 | The works of Washington Irving |  |
ST. MARK'S EVE.
Or if to be, to wander after death!
To walk, as spirits do, in brakes all day,
And, when the darkness comes, to glide in paths
That lead to graves; and in the silent vault,
Where lies your own pale shroud, to hover o'er it,
Striving to enter your forbidden corpse.
Dryden.
The conversation this evening at the
supper-table took a curious turn on the
subject of a superstition, formerly very
prevalent in this part of the country, relative
to the present night of the year, which
is the Eve of St. Mark. It was believed,
the parson informed us, that if any one
would watch in the church porch on this
eve, for three successive years, from
eleven to one o'clock at night, he would
see, on the third year, the shades of
those of the parish who were to die in
the course of the year, pass by him into
church, clad in their usual apparel.
Dismal as such a sight would be, he
assured us that it was formerly a frequent
thing for persons to make the
necessary vigils. He had known more
than one instance in his time. One old
woman, who pretended to have seen this
phantom procession, was an object of
great awe, for the whole year afterwards,
and caused much uneasiness and
mischief. If she shook her head mysteriously
at a person, it was like a death-warrant;
and she had nearly caused the
death of a sick person by looking ruefully
in at the window.
There was also an old man, not many
years since, of a sullen, melancholy temperament,
who had kept two vigils, and
began to excite some talk in the village,
when, fortunately for the public comfort,
he died shortly after his third watching;
very probably from a cold that he had
taken, as the night was tempestuous.
It was reported about the village, however,
that he had seen his own phantom
pass by him into the church.
This led to the mention of another
superstition of an equally strange and
melancholy kind, which, however, is
chiefly confined to Wales. It is respecting
what are called corpse-candles, little
wandering fires of a pale bluish light,
that move about like tapers in the open
air, and are supposed to designate the
way some corpse is to go. One was
seen at Lanylar, late at night, hovering
up and down, along the bank of the
Istwith, and was watched by the neighbours
until they were tired, and went to
bed. Not long afterwards there came a
comely country lass, from Montgomeryshire,
to see her friends, who dwelt on the
opposite side of the river. She thought
to ford the stream at the very place
where the light had been first seen, but
was dissuaded on account of the height
of the flood. She walked to and fro
along the bank, just where the candle
had moved, waiting for the subsiding of
the water. She at length endeavoured
to cross, but the poor girl was drowned
in the attempt.[6]
There was something mournful in this
little anecdote of rural superstition, that
seemed to affect all the listeners. Indeed,
it is curious to remark how completely
a conversation of the kind will absorb
the attention of a circle, and sober down
its gayety, however boisterous. By degrees
I noticed that every one was leaning
forward over the table, with eyes
earnestly fixed upon the parson, and at
the men