The Ingoldsby Legends; or, Mirth and MarvelsIngoldsby, Thomas
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The Ingoldsby Legends; or, Mirth and Marvels
Ingoldsby, Thomas
English fiction -- 19th century; English poetry -- 19th century; English wit and humor; Humorous poetry, English
"Hush! I say; your finger on your lip, there be hawks abroad: follow
me, and that silently and quickly." The little man turned as he spoke,
and led the way through a scarcely perceptible path or track, which
wound among the underwood. The lapse of a few minutes brought them
to the door of a low building, so hidden by the surrounding trees
that few would have suspected its existence. It was a cottage of
rather extraordinary dimensions, but consisting of only one floor. No
smoke rose from its solitary chimney; no cheering ray streamed from
its single window, which was, however, secured by a shutter of such
thickness as to preclude the possibility of any stray beam issuing
from within. The exact size of the building it was, in that uncertain
light, difficult to distinguish, a portion of it seeming buried in
the wood behind. The door gave way on the application of a key, and
Marsh followed his conductor resolutely but cautiously along a narrow
passage, feebly lighted by a small taper that winked and twinkled at
its farther extremity. The Doctor, as he approached, raised it from the
ground, and, opening an adjoining door, ushered his guest into the room
beyond.
It was a large and oddly furnished apartment, insufficiently lighted
by an iron lamp that hung from the roof, and scarcely illuminated the
walls and angles, which seemed to be composed of some dark-coloured
wood. On one side, however, Master Marsh could discover an article
bearing strong resemblance to a coffin; on the other was a large oval
mirror in an ebony frame, and in the midst of the floor was described
in red chalk a double circle about six feet in diameter, its inner
verge inscribed with sundry hieroglyphics, agreeably relieved at
intervals with an alternation of skulls and cross bones. In the very
centre was deposited one skull of such surpassing size and thickness as
would have filled the soul of a Spurzheim or De Ville with wonderment.
A large book, a naked sword, an hour glass, a chafing dish, and a
black cat, completed the list of moveables; with the exception of a
couple of tapers which stood on each side of the mirror, and which the
strange gentleman now proceeded to light from the one in his hand. As
they flared up with what Marsh thought a most unnatural brilliancy,
he perceived reflected in the glass behind a dial suspended over the
coffin-like article already mentioned: the hand was fast verging
towards the hour of nine. The eyes of the little Doctor seemed riveted
on the horologe.
"Now strip thee, Master Marsh, and that quickly: untruss, I say!
discard thy boots, doff doublet and hose, and place thyself incontinent
in yonder bath."
The visitor cast his eyes again upon the formidable-looking article,
and perceived that it was nearly filled with water. A cold bath, at
such an hour and under such auspices, was anything but inviting: he
hesitated, and turned his eyes alternately on the Doctor and the Black
Cat.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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