cheerful evening at a neighbour's house on the eastern side of the
river, and was returning home at a decent hour. The night being
extremely dark, she had provided herself with a lanthorn and candle, by
the assistance of which she found her way to the bridge, and had already
passed part of the dangerous structure, when she unfortunately trod on a
plank that had by some accident lost the tenons originally fixed to the
ends of it, and had slipped from its proper situation; the faithless
board yielded to the weight of the good lady, who was rather corpulent,
and carried her through the flooring, with her candle and lanthorn, into
the river. Fortunately, at the moment of falling, she was standing in
such a position, as gave her a seat on the plank similar to that of a
horseman on his nag. It may be easily imagined, that Mrs. Williams must
have been dreadfully alarmed at this change of situation, as well as the
difference of element. Blessed, however, with great presence of mind,
and a patient endurance of evil, the good lady was not overwhelmed by
her fall, but steadily maintained her seat on the board; taking care, at
the same time, to preserve her candle lighted, rightly supposing it
would serve as a guide to any one who might be able or willing to assist
her. Thus bestriding the plank, our heroine was hurried down the river
towards Newport, the bridge of which, she trusted, would stop her
progress, or that she might alarm the inhabitants with her cries. In
both her hopes, however, she was disappointed: the rapidity of a spring
tide sent her through the arch with the velocity of an arrow discharged
from a bow, and the good people of the town had long been wrapped in
slumber. Thus situated, her prospect became each moment more desperate;
her candle was nearly extinguished! and every limb so benumbed with
cold, that she had the greatest difficulty in _keeping her saddle_.
Already she had reached the mouth of the Usk, and was on the point of
encountering the turbulent waves of the British Channel, when the master
of a fishing-boat, who was returning from his nightly toils, discovered
the gleaming of her taper, and bearing her calls for assistance, though
he at first thought her a witch, yet ventured to approach this floating
wonder, and happily succeeded in rescuing Mrs. Williams from a watery
grave, and bringing her in safety to the shore in his boat.
Thus was the life of a fellow-creature preserved by a poor fisherman's
courage, in not being daunted by what he at first conceived a mysterious
light proceeding from some sprite or hobgoblin; but, from duly examining
into causes, proved himself both a hero and friend.
POOR MARY,
_THE MAID OF THE INN_.
Who is she, the poor maniac, whose wildly fix'd eyes
Seem a heart overcharg'd to express?
She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs;
She never complains, but her silence implies
The composure of settled distress.
No aid, no compassion, the maniac will seek;
Cold and hunger awake not her care:
Through her rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak
On her poor wither'd bosom, half bare; and her cheek
Has the deathly pale hue of despair.
Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day,
Poor Mary the maniac has been!
The trav'ller remembers, who journey'd this way,
No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay,
As Mary the Maid of the Inn.
Her cheerful address fill'd the guests with delight,
As she welcom'd them in with a smile:
Her heart was a stranger to childish affright,
And Mary would walk by the abbey at night,
When the wind whistled down the dark aisle.
She lov'd; and young Richard had settled the day,
And she hoped to be happy for life:
But Richard was idle and worthless; and they
Who knew him would pity poor Mary, and say,
That she was too good for his wife.
'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night,
And fast were the windows and door;
Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright,
And, smoking in silence with tranquil delight,
They listen'd to hear the wind roar.
"'Tis pleasant," cried one, "seated by the fire-side,
To hear the wind whistle without."
"A fine night for the abbey!" his comrade replied,
"Methinks, a man's courage would now be well tried,
Who should wander the ruins about.
"I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear
The hoarse ivy shake over my head;
And could fancy I saw, half-persuaded by fear,
Some ugly old abbot's white spirit appear,
For this wind might awaken the dead!"
"I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried,
"That Mary would venture there now."
"Then wager and lose!" with a sneer, he replied,
"I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side,
And faint if she saw a white cow."
"Will Mary this charge on her courage allow?"
His companion exclaim'd with a smile;
"I shall win, for I know she will venture there now,
And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough
From the elder that glows in the aisle."
With fearless good humour did Mary comply,
And her way to the abbey she bent;
The night it was dark, and the wind it was high,
And as hollowly howling it swept through the sky,
She shiver'd with cold as she went.
O'er the path so well known still proceeded the maid,
Where the abbey rose dim on the sight.
Through the gate-way she entered, she felt not afraid,
Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade
Seem'd to deepen the gloom of the night.
All around her was silent, save when the rude blast
Howl'd dismally round the old pile;
Over weed-cover'd fragments still fearless she past,
And arriv'd in the innermost ruin at last,
Where the elder-tree grew in the aisle.
Well pleas'd did she reach it, and quickly drew near,
And hastily gather'd the bough;
When the sound of a voice seem'd to rise on her ear--
She paus'd, and she listen'd all eager to hear,
And her heart panted fearfully now.
The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head,
She listen'd--nought else could she hear;
The wind ceas'd; her heart sunk in her bosom with dread,
For she heard in the ruins distinctly the tread
Of footsteps approaching her near.
Behind a white column, half breathless with fear,
She crept to conceal herself there:
That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear,
And she saw in the moon-light two ruffians appear,
And between them a corpse did they bear.
Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdle cold!
Again the rough wind hurried by--
It blew off the hat of the one,[C] and, behold,
Even close to the foot of poor Mary it roll'd--
She felt, and expected to die.
"Curse the hat!" he exclaims. "Nay, come on, and first hide
The dead body," his comrade replies.
She beheld them in safety pass on by her side,
She seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied,
And fast through the abbey she flies.
She ran with wild speed, she rush'd in at the door,
She gaz'd horribly eager around:
Then her limbs could support their faint burden no more,
And exhausted and breathless she sunk on the floor,
Unable to utter a sound.
Ere yet her cold lips could the story impart,
For a moment the hat met her view--[D]
Her eyes from that object convulsively start,
For, oh! God! what cold horror then thrill'd through her heart,
When the name of her Richard she knew.
Where the old abbey stands on the common hard by,
His gibbet is now to be seen:
Not far from the road it engages the eye,
The trav'ller beholds it, and thinks, with a sigh,
Of poor Mary, the Maid of the Inn.
SOUTHEY'S POEMS.
FOOTNOTES:
[C] The hat of one of the ruffians.
[D] She knew it to be Richard's hat.
GILES THE SHEPHERD,
_AND SPECTRE_.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Giles, ere he sleeps, his little flock must tell.
From the fire-side with many a shrug he hies,
Glad if the full-orb'd moon salute his eyes.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
And down a narrow lane, well known by day,
With all his speed pursues his sounding way,
In thought still half absorb'd, and chill'd with cold,
When, lo! an object frightful to behold,
A grisly _spectre_, cloth'd in silver grey,
Around whose feet the waving shadows play,
Stands in his path! He stops, and not a breath
Heaves from his heart, that sinks almost to death.
Loud the owl hallooes o'er his head unseen;
All else is silence, dismally serene:
Some prompt ejaculation, whisper'd low,
Yet bears him up against the threat'ning foe;
And thus poor Giles, though half inclin'd to fly,
Mutters his doubts, and strains his stedfast eye.
"'Tis not my crimes thou com'st here to reprove;
No murders stain my soul, no perjur'd love:
If thou'rt indeed what here thou seem'st to be,
Thy dreadful mission cannot reach to me.
By parents taught still to mistrust mine eyes,
Still to approach each object of surprise,
Lest fancy's formful vision should deceive
In moonlight paths, or glooms of falling eve,
'Tis then's the moment when my mind should try
To scan the motionless deformity;
But oh, the fearful task!--yet well I know
An aged ash, with many a spreading bough,
(Beneath whose leaves I've found a summer's bow'r,
Beneath whose trunk I've weather'd many a show'r)
Stands singly down this solitary way,
But far beyond where now my footsteps stay.
'Tis true, thus far I've come with heedless haste;
No reck'ning kept, no passing objects trac'd:
And can I then have reach'd that very tree?
Or is its rev'rend form assum'd by thee?"
The happy thought alleviates his pain;
He creeps another step; then stops again;
Till slowly as his noiseless feet drew near,
Its perfect lineaments at once appear;
Its crown of shiv'ring ivy whispering peace,
And its white bark that fronts the moon's pale face.
Now, while his blood mounts upward, now he knows
The solid gain that from conviction flows;
And strengthen'd confidence shall hence fulfil
(With conscious innocence, more valued still)
The dreariest task that winter nights can bring,
By church-yard dark, or grove, or fairy ring;
Still buoying up the timid mind of youth,
Till loit'ring reason hoists the scale of truth.
With those blest guardians, Giles his course pursues,
Till numbering his heavy-sided ewes,
Surrounding stilness tranquillize his breast,
And shape the dreams that wait his hours of rest.
BLOOMFIELD'S _Farmer's Boy_.
A
MAN WITH HIS HEAD ON FIRE,
AND COVERED WITH BLOOD.
The following singular adventure is related by a military captain.
"I was coming home one night on horseback, from a visit I had been
making to a number of the neighbouring villages, where I had quartered
my recruits. It happened there had fallen a deal of rain that day, since
noon, and during all the evening, which had broken up the roads, and it
was raining still with equal violence; but, being forced to join my
company next morning, I set out, provided with a lanthorn, having to
pass a strait defile between two mountains. I had cleared it, when a
gust of wind took off my hat, and carried it so far, that I despaired of
getting it again, and therefore gave the matter up. By great good
fortune, I had with me my red cloak. I covered my head and shoulders
with it, leaving nothing but a little hole to see my way, and breathe
through; and, for fear the wind should take a fancy to my cloak, as well
as my hat, I passed my right arm round my body to secure it: so that,
riding on in this position, you may easily conceive my lanthorn, which
I held in my right hand, was under my left shoulder. At the entrance of
a village on a hill, I met three travellers, who no sooner saw me than
they ran away as fast as possible. For my part, I went on upon the
gallop; and when I came into the town, alighted at an inn, where I
designed to rest myself a little. Soon after, who should enter, but my
three poltroons, as pale as death itself. They told the landlord and his
people, trembling as they spoke, that in the road they had encountered a
great figure of a man all over blood, whose head was like a flame of
fire, and to increase the wonder, placed beneath his shoulder. He was
mounted on a dreadful horse, said they, quite black behind, and grey
before; which, notwithstanding it was lame, he spurred and whipped right
up the mountain with extraordinary swiftness. Here they ended their
relation. They had taken care to spread the alarm as they were flying
from this wondrous apparition, and the people had come with them to the
inn in such a drove, that upwards of an hundred were all squeezed
together, opening both their mouths and ears at this tremendous story.
To make up in some sort for my dismal journey, I resolved to laugh a
little, and be merry at their cost, intending to cure them of such
fright, by shewing them their folly in the present instance. With this
view, I got upon my horse again, behind the inn, and went round about
till I had rode the distance of a mile or thereabouts; when, turning, I
disposed of my accoutrements, that is to say, my cloak and lanthorn, as
before, and on I came upon a gallop towards the inn. You should have
seen the frighted mob of peasants, how they hid their faces at the
sight, and got into the passage. There was no one but the host had
courage to remain, and keep his eye upon me. I was now before the door,
on which I shifted the position of my lanthorn, let my cloak drop down
upon my shoulders, and appeared the figure he had seen me by his kitchen
fire. It was not without real difficulty, we could bring the simple
people who had crowded in for safety from their terror: the three
travellers, in particular, as the first impression was still strong
within them, they could not credit what they saw. We finished by a
hearty laugh at their expence, and by drinking to the man whose head was
like a flame of fire, and placed beneath his shoulder."
THE
INNOCENT DEVIL,
OR
_AGREEABLE DISAPPOINTMENT_.
The following story is extracted from a letter I received, some time
since, from a friend, on the subject of apparitions.
"Returning, one evening in the summer, to my apartments, at a short
distance from town, I was invited by my landlady, a brisk young widow,
to partake of _un petit souper_, as she termed it. The invitation, of
course, I accepted; and, after a pleasant repast, the cloth being
removed, various conversation ensued, and the terminating subject was
ghosts and hobgoblins. After my attention had been greatly excited by
many dreadful recitals, I thought I perceived something black glide
swiftly by my feet. My back at that time being towards the door, I
instantly turned round; and, perceiving the same to be shut, I fancied
my fear to be only a chimaera arising from the subject we had been
conversing on. I therefore replenished my glass; and the subject of
spectres was again renewed. In the midst of the discourse, when I was
all attention to some dreadful tale, I felt something gently brush the
bottom of my chair; when, on looking down, I beheld the most hideous
black figure imagination can conceive. It was a monster on all fours,
with cloven feet, horns on its head, and a long tail trailing after it
as it moved along. My terror, I will acknowledge, was so great, that I
instantly jumped up as high as the table, and loudly vociferated, 'Lord
have mercy upon me! what is it?' My friendly hostess now begged me to
sit down and be a little calm, and she would explain to me the cause of
my alarm. The figure having again disappeared, the lady of the
ceremonies thus addressed me--'I beg your pardon, Sir, for the fright I
have thus occasioned you. It is only a little joke I have been playing
off, merely to see whether you were proof against supernatural
appearances. A friend of mine having been to a masqued ball in a domino,
I prepared the stratagem, by making a head-piece to the dress, with
horns, false legs, cloven feet, and a tail. I then instructed my
servant, who was by agreement to be in the adjoining room, on hearing a
certain part of my story, to open the door as softly as possible, and to
make her _entre_, in this habiliment. This she attempted before the plot
was sufficiently ripe, when you turned round towards the door, and she
retreated. The second attempt too effectually succeeded; for which I
again ask your pardon, and am extremely sorry, though luckily it has had
no bad effect. But I will never, while I live, again be induced to act
so foolishly.'--"
THE
SPECTRE OF THE BROKEN.
The following observations on that singular phenomenon called the
Spectre of the Broken, in Germany, is related by Monsieur J. L. Jordan,
in the following words.
"In the course of my repeated tours through the Harz (mountains in
Germany), I ascended the Broken twelve times: but I had the good fortune
only twice (both times about Whitsuntide) to see that atmospheric
phenomenon called the Spectre of the Broken, which appears to me so
worthy of particular attention, as it must, no doubt, be observed on
other high mountains, which have a situation favourable for producing
it. The first time I was deceived by this extraordinary phenomenon, I
had clambered up to the summit of the Broken very early in the morning,
in order to wait for the inexpressibly beautiful view of the sun rising
in the east. The heavens were already streaked with red; the sun was
just appearing above the horizon in full majesty; and the most perfect
serenity prevailed throughout the surrounding country; when the other
Harz mountains in the south-west, towards the Worm mountains, &c. lying
under the Broken, began to be covered by thick clouds. Ascending at that
moment the granite rocks called the Tempelskanzel, there appeared before
me, though at a great distance, towards the Worm mountains and the
Auchtermanshohe, the gigantic figure of a man, as if standing on a large
pedestal. But scarcely had I discovered it, when it began to disappear;
the clouds sunk down speedily, and expanded; and I saw the phenomenon no
more. The second time, however, I saw this spectre somewhat more
distinctly, a little below the summit of the Broken, and near the
Heinnichshohe, as I was looking at the sun-rising, about four o'clock in
the morning. The weather was rather tempestuous; the sky towards the
level country was pretty clear; but the Harz mountains had attracted
several thick clouds which had been hovering round them, and which,
beginning on the Broken, confined the prospect. In these clouds, soon
after the rising of the sun, I saw my own shadow, of a monstrous size,
move itself, for a couple of seconds, in the clouds; and the phenomenon
disappeared. It is impossible to see this phenomenon, except when the
sun is at such an altitude as to throw his rays upon the body in an
horizontal direction; for if he is higher, the shadow is thrown rather
under the body than before it.
"In the month of September, last year, as I was making a tour through
the Harz with a very agreeable party, and ascended the Broken, I found
an excellent account and explanation of this phenomenon, as seen by M.
Haue on the 23d of May 1797, in his diary of an excursion to that
mountain; I shall therefore take the liberty of transcribing it.
"'After having been here for the thirtieth time,' says M. Haue; 'and,
besides other objects of my attention, having procured information
respecting the above-mentioned atmospheric phenomenon, I was at length
so fortunate as to have the pleasure of seeing it; and, perhaps, my
description may afford satisfaction to others who visit the Broken
through curiosity. The sun rose about four o'clock; and, the atmosphere
being quite serene towards the east, his rays could pass without any
obstruction over the Heinnichshohe. In the south-west, however, towards
the Auchtermaunshohe, a brisk west wind carried before it their
transparent vapours, which were not yet condensed into thick heavy
clouds. About a quarter past four I went towards the inn, and looked
round to see whether the atmosphere would permit me to have a free
prospect to the south-west; when I observed, at a very great distance,
towards the Auchtermaunshohe, a human figure, of a monstrous size. A
violent gust of wind having almost carried away my hat, I clapped my
hand to it by moving my arm towards my head, and the colossal figure did
the same. The pleasure which I felt on this discovery can hardly be
described; for I had already walked many a weary step in the hope of
seeing this shadowy image, without being able to satisfy my curiosity. I
immediately made another movement by bending my body, and the colossal
figure before me repeated it. I was desirous of doing the same thing
once more; but my colossus had vanished. I remained in the same
position, waiting to see whether it would return; and, in a few minutes,
it again made its appearance in the Auchtermaunshohe. I paid my respects
to it a second time, and it did the same to me. I then called the
landlord of the Broken; and, having both taken the same position which I
had taken alone, we looked towards the Auchtermaunshohe, but saw
nothing. We had not, however, stood long, when two such colossal figures
were formed over the above eminence, which repeated our compliment, by
bending their bodies as we did; after which they vanished. We retained
our position, kept our eyes fixed upon the same spot; and, in a little
time, the two figures again stood before us, and were joined by a third.
Every movement that we made by bending our bodies, these figures
imitated; but with this difference, that the phenomenon was sometimes
weak and faint, sometimes strong and well-defined. Having thus had an
opportunity of discovering the whole secret of this phenomenon, I can
give the following information to such of my readers as may be desirous
of seeing it themselves. When the rising sun (and, according to analogy,
the case will be the same at the setting sun) throws his rays over the
Broken upon the body of a man standing opposite to fine light clouds
floating around or hovering past him, he needs only fix his eye
stedfastly upon them, and in all probability he will see the singular
spectacle of his own shadow extending to the length of five or six
hundred feet, at the distance of about two miles from him. This is one
of the most agreeable phenomena I have ever had an opportunity of
remarking on the great observations of Germany.'--"
SIR HUGH ACKLAND.
The following remarkable fact shews the necessity of minutely examining
people after death, prior to interment, and of not giving way to
ridiculous fears about supernatural appearances.
The late Sir Hugh Ackland, of Devonshire, apparently died of a fever,
and was laid out as dead. The nurse, with two of the footmen, sat up
with the corpse; and Lady Ackland sent them a bottle of brandy to drink
in the night. One of the servants, being an arch rogue, told the other,
that his master dearly loved brandy when he was alive; "and," says he,
"I am resolved he shall drink one glass with us now he is dead." The
fellow, accordingly, poured out a bumper of brandy, and forced it down
his throat. A gurgling immediately ensued, and a violent motion of the
neck and upper part of the breast. The other footman and the nurse were
so terrified, that they ran down stairs; and the brandy genius,
hastening away with rather too much speed, tumbled down stairs head
foremost. The noise of the fall, and his cries, alarmed a young
gentleman who slept in the house that night; who got up, and went to
the room where the corpse lay, and, to his great surprise, saw Sir Hugh
sitting upright. He called the servants; Sir Hugh was put into a warm
bed, and the physician and apothecary sent for. These gentlemen, in a
few weeks, perfectly restored their patient to health, and he lived
several years afterwards.
The above story is well known to the Devonshire people; as in most
companies Sir Hugh used to tell this strange circumstance, and talk of
his resurrection by his brandy footman, to whom (when he really died) he
left a handsome annuity.
AN
AGREEABLE EXPLANATION.
A gentleman of undoubted veracity relates the following story.