WE had no longer any reason to doubt that the stranger who had joined our company in the barroom of the "Red Tavern " that night, and who had just commenced a ghost story, was himself a ghost.

      It was the traveler who many years ago was found murdered not far from the tavern, and who was buried down in the Beech Wood. People speak of it as the "Beech Wood murder."

      The place where they made his grave is near the roadside, midway in the woods — a dark, still place, entangled around with bushes and brambles. There can be no doubt of the fact that the wood is haunted. Men are now living who, having to pass along the road at night, have heard groans sounding from among the bushes, and have seen a blue light shining above the grave.

      Deacon Morris, one Sunday morning when on his way to church, stopped and cut a twig from a small tree which grew there, and whose roots were supposed to bind around the traveler's coffin. Now, when he had cut off the branch, blood oozed out and trickled down the tree. When he reached the church (a short distance), the stick bled afresh. Every leaf, too, gave a faint sigh, rising and falling like the breast of a sobbing child. There never has been any doubt that the Beech Wood was haunted.

      Some six years previous to the night on which the story was told, the traveler's ghost made its appearance. One dark, restless night, when a club of young men were making merry, myself among the rest, he stood suddenly and silently in the barroom. His eyes were fixed on the landlord for more than three whole minutes; and then, extending his long arm from the shroud that hung about him, he slowly raised his finger until it pointed directly at the landlord, and with one deep groan he vanished. The landlord looked like a corpse; he said he was not well, and left the room. Sometimes a person about to drink at the bar has discovered a face like that of a dead man at the bottom of the glass. At another time, each decanter which the landlord would attempt to take down from the shelf with his right hand, would seem instantly filled with blood. There is an ax-helve kept in the barroom, and it is said by truthful witnesses that as often as the 22d of June comes around, precisely at seven minutes of eleven on the night of that day, the head of the ax-helve seems to drip blood.

      There are a great many strange sights and sounds in and around the Red Tavern. Some folks think that the traveler was murdered in the barroom and then carried down into the wood. No one seems to know anything of the matter, further than the fact that his body was found not far from the tavern, near where it was buried, dreadfully mangled. It is said that as the people were standing around the corpse, the landlord came up to look, and that just as he bent over the body, the warm blood gushed out afresh from every wound. Some say that it is a sign against the tavern-keeper, but I make no charges against any man.

      I tell you, continued the ghost, that old church in the village where I was born has a history quite surpassing that of any other in the world. The edifice has stood a century and a half; I don't know but more. A thunder-bolt once struck the building, and spent its fury harmlessly; for the whole pile, from the foundation up to the topmost stone that crowns the tower, had been separately blessed and fully consecrated. The lightning only removed some of the moss that grew upon the top of the tower, making the church to remind one of some old patriarch with a bald head. A blessed place was our little village because that hospital of souls was there. Its influence was good, and that continually. Few can tell the power exerted by one true church. Like some venerable old man, whose words are wisdom, whose counsel is safe to follow, and whose very presence among men as he walks in silence moves those around him to good thoughts and good deeds, so stands the church. It is a place to learn wisdom and forget sorrow. And when men are driving furiously after the things that perish, and forget higher interests and a better world, the silent church, with its tower ever pointing up to heaven, and its congregation of dead slumbering by its side, preaches a sermon audible to the soul.

THE SILENT CHURCH, WITH ITS TOWER EVER POINTING UP TO HEAVEN, AND ITS CONGREGATION OF DEAD SLUMBERING BY ITS SIDE.

      Well, many years ago an assembly of Christians worshiped in our church, and all were very old. The officers were white with age. The pastor had reached his eighty-ninth year — a venerable father in Israel. The ground where he rests is watched always by guardian angels. We have not many like him in our congregation.

      Years passed, and each in its flight could boast of having seen one or more of those good men gathered to his fathers. At length the great reaper bore away the shock of corn that stood ripest in heaven's harvest-field. The good old preacher rested from his labors. The sexton soon followed, and was buried near the gate. He had long served faithfully, safely passing one after another of his aged brethren into the house of death; and with the burial of the pastor his work was accomplished, and he laid himself down to sleep at the door. And now the old church was silent. The last words of admonition had been given; the last song of praise had gone up to heaven; and the last prayer had found acceptance at the mercy-seat. Silent, all silent. At the head of the graveyard was buried the pastor, as if he still watched his flock. Directly in front was the chorister; and in a semicircle around him were the officers. The remaining portion of the ground was occupied by graves corresponding with the form observed in the arrangement of the pews in the church. The graveyard was adorned with a quiet beauty. Willows were bending around the place, and flowers blossomed on every grave. A clear stream from an unfailing spring ran near the graves, gently murmuring; and pinks and violets blossomed in rich profusion along the path that led from gate to gate. There was a holy worship there. Choirs of birds sang praise, and every bud and blossom altar daily sent up its morning incense. It was the prayer of the flowers, breathed silently to heaven, and the answer came in the sunlight and the dew.

      Well, there slept that congregation, year after year; and the tombstones began to lean forward like old men, and the inscriptions grew dim, as eyesight fails. The bier that stood near the gate had silently rotted down upon the ground, and rank grass had entwined a shroud for its covering. The sexton's spade was rusting beside his grave; the graveyard had itself grown old; but still there sparkled the brook, emblem of the eternal stream. The flowers grew old and died in the Fall, repeating the story of those who slept beneath them; and they came forth in new beauty in the Spring, silently speaking, as they lifted their buds and blossoms toward heaven, of a glorious resurrection.

      I noticed these things, for I had a mind fitted to enjoy that graveyard scene. The dead! the dead! exclaimed the ghost; do you not suppose the dead are pleased or troubled like other men? If I were to tear away that fleshly tabernacle of thine, continued he, addressing himself to me, why, you would fly out like an uncaged bird. But I would not; no, it would be unkind to suddenly break down that beautiful temple in which you dwell. Do you know it is strange to be quickly driven out into the spirit world by one rude blow, like a sleeper dashed from his bed by a thunderbolt, amid glare and tempest? Those who go down into the sea are many months, as men measure, before they reach the surface. They linger there, working the coral in its thousand beautiful forms, and painting the shells that adorn the halls of the ocean. Then for months more they haunt the surface of the water. They ride the crested wave in moonlight, as it speeds to the shore, a billow of silver. On the backs of dolphins they dart through the sea; and when the storm draws nigh, they sigh in the rigging of the ship.

      The graveyard was growing old, and so was the church. All within was left as when the last sermon was preached, for the good villagers feared to disturb the quiet of the old building. The bell was rusting in the tower; the pews were decaying, the cushions were rotting. Silently as the fall of Autumn leaves, the glory of the inner temple was departing. The Bible was upon the pulpit desk; that was undisturbed by time. A record for eternity, there was no decay among its precious leaves. It was the soul of the old church; and like the spirit of him who once taught from its sacred pages, it remained unimpaired amid the ruin of the tabernacle. Think of the silence of half a century! Fifty years of dumb time! At morning, midday, evening; Spring, Autumn, Winter; silent, all silent.

      There was a stir once in the graveyard and in the church. Not always silent there. I recollect it was one still moonlight night, about the middle of June, a great many years ago, when the silence of the old church was disturbed, and the graveyard was full of strange life. It was such a night as spirits most like for their visiting; very late, when every stir and sound of noisy life was quieted. The still moon bathed the old church-tower and the graveyard in a flood of dreamy light. Beautiful, very beautiful! A kind of solemn gladness reigned among the tombs. Every tiny grass-blade had clad itself in a moonbeam, and stood adorned with a diamond. The rays were busy in beautifying the graveyard; and each flower slept with its closed leaves sealed with a dewdrop, like a child slumbering with a tear just resting on the fringe of its eyelids. The stream as it rippled along was all of glancing silver. One could plainly read the inscriptions on the tombstones, the night was so bright. How much of the Sabbaths there is among the graves in a still moonlight night! How holy!

      As I have said, it is on such nights that good spirits leave their graves. And each one has his own errand of mercy to perform. They do not loiter around the habitations of men as idle spectators, gratifying mere curiosity. No idleness among spirits! — none anywhere throughout the Creator's realm, save among men. One visits the mourner's couch, and as he whispers in his ear, the tears are dried away, and the mourner smiles in his sleep, and hopes and dreams of heaven. Another flies to the bed of the hungry, thirsty and houseless, and bids him eat of the bread that cometh from above, and tells him of the eternal fountain, and of a building not made with hands.

      Well, that night was to be a time of visiting and of solemn service for the dwellers in the old graveyard. It was about eleven, when the turf on the sexton's grave seemed moving; not fast at first, but slow, as the growth of a thrifty plant. The long grass gently parted on either side, a rich drapery of living green, fringed with violets. Then could be heard the dull rattling of the earth as it moved in every part at once, and fell in a heap beside the empty grave. A moment passed, and a dry skeleton stood erect on the ground, with a white garment loosely hanging about his shoulders, and tied at the neck with a worm. It was no one else than James Owens, the sexton. Slowly and solemnly he walked toward the entrance of the yard; and as he drew near the gate, like that of Jerusalem before the liberated Apostle and his angel guide, it opened of its own accord. From thence he glided noiselessly on, until he reached and entered the church. Then all was still again; and were it not for the open grave, one would have observed nothing calculated to disturb the quiet of the place. Soon there was heard a dull, faint clang, away up in the tower; another and another followed, clear and more clear, and then the old bell tolled out full and strong, as it did when calling the living congregation to worship years before. It was heard for many miles around. It awoke the sleeping villagers, and they drew near the church trembling. That solemn tolling was heard by the dead congregation; and now all was action in the graveyard. Everywhere the grass was parting and the fresh earth upheaving. The graves opened, and the dead arose. First, the old pastor came forth, and walked slowly down the path; the chorister and the officers next, followed by the whole assembly; and in that order they passed out from the yard and entered the church. That was their manner of proceeding when living. The shepherd led his flock, walking before; he did not drive them, walking behind. The preacher went up to his place in the pulpit. The singer sat in front, with the officers before him. There was a dry clattering as the congregation took their seats. The bell ceased tolling, and the sexton stood by the door. Among the graves, beside each, stood an angel, keeping watch until the worshipers should return; for evil spirits often intrude on the graves of the good, desiring their place of rest, that they may be numbered with the forgiven at the resurrection. So those angels who minister to the elect always guard their open graves.

      The church again heard the voice of prayer and praise. It was a strange sight to see that ghastly congregation as they sat in the seats they had occupied more than fifty years before; each one clad in the night-dress of the death-chamber; each one worshiping. But that was a service that gave a better report above than much that bears the holy name among the living. There was no desire for display; no flowing robe there, but the winding-sheet; no pride of form and feature in that skeleton assembly; not an unholy thought nor an impure desire; and when they bowed, it was prayer. The supplication was an acceptable offering, which, like that of righteous Abel, rose peaceful and pure to heaven. Their prayers were for the living; themselves had no need of prayer. It was an earnest service in the church that night. Fifty years before that time, and they were gathered in the same temple, a venerable assembly of worshipers; and when they stood in prayer, moved by one holy impulse, they bowed their heads, facing the pulpit, as the field of ripened grain, white unto the harvest, bends to the gentle breeze; they remembered those days of worship, as they bowed that night. Then the service began. When they sang a hymn, the angel guard among the graves joined the song. Now, your service is not always so solemn nor so sincere as the worship of that night; and it is not so much liked above. I say many a praise-offering that goes up from the living worshiper does not rise above the church, but falls a blasting mildew on the soul.

      Well, after the hymn there came the sermon. The Bible was as when the last sermon was preached. It was open, and the Book was Matthew. The text the pastor chose was not inappropriate for the occasion: "And the graves were opened, and many bodies of saints which slept arose and came out of the graves after His resurrection, and went into the holy city, and appeared unto many."

      "Did he preach a sermon, sir?" asked one of our wondering circle, venturing for the first time to interrupt the strange narrator.

      As the ghost paused and fixed his cold, glassy eyes on the presumptuous questioner, we all shook with fear, while our friend turned deadly pale, and looked anxiously toward the door. (He told me afterward that the fearful glance of that ghost made him to feel numb and deadly ill. He was probably faint.)

      A sermon he exclaimed, after the lapse of many painful seconds. Yes, he preached a sermon; he did not read an essay. In the dignity of his office as an ambassador he stood up before men and spoke plain words of truth. As the energy of the mind shook the feeble frame, his sermon waxed stronger and more earnest; and the congregation received much precious knowledge. So a tree, bending with its golden burden, when shaken by the wind, sheds down the fullness of its fruits in rich profusion upon the ground. Could you have heard that sermon, you would have received much wisdom. He told of all the dead who ever rose; he traced the path of that company spoken of in the text, who sought Jerusalem; their errand and their return. Then he dwelt with much earnestness and strength on the missions of the dead; the duty of those spirit missionaries; their power, their labor and their reward.

      All the while he preached, the villagers stood without, filled with fear and wonder. The sermon was long, and yet it seemed too short. But time had passed rapidly away, and it was wearing very late. The moonlight struggled faintly through the stained windows, and the shadows of the tombstones stretched far along the graveyard. The sermon was ended; the last words of the closing hymn had died away; and in the order of their entering, the congregation moved silently out.

      The conscious gate opened wide to receive them, and the sexton stood in his place until pastor and people had gone into their graves. Then the angels who had kept watch arose with their wings extended, and as they hovered above the graves, they joined in a hymn of holy music. Birds that were dreaming among the willows, swayed by the heavenly melody, half warbled their songs as they slept. When the last grave was wrapped in its green covering, the angel choir raised a higher note of music, and as it rose, they floated up to heaven. All was again quiet among the graves. It was said by some that in the still night one could hear the benediction of the old pastor sounding solemnly in the church; and that the Amen, first heard from near the pulpit, and then repeated fainter and fainter as it swept along the building, finally whispered out from the top of the gray tower. Still in that church and that graveyard — all still!

      Did I not say with truth that the history of our village church was a strange one? I could tell you much more; but not now. I cannot stay here; I have no room. Years ago a landlord hurried me to my chamber, which is alone among the trees. It is a dark, silent place, and its windows will know no light until the resurrection morning.

      The Sixth of all, of all of them, the Sixth, the Sixth Commandment!

      No door opened, nor window, but instantly he was not.

      You may well guess our barroom frolic was not renewed. We felt no heart for mirth. So lately had that mysterious being stood among us, that there seemed to be an awful presence still in our midst. For many minutes we all remained silently looking at the place where he stood; while that unearthly voice still sounded in the barroom, and through every room in the tavern, the Sixth Commandment! We remained at the tavern the rest of the night, for we greatly feared.

      The landlord, having left the bar on the entrance of the ghost, did not return during the hours in which we stayed, but remained in his room the whole time. He was very ill, and his mind strayed sadly. At one time he supposed himself to be pleading his own cause in court, having been arraigned for murder. He said his property was willed to him; that he came innocently by it; and that he murdered no man for his money. He said the traveler was a very poor man, and was in debt to him for board at the Red Tavern.

      Then he appealed to the sympathies of the jurors, addressing himself to those who stood near his bed, and begged them to think of his wife, his children, and his feeble old father. He said that if the law required his death, and if they had a right to decide against him, they had no right to crush the heart of an innocent woman and rob his children of their bread, and break the staff on which a tottering parent leaned for support; that he expected to die, but not yet, for his death would ruin those who were so feeble and innocent. As the bystanders wept to hear the poor man talk so wildly, he took courage at the sight of their tears, and pleaded with renewed earnestness. He ceased speaking, and turning toward me, as he stood on his knees on the bed, he bowed his head very low, and with his hands clasped and his whole frame quivering, he awaited sentence of death. Then all the energies of his body suddenly failed, and he sank down upon the bed, sighing and grieving like a child. As he looked toward the door, that stood ajar, he asked that it might be closed, for he saw a pale finger pointing from there, and feared that some one was coming.

      The bedclothes were winding-sheets, and from every part of the wall wild eyes were staring upon him. When the parting ghost gave that last fearful cry, a shuddering went through all his frame, and drops of cold sweat started out upon his brow. Again he darted up from his bed, and repeated his plea before the jury, begging that, his wife and children and his old father might be saved from disgrace and death by the preservation of his own life. And then he thought he was riding to the place of execution, sitting upon his coffin; and he marked time with the music, striking his clinched fist upon the bedstead. He implored the executioner not to kill him with an ax-helve; and then, shrinking partly down for an instant, with his eyes closed, and his bleeding lips quivering in a half-articulated prayer or curse, he awaited the blow. It was but a moment, and he swooned and sank back upon the pillow.

      We all thought he would die, but he quite recovered after a few weeks of illness. He sold the tavern, and with his family left the village. Some thought of gathering up the evidence that might be found and bringing him to trial. But his mind never was right after that sickness; he was a miserable man, and no one laid any obstacle in the way of his going; but we all pitied him, and let him leave a village which he had troubled so long by his presence. I heard no more of the landlord of the Red Tavern until many years afterward, when, reading an account of a fearful wreck at sea, I found his name in the list of the dead.