making a free use of her tongue in upbraidings and reproaches for their
dastardly conduct on the Wolds, of which she had heard, to which they
listened very impatiently, and replied in coarse language not fit for a
lady's ears, at the same time demanding the plate and other valuables
of the house. She scornfully refused to give them up, and told them
that if they wanted them they must find them for themselves, and at
length so provoked them by her taunts that they cried, "Hew down with
the sword the woman of Belial and the spawn of the malignant," and
suiting the action to the word, they caught her child from her arms,
dashed its brains out against the wall, and then cut her down and
"hewed" off her head, after which they plundered the house and departed
with their spoil.
It must not be supposed that these ruffians were a fair specimen of the
brave, God-fearing men who fought under Fairfax, and put Newcastle
and Rupert to flight at Marston Moor, who fought with the sword in
one hand and the Bible in the other, who laid the axe at the root of
Royal abitrary prerogative, and were the real authors of the civil and
religious liberty which we now enjoy. But, as in all times of civil
commotion, there were evil-minded wretches who, for purpose of plunder,
assumed the garb and adopted the phraseology of the noble-minded
soldiers of Fairfax and Hampden, and the Ironsides of Cromwell,
out-Puritaned them in their hypocritical cant, bringing disgrace and
scandal upon the armies with which they associated themselves. And such
were the villains who despoiled Watton, and slew so barbarously the
poor lady and her infant; and from that time the ghost of the lady has
haunted the room in which the deed was perpetrated.
In the year 1780, Mr. Bethell, the then occupier of the house, was
giving a dinner-party in the dining-room, which adjoined the haunted
apartment. When they were seated over their wine the host related the
story of the ghost, and had scarcely finished it when an unearthly
sound issued from the floor beneath their feet. Consternation seized
on the party. They concluded that it was the ghost, and to their
imagination the candles began to emit a blue, ghostly light. It seemed
to be a confirmation of the truth of the story; but they summoned up
courage enough to make an examination, and although it was approaching
the "witching hour of night," they sent for a carpenter, who took up
some planks of the floor, and found--not the ghost, but the nest of an
otter from the moat, who had made there a home for her progeny, whose
cries had alarmed them; and thus was dissipated what might otherwise
have been deemed a veritable supernatural visitation.
The Murdered Hermit of Eskdale.
Sir Richard de Veron was a distinguished knight of the North Riding,
who held a considerable estate by knight's service of the De Brus
family in Cleveland. He was one of the heroes of the Battle of the
Standard, in 1138, who went forth at the behest of Archbishop Thurstan
to oppose the invasion of David of Scotland, and who signally defeated
that monarch. A few years after, he joined the forces of the Empress
Maud, whose pretensions to the throne of England he considered to
be more legitimate than those of Stephen, and fought on her side at
Lincoln, in 1141, when the King was defeated and taken prisoner,
continuing to uphold her cause until she was compelled to retire from
England. The war being thus brought to an end, and the adherents of
the Empress generally declining to take service under a King whom they
deemed a usurper, and by whom they were looked upon with suspicion,
De Veron sheathed his sword and retired to his family and home in
Cleveland. He had a wife, whom he dearly loved, and two children, a
boy--his heir, and a sweet little daughter for whom he entertained
the most tender affection; indeed, although he delighted in the clash
of arms and the exciting revelry of war, he was never so truly happy
as when in the midst of his family, teaching his young son to ride,
practice at the target, and follow his hounds in pursuit of the wild
animals of the chase; or listening to the prattle of his little
daughter, when taking lessons from her mother in reading, music, or
embroidery work. Thus happily passed a few months after his return
from his martial pursuits, when one morning, news was brought that a
case of plague had occurred in the village, causing, as it always did,
great consternation not only amongst the villagers, but in the knight's
mansion, which stood half a mile away from the village. It was hoped
that it might be an isolated case, and such rude remedial measures as
were then known were adopted to prevent the spread of the infection,
but within a week another case was reported, and another and another in
rapid succession, after which it spread with fearful speed, until half
the population succumbed to it, and were hastily buried without the
usual funeral rites. In a month the disease appeared to be dying out,
the deaths were fewer and fewer day by day, and it was fondly hoped
that the terrible infliction was passing away, but it was not until
three-fourths of the people had fallen victims to its pestilential fury.
Although Sir Richard hesitated not to go down to the village and
employ himself in administering food, medicine, and consolation to
the afflicted, he took every known precaution against coming into too
close contact with the infected; he kept his family closely shut up at
home, and occupied a separate set of apartments himself, not allowing
them to come into his presence; but notwithstanding all his preventive
measures he was at last stricken down. He gave positive orders that he
should be left alone, and if it was God's will that he should die, he
declared his resolution that he would die alone, and with affectionate
earnestness sent a message to his wife, entreating her to remain apart
from him, and not imperil her dear life by coming to his bedside. But
she, true wife as she was, heeded not the risk to her own life, so long
as she could afford comfort and spiritual consolation to him, in what
might very probably be his last few moments on earth, and regardless of
the injunction, hastened, on receiving the message, to the room where
he lay. He reproached her gently for exposing herself to the risk of
infection, but was met by assurances that it was not possible for her
to remain away whilst he was lying there requiring careful tendence,
with all the servants standing aloof panic-stricken, or flying from the
house. He implored her to retire, but she replied that she might or
might not take the infection; that was as God pleased, and if she did
she might or might not fall a victim, but most assuredly if she left
him alone and shut herself up away from him she would die of anxiety,
or, in case of his death, of a broken heart. Finding remonstrance
useless, he was fain to submit to her nursing, and happily during the
night the malady passed its crisis, his strong, healthy constitution
enabling him to battle successfully with the disease, and he gradually
became convalescent.
Happiness again seemed to be dawning over the household, but it was not
destined to last long. The faithful wife, who had watched so tenderly
over his sick bed, regardless of the risk she ran, maintained her
health so long as her services were needed, but in her ministrations
she had imbibed the seed of the fatal malady, and now, when her husband
was restored to health, the terrible plague spot made its appearance,
and so rapidly did the disease develop itself that, within twenty-four
hours, she fell a victim to its remorseless energy. It was a fearful
blow to Sir Richard, but this was not all the suffering he had to
undergo. Scarcely had he returned from the obsequies of his wife, when
his two children caught the infection, and in another four-and-twenty
hours they were both carried off, leaving him bereft of all the
best-beloved of his soul, and sunk in the depths of desolation and
despair.
For some months he remained in his silent and cheerless home in
a state of profound apathy, taking no interest in the avocations
devolving on him as the lord of an extensive estate. It is true he
befriended, pecuniarily, the numerous widows and orphans left in the
village by the ruthless pestilence that had swept over it, and he
contributed large sums of money to the Church for prayers and masses
for the souls of the departed, not only of his own family, but of his
vassals and dependants. Nothing seemed capable of rousing him from the
despondency into which he had fallen; the sports of the field were
altogether neglected; the cheerful companionship of friends presented
no attractions for him, and he sat at home hour after hour through the
live-long day, plunged in moody melancholy and repining meditation on
his irreparable loss, and the utter extinction of all that was worth
living for. And thus passed week after week and month after month,
Time, the great mollifier of grief, seeming to impart no balm to his
sorrow-stricken soul.
The only person whom he admitted as a visitor, besides those who
came on imperative business matters, was Father Anselm, a pious and
devout man, the priest of the village church. It was in his company
only, and in listening to his spiritual converse, that he felt any
relief from the grief that oppressed him, and gradually, after many
interviews, he began to look upon his affliction as a providential
dispensation, intended for some wise purpose. Gradually also he became
more weaned from earthly and secular things, and his soul to become
more spiritualised, and he began to experience a feeling of attraction
to the cloister. One day he mentioned this to his spiritual adviser,
and Father Anselm, rejoicing thereat, warmly applauded the feeling,
urging that such self-devotion would be most acceptable to God, and
that it was only in religious meditation and prayer that he would be
vouchsafed that true consolation which religion alone could give. The
holy father perhaps was not altogether single-minded in thus fostering
the idea of assuming the cowl, for he was a true Churchman, considering
that the promotion of the temporal aggrandisement of the Church was an
essential part of the duty of a Christian, a sentiment then universally
prevalent, and not unusual now. He knew that Sir Richard was the owner
of broad acres, and that now he had no heir to inherit them, and
he often made delicate and incidental allusions to the fact, which
seemed to produce an impression on the mind of the knight. At last an
opportunity offered itself of speaking out more openly. With a profound
sigh, Sir Richard one day said, when the conversation had turned upon
his estates and possessions, "Alas! why should I trouble or concern
myself about these lands and the improvements that might be made on
them? I shall never more be able to derive pleasure from the possession
of them, and I have no heir to bequeath them to. What is the good of
riches if they do not afford happiness? A crust and water from the
wayside brook with happiness is better than untold wealth accompanied
with sorrow and anguish of heart."
Father Anselm saw his opportunity, and pertinently asked, "Since you
have no heir, why not make the holy Church of Christ your heir? By
doing so you would garner up for yourself riches in heaven--an eternity
of inconceivable happiness compared with which in duration your present
suffering is but as the pang of a moment."
Sir Richard sat musing for the space of a quarter of an hour, and then
said, "Holy Father, what you say seems good, fitting, and worthy of
consideration. Give me a week to think it over, and at the expiration
of that period I will commune with you further on the subject," and
Father Anselm took his departure.
At the week's end, when they met again, Sir Richard opened the subject
by saying, "Venerable Father, I have since our last meeting given
deep consideration to your counsels, and have come to the resolution
of doing as you advise me. I have determined on assuming the monkish
habit; spending the remainder of my life in pious communion with some
holy brotherhood; and on resigning my possessions into the hands of the
Church of God."
"It is good," replied Father Anselm. "Have you thought of any specific
house on which to bestow your donation?"
"It occurred to me," continued Sir Richard, "to become a canon of the
Augustinian house recently founded by my feudal Lord, Robert de Brus,
at Guisborough, and to add my lands to its further endowment."
"Permit me to counsel you otherwise," said the Father, "Guisborough,
as an Augustinian house, is not so strict in its discipline as other
monastic houses, and is already very fairly endowed. But there is
another, of the Benedictine order, where you would have an opportunity
of cultivating a more strictly religious and less secular frame of
mind--I mean Whitby, a holy spot, once sanctified by the presence of
the blessed St. Hilda. It was founded by King Oswy in 687, was laid in
ruins by the sacrilegious Danes in 867, and so remained for another
couple of hundred years, when God moved the heart of Will de Percy to
refound it as a Priory. Within the last few years it has again been
converted into an Abbey; but it lacks endowment for the due maintenance
of its superior dignity. Let me advise you, therefore, to cast in your
lot with these Benedictines, and win the approval of God by bestowing
your wealth in his service, where it is much needed."
Sir Richard assented to this suggestion, caused a deed of gift to be
drawn, in which he conveyed his lands to the Abbot and convent of
Whitby, and entered the house as a novice; and in due time, at the
expiration of his novitiate, was admitted as a monk.
Brother Jerome (to use his monastic appellation) soon attracted notice
by the fervour of his piety, his asceticism, and a strict and sincere
observance of the conventual rules; as well as by his humility and
obedience to the ordinances of his superiors. It chanced that after he
had been in the house a few years, the Prior, whose position was that
of sub-Abbot in the house, sickened and died; and, at a meeting of the
chapter to elect his successor, Brother Jerome was suggested as the
most fitting, by his manifest piety and abilities, for the office; but
he resolutely declined taking it upon himself, preferring, as he said,
to be rather a hewer of wood or drawer of water--the servant of the
brotherhood--than to hold any superior office.
In the course of his meditations he was wont to cast a retrospective
glance on his past life, and to grieve over his career as a soldier
and a shedder of blood; especially did he mourn over the excesses of
barbarous cruelty into which he had been drawn in emulation of the
ferocity of his fellow-soldiers, when marching under the banner of
the Empress, remembering with tears of bitter remorse, the burning
villages, the homeless people, the corpse-strewn fields, and the widows
and orphans they left in their rear. The more he thought of these
past phases of his life, the more intense became his self-reproaches
and the compunction excited by a sense of guilt and sin. He sought by
mortification and maceration of the flesh to make atonement for these
blood-stained deeds, but despite these self-inflicted punishments, he
was not able to find rest for his soul. For ever, when prostrate in
prayer, would they rise up before him, and the enemy of mankind would
whisper in his ear, "Thou fool! what is the good of praying and fasting
and weeping? Thy sins are too heinous for pardon; thou hast given
up thy possessions to secure a heritage in heaven, but thy guilt is
so damning that thou wilt assuredly find its gate shut against thee.
Instead of leading a miserable and wretched life here in the cloister,
return to the world and enjoy life while it lasts, for in either case
there is nothing to hope for in the future."
Jerome took counsel of the Abbot, an old, wise, and experienced
Christian, who at once detected the cloven hoof in the temptation, and
was successful in convincing the tempted one of the fact, advising him
to go on in the course he was pursuing, assuring him that there was
mercy for the vilest of sinners if penitent, which afforded him great
consolation.
Nevertheless the remorse-stricken sinner considered that his
misdeeds had been such that he could scarcely do sufficient in the
way of mortification to obliterate the guilt of the past, and he
determined upon withdrawing himself entirely from communion with his
fellow-creatures, even from the Holy Brotherhood of Whitby, and devote
the remainder of his life to meditation and prayer altogether apart
from the world.
Connected with the Abbey there was, in a solitary place of the forest
which fringed the banks of the Esk, a chapel where the monks were wont
to retire at certain seasons for the purpose of devotion, away from the
bustle and distraction inevitable in a large community; and in close
proximity to this chapel, Jerome built for himself a wooden hut in
which to pass his remaining years as a hermit, secluded from society,
living on wild fruit and roots, quenching his thirst from the streamlet
which trickled past, and spending his days and nights in prayer,
flagellation, and abstinence.
Resident in the neighbourhood of Whitby were two landed
proprietors--Ralph de Perci, Lord of Sneton, and William de Brus,
Lord of Ugglebarnby, who were great lovers of hunting and other field
sports, and near them lived one Allatson, a gentleman and freeholder.
The three were boon companions, and constantly meeting in the pursuance
of country sports, and at each other's houses for the purpose of
carousing together. One night when they were thus assembled together
they arranged to go boar-hunting on the following day, which was
the 16th of October, 5th Henry II., in the forest of Eskdale; and
soon after dinner they met, attired in their hunting garbs, with
boar-staves in their hands, and accompanied by a pack of boar-hounds,
yelping and barking, and as eager for the sport as their masters.
A boar was soon started, which plunged into the recesses of the forest,
followed by the hounds in full cry, and by the hunters, shouting to
encourage them. Onward they rushed, through brake and briar, the huge
animal clearing a pathway through the tangled underwood, which enabled
his pursuers to follow without much impediment. Onward they went in
hot speed, the hounds sometimes overtaking the boar, and tearing him
with their fangs, and the hunters beating him with their staves,
maddening him with rage, and causing him to turn upon his pursuers,
and rend the dogs with his fangs, as he would also the hunters, could
he have escaped the environment of the dogs; and then he would dash
onward again, evidently becoming more and more exhausted from wounds
and bruises and loss of blood, until at length they came in sight
of the chapel and hermitage; from which point we cannot do better
than continue the narrative in the words of Burton, as given in his
"Monasticon Ebor."
"The boar," says he, "being very sore and very hotly pursued, and dead
run, took in at the chapel door and there died, whereof the hermit
shut the hounds out of the chapel and kept himself within at his
meditations, the hounds standing at bay without.
"The gentlemen called to the hermit (Brother Jerome), who opened the
door. They found the boar dead, for which they, in very great fury
(because their hounds were put from their game) did, most violently and
cruelly, run at the hermit with their boar staves, whereby he died soon
after."
Fearful of the consequences of their crime, they fled to Scarborough,
and took sanctuary in the church; but the Abbot of Whitby, who was a
friend of the King, was authorised to take them out, "whereby they came
in danger of the law, and not to be privileged, but likely to have the
severity of the law, which was death."
The hermit, who had been brought to Whitby Abbey, lay at the point of
death when the prisoners were brought thither; and hearing of their
arrival, he besought the Abbot that they might be brought into his
presence; and when they made their appearance said to them, "I am sure
to die of these wounds you gave me." "Aye," quoth the Abbot, "and they
shall surely die for the same." "Not so," continued the dying man, "for
I will freely forgive them my death if they will be contented to be
enjoined this penance for the safeguard of their souls." "Enjoin what
penance you will," replied the culprits, "so that you save our lives."
Then Brother Jerome explained the nature of the penance:--"You and
yours shall hold your lands of the Abbot of Whitby and his successors
in this manner. That upon Ascension Eve, you, or some of you, shall
come to the woods of Strayheads, which is in Eskdale, the same day at
sunrising, and there shall the abbot's officer blow his horn, to the
intent that you may know how to find him; and he shall deliver unto
you, William de Brus, ten stakes, eleven strutstowers, and eleven
yethers, to be cut by you, or some of you, with a knife of one penny
price; and you, Ralph de Perci, shall take twenty and one of each sort,
to be cut in the same manner; and you, Allatson, shall take nine of
each sort to be cut as aforesaid, and to be taken on your backs and
carried to the town of Whitby, and to be there before nine of the clock
the same day before mentioned. If at the same hour of nine of the
clock it be full sea, your labour or service shall cease; but if it
be not full sea, each of you shall set your stakes at the brim and so
yether them, on each side of your yethers, and so stake on each side
with your strowers, that they may stand three tides, without removing
by the force thereof. Each of you shall make and execute the said
service at that very hour, every year, except it shall be full sea at
that hour; but when it shall so fall out, this service shall cease....
You shall faithfully do this, in remembrance that you did most cruelly
slay me; and that you may the better call to God for mercy, repent
unfeignedly for your sins, and do good works. The officer of Eskdale
side shall blow--'Out on you! out on you! out on you!' for this heinous
crime. If you, or your successors, shall refuse this service, so long
as it shall not be full sea, at the aforesaid hour, you, or yours,
shall forfeit your lands to the Abbot of Whitby, or his successors.
This I entreat, and earnestly beg that you may have lives and goods
preserved for this service; and I request of you to promise, by your
parts in Heaven, that it shall be done by you and your successors as
it is aforesaid requested, and I will confirm it by the faith of an
honest man." Then the hermit said, "My soul longeth for the Lord; and
I do freely forgive these men my death, as Christ forgave the thief
upon the cross," and in the presence of the Abbot and the rest, he
said, moreover, these words, "In manas tuas, domine, commendo spiritum,
meum, avinculis enim mortis redemisti me Domine veritatis. Amen." So
he yielded up the ghost the 8th day of December, A.D. 1160, upon whose
soul God have mercy. Amen.
In 1753, the service was rendered by the last of the Allatsons, the
Lords of Sneton and Ugglebarnby having, it is supposed, bought off
their share of the penance. He held a piece of land, of £10 a year, at
Fylingdales, for which he brought five stakes, eight yethers, and six
strutstowers, and whilst Mr. Cholmley's bailiff, on an antique bugle
horn, blew "out on you," he made a slight edge of them a little way
into the shallow of the river.
Burton, writing in 1757, adds, "This little farm is now out of the
Allatson family, but the present owner performed the service last
Ascension Eve, A.D. 1756."
The horn garth or yether hedge, as the fence was called, was
constructed yearly on the east side of the Esk for the purpose of
keeping cattle from the landing places.
Charlton, in his history of Whitby, discredits this tradition, saying
that there were no such persons as those mentioned, and no chapel,
only a hermitage in the forest; that the making of the horn garth is
of much older date than that indicated, and that there is no record in
the annals of the abbey of its ever having been made by way of penance;
concluding that it is altogether a monkish invention.
The Calverley Ghost.