Famous Ghosts by Edwin Sharpe Grew 1897
THERE are some ghosts whose appearances, without being more remarkable, or, judged by the standard of the normal, more credible than others, have yet received a sort of brevet rank in history. This may be in part because the evidence concerning them is clearer or less contradictory than is sometimes the case in ghost stories: in part because of the station and character of the witnesses of the apparition; in part, perhaps, to the fact that the mysteries with which the stories were connected were never cleared up. Some of the famous ghost stories satisfy only one of these conditions: in some cases a satisfactory ghost has been explained away by subsequent investigations; but a ghost story, once given a certain stamp of antiquity or authenticity, is apt to survive, and to be quoted as a capital instance, whatever doubt may have been thrown upon it by independent inquiry.
The most contradictory phenomenon associated with ghosts is that their appearances become fewer with the advancing age of the world. Yet this should not be so. If each generation dies and leaves ghosts, the world by this time should be overcrowded with them. No man of the present day could be thought to have completed his education without seeing at least one. But if history is to be believed, the experience used to be a far commoner one. Plato believed in them: a phantom of Romulus is said to have appeared to Julius Proculus as he walked along a hedge by moonlight. Pausanias declared that on battlefields the dead armies fought their battles over again: and "four hundred years after the battle of Marathon," says he, "the neighing of horses and the cries of soldiers were heard upon the field of action" — did the fancy suggest to Mr. Rudyard Kipling his splendid story of "The Lost Legion?" And old, or rather young, Pliny has a very circumstantial account of a ghost with clanking chains in Athens, which has served as the prototype for thousands of ghost stories since. The story is soberly told: there is no creepiness in it. There was once a house in Athens which nobody would inhabit, because even the vagrants who tried it related that in the dead of night they heard a great clanking of chains: and some bolder than the rest, who had withstood the terror of these noises, had seen an old man appear, with white hair and face of awe, who dismally clanked his chains at them, and drove them shrieking forth. But at last came a philosopher, Athenodorus—a philosopher animated by the same spirit which impels the Society of Psychical Research of our own day—and he settled himself in the haunted house to investigate matters. The clanking of chains came on at midnight while Athenodorus was reading.
Athenodorus buried himself in his manuscripts and affected no notice. The white-haired old gentleman appeared. Athenodorus turned up his lamp. Then the ghost glided out of the window. Athenodorus followed him across the courtyard until suddenly the ghost disappeared. The philosopher marked the place with herbs and divits of grass, and went to bed. Next day he consulted a magistrate. A couple of Athenian constables came round to make inquiries, and dug up the earth at the spot where the ghost had vanished. They found there a skeleton hung with chains; they reverently took it up, and Athenodorus gave it decent burial. After that the ghost walked no more—a story inculcating (observes Pliny primly) the advantage of paying a proper reverence to old age.
But this ghost, it may be urged, belongs not to the realm of ascertained facts or investigated circumstances, but is rather of the nature of a legend or a tale. There is something in the contention, but in admitting it we cannot refrain from pointing out that nearly all the more accredited and more modern stories, or "relations of fact," bear a very strong family likeness to the legends which our more credulous forefathers told or believed in. For instance, there is the legend of the black dog which crept into the room where Crescentius, the Pope's legate to the Council of Trent, was writing letters to his master. The black dog watched Crescentius with flaming eyes: it disappeared when the servants came; yet it crouched on Crescentius's bed: and Crescentius died a few days afterwards. That was in 1452; and Sir Walter Scott at a later date throwing doubt upon the story, rather acidly suggests that Crescentius died of fright. But how many stories of the black dog have we not heard since? Then there was the aunt of the pious and learned Melancthon, who saw in the dead of night the apparition of her husband. He came in company of a friar whose face she could not see, and he begged that she would have masses said for the repose of his soul. That she should remember her promise, he took her by the hand. Next morning her hand was charred and shrivelled. That withered hand, what yeoman service it has done in ghost stories since! It appears in a modified form in an authenticated record to which we shall refer presently. And the chariot drawn by six black horses and driven by a headless postilion that appeared at the Elizabethan mansion of Bucklebury in Berkshire in 1540; and the warnings given of approaching death. It is soberly recorded of George Villiers, the great Duke of Buckingham, that he was so warned, and went about for many days after the warning "sober and wan." The warning was a six months' notice, and six months after he fell by the knife of Felton. Subsequent commentators have believed that the warning was procured by his mother in order to turn him from his vicious courses, and that its fulfilment was only accidental; but the story was widely believed at the time. Somewhat similar, though of later date, was the curious "Red Man" who appeared to Napoleon to warn him before Moscow, again before Waterloo, and again before his death at St. Helena. This is very seriously told in the Gentleman's Magazine, and authorities are quoted.
The best example of the "warning," however, is the story known as that of the Lyttleton ghost. It is one in which Dr. Johnson — we have it on his own authority—believed, and it has several trustworthy chroniclers. The Lord Lyttleton, who died in 1744, was a nobleman whose character was comparable with that of the Marquis of Steyne, whom Thackeray drew; and possibly those of his friends who heard from him that he had had a warning believed that it came none too soon. But three days before his death, when retiring to bed, he heard a sound of wings fluttering in the apartment. Presently out of the gloom appeared a radiant female figure clad in white and bearing a bird perched falcon-wise on her wrist. She spoke to him, and he, trembling, heard that he was to die within three days. She disappeared and he fainted. Next day he told many of his friends, and apparently, in spite of their assurances, spent the next two days in nervous terror. But on the evening of the third day, in order to revive his spirits, he gave a dinner and had all his friends about him, among them Admiral Wolseley, who sat next to him, and who afterwards became one of the authorities in the relation of the circumstances. At eleven o'clock, Lord Lyttleton being greatly reassured and not being in very good health at that time, determined to go to bed. But Admiral Wolseley, as others of his friends, with a view to reassuring him, had, in fact, contrived that his watch should be set forward — and they put forward their watches likewise and so did his valet—so that although it was really only eleven o'clock when he retired, he believed it to be half-past. His servant assisted him to undress, and then the two sat waiting for twelve o'clock. Twelve o'clock came —by Lord Lyttleton's watch and his servant's—and a quarter-past: but still Lord Lyttleton was alive. "Then," said his lordship with a sigh, "she was a false prophet after all," and he directed his servant to fetch his sleeping draught. The valet went to do as he was bid: he thought he heard a rustle as he turned from the ante-room to come back with the medicine—a rustle and then a fall. He came back: his master lay upon the floor. The servant rang the bell furiously. Lord Lyttleton's relatives, Lord Fortescue and Miss Amphlett came into the room; but before the stroke of midnight Lord Lyttleton was dead.
Some of the best of the modern and accredited ghost stories are told by Lady Wynn in the "Diary of a Lady of Quality." One of them, which serves to recall the remark we have already made about the "withered hand," is famous under the name of the Tyrone ghost.
Miss Hamilton, a rich and beautiful heiress, was early married to Sir Martin Beresford. she had had a former lover, Lord Tyrone. Some time after her marriage, in the year 1704, it was agreed that Lord Tyrone, Sir Martin and Lady Beresford should spend Christmas at the house or Colonel Gorges, at Kilbrew, Co. Meath. The Beresfords arrived first, and one night, when all the house had retired, Lady Beresford was surprised to see the bedroom door open and Lord , Tyrone walk in dressed in his robe de chambre. She exclaimed, "Good God! what brings you here at this time of night?" He walked up to the bedside and replied, "I left Corroughmore with the intention of coming here. I was taken ill on the road and have just expired. I am come for the ring which I gave you." Lady Beresford, horror struck, pushed Sir Martin to wake him. "He cannot wake while I am here," said Lord Tyrone. "He will die; you will marry the gentleman of this house (Colonel Gorges): you will die in giving birth to your second son, but you shall see me again. Give me the ring!" Lady Beresford, extremely agitated, could not immediately get it off her finger; he seized her hand, and the ring appeared to roll off upon the floor. The next morning Lady Beresford tried to persuade herself that the whole of this scene was the effect of imagination, but on her wrist she found the mark of Lord Tyrone's hand; each finger left a black mark as if it had been burnt. On a desk which stood near the bed, and on which Lord Tyrone had leant, the same trace of five fingers was found. That on Lady Beresford's wrist never was effaced, and to her dying day she wore a black ribbon bracelet to conceal it. The ring was likewise missing .... Lord Tyrone was found dead .... In the course of time Sir Martin died and Lady Beresford married Colonel Gorges. She had three daughters and then a boy. As, during the period of her convalescence, she was going down stairs she suddenly exclaimed, "There is Lord Tyrone! I see him on the landing place!" . . . .and fell back fainting. She died a few days after.
The most disappointing thing about this "accredited" ghost story is that there are two versions, both equally authentic, but contradictory on several points; and searching investigation damages both of them in rather a cruel way. For instance, according to the Irish Peerage, it was not Sir Martin Beresford—who died a generation before—but Sir Tristram Beresford; and this gentleman died three years before Lord Tyrone. In the second place, the Miss Hamilton who took Colonel Gorges for her second husband had borne a mark on her wrist from her youth upwards and had always concealed it by a black velvet bracelet. Lastly, the memoirs of the Gorges family does record that she had a dream warning her against a second marriage; but she certainly does not appear to have died in childbirth. One of her sons became Lord Tyrone.
The Wynyard ghost is also of a familiar type. It is very well accredited, and has always been received as true, though there are several versions differing on minor points. During the American War, Major Wynyard (who afterwards married Lady Matilda West), General Ludlow and Colonel Clinton were dining together in a mess-room at New York. In this room there were but two doors, one of which led to a staircase, and the other to a small press or closet. A man entered at the door, when General Ludlow, the only one of the gentlemen whose head was turned in that direction, exclaimed, "Good God, Harry! what can have brought you here?" The figure only waved its hand, and said nothing. At his friend's exclamation, Major Wynyard turned round, and his astonishment at seeing a brother whom he had left in England was so great that he was unable to speak .... The figure disappeared in the closet pulling the door to after it— there was no egress by any means from the closet—yet the figure could not be found there .... and the day and hour being carefully marked by Colonel Clinton—who had never seen Major Wynyard's brother, and was, therefore, less horrified than his friends—they awaited news from England. The next mails which came thence brought news of the death of Mr. Harry Wynyard which had taken place at the same hour, two days after that on which his brother had seen the figure.
A more curious incident told in Lady Wynn's memoirs (1803) is that which is called Mr. Burke's ghost story. There was an old gentleman who belonged to a literary club, of which Dr. Johnson and Mr. Burke were members, and who was one night missed from their weekly meeting. His absence was the more noticeable because he happened to be president of the evening. While the company were expressing their surprise at this circumstance, they saw their friend enter the room, wrapped in long white gown, his countenance wan and very much fallen. He sat down in his place, and when his friends wondered at his
dress, he waved his hand, nodded to each separately, and disappeared from the room without speaking. No person on the staircase saw him come or go; but his residence being near the place of meeting, a messenger was sent thither, only to return with the melancholy intelligence that their friend had about ten minutes of a violent fever, the most surprising thing about this story is its unexpected epilogue. Many years after an old woman sent to Mr. Burke to make a dying confession to him. The confession was that she had been nurse to the old gentleman (Mr. Burke's friend) during a violent fever; that she had been given orders not to leave the room during the crisis of the fever lest the patient should attempt to get up. But she had neglected her duty and had gone out to see a neighbour. When she returned she found her patient gone. In a few minutes he returned and expired immediately. When she heard the inquiries made (and presumably the ghost story told) she was well aware what had given birth to them, but was at that time prevented from confessing the truth!
Another type of ghost story is that of Mrs. Ricketts, whose brother was the famous Lord St. Vincent, and whose daughter married the seventh Earl of North Esk. When Captain Ricketts went to sea he established his wife in a house where a Mr. Legge, a man of very shady character, had lived. There was a story subsequently unearthed that Mr. Legge had buried a natural child somewhere in the house. Mrs. Ricketts was sitting alone in the evening about nine o'clock when she was startled by the singular terror expressed by her cat: the animal started from its slumbers on the hearth, darted frantically about the room, and finally took refuge in Mrs. Ricketts' gown. Mrs. Ricketts rose in alarm to summon a servant when her ear was struck by a tremendous noise in the room overhead; it had the sound of tearing up the boards of the floor with the utmost violence and throwing: them about. Mrs.
Ricketts and the servants went upstairs. They searched the house, but nothing was to be found. Next night the disturbance was renewed, and after the floor breaking ceased three voices were heard distinctly, that of a female and two males. The female seemed to plead in agony for some boon; one of the men seemed to answer in a grave, mournful tone; and another voice deep and harsh sounded angrily and positively. No distinct words could be made out, but now and then the voices seemed so close that you would have thought that by putting out your hand you could have touched the speakers: and to this succeeded a strain of soft aerial music; and was followed by a series of dreadful piercing shrieks, the whole occupying altogether not less than half an hour. In the memoirs of the Northesk family there are one or two references to this story. One account says that Lord St. Vincent (then Sir J.Jervis) coming home from sea and finding his sister in a great state of nervous prostration owing to these visitations, had the house examined; and that a deal box was found with the skeleton of a child in it. Another reference to the story asserts that Mrs. Ricketts kept a journal of the visitations, and got those of her servants whom she could prevail upon to stay with her to sign it; and still another, that Lord St. Vincent and his brother-in-law conducted the investigations of the haunted house and its secret in private, that something dreadful had happened—was seen, was heard—of which neither of them in later years could ever be prevailed upon to speak.
The times in which Mrs. Ricketts and Lord Lyttleton lived were indeed prolific in ghosts: and the fashion in them continued well into the beginning of the present century. The Cock Lane ghost—
a vulgar imposture too well known to merit repetition here—the Stockwell ghost and the Hammersmith ghost, are all eighteenth-century or early nineteenth century ghosts. The Stockwell ghost was one which was supposed to break the crockery of a Mrs. Stockwell in the most extraordinary way. Ultimately the ghost resolved itself into an ingenious deception practised by Mrs. Golding's servant, Anne Robinson. She afterwards confessed to the clergyman of the parish that she managed a good deal of it by fine horsehair attached to the crockery. The Hammersmith ghost was never found out; but was chiefly remarkable for procuring the death of a bricklayer who was shot in mistake by a young man waiting for the ghost with a gun. A ghost which is a very picturesque one in its way, and which has received a testimonial to its reasonableness in recent times, is the Hoby Ghost. The family of the Hoby's in Berkshire have a portrait of the wife of Sir Thomas Hoby, who was an ambassador to the Court of France in the time of Queen Elizabeth. She is painted in her widow's weeds with a very white face and hands, and wearing a white coif and wimple. Before the death of a member of the family she is seen to walk about the picture gallery, with a self-supported basin borne in front of her, and in the basin she is for ever washing her hands. The legend is that in a fit of anger she beat her little son William—so that he died—because he would not write in his copybook without making blots. Thirty years ago some alterations were made at the Hoby mansion: and behind a wainscoat in the picture gallery, near the picture, were found a child's schoolbooks, and his copybook. In the copybook not a single line but was blotted.
