LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2237, 3 June 1881, Page 4

LITERATURE.

THE MINISTER'S DREAM. Concluded.) I am telling you this tale, said Mr Morison, resuming his seat after a brief absence to see that the fastenings of the house were properly attended to, exactly as I heard it. I am not adding a word or comment of my own; nor, so far as I know, am I omitting any incident, however trivial. You must draw your own deductions from the facts I put before you I have no explanations to give or theory to propound. Part of that great and terrible region in which he found himself, my friend went on to tell me, he penetrated, compelled by a power bo could not resist, to see the most awful spectacles, the most frightful sufferings. There was no form of vioe that had not there Its representative. As they moved along his companion told him the special sin for which Buch horrible punishment was being inflicted. Shud - dering, and in mortal agony, he was yet unable to withdraw bis eyes from the dreadful spectacle; the atmosphere grew more unendurable, the sights more and more terrible ; the orins, groans, blasphemies, more awful and heartrending. ' I can bear no more,' he gasped at last; 'let me go I' With a mocking laugh the Presenoe beside him answered this appeal; a laugh which was taken up even by the lost and anguished spirits around. ' There is no return,' said the pitiless voice. 'But you promised,'he cried; 'you promised me faithfully.' ' What are promises here ?' and the words were as a sound of doom.

Still he prayed and entreated ; he fell on hia knees, and in his agoDy spoke words that seemed to cause the purposes of the Evil One to falter.

'You shall go,'he said, 'on one condition, that you agree to return to me on Wednesday next, or send a substitute.' ' I could not do that,' said my friend. 'I could not send any fellow creature here. Better stop myself than do that.' ' Then stop,' scid Patau, with the bitterest contempt; and he was turning away, when the poor distracted soul asked for a minute moie ere he made his choice He was iu an awful strait; on the one hand, now could he remain bimsolf ? on the other, how doom another to such fearful torments ? Who could he send ? Who would come ? And there suddenly flashed through his mind the thought of an old man to whom it could not signify much whether he took up hia abode in this place a few daya sooner or a few days later. He was travelling to it as fast as he knew how ; he was the reprobate of the parish; the sinner without hope, for successive ministers had striven in vain to reclaim him from the error of bis way ; a man marked and doomed, Sandy, the Tinker ; Bandy, who was mostly drunk and always godless ; Sandy, who, it was said, believed in nothing, and gloried in his infidelity ; Sandy, whose soul did not really signify much. He would send him Lifting his eyes, he saw those of his tormentor surveying him scornfully. • Well, have you made your choice ?' he naked.

' Yes, I think I can send a substitute,' was the hesitating answer. ' See you do, then,' was the reply ; «for if you do not. and fail to return yourself, I shall come for you. Wednesday, remember, before midnight;' and with these words ringing In his esrs he was flung violently through the rock, and found himself iu the

middle of his bedroom floor, aa if he had juat been kicked there.' ' That is not the end of the story, is it V asked one of our party, as the minister came to a full stop and looked earnestly at the fire.

•No,' he answered ; 'it is not the end; but before proceeding I must ask you to bear carefully in mind the circumstances already recounted Specially remember the date mentioned —Wednesday next, before midnight. Whatever I thought, and you may thiok, about my friend's dream, it made tho rros remarkable impression upon his mind. He could not shake off its influence, he passed from one state of nervousness to another. It was in vain I entreated him to exert his common sense and call his strength of mind to his assistance. I might as well have spoken to the wind. He implored me not to leave him, and I agrned to remain ; Indeed, to leave him in his then frame of mind wonld have been an act of the greatest cruelty. He wanted me also to preach in his place on the Sunday ensuing, but this I flatly refused to do.

' If you do not make an effort now,' I aaid, ' you will never make it Bouae yourself, get on with your sermon, and if you buckle to work you will soon forget all about that foolish dream.'

Well, somehow, to cut a long story short, the sermon was composed and Sunday came, and my friend, a little better, and getting somewhat over bis fret, got into the pulpit to preach. He looked dreadfully ill, but I thought the worst was now over and that he would go on mending. Vain hope! He gave out bis text and theu looked over the congregation. The first parson on whom his eyes lighted was Saudy the Tinker—?andy, who had never before been known to enter a place of worship of any sort—Bandy, whom he had mentally chosen as his s übatitato, and who was due on the following Wednesday—sitting before him quite sober, and comparatively clean, waiting with a great show of attention for the opening words cf the sermon. With a terrible cry my friend caught the front cf the pulpit, then swayed back and fell down in a fainting fit. He was carried home and a doctor sent for. I said a few words, addressed apparently to the congregation, but really to Sandy, for my heart somehow came into my mouth at thought of him; and then, after I dismissed the people, I walked back to the manse, almott afraid of what mijht meet me there. Mr Oawley was not dead, but he was in the most dreadful state of physical exhaustion and mental agitation. It was dreadful to hear him. How could he go himself ? How could he send Sandy ? Poor old Sandy, whose soul, in the sight of God, was just as precicus aa his own. Bis whole c-y was for us to deliver him from the Evil One ; to save him from committing a sin which would rend r him a wretched man for life, He counted the hours and the minutes before he must return to that horrible place. 'I can't send Sandy,'he would moan. 'I cannot. Oh, I cannot save myself at suoh a price!' And then he would cover his face with the bedclothes, only to start up and wildly entreat me not to leave him; to stand between the enemy and himself, to save him ; or, if that were impossible, to givo him courage to do what was right. ' If this continues,' said the doctor, ' Wednesday will find him either dead or a raving lunatic.

We talked the matter over, the doctor and I, in the gloaming, as we walked to and fro in the meadow behind the manse ; and we decided, having to make our chciee of two evils, to risk giving him such an opiate as should carry him over the dreaded interval. We knew It was a perilous thiug to do with one In his condition ; but, as I said before, we could only tak'e the least of two evils.

What we dreaded most was his awaking before the time expired; so I kept watch beside him. He lay like one dead through the whele of Tuesday night and Wednesday and Wednesday eveniog. Sight, nine, ten, eleven o'clock came and passed; twelve. ' God be thanked I* I said, as I stooped over him and heard he was breathing quietly. ' He will do now, I hope,' said the doctor, who had come in just before midnight; ' you will stay with him till he wakes ?' I promised that I would, and in the beautiful dawn of a summer's morning ho opened bis eyes and smiled. He had no recollection then of what had occurred ; he was as weak as an infant, and when I bade him to try to go to sleep again, turned on hia pillow and sank to rest once more. Worn out with watching I stepped softly from the room and passed into the fresh sweet air. I walked down to the garden gate), and stood looking at the great mountains and the fair country and the Deldy wandering like a silver thread through the green fields below. All at once my attention was attracted by a group of people coming slowly along the road leading from the bills. I oould not at first see that in their midst something was being borne on men's shoulders ; but when at last I made this out I hurried to meet them and learn what was the matter. ' Has there been on accident V I asked, as I drew near.

They stopped, and one man came towards me.

' Aye,' he said ' the waist accident that could beta' him, pair fella'. He's deld. ' Who ia it P' I asked, p res ping forward ; and lifting the cloth they had fltmg over his face, I saw Sandy the Tinker ! 4 He had been foa' coming home, I tak' I*,' remarked one who stood by, 'pair Sandy, and gaod over the cliff afore he could save himself. We fonnd him juat on the side of the Witches Cauldron, where there's a bonny strip of green turf, and his caddy was feeding on the hill top with the bit cart behind her.' There was silence for a minute, then one of the ladies said softly, * Poor Sandy I «And wh*t became of Mr Oawley ?' asked the other.

He gave up his parish and went out as missionary. He is still living. * What s most extraordinary story!' I remarked.

• Yes, I think so, said the minister. 'lf you like to go round by Dendedly to-mor-row, my son, who now occupies the manse, would show you the scene of the occurrence.' The next day we all stood looking at the ' bonny stiip of green,' at the frowning cliffs, land at the Deldy, swollen by recent rains, rushing on its way. The youngest of the party went up to the rook, and knocked upon it loudly with his cane. .... 'O, don't do that, pray !' cried both the ladies nervously; the spirit of the weird story still brooded over us. ' What do you think of the coincidence, Jack?' I inquired of my friend, as we walked apart from the others. * Ask me when we get back to Fleet street,' he answered.