he had done ... and fled from his old Hall, and was gone full many a
day. But all the while he was gone there was the mark of a bloody
footstep impressed upon the stone door-step of the Hall.... The legend
says that wherever Sir Forrester went, in his wanderings about the
world, he left a bloody track behind him.... Once he went to the King's
Court, and, there being a track up to the very throne, the King frowned
upon him, so that he never came there any more. Nobody could tell how it
happened; his foot was not seen to bleed, only there was the bloody
track behind him....
At last this unfortunate lord deemed it best to go back to his own Hall,
where, living among faithful old servants born in the family, he could
hush the matter up better than elsewhere.... So home he came, and there
he saw the bloody track on the door-step, and dolefully went into the
Hall, and up the stairs, an old servant ushering him into his chamber,
and half a dozen others following him behind, gazing, shuddering,
pointing with quivering fingers, looking horror-stricken in one
another's pale faces....
By and by he vanished from the old Hall, but not by death; for, from
generation to generation, they say that a bloody track is seen around
that house, and sometimes it is traced up into the chambers, so fresh
that you see he must have passed a short time before.
This is the legend of the Bloody Footstep, which I myself have seen at
the Hall door.
LI
THE GHOSTLY WARRIORS OF WORMS
"The Phantom World"
The abbot of Ursperg, in his Chronicle, year 1123, says that in the
territory of Worms they saw during many days a multitude of armed men,
on foot and on horseback, going and coming with great noise, like people
who are going to a solemn assembly. Every day they marched, towards the
hour of noon, to a mountain, which appeared to be their place of
rendezvous. Someone in the neighbourhood, bolder than the rest, having
guarded himself with the sign of the cross, approached one of these
armed men, conjuring him in the name of God, to declare the meaning of
this army, and their design. The soldier or phantom replied, "We are not
what you imagine; we are neither vain phantoms nor true soldiers, we are
the spirits of those who were killed on this spot a long time ago. The
arms and horses which you behold are the instruments of our punishment,
as they were of our sins. We are all on fire, though you can see nothing
about us which appears inflamed." It is said that they remarked in this
company the Count Emico, who had been killed a few years before, and who
declared that he might be extricated from that state by alms and
prayers.
LII
THE WANDERING JEW IN ENGLAND
"Notes and Queries"
When on the weary way to Golgotha, Christ fainting, and overcome under
the burden of the cross, asked Salathiel, as he was standing at his
door, for a cup of water to cool His parched throat, he spurned the
supplication, and bade Him on the faster.
"I go," said the Saviour, "but thou shalt thirst and tarry till I come."
And ever since then, by day and night, through the long centuries he has
been doomed to wander about the earth, ever craving for water, and ever
expecting the day of judgment which shall end his toils:
"Mais toujours le soleil se lève,
Toujours, toujours
Tourne la terre où moi je cours,
Toujours, toujours, toujours, toujours!"
Sometimes, during the cold winter nights, the lonely cottager will be
awoke by a plaintive demand for "Water, good Christian! water for the
love of God!" And if he looks out into the moonlight, he will see a
venerable old man in antique raiment, with grey flowing beard, and a
tall staff, who beseeches his charity with the most earnest gesture. Woe
to the churl who refuses him water or shelter. My old nurse, who was a
Warwickshire woman, and, as Sir Walter said of his grandmother, "a most
_awfu' le'er_," knew a man who boldly cried out, "All very fine, Mr
Ferguson, but you can't lodge here." And it was decidedly the worst
thing he ever did in his life, for his best mare fell dead lame, and
corn went down, I am afraid to say how much per quarter. If, on the
contrary, you treat him well, and refrain from indelicate inquiries
respecting his age--on which point he is very touchy--his visit is sure
to bring good luck. Perhaps years afterwards, when you are on your
death-bed, he may happen to be passing; and if he _should_, you are
safe; for three knocks with his staff will make you hale, and he never
forgets any kindnesses. Many stories are current of his wonderful cures;
but there is one to be found in Peck's _History of Stamford_ which
possesses the rare merit of being written by the patient himself. Upon
Whitsunday, in the year of our Lord 1658, "about six of the clock, just
after evensong," one Samuel Wallis, of Stamford, who had been long
wasted with a lingering consumption, was sitting by the fire, reading in
that delectable book called _Abraham's Suit for Sodom_. He heard a knock
at the door; and, as his nurse was absent, he crawled to open it
himself. What he saw there, Samuel shall say in his own style:--"I
beheld a proper, tall, grave old man. Thus he said: 'Friend, I pray
thee, give an old pilgrim a cup of small beere!' And I said, 'Sir, I
pray you, come in and welcome.' And he said, 'I am no Sir, therefore
call me not Sir; but come in I must, for I cannot pass by thy doore.'"
After finishing the beer: "Friend," he said, "thou art not well." "I
said, 'No, truly Sir, I have not been well this many yeares.' He said,
'What is thy disease?' I said, 'A deep consumption, Sir; our doctors
say, past cure: for, truly, I am a very poor man, and not able to follow
doctors' councell.' 'Then,' said he, 'I will tell thee what thou shalt
do; and, by the help and power of Almighty God above, thou shalt be
well. To-morrow, when thou risest up, go into thy garden, and get there
two leaves of red sage, and one of bloodworte, and put them into a cup
of thy small beere. Drink as often as need require, and when the cup is
empty fill it again, and put in fresh leaves every fourth day, and thou
shalt see, through our Lord's great goodness and mercy, before twelve
dayes shall be past, thy disease shall be cured and thy body altered.'"
After this simple prescription, Wallis pressed him to eat: "But he said,
'No, friend, I will not eat; the Lord Jesus is sufficient for me. Very
seldom doe I drinke any beere neither, but that which comes from the
rocke. So, friend, the Lord God be with thee.'"
So saying, he departed, and was never more heard of; but the patient got
well within the given time, and for many a long day there was war hot
and fierce among the divines of Stamford, as to whether the stranger was
an angel or a devil. His dress has been minutely described by honest
Sam. His coat was purple, and buttoned down to the waist; "his britches
of the same couler, all new to see to"; his stockings were very white,
but whether linen or jersey, deponent knoweth not; his beard and head
were white, and he had a white stick in his hand. The day was rainy from
morning to night, "but he had not one spot of dirt upon his cloathes."
Aubrey gives an almost exactly similar relation, the scene of which he
places in the Staffordshire Moorlands. The Jew there appears in a
"purple shag gown," and prescribes balm-leaves.
LIII
BENDITH EU MAMMAU[15]
By EDMUND JONES
They appeared diverse ways, but their most frequent way of appearing was
like dancing-companies with musick, or in the form of funerals. When
they appeared like dancing-companies, they were desirous to entice
persons into their company, and some were drawn among them and remained
among them some time, usually a whole year; as did Edmund William Rees,
a man whom I well knew, and was a neighbour, who came back at the year's
end, and looked very bad. But either they were not able to give much
account of themselves, or they durst not give it, only said they had
been dancing, and that the time was short. But there were some others
who went with them at night, and returned sometimes at night, and
sometimes the next morning; especially those persons who took upon them
to cure the hurts received from the fairies, as Charles Hugh of Coed yr
Pame, in Langybi parish, and Rissiart Cap Dee, of Aberystruth; for the
former of these must certainly converse with them, for how else could he
declare the words which his visitors had spoken a day or days before
they came to him, to their great surprise and wonder?
And as for Rissiart Cap Dee, so called because he wore a black cap, it
is said of him that when he lodged in some houses to cure those who
were hurt by the fairies, he would suddenly rise up in the night, and
make a very hasty preparation to go downstairs; which when one person
observ'd, he said, "Go softly, Uncle Richard, least you fall": he made
answer, "O, here are some to receive me." But when he was called to one
person, who had inadvertently fallen among the fairies, and had been
greatly hurt by them, and kept his bed upon it, whose relations had sent
for the said Rissiart Cap Dee to cure him; who, when he came up to the
sick man's chamber, the sick man took up a pound-weight stone, which was
by the bed-side, and threw it at the infernal charmer with all his
might, saying, "Thou old villain, wast one of the worst of them to hurt
me!" for he had seen him among them acting his part against him; upon
which the old charmer went away muttering some words of malevolence
against him. He lived at the foot of Rhyw Coelbren, and there was a
large hole in the side of the thatch of his house, thro' which the
people believed he went out at night to the fairies, and came in from
them at night; but he pretended it was that he might see the stars at
night. The house is down long ago. He lived by himself, as did the
before-mentioned Charles Hugh, who was very famous in the county for his
cures, and knowledge of things at a distance; which he could not
possibly know without conversing with evil spirits, who walked the earth
to and fro. He is yet said to be an affable, friendly man, and cheerful;
'tis then a pity he should be in alliance with hell, and an agent in the
kingdom of darkness.
I will only give one instance of his knowledge of things at a distance,
and of secret things. Henry John Thomas, of the parish of Aberystruth, a
relation of mine, an honest man, went with the water of a young woman
whom he courted, and was sick, to the said Charles Hugh, who, as soon as
he saw Henry John, pleasantly told him, "Ho! you come with your
sweetheart's water to me." And he told him the very words which they
had spoken together in a secret place, and described the place where
they spoke. It was the general opinion in times past, when these things
were very frequent, that the fairies knew whatever was spoken in the air
without the houses, not so much what was spoken in the houses. I suppose
they chiefly knew what was spoken in the air at night. It was also said
they rather appeared to an uneven number of persons, to one, three,
five, &c.; and oftener to men than to women. Thomas William Edmund, of
Havodavel, an honest, pious man, who often saw them, declared that they
appeared with one bigger than the rest, going before them in the
company.
But they very often appeared in the form of a funeral before the death
of many persons, with a bier and a black cloth, in the midst of a
company about it, on every side, before and after it. The instances of
this were so numerous, that it is plain, and past all dispute, that they
infallibly foreknew the time of men's death: the difficulty is, whence
they had this knowledge. It cannot be supposed that either God Himself,
or His angels, discovered this to these spirits of darkness. For _the
secrets of the Lord are with those that fear Him_, not with His enemies.
Psalm xxv. 14. They must therefore have this knowledge from the position
of the stars at the time of birth, and their influence, which they
perfectly understand beyond what mortal men can do. We have a constant
proof of this in the corps candles, whose appearance is an infallible
sign that death will follow, and they never fail going the way that the
corps will go to be buried, be the way ever so unlikely that it should
go through. But to give some instances in Aberystruth Parish.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 15: _A Geographical, Historical, and Religious Account of the
Parish of Aberystruth, in the County of Monmouth. To which are added,
Memoirs of several persons of Note, who lived in the said Parish._ By
Edmund Jones. Trevecka: printed in the Year 1779.]
LIV
THE RED BOOK OF APPIN
CAMPBELL'S "Tales of the West Highlands"
Once upon a time, there lived a man at Appin, Argyllshire, and he took
to his house an orphan boy. When the boy was grown up, he was sent to
herd; and upon a day of days, and him herding, there came a fine
gentleman where he was, who asked him to become his servant, and that he
would give him plenty to eat and drink, clothes, and great wages. The
boy told him that he would like very much to get a good suit of clothes,
but that he would not engage till he would see his master; but the fine
gentleman would have him engaged without any delay; this the boy would
not do upon any terms till he would see his master. "Well," says the
gentleman, "in the meantime write your name in this book." Saying this,
he puts his hand into his oxter pocket, and pulling out a large red
book, he told the boy to write his name in the book. This the boy would
not do; neither would he tell his name, till he would acquaint his
master first. "Now," says the gentleman, "since you will neither engage,
or tell your name, till you see your present master, be sure to meet me
about sunset to-morrow, at a certain place?" The boy promised that he
would be sure to meet him at the place about sunsetting. When the boy
came home he told his master what the gentleman said to him. "Poor boy,"
says he, "a fine master he would make; lucky for you that you neither
engaged nor wrote your name in his book; but since you promised to meet
him, you must go; but as you value your life, do as I tell you." His
master gave him a sword, and at the same time he told him to be sure to
be at the place mentioned a while before sunset, and to draw a circle
round himself with the point of the sword in the name of Trinity. "When
you do this, draw a cross in the centre of the circle, upon which you
will stand yourself; and do not move out of that position till the
rising of the sun next morning." He also told him that he would wish him
to come out of the circle to put his name in the book; but that upon no
account he was to leave the circle; "but ask the book till you would
write your name yourself, and when once you get hold of the book keep
it, he cannot touch a hair of your head, if you keep inside the circle."
So the boy was at the place long before the gentleman made his
appearance; but sure enough he came after sunset; he tried all his arts
to get the boy outside the circle, to sign his name in the red book, but
the boy would not move one foot out from where he stood; but, at the
long last, he handed the book to the boy, so as to write his name
therein. The book was no sooner inside the circle than it fell out of
the gentleman's hand inside the circle; the boy cautiously stretched out
his hand for the book, and as soon as he got hold of it, he put it in
his oxter. When the fine gentleman saw that he did not mean to give him
back the book, he got furious; and at last he transformed himself into
great many likenesses, blowing fire and brimstone out of his mouth and
nostrils; at times he would appear as a horse, other times a huge cat,
and a fearful beast (uille bbeast); he was going round the circle the
length of the night; when day was beginning to break he let out one
fearful screech; he put himself in the shape of a large raven, and he
was soon out of the boy's sight. The boy still remained where he was
till he saw the sun in the morning, which no sooner he observed, than he
took to his soles home as fast as he could. He gave the book to his
master; and this is how the far-famed red book of Appin was got.
LV
THE GOOD O'DONOGHUE
Irish Folk Tales
In an age so distant that the precise period is unknown, a chieftain
named O'Donoghue ruled over the country which surrounds the romantic
Lough Lean, now called the Lake of Killarney. Wisdom, beneficence, and
justice distinguished his reign, and the prosperity and happiness of his
subjects were their natural results. He is said to have been as renowned
for his warlike exploits as for his pacific virtues; and as a proof that
his domestic administration was not the less rigorous because it was
mild, a rocky island is pointed out to strangers, called "O'Donoghue's
Prison," in which this prince once confined his own son for some act of
disorder and disobedience.
His end--for it cannot correctly be called his death--was singular and
mysterious. At one of those splendid feasts for which his court was
celebrated, surrounded by the most distinguished of his subjects, he was
engaged in a prophetic relation of the events which were to happen in
ages yet to come. His auditors listened, now rapt in wonder, now fired
with indignation, burning with shame, or melted into sorrow, as he
faithfully detailed the heroism, the injuries, the crimes, and the
miseries of their descendants. In the midst of his predictions he rose
slowly from his seat, advanced with a solemn, measured, and majestic
tread to the shore of the lake, and walked forward composedly upon its
unyielding surface. When he had nearly reached the centre he paused for
a moment, then, turning slowly round, looked toward his friends, and
waving his arms to them with the cheerful air of one taking a short
farewell, disappeared from their view.
The memory of the good O'Donoghue has been cherished by successive
generations with affectionate reverence; and it is believed that at
sunrise, on every May-day morning, the anniversary of his departure, he
revisits his ancient domains: a favoured few only are in general
permitted to see him, and this distinction is always an omen of good
fortune to the beholders; when it is granted to many it is a sure token
of an abundant harvest--a blessing, the want of which during this
prince's reign was never felt by his people.
Some years have elapsed since the last appearance of O'Donoghue. The
April of that year had been remarkably wild and stormy; but on
May-morning the fury of the elements had altogether subsided. The air
was hushed and still; and the sky, which was reflected in the serene
lake, resembled a beautiful but deceitful countenance, whose smiles,
after the most tempestuous emotions, tempt the stranger to believe that
it belongs to a soul which no passion has ever ruffled.
The first beams of the rising sun were just gilding the lofty summit of
Glenaa, when the waters near the eastern shore of the lake became
suddenly and violently agitated, though all the rest of its surface lay
smooth and still as a tomb of polished marble, the next morning a
foaming wave darted forward, and, like a proud high-crested war-horse,
exulting in his strength, rushed across the lake toward Toomies
mountain. Behind this wave appeared a stately warrior fully armed,
mounted upon a milk-white steed; his snowy plume waved gracefully from a
helmet of polished steel, and at his back fluttered a light blue scarf.
The horse, apparently exulting in his noble burden, sprung after the
wave along the water, which bore him up like firm earth, while showers
of spray that glittered brightly in the morning sun were dashed up at
every bound.
The warrior was O'Donoghue; he was followed by numberless youths and
maidens, who moved lightly and unconstrained over the watery plain, as
the moonlight fairies glide through the fields of air; they were linked
together by garlands of delicious spring flowers, and they timed their
movements to strains of enchanting melody. When O'Donoghue had nearly
reached the western side of the lake, he suddenly turned his steed, and
directed his course along the wood-fringed shore of Glenaa, preceded by
the huge wave that curled and foamed up as high as the horse's neck,
whose fiery nostrils snorted above it. The long train of attendants
followed with playful deviations the track of their leader, and moved on
with unabated fleetness to their celestial music, till gradually, as
they entered the narrow strait between Glenaa and Dinis, they became
involved in the mists which still partially floated over the lake, and
faded from the view of the wondering beholders: but the sound of their
music still fell upon the ear, and echo, catching up the harmonious
strains, fondly repeated and prolonged them in soft and softer tones,
till the last faint repetition died away, and the hearers awoke as from
a dream of bliss.
LVI
SARAH POLGRAIN
By WILLIAM HUNT
A woman, who had lived in Ludgvan, was executed at Bodmin for the murder
of her husband. There was but little doubt that she had been urged on to
the diabolical deed by a horse-dealer, known as Yorkshire Jack, with
whom, for a long period, she was generally supposed to have been
criminally acquainted.
Now, it will be remembered that this really happened within the present
century. One morning, during my residence in Penzance, an old woman from
Ludgvan called on me with some trifling message. While she was waiting
for my answer, I made some ordinary remark about the weather.
"It's all owing to Sarah Polgrain," said she.
"Sarah Polgrain," said I; "and who is Sarah Polgrain?"
Then the voluble old lady told me the whole story of the poisoning with
which we need not, at present, concern ourselves. By and by the tale
grew especially interesting, and there I resume it.
Sarah had begged that Yorkshire Jack might accompany her to the scaffold
when she was led forth to execution. This was granted; and on the
dreadful morning there stood this unholy pair, the fatal beam on which
the woman's body was in a few minutes to swing, before them.
They kissed each other, and whispered words passed between them.
The executioner intimated that the moment of execution had arrived, and
that they must part. Sarah Polgrain, looking earnestly into the man's
eyes, said:
"You will?"
Yorkshire Jack replied, "I will!" and they separated. The man retired
amongst the crowd, the woman was soon a dead corpse, pendulating in the
wind.
Years passed on, Yorkshire Jack was never the same man as before, his
whole bearing was altered. His bold, his dashing air deserted him. He
walked, or rather wandered, slowly about the streets of the town, or the
lanes of the country. He constantly moved his head from side to side,
looking first over one, and then over the other shoulder, as though
dreading that someone was following him.
The stout man became thin, his ruddy cheeks more pale, and his eyes
sunken.
At length he disappeared, and it was discovered--for Yorkshire Jack had
made a confidant of some Ludgvan man--that he had pledged himself,
"living or dead, to become the husband of Sarah Polgrain, after the
lapse of years."
To escape, if possible, from himself, Jack had gone to sea in the
merchant service.
Well, the period had arrived when this unholy promise was to be
fulfilled. Yorkshire Jack was returning from the Mediterranean in a
fruit-ship. He was met by the devil and Sarah Polgrain far out at sea,
off the Land's End. Jack would not accompany them willingly, so they
followed the ship for days, during all which time she was involved in a
storm. Eventually Jack was washed from the deck by such a wave as the
oldest sailor had never seen; and presently, amidst loud thunders and
flashing lightnings, riding as it were in a black cloud, three figures
were seen passing onward. These were the devil, Sarah Polgrain, and
Yorkshire Jack; and this was the cause of the storm.
"It is all true, as you may learn if you will inquire," said the old
woman; "for many of her kin live in Churchtown."
LVII
ELEANOR COBHAM, DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER
GODWIN'S "Lives of the Necromancers"