was a large company of disguised demons. They all passed a merry
night, singing and carousing. Then the news comes that the bishop is
dead. The parson and clerk determine to set out at once. Their steeds
are brought, but will not budge a step. The parson cuts savagely at his
horse. The demons roar with unearthly laughter. The ruined house and all
the devils vanish. The waves are overwhelming the riders, and in the
morning the wretches are found clinging to the rocks with the grasp of
death, which ever afterwards record their villainy and their fate.

Among tales of awe and weird mystery stands out the story of the
adventures of Peter Priestly, clerk, sexton, and gravestone cutter, of
Wakefield, who flourished at the end of the eighteenth century. He was
an old and much respected inhabitant of the town, and not at all given
to superstitious fears. One Saturday evening he went to the church to
finish the epitaph on a stone which was to be in readiness for removal
before Sunday. Arrived at the church, where he had his workshop, he set
down his lantern and lighted his other candle, which was set in a
primitive candlestick formed out of a potato. The church clock struck
eleven, and still some letters remained unfinished, when he heard a
strange sound, which seemed to say "Hiss!" "Hush!" He resumes his work
undaunted. Again that awful voice breaks in once more. He lights his
lantern and searches for its cause. In vain his efforts. He resolves to
leave the church, but again remembers his promise and returns to his
work. The mystic hour of midnight strikes. He has nearly finished, and
bends down to examine the letters on the stone. Again he hears a louder
"Hiss!" He now stands appalled. Terror seizes him. He has profaned the
Sabbath, and the sentence of death has gone forth. With tottering steps
Peter finds his way home and goes to bed. Sleep forsakes him. His wife
ministers to him in vain. As morning dawns the good woman notices
Peter's wig suspended on the great chair. "Oh, Peter," she cries, "what
hast thou been doing to burn all t' hair off one side of thy wig?" "Ah!
bless thee," says the clerk, "thou hast cured me with that word." The
mysterious "hiss" and "hush" were sounds from the frizzling of Peter's
wig by the flame of the candle, which to his imperfect sense of hearing
imported things horrible and awful. Such is the story which a writer in
Hone's _Year Book_ tells, and which is said to have afforded Peter
Priestly and