Many years have passed since the living of Walton-le-Dale was held by
a gentleman of singularly-reserved and studious habits, who, from noon
till night, pored over dusty black-letter folios. Although he was by
no means forgetful of the few duties which pertained to his sacred
office, and never failed to attend to the wants of those of his
parishioners who were in trouble and had need of kind words of
sympathy and advice, or even of assistance of a more substantial
nature, the length of time he devoted to his mysterious-looking
volumes, and a habit he had of talking to himself, as, late at night,
with head bent down, he passed along the village street, and vanished
into the darkness of a lonely lane, gave rise to cruel rumours that he
was a professor of the black art; and it was even whispered that his
night walks were pilgrimages to unholy scenes of Satanic revelry.
These suspicions deepened almost into certainty when the old people
who had charge of his house informed the gossips that the contents of
a large package, since the arrival of which the women in the village
had been unable to sleep for curiosity, were strange-looking bottles,
of a weird shape, with awful signs and figures upon them; and that,
during the evening, after the carrier had brought them, noises were
heard in the clergyman's room, and the house was filled with
sulphurous smoke. Passing from one gossip to another, the story did
not fail to receive additions as usual, until when it reached the last
house in the straggling village the narrator told how the student had
raised the Evil One, who, after filling the house with brimstone,
vanished in a ball of fire, not, however, without first having
imprinted the mark of his claws upon the study table.
Had the unconscious clergyman lived more in the everyday world around
him, and less in that of black-letter books, he would not have failed
to perceive the averted looks with which his parishioners acknowledged
his greetings, or, what would have pained him even more deeply, the
frightened manner in which the children either fled at his approach,
if they were playing in the lanes, or crept close to their parents
when he entered the dwellings of the cottagers. Ignorant alike of the
absurd rumours, and unobservant of the change which had come over his
flock, or at least acting as though unaware of them, the clergyman
continued to perform the duties of his sacred office, and to fly from
them to his beloved volumes and experiments, growing more and more
reserved in his habits, and visibly paling under his close
application.
After matters had gone on in this way for some time, the villagers
were surprised to see a friendship spring up and ripen between their
pastor and an old resident in the village, of almost equally strange
habits. There was, however, in reality but little to wonder at in
this, for the similarity between the pursuits and tastes of the two
students was sufficiently great to bridge over the gulf of
widely-different social positions.
Abraham, or 'Owd Abrum,' as he was generally named, was a herb doctor,
whose knowledge of out-of-the-way plants which possessed mysterious
medicinal virtues, and of still more wonderful charms and spells, was
the theme of conversation by every farmhouse fireside for miles round.
At that day, and in that locality, the possession of a few books
sufficed to make a man a wonder to his neighbours; and Abraham had a
little shelf full of volumes upon his favourite subjects of botany and
astrology.
The old man lived by himself in a little cottage, some distance along
a lane leading from the village across the meadows; and, despite the
absence of female supervision, the place always was as clean and
bright as a new pin. Had he needed any assistance in his household
duties, Abraham would not have asked in vain for it, for he was feared
as well as respected. If he was able to charm away evil and sickness,
could he not also bring sickness and evil? So reasoned the simple
villagers; and those who were not, even unconsciously, influenced by
the guileless everyday life of the old man, were impressed by the idea
that he had the power to cast trouble upon them if they failed to
maintain an outward show of reverence.
However early the villagers might be astir, as they passed along the
lanes on their way to their labour in the fields, they were certain to
find 'Owd Abrum' searching by the hedgerows or in the plantations for
herbs, to be gathered with the dew upon them; and at night the belated
cottager, returning from a distant farm, was equally certain of
finding Abraham gazing at the heavens, 'finding things aat abaat
fowk,' as the superstitious country people said and believed.
Addicted to such nocturnal studies, it was not likely that the old
herb doctor and the pale student would remain unknown to each other.
The acquaintance however, owing to the reserved habits of both, began
in a somewhat singular manner. Returning from a long and late walk
about midnight, the minister was still some distance from his abode,
when he heard a clear voice say: 'Now is the time, if I can find any:
Jupiter is angular, the moon's applied to him, and his aspect is
good.'
The night was somewhat cloudy--the stars being visible only at
intervals--and it was not until the clergyman had advanced a little
way that he was able to perceive the person who had spoken. He saw
that it was the old herbalist, and immediately accosted him. An
animated conversation followed, Abraham expatiating on the virtues of
the plants he had been gathering under the dominion of their
respective planets, and astonishing the pale student by the extent of
his information. In his turn, the old man was delighted to find in the
clergyman a fellow-enthusiast in the forbidden ways of science; and as
the student was no less charmed to discover in the 'yarb doctor' a
scholar who could sympathise with him and understand his yearnings
after the invisible, late as was the hour, the pair adjourned to
Abraham's cottage. The visitor did not emerge until the labourers were
going to their toil, the time having been spent in conversation upon
the powers exercised by the planets upon plants and men, the old man
growing eloquent as to the wonderful virtue of the Bay Tree, which, he
said, could resist all the evil Saturn could do to the human body, and
in the neighbourhood of which neither wizard nor devil, thunder or
lightning, could hurt man; of Moonwort, with the leaves of which locks
might be opened, and the shoes be removed from horses' feet; of
Celandine, with which, if a young swallow loseth an eye, the parent
birds will renew it; of Hound's Tongue, a leaf of which laid under the
foot will save the bearer from the attacks of dogs; of Bugloss, the
leaf of which maketh man poison-proof; of Sweet Basil, from which
(quoting Miraldus) venomous beasts spring--the man who smelleth it
having a scorpion bred in his brain; and of a score of other herbs
under the dominion of the Moon and Cancer, and of the cures wrought by
them through antipathy to Saturn.
From that time the pair became intimate friends, the clergyman
yielding, with all the ardour of youth, to the attraction which drew
him towards the learned old man; and Abraham gradually growing to love
the pale-faced student, whose thirst after knowledge was as intense as
his own. Seldom a day passed on which one of them might not have been
observed on his way to the abode of the other; and often at night the
pair walked together, their earnest voices disturbing the slumbering
echoes, as at unholy hours they passed up the hill, and through the
old churchyard, with its moss-covered stones and its rank vegetation.
Upon one of these occasions they had talked about supernatural
appearances; and as they were coming through the somewhat neglected
God's Acre, the clergyman said he had read, in an old volume, that to
anyone who dared, after the performance of certain ghastly ceremonies,
wait in the church porch on Christmas-eve, the features of those who
were to die during the following year would be revealed, and that he
intended upon the night before the coming festival to try the spell.
The old man at once expressed a wish to take part in the trial, and
before the two parted it was agreed that both should go through the
preliminary charms, and keep the vigil.
In due time the winter came, with its sweet anodyne of snow, and as
Christmas approached everything was got in readiness.
Soon after sunset on Christmas-eve the old herb doctor wended his way
to the dwelling of his friend, taking with him St. John's Wort,
Mountain Ash, Bay leaves, and Holly. The enthusiasts passed the
evening in conversation upon the mysterious qualities of graveyard
plants; but shortly after the clock struck eleven they arose, and
began to prepare for the vigil, by taking precautions against the
inclemency of the weather, for the night was very cold, large flakes
of snow falling silently and thickly upon the frozen ground.
When both were ready the old man stepped to the door to see that the
road was clear, for, in order to go through the form of incantation, a
small fire was requisite; and as they were about to convey it in a
can, they were anxious that the strange proceeding should not be
noticed by the villagers. Late as it was, however, lights shone here
and there in the windows, and even from the doorways, for, although it
was near midnight, many of the cottage doors were wide open, it being
believed that if, on Christmas-eve, the way was thus left clear, and a
member of the family read the Gospel according to St. Luke, the saint
himself would pass through the house.
As the two men, after carefully closing the door behind them, stepped
into the road, a distant singer trolled forth a seasonable old hymn.
This was the only noise, however, the village street being deserted.
They reached the churchyard without having been observed, and at once
made their way round the sacred building, so as not to be exposed to
the view of any chance reveller returning to his home. It was well
that they did so, for they had hardly deposited the can of burning
charcoal upon a tombstone ere sounds of footsteps, somewhat muffled by
the snow, were heard, and several men passed through the wicket. They
were, however, only the ringers, on their way to the belfry, and in a
few minutes they had entered the building, and all was still again for
a few moments, when, upon the ears of the somewhat nervous men there
fell the voices of choristers singing under the window of a
neighbouring house the old Lancashire carol--
'As I sat anonder yon green tree,
Yon green tree, yon green tree--
As I sat anonder yon green tree
A Christmas day in the morning.'{29}
The words could be heard distinctly, and almost unconsciously the two
men stood to listen; but directly the voices ceased the student asked
if they had not better begin, as the time was passing rapidly.
'Ay,' replied Abraham, 'we han it to do, an' we'd better ger it ower.'
Without any more words they entered the porch, and at once made a
circle around them with leaves of Vervain, Bay, and Holly. The old man
gave to his companion a branch of Wiggintree,{27} and firmly held
another little bough, as with his disengaged hand he scattered a
powder upon the embers. A faint odour floated around them, as they
chanted a singular Latin prayer; and no sooner was the last word
uttered than a strain of sweet sad music, too inexpressibly soft and
mournful to be of earth, was heard. Every moment it seemed to be dying
away in a delicious cadence, but again and again was the weird melody
taken up by the invisible singers, as the listeners sank to their
knees spell-bound. An icy breath of wind hissed round the porch,
however, and called the entranced men to their senses, and suddenly
the student grasped the arm of his aged companion, and cried, in a
terrified voice--
'Abraham, the spell works. Behold!'
The old man gazed in the direction pointed out, and, to his
inexpressible horror, saw a procession wending its way towards the
porch. It consisted of a stream of figures wrapped up in
grave-clothes, gleaming white in the dim light. With solemn and
noiseless steps the ghastly objects approached the circle in which
stood the venturesome men, and, as they drew nearer, the faces of the
first two could be seen distinctly, for the blazing powder cast a
lurid glow upon them, and made them even more ghastly.
Both spectators had almost unconsciously recognised the features of
several of the villagers, when they were aroused from their lethargy
of terror by the appearance of one face, which seemed to linger longer
than its predecessors had done. Abraham at once saw that the likeness
was that of the man by his side, and the clergyman sank to the ground
in a swoon.
For some time the old man was too much affected by the lingering face
to think of restoring the unconscious man at his feet; but at length
the clashing of the bells over his head, as they rang forth a
Christmas greeting, called him to himself, and he bent over the
prostrate form of his friend. The minister soon recovered, but as he
was too weak to walk, the old man ran to the belfry to beg the ringers
to come to his assistance. When these men came round to the porch the
fire was still burning, the flickering flames of various colours
casting dancing shadows upon the walls.
'Abraham,' said one of the ringers, 'there's bin some wizzard wark
goin' on here, an' yo' sin what yo'n getten by it.'
'Han yo' bin awsin to raise th' devul, an' Kesmus-eve an' o'?' asked
another, in a low and terrified voice.
With a satirical smile, Abraham answered the last speaker: 'It dusn't
need o' this mak' o' things to raise th' devul, lad. He's nare so far
fra' thuse as wants him.'
Bearing the clergyman in their arms, the men walked through the
village, but they did not separate without having, in return for the
confidence Abraham reposed in them by confiding to them the secret of
the vigil, promised strict secrecy as to what they had witnessed.
Abraham's companion soon recovered from the shock, but not before the
story of the night-watch had gone the round of the village. Many were
the appeals made to the old herbalist to reveal his strangely-acquired
knowledge, but Abraham remained sternly obdurate, remarking to each of
his questioners--
'Yo'll know soon enough, mebbi.'
The clergyman, however, was in a more awkward position, and his
parishioners soon made him aware how unwise he had been in giving way
to the desire to pry into futurity; for, when any of them were ill and
he expressed a kindly wish for their recovery, it was by no means
unusual for the sick person to reply--
'Yo could tell me heaw it will end iv yo' loiked.'
This oftentimes being followed by a petition from the assembled
relatives--
'Will yo tell us if he wir one o' th' processioners?'
Ultimately Abraham's companion went away, in the hope of returning
when the memory of the watch should have become less keen, but, before
a few months had passed away, news came of his death, after a violent
attack of fever caught during a visit to a wretched hovel in the
fishing village where he was staying. By the next December, all the
people whose features the old herbalist had recognised during the
procession had been carried to the churchyard; but, although several
men offered to accompany Abraham to the porch on the forthcoming
Christmas-eve, he dared not again go through the spells and undergo
the terrors of a church-porch vigil.{30}