The story was connected with a dingy wizzen-faced portrait in an oval frame, generally known by the name of "Uncle Stephen," though from the style of his cut-velvet, it was evident that some generations must have passed away since any living being could have stood towards him in that degree of consanguinity.

43

THE NURSE'S STORY.

THE HAND OF GLORY.

"Malefica quædam auguriatrix in Angliâ fuit, quam demones horribiliter extraxerunt, et imponentes super equum terribilem, per aera rapuerunt. Clamoresque terribiles (ut ferunt) per quatuor fermè miliaria audiebantur.” Nuremb. Chron.

On the lone bleak moor,

At the midnight hour,
Beneath the Gallows Tree,

Hand in hand

The Murderers stand

By one, by two, by three!
And the Moon that night
With a grey, cold light
Each baleful object tips;
One half of her form

Is seen through the storm,

The other half's hid in Eclipse!

And the cold Wind howls,

And the Thunder growls,

And the Lightning is broad and bright;

And altogether

It's very bad weather,

And an unpleasant sort of a Night.

"Now mount who list,

And close by the wrist

Sever me quickly the Dead Man's fist!—

Now climb who dare

Where he swings in air,

And pluck me five locks of the Dead Man's hair!"

There's an Old Woman dwells upon Tappington Moor,
She hath years on her back at the least fourscore,
And some people fancy a great many more;
Her nose it is hook'd,
Her back it is crook'd,
Her eyes blear and red:
On the top of her head
Is a mutch, and on that

A shocking bad hat,

Extinguisher-shaped, the brim narrow and flat :
Then, My Gracious! her beard!-it would sadly perplex
A spectator at first to distinguish her sex;
Nor, I'll venture to say, without scrutiny cou'd he
Pronounce her, off-handed, a Punch or a Judy.
Did you see her, in short, that mud-hovel within,
With her knees to her nose, and her nose to her chin,
Leering up with that queer, indescribable grin,
You'd lift up your hands in amazement, and cry,
"-Well! I never did see such a regular Guy!"

And now before

That Old Woman's door,

Where nought that's good may be,

Hand in hand

The Murderers stand,

By one, by two, by three !

Oh! 'tis a horrible sight to view,

In that horrible hovel, that horrible crew,

By the pale blue glare of that flickering flame,
Doing the deed that hath never a name!
'Tis awful to hear

Those words of fear!

The pray'r mutter'd backwards, and said with a sneer!

(Matthew Hopkins himself has assured us that when A Witch says her pray'rs, she begins with Amen.)— 'Tis awful to see

On that Old Woman's knee

The dead, shrivell'd hand, as she clasps it with glee !—

And now, with care,

The five locks of hair

From the skull of the Gentleman dangling up there, With the grease and the fat

Of a black Tom Cat

She hastens to mix,

And to twist into wicks,

And one on the thumb, and each finger to fix.-(For another receipt the same charm to prepare, Consult Mr. Ainsworth and Petit Albert.)

"Now open lock

To the Dead Man's knock !
Fly bolt, and bar, and band!

Nor move, nor swerve

Joint, muscle, or nerve,

At the spell of the Dead Man's hand!

Sleep all who sleep !-Wake all who wake!—

But be as the Dead for the Dead Man's sake!!"

All is silent! all is still

Save the ceaseless moan of the bubbling rill
As it wells from the bosom of Tappington Hill;
And in Tappington Hall

Great and Small,

Gentle and Simple, Squire and Groom,
Each one hath sought his separate room,

And Sleep her dun mantle hath o'er them cast,
For the midnight hour hath long been past!

All is darksome in earth and sky,

Save, from yon casement narrow and high,
A quivering beam

On the tiny stream

Plays, like some taper's fitful gleam
By one that is watching wearily.

Within that casement narrow and high,
In his secret lair, where none may spy,
Sits one whose brow is wrinkled with care,
And the thin grey locks of his failing hair
Have left his little bald pate all bare;
For his full-bottom'd wig

Hangs, bushy and big,

On the top of his old-fashioned, high-backed chair. Unbraced are his clothes,

Ungarter'd his hose,

His gown is bedizened with tulip and rose,

Flowers of remarkable size and hue,

Flowers such as Eden never knew;

And there, by many a sparkling heap
Of the good red gold,

The tale is told

What powerful spell avails to keep

That care-worn man from his needful sleep.