wet roses!

Happy the man who in a rainy day can betake himself to a huge garret,
stored, like that of the Manse, with lumber that each generation has
left behind it from a period before the Revolution. Our garret was an
arched hall, dimly illuminated through small and dusty windows; it was
but a twilight at the best; and there were nooks, or rather caverns,
of deep obscurity, the secrets of which I never learned, being too
reverent of their dust and cobwebs. The beams and rafters, roughly
hewn and with strips of bark still on them, and the rude masonry of
the chimneys, made the garret look wild and uncivilized, an aspect
unlike what was seen elsewhere in the quiet and decorous old house.
But on one side there was a little whitewashed apartment, which bore
the traditionary title of the Saint's Chamber, because holy men in
their youth had slept, and studied, and prayed there. With its
elevated retirement, its one window, its small fireplace, and its
closet convenient for an oratory, it was the very spot where a young
man might inspire himself with solemn enthusiasm and cherish saintly
dreams. The occupants, at various epochs, had left brief records and
ejaculations inscribed upon the walls. There, too, hung a tattered
and shrivelled roll of canvas, which on inspection proved to be the
forcibly wrought picture of a clergyman, in wig, band, and gown,
holding a Bible in his hand. As I turned his face towards the light,
he eyed me with an air of authority such as men of his profession
seldom assume in our days. The original had been pastor of the parish
more than a century ago, a friend of Whitefield, and almost his equal
in fervid eloquence. I bowed before the effigy of the dignified
divine, and felt as if I had now met face to face with the ghost by
whom, as there was reason to apprehend, the Manse was haunted.