Many years ago, long before the lovely Furness district was invaded by
the genius of steam, the villagers along the coast from Bardsea to
Rampside were haunted by a wandering being whose errand, the purpose
of which could never be learned, used to bring him at night along the
lonely roads and past the straggling cottages. This pilgrim was a
wearied, emaciated-looking man, on whose worn and wan face the sorrows
of life had left deep traces, and in whose feverish, hungry-looking
eyes, mystery and terror seemed to lurk. Nobody knew the order of his
coming or going, for he neither addressed anyone, nor replied if
spoken to, but disregarded alike the 'good neet' of the tramp who knew
him not, and the startled cry of the belated villager who came
suddenly upon him at a turn of the road. Never stopping even for a
minute to gaze through the panes whence streamed the ruddy glow of the
wood fires, and to envy the dwellers in the cosy cottages, he kept on
his way, as though his mission was one of life and death, and,
therefore, would not brook delay.
On wild wintry nights, however, when the salt wind whirled the foam
across the bay, and dashed the blinding snow into heaps upon the
window-sills and against the cottage doors, and darkness and storm
spread their sombre wings over the coast, then was it certain that the
mysterious being would be seen, for observation had taught the
villagers and the dwellers in solitary houses along the lonely roads
between the fishing hamlets that in storm and darkness the weird
voyager was most likely to appear.
At such times, when the sound of footsteps, muffled by the snow, was
heard between the soughs and moans of the wailing wind, the women
cried, 'Heaven save us; 'tis th' White Dobbie,' as, convulsively
clutching their little ones closer to their broad bosoms, they crept
nearer to the blazing log upon the hearth, and gazed furtively and
nervously at the little diamond-paned window, past which the restless
wanderer was making his way, his companion running along a little way
in advance, for not of the mysterious man alone were the honest people
afraid. In front of him there invariably ran a ghastly-looking,
scraggy white hare,{21} with bloodshot eyes. No sooner however did
anyone look at this spectral animal than it fled to the wanderer, and
jumping into his capacious pocket, was lost to sight.
Verily of an unearthly stock was this white hare, for upon its
approach and long before it neared a village, the chained dogs, by
some strange instinct conscious of its coming, trembled in terror, and
frantically endeavoured to snap their bonds; unfastened ones fled no
man knew whither; and if one happened to be trotting alongside its
belated master as he trudged homeward and chanced to meet the ghastly
Dobbie with its blood-red eyes, with a scream of pain almost human in
its keen intensity, away home scampered the terrified animal, madly
dashing over hedge and ditch as though bewitched and fiend-chased.
For many years the lonely wanderer had traversed the roads, and for
many years had the hare trotted in front of him; lads who were cradled
upon their mother's knee when first they heard the awe-inspiring
footfalls had grown up into hearty wide-chested men, and men who were
ruddy fishers when the pilgrim first startled the dwellers in Furness
had long passed away into the silent land; but none of them ever had
known the wayfarer to utter a syllable. At length, however, the time
came when the solemn silence was to be broken.
One night when the breeze, tired of whispering its weird messages to
the bare branches, and chasing the withered leaves along the lanes,
had begun to moan a hushed prelude to the music of a storm, through
the mist that had crept over the bay, and which obscured even the
white-crested wavelets at the foot of the hill on which stood the
sacred old church, there came at measured intervals the melancholy
monotone of the Bardsea passing bell{9} for the dead.
Dismally upon the ears of the dwellers in the straggling hamlet fell
the announcement of the presence of death, and even the woman who had
for years been bell-ringer and sexton, felt a thrill of fear as she
stood in the tower but dimly lighted by a candle in a horn lantern,
and high above her head the message of warning rang out; for, although
accustomed to the task, it was not often that her services were
required at night. Now and again she gazed slowly round the chamber,
upon the mouldering walls of which fantastic shadows danced, and she
muttered broken fragments of prayers in a loud and terrified voice,
for as the door had been closed in order that the feeble light in the
lantern might not be extinguished by the gusts of wind, isolated as
she was from the little world upon the hillside, she felt in an
unwonted manner the utter loneliness of the place and its dread
surroundings.
Suddenly she uttered a shrill shriek, for she heard a hissing whisper
at her ear and felt an icy breath upon her cheek. She dared not turn
round, for she saw that the door opening upon the churchyard remained
closed as before, and that occasionally passing within the range of
her fixed stare, a white hare with blood-red eyes gambolled round the
belfry.
'T' Dobbie!' sighed she, as the dim light began to flicker and the
hare suddenly vanished.
As she stood almost paralysed, again came the terrible whisper, and
this time she heard the question--
'Who for this time?'
The horrified woman was unable to answer, and yet powerless to resist
the strange fascination which forced her to follow the direction of
the sound; and when the question was put a second time, in an agony of
fear she gazed into the wild eyes of the being at her elbow, her
parched tongue cleaving to her open mouth. From the pocket of the
dread visitor the ghastly animal gazed at the ringer, who mechanically
jerked the bell-rope, and the poor woman was fast losing her senses,
when suddenly the door was burst open, and a couple of villagers, who
had been alarmed by the irregular ringing, entered the tower. They at
once started back as they saw the strange group--the wanderer with
sad, inquiring look, and pallid face, the phantom hare with its
firelit eyes, and the old ringer standing as though in a trance. No
sooner, however, did one of the intruders gaze at the animal than it
slipped out of sight down into the pocket of its companion and keeper,
and the wanderer himself hastily glided between the astonished men,
and out into the darkness of the graveyard.
On many other gloomy nights afterwards the ringer was accosted in the
same manner, but although the unnatural being and the spectral hare
continued for some winters to pass from village to village and from
graveyard to graveyard, a thick cloud of mystery always hung over and
about them, and no one ever knew what terrible sin the never-resting
man had been doomed to expiate by so lonely and lasting a pilgrimage.
Whence he came and whither he went remained unknown; but long as he
continued to patrol the coast the hollow sound of his hasty footsteps
never lost its terror to the cottagers; and even after years had
passed over without the usual visits, allusions to the weird pilgrim
and his dread companion failed not to cause a shudder, for it was
believed that the hare was the spirit of a basely-murdered friend, and
that the restless voyager was the miserable assassin doomed to a
wearisome, lifelong wandering.{22}