EXTRAORDINARY DISAPPEARANCES.
"O Annie,
It is beyond all hope, against all chance,
That he who left you ten long years ago
Should still be living; well, then--let me speak;
I grieve to see you poor and wanting help:
I cannot help you as I wish to do
Unless--they say that women are so quick--
Perhaps you know what I would have you know--
wish you for my wife."
ENOCH ARDEN.
A glance at the agony columns of our daily newspapers, or the notice
boards of police stations, it has been remarked, shows how many
individuals disappear from home, from their business haunts, and from
the circle of their acquaintances, and leave not the slightest trace
of their whereabouts. In only too many instances, no satisfactory
explanation has ever been forthcoming to account for a disappearance
of this nature, and in the vast majority of cases no evidence has been
discovered to prove the death of such persons. It is well known that
"in France, before the Revolution, the vanishing of men almost before
the eyes of their friends was so common that it scarcely excited any
surprise at all. The only inquiry was, had he a beautiful wife or
daughter, for in that case the explanation was easy; some one who had
influence with the Government had designs upon the lady, and made
interest to have her natural guardian put out of the way while those
designs were being fulfilled." But, accountable as the disappearance
of an individual was at such an unquiet time in French history, such a
solution of the difficulty cannot be made to apply to our own country.
Like other social problems, which no amount of intellectual ingenuity
has been able to unravel, the reason why, at intervals, persons are
missed and never found must always be regarded as an open question.
Thus a marriage is recorded which took place in Lincolnshire, about
the year 1750. In this instance, the wedding party adjourned after the
marriage ceremony to the bridegroom's residence, and dispersed, some
to ramble in the garden and others to rest in the house till the
dinner hour. But the bridegroom was suddenly summoned away by a
domestic, who said that a stranger wished to speak to him, and
henceforward he was never seen again. All kinds of inquiries were made
but to no purpose, and terrible as the dismay was of the poor bride at
this inexplicable disappearance of the bridegroom, no trace could be
found of him. A similar tradition hangs about an old deserted Welsh
Hall, standing in a wood near Festiniog. In a similar manner, the
bridegroom was asked to give audience to a stranger on his wedding
day, and disappeared from the face of the earth from that moment. The
bride, however, seems to have survived the shock, exceeding her three
score years and ten, although, it is said, during all those years,
while there was light of sun or moon to lighten the earth, she sat
watching--watching at one particular window which commanded a view of
the approach to the house. In short, her whole faculties, her whole
mental powers, became completely absorbed in that weary process of
watching, and long before she died she was childish, and only
conscious of one wish--to sit in that long high window, and watch the
road, along which he might come. Family romance records, from time to
time, many such stories, and it was not so very long ago that a bridal
party were thrown into much consternation by the non-arrival of the
bridegroom. Everything was in readiness, the clergy and the choir,
already vested, stood in the robing room, crimson carpets were laid
down from the door to the carriages; some of the guests were at the
church and others at the bride's house, when an alarm was raised by
the best man that the bridegroom could nowhere be found. The
bride-expectant burst into a flood of tears at this cruel
disappointment, especially when the ominous news reached the church
that the bridegroom's wedding suit had been found in the room, laid
out ready to wear, but that there was not the slightest clue as to his
whereabouts. It only remained for the bridal party to return home, and
for the dejected and disconsolate bride to lay aside her veil and
orange-blossoms.
Sometimes, on the other hand, it is the bride who disappears at this
crisis. Not many years back, an ex-lieutenant in the Royal Navy
applied to a London magistrate, as he wanted to find his newly married
wife. The applicant affirmed that the lady he had wedded was an
actress, and that they were married at the registry office at Croydon.
The magistrate asked if there had been any wedding breakfast. The
applicant said "No"; they had partaken of a little luncheon and that
was all. Mysterious and inexplicable as was this disappearance of a
wife so shortly after marriage, it was suggested by the magistrate
whether there were any rivals, but the applicant promptly replied,
"No, certainly not, and that made the matter all the more
incomprehensible." Of course, the magistrate could not recover the
missing bride; but, remarking that the application was a very singular
one, he recommended the applicant to consult the police on the matter,
who replied that "he would do so, as he was really afraid that some
mischief had happened to her," utterly disregarding the proposition of
the magistrate as to whether the lady could not possibly have changed
her mind, remarking that such a thing had occasionally happened.
In the life of Dr. Raffles, an amusing story is quoted, which is
somewhat to the point: "On our way from Wem to Hawkstone, we passed a
house, of which the following occurrence was told: 'A young lady, the
daughter of the owner of the house, was addressed by a man who, though
agreeable to her, was disliked by her father. Of course, he would not
consent to their union, and she determined to disappear and elope. The
night was fixed, the hour came, he placed the ladder to the window,
and in a few minutes she was in his arms. They mounted a double horse,
and were soon at some distance from the house. After awhile the lady
broke silence by saying, 'Well, you see what a proof I have given you
of my affection; I hope you will make me a good husband!'
"He was a surly fellow, and gruffly answered, 'Perhaps I may, and
perhaps not.'
"She made him no reply, but, after a few minutes' silence, she
suddenly exclaimed, 'O, what shall we do? I have left my money behind
me in my room!'
"'Then,' said he, 'we must go and fetch it.' They were soon again at
the house, the ladder was again placed, the lady remounted, while the
ill-natured lover waited below. But she delayed to come, and so he
gently called, 'Are you coming?' when she looked out of the window
and said, 'Perhaps I may, and perhaps not,' then shut down the window,
and left him to return upon the double horse alone."
But, if traditionary lore is to be believed, the sudden disappearance
of the bride on her wedding day has had, in more than one instance, a
very romantic and tragic origin. There is the well-known story which
tells how Lord Lovel married a young lady, a baron's daughter, who, on
the wedding night, proposed that the guests should play at
"hide-and-seek." Accordingly, the bride hid herself in an old oak
chest, but the lid falling down, shut her in, for it went with a
spring lock. Lord Lovel and the rest of the company sought her that
night and many days in succession, but nowhere could she be found. Her
strange disappearance for many years remained an unsolved mystery, but
some time afterwards the fatal chest was sold, which, on being opened,
was found to contain the skeleton of the long-lost bride. This popular
story was made the subject of a song, entitled "The Mistletoe Bough,"
by Thomas Haynes Bayley, who died in 1839; and Marwell Old Hall, near
Winchester, once the residence of the Seymours, and afterwards of the
Dacre family, has a similar tradition attached to it. Indeed, the very
chest has been preserved in the hall of Upham Rectory, having been
removed from Marwell some forty years ago. The great house at
Malsanger, near Basingstoke, has a story of a like nature connected
with it, reminding us of that of Tony Forster in Kenilworth, and of
Rogers's Ginevra:
"There then had she found a grave!
Within that chest had she concealed herself,
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy,
When a spring lock that lay in ambush there,
Fastened her down for ever."
This story is found in many places, and the chest in which the poor
bride was found is shown at Bramshill, in Hampshire, the residence of
Sir John Cope. But only too frequently the young lady disappears from
some preconcerted arrangement; a striking instance being that of
Agnes, daughter of James Ferguson, the mechanist. While walking down
the Strand with her father, she slipt her hand out of his whilst he
was absorbed in thought, and he never saw her from that day, nor was
anything known of the girl's fate till many years after Ferguson's
death. At the time, the story of her extraordinary disappearance was
matter of public comment, and all kinds of extravagant theories were
started to account for it. The young lady, however, was gone, and
despite the most patient search, and the most persistent inquiries, no
tidings could be gained as to her whereabouts. In course of years the
mystery was cleared up, and revealed a pitiable case of sin and shame.
It appears that a nobleman to whom she had become known at her
father's lectures took her, in the first instance, to Italy, and
afterwards deserted her. In her distress, being ashamed to return
home, she resolved to try the stage as a means of livelihood, and
applied to Garrick, who gave her a trial on the boards, but the
attempt proved a failure. She then turned her hand to authorship, but
with no better success. Although reduced to the most abject poverty,
she would not make herself known to her relatives, and in complete
despair, and overwhelmed with a sense of her disgrace, in her last
extremity she threw herself on the streets, and died in miserable
beggary and wretchedness in Round Court, off the Strand. It was on her
death-bed that she disclosed to the surgeon who attended her the
melancholy and tragic story of her wasted life. But from the
localities in which she had habitually moved, she must have many a
time passed her relatives in the streets, though withheld by shame
from making herself known, when they imagined her to be in some
distant country, or in the grave.
The strange disappearance of Lady Cathcart, on the other hand, whose
fourth husband was Hugh Maguire, an officer in the Hungarian service,
is an extraordinary instance of a wife being, for a long term of
years, imprisoned by her own husband without any chance of escape. It
seems that, soon after her last marriage, she discovered that her
husband had only made her his wife with the object of possessing
himself of her property, and, alarmed at the idea of losing
everything, she plaited some of her jewels in her hair and others in
her petticoat. But she little anticipated what was in store for her,
although she had already become suspicious of her husband's intentions
towards her. His plans, however, were soon executed; for one morning,
under the pretence of taking her for a drive, he carried her away
altogether: and when she suggested, after they had been driving some
time, that they would be late for dinner, he coolly replied, "We do
not dine to-day at Tewing, but at Chester, whither we are journeying."
Some alarm was naturally caused, writes Sir Bernard Burke, "by her
sudden disappearance, and an attorney was sent in pursuit with a writ
of _habeas corpus_ or _ne exeat regno_, who found the travellers at
Chester, on their way to Ireland, and demanded a sight of Lady
Cathcart. Colonel Maguire at once consented, but, knowing that the
attorney had never seen his wife, he persuaded a woman to personate
her.
The attorney, in due time, was introduced to the supposed Lady
Cathcart, and was asked if she accompanied Colonel Maguire to Ireland
of her own free will. "Perfectly so," said the woman. Whereupon the
attorney set out again for London, and the Colonel resumed his journey
with Lady Cathcart to Ireland, where, on his arrival at his own house
at Tempo, in Fermanagh, his wife was imprisoned for many years."
During this period the Colonel was visited by the neighbouring gentry,
"and it was his regular custom at dinner to send his compliments to
Lady Cathcart, informing her that the company had the honour to drink
her ladyship's health, and begging to know whether there was anything
at table that she would like to eat? But the answer was always the
same, "Lady Cathcart's compliments, and she has everything she wants."
Fortunately for Lady Cathcart, Colonel Maguire died in the year 1764,
when her ladyship was released, after having been locked up for twenty
years, possessing, at the time of her deliverance, scarcely clothes to
her back. She lost no time in hastening back to England, and found her
house at Tewing in possession of a Mr. Joseph Steele, against whom she
brought an act of ejectment, and, attending the assize in person,
gained her case. Although she had been so cruelly treated by Colonel
Maguire, his conduct does not seem to have injured her health, for she
did not die till the year 1789, when she was in her ninety-eighth
year. And, when eighty years of age, it is recorded that she took part
in the gaieties of the Welwyn Assembly, and danced with the spirit of
a girl. It may be added that although she survived Colonel Maguire
twenty years, she was not tempted, after his treatment, to carry out
the resolution which she had inscribed as a poesy on her wedding ring.
If I survive
I will have five.[47]
Another disappearance and supposed imprisonment which created
considerable sensation in the last century was that of Elizabeth
Canning. On New Year's Day, 1753, she visited an uncle and aunt who
lived at Saltpetre Bank, near Well Close Square, who saw her part of the
way home as far as Houndsditch. But as no tidings were afterwards heard
of her, she was advertised for, rumours having gone abroad, that she had
been heard to shriek out of a hackney coach in Bishopsgate-street.
Prayers, too, were offered up for her in churches and meeting-houses,
but all inquiries were in vain, and it was not until the 29th of the
month that the missing girl returned in a wretched condition, ill,
half-starved, and half-clad. Her story was that after leaving her uncle
and aunt on the 1st of January, she had been attacked by two men in
great coats, who robbed, partially stripped her, and dragged her away to
a house in the Hertfordshire road, where an old woman cut off her stays,
and shut her up in a room in which she had been imprisoned ever since,
subsisting on bread and water, and a mince pie that her assailants had
overlooked in her pocket, and ultimately, she said, she had escaped
through the window, tearing her ear in doing so.
Her story created much sympathy for her, and steps were immediately
taken to punish those who had abducted her in this outrageous manner.
The girl, who was in a very weak condition, was taken to the house
she had specified, one "Mother" Wells, who kept an establishment of
doubtful reputation at Enfield Wash, and on being asked to identify
the woman who had cut off her stays, and locked her up in the room
referred to, pointed out one Mary Squires, an old gipsy of surpassing
ugliness. Accordingly, Squires and Wells were committed for trial for
assault and felony; the result of the trial being that Squires was
condemned to death, and Wells to be burned in the hand, a sentence
which was executed forthwith, much to the delight of the excited crowd
in the Old Bailey Sessions-house.
But the Lord Mayor, Sir Crisp Gascoyne, who had presided at the trial
_ex-officio_, was not satisfied with the verdict, and caused further
and searching inquiries to be made. The verdict, on the weight of
fresh evidence obtained, was upset, and Squires was granted a free
pardon. On 29th April, 1754, Elizabeth Canning was summoned again to
the Old Bailey, but this time to take her trial for wilful and corrupt
perjury. The trial lasted eight days, and, being found guilty, she was
transported in August, "at the request of her friends, to New
England." According to the "Annual Register," she returned to this
country at the expiration of her sentence to receive a legacy of £500,
left to her three years before by an old lady of Newington Green;
whereas, later accounts affirm that she never came back, but died 22nd
July, 1773, at Weathersfield, in Connecticut, it being further stated
that she married abroad a Quaker of the name of Treat, "and for some
time followed the occupation of a schoolmistress."
The mystery of her life--her disappearance from Jan. 1st to the 29th
of that month, and what transpired in that interval--is a secret that
has never been to this day divulged. Indeed, as it has been observed,
"notwithstanding the many strange circumstances of her story, none is
so strange as that it should not be discovered in so many years where
she had concealed herself during the time she had invariably declared
she was at the house of Mother Wells."[48]
Another curious disappearance is recorded by Sir John Coleridge,
forming a strange story of romance. It seems there lived in Cornwall,
a highly respectable family, named Robinson, consisting of two
sons--William and Nicholas--and two daughters. The property was
settled on the two sons and their male issue, and in case of death on
the two daughters. Nicholas was placed with an eminent attorney of St.
Austen as his clerk, with a prospect of being one day admitted into
partnership. But his legal studies were somewhat interrupted by his
falling in love with a milliner's apprentice; the result being that he
was sent to London to qualify himself as an attorney. But he had no
sooner been admitted an attorney of the Queen's Bench and Common
Pleas than he disappeared, and thenceforward he was never seen by any
member of his family or former friends, all search for him proving
fruitless.
In course of time the father died, and William, the elder son,
succeeded to the property, dying unmarried in May, 1802. As nothing
was heard of Nicholas, the two sisters became entitled to the
property, of which they held possession for twenty years, no claim
being made to disturb their possession of it.
But in the year 1783, a young man, whose looks and manners were above
his means and situation, had made his appearance as a stranger at
Liverpool, going by the name of Nathaniel Richardson--the same
initials as Nicholas Robinson. He bought a cab and horse, and plied
for hire in the streets of Liverpool--and being "a civil, sober, and
prudent man," he soon became prosperous, and drove a coach between
London and Liverpool. He married, had children, and gradually acquired
considerable wealth. Having gone to Wales, however, in the year 1802,
to purchase some horses, he was accidentally drowned in the Mersey.
Many years after his death, it was rumoured in 1821 that this
Nathaniel Richardson was no other than Nicholas Robinson, and his
eldest son claimed the property, which was then inherited by the two
daughters. An action was accordingly tried in Cornwall to recover the
property. The strange part of the proceedings was that nearly forty
years had elapsed since anyone had seen Nicholas Robinson; but, says
Sir John Coleridge, "It was made out conclusively, in a most
remarkable way, and by a variety of small circumstances, all pointing
to one conclusion, that Nathaniel Richardson was the identical
Nicholas Robinson". The Cornish and Liverpool witnesses agreed in the
description of his person, his height, the colour of his hair, his
general appearance, and, more particularly, it was mentioned that he
had a peculiar habit of biting his nails, and that he had a great
fondness for horses.
In addition to other circumstances, there was this remarkable
one--that Nathaniel's widow married again and that the furniture and
effects were taken to the second husband's house. Among the articles,
was an old trunk, which she had never seen opened; but, on its
contents being examined one day, among other letters and papers, were
found the two certificates of Nicholas Robinson's admission as
Attorney to the Courts of Queen's Bench and Common Pleas--and, on the
trial, the old master of Nicholas Robinson, alias Nathaniel
Richardson, swore to his handwriting, and so the property was
discovered.
It has been often remarked that London is about the only place in all
Europe where a man, if so desirous, can disappear and live for years
unknown in some secure retreat. About the year 1706, a certain Mr.
Howe, after he had been married some seven or eight years, rose early
one morning, and informed his wife that he was obliged to go to the
Tower on special business, and at about noon the same day he sent a
note to his wife informing her that business summoned him to Holland,
where he would probably have to remain three weeks or a month. But
from that day he was absent from his home for seventeen years, during
which time his wife neither heard from him, nor of him.
His strange and unaccountable disappearance at the time naturally
created comment, but no trace could be found of his whereabouts, or as
to whether he had met with foul treatment. And yet the most curious
part of the story remains to be told. On leaving his house in Jermyn
Street, Piccadilly, Mr. Howe went no further than to a small street in
Westminster, where he took a room, for which he paid five or six
shillings a week, and changing his name, and disguising himself by
wearing a black wig--for he was a fair man--he remained in this
locality during the whole time of his absence. At the time he
disappeared from his home, Mr. Howe had had two children by his wife,
but these both died a few years afterwards. But, being left without
the necessary means of subsistence, Mrs. Howe, after waiting two or
three years in the hope of her husband's return, was forced to apply
for an Act of Parliament to procure an adequate settlement of his
estate, and a provision for herself out of it during his absence, as
it was uncertain whether he was alive or dead. This act Mr. Howe
suffered to be passed, and read the progress of it in a little
coffee-house which he frequented.
After the death of her children, Mrs. Howe removed from her house in
Jermyn Street to a smaller one in Brewer Street, near Golden Square.
Just over against her lived one Salt, a corn chandler, with whom Mr.
Howe became acquainted, usually dining with him once or twice a week.
The room where they sat overlooked Mrs. Howe's dining room, and Salt,
believing Howe to be a bachelor, oftentimes recommended her to him as
a suitable wife. And, curious to add, during the last seven years of
his mysterious absence, Mr. Howe attended every Sunday service at St.
James's Church, Piccadilly, and sat in Mr. Salt's seat, where he had a
good view of his wife, although he could not be easily seen by her.
At last, however, Mr. Howe made up his mind to return home, and the
evening before he took this step, sent her an anonymous note
requesting her to meet him the following day in Birdcage Walk, St.
James's Square. At the time this billet arrived, Mrs. Howe was
entertaining some friends and relatives at supper--one of her guests
being a Dr. Rose, who had married her sister.
After reading the note, Mrs. Howe tossed it to Dr. Rose, laughingly
remarking, "You see, brother, old as I am, I have got a gallant."
But Dr. Rose recognised the handwriting as that of Mr. Howe, which so
upset Mrs. Howe that she fainted away. It was eventually arranged that
Dr. Rose and his wife, with the other guests who were then at supper,
should accompany Mrs. Howe the following evening to the appointed
spot. They had not long to wait before Mr. Howe appeared, who, after
embracing his wife, walked home with her in the most matter-of-fact
manner, the two living together in the most happy and harmonious
manner till death divided them.
The reason of this mysterious disappearance, Mr. Howe would never
explain, but Dr. Rose often maintained that he believed his brother
would never have returned to his wife had not the money which he took
with him--supposed to have been from one to two thousand pounds--been
all spent. "Anyhow," he used to add, "Mr. Howe must have been a good
economist, and frugal in his manner of living, otherwise the money
would scarce have held out."
A romance associated with Haigh Hall, in Lancashire, tells how Sir
William Bradshaigh, stimulated by his love of travel and military
ardour, set out for the Holy land. Ten years elapsed, and, as no
tidings reached his wife of his whereabouts, it was generally supposed
that he had perished in some religious crusade. Taking it for granted,
therefore, that he was dead, his wife Mabel did not abandon herself
to a life of solitary widowhood, but accepted an offer of marriage
from a Welsh knight. But, not very long afterwards, Sir William
Bradshaigh returned from his prolonged sojourn in the Holy land, and,
disguised as a palmer, he visited his own castle, where he took his
place amongst the recipients of Lady Mabel's bounty.
As soon, however, as Lady Mabel caught sight of the palmer, she was
struck by the strong resemblance he bore to her first husband; and
this impression was quickly followed by bewilderment when the
mysterious stranger handed to her a ring which he affirmed had been
given him by Sir William, in his dying moments, to bear to his wife at
Haigh Hall.
In a moment Lady Mabel's thoughts travelled back into the distant
past, and she burst into tears as the ring brought back the dear
memories of bygone days. It was in vain she tried to stifle her
feelings, and, as her second husband--the Welsh Knight--looked on and
saw how distressed she was, "he grew," says the old record, "exceeding
wroth," and, in a fit of jealous passion, struck Lady Mabel.
This ungallant act was the climax of the painful scene, for there and
then Sir William threw aside his disguise, and hastened to revenge the
unchivalrous conduct of the Welsh knight. Completely confounded at
this unexpected turn of events, and fearing violence from Sir
William, the Welsh knight rode off at full speed, without waiting for
any explanation of the matter. But he was overtaken very speedily and
slain by his opponent, an offence for which Sir William was outlawed
for a year and a day; while Mabel, his wife, "was enjoined by her
confessor to do penance by going once every week, barefoot and bare
legged, to a cross near Wigan, popularly known as Mab's Cross.[49]
In Wigan Parish Church, two figures of whitewashed stone preserve the
memory of Sir William Bradshaigh and his Lady Mabel, he in an antique
coat of mail, cross-legged, with his sword, partly drawn from the
scabbard, by his left side, and she in a long robe, veiled, her hands
elevated and conjoined in the attitude of fervent prayer. Sir Walter
Scott informs us that from this romance he adopted his idea of "The
Betrothed," "from the edition preserved in the mansion of Haigh Hall,
of old the mansion house of the family of Bradshaigh, now possessed by
their descendants on the female side, the Earls of Balcarres."[50]
[Illustration: LADY MABEL AND THE PALMER.]
Scottish tradition ascribes to the Clan of Tweedie a descent of a
similar romantic nature. A baron, somewhat elderly, had wedded a buxom
young wife, but some months after their union he left her to ply the
distaff among the mountains of the county of Peebles, near the sources
of the Tweed. After being absent seven or eight years--no uncommon
space for a pilgrimage to Palestine--he returned, and found, to quote
the account given by Sir Walter Scott, "his family had not been lonely
in his absence, the lady having been cheered by the arrival of a
stranger who hung on her skirts and called her mammy, and was just
such as the baron would have longed to call his son, but that he could
by no means make his age correspond with his own departure for
Palestine. He applied, therefore, to his wife for the solution of the
dilemma, who, after many floods of tears, informed her husband that,
walking one day along the banks of the river, a human form arose from
a deep eddy, termed Tweed-pool, who deigned to inform her that he was
the tutelar genius of the stream, and he became the father of the
sturdy fellow whose appearance had so much surprised her husband."
After listening to this strange adventure, "the husband believed, or
seemed to believe, the tale, and remained contented with the child
with whom his wife and the Tweed had generously presented him. The
only circumstance which preserved the memory of the incident was that
the youth retained the name of Tweed or Tweedie." Having bred up the
young Tweed as his heir while he lived, the baron left him in that
capacity when he died, "and the son of the river-god founded the
family of Drummelzier and others, from whom have flowed, in the phrase
of the Ettrick shepherd, 'many a brave fellow, and many a bauld
feat.'"
It may be added that, in some instances, the science of the medical
jurist has aided in elucidating the history of disappearances, through
identifying the discovered remains with the presumed missing subjects.
Some years ago, the examination of a skeleton found deeply imbedded in
the sand of the sea-coast at a certain Scotch watering-place showed
that the person when living must have walked with a very peculiar and
characteristic gait, in consequence of some deposits of a rheumatic
kind which affected the lower part of the spine. The mention of this
circumstance caused a search to be made through some old records of
the town, and resulted in the discovery of a mysterious disappearance,
which, at the time, had been duly noted--the subject being a person
whose mode of walking had made him an object of attention, and whose
fate, but for the observant eye of the anatomist, must have remained
wholly unknown. Similarly, it has been pointed out how skeletons found
in mines, in disused wells, in quarries, in the walls of ruins, and
various other localities "imply so many social mysteries which
probably occasioned in their day a wide-spread excitement, or at least
agitated profoundly some small circle of relatives or friends."
According to the "Annual Register" (1845, p. 195), while some men were
being employed in taking the soil from the bottom of the river in
front of some mills a human skeleton was accidentally found. At a
coroner's inquest, it transpired that about nine years before a Jew
whose name was said to be Abrams, visited Taverham in the course of
his business, sold some small articles for which he gave credit to the
purchasers, and left the neighbourhood on his way to Drayton, the next
village, with a sum of £90 in his possession. But at Drayton he
disappeared, and never returned to Taverham to claim the amount due to
him.
Search was made for the missing man, but to no purpose, and after the
excitement in the neighbourhood had abated, the matter was soon
forgotten. But some time afterwards a man named Page was apprehended
for sheep stealing, tried, and sentenced to be transported for life.
During his imprisonment, he told divers stories of robberies and
crimes, most of which turned out to be false. But, amongst other
things, he wrote a letter promising that if he were released from gaol
and brought to Cossey, "he would show them that, from under the willow
tree, which would make every hair in their heads rise up." The man was
not released, but the river was drawn, and some sheep's skins and
sheep's heads were found, which were considered to be the objects
alluded to by Page. The search, however, was still pursued, and from
under the willow tree the skeleton was fished up, evidently having
been fastened down. It was generally supposed that these were the
bones of the long lost Jew, who, no doubt, had been murdered for the
money on his person--a crime of which Page was aware, if he were not
an accomplice.
FOOTNOTES:
[47] See "Romantic Records of the Aristocracy," 1850, I., 83-87.
[48] See "Dict. of Nat. Biog.," VIII., 418-420; Caulfield's "Remarkable
Persons," and Gent. Mag., 1753 and 1754.
[49] Sir B. Burke's "Vicissitudes of Families," first series, 270-273.
Harland's "Lancashire Legends," 45-47. Roby's "Traditions of
Lancashire."
[50] The tale of the noble Moringer is, in some respects, almost
identical with this tradition. It exists in a collection of German
popular songs, and is supposed to be extracted from a manuscript
"Chronicle of Nicholas Thomann, Chaplain to St. Leonard in
Weissenhorn," and dated 1533.