CHAPTER III

HORSES AND THE UNKNOWN

As in my chapters on cats and dogs, I will preface this chapter on

horses with instances of alleged haunted localities.

I take my first case from Mr. W.T. Stead's _Real Ghost Stories_,

published in 1891. It is called "A Weird Story from the Indian Hills,"

and Mr. Stead preludes it thus: The "tale is told by General Barter,

C.B., of Careystown, Whitegate, Co. Cork. At the time he witnessed the

spectral cavalcade he was living on the hills in India, and when one

evening he was returning home he caught sight of a rider and attendants

coming towards him. The rest of the story, given in the General's own

words, is as follows:--

"At this time the two dogs came, and, crouching at my side, gave low,

frightened whimpers. The moon was at the full--a tropical moon--so

bright that you could see to read a newspaper by its light, and--I saw

the party before me advance as plainly as it were noon day. They were

above me some eight or ten feet on the bridle-road, the earth thrown

down from which sloped to within a pace or two of my feet. On the party

came, until almost in front of me, and now I had better describe them.

The rider was in full dinner dress, with white waistcoat, and wearing a

tall chimney-pot hat, and he sat a powerful hill pony (dark brown, with

mane and tail) in a listless sort of way, the reins hanging loosely from

both hands. A Syce led the pony on each side, but their faces I could

not see, the one next to me having his back to me and the one farthest

off being hidden by the pony's head. Each held the bridle close by the

bit, the man next me with his right and the other with his left hand,

and the hands were on the thighs of the rider, as if to steady him in

his seat. As they approached, I knowing they could not get to any place

other than my own, called out in Hindustani, 'Quon hai?' (Who is it?).

There was no answer, and on they came until right in front of me, when I

said, in English, 'Hullo, what the d----l do you want here?' Instantly

the group came to a halt, the rider gathering the bridle reins up in

both hands, turned his face, which had hitherto been looking away from

me, towards me, and looked down upon me. The group was still as in a

tableau, with the bright moon shining upon it, and I at once recognized

the rider as Lieutenant B., whom I had formerly known. The face,

however, was different from what it used to be; in the place of being

clean-shaven, as when I used to know it, it was now surrounded by a

fringe (what used to be known as a Newgate fringe), and it was the face

of a dead man, the ghastly waxen pallor of it brought out more

distinctly in the moonlight by the dark fringe of hair by which it was

encircled; the body, too, was much stouter than when I had known it in

life.

"I marked this in a moment; and then resolved to lay hold of the thing,

whatever it might be. I dashed up the bank, and the earth which had been

thrown on the side giving under my feet, I fell forward up the bank on

my hands, recovering myself instantly. I gained the road, and stood in

the exact spot where the group had been, but which was now vacant, there

was not the trace of anything; it was impossible for them to go on, the

road stopped at a precipice about twenty yards further on, and it was

impossible to turn and go back in a second. All this flashed through my

mind, and I then ran along the road for about 100 yards, along which

they had come, until I had to stop for want of breath, but there was no

trace of anything, and not a sound to be heard. I then returned home,

where I found my dogs, who, on all other occasions my most faithful

companions, had not come with me along the road.

"Next morning I went up to D., who belonged to the same regiment as B.,

and gradually induced him to talk of him. I said, 'How very stout he had

become lately, and what possessed him to allow his beard to grow with

that horrid fringe?' D. replied, 'Yes, he became very bloated before his

death. You know he led a very fast life, and while on the sick list he

allowed the fringe to grow, in spite of all that we could say to him,

and I believe he was buried with it.' I asked him where he got the pony

I had seen, describing it minutely. 'Why,' said D., 'how do you know

anything about all this? You hadn't seen B. for two or three years, and

the pony you never saw. He bought him at Peshawur, and killed him one

day riding in his reckless fashion down the hill to Trete.' I then told

him what I had seen the night before.

"Once, when the galloping sound was very distinct, I rushed to the door

of my house. There I found my Hindoo bearer, standing with a tattie in

his hand. I asked him what he was there for. He said that there came a

sound of riding down the hill, and 'passed him like a typhoon,' and went

round the corner of the house, and he was determined to waylay it,

whatever it was."

In commenting on the case, Mr. Stead remarks, "That such a story as

this, gravely told by a British General in the present day, helps us to

understand how our ancestors came to believe in the wonderful story of

Herne the Hunter." I do not know about Herne the Hunter, but it is at

all events good testimony that horses as well as men have spirits, for

one of the ghosts the General saw was, undoubtedly, that of the pony

murdered by B. Why it was still ridden by the phantom of its former

master is another question.

The next case I narrate is also taken from Mr. Stead's same work. It was

sent him by one of the leading townsmen of Cowes, in the Isle of Wight,

and runs thus:--

"On a fine evening in April, 1859, the writer was riding with a friend

on a country road. Twilight was closing down on us, when, after a

silence of some minutes, my friend suddenly exclaimed:

"'No man knows me better than you do, J. Do you think I am a nervous,

easily frightened sort of man?'

"'Far from it,' said I, 'among all the men I know in the wild country I

have lived and worked in, I know none more fearless or of more

unhesitating nerve.'

"'Well,' said he, 'I think I am that, too, and though I have travelled

these roads all sorts of hours, summer and winter, for twenty years, I

never met anything to startle me, or that I could not account for, until

last Monday evening. About this time it was. Riding old Fan' (a chestnut

mare) 'here on this cross-' (a four-way cross) 'road, on my near side

was a man on a grey horse, coming from this left-hand road. I had to

pull my off-rein to give myself room to pass ahead of him; he was coming

at a right angle to me. As I passed the head of the horse I called out

"Good night." Hearing no reply, I turned in my saddle to the off-side,

to see whether he appeared to be asleep as he rode, but to my surprise I

saw neither man nor horse. So sure was I that I had seen such, that I

wheeled old Fan round, and rode back to the middle of the cross, and on

neither of the four roads could I see a man or horse, though there was

light enough to see two hundred or three hundred yards, as we can now.

Well, I then rode over that gate' (a gate at one corner opening into a

grass field), 'thinking he might have gone that way; looking down by

each hedge, I could see nothing of my man and horse; and then--and not

until then--I felt myself thrill and start with a shuddering sense that

I had seen something uncanny, and, Jove! I put the mare down this hill

we are on now at her very best pace. But the strangest part of my story

is to come,' said he, continuing.

"'After I had done my business at the farmhouse here, at foot of this

hill, I told the old farmer and his wife what I had seen, as I have now

told you. The old man said:

"'"For many years I have known thee, M----, on this road, and have you

never seen the like before on that cross?"

"'"Seen what before?" I said.

"'"Why, a man in light-coloured clothes on a grey horse," said he.

"'"No, never," said I, "but I swear I have this evening."

"'The farmer asked, "Had I never heard of what happened to the Miller of

L---- Mills about forty years ago?"

"'"No, never a word," I told him.

"'"Well," he said, "about forty years ago this miller, returning from

market, was waylaid and murdered on that cross-road, pockets rifled of

money and watch. The horse ran home, about a mile away. Two serving-men

set out with lanterns and found their master dead. He was dressed, as

millers often do in this part of the country, in light-coloured clothes,

and the horse was a grey horse. The murderers were never found. These

are facts," continued the farmer. "I took this farm soon after it all

happened, and, though I have known all this, and have passed over that

cross several thousands of times, I never knew anything unusual there

myself, but there have been a number of people who tell the same story

you have told mother and me, M----, and describe the appearance as you

have done to us to-night."'"

Mr. Stead goes on to add: "Four evenings after all this occurred my

friend related it to me as we were riding along the same road. He

continued to pass there many times every year for ten years, but never a

day saw anything of that sort."

My next case, a reproduction of a letter in the _Occult Review_ of

September, 1906, reads thus:--

"_A Phantom Horse and Rider--Mrs. Gaskin Anderston's Story_

"The following story is, I think, very remarkable, and I give it exactly

as it was told to me, and written down at the time.

"A number of members of a gentleman's club were talking and discussing,

amongst other subjects, the possibility of there being a future state

for animals. One of the members said:

"'I firmly believe there is. In my early youth I had a practice as a

medical man in one of the Midland Counties. One of my patients was a

very wealthy man, who owned large tracts of land and had a stud

composed entirely of bay horses with black points--this was a hobby of

his, and he would never have any others. One day a messenger came

summoning me to Mr. L----, as he had just met with a very bad accident,

and was on the point of death. I mounted my horse and started off

without delay. As I was riding through the front gates to the house, I

heard a shot, and to my amazement the very man I was going to visit rode

past at a furious pace, riding a wretched-looking chestnut with one

white forefoot and a white star on its forehead. Arrived at the house

the butler said:

"'"He has gone, sir; they had to shoot the horse--you would hear the

shot--and at the same moment my master died."

"'He had had this horse sent on approval; whilst riding it, it backed

over a precipice, injuring Mr. L---- fatally, and on being taken to the

stables it was found necessary to shoot it.'--Alpha."

The next case I append (I published it in a weekly journal some years

ago) was related to me by a Captain Beauclerk.

_The White Horse of Eastover_

When I came down to breakfast one morning I found amongst several

letters awaiting me one from Colonel Onslow, the Commanding Officer of

my regiment when I first joined. He had always been rather partial to

me, and the friendship between us continued after his retirement. I

heard from him regularly at more or less prolonged intervals, and either

at Christmas or Easter invariably received an invitation to spend a few

days with him. On this occasion he was most anxious that I should

accept.

"Do come to us for Easter," he wrote. "I am sure this place will

interest you--it is haunted."

The cunning fellow! He knew I was very keen on Psychical Research work,

and would go almost anywhere on the bare chance of seeing a ghost.

At that time I was quite open-minded, I had arrived at no definite

conclusion as to the existence or non-existence of ghosts. But to tell

the truth, I doubted very much if the Colonel's word, in these

circumstances, could be relied upon. I had grave suspicions that this

"haunting" was but an invention for the purpose of getting me to

Eastover. However, as it was just possible that I might be

mistaken--that there really was a ghost, and as I had not seen Colonel

Onslow for a long time, and indulged in feelings of the warmest regard

both for him and his wife, I resolved to go.

Accordingly I set out early in the afternoon of the Good Friday. The

weather, which had been muggy in London, grew colder and colder the

further we advanced along the line, and by the time we reached Eastover

there was every prospect of a storm.

As I expected, a closed carriage had been sent to meet me; for the

Colonel, carrying conservatism--with more conservatism than sense,

perhaps--to a fine point, cherished a deep-rooted aversion to

innovations of any sort, and consequently abhorred motors. His house,

Eastover Hall, is three miles from the station, and lies at the foot of

a steep spine of the Chilterns.

The grounds of Eastover Hall were extensive; but, in the ordinary sense,

far from beautiful. To me, however, they were more than beautiful; there

was a grandeur in them--a grandeur that appealed to me far more than

mere beauty--the grandeur of desolation, the grandeur of the Unknown. As

we passed through the massive iron gates of the lodge, I looked upon

countless acres of withered, undulating grass; upon a few rank sedges;

upon a score or so of decayed trees; upon a house--huge, bare, grey and

massive; upon bleak walls; upon vacant, eye-like windows; upon crude,

scenic inhospitality, the very magnitude of which overpowered me. I have

said it was cold; but there hung over the estate of Eastover an iciness

that brought with it a quickening, a sickening of the heart, and a

dreariness that, whilst being depressing in the extreme, was, withal,

sublime. Sublime and mysterious; mysterious and insoluble. A thousand

fancies swarmed through my mind; yet I could grapple with none; and I

was loth to acknowledge that, although there are combinations of very

simple material objects which might have had the power of affecting me

thus, yet any attempt to analyse that power was beyond--far beyond--my

mental capability.

The house, though old--and its black oak panellings, silent staircases,

dark corridors, and general air of gloom were certainly suggestive of

ghosts--did not affect me in the same degree. The fear it inspired was

the ordinary fear inspired by the ordinary superphysical, but the fear I

felt in the grounds was a fear created by something out of the

way--something far more bizarre than a mere phantom of the dead.

The Colonel asked me if I had experienced any unusual sensations the

moment I entered the house, and I told him, "Yes."

"Nearly everyone does," he replied, "and yet, so far as I know, no one

has ever seen anything. The noises we hear all round the house have

lately been more frequent. I won't describe them; I want to learn your

unbiassed opinion of them first."

We then had tea, and whilst the rest--there was a large

house-party--indulged in music and cards, the Colonel and I had a

delightful chat about old times. I went to bed in the firm resolution of

keeping awake till at least two; but I was very tired, and the excessive

cold had made me extremely sleepy; consequently, despite my heroic

efforts, I gradually dozed off, and knew no more till it was broad

daylight and the butler entered my room with a cup of tea. When I came

down to breakfast I found everyone in the best of spirits. The Onslows

are "great hands" at original entertainments, and the announcement that

there would be a masked ball that evening was received with tremendous

enthusiasm.

"To-night we dance, to-morrow we feed on Easter eggs and fancy cakes,"

one of the guests laughingly whispered. "What a nicely ordered

programme! I hear, too, we are to have a real old-fashioned Easter

Day--heaving and lifting, and stool-ball. Egad! The Colonel deserves

knighthood!"

Soon after breakfast there was a general stampede to Seeton and

Dinstable to buy gifts; for in that respect again the Onslows stuck to

old customs, and there was a general interchange of presents on Easter

morning. My purchases made, I joined one or two of the house-party at

lunch in Seeton, cycled back alone to Eastover in time for tea; and, at

five o'clock, commenced my first explorations of the grounds. The sky

having become clouded my progress was somewhat slow. I did the Park

first, and I had not gone very far before I detected the same presence I

had so acutely felt the previous afternoon. Like the scent of a wild

beast, it had a certain defined track which I followed astutely,

eventually coming to a full stop in front of a wall of rock. I then

perceived by the aid of a few fitful rays of suppressed light, which at

intervals struggled successfully through a black bank of clouds, the

yawning mouth of a big cavern, from the roof of which hung innumerable

stalactites. I now suddenly realized that I was in a very lonely,

isolated spot, and became immeasurably perturbed. The Unknown Something

in the atmosphere which had inspired me with so much fear was here

conglomerated--it was no longer the mere essence--it was the whole

Thing. The whole Thing, but what was that Thing? A hideous fascination

made me keep my gaze riveted on the gaping hole opposite me. At first I

could make out nothing--nothing but jagged walls and roof, and empty

darkness; then there suddenly appeared in the very innermost recesses of

the cave a faint glow of crimson light which grew and grew, until with

startling abruptness it resolved itself into two huge eyes, red and

menacing. The sight was so unexpected, and, by reason of its intense

malignity, so appalling, that I was simply dumbfounded. I could do

nothing but stare at the Thing--paralysed and speechless. I made a

desperate effort to get back my self-possession; I strove with all my

might to reason with myself, to assure myself that this was the supreme

moment of my life, the moment I had so long and earnestly desired. But

it was in vain; I was terrified--helplessly, hopelessly terrified. The

eyes moved, they drew nearer and nearer to me, and as they did so they

became more and more hostile. I opened my mouth to shout for help, I

could feel my lungs bursting under the tension; not a sound came; and

then--then, as the eyes closed on me, and I could feel the cold, clammy

weight pressing me down, there rang out, loud and clear, in the keen and

cutting air of the spring evening, a whole choir of voices--the village

choral society.

I am not particularly fond of music--certainly not of village music,

however well trained it may be; but I can honestly affirm that, at that

moment, no sounds could have been more welcome to me than those old

folk-songs piped by the rustics, for the instant they commenced the

spell that so closely held me prisoner was broken, my faculties

returned, and reeling back out of the clutches of the hateful Thing, I

joyfully turned and fled.

I related my adventure to the Colonel, and he told me that the cave was

generally deemed to be the most haunted spot in the grounds, that no one

cared to venture there alone after dark.

"I have myself many times visited the cave at night--in the company of

others," he said, "and we have invariably experienced sensations of the

utmost horror and repulsion, though we have seen nothing. It must be a

devil."

I thought so, too, and exclaimed with some vehemence that the proper

course for him to pursue was to have the cave filled in or blasted. That

night I awoke at about one o'clock with the feeling very strong on me

that something was prowling about under my window. For some time I

fought against the impulse to get out of bed and look, but at last I

yielded. It was bright moonlight--every obstacle in the grounds stood

out with wonderful clearness--and directly beneath the window, peering

up at me, were the eyes--red, lurid, satanical. A dog barked, and they

vanished. I did not sleep again that night, not until the daylight

broke, when I had barely shut my eyes before I was aroused by decidedly

material bangings on the doors and hyper-boisterous Easter greetings.

After breakfast a few of the party went to church, a few into the

nursery to romp with the children, whilst the rest dispersed in

different directions. At luncheon all met again, and there was much

merry-making over the tansy cakes--very foolish, no doubt, but to me at

least very delightful, and perhaps a wise practice, at times, even for

the most prosaic. In the afternoon the Colonel took me for a drive to a

charmingly picturesque village in the Chilterns, whence we did not set

out on our way back till it was twilight.

The Colonel was a good whip, and the horse, though young and rather

high-spirited, was, he said, very dependable on the whole, and had never

caused him any trouble. We spun along at a brisk trot--the last village

separating us from the Hall was past, and we were on a high eminence,

almost within sight of home, when a startling change in the atmosphere

suddenly became apparent--it turned icy cold. I made some sort of

comment to the Colonel, and as I did so the horse shied.

"Hulloa!" I exclaimed. "Does she often do this?"

"No, not often, only when we are on this road about this time," was the

grim rejoinder. "Keep your eyes open and sit tight."

We were now amid scenery of the same desolate type that had so impressed

me the day of my arrival. Gaunt, barren hills, wild, uncultivated

levels, sombre valleys, inhabited only by grotesque enigmatical shadows

that came from Heaven knows where, and hemmed us in on all sides.

A large quarry, half full of water and partly overgrown with brambles,

riveted my attention, and as I gazed fixedly at it I saw, or fancied I

saw, the shape of something large and white--vividly white--rise from

the bottom.

The glimpse I caught of it was, however, only momentary, for we were

moving along at a great pace, and I had hardly seen the last of it

before the quarry was left behind and we were descending a long and

gradual declivity. There was but little wind, but the cold was

benumbing; neither of us spoke, and the silence was unbroken save by the

monotonous patter, patter of the horse's hoofs on the hard road.

We were, I should say, about half-way down the hill, when away in our

rear, from the direction of the quarry, came a loud protracted neigh. I

at once looked round, and saw standing on the crest of the eminence we

had just quitted, and most vividly outlined against the enveloping

darkness, a gigantic horse, white and luminous.

At that moment our own mare took fright; we were abruptly swung forward,

and, had I not--mindful of the Colonel's warning--been "sitting tight,"

I should undoubtedly have been thrown out. We dashed downhill at a

terrific rate, our mare mad with terror, and on peering over my shoulder

I saw, to my horror, the white steed tearing along not fifty yards

behind us. I was now able to get a vivid impression of the monstrous

beast. Although the night was dark, a strong, lurid glow, which seemed

to emanate from all over it, enabled me to see distinctly its broad,

muscular breast; its panting, steaming flanks; its long, graceful legs

with their hairy fetlocks and shoeless, shining hoofs; its powerful but

arched back; its lofty, colossal head with waving forelock and broad,

massive forehead; its snorting nostrils; its distended, foaming jaws;

its huge, glistening teeth; and its lips, wreathed in a savage grin. On

and on it raced, its strides prodigious, its mighty mane rising and

falling, and blowing all around it in unrestrained confusion.

A slip--a single slip, and we should be entirely at its mercy.

Our own horse was now out of control. A series of violent plunges, which

nearly succeeded in unseating me, had enabled her to get the check of

the bit between her teeth so as to render it utterly useless; and she

had then started off at a speed I can only liken to flying. Fortunately

we were now on a more or less level ground, and the road, every inch of

which our horse knew, was smooth and broad.

I glanced at the Colonel convulsively clutching the reins; he was

clinging to his seat for dear life, his hat gone. I wanted to speak, but

I knew it was useless--the shrieking of the air as it roared past us

deadened all sounds. Once or twice I glanced over the side of the trap.

The rapidity with which we were moving caused a hideous delusion--the

ground appeared to be gliding from beneath us; and I experienced the

sensation of resting on nothing. Despite our danger, however, from

natural causes--a danger which, I knew, could not have been more

acute--my fears were wholly of the superphysical. It was not the horror

of being dashed to pieces I dreaded--it was the horror of the phantom

horse--of its sinister, hostile appearance--of its unknown powers. What

would it do if it overtook us? With each successive breath I drew I

felt sure the fateful event--the long-anticipated crisis--had come.

At last my expectations were realized. The teeth of the gigantic steed

closed down on me, its nostrils hissed resistance out of me--I swerved,

tottered, fell; and as I sank on the ground my senses left me.

On coming to I found myself in a propped-up position on the floor of a

tiny room with someone pouring brandy down my throat. Happily, beyond a

severe shock, I had sustained no injury--a sufficiently miraculous

circumstance, as the trap had come to grief in failing to clear the

lodge gates, the horse had skinned its knees, and the Colonel had

fractured his shoulder. Of the phantom horse not a glimpse had been

seen. Even the Colonel, strange to relate, though he had managed to peep

round, had not seen it. He had heard and felt a Presence, that was all;

and after listening to my experience, he owned he was truly thankful he

was only clair-audient.

"A gift like yours," he said, with more candour than kindness, "is a

curse, not a blessing. And now I have your corroboration, I might as

well tell you that we have long suspected the ghost to be a horse, and

have attributed its hauntings to the fact that, some time ago, when

exploring in the cave, several prehistoric remains of horses were

found, one of which we kept, whilst we presented the others to a

neighbouring museum. I dare say there are heaps more."

"Undoubtedly there are," I said, "but take my advice and leave them

alone--re-inter the remains you have already unearthed--and thus put a

stop to the hauntings. If you go on excavating and keep the bones you

find, the disturbances will, in all probability, increase, and the

hauntings will become not only many but multiform."

Needless to say the Colonel carried out my injunctions to the letter.

Far from continuing his work of excavation he lost no time in restoring

the bones he had kept to their original resting-place; after which, as I

predicted, the hauntings ceased.

This case, to me, is very satisfactory, as it testifies to what was

unquestionably an actual phantasm of the dead--of a dead horse--albeit

that horse was prehistoric; and such horses are all the more likely to

be earth-bound on account of their wild, untamed natures.

Here is another account of a phantom horse taken from Mr. Stead's _Real

Ghost Stories_. It is written by an Afrikander who, in a letter to Mr.

Stead, says:

"I am not a believer in ghosts, nor never was; but seeing you wanted a

census of them, I can't help giving you a remarkable experience of

mine. It was some three summers back, and I was out with a party of Boer

hunters. We had crossed the Northern boundary of the Transvaal, and were

camped on the ridges of the Sembombo. I had been out from sunrise, and

was returning about dusk with the skin of a fine black ostrich thrown

across the saddle in front of me, in the best of spirits at my good

luck. Making straight for the camp, I had hardly entered a thick bush

when I thought that I heard somebody behind me. Looking behind, I saw a

man mounted on a white horse. You can imagine my surprise, for my horse

was the only one in camp, and we were the only party in the country.

Without considering I quickened my pace into a canter, and on doing so

my follower appeared to do the same. At this I lost all confidence, and

made a run for it, with my follower in hot pursuit, as it appeared to my

imagination; and I did race for it (the skin went flying in about two

minutes, and my rifle would have done the same had it not been strapped

over my shoulders). This I kept up until I rode into camp right among

the pals cooking the evening meal. The Boers about the camp were quick

in their enquiries as to my distressed condition, and regaining

confidence, I was putting them off as best I could, when the old boss

(an old Boer of some sixty-eight or seventy years), looking up from the

fire, said:

"'The white horse! The Englishman has seen the white horse.'

"This I denied, but to no purpose. And that night round the camp fire I

took the trouble to make enquiries as to the antecedents of the white

horse. And the old Boer, after he had commanded silence, began. He said:

"'The English are not brave, but foolish. We beat them at Majuba, some

twenty-five seasons back. There was an Englishman here like you; he had

brought a horse with him, against our advice, to be killed with the fly,

the same as yours will be in a day or two. And he, like you, would go

where he was told not to go; and one day he went into a bush (that very

bush you rode through to-night), and he shot seven elephants, and the

next day he went in to fetch the ivory, and about night his horse came

into camp riderless, and was dead from the fly before the sun went down.

The Englishman is in that bush now; anyway, he never came back. And now

anybody who ventures into that bush is chased by the white horse. I

wouldn't go into that bush for all the ivory in the land. The English

are not brave, but foolish; we beat them at Majuba.'

"Here he ran into a torrent of abuse of all Englishmen in general, and

in particular. And I took the opportunity of rolling myself up in my

blankets for the night, sleeping all the better for my adventure.

"Now, Mr. Stead, I don't believe in ghosts, but I was firmly convinced

during that run of mine, and can vouch for the accuracy of it, not

having heard a word of the Englishman or his white horse before my

headlong return to the camp that night. I shortly hope to be near that

bush again, but, like the old Boer, I can say I wouldn't go into that

bush again for all the ivory in the land.

"P.S.--A few days after we dropped across a troop of elephants without

entering the fatal bush, and managed to bag seven, photographs of which

I took, and shall be pleased to send for your inspection, if desired."

There can be very little doubt that the phantom the Afrikander saw was

the actual spirit of a dead horse.

Another experience of haunting by the same animal was told me by a

Chelsea artist who assured me it was absolutely true. I append it as

nearly as possible in his own words.

_Heralds of Death_

"It is many years ago," he began, "since I came into my property,

Heatherleigh Hall, near Carlisle, Cumberland. It was left me by my

great-uncle, General Wimpole, whom I had never seen, but who had made me

his heir in preference to his other nephews, owing to my reputed

likeness to an aunt, to whom he was greatly attached. Of course I was

much envied, and I dare say a good many unkind things were said about

me, but I did not care--Heatherleigh Hall was mine, and I had as much

right to it as anyone else. I came there all alone--my two brothers,

Dick and Hal, the one a soldier and the other a sailor, were both away

on foreign service, whilst Beryl, my one and only sister, was staying

with her fiancé's family in Bath. Never shall I forget my first

impressions. Depict the day--an October afternoon. The air mellow, the

leaves yellow, and the sun a golden red. Not a trace of clouds or wind

anywhere. Everything serene and still. A broad highway; a wood; a lodge

in the midst of the wood; large iron gates; a broad carriage drive,

planted on either side with lofty pines and elms, whose gnarled and

forked branches threw grotesque and not altogether pleasing shadows on

the pale gravel.

"At the end of the avenue, at least a quarter of a mile long, wide

expanses of soft, velvety grass, interspersed at regular intervals with

plots of flowers--dahlias, michaelmas daisies--no longer in their first

bloom--chrysanthemums, etc. Beyond the lawn, the house, and beyond that

again, and on either side, big, old-fashioned gardens full of

fruit--fruit of all kinds, some, such as grapes and peaches, in monster

green-houses, and others--luscious pears, blenheim oranges, golden

pippins, etc.--in rich profusion in the open, the whole encompassed by a

high and solid brick wall, topped with a bed of mortar and broken glass.

The house, which was built, or, rather, faced with split flints, and

edged and buttressed with cut grey stone, had a majestic but gloomy

appearance. Its front, lofty and handsome, was somewhat castellated in

style, two semicircular bows, or half-moons, placed at a suitable

distance from each other, rising from the base to the summit of the

edifice; these were pierced, at every floor, with rows of

stone-mullioned windows, rising to the height of four or five stories.

The flat wall between had larger windows, lighting the great hall,

gallery, and upper apartments. These windows were abundantly ornamented

with stained glass, representing the arms, honours, and alms-deeds of

the Wimpole family.

"The towers, half included in the building, were completely circular

within, and contained the winding stair of the mansion; and whoso

ascended them, when the winter wind was blowing, seemed rising by a

tornado to the clouds. Midway between the towers was a heavy stone

porch, with a Gothic gateway, surmounted by a battlemented parapet, made

gable fashion, the apex of which was garnished by a pair of dolphins,

rampant and antagonistic, whose corkscrew tails seemed contorted by the

last agonies of rage convulsed.

"The porch doors thrown open to receive me, led into a hall, wide,

vaulted and lofty, and decorated here and there with remnants of

tapestry and grim portraits of the Wimpoles. One picture in particular

riveted my attention. Hung in an obscure corner, where the light rarely

penetrated, it represented the head and shoulders of a young man with a

strikingly beautiful face--the features small and regular like those of

a woman--the hair yellow and curly. It was the eyes that struck me

most--they followed me everywhere I went with a persistency that was

positively alarming. There was something in them I had never seen in

canvas eyes before, something deeper and infinitely more intricate than

could be produced by mere paint--something human and yet not human,

friendly and yet not friendly; something baffling, enigmatical,

haunting. I enquired of my deceased relative's aged housekeeper, Mrs.

Grimstone--whom I had retained--whose portrait it was, and she replied

with a scared look, 'Horace, youngest son of Sir Algernon Wimpole, who

died here in 1745.'

"'The face fascinates me,' I said. 'Is there any history attached to

it?'

"'Why, yes, sir!' she responded, her eyes fixed on the floor, 'but the

late master never liked referring to it.'

"'Is it as bad as that?' I said, laughing. 'Tell me!'

"'Well, sir,' she began, 'they do say as how Sir Algernon, who was a

thorough country squire--very fond of hunting and shooting and all sorts

of manly exercises--never liked Mr. Horace, who was delicate and

dandified--what the folk in those days used to style a macaroni. The

climax came when Mr. Horace took up with the Jacobites. Sir Algernon

would have nothing more to do with him then and turned him adrift. One

day there was a great commotion in the neighbourhood, the Government

troops were hunting the place in search of rebels, and who should come

galloping up the avenue with a couple of troopers in hot pursuit but Mr.

Horace. The noise brought out Sir Algernon, and he was so infuriated to

think that his son was the cause of the disturbance, a "disgraceful

young cub," he called him, that despite Mr. Horace's entreaties for

protection, he ran him through with his sword. It was a dreadful thing

for a father to do, and Sir Algernon bitterly repented it. His wife,

who had been devoted to Mr. Horace, left him, and at last, in a fit of

despondency, he hanged himself--out there, on one of the elms lining the

avenue. It is still standing. Ever since then they do say that the wood

is haunted, and that before the death of any member of the family Mr.

Horace is seen galloping along the old carriage drive.'

"'Pleasant,' I grunted. 'And how about the house--is it haunted too?'

"'I daresn't say,' she murmured. 'Some will tell you it is, and some

will tell you it isn't.'

"'In which category are you included?' I asked.

"'Well!' she said 'I have lived here happy and comfortable forty-five

years the day after to-morrow, and that speaks for itself, don't it?'

And with that she hobbled off and showed me the way to the dining-room.

"What a house it was! From the hall proceeded doorways and passages,

more than the ordinary memory could retain. Of these portals, one at

each end conducted to the tower stairs, others, to the reception-rooms

and domestic offices. In the right wing, besides bedrooms galore, was a

lofty and spacious picture gallery; in the left--a chapel; for the

Wimpoles were, formerly, Roman Catholics. The general fittings and

furniture, both of the hall and house in general, were substantial,

venerable and strongly corroborative of what Mrs. Grimstone hinted

at--they suggested ghosts.

"The walls, lined with black oak panels, or dark hangings that fluttered

mysteriously each time the wind blew, were funereal indeed; and so high

and narrow were the windows, that little was to be discerned through

them but cross-barred portions of the sky. One spot in particular

appealed to my nerves--and that, a long, vaulted stone passage leading

from a morning room to the foot of the back staircase. Here the voice

and even the footsteps echoed with a hollow, low response, and often

when I have been hurrying along it--I never dared walk slowly--I have

fancied--and maybe it was more than fancy--I have been pursued.

"Time passed, and from being merely used to my new environments, I grew

to take a pride in them, to love them. I made the acquaintance of

several of my neighbours, those I deemed the most desirable, and on

returning from wintering abroad, brought home a bride, a young Polish

girl, who added lustre to the surroundings, and in no small degree

helped to dissipate the gloom. Indeed, had it not been for the picture

in the hall, and for the twilight shadows and twilight footsteps in the

stone passage, I should soon have ceased to think of ghosts. Ghosts,

forsooth! When all around me vibrated with the sounds of girlish

laughter, and the summer sunshine, sparkling on the golden curls of my

child-wife, saw itself reflected a millionfold in the alluring depths of

her azure eyes. In halcyon days like these who thinks of ghosts and

death?

"And yet! It is in just such times as these that hell is nearest. There

came a night in August when the air was so hot and sultry that I could

scarcely breathe, and unable to bear the atmosphere of the house and

gardens any longer, I sought the coolness of the wood. Olga--my

wife--did not accompany me, as she was suffering from a slight--thank

God, it was only slight--sunstroke. It was close on midnight, and there

was a dead stillness abroad that seemed as if it must be universal--as

if it enveloped the whole of nature. I tried to realize London--to

depict the Strand and Piccadilly, aglow with artificial light and

reverberating with the roll of countless traffic and the tread of

millions of feet.

"I failed. The incongruity of such imaginings here--here amidst

omnipotent silence--rendered such thoughts impossible. A leaf rustled,

and its rustling sounded to my ears like the gentle closing of some

giant door. A twig fell, and I turned sharply round, convinced I should

see a pile of broken debris. I love all trees, but I love them best by

day--to me it seems that night utterly metamorphizes them--brings out in

them a subtler, darker side one would little suspect. Here, in this oak,

for instance, was an example. In the morning one sees in it nought but

quiet dignity, venerable old age, benevolence, and, by reason of the

ample protection its branches afford from the sun, charity and

philanthropy. Its leaves are bright, dainty, pretty; its trunk suggests

nothing but a cosy and soothing retreat for students and lovers. But

now--see how different! These great spreading, gnarled branches are

hands, claws--monstrous and menacing; those leaves no longer bright

remind me of a hearse's plumes; their rustling--of the rustling and

switching of a pall or winding-sheet. The trunk, black, sinuous,

towering, is assuredly no piece of timber, but something pulpy,

something intangible, something antagonistic, mystic, devilish. I turn

from it and shudder. Then my mind reverts to the elm--the elm on which

Sir Algernon hanged himself. I remember it is not more than twenty yards

from where I stand. I stare down at the soil, at the clumps of crested

dog's-tail and stray blades of succulent darnel; I force my attention on

a toadstool, whose soft and lowly head gleams sickly white in the

moonbeams. I glance from it to a sleeping close-capped dandelion, from

it to a thistle, from it again to a late bush vetch, and then,

willy-nilly, to the accursed elm. My God! What a change. It wasn't like

that when I passed it at noon. It was just an ordinary tree then, but

now, now--and what is that--that sinister bundle--suspended from one

of its curling branches? A cold sweat bursts out on me, my knees

tremble, my hair begins to rise on end. Swinging round, I am about to

rush away--blindly rush away--hither, thither, anywhere--anywhere out of

sight of that tree and of all the hideous possibilities it promises to

materialize for me. I have not taken five strides, however, before I am

pulled sharply up by the sounds of horse's hoofs--of hoofs on the hard

gravel, away in the distance. They speedily grow nearer. A horse is

galloping, galloping towards me along the broad carriage drive. Nearer,

nearer and nearer it comes! Who is it? WHAT is it? A deadly nausea

seizes me, I swerve, totter, reel, and am only prevented from falling by

the timely interference of a pine. The concussion with its leviathan

trunk clears my senses. All my faculties become wonderfully and

painfully alert. I would give my very soul if it were not so--if I could

but fall asleep or faint. The sound of the hoofs is very much nearer

now, so near indeed that I may see the man--Heaven grant it may be only

a man after all--any moment. Ah! my heart gives a great sickly jerk.

Something has shot into view. There, not fifty yards from me, where the

road curves, and the break in the foliage overhead admits a great flood

of moonlight. I recognize the "thing" at once; it's not a man, it's

nothing human, it's the picture I know so well and dread so much, the

portrait of Horace Wimpole, that hangs in the main hall--and it's

mounted on a coal-black horse with wildly flying mane and foaming mouth.

On and on they come, thud, thud, thud! The man is not dressed as a

rider, but is wearing the costume in the picture--i.e. that of a

macaroni! A nut! More fit for a lady's seminary than a fine, old English

mansion.

"Something beside me rustles--rustles angrily, and I know, I can feel,

it is the bundle on the branch--the ghastly, groaning, creaking,

croaking caricature of Sir Algernon. The horseman comes up to me--our

eyes meet--I am looking in those of a dead--of a long since dead man--my

blood freezes.

"He flashes past me--thud, thud, thud! A bend in the road, and he

vanishes from sight. But I can still hear him, still hear the mad patter

of his horse's hoofs as they bear him onward, lifeless, fleshless,

weightless, to his ancient home. God pity the souls that know no rest.

"How I got back to the house I hardly know. I believe it was with my

eyes shut, and I am certain I ran all the way.

"About four o'clock the following afternoon I received a cablegram from

Malta. Intuition warned me to prepare for the worst. Its contents were

unpleasantly short and pithy--'Hal drowned at two o'clock this

morning.--Dick.'

"Two years passed--again an August night, hot and oppressive as before,

and again--though surely against my will, my better judgment, if you

like--I visited the wood. Horse's hoofs just the same as before. The

same galloping, the same figure, the same EYES! the same mad,

panic-stricken flight home, and, early in the succeeding afternoon, a

similar cablegram--this time from Sicily. 'Dick died at midnight.

Dysentery.--Andrews.'

"Jack Andrews was Dick's pal--his bosom friend. So once again the

phantom rider had brought its grisly message--played its ghoulish rôle.

My brothers were both dead now, and only Beryl remained. Another year

sped by and the last night in October--a Monday--saw me, impelled by a

fascination I could not resist, once again in the wood. Up to a point

everything happened as before. As the monotonous church clock struck

twelve, from afar came the sound of hoofs. Nearer, nearer, nearer, and

then with startling abruptness the rider shot into view. And now, mixed

with the awful, indescribable terror the figure always conveyed with it,

came a feeling of intense rage and indignation. Should Beryl--Beryl whom

I loved next best to my wife--be torn from me even as Dick and Hal had

been? No! Ten thousand times no! Sooner than that I would risk anything.

A sudden inspiration, coming maybe from the whispering leaves, or from

the elm, or from the mysterious flickering moonbeams, flashed through

me. Could I not intercept the figures, drive them back? By doing so

something told me Beryl might be saved. A terrible struggle at once took

place within me, and it was only after the most desperate efforts that I

at length succeeded in fighting back my terror and flung myself out into

the middle of the drive. No words of mine can describe all I went

through as I stood there anticipating the arrival of the phantoms. At

length they came, right up to me; and as, with frantic resolution, I

screwed up courage to plant myself directly in their path, and stared up

into the rider's eyes, the huge steed halted, gave one shrill neigh, and

turning round, galloped back again, disappearing whither it had

emerged.

"Two days afterwards I received a letter from my brother-in-law.

"'I have been having an awful time,' he wrote. 'My darling Beryl has

been frightfully ill. On Monday night we gave up all hope of her

recovery, but at twelve o'clock, when the doctor bid us prepare for the

end, the most extraordinary thing happened. Turning over in bed, she

distinctly called out your name, and rallied. And now, thank God, she is

completely out of danger. The doctor says it is the most astonishing

recovery he has ever known.'

* * * * *

"That is twenty years ago, and I've not seen the phantom rider since.

Nor do I fancy he will appear again, for when I look into the eyes of

the picture in the hall, they are no longer wandering, but at rest."

* * * * *

Perhaps, one of the most interesting accounts of the phantasm of a horse

in my possession is that recorded by C.E. G----, a friend of my boyhood.

Writing to me from the United States some months ago, he says:

"Knowing how interested you are in all cases of hauntings, and in those

relating to animal ghosts especially, I am sending you an account of an

'experience' that happened to my uncle, Mr. John Dale, about six months

ago. He was returning to his home in Bishopstone, near Helena, Montana,

shortly after dark, and had arrived at a particularly lonely part of the

road where the trees almost meet overhead, when his horse showed signs

of restlessness. It slackened down, halted, shivered, whinnied, and kept

up such a series of antics, that my uncle descended from the trap to see

if anything was wrong with it. He thought that, perhaps, it was going to

have some kind of fit, or an attack of ague, which is not an uncommon

complaint among animals in his part of the country, and he was preparing

to give it a dose of quinine, when suddenly it reared up violently, and

before he could stop it, was careering along the road at lightning

speed. My uncle was now in a pretty mess. He was stranded in a forest

without a lantern, ten miles, at least, from home. Feeling too depressed

to do anything, he sat down by the roadside, and seriously thought of

remaining there till daybreak. A twinge of rheumatism, however, reminded

him the ground was little warmer than ice, and made him realize that

lying on it would be courting death. Consequently, he got up, and

setting his lips grimly, struck out in the direction of Bishopstone. At

every step he took the track grew darker. Shadows of trees and

countless other things, for which he could see no counterpart, crept out

and rendered it almost impossible for him to tell where to tread. A

peculiar, indefinable dread also began to make itself felt, and the

darkness seemed to him to assume an entirely new character. He plodded

on, breaking into a jog-trot every now and then, and whistling by way of

companionship. The stillness was sepulchral--he strained his ears, but

could not even catch the sound of those tiny animals that are usually

heard in the thickets and furze-bushes at night; and all his movements

were exaggerated, until their echoes seemed to reverberate through the

whole forest. A turn of the road brought him into view of something that

made his heart throb with delight. Standing by the wayside was an

enormous coach with four huge horses pawing the ground impatiently. My

uncle rushed up to the driver, who was so enveloped in wraps, he could

not see his face, and in a voice trembling with emotion begged for the

favour of a lift--if not to Helena itself, as far in that direction as

the coach was going. The driver made no reply, but with his hand

motioned my uncle to get in. The latter did not need a second bidding,

and the moment he was seated, the vehicle started off. It was a large,

roomy conveyance, but had a stifling atmosphere about it that struck my

uncle as most unpleasant; and although he could see no one, he

intuitively felt he was not alone, and that more than one pair of eyes

were watching him.

"The coach did not go as fast as my uncle expected, but moved with a

curious gliding motion, and the wheels made no noise whatever. This

added to my uncle's apprehensions, and he almost made up his mind to

open the carriage door and jump out. Something, however, which he could

not account for restrained him, and he maintained his seat. Outside, all

was still profoundly dark. The trees were scarcely distinguishable as

deeper masses of shadow, and were recognizable only by the resinous

odour, that, from time to time, sluggishly flowed in at the open window

as the coach rolled on.

"At length they overtook some other vehicle, and for the first time for

some hours my uncle heard the sound of solid wheels, which were as

welcome to him as any joy bells. Just as they were passing the

conveyance--a small wagonette drawn by a pair of horses, the latter took

fright; there were loud shouts and a great stampede, and my uncle, who

leaned out of the coach window, caught a glimpse of the vehicle dashing

along ahead of them at a frightful speed. The driver of the coach,

apparently totally unconcerned, continued his journey at the same

regular, mechanical pace.

"Presently my uncle heard the sound of rushing water, and knew they must

be nearing the Usk, a tributary of the Battle, which was only five miles

from his house.

"The forest now ceased, and they crossed the road over the bridge in a

brilliant burst of moonlight. About a mile or so further on the coach

halted, and, to my uncle's surprise, he found himself in front of a

house he had no recollection of seeing before. He got out, and to his

horror saw that instead of riding in a coach he had been riding in a

hearse, and that the horses had on their heads gigantic sable plumes.

"While he was standing gazing at the extraordinary equipage, the door of

the house slowly opened, and two figures came out carrying a small

coffin, which they placed inside the vehicle. He then heard loud peals

of mad, hilarious laughter, and coach and horses immediately vanished.

My uncle arrived home safely, but the shock of what he had experienced

kept him in bed for some days. He learned that a phantom coach similar

to the one he had ridden in had been seen in the forest twenty years

previously, and that it was supposed to be a prognostication of some

great misfortune, which supposition, in my uncle's case at least, proved

true, as his wife died of apoplexy a few days after this adventure."

Yet another case of haunting by the phantasms of a horse comes to me

from a gentleman in Marseilles, who told it me thus:--

"It was 9 p.m. when I left my friend Maitland's hotel in Châteauborne,

and, facing north, set out on my way to Liffre, where my headquarters

had been for the past fortnight. Liffre is in the hills, and the road

which separated it from Châteauborne, wild and lonely enough in daylight

and when the weather is fair, is almost untraversable in winter. The

night in question was Christmas Eve; the snow had fallen heavily during

the day, and with the wind blowing in icy draughts from the north-east,

there was every prospect of another downfall. Maitland pressed me to

stay in his hotel. 'It is sheer folly,' he said, 'for you to attempt to

get home in weather like this. It is pitch dark, you are not familiar

with the route, and if you don't wander off the track and tumble over a

precipice, you will walk into a snowdrift. Be sensible--sleep here!'

"Much, however, as I should have liked to follow his counsel, I did not

feel justified in doing so, as I had a lot of correspondence to attend

to, and I realized it was most necessary for me to get back to Liffre

without any further delay.

"It was true the night was inky black; but, with the aid of a lamp, I

hadn't the slightest doubt I could find my way. Maitland bartered for a

candle lantern with his host, and armed with this, a flagon of brandy

and water and a thick stick, I said good-bye to Châteauborne.

"A couple of hundred yards saw me beyond the outskirts of the town,

wherein I was the sole pedestrian, and silence reigned supreme. On and

on I plodded, the feeble, yellow light of my lantern just preventing

me--but only just--from wandering from the track. The road, which for

the first mile or so was tolerably level, gradually began to rise, and,

as it did so, I noticed for the first time indistinct images of

gigantic, naked trees that becoming more and more numerous, and closer

and closer together, at length united their long and grotesquely shaped

branches overhead, and I found myself in the depths of a vast forest.

The snow, which had up to the present held off, now recommenced to fall,

and presently the wind, which had for some time been slowly acquiring

strength, came howling through the trees with the utmost fury, the first

blast swishing the lantern out of my hands and hurling me with

considerable force into an undergrowth of thorns and brambles, out of

which I extricated myself with no little difficulty.

"I was now in the sorriest of plights--enveloped on all sides in Stygian

darkness I was unable to discover my lantern, and was thus totally at

the mercy of the ruthless elements. There were only two courses before

me--either I must remain where I was and be frozen to death, or, making

a guess at the route, I must push on ahead and run the risk of ending my

life at the bottom of a ravine. I chose the latter. Groping about with

my feet, until I at length discovered what I thought must be the right

track, I pushed ahead, and, staggering and stumbling forward, managed to

make some sort of progress, terribly slow though it was. The blinding

darkness of the snowy night, the intense silence and utter solitude of

the place, combined with the knowledge that on all sides of me lay holes

and chasms, dampened my spirits and raised strange phantoms in my

imagination. The wind now rose, and the dismal sighing of the trees

speedily grew into a series of the most perturbing screeches, as the

branches and trunks swayed to and fro like reeds before the violence of

the hurricane.

"At this juncture I gave myself up for lost, and, coming to a standstill

up to my knees in snow, was preparing to lie down and die, when, to my

great joy, a light suddenly appeared ahead of me, and the next moment a

man, mounted on a big white horse, rode noiselessly up to me. He was

wrapped in a shaggy great-coat, and a slouch hat worn low over his eyes

completely hid his face from me. In his disengaged hand he carried a

lantern.

"'By Jove!' I exclaimed, 'I am glad to see you, for I've lost the track

to Liffre. Can you tell me, or, better still, show me, the way to some

house where I can put up for the remainder of the night?'

"The stranger made no reply, but bidding me follow with a wave of his

hand, rode silently in front of me, and although I tried to keep up with

him, I could not; and the odd thing was, that without apparently

increasing his pace, he always maintained his distance. After proceeding

in this manner for possibly ten minutes, we suddenly turned to the left,

and I found myself in a big clearing in the wood, with a long, low-built

house opposite me.

"My guide then paused, and indicating the front door of the house with

an emphatic gesture of his hand, seemed suddenly to melt away into thin

air, for although I peered about me on all sides to try to find some

indications of him, neither he nor his horse was anywhere to be seen.

Thinking this was rather queer, but quite ready to attribute it to

natural causes, I approached the building, and, making use of my

knuckles in lieu of a knocker, beat a loud tattoo on the woodwork. There

was no response. Again I rapped, and the door slowly opening revealed a

pair of gleaming, dark eyes. 'What do you want?' enquired a harsh voice

in barbarous accents. 'A night's lodging,' I replied; 'and I'm willing

to pay a good price for it, for I'm more than half frozen.'

"At this the door opened wider, and I found myself confronted by a woman

with a candle. She had not the most prepossessing of expressions, though

her hair, eyes and features were decidedly good. She was dressed with

tawdry smartness--earrings, necklace, and rings, and very high-heeled

buckle shoes. Indeed, her costume was so out of keeping with the

rusticity of her surroundings as to be quite extraordinary. This fact

struck me at once, as did her fingers, which, though spatulate and ugly,

had been manicured, and of course very much over-manicured, for effect.

Had this not been the case, I probably should not have noticed them. But

the unnatural gloss on them, exaggerated by the candlelight, made me

look, and I was at once impressed with the criminal formation of the

fingers--the club-shaped ends denoted something very bad--something

homicidal--and as my eyes wandered from the hands to the face, I saw

with a thrill of horror that the ears were set low down and far back on

the head, and that the eyes gleamed with the sinister glitter of the

wolf.

"Still, I must take my chance--the woman or the wood--it had to be one

of the two. 'If you'll step inside, monsieur,' she said, 'I'll see what

can be done for you. We have only recently come here, and the house is

anyhow at present. Still, if you don't mind roughing it a little, we can

let you have a bed, and you can rely upon me that it is clean and

well-aired.' I followed her eagerly, and she led me down a narrow

passage into a big room with a low ceiling, traversed with a ponderous

oak beam, blackened with the smoke of endless peat fires.

"Before the blazing faggots on the hearth sat a burly-looking individual

in a blue blouse. On our arrival he arose, and as his huge form towered

above me, I thought I had never seen anyone quite so hideous, nor so

utterly unlike the orthodox Frenchman. Obeying his injunction--for I can

scarcely call it an invitation--to sit down, I took a seat by the fire,

and warming my half-frozen limbs, waited impatiently whilst the woman

made up my bed and prepared supper.

"The storm had now reached cyclonic dimensions, and under its stupendous

fury the whole house--stoutly built though it was--swayed on its

foundations. The howling of the wind in the rude, old-fashioned chimney

and along the passage, and the frenzied beating of the snow against the

diamond window-panes, deadened all other noises, and rendered any

attempt at conversation absolutely abortive. So I ate my meal in

silence, pretending not to notice the subtle interchange of glances that

constantly took place between the strangely assorted pair. Whether they

were husband and wife, what the man did for a living, were questions

that continually occurred to me, and I found my eyes incessantly

wandering to the numerous packing-cases, piles of carpets, casks and

other articles, which corroborated the woman's statement that they had

but recently 'moved in.' Once I attempted to empty the coffee (which was

black and peculiarly bitter) under the table, but had to desist, as I

saw the man's devilish eyes fixed searchingly on me. I then pushed aside

the cup, and on the woman asking if it was not to my liking, I shouted

out that I was not in the least thirsty. After this incident the covert

looks became more numerous, and my suspicions increased accordingly.

"At the first opportunity I got up, and signalling my intention to go to

bed, was preparing to leave my seat, when my host, walking to a

cupboard, fetched out a bottle of cognac, and pouring out a tumbler,

handed it me with a mien that I dare not refuse.

"The woman then led me up a flight of rickety, wooden steps and into a

sepulchral-looking chamber with no other furniture in it save a long,

narrow, iron bedstead, a dilapidated washstand, a very unsteady, common

deal table, on which was a looking-glass and a collar stud, and a

rush-bottomed chair. Setting the candlestick on the dressing-table, and

assuring me again that the bed was well aired, my hostess withdrew,

observing as she left the room that she would get me a nice breakfast

and call me at seven. At seven! How I wished it was seven now! As I

stood in the midst of the floor shivering--for the room was icy cold, I

suddenly saw a dark shadow emerge from a remote corner of the room and

slide surreptitiously towards the door, where it halted. My eyes then

fell on the lock, and I perceived that there was no key. No key! And

that evil-looking pair below! I must barricade the door somehow. Yet

with what? There was nothing of any weight in the room! Nothing! I began

to feel horribly tired and sleepy--so sleepy that it was only with

supreme effort I could prevent my eyelids closing. Ah! I had it--a

wedge! I had a knife. Of wood there was plenty--a piece off the

washstand, table, or chair. Anything would suffice. I essayed to

struggle to the chair, my limbs tottered, my eyelids closed. Then the

shadow from the doorway moved towards and THROUGH me, and with the

coldness of its passage I revived! With desperate energy I cut a couple

of chunks off the washstand, and paring them down, eventually succeeded

in slipping them in the crack of the door, and rendering it impossible

to open from the outside. That done, I staggered to the bed, and

falling, dressed as I was, on the counterpane, sank into a deep sleep.

How long I slept I cannot say. I suddenly heard the loud neighing of a

horse which seemed to come from just under my window, and, as in a

vision, saw by my side in the bed a something which gradually developed

into the figure of a man, the counterpart of the mysterious being in the

shaggy coat who had guided me to the house. He was fully dressed, sound

asleep and breathing heavily. As I was looking a dark shadow fell across

the sleeper's face, and on glancing up I perceived, to my horror, a

black something crawling on the floor. Nearer and nearer it came, until

it reached the side of the bed, when I immediately recognized the evil,

smirking face of my hostess. In one hand she held a lamp and in the

other a horn-handled knife. Setting the lamp on the floor, she coolly

undid the collar of the sleeping man, and I saw a stud, the counterpart

of the one on the dressing-table, fall on the bare boards with a sharp

tap, and disappear in the surrounding darkness. Then the woman felt the

edge of the knife with her repulsive thumb, and calmly cut the helpless

man's throat. I screamed--and the murderess and her victim instantly

vanished--and I realized I was alone in the room and very much awake.

Whether all that had occurred was a dream, I cannot say with certainty,

though I am inclined to think not.

"For some minutes my heart pulsated painfully, and then as the sound of

its throbbing grew fainter and fainter, I heard a curious noise outside

my room--someone was ascending the stairs. I endeavoured to rise, but

could not--fear, an awful, ungovernable fear, held me spellbound. The

steps paused outside the door, the handle of which was gently turned.

Then there was a suggestive silence, then whispering, then another

turning of the handle, and then--my state of coma abruptly ended, and I

stepped noiselessly out of bed and crept to the window. I was heard.

'Stop him,' the woman cried out, 'he's trying to escape. Use the gun.'

She hurled herself against the door as she spoke, whilst the man tore

downstairs.

"It was now a matter of seconds, the slightest accident, a hesitation,

and I was lost. Swinging open the window, I scrambled on the ledge, and

without the slightest idea of the distance--dropped! There was a brief

rushing through air and I alighted--safe and sound--on the snow.

Blessed snow! Had it not been for the snow I should in all probability

have hurt myself! I alighted not an instant too soon, for hardly had I

touched the ground before my gigantic host came tearing round the angle

of the wall with a lantern in one hand and gun in the other. I

immediately dashed away, and, thanks to the intense darkness of the

morning--for it must have been two o'clock--had no difficulty in evading

my pursuer, who fired twice in rapid succession.

"On and on I went, sometimes falling up to my armpits in the snowdrift,

and sometimes stunning myself against a low-hanging branch of a tree.

With the first rays of sunlight, however, my troubles came to an end.

The snow had ceased falling, and I quickly alighted on a track, which

brought me to a village, whence I obtained a conveyance into Liffre.

"I reported the affair to the local police, and a party of gendarmes at

once set off to arrest the miscreants. But, alas, they had fled. The

house was pulled down, and, on the soil being excavated, a dozen or more

skeletons of men and women--all showing unmistakable signs of foul

play--together with the remains of a horse, were found in various parts

of the premises. The place was a veritable Golgotha. I suppose the

phantom horse and rider had appeared to me with the sole purpose of

making their fate known. If so, they at all events partly achieved their

end, though the mystery surrounding their identity was never solved. All

the remains, both human and animal, were removed elsewhere, and accorded

a decent burial. The site of their original interment, however, is, I

believe, still haunted, and maybe will remain so till the miscreants are

brought to book."

_Brief Summary_

After a little consideration I am inclined to think there are quite as

many authentic cases of hauntings by the phantasms of horses as by the

phantasms of cats and dogs. Innumerable horses die unnatural deaths.

Apart from those killed in war, many,--more particularly, it is true, in

the olden times,--have been murdered in the highways along with their

masters; whilst all but the comparative few, when no longer of use to

their owners, are butchered in the slaughter-house, and subsequently

despatched to the Zoological Gardens, to be eaten by lions and tigers.

So much for Christianity, and for man's gratitude. How much better would

the promoters of the White Slave Traffic Act be employed, if,--instead

of trying to pass a bill which obviously cannot cure the evil it aims

at, but can only, by diverting the course of that evil, drive from

pillar to post thousands of defenceless, albeit erring women,--they were

to labour to secure a peaceful ending for our four-footed toilers, who

work for us all their lives, never strike, never think of a pension for

old age, and never even dream of a vote. Alas! If only our poor horses

could vote, what a different attitude would our pharisaical politicians

at once adopt towards them!

_Phantasms of Living Horses_

From what I have experienced and have been told, I am of the opinion

that horses possess the same faculty of separating their immaterial from

their material bodies, as cats and dogs. I knew a Virginian lady who had

a piebald horse that frequently appeared simultaneously in two places.

She lived in an old country house near Winchfield, and one morning when

she went into the breakfast-room, she was surprised to see the piebald

horse standing on the gravel path, outside the window, looking in at

her. When she called it by name, it immediately melted into fine air.

Going round to the stables she found the horse in its stall, and on

enquiry was informed that it had been there all the time.

The same thing frequently occurred, other members of the household

besides herself witnessing it, and so like, in all its details, was the

immaterial horse to the material, that they were often at a loss to tell

which was which. The phenomenon sometimes occurring when the real horse

was awake, and sometimes when it was asleep, proves that the animal

possessed the faculty of projecting its spiritual ego--astral body, or

whatever you like to call it--both consciously and unconsciously. I know

of many similar instances.

_Horses and the Psychic Faculty of Scent_

Horses, in a rather less degree than cats, and in much the same degree

as dogs, possess the property of scenting the advent and presence of

spirits. On more than one occasion, when I have been riding after dusk,

my horse has suddenly come to an abrupt halt and shown unmistakable

signs of terror. I have not been able to see anything to account for its

conduct, but on subsequent enquiry have learned, either that a tragedy

was actually known to have taken place there, or that the spot had long

borne a reputation for being haunted. And my experiences are the

experiences of countless other people.

Before a death a horse will often neigh repeatedly outside the house of

the doomed person, and not infrequently show evidences of terror in

passing close to it, from which I deduce the horse can at all events

scent the proximity of the phantom of death. Like the dog, however, I

think it only possesses this peculiar psychic property in a limited

degree. It can, for example, readily detect the whereabouts of phantasms

haunting localities, but not so easily those haunting people.

It shows little or no discrimination on sight, between cruel and brutal

people and those who are kind, giving the same amount of passing space

to the one as it does to the other. Yet, on the other hand, I have

watched horses at night, standing in the fields, their heads thrown

back, a transfixed, far-off expression in their eyes, sniffing the

atmosphere--and snuffling it in a manner that strongly suggested to me

they were carrying on, by means of some silent, secret code, a

conversation with some superphysical presence, which they either saw or

scented, very likely both.

Scent, I am convinced, is the medium of conversation, not only between

superphysical animals, but between material animals, and if we ever wish

to converse with spirits we must employ cats, dogs, and horses to teach

us.

_Phantom Coaches_

There are few parts of the British Isles--few countries in Europe--which

have not their phantom coaches. Perhaps the most famous are those that

haunt a road near Newport, South Wales, and an old highway in Devon.

_A Spectre Coach and Horses in Pembrokeshire_

Miss Mary L. Lewes, in an article called "Some More Welsh Ghosts," that

appeared in the _Occult Review_ for December, 1907, writes thus:--

"In common with several other districts in Great Britain and Ireland,

Pembrokeshire possesses a good 'phantom coach' legend, localized in the

southern part of the county, at a place where four roads meet, called

Sampson Cross. In old days the belated farmer driving home in his gig

from market was apt to cast a nervous glance over his shoulder as his

pony slowly climbed the last pitch leading up to the Cross. For

tradition says that every night a certain Lady Z. (who lived in the

seventeenth century, and whose monument is in the church close by)

drives over from Tenby, ten miles distant, in a coach drawn by headless

horses, guided by a headless coachman. She also has no head, and

arriving by midnight at Sampson Cross, the whole equipage is said to

disappear in a flame of fire, with a loud noise of explosion."

Miss Mary L. Lewes goes on to add:--

"A clergyman living in the immediate neighbourhood, who told the writer

the story, said that some people believed the ghostly traveller had been

safely 'laid' many years ago in the waters of the lake not far off. He

added, however that might be, it was an odd fact that his sedate and

elderly cob, when driven home past the Cross after nightfall, would

invariably start as if frightened there, a thing which never happened by

daylight."

What these kinds of spectral horses are no one can say. At the

most--despite what theosophists and occultists may declare to the

contrary--one can only theorize--and the speculations of one person, be

he who he may, seem to me to be of no more consequence than those of

another.

For my own part I am inclined to think that whereas, in some cases, the

ghostly coach horses are the phantoms of horses that were killed on the

highways, in others they are either Vice-Elementals, or Elementals whose

particular function it is to prognosticate death,--either the death of

those who see them, or the death of someone connected with those who see

them.

_A Phantom Horse and Policeman_

According to one of my correspondents, Mr. T---- P----, a comparatively

modern phantom rider has been seen in Canada. Writing to me from C----,

where he lives, he says: "It is stated that this town is periodically

haunted by the phantom of a tall, fair policeman mounted on a white

horse and clothed in the uniform of the 'forties--namely, tail coat,

tight trousers, and tall hat. His 'phantom' beat extends from a gateway

at the commencement of Cod Hill, along the Park side of Pablo Street to

Sutton Street, and Adam Street, down Dane Street, and back, through

Pablo Street, to the gateway on Cod Hill."

A gentleman well known in the art world, who, in order to avoid

publicity, wishes to be designated Mr. Bates, gave me his experience of

the phenomena as follows:--

"Yes, I have seen the ghostly policeman and his milk-white horse. I was

walking along Pablo Street on the Park side, one grey afternoon in

November, with the express intention of meeting a friend at my Club in

Royal Street, when to my surprise, just as I was about a hundred yards

from the gateway on Cod Hill, I was overtaken by a tall, fair-haired

man, riding a white horse. He was so dressed that I stared in

astonishment. He was wearing the costume of seventy or eighty years ago,

and reminded me of the policemen in Cruikshank's illustrations of

Dickens. I was not frightened, because I thought he must be someone

masquerading; and, in my curiosity to see his face, I hastened my steps

to overtake him. I failed; for although he appeared to be riding slowly,

hardly moving at all, I could not draw an inch nearer to him. This made

me think, and I examined him more critically. Then I noticed several

things about him, that, at first, had escaped my notice. They were

these: (one) that although he was mounted he was wearing walking

clothes--he had on long trousers and thick, clumsy boots; (two) that his

ears and neck were perfectly colourless, of an unnatural and startling

white; (three) that despite the incongruity of his attire, no one but

myself seemed to see him. On he rode, neither looking to the left nor to

the right, until he came to Sutton Street, when, without paying the

slightest attention to the traffic, he began to cross over. There were

crowds of vehicles passing at the time, and one of them rushed right on

him. Making sure he would be killed, I uttered an ejaculation of

horror. Judge, then, of my amazement, when, instead of seeing him lying

on the ground, crushed out of all shape, I saw him still riding on, as

leisurely and unconcernedly as if he had been on a country road. THE

VEHICLE HAD PASSED RIGHT THROUGH HIM. Though I had hitherto scoffed at

ghosts, I was now certain I had seen one, and suddenly becoming

conscious how very cold it was, I tore on, not feeling at all

comfortable till I had reached the warm, cheery, and thoroughly material

quarters of my Club."

To corroborate the evidence of "Mr. Bates," I append a narrative given

me verbally by Miss Hartly, who, like Mr. Bates, had, up to the time of

her experience, posed as a pronounced and somewhat bitter sceptic. She

was an emphatic freethinker, and had then no belief whatsoever in a

future life. Now she believes "a sight" more than most people.

"One afternoon, in February, 1911," she stated, "just as twilight was

commencing, I left the Park, where I had been exercising my dog, and

turning into Pablo Street, made for Bright Street. At the corner of Wolf

Street I saw something so strange that I involuntarily halted. Riding

slowly along on a big white horse, a few paces ahead of me, was an

enormous policeman in the quaint attire of the 'forties--top hat, tail

coat, tight trousers, just as I had so often seen portrayed in old

books. He was riding stiffly, as if unaccustomed to the saddle, and kept

looking rigidly in front of him. Thinking it was someone doing it either

for a joke or a wager, I was greatly tickled, and kept saying to myself,

'Well, you are a sport, an A1 sport.' I tried to catch him up, to see

how he made up his face, but could not, for although the horse never

seemed to quicken its pace--a mere crawl--and I ran, it nevertheless

maintained precisely the same distance in front of me. When we had

progressed in this fashion some hundred or so yards, I perceived a City

policeman advancing towards us.

"'Come, now,' I said to myself, 'we shall see some fun--the 1911 copper

meeting the peeler of 1840. I wonder what he will think of him.'

"To my intense astonishment, however, neither even as much as gave the

other a fleeting glance, but passed by unmoved, and, to all appearance,

wholly unconscious of each other.

"A few yards further, I espied a negro looking intently in a store

window. Just as the strange policeman came up to him, he gave a violent

start, turned round and stared at him, gasped, his cheeks ashy pale, his

eyes bulging, made some exclamation I could not catch, and, dashing past

me, fled. Then, and not till then, did I begin to feel funny. Further

on still we came to a crossing. A carriage and pair with a coronet on

the panels of the door was standing waiting. Directly the policeman

approached, both the horses reared so violently, they all but threw the

coachman off the box. One of the men cried out, 'Heavens, Bill, what's

that?' But the other and older of the two, who was clinging to the reins

with all his might, merely swore.

"Convinced now that I was on the trail of something not human--something

in all probability superphysical, and, impelled by a fascination I could

not resist, I followed.

"At the top of Wolf Street the policeman paused, then crossing slowly

over, turned into Dane Street, down which he continued to ride with the

same mechanical and automatic tread. At length, when within a few feet

of a certain shop, over which is a flat that has long borne a reputation

for being haunted, the horse came to a dead halt, and horse and rider,

veering slowly round, looked at me. What I saw I shall never forget. I

saw the faces of the DEAD--the LONG SINCE dead. For some moments they

confronted me, and then--vanished, vanished where they stood. I saw them

again, under precisely the same conditions, two days later, and I have

seen them once since. I am not an imaginative or highly-strung person,

but am, on the contrary, exceedingly practical and matter-of-fact, no

better proof of which I can give than this fact--I am engaged to be

married to a Quebec solicitor!"

_An Irish Haunting_

Mr. Reginald B. Span, in a most interesting article called "Some

Glimpses of the Unseen," that appeared in the _Occult Review_ for

February, 1906, writes as follows:--

"Another strange incident, which also occurred in Ireland, was told me

by a coachman in my cousin's employ at Kilpeacon, near Limerick. This

man had previously been a park-keeper to Lord Doneraile in Co. Cork. One

bright moonlight night, he was coming across Lord Doneraile's park,

having been round to see that the gates were shut, when his attention

was drawn to the distant baying of hounds, and he stopped to listen, as

the sounds seemed to proceed from within the park walls, and he knew

there were no hounds kept on the estate. His young son was with him, and

also heard the noise, which was getting louder and clearer, and was

evidently moving rapidly in their direction. His first idea was that a

pack of hounds which were kept in the hunting kennels a few miles away,

had escaped and had somehow got into the park, although he had seen that

the gates were closed, and there was really no way by which they could

have entered. The baying of hounds, as if in 'full cry,' sounded closer

and closer, and suddenly, out of the shadow of some trees, a number of

foxhounds, running at full speed, appeared in the clear light of the

moon. They raced past the amazed spectators (a whole pack of them),

followed closely by an elderly man on a large horse. Although they came

very near, no sound could be heard but the baying of one or two of the

hounds. The galloping of the horse was not heard at all. They swung

across the grass at a tremendous pace, and were lost to view round the

end of a plantation. The park-keeper knew that all the gates were shut,

and that it would be impossible for a pack of hounds to pass out, and he

thought the mystery might be solved the next day. However, it never was

explained--by any natural cause. No hounds or horseman had been in the

park. The mansion was closed, Lord Doneraile being away, and no one had

the right of entering the grounds within the park walls. He heard later

that there was a story in the neighbourhood about 'the ghost' of a

former Lord Doneraile 'haunting' the park--and possibly the spectral

horseman was he. I questioned the man and his son closely about it, and

am convinced they were not deceived by hallucination, and that their

account is perfectly true."

To this account Mr. Span adds this note:--

"The apparition of hounds and huntsman was witnessed on an estate

belonging to Lord Doneraile, in the South of Ireland (Doneraile Park);

the man who told me the incident was coachman in the service of my

cousin, near Limerick. His young son confirmed his father's account, as

he also saw it.

"Yours faithfully,

"REGINALD B. SPAN."

To throw additional light on the matter Mr. Ralph Shirley, editor of the

_Occult Review_, published the following letter, written to him by Lord

Doneraile:--

"DEAR SHIRLEY,

"It is rather a curious thing that neither Lady Castletown nor Lady

Doneraile has ever heard of the story of the moonlight vision of Lord

Doneraile and the pack of hounds. However, there is a man at Doneraile

called Jones, a chemist, who is a most enthusiastic antiquarian and a

dabbler in the occult sciences, and he takes the greatest interest in

all that concerns the St. Legers. Lady Castletown wrote to him, and the

reply comes from his brother (I suppose he is away), and that I send

you.

"Lady Doneraile says it must refer to the third Lord Doneraile of the

first creation, who was killed in a duel afterwards; and there appear to

be a lot of stories which Jones has ferreted out or been told. Of

course, I don't know how far you could say Jones was authentic. All I

can say is that he believes the things himself.

"Yours sincerely,

"DONERAILE."

"_Dec. 27, 1905._"

"I should explain," adds Mr. Shirley, "that Lady Castletown is daughter

to the late Lord Doneraile, and present owner of Doneraile House. Here

follows the enclosure, i.e. the extract made by Walter A. Jones,

Doneraile, from his MS. notes on the Legends of Peasantry in connection

with Doneraile branch of the St. Leger family. Dated December 21, 1905.

"I have heard," so it runs, "the following story respecting the Lord

Doneraile, who pursues the chase from Ballydineen through Gloun-na-goth

Wilkinson's Lawn, through Byblox, across the ford of Shanagh aha

Keel-ahboobleen into Waskin's Glen into the old Deer Park at Old Court,

thence into the Horse Close, and from thence into the park. He appears

to take particular delight in Wilkinson's Lawn according to tradition,

for it was there that the noble stag was lost sight of, and of course it

was there he was most searched for. It was only last autumn that two

gentlemen were going to a fair, as I heard, and leading a very fine

horse behind the trap. The night being fine and moonlight, they stopped

at the iron gate there to light their pipes, when a gentleman dressed in

old style, with buckskin leggings, walked through the iron gate, though

closed, and patted the led horse on the neck. They both agreed that he

was most like to gentlemen of the St. Leger family whom they had known.

The Radiant Boy also appears here, and for years in the early part of

last century no one would pass there after nightfall. The Lord

Doneraile, who is believed by the peasantry to stand under Lord

Doneraile's Oak, it has been told me positively, was third Viscount.

"There is an old man called Reardon here now who saw a gentleman riding

a powerful black horse along Lord Doneraile's route in the middle of the

day, and his sister who was with him failed to see the horseman, though

her brother had to pull her out of his way.

"I went up to Saffron Hill last winter to see the ostrich-like ghost

which is there, and I heard a great sweep as of hounds and horses going

past me. Paddy Shea, late herd to Lord Doneraile, also would swear he

saw the phantom Lord Doneraile pursuing the chase often. I have heard

that James Mullaine also saw him in Wilkinson's Lawn, but have not any

further proof.

"It is very few people will admit having seen these things. George

Buckley, present keeper of the Doneraile Park, got a great fright one

night which might have been from the same cause."

In this case it seems more than likely the huntsman, horse and hounds

were all _bona fide_ phantasms of the dead.

_Wild Darrell_

Littlecote, as everyone knows, is haunted by the spirits of the

notorious "Wild Will Darrell" and the horse he invariably rode, and

which eventually broke his neck.

But there are many Wild Darrells; all Europe is overrun by them. They

nightly tear, on their phantom horses, over the German and Norwegian

forests and moor-lands that echo and re-echo with their hoarse shouts

and the mournful baying of their grisly hounds.

Many travellers in Russia and Germany journeying through the forests at

night have caught the sound of wails,--of moans that, starting from the

far distance, have gradually come nearer and nearer. Then they have

heard the winding of a horn, the shouting and cursing of the huntsman,

and in a biting cold wind have seen the whole cavalcade sweep by.

According to various authorities on the subject this spectral chase goes

by different names. In Thuringia and elsewhere, it is "Hakelnberg" or

"Hackelnbarend,"--the story being that Hakelnberg, a German knight, who

had devoted his whole life to the chase, on his death-bed had told the

officiating priest that he cared not a jot for heaven, but only for

hunting; the priest losing patience and exclaiming, "Then hunt till

Doomsday."

So, in all weathers, in snow and ice, Hakelnberg, his horse and hounds,

are seen careering after imaginary game.

There are similar stories current in the Netherlands, Denmark, Russia,

and practically all over Europe, and not only Europe, but in many of the

states and departments of the New World. This being so, I think there

must be a substantial substratum of truth underlying the beliefs,

phantastic as they may appear, and yet, are no more phantastic than many

of the stories we are asked to give absolute credence to in the Bible.

In Old Castile the spirit of a Moorish leader who won many victories

over the Spaniards, and was drowned by reason of his heavy armour in a

swamp of the River Duero, still haunts his burial-place, a piece of

marshy ground, near Burgos. There, weird noises, such as the winding of

a huntsman's horn and the neighing of a horse, are heard, and the

phantasm of the dead Moor is seen mounted on a white horse followed by

twelve huge, black hounds.

In Sweden many of the peasants say, when a noise like that of a coach

and horses is heard rumbling past in the dead of night, "It is the White

Rider," whilst in Norway they say of the same sounds, "It is the hunt of

the Devil and his four horses." In Saxony the rider is believed to be

Barbarossa, the celebrated hero of olden days. Near Fontainebleau, Hugh

Capet is stated to ride a gigantic sable horse to the palace, where he

hunted before the assassination of Henry IV; and in the Landes the rider

is thought to be Judas Iscariot. In other parts of France the wild

huntsman is known as Harlequin or Henequin, and in some parts of

Brittany he is "Herod in pursuit of the Holy Innocents." (Alas, that no

such Herod visits London! How welcome would he be, were he only to flout

a few of the brawling brats who, allowed to go anywhere they please,

make an inferno of every road they choose to play in.)

Here my notes on horses end; and although the evidence I have offered

may have failed to convince many, I myself am fully satisfied that these

noble and indispensable animals do not terminate their existence in this

world, but pass on to another, and, let us all sincerely hope, far

happier, plane.