{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_17953/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_17953","id":"gutenberg_17953","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/17953","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Ghost stories"],"text":"Produced by Suzanne Shell, Josephine Paolucci and the\nOnline Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE HAUNTERS & THE HAUNTED\n\nGHOST STORIES AND TALES OF THE SUPERNATURAL\n\n\nEDITED WITH AN INTRODUCTION\n\nBY ERNEST RHYS\n\nPUBLISHED IN LONDON BY\nDANIEL O'CONNOR, 90 GREAT\nRUSSELL STREET, W.C.1. 1921\n\n     For permission to use copyright stories in this volume, the\n     editor and publishers wish to make special acknowledgments to\n     Messrs Allen & Unwin, Mr Arnold Bennett, Mr E.H. Blakeney, Sir\n     George Douglas, Bart., Dr Greville MacDonald, Mr Arthur Machen,\n     and Mr Thomas Hardy.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nI. GHOST STORIES FROM LITERARY SOURCES\n\n                                                                 PAGE\n\n 1. THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER                                 17\n\n 2. THE OLD NURSE'S STORY                                          40\n\n 3. THE SUPERSTITIOUS MAN'S STORY                                  54\n\n 4. A STORY OF RAVENNA                                             58\n\n 5. TEIG O'KANE AND THE CORPSE                                     67\n\n 6. THE HAUNTED AND THE HAUNTERS: OR THE HOUSE AND THE BRAIN       83\n\n 7. THE BOTATHEN GHOST                                            128\n\n 8. THE GHOST OF LORD CLARENCEUX                                  138\n\n 9. DR DUTHOIT'S VISION                                           143\n\n10. THE SEVEN LIGHTS                                              147\n\n11. THE SPECTRAL COACH OF BLACKADON                               160\n\n12. DRAKE'S DRUM                                                  169\n\n13. THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM                                        171\n\n14. THE POOL IN THE GRAVEYARD                                     179\n\n15. THE LIANHAN SHEE                                              181\n\n16. THE HAUNTED COVE                                              216\n\n17. WANDERING WILLIE'S TALE                                       225\n\n\nII. GHOST STORIES FROM LOCAL RECORDS, FOLK LORE, AND LEGEND\n\n\n                                                                 PAGE\n\n18. GLAMIS CASTLE                                                 249\n\n19. POWYS CASTLE                                                  253\n\n20. CROGLIN GRANGE                                                259\n\n21. THE GHOST OF MAJOR SYDENHAM                                   264\n\n22. THE MIRACULOUS CASE OF JESCH CLAES                            268\n\n23. THE RADIANT BOY OF CORBY CASTLE                               270\n\n24. CLERK SAUNDERS                                                274\n\n25. DOROTHY DURANT                                                280\n\n26. PEARLIN JEAN                                                  284\n\n27. THE DENTON HALL GHOST                                         287\n\n28. THE GOODWOOD GHOST STORY                                      293\n\n29. CAPTAIN WHEATCROFT                                            300\n\n30. THE IRON CAGE                                                 303\n\n31. THE GHOST OF ROSEWARNE                                        310\n\n32. THE IRON CHEST OF DURLEY                                      317\n\n33. THE STRANGE CASE OF M. BEZUEL                                 320\n\n34. THE MARQUIS DE RAMBOUILLET                                    326\n\n35. THE ALTHEIM REVENANT                                          329\n\n36. SERTORIUS AND HIS HIND                                        331\n\n37. ERICHTHO                                                      334\n\n\nIII. OMENS AND PHANTASMS\n\n                                                                 PAGE\n\n38. PATROKLOS                                                    343\n\n39. VISION OF CROMWELL                                           345\n\n40. LORD STRAFFORD'S WARNING                                     346\n\n41. KOTTER'S RED CIRCLE                                          348\n\n42. THE VISION OF CHARLES XI. OF SWEDEN                          350\n\n43. BEN JONSON'S PREVISION                                       359\n\n44. QUEEN ULRICA                                                 360\n\n45. DENIS MISANGER                                               362\n\n46. THE PIED PIPER                                               365\n\n47. JEANNE D'ARC                                                 367\n\n48. ANNE WALKER                                                  368\n\n49. THE HAND OF GLORY                                            371\n\n50. THE BLOODY FOOTSTEP                                          375\n\n51. THE GHOSTLY WARRIORS OF WORMS                                378\n\n52. THE WANDERING JEW IN ENGLAND                                 379\n\n53. BENDITH EU MAMMAU                                            382\n\n54. THE RED BOOK OF APPIN                                        385\n\n55. THE GOOD O'DONOGHUE                                          387\n\n56. SARAH POLGRAIN                                               390\n\n57. ELEANOR COBHAM, DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER                        393\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\n\nIn this Ghost Book, M. Larigot, himself a writer of supernatural tales,\nhas collected a remarkable batch of documents, fictive or real,\ndescribing the one human experience that is hardest to make good.\nPerhaps the very difficulty of it has rendered it more tempting to the\nwriters who have dealt with the subject. His collection, notably varied\nand artfully chosen as it is, yet by no means exhausts the literature,\nwhich fills a place apart with its own recognised classics, magic\nmasters, and dealers in the occult. Their testimony serves to show that\nthe forms by which men and women are haunted are far more diverse and\nsubtle than we knew. So much so, that one begins to wonder at last if\nevery person is not liable to be \"possessed.\" For, lurking under the\nseeming identity of these visitations, the dramatic differences of their\nentrances and appearances, night and day, are so marked as to suggest\nthat the experience is, given the fit temperament and occasion,\ninevitable.\n\nOne would even be disposed, accepting this idea, to bring into the\naccount, as valid, stories and pieces of literature not usually\naccounted part of the ghostly canon. There are the novels and tales\nwhose argument is the tragedy of a haunted mind. Such are Dickens'\n_Haunted Man_, in which the ghost is memory; Hawthorne's _Scarlet\nLetter_, in which the ghost is cruel conscience; and Balzac's _Quest of\nthe Absolute_, in which the old Flemish house of Balthasar Claes, in the\nRue de Paris at Douai, is haunted by a daemon more potent than that of\nCanidia. One might add some of Balzac's shorter stories, among them\n\"The Elixir\"; and some of Hawthorne's _Twice-Told Tales_, including\n\"Edward Randolph's Portrait.\" On the French side we might note too that\nterrible graveyard tale of Guy de Maupassant, _La Morte_, in which the\nlover who has lost his beloved keeps vigil at her grave by night in his\ndespair, and sees--dreadful resurrection--\"que toutes les tombes etaient\nouvertes, et tous les cadavres en etaient sortis.\" And why? That they\nmight efface the lying legends inscribed on their tombs, and replace\nthem with the actual truth. Villiers de l'Isle Adam has in his _Contes\nCruels_ given us the strange story of Vera, which may be read as a\ncompanion study to _La Morte_, with another recall from the dead to end\na lover's obsession. Nature and supernature cross in de l'Isle Adam's\nmystical drama _Axel_ a play which will never hold the stage, masterly\nattempt as it is to dramatise the inexplainable mystery.\n\nAmong later tales ought to be reckoned Edith Wharton's _Tales of Men and\nGhosts_, and Henry James's _The Two Magics_, whose \"Turn of the Screw\"\ngives us new instances of the evil genii that haunt mortals, in this\ncase two innocent children. One remembers sundry folk-tales with the\nsame motive--of children bewitched or forespoken--inspiring them. And an\nold charm in Orkney which used to run:\n\n    \"Father, Son, Holy Ghost!\n    Bitten sall they be,\n    Bairn, wha have bitten thee!\n    Care to their black vein,\n    Till thou hast thy health again!\n    Mend thou in God's name!\"\n\nJohn Aubrey in his _Miscellanies_ has many naive evidences of the\ntwilight region of consciousness, like that between wake and sleep,\nwhich tends to fade when we are wideawake; so much so, that we call it\nvisionary. Yet it is very real to the haunted folk, to Aubrey's\ncorrespondent, the Rector of Chedzoy, or to the false love of the Demon\nLover, or that Mr Bourne of whom Glanvil tells in _The Iron Chest of\nDurley_, or the Bishop Evodius who was St Augustine's friend, or for\nthat matter the son of Monica himself. The reality of these visitations\nmay seem dim, but the most sceptical of us cannot doubt that, whether\nfrom some quickened fear of death or impending disaster, from evil\nconscience or swift intensification of vision; whether in the forms of\nbeloved sons lost at sea or of other revenants who were held\nindispensably dear in life, the haunters have appeared, to the absolute\nbelief of those who saw them or their simulacra.\n\n\"It poseth me,\" said Richard Baxter, \"to think of what kind these\nvisitants are. Do good spirits dwell then so near us, or are they sent\non such messages?\" The question, indeed, poseth most of us, but we\ncannot leave the inquiry alone. M. Larigot, realising this\npreoccupation, has in the course of his investigations, during many\nyears, arrived at the conclusion that there is an Art of the\nSupernatural, apart from the difficult science of psychical research,\nworth cultivating for its own sake. So he has gone to Glanvil and Arise\nEvans and the credulous old books--to Edgar Poe and Lord Lytton and the\nmodern writers who tell supernatural tales. He gives us their material\nwithout positing its unquestionable effect as police-court evidence, and\nif we recognise its artistic interest, he does not mind much if we say\nat last with one great visionary, \"Hoc est illusionum.\" But into those\nrealms of illusion we ought not, if he is right, to enter lightly. Those\nwho do enter there are warned that, having done so, they will not remain\nthe same; they become aware of what Eugenius meant, who said:\n\n    \"I am unbody'd by thy Books, and Thee,\n    And in thy papers find my Extasie;\n    Or if I please but to descend a strain,\n    Thy Elements do screen my Soul again.\n\n    I can undress myself by thy bright Glass,\n    And then resume th' Inclosure, as I was.\n    Now I am Earth, and now a Star, and then\n    A Spirit: now a Star, and earth again ...\"\n\nWe see that there is another aspect to the occultation of Orion, and a\nvery ominous one. Aurelius appeared to St. Augustine and made clear a\ndark passage to him in his reading, and that great Divine and Father of\nthe Church knew it to be an enlightenment from above. But what of the\nother visitants from regions that are unblessed? Paracelsus has taught\nus to be careful in our dealings with the realities and the phantasies,\nas he would conceive them, of the other world; for \"under the Earth do\nwander half-men.\" And there are other and worse manifestations due to\nBlack Magic or Nigromancy, and to the black witches and white and the\nfalse sorcerers who have violently intruded into the true mystery--\"like\nswine broken into a delicate Garden.\" Against these subtle and powerful\nmagicians no weapons, coats of mail, or brigandines will help, no\nshutting of doors or locks; for they penetrate through all things, and\nall things are open to them.\n\nWriting as a physician, Paracelsus sought to anticipate by his\n_Celestial Medicine_ and his _Twelve Signs_ the whole mystery of\nhealing, and the cure of the troubled souls and bodies of men and women,\nwhich are not accorded but at odds with nature and supernature. The\nspirits of discord are indeed always with us; and whether you see them\nas witches, disguised in the living human form, or as monstrous and\nterrifying dream-figures, or as floating impalpable atmospheres, they\nare vigilantly to be guarded against. We know\n\n    \"Vervain and dill\n    Hinders witches from their will!\"\n\nin the old herbals; but we need new drugs. As for that witch which hath\nhaunted all of us, \"Maladicta,\" Lilly in his _Astrology_ has a remedy.\n\"Take unguentum populeum, and Vervain and Hypericon, and put a red-hot\niron into it: You must anoint the back-bone, or wear it in your breast.\"\n\nThe haunting apparitions are not all of earth. Cornelius Agrippa, in his\nbook of the Secret Doctrine, shows that they are astral too. The\nfamiliar spirits of Mars, in his account, are no lovelier than Macbeth's\nwitches:--\"They appear in a tall body, cholerick, a filthy countenance,\nof colour brown, swarthy or red, having horns, like Harts' Horns, and\ngryphon's claws, and bellowing like wild Bulls.\"\n\nBut the spirits of Mercury are delightful. They indeed are \"of colour\nclear and bright, like unto a knight armed,--and the motion of them is\nas it were silver-coloured clouds.\" So, if Mars has troubled the world,\nas in the unhappy history of our own time, we must hope for the brighter\nforms, and the remedial and aerial messengers of Mercury.\n\nWe may seem to have strayed from the proper boundaries in going so far.\nBut it is one of the offices of this book to widen the area of research,\nand relate the ghost-story anew to the whole literature of wonder and\nimagination. Such sagas as that which Dr Douglas Hyde has translated\nwith consummate art from the Irish, \"Teig O'Kane and the Corpse,\" which\nMr W.B. Yeats called a little masterpiece; or Boccaccio's story of the\nspectre-hounds that pulled down the daughter of Anastasio, or Scott's\n\"Wandering Willie's Tale,\" or Hawker's \"Cruel Coppinger,\" or Edgar Poe's\n\"Fall of the House of Usher,\" are of their kind not to be beaten. And in\ntheir own way some of the later records are as telling. One can take the\nbook as a text-book of the supernatural, or as a story-book of that\nmiddle world which has given us the ghosts that Homer and Shakespeare\nconjured up.\n\n    ERNEST RHYS.\n\n\n\n\nI\n\nGHOST STORIES FROM LITERARY SOURCES\n\n\n\n\nI\n\nTHE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER\n\nBy EDGAR ALLAN POE\n\n    Son coeur est un luth suspendu;\n    Sitot qu'on le touche il resonne.\n\n    DE BERANGER.\n\n\nDuring the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the\nyear, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been\npassing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of\ncountry; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew\non, within view of the melancholy House of Usher. I know not how it\nwas--but, with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of\ninsufferable gloom pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable; for the\nfeeling was unrelieved by any of that half-pleasurable, because poetic,\nsentiment with which the mind usually receives even the sternest natural\nimages of the desolate or terrible. I looked upon the scene before\nme--upon the mere house, and the simple landscape features of the\ndomain--upon the bleak walls--upon the vacant eye-like windows--upon a\nfew rank sedges--and upon a few white trunks of decayed trees--with an\nutter depression of soul which I can compare to no earthly sensation\nmore properly than to the after-dream of the reveller upon opium--the\nbitter lapse into everyday life--the hideous dropping off of the veil.\nThere was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart--an unredeemed\ndreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could torture\ninto aught of the sublime. What was it--I paused to think--what was it\nthat so unnerved me in the contemplation of the House of Usher? It was\na mystery all insoluble; nor could I grapple with the shadowy fancies\nthat crowded upon me as I pondered. I was forced to fall back upon the\nunsatisfactory conclusion, that while, beyond doubt, there _are_\ncombinations of very simple natural objects which have the power of thus\naffecting us, still the analysis of this power lies among considerations\nbeyond our depth. It was possible, I reflected, that a mere different\narrangement of the particulars of the scene, of the details of the\npicture, would be sufficient to modify, or perhaps to annihilate its\ncapacity for sorrowful impression; and, acting upon this idea, I reined\nmy horse to the precipitous brink of a black and lurid tarn that lay in\nunruffled lustre by the dwelling, and gazed down--but with a shudder\neven more thrilling than before--upon the remodelled and inverted images\nof the grey sedge, and the ghastly tree-stems, and the vacant and\neye-like windows.\n\nNevertheless, in this mansion of gloom I now proposed to myself a\nsojourn of some weeks. Its proprietor, Roderick Usher, had been one of\nmy boon companions in boyhood; but many years had elapsed since our last\nmeeting. A letter, however, had lately reached me in a distant part of\nthe country--a letter from him--which, in its wildly importunate nature,\nhad admitted of no other than a personal reply. The MS. gave evidence of\nnervous agitation. The writer spoke of acute bodily illness--of a mental\ndisorder which oppressed him--and of an earnest desire to see me, as his\nbest, and indeed his only personal friend, with a view of attempting, by\nthe cheerfulness of my society, some alleviation of his malady. It was\nthe manner in which all this, and much more, was said--it was the\napparent _heart_ that went with his request--which allowed me no room\nfor hesitation; and I accordingly obeyed forthwith what I still\nconsidered a very singular summons.\n\nAlthough, as boys, we had been even intimate associates, yet I really\nknew little of my friend. His reserve had been always excessive and\nhabitual. I was aware, however, that his very ancient family had been\nnoted, time out of mind, for a peculiar sensibility of temperament,\ndisplaying itself, through long ages, in many works of exalted art, and\nmanifested, of late, in repeated deeds of munificent yet unobtrusive\ncharity, as well as in a passionate devotion to the intricacies, perhaps\neven more than to the orthodox and easily recognisable beauties, of\nmusical science. I had learned, too, the very remarkable fact, that the\nstem of the Usher race, all time-honoured as it was, had put forth, at\nno period, any enduring branch; in other words, that the entire family\nlay in the direct line of descent, and had always, with very trifling\nand very temporary variation, so lain. It was this deficiency, I\nconsidered, while running over in thought the perfect keeping of the\ncharacter of the premises with the accredited character of the people,\nand while speculating upon the possible influence which the one, in the\nlong lapse of centuries, might have exercised upon the other--it was\nthis deficiency, perhaps, of collateral issue, and the consequent\nundeviating transmission, from sire to son, of the patrimony with the\nname, which had, at length, so identified the two as to merge the\noriginal title of the estate in the quaint and equivocal appellation of\nthe \"House of Usher\"--an appellation which seemed to include, in the\nminds of the peasantry who used it, both the family and the family\nmansion.\n\nI have said that the sole effect of my somewhat childish\nexperiment--that of looking down within the tarn--had been to deepen the\nfirst singular impression. There can be no doubt that the consciousness\nof the rapid increase of my superstition--for why should I not so term\nit?--served mainly to accelerate the increase itself. Such, I have long\nknown, is the paradoxical law of all sentiments having terror as a\nbasis. And it might have been for this reason only, that, when I again\nuplifted my eyes to the house itself, from its image in the pool, there\ngrew in my mind a strange fancy--a fancy so ridiculous, indeed, that I\nbut mention it to show the vivid force of the sensations which oppressed\nme. I had so worked upon my imagination as really to believe that about\nthe whole mansion and domain there hung an atmosphere peculiar to\nthemselves and their immediate vicinity--an atmosphere which had no\naffinity with the air of heaven, but which had reeked up from the\ndecayed trees, and the grey wall, and the silent tarn--a pestilent and\nmystic vapour, dull, sluggish, faintly discernible, and leaden-hued.\n\nShaking off from my spirit what _must_ have been a dream, I scanned more\nnarrowly the real aspect of the building. Its principal feature seemed\nto be that of an excessive antiquity. The discoloration of ages had been\ngreat. Minute _fungi_ overspread the whole exterior, hanging in a fine\ntangled web-work from the eaves. Yet all this was apart from any\nextraordinary dilapidation. No portion of the masonry had fallen; and\nthere appeared to be a wild inconsistency between its still perfect\nadaptation of parts, and the crumbling condition of the individual\nstones. In this there was much that reminded me of the specious totality\nof old woodwork which has rotted for long years in some neglected vault,\nwith no disturbance from the breath of the external air. Beyond this\nindication of extensive decay, however, the fabric gave little token of\ninstability. Perhaps the eye of a scrutinising observer might have\ndiscovered a barely perceptible fissure, which, extending from the roof\nof the building in front, made its way down the wall in a zigzag\ndirection, until it became lost in the sullen waters of the tarn.\n\nNoticing these things, I rode over a short causeway to the house. A\nservant in waiting took my horse, and I entered the Gothic archway of\nthe hall. A valet, of stealthy step, thence conducted me, in silence,\nthrough many dark and intricate passages in my progress to the _studio_\nof his master. Much that I encountered on the way contributed, I know\nnot how, to heighten the vague sentiments of which I have already\nspoken. While the objects around me--while the carvings of the ceilings,\nthe sombre tapestries of the walls, the ebon blackness of the floors,\nand the phantasmagoric armorial trophies which rattled as I strode, were\nbut matters to which, or to such as which, I had been accustomed from my\ninfancy--while I hesitated not to acknowledge how familiar was all\nthis--I still wondered to find how unfamiliar were the fancies which\nordinary images were stirring up. On one of the staircases, I met the\nphysician of the family. His countenance, I thought, wore a mingled\nexpression of low cunning and perplexity. He accosted me with\ntrepidation and passed on. The valet now threw open a door and ushered\nme into the presence of his master.\n\nThe room in which I found myself was very large and lofty. The windows\nwere long, narrow, and pointed, and at so vast a distance from the black\noaken floor as to be altogether inaccessible from within. Feeble gleams\nof encrimsoned light made their way through the trellised panes, and\nserved to render sufficiently distinct the more prominent objects\naround; the eye, however, struggled in vain to reach the remoter angles\nof the chamber, or the recesses of the vaulted and fretted ceiling. Dark\ndraperies hung upon the walls. The general furniture was profuse,\ncomfortless, antique, and tattered. Many books and musical instruments\nlay scattered about, but failed to give any vitality to the scene. I\nfelt that I breathed an atmosphere of sorrow. An air of stern, deep, and\nirredeemable gloom hung over and pervaded all.\n\nUpon my entrance, Usher arose from a sofa on which he had been lying at\nfull length, and greeted me with a vivacious warmth which had much in\nit, I at first thought, of an overdone cordiality--of the constrained\neffort of the _ennuye_ man of the world. A glance, however, at his\ncountenance, convinced me of his perfect sincerity. We sat down; and for\nsome moments, while he spoke not, I gazed upon him with a feeling half\nof pity, half of awe. Surely, man had never before so terribly altered,\nin so brief a period, as had Roderick Usher! It was with difficulty that\nI could bring myself to admit the identity of the wan being before me\nwith the companion of my early boyhood. Yet the character of his face\nhad been at all times remarkable. A cadaverousness of complexion; an eye\nlarge, liquid, and luminous beyond comparison; lips somewhat thin and\nvery pallid, but of a surpassingly beautiful curve; a nose of a delicate\nHebrew model, but with a breadth of nostril, unusual in similar\nformations; a finely moulded chin, speaking, in its want of prominence,\nof a want of moral energy; hair of a more than web-like softness and\ntenuity; these features, with an inordinate expansion above the regions\nof the temple, made up altogether a countenance not easily to be\nforgotten. And now in the mere exaggeration of the prevailing character\nof these features, and of the expression they were wont to convey, lay\nso much of change that I doubted to whom I spoke. The now ghastly pallor\nof the skin, and the now miraculous lustre of the eye, above all things\nstartled and even awed me. The silken hair, too, had been suffered to\ngrow all unheeded, and as, in its wild gossamer texture, it floated\nrather than fell about the face, I could not, even with effort, connect\nits arabesque expression with any idea of simple humanity.\n\nIn the manner of my friend I was at once struck with an incoherence--an\ninconsistency; and I soon found this to arise from a series of feeble\nand futile struggles to overcome an habitual trepidancy--an excessive\nnervous agitation. For something of this nature I had indeed been\nprepared, no less by his letter, than by reminiscences of certain boyish\ntraits, and by conclusions deduced from his peculiar physical\nconformation and temperament. His action was alternately vivacious and\nsullen. His voice varied rapidly from a tremulous indecision (when the\nanimal spirits seemed utterly in abeyance) to that species of energetic\nconcision--that abrupt, weighty, unhurried, and hollow-sounding\nenunciation--that leaden, self-balanced and perfectly modulated guttural\nutterance, which may be observed in the lost drunkard, or the\nirreclaimable eater of opium, during the periods of his most intense\nexcitement.\n\nIt was thus that he spoke of the object of my visit, of his earnest\ndesire to see me, and of the solace he expected me to afford him. He\nentered, at some length, into what he conceived to be the nature of his\nmalady. It was, he said, a constitutional and a family evil, and one for\nwhich he despaired to find a remedy--a mere nervous affection, he\nimmediately added, which would undoubtedly soon pass on. It displayed\nitself in a host of unnatural sensations. Some of these, as he detailed\nthem, interested and bewildered me; although, perhaps, the terms, and\nthe general manner of the narration had their weight. He suffered much\nfrom a morbid acuteness of the senses; the most insipid food was alone\nendurable; he could wear only garments of certain texture; the odours of\nall flowers were oppressive; his eyes were tortured by even a faint\nlight; and there were but peculiar sounds, and these from stringed\ninstruments, which did not inspire him with horror.\n\nTo an anomalous species of terror I found him a bounden slave. \"I shall\nperish,\" said he, \"I _must_ perish in this deplorable folly. Thus, thus,\nand not otherwise, shall I be lost. I dread the events of the future,\nnot in themselves, but in their results. I shudder at the thought of\nany, even the most trivial, incident, which may operate upon this\nintolerable agitation of soul. I have, indeed, no abhorrence of danger,\nexcept in its absolute effect--in terror. In this unnerved--in this\npitiable condition--I feel that the period will sooner or later arrive\nwhen I must abandon life and reason together, in some struggle with the\ngrim phantasm, FEAR.\"\n\nI learned, moreover, at intervals, and through broken and equivocal\nhints, another singular feature of his mental condition. He was\nenchained by certain superstitious impressions in regard to the dwelling\nwhich he tenanted, and whence, for many years, he had never ventured\nforth--in regard to an influence whose supposititious force was conveyed\nin terms too shadowy here to be re-stated--an influence which some\npeculiarities in the mere form and substance of his family mansion, had,\nby dint of long sufferance, he said, obtained over his spirit--an effect\nwhich the _physique_ of the grey walls and turrets, and of the dim tarn\ninto which they all looked down, had, at length, brought about upon the\n_morale_ of his existence.\n\nHe admitted, however, although with hesitation, that much of the\npeculiar gloom which thus afflicted him could be traced to a more\nnatural and far more palpable origin--to the severe and long-continued\nillness--indeed to the evidently approaching dissolution--of a tenderly\nbeloved sister--his sole companion for long years--his last and only\nrelative on earth. \"Her decease,\" he said, with a bitterness which I can\nnever forget, \"would leave him (him the hopeless and the frail) the last\nof the ancient race of the Ushers.\" While he spoke, the Lady Madeline\n(for so was she called) passed slowly through a remote portion of the\napartment, and, without having noticed my presence, disappeared. I\nregarded her with an utter astonishment not unmingled with dread--and\nyet I found it impossible to account for such feelings. A sensation of\nstupor oppressed me, as my eyes followed her retreating steps. When a\ndoor, at length, closed upon her, my glance sought instinctively and\neagerly the countenance of the brother--but he had buried his face in\nhis hands, and I could only perceive that a far more than ordinary\nwanness had overspread the emaciated fingers through which trickled many\npassionate tears.\n\nThe disease of the Lady Madeline had long baffled the skill of her\nphysicians. A settled apathy, a gradual wasting away of the person, and\nfrequent although transient affections of a partially cataleptical\ncharacter, were the unusual diagnosis. Hitherto she had steadily borne\nup against the pressure of her malady, and had not betaken herself\nfinally to bed; but, on the closing in of the evening of my arrival at\nthe house, she succumbed (as her brother told me at night with\ninexpressible agitation) to the prostrating power of the destroyer; and\nI learned that the glimpse I had obtained of her person would thus\nprobably be the last I should obtain--that the lady, at least while\nliving, would be seen by me no more.\n\nFor several days ensuing, her name was unmentioned by either Usher or\nmyself: and during this period I was busied in earnest endeavours to\nalleviate the melancholy of my friend. We painted and read together; or\nI listened, as if in a dream, to the wild improvisations of his speaking\nguitar. And thus, as a closer and still closer intimacy admitted me more\nunreservedly into the recesses of his spirit, the more bitterly did I\nperceive the futility of all attempt at cheering a mind from which\ndarkness, as if an inherent positive quality, poured forth upon all\nobjects of the moral and physical universe, in one unceasing radiation\nof gloom.\n\nI shall ever bear about me a memory of the many solemn hours I thus\nspent alone with the master of the House of Usher. Yet I should fail in\nany attempt to convey an idea of the exact character of the studies, or\nof the occupations, in which he involved me, or led me the way. An\nexcited and highly distempered ideality threw a sulphureous lustre over\nall. His long improvised dirges will ring for ever in my ears. Among\nother things, I hold painfully in mind a certain singular perversion and\namplification of the wild air of the last waltz of Von Weber. From the\npaintings over which his elaborate fancy brooded and which grew, touch\nby touch, into vagueness at which I shuddered the more thrillingly,\nbecause I shuddered knowing not why;--from these paintings (vivid as\ntheir images now are before me) I would in vain endeavour to educe more\nthan a small portion which should lie within the compass of merely\nwritten words. By the utter simplicity, by the nakedness of his designs,\nhe arrested and overawed attention. If ever mortal painted an idea, that\nmortal was Roderick Usher. For me at least--in the circumstances then\nsurrounding me--there arose out of the pure abstractions which the\nhypochondriac contrived to throw upon his canvas, an intensity of\nintolerable awe, no shadow of which felt I ever yet in the contemplation\nof the certainly glowing yet too concrete reveries of Fuseli.\n\nOne of the phantasmagoric conceptions of my friend, partaking not so\nrigidly of the spirit of abstraction, may be shadowed forth, although\nfeebly, in words. A small picture presented the interior of an immensely\nlong and rectangular vault or tunnel, with low walls, smooth, white, and\nwithout interruption or device. Certain accessory points of the design\nserved well to convey the idea that this excavation lay at an exceeding\ndepth below the surface of the earth. No outlet was observed in any\nportion of its vast extent, and no torch, or other artificial source of\nlight, was discernible; yet a flood of intense rays rolled throughout,\nand bathed the whole in a ghastly and inappropriate splendour.\n\nI have just spoken of that morbid condition of the auditory nerve which\nrendered all music intolerable to the sufferer, with the exception of\ncertain effects of stringed instruments. It was, perhaps, the narrow\nlimits to which he thus confined himself upon the guitar, which gave\nbirth, in great measure, to the fantastic character of his performances.\nBut the fervid _facility_ of his _impromptus_ could not be so accounted\nfor. They must have been, and were, in the notes, as well as in the\nwords of his wild fantasias (for he not unfrequently accompanied himself\nwith rhymed verbal improvisations), the result of that intense mental\ncollectedness and concentration to which I have previously alluded as\nobservable only in particular moments of the highest artificial\nexcitement. The words of one of these rhapsodies I have easily\nremembered. I was, perhaps, the more forcibly impressed with it, as he\ngave it, because, in the under or mystic current of its meaning, I\nfancied that I perceived, and for the first time, a full consciousness\non the part of Usher, of the tottering of his lofty reason upon her\nthrone. The verses, which were entitled \"The Haunted Palace,\" ran very\nnearly, if not accurately, thus:\n\n    I\n\n    In the greenest of our valleys,\n      By good angels tenanted\n    Once a fair and stately palace--\n      Radiant palace--reared its head.\n    In the monarch Thought's dominion--\n      It stood there!\n    Never seraph spread a pinion\n      Over fabric half so fair.\n\n    II\n\n    Banners yellow, glorious, golden,\n      On its roof did float and flow;\n    (This--all this--was in the olden\n      Time long ago)\n    And every gentle air that dallied,\n      In that sweet day,\n    Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,\n      A winged odour went away.\n\n    III\n\n    Wanderers in that happy valley\n      Through two luminous windows saw\n    Spirits moving musically\n      To a lute's well tuned law,\n    Round about a throne, where sitting\n      (Porphyrogene!)\n    In state his glory well befitting,\n      The ruler of the realm was seen.\n\n    IV\n\n    And all with pearl and ruby glowing\n      Was the fair palace door,\n    Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing\n      And sparkling evermore,\n    A troop of Echoes whose sweet duty\n      Was but to sing,\n    In voices of surpassing beauty,\n      The wit and wisdom of their king.\n\n    V\n\n    But evil things, in robes of sorrow,\n      Assailed the monarch's high estate;\n    (Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow\n      Shall dawn upon him, desolate!)\n    And, round about his home, the glory\n      That blushed and bloomed\n    Is but a dim-remembered story\n      Of the old time entombed.\n\n    VI\n\n    And travellers now within that valley,\n      Through the red-litten windows, see\n    Vast forms that move fantastically\n      To a discordant melody;\n    While, like a rapid ghastly river,\n      Through the pale door,\n    A hideous throng rush out forever,\n      And laugh--but smile no more.\n\nI well remember that suggestions arising from this ballad, led us into a\ntrain of thought wherein there became manifest an opinion of Usher's\nwhich I mention not so much on account of its novelty (for other men[1]\nhave thought thus), as on account of the pertinacity with which he\nmaintained it. This opinion, in its general form, was that of the\nsentience of all vegetable things. But, in his disordered fancy, the\nidea had assumed a more daring character, and trespassed, under certain\nconditions, upon the kingdom of inorganisation. I lack words to express\nthe full extent, or the earnest _abandon_ of his persuasion. The belief,\nhowever, was connected (as I have previously hinted) with the grey\nstones of the home of his forefathers. The conditions of the sentience\nhad been here, he imagined, fulfilled in the method of collocation of\nthese stones--in the order of their arrangement, as well as in that of\nthe many _fungi_ which overspread them, and of the decayed trees which\nstood around--above all, in the long undisturbed endurance of this\narrangement, and in its reduplication in the still waters of the tarn.\nIts evidence--the evidence of the sentience--was to be seen, he said\n(and I here started as he spoke), in the gradual yet certain\ncondensation of an atmosphere of their own about the waters and the\nwalls. The result was discoverable, he added, in that silent, yet\nimportunate and terrible influence which for centuries had moulded the\ndestinies of his family, and which made _him_ what I now saw him--what\nhe was. Such opinions need no comment, and I will make none.\n\nOur books--the books which, for years, had formed no small portion of\nthe mental existence of the invalid--were, as might be supposed, in\nstrict keeping with this character of phantasm. We pored together over\nsuch works as the _Ververt et Chartreuse_ of Gresset; the _Belphegor_\nof Machiavelli; the _Heaven and Hell_ of Swedenborg; the _Subterranean\nVoyage of Nicholas Klimm_ by Holberg; the _Chiromancy_ of Robert Flud,\nof Jean D'Indagine, and of De la Chambre; the _Journey into the Blue\nDistance_ of Tieck; and the _City of the Sun_ of Campanella. One\nfavourite volume was a small octavo edition of the _Directorium\nInquisitorum_, by the Dominican Eymeric de Gironne; and there were\npassages in _Pomponius Mela_, about the old African Satyrs and AEgipans,\nover which Usher would sit dreaming for hours. His chief delight,\nhowever, was found in the perusal of an exceedingly rare and curious\nbook in quarto Gothic--the manual of a forgotten church--the _Vigiliae\nMortuorum Chorum Ecclesiae Maguntinae_.\n\nI could not help thinking of the wild ritual of this work, and of its\nprobable influence upon the hypochondriac, when, one evening, having\ninformed me abruptly that the Lady Madeline was no more, he stated his\nintention of preserving her corpse for a fortnight (previously to its\nfinal interment), in one of the numerous vaults within the main walls of\nthe building. The worldly reason, however, assigned for this singular\nproceeding, was one which I did not feel at liberty to dispute. The\nbrother had been led to his resolution (so he told me) by consideration\nof the unusual character of the malady of the deceased, of certain\nobtrusive and eager inquiries on the part of her medical men, and of the\nremote and exposed situation of the burial-ground of the family. I will\nnot deny that when I called to mind the sinister countenance of the\nperson whom I met upon the staircase, on the day of my arrival at the\nhouse, I had no desire to oppose what I regarded as at best but a\nharmless, and by no means an unnatural, precaution.\n\nAt the request of Usher, I personally aided him in the arrangements for\nthe temporary entombment. The body having been encoffined, we two alone\nbore it to its rest. The vault in which we placed it (and which had\nbeen so long unopened that our torches, half smothered in its oppressive\natmosphere, gave us little opportunity for investigation) was small,\ndamp, and entirely without means of admission for light; lying, at great\ndepth, immediately beneath that portion of the building in which was my\nown sleeping apartment. It had been used, apparently, in remote feudal\ntimes, for the worst purpose of a donjon-keep, and, in later days, as a\nplace of deposit for powder, or some other highly combustible substance,\nas a portion of its floor, and the whole interior of a long archway\nthrough which we reached it, were carefully sheathed with copper. The\ndoor, of massive iron, had been, also, similarly protected. Its immense\nweight caused an unusually sharp grating sound as it moved upon its\nhinges.\n\nHaving deposited our mournful burden upon tressels within this region of\nhorror, we partially turned aside the yet unscrewed lid of the coffin,\nand looked upon the face of the tenant. A striking similitude between\nthe brother and sister now first arrested my attention; and Usher,\ndivining, perhaps, my thoughts, murmured out some few words from which I\nlearned that the deceased and himself had been twins, and that\nsympathies of a scarcely intelligible nature had always existed between\nthem. Our glances, however, rested not long upon the dead--for we could\nnot regard her unawed. The disease which had thus entombed the lady in\nthe maturity of youth, had left, as usual in all maladies of a strictly\ncataleptical character, the mockery of a faint blush upon the bosom and\nthe face, and that suspiciously lingering smile upon the lip which is so\nterrible in death. We replaced and screwed down the lid, and, having\nsecured the door of iron, made our way, with toil, into the scarcely\nless gloomy apartments of the upper portion of the house.\n\nAnd now, some days of bitter grief having elapsed, an observable change\ncame over the features of the mental disorder of my friend. His\nordinary manner had vanished. His ordinary occupations were neglected or\nforgotten. He roamed from chamber to chamber with hurried, unequal, and\nobjectless step. The pallor of his countenance had assumed, if possible,\na more ghastly hue--but the luminousness of his eye had utterly gone\nout. The once occasional huskiness of his tone was heard no more; and a\ntremulous quaver, as if of extreme terror, habitually characterised his\nutterance. There were times, indeed, when I thought his unceasingly\nagitated mind was labouring with some oppressive secret, to divulge\nwhich he struggled for the necessary courage. At times, again, I was\nobliged to resolve all into the mere inexplicable vagaries of madness,\nfor I beheld him gazing upon vacancy for long hours, in an attitude of\nthe profoundest attention, as if listening to some imaginary sound. It\nwas no wonder that his condition terrified--that it infected me. I felt\ncreeping upon me, by slow yet certain degrees, the wild influences of\nhis own fantastic yet impressive superstitions.\n\nIt was, especially, upon retiring to bed late in the night of the\nseventh or eighth day after the placing of the Lady Madeline within the\ndonjon, that I experienced the full power of such feelings. Sleep came\nnot near my couch--while the hours waned and waned away. I struggled to\nreason off the nervousness which had dominion over me. I endeavoured to\nbelieve that much, if not all of what I felt, was due to the bewildering\ninfluence of the gloomy furniture of the room--of the dark and tattered\ndraperies, which, tortured into motion by the breath of a rising\ntempest, swayed fitfully to and fro upon the walls, and rustled uneasily\nabout the decorations of the bed. But my efforts were fruitless. An\nirrepressible tremor gradually pervaded my frame; and, at length, there\nsat upon my very heart an incubus of utterly causeless alarm. Shaking\nthis off with a gasp and a struggle, I uplifted myself upon the pillows,\nand, peering earnestly within the intense darkness of the chamber,\nhearkened--I know not why, except that an instinctive spirit prompted\nme--to certain low and indefinite sounds which came, through the pauses\nof the storm, at long intervals, I knew not whence. Overpowered by an\nintense sentiment of horror, unaccountable yet unendurable, I threw on\nmy clothes with haste (for I felt that I should sleep no more during the\nnight), and endeavoured to arouse myself from the pitiable condition\ninto which I had fallen, by pacing rapidly to and fro through the\napartment.\n\nI had taken but a few turns in this manner, when a light step on an\nadjoining staircase arrested my attention. I presently recognised it as\nthat of Usher. In an instant afterward he rapped, with a gentle touch,\nat my door, and entered, bearing a lamp. His countenance was, as usual,\ncadaverously wan--but, moreover, there was a species of mad hilarity in\nhis eyes--an evidently restrained _hysteria_ in his whole demeanour. His\nair appalled me--but anything was preferable to the solitude which I had\nso long endured, and I even welcomed his presence as a relief.\n\n\"And you have not seen it?\" he said abruptly, after having stared about\nhim for some moments in silence--\"you have not then seen it?--but, stay!\nyou shall.\" Thus speaking, and having carefully shaded his lamp, he\nhurried to one of the casements, and threw it freely open to the storm.\n\nThe impetuous fury of the entering gust nearly lifted us from our feet.\nIt was, indeed, a tempestuous yet sternly beautiful night, and one\nwildly singular in its terror and its beauty. A whirlwind had apparently\ncollected its force in our vicinity; for there were frequent and violent\nalterations in the direction of the wind; and the exceeding density of\nthe clouds (which hung so low as to press upon the turrets of the house)\ndid not prevent our perceiving the lifelike velocity with which they\nflew careering from all points against each other, without passing away\ninto the distance. I say that even their exceeding density did not\nprevent our perceiving this--yet we had no glimpse of the moon or\nstars--nor was there any flashing forth of the lightning. But the under\nsurfaces of the huge masses of agitated vapour, as well as all\nterrestrial objects immediately around us, were glowing in the unnatural\nlight of a faintly luminous and distinctly visible gaseous exhalation\nwhich hung about and enshrouded the mansion.\n\n\"You must not--you shall not behold this!\" said I, shudderingly, to\nUsher, as I led him, with a gentle violence, from the window to a seat.\n\"These appearances, which bewilder you, are merely electrical phenomena\nnot uncommon--or it may be that they have their ghastly origin in the\nrank miasma of the tarn. Let us close this casement;--the air is\nchilling and dangerous to your frame. Here is one of your favourite\nromances. I will read, and you shall listen;--and so we will pass away\nthis terrible night together.\"\n\nThe antique volume which I had taken up was the _Mad Trist_ of Sir\nLauncelot Canning; but I had called it a favourite of Usher's more in\nsad jest than in earnest; for, in truth, there is little in its uncouth\nand unimaginative prolixity which could have had interest for the lofty\nand spiritual ideality of my friend. It was, however, the only book\nimmediately at hand; and I indulged a vague hope that the excitement\nwhich now agitated the hypochondriac, might find relief (for the history\nof mental disorder is full of similar anomalies) even in the extremeness\nof the folly which I should read. Could I have judged, indeed, by the\nwild overstrained air of vivacity with which he hearkened, or apparently\nhearkened, to the words of the tale, I might well have congratulated\nmyself upon the success of my design.\n\nI had arrived at that well-known portion of the story where Ethelred,\nthe hero of the Trist, having sought in vain for peaceable admission\ninto the dwelling of the hermit, proceeds to make good an entrance by\nforce. Here, it will be remembered, the words of the narrative run thus:\n\n\"And Ethelred, who was by nature of a doughty heart, and who was now\nmighty withal, on account of the powerfulness of the wine which he had\ndrunken, waited no longer to hold parley with the hermit, who, in sooth,\nwas of an obstinate and maliceful turn, but, feeling the rain upon his\nshoulders, and fearing the rising of the tempest, uplifted his mace\noutright, and, with blows, made quickly room in the plankings of the\ndoor for his gauntleted hand; and now pulling therewith sturdily, he so\ncracked and ripped, and tore all asunder, that the noise of the dry and\nhollow-sounding wood alarmed and reverberated throughout the forest.\"\n\nAt the termination of this sentence I started, and, for a moment,\npaused; for it appeared to me (although I at once concluded that my\nexcited fancy had deceived me)--it appeared to me that, from some very\nremote portion of the mansion, there came, indistinctly, to my ears,\nwhat might have been, in its exact similarity of character, the echo\n(but a stifled and dull one certainly) of the very cracking and ripping\nsound which Sir Launcelot had so particularly described. It was, beyond\ndoubt, the coincidence alone which had arrested my attention; for, amid\nthe rattling of the sashes of the casements, and the ordinary commingled\nnoises of the still increasing storm, the sound, in itself, had nothing,\nsurely, which should have interested or disturbed me. I continued the\nstory:\n\n\"But the good champion Ethelred, now entering within the door, was sore\nenraged and amazed to perceive no signal of the maliceful hermit; but,\nin the stead thereof, a dragon of a scaly and prodigious demeanour, and\nof a fiery tongue, which sate in guard before a palace of gold, with a\nfloor of silver; and upon the wall there hung a shield of shining brass\nwith this legend enwritten--\n\n    Who entereth herein, a conqueror hath bin;\n    Who slayeth the dragon, the shield he shall win;\n\nand Ethelred uplifted his mace, and struck upon the head of the dragon,\nwhich fell before him, and gave up his pesty breath, with a shriek so\nhorrid and harsh, and withal so piercing, that Ethelred had fain to\nclose his ears with his hands against the dreadful noise of it, the like\nwhereof was never before heard.\"\n\nHere again I paused abruptly, and now with a feeling of wild\namazement--for there could be no doubt whatever that, in this instance,\nI did actually hear (although from what direction it proceeded I found\nit impossible to say) a low and apparently distant, but harsh,\nprotracted, and most unusual screaming or grating sound--the exact\ncounterpart of what my fancy had already conjured up for the dragon's\nunnatural shriek as described by the romancer.\n\nOppressed, as I certainly was, upon the occurrence of the second and\nmost extraordinary coincidence, by a thousand conflicting sensations, in\nwhich wonder and extreme terror were predominant, I still retained\nsufficient presence of mind to avoid exciting, by any observation, the\nsensitive nervousness of my companion. I was by no means certain that he\nhad noticed the sounds in question; although, assuredly, a strange\nalteration had, during the last few minutes, taken place in his\ndemeanour. From a position fronting my own, he had gradually brought\nround his chair, so as to sit with his face to the door of the chamber;\nand thus I could but partially perceive his features, although I saw\nthat his lips trembled as if he were murmuring inaudibly. His head had\ndropped upon his breast--yet I knew that he was not asleep, from the\nwide and rigid opening of the eye as I caught a glance of it in profile.\nThe motion of his body, too, was at variance with this idea--for he\nrocked from side to side with a gentle yet constant and uniform sway.\nHaving rapidly taken notice of all this, I resumed the narrative of Sir\nLauncelot, which thus proceeded:\n\n\"And now, the champion, having escaped from the terrible fury of the\ndragon, bethinking himself of the brazen shield, and of the breaking up\nof the enchantment which was upon it, removed the carcass from out of\nthe way before him, and approached valorously over the silver pavement\nof the castle to where the shield was upon the wall; which in sooth\ntarried not for his full coming, but fell down at his feet upon the\nsilver floor, with a mighty great and terrible ringing sound.\"\n\nNo sooner had these syllables passed my lips, than--as if a shield of\nbrass had indeed, at the moment, fallen heavily upon a floor of\nsilver--I became aware of a distinct, hollow, metallic, and clangorous,\nyet apparently muffled reverberation. Completely unnerved, I leaped to\nmy feet; but the measured rocking movement of Usher was undisturbed. I\nrushed to the chair on which he sat. His eyes were bent fixedly before\nhim, and throughout his whole countenance there reigned a stony\nrigidity. But, as I placed my hand upon his shoulder, there came a\nstrong shudder over his whole person; a sickly smile quivered about his\nlips; and I saw that he spoke in a low, hurried, and gibbering murmur,\nas if unconscious of my presence. Bending closely over him, I at length\ndrank in the hideous import of his words.\n\n\"Not hear it?--yes, I hear it, and _have_ heard it.\nLong--long--long--many minutes, many hours, many days, have I heard\nit--yet I dared not---oh, pity me, miserable wretch that I am!--I dared\nnot--I _dared_ not speak! _We have put her living in the tomb!_ Said I\nnot that my senses were acute? I _now_ tell you that I heard her first\nfeeble movements in the hollow coffin. I heard them--many,\nmany days ago--yet I dared not--_I dared not speak!_ And\nnow--to-night--Ethelred--ha! ha!--the breaking of the hermit's door,\nand the death-cry of the dragon, and the clangour of the shield!--say,\nrather, the rending of her coffin, and the grating of the iron hinges of\nher prison, and her struggles within the coppered archway of the vault!\nOh whither shall I fly? Will she not be here anon? Is she not hurrying\nto upbraid me for my haste? Have I not heard her footstep on the stair?\nDo I not distinguish that heavy and horrible beating of her heart?\nMADMAN!\" here he sprang furiously to his feet, and shrieked out\nhis syllables, as if in the effort he were giving up his\nsoul--\"MADMAN! I TELL YOU THAT SHE NOW STANDS WITHOUT THE\nDOOR!\"\n\nAs if in the superhuman energy of his utterance there had been found the\npotency of a spell--the huge antique panels to which the speaker\npointed, threw slowly back, upon the instant, their ponderous and ebony\njaws. It was the work of the rushing gust--but then without those doors\nthere DID stand the lofty and enshrouded figure of the Lady\nMadeline of Usher. There was blood upon her white robes, and the\nevidence of some bitter struggle upon every portion of her emaciated\nframe. For a moment she remained trembling and reeling to and fro upon\nthe threshold, then, with a low moaning cry, fell heavily inward upon\nthe person of her brother, and in her violent and now final\ndeath-agonies, bore him to the floor a corpse, and a victim to the\nterrors he had anticipated.\n\nFrom that chamber, and from that mansion, I fled aghast. The storm was\nstill abroad in all its wrath as I found myself crossing the old\ncauseway. Suddenly there shot along the path a wild light, and I turned\nto see whence a gleam so unusual could have issued; for the vast house\nand its shadows were alone behind me. The radiance was that of the full,\nsetting, and blood-red moon which now shone vividly through that once\nbarely discernible fissure of which I have before spoken as extending\nfrom the roof of the building, in a zigzag direction, to the base.\nWhile I gazed, this fissure rapidly widened--there came a fierce breath\nof the whirlwind--the entire orb of the satellite burst at once upon my\nsight--my brain reeled as I saw the mighty walls rushing asunder--there\nwas a long tumultuous shouting sound like the voice of a thousand\nwaters--and the deep and dank tarn at my feet closed sullenly and\nsilently over the fragments of the \"HOUSE OF USHER.\"\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[Footnote 1: Watson, Dr Percival, Spallanzani, and especially the Bishop\nof Landaff.]\n\n\n\n\nII\n\nTHE OLD NURSE'S STORY\n\nFrom \"The Portent\"\n\nBy GEORGE MACDONALD\n\n\nI set out one evening for the cottage of my old nurse, to bid her\ngood-bye for many months, probably years. I was to leave the next day\nfor Edinburgh, on my way to London, whence I had to repair by coach to\nmy new abode--almost to me like the land beyond the grave, so little did\nI know about it, and so wide was the separation between it and my home.\nThe evening was sultry when I began my walk, and before I arrived at its\nend, the clouds rising from all quarters of the horizon, and especially\ngathering around the peaks of the mountain, betokened the near approach\nof a thunderstorm. This was a great delight to me. Gladly would I take\nleave of my home with the memory of a last night of tumultuous\nmagnificence; followed, probably, by a day of weeping rain, well suited\nto the mood of my own heart in bidding farewell to the best of parents\nand the dearest of homes. Besides, in common with most Scotchmen who are\nyoung and hardy enough to be unable to realise the existence of coughs\nand rheumatic fevers, it was a positive pleasure to me to be out in\nrain, hail, or snow.\n\n\"I am come to bid you good-bye, Margaret, and to hear the story which\nyou promised to tell me before I left home: I go to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Do you go so soon, my darling? Well, it will be an awful night to tell\nit in; but, as I promised, I suppose I must.\"\n\nAt the moment, two or three great drops of rain, the first of the\nstorm, fell down the wide chimney, exploding in the clear turf-fire.\n\n\"Yes, indeed you must,\" I replied.\n\nAfter a short pause, she commenced. Of course she spoke in Gaelic; and I\ntranslate from my recollection of the Gaelic; but rather from the\nimpression left upon my mind, than from any recollection of words. She\ndrew her chair near the fire, which we had reason to fear would soon be\nput out by the falling rain, and began.\n\n\"How old the story is, I do not know. It has come down through many\ngenerations. My grandmother told it to me as I tell it to you; and her\nmother and my mother sat beside, never interrupting, but nodding their\nheads at every turn. Almost it ought to begin like the fairy tales,\n_Once upon a time_,--it took place so long ago; but it is too dreadful\nand too true to tell like a fairy tale.--There were two brothers, sons\nof the chief of our clan, but as different in appearance and disposition\nas two men could be. The elder was fair-haired and strong, much given to\nhunting and fishing; fighting too, upon occasion, I daresay, when they\nmade a foray upon the Saxon, to get back a mouthful of their own. But he\nwas gentleness itself to everyone about him, and the very soul of honour\nin all his doings. The younger was very dark in complexion, and tall and\nslender compared to his brother. He was very fond of book-learning,\nwhich, they say, was an uncommon taste in those times. He did not care\nfor any sports or bodily exercises but one; and that, too, was unusual\nin these parts. It was horsemanship. He was a fierce rider, and as much\nat home in the saddle as in his study-chair. You may think that, so long\nago, there was not much fit room for riding hereabouts; but, fit or not\nfit, he rode. From his reading and riding, the neighbours looked\ndoubtfully upon him, and whispered about the black art. He usually\nbestrode a great powerful black horse, without a white hair on him; and\npeople said it was either the devil himself, or a demon-horse from the\ndevil's own stud. What favoured this notion was that in or out of the\nstable, the brute would let no other than his master go near him.\nIndeed, no one would venture, after he had killed two men, and\ngrievously maimed a third, tearing him with his teeth and hoofs like a\nwild beast. But to his master he was obedient as a hound, and would even\ntremble in his presence sometimes.\n\n\"The youth's temper corresponded to his habits. He was both gloomy and\npassionate. Prone to anger, he had never been known to forgive. Debarred\nfrom anything on which he had set his heart, he would have gone mad with\nlonging if he had not gone mad with rage. His soul was like the night\naround us now, dark, and sultry, and silent, but lighted up by the red\nlevin of wrath, and torn by the bellowings of thunder-passion. He must\nhave his will: hell might have his soul. Imagine, then, the rage and\nmalice in his heart, when he suddenly became aware that an orphan girl,\ndistantly related to them, who had lived with them for nearly two years,\nand whom he had loved for almost all that period, was loved by his elder\nbrother, and loved him in return. He flung his right hand above his\nhead, and swore a terrible oath that if he might not, his brother should\nnot, rushed out of the house, and galloped off among the hills.\n\n\"The orphan was a beautiful girl, tall, pale, and slender, with\nplentiful dark hair, which, when released from the snood, rippled down\nbelow her knees. Her appearance formed a strong contrast with that of\nher favoured lover, while there was some resemblance between her and the\nyounger brother. This fact seemed, to his fierce selfishness, ground for\na prior claim.\n\n\"It may appear strange that a man like him should not have had instant\nrecourse to his superior and hidden knowledge, by means of which he\nmight have got rid of his rival with far more of certainty and less of\nrisk; but I presume that, for the moment, his passion overwhelmed his\nconsciousness of skill. Yet I do not suppose that he foresaw the mode in\nwhich his hatred was about to operate. At the moment when he learned\ntheir mutual attachment, probably through a domestic, the lady was on\nher way to meet her lover as he returned from the day's sport. The\nappointed place was on the edge of a deep, rocky ravine, down in whose\ndark bosom brawled and foamed a little mountain torrent. You know the\nplace, Duncan, my dear, I daresay.\"\n\n(Here she gave me a minute description of the spot, with directions how\nto find it.)\n\n\"Whether any one saw what I am about to relate, or whether it was put\ntogether afterwards, I cannot tell. The story is like an old tree--so\nold that it has lost the marks of its growth. But this is how my\ngrandmother told it to me. An evil chance led him in the right\ndirection. The lovers, startled by the sound of the approaching horse,\nparted in opposite directions along a narrow mountain-path on the edge\nof the ravine. Into this path he struck at a point near where the lovers\nhad met, but to opposite sides of which they had now receded; so that he\nwas between them on the path. Turning his horse up the course of the\nstream, he soon came in sight of his brother on the ledge before him.\nWith a suppressed scream of rage, he rode headlong at him, and, ere he\nhad time to make the least defence, hurled him over the precipice. The\nhelplessness of the strong man was uttered in one single despairing cry\nas he shot into the abyss. Then all was still. The sound of his fall\ncould not reach the edge of the gulf. Divining in a moment that the\nlady, whose name was Elsie, must have fled in the opposite direction, he\nreined his steed on his haunches. He could touch the precipice with his\nbridle-hand half outstretched; his sword-hand half outstretched would\nhave dropped a stone to the bottom of the ravine. There was no room to\nwheel. One desperate practibility alone remained. Turning his horse's\nhead towards the edge, he compelled him, by means of the powerful bit,\nto rear till he stood almost erect; and so, his body swaying over the\ngulf, with quivering and straining muscles, to turn on his hind legs.\nHaving completed the half-circle, he let him drop, and urged him\nfuriously in the opposite direction. It must have been by the devil's\nown care that he was able to continue his gallop along that ledge of\nrock.\n\n\"He soon caught sight of the maiden. She was leaning, half fainting,\nagainst the precipice. She had beard her lover's last cry, and, although\nit had conveyed no suggestion of his voice to her ear, she trembled from\nhead to foot, and her limbs would bear her no farther. He checked his\nspeed, rode gently up to her, lifted her unresisting, laid her across\nthe shoulders of his horse, and, riding carefully till he reached a more\nopen path, dashed again wildly along the mountain side. The lady's long\nhair was shaken loose, and dropped, trailing on the ground. The horse\ntrampled upon it, and stumbled, half dragging her from the saddle-bow.\nHe caught her, lifted her up, and looked at her face. She was dead. I\nsuppose he went mad. He laid her again across the saddle before him, and\nrode on, reckless whither. Horse, and man, and maiden were found the\nnext day, lying at the foot of a cliff, dashed to pieces. It was\nobserved that a hind shoe of the horse was loose and broken. Whether\nthis had been the cause of his fall, could not be told; but ever when he\nraces, as race he will, till the day of doom, along that mountain side,\nhis gallop is mingled with the clank of the loose and broken shoe. For,\nlike the sin, the punishment is awful; he shall carry about for ages the\nphantom-body of the girl, knowing that her soul is away, sitting with\nthe soul of his brother, down in the deep ravine, or scaling with him\nthe topmost crags of the towering mountain peaks. There are some who,\nfrom time to time, see the doomed man careering along the face of the\nmountain, with the lady hanging across the steed; and they say it always\nbetokens a storm, such as this which is now raving about us.\"\n\nI had not noticed till now, so absorbed had I been in her tale, that the\nstorm had risen to a very ecstasy of fury.\n\n\"They say, likewise, that the lady's hair is still growing; for, every\ntime they see her, it is longer than before; and that now such is its\nlength and the headlong speed of the horse, that it floats and streams\nout behind, like one of those curved clouds, like a comet's tail, far up\nin the sky; only the cloud is white, and the hair dark as night. And\nthey say it will go on growing until the Last Day, when the horse will\nfalter, and her hair will gather in; and the horse will fall, and the\nhair will twist, and twine, and wreathe itself like a mist of threads\nabout him, and blind him to everything but her. Then the body will rise\nup within it, face to face with him, animated by a fiend, who, twining\n_her_ arms around him, will drag him down to the bottomless pit.\"\n\nI may mention something which now occurred, and which had a strange\neffect on my old nurse. It illustrates the assertion that we see around\nus only what is within us; marvellous things enough will show themselves\nto the marvellous mood. During a short lull in the storm, just as she\nhad finished her story, we heard the sound of iron-shod hoofs\napproaching the cottage. There was no bridle-way into the glen. A knock\ncame to the door, and, on opening it, we saw an old man seated on a\nhorse, with a long, slenderly-filled sack lying across the saddle before\nhim. He said he had lost the path in the storm, and, seeing the light,\nhad scrambled down to inquire his way. I perceived at once, from the\nscared and mysterious look of the old woman's eyes, that she was\npersuaded that this appearance had more than a little to do with the\nawful rider, the terrific storm, and myself who had heard the sound of\nthe phantom hoofs. As he ascended the hill, she looked after him, with\nwide and pale but unshrinking eyes; then turning in, shut and locked the\ndoor behind her, as by a natural instinct. After two or three of her\nsignificant nods, accompanied by the compression of her lips, she\nsaid:--\n\n\"He need not think to take me in, wizard as he is, with his disguises. I\ncan see him through them all. Duncan, my dear, when you suspect\nanything, do not be too incredulous. This human demon is, of course, a\nwizard still, and knows how to make himself, as well as anything he\ntouches, take a quite different appearance from the real one; only every\nappearance must bear some resemblance, however distant, to the natural\nform. That man you saw at the door, was the phantom of which I have been\ntelling you. What he is after now, of course, I cannot tell; but you\nmust keep a bold heart, and a firm and wary foot, as you go home\nto-night.\"\n\nI showed some surprise, I do not doubt, and, perhaps, some fear as well;\nbut I only said: \"How do you know him, Margaret?\"\n\n\"I can hardly tell you,\" she replied; \"but I do know him. I think he\nhates me. Often, of a wild night, when there is moonlight enough by\nfits, I see him tearing round this little valley, just on the top\nedge--all round; the lady's hair and the horse's mane and tail driving\nfar behind, and mingling, vaporous, with the stormy clouds. About he\ngoes, in wild careering gallop; now lost as the moon goes in, then\nvisible far round when she looks out again--an airy, pale-grey spectre,\nwhich few eyes but mine could see; for, as far as I am aware, no one of\nthe family but myself has ever possessed the double gift of seeing and\nhearing both. In this case I hear no sound, except now and then a clank\nfrom the broken shoe. But I did not mean to tell you that I had ever\nseen him. I am not a bit afraid of him. He cannot do more than he may.\nHis power is limited; else ill enough would he work, the miscreant.\"\n\n\"But,\" said I, \"what has all this, terrible as it is, to do with the\nfright you took at my telling you that I had heard the sound of the\nbroken shoe? Surely you are not afraid of only a storm?\"\n\n\"No, my boy; I fear no storm. But the fact is, that that sound is seldom\nheard, and never, as far as I know, by any of the blood of that wicked\nman, without betokening some ill to one of the family, and most probably\nto the one who hears it--but I am not quite sure about that. Only some\nevil it does portend, although a long time may elapse before it shows\nitself; and I have a hope it may mean some one else than you.\"\n\n\"Do not wish that,\" I replied. \"I know no one better able to bear it\nthan I am; and I hope, whatever it may be, that I only shall have to\nmeet it. It must surely be something serious to be so foretold--it can\nhardly be connected with my disappointment in being compelled to be a\npedagogue instead of a soldier.\"\n\n\"Do not trouble yourself about that, Duncan,\" replied she. \"A soldier\nyou must be. The same day you told me of the clank of the broken\nhorseshoe, I saw you return wounded from battle, and fall fainting from\nyour horse in the street of a great city--only fainting, thank God. But\nI have particular reasons for being uneasy at _your_ hearing that boding\nsound. Can you tell me the day and hour of your birth?\"\n\n\"No,\" I replied. \"It seems very odd when I think of it, but I really do\nnot know even the day.\"\n\n\"Nor any one else, which is stranger still,\" she answered.\n\n\"How does that happen, nurse?\"\n\n\"We were in terrible anxiety about your mother at the time. So ill was\nshe, after you were just born, in a strange, unaccountable way, that you\nlay almost neglected for more than an hour. In the very act of giving\nbirth to you, she seemed to the rest around her to be out of her mind,\nso wildly did she talk; but I knew better. I knew that she was fighting\nsome evil power; and what power it was, I knew full well; for twice,\nduring her pains, I heard the click of the horseshoe. But no one could\nhelp her. After her delivery, she lay as if in a trance, neither dead,\nnor at rest, but as if frozen to ice, and conscious of it all the while.\nOnce more I heard the terrible sound of iron; and, at the moment your\nmother started from her trance, screaming, 'My child! my child!' We\nsuddenly became aware that no one had attended to the child, and rushed\nto the place where he lay wrapped in a blanket. Uncovering him, we found\nhim black in the face, and spotted with dark spots upon the throat. I\nthought he was dead; but, with great and almost hopeless pains, we\nsucceeded in making him breathe, and he gradually recovered. But his\nmother continued dreadfully exhausted. It seemed as if she had spent her\nlife for her child's defence and birth. That was you, Duncan, my dear.\n\n\"I was in constant attendance upon her. About a week after your birth,\nas near as I can guess, just in the gloaming, I heard yet again the\nawful clank--only once. Nothing followed till about midnight. Your\nmother slept, and you lay asleep beside her. I sat by the bedside. A\nhorror fell upon me suddenly, though I neither saw nor heard anything.\nYour mother started from her sleep with a cry, which sounded as if it\ncame from far away, out of a dream, and did not belong to this world. My\nblood curdled with fear. She sat up in bed, with wide staring eyes, and\nhalf-open rigid lips, and, feeble as she was, thrust her arms straight\nout before her with great force, her hands open and lifted up, with the\npalms outwards. The whole action was of one violently repelling another.\nShe began to talk wildly as she had done before you were born, but,\nthough I seemed to hear and understand it all at the time, I could not\nrecall a word of it afterwards. It was as if I had listened to it when\nhalf asleep. I attempted to soothe her, putting my arms round her, but\nshe seemed quite unconscious of my presence, and my arms seemed\npowerless upon the fixed muscles of hers. Not that I tried to constrain\nher, for I knew that a battle was going on of some kind or other, and my\ninterference might do awful mischief. I only tried to comfort and\nencourage her. All the time, I was in a state of indescribable cold and\nsuffering, whether more bodily or mental I could not tell. But at length\nI heard yet again the clank of the shoe. A sudden peace seemed to fall\nupon my mind--or was it a warm, odorous wind that filled the room? Your\nmother dropped her arms, and turned feebly towards her baby. She saw\nthat he slept a blessed sleep. She smiled like a glorified spirit, and\nfell back exhausted on the pillow. I went to the other side of the room\nto get a cordial. When I returned to the bedside, I saw at once that she\nwas dead. Her face smiled still, with an expression of the uttermost\nbliss.\"\n\nNurse ceased, trembling as overcome by the recollection; and I was too\nmuch moved and awed to speak. At length, resuming the conversation, she\nsaid: \"You see it is no wonder, Duncan, my dear, if, after all this, I\nshould find, when I wanted to fix the date of your birth, that I could\nnot determine the day or the hour when it took place. All was confusion\nin my poor brain. But it was strange that no one else could, any more\nthan I. One thing only I can tell you about it. As I carried you across\nthe room to lay you down--for I assisted at your birth--I happened to\nlook up to the window. Then I saw what I did not forget, although I did\nnot think of it again till many days after--a bright star was shining on\nthe very tip of the thin crescent moon.\"\n\n\"Oh, then,\" said I, \"it is possible to determine the day and the very\nhour when my birth took place.\"\n\n\"See the good of book-learning!\" replied she. \"When you work it out,\njust let me know, my dear, that I may remember it.\"\n\n\"That I will.\"\n\nA silence of some moments followed. Margaret resumed:\n\n\"I am afraid you will laugh at my foolish fancies, Duncan; but in\nthinking over all these things, as you may suppose I often do, lying\nawake in my lonely bed, the notion sometimes comes to me: What if my\nDuncan be the youth whom his wicked brother hurled into the ravine, come\nagain in a new body, to live out his life, cut short by his brother's\nhatred? If so, his persecution of you, and of your mother for your sake,\nis easy to understand. And if so, you will never be able to rest till\nyou find your fere, wherever she may have been born on the face of the\nearth. For born she must be, long ere now, for you to find. I misdoubt\nme much, however, if you will find her without great conflict and\nsuffering between, for the Powers of Darkness will be against you;\nthough I have good hope that you will overcome at last. You must forgive\nthe fancies of a foolish old woman, my dear.\"\n\nI will not try to describe the strange feelings, almost sensations, that\narose in me while listening to these extraordinary utterances, lest it\nshould be supposed I was ready to believe all that Margaret narrated or\nconcluded. I could not help doubting her sanity; but no more could I\nhelp feeling peculiarly moved by her narrative.\n\nFew more words were spoken on either side, but, after receiving renewed\nexhortations to carefulness on the way home, I said good-bye to dear old\nnurse, considerably comforted, I must confess, that I was not doomed to\nbe a tutor all my days; for I never questioned the truth of that vision\nand its consequent prophecy.\n\nI went out into the midst of the storm, into the alternating throbs of\nblackness and radiance; now the possessor of no more room than what my\nbody filled, and now isolated in world-wide space. And the thunder\nseemed to follow me, bellowing after me as I went.\n\nAbsorbed in the story I had heard, I took my way, as I thought,\nhomewards. The whole country was well known to me. I should have said,\nbefore that night, that I could have gone home blindfold. Whether the\nlightning bewildered me and made me take a false turn, I cannot tell,\nfor the hardest thing to understand, in intellectual as well as moral\nmistakes, is how we came to go wrong. But after wandering for some time,\nplunged in meditation, and with no warning whatever of the presence of\ninimical powers, a brilliant lightning-flash showed me that at least I\nwas not near home. The light was prolonged for a second or two by a\nslight electric pulsation; and by that I distinguished a wide space of\nblackness on the ground in front of me. Once more wrapt in the folds of\na thick darkness, I dared not move. Suddenly it occurred to me what the\nblackness was, and whither I had wandered. It was a huge quarry, of\ngreat depth, long disused, and half filled with water. I knew the place\nperfectly. A few more steps would have carried me over the brink. I\nstood still, waiting for the next flash, that I might be quite sure of\nthe way I was about to take before I ventured to move. While I stood, I\nfancied I heard a single hollow plunge in the black water far below.\nWhen the lightning came, I turned, and took my path in another\ndirection. After walking for some time across the heath, I fell. The\nfall became a roll, and down a steep declivity I went, over and over,\narriving at the bottom uninjured.\n\nAnother flash soon showed me where I was--in the hollow valley, within a\ncouple of hundred yards from nurse's cottage. I made my way towards it.\nThere was no light in it, except the feeblest glow from the embers of\nher peat fire. \"She is in bed,\" I said to myself, \"and I will not\ndisturb her.\" Yet something drew me towards the little window. I looked\nin. At first I could see nothing. At length, as I kept gazing, I saw\nsomething, indistinct in the darkness, like an outstretched human form.\n\nBy this time the storm had lulled. The moon had been up for some time,\nbut had been quite concealed by tempestuous clouds. Now, however, these\nhad begun to break up; and, while I stood looking into the cottage, they\nscattered away from the face of the moon, and a faint, vapoury gleam of\nher light, entering the cottage through a window opposite that at which\nI stood, fell directly on the face of my old nurse, as she lay on her\nback outstretched upon chairs, pale as death, and with her eyes closed.\nThe light fell nowhere but on her face. A stranger to her habits would\nhave thought that she was dead; but she had so much of the appearance\nshe had had on a former occasion, that I concluded at once she was in\none of her trances. But having often heard that persons in such a\ncondition ought not to be disturbed, and feeling quite sure she knew\nbest how to manage herself, I turned, though reluctantly, and left the\nlone cottage behind me in the night, with the death-like woman lying\nmotionless in the midst of it.\n\nI found my way home without any further difficulty, and went to bed,\nwhere I soon fell asleep, thoroughly wearied, more by the mental\nexcitement I had been experiencing, than by the amount of bodily\nexercise I had gone through.\n\nMy sleep was tormented with awful dreams; yet, strange to say, I awoke\nin the morning refreshed and fearless. The sun was shining through the\nchinks in my shutters, which had been closed because of the storm, and\nwas making streaks and bands of golden brilliancy upon the wall. I had\ndressed and completed my preparations long before I heard the steps of\nthe servant who came to call me.\n\nWhat a wonderful thing waking is! The time of the ghostly moonshine\npasses by, and the great positive sunlight comes. A man who dreams, and\nknows that he is dreaming, thinks he knows what waking is; but knows it\nso little that he mistakes, one after another, many a vague and dim\nchange in his dream for an awaking. When the true waking comes at last,\nhe is filled and overflowed with the power of its reality. So, likewise,\none who, in the darkness, lies waiting for the light about to be struck,\nand trying to conceive, with all the force of his imagination, what the\nlight will be like, is yet, when the reality flames up before him,\nseized as by a new and unexpected thing, different from and beyond all\nhis imagining. He feels as if the darkness were cast to an infinite\ndistance behind him. So shall it be with us when we wake from this dream\nof life into the truer life beyond, and find all our present notions of\nbeing thrown back as into a dim vapoury region of dreamland, where yet\nwe thought we knew, and whence we looked forward into the present. This\nmust be what Novalis means when he says: \"Our life is not a dream; but\nit may become a dream, and perhaps ought to become one.\"\n\nAnd so I look back upon the strange history of my past, sometimes asking\nmyself: \"Can it be that all this has really happened to the same _me_,\nwho am now thinking about it in doubt and wonderment?\"\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\nTHE SUPERSTITIOUS MAN'S STORY\n\nBy THOMAS HARDY\n\n\n\"There was something very strange about William's death--very strange\nindeed!\" sighed a melancholy man in the back of the van. It was the\nseedman's father, who had hitherto kept silence.\n\n\"And what might that have been?\" asked Mr Lackland.\n\n\"William, as you may know, was a curious, silent man; you could feel\nwhen he came near 'ee; and if he was in the house or anywhere behind you\nwithout your seeing him, there seemed to be something clammy in the air,\nas if a cellar door opened close by your elbow. Well, one Sunday, at a\ntime that William was in very good health to all appearance, the bell\nthat was ringing for church went very heavy all of a sudden; the sexton,\nwho told me o't, said he had not known the bell go so heavy in his hand\nfor years--it was just as if the gudgeons wanted oiling. That was on the\nSunday, as I say.\n\n\"During the week after, it chanced that William's wife was staying up\nlate one night to finish her ironing, she doing the washing for Mr and\nMrs Hardcome. Her husband had finished his supper, and gone to bed as\nusual some hour or two before. While she ironed she heard him coming\ndownstairs; he stopped to put on his boots at the stair-foot, where he\nalways left them, and then came on into the living-room where she was\nironing, passing through it towards the door, this being the only way\nfrom the staircase to the outside of the house. No word was said on\neither side, William not being a man given to much speaking, and his\nwife being occupied with her work. He went out and closed the door\nbehind him. As her husband had now and then gone out in this way at\nnight before when unwell, or unable to sleep for want of a pipe, she\ntook no particular notice, and continued at her ironing. This she\nfinished shortly after, and, as he had not come in, she waited awhile\nfor him, putting away the irons and things, and preparing the table for\nhis breakfast in the morning. Still he did not return, but supposing him\nnot far off, and wanting to go to bed herself, tired as she was, she\nleft the door unbarred and went to the stairs, after writing on the back\nof the door with chalk: _Mind and do the door_ (because he was a\nforgetful man).\n\n\"To her great surprise, and I might say alarm, on reaching the foot of\nthe stairs his boots were standing there as they always stood when he\nhad gone to rest. Going up to their chamber, she found him in bed\nsleeping as sound as a rock. How he could have got back again without\nher seeing or hearing him was beyond her comprehension. It could only\nhave been by passing behind her very quietly while she was bumping with\nthe iron. But this notion did not satisfy her: it was surely impossible\nthat she should not have seen him come in through a room so small. She\ncould not unravel the mystery, and felt very queer and uncomfortable\nabout it. However, she would not disturb him to question him then, and\nwent to bed herself.\n\n\"He rose and left for his work very early the next morning, before she\nwas awake, and she waited his return to breakfast with much anxiety for\nan explanation, for thinking over the matter by daylight made it seem\nonly the more startling. When he came in to the meal he said, before she\ncould put her question, 'What's the meaning of them words chalked on the\ndoor?'\n\n\"She told him, and asked him about his going out the night before.\nWilliam declared that he had never left the bedroom after entering it,\nhaving in fact undressed, lain down, and fallen asleep directly, never\nonce waking till the clock struck five, and he rose up to go to his\nlabour.\n\n\"Betty Privett was as certain in her own mind that he did go out as she\nwas of her own existence, and was little less certain that he did not\nreturn. She felt too disturbed to argue with him, and let the subject\ndrop as though she must have been mistaken. When she was walking down\nLongpuddle Street later in the day she met Jim Weedle's daughter Nancy,\nand said: 'Well Nancy, you do look sleepy to-day!'\n\n\"'Yes, Mrs Privett,' said Nancy. 'Now, don't tell anybody, but I don't\nmind letting you know what the reason o't is. Last night, being Old\nMidsummer Eve, some of us church porch, and didn't get home till near\none.'\n\n\"'Did ye?' says Mrs Privett. 'Old Midsummer yesterday was it? Faith, I\ndidn't think whe'r 'twas Midsummer or Michaelmas; I'd too much work to\ndo.'\n\n\"'Yes. And we were frightened enough, I can tell 'ee by what we saw.'\n\n\"'What did ye see?'\n\n\"(You may not remember, sir, having gone off to foreign parts so young,\nthat on Midsummer Night it is believed hereabout that the faint shapes\nof all the folk in the parish who are going to be at death's door within\nthe year can be seen entering the church. Those who get over their\nillness come out again after awhile; those that are doomed to die do not\nreturn.)\n\n\"'What did you see?' asked William's wife.\n\n\"'Well,' says Nancy, backwardly--'we needn't tell what we saw or who we\nsaw.'\n\n\"'You saw my husband,' said Betty Privett in a quiet way.\n\n\"'Well, since you put it so,' says Nancy, hanging fire, 'we--thought we\ndid see him; but it was darkish and we was frightened, and of course it\nmight not have been he.'\n\n\"'Nancy, you needn't mind letting it out, though 'tis kept back in\nkindness. And he didn't come out of the church again: I know it as well\nas you.'\n\n\"Nancy did not answer yes or no to that, and no more was said. But three\ndays after, William Privett was mowing with John Chiles in Mr Hardcome's\nmeadow, and in the heat of the day they sat down to their bit o' nunch\nunder a tree, and empty their flagon. Afterwards both of 'em fell asleep\nas they sat. John Chiles was the first to wake, and, as he looked\ntowards his fellow-mower, he saw one of those great white miller's-souls\nas we call 'em--that is to say, a miller moth--come from William's open\nmouth while he slept and fly straight away. John thought it odd enough,\nas William had worked in a mill for several years when he was a boy. He\nthen looked at the sun, and found by the place o't that they had slept a\nlong while, and, as William did not wake, John called to him and said it\nwas high time to begin work again. He took no notice, and then John went\nup and shook him and found he was dead.\n\n\"Now on that very day old Philip Hookhorn was down at Longpuddle Spring,\ndipping up a pitcher of water; and, as he turned away, who should he see\ncoming down to the spring on the other side but William, looking very\npale and old? This surprised Philip Hookhorn very much, for years before\nthat time William's little son--his only child--had been drowned in that\nspring while at play there, and this had so preyed upon William's mind\nthat he'd never been seen near the spring afterwards, and had been known\nto go half a mile out of his way to avoid the place. On enquiry, it was\nfound that William in body could not have stood by the spring, being in\nthe mead two miles off; and it also came out that at the time at which\nhe was seen at the spring was the very time when he died.\"\n\n\"A rather melancholy story,\" observed the emigrant, after a minute's\nsilence.\n\n\"Yes, yes. Well, we must take ups and downs together,\" said the\nseedman's father.\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\nA STORY OF RAVENNA\n\nBy BOCCACCIO\n\n\nRavenna being a very ancient city in Romagna, there dwelt sometime a\ngreat number of worthy gentlemen, among whom I am to speak of one more\nespecially, named Anastasio, descended from the family of Onesti, who by\nthe death of his father, and an uncle of his, was left extraordinarily\nabounding in riches and growing to years fitting for marriage. As young\ngallants are easily apt enough to do, he became enamoured of a very\nbeautiful gentlewoman, who was daughter of Messer Paolo Traversario, one\nof the most ancient and noble families in all the country. Nor made he\nany doubt, by his means and industrious endeavour, to derive affection\nfrom her again, for he carried himself like a braveminded gentleman,\nliberal in his expenses, honest and affable in all his actions, which\ncommonly are the true notes of a good nature, and highly to be commended\nin any man. But, howsoever, fortune became his enemy; these laudable\nparts of manhood did not any way friend him, but rather appeared hurtful\nto himself, so cruel, unkind, and almost merely savage did she show\nherself to him, perhaps in pride of her singular beauty or presuming on\nher nobility by birth, both which are rather blemishes than ornaments in\na woman when they be especially abused. The harsh and uncivil usage in\nher grew very distasteful to Anastasio, and so insufferable that after a\nlong time of fruitless service, requited still with nothing but coy\ndisdain, desperate resolutions entered into his brain, and often he was\nminded to kill himself. But better thoughts supplanting those furious\npassions, he abstained from such a violent act, and governed by mere\nmanly consideration, determined that as she hated him, he would requite\nher with the like, if he could, wherein he became altogether deceived,\nbecause as his hopes grew to a daily decaying, yet his love enlarged\nitself more and more.\n\nThus Anastasio persevering still in his bootless affection, and his\nexpenses not limited within any compass, it appeared in the judgment of\nhis kindred and friends that he was fallen into a mighty consumption,\nboth of his body and means. In which respects many times they advised\nhim to leave the city of Ravenna, and live in some other place for such\na while as might set a more moderate stint upon his spendings, and\nbridle the indiscreet course of his love, the only fuel which fed his\nfurious fire.\n\nAnastasio held out thus a long time, without lending an ear to such\nfriendly counsel; but in the end he was so closely followed by them, as\nbeing no longer able to deny them, he promised to accomplish their\nrequest. Whereupon making such extraordinary preparation as if he were\nto set out thence for France or Spain, or else into some further\ncountry, he mounted on horseback, and accompanied with some few of his\nfamiliar friends, departed from Ravenna, and rode to a country\ndwelling-house of his own, about three or four miles distant from the\ncity, at a place called Chiassi; and there upon a very good green\nerecting divers tents and pavilions, such as great persons make use of\nin the time of progress, he said to his friends which came with him\nthither that there he determined to make his abiding, they all returning\nback unto Ravenna, and coming to visit him again so often as they\npleased.\n\nNow it came to pass that about the beginning of May, it being then a\nvery mild and serene season, and he leading there a much more\nmagnificent life than ever he had done before, inviting divers to dine\nwith him this day and as many to-morrow, and not to leave him till after\nsupper, upon a sudden falling into remembrance of his cruel mistress, he\ncommanded all his servants to forbear his company, and suffer him to\nwalk alone by himself a while, because he had occasion of private\nmeditations, wherein he would not by any means be troubled. It was then\nabout the ninth hour of the day, and he walking on solitary all alone,\nhaving gone some half a mile distance from the tents, entered into a\ngrove of pine-trees, never minding dinner-time or anything else, but\nonly the unkind requital of his love.\n\nSuddenly he heard the voice of a woman seeming to make most mournful\ncomplaints, which breaking off his silent considerations, made him to\nlift up his head to know the reason of this noise. When he saw himself\nso far entered into the grove before he could imagine where he was, he\nlooked amazedly round about him, and out of a little thicket of bushes\nand briars round engirt with spreading trees, he espied a young damsel\ncome running towards him, naked from the middle upward, her hair lying\non her shoulders, and her fair skin rent and torn with the briars and\nbrambles, so that the blood ran trickling down mainly, she weeping,\nwringing her hands, and crying out for mercy so loud as she could. Two\nfierce bloodhounds also followed swiftly after, and where their teeth\ntook hold did most cruelly bite her. Last of all, mounted on a lusty\nblack courser, came galloping a knight, with a very stern and angry\ncountenance, holding a drawn short sword in his hand, giving her very\ndreadful speeches, and threatening every minute to kill her.\n\nThis strange and uncouth sight bred in him no mean admiration, as also\nkind compassion to the unfortunate woman, out of which compassion sprung\nan earnest desire to deliver her, if he could, from a death so full of\nanguish and horror; but seeing himself to be without arms, he ran and\nplucked up the plant of a tree, which handling as if it had been a\nstaff, he opposed himself against the dogs and the knight, who seeing\nhim coming, cried out in this manner to him: \"Anastasio, put not thyself\nin any opposition, but refer to my hounds and me to punish this wicked\nwoman as she hath justly deserved.\" And in speaking these words, the\nhounds took fast hold on her body, so staying her until the knight was\ncome nearer to her, and alighted from his horse, when Anastasio, after\nsome other angry speeches, spake thus to him: \"I cannot tell what or who\nthou art, albeit thou takest such knowledge of me, yet I must say it is\nmere cowardice in a knight, being armed as thou art, to offer to kill a\nnaked woman, and make thy dogs thus to seize on her, as if she were a\nsavage beast; therefore, believe me, I will defend her so far as I am\nable.\"\n\n\"Anastasio,\" answered the knight, \"I am of the same city as thou art,\nand do well remember that thou wast a little lad when I, who was then\nnamed Guido Anastasio, and thine uncle, became as entirely in love with\nthis woman as now thou art with Paolo Traversario's daughter. But\nthrough her coy disdain and cruelty, such was my heavy fate that\ndesperately I slew myself with this short sword which thou beholdest in\nmine hand; for which rash sinful deed I was and am condemned to eternal\npunishment. This wicked woman, rejoicing immeasurably in mine unhappy\ndeath, remained no long time alive after me, and for her merciless sin\nof cruelty, and taking pleasure in my oppressing torments, dying\nunrepentant, and in pride of her scorn, she had the like sentence of\ncondemnation pronounced on her, and was sent to the same place where I\nwas condemned.\n\n\"There the three impartial judges imposed this further infliction on us\nboth--namely, that she should fly in this manner before me, and I, who\nloved her so dearly while I lived, must pursue her as my deadly enemy,\nnot like a woman that had a taste of love in her. And so often as I can\novertake her, I am to kill her with this sword, the same weapon\nwherewith I slew myself. Then am I enjoined therewith to open her\naccursed body, and tear out her heart, with her other inwards, as now\nthou seest me do, which I give to my hounds to feed on. Afterward--such\nis the appointment of the supreme powers--that she re-assumeth life\nagain, even as if she had not been dead at all, and falling to the same\nkind of flight, I with my hounds am still to follow her, without any\nrespite or intermission. Every Friday, and just at this hour, our course\nis this way, where she suffereth the just punishment inflicted on her.\nNor do we rest any of the other days, but are appointed unto other\nplaces, where she cruelly executed her malice against me, who am now, of\nher dear affectionate friend, ordained to be her endless enemy, and to\npursue her in this manner for so many years as she exercised months of\ncruelty towards me. Hinder me not, then, in being the executioner of\nDivine justice, for all thy interposition is but in vain in seeking to\ncross the appointment of supreme powers.\"\n\nAnastasio having heard all this discourse, his hair stood upright, like\nporcupines' quills, and his soul was so shaken with the terror, that he\nstepped back to suffer the knight to do what he was enjoined, looking\nyet with mild commiseration on the poor woman, who kneeling most humbly\nbefore the knight, and sternly seized on by the two bloodhounds, he\nopened her breast with his weapon, drawing forth her heart and bowels,\nwhich instantly he threw to the dogs, and they devoured them very\ngreedily. Soon after the damsel, as if none of this punishment had been\ninflicted on her, started up suddenly, running amain towards the\nseashore, and the hounds swiftly following her, as the knight did the\nlike, after he had taken his sword and was mounted on horseback, so that\nAnastasio had soon lost all sight of them, and could not guess what\ncould become of them.\n\nAfter he had heard and observed all these things, he stood a while as\nconfounded with fear and pity, like a simple silly man, hoodwinked with\nhis own passions, not knowing the subtle enemy's cunning illusions in\noffering false suggestions to the sight, to work his own ends thereby,\nand increase the number of his deceived servants. Forthwith he persuaded\nhimself that he might make good use of this woman's tormenting, so\njustly imposed on the knight to prosecute, if thus it should continue\nstill every Friday. Wherefore setting a good note or mark upon the\nplace, he returned back to his own people, and at such times as he\nthought convenient, sent for divers of his kindred and friends from\nRavenna, who being present with him, thus he spake to them:\n\n\"Dear kinsmen and friends, ye have long while importuned me to\ndiscontinue my over-doating love to her whom you all think, and I find\nto be my mortal enemy; as also to give over my lavish expenses, wherein\nI confess myself too prodigal; both which requests of yours I will\ncondescend to, provided that you will perform one gracious favour for\nme--namely, that on Friday next, Messer Paolo Traversario, his wife,\ndaughter, with all other women linked in lineage to them, and such\nbeside only as you shall please to appoint, will vouchsafe to accept a\ndinner here with me. As for the reason thereto moving me, you shall then\nmore at large be acquainted withal.\" This appeared no difficult matter\nfor them to accomplish. Wherefore being returned to Ravenna, and as they\nfound the time answerable to their purpose, they invited such as\nAnastasio had appointed them. And although they found it somewhat a hard\nmatter to gain her company whom he had so dearly affected, yet\nnotwithstanding, the other women won her along with them.\n\nA most magnificent dinner had Anastasio provided, and the tables were\ncovered under the pine-trees, where he saw the cruel lady so pursued and\nslain; directing the guests so in their seating that the young\ngentlewoman, his unkind mistress, sate with her face opposite unto the\nplace where the dismal spectacle was to be seen. About the closing up of\ndinner, they began to hear the noise of the poor persecuted woman, which\ndrove them all to much admiration, desiring to know what it was, and no\none resolving them they rose from the tables, and looking directly as\nthe noise came to them, they espied the woful woman, the dogs eagerly\npursuing her; the knight galloping after them with his drawn weapon, and\ncame very near unto the company, who cried out with loud exclaims\nagainst the dogs, and the knights stepped forth in assistance of the\ninjured woman.\n\nThe knight spake unto them as formerly he had done to Anastasio, which\nmade them draw back possessed with fear and admiration, while he acted\nthe same cruelty as he did the Friday before, not differing in the least\ndegree. Most of the gentlewomen there present, being near allied to the\nunfortunate woman, and likewise to the knight, remembering well both his\nlove and death, did shed tears as plentifully as if it had been to the\nvery persons themselves in usual performance of the action indeed. Which\ntragical scene being passed over, and the woman and knight gone out of\ntheir sight, all that had seen this strange accident fell into diversity\nof confused opinions, yet not daring to disclose them, as doubting some\nfurther danger to ensue thereon.\n\nBut beyond all the rest, none could compare in fear and astonishment\nwith the cruel young maid affected by Anastasio, who both saw and\nobserved all with a more inward apprehension, knowing very well that the\nmoral of this dismal spectacle carried a much nearer application to her\nthan any other in the company. For now she could call to mind how unkind\nand cruel she had shown herself to Anastasio, even as the other\ngentlewoman formerly did to her lover, still flying from him in great\ncontempt and scorn, for which she thought the bloodhounds also pursued\nher at the heels already, and a sword of vengeance to mangle her body.\nThis fear grew so powerful upon her, that to prevent the like heavy doom\nfrom falling on her, she studied, and therein bestowed all the night\nseason, how to change her hatred into kind love, which at the length she\nfully obtained, and then purposed to procure in this manner: Secretly\nshe sent a faithful chambermaid of her own to greet Anastasio on her\nbehalf, humbly entreating him to come see her, because now she was\nabsolutely determined to give him satisfaction in all which, with\nhonour, he could request of her. Whereto Anastasio answered that he\naccepted her message thankfully, and desired no other favour at her hand\nbut that which stood with her own offer, namely, to be his wife in\nhonourable marriage. The maid knowing sufficiently that he could not be\nmore desirous of the match than her mistress showed herself to be, made\nanswer in her name that this motion would be most welcome to her.\n\nHereupon the gentlewoman herself became the solicitor to her father and\nmother, telling them plainly that she was willing to be the wife of\nAnastasio; which news did so highly content them, that upon the Sunday\nnext following the marriage was very worthily solemnised, and they lived\nand loved together very kindly. Thus the Divine bounty, out of the\nmalignant enemy's secret machinations, can cause good effects to arise\nand succeed. For from this conceit of fearful imagination in her, not\nonly happened this long-desired conversion of a maid so obstinately\nscornful and proud, but likewise all the women of Ravenna, being\nadmonished by her example, grew afterward more tractable to men's honest\nmotions than ever they showed themselves before. And let me make some\nuse hereof, fair ladies, to you not to stand over-nicely conceited of\nyour beauty and good parts when men solicit you with their best\nservices. Remember then this disdainful gentlewoman, but more\nespecially her, who being the death of so kind a lover was therefore\ncondemned to perpetual punishment, and he made the minister thereof whom\nshe had cast off with coy disdain, from which I wish your minds to be\nfree, as mine is ready to do you any acceptable service.\n\n\n\n\nV\n\nTEIG O'KANE AND THE CORPSE\n\n[_Translated from the Irish_]\n\nBy Dr DOUGLAS HYDE\n\n\nThere was once a grown-up lad in the County Leitrim, and he was strong\nand lively, and the son of a rich farmer. His father had plenty of\nmoney, and he did not spare it on the son. Accordingly, when the boy\ngrew up he liked sport better than work, and, as his father had no other\nchildren, he loved this one so much that he allowed him to do in\neverything just as it pleased himself. He was very extravagant, and he\nused to scatter the gold money as another person would scatter the\nwhite. He was seldom to be found at home, but if there was a fair, or a\nrace, or a gathering within ten miles of him, you were dead certain to\nfind him there. And he seldom spent a night in his father's house, but\nhe used to be always out rambling, and, like Shawn Bwee long ago, there\nwas\n\n    \"gradh gach cailin i mbrollach a leine,\"\n\n\"the love of every girl in the breast of his shirt,\" and it's many's the\nkiss he got and he gave, for he was very handsome, and there wasn't a\ngirl in the country but would fall in love with him, only for him to\nfasten his two eyes on her, and it was for that someone made this _rann_\non him--\n\n    \"Look at the rogue, it's for kisses he's rambling,\n      It isn't much wonder, for that was his way;\n    He's like an old hedgehog, at night he'll be scrambling\n      From this place to that, but he'll sleep in the day.\"\n\nAt last he became very wild and unruly. He wasn't to be seen day or\nnight in his father's house, but always rambling or going on his\n_kailee_ (night visit) from place to place and from house to house, so\nthat the old people used to shake their heads and say to one another,\n\"It's easy seen what will happen to the land when the old man dies; his\nson will run through it in a year, and it won't stand him that long\nitself.\"\n\nHe used to be always gambling and card-playing and drinking, but his\nfather never minded his bad habits, and never punished him. But it\nhappened one day that the old man was told that the son had ruined the\ncharacter of a girl in the neighbourhood, and he was greatly angry, and\nhe called the son to him, and said to him, quietly and sensibly--\"Avic,\"\nsays he, \"you know I loved you greatly up to this, and I never stopped\nyou from doing your choice thing whatever it was, and I kept plenty of\nmoney with you, and I always hoped to leave you the house and land, and\nall I had after myself would be gone; but I heard a story of you to-day\nthat has disgusted me with you. I cannot tell you the grief that I felt\nwhen I heard such a thing of you, and I tell you now plainly that unless\nyou marry that girl I'll leave house and land and everything to my\nbrother's son. I never could leave it to anyone who would make so bad a\nuse of it as you do yourself, deceiving women and coaxing girls. Settle\nwith yourself now whether you'll marry that girl and get my land as a\nfortune with her, or refuse to marry her and give up all that was coming\nto you; and tell me in the morning which of the two things you have\nchosen.\"\n\n\"Och! _Domnoo Sheery_! father, you wouldn't say that to me, and I such a\ngood son as I am. Who told you I wouldn't marry the girl?\" says he.\n\nBut his father was gone, and the lad knew well enough that he would keep\nhis word too; and he was greatly troubled in his mind, for as quiet and\nas kind as the father was, he never went back of a word that he had\nonce said, and there wasn't another man in the country who was harder to\nbend than he was.\n\nThe boy did not know rightly what to do. He was in love with the girl\nindeed, and he hoped to marry her sometime or other, but he would much\nsooner have remained another while as he was, and follow on at his old\ntricks--drinking, sporting, and playing cards; and, along with that, he\nwas angry that his father should order him to marry, and should threaten\nhim if he did not do it.\n\n\"Isn't my father a great fool,\" says he to himself. \"I was ready enough,\nand only too anxious, to marry Mary; and now since he threatened me,\nfaith I've a great mind to let it go another while.\"\n\nHis mind was so much excited that he remained between two notions as to\nwhat he should do. He walked out into the night at last to cool his\nheated blood, and went on to the road. He lit a pipe, and as the night\nwas fine he walked and walked on, until the quick pace made him begin to\nforget his trouble. The night was bright, and the moon half full. There\nwas not a breath of wind blowing, and the air was calm and mild. He\nwalked on for nearly three hours, when he suddenly remembered that it\nwas late in the night, and time for him to turn. \"Musha! I think I\nforgot myself,\" says he; \"it must be near twelve o'clock now.\"\n\nThe word was hardly out of his mouth, when he heard the sound of many\nvoices, and the trampling of feet on the road before him. \"I don't know\nwho can be out so late at night as this, and on such a lonely road,\"\nsaid he to himself.\n\nHe stood listening, and he heard the voices of many people talking\nthrough other, but he could not understand what they were saying. \"Oh,\nwirra!\" says he, \"I'm afraid. It's not Irish or English they have; it\ncan't be they're Frenchmen!\" He went on a couple of yards further, and\nhe saw well enough by the light of the moon a band of little people\ncoming towards him, and they were carrying something big and heavy with\nthem. \"Oh, murder!\" says he to himself, \"sure it can't be that they're\nthe good people that's in it!\" Every _rib_ of hair that was on his head\nstood up, and there fell a shaking on his bones, for he saw that they\nwere coming to him fast.\n\nHe looked at them again, and perceived that there were about twenty\nlittle men in it, and there was not a man at all of them higher than\nabout three feet or three feet and a half, and some of them were grey,\nand seemed very old. He looked again, but he could not make out what was\nthe heavy thing they were carrying until they came up to him, and then\nthey all stood round about him. They threw the heavy thing down on the\nroad, and he saw on the spot that it was a dead body.\n\nHe became as cold as the Death, and there was not a drop of blood\nrunning in his veins when an old little grey _maneen_ came up to him and\nsaid, \"Isn't it lucky we met you, Teig O'Kane?\"\n\nPoor Teig could not bring out a word at all, nor open his lips, if he\nwere to get the world for it, and so he gave no answer.\n\n\"Teig O'Kane,\" said the little grey man again, \"isn't it timely you met\nus?\"\n\nTeig could not answer him.\n\n\"Teig O'Kane,\" says he, \"the third time, isn't it lucky and timely that\nwe met you?\"\n\nBut Teig remained silent, for he was afraid to return an answer, and his\ntongue was as if it was tied to the roof of his mouth.\n\nThe little grey man turned to his companions, and there was joy in his\nbright little eye. \"And now,\" says he, \"Teig O'Kane hasn't a word, we\ncan do with him what we please. Teig, Teig,\" says he, \"you're living a\nbad life, and we can make a slave of you now, and you cannot withstand\nus, for there's no use in trying to go against us. Lift that corpse.\"\n\nTeig was so frightened that he was only able to utter the two words, \"I\nwon't\"; for as frightened as he was he was obstinate and stiff, the same\nas ever.\n\n\"Teig O'Kane won't lift the corpse,\" said the little _maneen_, with a\nwicked little laugh, for all the world like the breaking of a _lock_ of\ndry _kippeens_, and with a little harsh voice like the striking of a\ncracked bell. \"Teig O'Kane won't lift the corpse--make him lift it\"; and\nbefore the word was out of his mouth they had all gathered round poor\nTeig, and they all talking and laughing through other.\n\nTeig tried to run from them, but they followed him, and a man of them\nstretched out his foot before him as he ran, so that Teig was thrown in\na heap on the road. Then before he could rise up the fairies caught him,\nsome by the hands and some by the feet, and they held him tight, in a\nway that he could not stir, with his face against the ground. Six or\nseven of them raised the body then, and pulled it over to him, and left\nit down on his back. The breast of the corpse was squeezed against\nTeig's back and shoulders, and the arms of the corpse were thrown around\nTeig's neck. Then they stood back from him a couple of yards, and let\nhim get up. He rose, foaming at the mouth and cursing, and he shook\nhimself, thinking to throw the corpse off his back. But his fear and his\nwonder were great when he found that the two arms had a tight hold round\nhis own neck, and that the two legs were squeezing his hips firmly, and\nthat, however strongly he tried, he could not throw it off, any more\nthan a horse can throw off its saddle. He was terribly frightened then,\nand he thought he was lost. \"Ochone! for ever,\" said he to himself,\n\"it's the bad life I'm leading that has given the good people this power\nover me. I promise to God and Mary, Peter and Paul, Patrick and Bridget,\nthat I'll mend my ways for as long as I have to live, if I come clear\nout of this danger--and I'll marry the girl.\"\n\nThe little grey man came up to him again, and said he to him, \"Now,\nTeig_een_,\" says he, \"you didn't lift the body when I told you to lift\nit, and see how you were made to lift it; perhaps when I tell you to\nbury it, you won't bury it until you're made to bury it!\"\n\n\"Anything at all that I can do for your honour,\" said Teig, \"I'll do\nit,\" for he was getting sense already, and if it had not been for the\ngreat fear that was on him, he never would have let that civil word slip\nout of his mouth.\n\nThe little man laughed a sort of laugh again. \"You're getting quiet now,\nTeig,\" says he. \"I'll go bail but you'll be quiet enough before I'm done\nwith you. Listen to me now, Teig O'Kane, and if you don't obey me in all\nI'm telling you to do, you'll repent it. You must carry with you this\ncorpse that is on your back to Teampoll-Demus, and you must bring it\ninto the church with you, and make a grave for it in the very middle of\nthe church, and you must raise up the flags and put them down again the\nvery same way, and you must carry the clay out of the church and leave\nthe place as it was when you came, so that no one could know that there\nhad been anything changed. But that's not all. Maybe that the body won't\nbe allowed to be buried in that church; perhaps some other man has the\nbed, and, if so, it's likely he won't share it with this one. If you\ndon't get leave to bury it in Teampoll-Demus, you must carry it to\nCarrick-fhad-vic-Orus, and bury it in the churchyard there; and if you\ndon't get it into that place, take it with you to Teampoll-Ronan; and if\nthat churchyard is closed on you, take it to Imlogue-Fada; and if you're\nnot able to bury it there, you've no more to do than to take it to\nKill-Breedya, and you can bury it there without hindrance. I cannot tell\nyou what one of those churches is the one where you will have leave to\nbury that corpse under the clay, but I know that it will be allowed you\nto bury him at some church or other of them. If you do this work\nrightly, we will be thankful to you, and you will have no cause to\ngrieve; but if you are slow or lazy, believe me we shall take\nsatisfaction of you.\"\n\nWhen the grey little man had done speaking, his comrades laughed and\nclapped their hands together. \"Glic! Glic! Hwee! Hwee!\" they all cried;\n\"go on, go on, you have eight hours before you till daybreak, and if you\nhaven't this man buried before the sun rises, you're lost.\" They struck\na fist and a foot behind on him, and drove him on in the road. He was\nobliged to walk, and to walk fast, for they gave him no rest.\n\nHe thought himself that there was not a wet path, or a dirty _boreen_,\nor a crooked contrary road in the whole county, that he had not walked\nthat night. The night was at times very dark, and whenever there would\ncome a cloud across the moon he could see nothing, and then he used\noften to fall. Sometimes he was hurt, and sometimes he escaped, but he\nwas obliged always to rise on the moment and to hurry on. Sometimes the\nmoon would break out clearly, and then he would look behind him and see\nthe little people following at his back. And he heard them speaking\namongst themselves, talking and crying out, and screaming like a flock\nof sea-gulls; and if he was to save his soul he never understood as much\nas one word of what they were saying.\n\nHe did not know how far he had walked, when at last one of them cried\nout to him, \"Stop here!\" He stood, and they all gathered round him.\n\n\"Do you see those withered trees over there?\" says the old boy to him\nagain. \"Teampoll-Demus is among those trees, and you must go in there by\nyourself, for we cannot follow you or go with you. We must remain here.\nGo on boldly.\"\n\nTeig looked from him, and he saw a high wall that was in places half\nbroken down, and an old grey church on the inside of the wall, and about\na dozen withered old trees scattered here and there round it. There was\nneither leaf nor twig on any of them, but their bare crooked branches\nwere stretched out like the arms of an angry man when he threatens. He\nhad no help for it, but was obliged to go forward. He was a couple of\nhundred yards from the church, but he walked on, and never looked behind\nhim until he came to the gate of the churchyard. The old gate was thrown\ndown, and he had no difficulty in entering. He turned then to see if any\nof the little people were following him, but there came a cloud over the\nmoon, and the night became so dark that he could see nothing. He went\ninto the churchyard, and he walked up the old grassy pathway leading to\nthe church. When he reached the door, he found it locked. The door was\nlarge and strong, and he did not know what to do. At last he drew out\nhis knife with difficulty, and stuck it in the wood to try if it were\nnot rotten, but it was not.\n\n\"Now,\" said he to himself, \"I have no more to do; the door is shut, and\nI can't open it.\"\n\nBefore the words were rightly shaped in his own mind, a voice in his ear\nsaid to him, \"Search for the key on the top of the door, or on the\nwall.\"\n\nHe started. \"Who is that speaking to me?\" he cried, turning round; but\nhe saw no one. The voice said in his ear again, \"Search for the key on\nthe top of the door, or on the wall.\"\n\n\"What's that?\" said he, and the sweat running from his forehead; \"who\nspoke to me?\"\n\n\"It's I, the corpse, that spoke to you!\" said the voice.\n\n\"Can you talk?\" said Teig.\n\n\"Now and again,\" said the corpse.\n\nTeig searched for the key, and he found it on the top of the wall. He\nwas too much frightened to say any more, but he opened the door wide,\nand as quickly as he could, and he went in, with the corpse on his back.\nIt was as dark as pitch inside, and poor Teig began to shake and\ntremble.\n\n\"Light the candle,\" said the corpse.\n\nTeig put his hand in his pocket, as well as he was able, and drew out a\nflint and steel. He struck a spark out of it, and lit a burnt rag he had\nin his pocket. He blew it until it made a flame, and he looked round\nhim. The church was very ancient, and part of the wall was broken down.\nThe windows were blown in or cracked, and the timber of the seats were\nrotten. There were six or seven old iron candlesticks left there still,\nand in one of these candlesticks Teig found the stump of an old candle,\nand he lit it. He was still looking round him on the strange and horrid\nplace in which he found himself, when the cold corpse whispered in his\near, \"Bury me now, bury me now; there is a spade and turn the ground.\"\nTeig looked from him, and he saw a spade lying beside the altar. He took\nit up, and he placed the blade under a flag that was in the middle of\nthe aisle, and leaning all his weight on the handle of the spade, he\nraised it. When the first flag was raised it was not hard to raise the\nothers near it, and he moved three or four of them out of their places.\nThe clay that was under them was soft and easy to dig, but he had not\nthrown up more than three or four shovelfuls when he felt the iron touch\nsomething soft like flesh. He threw up three or four more shovelfuls\nfrom around it, and then he saw that it was another body that was buried\nin the same place.\n\n\"I am afraid I'll never be allowed to bury the two bodies in the same\nhole,\" said Teig, in his own mind. \"You corpse, there on my back,\" says\nhe, \"will you be satisfied if I bury you down here?\" But the corpse\nnever answered him a word.\n\n\"That's a good sign,\" said Teig to himself. \"Maybe he's getting quiet,\"\nand he thrust the spade down in the earth again. Perhaps he hurt the\nflesh of the other body, for the dead man that was buried there stood up\nin the grave, and shouted an awful shout. \"Hoo! hoo!! hoo!!! Go! go!!\ngo!!! or you're a dead, dead, dead man!\" And then he fell back in the\ngrave again. Teig said afterwards, that of all the wonderful things he\nsaw that night, that was the most awful to him. His hair stood upright\non his head like the bristles of a pig, the cold sweat ran off his face,\nand then came a tremour over all his bones, until he thought that he\nmust fall.\n\nBut after a while he became bolder, when he saw that the second corpse\nremained lying quietly there, and he threw in the clay on it again, and\nhe smoothed it overhead, and he laid down the flags carefully as they\nhad been before. \"It can't be that he'll rise up any more,\" said he.\n\nHe went down the aisle a little further, and drew near to the door, and\nbegan raising the flags again, looking for another bed for the corpse on\nhis back. He took up three or four flags and put them aside, and then he\ndug the clay. He was not long digging until he laid bare an old woman\nwithout a thread upon her but her shirt. She was more lively than the\nfirst corpse, for he had scarcely taken any of the clay away from about\nher, when she sat up and began to cry, \"Ho, you _bodach_ (clown)! Ha,\nyou _bodach_! Where has he been that he got no bed?\"\n\nPoor Teig drew back, and when she found that she was getting no answer,\nshe closed her eyes gently, lost her vigour, and fell back quietly and\nslowly under the clay. Teig did to her as he had done to the man--he\nthrew the clay back on her, and left the flags down overhead.\n\nHe began digging again near the door, but before he had thrown up more\nthan a couple of shovelfuls, he noticed a man's hand laid bare by the\nspade. \"By my soul, I'll go no further, then,\" said he to himself;\n\"what use is it for me?\" And he threw the clay in again on it, and\nsettled the flags as they had been before.\n\nHe left the church then, and his heart was heavy enough, but he shut the\ndoor and locked it, and left the key where he found it. He sat down on a\ntombstone that was near the door, and began thinking. He was in great\ndoubt what he should do. He laid his face between his two hands, and\ncried for grief and fatigue, since he was dead certain at this time that\nhe never would come home alive. He made another attempt to loosen the\nhands of the corpse that were squeezed round his neck, but they were as\ntight as if they were clamped; and the more he tried to loosen them, the\ntighter they squeezed him. He was going to sit down once more, when the\ncold, horrid lips of the dead man said to him, \"Carrick-fhad-vic-Orus,\"\nand he remembered the command of the good people to bring the corpse\nwith him to that place if he should be unable to bury it where he had\nbeen.\n\nHe rose up, and looked about him. \"I don't know the way,\" he said.\n\nAs soon as he had uttered the word, the corpse stretched out suddenly\nits left hand that had been tightened round his neck, and kept it\npointing out, showing him the road he ought to follow. Teig went in the\ndirection that the fingers were stretched, and passed out of the\nchurchyard. He found himself on an old rutty, stony road, and he stood\nstill again, not knowing where to turn. The corpse stretched out its\nbony hand a second time, and pointed out to him another road--not the\nroad by which he had come when approaching the old church. Teig followed\nthat road, and whenever he came to a path or road meeting it, the corpse\nalways stretched out its hand and pointed with its fingers, showing him\nthe way he was to take.\n\nMany was the cross-road he turned down, and many was the crooked\n_boreen_ he walked, until he saw from him an old burying-ground at last,\nbeside the road, but there was neither church nor chapel nor any other\nbuilding in it. The corpse squeezed him tightly, and he stood. \"Bury me,\nbury me in the burying-ground,\" said the voice.\n\nTeig drew over towards the old burying-place, and he was not more than\nabout twenty yards from it, when, raising his eyes, he saw hundreds and\nhundreds of ghosts--men, women, and children--sitting on the top of the\nwall round about, or standing on the inside of it, or running backwards\nand forwards, and pointing at him, while he could see their mouths\nopening and shutting as if they were speaking, though he heard no word,\nnor any sound amongst them at all.\n\nHe was afraid to go forward, so he stood where he was, and the moment he\nstood, all the ghosts became quiet, and ceased moving. Then Teig\nunderstood that it was trying to keep him from going in, that they were.\nHe walked a couple of yards forwards, and immediately the whole crowd\nrushed together towards the spot to which he was moving, and they stood\nso thickly together that it seemed to him that he never could break\nthrough them, even though he had a mind to try. But he had no mind to\ntry it. He went back broken and dispirited, and when he had gone a\ncouple of hundred yards from the burying-ground, he stood again, for he\ndid not know what way he was to go. He heard the voice of the corpse in\nhis ear, saying, \"Teampoll-Ronan,\" and the skinny hand was stretched out\nagain, pointing him out the road.\n\nAs tired as he was, he had to walk, and the road was neither short nor\neven. The night was darker than ever, and it was difficult to make his\nway. Many was the toss he got, and many a bruise they left on his body.\nAt last he saw Teampoll-Ronan from him in the distance, standing in the\nmiddle of the burying-ground. He moved over towards it, and thought he\nwas all right and safe, when he saw no ghosts nor anything else on the\nwall, and he thought he would never be hindered now from leaving his\nload off him at last. He moved over to the gate, but as he was passing\nin, he tripped on the threshold. Before he could recover himself,\nsomething that he could not see seized him by the neck, by the hands,\nand by the feet, and bruised him, and shook him, and choked him, until\nhe was nearly dead; and at last he was lifted up, and carried more than\na hundred yards from that place, and then thrown down in an old dyke,\nwith the corpse still clinging to him.\n\nHe rose up, bruised and sore, but feared to go near the place again, for\nhe had seen nothing the time he was thrown down and carried away.\n\n\"You corpse, up on my back?\" said he, \"shall I go over again to the\nchurchyard?\"--but the corpse never answered him. \"That's a sign you\ndon't wish me to try it again,\" said Teig.\n\nHe was now in great doubt as to what he ought to do, when the corpse\nspoke in his ear, and said, \"Imlogue-Fada.\"\n\n\"Oh, murder!\" said Teig, \"must I bring you there? If you keep me long\nwalking like this, I tell you I'll fall under you.\"\n\nHe went on, however, in the direction the corpse pointed out to him. He\ncould not have told, himself, how long he had been going, when the dead\nman behind suddenly squeezed him, and said, \"There!\"\n\nTeig looked from him, and he saw a little low wall, that was so broken\ndown in places that it was no wall at all. It was in a great wide field,\nin from the road; and only for three or four great stones at the\ncorners, that were more like rocks than stones, there was nothing to\nshow that there was either graveyard or burying-ground there.\n\n\"Is this Imlogue-Fada? Shall I bury you here?\" said Teig.\n\n\"Yes,\" said the voice.\n\n\"But I see no grave or gravestone, only this pile of stones,\" said Teig.\n\nThe corpse did not answer, but stretched out its long fleshless hand to\nshow Teig the direction in which he was to go. Teig went on accordingly,\nbut he was greatly terrified, for he remembered what had happened to him\nat the last place. He went on, \"with his heart in his mouth,\" as he said\nhimself afterwards; but when he came to within fifteen or twenty yards\nof the little low square wall, there broke out a flash of lightning,\nbright yellow and red, with blue streaks in it, and went round about the\nwall in one course, and it swept by as fast as the swallow in the\nclouds, and the longer Teig remained looking at it the faster it went,\ntill at last it became like a bright ring of flame round the old\ngraveyard, which no one could pass without being burnt by it. Teig never\nsaw, from the time he was born, and never saw afterwards, so wonderful\nor so splendid a sight as that was. Round went the flame, white and\nyellow and blue sparks leaping out from it as it went, and although at\nfirst it had been no more than a thin, narrow line, it increased slowly\nuntil it was at last a great broad band, and it was continually getting\nbroader and higher, and throwing out more brilliant sparks, till there\nwas never a colour on the ridge of the earth that was not to be seen in\nthat fire; and lightning never shone and flame never flamed that was so\nshining and so bright as that.\n\nTeig was amazed; he was half dead with fatigue, and he had no courage\nleft to approach the wall. There fell a mist over his eyes, and there\ncame a _soorawn_ in his head, and he was obliged to sit down upon a\ngreat stone to recover himself. He could see nothing but the light, and\nhe could hear nothing but the whirr of it as it shot round the paddock\nfaster than a flash of lightning.\n\nAs he sat there on the stone, the voice whispered once more in his ear,\n\"Kill-Breedya\"; and the dead man squeezed him so tightly that he cried\nout. He rose again, sick, tired, and trembling, and went forward as he\nwas directed. The wind was cold, and the road was bad, and the load upon\nhis back was heavy, and the night was dark, and he himself was nearly\nworn out, and if he had had very much farther to go he must have fallen\ndead under his burden.\n\nAt last the corpse stretched out its hand, and said to him, \"Bury me\nthere.\"\n\n\"This is the last burying-place,\" said Teig in his own mind; \"and the\nlittle grey man said I'd be allowed to bury him in some of them, so it\nmust be this; it can't be but they'll let him in here.\"\n\nThe first, faint streak of the _ring of day_ was appearing in the east,\nand the clouds were beginning to catch fire, but it was darker than\never, for the moon was set, and there were no stars.\n\n\"Make haste, make haste!\" said the corpse; and Teig hurried forward as\nwell as he could to the graveyard, which was a little place on a bare\nhill, with only a few graves in it. He walked boldly in through the open\ngate, and nothing touched him, nor did he either hear or see anything.\nHe came to the middle of the ground, and then stood up and looked round\nhim for a spade or shovel to make a grave. As he was turning round and\nsearching, he suddenly perceived what startled him greatly--a newly-dug\ngrave right before him. He moved over to it, and looked down, and there\nat the bottom he saw a black coffin. He clambered down into the hole and\nlifted the lid, and found that (as he thought it would be) the coffin\nwas empty. He had hardly mounted up out of the hole, and was standing on\nthe brink, when the corpse, which had clung to him for more than eight\nhours, suddenly relaxed its hold of his neck, and loosened its shins\nfrom round his hips, and sank down with a _plop_ into the open coffin.\n\nTeig fell down on his two knees at the brink of the grave, and gave\nthanks to God. He made no delay then, but pressed down the coffin lid in\nits place, and threw in the clay over it with his two hands, and when\nthe grave was filled up, he stamped and leaped on it with his feet,\nuntil it was firm and hard, and then he left the place.\n\nThe sun was fast rising as he finished his work, and the first thing he\ndid was to return to the road, and look out for a house to rest himself\nin. He found an inn at last; and lay down upon a bed there, and slept\ntill night. Then he rose up and ate a little, and fell asleep again till\nmorning. When he awoke in the morning he hired a horse and rode home. He\nwas more than twenty-six miles from home where he was, and he had come\nall that way with the dead body on his back in one night.\n\nAll the people at his own home thought that he must have left the\ncountry, and they rejoiced greatly when they saw him come back. Everyone\nbegan asking him where he had been, but he would not tell anyone except\nhis father.\n\nHe was a changed man from that day. He never drank too much; he never\nlost his money over cards; and especially he would not take the world\nand be out late by himself of a dark night.\n\nHe was not a fortnight at home until he married Mary, the girl he had\nbeen in love with, and it's at their wedding the sport was, and it's he\nwas the happy man from that day forward, and it's all I wish that we may\nbe as happy as he was.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nGLOSSARY.--_Rann_, a stanza; _kailee_ (_ceilidhe_), a visit in\nthe evening; _wirra_ (_a mhuire_), \"Oh, Mary!\" an exclamation like the\nFrench _dame_; _rib_, a single hair (in Irish, _ribe_); _a lock_\n(_glac_), a bundle or wisp, or a little share of anything; _kippeen_\n(_cipin_), a rod or twig; _boreen_ (_boithrin_), a lane; _bodach_, a\nclown; _soorawn_ (_suaran_), vertigo. _Avic_ (_a Mhic_)=my son, or\nrather, Oh, son. Mic is the vocative of Mac.\n\n\n\n\nVI\n\nTHE HAUNTED AND THE HAUNTERS: OR THE HOUSE AND THE BRAIN\n\nBy SIR EDWARD BULWER-LYTTON\n\n\nA friend of mine, who is a man of letters and a philosopher, said to me\none day, as if between jest and earnest--\"Fancy! since we last met, I\nhave discovered a haunted house in the midst of London.\"\n\n\"Really haunted?--and by what?--ghosts?\"\n\n\"Well, I can't answer these questions--all I know is this--six weeks ago\nI and my wife were in search of a furnished apartment. Passing a quiet\nstreet, we saw on the window of one of the houses a bill, 'Apartments\nFurnished.' The situation suited us: we entered the house--liked the\nrooms--engaged them by the week--and left them the third day. No power\non earth could have reconciled my wife to stay longer, and I don't\nwonder at it.\"\n\n\"What did you see?\"\n\n\"Excuse me--I have no desire to be ridiculed as a superstitious\ndreamer--nor, on the other hand, could I ask you to accept on my\naffirmation what you would hold to be incredible without the evidence of\nyour own senses. Let me only say this, it was not so much what we saw or\nheard (in which you might fairly suppose that we were the dupes of our\nown excited fancy, or the victims of imposture in others) that drove us\naway, as it was an undefinable terror which seized both of us whenever\nwe passed by the door of a certain unfurnished room, in which we\nneither saw nor heard anything. And the strangest marvel of all was,\nthat for once in my life I agreed with my wife--silly woman though she\nbe--and allowed, after the third night, that it was impossible to stay a\nfourth in that house. Accordingly, on the fourth morning, I summoned the\nwoman who kept the house and attended on us, and told her that the rooms\ndid not quite suit us, and we would not stay out our week. She said,\ndryly: 'I know why; you have stayed longer than any other lodger; few\never stayed a second night; none before you, a third. But I take it they\nhave been very kind to you.'\n\n\"'They--who?' I asked, affecting a smile.\n\n\"'Why, they who haunt the house, whoever they are. I don't mind them; I\nremember them many years ago, when I lived in this house, not as a\nservant; but I know they will be the death of me some day. I don't\ncare--I'm old, and must die soon, anyhow; and then I shall be with them,\nand in this house still.' The woman spoke with so dreary a calmness,\nthat really it was a sort of awe that prevented my conversing with her\nfarther. I paid for my week, and too happy were I and my wife to get off\nso cheaply.\"\n\n\"You excite my curiosity,\" said I; \"nothing I should like better than to\nsleep in a haunted house. Pray give me the address of the one which you\nleft so ignominiously.\"\n\nMy friend gave me the address; and when we parted, I walked straight\ntowards the house thus indicated.\n\nIt is situated on the north side of Oxford Street, in a dull but\nrespectable thoroughfare. I found the house shut up--no bill at the\nwindow, and no response to my knock. As I was turning away, a beer-boy,\ncollecting pewter pots at the neighbouring areas, said to me, \"Do you\nwant anyone in that house, sir?\"\n\n\"Yes, I heard it was to let.\"\n\n\"Let!--why, the woman who kept it is dead--has been dead these three\nweeks, and no one can be found to stay there, though Mr J---- offered\never so much. He offered mother, who chars for him, L1 a week just to\nopen and shut the windows, and she would not.\"\n\n\"Would not!--and why?\"\n\n\"The house is haunted; and the old woman who kept it was found dead in\nher bed, with her eyes wide open. They say the devil strangled her.\"\n\n\"Pooh!--you speak of Mr J----. Is he the owner of the house?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Where does he live?\"\n\n\"In G---- Street, No. ----.\"\n\n\"What is he?--in any business?\"\n\n\"No, sir--nothing particular; a single gentleman.\"\n\nI gave the pot-boy the gratuity earned by his liberal information, and\nproceeded to Mr J----, in G----Street, which was close by the street\nthat boasted the haunted house. I was lucky enough to find Mr J---- at\nhome--an elderly man, with intelligent countenance and prepossessing\nmanners.\n\nI communicated my name and my business frankly. I said I heard the house\nwas considered to be haunted--that I had a strong desire to examine a\nhouse with so equivocal a reputation--that I should be greatly obliged\nif he would allow me to hire it, though only for a night. I was willing\nto pay for that privilege whatever he might be inclined to ask. \"Sir,\"\nsaid Mr J----, with great courtesy, \"the house is at your service, for\nas short or as long a time as you please. Rent is out of the\nquestion--the obligation will be on my side should you be able to\ndiscover the cause of the strange phenomena which at present deprive it\nof all value. I cannot let it, for I cannot even get a servant to keep\nit in order or answer the door. Unluckily the house is haunted, if I may\nuse that expression, not only by night, but by day; though at night the\ndisturbances are of a more unpleasant and sometimes of a more alarming\ncharacter.\n\n\"The poor old woman who died in it three weeks ago was a pauper whom I\ntook out of a workhouse, for in her childhood she had been known to some\nof my family, and had once been in such good circumstances that she had\nrented that house of my uncle. She was a woman of superior education and\nstrong mind, and was the only person I could ever induce to remain in\nthe house. Indeed, since her death, which was sudden, and the coroner's\ninquest, which gave it a notoriety in the neighbourhood, I have so\ndespaired of finding any person to take charge of it, much more a\ntenant, that I would willingly let it rent free for a year to anyone who\nwould pay its rates and taxes.\"\n\n\"How long is it since the house acquired this sinister character?\"\n\n\"That I can scarcely tell you, but very many years since. The old woman\nI spoke of said it was haunted when she rented it between thirty and\nforty years ago. The fact is that my life has been spent in the East\nIndies and in the civil service of the Company. I returned to England\nlast year on inheriting the fortune of an uncle, amongst whose\npossessions was the house in question. I found it shut up and\nuninhabited. I was told that it was haunted, that no one would inhabit\nit. I smiled at what seemed to me so idle a story. I spent some money in\nrepainting and roofing it--added to its old-fashioned furniture a few\nmodern articles--advertised it, and obtained a lodger for a year. He was\na colonel retired on half-pay. He came in with his family, a son and a\ndaughter, and four or five servants: they all left the house the next\nday, and although they deponed that they had all seen something\ndifferent, that something was equally terrible to all. I really could\nnot in conscience sue, or even blame, the colonel for breach of\nagreement.\n\n\"Then I put in the old woman I have spoken of, and she was empowered to\nlet the house in apartments. I never had one lodger who stayed more than\nthree days. I do not tell you their stories--to no two lodgers have\nthere been exactly the same phenomena repeated. It is better that you\nshould judge for yourself, than enter the house with an imagination\ninfluenced by previous narratives; only be prepared to see and to hear\nsomething or other, and take whatever precautions you yourself please.\"\n\n\"Have you never had a curiosity yourself to pass a night in that house?\"\n\n\"Yes. I passed not a night, but three hours in broad daylight alone in\nthat house. My curiosity is not satisfied, but it is quenched. I have no\ndesire to renew the experiment. You cannot complain, you see, sir, that\nI am not sufficiently candid; and unless your interest be exceedingly\neager and your nerves unusually strong, I honestly add that I advise you\n_not_ to pass a night in that house.\"\n\n\"My interest _is_ exceedingly keen,\" said I, \"and though only a coward\nwill boast of his nerves in situations wholly unfamiliar to him, yet my\nnerves have been seasoned in such variety of danger that I have the\nright to rely on them--even in a haunted house.\"\n\nMr J---- said very little more; he took the keys of the house out of his\nbureau, gave them to me,--and thanking him cordially for his frankness,\nand his urbane concession to my wish, I carried off my prize.\n\nImpatient for the experiment, as soon as I reached home I summoned my\nconfidential servant,--a young man of gay spirits, fearless temper, and\nas free from superstitious prejudice as anyone I could think of.\n\n\"F----,\" said I, \"you remember in Germany how disappointed we were at\nnot finding a ghost in that old castle, which was said to be haunted by\na headless apparition? Well, I have heard of a house in London which, I\nhave reason to hope, is decidedly haunted. I mean to sleep there\nto-night. From what I hear, there is no doubt that something will allow\nitself to be seen or to be heard--something, perhaps, excessively\nhorrible. Do you think, if I take you with me, I may rely on your\npresence of mind, whatever may happen?\"\n\n\"Oh, sir! pray trust me,\" answered F----, grinning with delight.\n\n\"Very well--then here are the keys of the house--this is the address. Go\nnow--select for me any bedroom you please; and since the house has not\nbeen inhabited for weeks, make up a good fire--air the bed well--see, of\ncourse, that there are candles as well as fuel. Take with you my\nrevolver and my dagger--so much for my weapons--arm yourself equally\nwell; and if we are not a match for a dozen ghosts, we shall be but a\nsorry couple of Englishmen.\"\n\nI was engaged for the rest of the day on business so urgent that I had\nnot leisure to think much on the nocturnal adventure to which I had\nplighted my honour. I dined alone, and very late, and while dining,\nread, as is my habit. The volume I selected was one of Macaulay's\nEssays. I thought to myself that I would take the book with me; there\nwas so much of healthfulness in the style, and practical life in the\nsubjects, that it would serve as an antidote against the influences of\nsuperstitious fancy.\n\nAccordingly, about half-past nine, I put the book into my pocket, and\nstrolled leisurely towards the haunted house. I took with me a favourite\ndog--an exceedingly sharp, bold, and vigilant bull-terrier--a dog fond\nof prowling about strange ghostly corners and passages at night in\nsearch of rats--a dog of dogs for a ghost.\n\nIt was a summer night, but chilly, the sky somewhat gloomy and overcast.\nStill, there was a moon--faint and sickly, but still a moon--and if the\nclouds permitted, after midnight it would be brighter.\n\nI reached the house, knocked, and my servant opened with a cheerful\nsmile.\n\n\"All right, sir, and very comfortable.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said I, rather disappointed; \"have you not seen nor heard anything\nremarkable?\"\n\n\"Well, sir, I must own I have heard something queer.\"\n\n\"What?--what?\"\n\n\"The sound of feet pattering behind me; and once or twice small noises\nlike whispers close at my ear--nothing more.\"\n\n\"You are not at all frightened?\"\n\n\"I! not a bit of it, sir\"; and the man's bold look reassured me on one\npoint--viz. that, happen what might, he would not desert me.\n\nWe were in the hall, the street-door closed, and my attention was now\ndrawn to my dog. He had at first ran in eagerly enough, but had sneaked\nback to the door, and was scratching and whining to get out. After\npatting him on the head, and encouraging him gently, the dog seemed to\nreconcile himself to the situation and followed me and F---- through the\nhouse, but keeping close at my heels instead of hurrying inquisitively\nin advance, which was his usual and normal habit in all strange places.\nWe first visited the subterranean apartments, the kitchen and other\noffices, and especially the cellars, in which last there were two or\nthree bottles of wine still left in a bin, covered with cobwebs, and\nevidently, by their appearance, undisturbed for many years. It was clear\nthat the ghosts were not wine-bibbers.\n\nFor the rest we discovered nothing of interest. There was a gloomy\nlittle backyard, with very high walls. The stones of this yard were very\ndamp--and what with the damp, and what with the dust and smoke-grime on\nthe pavement, our feet left a slight impression where we passed. And now\nappeared the first strange phenomenon witnessed by myself in this\nstrange abode. I saw, just before me, the print of a foot suddenly form\nitself, as it were. I stopped, caught hold of my servant, and pointed to\nit. In advance of that footprint as suddenly dropped another. We both\nsaw it. I advanced quickly to the place; the footprint kept advancing\nbefore me, a small footprint--the foot of a child: the impression was\ntoo faint thoroughly to distinguish the shape, but it seemed to us both\nthat it was the print of a naked foot. This phenomenon ceased when we\narrived at the opposite wall, nor did it repeat itself on returning.\n\nWe remounted the stairs, and entered the rooms on the ground floor, a\ndining parlour, a small back-parlour, and a still smaller third room\nthat had been probably appropriated to a footman--all still as death. We\nthen visited the drawing-rooms, which seemed fresh and new. In the front\nroom I seated myself in an armchair. F---- placed on the table the\ncandlestick with which he had lighted us. I told him to shut the door.\nAs he turned to do so, a chair opposite to me moved from the wall\nquickly and noiselessly, and dropped itself about a yard from my own\nchair, immediately fronting it.\n\n\"Why, this is better than the turning-tables,\" said I, with a\nhalf-laugh--and as I laughed, my dog put back his head and howled.\n\nF----, coming back, had not observed the movement of the chair. He\nemployed himself now in stilling the dog. I continued to gaze on the\nchair, and fancied I saw on it a pale blue misty outline of a human\nfigure, but an outline so indistinct that I could only distrust my own\nvision. The dog now was quiet. \"Put back that chair opposite to me,\"\nsaid I to F----; \"put it back to the wall.\"\n\nF---- obeyed. \"Was that you, sir?\" said he, turning abruptly.\n\n\"I--what!\"\n\n\"Why, something struck me. I felt it sharply on the shoulder--just\nhere.\"\n\n\"No,\" said I. \"But we have jugglers present, and though we may not\ndiscover their tricks, we shall catch _them_ before they frighten _us_.\"\n\nWe did not stay long in the drawing-rooms--in fact, they felt so damp\nand so chilly that I was glad to get to the fire upstairs. We locked the\ndoors of the drawing-rooms--a precaution which, I should observe, we had\ntaken with all the rooms we had searched below. The bedroom my servant\nhad selected for me was the best on the floor--a large one, with two\nwindows fronting the street. The four-posted bed, which took up no\ninconsiderable space, was opposite to the fire, which burned clear and\nbright; a door in the wall to the left, between the bed and the window,\ncommunicated with the room which my servant appropriated to himself.\n\nThis last was a small room with a sofa-bed, and had no communication\nwith the landing-place--no other door but that which conducted to the\nbedroom I was to occupy. On either side of my fireplace was a cupboard,\nwithout locks, flushed with the wall, and covered with the same\ndull-brown paper. We examined these cupboards--only hooks to suspend\nfemale dresses--nothing else; we sounded the walls--evidently solid--the\nouter walls of the building. Having finished the survey of these\napartments, warmed myself a few moments, and lighted my cigar, I then,\nstill accompanied by F----, went forth to complete my reconnoitre. In\nthe landing-place there was another door; it was closed firmly. \"Sir,\"\nsaid my servant in surprise, \"I unlocked this door with all the others\nwhen I first came; it cannot have got locked from the inside, for it is\na--\"\n\nBefore he had finished his sentence the door, which neither of us then\nwas touching, opened quietly of itself. We looked at each other a single\ninstant. The same thought seized both--some human agency might be\ndetected here. I rushed in first, my servant followed. A small blank\ndreary room without furniture--a few empty boxes and hampers in a\ncorner--a small window--the shutters closed--not even a fireplace--no\nother door but that by which we had entered--no carpet on the floor, and\nthe floor seemed very old, uneven, worm-eaten, mended here and there, as\nwas shown by the whiter patches on the wood; but no living being, and no\nvisible place in which a living being could have hidden. As we stood\ngazing around, the door by which we had entered closed as quietly as it\nhad before opened: we were imprisoned.\n\nFor the first time I felt a creep of undefinable horror. Not so my\nservant. \"Why, they don't think to trap us, sir; I could break that\ntrumpery door with a kick of my foot.\"\n\n\"Try first if it will open to your hand,\" said I, shaking off the vague\napprehension that had seized me, \"while I open the shutters and see what\nis without.\"\n\nI unbarred the shutters--the window looked on the little backyard I have\nbefore described; there was no ledge without--nothing but sheer descent.\nNo man getting out of that window would have found any footing till he\nhad fallen on the stones below.\n\nF----, meanwhile, was vainly attempting to open the door. He now turned\nround to me, and asked my permission to use force. And I should here\nstate, in justice to the servant, that, far from evincing any\nsuperstitious terrors, his nerve, composure, and even gaiety amidst\ncircumstances so extraordinary compelled my admiration, and made me\ncongratulate myself on having secured a companion in every way fitted to\nthe occasion. I willingly gave him the permission he required. But\nthough he was a remarkably strong man, his force was as idle as his\nmilder efforts; the door did not even shake to his stoutest kick.\nBreathless and panting, he desisted. I then tried the door myself,\nequally in vain.\n\nAs I ceased from the effort, again that creep of horror came over me;\nbut this time it was more cold and stubborn. I felt as if some strange\nand ghastly exhalation were rising up from the chinks of that rugged\nfloor, and filling the atmosphere with a venomous influence hostile to\nhuman life. The door now very slowly and quietly opened as of its own\naccord. We precipitated ourselves into the landing-place. We both saw a\nlarge pale light--as large as the human figure, but shapeless and\nunsubstantial--move before us, and ascend the stairs that led from the\nlanding into the attics. I followed the light, and my servant followed\nme. It entered, to the right of the landing, a small garret, of which\nthe door stood open. I entered in the same instant. The light then\ncollapsed into a small globule, exceedingly brilliant and vivid; rested\na moment on a bed in the corner, quivered, and vanished. We approached\nthe bed and examined it--a half-tester, such as is commonly found in\nattics devoted to servants. On the drawers that stood near it we\nperceived an old faded silk kerchief, with the needle still left in a\nrent half repaired. The kerchief was covered with dust; probably it had\nbelonged to the old woman who had last died in that house, and this\nmight have been her sleeping-room.\n\nI had sufficient curiosity to open the drawers; there were a few odds\nand ends of female dress, and two letters tied round with a narrow\nribbon of faded yellow. I took the liberty to possess myself of the\nletters. We found nothing else in the room worth noticing--nor did the\nlight reappear; but we distinctly heard, as we turned to go, a pattering\nfootfall on the floor--just before us. We went through the other attics\n(in all, four), the footfall still preceding us. Nothing to be\nseen--nothing but the footfall heard. I had the letters in my hand; just\nas I was descending the stairs I distinctly felt my wrist seized, and a\nfaint, soft effort made to draw the letters from my clasp. I only held\nthem the more tightly, and the effort ceased.\n\nWe regained the bedchamber appropriated to myself, and I then remarked\nthat my dog had not followed us when we had left it. He was thrusting\nhimself close to the fire, and trembling. I was impatient to examine the\nletters; and while I read them, my servant opened a little box in which\nhe had deposited the weapons I had ordered him to bring, took them out,\nplaced them on a table close at my bed-head, and then occupied himself\nin soothing the dog, who, however, seemed to heed him very little.\n\nThe letters were short--they were dated; the dates exactly thirty-five\nyears ago. They were evidently from a lover to his mistress, or a\nhusband to some young wife. Not only the terms of expression, but a\ndistinct reference to a former voyage indicated the writer to have been\na seafarer. The spelling and handwriting were those of a man imperfectly\neducated, but still the language itself was forcible. In the expressions\nof endearment there was a kind of rough wild love; but here and there\nwere dark unintelligible hints at some secret not of love--some secret\nthat seemed of crime. \"We ought to love each other,\" was one of the\nsentences I remember, \"for how everyone else would execrate us if all\nwas known.\" Again: \"Don't let anyone be in the same room with you at\nnight--you talk in your sleep.\" And again: \"What's done can't be undone;\nand I tell you there's nothing against us unless the dead could come to\nlife.\" Here there was underlined in a better handwriting (a female's),\n\"They do!\" At the end of the letter latest in date the same female hand\nhad written these words: \"Lost at sea the 4th of June, the same day\nas--\"\n\nI put down the letters, and began to muse over their contents.\n\nFearing, however, that the train of thought into which I fell might\nunsteady my nerves, I fully determined to keep my mind in a fit state to\ncope with whatever of marvellous the advancing night might bring forth.\nI roused myself--laid the letters on the table--stirred up the fire,\nwhich was still bright and cheering--and opened my volume of Macaulay. I\nread quietly enough till about half-past eleven. I then threw myself\ndressed upon the bed, and told my servant he might retire to his own\nroom, but must keep himself awake. I bade him leave open the door\nbetween the two rooms. Thus alone, I kept two candles burning on the\ntable by my bed-head. I placed my watch beside the weapons, and calmly\nresumed my Macaulay.\n\nOpposite to me the fire burned clear; and on the hearth-rug, seemingly\nasleep, lay the dog. In about twenty minutes I felt an exceedingly cold\nair pass by my cheek, like a sudden draught. I fancied the door to my\nright, communicating with the landing-place, must have got open; but\nno--it was closed. I then turned my glance to my left, and saw the flame\nof the candles violently swayed as by a wind. At the same moment the\nwatch beside the revolver softly slid from the table--softly, softly--no\nvisible hand--it was gone. I sprang up, seizing the revolver with the\none hand, the dagger with the other; I was not willing that my weapons\nshould share the fate of the watch. Thus armed, I looked round the\nfloor--no sign of the watch. Three slow, loud, distinct knocks were now\nheard at the bed-head; my servant called out, \"Is that you, sir?\"\n\n\"No; be on your guard.\"\n\nThe dog now roused himself and sat on his haunches, his ears moving\nquickly backwards and forwards. He kept his eyes fixed on me with a look\nso strange that he concentrated all my attention on himself. Slowly he\nrose up, all his hair bristling, and stood perfectly rigid, and with the\nsame wild stare. I had no time, however, to examine the dog. Presently\nmy servant emerged from his room; and if ever I saw horror in the human\nface, it was then. I should not have recognised him had we met in the\nstreets, so altered was every lineament. He passed by me quickly, saying\nin a whisper that seemed scarcely to come from his lips, \"Run--run! it\nis after me!\" He gained the door to the landing, pulled it open, and\nrushed forth. I followed him into the landing involuntarily, calling him\nto stop; but, without heeding me, he bounded down the stairs, clinging\nto the balusters, and taking several steps at a time. I heard, where I\nstood, the street door open--heard it again clap to. I was left alone in\nthe haunted house.\n\nIt was but for a moment that I remained undecided whether or not to\nfollow my servant; pride and curiosity alike forbade so dastardly a\nflight. I re-entered my room, closing the door after me, and proceeded\ncautiously into the interior chamber. I encountered nothing to justify\nmy servant's terror. I again carefully examined the walls, to see if\nthere were any concealed door. I could find no trace of one--not even a\nseam in the dull-brown paper with which the room was hung. How, then,\nhad the Thing, whatever it was, which had so scared him, obtained\ningress except through my own chamber?\n\nI returned to my room, shut and locked the door that opened upon the\ninterior one, and stood on the hearth, expectant and prepared. I now\nperceived that the dog had slunk into an angle of the wall, and was\npressing himself close against it, as if literally trying to force his\nway into it. I approached the animal and spoke to it; the poor brute was\nevidently beside itself with terror. It showed all its teeth, the slaver\ndropping from its jaws, and would certainly have bitten me if I had\ntouched it. It did not seem to recognise me. Whoever has seen at the\nZoological Gardens a rabbit fascinated by a serpent, cowering in a\ncorner, may form some idea of the anguish which the dog exhibited.\nFinding all efforts to soothe the animal in vain, and fearing that his\nbite might be as venomous in that state as if in the madness of\nhydrophobia, I left him alone, placed my weapons on the table beside the\nfire, seated myself, and recommenced my Macaulay.\n\nPerhaps in order not to appear seeking credit for a courage, or rather a\ncoolness, which the reader may conceive I exaggerate, I may be pardoned\nif I pause to indulge in one or two egotistical remarks.\n\nAs I hold presence of mind, or what is called courage, to be precisely\nproportioned to familiarity with the circumstance that lead to it, so I\nshould say that I had been long sufficiently familiar with all\nexperiments that appertain to the Marvellous. I had witnessed many very\nextraordinary phenomena in various parts of the world--phenomena that\nwould be either totally disbelieved if I stated them, or ascribed to\nsupernatural agencies. Now, my theory is that the Supernatural is the\nImpossible, and that what is called supernatural is only a something in\nthe laws of nature of which we have been hitherto ignorant. Therefore,\nif a ghost rise before me, I have not the right to say, \"So, then, the\nsupernatural is possible,\" but rather, \"So, then, the apparition of a\nghost is, contrary to received opinion, within the laws of\nnature--_i.e._ not supernatural.\"\n\nNow, in all that I had hitherto witnessed, and indeed in all the wonders\nwhich the amateurs of mystery in our age record as facts, a material\nliving agency is always required. On the Continent you will find still\nmagicians who assert that they can raise spirits. Assume for the moment\nthat they assert truly, still the living material form of the magician\nis present; and he is the material agency by which from some\nconstitutional peculiarities, certain strange phenomena are represented\nto your natural senses.\n\nAccept again, as truthful, the tales of Spirit Manifestation in\nAmerica--musical or other sounds--writings on paper, produced by no\ndiscernible hand--articles of furniture moved without apparent human\nagency--or the actual sight and touch of hands, to which no bodies seem\nto belong--still there must be found the _medium_ or living being, with\nconstitutional peculiarities capable of obtaining these signs. In fine,\nin all such marvels, supposing even that there is no imposture, there\nmust be a human being like ourselves, by whom, or through whom, the\neffects presented to human beings are produced. It is so with the now\nfamiliar phenomena of mesmerism or electro-biology; the mind of the\nperson operated on is affected through a material living agent. Nor,\nsupposing it true that a mesmerised patient can respond to the will or\npasses of a mesmeriser a hundred miles distant, is the response less\noccasioned by a material being; it may be through a material fluid--call\nit Electric, call it Odic, call it what you will--which has the power of\ntraversing space and passing obstacles, that the material effect is\ncommunicated from one to the other.\n\nHence all that I had hitherto witnessed, or expected to witness, in this\nstrange house, I believed to be occasioned through some agency or medium\nas mortal as myself; and this idea necessarily prevented the awe with\nwhich those who regard as supernatural things that are not within the\nordinary operations of nature, might have been impressed by the\nadventures of that memorable night.\n\nAs, then, it was my conjecture that all that was presented, or would be\npresented, to my senses, must originate in some human being gifted by\nconstitution with the power so to present them, and having some motive\nso to do, I felt an interest in my theory which, in its way, was rather\nphilosophical than superstitious. And I can sincerely say that I was in\nas tranquil a temper for observation as any practical experimentalist\ncould be in awaiting the effects of some rare though perhaps perilous\nchemical combination. Of course, the more I kept my mind detached from\nfancy, the more the temper fitted for observation would be obtained; and\nI therefore riveted eye and thought on the strong daylight sense in the\npage of my Macaulay.\n\nI now became aware that something interposed between the page and the\nlight--the page was overshadowed; I looked up, and I saw what I shall\nfind it very difficult, perhaps impossible, to describe.\n\nIt was a Darkness shaping itself out of the air in very undefined\noutline. I cannot say it was of a human form, and yet it had more\nresemblance to a human form, or rather shadow, than anything else. As it\nstood, wholly apart and distinct from the air and the light around it,\nits dimensions seemed gigantic, the summit nearly touching the ceiling.\nWhile I gazed, a feeling of intense cold seized me. An iceberg before me\ncould not more have chilled me; nor could the cold of an iceberg have\nbeen more purely physical. I feel convinced that it was not the cold\ncaused by fear. As I continued to gaze, I thought--but this I cannot say\nwith precision--that I distinguished two eyes looking down on me from\nthe height. One moment I seemed to distinguish them clearly, the next\nthey seemed gone; but still two rays of a pale-blue light frequently\nshot through the darkness, as from the height on which I half-believed,\nhalf-doubted, that I had encountered the eyes.\n\nI strove to speak--my voice utterly failed me; I could only think to\nmyself, \"Is this fear? it is _not_ fear!\" I strove to rise--in vain; I\nfelt as if weighed down by an irresistible force. Indeed, my impression\nwas that of an immense and overwhelming Power opposed to my volition;\nthat sense of utter inadequacy to cope with a force beyond men's, which\none may feel _physically_ in a storm at sea, in a conflagration, or when\nconfronting some terrible wild beast, or rather, perhaps, the shark of\nthe ocean, I felt _morally_. Opposed to my will was another will, as far\nsuperior to its strength as storm, fire, and shark are superior in\nmaterial force to the force of men.\n\nAnd now, as this impression grew on me, now came, at last,\nhorror--horror to a degree that no words can convey. Still I retained\npride, if not courage; and in my own mind I said, \"This is horror, but\nit is not fear; unless I fear, I cannot be harmed; my reason rejects\nthis thing; it is an illusion--I do not fear.\" With a violent effort I\nsucceeded at last in stretching out my hand towards the weapon on the\ntable; as I did so, on the arm and shoulder I received a strange shock,\nand my arm fell to my side powerless. And now, to add to my horror, the\nlight began slowly to wane from the candles--they were not, as it were,\nextinguished, but their flame seemed very gradually withdrawn; it was\nthe same with the fire--the light was extracted from the fuel; in a few\nminutes the room was in utter darkness.\n\nThe dread that came over me, to be thus in the dark with that dark\nThing, whose power was so intensely felt, brought a reaction of nerve.\nIn fact, terror had reached that climax, that either my senses must have\ndeserted me, or I must have burst through the spell. I did burst through\nit. I found voice, though the voice was a shriek. I remember that I\nbroke forth with words like these--\"I do not fear, my soul does not\nfear\"; and at the same time I found the strength to rise. Still in that\nprofound gloom I rushed to one of the windows--tore aside the\ncurtain--flung open the shutters; my first thought was--LIGHT.\nAnd when I saw the moon high, clear, and calm, I felt a joy that almost\ncompensated for the previous terror. There was the moon, there was also\nthe light from the gas-lamps in the deserted slumberous street. I turned\nto look back into the room; the moon penetrated its shadow very palely\nand partially--but still there was light. The dark Thing, whatever it\nmight be, was gone--except that I could yet see a dim shadow which\nseemed the shadow of that shade, against the opposite wall.\n\nMy eye now rested on the table, and from under the table (which was\nwithout cloth or cover--an old mahogany round table) there rose a hand,\nvisible as far as the wrist. It was a hand, seemingly, as much of flesh\nand blood as my own, but the hand of an aged person--lean, wrinkled,\nsmall too--a woman's hand.\n\nThat hand very softly closed on the two letters that lay on the table:\nhand and letters both vanished. There then came the same three loud\nmeasured knocks I had heard at the bed-head before this extraordinary\ndrama had commenced.\n\nAs those sounds slowly ceased, I felt the whole room vibrate sensibly;\nand at the far end there rose, as from the floor, sparks or globules\nlike bubbles of light, many-coloured--green, yellow, fire-red, azure. Up\nand down, to and fro, hither, thither, as tiny will-o'-the-wisps, the\nsparks moved, slow or swift, each at its own caprice. A chair (as in the\ndrawing-room below) was now advanced from the wall without apparent\nagency, and placed at the opposite side of the table. Suddenly, as forth\nfrom the chair, there grew a shape--a woman's shape. It was distinct as\na shape of life--ghastly as a shape of death. The face was that of\nyouth, with a strange mournful beauty; the throat and shoulders were\nbare, the rest of the form in a loose robe of cloudy white. It began\nsleeking its long yellow hair, which fell over its shoulders; its eyes\nwere not turned towards me, but to the door; it seemed listening,\nwatching, waiting. The shadow of the shade in the background grew\ndarker; and again I thought I beheld the eyes gleaming out from the\nsummit of the shadow--eyes fixed upon that shape.\n\nAs if from the door, though it did not open, there grew out another\nshape equally distinct, equally ghastly--a man's shape--a young man's.\nIt was in the dress of the last century, or rather in a likeness of such\ndress; for both the male shape and the female, though defined, were\nevidently unsubstantial, impalpable--simulacra--phantasms; and there was\nsomething incongruous, grotesque, yet fearful, in the contrast between\nthe elaborate finery, the courtly precision of that old-fashioned garb,\nwith its ruffles and lace and buckles, and the corpse-like aspect and\nghost-like stillness of the flitting wearer. Just as the male shape\napproached the female, the dark Shadow started from the wall, all three\nfor a moment wrapped in darkness. When the pale light returned, the two\nphantoms were as if in the grasp of the Shadow that towered between\nthem; and there was a bloodstain on the breast of the female; and the\nphantom-male was leaning on its phantom-sword, and blood seemed\ntrickling fast from the ruffles, from the lace; and the darkness of the\nintermediate Shadow swallowed them up--they were gone. And again the\nbubbles of light shot, and sailed, and undulated, growing thicker and\nthicker and more wildly confused in their movements.\n\nThe closet-door to the right of the fireplace now opened, and from the\naperture there came the form of a woman, aged. In her hand she held\nletters--the very letters over which I had seen _the_ Hand close; and\nbehind her I heard a footstep. She turned round as if to listen, then\nshe opened the letters and seemed to read; and over her shoulder I saw a\nlivid face, the face as of a man long drowned--bloated,\nbleached--seaweed tangled in its dripping hair; and at her feet lay a\nform as of a corpse and beside the corpse there cowered a child, a\nmiserable, squalid child, with famine in its cheeks and fear in its\neyes. And as I looked in the old woman's face, the wrinkles and lines\nvanished, and it became a face of youth--hard-eyed, stony, but still\nyouth; and the Shadow darted forth, and darkened over these phantoms as\nit had darkened over the last.\n\nNothing now was left but the Shadow, and on that my eyes were intently\nfixed, till again eyes grew out of the Shadow--malignant, serpent eyes.\nAnd the bubbles of light again rose and fell, and in their disordered,\nirregular, turbulent maze, mingled with the wan moonlight. And now from\nthese globules themselves as from the shell of an egg, monstrous things\nburst out; the air grew filled with them; larvae so bloodless and so\nhideous that I can in no way describe them except to remind the reader\nof the swarming life which the solar microscope brings before his eyes\nin a drop of water--things transparent, supple, agile, chasing each\nother, devouring each other--forms like nought ever beheld by the naked\neye. As the shapes were without symmetry, so their movements were\nwithout order. In their very vagrancies there was no sport; they came\nround me and round, thicker and faster and swifter, swarming over my\nhead, crawling over my right arm, which was outstretched in involuntary\ncommand against all evil beings.\n\nSometimes I felt myself touched, but not by them; invisible hands\ntouched me. Once I felt the clutch as of cold soft fingers at my throat.\nI was still equally conscious that if I gave way to fear I should be in\nbodily peril; and I concentrated all my faculties in the single focus of\nresisting, stubborn will. And I turned my sight from the Shadow--above\nall, from those strange serpent eyes--eyes that had now become\ndistinctly visible. For there, though in nought else around me, I was\naware that there was a _will_, and a will of intense, creative, working\nevil, which might crush down my own.\n\nThe pale atmosphere in the room began now to redden as if in the air of\nsome near conflagration. The larvae grew lurid as things that live in\nfire. Again the room vibrated; again were heard the three measured\nknocks; and again all things were swallowed up in the darkness of the\ndark Shadow, as if out of that darkness all had come, into that darkness\nall returned.\n\nAs the gloom receded, the Shadow was wholly gone. Slowly as it had been\nwithdrawn, the flame grew again into the candles on the table, again\ninto the fuel in the grate. The whole room came once more calmly,\nhealthfully into sight.\n\nThe two doors were still closed, the door communicating with the\nservants' room still locked. In the corner of the wall, into which he\nhad so convulsively niched himself, lay the dog. I called to him--no\nmovement; I approached--the animal was dead; his eyes protruded; his\ntongue out of his mouth; the froth gathered round his jaws. I took him\nin my arms; I brought him to the fire; I felt acute grief for the loss\nof my poor favourite--acute self-reproach; I accused myself of his\ndeath; I imagined he had died of fright. But what was my surprise on\nfinding that his neck was actually broken--actually twisted out of the\nvertebrae. Had this been done in the dark?--must it not have been by a\nhand human as mine?--must there not have been a human agency all the\nwhile in that room? Good cause to suspect it. I cannot tell. I cannot do\nmore than state the fact fairly; the reader may draw his own inference.\n\nAnother surprising circumstance--my watch was restored to the table from\nwhich it had been so mysteriously withdrawn; but it had stopped at the\nvery moment it was so withdrawn; nor, despite all the skill of the\nwatchmaker, has it ever gone since--that is, it will go in a strange\nerratic way for a few hours, and then comes to a dead stop--it is\nworthless.\n\nNothing more chanced for the rest of the night. Nor, indeed, had I long\nto wait before the dawn broke. Not till it was broad daylight did I quit\nthe haunted house. Before I did so, I revisited the little blind room in\nwhich my servant and myself had been for a time imprisoned. I had a\nstrong impression--for which I could not account--that from that room\nhad originated the mechanism of the phenomena--if I may use the\nterm--which had been experienced in my chamber. And though I entered it\nnow in the clear day, with the sun peering through the filmy window, I\nstill felt, as I stood on its floor, the creep of the horror which I had\nfirst there experienced the night before, and which had been so\naggravated by what had passed in my own chamber. I could not, indeed,\nbear to stay more than half a minute within those walls. I descended the\nstairs, and again I heard the footfall before me; and when I opened the\nstreet door, I thought I could distinguish a very low laugh. I gained my\nown home, expecting to find my runaway servant there. But he had not\npresented himself; nor did I hear more of him for three days, when I\nreceived a letter from him, dated from Liverpool, to this effect:--\n\n     \"HONOURED SIR,--I humbly entreat your pardon, though I\n     can scarcely hope that you will think I deserve it,\n     unless--which Heaven forbid!--you saw what I did. I feel that\n     it will be years before I can recover myself; and as to being\n     fit for service, it is out of the question. I am therefore\n     going to my brother-in-law at Melbourne. The ship sails\n     to-morrow. Perhaps the long voyage may set me up. I do nothing\n     now but start and tremble, and fancy It is behind me. I humbly\n     beg you, honoured sir, to order my clothes, and whatever wages\n     are due to me, to be sent to my mother's, at Walworth--John\n     knows her address.\"\n\nThe letter ended with additional apologies, somewhat incoherent, and\nexplanatory details as to effects that had been under the writer's\ncharge.\n\nThis flight may perhaps warrant a suspicion that the man wished to go to\nAustralia, and had been somehow or other fraudulently mixed up with the\nevents of the night. I say nothing in refutation of that conjecture;\nrather, I suggest it as one that would seem to many persons the most\nprobable solution of improbable occurrences. My own theory remained\nunshaken. I returned in the evening to the house, to bring away in a\nhack cab the things I had left there, with my poor dog's body. In this\ntask I was not disturbed, nor did any incident worth note befall me,\nexcept that still, on ascending, and descending the stairs I heard the\nsame footfall in advance. On leaving the house, I went to Mr J----'s. He\nwas at home. I returned him the keys, told him that my curiosity was\nsufficiently gratified, and was about to relate quickly what had passed,\nwhen he stopped me, and said, though with much politeness, that he had\nno longer any interest in a mystery which none had ever solved.\n\nI determined at least to tell him of the two letters I had read, as well\nas of the extraordinary manner in which they had disappeared, and I then\ninquired if he thought they had been addressed to the woman who had died\nin the house, and if there were anything in her early history which\ncould possibly confirm the dark suspicions to which the letters gave\nrise. Mr J---- seemed startled, and, after musing a few moments,\nanswered, \"I know but little of the woman's earlier history, except, as\nI before told you, that her family were known to mine. But you revive\nsome vague reminiscences to her prejudice. I will make inquiries, and\ninform you of their result. Still, even if we could admit the popular\nsuperstition that a person who had been either the perpetrator or the\nvictim of dark crimes in life could revisit, as a restless spirit, the\nscene in which those crimes had been committed, I should observe that\nthe house was infested by strange sights and sounds before the old woman\ndied--you smile--what would you say?\"\n\n\"I would say this, that I am convinced, if we could get to the bottom of\nthese mysteries, we should find a living human agency.\"\n\n\"What! you believe it is all an imposture? For what object?\"\n\n\"Not an imposture in the ordinary sense of the word. If suddenly I were\nto sink into a deep sleep, from which you could not awake me, but in\nthat sleep could answer questions with an accuracy which I could not\npretend to when awake--tell you what money you had in your pocket--nay,\ndescribe your very thoughts--it is not necessarily an imposture, any\nmore than it is necessarily supernatural. I should be, unconsciously to\nmyself, under a mesmeric influence, conveyed to me from a distance by a\nhuman being who had acquired power over me by previous _rapport_.\"\n\n\"Granting mesmerism, so far carried, to be a fact, you are right. And\nyou would infer from this that a mesmeriser might produce the\nextraordinary effects you and others have witnessed over inanimate\nobjects--fill the air with sights and sounds?\"\n\n\"Or impress our senses with the belief in them--we never having been _en\nrapport_ with the person acting on us? No. What is commonly called\nmesmerism could not do this; but there may be a power akin to mesmerism,\nand superior to it--the power that in the old days was called Magic.\nThat such a power may extend to all inanimate objects of matter, I do\nnot say; but if so, it would not be against nature, only a rare power in\nnature which might be given to constitutions with certain peculiarities,\nand cultivated by practice to an extraordinary degree. That such a power\nmight extend over the dead--that is, over certain thoughts and memories\nthat the dead may still retain--and compel, not that which ought\nproperly to be called the _soul_, and which is far beyond human reach,\nbut rather a phantom of what has been most earth-stained on earth, to\nmake itself apparent to our senses--is a very ancient though obsolete\ntheory, upon which I will hazard no opinion. But I do not conceive the\npower would be supernatural.\n\n\"Let me illustrate what I mean from an experiment which Paracelsus\ndescribes as not difficult, and which the author of the _Curiosities of\nLiterature_ cites as credible: A flower perishes; you burn it. Whatever\nwere the elements of that flower while it lived are gone, dispersed, you\nknow not whither; you can never discover nor re-collect them. But you\ncan, by chemistry, out of the burnt dust of that flower, raise a\nspectrum of the flower, just as it seemed in life. It may be the same\nwith the human being. The soul has so much escaped you as the essence or\nelements of the flower. Still you may make a spectrum of it. And this\nphantom, though in the popular superstition it is held to be the soul of\nthe departed, must not be confounded with the true soul; it is but the\neidolon of the dead form.\n\n\"Hence, like the best-attested stories of ghosts or spirits, the thing\nthat most strikes us is the absence of what we hold to be soul--that is,\nof superior emancipated intelligence. They come for little or no\nobject--they seldom speak, if they do come; they utter no ideas above\nthat of an ordinary person on earth. These American spirit-seers have\npublished volumes of communications in prose and verse, which they\nassert to be given in the names of the most illustrious\ndead--Shakespeare, Bacon--heaven knows whom. Those communications,\ntaking the best, are certainly not a whit of higher order than would be\ncommunications from living persons of fair talent and education; they\nare wondrously inferior to what Bacon, Shakespeare, and Plato said and\nwrote when on earth.\n\n\"Nor, what is more notable, do they ever contain an idea that was not on\nthe earth before. Wonderful, therefore, as such phenomena may be\n(granting them to be truthful), I see much that philosophy may question,\nnothing that it is incumbent on philosophy to deny--viz. nothing\nsupernatural. They are but ideas conveyed somehow or other (we have not\nyet discovered the means) from one mortal brain to another. Whether, in\nso doing, tables walk of their own accord, or fiend-like shapes appear\nin a magic circle, or bodyless hands rise and remove material objects,\nor a Thing of Darkness, such as presented itself to me, freeze our\nblood--still am I persuaded that these are but agencies conveyed, as by\nelectric wires, to my own brain from the brain of another. In some\nconstitutions there is a natural chemistry, and those may produce\nchemic wonders--in others a natural fluid, call it electricity, and\nthese produce electric wonders. But they differ in this from Normal\nScience--they are alike objectless, purposeless, puerile, frivolous.\nThey lead on to no grand results; and therefore the world does not heed,\nand true sages have not cultivated them. But sure I am, that of all I\nsaw or heard, a man, human as myself, was the remote originator; and I\nbelieve unconsciously to himself as to the exact effects produced, for\nthis reason: no two persons, you say, have ever told you that they\nexperienced exactly the same thing. Well, observe, no two persons ever\nexperience exactly the same dream. If this were an ordinary imposture,\nthe machinery would be arranged for results that would but little vary;\nif it were a supernatural agency permitted by the Almighty, it would\nsurely be for some definite end.\n\n\"These phenomena belong to neither class; my persuasion is, that they\noriginate in some brain now far distant; that that brain had no distinct\nvolition in anything that occurred; that what does occur reflects but\nits devious, motley, ever-shifting, half-formed thoughts; in short, that\nit has been but the dreams of such a brain put into action and invested\nwith a semisubstance. That this brain is of immense power, that it can\nset matter into movement, that it is malignant and destructive, I\nbelieve: some material force must have killed my dog; it might, for\naught I know, have sufficed to kill myself, had I been as subjugated by\nterror as the dog--had my intellect or my spirit given me no\ncountervailing resistance in my will.\"\n\n\"It killed your dog! that is fearful! indeed, it is strange that no\nanimal can be induced to stay in that house; not even a cat. Rats and\nmice are never found in it.\"\n\n\"The instincts of the brute creation detect influences deadly to their\nexistence. Man's reason has a sense less subtle, because it has a\nresisting power more supreme. But enough; do you comprehend my theory?\"\n\n\"Yes, though imperfectly--and I accept any crotchet (pardon the word),\nhowever odd, rather than embrace at once the notion of ghosts and\nhobgoblins we imbibed in our nurseries. Still, to my unfortunate house\nthe evil is the same. What on earth can I do with the house?\"\n\n\"I will tell you what I would do. I am convinced from my own internal\nfeelings that the small unfurnished room at right angles to the door of\nthe bedroom which I occupied, forms a starting-point or receptacle for\nthe influences which haunt the house; and I strongly advise you to have\nthe walls opened, the floor removed--nay, the whole room pulled down. I\nobserve that it is detached from the body of the house, built over the\nsmall back-yard, and could be removed without injury to the rest of the\nbuilding.\"\n\n\"And you think, if I did that----\"\n\n\"You would cut off the telegraph wires. Try it. I am so persuaded that I\nam right, that I will pay half the expense if you will allow me to\ndirect the operations.\"\n\n\"Nay, I am well able to afford the cost; for the rest, allow me to write\nto you.\"\n\nAbout ten days afterwards I received a letter from Mr J----, telling me\nthat he had visited the house since I had seen him; that he had found\nthe two letters I had described, replaced in the drawer from which I had\ntaken them; that he had read them with misgivings like my own; that he\nhad instituted a cautious inquiry about the woman to whom I rightly\nconjectured they had been written. It seemed that thirty-six years ago\n(a year before the date of the letters), she had married against the\nwish of her relatives, an American of very suspicious character; in\nfact, he was generally believed to have been a pirate. She herself was\nthe daughter of very respectable tradespeople, and had served in the\ncapacity of a nursery governess before her marriage. She had a brother,\na widower, who was considered wealthy, and who had one child of about\nsix years old. A month after the marriage, the body of this brother was\nfound in the Thames, near London Bridge; there seemed some marks of\nviolence about his throat, but they were not deemed sufficient to\nwarrant the inquest in any other verdict than that of \"found drowned.\"\n\nThe American and his wife took charge of the little boy, the deceased\nbrother having by his will left his sister the guardian of his only\nchild--and in the event of the child's death, the sister inherited. The\nchild died about six months afterwards--it was supposed to have been\nneglected and ill-treated. The neighbours deposed to have heard it\nshriek at night. The surgeon who had examined it after death, said that\nit was emaciated as if from want of nourishment, and the body was\ncovered with livid bruises. It seemed that one winter night the child\nhad sought to escape--crept out into the back-yard--tried to scale the\nwall--fallen back exhausted, and been found at morning on the stones in\na dying state. But though there was some evidence of cruelty, there was\nnone of murder; and the aunt and her husband had sought to palliate\ncruelty by alleging the exceeding stubbornness and perversity of the\nchild, who was declared to be half-witted. Be that as it may, at the\norphan's death the aunt inherited her brother's fortune.\n\nBefore the first wedded year was out, the American quitted England\nabruptly, and never returned to it. He obtained a cruising vessel, which\nwas lost in the Atlantic two years afterwards. The widow was left in\naffluence; but reverses of various kinds had befallen her: a bank\nbroke--an investment failed--she went into a small business and became\ninsolvent--then she entered into service, sinking lower and lower, from\nhousekeeper down to maid-of-all-work--never long retaining a place,\nthough nothing peculiar against her character was ever alleged. She was\nconsidered sober, honest, and peculiarly quiet in her ways; still\nnothing prospered with her. And so she had dropped into the workhouse,\nfrom which Mr J---- had taken her, to be placed in charge of the very\nhouse which she had rented as mistress in the first year of her wedded\nlife.\n\nMr J---- added that he had passed an hour alone in the unfurnished room\nwhich I had urged him to destroy, and that his impressions of dread\nwhile there were so great, though he had neither heard nor seen\nanything, that he was eager to have the walls bared and the floors\nremoved as I had suggested. He had engaged persons for the work, and\nwould commence any day I would name.\n\nThe day was accordingly fixed. I repaired to the haunted house--we went\ninto the blind dreary room, took up the skirting, and then the floors.\nUnder the rafters, covered with rubbish, was found a trap-door, quite\nlarge enough to admit a man. It was closely nailed down, with clamps and\nrivets of iron. On removing these we descended into a room below, the\nexistence of which had never been suspected. In this room there had been\na window and a flue, but they had been bricked over, evidently for many\nyears. By the help of candles we examined this place; it still retained\nsome mouldering furniture--three chairs, an oak settle, a table--all of\nthe fashion of about eighty years ago. There was a chest of drawers\nagainst the wall, in which we found, half-rotted away, old-fashioned\narticles of a man's dress, such as might have been worn eighty or a\nhundred years ago by a gentleman of some rank--costly steel buckles and\nbuttons, like those yet worn in court dresses--a handsome court\nsword--in a waistcoat which had once been rich with gold lace, but which\nwas now blackened and foul with damp, we found five guineas, a few\nsilver coins, and an ivory ticket, probably for some place of\nentertainment long since passed away. But our main discovery was in a\nkind of iron safe fixed to the wall, the lock of which it cost us much\ntrouble to get picked.\n\nIn this safe were three shelves and two small drawers. Ranged on the\nshelves were several small bottles of crystal, hermetically stopped.\nThey contained colourless volatile essences, of what nature I shall say\nno more than that they were not poisons--phosphor and ammonia entered\ninto some of them. There were also some very curious glass tubes, and a\nsmall pointed rod of iron, with a large lump of rock-crystal, and\nanother of amber--also a loadstone of great power.\n\nIn one of the drawers we found a miniature portrait set in gold, and\nretaining the freshness of its colours most remarkably, considering the\nlength of time it had probably been there. The portrait was that of a\nman who might be somewhat advanced in middle life, perhaps forty-seven\nor forty-eight.\n\nIt was a most peculiar face--a most impressive face. If you could fancy\nsome mighty serpent transformed into man, preserving in the human\nlineaments the old serpent type, you would have a better idea of that\ncountenance than long descriptions can convey: the width and flatness of\nfrontal--the tapering elegance of contour disguising the strength of the\ndeadly jaw--the long, large, terrible eye, glittering and green as the\nemerald--and withal a certain ruthless calm, as if from the\nconsciousness of an immense power. The strange thing was this--the\ninstant I saw the miniature I recognised a startling likeness to one of\nthe rarest portraits in the world--the portrait of a man of a rank only\nbelow that of royalty, who in his own day had made a considerable noise.\nHistory says little or nothing of him; but search the correspondence of\nhis contemporaries, and you find reference to his wild daring, his bold\nprofligacy, his restless spirit, his taste for the occult sciences.\nWhile still in the meridian of life he died and was buried, so say the\nchronicles, in a foreign land. He died in time to escape the grasp of\nthe law, for he was accused of crimes which would have given him to the\nheadsman.\n\nAfter his death, the portraits of him, which had been numerous, for he\nhad been a munificent encourager of art, were bought up and\ndestroyed--it was supposed by his heirs, who might have been glad could\nthey have razed his very name from their splendid line. He had enjoyed a\nvast wealth; a large portion of this was believed to have been embezzled\nby a favourite astrologer or soothsayer--at all events, it had\nunaccountably vanished at the time of his death. One portrait alone of\nhim was supposed to have escaped the general destruction; I had seen it\nin the house of a collector some months before. It had made on me a\nwonderful impression, as it does on all who behold it--a face never to\nbe forgotten; and there was that face in the miniature that lay within\nmy hand. True, that in the miniature the man was a few years older than\nin the portrait I had seen, or than the original was even at the time of\nhis death. But a few years!--why, between the date in which flourished\nthat direful noble and the date in which the miniature was evidently\npainted, there was an interval of more than two centuries. While I was\nthus gazing, silent and wondering, Mr J---- said:\n\n\"But is it possible? I have known this man.\"\n\n\"How--where?\" I cried.\n\n\"In India. He was high in the confidence of the Rajah of ----, and\nwellnigh drew him into a revolt which would have lost the Rajah his\ndominions. The man was a Frenchman--his name de V----, clever, bold,\nlawless. We insisted on his dismissal and banishment: it must be the\nsame man--no two faces like his--yet this miniature seems nearly a\nhundred years old.\"\n\nMechanically I turned round the miniature to examine the back of it, and\non the back was engraved a pentacle; in the middle of the pentacle a\nladder, and the third step of the ladder was formed by the date 1765.\nExamining still more minutely, I detected a spring; this, on being\npressed, opened the back of the miniature as a lid. Withinside the lid\nwas engraved \"Mariana to thee--Be faithful in life and in death to\n----.\" Here follows a name that I will not mention, but it was not\nunfamiliar to me. I had heard it spoken of by old men in my childhood as\nthe name borne by a dazzling charlatan, who had made a great sensation\nin London for a year or so, and had fled the country on the charge of a\ndouble murder within his own house--that of his mistress and his rival.\nI said nothing of this to Mr J----, to whom reluctantly I resigned the\nminiature.\n\nWe had found no difficulty in opening the first drawer within the iron\nsafe; we found great difficulty in opening the second: it was not\nlocked, but it resisted all efforts till we inserted in the chinks the\nedge of a chisel. When we had thus drawn it forth, we found a very\nsingular apparatus in the nicest order. Upon a small thin book, or\nrather tablet, was placed a saucer of crystal; this saucer was filled\nwith a clear liquid--on that liquid floated a kind of compass, with a\nneedle shifting rapidly round, but instead of the usual points of a\ncompass were seven strange characters, not very unlike those used by\nastrologers to denote the planets. A very peculiar, but not strong nor\ndispleasing odour, came from this drawer, which was lined with a wood\nthat we afterwards discovered to be hazel. Whatever the cause of this\nodour, it produced a material effect on the nerves. We all felt it, even\nthe two workmen who were in the room--a creeping tingling sensation from\nthe tips of the fingers to the roots of the hair. Impatient to examine\nthe tablet, I removed the saucer. As I did so the needle of the compass\nwent round and round with exceeding swiftness, and I felt a shock that\nran through my whole frame, so that I dropped the saucer on the floor.\nThe liquid was spilt--the saucer was broken--the compass rolled to the\nend of the room--and at that instant the walls shook to and fro, as if a\ngiant had swayed and rocked them.\n\nThe two workmen were so frightened that they ran up the ladder by which\nwe had descended from the trap-door; but seeing that nothing more\nhappened, they were easily induced to return.\n\nMeanwhile I had opened the tablet: it was bound in a plain red leather,\nwith a silver clasp; it contained but one sheet of thick vellum, and on\nthat sheet were inscribed, within a double pentacle, words in old\nmonkish Latin, which are literally to be translated thus:--\"On all that\nit can reach within these walls--sentient or inanimate, living or\ndead--as moves the needle, so work my will! Accursed be the house, and\nrestless be the dwellers therein.\"\n\nWe found no more. Mr J---- burnt the tablet and its anathema. He razed\nto the foundations the part of the building containing the secret room\nwith the chamber over it. He had then the courage to inhabit the house\nhimself for a month, and a quieter, better-conditioned house could not\nbe found in all London. Subsequently he let it to advantage, and his\ntenant has made no complaints.\n\nBut my story is not yet done. A few days after Mr J---- had removed into\nthe house, I paid him a visit. We were standing by the open window and\nconversing. A van containing some articles of furniture which he was\nmoving from his former house was at the door. I had just urged on him my\ntheory that all those phenomena regarded as supermundane had emanated\nfrom a human brain; adducing the charm, or rather curse, we had found\nand destroyed in support of my philosophy. Mr J---- was observing in\nreply, \"That even if mesmerism, or whatever analogous power it might be\ncalled, could really thus work in the absence of the operator, and\nproduce effects so extraordinary, still could those effects continue\nwhen the operator himself was dead? and if the spell had been wrought,\nand, indeed, the room walled up, more than seventy years ago, the\nprobability was, that the operator had long since departed this life\";\nMr J----, I say, was thus answering, when I caught hold of his arm and\npointed to the street below.\n\nA well-dressed man had crossed from the opposite side, and was accosting\nthe carrier in charge of the van. His face, as he stood, was exactly\nfronting our window. It was the face of the miniature we had discovered;\nit was the face of the portrait of the noble three centuries ago.\n\n\"Good Heavens!\" cried Mr J----, \"that is the face of de V----, and\nscarcely a day older than when I saw it in the Rajah's court in my\nyouth!\"\n\nSeized by the same thought, we both hastened downstairs. I was first in\nthe street; but the man had already gone. I caught sight of him,\nhowever, not many yards in advance, and in another moment I was by his\nside.\n\nI had resolved to speak to him, but when I looked into his face I felt\nas if it were impossible to do so. That eye--the eye of the\nserpent--fixed and held me spellbound. And withal, about the man's whole\nperson there was a dignity, an air of pride and station and superiority,\nthat would have made anyone, habituated to the usages of the world,\nhesitate long before venturing upon a liberty or impertinence. And what\ncould I say? what was it I would ask? Thus ashamed of my first impulse,\nI fell a few paces back, still, however, following the stranger,\nundecided what else to do. Meanwhile he turned the corner of the street;\na plain carriage was in waiting, with a servant out of livery, dressed\nlike a _valet-de-place_, at the carriage door. In another moment he had\nstepped into the carriage, and it drove off. I returned to the house. Mr\nJ---- was still at the street door. He had asked the carrier what the\nstranger had said to him.\n\n\"Merely asked whom that house now belonged to.\"\n\nThe same evening I happened to go with a friend to a place in town\ncalled the Cosmopolitan Club, a place open to men of all countries, all\nopinions, all degrees. One orders one's coffee, smokes one's cigar. One\nis always sure to meet agreeable, sometimes remarkable, persons.\n\nI had not been two minutes in the room before I beheld at a table,\nconversing with an acquaintance of mine, whom I will designate by the\ninitial G----, the man--the Original of the Miniature. He was now\nwithout his hat, and the likeness was yet more startling, only I\nobserved that while he was conversing there was less severity in the\ncountenance; there was even a smile, though a very quiet and very cold\none. The dignity of mien I had acknowledged in the street was also more\nstriking; a dignity akin to that which invests some prince of the\nEast--conveying the idea of supreme indifference and habitual,\nindisputable, indolent, but resistless power.\n\nG---- soon after left the stranger, who then took up a scientific\njournal, which seemed to absorb his attention.\n\nI drew G---- aside. \"Who and what is that gentleman?\"\n\n\"That? Oh, a very remarkable man indeed. I met him last year amidst the\ncaves of Petra--the scriptural Edom. He is the best Oriental scholar I\nknow. We joined company, had an adventure with robbers, in which he\nshowed a coolness that saved our lives; afterwards he invited me to\nspend a day with him in a house he had bought at Damascus--a house\nburied amongst almond blossoms and roses--the most beautiful thing! He\nhad lived there for some years, quite as an Oriental, in grand style. I\nhalf suspect he is a renegade, immensely rich, very odd; by the by, a\ngreat mesmeriser. I have seen him with my own eyes produce an effect on\ninanimate things. If you take a letter from your pocket and throw it to\nthe other end of the room, he will order it to come to his feet, and you\nwill see the letter wriggle itself along the floor till it has obeyed\nhis command. 'Pon my honour, 'tis true: I have seen him affect even the\nweather, disperse or collect clouds, by means of a glass tube or wand.\nBut he does not like talking of these matters to strangers. He has only\njust arrived in England; says he has not been here for a great many\nyears; let me introduce him to you.\"\n\n\"Certainly! He is English, then? What is his name?\"\n\n\"Oh!--a very homely one--Richards.\"\n\n\"And what is his birth--his family?\"\n\n\"How do I know? What does it signify?--no doubt some parvenu, but\nrich--so infernally rich!\"\n\nG---- drew me up to the stranger, and the introduction was effected. The\nmanners of Mr Richards were not those of an adventurous traveller.\nTravellers are in general constitutionally gifted with high animal\nspirits: they are talkative, eager, imperious. Mr Richards was calm and\nsubdued in tone, with manners which were made distant by the loftiness\nof punctilious courtesy--the manners of a former age. I observed that\nthe English he spoke was not exactly of our day. I should even have said\nthat the accent was slightly foreign. But then Mr Richards remarked that\nhe had been little in the habit for many years of speaking in his native\ntongue. The conversation fell upon the changes in the aspect of London\nsince he had last visited our metropolis. G---- then glanced off to the\nmoral changes--literary, social, political--the great men who were\nremoved from the stage within the last twenty years--the new great men\nwho were coming on. In all this Mr Richards evinced no interest. He had\nevidently read none of our living authors, and seemed scarcely\nacquainted by name with our younger statesmen. Once and only\nonce he laughed; it was when G---- asked him whether he had\nany thoughts of getting into Parliament. And the laugh was\ninward--sarcastic--sinister--a sneer raised into a laugh. After a few\nminutes G---- left us to talk to some other acquaintances who had just\nlounged into the room, and I then said quietly:\n\n\"I have seen a miniature of you, Mr Richards, in the house you once\ninhabited, and perhaps built, if not wholly, at least in part, in ----\nStreet. You passed by that house this morning.\"\n\nNot till I had finished did I raise my eyes to his, and then his fixed\nmy gaze so steadfastly that I could not withdraw it--those fascinating\nserpent eyes. But involuntarily, and if the words that translated my\nthought were dragged from me, I added in a low whisper, \"I have been a\nstudent in the mysteries of life and nature; of those mysteries I have\nknown the occult professors. I have the right to speak to you thus.\" And\nI uttered a certain pass-word.\n\n\"Well,\" said he, dryly, \"I concede the right--what would you ask?\"\n\n\"To what extent human will in certain temperaments can extend?\"\n\n\"To what extent can thought extend? Think, and before you draw breath\nyou are in China!\"\n\n\"True. But my thought has no power in China.\"\n\n\"Give it expression, and it may have: you may write down a thought\nwhich, sooner or later, may alter the whole condition of China. What is\na law but a thought? Therefore thought is infinite--therefore thought\nhas power; not in proportion to its value--a bad thought may make a bad\nlaw as potent as a good thought can make a good one.\"\n\n\"Yes; what you say confirms my own theory. Through invisible currents\none human brain may transmit its ideas to other human brains with the\nsame rapidity as a thought promulgated by visible means. And as thought\nis imperishable--as it leaves its stamp behind it in the natural world\neven when the thinker has passed out of this world--so the thought of\nthe living may have power to rouse up and revive the thoughts of the\ndead--such as those thoughts _were in life_--though the thought of the\nliving cannot reach the thoughts which the dead _now_ may entertain. Is\nit not so?\"\n\n\"I decline to answer, if, in my judgment, thought has the limit you\nwould fix to it; but proceed. You have a special question you wish to\nput.\"\n\n\"Intense malignity in an intense will, engendered in a peculiar\ntemperament, and aided by natural means within the reach of science, may\nproduce effects like those ascribed of old to evil magic. It might thus\nhaunt the walls of a human habitation with spectral revivals of all\nguilty thoughts and guilty deeds once conceived and done within those\nwalls; all, in short, with which the evil will claims _rapport_ and\naffinity--imperfect, incoherent, fragmentary snatches at the old dramas\nacted therein years ago. Thoughts thus crossing each other haphazard, as\nin the nightmare of a vision, growing up into phantom sights and sounds,\nand all serving to create horror, not because those sights and sounds\nare really visitations from a world without, but that they are ghastly\nmonstrous renewals of what have been in this world itself, set into\nmalignant play by a malignant mortal.\n\n\"And it is through the material agency of that human brain that these\nthings would acquire even a human power--would strike as with the shock\nof electricity, and might kill, if the thought of the person assailed\ndid not rise superior to the dignity of the original assailer--might\nkill the most powerful animal if unnerved by fear, but not injure the\nfeeblest man, if, while his flesh crept, his mind stood out fearless.\nThus, when in old stories we read of a magician rent to pieces by the\nfiends he had evoked--or still more, in Eastern legends, that one\nmagician succeeds by arts in destroying another--there may be so far\ntruth, that a material being has clothed, from its own evil propensities\ncertain elements and fluids, usually quiescent or harmless, with awful\nshape and terrific force--just as the lightning that had lain hidden and\ninnocent in the cloud becomes by natural law suddenly visible, takes a\ndistinct shape to the eye, and can strike destruction on the object to\nwhich it is attracted.\"\n\n\"You are not without glimpses of a very mighty secret,\" said Mr\nRichards, composedly. \"According to your view, could a mortal obtain the\npower you speak of, he would necessarily be a malignant and evil being.\"\n\n\"If the power were exercised as I have said, most malignant and most\nevil--though I believe in the ancient traditions that he could not\ninjure the good. His will could only injure those with whom it has\nestablished an affinity, or over whom it forces unresisted sway. I will\nnow imagine an example that may be within the laws of nature, yet seem\nwild as the fables of a bewildered monk.\n\n\"You will remember that Albertus Magnus, after describing minutely the\nprocess by which spirits may be invoked and commanded, adds emphatically\nthat the process will instruct and avail only to the few--that a _man\nmust be born a magician_!--that is, born with a peculiar physical\ntemperament, as a man is born a poet. Rarely are men in whose\nconstitution lurks this occult power of the highest order of\nintellect;--usually in the intellect there is some twist, perversity, or\ndisease. But, on the other hand, they must possess, to an astonishing\ndegree, the faculty to concentrate thought on a single object--the\nenergic faculty that we call _will_. Therefore, though their intellect\nbe not sound, it is exceedingly forcible for the attainment of what it\ndesires. I will imagine such a person, pre-eminently gifted with this\nconstitution and its concomitant forces. I will place him in the loftier\ngrades of society. I will suppose his desires emphatically those of the\nsensualist--he has, therefore, a strong love of life. He is an absolute\negotist--his will is concentrated in himself--he has fierce passions--he\nknows no enduring, no holy affections, but he can covet eagerly what for\nthe moment he desires--he can hate implacably what opposes itself to his\nobjects--he can commit fearful crimes, yet feel small remorse--he\nresorts rather to curses upon others, than to penitence for his\nmisdeeds. Circumstances, to which his constitution guides him, lead him\nto a rare knowledge of the natural secrets which may serve his egotism.\nHe is a close observer where his passions encourage observation, he is a\nminute calculator, not from love of truth, but where love of self\nsharpens his faculties--therefore he can be a man of science.\n\n\"I suppose such a being, having by experience learned the power of his\narts over others, trying what may be the power of will over his own\nframe, and studying all that in natural philosophy may increase that\npower. He loves life, he dreads death; he _wills to live on_. He cannot\nrestore himself to youth, he cannot entirely stay the progress of death,\nhe cannot make himself immortal in the flesh and blood; but he may\narrest for a time so prolonged as to appear incredible, if I said\nit--that hardening of the parts which constitutes old age. A year may\nage him no more than an hour ages another. His intense will,\nscientifically trained into system, operates, in short, over the wear\nand tear of his own frame. He lives on. That he may not seem a portent\nand a miracle, he _dies_ from time to time, seemingly, to certain\npersons. Having schemed the transfer of a wealth that suffices to his\nwants, he disappears from one corner of the world, and contrives that\nhis obsequies shall be celebrated. He reappears at another corner of the\nworld, where he resides undetected, and does not revisit the scenes of\nhis former career till all who could remember his features are no more.\nHe would be profoundly miserable if he had affections--he has none but\nfor himself. No good man would accept his longevity, and to no men, good\nor bad, would he or could he communicate its true secret. Such a man\nmight exist; such a man as I have described I see now before me!--Duke\nof ----, in the court of ----, dividing time between lust and brawl,\nalchemists and wizards;--again, in the last century, charlatan and\ncriminal, with name less noble, domiciled in the house at which you\ngazed to-day, and flying from the law you had outraged, none knew\nwhither; traveller once more revisiting London, with the same earthly\npassions which filled your heart when races now no more walked through\nyonder streets; outlaw from the school of all the nobler and diviner\nmystics; execrable Image of Life in Death and Death in Life, I warn you\nback from the cities and homes of healthful men; back to the ruins of\ndeparted empires; back to the deserts of nature unredeemed!\"\n\nThere answered me a whisper so musical, so potently musical, that it\nseemed to enter into my whole being, and subdue me despite myself. Thus\nit said:\n\n\"I have sought one like you for the last hundred years. Now I have found\nyou, we part not till I know what I desire. The vision that sees through\nthe Past, and cleaves through the veil of the Future, is in you at this\nhour; never before, never to come again. The vision of no puling\nfantastic girl, of no sick-bed somnambule, but of a strong man, with a\nvigorous brain. Soar and look forth!\"\n\nAs he spoke I felt as if I rose out of myself upon eagle wings. All the\nweight seemed gone from air--roofless the room, roofless the dome of\nspace. I was not in the body--where I knew not--but aloft over time,\nover earth.\n\nAgain I heard the melodious whisper,--\"You say right. I have mastered\ngreat secrets by the power of Will; true, by Will and by Science I can\nretard the process of years: but death comes not by age alone. Can I\nfrustrate the accidents which bring death upon the young?\"\n\n\"No; every accident is a providence. Before a providence snaps every\nhuman will.\"\n\n\"Shall I die at last, ages and ages hence, by the slow, though\ninevitable, growth of time, or by the cause that I call accident?\"\n\n\"By a cause you call accident.\"\n\n\"Is not the end still remote?\" asked the whisper, with a slight tremor.\n\n\"Regarded as my life regards time, it is still remote.\"\n\n\"And shall I, before then, mix with the world of men as I did ere I\nlearned these secrets, resume eager interest in their strife and their\ntrouble--battle with ambition, and use the power of the sage to win the\npower that belongs to kings?\"\n\n\"You will yet play a part on the earth that will fill earth with\ncommotion and amaze. For wondrous designs have you, a wonder yourself,\nbeen permitted to live on through the centuries. All the secrets you\nhave stored will then have their uses--all that now makes you a stranger\namidst the generations will contribute then to make you their lord. As\nthe trees and the straws are drawn into a whirlpool--as they spin round,\nare sucked to the deep, and again tossed aloft by the eddies, so shall\nraces and thrones be plucked into the charm of your vortex. Awful\nDestroyer--but in destroying, made, against your own will, a\nConstructor!\"\n\n\"And that date, too, is far off?\"\n\n\"Far off; when it comes, think your end in this world is at hand!\"\n\n\"How and what is the end? Look east, west, south, and north.\"\n\n\"In the north, where you never yet trod towards the point whence your\ninstincts have warned you, there a spectre will seize you. 'Tis Death! I\nsee a ship--it is haunted--'tis chased--it sails on. Baffled navies sail\nafter that ship. It enters the region of ice. It passes a sky red with\nmeteors. Two moons stand on high, over ice-reefs. I see the ship locked\nbetween white defiles--they are ice-rocks. I see the dead strew the\ndecks--stark and livid, green mould on their limbs. All are dead but one\nman--it is you! But years, though so slowly they come, have then scathed\nyou. There is the coming of age on your brow, and the will is relaxed\nin the cells of the brain. Still that will, though enfeebled, exceeds\nall that man knew before you, through the will you live on, gnawed with\nfamine; and nature no longer obeys you in that death-spreading region;\nthe sky is a sky of iron, and the air has iron clamps, and the ice-rocks\nwedge in the ship. Hark how it cracks and groans. Ice will imbed it as\namber imbeds a straw. And a man has gone forth, living yet, from the\nship and its dead; and he has clambered up the spikes of an iceberg, and\nthe two moons gaze down on his form. That man is yourself; and terror is\non you--terror; and terror has swallowed your will. And I see swarming\nup the steep ice-rock, grey grisly things. The bears of the north have\nscented their quarry--they come near you and nearer, shambling and\nrolling their bulk. And in that day every moment shall seem to you\nlonger than the centuries through which you have passed. And heed\nthis--after life, moments continued make the bliss or the hell of\neternity.\"\n\n\"Hush,\" said the whisper; \"but the day, you assure me, is far off--very\nfar! I go back to the almond and rose of Damascus!--sleep!\"\n\nThe room swam before my eyes. I became insensible. When I recovered, I\nfound G---- holding my hand and smiling. He said, \"You who have always\ndeclared yourself proof against mesmerism have succumbed at last to my\nfriend Richards.\"\n\n\"Where is Mr Richards?\"\n\n\"Gone, when you passed into a trance--saying quietly to me, 'Your friend\nwill not wake for an hour.'\"\n\nI asked, as collectedly as I could, where Mr Richards lodged.\n\n\"At the Trafalgar Hotel.\"\n\n\"Give me your arm,\" said I to G----; \"let us call on him; I have\nsomething to say.\"\n\nWhen we arrived at the hotel, we were told that Mr Richards had\nreturned twenty minutes before, paid his bill, left directions with his\nservant (a Greek) to pack his effects and proceed to Malta by the\nsteamer that should leave Southampton the next day. Mr Richards had\nmerely said of his own movements that he had visits to pay in the\nneighbourhood of London, and it was uncertain whether he should be able\nto reach Southampton in time for that steamer; if not, he should follow\nin the next one.\n\nThe waiter asked me my name. On my informing him, he gave me a note that\nMr Richards had left for me, in case I called.\n\nThe note was as follows: \"I wished you to utter what was in your mind.\nYou obeyed. I have therefore established power over you. For three\nmonths from this day you can communicate to no living man what has\npassed between us--you cannot even show this note to the friend by your\nside. During three months, silence complete as to me and mine. Do you\ndoubt my power to lay on you this command?--try to disobey me. At the\nend of the third month, the spell is raised. For the rest I spare you. I\nshall visit your grave a year and a day after it has received you.\"\n\nSo ends this strange story, which I ask no one to believe. I write it\ndown exactly three months after I received the above note. I could not\nwrite it before, nor could I show to G----, in spite of his urgent\nrequest, the note which I read under the gas-lamp by his side.\n\n\n\n\nVII\n\nTHE BOTATHEN GHOST\n\nBy the Rev. S.R. HAWKER\n\n\nThe legend of Parson Rudall and the Botathen Ghost will be recognised by\nmany Cornish people as a local remembrance of their boyhood.\n\nIt appears from the diary of this learned master of the\ngrammar-school--for such was his office, as well as perpetual curate of\nthe parish,--\"that a pestilential disease did break forth in our town in\nthe beginning of the year A.D. 1665; yea, and it likewise\ninvaded my school, insomuch that therewithal certain of the chief\nscholars sickened and died.\" \"Among others who yielded to the malign\ninfluence was Master John Eliot, the eldest son and the worshipful heir\nof Edward Eliot, Esquire of Trebursey, a stripling of sixteen years of\nage, but of uncommon parts and hopeful ingenuity. At his own especial\nmotion and earnest desire I did consent to preach his funeral sermon.\"\nIt should be remembered here that, howsoever strange and singular it may\nsound to us that a mere lad should formally solicit such a performance\nat the hands of his master, it was in consonance with the habitual usage\nof those times. The old services for the dead had been abolished by law,\nand in the stead of sacrament and ceremony, month's mind and year's\nmind, the sole substitute which survived was the general desire \"to\npartake,\" as they called it, of a posthumous discourse, replete with\nlofty eulogy and flattering remembrance of the living and the dead. The\ndiary proceeds:\n\n\"I fulfilled my undertaking and preached over the coffin in the presence\nof a full assemblage of mourners and lachrymose friends. An ancient\ngentleman who was then and there in the church, a Mr Bligh of Botathen,\nwas much affected by my discourse, and he was heard to repeat to himself\ncertain parentheses therefrom, especially a phrase from Maro Virgilius,\nwhich I had applied to the deceased youth, 'Et puer ipse fuit cantari\ndignus.'\n\n\"The cause wherefore this old gentleman was thus moved by my\napplications was this: He had a first-born and only son--a child who,\nbut a very few months before, had been not unworthy of the character I\ndrew of young Master Eliot, but who, by some strange accident, had of\nlate quite fallen away from his parent's hopes, and become moody, and\nsullen, and distraught. When the funeral obsequies were over, I had no\nsooner come out of the church than I was accosted by this aged parent,\nand he besought me incontinently, with a singular energy, that I would\nresort with him forthwith to his abode at Botathen that very night; nor\ncould I have delivered myself from his importunity, had not Mr Eliot\nurged his claim to enjoy my company at his own house. Hereupon I got\nloose, but not until I had pledged a fast assurance that I would pay\nhim, faithfully, an early visit the next day.\"\n\n\"The Place,\" as it was called, of Botathen, where old Mr Bligh resided,\nwas a low-roofed gabled manor-house of the fifteenth century, walled and\nmullioned, and with clustered chimneys of dark-grey stone from the\nneighbouring quarries of Ventor-gan. The mansion was flanked by a\npleasaunce or enclosure in one space, of garden and lawn, and it was\nsurrounded by a solemn grove of stag-horned trees. It had the sombre\naspect of age and of solitude, and looked the very scene of strange and\nsupernatural events. A legend might well belong to every gloomy glade\naround, and there must surely be a haunted room somewhere within its\nwalls. Hither, according to his appointment, on the morrow, Parson\nRudall betook himself. Another clergyman, as it appeared, had been\ninvited to meet him, who, very soon after his arrival, proposed a walk\ntogether in the pleasaunce, on the pretext of showing him, as a\nstranger, the walks and trees, until the dinner-bell should strike.\nThere, with much prolixity, and with many a solemn pause, his brother\nminister proceeded to \"unfold the mystery.\"\n\n\"A singular infelicity,\" he declared, \"had befallen young Master Bligh,\nonce the hopeful heir of his parents and of the lands of Botathen.\nWhereas he had been from childhood a blithe and merry boy, 'the\ngladness,' like Isaac of old, of his father's age, he had suddenly of\nlate become morose and silent--nay, even austere and stern--dwelling\napart, always solemn, often in tears. The lad had at first repulsed all\nquestions as to the origin of this great change, but of late he had\nyielded to the importunate researches of his parents, and had disclosed\nthe secret cause. It appeared that he resorted, every day, by a pathway\nacross the fields, to this very clergyman's house, who had charge of his\neducation, and grounded him in the studies suitable to his age. In the\ncourse of his daily walk he had to pass a certain heath or down where\nthe road wound along through tall blocks of granite with open spaces of\ngrassy sward between. There in a certain spot and always in one and the\nsame place, the lad declared that he had encountered, every day, a woman\nwith a pale and troubled face, clothed in a long loose garment of\nfrieze, with one hand always stretched forth, and the other pressed\nagainst her side. Her name, he said, was Dorothy Dinglet, for he had\nknown her well from his childhood, and she often used to come to his\nparents' house; but that which troubled him was, that she had now been\ndead three years, and he himself had been with the neighbours at her\nburial; so that, as the youth alleged, with great simplicity, since he\nhad seen her body laid in the grave, this that he saw every day must\nneeds be her soul or ghost. 'Questioned again and again,' said the\nclergyman, 'he never contradicts himself; but he relates the same and\nthe simple tale as a thing that cannot be gainsaid. Indeed, the lad's\nobservance is keen and calm for a boy of his age. The hair of the\nappearance, sayeth he, is not like anything alive, but it is so soft and\nlight that it seemeth to melt away while you look; but her eyes are set,\nand never blink--no, not when the sun shineth full upon her face. She\nmaketh no steps, but seemeth to swim along the top of the grass; and her\nhand, which is stretched out alway, seemeth to point at something far\naway, out of sight. It is her continual coming; for she never faileth to\nmeet him, and to pass on, that hath quenched his spirits; and although\nhe never seeth her by night, yet cannot he get his natural rest.'\n\n\"Thus far the clergyman; whereupon the dinner clock did sound, and we\nwent into the house. After dinner, when young Master Bligh had withdrawn\nwith his tutor, under excuse of their books, the parents did forthwith\nbeset me as to my thoughts about their son. Said I, warily, 'The case is\nstrange, but by no means impossible. It is one that I will study, and\nfear not to handle, if the lad will be free with me, and fulfil all that\nI desire.' The mother was overjoyed, but I perceived that old Mr Bligh\nturned pale, and was downcast with some thought which, however, he did\nnot express. Then they bade that Master Bligh should be called to meet\nme in the pleasaunce forthwith. The boy came, and he rehearsed to me his\ntale with an open countenance, and, withal, a modesty of speech. Verily\nhe seemed 'ingenui vultus puer ingenuique pudoris.' Then I signified to\nhim my purpose. 'To-morrow,' said I, 'we will go together to the place;\nand if, as I doubt not, the woman shall appear, it will be for me to\nproceed according to knowledge, and by rules laid down in my books.'\"\n\nThe unaltered scenery of the legend still survives, and, like the field\nof the forty footsteps in another history, the place is still visited by\nthose who take interest in the supernatural tales of old. The pathway\nleads along a moorland waste, where large masses of rock stand up here\nand there from the grassy turf, and clumps of heath and gorse weave\ntheir tapestry of golden purple garniture on every side. Amidst all\nthese, and winding along between the rocks, is a natural footway worn by\nthe scant, rare tread of the village traveller. Just midway, a somewhat\nlarger stretch than usual of green sod expands, which is skirted by the\npath, and which is still identified as the legendary haunt of the\nphantom, by the name of Parson Rudall's Ghost.\n\nBut we must draw the record of the first interview between the minister\nand Dorothy from his own words. \"We met,\" thus he writes, \"in the\npleasaunce very early, and before any others in the house were awake;\nand together the lad and myself proceeded towards the field. The youth\nwas quite composed, and carried his Bible under his arm, from whence he\nread to me verses, which he said he had lately picked out, to have\nalways in his mind. These were Job vii. 14, 'Thou scarest me with\ndreams, and terrifiest me through visions'; and Deuteronomy xxviii. 67,\n'In the morning thou shalt say, Would to God it were the evening, and in\nthe evening thou shalt say, Would to God it were morning; for the fear\nof thine heart wherewith thou shalt fear, and for the sight of thine\neyes which thou shalt see.'\n\n\"I was much pleased with the lad's ingenuity in these pious\napplications, but for mine own part I was somewhat anxious and out of\ncheer. For aught I knew this might be a _daemonium meridianum_, the most\nstubborn spirit to govern and guide that any man can meet, and the most\nperilous withal. We had hardly reached the accustomed spot, when we both\nsaw her at once gliding towards us; punctually as the ancient writers\ndescribe the motion of their 'lemures, which swoon along the ground,\nneither marking the sand nor bending the herbage.' The aspect of the\nwoman was exactly that which had been related by the lad. There was the\npale and stony face, the strange and misty hair, the eyes firm and\nfixed, that gazed, yet not on us, but something that they saw far, far\naway; one hand and arm stretched out, and the other grasping the girdle\nof her waist. She floated along the field like a sail upon a stream, and\nglided past the spot where we stood, pausingly. But so deep was the awe\nthat overcame me, as I stood there in the light of day, face to face\nwith a human soul separate from her bones and flesh, that my heart and\npurpose both failed me. I had resolved to speak to the spectre in the\nappointed form of words, but I did not. I stood like one amazed and\nspeechless, until she had passed clean out of sight. One thing\nremarkable came to pass. A spaniel dog, the favourite of young Master\nBligh, had followed us, and lo! when the woman drew nigh, the poor\ncreature began to yell and bark piteously, and ran backward and away,\nlike a thing dismayed and appalled. We returned to the house, and after\nI had said all that I could to pacify the lad, and to soothe the aged\npeople, I took my leave for that time, with a promise that when I had\nfulfilled certain business elsewhere, which I then alleged, I would\nreturn and take orders to assuage these disturbances and their cause.\n\n\"January 7, 1665.--At my own house, I find, by my books, what is\nexpedient to be done; and then, Apage, Sathanas!\n\n\"January 9, 1665.--This day I took leave of my wife and family, under\npretext of engagements elsewhere, and made my secret journey to our\ndiocesan city, wherein the good and venerable bishop then abode.\n\n\"January 10.--_Deo gratias_, in safe arrival at Exeter; craved and\nobtained immediate audience of his lordship; pleading it was for counsel\nand admonition on a weighty and pressing cause; called to the presence;\nmade obeisance; and then by command stated my case--the Botathen\nperplexity--which I moved with strong and earnest instances and solemn\nasseverations of that which I had myself seen and heard. Demanded by his\nlordship, what was the succour that I had come to entreat at his hands?\nReplied, licence for my exorcism, that so I might, ministerially, allay\nthis spiritual visitant, and thus render to the living and the dead\nrelease from this surprise. 'But,' said our bishop, 'on what authority\ndo you allege that I am intrusted with faculty so to do? Our Church, as\nis well known, hath abjured certain branches of her ancient power, on\ngrounds of perversion and abuse.' 'Nay, my Lord,' I humbly answered,\n'under favour, the seventy-second of the canons ratified and enjoined on\nus, the clergy, anno Domini 1604, doth expressly provide, that \"no\nminister, _unless he hath_ the licence of his diocesan bishop, shall\nessay to exorcise a spirit, evil or good.\" Therefore it was,' I did here\nmildly allege, 'that I did not presume to enter on such a work without\nlawful privilege under your lordship's hand and seal.' Hereupon did our\nwise and learned bishop, sitting in his chair, condescend upon the theme\nat some length with many gracious interpretations from ancient writers\nand from Holy Scripture, and I did humbly rejoin and reply, till the\nupshot was that he did call in his secretary and command him to draw the\naforesaid faculty, forthwith and without further delay, assigning him a\nform, insomuch that the matter was incontinently done; and after I had\ndisbursed into the secretary's hands certain moneys for signitary\npurposes, as the manner of such officers hath always been, the bishop\ndid himself affix his signature under the _sigillum_ of his see, and\ndeliver the document into my hands. When I knelt down to receive his\nbenediction, he softly said, 'Let it be secret, Mr R. Weak brethren!\nweak brethren!'\"\n\nThis interview with the bishop, and the success with which he\nvanquished his lordship's scruples, would seem to have confirmed Parson\nRudall very strongly in his own esteem, and to have invested him with\nthat courage which he evidently lacked at his first encounter with the\nghost.\n\nThe entries proceed: \"January 11, 1665.--Therewithal did I hasten home\nand prepare my instruments, and cast my figures for the onset of the\nnext day. Took out my ring of brass, and put it on the index-finger of\nmy right hand, with the _scutum Davidis_ traced thereon.\n\n\"January 12, 1665.--Rode into the gateway at Botathen, armed at all\npoints, but not with Saul's armour, and ready. There is danger from the\ndemons, but so there is in the surrounding air every day. At early\nmorning then, and alone,--for so the usage ordains,--I betook me towards\nthe field. It was void, and I had thereby due time to prepare. First, I\npaced and measured out my circle on the grass. Then did I mark my\npentacle in the very midst, and at the intersection of the five angles I\ndid set up and fix my crutch of _raun_ (rowan). Lastly, I took my\nstation south, at the true line of the meridian, and stood facing due\nnorth. I waited and watched for a long time. At last there was a kind of\ntrouble in the air, a soft and rippling sound, and all at once the shape\nappeared, and came on towards me gradually. I opened my parchment\nscroll, and read aloud the command. She paused, and seemed to waver and\ndoubt; stood still; then I rehearsed the sentence, sounding out every\nsyllable like a chant. She drew near my ring, but halted at first\noutside, on the brink. I sounded again, and now at the third time I gave\nthe signal in Syriac,--the speech which is used, they say, where such\nones dwell and converse in thoughts that glide.\n\n\"She was at last obedient, and swam into the midst of the circle, and\nthere stood still, suddenly. I saw, moreover, that she drew back her\npointing hand. All this while I do confess that my knees shook under me,\nand the drops of sweat ran down my flesh like rain. But now, although\nface to face with the spirit, my heart grew calm, and my mind was\ncomposed. I knew that the pentacle would govern her, and the ring must\nbind, until I gave the word. Then I called to mind the rule laid down of\nold, that no angel or fiend, no spirit, good or evil, will ever speak\nuntil they have been first spoken to. _N.B._--This is the great law of\nprayer. God Himself will not yield reply until man hath made vocal\nentreaty, once and again. So I went on to demand, as the books advise;\nand the phantom made answer, willingly. Questioned wherefore not at\nrest? Unquiet, because of a certain sin. Asked what, and by whom?\nRevealed it; but it is _sub sigillo_, and therefore _nefas dictu_; more\nanon. Inquired, what sign she could give that she was a true spirit and\nnot a false fiend? Stated, before next Yule-tide a fearful pestilence\nwould lay waste the land and myriads of souls would be loosened from\ntheir flesh, until, as she piteously said, 'our valleys will be full.'\nAsked again, why she so terrified the lad? Replied: 'It is the law; we\nmust seek a youth or a maiden of clean life, and under age, to receive\nmessages and admonitions.' We conversed with many more words, but it is\nnot lawful for me to set them down. Pen and ink would degrade and defile\nthe thoughts she uttered, and which my mind received that day. I broke\nthe ring, and she passed, but to return once more next day. At\neven-song, a long discourse with that ancient transgressor, Mr B. Great\nhorror and remorse; entire atonement and penance; whatsoever I enjoin;\nfull acknowledgment before pardon.\n\n\"January 13, 1665.--At sunrise I was again in the field. She came in at\nonce, and, as it seemed, with freedom. Inquired if she knew my thoughts,\nand what I was going to relate? Answered, 'Nay, we only know what we\nperceive and hear; we cannot see the heart.' Then I rehearsed the\npenitent words of the man she had come up to denounce, and the\nsatisfaction he would perform. Then said she, 'Peace in our midst.' I\nwent through the proper forms of dismissal, and fulfilled all as it was\nset down and written in my memoranda; and then, with certain fixed\nrites, I did dismiss that troubled ghost, until she peacefully withdrew,\ngliding towards the west. Neither did she ever afterward appear, but was\nallayed until she shall come in her second flesh to the valley of\nArmageddon on the last day.\"\n\nThese quaint and curious details from the \"diurnal\" of a simple-hearted\nclergyman of the seventeenth century appear to betoken his personal\npersuasion of the truth of what he saw and said, although the statements\nare strongly tinged with what some may term the superstition, and others\nthe excessive belief, of those times. It is a singular fact, however,\nthat the canon which authorises exorcism under episcopal licence is\nstill a part of the ecclesiastical law of the Anglican Church, although\nit might have a singular effect on the nerves of certain of our bishops\nif their clergy were to resort to them for the faculty which Parson\nRudall obtained. The general facts stated in his diary are to this day\nmatters of belief in that neighbourhood; and it has been always\naccounted a strong proof of the veracity of the Parson and the Ghost,\nthat the plague, fatal to so many thousands, did break out in London at\nthe close of that very year. We may well excuse a triumphant entry, on a\nsubsequent page of the \"diurnal,\" with the date of July 10, 1665: \"How\nsorely must the infidels and heretics of this generation be dismayed\nwhen they know that this Black Death, which is now swallowing its\nthousands in the streets of the great city, was foretold six months\nagone, under the exorcisms of a country minister, by a visible and\nsuppliant ghost! And what pleasures and improvements do such deny\nthemselves who scorn and avoid all opportunity of intercourse with souls\nseparate, and the spirits, glad and sorrowful, which inhabit the unseen\nworld!\"\n\n\n\n\nVIII\n\nTHE GHOST OF LORD CLARENCEUX\n\nBy ARNOLD BENNETT[2]\n\n\nIn the chair which stood before the writing-table in the middle of the\nroom sat the figure of Lord Clarenceux. The figure did not move as I\nwent in; its back was towards me. At the other end of the room was the\ndoorway, which led to the small bedroom, little more than an alcove, and\nthe gaze of the apparition was fixed on this doorway. I closed the door\nbehind me and locked it, and then stood still. In the looking-glass over\nthe mantelpiece I saw a drawn, pale, agitated face, in which all the\ntrouble in the world seemed to reside; it was my own face. I was alone\nin the room with the ghost--the ghost which, jealous of my love for the\nwoman it had loved, meant to revenge itself by my death. The ghost, did\nI say? I looked at it; no one would have taken it for an apparition.\nSmall wonder that till the previous evening I had never suspected it to\nbe other than a man. It was dressed in black; it had the very aspect of\nlife. I could follow the creases in the black coat, the direction of the\nnap of the silk hat. How well by this time I knew the faultless black\ncoat and that impeccable hat! Yet it seemed that I could not examine\nthem too closely. I pierced them with the intensity of my fascinated\nglance. Yes, I pierced them, for, showing faintly through the coat, I\ncould discern the outline of the table which should have been hidden by\nthe man's figure, and through the hat I could see the handle of the\nFrench window.\n\nAs I stood motionless there, solitary in the glow of the electric light\nwith this fearful visitor, I began to wish that it would move. I wanted\nto face it--to meet its gaze with my gaze, eye to eye, and will against\nwill. The battle between us must start at once, I thought, if I was to\nhave any chance of victory, for, moment by moment, I felt my resolution,\nmy manliness, my mere physical courage slipping away.\n\nBut the apparition did not stir. Impassive, remorseless, sinister, it\nwas content to wait, well aware that all suspense was in its favour.\nThen I said to myself that I would cross the room and so attain my\nobject. I made a step and drew back, frightened by the sound of a\ncreaking board. Absurd! but it was quite a minute before I dared to move\nanother step. I had meant to walk straight across to the other door,\npassing in my course close by the occupied chair. I did do not so; I\nkept round by the wall, creeping on tiptoe, and my eye never leaving the\nfigure in the chair. I did this in spite of myself, and the manner of my\naction was the first hint of my ultimate defeat.\n\nAt length I stood in the doorway leading to the bedroom. I could feel\nthe perspiration on my forehead and at the back of my neck. I fronted\nthe inscrutable white face of Lord Clarenceux, the lover of Rosetta\nRosa; I met its awful eyes: dark, invidious, fateful. Ah, those eyes!\nEven in my terror I could read in them all the history and the\ncharacteristics of Lord Clarenceux. They were the eyes of one who could\nbe of the highest and the lowest. Mingled in their hardness was a\nmelting softness, with their cruelty a large benevolence, with their\nhate a pitying tenderness, with their spirituality a hellish turpitude.\nThey were the eyes of two opposite men, and as I gazed into them they\nreconciled for me the conflicting accounts of Lord Clarenceux which I\nhad heard from different people.\n\nBut, as far as I was concerned, that night the eyes held nothing but\ncruelty and disaster; though I could detect in them the other qualities,\nthese qualities were not for me. We faced each other, the apparition and\nI, and the struggle, silent and bitter as the grave, began. Neither of\nus moved. My arms were folded easily, but my nails pressed into the\npalms of my clenched hands. My teeth were set, my lips tight together,\nmy glance unswerving. By sheer strength of endeavour I cast aside my\nfear of defeat, and in my heart I said with the profoundest conviction\nthat I would love Rosa though the seven seas and all the continents give\nup their dead to frighten me.\n\nSo we remained, for how long I do not know. It may have been only\nminutes--I cannot tell. Then gradually there came over me a feeling that\nthe ghost in the chair was growing larger. The ghastly inhuman sneer on\nhis thin widening lips assaulted me like a giant's malediction, and the\nlight in the room seemed to become more brilliant till it was almost\nblinding. This went on for a time, and once more I pulled myself\ntogether, collected my scattering senses, and seized again the courage\nof determination which had nearly slipped from me; but I knew that I\nmust get away, out of sight of this moveless and diabolic figure, which\ndid not speak, but which made known its commands by means of its eyes.\n\"Resign her,\" the eyes said. \"Tear your love for her out of your heart!\nSwear that you will never see her again--or I will ruin you utterly, not\nnow only but for evermore.\"\n\nI think I trembled; my eyes answered \"No.\" For some reason which I\ncannot at all explain, I suddenly took off my overcoat, and, drawing\naside the screen which ran across the corner of the room at my right\nhand, forming a primitive sort of wardrobe, I hung it on one of the\nhooks. I had to feel with my fingers for the hook, because I kept my\ngaze on the figure. \"I will go into the bedroom,\" I said; and I turned\nto pass through the doorway. Then I stopped. If I did so, the eyes of\nthe ghost would be upon my back, and I felt that I could only withstand\nthat glance by meeting it. To have it on my back.... Doubtless I was\ngoing mad. However, I went backwards to the doorway, and then rapidly\nstepped out of sight of the apparition and sat down upon the bed.\nUseless! I must return. The mere idea of the empty sitting-room--empty\nwith the ghost in it--filled me with a new and considerable fear.\nHorrible happenings might occur in that room, and I must be there to see\nthem! Moreover, the ghost's gaze must now fall on nothing; that would be\ntoo appalling (without doubt I was mad). Its gaze must meet something,\notherwise it would travel out into space further and further till it had\nleft all the stars and waggled aimless in the ether. The notion of such\na calamity was unbearable. Besides, I was hungry for that gaze. My eyes\ndesired those eyes: if that glance did not press against them, they\nwould burst from my head and roll on the floor, and I should be\ncompelled to go down on my hands and knees and grope in search for them.\nNo, no. I must return to the sitting-room. And I returned. The gaze met\nmine in the doorway, and now there was something novel in it--an added\nterror, a more intolerable menace, the silent imprecation so frightful\nthat no human being could suffer it. I sank to the ground, and as I did\nso I shrieked; but it was a weird shriek, sounding only within the\nbrain, and in reply to that unheard shriek I heard an unheard voice of\nthe ghost crying, \"Yield!\"\n\nI would not yield. Crushed, maddened, tortured, I would not yield. I\nwanted to die. I felt that death would be sweet and truly desirable.\nAnd, so thinking, I faded into a kind of coma, or rather a state which\nwas just short of coma. I had not lost consciousness, but I was\nconscious of nothing but the gaze. \"Good-bye, Rosa,\" I whispered; \"I am\nbeaten, but my love has not been conquered.\" The next thing I remember\nwas the paleness of the dawn at the window. The apparition had vanished\nfor the night, and I was alive. But I knew that I had touched the skirts\nof death. I knew that after such another night I should die.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[Footnote 2: _The Ghost: a Novel_ (1911).]\n\n\n\n\nIX\n\nDR DUTHOIT'S VISION\n\nBy ARTHUR MACHEN[3]\n\n\nI knew a fine specimen of an English abbe when I was at school at\nHereford. This was Dr Duthoit, Prebendary of _Consumpta per Sabulum_ in\nHereford Cathedral, Rector of St Owen's, bookworm and, chiefly,\nrose-grower. He was a middle-aged man when I was a little boy, but he\nsuffered me to walk with him in his garden sloping down to the Wye, near\na pleasaunce of the Vicars Choral, reciting sometimes the poems of\nTraherne, which he had in manuscript, but, for the most part,\ndemonstrating his progress in the art of growing a coal-black rose. This\nwas the true work of his life, and nearly forty years ago he could show\nblooms whose copper and crimson tints were very near to utter darkness.\nI believe that his ideal was never attained in absolute perfection; and\nperhaps the perfect end and attainment of desire do not prove happiness\ndown here below.\n\nAfter 1880 Prebendary Duthoit and I rarely saw each other, and rarely\nwrote. He was at rest among his roses by the quiet Wye, and I dashed to\nand fro in wilder waters, but each contrived to let the other know that\nhe was still alive, and so I was not altogether surprised to see the\nPrebendary's queer, niggly writing on an envelope a week or two ago. He\nsaid he had heard of a good deal to talk about.... Well, with a popular\nlegend with which I am understood to be in some way concerned, and he\nthought that an odd experience of his might possibly interest me. I do\nnot give the text of his letter, chiefly because it is full of Latin\nphrases, which I might be called upon to translate.\n\nBut the matter is as follows: On the 4th August, the day of the service\nat St Paul's, Dr Duthoit was walking up and down and about that pleasant\ngarden on slopes of the Wye. Just above the water his gardener had\nprepared under direction and instruction a plot of ground in a very\nspecial manner. I do not gather the precise purpose of the operation,\nbut it seems that the soil had been very fine and level for a\nsuperficies of about ten yards. To this place the Prebendary walked,\nslowly and reflectively, wishing to assure himself that his orders had\nbeen accurately carried out. The plot had been perfectly level the night\nbefore, but Dr Duthoit wanted to be more than sure about it. But to his\nextreme annoyance, when he turned by the fig-tree, he saw that the plot\nwas very far from even. He is an old man, but his sight is good, and at\na distance of several yards he could discern quite plainly that there\nhad been mischief. The chosen plot was in a disgraceful state. At first\nthe Prebendary thought that the Custos' sandy tom-cat had scaled the\nwire entanglement on the top of the wall. Then he felt inclined to\nconsider the ruin done by Scamp, the Bishop's wire-haired fox-terrier,\nand then, going across, he put on his spectacles and wondered what had\nbeen at work. For the level which had been so carefully established was\nall undone. At first the Doctor thought it was the mischief of some\nrandom beast, this confusion of hills and valleys which had taken place\nof the billiard-table of the night before. And then it reminded him of\nthe raised maps which he had seen in the Diocesan Training Schools, and\nthen it reminded him more distinctly of a sort of picture map which had\nillustrated his morning paper a day or two before. And then he wondered\nviolently, because he saw that somebody had, with infinite pains, made\nthis garden plot of his into an exact model of Gallipoli Peninsula.\n\nIt was all so ingenious and perfect that the old clergyman held his\nwrath for the moment, and peered into this miniature intricacy of peaks\nand steeps, and gullies and valleys. He had scarcely gathered himself\ntogether to wonder who had had the ingenious impudence for the mischief,\nwhen amazement once more seized him. For he saw now, stooping down, that\nthis garden Gallipoli was swarming with life. There were hosts on it and\nabout it, and then Dr Duthoit forgot all about what we call the\nrealities and facts of life, forgot that this sort of thing does not\nhappen, and watched what was happening.\n\nHe writes that, queerly enough, he lost all sense of size. He was not a\nGulliver looking down upon Lilliput; the mounds ten inches high became\nto him actual and lofty summits. The tiny precipices were tremendous.\nAnd the red ants swarmed to attack the black ants that held the heights\nwith savage and desperate fury. He says he panted with excitement as he\nwatched the courage of the attack and defence, the savagery of the\n\"hand-to-hand\" fighting. The black and red fell by myriads, and the\ndoctor had persuaded himself that he observed amazing incidents of\nindividual heroism. One particular range seemed to be the especial aim\nof the red forces, and they swarmed up victorious and held it for a\nwhile, and then retreated. The doctor could not quite make out the\nreason of this. He started violently when his man called to him. Roberts\nsaid he had called for five minutes without getting an answer, and that\nthe Dean was in a hurry, with only five minutes to spare. So the\nPrebendary went into the house in a kind of dwam, as the Scots put it,\nand had no notion of what the Dean had to say; and when he got back to\nthe garden he found his gardener smoothing the plot with a long rake,\nand raking in a lot of dead ants with the mould. The gardener said it\nwas the boys; but the doctor took no notice, and went to the Custos that\nnight, and the Custos reading his paper a fortnight later began to think\nthat the old Prebendary was a prophet.\n\nAnd the Prebendary? He ends his letter: \"Quod superius est sicut quod\ninferius\" (\"that which is above is as that which is below\"), as the\nSmaragdine Tablet of Hermes Trismegistus testifies, and it is my belief\nthat this is a world battle in the sense which we do not appreciate.\nThere have been some who have held that the earthly conflict is but a\nreflection of the war in heaven. What if it be reflected infinitely, if\nit penetrate to the uttermost depths of creation? And if a speck of dust\nbe a cosmos--the universe--of revolving worlds? There may be battles\nbetween creatures that no microscope shall ever discover.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[Footnote 3: _The Little Nations._]\n\n\n\n\nX\n\nTHE SEVEN LIGHTS\n\nFrom WILSON'S \"Tales of the Borders\"\n\n\nJohn M'Pherson was a farmer and grazier in Kintyre--a genuine\nHighlander. In person, though of rather low stature than otherwise, he\nwas stout, athletic, and active; bold and fearless in disposition, warm\nin temper, friendly, and hospitable--this last to such a degree that his\nhouse was never without as many strangers and visitors of different\ndescriptions, as nearly doubled his own household.\n\nTo the vagrant beggar his house and meal-chest were ever open; and to no\none, whatever his condition, were a night's quarters ever refused.\nM'Pherson's house, in short, formed a kind of focus, with a power to\ndraw towards itself all the misery and poverty in the country within a\ncircle whose diameter might be reckoned at somewhere about twenty miles.\nThe wandering mendicant made it one of his regular stages, and the\ntraveller of better degree toiled on his way with increased activity,\nthat he might make it his quarters for the night.\n\nFortunately for the character and credit of M'Pherson's hospitality, his\nwife was of an equally kind and generous disposition with himself; so\nthat his absences from home, which were frequent, and sometimes long,\ndid not at all affect the treatment of the stranger under his roof, or\nmake his welcome less cordial.\n\nBut the hospitality exercised at Morvane, which was the name of\nM'Pherson's farm, sometimes, it must be confessed, led to occasional\nsmall depredations--such as the loss of a pair of blankets, a sheet, or\na pair of stockings, carried off by the ungrateful vagabonds whom he\nsometimes sheltered. There were, however, one pair of blankets\nabstracted in this way, that found their road back to their owner in\nrather a curious manner.\n\nThe morning was thick and misty, when the thief (in the case alluded to)\ndecamped with his booty, and continued so during the whole day, so that\nno object, at any distance, however large, could be seen. After toiling\nfor several hours, under the impression that he was leaving Morvane far\nbehind, the vagabond, who was also a stranger in the country, approached\na house, with the stolen blankets snugly and carefully bundled on his\nback, and knocked at the door, with the view of seeking a night's\nquarters, as it was now dusk. The door was opened; but by whom, think\nyou, good reader? Why, by M'Pherson!\n\nThe thief, without knowing it, had landed precisely at the point from\nwhich he had set out. Being instantly recognised, he was politely\ninvited to walk in. To this kind invitation, the thief replied by\nthrowing down the blankets, and taking to his heels--thus making, with\nhis own hands, a restitution which was very far from being intended.\nPoor M'Pherson, however, did not get all his stolen blankets back in\nthis way.\n\nThis, however, is a digression. To proceed with our tale. One night,\nwhen M'Pherson was absent, attending a market at some distance, an\nelderly female appeared at the door, with the usual demand of a night's\nlodging, which, with the usual hospitality of Morvane, was at once\ncomplied with. The stranger, who was a remarkably tall woman, was\ndressed in widow's weeds, and of rather respectable appearance; her\ndeportment was grave, even stern, and altogether she seemed as if\nsuffering from some recent affliction.\n\nDuring the whole of the early part of the evening she sat before the\nfire, with her face buried between her hands, heedless of what was\npassing around her, and was occasionally observed rocking to and fro,\nwith that kind of motion that bespeaks great internal anguish. It was\nnoticed, however, that she occasionally stole a look at those who were\nin the apartment with her; and it was marked by all (but whether this\nwas merely the effect of imagination, for all _felt_ that there was\nsomething singular and mysterious about the stranger, or was really the\ncase, we cannot decide) that, in these furtive glances, there was a\npeculiarly wild and appalling expression. The stranger spoke none,\nhowever, during the whole night; but continued, from time to time,\nrocking to and fro in the manner already described. Neither could she be\nprevailed upon to partake of any refreshment, although repeatedly\npressed to do so. All invitations of this kind she declined, with a wave\nof the hand, or a melancholy, yet determined inclination of the head. In\nwords she made no reply.\n\nThe singular conduct of this woman threw a damp over all who were\npresent. They felt chilled, they knew not how; and were sensible of the\ninfluence of an indefinable terror, for which they could not account.\nFor once, therefore, the feeling of comfort and security, of which all\nwere conscious who were seated around M'Pherson's cheerful and\nhospitable hearth, was banished, and a scene of awe and dread supplied\nits place.\n\nNo one could conjecture who this strange personage was, whence she had\ncome, nor whither she was going; nor were there any means of acquiring\nthis information, as it was a rule of the house--one of M'Pherson's\nspecial points of etiquette--that no stranger should ever be questioned\non such subjects. All being allowed to depart as they came, without\nquestion or inquiry, there was never anything more known at Morvane,\nregarding any stranger who visited it, than what he himself chose to\ncommunicate.\n\nUnder the painful feelings already described, the inmates of\nM'Pherson's house found, with more than usual satisfaction, the hour for\nretiring to rest arrive. The general attention being called to this\ncircumstance by the hostess, everyone hastened to his appointed\ndormitory, with an alacrity which but too plainly showed how glad they\nwere to escape from the presence of the mysterious stranger who,\nhowever, also retired to bed with the rest. The place appointed for her\nto sleep in, was the loft of an outbuilding, as there was no room for\nher accommodation within the house itself; all the spare beds being\noccupied.\n\nWe have already said that M'Pherson was from home on the evening of\nwhich we are speaking, attending a market at some distance. He, however,\nreturned shortly after midnight. On arriving at his own house, he was\nmuch surprised, and not a little alarmed, to perceive a window in one of\nthe outhouses blazing with light (it was that in which the stranger\nslept), while all around and within the house was as silent as the tomb.\nAfraid that some accident from fire had taken place, he rode up to the\nbuilding, and standing up in his stirrups--which brought his head on a\nlevel with the window--looked in, when a sight presented itself that\nmade even the stout heart of M'Pherson beat with unusual violence.\n\nIn the middle of the floor, extended on her pallet, lay the mysterious\nstranger, surrounded by seven bright and shining lights, arranged at\nequal distances--three on one side of the bed, three on the other, and\none at the head. M'Pherson gazed steadily at the extraordinary and\nappalling sight for a few seconds, when three of the lights suddenly\nvanished. In an instant afterwards, two more disappeared, and then\nanother. There was now only that at the head of the bed remaining. When\nthis light had alone been left, M'Pherson saw the person who lay on the\npallet, raise herself slowly up, and gaze intently on the portentous\nbeam, whose light showed, to the terrified onlooker, a ghastly and\nunearthly countenance, surrounded with dishevelled hair, which hung down\nin long, thick, irregular masses over her pale, clayey visage, so as\nalmost to conceal it entirely. This light, like all the others, at\nlength suddenly disappeared, and with its last gleam the person on the\ncouch sank down with a groan that startled M'Pherson from the trance of\nhorror into which the extraordinary sight had thrown him. He was a bold\nand fearless man, however; and, therefore, though certainly appalled by\nwhat he had seen, he made no outcry, nor evinced any other symptom of\nalarm. He resolutely and calmly awaited the conclusion of the\nextraordinary scene; and when the last light had disappeared, he\ndeliberately dismounted, led his horse into the stable, put him up,\nentered the house without disturbing any one, and slipped quietly into\nbed, trusting that the morning would bring some explanation of the\nmysterious occurrence of the night; but resolving, at the same time\nthat, if it should not, he would mention the circumstance to no one.\n\nOn awaking in the morning, M'Pherson asked his wife what strangers were\nin the house, and how they were disposed of, and particularly, who it\nwas that slept in the loft of the outhouse. He was told that it was a\nwoman in widow's dress, of rather a respectable appearance, but whose\nconduct had been very singular. M'Pherson inquired no further, but\ndesired that the woman might be detained till he should see her, as he\nwished to speak with her.\n\nOn some one of the domestics, however, going up to her apartment,\nshortly after, to invite her to breakfast, it was found that she was\ngone, no one could tell when or where, as her departure had not been\nseen by any person about the house.\n\nBaulked in his intention of eliciting some explanation of the\nextraordinary circumstance of the preceding night, from the person who\nseemed to have been a party to it, M'Pherson became more strengthened\nin the resolution of keeping the secret to himself, although it made an\nimpression upon him which all his natural strength of mind could not\nremove.\n\nAt this precise period of our story, M'Pherson had three sons employed\nin the herring fishing, a favourite pursuit in its season, because often\na lucrative one, of those who live upon or near the coasts of the West\nHighlands.\n\nThe three brothers had a boat of their own; and, desirous of making\ntheir employment as profitable as possible, they, though in sufficiently\ngood circumstances to have hired assistance, manned her themselves, and,\nwith laudable industry, performed all the drudgery of their laborious\noccupation with their own hands.\n\nTheir boat, like all the others employed in the business we are speaking\nof, by the natives of the Highlands, was wherry-rigged; her name--she\nwas called after the betrothed of the elder of the three brothers--_The\nCatherine_. The _take_ of herrings, as it is called, it is well known,\nappears in different seasons in different places, sometimes in one loch,\nor arm of the sea, sometimes in another.\n\nIn the season to which our story refers, the fishing was in the sound of\nKilbrannan, where several scores of boats, and amongst those that of the\nM'Phersons, were busily employed in reaping the ocean harvest. When the\ntake of herrings appears in this sound, Campbelton Loch, a well-known\nharbour on the west coast of Scotland, is usually made the\nheadquarters--a place of rendezvous of the little herring fleet--and to\nthis loch they always repair when threatened with a boisterous night,\nalthough it was not always that they could, in such circumstances,\nsucceed in making it.\n\nSuch a night as the one alluded to, was that that succeeded the evening\non which M'Pherson saw the strange lights that form the leading feature\nof our tale. Violent gusts of wind came in rapid succession down the\nsound of Kilbrannan; and a skifting rain, flung fitfully but fiercely\nfrom the huge black clouds as they hurried along before the tempest that\nalready raged above, swept over the face of the angry sea, and seemed to\nimpart an additional bitterness to the rising wrath of the incipient\nstorm. It was evident, in short, that what sailors call a \"dirty night\"\nwas approaching; and, under this impression, the herring boats left\ntheir station, and were seen, in the dusk of the evening in question,\nhurrying towards Campbelton Loch. But the storm had arisen in all its\nfury long before the desired haven could be gained. The little fleet was\ndispersed. Some succeeded, however, in making the harbour; others,\nfinding this impossible, ran in for the Saddle and Carradale shores, and\nwere fortunate enough to effect a landing. All, in short, with the\nexception of one single boat, ultimately contrived to gain a place of\nshelter of some kind. This unhappy exception was _The Catherine_. Long\nafter all the others had disappeared from the face of the raging sea,\nshe was seen struggling alone with the warring elements, her canvas down\nto within a few feet of her gunwale, and her keel only at times being\nvisible. The gallant brothers who manned her, however, had not yet lost\neither heart or hope, although their situation at this moment was but\ntoo well calculated to deprive them of both. Gravely and steadily, and\nin profound silence, they kept each by his perilous post, and\nendeavoured to make the land on the Campbelton side; but, finding this\nimpossible, they put about, and ran before the wind for the island of\nArran, which lay at the distance of about eight miles. But alarmed, as\nthey approached that rugged shore, by the tremendous sea which was\nbreaking on it, and which would have instantly dashed their frail bark\nto pieces, they again put about, and made to windward. While the hardy\nbrothers were thus contending with their fate, a person mounted on\nhorseback was seen galloping wildly along the Carradale shore, his eyes\never and anon turned towards the struggling boat with a look of despair\nand mortal agony. It was M'Pherson, the hapless father of the\nunfortunate youths by whom she was manned. There were others, too, of\ntheir kindred, looking, with failing hearts, on the dreadful sight; for\nall felt that the unequal contest could not continue long, and that the\nboat must eventually go down.\n\nAmongst those who were thus watching, with intense interest and\nspeechless agony, the struggle of the doomed bark, was Catherine, the\nbeloved of the elder of the brothers, who ran, in wild distraction,\nalong the shore, uttering the most heart-rending cries. \"Oh, my Duncan!\"\nshe exclaimed, stretching out her arms towards the pitiless sea. \"Oh, my\nbeloved, my dearest, come to me, or allow me to come to you that I may\nperish with you!\" But Duncan heard her not, although it was very\npossible he might see her, as the distance was not great.\n\nThere were, at this moment also, several persons on horseback, friends\nof the young men, galloping along the shore, from point to point, as the\nboat varied her direction, in the vain and desperate hope of being able\nto render, though they knew not how, some assistance to the sufferers.\nBut the distracted father, urged on by the wild energy of despair,\noutrode them all, as they made, on one occasion, for a rising ground\nnear Carradale, from whence a wider view of the sea could be commanded.\nFor this height M'Pherson now pushed, and gained it just in time to see\nhis gallant sons, with their little bark, buried in the waves. He had\nnot taken his station an instant on the height, when _The Catherine_\nwent down, and all on board perished.\n\nThe distracted father, when he had seen the last of his unfortunate\nsons, covered his eyes with his hands, and for a moment gave way to the\nbitter agony that racked his soul. His manly breast heaved with\nemotion, and that most affecting of all sounds, the audible sorrowing of\na strong man, might have been heard at a great distance. It was,\nhowever, of short continuance. M'Pherson prayed to his God to strengthen\nhim in this dread hour of trial, and to enable him to bear with becoming\nfortitude the affliction with which it had pleased Him to visit him; and\nthe distressed man derived comfort from the appeal.\n\n\"My brave, my beautiful boys!\" he said, \"you are now with your God, and\nhave entered, I trust, on a life of everlasting happiness.\" Saying this,\nhe rode slowly from the fatal spot from which he had witnessed the death\nof his children. It was at this moment, and while musing on the\nmisfortune that had befallen him, that the strange occurrence of the\npreceding night recurred, for the first time, to M'Pherson's mind. It\nwas obtruded on his recollection by the force of association.\n\n\"Can it be possible,\" he inquired of himself, \"that the appearances of\nlast night can have any connection with the dreadful events of to-day?\nIt must be so,\" he said; \"for three of the lights of my eyes, three of\nthe guiding stars of my life, have been this day extinguished.\" Thus\nreasoned M'Pherson; and, in the mysterious lights which he had seen, he\nsaw that the doom of his children had been announced. But there were\nseven, he recollected, and his heart sunk within him as he thought of\nthe three gallant boys who were still spared to him. One of them, the\nyoungest, was at home with himself, the other two were in the\nArmy--soldiers in the 42nd Regiment, which then boasted of many privates\nof birth and education. M'Pherson, however, still kept the appalling\nsecret of the mysterious lights to himself, and determined to await,\nwith resignation, the fulfilment of the destiny which had been read to\nhim, and which he now felt convinced to be inevitable.\n\nThe gallant regiment to which M'Pherson's sons belonged was, at this\nperiod, abroad on active service. It was in America, and formed a part\nof the army which was employed in resisting the encroachments of the\nFrench on the British territories in that quarter.\n\nThe 42nd had, during the campaigns in the western world of that\nperiod--viz. 1754 and 1758,--distinguished themselves in many a\nsanguinary contest, for their singular bravery and general good conduct;\nand the fame of their exploits rung through their native glens, and was\nspread far and wide over their hills and mountains; for dear was the\nhonour of their gallant regiment to the warlike Highlanders. Many\naccounts had arrived, from time to time, in the country, of their\nachievements, and joyfully were they received. But, on the very day\nafter the loss of _The Catherine_, a low murmur began to arise, in that\npart of the country which is the scene of our story, of some dreadful\ndisaster having befallen the national regiment. No one could say of what\nnature this calamity was; but a buzz went round, whose ominous\nwhispering of fearful slaughter made the friends of the absent soldiers\nturn pale. Mothers and sisters wept, and fathers and brothers looked\ngrave and shook their heads. The rumour bore that, though there had been\nno loss of honour, there had been a dreadful loss of life. Nay, it was\nsaid that the regiment had made a mighty acquisition to its fame, but\nthat it had been dearly bought.\n\nAt length, however, the truth arrived, in a distinct and intelligible\nshape. The well-known and sanguinary affair of Ticonderago had been\nfought; and, in that murderous contest, the 42nd Regiment, which had\nbehaved with a gallantry unmatched before in the annals of war, had\nsuffered dreadfully--no less than forty-three officers, commissioned and\nnon-commissioned, and six hundred and three privates having been killed\nand wounded in that corps alone.\n\nTo many a heart and home in the Highlands did this disastrous, though\nglorious intelligence, bring desolation and mourning; and amongst those\non whom it brought these dismal effects, was M'Pherson of Morvane.\n\nOn the third day after the occurrence of the events related at the\noutset of our narrative, a letter, which had come, in the first\ninstance, to a gentleman in the neighbourhood, and who also had a son in\nthe 42nd, was put into M'Pherson's hands, by a servant of the former.\n\nThe man looked feelingly grave as he delivered it, and hurried away\nbefore it was opened. The letter was sealed with black wax. Poor\nM'Pherson's hand trembled as he opened it. It was from the captain of\nthe company to which his sons belonged, informing him that both had\nfallen in the attack on Ticonderago. There was an attempt in the letter\nto soothe the unfortunate father's feelings, and to reconcile him to the\nloss of his gallant boys, in a lengthened detail of their heroic conduct\nduring the sanguinary struggle. \"Nobly,\" said the writer, \"did your two\nbrave sons maintain the honour of their country in the bloody strife.\nBoth Hugh and Alister fell--their broadswords in their hands--on the\nvery ramparts of Ticonderago, whither they had fought their way with a\ndauntlessness of heart, and a strength of arm, that might have excited\nthe envy and admiration of the son of Fingal.\"\n\nIn this account of the noble conduct of his sons the broken-hearted\nfather did find some consolation. \"Thank God!\" he exclaimed, though in a\ntremulous voice, \"my brave boys have done their duty, and died as became\ntheir name, with their swords in their hands, and their enemies in their\nfront.\" But there was one circumstance mentioned in the letter, that\naffected the poor father more than all the rest--this was the\nintimation, that the writer had, in his hands, a sum of money and a gold\nbrooch, which his son Alister had bequeathed, the first to his father,\nthe latter to his mother, as a token of remembrance. \"These,\" he said,\n\"had been deposited with him by the young man previous to the\nengagement, under a presentiment that he should fall.\"\n\nWhen he had finished the perusal of the letter, M'Pherson sought his\nwife, whom he found weeping bitterly, for she had already learned the\nfate of her sons. On entering the apartment where she was, he flung his\narms around her, in an agony of grief, and, choking with emotion,\nexclaimed, that two more of his fair lights had been extinguished by the\nhand of heaven. \"One yet remains,\" he said, \"but that, too, must soon\npass away from before mine eyes. His doom is sealed; but God's will be\ndone.\"\n\n\"What mean ye, John?\" said his sobbing wife, struck with the prophetic\ntone of his speech--\"is the measure of our sorrows not yet filled? Are\nwe to lose him, too, who is now our only stay, my fair-haired Ian. Why\nthis foreboding of more evil--and whence have you it, John?\" she said,\nnow looking her husband steadfastly in the face; and with an expression\nof alarm that indicated that entire belief in supernatural intelligence\nregarding coming events, then so general in the Highlands.\n\nUrged by his wife, who implored him to tell her whence he had the\ntidings of her Ian's approaching fate, M'Pherson related to her the\ncircumstance of the mysterious lights.\n\n\"But there were seven, John,\" she said, when he had concluded--\"how\ncomes that?--our children were but six.\" And immediately added, as if\nsome fearful conviction had suddenly forced itself on her mind--\"God\ngrant that the seventh light may have meant me!\"\n\n\"God forbid!\" exclaimed her husband, on whose mind a similar conviction\nwith that with which his wife was impressed, now obtruded itself for the\nfirst time; that conviction was, that he himself was indicated by the\nseventh light. But neither of the sorrowing pair communicated their\nfears to the other.\n\nTwo days subsequent to this, the fair hair of Ian was seen floating on\nthe surface of a deep pool, in the water of Bran; a small river that ran\npast the house of Morvane. By what accident the poor boy had fallen into\nthe river, was never ascertained. But the pool in which his body was\nfound was known to have been one of his favourite fishing stations. One\nonly of the mysterious lights now remained without its counterpart; but\nthis was not long wanting. Ere the week had expired, M'Pherson was\nkilled by a fall from his horse, when returning from the funeral of his\nson, and the symbolical prophecy was fulfilled--and thus concludes the\nstory of \"The Seven Lights.\"\n\n\n\n\nXI\n\nTHE SPECTRAL COACH OF BLACKADON\n\n    \"You have heard of such a spirit, and well you know\n    The superstitious, idle-headed eld\n    Received and did deliver to our age\n    This tale of Herne the Hunter for a truth.\"\n\n    _Merry Wives of Windsor._\n\n\nThe old vicarage-house at Talland, as seen from the Looe road, its low\nroof and grey walls peeping prettily from between the dense boughs of\nash and elm that environed it, was as picturesque an object as you could\ndesire to see. The seclusion of its situation was enhanced by the\ncharacter of the house itself. It was an odd-looking, old-fashioned\nbuilding, erected apparently in an age when asceticism and self-denial\nwere more in vogue than at present, with a stern disregard of the\ncomfort of the inhabitant, and in utter contempt of received principles\nof taste. As if not secure enough in its retirement, a high wall,\nenclosing a courtelage in front, effectually protected its inmates from\nthe prying passenger, and only revealed the upper part of the house,\nwith its small Gothic windows, its slated roof, and heavy chimneys\npartly hidden by the evergreen shrubs which grew in the enclosure. Such\nwas it until its removal a few years since; and such was it as it lay\nsweetly in the shadows of an autumnal evening one hundred and thirty\nyears ago, when a stranger in the garb of a country labourer knocked\nhesitatingly at the wicket gate which conducted to the court. After a\nlittle delay a servant-girl appeared, and finding that the countryman\nbore a message to the vicar, admitted him within the walls, and\nconducted him along a paved passage to the little, low, damp parlour\nwhere sat the good man. The Rev. Mr Dodge was in many respects a\nremarkable man. You would have judged as much of him as he sat before\nthe fire in his high-back chair, in an attitude of thought, arranging,\nit may have been, the heads of his next Sabbath's discourse. His heavy\neyebrows, throwing into shade his spacious eyes, and indeed the whole\ncontour of his face, marked him as a man of great firmness of character\nand of much moral and personal courage. His suit of sober black and\nfull-bottomed periwig also added to his dignity, and gave him an\nappearance of greater age. He was then verging on sixty. The time and\nthe place gave him abundant exercise for the qualities we have\nmentioned, for many of his parishioners obtained their livelihood by the\ncontraband trade, and were mostly men of unscrupulous and daring\ncharacter, little likely to bear with patience, reflections on the\ndishonesty of their calling. Nevertheless the vicar was fearless in\nreprehending it, and his frank exhortations were, at least, listened to\non account of the simple honesty of the man, and his well-known kindness\nof heart. The eccentricity of his life, too, had a wonderful effect in\nprocuring him the respect, not to say the awe, of a people superstitious\nin a more than ordinary degree. Ghosts in those days had more freedom\naccorded them, or had more business with the visible world than at\npresent; and the parson was frequently required by his parishioners to\ndraw from the uneasy spirit the dread secret which troubled it, or by\nthe aid of the solemn prayers of the church to set it at rest for ever.\nMr Dodge had a fame as an exorcist, which was not confined to the bounds\nof his parish, nor limited to the age in which he lived.\n\n\"Well, my good man, what brings you hither?\" said the clergyman to the\nmessenger.\n\n\"A letter, may it please your reverence, from Mr Mills of Lanreath,\"\nsaid the countryman, handing him a letter.\n\nMr Dodge opened it and read as follows:--\n\n     \"MY DEAR BROTHER DODGE,--I have ventured to trouble\n     you, at the earnest request of my parishioners, with a matter,\n     of which some particulars have doubtless reached you, and which\n     has caused, and is causing, much terror in my neighbourhood.\n     For its fuller explication, I will be so tedious as to recount\n     to you the whole of this strange story as it has reached my\n     ears, for as yet I have not satisfied my eyes of its truth. It\n     has been told me by men of honest and good report (witnesses of\n     a portion of what they relate), with such strong assurances,\n     that it behoves us to look more closely into the matter. There\n     is in the neighbourhood of this village a barren bit of moor\n     which had no owner, or rather more than one, for the lords of\n     the adjoining manors debated its ownership between themselves,\n     and both determined to take it from the poor, who have for many\n     years past regarded it as a common. And truly, it is little to\n     the credit of these gentlemen, that they should strive for a\n     thing so worthless as scarce to bear the cost of law, and yet\n     of no mean value to poor labouring people. The two litigants,\n     however, contested it with as much violence as if it had been a\n     field of great price, and especially one, an old man, (whose\n     thoughts should have been less set on earthly possessions,\n     which he was soon to leave,) had so set his heart on the\n     success of his suit, that the loss of it, a few years back, is\n     said to have much hastened his death. Nor, indeed, after death,\n     if current reports are worthy of credit, does he quit his claim\n     to it; for at night-time his apparition is seen on the moor,\n     to the great terror of the neighbouring villagers. A public\n     path leads by at no great distance from the spot, and on divers\n     occasions has the labourer, returning from his work, been\n     frightened nigh unto lunacy by sight and sounds of a very\n     dreadful character. The appearance is said to be that of a man\n     habited in black, driving a carriage drawn by headless horses.\n     This is, I avow, very marvellous to believe, but it has had so\n     much credible testimony, and has gained so many believers in my\n     parish, that some steps seem necessary to allay the excitement\n     it causes. I have been applied to for this purpose, and my\n     present business is to ask your assistance in this matter,\n     either to reassure the minds of the country people if it be\n     only a simple terror; or, if there be truth in it, to set the\n     troubled spirit of the man at rest. My messenger, who is an\n     industrious, trustworthy man, will give you more information if\n     it be needed, for, from report, he is acquainted with most of\n     the circumstances, and will bring back your advice and promise\n     of assistance.\n\n     \"Not doubting of your help herein, I do with my very hearty\n     commendation commit you to God's protection and blessing, and\n     am,--Your very loving brother, ABRAHAM MILLS.\"\n\nThis remarkable note was read and re-read, while the countryman sat\nwatching its effects on the parson's countenance, and was surprised that\nit changed not from its usual sedate and settled character. Turning at\nlength to the man, Mr Dodge inquired, \"Are you, then, acquainted with my\ngood friend Mills?\"\n\n\"I should know him, sir,\" replied the messenger, \"having been sexton to\nthe parish for fourteen years, and being, with my family, much beholden\nto the kindness of the rector.\"\n\n\"You are also not without some knowledge of the circumstances related in\nthis letter. Have you been an eye-witness to any of those strange\nsights?\"\n\n\"For myself, sir, I have been on the road at all hours of the night and\nday, and never did I see anything which I could call worse than myself.\nOne night my wife and I were awoke by the rattle of wheels, which was\nalso heard by some of our neighbours, and we are all assured that it\ncould have been no other than the black coach. We have every day such\nstories told in the villages by so many creditable persons, that it\nwould not be proper in a plain, ignorant man like me to doubt it.\"\n\n\"And how far,\" asked the clergyman, \"is the moor from Lanreath?\"\n\n\"About two miles, and please your reverence. The whole parish is so\nfrightened, that few will venture far after nightfall, for it has of\nlate come much nearer the village. A man who is esteemed a sensible and\npious man by many, though an Anabaptist in principle, went a few weeks\nback to the moor ('tis called Blackadon) at midnight, in order to lay\nthe spirit, being requested thereto by his neighbours, and he was so\nalarmed at what he saw, that he hath been somewhat mazed ever since.\"\n\n\"A fitting punishment for his presumption, if it hath not quite demented\nhim,\" said the parson. \"These persons are like those addressed by St\nChrysostom, fitly called the golden-mouthed, who said, 'Miserable\nwretches that ye be! ye cannot expel a flea, much less a devil!' It will\nbe well if it serves no other purpose but to bring back these stray\nsheep to the fold of the Church. So this story has gained much belief in\nthe parish?\"\n\n\"Most believe it, sir, as rightly they should, what hath so many\nwitnesses,\" said the sexton, \"though there be some, chiefly young men,\nwho set up for being wiser than their fathers, and refuse to credit it,\nthough it be sworn to on the book.\"\n\n\"If those things are disbelieved, friend,\" said the parson, \"and without\ninquiry, which your disbeliever is ever the first to shrink from, of\nwhat worth is human testimony? That ghosts have returned to the earth,\neither for the discovery of murder, or to make restitution for other\ninjustice committed in the flesh, or compelled thereto by the\nincantations of sorcery, or to communicate tidings from another world,\nhas been testified to in all ages, and many are the accounts which have\nbeen left us both in sacred and profane authors. Did not Brutus, when in\nAsia, as is related by Plutarch, see----\"\n\nJust at this moment the parson's handmaid announced that a person waited\non him in the kitchen,--or the good clergyman would probably have\ndetailed all those cases in history, general and biblical, with which\nhis reading had acquainted him, not much, we fear to the edification and\ncomfort of the sexton, who had to return to Lanreath, a long and dreary\nroad, after nightfall. So, instead, he directed the girl to take him\nwith her, and give him such refreshment as he needed, and in the\nmeanwhile he prepared a note in answer to Mr Mills, informing him that\non the morrow he was to visit some sick persons in his parish, but that\non the following evening he should be ready to proceed with him to the\nmoor.\n\nOn the night appointed the two clergymen left the Lanreath rectory on\nhorseback, and reached the moor at eleven o'clock. Bleak and dismal did\nit look by day, but then there was the distant landscape dotted over\nwith pretty homesteads to relieve its desolation. Now, nothing was seen\nbut the black patch of sterile moor on which they stood, nothing heard\nbut the wind as it swept in gusts across the bare hill, and howled\ndismally through a stunted grove of trees that grew in a glen below\nthem, except the occasional baying of dogs from the farmhouses in the\ndistance. That they felt at ease, is more than could be expected of\nthem; but as it would have shown a lack of faith in the protection of\nHeaven, which it would have been unseemly in men of their holy calling\nto exhibit, they managed to conceal from each other their uneasiness.\nLeading their horses, they trod to and fro through the damp fern and\nheath with firmness in their steps, and upheld each other by remarks on\nthe power of that Great Being whose ministers they were, and the might\nof whose name they were there to make manifest. Still slowly and\ndismally passed the time as they conversed, and anon stopped to look\nthrough the darkness for the approach of their ghostly visitor. In vain.\nThough the night was as dark and murky as ghost could wish, the coach\nand its driver came not.\n\nAfter a considerable stay, the two clergymen consulted together, and\ndetermined that it was useless to watch any longer for that night, but\nthat they would meet on some other, when perhaps it might please his\nghostship to appear. Accordingly, with a few words of leave-taking, they\nseparated, Mr Mills for the rectory, and Mr Dodge, by a short ride\nacross the moor, which shortened his journey by half a mile, for the\nvicarage at Talland.\n\nThe vicar rode on at an ambling pace, which his good mare sustained up\nhill and down vale without urging. At the bottom of a deep valley,\nhowever, about a mile from Blackadon, the animal became very uneasy,\npricked up her ears, snorted, and moved from side to side of the road,\nas if something stood in the path before her. The parson tightened the\nreins, and applied whip and spur to her sides, but the animal, usually\ndocile, became very unruly, made several attempts to turn, and, when\nprevented, threw herself upon her haunches. Whip and spur were applied\nagain and again, to no other purpose than to add to the horse's terror.\nTo the rider nothing was apparent which could account for the sudden\nrestiveness of his beast. He dismounted, and attempted in turns to lead\nor drag her, but both were impracticable, and attended with no small\nrisk of snapping the reins. She was remounted with great difficulty, and\nanother attempt was made to urge her forward, with the like want of\nsuccess. At length the eccentric clergyman, judging it to be some\nspecial signal from Heaven, which it would be dangerous to neglect,\nthrew the reins on the neck of his steed, which, wheeling suddenly\nround, started backward in a direction towards the moor, at a pace which\nrendered the parson's seat neither a pleasant nor a safe one. In an\nastonishingly short space of time they were once more at Blackadon.\n\nBy this time the bare outline of the moor was broken by a large black\ngroup of objects, which the darkness of the night prevented the parson\nfrom defining. On approaching this unaccountable appearance, the mare\nwas seized with fresh fury, and it was with considerable difficulty that\nshe could be brought to face this new cause of fright. In the pauses of\nthe horse's prancing, the vicar discovered to his horror the\nmuch-dreaded spectacle of the black coach and the headless steeds, and,\nterrible to relate, his friend Mr Mills lying prostrate on the ground\nbefore the sable driver. Little time was left him to call up his courage\nfor this fearful emergency; for just as the vicar began to give\nutterance to the earnest prayers which struggled to his lips, the\nspectre shouted, \"Dodge is come! I must begone!\" and forthwith leaped\ninto his chariot, and disappeared across the moor.\n\nThe fury of the mare now subsided, and Mr Dodge was enabled to approach\nhis friend, who was lying motionless and speechless, with his face\nburied in the heather.\n\nMeanwhile the rector's horse, which had taken fright at the apparition,\nand had thrown his rider to the ground on or near the spot where we have\nleft him lying, made homeward at a furious speed, and stopped not until\nhe had reached his stable door. The sound of his hoofs as he galloped\nmadly through the village awoke the cottagers, many of whom had been\nsome hours in their beds. Many eager faces, staring with affright,\ngathered round the rectory, and added, by their various conjectures, to\nthe terror and apprehensions of the family.\n\nThe villagers, gathering courage as their numbers increased, agreed to\ngo in search of the missing clergyman, and started off in a compact\nbody, a few on horseback, but the greater number on foot, in the\ndirection of Blackadon. There they discovered their rector, supported in\nthe arms of Parson Dodge, and recovered so far as to be able to speak.\nStill there was a wildness in his eye, and an incoherency in his speech,\nthat showed that his reason was, at least, temporarily unsettled by the\nfright. In this condition he was taken to his home, followed by his\nreverend companion.\n\nHere ended this strange adventure; for Mr Mills soon completely regained\nhis reason, Parson Dodge got safely back to Talland, and from that time\nto this nothing has been heard or seen of the black ghost or his\nchariot.[4]\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[Footnote 4: The Parson Dodge, whose adventure is related, was vicar of\nTalland from 1713 till his death. So that the name as well as the story\nis true to tradition. Bond (_History of East and West Looe_) says of\nhim: \"About a century since the Rev. Richard Dodge was vicar of this\nparish of Talland, and was, by traditionary account, a very singular\nman. He had the reputation of being deeply skilled in the black art, and\nwould raise ghosts, or send them into the Dead Sea, at the nod of his\nhead. The common people, not only in his own parish, but throughout the\nneighbourhood, stood in the greatest awe of him, and to meet him on the\nhighway at midnight produced the utmost horror; he was then driving\nabout the evil spirits; many of them were seen, in all sorts of shapes,\nflying and running before him, and he pursuing them with his whip in a\nmost daring manner. Not unfrequently he would be seen in the churchyard\nat dead of night to the terror of passers-by. He was a worthy man, and\nmuch respected, but had his eccentricities.\"]\n\n\n\n\nXII\n\nDRAKE'S DRUM\n\nBy WILLIAM HUNT\n\n\nSir Francis Drake--who appears to have been especially befriended by his\ndemon--is said to drive at night a black hearse drawn by headless\nhorses, and urged on by running devils and yelping, headless dogs,\nthrough Jump, on the road from Tavistock to Plymouth.\n\nSir Francis, according to tradition, was enabled to destroy the Spanish\nArmada by the aid of the devil. The old admiral went to Devil's Point, a\nwell-known promontory jutting into Plymouth Sound. He there cut pieces\nof wood into the water, and by the power of magic and the assistance of\nhis demon these became at once well-armed gunboats.\n\nQueen Elizabeth gave Sir Francis Drake Buckland Abbey; and on every hand\nwe hear of Drake and his familiars.\n\nAn extensive building attached to the abbey--which was no doubt used as\nbarns and stables after the place had been deprived of its religious\ncharacter--was said to have been built by the devil in three nights.\nAfter the first night, the butler, astonished at the work done, resolved\nto watch and see how it was performed. Consequently, on the second\nnight, he mounted into a large tree, and hid himself between the forks\nof its five branches. At midnight the devil came, driving several teams\nof oxen; and as some of them were lazy, he plucked this tree from the\nground and used it as a goad. The poor butler lost his senses, and never\nrecovered them.\n\nDrake constructed the channel, carrying the waters from Dartmoor to\nPlymouth. Tradition says he went with his demon to Dartmoor, walked into\nPlymouth, and the waters followed him. Even now--as old Betty\nDonithorne, formerly the housekeeper at Buckland Abbey, told me,--if the\nwarrior hears the drum which hangs in the hall of the abbey, and which\naccompanied him round the world, he rises and has a revel.\n\nSome few years since a small box was found in a closet which had been\nlong closed, containing, it is supposed, family papers. This was to be\nsent to the residence of the inheritor of this property. The carriage\nwas at the abbey door, and a man easily lifted the box into it. The\nowner having taken his seat, the coachman attempted to start his horses,\nbut in vain. They would not--they could not move. More horses were\nbrought, and then the heavy farm-horses, and eventually all the oxen.\nThey were powerless to start the carriage. At length a mysterious voice\nwas heard, declaring that the box could never be moved from Buckland\nAbbey. It was taken from the carriage easily by one man, and a pair of\nhorses galloped off with the carriage.\n\n\n\n\nXIII\n\nTHE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM\n\nBy WILLIAM HUNT\n\n\nLong, long ago a farmer named Lenine lived in Boscean. He had but one\nson, Frank Lenine, who was indulged into waywardness by both his\nparents. In addition to the farm servants, there was one, a young girl,\nNancy Trenoweth, who especially assisted Mrs Lenine in all the various\nduties of a small farmhouse.\n\nNancy Trenoweth was very pretty, and although perfectly uneducated, in\nthe sense in which we now employ the term education, she possessed many\nnative graces, and she had acquired much knowledge, really useful to one\nwhose aspirations would probably never rise higher than to be mistress\nof a farm of a few acres. Educated by parents who had certainly never\nseen the world beyond Penzance, her ideas of the world were limited to a\nfew miles around the Land's-End. But although her book of nature was a\nsmall one, it had deeply impressed her mind with its influences. The\nwild waste, the small but fertile valley, the rugged hills, with their\ncrowns of cairns, the moors rich in the golden furze and the purple\nheath, the sea-beaten cliffs and the silver sands, were the pages she\nhad studied, under the guidance of a mother who conceived, in the\nsublimity of her ignorance, that everything in nature was the home of\nsome spirit form. The soul of the girl was imbued with the deeply\nreligious dye of her mother's mind, whose religion was only a sense of\nan unknown world immediately beyond our own. The elder Nancy Trenoweth\nexerted over the villagers around her considerable power. They did not\nexactly fear her. She was too free from evil for that; but they were\nconscious of a mental superiority, and yielded without complaining to\nher sway.\n\nThe result of this was, that the younger Nancy, although compelled to\nservice, always exhibited some pride, from a feeling that her mother was\na superior woman to any around her.\n\nShe never felt herself inferior to her master and mistress, yet she\ncomplained not of being in subjection to them. There were so many\ninteresting features in the character of this young servant girl that\nshe became in many respects like a daughter to her mistress. There was\nno broad line of division in those days, in even the manorial hall,\nbetween the lord and his domestics, and still less defined was the\nposition of the employer and the employed in a small farmhouse.\nConsequent on this condition of things, Frank Lenine and Nancy were\nthrown as much together as if they had been brother and sister. Frank\nwas rarely checked in anything by his over-fond parents, who were\nespecially proud of their son, since he was regarded as the handsomest\nyoung man in the parish. Frank conceived a very warm attachment for\nNancy, and she was not a little proud of her lover. Although it was\nevident to all the parish that Frank and Nancy were seriously devoted to\neach other, the young man's parents were blind to it, and were taken by\nsurprise when one day Frank asked his father and mother to consent to\nhis marrying Nancy.\n\nThe Lenines had allowed their son to have his own way from his youth up;\nand now, in a matter which brought into play the strongest of human\nfeelings, they were angry because he refused to bend to their wills.\n\nThe old man felt it would be a degradation for a Lenine to marry a\nTrenoweth, and, in the most unreasoning manner, he resolved it should\nnever be.\n\nThe first act was to send Nancy home to Alsia Mill, where her parents\nresided; the next was an imperious command to his son never again to see\nthe girl.\n\nThe commands of the old are generally powerless upon the young where the\naffairs of the heart are concerned. So were they upon Frank. He who was\nrarely seen of an evening beyond the garden of his father's cottage, was\nnow as constantly absent from his home. The house, which was wont to be\na pleasant one, was strangely altered. A gloom had fallen over all\nthings; the father and son rarely met as friends--the mother and her boy\nhad now a feeling of reserve. Often there were angry altercations\nbetween the father and son, and the mother felt she could not become the\ndefender of her boy, in his open acts of disobedience, his bold defiance\nof his parents' commands.\n\nRarely an evening passed that did not find Nancy and Frank together in\nsome retired nook. The Holy Well was a favourite meeting-place, and here\nthe most solemn vows were made. Locks of hair were exchanged; a\nwedding-ring, taken from the finger of a corpse, was broken, when they\nvowed that they would be united either dead or alive; and they even\nclimbed at night the granite-pile at Treryn, and swore by the Logan Rock\nthe same strong vow.\n\nTime passed onward unhappily, and as the result of the endeavours to\nquench out the passion by force, it grew stronger under the repressing\npower, and, like imprisoned steam, eventually burst through all\nrestraint.\n\nNancy's parents discovered at length that moonlight meetings between two\nuntrained, impulsive youths, had a natural result, and they were now\ndoubly earnest in their endeavours to compel Frank to marry their\ndaughter.\n\nThe elder Lenine could not be brought to consent to this, and he firmly\nresolved to remove his son entirely from what he considered the hateful\ninfluences of the Trenoweths. He resolved to go to Plymouth, to take\nhis son with him, and, if possible, to send him away to sea, hoping thus\nto wean him from his folly, as he considered this love-madness. Frank,\npoor fellow, with the best intentions, was not capable of any sustained\neffort, and consequently he at length succumbed to his father; and, to\nescape his persecution, he entered a ship bound for India, and bade\nadieu to his native land.\n\nFrank could not write, and this happened in days when letters could be\nforwarded only with extreme difficulty, consequently Nancy never heard\nfrom her lover.\n\nA babe had been born into a troublesome world, and the infant became a\nreal solace to the young mother. As the child grew, it became an\nespecial favourite with its grandmother; the elder Nancy rejoiced over\nthe little prattler, and forgot her cause of sorrow. Young Nancy lived\nfor her child, and on the memory of its father. Subdued in spirit she\nwas, but her affliction had given force to her character, and she had\nbeen heard to declare that wherever Frank might be, she was ever present\nwith him, whatever might be the temptations of the hour, that her\ninfluence was all powerful over him for good. She felt that no distance\ncould separate their souls, that no time could be long enough to destroy\nthe bond between them.\n\nA period of distress fell upon the Trenoweths, and it was necessary that\nNancy should leave her home once more, and go again into service. Her\nmother took charge of the babe, and she found a situation in the village\nof Kimyall, in the parish of Paul. Nancy, like her mother, contrived by\nforce of character to maintain an ascendancy amongst her companions. She\nhad formed an acquaintance, which certainly never grew into friendship,\nwith some of the daughters of the small farmers around. These girls were\nall full of the superstitions of the time and place.\n\nThe winter was coming on, and nearly three years had passed away since\nFrank Lenine left his country. As yet there was no sign. Nor father,\nnor mother, nor maiden had heard of him, and they all sorrowed over his\nabsence. The Lenines desired to have Nancy's child, but the Trenoweths\nwould not part with it. They went so far even as to endeavour to\npersuade Nancy to live again with them, but Nancy was not at all\ndisposed to submit to their wishes.\n\nIt was All-Hallows' eve, and two of Nancy's companions persuaded\nher,--no very difficult task,--to go with them and sow hemp-seed.\n\nAt midnight the three maidens stole out unperceived into Kimyall\ntown-place to perform their incantation. Nancy was the first to sow, the\nothers being less bold than she.\n\nBoldly she advanced, saying, as she scattered the seed,--\n\n    \"Hemp-seed I sow thee,\n    Hemp-seed grow thee;\n    And he who will my true love be,\n    Come after me\n    And shaw thee.\"\n\nThis was repeated three times, when, looking back over her left\nshoulder, she saw Lenine; but he looked so angry that she shrieked with\nfear, and broke the spell. One of the other girls, however, resolved now\nto make trial of the spell, and the result of her labours was the vision\nof a white coffin. Fear now fell on all, and they went home sorrowful,\nto spend, each one, a sleepless night.\n\nNovember came with its storms, and during one terrific night a large\nvessel was thrown upon the rocks in Bernowhall Cliff, and, beaten by the\nimpetuous waves, she was soon in pieces. Amongst the bodies of the crew\nwashed ashore, nearly all of whom had perished, was Frank Lenine. He was\nnot dead when found, but the only words he lived to speak were begging\nthe people to send for Nancy Trenoweth, that he might make her his wife\nbefore he died.\n\nRapidly sinking, Frank was borne by his friends on a litter to Boscean,\nbut he died as he reached the town-place. His parents, overwhelmed in\ntheir own sorrows, thought nothing of Nancy, and without her knowing\nthat Lenine had returned, the poor fellow was laid in his last bed, in\nBurian Churchyard.\n\nOn the night of the funeral, Nancy went, as was her custom, to lock the\ndoor of the house, and as was her custom too, she looked out into the\nnight. At this instant a horseman rode up in hot haste, called her by\nname, and hailed her in a voice that chilled her blood.\n\nThe voice was the voice of Lenine. She could never forget that; and the\nhorse she now saw was her sweetheart's favourite colt, on which he had\noften ridden at night to Alsia.\n\nThe rider was imperfectly seen; but he looked very sorrowful, and\ndeathly pale, still Nancy knew him to be Frank Lenine.\n\nHe told her that he had just arrived home, and that the first moment he\nwas at liberty he had taken horse to fetch his loved one, and to make\nher his bride.\n\nNancy's excitement was so great, that she was easily persuaded to spring\non the horse behind him, that they might reach his home before the\nmorning.\n\nWhen she took Lenine's hand a cold shiver passed through her, and as she\ngrasped his waist to secure herself in her seat, her arm became as stiff\nas ice. She lost all power of speech, and suffered deep fear, yet she\nknew not why. The moon had arisen, and now burst out in a full flood of\nlight, through the heavy clouds which had obscured it. The horse pursued\nits journey with great rapidity, and whenever in weariness it slackened\nits speed, the peculiar voice of the rider aroused its drooping\nenergies. Beyond this no word was spoken since Nancy had mounted behind\nher lover. They now came to Trove Bottom, where there was no bridge at\nthat time; they dashed into the river. The moon shone full in their\nfaces. Nancy looked into the stream, and saw that the rider was in a\nshroud and other grave-clothes. She now knew that she was being carried\naway by a spirit, yet she had no power to save herself; indeed, the\ninclination to do so did not exist.\n\nOn went the horse at a furious pace, until they came to the blacksmith's\nshop, near Burian Church-town, when she knew by the light from the forge\nfire thrown across the road that the smith was still at his labours. She\nnow recovered speech. \"Save me! save me! save me!\" she cried with all\nher might. The smith sprang from the door of the smithy, with a red-hot\niron in his hand, and as the horse rushed by, caught the woman's dress,\nand pulled her to the ground. The spirit, however, also seized Nancy's\ndress in one hand, and his grasp was like that of a vice. The horse\npassed like the wind, and Nancy and the smith were pulled down as far as\nthe old Alms-houses, near the churchyard. Here the horse for a moment\nstopped. The smith seized that moment, and with his hot iron burned off\nthe dress from the rider's hand, thus saving Nancy, more dead than\nalive; while the rider passed over the wall of the churchyard, and\nvanished on the grave in which Lenine had been laid but a few hours\nbefore.\n\nThe smith took Nancy into his shop, and he soon aroused some of his\nneighbours, who took the poor girl back to Alsia. Her parents laid her\non her bed. She spoke no word, but to ask for her child, to request her\nmother to give up her child to Lenine's parents, and her desire to be\nburied in his grave. Before the morning light fell on the world Nancy\nhad breathed her last breath.\n\nA horse was seen that night to pass through the Church-town like a ball\nfrom a musket, and in the morning Lenine's colt was found dead in\nBernowhall Cliff, covered with foam, its eyes forced from its head, and\nits swollen tongue hanging out of its mouth. On Lenine's grave was found\nthe piece of Nancy's dress which was left in the spirit's hand when the\nsmith burnt her from his grasp.\n\nIt is said that one or two of the sailors who survived the wreck related\nafter the funeral, how, on the 30th of October, at night, Lenine was\nlike one mad; they could scarcely keep him in the ship. He seemed more\nasleep than awake, and, after great excitement, he fell as if dead upon\nthe deck, and lay so for hours. When he came to himself, he told them\nthat he had been taken to the village of Kimyall, and that if he ever\nmarried the woman who had cast the spell, he would make her suffer the\nlongest day she had to live for drawing his soul out of his body.\n\nPoor Nancy was buried in Lenine's grave, and her companion in sowing\nhemp-seed, who saw the white coffin, slept beside her within the year.\n\n\n\n\nXIV\n\nTHE POOL IN THE GRAVEYARD\n\nBy GREVILLE MACDONALD[5]\n\n\nBy this corner of the graveyard the red dawn discovered to Jonas a\nlittle pool of clear water, with mosses and parsley-ferns all around it,\nand so clear and cool-looking that he must drink. The larger part of it\nwas still shadowed by the wall. On knees and hands, he put his lips to\nit and drank. The refreshment was wonderful. He rose with a sense that\nhe should find the lost sheep yet and bring her home. He looked down\nonce more into the clear pool. It was wider than he had thought--indeed,\nhe had been mistaken; it was a great tarn on the mountain-side! Then he\nsaw that wonderful things were happening on the face of and all round\nthe water. What appeared to be little glow-worms were lying motionless\nin groups on the mosses in a still-shadowed region by the side of the\nwater. From beneath a low arch in the wall, where the water was slowly\nflowing away in a river, there came, against stream and wave and wind, a\nfishing-boat. Its great red sail was spread, and its pennant shone\nsilvery blue in the sun. It came alongside a pier of mossy stones, and\ncast anchor. From it leapt twelve strong young fishermen, all with\nbright faces. They took up the little creatures with the glowing lights,\nand carried them aboard; then back again to other groups, until all were\ngathered in. For they were all sleeping human forms, close-wrapped in\ngrave-clothes, but with their light still living, as might be seen by\nanyone who had suffered. When all were safe aboard, the men cast off and\nthe boat disappeared under the arch.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[Footnote 5: From _How Jonas Found his Enemy: a Romance of the South\nDowns_ (1916).]\n\n\n\n\nXV\n\nTHE LIANHAN SHEE\n\nBy WILL CARLETON\n\n\nOne summer evening Mary Sullivan was sitting at her own well-swept\nhearthstone, knitting feet to a pair of sheep's-grey stockings for\nBartley, her husband. It was one of those serene evenings in the month\nof June when the decline of day assumes a calmness and repose,\nresembling what we might suppose to have irradiated Eden when our first\nparents sat in it before their fall. The beams of the sun shone through\nthe windows in clear shafts of amber light, exhibiting millions of those\natoms which float to the naked eye within its mild radiance. The dog lay\nbarking in his dream at her feet, and the grey cat sat purring placidly\nupon his back, from which even his occasional agitation did not dislodge\nher.\n\nMrs Sullivan was the wife of a wealthy farmer, and niece to the Rev.\nFelix O'Rourke; her kitchen was consequently large, comfortable, and\nwarm. Over where she sat, jutted out the \"brace\" well lined with bacon;\nto the right hung a well-scoured salt-box, and to the left was the jamb,\nwith its little paneless window to admit the light. Within it hung\nseveral ash rungs, seasoning for flail-sooples, or boulteens, a dozen of\neel-skins, and several stripes of horse-skin, as hangings for them. The\ndresser was a \"parfit white,\" and well furnished with the usual\nappurtenances. Over the door and on the \"threshel\" were nailed, \"for\nluck,\" two horse-shoes, that had been found by accident. In a little\n\"hole\" in the wall, beneath the salt-box, lay a bottle of holy water to\nkeep the place purified; and against the copestone of the gable, on the\noutside, grew a large lump of house-leek, as a specific for sore eyes\nand other maladies.\n\nIn the corner of the garden were a few stalks of tansy \"to kill the\nthievin' worms in the childhre, the crathurs,\" together with a little\nRosenoble, Solomon's Seal, and Bugloss, each for some medicinal purpose.\nThe \"lime wather\" Mrs Sullivan could make herself, and the \"bog bane\"\nfor the _linh roe_, or heartburn, grew in their own meadow-drain; so\nthat, in fact, she had within her reach a very decent pharmacopoeia,\nperhaps as harmless as that of the profession itself. Lying on the top\nof the salt-box was a bunch of fairy flax, and sewed in the folds of her\nown scapular was the dust of what had once been a four-leaved shamrock,\nan invaluable specific \"for seein' the good people,\" if they happened to\ncome within the bounds of vision. Over the door in the inside, over the\nbeds, and over the cattle in the outhouses, were placed branches of\nwithered palm, that had been consecrated by the priest on Palm Sunday;\nand when the cows happened to calve, this good woman tied, with her own\nhands, a woollen thread about their tails, to prevent them from being\noverlooked by evil eyes, or _elf-shot_ by the fairies, who seem to\npossess a peculiar power over females of every species during the period\nof parturition. It is unnecessary to mention the variety of charms which\nshe possessed for that obsolete malady the colic, for toothache,\nheadaches, or for removing warts, and taking motes out of the eyes; let\nit suffice to inform our readers that she was well stocked with them;\nand, that in addition to this, she, together with her husband, drank a\npotion made up and administered by an herb-doctor, for preventing for\never the slightest misunderstanding or quarrel between man and wife.\nWhether it produced this desirable object or not, our readers may\nconjecture, when we add, that the herb-doctor, after having taken a\nvery liberal advantage of their generosity, was immediately compelled to\ndisappear from the neighbourhood, in order to avoid meeting with\nBartley, who had a sharp look-out for him, not exactly on his own\naccount, but \"in regard,\" he said, \"that it had no effect upon _Mary_,\nat all at all\"; whilst Mary, on the other hand, admitted its efficacy\nupon herself, but maintained, \"that _Bartley_ was worse nor ever afther\nit.\"\n\nSuch was Mary Sullivan, as she sat at her own hearth, quite alone,\nengaged as we have represented her. What she may have been meditating\non, we cannot pretend to ascertain; but after some time, she looked\nsharply into the \"backstone,\" or hob, with an air of anxiety and alarm.\nBy and by she suspended her knitting, and listened with much\nearnestness, leaning her right ear over to the hob, from whence the\nsounds to which she paid such deep attention proceeded. At length she\ncrossed herself devoutly, and exclaimed, \"Queen of saints about us!--is\nit back ye are? Well sure there's no use in talkin' bekase they say you\nknow what's said of you, or to you--an' we may as well spake yez fair.\nHem--musha yez are welcome back, crickets, avour-neenee! I hope that,\nnot like the last visit ye ped us, yez are comin' for luck now! Moolyeen\ndied, any way, soon afther your other _kailyee_, ye crathurs ye. Here's\nthe bread, an' the salt, an' the male for yez, an' we wish ye well.\nEh?--saints above, if it isn't listenin' they are jist like a\nChristhien! Wurrah, but ye are the wise an' the quare crathurs all out!\"\n\nShe then shook a little holy water over the hob, and muttered to herself\nan Irish charm or prayer against the evils which crickets are often\nsupposed by the peasantry to bring with them, and requested, still in\nthe words of the charm, that their presence might, on that occasion,\nrather be a presage of good fortune to man and beast belonging to her.\n\n\"There now, ye _dhonans_ ye, sure ye can't say that ye're ill-thrated\nhere, anyhow, or ever was mocked or made game of in the same family. You\nhave got your hansel, an' full an' plenty of it; hopin' at the same time\nthat you'll have no rason in life to cut our best clothes from revinge.\nSure an' I didn't desarve to have my brave stuff _long body_ riddled the\nway it was the last time ye wor here, an' only bekase little Barny, that\nhas but the sinse of a _gorsoon_, tould yez in a joke to pack off wid\nyourselves somewhere else. Musha, never heed what the likes of him says;\nsure he's but a _caudy_, that doesn't mane ill, only the bit o'\ndivarsion wid yez.\"\n\nShe then resumed her knitting, occasionally stopping, as she changed her\nneedles, to listen, with her ear set, as if she wished to augur from the\nnature of their chirping, whether they came for good or evil. This,\nhowever, seemed to be beyond her faculty of translating their language;\nfor after sagely shaking her head two or three times, she knit more\nbusily than before.\n\nAt this moment, the shadow of a person passing the house darkened the\nwindow opposite which she sat, and immediately a tall female, of a wild\ndress and aspect, entered the kitchen.\n\n\"_Gho manhy dhea ghud, a ban chohr_! the blessin' o' goodness upon you,\ndacent woman,\" said Mrs Sullivan, addressing her in those kindly phrases\nso peculiar to the Irish language.\n\nInstead of making her any reply, however, the woman, whose eye glistened\nwith a wild depth of meaning, exclaimed in low tones, apparently of much\nanguish, \"_Husht, husht, dherum_! husht, husht, I say--let me alone--I\nwill do it--will you husht? I will, I say--I will--there now--that's\nit--be quiet, an' I will do it--be quiet!\" and as she thus spoke she\nturned her face back over her left shoulder, as if some invisible being\ndogged her steps, and stood bending over her.\n\n\"_Gho manhy dhea ghud, a ban chohr, dherhum areesht_! the blessin' o'\nGod on you, honest woman, I say again,\" said Mrs Sullivan, repeating\nthat _sacred_ form of salutation with which the peasantry address each\nother. \"'Tis a fine evenin', honest woman, glory be to Him that sent the\nsame, and amin! If it was cowld, I'd be axin' you to draw your chair in\nto the fire; but, any way, won't you sit down?\"\n\nAs she ceased speaking the piercing eye of the strange woman became\nriveted on her with a glare, which, whilst it startled Mrs Sullivan,\nseemed full of an agony that almost abstracted her from external life.\nIt was not, however, so wholly absorbing as to prevent it from\nexpressing a marked interest, whether for good or evil, in the woman who\naddressed her so hospitably.\n\n\"Husht, now--husht,\" she said, as if aside--\"husht, won't you--sure I\nmay speak _the thing_ to her--you said it--there now, husht!\" And then\nfastening her dark eyes on Mrs Sullivan, she smiled bitterly and\nmysteriously.\n\n\"I know you well,\" she said, without, however, returning the _blessing_\ncontained in the usual reply to Mrs Sullivan's salutation--\"I know you\nwell, Mary Sullivan--husht, now, husht--yes, I know you well, and the\npower of all that you carry about you; but you'd be better than you\nare--and that's well enough _now_--if you had sense to know--ah, ah,\nah!--what's this!\" she exclaimed abruptly, with three distinct shrieks,\nthat seemed to be produced by sensations of sharp and piercing agony.\n\n\"In the name of goodness, what's over you, honest woman?\" inquired Mrs\nSullivan, as she started from her chair, and ran to her in a state of\nalarm, bordering on terror--\"Is it sick you are?\"\n\nThe woman's face had got haggard, and its features distorted; but in a\nfew minutes they resumed their peculiar expression of settled wildness\nand mystery. \"Sick!\" she replied, licking her parched lips; \"_awirck,\nawirck!_ look! look!\" and she pointed with a shudder that almost\nconvulsed her whole frame, to a lump that rose on her shoulders; this,\nbe it what it might, was covered with a red cloak, closely pinned and\ntied with great caution about her body--\"'tis here!--I have it!\"\n\n\"Blessed mother!\" exclaimed Mrs Sullivan, tottering over to her chair,\nas finished a picture of horror as the eye could witness, \"this day's\nFriday: the saints stand betwixt me an' all harm! Oh, holy Mary, protect\nme! _Nhanim an airh_,\" in the name of the Father, etc., and she\nforthwith proceeded to bless herself, which she did thirteen times in\nhonour of the blessed virgin and the twelve apostles.\n\n\"Ay, it's as you see!\" replied the stranger bitterly. \"It is\nhere--husht, now--husht, I say--I will say _the thing_ to her, mayn't I?\nAy, indeed, Mary Sullivan, 'tis with me always--always. Well, well, no,\nI won't I won't--easy. Oh, blessed saints, easy, and I won't!\"\n\nIn the meantime Mrs Sullivan had uncorked her bottle of holy water, and\nplentifully bedewed herself with it, as a preservative against this\nmysterious woman and her dreadful secret.\n\n\"Blessed mother above!\" she ejaculated, \"the _Lianhan Shee_!\" And as she\nspoke, with the holy water in the palm of her hand, she advanced\ncautiously, and with great terror, to throw it upon the stranger and the\nunearthly thing she bore.\n\n\"Don't attempt it!\" shouted the other, in tones of mingled fierceness\nand terror; \"do you want to give _me_ pain without keeping _yourself_\nanything at all safer? Don't you know _it_ doesn't care about your holy\nwater? But I'd suffer for it, an' perhaps so would you.\"\n\nMrs Sullivan, terrified by the agitated looks of the woman, drew back\nwith affright, and threw the holy water with which she intended to\npurify the other on her own person.\n\n\"Why thin, you lost crathur, who or what are you at all?--don't,\ndon't--for the sake of all the saints and angels of heaven, don't come\nnext or near me--keep your distance--but what are you, or how did you\ncome to get that 'good thing' you carry about wid you?\"\n\n\"Ay, indeed!\" replied the woman bitterly, \"as if I would or could tell\nyou that! I say, you woman, you're doing what's not right in asking me a\nquestion you ought not let to cross your lips--look to yourself, and\nwhat's over you.\"\n\nThe simple woman, thinking her meaning literal, almost leaped off her\nseat with terror, and turned up her eyes to ascertain whether or not any\ndreadful appearance had approached her, or hung over her where she sat.\n\n\"Woman,\" said she, \"I spoke you kind an' fair, an' I wish you\nwell--but----\"\n\n\"But what?\" replied the other--and her eyes kindled into deep and\nprofound excitement, apparently upon very slight grounds.\n\n\"Why--hem--nothin' at all sure, only----\"\n\n\"Only what?\" asked the stranger, with a face of anguish that seemed to\ntorture every feature out of its proper lineaments.\n\n\"Dacent woman,\" said Mrs Sullivan, whilst the hair began to stand with\nterror upon her head, \"sure it's no wondher in life that I'm in a\nperplexity, whin a _Lianhan Shee_ is undher the one roof wid me. 'Tisn't\nthat I want to know anything at all about it--the dear forbid I should;\nbut I never hard of a person bein' tormented wid it as you are. I always\nused to hear the people say that it thrated its friends well.\"\n\n\"Husht!\" said the woman, looking wildly over her shoulder, \"I'll not\ntell: it's on myself I'll leave the blame! Why, will you never pity me?\nAm I to be night and day tormented? Oh, you're wicked and cruel for no\nreason!\"\n\n\"Thry,\" said Mrs Sullivan, \"an' bless yourself; call on God.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" shouted the other, \"are you going to get me killed?\" and as she\nuttered the words, a spasmodic working which must have occasioned great\npain, even to torture, became audible in her throat; her bosom heaved up\nand down, and her head was bent repeatedly on her breast, as if by\nforce.\n\n\"Don't mention that name,\" said she, \"in my presence, except you mean to\ndrive me to utter distraction. I mean,\" she continued, after\nconsiderable effort to recover her former tone and manner--\"hear me with\nattention--I mean, woman--you, Mary Sullivan--that if you mention that\nholy name, you might as well keep plunging sharp knives into my heart!\nHusht! peace to me for one minute, tormentor! Spare me something, I'm in\nyour power!\"\n\n\"Will you ate anything?\" said Mrs Sullivan; \"poor crathur, you look like\nhunger an' distress; there's enough in the house, blessed be them that\nsent it! an' you had betther thry an' take some nourishment, any way\";\nand she raised her eyes in a silent prayer of relief and ease for the\nunhappy woman, whose unhallowed association had, in her opinion, sealed\nher doom.\n\n\"Will I?--will I?--oh!\" she replied, \"may you never know misery for\noffering it! Oh, bring me something--some refreshment--some food--for\nI'm dying with hunger.\"\n\nMrs Sullivan, who, with all her superstition, was remarkable for charity\nand benevolence, immediately placed food and drink before her, which the\nstranger absolutely devoured--taking care occasionally to secrete under\nthe protuberance which appeared behind her neck, a portion of what she\nate. This, however, she did, not by stealth, but openly; merely taking\nmeans to prevent the concealed thing from being, by any possible\naccident, discovered.\n\nWhen the craving of hunger was satisfied, she appeared to suffer less\nfrom the persecution of her tormentor than before; whether it was, as\nMrs Sullivan thought, that the food with which she plied it appeased in\nsome degree its irritability, or lessened that of the stranger, it was\ndifficult to say; at all events, she became more composed; her eyes\nresumed somewhat of a natural expression; each sharp ferocious glare,\nwhich shot from them with such intense and rapid flashes, partially\ndisappeared; her knit brows dilated, and part of a forehead, which had\nonce been capacious and handsome, lost the contractions which deformed\nit by deep wrinkles. Altogether the change was evident, and very much\nrelieved Mrs Sullivan, who could not avoid observing it.\n\n\"It's not that I care much about it, if you'd think it not right o' me,\nbut it's odd enough for you to keep the lower part of your face muffled\nup in that black cloth, an' then your forehead, too, is covered down on\nyour face a bit. If they're part of the _bargain_,\"--and she shuddered\nat the thought,--\"between you an' anything that's not good--hem!--I\nthink you'd do well to throw thim off o' you, an' turn to thim that can\nprotect you from everything that's bad. Now, a scapular would keep all\nthe divils in hell from one; an' if you'd----\"\n\nOn looking at the stranger she hesitated, for the wild expression of her\neyes began to return.\n\n\"Don't begin my punishment again,\" replied the woman; \"make no\nallus----don't make mention in my presence of anything that's good.\nHusht--husht--it's beginning--easy now--easy! No,\" said she, \"I came to\ntell you, that only for my breaking a vow I made to this thing upon me,\nI'd be happy instead of miserable with it. I say, it's a good thing to\nhave, if the person will use this bottle,\" she added, producing one, \"as\nI will direct them.\"\n\n\"I wouldn't wish, for my part,\" replied Mrs Sullivan, \"to have anything\nto do wid it--neither act nor part\"; and she crossed herself devoutly,\non contemplating such an unholy alliance as that at which her companion\nhinted.\n\n\"Mary Sullivan,\" replied the other, \"I can put good fortune and\nhappiness in the way of you and yours. It is for you the good is\nintended; if _you_ don't get both, _no other_ can,\" and her eyes kindled\nas she spoke like those of the Pyrhoness in the moment of inspiration.\n\nMrs Sullivan looked at her with awe, fear, and a strong mixture of\ncuriosity; she had often heard that the _Lianhan Shee_ had, through\nmeans of the person to whom it was bound, conferred wealth upon several,\nalthough it could never render this important service to those who\nexercised direct authority over it. She therefore experienced something\nlike a conflict between her fears and a love of that wealth, the\npossession of which was so plainly intimated to her.\n\n\"The money,\" said she, \"would be one thing, but to have the _Lianhan\nShee_ planted over a body's shouldher--och! the saints preserve us!--no,\nnot for oceans of hard goold would I have it in my company one minnit.\nBut in regard to the money--hem!--why, if it could be managed without\nhavin' act or part wid _that thing_, people would do anything in reason\nand fairity.\"\n\n\"You have this day been kind to me,\" replied the woman, \"and that's what\nI can't say of many--dear help me!--husht! Every door is shut in my\nface! Does not every cheek get pale when I am seen? If I meet a\nfellow-creature on the road, they turn into the field to avoid me; if I\nask for food, it's to a deaf ear I speak; if I am thirsty, they send me\nto the river. What house would shelter me? In cold, in hunger, in\ndrought, in storm, and in tempest, I am alone and unfriended, hated,\nfeared, an' avoided; starving in the winter's cold, and burning in the\nsummer's heat. All this is my fate here; and--oh! oh! oh!--have mercy,\ntormentor--have mercy! I will not lift my thoughts _there_--I'll keep\nthe paction--but spare me _now_!\"\n\nShe turned round as she spoke, seeming to follow an invisible object,\nor, perhaps, attempting to get a more complete view of the mysterious\nbeing which exercised such a terrible and painful influence over her.\nMrs Sullivan, also, kept her eye fixed upon the lump, and actually\nbelieved that she saw it move. Fear of incurring the displeasure of what\nit contained, and a superstitious reluctance harshly to thrust a person\nfrom her door who had eaten of her food, prevented her from desiring the\nwoman to depart.\n\n\"In the name of Goodness,\" she replied, \"I will have nothing to do wid\nyour gift. Providence, blessed be His name, has done well for me an'\nmine; an' it mightn't be right to go beyant what it has pleased _Him_ to\ngive me.\"\n\n\"A rational sentiment!--I mean there's good sense in what you say,\"\nanswered the stranger: \"but you need not be afraid,\" and she accompanied\nthe expression by holding up the bottle and kneeling. \"Now,\" she added,\n\"listen to me, and judge for yourself, if what I say, when I swear it,\ncan be a lie.\" She then proceeded to utter oaths of the most solemn\nnature, the purport of which was to assure Mrs Sullivan that drinking of\nthe bottle would be attended with no danger.\n\n\"You see this little bottle? Drink it. Oh, for my sake and your own,\ndrink it; it will give wealth without end to you and to all belonging to\nyou. Take one-half of it before sunrise, and the other half when he goes\ndown. You must stand while drinking it, with your face to the east, in\nthe morning; and at night, to the west. Will you promise to do thus?\"\n\n\"How would drinkin' the bottle get me money?\" inquired Mrs Sullivan, who\ncertainly felt a strong tendency of heart to the wealth.\n\n\"That I can't tell you now, nor would you understand it, even if I\ncould; but you will know all when what I say is complied with.\"\n\n\"Keep your bottle, dacent woman. I wash my hands out of it: the saints\nabove guard me from the timptation! I'm sure it's not right, for as I'm\na sinner, 'tis gettin' stronger every minute widin me! Keep it! I'm loth\nto bid any one that _ett_ o' my bread to go from my hearth, but if you\ngo, I'll make it worth your while. Saints above! what's comin' over me?\nIn my whole life I never had such a hankerin' afther money! Well, well,\nbut it's quare entirely!\"\n\n\"Will you drink it?\" asked her companion. \"If it does hurt or harm to\nyou or yours, or anything but good, may what is hanging over me be\nfulfilled!\" and she extended a thin, but, considering her years, not\nungraceful arm, in the act of holding out the bottle to her kind\nentertainer.\n\n\"For the sake of all that's good and gracious, take it without\nscruple--it is not hurtful, a child might drink every drop that's in it.\nOh, for the sake of all you love, and of all that love you, take it!\"\nand as she urged her the tears streamed down her cheeks.\n\n\"No, no,\" replied Mrs Sullivan, \"it'll never cross my lips; not if it\nmade me as rich as ould Hendherson, that airs his guineas in the sun,\nfor fraid they'd get light by lyin' past.\"\n\n\"I entreat you to take it,\" said the strange woman.\n\n\"Never, never!--once for all--I say, I won't; so spare your breath.\"\n\nThe firmness of the good housewife was not, in fact, to be shaken; so,\nafter exhausting all the motives and arguments with which she could urge\nthe accomplishment of her design, the strange woman, having again put\nthe bottle into her bosom, prepared to depart.\n\nShe had now once more become calm, and resumed her seat with the languid\nair of one who has suffered much exhaustion and excitement. She put her\nhand upon her forehead for a few moments, as if collecting her\nfaculties, or endeavouring to remember the purport of their previous\nconversation. A slight moisture had broken through her skin, and\naltogether, notwithstanding her avowed criminality in entering into an\nunholy bond, she appeared an object of deep compassion.\n\nIn a moment her manner changed again, and her eyes blazed out once more,\nas she asked her alarmed hostess,--\n\n\"Again, Mary Sullivan, will you take the gift that I have it in my power\nto give you? ay or no? speak, poor mortal, if you know what is for your\nown good.\"\n\nMrs Sullivan's fears, however, had overcome her love of money,\nparticularly as she thought that wealth obtained in such a manner could\nnot prosper; her only objection being to the means of acquiring it.\n\n\"Oh!\" said the stranger, \"am I doomed never to meet with anyone who will\ntake the promise off me by drinking of this bottle. Oh! but I am\nunhappy! What it is to fear--ah! ah!--and keep _His_ commandments. Had\n_I_ done so in my youthful time, I wouldn't now--ah--merciful mother, is\nthere no relief? kill me, tormentor; kill me outright, for surely the\npangs of eternity cannot be greater than those you now make me suffer.\nWoman,\" said she, and her muscles stood out in extraordinary\nenergy--\"woman, Mary Sullivan--ay, if you should kill me--blast\nme--where I stand, I will say the word--woman--you have daughters--teach\nthem--to fear----\" Having got so far, she stopped--her bosom heaved up\nand down--her frame shook dreadfully--her eyeballs became lurid and\nfiery--her hands were clenched, and the spasmodic throes of inward\nconvulsion worked the white froth up to her mouth; at length she\nsuddenly became like a statue, with this wild supernatural expression\nintense upon her, and with an awful calmness, by far more dreadful than\nexcitement could be, concluded by pronouncing in deep husky tones the\nname of God.\n\nHaving accomplished this with such a powerful struggle, she turned round\nwith pale despair in her countenance and manner, and with streaming eyes\nslowly departed, leaving Mrs Sullivan in a situation not at all to be\nenvied.\n\nIn a short time the other members of the family, who had been out at\ntheir evening employments, returned. Bartley, her husband, having\nentered somewhat sooner than his three daughters from milking, was the\nfirst to come in; presently the girls followed, and in a few minutes\nthey sat down to supper, together with the servants, who dropped in one\nby one, after the toil of the day. On placing themselves about the\ntable, Bartley as usual took his seat at the head; but Mrs Sullivan,\ninstead of occupying hers, sat at the fire in a state of uncommon\nagitation. Every two or three minutes she would cross herself devoutly,\nand mutter such prayers against spiritual influences of an evil nature\nas she could compose herself to remember.\n\n\"Thin, why don't you come to your supper, Mary,\" said the husband,\n\"while the sowans are warm? Brave and thick they are this night, any\nway.\"\n\nHis wife was silent, for so strong a hold had the strange woman and her\nappalling secret upon her mind, that it was not till he repeated his\nquestion three or four times--raising his head with surprise, and\nasking, \"Eh, thin, Mary, what's come over you--is it unwell you\nare?\"--that she noticed what he said.\n\n\"Supper!\" she exclaimed; \"unwell! 'tis a good right I have to be\nunwell,--I hope nothing bad will happen, any way. Feel my face, Nannie,\"\nshe added, addressing one of her daughters; \"it's as cowld an' wet as a\nlimestone--ay, an' if you found me a corpse before you, it wouldn't be\nat all strange.\"\n\nThere was a general pause at the seriousness of this intimation. The\nhusband rose from his supper, and went up to the hearth where she sat.\n\n\"Turn round to the light,\" said he; \"why, Mary dear, in the name of\nwondher, what ails you? for you're like a corpse sure enough. Can't you\ntell us what has happened, or what put you in such a state? Why,\nchildhre, the cowld sweat's teemin' off her!\"\n\nThe poor woman, unable to sustain the shock produced by her interview\nwith the stranger, found herself getting more weak, and requested a\ndrink of water; but before it could be put to her lips, she laid her\nhead upon the back of the chair and fainted. Grief, and uproar, and\nconfusion followed this alarming incident. The presence of mind, so\nnecessary on such occasions, was wholly lost; one ran here, and another\nthere, all jostling against each other, without being cool enough to\nrender her proper assistance. The daughters were in tears, and Bartley\nhimself was dreadfully shocked by seeing his wife apparently lifeless\nbefore him.\n\nShe soon recovered, however, and relieved them from the apprehension of\nher death, which they thought had actually taken place. \"Mary,\" said the\nhusband, \"something quare entirely has happened, or you wouldn't be in\nthis state!\"\n\n\"Did any of you see a strange woman lavin' the house a minute or two\nbefore ye came in?\" she inquired.\n\n\"No,\" they replied, \"not a stim of anyone did we see.\"\n\n\"Wurrah dheelish! No?--now is it possible ye didn't?\" She then described\nher, but all declared they had seen no such person.\n\n\"Bartley, whisper,\" said she, and beckoning him over to her, in a few\nwords she revealed the secret. The husband grew pale and crossed\nhimself. \"Mother of Saints! childhre,\" said he, \"a _Lianhan Shee_!\" The\nwords were no sooner uttered than every countenance assumed the\npallidness of death; and every right hand was raised in the act of\nblessing the person, and crossing the forehead. \"_The Lianhan Shee!!_\"\nall exclaimed in fear and horror--\"This day's Friday; God betwixt us an'\nharm!\"\n\nIt was now after dusk, and the hour had already deepened into the\ndarkness of a calm, moonless, summer night; the hearth, therefore, in a\nshort time, became surrounded by a circle, consisting of every person in\nthe house; the door was closed and securely bolted;--a struggle for the\nsafest seat took place; and to Bartley's shame be it spoken, he lodged\nhimself on the hob within the jamb, as the most distant situation from\nthe fearful being known as the _Lianhan Shee_. The recent terror,\nhowever, brooded over them all; their topic of conversation was the\nmysterious visit, of which Mrs Sullivan gave a painfully accurate\ndetail; whilst every ear of those who composed her audience was set, and\nevery single hair of their heads bristled up, as if awakened into\ndistinct life by the story. Bartley looked into the fire soberly, except\nwhen the cat, in prowling about the dresser, electrified him into a\nstart of fear, which sensation went round every link of the living chain\nabout the hearth.\n\nThe next day the story spread through the whole neighbourhood,\naccumulating in interest and incident as it went. Where it received the\ntouches, embellishments, and emendations, with which it was amplified,\nit would be difficult to say: every one told it, forsooth, _exactly_ as\nhe heard it from another, but indeed it is not improbable that those\nthrough whom it passed were unconscious of the additions it had received\nat their hands. It is not unreasonable to suppose that imagination in\nsuch cases often colours highly without a premeditated design of\nfalsehood. Fear and dread, however, accompanied its progress; such\nfamilies as had neglected to keep holy water in their houses borrowed\nsome from their neighbours; every old prayer which had become rusty\nfrom disuse was brightened up--charms were hung about the necks of\ncattle, and gospels about those of children--crosses were placed over\nthe doors and windows;--no unclean water was thrown out before sunrise\nor after dusk--\n\n    \"E'en those prayed now who never prayed before,\n    And those who always prayed, still prayed the more.\"\n\nThe inscrutable woman who caused such general dismay in the parish was\nan object of much pity. Avoided, feared, and detested, she could find no\nrest for her weary feet, nor any shelter for her unprotected head. If\nshe was seen approaching a house, the door and windows were immediately\nclosed against her; if met on the way she was avoided as a pestilence.\nHow she lived no one could tell, for none would permit themselves to\nknow. It was asserted that she existed without meat or drink, and that\nshe was doomed to remain possessed of life, the prey of hunger and\nthirst, until she could get some one weak enough to break the spell by\ndrinking her hellish draught, to taste which, they said, would be to\nchange places with herself, and assume her despair and misery.\n\nThere had lived in the country about six months before her appearance in\nit, a man named Stephenson. He was unmarried, and the last of his\nfamily. This person led a solitary and secluded life, and exhibited\nduring the last years of his existence strong symptoms of eccentricity,\nwhich for some months before his death assumed a character of\nunquestionable derangement. He was found one morning hanging by a halter\nin his own stable, where he had, under the influence of his malady,\ncommitted suicide. At this time the public press had not, as now,\nfamiliarised the minds of the people to that dreadful crime, and it was\nconsequently looked upon _then_ with an intensity of horror of which we\ncan scarcely entertain any adequate notion. His farm remained\nunoccupied, for while an acre of land could be obtained in any other\nquarter, no man would enter upon such unhallowed premises. The house was\nlocked up, and it was currently reported that Stephenson and the devil\neach night repeated the hanging scene in the stable; and that when the\nformer was committing the \"hopeless sin,\" the halter slipped several\ntimes from the beam of the stable-loft, when Satan came, in the shape of\na dark-complexioned man with a hollow voice, and secured the rope until\nStephenson's end was accomplished.\n\nIn this stable did the wanderer take up her residence at night; and when\nwe consider the belief of the people in the night-scenes which were\nsupposed to occur in it, we need not be surprised at the new features of\nhorror which this circumstance superadded to her character. Her presence\nand appearance in the parish were dreadful; a public outcry was soon\nraised against her, which, were it not from fear of her power over their\nlives and cattle, might have ended in her death. None, however, had\ncourage to grapple with her, or to attempt expelling her by violence,\nlest a signal vengeance might be taken on any who dared to injure a\nwoman that could call in the terrible aid of the _Lianhan Shee_.\n\nIn this state of feeling they applied to the parish priest, who, on\nhearing the marvellous stories related concerning her, and on\nquestioning each man closely upon his authority, could perceive that,\nlike most other reports, they were to be traced principally to the\nimagination and fears of the people. He ascertained, however, enough\nfrom Bartley Sullivan to justify a belief that there was something\ncertainly uncommon about the woman; and being of a cold, phlegmatic\ndisposition, with some humour, he desired them to go home, if they were\nwise--he shook his head mysteriously as he spoke--\"and do the woman no\ninjury, if they didn't wish\"--and with this abrupt hint he sent them\nabout their business.\n\nThis, however, did not satisfy them. In the same parish lived a\nsuspended priest, called Father Philip O'Dallaghy, who supported\nhimself, as most of them do, by curing certain diseases of the\npeople--miraculously! He had no other means of subsistence, nor, indeed,\ndid he seem strongly devoted to life, or to the pleasures it afforded.\nHe was not addicted to those intemperate habits which characterise\n\"Blessed Priests\" in general; spirits he never tasted, nor any food that\ncould be termed a luxury, or even a comfort. His communion with the\npeople was brief, and marked by a tone of severe contemptuous\nmisanthropy. He seldom stirred abroad except during morning, or in the\nevening twilight, when he might be seen gliding amidst the coming\ndarkness, like a dissatisfied spirit. His life was an austere one, and\nhis devotional practices were said to be of the most remorseful\ncharacter. Such a man, in fact, was calculated to hold a powerful sway\nover the prejudices and superstitions of the people. This was true. His\npower was considered almost unlimited, and his life one that would not\ndisgrace the highest saint in the calendar. There were not wanting some\npersons in the parish who hinted that Father Felix O'Rourke, the parish\npriest, was himself rather reluctant to incur the displeasure, or\nchallenge the power of the _Lianhan Shee_, by driving its victim out of\nthe parish. The opinion of these persons was, in its distinct\nunvarnished reality, that Father Felix absolutely showed the white\nfeather on this critical occasion--that he became shy, and begged leave\nto decline being introduced to this intractable pair--seeming to\nintimate that he did not at all relish adding them to the stock of his\nacquaintances.\n\nFather Philip they considered as a decided contrast to him on this\npoint. His stern and severe manner, rugged, and, when occasion demanded,\ndaring, they believed suitable to the qualities requisite for\nsustaining such an interview. They accordingly waited on him; and after\nBartley and his friends had given as faithful a report of the\ncircumstances as, considering all things, could be expected, he told\nBartley he would hear from Mrs Sullivan's own lips the authentic\nnarrative. This was quite satisfactory, and what was expected from him.\nAs for himself, he appeared to take no particular interest in the\nmatter, further than that of allaying the ferment and alarm which had\nspread through the parish.\n\n\"Plase your Reverence,\" said Bartley, \"she came in to Mary, and she\nalone in the house, and for the matther o' that, I believe she laid\nhands upon her, and tossed and tumbled the crathur, and she but a sickly\nwoman, through the four corners of the house. Not that Mary lets an so\nmuch, for she's afeard; but I know from her way, when she spakes about\nher, that it's thruth, your Reverence.\"\n\n\"But didn't the _Lianhan Shee_,\" said one of them, \"put a sharp-pointed\nknife to her breast, wid a divilish intintion of makin' her give the\nbest of atin' an' dhrinkin' the house afforded?\"\n\n\"She got the victuals, to a sartinty,\" replied Bartley, \"and\n'overlooked' my woman for her pains; for she's not the picture of\nherself since.\"\n\nEveryone now told some magnified and terrible circumstance, illustrating\nthe formidable power of the _Lianhan Shee_.\n\nWhen they had finished, the sarcastic lip of the priest curled into an\nexpression of irony and contempt; his brow, which was naturally black\nand heavy, darkened; and a keen, but rather a ferocious-looking, eye\nshot forth a glance, which, while it intimated disdain for those to whom\nit was directed, spoke also of a dark and troubled spirit in himself.\nThe man seemed to brook with scorn the degrading situation of a\nreligious quack, to which some uncontrollable destiny had doomed him.\n\n\"I shall see your wife to-morrow,\" said he to Bartley; \"and after\nhearing the plain account of what happened, I will consider what is best\nto be done with this dark, perhaps unhappy, perhaps guilty character;\nbut whether dark, or unhappy, or guilty, I, for one, should not, and\nwill not, avoid her. Go, and bring me word to-morrow evening when I can\nsee her on the following day. Begone!\"\n\nWhen they withdrew, Father Philip paced his room for some time in\nsilence and anxiety.\n\n\"Ay,\" said he, \"infatuated people! sunk in superstition and ignorance,\nyet, perhaps, happier in your degradation than those who, in the pride\nof knowledge, can only look back upon a life of crime and misery. What\nis a sceptic? What is an infidel? Men who, when they will not submit to\nmoral restraint, harden themselves into scepticism and infidelity,\nuntil, in the headlong career of guilt, that which was first adopted to\nlull the outcry of conscience, is supported by the pretended pride of\nprinciple. Principle in a sceptic! Hollow and devilish lie! Would _I_\nhave plunged into scepticism, had I not first violated the moral\nsanctions of religion? Never. I became an infidel, because I first\nbecame a villain! Writhing under a load of guilt, that which I wished\nmight be true, I soon forced myself to think true: and now\"--he here\nclenched his hands and groaned--\"now--ay, now--and hereafter--oh, _that_\nhereafter! Why can I not shake the thoughts of it from my conscience?\nReligion! Christianity! With all the hardness of an infidel's heart, I\nfeel your truth; because, if every man were the villain that infidelity\nwould make him, then indeed might every man curse God for the existence\nbestowed upon him--as I would, but dare not do. Yet why can I not\nbelieve? Alas! why should God accept an unrepentant heart? Am I not a\nhypocrite, mocking Him by a guilty pretension to His power, and leading\nthe dark into thicker darkness? Then these hands--blood!--broken\nvows!--ha! ha! ha! Well, go--let misery have its laugh, like the light\nthat breaks from the thunder-cloud. Prefer Voltaire to Christ; sow the\nwind, and reap the whirlwind, as I have done--ha, ha, ha! Swim,\nworld--swim about me! I have lost the ways of Providence, and am dark!\n_She_ awaits me; but I broke the chain that galled us: yet it still\nrankles--still rankles!\"\n\nThe unhappy man threw himself into a chair in a paroxysm of frenzied\nagony. For more than an hour he sat in the same posture, until he became\ngradually hardened into a stiff, lethargic insensibility, callous and\nimpervious to feeling, reason, or religion--an awful transition from a\nvisitation of conscience so terrible as that which he had just suffered.\nAt length he arose, and by walking moodily about, relapsed into his\nusual gloomy and restless character.\n\nWhen Bartley went home, he communicated to his wife Father Philip's\nintention of calling on the following day, to hear a correct account of\nthe _Lianhan Shee_.\n\n\"Why, thin,\" said she, \"I'm glad of it, for I intinded myself to go to\nhim, any way, to get my new scapular consecrated. How-an'-ever, as he's\nto come, I'll get a set of gospels for the boys an' girls, an' he can\nconsecrate all when his hand's in. Aroon, Bartley, they say that man's\nso holy that he can do anything--ay, melt a body off the face o' the\nearth, like snow off a ditch. Dear me, but the power they have is\nstrange all out!\"\n\n\"There's no use in gettin' him anything to ate or dhrink,\" replied\nBartley; \"he wouldn't take a glass o' whisky once in seven years.\nThroth, myself thinks he's a little too dhry; sure he might be holy\nenough, an' yet take a sup of an odd time. There's Father Felix, an'\nthough we all know he's far from bein' so blessed a man as him, yet he\nhas friendship an' neighbourliness in him, an' never refuses a glass in\nrason.\"\n\n\"But do you know what I was tould about Father Philip, Bartley?\"\n\n\"I'll tell you that afther I hear it, Mary, my woman; you won't expect\nme to tell what I don't know?--ha, ha, ha!\"\n\n\"Behave, Bartley, an' quit your jokin' now, at all evints; keep it till\nwe're talkin' of somethin' else, an' don't let us be committin' sin,\nmaybe, while we're spakin' of what we're spakin' about; but they say\nit's as thrue as the sun to the dial:--the Lent afore last itself it\nwas,--he never tasted mate or dhrink durin' the whole seven weeks! Oh,\nyou needn't stare! it's well known by thim that has as much sinse as\nyou--no, not so much as you'd carry on the point o' this\nknittin'-needle. Well, sure the housekeeper an' the two sarvants\nwondhered--faix, they couldn't do less--an' took it into their heads to\nwatch him closely; an' what do you think--blessed be all the saints\nabove!--what do you think they _seen_?\"\n\n\"The Goodness above knows; for me--I don't.\"\n\n\"Why, thin, whin he was asleep they seen a small silk thread in his\nmouth, that came down through the ceilin' from heaven, an' he suckin'\nit, just as a child would his mother's breast whin the crathur 'ud be\nasleep: so that was the way he was supported by the angels! An' I\nremimber myself, though he's a dark, spare, yallow man at all times, yet\nhe never looked half so fat an' rosy as he did the same Lent!\"\n\n\"Glory be to Heaven! Well, well--_it is_ sthrange the power they have!\nAs for him, I'd as _lee_ meet St Pether, or St Pathrick himself, as him;\nfor one can't but fear him, somehow.\"\n\n\"Fear him! Och, it 'ud be the pity o' thim that 'ud do anything to vex\nor anger that man. Why, his very look 'ud wither thim, till there\nwouldn't be the thrack o' thim on the earth; an' as for his curse, why\nit 'ud scorch thim to ashes!\"\n\nAs it was generally known that Father Philip was to visit Mrs Sullivan\nthe next day, in order to hear an account of the mystery which filled\nthe parish with such fear, a very great number of the parishioners were\nassembled in and about Bartley's long before he made his appearance. At\nlength he was seen walking slowly down the road, with an open book in\nhis hand, on the pages of which he looked from time to time. When he\napproached the house, those who were standing about it assembled in a\nbody, and, with one consent, uncovered their heads, and asked his\nblessing. His appearance bespoke a mind ill at ease; his face was\nhaggard, and his eyes bloodshot. On seeing the people kneel, he smiled\nwith his usual bitterness, and, shaking his hand with an air of\nimpatience over them, muttered some words, rather in mockery of the\nceremony than otherwise. They then rose, and, blessing themselves, put\non their hats, rubbed the dust off their knees, and appeared to think\nthemselves recruited by a peculiar accession of grace.\n\nOn entering the house the same form was repeated; and when it was over,\nthe best chair was placed for him by Mary's own hands, and the fire\nstirred up, and a line of respect drawn, within which none was to\nintrude, lest he might feel in any degree incommoded.\n\n\"My good neighbour,\" said he to Mrs Sullivan, \"what strange woman is\nthis, who has thrown the parish into such a ferment? I'm told she paid\nyou a visit? Pray sit down.\"\n\n\"I humbly thank your Reverence,\" said Mary, curtseying lowly, \"but I'd\nrather not sit, sir, if you, plase. I hope I know what respect manes,\nyour Reverence. Barny Bradagh, I'll thank you to stand up, if you plase,\nan' his Reverence to the fore, Barny.\"\n\n\"I ax your Reverence's pardon, an' yours, too, Mrs Sullivan; sure we\ndidn't mane the disrespect, anyhow, sir, plase your Reverence.\"\n\n\"About this woman, and the _Lianhan Shee_,\" said the priest, without\nnoticing Barny's apology. \"Pray what do you precisely understand by a\n_Lianhan Shee_?\"\n\n\"Why, sir,\" replied Mary, \"some sthrange bein' from the good people, or\nfairies, that sticks to some persons. There's a bargain, sir, your\nReverence, made atween thim; an' the divil, sir, that is, the ould\nboy--the saints about us!--has a hand in it. The _Lianhan Shee_, your\nReverence, is never seen only by thim it keeps wid; but--hem!--it\nalways, wid the help of the ould boy, conthrives, sir, to make the\nperson brake the agreement, an' thin it has _thim_ in _its_ power; but\nif they _don't_ brake the agreement, thin _it's_ in _their_ power. If\nthey can get anybody to put in their place, they may get out o' the\nbargain; for they can, of a sartainty, give oceans o' money to people,\nbut can't take any themselves, plase your Reverence. But sure, where's\nthe use o' me to be tellin' your Reverence what you know betther nor\nmyself?--an' why shouldn't you, or any one that has the power you have?\"\n\nHe smiled again at this in his own peculiar manner, and was proceeding\nto inquire more particularly into the nature of the interview between\nthem, when the noise of feet, and sounds of general alarm, accompanied\nby a rush of people into the house, arrested his attention, and he\nhastily inquired into the cause of the commotion. Before he could\nreceive a reply, however, the house was almost crowded; and it was not\nwithout considerable difficulty that, by the exertions of Mrs Sullivan\nand Bartley, sufficient order and quiet were obtained to hear distinctly\nwhat was said.\n\n\"Plase your Reverence,\" said several voices at once, \"they're comin',\nhot-foot, into the very house to us! Was ever the likes seen! an' they\nmust know right well, sir, that you're widin it.\"\n\n\"Who are coming?\" he inquired.\n\n\"Why, the woman, sir, an' her _good pet_, the _Lianhan Shee_, your\nReverence!\"\n\n\"Well,\" said he, \"but why should you all appear so blanched with terror?\nLet her come in, and we shall see how far she is capable of injuring her\nfellow-creatures: some maniac,\" he muttered, in a low soliloquy, \"whom\nthe villainy of the world has driven into derangement--some victim to a\nhand like m----. Well, they say there _is_ a Providence, yet such things\nare permitted!\"\n\n\"He's sayin' a prayer now,\" observed one of them; \"haven't we a good\nright to be thankful that he's in the place wid us while she's in it, or\ndear knows what harm she might do us--maybe _rise_ the wind!\"\n\nAs the latter speaker concluded, there was a dead silence. The persons\nabout the door crushed each other backwards, their feet set out before\nthem, and their shoulders laid with violent pressure against those who\nstood behind, for each felt anxious to avoid all danger of contact with\na being against whose power even a blessed priest found it necessary to\nguard himself by a prayer.\n\nAt length a low murmur ran among the people--\"Father O'Rourke!--here's\nFather O'Rourke!--he has turned the corner after her, an' they're both\ncomin' in.\" Immediately they entered, but it was quite evident, from the\nmanner of the worthy priest, that he was unacquainted with the person of\nthis singular being. When they crossed the threshold, the priest\nadvanced, and expressed his surprise at the throng of people assembled.\n\n\"Plase your Reverence,\" said Bartley, \"_that's_ the woman,\" nodding\nsignificantly towards her as he spoke, but without looking at her\nperson, lest the evil eye he dreaded so much might meet his, and give\nhim \"the blast.\"\n\nThe dreaded female, on seeing the house in such a crowded state,\nstarted, paused, and glanced with some terror at the persons assembled.\nHer dress was not altered since her last visit; but her countenance,\nthough more meagre and emaciated, expressed but little of the unsettled\nenergy which then flashed from her eyes, and distorted her features by\nthe depth of that mysterious excitement by which she had been agitated.\nHer countenance was still muffled as before, the awful protuberance rose\nfrom her shoulders, and the same band which Mrs Sullivan had alluded to\nduring their interview, was bound about the upper part of her forehead.\n\nShe had already stood upwards of two minutes, during which the fall of a\nfeather might be heard, yet none bade God bless her--no kind hand was\nextended to greet her--no heart warmed in affection towards her; on the\ncontrary, every eye glanced at her, as a being marked with enmity\ntowards God. Blanched faces and knit brows, the signs of fear and\nhatred, were turned upon her; her breath was considered pestilential,\nand her touch paralysis. There she stood, proscribed, avoided, and\nhunted like a tigress, all fearing to encounter, yet wishing to\nexterminate her! Who could she be?--or what had she done, that the\nfinger of the Almighty marked her out for such a fearful weight of\nvengeance?\n\nFather Philip rose and advanced a few steps, until he stood confronting\nher. His person was tall, his features dark, severe, and solemn: and\nwhen the nature of the investigation about to take place is considered,\nit need not be wondered at, that the moment was, to those present, one\nof deep and impressive interest--such as a visible conflict between a\nsupposed champion of God and a supernatural being was calculated to\nexcite.\n\n\"Woman,\" said he, in his deep stern voice, \"tell me who and what you\nare, and why you assume a character of such a repulsive and mysterious\nnature, when it can entail only misery, shame, and persecution on\nyourself? I conjure you, in the name of Him after whose image you are\ncreated, to speak truly!\"\n\nHe paused, and the tall figure stood mute before him. The silence was\ndead as death--every breath was hushed--and the persons assembled stood\nimmovable as statues! Still she spoke not; but the violent heaving of\nher breast evinced the internal working of some dreadful struggle. Her\nface before was pale--it was now ghastly; her lips became blue, and her\neyes vacant.\n\n\"Speak!\" said he; \"I conjure you in the name of the power by whom you\nlive!\"\n\nIt is probable that the agitation under which she laboured was produced\nby the severe effort made to sustain the unexpected trial she had to\nundergo.\n\nFor some minutes her struggle continued; but having begun at its highest\npitch, it gradually subsided until it settled in a calmness which\nappeared fixed and awful as the resolution of despair. With breathless\ncomposure she turned round, and put back that part of her dress which\nconcealed her face, except the band on her forehead, which she did not\nremove; having done this, she turned again, and walked calmly towards\nFather Philip, with a deadly smile upon her thin lips. When within a\nstep of where he stood, she paused, and, riveting her eyes upon him,\nexclaimed,--\n\n\"Who and what am I? The victim of infidelity and you, the bearer of a\ncursed existence, the scoff and scorn of the world, the monument of a\nbroken vow and a guilty life, a being scourged by the scorpion lash of\nconscience, blasted by periodical insanity, pelted by the winter's\nstorm, scorched by the summer's heat, withered by starvation, hated by\nman, and touched into my inmost spirit by the anticipated tortures of\nfuture misery. I have no rest for the sole of my foot, no repose for a\nhead distracted by the contemplation of a guilty life; I am the unclean\nspirit which walketh to seek rest and findeth none; I am--_what you have\nmade me_! Behold,\" she added, holding up the bottle, \"this failed, and I\nlive to accuse you. But no, you are my husband--though our union was\nbut a guilty form, and I will bury that in silence. You thought me dead,\nand you flew to avoid punishment; did you avoid it? No; the finger of\nGod has written pain and punishment upon your brow. I have been in all\ncharacters, in all shapes, have spoken with the tongue of a peasant,\nmoved in my natural sphere, but my knees were smitten, my brain\nstricken, and the wild malady which banishes me from society has been\nupon me for years. Such I am, and such, I say, have you made me. As for\nyou, kind-hearted woman, there was nothing in this bottle but pure\nwater. The interval of reason returned this day, and having remembered\nglimpses of our conversation, I came to apologise to you, and to explain\nthe nature of my unhappy distemper, and to beg a little bread, which I\nhave not tasted for two days. I at times conceive myself attended by an\nevil spirit, shaped out by a guilty conscience, and this is the only\nfamiliar which attends me, and by it I have been dogged into madness\nthrough every turning of life. Whilst it lasts I am subject to spasms\nand convulsive starts which are exceedingly painful. The lump on my back\nis the robe I wore when innocent in my peaceful convent.\"\n\nThe intensity of general interest was now transferred to Father Philip;\nevery face was turned towards him, but he cared not. A solemn stillness\nyet prevailed among all present. From the moment she spoke, her eye drew\nhis with the power of a basilisk. His pale face became like marble, not\na muscle moved; and when she ceased speaking, his bloodshot eyes were\nstill fixed upon her countenance with a gloomy calmness like that which\nprecedes a tempest. They stood before each other, dreadful counterparts\nin guilt, for truly his spirit was as dark as hers.\n\nAt length he glanced angrily around him:--\"Well,\" said he, \"what is it\nnow, ye poor infatuated wretches, to trust in the sanctity _of man_?\nLearn from me to place the same confidence _in God_ which you place in\nHis _guilty creatures_, and you will not lean on a broken reed. Father\nO'Rourke, you, too, witness my disgrace, but not my punishment. It is\npleasant, no doubt, to have a topic for conversation at your\nConferences; enjoy it. As for you, Margaret, if society lessen misery,\nwe may be less miserable. But the band of your order, and the\nremembrance of your vow is on your forehead, like the mark of Cain--tear\nit off, and let it not blast a man who is the victim of prejudice still,\nnay, of superstition, as well as of guilt; tear it from my sight.\" His\neyes kindled fearfully as he attempted to pull it away by force.\n\nShe calmly took it off, and he immediately tore it into pieces, and\nstamped upon the fragments as he flung them on the ground.\n\n\"Come,\" said the despairing man--\"come--there is a shelter for you, _but\nno peace_!--food, and drink, and raiment, but _no peace_!--NO\nPEACE!\" As he uttered these words, in a voice that sank to its\ndeepest pitch, he took her hand, and they both departed to his own\nresidence.\n\nThe amazement and horror of those who were assembled in Bartley's house\ncannot be described. Our readers may be assured that they deepened in\ncharacter as they spread through the parish. An undefined fear of this\nmysterious pair seized upon the people, for their images were associated\nin their minds with darkness and crime, and supernatural communion. The\ndeparting words of Father Philip rang in their ears: they trembled, and\ndevoutly crossed themselves, as fancy again repeated the awful\nexclamation of the priest--\"No peace! no peace!\"\n\nWhen Father Philip and his unhappy associate went home, he instantly\nmade her a surrender of his small property; but with difficulty did he\ncommand sufficient calmness to accomplish even this. He was\ndistracted--his blood seemed to have been turned to fire--he clenched\nhis hands, and he gnashed his teeth, and exhibited the wildest symptoms\nof madness. About ten o'clock he desired fuel for a large fire to be\nbrought into the kitchen, and got a strong cord, which he coiled, and\nthrew carelessly on the table. The family were then ordered to bed.\nAbout eleven they were all asleep; and at the solemn hour of twelve he\nheaped additional fuel upon the living turf, until the blaze shone with\nscorching light upon everything around. Dark and desolating was the\ntempest within him, as he paced, with agitated steps, before the\ncrackling fire.\n\n\"She is risen!\" he exclaimed--\"the spectre of all my crimes is risen to\nhaunt me through life! I _am_ a murderer--yet she lives, and my guilt is\nnot the less! The stamp of eternal infamy is upon me--the finger of\nscorn will mark me out--the tongue of reproach will sting me like that\nof the serpent--the deadly touch of shame will cover me like a\nleper--the laws of society will crush the murderer, not the less that\nhis wickedness in blood has miscarried: after that comes the black and\nterrible tribunal of the Almighty's vengeance--of His fiery indignation!\nHush!--What sounds are those? They deepen--they deepen! Is it thunder?\nIt cannot be the crackling of the blaze! It _is_ thunder!--but it speaks\nonly to _my_ ear! Hush!--Great God, there is a change in my voice! It is\nhollow and supernatural! Could a change have come over me? Am I living?\nCould I have--Hah!--Could I have departed? and am I now at length given\nover to the worm that never dies? If it be at my heart, I may feel it.\nGod!--I am damned! Here is a viper twined about my limbs, trying to dart\nits fangs into my heart! Hah!--there are feet pacing in the room, too,\nand I hear voices! I am surrounded by evil spirits! Who's there?--What\nare you?--Speak!--They are silent!--There is no answer! Again comes the\nthunder! But perchance this is not my place of punishment, and I will\ntry to leave these horrible spirits!\"\n\nHe opened the door, and passed out into a small green field that lay\nbehind the house. The night was calm, and the silence profound as death.\nNot a cloud obscured the heavens;--the light of the moon fell upon the\nstillness of the scene around him, with all the touching beauty of a\nmoonlit midnight in summer. Here he paused a moment, felt his brow, then\nhis heart, the palpitations of which fell audibly upon his ear. He\nbecame somewhat cooler; the images of madness which had swept through\nhis stormy brain disappeared, and were succeeded by a lethargic vacancy\nof thought, which almost deprived him of the consciousness of his own\nidentity. From the green field he descended mechanically to a little\nglen which opened beside it. It was one of those delightful spots to\nwhich the heart clingeth. Its sloping sides were clothed with patches of\nwood, on the leaves of which the moonlight glanced with a soft lustre,\nrendered more beautiful by their stillness. That side on which the light\ncould not fall, lay in deep shadow, which occasionally gave to the rocks\nand small projecting precipices an appearance of monstrous and unnatural\nlife. Having passed through the tangled mazes of the glen, he at length\nreached its bottom, along which ran a brook, such as, in the description\nof the poet,--\n\n    \"In the leafy month of June,\n    Unto the sleeping woods all night,\n    Singeth a quiet tune.\"\n\nHere he stood, and looked upon the green winding margin of the\nstreamlet--but its song he heard not. With the workings of a guilty\nconscience, the beautiful in nature can have no association. He looked\nup the glen, but its picturesque windings, soft vistas, and wild\nunderwood mingling with grey rocks and taller trees, all mellowed by the\nmoon-beams, had no charms for him. He maintained a profound silence--but\nit was not the silence of peace or reflection. He endeavoured to recall\nthe scenes of the past day, but could not bring them back to his\nmemory. Even the fiery tide of thought, which, like burning lava, seared\nhis brain a few moments before, was now cold and hardened. He could\nremember nothing. The convulsion of his mind was over, and his faculties\nwere impotent and collapsed.\n\nIn this state he unconsciously retraced his steps, and had again reached\nthe paddock adjoining his house, when, as he thought, the figure of his\nparamour stood before him. In a moment his former paroxysm returned, and\nwith it the gloomy images of a guilty mind, charged with the extravagant\nhorrors of brain-struck madness.\n\n\"What!\" he exclaimed, \"the band still on your forehead! Tear it off!\"\n\nHe caught at the form as he spoke, but there was no resistance to his\ngrasp. On looking again towards the spot, it had ceased to be visible.\nThe storm within him arose once more; he rushed into the kitchen, where\nthe fire blazed out with fiercer heat; again he imagined that the\nthunder came to his ears, but the thunderings which he heard were only\nthe voice of conscience. Again his own footsteps and his voice sounded\nin his fancy as the footsteps and voices of fiends, with which his\nimagination peopled the room. His state and his existence seemed to him\na confused and troubled dream; he tore his hair--threw it on the\ntable--and immediately started back with a hollow groan; for his locks,\nwhich but a few hours before had been as black as the raven's wing, were\nnow white as snow!\n\nOn discovering this, he gave a low but frantic laugh. \"Ha, ha, ha!\" he\nexclaimed; \"here is another mark--here is food for despair. Silently,\nbut surely, did the hand of God work this, as a proof that I am\nhopeless! But I will bear it; I will bear the sight! I now feel myself a\nman blasted by the eye of God Himself! Ha, ha, ha! Food for despair!\nFood for despair!\"\n\nImmediately he passed into his own room, and approaching the\nlooking-glass beheld a sight calculated to move a statue. His hair had\nbecome literally white, but the shades of his dark complexion, now\ndistorted by terror and madness, flitted, as his features worked under\nthe influence of his tremendous passions, into an expression so\nfrightful, that deep fear came over himself. He snatched one of his\nrazors, and fled from the glass to the kitchen. He looked upon the fire,\nand saw the white ashes lying around its edge.\n\n\"Ha!\" said he, \"the light is come! I see the sign. I am directed, and I\nwill follow it. There is yet ONE hope. The immolation! I shall\nbe saved, yet so as by fire. It is for this my hair has become\nwhite;--the sublime warning for my self-sacrifice! The colour of\nashes!--white--white! It is so!--I will sacrifice my body in material\nfire, to save my soul from that which is eternal! But I had anticipated\nthe SIGN! The self-sacrifice is accepted!\"\n\nWe must here draw a veil over that which ensued, as the description of\nit would be both unnatural and revolting. Let it be sufficient to say,\nthat the next morning he was found burnt to a cinder, with the exception\nof his feet and legs, which remained as monuments of, perhaps, the most\ndreadful suicide that ever was committed by man. His razor, too, was\nfound bloody, and several clots of gore were discovered about the\nhearth; from which circumstances it was plain that he had reduced his\nstrength so much by loss of blood, that when he committed himself to the\nflames, he was unable, even had he been willing, to avoid the fiery and\nawful sacrifice of which he made himself the victim. If anything could\ndeepen the impression of fear and awe, already so general among the\npeople, it was the unparalleled nature of his death. Its circumstances\nare yet remembered in the parish and county wherein it occurred--_for it\nis no fiction_, gentle reader! and the titular bishop who then presided\nover the diocese declared, that while he lived no person bearing the\nunhappy man's name should ever be admitted to the clerical order.\n\nThe shock produced by his death struck the miserable woman into the\nutter darkness of settled derangement. She survived him some years, but\nwandered about through the province, still, according to the\nsuperstitious belief of the people, tormented by the terrible enmity of\nthe _Lianhan Shee_.\n\n\n\n\nXVI\n\nTHE HAUNTED COVE\n\nBy SIR GEORGE DOUGLAS, Bart.\n\n\nCommonplace in itself and showing positive vulgarity in the style in\nwhich its pleasure-grounds are laid out, Clyffe, near Berwick-on-Tweed,\nhas yet one delightful feature of its own,--to wit, a private bay to\nwhich access is obtained by a tunnel seventy or eighty yards long, cut\nthrough the soft formation of the cliff from the sloping gardens above.\nThe result is that, if you are a visitor at Clyffe, you have your own\nprivate bathing ground, your own private beach where the children may\nplay, without fear of being encroached upon, unless, indeed, a boat\nshould be run in among the rocks from seaward. In the early nineties of\nthe last century, the only daughter of the house of Clyffe was engaged\nto be married to a young officer quartered at the military depot at\nBerwick. They were a blameless but not particularly interesting couple,\nand one of their hobbies was to meet and promenade on the smooth sands\nof Clyffe bay in the brilliant autumn moonlight. In order to prevent\npossible intrusion from the sea, the seaward end of the tunnel was\nclosed by a heavy iron gate, and upon the inner side of this gate the\nLieutenant was to wait until his fiancee should steal forth bringing\nwith her the key which should give access to the beach. It was all very\nfoolish and romantic, no doubt, for they might have met just as\nconveniently in the conservatory of Clyffe House, where their privacy\nwould have been equally respected, and where Miss Alix's satin shoes\nand diaphanous draperies would have exposed her to no risk of a chill.\nLovers are like that, however, and had they not been so on this\noccasion, I should have had no story to tell.\n\nLike the exemplary swain he was, Dick arrived early at the\nrendezvous,--that is to say, early in respect to the time agreed upon,\nthough, as a matter of fact, it was nearly eleven o'clock. There he lit\na cigarette, and approaching the heavy iron bars of the locked gate,\nlooked forth upon the peaceful scene beyond. It was a perfect night, the\nharvest moon riding through fleecy cloud aloft, whilst the breaking of\nthe sea between the rocky points to right and left was soothing in its\ngentle iteration. Dick had been on parade extremely early that morning,\nand, tell it not in Gath! his eyes involuntarily closed. Starting awake\nagain, he saw with surprise that, though Alix had not yet come forward,\nhe was no longer alone. No! the sacred beach had been invaded, and a\nfemale figure clad in light draperies was pacing slowly in the moonlight\nbetwixt himself and the distant rocks. Who on earth could she be, and\nhow had she got there? were the questions he asked himself, his first\nsensation being one of annoyance at so unexpected and so ill-timed an\nintrusion. But as the moments passed and the figure came more clearly\ninto view, impatience gave way to curiosity, and curiosity to something\nlike awe.\n\nWhat he saw was the tall and slender form of a young girl whose hands\nwere clasped in front of her, and whose eyes were fixed on the ground in\na pensive, not to say sorrowful, attitude. Clear as was the moonlight,\nat least in the intervals of the moon's passage through the broken\nclouds, her features were not plainly visible; but her every movement\nwas instinct with grace. What could she be doing there? Under other\ncircumstances, possibly Dick might have felt inclined to pass the gate\nand himself step forth on to the sands. But, besides that the gate was\nlocked, he gradually became conscious of a singular delicacy or\nunwillingness to intrude upon the privacy of this solitary,\ninexplicable, and impressive figure. He was content, therefore, to watch\nher noiseless progress, and, as he did so, even his untrained masculine\neye seemed to note something unusual--out of date, it might be--in the\nfashion of her garments. So perhaps might some old-world portrait have\nappeared, had it stept down from its frame against the wall. This,\nhowever, stirred him little. What he was not prepared for was the\ngesture of anguish, nay, of positive despair, with which, when about\nopposite him, the figure threw her head back and her arms aloft, as if\nin mute and agonised appeal to Heaven. The action was heart-rending even\nto look on; nor, to a male eye, did it lose aught from the fact that, as\nthe moonlight now fell for the first time on her upturned face, it\nshowed it to be deathly pale indeed, but also exquisitely lovely.\nAnother moment or two, and the graceful and appealing form had passed\nbeyond his field of vision, for, as the locked gate stood some little\nway back from the mouth of the tunnel, his view was restricted.\n\nA short time only, though he knew not exactly how long, had passed when\nAlix stood beside him.\n\n\"I had some difficulty,\" she archly explained, \"in eluding prying eyes.\"\n\nFor an ardent lover, Dick's greetings were perfunctory; after which,\nbeing still powerfully under the impression of what he had just seen, he\ntold Alix all about it.\n\n\"We shall soon see who she is,\" replied that practical young lady, as\nshe placed the heavy key in the cumbrous lock, \"and I shall also take\nleave to inform her that this bit of coast is strictly private.\"\n\nAnd strictly private it appeared to be when they emerged from the\ntunnel. For though their eyes swept the beach to right and left, and\nthough the moon just then was unobscured, they saw no trace of any\nliving form.\n\n\"She must have landed from a boat,\" said Alix; but as little trace of a\nboat could they discover.\n\nStill it was quite possible that she might pass unobserved against the\ndark rocks, so they turned first to the right, then to the left, keeping\na keen look-out for any sign of motion.\n\nThey detected nothing.\n\nAnd by this time I am bound to confess that a slightly uncomplimentary\nsuspicion had more than once crossed the brain of Alix. She knew that,\nas a rule, her Dick was a pattern of moderation. But even the most\nprudent may be liable to be occasionally overtaken. And she recalled his\nhaving mentioned that this was to be a guest-night at the mess. Indeed,\nit was chiefly upon that account that the assignation had been fixed so\nlate. This present portentous solemnity was certainly most unlike him.\nWas it possible that the poor fellow had taken just one more\nwhisky-and-soda than he could conveniently carry? Outspoken by nature,\nshe blurted out her suspicion, which was strengthened rather than the\nreverse by the great earnestness with which he repelled it.\n\nLess convinced than before, Alix then exclaimed: \"Look here, Dick! If,\nas you say, the young woman passed this way, she must have left tracks\non the smooth sand. Where do you say the place was?\"\n\nWith some uncertainty, Dick then led her to what he took to be the\nplace. No tracks were there. He then tried further back from the mouth\nof the tunnel, and with as little success. It was true the tide was\ncoming up, but it could scarcely yet have reached footmarks which had\nbeen imprinted so far inshore as he supposed these to have been.\n\nIn a spirit of levity which jarred on him, Alix now recommended her\nlover to go back to his quarters and have a good sleep; and then, having\nagain passed through the gate and pushed their way up the tunnel, the\ntwo young people parted in something very like a tiff.\n\nDick did not call at Clyffe House the next day, and when he called on\nthe day following, Alix met him in a complaisant mood. After all, she\nhad no wish to quarrel with him. And very soon she said, \"Going back to\nwhat you told me you had seen the other night, Dick, it occurred to me,\nafter you were gone, that it fits in rather curiously with an old story\nconnected with this place.\" And then, at his request, she proceeded to\ntell him how, some thirty years ago, her grandmother had had a favourite\nmaid, a friendless orphan girl named Barbara, to whom attached a\nmystery. Barbara was a very lovely creature of refinement and education\nabove her station, and she had of course numerous admirers. Young as she\nwas, her discretion was faultless, with the sole exception that her\nnative amiability and desire to please sometimes betrayed her into\nconduct which meant less than her admirers wished to think it did. Well,\nat last Barbara became plighted to a respectable young fisherman,\npart-owner of a boat sailing from The Greenses, and, though details were\nvague, it was generally understood that, as a consequence, several\nhearts were severely damaged. As Barbara had no relatives, it was\narranged by her employer that she should remain in her situation until\nthe wedding-day and should be married from Clyffe House. Considerable\npreparations had also been made to do honour to the occasion,\nwhen--judge of the consternation of the inmates of the house!--upon the\nmorning of the wedding-day Barbara was not to be found. She was believed\nto have retired to rest on the previous night as usual, yet her bed had\nnot been slept in. Nor, although most of her clothes were packed in\nanticipation of her change of domicile, had she apparently taken\nanything with her. Nothing in the least unusual had been observed in her\ndemeanour; nor could the unhappy bridegroom suggest any possible motive\nfor her conduct. Exhaustive inquiries and exhaustive search were made;\nbut, to cut the story short, nothing had ever again been seen or heard\nof the fair Barbara to that day. Her mistress, who had been sincerely\nattached to her, had long mourned for her, and in after times would\noften sing her praises. But, in order to be quite candid, it must be\nacknowledged that there were others, not a few, who declined to believe\nthat the girl had come to an untimely end; and, who, knowing that she\nhad several suitors, and had sometimes appeared uncertain which to\nfavour, preferred to think that she had changed her mind at the last\nmoment, and, deciding to throw over her fisherman, had made her escape\nfrom Clyffe House during the night to join some more eligible swain.\nThis would have been a desperate step indeed; nor could her conduct in\nwithholding subsequent explanations be absolved of heartlessness. But,\nafter all, she was the sort of girl who, where no actual misconduct was\ninvolved, might easily allow herself to be over-persuaded. And certainly\nthe tangled skein of love does sometimes present a knot which must be\ncut rather than untied.\n\nThe Lieutenant professed himself profoundly interested in this\nnarrative, which he and Alix then proceeded to discuss in all its\nbearings, and more particularly, of course, in its relation to the\nfigure seen by him in the cove. It is true that Alix never quite\nbelieved in the genuineness of the apparition; but, seeing that Dick\nreally wished to have it taken seriously, she decided tactfully to\nhumour him, and made quite a nine days' wonder of the mysterious\noccurrence. Their own wedding-day was, however, fast drawing on, so they\nsoon found other things to talk and think of. To be brief, they were in\ndue course married, and, amid the cares and pleasures of wedded life,\nthe story, though not forgotten, came to be very seldom referred to. So\ntwenty years passed; at the end of which time the Colonel (as he now\nwas), accompanied by his wife and several youngsters, paid one of his\nnot very frequent visits to his wife's parents at Clyffe House.\n\nOn the first night of the visit, after dinner, Alix's father had\nsignificantly recalled the story of the maid Barbara's disappearance,\nand, after stating that the mystery had now been finally cleared up, had\ngone on to relate the following particulars:--A few days previously\nthere had lain at the point of death in the infirmary at Berwick an aged\nfisherman, who had long been known in the seaport town for his solitary\nhabits and morose and violent ways. As death drew near, it became\nevident that his mind was sorely troubled, and to one of the nurses or\ndoctors who had sought to comfort him he had been led to make the\nacknowledgment that a guilty secret weighed upon his soul, making him\nfearful to confront his Maker. He then told how, as a young man, he had\npassionately loved a pretty servant-girl employed at Clyffe House.\nMisled by those smiles and that graciousness of manner which in the\nguileless amiability of her nature the girl lavished upon all alike, he\nhad for a moment imagined himself her favoured suitor. How bitter, then,\nwas the blow, and how rude the awakening when he learned that a younger\nbrother of his own, a mere boy, was preferred before himself! Nor was it\nonly unrequited love that grieved him. No, he believed, or managed to\npersuade himself, that an unfair advantage had been taken of him, by\nwhich he had been made the lovers' dupe. A silent man, he took no one\ninto his confidence, but abode his time until the eve of the\nwedding-day. On that day he had accidentally intercepted a note from the\ngirl Barbara, addressed to his brother, in which she had agreed to meet\nher bridegroom of the morrow in the cove below Clyffe House one hour\nbefore midnight, to spend a final hour together before the momentous\ncrisis in their lives. Instantly it had occurred to the elder brother to\nuse the knowledge gained from the note in order to make one last\ndesperate appeal on his own account to the sweet girl he loved so\nmadly. Accordingly he kept back the missive, and, to make assurance\ndoubly sure, mixed a soporific drug with his brother's drink when the\nlatter came in from fishing. Then, whilst the youngster slumbered\nheavily, he himself embarked in a cockle-boat and, unobserved, rowed\nquietly round the headland, into Clyffe cove, where he ran his boat into\na safe creek he knew of, and jumped ashore. Poor Barbara had come down\nto the water's edge to meet the boat, and great was her consternation on\nfinding herself confronted by the wrong brother.\n\nThen an impassioned scene was enacted, in which the seaman used every\nmeans of persuasion known to him to get the girl to give up his brother\nand plight herself to him. But though alternately distressed and\nterrified, Barbara had stood her ground, and, gentle and yielding though\nshe appeared to be, neither threats nor vows had had the slightest\neffect upon her constancy. And then, of a sudden, the reckless brother\nhad \"seen red.\" If he could not have this girl to wife, then neither\nshould another, and a moment later her white form lay stretched upon the\ndark rocks at his feet.\n\nThe sight brought him to himself. There was no room for doubt that life\nwas extinct; and if he was to escape suspicion, he must act at once, for\nthe summer night was short and the dread interview had lasted long. He\naccordingly placed the body in the boat, and, having collected several\nheavy stones, proceeded to make use of his seacraft by binding them\nclosely and firmly about the poor girl's body by means of her clothing.\nThen he rowed out to sea, some mile or more, and there quietly dropped\nthe body overboard. Such, in essentials, was the story told by the dying\nfisherman, and so it had come about that the bride of that fatal morning\nwas never seen or heard of more. Though possibly intended to be regarded\nas confidential, certain it is that the confession had leaked out, and\nvery soon became public property. For a few days it attracted great\nattention; and then, like other more important things which had preceded\nit, it ceased, save very occasionally, to be alluded to at all. But the\nColonel never forgot it, any more than he ever forgot the lovely and\ninexplicable vision which had appeared to him for so brief an interval,\nin the moonlight, on the shore below Clyffe House. It is true that he\nseldom referred to it. Nor did that stately dame, who had once been Miss\nAlix and who was now believed to command the regiment, encourage him to\ndo so. For she had observed that he was always most ready to tell the\nstory after an exceptionally good dinner. And, with her high sense of\nwhat was due to his rank, she fancied that it made him mildly\nridiculous. Neither, it might be, had her earliest doubts been ever\nwholly laid to rest. But members of the fair sex, when they are\npractical, are apt to be very practical indeed.\n\n\n\n\nXVII\n\nWANDERING WILLIE'S TALE\n\nBy SIR WALTER SCOTT\n\n\nYe maun have heard of Sir Robert Redgauntlet of that Ilk, who lived in\nthese parts before the dear years. The country will lang mind him; and\nour fathers used to draw breath thick if ever they heard him named. He\nwas out wi' the Hielandmen in Montrose's time; and again he was in the\nhills wi' Glencairn in the saxteen hundred and fifty-twa; and sae when\nKing Charles the Second came in, wha was in sic favour as the Laird of\nRedgauntlet? He was knighted at Lonon court, wi' the King's ain sword;\nand being a redhot prelatist, he came down here, rampauging like a lion,\nwith commissions of lieutenancy (and of lunacy, for what I ken), to put\ndown a' the Whigs and Covenanters in the country. Wild wark they made of\nit; for the Whigs were as dour as the Cavaliers were fierce, and it was\nwhich should first tire the other. Redgauntlet was aye for the strong\nhand; and his name is kend as wide in the country as Claverhouse's or\nTam Dalyell's. Glen, nor dargle, nor mountain, nor cave, could hide the\npuir hill-folk when Redgauntlet was out with bugle and bloodhound after\nthem, as if they had been sae mony deer. And troth when they fand them,\nthey didna mak muckle mair ceremony than a Hielandman wi' a\nroebuck--It was just, \"Will ye tak the test?\"--if not, \"Make\nready--present--fire!\"--and there lay the recusant.\n\nFar and wide was Sir Robert hated and feared. Men thought he had a\ndirect compact with Satan--that he was proof against steel--and that\nbullets happed aff his buff-coat like hailstanes from a hearth--that he\nhad a mear that would turn a hare on the side of Carrifragawns[6]--and\nmuckle to the same purpose, of whilk mair anon. The best blessing they\nwared on him was, \"Deil scowp wi' Redgauntlet!\" He wasna a bad maister\nto his ain folk, though, and was weel aneugh liked by his tenants; and\nas for the lackies and troopers that rade out wi' him to the\npersecutions, as the Whigs caa'd those killing times, they wad hae\ndrunken themsells blind to his health at ony time.\n\nNow you are to ken that my gudesire lived on Redgauntlet's grund--they\nca' the place Primrose-Knowe. We had lived on the grund, and under the\nRedgauntlets, since the riding days, and lang before. It was a pleasant\nbit; and I think the air is callerer and fresher there than ony where\nelse in the country. It's a' deserted now; and I sat on the broken\ndoor-cheek three days since, and was glad I couldna see the plight the\nplace was in; but that's a' wide o' the mark. There dwelt my gudesire,\nSteenie Steenson, a rambling, rattling chiel he had been in his young\ndays, and could play weel on the pipes; he was famous at \"Hoopers and\nGirders\"--a' Cumberland couldna touch him at \"Jockie Lattin\"--and he had\nthe finest finger for the backlilt between Berwick and Carlisle. The\nlike o' Steenie wasna the sort that they made Whigs o'. And so he became\na Tory, as they ca' it, which we now ca' Jacobites, just out of a kind\nof needcessity, that he might belang to some side or other. He had nae\nill-will to the Whig bodies, and liked little to see the blude rin,\nthough, being obliged to follow Sir Robert in hunting and hosting,\nwatching and warding, he saw muckle mischief, and maybe did some, that\nhe couldna avoid.\n\nNow Steenie was a kind of favourite with his master, and kend a' the\nfolks about the Castle, and was often sent for to play the pipes when\nthey were at their merriment. Auld Dougal MacCallum, the butler, that\nhad followed Sir Robert through gude and ill, thick and thin, pool and\nstream, was specially fond of the pipes, and aye gae my gudesire his\ngude word wi' the Laird; for Dougal could turn his master round his\nfinger.\n\nWeel, round came the Revolution, and it had like to have broken the\nhearts baith of Dougal and his master. But the change was not\na'thegether sae great as they feared, and other folk thought for. The\nWhigs made an unco crawing what they wad do with their auld enemies, and\nin special wi' Sir Robert Redgauntlet. But there were ower mony great\nfolks dipped in the same doings, to mak a spick and span new warld. So\nParliament passed it a' ower easy; and Sir Robert, bating that he was\nheld to hunting foxes instead of Covenanters, remained just the man he\nwas. His revel was as loud, and his hall as weel lighted, as ever it had\nbeen, though maybe he lacked the fines of the nonconformists, that used\nto come to stock his larder and cellar; for it is certain he began to be\nkeener about the rents than his tenants used to find him before, and\nthey behoved to be prompt to the rent-day, or else the Laird wasna\npleased. And he was sic an awsome body, that naebody cared to anger him;\nfor the oaths he swore, and the rage that he used to get into, and the\nlooks that he put on, made men sometimes think him a devil incarnate.[7]\n\nWeel, my gudesire was nae manager--no that he was a very great\nmisguider--but he hadna the saving gift, and he got twa terms' rent in\narrear. He got the first brash at Whitsunday put ower wi' fair word and\npiping; but when Martinmas came, there was a summons from the\ngrund-officer to come wi' the rent on a day preceese, or else Steenie\nbehoved to flit. Sair wark he had to get the siller; but he was\nweel-freended, and at last he got the haill scraped thegether--a\nthousand merks--the maist of it was from a neighbour they caa'd Laurie\nLapraik--a sly tod. Laurie had walth o' gear--could hunt wi' the hound\nand rin wi' the hare--and be Whig or Tory, saunt or sinner, as the wind\nstood. He was a professor in this Revolution warld, but he liked an orra\nsough of this warld, and a tune on the pipes weel aneugh at a by time;\nand abune a', he thought he had a gude security for the siller he lent\nmy gudesire ower the stocking at Primrose-Knowe.\n\nAway trots my gudesire to Redgauntlet Castle, wi' a heavy purse and a\nlight heart, glad to be out of the Laird's danger. Weel, the first thing\nhe learned at the Castle was, that Sir Robert had fretted himself into a\nfit of the gout, because he did not appear before twelve o'clock. It\nwasna a'thegether for sake of the money, Dougal thought; but because he\ndidna like to part wi' my gudesire aff the grund. Dougal was glad to see\nSteenie, and brought him into the great oak parlour, and there sat the\nLaird his leesome lane, excepting that he had beside him a great,\nill-favoured jackanape, that was a special pet of his; a cankered beast\nit was, and mony an ill-natured trick it played--ill to please it was,\nand easily angered--ran about the haill castle, chattering and yowling,\nand pinching, and biting folk, especially before ill-weather, or\ndisturbances in the state. Sir Robert caa'd it Major Weir, after the\nwarlock that was burnt;[8] and few folk liked either the name or the\nconditions of the creature--they thought there was something in it by\nordinar--and my gudesire was not just easy in his mind when the door\nshut on him, and he saw himself in the room wi' naebody but the Laird,\nDougal MacCallum, and the Major, a thing that hadna chanced to him\nbefore.\n\nSir Robert sat, or, I should say, lay, in a great armchair, wi' his\ngrand velvet gown, and his feet on a cradle; for he had baith gout and\ngravel, and his face looked as gash and ghastly as Satan's. Major Weir\nsat opposite to him, in a red laced coat, and the Laird's wig on his\nhead; and aye as Sir Robert girned wi' pain, the jackanape girned too,\nlike a sheep's-head between a pair of tangs--an ill-faur'd, fearsome\ncouple they were. The Laird's buff-coat was hung on a pin behind him,\nand his broadsword and his pistols within reach; for he keepit up the\nauld fashion of having the weapons ready, and a horse saddled day and\nnight, just as he used to do when he was able to loup on horseback, and\naway after ony of the hill-folk he could get speerings of. Some said it\nwas for fear of the Whigs taking vengeance, but I judge it was just his\nauld custom--he wasna gien to fear ony thing. The rental-book, wi' its\nblack cover and brass clasps, was lying beside him; and a book of\nsculduddry sangs was put betwixt the leaves, to keep it open at the\nplace where it bore evidence against the Goodman of Primrose-Knowe, as\nbehind the hand with his mails and duties. Sir Robert gave my gudesire a\nlook, as if he would have withered his heart in his bosom. Ye maun ken\nhe had a way of bending his brows, that men saw the visible mark of a\nhorse-shoe in his forehead, deep-dinted, as if it had been stamped\nthere.\n\n\"Are ye come light-handed, ye son of a toom whistle?\" said Sir Robert.\n\"Zounds! if you are----\"\n\nMy gudesire, with as gude a countenance as he could put on, made a leg,\nand placed the bag of money on the table wi' a dash, like a man that\ndoes something clever. The Laird drew it to him hastily--\"Is it all\nhere, Steenie, man?\"\n\n\"Your honour will find it right,\" said my gudesire.\n\n\"Here, Dougal,\" said the Laird, \"gie Steenie a tass of brandy down\nstairs, till I count the siller and write the receipt.\"\n\nBut they werena weel out of the room, when Sir Robert gied a yelloch\nthat garr'd the Castle rock. Back ran Dougal--in flew the livery\nmen--yell on yell gied the Laird, ilk ane mair awfu' than the ither. My\ngudesire knew not whether to stand or flee, but he ventured back into\nthe parlour, where a' was gaun hirdy-girdie--naebody to say \"come in,\"\nor \"gae out.\" Terribly the Laird roared for cauld water to his feet, and\nwine to cool his throat; and hell, hell, hell, and its flames, was aye\nthe word in his mouth. They brought him water, and when they plunged his\nswoln feet into the tub, he cried out it was burning; and folk say that\nit _did_ bubble and sparkle like a seething caldron. He flung the cup at\nDougal's head, and said he had given him blood instead of burgundy; and,\nsure aneugh, the lass washed clotted blood aff the carpet the neist day.\nThe jackanape they caa'd Major Weir, it jibbered and cried as if it was\nmocking its master; my gudesire's head was like to turn--he forgot baith\nsiller and receipt, and down stairs he banged; but as he ran, the\nshrieks came faint and fainter; there was a deep-drawn shivering groan,\nand word gaed through the Castle, that the Laird was dead.\n\nWeel, away came my gudesire, wi' his finger in his mouth, and his best\nhope was, that Dougal had seen the money-bag, and heard the Laird speak\nof writing the receipt. The young Laird, now Sir John, came from\nEdinburgh, to see things put to rights. Sir John and his father never\ngree'd weel. Sir John had been bred an advocate, and afterwards sat in\nthe last Scots Parliament and voted for the Union, having gotten, it was\nthought, a rug of the compensations--if his father could have come out\nof his grave, he would have brained him for it on his awn hearthstane.\nSome thought it was easier counting with the auld rough Knight than the\nfair-spoken young ane--but mair of that anon.\n\nDougal MacCallum, poor body, neither grat nor graned, but gaed about the\nhouse looking like a corpse, but directing, as was his duty, a' the\norder of the grand funeral. Now, Dougal looked aye waur and waur when\nnight was coming, and was aye the last to gang to his bed, whilk was in\na little round just opposite the chamber of dais, whilk his master\noccupied while he was living, and where he now lay in state, as they\ncaa'd it, weel-a-day! The night before the funeral, Dougal could keep\nhis awn counsel nae langer; he cam doun with his proud spirit, and\nfairly asked auld Hutcheon to sit in his room with him for an hour. When\nthey were in the round, Dougal took ae tass of brandy to himsell, and\ngave another to Hutcheon, and wished him all health and lang life, and\nsaid that, for himsell, he wasna lang for this world; for that, every\nnight since Sir Robert's death, his silver call had sounded from the\nstate-chamber, just as it used to do at nights in his lifetime, to call\nDougal to help to turn him in his bed. Dougal said, that being alone\nwith the dead on that floor of the tower (for naebody cared to wake Sir\nRobert Redgauntlet like another corpse), he had never daured to answer\nthe call, but that now his conscience checked him for neglecting his\nduty; for, \"though death breaks service,\" said MacCallum, \"it shall\nnever break my service to Sir Robert; and I will answer his next\nwhistle, so be you will stand by me, Hutcheon.\"\n\nHutcheon had nae will to the wark, but he had stood by Dougal in battle\nand broil, and he wad not fail him at this pinch; so down the carles sat\nower a stoup of brandy, and Hutcheon, who was something of a clerk,\nwould have read a chapter of the Bible; but Dougal would hear naething\nbut a blaud of Davie Lindsay, whilk was the waur preparation.\n\nWhen midnight came, and the house was quiet as the grave, sure aneugh\nthe silver whistle sounded as sharp and shrill as if Sir Robert was\nblowing it, and up gat the twa auld serving-men, and tottered into the\nroom where the dead man lay. Hutcheon saw aneugh at the first glance;\nfor there were torches in the room, which showed him the foul fiend, in\nhis ain shape, sitting on the Laird's coffin! Over he cowped as if he\nhad been dead. He could not tell how lang he lay in a trance at the\ndoor, but when he gathered himself, he cried on his neighbour, and\ngetting nae answer, raised the house, when Dougal was found lying dead\nwithin twa steps of the bed where his master's coffin was placed. As for\nthe whistle, it was gaen anes and aye; but mony a time was it heard at\nthe top of the house on the bartizan, and amang the auld chimneys and\nturrets, where the howlets have their nests. Sir John hushed the matter\nup, and the funeral passed over without mair bogle-wark.\n\nBut when a' was ower, and the Laird was beginning to settle his affairs,\nevery tenant was called up for his arrears, and my gudesire for the full\nsum that stood against him in the rental-book. Weel, away he trots to\nthe Castle, to tell his story, and there he is introduced to Sir John,\nsitting in his father's chair, in deep mourning, with weepers and\nhanging cravat, and a small walking rapier by his side, instead of the\nauld broadsword, that had a hundred-weight of steel about it, what with\nblade, chape, and basket-hilt. I have heard their communing so often\ntauld ower, that I almost think I was there mysell, though I couldna be\nborn at the time. (In fact, Alan, my companion mimicked, with a good\ndeal of humour, the flattering, conciliating tone of the tenant's\naddress, and the hypocritical melancholy of the Laird's reply. His\ngrandfather, he said, had, while he spoke, his eye fixed on the\nrental-book, as if it were a mastiff-dog that he was afraid would spring\nup and bite him.)\n\n\"I wuss ye joy, sir, of the head seat, and the white loaf, and the braid\nlairdship. Your father was a kind man to friends and followers; muckle\ngrace to you, Sir John, to fill his shoon--his boots, I suld say, for he\nseldom wore shoon, unless it were muils when he had the gout.\"\n\n\"Ay, Steenie,\" quoth the Laird, sighing deeply and putting his napkin to\nhis een, \"his was a sudden call, and he will be missed in the country;\nno time to set his house in order--weel prepared Godward, no doubt,\nwhich is the root of the matter--but left us behind a tangled hesp to\nwind, Steenie.--Hem! hem! We maun go to business, Steenie; much to do,\nand little time to do it in.\"\n\nHere he opened the fatal volume. I have heard of a thing they call\nDoomsday-book--I am clear it has been a rental of back-ganging tenants.\n\n\"Stephen,\" said Sir John, still in the same soft, sleekit tone of\nvoice--\"Stephen Stevenson, or Steenson, ye are down here for a year's\nrent behind the hand--due at last term.\"\n\n_Stephen._ \"Please your honour, Sir John, I paid it to your father.\"\n\n_Sir John._ \"Ye took a receipt then, doubtless, Stephen; and can produce\nit?\"\n\n_Stephen._ \"Indeed I hadna time, an it like your honour; for nae sooner\nhad I set doun the siller, and just as his honour Sir Robert, that's\ngaen, drew it till him to count it, and write out the receipt, he was\nta'en wi' the pains that removed him.\"\n\n\"That was unlucky,\" said Sir John, after a pause. \"But you maybe paid it\nin the presence of somebody. I want but a _talis qualis_ evidence,\nStephen. I would go ower strictly to work with no poor man.\"\n\n_Stephen._ \"Troth, Sir John, there was naebody in the room but Dougal\nMacCallum the butler. But, as your honour kens, he has e'en followed his\nauld master.\"\n\n\"Very unlucky again, Stephen,\" said Sir John, without altering his voice\na single note. \"The man to whom ye paid the money is dead--and the man\nwho witnessed the payment is dead too--and the siller, which should have\nbeen to the fore, is neither seen nor heard tell of in the repositories.\nHow am I to believe a' this?\"\n\n_Stephen._ \"I dinna ken, your honour; but there is a bit memorandum note\nof the very coins; for, God help me! I had to borrow out of twenty\npurses; and I am sure that ilka man there set down will take his grit\noath for what purpose I borrowed the money.\"\n\n_Sir John._ \"I have little doubt ye _borrowed_ the money, Steenie. It is\nthe _payment_ to my father that I want to have some proof of.\"\n\n_Stephen._ \"The siller maun be about the house, Sir John. And since your\nhonour never got it, and his honour that was canna have ta'en it wi'\nhim, maybe some of the family may have seen it.\"\n\n_Sir John._ \"We will examine the servants, Stephen; that is but\nreasonable.\"\n\nBut lackey and lass, and page and groom, all denied stoutly that they\nhad ever seen such a bag of money as my gudesire described. What was\nwaur, he had unluckily not mentioned to any living soul of them his\npurpose of paying his rent. Ae quean had noticed something under his\narm, but she took it for the pipes.\n\nSir John Redgauntlet ordered the servants out of the room, and then said\nto my gudesire, \"Now, Steenie, ye see you have fair play; and, as I have\nlittle doubt ye ken better where to find the siller than ony other body,\nI beg, in fair terms, and for your own sake, that you will end this\nfasherie; for, Stephen, ye maun pay or flit.\"\n\n\"The Lord forgie your opinion,\" said Stephen, driven almost to his wit's\nend--\"I am an honest man.\"\n\n\"So am I, Stephen,\" said his honour; \"and so are all the folks in the\nhouse, I hope. But if there be a knave amongst us, it must be he that\ntells the story he cannot prove.\" He paused, and then added, mair\nsternly, \"If I understand your trick, sir, you want to take advantage\nof some malicious reports concerning things in this family, and\nparticularly respecting my father's sudden death, thereby to cheat me\nout of the money, and perhaps take away my character, by insinuating\nthat I have received the rent I am demanding.--Where do you suppose this\nmoney to be?--I insist upon knowing.\"\n\nMy gudesire saw everything look sae muckle against him, that he grew\nnearly desperate--however, he shifted from one foot to another, looked\nto every corner of the room and made no answer.\n\n\"Speak out, sirrah,\" said the Laird, assuming a look of his father's, a\nvery particular ane, which he had when he was angry--it seemed as if the\nwrinkles of his frown made that self-same fearful shape of a horse's\nshoe in the middle of his brow;--\"Speak out, sir! I _will_ know your\nthoughts;--do you suppose that I have this money?\"\n\n\"Far be it frae me to say so,\" said Stephen.\n\n\"Do you charge any of my people with having taken it?\"\n\n\"I wad be laith to charge them that may be innocent,\" said my gudesire;\n\"and if there be anyone that is guilty, I have nae proof.\"\n\n\"Somewhere the money must be, if there is a word of truth in your\nstory,\" said Sir John; \"I ask where you think it is--and demand a\ncorrect answer?\"\n\n\"In hell, if you _will_ have my thoughts of it,\" said my gudesire,\ndriven to extremity,--\"in hell! with your father, his jackanape, and his\nsilver whistle.\"\n\nDown the stairs he ran (for the parlour was nae place for him after such\na word), and he heard the Laird swearing blood and wounds behind him, as\nfast as ever did Sir Robert, and roaring for the bailie and the\nbaron-officer.\n\nAway rode my gudesire to his chief creditor (him they caa'd Laurie\nLapraik), to try if he could make ony thing out of him; but when he\ntauld his story, he got but the warst word in his wame--thief, beggar,\nand dyvour, were the saftest terms; and to the boot of these hard terms,\nLaurie brought up the auld story of his dipping his hand in the blood of\nGod's saunts, just as if a tenant could have helped riding with the\nLaird, and that a laird like Sir Robert Redgauntlet. My gudesire was, by\nthis time, far beyond the bounds of patience, and, while he and Laurie\nwere at deil speed the liars, he was wanchancie aneugh to abuse\nLapraik's doctrine as weel as the man, and said things that garr'd\nfolk's flesh grue that heard them;--he wasna just himsell, and he had\nlived wi' a wild set in his day.\n\nAt last they parted, and my gudesire was to ride hame through the wood\nof Pitmurkie, that is a' fou of black firs, as they say.--I ken the\nwood, but the firs may be black or white for what I can tell.--At the\nentry of the wood there is a wild common, and on the edge of the common,\na little lonely change-house, that was keepit then by an ostler-wife,\nthey suld hae caa'd her Tibbie Faw, and there puir Steenie cried for a\nmutchkin of brandy, for he had had no refreshment the haill day. Tibbie\nwas earnest wi' him to take a bite of meat, but he couldna think o't,\nnor would he take his foot out of the stirrup, and took off the brandy\nwholely at twa draughts, and named a toast at each:--the first was, the\nmemory of Sir Robert Redgauntlet, and might he never lie quiet in his\ngrave till he had righted his poor bond-tenant; and the second was, a\nhealth to Man's Enemy, if he would but get him back the pock of siller,\nor tell him what came o't, for he saw the haill world was like to regard\nhim as a thief and a cheat, and he took that waur than even the ruin of\nhis house and hauld.\n\nOn he rode, little caring where. It was a dark night turned, and the\ntrees made it yet darker, and he let the beast take its ain road through\nthe wood; when, all of a sudden, from tired and wearied that it was\nbefore, the nag began to spring, and flee, and stend, that my gudesire\ncould hardly keep the saddle.--Upon the whilk, a horseman, suddenly\nriding up beside him, said, \"That's a mettle beast of yours, freend;\nwill you sell him?\"--So saying, he touched the horse's neck with his\nriding-wand, and it fell into its auld heigh-ho of a stumbling trot.\n\"But his spunk's soon out of him, I think,\" continued the stranger, \"and\nthat is like mony a man's courage, that thinks he wad do great things\ntill he come to the proof.\"\n\nMy gudesire scarce listened to this, but spurred his horse, with \"Gude\ne'en to you, freend.\"\n\nBut it's like the stranger was ane that doesna lightly yield his point;\nfor, ride as Steenie liked, he was aye beside him at the self-same pace.\nAt last my gudesire, Steenie Steenson, grew half angry; and, to say the\ntruth, half feared.\n\n\"What is it that ye want with me, freend?\" he said. \"If ye be a robber,\nI have nae money; if ye be a leal man, wanting company, I have nae heart\nto mirth or speaking; and if ye want to ken the road, I scarce ken it\nmysell.\"\n\n\"If you will tell me your grief,\" said the stranger, \"I am one that,\nthough I have been sair miscaa'd in the world, am the only hand for\nhelping my freends.\"\n\nSo my gudesire, to ease his ain heart, mair than from any hope of help,\ntold him the story from beginning to end.\n\n\"It's a hard pinch,\" said the stranger; \"but I think I can help you.\"\n\n\"If you could lend the money, sir, and take a lang day--I ken nae other\nhelp on earth,\" said my gudesire.\n\n\"But there may be some under the earth,\" said the stranger. \"Come, I'll\nbe frank wi' you; I could lend you the money on bond, but you would\nmaybe scruple my terms. Now, I can tell you, that your auld Laird is\ndisturbed in his grave by your curses, and the wailing of your family,\nand if ye daur venture to go to see him, he will give you the receipt.\"\n\nMy gudesire's hair stood on end at this proposal, but he thought his\ncompanion might be some humorsome chield that was trying to frighten\nhim, and might end with lending him the money. Besides, he was bauld wi'\nbrandy, and desperate wi' distress; and he said, he had courage to go to\nthe gate of hell, and a step farther, for that receipt.--The stranger\nlaughed.\n\nWeel, they rode on through the thickest of the wood, when, all of a\nsudden, the horse stopped at the door of a great house; and, but that he\nknew the place was ten miles off, my father would have thought he was at\nRedgauntlet Castle. They rode into the outer courtyard, through the\nmuckle faulding yetts, and aneath the auld portcullis; and the whole\nfront of the house was lighted, and there were pipes and fiddles, and as\nmuch dancing and deray within as used to be in Sir Robert's house at\nPace and Yule, and such high seasons. They lap off, and my gudesire, as\nseemed to him, fastened his horse to the very ring he had tied him to\nthat morning, when he gaed to wait on the young Sir John.\n\n\"God!\" said my gudesire, \"if Sir Robert's death be but a dream!\"\n\nHe knocked at the ha' door just as he was wont, and his auld\nacquaintance, Dougal MacCallum,--just after his wont, too,--came to open\nthe door, and said, \"Piper Steenie, are ye there, lad? Sir Robert has\nbeen crying for you.\"\n\nMy gudesire was like a man in a dream--he looked for the stranger, but\nhe was gane for the time. At last he just tried to say, \"Ha! Dougal\nDriveower, are ye living? I thought ye had been dead.\"\n\n\"Never fash yoursell wi' me,\" said Dougal, \"but look to yoursell; and\nsee ye tak naething frae onybody here, neither meat, drink, or siller,\nexcept just the receipt that is your ain.\"\n\nSo saying, he led the way out through halls and trances that were weel\nkend to my gudesire, and into the auld oak parlour; and there was as\nmuch singing of profane sangs, and birling of red wine, and speaking\nblasphemy and sculduddry, as had ever been in Redgauntlet Castle when it\nwas at the blithest.\n\nBut, Lord take us in keeping! what a set of ghastly revellers they were\nthat sat round that table!--My gudesire kend mony that had long before\ngane to their place, for often had he piped to the most part in the hall\nof Redgauntlet. There was the fierce Middleton, and the dissolute\nRothes, and the crafty Lauderdale; and Dalyell, with his bald head and a\nbeard to his girdle; and Earlshall, with Cameron's blude on his hand;\nand wild Bonshaw, that tied blessed Mr Cargill's limbs till the blude\nsprang; and Dunbarton Douglas, the twice-turned traitor baith to country\nand king. There was the Bluidy Advocate MacKenyie, who, for his worldly\nwit and wisdom, had been to the rest as a god. And there was\nClaverhouse, as beautiful as when he lived, with his long, dark, curled\nlocks, streaming down over his laced buff-coat, and his left hand always\non his right spule-blade, to hide the wound that the silver bullet had\nmade. He sat apart from them all, and looked at them with a melancholy,\nhaughty countenance; while the rest hallooed, and sung, and laughed,\nthat the room rang. But their smiles were fearfully contorted from time\nto time; and their laughter passed into such wild sounds, as made my\ngudesire's very nails grow blue, and chilled the marrow in his banes.\n\nThey that waited at the table were just the wicked serving-men and\ntroopers, that had done their work and cruel bidding on earth. There was\nthe Lang Lad of the Nethertown, that helped to take Argyle; and the\nBishop's summoner, that they called the Deil's Rattle-bag; and the\nwicked guardsmen, in their laced coats; and the savage Highland\nAmorites, that shed blood like water; and many a proud serving-man,\nhaughty of heart and bloody of hand, cringing to the rich, and making\nthem wickeder than they would be; grinding the poor to powder, when the\nrich had broken them to fragments. And mony, mony mair were coming and\nganging, a' as busy in their vocation as if they had been alive.\n\nSir Robert Redgauntlet, in the midst of a' this fearful riot, cried, wi'\na voice like thunder, on Steenie Piper, to come to the board-head where\nhe was sitting; his legs stretched out before him, and swathed up with\nflannel, with his holster pistols aside him, while the great broadsword\nrested against his chair, just as my gudesire had seen him the last time\nupon earth--the very cushion for the jackanape was close to him, but the\ncreature itsell was not there--it wasna its hour, it's likely; for he\nheard them say as he came forward, \"Is not the Major come yet?\" And\nanother answered, \"The jackanape will be here betimes the morn.\" And\nwhen my gudesire came forward, Sir Robert, or his ghaist, or the deevil\nin his likeness, said, \"Weel, piper, hae ye settled wi' my son for the\nyear's rent?\"\n\nWith much ado my father gat breath to say, that Sir John would not\nsettle without his honour's receipt.\n\n\"Ye shall hae that for a tune of the pipes, Steenie,\" said the\nappearance of Sir Robert--\"Play us up 'Weel hoddled, Luckie.'\"\n\nNow this was a tune my gudesire learned frae a warlock, that heard it\nwhen they were worshipping Satan at their meetings; and my gudesire had\nsometimes played it at the ranting suppers in Redgauntlet Castle, but\nnever very willingly; and now he grew cauld at the very name of it, and\nsaid, for excuse, he hadna his pipes wi' him.\n\n\"MacCallum, ye limb of Beelzebub,\" said the fearfu' Sir Robert, \"bring\nSteenie the pipes that I am keeping for him!\"\n\nMacCallum brought a pair of pipes might have served the piper of Donald\nof the Isles. But he gave my gudesire a nudge as he offered them; and\nlooking secretly and closely, Steenie saw that the chanter was of steel,\nand heated to a white heat; so he had fair warning not to trust his\nfingers with it. So he excused himself again, and said, he was faint and\nfrightened, and had not wind aneugh to fill the bag.\n\n\"Then ye maun eat and drink, Steenie,\" said the figure; \"for we do\nlittle else here; and it's ill speaking between a fou man and a\nfasting.\"\n\nNow these were the very words that the bloody Earl of Douglas said to\nkeep the King's messenger in hand, while he cut the head off MacLellan\nof Bombie, at the Threave Castle;[9] and that put Steenie mair and mair\non his guard. So he spoke up like a man, and said he came neither to\neat, or drink, or make minstrelsy; but simply for his ain--to ken what\nwas come o' the money he had paid, and to get a discharge for it; and he\nwas so stout-hearted by this time, that he charged Sir Robert for\nconscience-sake--(he had no power to say the holy name)--and as he hoped\nfor peace and rest, to spread no snares for him, but just to give him\nhis ain.\n\nThe appearance gnashed its teeth and laughed, but it took from a large\npocket-book the receipt, and handed it to Steenie. \"There is your\nreceipt, ye pitiful cur; and for the money, my dog-whelp of a son may go\nlook for it in the Cat's Cradle.\"\n\nMy gudesire uttered mony thanks, and was about to retire, when Sir\nRobert roared aloud, \"Stop, though, thou sack-doudling son of a whore! I\nam not done with thee. HERE we do nothing for nothing; and you\nmust return on this very day twelvemonth, to pay your master the homage\nthat you owe me for my protection.\"\n\nMy father's tongue was loosed of a suddenty, and he said aloud, \"I refer\nmysell to God's pleasure, and not to yours.\"\n\nHe had no sooner uttered the word than all was dark around him; and he\nsunk on the earth with such a sudden shock, that he lost both breath and\nsense.\n\nHow lang Steenie lay there, he could not tell; but when he came to\nhimsell, he was lying in the auld kirkyard of Redgauntlet parochine,\njust at the door of the family aisle, and the scutcheon of the auld\nknight, Sir Robert, hanging over his head. There was a deep morning fog\non grass and gravestane around him, and his horse was feeding quietly\nbeside the minister's twa cows. Steenie would have thought the whole was\na dream, but he had the receipt in his hand, fairly written and signed\nby the auld Laird; only the last letters of his name were a little\ndisorderly, written like one seized with sudden pain.\n\nSorely troubled in his mind, he left that dreary place, rode through the\nmist to Redgauntlet Castle, and with much ado he got speech of the\nLaird.\n\n\"Well, you dyvour bankrupt,\" was the first word, \"have you brought me my\nrent?\"\n\n\"No,\" answered my gudesire, \"I have not; but I have brought your honour\nSir Robert's receipt for it.\"\n\n\"How, sirrah?--Sir Robert's receipt!--You told me he had not given you\none.\"\n\n\"Will your honour please to see if that bit line is right?\"\n\nSir John looked at every line, and at every letter, with much attention;\nand at last, at the date, which my gudesire had not observed,--\"_From\nmy appointed place_,\" he read, \"_this twenty-fifth of\nNovember_.\"--\"What!--That is yesterday!--Villain, thou must have gone to\nhell for this!\"\n\n\"I got it from your honour's father--whether he be in heaven or hell, I\nknow not,\" said Steenie.\n\n\"I will delate you for a warlock to the Privy Council!\" said Sir John.\n\"I will send you to your master, the devil, with the help of a\ntar-barrel and a torch!\"\n\n\"I intend to delate mysell to the Presbytery,\" said Steenie, \"and tell\nthem all I have seen last night, whilk are things fitter for them to\njudge of than a borrel man like me.\"\n\nSir John paused, composed himsell, and desired to hear the full history;\nand my gudesire told it him from point to point, as I have told it\nyou--word for word, neither more nor less.\n\nSir John was silent again for a long time, and at last he said, very\ncomposedly, \"Steenie, this story of yours concerns the honour of many a\nnoble family besides mine; and if it be a leasing-making, to keep\nyourself out of my danger, the least you can expect is to have a red-hot\niron driven through your tongue, and that will be as bad as scaulding\nyour fingers with a redhot chanter. But yet it may be true, Steenie; and\nif the money cast up, I shall not know what to think of it.--But where\nshall we find the Cat's Cradle? There are cats enough about the old\nhouse, but I think they kitten without the ceremony of bed or cradle.\"\n\n\"We were best ask Hutcheon,\" said my gudesire; \"he kens a' the odd\ncorners about as weel as--another serving-man that is now gane, and that\nI wad not like to name.\"\n\nAweel, Hutcheon, when he was asked, told them, that a ruinous turret,\nlang disused, next to the clock-house, only accessible by a ladder, for\nthe opening was on the outside, and far above the battlements, was\ncalled of old the Cat's Cradle.\n\n\"There will I go immediately,\" said Sir John; and he took (with what\npurpose, Heaven kens) one of his father's pistols from the hall-table,\nwhere they had lain since the night he died, and hastened to the\nbattlements.\n\nIt was a dangerous place to climb, for the ladder was auld and frail,\nand wanted ane or twa rounds. However, up got Sir John, and entered at\nthe turret door, where his body stopped the only little light that was\nin the bit turret. Something flees at him wi' a vengeance, maist dang\nhim back ower--bang gaed the knight's pistol, and Hutcheon, that held\nthe ladder, and my gudesire that stood beside him, hears a loud\nskelloch. A minute after, Sir John flings the body of the jackanape down\nto them, and cries that the siller is fund, and that they should come up\nand help him. And there was the bag of siller sure aneugh, and mony orra\nthings besides, that had been missing for mony a day. And Sir John, when\nhe had riped the turret weel, led my gudesire into the dining-parlour,\nand took him by the hand, and spoke kindly to him, and said he was sorry\nhe should have doubted his word, and that he would hereafter be a good\nmaster to him, to make amends.\n\n\"And now, Steenie,\" said Sir John, \"although this vision of yours tends,\non the whole, to my father's credit, as an honest man, that he should,\neven after his death, desire to see justice done to a poor man like you,\nyet you are sensible that ill-dispositioned men might make bad\nconstructions upon it, concerning his soul's health. So, I think, we had\nbetter lay the haill dirdum on that ill-deedie creature, Major Weir, and\nsay naething about your dream in the wood of Pitmurkie. You had taken\nower muckle brandy to be very certain about onything; and, Steenie, this\nreceipt,\" (his hand shook while he held it out,)--\"it's but a queer kind\nof document, and we will do best, I think, to put it quietly in the\nfire.\"\n\n\"Od, but for as queer as it is, it's a' the voucher I have for my rent,\"\nsaid my gudesire, who was afraid, it may be, of losing the benefit of\nSir Robert's discharge.\n\n\"I will bear the contents to your credit in the rental-book, and give\nyou a discharge under my own hand,\" said Sir John, \"and that on the\nspot. And, Steenie, if you can hold your tongue about this matter, you\nshall sit, from this term downward, at an easier rent.\"\n\n\"Mony thanks to your honour,\" said Steenie, who saw easily in what\ncorner the wind was; \"doubtless I will be conformable to all your\nhonour's commands; only I would willingly speak wi' some powerful\nminister on the subject, for I do not like the sort of soumons of\nappointment whilk your honour's father----\"\n\n\"Do not call the phantom my father!\" said Sir John, interrupting him.\n\n\"Weel, then, the thing that was so like him,\"--said my gudesire; \"he\nspoke of my coming back to him this time twelvemonth, and it's a weight\non my conscience.\"\n\n\"Aweel, then,\" said Sir John, \"if you be so much distressed in mind, you\nmay speak to our minister of the parish; he is a douce man, regards the\nhonour of our family, and the mair that he may look for some patronage\nfrom me.\"\n\nWi' that, my gudesire readily agreed that the receipt should be burnt,\nand the Laird threw it into the chimney with his ain hand. Burn it would\nnot for them, though; but away it flew up the lum, wi' a lang train of\nsparks at its tail, and a hissing noise like a squib.\n\nMy gudesire gaed down to the manse, and the minister, when he had heard\nthe story, said, it was his real opinion, that though my gudesire had\ngaen very far in tampering with dangerous matters, yet, as he had\nrefused the devil's arles (for such was the offer of meat and drink),\nand had refused to do homage by piping at his bidding, he hoped, that if\nhe held a circumspect walk hereafter, Satan could take little advantage\nby what was come and gane. And, indeed, my gudesire, of his ain accord,\nlong forswore baith the pipes and the brandy--it was not even till the\nyear was out, and the fatal day passed, that he would so much as take\nthe fiddle, or drink usquebaugh or tippenny.\n\nSir John made up his story about the jackanape as he liked himsell; and\nsome believe till this day there was no more in the matter than the\nfilching nature of the brute. Indeed, ye'll no hinder some to threap,\nthat it was nane o' the Auld Enemy that Dougal and my gudesire saw in\nthe Laird's room, but only that wanchancy creature, the Major, capering\non the coffin; and that, as to the blawing on the Laird's whistle that\nwas heard after he was dead, the filthy brute could do that as weel as\nthe Laird himsell, if no better. But Heaven kens the truth, whilk first\ncame out by the minister's wife, after Sir John and her ain gudeman were\nbaith in the moulds. And then my gudesire, wha was failed in his limbs,\nbut not in his judgment or memory--at least nothing to speak of--was\nobliged to tell the real narrative to his freends, for the credit of his\ngood name. He might else have been charged for a warlock.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[Footnote 6: A precipitous side of a mountain in Moffatdale.]\n\n[Footnote 7: The caution and moderation of King William III., and his\nprinciples of unlimited toleration, deprived the Cameronians of the\nopportunity they ardently desired, to retaliate the injuries which they\nhad received during the reign of prelacy, and purify the land, as they\ncalled it, from the pollution of blood. They esteemed the Revolution,\ntherefore, only a half measure, which neither comprehended the\nrebuilding the Kirk in its full splendour, nor the revenge of the death\nof the Saints on their persecutors.]\n\n[Footnote 8: A celebrated wizard, executed at Edinburgh for sorcery and\nother crimes.]\n\n[Footnote 9: The reader is referred for particulars to Pitscottie's\n_History of Scotland_.]\n\n\n\n\nII\n\nGHOST STORIES FROM LOCAL RECORDS, FOLK LORE AND LEGEND\n\n\n\n\nXVIII\n\nGLAMIS CASTLE\n\nLocal Records\n\n\n\"The Castle of Glamis, a venerable and majestic pile of buildings,\" says\nan old Scots Gazetteer, \"is situate about one mile north from the\nvillage, on the flat grounds at the confluence of the Glamis Burn and\nthe Dean. There is a print of it given by Slezer in Charles II.'s\nreign--by which it appears to have been anciently much more extensive,\nbeing a large quadrangular mass of buildings, having two courts in\nfront, with a tower in each, and gateway through below them; and on the\nnorthern side was the principal tower, which now constitutes the central\nportion of the present castle upwards of 100 feet in height. The\nbuilding received the addition of a tower, in one of its angles, for a\nspiral staircase from bottom to top, with conical roofs. The wings were\nadded, at the same time, by Patrick Earl of Strathmore, who repaired and\nmodernised the structure, under the directions of Inigo Jones. One of\nthe wings has been renovated within the last forty years, and other\nadditions made, but not in harmony with Earl Patrick's repairs.\n\n\"_There is also a secret room in it, only known to two or at most three\nindividuals, at the same time, who are bound not to reveal it, unless to\ntheir successors in the secret._ It has been frequently the object of\nsearch with the inquisitive, but the search has been in vain. There are\nno records of the castle prior to the tenth century, when it is first\nnoticed in connection with the death of Malcolm II. in 1034. Tradition\nsays that he was murdered in this castle, and in a room which is still\npointed out, in the centre of the principal tower; and that the\nmurderers lost their way in the darkness of the night, and by the\nbreaking of the ice, were drowned in the loch of Forfar. Fordun's\naccount is, however, somewhat different and more probable. He states\nthat the King was mortally wounded in a skirmish, in the neighbourhood,\nby some of the adherents of Kenneth V.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLet us turn now to the ghosts of Glamis Castle.\n\nA lady, well known in London society, an artistic and social celebrity,\nwealthy beyond all doubts of the future, a cultivated, clear-headed, and\nindeed slightly matter-of-fact woman, went to stay at Glamis Castle for\nthe first time. She was allotted very handsome apartments, just on the\npoint of junction between the new buildings--perhaps a hundred or two\nhundred years old--and the very ancient part of the castle. The rooms\nwere handsomely furnished; no gaunt carvings grinned from the walls; no\ngrim tapestry swung to and fro, making strange figures look still\nstranger by the flickering fire-light; all was smooth, cosy, and modern,\nand the guest retired to bed without a thought of the mysteries of\nGlamis.\n\nIn the morning she appeared at the breakfast table quite cheerful and\nself-possessed. To the inquiry how she had slept, she replied: \"Well,\nthanks, very well, up to four o'clock in the morning. But your Scottish\ncarpenters seem to come to work very early. I suppose they put up their\nscaffolding quickly, though, for they are quiet now.\" This speech\nproduced a dead silence, and the speaker saw with astonishment that the\nfaces of members of the family were very pale.\n\nShe was asked, as she valued the friendship of all there, never to speak\nto them on that subject again; there had been no carpenters at Glamis\nCastle for months past. This fact, whatever it may be worth, is\nabsolutely established, so far as the testimony of a single witness can\nestablish anything. The lady was awakened by a loud knocking and\nhammering, as if somebody were putting up a scaffold, and the noise did\nnot alarm her in the least. On the contrary, she took it for an\naccident, due to the presumed matutinal habits of the people. She knew,\nof course, that there were stories about Glamis, but had not the\nremotest idea that the hammering she had heard was connected with any\nstory. She had regarded it simply as an annoyance, and was glad to get\nto sleep after an unrestful time; but had no notion of the noise being\nsupernatural until informed of it at the breakfast-table.\n\nWith what particular event in the stormy annals of the Lyon family the\nhammering is connected is quite unknown, except to members of the\nfamily, but there is no lack of legends, possible and impossible, to\naccount for any sights or sounds in the magnificent old feudal edifice.\n\nIt is said that once a visitor stayed at Glamis Castle for a few days,\nand, sitting up late one moonlight night, saw a face appear at the\nwindow opposite to him. The owner of the face--it was very pale, with\ngreat sorrowful eyes--appeared to wish to attract attention; but\nvanished suddenly from the window, as if plucked suddenly away by\nsuperior strength. For a long while the horror-stricken guest gazed at\nthe window, in the hope that the pale face and great sad eyes would\nappear again. Nothing was seen at the window, but presently horrible\nshrieks penetrated even the thick walls of the castle, and rent the\nnight air. An hour later, a dark huddled figure, like that of an old\ndecrepit woman, carrying something in a bundle, came into the waning\nmoonlight, and presently vanished.\n\nThere is a modern story of a stonemason, who was engaged at Glamis\nCastle last century, and who, having discovered more than he should have\ndone, was supplied with a handsome competency, upon the conditions that\nhe emigrated and kept inviolable the secret he had learned.\n\nThe employment of a stonemason is explained by the conditions under\nwhich the mystery is revealed to successive heirs and factors. The abode\nof the dread secret is in a part of the castle, also haunted by the\napparition of a bearded man, who flits about at night, but without\ncommitting any other objectionable action. What connection, if any, the\nbearded spectre may have with the mystery is not even guessed. He hovers\nat night over the couches of children for an instant, and then vanishes.\nThe secret itself abides in a room--a secret chamber--the very situation\nof which, beyond a general idea that it is in the most ancient part of\nthe castle, is unknown. Where walls are fifteen feet thick, it is not\nimpossible to have a chamber so concealed, that none but the initiated\ncan guess its position. It was once attempted by a madcap party of\nguests to discover the locality of the secret chamber, by hanging their\ntowels out of the window, and thus deciding in favour of any window from\nwhich no spotless banner waved; but this escapade, which is said to have\nbeen ill-received by the owners, ended in nothing but a vague conclusion\nthat the old square tower must be the spot sought.\n\n\n\n\nXIX\n\nPOWYS CASTLE\n\nLocal Records\n\n\nIt had been for some time reported in the neighbourhood that a poor\nunmarried woman, who was a member of the Methodist society; and had\nbecome serious under their ministry, had seen and conversed with the\napparition of a gentleman, who had made a strange discovery to her. Mr\nHampson, being desirous to ascertain if there was any truth in the\nstory, sent for the woman, and desired her to give an exact relation of\nthe whole affair from her own mouth, and as near the truth as she\npossibly could. She said she was a poor woman who got her living by\nspinning hemp and line; that it was customary for the farmers and\ngentlemen of that neighbourhood to grow a little hemp or line in the\ncorner of their fields, for their own home consumption, and as she had a\ngood hand at spinning the materials she used to go from house to house\nto inquire for work; that her method was, where they employed her,\nduring her stay to have meat and lodging (if she had occasion to sleep\nwith them) for her work, and what they pleased to give her besides.\nThat, among other places, she happened to call in one day at the Welsh\nEarl Powis's country seat, called Redcastle, to inquire for work, as she\nusually had done before. The quality were at this time in London, and\nhad left the steward and his wife, with other servants, as usual, to\ntake care of their country residence in their absence. The steward's\nwife set her to work, and in the evening told her that she must stay\nall night with them, as they had more work for her to do next day. When\nbed-time arrived, two or three of the servants in company, with each a\nlighted candle in her hand, conducted her to her lodging. They led her\nto a grand room, with a boarded floor and two sash windows. The room was\ngrandly furnished, and had a genteel bed in one corner of it. They had\nmade her a good fire, and had placed her a chair and a table before it,\nand a large lighted candle upon the table. They told her that was her\nbedroom, and she might go to sleep when she pleased, they then wished a\ngood night and withdrew all together, pulling the door quickly after\nthem, so as to hasp the springsneck in the brass lock that was upon it.\nWhen they were gone she gazed a while at the fine furniture, under no\nsmall astonishment that they should put such a poor person as her in so\ngrand a room and bed, with all the apparatus of fire, chair, table, and\ncandle. She was also surprised at the circumstance of the servants\ncoming so many together, with each of them a candle; however, after\ngazing about her some little time, she sat down and took out of her\npocket a small Welsh Bible which she always carried about with her, and\nin which she usually read a chapter--chiefly in the New\nTestament--before she said her prayers and went to bed. While she was\nreading she heard the room door open, and, turning her head, saw a\ngentleman enter in a gold-laced hat and waistcoat, and the rest of his\ndress corresponding therewith. (I think she was very particular in\ndescribing the rest of his dress to Mr Hampson, and he to me at the\ntime, but I have now forgot the other particulars.) He walked down by\nthe sash window to the corner of the room, and then returned. When he\ncame at the first window in his return (the bottom of which was nearly\nbreast-high) he rested his elbow on the bottom of the window, and the\nside of his face upon the palm of his hand, and stood in that leaning\nposture for some time, with his side partly towards her. She looked at\nhim earnestly to see if she knew him, but though, from her frequent\nintercourse with them, she had a personal knowledge of all the present\nfamily, he appeared a stranger to her. She supposed afterwards that he\nstood in this manner to encourage her to speak; but as she did not,\nafter some little time he walked off, pulling the door after him as the\nservants had done before. She began now to be much alarmed, concluding\nit to be an apparition and that they had put her there on purpose. This\nwas really the case. The room, it seems, had been disturbed for a long\ntime, so that nobody could sleep peaceably in it; and as she passed for\na very serious woman, the servants took it in their heads to put the\nMethodist and spirit together, to see what they would make out of it.\nStartled at this thought, she rose from her chair, and kneeled down by\nthe bedside to say her prayers. While she was praying he came in again,\nwalked round the room and came close behind her. She had it on her mind\nto speak, but when she attempted it she was so very much agitated that\nshe could not utter a word. He walked out of the room again, pulling the\ndoor shut as before. She begged that God would strengthen her, and not\nsuffer her to be tried beyond what she was able to bear; she recovered\nher surprise and thought she felt more confidence and resolution, and\ndetermined if he came in again she would speak to him if possible. He\npresently came in again, walked round, and came behind her as before;\nshe turned her head and said, \"Pray, sir, who are you, and what do you\nwant?\" He put up his finger and said, \"Take up the candle and follow me,\nand I will tell you.\" She got up, took up the candle and followed him\nout of the room. He led her through a long boarded passage, till they\ncame to the door of another room which he opened and went in; it was a\nsmall room, or what might be called a large closet. \"As the room was\nsmall, and I believed him to be a spirit,\" said she, \"I stopped at the\ndoor; he turned and said, 'Walk in, I will not hurt you'; so I walked\nin. He said, 'Observe what I do'; I said, 'I will.' He stooped and tore\nup one of the boards of the floor, and there appeared under it a box\nwith an iron handle in the lid. He said, 'Do you see that box?' I said,\n'Yes, I do.' He then stepped to one side of the room and showed me a\ncrevice in the wall, where he said a key was hid that would open it. He\nsaid, 'This box and key must be taken out, and sent to the Earl in\nLondon' (naming the Earl and his residence in the city). He said, 'Will\nyou see it done?' I said, 'I will do my best to get it done'; and he\nsaid, 'Do, and I will trouble the house no longer!' He then walked out\nof the room and left me. (He seems to have been a very civil spirit, and\nto have been very careful to affright her as little as possible.) I\nstepped to the room door, and set up a shout. The steward and his wife,\nwith the other servants, came to me immediately; all clinging together,\nwith a number of lights in their hands. It seems they had all been\nwaiting to see the issue of the interview betwixt me and the apparition.\nThey asked me what was the matter. I told them the foregoing\ncircumstances, and showed them the box. The steward durst not meddle\nwith it, but his wife had more courage, and, with the help of the other\nservants, tugged it out, and found the key. She said by their lifting it\nappeared to be pretty heavy, but that she did not see it opened, and\ntherefore did not know what it contained--perhaps money, or writings of\nconsequence to the family, or both.\" They took it away with them, and\nshe then went to bed and slept peaceably till morning.\n\nIt appeared that they sent the box to the Earl in London, with an\naccount of the manner of its discovery, and by whom; as the Earl sent\ndown orders immediately to his steward to inform the poor woman who had\nbeen the occasion of its discovery that if she would come and reside in\nhis family she would be comfortably provided for during her remaining\ndays; or, if she did not choose to reside constantly with them, if she\nwould let them know when she wanted assistance, she would be liberally\nsupplied at his lordship's expense as long as she lived. And Mr Hampson\nsaid it was a known fact in the neighbourhood that she had been supplied\nfrom his lordship's family, from the time the affair was said to have\nhappened, and continued to be so at the time she gave Mr Hampson this\naccount. She told him that she was so often solicited by curious people\nto relate the story that she was weary of repeating it; but, to oblige\nhim, she once more related the particulars, wishing now to have done\nwith it. Mr Hampson said she appeared to be a sensible, intelligent\nperson, and that he saw no reason to doubt her veracity. I know many\npersons in the present day laugh at such stories, and affect very much\nto doubt their reality, while others totally deny the possibility of\ntheir existence. However, Scripture and many well-attested relations\nseem to favour the idea, and the present story appeared so singular and\nso well attested, and I had it so near the fountain-head, that I thought\nit might perhaps be worth preserving, and I have therefore taken pains\nto record it. Admitting it to be true, it should seem that the\nconsequence to the family of what the hidden box contained was the\nformal cause of the spirit's disquiet, and of its disturbing the house\nso much and so long, in order to bring about the discovery; but why the\ndeparted spirit should concern itself in the affairs of this world after\nit has left it--or why they should disquiet it so as to cause it to\nreappear and make disturbances, in order to discover and have things\nrighted, as in the preceding case,--or why this should be done in some\ncases of apparently less moment, while in other cases much greater\nfamily injuries seem to be suffered, and no spirit appears to interest\nitself in the case--are circumstances for which we can by no means\naccount. A cloud sits deep on futurity; and we are so little acquainted\nwith the laws of the spiritual world that we are perhaps incapable, in\nour present state, of comprehending its nature or of giving any\nsatisfactory account of these matters.\n\n\n\n\nXX\n\nCROGLIN GRANGE\n\nFrom ARCHDEACON HARE'S Autobiography[10]\n\n\n\"Fisher,\" said the Captain, \"may sound a very plebeian name, but this\nfamily is of very ancient lineage, and for many hundreds of years they\nhave possessed a very curious old place in Cumberland, which bears the\nweird name of Croglin Grange. The great characteristic of the house is\nthat never at any period of its very long existence has it been more\nthan one story high, but it has a terrace from which large grounds sweep\naway towards the church in the hollow, and a fine distant view.\n\n\"When, in lapse of years, the Fishers outgrew Croglin Grange in family\nand fortune, they were wise enough not to destroy the long-standing\ncharacteristic of the place by adding another story to the house, but\nthey went away to the south, to reside at Thorncombe near Guildford, and\nthey let Croglin Grange.\n\n\"They were extremely fortunate in their tenants, two brothers and a\nsister. They heard their praises from all quarters. To their poorer\nneighbours they were all that is most kind and beneficent, and their\nneighbours of a higher class spoke of them as a welcome addition to the\nlittle society of the neighbourhood. On their part the tenants were\ngreatly delighted with their new residence. The arrangement of the\nhouse, which would have been a trial to many, was not so to them. In\nevery respect Croglin Grange was exactly suited to them.\n\n\"The winter was spent most happily by the new inmates of Croglin\nGrange, who shared in all the little social pleasures of the district,\nand made themselves very popular. In the following summer there was one\nday which was dreadfully, annihilatingly hot. The brothers lay under the\ntrees with their books, for it was too hot for any active occupation.\nThe sister sat in the verandah and worked, or tried to work, for in the\nintense sultriness of that summer day work was next to impossible. They\ndined early, and after dinner they still sat out in the verandah,\nenjoying the cool air which came with evening, and they watched the sun\nset, and the moon rise over the belt of trees which separated the\ngrounds from the churchyard, seeing it mount the heavens till the whole\nlawn was bathed in silver light, across which the long shadows from the\nshrubbery fell as if embossed, so vivid and distinct were they.\n\n\"When they separated for the night, all retiring to their rooms on the\nground-floor (for, as I said, there was no upstairs in that house), the\nsister felt that the heat was still so great that she could not sleep,\nand having fastened her window, she did not close the shutters--in that\nvery quiet place it was not necessary--and, propped against the pillows,\nshe still watched the wonderful, the marvellous beauty of that summer\nnight. Gradually she became aware of two lights, two lights which\nflickered in and out in the belt of trees which separated the lawn from\nthe churchyard; and, as her gaze became fixed upon them, she saw them\nemerge, fixed in a dark substance, a definite ghastly _something_, which\nseemed every moment to become nearer, increasing in size and substance\nas it approached. Every now and then it was lost for a moment in the\nlong shadows which stretched across the lawn from the trees, and then it\nemerged larger than ever, and still coming on--on. As she watched it,\nthe most uncontrollable horror seized her. She longed to get away, but\nthe door was close to the window and the door was locked on the inside,\nand while she was unlocking it, she must be for an instant nearer to\n_it_. She longed to scream, but her voice seemed paralysed, her tongue\nglued to the roof of her mouth.\n\n\"Suddenly, she never could explain why afterwards, the terrible object\nseemed to turn to one side, seemed to be going round the house, not to\nbe coming to her at all, and immediately she jumped out of bed and\nrushed to the door; but as she was unlocking it, she heard scratch,\nscratch, scratch upon the window, and saw a hideous brown face with\nflaming eyes glaring in at her. She rushed back to the bed, but the\ncreature continued to scratch, scratch, scratch upon the window. She\nfelt a sort of mental comfort in the knowledge that the window was\nsecurely fastened on the inside. Suddenly the scratching sound ceased,\nand a kind of pecking sound took its place. Then, in her agony, she\nbecame aware that the creature was unpicking the lead! The noise\ncontinued, and a diamond pane of glass fell into the room. Then a long\nbony finger of the creature came in and turned the handle of the window,\nand the window opened, and the creature came in; and it came across the\nroom, and her terror was so great that she could not scream, and it came\nup to the bed, and it twisted its long, bony fingers into her hair, and\nit dragged her head over the side of the bed, and--it bit her violently\nin the throat.\n\n\"As it bit her, her voice was released, and she screamed with all her\nmight and main. Her brothers rushed out of their rooms, but the door was\nlocked on the inside. A moment was lost while they got a poker and broke\nit open. Then the creature had already escaped through the window, and\nthe sister, bleeding violently from a wound in the throat, was lying\nunconscious over the side of the bed. One brother pursued the creature,\nwhich fled before him through the moonlight with gigantic strides, and\neventually seemed to disappear over the wall into the churchyard. Then\nhe rejoined his brother by the sister's bedside. She was dreadfully\nhurt, and her wound was a very definite one; but she was of strong\ndisposition, not either given to romance or superstition, and when she\ncame to herself she said, 'What has happened is most extraordinary, and\nI am very much hurt. It seems inexplicable, but of course there is an\nexplanation, and we must wait for it. It will turn out that a lunatic\nhas escaped from some asylum and found his way here.' The wound healed,\nand she appeared to get well, but the doctor who was sent for would not\nbelieve that she could bear so terrible a shock so easily, and insisted\nthat she must have change, mental and physical; so her brothers took her\nto Switzerland.\n\n\"Being a sensible girl, when she went abroad she threw herself at once\ninto the interests of the country she was in. She dried plants, she made\nsketches, she went up mountains, and, as autumn came on, she was the\nperson who urged that they should return to Croglin Grange. 'We have\ntaken it,' she said, 'for seven years, and we have only been there one;\nand we shall always find it difficult to let a house which is only one\nstory high, so we had better return there; lunatics do not escape every\nday.' As she urged it, her brothers wished nothing better, and the\nfamily returned to Cumberland. From there being no upstairs to the house\nit was impossible to make any great change in their arrangements. The\nsister occupied the same room, but it is unnecessary to say she always\nclosed her shutters, which, however, as in many old houses, always left\none top pane of the window uncovered. The brothers moved, and occupied a\nroom together, exactly opposite that of their sister, and they always\nkept loaded pistols in their room.\n\n\"The winter passed most peacefully and happily. In the following March\nthe sister was suddenly awakened by a sound she remembered only too\nwell--scratch, scratch, scratch upon the window, and, looking up, she\nsaw quite clearly in the topmost pane of the window the same hideous\nbrown shrivelled face, with glaring eyes, looking in at her. This time\nshe screamed as loud as she could. Her brothers rushed out of their room\nwith pistols, and out of the front door. The creature was already\nscudding away across the lawn. One of the brothers fired and hit it in\nthe leg, but still with the other leg it continued to make way,\nscrambled over the wall into the churchyard, and seemed to disappear\ninto a vault which belonged to a family long extinct.\n\n\"The next day the brothers summoned all the tenants of Croglin Grange,\nand in their presence the vault was opened. A horrible scene revealed\nitself. The vault was full of coffins; they had been broken open, and\ntheir contents, horribly mangled and distorted, were scattered over the\nfloor. One coffin alone remained intact. Of that the lid had been\nlifted, but still lay loose upon the coffin. They raised it, and there,\nbrown, withered, shrivelled, mummified, but quite entire, was the same\nhideous figure which had looked in at the windows of Croglin Grange,\nwith the marks of a recent pistol-shot in the leg; and they did--the\nonly thing that can lay a vampire--they burnt it.\"\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[Footnote 10: _The Story of my Life_ (Allen & Unwin).]\n\n\n\n\nXXI\n\nTHE GHOST OF MAJOR SYDENHAM\n\nBy JOSEPH GLANVIL[11]\n\n\nConcerning the apparition of the Ghost of Major George Sydenham, (late\nof Dulverton in the County of Somerset) to Captain William Dyke, late of\nSkilgate in this County also, and now likewise deceased: Be pleased to\ntake the Relation of it as I have it from the worthy and learned Dr Tho.\nDyke, a near kinsman of the Captain's, thus: Shortly after the Major's\nDeath, the Doctor was desired to come to the House, to take care of a\nChild that was there sick, and in his way thither he called on the\nCaptain, who was very willing to wait on him to the place, because he\nmust, as he said, have gone thither that night, though he had not met\nwith so encouraging an opportunity. After their arrival there at the\nHouse, and the Civility of the People shewn them in that Entertainment,\nthey were seasonably conducted to their Lodging, which they desired\nmight be together in the same Bed: Where after they had lain a while,\nthe Captain knocked, and bids the Servant bring him two of the largest\nand biggest Candles lighted that he could get. Whereupon the Doctor\nenquires what he meant by this? The Captain answers, You know Cousin\nwhat Disputes my Major and I have had touching the Being of a God, and\nthe Immortality of the Soul; in which points we could never yet be\nresolv'd, though we so much sought for and desired it; and therefore it\nwas at length fully agreed between us, That he of us that died first,\nshould the third Night after his Funeral, between the Hours of Twelve\nand one, come to the little House that is here in the Garden, and there\ngive a full account to the Survivor touching these Matters, who should\nbe sure to be present there at the set time, and so receive a full\nsatisfaction; and this, says the Captain, is the very Night, and I am\ncome on purpose to fulfil my promise. The Doctor dissuaded him, minding\nhim of the danger of following those strange Counsels, for which we\ncould have no Warrant, and that the Devil might by some cunning Device\nmake such an advantage of this rash attempt, as might work his utter\nRuin. The Captain replies, That he had solemnly engag'd, and that\nnothing should discourage him, and adds, that if the Doctor would wake\nawhile with him, he would thank him, if not, he might compose himself to\nhis rest; but for his own part he was resolv'd to watch, that he might\nbe sure to be present at the Hour appointed: To that purpose he sets his\nwatch by him, and as soon as he perceived by it that it was half an Hour\npast 11, he rises, and taking a Candle in each Hand, goes out by a\nback-door, of which he had before gotten the Key, and walks to the\nGarden-house, where he continued two hours and a half, and at his return\ndeclared, that he had neither saw not heard any thing more than what was\nusual. But I know, said he, that my Major would surely have come, had he\nbeen able.\n\nAbout 6 weeks after, the Captain rides to _Eaton_ to place his Son a\nScholar there, when the Doctor went thither with him. They lodged there\nat an Inn, the Sign was the _Christopher_, and tarried two or three\nNights, not lying together now as before at _Dulverton_, but in two\nseveral Chambers. The morning before they went thence, the Captain staid\nin his Chamber longer than he was wont to do before he called upon the\nDoctor. At length he comes into the Doctor's Chamber, but in a Visage\nand Form much differing from himself, with his Hair and Eyes staring,\nand his whole Body shaking and trembling: Whereupon at the Doctor\nwondering, presently demanded: What is the matter Cousin Captain? The\nCaptain replies, I have seen my Major: At which the Doctor seeming to\nsmile, the Captain immediately confirms it, saying, If ever I saw him in\nmy life, I saw him but now: And then he related to the Doctor what had\npassed, thus: This morning after it was light, someone comes to my\nbedside, and suddenly drawing back the Curtains, calls, _Cap. Cap._\n(which was the term of familiarity that the Major used to call the\nCaptain by). To whom I replied, _What my Major?_ To which he returns, _I\ncould not come at the time appointed, but I am now come to tell you,\nThat there is a God, and a very just and terrible one, and if you do not\nturn over a new leaf_, (the very Expressions as is by the Doctor\npunctually remembered) _you will find it so_. The Captain proceeded: On\nthe Table by there lay a Sword, which the Major had formerly given me.\nNow after the Apparition had walked a turn or two about the Chamber, he\ntook up the Sword, drew it out, and finding it not so clean and bright\nas it ought, _Cap. Cap._ says he, _this Sword did not use to be kept\nafter this manner when it was mine_. After which Words he suddenly\ndisappeared.\n\nThe Captain was not only thoroughly persuaded of what he had thus seen\nand heard, but was from that time observed to be very much affected with\nit: and the Humour that before in him was brisk and jovial, was then\nstrangely alter'd; insomuch, as very little Meat would pass down with\nhim at Dinner, though at the taking leave of their Friends there was a\nvery handsome Treat provided: Yea it was observed that what the Captain\nhad thus seen and heard, had a more lasting Influence upon him, and 'tis\njudged by those who were well acquainted with his Conversation, that\nthe remembrance of this Passage stuck close to him, and that those words\nof his dead Friend were frequently sounding fresh in his Ears, during\nthe remainder of his Life, which was about Two Years.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[Footnote 11: _Sadducismus Triumphatus._]\n\n\n\n\nXXII\n\nTHE MIRACULOUS CASE OF JESCH CLAES\n\nFrom CHRISTMAS' \"Phantom World\"\n\n\nIn the year 1676, about the 13th or 14th of this Month October, in the\nNight, between one and two of the Clock, this _Jesch Claes_, a cripple,\nbeing in bed with her Husband, who was a Boatman, she was three times\npulled by her Arm, with which she awaked and cried out, \"O Lord! what\nmay this be?\"\n\nHereupon she heard an answer in plain words: \"Be not afraid, I come in\nthe Name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Your malady which hath for\nmany years been upon you shall cease, and it shall be given you from God\nAlmighty to walk again. But keep this good news to yourself!\" Whereupon\nshe cried aloud, \"O Lord! that I had a light that I might know what this\nis.\" Then had she this answer: \"There needs no light, the light shall be\ngiven you from God.\"\n\nThen came light all over the Room, and she saw a beautiful Youth about\nten Years of Age, with curled yellow Hair, cloathed in white to the\nFeet, who went from the Bed's-Head to the Chimney with a light, which a\nlittle after vanished. Hereupon did there did shoot something through\nher Leg, like water, from hip to toe, and when she did find life rising\nup in her dead limb, she fell to crying out, \"Lord give me now again the\nfeeling, which I have not had in so many years.\" And farther she\ncontinued crying and praying to the Lord according to her weak measure.\n\nYet she continued that day, Wednesday, and the next day Thursday, as\nbefore till Evening at six a clock. At which time she sate at the Fire\ndressing the Food. Then came as like rushing noise in both her Ears with\nwhich it was said to her, \"_Stand_. Your going is given you again.\"\n\nThen did she immediately stand up, that had so many years crept, and\nwent to the door. Her Husband meeting her, being exceedingly afraid,\ndrew back. In the mean time while she cried out, \"My dear Husband, I can\ngo again.\"\n\nHe thinking it was a Spirit, drew back, saying, \"You are not my Wife.\"\n\nHis Wife taking hold of him, said, \"My dear Husband, I am the self-same\nthat hath been married these thirty years to you. The Almighty God hath\ngiven me my going again.\"\n\nBut her Husband being amazed, drew back to the side of the Room, till at\nlast she clasped her Hand about his Neck. And yet he doubted, and said\nto his Daughter, \"Is this your Mother?\"\n\nShe answered, \"Yes, Father! this we plainly see. I had seen her go also\nbefore you came in.\"\n\nThis befell upon Prince's-Island in Amsterdam, where Jesch Claes lived\nwith her husband.\n\n\n\n\nXXIII\n\nTHE RADIANT BOY OF CORBY CASTLE\n\nLocal Records\n\n\nThe haunted room forms part of the old house, with windows looking into\nthe court. It adjoins a tower built for defence, for Corby was,\nproperly, more a border tower than a castle of any consideration. There\nis a winding staircase in this tower, and the walls are from eight to\nten feet thick.\n\nWhen the times became more peaceable, our ancestors enlarged the\narrow-slit windows, and added to that part of the building which looks\ntowards the river Eden; the view of which, with its beautiful banks, we\nnow enjoy. But many additions and alterations have been made since that.\n\nTo return to the room in question: I must observe that it is by no means\nremote or solitary, being surrounded on all sides by chambers that are\nconstantly inhabited. It is accessible by a passage cut through a wall\neight feet in thickness, and its dimensions are twenty-one by eighteen.\nOne side of the wainscotting is covered with tapestry, the remainder is\ndecorated with old family pictures, and some ancient pieces of\nembroidery, probably the handiwork of nuns. Over a press, which has\ndoors of Venetian glass, is an ancient oaken figure, with a battle-axe\nin his hand, which was one of those formerly placed on the walls of the\nCity of Carlisle, to represent guards. There used to be also an\nold-fashioned bed and some dark furniture in this room; but so many were\nthe complaints of those who slept there, that I was induced to replace\nsome of these articles of furniture by more modern ones, in the hope of\nremoving a certain air of gloom, which I thought might have given rise\nto the unaccountable reports of apparitions and extraordinary noises\nwhich were constantly reaching us. But I regret to say, I did not\nsucceed in banishing the nocturnal visitor, which still continues to\ndisturb our friends.\n\nI shall pass over numerous instances, and select one as being especially\nremarkable, from the circumstance of the apparition having been seen by\na clergyman well known and highly respected in this county, who, not six\nweeks ago, repeated the circumstances to a company of twenty persons,\namongst whom were some who had previously been entire disbelievers in\nsuch appearances.\n\nThe best way of giving you these particulars will be by subjoining an\nextract from my journal, entered at the time the event occurred.\n\n_Sept. 8, 1803._--Amongst other guests invited to Corby Castle came the\nRev. Henry A., of Redburgh, and rector of Greystoke, with Mrs A., his\nwife, who was a Miss S., of Ulverstone. According to previous\narrangements, they were to have remained with us some days; but their\nvisit was cut short in a very unexpected manner. On the morning after\ntheir arrival we were all assembled at breakfast, when a chaise and four\ndashed up to the door in such haste that it knocked down part of the\nfence of my flower garden. Our curiosity was, of course, awakened to\nknow who could be arriving at so early an hour; when, happening to turn\nmy eyes towards Mr A., I observed that he appeared extremely agitated.\n\"It is our carriage,\" said he; \"I am very sorry, but we must absolutely\nleave you this morning.\"\n\nWe naturally felt and expressed considerable surprise, as well as\nregret, at this unexpected departure, representing that we had invited\nColonel and Mrs S., some friends whom Mr A. particularly desired to\nmeet, to dine with us on that day. Our expostulations, however, were\nvain; the breakfast was no sooner over than they departed, leaving us in\nconsternation to conjecture what could possibly have occasioned so\nsudden an alteration in their arrangements. I really felt quite uneasy\nlest anything should have given them offence; and we reviewed all the\noccurrences of the preceding evening in order to discover, if offence\nthere was, whence it had arisen. But our pains were vain; and after\ntalking a great deal about it for some days, other circumstances\nbanished the matter from our minds.\n\nIt was not till we some time afterwards visited the part of the county\nin which Mr A. resides that we learnt the real cause of his sudden\ndeparture from Corby. The relation of the fact, as it here follows, is\nin his own words:--\n\n\"Soon after we went to bed, we fell asleep; it might be between one and\ntwo in the morning when I awoke. I observed that the fire was totally\nextinguished; but, although that was the case, and we had no light, I\nsaw a glimmer in the centre of the room, which suddenly increased to a\nbright flame. I looked out, apprehending that something had caught fire,\nwhen, to my amazement, I beheld a beautiful boy, clothed in white, with\nbright locks resembling gold, standing by my bedside, in which position\nhe remained some minutes, fixing his eyes upon me with a mild and\nbenevolent expression. He then glided gently towards the side of the\nchimney, where it is obvious there is no possible egress, and entirely\ndisappeared. I found myself again in total darkness, and all remained\nquiet until the usual hour of rising. I declare this to be a true\naccount of what I saw at Corby Castle, upon my word as a clergyman.\"\n\nMrs Crowe, alluding to this story in her \"Night Side of Nature,\" said\nthat she was acquainted with some of the family and several of the\nfriends of the Rev. Henry A., who, she continued, \"is still alive,\nthough now an old man; and I can most positively assert that his own\nconviction with regard to the nature of this appearance has remained\never unshaken. The circumstance made a lasting impression upon his mind,\nand he never willingly speaks of it; but when he does, it is always with\nthe greatest seriousness, and he never shrinks from avowing his belief\nthat what he saw admits of no other interpretation than the one he then\nput upon it.\"\n\n\n\n\nXXIV\n\nCLERK SAUNDERS\n\n\"Border Minstrelsy\"\n\n\n    Clerk Saunders and May Margaret\n      Walked owre yon garden green;\n    And sad and heavy was the love\n      That fell them twa between.\n\n    And thro' the dark, and thro' the mirk,\n      And thro' the leaves o' green,\n    He cam that night to Margaret's door,\n      And tirled at the pin.\n\n    \"O wha is that at my bower door,\n      Sae weel my name does ken?\"\n    \"'Tis I, Clerk Saunders, your true love;\n      You'll open and let me in?\"\n\n    \"But in may come my seven bauld brithers,\n      Wi' torches burning bright;\n    They'll say--'We hae but ae sister,\n      And behold she's wi' a knight!'\"\n\n    \"Ye'll tak my brand I bear in hand,\n      And wi' the same ye'll lift the pin;\n    Then ye may swear, and save your aith,\n      That ye ne'er let Clerk Saunders in.\n\n    \"Ye'll tak the kerchief in your hand,\n      And wi' the same tie up your een;\n    Then ye may swear and save your aith,\n      Ye saw me na since yestere'en.\"\n\n    It was about the midnight hour,\n      When they asleep were laid,\n    When in and cam her seven brothers,\n      Wi' torches burning red.\n\n    When in and cam her seven brothers,\n      Wi' torches burning bright;\n    They said, \"We hae but ae sister,\n      And behold she's wi' a knight.\"\n\n    Then out and spak the first o' them,\n      \"We'll awa' and lat them be.\"\n    And out and spak the second o' them,\n      \"His father has nae mair than he!\"\n\n    And out and spak the third o' them,\n      \"I wot they are lovers dear!\"\n    And out and spak the fourth o' them,\n      \"They hae lo'ed this mony a year!\"\n\n    Then out and spak the fifth o' them,\n      \"It were sin true love to twain!\"\n    \"'Twere shame,\" out spak the sixth o' them,\n      \"To slay a sleeping man!\"\n\n    Then up and gat the seventh o' them,\n      And never a word spak he;\n    But he has striped his bright brown brand\n      Through Saunders' fair bodie.\n\n    Clerk Saunders started, and Margaret she turned,\n      Into his arms as asleep she lay;\n    And sad and silent was the night,\n      That was atween thir twae.\n\n    And they lay still and sleepit sound,\n      Till the day began to daw;\n    And kindly to him she did say,\n      \"It is time, love, you were awa'.\"\n\n    But he lay still, and sleepit sound,\n      Till the sun began to sheen;\n    She looked atween her and the wa',\n      And dull, dull were his een.\n\n    She turned the blankets to the foot,\n      The sheets unto the wa',\n    And there she saw his bloody wound,\n      And her tears fast doun did fa'.\n\n    Then in and cam her father dear,\n      Said, \"Let a' your mournin' be;\n    I'll carry the dead corpse to the clay\n      And then come back and comfort thee.\n\n    \"Hold your tongue, my daughter dear,\n      And let your mourning be;\n    I'll wed you to a higher match\n      Than his father's son could be.\"\n\n    \"Gae comfort weel your seven sons, father,\n      For man sall ne'er comfort me;\n    Ye'll marry me wi' the Queen o' Heaven,\n      For wedded I ne'er sall be!\"\n\n    The clinking bell gaed through the toun,\n      To carry the dead corse to the clay;\n    And Clerk Saunders stood at Margaret's window,\n      'Twas an hour before the day.\n\n    \"O'are ye sleeping, Margaret?\" he says,\n      \"Or are ye waking presentlie?\n    Gie me my faith and troth again,\n      I wot, true love, I gied to thee.\n\n    \"I canna rest, Margaret,\" he says,\n      \"Doun in the grave where I must be,\n    Till ye gie me my faith and troth again,\n      I wot, true love, I gied to thee.\"\n\n    \"Your faith and troth ye sall never get,\n      Nor our true love sall never twin,\n    Until ye come within my bower,\n      And kiss me cheek and chin.\"\n\n    \"My mouth it is full cold, Margaret,\n      It has the smell, now, of the ground;\n    And if I kiss thy comely mouth,\n      To the grave thou will be bound.\n\n    \"O, cocks are crawing a merry midnight,\n      I wot the wild-fowls are boding day;\n    Gie me my faith and troth again,\n      And let me fare me on my way.\"\n\n    \"Thy faith and troth thou sall na get,\n      And our true love shall never twin,\n    Until ye tell what comes of women,\n      I wot, who die in strong travailing.\"\n\n    \"Their beds are made in the heavens high,\n      Down at the foot of our good Lord's knee,\n    Weel set about wi' gillyflowers;\n      I wot sweet company for to see.\n\n    \"O, cocks are crawing a merry midnight,\n      I wot the wild-fowl are boding day;\n    The psalms of heaven will soon be sung,\n      And I, ere now, will be missed away.\"\n\n    Then she has ta'en a crystal wand,\n      And she has stroken her troth thereon,\n    She has given it him out at the shot-window,\n      Wi' mony a sigh and heavy groan.\n\n    \"I thank ye, Margaret; I thank ye, Margaret;\n      And aye I thank ye heartilie;\n    Gin ever the dead come for the quick,\n      Be sure, Margaret, I'll come for thee.\"\n\n    It's hosen, and shoon, and gown, alane,\n      She clam the wa' and after him;\n    Until she cam to the green forest,\n      And there she lost the sight o' him.\n\n    \"Is there ony room at your head, Saunders,\n      Is there ony room at your feet?\n    Or ony room at your side, Saunders,\n      Where fain, fain, I wad sleep?\"\n\n    \"There's nae room at my head, Margaret,\n      There's nae room at my feet;\n    My bed it is full lowly now:\n      'Mang the hungry worms I sleep.\n\n    \"Cauld mould is my covering now,\n      But and my winding-sheet;\n    The dew it falls nae sooner down,\n      Than my resting-place is weet.\n\n    \"But plait a wand o' the bonnie birk\n      And lay it on my breast;\n    And shed a tear upon my grave,\n      And wish my saul gude rest.\n\n    \"And fair Margaret, and rare Margaret,\n      And Margaret o' veritie,\n    Gin e'er ye love anither man,\n      Ne'er love him as ye did me.\"\n\n    Then up and crew the milk-white cock,\n      And up and crew the gray;\n    Her lover vanished in the air,\n      And she gaed weeping away.\n\n\n\n\nXXV\n\nDOROTHY DURANT\n\nBy Mrs CROWE\n\n\nA schoolboy named Bligh, who went to Launceston Grammar School, of which\nthe Rev. John Ruddle was headmaster, from being a lad of bright parts\nand no common attainments, became on a sudden moody, dejected, and\nmelancholy. His friends, seeing the change without being able to find\nthe cause, attributed it to laziness, an aversion to school, or to some\nother motive which he was ashamed to avow. He was led, however, to tell\nhis brother, after some time, that in a field through which he passed to\nand from school, he invariably met the apparition of a woman, whom he\npersonally knew while living, and who had been dead about eight years.\nRidicule, threats, persuasions, were alike used in vain by the family to\ninduce him to dismiss these absurd ideas. Finally, Mr Ruddle was sent\nfor, and to him the boy ingenuously told the time, manner, and frequency\nof this appearance. It was in a field called Higher Broomfield. The\napparition, he said, appeared dressed in female attire, met him two or\nthree times while he passed through the field, glided hastily by him,\nbut never spoke. He had thus been occasionally met about two months\nbefore he took any particular notice of it; at length the appearance\nbecame more frequent, meeting him both morning and evening, but always\nin the same field, yet invariably moving out of the path when it came\nclose to him. He often spoke, but could never get any reply. To avoid\nthis unwelcome visitor he forsook the field, and went to school and\nreturned from it through a lane, in which place, between the quarry pack\nand nursery, it always met him. Unable to disbelieve the evidence of his\nown senses, or to obtain credit with any of his family, he prevailed\nupon Mr Ruddle to accompany him to the place.\n\n\"I arose,\" says this clergyman, \"the next morning, and went with him.\nThe field to which he led me I guessed to be about twenty acres, in an\nopen country, and about three furlongs from any house. We went into the\nfield, and had not gone a third part before the spectrum in the shape of\na woman, with all the circumstances he had described the day before, so\nfar as the suddenness of its appearance and transition would permit me\nto discover, passed by.\n\n\"I was a little surprised at it, and though I had taken up a firm\nresolution to speak to it, I had not the power, nor durst I look back;\nyet I took care not to show any fear to my pupil and guide, and\ntherefore, telling him I was satisfied of the truth of his statement, we\nwalked to the end of the field and returned--nor did the ghost meet us\nthat time but once.\n\n\"On the 27th July, 1665, I went to the haunted field by myself, and\nwalked the breadth of it without any encounter. I then returned and took\nthe other walk, and then the spectre appeared to me, much about the same\nplace in which I saw it when the young gentleman was with me. It\nappeared to move swifter than before, and seemed to be about ten feet\nfrom me on my right hand, insomuch that I had not time to speak to it,\nas I had determined with myself beforehand. The evening of this day, the\nparents, the son, and myself, being in the chamber where I lay, I\nproposed to them our going altogether to the place next morning. We\naccordingly met at the stile we had appointed; thence we all four walked\ninto the field together. We had not gone more than half the field before\nthe ghost made its appearance. It then came over the stile just before\nus, and moved with such rapidity that by the time we had gone six or\nseven steps it passed by. I immediately turned my head and ran after it,\nwith the young man by my side. We saw it pass over the stile at which we\nentered, and no farther. I stepped upon the hedge at one place and the\nyoung man at another, but we could discern nothing; whereas I do aver\nthat the swiftest horse in England could not have conveyed himself out\nof sight in that short space of time. Two things I observed in this\nday's appearance: first, a spaniel dog, which had followed the company\nunregarded, barked and ran away as the spectrum passed by; whence it is\neasy to conclude that it was not our fear or fancy which made the\napparition. Secondly, the motion of the spectrum was not _gradatim_ or\nby steps, or moving of the feet, but by a kind of gliding, as children\nupon ice, or as a boat down a river, which punctually answers the\ndescription the ancients give of the motion of these Lamures. This\nocular evidence clearly convinced, but withal strangely affrighted, the\nold gentleman and his wife. They well knew this woman, Dorothy Durant,\nin her life-time; were at her burial, and now plainly saw her features\nin this apparition.\n\n\"The next morning, being Thursday, I went very early by myself, and\nwalked for about an hour's space in meditation and prayer in the field\nnext adjoining. Soon after five I stepped over the stile into the\nhaunted field, and had not gone above thirty or forty paces before the\nghost appeared at the further stile. I spoke to it in some short\nsentences with a loud voice; whereupon it approached me, but slowly, and\nwhen I came near it moved not. I spoke again, and it answered in a voice\nneither audible nor very intelligible. I was not in the least terrified,\nand therefore persisted until it spoke again and gave me satisfaction;\nbut the work could not be finished at this time. Whereupon the same\nevening, an hour after sunset, it met me again near the same place, and\nafter a few words on each side it quietly vanished, and neither doth\nappear now, nor hath appeared since, nor ever will more to any man's\ndisturbance. The discourse in the morning lasted about a quarter of an\nhour.\n\n\"These things are true,\" concludes the Rev. John Ruddle, \"and I know\nthem to be so, with as much certainty as eyes and ears can give me; and\nuntil I can be persuaded that my senses all deceive me about their\nproper objects, and by that persuasion deprive me of the strongest\ninducement to believe the Christian religion, I must and will assert\nthat the things contained in this paper are true.\"\n\n\n\n\nXXVI\n\nPEARLIN JEAN\n\nBy CHARLES KIRKPATRICK SHARPE\n\n\nIt was Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe, the antiquary, who furnished this\naccount of Pearlin Jean's hauntings at Allanbank.\n\n\"In my youth,\" he says, \"Pearlin Jean was the most remarkable ghost in\nScotland, and my terror when a child. Our old nurse, Jenny Blackadder,\nhad been a servant at Allanbank, and often heard her rustling in silks\nup and down stairs, and along the passages. She never saw her; but her\nhusband did.\n\n\"She was a French woman, whom the first baronet of Allanbank, then Mr\nStuart, met with at Paris, during his tour to finish his education as a\ngentleman. Some people said she was a nun; in which case she must have\nbeen a Sister of Charity, as she appears not to have been confined to a\ncloister. After some time, young Stuart either became faithless to the\nlady or was suddenly recalled to Scotland by his parents, and had got\ninto his carriage at the door of the hotel, when his Dido unexpectedly\nmade her appearance, and stepping on the forewheel of the coach to\naddress her lover, he ordered the postilion to drive on; the consequence\nof which was that the lady fell, and one of the wheels going over her\nforehead, killed her.\n\n\"In a dusky autumnal evening, when Mr Stuart drove under the arched\ngateway of Allanbank, he perceived Pearlin Jean sitting on the top, her\nhead and shoulders covered with blood.\n\n\"After this, for many years, the house was haunted; doors shut and\nopened with great noise at midnight; the rustling of silks and pattering\nof high-heeled shoes were heard in bedrooms and passages. Nurse Jenny\nsaid there were seven ministers called in together at one time to _lay_\nthe spirit; 'but they did no mickle good, my dear.'\n\n\"The picture of the ghost was hung between those of her lover and his\nlady, and kept her comparatively quiet; but when taken away, she became\nworse-natured than ever. This portrait was in the present Sir J.G.'s\npossession. I am unwilling to record its fate.\n\n\"The ghost was designated Pearlin, from always wearing a great quantity\nof that sort of lace.\n\n\"Nurse Jenny told me that when Thomas Blackadder was her lover (I\nremember Thomas very well), they made an assignation to meet one\nmoonlight night in the orchard at Allanbank. True Thomas, of course, was\nthe first comer; and seeing a female figure in a light-coloured dress,\nat some distance, he ran forward with open arms to embrace his Jenny;\nwhen lo and behold! as he neared the spot where the figure stood, it\nvanished; and presently he saw it again at the very end of the orchard,\na considerable way off. Thomas went home in a fright; but Jenny, who\ncame last, and saw nothing, forgave him, and they were married.\n\n\"Many years after this, about the year 1790, two ladies paid a visit at\nAllanbank--I think the house was then let--and passed the night there.\nThey had never heard a word about the ghost; but they were disturbed the\nwhole night with something walking backwards and forwards in their\nbed-chamber. This I had from the best authority.\"\n\nTo this account may be added that a housekeeper, called Betty Norrie,\nwho, in more recent times, lived many years at Allanbank, positively\naverred that she, and many other persons, had frequently seen Pearlin\nJean; and, moreover, stated that they were so used to her as to be no\nlonger alarmed at the noises she made.\n\n\n\n\nXXVII\n\nTHE DENTON HALL GHOST\n\nLocal Records\n\n\nA day or two after my arrival at Denton Hall, when all around was yet\nnew to me, I had accompanied my friends to a ball given in the\nneighbourhood, and returned heartily fatigued. At this time I need not\nblush, nor you smile, when I say that on that evening I had met, for the\nsecond time, one with whose destinies my own were doomed to become\nconnected.\n\nI think I was sitting upon an antique carved chair, near to the fire, in\nthe room where I slept, busied in arranging my hair, and thinking over\nsome of the events of the day. Whether I had dropped into a\nhalf-slumber, I cannot say; but on looking up--for I had my face bent\ntoward the fire--there seemed sitting on a similar highbacked chair, on\nthe other side of the ancient tiled fireplace, an old lady, whose air\nand dress were so remarkable that to this hour they seem as fresh in my\nmemory as they were the day after the vision. She appeared to be dressed\nin a flowered satin gown, of a cut then out of date. It was peaked and\nlong-waisted. The fabric of the satin had that extreme of glossy\nstiffness which old fabrics of this kind exhibit. She wore a stomacher.\nOn her wrinkled fingers appeared some rings of great size and seeming\nvalue; but, what was most remarkable, she wore also a satin hood of a\npeculiar shape. It was glossy like the gown, but seemed to be stiffened\neither by whalebone or some other material. Her age seemed considerable,\nand the face, though not unpleasant, was somewhat hard and severe and\nindented with minute wrinkles. I confess that so entirely was my\nattention engrossed by what was passing in my mind, that, though I felt\nmightily confused, I was not startled (in the emphatic sense) by the\napparition. In fact, I deemed it to be some old lady, perhaps a\nhousekeeper, or dependent in the family, and, therefore, though rather\nastonished, was by no means frightened by my visitant, supposing me to\nbe awake, which I am convinced was the case, though few persons believe\nme on this point.\n\nMy own impression is that I stared somewhat rudely, in the wonder of the\nmoment, at the hard, but lady-like features of my aged visitor. But she\nleft me small time to think, addressing me in a familiar half-whisper\nand with a constant restless motion of the hand which aged persons, when\nexcited, often exhibit in addressing the young. \"Well, young lady,\" said\nmy mysterious companion, \"and so you've been at yon hall to-night! and\nhighly ye've been delighted there! Yet if you could see as I can see, or\ncould know as I can know, troth! I guess your pleasure would abate. 'Tis\nwell for you, young lady, peradventure, ye see not with my eyes\"--and at\nthe moment, sure enough, her eyes, which were small, grey, and in no way\nremarkable, twinkled with a light so severe that the effect was\nunpleasant in the extreme. \"'Tis well for you and them,\" she continued,\n\"that ye cannot count the cost. Time was when hospitality could be kept\nin England, and the guest not ruin the master of the feast--but that's\nall vanished now: pride and poverty--pride and poverty, young lady, are\nan ill-matched pair, Heaven kens!\" My tongue, which had at first almost\nfaltered in its office, now found utterance. By a kind of instinct, I\naddressed my strange visitant in her own manner and humour. \"And are we,\nthen, so much poorer than in days of yore?\" were the words that I spoke.\nMy visitor seemed half startled at the sound of my voice, as at\nsomething unaccustomed, and went on, rather answering my question by\nimplication than directly: \"'Twas not all hollowness then,\" she\nexclaimed, ceasing somewhat her hollow whisper; \"the land was then the\nlord's, and that which _seemed, was_. The child, young lady, was not\nthen mortgaged in the cradle, and, mark ye, the bride, when she kneeled\nat the altar, gave not herself up, body and soul, to be the bondswoman\nof the Jew, but to be the helpmate of the spouse.\" \"The Jew!\" I\nexclaimed in surprise, for then I understood not the allusion. \"Ay,\nyoung lady! the Jew,\" was the rejoinder. \"'Tis plain ye know not who\nrules. 'Tis all hollow yonder! all hollow, all hollow! to the very\nglitter of the side-board, all false! all false! all hollow! Away with\nsuch make-believe finery!\" And here again the hollow voice rose a\nlittle, and the dim grey eye glistened. \"Ye mortgage the very oaks of\nyour ancestors--I saw the planting of them; and now 'tis all painting,\ngilding, varnishing and veneering. Houses call ye them? Whited\nsepulchres, young lady, whited sepulchres. Trust not all that seems to\nglisten. Fair though it seems, 'tis but the product of disease--even as\nis the pearl in your hair, young lady, that glitters in the mirror\nyonder,--not more specious than is all,--ay, _all_ ye have seen\nto-night.\"\n\nAs my strange visitor pronounced these words, I instinctively turned my\ngaze to a large old-fashioned mirror that leaned from the wall of the\nchamber. 'Twas but for a moment. But when I again turned my head, my\nvisitant was no longer there! I heard plainly, as I turned, the distinct\nrustle of the silk, as if she had risen and was leaving the room. I\nseemed distinctly to hear this, together with the quick, short, easy\nfootstep with which females of rank of that period were taught to glide\nrather than to walk; this I seemed to hear, but of what appeared the\nantique old lady I saw no more. The suddenness and strangeness of this\nevent for a moment sent the blood back to my heart. Could I have found\nvoice, I should, I think, have screamed, but that was, for a moment,\nbeyond my power. A few seconds recovered me. By a sort of impulse I\nrushed to the door, outside which I now heard the footsteps of some of\nthe family, when, to my utter astonishment, I found it was--locked! I\nnow recollected that I myself locked it before sitting down.\n\nThough somewhat ashamed to give utterance to what I really believed as\nto this matter, the strange adventure of the night was made a subject of\nconversation at the breakfast-table next morning. On the words leaving\nmy lips, I saw my host and hostess exchange looks with each other, and\nsoon found that the tale I had to tell was not received with the air\nwhich generally meets such relations. I was not repelled by an angry or\nill-bred incredulity, or treated as one of diseased fancy, to whom\nsilence is indirectly recommended as the alternative of being laughed\nat. In short, it was not attempted to be denied or concealed that I was\nnot the first who had been alarmed in a manner, if not exactly similar,\nyet just as mysterious; that visitors, like myself, had actually given\nway to these terrors so far as to quit the house in consequence; and\nthat servants were sometimes not to be prevented from sharing in the\nsame contagion. At the same time they told me this, my host and hostess\ndeclared that custom and continued residence had long exempted all\nregular inmates of the mansion from any alarms or terrors. The\nvisitations, whatever they were, seemed to be confined to newcomers, and\nto them it was by no means a matter of frequent occurrence.\n\nIn the neighbourhood, I found, this strange story was well known; that\nthe house was regularly set down as \"haunted\" all the country round, and\nthat the spirit, or goblin, or whatever it was that was embodied in\nthese appearances, was familiarly known by the name of \"Silky.\"\n\nAt a distance, those to whom I have related my night's adventure have\none and all been sceptical, and accounted for the whole by supposing me\nto have been half asleep, or in a state resembling somnambulism. All I\ncan say is, that my own impressions are directly contrary to this\nsupposition; and that I feel as sure that I saw the figure that sat\nbefore me with my bodily eyes, as I am sure I now see you with them.\nWithout affecting to deny that I was somewhat shocked by the adventure,\nI must repeat that I suffered no unreasonable alarm, nor suffered my\nfancy to overcome my better spirit of womanhood.\n\nI certainly slept no more in that room, and in that to which I removed I\nhad one of the daughters of my hostess as a companion; but I have never,\nfrom that hour to this, been convinced that I did not actually encounter\nsomething more than is natural--if not an actual being in some other\nstate of existence. My ears have not been deceived, if my eyes\nwere--which, I repeat, I cannot believe.\n\nThe warnings so strongly shadowed forth have been too true. The\ngentleman at whose house I that night was a guest has long since filled\nan untimely grave! In that splendid hall, since that time, strangers\nhave lorded it--and I myself have long since ceased to think of such\nscenes as I partook of that evening--the envied object of the attention\nof one whose virtues have survived the splendid inheritance to which he\nseemed destined.\n\nWhether this be a tale of delusion and superstition, or something more\nthan that, it is, at all events, not without a legend for its\nfoundation. There is some obscure and dark rumour of secrets strangely\nobtained and enviously betrayed by a rival sister, ending in deprivation\nof reason and death; and that the betrayer still walks by times in the\ndeserted Hall which she rendered tenantless, always prophetic of\ndisaster to those she encounters. So has it been with me, certainly; and\nmore than me, if those who say it say true. It is many, many years\nsince I saw the scene of this adventure; but I have heard that since\nthat time the same mysterious visitings have more than once been\nrenewed; that midnight curtains have been drawn by an arm clothed in\nrustling silks; and the same form, clad in dark brocade, has been seen\ngliding along the dark corridors of that ancient, grey, and time-worn\nmansion, ever prophetic of death or misfortune.\n\n\n\n\nXXVIII\n\nTHE GOODWOOD GHOST STORY\n\n(Doubtfully attributed to CHARLES DICKENS)\n\n\nMy wife's sister, Mrs M----, was left a widow at the age of thirty-five,\nwith two children, girls, of whom she was passionately fond. She carried\non the draper's business at Bognor, established by her husband. Being\nstill a very handsome woman, there were several suitors for her hand.\nThe only favoured one amongst them was a Mr Barton. My wife never liked\nthis Mr Barton, and made no secret of her feelings to her sister, whom\nshe frequently told that Mr Barton only wanted to be master of the\nlittle haberdashery shop in Bognor. He was a man in poor circumstances,\nand had no other motive in his proposal of marriage, so my wife thought,\nthan to better himself.\n\nOn the 23rd of August 1831 Mrs M---- arranged to go with Barton to a\npicnic party at Goodwood Park, the seat of the Duke of Richmond, who had\nkindly thrown open his grounds to the public for the day. My wife, a\nlittle annoyed at her going out with this man, told her she had much\nbetter remain at home to look after her children and attend to the\nbusiness. Mrs M----, however, bent on going, made arrangements about\nleaving the shop, and got my wife to promise to see to her little girls\nwhile she was away.\n\nThe party set out in a four-wheeled phaeton, with a pair of ponies\ndriven by Mrs M----, and a gig for which I lent the horse.\n\nNow we did not expect them to come back till nine or ten o'clock, at\nany rate. I mention this particularly to show that there could be no\nexpectation of their earlier return in the mind of my wife, to account\nfor what follows.\n\nAt six o'clock that bright summer's evening my wife went out into the\ngarden to call the children. Not finding them, she went all round the\nplace in her search till she came to the empty stable; thinking they\nmight have run in there to play, she pushed open the door; there,\nstanding in the darkest corner, she saw Mrs M----. My wife was surprised\nto see her, certainly; for she did not expect her return so soon; but,\noddly enough, it did not strike her as being singular to see her\n_there_. Vexed as she had felt with her all day for going, and rather\nglad, in her woman's way, to have something entirely different from the\ngenuine _casus belli_ to hang a retort upon, my wife said: \"Well,\nHarriet, I should have thought another dress would have done quite as\nwell for your picnic as that best black silk you have on.\" My wife was\nthe elder of the twain, and had always assumed a little of the air of\ncounsellor to her sister. Black silks were thought a great deal more of\nat that time than they are just now, and silk of any kind was held\nparticularly inconsistent wear for Wesleyan Methodists, to which\ndenomination we belonged.\n\nReceiving no answer, my wife said: \"Oh, well, Harriet, if you can't take\na word of reproof without being sulky, I'll leave you to yourself\"; and\nthen she came into the house to tell me the party had returned and that\nshe had seen her sister in the stable, not in the best of tempers. At\nthe moment it did not seem extraordinary to me that my wife should have\nmet her sister in the stable.\n\nI waited indoors some time, expecting them to return my horse. Mrs M----\nwas my neighbour, and, being always on most friendly terms, I wondered\nthat none of the party had come in to tell us about the day's pleasure.\nI thought I would just run in and see how they had got on. To my great\nsurprise the servant told me they had not returned. I began, then, to\nfeel anxiety about the result. My wife, however, having seen Harriet in\nthe stable, refused to believe the servant's assertion; and said there\nwas no doubt of their return, but that they had probably left word to\nsay they were not come back, in order to offer a plausible excuse for\ntaking a further drive, and detaining my horse for another hour or so.\n\nAt eleven o'clock Mr Pinnock, my brother-in-law, who had been one of the\nparty, came in, apparently much agitated. As soon as she saw him, and\nbefore he had time to speak, my wife seemed to know what he had to say.\n\n\"What is the matter?\" she said; \"something has happened to Harriet, I\nknow!\"\n\n\"Yes\" replied Mr Pinnock; \"if you wish to see her alive, you must come\nwith me directly to Goodwood.\"\n\nFrom what he said it appeared that one of the ponies had never been\nproperly broken in; that the man from whom the turn-out was hired for\nthe day had cautioned Mrs M---- respecting it before they started; and\nthat he had lent it reluctantly, being the only pony to match in the\nstable at the time, and would not have lent it at all had he not known\nMrs M---- to be a remarkably good whip.\n\nOn reaching Goodwood, it seems, the gentlemen of the party had got out,\nleaving the ladies to take a drive round the park in the phaeton. One or\nboth of the ponies must then have taken fright at something in the road,\nfor Mrs M---- had scarcely taken the reins when the ponies shied. Had\nthere been plenty of room she would readily have mastered the\ndifficulty; but it was in a narrow road, where a gate obstructed the\nway. Some men rushed to open the gate--too late. The three other ladies\njumped out at the beginning of the accident; but Mrs M---- still held on\nto the reins, seeking to control her ponies, until, finding it was\nimpossible for the men to get the gate open in time, she too sprang\nforward; and at the same instant the ponies came smash on to the gate.\nShe had made her spring too late, and fell heavily to the ground on her\nhead. The heavy, old-fashioned comb of the period, with which her hair\nwas looped up, was driven into her skull by the force of the fall. The\nDuke of Richmond, a witness to the accident, ran to her assistance,\nlifted her up, and rested her head upon his knees. The only words Mrs\nM---- had spoken were uttered at the time: \"Good God, my children!\" By\ndirection of the Duke she was immediately conveyed to a neighbouring\ninn, where every assistance, medical and otherwise, that forethought or\nkindness could suggest was afforded her.\n\nAt six o'clock in the evening, the time at which my wife had gone into\nthe stable and seen what we now knew had been her spirit, Mrs M----, in\nher sole interval of returning consciousness, had made a violent but\nunsuccessful attempt to speak. From her glance having wandered round the\nroom, in solemn awful wistfulness, it had been conjectured she wished to\nsee some relative or friend not then present. I went to Goodwood in the\ngig with Mr Pinnock, and arrived in time to see my sister-in-law die at\ntwo o'clock in the morning. Her only conscious moments had been those in\nwhich she laboured unsuccessfully to speak, which had occurred at six\no'clock. She wore a black silk dress.\n\nWhen we came to dispose of her business, and to wind up her affairs,\nthere was scarcely anything left for the two orphan girls. Mrs M----'s\nfather, however, being well-to-do, took them to bring up. At his death,\nwhich happened soon afterwards, his property went to his eldest son, who\nspeedily dissipated the inheritance. During a space of two years the\nchildren were taken as visitors by various relations in turn, and lived\nan unhappy life with no settled home.\n\nFor some time I had been debating with myself how to help these\nchildren, having many boys and girls of my own to provide for. I had\nalmost settled to take them myself, bad as trade was with me, at the\ntime, and bring them up with my own family, when one day business called\nme to Brighton. The business was so urgent that it necessitated my\ntravelling at night.\n\nI set out from Bognor in a close-headed gig on a beautiful moonlight\nwinter's night, when the crisp frozen snow lay deep over the earth, and\nits fine glistening dust was whirled about in little eddies on the bleak\nnight-wind--driven now and then in stinging powder against my tingling\ncheek, warm and glowing in the sharp air. I had taken my great \"Bose\"\n(short for \"Boatswain\") for company. He lay, blinking wakefully,\nsprawled out on the spare seat of the gig beneath a mass of warm rugs.\n\nBetween Littlehampton and Worthing is a lonely piece of road, long and\ndreary, through bleak and bare open country, where the snow lay\nknee-deep, sparkling in the moonlight. It was so cheerless that I turned\nround to speak to my dog, more for the sake of hearing the sound of a\nvoice than anything else. \"Good Bose,\" I said, patting him, \"there's a\ngood dog!\" Then suddenly I noticed he shivered, and shrank underneath\nthe wraps. Then the horse required my attention, for he gave a start,\nand was going wrong, and had nearly taken me into the ditch.\n\nThen I looked up. Walking at my horse's head, dressed in a sweeping\nrobe, so white that it shone dazzling against the white snow, I saw a\nlady, her back turned to me, her head bare; her hair dishevelled and\nstrayed, showing sharp and black against her white dress.\n\nI was at first so much surprised at seeing a lady, so dressed, exposed\nto the open night, and such a night as this, that I scarcely knew what\nto do. Recovering myself, I called out to know if I could render\nassistance--if she wished to ride? No answer. I drove faster, the horse\nblinking, and shying, and trembling the while, his ears laid back in\nabject terror. Still the figure maintained its position close to my\nhorse's head. Then I thought that what I saw was no woman, but perchance\na man disguised for the purpose of robbing me, seeking an opportunity to\nseize the bridle and stop the horse. Filled with this idea, I said,\n\"Good Bose! hi! look at it, boy!\" but the dog only shivered as if in\nfright. Then we came to a place where four cross-roads meet.\n\nDetermined to know the worst, I pulled up the horse. I fetched Bose,\nunwilling, out by the ears. He was a good dog at anything from a rat to\na man, but he slunk away that night into the hedge, and lay there, his\nhead between his paws, whining and howling. I walked straight up to the\nfigure, still standing by the horse's head. As I walked, the figure\nturned, and I saw _Harriet's face_ as plainly as I see you now--white\nand calm--placid, as idealised and beautified by death. I must own that,\nthough not a nervous man, in that instant I felt sick and faint. Harriet\nlooked me full in the face with a long, eager, silent look. I knew then\nit was her spirit, and felt a strange calm come over me, for I knew it\nwas nothing to harm me. When I could speak, I asked what troubled her.\nShe looked at me still, never changing that cold fixed stare. Then I\nfelt in my mind it was her children, and I said:\n\n\"Harriet! is it for your children you are troubled?\"\n\nNo answer.\n\n\"Harriet,\" I continued, \"if for these you are troubled, be assured they\nshall never want while I have power to help them. Rest in peace!\"\n\nStill no answer.\n\nI put up my hand to wipe from my forehead the cold perspiration which\nhad gathered there. When I took my hand away from shading my eyes, the\nfigure was gone. I was alone on the bleak snow-covered ground. The\nbreeze, that had been hushed before, breathed coolly and gratefully on\nmy face, and the cold stars glimmered and sparkled sharply in the far\nblue heavens. My dog crept up to me and furtively licked my hand, as who\nwould say, \"Good master, don't be angry. I have served you in all but\nthis.\"\n\nI took the children and brought them up till they could help\nthemselves.\n\n\n\n\nXXIX\n\nCAPTAIN WHEATCROFT\n\nFrom DALE OWEN'S \"Footfalls\"\n\n\nIn the month of September 1857 Captain German Wheatcroft, of the 6th\n(Inniskilling) Dragoons, went out to India to join his regiment.\n\nHis wife remained in England, residing at Cambridge. On the night\nbetween the 14th and 15th of November 1857, towards morning, she dreamed\nthat she saw her husband, looking anxious and ill; upon which she\nimmediately awoke, much agitated. It was bright moonlight; and, looking\nup, she perceived the same figure standing by her bedside. He appeared\nin his uniform, the hands pressed across the breast, the hair\ndishevelled, the face very pale. His large dark eyes were fixed full\nupon her; their expression was that of great excitement, and there was a\npeculiar contraction of the mouth, habitual to him when agitated. She\nsaw him, even to each minute particular of his dress, as distinctly as\nshe had ever done in her life; and she remembers to have noticed between\nhis hands the white of his shirt-bosom, unstained, however, with blood.\nThe figure seemed to bend forward, as if in pain, and to make an effort\nto speak; but there was no sound. It remained visible, the wife thinks,\nas long as a minute, and then disappeared.\n\nHer first idea was to ascertain if she was actually awake. She rubbed\nher eyes with the sheet, and felt that the touch was real. Her little\nnephew was in bed with her; she bent over the sleeping child and\nlistened to its breathing; the sound was distinct, and she became\nconvinced that what she had seen was no dream. It need hardly be added\nthat she did not again go to sleep that night.\n\nNext morning she related all this to her mother, expressing her\nconviction, though she had noticed no marks of blood on his dress, that\nCaptain Wheatcroft was either killed or grievously wounded. So fully\nimpressed was she with the reality of that apparition, that she\nthenceforth refused all invitations. A young friend urged her soon\nafterwards to go with her to a fashionable concert, reminding her that\nshe had received from Malta, sent by her husband, a handsome dress\ncloak, which she had never yet worn. But she positively declined,\ndeclaring that, uncertain as she was whether she was not already a\nwidow, she would never enter a place of amusement until she had letters\nfrom her husband (if indeed he still lived) of a later date than the\n14th of November.\n\nIt was on a Tuesday, in the month of December 1857, that the telegram\nregarding the actual fate of Captain Wheatcroft was published in London.\nIt was to the effect that he was killed before Lucknow on the\n_fifteenth_ of November.\n\nThis news, given in the morning paper, attracted the attention of Mr\nWilkinson, a London solicitor, who had in charge Captain Wheatcroft's\naffairs. When at a later period this gentleman met the widow, she\ninformed him that she had been quite prepared for the melancholy news,\nbut that she had felt sure her husband could not have been killed on the\n15th of November, inasmuch as it was during the night between the 14th\nand 15th that he appeared to her.\n\nThe certificate from the War Office, however, which it became Mr\nWilkinson's duty to obtain, confirmed the date given in the telegram,\nits tenor being as follows:--\n\n    \"No. 9579/1       WAR OFFICE,\n                       _30th January 1858._\n\n\"These are to certify that it appears, by the records in this office,\nthat Captain German Wheatcroft of the 6th Dragoon Guards, was killed in\naction on the 15th of November 1857.\n\n    \"(_Signed_) B. HAWES.\"\n\nThe difference of longitude between London and Lucknow being about five\nhours, three or four o'clock a.m. in London would be eight or nine\no'clock a.m. at Lucknow. But it was in the _afternoon_ not in the\n_morning_, as will be seen in the sequel, that Captain Wheatcroft was\nkilled. Had he fallen on the 15th, therefore, the apparition to his wife\nwould have appeared several hours before the engagement in which he\nfell, and while he was yet alive and well.\n\n\n\n\nXXX\n\nTHE IRON CAGE\n\nFrom Mrs CROWE'S \"Night Side of Nature\"\n\n\n[As you express a wish to know what credit is to be attached to a tale\nsent forth after a lapse of between thirty and forty years, I will state\nthe facts as they were recalled last year by a daughter of Sir William\nA. C----.]\n\nSir James, my mother, with myself and my brother Charles, went abroad\ntowards the end of the year 1786. After trying several different places,\nwe determined to settle at Lille, where we had letters of introduction\nto several of the best French families. There Sir James left us, and\nafter passing a few days in an uncomfortable lodging, we engaged a nice\nlarge family house, which we liked much, and which we obtained at a very\nlow rent, even for that part of the world.\n\nAbout three weeks after we were established there, I walked one day with\nmy mother to the bankers, for the purpose of delivering our letter of\ncredit from Sir Robert Herries and drawing some money, which being paid\nin heavy five-frank pieces, we found we could not carry, and therefore\nrequested the banker to send, saying, \"We live in the Place du Lion\nd'Or.\" Whereupon he looked surprised, and observed that he knew of no\nhouse there fit for us, \"except, indeed,\" he added, \"the one that has\nbeen long uninhabited on account of the _revenant_ that walks about it.\"\n\nHe said this quite seriously, and in a natural tone of voice; in spite\nof which we laughed, and were quite entertained at the idea of a ghost;\nbut, at the same time, we begged him not to mention the thing to our\nservants, lest they should take any fancies into their heads; and my\nmother and I resolved to say nothing about the matter to anyone. \"I\nsuppose it is the ghost,\" said my mother, laughing, \"that wakes us so\noften by walking over our heads.\" We had, in fact, been awakened several\nnights by a heavy foot, which we supposed to be that of one of the\nmen-servants, of whom we had three English and four French. The English\nones, men and women, every one of them, returned ultimately to England\nwith us.\n\nA night or two afterwards, being again awakened by the step, my mother\nasked Creswell: \"Who slept in the room above us?\" \"No one, my lady,\" she\nreplied, \"it is a large empty garret.\"\n\nAbout a week or ten days after this, Creswell came to my mother, one\nmorning, and told her that all the French servants talked of going away,\nbecause there was a _revenant_ in the house; adding, that there seemed\nto be a strange story attached to the place, which was said, together\nwith some other property, to have belonged to a young man, whose\nguardian, who was also his uncle, had treated him cruelly, and confined\nhim in an iron cage; and as he had subsequently disappeared, it was\nconjectured he had been murdered. This uncle, after inheriting the\nproperty, had suddenly quitted the house, and sold it to the father of\nthe man of whom we had hired it. Since that period, though it had been\nseveral times let, nobody had ever stayed in it above a week or two;\nand, for a considerable time past, it had had no tenant at all.\n\n\"And do you really believe all this nonsense, Creswell?\" said my mother.\n\n\"Well, I don't know, my lady,\" answered she, \"but there is the iron cage\nin the garret over your bedroom, where you may see it, if you please.\"\n\nOf course we rose to go, and just at that moment an old officer, with\nhis Croix de St Louis, called on us, we invited him to accompany us, and\nwe ascended together. We found, as Creswell had said, a large empty\ngarret, with bare brick walls, and in the further corner of it stood an\niron cage, such as wild beasts are kept in, only higher; it was about\nfour feet square, and eight in height, and there was an iron ring in the\nwall at the back, to which was attached an old rusty chain, with a\ncollar fixed to the end of it! I confess it made my blood creep, when I\nthought of the possibility of any human being having inhabited it! And\nour old friend expressed as much horror as ourselves, assuring us that\nit must certainly have been constructed for some such dreadful purpose.\nAs, however, we were no believer in ghosts, we all agreed that the\nnoises must proceed from somebody who had an interest in keeping the\nhouse empty; and since it was very disagreeable to imagine that there\nwere secret means of entering it by night, we resolved, as soon as\npossible, to look out for another residence, and, in the meantime, to\nsay nothing about the matter to anybody. About ten days after this\ndetermination, my mother, observing one morning that Creswell, when she\ncame to dress her, looked exceedingly pale and ill, inquired if anything\nwas the matter with her? \"Indeed, my lady,\" answered she, \"we have been\nfrightened to death; and neither I nor Mrs Marsh can sleep again in the\nroom we are now in.\"\n\n\"Well,\" returned my mother, \"you shall both come and sleep in the little\nspare room next us; but what has alarmed you?\"\n\n\"Someone, my lady, went through our room in the night; we both saw the\nfigure, but we covered our heads with the bed-clothes, and lay in a\ndreadful fright till morning.\"\n\nOn hearing this, I could not help laughing, upon which Creswell burst\ninto tears; and seeing how nervous she was, we comforted her by saying\nwe had heard of a good house, and that we should very soon abandon our\npresent habitation.\n\nA few nights afterwards, my mother requested me and Charles to go into\nher bedroom, and fetch her frame, that she might prepare her work for\nthe next day. It was after supper; and we were ascending the stairs by\nthe light of a lamp which was always kept burning, when we saw going up\nbefore us, a tall, thin figure, with hair flowing down his back, and\nwearing a loose powdering gown. We both at once concluded it was my\nsister Hannah, and called out: \"It won't do, Hannah! you cannot frighten\nus!\" Upon which the figure turned into a recess in the wall; but as\nthere was nobody there when we passed, we concluded that Hannah had\ncontrived, somehow or other, to slip away and make her escape by the\nback stairs. On telling this to my mother, however, she said, \"It is\nvery odd, for Hannah went to bed with a headache before you came in from\nyour walk\"; and sure enough, on going to her room, there we found her\nfast asleep; and Alice, who was at work there, assured us that she had\nbeen so for more than an hour. On mentioning this circumstance to\nCreswell, she turned quite pale, and exclaimed that that was precisely\nthe figure she and Marsh had seen in their bedroom.\n\nAbout this time my brother Harry came to spend a few days with us, and\nwe gave him a room up another pair of stairs, at the opposite end of the\nhouse. A morning or two after his arrival, when he came down to\nbreakfast, he asked my mother, angrily, whether she thought he went to\nbed drunk and could not put out his own candle, that she sent those\nFrench rascals to watch him. My mother assured him that she had never\nthought of doing such a thing; but he persisted in the accusation,\nadding, \"last night I jumped up and opened the door, and by the light of\nthe moon, through the skylight, I saw the fellow in his loose gown at\nthe bottom of the stairs. If I had not been in my shirt, I would have\ngone after him, and made him remember coming to watch me.\"\n\nWe were now preparing to quit the house, having secured another,\nbelonging to a gentleman who was going to spend some time in Italy; but\na few days before our removal, it happened that a Mr and Mrs Atkyns,\nsome English friends of ours, called, to whom we mentioned these strange\ncircumstances, observing how extremely unpleasant it was to live in a\nhouse that somebody found means of getting into, though how they\ncontrived it we could not discover, nor what their motive could be,\nexcept it was to frighten us; observing that nobody could sleep in the\nroom Marsh and Creswell had been obliged to give up. Upon this, Mrs\nAtkyns laughed heartily, and said that she should like, of all things,\nto sleep there, if my mother would allow her, adding that, with her\nlittle terrier, she should not be afraid of any ghost that ever\nappeared. As my mother had, of course, no objection to this fancy of\nhers, Mrs Atkyns requested her husband to ride home with the groom, in\norder that the latter might bring her night-things before the gates of\nthe town were shut, as they were then residing a little way in the\ncountry. Mr Atkyns smiled, and said she was very bold; but he made no\ndifficulties, and sent the things, and his wife retired with her dog to\nher room when we retired to ours, apparently without the least\napprehension.\n\nWhen she came down in the morning we were immediately struck at seeing\nher look very ill; and, on inquiring if she, too, had been frightened,\nshe said she had been awakened in the night by something moving in her\nroom, and that, by the light of the night lamp, she saw most distinctly\na figure, and that the dog, which was very spirited and flew at\neverything, never stirred, although she endeavoured to make him. We saw\nclearly that she had been very much alarmed; and when Mr Atkyns came and\nendeavoured to dissipate the feeling by persuading her that she might\nhave dreamt it, she got quite angry. We could not help thinking that she\nhad actually seen something; and my mother said, after she was gone,\nthat though she could not bring herself to believe it was really a\nghost, still she earnestly hoped that she might get out of the house\nwithout seeing this figure which frightened people so much.\n\nWe were now within three days of the one fixed for our removal; I had\nbeen taking a long ride, and being tired, had fallen asleep the moment I\nlay down, but in the middle of the night I was suddenly awakened--I\ncannot tell by what, for the step over our heads we had become so used\nto that it no longer disturbed us. Well, I awoke; I had been lying with\nmy face towards my mother, who was asleep beside me, and, as one usually\ndoes on awaking, I turned to the other side, where, the weather being\nwarm, the curtain of the bed was undrawn, as it was also at the foot,\nand I saw standing by a chest of drawers, which were betwixt me and the\nwindow, a thin, tall figure, in a loose powdering gown, one arm resting\non the drawers, and the face turned towards me. I saw it quite\ndistinctly by the night-light, which burnt clearly; it was a long, thin,\npale, young face, with oh! such a melancholy expression as can never be\neffaced from my memory! I was, certainly, very much frightened; but my\ngreat horror was lest my mother should awake and see the figure. I\nturned my head gently towards her, and heard her breathing high in a\nsound sleep. Just then the clock on the stairs struck four. I daresay it\nwas nearly an hour before I ventured to look again; and when I did take\ncourage to turn my eyes towards the drawers there was nothing, yet I had\nnot heard the slightest sound, though I had been listening with the\ngreatest intensity.\n\nAs you may suppose, I never closed my eyes again; and glad I was when\nCreswell knocked at the door, as she did every morning, for we always\nlocked it, and it was my business to get out of bed and let her in. But\non this occasion, instead of doing so, I called out, \"Come in, the door\nis not fastened\"; upon which she answered that it was, and I was obliged\nto get out of bed and admit her as usual.\n\nWhen I told my mother what had happened she was very grateful to me for\nnot waking her, and commended me much for my resolution; but as she was\nalways my first object, that was not to be wondered at. She, however,\nresolved not to risk another night in the house, and we got out of it\nthat very day, after instituting, with the aid of the servants, a\nthorough search, with a view to ascertain whether there was any possible\nmeans of getting into the rooms except by the usual modes of ingress;\nbut our search was vain; none could be discovered.\n\nConsidering the number of people that were in the house, the\nfearlessness of the family, and their disinclination to believe in what\nis called the _supernatural_, together with the great interest the owner\nof this large and handsome house must have had in discovering the trick,\nif there had been one, I think it is difficult to find any other\nexplanation of this strange story than that the sad and disappointed\nspirit of this poor injured, and probably murdered boy, had never been\ndisengaged from its earthly relations, to which regret for its\nfrustrated hopes and violated rights still held it attached.\n\n\n\n\nXXXI\n\nTHE GHOST OF ROSEWARNE\n\nFrom HUNT'S \"Romances of the West of England\"\n\n\n\"Ezekiel Grosse, gent., attorney-at-law,\" bought the lands of Rosewarne\nfrom one of the De Rosewarnes, who had become involved in debt by\nendeavouring, without sufficient means, to support the dignity of his\nfamily. There is reason for believing that Ezekiel was the legal adviser\nof this unfortunate Rosewarne, and that he was not over-honest in his\ntransactions with his client. However this may be, Ezekiel Grosse had\nscarcely made Rosewarne his dwelling-place, before he was alarmed by\nnoises, at first of an unearthly character, and subsequently, one very\ndark night, by the appearance of the ghost himself in the form of a worn\nand aged man. The first appearance was in the park, but he subsequently\nrepeated his visits in the house, but always after dark. Ezekiel Grosse\nwas not a man to be terrified at trifles, and for some time he paid but\nslight attention to his nocturnal visitor. Howbeit the repetition of\nvisits, and certain mysterious indications on the part of the ghost,\nbecame annoying to Ezekiel. One night, when seated in his office\nexamining some deeds, and being rather irritable, having lost an\nimportant suit, his visitor approached him, making some strange\nindications which the lawyer could not understand. Ezekiel suddenly\nexclaimed, \"In the name of God, what wantest thou?\"\n\n\"To show thee, Ezekiel Grosse, where the gold for which thou longest\nlies buried.\"\n\nNo one ever lived upon whom the greed of gold was stronger than on\nEzekiel, yet he hesitated now that his spectral friend had spoken so\nplainly, and trembled in every limb as the ghost slowly delivered\nhimself in sepulchral tones of this telling speech.\n\nThe lawyer looked fixedly on the spectre; but he dared not utter a word.\nHe longed to obtain possession of the secret, yet he feared to ask him\nwhere he was to find this treasure. The spectre looked as fixedly at the\npoor trembling lawyer, as if enjoying the sight of his terror. At\nlength, lifting his finger, he beckoned Ezekiel to follow him, turning\nat the same time to leave the room. Ezekiel was glued to his seat; he\ncould not exert strength enough to move, although he desired to do so.\n\n\"Come!\" said the ghost, in a hollow voice. The lawyer was powerless to\ncome.\n\n\"Gold!\" exclaimed the old man, in a whining tone, though in a louder\nkey.\n\n\"Where?\" gasped Ezekiel.\n\n\"Follow me, and I will show thee,\" said the ghost. Ezekiel endeavoured\nto rise; but it was in vain.\n\n\"I command thee, come!\" almost shrieked the ghost. Ezekiel felt that he\nwas compelled to follow his friend; and by some supernatural power\nrather than his own, he followed the spectre out of the room, and\nthrough the hall, into the park.\n\nThey passed onward through the night--the ghost gliding before the\nlawyer, and guiding him by a peculiar phosphorescent light, which\nappeared to glow from every part of the form, until they arrived at a\nlittle dell, and had reached a small cairn formed of granite boulders.\nBy this the spectre rested; and when Ezekiel had approached it, and was\nstanding on the other side of the cairn, still trembling, the aged man,\nlooking fixedly in his face, said, in low tones, \"Ezekiel Grosse, thou\nlongest for gold, as I did. I won the glittering prize, but I could not\nenjoy it. Heaps of treasure are buried beneath those stones; it is\nthine, if thou diggest for it. Win the gold, Ezekiel. Glitter with the\nwicked ones of the world; and when thou art the most joyous, I will look\nin upon thy happiness.\" The ghost then disappeared, and as soon as\nGrosse could recover himself from the extreme trepidation,--the result\nof mixed feelings,--he looked about him, and finding himself alone, he\nexclaimed, \"Ghost or devil, I will soon prove whether or not thou\nliest!\" Ezekiel is said to have heard a laugh, echoing between the\nhills, as he said those words.\n\nThe lawyer noted well the spot; returned to his house; pondered on all\nthe circumstances of his case; and eventually resolved to seize the\nearliest opportunity, when he might do so unobserved, of removing the\nstones, and examining the ground beneath them.\n\nA few nights after this, Ezekiel went to the little cairn, and by the\naid of a crowbar, he soon overturned the stones, and laid the ground\nbare. He then commenced digging, and had not proceeded far when his\nspade struck against some other metal. He carefully cleared away the\nearth, and he then felt--for he could not see, having no light with\nhim--that he had uncovered a metallic urn of some kind. He found it\nquite impossible to lift it, and he was therefore compelled to cover it\nup again, and to replace the stones sufficiently to hide it from the\nobservation of any chance wanderer.\n\nThe next night Ezekiel found that this urn, which was of bronze,\ncontained gold coins of a very ancient date. He loaded himself with his\ntreasure, and returned home. From time to time, at night, as Ezekiel\nfound he could do so without exciting the suspicions of his servants, he\nvisited the urn, and thus by degrees removed all the treasure to\nRosewarne House. There was nothing in the series of circumstances which\nhad surrounded Ezekiel which he could less understand than the fact,\nthat the ghost of the old man had left off troubling him from the moment\nwhen he had disclosed to him the hiding-place of this treasure.\n\nThe neighbouring gentry could not but observe the rapid improvements\nwhich Ezekiel Grosse made in his mansion, his grounds, in his personal\nappearance, and indeed in everything by which he was surrounded. In a\nshort time he abandoned the law, and led in every respect the life of a\ncountry gentleman. He ostentatiously paraded his power to procure all\nearthly enjoyments, and, in spite of his notoriously bad character, he\nsucceeded in drawing many of the landed proprietors around him.\n\nThings went well with Ezekiel. The man who could in those days visit\nLondon in his own carriage and four was not without a large circle of\nflatterers. The lawyer who had struggled hard, in the outset of life, to\nsecure wealth, and who did not always employ the most honest means for\ndoing so, now found himself the centre of a circle to whom he could\npreach honesty, and receive from them expressions of the admiration in\nwhich the world holds the possessor of gold. His old tricks were\nforgotten, and he was put in places of honour. This state of things\ncontinued for some time; indeed, Grosse's entertainments became more and\nmore splendid, and his revels more and more seductive to those he\nadmitted to share them with him. The Lord of Rosewarne was the Lord of\nthe West. To him everyone bowed the knee: he walked the earth as the\nproud possessor of a large share of the planet.\n\nIt was Christmas Eve, and a large gathering there was at Rosewarne. In\nthe hall the ladies and gentlemen were in the full enjoyment of the\ndance, and in the kitchen all the tenantry and the servants were\nemulating their superiors. Everything went joyously; but when the mirth\nwas in full swing, and Ezekiel felt to the full the influence of wealth,\nit appeared as if all in a moment the chill of death had fallen over\neveryone. The dancers paused, and looked one at another, each one struck\nwith the other's paleness; and there, in the middle of the hall,\neveryone saw a strange old man looking angrily, but in silence, at\nEzekiel Grosse, who was fixed in terror, blank as a statue.\n\nNo one had seen this old man enter the hall, yet there he was in the\nmidst of them. It was but for a minute, and he was gone. Ezekiel, as if\na frozen torrent of water had thawed in an instant, recovered himself,\nand roared at them.\n\n\"What do you think of that for a Christmas play? Ha, ha, ha! How\nfrightened you all look! Butler, hand round the spiced wines! On with\nthe dancing, my friends! It was only a trick, ay, and a clever one,\nwhich I have put upon you. On with your dancing, my friends!\"\n\nBut with all his boisterous attempts to restore the spirit of the\nevening, Ezekiel could not succeed. There was an influence stronger than\nany he could command; and one by one, framing sundry excuses, his guests\ntook their departure, every one of them satisfied that all was not right\nat Rosewarne.\n\nFrom that Christmas Eve Grosse was a changed man. He tried to be his\nformer self; but it was in vain. Again and again he called his gay\ncompanions around him; but at every feast there appeared one more than\nwas desired. An aged man--weird beyond measure--took his place at the\ntable in the middle of the feast; and although he spoke not, he exerted\na miraculous power over all. No one dared to move; no one ventured to\nspeak. Occasionally Ezekiel assumed an appearance of courage, which he\nfelt not; rallied his guests, and made sundry excuses for the presence\nof his aged friend, whom he represented as having a mental infirmity,\nas being deaf and dumb. On all such occasions the old man rose from the\ntable, and looking at the host, laughed a demoniac laugh of joy, and\ndeparted as quietly as he came.\n\nThe natural consequence of this was that Ezekiel Grosse's friends fell\naway from him, and he became a lonely man, amidst his vast\npossessions--his only companion being his faithful clerk, John Call.\n\nThe persecuting presence of the spectre became more and more constant;\nand wherever the poor lawyer went, there was the aged man at his side.\nFrom being one of the finest men in the county, he became a miserably\nattenuated and bowed old man. Misery was stamped on every\nfeature--terror was indicated in every movement. At length he appears to\nhave besought his ghostly attendant to free him of his presence. It was\nlong before the ghost would listen to any terms; but when Ezekiel at\nlength agreed to surrender the whole of his wealth to anyone whom the\nspectre might indicate, he obtained a promise that upon this being\ncarried out, in a perfectly legal manner, in favour of John Call, that\nhe should no longer be haunted.\n\nThis was, after numerous struggles on the part of Ezekiel to retain his\nproperty, or at least some portion of it, legally settled, and John Call\nbecame possessor of Rosewarne and the adjoining lands. Grosse was then\ninformed that this evil spirit was one of the ancestors of the\nRosewarne, from whom by his fraudulent dealings he obtained the place,\nand that he was allowed to visit the earth again for the purpose of\ninflicting the most condign punishment on the avaricious lawyer. His\navarice had been gratified, his pride had been pampered to the highest;\nand then he was made a pitiful spectacle, at whom all men pointed, and\nno one pitied. He lived on in misery, but it was for a short time. He\nwas found dead; and the country people ever said that his death was a\nviolent one; they spoke of marks on his body, and some even asserted\nthat the spectre of De Rosewarne was seen rejoicing amidst a crowd of\ndevils, as they bore the spirit of Ezekiel over Carn Brea.\n\n\n\n\nXXXII\n\nTHE IRON CHEST OF DURLEY\n\nBy JOSEPH GLANVIL[12]\n\n\nMr _John Bourne_, for his Skill, Care and Honesty, was made by his\nNeighbour _John Mallet_, Esq., of _Enmore_, the chief of his Trustees,\nfor his Son _John Mallet_ (Father to Elizabeth, now Countess Dowager of\n_Rochester_) and the rest of his Children in Minority. He had the\nreputation of a worthy good Man, and was commonly taken notice of for an\nhabitual Saying, by way of Interjection almost to anything, viz. _You\nsay true, you say true, you are in the right._ This Mr Bourne fell sick\nat his House at Durley, in the year 1654, and Dr _Raymond of Oak_ was\nsent for to him, who after some time, gave the said Mr Bourne over. And\nhe had not now spoken in twenty-four Hours, when the said Dr Raymond,\nand Mrs _Carlisle_ (Mr Bourne's Nephew's Wife, whose Husband he had made\none of his Heirs) sitting by his bedside, the Doctor opened the\nBed-curtains at the Bed's-feet, to give him air; when on a sudden, to\nthe Horror and Amazement of Dr Raymond, and Mrs Carlisle, the great Iron\nChest by the Window, at his Bed's-feet, with three Locks to it (in which\nwere all the Writings and Evidences of the said Mr Mallet's Estate),\nbegan to open, first one Lock, and then another, then the third;\nafterwards the Lid of the Chest, lifted up of itself, and stood wide\nopen. Then the patient, Mr Bourne, who had not spoke in 24 Hours, lifted\nhimself up also, and looking upon the Chest, cry'd: _You say true, you\nsay true, you are in the right, I'll be with you by and by._ So the\nPatient lay down, and spake no more. Then the Chest fell again of\nitself, and lock'd itself, one Lock after another, as the 3 Locks\nopened; and they tried to knock it open, and could not, and Mr Bourne\ndied within an Hour after.\n\n_N.B._--This Narrative was sent in a Letter to J.C., directed for Dr H.\nMore from Mr Thomas Alcock, of Shear-Hampton; of which in a Letter to\nthe said Doctor, he gives this Account. I am, said he, very confident of\nthe truth of the Story; for I had it from a very good Lady, the eldest\ndaughter of the said John Mallet (whose Trustee Mr Bourne was) and only\nAunt to the Countess of Rochester, who knew all the parties; and I have\nheard Dr Raymond, and Mr Carlisle, relate it often with amazement, being\nboth Persons of Credit.\n\nThe curious may be inquisitive what the meaning of the opening of the\nChest may be, and of Mr Bourne his saying _You say true, etc., I'll be\nwith you by and by_. As for the former, it is noted by Paracelsus\nespecially, and by others, that there are signs often given of the\nDeparture of sick Men lying on their death beds, of which this opening\nof the Iron Coffer or Chest, and closing again, is more than ordinary\nsignificant, especially if we recall to mind that of Virgil:\n\n    \"Olli dura quies oculos & _ferreus_ urget\n    Somnus----\"\n\nThough this quaintness is more than is requisite in these Prodigies\npresaging the sick Man's Death. As for the latter, it seems to be\nnothing else but the saying _Amen_ to the Presage, uttered in his\naccustomary form of Speech, as if he should say, you of the invisible\nKingdom of Spirits, have given the Token of my sudden Departure, and you\nsay true, I shall be with you by and by. Which he was enabled so\nassuredly to assent to, upon the advantage of the relaxation of his Soul\nnow departing from the Body: Which Diodorus Siculus, lib. 18, notes to\nbe the Opinion of Pythagoras and his followers, that it is the privilege\nof the Soul near her Departure, to exercise a fatidical Faculty, and to\npronounce truly touching things future.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[Footnote 12: _Sadducismus Triumphatus._]\n\n\n\n\nXXXIII\n\nTHE STRANGE CASE OF M. BEZUEL\n\nFrom CHRISTMAS' \"Phantom World\"\n\n\n\"In 1695,\" said M. Bezuel, \"being a schoolboy of about fifteen years of\nage, I became acquainted with the two children of M. Abaquene, attorney,\nschoolboys like myself. The eldest was of my own age, the second was\neighteen months younger; he was named Desfontaines; we took all our\nwalks and all our parties of pleasure together, and whether it was that\nDesfontaines had more affection for me, or that he was more gay,\nobliging, and clever than his brother, I loved him the best.\n\n\"In 1696, we were walking both of us in the cloister of the Capuchins.\nHe told me that he had lately read a story of two friends who had\npromised each other that the first of them who died should come and\nbring news of his condition to the one still living; that the one who\ndied came back to earth, and told his friend surprising things. Upon\nthat, Desfontaines told me that he had a favour to ask me; that he\nbegged me to grant it instantly; it was to make him a similar promise,\nand on his part he would do the same. I told him that I would not. For\nseveral months he talked to me of it, often and seriously; I always\nresisted his wish. At last, towards the month of August 1696, as he was\nto leave to go and study at Caen, he pressed me so much with tears in\nhis eyes, that I consented to it. He drew out at that moment two little\npapers which he had ready written; one was signed with his blood, in\nwhich he promised me that in case of his death he would come and bring\nme news of his condition; in the other, I promised him the same thing. I\npricked my finger; a drop of blood came with which I signed my name. He\nwas delighted to have my billet, and embracing me, thanked me a thousand\ntimes.\n\n\"Some time after, he set off with his tutor. Our separation caused us\nmuch grief, but we wrote to each other now and then, and it was but six\nweeks since I had had a letter from him, when what I am going to relate\nto you happened to me.\n\n\"The 31st of July, 1697, one Thursday,--I shall remember it all my\nlife,--the late M. Sorteville, with whom I lodged, and who had been very\nkind to me, begged of me to go to a meadow near the Cordeliers, and help\nhis people, who were making hay, and to make haste. I had not been there\na quarter of an hour, when, about half-past two, I all of a sudden felt\ngiddy and weak. In vain I lent upon my hay-fork; I was obliged to place\nmyself on a little hay, where I was nearly half an hour recovering my\nsenses. That passed off; but as nothing of the kind had ever occurred to\nme before, I was surprised at it, and I feared it might be the\ncommencement of an illness. Nevertheless, it did not make much\nimpression upon me during the remainder of the day. It is true, I did\nnot sleep that night so well as usual.\n\n\"The next day, at the same hour, as I was conducting to the meadow M. de\nSt Simon, the grandson of M. de Sorteville, who was then ten years old,\nI felt myself seized on the way with a similar faintness, and I sat down\non a stone in the shade. That passed off, and we continued our way;\nnothing more happened to me that day, and at night I had hardly any\nsleep.\n\n\"At last, on the morrow, the second day of August, being in the loft\nwhere they laid up the hay they brought from the meadow, I was taken\nwith a similar giddiness and a similar faintness, but still more violent\nthan the other. I fainted away completely; one of the men perceived it.\nI have been told that I was asked what was the matter with me, and that\nI replied, 'I have seen what I never should have believed'; but I have\nno recollection of either the question or the answer. That, however,\naccords with what I do remember to have seen just then; as it were\nsomeone naked to the middle, but whom, however, I did not recognise.\nThey helped me down from the ladder. The faintness seized me again; my\nhead swam as I was between two rounds of the ladder, and again I\nfainted. They took me down and placed me on a beam which served for a\nseat in the large square of the Capuchins. I sat down on it, and then I\nno longer saw M. de Sorteville nor his domestics, although present; but\nperceiving Desfontaines near the foot of the ladder, who made me a sign\nto come to him, I moved on my seat as if to make room for him; and those\nwho saw me and whom I did not see, although my eyes were open, remarked\nthis movement.\n\n\"As he did not come, I rose to go to him. He advanced towards me, took\nmy left arm with his right arm, and led me about thirty paces from\nthence into a retired street, holding me still under the arm. The\ndomestics, supposing that my giddiness had passed off, and that I had\npurposely retired, went everyone to their work, except a little servant\nwho went and told M. de Sorteville that I was talking all alone. M. de\nSorteville thought I was tipsy; he drew near, and heard me ask some\nquestions, and make some answers, which he has told me since.\n\n\"I was there nearly three-quarters of an hour, conversing with\nDesfontaines. 'I promised you,' said he to me, 'that if I died before\nyou I would come and tell you of it. I was drowned the day before\nyesterday in the river of Caen, at nearly this same hour. I was out\nwalking with such and such a one. It was very warm, and we had a wish to\nbathe; a faintness seized me in the water, and I fell to the bottom.\nThe Abbe de Menil-Jean, my comrade, dived to bring me up. I seized hold\nof his foot; but whether he was afraid it might be a salmon, because I\nheld him so fast, or that he wished to remount promptly to the surface\nof the water, he shook his legs so roughly, that he gave me a violent\nkick on the breast, which sent me to the bottom of the river, which is\nthere very deep.'\n\n\"Desfontaines related to me afterwards all that had occurred to them in\ntheir walk, and the subjects they had conversed upon. It was in vain for\nme to ask him questions--whether he was saved, whether he was damned, if\nhe was in purgatory, if I was in a state of grace, and if I should soon\nfollow him; he continued to discourse as if he had not heard me, and as\nif he would not hear me.\n\n\"I approached him several times to embrace him, but it seemed to me that\nI embraced nothing, and yet I felt very sensibly that he held me tightly\nby the arm, and that when I tried to turn away my head that I might not\nsee him, because I could not look at him without feeling afflicted, he\nshook my arm as if to oblige me to look at and listen to him.\n\n\"He always appeared to me taller than I had seen him, and taller even\nthan he was at the time of his death, although he had grown during the\neighteen months in which we had not met. I beheld him always naked to\nthe middle of his body, his head uncovered, with his fine hair, and a\nwhite scroll twisted in his hair over his forehead, on which there was\nsome writing, but I could only make out the word _In_....\n\n\"It was his usual tone of voice. He appeared to me neither gay nor sad,\nbut in a calm and tranquil state. He begged of me, when his brother\nreturned, to tell him certain things to say to his father and mother. He\nbegged me to say the Seven Psalms which had been given him as a penance\nthe preceding Sunday, which he had not yet recited; again he recommended\nme to speak to his brother, and then he bade me adieu, saying, as he\nleft me, '_Jusques, jusques_' (_till, till_), which was the usual term\nhe made use of when at the end of our walk we bade each other good-bye,\nto go home.\n\n\"He told me that at the time he was drowned, his brother, who was\nwriting a translation, regretted having let him go without accompanying\nhim, fearing some accident. He described to me so well where he was\ndrowned, and the tree in the avenue of Louvigni on which he had written\na few words, that two years afterwards, being there with the late\nChevalier de Getel, one of these who were with him at the time he was\ndrowned, I pointed out to him the very spot; and by counting the trees\nin a particular direction which Desfontaines had specified to me, I went\nstraight up to the tree, and I found his writing. He (the Chevalier)\ntold me also that the article of the Seven Psalms was true, and that on\ncoming from confession that they had told each other their penance; and\nsince then his brother has told me that it was quite true that at that\nhour he was writing his exercise, and he reproached himself for not\nhaving accompanied his brother. As nearly a month passed by without my\nbeing able to do what Desfontaines had told me in regard to his brother,\nhe appeared to me again twice before dinner at a country house whither I\nhad gone to dine a league from hence. I was very faint. I told them not\nto mind me, that it was nothing, and that I should soon recover myself;\nand I went to a corner of the garden. Desfontaines having appeared to\nme, reproached me for not having yet spoken to his brother, and again\nconversed with me for a quarter of an hour without answering any of my\nquestions.\n\n\"As I was going in the morning to Notre-Dame de la Victoire, he appeared\nto me again, but for a shorter time, and pressed me always to speak to\nhis brother, and left me, saying still, '_Jusques, jusques_,' without\nchoosing to reply to my questions.\n\n\"It is a remarkable thing that I always felt a pain in that part of my\narm which he had held me by the first time, until I had spoken to his\nbrother. I was three days without being able to sleep, from the\nastonishment and agitation I felt. At the end of the first conversation,\nI told M. de Varonville, my neighbour and schoolfellow, that\nDesfontaines had been drowned; that he himself had just appeared to me\nand told me so. He went away and ran to the parents' house to know if it\nwas true; they had just received the news, but by a mistake he\nunderstood that it was the eldest. He assured me that he had read the\nletter of Desfontaines, and he believed it; but I maintained always that\nit could not be, and that Desfontaines himself had appeared to me. He\nreturned, came back, and told me in tears that it was but too true.\"\n\n\n\n\nXXXIV\n\nTHE MARQUIS DE RAMBOUILLET\n\n\"The Phantom World\"\n\n\nThe Marquis de Rambouillet, eldest brother of the Duchess of Montauzier,\nand the Marquis de Precy, eldest son of the family of Nantouillet, both\nof them between twenty and thirty, were intimate friends, and went to\nthe wars, as in France do all men of quality. As they were conversing\none day together on the subject of the other world, they promised each\nother that the first who died should come and bring the news to his\ncompanion. At the end of three months the Marquis de Rambouillet set off\nfor Flanders, where the war was then being carried on; and de Precy,\ndetained by a high fever, remained at Paris. Six weeks afterwards de\nPrecy, at six in the morning, heard the curtains of his bed drawn, and\nturning to see who it was, he perceived the Marquis de Rambouillet in\nhis buff vest and boots; he sprung out of bed to embrace him to show his\njoy at his return, but Rambouillet, retreating a few steps, told him\nthat these caresses were no longer seasonable, for he only came to keep\nhis word with him; that he had been killed the day before on such an\noccasion; that all that was said of the other world was certainly true;\nthat he must think of leading a different life; and that he had no time\nto lose, as he would be killed the first action he was engaged in.\n\nIt is impossible to express the surprise of the Marquis de Precy at this\ndiscourse; as he could not believe what he heard, he made several\nefforts to embrace his friend, whom he thought desirous of deceiving\nhim, but he embraced only air; and Rambouillet, seeing that he was\nincredulous, showed the wound he had received, which was in the side,\nwhence the blood still appeared to flow. After that the phantom\ndisappeared, and left de Precy in a state of alarm more easy to\ncomprehend than describe; he called at the same time his _valet de\nchambre_, and awakened all the family with his cries. Several persons\nran to his room, and he related to them what he had just seen. Everyone\nattributed this vision to the violence of the fever, which might have\nderanged his imagination; they begged of him to go to bed again,\nassuring him that he must have dreamt what he told them.\n\nThe Marquis, in despair, on seeing that they took him for a visionary,\nrelated all the circumstances I have just recounted; but it was in vain\nfor him to protest that he had seen and heard his friend, being\nwideawake; they persisted in the same idea until the arrival of the post\nfrom Flanders, which brought the news of the death of the Marquis de\nRambouillet.\n\nThis first circumstance being found true, and in the same manner as de\nPrecy had said, those to whom he had related the adventure began to\nthink that there might be something in it, because Rambouillet having\nbeen killed precisely on the eve of the day he had said it, it was\nimpossible de Precy should have known of it in a natural way. This event\nhaving spread in Paris, they thought it was the effect of a disturbed\nimagination, or a made-up story; and whatever might be said by the\npersons who examined the thing seriously, there remained in people's\nminds a suspicion, which time alone could disperse: this depended upon\nwhat might happen to Marquis de Precy, who was threatened that he should\nbe slain in the first engagement; thus everyone regarded his fate as the\n_denouement_ of the piece; but he soon confirmed everything they had\ndoubted the truth of, for as soon as he recovered from his illness he\nwould go to the combat of St Antoine, although his father and mother,\nwho were afraid of the prophecy, said all they could to prevent him; he\nwas killed there, to the great regret of all his family.\n\n\n\n\nXXXV\n\nTHE ALTHEIM REVENANT\n\n\"The Phantom World\"\n\n\nA monk of the Abbey of Toussaints relates that on the 9th of September\n1625 a man named John Steinlin died at a place called Altheim, in the\ndiocese of Constance. Steinlin was a man in easy circumstances, and a\ncommon-councilman of his town. Some days after his death he appeared\nduring the night to a tailor, named Simon Bauh, in the form of a man\nsurrounded by a sombre flame, like that of lighted sulphur, going and\ncoming in his own house, but without speaking. Bauh, who was disquieted\nby this sight, resolved to ask him what he could do to serve him. He\nfound an opportunity to do so, the 17th of November in the same year,\n1625; for, as he was reposing at night near his stove, a little after\neleven o'clock, he beheld this spectre environed by fire like sulphur,\nwho came into his room, going and coming, shutting and opening the\nwindows. The tailor asked him what he desired. He replied, in a hoarse\ninterrupted voice, that he could help very much, if he would; \"but,\"\nadded he, \"do not promise me to do so, if you are not resolved to\nexecute your promises.\" \"I will execute them, if they are not beyond my\npower,\" replied he.\n\n\"I wish, then,\" replied the spirit, \"that you would cause a mass to be\nsaid, in the Chapel of the Virgin at Rotembourg; I made a vow to that\nintent during my life, and I have not acquitted myself of it. Moreover,\nyou must have two masses said at Altheim, the one of the Defunct and the\nother of the Virgin; and as I did not always pay my servants exactly, I\nwish that a quarter of corn should be distributed to the poor.\" Simon\npromised to satisfy him on all these points. The spectre held out his\nhand, as if to ensure his promise; but Simon, fearing that some harm\nmight happen to himself, tendered him the board which came to hand, and\nthe spectre having touched it, left the print of his hand with the four\nfingers and thumb, as if fire had been there, and had left a pretty deep\nimpression. After that he vanished with so much noise that it was heard\nthree houses off.\n\n\n\n\nXXXVI\n\nSERTORIUS AND HIS HIND\n\nNORTH'S \"Plutarch\"\n\n\nSo soone as Sertorius arriued from Africa, he straight leauied men of\nwarre, and with them subdued the people of Spaine fronting upon his\nmarches, of which the more part did willingly submit themselues, upon\nthe bruit that ran of him to be merciful and courteous, and a valiant\nman besides in present danger. Furthermore, he lacked no fine deuises\nand subtilties to win their goodwills: as among others, the policy, and\ndeuise of the hind. There was a poore man of the countrey called Spanus,\nwho meeting by chance one day with a hind in his way that had newly\ncalued, flying from the hunters, he let the damme go, not being able to\ntake her; and running after her calfe tooke it, which was a young hind,\nand of a strange haire, for she was all milk-white. It chanced so, that\nSertorius was at that time in those parts. So, this poore man presented\nSertorius with his young hind, which he gladly receiued, and which with\ntime he made so tame, that she would come to him when he called her, and\nfollow him whereeuer he went, being nothing the wilder for the daily\nsight of such a number of armed souldiers together as they were, nor yet\nafraid of the noise and tumult of the campe. Insomuch as Sertorius by\nlittle and little made it a miracle, making the simple barbarous people\nbeleeue that it was a gift that Diana had sent him, by the which she\nmade him understand of many and sundrie things to come: knowing well\ninough of himselfe, that the barbarous people were men easily deceiued,\nand quickly caught by any subtill superstition, besides that by art also\nhe brought them to beleeue it as a thing verie true. For when he had any\nsecret intelligence giuen him, that the enemies would inuade some part\nof the countries and prouinces subject vnto him, or that they had taken\nany of his forts from him by any intelligence or sudden attempt, he\nstraight told them that his hind spake to him as he slept, and had\nwarned him both to arme his men, and put himselfe in strength. In like\nmanner if he had heard any newes that one of his lieutenants had wonne a\nbattell, or that he had any aduantage of his enemies, he would hide the\nmessenger, and bring his hind abroad with a garland and coller of\nnosegayes: and then say, it was a token of some good newes comming\ntowards him, perswading them withall to be of good cheare; and so did\nsacrifice to the gods, to giue them thankes for the good tidings he\nshould heare before it were long. Thus by putting this superstition into\ntheir heades, he made them the more tractable and obedient to his will,\nin so much as they thought they were not now gouerned any more by a\nstranger wiser than themselues, but were steadfastly perswaded that they\nwere rather led by some certaine god.----\n\nNow was Sertorius very heauie, that no man could tell him what was\nbecome of his white hind: for thereby all his subtilltie and finenesse\nto keepe the barbarous people in obedience was taken away, and then\nspecially when they stood in need of most comfort. But by good hap,\ncertaine of his souldiers that had lost themselves in the night, met\nwith the hind in their way, and knowing her by her colour, tooke her and\nbrought her backe againe. Sertorius hearing of her, promised them a good\nreward, so that they would tell no liuing creature that they brought her\nagaine, and thereupon made her to be secretly kept. Then within a few\ndayes after, he came abroad among them, and with a pleasant countenance\ntold the noble men and chiefe captaines of these barbarous people, how\nthe gods had reuealed it to him in his dreame, that he should shortly\nhaue a maruellous good thing happen to him: and with these words sate\ndowne in his chaire to giue audience. Whereupon they that kept the hind\nnot farre from thence, did secretly let her go. The hind being loose,\nwhen she had spied Sertorius, ranne straight to his chaire with great\njoy, and put her head betwixt his legges, and layed her mouth in his\nright hand, as she before was wont to do. Sertorius also made very much\nof her, and of purpose appeared maruellous glad, shewing much tender\naffection to the hind, as it seemed the water stood in his eyes for joy.\nThe barbarous people that stood there by and beheld the same, at the\nfirst were much amazed therewith, but afterwards when they had better\nbethought themselues, for ioy they clapped their hands together, and\nwaited upon Sertorius to his lodging with great and ioyfull shouts,\nsaying, and steadfastly beleeuing, that he was a heavenly creature, and\nbeloued of the gods.\n\n\n\n\nXXXVII\n\nERICHTHO\n\nBy E.W. GODWIN. (From Lucan.)\n\n\nWhen Sextus sought Erichtho he chose his time in the depth of the night,\nwhen the sun is at its lowermost distance from the upper sky. He took\nfor companions the associates of his crimes. Wandering among broken\ngraves and crumbling sepulchres, they discovered her, sitting sublime on\na ragged rock, where Mount Haemus stretches its roots to the Pharsalic\nfield. She was mumbling charms of the Magi and the magical gods. For she\nfeared that the war might yet be transferred to other than the Emathian\nfields. The sorceress was busy therefore enchanting the soil of\nPhilippi, and scattering on its surface the juice of potent herbs, that\nit might be heaped with carcasses of the dead, and saturated with their\nblood, that Macedon, and not Italy, might receive the bodies of departed\nkings and the bones of the noble, and might be amply peopled with the\nshades of men. Her choicest labour was as to the earth where should be\ndeposited the prostrate Pompey, or the limbs of the mighty Caesar.\n\nSextus approached, and bespoke her thus: \"Oh, glory of Haemonia, that\nhast the power to divulge the fates of men, or canst turn aside fate\nitself from its prescribed course, I pray thee to exercise thy gift in\ndisclosing events to come. Not the meanest of the Roman race am I, the\noffspring of an illustrious chieftain, lord of the world in the one\ncase, or in the other the destined heir to my father's calamity. I stand\non a tremendous and giddy height: snatch me from this posture of doubt;\nlet me not blindly rush on, and blindly fall; extort this secret from\nthe gods, or force the dead to confess what they know.\"\n\nTo whom the Thessalian crone replied: \"If you asked to change the fate\nof an individual, though it were to restore an old man, decrepit with\nage, to vigorous youth, I could comply; but to break the eternal chain\nof causes and consequences exceeds even our power. You seek, however,\nonly a foreknowledge of events to come, and you shall be gratified.\nMeanwhile it were best, where slaughter has afforded so ample a field,\nto select the body of one newly deceased, and whose flexible organs\nshall be yet capable of speech, not with lineaments already hardened in\nthe sun.\"\n\nSaying thus, Erichtho proceeded (having first with her art made the\nnight itself more dark, and involved her head in a pitchy cloud), to\nexplore the field, and examine one by one the bodies of the unburied\ndead. As she approached, the wolves fled before her, and the birds of\nprey, unwillingly sheathing their talons, abandoned their repast, while\nthe Thessalian witch, searching into the vital parts of the frames\nbefore her, at length fixed on one whose lungs were uninjured, and whose\norgans of speech had sustained no wound. The fate of many hung in doubt,\ntill she had made her selection. Had the revival of whole armies been\nher will, armies would have stood up obedient to her bidding. She passed\na hook beneath the jaw of the selected one, and, fastening it to a cord,\ndragged him along over rocks and stones, till she reached a cave,\noverhung by a projecting ridge. A gloomy fissure in the ground was\nthere, of a depth almost reaching to the infernal gods, where the\nyew-tree spread thick its horizontal branches, at all times excluding\nthe light of the sun. Fearful and withering shade was there, and noisome\nslime cherished by the livelong night. The air was heavy and flagging as\nthat of the Taenarian promontory; and hither the god of hell permits his\nghosts to extend their wanderings. It is doubtful whether the sorceress\ncalled up the dead to attend her here, or herself descended to the\nabodes of Pluto. She put on a fearful and variegated robe; she covered\nher face with her dishevelled hair, and bound her brow with a wreath of\nvipers.\n\nMeanwhile she observed Sextus afraid, with his eyes fixed on the ground,\nand his companions trembling; and thus she reproached them. \"Lay aside,\"\nshe said, \"your vainly-conceived terrors! You shall behold only a living\nand a human figure, whose accents you may listen to with perfect\nsecurity. If this alarms you, what would you say if you should have seen\nthe Stygian lakes, and the shores burning with sulphur unconsumed, if\nthe Furies stood before you, and Cerberus with his mane of vipers, and\nthe Giants chained in eternal adamant? Yet all these you might have\nwitnessed unharmed; for all these would quail at the terror of my brow.\"\n\nShe spoke, and next plied the dead body with her arts. She supples his\nwounds, and infuses fresh blood into his veins: she frees his scars from\nthe clotted gore, and penetrates them with froth from the moon. She\nmixes whatever nature has engendered in its most fearful caprices, foam\nfrom the jaws of a mad dog, the entrails of the lynx, the backbone of\nthe hyena, and the marrow of a stag that had dieted on serpents, the\nsinews of the remora, and the eyes of a dragon, the eggs of the eagle,\nthe flying serpent of Arabia, the viper that guards the pearl in the Red\nSea, the slough of the hooded snake, and the ashes that remain when the\nphoenix has been consumed. To these she adds all venom that has a\nname, the foliage of herbs over which she has sung her charms, and on\nwhich she had voided her rheum as they grew.\n\nAt length she chants her incantation to the Stygian Gods, in a voice\ncompounded of all discords, and altogether alien to human organs. It\nresembles at once the barking of a dog and the howl of a wolf; it\nconsists of the hooting of the screech-owl, the yelling of a ravenous\nwild beast, and the fearful hiss of a serpent. It borrows somewhat from\nthe roar of tempestuous waves, the hollow rushing of the winds among the\nbranches of the forest, and the tremendous crash of deafening thunder.\n\n\"Ye Furies,\" she cries, \"and dreadful Styx, ye sufferings of the damned,\nand Chaos, for ever eager to destroy the fair harmony of worlds, and\nthou, Pluto, condemned, to an eternity of ungrateful existence, Hell,\nand Elysium, of which no Thessalian witch shall partake, Proserpine, for\never cut off from thy health-giving mother, and horrid Hecate, Cerberus\ncurst with incessant hunger, ye Destinies, and Charon endlessly\nmurmuring at the task I impose of bringing back the dead again to the\nland of the living, hear me!--if I call on you with a voice sufficiently\nimpious and abominable, if I have never sung this chaunt, unsated with\nhuman gore, if I have frequently laid on your altars the fruit of the\npregnant mother, bathing its contents with the reeking brain, if I have\nplaced on a dish before you the head and entrails of an infant on the\npoint to be born----\n\n\"I ask not of you a ghost, already a tenant of the Tartarean abodes, and\nlong familiarised to the shades below, but one who has recently quitted\nthe light of day, and who yet hovers over the mouth of hell; let him\nhear these incantations, and immediately after descend to his destined\nplace! Let him articulate suitable omens to the son of his general,\nhaving so late been himself a soldier of the great Pompey! Do this, as\nyou love the very sound and rumour of a civil war!\"\n\nSaying this, behold, the ghost of the dead man stood erect before her,\ntrembling at the view of his own unanimated limbs, and loth to enter\nagain the confines of his wonted prison. He shrinks to invest himself\nwith the gored bosom, and the fibres from which death had separated him.\nUnhappy wretch, to whom death had not given the privilege to die!\nErichtho, impatient at the unlooked-for delay, lashes the unmoving\ncorpse with one of her serpents. She calls anew on the powers of hell,\nand threatens to pronounce the dreadful name, which cannot be\narticulated without consequences never to be thought of, nor without the\ndirest necessity to be ventured upon.\n\nAt length the congealed blood becomes liquid and warm; it oozes from the\nwounds, and creeps steadily along the veins and the members; the fibres\nare called into action beneath the gelid breast, and the nerves once\nmore become instinct with life. Life and death are there at once. The\narteries beat; the muscles are braced; the body raises itself, not by\ndegrees, but at a single impulse, and stands erect. The eyelids unclose.\nThe countenance is not that of a living subject, but of the dead. The\npaleness of the complexion, the rigidity of the lines, remain; and he\nlooks about with an unmeaning stare, but utters no sound. He waits on\nthe potent enchantress.\n\n\"Speak!\" said she, \"and ample shall be your reward. You shall not again\nbe subject to the art of the magician. I will commit your members to\nsuch a sepulchre; I will burn your form with such wood, and will chaunt\nsuch a charm over your funeral pyre, that all incantations shall\nthereafter assail you in vain. Be it enough, that you have once been\nbrought back to life! Tripods, and the voice of oracles deal in\nambiguous responses; but the voice of the dead is perspicuous and\ncertain to him who receives it with an unshrinking spirit. Spare not!\nGive names to things; give places a clear designation, speak with a full\nand articulate voice.\"\n\nSaying this, she added a further spell, qualified to give to him who was\nto answer, a distinct knowledge of that respecting which he was about to\nbe consulted. He accordingly delivers the responses demanded of him;\nand, that done, earnestly requires of the witch to be dismissed. Herbs\nand magic rites are necessary, that the corpse may be again unanimated,\nand the spirit never more be liable to be recalled to the realms of day.\nThe sorceress constructs the funeral pile; the dead man places himself\nupon it; Erichtho applies the torch, and the charm is ended for ever.\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\nOMENS AND PHANTASMS\n\n\n\n\nXXXVIII\n\nPATROKLOS\n\nHOMER'S _Iliad_ (E.H. Blakeney's translation[13])\n\n\nThen there came unto him the ghost of poor Patroklos, in all things like\nunto the very man, in stature, and fair eyes, and voice; and he was\narrayed in vesture such as in life he wore. He stood above the hero's\nhead and challenged him:--\n\n\"Thou sleepest, Achilles, unmindful of me. Not in my lifetime wert thou\nneglectful, but in death. Bury me with all speed; let me pass the gates\nof Hades. Far off the souls, wraiths of the dead, keep me back, nor\nsuffer me yet to join them beyond the river; forlorn I wander up and\ndown the wide-doored house of Hades. And now give me thy hand, I\nentreat; for never more shall I return from Hades, when once ye have\ngiven me my meed of fire. Nay, never more shall we sit, at least in\nlife, apart from our comrades, taking counsel together; but upon me\nhateful doom hath gaped--doom which was my portion even at birth. Aye\nand to thee thyself also, Achilles, thou peer of the gods, it is fated\nto perish beneath the wall of the wealthy Trojans. Another thing I will\ntell thee, and will straitly charge thee, if peradventure thou wilt\nhearken: lay not my bones apart from thine, Achilles, but side by side;\nfor we were brought up together in thy house, when Menoitios brought me,\na child, from Opoeeis to thy father's house because of woeful bloodshed\non the day when I slew the son of Amphidamas, myself a child,\nunwittingly, but in wrath over our games. Then did Peleus, the knight,\ntake me into his home and rear me kindly and name me thy squire. So let\none urn also hide the bones of us both.\"\n\nAnd swift-footed Achilles answered him and said:--\n\n\"Why, dearest and best-beloved, hast thou come hither to lay upon me\nthese thy several behests? Of a truth I will accomplish all, and bow to\nthy command. But stand nearer, I pray; for a little space let us cast\nour arms about each other, and take our fill of dire sorrow.\"\n\nWith these words he stretched forth his hands to clasp him, but could\nnot; for, like a smoke, the spirit vanished earthward with a wailing\ncry. Amazed, Achilles sprang up, and smote his hands together, and spake\na piteous word:--\n\n\"O ye heavens! surely, even among the dead, the soul and wraith are\nsomething (yet is there no life therein at all). For all night long the\nsoul of poor Patroklos stood beside me, crying and making lamentation,\nand bade me do his will; it was the perfect image of himself.\"\n\nSo he spake, and in the hearts of them all roused desire for\nlamentation; and while they yet were mourning about the pitiful corpse\nappeared rosy-fingered dawn.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[Footnote 13: George Bell & Sons.]\n\n\n\n\nXXXIX\n\nVISION OF CROMWELL\n\nBy \"ARISE EVANS\"\n\n\nA vision that I had presently after the king's death--I thought that I\nwas in a great hall, like the king's hall, or the castle in Winchester,\nand there was none there but a judge that sat upon the bench and myself;\nand as I turned to a window in the north-westward, and looking into the\npalm of my hand, there appeared to me a face, head and shoulders like\nthe Lord Fairfax's, and presently it vanished. Again, there arose the\nLord Cromwell, and he vanished likewise; then arose a young face and he\nhad a crown upon his head, and he vanished also; and another young face\narose with a crown upon his head, and he vanished also; and another\nyoung face arose with a crown upon his head, and vanished in like\nmanner; and as I turned the palm of my hand back again to me and looked,\nthere did appear no more in it. Then I turned to the judge and said to\nhim, there arose in my hand seven, and five of them had crowns; but when\nI turned my hand, the blood turned to its veins, and these appeared no\nmore: so I awoke. The interpretation of this vision is, that after the\nLord Cromwell, there shall be kings again in England, which thing is\nsignified unto us by those that arose after him, who were all crowned,\nbut the generations to come may look for a change of the blood, and of\nthe name in the royal seat, after five kings once passed, 2 Kings x. 30.\n(The words referred to in this text are these:) \"And the Lord said unto\nJehu, because thou hast done well, etc., thy children of the fourth\ngeneration shall sit upon the throne of Israel.\"\n\n\n\n\nXL\n\nLORD STRAFFORD'S WARNING\n\nBy the Rev. JOHN MASTIN\n\n\nIn the Rev. John Mastin's _History of Naseby_ is cited a story of an\napparition that was supposed to have appeared to Charles the First at\nDaintree, near Naseby, previous to the famous battle of that name.\n\nThe army of Charles, says the historian, consisting of less than 5000\nfoot, and about as many horse, was ordered to Daintree, whither the King\nwent with a thorough resolution of fighting. The next day, however, to\nthe surprise of Prince Rupert and all the rest of the army, this design\nwas given up, and the former one of going to the north resumed. The\nreason of this alteration in his plans was alleged to be some presages\nof ill-fortune which the King had received, and which were related to\nme, says Mr Mastin's authority, by a person of Newark, at that time in\nHis Majesty's horse. About two hours after the King had retired to rest,\nsaid the narrator, some of his attendants hearing an uncommon noise in\nhis chamber, went into it, where they found His Majesty sitting up in\nbed and much agitated, but nothing which could have produced the noise\nthey fancied they had heard. The King, in a tremulous voice, inquired\nafter the cause of their alarm, and told them how much he had been\ndisturbed, apparently by a dream, by thinking he had seen an apparition\nof Lord Strafford, who, after upbraiding him for his cruelty, told him\nhe was come to return him good for evil, and that he advised him by no\nmeans to fight the Parliament army that was at that time quartered at\nNorthampton, for it was one which the King could never conquer by arms.\nPrince Rupert, in whom courage was the predominant quality, rated the\nKing out of his apprehensions the next day, and a resolution was again\ntaken to meet the enemy. The next night, however, the apparition\nappeared to him a second time, but with looks of anger assuring him that\nwould be the last advice he should be permitted to give him, but that if\nhe kept his resolution of fighting he was undone. If His Majesty had\ntaken the advice of the friendly ghost, and marched northward the next\nday, where the Parliament had few English forces, and where the Scots\nwere becoming very discontented, his affairs might, perhaps, still have\nhad a prosperous issue, or if he had marched immediately into the west\nhe might afterwards have fought on more equal terms. But the King,\nfluctuating between the apprehensions of his imagination and the\nreproaches of his courage, remained another whole day at Daintree in a\nstate of inactivity. The battle of Naseby, fought 14th June 1645, put a\nfinishing stroke to the King's affairs. After this he could never get\ntogether an army fit to look the enemy in the face. He was often heard\nto say that he wished he had taken _the warning_, and not fought at\nNaseby; the meaning of which nobody knew but those to whom he had told\nof the apparition which he had seen at Daintree, and all of whom were,\nsubsequently, charged to keep the affair secret.\n\n\n\n\nXLI\n\nKOTTER'S RED CIRCLE\n\nFrom FERRIER'S \"Apparitions\"\n\n\nKotter's first vision was detailed by him, on oath, before the\nmagistrates of Sprottaw, in 1619. While he was travelling on foot, in\nopen daylight, in June 1616, a man appeared to him, who ordered him to\ninform the civil and ecclesiastical authorities, that great evils were\nimpending over Germany, for the punishment of the sins of the people;\nafter which he vanished. The same apparition met him at different times,\nand compelled him at length, by threats, to make this public\ndeclaration.\n\nAfter this, his visions assumed a more imposing appearance: on one\noccasion the angel (for such he was now confessed to be) showed him\nthree suns, filling one half of the heavens; and nine moons, with their\nhorns turned towards the east, filling the other half. At the same time,\na superb fountain of pure water spouted from the arid soil, under his\nfeet.\n\nAt another time, he beheld a mighty lion, treading on the moon, and\nseven other lions around him, in the clouds.\n\nSometimes he beheld the encounter of hostile armies, splendidly\naccoutred; sometimes he wandered through palaces, whose only inhabitants\nwere devouring monsters; or beheld dragons of enormous size, in various\nscenes of action.\n\nHe was at length attended by two angels, in his ecstasy; one of his\nvisions at this time was of the most formidable and impressive kind. \"On\nthe 13th day of September, says he, both the youths returned to me,\nsaying, be not afraid, but observe the thing which will be shewn to\nthee. And I suddenly beheld a circle, like the sun, red, and as it were,\nbloody: in which were black and white lines, or spots, so intermingled,\nthat sometimes there appeared a greater number of blacks, sometimes of\nwhite; and this sight continued for some space of time. And when they\nhad said to me, Behold! Attend! Fear not! No evil will befal thee! Lo,\nthere were three successive peals of thunder, at short intervals, so\nloud and dreadful, that I shuddered all over. But the circle stood\nbefore me, and the black and white spots were disunited, and the circle\napproached so near that I could have touched it with my hand. And it was\nso beautiful, that I had never in my life seen any thing more agreeable:\nand the white spots were so bright and pleasant, that I could not\ncontain my admiration. But the black spots were carried away in cloud of\nhorrible darkness, in which I heard a dismal outcry, though I could see\nno one. Yet these words of lamentation were audible: Woe unto us, who\nhave committed ourselves unto the black cloud, to be withdrawn from the\ncircle coloured with the blood of divine grace, in which the grace of\nGod, in his well-beloved Son, had inclosed us.\"\n\nAfter several other piteous exclamations, he saw a procession of many\nthousand persons, bearing palms, and singing hymns, but of very small\nstature, enter the red circle, from the black cloud, chanting\nhalleluiah.\n\n\n\n\nXLII\n\nTHE VISION OF CHARLES XI. OF SWEDEN\n\nFrom a _Proces-verbal_\n\n\nThe authenticity of the following narrative rests upon a\n_proces-verbal_, drawn out in form, and attested by the signatures of\nfour credible witnesses.\n\nCharles XI. was one of the most despotic and, at the same time, one of\nthe ablest monarchs that ever ruled the destinies of Sweden. History\nrepresents him as brave and enlightened, but of a harsh and inflexible\ndisposition; regulating his opinions by positive facts, and wholly\nungifted with imagination. At the period of which we are about to speak,\ndeath had bereaved him of his Queen, Ulrica Eleonora. Notwithstanding\nthe harshness which had marked his conduct to the Princess during her\nlifetime, and which, in the opinion of his subjects, had precipitated\nher into the grave, Charles revered her memory, and appeared more\naffected by her loss than might have been imagined from the natural\nsternness of his character. Subsequently to this event, he became more\ngloomy and taciturn than before, and devoted himself to study with an\nintensity of application that evinced his anxiety to escape the tortures\nof his own painful reflections. Towards the close of a dreary autumnal\nevening, the king, in slippers and _robe de chambre_, was seated before\na large fire, in a private cabinet of his palace at Stockholm. Near him\nwere his grand chamberlain, the Count de Brahe, who was honoured with\nthe favourite estimation of his sovereign, and the principal state\nphysician, Baumgarten, a learned disciple of Hippocrates, who aimed at\nthe reputation of an _esprit fort_, and who would have pardoned a\ndisbelief in anything except in the efficacy of his own prescriptions.\nThe last-mentioned personage had on that evening been hastily summoned\nto the presence of the monarch, who felt or fancied himself in need of\nhis professional skill. The evening was already far advanced, and the\nking, contrary to his wont, delayed bidding the customary \"goodnight to\nall,\"--the well-understood signal at which his guests always retired.\nWith his head bent down, and his eyes fixed upon the decaying embers,\nthat gradually withdrew even their mockery of warmth from the spacious\nfireplace, he maintained a strict silence, evidently fatigued with his\ncompany, yet dreading, though he scarcely knew why, to be left alone.\nThe grand chamberlain, who perceived that even his profound remarks\nfailed to excite the attention of the monarch, ventured to hint that his\nmajesty would do well to seek repose; a gesture of the king retained him\nin his place. The physician, in his turn, hazarded a casual observation\non the injurious tendency of late hours. The significant innuendoes\nwere, however, thrown away on Charles, who replied to them by muttering\nbetween his teeth, \"You may remain; I have no wish to sleep.\" This\npermission, with which the drowsy courtiers would willingly have\ndispensed, but which was really equivalent to a command, was succeeded\nby an attempt on their part to enliven his majesty with different\nsubjects of conversation. No topic, however, that they introduced could\noutlive the second or third phrase. The king was in one of his gloomy\nmoods; for royalty, with reverence be it spoken, has its moments of\nmerriment and ill-humour, its mixture of sunshine and of cloud; and be\nit known to thee, gentle reader, that ticklish is the position of a\ncourtier when majesty is in the dumps. To mend, or rather to mar the\nmatter, the grand chamberlain, imagining that the sadness which\novershadowed the royal brow came from regret, fixed his eyes upon a\nportrait of the queen, hung up in the cabinet, and with a sigh of pathos\nexclaimed, \"How striking the resemblance! and who could not recognise\nthe expression of majesty and gentleness, that----\" \"Fudge!\" cried the\nking. Conscience had probably something to do with the abruptness of the\nexclamation. The old chamberlain had unwittingly touched a tender chord;\nevery allusion to the queen appearing like a tacit reproach to the\naugust and widowed spouse. \"That portrait,\" added the king, \"is too\nflattering, the queen was far from handsome\"; then, as if inwardly\nrepentant of his harshness, he rose from his seat and paced the\napartment with hasty strides, to conceal the tears that had well-nigh\nbetrayed his emotion. He sat in the embrasure of a window which looked\nupon the court; the moon was obscured by a thick veil of clouds; not\neven a solitary star twinkled through the darkness. The palace at\npresent inhabited by the kings of Sweden was not at that time finished;\nand Charles XI., in whose reign it had been commenced, usually resided\nin an old-fashioned edifice, built something in the shape of a\nhorseshoe, and situated at the point of Ritterholm, commanding a view of\nLake Mader. The royal cabinet was at one of the extremities, nearly\nopposite to the grand hall or council-chamber, in which the States were\naccustomed to assemble when a message or communication from the crown\nwas expected. Just at this moment the windows of the council-chamber\nappeared brilliantly illuminated. The king was lost in surprise. He at\nfirst imagined the light to proceed from the torch of some domestic. Yet\nwhat could occasion so unseasonable a visit to a place that for a\nconsiderable time had been closed? Besides, the light was too vivid to\nbe produced by one single torch, it might have been attributed to a\nconflagration; but no smoke was perceptible, no noise was heard, the\nwindow glasses were not broken, everything in short seemed to indicate\nan illumination, such as takes place on public and solemn occasions.\nCharles, without uttering a word, remained gazing at the windows of the\ncouncil-chamber. The Count Brahe, who had already grasped the bell-cord,\nwas on the point of summoning a page, in order to ascertain the cause of\nthis singular illumination, when the king suddenly prevented him. \"I\nwill visit the chamber myself,\" said his majesty; the seriousness of his\ndeportment and the paleness of his countenance indicating a strange\nmixture of determination and superstitious awe. He quitted the cabinet\nwith the unhesitating step of one resolved to obtain mastery over\nhimself; the legislator of etiquette, and the regulator of bodies, each\nwith a lighted taper, followed him with fear and trembling. The keeper\nof the keys had already retired to rest; Baumgarten was despatched by\nthe king to awaken him, and to order him forthwith to open the doors of\nthe council-chamber. Unbounded was the worthy keeper's surprise at the\nunexpected intimation. Benign Providence, however, has ordained monarchs\nto command, and created keepers of keys to obey. The prudent Cerberus\nyawned, dressed himself in haste, and presented himself before his\nsovereign with the insignia of his office, a bunch of keys of various\ndimensions suspended at his girdle. He commenced by opening the door of\na gallery, which served as a sort of ante-room to the council-chamber.\nThe king entered; but his astonishment may be conceived, on finding the\nwalls of the building entirely hung with black. \"By whose order has this\nbeen done?\" demanded the king in a tone of anger. \"Sire,\" replied the\ntrembling keeper of the keys, \"I am ignorant; the last time the gallery\nwas opened it was wainscoted with oak, as usual, most assuredly these\nhangings are not from your majesty's wardrobe.\" The king, however, had\nby this time traversed at a rapid pace two-thirds of the gallery,\nwithout stopping to avail himself of the worshipful warden's\nconjectures. The latter personage and the grand chamberlain followed his\nmajesty, whilst the learned doctor lingered a little in the rear.\n\"Sire,\" cried the keeper of the keys, \"I beseech your majesty to go no\nfarther. As I have a living soul, there is witchcraft in this matter. At\nthis hour ... and since the death of the queen, God be gracious to us!\nIt is said that her majesty walks every night in this gallery.\" \"Hold,\nSire!\" cried the Count in his turn, \"do you not hear a strange noise\nwhich seems to proceed from the council-chamber? Who can foresee the\ndanger to which your majesty may expose your sacred person?\" \"Forward!\"\nreplied the resolute monarch in an imperative tone; and as he stopped\nbefore the door of the council-chamber, \"Quick! your keys!\" said he to\nthe keeper. He pushed the door violently with his foot, and the noise,\nrepeated by the echoes of the vaulted roof, resounded through the\ngallery like the report of a cannon. The old keeper trembled; he tried\none key, then another, but without success; his hand shook, his sight\nwas confused. \"A soldier, and afraid?\" cried Charles with a smile.\n\"Come, Count, you must be our usher: open that door.\" \"Sire,\" replied\nthe grand chamberlain stepping backwards, \"if your majesty command me to\nwalk up to the mouth of a Danish cannon, I will obey on the instant; but\nyou will not order me to combat with the devil and his imps?\" The\nmonarch snatched the keys from the palsied hands of the infirm old\nkeeper. \"I see,\" said his majesty in a tone of contempt, \"that I must\nfinish this adventure\"; and before his terrified suite could prevent his\ndesign, he had already opened the massy oaken door, and penetrated into\nthe council-chamber, first pronouncing the usual formula, \"with the help\nof God.\" The companions of his midnight excursion entered along with\nhim, prompted by a sentiment of curiosity, stronger on this occasion\neven than terror; their courage too was reinforced by a feeling of\nshame, which forbade them to abandon their sovereign in the hour of\nperil. The council-chamber was illuminated with an immense number of\ntorches. The ancient figured tapestry had been replaced by a black\ndrapery suspended on the walls, along which were ranged, in regular\norder, and according to the custom of those days, German, Danish, and\nMuscovite banners, trophies of the victories won by the soldiers of\nGustavus Adolphus. In the middle were distinguished the banners of\nSweden, covered with black crape. A numerous assemblage was seated on\nthe benches of the hall. The four orders of the state--the nobility, the\nclergy, the citizens, and the peasants,--were ranged according to the\nrespective disposition assigned to each. All were clothed in black; and\nthe multitude of human faces, that shone like so many luminous rays upon\na dark ground, dazzled the sight to such a degree that, of the four\nindividuals who witnessed this extraordinary scene, not one could\ndiscern amidst the crowd a countenance with which he was familiar; the\nposition of the four spectators might have been compared to that of\nactors, who, in presence of a numerous audience, were incapable of\ndistinguishing a single face among the confused mass. On the elevated\nthrone whence the monarch habitually harangued the assembly of the\nStates, was seated a bleeding corpse, invested with the emblems of\nroyalty. On the right of this apparition stood a child, a crown upon his\nhead and the sceptre in his hand; on the left an aged man, or rather\nanother phantom, leaned upon the throne, opposite to which were several\npersonages of austere and solemn demeanour, clothed in long black robes,\nand seated before a table covered with thick folios and parchments; from\nthe gravity of their deportment the latter seemed to be judges. Between\nthe throne and the portion of the council-chamber above which it was\nelevated, were placed an axe and a block covered with black crape. In\nthis unearthly assembly none seemed at all conscious of the presence of\nCharles, or of the three individuals by whom he was accompanied. At last\nthe oldest of the judges in black robes--he who appeared to discharge\nthe functions of president--rising with dignity, struck three times with\nhis hand upon an open folio. Profound silence immediately succeeded;\nsome youths of distinguished appearance, richly dressed, and with their\nhands fettered behind their backs, were led into the council-chamber by\na door opposite to that which Charles had opened. Behind them a man of\nvigrous mould held the extremity of the cord with which their hands were\npinioned. The prisoner who marched in the foremost rank, and whose air\nwas more imposing than that of the others, stopped in the midst of the\ncouncil-chamber before the block which he seemed to contemplate with\nhaughty disdain. At the same instant the corse seated on the throne was\nagitated by a convulsive tremor, and the purple tide flowed afresh from\nhis wounds. The youthful prisoner knelt upon the ground, and laid his\nhead upon the block; the fatal axe glittering in the air descended\nswiftly; a stream of blood forced its way even to the platform of the\nthrone, and mingled with that of the royal corse; whilst the head of the\nvictim, rebounding from the crimson pavement, rolled to the feet of\nCharles, and stained them with blood. Hitherto, astonishment had\nrendered the monarch dumb; but at this horrid spectacle his tongue was\nunloosed. He advanced a few steps towards the platform, and addressing\nhimself to the apparition on the left of the corse, boldly pronounced\nthe customary abjuration, \"If thou art of God, speak; if of the Evil\nOne, depart in peace.\" The phantom replied in slow and emphatic accents,\n\"Charles, not under thy reign shall this blood be shed [here the voice\nbecame indistinct]; five monarchs succeeding thee shall first sit on the\nthrone of Sweden. Woe, woe, woe to the blood of Wasa!\" Upon this the\nnumerous figures composing this extraordinary assemblage became less\ndistinct, till at last they resembled a mass of coloured shadows, soon\nafter which they disappeared altogether. The fantastic torches were\nextinguished of themselves, and those of Charles and his suite cast\ntheir dim, flickering light upon the old-fashioned tapestry with which\nthe chamber was usually hung, and which was now slightly moved by the\nwind. During some minutes longer a strange sort of melody was heard, a\nharmony compared by one of the eye-witnesses of this unparalleled scene\nto the murmur of the breeze agitating the foliage, and by another to the\nsound emitted by the breaking of a harp-string. All agreed upon one\npoint, the duration of the apparition, which they stated to have lasted\nabout ten minutes. The black drapery, the decapitated victim, the stream\nof blood which had inundated the platform, all had disappeared with the\nphantoms; every trace had vanished except a crimson spot, which still\nstained the slipper of Charles, and which alone would have sufficed to\nremind him of the horrid vision, had it been possible for any effort to\nerase it from his memory. Returning to his private cabinet, the king\ncommitted to paper an exact relation of what he had seen, signed it, and\nordered his companions to do the same. Spite of the precautions taken to\nconceal the contents of this statement from the public, they soon\ntranspired, and were generally known, even during the lifetime of\nCharles XI. The original document is still in existence, and its\nauthenticity has never been questioned; it concludes with the following\nremarkable words:--\"If,\" says the king, \"all that I have just declared\nis not the exact truth, I renounce my hopes of a happier existence which\nI may have merited by some good actions, and by my zeal for the welfare\nof my people and for the maintenance of the religion of my fathers.\" If\nthe reader will call to mind the death of Gustavus III., and the trial\nof his assassin, Ankarstroem, he will observe the intimate connection\nbetween these events and the circumstances of the extraordinary\nprediction which we have just detailed. The apparition of the young man\nbeheaded in the presence of the assembled States prognosticated the\nexecution of Ankarstroem. The crowned corse represented Gustavus III.,\nthe child, his son and successor, Gustavus Adolphus IV.; and lastly, by\nthe old man was designated the uncle of Gustavus IV., the Duke of\nSudermania, regent of the kingdom and afterwards king, upon the\ndeposition of his nephew.\n\n\n\n\nXLIII\n\nBEN JONSON'S PREVISION\n\nDRUMMOND'S \"Conversations\"\n\n\nBen Jonson told Drummond of Hawthornden that \"when the king came to\nEngland, about the time that plague was in London, he being in the\ncountry, at Sir Robert Cotton's house with old Cambden, he saw in a\nvision his eldest son, then a young child and at London, appear unto him\nwith the mark of a bloody cross on his forehead, as if it had been cut\nwith a sword, at which amazed he prayed unto God, and in the morning he\ncame unto Mr Cambden's chamber to tell him, who persuaded him it was but\nan apprehension, at which he should not be dejected. In the meantime\nthere came letters from his wife of the death of that boy in the plague.\nHe appeared to him, he said, of a manly shape, and of that growth he\nthinks he shall be at the resurrection.\"\n\n\n\n\nXLIV\n\nQUEEN ULRICA AND THE COUNTESS STEENBOCK\n\n\"Court Records\"\n\n\nWhen Queen Ulrica was dead, her corpse was placed in the usual way in an\nopen coffin, in a room hung with black and lighted with numerous wax\ncandles; a company of the king's guards did duty in the ante-room. One\nafternoon, the carriage of the Countess Steenbock, first lady of the\npalace, and a particular favourite of the queen's, drove up from\nStockholm. The officers commanding the guard of honour went to meet the\ncountess, and conducted her from the carriage to the door of the room\nwhere the dead queen lay, which she closed after her.\n\nThe long stay of the lady in the death-chamber caused some uneasiness;\nbut it was ascribed to the vehemence of her grief; and the officers on\nduty, fearful of disturbing the further effusion of it by their\npresence, left her alone with the corpse. At length, finding that she\ndid not return, they began to apprehend that some accident had befallen\nher, and the captain of the guard opened the door. He instantly started\nback, with a face of the utmost dismay. The other officers ran up, and\nplainly perceived, through the half-open door, the deceased queen\nstanding upright in her coffin, and ardently embracing the countess. The\napparition seemed to move, and soon after became enveloped in a dense\nsmoke or vapour. When this had cleared away, the body of the queen lay\nin the same position as before, but the countess was nowhere to be\nfound. In vain did they search that and the adjoining apartments, while\nsome of the party hastened to the door, thinking she must have passed\nunobserved to her carriage; but neither carriage, horses, driver, or\nfootmen were to be seen. A messenger was quickly despatched with a\nstatement of this extraordinary circumstance to Stockholm, and there he\nlearnt that the Countess Steenbock had never quitted the capital, and\nthat she died at the very moment when she was seen in the arms of the\ndeceased queen.\n\n\n\n\nXLV\n\nDENIS MISANGER\n\n\"The Phantom World\"\n\n\nOn Friday, the first day of May 1705, about five o'clock in the evening,\nDenis Misanger de la Richardiere, eighteen years of age, was attacked\nwith an extraordinary malady, which began by a sort of lethargy. They\ngave him every assistance that medicine and surgery could afford. He\nfell afterwards into a kind of furor or convulsion, and they were\nobliged to hold him, and have five or six persons to keep watch over\nhim, for fear that he should throw himself out of the windows, or break\nhis head against the wall. The emetic which they gave him made him throw\nup a quantity of bile, and for four or five days he remained pretty\nquiet.\n\nAt the end of the month of May, they sent him into the country, to take\nthe air; and some other circumstances occurred, so unusual, that they\njudged he must be bewitched. And what confirmed this conjecture was,\nthat he never had any fever, and retained all his strength,\nnotwithstanding all the pains and violent remedies which he had been\nmade to take. They asked him if he had not had some dispute with a\nshepherd or some other person suspected of sorcery, or malpractices.\n\nHe declared that on the 18th of April preceding, when he was going\nthrough the village of Noysi on horseback for a ride, his horse stopped\nshort in the midst of the _Rue Feret_, opposite the chapel, and he could\nnot make him go forward, though he touched him several times with the\nspur. There was a shepherd standing leaning against the chapel, with his\ncrook in his hand, and two black dogs at his side. This man said to him,\n\"Sir, I advise you to return home, for your horse will not go forward.\"\nThe young La Richardiere, continuing to spur his horse, said to the\nshepherd, \"I do not understand what you say.\" The shepherd replied, in a\nlow tone, \"I will make you understand.\" In effect, the young man was\nobliged to get down from his horse, and lead it back by the bridle to\nhis father's dwelling in the same village. Then the shepherd cast a\nspell upon him, which was to take effect on the 1st of May, as was\nafterwards known.\n\nDuring this malady, they caused several masses to be said in different\nplaces, especially at St Maur des Fosses, at St Amable, and at St\nEsprit. Young La Richardiere was present at some of these masses which\nwere said at St Maur; but he declared that he should not be cured till\nFriday, 26th June, on his return from St Maur. On entering his chamber,\nthe key of which he had in his pocket, he found there that shepherd,\nseated in his armchair, with his crook, and his two black dogs. He was\nthe only person who saw him; none other in the house could perceive him.\nHe said even that this man was called Damis, although he did not\nremember that anyone had before this revealed his name to him. He beheld\nhim all that day, and all the succeeding night. Towards six o'clock in\nthe evening, as he felt his usual sufferings, he fell on the ground,\nexclaiming that the shepherd was upon him, and crushing him; at the same\ntime he drew his knife, and aimed five blows at the shepherd's face, of\nwhich he retained the marks. The invalid told those who were watching\nover him that he was going to be very faint at five different times, and\nbegged of them to help him, and move him violently. The thing happened\nas he had predicted.\n\nOn Friday, the 26th June, M. de la Richardiere, having gone to the mass\nat St Maur, asserted that he should be cured on that day. After mass,\nthe priest put the stole upon his head, and recited the Gospel of St\nJohn, during which prayer the young man saw St Maur standing, and the\nunhappy shepherd at his left, with his face bleeding from the five\nknife-wounds which he had given him. At that moment the youth cried out,\nunintentionally, \"A miracle! a miracle!\" and asserted that he was cured,\nas in fact he was.\n\nOn the 29th of June, the same M. de la Richardiere returned to Noysi,\nand amused himself with shooting. As he was shooting in the vineyards,\nthe shepherd presented himself before him; he hit him on the head with\nthe butt-end of his gun. The shepherd cried out, \"Sir, you are killing\nme!\" and fled. The next day this man presented himself again before him,\nand asked his pardon, saying, \"I am called Damis; it was I who cast a\nspell over you which was to have lasted a year. By the aid of masses and\nprayers which have been said for you, you have been cured at the end of\neight weeks. But the charm has fallen back upon myself, and I can be\ncured of it only by a miracle. I implore you then to pray for me.\"\n\nDuring all these reports, the _marechaussee_ had set off in pursuit of\nthe shepherd; but he escaped them, having killed his two dogs and thrown\naway his crook. On Sunday, the 13th of September, he came to M. de la\nRichardiere, and related to him his adventure; that after having passed\ntwenty years without approaching the sacraments, God had given him grace\nto confess himself at Troyes; and that after divers delays he had been\nadmitted to the holy communion. Eight days after, M. de la Richardiere\nreceived a letter from a woman who said she was a relation of the\nshepherd's, informing him of his death, and begging him to cause a\nrequiem mass to be said for him, which was done.\n\n\n\n\nXLVI\n\nTHE PIED PIPER\n\n\"The Phantom World\"\n\n\nThe following instance is so extraordinary, that I should not repeat it\nif the account were not attested by more than one writer, and also\npreserved in the public monuments of a considerable town of Upper\nSaxony; this town is Hamelin in the principality of Kalenberg, at the\nconfluence of the rivers Hamel and Weser.\n\nIn the year 1384, this town was infested by such a prodigious multitude\nof rats, that they ravaged all the corn which was laid up in the\ngranaries; everything was employed that art and experience could invent\nto chase them away, and whatever is usually employed against this kind\nof animals. At that time there came to the town an unknown person, of\ntaller stature than ordinary, dressed in a robe of divers colours, who\nengaged to deliver them from that scourge, for a certain recompense\nwhich was agreed upon.\n\nThen he drew from his sleeve a flute, at the sound of which all the rats\ncame out of their holes and followed him; he led them straight to the\nriver, into which they ran and were drowned. On his return he asked for\nthe promised reward, which was refused him, apparently on account of the\nfacility with which he had exterminated the rats. The next day, which\nwas a fete day, he chose the moment when the older inhabitants were at\nchurch, and by means of another flute which he began to play, all the\nboys in the town above the age of fourteen, to the number of a hundred\nand thirty, assembled round him; he led them to the neighbouring\nmountain, named Kopfelberg, under which is a sewer for the town, and\nwhere criminals are executed; these boys disappeared and were never seen\nafterwards.\n\nA young girl, who had followed at a distance, was witness of the matter,\nand brought the news of it to the town.\n\n\n\n\nXLVII\n\nJEANNE D'ARC\n\nFERRIER'S \"Apparitions\"\n\n\nUpon her trial, as it is repeated by Chartier, she spoke with the utmost\nsimplicity and firmness of her visions: \"Que souvent alloit a une belle\nfontaine au pays de Lorraine, laquelle elle nommoit bonne fontaine aux\nFees Nostre Seigneur, at en icelluy lieu tous ceulx de pays quand ils\navoient fiebvre ils alloient pour recouvrer garison; et la alloit\nsouvent ladite Jehanne la Pucelle sous un grand arbre qui la fontaine\nombroit; et s'apparurent a elle Ste Katerine et Ste Marguerite qui lui\ndirent qu'elle allast a ung Cappitaine qu'elles lui nommerent, laquelle\ny alla sans prendre conge ni a pere ni a mere; lequel Cappitaine la\nvestit en guise d'homme et l'armoit et lui ceint l'epee, et luy bailla\nun escuyer et quatre varlets; et en ce point fut montee sur un bon\ncheval; et en ce point vint aut Roy de France, et lui dit que du\nCommandement de lui estoit venue a lui, et qu'elle le feroit le plus\ngrand Seigneur du Monde, et qu'il fut ordonne que tretou ceulx qui lui\ndesobeiroient fussent occis sans mercy, et que St Michel et plusieurs\nanges lui avoient baille une Couronne moult riche pour lui.\"\n\n\n\n\nXLVIII\n\nANNE WALKER\n\nLocal Records\n\n\nIn the year 1680, at Lumley, a hamlet near Chester-le-Street in the\ncounty of Durham, there lived one Walker, a man well to do in the world,\nand a widower. A young relation of his, whose name was Anne Walker, kept\nhis house, to the great scandal of the neighbourhood, and that with but\ntoo good cause. A few weeks before this young woman expected to become a\nmother, Walker placed her with her aunt, one Dame Clare, in\nChester-le-Street, and promised to take care both of her and her future\nchild. One evening in the end of November, this man, in company with\nMark Sharp, an acquaintance of his, came to Dame Clare's door, and told\nher that they had made arrangements for removing her niece to a place\nwhere she could remain in safety till her confinement was over. They\nwould not say where it was; but as Walker bore, in most respects, an\nexcellent character, she was allowed to go with him; and he professed to\nhave sent her off with Sharp into Lancashire. Fourteen days after, one\nGraeme, a fuller, who lived about six miles from Lumley, had been\nengaged till past midnight in his mill; and on going downstairs to go\nhome, in the middle of the ground floor he saw a woman, with dishevelled\nhair, covered with blood, and having five large wounds on her head.\nGraeme, on recovering a little from his first terror, demanded what the\nspectre wanted. \"I,\" said the apparition, \"am the spirit of Anne\nWalker\"; and proceeded accordingly to tell Graeme the particulars which\nI have already related to you. \"When I was sent away with Mark Sharp, he\nslew me on such a moor,\" naming one that Graeme knew, \"with a collier's\npick, threw my body into a coal-pit, and hid the pick under the bank;\nand his shoes and stockings, which were covered with blood, he left in a\nstream.\" The apparition proceeded to tell Graeme that he must give\ninformation of this to the nearest justice of peace, and that till this\nwas done, he must look to be continually haunted. Graeme went home very\nsad; he dared not bring such a charge against a man of so unimpeachable\na character as Walker; and yet he as little dared to incur the anger of\nthe spirit that had appeared to him. So, as all weak minds will do, he\nwent on procrastinating; only he took care to leave his mill early, and\nwhile in it never to be alone. Notwithstanding this caution on his part,\none night, just as it began to be dark, the apparition met him again in\na more terrible shape, and with every circumstance of indignation. Yet\nhe did not even then fulfil its injunction; till on St Thomas's eve, as\nhe was walking in his garden just after sunset, it threatened him so\neffectually that in the morning he went to a magistrate and revealed the\nwhole thing. The place was examined; the body and the pickaxe found; and\na warrant was granted against Walker and Sharp. They were, however,\nadmitted to bail; but in August, 1681, their trial came on before Judge\nDavenport at Durham. Meanwhile the whole circumstances were known over\nall the north of England, and the greatest interest was excited by the\ncase. Against Sharp the fact was strong, that his shoes and stockings,\ncovered with blood, were found in the place where the murder had been\ncommitted; but against Walker, except the account received from the\nghost, there seemed not a shadow of evidence. Nevertheless the judge\nsummed up strongly against the prisoners, the jury found them guilty,\nand the judge pronounced sentence upon them that night, a thing which\nwas unknown in Durham, either before or after. The prisoners were\nexecuted, and both died professing their innocence to the last. Judge\nDavenport was much agitated during the trial; and it was believed, says\nthe historian, that the spirit had also appeared to him, as if to supply\nin his mind the want of legal evidence. This case is certainly a solemn\nillustration of the mal-administration of justice in an ancient court;\nyet the circumstantial evidence, arising from the appearance of the\nspirit, appears very strong--the finding of the body, and the boots and\nstockings. Yet we need perhaps to live more immediately within the\ncircle of the circumstance to pronounce upon it. None of us, however,\nreading this book, would like to take upon ourselves the responsibility\nof those daring jurymen, who durst venture to throw away life upon\nevidence which, strong as it appears to have been, did not come to them,\nbut only to one who had borne witness to them.\n\n\n\n\nXLIX\n\nTHE HAND OF GLORY\n\nHENDERSON'S \"Folk Lore\"\n\n\nOne evening, between the years 1790 and 1800, a traveller, dressed in\nwoman's clothes, arrived at the Old Spital Inn, the place where the mail\ncoach changed horses, in High Spital, on Bowes Moor. The traveller\nbegged to stay all night, but had to go away so early in the morning\nthat if a mouthful of food were set ready for breakfast there was no\nneed the family should be disturbed by her departure. The people of the\nhouse, however, arranged that a servant maid should sit up till the\nstranger was out of the premises, and then went to bed themselves. The\ngirl lay down for a nap on the longsettle by the fire, but before she\nshut her eyes she took a good look at the traveller, who was sitting on\nthe opposite side of the hearth, and espied a pair of man's trousers\npeeping out from under the gown. All inclination for sleep was now gone;\nhowever, with great self-command, she feigned it, closed her eyes, and\neven began to snore. On this the traveller got up, pulled out of his\npocket a dead man's hand, fitted a candle to it, lighted the candle, and\npassed hand and candle several times before the servant girl's face,\nsaying as he did so: \"Let those who are asleep be asleep, and let those\nwho are awake be awake.\" This done, he placed the light on the table,\nopened the outer door, went down two or three of the steps which led\nfrom the house to the road, and began to whistle for his companions. The\ngirl (who had hitherto had presence of mind enough to remain perfectly\nquiet) now jumped up, rushed behind the ruffian, and pushed him down\nthe steps. She then shut the door, locked it, and ran upstairs to try\nand wake the family, but without success: calling, shouting, and shaking\nwere alike in vain. The poor girl was in despair, for she heard the\ntraveller and his comrades outside the house. So she ran down again,\nseized a bowl of blue (_i.e._ skimmed milk), and threw it over the hand\nand candle; after which she went upstairs again, and awoke the sleepers\nwithout any difficulty. The landlord's son went to the window, and asked\nthe men outside what they wanted. They answered that if the dead man's\nhand were but given them, they would go away quietly, and do no harm to\nanyone. This he refused, and fired among them, and the shot must have\ntaken effect, for in the morning stains of blood were traced to a\nconsiderable distance.\n\nThese circumstances were related to my informant, Mr Charles Wastell, in\nthe spring of 1861, by an old woman named Bella Parkin, who resided\nclose to High Spital, and was actually the daughter of the courageous\nservant-girl.\n\nIt is interesting to compare them with the following narrations,\ncommunicated to me by the Rev. S. Baring Gould:--\"Two magicians having\ncome to lodge in a public-house with a view to robbing it, asked\npermission to pass the night by the fire, and obtained it. When the\nhouse was quiet, the servant-girl, suspecting mischief, crept downstairs\nand looked through the keyhole. She saw the men open a sack, and take\nout a dry, withered hand. They anointed the fingers with some unguent,\nand lighted them. Each finger flamed, but the thumb they could not\nlight; that was because one of the household was not asleep. The girl\nhastened to her master, but found it impossible to arouse him. She tried\nevery other sleeper, but could not break the charmed sleep. At last,\nstealing down into the kitchen, while the thieves were busy over her\nmaster's strong box, she secured the hand, blew out the flames, and at\nonce the whole household was aroused.\"[14]\n\nBut the next story bears a closer resemblance to the Stainmore\nnarrative. One dark night, when all was shut up, there came a tap at the\ndoor of a lone inn in the middle of a barren moor. The door was opened,\nand there stood without, shivering and shaking, a poor beggar, his rags\nsoaked with rain, and his hands white with cold. He asked piteously for\na lodging, and it was cheerfully granted him; there was not a spare bed\nin the house, but he could lie on the mat before the kitchen fire, and\nwelcome.\n\nSo this was settled, and everyone in the house went to bed except the\ncook, who from the back kitchen could see into the large room through a\npane of glass let into the door. She watched the beggar, and saw him, as\nsoon as he was left alone, draw himself up from the floor, seat himself\nat the table, extract from his pocket a brown withered human hand, and\nset it upright in the candlestick. He then anointed the fingers, and\napplying a match to them, they began to flame. Filled with horror, the\ncook rushed up the back stairs, and endeavoured to arouse her master and\nthe men of the house. But all was in vain--they slept a charmed sleep;\nso in despair she hastened down again, and placed herself at her post of\nobservation.\n\nShe saw the fingers of the hand flaming, but the thumb remained\nunlighted, because one inmate of the house was awake. The beggar was\nbusy collecting the valuables around him into a large sack, and having\ntaken all he cared for in the large room, he entered another. On this\nthe woman ran in, and, seizing the light, tried to extinguish the\nflames. But this was not so easy. She blew at them, but they burnt on as\nbefore. She poured the dregs of a beer-jug over them, but they blazed\nup the brighter. As a last resource, she caught up a jug of milk, and\ndashed it over the four lambent flames, and they died out at once.\nUttering a loud cry, she rushed to the door of the apartment the beggar\nhad entered, and locked it. The whole family was aroused, and the thief\neasily secured and hanged. This tale is told in Northumberland.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[Footnote 14: Delrio. See also Thorpe's _Mythology_, vol. iii. p. 274.]\n\n\n\n\nL\n\nTHE BLOODY FOOTSTEP\n\nLocal Records\n\n\nOn the threshold of one of the doors of Smithills Hall there is a bloody\nfootstep impressed into the door-step, and ruddy as if the bloody foot\nhad just trodden there; and it is averred that, on a certain night of\nthe year, and at a certain hour of the night, if you go and look at the\ndoor-step you will see the mark wet with fresh blood. Some have\npretended to say that this appearance of blood was but dew; but can dew\nredden a cambric handkerchief? Will it crimson the finger-tips when you\ntouch it? And that is what the bloody footstep will surely do when the\nappointed night and hour come round....\n\nIt is needless to tell you all the strange stories that have survived to\nthis day about the old Hall, and how it is believed that the master of\nit, owing to his ancient science, has still a sort of residence there\nand control of the place, and how in one of the chambers there is still\nhis antique table, and his chair, and some rude old instruments and\nmachinery, and a book, and everything in readiness, just as if he might\nstill come back to finish some experiment.... One of the chief things to\nwhich the old lord applied himself was to discover the means of\nprolonging his own life, so that its duration should be indefinite, if\nnot infinite; and such was his science that he was believed to have\nattained this magnificent and awful purpose....\n\nThe object of the Lord of Smithills Hall was to take a life from the\ncourse of Nature, and Nature did not choose to be defrauded; so that,\ngreat as was the power of this scientific man over her, she would not\nconsent that he should escape the necessity of dying at his proper time,\nexcept upon condition of sacrificing some other life for his; and this\nwas to be done once for every thirty years that he chose to live, thirty\nyears being the account of a generation of man; and if in any way, in\nthat time, this lord could be the death of a human being, that satisfied\nthe requisition, and he might live on....\n\nThere was but one human being whom he cared for--that was a beautiful\nkinswoman, an orphan, whom his father had brought up, and dying, left to\nhis care.... He saw that she, if anyone, was to be the person whom the\nsacrifice demanded, and that he might kill twenty others without effect,\nbut if he took the life of this one it would make the charm strong and\ngood.... He did slay this pure young girl; he took her into the wood\nnear the house, an old wood that is standing yet, with some of its\nmagnificent oaks, and there he plunged a dagger into her heart....\n\nHe buried her in the wood, and returned to the house; and, as it\nhappened, he had set his right foot in her blood, and his shoe was wet\nin it, and by some miraculous fate it left a track all along the\nwood-path, and into the house, and on the stone steps of the threshold,\nand up into his chamber. The servants saw it the next day, and wondered,\nand whispered, and missed the fair young girl, and looked askance at\ntheir lord's right foot, and turned pale, all of them....\n\nNext, the legend says, that Sir Forrester was struck with horror at what\nhe had done ... and fled from his old Hall, and was gone full many a\nday. But all the while he was gone there was the mark of a bloody\nfootstep impressed upon the stone door-step of the Hall.... The legend\nsays that wherever Sir Forrester went, in his wanderings about the\nworld, he left a bloody track behind him.... Once he went to the King's\nCourt, and, there being a track up to the very throne, the King frowned\nupon him, so that he never came there any more. Nobody could tell how it\nhappened; his foot was not seen to bleed, only there was the bloody\ntrack behind him....\n\nAt last this unfortunate lord deemed it best to go back to his own Hall,\nwhere, living among faithful old servants born in the family, he could\nhush the matter up better than elsewhere.... So home he came, and there\nhe saw the bloody track on the door-step, and dolefully went into the\nHall, and up the stairs, an old servant ushering him into his chamber,\nand half a dozen others following him behind, gazing, shuddering,\npointing with quivering fingers, looking horror-stricken in one\nanother's pale faces....\n\nBy and by he vanished from the old Hall, but not by death; for, from\ngeneration to generation, they say that a bloody track is seen around\nthat house, and sometimes it is traced up into the chambers, so fresh\nthat you see he must have passed a short time before.\n\nThis is the legend of the Bloody Footstep, which I myself have seen at\nthe Hall door.\n\n\n\n\nLI\n\nTHE GHOSTLY WARRIORS OF WORMS\n\n\"The Phantom World\"\n\n\nThe abbot of Ursperg, in his Chronicle, year 1123, says that in the\nterritory of Worms they saw during many days a multitude of armed men,\non foot and on horseback, going and coming with great noise, like people\nwho are going to a solemn assembly. Every day they marched, towards the\nhour of noon, to a mountain, which appeared to be their place of\nrendezvous. Someone in the neighbourhood, bolder than the rest, having\nguarded himself with the sign of the cross, approached one of these\narmed men, conjuring him in the name of God, to declare the meaning of\nthis army, and their design. The soldier or phantom replied, \"We are not\nwhat you imagine; we are neither vain phantoms nor true soldiers, we are\nthe spirits of those who were killed on this spot a long time ago. The\narms and horses which you behold are the instruments of our punishment,\nas they were of our sins. We are all on fire, though you can see nothing\nabout us which appears inflamed.\" It is said that they remarked in this\ncompany the Count Emico, who had been killed a few years before, and who\ndeclared that he might be extricated from that state by alms and\nprayers.\n\n\n\n\nLII\n\nTHE WANDERING JEW IN ENGLAND\n\n\"Notes and Queries\"\n\n\nWhen on the weary way to Golgotha, Christ fainting, and overcome under\nthe burden of the cross, asked Salathiel, as he was standing at his\ndoor, for a cup of water to cool His parched throat, he spurned the\nsupplication, and bade Him on the faster.\n\n\"I go,\" said the Saviour, \"but thou shalt thirst and tarry till I come.\"\n\nAnd ever since then, by day and night, through the long centuries he has\nbeen doomed to wander about the earth, ever craving for water, and ever\nexpecting the day of judgment which shall end his toils:\n\n    \"Mais toujours le soleil se leve,\n        Toujours, toujours\n    Tourne la terre ou moi je cours,\n    Toujours, toujours, toujours, toujours!\"\n\nSometimes, during the cold winter nights, the lonely cottager will be\nawoke by a plaintive demand for \"Water, good Christian! water for the\nlove of God!\" And if he looks out into the moonlight, he will see a\nvenerable old man in antique raiment, with grey flowing beard, and a\ntall staff, who beseeches his charity with the most earnest gesture. Woe\nto the churl who refuses him water or shelter. My old nurse, who was a\nWarwickshire woman, and, as Sir Walter said of his grandmother, \"a most\n_awfu' le'er_,\" knew a man who boldly cried out, \"All very fine, Mr\nFerguson, but you can't lodge here.\" And it was decidedly the worst\nthing he ever did in his life, for his best mare fell dead lame, and\ncorn went down, I am afraid to say how much per quarter. If, on the\ncontrary, you treat him well, and refrain from indelicate inquiries\nrespecting his age--on which point he is very touchy--his visit is sure\nto bring good luck. Perhaps years afterwards, when you are on your\ndeath-bed, he may happen to be passing; and if he _should_, you are\nsafe; for three knocks with his staff will make you hale, and he never\nforgets any kindnesses. Many stories are current of his wonderful cures;\nbut there is one to be found in Peck's _History of Stamford_ which\npossesses the rare merit of being written by the patient himself. Upon\nWhitsunday, in the year of our Lord 1658, \"about six of the clock, just\nafter evensong,\" one Samuel Wallis, of Stamford, who had been long\nwasted with a lingering consumption, was sitting by the fire, reading in\nthat delectable book called _Abraham's Suit for Sodom_. He heard a knock\nat the door; and, as his nurse was absent, he crawled to open it\nhimself. What he saw there, Samuel shall say in his own style:--\"I\nbeheld a proper, tall, grave old man. Thus he said: 'Friend, I pray\nthee, give an old pilgrim a cup of small beere!' And I said, 'Sir, I\npray you, come in and welcome.' And he said, 'I am no Sir, therefore\ncall me not Sir; but come in I must, for I cannot pass by thy doore.'\"\n\nAfter finishing the beer: \"Friend,\" he said, \"thou art not well.\" \"I\nsaid, 'No, truly Sir, I have not been well this many yeares.' He said,\n'What is thy disease?' I said, 'A deep consumption, Sir; our doctors\nsay, past cure: for, truly, I am a very poor man, and not able to follow\ndoctors' councell.' 'Then,' said he, 'I will tell thee what thou shalt\ndo; and, by the help and power of Almighty God above, thou shalt be\nwell. To-morrow, when thou risest up, go into thy garden, and get there\ntwo leaves of red sage, and one of bloodworte, and put them into a cup\nof thy small beere. Drink as often as need require, and when the cup is\nempty fill it again, and put in fresh leaves every fourth day, and thou\nshalt see, through our Lord's great goodness and mercy, before twelve\ndayes shall be past, thy disease shall be cured and thy body altered.'\"\n\nAfter this simple prescription, Wallis pressed him to eat: \"But he said,\n'No, friend, I will not eat; the Lord Jesus is sufficient for me. Very\nseldom doe I drinke any beere neither, but that which comes from the\nrocke. So, friend, the Lord God be with thee.'\"\n\nSo saying, he departed, and was never more heard of; but the patient got\nwell within the given time, and for many a long day there was war hot\nand fierce among the divines of Stamford, as to whether the stranger was\nan angel or a devil. His dress has been minutely described by honest\nSam. His coat was purple, and buttoned down to the waist; \"his britches\nof the same couler, all new to see to\"; his stockings were very white,\nbut whether linen or jersey, deponent knoweth not; his beard and head\nwere white, and he had a white stick in his hand. The day was rainy from\nmorning to night, \"but he had not one spot of dirt upon his cloathes.\"\n\nAubrey gives an almost exactly similar relation, the scene of which he\nplaces in the Staffordshire Moorlands. The Jew there appears in a\n\"purple shag gown,\" and prescribes balm-leaves.\n\n\n\n\nLIII\n\nBENDITH EU MAMMAU[15]\n\nBy EDMUND JONES\n\n\nThey appeared diverse ways, but their most frequent way of appearing was\nlike dancing-companies with musick, or in the form of funerals. When\nthey appeared like dancing-companies, they were desirous to entice\npersons into their company, and some were drawn among them and remained\namong them some time, usually a whole year; as did Edmund William Rees,\na man whom I well knew, and was a neighbour, who came back at the year's\nend, and looked very bad. But either they were not able to give much\naccount of themselves, or they durst not give it, only said they had\nbeen dancing, and that the time was short. But there were some others\nwho went with them at night, and returned sometimes at night, and\nsometimes the next morning; especially those persons who took upon them\nto cure the hurts received from the fairies, as Charles Hugh of Coed yr\nPame, in Langybi parish, and Rissiart Cap Dee, of Aberystruth; for the\nformer of these must certainly converse with them, for how else could he\ndeclare the words which his visitors had spoken a day or days before\nthey came to him, to their great surprise and wonder?\n\nAnd as for Rissiart Cap Dee, so called because he wore a black cap, it\nis said of him that when he lodged in some houses to cure those who\nwere hurt by the fairies, he would suddenly rise up in the night, and\nmake a very hasty preparation to go downstairs; which when one person\nobserv'd, he said, \"Go softly, Uncle Richard, least you fall\": he made\nanswer, \"O, here are some to receive me.\" But when he was called to one\nperson, who had inadvertently fallen among the fairies, and had been\ngreatly hurt by them, and kept his bed upon it, whose relations had sent\nfor the said Rissiart Cap Dee to cure him; who, when he came up to the\nsick man's chamber, the sick man took up a pound-weight stone, which was\nby the bed-side, and threw it at the infernal charmer with all his\nmight, saying, \"Thou old villain, wast one of the worst of them to hurt\nme!\" for he had seen him among them acting his part against him; upon\nwhich the old charmer went away muttering some words of malevolence\nagainst him. He lived at the foot of Rhyw Coelbren, and there was a\nlarge hole in the side of the thatch of his house, thro' which the\npeople believed he went out at night to the fairies, and came in from\nthem at night; but he pretended it was that he might see the stars at\nnight. The house is down long ago. He lived by himself, as did the\nbefore-mentioned Charles Hugh, who was very famous in the county for his\ncures, and knowledge of things at a distance; which he could not\npossibly know without conversing with evil spirits, who walked the earth\nto and fro. He is yet said to be an affable, friendly man, and cheerful;\n'tis then a pity he should be in alliance with hell, and an agent in the\nkingdom of darkness.\n\nI will only give one instance of his knowledge of things at a distance,\nand of secret things. Henry John Thomas, of the parish of Aberystruth, a\nrelation of mine, an honest man, went with the water of a young woman\nwhom he courted, and was sick, to the said Charles Hugh, who, as soon as\nhe saw Henry John, pleasantly told him, \"Ho! you come with your\nsweetheart's water to me.\" And he told him the very words which they\nhad spoken together in a secret place, and described the place where\nthey spoke. It was the general opinion in times past, when these things\nwere very frequent, that the fairies knew whatever was spoken in the air\nwithout the houses, not so much what was spoken in the houses. I suppose\nthey chiefly knew what was spoken in the air at night. It was also said\nthey rather appeared to an uneven number of persons, to one, three,\nfive, &c.; and oftener to men than to women. Thomas William Edmund, of\nHavodavel, an honest, pious man, who often saw them, declared that they\nappeared with one bigger than the rest, going before them in the\ncompany.\n\nBut they very often appeared in the form of a funeral before the death\nof many persons, with a bier and a black cloth, in the midst of a\ncompany about it, on every side, before and after it. The instances of\nthis were so numerous, that it is plain, and past all dispute, that they\ninfallibly foreknew the time of men's death: the difficulty is, whence\nthey had this knowledge. It cannot be supposed that either God Himself,\nor His angels, discovered this to these spirits of darkness. For _the\nsecrets of the Lord are with those that fear Him_, not with His enemies.\nPsalm xxv. 14. They must therefore have this knowledge from the position\nof the stars at the time of birth, and their influence, which they\nperfectly understand beyond what mortal men can do. We have a constant\nproof of this in the corps candles, whose appearance is an infallible\nsign that death will follow, and they never fail going the way that the\ncorps will go to be buried, be the way ever so unlikely that it should\ngo through. But to give some instances in Aberystruth Parish.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[Footnote 15: _A Geographical, Historical, and Religious Account of the\nParish of Aberystruth, in the County of Monmouth. To which are added,\nMemoirs of several persons of Note, who lived in the said Parish._ By\nEdmund Jones. Trevecka: printed in the Year 1779.]\n\n\n\n\nLIV\n\nTHE RED BOOK OF APPIN\n\nCAMPBELL'S \"Tales of the West Highlands\"\n\n\nOnce upon a time, there lived a man at Appin, Argyllshire, and he took\nto his house an orphan boy. When the boy was grown up, he was sent to\nherd; and upon a day of days, and him herding, there came a fine\ngentleman where he was, who asked him to become his servant, and that he\nwould give him plenty to eat and drink, clothes, and great wages. The\nboy told him that he would like very much to get a good suit of clothes,\nbut that he would not engage till he would see his master; but the fine\ngentleman would have him engaged without any delay; this the boy would\nnot do upon any terms till he would see his master. \"Well,\" says the\ngentleman, \"in the meantime write your name in this book.\" Saying this,\nhe puts his hand into his oxter pocket, and pulling out a large red\nbook, he told the boy to write his name in the book. This the boy would\nnot do; neither would he tell his name, till he would acquaint his\nmaster first. \"Now,\" says the gentleman, \"since you will neither engage,\nor tell your name, till you see your present master, be sure to meet me\nabout sunset to-morrow, at a certain place?\" The boy promised that he\nwould be sure to meet him at the place about sunsetting. When the boy\ncame home he told his master what the gentleman said to him. \"Poor boy,\"\nsays he, \"a fine master he would make; lucky for you that you neither\nengaged nor wrote your name in his book; but since you promised to meet\nhim, you must go; but as you value your life, do as I tell you.\" His\nmaster gave him a sword, and at the same time he told him to be sure to\nbe at the place mentioned a while before sunset, and to draw a circle\nround himself with the point of the sword in the name of Trinity. \"When\nyou do this, draw a cross in the centre of the circle, upon which you\nwill stand yourself; and do not move out of that position till the\nrising of the sun next morning.\" He also told him that he would wish him\nto come out of the circle to put his name in the book; but that upon no\naccount he was to leave the circle; \"but ask the book till you would\nwrite your name yourself, and when once you get hold of the book keep\nit, he cannot touch a hair of your head, if you keep inside the circle.\"\n\nSo the boy was at the place long before the gentleman made his\nappearance; but sure enough he came after sunset; he tried all his arts\nto get the boy outside the circle, to sign his name in the red book, but\nthe boy would not move one foot out from where he stood; but, at the\nlong last, he handed the book to the boy, so as to write his name\ntherein. The book was no sooner inside the circle than it fell out of\nthe gentleman's hand inside the circle; the boy cautiously stretched out\nhis hand for the book, and as soon as he got hold of it, he put it in\nhis oxter. When the fine gentleman saw that he did not mean to give him\nback the book, he got furious; and at last he transformed himself into\ngreat many likenesses, blowing fire and brimstone out of his mouth and\nnostrils; at times he would appear as a horse, other times a huge cat,\nand a fearful beast (uille bbeast); he was going round the circle the\nlength of the night; when day was beginning to break he let out one\nfearful screech; he put himself in the shape of a large raven, and he\nwas soon out of the boy's sight. The boy still remained where he was\ntill he saw the sun in the morning, which no sooner he observed, than he\ntook to his soles home as fast as he could. He gave the book to his\nmaster; and this is how the far-famed red book of Appin was got.\n\n\n\n\nLV\n\nTHE GOOD O'DONOGHUE\n\nIrish Folk Tales\n\n\nIn an age so distant that the precise period is unknown, a chieftain\nnamed O'Donoghue ruled over the country which surrounds the romantic\nLough Lean, now called the Lake of Killarney. Wisdom, beneficence, and\njustice distinguished his reign, and the prosperity and happiness of his\nsubjects were their natural results. He is said to have been as renowned\nfor his warlike exploits as for his pacific virtues; and as a proof that\nhis domestic administration was not the less rigorous because it was\nmild, a rocky island is pointed out to strangers, called \"O'Donoghue's\nPrison,\" in which this prince once confined his own son for some act of\ndisorder and disobedience.\n\nHis end--for it cannot correctly be called his death--was singular and\nmysterious. At one of those splendid feasts for which his court was\ncelebrated, surrounded by the most distinguished of his subjects, he was\nengaged in a prophetic relation of the events which were to happen in\nages yet to come. His auditors listened, now rapt in wonder, now fired\nwith indignation, burning with shame, or melted into sorrow, as he\nfaithfully detailed the heroism, the injuries, the crimes, and the\nmiseries of their descendants. In the midst of his predictions he rose\nslowly from his seat, advanced with a solemn, measured, and majestic\ntread to the shore of the lake, and walked forward composedly upon its\nunyielding surface. When he had nearly reached the centre he paused for\na moment, then, turning slowly round, looked toward his friends, and\nwaving his arms to them with the cheerful air of one taking a short\nfarewell, disappeared from their view.\n\nThe memory of the good O'Donoghue has been cherished by successive\ngenerations with affectionate reverence; and it is believed that at\nsunrise, on every May-day morning, the anniversary of his departure, he\nrevisits his ancient domains: a favoured few only are in general\npermitted to see him, and this distinction is always an omen of good\nfortune to the beholders; when it is granted to many it is a sure token\nof an abundant harvest--a blessing, the want of which during this\nprince's reign was never felt by his people.\n\nSome years have elapsed since the last appearance of O'Donoghue. The\nApril of that year had been remarkably wild and stormy; but on\nMay-morning the fury of the elements had altogether subsided. The air\nwas hushed and still; and the sky, which was reflected in the serene\nlake, resembled a beautiful but deceitful countenance, whose smiles,\nafter the most tempestuous emotions, tempt the stranger to believe that\nit belongs to a soul which no passion has ever ruffled.\n\nThe first beams of the rising sun were just gilding the lofty summit of\nGlenaa, when the waters near the eastern shore of the lake became\nsuddenly and violently agitated, though all the rest of its surface lay\nsmooth and still as a tomb of polished marble, the next morning a\nfoaming wave darted forward, and, like a proud high-crested war-horse,\nexulting in his strength, rushed across the lake toward Toomies\nmountain. Behind this wave appeared a stately warrior fully armed,\nmounted upon a milk-white steed; his snowy plume waved gracefully from a\nhelmet of polished steel, and at his back fluttered a light blue scarf.\nThe horse, apparently exulting in his noble burden, sprung after the\nwave along the water, which bore him up like firm earth, while showers\nof spray that glittered brightly in the morning sun were dashed up at\nevery bound.\n\nThe warrior was O'Donoghue; he was followed by numberless youths and\nmaidens, who moved lightly and unconstrained over the watery plain, as\nthe moonlight fairies glide through the fields of air; they were linked\ntogether by garlands of delicious spring flowers, and they timed their\nmovements to strains of enchanting melody. When O'Donoghue had nearly\nreached the western side of the lake, he suddenly turned his steed, and\ndirected his course along the wood-fringed shore of Glenaa, preceded by\nthe huge wave that curled and foamed up as high as the horse's neck,\nwhose fiery nostrils snorted above it. The long train of attendants\nfollowed with playful deviations the track of their leader, and moved on\nwith unabated fleetness to their celestial music, till gradually, as\nthey entered the narrow strait between Glenaa and Dinis, they became\ninvolved in the mists which still partially floated over the lake, and\nfaded from the view of the wondering beholders: but the sound of their\nmusic still fell upon the ear, and echo, catching up the harmonious\nstrains, fondly repeated and prolonged them in soft and softer tones,\ntill the last faint repetition died away, and the hearers awoke as from\na dream of bliss.\n\n\n\n\nLVI\n\nSARAH POLGRAIN\n\nBy WILLIAM HUNT\n\n\nA woman, who had lived in Ludgvan, was executed at Bodmin for the murder\nof her husband. There was but little doubt that she had been urged on to\nthe diabolical deed by a horse-dealer, known as Yorkshire Jack, with\nwhom, for a long period, she was generally supposed to have been\ncriminally acquainted.\n\nNow, it will be remembered that this really happened within the present\ncentury. One morning, during my residence in Penzance, an old woman from\nLudgvan called on me with some trifling message. While she was waiting\nfor my answer, I made some ordinary remark about the weather.\n\n\"It's all owing to Sarah Polgrain,\" said she.\n\n\"Sarah Polgrain,\" said I; \"and who is Sarah Polgrain?\"\n\nThen the voluble old lady told me the whole story of the poisoning with\nwhich we need not, at present, concern ourselves. By and by the tale\ngrew especially interesting, and there I resume it.\n\nSarah had begged that Yorkshire Jack might accompany her to the scaffold\nwhen she was led forth to execution. This was granted; and on the\ndreadful morning there stood this unholy pair, the fatal beam on which\nthe woman's body was in a few minutes to swing, before them.\n\nThey kissed each other, and whispered words passed between them.\n\nThe executioner intimated that the moment of execution had arrived, and\nthat they must part. Sarah Polgrain, looking earnestly into the man's\neyes, said:\n\n\"You will?\"\n\nYorkshire Jack replied, \"I will!\" and they separated. The man retired\namongst the crowd, the woman was soon a dead corpse, pendulating in the\nwind.\n\nYears passed on, Yorkshire Jack was never the same man as before, his\nwhole bearing was altered. His bold, his dashing air deserted him. He\nwalked, or rather wandered, slowly about the streets of the town, or the\nlanes of the country. He constantly moved his head from side to side,\nlooking first over one, and then over the other shoulder, as though\ndreading that someone was following him.\n\nThe stout man became thin, his ruddy cheeks more pale, and his eyes\nsunken.\n\nAt length he disappeared, and it was discovered--for Yorkshire Jack had\nmade a confidant of some Ludgvan man--that he had pledged himself,\n\"living or dead, to become the husband of Sarah Polgrain, after the\nlapse of years.\"\n\nTo escape, if possible, from himself, Jack had gone to sea in the\nmerchant service.\n\nWell, the period had arrived when this unholy promise was to be\nfulfilled. Yorkshire Jack was returning from the Mediterranean in a\nfruit-ship. He was met by the devil and Sarah Polgrain far out at sea,\noff the Land's End. Jack would not accompany them willingly, so they\nfollowed the ship for days, during all which time she was involved in a\nstorm. Eventually Jack was washed from the deck by such a wave as the\noldest sailor had never seen; and presently, amidst loud thunders and\nflashing lightnings, riding as it were in a black cloud, three figures\nwere seen passing onward. These were the devil, Sarah Polgrain, and\nYorkshire Jack; and this was the cause of the storm.\n\n\"It is all true, as you may learn if you will inquire,\" said the old\nwoman; \"for many of her kin live in Churchtown.\"\n\n\n\n\nLVII\n\nELEANOR COBHAM, DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER\n\nGODWIN'S \"Lives of the Necromancers\"\n\n\nThis was a period in which the ideas of witchcraft had caught fast hold\nof the minds of mankind; and those accusations, which by the enlightened\npart of the species would now be regarded as worthy only of contempt,\nwere then considered as charges of the most flagitious nature. While\nJohn, Duke of Bedford, the eldest uncle of King Henry VI., was regent of\nFrance, Humphrey of Gloucester, next brother to Bedford, was Lord\nProtector of the realm of England. Though Henry was now nineteen years\nof age, yet as he was a prince of slender capacity, Humphrey still\ncontinued to discharge the functions of sovereignty. He was eminently\nendowed with popular qualities, and was a favourite with the majority of\nthe nation. He had, however, many enemies, one of the chief of whom was\nHenry Beaufort, great-uncle to the king, and Cardinal of Winchester. One\nof the means employed by this prelate to undermine the power of\nHumphrey, consisted in a charge of witchcraft brought against Eleanor\nCobham, his wife.\n\nThis woman had probably yielded to the delusions which artful persons,\nwho saw into the weakness of her character, sought to practise upon her.\nShe was the second wife of Humphrey, and he was suspected to have\nindulged in undue familiarity with her before he was a widower. His\npresent duchess was reported to have had recourse to witchcraft in the\nfirst instance, by way of securing his wayward inclinations. The Duke of\nBedford had died in 1435; and Humphrey now, in addition to the actual\nexercise of the powers of sovereignty, was next heir to the crown in\ncase of the king's decease. This weak and licentious woman, being now\nDuchess of Gloucester, and wife to the Lord Protector, directed her\nambition to the higher title and prerogatives of a queen, and, by way of\nfeeding her evil passions, called to her counsels Margery Jourdain,\ncommonly called the Witch of Eye, Roger Bolingbroke, an astrologer and\nsupposed magician, Thomas Southwel, Canon of St Stephen's, and one John\nHume, or Hun, a priest. These persons frequently met the duchess in\nsecret cabal. They were accused of calling up spirits from the infernal\nworld; and they made an image of wax, which they slowly consumed before\na fire, expecting that, as the image gradually wasted away, so the\nconstitution and life of the poor king would decay and finally perish.\n\nHume, or Hun, is supposed to have turned informer, and upon his\ninformation several of these persons were taken into custody. After\nprevious examination, on the 25th of July 1441, Bolingbroke was placed\nupon a scaffold before the cross of St Paul's, with a chair curiously\npainted, which was supposed to be one of his implements of necromancy,\nand dressed in mystical attire, and there, before the Archbishop of\nCanterbury, the Cardinal of Winchester, and several other bishops, made\nabjuration of all his unlawful arts.\n\nA short time after, the Duchess of Gloucester having fled to the\nsanctuary at Westminster, her case was referred to the same high\npersons, and Bolingbroke was brought forth to give evidence against her.\nShe was of consequence committed to custody in the castle of Leeds, near\nMaidstone, to take her trial in the month of October. A commission was\ndirected to the lord treasurer, several noblemen, and certain judges of\nboth benches, to inquire into all manner of treasons, sorceries, and\nother things that might be hurtful to the king's person, and Bolingbroke\nand Southwel as principals, and the Duchess of Gloucester as accessory,\nwere brought before them. Margery Jourdain was arraigned at the same\ntime; and she, as a witch and relapsed heretic, was condemned to be\nburned in Smithfield. The Duchess of Gloucester was sentenced to do\npenance on three several days, walking through the streets of London,\nwith a lighted taper in her hand, attended by the lord mayor, the\nsheriffs, and a select body of the livery, and then to be banished for\nlife to the Isle of Man. Thomas Southwel died in prison; and Bolingbroke\nwas hanged at Tyburn on the 18th of November.\n\n\nPRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY NEILL AND CO., LTD., EDINBURGH.","title":"The Haunters & The Haunted: Ghost Stories And Tales Of The Supernatural","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":115318}