the ablest monarchs that ever ruled the destinies of Sweden. History
represents him as brave and enlightened, but of a harsh and inflexible
disposition; regulating his opinions by positive facts, and wholly
ungifted with imagination. At the period of which we are about to speak,
death had bereaved him of his Queen, Ulrica Eleonora. Notwithstanding
the harshness which had marked his conduct to the Princess during her
lifetime, and which, in the opinion of his subjects, had precipitated
her into the grave, Charles revered her memory, and appeared more
affected by her loss than might have been imagined from the natural
sternness of his character. Subsequently to this event, he became more
gloomy and taciturn than before, and devoted himself to study with an
intensity of application that evinced his anxiety to escape the tortures
of his own painful reflections. Towards the close of a dreary autumnal
evening, the king, in slippers and _robe de chambre_, was seated before
a large fire, in a private cabinet of his palace at Stockholm. Near him
were his grand chamberlain, the Count de Brahe, who was honoured with
the favourite estimation of his sovereign, and the principal state
physician, Baumgarten, a learned disciple of Hippocrates, who aimed at
the reputation of an _esprit fort_, and who would have pardoned a
disbelief in anything except in the efficacy of his own prescriptions.
The last-mentioned personage had on that evening been hastily summoned
to the presence of the monarch, who felt or fancied himself in need of
his professional skill. The evening was already far advanced, and the
king, contrary to his wont, delayed bidding the customary "goodnight to
all,"--the well-understood signal at which his guests always retired.
With his head bent down, and his eyes fixed upon the decaying embers,
that gradually withdrew even their mockery of warmth from the spacious
fireplace, he maintained a strict silence, evidently fatigued with his
company, yet dreading, though he scarcely knew why, to be left alone.
The grand chamberlain, who perceived that even his profound remarks
failed to excite the attention of the monarch, ventured to hint that his
majesty would do well to seek repose; a gesture of the king retained him
in his place. The physician, in his turn, hazarded a casual observation
on the injurious tendency of late hours. The significant innuendoes
were, however, thrown away on Charles, who replied to them by muttering
between his teeth, "You may remain; I have no wish to sleep." This
permission, with which the drowsy courtiers would willingly have
dispensed, but which was really equivalent to a command, was succeeded
by an attempt on their part to enliven his majesty with different
subjects of conversation. No topic, however, that they introduced could
outlive the second or third phrase. The king was in one of his gloomy
moods; for royalty, with reverence be it spoken, has its moments of
merriment and ill-humour, its mixture of sunshine and of cloud; and be
it known to thee, gentle reader, that ticklish is the position of a
courtier when majesty is in the dumps. To mend, or rather to mar the
matter, the grand chamberlain, imagining that the sadness which
overshadowed the royal brow came from regret, fixed his eyes upon a
portrait of the queen, hung up in the cabinet, and with a sigh of pathos
exclaimed, "How striking the resemblance! and who could not recognise
the expression of majesty and gentleness, that----" "Fudge!" cried the
king. Conscience had probably something to do with the abruptness of the
exclamation. The old chamberlain had unwittingly touched a tender chord;
every allusion to the queen appearing like a tacit reproach to the
august and widowed spouse. "That portrait," added the king, "is too
flattering, the queen was far from handsome"; then, as if inwardly
repentant of his harshness, he rose from his seat and paced the
apartment with hasty strides, to conceal the tears that had well-nigh
betrayed his emotion. He sat in the embrasure of a window which looked
upon the court; the moon was obscured by a thick veil of clouds; not
even a solitary star twinkled through the darkness. The palace at
present inhabited by the kings of Sweden was not at that time finished;
and Charles XI., in whose reign it had been commenced, usually resided
in an old-fashioned edifice, built something in the shape of a
horseshoe, and situated at the point of Ritterholm, commanding a view of
Lake Mader. The royal cabinet was at one of the extremities, nearly
opposite to the grand hall or council-chamber, in which the States were
accustomed to assemble when a message or communication from the crown
was expected. Just at this moment the windows of the council-chamber
appeared brilliantly illuminated. The king was lost in surprise. He at
first imagined the light to proceed from the torch of some domestic. Yet
what could occasion so unseasonable a visit to a place that for a
considerable time had been closed? Besides, the light was too vivid to
be produced by one single torch, it might have been attributed to a
conflagration; but no smoke was perceptible, no noise was heard, the
window glasses were not broken, everything in short seemed to indicate
an illumination, such as takes place on public and solemn occasions.
Charles, without uttering a word, remained gazing at the windows of the
council-chamber. The Count Brahe, who had already grasped the bell-cord,
was on the point of summoning a page, in order to ascertain the cause of
this singular illumination, when the king suddenly prevented him. "I
will visit the chamber myself," said his majesty; the seriousness of his
deportment and the paleness of his countenance indicating a strange
mixture of determination and superstitious awe. He quitted the cabinet
with the unhesitating step of one resolved to obtain mastery over
himself; the legislator of etiquette, and the regulator of bodies, each
with a lighted taper, followed him with fear and trembling. The keeper
of the keys had already retired to rest; Baumgarten was despatched by
the king to awaken him, and to order him forthwith to open the doors of
the council-chamber. Unbounded was the worthy keeper's surprise at the
unexpected intimation. Benign Providence, however, has ordained monarchs
to command, and created keepers of keys to obey. The prudent Cerberus
yawned, dressed himself in haste, and presented himself before his
sovereign with the insignia of his office, a bunch of keys of various
dimensions suspended at his girdle. He commenced by opening the door of
a gallery, which served as a sort of ante-room to the council-chamber.
The king entered; but his astonishment may be conceived, on finding the
walls of the building entirely hung with black. "By whose order has this
been done?" demanded the king in a tone of anger. "Sire," replied the
trembling keeper of the keys, "I am ignorant; the last time the gallery
was opened it was wainscoted with oak, as usual, most assuredly these
hangings are not from your majesty's wardrobe." The king, however, had
by this time traversed at a rapid pace two-thirds of the gallery,
without stopping to avail himself of the worshipful warden's
conjectures. The latter personage and the grand chamberlain followed his
majesty, whilst the learned doctor lingered a little in the rear.
"Sire," cried the keeper of the keys, "I beseech your majesty to go no
farther. As I have a living soul, there is witchcraft in this matter. At
this hour ... and since the death of the queen, God be gracious to us!
It is said that her majesty walks every night in this gallery." "Hold,
Sire!" cried the Count in his turn, "do you not hear a strange noise
which seems to proceed from the council-chamber? Who can foresee the
danger to which your majesty may expose your sacred person?" "Forward!"
replied the resolute monarch in an imperative tone; and as he stopped
before the door of the council-chamber, "Quick! your keys!" said he to
the keeper. He pushed the door violently with his foot, and the noise,
repeated by the echoes of the vaulted roof, resounded through the
gallery like the report of a cannon. The old keeper trembled; he tried
one key, then another, but without success; his hand shook, his sight
was confused. "A soldier, and afraid?" cried Charles with a smile.
"Come, Count, you must be our usher: open that door." "Sire," replied
the grand chamberlain stepping backwards, "if your majesty command me to
walk up to the mouth of a Danish cannon, I will obey on the instant; but
you will not order me to combat with the devil and his imps?" The
monarch snatched the keys from the palsied hands of the infirm old
keeper. "I see," said his majesty in a tone of contempt, "that I must
finish this adventure"; and before his terrified suite could prevent his
design, he had already opened the massy oaken door, and penetrated into
the council-chamber, first pronouncing the usual formula, "with the help
of God." The companions of his midnight excursion entered along with
him, prompted by a sentiment of curiosity, stronger on this occasion
even than terror; their courage too was reinforced by a feeling of
shame, which forbade them to abandon their sovereign in the hour of
peril. The council-chamber was illuminated with an immense number of
torches. The ancient figured tapestry had been replaced by a black
drapery suspended on the walls, along which were ranged, in regular
order, and according to the custom of those days, German, Danish, and
Muscovite banners, trophies of the victories won by the soldiers of
Gustavus Adolphus. In the middle were distinguished the banners of
Sweden, covered with black crape. A numerous assemblage was seated on
the benches of the hall. The four orders of the state--the nobility, the
clergy, the citizens, and the peasants,--were ranged according to the
respective disposition assigned to each. All were clothed in black; and
the multitude of human faces, that shone like so many luminous rays upon
a dark ground, dazzled the sight to such a degree that, of the four
individuals who witnessed this extraordinary scene, not one could
discern amidst the crowd a countenance with which he was familiar; the
position of the four spectators might have been compared to that of
actors, who, in presence of a numerous audience, were incapable of
distinguishing a single face among the confused mass. On the elevated
throne whence the monarch habitually harangued the assembly of the
States, was seated a bleeding corpse, invested with the emblems of
royalty. On the right of this apparition stood a child, a crown upon his
head and the sceptre in his hand; on the left an aged man, or rather
another phantom, leaned upon the throne, opposite to which were several
personages of austere and solemn demeanour, clothed in long black robes,
and seated before a table covered with thick folios and parchments; from
the gravity of their deportment the latter seemed to be judges. Between
the throne and the portion of the council-chamber above which it was
elevated, were placed an axe and a block covered with black crape. In
this unearthly assembly none seemed at all conscious of the presence of
Charles, or of the three individuals by whom he was accompanied. At last
the oldest of the judges in black robes--he who appeared to discharge
the functions of president--rising with dignity, struck three times with
his hand upon an open folio. Profound silence immediately succeeded;
some youths of distinguished appearance, richly dressed, and with their
hands fettered behind their backs, were led into the council-chamber by
a door opposite to that which Charles had opened. Behind them a man of
vigrous mould held the extremity of the cord with which their hands were
pinioned. The prisoner who marched in the foremost rank, and whose air
was more imposing than that of the others, stopped in the midst of the
council-chamber before the block which he seemed to contemplate with
haughty disdain. At the same instant the corse seated on the throne was
agitated by a convulsive tremor, and the purple tide flowed afresh from
his wounds. The youthful prisoner knelt upon the ground, and laid his
head upon the block; the fatal axe glittering in the air descended
swiftly; a stream of blood forced its way even to the platform of the
throne, and mingled with that of the royal corse; whilst the head of the
victim, rebounding from the crimson pavement, rolled to the feet of
Charles, and stained them with blood. Hitherto, astonishment had
rendered the monarch dumb; but at this horrid spectacle his tongue was
unloosed. He advanced a few steps towards the platform, and addressing
himself to the apparition on the left of the corse, boldly pronounced
the customary abjuration, "If thou art of God, speak; if of the Evil
One, depart in peace." The phantom replied in slow and emphatic accents,
"Charles, not under thy reign shall this blood be shed [here the voice
became indistinct]; five monarchs succeeding thee shall first sit on the
throne of Sweden. Woe, woe, woe to the blood of Wasa!" Upon this the
numerous figures composing this extraordinary assemblage became less
distinct, till at last they resembled a mass of coloured shadows, soon
after which they disappeared altogether. The fantastic torches were
extinguished of themselves, and those of Charles and his suite cast
their dim, flickering light upon the old-fashioned tapestry with which
the chamber was usually hung, and which was now slightly moved by the
wind. During some minutes longer a strange sort of melody was heard, a
harmony compared by one of the eye-witnesses of this unparalleled scene
to the murmur of the breeze agitating the foliage, and by another to the
sound emitted by the breaking of a harp-string. All agreed upon one
point, the duration of the apparition, which they stated to have lasted
about ten minutes. The black drapery, the decapitated victim, the stream
of blood which had inundated the platform, all had disappeared with the
phantoms; every trace had vanished except a crimson spot, which still
stained the slipper of Charles, and which alone would have sufficed to
remind him of the horrid vision, had it been possible for any effort to
erase it from his memory. Returning to his private cabinet, the king
committed to paper an exact relation of what he had seen, signed it, and
ordered his companions to do the same. Spite of the precautions taken to
conceal the contents of this statement from the public, they soon
transpired, and were generally known, even during the lifetime of
Charles XI. The original document is still in existence, and its
authenticity has never been questioned; it concludes with the following
remarkable words:--"If," says the king, "all that I have just declared
is not the exact truth, I renounce my hopes of a happier existence which
I may have merited by some good actions, and by my zeal for the welfare
of my people and for the maintenance of the religion of my fathers." If
the reader will call to mind the death of Gustavus III., and the trial
of his assassin, Ankarstroem, he will observe the intimate connection
between these events and the circumstances of the extraordinary
prediction which we have just detailed. The apparition of the young man
beheaded in the presence of the assembled States prognosticated the
execution of Ankarstroem. The crowned corse represented Gustavus III.,
the child, his son and successor, Gustavus Adolphus IV.; and lastly, by
the old man was designated the uncle of Gustavus IV., the Duke of
Sudermania, regent of the kingdom and afterwards king, upon the
deposition of his nephew.
XLIII
BEN JONSON'S PREVISION
DRUMMOND'S "Conversations"
Ben Jonson told Drummond of Hawthornden that "when the king came to
England, about the time that plague was in London, he being in the
country, at Sir Robert Cotton's house with old Cambden, he saw in a
vision his eldest son, then a young child and at London, appear unto him
with the mark of a bloody cross on his forehead, as if it had been cut
with a sword, at which amazed he prayed unto God, and in the morning he
came unto Mr Cambden's chamber to tell him, who persuaded him it was but
an apprehension, at which he should not be dejected. In the meantime
there came letters from his wife of the death of that boy in the plague.
He appeared to him, he said, of a manly shape, and of that growth he
thinks he shall be at the resurrection."
XLIV
QUEEN ULRICA AND THE COUNTESS STEENBOCK
"Court Records"
When Queen Ulrica was dead, her corpse was placed in the usual way in an
open coffin, in a room hung with black and lighted with numerous wax
candles; a company of the king's guards did duty in the ante-room. One
afternoon, the carriage of the Countess Steenbock, first lady of the
palace, and a particular favourite of the queen's, drove up from
Stockholm. The officers commanding the guard of honour went to meet the
countess, and conducted her from the carriage to the door of the room
where the dead queen lay, which she closed after her.
The long stay of the lady in the death-chamber caused some uneasiness;
but it was ascribed to the vehemence of her grief; and the officers on
duty, fearful of disturbing the further effusion of it by their
presence, left her alone with the corpse. At length, finding that she
did not return, they began to apprehend that some accident had befallen
her, and the captain of the guard opened the door. He instantly started
back, with a face of the utmost dismay. The other officers ran up, and
plainly perceived, through the half-open door, the deceased queen
standing upright in her coffin, and ardently embracing the countess. The
apparition seemed to move, and soon after became enveloped in a dense
smoke or vapour. When this had cleared away, the body of the queen lay
in the same position as before, but the countess was nowhere to be
found. In vain did they search that and the adjoining apartments, while
some of the party hastened to the door, thinking she must have passed
unobserved to her carriage; but neither carriage, horses, driver, or
footmen were to be seen. A messenger was quickly despatched with a
statement of this extraordinary circumstance to Stockholm, and there he
learnt that the Countess Steenbock had never quitted the capital, and
that she died at the very moment when she was seen in the arms of the
deceased queen.
XLV
DENIS MISANGER
"The Phantom World"
On Friday, the first day of May 1705, about five o'clock in the evening,
Denis Misanger de la Richardiere, eighteen years of age, was attacked
with an extraordinary malady, which began by a sort of lethargy. They
gave him every assistance that medicine and surgery could afford. He
fell afterwards into a kind of furor or convulsion, and they were
obliged to hold him, and have five or six persons to keep watch over
him, for fear that he should throw himself out of the windows, or break
his head against the wall. The emetic which they gave him made him throw
up a quantity of bile, and for four or five days he remained pretty
quiet.
At the end of the month of May, they sent him into the country, to take
the air; and some other circumstances occurred, so unusual, that they
judged he must be bewitched. And what confirmed this conjecture was,
that he never had any fever, and retained all his strength,
notwithstanding all the pains and violent remedies which he had been
made to take. They asked him if he had not had some dispute with a
shepherd or some other person suspected of sorcery, or malpractices.
He declared that on the 18th of April preceding, when he was going
through the village of Noysi on horseback for a ride, his horse stopped
short in the midst of the _Rue Feret_, opposite the chapel, and he could
not make him go forward, though he touched him several times with the
spur. There was a shepherd standing leaning against the chapel, with his
crook in his hand, and two black dogs at his side. This man said to him,
"Sir, I advise you to return home, for your horse will not go forward."
The young La Richardiere, continuing to spur his horse, said to the
shepherd, "I do not understand what you say." The shepherd replied, in a
low tone, "I will make you understand." In effect, the young man was
obliged to get down from his horse, and lead it back by the bridle to
his father's dwelling in the same village. Then the shepherd cast a
spell upon him, which was to take effect on the 1st of May, as was
afterwards known.
During this malady, they caused several masses to be said in different
places, especially at St Maur des Fosses, at St Amable, and at St
Esprit. Young La Richardiere was present at some of these masses which
were said at St Maur; but he declared that he should not be cured till
Friday, 26th June, on his return from St Maur. On entering his chamber,
the key of which he had in his pocket, he found there that shepherd,
seated in his armchair, with his crook, and his two black dogs. He was
the only person who saw him; none other in the house could perceive him.
He said even that this man was called Damis, although he did not
remember that anyone had before this revealed his name to him. He beheld
him all that day, and all the succeeding night. Towards six o'clock in
the evening, as he felt his usual sufferings, he fell on the ground,
exclaiming that the shepherd was upon him, and crushing him; at the same
time he drew his knife, and aimed five blows at the shepherd's face, of
which he retained the marks. The invalid told those who were watching
over him that he was going to be very faint at five different times, and
begged of them to help him, and move him violently. The thing happened
as he had predicted.
On Friday, the 26th June, M. de la Richardiere, having gone to the mass
at St Maur, asserted that he should be cured on that day. After mass,
the priest put the stole upon his head, and recited the Gospel of St
John, during which prayer the young man saw St Maur standing, and the
unhappy shepherd at his left, with his face bleeding from the five
knife-wounds which he had given him. At that moment the youth cried out,
unintentionally, "A miracle! a miracle!" and asserted that he was cured,
as in fact he was.
On the 29th of June, the same M. de la Richardiere returned to Noysi,
and amused himself with shooting. As he was shooting in the vineyards,
the shepherd presented himself before him; he hit him on the head with
the butt-end of his gun. The shepherd cried out, "Sir, you are killing
me!" and fled. The next day this man presented himself again before him,
and asked his pardon, saying, "I am called Damis; it was I who cast a
spell over you which was to have lasted a year. By the aid of masses and
prayers which have been said for you, you have been cured at the end of
eight weeks. But the charm has fallen back upon myself, and I can be
cured of it only by a miracle. I implore you then to pray for me."
During all these reports, the _maréchaussée_ had set off in pursuit of
the shepherd; but he escaped them, having killed his two dogs and thrown
away his crook. On Sunday, the 13th of September, he came to M. de la
Richardiere, and related to him his adventure; that after having passed
twenty years without approaching the sacraments, God had given him grace
to confess himself at Troyes; and that after divers delays he had been
admitted to the holy communion. Eight days after, M. de la Richardiere
received a letter from a woman who said she was a relation of the
shepherd's, informing him of his death, and begging him to cause a
requiem mass to be said for him, which was done.
XLVI
THE PIED PIPER
"The Phantom World"
The following instance is so extraordinary, that I should not repeat it
if the account were not attested by more than one writer, and also
preserved in the public monuments of a considerable town of Upper
Saxony; this town is Hamelin in the principality of Kalenberg, at the
confluence of the rivers Hamel and Weser.
In the year 1384, this town was infested by such a prodigious multitude
of rats, that they ravaged all the corn which was laid up in the
granaries; everything was employed that art and experience could invent
to chase them away, and whatever is usually employed against this kind
of animals. At that time there came to the town an unknown person, of
taller stature than ordinary, dressed in a robe of divers colours, who
engaged to deliver them from that scourge, for a certain recompense
which was agreed upon.
Then he drew from his sleeve a flute, at the sound of which all the rats
came out of their holes and followed him; he led them straight to the
river, into which they ran and were drowned. On his return he asked for
the promised reward, which was refused him, apparently on account of the
facility with which he had exterminated the rats. The next day, which
was a fête day, he chose the moment when the older inhabitants were at
church, and by means of another flute which he began to play, all the
boys in the town above the age of fourteen, to the number of a hundred
and thirty, assembled round him; he led them to the neighbouring
mountain, named Kopfelberg, under which is a sewer for the town, and
where criminals are executed; these boys disappeared and were never seen
afterwards.
A young girl, who had followed at a distance, was witness of the matter,
and brought the news of it to the town.
XLVII
JEANNE D'ARC
FERRIER'S "Apparitions"
Upon her trial, as it is repeated by Chartier, she spoke with the utmost
simplicity and firmness of her visions: "Que souvent alloit a une belle
fontaine au pays de Lorraine, laquelle elle nommoit bonne fontaine aux
Feés Nostre Seigneur, at en icelluy lieu tous ceulx de pays quand ils
avoient fiebvre ils alloient pour recouvrer garison; et la alloit
souvent ladite Jehanne la Pucelle sous un grand arbre qui la fontaine
ombroit; et s'apparurent a elle Ste Katerine et Ste Marguerite qui lui
dirent qu'elle allast a ung Cappitaine qu'elles lui nommerent, laquelle
y alla sans prendre congé ni a pere ni a mere; lequel Cappitaine la
vestit en guise d'homme et l'armoit et lui ceint l'epeé, et luy bailla
un escuyer et quatre varlets; et en ce point fut monteé sur un bon
cheval; et en ce point vint aut Roy de France, et lui dit que du
Commandement de lui estoit venue a lui, et qu'elle le feroit le plus
grand Seigneur du Monde, et qu'il fut ordonné que tretou ceulx qui lui
desobeiroient fussent occis sans mercy, et que St Michel et plusieurs
anges lui avoient baillé une Couronne moult riche pour lui."
XLVIII
ANNE WALKER
Local Records
In the year 1680, at Lumley, a hamlet near Chester-le-Street in the
county of Durham, there lived one Walker, a man well to do in the world,
and a widower. A young relation of his, whose name was Anne Walker, kept
his house, to the great scandal of the neighbourhood, and that with but
too good cause. A few weeks before this young woman expected to become a
mother, Walker placed her with her aunt, one Dame Clare, in
Chester-le-Street, and promised to take care both of her and her future
child. One evening in the end of November, this man, in company with
Mark Sharp, an acquaintance of his, came to Dame Clare's door, and told
her that they had made arrangements for removing her niece to a place
where she could remain in safety till her confinement was over. They
would not say where it was; but as Walker bore, in most respects, an
excellent character, she was allowed to go with him; and he professed to
have sent her off with Sharp into Lancashire. Fourteen days after, one
Graeme, a fuller, who lived about six miles from Lumley, had been
engaged till past midnight in his mill; and on going downstairs to go
home, in the middle of the ground floor he saw a woman, with dishevelled
hair, covered with blood, and having five large wounds on her head.
Graeme, on recovering a little from his first terror, demanded what the
spectre wanted. "I," said the apparition, "am the spirit of Anne
Walker"; and proceeded accordingly to tell Graeme the particulars which
I have already related to you. "When I was sent away with Mark Sharp, he
slew me on such a moor," naming one that Graeme knew, "with a collier's
pick, threw my body into a coal-pit, and hid the pick under the bank;
and his shoes and stockings, which were covered with blood, he left in a
stream." The apparition proceeded to tell Graeme that he must give
information of this to the nearest justice of peace, and that till this
was done, he must look to be continually haunted. Graeme went home very
sad; he dared not bring such a charge against a man of so unimpeachable
a character as Walker; and yet he as little dared to incur the anger of
the spirit that had appeared to him. So, as all weak minds will do, he
went on procrastinating; only he took care to leave his mill early, and
while in it never to be alone. Notwithstanding this caution on his part,
one night, just as it began to be dark, the apparition met him again in
a more terrible shape, and with every circumstance of indignation. Yet
he did not even then fulfil its injunction; till on St Thomas's eve, as
he was walking in his garden just after sunset, it threatened him so
effectually that in the morning he went to a magistrate and revealed the
whole thing. The place was examined; the body and the pickaxe found; and
a warrant was granted against Walker and Sharp. They were, however,
admitted to bail; but in August, 1681, their trial came on before Judge
Davenport at Durham. Meanwhile the whole circumstances were known over
all the north of England, and the greatest interest was excited by the
case. Against Sharp the fact was strong, that his shoes and stockings,
covered with blood, were found in the place where the murder had been
committed; but against Walker, except the account received from the
ghost, there seemed not a shadow of evidence. Nevertheless the judge
summed up strongly against the prisoners, the jury found them guilty,
and the judge pronounced sentence upon them that night, a thing which
was unknown in Durham, either before or after. The prisoners were
executed, and both died professing their innocence to the last. Judge
Davenport was much agitated during the trial; and it was believed, says
the historian, that the spirit had also appeared to him, as if to supply
in his mind the want of legal evidence. This case is certainly a solemn
illustration of the mal-administration of justice in an ancient court;
yet the circumstantial evidence, arising from the appearance of the
spirit, appears very strong--the finding of the body, and the boots and
stockings. Yet we need perhaps to live more immediately within the
circle of the circumstance to pronounce upon it. None of us, however,
reading this book, would like to take upon ourselves the responsibility
of those daring jurymen, who durst venture to throw away life upon
evidence which, strong as it appears to have been, did not come to them,
but only to one who had borne witness to them.
XLIX
THE HAND OF GLORY
HENDERSON'S "Folk Lore"
One evening, between the years 1790 and 1800, a traveller, dressed in
woman's clothes, arrived at the Old Spital Inn, the place where the mail
coach changed horses, in High Spital, on Bowes Moor. The traveller
begged to stay all night, but had to go away so early in the morning
that if a mouthful of food were set ready for breakfast there was no
need the family should be disturbed by her departure. The people of the
house, however, arranged that a servant maid should sit up till the
stranger was out of the premises, and then went to bed themselves. The
girl lay down for a nap on the longsettle by the fire, but before she
shut her eyes she took a good look at the traveller, who was sitting on
the opposite side of the hearth, and espied a pair of man's trousers
peeping out from under the gown. All inclination for sleep was now gone;
however, with great self-command, she feigned it, closed her eyes, and
even began to snore. On this the traveller got up, pulled out of his
pocket a dead man's hand, fitted a candle to it, lighted the candle, and
passed hand and candle several times before the servant girl's face,
saying as he did so: "Let those who are asleep be asleep, and let those
who are awake be awake." This done, he placed the light on the table,
opened the outer door, went down two or three of the steps which led
from the house to the road, and began to whistle for his companions. The
girl (who had hitherto had presence of mind enough to remain perfectly
quiet) now jumped up, rushed behind the ruffian, and pushed him down
the steps. She then shut the door, locked it, and ran upstairs to try
and wake the family, but without success: calling, shouting, and shaking
were alike in vain. The poor girl was in despair, for she heard the
traveller and his comrades outside the house. So she ran down again,
seized a bowl of blue (_i.e._ skimmed milk), and threw it over the hand
and candle; after which she went upstairs again, and awoke the sleepers
without any difficulty. The landlord's son went to the window, and asked
the men outside what they wanted. They answered that if the dead man's
hand were but given them, they would go away quietly, and do no harm to
anyone. This he refused, and fired among them, and the shot must have
taken effect, for in the morning stains of blood were traced to a
considerable distance.
These circumstances were related to my informant, Mr Charles Wastell, in
the spring of 1861, by an old woman named Bella Parkin, who resided
close to High Spital, and was actually the daughter of the courageous
servant-girl.
It is interesting to compare them with the following narrations,
communicated to me by the Rev. S. Baring Gould:--"Two magicians having
come to lodge in a public-house with a view to robbing it, asked
permission to pass the night by the fire, and obtained it. When the
house was quiet, the servant-girl, suspecting mischief, crept downstairs
and looked through the keyhole. She saw the men open a sack, and take
out a dry, withered hand. They anointed the fingers with some unguent,
and lighted them. Each finger flamed, but the thumb they could not
light; that was because one of the household was not asleep. The girl
hastened to her master, but found it impossible to arouse him. She tried
every other sleeper, but could not break the charmed sleep. At last,
stealing down into the kitchen, while the thieves were busy over her
master's strong box, she secured the hand, blew out the flames, and at
once the whole household was aroused."[14]
But the next story bears a closer resemblance to the Stainmore
narrative. One dark night, when all was shut up, there came a tap at the
door of a lone inn in the middle of a barren moor. The door was opened,
and there stood without, shivering and shaking, a poor beggar, his rags
soaked with rain, and his hands white with cold. He asked piteously for
a lodging, and it was cheerfully granted him; there was not a spare bed
in the house, but he could lie on the mat before the kitchen fire, and
welcome.
So this was settled, and everyone in the house went to bed except the
cook, who from the back kitchen could see into the large room through a
pane of glass let into the door. She watched the beggar, and saw him, as
soon as he was left alone, draw himself up from the floor, seat himself
at the table, extract from his pocket a brown withered human hand, and
set it upright in the candlestick. He then anointed the fingers, and
applying a match to them, they began to flame. Filled with horror, the
cook rushed up the back stairs, and endeavoured to arouse her master and
the men of the house. But all was in vain--they slept a charmed sleep;
so in despair she hastened down again, and placed herself at her post of
observation.
She saw the fingers of the hand flaming, but the thumb remained
unlighted, because one inmate of the house was awake. The beggar was
busy collecting the valuables around him into a large sack, and having
taken all he cared for in the large room, he entered another. On this
the woman ran in, and, seizing the light, tried to extinguish the
flames. But this was not so easy. She blew at them, but they burnt on as
before. She poured the dregs of a beer-jug over them, but they blazed
up the brighter. As a last resource, she caught up a jug of milk, and
dashed it over the four lambent flames, and they died out at once.
Uttering a loud cry, she rushed to the door of the apartment the beggar
had entered, and locked it. The whole family was aroused, and the thief
easily secured and hanged. This tale is told in Northumberland.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 14: Delrio. See also Thorpe's _Mythology_, vol. iii. p. 274.]
L
THE BLOODY FOOTSTEP
Local Records
On the threshold of one of the doors of Smithills Hall there is a bloody
footstep impressed into the door-step, and ruddy as if the bloody foot
had just trodden there; and it is averred that, on a certain night of
the year, and at a certain hour of the night, if you go and look at the
door-step you will see the mark wet with fresh blood. Some have
pretended to say that this appearance of blood was but dew; but can dew
redden a cambric handkerchief? Will it crimson the finger-tips when you
touch it? And that is what the bloody footstep will surely do when the
appointed night and hour come round....
It is needless to tell you all the strange stories that have survived to
this day about the old Hall, and how it is believed that the master of
it, owing to his ancient science, has still a sort of residence there
and control of the place, and how in one of the chambers there is still
his antique table, and his chair, and some rude old instruments and
machinery, and a book, and everything in readiness, just as if he might
still come back to finish some experiment.... One of the chief things to
which the old lord applied himself was to discover the means of
prolonging his own life, so that its duration should be indefinite, if
not infinite; and such was his science that he was believed to have
attained this magnificent and awful purpose....
The object of the Lord of Smithills Hall was to take a life from the
course of Nature, and Nature did not choose to be defrauded; so that,
great as was the power of this scientific man over her, she would not
consent that he should escape the necessity of dying at his proper time,
except upon condition of sacrificing some other life for his; and this
was to be done once for every thirty years that he chose to live, thirty
years being the account of a generation of man; and if in any way, in
that time, this lord could be the death of a human being, that satisfied
the requisition, and he might live on....
There was but one human being whom he cared for--that was a beautiful
kinswoman, an orphan, whom his father had brought up, and dying, left to
his care.... He saw that she, if anyone, was to be the person whom the
sacrifice demanded, and that he might kill twenty others without effect,
but if he took the life of this one it would make the charm strong and
good.... He did slay this pure young girl; he took her into the wood
near the house, an old wood that is standing yet, with some of its
magnificent oaks, and there he plunged a dagger into her heart....
He buried her in the wood, and returned to the house; and, as it
happened, he had set his right foot in her blood, and his shoe was wet
in it, and by some miraculous fate it left a track all along the
wood-path, and into the house, and on the stone steps of the threshold,
and up into his chamber. The servants saw it the next day, and wondered,
and whispered, and missed the fair young girl, and looked askance at
their lord's right foot, and turned pale, all of them....