“When tombs do yawn and graves yield up their dead.”

I did not feel at all comfortable.  I was, notwithstanding, just about to nestle myself up again in the corner, and once more close my eyes, when they lighted on two, tall, meagre forms, whom I immediately recognised by their garb as chairmen.  There was something mysterious in their movements, as if they were consulting on matters of grave import—­of their discourse I could understand nothing—­and their voices sounded to me, in the chair, something like the noise made by a brush when drawn over the surface of a sheet of paper.  I was considering what might be the result of all this, when they suddenly seized hold of the chair, and marched off.  I ought now indeed to have called out to them, but partly from a curiosity to discover the cause of this singular nocturnal ramble, and partly from a fear of being roughly treated for my obtrusiveness, I was induced to remain quietly in my corner.  My weight did not seem to attract their notice; but how great was my astonishment on observing that my bearers were carrying me, in unvarying circles, round the market place, though at every turn they contracted the space they traversed—­and that the usual heavy-sounding tread of the chairmen was changed for a noiseless, gliding pace.  I looked out to see whether they had not drawn off their boots, but I was soon convinced by the evidence of my eyes that their heavy boots were in unison with the rest of the customary apparel of that class.  Their evolutions now became gradually narrower, and I, in the same proportion, more anxious and excited.  At length they stopped, panting, under the lamp-post which stands in the middle of the market place, and I was once more greeted by those low, hoarse sounds, which I have already mentioned, and it was only by dint of the most attentive listening, that I could distinguish the following words: 

  We are formed of the mist of the grave,
    We bear to the feast of the slain,
  There we carry the free and the slave,
    The host and his numberless train,
  Yonder we carry—­to and fro,
  Nor end our labours e’er shall know.

At this moment a mist floated before my eyes—­I endeavoured to shout—­but although I used the utmost exertion, I could not produce a sound—­I felt as if palsied and enchained—­my situation was desperate—­what species of civility could I expect from the spirits, (for that they were supernatural beings I could no longer doubt) of those chairmen who during their mortal career are so noted for their brutality?  After a short halt, they recommenced their march at the same stealthy pace, through how many streets I cannot now tell, for fear almost deprived me of my senses.  We came to the town gate—­it opened—­and my conductors bore me directly towards—­the churchyard!  I was in a fever of excitement.  They no sooner reached this desired spot, than they stopped, and I heard their accursed voices for the third time.