Antonio the Rich--Soul sold to the Devil--Dreadful
Announcement from a Volcano's Mouth--Three Ghosts--A
Thrilling Story--Human Remains found behind a
Stove--Mozart apprehensive of Death--A Strange
Visitor--Mozart writing a Requiem for himself--The
Stranger's Return--Messenger from another
World--Mozart's Death--Ghost of a Lady--The White
Lady--A Haunted House--Terrified Servants--Iron
Cage--Youth starved to Death--Frightful Dreams and
Dreadful Sights--Dog frightened by a Spirit--Ghost
sinking into the Earth--Deserting a Disturbed
House--Duchess of Mazarin--Madam de Beauclair--Compact
between the Living and the Dead--A Lady's Death
foretold by a Spirit--The Prediction fulfilled.
In the reign of Henry VIII., Mr. Gresham, a London merchant, coming
home from Palermo (wherein resided one Antonio, generally called the
Rich, who at one time had two kingdoms mortgaged to him), heard a
strange voice that filled him with alarm. Antonio had accumulated a
vast amount of riches, in ways not altogether in accordance with the
eighth commandment. His money was given in loan at shamefully high
rates of interest, and both principal and interest were often
recovered by oppression. In fact, gold seemed to be his god: for it he
appeared to live; for it, his poor neighbours asserted, he had sold
his soul to the devil. Mr. Gresham being detained at Strombuli by
contrary winds, he, with eight sailors, ascended a burning mountain
there. Approaching the crater as near is they could with safety, they
heard a hideous noise proceeding from the volcano's mouth, and a voice
crying aloud "Dispatch, dispatch, haste, the rich Antonio is coming!"
Terrified, the company hastened down the mountain, which, before they
reached the level country, vomited out fire. At Palermo Mr. Gresham
inquired for Antonio, and was informed that he died at the very time
the voice proclaimed from the scorching flames, "Antonio is coming."
Mr. Gresham, on his return to England, reported the strange
circumstances to the king, who had the facts confirmed by the
mariners' oaths. So deeply was Mr. Gresham impressed with what he had
heard, that he abandoned commerce, distributed nearly all his riches
among his friends and the poor, and spent the remainder of his days in
pious works.
A learned professor of moral philosophy in Koenigsberg, when a young
man, was presented by William I. of Prussia with a small benefice in
the interior of the country, at a considerable distance from
Koenigsberg. On taking possession of the parsonage, he slept in the
bedroom which had been occupied by his predecessor, then dead. While
lying awake in bed one morning, the curtains of his bed being drawn
aside, he beheld the figure of a man dressed in a loose gown, standing
at a reading desk, whereon lay a large book, the leaves of which he
appeared to turn over. On each side of the figure stood a little boy,
on whom he now and again looked earnestly. His countenance, pale and
disconsolate, indicated distress of mind. At length the figure closed
the book, and taking the children, one in each hand, he walked slowly
with them across the room, and disappeared behind an iron stove at the
farthest end of the apartment. The young parson was deeply affected by
the sight, but thought it prudent to divulge nothing at the time
concerning the apparitions. In nearly all Lutheran churches of the
Prussian dominion, it was customary to procure and hang up in some
part of the church the portraits of the pastors who had held the
living. On looking, soon after seeing the three figures, at the
portraits suspended in one of the aisles, he was astonished to
discover in the last-placed picture an exact likeness of the man he
had beheld in his bed-chamber. The sexton, with whom he entered into
conversation, told him that he remembered several incumbents. "The
last one," said he, "we considered as one of the most learned and
amiable men who had ever resided among us. His character and
benevolence endeared him to all his parishioners; but he was carried
off in the midst of his days by a lingering illness, the cause of
which has given rise to many unpleasant reports. It is, however,
commonly believed that he died of a broken heart." The new incumbent's
curiosity being excited, he pressed the sexton to disclose what more
he knew of the subject. "Nothing respecting it," answered he, "is
absolutely known, but scandal has propagated a story of his having
formed a criminal connection with a young woman in the neighbourhood,
by whom, it is asserted, he had two sons. As confirmation of the
report, I know that there were two children who were seen at the
parsonage--boys of about four or five years of age; but they suddenly
disappeared, some time before the decease of their supposed father,
although to what place they were sent, or what became of them, all are
ignorant. It is equally certain that the surmises and unfavourable
opinions formed respecting them reached his ears, and precipitated the
disorder of which he died." This information recalled to the new
pastor's mind, and seemed to give proof, of the existence of all that
he had seen. Soon after, when winter approached, it became necessary
to light fires in various apartments in the parsonage. Some difficulty
was experienced in heating the room in which the figures of the man
and two boys had appeared, as the stove not only smoked, but emitted
an offensive smell. Having procured the assistance of a tradesman to
make an inspection, he discovered in the inside, at the farthest
extremity, the bones of two small human bodies, corresponding exactly
in size, as well as in other respects, with the description of the two
boys who had been seen at the parsonage.
Mozart, the celebrated composer, was extremely apprehensive of death,
and at all times he laboured under profound melancholy. The
circumstances attending the composition of his last piece were
remarkable. One day, when his spirits were unusually depressed, a
stranger, of a tall dignified appearance, was introduced. His manners
were grave and impressive. He told Mozart that he came to request he
would compose a solemn mass, as the requiem for the soul of a friend
recently lost, and whose memory he was desirous of commemorating by
this solemn service. Mozart undertook the task, and engaged to have it
completed in a month. The stranger immediately paid a hundred ducats
for the piece, and departed. This visit, somehow, had a serious effect
on the mind of Mozart. He brooded over it for some time, then,
suddenly calling for writing materials, began to compose with
extraordinary ardour. Severe application to his studies brought on
fainting fits, and failing health compelled him to suspend his work.
"I am writing this requiem for myself," said he abruptly; "it will
serve for my funeral service." This impression never left him. At the
expiration of the month the mysterious stranger appeared, and demanded
the requiem. "I have found it impossible," said Mozart, "to keep my
word; the work has interested me more than I had expected, besides I
have extended it beyond my first design. I shall require another month
to finish it." The stranger made no objection, but, observing that for
this additional trouble it was but just to increase the price, laid
down fifty ducats more, and promised to return at the time appointed.
Astonished at the stranger's proceeding, Mozart ordered a servant to
follow the singular person, to find out who he was. The servant,
however, lost sight of him, and returned unable to communicate the
desired information. Mozart, persuaded that the stranger was a
messenger from the other world sent to warn him that his end was fast
approaching, applied himself with fresh zeal to the requiem, and, in
spite of the exhausted state of his body and mind, completed it before
the expiration of the month. On the day named the stranger returned,
but Mozart was no more.
The ghost of a lady who died in the fifteenth century from the effects
of her husband's cruel treatment, long after her decease haunted the
castles of the allied families of Brandenburg, Baden, and Darmstadt,
and other places far distant. The ghost was generally called "the
White Lady," in consequence of it appearing in white dress and in the
veil, through the folds of which a faint light glimmered. She glided
hither and thither along the corridors and apartments of castles and
palaces. Her appearance gave certain indication that a member of the
family at whose residence she showed herself was about to expire. At
another part of the country a white lady invariably looked in at the
window of a house where a person was dying; and, at a third place, a
woman hovered in the air over the abode of one taking leave of earth.
At the commencement of the first French Revolution, Lady Pennyman and
her daughters retired to Lisle, where they hired a large house at a
small rent. During their residence in this abode, the lady received
from her husband, Sir John Pennyman, a draft for a large sum, which
she carried to a banker in the town, and requested to have it cashed.
She received a considerable portion of the money in silver, and, as
she had several calls to make, she requested the banker to send the
money in a parcel to her house. The parcel was committed to the care
of a porter; and on the lady inquiring whether he understood from her
directions the place to which he was to proceed, the man replied that
he was perfectly aware of the place described--that it was called the
"Haunted House." She paid little attention to his remarks at the time,
but a few weeks afterwards his words were recalled to her recollection
in a manner that surprised her. The housekeeper came to Lady Pennyman,
and said that two of the servants, who had accompanied her ladyship
from England, had that morning given warning, and expressed a
determination to quit her ladyship's service, on account of being
terrified, night after night, by mysterious voices in their
apartments. This caused her ladyship, who was a woman of strong nerve
and an unbeliever in all that related to ghosts and haunted houses, to
sleep in a room evacuated by one of the servants, hoping that, by so
doing, her domestics would change their minds and remain. She was
greatly surprised to see in the room a large iron cage, and much
astonished to hear the legend respecting it. It was related that a
late proprietor of the house, a young man of great property, had in
his minority been confined in that apartment by an uncle, his
guardian, until the privations and divers acts of cruelties he was
exposed to ended fatally. Often had the youth been kept for days in
the iron cage without food. The unfeeling relative inherited the
nephew's wealth, but, like all ill-gotten gear, it did not bring
happiness. Frightful dreams and dreadful sights compelled the uncle to
leave the mansion, where he had murdered by inches a comely, docile
young man, once the comfort of a fond mother and loving father. For a
few nights nothing of an alarming nature occurred; she began to hope
that confidence would be restored in her household, and that she would
be enabled to return in peace to her own proper sleeping apartment.
Her expectations were not fulfilled. One night she was awakened by the
sound of footsteps in the haunted chamber, generally known as the
"cage chamber," while her son, a young man, who had just returned from
sea, was annoyed by loud knocking at his bedroom door, and strange
figures appearing before him. A friend, hearing of the noises and
apparitions, resolved to sleep in the "cage room," that he might
ascertain, if possible, who or what it was that disturbed the family.
Locking himself and a faithful dog into the "cage chamber," he retired
to rest, confident that he was secure against every intruder, whether
material or airy. His assurance was of short duration. He had not lain
long before his dog leaped into the bed, howling and terrified. The
chamber door slowly opened, and a pale, thin, sickly youth came in,
walked to the iron cage in the centre of the room, leaned against the
iron bars, and, after remaining a short time, retired by the way he
entered. The gentleman rose quickly to follow the ghost. On reaching
the door, it was fastened on the inside, as he had left it before
going to bed. His courage, however, did not fail him, and he continued
to watch the retiring figure. The youth descended the stair-case with
slow measured steps to the ground floor, when the form sank into the
earth. Every one was now convinced that the house was haunted: a panic
ensued, which ended in Lady Pennyman and her family abruptly leaving
the disturbed habitation.
It is well known that the celebrated Duchess of Mazarin was a
favourite of King Charles II., and Madame de Beauclair was a lady
admired and beloved by his brother and successor, James II. Between
these ladies there was an uncommon friendship. The two beauties were
allotted handsome apartments in Stable Yard, St. James's, but, for
obvious reasons, they had little conversation with the outer world. It
was agreed between the ladies, that she who should be first taken away
by death, would return, if possible, and give the survivor an account
of what was doing in the other world. This promise was often repeated;
and the duchess happening to fall sick, and her life despaired of,
Madame de Beauclair reminded her of their agreement. Her Grace replied
she might depend upon her performing what she had promised. These last
words passed between them not more than an hour before the lady's
death. Years passed on, yet not a voice or sign came from the dead.
Madame de Beauclair concluded that there was no such thing as
existence after death. Probably her mind would have remained
unchanged, had not the Duchess of Mazarin at last appeared to her.
One evening Madame de Beauclair was sitting alone, when she happened
to turn her eyes to a corner of the apartment, and lo! before her
stood the form of the departed duchess. The figure moved through the
room, approached near the lady, and, looking with great sweetness,
said, "Beauclair, between the hours of twelve and one this night you
will be with me." Having said this, the spirit vanished. So convinced
was Madame de Beauclair, though in excellent health and spirits, that
her dissolution was at hand, that she sent for her friends, to whom
she gave tokens of friendship, and summoned a clergyman to administer
spiritual consolation. All who visited the lady endeavoured to
dissuade her from giving way to thoughts which there seemed not the
least probability of being verified. "Talk not to me," she said to
those who imagined she was labouring under a singular delusion, "with
the view of making me believe that my eyes and ears have deceived me:
my time is short, and I would not have the small space allowed me to
be with you wasted in vain delusion. I know I have seen the Duchess of
Mazarin, and am convinced that her words will come true." Twelve
o'clock was about to strike, yet, to all appearance, Madame de
Beauclair continued in good health. Another attempt, to no purpose,
was made to remove all apprehension of early dissolution. The only
response that came was, "I am already sick at heart." Her countenance
suddenly changed, and before half an hour expired she had entered the
world of spirits.