DEVIL COMPACTS.
MEPHISTOPHELES.--I will bind myself to your service here,
and never sleep nor slumber at your call. When we meet
on the other side, you shall do as much for me.
GOETHE'S "_Faust_."
The well-known story of Faust reminds us of the many similar weird
tales which have long held a prominent place in family traditions. But
in the majority of cases the devil is cheated out of his bargain by
some spell against which his influence is powerless. According to the
popular notion, compacts are frequently made with the devil, by which
he is bound to complete, for instance, a building--as a house, a
church, a bridge, or the like--within a certain period; but, through
some artifice, by which the soul of the person for whom he is doing
the work is saved, the completion of the undertaking is prevented:
Thus the cock is made to crow, because, like all spirits that shun the
light of the sun, the devil loses his power at break of day. The idea
of bartering the soul for temporary gain has not been confined to any
country, but as an article of terrible superstition has been
widespread. Mr Lecky has pointed out how, in the fourteenth century,
"the bas-reliefs on cathedrals frequently represent men kneeling down
before the devil, and devoting themselves to him as his servants." In
our own country, such compacts were generally made at midnight in some
lonely churchyard, or amid the ruins of some castle. But fortunately
for mankind, by resorting to spells and counterspells the binding
effects of these "devil-bonds" as they have been termed were, in most
cases, rendered ineffectual, the devil thereby losing the advantage.
It is noteworthy that the wisdom of the serpent is frequently
outwitted by a crafty woman, or a cunning priest. A well-known
Lancashire tradition gives a humorous account of how the devil was on
one occasion deluded by the shrewdness of a clever woman. Barely three
miles from Clitheroe, on the high road to Gisburne, stood a public
house with this title, "The Dule upo' Dun," which means "The Devil
upon Dun" (horse). The story runs that a poor tailor sold himself to
Satan for seven years on his granting him certain wishes, after which
term, according to the contract, signed, as is customary, with the
victim's own blood, his soul was to become "the devil's own." When the
fatal day arrived, on the advice of his wife, he consulted "the holy
father of Salley" in his extremity. At last the hour came when the
Evil One claimed his victim, who tremblingly contended that the
contract was won from him by fraud and dishonest pretences, and had
not been fulfilled. He even ventured to hint at his lack of power to
bestow riches, or any great gift, on which Satan was goaded into
granting him another wish. "Then," said the trembling tailor, "I wish
thou wert riding back again to thy quarters on yonder dun horse, and
never able to plague me again, or any other poor wretch whom thou has
gotten into thy clutches!"
The words were no sooner uttered than the devil, with a roar which was
heard as far as Colne, went away rivetted to the back of this dun
horse, the tailor watching his departure almost beside himself for
joy. He lived for many years in health and affluence, and, at his
death, one of his relatives having bought the house where he resided,
turned it into an inn, having for his sign, "The Dule upo' Dun." On it
was depicted "Old Hornie" mounted on a scraggy dun horse, without
saddle or bridle, "the terrified steed being off and away at full
gallop from the door, while a small hilarious tailor with shears and
measures," viewed his departure with anything but grief or
disapprobation.[34] The authors of "Lancashire Legends," describing
this old house, inform us that it was "one of those ancient gabled
black and white edifices, now fast disappearing under the march of
improvement. Many windows of little lozenge-shaped panes set in lead,
might be seen here in all the various stages of renovation and decay.
Over the door, till lately, swung the old and quaint sign, attesting
the truth of the tradition."
Occasionally similar bargains have been rendered ineffectual by
cunning device. In the north wall of the church of Tremeirchion, North
Wales, has long been shown the tomb of a former vicar, who was also
celebrated as a necromancer, flourishing in the middle of the
fourteenth century. It is reported that he proved himself more clever
than the Wicked One himself. A bargain was made between them that the
vicar should practise the black art with impunity during his life, but
that the devil should possess his body after death, whether he were
buried within or without the church. But the worthy vicar dexterously
cheated his ally of his bargain by being buried within the church wall
itself. A similar tradition is told of other localities, and amongst
them of Barn Hall, in the parish of Tolleshunt Knights, on the border
of the Essex marshes. In the middle of a field is shown an enclosed
uncultivated spot, where, the legend says, it was originally intended
to erect the hall, had not the devil come by night and destroyed the
work of the day. This kind of thing went on for some time, when it was
arranged that a knight, attended by two dogs, should watch for the
author of this mischief. He had not long to wait, for, in the quiet of
the night, the Prince of Darkness made his appearance, bent on his
mischievous errand. A tussle ensued, in the course of which,
snatching up a beam from the building, he hurled it to the site of the
present hall, exclaiming:
"Wheresoe'er this beam shall fall,
There shall stand Barn Hall."
But the devil, very angry at being thus foiled by the knight, vowed
that he would have him at his death, whether he was buried in the
church or out of it. "But this doom was averted by burying him in the
wall--half in and half out of the church. At Brent Pelham Church,
Herts, too, there is the tomb of one Piers Shonkes, and there is a
tale current in the neighbourhood that the devil swore he would have
him, no matter whether buried within or without the church. So, as a
means of escape, he was built up in the wall of the sacred edifice."
Another extraordinary story has long been told of Hermitage Castle,
one of the most famous of the Border Keeps in the days of its
splendour. It is not surprising, therefore, that for many years past
it has had the reputation of being haunted, having been described
as:--
"Haunted Hermitage,
Where long by spells mysterious bound,
They pace their round with lifeless smile,
And shake with restless foot the guilty pile,
Till sink the smouldering towers beneath the burdened ground."
It is popularly said that Lord Soulis, "the evil hero of Hermitage,"
in an unguarded moment made a compact with the devil, who appeared to
him in the shape of a spirit wearing a red cap, which gained its hue
from the blood of human victims in which it was steeped. Lord Soulis
sold himself to the demon, and in return he was permitted to summon
his familiar, whenever he was desirous of doing so, by rapping thrice
on an iron chest, the condition being that he never looked in the
direction of the spirit. But one day, whether wittingly or not has
never been ascertained, he failed to comply with this stipulation, and
his doom was sealed. But even then the foul fiend kept the letter of
the compact. Lord Soulis was protected by an unholy charm against any
injury from rope or steel; hence cords could not bind him, and steel
could not slay him. But when at last he was delivered over to his
enemies, it was found necessary to adopt the ingenious and effective
expedient of rolling him up in a sheet of lead, and boiling him to
death, and so:
On a circle of stones they placed the pot,
On a circle of stones but barely nine;
They heated it red and fiery hot
And the burnished brass did glimmer and shine.
They rolled him up in a sheet of lead--
A sheet of lead for a funeral pall;
They plunged him into the cauldron red
And melted him, body, lead, bones and all.
This was the terrible end of the body of Lord Soulis, but his spirit
is supposed to still linger on the scene. And once every seven years
he keeps tryst with Red Cap on the scene of his former devilries.
And still when seven years are o'er
Is heard the jarring sound
When hollow opes the charmèd door
Of chamber underground.
A tradition well-known in Yorkshire relates how on the Eagle's Crag,
otherwise nicknamed the "Witches' Horseblock," the Lady of Bernshaw
Tower made that strange compact with the devil, whereby she not only
became mistress of the country around, but the dreaded queen of the
Lancashire witches. It seems that this Lady Sybil was possessed of
almost unrivalled beauty, and scarcely a day passed without some fresh
admirer seeking her hand--an additional attraction being her great
wealth. Her intellectual attainments, too, were commonly said to be
far beyond those of her sex, and oftentimes she would visit the
Eagle's Crag in order to study nature and admire the varied aspects of
the surrounding country.
[Illustration: LADY SYBIL AT THE EAGLES' CRAG.]
It was on these occasions that Lady Sybil often felt a strong desire
to possess supernatural powers; and, in an unwary moment, it is said
that she was induced to sell her soul to the devil, in order that she
might be able to take a part in the nightly revelries of the then
famous Lancashire witches. It is added that the bond was duly attested
with her blood, and that in consequence of this compact her utmost
wishes were at all times granted. Hapton Tower was, at this time,
occupied by a junior branch of the Towneley family, and, although Lord
William had long been a suitor for the hand of Lady Sybil, his
proposals were constantly rejected. In his despair, he determined to
consult a famous Lancashire witch--one Mother Helston--who promised
him success on the ensuing All Hallows' Eve. When the day arrived, in
accordance with her directions, he went out hunting, and on nearing
Eagle's Crag he started a milk-white doe, but, after scouring the
country for miles--the hounds being well-nigh exhausted--he returned
to the Crag. At this crisis, a strange hound joined them--the familiar
of Mother Helston, which had been sent to capture Lady Sibyl, who had
assumed the disguise of the white doe. The remainder of the curious
family legend, as told by Mr. Harland, is briefly this: During the
night, Hapton Tower was shaken as by an earthquake, and in the morning
the captured doe appeared as the fair heiress of Bernshaw. Counter
spells were adopted, her powers of witchcraft were suspended, and
before many days had passed Lord William had the happiness to lead his
newly-wedded bride to his ancestral home. But within a year she had
renewed her diabolical practices, causing a serious breach between her
husband and herself. Happily a reconciliation was eventually effected,
but her bodily strength gave way, and her health rapidly declined.
When it became evident that the hour of her death was drawing near,
Lord William obtained the services of the neighbouring clergy, and by
their holy offices the devil's bond was cancelled. Soon afterwards,
Lady Sybil died in peace, but Bernshaw Tower was from that time
deserted. Popular tradition, however, still alleges that her grave was
dug where the dark Eagle's Crag shoots out its cold, bare peak into
the sky, and on the eve of All Hallows, the hound and the milk-white
doe are supposed by the peasantry to meet on the Crag, pursued by a
spectre huntsman in full chase. It is further added that the belated
peasant crosses himself at the sound, remembering the sad fate of Lady
Sybil of Bernshaw Tower.
It is curious to find no less a person than Sir Francis Drake charged
with having been befriended by the devil; and the many marvellous
stories current respecting him still linger among the Devonshire
peasantry. By the aid of the devil, it is said, he was enabled to
destroy the Spanish Armada. And his connection with the old Abbey of
Buckland is equally singular. An extensive building attached to the
abbey, for instance, which was no doubt used as barns and stables
after the place had been deprived of its religious character, was
reported to have been built by the devil in three nights. "After the
first night," writes Mr. Hunt,[35] "the butler, astonished at the work
done, resolved to watch and see how it was performed. Consequently,
on the second night, he mounted into a large tree and hid himself
between the forks of its five branches. At midnight, so the story
goes, the devil came, driving teams of oxen, and, as some of them were
lazy, he plucked this tree from the ground and used it as a goad. The
poor butler lost his senses and never recovered them." Although, as it
has been truly remarked, "on the waters that wash the shores of the
county of Devon were achieved many of those triumphs which make Sir
Francis Drake's life read more like a romance than a sober chronicle
of facts;" the extraordinary traditions told respecting him have
largely invested his life with the supernatural. But, whatever may
have been the nature of his dealings with the devil, we are told that
he has had to pay dearly for any earthly advantages he may have
derived therefrom in his lifetime, "being forced to drive at night a
black hearse, drawn by headless horses, and urged on by running devils
and yelping headless dogs, along the road from Tavistock to Plymouth."
Among the many tales related, in which the demoniacal element holds a
prominent place, there is one relating to the projected marriage of
his wife. It seems that Sir Francis was abroad, and his wife, not
hearing from him for seven years, concluded he must be dead, and hence
was at liberty to enter for a second time the holy estate of
matrimony. Her choice was made and the nuptial day fixed; but Sir
Francis Drake was informed of all this by a spirit that attended him.
And just as the wedding was about to be solemnised, he hastily charged
one of his big guns and discharged a ball. So true was the aim that
"the ball shot up right through the globe, dashed through the roof of
the church, and fell with a loud explosion between the lady and her
intended bridegroom." The spectators and assembled guests were thrown
into the wildest confusion; but the bride declared it was an
indication that Sir Francis Drake was still alive, and, as she refused
to allow another golden circlet to be placed on her finger, the
intended ceremony was, in the most abrupt and unexpected manner,
ended. The prettiest part of the tale remains to be told. Not long
afterwards Sir Francis Drake returned, and, disguised as a beggar, he
solicited alms from his wife at her own door; when, unable to prevent
smiling in the midst of a feigned tale of abject poverty, she
recognised him, and a very joyful meeting took place.
And even Buckland Abbey did not escape certain strange influences.
Some years ago, a small box was found in a closet which had been long
closed, containing, it is supposed, family papers. It was arranged
that this box should be sent to the residence of the inheritor of the
property. The carriage was at the abbey door, into which it was easily
lifted. The owner having taken his seat, the coachman attempted to
start his horses, but in vain. They would not, they could not, move.
More horses were brought and then the heavy farm horses, and
eventually all the oxen. They were powerless to start the carriage. At
length a mysterious voice was heard declaring that the box could never
be moved from Buckland Abbey. Accordingly it was taken from the
carriage easily by one man, and a pair of horses galloped off with the
carriage.
The famous Jewish banker, Samuel Bernard, who died in the year 1789,
leaving an enormous property, had, it is said, "a favourite black cock
which was regarded by many as uncanny, and as unpleasantly connected
with the amassing of his fortune." The bird died a day or two before
his master. It would seem that in bygone years black cocks were
extensively used in magical incantations and in sacrifices to the
devil, and Burns, it may be remembered, in his "Address to the Deil"
says, "Some cock or cat your rage must stop;" and a well-known French
recipe for invoking the Evil One runs thus: "Take a black cock under
your left arm, and go at midnight to where four cross roads meet. Then
cry three times 'Poul Noir!' or else utter 'Robert' nine times, and
the devil will appear."
Among the romantic stories told of Kersal Hall, Lancashire, it is
related how Eustace Dauntesey, one of its chiefs in days of old, wooed
a maiden fair with a handsome fortune; but she gave her heart to a
rival suitor. The wedding day was fixed, but the prospect of her
marriage was a terrible trouble to Eustace, and threatened to mar the
happiness of his life. Having, however, in his youth perfected
himself in the black art, he drew a magic circle, at the witching hour
of night, and summoned the Evil One to a consultation. The meeting
came off, at which the usual bargain was quickly struck, the soul of
Eustace being bartered for the coveted body of the beautiful young
lady. The compact, it was arranged, should close at her death, but the
Evil One was to remain meanwhile by the side of Dauntesey in the form
of an elegant "self," or genteel companion. In due course the eventful
day arrived when Eustace stood before the altar. But the marriage
ceremony was no sooner over than, on leaving the sacred edifice, the
elements were found to be the reverse of favourable to them. The
flowers strewed before their feet stuck to their wet shoes, and
soaking rain cast a highly depressing influence on all the bridal
surroundings; and, on arriving at the festive hall where the marriage
feast was to be held, the ill-fortune of Eustace assumed another
shape. Strange to say, his bride began to melt away before his very
eyes, and, thoroughly familiar as he was with the laws of magic, here
was a new phase of mystery which was completely beyond his
comprehension. In short, poor Eustace was the wretched victim of a
complete swindle, for while, on the one hand, something is recorded
about "a holy prayer, a sunny beam, and an angel train bearing the
fair maiden slowly to a fleecy cloud, in whose bosom she became lost
to earth," Dauntesey, on the other hand, awakened to consciousness by
a touch from his sinister companion, saw a huge yawning gulf at his
feet, and felt himself gradually sinking in a direction exactly the
opposite of that taken by his bride, who, in the short space of an
hour, was lost to him for ever.
But one of the most curious cases of this kind was that recorded in an
old tractate[36] published in 1662, giving an account attested by "six
of the sufficientest men of the town," of what happened to a certain
John Leech, a farmer living at Raveley. Being desirous of visiting
Whittlesea fair, he went beforehand with a neighbour to an inn for the
purpose of drinking "his morninges draught." Whilst the two were
enjoying their "morninges draught," Mr. Leech began to be "very
merry," and, seeing his friend was desirous of going, he exclaimed,
"Let the devil take him who goeth out of this house to-day." But in
his merriment he forgot his rash observation, and shortly afterwards,
calling for his horse, set out for the fair. He had not travelled far
on the road when he remembered what he had said, "his conscience being
sore troubled at that damnable oath which he had took." Not knowing
what to do, he rode about, first one way and then another, until
darkness set in, and at about two o'clock in the night "he espied two
grim creatures before him in the likeness of griffins." These were
the devil's messengers, who had been sent to take him at his word, and
take him they did, according to the testimony of the "six
sufficientist men of the town." They roughly handled him, took him up
in the air, stripped him, and then dropped him, "a sad spectacle, all
bloody and goared," in a farmyard just outside the town of Doddington.
Here he was discovered, lying upon some harrows, in the condition
described. He was picked up, and carried to a gentleman's house,
where, being well cared for, he narrated the remarkable adventure
which had befallen him. Before long, however, he "grew into a frenzy
so desperate that they were afraid to stay in his chamber," and the
gentleman of the house, not knowing what to do, "sent for the parson
of the town." Prompted, it is supposed, by the Satanic influence which
still held him, Mr. Leech rushed at the minister, and attacked him
with so much fury that it was "like to have cost him his life." But
the noise being heard below, the servants rushed up, rescued the
parson, and tied Mr. Leech down in his bed, and left him. The next
morning, hearing nothing, they thought he was asleep, but on entering
his room "he was discovered with his neck broke, his tongue out of his
mouth, and his body as black as a shoe, all swelled, and every bone in
his body out of joint."[37]
We may conclude these extraordinary cases of "devil-bonds" with two
further strange incidents, one an apparent record of a case of a
similar kind, which was practised, amidst the frivolities and plotting
of the French Court, by no less celebrated a lady than Catharine de
Medicis. In the "Secret History of France for the Last Century,"[38]
this incredible story is given: "In the first Civil War, when the
Prince of Conde was, in all appearance, likely to prevail, and
Katherine was thought to be very near the end of her much desired
Regency, during the young king's minority, she was known to have been
for two days together retired to her closet, without admitting her
menial servants to her presence." Some few days after, having called
for Monsieur de Mesme, one of the Long Robe, and always firm to her
interest, she delivered him a steel box, fast locked, to whom she
said, giving him the key: 'That in respect she knew not what might
come to her by fortune, amidst those intestine broils that then shook
France, she had thought fit to enclose a thing of great value within
that box, which she consigned to his care, not to open it upon oath,
but by an express order under her own hand.' The queen dying without
ever calling for the box, it continued many years unopened in the
family of De Mesme, after both their deaths, till, at last, curiosity,
or the suspicion of some treasure, from the heaviness of it, tempted
Monsieur de Mesme's successor to break it open, which he did. Instead
of any rich present from so great a queen, what horror must the
lookers on have when they found a copper plate of the form and bigness
of one of the ancient Roman Votive Shields, on which was engraved
Queen Katherine de Medicis on her knees, in a praying posture,
offering up to the devil sitting upon a throne, in one of the ugliest
shapes they used to paint him, Charles the IXth, then reigning, the
Duke of Anjou, afterwards Henry III., and the Duke of Alanson, her
three sons, with this motto in French, "So be it, I but reign."
And in the Court Rolls of the Manor of Hatfield, near the Isle of
Axholme, Yorkshire, the following ridiculous story is given: "Robert
de Roderham appeared against John de Ithon, for that he had not kept
the agreement made between them, and therefore complains that on a
certain day and year, at Thorne, there was an agreement between the
aforesaid Robert and John, whereby the said John sold to the said
Robert the Devil, bound in a certain bond, for threepence farthing,
and thereupon, the said Robert delivered to the said John one farthing
as earnest money, by which the property of the said devil, was vested
in the person of the said Robert, to have livery of the said devil on
the fourth day next following, at which day the said Robert came to
the forenamed John and asked delivery of the said devil, according to
the agreement between them made. But the said John refused to deliver
the said devil, nor has he yet done it, &c., to the great damage of
the said Robert, to the amount of 60gs, and he has, therefore, brought
his suit.
"The said John came, and did not deny the said agreement; and because
it appeared to the Court that such a suit ought not to subsist among
Christians, the aforesaid parties are, therefore, adjourned to the
infernal regions, there to hear their judgment, and both parties were
amerced by William de Scargell, Seneschall."
FOOTNOTES:
[34] Harland and Wilkinson's "Lancashire Legends," 15-16.
[35] "Romances of the West of England."
[36] "A Strange and True Relation of one Mr. John Leech," 1662.
[37] "Saunders' Legends and Traditions of Huntingdonshire," 1878, 1-3.
[38] London, printed for A. Bell, 1714.