Timothy Ferguson's Blog, page 15

Where did you get your ideas?

It’s the basic question everyone asks, so here are my answers for this project.

Afanc egg seller song
Aside from “Who will buy?” from the musical Oliver! which owes a bit to Cherry Ripe by Robert Herrick, this ditty goes back to the histories of London street cries. The earliest one recorded is in a poem called The London Lickpenny by John Lydgate. I also found inspiration in what my notes say was The Cries of London, but there are so many books of that name I can’t be sure which one.

Basilisk
The basic definitions come from The Etymologies of Isidore of Seville who was borrowing a bit from Pliny. There’s not a great public domain translation of this book. The gold standard was edited and translated by Stephen A. Barney and others and was published by Cambridge University Press in 2009. The farming of basilisks is the Schedula diversarum artium by Theophilus Presbyter.

Dragons and Sockburn Worm
The key text for these ideas was Chapter 8 of Notes on the Folk-lore of the Northern Counties of England and the Borders by William Henderson. The Sockburn Worm is literally the Jabberwock from the poem of the same name by Lewis Carrol. (https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Notes_on_the_folk-lore_of_the_northern_counties_of_England_and_the_borders/Chapter_8)

Eala
“The Twa Sisters” is a story found in many areas of Northern Britain. The version I have used here is Ballad 10 in The Child Ballads. They aren’t for children: their collector was Francis Child. My favourite version is sung be Loreena McKennitt on her album The Mask and the Mirror and is on Youtube at https://youtu.be/JsNJuhBfbPg

Fauns
The version of fauns we are dodging comes from Ovid’s Metamorphoses. The version we are moving toward is basically the Piper at the Gates of Dawn from The Wind in the Willows. The Pardia are novel to this book, but based on the pard in the Bodelian Bestiary. Gambrinus’s myth turns up in Annals of Bavaria by Johannes Aventinus. There’s also an English folk song called The Ex-ale-tation of Ale which mentions him.

Grim, King of the Ghosts
Grim originally appears in a song called The Lunatick Lover. My favourite version is https://youtu.be/OWZbwsHhLZ4 Textually that can be traced back to Reliques of Ancient English Poetry: Consisting of Old Heroic Ballads, Songs, And Other Pieces of Our Earlier Poets, (chiefly of the Lyric Kind.) Together With Some Few of Later Date. by Bishop Thomas Percy.
Grim was expanded in an anonymous book called Tales of Terror. Older versions claim to be by “Monk” Lewis, but he wasn’t the author. There’s a free pdf of it at https://books.google.com.au/books?id=MNgIAAAAQAAJ&source=gbs_navlinks_s
Art inspirations include Hans Holbein’s Dance of Death and Matthus Merian’s Todten Tanz.

Haid
The haid are just a variant of tiny faerie with a Welsh word for “horde” as their name. They come from a brief note in The Fairy Mythology by Thomas Keightley. (https://www.gutenberg.org/files/41006/41006-h/41006-h.htm)

Kenidjack
This demon is lifted whole from Robert Hunt’s Popular Romances of the West of England. (https://archive.org/details/popularromanceso00huntuoft)

Laidly Toad Queen
The Laidly Toad is the villain from “The Laidly Worm of Spindlestone Heugh” which is a story from the English Borders. It was originally said to have been collected from a manuscript written by Duncan Fraser around 1270 by Reverend Robert Lambe, who sent it to Bishop Thomas Percy for his Reliques of Ancient English Poetry. It wasn’t published there but turned up in various other places: the version I used is from Rhymes of the Northern Bards, edited by John Bell. (https://books.google.com.au/books?id=ilkOAAAAYAAJ&pg=PA1#v=onepage&q&f=false) It now seems unlikely Fraser existed and that the work is a more recent forgery, possibly by Lambe himself. I’ve also mixed in a little from a variant called “Kempe Owen”, which was collected in The Child Ballads.

Malkins
We have a heap of folk stories about speaking, social feline spirits. King o’ the Cats. turns up all over the place, but there’s some argument that Beware the Cat by William Baldwin, which is discussed in the Bestiary, predates and is the source for it. It is certainly the earliest recorded use of “greymalkin” to mean a a grey cat. The version of King o’ the Cats I used is a Cumbrian one collected in More English Fairy Tales by Joseph Jacobs. (https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/More_English_Fairy_Tales/The_King_o%27_the_Cats)

Milcha
Milcha is a minor character in The Tempest: or The Enchanted Island by John Dryden and William D’Avenant but she becomes more substantial over time. As special effects improve, she’s given more to do. By the time of Shadwell’s “operatic” version, a word which has changed meaning, there was an aerial ballet and she forms a sort of chorus with Ariel. Her wings are linked to her wrists in the drawing to match Ariel’s. His are needed in that position to do a stage trick, making the contents of a table vanish under his wings. It’s not directly linked, but when I was writing this, I listened to Island by Jane Rutter on loop. (https://youtu.be/zLczS-FXVHs)

Unicorn
This chapter’s approach is drawn from the quote in Shakespeare that appears in the text, from Timon of Athens. I tried writing something closer to the folklore in the Physiologus but it read as flat and slut-shaming, so we went another way.

Urban Wisps
Urban wisps are a play on the work of Victor Gruen, an architect on the 1950s. They cause Gruen transfer, a psychological state experienced in soulless shopping malls.

Waelcyrian
The Waelcyrian were bought to my attention by the Hampshire HistBites podcast, and their interview of Dr Eric Lacey. His chapter, ‘Wælcyrian in the Water Meadows: Lantfred’s Furies’, in Early Medieval Winchester: Communities, Authority and Power in an Urban Space, c.800-c.1200 is the key source for this section.

Whale Eater
I’ve been trying to write up this cryptid, the gorramooloch, for various games for years. This version’s original to this book. One plot hook comes from a 19th century song, The Barber’s News or Shields in an Uproar which doesn’t have a dragon in it, as the reported beast is a drunk sailor who has fallen overboard made increasingly deadly by rumour. The Pentamerone, which has a queen give birth after eating a dragon’s heart, is the source of another.

The Demons of the Hooting Cairn

Kenidjack, the demon who oversees the wrestling in Cornwall, has been briefly mentioned on the blog before, as a minor character in some Ars Magica material, but here’s his complete story from Hunt’s “Popular Romances of the West of England”. It starts with a quotation from an older work, where our fellow is mentioned, in a way.

“A weird tract is that of Kenidzhek and the Gump, and of ill repute. The old, half-starved horses on the common, with their hides grown rusty brown, like dried and withered grass, by exposure, are ridden by the archfiend at night. He is said to hunt lost souls over this heath; and an old stile hard by bears an evil name, for there the souls are sure to be caught, none being able to get over it. The people tell of midnight fights by demons, and of a shadowy form holding a lantern to the combatants.”
— Blight.

One of the tales which I have heard may be given as a strange mixture of the Celtic and the monastic legend.

Two miners who had been working in one of the now abandoned mines in Morvah, had, their labours being over, been, as was common, “half-pinting” in the public-house in Morvah Church.. town. It was after dark, but not late; they were very quiet men, and not drunk. They had walked on, talking of the prospects of the mine, and speculating on the promise of certain “pitches,” and were now on the Common, at the base of the Hooting Cairn. No miner ever passed within the shadow of Cairn Kenidzhek who dared to indulge in any frivolous talk: at least, thirty years since, the influence akin to fear was very potent upon all.

Well, our two friends became silent, and trudged with a firm, a resolved footstep onward.

There was but little wind, yet a low moaning sound came from the cairn, which now and then arose into a hoot. The night was dark, yet a strange gleaming light rendered the rocks on the cairn visible, and both the miners fancied they saw gigantic forms passing in and about the intricate rocks. Presently they heard a horse galloping at no great distance behind them. They turned and saw, mounted on a horse ~’hich they knew very well, since the bony brute had often worked the “whim” on their mine, a dark man robed in a black gown and a hood over his head, partly covering his face.

“Hallo! hallo!” shouted they, fearing the rider would ride over them.

“Hallo to you,” answered a gruff voice.

“Where be’st goen then?” asked the bravest of the miners.

“Up to the cairn to see the wrastling,” answered the rider; “come along! come along!”

Horse and rider rushed by the two miners, and, they could never tell why, they found themselves compelled to follow.

They did not appear to exert themselves, but without much effort they kept up with the galloping horse. Now and then the dark rider motioned them onward with his hand, but he spoke not. At length the miners arrived at a mass of rocks near the base of the hill, which stopped their way; and, since it was dark, they knew not how to get past them. Presently they saw the rider ascending the hill, regardless of the masses of rock; passing unconcernedly over all, and, as it seemed to them, the man, the horse, and the rocks were engaged in a “three man’s song,” [a] the chorus to which was a piercing hoot. A great number of uncouth figures were gathering together, coming, as it seemed, out of the rocks themselves. They were men of great size and strength, with savage faces, rendered more terrible by the masses of uncombed hair which hung about them, and the colours with which they had painted their cheeks. The plain in front of the rocks which had checked the miners’ progress was evidently to be the wrestling ground. Here gathered those monstrous-looking men, all anxiety, making a strange noise. It was not long ere they saw the rider, who was now on foot, descending the hill with two giants of men, more terrible than any they had yet seen.

A circle was formed; the rider, who had thrown off his black gown, and discovered to the miners that he was no other than Old Nick, placed the two men, and seated himself in a very odd manner upon the ground.

The miners declared the wrestlers were no other than two devils, although the horns and tail were wanting. There was a shout, which, as if it indicated that the light was insufficient, was answered by the squatting demon by flashing from his eyes two beams of fire, which shed an unearthly glow over everything. To it the wrestlers went, and better men were never seen to the west of Penzance. At length one of them, straining hard for the mastery, lifted his antagonist fairly high in the air, and flung him to the ground, a fair back fall. The rocks trembled, and the ground seemed to thunder with the force of the fall. Old Nick still sat quietly looking on, and notwithstanding the defeated wrestler lay as one dead, no one went near him. All crowded around the victor, and shouted like so many wild beasts. The love of fair play was strong in the hearts of the miners; they scorned the idea of deserting a fallen foe; so they scrambled over the rocks, and made for the prostrate giant, for so, for size, he might well be called. He was in a dreadful strait. Whether his bones were smashed or not by the fall, they could not tell, but he appeared “passing away.” The elder miner had long been a professor of religion. It is true he had fallen back; but still he knew the right road. He thought, therefore, that even a devil might repent, and he whispered in the ear of the dying man the Christian’s hope.

If a thunderbolt had fallen amongst them, it could not have produced such an effect as this. The rocks shook with an earthquake; everything became pitchy dark; there was a noise of rushing hither and thither, and all were gone, dying man and all, they knew not whither. The two miners, terrified beyond measure, clung to each other on their knees; and, while in this position, they saw, as if in the air, the two blazing eyes of the demon passing away into the west, and at last disappear in a dreadfully black cloud. These two men were, although they knew the ground perfectly well, inextricably lost; so, after vainly endeavouring to find the right road off the Common, they lay down in each other’s arms under a mass of granite rock, praying that they might be protected till the light of day removed the spell which was upon them.

A second thought on Urban Wisps

This is a short piece, compared to some of the others for the Bestiary series. My goals for the wisps were straightforward, so I got there without a lot of surplus material. When I wrote the urban wisps for the Magonomia Bestiary I wanted to introduce the Royal Exchange and suggest that the creatures were the source of the Gruen transfer, which blights shoppers in malls to this day. The Gruen transfer is a psychological trick, a sort of confusion or trance-like state, which is an involuntary response to deliberately-included architectural features. In the real world it causes people to wander about and impulse buy.

I first knew I’d missed a trick on urban wisps when I was listening to a quatrain by Madison Cawein. Cawein was an author from Kentucky whose work was in the same sort of vein as Shelley and Keats. He wrote around the turn of the Twentieth Century, and has some right to claim T S Eliot bit him for the idea of The Waste Land. There are several pieces which might be useful for games like Ars Magica and Magonomia, because he likes playing with the idea that there are forces behind natural features.

Before you go wading in, a quick note: with Cawein you’ll be zipping through his pastorals and stealing monsters when suddenly there’s a poem about the laws and methods of the Ku Klux Klan. Some people have tried to defend his views on race because he doesn’t actually say that the “we” in the poem includes himself, but…it’s a sudden shock to go from one tone to another. There are a couple of other works which pretty clearly put him over on the cross-burning side of society. That being said, he’s been dead for a hundred years and no-one is going to profit financially from these quotations.

     Moths and Fireflies

Since Fancy taught me in her school of spells
I know her tricks—These are not moths at all,
Nor fireflies; but masking Elfland belles
Whose link-boys torch them to Titania’s ball.

A linkboy is a child who is paid to escort a pedestrian at night, and provide illumination. Sometimes they lead the person to where they can find a sedan chair instead, and then follow them from the chair’s end point to their house. The “link” in the name is a sort of cotton which is used in their torches. The term appears in Shakespeare so we know it’s in period for Magonomia. Falstaff says to Bardolph “Thou hast saved me a thousand marks in links and torches, walking with thee in the night betwixt tavern and tavern”, because Bardolph’s face is constantly red from alcoholism. A mark is two thirds of a pound, so that’s serious money.

Using linkboys was sometimes dangerous, because you could be led astray, into ambushes with footpads in dark alleys. This, to me, seemed a perfect way to envision urban wisps, leading people into danger. Some people had personal linkboys to prevent this occurring, but the position was considered low and menial. This may be where the expression “can’t hold a candle to X” comes from: the described thing is even to be a linkboy for X.

I was reading a lot about John Stow at the time. It seemed to me that having a friendly urban wisp essentially meant you had a safe linkboy, who could guide you about the streets. If I’d thought of it in time, I’d have made the Wisp Extra have the power to always lead their character home, which is useful for the lost and inebriated. It also seems like a good marker for my theoretical order of urban magicians based on Stow’s work: they all carry lamps with surprisingly active flames.

Cawein has another couple of poems about wisps which give us variants on what they think and do. In Fen-fire he posits a spirit that loves as it destroys.

The misty rain makes dim my face,
The night’s black cloak is o’er me;
I tread the dripping cypress-place,
A flickering light before me.

Out of the death of leaves that rot
And ooze and weedy water,
My form was breathed to haunt this spot,
Death’s immaterial daughter.

The owl that whoops upon the yew,
The snake that lairs within it,
Have seen my wild face flashing blue
For one fantastic minute.

But should you follow where my eyes
Like some pale lamp decoy you,
Beware! lest suddenly I rise
With love that shall destroy you.

Again in Mill-Water he has wisps as sprites who are doing something sneaky and idyllic, until you see beneath the superficial.

The water-flag and wild cane grow
‘Round banks whereon the sunbeams sow
Fantastic gold when, on its shores,
The wind sighs through the sycamores.

In one green angle, just in reach,
Between a willow-tree and beech,
Moss-grown and leaky lies a boat
The thick-grown lilies keep afloat.

And through its waters, half awake,
Slow swims the spotted water-snake;
And near its edge, like some gray streak,
Stands gaunt the still fly-up-the-creek.

Between the lily-pads and blooms
The water-spirits set their looms,
That weave the lace-like light that dims
The glimmering leaves of under limbs.

Each lily is the hiding-place
Of some dim wood-imp’s elvish face,
That watches you with gold-green eyes
Where bubbles of its breathing rise.

I fancy, when the waxing moon
Leans through the trees and dreams of June,
And when the black bat slants its wing,
And lonelier the green-frogs sing;
I fancy, when the whippoorwill

In some old tree sings wild and shrill,
With glow-worm eyes that dot the dark,
Each holding high a firefly spark

To torch its way, the wood-imps come:
And some float rocking here; and some
Unmoor the lily leaves and oar
Around the old boat by the shore.

They climb through oozy weeds and moss;
They swarm its rotting sides and toss
Their firefly torches o’er its edge
Or hang them in the tangled sedge.

The boat is loosed. The moon is pale.
Around the dam they slowly sail.
Upon the bow, to pilot it,
A jack-o’-lantern gleam doth sit.

Yes, I have seen it in my dreams!
Naught is forgotten! naught, it seems!
The strangled face, the tangled hair
Of the drown’d woman trailing there.

Malkins

Malkins appear in a variety of books in the period. I took the name from the cat familiar in a play called “The Witch” by Thomas Middleton. “Malkin” is a period diminutive of the name “Maud” or “Matilda”, popular for cats. Middleton notes the play was “ill-fated” and that was thought for some time to mean it did not make any money, but it is possible, particularly in our game, that it means it was supressed by the censors. Middleton used “The Discovery of Witchcraft” as his source for “The Witch”, although he stripped out the scoffing tone. It’s a sceptical guide, written in period, to the claims of folk witches and those who oppress them – it also includes an early discussion of what we’d now call stage magic or close magic.

Malkins as an idea go back far further, however. We have a heap of folk stories about speaking, social feline spirits. King o’ the Cats. turns up all over the place, but there’s some argument that Beware the Cat, which is discussed in the Bestiary, predates and is the source for it. It’s certainly the earliest recorded use of “greymalkin” to mean a a grey cat. The version of King o’ the Cats I used is a Cumbrian one.. The audio given later is from Joseph Jacobs, a Victorian collector of folklore who is getting quite a run of the podcast this year.

Dick Whittington was the Lord Mayor of London in the 15th century, and his story becomes popular at the end of Elizabeth’s reign. Two of the earliest plays concerning him have been lost and are known only by registered titles: a third one, in 1612, clearly involves his cat as the source of his good fortune. Puss in Boots is in the The Facetious Nights of Straparola, which was published around 1550, and continues into the Pentamerone. I’ve covered that version in episode 308, but I’d note that it, too, ends in the cat being betrayed by his master. All of these are bundled together in our malkins, along with an odd bit of English folklore about a nobleman who owed his life to a cat, and an odd English custom surrounding the government that continues to this day. For those, however, you’ll need to check out the book.

Here are some recordings of source legends. King o’ the Cats was recorded by Dale Grothmann. Whittington and his Cat was recorded by Joy Chan. Thanks to them, and their production teams at Librivox.

The King o’ the Cats

One winter’s evening the sexton’s wife was sitting by the fireside with her big black cat, Old Tom, on the other side, both half asleep and waiting for the master to come home. They waited and they waited, but still he didn’t come, till at last he came rushing in, calling out, “Who’s Tommy Tildrum?” in such a wild way that both his wife and his cat stared at him to know what was the matter.

“Why, what’s the matter?” said his wife, “and why do you want to know who Tommy Tildrum is?”

“Oh, I’ve had such an adventure. I was digging away at old Mr. Fordyce’s grave when I suppose I must have dropped asleep, and only woke up by hearing a cat’s Miaou.”

“Miaou!” said Old Tom in answer.

“Yes, just like that! So I looked over the edge of the grave, and what do you think I saw?”

“Now, how can I tell?” said the sexton’s wife.

“Why, nine black cats all like our friend Tom here, all with a white spot on their chestesses. And what do you think they were carrying? Why, a small coffin covered with a black velvet pall, and on the pall was a small coronet all of gold, and at every third step they took they cried all together, Miaou—”

“Miaou!” said Old Tom again.

“Yes, just like that!” said the Sexton; “and as they came nearer and nearer to me I could see them more distinctly, because their eyes shone out with a sort of green light. Well, they all came towards me, eight of them carrying the coffin, and the biggest cat of all walking in front for all the world like—but look at our Tom, how he’s looking at me. You’d think he knew all I was saying.”

“Go on, go on,” said his wife; “never mind Old Tom.”

“Well, as I was a-saying, they came towards me slowly and solemnly, and at every third step crying all together, Miaou!—”

“Miaou!” said Old Tom again.

“Yes, just like that, till they came and stood right opposite Mr. Fordyce’s grave, where I was, when they all stood still and looked straight at me. I did feel queer, that I did! But look at Old Tom; he’s looking at me just like they did.”

“Go on, go on,” said his wife; “never mind Old Tom.”

“Where was I? Oh, they all stood still looking at me, when the one that wasn’t carrying the coffin came forward and, staring straight at me, said to me—yes, I tell ‘ee, said to me, with a squeaky voice, ‘Tell Tom Tildrum that Tim Toldrum’s dead,’ and that’s why I asked you if you knew who Tom Tildrum was, for how can I tell Tom Tildrum Tim Toldrum’s dead if I don’t know who Tom Tildrum is?”

“Look at Old Tom, look at Old Tom!” screamed his wife.

And well he might look, for Tom was swelling and Tom was staring, and at last Tom shrieked out, “What—old Tim dead! then I’m the King o’ the Cats!” and rushed up the chimney and was never more seen.

Whittington and his Cat by Joseph Jacobs

In the reign of the famous King Edward III. there was a little boy called Dick Whittington, whose father and mother died when he was very young. As poor Dick was not old enough to work, he was very badly off; he got but little for his dinner, and sometimes nothing at all for his breakfast; for the people who lived in the village were very poor indeed, and could not spare him much more than the parings of potatoes, and now and then a hard crust of bread.

Now Dick had heard a great many very strange things about the great city called London; for the country people at that time thought that folks in London were all fine gentlemen and ladies; and that there was singing and music there all day long; and that the streets were all paved with gold.

One day a large waggon and eight horses, all with bells at their heads, drove through the village while Dick was standing by the sign-post. He thought that this waggon must be going to the fine town of London; so he took courage, and asked the waggoner to let him walk with him by the side of the waggon. As soon as the waggoner heard that poor Dick had no father or mother, and saw by his ragged clothes that he could not be worse off than he was, he told him he might go if he would, so off they set together.

So Dick got safe to London, and was in such a hurry to see the fine streets paved all over with gold, that he did not even stay to thank the kind waggoner; but ran off as fast as his legs would carry him, through many of the streets, thinking every moment to come to those that were paved with gold; for Dick had seen a guinea three times in his own little village, and remembered what a deal of money it brought in change; so he thought he had nothing to do but to take up some little bits of the pavement, and should then have as much money as he could wish for.

Poor Dick ran till he was tired, and had quite forgot his friend the waggoner; but at last, finding it grow dark, and that every way he turned he saw nothing but dirt instead of gold, he, sat down in a dark corner and cried himself to sleep.

Little Dick was all night in the streets; and next morning, being very hungry, he got up and walked about, and asked everybody he met to give him a halfpenny to keep him from starving; but nobody stayed to answer him, and only two or three gave him a halfpenny; so that the poor boy was soon quite weak and faint for the want of victuals.

In this distress he asked charity of several people, and one of them said crossly: “Go to work, for an idle rogue.” “That I will,” says Dick, “I will to go work for you, if you will let me.” But the man only cursed at him and went on.

At last a good-natured looking gentleman saw how hungry he looked. “Why don’t you go to work my lad?” said he to Dick. “That I would, but I do not know how to get any,” answered Dick. “If you are willing, come along with me,” said the gentleman, and took him to a hay-field, where Dick worked briskly, and lived merrily till the hay was made.

After this he found himself as badly off as before; and being almost starved again, he laid himself down at the door of Mr. Fitzwarren, a rich merchant. Here he was soon seen by the cook-maid, who was an ill-tempered creature, and happened just then to be very busy dressing dinner for her master and mistress; so she called out to poor Dick: “What business have you there, you lazy rogue? there is nothing else but beggars; if you do not take yourself away, we will see how you will like a sousing of some dish-water; I have some here hot enough to make you jump.”

Just at that time Mr. Fitzwarren himself came home to dinner; and when he saw a dirty ragged boy lying at the door, he said to him: “Why do you lie there, my boy? You seem old enough to work; I am afraid you are inclined to be lazy.”

“No, indeed, sir,” said Dick to him, “that is not the case, for I would work with all my heart, but I do not know anybody, and I believe I am very sick for the want of food.”

“Poor fellow, get up; let me see what ails you.” Dick now tried to rise, but was obliged to lie down again, being too weak to stand, for he had not eaten any food for three days, and was no longer able to run about and beg a halfpenny of people in the street. So the kind merchant ordered him to be taken into the house, and have a good dinner given him, and be kept to do what work he was able to do for the cook.

Little Dick would have lived very happy in this good family if it had not been for the ill-natured cook. She used to say: “You are under me, so look sharp; clean the spit and the dripping-pan, make the fires, wind up the jack, and do all the scullery work nimbly, or—” and she would shake the ladle at him. Besides, she was so fond of basting, that when she had no meat to baste, she would baste poor Dick’s head and shoulders with a broom, or anything else that happened to fall in her way. At last her ill-usage of him was told to Alice, Mr. Fitzwarren’s daughter, who told the cook she should be turned away if she did not treat him kinder.

The behaviour of the cook was now a little better; but besides this Dick had another hardship to get over. His bed stood in a garret, where there were so many holes in the floor and the walls that every night he was tormented with rats and mice. A gentleman having given Dick a penny for cleaning his shoes, he thought he would buy a cat with it. The next day he saw a girl with a cat, and asked her, “Will you let me have that cat for a penny?” The girl said: “Yes, that I will, master, though she is an excellent mouser.”

Dick hid his cat in the garret, and always took care to carry a part of his dinner to her; and in a short time he had no more trouble with the rats and mice, but slept quite sound every night.

Soon after this, his master had a ship ready to sail; and as it was the custom that all his servants should have some chance for good fortune as well as himself, he called them all into the parlour and asked them what they would send out.

They all had something that they were willing to venture except poor Dick, who had neither money nor goods, and therefore could send nothing. For this reason he did not come into the parlour with the rest; but Miss Alice guessed what was the matter, and ordered him to be called in. She then said: “I will lay down some money for him, from my own purse;” but her father told her: “This will not do, for it must be something of his own.”

When poor Dick heard this, he said: “I have nothing but a cat which I bought for a penny some time since of a little girl.”

“Fetch your cat then, my lad,” said Mr. Fitzwarren, “and let her go.”

Dick went upstairs and brought down poor puss, with tears in his eyes, and gave her to the captain; “For,” he said, “I shall now be kept awake all night by the rats and mice.” All the company laughed at Dick’s odd venture; and Miss Alice, who felt pity for him, gave him some money to buy another cat.

This, and many other marks of kindness shown him by Miss Alice, made the ill-tempered cook jealous of poor Dick, and she began to use him more cruelly than ever, and always made game of him for sending his cat to sea.

She asked him: “Do you think your cat will sell for as much money as would buy a stick to beat you?”

At last poor Dick could not bear this usage any longer, and he thought he would run away from his place; so he packed up his few things, and started very early in the morning, on All-hallows Day, the first of November. He walked as far as Holloway; and there sat down on a stone, which to this day is called “Whittington’s Stone,” and began to think to himself which road he should take.

While he was thinking what he should do, the Bells of Bow Church, which at that time were only six, began to ring, and their sound seemed to say to him:

“Turn again, Whittington, Thrice Lord Mayor of London.”

“Lord Mayor of London!” said he to himself. “Why, to be sure, I would put up with almost anything now, to be Lord Mayor of London, and ride in a fine coach, when I grow to be a man! Well, I will go back, and think nothing of the cuffing and scolding of the old cook, if I am to be Lord Mayor of London at last.”

Dick went back, and was lucky enough to get into the house, and set about his work, before the old cook came downstairs.

We must now follow Miss Puss to the coast of Africa. The ship with the cat on board, was a long time at sea; and was at last driven by the winds on a part of the coast of Barbary, where the only people were the Moors, unknown to the English. The people came in great numbers to see the sailors, because they were of different colour to themselves, and treated them civilly; and, when they became better acquainted, were very eager to buy the fine things that the ship was loaded with.

When the captain saw this, he sent patterns of the best things he had to the king of the country; who was so much pleased with them, that he sent for the captain to the palace. Here they were placed, as it is the custom of the country, on rich carpets flowered with gold and silver. The king and queen were seated at the upper end of the room; and a number of dishes were brought in for dinner. They had not sat long, when a vast number of rats and mice rushed in, and devoured all the meat in an instant. The captain wondered at this, and asked if these vermin were not unpleasant.

“Oh yes,” said they, “very offensive, and the king would give half his treasure to be freed of them, for they not only destroy his dinner, as you see, but they assault him in his chamber, and even in bed, and so that he is obliged to be watched while he is sleeping, for fear of them.”

The captain jumped for joy; he remembered poor Whittington and his cat, and told the king he had a creature on board the ship that would despatch all these vermin immediately. The king jumped so high at the joy which the news gave him, that his turban dropped off his head. “Bring this creature to me,” says he; “vermin are dreadful in a court, and if she will perform what you say, I will load your ship with gold and jewels in exchange for her.”

The captain, who knew his business, took this opportunity to set forth the merits of Miss Puss. He told his majesty; “It is not very convenient to part with her, as, when she is gone, the rats and mice may destroy the goods in the ship—but to oblige your majesty, I will fetch her.”

“Run, run!” said the queen; “I am impatient to see the dear creature.”

Away went the captain to the ship, while another dinner was got ready. He put Puss under his arm, and arrived at the place just in time to see the table full of rats. When the cat saw them, she did not wait for bidding, but jumped out of the captain’s arms, and in a few minutes laid almost all the rats and mice dead at her feet. The rest of them in their fright scampered away to their holes.

The king was quite charmed to get rid so easily of such plagues, and the queen desired that the creature who had done them so great a kindness might be brought to her, that she might look at her. Upon which the captain called: “Pussy, pussy, pussy!” and she came to him. He then presented her to the queen, who started back, and was afraid to touch a creature who had made such a havoc among the rats and mice. However, when the captain stroked the cat and called: “Pussy, pussy,” the queen also touched her and cried: “Putty, putty,” for she had not learned English. He then put her down on the queen’s lap, where she purred and played with her majesty’s hand, and then purred herself to sleep.

The king, having seen the exploits of Mrs. Puss, and being informed that her kittens would stock the whole country, and keep it free from rats, bargained with the captain for the whole ship’s cargo, and then gave him ten times as much for the cat as all the rest amounted to.

The captain then took leave of the royal party, and set sail with a fair wind for England, and after a happy voyage arrived safe in London.

One morning, early, Mr. Fitzwarren had just come to his counting-house and seated himself at the desk, to count over the cash, and settle the business for the day, when somebody came tap, tap, at the door. “Who’s there?” said Mr. Fitzwarren. “A friend,” answered the other; “I come to bring you good news of your ship Unicorn.” The merchant, bustling up in such a hurry that he forgot his gout, opened the door, and who should he see waiting but the captain and factor, with a cabinet of jewels, and a bill of lading; when he looked at this the merchant lifted up his eyes and thanked Heaven for sending him such a prosperous voyage.

They then told the story of the cat, and showed the rich present that the king and queen had sent for her to poor Dick. As soon as the merchant heard this, he called out to his servants:

“Go send him in, and tell him of his fame; Pray call him Mr. Whittington by name.”

Mr. Fitzwarren now showed himself to be a good man; for when some of his servants said so great a treasure was too much for him, he answered: “God forbid I should deprive him of the value of a single penny, it is his own, and he shall have it to a farthing.” He then sent for Dick, who at that time was scouring pots for the cook, and was quite dirty. He would have excused himself from coming into the counting-house, saying, “The room is swept, and my shoes are dirty and full of hob-nails.” But the merchant ordered him to come in.

Mr. Fitzwarren ordered a chair to be set for him, and so he began to think they were making game of him, at the same time said to them: “Do not play tricks with a poor simple boy, but let me go down again, if you please, to my work.”

“Indeed, Mr. Whittington,” said the merchant, “we are all quite in earnest with you, and I most heartily rejoice in the news that these gentlemen have brought you; for the captain has sold your cat to the King of Barbary, and brought you in return for her more riches than I possess in the whole world; and I wish you may long enjoy them!”

Mr. Fitzwarren then told the men to open the great treasure they had brought with them; and said: “Mr. Whittington has nothing to do but to put it in some place of safety.”

Poor Dick hardly knew how to behave himself for joy. He begged his master to take what part of it he pleased, since he owed it all to his kindness. “No, no,” answered Mr. Fitzwarren, “this is all your own; and I have no doubt but you will use it well.”

Dick next asked his mistress, and then Miss Alice, to accept a part of his good fortune; but they would not, and at the same time told him they felt great joy at his good success. But this poor fellow was too kind-hearted to keep it all to himself; so he made a present to the captain, the mate, and the rest of Mr. Fitzwarren’s servants; and even to the ill-natured old cook.

After this Mr. Fitzwarren advised him to send for a proper tailor and get himself dressed like a gentleman; and told him he was welcome to live in his house till he could provide himself with a better.

When Whittington’s face was washed, his hair curled, his hat cocked, and he was dressed in a nice suit of clothes he was as handsome and genteel as any young man who visited at Mr. Fitzwarren’s; so that Miss Alice, who had once been so kind to him, and thought of him with pity, now looked upon him as fit to be her sweetheart; and the more so, no doubt, because Whittington was now always thinking what he could do to oblige her, and making her the prettiest presents that could be.

Mr. Fitzwarren soon saw their love for each other, and proposed to join them in marriage; and to this they both readily agreed. A day for the wedding was soon fixed; and they were attended to church by the Lord Mayor, the court of aldermen, the sheriffs, and a great number of the richest merchants in London, whom they afterwards treated with a very rich feast.

History tells us that Mr. Whittington and his lady liven in great splendour, and were very happy. They had several children. He was Sheriff of London, thrice Lord Mayor, and received the honour of knighthood by Henry V.

He entertained this king and his queen at dinner after his conquest of France so grandly, that the king said “Never had prince such a subject;” when Sir Richard heard this, he said: “Never had subject such a prince.”

The figure of Sir Richard Whittington with his cat in his arms, carved in stone, was to be seen till the year 1780 over the archway of the old prison of Newgate, which he built for criminals.

Grim, King of the Ghosts

In the Magonomia bestiary I’ve introduced you to Grim, the Ghost King, so in this episode I’d like to give you the source documents and illustrations which led to his inclusion. I’m not a singer myself, so here are three versions of the song he appears in. I’d note each varies the title a little. The poem itself is called “The Lunatick Lover”, but by the time it is being sold in broadsheets its “Grim, King of the Ghosts” because they title by first line. The third version is called “Dolorous King of Ghosts”, and in that case “grim” has been read not as his name, but as a description of his attitude.

A modern Irish folk version, which is my favourite: https://youtu.be/OWZbwsHhLZ4
An Elizabethan styled version: https://youtu.be/Olj2hZJQz_A
The psaltery version I mentioned in the recording is, the performer states a Welsh song which is completely different from Grim, but have a listen and see what you think. https://youtu.be/M7_iiNgzKCI
The meme mentioned is https://i.kym-cdn.com/photos/images/original/002/052/171/884 and that image, more seriously, come from Matthus Merian’s Todten Tanz http://doglawreporter.blogspot.com/2010/10/guide-dogs-in-dance-of-death.html

Grim king of the ghosts, make haste,
And bring hither all your train;
See how the pale moon does waste,
And just now is in the wane.
Come, you night-hags, with all your charms,
And revelling witches away,
And hug me close in your arms;
To you my respects I’ll pay.

I’ll court you and think you fair,
Since love does distract my brain;
I’ll go, I’ll wed the night-mare,
And kiss her, and kiss her again;
But if she prove peevish and proud,
Then, a pise on her love, let her go!
I’ll seek me a winding shroud,
And down to the shades below.

A lunacy sad I endure,
Since reason departs away;
I call to those hags for a cure,
As knowing not what I say.
The beauty, whom I do adore,
Now slights me with scorn and disdain;
I never shall see her more:
Ah! how shall I bear my pain?

I ramble and range about
To find out my charming saint;
While she at my grief does flout,
And smiles at my loud complaint.
Distraction I see is my doom,
Of this I am now too sure;
A rival is got in my room
While torments I do endure.

Strange fancies do fill my head;
While wandering in despair
I am to the desarts lead,
Expecting to find her there.
Methinks in a spangled cloud
I see her enthroned on high;
Then to her I crie aloud,
And labour to reach the sky.

When thus I have raved awhile
And wearyed myself in vain,
I lye on the barren soil
And bitterly do complain.
Till slumber hath quieted me
In sorrow I sigh and weep;
The clouds are my canopy
To cover me while I sleep.

I dream that my charming fair
Is then in my rival’s bed,
Whose tresses of golden hair
Then this doth my passion inflame:
I start, and no longer can lie:
Ah! Sylvia, art thou not to blame
To ruin a lover? I cry.

Grim king of the ghosts, be true,
And hurry me hence away;
My languishing life to you
A tribute I freely pay.
To the Elysian shades I post
In hopes to be freed form care,
Where many a bleeding ghost
Is hovering in the air.

So, this is a lovely set up, because its literally an evocation, but it doesn’t give a lot of detail about Grim. I was looking up the Dance of Death by Hans Holbein for something else at the time, and stumbled upon a meme. I also found that there was a parody of the work of “Monk” Lewis that included a detailed story of Grim, so I mixed the two. Here’s the parody story, again in poetic form, from Tales of Terror, which was anonymously published. You’ll note I change the ending a bit.

GRIM , KING OF THE GHOSTS; OR , 1THE DANCE OF DEATH .

WHY, how now , old sexton ? why shake you with dread ?
Why haunt you this street, where you’re sure to catch cold ?
Full warm is your blanket, full snug is your bed !
And long since, by the steeple -chimes, twelve has been told!

Tom Tap, on this night my retreat you’ll approve,
For my churchtyard will swarm with its shroud cover’d hosts ;
Who will tell, with loud shriek , that resentment and love
Still nip the cold heart of Grim , King of the Ghosts .

One eve , as the fiend wandend through the thick gloom ,
Towards my newly – tiled cot he directed his sight;
And, casting a glance in my little back -room ,
Gazed on Nancy, my daughter, with wanton delight.

Yet Nancy was proud, and disdainful was she,
In affection’s fond speech she’d no pleasure or joy ;
And yainly he sued , though he knelt at her knee,
Bob Brisket, so comely, the young butcher’s boy !

For you, dearest Nancy, I’ve oft been a thief,
Yet my theft it was venial, a theft if it be ;
For who could have eyes , and not see you loved beef ?
Or who see a steak , and not steal it for thee ?

Remember, dear beauty, dead flesh cannot feel;
With frowns you my heart and its passion requite ;
Yet oft have I seen you, when hungry at meal,
On a dead bullock’s heart gaze with tender delight.

When you dress it for dinner, so hard and so tough,
I wish the employ your stern breastwould improve;
And, the dead bullock’s heart, while with onions you stuff,
You would stuff your own heart, cruel virgin, with love.

Young rascal! presumest thou, with butcher – like phrase,
To foul stinking onions my love to compare ;
Who have set Wick , the candle -man ,’ all in a blaze,
And Alderman Paunch , who has since been the Mayor ?

You bid me remember dead flesh cannot feel?
Then I vow, by my father’s old pick axe and spade,
Till some prince from the tombs shall behave so genteel
As to ask me to wed , I’ll continue a maid !

Nor him will I wed , till ( these terms must he own)
Of my two first commands the performance he boasts ; —
Straight, instead of a footman, a deep -pealing groan
Announced the approach of Grim , King of the Ghosts !

No flesh had the spectre, his skeleton skull
Was loosely wrapped round with a brown shrivel’d skin ;
His bones, ‘ stead of marrow , of maggots were full,
And the worms they crawled out; and the worms they crawled in.

His shoes they were coffins, his dim eye reveal’d
The gleam of a grave-lamp with vapours oppressed ;
And a dark crimson necklace of blood -drops congealed ,
Reflected each bone that jagged out of his breast.

In a hoarse hollow whisper- thy beauties,’ he cried ,
Have drawn up a ‘spirit to give thee a kiss ;
No butcher shall call thee, proud Nancy, his bride;
The grim King of Spectres demands thee for his.

My name frightens infants, my word raises ghosts,
My tread wakes the echoes which breathe through the aisle ;
And lo ! here stands the Prince of the Churchyard , who boasts
The will to perform thy commands for a smile.’

He said, and he kissed her : she packed up her clothes,
And straight they eloped through the window with joy ;
Yet long in her ears rang the curses and oaths
Which growl’d at his rival the gruff butcher’s boy.

At the charnel -house palace soon Nancy arrived ,
When the fiend , with a grin which her soul did appal,
Exclaimed I must warn my pale subjects I’m wived ,
And bid them prepare a grand supper and ball !

Thrice swifter than thought on his heel round he turns,
Three capers he cut, and then motionless stood ;
Then on cards, made of dead men’s skin , Nancy discerns
His lank fingers to scrawl invitations in blood .

His quill was a wind – pipe, his ink -horn a skull,
A blade-bone his pen -knife, a tooth was his seal;
Soon he ordered the cards, in a voice deep and dull,
To haste and invite all his friends to the meal.

Away flew the cards to the south and the north ,
Away flew the cards to the east and the west;
Straight with groans, from their tombs, the pale spectres stalked forth ,
In deadly apparel; and shrouding-sheets dress’d.

And quickly scared Nancy, with anxious affright,
Hears the tramp of a steed , and a knock at the gate ;
On an hell -horse so gaúnt, ‘ twas a grim ghastly sprite,
On a pillion behind a she-skeleton sate !

The poor maiden she thought ‘ twas a dream or a trance,
While the guests they assembled gigantic and tall;
Each sprite asked a skeleton lady to dance,
And King Grim with fair Nancy now open’d the ball.

Pale spectres send music from dark vaults above,
Withered legs, ‘ stead of drum – sticks, they brandish on high ;
Grinning ghosts, sheeted spirits, skipping skeletons, move,
While hoarse whispers and rattling of bones shake the sky.
‘
With their pliable joints the Scotch steps they do well,
Nancy’s hand with their cold clammy fingers they squeeze ;
Now sudden , appalled, the maid hears a death -bell,
And straight dark and dismal the supper she sees !

A tomb was the table : now each took his seat,
Every sprite next his partner so pale and so wan .
Soon as ceased was the rattling of skeleton feet,
The clattering of jaw -bones directly began ?

Of dead aldermen’s fat the mould candles were made,
Stuck in sockets of bone they gleam’d dimly and blue ;
Their dishes were scutcheons, and corses decayed
Were the viands that glutted this ravenous crew !

Through the nostrils of skulls their blood – liquor they pour,
The black draught in the heads of young infants they quaff ;
The vice- president rose, with his jaws dripping gore,
And addressed the pale damsel with horrible laugh .

“ — Feast, Queen of the Ghosts the repast do not scorn ;
Feast, Queen of the Ghosts’ 1 perceive thou hast food ;
To-morrow again shall we feast, for at noon
Shall we feast on thy flesh , shall we drink of thy blood.’

Then cold as a cucumber Nancy she grew ;
Her proud stomach came down, and she blared, and she cried ,
“Oh tell me, dear Grim , does that spectre speak true,
And will you not save from his clutches your
bride ?”

“Vain your grief, silly maid; when the matin bells ring,
The bond becomes due, which long since did I sign ;
For she, who at night weds the grizzly Ghost Kings
Next morn must be dressed for his subjects to
dine.”

“In silks and in satins for you I’ll be dressed ;
“ My soft tender limbs let their fangs never crunch !:”
“Fair Nancy, yon ghosts, should I grant your request,
Instead of at dinner would eat you at lunch ! “

” -But vain , ghostly King, is your cunning and guile;
That bond must be void which you never can pay ;
Lo ! I ne’er will be yours, till, to purchase my smile,
My two first commands (as you swore) you obey: –“

“ — Well say’st thou, fair Nancy; thy wishes impart;
But think not to puzzle Grim , King of the Ghosts.”
Straight she turns o’er each difficult task in her heart,
“ And — I’ve found out a poser,’ exultingly boasts.

You vowed that no butcher should call me his bride).
That this vow you fulfil my first asking shall be ;
And since so many maids in your clutches bave died ,
Than yourself show a bloodier butcher, –said she.

Then shrill scream the spectres ; the charnel -house gloom
Swift lightnings disperse, and the palace destroy;
Again Nancy stood in the little back -room ,
And again at her knee knelt the young butcher’s boy !

” I’ll have done with dead husbands,” she Brisket bespeaks;
“ I’ll now take a live one, so fetch me a ring !
“ And when pressed to her lips were his red beefin cheeks,
She loved him much more than the shrivel’d Ghost King.

No longer his steaks and his cutlets she spurns,
No longer he fears his grim rival’s pale band;
Yet still when the famed first of April returns,
The sprites rise in squadrons, and Nancy demand.

This informs you, Tom Tap, why to -night I remove,
For I dread the approach of the shroud -cover’d hosts,
Who tell, with loud shriek, that resentment and love,
Still nip the cold heart of Grim , King of the Ghosts !

I’ve changed the ending for a couple of reasons, the first is that it has the same solution as “King of the Air ” which it is parodying, and the solution is set up so that Lewis can note how important it is for ladies to be able to tell one kind of verb from another. As a joke it wasn’t great at the time and falls even flatter now. The second is that for Grim it doesn’t work because he can call up the ghosts of the famous dead.

“Show me a greater butcher than you!”
“Well, this is Tamburlaine, who killed everyone living in several cities and piled their heads in pyramids. You may have seen Mr Marlowe’s play about him?”
“Darn.”

The Necromance arc just kind of came to me, because I wanted you to have a reason to interact with Grim other than as a combat opponent. Vanth is one of the few death goddesses who doesn’t kill people, she’s just part of the process of ministering to the dead. Also, she’s winged, so she suited the imps.

The Laidly Worm of Spindlestone Heugh

Now that Andrew has mentioned the Laidly Toad, and shared some art from the forthcoming bestiary, I can talk about the folklore used to design it. The Laidly Toad is the villain from “The Laidly Worm of Spindlestone Heugh” which is a story from the English Borders. I’ve also mixed in a little from a variant called “Kempe Owen”, which was collected in the Child Ballads.

The story was part of the material collected by the author of Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, but was not used. Its contributor, Reverend Robert Lambe, claimed it was from a manuscript written around 1270 by a poet called Duncan Frasier, but there is no other work, nor any other record, of this poet’s existence. Lambe claimed the original was in Latin and that he had reworked and translated it, but the original cannot be found. It was eventually published in Rhymes of the Northern Bards in 1812. I’m mentioning these titles because we have mined them heavily for story ideas. Grim, King of the Ghosts is in Reliques. The haunted instrument is in the Child Ballads. I’ll discuss them in more detail if teasers are released.

The recording that follows is by MaybeCordelia, and released through Librivox. Her version was written by Joseph Jacobs. It’s been modernised a little. We’ll be returning to him later in the year for a folk saint. Thanks to MaybeCordelia and her production team.

***

In Bamborough Castle once lived a king who had a fair wife and two children, a son named Childe Wynd and a daughter named Margaret. Childe Wynd went forth to seek his fortune, and soon after he had gone the queen his mother died. The king mourned her long and faithfully, but one day while he was hunting he came across a lady of great beauty, and became so much in love with her that he determined to marry her. So he sent word home that he was going to bring a new queen to Bamborough Castle.

Princess Margaret was not very glad to hear of her mother’s place being taken, but she did not repine but did her father’s bidding. And at the appointed day came down to the castle gate with the keys all ready to hand over to her stepmother. Soon the procession drew near, and the new queen came towards Princess Margaret who bowed low and handed her the keys of the castle. She stood there with blushing cheeks and eye on ground, and said: “O welcome, father dear, to your halls and bowers, and welcome to you my new mother, for all that’s here is yours,” and again she offered the keys. One of the king’s knights who had escorted the new queen, cried out in admiration: “Surely this northern Princess is the loveliest of her kind.” At that the new queen flushed up and cried out: “At least your courtesy might have excepted me,” and then she muttered below her breath: “I’ll soon put an end to her beauty.”

That same night the queen, who was a noted witch, stole down to a lonely dungeon wherein she did her magic and with spells three times three, and with passes nine times nine she cast Princess Margaret under her spell. And this was her spell:

I weird ye to be a Laidly Worm, And borrowed shall ye never be, Until Childe Wynd, the King's own son Come to the Heugh and thrice kiss thee; Until the world comes to an end, Borrowed shall ye never be.

So Lady Margaret went to bed a beauteous maiden, and rose up a Laidly Worm. And when her maidens came in to dress her in the morning they found coiled up on the bed a dreadful dragon, which uncoiled itself and came towards them. But they ran away shrieking, and the Laidly Worm crawled and crept, and crept and crawled till it reached the Heugh or rock of the Spindlestone, round which it coiled itself, and lay there basking with its terrible snout in the air.

Soon the country round about had reason to know of the Laidly Worm of Spindleston Heugh. For hunger drove the monster out from its cave and it used to devour everything it could come across. So at last they went to a mighty warlock and asked him what they should do. Then he consulted his works and his familiar, and told them: “The Laidly Worm is really the Princess Margaret and it is hunger that drives her forth to do such deeds. Put aside for her seven kine, and each day as the sun goes down, carry every drop of milk they yield to the stone trough at the foot of the Heugh, and the Laidly Worm will trouble the country no longer. But if ye would that she be borrowed to her natural shape, and that she who bespelled her be rightly punished, send over the seas for her brother, Childe Wynd.”

All was done as the warlock advised, the Laidly Worm lived on the milk of the seven kine, and the country was troubled no longer. But when Childe Wynd heard the news, he swore a mighty oath to rescue his sister and revenge her on her cruel stepmother. And three-and-thirty of his men took the oath with him. Then they set to work and built a long ship, and its keel they made of the rowan tree. And when all was ready, they out with their oars and pulled sheer for Bamborough Keep.

But as they got near the keep, the stepmother felt by her magic power that something was being wrought against her, so she summoned her familiar imps and said: “Childe Wynd is coming over the seas; he must never land. Raise storms, or bore the hull, but nohow must he touch shore.” Then the imps went forth to meet Childe Wynd’s ship, but when they got near, they found they had no power over the ship, for its keel was made of the rowan tree. So back they came to the queen witch, who knew not what to do. She ordered her men-at-arms to resist Childe Wynd if he should land near them, and by her spells she caused the Laidly Worm to wait by the entrance of the harbour.

As the ship came near, the Worm unfolded its coils, and dipping into the sea, caught hold of the ship of Childe Wynd, and banged it off the shore. Three times Childe Wynd urged his men on to row bravely and strong, but each time the Laidly Worm kept it off the shore. Then Childe Wynd ordered the ship to be put about, and the witch-queen thought he had given up the attempt. But instead of that, he only rounded the next point and landed safe and sound in Budle Creek, and then, with sword drawn and bow bent, rushed up followed by his men, to fight the terrible Worm that had kept him from landing.

But the moment Childe Wynd had landed, the witch-queen’s power over the Laidly Worm had gone, and she went back to her bower all alone, not an imp, nor a man-at-arms to help her, for she knew her hour was come. So when Childe Wynd came rushing up to the Laidly Worm it made no attempt to stop him or hurt him, but just as he was going to raise his sword to slay it, the voice of his own sister Margaret came from its jaws saying:

“O, quit your sword, unbend your bow, And give me kisses three; For though I am a poisonous worm, No harm I'll do to thee.”

Childe Wynd stayed his hand, but he did not know what to think if some witchery were not in it. Then said the Laidly Worm again:

“O, quit your sword, unbend your bow, And give me kisses three, If I'm not won ere set of sun, Won never shall I be.”

Then Childe Wynd went up to the Laidly Worm and kissed it once; but no change came over it. Then Childe Wynd kissed it once more; but yet no change came over it. For a third time he kissed the loathsome thing, and with a hiss and a roar the Laidly Worm reared back and before Childe Wynd stood his sister Margaret. He wrapped his cloak about her, and then went up to the castle with her. When he reached the keep, he went off to the witch queen’s bower, and when he saw her, he touched her with a twig of a rowan tree. No sooner had he touched her than she shrivelled up and shrivelled up, till she became a huge ugly toad, with bold staring eyes and a horrible hiss. She croaked and she hissed, and then hopped away down the castle steps, and Childe Wynd took his father’s place as king, and they all lived happy afterwards.

But to this day, the loathsome toad is seen at times, haunting the neighbourhood of Bamborough Keep, and the wicked witch-queen is a Laidly Toad.

Cellini swears his statue of Mars is not haunted

A brief one for this week.

See you next week, when things get way too intense for Magonomia Bestiary.

***

Being then refreshed in strength and spirits, I attacked the great statue of Mars, which I had set up solidly upon a frame of well-connected woodwork. Over this there lay a crust of plaster, about the eighth of a cubit in thickness, carefully modelled for the flesh of the Colossus. Lastly, I prepared a great number of moulds in separate pieces to compose the figure, intending to dovetail them together in accordance with the rules of art; and this task involved no difficulty.

I will not here omit to relate something which may serve to give a notion of the size of this great work, and is at the same time highly comic. It must first be mentioned that I had forbidden all the men who lived at my cost to bring light women into my house or anywhere within the castle precincts. Upon this point of discipline I was extremely strict. Now may lad Ascanio loved a very handsome girl, who returned his passion. One day she gave her mother the slip, and came to see Ascanio at night. Finding that she would not take her leave, and being driven to his wits’ ends to conceal her, like a person of resources, he hit at last upon the plan of installing her inside the statue. There, in the head itself, he made her up a place to sleep in; this lodging she occupied some time, and he used to bring her forth at whiles with secrecy at night. I meanwhile having brought this part of the Colossus almost to completion, left it alone, and indulged my vanity a bit by exposing it to sight; it could, indeed be seen by more than half Paris. The neighbours, therefore, took to climbing their house-roofs, and crowds came on purpose to enjoy the spectacle. Now there was a legend in the city that my castle had from olden times been haunted by a spirit, though I never noticed anything to confirm this belief; and folk in Paris called it popularly by the name of Lemmonio Boreò. The girl, while she sojourned in the statue’s head, could not prevent some of her movements to and fro from being perceptible through its eye-holes; this made stupid people say that the ghost had got into the body of the figure, and was setting its eyes in motion, and its mouth, as though it were about to talk. Many of them went away in terror; others, more incredulous, came to observe the phenomenon, and when they were unable to deny the flashing of the statue’s eyes, they too declared their credence in a spirit—not guessing that there was a spirit there, and sound young flesh to boot.

Cellini crosses the king’s official mistress

Madame d’Etampes is mentioned several times in Cellini’s stories, but I’ve cut all of them but this one out. This is Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly, Duchess of D’etampes and the chief mistress of King Francis I. She loathes Cellini, because he isn’t sufficiently humble in her presence. He’s a misogynist, so he dislikes her for being a woman, but he also sees her as a sex worker and, although he pays sex workers himself, he thinks that puts her into a lower class.

The French, in his stories, don’t agree. Her role, as mistress in title, was well understood in the court, as it had existed for generations. She was, however, particularly adept at it, and was essentially the leader of the king’s informal council. After Francis I died, she was banished from court and all of her possessions were seized, because she’d annoyed the new king (Henry II) and also the new maîtresse-en-titre.

That was Diane de Poitiers, who’d been on the other side of many court intrigues. Diane became Henry’s mistress when she was 35 and he was 15. She favoured the Medici marriage. Her daughter was Queen Catherine de Medici’s chief lady in waiting, and the Queen was effectively her begrudging puppet until the death of the king. He died carrying Diane’s favour in a joust, not Queen Catherine’s. Catherine wasn’t as harsh to Diane as many other queens had been to their dead husband’s mistresses, and kept the mistress system going, in a way. Some of the members of her Flying Squadron took up the role.

***

IN the meantime I brought my silver Jupiter to completion, together with its gilded pedestal, which I placed upon a wooden plinth that only showed a very little; upon the plinth I introduced four little round balls of hard wood, more than half hidden in their sockets, like the nut of a crossbow. They were so nicely arranged that a child could push the statue forward and backwards, or turn it round with ease. Having arranged it thus to my mind, I went with it to Fountainebleau, where the King was then residing.

At that time, Bologna, of whom I have already said so much, had brought from Rome his statues, and had cast them very carefully in bronze. I knew nothing about this, partly because he kept his doings very dark, and also because Fontainebleau is forty miles distant from Paris. On asking the King where he wanted me to set up my Jupiter, Madame d’Etampes, who happened to be present, told him there was no place more appropriate than his own handsome gallery. This was, as we should say in Tuscany, a loggia, or, more exactly, a large lobby; it ought indeed to be called a lobby, because what we mean by loggia is open at one side. The hall was considerably longer than 100 paces, decorated, and very rich with pictures from the hand of that admirable Rosso, our Florentine master. Among the pictures were arranged a great variety of sculptured works, partly in the round, and partly in bas-relief. The breadth was about twelve paces. Now Bologna had brought all his antiques into this gallery, wrought with great beauty in bronze, and had placed them in a handsome row upon their pedestals; and they were, as I have said, the choicest of the Roman antiquities. Into this same gallery I took my Jupiter; and when I saw that grand parade, so artfully planned, I said to myself: “This is like running the gauntlet; [1] now may God assist me.” I placed the statue, and having arranged it as well as I was able, waited for the coming of the King. The Jupiter was raising his thunderbolt with the right hand in the act to hurl it; his left hand held the globe of the world. Among the flames of the thunderbolt I had very cleverly introduced a torch of white wax. Now Madame d’Etampes detained the King till nightfall, wishing to do one of two mischiefs, either to prevent his coming, or else to spoil the effect of my work by its being shown off after dark; but as God has promised to those who trust in Him, it turned out exactly opposite to her calculations; for when night came, I set fire to the torch, which standing higher than the head of Jupiter, shed light from above and showed the statue far better than by daytime.

At length the King arrived; he was attended by his Madame d’Etampes, his son the Dauphin and the Dauphinéss, together with the King of Navarre his brother-in-law, Madame Marguerite his daughter, and several other great lords, who had been instructed by Madame d’Etampes to speak against me. When the King appeared, I made my prentice Ascanio push the Jupiter toward his Majesty. As it moved smoothly forwards, my cunning in its turn was amply rewarded, for this gentle motion made the figure seem alive; the antiques were left in the background, and my work was the first to take the eye with pleasure. The King exclaimed at once: “This is by far the finest thing that has ever been seen; and I, although I am an amateur and judge of art, could never have conceived the hundredth part of its beauty.” The lords whose cue it was to speak against me, now seemed as though they could not praise my masterpiece enough. Madame d’Etampes said boldly: “One would think you had no eyes! Don’t you see all those fine bronzes from the antique behind there? In those consists the real distinction of this art, and not in that modern trumpery.” Then the King advanced, and the others with him. After casting a glance at the bronzes, which were not shown to advantage from the light being below them, he exclaimed: “Whoever wanted to injure this man has done him a great service; for the comparison of these admirable statues demonstrates the immeasurable superiority of his work in beauty and in art. Benvenuto deserves to be made much of, for his performances do not merely rival, but surpass the antique.” In reply to this, Madame d’Etampes observed that my Jupiter would not make anything like so fine a show by daylight; besides, one had to consider that I had put a veil upon my statue to conceal its faults. I had indeed flung a gauze veil with elegance and delicacy over a portion of my statue, with the view of augmenting its majesty. This, when she had finished speaking, I lifted from beneath, uncovering the handsome genital members of the god; then tore the veil to pieces with vexation. She imagined I had disclosed those parts of the statue to insult her. The King noticed how angry she was, while I was trying to force some words out in my fury; so he wisely spoke, in his own language, precisely as follows: “Benvenuto, I forbid you to speak; hold your tongue, and you shall have a thousand times more wealth than you desire.” Not being allowed to speak, I writhed my body in a rage; this made her grumble with redoubled spite; and the King departed sooner than he would otherwise have done, calling aloud, however, to encourage me: “I have brought from Italy the greatest man who ever lived, endowed with all the talents.”

“The Haunted Homes and Family Traditions of Great Britain” by John Henry Ingram – Part Three

An extra episode from my COVID period. First: a ruin a monster and a tresure in eight minutes. Thanks to the Librivox recorders.

DOBB PARK LODGE

On the southern slope of a picturesque valley, through which the Washburn pours its waters, stands the ruins of Dobb Park Lodge ; a lofty, four-storied mansion of the Tudor period. About half of the original building is supposed to have been pulled down, not to have been destroyed by the slow processes of time, and the remainder to have been left standing though uninhabitable. In its pristine state the lodge must have been an elegant and spacious pile, and even now, ruined and deserted as it is, it is a picturesque feature in the romantic scenery around. There are some singular traits in the building, as, for instance, the fact that, apparently, the only means of access to its interior was by a winding stair in a projecting turret in the rear. Of the southern front of the residence one half remains, and contains square windows of two lights each, divided by a transom. Over the lower, relates a correspondent, is a cornice embracing both, supported by brackets, ornamented with armorial shields, charged with quoits or circular discs. In the centre are the remains of a projecting semi-circular window.

Who lived in this strange and romantically situated abode history tells not. Shaw, the historian of Wharfedale, says : ” There was a court held in it long after it was dilapidated, called Dog Court, belonging to the Duchy of Lancaster’ and that appears to be all that is known of it; although this same authority supposes, omitting all account of its Tudor architecture, that it was erected about the same time as Barden Lodge, a building in existence in 1311. But if history has neglected Dobb Park Lodge, tradition has not overlooked it; and, amongst other remarkable stories of it, records that the place is haunted by a strange being known as ” The Talking
Dog.” The tale of this marvellous spectre bears a likeness to a well-known Manx, and some other equally famous legends ; it has been related to us by Mr. William Grainge, of Harrogate, who obtained it from “a lover of forest lore, a collector and preserver of all that belongs thereto” ; but it was taken down in the dialect of the neighbourhood, and to render it comprehensible to the general reader it will be necessary to translate it into the ordinary vernacular. The legend is as follows.

At the foot of the winding stair already alluded to is a doorway (now choked with rubbish) leading into a dungeon. The country folks thereabouts believe this doorway to be the entrance to one of those mysterious passages, so generally ascribed to old ruins, which lead to some strangely terrible cavern, or other abode of horror. Such unearthly noises were heard to issue
from this subterranean place that no one ventured to explore its mysteries; until at length a countryman, one of those ne’er-do-wells who are ever ready to risk what respectable people prudently shrink from, determined to examine it thoroughly, and, in order to fortify himself
for the arduous task, he imbibed a no small quantum of potent stimulant.

Thus invigorated, the local Columbus seized his lanthorn, bravely entered the passage, and instantly disappeared in its gloomy recesses. His neighbours and admirers lingered about the place in expectation of his speedy return, but his absence was so prolonged that they became seriously alarmed. At length, when they had all given him up for lost, he reappeared, but in a most wretched, abject, and terrified condition. Some long time afterwards, when he had recovered from his fright, he was induced to give a recital of his adventures, and his account was this :

“Aiter leaving the doorway, I went for a long distance, rambling and scrambling, turning and twisting about the crooked passages, until I thought I should get to no place at all. So I began to feel rather dazed and tired like, and had some thoughts of turning back again, when, suddenly, the sweetest music that ever I had heard, in all my born days, struck up right before me. I couldn’t have turned back then if I had wanted to ever so much, for the sound charmed me completely.

I had never felt so lightsome before, and feared nothing, and could have gone anywhere. I followed up where the music seemed to come from, thinking I should come to it at last, but I was wrong ; I have never seen the players to this very day. I kept following the sound until at last I came to what seemed to be a great, long, high, wide room, as big as any church, and bigger than some. At one side of it was a great lire blazing away as bright as the sunshine; and either it, or something else, made everything glitter like gold.

“Thinks I to myself, this is a grand place, and no mistake ! But what struck me more than all was a
great, black, rough dog, as big as any two or three mastiffs, which stood before the fire, and appeared to be the master of the place, for not another living creature beside it could I see. I was troubled to make him out; I had heard tell of ‘barguests*,’ but had never seen one, and thought this might be one of them. At last, by all that is true, if the thing did not open its mouth and speak ! Not bark like a dog, as it ought to have done, but talked just like one of ourselves. Didn’t I feel queer now ! I think I just did. That did for me more than all the rest. I wished myself safe out again, and over the mile bridge.

*A provincial name for “spectre”.

It said: Now, my man, as you ‘ve come here, you must do one of three things, or you ’11 never see daylight again. You must either drink all the liquor there is in that glass ; open that chest ; or draw that sword.’

A few notes. A barguest isn’t a generic spectre, the term is for these sorts of ghost dogs. This trial is similar to that of the man who finds the Sleeping Arthur and is either to blow a horn or draw a sword. In different areas the correct choice seems to vary.

“I looked, and there I saw a strange, great chest, seemingly bound with iron bands, and with two or three great iron locks on it. At the top of that chest was placed a fine great glass, with a long stem, full of the nicest-looking drinking-stuff that ever I saw. Above that, on a peg, or something of the sort, against the wall was hung what he called the sword a great, long, broad, heavy, ugly thing, nearly as long as myself.

“I looked them all over and over, and over again, considering which job to do, for I dursn’t, for the life of me, think of not doing what that dog bade me. The chest looked much too strong for me to open besides, I had no tools with me that would be likely to open it with ; and, as for the sword, I knew nought about sword work, I had never held one in mv life, and should be quite as likely to cut myself as anyone else with it, so I thought I would let it alone. Then there was
naught but the drink left for me, and I began to feel rather dryish, what with rambling about the place so long, and what with the drop of drink I had before I started ; so, says I to myself,
‘ Here goes at the drink !’

I took hold of the glass with my hand, the dog all the time glowering at me with all the eves he had ; and, I assure you, he bad two woppers saucers are not so big ; thev were more like pewter plates, and gleamed and glittered like fire.

“I lifted the glass up to my mouth and just touched my lips with the stuff, to taste before I gave a big swig ; when, would you believe it? it scalded just like boiling water, or burnt like fire itself. All the skin ‘s off my lips and tongue-end with it yet. If I ‘d swallowed all the lot it would have burned my inside clean out, and I should have been as hollow as a drum ; but I stopped short of that, or else I should have made a bonnie mess of it. I just tasted the stuff, but what it was I cannot tell ; it was not the colour of aquafortis, but it was quite as hot.

Aquafortis is nitric acid. I’m not sure how he knows what that looks like.

As soon as ever I tasted it, up flew the lid of the chest with a bonnie bang ; and I do declare if it didn’t seem to be as full of gold as ever it could cram : I ‘d be bound to say there were thousands upon thousands of pounds in that very chest. But I ‘m no better for that, nor ever shall be, for I ’11 never go there any more. The sword, at the same time, was drawn by somebody’s hand that I didn’t see, and it glittered and flashed like lightning. I banged the glass down, and don’t know whether it broke or not, but all the stuff was spilt. In a minute after all was dark as pitch ; the fire went out; my lantern had gone out before; the music gave over playing, and instead of it such a howling and yelling struck up and filled the place as I ‘d never heard in my time ; it seemed as if hundreds of dogs were all getting walloped at once ; and something besides screamed and yelled as if it were frightened out of its wits. Oh, it was awful ! I fell down flat on the floor, I think in a swoon, and I could not have done better.

How long I lay I cannot tell, but for a goodish bit, I think. At last I came to myself, rubbed my eyes, and glowered about me, and wondered where I was. At last I bethought myself, and scrambled up, and after a great deal of ups and downs, I got my carcase dragged out ; and now, you may depend upon it, you ’11 not eaten me going in there any more of a sudden.” Such, says Mr. Grainge, was the result of the search for hidden treasure in the ruined vaults of Dobb Park Lodge. Since that time no one appears to have ventured into those subterranean recesses, so that the chest full of gold still remains, waiting for some explorer to brave the terrors of ” The Talking Dog” and his surroundings.

SMITHHILLS HALL

There are two origin stories here for a persistent, bloody footprint. I’m including the first one, even thought it is a little weak, because it gives an odd spell component. It’s either the fresh blood of a priest a hundred years dead or the blood of a saint, is you accept that the priest, as a martyr, is one of the unnumbered saints. The second story is about a powerful alchemist who is cursed to leave a trail of gore wherever he goes. He might seek you out for aid, or you might seek him for lessons.

Smithills Hall, Halliwell, Lancashire, the seat of Richard Henry Ainsworth, Esq., is one of those lovely and picturesque ancestral abodes for which England is famous. It is replete with the subdued charms which only antiquity can generate, and which no amount of expenditure, however lavish, can create. The origin of this splendid old mansion is lost in the proverbial
” mist of ages ” ; historians retrace its story to the time of the so-called Saxon ”Heptarchy,” and, as if in confirmation of this remote ancestry, an ancient gateway bears the date of 680. Less mythical records of the place and its various owners are carried back to the early part of the fourteenth century, when the Lord of the Manor of Smithills was a William Radcliffe. Subsequently, an heiress by marriage carried this manor and the estates into the Barton family, and from that family it passed by purchase, in 1801, into the possession of the Ainsworths, by whom it is still held.

In a description of this ancient mansion, recently given in the Bolton Journal, it is said :
” Smithills Hall requires to be sought for. It lies far from the road, which curves in its course, thus effectually hiding it from the public gaze. . . . When reached, the full beauty of the building is not at once seen. But passing through an arched gateway the south front is disclosed to view. Emerging by the gateway with the ‘680’ inscribed above it, the visitor finds himself in the antique court-yard, at the head of a beautiful lawn, reached by a flight of steps. Turning from the view before us to admire the architecture and appearance of the old building, one is impressed with the air of calm repose which seems to rest over all. The old Lancashire lath-and-plaster style of building is everywhere apparent. Black beams placed obliquely on a ground of dazzling whiteness, with ornamentations of quatrefoil standing out in charming relief, present a pleasing picture of the taste of our ancestors in matters architectural. The ivy clusters lovingly over porch and walls, the effect on the ‘ 680 ‘ gateway being especially lovely. The oldfashioned domestic chapel forms a wing to the east of the block, and around this, too, clusters the loving parasite, the healthy hue of green blending charmingly with the stained windows, rich in design, and commemorative of the heraldry of past and present of Smithills.”

The writer then proceeds to speak of the interior of this fine old place, of its rich wainscottings, its oaken mouldings, and of its other relics of the past, but then recurs, as must all who mention Smithills Hall, to the mysterious footprint, to the far-famed Bloody Footstep seen on the stone in the passage leading to the chapel. Above this indelible footstep is a plate bearing the inscription, “Footprint of the Reverend George Marsh, of Deane, martyr, who was examined at
Smithills, and burnt at Chester, in the reign of Queen Mary.”

The legend connected with this marvellous relic of the past is thus given in the local journal: Robert Barton, at one time owner of Smithills, was “the famous magistrate before whom George Marsh, the Martyr of Deane, appeared in 1555, to answer for his Protestant faith. Tradition described Mr. Barton as a zealous bigot, and alleges rude treatment on his part towards the martyr.

It was after the examination before this worthy that, it is stated, Marsh, descending the stairs leading from the court-room, stamped his foot on the stones, and ‘looking up to heaven, appealed to God for the justness of his cause ; and prayed that there might in that place remain a constant memorial of the wickedness and injustice of his enemies,’ the print of a man’s foot remaining to the present day as such ‘ constant memorial ” A tradition in the place, a resident of Smithills Hall informs us, says the stone bearing the imprint of the mysterious footprint was once removed and cast into a neighbouring wood, but ghostly noises became so troublesome in consequence that the stone had to be restored to its original position.

Nathaniel Hawthorne, the famous American novelist, at one time enjoyed the hospitality of Smithills Hall. The legend of the “Bloody Footstep” made an intense and lasting impression upon his mind, and in three separate instances he founded fictions upon it. He saw the “Bloody Footstep’ as he says himself, with his own eyes, and from the lips of his hostess heard the
particulars of its origin. Either from what he heard, or imagined, about this weird symbol of a bygone crime, he gave in his romance of Septimius the following story as that of the Bloody Footstep : ” On the threshold of one of the doors of Smithills Hall there is a bloody footstep impressed into the doorstep, and ruddy as if the bloody foot had just trodden there ; and it is averred that, on a certain night of the year, and at a certain hour of the night, if you go and
look at the door-step you will see the mark wet with fresh blood. Some have pretended to say that this appearance of blood was hut dew; but can dew redden a cambric handkerchief? Will it crimson the fingertips when you touch it ? And that is what the bloody footstep will surely do when the appointed night and hour come round. . . .”

It is needless to tell you all the strange stories that have survived to this day about the old Hall, and how it is believed that the master of it, owing to his ancient science, has still a sort of residence there and control of the place, and how in one of the chambers there is still his antique table, and his chair, and some rude old instruments and machinery, and a book, and everything in readiness, just as if he might still come back to finish some experiment. . . . One of the chief things to which the old lord applied himself was to discover the means of prolonging his own life, so that its duration should be indefinite, if not infinite; and such was his science that he was believed to have attained this magnificent and awful purpose. . . .

“The object of the lord of Smithills Hall was to take a life from the course of Nature, and Nature did not choose to be defrauded ; so that, great as was the power of this scientific man over her, she would not consent that he should escape the necessity of dying at i his proper time, except upon condition of sacrificing some other life for his ; and this was to be done once for every thirty years that he chose to live, thirty years being the account of a generation of man ; and if in any way, in that time, this lord could be the death of a human being, that satisfied the requisition, and he might live on. . . .

” There was but one human being whom he cared for that was a beautiful kinswoman, an orphan, whom his father had brought up, and dying, left to his care. . . He saw that she, if anyone, was to be the person whom the sacrifice demanded, and that he might kill twenty others without effect, but if he took the life of this one it would make the charm strong and good. . . . He did slay this pure young girl ; he took her into the wood near the house, an old wood that is standing yet, with some of its magnificent oaks, and there he plunged a dagger into her heart. . . .

” He buried her in the wood, and returned to the house ; and, as it happened, he had set his right foot in her blood, and his shoe was wet in it, and by some miraculous fate it left a track all along the wood-path, and into the house, and on the stone steps of the threshold, and up into his chamber. The servants saw it the next day, and wondered, and whispered, and missed the fair young girl, and looked askance at their lord’s right foot, and turned pale, all of them. . . . “

Next, the legend says, that Sir Forrester was struck with horror at what he had done . . . and fled from his old Hall, and was gone full many a day. But all the while he was gone there was the mark of a bloody footstep impressed upon the stone door-step of the Hall. . . . The legend says that wherever Sir Forrester went, in his wanderings about the world, he left a bloody track behind him. . . . Once he went to the King’s Court, and, there being a track up to the very throne, the King frowned upon him, so that he never came there any more. Nobody could tell how it happened; his foot was not seen to bleed, only there was the bloody track behind him. . . .
“At last this unfortunate lord deemed it best to go back to his own Hall, where, living among faithful old servants born in the family, he could hush the matter up better than elsewhere. … So home he came, and there he saw the bloody track on the door-step, and dolefully went into the Hall, and up the stairs, an old servant ushering him into his chamber, and half a dozen others following behind, gazing, shuddering, pointing with quivering fingers, looking horror-stricken in one another’s pale faces. . . .By-and-by he vanished from the old Hall, but not by death ; for, from generation to generation, they say that a bloody track is seen around that house, and sometimes it is traced up into the chambers, so fresh that you see he must have passed a short time before.”

” And this is the legend,” says Hawthorne, ” of the Bloody Footstep, which I myself have seen at the Hall door.” It will be seen, however, how widely different is the story told by the great American romancist from that given by the owner of Smithills Hall, and believed in by the tenants around. Whether the author of Septimius really had any traditional authority for his version, or whether he evolved the whole recital from the depth of his imagination, it would he difficult to say.

To Our Ladies of Death by James Thomson

Thomson borrows here, in a footnote I’ve cut out, from Swinburne’s Three Ladies. These were covered in an earlier episode or two. His three are Death, Annihilation and Oblivion. Death is an angel, close to the Christian conception, that leads people to paradise. She is bound to Earth, and does not wish to be, and she is confused by why people hate her so much. Annihilation is a poisoned angel, who offers peace, but only through the loss of self in debauchery and vice. Oblivion represents a place of perfect rest. Perhaps people rise again out of darkness, or stay there forever, or fall through to to being part of a collective consciousness of all life on Earth.

Statistics eventually. Our reader today is Moonlilyth who released this work through Librivox. My thanks to the reader and the production team.

***

‘Tired with all these, for restful death I cry.” Shakespeare : Sonnet 66.

WEARY of erring in this desert Life,
Weary of hoping hopes for ever vain,
Weary of struggling in all-sterile strife,
Weary of thought which maketh nothing plain,
I close my eyes and calm my panting breath,
And pray to Thee, O ever-quiet Death!
To come and soothe away my bitter pain.

The strong shall strive, — may they be victors crowned
The wise still seek, — may they at length find Truth
The young still hope, — may purest love be found
To make their age more glorious than their youth.
For me ; my brain is weak, my heart is cold,
My hope and faith long dead ; my life but bold
In jest and laugh to parry hateful ruth.

Over me pass the days and months and years
Like squadrons and battalions of the foe
Trampling with thoughtless thrusts and alien jeers
Over a wounded soldier lying low :
He grips his teeth, or flings them words of scorn
To mar their triumph : but the while, outworn.

Inwardly craves for death to end his woe.
Thus I, in secret, call, O Death ! to Thee,
Thou Youngest of the solemn Sisterhood,
Thou Gentlest of the mighty Sisters Three
Whom I have known so well since first endued
By Love and Grief with vision to discern
What spiritual life doth throb and burn
Through all our world, with evil powers and good.

The Three whom I have known so long, so well,
By intimate communion, face to face,
In every mood, of Earth, of Heaven, of Hell,
In every season and in every place,
That joy of Life has ceased to visit me.
As one estranged by powerful witchery.
Infatuate in a Siren’s weird embrace.

First Thou, O priestess, phophetess, and queen,
Our Lady of Beatitudes, first Thou:
Of mighty stature, of seraphic mien.
Upon the tablet of whose broad white brow
Unvanquishable Truth is written clear,
The secret of the mystery of our sphere,
The regnant word of the Eternal Now.

Thou standest garmented in purest white ;
But from thy shoulders wings of power half-spread
Invest thy form with such miraculous light
As dawn may clothe the earth with : and, instead
Of any jewel-kindled golden crown,
The glory of thy long hair flowing down
Is dazzling noonday sunshine round thy head.

Upon a sword thy left hand resteth calm,
A naked sword, two-edged and long and straight
A branch of olive with a branch of palm
Thy right hand proffereth to hostile Fate.
The shining plumes that clothe thy feet are bound
By knotted strings, as if to tread the ground
With weary steps when thou wouldst soar elate.

Twin heavens uplifted to the heavens, thine eyes
Are solemn with unutterable thought
And love and aspiration ; yet there lies
Within their light eternal sadness, wrought
By hope deferred and baffled tenderness :
Of all the souls whom thou dost love and bless,
How few revere and love thee as they ought!

Thou leadest heroes from their warfare here
To nobler fields where grander crowns are won ;
Thou leadest sages from this twilight sphere
To cloudless heavens and an unsetting sun ;
Thou leadest saints unto that purer air
Whose breath is spiritual life and prayer.
Yet, lo ! they seek thee not, but fear and shun !

Thou takest to thy most maternal breast
Young children from the desert of this earth,
Ere sin hath stained their souls, or grief opprest,
And bearest them unto an heavenly birth,
To be the Vestals of God’s Fane above :
And yet their kindred moan against thy love,
With wild and selfish moans in bitter dearth.

Most holy Spirit, first Self-conqueror;
Thou Victress over Time and Destiny
And Evil, in the all-deciding war
So fierce, so long, so dreadful! — Would that me
Thou hadst upgathered in my life’s pure morn!
Unworthy then, less worthy now, forlorn,
I dare not, Gracious Mother, call on Thee.

Next Thou, O sibyl, sorceress and queen,
Our Lady of Annihilation, Thou !
Of mighty stature, of demoniac mien ;
Upon whose swathy face and livid brow
Are graven deeply anguish, malice, scorn,
Strength ravaged by unrest, resolve forlorn
Of any hope, dazed pride that will not bow.
Thy form is clothed with wings of iron gloom
;
But round about thee, like a chain, is rolled,
Cramping the sway of every mighty plume,
A stark constringent serpent fold on fold :
Of its two heads, one sting is in thy brain.
The other in thy heart ; their venom-pain
Like fire distilling through thee uncontrolled.

A rod of serpents wieldeth thy right hand ;
Thy left a cup of raging fire, whose light
Burns lurid on thyself as thou dost stand ;
Thy lidless eyes tenebriously bright ;
Thy wings, thy vestures, thy dishevelled hair
Dark as the Grave ; thou statue of Despair,
Thou Night essential radiating night.

Thus have I seen thee in thine actual form ;
Not thus can see thee those whom thou dost sway,
Inscrutable Enchantress : young and warm,
Pard- beautiful and brilliant, ever gay;
Thy cup the very Wine of Life, thy rod
The wand of more voluptuous spells than God
Can wield in Heaven; thus charmest thou thy prey.

The selfish, fatuous, proud, and pitiless.
All who have falsified life’s royal trust ;
The strong whose strength hath basked in idleness.
The great heart given up to worldly lust,
The great mind destitute of moral faith ;
Thou scourgest down to Night and utter Death,
Or penal spheres of retribution just.

O mighty Spirit, fraudful and malign,
Demon of madness and perversity !
The evil passions which may make me thine
Are not yet irrepressible in me ;
And I have pierced thy mark of riant youth,
And seen thy form in all its hideous truth :
I will not. Dreadful Mother, call on Thee.

Last Thou, retired nun and throneless queen,
Our Lady of Oblivion, last Thou :
Of human stature, of abstracted mien ;
Upon whose pallid face and drooping brow
Are shadowed melancholy dreams of Doom,
And deep absorption into silent gloom.
And weary bearing of the heavy Now.

Thou art all shrouded in a gauzy veil,
Sombrous and cloudlike ; all, except that face
Of subtle loveliness though weirdly pale.
Thy soft, slow-gliding footsteps leave no trace,
And stir no sound. Thy drooping hands infold
Their frail white fingers ; and, unconscious, hold
A poppy-wreath, thine anodyne of grace.

Thy hair is like a twilight round thy head :
Thine eyes are shadowed wells, from Lethe-stream
With drowsy subterranean waters fed ;
Obscurely deep, without a stir or gleam ;
The gazer drinks in from them with his gaze
An opiate charm to curtain all his days,
A passive languor of oblivious dream.

Thou hauntest twilight regions, and the trance
Of moonless nights when stars are few and wan :
Within black woods ; or over the expanse
Of desert seas abysmal ; or upon
Old solitary shores whose populous graves
Are rocked in rest by ever- moaning waves ;
Or through vast ruined cities still and lone.

The weak, the weary, and the desolate.
The poor, the mean, the outcast, the opprest,
All trodden down beneath the march of Fate,
Thou gatherest, loving Sister, to thy breast,
Soothing their pain and weariness asleep ;
Then in thy hidden Dreamland hushed and deep
Dost lay them, shrouded in eternal rest.

O sweetest Sister, and sole Patron Saint
Of all the humble eremites who flee
From out life’s crowded tumult, stunned and faint,
To seek a stem and lone tranquillity
In Libyan wastes of time : my hopeless life
With famished yearning craveth rest from strife;
Therefore, thou Restful One, I call on Thee !

Take me, and lull me into perfect sleep;
Down, down, far-hidden in thy duskiest cave ;
While all the clamorous years above me sweep
Unheard, or, like the voice of seas that rave
On far-off coasts, but murmuring o’er my trance,
A dim vast monotone, that shall enhance
The restful rapture of the inviolate grave.

Upgathered thus in thy divine embrace,
Upon mine eyes thy soft mesmeric hand,
While wreaths of opiate odour interlace
About my pulseless brow; babe-pure and bland,
Passionless, senseless, thoughtless, let me dream
Some ever-slumbrous, never-varying theme,
Within the shadow of thy Timeless Land.

That when I thus have drunk my inmost fill
Of perfect peace, I may arise renewed ;
In soul and body, intellect and will.
Equal to cope with Life whate’er its mood;
To sway its storm and energise its calm ;
Through rhythmic years evolving like a psalm
Of infinite love and faith and sanctitude.

But if this cannot be, no less I cry,
Come, lead me with thy terrorless control
Down to our Mother’s bosom, there to die
By abdication of my separate soul :
So shall this single, self-impelling piece
Of mechanism from lone labour cease.
Resolving into union with the Whole.

Our Mother feedeth thus our little life,
That we in turn may feed her with our death :
The great Sea sways, one interwoven strife,
Wherefrom the Sun exhales a subtle breath,
To float the heavens sublime in form and hue.
Then turning cold and dark in order due
Rain weeping back to swell the Sea beneath.

One part of me shall feed a little worm,
And it a bird on which a man may feed ;
One lime the mould, one nourish insect-sperm ;
One thrill sweet grass, one pulse in bitter weed ;
This swell a fruit, and that evolve in air ;
Another trickle to a springlet’s lair.
Another paint a daisy on the mead :

With cosmic interchange of parts for all,
Through all the modes of being numberless
Of every element, as may befall.
And if earth’s general soul hath consciousness.
Their new life must with strange new joy be thrilled,
Of perfect law all perfectly fulfilled ;
No sin, no fear, no failure, no excess.

Weary of living isolated life,
Weary of hoping hopes for ever vain,
Weary of struggling in all-sterile strife,
Weary of thought which maketh nothing plain,
I close my eyes and hush my panting breath,
And yearn for Thee, divinely tranquil Death,
To come and soothe away my bitter pain.