before the time appointed for the payment of the money, secured his
passage across the Atlantic in a steamer advertised to start on the
23rd, provided himself with a heavily loaded "life-preserver," and went
down to Blackwater to await the arrival of his victim. How he met him on
the platform with a pretended message from the board, how he offered to
conduct him by a short cut across the fields to Mallingford, how, having
brought him to a lonely place, he struck him down with the
life-preserver, and so killed him, and how, finding what he had done, he
dragged the body to the verge of an out-of-the-way chalk-pit, and there
flung it in and piled it over with branches and brambles, are facts
still fresh in the memories of those who, like the connoisseurs in De
Quincey's famous essay, regard murder as a fine art. Strangely enough,
the murderer, having done his work, was afraid to leave the country. He
declared that he had not intended to take the director's life, but only
to stun and rob him; and that, finding the blow had killed, he dared not
fly for fear of drawing down suspicion upon his own head. As a mere
robber he would have been safe in the States, but as a murderer he would
inevitably have been pursued and given up to justice. So he forfeited
his passage, returned to the office as usual at the end of his leave,
and locked up his ill-gotten thousands till a more convenient
opportunity. In the meanwhile he had the satisfaction of finding that
Mr. Dwerrihouse was universally believed to have absconded with the
money, no one knew how or whither.
Whether he meant murder or not, however, Mr. Augustus Raikes paid the
full penalty of his crime, and was hanged at the Old Bailey in the
second week of January, 1857. Those who desire to make his further
acquaintance may see him any day (admirably done in wax) in the Chamber
of Horrors at Madame Tussaud's exhibition, in Baker Street. He is there
to be found in the midst of a select society of ladies and gentlemen of
atrocious memory, dressed in the close-cut tweed suit which he wore on
the evening of the murder, and holding in his hand the identical
life-preserver with which he committed it.
THE WERE-WOLF
H. B. MARRYATT
My father was not born, or originally a resident, in the Hartz
Mountains; he was the serf of an Hungarian nobleman, of great
possessions, in Transylvania; but, although a serf, he was not by any
means a poor or illiterate man. In fact, he was rich, and his
intelligence and respectability were such, that he had been raised by
his lord to the stewardship; but, whoever may happen to be born a serf,
a serf must he remain, even though he become a wealthy man; such was the
condition of my father. My father had been married for about five years;
and, by his marriage, had three children--my eldest brother Cæsar,
myself (Hermann), and a sister named Marcella. Latin is still the
language spoken in that country; and that will account for our
high-sounding names. My mother was a very beautiful woman, unfortunately
more beautiful than virtuous: she was seen and admired by the lord of
the soil; my father was sent away upon some mission; and, during his
absence, my mother, flattered by the attentions, and won by the
assiduities, of this nobleman, yielded to his wishes. It so happened
that my father returned very unexpectedly, and discovered the intrigue.
The evidence of my mother's shame was positive: he surprised her in the
company of her seducer! Carried away by the impetuosity of his feelings,
he watched the opportunity of a meeting taking place between them, and
murdered both his wife and her seducer. Conscious that, as a serf, not
even the provocation which he had received would be allowed as a
justification of his conduct, he hastily collected together what money
he could lay his hands upon, and, as we were then in the depth of
winter, he put his horses to the sleigh, and taking his children with
him, he set off in the middle of the night, and was far away before the
tragical circumstance had transpired. Aware that he would be pursued,
and that he had no chance of escape if he remained in any portion of his
native country (in which the authorities could lay hold of him), he
continued his flight without intermission until he had buried himself in
the intricacies and seclusion of the Hartz Mountains. Of course, all
that I have now told you I learned afterwards. My oldest recollections
are knit to a rude, yet comfortable cottage, in which I lived with my
father, brother, and sister. It was on the confines of one of those vast
forests which cover the northern part of Germany; around it were a few
acres of ground, which, during the summer months, my father cultivated,
and which, though they yielded a doubtful harvest, were sufficient for
our support. In the winter we remained much in doors, for, as my father
followed the chase, we were left alone, and the wolves, during that
season, incessantly prowled about. My father had purchased the cottage,
and land about it, of one of the rude foresters, who gain their
livelihood partly by hunting, and partly by burning charcoal, for the
purpose of smelting the ore from the neighbouring mines; it was distant
about two miles from any other habitation. I can call to mind the whole
landscape now: the tall pines which rose up on the mountain above us,
and the wide expanse of forest beneath, on the topmost boughs and heads
of whose trees we looked down from our cottage, as the mountain below us
rapidly descended into the distant valley. In summer time the prospect
was beautiful; but during the severe winter, a more desolate scene could
not well be imagined.
I said that, in the winter, my father occupied himself with the chase;
every day he left us, and often would he lock the door, that we might
not leave the cottage. He had no one to assist him, or to take care of
us--indeed, it was not easy to find a female servant who would live in
such a solitude; but, could he have found one, my father would not have
received her, for he had imbibed a horror of the sex, as a difference of
his conduct toward us, his two boys, and my poor little sister,
Marcella, evidently proved. You may suppose we were sadly neglected;
indeed, we suffered much, for my father, fearful that we might come to
some harm, would not allow us fuel, when he left the cottage; and we
were obliged, therefore, to creep under the heaps of bears'-skins, and
there to keep ourselves as warm as we could until he returned in the
evening, when a blazing fire was our delight. That my father chose this
restless sort of life may appear strange, but the fact was that he could
not remain quiet; whether from remorse for having committed murder, or
from the misery consequent on his change of situation, or from both
combined, he was never happy unless he was in a state of activity.
Children, however, when left much to themselves, acquire a
thoughtfulness not common to their age. So it was with us; and during
the short cold days of winter we would sit silent, longing for the happy
hours when the snow would melt, and the leaves burst out, and the birds
begin their songs, and when we should again be set at liberty.
Such was our peculiar and savage sort of life until my brother Cæsar was
nine, myself seven, and my sister five, years old, when the
circumstances occurred on which is based the extraordinary narrative
which I am about to relate.
One evening my father returned home rather later than usual; he had been
unsuccessful, and, as the weather was very severe, and many feet of snow
were upon the ground, he was not only very cold, but in a very bad
humour. He had brought in wood, and we were all three of us gladly
assisting each other in blowing on the embers to create the blaze, when
he caught poor little Marcella by the arm and threw her aside; the child
fell, struck her mouth, and bled very much. My brother ran to raise her
up. Accustomed to ill usage, and afraid of my father, she did not dare
to cry, but looked up in his face very piteously. My father drew his
stool nearer to the hearth, muttered something in abuse of women, and
busied himself with the fire, which both my brother and I had deserted
when our sister was so unkindly treated. A cheerful blaze was soon the
result of his exertions; but we did not, as usual, crowd round it.
Marcella, still bleeding, retired to a corner, and my brother and I took
our seats beside her, while my father hung over the fire gloomily and
alone. Such had been our position for about half-an-hour, when the howl
of a wolf, close under the window of the cottage, fell on our ears. My
father started up, and seized his gun; the howl was repeated, he
examined the priming, and then hastily left the cottage, shutting the
door after him. We all waited (anxiously listening), for we thought that
if he succeeded in shooting the wolf, he would return in a better
humour; and although he was harsh to all of us, and particularly so to
our little sister, still we loved our father, and loved to see him
cheerful and happy, for what else had we to look up to? And I may here
observe, that perhaps there never were three children who were fonder of
each other; we did not, like other children, fight and dispute together;
and if, by chance, any disagreement did arise between my elder brother
and me, little Marcella would run to us, and kissing us both, seal,
through her entreaties, the peace between us. Marcella was a lovely,
amiable child; I can recall her beautiful features even now--Alas! poor
little Marcella.
We waited for some time, but the report of the gun did not reach us, and
my elder brother then said, "Our father has followed the wolf, and will
not be back for some time. Marcella, let us wash the blood from your
mouth, and then we will leave this corner, and go to the fire and warm
ourselves."
We did so, and remained there until near midnight, every minute
wondering, as it grew later, why our father did not return. We had no
idea that he was in any danger, but we thought that he must have chased
the wolf for a very long time. "I will look out and see if father is
coming," said my brother Cæsar, going to the door. "Take care," said
Marcella, "the wolves must be about now, and we cannot kill them,
brother." My brother opened the door very cautiously, and but a few
inches; he peeped out.--"I see nothing," said he, after a time, and once
more he joined us at the fire. "We have had no supper," said I, for my
father usually cooked the meat as soon as he came home; and during his
absence we had nothing but the fragments of the preceding day.
"And if our father comes home after his hunt, Cæsar," said Marcella, "he
will be pleased to have some supper; let us cook it for him and for
ourselves." Cæsar climbed upon the stool, and reached down some meat--I
forget now whether it was venison or bear's meat; but we cut off the
usual quantity, and proceeded to dress it, as we used to do under our
father's superintendence. We were all busied putting it into the
platters before the fire, to await his coming, when we heard the sound
of a horn. We listened--there was a noise outside, and a minute
afterwards my father entered, ushering in a young female, and a large
dark man in a hunter's dress.
Perhaps I had better now relate, what was only known to me many years
afterwards. When my father had left the cottage, he perceived a large
white wolf about thirty yards from him; as soon as the animal saw my
father, it retreated slowly, growling and snarling. My father followed;
the animal did not run, but always kept at some distance; and my father
did not like to fire until he was pretty certain that his ball would
take effect: thus they went on for some time, the wolf now leaving my
father far behind, and then stopping and snarling defiance at him, and
then again, on his approach, setting off at speed.
Anxious to shoot the animal (for the white wolf is very rare), my father
continued the pursuit for several hours, during which he continually
ascended the mountain.
You must know that there are peculiar spots on those mountains which are
supposed, and, as my story will prove, truly supposed, to be inhabited
by the evil influences; they are well known to the huntsmen, who
invariably avoid them. Now, one of these spots, an open space in the
pine forests above us, had been pointed out to my father as dangerous on
that account. But, whether he disbelieved these wild stories, or
whether, in his eager pursuit of the chase, he disregarded them, I know
not; certain, however, it is that he was decoyed by the white wolf to
this open space, when the animal appeared to slacken her speed. My
father approached, came close up to her, raised his gun to his shoulder,
and was about to fire, when the wolf suddenly disappeared. He thought
that the snow on the ground must have dazzled his sight, and he let down
his gun to look for the beast--but she was gone; how she could have
escaped over the clearance, without his seeing her, was beyond his
comprehension. Mortified at the ill success of his chase, he was about
to retrace his steps, when he heard the distant sound of a horn.
Astonishment at such a sound--at such an hour--in such a wilderness,
made him forget for the moment his disappointment, and he remained
riveted to the spot. In a minute the horn was blown a second time, and
at no great distance; my father stood still, and listened: a third time
it was blown. I forget the term used to express it, but it was the
signal which, my father well knew, implied that the party was lost in
the woods. In a few minutes more my father beheld a man on horseback,
with a female seated on the crupper, enter the cleared space, and ride
up to him. At first, my father called to mind the strange stories which
he had heard of the supernatural beings who were said to frequent these
mountains; but the nearer approach of the parties satisfied him that
they were mortals like himself. As soon as they came up to him, the man
who guided the horse accosted him. "Friend Hunter, you are out late, the
better fortune for us: we have ridden far, and are in fear of our lives,
which are eagerly sought after. These mountains have enabled us to elude
our pursuers; but if we find not shelter and refreshment, that will
avail us little, as we must perish from hunger and the inclemency of the
night. My daughter, who rides behind me, is now more dead than
alive--say, can you assist us in our difficulty?"
"My cottage is some few miles distant," replied my father, "but I have
little to offer you besides a shelter from the weather; to the little I
have you are welcome. May I ask whence you come?"
"Yes, friend, it is no secret now; we have escaped from Transylvania,
where my daughter's honour and my life were equally in jeopardy!"
This information was quite enough to raise an interest in my father's
heart. He remembered his own escape: he remembered the loss of his
wife's honour, and the tragedy by which it was wound up. He immediately,
and warmly, offered all the assistance which he could afford them.
"There is no time to be lost, then, good sir," observed the horseman;
"my daughter is chilled with the frost, and cannot hold out much longer
against the severity of the weather."
"Follow me," replied my father, leading the way towards his home.
"I was lured away in pursuit of a large white wolf," observed my father;
"it came to the very window of my hut, or I should not have been out at
this time of night."
"The creature passed by us just as we came out of the wood," said the
female in a silvery tone.
"I was nearly discharging my piece at it," observed the hunter; "but
since it did us such good service, I am glad that I allowed it to
escape."
In about an hour and a half, during which my father walked at a rapid
pace, the party arrived at the cottage, and, as I said before, came in.
"We are in good time, apparently," observed the dark hunter, catching
the smell of the roasted meat, as he walked to the fire and surveyed my
brother and sister, and myself. "You have young cooks here, Mynheer." "I
am glad that we shall not have to wait," replied my father. "Come,
mistress, seat yourself by the fire; you require warmth after your cold
ride." "And where can I put up my horse, Mynheer?" observed the
huntsman. "I will take care of him," replied my father, going out of the
cottage door.
The female must, however, be particularly described. She was young, and
apparently twenty years of age. She was dressed in a travelling dress,
deeply bordered with white fur, and wore a cap of white ermine on her
head. Her features were very beautiful, at least I thought so, and so my
father has since declared. Her hair was flaxen, glossy and shining, and
bright as a mirror; and her mouth, although somewhat large when it was
open, showed the most brilliant teeth I have ever beheld. But there was
something about her eyes, bright as they were, which made us children
afraid; they were so restless, so furtive; I could not at that time tell
why, but I felt as if there was cruelty in her eye; and when she
beckoned us to come to her, we approached her with fear and trembling.
Still she was beautiful, very beautiful. She spoke kindly to my brother
and myself, patted our heads, and caressed us; but Marcella would not
come near her; on the contrary, she slunk away, and hid herself in the
bed, and would not wait for the supper, which half an hour before she
had been so anxious for.
My father, having put the horse into a close shed, soon returned, and
supper was placed upon the table. When it was over, my father requested
that the young lady would take possession of his bed, and he would
remain at the fire, and sit up with her father. After some hesitation on
her part, this arrangement was agreed to, and I and my brother crept
into the other bed with Marcella, for we had as yet always slept
together.
But we could not sleep; there was something so unusual, not only in
seeing strange people, but in having those people sleep at the cottage,
that we were bewildered. As for poor little Marcella, she was quiet, but
I perceived that she trembled during the whole night, and sometimes I
thought that she was checking a sob. My father had brought out some
spirits, which he rarely used, and he and the strange hunter remained
drinking and talking before the fire. Our ears were ready to catch the
slightest whisper--so much was our curiosity excited.
"You said you came from Transylvania?" observed my father.
"Even so, Mynheer," replied the hunter. "I was a serf to the noble
house of----; my master would insist upon my surrendering up my fair
girl to his wishes; it ended in my giving him a few inches of my
hunting-knife."
"We are countrymen, and brothers in misfortune," replied my father,
taking the huntsman's hand, and pressing it warmly.
"Indeed! Are you, then, from that country?"
"Yes; and I too have fled for my life. But mine is a melancholy tale."
"Your name?" inquired the hunter.
"Krantz."
"What! Krantz of--I have heard your tale; you need not renew your grief
by repeating it now. Welcome, most welcome, Mynheer, and, I may say, my
worthy kinsman. I am your second cousin, Wilfred of Barnsdorf," cried
the hunter, rising up and embracing my father.
They filled their horn mugs to the brim, and drank to one another, after
the German fashion. The conversation was then carried on in a low tone;
all that we could collect from it was, that our new relative and his
daughter were to take up their abode in our cottage, at least for the
present. In about an hour they both fell back in their chairs, and
appeared to sleep.
"Marcella, dear, did you hear?" said my brother in a low tone.
"Yes," replied Marcella, in a whisper; "I heard all. Oh! brother, I
cannot bear to look upon that woman--I feel so frightened."
My brother made no reply, and shortly afterwards we were all three fast
asleep.
When we awoke the next morning, we found that the hunter's daughter had
risen before us. I thought she looked more beautiful than ever. She came
up to little Marcella and caressed her; the child burst into tears, and
sobbed as if her heart would break.
But, not to detain you with too long a story, the huntsman and his
daughter were accommodated in the cottage. My father and he went out
hunting daily, leaving Christina with us. She performed all the
household duties; was very kind to us children; and, gradually, the
dislike even of little Marcella wore away. But a great change took place
in my father; he appeared to have conquered his aversion to the sex, and
was most attentive to Christina. Often, after her father and we were in
bed, would he sit up with her, conversing in a low tone by the fire. I
ought to have mentioned, that my father and the huntsman Wilfred, slept
in another portion of the cottage, and that the bed which he formerly
occupied, and which was in the same room as ours, had been given up to
the use of Christina. These visitors had been about three weeks at the
cottage, when, one night, after we children had been sent to bed, a
consultation was held. My father had asked Christina in marriage, and
had obtained both her own consent and that of Wilfred; after this a
conversation took place, which was, as nearly as I can recollect, as
follows:
"You may take my child, Mynheer Krantz, and my blessing with her, and I
shall then leave you and seek some other habitation--it matters little
where."
"Why not remain here, Wilfred?"
"No, no, I am called elsewhere; let that suffice, and ask no more
questions. You have my child."
"I thank you for her, and will duly value her; but there is one
difficulty."
"I know what you would say; there is no priest here in this wild
country: true, neither is there any law to bind; still must some
ceremony pass between you, to satisfy a father. Will you consent to
marry her after my fashion? if so, I will marry you directly."
"I will," replied my father.
"Then take her by the hand. Now, Mynheer, swear."
"I swear," repeated my father.
"By all the spirits of the Hartz Mountains----"
"Nay, why not by Heaven?" interrupted my father.
"Because it is not my humour," rejoined Wilfred; "if I prefer that oath,
less binding perhaps, than another, surely you will not thwart me."
"Well, be it so then; have your humour. Will you make me swear by that
in which I do not believe?"
"Yet many do so, who in outward appearance are Christians," rejoined
Wilfred; "say, will you be married, or shall I take my daughter away
with me?"
"Proceed," replied my father, impatiently.
"I swear by all the spirits of the Hartz Mountains, by all their power
for good or for evil, that I take Christina for my wedded wife; that I
will ever protect her, cherish her, and love her; that my hand shall
never be raised against her to harm her."
My father repeated the words after Wilfred.
"And if I fail in this, my vow, may all the vengeance of the spirits
fall upon me and upon my children; may they perish by the vulture, by
the wolf, or other beasts of the forest; may their flesh be torn from
their limbs, and their bones blanch in the wilderness; all this I
swear."
My father hesitated, as he repeated the last words; little Marcella
could not restrain herself, and as my father repeated the last sentence,
she burst into tears. This sudden interruption appeared to discompose
the party, particularly my father; he spoke harshly to the child, who
controlled her sobs, burying her face under the bed-clothes.
Such was the second marriage of my father. The next morning, the hunter
Wilfred mounted his horse and rode away.
My father resumed his bed, which was in the same room as ours; and
things went on much as before the marriage, except that our new
mother-in-law did not show any kindness towards us; indeed, during my
father's absence, she would often beat us, particularly little Marcella,
and her eyes would flash fire, as she looked eagerly upon the fair and
lovely child.
One night, my sister awoke me and my brother.
"What is the matter?" said Cæsar.
"She has gone out," whispered Marcella.
"Gone out!"
"Yes, gone out at the door, in her night-clothes," replied the child; "I
saw her get out of bed, look at my father to see if he slept, and then
she went out at the door."
What could induce her to leave her bed, and all undressed to go out, in
such bitter wintry weather, with the snow deep on the ground, was to us
incomprehensible; we lay awake, and in about an hour we heard the growl
of a wolf, close under the window.
"There is a wolf," said Cæsar, "she will be torn to pieces."
"Oh, no!" cried Marcella.