Certain places, said Stevenson, cry out for a story, and Scott, in any new surroundings, straightway invented an appropriate tale, if there were not already a story or tradition in existence. One might even believe that the place itself tells its own tale to the sympathetic imagination.
Thus Mr. Bligh Bond in his book, The Gate of Remembrance, implies that the whisperings of the genius loci enabled him to make his astonishing discovery of the lost Edgar Chapel at Glastonbury Abbey.
The scene of the following ghost stories usually becomes manifest in the text, but it might be mentioned that 'Castle Ichabod' stands for Seaton Delaval, that the 'Lord Warden's Tomb' is a reminiscence of Kirkby Stephen, and that 'The Cry of the Peacock' is a suggestion from the Vale of Mallerstang.
If the ghost is not always visible in the tale, it is at least born of it.
Thus if there be no actual ghost in 'Ill-Steekit Ephraim' or in 'The Blackfriars Wynd' there are at least sufficiently 'ghostly' occurrences.
Again, in 'Apud Corstopitum' Penchrysa is held to haunt the Roman Wall beside the limestone crags; Tynemouth Priory is thought to be revisited by Prior Olaf whenever the wind stays long in the eastern airt, and the 'outbye' moors beside 'The Bower' may now be haunted by the spirit of 'Muckle-Mouthed Meg.'
The stories marked by an asterisk have already been published in the Border Magazine; 'In the Cliff Land of the Danes' appeared originally in the Northern Counties Magazine under the title of 'An Antiquary's Letter' (supposed to have been dictated by John Hall Stevenson of Skelton Castle, author of Crazy Tales, to his friend the Reverend Laurence Sterne at Coxwold), and has been slightly altered, as has also 'The Muniment Room,' which appeared in the Queen and the Newcastle Weekly Chronicle. He desires to thank the various editors concerned and the Northern Newspaper Syndicate for their courtesy in permitting republication.
In his Letters on Demonology and Witchcraft, written nearly one hundred years ago, Sir Walter Scott says apologetically at the close of the book: 'Even the present fashion of the world seems to be ill-suited for studies of this fantastic nature; and the most ordinary mechanic has learning sufficient to laugh at the figments which in former times were believed by persons far advanced in the deepest knowledge of the age.'
But surely the belief in, and love of ghosts will persist 'as long as the moon endureth,' for fancy, imagination, and conscience combine against materialism, be it never so scientific, and even if the vision of the affrighted criminal be subjective it is a terrible reality to himself.
'What! not see that little boy with the bloody pantaloons?' exclaimed the secret murderer, so much to the horror of his comrade that he requested him, if he had anything on his mind, to make a clear conscience as far as confession could do it.[1] And, further, it is but some seventeen years since the present writer was taken to see a certain nonagenarian—one Bobby Dawson—for some fifty years, if memory serve, whipper-in to the Bilsdale hounds, who related in all good faith how he with his hounds had once hunted a witch in the shape of a hare that escaped by a cundy, or underground drain, into a barn. When Dawson entered, there was the witch in the form of an old woman lying panting on the hay.
Again, the writer has in his possession the copy of an 'Old Charm to make Brave,' which was transcribed by Mr. R. Blakeborough, author of Yorkshire Wit, Character, Folklore, and Customs, from the MS. book of one David Naitby, a Bedale schoolmaster, during the early days of 1800. It may interest the reader to quote a few lines therefrom:
After this the tale of 'In the Cliff Land of the Dane' may appear to be not so very improbable.
Once more, the uprising of the thrawn corpse from the coffin in 'Ill-Steekit Ephraim' was narrated to the writer and his companion by a bed-ridden but very intelligent moorland 'wife' some years ago when walking along the Roman Wall beside Hot Bank farm or cottage. Finally, he can still remember his early thrills over strawberries and cream when told of the appearances of 'the Silky' or 'little grey lady' at Denton Hall, which suggested the harsher variant of 'In my Lady's Bedchamber.'
In conclusion, it might perhaps be mentioned that the altar to Sylvanus alluded to in 'Apud Corstopitum' is preserved at Stanhope Rectory on the Wear, and that the writer possesses an altar dedicated—Deo (Mithras), by L. Sentius Castus of the 6th Legion, which was formerly excavated at Rutchester Camp, North Wylam, and is now at Otterburn.
Sir Walter Scott once said that no one had made more use of ghosts than himself, but that he did not believe in them. Another authority expressed his disbelief in them, 'because he had seen too many of them.'
Professor George Sinclair wrote his book, Satan's Invisible World Discovered, to prove 'against the Saducees and Atheists of the present age, that there are Devils, Spirits, Witches, and Apparitions, from Authentic Records, Attestation of Famous Witnesses, and undoubted Verity,' but as, inter alia, he includes in them an account of the 'Strange Pranks plaid by the Devil at Woodstock in England, anno 1649,' it is evident that he simply accepted without any investigation the common hearsay, for it is well known that the Woodstock Devil was none other than the Commissioners' clerk, Giles Sharp,[2] who played these tricks upon his masters.
Modern investigation proceeding on scientific lines and by means of actual experience and experiment, seems to provide an explanation—mental and moral—for manifestations which our ancestors regarded as physical and material.
One need only mention in this connection the writings of William James, the psychologist, the proceedings of the Psychical Research Society, the wonderful results of psycho-therapeusis dealing with the unconscious self, the subliminal 'consciousness,' or as Captain Hadfield prefers to call it, 'heightened personality' in his paper on this subject 'The Mind and the Brain' in Immortality, to realise not only the greatness of the advance in psychical knowledge, but also the vast new field of investigation thus opened out to the student.
Otterburn Tower
Northumberland
April 1919
[1] Demonology and Witchcraft. Letter x.
[2] Readers of Woodstock will remember Sir Walter Scott's account of 'Joseph Collins, commonly called Funny Joe—who, under the feigned name of Giles Sharp, hired himself as a servant to the Commissioners.'
'The account of this by the Commissioners themselves, or under their authority, was repeatedly published....'
It is amusing to note that 'this narrative gave equal satisfaction to the Cavaliers and Roundheads: the former conceiving that the licence given to the demons was in consequence of this impious desecration of the King's furniture and apartments, so that the citizens of Woodstock, almost adored the supposed spirits, as avengers of the cause of royalty; while the friends of the Parliament, on the other hand, imputed to the malice of the Fiend the obstruction of the pious work, as they judged that which they had in hand.'
''Twill be a black day for auld Scotland when she ceases to believe in the muckle Deil,' commented 'the Meenister' of the Tron Kirk, when I had explained to him my troubles and sought his 'ghostly counsel and advice,' as the English service has it, 'to the quieting of my conscience, and avoiding of all scruple and doubtfulness.' My father had been English, but my mother was Scotch, and she had sent me to my uncle, Deacon Abercrombie, to be entered as apprentice to his craft of the goldsmiths. He was a widower, lived alone, and was reputed to be eccentric, but as far as worldly gear was concerned the Deacon was a highly responsible citizen; as burgess, guild brother, and deacon of his craft he could hold his head as high on the causeway as any other, be he who he might, in the city.
Not even the 'stairhead critics,' who, as Auld Reekie's poet writes,
could point at any speck in his general repute.
The Reverend Andrew Geddes was somewhat stricken in years; his beard was white as snow, his thrapple loose below his chin, and the flesh had ebbed from his bones, but his mind was as alert as ever, and his goodness stood manifest in his face.
We were sitting in his lodging, situate in a high 'timberland' in the Canongate, just without the Nether Bow, on the same side as the Tron Kirk, and from his little tourelle we could survey as from an eyrie the coming and going of the citizens upon the street.
'Ay,' said he again, 'it will be a gey evil day for Scotland when she ceases to believe i' the muckle black Deil. Whatten temptations he can offer is oft forgot. Ye'll hae heard tell o' Major Weir—the whilom "Bowhead Saint," as they callit him—ye'll hae heard tell o' him, laddie? I mind my father talkin' o' his ain greetin' sair for bein' ower young to gang to his hangin'.'
Had I no? Ay, and of his staff that went before him like a link boy, and of the coach with six black horses that carried him and his sister backwards and forwards from hell!
'Eh, laddie, what a sermon I could preach to ye on this tremendous problem!' he said regretfully, bethinking him of my youthful years.
'Aweel,' he added discreetly, 'I dinna ken your uncle—the responsible Deacon—save by sight and repute, as ane that disna spend, an' isna verra sociable; yet he attends the Great Kirk, "comes forrit," does he not, to the Holy Table?' I nodded assent.
'Is as reputable a citizen as any that treads on the High Street, and yet for a' that he may hae a canker o' the soul. Aiblins Davie Hume has sappit his belief, and the muckle Deil, kennin' that, is thrawin' a flee ower him as for a saumon the noo.'
As I sat there shivering all down my spine, my companion looked upon me very kindly from his thoughtful, gentle eyes of blue that faded to grey at the marge, and said, 'Stop up your ears, laddie, like the adder, to any temptin' o' your uncle. Keep watch and ward, and, if need arise, run for me instantly, for, though I'm auld the noo, I'm aye ready for a warsil wi' auld Hornie.'
Heartened by the minister's sympathy and courage I returned to my uncle's lodging in Blackfriars Wynd, and continued to devote myself to his craft in the back of his booth in the High Street, which appealed to me greatly for ingenuity and skill.
In accord with my mother's advice I had endeavoured to cherish an affection for my uncle, yet withal there was something about the man that misliked me much, and, to speak straight to the point, that actually 'fley'd' me, for he would gloat o' night over his glass of toddy on any scandal afloat concerning the 'unco guid,' and would speak with tongue i' the cheek of virtue in general, as if indeed hypocrisy were the true king of this world. I thought at first his purpose was to tease me and draw me out, but I soon came to believe it was all a part of the horrid nature of the man himself.
Further again than this, he seemed to exercise a dreadful and secret power over 'Brownie'—his pathetic little serving boy, orphan and mute.
I had realised that 'Brownie' lived in terror of his employer, though I never saw him the victim of any physical ill-treatment; one night indeed he came shivering and terrified into my bedroom, and by signs gave me to understand that my uncle was hunting for him, and it was not till I had bolted my door that he grew somewhat calmer.
He would not leave me, but insisted on lying down at the foot of my bed throughout the night.
I thought possibly the poor lad might labour under some hallucination, but I felt fear myself, for I distinctly heard some one attempt to open my door very stealthily a short time after 'Brownie' had taken refuge in my room.
No, it was not surprising, I reflected, that 'Brownie' should be 'feared' of my uncle when I was myself in the like case, for there was 'no milk of human kindness' in him. His eyes were shielded by a chevaux de frise of bristles, and when one caught a glint from them 'twas as if one had encountered the malevolent gleam of a ferret intent upon his own ruthless schemes.
He was short of stature, possessed abnormally long arms, had a heavy moustache, and very hairy, flexible fingers, with which he performed wondrous feats of craftsmanship, but to my fearful imagination he seemed to resemble at times a tarantula spider of alarming proportions.
There had been of late an epidemic of crime in the city, which had seriously perturbed the good burgesses; various shops had been broken into, and cash and valuables had been 'lifted,' but as no arrests had been effected a general feeling of insecurity was rife in Auld Reekie; all which was a constant theme of merriment on my uncle's sardonic lips.
What had led me to approach 'the Meenister' and confide my apprehension to him, as I have shown above, was the mute, appealing look in poor 'Brownie's' eyes. But as 'Brownie' looked much brighter and happier during the next few weeks I regained my own equanimity, and grew somewhat shamed of my first nervous fears. This being so I thought it only right that I should visit 'Meenister Geddes' once more and report to him my belief in the groundless nature of my vague imaginations. I had found him at home, and stayed 'cracking' on with him till past ten of the clock.
Then as I returned somewhat in haste and doubtful how to effect my entry into my uncle's lodging undiscovered, or how, if discovered, to explain my absence, I brushed against a wayfarer at the corner of the Blackfriars Wynd.
''Tis a footpad,' I thought, for he was velvet-footed, and I heard no tread on the pavement. I glanced narrowly at the swift-passing stranger, and beneath the smouldering 'bowet' I had borrowed from the 'Meenister' I recognised with a start the slight, shrunken figure of 'Brownie' with his white, pathetic face. It was the swiftest of visions, yet I had seen enough to give me a 'gliff,' for the eyes were not those of 'Brownie,' but of my uncle.
This chance encounter reawoke all my previous apprehensions. The very fact that I had only an eerie suspicion on which to build increased my mental discomfort. There was something behind to which my watch and ward had afforded me no clue.
Nothing more transpired for another few weeks when one night as I lay awake meditating I heard a footstep on the stair without. It was late, for my uncle had been out, and I had sat up reading, and had forgotten how time was passing. As I continued to listen I heard a strange moaning proceeding, I felt sure, from 'Brownie's' attic, which was situate a foot or two above my chamber on the top turn of the newel stairway. I had recognised, I thought, the tread on the stairs, for my uncle's footstep was peculiar, since he had a slight limp; it was this that had aroused my attention and reawakened my apprehension.
The moaning had been that of a dumb animal, and I had heard it once or twice before when poor 'Brownie' had been in pain.
Stealing out of my room a-tiptoe I very gently laid my hand on the 'sneck' of 'Brownie's' den and tried to lift it without noise.
But, though it lifted, the door was 'steekit' from within.
There was no sound to be heard therein; I stood there with pricked ear, but could learn nothing by listening. Perhaps I might be able to discern somewhat through the aperture above the pin of the 'sneck.' 'Brownie's' den had, as I knew, a window in its tourelle, and as the night was moonlit though stormy, I might in a flitting moonbeam perhaps espy somewhat.
Stooping, I placed my eye to the tiny slit, and waited impatiently for a gleam of white light that might penetrate from the westward airt which it faced.
A quarter of an hour, perhaps, elapsed; I could see nothing, and my patience was almost exhausted, when on a sudden the beam of moonlight so earnestly expected filtered fitfully into the den, and there, though faintly, was revealed to me the form of my uncle lying motionless upon the truckle bed—apparently in deep slumber.
Where then was 'Brownie?' I searched the small den for him, but nowhere could I discover him. The window was open. Just as I made this discovery the moonlight faded away and left me in darkness, filled with a horrid suspicion. I waited on in hope of the moonlight returning, but rain set in, and I returned to my own chamber much perplexed as to what to do. Leaving the door ajar I determined to sit up and listen for any further sound, or the creak of a footstep on the stair, but though I listened till grey dawn came I heard no sound at all.
Then once again I stole a-tiptoe to 'Brownie's' door, and peeped through the aperture. Once again I was astounded, for I could now discern that 'Brownie's' figure lay upon the truckle bed instead of that of my uncle, which I had seen before.
Could I have been mistaken previously? No, I was certain my eyesight had not deceived me. How could it have? What I had descried had quite belied my expectation, and had been totally unforeseen.
I returned to my bed determined to investigate the open window at the first opportunity.
I slept ill, and when I rose I found the door of 'Brownie's' den open. Entering in, I saw that 'Brownie' had got up and the window was closed. Investigating further, I opened it cautiously and looked forth to see if there were any exit either to the ground or on to the roof.
Evidently there could be none to the ground, for the room was situate at the height of the tall 'land.' Nor was there any opening on to the roof, so far as I could discover, for the little tourelle overhung the wall, and no foothold was possible.
Yet there was one way out. The 'land' stood in the narrowest part of the wynd; right opposite, and not more than five feet away rose the opposite wall, finishing off into a gable end with corbie-steps affording easy access to the further roof.
Could 'Brownie' have leaped across? It was not impossible, as the space was so narrow, and though the window was small there was room to pass through. Then as I thus measured the spaces I caught sight of a plank below the window resting on the floor. 'Twas perhaps a foot and a half broad, in length about six feet—sufficient to act as a bridge across the wynd. I had discovered enough to excite my most vivid apprehensions as to its use, but nothing else in the little den gave any clue to the mystery.
Descending the stairs I found my uncle already engaged upon breakfast. He seemed in high good-humour, and roasted me heartily upon my unpunctuality. 'Brownie' came in at that moment carrying some scones, and I noted out of the tail of my eye that he looked extremely haggard and miserable.
Assuming a woebegone air I told my uncle that 'Auld Reekie' suited me poorly, and that the climate was too 'snell' for my southern constitution.
'Hae ye heard the sad bruit?' he asked suddenly, 'the causeway's fair ringin' wi't. Puir Tom Macalister, the rich shipper o' Leith, has been found wi' his throat cut lyin' ahint the dyke by the Leith walk. There's an unco scandal afoot anent it—some says a merry-begot o' his ain has done it oot o' revenge for bein' kep' short o' siller by his father.' He paused a moment, then added significantly, 'Ay, ay, Macalister was aye verra generous to the Foundlings' Hospital. Wha kens?' He heaved a sigh, but his eye twinkled satirically, 'The hairt o' man is deceitfu' an' daisperitly wicked,' and he lifted the whites of his eyes heavenward like a hound mourning.
'Was the poor man robbed?' I inquired shortly.
'Ay, was he,' returned my uncle; 'he was seemingly stuffed wi' bank-notes for payin' his men the day. He was gangin' hame after supper—gey fou, maist like. Eh, laddie!' he continued, 'sic an end to ane wha was regairded as belongin' to the Saints! Wae's me for the godly,' and again he lifted his eyes upward as a hound crying u-lu-lu for his lost master. Then he gave me a sharp look, somewhat askance, as he asked me swiftly, 'Whatten a discourse, think ye, will ye get frae your meenister o' the Tron Kirk the morn?'
I blenched, I felt, at this sudden thrust. Had his familiar informed him of my interview?
'It will be a sair blow to him,' I said, with apparent unconcern, 'but it cannot affect him directly.'
'No affect him?' returned my uncle, seemingly shocked at my indifference, 'not when he was aye hand an' glove wi' him?'
'He was no his bairn,' I retorted, hastily finishing off my "parritch" with a gulp. 'I'm late, as ye said,' I added, rising, 'I must be off to my work at the booth.'
'Ay, ay,' returned my uncle, 'wark's aye best in an evil day.'
As soon as my work was finished for the day I hastened to call upon 'the Meenister,' and, finding him at home, at once informed him of my discovery of the night, and of my uncle's satirical mention of poor Mr. Macalister's fate.
'Laddie,' he exclaimed earnestly as I concluded 'ye hae dune well to come to me. Puir Tom Macalister was just as decent, straight-leevin' a Christian man as could be found i' braid Scotland. There's somethin' gey wrang wi' your uncle, I'm fearin' sadly. I'll no let any one blacken the memory o' Thomas Macalister. Noo, laddie, keep ye a quiet watch—sayin' naethin'; but aye wait on wi' eye an' ear for onything further suspeecious at hame, an' if ye hear puir "Brownie" skreighin' come your ways straucht here for me—an' we'll see if we canna tackle the evil—an' with the help o' Heaven, scotch it.' His eye lit, his mouth tightened; he clenched his fist, ready for immediate 'warsil wi' auld Hornie.'
I promised faithfully, and withdrew with a heart somewhat relieved, though not relishing the thought of being alone with my uncle in the lonely house wherein either suspected the other.
My uncle that evening scarcely alluded to the murder again save to ask if I had had any news, and to mention that the funeral was to be the next day. Then he laughed uncannily, leering upon me over his spectacles.
'I'm tell't that he's left a muckle legacy to the Foundlings. What think ye o' that, laddie?'
'He might have done worse,' I replied, almost angrily, though inwardly I shivered. 'He might have left it to the cadies of the toon for drink.'
A fortnight perhaps passed without event; the City Guards were said to have found a clue, and the Town Council had offered a large reward for any information that might lead to the apprehension of the murderer, but nothing definite had been discovered.
Gossip was rife, and in the taverns 'twas bruited that my uncle's conjecture had come nighest to the bull's-eye. For my own part I had quietly made what arrangements I thought feasible in case of any further suspicious act of my uncle. I kept watch and ward with eye and ear, as Minister Geddes had directed, but not till another fortnight had elapsed did I hear his footstep on the stair, by 'Brownie's' den. Then one night as I lay half-dozing I was certain I did hear the lame footfall. Instantly I was broad awake, and waited in alarmed expectancy. Ha! there it was again—the low skreigh o' pain I had heard before. I was 'gliffed' indeed, horribly afeared, yet I must act, so a-tiptoe I stole out, and like a cat stealthily approached 'Brownie's' door. The hour was somewhat after eleven, for I had heard the Tron Kirk chap recently; the moon in her last quarter had risen, and I could dimly descry the interior of the den.
I shrank back after peering through the small aperture, for there was my uncle stretched out on 'Brownie's' truckle bed. The window was opened, and I could see that the board or plank I had previously measured lay on the sill.
Of 'Brownie' I could not see a sign.
I turned away on the instant. Now was the time to go fetch 'the Meenister.'
Noiselessly I descended the stairs, let myself out by a low side window in the cellar, and made straight for the lodging of 'the Meenister.' I dared not rouse the porter of the Nether Bow Port, but climbed the wall beyond even as Bothwell had done after the explosion at Kirk o' Field, and made my way down the Canongate. Minister Geddes was within, and fortunately had not yet gone to bed. He was ready in a moment to come with me. With a Bible under his oxter, and a 'bowet' new lit in his right hand, he accompanied me swiftly up the street. His courage was wonderful; he seemed like 'Greatheart'—valiant to meet Apollyon in battle. I caught hold of the end of his plaid, and followed him non passibus æquis like the parvus Iulus, for he hastened onward with his loins girded up. I do not know that more than twenty minutes had elapsed when we arrived at the cellar window and I had helped him through. Together we noiselessly mounted the stairs; then when we arrived at 'Brownie's' den he reached me the 'bowet' to hold while he peered through the aperture.
Then he turned to me and said in a whisper:
'Laddie, we mun just break doon the door. If it is as I'm thinkin' he winna hear us. His evil spirit is awa i' puir 'Brownie's' body, bent on Deevil's wark. Here's for it!' and as he spake he thrust swiftly with his foot and broke down the wooden bolt that fastened the door.
In we went—I holding the little 'bowet' on high to give us light. 'Ay,' whispered my companion in my ear, 'I'm richt. He's in a swoond; he disna see or hear us.' I gazed in horror on my uncle's face. His eyes were not closed, but were as unseeing as a blind man's. There was, I thought, a hateful look as of triumphant evil on his lips, but his breath came regularly as of one in deep sleep.
'Noo, laddie,' said the good minister, 'we mun act. "Brownie" will be returnin' before daybreak, an' we hae to keep the twa o' them apairt. His evil spirit is awa wi' the puir laddie, and we mun prevent body an' spirit comin' thegither again. It is like to be a fearfu' warsil, but wi' the help o' the Bible an' our God we'll triumph.' I could see his eye glow and his brow light with inspiration, and I drew in courage as I looked upon him in his intrepidity.
'Gang ye oot ower by the bit plankin', laddie,' he commanded me, pointing to the window. 'Gang, an' wait for "Brownie," then when he comes back grup him fast and pray tae Heaven. I'll shut tae the windie and grup the figure here on the bed.'
I could not disobey, but I trembled horribly as I crawled slowly forth upon the plank. The minister had sat himself down by the bedside, and was reading aloud by the light of the 'bowet' from out of Genesis of Jacob's wrestling all night long with the angel of God. I could hear his voice as I slithered slowly across my plank of dread.
The faith of the old man alone in the den with the fearsome figure on the bed heartened me greatly. I reached the end of the plank, grasped firmly the coping of the corbie-step, pulled myself up and felt for firm footing in the lead gutter of the roof below.
There for a few minutes I lay still, my heart palpitating, and reflected on what was next to be attempted.