by the cruel, tumbling North Sea—looked forward, sixty years ago, to
market-day as the one weekly break in the monotony of its existence,
just as it does now. On Wednesdays, Saint Quinians became the centre
to which active life converged from a score of villages and hamlets
that regarded it as their metropolis. Wednesday was a point in the
calendar upon which hinged all arrangements, and by which all events
were calculated: people met upon Wednesday who never saw each other at
any other time; and the news of Wednesday was the latest obtainable
by many folk even at an epoch when forty coaches left London every
evening. And if Saint Quinians’ shopkeepers looked forward to Wednesday
as their busy day—if the farmers looked forward to it as the link which
bound them with the outer world—if the local youth saved up their
money and their spirits, and let them both out on Wednesday, Bertha
West, who lived with her father in a solitary house on the shore, some
four miles from the town, looked forward to it as the day when she met
her sweetheart, Harry Symonds, and spent the happiest hours of her
week. Every Wednesday, Harry Symonds met her at the old South Gate—the
only one remaining to tell of days when Saint Quinians was a port of
some fame, and contributed its quota of ships and men to the national
navy—and if she was prevented from coming, a very miserable week was in
store for the young man, as John West, the father of Bertha, did not
approve of the attachment, for the rather selfish reason, that if his
daughter married, he was left alone in the world.
They had been sweethearting in this semi-clandestine manner for more
than a year, and Harry Symonds was beginning to face mentally the
awkward problem of what was to be done, should the old man persist
in his opposition to the match. Not only this; but the young man was
aware that the pretty girl whom he had learned to regard as his own
inalienable private property was the object of very marked attention
on the part of a certain Jasper Rodley, a youth who bore no very high
character in the town, who had suddenly disappeared from it for three
years, and had as unexpectedly returned; and although Harry trusted
Bertha implicitly, he thought that a settlement of affairs would be an
advisable step. And so when, one bright spring Wednesday morning, he
met the girl coming with her market baskets on her arm along the path
over the sandhills, she observed that his face was serious, and very
naturally jumped at the conclusion that something was wrong.
‘Why, Harry,’ she exclaimed, ‘there’s a face for a lover to make who
sees his sweetheart only once a week! There’s nothing wrong, is there?’
‘No, dear,’ replied the young man, his face instantly brightening at
the sound of her voice; ‘there’s nothing wrong. I’ve been thinking,
that’s all. And how are matters at home? How’s the father?’
‘Just as usual, Harry. Father’s been depressed all the week; but I’ve
got him to set to work on his flagstaff and battery with two real guns,
so that he’ll be all right.’
‘I wonder what depresses him?’ asked Harry. ‘You’ve always described
him as such a jovial old seadog.’
‘I don’t know; but ever since the _Fancy Lass_ was wrecked, he’s been
different at times.’
‘And Mr Rodley—has he been annoying you with any of his attentions
lately?’ asked Harry.
‘No. But I’ve seen him more than once about our house.’
‘How did he find out where you lived? And what is he doing there?’
Bertha shook her head, and said: ‘I don’t know. I seem to think that
there has been some acquaintance formed between father and him. He has
never been inside the house, to my knowledge; but I fancy they meet now
and then.’
The young man was silent for a few moments; then he continued: ‘Well,
never mind, Bertha. So long as we are true to each other, he cannot
come between us. He’s a queer fellow, and people say odd things about
him. If you remember, he disappeared from Saint Quinians about the same
time that my sad business with the bank took place.’
‘You mean, when the bank’s sovereigns were stolen, and you were
dismissed for cul—cul—— What was it, Harry?’
‘Culpable negligence, my dear.’
‘Yes, that was it; and a great shame it was!’ cried the girl warmly. ‘I
wonder where the sovereigns went to?’
‘Ah! where indeed?’ asked Harry. ‘They were never traced. But old
Cusack, our cashier, who disappeared with them, took good care that
they never should be traced. It’s my belief that they went to sea, for
three thousand pounds in sovereigns are not carried away so easily.
However, after all, it did me no harm. Every one agreed that I was
cruelly treated. I got a new berth immediately; and I’m much better off
now than I should have been if I’d remained in the bank’s service; so
well off, in fact, Bertha, that I’m beginning to think it almost time
for us to come to some decision as to what we shall do.’
‘O Harry! there’s plenty of time to think about that; and it’s—it’s so
pleasant making love; and besides, I must break it gently to father,
for he has no idea of parting with me yet.’
‘But he surely can’t expect that you should spend your life in that
tumble-down old smuggler’s cottage.—Hillo! there’s Rodley, skulking
about like a whipped cur. We’ll go on.’
So the happy pair proceeded into the market, Harry holding the girl’s
baskets whilst she made her usual purchases, until the clock striking
ten warned the young man that he was due at his office. He saw Bertha
on her road home as far as the South Gate, and was hurrying across the
market-place, when he caught sight of Jasper Rodley walking swiftly in
the direction taken by Bertha. He stopped and watched. He saw Rodley
catch the girl up just as she was disappearing beneath the archway,
raise his hat, and continue by her side in spite of Bertha’s evident
annoyance. Harry Symonds retraced his steps so far that he could watch
the progress of the pair out of the town. Suddenly, he observed Mr
Rodley attempt to put his arms round Bertha’s waist, whereupon the girl
struggled, got free, and ran on.
This was too much for Harry. He ran out by the gate, and, coming up to
Bertha and her tormentor, said to him: ‘Mr Rodley, what do you mean by
daring to force your attentions where they are not wanted?’
Jasper Rodley, a tall, well-built young fellow, of about Harry’s age
and size, started at first; but, shoving his hands into his pockets,
surveyed his questioner for a moment with disdain, and asked: ‘And what
has that to do with you, Mr Dismissed Bank-clerk?’
Harry was itching to thrash him on the spot; but respect for Bertha’s
presence induced him to bottle up his wrath as best he could, and
reply: ‘You’ve no right to bother any girl if she doesn’t want to have
anything to do with you. And look here—your character hereabouts isn’t
so high that you can afford to call other people names, so I warn you
to keep a civil tongue in your head, or something might be done that
you wouldn’t like, and something might be said that would make you look
a little small.’
This last bit was added at random, but it seemed to have a strange
effect upon Rodley, who turned pale for a moment, but recovered himself
and retorted: ‘Done and said, indeed! You couldn’t do much that I’m
afraid of, and at anyrate people couldn’t say of me what they do of
you. How about these sovereigns, eh?’
‘Look here, Rodley. If I did my duty, I should give you a thrashing on
the spot. Just be off.—Miss West is betrothed to me. That’s enough. Do
you hear?’
Jasper Rodley walked off, with a savage scowl on his face and an
imprecation on his lips.
‘O Harry dear!’ cried the girl, who was trembling with fright, ‘I’m so
glad you didn’t fight.’
‘Fight with a cur like that!’ exclaimed Harry. ‘Men of his kidney don’t
fight.—What has he been saying to you, my darling?’
‘Oh, such terrible things, Harry! He says that he will marry me whether
I like it or not—that father is in his power, and has consented; and
that I had better make up my mind to give you up before it is too late.’
‘Why, what on earth can he mean? Your father in the power of a rascal
like that—to consent to your marrying him! He’s only trying to frighten
you. And yet you say that you have seen him with your father. I think I
shall tackle Mr Jasper at once and make him explain his dark speeches.
There’s one thing—I’m not going to have him continue his tormenting of
you, whether your father is in his power or not.—And now, good-bye,
dearest; you’re safe now.’
So the girl pursued her homeward road; and Harry Symonds walked rapidly
back into the town. Just within the gate, he came up with Jasper
Rodley. ‘Rodley,’ he said, ‘I’m going to the office to give an excuse
for my absence. Kindly wait here until I come back, as I want to speak
to you.’
‘If you want to speak to me, you’d better do so at once; I’ve other
things to attend to, and I’m not going to hang about here waiting for
you.’
‘Very well, then,’ said Harry; ‘let’s go where people can’t remark us.
Here, we’ll turn on to the ramparts.’
So they went along the pleasant walk which ran upon what had been, in
old, stirring times, the walls of Saint Quinians, a broad path, bounded
by shrubs and trees on one side, and by the deep stony ditch on the
other.
‘I want an explanation from you,’ said Harry, ‘about what you have just
said to Miss West concerning her father being in your power and your
determination to marry her.’
‘That’s easily given,’ replied Rodley. ‘At a word from me, old Captain
West could be ruined and disgraced. I’m as much in love with Bertha’——
‘Miss West, if you please.’
‘I said “Bertha,” and I repeat it,’ continued Rodley. ‘I’m as much in
love with her as you are, and I intend to marry her. If I can’t marry
her, I ruin her father.’
‘How can you ruin him?’
‘It’s very likely I should tell you—isn’t it?’ answered Rodley with a
sneer.
‘I intend to find out.’
‘Very well then, find out,’ retorted Rodley.—‘And now I must be off.’
‘You don’t go until I have an explanation,’ cried Harry. ‘I don’t
believe a word of what you say, and I believe you are only trying to
terrify the poor girl into submission.’
‘Come now, Symonds, don’t be a fool; we’re men of the world, and
it’s time we understood one another. I tell you once and for all, if
Bertha West does not marry me, I’ll have her father up in the felon’s
dock.—There; I’ve said more than I intended, so good-morning.’
He endeavoured to push past Harry; but the latter barred the way,
saying: ‘You’ll have poor old Captain West up as a felon! Why, man,
you’re mad! A simple old man like that, who never stirs beyond his
garden, who never said an evil thing of any one, much less did a wrong
to any one! Come, be more explicit.’
‘I’ve said more than I intended,’ continued Rodley; ‘and you don’t get
another word out of me.’
Again he tried to get past Harry, and again Harry prevented him,
saying: ‘Neither of us shall budge from here until I find out more
about this.’
Rodley made a desperate effort to get past Harry. The two men struggled
together, and as they were evenly matched in weight and strength, the
issue was doubtful. Suddenly, Rodley loosened his hold of Harry’s arms,
stooped, caught him by the legs, and jerked him over the steep side
of the rampart. Harry fell heavily, struck a projecting mass of stone
half-way down, and rolled amongst the sharp stones and rubbish at the
bottom, where he lay motionless and bleeding. Rodley did not stop to
look after him, but walked rapidly back into the town.
TRIAL BY ORDEAL.
One of the most remarkable judicial systems of olden times was the
trial by ordeal, a mode of procedure founded on the presumption that,
should a person be wrongfully accused, heaven would interpose, and in
some marked way make his innocence undeniable. With the exception of
China, this test was of almost universal adoption in the middle ages;
and, whilst still surviving amongst the uneducated portion of most
civilised communities, is even nowadays largely practised by uncultured
races. As far as its origin is concerned, it may be traced back to
remote antiquity; and the bitter water by which conjugal infidelity was
revealed—an ordeal pure and simple—will readily occur to the biblical
student as an interesting instance in Hebrew legislation and history.
Herodotus relates how King Amasis—whose reign immediately preceded the
invasion of Cambyses—‘was, when a private person, fond of drinking
and jesting, and by no means inclined to serious business. As soon,
however, as means failed him for the indulgence of his amusements,
he used to go about pilfering; and such persons as accused him of
having stolen their property—on his denying it—were wont to take
him to the oracle of the place, where he was oftentimes convicted,
and occasionally acquitted.’ The Greeks had their ordeals, a good
illustration of which occurs in the _Antigone_ of Sophocles, where the
soldiers offer to prove their innocence in various ways:
Ready with hands to bear the red-hot iron,
To pass through fire, and by the gods to swear,
That we nor did the deed, nor do we know
Who counselled it, nor who performed it.
This mode of purgation, the scholiast tells us, was in common use at
that time.
There was also the water ordeal, and a certain fountain near Ephesus
was specially employed for this purpose. As soon as the accused had
sworn to her innocence, she entered the water with a tablet affixed to
her neck, on which was inscribed her oath. If she were innocent, the
water remained stationary; but if guilty, it gradually rose until the
tablet floated. Traces of the same system are to be met with in the
history of ancient Rome; and amongst notable instances may be quoted
that of the vestal Tucca, who proved her purity by carrying water in
a sieve; and that of Claudia Quinta, who cleared her character by
dragging a ship against the current of the Tiber, after it had run
aground, and resisted every effort made to remove it. But, as Mr Lea
points out in his essay on _The Ordeal_, ‘instances such as these had
no influence on the forms and principles of Roman jurisprudence, which
was based on reason, and not on superstition. With the exception of the
use of torture, the accused was not required to exculpate himself. He
was presumed to be innocent, and the burden of proof lay not on him,
but on the prosecutor.’
The ordeal trial prevailed in France from before the time of
Charlemagne down to the eleventh century. The ancient Germans, too,
were in the habit of resorting to divination; and their superstitious
notions, writes Mr Gibson, led them to invent many methods of purgation
or trial now unknown to the law. It should be added, also, that the
Germans were specially tardy in throwing off this relic of barbarism;
for, at a period when most vulgar ordeals were falling into disuse, the
nobles of Southern Germany established the water ordeal as the mode
of deciding doubtful claims on fiefs; and in Northern Germany it was
instituted for the settlement of conflicting titles on land. Indeed,
as recently as the commencement of the present century, the populace
of Hela, near Danzig, twice plunged into the sea an old woman, reputed
to be a sorceress, who, on persistently rising to the surface, was
pronounced guilty, and beaten to death. Grotius mentions many instances
of water ordeal in Bithynia, Sardinia, and other countries, having been
in use in Iceland from a very early period.
In the primitive jurisprudence of Russia, ordeal by boiling water was
enjoined in cases of minor importance; and in the eleventh century we
find burning iron ordered ‘where the matter at stake amounted to more
than half a grivna of gold.’ A curious survival of ordeal superstition
still prevails to a very large extent in Southern Russia. When a theft
is committed in a household, the servants are summoned together, and
a sorceress is sent for. Should no confession be made by the guilty
party, the sorceress rolls up as many little balls of bread as there
are suspected persons present. She then takes one of these balls,
and addressing the nearest servant, uses this formula: ‘If you have
committed the theft, the ball will sink to the bottom of the vase;
but if you are innocent, it will float on the water.’ The accuracy of
this trial, however, is seldom tested, as the guilty person invariably
confesses before his turn arrives to undergo the ordeal.
Again, in Spain, trial by ordeal was largely practised; and it may
be remembered how, during the pontificate of Gregory VII., it was
debated whether the Gregorian ritual or the Mozarabic ritual contained
the form of worship most acceptable to the Deity. When the chance of
deciding this contest amicably seemed hopeless, the nobles resolved
to arrange the controversy in their customary manner, and, according
to the historian Robertson, the champions—one chosen by either
side—met and fought. But in the year 1322, in Castile and Leon, the
Council of Palencia threatened with excommunication all concerned
in administering the ordeal of fire or water—a circumstance which is
important, as pointing to the disappearance of this mode of trial in
Spain.
Furthermore, the practice of trial by ordeal was under the Danish kings
substituted for the trial by combat, which, until the close of the
ninth century, had been resorted to among the Danes for the detection
of guilt and the acquittal of innocence. In Sweden, says Mr Gibson,
the clergy ‘presided at the trial by ordeal; and it was performed
only in the sanctuary, or in the presence of ministers of the church,
and according to a solemn ritual.’ And yet, as he rightly observes,
its abolition in Europe was due to the continued remonstrances of the
clergy themselves. One form of ordeal practised in Sweden was popularly
known as the _trux iarn_, and consisted in the accused carrying a
red-hot iron, and depositing it in a hole twelve paces from the
starting-point. In accordance with the accustomed mode of procedure,
the accused fasted on bread and water on Monday and Tuesday, the ordeal
being held on Wednesday, previous to which the hand or foot was washed.
It was then allowed to touch nothing until it came in contact with the
iron, after which it was wrapped up and sealed until Saturday, when it
was opened in the presence of the accuser and the judges.
In the years 1815 and 1816, Belgium, says Mr Lea, was disgraced by
ordeal trials performed on unfortunate persons suspected of witchcraft;
and in 1728, in Hungary, thirteen persons suspected of a similar
offence were, by order of the court, subjected to the ordeal of cold
water, and then to that of the balance. Referring to the ordeal of
the balance, Mr Tylor informs us that the use of the Bible as a
counterpoise is on record as recently as 1759, at Aylesbury in this
country, where one Susannah Haynokes, accused of witchcraft, was
formally weighed against the Bible in the parish church. In Lombardy,
ordeal by hot water was a form of procedure much resorted to; and in
Burgundy this was also supplemented by the trial by hot iron.
The instances thus quoted show how universally practised throughout
Europe in bygone years was the trial by ordeal; and if we would still
see it employed with the enthusiastic faith of the middle ages, we
must turn to eastern countries, where, owing to the slow advance of
civilisation, many of their institutions still retain their primitive
form. Indeed, as Mr Isaac Disraeli remarks, ‘ordeals are the rude laws
of a barbarous people who have not yet obtained a written code, and not
advanced enough in civilisation to enter into the refined inquiries,
the subtle distinctions, and elaborate investigations which a court
of law demands.’ This is specially true in the case of India at the
present day, where the same ordeals are practised as were in use five
or six centuries ago. Thus, the guilt or innocence of an accused person
is still tested by his ‘ability to carry red-hot iron, to plunge his
hand unhurt in boiling oil, to pass through fire, to remain under
water, to swallow consecrated rice, to drink water in which an idol
has been immersed, and by various other forms which retain their hold
on public veneration.’ Professor Monier Williams, too, says that trial
by ordeal is recognised by the code of Manu, and quotes the subjoined
rules: ‘Let him cause a man (whose veracity is doubted) to take hold of
fire, or dive under water, or touch the heads of his wife and sons one
by one. The man whom flaming fire burns not and water forces not up,
and who suffers no harm, must be instantly held innocent of perjury.’
In Japan, ordeals extensively prevail; and amongst the many
superstitious practices kept up, we are told how the ‘goo’—a paper
inscribed with certain cabalistic characters—is rolled up and swallowed
by an accused person, this being commonly supposed to give him no
internal rest, if guilty, until he confesses. A similar mode of
procedure is practised by the Siamese, and under a variety of forms was
prevalent in former years. With it, too, we may compare the mouthful of
rice taken by all of a suspected household in India, which the thief’s
nervous fear often prevents him from swallowing.
Formerly, this practice was observed in our own country with the
corsned or trial-slice of consecrated bread or cheese. Even now, says
Mr Tylor, peasants have not forgotten the old formula: ‘May this bit
choke me if I lie.’
In Tibet, a popular ordeal consists in both plaintiff and defendant
thrusting their arms into a caldron of boiling water containing a black
and white stone, victory being assigned to the one who is fortunate
enough to obtain the white. Such an even-handed mode of procedure, if
generally used, must, as Mr Lea remarks, ‘exert a powerful influence in
repressing litigation.’
Among further curious specimens of ordeal trial mentioned by this
author may be noticed those in use in certain parts of Africa.
Thus, the Kalabarese draw a white and black line on the skull of
a chimpanzee, which is then held up before the accused, ‘when an
attraction of the white line towards him indicates his innocence, or
an inclination of the black towards him pronounces his guilt.’ In
Madagascar, a decoction of the nut of the Tangena—a deadly poison—is
administered to the accused. If it act as an emetic, this is considered
a proof of innocence; but if it fail to do so, the guilt of the accused
is confirmed. Dr Livingstone describes a similar ordeal as practised
in Africa, and tells us how ‘when a man suspects that any of his wives
have bewitched him, he sends for the witch-doctor, and all the wives
go forth into the field, and remain fasting till that person has made
an infusion of the plant called “foho.” They all drink it, each one
holding up her hand to heaven in attestation of her innocence. Those
who vomit it are considered innocent; but those whom it purges are
pronounced guilty, and put to death by burning. The innocent return
to their homes, and slaughter a cock, as a thank-offering to their
guardian spirits.’
It should be noted, too, that such modes of trial have been introduced
with much effect into medieval poetry and romance. Thus, says Mr
Gibson, ‘there was the mantle mentioned in a ballad of which Queen
Guenever is the principal heroine, and which is supposed to have
suggested to Spenser his conceit of Florimel’s girdle.’
Lastly, as far as our own country is concerned, trial by ordeal existed
from a very early period. When the Anglo-Saxons were unable to decide
as to the guilt of an accused person, they invariably resorted to this
test, the law requiring that the accuser should swear that he believed
the accused to be guilty, and that his oath should be supported by
a number of friends who swore to their belief in his statement and
to his general truthfulness. Trials of this kind, however, were
often fraudulently conducted. Thus, when William Rufus caused forty
Englishmen of good quality and fortune to be tried by the ordeal of
hot iron, they all escaped unhurt, and were acquitted. But upon this
the king declared that he would try them by his own court. According
to the legendary account, it was by this mode of ordeal that Queen
Emma, the mother of Edward the Confessor, was tried in order to clear
her character from the imputation of an intrigue with Alwyn, Bishop of
Winchester. Then there was the ordeal known as the ‘corsned,’ or morsel
of execration, already alluded to, which consisted of a piece of bread,
weighing about an ounce, being given to the accused person, that, if
he were guilty, it might cause convulsions and paleness and find no
passage; but turn to health and nourishment if he were innocent. The
sudden and fatal appeal to this trial by Godwin, Earl of Kent, in the
year 1053, when accused of the murder of Ælfred, the brother of Edward
the Confessor, ranks amongst the most curious traditions of English
history. Hallam relates how ‘a citizen of London, suspected of murder,
having failed in the ordeal of cold water, was hanged by order of Henry
II., though he had offered five hundred marks to save his life. It
appears as if the ordeal were permitted to persons already convicted by
the verdict of a jury.’