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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76622 ***





THE STORY HUNTER




[Illustration: “Into the mouthpiece of the machine I spoke, asking, ‘Do
you hear me?’”--_p. 21._]




  THE STORY HUNTER
  OR
  TALES OF THE WEIRD AND WILD

  BY
  ERNEST R. SUFFLING

  _Author of “Afloat in a Gipsy Van,” “Jethou, or Crusoe Life in the
  Channel Islands,” “Life on the Broads,” etc._

  _ILLUSTRATED BY PAUL HARDY_

  [Illustration]

  LONDON
  JARROLD & SONS, 10 AND 11, WARWICK LANE, E.C.
  [_All Rights Reserved_]
  1896




PREFACE.


A year or two since, when I wrote _Jethou; or Crusoe Life in the
Channel Isles_, I received a large number of press reviews and
criticisms, all but two of which were of a very satisfactory and
encouraging tone, and spoke so flatteringly of my future career as a
writer of fiction, as to cause a blush--perhaps of modesty--perhaps
of hope--to suffuse my lily cheek. One of the adverse critics, who
must have been troubled with liver complaint in some form, took a
pessimistic view of my work, doubting the facts contained in the book,
and--in a literary sense--running amuck with the fictional portions.
But, as he unwittingly helped the sale of the first edition of
_Jethou_, I thank the wielder of this biting pen.

The other detractor found no particular fault with the book, but
thought the writer somewhat _lacking in high invention_, _i.e._, in
imaginative power.

Of course few persons see their own faults, and I had never even
dreamed that I had any lack of inventive power. But now that my
deficiency has been suggested to me by the critic of London’s
leading daily newspaper, I venture to place the present volume before
the public as an effort towards the vindication of my imaginative
power, and with the earnest hope that something may be found in it
of sufficient interest to repay the reader for the time spent in its
perusal.

                                                          E. R. SUFFLING.

  _Blomfield Lodge,
      Portsdown Road,
          London, W._




CONTENTS.


                                                   PAGE

         INTRODUCTION--A HYPNOTIST ON WHEELS          9

     I.  THE STRANGE DISCOVERY OF DOCTOR NOSIDY      15

    II.  TWO RUINED TOWERS                           36

   III.  A STRANGE RESURRECTION                      64

    IV.  A VISITOR FROM MARS                         87

     V.  BARBE ROUGE                                105

    VI.  ROBIN HOOD IN WINTER                       124

   VII.  ECCLES OLD TOWER                           144

  VIII.  THE MONK’S PENANCE                         161

    IX.  DOCTOR ANGUS SINCLAIR                      184

     X.  THE PHANTOM RIDERS                         211




THE STORY HUNTER.




INTRODUCTION.

A HYPNOTIST ON WHEELS.


Most men have a hobby of some kind, and I am certainly no exception to
the general rule. Some love boating; some painting; others carving,
angling, walking, shooting, or one of a hundred other diversions. The
hobbies of noted men would fill a goodly volume--thus Tosti is fond of
upholstering; Gladstone of tree-felling; the Sultan of Turkey is an
amateur carpenter; the Shah of Persia photographs everything he can
aim his lens at; the late Lord R. Churchill collected the teeth of
criminals; H.R.H. the Princess of Wales has a passion for specimens of
lace; and so on.

Now I love none of these pursuits, but will confess at once that my
delight is _a good story_; something out of the usual rut of everyday
fiction; something fresh, stimulating, racy; and to gratify my hobby I
have been for many years a most voluminous reader.

No scientific works for me, thank you; no dreary, three-volume, society
novels; give me good, sterling works of _fiction_--neither namby-pamby
on the one hand, nor revoltingly realistic on the other--but sound,
entertaining, well-worked-out fiction.

Generally speaking, my experience of writers is disappointing. One soon
finds out their style of working, and after reading a short way into
a story, the _dénouement_ can frequently be correctly conjectured.
Some authors are aware of this, and purposely lead their readers upon
a wrong scent quite up to the penultimate chapter, and then suddenly
surprise them by reversing their preconceived idea of the final
disposition of the characters represented. This is extremely puzzling
to that section of lady readers who “just glance at the last chapter”
before wading through the volume, and must be extremely tantalizing to
them as well.

Now it so happens that I have little else to do in life but to obey my
own sweet will; no wife have I, and but few relations, and as to them,
I steadfastly believe there is a great deal of truth in the aphorism,
“relatives are best apart.” So strongly am I convinced of this, that I
foster a fondness for peregrinating, solitarily, over the length and
breadth of England, and even for making occasional incursions into
Scotland or Wales.

My income is small but ample--a cosy £500 a year--upon which I can
manage in comfort, especially as I have adopted a novel system of
living; novel, not because it has not been carried out to a certain
extent before, but because I have made a permanent institution of it;
I am a dweller in a caravan, not merely during the pleasant summer
months, but _à la_ gipsy, all the year round; and, what is more, I
thoroughly enjoy my solitary life on wheels. I have no rates or taxes
to pay, and if I have troublesome neighbours I move; in fact I am a
progressive man, I am _always_ on the move.

My horse and I get on admirably together: in the summer he sleeps in
meadow or lane, on heath or common, while I sling my hammock in my
roomy van; but in the winter I stable my steed at an inn, and, as for
myself, laugh as I hear the snow-laden wind rasping vainly at the
woodwork and windows of my domicile. I am snug and secure from any
weather that may assail me; and with my pipe, my dog, and my books, am
as comfortable and free as the Queen in her Castle at Windsor.

But all this is not my very particular _hobby_; it is simply my mode of
living, and a free, healthy, Bohemian life it is.

As I have before remarked, I have a fondness for a good story; and
I have a peculiar way of securing that article. I do not go to a
book-shelf, get down a volume, and read a cut-and-dried version of
some adventure or incident--frequently spoiled by the opinions of
the writer, thrust willy-nilly upon the unfortunate reader--but I go
straight to the fountain-head--to the hero or chief participator in the
scenes and adventures described--and so get my story first-hand, _vivâ
voce_, from the lips of the living narrator.

In disclosing how I succeed in this I must first make a confession;
then my _modus operandi_ will be at once plain.

I am a hypnotist.

Not a professional, séance-giving operator. I simply took the subject
up as one would any other scientific pursuit, such as geology, botany,
or electricity, and in a couple of years became remarkably expert in
the fascinating diversion. I say _diversion_ purposely, as it _is_ my
diversion, wherever I wander during my nomadic life.

When a lad I read, and was enchanted with the wonderful stories of _The
Thousand and One Tales, or Arabian Nights’ Entertainments_, and now
that I have arrived at years of sober discretion, I look upon it as my
undoubted right to have a story told to me by every person I may induce
to share the hospitality of my caravan.

The Sultan Schahriyar was told a thousand and one tales by his
beautiful young bride Shahrazad, but as I have no beautiful young
consort to spin me nightly yarns--which, coming from one brain, must
necessarily have had a sameness--I have recourse to persons I meet in
my peregrinations, who, after an enjoyable meal and a pipe, allow me,
as a favour, to hypnotize them. The trance state having been induced
in a very brief time, I then exert my will-force, and request my
subject to tell me a story of anything remarkable that has happened in
his experience, or with which he was connected. By this means I have
listened to nearly as many recitals as Schahriyar himself; some good,
some commonplace, some not worth listening to; while a few of them
struck me as being very remarkable and quite out of the ordinary run of
book stories. It is a selection from these which I have collected in
this volume.

I must point out that in giving publicity to these stories I do not
betray any trust; as, apart from having the sanction of my guests, or,
as some would term them, victims--I have so altered names, places, and
dates as to make the individuality of the narrators quite secure from
discovery and consequent annoyance.

It may be asked, “Why do you go to the trouble of hypnotizing your
guests, when they would probably tell you a story without being placed
under mesmeric control?”

Now I am quite aware that “The Ancient Mariner” “stopped one of
three,” because the said one was _unwilling_, and therefore had to be
fixed with his “glittering eye,” but _my_ guests are _willing_ ones.
They would probably, out of courtesy to me, as host, tell me a story
in a sociable manner enough, but then, would they tell me the whole
truth? Would they not be liable to gloss over certain incidents, to
suppress others, and to add (for the sake of embellishment) many little
touches, which, however interesting and probable, might not be strictly
veracious?

Probably they would; and loving as I do to hear a _true_ story, I
always prefer to hypnotize my guest, who then gives me the facts just
as they come uppermost in his mind, and his narration is free from
flourishes or any great amount of extraneous or interpolated matter.

I do not know that I have anything else of a personal nature to place
before the reader, but will commence the first story after I have
premised it by a few words upon the narrator.

Dr. Nosidy is what many persons would term “a genius deranged.”
It must, however, be remembered, that frequently only a very thin
partition divides the genius from the madman, and one can recall the
names of many great geniuses, who in their day were looked upon rather
as lunatics than as shining lights of the world. The Doctor, by his
personal appearance and conversation, did not in the least impress me
with the idea that he was suffering from any mental aberration, but I
must admit his remarkable story gave me grounds for surmising, that he
was either a man far in advance of the times, or else one who would,
at no distant period, be likely to end his career under lock and key.

He was a small man with a bald head, round the circumference of which
grew a fringe of curly grey hair. His eyes were dark and sparkling, his
nose large and aquiline, and his mouth broad and thin, indicative of
volubility and power, with perhaps some acerbity of temper.

When I explained to him my hypnotic powers he fell in with my humour at
once, and in a few minutes, being placed in the trance state, commenced
the following curious recital, which I will call “The Strange Discovery
of Doctor Nosidy.”




I.

THE STRANGE DISCOVERY OF DOCTOR NOSIDY.


It is said proverbially, and I am quite aware of the fact, that a
little knowledge is a dangerous thing, and that sharp tools should not
be entrusted to the hands of unskilled persons; and it is because some
may depreciate my knowledge, and class me among those to whom sharp
tools are a danger, both to themselves and the community at large, that
I have not placed my discovery before the scientific world.

I have no particular ambition to pose as a great genius or inventor;
the things which I have discovered are so simple, that anybody else,
following the same line of thought, would probably have stumbled upon
the same truths. That my discoveries, placed in the hands of profane or
frivolous persons, would be fraught with many and great evils I do not
deny, and it is for this consideration that I refrain from giving my
_exact_ modus operandi in this narrative.

As will be seen from a perusal of this short recital, but little
further thought and elaboration are required to place my experiments
among the most astounding of this most marvellous age of discovery and
invention.

It is a trite expression we make use of when we say that “Electricity
is in its infancy.” Of course it is; it is but in its swaddling
clothes: but, by and by, it will grow such a powerful fellow as to
claim by right the kingship of the whole mechanical and motive world.

Now to my mind the two greatest forces in the universe are brain power
(or intellect) and electricity; and the time is rapidly approaching
when these two subtle energies shall govern or control nearly
everything under the sun. My friends infer that if I had a little
more brain force I should not take such absurd views of these two
great _Souls of Man and Motion_, as I am pleased to term intellect and
electricity. That I am not so distraught as my friends are pleased to
suppose, may be gathered from the outcome of those experiments which I
am now about to explain, so far at least as that can be done without
actually divulging the particular secrets which, for the present, I
wish to withhold, even from the great _savants_ of this scientific
epoch. I am afraid, however, that some reader of these lines will, if
he be of a keen, searching, inventive temperament, come in a short time
very near the borders of that discovery which it has taken me a dozen
years to experiment upon, and place in its present unfinished form.

Even when I was a lad I was a great reader and literary delver after
things which were in any way obscure, unfinished, or apparently
unfathomable; and among the many theories I formed upon subjects of
which the world had written much, and talked more, without advancing
any nearer to their solution, was an idea regarding the soul of man!

I may say in a few words, without giving the precise chain of thought
I employed, that my idea of man’s soul was--that it was nothing more
nor less than his _brain_; for is not that the very spirit, essence,
conscience, reason, and vital principle of man?

Certainly: for in what degree can even a man’s heart compare with
his brain in the supremacy it asserts over his corporeal body? It
is true that the heart is essential to him, and has a great work to
perform, and can do it without help from his brain, even while the body
and brain sleep; but, after all, it is a mere beautiful machine--a
mechanical, monotonous slave, with nothing more to recommend it to
notice than its faithfulness to its hidden duty.

Now let me affirm at once that the brain _is_ the soul, and when you
acquiesce in this, you will see more clearly how it is worked out
as a substantial truth in my wonderful experiments, or rather, as
their wonderful _result_; experiments, which after all were but my
intellectual knowledge reduced to a reasonable system.

Very well. I commenced my experiments with this theory properly worked
out in my own mind, but not substantiated with positive proof, _that
the soul and the brain were synonymous_.

Now the soul never dies--consequently the brain never dies! It decays,
and resolves itself into its constituent atoms, but it leaves behind it
what I will term _brain-ether_, which is absolutely indestructible and
immortal, and consequently lasts through all time.

Then came the thought--“If the brain-ether exists, where shall I find
it?” I wanted to know this one thing; then I could work out the ideas
I had in my mind, following them up with experiments to prove the
correctness of my premises.

Just think for a few moments of the vast encyclopædia of knowledge
stored in a human brain of ordinary calibre; think of the scenes, the
faces, the technical knowledge, the music, the skill, and the secrets
that human brain contains, and which, when the body decays, are turned
into ethereal memories--memories _not lost_, but stored up in the
brain-ether for ever.

Now it occurred to me, that if I could only ascertain what became of
this brain-ether as the body decayed, that I might secure some of it,
and with the help of modern scientific apparatus, so far capture its
treasury of knowledge as to make that latent knowledge of incalculable
service to mankind.

For many weeks I thought of places likely to be the earthly
resting-place of what I considered to be the fugitive brain-ether, and,
like every other mortal who has essayed the same intellectual feat, I
failed because I had the words, “The soul has fled,” ever present in my
mind.

Naturally, when a human being dies, if one says, “His soul has fled,”
the person spoken to directly assumes that the soul has left the body,
and gone no one knows whither. But, being scientifically artful, I took
an opposite and antagonistic view of the usually accepted answer, and
said to myself:

“Now suppose the soul has not fled, but is still present in the cranium
in the form of brain-ether.”

This startling hypothesis I took and worked upon. Forsaking the common
theory, I resolved to see if I could not by some means discover the
brain-ether, which I was morally certain existed _somewhere_, and which
I quite believed was as likely, or more likely, to be found in its
ordinary resting-place--the cranium--as elsewhere.

A recently deceased body or head was of no service to me to
experimentalize upon, as the spirit or essential ether would not have
become free till the disintegration of the pulpy matter of the brain
was complete. What I wanted was a skeleton, or even a skull, which had
neither been opened nor tampered with; and having no medical friends I
was at a loss to know how I could supply my want, when a lucky accident
gave me just what I required.

One day I was walking through Gower Street, London, when whom should I
run against but my old friend Stairs. Stairs is an Egyptologist, great
at reading hieroglyphics and cuneiform writing. Not having seen each
other for two years, we naturally strolled into the Horseshoe Hotel to
finish our chat in comfort, and to lubricate our throats, which have a
wonderful knack of becoming dry when their owners meet old friends.

Stairs had been away for fifteen months in Egypt searching for any
curious things having a commercial value in England. During his
wanderings in the country of the Pharaohs, he had purchased a large
number of curios, stones, amulets, rings, sarcophagi, and mummies,
which he was now endeavouring to dispose of to the trustees of the
British Museum.

After I had heard many of his adventures, it became his turn to inquire
how I was employing myself, and this finally led to my explaining to
Stairs all about my theory of the soul. Of course, being ignorant of
the matter, he simply laughed, and suggested that I had better have one
of his mummies to experiment upon!

Why not?

Just the very thing; what could be better than an ancient, unrolled
mummy, some three thousand years old?

I was positively delighted; and in furtherance of my fancy he handed
me his card, on the understanding that I was to proceed to his house,
and make a selection of any mummy I thought would suit my purpose, take
it home with me for a month to experiment upon, and at the end of that
time return it to him.

That very evening I went to my friend’s house in Gordon Square with a
small covered van, and brought my precious Egyptian away, thankful to
old Stairs for his kindly consideration. Stairs was off to Italy for a
month, and I had his permission to do what I liked with the mummy, so
long as I did not spoil its commercial value.

When the defunct Egyptian was safely deposited in my study I could have
hugged him for very joy, but refrained from the embrace as he smelt a
trifle musty.

I, Doctor Nosidy, scientist, mesmerist, thought-reader, and
electrician, felt that evening that I stood upon the threshold of
some grand discovery. The thought thrilled me as it did Columbus when
he came in sight of the long-sought land, or Bernard Palissy when
he discovered the true mode of firing his beautiful pottery-ware,
or Galileo when he discovered the movement of the earth. I felt the
sensations of these and other discoverers rolled into one; moreover,
it was my conviction that I was about to find something by the side of
which their discoveries would appear insignificant indeed.

Setting my apparatus in order, I commenced work by unrolling the head
of the mummy; carefully stripping off the multitudinous layers of
cerecloth, which were permeated quite through with a dark, brittle
gum or resin of some kind. By and by I came to the leathery and
gum-covered visage, wrinkled, emaciated, and black with the dry
atmosphere of thirty centuries.

Dark curly hair still adhered to the skull, and was not so brittle but
that, after bathing the compressed locks, I could lift them with the
blade of a spatula quite away from the cranium without damage. The
whole head was a very fine one--the nose prominent and hawk-like, the
eyes cavernous, and the mouth excessively broad and grinning; the lips
were so dried and compressed that they were flat with the face. The
teeth were still white and glossy, and the entire absence of any signs
of decay proclaimed the fact that the owner was young at his decease.

All these features I noticed as I worked away upon my subject, and
having at length uncovered the whole head, I made a small hole through
the apex of the cranium with a brad-awl. This done, I inserted, into
the space once occupied by the brain, the ends of the wires connected
with a certain electric instrument. Into the mouthpiece of the machine
I spoke, asking,

“Do you hear me?”

I listened, but of course no reply came.

How could it?

I had been much too eager to commence my work, and of a certainty, this
my first attempt could but end in one way--in absolute failure, and
that from three causes.

1st. The brain of a deceased Egyptian was removed through the nostrils
when the embalming took place.

2nd. Even if the brain-ether still tenanted the cranium the lips could
form no answer to my query, as they were so dry and parched as to have
no power of movement.

3rd. If the conditions of brain and lips were favourable, and I really
obtained a sound, it would certainly be in the dead Egyptian tongue,
which to me would be quite unintelligible. What should I do?

My defunct monarch, or whoever he might be, was suddenly transformed
into a useless incumbrance, instead of a scientific help.

Instead of hugging him for joy I could now have beaten him as a
scientific fraud.

There was nothing for it but to take a day or two and think the matter
out in an intelligent and calm manner.

I did think it out; and on the third day had so far perfected my
primal theory, that I resolved to give the mummy one more chance of
communicating with a nineteenth-century scientist.

Starting with the assumption that the subject would have been dead
from a few hours to a couple of days before the embalmers would
commence their process, and that the brain being lifeless and cold, the
spirit-ether might have escaped into its bony case and have remained in
the skull after the actual brain-matter was abstracted by the cunning
embalmer and his assistants,--I argued that it would be possible for
me to communicate with this spirit-ether, which would still retain in
an ethereal form the vast store of knowledge which the deceased had
accumulated when on earth. In that spirit-ether would be indelibly
written, as it were, a record of the whole life of the deceased, with
all his cares and pleasures, knowledge of contemporary events, and the
haunting memory of his sins.

Assuming, I say, that this record was present in an invisible, subtle
form, how, even if I could communicate with the brain-ether, would it
be possible to obtain a reply?

As I have said, I am a thought-reader, and my hope was that, if my
query were understood by the soul (or brain-ether) of the mummy, I
could, by the exercise of my peculiar function of reading thought,
obtain a reply.

All seemed correct in theory, and to put it to the test, I, that very
evening, opened communication with my ebony subject. One wire was
inserted through the cranium and the other, instead of being attached
to a sound receiver, I coiled several times around my own head!

Again I put the question “Do you hear me?”

Nothing at first transpired; but, on repeating the question several
times, my brain became aware of the power of thought working in the
dead skull, and this thought-voice gradually became coherent, until
I could actually detect the vibration of certain words being formed,
which were, however, not sufficiently distinct for me to understand.

My brain was quickly tired with the intense strain of sustained
thought, and, lying down on the couch, I fell fast asleep, to dream of
the land of the Pharaohs.

In my dream I seemed to hear people speaking to each other, and to see
them going about their usual avocations. I appeared in my dream to be
inside the shop of an Eastern hairdresser, where an Egyptian fop was
having his hair curled and dressed for some evening function, possibly
a ball or supper. The hairdresser and his young patron appeared to be
cracking jokes in their native tongue, of which I could not understand
a word, but still I laughed at their jokes as heartily as if I fathomed
every quip they uttered. At length I laughed so loudly in my sleep at
one of the barber’s witticisms, that I awoke to find tears of merriment
streaming from my eyes.

My dream had solved part of the problem!

Of course the thought-words I had read, by means of the wire round
my head, were in the _Egyptian_ tongue, hence the reason for my not
understanding them.

Here was a dilemma!

However, I did not give up my mummy; for, although I could neither ask
intelligible questions nor receive answers that I could understand, I
obtained Egyptian _thoughts_ whenever I had a mind.

I kept the royal corpse for the allotted month, and then returned it in
its deal case, with a letter of thanks to my friend in Gordon Square.

A dead subject was all very well, but a _dead language_ was beyond me.

So far my success was very encouraging. I had learnt, among other
things, that the soul, or brain-ether, still tenants the skull after
the substance of the brain is entirely dissipated--provided it has not
been removed from the cavity before decay set in.

With strong hopes of better success, I now resolved to obtain an
English skull and try my skill upon it.

During my peregrinations in the South of England the following week, I
found myself in the neighbourhood of X---- Cathedral, and strolling,
almost unthinkingly, into its grand interior, admired its decorations
and memorials. It was late in the day, and as in the gathering gloaming
I wandered round the solemn building, I found myself gazing upon some
curious painted coffins containing the remains of certain of our Saxon
kings. Gazing upon them I became fascinated, for they suggested
another step towards the realization of my grand scheme.

As I stood before these sepulchres of the long dead, I am sorry to
say the longing came into my mind to possess a skull from one of the
decorated coffins; and presently the longing became so intense, that,
like some villainous body-snatcher, I hid myself behind a stack of
chairs in the nave, remaining there seated comfortably on a hassock
till the great bell tolled forth the noon of night, when, coming forth
from my hiding-place, I effected my ghoulish purpose, and secreted
under my cape the cranium of a Saxon monarch.

The weary hours of the night lagged in their monotonous round, for I
dared not sleep, fearing I might not awaken before the opening of the
south door for the eight o’clock service; but my vigil was ended at
last by the arrival of a gaping old man, who came to ring the bell
calling early worshippers to the holy fane. The entry of several
persons to the building gave me an opportunity of walking quickly out
without attracting attention, but I can scarcely describe my feelings
of shame, nor is there perhaps any need of doing so. Necessity,
the noble mother of invention, had made a very criminal of me; but
whatever loathing I had for myself was condoned by the fact, that what
I was doing was for the sake of mankind at large; and although I had
purloined the principal part of a royal personage, I could not look
upon it as a theft, but merely as a loan from one who had no further
use for his ancient head.

A few hours brought me again to the mighty metropolis, and I quickly
set to work with my elaborate apparatus, but, alas! only to be the
victim of another disappointment.

Although I could obtain certain mental sounds (if I may so term them),
and could, by the aid of my thought-reading power, understand that
words were being thought by the brain-ether in the monarch’s cranium,
yet, unfortunately, to fathom their meaning was beyond me.

Pure Saxon was a language with which I was totally unacquainted!

Here was another stupid mistake of mine, of precisely the same nature
as the one I made in my first experiment.

What could I do?

Very little.

I copied down, phonetically, a number of the words which the monarch
was _thinking_, and showed them to a professor of Anglo-Saxon, but
all he could do was to translate some of them into modern English, so
giving a series of words without any sequence or connection whatever.

Angry with myself, and angry with the skull simply for being Saxon,
and therefore not understandable, I took it in my hand, and, in my
disappointment and rage, should doubtless have shattered it into
fragments against the wall, but for the sudden ringing of my door bell,
warning me of the arrival of a gentleman with whom I had an appointment.

When the interview was over my anger had ceased also, and that
afternoon, with the skull in a bag, I took train for X----, and
repaired to my stack of chairs in the cathedral. I hid myself again,
like a felon, till the doors were closed, then restoring the skull
uninjured to its resting-place, crept back to my hassock seat, and
awaited the dawning.

I fell asleep, and I suppose snored, for, to my astonishment, I
was awakened next morning by the verger, who, not believing my
cock-and-bull story of having been shut in the cathedral while absorbed
in the contemplation of the ancient structure and its interesting
relics, haled me before a magistrate.

It was with difficulty I proved my identity, and doing so cost me all
the loose cash I had about me in telegraphing to my friends, before the
worthy magistrate would release me, although I had been twice searched
to see if anything of value was secreted about my person.

Oh, science! what miseries thou hast for ages brought upon thy noblest
sons! What sorrows; what disappointments; what troubles and trials, and
alas, what terms of vile durance! I, being one of thy sons, have shared
all these evils, though perhaps in a minor degree!

My failures, however, were not unmitigated: I had established the
fact that brain-ether and brain-thought were present in skulls,
whatever their nationality, and to whatever period they might belong;
my failures were attributable principally to my lack of linguistic
knowledge, a lack that might easily be remedied.

My business now became to seek a skull of a more modern period. I
applied at a number of likely places, and at last was successful
in obtaining a fine, large specimen, which had a clean and refined
appearance. I paid but a small sum for it, and carried it home to my
study in triumph. Surely at last I was on the road to the development
of my pet project.

After dinner, all being quiet, I commenced experiments upon the skull,
and having placed my apparatus in order, I asked my usual question:

“Who are you?”

“Sidney Smith,” came the reply.

Good gracious, I thought, can this be the great wit?

“You do not mean to say,” I asked, “that you are the great Sidney
Smith?”

“I reckon you have just hit the right nail on the head,” was the
immediate thought-reply.

What a piece of luck.

“Well, Mr. Smith, such men as you the world sees but too rarely; your
name is still a household word among us, being constantly quoted as
that of the brightest star of wit of your day.”

“Whip you mean?” came from the skull.

“No; I said _wit_; a jocular person, you know.”

“I ain’t no wit nor jocular person,” was the response, “not as I knows
what ‘jocular’ is exactly, but if it is anything to do with a jockey
it’s nothing to do with me, for I stood six feet four, and weighed
seventeen stone. If you calls me a ‘whip’ instead of a ‘wit,’ there you
are right, for I drove the York and Manchester coach for over twenty
years.”

I found my subject very garrulous, very thick-headed, and very
quarrelsome--a man of high stature but low breeding; one who knew
nothing of any subjects but those of a horsey nature. One day our
conversation became so warm, and such a string of bad language flooded
the fellow’s brain-ether, that I had to disconnect my battery. I left
the cranium for some days, thinking that the man’s temper would have
cooled down, for I supposed that when I disconnected the electric
wires the current of thought ceased; but when I applied the wires to
my head, I found that the old store of abuse was still at work in the
brain-ether of my giant subject, and the end of the matter was, that I
smashed the beautiful skull into a thousand fragments against my study
wall, thus dissipating the soul or brain-ether into space.

I did not regret the occurrence, for the fellow was most vituperative
and impertinent whenever I wished to know anything of his family
secrets or earthly career.

Still, when I think of it, I have a deal for which to thank that
giant skull. It was during the fortnight that I possessed it that
I, to a great extent, perfected my apparatus for Soul-Reading,
Brain-Ether-Reviewing, Etherealized-Human-Record-Deciphering, or
whatever men may term my discovery, for I have not yet invented a title
for it myself.

I therefore thank that broken vase of humanity, though being broken, I
cannot convey my thanks as I would wish, for there is no brain-ether
left to convey it to.

Alas, poor giant!

Hundreds of skulls have come under my apparatus for examination during
the past decade, and I possess facts that would make many great English
families quake; facts asserted by ancestors’ souls--_and souls cannot
lie_--of how titles and estates have been wrongfully obtained, and
rightful heirs darkly put aside to favour other candidates.

I know of facts, suppressed in history, which, were I to reveal their
dark catalogue of murders, conspiracies and political intrigues, would
put a fresh interpretation upon the records of our country. But of what
avail would the disclosure be to our present generation? The heart
of man in the nineteenth century is, what it has been in all ages,
“desperately wicked.”

On the other hand, it has been my good fortune to converse with kings
and ambassadors, with men of learning, poets, statesmen, with artists
and men of science, even with the great Isaac Newton himself, and am
now in the position of being the best-informed man, upon past history
and events, of any person in the world. Men say there is but a thin
partition between a savant and a madman. I know better; I may be the
former, but between me and madness a vast gap yawns, although my
friends will have their little jibe at me. Great men ever had their
traducers, and I, naturally, am no exception.

Of all those with whom I have chatted--and by my experiments I can
converse with the spirit or soul of _any_ person, provided I have the
skull to which I can attach my apparatus--there has not been one equal
in intellectual capacity to Sir Isaac Newton, a most steady, solid man
of scientific sense.

Now Newton’s idea of the brain and my own precisely coincide, and if I
give _my_ notion upon the subject I give his also. Here it is.

The brain is an elaborate storehouse of knowledge of every kind. It
contains a record of _all_ one has learned during one’s lifetime; I say
_all_, because if a person has learned a thing and forgotten it, it
must not be supposed that that thing has vanished from the brain; not
so; it is faithfully recorded in the brain substance, though the mental
faculties may not be strong enough to _reproduce_ the particular thing
or theme when wanted.

Not only is everything once learnt retained by the brain, but it also
contains a record of every _action_ of one’s life. All these actions
and events are stored away in minute cells to the number of hundreds of
thousands, and yet to the human eye they are not as visible as a pin’s
point; in fact, they have no dimensions whatever.

Now, supposing this theory to be correct, can we not see (and I say it
with great reverence) how easy the task of the Recording Angel must
be; can we not imagine the celestial one reading the record of a man’s
brain as easily as we poor mundane mortals can scan a book?

Are not many biblical texts elucidated by this theory; for instance,
Ecclesiastes xii. 14; Matthew xii. 37; and Hebrews iv. 13?

But then the theory of the brain-ether, or the soul as some call
it, goes further. I am of opinion that the soul is not _spirit_ but
_matter_; matter of such infinitely minute particles as to be perfectly
invisible to even the most powerful microscope yet made.

Let me explain my meaning more fully.

Just as there are differences in the bulk and solidity of various
materials, so is there a vast difference in the tangibility, if I may
so term it, of various bodies and substances.

Take a cubic foot of steel--matter beyond all doubt--and of what
closely-compacted solidity and enormous density! Then take a cubic
foot of smoke, that again is matter, but what immeasurable difference
in density, tangibility, and even visibility there is in the two
substances!

Then go a step further, and imagine a cubic foot of gas: it is
invisible, intangible, and possesses but little density, yet it is
_matter_, it is not spirit.

Now, seeing the vast difference between various matters, can we not
believe that the brain, instead of being soul or spirit, may still
be matter of such a rare and subtle quality that there is even more
difference between it and gas, than between gas and a solid lump of
steel or granite?

If you can follow that suggestion you have my theory; but having spoken
of my theory I go no farther. Of what my apparatus consists I have
merely hinted, not mentioning one or two of its principal conditions.
My secret is of such vast importance that it would go a great way to
revolutionize science, history, and even religion, and I dare not
divulge it to the world at large. The more I think over the matter,
the more convinced I am that my experiments have so lifted the veil of
death, that I have stepped within the bounds of things which should be
unknown to man.

I have passed the Rubicon of the supernatural!

I tremble at my own temerity.

I have now but one Gordian knot to sever. Shall my secret die with me,
and so save the civilized world much anxiety, or shall I divulge it to
a small coterie of the world’s greatest philosophers, and allow them
to work upon and improve my ideas, so that they may benefit mankind,
without revealing the secret power, which in profane hands would prove
but a curse?

For the present the secret shall remain _mine alone_, but what I may
decide to do with it in the future, who knows?

       *       *       *       *       *

It is not every day that one has an opportunity of receiving a
millionaire as a guest, and to have the privilege of hypnotizing one is
a still rarer thing, yet both these experiences have been mine at one
and the same time, and I will relate how it happened.

I was staying for a few days on the Cornish coast, and had drawn my van
far on to the beach, by the side of a rivulet which, coming down from
low neighbouring hills, murmured and tumbled along its rocky bed until
it lost itself in the immeasurable sea.

My van was placed near some rocky cliffs, in such a position as to be
snug and secluded, and yet so as to retain a view up the lovely valley
through which the little river sparkled and foamed. I selected the spot
because of its quietude and beauty; I do not care for the annoyance of
children, or the obtrusive curiosity of their elders, when they can
easily be avoided by a little forethought.

Once or twice I noticed a tall, middle-aged gentleman roaming quietly
among the rocks and pools left by the low tide, and on one occasion
passed the seal of day with him in a casual manner; but, as he seemed
to be of a retiring disposition, I did not attempt to force my company
upon him, and passed on.

One day I sat on a rock observing a wonderful storm-clouded sky; I
watched the great, massive, vapour clouds rolling in from the west,
growing blacker and denser each minute. I noticed the hush of the air
and the subsidence of the wind, and so did the little birds, for they
flew twittering overhead to hide themselves from the approaching storm.
Then from the clouds burst the vivid zig-zags of lightning, and the
accompanying roar of crashing thunder, gradually coming nearer and
nearer, more frequent and louder. Presently, with a sudden blast, the
wind came hurtling down with startling force and fury, licking up the
sand and shingle as it drove along; and behind it came the rain, first
a few sparse drops, then a full downpour, and finally a rushing torrent.

This drove me into the welcome shelter of my van; but although I
securely closed the door it could not keep, from my startled ears, the
thunder crashes, as they reverberated and rolled among the stupendous
granite cliffs of the coast. My van shook, and my eyes were blinded
by several intense flashes of the discharged electric element, which
lighted up the wet rocks and the wind-swept pools with a luridly grand
but awful effect.

The cliffs appeared as if they were being shattered and tumbled
piecemeal to the shingle below, when an unmistakable tap, tap, tap
rattled upon my door, and I fancied I heard a voice, but the crashing
and roaring noises around me were so great that I paused before opening
the door for a repetition of the sound. Indeed my nerves were strung up
to such an intense pitch that, when the taps were repeated in a louder
manner, I felt afraid to open, for fear of letting in some weird spirit
of the storm.

Nervous, however, as I felt, I arose, and at the door, craving my van’s
humble shelter, was the silent gentleman I had spoken to a day or two
previously. I welcomed him in, but he was already wet to the skin. That
did not at all matter; I had plenty of dry clothes, which fitted him
like his own--both his and my inches being more than those allotted to
the average mortal.

In an hour the storm was over, the sun once more shone brilliantly over
the heaving waters, while the larks rose warbling in the air, carolling
their hymn of praise for the return of the welcome sunshine.

My guest accepted my invitation to stay and dine with me, and I found
him a very pleasant companion. He helped me to prepare and cook the
meal, and in the interval we played cribbage, smoked, and chatted.

He had come down to Cornwall, he informed me, to escape from his
friends and mankind in general, for, having inherited some money, he
was worried and pestered on all sides by impecunious persons and
institutions; and to come to a place where he was unknown was his only
means of obtaining a little peace, “far from the madding crowd.”

Of course I brought hypnotism upon the _tapis_ during dinner, and after
the meal was discussed, he requested me to try my hand upon him, which
of course I gladly did, with the result of obtaining from him the
following story of “Two Ruined Towers.”

I must here point out that, though while in a hypnotic trance I can
cause my patient to tell me a story, yet when at its conclusion I
awaken him, he does not remember a word of what he has divulged, and
I do not on all occasions enlighten him; for, as I am at times the
recipient of most remarkable family secrets, crimes, and misdeeds, I
dare not commit to print a tithe of what is related to me.




II.

TWO RUINED TOWERS.


When about three-and-twenty years of age I had the misfortune to lose
my father, an event which altered the whole course of my life, and
nearly unhinged my mind. My father was an artist of some repute, and as
I also loved the work, I had an ardent wish to follow in his footsteps.

At seventeen I left school, and immediately commenced my artistic
studies under my father. I also became a student at the ---- Art
School, at which, when I was about twenty years of age, I had the good
fortune to gain a travelling scholarship of £100 a year for two years.
The first summer I spent in the British Isles, eking out my scholarship
money with the help of a small allowance from my good parent.

The winter I spent in my father’s studio, and in the following spring
packed up my few belongings, and bidding my father farewell, travelled
to various parts of the continent, making my way gradually south
as the cold weather approached. Thus, roving about, I picked up a
fair knowledge of two or three languages, and when my time of travel
expired, found myself in Sicily, from whence, crossing over to Naples,
I spent my last few pounds in procuring a passage home on a P. & O.
steamer bound for dear old England.

On my arrival I lost no time in sending a telegram to my father,
advising him that he might expect me on the following day. I kept my
word, and arrived at the time I had mentioned, but, alas! I found my
dear old father on a sick-bed, and was only just in time to bid him a
long farewell, for he died two days after my return home.

The shock was so great to my nervous system that I too became ill, and
for a long time was in grave danger, hovering between life and death,
but, by careful nursing and skilful medical treatment, I eventually
pulled through. My nerves were greatly shaken at the awful home-coming
I had experienced, and the knowledge that I had not written to my
father for three weeks previous to coming to England, so that he might
know where to address me, preyed greatly upon my mind. I could not help
thinking that, had my father been able to communicate with me, I might
have returned sooner, and by so doing have possibly saved his life. I
felt somehow guilty of a kind of moral parricide, and blamed myself for
all that had happened.

It was more than I could bear to enter the studio; everything about the
place served to call up memories of the past; even the trees around the
old house seemed to whisper as I walked beneath them, “ingrate.”

I could not bear it.

I felt hysterical and delirious, talking and groaning in my sleep; and
during the day roaming about the house like one distraught.

The doctor diagnosed the case at once, and told me plainly that I must
choose one of two things--a lunatic asylum or foreign travel.

Feeling his opinion to be a sound one, I naturally chose the latter
alternative.

Once more I packed up my impedimenta and crossed to Dieppe, from whence
I wandered, without any decided route, across France into Switzerland,
from thence making my way gradually southward into Italy.

I sketched and painted, selling several of my drawings to tourists who
happened to see me at work, and, I suppose, admired my productions.
Painting and wandering were my day amusements, but at night I had
another source of relaxation and forgetfulness, and that was my flute.
Upon this instrument I played fairly well, and it was my constant
practice, whenever I was in a favourable place, after my evening meal,
to bring forth my instrument and set the peasants dancing. They loved
to hear the merry English airs, and became quite excited over the
various dance tunes I played them. Minuets, jigs, strathspeys, reels,
and hornpipes, all found favour with them, and their attempts to keep
step with the more lively measures were sure to bring forth a deal of
good-natured banter, mirth, and merriment. I always placed a tin cup at
my feet, into which the dancers could drop a small coin if they felt so
disposed, and this little collection I invariably gave to relieve any
case of distress or poverty in the village. The poor peasants looked
upon me as a very strange fellow, for they could not understand why
it was I played for money and then gave it all away again, sometimes
adding to the fund from my own somewhat slender purse.

Thus I wandered, week after week, as fancy led me, being sure of
a good reception in each village I stopped at, for my fame as an
artist-musician preceded me, and wherever I stayed for the night a
crowd would invariably assemble outside my window, ready for me to
step out flute in hand when I had finished my evening meal.

One day I found a peculiarly effective “bit” to transfer to my canvas.
It was a lonely, mountainous district I was in, and I had tumbled
across some finely-coloured rocks, picturesquely-disposed trees, a
ruined chapel, and a turbulent, dashing, little waterfall.

I unstrapped my light-folding easel and set to work. It was a beautiful
day, and I toiled on for several hours, singing and whistling quietly
to keep myself in countenance and spirits, for I did not see a soul in
this lonely spot.

At last I began to grow tired of my painting, and, as the shadows
were beginning to lengthen, I packed up, and was about to foot it to
the nearest village some four miles distant, when, mingled with the
peculiar noises made by the sound of falling water, I fancied I could
hear the moaning either of a human being or some animal, apparently in
great distress or pain.

Listening, I caught the sound of what I took to be a faint groan!

I placed my kit upon the ground and looked around. At first I could see
nothing; but after a moment’s search I discovered an old man sitting
among the rocks, moaning and groaning at some serious injury he had
apparently received.

Forgetting where I was, I addressed the old man in English.

“Hallo, old fellow, what’s amiss with you?”

He suddenly brought me to myself by replying in good English (although
spoken with a foreign accent), and informing me that whilst sitting
under a rocky cliff, contemplating the beautiful solitude, a large
portion of stone had become detached, and rolling upon his foot, had
severely crushed and cut it.

He was a man apparently seventy years of age, with an aquiline nose,
piercing dark eyes, whose depth and brilliancy were enhanced by the
whiteness of his over-hanging eyebrows, and a fine flowing white beard.
All this I took in with an artist’s eye, and made a mental note not to
lose an opportunity, by and by, of painting such a wonderfully fine
head, if the old man would allow me.

I tore up my pocket-handkerchief, bound up the poor crushed foot, after
bathing it with cool water from the river, and set my old friend, who
was profuse in his thanks, upon his feet. I ought perhaps say foot, for
he could not place his injured foot to the ground, and consequently was
unable to walk. I was in a dilemma; the nearest village being a smart
hour’s walk away, down in the valley.

“Cheer up, father,” said I; “allow me to try and carry you a little;
possibly we may meet some one as we descend the road.”

“Nay, nay, my son,” the old man replied, “leave me. Perhaps after a
rest I may be able to put my foot to the ground and proceed on my way.”

“No, that will never do, old gentleman; do you not know that wolves
haunt these rocky heights, and would probably devour you in the night
if you were left here by yourself and unarmed?”

“Ah, a sweet death, my son, but, alas! wolves cannot harm me.”

I looked at him in amazement as he uttered these words, but concluded
the pain had made him somewhat delirious and wild in his talk. Then I
took him in my strong young arms and carried him down the rugged path,
halting every now and again to recover breath and rest my aching limbs;
for, although my burden was but a bag of bones, still, on a rough
mountain path, his weight began to tell before I had gone a mile, and
I feared I should become exhausted long before we reached the village
whither we were bound.

Again and again I lifted the old man and carried him onward, but each
time I noticed the distance was less than the previous effort had
covered, and after struggling on for a couple of miles, I was forced to
give in for a long spell of rest. We were now down upon the plain, and
the sun was fast approaching the horizon, when my eye suddenly lighted
upon an ox feeding in a little green hollow a couple of hundred yards
off. Knowing that in Southern Europe oxen, to a great extent, take the
place of horses, I approached it; feeling sure that if it were an ox
broken to work, I could give my old friend a comfortable ride to the
village upon its ample back.

The animal stood and stared at me with its great soft eyes, and
I stared back in return, but having no knowledge of the handling
of cattle, I was at a loss to know what to do next. It was an
intelligent-looking creature, so I coaxingly spoke to it in English,
trusting that if its education had not been neglected it might
understand that I meant it no harm. I took it by one of its horns, and,
to my joy, the gentle beast was good enough to follow me; and as it did
so I looked at its neck and could see where the yoke had galled it, by
which I knew it was used for agricultural purposes.

We soon got to understand each other, and when I lifted the old man on
its back, and supported him there, the ox moved off quietly to the
village, which we reached just as the light had passed through that
stage which poets and learned men call crepuscular.

We found a comfortable inn, and there I attended the old man for two
or three days; but I must own my attention was not altogether due to
philanthropic motives, as I spent much of each day in painting the
grand old head of my patient. As I painted, so the old man talked; and
I soon discovered he had a wonderful memory, especially for historic
subjects: he appeared to have the history of Europe and Western Asia
at his fingers’ ends. He would have made a splendid historian, for he
could remember not only the chief events of the subject he happened to
speak upon, but a great many of the minor details which go to make up
an important episode in history.

His conversation thrilled me, and during some of his vivid recitals I
ceased painting, and sat down to listen as one spellbound. He commenced
with the struggles of the early Christians, graphically described the
decline of the Roman power, and the rise of the Northern and Western
nations.

Then he became eloquent upon the Conquest of England, knowing that
I was a native of that land, and so minutely described the field of
Hastings, that one might have imagined he had been an eyewitness. He
spoke of the persons of William and Harold, the weapons and armour
used, and could answer my queries so exactly, that I began to fear
there was something decidedly uncanny about my model. From the Conquest
he took me, in thought and word, right through the Crusades, and with
sparkling eyes described the principal actors on the bloody fields of
Holy Land, and when describing the prowess and fierceness in battle of
our Richard Cœur de Lion, he became so excited in his recital, that,
despite his injured foot, he rose from his couch in the centre of the
room, and taking up a mahl-stick, struck and thrust in all directions,
to explain to me how he of the lion’s heart bore himself.

I was speechless with amazement; my crippled patient was dancing about
the room with the vigour of a youth of twenty, quite regardless of the
mangled foot, which apparently gave him but little concern, and less
pain.

“My friend,” I exclaimed loudly, “your foot!--think of your injuries!
Your description is wonderful, magnificent, but do not forget your
crippled state!”

“Ha!” he returned, “seven times seven have passed over me, and my foot
is perfect again. See!”

Saying which he tore off the bandages, and exhibited to my startled
eyes a foot without even a scar.

I now began to feel a strange fear creeping over me, and I asked
him what he meant by “seven times seven passing over him?” To which
question, as near as I can recollect, his reply was this.

“My friend, I will tell you what my meaning is, on one condition--that
for three months from now you will not divulge a word of what I am
about to speak to you. If you do, may the burden of your insincerity be
on your own head! You have proved yourself a friend to a stranger, and
the fact of your not knowing whom you have assisted, makes your act one
of greater charity, and your kindness, like that of the Good Samaritan
in my young days, shall be rewarded ere we part.”

What, I thought, does he mean by the Good Samaritan of his youth? I
knew of but one: he of whom we read in the New Testament parable;
and I was about to ask him the meaning of this second enigma, when
he motioned me not to interrupt, and proceeded with his remarkable
monologue.

“By ‘seven times seven’ I mean, that although an accident may befall
me, as it may any other man, yet, after seven times seven hours have
passed away, I shall be sound again.

“I am keenly sensible to pain and to all human feelings, but _I cannot
know death_!

“No, between death and myself a gulf has been fixed by my Master, and
though corporeal pain may for seven times seven hours rack and torture
me, I am at the end of that period whole again, even though I were
wounded ten times fatally.

“I am the deathless one!”

At the aspect and demeanour of my weird companion I could have shrieked
with fear; his eyes were incandescent in their blazing lustre, and the
locks of his beard and hair writhed to my astonished eyes like the
living locks of a Gorgon.

“The stories I told you of past centuries were no mere tales gathered
from books, but were from my own personal observations.

“I stood in Rome when it was in flames; I saw with these very eyes
the martyrdom of the early Christians; I walked through the length
and breadth of Europe while Rome, with all its power and glories, was
passing away. At Hastings I stood beside brave Harold, when a short
arrow, taking him in the eye, pierced brain and skull, and he fell dead
beside me. I have seen the Saracens fall like mast in the autumn before
the trained arms of the bold Crusaders; and when Napoleon’s army fled
from Moscow I too followed them.

“I have felt the fierce rays of the Eastern sun and the biting winds
and frost of dreary Lapland.

“I have courted dangers and death in all forms, but here, after
centuries, I stand before you a living mortal covered with the cloak of
immortality.”

“Heaven help you, poor man!” I cried; “you must be distraught; mayhap
much learning has weakened your brain. Rest, good father, I implore
you. Rest on this couch, you will be better soon.”

“Rest, rest!!” he wildly exclaimed, “there is no rest for me, nay, not
even in the peaceful grave. Often and often have I stood in Death’s
path, and have felt the icy coldness of his breath, but, alas! he has
ever passed me by unheeded.”

“Surely,” said I, “you do not tell me that you are he who is doomed to
walk this rolling earth till the Master bids thy penance be no more?”

“Ay,” he replied, “I am he--he whom men, without knowing my true name,
call ‘The Wandering Jew’!”

I could scarcely believe my senses. Was the man mad? or was I mad? or
was it all a phantasy of my brain?

My guest held out his hand to me, which I mechanically clutched; then
drawing me to the couch, we sat down together.

“Forgive me, my young friend, for the shock I have caused you. Your
kindness has touched my heart, and for that kindness I will repay you,
as in times past I have occasionally rewarded others of my true friends.

“Now,” he continued, lowering the tone of his voice to a kindly pitch,
“I dare say you have read of a certain mighty personage, who, in
the early days of Christianity, was returning with great spoils from
a neighbouring country, when he was hard beset by the enemy, who,
with allies, followed close upon his heels; and how to save the vast
treasures he had taken, turned aside the course of a certain river, and
at dead of night buried his spoils there, deflecting the river to its
true course again ere daydawn.”

I bowed assent.

“Now,” he continued, “I know the country where this took place, and
can not only point out the very river, but the identical spot in the
river where that treasure still lies hidden. Have you the perseverance,
vigour, and endurance to bring that vast hoard to the light of day
again? If so it shall be yours!”

Hardly knowing what I was saying I replied in the affirmative, and
after further conversation we retired for the night.

We stayed a day or two longer at the inn to procure mules and other
necessaries, and then rode off upon our distant quest.

After weeks of wandering through mountains and valleys we came to a
river which flowed through a beautifully diversified country; hilly,
rocky, and well clothed with trees and luxurious foliage.

Riding along the river’s bank we came to a very lonely spot,--a long
glen--through which the river peacefully flowed in meandering curves
and foaming falls. The end of the valley broadened out into a level
plain of considerable extent, and in the midst of this plain stood the
crumbling remains of two ancient towers, of which little more than the
foundations remained.

“Here,” said my guide, “we halt; there lies our treasure,” saying
which he pointed to the deep, silent stream flowing between the two
massive towers.

“Now,” he continued, “you must follow out the plan I have devised for
regaining the wealth which lies hidden there, and carry out everything
just as I desire you.

“At the small town of Y---- hard by lives the owner of this land. You
will assume the character of a wealthy but eccentric (or partly mad)
Englishman. You are enchanted with the beautiful views in the glen
yonder, and wish to stay here for a long period, to paint pictures and
to generally enjoy yourself. You would like a two-roomed cottage built
near one of the towers, that you may live and sleep amid the scenery
you so love to depict. You will pay liberally.

“That is all I ask you to do. We will proceed at once to the town and
make these very necessary arrangements. I am your mentor, your tutor,
should prying people desire to know why an old man accompanies you.

“At Alexandria I have a friend, to whom I must write for certain
necessary implements to be sent to us, without which it will be in vain
to attempt our quest. To procure these implements shall be _my_ task.
They must be sent to the nearest port, and thence may easily be brought
here on the backs of mules.

“D---- is the nearest port, and there my friend Isaac Susha is
harbour-master; on my bidding he will send the goods here, free from
all observation or suspicion. In the mean time our little house will
be building, and you can amuse yourself with your painting, while I
elaborate my plans and ply my angling rod, for there is much fish in
this river. I shall make an ideal fisherman, for a flowing beard points
to the contemplative man, and your true angler is certainly of a
contemplative mind; such a man was your English Izaak Walton.”

In due course the little house was built, and the implements or goods,
supposed to be furniture, etc., arrived in six heavy cases borne on the
backs of mules. The muleteers were paid and dismissed, and in a short
time people ceased to regard us as a kind of show, and we were left in
peace and quietness, except for an occasional couple who would stroll
along in the evening to look at the mad Englishman and his keeper! Now
and again an old shepherd, whose flocks nibbled the juicy pasture of
the plain, would come and pay his respects to us, and watch the picture
growing on my canvas; but after nightfall we were never disturbed, for
the people of the district were very superstitious; and as the towers
had the reputation of being haunted, we were free from all interruption
after dark.

I unscrewed the packing-cases, and found they contained sundry
articles of furniture, such as folding-chairs, folding iron bedsteads,
cutlery, culinary ware, etc.; but in one of the cases was a complete
diving suit, helmet, overalls, tubing, lead weight, heavy boots, and
everything that a diver requires, even to a submarine lantern. Another
case contained an air pump, extra tubing, crowbars, and sundry gear.

My old friend chuckled with delight at my surprise, and his eyes
sparkled as we commenced putting the apparatus together.

“Now,” said he, “the inhabitants of this country are, as you know from
the legend of the haunted towers which you have heard, very suspicious,
and probably we shall have some official or other, making it his
business to call upon us occasionally, to see what is going on, and
it will never do to let him see the pump and diving apparatus, or we
should at once be haled before some dignitary, and charged with having
dealings with the Evil One. Now I have a proposition to make, which is
this--our bedroom lies next the river, and I suggest that beneath the
floor we hollow out a small chamber, about seven feet square, in which
we can keep both the pump and diving suit from observation, so that at
whatever time during the day any one chooses to call, nothing will be
in view to betray us.”

“Agreed!” I exclaimed; “a capital proposal; we will set to work this
very night. We will excavate, and as we dig up the earth I will carry
it in a basket to the river’s brink and throw it in.”

“Very well,” said the ancient Jew, “I will delve, and you shall be the
beast of burden, as you suggest, for you are the stronger man.”

“But,” I queried, “as you delve beneath the surface you will find it
very wet, you will catch your death from cold, and have your limbs set
fast with rheumatism.”

The old Jew laughed and replied, “Death--pah! You forget, my friend,
who I am. Come, let us commence.”

I looked at my wonderful old comrade and shuddered.

In a fortnight we had our secret room prepared, and everything was
ready to commence our search.

The Jew had informed me that the two towers were built by the great
General, some weeks after the treasure was hidden, at a time when
he had reasserted his power, and was once more in possession of the
country hereabouts. In the towers he placed watchmen and tax-gatherers,
whose duty it was to levy toll from each vessel passing up or down the
river; at least this was what he gave forth, but it was in reality to
guard the treasure lying buried in the bed of the river, which at a
convenient time he purposed recovering.

For some years he was harassed by the enemy, and at length died,
whereupon the enemy retook the country, and the new ruler, not being
aware of the treasure buried in the river, carried on the custom of
demanding toll, as he considered it a capital institution.

Years went by, men and manners changed, and the towers were neglected
and fell into decay; but around the hoary ruins many curious legends
gathered, and among others one which came very near the truth, as
it told of an ancient king, who, in flight, being hard pressed by
his pursuers, was in such haste to cross the river that the boat was
overset, the king and many others drowned, and a great deal of valuable
_spoil lost in the river_.

The Jew smiled at this particular story, and remarked that although,
like the legend, his was only hearsay, yet, as he received his account
first-hand from a friend who was _an eyewitness_ of the diversion of
the river and the subsequent burial of the treasure, there could be
but little romance about his version, which he averred was solid,
substantial fact.

“Now,” he observed in conclusion, “I am positive that the treasure was
buried midway between those two towers, but whether after the flight
of all these centuries we shall find it, or in what form we shall find
it, I cannot say; but if you are willing we will make the search, and
if successful the whole shall be yours; I require nothing! The mere
search is ample reward for me, as it serves to break the monotony of my
existence.”

We commenced diving operations in a very timid manner, or at least I
did, for although I had witnessed divers at work, I had never before
had any actual experience; still, as the Jew said, “There was no hurry.”

The first few nights were spent in fitting up the apparatus, in making
experimental dives, and in concocting a signal code that we might
understand each other, etc.

The sensation of submarine diving has so often been described that I
will not attempt to state what my feelings were at the outset of the
operations; suffice it to say that they were far from pleasant, but
with practice I soon became expert, especially as the deepest part of
the water was not more than twenty feet, so that I did not suffer much
from compression.

I quickly discovered that the bed of the river was somewhat muddy,
that is to say, there was a deposit of several inches of mud or soft
earth, resting upon a substratum of gravel. In some parts large beds of
weeds were to be seen sailing their long fronds upward to a height of
several feet: these I quickly cut away, and with great labour at length
succeeded in clearing away the upper layer of soft ooze nearly from
bank to bank, and for a width of perhaps twenty yards near the centre.

We worked four “turns” per night of an hour each, with an interval
of half-an-hour between each dive, so that we were occupied from 10
p.m. till 4 a.m., when we went to bed and slept till 10 o’clock,
beside obtaining several little daylight snoozes when all was quiet.
The Sunday was to us a true Sabbath, and no manner of work was done,
not even cooking; we reserved that day for prayer, meditation,
conversation, and much-needed rest.

We had now been working for six whole weeks, but though everything
was in perfect working order, and the river-bed was being cleared, we
had no more knowledge of the exact location of the spoil than when we
arrived three months previously.

The real toil now commenced; for digging in the river-bed had to be
undertaken at depths varying from fifteen to twenty feet beneath the
surface. To dig on dry land a hole of four or five feet in depth is a
comparatively easy task, but to dig a hole of like depth _under water_
is a most arduous undertaking, a task requiring strength, perseverance,
and much patience. Tools used under water are difficult to manage, and
by reason of the resistance of the water lose half their efficacy. For
instance, a strong man wielding a heavy hammer under water, although
he may strive his hardest, and exert his full strength, can only make
his blow of the same force that a child of ten could strike on _terra
firma_, because the water resists his arm and the fall of the hammer,
in proportion to the area of surface of his arms and the implement. I
also found that when using a spade I could only remove a portion of
a spadeful each time, as the current and swirl of water floated the
lighter particles off, leaving only the heavier pieces upon the blade
of the spade; thus digging holes in the expectation of finding the
treasure was a wearisome task, especially as I had to cease my work at
frequent intervals, to allow the turbid water, thick with sediment, to
become clear enough for me to see what I was about. Thus toiling on,
another five weeks passed wearily away, without the least trace of our
quest being discovered.

The Jew at length began to weary of pumping air to me, and I of diving
and delving, so we resolved to take a few days’ rest, and decide what
further steps we should take in our search.

The river was about forty yards wide, and although I had sunk about
a dozen pits in the bed of the stream, I had discovered absolutely
nothing.

I thought the matter carefully over each day, but could only come to
the conclusion that we were either searching in the wrong place, or
that the treasure had long since been washed away and lost. Still, I
could not imagine how even the swiftest torrent could affect or move
anything buried beneath the river-bed at a depth of four or five feet.
Then it struck me that earthquakes were not unknown in the region, and
a shock might have caused an upheaval of the river-bed, by which the
treasure might have been exposed and washed away centuries ago by some
unusually heavy flood. If this had happened, was it not also probable
that the stumps of the two towers would have been rent and cracked in
many places?

Certainly it was.

I therefore examined the ruined towers, but their foundations were
perfect, save for a few superficial fractures. I thereupon concluded
that my earthquake theory was not tenable.

I next examined the banks on each side of the river, especially the
portion immediately _between the towers and the water_, and found that
on one side, the side farthest from our hut or cottage, solid rock
formed the principal part of the bank. From the tower on that bank to
the brink of the water was a distance of just fifty feet; but the tower
on our side of the river stood within ten feet of the water, and the
foundation stood upon an ordinary layer of earth, with an under stratum
of gravel similar to the bed of the river.

My old friend and I could see nothing in this to assist us in any way;
but when I retired to rest that night I could not help asking myself
the question, “Why does one tower stand fifty feet from the water and
the other only ten?”

Was it not probable that whoever built the towers would erect them at
equal distances from the river? And again--If one tower were required
for some reason to be nearer the water than the other, would it not be
the one which was built upon the solid rock?

Over these questions I pondered and worried half through the night,
while my old comrade snored away as peacefully and regularly as he had
done any time during the past nineteen centuries.

Before I joined my companion in a nasal duet I came to the following
conclusions:--

1. Probably centuries ago the river had been much narrower.

2. A river does not keep its exact course for ever: many things may
cause it to change its course.

3. This river had not diverged much from its original course, as proved
by the towers; but if it had diverged at all it was towards the eastern
tower (cottage side).

4. The towers were exactly one hundred and eighty feet apart, but the
true centre of the river would be forty feet from the west bank and
eighty feet from the east bank.

5. River _beds_ may rise or fall from their original level, by
deposits of earthy particles settling, and thus covering up what was
once the true river-bed; or by a swift river scouring off the upper
surface of the bed, which would thus eventually expose anything hidden
at a depth of five or six feet below the bed.

6. The deepest part of a river is usually in the centre, and there
would probably be the spot where anything in the way of treasure would
be buried, because of the greater inaccessibility.

Next day the Jew and I held a consultation, when we decided, after
carefully weighing the above ideas, that I should cut a trench five
feet deep and twenty or thirty yards long, from north to south, along
the bed of the river in a line with its course, and at a distance of
forty feet from the west bank, a spot which we surmised to be the
centre of the river in ancient times.

Again night after night I toiled, and for three weeks I dug and delved,
but this time not _quite_ in vain, for at the end of this period I came
upon a hard substance which I supposed to be just what I had struck my
spade upon many times before--a stone. I took it in my hand, for the
water was too turbid to see anything clearly beneath its surface, and
felt it to be much too heavy for a flint of the size of one’s fist.
Probably it was metal!

My heart beat swiftly as I ascended.

I took it to the hut and examined it. It was indeed metal--it was gold!

We gazed upon it for some time, and then, placing it upon the table, I
capered round it with delight. The Jew was very calm over it.

“Wait,” said he; “this may only be a solitary nugget dropped from a
boat, or thrown into the stream by some thief to hide his guilt.”

I went soberly to work again, taking with me a small basket weighted
with stones to prevent it floating away. I dug, and again struck upon
large nuggets, which I placed in the basket; I also found pieces of
metal which had evidently been shaped by human hands, although they
were in such a corroded state that I could only surmise what had once
been their shape or use. I washed off the adhering gravel and took my
find ashore to the hut, trembling with excitement as I did so.

Hurrah! every piece was pure gold! gold!! gold!!! Then, being
thoroughly exhausted by my long dive and the excitement of my
discovery, I frightened my companion nearly out of his wits by
fainting, and falling like a log of timber at his feet.

When I awoke it was broad daylight, and I was lying comfortably in my
cot, but with a very bad headache.

I groaned, for it at once flashed across my mind that the basket of
gold was, after all, nothing but a dream, a delusion!

Calling my friend from the other room, and glaring at him the while, I
asked half-a-dozen questions before he could answer one.

“Calm yourself, my son, and I will answer all your questions, but not
before you give me your word that nothing shall excite you. Remember,
that in your overwrought state, with a burning brain, an enfeebled
frame, and a naturally excitable temperament, such a thing as madness
might overtake you, or an attack of brain fever seize you.”

“Father, I will be a very Stoic; nothing shall unduly move me.”

“Prove then that you can control your feelings by not asking me a
single question till you have eaten your breakfast.”

I obeyed; but how every morsel stuck in my throat, and had literally
to be washed down with coffee. The apparently everlasting meal was at
length finished, and again I put my numerous questions, and recounted
my dream of the basket of gold. Then with a gesture intended to compose
me, the Jew drew forth from a locker the basket of gold, and held it
out to my astonished gaze.

“Gold!” I exclaimed, stretching out my trembling hand.

“Yes, gold,” said the Jew, quietly placing the basket upon the table as
if it contained apples. “Gold, simple gold; would you be so weak as to
addle your brain for a basketful of the vile dross? It is at once the
curse and blessing of humanity; it kills and it saves; it blackens the
pure, and gilds vice; it creates and it destroys, and more often paves
the way to hell than builds a ladder to heaven.”

What my friend said upon gold would fill many pages, but to shorten
these remarks I will simply say that his eloquence and force of
argument were so great, that I presently became infected with his ideas
of the metal before me. I had been like a man drunk with gold, but had
now become sober with advice.

My fevered brain quieted down, and I simply resolved in my mind that
I should be a rich man. Well! what of that, there were plenty of rich
men in the world who lived and enjoyed their wealth, but then--unlike
my ancient friend--a few short years would bring them face to face with
that great harvestman, Death, and what of the riches then?

In a day or two, having with the Jew’s kind nursing and attention
quieted my mind, I re-commenced my work, and found many more baskets of
gold of various shapes; battered crowns, cups, shield bosses, rings,
and ornaments of all kinds, many of them with gems in them, were
brought to the surface; and one night as I lay in bed, it came into my
head that I would the next night bring ashore a basketful of the loose
gravel, and examine it to see if any small pieces of gold were among it.

Accordingly the next night, as most of the large pieces of gold had
been gathered, I filled my basket with gravel, and took it to the hut,
where I spread it forth on the table.

To our astonishment, not only did we discover small pieces of gold, but
precious stones, cut and uncut, were to be seen sparkling amid the heap
of gravel. The gravel was of more value than the lumps of gold!

The cut gems we put carefully by in a box, and those in a rough state,
which we had more difficulty in finding because they were of a dull and
lustreless surface, we placed in a large leathern bag.

I found I had literally been shovelling up precious stones when I
fancied I was digging gravel, but now that I was aware of the value
of the gravel-bed, I carefully brought every basketful ashore, and
together we sorted over the contents.

For several weeks, night by night, I continued my work of diving, until
nature gave out, and I became completely prostrate, and by my old
friend’s advice resolved to give up seeking for more valuables. I had
gold of ten times my own weight, several leathern bags of natural uncut
gems, about a peck of beautiful cut jewels, and enough ring-seals
and ornaments to stock a museum; I was rich beyond my most extravagant
dreams. I was twice over a millionaire!

[Illustration: “Precious stones, cut and uncut, were to be seen
sparkling amid the heap of gravel.”--_p. 58._]

The Wandering Jew had but a few more days to be with me, for he may not
sojourn at one place more than six months, and that privilege is only
allowed him once in each century; at other times a calendar month is
his longest stay at any place. Usually he tramps from place to place,
halting but a short time at each town or village; at other times he
undertakes long journeys among the Caucasus Mountains, the Urals, or
the Alps; at other times he hies him to Norway, Finland, and even
Siberia. These journeys he undertakes with no other encumbrance than a
long staff. He can accomplish feats that would be impossible to other
mortals: no wild animal dare attack him; cold he can feel but it cannot
harm him; sleep has no hold upon him when he wills himself to remain
awake, nor does hunger have any pangs for him, as he is able to fast
for weeks at a time without any great inconvenience. He speaks many
languages and knows many countries. He wants for nothing, as he has the
power of willing persons to give him exactly what he may require, not
_against_ their will, but with pleasure to themselves.

For the few days which remained we occupied ourselves in packing
and forwarding the boxes by different routes, and under different
disguises, to my home in distant England, in which I longed once more
to set foot.

I endeavoured in every way to obtain the real name of my generous old
friend, but without success, and am sorry to say he did not even give
me the opportunity of thanking him for having made me a millionaire,
for one stormy morning when I arose I found myself alone; my comrade
had flown, leaving upon the table a scrap of paper bearing these words--

  “My son, riches added neither to the honour nor happiness of the great
  king Solomon; how, then, shall they bring _thee_ peace--that peace
  which is the spirit of happiness--except by doing good with that which
  earth and water have yielded up to thee?

  “Do good with thy riches, and thy fellow men shall bless and reverence
  thee.

  “Use thy riches in a selfish or discreditable manner, and thy gold
  shall turn to lead as thou graspest it, and drag thee deep down to an
  eternal doom. Fare thee well.

                                             “(Signed) JOHN XXI., xxiv.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Many were the schemes which racked my brain for turning my valuables
into money; and for a long time after returning to England I did not
know how to proceed, but at length hit upon a plan. The very numerous
relics of pagan times I presented, under various assumed names, to
museums throughout the kingdom. The gold I had no difficulty in
disposing of to the large manufacturing jewellers in Birmingham. The
uncut precious stones I occasionally send in parcels of a thousand to
M. Koster of Amsterdam, who for the past ten years has set apart a
wing of his great establishment, containing twenty-five men, who are
constantly employed in cutting and polishing gems for me. These are
then sent to agents in all parts of the world, and disposed of, the
proceeds being placed to my account in the Bank of England.

I live as a wealthy country gentleman should, in good style, but
without ostentation. I travel a great deal in the summer, and to every
genuine call of distress my purse is open, but the cases requiring
pecuniary aid which come under my _personal_ observation are not nearly
enough to absorb the amount--about £100,000--which I wish to spend
yearly in charity and good philanthropic work. My money is distributed
over the British Isles to charities of every denomination under the
initials A. Z., which you have probably often seen in the daily
newspapers, and I trust I may live for many years to bestow my largesse
on cases and institutions worthy of aid.

I have more than I shall spend during my lifetime, but there is
doubtless a great deal more treasure in the river-bed which I
overlooked in my hasty search, and which could be made the means of
alleviating much suffering, wretchedness, and distress in this country,
if it were brought to light by some one who would search for it in a
more diligent and thorough manner than I did, and who would, when he
had secured it, put it to the same good use that I am doing. To whom
could I tell the secret of the whereabouts of the ruined towers, with
the certainty that he would carry out my wishes?

I wonder who would take up the search at the point at which I ceased?

By obtaining permission from the government of Z----, the river’s
course could be again deflected as it was in the early Christian days,
and the remaining treasure systematically and leisurely recovered.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was quite late when my guest left me that night, after having first
extracted from me the promise that I would call upon him at his humble
inn in the happy valley next day.

Having made a parcel of the still wet clothes I called next morning
upon my new friend, and spent the day with him, wandering about the
valley, and trying a cast with the fly. On parting in the evening
he informed me that he was to return to town next day, and I should
probably see him no more.

A day or two after his departure a man came down to the beach leading
a fine piebald mare, and inquiring if I were Mr. S----. I informed him
that that was my name, whereupon he gave me a note written in pencil,
reading thus--

  “MY DEAR FRIEND,

  “I cannot allow the day I spent in your cosy domicile on wheels to
  pass without some little acknowledgment of the courtesy shown me, and
  of the kindness you extended to a perfect stranger. By bearer I send
  you a magpie, which kindly accept as a remembrance of

                                             “Your obliged friend,
                                                      “H. K. K. (A. Z.)”

I have never seen H. K. K. since, although I think I could, if I
wished, make a very near guess at his real name and abode. The magpie
still tugs myself and home from place to place, the admired of all
beholders from the beauty of his peculiar markings. He makes my caravan
an object of extra interest wherever I go, simply because of the
superstitious belief that a piebald horse brings luck.

Some people _wish_ when they see my horse, others affirm that stroking
its glossy hide helps to realize their wish. Parents whose children
suffer from St. Vitus’s dance have asked me to allow the afflicted ones
to ride a little way on its back, in the belief that such exercise on a
parti-coloured steed will effect a cure.

A jockey about to ride a race on a certain occasion begged seven black
hairs from the tail of my horse and seven white ones from its mane. I
granted his request, and watched him bind the hairs carefully round the
handle of his riding-whip. I witnessed the race with more than usual
interest, and strangely enough the superstitious jockey WON his race by
a short head.

At more than one inn at which I have halted, the landlord would take
no money for the maintenance of my parti-coloured horse, saying that
bad luck would fall upon them if they charged for the keep of a “lucky”
horse.

So much for credulity and superstition!




III.

INTRODUCTION TO “A STRANGE RESURRECTION.”


While travelling along the Norfolk coast, and enjoying its golden sands
and bracing breezes, I fell in with a jolly old fellow who was mending
one of the huge oaken breakwaters, with which some parts of this
wind-swept coast are protected, to prevent the encroachment of the sea,
which, year by year and slice by slice, devours the soft clay cliffs,
as regularly and insatiably as a ploughboy consumes his thumbpiece
after the first two hours of morning work.

The jolly one had charge of a gang of half-a-dozen semi-amphibious
agricultural labourers, who were driving down the great iron-shod
piles deep into the sand, by means of an erection very similar in
construction to a guillotine, except that instead of the lunette a huge
block of iron weighing several hundredweight fell upon the pile to be
driven when a lever is pulled.

The men, with whom I conversed while they ate their noonday meal, were
of the usual type of tawny-bearded, brown-faced, straight-nosed men one
sees on the east coast, who, when not employed in farm work, gain their
scanty living on the sea. But the ganger was a man of a different
stamp; he was short and thick like a Shetland pony, and very nearly as
rugged and unkempt as one of those sturdy animals, for his iron-grey
beard and hair blew about in the wind like the tattered rags on a
mawkin.

He was a most jocular little-big man, full of fun and funny sayings,
and the loudest to laugh at his own jokes was--himself. His laugh was
hearty at any time, but on special occasions he would give a peculiar
roar that would quite startle any person not used to Billy Flowerdue’s
wild guffaw.

I invited Billy to spend an evening in my caravan, an invitation which
he readily accepted, as he was some miles from his home, and only at
present lodging in the inn of a neighbouring village.

Billy opened his eyes at many of the curiosities I had picked up during
my travels, and widest of all at a curious piece of work which had
been made by a man in the same line of business as himself--that of a
carpenter and wheelwright. It was a wooden leg, which had been made for
a cow, and which the animal had worn for several years, until she met
her death by lightning.

It was a curious contrivance made of two pieces of wood, jointed at the
knee with a pair of ordinary iron hinges, and made to fly out straight
when the animal arose from a recumbent position, by means of thick
india-rubber springs attached from the upper to the lower timbers.

If the powerfully-built little carpenter opened his eyes wide at what
he was pleased to call “that thayer cur’us contraption,” he did so even
more fully when I asked him to allow me to send him to sleep by a
peculiar power I possessed, and I quite believe he thought I was either
insane, bent on robbing him, or else thirsting for his blood.

I had, therefore, to fully explain the meaning of hypnotism to Billy,
who, although a masterful hand with the adze or chisel, had apparently
no brain for other subjects. His head was full of chips and timber,
and nothing more. By dint of persevering persuasion, he was at length
prevailed upon to permit me to place him in a state of trance, but
not until I had first placed my faithful collie “Skybo” in a mesmeric
sleep; at the sight of which Billy laughed loudly enough to make the
plates and crockery in my house on wheels rattle again.

I had no need to ask Billy to give up his mind, and allow himself to
think of just nothing at all, for it appeared a chronic state with him,
to which he relapsed after every laugh. When he did enter the trance
state he related the following very curious adventure of his early days.


A STRANGE RESURRECTION.

I am not what you may term an _old_ man, being a few months short of
sixty-five years, but though my years are totalling up considerably, my
spirits are light as a feather, and although fifty years have passed
away since the story I am about to tell you took place, the incidents
are as vivid in my memory as they were a month after their occurrence.

I was a youngster of fourteen or fifteen at the time I am about to
speak, and like most boys of that age had a liking for the sea,
especially as I dwelt in a great seaport where every one was in
some way or other connected with fish or ships, and where even the
schoolboys’ common expressions were flavoured with nautical terms.

My birthplace was Great Yarmouth, and at the time I left school in
1835, no one seemed to ask the question, which we so frequently hear
now, of “What are you going to do with your son?” because it seemed
predestined that the entrance of a boy into the world should be by way
of the high seas. Each boy at the age of fourteen or fifteen appeared
to look forward intuitively to the time when he should make his first
voyage, or join one of the great herring fleets which annually leave
Yarmouth in August; and he knew also that his maiden experience was
merely a test, to ascertain for what particular division of toilsome
nautical life he was most fitted.

Some liked the sea and its thrilling dangers, and stuck to it through
fair weather and foul, working their way upward, till in a very few
years they became mate, skipper, and presently part owner of the smack
or lugger they commanded. Others preferred shore life; the sea was too
coy a mistress for them to woo; and they were accordingly apprenticed
to sail or mast-makers, shipwrights, smiths, netmakers, or something
of the kind connected with shipping. Others again would volunteer for
service in Her Majesty’s Navy, being taken with the trim appearance of
the young fellows who had preceded them in that branch of the nautical
life, and came home on leave, to show off their little horde of gold
saved from their first cruise money.

Yet another set there were who, disdaining the toil of a fisher’s
life, the subordination of the navy, or of being always ashore at some
trade, chose the freer life which was led by those who were apprenticed
to the coasting or mercantile trade.

On leaving school I determined to see about me a little, and
accordingly cast in my lot with the latter group, and was in due course
enrolled as an apprentice on the books of _The Ladybird_, a smart
little trading brig, belonging to Yarmouth.

My father at the time kept an inn called the “Jolly Waggoner,” just
out of the town, on the Caister Road, and as it was early spring, the
various caravans were moving from their winter quarters, and their
owners painting and gilding up their properties ready for the round
of the fairs, which in Norfolk commence in the spring and run right
through the months, till Christmas and heavy snows put a stop to them
for the year.

At the side of the “Jolly Waggoner” was a large piece of spare
ground, upon which might frequently be seen four or five caravans
being repaired and painted; my father uniting in his own person the
businesses of painter, publican, carpenter, and smith; so that with one
thing and another he made a very fair living in a quiet way.

Well, a couple of days before _The Ladybird_ was to sail with a general
cargo to the Faroe Isles, the skipper, towards evening, came down to
my father’s house to settle about my premium money, and to give me an
opportunity of signing my indentures.

Captain Cooper, that was his name, was a jolly, genial man, full of fun
and merriment, and had the name for being a most able seaman; and as
he was part owner of the vessel, my father had no doubt that I should
be in good and safe hands. They were old schoolmates and life-long
friends, so, as Captain Cooper remarked, it would only be leaving one
father on shore to serve under another at sea--a kind of nautical
foster-father.

I was delighted when the indenture was pushed across the table to
receive my signature, and though I made a big blot to start with, I
afterwards signed my name very well, which was more than I could say
for either of my two fathers, for their hands were so stiff, and the
pen so scratchy, that they made very laborious work of it. The captain
wrote his name as much with his jaws as with his pen, for sticking his
tongue into his cheek, he elongated and rolled his lower jaw in a most
curious manner, apparently forming each letter with the tip of his
tongue on the inside of his cheek, and then simultaneously scrawling in
the same slow manner with the quill pen on the parchment before him.

My father signed with a big cross, so his task was soon over, but
still not before he had made the pen give a big splutter, just as a
sea-rocket does when it touches the water, and the ink flew in spray
from bottom to top of the important document.

By the time the witnesses had signed their names, and spattered their
share of ink over the indenture, the whole thing was highly decorated,
and looked for all the world like a map of some large city, showing by
black dots the positions of the various places of interest.

After such a Herculean task, much refreshment was required, supplied,
and in due course consumed.

I can fancy myself now sitting in the cosy bar-parlour--though it is
fifty years ago--listening to the wonderful yarns spun by Captain
Cooper; yarns which appeared to me to become more astounding as he
warmed up with the many and various liquids he imbibed.

Then I recollect a startling occurrence which happened in the midst
of the story-telling; it was the entrance of a travelling showman,
who wished to know if he could put up at our house for the night, as
he wanted some repairs done to his caravan next day. He was of medium
height, stoutish and florid, just the type of person one would expect
to be connected with the show business. He was a perfect stranger to
my father, but as there was work to be done for him in the morning, my
father bade him take his caravan upon the green, and after he and the
ostler had fixed up all for the night, come and have a comfortable pipe
and chat with us.

Jim, our ostler, accompanied the showman, and having stabled the
horse for the night, and put the van into a good berth, the showman
rejoined us. He proved to be a capital story-teller, as are most of his
profession. His tales, if anything, were more wonderful than Captain
Cooper’s; anyway, I never heard such stories as they told one against
the other, and I do not doubt that if I had glanced at myself in the
looking-glass, my eyes would have resembled small china tea-saucers. My
father did not call them stories, he used a harsher but shorter word;
but I, in my verdancy, imagining they _might_ be true, gave them the
benefit of the doubt, and swallowed them like so many sugar-plums.

Now the thing that fixes this scene so vividly on my memory was, that
while these men were so busy racking their brains for the toughest
yarns, the half-door leading into the bar was suddenly opened, and the
space filled with the huge form of a man, who inquired, in no amiable
strain, if the showman were going to sit there all night, and leave him
without so much as a quart to moisten his lips with.

The ceiling of the bar-parlour was certainly not lofty, being barely
seven feet from the floor, but to my surprise, and I might also add
horror, when the man pushed open the half-door and entered the room
he could not stand upright, so gigantic was his stature. His entrance
created quite a commotion among those present, but the showman soon
smoothed matters by ordering a gallon of ale, and telling us that our
visitor was a giant with whom he was travelling round the country for
exhibition purposes.

I had never seen a giant before, and he quite frightened me when he
planted himself right beside me on the settle. I rose to find fresh
quarters, not quite so close to such an uncanny monster, but he pulled
me back and sat me on his knee, just as if I had been a four-year-old
child, instead of a good-sized lad of fifteen.

His hands and feet were enormous, and when I shook hands with him at
his request, my decent-sized fist looked like a baby’s in his huge
paw. He was not only tall, but he was large-framed, and well built
in every way; a man of enormous strength, and, as I soon found, of
prodigious appetite. He had, so the showman informed us, just been
captured from the plough in Yorkshire, and the showman was taking him
round, and paying him double as much as he could earn by his work as
an agricultural labourer. The giant liked the nomadic life, and the
princely sum of eighteen shillings a week made him something of a
Crœsus compared with other working men.

Somehow I could not take to the man, although he seemed to show a
great partiality for me; he was rough, coarse of speech, and of a
pugnacious temperament; but, except for one or two little bickerings, a
very pleasant evening was spent, and the showman, who was in his cups,
insisted upon seeing Captain Cooper back to the ship, as the Captain
could not steer straight; in fact, he could scarce make headway at all,
as his legs would cross and keep tripping him up. The end of it was
that the showman’s horse was brought out, the Captain strapped on his
back, and the showman hoisted up behind, to navigate the steed to the
quay. Jim the ostler followed quietly behind on foot, and returned an
hour later with the horse, informing my father that he had left both
skipper and showman fast asleep on the cabin floor.

Then we went to bed, and saw no more of the tipsy showman till ten
o’clock next morning, when he turned up at the “Jolly Waggoner” looking
very seedy.

Well, now having introduced my _dramatis personæ_, I must say a few
words concerning the ship, the lively little _Ladybird_. She was a trim
little oak-built brig of some 200 tons, well found in gear and stores,
and carried beside the skipper, a mate, three hands, and a cook, to
which please add your humble servant as articled apprentice. Our cargo
was a very miscellaneous one, and consisted principally of barreled
beef and pork, cloth, linen, beer, spirits, hardware and cutlery, for
we were bound on a trading expedition to the Faroe Islands, where
we were to take in a cargo of salt-fish, bird-skins, fur, guano,
seal-skins, oil, etc., in exchange for the goods we were taking out, as
very little ready money is in circulation in those out-of-the-way isles.

The skipper did not expect to be gone more than two months, as the
distance from Yarmouth to the Faroes is not more than a thousand miles,
inclusive of touching at the Orkneys and Shetland _en route_; so
when I bade my father farewell on the quay, I anticipated being back
for my birthday on the 10th of June, but my case was only one more
exemplification of the adage, “Man proposes, but God disposes,” as will
be seen.

I was in a great flutter of excitement when the hour of departure
really _did_ arrive, which was not till near noon instead of eight
sharp, as the skipper had announced. I was like a monkey just escaped
from its cage, here, there, and everywhere; and when we dropped down
the river to the harbour’s mouth, on the very last of the ebb, I can
recollect how I scrambled aloft when the order was given to loosen and
hoist sail. I did not know what to do certainly, but I watched the
others, and worked away till my fingers, arms, aye and every limb ached
again--but I was supremely happy until _mal-de-mer_ overtook me, and
then I went below and turned into my berth.

A couple of days found me all alive again, and on deck as merry as a
cricket. We were now off Aberdeen, quietly drawing along under all
sail, and everything going as merry as a marriage bell.

As night began to close in around us we had Peterhead (the chief
whaling port) right on our port beam, and that gave Captain Cooper an
opportunity to tell some of his yarns about the whaling cruises he had
participated in when a young man in the Greenland seas.

After dark, being past Kinnard’s Head, near Frazerburgh, we had the
great gulf between Aberdeenshire and Caithness on our port beam, and
were quite out of sight of land. The wind, which had been lazy all the
day, now began to freshen and back a little to the south of west,
which was very favourable for our sailing. Seeing this the captain
made up his mind not to call in at Kirkwall, the chief town in the
Orkneys, but to leave it for the homeward voyage, and take advantage
of the favouring breeze to push on to Lerwick in the Shetland Isles.
His orders before turning in were consequently given to the mate to be
carried out, unless a change of wind should occur, in which case the
skipper was to be called.

Having got over my sea-sickness and found my sea-legs, the day appeared
too short for me, so I agreed with the cabin-boy, Joey Nicholls, that
we would not turn in till the end of the first watch (midnight), but
stay on deck and enjoy the beautiful evening, for it was a lovely mild
moonlight night. My own watch was the second dog-watch, which is over
at eight p.m., so Joey and I had laid ourselves out for a further four
hours’ fun before turning in.

For a long time we chatted with old Bunks, whose turn at the wheel it
was, and then getting tired of him, we took off our shoes and skylarked
about in the beautiful moonlight. We set each other various tricks
to perform, at which we found we were about equal; but presently
Joey, whose turn it was to set the next task, ascended to the mizzen
cross-trees, and sat there for two or three minutes, when he came down
and dared me to do the same feat. It was a simple task enough, but it
must be remembered I had only had two or three days on the sea, and had
hardly overcome my nervousness in going aloft even in the daytime, and
to ascend at night when the moon throws such black shadows from the
sails, was quite trial enough for me.

However, I essayed it, and arrived safely at the cross-trees, upon
which I perched myself in a very gingerly manner, for fear (in my
ignorance) that my weight might cause them to break. I sat and looked
upon the heaving waters around, and was endeavouring to summon courage
to look on deck from my dizzy height, when I heard a thud and a cry of
pain below me, and involuntarily glancing down, I saw the mate strike
Bunks, who was hanging to the spokes of the wheel. As I looked another
blow descended, and then breaking the unfortunate man’s hold from the
spokes, I saw the mate deliberately pitch him over the taffrail into
the white wake of the _Ladybird_, where he seemed to float a minute and
then disappear.

Almost simultaneously I saw a strange man seize poor Joey, struggle
with him to the bulwarks and throw him overboard. Joey could swim, and
I could hear his shrieks for several minutes, as he vainly struck out
after the brig, which was making three feet to his one.

I could not recognize the assailant of my poor chum; but when I looked
under the foot of one of the sails, I beheld, to my horror, the
herculean form of the giant I had left a few days before at my father’s
inn, the “Jolly Waggoner.” I could scarcely believe my eyes, but a form
like the one beneath me on the deck was such as one sees scarcely in a
lifetime, and when once seen cannot readily be forgotten.

My heart beat quickly, and I trembled so violently that I could with
difficulty retain my hold of the ropes to prevent myself from falling
to the deck. I could not keep my eyes off the figures beneath me, and
in the bright moonlight could detect their every movement. I saw the
showman go to the wheel and pull his coat-collar up and his cap-peak
down, and the giant hide himself behind the cook’s galley, which stood
amidships.

Then the mate went to the fo’castle scuttle and bawled out, “All hands
tumble up, man overboard; shorten sail--be alive there--don’t stop to
shave,” and the usual patter for suddenly turning up a crew, and in a
twinkling up came the three men from their berths, rubbing the sleep
out of their eyes with their knuckles.

“Here, lads,” said the mate, pointing to the boat which was hanging
from the davits, “jump in and lower away. Old Bunks is in the water
astern. Look alive now!”

They stepped up to the boat and began to right side her, when out
from his lurking-place behind the galley sprang the giant, and in a
trice, with a heavy cudgel, he knocked the three poor fellows down like
ninepins, and before they could recover, picked them up one by one like
bags of chaff, and tossed them over the bulwarks into the silent sea.

At this sight my senses nearly forsook me; but clasping the mizzen
top-mast convulsively I hung on, cogitating what to do, and deciding
that if either of the three fiends below should attempt to ascend the
shrouds to take me, I would save them the commission of another murder
by precipitating myself on the hard deck below, thus hoping to kill
myself instantaneously.

They descended into the fo’castle, looked into the cook’s galley and
under the boat to try and discover me, and I heard them mention my name
several times, coupled with most awful threats and voluble profanity.
They did not appear to think of looking aloft for me; but as I pressed
my body to the mast I was afraid, so great was my agitation, and
knowing wood to be such a splendid conductor of sound, that they might
hear the violent throbbing of my heart as they passed the foot of the
mast. It was a foolish idea, but at the time I quite believed it beat
with noise enough to betray me.

After another search the mate, with an oath, exclaimed, “Leave the
---- till the morning; we can scrag him then just as well as now. Come
below, lads, and have a drink, for I think we’ve finished our job in a
very neat fashion!”

They all went down into the little cabin, which contained two berths,
one for the captain and the other for the dastardly mate. The
skylight being a little open I could hear them talking, but could not
distinguish what they said; and I could also hear the clinking of
glasses and the drawing of corks.

But what of Captain Cooper? So far I had neither heard nor seen him.
Was he dead, or what had become of him?

I had no means of ascertaining.

How long I sat on the cross-trees I could not say, but presently the
voices in the cabin grew less noisy, and at length ceased altogether.
Whereupon I imagined that the ruffians had drunk so much that they had
fallen asleep. I listened for some time longer, and at length, as all
was quiet, and I was getting numb with sitting so long in one position,
I quietly quitted my eyrie, and with trembling steps descended to the
deck, and peeped through the small aperture left for ventilation at
the edge of the cabin skylight. Although I could hear voices I could
perceive no one in the cabin; however, I noticed one thing which
surprised me--that a small trap-door in the cabin floor stood slightly
raised, and from the space beneath came rays of light, showing that
the conspirators were doing something in the hold. Now I thought, if I
could only steal down the companion, I could not only look round the
cabin for some signs of the captain, but I might also get a glimpse
beneath the trap-door and see what was going on below. I doubted my
courage, but not for long, as it occurred to me that the captain, after
all, might not be dead; and in the fact of his being still alive laid
my only chance of escape.

I felt my way cautiously down the dark stairway, and peered down the
partly-open trap-door. I could see the three villains on their knees
sorting over papers, which might have been one-pound bank-notes by
their size, and the care with which they were being counted out. In
front of the giant stood a large leathern bag, with its mouth wide
open, displaying bright golden guineas in great numbers; evidently
the gang were dividing the spoil. The place in which they were now
gloating over their crime-bought wealth appeared to be only about six
feet square, and to contain nothing but some large iron-bound chests,
the contents of which I could not even guess at, but I should say that
the place had been used as a kind of strong-room, and the only mode of
ingress and egress was evidently the trap-door through which I was now
looking.

But what of the captain?

Carefully, in the total darkness, I felt my way to his bunk, and put
my hand in. Yes, he was there, for I touched him. It was his leg I
touched. I slid my hand up towards his head, and my fingers rested upon
his cheek. It was warm, but, alas! there was a feeling about the flesh
that told me he was dead!

At the awful discovery I could scarcely repress a wild, hysterical
shriek--a shriek which would have cost me my life, for the assassins
below would instantly have sprung up and murdered me with as little
compunction as they would kill a fowl or a rabbit.

I clutched the side of the bunk for support; I could scarcely breathe!
I staggered; and stumbling, kicked against something which fell and
sounded like a knife. It made a noise on the cabin floor, and I heard
a voice say with an oath, “What’s that?” Then I saw the light move and
the shadows of the men sway about.

They were coming up into the cabin! I was lost!!

Stay; was there not time to reach the companion and fly on deck?

No.

My faintness vanished instantly, being put to flight by the new and
greater horror which presented itself. The discovery of the captain’s
death had unhinged me, but the approach of my own death braced my
nerves and spurred my limbs into immediate action; for without an
instant’s hesitation I sprang into the dead man’s berth and hid behind
the corpse, placing myself between the dead skipper and the side of
the vessel. The head and shoulders of the giant came upward through
the trap, but it was too dark for him to discern anything. Oh, for a
pistol! I could then have defied the villains, who would have been
caught like rats in a trap of their own setting.

The head suddenly disappeared, but presently made its reappearance, and
the lantern was handed from below and stood on the cabin floor, while I
in my hiding-place quaked with fear, imagining that I should now for a
certainty be discovered and slaughtered.

Here was a contrast to the cosy bar-parlour of the “Jolly Waggoner”;
but I could give but little thought even to my dear old dad, knowing
that my life hung on a mere thread. My eyes were riveted on the
gigantic head and shoulders emerging from the floor. The lantern came
first through the trap, and was swung aloft by the brawny arm of the
giant, who looked around beneath it. He gazed steadfastly at the face
of the dead man by my side to see if any movement was apparent. The
dead man hid and saved me, for the giant quietly pronounced one word,
“Rats!” and then he and the lantern vanished below again.

Here was a dilemma for me to be in! What should I do?

To lie where I was simply meant being discovered in a very short time.
What _could_ I do?

If I attempted to get in the boat and lower myself down from the davits
I should be heard. Could I feel for the knife on the floor and stab the
rascals one by one as they ascended the ladder into the cabin?

Bah! my very heart recoiled at the notion. I could not have killed them
even to save my own life. I thought of the sensation of feeling the
knife drive through the flesh and jar upon the bones, and the spurt of
warm life-blood over my hand, and I shuddered at the idea. No, I was no
coward, but as a lad of fifteen I could not take a human life, even for
the sake of saving my own. With a pistol it might have been different,
a touch of the trigger and all would have been over; but to stab and
stab again--no, I could not do it.

But stay, a bright idea struck me. Surely the trap-door had a bolt or
bolts!

Out of the berth I immediately crept, over the silent form of the man
who in death had saved my life, and stole on tiptoe to the trap-door.
The villains below were jangling over the doling, and their noisy
altercation served to hide any little noise I made searching my way
across the cabin, which was in utter darkness.

Joy! there were two bolts!

I carefully felt the bolts to ascertain if they worked easily, and with
my fingers examined the staples to see if they were clear and strong.

Yes, both were clear and in order. Then noiselessly and tremblingly I
lowered the lid and shot the bolts, and so expeditiously and quietly
was it done that had there been even less noise below, it is probable
that the men would scarcely have known the moment of their trapping,
though they would soon perceive the fact from the air becoming hot and
vitiated.

Groping about I soon found the knife on the cabin floor, and sprang on
deck, noticing that the night had grown much darker, and sombre clouds
hid the moon; still there was plenty of light for me to see to lower
the boat. But now another fact arrested my attention, a startling fact:
there was smoke quietly curling up from the fo’castle. I rushed to
the hatch, but, looking down, could see nothing for the dense smoke;
on listening intently, however, I heard a faint crackling sound as of
burning wood.

_The ship was on fire!_

Should I release the prisoners?

No, that would never do, my life would be forfeited to my humanity
without a doubt. Probably they would break out of the strong-room long
before the fire reached so far aft, and although I had the only boat,
they would probably have sufficient time to rig up some kind of raft,
upon which they could remain safely till they were picked up and taken
into port by a passing trading vessel.

I could imagine them being hanged at Newgate on my evidence!

Keeping my eyes on the companion way, I popped into the galley, and
fished a huge junk of salt beef out of the boiler in which I had seen
the cook place it the night before, for the purpose of soaking it to
remove some of the super-abundant salt with which it was saturated. A
bucket of doubtfully clean water stood in a corner; I tasted it, and
found it was fresh, poured it into a large stone bottle, spilling half
of it in my hurry, rammed a dirty cloth into the neck by way of cork,
and put bottle and beef into the boat.

I hastened to lower the jolly-boat from the davits, but before she
touched the water one of the falls jammed, the forward one luckily,
and, as I lowered away on the aft one, the stern rested in the water,
while the bows remained a couple of feet above it, in a dangerous
position. This is not at all an uncommon occurrence, but my nerves were
so shaken by the terrible ordeal I had passed through, that I fancied
I heard the noise of feet on deck, so seizing my knife I cut away
like a madman, making a dozen random cuts where one well-directed one
would have sufficed. The boat swung round before I could unhook the
other fall, and I was within an ace of meeting a watery grave when she
righted, and bumped against the brig’s black side.

From the taffrail, as I swept past, depended a thin line, which I
mechanically clutched and held, but as the ship was going some three
knots an hour the boat rapidly dropped astern. I still held on as
fathom after fathom paid out over the taffrail, till quite twenty
fathoms hung in the water; then came a jerk, which threw me on my face,
but I still hung on, and made the end fast round the forward thwart, as
the other end was evidently fast on the _Ladybird_.

I sat in the bows for what seemed like hours, knife in hand, ready to
cut myself adrift on the first signs of a human being appearing on
deck. I saw the moon set and the night grow inky dark, and the volume
of smoke from the fo’castle increase, and then I saw the glow of the
extending fire reflected on the sails, but no human form was visible.
Then I heard a crash and a subdued roar, and saw tongues of flame
shoot up above the deck, catching the foresail and setting it in a
blaze; then up and up it mounted till the whole suite of sails on the
foremast were ablaze, and as I sat there I remember thinking to myself
how pretty it looked. I felt secure, and my nerves were soothed by the
sight before me, and I looked on calmly from my seat in the bows at the
gallant ship, which from being my home had nearly become my tomb. Could
I but have looked at the men in the strong-room, then, come what might,
I am afraid I must have released them, for evidently they were still
prisoners, and my sympathetic heart would have been my body’s ruin.
I tried to find some mode for their release and my own safety, but
although I racked my brain, I could devise no practical plan; beside,
by this time they were probably suffocated.

While thus cogitating, the flames took hold upon the sails of the
mizzen-mast, and they too were soon destroyed, leaving the yards and
masts blazing. The air grew hotter and hotter; the deck was in a
blaze, and great pieces of burning wood and tarry rope began to fall in
and around the boat, and although I wished to hang on to witness the
last of the _Ladybird_, I was at last compelled to cut the rope and
drop quietly astern, as the heat, smoke, and fiery drift had become
quite unbearable.

The good ship was now alight from stem to stern, and without her sails
made very little progress through the water, but drifted gradually
before the faint breeze, so slowly, in fact, that with the paddles I
could manage to keep up with her. She presented a splendid appearance
as, clothed in fire, she rose and fell on the roll of the sea; her
reflection, mirrored in the waves, made the water glow with an
incandescent lustre that riveted my boyish attention as intently as the
finest pyrotechnic display could possibly have done.

Day at last began to dawn, and when light fairly broke, I was alone
on the ocean; for the poor old hull with its stumpy black masts
swerved from side to side, and, with a sidelong movement, sank like a
tea-saucer, sending up, with a sudden puff, a great cloud of vapour,
and leaving many charred fragments floating in the swirling waters
where she disappeared. I pulled in all directions, to see if perchance
the bodies of any of the villainous trio might float to the surface,
but nothing met my eyes but broken and burnt wood, and the usual
flotsam from a scuttled vessel.

And that was the last I ever saw of the good ship _Ladybird_.

Now that should really be the end of my yarn, for I am not going to
tell you how I drifted about for three days, wet to the skin, and
unable to protect myself from the pouring rain; and I need not tell
you how I cut my raw salt beef in strips and washed it down with the
dirty water I had in the bottle. Suffice it to say that on the evening
of the third day I was picked up, more dead than alive, by a brig bound
to Rekiavick, in Iceland; and from thence was given a passage to Hull,
from which port I walked home to Yarmouth.

When I quietly entered the bar of the “Jolly Waggoner,” I nearly
frightened my father out of his senses at my unexpected appearance.

But to tell of that would make my yarn too long.

What I want to wind up with is the proof of its truth; and this is how
I vouch for its accuracy, by quoting the following extract, taken from
the columns of the _Daily Telegraph_ (London).

Look up that newspaper for Monday, January 15th, 1894, and on page 3,
near the bottom of the 6th column, you will find this paragraph:--

“A STRANGE DISCOVERY.--A Plymouth correspondent telegraphs that advices
have been received of the arrival in Galveston of the Norwegian barque
_Elsa Anderson_, having in tow the hull of an English-built brig, which
had apparently been burned at sea more than fifty years ago, and which
appeared on the surface of the ocean after a submarine disturbance
off the Faroe Islands. The hull of the strange derelict was covered
with sea-shells, but the hold and under decks contained very little
water. In the captain’s cabin were found several iron-bound chests, the
contents of which had been reduced to pulp except a leather bag, which
required an axe to open it. In it were guineas bearing date 1809, and
worth over £1000. There were also several watches and a stomacher of
pearls blackened and rendered valueless by the action of the water.
Three skeletons were also found, one of a man about seven feet high.”

There, that is my yarn, and I may just add that my first experience of
the sea was my last, for my maiden voyage contained enough excitement
during its very brief duration to last for the term of my natural life.

“What do you ask? How came the pearl stomacher and the watches in the
hands of the miscreants?”

Well, that I must leave, for I did not see them in their possession,
but doubtless they were the proceeds of robberies ashore.




IV.

INTRODUCTION TO “A VISITOR FROM MARS.”


The narrator of the following quaint story was a little man, very
soberly dressed, and very timid in his demeanour. He appeared to be
greatly in awe of his wife, of whom he spoke with due, or perhaps
I might say undue, humility and deference. If his habiliments were
sober, I am much afraid his habits were the reverse; his nose was very
rubicund, and its bright colouring contrasted oddly with his coat, once
black, but now tinged with a disreputable greenish hue.

He sat in an awkward position on the very edge of the seat, acquiesced
in everything I said, and was of such a feeble, backboneless character,
that after he had consumed half a tumbler of whiskey at a gulp, I had
no trouble in hypnotizing him (without even asking his consent) as he
lolled back on the chair in a very drowsy condition.

Slight hope was mine of eliciting anything like a story from this
intemperate little gentleman, and it was an agreeable surprise,
therefore, when he reeled off the following, which I will call “A
Visitor from Mars.”


A VISITOR FROM MARS.

That a spirit could visit this earth from such a distant planet as
Mars, my wife would not believe for a moment, explain it how I would.

She required a proof, and proof I could have given her had she only
attended to her household duties and kept my pockets in proper repair,
instead of prying into things that did not concern her; beside, was
not the verbal description of my shadowy visitor and his extraordinary
conversation sufficient to convince any one but an obstinate woman that
what I spoke was solid truth?

Why should she imagine that the inordinately hot weather of the past
summer had had such a soporific effect upon me, that, in wooing
Morpheus, I simply _dreamed_ of my visitor?

Why should she think that because I had my spirit flask with me during
my afternoon ramble that I----?--but allow me, my intelligent reader,
to lay my story before _you_, and I think you will bear me out that
there is a foundation in it.

To begin at the beginning.

It was a hot, dreamy day in the middle of August, and I was staying at
the old-fashioned, out-of-the-world, under-the-hill town of Minehead in
Somersetshire. The atmosphere being too hot for sitting indoors, and
the water much too clear for fishing, I thought I would take a stroll
to Horner Woods, which lie under the great hills, just this side of
Stoke Pero, and in the immediate neighbourhood of Dunkery Beacon, which
is precisely one-third of a mile high.

Opening my umbrella and using it as a sunshade, I wandered listlessly
along the two or three miles which intervene between Minehead and my
haunt, and took a long time in reaching the recumbent tree upon which
I loved to sit and sketch or read. A more charming or solitary spot
cannot be found in all the West Country.

The walk leads up a narrow valley, skirted on either side by hills
rising abruptly to a height of many hundred feet, culminating in the
giant Dunkery Beacon, whose bald head, as I have said, breaks the
horizon seventeen hundred feet above sea level. The feet of these giant
hills are clad in trees and underwood of such an impenetrable nature,
that as one walks in the valley and looks up the acclivities, one
can see but a few score yards, and then the mass of wood and foliage
becomes so black and dense that the eye cannot penetrate it.

Of course, as in all western valleys, a bubbling, murmuring trout
stream flows through it towards the sea, into which it falls at the
pretty village of Porlock, some miles distant; and as it twists and
falls from and among the great boulders with which the bed of the
stream is thickly strewn, it is easy to fancy one hears persons
conversing at no great distance, so peculiar is the murmuring noise
of the waters. Perhaps the water has its familiar spirits! Why not?
We know that spirits and water are frequently very intimate with each
other, and produce much talk and idle chatter, and possibly they are
spirit voices that we hear, although we cannot make much sense of them.

It was a fairy spot I had selected, and as I sat on my comfortable seat
on the mossy old fallen monarch of the woods, with my back resting
comfortably against a bough, which gave it the support of an arm-chair,
I could not help imagining that such a spot would just have suited
Robin Hood and his merry men. In fact, I amused myself by peopling the
glade in my imagination.

There--under that great branching oak might rest several mighty casks
of ale, round which the men in Lincoln green would cluster, lying in
various picturesque attitudes, with their bows and arrows hanging
from the branches of surrounding trees, ready to be snatched down
at a moment’s notice in case of any alarm. There--where that patch
of yellow-green grass crept out from the withered oak, I would have
a party of dancers tripping it to pipe and tabour; and down yonder
precipitous path should come the lofty Little John, with a fine deer
across his broad shoulders; while in the arbour formed by those three
hawthorn trees, I could imagine the sturdy form and graceful figure of
Robin himself and the fair Maid Marian. Then Friar Tuck must be among
them; yes, he should have a large horn of ale and----thud!!

“Why, where in the name of fortune came you from?” I cried, as a little
fat man in cassock and hood plumped down on the soft turf beside me.
“Have I the pleasure of addressing his reverence, Friar Tuck?”

“Friar Tuck! No, my friend--never heard of that gentleman. _My_ name is
Friar Bacon.”

“Friar Bacon!” I exclaimed. “Why, surely _you_ never had anything to do
with this jovial company--Robin Hood and his merry men?”

[Illustration: “Just place your hand upon my breast.”--_p. 91._]

But as I swept my arm round to give emphasis to my speech, I perceived,
to my astonishment, that nought but trees and rocks met my view on
every side, my foresters had vanished, and I found myself in the
presence of a short, stout, rubicund monk, who should have been dust
these six hundred years.

“Bacon,” I murmured, looking doubtingly at my visitor; “why, how is it
possible that you, who died, if my memory serves me rightly, ere the
close of the thirteenth century, can be here before me at the end of
the nineteenth? You are joking with me, my friend.”

“Oh no,” replied my visitor, “it is extremely simple. You must know
that I, with many other learned men, have formed a scientific colony,
so to speak, in the planet Mars. We have many among us known to you by
repute. St. Dunstan, Newton, Archimedes, Leonardo da Vinci, Galileo,
Euclid, and many others, are of our company, and right harmoniously we
live together. Live, I say, but of course you will understand I mean
exist, for we have for many ages passed from the flesh, and are now
simply etherealized bodies, or, if you will, spirits!

“You would ask how came we in Mars?

“Well, let it suffice if I inform you, that by the sanction of the
Great Spirit, we, Advancers of Mankind, are allowed a special parole,
as a recompense for our toil on earth, and there in Mars we exist,
instead of perambulating this dense earth of yours, in a spirit form,
till we are required ‘At the Last.’

“Just place your hand upon my breast.”

I did so, but my fingers meeting no resistance, I extended my arm, and
could see my hand emerge beyond the figure as the jolly friar remarked:

“There, you see, I am pure spirit, double distilled, and I trust highly
rectified.

“Well,” he continued, “I have not long to stay, so I will have a short
chat with you, and then, heigh presto! back to my cosy planet. You see
it is only once in two years we get very close to your earth, that is,
at a certain time we are only 35 millions of miles from you, whilst at
another time we are as much as 244 millions of miles away. Therefore
as we travel fast I must not linger long, or I shall be late at our
monthly scientific meeting, which takes place to-morrow.”

I could not refrain from asking him what the planet Mars was like, and
he very civilly informed me that it was prettier than the earth, and
its climate milder; “beside which,” said he--

“The genial seasons are longer; we have a spring of 192 days, and a
summer of 180; whilst the autumn is of 150, and the winter of 147 days’
duration only. A longish year, as you will observe, nearly 690 days;
but then we are so busy and so happy that we do not notice the flight
of time. Time is an object to you mortals, but we philosophers totally
disregard it. If you visited our planet you would find one thing in
particular very trying to you in your present gross form--we have no
atmosphere to speak of.

“We neither eat, drink, nor sleep; require no clothing, that is no
_renewal_ of clothing, for this cassock is the shade of the last
costume I wore when on earth, and will probably last me till the Crack
of Doom; consequently we are enabled to employ the whole of our time in
scientific research.”

“Might I venture to inquire into the nature of your scientific
studies?” I timidly inquired.

“Why certainly,” he replied, rubbing his forehead reflectively; and as
he drew his hand across the noble expanse of his frontal bone, I could
see a rush of little sparks follow his shadowy fingers. This set me
to gaze more intently at his phenomenal person, and as I did so I was
surprised to find that I could see quite through what should have been
the frontal bone, and there, in the cavity of the cranium, I beheld his
brain at work thinking. It simply appeared like revolving smoke curling
this way and that, and taking fantastic forms; halting, and then moving
on again in complex but orderly movement.

Seeing my utter astonishment, he good-naturedly enlightened me as to
the strange appearance.

“The brain,” said he, “is _the man_, it never dies, and in our case
is the only part which does not entirely become spirit, that is,
_transparent_ spirit. It always remains a foggy, cloudy kind of ether,
visible to mortals; and they are constantly walking through and sitting
surrounded by it, though they know it not.

“You probably do not believe in ghosts or spirits, yet you are
surrounded by them day and night, and when, by a variety of accidental
causes, one becomes materialized you see it, and immediately write off
to a newspaper about it as something wonderful. Ha! ha! If I could
only open your eyes and show you the number of ghosts in this silent
and solitary spot you would scarcely believe your eyes; there are
thousands!”

Then looking at me with his peculiar, luminous eyes he inquired, “Did
you ever notice a kind of mist floating over graveyards during certain
days of damp, muggy weather?”

“Yes,” I replied, “often; but what of that?”

“What of that!--why,” continued Bacon, “that is the spirit, the soul,
_the brain_ of disembodied mortals, which floats till the Final Day
just above the ground, the rock, the sea, or wherever the body was
buried.”

I marvelled at this, whereupon my communicative friend went further,
and said:--

“Do you not know that these spirits may be conversed with by mortals?
You have a certain control over electricity, you have the phonograph,
the electrophone, and the telephone--trifles in comparison to what we
have invented in Mars--but with these you have only to proceed in this
way. You simply----”

But ere he uttered another word a wind swept through the wood with a
crackling sound, at which the Friar bowed his head and quietly uttered
the words “I obey!” It was evident by his uneasy movements and facial
expression that he had been stayed from enlightening me further by some
unseen spirits, so, to turn the subject, I said:--

“What is there appertaining to this earth in which we might advance our
knowledge, by invention or otherwise?”

The little monk looked at me with a mirthful face, putting his jolly
head on one side, and with a look in his eyes as if he would say,
“Don’t you wish you may pump me?” said:--

“I must tell you plainly, that by our bond we are forbidden to tell
to mortals the secrets we possess, but I will just give you a little
idea or two that you may experimentalize upon, and see what you are
clever enough to make of notions that _we_ have already established as
practical scientific facts.

“Electricity with you is only in its infancy, it is but just born--yet
you have taken several steps in the right direction; you have the
phonograph, the electrophone, and the telephone, all of which are
very well in their way, but you must go further with them. If you are
clever enough you can make the phonograph convey _thought_ as well as
speech, so that you and I, being a mile apart, could, with the help
of an improved phonograph, convey our _thoughts_ to each other. With
a certain instrument conversation with departed spirits might be held
and the very secrets of the grave revealed, and the great----” But here
the wind again sighed through the valley, and the monk again bowed and
meekly crossed himself, having evidently ventured too far beyond the
bounds of his suggestions.

“The electrophone,” said he, “may easily be improved, so that in
combination with a certain machine which I may tell you is _on the eve
of being invented_ in America, will not only give you the voice of the
person speaking at a distance, but also his or her likeness with every
line of the features expressing the individuality of the person under
notice.

“Electricians of the Nineteenth Century! why, you have only reached
‘A’ in the alphabet of electrical possibilities. How absurd of you to
use horseflesh to draw loads, and raise or lower heavy masses, and to
use steam--noisy, bulky steam--for locomotives and marine engines, and
to write with ink and even use hand-power to sew with, when everything
could be done quicker, easier, cheaper, and cleaner by the _touchstone
of all future motion_--electricity!

“There, get along, ye mortals of to-day!” and the little man rolled
about with laughter, “ye laggards, why, if half-a-dozen of our company
in Mars had had _your_ scientific instruments and delicate machinery
in _our_ day we should have made an entirely different world of this
earth. Why, my old friend Archimedes would have obtained a fulcrum
for his lever long before now, and if no one had prevented him would
have attempted to hurl the earth right out of the planetary system
into space. Oh, he is even now a most mischievous fellow, though you
would not think it to look at him; his ambition is boundless, and his
scientific pranks are at times very reprehensible. Only last week,
just for the fun of the thing, he blew Sir Isaac Newton nearly to the
sun, and when the poor fellow returned to Mars after several days’
absence we scarcely knew him, he had become so sunburnt with his visit
to the suburbs of the great luminary. It was beyond a joke, you know.”
Then the little man went off into another paroxysm of laughter at the
thought of poor Sir Isaac’s burnt spirit-face.

“What,” queried I, “can you tell me of ships and navigation? Have we
reached the limit of speed in the merchant service, and the zenith of
offensive and defensive power in the Navy?”

These questions sent the little man off into a fresh fit of laughter,
and he looked at me as much as to say, “You ignoramus, you type of
mortal feebleness and conceit.” Presently having calmed down he
proceeded:--

“I must tell you that Nelson is with us in spirit, and has turned out
a capital inventor. He follows eagerly all that takes place, navally,
in the little dots on the globe called Great Britain, and you will
scarcely believe it when I tell you, that he has invented a _wooden_
ship that would in one brief hour destroy your entire navy.”

“How could it be done?” said I.

“Ah! there you are! I cannot _tell_ you, I can only give you an idea.
My lord’s ship is of wood, compressed india-rubber, and cork! The only
thing you have to discover is how to place your caoutchouc so that when
a shot is fired at your ship it passes clean through it and the hole
immediately closes, just as the water closes after it is cloven by the
ship’s hull. Firing at Nelson’s ship would have the same effect as if
you thrust your walking-stick through me or through your own shadow.”

“But,” I asked eagerly, “how would he destroy our navy in an hour?”

“Why,” said the Friar, “he and Sir Humphrey Davy have invented an
explosive of such vast power, that a single pound weight would destroy
the strongest ironclad afloat, and he can fire it from an ordinary
shoulder gun, with which he delights to practise at the mountains of
Mars. He can chip a thousand-ton mountain top off with a single shot;
we have to stop him at it, for he quite spoils the scenery, and alters
it so completely that we are in danger of losing ourselves. He calls
his destructive agent ‘infernite,’ and it really is quite diabolical.”

“And of speed in merchant vessels,” I remarked, “what of that?”

“There you are all wrong again, you have gone right off the proper
path. Why, your passenger vessels actually float on the _surface_ of
the sea, instead of fathoms below it; consequently you have both wind
and waves to contend with, which is absurdly and palpably wrong to any
one who gives the least reflection to the matter.

“Set your inventive faculties to work, control and compress your
air--by the way, see that you get it pure, sea air is always best and
safest--sink your hermetically-sealed ship by hydraulic arrangements,
pitch your great thumping steam monsters overboard, and propel your
vessel with civilized and cleanly electric force, and there you are!
America in twenty-four hours! India in three days! China in five! and
Australia in a week!!

“This speed should have been attained years since; but your engineers
are so in love with great smoky furnaces, steel monsters, and grimy
coal and grease, that it will take some time before they get off with
the ugly old love (steam) and on with the elegant new one (electric
force).”

I nodded approval, and put another query. “Can we do anything more to
improve the locomotive engine both as to safety and speed? Of course
I gather from what you have just said that electricity could be made
to take the place of steam, and then we should get a much quicker and
safer service of trains than at present.”

“Quicker service of trains?” he echoed, and looked at me in feigned
amazement. “Trains and locomotives, did you say? Why, my dear friend,
you astonish me. To improve your service, gather up all your network
of iron rails, but leave your stations intact for the present, and
pitch both the rails and the horrid shrieking engines into the midst
of the Atlantic, not into the North Sea, for that is so shallow that
the immense pile of old iron would cause an obstruction to submarine
navigation, and quite spoil the fishing-ground, though it would be an
excellent iron tonic to the fish.

“Then, having done that, invent a neat little electric aërostat--it
can and has been done by us--and simply fly from point to point,
from station to station if you will, noiselessly and expeditiously.
Edinburgh or Dublin in three hours, or St. Petersburg in ten, would be
a fair speed. What are they made of, do you say? Well, there is that
bothering bond that seals my lips, or I would willingly make a sketch
and give you a specification with pleasure.

“You know that certain chemicals produce certain gases. Gas is a power:
it may be converted into a motive power. Do you follow?”

I bowed.

“For the fabric: do you know that six goose quills will support a
man?--if not, I can assure you they will; there is lightness and
strength for you! What can, with equal economy, be beaten thinner or is
lighter than aluminium?--a new metal with you, I find. For propelling
mechanism, study the wing of the swift-flying birds, created by our
Great Spirit; you cannot _improve_ on that, but you can modify and
adapt it to your particular purpose.”

Then casting his eye upon my umbrella, which was lying open beside me
(for I had used it to keep the sun off), he bade me observe its form,
which I did.

“In that worm-produced fabric,” said he, pointing to the silk shade,
“you have the form of the best sustainer (parachute) that even we have
yet discovered. There! I have mentioned your principal materials, now
set to work, and do not longer disfigure your beautiful islands with
iron webs, rabbit burrows, and crawling beetles, for such, I am told,
your railway systems appear to the inhabitants of your satellite the
Moon, who have very powerful telescopes, and are fond of gazing at
their big brother the Earth.

“Really, when I come to reflect upon the condition of you mortals, your
whole system seems strange; here, six centuries after I have left the
earth, you are actually eating and drinking just as when I was among
you (and I was no mean connoisseur of a bottle of Sack or Malmsey),
and, consequently, you are always ill and ailing. It therefore follows,
as a matter of course, that half of you die before there is any
necessity for you to do so.

“For the first thousand or two years after the Creation, people knew
what was good for them, and partook of everything fresh and good, and
lived for centuries; but now it appears to me that you have a system in
vogue among you called adulteration, by which one half of the community
seeks to partially poison the other half, simply to gather together as
many pieces of gold as they can hoard in a few years, and when they die
they leave these gold coins to some one else to scatter to the four
winds and the Evil One, for their so-called amusement. All very nice,
I dare say, but why do you not do as I did--work, and discover the
Philosopher’s Stone and Elixir Vitæ! Then, having discovered them, you
could be as rich as you pleased, and live as long as you had any desire
to.”

“Interrupting you,” I ventured, “would it be against your bond to
impart to me, a mortal, the secret of those two great discoveries you
claim to have made when on earth? Would you be induced by anything I
could offer you, or do for you, to divulge the component parts of your
Elixir Vitæ?”

The jolly little man laughed till his sides vibrated like a
blanc-mange, at the very idea of _my_ being able to do anything
for _him_, or offer him any equivalent for his priceless secret of
continued life.

“Ha! ha! Ho! ho! My friend, you would be the death of me if it were
possible to kill a spirit; I declare I feel quite a curious feeling
just where my ribs ought to be, by indulging in such hearty laughter as
I have not experienced for quite a century.

“My friend, I will give you the recipe for the Elixir of Life with
pleasure, as it was my own discovery _previous_ to my death, so that
I may divulge it to any one I choose. The ingredients are so simple
that it is a wonder scores of alchemists did not discover it as I did,
but doubtless it was the simplicity of the various items that caused
them to miss the mark. They searched for curious and complex mixtures,
for crystals and ores, powders and nostrums, distillations and subtle
gases, and other things of a complex nature, when the real articles
were right under their very noses, and _in everyday use_!

“Here is the solution to the buried secret; for buried it was when they
laid me in the grave six centuries agone, for I told it to no man, nor
did I take advantage of it to prolong my own life, as I had worked so
hard that I longed for a thorough rest, and am now enjoying it, for we
spirits never tire.

“Take one ounce of acetic acid, it is a preventive of frivolity; one
pound of pure alcohol, which gives spirit and vigour whenever used;
of laudanum three drams, as a soporific giving a quiet and steady
demeanour; and add two drams of ground cloves, for spice is very
preserving to the body.

“Next you add three pints of distilled water, which is a very cleansing
agent, and with it put in a few twigs of birch, which is a capital
corrective, and every man requires somewhat of the kind at times.

“Then you take a few--but I am sure you will forget all these things,
so, if you will lend me a piece of paper and a pencil (which are things
we lacked in our day), I will write down the various ingredients and
quantities for you, and you can get them made up at any chemist’s; here
are twenty-seven ingredients in all, each good for something; miss
one, and you spoil the harmony of the whole, and the prescription is
useless. Everything must be absolutely free from adulteration, or only
a partial success will be the result.”

Then for a quarter of an hour he scribbled away, occasionally pausing,
and cocking his head upon one side to recollect things which he had
stored in his busy memory centuries ago.

His smoky brain revolved at a great rate as I watched him write the
formula.

“There,” said he at last, as he handed me the wonderful secret, which
was to make me live to see ships float under water, people fly through
the air, and electricity the great motive power of the world, “I think
you will find that correct, and I shall be glad to meet you here this
day one hundred years hence, to see how matters are going with you. By
the way, what is the time?”

I now perceived that it was grown quite dark, and the stars were
twinkling through the trees, a fact which I had not before noted, so
absorbed had I been with the strange conversation of my visitor.

I looked at my watch.

“It is five minutes past ten o’clock,” I said.

“Goodness me!” said the friar; “how I shall have to hurry. I should
have left at seven o’clock, as I am due at Mars not later than
midnight, or I forfeit my liberty for one generation; and thirty years
without a fly to some planet or other is no joke. Ta, ta!”

And as I looked at my jolly friend he scared me by suddenly becoming
perfectly incandescent; he glowed for an instant like a furnace at
white heat, then with a whizz and a flash he was gone so quickly that
the eye could only follow him for a trice, and then he disappeared
into space; at least his bodily form disappeared by apparently
transforming itself into a star, which grew smaller and less brilliant,
till it was entirely lost amid the myriads of others which studded the
sky.

I smelt for brimstone, but there was not even a sign of it that I could
detect.

I felt dizzy, and stiff, and stupid, but gathering my umbrella, books,
and flask together (the latter quite empty, by the by, possibly upset),
I made for Minehead, but found it a long and difficult walk. Sitting so
long in one position had cramped and affected my legs to such a degree,
that it was with much meandering and uncertainty that I reached my
apartments near the little pier.

My wife, good soul, was waiting up for me, and as I entered she pointed
to the clock, which was then striking twelve.

Thinking of Friar Bacon, I exclaimed half aloud--“I wonder if he
reached home in time? What a flight, thirty-five million miles in less
than three hours!”

At this my wife shook her head, and remarked that bed was the best
place for me; and as she kindly assisted me to undress, I did not
contradict her.

When I awoke next morning I felt in a very unsettled state of mind, and
collecting my wandered senses, I endeavoured to account to my wife for
my absence of the previous day, by telling her of my adventure with the
monk in Horner Woods. She was moved when I told her that the paper in
my waistcoat pocket would _prove_ what I asserted to be true.

“Kindly feel in the right-hand pocket of my waistcoat, get out the
paper, and read for yourself,” I remarked quietly but triumphantly.

She felt as directed.

Nothing was there save a large hole!

I had lost the paper; and with it my character for veracity and the
knowledge of “How to Live for Ever” into the bargain.


AFTER CONCLUSION OF STORY.

I hardly like to say it, but I verily believe my guest had been
drinking heavily, and that he was suffering from _delirium tremens_,
or, as it is commonly called for conciseness, “the blues”; anyway, when
he left the caravan he was mumbling to himself, casting furtive glances
to right and left, and gesticulating very much as he walked down the
road. I am afraid I did the poor man a great wrong in giving him so
much raw spirit; but then I console myself with the knowledge that I
was only indirectly to blame, having merely placed the decanter upon
the table, as I would for any other visitor, and expressed a wish that
he would help himself; with which suggestion he complied by diminishing
my spirit store more rapidly than I had intended. The following day I
sent him a pamphlet upon temperance, as a set-off against my ill-timed
hospitality, and trust that he read it with profit.

My guest was such a confirmed believer in spirits that he would have
made a capital medium for any professional spiritualist. He was
familiar with almost every spirit nameable, and had been at one time or
other possessed of them all, knowing where to find both the best and
the worst of them.




V.

INTRODUCTION TO “BARBE ROUGE.”


The gentleman to whom I am indebted for the story of the old pirate,
“Barbe Rouge,” is now a well-known artist and author, and as I knew him
to be the hero of several adventures, I was anxious to obtain a story
from him. Having gained an introduction to him, I put myself in his way
when passing through Norwich. After a long chat, he expressed a wish to
inspect my caravan, which I had left at Thorpe, the prettiest village
in Norfolk, so we strolled down to it together.

Being of a roving and adventurous disposition, he showed great delight
at my house on wheels and its comfortable internal arrangements, and
having friends at Lynn whom he wished to visit, he begged to be allowed
to accompany me on my journey as far as the borders of the county. I
readily acquiesced, and found him such a companionable fellow, that our
roundabout journey to Lynn--distant some fifty miles by the nearest
road from Norwich--actually took us _three weeks_ to accomplish. My
comrade was delighted with the gipsy life, and but that his leisure
time was at an end, he would have accompanied me further on my
progress through the fens of Lincolnshire.

We met with several adventures while we were together, one of which I
must relate.

Harry Nilford (such was my friend’s name) strolled out one evening to
indulge in a bath, while I stayed in to cook the supper, it being my
day for _chef_ duty; and as we were camped within a mile of the sea,
between Blakeney and Morston, I expected him back in about an hour
or rather more, but it was upwards of two hours before he returned,
looking very excited. He had taken my gun with him, thinking it
very probable that he might come across a stray rabbit for the pot,
and I naturally inferred, from his sparkling eyes, that he had been
successful in his quest.

“What do you think I’ve shot, old fellow?”

“Rabbits?”

“No; guess again. Something bigger and rarer.”

“Well, then, a hare?”

“No--bigger and rarer still,” said he, smiling at my puzzled look.

I guessed all kinds of things, but was every time wrong, so I asked the
question--

“Is it fish, fowl, or fur?” I have heard of large fish being shot, so
included it in my query.

“Well,” said my friend, “it is fur, and I might almost say fish also,
for it is a splendid swimmer.”

I puzzled over the riddle for some time, and then, after having failed
in guessing an otter, gave it up as something beyond me.

“Then if you cannot guess, or even get near it, I will tell you. It
was _a seal_--a very rare visitor to this coast indeed, in fact, such
a thing has not been seen for many years along the hundred miles of
coast which bounds the county of Norfolk.”

He had shot the seal as it flippered itself along the yielding sand,
upon which it had been basking, to make its escape to the sea. Both
barrels, however, did not suffice to kill it, and the animal got to the
water, and would have made its escape, although severely wounded, had
not Harry rushed into the sea and given the soft-eyed seal its quietus
with the butt of the gun.

It was too heavy for him to bring away, and was, moreover, covered with
blood, so he dug a shallow trench in the sand, and placing the body in
it, covered it up and left it.

We arranged to go down to the beach early in the morning and bring our
prize back in triumph; accordingly, about seven o’clock next day, we
went, but to our astonishment the seal was gone!

Could it have revived and made its escape?

We searched about for signs.

We noticed footmarks leading down to the water’s edge, and also the
prints of a dog’s paws in the sand, and, lower down still, we saw where
the keel of a boat had cut its way when rowed ashore and beached.

We put these things together, and came to the conclusion that my friend
had been watched and the seal stolen after his departure. Anyway it
was gone; and although we inquired at both Blakeney and Morston, and
offered a reward, we could learn no tidings of the missing animal.

We went sorrowfully on our way, and two days after were at Burnham
Thorpe (Nelson’s birthplace), when we heard at the village inn of a
hairy mermaid being exhibited at Brancaster. We took no notice of the
news but when we reached the village with a Roman name, we found the
people quite excited over the wonderful mermaid, and with numerous
other visitors paid our pennies to go in and see the curiosity--when
behold, it was Harry’s seal!

Of course Harry demanded it, but the men would not give it up, and as
Brancaster does not contain a policeman, force had to be resorted to.
My friend was a big, strong fellow, and I being scarcely less in size
or strength, we made a good fight of it, and placed the seal in my
van and made off. The villagers became very abusive and threatening,
and many missiles were thrown at us, but we got away as quickly as
possible, I handling the reins, and Harry keeping off the crowd with a
gun in one hand and a whip, which he used pretty freely, in the other.

We had three panes of glass broken, sundry cuts and bruises, and a
black eye, which latter fell to my lot, on our side. We could not quite
tell the number of the evening’s casualties; all we knew was that more
than one bloody nose and contused cheek were to be seen.

The seal was skinned and dressed in Lynn, and Harry had a waistcoat
made for himself, and a fine lappet cap for me, which has been a great
comfort in winter travelling, when the easterly winds are blowing.

The following story of “Barbe Rouge” he kindly touched up, at my
request, after I had written it, as I received it from his lips while
in a mesmeric state, for, being a story within a story, it is rather
difficult of interpretation. The case stands thus: “Barbe Rouge,” a
piratical sea dog of the eighteenth century, enacted a tragedy, of
which he left a record, which record, a hundred odd years later, was
found by my friend, Harry Nilford, on the Isle of Jethou, one of the
Channel Isles. The story of the tragedy he committed to memory, and in
a hypnotic state recounted to me.[A] Being a complex story I have, as I
mention above, requested him to touch it up here and there. This he has
done with the following result.

  [A] Those of my readers who would like to read the adventures of Harry
  Nilford should obtain _Jethou, or Crusoe Life in the Channel Isles_,
  published by Messrs. Jarrold and Sons, 10 and 11, Warwick Lane,
  London, E.C.


BARBE ROUGE.

Visitors to Guernsey will remember that opposite the entrance to the
Harbour of St. Peter Port, at a distance of about three miles, lies a
curiously-shaped island called Jethou, which rises from the sea in a
graceful curve, and looks at first sight like an immense turtle, or a
huge floating dish-cover. It is a small island, probably not more than
a third of a mile long and a quarter of a mile broad, but is so steep,
that in the centre it reaches an altitude approaching three hundred
feet.

It is a solid granite island, covered in most parts with bracken and
furze, which makes it a very paradise for the rabbits with which it
abounds. There are two small stone-built houses upon it, around one of
which is a prolific fruit and vegetable garden. There are out-buildings
attached, and at a distance of nearly a quarter of a mile from the
white house is an apology for a harbour.

It is a remarkably nice place for a holiday--sunny, healthy, quiet, and
not too far from aid in case of sickness or accident; but it is not a
resort for the general public, being private property.

It was on this island that in 186-- a young Norfolk gentleman elected
to spend twelve months as a recluse, or as he was pleased to term it--a
Crusoe.

He went to the island for two reasons; one of which was the
anticipation of a happy and adventurous time, and the other the winning
of a wager (that he would not leave the island before twelve months had
expired). In neither object was he disappointed.

While papering the walls of his little sitting-room, he had the good
fortune to find a parchment, hidden away in a niche in the wall, which
had hitherto been concealed by the thick covering of wall-paper, of
which he peeled off no less than five layers. He had read Edgar Allen
Poe’s story of “The Golden Beetle,” and finding a parchment covered
with hieroglyphics, he surmised that if he could only decipher it there
might be as thrilling a sequel as followed on the solution of the
cryptogram in Poe’s story.

Unfortunately he was not so clever as the man in the story, and
failed--unassisted--in discovering the secret of the parchment.

The puzzling document was a list of some sort which the finder could
not understand, as it was in French; beneath it was a drawing of a
square with a human skull in the centre, from which radiated lines
ending in certain letters, and having figures upon the rays.

The solution was discovered, however, after the young Crusoe had been
on the island for upwards of twelve months (he stayed eighteen months
in all), and in a most unexpected manner.

Being a Crusoe, it was not at all a surprising matter that he should
have a man Friday, and one day during a storm a Friday really did
appear, in the form of a French sailor, whose little vessel was wrecked
upon the hostile granite shores of Jethou. The man saved, the sole
survivor of a crew of four, was at once christened Monday, from the day
on which he was saved. This man (Alec Ducas) spoke very fair English,
and the two young men soon became fast friends.

One day the young Englishman, whose name was Harry Nilford, bethought
him of his curious parchment, and producing it from his box, asked his
friend if he could decipher it. The first part of the document was
quickly read, and no doubt astonished the finder. It was as follows--

“THIS IS THE LAST WILL of Jean Tussaud (sometimes known as Barbe
Rouge), Master Mariner, of C----.

“The person who is lucky enough to find my treasure-house, I hereby
declare to be my heir, and whatsoever he finds shall be his, and for
his sole benefit.

“My chief mate, William Trefry, a Cornishman, wished to become my heir
before my death, but we could not agree upon that point, although
I gave him possession of my _petites fées_ (little fairies) and a
key, also a valuable knife, for an inheritance. The bearings of my
treasure-house are these.”

Then followed the curious drawing with the death’s-head centre,
followed by the words--“The lucky one will find the following property.”

Here followed a long list of the articles stowed away; winding up with
the words--“and my box of pretty _petites fées_.”

       *       *       *       *       *

  “I leave Jethou to-night to make a voyage to the West Indies, to see
  what business can be done there. I leave this paper so that, should
  I never return, the goods I have so industriously, and at such risk,
  gathered together, may be of service to the person who may have skill
  enough to discover their whereabouts.

                           “Signed, JEAN TUSSAUD (Barbe Rouge),
                                                  “_February 19, 17--_.”

For weeks the two young men puzzled their wits over the document;
but to abbreviate this narrative,[B] they ultimately succeeded in
discovering the place of concealment.

  [B] The unravelling of the enigma may be found in _Jethou_.

It was in the centre of the garden, at the rear of the house, and after
great toil in digging they came upon the skeleton of a man, and were
about to fill up the large hole they had made, imagining, in their
horror, that they had come upon a grave instead of a treasure-house,
when one of them saw a glittering something protruding from the sternum
of the skeleton, which proved to be the jewelled haft of a dagger,
which had undoubtedly given the death-blow to the tenant of the grave,
being driven in with immense force, up to the hilt, quite through the
breast-bone. Clearing the bony relic, they found, suspended around the
neck, by a length of silver chain, which was much oxidized, a couple of
rusty keys.

This discovery led them to connect the skeleton with the mate, Trefry,
mentioned in the document, and they continued their search, which
was rewarded by their finding a large collection of miscellaneous
articles, among which were numerous weapons, bundles of gold lace,
several cups of the same metal, packages of once costly clothing and
fine linen (now mouldering with age), copes, chasubles, and a beautiful
jewelled mitre wrapped in a bullock’s hide, boots, sashes, etc.

Beneath all these, in a hollowed space, was a chest securely padlocked,
which was duly hoisted out and burst open, and in it were discovered
seventeen bags, each containing a hundred Spanish doubloons, three
parchment books, and last, but far from least, a small golden casket of
exquisite workmanship, filled quite full of precious stones in their
natural, rough state, except a very few which were cut and polished.
In all they would have filled a pint measure. These were Barbe Rouge’s
_petites fées_--his little fairies.

       *       *       *       *       *

Now what I have recounted so far is a kind of prologue to what
follows. The purport of my story is to show how the skeleton came in
the treasure vault, which was opened by our good friends, Nilford and
Ducas, with whom, however, we have nothing further to do.

I must point out that the following narrative is what I have gathered
from the pages of one of the three books found in “Barbe Rouge’s”
chest, two of them being logs of his voyages (and _such_ voyages), and
the third a kind of private diary. I have pieced together the somewhat
disconnected jottings of Red Beard into the following story, drawing
_slightly_ on my imagination to fill in the gaps.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the morning of April 28, 175--, the vessel owned and commanded by
“Barbe Rouge,” called _La Chauve-souris_, was lying quietly at anchor
in the little haven at the back of the lofty pinnacle of rocks known
as La Creviçhon, for she was to sail on the morrow, or the second day
at latest, for a cruise in the West Indies. She was a smart little
schooner, mounting ten guns, and carried the large complement of
thirty-eight men, for she was what the French Government were pleased
to call a licensed privateer, although, if public report went for
anything, she might with more propriety have been stigmatized as
something with a much more ugly name. Whatever people might call her
was no concern of Jean Tussaud (which was Barbe Rouge’s real name),
_he_ called her a privateer, and so we also will call her, for the word
_pirate_ is not at all a nice-sounding word.

She had some weeks previously returned from a very prosperous cruise
in the Mediterranean, and although she came home short-handed, to
the extent of eight men, she brought with her, as some sort of human
equivalent, two very fine women, both of whom were young and handsome.

One was a fair Circassian damsel called Retté, and her companion, an
English girl named Mary Whitford. These fair ones Barbe Rouge had
taken from an Algerian vessel which he intercepted on her voyage from
Cyprus to Dargelli, whither the girls were being conveyed to the sheik
Obdurrah, as reinforcements for his harem. How the girl Mary Whitford
could thus be sold Tussaud’s book says not; but he captured her, and
brought her and Retté to Jethou, where he took them ashore to his stone
house, much to the regret of William Trefry, the mate, who had fallen
greatly in love with Mary during the voyage home. Barbe Rouge saw what
was in the wind, and watched the couple unnoticed, but with a hawky,
jealous eye.

Trefry feared his skipper, for he had seen him perform cruel deeds that
made the boldest heart on board tremble, and because Barbe Rouge’s
giant form possessed the strength of two men; so, fearing any personal
encounter, he resolved by stratagem to carry out a scheme for Mary’s
release which he had been elaborating during the last few days of the
voyage.

He foresaw that the two girls would be immediately taken ashore on
the arrival of _La Chauve-souris_ at Jethou, and with this in view
he arranged two or three plots with Mary, by which they might escape
together to Guernsey; they also arranged a set of private signals with
which to communicate with each other.

As anticipated, an hour after reaching the haven of Jethou, Mary
and Retté were taken ashore, and, alas for their hopes, the girls
were quartered in a room which did _not_ overlook the haven; and
furthermore, they were only allowed out for exercise after dusk, when
their jealous protector, Barbe Rouge, accompanied them for a walk round
the island.

Thus were their signals of no more avail than a wink in the dark.

The days sped rapidly; boats went to and from St. Peter Port bringing
stores and taking various goods for sale. Half-a-dozen carpenters and
a smith, besides the sailmaker and others, were busy with the ship’s
hull and rigging, refitting and altering, repairing and renewing all
kinds of gear, and over these men was placed Trefry, to whom the whole
crew looked up as skipper during Barbe Rouge’s frequent and prolonged
absences ashore on Jethou.

The young Englishman gnawed his very heart away in devising schemes
for Mary’s release, and his eyes grew weary with looking for the
preconcerted signals from her, but none ever appeared.

Could she have forgotten him?

Was it a case of “out of sight out of mind”? No, that could never
be, for the girl’s anxious desire was to escape, and reach her dear
old Yorkshire home, from which she had been absent nearly two years.
She had left it to take a trip on her uncle’s bark, _The Develin_,
from Whitby to Samos in the Grecian Archipelago, in company with her
brother, who was two years her senior.

They reached Samos safely, but one morning, her uncle and brother
being ashore, two native boatmen came alongside, one of whom, in fair
English, said the old gentleman had sent them “to fetch Mary, to show
her some of the sights of the place.” Mary accordingly seated herself
in their boat, but the men took her to another port, a league up the
coast, and thus kidnapped her.

As the days before sailing to the West grew fewer, Trefry became nearly
mad with his pent-up feelings; but in the presence of Barbe Rouge had
to dissemble and assume as calm a countenance and manner as he possibly
could, although at heart he could have wished the old pirate hung at
the end of his own gaff.

Only two or three days intervened before the date of sailing, and his
very appetite forsook him, and he could not help glaring at the skipper
whenever they met; but Barbe Rouge, with an imperturbable countenance,
took no notice of the mate’s despair, although he well knew what was
passing in his heart; he saw the young fellow’s terrible struggle with
himself, and gloated over it.

Trefry dared not make an open show of concern about Mary, as even at
the last moment there might arrive the opportunity for a rescue, so he
held his peace till the morning of April 28th.

As the first grey streak of dawn appeared in the N.E. Trefry stepped on
deck and strained his eyes towards the stone house on shore. It was too
dark to discern anything in the form of a signal, but he looked ever
and anon, and to his great joy did not look in vain.

He could scarce believe his eyes when he saw something appear out of
and above a chimney on the old house. It was but a wisp of rag, but it
was quite sufficient to denote its purpose as a signal, and Trefry knew
its meaning to be an urgent appeal for succour.

One or two of the crew also saw it, and it soon became known to the
whole ship’s company that the girls were making signals for help; but,
though comments were many, no one dared take any action, for the crew
of _La Chauve-souris_ was, as often happens on privateers and suchlike
vessels, divided into little coteries, each afraid of, or watching the
actions of the others.

Barbe Rouge had devotees numbering about twenty, while those whom
Trefry could rely upon to take his view of anything on the tapis, he
could count on the fingers of his two hands.

Moreover only one day remained. What could he do?

He thought over many schemes for liberating the girls, but could not
hit upon one likely to be successful; so, finding his own imaginative
faculties at fault, he called two or three of his more intimate cronies
together, and placed the case before them in a council in the captain’s
cabin, while one kept watch.

Many suggestions were made, of various degrees of practical merit, some
indeed so sieve-like that they would not hold the water of common-sense
at all. Trefry soon found that, great burly brute as he was, Barbe
Rouge had a strong following of staunch men on board; men who loved the
skipper because their natures were coarse and rough, and who saw in him
the beau-ideal of brute strength, stature, and power to command: his
very courage and daring delighted them. Sentiment, and the wrongs of
others, were nothing to such as they.

Trefry found that, all told, he could only count on eleven others
besides himself to help him in the contemplated carrying off of the two
girls; but, to better equalize the numbers, he determined, after dark,
to give leave to six or eight of the skipper’s staunchest men to take
the long-boat, and pull across to Guernsey for a spree.

This was agreed to as part of the programme; and it was also agreed,
that at eleven o’clock that night he should go ashore alone to the
stone house, and bring off the girls, while his eleven comrades should
arm themselves (from the arm-chest, of which he had the key), and make
themselves masters of the ship while he was ashore.

The day passed slowly by, and the shades of night at length fell,
draping its mantle of deepening blue over the pretty little island.

At eleven o’clock Trefry, well armed, went ashore as arranged.

The night was dark, for there was no moon, and calm, for there was but
little wind.

Quietly he crept round the side of the house, and taking off his boots
went up the stone steps leading to the garden at the rear, where he
quickly became aware of a faint glow of light rising from behind a
tremendous mound of earth in the very centre of the garden.

He paused and listened; then silently crept across the garden on all
fours to the mound, up which he as noiselessly climbed, and peeped
over.

He beheld a great excavation several feet square, from which the light
came, and peering over the edge, he saw on the opposite side of the
wall of the hole, the shadow of Barbe Rouge’s great head and beard,
projected by the light of a lantern placed on this side of the pit. The
shadow moved but slightly, showing that the fiery skipper was deeply
engrossed in some task or other of a weird nature, or he would not have
chosen night for his work.

Like a flash of light it entered Trefry’s brain that the old buccaneer
had killed the girls, or at least one of them, and was now hiding the
evidences of his guilt by burying the body in the garden.

However, there _might_ still be a chance that they were alive; and not
to leave a stone unturned, he resolved, now that he knew Barbe Rouge
was in the hole, to go round the house and gently tap at each window,
to endeavour to obtain a response from those he was in quest of. This
idea he carried into effect, but without receiving any reply to his
tapping, and he again went to the mound and peeped over--Barbe Rouge
was still busy, as his shadow, bobbing about in the uncertain light of
the horn lantern, proved.

Could it be possible that the skipper had left the door of the house
unlocked? He would see at all events, and back to the house he went.
Upon pressing the handle, to his great joy the door swung back, and he
quietly entered. For fear of being discovered, should Barbe Rouge enter
the doorway, he leaned a stick, which he found in the passage, against
the door on the inside, so that any one entering from without could not
fail to knock it down with a clatter upon the stone floor, and thus
give him warning.

Carefully he searched each of the five rooms which the house contained,
breathing ever and anon the names of Mary and Retté, but when he came
to the last room, and found it empty, his feelings overcame him, and,
but for some wine which he discovered on a table, he would certainly
have fainted with horror, thinking that his Mary and her companion had
been cruelly murdered, and were now being buried by his captain, the
dreadful Barbe Rouge.

More wine; and then he gradually grew into a frenzy, swearing that but
one task remained, which ere he left Jethou should be accomplished.

This was to revenge the deaths of Mary and Retté by killing the monster
who was now sitting in the pit, which in another minute should be
his tomb. Burning with rage, so that he shook in every limb, he had
difficulty in calming his feelings sufficiently to accomplish his task
in an unfailing manner.

He paused to calm his quivering nerves, and then went gently along the
passage, pistol in hand, to where he had left the broom-stick at the
door. It remained as he had left it; so he quietly leaned it against
the wall, and nervously began to open the door, for fear the giant’s
form might be about to enter.

Inch by inch it opened and he peeped out.

All was quiet.

With his pistol still grasped tightly he made for the mound, intending
to shoot Barbe Rouge in his self-made grave, but before reaching
the spot, he fell prone over a large piece of granite rock; he lay
perfectly still, for fear Barbe Rouge should peep out of his hole to
see what had caused the noise.

[Illustration: “Suddenly a heavy hand seized him from behind.”--_p.
121._]

For some minutes he lay silent but alert; then, as the skipper did
not appear, he arose, returned his flintlock to his belt, and picked up
the huge stone at his feet.

This he resolved should be the instrument of Barbe Rouge’s death--a
stone for a dog--reserve the bullet for a nobler foe!

Up the bank of earth he staggered with his burden. Yes! Barbe Rouge was
still at work--he could see his white stocking cap and the shaggy red
locks beneath; so, pausing, he raised the mass of stone high above his
head, thinking to hurl it down with crushing force upon the cranium of
the monster below, when suddenly a heavy hand seized him from behind,
and the stone, losing its balance, fell from his grasp with a thud
into the hole. He gave one glance round, his last on this earth, for
his eyes met the infuriated orbs of Barbe Rouge himself, who, with a
stroke swift as sight, drove a long keen dagger deep into the young
Englishman’s breast. Without a groan he fell dead into the yawning gulf
before him.

       *       *       *       *       *

With a chuckle at the success of his fiendish work, Barbe Rouge quietly
descended a short ladder into the great vault he had dug, and took out
a book from an iron-bound chest at the bottom, in which he calmly wrote
certain notes, stating that he had killed Trefry for endeavouring to
meddle with his “_petites fées_,” or little fairies, but whether he
referred to the two girls or the gems is not very evident.

Trefry was a doomed man from the time he stepped ashore, as, through a
spy on board _La Chauve-souris_, Barbe Rouge was cognizant of all that
had taken place on board the schooner. He received information that
Trefry would come ashore between eleven and twelve, and had prepared a
ruse to deceive and place him at his mercy.

He made a dummy head with a red tow wig and beard in imitation of
himself, and on the top placed his old white stocking cap. This little
device was fixed at the bottom of the excavation upon a cross pole
fastened to an upright. At the end of the cross pole which touched the
ground a live rabbit was fastened, that, moving about a foot from right
to left, the dummy head was made to oscillate. A lantern was so placed
as to throw a shadow of the head upon the side of the pit farthest from
the house, and the trap thus artfully baited caused the downfall of the
gallant young Cornishman, Trefry.

Barbe Rouge signified his intention of leaving Jethou with his fair
ones next day for a voyage to the West Indies, and from a record in
a St. Peter Port document, we find that he actually did sail on May
1st, after giving a grand farewell entertainment to many of the good
townspeople of St. Peter Port on the previous evening.

Thus we see that virtue is not always triumphant, and that every dog
has his day, including the somewhat numerous species known as the Sea
Dog.

       *       *       *       *       *

After a year or two I met the adventurous Nilford again, when he
informed me that he had put my van quite in the shade by a novel idea
of his own. It appears that he was so struck with my mode of life that
he purchased an old gipsy-van, and rambled about in it for a week or
two together, just when the fit seized him. Then the idea occurred to
him of making a pair of boats, into which the wheels of his van were
fitted, and by decking the space fore and aft between the boats, he
went all over the Broads, and finally coasted it to Essex, whence he
had the good or ill luck to be blown over to Holland. As he has written
the history of his adventures, it is no business of mine further to
divulge them here, but will content myself with calling the reader’s
attention to a book entitled, _Afloat in a Gipsy Van_.[C]

  [C] Jarrold and Sons, 10 and 11, Warwick Lane, London, E.C.




VI.

INTRODUCTION TO “ROBIN HOOD IN WINTER.”


I have somehow a knack of running against men who, without being
notable, have still something in their composition which makes them
conspicuous among their fellows. Such a man was he from whom I obtained
the following story; for it was told me first by my informant _vivâ
voce_, and afterwards corrected by him, with an ancient quill pen,
which had a habit now and again of spattering the ink, after the
fashion of a pyrotechnic display, wherever there happened to be any
roughness of the paper. He loved the antique, and lived a long way in
rear of the times; quill pens were natural pens, he said, and he would
have nothing to do with the modern steel rubbish, as he disdainfully
termed our great up-to-date invention. His house, furniture, and
clothes were antique, and so were his very person, face, and figure.

He was short, thin, curved, and drab. I say drab, because no other
colour will so well describe his complexion, which was of a parchment
hue, and of the same leathery texture. Small slits of eyes, a hooked
nose, wide mouth with thin lips, hollow cheeks, and a broad and high
forehead; that was the facial appearance of my learned friend, the
antiquary.

I met him near Birmingham, whither he had been to purchase a bundle
of old books, with which he was wearily toiling onward to his village
home. He sat by the roadside on a grassy bank with his treasures, girt
about by a strong leathern strap, by his side.

Being a very hot day, the old man had a large red bandana handkerchief
in his hand, with which he patted his perspiring face. I asked him, by
way of obtaining an opening for a conversation, if I was on the right
road to Coventry, whereupon he informed me that he was walking to
Meridew, a distance of twelve miles along the road to Coventry, and if
I would give him a lift he would act as guide.

I obliged the old man, although I knew the road perfectly, having
travelled the district before, but, as I love companionship, I thought
it a good opportunity for indulging my hobby.

I found the old gentleman excellent company, and on arriving at
Meridew, discovered that he owned a very pretty, little, old-fashioned
house standing in its own grounds. Being both good talkers, and our
ideas running mainly in the same groove, my new friend invited me to
spend a few days with him, and I gladly availed myself of his kind
hospitality.

The story of “Robyn Hode in Winter” he had discovered at an old book
shop at Coventry, and was lucky enough to become owner of the precious
document, for the insignificant but handy coin yclept a shilling. He
had read and re-read the old parchment so many times, that he had quite
got it by heart, and so much had it engrossed his mind, that when I
put him to sleep one evening he reproduced it vocally, as if he were
reciting it to an audience.

He had at different times discovered other very curious documents,
copies of which he pressed upon me, and some of them I may, at a future
time, venture to inflict upon the indulgent public.


ROBIN HOOD IN WINTER.

I, ROGER AYLMER, clerke to ye Abbot of Croweland Abbey in Lincolnshire,
doe hereby sweare that what I herein do write is ye fulle and whole
truth and nothing but ye truth of my seizure by ye outlawe Robyn Hode,
and that which I do heare write is to prove to ye Abbot of Fountaines
Abbey in Yorkshire, that I dyd to ye best of my mighte and courage,
seek to protect ye goodes belonging to him from ye rascally outlawe;
which sayd goodes were in my keepynge when they were by force y’parted
from me.

In October 1196 Our goode Father ye Abbot (of Croweland) dyd receiue
from Fountaines Abbey, an order for certain goodes to be sent thither,
to wit: six score yardes of Lincolne cloth, three score yardes of
scarlet cloth, certain rolles of leather and sundrie other goodes.

I was sent offe with four serving men and two yeomen, to whom, partly,
we looked for sustenance on our way, as the forests of Nottingham Shire
and Barneys Dale doe abound in many and gret dere, which be ye Kyng hys
property. Nevertheless, ye Kyng being away in Palestyne fightynge ye
Paynim, men doe take of hys dere withouten leve.

Our traine dyd consist of six mules, bearing ye goodes, and seven
others which dyd beare myself and my menne. Ye weather being clere and
colde we dyd make right goode waye, passing safely thro’ the forests of
Notts wyth but one mishappe.

At a lowe parte in a woode we dyd com upon a boggy place, near unto
which was a gret pool of water, engirdled rounde about with rushes and
eke with tall redes, and thynkinge it might be goode to water our mules
there, we dyd caste about for a patheway, to lede to the sayd water,
which anon we dyd find.

The yeomen led ye way, but we had not far advanced when a gret wild
boare, with horrid snortyngs and squeals dyd attack one of oure mules,
and although both yeomen with their longbows dyd fill him with sundrie
arrowes, yet dyd he not desist from his bellowing and goreing. Then
straightway dyd ye bowels of ye mule gush out upon ye grounde from ye
tearing of ye crewel tarshes of ye boare.

Seeing this, one of ye serving men dyd thrust thro’ the boare hys
bodie, a great spere, and fixed him to ye earthe; nevertheless no manne
dare venture near, so gret was ye rage of ye furious beast. Then dyd ye
serving men set upon him and overcame him, so that he preasently dyd
dye, and from hys carcase we dyd make a fulle hearty meale.

Ye mule which was y’stricken ded, was that on which we dyd carry our
cooking gear, the which being packed upon a freshe mule, he dyd rebel
at ye noise of the tinne and copper pottes and pannes, which as he dyd
gambol and kicke dyd make much dullor, till the mule being tyred with
his prancynge did act more peacefully and get him gone quietly.

Anon we reached ye forest of Barneys Dale, which as alle menne know is
ye chiefest haunte of that rascal outlawe, Robyn Hode and hys menne.

Entering into ye forest my menne dyd beg me to goe around, for feare we
might mete with ye bold robber, to which I dyd reply that “Were it in
the days of summer, ye name of Robyn Hode might scare even me; a manne
of much courage and stomach for ye fighte; but it being the wintertyde,
I cared nought for hym, as he woulde be hyding in some snugge village
on ye craggy moors. I woulde therefore hie me thro’ ye forest, without
let or hynderance, and see what manner of place Robyn dyd love, and
that with mine owne eyen.”

Into Barneys Dale we rode right merrilie, one of ye serving menne
playing blythely upon his sackbutt, y’whylst I dyd sing songs most
lustilie, soe that when we dyd join our voices in chorus, the foreste
dyd helpe us greatly to swell ye sounde, which dyd echo and ringe
against ye gret bowes and bolls of ye trees. Thys dyd we to keep in
goode hearte, and while we dyd thus divert ourselves, it being towards
ye houre of noone, we dyd com to a gret cliffe, near which dyd grow
manny noble trees, and at ye feet of ye cliffe dyd laye a mass of
tangled underwood and a faire barne or storehouse.

As ye winde dyd blowe somewhat sore, and ye gret cliffe dyd give
shelter therefrom, we dyd alite from our mules, intending there to
dress our victuals.

Finding a patheway or loke to ye foote of ye cliffe, we dyd secure
its shelter and lited us a fire, which was thereby screened from ye
colde winde. Then dyd we perceive that ye cliffe was full of gret holes
and caves, some of which were stopped uppe with rough bordes of wode
against them, which dyd make us marvel what might be behinde them.

Then did we guess what they mought be; and some sayd it maye be soe and
soe, and others sayed it is thys or that, till one sayd it maye be ye
hiding-place of Robyn Hode, in ye faire tyme of ye yeare, but others
sayd no, it is a place for woodemen and they who doe mynd cattel.

But one of my serving men being curious to knowe what was within these
caves, dyd with hys handes begin to pull downe some of ye boardes, ye
which dyd make a kynd of doorway, whereupon came an arrow, which dyd
pin hys hande to the woode, and he dyd cry out in gret payn for us to
release him.

Then ran forward Thomas à Boston, one of ye yeomen, to give succor,
but whan he dyd put forthe hys hande to plucke out the arrowe from hys
comrade, straiteway flew anoder arrowe, which smiting him on ye face,
dyd pierce his two cheekes, soe that ye feathers of the arrowe were wet
with hys bloude.

Anon came a loude voice which alle might heare, though ye speaker no
manne coulde see:

“Stande alle! Upon ye erthe your weapons throwe.”

Thys we dyd, when there advanced into ye lytell open space before ye
caves, a stalwart man y’clad in green clothe of goode pryce, having in
his hande a long-bowe to which an arrow was notched. At his right side
he dyd weare a goodlie sword, and from his left shouder hung a crooked
horne. He hadde on a mantel of sad color, but of thicke texture, to
keepe him from ye inclemency of ye weather.

“Who seeke you here?” he cry’d. “Why brake you downe in wantonness ye
dwelling of a poore forester?”

Then dyd I answer him and saye--

“We be but poore wayfayrers halting on our way to cook our store of
victuals, and dyd but mene to peep into the caves, to see if aney manne
dyd dwell therein this winter of the yeare.”

Then dyd ye manne, with a gret oathe, declare that never dyd he see
a poore traveller wend his waye through the forest with such goodlie
retinue and beastes, and that he must firste enquire into my state,
before I went thitherfrom.

With that he tooke his bugle and dyd blowe a lusty blast upon hys
curled horne, and anon came a reply from far awaye in ye foreste.

Then ye bold robber, for we dyd guess it was Robyn himself, dyd set
him on ye gnarléd root of a gret tree and waited patiently; and soe
perforce dyd we, being afeard of ye man. Nevertheless, I dyd gaze
my fyll upon ye bolde outlawe before me, and marry, he was a right
sturdy fellow, tall, and of a proportionate bignesse of lymbe, comely
of feature, and with a swarthy visage, hys hair and beard of ye sloes
colour, and eke had he the eyen of ye falcon; a very proper manne was
he and in hys pryme.

Anon as we dyd gaze upon him, and he at us, he dyd put to us sundrie
questions, which we dyd answer him very civilly. As he dyd thus
question us, and no man dyd come to the sounde of the robber’s bugle,
my other yeoman, Robert Baldrow, dyd rise up and saye to Robyn--

“Fellow, why doste thou stop peaceful travellers? Thou arte but one
manne and I another, and a staffe in my hande is as goode as one in
thine. Have at thee, knave!” and straightway he dyd springe before
Robyn, quarter-staffe in hande. Whereat Robyn set an arrow to his bowe,
makyng as if he would shoote, at the which Baldrow dyd cry out, “A
knave! a coward knave!!”

Then dyd Robyn droppe his bow and to it they went right merrile.

My manne Baldrow’s bloode was uppe, and eke was it downe, for Robyn
dyd give him such sounding thwacks, that the bloode did run adoune his
cheekes and drippe from his chin. Robyn, too, got manie a knock which
was harde, and his blacke bearde was rede with blode alsoe.

Bothe dyd swat greatlie, and blowe them like unto oxen, till Robyn by a
swingyne blowe, did bring Baldrow downe upon the grounde, where he did
crye lustelie for mercie.

While thys fighte dyd last, many great and lyttle men dyd hedge us
arounde, till there were quite a score and a halfe of them, and he who
appeared to be their leader was in stature ye largest man my eyen dyd
ever lite upon. When he stode besyde Robyn, his shoulder was a fulle
ynch taller than Robyn hys head; nor was he a thin wastreyl of a manne,
but proper and strong withall, and of about ye same age as Robyn Hode,
who dyd say he had y’seen thirty and fyve summers.

While the fighte dyd last, my four serving men, who be doubtless arrant
knaves, dyd steal away with four of ye mules layden with sundrie
goodes, which Robyn percevyng, he dyd secretly send hys men in searche
of them, and in goode time they dyd bring them backe, and deliver them
bound to Robyn.

Then Robyn swore a gret othe, that he had never met such scurvy knaves,
and did cause them to be bound with cordes to the trunks of fallen
trees, with their faces downwards. Then did foure of hys men belabour
their breeches with pliable saplings of ye ashe tree, till their
strength gave out, when the gret giant, whose name I did afterward find
to be Lytell John, did tell the whipped varlets to begone. But so sore
were their hams that they dyd but stir at the snail hys pace, makynge
y’while loud and sundry bemoanings, and walking in muche variety of
postures for they were sore hurte.

My mules were meantyme kindly treated, for their burdeyns were released
from them, at which I dyd not much joie, for I dyd knowe right well ye
character of myne hoste. The food stuffe for our sustenance was taken
by ye robber band, and putte in gret yron potts, beneath which fires
were lighted, and in but smalle tyme a goode meale was spred before us
alle.

They were a motley crew, and many of them dyd looke like unto beggars
(for tatters and dyrt) their clothes being very ragged and olde. Many
wore gret bands of hay round their legges to keepe them warme, and to
fend off ye wet from ye bracken and underwode.

They were not dressed as I had heard tell, alle in Lincolne greene,
although a few of the head menne among them dyd dress their lymbs in
that cloth, namely, Lytell John, George à Greene, Raynolde Greenleafe
and a lyttel man y’clept Muche who was sonne of a miller. Some sayd he
was y’clept Muche because he was so lyttel, but he was a jolly manne
withal and was foole or jester of ye party, and dyd keep them all in
goode humour lyke unto ye jester in ye Kyng hys court.

Another pretty manne was y’named Will Scadlocke, but as he dyd dress
hym in scarlet doublet, his comrades did name him Scarlett, from the
colour of hys dress. Many dyd weare buff leather jerkins and brown
hose, as it was ye tyme of winter when alle is browne and bare, but
quoth Robyn, “In the spring we do don our green raiment like to the
leaves of the forest, so that ye dere with their glittering eyen cannot
so readilie see us.”

Dere were not in plentye, but these bold foresters did make nomble pies
of their entrails, which they did salt in gret tubs during the summer.
It was a humble, but alsoe a toothesome dysh, when seasoned with sweete
herbes.

Robyn hys menne dyd attend to my two wounded menne, and dyd place them
on softe couches of bracken, which dyd lie hid in the caves. Me they
dyd lodge in a gret barne of wattle and clay, which dyd afford me good
shelter. Thys in ye summer was the resorte of cowherds, who dyd here
keep their store and eke slumber, driving in their cattel in stormy
weather.

In this shed or barne dyd stande much store of victuals for keepe of
ye robbers who dyd remain with their leader through the inclemency
of wintertyde. Floure and porke in barrels, pickled herryngs from
Yaremouthe; beanes, onions, and carrotes; beere and cyder in fayre
casks were in gret plentie, all of which store was sent in by ye
farmers for many myles around that Robyn might exempt their cattel,
menne, and goodes from hys seizure.

Robyn, goode man, dyd place alle my goodes and chattels in one of his
caves, that they might be safe from hys comrades, and that no manne
might take from them.

Next daye it dyd snow, and everything was covered from sight, and alle
assembled in the barne where they had buylt a woode fire, round which
they dyd sitte and laye as they liste. Some dyd sing songs, and Muche,
the lytell miller, dyd play them many tunes on hys pype, while another
merry fellow dyd beat lustily on a tabour or drumme, and thus dyd they
beguile the time away right joyouslie, whyle harmony dyd prevail; but
ye said harmonie dyd not laste longe, for one gret quarrelsome rascal
dyd grumble that the ale was too bittere with horehound, and some sayd
it was a righte goode brew, whereupon they fell to jangling, and the
manne who was of gret stature dyd challenge any one to crack his sconce
with a bout at quarter-staffe. Another manne, who was of the brede of
the greyhond, did thereupon rise uppe and tackle him, and atte it they
dyd goe for the full space of an hour; by which tyme he who was of
slender form, had lent his foe soe many and sounding thwacks that the
bigge man was fain to crie, “A goe!” and soe ye battel ended amyd muche
laughter.

Then goode Robyn dyd saye let us to some more songes and then early to
couche; for to-morrow is Christmas Daye. Then was a gret cup brought in
and filled to the brim with meade, which being a noble drinke, was but
for Robyn and me, Aylmer, his guest.

It was goode liquor, and we dyd sup it deeplie, when Robyn thinkynge
to fleer at my priestly garb, dyd aske me, “Coulde I wrastle,” and I
being a lytell in my cups, dyd reply that I could wrastle any outlawe
that was ever borne, though it was manie yeares since I had played a
boute.

Then dyd we wrastle before alle assembled, and they present dyd laugh
heartily to see the figure I dyd cut, being of great girth. Howbeit
I dyd styk to Robyn, and by a lucky chance dyd roll him over and dyd
sit on his backe, to make mirth for those present; but Robyn dyd not
laugh atte alle, being angered that a priest should thus him overthrow;
soe when I dyd let him uppe he dyd run at me with gret vengeance in
hys eyen, and he soe smote me on the stommick that I dyd pante right
mightilie.

Then was I also an angered manne, and having a strong arme dyd requite
Robyn with a gret blow of the nose, which dyd blede an it were a runlet
of goode rede claret.

To make peace, “Long John,” as I dyd hear Lytell John sometime called,
dyd com betwixt and dyd part us, and we ware carried off, each to hys
bed in a separate cave. So ended the Vigil of Noel.

The morne of Christmas Daye was one which dyd smile over the erthe wyth
gret brightness, and alle were astir betimes, and many went divers ways
into the woodes to seek for dere. They took but their bows and speares
in their handes, leaving the frieze covers of their bowes at home, as
there was no damp in the frosty air which might shorten their strings.

Robyn was very surlie, for he had gotten two blacke eyen, and his nose
was swollen and red like to ye haws which are sent for birdes food in
winter. I was much afeared of the manne, thinkynge he might doe me
some mischief for a revenge for ye blowe I had placed upon hys nose,
but we dyd shake hands and were friendly, and being Christmas Morne, he
woulde have me goe into his cave chambre and pray for him, which I dyd.
Althoughe an outlawe hys menne doe say he is of pious mind, praying to
ye Blessed Virgin at alle seasons, especially in tyme of gret peril.

When we had our prayers sayd, Lytell John dyd roar out with gret pain,
saying that his tooth dyd ache sore, and so it dyd prove, for no manne
dare go near him, so greatly dyd he rage. Then he cryd for some one to
pull it from his jawe for hym, but no manne dyd offer, tyll home came
Wayland, who had of olde tyme been a smyth, and used to the handling of
implements.

Lytell John dyd throw himself upon ye plancher in ye barne, and foure
of the strongest men dyd houlde him dowen.

Then dyd Wayland bring forthe hys tools, which he kept in a leathern
poke, for many a jobbe dyd he for the companie. Lytell John’s eyen dyd
roule muche when he dyd see the iron pincers, which Wayland dyd bring
forthe from the poke, but they being made for horse shoeing were too
large for his mouthe, and woulde not worke therein, although it was a
large one.

Then Wayland founde him a smaller pair, and with them went to worke
agen, upon which Lytell John dyd roar and struggle mightilie, but they
who held him being strong men he coulde not get free. Wayland dyd again
try, but being used to rough work dyd not set to worke skilfullie,
whereupon Will Scadlocke, who had now returned with two hares whych he
had shotte, dyd attempt to get out the aching tooth, and with such
address dyd he set to worke, that in but a few minutes he dyd drawe it
forth triumphantlie.

Then they dyd waken Lytell John, who had fallen into a kind of trance
(in whych he did groan), by rubbinge his face with snow and putting ice
on ye nape of hys necke.

Soone came home ye merrie menne, some with doe meat and some with a
gret dere they had slain; while Peter the falconer dyd add toe the
store, two ducks and a fine guse, at which there was great rejoicynge.

Three menne still were to come home, and their comrades dyd look for
them anxiously, fearing they had been taken by ye menne of Murdach,
Sheriff of Nottingham, but in tyme they came back bringing three gret
pikes, which they had snared in the river, beside gret store of perch,
which they had netted without asking leve of anney manne.

Guards were sette to the right and left of the campe, and fires y’made,
at which were dressed gret diversitie of dishes, and atte duske the
feaste was spread in ye barne. It was a feaste that woulde have graced
the Refectory of Crowlande Abbey, albeit it was served uppe in a
somewhat rough manner.

Fish, fleshe, and fowle of all kinds were there, and cyder and ale in
plentie, so that each manne dyd eat and quaff and sing and laugh, till
he coulde no more.

Then dyd they sitte and laye around the bigge fire and tell stories of
their deeds, which dyd shock mine ears exceedinglie.

By the fyrelight they dyd look a very desperate sett of menne, ye more
so when they had drunken of the goode rede wine, which Robyn had caused
to be broached.

Robyns nose grew redder as he dranke, and hys eyen being black he dyd
look most curious. Lytell John dyd have hys jawes in a slyng, as hys
cheeke was some deal painful after his toothe hauling. My yeoman,
Robert Baldrow, whose cheekes hade been shot through, was a silent
manne, for his mouth was bounden in a clothe through a hole in which he
dyd suck up some brothe through a hollow bunke.

Howbeit, for these lytell drawbacks, each man dyd enjoy himself
greatly, and dyd sing or daunce according as he was him capable, and
ye merriment was kept up for a gret many houres till many dyd drink
themselves to sleep, and their comrades dyd cover them with deer skins
and bracken, for fear they might be freesed, so colde was ye night.

“Not oft,” sayd Allan-a-dale to me, “do we have these galas, onlie now
and again, else myght the crewel Sheriff of Nottingham worke us some
ill.”

For several dayes more dyd Robyn keep me hys prisoner, and on onne day
I dyd see some of their famous archerie.

On New Yeres Day, Robyn, Lytell John and Scadlocke, had matched
themselves to strike as many arrows into a marke as any six of their
comrades. Thys wager was accepted by Much, Greneleafe, Allan-a-dale, my
man Thomas à Boston, Reginauld Foxe, and one they called “Humpy” from
his crooked backe.

A hare skin was stretched on a hoope of wode and placed as a pryke for
them to shote at, at a distance of eighte score yardes, and each manne
was to shote a score of arrowes at ye marke.

Robyn, Lytell John, and Scadlocke dyd shote first, and of their three
score arrows, a score and seventeen dyd stryke the marke, though Robyn
dyd not schote well, hys nose being as bigge as two, and was in hys way
when he dyd schote, so that but ten of his arrowes of the full score
dyd strike ye mark.

Then dyd Much and his menne in turn shote at ye marke, and of alle
their six score arrowes, two score and three dyd pierce ye skyn,
whereat there was much shoutynge and laughing by those who dyd behold,
and Robyn dyd look him ruefully to see ye prize, which was a flagon of
yelow wine, drunk by lytell Much and hys men.

On the 2nd of January, my yeoman being recovered of his woundes, Robyn
dyd give me leve for to goe on my waye. Whereon I dyd thanke hym and
ask for my gear, at whych he dyd laugh him outrighte in my face.

“Nay, Master Monk,” sayd he, “ye traveller must paye for hys fayre.
Have I not kept you and two menne and alle your mules these ten days?
Come quit thee hence, and thy gear I will keep in payment for thy
victuals and bedde.

“Come, begone! and a right pleasaunt journey to you!”

But I woulde not thus be putten offe, and dyd trye with my menne to
bringe forth the bayles of clothe from the caves, but the robbers tooke
them from us, giving us many cuffes and kickes for oure pains. Anon I
demanded my mules, but Robyn dyd say:

“Nay, brother, I have keeped ye mules for ten days for thee, and now I
will keepe them longer for mine owne use. Dere meate may become scarce,
then will mule meate be plentie.”

Then I dyd try and seize ye rascal by his ears, to give him som
chastisement, for we monkes be manie of us strong menne, being used to
much huntinge and hawkinge arounde our monasteries.

Thereupon dyd the giant Lytell John seize me and my men, and bynde us
face downwardes on our mules, and with many stripes of their bowes and
quarter-staves, they dyd beat us on ye uppermoste parts till we dyd
fairlie crye oute for mercie.

Then dyd Robyn say--

  “I doe gif you a present each of a mule. Commende me to your good
  master the Abbot, and begge hym to give us hys company in the merrie
  Maye dayes, and he shall meet with cheer over and above that which
  you have received. Fare ye welle.”

  Then the robbers dyd thwacke us again, tyll Robert Baldrow dyd slyp
  from hys mule by ye breakynge of hys strappes, and dyd begge Robyn to
  allow hym to remain and become one of hys menne.

  Atte which Robyn dyd laugh and give hys consent right readilie,
  striking hym on ye backe with hys palm to showe hys pleasure thereat.

  In three dayes we dyd return us to Crowlande Abbey, hungry nigh untoe
  dethe, and sore; where being kindlie entreated we dyd recover, and in
  the quiet of mine owne cell, I have written thys parchement to cleare
  my character of guilt.

  Shoulde ever I com across that rascal robber, Robyn Hode, I will soe
  bange hys carcase with my staffe, that hys skin shall be like a poke
  filled with odde bones.

                                                “Syned, ROGER AYLMER,
                                                       “Jany. 10, 1197.”


                                                  “CROWLANDE ABBEY,
                                                        “_Marche, 1495_.

  “I, John Wybourne, a monk of Crowlande Abbey, dyd fynde, in a strong
  chist of ye Ladye Chapelle, a document written by one Roger Aylmer
  in 1197, which dyd showe how he was taken by ye thief Robyn Hode and
  dyd spend ten dayes with hym in Wintertyde: the sayd document being
  soe badlie written and so badelie spelt that I have corrected itte to
  conform with oure modern spellynge.

  “Althoughe I have altered the wordes I have not altered the sense of
  the document, but merely for the sayk of our Abbey, I have set my
  hande to yts correction, that those who com after doe not blushe for
  shayme at Roger Alymer hys badde spellynge.”

       *       *       *       *       *

My old friend the antiquarian would have me drive him to Coventry on
my way thither, as he was particularly anxious that I should not miss
visiting the shop at which he had made such discoveries of ancient
parchments--parchments which, but for his discovery, would have gone,
sooner or later, to form the heads of children’s toy drums.

I cannot refrain from mentioning one little incident which took place
before we parted. My friend, in showing me the lions of Coventry,
took me into the Public Hall, where we found the old fellow in charge
busy cleaning the windows. We asked permission to look round, and
in speaking to the old custodian who was on the ladder I had some
difficulty in making myself understood. I said, “My friend, I am
afraid, although this is a fine hall, that its acoustics are very bad.”

To my surprise he gave a lengthy sniff and replied, “I don’t know about
that, sir, I’ve never had a complaint before, _I can’t smell anything_!”

I did not smile, but passed out quickly, for fear of an attack of
apoplexy.

In travelling from place to place I come across some strange incidents,
some of which are merely the outcome of simplicity or kindness of heart.

Thus at one village I visited, I happened to mention to the landlord of
the inn I was staying at that I had omitted to pack a tooth-brush with
my other impedimenta.

“Oh, I’ll soon set that right,” he replied, and darting from the room
quickly returned with a face beaming with pleasure.

“Here’s one, sir,” and he held out a tooth-brush; “you’ll find it’s a
very good one, for _I’ve only used it a few times_!”

Simplicity of manner frequently runs hand in hand with simplicity of
speech; as an illustration of the latter I may give a few words I once
heard delivered from the pulpit of a Primitive Methodist chapel, by a
good-natured, but somewhat illiterate preacher. He said--

“My dear frinds, coming to worshup this mornin’, I had a curious idea
come inter my head. I likened this chapel to a gret iron biler, and
you, my frinds, I likened to the dumplin’s a-being biled, while I was
the long wooden spune a-stirring on yer up! There, my dear frinds,
them were my thoughts when I was a-walking here this werry mornin’.”

What could be more graphic than such a charming and flattering
discourse? There could be no comparison between Cicero and this village
Hampden!




VII.

INTRODUCTION TO “ECCLES OLD TOWER.”


You must know, gentle reader, that at Eccles, a village of about a
score inhabitants, on the Norfolk coast, midway between Yarmouth and
Cromer, stands an old church tower. It is quite upon the beach, so that
at spring tides the “send” of the waves comes round the base of the old
flint tower, which must at some day, not far distant,[D] fall with a
mighty crash, a prey to the undermining and gnawing of the hungry sea,
which in its insatiable encroachment annually devours hundreds of tons
of the soft clay cliff, which at no point reaches a very formidable
height.

  [D] Eccles Steeple fell during a tremendous gale on January 23rd,
  1895, and but little remains of the huge pile except portions of the
  larger fragments which are still unburied by the sand.

North and south of Eccles the cliffs give place to sand dunes, or, as
they are locally called, “Marram banks,” which are kept in repair by a
tax levied on all the villages between Norwich and the sea, a distance
of nearly twenty miles. Norwich itself also contributes its quota, as
if the sea once broke through the banks it would, by ditch, marsh, and
river, run quite up to the ancient city, and submerge the portion which
is contiguous to the river Wensum.

The steeple at Eccles (or as it is called locally, and by the thousands
of mariners who know it as a landmark, Eccles Old Tower) stands just
above high-water mark, on the beautiful firm sands, for which the
Norfolk coast is unsurpassed. It is of flintwork, the lower part being
“knapped,” or dressed, and the upper part of the natural flint. It is
a circular tower with an octagonal upper chamber, but it is roofless,
doorless, and windowless, excepting that the apertures, greatly
decayed, still remain. The walls of the tower are unusually massive,
and the whole structure rises to an altitude of nearly seventy feet.

The body of the church was pulled down about 1603, being then in such a
bad state of repair that it was dangerous to passers-by; in fact, one
wall was actually blown down in a gale, and the other razed to prevent
an accident.

The foundations of the church still exist, but buried in the sand.
It was a small church (the nave being only some sixty feet long),
and as its remains are occasionally laid bare, the writer has had
opportunities of measuring the various dimensions. Although these
dimensions might be interesting to an ecclesiologist or archæologist,
they would be wearisome to our readers, as they have nothing whatever
to do with the story.

Round the huge fragments of the recumbent walls may be seen, after a
visit from a heavy north-west gale, the foundations of the cottages
which once formed the village. Cottage walls, out-houses, filled-up
wells, fruit-tree roots, etc., are to be seen in all directions, and
now and then, at rare intervals, a few coins and curiosities are
picked up. When the ruins _are_ laid bare, the place forms what might
aptly be termed the Norfolk Pompeii.

It was while I was sketching the old tower, one autumn day, that I
came upon a fisherman employed in breaking up some wreckage which had
been washed ashore. The timber being full of old bolts, and consisting
mainly of twisted, gnarled oak knees, was of no value save for
firewood, otherwise it would have been in the hands of the coastguard.
He was a very civil but reticent fellow, and I could not get a yarn out
of him by any means without exerting my hypnotic power, which I did,
obtaining, as a result, the following wild story.


ECCLES OLD TOWER.

I am only a plain fisherman, with but little book learning; but I think
I can muster up enough form o’ speech to tell you one of the skeeriest
tales you ever heard in all your born days.

It was the first week in January, 188--, that we had a dreadful gale
from the north-west which came at the full moon; consequently the tides
were high, and this here gale came with such a scouring force, that
the soft cliffs melted away like a lump of butter in the glare o’ the
sun. The sand was swep’ away right down to what you might term the
foundations of the shore, and everything laid as bare as my forehead.
I liken it to my forehead, which is kinder wrinkly, because there were
great ruts and scars along the beach which had once been holls,[1]
deeks,[2] and lokes.[3]

I and a mate o’ mine walked along the beach next day, just to see if
anything had been thrown ashore that would come in handy to a couple
of poor chaps like ourselves; but little did we find, for some one had
been pawkin’[4] before us. Still, we got a useful length of two-inch
rope and a couple of dantos,[5] attached to a score fathom of decent
net, so our walk paid for shoe-leather.

When we got to the third breakwater--for we live at Hasbro’--and peeped
over, we were wholly stammed[6] to see the old village of Eccles laid
bare and plain like a map. There was the walls of the housen standin’
up two foot and more in some places; and some of the door thresholds
were still there, with the wood as good as ever. We could make out the
shapes of the gardens, and could see where the fruit-trees had once
stood, by the roots and tree-bolls that still remained.

In grubbing about with a pointed boat-streak, I roused out an old
leathern bag with a golden guinea in it, and a piece of rusty iron
tangled in the strap, which might have been a knife or somethin’ of the
sort in days gone by.

Afterwards we looked over the churchyard wall, and to our surprise
found that many of the graves had been washed open; in fact, some of
the coffins lay there nearly level with the ground, for you know we
don’t bury very deep in Norfolk, not more than four foot, and only one
corpse in each hole.

The coffins wor of a different shape to what they make ’em now-a-days,
for they were long, like a seaman’s chest, but broad at one end and
narrow at the other, and the lid hinged on at one side.

Human bones were washing about in all directions, and a long line of
them lay among the rubbish left at high watermark. We found one immense
coffin near the north wall of the church, which must have been seven
foot long, if it was an inch. The lid was much decayed, and in some
parts broken away; so we thought it no sin to prize the rest off, and
see what was inside.

It was level full of sand, but when we scooped some of it out with
our hands, we came upon the perfect skelington of a man, black with
age, but nothing missing. It looked as if he might have been the
giant Goliar that we read of in the Bible. He was no use to us, so we
covered him up decent like, and as it was getting towards dark we took
ourselves home agin.

Next day I borrowed old Garrod’s dickey,[7] and rode up to Stalham, and
called on old Dr. Rix, for he was what some folks call a aquarian, or
somethin’ o’ that sort, and showed him my guinea in the bag, and the
old bit o’ steel; and he gave me just what I asked him for ’em, and
that was two-and-twenty shillings: he was pleased, and so was I, for it
was just as much as I could earn in a fortnight. I stopped at his some
time goldering[8] about what I had seen at Eccles, and he up and told
me, when I mentioned about the big skelington, that if I could bring
it to him _intack_--that’s not broken or any bits lost--he’d give me a
five-pound note.

Lor, I wor soon home agen, I made the old dickey fly as if the Old ’un
were arter us. Thinks I, this ought to be a single-handed job, and if
I take a big poke[9] and go alone, I shan’t have any one to dole[10]
out halves to. So I got my spade and a lantern, a poke, and a fairish
thumbpiece of bacon and bread, and everything else I wanted all ready,
and then waited till near midnight, so that I knew the coast would be
clear for the job.

It was a thick, starless night, with great grey snow-clouds rolling
about overhead, and the wind from the north-east was a regular
marrer-freezer, and I can’t say I much cared for the work in hand;
but, as the parson said when he went on a slide, “it’s foolish to turn
back,” so on I went. The road was frozen right nubbly, and made me
wobble about a bit, but by the time I got to the beach I was warm and
comfortable, and got along more comfortable-like on the frozen sand,
which was covered with snow in the hollows. The sand and foam from
seaward was a bit unpleasant, but I didn’t trouble much about that, for
my thoughts were a mile ahead, with the skelington waiting for me at
Eccles.

I had walked about half-a-mile along the beach, when down came the
snow, wreathing and tearing about all mander[11] of ways, and every now
and then I got into the centre of a whirl that pulled me up short, and
nearly took my breath away. This only lasted a few minutes, and then
the squall cleared off as suddenly as it came on, and I got on much
faster with my journey.

I passed the first and then the second breakwater, and by the light
that the sea always gives, I was picking my way along very nicely,
when, what should I see, but some one a-coming towards me along the
beach. I had not lighted my lantern, as I only wanted that for my
actual work, so it was possible the man approaching might not have
caught sight of me, and as I did not want to be seen by any one at that
time of night, especially by a coastguard, I dropped quietly on the
sand in a hollow, in hopes that whoever it was might pass me by.

Down I went on my stummick, but kept my eyes on the man approaching,
and found to my surprise that he was dressed in very light clothes; not
a coastguard, I thought, at all events.

Closer he came, and then I began for some reason or other to dudder[12]
and tremble, but I can’t tell why, perhaps it was the cold; anyway,
there was nothing I could see in the stranger that should fright me;
that is to say, not just then, when I felt the first symptoms.

But presently, when he came closer, I had some cause to shake, for
what I saw was a man in a long white smock, which blew out in the wind
behind him as he stalked along. The nearer he came the worse I felt,
for he seemed to grow taller and taller every step he took.

Would he pass me?

Yes!

No!!

No, up he came, right straight to me, and I felt like fainting--or what
I should fancy fainting was like, for I have never experienced it.
When he came close, I could not have stood on my feet for the value of
Norwich Castle; I was right terrified, although the man had not even
spoke a word.

As I looked up he towered above me like a lugger’s mast, and his great
bare legs were right against me. I panted, for I could not speak, but
presently, in a foreign sort of voice, the figure said--

“Hullo, my friendt, anything amiss?”

I looked at him again and my fear fled, for I immediately took him to
be a shipwrecked mariner, cast ashore in his sleeping gear from some
vessel.

My strength at once returned, and I stood upon my feet; but although
five feet eight in my socks, and weighing fourteen stone in my
oil-frock, I was only a baby by the side of my visitor, whose shoulder
was more than level with the top of my head. This did not frighten me
much, but when I looked at his eyes--Oh, lor! I thought I should have
dropped on all fours again.

His eyes were red and glowing like the port-light of a ship, and when
he spoke, the inside of his mouth seemed to reflect a fire, which must
have been raging in his internal regions.

I felt real bad, but could not keep my eyes off that huge face, with
its flaming eyes and mouth, and I vowed I would never come out,
single-handed, skelington-hunting again--no, not for the whole R’yle
Mint.

“Mine friendt,” said the giant, “you are just de man I wandt der see;
you haf a spade. You come mit me to Eccles?”

Would I? Could I say no?

I went.

We had but half-a-mile to walk, and that in a biting east wind, varied
with still more piercing squalls of snow and sleet, and I trembled in
every limb, while my heart rattled on like a donkey-engine getting in a
chain cable--all bumps and thumps.

I looked at the marrams,[13] and calculated what chance I should have
if I tried leg-bail; but when I looked at the length of my companion, I
gave it up as onpractical.

I was cold, although in what we call about here a “muck swat,” but my
new friend was all of a glow (especially about the mouth). He would
have made a rare fiery speaker for the House of Commons; he would have
frightened them that he couldn’t convince by his speechifying.

His conversation was dreadful--I don’t mean perfane or rude-like, but
the things that man told me made my flesh creep on my bones. He wanted
to make out to me that he had been buried three hundred years, just
before the old church was pulled down!

I can swallow a pretty thick strand of a yarn, but this here fellow
wanted me to swallow a whole cable, for he went on to tell me how, in
1584, he came over from Harlingen to Yarmouth, in a fishing-boat of
which he was mate, and that while ashore he one day fell in with three
or four fellows who were kinder interfering with a good-looking young
girl. Being strong he went for the whole set of them, and got the girl
away, but one of the gang struck him a blow with a heavy stick and
broke his arm.

The girl’s father came up and thanked the young Dutchman, and finding
that his daughter’s protector had broken a limb and could not work for
a week or two, took him to a surgeon and had the limb set. He left
him with the onderstanding that Dutchy would come and spend a week
with them, when the doctor had finished with him. The old fellow was
a farmer at Eccles, and being market-day, had as usual brought his
daughter with him to Yarmouth.

Well, up to there was what the play-actors would call Act One, and that
was all very nice and proper, but just you listen, and you’ll see how
it will turn out.

By and by away goes the young Dutchman to Eccles, and of course he
naturally fell in love with the mawther.[14] But she wouldn’t have him
at no price. No, she thanked him, and tried all she could to make him
comfortable, but--she already had a sweetheart.

This staggered Dutchy, but he had no idea of letting her go so
easily, and as every one in the village was afraid of the giant, the
girl’s father ordered the banns to be put up, to make sure that his
neighbour’s son should not be frightened out of his rights.

Dutchy tried all he knew to get the girl to alter her mind for a whole
week; and finding it in wain, he one morning disappeared.

That was what you might term Act Two. So far it had been all comedy,
as the play-actors call it, but the last act was a wiolent and wicious
one, as you shall hear.

The wedding-day came; the villagers flocked to the church; the ceremony
took place; the bells rang out; and, according to our custom, the
people fired their guns over the heads of the happy couple as they came
out of the porch, on their way to the home of the bride’s father.

All was perfect joy, but in another moment the joy was turned to
horror, for as the young couple came from the north porch, and turned
into the pathway leading round the foot of the old tower, a huge figure
(it was Dutchy) sprang upon them, and like a flash of lightning struck
them dead to the earth, before a hand could be raised to prevent it.
The reeking knife he calmly wiped, and thrust into his waist-belt,
and then stood glowering at the crowd, who kept at a very respectable
distance from him. He told them of the hard-heartedness of the girl,
and denounced her as she lay dead before him as an unfeeling creature,
and bade them know that what he had done was his mode of revenge, or
as he called it--Justice.

But where was the bride’s father all this time?

Well, he had been busy, as you shall hear.

It is the custom of we Norfolkers to give what we call “largesses”[15]
at marriages, comings of age, and suchlike; and on this occasion the
old man had pervided hisself with a little leather poke filled with
small silver coins, to throw among the assembled crowd, and indeed he
was occerpied in so doing when the death of his daughter took place. He
knew it was no use going for Dutchy single-handed, so he just stepped
behind the porch and loaded his gun with a handful of silver groats,
and when it was done sprang out, just when the giant had finished his
speech, and was turning to leave the place unmolested by the onlookers.

The old man shouted to him to stay or he would shoot; but, grasping the
knife in his belt, the young fellow walked away, without taking any
notice; whereupon the old man rushed after him, and aiming at his head,
fired.

“Der oldt man did shoot mit der gun right tro mine neck, and I seize
him, and gif him fon stap mit my knife, and den I vas dedt mineself,”
were the words of my uncanny companion.

Whether he killed the old man I cannot say, but he himself was killed,
and all this three hundred years ago!

And this was the gentleman I was taking a walk with, much against my
will, at night’s-noon, as we say.

But then he went on with a lot more strange talk, about how he had a
kind of holiday, or as we say frolic-time, ’lowanced out to him once
every hundred years, on the annewersery of the day when all this
piece of work took place; only he was not let loose, so to speak, till
midnight, and then for only three hours.

Well, I’d heard some tough uns before, and didn’t mind what I had
heard; but them eyes!--when I looked up at his face they bowled me over
altogether. He was no mortal, that I could take my davy on.

For a little Dutchy walked in silence, and I found _my_ tongue and
asked him if he didn’t fare cold, seeing he only had a kind of shirt on!

He turned his eyes upon me, and then I saw I had made a mistake in
asking such a question; fancy what a silly thing to ask a chap with
a furnace in his innards. But he was not put out at my question, and
wolunteered a explanation, as the saying is.

He opened his mouth and asked me to look into it. Well, if I live to be
as old as our neighbour Ives, and she is a hundred and three, I shall
never forget the sight. He blazed internally like a dustpan of live
coal, and the sight made my knees quiver, as if the heat of his breath
had melted my marrer, or whatever it is holds a fellow right up. I’ve
heard tell of men’s hearts waxing faint, and I do believe that that
night my bones were no better than wax, for hold my frame up straight I
could not, however I tried, and I am not reckoned a coward when any job
is on hand that wants a steady nerve and strong hand; and I’ve been out
on the sea some rum wather too, but the sight down this fellow’s throat
done me entirely.

When he had shown me his furnace below, he went on to tell me that
what I had seen was the sin burning within him, and it could only be
quenched by the forgiveness of the girl he killed three hundred years
ago.

Well, of course I could not say that that was all fudge, though I could
not believe him, but the funny part of it was, that when we got to
Eccles Old Tower there sat a young woman on the ruins of the porch in
a kind of night-shirt, as if she was waiting for us. That of course
showed me that there was some truth in what Dutchy had been telling me,
and when I nodded to the young woman, she gave me a very pretty smile,
and said she was glad to see me, and that now I had come matters might
be set right, and they could obtain a little rest.

Then she chatted on and told me that she had for a long time forgiven
Dutchy, knowing that he had that within him that must have burnt away
all sin long ago, but that without a mortal witness she could not
forgive him, as the sin had taken place on earth. She owned that it was
her cruel conduct that had brought on the Dutchman’s revenge, and now
before me as witness she would forgive him, and seal the forgiveness
with a kiss.

Lors me! when they kissed I thought the poor man would have been blowed
to pieces, for he exploded intarnilly with a tremenjous report, and the
flames shot out of his mouth, ears, and eyes like rockets, and went
wizzing away in streaks right over the marrams, where they were soon
swallowed up in the dark and thick air.

Now my legs did give way, and down I went with my back agen the church
wall, and although I was spellbound, I could see and hear all that went
on before me.

[Illustration: “By the sheen of the foam I beheld two skelingtons
sitting in their coffins.”--_p. 157._]

Dutchy, whose eyes and mouth no longer shone, snatched up my lantern,
stooped over me, and took my brass box of matches and struck a
light, then seizing the spade, he set to work, and very soon had the
huge coffin out of the sand. But the strange thing about it was, that
it was the very one I had come to rob, only now there were no bones in
it, and it dawned upon my stupid brain that Dutchy and the skelington
was one! Where he got his flesh and shirt from goodness only knows.

The young woman, who was very pretty and had long hair down her back,
which blew out like a ship’s pennant in the gale, helped the giant by
holding the lantern, while he did the work.

The big coffin being placed above ground, away they went round to the
other side of the church, where Dutchy set to work digging again, and
after a little while cleared the second coffin, which I reckon belonged
to the girl.

While this was going on I had raised myself on to my marrer-bones,
and with my fingers hooked over the old church wall was taking a view
of all their doings, and no doubt I was all eyes and mouth if any one
could have seen me.

Presently the giant up-ended the big coffin and got it on his shoulder,
and as he and the girl came round by the tower, she stopped and
actually asked for another kiss. Such a request took my breath away,
and to avoid the awful dullor[16] which I expected would follow, put my
fingers into my ears, but, would you believe me, it was as human a kiss
as ever you saw, and not even a whiff of smoke appeared, let alone a
tongue of flame, when their lips met.

He also carried the little coffin down to the water’s edge, and then
up he came, and dragged the big one down by the side of it, and there
they lay, for all the world like two boats.

Then back they came right to where I was, a-cowering by the flint wall,
and says Dutchy--

“Tank you werry much for der lantern and der spade,” and he held out
his great hand as he added, “Farewell.”

I was very loath, but I took it, and as true as I am alive, it felt
damp and cold like the hand of a dead man, and sent a thrill along my
backbone I shall never forget.

Then the young woman came forward and thanked me, and put forth _her_
hand for me to shake, and I shook something very like a fish, but did
not shudder quite so much, as I was a bit more used to it after the
first shock, so to speak.

After that they walked down to their coffins and each got into the
right one, and as I did not follow too close, Dutchy turned round and
beckoned me to him, and with fear and trembling I obeyed, and tottered
down to the water’s edge.

“Now, mynheer,” said he, “when you see der change kom, push der boads
off.”

I had no idea what he meant, but I shuddered out a kind of “Yes,” and
there they sat, till presently he cried out--

“Now den, push avay!”

As he spoke, I floated them off, and they appeared to melt partly away,
and to change colour from the pinky tinge of life to the grey of death.

They floated: and by the sheen of the foam I beheld two skelingtons
sitting in their coffins, scudding against wind and tide right out to
sea, slashing through the great breakers as if they had no more weight
or power than mists.

Dutchy’s skelington arm was round where his companion’s waist ought to
have been, when I last saw them, as they burst through a big old roller
that would have sunk a billyboy schooner.

Where they were bound for goodness only knows; neither do I care. All
I know is, that I got home some time or other, for when I woke up the
week after, they told me I was better, and that I had had brain fever.

When I got well, I went to Eccles to see if what I had got into my
brainpan was all moonshine or no, but if you’ll believe my word, the
two coffins I had seen dug up by Dutchy were gone sure enough, which I
take it proves my story to be ker-rect.

       *       *       *       *       *

My nautical friend, on leaving my van, had not the remotest notion that
he had told me a story, and as to my being able to send him to sleep,
why, he simply laughed at such a thing as an impossibility.

In his normal condition I tried in vain to draw him out to spin a yarn,
but although he owned that he knew some “real rum ’uns,” I could not
prevail on him to tell me one. He merely sat and smoked, and did little
more than carry on a disjointed monosyllabic conversation.

“Why will you not spin me a yarn, my friend?” I asked.

“Why, sir, you see,” said he, “I ain’t no scholard, and although I may
_think_ a great deal, I’m no sort o’ hand at _talking_. I never could
frame[17] enough to tell anything in a kinder pretty way like some
folks. No, sir, you don’t ketch me opening my mouth to be papered [put
in print] for gentlefolks to laugh and make game of me.”

That being so, I had no alternative but to make him a victim, with the
result chronicled above.


  EXPLANATION OF NORFOLK WORDS.

  [1] holl, _a ditch_.

  [2] deek, _a hedge-bank_.

  [3] loke, _a lane_.

  [4] pawkin, _hunting for wreckage_.

  [5] danto, _a fishing-buoy_.

  [6] stammed, _astonished_.

  [7] dickey, _a donkey_.

  [8] goldering, _chatting_.

  [9] poke, _a bag or sack_.

  [10] dole, _a share_.

  [11] mander, _manner_.

  [12] dudder, _to shiver_.

  [13] marrams, _grass-covered sandhills_.

  [14] mawther, _a maid, a young girl_.

  [15] largesse, _a gift_.

  [16] dullor, _a distracting noise_.

  [17] frame, _to use big words_.




VIII.

INTRODUCTION TO “THE MONK’S PENANCE.”


I have a friend who is a well-known ecclesiastic glass-painter, and
who, as a relaxation, delights in gardening; consequently he lives
just out of London, so as to be enabled to carry out his hobby for
horticultural pursuits. To work in his London studio during four days
of the week, and to reserve Saturday, Sunday, and Monday for his
country life is his plan, by adopting which he is neither a countryman
nor a town-dweller, but something of both: he is pleased to call
himself an “Urberusticite.”

Recently, when near the metropolis, I trundled my van down the North
Road to his snug little villa, and spent a few days with him.

I promised if he would help me in _my_ hobby, by one evening giving
himself up to me as a victim, that I would help him during the day with
his garden. And I _did_ help him, till every bone in my body ached
with the unusual exertion of digging, and wheeling gravel in a great
barrow. He gave me the hardest work he could possibly find, observing,
as he saw the perspiration streaming down my face, that “you will feel
quite another man to-morrow.” And so I did, for I was so stiff next
morning that I could scarcely raise my hands to my head, to comb my
tawny locks. After the toil of the day I was quite prepared for dinner
that evening, but when the meal had been eaten with keen appetite--for
gardening certainly does create havoc among the dishes--I prepared for
my revenge.

My friend was quite prepared to give me an opportunity of hypnotizing
him, _if I could_; but he laughed at the absurdity of the idea,
believing it, as he said, all moonshine, and asserting that he could,
by exerting his will against mine, prevent my passes having any power
over him.

I commenced operations upon him, and to my very great surprise signally
failed. All I could do was to produce a drowsy feeling in him, and
at length I gave it up for the evening, conjecturing that the manual
labour which I had undergone during the day had tired and weakened my
hypnotic powers. My friend was delighted at the failure, and laughed
very heartily at my discomfiture; declaring that the hypnotic power
I exercised was only efficacious in the case of young people and old
women, who had no power of brain to withstand my passes, but simply
gave themselves up to my wishes or will, like so many automata.

He was good enough, however, to give me another trial next evening, and
that I might not be tired he sent me to the river, at a short distance
from the house, to fish and--get back my “vanished will.” I was very
much piqued, but dare not show it, for my friend is a very demon at
sarcasm; so with rod and line I wandered off, and spent a quiet day,
reserving all my brain energies for the coming mental fray in the
evening.

In the evening, dinner being over, my friend signified his readiness to
commence, by making idiotic passes at the portraits hanging round the
room, and appeared to imagine that to hypnotize him was a thing not to
be accomplished, at least not by _my_ humble powers. So certain was he
that I should fail, that he was willing to do anything but give up his
will to me. He made fun of my idea of obtaining a story from him, even
if I _could_ put him to “bye-bye,” as he expressed it; and if I did
make him ass enough to divulge anything like a story, I should tell it
when or where I liked, or even publish it for the delectation of the
public; but, as he assured me he did not know a story, he could not see
how I was going to make him tell one.

All being ready, we commenced our little _séance_, and in two minutes
my victim was in a trance state. In spite of his bumptiousness and
disbelief in my powers, and in hypnotism generally, he related the
following very curious experience in his own career.


THE MONK’S PENANCE.

The profession of glass-painting is not exactly a precarious one, but,
unlike many others, it has neither season nor certainty with it. People
do not usually die to order, consequently, as Death hurls his dart at
irregular intervals, a glass-painter is at one time quite idle, while
at other periods, when he least expects it, the commissions roll in
“thick and threefold.” He cannot spread his work out over the year as
a mother applies jam to the bread of her eager-mouthed offspring;
but when certain work has to be done, the painter has to stick to his
task early and late, or the glass would stand in danger of becoming
“ancient” before it could be inserted in the church for which it is
intended.

Very well; just at the time the curious incident happened which I
will endeavour to relate, I was busy, very busy, and working in my
studio from nine in the morning till nearly midnight. I was restoring
a large window--the east window of H---- Church, Yorkshire--and had
been requested to have it finished and fixed again for the re-opening
ceremony on Christmas Day.

It was a late fourteenth-century window, of rare beauty both in colour
and workmanship, and contained many quaintly-drawn figures of saints
and martyrs of all ages. Among them was one figure on which a greater
amount of care had evidently been bestowed than upon any of the others,
especially in regard to the painting of the face, which was probably a
portrait.

The figure to which I wish to draw attention was that of a Dominican
friar, habited in the garb of his order, black and white in colour,
which made a fine contrast to the ruby background on which the monk was
placed in the window.

This “light,” as the panel is technically called, was in a very bad
state of repair, and as one of my assistants passed through my studio
on his way home, for he had finished his day’s work, he remarked that a
very little shaking would cause the old monk to fall from the leadwork
and demolish himself. To which I replied by asking him to make it his
first care in the morning to relead the figure, and thus render it
secure for a few more generations, as such fine figures were not very
frequently seen.

At eight o’clock I was left alone in the studio, as I had determined to
work on till midnight, and get my painting well forward for “firing”
(burning in the vitreous colours). Somehow I can always do a vast deal
more work when alone than when others are present, however quiet they
may be in their movements. There is in solitude nothing to distract the
attention, and one rapidly becomes absorbed in one’s work, which is
more expeditiously and accurately executed.

Ten o’clock came, and I prepared myself a cup of _café au lait_, and
smoked a cigarette. I cannot smoke and work at the same time, as many
artists have the knack of doing--for either my attention is more on my
cigarette than on my work (which is a loss of time), or I become so
engrossed with my painting that the paper cylinder is forgotten, and
goes out, necessitating frequent and irritating relightings.

As I puffed my little white tube of Dubec, I could not help taking
another look at the monk in all his glossy rigidity, and the thought
came into my head that being an ecclesiastic of the fifteenth century,
it was just possible that the monk so carefully delineated was a
portrait of the painter of the whole window!

Why not?

Who could tell?

There he hung, upon a glass screen, behind which was a gas-jet, giving
sufficient light for me to be able to discern every detail of the
drawing and painting of the figure. This was more apparent because the
studio in which I stood was in darkness, except for the brilliant light
_behind_ the easel upon which I was working.

It may be well to point out that the easel used for painting glass upon
is very different to the one in use by artists when painting on canvas,
as it consists of two rectangular wooden frames the front one of which
sustains the easel glass, upon which the various fragments of glass
forming the subject in hand are fastened, by means of a kind of cement
made of wax and resin. The frame immediately behind is covered with
white tissue paper, a material that not only diffuses the light equally
all over the subject which is being painted, but renders the otherwise
bright light soft to the artist’s eyes, and prevents the glare of the
various pieces of coloured glass from making them ache, as they would
do if a naked light were used. Thus, in painting a subject on canvas,
the light is thrown upon the front of the easel, but in painting a
figure for a church window the light is behind it, and passes through
it to show up the transparent colours.

I sipped my coffee and admired the monk, especially his eyes, which
appeared dark and lustrous and full of life, although his body was of
the lay-figure order, and his hands as absurdly grotesque in pose as
those of a Chinese mandarin on a tea-tray.

Then I turned my attention to the figure of St. Agnes upon my easel and
painted away again in a most diligent and vigorous manner.

Eleven o’clock came, and I began to grow sleepy and to give an
involuntary yawn now and again, but I had resolved to work till
midnight, and work I would.

Half-past, and I was becoming still more drowsy, and for some reason
a certain nervousness seemed to come over me--mental strain and long
hours I suppose; but presently I heard a sound as of glass lightly
jarring against some metallic or hard substance.

I glanced round and tapped my mahl-stick upon the floor, but no mouse
scurried away responsive to my sh--h--h! so I resumed work.

A little time elapsed, and again I heard the same rattle of glass; very
quiet, but quite distinct; it was a sharp, bright, but subdued noise,
familiar to my ear as the noise made by glass when touching another
hard substance.

Again I glanced round: all was silent. Only it seemed to me that the
glass monk solemnly returned my enquiring look with a gaze such as that
with which the Ancient Mariner fixed the wedding guest.

Work again--then another rattle, louder than before. This time I jumped
up from my seat, opened the door, thinking some one must be outside,
but nothing was to be seen. I looked again at my companion, Friar
Aylmer, and this time, to my astonishment, his eyes seemed to move--to
blink, in fact (for probably, as a religious man, he never learned the
art of winking). I approached, but the eyes were again fixed, fixed
full upon me, whichever way I turned. I simply laughed at myself: of
course I conjectured that the flickering gaslights in the adjoining
room were playing an optical prank upon me.

I sat down and seized my brushes, determined to finish the figure of
St. Agnes before I left; half-an-hour or so more and I should be ready
to trot homeward to bed.

As I sat before the easel quietly whistling to keep up my courage and
my spirits, the jingling of glass was once more heard, and this time
such a strange dread seized me that I was positively afraid to turn
my head. Then I heard a soft footfall, and my mahl-stick and brushes
dropped from my palsied hands, as my hair erected itself on my head,
the result of horrific terror.

Some one approached me--at my left side--and paused. I was simply
petrified with fright; turned to stone, body and limbs; only my brain
retained control of its natural functions.

I knew, although I could not look, that the painted monk stood at my
side!

A long pause, in which I could hear my heart beating audibly, and then
a fine, mellow voice at my elbow said--

“Good friend, why this fear? I am a man of peace, and would cause no
harm to the least of God’s creatures, much less to thee. Calm thy
perturbed spirit, and, prithee, let us converse for the short time
allotted me once in each century--one short hour!”

I calmed myself a little, and looked at my weird visitor. His
appearance was very natural, a man of flesh and blood apparently; and
he smiled benignly upon me as he toyed with the knotted ends which
dangled from the thick cord bound about his waist.

He sat upon a high stool, and my eyes were riveted upon him as if I
were being hypnotized by the strange visitor--indeed, so I was, for his
presence held me spellbound.

With soothing words he gradually calmed me, and after a long interval,
during which I several times unsuccessfully essayed to speak, I at last
found utterance, and inquired who my midnight visitor might be.

“My dear friend,” replied the dreaded shade, “listen, and I will tell
you about myself; then, perhaps, you may feel inclined to give me your
assistance.”

“Assistance? I? How can I assist a spirit, a phantasy? I beg you leave
me and return to your place in the window.”

“Listen,” said he, in a beautiful voice, which at once dispelled all
alarm from my mind; “listen, and you will soon discover how you can
be of service to me. I pray you do not interrupt, for remember I have
but one short hour in which to assume my earthly form, and if in that
time I cannot obtain mortal aid to release me from my leaden bonds, I
am doomed to resume my form of a painted monk in yon window for yet
another century. But _tempus fugit_, as the motto on the pedestal of
our old sundial used to inform us, and I will not lose another instant.

“I am Friar Aylmer--the label under my feet in the window is correct,
for I painted it myself, as indeed I did the whole window, and although
I wrought at it for six long years, it was destined at length to become
my prison, as you shall hear.

“I am not old, as you may judge from my appearance; although nearly
five centuries have rolled by since my birth, I am scarcely forty.”

I looked at his kindly features and bowed my assent to his assertion,
knowing that stained-glass figures do not grow old when once they are
permanently painted and burnt into the glass. He proceeded--

“My father, you must know, was Prior Aylmer, of St. Benet’s Abbey,
Norfolk; and by some means appeared to fall into the evil ways of the
sadly dissolute times in which he lived; at least he made one great
slip, one that he did not try to palliate in any way, but took so to
heart, that till the end of his days he lived an exemplary life, and
gained the love of all those who were under his sway in the great abbey.

“The monks used to notice that my father spent more time in the village
than was compatible with his monastic life, but then, as ecclesiastics
went in those days, he was a jolly fellow, and no one thought harm of
his frequent absence from the duties of the monastery, till one day an
event happened which set the whole brotherhood agog, and caused much
scandal.

“It was a simple, but very significant event; one so unusual, that
every one was taken by surprise, so that the whole place was in a
ferment of excitement.

“It happened that the porter was very late in taking down the great
bars which fastened the huge, heavy, oaken outer gate; so late indeed
that several of the brethren were about at the time, and when the door
swung open on its massive hinges, they saw just what the porter saw--a
long osier-work basket, with a thong of parchment upon it bearing the
words ‘For Father Aylmer.’

“The basket was quickly carried to the refectory and placed in the
great arm-chair of the Prior, to await the arrival of that worthy to
take his seat at the head of the table for the morning meal.

“It had rested there but a short time, when a noise was heard within
which caused a thrill to startle the slowly-assembling monks--it was
the cry of a baby!

“What was to be done?

“Who would open the lid?

“Should the Prior be called?

“Whatever was best to do? All these questions were cut short by the
entrance of the Prior himself.

“Every man was immediately silent; mouths were closed, but ears
and eyes were very wide open, and the question was in every one’s
mind--‘What will he do with it?’

“He quietly opened the lid, and before all the assembly raised a baby
form to view.

“That baby was myself!

“Before them all he blessed me, and in humble tones acknowledged his
sin, at the same time taking an oath upon the crucifix that, till the
grave closed over him, his tongue should not speak to woman more,
neither should his form be seen outside the Abbey walls.

“He lived thirty-five years after this startling event, but his oath he
kept inviolate, and, as I have already said, he led an exemplary life,
and died beloved and respected by all men, both lay and ecclesiastic.

“I was placed in the hands of a village dame to nurse, and she, kind
creature, had care of me till I was six years of age, when I was
received into the monastery, and under my father’s guidance instructed
in the various ecclesiastic accomplishments then in vogue.

“Wood-carving, missal-painting, and finally glass-painting were taught
me, and in them I soon became proficient. These things filled my time
when not studying the usual routine of religious education. As a child
I was a plaything for the monks, who delighted to hear me sing, some of
my efforts, I am sorry to say, being far from a religious nature, and
more fitted for an amorous cavalier than a budding monk.

“As I grew to man’s estate, my fondness for glass-painting asserted
itself; a fondness which enabled me, more than any other of my
accomplishments, to beautify the old Abbey, although some of
my wood-carving, for stall ends and misereres, was considered
exceptionally fine.

“As the years rolled on I filled the small aisle windows with stained
glass, and this so pleased the good Abbot, that he requested me to
paint the large east window of the Abbey church. I undertook the task,
but it took me several years to accomplish.

“Just before the window was completed, I had the sorrow of parting with
my dear father for ever. After a few days’ illness he succumbed to an
attack of fever, and was laid to rest in the burying-ground by the
Abbey wall. My grief was so poignant that for a long time I had not the
heart to finish the great east window, which now wanted but the figure
of another saint to complete it.

“One night, as I lay in my little cell, the thought came into my head
suddenly, ‘Why not paint a figure of my dear dead father to complete
the window?’

“I turned the idea over in my mind and could see no reason why it
should not be so, as for many years my father had been Prior of the
Abbey, second only to the great Abbot himself, and since my birth had
lead a truly pious life, an example to all those who received religious
instruction from his erudite brain.

“Full of love for my parent’s memory, I painted the figure of a monk
robed in the dress of our order, and from drawings I had made during my
father’s lifetime, I reproduced the features of his dear face as far as
possible.

“In due time the panel was fixed in its place and the great east window
was at last finished. A grand supper was given in honour of the event,
at which I was complimented upon my untiring energy and skill in
having enriched the Abbey church with such a splendid work of art. The
Abbot avowed it was second to none in the realm, but I was always a
modest man, and took his kind words as complimentary, but nothing more;
I knew he flattered me, and blushed accordingly.

“That night, when I retired to rest in my cell, I felt peculiarly heavy
and depressed; I ascribed the feeling, however, to reaction after the
excitement of the evening.

“I stepped into bed, but for a long time could not sleep. I simply
tossed and turned about till long past midnight, when, lying with my
face to the wall, I became aware of a light in the room. I looked
around but could see nothing, although the small cell appeared
unusually light, becoming indeed brighter and brighter, until near the
door the brilliance was so dazzling, that my eyes could not bear to
look upon it.

“I sat up on my humble wooden bedstead, and endeavoured to pierce the
effulgence, but instead I was forced to close my eyes, for the glare
was positively blinding. Then out of the radiance of glory came a
voice, which from its thrilling accents I knew belonged not to this
earth, and slowly, distinctly, and musically, uttered these words of
dreadful import--

“‘O gifted monk, thy skill is great, though thy veneration for holy
things but small; amongst Heaven’s saints thou hast presumed to place
one who, of this earth, was earthy, although doubtless dear to thee.
He whose portrait is shown in the east window--who is not of the
elect--shall stand in his vitreous form as a penance till _accident_
doth destroy his effigy. He shall know and hear all that passes around,
but except for _one hour in each century_, shall have neither movement
nor speech. _Accident_, not design, can alone cancel this dread
sentence. _Vale._’

“I sank back upon my bed trembling with fear, and pinching myself to
see if I was awake or dreaming; but I knew that I was awake, for the
light still illumined the room, although it grew fainter each moment;
till, in the space of perhaps a full minute, it died quite out; the
last portion to melt away being a circular aureole or nimbus, which
remained for some time after the larger blaze of light had disappeared.

“No sleep drew down my eyelids that long night, and in the morning I
was so ill that I could not rise for matins, and the good Abbot came to
my cell to ascertain the cause of my absence.

“‘Too much wine, my son, eh?’ he good-humouredly suggested.

“‘Nay, father, jest not, I pray, for I have a confession to make, if
you will bid my worthy brethren depart.’

“We were quickly left alone, and the door being closed, I related
to the Superior my vision of the night, at which his smiling face
gradually became sedate, and even stern, as he listened to my recital
of the strange apparition.

“‘My son, the long hours spent in study, and the work of painting our
great east window, have been too much for thy teeming brain; thou art
feverish, and require rest. Stay thou in bed for a day or two, and I
will forego thee thy duties. Rest patiently, my son, and be not over
thoughtful of the vision, which was probably but the hallucination of
an overwrought brain.’

“‘Nay, father, I need not rest, for the vision I last night saw was
no phantasy of a distraught or wearied brain, but a reality; and it
maddens me to think I may have doomed my father to a purgatory of
centuries. Holy father, will you grant me one request, a simple one
truly?’

“‘Ay, my son, that will I, for thou wilt not, I know, ask aught that I
may not in duty readily grant. What is it thou desirest?’

“‘Holy father, it is but a small thing. It is that I may be allowed to
take out my father’s portrait from the window and paint my own in its
place!’

“‘Hum! Well, well, if you think it will ease your mind you have my
dispensation to do it: one monk’s head is as good as another. I will
quietly give out before the brethren that as you are the painter of
the window, I should rather desire _your_ portrait there, instead
of that of your good father. At this thou must demur, though not so
pertinaciously but that I may override thy entreaties. This and more I
would gladly do for thee.’

“In due course my portrait replaced that of my father, and shortly
after I was taken ill with brain fever, and died on my thirty-ninth
birthday.

“I was placed in a grave by the side of my father, but alas! I did not
rest there; for when next day dawned, behold my soul and understanding
faculties had entered the painted monk, and there, in the east window,
for five centuries I have been cognizant of all things going on around
me, but with no power of speech or movement, except for one all too
brief hour every hundred years.

“In 1494 I came down from my window, and scared the brethren in the
dear old Abbey, who, crossing themselves, gabbled their Paters and
Aves, and conjured me to go back to my place in the window. I did so,
and then they put out all the candles, rushed from the church, and
locked the door behind them. Left alone, I had not long to reflect on
the awfulness of my position; but in a short time, dreadful as it may
appear, I determined to jump down from my lofty niche in the window,
and endeavour to kill myself, for I had only a _few more minutes to
live_!

“I ascended to my place beneath the canopy of the window, and, closing
my eyes, bent forward, and hurled myself heavily to the stone floor,
to try if I could break my neck, rather than live in death for another
hundred years.

“Down I fell--swiftly: but my impact with the floor was as if a feather
had been wafted down from the wing of some passing bird.

“I was foiled in my wicked attempt to avert my doom, and as I sat on
the encaustic pavement a fiend stood by me, who, with mocking laugh and
leering eye, whispered in a discordant voice in my ear--

“‘From the grid to the fire is but poor change; from thy doom up there,
to my cavern below, would not have availed thee much. I am disappointed
in not taking down a monk with me, for monks seldom lay violent hands
on themselves. But he! he! ha!--list to the rusty iron tongue of yon
bell; get thee to thy vigil; into thy niche; I may have thee yet. I
wish thee joy of thy hundred years. Be patient, good monk!’

“I was in my niche again ere the rolling boom of the great bell had
ceased to reverberate in the black vastness of night.

“1594 at length came, and this time I found myself in the east window
of St. F----’s Church, whither I had been transported soon after the
Reformation. Midnight crashed out from the great bell, and I was once
more free for one short, solitary hour--a mere speck in the revolution
of a whole century of time.

“This time I stepped from my niche rearward into the churchyard, and
made my way into the town, walking boldly into the High Street, without
an idea of what I was about to do, except that I wished to find the
vicar of the church in which I was incarcerated.

“I accosted two swaggering soldiers, and desired them to kindly tell me
where he lived, but they, being somewhat in liquor, looked at me and
then at each other, and laughed as if I had been some raree show.

“‘Come, comrade,’ said one, ‘we will show thee the vicar,’ and linking
their arms in mine they dragged me through the street to the Town Hall,
where, thrusting me before them, they forced me into the centre of a
group of boisterous soldiers, who opened out to receive me, evidently
thinking I was some Jack Pudding, masquerading in monk’s attire. They
bandied jests with me, and when I resented their rudeness, they only
laughed the louder, taking my remonstrance as part of my performance,
which they thought most excellent. Knowing my time was short, I became
so angry that they at length found a mistake had been made, and I
forced my way out of the throng, intending to find the vicar’s house by
myself, but, ere I reached the entrance door, I was hauled back into
the presence of the captain of the guard, who had just entered the
hall, and who leisurely proceeded to question me in a very rude and
imperious manner.

“I objected; and in turn became insolent to him, whereupon he
ordered me to be locked up till morning, that I might be haled before
the magistrate to give an account of myself. At this I saw my last
chance of finding the vicar gone, so, seizing a large sword that lay
on the table, I let drive at the nearest man to me, but he was too
quick for me, and guarded my blow, in turn aiming a blow at me which,
had I not parried, would have cut me in twain. I guarded the stroke
involuntarily, else might my life and penance have been severed at a
blow.

“Fool that I must have been: next instant I was flying through
space, and before I had time to draw a single breath I was again a
stained-glass figure.

“1693 gave me one more brief respite from my penance, but it was again
abortive, not bringing any kindly _accident_ for my release. I was
again revivified at midnight, a most inappropriate time, as you will
allow, for one to carry out any important business, such as the release
of a man from centuries of purgatory. During my weary imprisonment I
heard all the news of the period from the gossip of those who chose to
chatter just beneath me; I knew what king reigned, what battles were
fought; all the grand events that took place in England, and even all
the local scandal; but nothing I heard or saw gave me the slightest
interest. I was dumb but could hear; hear and understand all that was
said; but not a ray of hope ever came to me in the way of a plot to
blow up the church, although I heard many plots to demolish the State.

“Now and again an aimless stone struck one or other of the saints
around me and fractured him or her, but never a one gave me a kindly
blow, although my broad face and tonsured head gave a splendid target
at which a school urchin might have been pleased to try his skill; but
none ever did.

“On the night of my third revival a terrible storm was raging; the
lightning was flashing most vividly around the old church, and I
longed for a bolt to strike me; but I appeared to bear a charmed
existence, even in the flesh, for although I sat with my back to the
lightning-conductor which came down from the tower, not a spark of the
current touched me, although it toppled over the upper portion of the
spire, and hurled it in shivered atoms at my feet; not a stone from the
falling mass touched me, though I had designedly placed myself in the
way of danger. I sat on a gravestone and pondered what I should do, but
could think of nothing in the way of accident that could befriend me.

“As I sat thus, two soldiers passed by along the road, and one, on
perceiving me, stopped suddenly and clutched his comrade’s arm in
terror, pointing his finger tremblingly at me.

“They took me for a ghost.

“Here was my chance. If they would only fire at me, and kill me, I
should be absolved from my penance.

“They challenged me, but I answered never a word.

“Again they hailed.

“‘Who are you? speak, or we will fire.’

“I stood upon tiptoe and faced them, making a weird sound with my lips
that they might take me for something unearthly, and, if they had the
courage, fire upon me.

“One man raised his flintlock and fired deliberately at me, and the
bullet actually shore off a lock from my temple, which blew away among
the rank wet grass.

“He looked surprised as I gave a loud, hollow ‘ha! ha!’ as apparitions
and goblins are supposed to do; upon which he turned and fled, leaving
his more courageous comrade to face me alone. He was a noble, brave
fellow, and I blessed him as he knelt by the churchyard wall, upon the
top of which he rested his gun and took deliberate aim at my breast.

“My heart throbbed for joy as I awaited the releasing leaden missile;
but there was only a puff and a snap, and I knew that only a flash in
the pan had resulted when the soldier drew his trigger.

“‘Hang the damp powder!’ I heard him say; then in a louder tone--‘Hold,
old Hyter sprite! I’ll have at thee again; stay thee steady till I
prime afresh. I’ll see of what thou’rt made, and whether thou art foul
fiend in priestly guise, or some hair-brained loon who would scare an
old soldier who has fought the battles of his country these twenty
years.’

“Then, to my dismay, as he primed his weapon with dry powder the bell
rung out the hour of one, and I found myself amid the saints in the
window again. I saw the soldier go and examine the tomb on which I had
recently stood, and its surroundings, and then stride away after his
comrade, shaking his head, and I mentally blessed him.

“A hundred years ago--in 1793--I once more gained my life for the
allotted sixty minutes, and knew that in Paris the Revolution was at
its height. But what did that signify to me. St. F----’s Church was
not in Paris, or I might have been released unknowingly by one of the
dreadful bands of ruffians to whom nothing was sacred.

“I stood in the dark old church and pondered.

“What _should_ I do?

“_Where_ could I go?

“What could I _do_?

“Nothing, absolutely _nothing_! Stay; I would spend my time in fervent
prayer, kneeling before the cross on the Holy Table, and see if that
could release me from my awful doom.

“I knelt, and prayed, and wept, wringing my hands as the tears coursed
down my cheeks, like burning streams of molten lava; but as I thus
knelt at my devotions the vestry door of the church opened, and two men
entered, one of them bearing a lantern. They paused near the communion
rails, and one (by whose attire I judged him to be the vicar) said:

“‘Now, Giles, I may have dropped it here whilst performing the evening
service, and if so we should see the stone glitter by the light of the
lantern; let us look around the chancel.’

“The speaker had evidently lost a gem ring and was seeking it.

“Not knowing what to do I continued kneeling, to see what course events
might take. I had not long to wait, for a sudden shrill scream, a moan,
and a dull thud caused me to look round. Down the nave bounded the
man who bore the lantern, yelling lustily for help, and his companion
lay prone upon his face quite near me. I approached, bent over the
prostrate form, and turned the body over on its back--for body only it
was, the soul had fled. Happy man! he could die and be at rest, while
I, who courted death in any form, could only be--(Boom! the bell tolled
One)--a quaint, stiff, transparent figure of glass!

       *       *       *       *       *

“And now, my dear friend (for you _will_ befriend me if it is in your
power, I know, after hearing my awful story) I find myself in 1893 in
your studio, and to my horror hear that I am to be bound in fetters of
new leadwork: a new lease, as it were, of my penance!

“My time is short; what can you do for me?

“How can you destroy me?

“How _can_ a catastrophe be brought about without premeditation? How
can one _think_ without premeditation?

“My friend, save me! but five minutes remain. I cannot think, my brain
is on fire.

“My dear friend, think for me, I implore you!

“Oh! Heaven help me; do not extend my penance till the crack of doom!

“Watch the minutes gliding by--but two remain.

“I am going mad; mad! and you sit there dumb, who might, by an effort
of thought, be my saviour.

“_One_ minute; and then--purgatory for one hundred years!”

I looked at my guest and saw the great beads of perspiration chasing
each other down his temples; I saw his fingers writhing like serpents,
clutching at the empty air; I saw his eyes glaring upon me, and
piercing me through like two arrows; I saw him rise as if to fly at
me and strangle me, and recoiled with horror at the sight of him; but
he never came a step nearer for the bell of the neighbouring church
struck a big, reverberating _One!_ and as the corporeal figure of the
monk began quickly to dissolve into its glassy form, I sprang at it not
knowing what I did, and tried to grasp it, but my arms pierced through
it as if it were tissue paper, and I fell headlong upon the floor, with
a terrible pain in my forehead, and as I fell I distinctly heard the
words--“Joy and rest for ever; my doom is past! God in His mercy be
praised!”

       *       *       *       *       *

When I recovered consciousness it was 8.30 a.m., and a doctor and
my assistants were round me, using various restoratives. Across my
forehead was a terrible gash, which the doctor had sewn and bandaged,
and at the foot of the glass screen lay the broken fragments of my
visitor, the Monk.

       *       *       *       *       *

To show that it does not always do to rely on one’s own strength,
either physically or mentally, I may say that not only did I obtain
complete control over the will of my stained-glass artist friend,
but taking him at his word, I received from his unconscious self the
material for _several_ capital stories; and all this from the man who
could neither be hypnotized nor tell a single story! The overplus of
this glass-painter’s genius as a story-teller I reserve for future
consideration.




IX.

INTRODUCTION TO “DOCTOR ANGUS SINCLAIR.”


Wherever I happen to be, whether in town or at a seaport, the sight
of a genuine tar has a fascination for me, and I feel bound to speak
to the man, if he is at all a decent person and has a civil and clean
tongue. I find that the average sailor is a very reticent fellow on
first acquaintance, probably taking every landsman for a shark; and as
that is his belief, he is very wary of strangers who may wish to engage
him in conversation. No doubt, in ports all over the world, Jack meets
with plenty of unprincipled people, ready to take advantage of him in
any way that presents itself, and, knowing this, he is consequently on
his guard, and in time looks with doubt upon all strangers, as possible
enemies, sailing under false colours. Thus is Jack taciturn on first
acquaintanceship, both at home or abroad, but when once he finds that
he has a friend to deal with, his tongue is loosened and the bulkhead
of cautious reserve soon battered down, and he will then fire off his
jokes and yarns in a most amicable and boisterous manner.

Old John Beamish, whom I met in the port of Aberdeen, was one of
these peculiarly reserved men, carrying his character in his face, as
a stout, true, hard-headed North Briton; and it was only after several
friendly “cracks” that I could at all thaw the apparently austere
Captain Beamish.

The gallant skipper no doubt put me down as a bad lot, seeing that I
lived in a gipsy-van, and when I informed him that I only wandered
about for my own pleasure, tapped his short fat forefinger on his
nose, which I took to be a sign that my statement was somewhat open to
doubt. He could not conceive that any sane person, with a fair income,
should live on wheels, with no permanent address, when the said income
would provide “a nice snug little house, with a tidy bit of garden, a
summer-house, and a tall flagstaff, for its possessor.”

However, after I had persuaded the captain to pay me several visits,
he came to the conclusion that I might by some chance be speaking the
truth after all, and we had several pleasant evenings, which were
passed in chatting, cards, and whisky. Captain John loved cribbage very
much, but whisky more; and, on one or two occasions, I had to steady
him as he took his departure from my van, the step-ladder, or companion
as he called it, being very steep.

When I broached the subject of hypnotism the good man was unfeignedly
alarmed, and I fully believe placed my cards, whisky, and hospitality
down to a bad cause. I think he expected I had been luring him on to
rob him, or take some other advantage of him, and for several days I
could not prevail upon him to spend another evening with me, until I
informed him that I was to depart in a day or two. Then I invited him
to pay me a farewell visit. My invitation was accepted, and he came,
but I very soon noticed one thing, and that was, that he had left his
watch at home.

He played and drank as usual, and as the evening wore on he mellowed
under the influence of “mountain dew.” With each successive draught his
uneasiness gradually disappeared, until he became quite communicative;
and then--well then, feeling for all the world like a murderer--I added
him to the number of my victims.


DOCTOR ANGUS SINCLAIR.

I have--as seaman, mate, and skipper--in forty years seen some curious
sights, you may be sure, although all my voyages have been to the
north, ay, and pretty far north too, some of them; for we whalers have
to go wherever the fish are to be found, and if we cannot find them
near home, why, we have just got to go north and search till we do fall
in with them.

You want to know the most wonderful thing I ever came across in my
long life of hardship and adventure in the Arctic Seas? Well, there is
nothing that I know of to equal the finding of Doctor Angus Sinclair
in 1862. But as you want it spun properly I’ll give you the yarn from
beginning to end, and then you’ll see for yourself what a curious
adventure it was.

In 1862 I was mate of the _White Swan_ whaler, sailing from the port
of Dundee, and as we had made a very poor fishing during the previous
season in the Greenland Sea, our skipper made up his mind to try fresh
ground, and to steer north-eastward to the Spitzbergen Islands, as he
knew of some likely ground to the eastward of those islands.

The most eastern of the Spitzbergen Isles is one called Wyches,
or King Charles’s Island, and our skipper made straight for this
island, intending to build a hut there, and make it a kind of winter
habitation, should we be obliged to go into winter quarters before
getting a full cargo. Our owner had instructed the skipper to take
what oil he could get of the right sort, but, if he could not obtain a
full cargo, to wait till he could fill up with something else--by this
meaning seal-pelts, seal-oil, bear’s robes, walrus’ tusks or skin, or
anything else worth the freight.

Having all our outfit aboard we left Dundee, touched at Tromso, and in
a fortnight arrived safely at Wyches Island, where we stayed about a
week to build a large and comfortable hut, with timber brought with us
from Dundee. Holes were dug into the everlastingly frozen ground, and
posts erected, upon the outsides of which inch boards were nailed, and
afterwards upon the inside also. This formed a double skin, leaving
a space of some six inches between, which was filled with sawdust
tightly rammed down. The roof was made in the same way, and when it was
finished the whole of the interior was lined with thick felt.

There were four double-glazed windows facing the cardinal points, and
only one door facing south-west. This door was well draped in thick
blanketing to keep out the cold blasts of air. Bunks were ranged round
the walls, and a large stove for cooking and heating purposes stood
in the centre of the floor. Round the stove, forming three sides of a
square, stood deal tables, for dining and other purposes. Such was our
“Swan’s Nest,” as we christened it, and we afterwards found it very
cosy.

Between Spitzbergen and Franz Joseph Land we cruised during the summer
and autumn with fair success, but when the time came that we should for
safety be sailing southward and homeward, we found that our cargo was
not nearly a full one. Seeing this, the skipper had a grand “palaver”
on deck, in which he did nearly all the talking, and informed the crew
that he had decided to winter in White Swan Inlet; and finding that
one or two of the crew were for going home and returning in the early
spring, he gave them leave to do so, but also pointed out that if they
were mammy sick, and wished to go home, they would have to _walk_ there!

Our crew numbered forty hands all told, and a fine, jolly lot of
fellows they were, living very harmoniously together, splitting up
naturally into parties for fishing and shooting expeditions, when
the weather would allow of it. Some of these excursions were for the
benefit of our owner, as the skipper and I each headed parties to hunt
bears, and to knock over a few seals now and again. At other times the
parties were for the purpose of replenishing the larder, as we learnt
to snare white foxes, geese, and other things of a furry or feathered
nature; whatever we obtained went into the huge cauldron which always
stood on the stove, _à la_ the French _pot au feu_. By the way, our
stove was as carefully watched as any sacred lamp in a continental
cathedral, for it was never allowed to show even a symptom of going
out, either by night or day.

Sometimes we would organize little exploring parties on our own account
(having first obtained the skipper’s sanction), and wandered away for
miles among the hills of the frozen island, thus leaving more space for
those who remained at home to play their indoor games. Could any of
our friends have looked into the “Swan’s Nest,” they might easily have
mistaken it for a boys’ school, or even a play-ground. Let me just give
you an idea of what the inmates did to pass their time away, from notes
of the scene jotted in my pocket-book on one occasion.

Two men were cooking for the general mess. The armourer was cleaning
or repairing guns, knives, etc., for some projected expedition, while
round the fire sat a noisy group telling yarns and smoking. Near them
sat a party of four playing some game of cards; a desperate game
apparently, for they looked very solemn and absorbed. The boys were
enjoying a game of leap-frog at one end of the room, while several of
the bunks were occupied by men, some of whom were asleep, a couple on
the sick list, and others reading. There was a man, the cobbler of the
crew, mending boots, while at his side sat Snip, sewing away at the
seat of a pair of duffel trousers, what he calls armour-plating them;
and along the north side was a skittle alley, at which a knot of tars
are very much enjoying themselves, if we might judge by the shouts of
merriment and hearty smacks upon the back with which they salute each
other.

Hands behind his back by the stove, with his legs thrust apart like
a pair of compasses, stood the skipper, sipping a glass of something
steaming hot, while your humble servant had just finished posting up
the ship’s journal; for the skipper was a poor hand with the pen, his
fingers being all thumbs, and his thumbs like stun’sail booms.

Well, now that I have shown you how we amused ourselves, I will proceed
with my yarn.

Ever since I was quite a nipper I have had a fondness for exploring and
roaming about whenever I could get off duty, and this propensity did
not desert me amid the snow and ice of the Arctic regions, as you shall
hear.

I begged the skipper to allow me to make a tour of the island on which
we were living; a tour having for its object the making of an accurate
map; one, at any rate, more accurate than that at the time laid down in
the charts.

He met me with a flat and decided “No!”

“Why, man, are you mad? The island we are on is as large as the
principality of Wales, and to compass it you would have to travel at
least four hundred miles, which would probably mean an absence of nine
or ten weeks! No, my man, this is not _quite_ a lunatic asylum; not
yet, at all events.”

It was no use pleading, but his refusal set my back up, as the men
twitted me (not to my face, but indirectly), with wanting to be a
circumnavigator of the world on my own account.

Two of them would waddle round the tables, and, when they met, pretend
they had not seen each other for years, and shake hands and embrace
in a most enthusiastic manner, to the delight of the crew and my own
chagrin.

One day, the weather being clear, the skipper brought out his big
telescope, and was very busy with it, taking long surveys at a distant
island lying due south of the Inlet. He requested me to get the charts
of the Spitzbergen group down, which I did.

“Now look here,” said he, addressing me; “that island to the south’ard
is laid down in the chart as a mere rock, and only indicated by a big
dot and the words ‘rocks of some extent.’ Now, by my glass, it looks
a tidy big island, at least six or eight miles from east to west, and
goodness knows how long from north to south. I can see parts of it
which must rise to a height of several hundred feet, and probably the
whole island would take some three or four days to travel round on the
rough ice. Now what do you say to take two or three hands and go and
explore it?”

“What do I say?--why jump at it with pleasure, of course; but give me a
couple of days to get ready, and allow me to pick my crew.”

This was assented to, and in the three days allotted I rigged up one of
the small boats on runners, loaded it with felt sleeping-bags, a tent,
small stove, guns, provisions, a lamp, and many other things that might
be required.

On the third day I started off with four men, who were as eager for
the expedition as myself, being only too glad to undertake anything
for a change from the monotonous hut life. We were granted six days
to be away; if we had not returned by the end of that time a search
party would be sent out to seek us. We were instructed to plant a rod
with a piece of red bunting at our various halting-places, so that if
necessary our steps might easily be followed.

As we started off the whole ship’s company came out to bid us farewell,
and it made our hearts bound with joy and pride, when we heard their
voices, with loud “hurrahs,” make the surrounding icy peaks of these
Arctic solitudes echo again.

We had ten miles to scramble over the excessively rough ice which lay
between our winter quarters and the island. Six or eight of our mates
came half-way with us, to give us a hand in dragging our sledge-boat.

It was terrible hard work, and the first five miles took us six hours
to accomplish, as the ice was in some places piled in hummocks twenty
and even thirty feet high; round these we had to make a _détour_, so
that our course was very meandering and uncertain.

We made a halt and refreshed, each of us having a cup of hot coffee to
drink with the meal we had brought with us. We could see the “Swan’s
Nest” built on the side of a hill facing south-west, and, not a couple
of hundred yards away, was our vessel, the _White Swan_, frozen solidly
into the ice. Her topmasts and heavy gear had been sent down and stowed
on deck, which from stem to stern was covered in with a span roof of
timber; so that she looked something like a long black shed, with three
tall chimneys thrust through the roof.

After half-an-hour’s halt our comrades left us and returned to the
“Swan’s Nest,” hoping to see us again in six days at furthest.

After a long and rough scramble we at length reached the island,
and selecting a nook between two rocky cliffs, erected our tent and
prepared everything to pass the night there. The rocks on three sides
kept the wind off famously, what little there was, and to give some
protection from any bears who might be prowling about, we drew the
sledge across the narrow entrance to our nook; the stove we rigged up
at the mouth of the tent. We cooked a kind of stew, had a pannikin of
hot coffee each, and then, drawing sleeping-bags over our legs up to
our waists, sat and played cards by lantern light till we were ready
for slumber, when we drew the bags completely over our heads and slept
soundly till it was time to be up and stirring.

So far everything had been quiet and comfortable, but while we were
consuming our breakfast, one of the men named Adams went to the boat
for some more ship’s bread, and was in the act of taking it from the
bag in which it was kept when a huge white bear put his nose over
the side of the boat and opened its mouth, just as you see them in
menageries when a biscuit is about to be tossed to them. He appeared to
say,

“Don’t forget me, mate.”

Adams, far from being frightened, stooped and picked up an axe from
the floor of the boat, and swinging it aloft brought it down so as to
strike the animal fairly on the head, and had he succeeded he would
probably have killed it instantaneously, as he was a powerful man.

The bear was too quick for him, however, and dodged the intended blow,
so that the axe, instead of being buried in the furry one’s skull,
found a billet in the side of the boat, where it was wedged so tightly
by the force of the blow, that Adams could not withdraw it. He turned
round to jump out and run to us, but the bear, rising on its hind legs,
caught him a blow in the ribs which sent him with a crash into the
bottom of the boat.

The bear still stood on its hind legs, roaring and looking very
wicked--offering a capital mark for our rifles, three of which were
aimed at the monster at the same time. Two almost simultaneous reports
rang out, and the monster fell: my piece failed to go off--a bad cap I
found afterwards, for breechloaders were not then in general use. We
made a rush upon our fallen foe to give him the _coup de grâce_, but
the terrible fellow was quite dead, from a shot through the eye, which
had doubtless penetrated the brain. Two of his claws had been carried
away by the other bullet, which came very near missing altogether.

Adams lay in the bottom of the boat perfectly conscious, and looking at
us, but giving occasional groans.

“Are you hurt?” we asked.

“Hurt, mates? I’m afraid to move, for fear my whole starboard side is
stove in. Give us a hand, one of you; steady--gently now.”

He rose with difficulty, and we carried him to the tent and examined
his side. No bones were broken, but from the armpit to the waist was a
terrible bruise upon which we rubbed a good coat of the bear’s fat, on
the principle that like cures like.

Fearing that he would be an incumbrance to us, he determined to
start back to the “Swan’s Nest” alone, as he could not pull on the
sledge-ropes; so shouldering his rifle the plucky fellow returned
across the icy wilderness, and reached our quarters safely (as we
afterwards found), tired and sore in every limb, after a tramp and
clamber of twelve hours.

We skinned the bear, rolling up the robe and placing it in the boat,
and then commenced our tour of the island.

We had made the island on the north shore, and gradually worked round
along the east coast, till we arrived at the south, where we discovered
a nearly land-locked harbour of considerable extent, which we entered,
finding it covered with quite smooth ice, smooth enough, in fact,
for skating, which is a somewhat rare occurrence in these regions.
The Ancient Mariner had “water, water everywhere, but not a drop to
drink,” while in the far north we have ice and snow everywhere, but
not a place to skate. The harbour was surrounded by steep cliffs of
great height and snow-clad, but still a cosy-looking place for winter
quarters for a whaler.

As we looked around these wall-like cliffs, we were startled by the
sight of what appeared to be a solid-looking hut, built in a hollow,
over which the great brown cliffs lowered as if they would fall and
crush it. A steep, pathless, snowy slope led up to this strange
dwelling, which no sooner caught sight of than, like a lot of boys just
let out of school, we, with one accord, dropped our sledge-tugs and
bounded up the craggy acclivity to see what it contained.

Sure enough it _was_ a hut, and of fair size too, built with its rear
supported by the rocky cliffs, which had been hollowed out to receive
it. Two windows, heavily barred, looked out over the frozen sea below,
and between them was the heavy door, from a hole in which depended a
thin metal chain. I seized the chain and gave it a pull, which raised a
bar of wood within, causing the door to swing open of its own accord.

We looked within, but the interior was so dark that little was
visible, even with the door open; but we could see a piece of blanket
or battered sail stretched from side to side of the cabin, so as to
divide it into two apartments, and we could also discern a rough,
ancient-looking chair, and several large articles. I stepped in and
drew the curtain aside; I say _drew_ it aside, but it really fell apart
in my hand as I endeavoured to do so. Anyhow, enough of it was removed
for me to see a most gruesome sight; for there, in the dim light, I
could dimly discern the figure of a dead man, sitting by a table or
bench, and, as may be supposed, the sight made me recoil against my
comrades, whom I so imbued with my fright, that we all rushed out of
the hut together.

Telling them what I had seen, I sent one of them to the boat for the
lantern, so that we could obtain a light, and enter again into the
inner apartment of the hut.

The lantern being brought, we crowded in quietly together, I being
foremost with the light, and there, sure enough, sat a man at the
table in such an attitude that, had we not known he must be dead, we
should have thought he was simply asleep. He looked about sixty years
of age, and possessed very fine intellectual features; but on closer
examination we were surprised to find that his beard, instead of being
an ordinary one of, say, a few inches long, or even an extraordinary
one of a growth reaching to the waist, was of such an abnormal length
that it not only reached the floor, but lay there in a huge tangled
mass; nor was his hair a whit behind, as it fell in tresses over the
back of the chair, and was actually frozen to the floor all around him.
His eyebrows, too, hung down over his eyelids touching his cheeks,
and as for his finger-nails!--well, they were as long and pointed as
“the quills upon the back of the fretful porcupine.” His toe-nails had
pierced his shoes, and extended beyond his toes a foot or more.

We gazed in silence, being struck speechless with amazement at the
marvellous sight, and for some time our eyes were so riveted on the
strange object before us, that we forgot each other’s presence.

My voice first broke the silence, but as I spoke my words seemed a
kind of sacrilege to the presence and awful silence and solemnity of
the dead man before us.

“Well, mates, what do you make of this?” I asked.

No one knew what to make of it, but old Johnson, our carpenter, asked--

“What’s that thing on the table in front of him?”

I held the lantern closer, to what appeared to be a curiously-shaped
box; it was tall, and narrow, and of an octagonal form.

Drawing it towards me I raised the lid, for it was not locked, and
discovered another small case within it. This I also opened, and within
I found a roll of parchment, on which was clearly written in a bold
black lettering, the following words--

                                        “SOUTH ISLAND, SPITZBERGEN,
                                                     “_August 17, 1773_.

                     “_To whomsoever may find me._

  “I, Doctor Angus Sinclair, of Arbroath, Scotland, am the discoverer
  of a liquid which, injected into a vein, will suspend life for any
  length of time. I have chosen this spot in which to carry out an
  experiment to prove to the world that a person may sleep for any
  period he chooses; and by the aid of an antidote (which I have also
  discovered) may be awakened at any appointed time.

  “I wish to remain dormant for one hundred years or more, and should
  any one discover me before that time, let him kindly forbear to
  awaken me.

                  “_Directions to restore Animation._

  “Make an incision in a vein of my arm, and inject therein a few
  drops of the liquor in the blue bottle; in a few minutes I shall
  be restored to consciousness. A little hot drink of any kind will
  greatly facilitate my revival.”

When I finished reading the strange document, we looked at each other,
then at the doctor, and then at each other again, not quite knowing
what to do; but I presently sufficiently recovered from my surprise to
hold the lantern close to the old fellow’s face, when we were startled
to find that the colour still remained in his cheeks, and that the
body, instead of being frozen hard, was quite soft and fleshlike.

We lifted the old man from his chair, and tried to lay him out on the
floor, but his joints were so set fast that we could not straighten
them, so replaced him in his seat.

“Hold on, mates, let us see what the bottles are like,” I said, for I
could see the necks of three projecting from the box.

“Ah! here’s the blue one, and on it a label. Let us see what it says.
‘Liquor to restore Animation. Make an incision in the left arm and pour
in about six or eight drops.’ That’s the one we want, mates, but let us
see what the others contain. Here is a red bottle, and the label says,
‘Aid to Restoration. Infuse a teaspoonful in a gill of warm water, and
give the patient to drink.’”

Old Matt Johnson set about finding some bits of driftwood to make a
fire, for there was a stove in the cabin; while another ran to the boat
to procure some water and a saucepan.

A fire was soon started, and the water made hot: then came the
momentous question--

“Who will be surgeon?”

We doubted very much that the specifics in the bottles would have any
effect upon the old fellow, who could scarcely be expected to awaken to
life again after a sleep of ninety years. The document intimated that
one hundred years was the time the doctor wished to slumber, but we
thought ninety years quite long enough for a first trial; it would be
a record for the world, and beat the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus and Rip
Van Winkle hollow.

Before commencing to operate on our patient, we examined the other
bottle, which was labelled “Sleeping Draught. A. S., 1773. Dose, ten
drops with sugar.” This we replaced in the box, none of us wishing just
then to try its effects.

Johnson at last agreed to make the incision, or as he called it, “the
slot,” and taking out his jack-knife he whetted it on a piece of stone,
giving it a few rubs on his boot to take off the roughness, and then
proceeded to rip up the doctor’s coat-sleeve. It was one of those
tight-fitting lappeted coats, in vogue during the second half of the
last century, and quite in keeping with the date on the parchment--1773.

By the way, on scrutinizing the document once more, we discovered these
words written on the back--

  “At his own request I leave Dr. Sinclair on this island, and have
  promised to inform the harbour masters at whaling ports on the Scotch
  coast that he may be found on South Island if one of them will put in
  for him. He wishes to carry out several experiments of a scientific
  nature during the winter of 1772-73.

                                        “(Signed), CAPTAIN PHIPPS,
                               “Naval Surveyor to H.M. King George III.”

“Now, Chipps,” said I to old Johnson, “are you ready?”

“Aye, aye, sir,” said he, flourishing his knife, “ready and eager for
the fray. Where shall I stick him, sir?”

“Be careful, now,” I replied, “and make a little hole just there,” and
I pointed to a vein on the left forearm.

Johnson jabbed his knife in as if he were about to kill a pig: it made
a wound an inch long and an inch deep, but, strangely enough, no blood
flowed. With the aid of a piece off the stem of a tobacco pipe, I
injected a few drops of the liquid from the blue bottle, and with open
mouths and straining eyes we stood by to watch the result.

Several minutes went by without any apparent effect being noticeable
on the old doctor. We felt his pulse, or rather his wrist, for he was
as pulseless as the figurehead of a ship, and then tried his heart. We
endeavoured to open his mouth to pour in a few drops of the liquor from
the red bottle (which we had mixed with warm water), but his teeth were
so tightly clenched that we could not give him the “Aid to Restoration.”

As we gazed earnestly upon our patient we fancied we saw a movement of
his shaggy eyebrows, but put it down to the wind which found its way
into the cabin through the open door.

We watched again, and this time, to our great surprise, we saw a
twitching at the corners of the mouth, sufficient to cause a movement
of the heavy moustache.

I poured in three drops more from the blue bottle, and in a few minutes
saw the head of our patient slowly lift and fall back again on his
chest.

We tried his mouth again, and this time succeeded in opening his jaws
sufficiently wide to force a few drops of the warm liquid into his
throat.

Just then two of the men called out simultaneously that the wound in
his arm was bleeding. Sure enough such was the case, so, whipping
out my handkerchief, I bound up the gaping gash which our friend the
carpenter had made.

Slowly the old doctor regained his suspended animation and moved on his
chair, and when I raised his eyebrows, which hung down over his eyes
like the hair on the forehead of a Skye terrier, I found that his eyes
were partially open.

Quietly taking my knife from my pocket I gently cut off the long locks
of hair, so that the old man could see about him if he really did come
to, after his ninety years’ sleep.

He made me start as I shore off his second eyebrow, for he gave a
sudden shudder which caused him to tremble from top to toe.

Presently his eyes unclosed a little, and then a little more, till
they gradually opened to their widest extent; but no animation or
speculation was in them--they were the staring optics of a doll or a
corpse.

His hands next began to tremble, and we could see the life creeping
into his cramped limbs; and then his lips gave signs of movement. We
took the opportunity to give him the remainder of the liquid in the red
bottle mixed with water, and the effect was wonderful, for in about
half-a-minute the tall figure of Doctor Sinclair half rose, and like a
man suffering from delirium tremens, uttered the fierce exclamation of
“You rascal!” and fell back on the seat again.

We scuttled out of the cabin like a lot of frightened children,
jostling and falling over each other in our eagerness to escape from
the presence of the awful-looking being we had brought to life and
action.

After running some distance down the pathway or slope, we halted and
looked back, as if we expected the Ancient One to follow us, but as he
did not make his appearance we gradually and stealthily returned, and
emboldened by neither seeing nor hearing anything of the being within,
took courage to push the door of the cabin open.

We even went further and looked in, and there we saw the gaunt figure
of Doctor Sinclair with palzied hands trying to erect itself by the
friendly support of the massive oak table. His legs were so cramped,
and, as it were, rusty by his long trance, that he could not straighten
them properly, and so weak as to be nearly useless to support his
frame. He was a terrible-looking figure as he peered over the table
at us, with his grey beard and hair of unheard-of growth flowing down
before and behind him in unkempt profusion.

He moaned and mumbled; and then, with a great effort, tried to reach
us by concentrating his feeble energies and making a rush at us, but
his feet became entangled in his beard, his legs tottered, and down he
came, crash upon the hard floor, to all appearances dead.

Then our scattered senses returned to us, and being ashamed of
ourselves and our cowardice, we rushed to pick him up, and once more
to seat him upon his chair. A little brandy was administered, and
presently we had the satisfaction of seeing him regain consciousness.

The fire was replenished, and the doctor laid tenderly in his berth
and snugly covered up. We warmed some tinned soup, which refreshed him
marvellously; so much so that he found his voice, and quietly asked, to
our surprise--

“What year is it?”

“Eighteen hundred and sixty-two,” we replied.

“What king is reigning in England,” he asked.

“No king,” was my reply, “but a queen--Victoria.”

These answers seemed to satisfy him, for he smiled, and smiling fell
into a sound sleep.

“Well, here’s a rummy go,” quoth Chips.

To which we all replied that it was indeed a strange adventure, and
upon looking towards the old wooden cot one could hardly believe that
the tremendous mass of white seaweed-looking substance trailing from
the blanket to the floor, where it lay coiled like a heap of oakum, was
ever the growth of a human head; there it was, however, proof positive
before our astonished eyes.

Well, I must not spin my yarn out too long, or I may get it like the
old man’s hair--into a tangle.

We stayed at the hut two days, during which the old doctor appeared to
gather strength hourly; so much so that, with assistance, he could walk
several yards, and nearly straighten his legs and back.

We made him a comfortable couch in the sledge-boat, covering him with
the bear’s skin and a blanket, and all being in readiness we started
back northward to Swan Inlet, having abandoned all idea of completing
our survey of South Island, at least for the present.

We hoisted a large piece of red bunting at the prow of our sledge, and
when we had arrived within about four miles of our destination, we
could, with my binocular, discern little black figures leaving the
“Nest” and coming over the ice to assist us back.

We halted between two ice hummocks, got out our stoves, and prepared
a savoury meal of bear steaks and tinned soup, both of which, in such
intense cold, were exceedingly welcome.

By the time our repast was completed and we had again got under weigh,
the foremost of our comrades were nearly within hail. We soon rejoined
them, and were very glad of their assistance to help us to tug our
increased load over the rough hummocky ice.

We said not a word of our newly-found hairy man, for fear they might
want to see him, and thus cause him annoyance. We wished to drag the
sledge close to the shore, so that we could carry him right into the
cosy “Swan’s Nest” at once, and put him to bed.

As we proceeded over the frozen ice and neared home, other men kept
coming out to meet us, till all but about half-a-dozen of the whole
forty were tailing on to the ropes, and taking the sledge along at a
smart trot.

They could tell that there was some mystery attached to the
carefully-covered object in the stern, and it was useless for us to try
and put them off by saying it was only a heap of bear robes, for now
and again the object moved. They would have uncovered it to see what
was there, but I sternly forbade them to do so. Guesses of all kinds
were made as to what the mysterious heap consisted of, but although
many tried to unravel the secret not one succeeded. Some guessed young
bears, another a nest of foxes--others said seals, and one averred it
could be nothing but a young walrus, from its size and shape, but none
hit upon anything near the truth.

The inlet was reached at last, the sledge travelling over the smooth
ice of the haven at a great pace, but not before our gallant skipper
was ready on the beach to welcome me and my men back.

We shook hands, and I then told the men to stand back, as I had
something I wished to tell the captain. They stood away a few yards, in
a circle, so as to completely surround us and the sledge, as if they
were afraid it contained something that might escape. Hurriedly I told
the captain the principal points of our adventure. He was struck all of
a heap, as our American cousins say, and was at first disinclined to
credit my story of apparently superhuman return to life.

However, he quietly lifted the blanket, and looking at the uncanny
creature beneath, their eyes met. The captain started as if he had seen
a savage lion, but quickly regaining his equanimity, gave orders for
four hands to bring down a “barrow,” as the implement (which looks like
a bier) is called. Twenty hands started for the barrow, and in five
minutes the doctor was lying on it, while Chips and I walked behind
with his surplus beard and hair coiled in our hands, to prevent it from
trailing on the ground and throwing the bearers down.

The doctor was put to bed, well fed for two or three days, at the end
of which time he could stand, and even walk a short distance alone;
and within three weeks was able to form one of the members of our
shooting-parties, and although fifty-eight years of age, was as strong
and hearty a man as any of us.

       *       *       *       *       *

Spring at last came, and by July we had a full cargo; consequently,
on the last of that month, we steered south-west, homeward bound for
bonny Scotland and the relatives we had been parted from so long.

The doctor, of whom we had grown fond, was a very cheery companion,
and looked a strange figure as he walked about the deck, with his
carefully-combed and brushed hair and beard coiled neatly round his
waist, and usually fastened off with a bit of scarlet bunting.

The wildness of his hilarity seemed at times to point to an unhinged
mind, and as the good ship _White Swan_ neared her destination, he
became so excited that pronounced symptoms of madness appeared. These
symptoms increased so rapidly, that when within about five hundred
miles of Aberdeen, the poor doctor had to be locked in the captain’s
cabin. He refused all food, and when it was placed inside the door
instantly flung it into the sea from the stern windows.

“Only one more night and part of a day,” said the skipper, “and we
shall be in Aberdeen, if this breeze holds, when we will immediately
have a doctor on board to see to our poor friend and companion,
Sinclair.”

But it was not to be so; for next morning, when the captain went to the
cabin to ask the doctor how he fared, as was his custom several times
during the day, although he only got abuse for his pains, and even
threats of violence, he received no answer.

He knocked and knocked again without obtaining a reply, and mounting
the companion peered into the cabin through the skylight; but not a
trace of Doctor Sinclair was to be seen.

Finally the cabin door was burst open, and to the regret of all it was
found that the doctor had disappeared. There was no mystery about it,
for it was a clear case of self-destruction while of unsound mind: he
had leaped out of one of the stern windows and drowned himself.

On reaching port our yarn was soon spread abroad, but of course laughed
at by every one, as we had no proof that Doctor Angus Sinclair had ever
existed, except in our imagination. True, we had the three bottles
and the parchment, and these were in due time sent to the College of
Physicians in London, where they were analyzed and commented upon in
the medical journals.

What little remained of the “Suspender of Animation” was given to
rabbits and dogs, and it really had such a soporific power that they
could not be awakened, and, as long as they were kept in an atmosphere
below 25°, they remained without signs of decay, even for years after.

Unfortunately, we had used, in restoring the old doctor to animation,
all the contents of the blue bottle--three drops excepted. The
contents of the red bottle proved, on analysis, to be a concentrated
quintessence of brandy, which accounts for the doctor requiring it to
be mixed with hot water before being administered.

His idea was that animation might often be usefully suspended in
the case of persons out of work, on a voyage, or in embarrassed
circumstances; that many, who wished to skip over, as it were, a
few years of life,--either for the purpose of evading creditors, or
escaping the nagging tongue of a contentious wife--would welcome his
discovery and hail it, indeed, as the greatest of all possible boons.

Certain it is that had the doctor lived to patent his idea, he would
have completely revolutionized the social world. If our skipper had
only clapped on the “darbies” when he put the doctor in his cabin, we
might now be living in strangely-altered times.

Just pause and deliberate on what wonders might have happened, but for
the untimely madness and death of Doctor Angus Sinclair.

You, gentle reader, will probably come to the conclusion that my yarn
is like Heathen mythology--very fair reading, but without much to
recommend it in the way of truth.

If, however, you should require further proof of the authenticity of my
story, you have only to fit out a suitable yacht, sail for Spitzbergen,
hunt about for South Island, and having found it, you will probably
also find the hut just as I have described it, perched half-way up the
cliffs, in a bay (on the south of the island, mind you); and if you
enter the said hut and search on the shelf over the wooden berth, you
will find all that remains of Doctor Angus Sinclair; a relic that we in
our hurry left behind; a relic that will prove my yarn to be strictly
true, for the memento consists of the grand old doctor’s wonderful
eyebrows.

       *       *       *       *       *

Strange to say, amid the scores of stories which I heard in all parts
of England, but few of them were connected with ghosts, visions, or
apparitions, and from this paucity of tales of the supernatural, I have
come to the conclusion that the majority of such stories are somewhat
mythical and usually mere hearsay, not even second-hand versions of
something that has really happened, but stories told by the fireside
in the first place, and afterwards handed from mouth to mouth with
numerous additions and alterations to suit places and individuals,
until at length they become so changed and distorted that their
inventors would not recognize the offspring of their own imagination,
should they at any subsequent period listen to their recital.

Usually, after a story had been told, if I put the question, “Did you
see this?” the answer would be, “Oh, no; John Williams told me about
it, and I believe he heard it from Tom Smith.” A search for Tom Smith
would only result in the fact that he had heard it from Harry Jones,
etc., so that, strive as one might, the actual participator in the
gruesome adventure one wished to fathom could never be discovered.

One very cold December day I happened to be passing through North
Somersetshire, and whilst in the vicinity of Minehead, made the
acquaintance of a farmer who was also a blacksmith. My stove had broken
down, and one or two odd jobs of ironwork required to be done, so I
procured the services of my new acquaintance, and when the various
little repairs had been finished, invited him to share my evening meal,
and join me in a pipe and hand at cards.

He was nothing loath, and stayed. Of course my usual ghoulish thirst
for a story possessed me, and I endeavoured to obtain one from my
guest, but he affirmed that he could no more tell a story than I could
put him to sleep. Nothing memorable, he averred, had ever occurred
during his life, so how could he tell of what had never happened?

Then we fell to speaking of farming and crops, horses and fields, and
among other items he mentioned that his best crops were obtained from
the field in which my van was then located, called the Haunted Field.

“What,” thought I, “the haunted field! this must be seen into.”

And see into it I did, for five minutes later my guest was in a
hypnotic trance, and from his lips I gathered the following very
Christmassy story.




X.

THE PHANTOM RIDERS.


“Once upon a time” might fittingly be the initial words of this story,
for the terrible events of which it is a narration took place long,
long years ago; in fact, at the end of the seventeenth century.

To be precise, the day on which the stirring narrative commences was
December 23, 1695, two hundred years ago this very Christmas, but
heaven protect us from such a dreadful Christmastide as that.

The old Manor House at Minehead, in Somersetshire, no longer exists,
for the legends attached to it were of such a terrifying nature, that
no one dare rent it after the death of John Simmonds in 1696, so that
being uncared for, the old house lingered and decayed till it looked an
ideal picture of “desolation.”

Haunted or no, there was something so uncanny in the appearance of
the old gables, fast tottering to ruin, that even in the crepuscular
light of early evening, persons would hurry by it with a shudder,
while later at night, many would go a long way round rather than
pass its weather-worn walls. The very air that blew past the ruin
seemed to gather a deathly fragrance, which was doubtless due to the
fast-rotting timbers of the floors and ceilings.

Be that as it may, the evil repute of the old house grew so great, and
such dreadful stories were current concerning its sights and sounds,
that it was some years ago pulled down, the ground ploughed up, and
crops now flourish where, for generations, owls and bats held their
habitation undisturbed.

Minehead Manor House was an Elizabethan red-brick structure, with tall
twisted chimneys, curved gables, and dormer windows peeping out from
the red clay tiles. Its grounds were extensive, its gardens prim, and
its fish-pond well stocked with carp, eel, and pike; for John Simmonds,
the owner, was fond of wandering about and improving his domain. His
gardens and fish-pond were his hobbies, and so fully occupied his
entire time that he was seldom seen in the village, where he was
greatly respected and admired for his kindness to the poor, while his
grand old English appearance had all the stateliness of a typical
country squire.

He had an only daughter, Julia, an accomplished young lady as
accomplishments went in those days. She could sing and accompany
herself upon the spinet, could embroider beautifully, spin, and
generally comport herself as a young lady of twenty-three should, who
has a whole household on her shoulders.

Of lady friends she had few, and her gentlemen friends were even still
more scarce. One young gentleman, Wynne Clarge (a distant relative),
who lived near, assumed, probably because of the non-existence of any
rival, that he should some day claim her for his wife, but he was very
apathetic in the matter. There was little real _love_ between them;
they were passable friends, and that was all; he looked upon Julia as
he did upon his horse--they were both nice in their way, and ministered
to his wants; for the rest he took everything as a matter of course,
simply because he had no rival.

Things were running in their usual groove, when one day, early in
December, a gentleman was announced, who had called to pay his respects
to Mr. Simmonds.

It was soon explained that he was Charles Benwell, the son of Mr.
Simmonds’ sister, who had for many years resided in Virginia.

The cousins (for Charles was invited to stay at the Manor House for
a few weeks) fell in love with each other at first sight, and the
love was so sincere and intense, that ere three weeks had passed, Mr.
Simmonds was solicited for Julia’s hand.

“Quick work, my boy,” quoth the genial old man. “Why, you have scarcely
had time to know each other yet. It puts me in mind of Julius Cæsar,
does this visit of yours, ‘He came, he saw, he conquered,’ and so have
you, apparently. Well, well, we shall see. But you must not expect a
fat dowry with her, for she can sing, ‘My face is my fortune,’ like the
maid in the song; but still she will not be penniless--no, no! I will
see that she has a suitable maintenance.”

“As to that, Mr. Simmonds, you know I am over here for the purpose
of selling the property which my poor mother--your sister--has left
me. There are three estates of considerable size, amounting in the
aggregate to something like twelve hundred acres, besides several
houses, the documents appertaining to which I have left at the
solicitor’s at Dulverton.

“Now, Mr. Simmonds, tell me, have you any objection to my looking upon
your daughter as my affianced bride?”

Mr. Simmonds had no objection, but being a very cautious business man,
would like just a glance at the documents empowering Charles to sell
his late mother’s estates, simply as a matter of precaution, and to
ascertain if there were a flaw anywhere that might cause any delay in
the disposal of the property.

“As to that,” rapturously vociferated Benwell, “the papers shall be in
your hands by this time to-morrow, so that you may search them through,
and then on glorious Christmas Eve give your sanction and blessing to
our engagement.”

“Only fancy being engaged on Christmas Eve, Julia!” exclaimed Charles.
“How romantic! It is like the beginning of a story-book.”

       *       *       *       *       *

From the day of Benwell’s arrival, Wynne Clarge had roamed about the
house and grounds, snarling at every one and everything. He had treated
Julia very rudely, and one day suddenly asked her--

“What is that fellow dangling about after you for? I will not have it,
Julia.”

“But, Wynne,” his fair cousin replied, “it can surely be no business of
yours if he wishes to pay me attention; he is my cousin, and who knows
but he may make me a proposal before he leaves Minehead?”

All this was said coquettishly, but looking up at Wynne she was
frightened at the look of hatred she perceived on his face.

[Illustration: “His sword point, which was advanced towards the
spectators, was seen to be covered with blood.”--_p. 215._]

“A proposal he _may_ make, but your husband he shall never be while
I wear this by my side,” and he touched the hilt of his rapier
significantly, as he strode off down the garden path.

From that day he sought to quarrel with young Benwell, and his
relations with Mr. Simmonds became so strained, that the old gentleman
grew alarmed at his manner, and quietly but firmly forbade him the
house.

“It is not your house or lands I want,” exclaimed the irate Wynne; “but
hark ye, old man, Julia shall be my wife and no other’s; willy-nilly
she _shall_ be mine. I have waited for years, and will not be baulked
by this sallow-faced American loon! Let him have his holiday, and go as
he came, and leave Julia in my hands, or--I will know the reason why!”

       *       *       *       *       *

It was Christmas Eve, and Squire Simmonds had invited a few of the
neighbouring gentry to spend the evening sociably together under his
roof. Wynne had been invited with the rest, for at Christmastide the
squire could not be at variance with any man; but in the evening no
Wynne appeared. This gave rise to some little comments among the
guests, who good-naturedly twitted pretty Julia with having two strings
to her bow.

She blushed and bore it, only looking anxiously now and again at the
face of the old clock at the end of the dining-room, for it was past
the hour when Charley had promised he would return; for he had gone
over to Dulverton in the morning to fetch the required documents. He
had promised to be back by six o’clock, and it was now eight, and both
Julia and her father began to exchange glances of alarm.

At nine o’clock the guests also became anxious, and Mr. Simmonds tried
to persuade both himself and those present that all was right.

“You see, it is fifteen miles from here to Dulverton,” said Mr.
Simmonds. “Possibly he did not start till six o’clock; then he had to
make a _détour_, so as to call at Stoke Pero and deliver a message
to one of Julia’s friends, and that would make his homeward journey
eighteen or twenty miles, and thirty-five miles there and back is a
longish ride. Besides, his horse, Old Maggie, is none too good for a
long trot over this hilly country. Fill up, my friends! Here’s to our
future squire, Charles Benwell!”

He raised the goblet to his lips, but had not commenced to quaff, when
looking towards the door, he saw the absent Charley advancing toward
the table, looking extremely pale. All in the room rose in greeting,
but he turned from them, and unbuckling the clasp of his riding-cloak,
walked to an alcove, formerly an immense fire-place, but now used as a
closet for hanging outdoor coats, wraps, and accoutrements, a curtain
being drawn across it.

To their surprise, every one present noticed, as he turned, that his
deep white collar (which was the fashion of those days) was saturated
with blood, and as they noted this, and had the words on their lips to
speak to him about it, he disappeared into the alcove by walking, as it
seemed, _right through the curtain_, and not drawing it aside in the
usual way!

The assembled guests stood aghast.

What could it mean?

For a long time not a man stirred. But at length the spell was broken
by a young fellow named William Rayner advancing to the curtain sword
in hand: he snatched it suddenly aside.

_The recess was empty!_

Charles Benwell had apparently vanished through the solid wall!

The curtain fell from Rayner’s grasp as he stood immovable with
amazement. Then came another long pause; a consultation; a
replenishment of glasses; and finally the conclusion was arrived at
that it was the apparition of Julia’s lover they had seen.

Fear now settled on them all, and as they sat, talking in hushed tones
and glancing nervously about, the curtain guarding the alcove was seen
to move.

It bulged out slightly as if caught by a draught of air, and then again
its long, sombre folds trailed upon the floor and were still again.

No one moved from the spot where he happened to be sitting or standing,
but all eyes were fixed in horror on the agitated tapestry.

_Again it swayed._

This time the bold Will Rayner rose, and drawing his sword, was joined
by some of the others, also sword in hand. Rapidly they advanced across
the intervening space, and Rayner, plucking hold of the fabric with his
left hand, drew it aside with a quick jerk.

Wonder of wonders, in place of the white-faced Benwell there stood his
scowling rival, Wynne Clarge.

His right wrist was bared, and his sword point, which was advanced
towards the spectators, was seen to be covered with blood.

As they looked with startled eyes, the blood slowly dripped to the
floor, drip--drip--drip!

“How now, Master Clarge, think you to frighten us with such
tomfoolery?” exclaimed Will Rayner. “Get thee gone with thy mummery, or
my sword shall teach thee a lesson not to make fools of thy betters.”

Then, rushing forward, he attempted to beat the sword out of Wynne’s
hand with his own, but to his amazement no clang of steel sounded as
their weapons met.

“Here’s at thee, Wynne,” cried the now enraged man; and suiting the
action to the word, he made a deadly thrust at his opponent’s breast:
the blade pierced the figure without any resistance, and struck the
wall so violently that it was knocked out of his hand and rolled
clattering on the floor.

At the attack and thrust Wynne looked straight at his assailant, smiled
sardonically, and--_slowly melted away_.

       *       *       *       *       *

The guests stayed all night, sleeping where they best could, at least
those whose eyelids had the power to close; while the more nervous
scarce dare move from the room for fear of encountering one or other of
their ghostly visitors.

It was useless trying to search the wild country between Minehead and
Dulverton while it was yet dark, but with the first grey light of a
dull morning--Christmas Day--a party of eight gentlemen rode off in
search of the missing Charles Benwell.

Through Selworthy they silently rode, and turning to the left entered
the lovely woods of Korner. Hills rose to a great height on either side
of the valley up which they travelled; hills that seemed to touch--aye,
and really did touch--the low-lying dun-coloured snow-clouds. There
was a rough kind of path, which ran beside the brook--now swollen to a
mountain torrent--but at best it was a mere cattle track, and was now
fast becoming obliterated by the silently falling snow.

The men rode on, scarcely speaking a word; the only sound that was
heard was the roar of the turbulent torrent as it tore through its
rocky bed on its way to the sea at Porlock.

Presently they heard a horse neigh, and making at once towards the
sound, quickly found poor Old Maggie grazing at the foot of Dunkery
Beacon near the village of Stoke Pero.

The snow was now falling so fast that not the sharpest eye could
perceive the summit of the Beacon, which towered sixteen hundred feet
above them.

“Coup! coup! Maggie,” coaxingly cried Will Rayner, and the mare,
whinnying, trotted to him. She was still saddled, and they found, as
they feared to find, both upon the saddle and back, stains of blood.

“Follow up, friends,” said Will, “as rapidly as possible, for if I
mistake not, our poor friend lies not far away, and if we make not the
best of our way, the snow may hide from us that which we seek.”

They accordingly travelled on much quicker, and as they turned to cross
the rustic bridge, at the foot of the hill from which Stoke Pero looks
dreamily down, they found poor Benwell, lying on his face, dead, frozen
stark and stiff, and partly covered with snow as with a winding-sheet.

They dismounted, and examined the murdered man, discovering to their
amazement and horror that he had been run through the base of the neck
from _behind_, by some cowardly hand.

The body was laid over the back of a horse, and four of the gentlemen
returned with it to the Manor House, while Will and the other three
friends prosecuted their search for Wynne Clarge.

This search, however, was in vain; no signs of him could be found, and
after wandering about in the snow for a long time they returned to
Minehead.

It was indeed a sad Christmas Day for the good folks of the Manor
House, which instead of being a place of rejoicing was now a house of
the deepest sorrow.

Poor Julia was inconsolable.

No papers relating to the property were found on the body, and this
gave some clue to Wynne’s reason for waylaying the poor young fellow.

Benwell was buried in the churchyard which lies high upon the hill, a
churchyard surrounded by walls that look out over the quiet town like
the ramparts of a fortress dominating a city.

A week later, a great commotion was caused by the news being brought,
that Wynne’s body had been discovered in the trout pool, which lies
nearly hidden under the great hill near Stoke Pero.

True it was, and for him too--murderer as well as murdered--a
resting-place was found in the quiet hill-top churchyard.

       *       *       *       *       *

The missing papers could not be discovered, although the woods had been
searched in all directions, and as the unusually cold winter gave place
to the genial early spring, people began to look upon the tragedy as a
thing of the past, and talked no more of it.

Poor Julia drooped and faded; but with the advent of the lovely warm
May days she revived, and, by and by, became her own sweet self again;
not quite so tuneful in her songs as of yore, but still her father’s
own little warbling bird, for he delighted in music and in singing,
particularly the songs his daughter sang to him of an evening.

Summer came with its flowers, and autumn with its grain and fruit, and
then--then came cold dreary winter once more.

Christmas approached, but this year, instead of the usual jovial party
at the Manor House, Julia and her father accepted an invitation to
spend a few days with the sporting rector of Stoke Pero. They arrived
at the Rectory on the 22nd of December (a Monday), and were invited to
stay over Christmas Day, which was on the Thursday.

Julia was not at all in good spirits, and was evidently thinking of the
dreadful Christmas a year ago and her lost love. She brooded so that,
as Christmas Eve approached, she was positively unable to hide her
state of intense nervousness and melancholy, and at noon on the 24th
she felt herself so unwell that she implored her father to take her
home.

Mr. Simmonds and the worthy parson took counsel together, and as Julia
appeared in a high state of nervous excitement bordering on fever, they
gave her a sleeping draught, placing her in the chimney corner in the
Rector’s great arm-chair. There she slept for three hours, but when she
awoke, again implored her father to take her home, as she felt so ill
and did not wish to give her kind hosts trouble.

There was no resisting this second appeal, so after a little delay
in getting ready, they mounted their horses, and with a boy riding a
pony and carrying a lantern in advance, they set off on their journey
homeward.

The snow lay thick on hill and tree, and they made but slow progress.
The lantern gave but little light; it bobbed about hither and thither
like an _ignis fatuus_, and finally the boy’s pony stumbled, and boy,
pony, and lantern were buried in a deep snow-drift. The boy scrambled
out quickly, but by the squire’s orders did not light his lantern
again. They crossed the bridge and picked their uncertain way along the
snow-covered path by the torrent’s brink.

Suddenly the squire drew rein as a man rode quickly and silently past
them, over the snow, going in the same direction as themselves.

“How like Old Maggie,” said the squire half aloud; “and if I did not
know to the contrary, I could have sworn that the rider was poor
Benwell!”

The squire supported Julia with his left arm as she rode by his side,
cheering her as best he could.

“Who was that, father?” she asked. “How strange he did not speak as he
passed us by.”

“It was indeed, my dear,” he rejoined; “but probably he was a stranger,
and unaccustomed to our hearty West Country greetings. But see, he has
stopped and dismounted.”

They beheld him in the moonlight standing by his horse’s side, but for
some reason the squire’s horse and his daughter’s both stopped of their
own accord, while the boy’s pony wheeled round and dashed back towards
Stoke.

The strange horseman patted his steed’s neck, tightened the
saddle-girth, and was about to remount, when another man suddenly
bounded forward, with a drawn sword, and making a lunge at the
unfortunate traveller, thrust him, from behind, right through the neck.

Then the murderer searched the dying man, taking a large bundle of
papers from the saddle-bags, and transferring them to his own pockets.

Turning once more to his victim, who was not dead, but feebly
struggling in the snow to regain his feet, he again stabbed him, this
time clean through the heart. Then, with a malignant smile he turned
away, strode to his own horse, which was tethered to a tree hard by,
mounted, and in a trice galloped close past the spellbound onlookers.

As he galloped silently by, the squire beheld, to his astonishment, the
features of Wynne Clarge!

Thus was re-enacted, in phantom-vision, the murder of Charles Benwell,
as it took place twelve months before.

Trembling in every limb Mr. Simmonds turned to his daughter. But Julia
was no more, _his arm encircled her lifeless clay_.

       *       *       *       *       *

An old man and feeble was John Simmonds, when, two months after the
above events, he left his bed, slowly recovering from brain fever; but
although he was able occasionally to wander listlessly in his garden
in the warm days of the summer, he lingered only till the first days
of autumn tinged the foliage with gold and red, then drooped like the
flowers, and like the flowers he died.

By his daughter’s side, upon that hillside in the west, the old man
sleeps, and to this day their tombs are pointed out; the one known as
“the Good Squire’s Tomb,” and the other is called “Julia’s Grave.”

       *       *       *       *       *

When the next Christmas Eve came round, bold Will Rayner organized a
little party to watch the spot where the murder took place. They did
not keep their dread vigil in vain, for a little after darkness set
in they all saw the phantom horseman ride up, dismount to tighten
his saddle-girth, and pat his tired horse on the neck. They saw the
dastardly rush of his rival: they saw the deed enacted before their
eyes, as Mr. Simmonds and Julia had seen it in a marvellous manner, and
Will had difficulty in restraining his comrades from rushing upon the
murderous Wynne, although they knew him to be but the phantasm of a man.

Their purpose, however, in watching was to _follow_ the ghost, and as
it mounted its shadowy horse they all gave chase.

It was a wild sight to see these young men following the apparition,
who pursued his course through the wild woods apparently unconscious
that he was being followed.

For three miles he rode, and then drew rein by a low cliff which
overhung the stream. He dismounted, took the bundle of papers from
under his cloak, and hid them beneath the stump of a tree, whose roots
flung themselves in fantastic shapes from the side of the cliff. Then
he mounted his horse again, with a smile of triumph on his ghastly
face, rode up the precipitous bank, and had nearly gained the brink,
when his horse missed its footing, rolled over backwards with its
rider, and both disappeared into the turbid water below.

The ghostly horse quickly emerged and galloped away, but the shade of
Wynne Clarge, its rider, rose no more.

A search was made in the low cliff for the missing documents relating
to the Benwell estate, and they were easily found; but having lain
in a damp cavity impregnated with lime for two years, they fell to
pieces as Rayner grasped them, and all that remained in his hand was an
undecipherable pulp.




CONCLUSION.


The Wise and Foolish Virgins among them carried ten lamps; and
strangely enough, that number coincides with the number of stories in
this volume. In five lamps no oil was poured, so that the lamps gave
forth no light, but the remaining lamps were well filled and shed forth
light on all around. Such may, I trust, be the case with my stories;
some of them may to my readers appear dull and uninteresting, but in
the remaining moiety I trust some gleams of pleasure may be found,
which, if not shedding forth the electric rays of a Poe, may yet give
forth enough intellectual light to cause the writer to be seen and
appreciated by the public as one who has not wholly failed to use his
pen to the pleasure of his indulgent readers.

Probably my penchant for listening to stories wrung from unwilling
guests is highly reprehensible; but I am sorry to say that my hobby has
quite taken the bit between its teeth, and, instead of my riding and
controlling, it has mastered me.

Some of my friends, probably my truest friends, prophesy, and I must
say with some grounds for their forecasts, that I stand a good chance
of seeing the interior of a gaol--my crime that of divulging the
secrets of persons whose brains I have used as a kind of mental sponge.
These good friends regard me as an ogre, prowling over the country on
wheels, and robbing those to whom I have given sanctuary and shown
hospitality in my humble caravan home.

Probably they are right; but why in these days of dearth of original
and uncommon stories, should persons be allowed to carry such
interesting narratives about with them in a dog-in-the-manger style,
when by the exercise of a little ingenuity I am able to obtain their
hoarded narratives, and use them for the public good? Surely the end
justifies the means, from a literary point of view.

The hypnotic seizure of tales untold is a simple art, and if any of
my readers (those having secret family skeletons preferred) will call
upon me, I will with pleasure show them how to hunt for a story. The
hunter and the quarry only are needed; noisy hounds to worry the poor
quarry are not required, the hunter does it all quietly and effectively
by himself, just as that watchful assassin, the spider, interviews the
interesting and toothsome fly.


THE END.


  _Jarrod & Sons, Printers, Norwich, Yarmouth, and London._




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Perceived typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76622 ***