they threw two rooms into
one to make the drawing-room where the
had their dances and romps. Well, the
nearest neighbors then was the Perigals,
of Dour Grange. Very strict folk "they
was, to be sure. Never no junketings
nor gay doins’ was heerd of in that house;
nor lauging, nor singing, except it was
hymns; but always grave faces and
solemn voices. And as to plays, or danc
ing, or cards, or, for the matter of that,
games of any sort; they thought them
things was so mmy traps laid by the
Devil to catch
preaching and pra ing that went on there;
so you may supp •?, ladies, what the
Clendons and their doins’ was to them.
Mr. Perigal said “they st. nk in his nos
trils,” and he always loc ed as if they
did; and the more the M orbere people
racketed, the more* T igals kept to
their strict ways. .ack would have
it, just afore this dr. Perigal’s sis
ter-in-law died, a :*r daughter bein’
left a orphan, cotr five with her uncle
and aunt at the Grange. Poor child ! I
did pity her. She was a bit flighty in
her ways, but she had always beerl used
to a cheerful home and young folks for
companions, and the Grange was no bet
ter than a prison to her. To make a long
story short, she scon got knowledge oi
the Clendon ladies. It was quite inno
cently at first. She met them driving
out, in a lane where they had got into
some strait wit!, the ponies, or lost their
way, I think. Sh > tried to direct them,
but they didn’t understand quite, so they
begged her to get iuto the pony-chaise
and go along o’ tnem, and show them;
and she did. She was a pretty creature,
and talking—and so were* they, to do
them justice; and when she got down
and left them, they said they hoped to see
her again.
“Her uncle and aunt were in a sad way
when they heard what had chanced. She
didn’t make no concealment about it at
first, and I do think she was druv to it
after, along o’ their* bein’ so very strict
and hard upon her at home. She was
never trusted out alone after that. She
was not.strong in her. health, and she
had a pony to ride, which was almost
her only pleasure; but she never went
out without the old man servant behind,
to see that she come to no harm, unless
Mr. Perigal was with her himself. One
day who should she fall in with but a
picnic party from Manorbere, and the
ladies she had met the day they had lost
themselves, come up so free and pleasant,
and asked her to join their lunch. She
come round old Richard with her pretty
coaxing ways to keep it secret from her
guardians; and so little and little she go
to make meetings with her new friends.
Bad friends they were to her, but I don’t
think they meant her any karm. They
liked her, and thought to amuse her; only
they led her into deceit and false ways.
One of the young gentlemen was taken
with her pretty face, and got a sweet
hearting of her; and one day when they
were dancing on the grass, he wanted
her to be his partner in one of their new
fangled dances. Os course, she knowed
nothin’ of it, though she was used to danc
ing in her own home, and could foot" it
in u country dance with the best of’em.
Bless her, she was as lissom as a fairy !
So, then, they said they must teach her,
and she took to it like nature, and said
there never was anything so delightful.
Then they told her they practiced it every
night at the Lodge, and she must come
there and make one of them. For a little
time they stood out that she musn’t, and
she durstn’t, and what would come of it if
uncle and aunt found out? ‘Well, and
if they did, they can’t send you to Bogey,’
said (Rendon, who never feared God nor
d<*vil. And they all laughed at her, and
persuaded of her, so at last it was settled
how it should be. After she was gone
to her room at night—there was prayer
at the Grange at half past nine, and when
they were over the house was shut up,
and all the lights was put out, and every
body went to bed—she was to slip out
by her window, and her young man was
to meet her, and take her to Manorbere,
and in by the old part of the house, and
through the door at the top of the stair
case (what’s barred up this many a year
now), and so down to the dancing-room ;
and when their jinks was over, some on
’em took her home again, all on the sly.
“I don’t know how long this went on,
but not many times, I should think, or
she’d likely got caught. It would have
been best for her if she had, poor thing !
But one night as she was whirling round
and round with her lover, and his arm
around her, he felt her lean heavy all of
a sudden, and then slide away to the
ground. They all stopped in a fright
and lifted her up, and carried her to the
sofa, but no burnt feathers nor vinegar,
nor anything else, try what they might,
would bring her to. They rode off like
mad for a doctor, and he came galloping
back with ’em; but lie could do nothing.
She was dead!”
“Good heavens! how shocking! cried
Effie.
“Ah! you may say so, miss; cut off’
like that in the midst of her sins !”
“There’s no sin in dancing,” said
Lucy.
“But there is in disobedience, miss,
aud deceit! The doctor, he said, it was
disease of the heart; but Mr. Perigal, he
never would be persuaded but what it
was a judgment on her for seeking after
carnal pleasures, and he cursed the Clen
dons and all their lot, as the devil’s imps
misleading the unwar} 7 . They was more
strict and serious than ever, after that, at
the Grange, and the house was like a
tomb for gloominess; for they both loved
their neice after their fashion, and they
looked on her as a lost soul. Though for
my part, I can’t help thinking the Al
mighty might, mayhap, have mercy on a
poor misguided child.”
“You are a better Christian than they
were,” said Lucy.
“But what was the end of the Clen
dons ?” asked Effie,
“Well! Even they seerued sobered
like by that shocking night’s work. The
paity broke up soon after, and all went
away for good. The family never came
back, and Ive heerd as how the last on
em died in forrin parts. The creditors
come aud took possession, and the prop
ertv was cut up and sold off. Sevesal
different families has had the house, but
none for long. They do say, that of a
night, when aii is quiet, that old door is
heerd to open softly, creak, creak, and
then footsteps go stealing down stairs;
and then, by and by they come creeping
up again, and the door creaks again, and
sounds as if it was to shut to. But noth
ing is ever seen.”
Efiio listened to the recital with a sort
ol fascinated terror, and repeated it with
all its eerie particulars to her father and
Eleanor when they got home.
“And you believe it really is a ghost
going to a ball, do you, my credulous lit
tle Effie ?” said the Colonel, pulling
ear playfully.
“But the noises, papa ! We all heard
them V } i
“1 have no doubt you did, and that the
noises exist, though we have not been able
to account bn* them. But don’t you sec,
my dear girls, that it was the noises
that were the cause of the ghost; not
the ghost that was the cause of the
noises ?”
When wc got home, of course, I told
all this to Captain Macuamara, who, like
all sailors, loved a ghost story. But
neither of us wa3 troubled with nervous
terrors. On inquiry, we found that the
sad story of the little truant girl was sub
stantially true; and then the matter
passed from our minds.
It was now April, very fine weather,
and warm for the time of year. Tempted
by the beauty of one fragrant evening,we
had lingered on the terrace, on returning
from a stroll iu the garden after our usual
late dinner, till I was quite tired. So.
leaving Dick to finish his last cigar, I
stepped iuto the drawing-room by the
window and sat down to the piano forte.
It was quite dusk indoors, but I did not
care to ring for lights till he came in, so
I continued playing little bits of soft
music by heart, till at last I fell upon one
of an old set of Beethoven’s waltzes, which
had not come into my head for a long
time. \\ hile I was playing, I heard
the door, to which my back was turned,
open gently; but no one came in. I
thought it was my husband, and that he
was stopping to listen, as the waltz was
an old favorite of his.
“Is that you, Dick?” said I. “Will
you order tea ?”
No answer. I turned round, aid
there, looking in at the half opened door,
as it the person were standing behind
it, I saw a face so strange, so wan and
wistful-looking, that I uttered an involun
tary cry. In a moment Dick sprang in
at the window, and I pointed to the door.
“Who is it ?” said 1, faintly. He went
to the door. “There is no one here.”' It
opened into an ante-room, which he
crossed, and looked out into the cor
ridor.
“What was it, dear?” said he, com
ing back. “You look scared.” I told
him what it was.
The house maid coming to see wheth
er the room was put to lights, I sup
pose.”
‘1 suppose it must have been But,
G Dick, you can’t think how weird, and
ghastly, and odd the face looked !”
“Wny, so does yours at this moment,
love; and most faces do look pale and
]NTo. 49.