esteemed as the Sybil or Oracle of her time; and though she was generally
believed to be a Witch, yet all persons that either saw or heard of her,
held her in great esteem, and her memory is much honoured by those of her
own country, especially in Yorkshire. A long time before her death, she
foretold the day and hour she was to take her departure; and the time
approaching which she had Prophecied, and which was in the year 1561; she
took solemn leave of her friends, who were all greatly attached to her,
laid down on her bed, and died, at the good old age of 75 years. Many
more “_Prophecies_” are current in Yorkshire as of her utterance, but the
Publisher being unable to find them either properly authenticated, or in
any old works, they have been omitted, being desirous of not adding
anything which might tend to destroy her sterling reputation.
A stone was erected to her memory near Clifton, about a mile from the
city of York, upon which was the following inscription:
Here lyes she who never ly’d
Whose skill often has been try’d;
Her prophecies shall still survive,
And ever keep her name alive.
PROPHECIES
OF
MARTHA, THE GIPSY.
London may appear an unbefitting scene for a story so romantic as that
which I have here set down: but, strange and wild as is the tale I have
to tell, _it is true_; and, therefore, the scene of action shall not be
changed; nor will I alter or vary from the truth, save that the names of
the personages, in my domestic drama shall be fictitious.
To say that I am superstitious would be, in the minds of many wise
personages, to write myself down an ass; but to say that I do not believe
_that_ which follows, as I am sure it was believed by _him_ who related
it to me, would be to discredit the testimony of a friend, as honourable
and as brave as ever trod the earth. He has been snatched from the
world, of which he was a bright ornament, and has left more than his
sweet suffering widow and his orphan children affectionately to deplore
his loss.
It is, I find, right and judicious most carefully and publicly to disavow
a belief in supernatural visitings: but it will be long before I become
either so wise or so bold as to make any such unqualified declaration. I
am not weak enough to imagine myself surrounded by spirits and phantoms,
or jostling through a crowd of spectres, as I walk the streets; neither
do I give credence to all the idle tales of ancient dames, or frightened
children, touching such matters: but when I breathe the air, and see the
grass grow under my feet, I cannot but feel that HE who gives me ability
to inhale the one, and stand erect upon the other, has also the power to
use for special purposes such means and agency, as in his wisdom he may
see fit; and which, in point of fact, are not more incomprehensible to us
than the very simplest effects which we every day witness, arising from
unknown causes.
Philosophers may pore, and in the might of their littleness, and the
erudition of their ignorance develope and disclose, argue and discuss;
but when the sage, who sneers at the possibility of ghosts, will explain
to me the doctrine of attraction and gravitation, or tell me why the wind
blows, why the tides ebb and flow, or why the light shines—effects
perceptible to all men—then will I admit the justice of his
incredulity—then will I join the ranks of the incredulous. However, a
truce with my views and reflections: proceed we to the narrative.
In the vicinity of Bedford-square lived a respectable and honest man,
whose name the reader will be pleased to consider Harding. He married
early: his wife was an exemplary woman, and his son and daughter were
grown to that companionable age, at which children repay, with their
society and accomplishments, the tender cares which parents bestow upon
their offspring in their early infancy.
Mr. Harding held a responsible and respectable situation under the
government, in Somerset House. His income was adequate to his wants and
wishes; his family a family of love: and, perhaps, taking into
consideration the limited desires of what may be fairly called middle
life, no man was ever more contented, or better satisfied with his lot
than he.
Maria Harding, his daughter, was a modest, unassuming, and interesting
girl, full of feeling and gentleness. She was timid and retiring; but
the modesty which cast down her fine black eyes could not veil the
intellect which beamed in them. Her health was by no means strong; and
the paleness of her cheek—too frequently, alas! lighted by the hectic
flush of our indigenous complaint—gave a deep interest to her
countenance. She was watched and reared by her tender mother, with all
the care and attention which a being so delicate and so ill-suited to the
perils and troubles of this world demanded.
George, her brother, was a bold and intelligent lad, full of rude health,
and fearless independence. His character was frequently the subject of
his father’s contemplation; and he saw in his disposition, his mind, his
pursuits, and propensities, the promise of future success in active life.
With these children, possessing as they did the most enviable
characteristics of their respective sexes, Mr. and Mrs. Harding, with
thankfulness to Providence, acknowledged their happiness, and their
perfect satisfaction with the portion assigned to them in this transitory
world.
Maria was about nineteen, and had, as was natural, attracted the regards,
and thence gradually chained the affections, of a distant relative, whose
ample fortune, added to his personal and mental good qualities, rendered
him a most acceptable suitor to her parents, which Maria’s heart silently
acknowledged he would have been to _her_, had he been poor and penniless.
The father of this intended husband of Maria was a man of importance,
possessing much personal interest, through which George, the brother of
his intended daughter-in-law, was to be placed in that diplomatic
seminary in Downing-street, whence, in due time, he was to rise through
all the grades of office, (which, with his peculiar talents, his friends,
and especially his mother, was convinced he would so ably fill,) and at
last turn out an ambassador.
The parents, however, of young Langdale and of Maria Harding were agreed,
that there was no necessity for hastening the alliance between their
families, seeing that the united ages of the couple did not exceed
thirty-nine years: and seeing, moreover, still, that Mrs. Langdale, who
was little more than six-and-thirty years of age herself, had reasons,
which she also meant to be private, for seeking to delay as much as
possible a ceremony, the result of which, in all probability, would
confer upon her, somewhat too early in life to be agreeable to a lady of
her habits and propensities, the formidable title of grand-mamma.
How curious it is, when one takes up a _little bit_ of society (as a
geologist crumbles and twists a bit of earth in his hand, to ascertain
its character and quality,) to look into the motives and manœuvrings of
all the persons connected with it; the various workings, the
indefatigable labours, which all their little minds are undergoing to
bring about divers and sundry little points, perfectly unconnected with
the great end in view; but which for private and hidden objects, each of
them is toiling to carry. Nobody, but those who really understood Mrs.
Langdale, understood why she so readily acquiesced in the desire of her
husband to postpone the marriage for another twelvemonth. A stranger
would have seen only the dutiful wife according with the sensible
husband; but I knew her, and knew that there must be something more than
met the eye, or the ear, in that sympathy of feeling between her and Mr.
Langdale, which was not upon ordinary occasions so evidently displayed.
Like the Waterman who pulls one way and looks another, Mrs. Langdale
aided the entreaties and seconded the commands of her loving spouse,
touching the seasonable delay of which I am speaking; and it was agreed,
that immediately after the coming of age of Frederick Langdale, and not
before, he was to lead to the hymeneal altar the delicate and timid Maria
Harding.
The affair got whispered about; George’s fortune in life was highly
extolled—Maria’s excessive happiness prophesied by everybody of their
acquaintance; and already had sundry younger ladies, daughters and nieces
of those who discussed these matters in divan after dinner, began to look
upon Miss Harding with envy and maliciousness, and wonder what Mr.
Frederick Langdale could see in her: she was proclaimed to be insipid,
inanimate, shy, bashful, and awkward: nay, some of her female friends
went so far as to discover that she was absolutely awry.
Still, however, Frederick and Maria went loving on; and their hearts grew
as one; so truly, so fondly were they attached to each other. George,
who was somewhat of a plague to the pair of lovers, was luckily at
Oxford, reading away till his head ached, to qualify himself for a
degree, and the distant duties of the office whence he was to cull the
bunches of diplomatic laurels, and whence were to issue rank and title,
and ribbons and crosses innumerable.
Things were in this prosperous state, the bark of life rolling gaily
along before the breeze, when as Mr. Harding was one day proceeding from
his residence, to his office in Somerset-place, through Charlotte-street,
Bloomsbury, he was accosted by one of those female gypsies who are found
begging in the metropolis, and especially in the particular part of it in
question: ‘Pray remember poor Martha, the gipsy,’ said the woman: ‘give
me a halfpenny for charity, sir, pray do.’
Mr. Harding was a subscriber to the Mendicity Society, an institution
which proposes to check begging by the novel mode of giving nothing to
the poor: moreover, he was a magistrate—moreover, he had no change; and
he somewhat sternly desired the woman to go about her business.
All availed him nothing; she still followed him, and reiterated the
piteous cry, ‘Pray remember poor Martha, the gipsy.’
At length, irritated by the perseverance of the woman—for even
subordinates in government hate to be solicited importunately—Mr.
Harding, contrary to his usual custom, and contrary to the customary
usages of modern society, turned hastily round, and fulminated an oath
against the supplicating vagrant.
‘Curse!’ said Martha; ‘have I lived to this? Hark ye, man—poor, weak,
haughty man! Mark me, sir—look at me!’
He did look at her; and beheld a countenance on fire with rage. A pair
of eyes blacker than jet, and brighter than diamonds, glared like stars
upon him; her black hair dishevelled, hung over her olive cheeks; and a
row of teeth whiter than the driven snow displaying themselves from
between a pair of coral lips, in a dreadful smile, a ghastly sneer of
contempt which mingled in her passion. Harding was riveted to the spot;
and, affected partly by the powerful fascination of her superhuman
countenance, and partly by the dread of a disturbance in the street, he
paused to listen to her.
‘Mark me, sir,’ said Martha; ‘you and I shall meet again. Thrice shall
you see me before you die. My visitings will be dreadful; but the third
will be the last!’
There was a solemnity in this declaration which struck to his very heart,
coming too as it did only from a vagrant outcast. Passengers were
approaching; and wishing, he knew not why, to soothe the ire of the angry
woman, he mechanically drew from his pocket some silver, which he
tendered to her.
‘There, my good woman—there,’ said he, stretching forth his hand.
‘Good woman!’ retorted the hag, ‘Money now? I—I that have been cursed!
’tis all too late, proud gentleman—the deed is done, the curse be now on
you.’ Saying which, she huddled her ragged red cloak about her
shoulders, and hurried from his sight, into the deep and dreary recesses
of St. Giles’s.
Harding experienced, as she vanished from his eye, a most extraordinary
sensation: he felt grieved that he had spoken so harshly to the poor
creature, and returned his shillings to his pocket with regret. Of
course, fear of the fulfilment of her predictions did not mingle with any
of his feelings on the occasion; and he proceeded to his office in
Somerset-place, and performed all the arduous official duties of reading
the opposition newspapers, discussing the leading politics of the day
with the head of another department, and signing his name three times,
before four o’clock.
Martha the gipsy, however, although he had ‘poophoohed’ her out of his
memory, would ever and anon flash across his mind; her figure was
indelibly stamped upon his recollection; and though, of course, as I
before said, a man of his firmness and intellect could care nothing, one
way or another, for the maledictions of an ignorant, illiterate gipsy,
still his feelings—whence arising I know not—prompted him to call a
hackney-coach, and proceed _en voiture_ to his house rather than run the
risk of again encountering the metropolitan sibyl, under whose forcible
denunciation he was actually labouring.
There is a period in each day of the lives of married people, at which, I
am given to understand, a more than ordinarily unreserved communication
of facts and feelings takes place; when all the world is shut out, and
the two beings, who are in truth ‘but only one,’ commune together freely
and fully upon the occurrences of the past day. At this period, the else
sacred secrets of the drawing-room coterie, and the _tellable_ jokes of
the after-dinner convivialist, are mutually interchanged by the fond
pair, who, by the barbarous customs of uncivilized Britain, have been
separated during part of the preceding evening.
Then it is, that the husband informs his anxious consort how he has
forwarded his worldly views with such a man—how he has carried his point
in such a quarter—what he thinks of the talents of one, of the character
of another; while the communicative wife gives _her_ views of the same
subjects, founded upon what she has gathered from the individuals
composing the female cabinet, and explains why she thinks he must have
been deceived upon this point, or misled upon that. And thus, in
recounting, in arguing, in discussing, and descanting, the blended
interests of the happy pair are strengthened, their best hopes nourished,
and perhaps eventually realized.
A few friends at dinner, and some refreshers in the evening, had
prevented Harding from saying a word to his beloved Eliza about the
gipsy; and perhaps, till the ‘witching time’ which I have attempted to
define, he would not have mentioned the circumstance, even had they been
alone. Most certainly he did not think the less of the horrible vision;
and when the company had dispersed, and the affectionate couple had
retired to rest, he stated the circumstance exactly as it had occurred,
and received from his fair lady just such an answer as a prudent,
intelligent, and discreet woman of sense would give to such a
communication. She vindicated his original determination not to be
imposed upon—wondered at his subsequent willingness to give to such an
undeserving object, particularly while he had three or four soup tickets
in his pocket—was somewhat surprised that he had not consigned the bold
intruder to the hands of the beadle—and, ridiculing the impression which
the hag’s appearance seemed to have made upon her husband’s mind,
narrated a tour performed by herself and some friends to Norwood, when
she was a girl, and when one of those very women had told her fortune,
not one word of which ever came true—and, in a discussion of some length,
animadverting strongly upon the weakness and impiety of putting faith in
the sayings of such idle creatures, she fell fast asleep.
Not so Harding: he was restless and worried, and felt that he would give
the world to be able to recall the curse which he had rashly uttered
against the poor woman. Helpless as she was and in distress, why did his
passion conquer his judgment? Why did he add to the bitterness of
refusal the sting of malediction? However, it was useless to regret that
which was past—and, wearied and mortified with his reflection, he at
length followed his better half into that profound slumber, which the
length and subject of his harangue had so comfortably ensured her.
The morning came, and brightly beamed the sun—that is, as brightly as it
ever beams in London. The office-hour arrived; and Mr. Harding
proceeded, _not_ by Charlotte-street, to Somerset-house, such was his
dread of seeing the ominous woman. It is impossible to describe the
effect produced upon him by the apprehension of encountering her: if he
heard a female voice behind him in the street, he trembled, and feared to
look round, lest he should behold Martha. In turning a corner he
proceeded carefully and cautiously, lest he should come upon her
unexpectedly; in short, wherever he went, whatever he did, his actions,
his movements, his very words, were controlled and constrained by the
horror of beholding her again.
The malediction she had uttered rang incessantly in his ears; nay, such
possession had it taken of him, that he had written the words down, and
sealed the document which contained them. ‘Thrice you shall see me
before you die. My visitings will be dreadful, but the third will be the
last.’
‘Calais’ was not more deeply imprinted on our Queen’s heart, than these
lines upon that of Mr. Harding; but he was ashamed of the strength of his
feelings, and placed the paper wherein he had recorded them at the very
bottom of his desk.
Meanwhile Frederick Langdale was unremitting in his attentions to Maria;
but, as is too often the case, the bright sunshine of their loves was
clouded. Her health, always delicate, now appeared more so, and at times
her anxious parents felt a solicitude upon her account, new to them; for
decided symptoms of consumption had shown themselves, which the faculty,
although they spoke of them lightly to the fond mother and to the gentle
patient, treated with such care and caution, as gave alarm to those who
could see the progress of the fatal disease, which was unnoticed by Maria
herself, who anticipated parties, and pleasure, and gaieties, in the
coming spring, which the doctors thought it but too probable she might
never enjoy.
That Mr. Langdale’s ‘punctilio,’ or Mrs. Langdale’s excessive desire for
apparent juvenility, should have induced the postponement of Maria’s
marriage, was, indeed, a melancholy circumstance. The agitation, the
surprise, the hope deferred, which weighed upon the sweet girl’s mind,
and that doubting dread of something unexpected, which lovers always
feel, bore down her spirits, and injured her health; whereas, had the
marriage been celebrated, the relief she would have experienced from all
her apprehensions, added to the tour of France and Italy, which the happy
couple were to make immediately after their union, would have restored
her health, while it ensured her happiness. This, however, was not to
be.
It was now three months since poor Mr. Harding’s rencontre with Martha;
and habit, and time, and constant avocation, had conspired to free his
mind from the dread she at first inspired. Again he smiled and joked,
again he enjoyed society, and again dared to take the nearest road to
Somerset House; nay, he had so far recovered from the unaccountable
terror he had originally felt, that he went to his desk, and selecting
the paper wherein he had set down the awful denunciation of the hag,
deliberately tore it into bits, and witnessed its destruction in the
fire, with something like real satisfaction, and a determination never
more to think upon so silly an affair.
Frederick Langdale was, as usual, with his betrothed, and Mrs. Harding
enjoying the egotism of the lovers, (for, as I said before, lovers think
their conversation the most charming in the world, because they talk of
nothing but themselves) when his curricle was driven to the door to
convey him to Tattersall’s, where his father had commissioned him to look
at a horse, or horses, which he intended to purchase; for Frederick was,
of all things in the world, the best possible judge of a horse.
To this sweeping dictum, pronounced by the young gentleman himself, Mr.
Harding, however, was not willing to assent; and therefore, in order to
have the full advantage of two heads, which, as the proverb says, are
better than one, the worthy father-in-law elect, proposed accompanying
the youth to the auctioneer’s yard at Hyde-Park Corner, it being one of
those few privileged days when the labourers in our public offices make
holiday. The proposal was hailed with delight by the young man, who, in
order to show due deference to Mr. Harding, gave him the reins, and
bowing their adieus to the ladies at the window, away they went, the
splendid cattle of Mr. Langdale prancing and curvetting, fire flaming
from their eyes, and smoke breathing from their nostrils.
The charioteer, however, soon found that the horses were somewhat beyond
his strength, even putting his skill wholly out of the question, and in
turning into Russell-street, proposed surrendering the reins to
Frederick. By some misunderstanding of words in the alarm which Harding
felt, Frederick did not take the reins which he (perfectly confounded)
tendered to him in great agitation. They slipped over the dashing iron
between the horse, who thus freed from restraint, reared wildly in the
air, and plunging forward, dashed the vehicle against a post, and
precipitated Frederick and Harding on the curbstone; the off-horse kicked
desperately as the carriage became entangled and impeded, and struck
Frederick a desperate blow on the head. Harding, whose right arm and
collar-bone were broken, raised himself on his left hand, and saw
Frederick weltering in his blood, apparently lifeless before him. The
infuriated animals again plunged forward with the shattered remnant of
the carriage, and as this object was removed from his sight, the wretched
father-in-law beheld, looking upon the scene with a fixed and unruffled
countenance—MARTHA, THE GIPSY.
It was doubtful whether the appearance of this horrible vision, coupled
as it was with the verification of her prophecy, had not a more dreadful
effect upon Mr. Harding, than the sad reality before him. He trembled,
sickened, fainted, and fell senseless on the ground.
Assistance was promptly procured, and the wounded sufferers were
carefully removed to their respective dwellings. Frederick Langdale’s
sufferings were much greater than those of his companion, and, in
addition to severe fractures of two of his limbs, the wound upon his head
presented a most terrible appearance, and excited the greatest alarm in
his medical attendants.
Mr. Harding, whose temperate course of life was greatly advantageous to
his case, had suffered comparatively little: a simple fracture of the
arm, and dislocation of the collar-bone (which was the extent of his
misfortune,) were, by skilful treatment and implicit obedience to
professional commands, soon pronounced in a state of improvement; but a
wound had been inflicted which no doctor could heal. The conviction that
the woman, whose anger he had incurred, had, if not the power of
producing evil, at least the power to foretell it, and that he had twice
again to see her before the fulfilment of her prophecy, struck deep into
his mind; and although he felt himself more at ease when he had
communicated to Mrs. Harding the fact of having seen the gipsy at the
moment of the accident, it was impossible for him to rally from the shock
which his nerves had received. It was in vain he had tried to shake off
the perpetual apprehension of again beholding her.
Frederick Langdale remained for some time in a very precarious state.
All visitors were excluded from his room, and a wretched space of two
months passed, during which his affectionate Maria had never been allowed
to see him, nor to write to, nor to hear from him. While her
constitution was gradually giving way to the constant operation of
solicitude and sorrow.
Mr. Harding meanwhile recovered rapidly, but his spirits did not keep
pace with his mending health; the dread he felt of quitting his house,
the tremor excited in his breast by a knocking at the door, or the
approach of a footstep, lest the intruder should be the basilisk Martha,
were not to be described; and the appearance of his poor Maria did not
tend to cheer the gloom which hung over him.