CHAPTER VI.

Why sleeps he not, when others are at rest?
--Byron.

According to the explanation I had received, the road I was now to pursue
was somewhat longer, but much better, than that which I generally took.
It was to lead me home through the churchyard of--, the same, by the by,
which Lord Vincent had particularized in his anecdote of the mysterious
stranger. The night was clear, but windy: there were a few light clouds
passing rapidly over the moon, which was at her full, and shone through
the frosty air, with all that cold and transparent brightness so peculiar
to our northern winters. I walked briskly on till I came to the
churchyard; I could not then help pausing (notwithstanding my total
deficiency in all romance) to look for a few moments at the exceeding
beauty of the scene around me. The church itself was extremely old, and
stood alone and grey, in the rude simplicity of the earliest form of
gothic architecture: two large dark yew-trees drooped on each side over
tombs, which from their size and decorations, appeared to be the last
possession of some quondam lords of the soil. To the left, the ground was
skirted by a thick and luxuriant copse of evergreens, in the front of
which stood one tall, naked oak, stern and leafless, a very token of
desolation and decay; there were but few grave stones scattered about,
and these were, for the most part, hidden by the long wild grass which
wreathed and climbed round them. Over all, the blue skies and still moon
shed that solemn light, the effect of which, either on the scene or the
feelings, it is so impossible to describe.