by William Howitt.
Originally published in Howitt's Journal (William Lovett) vol.2 #35 (28 Aug 1847).
One fine, blustering autumn day, a quiet and venerable-looking old gentleman might be seen, with stick in hand, taking his way through the streets of Leicester. If any one had followed him, they would have found him directing his steps towards that side of the town which leads to Charnwood. The old gentleman, who was a Quaker, took his way leisurely, but thoughtfully, stopping every now and then to see what the farmer's men were about, who were ploughing up the stubbles to prepare for another year's crop. He paused, also, at this and that farmhouse, evidently having a real pleasure in the sight of good, fat cattle, and in the flocks of poultry, fowls, ducks, geese, and turkeys, busy about the barn-door, where the sound of the flail, or the swipple, as they there term it, was already heard, busily knocking out the corn of the last bountiful harvest. Our old friend—a Friend: for though you, dear readers, do not know him, he is both, or rather was, at the time we speak of—our old friend, again trudging on, would pause on the brow of a hill, at a stile, or on some rustic bridge, casting its little obliging arch over a brooklet, and inhale the fresh autumn air, and after looking around him, nod to himself, as if to say, "Ay! all good, all beautiful!" and so he went on again. But it would not be long before he would be again arrested by clusters of rich, jetty blackberries, hanging from some old hawthorn hedge, or by clusters of nuts, hanging by the way-side, through the copse. In all these natural beauties our old wayfarer seemed to have the enjoyment of a child. Blackberries went into his mouth, and nuts into his pockets; and so, with a quiet, inquiring, and thoughtful, yet thoughtfully cheerful look, the good old man went on.
He seemed bound for a long walk, and yet he seemed in no hurry. In one place he stopped to talk to a very old labourer, who was clearing out a ditch; and if you had been near, you would have heard that their discourse was of the past days, and the changes in that part of the country, which the old labourer thought were very much for the worse—and worse they were for him: for formerly he was young, and full of life, and now he was old, and nearly empty of life. Then he was buoyant, sang songs, made love, went to wakes and merry-makings; now his wooing days, and his marrying and his married days were over. His good old dame, who in those young buxom days was a round-faced, rosy, plump and light-hearted damsel, was dead, and his children were married, and had enough to do. In those days the poor fellow was strong and lusty, had no fear and no care; in these he was weak and tottering, had been pulled and harassed a thousand ways, and was left, as he said, like an old dry kex, i.e. a hemlock, or cow-parsnip stalk, to be knocked down and trodden into the dust some day. Yes, sure enough, those past days were very much better days than these days were to him. No comparison. But John Basford, our old wanderer, was taking a more cheerful view of things, and telling the nearly out-worn labourer, that when the night came there followed morning, and that the next would be a heavenly morning, shining on hills of glory, on waters of life, on cities of the blest, where no sun rose, and no sun set, and where every joyful creature of joyful youth, who had been dear to him and true to him and God, would again meet him, and make times such as should cause songs of praise to spring out of his heart, just as flowers spring out of a vernal tree in the rekindled warmth of the sun.
The old labourer leaned reverently on his spade, as the worthy man talked to him. His grey locks, uncovered at his labour by any hat, were tossed in the autumn wind. His dim eye was fixed on the distant sky, that rolled its dark masses of clouds on the wind, and the deep wrinkles of his pale and feeble temples seemed to grow deeper at the thoughts passing in him. He was listening as to a sermon, that brought together his youth and his age, his past and his future; and there was verified on that spot words which Jesus Christ spoke nearly two thousand years before—"Wherever two or three are met together in my name, there am I in the midst of them." He was in the midst of the two only. There was a temple there in those open fields, sanctified by two pious hearts, which no ringing of bells, no sound of solemn organ, or voice of congregated singers, nor any preacher but the present and invisible one, who there and then fulfilled his promise and was gracious, one who was felt though not seen, could have made more holy.
As our old friend again turned to set forward, he shook the old labourer kindly by the hand, and there was a gaze of astonishment in the poor old man's face—the stranger had not only cheered him by his words, but left something to cheer him when he was gone.
The Friend now went on with a more determined step. He skirted the memorable park of Bradgate, famous for the abode of Lady Jane Gray, and the visit of her school-master, Roger Ascham. He went on then into a region of woods and hills. At some seven or eight miles from Leicester he drew near a solitary farmhouse, within the ancient limits of the Forest of Charnwood. It was certainly a lonely place amidst the woodlands, and the wild autumn fields. Evening was fast dropping down; and as the shade of night fell on the scene, the wind tossed more rushingly the boughs of the thick trees, and roared down the rocky valley. John Basford went up to the farmhouse, however, as if that were the object of his journey, and a woman opening it at his knock, he soon disappeared within.
Now our old friend was a perfect stranger here. Had never been here before; had no acquaintance, nor actual business with the inhabitants. He stated merely that he was somewhat fatigued with his walk from the town, and requested leave to rest awhile. In such a place such a request is readily and even gladly granted. There was a cheerful fire burning on a bright, clean hearth. The kettle was singing on the hob for tea, and the contrast of the indoor comfort was sensibly heightened by the wild gloom without. The farmer's wife, who had admitted the stranger, soon went out and called her husband from the fold-yard. He was a plain, hearty sort of a man; gave our friend a hearty shake of the hand, sate down, and began to converse. A little time seemed to establish a friendly interest between the stranger, and the farmer, and his wife. John Basford asked whether they would allow him to smoke a pipe, which was not only readily accorded, but the farmer joined him, They smoked and talked alternately of the country and the town, Leicester being the farmer's market, and as familiar to him as his own neighbourhood. He soon came to know who his guest was too, and expressed much pleasure in the visit. Tea was carried into the parlour, and thither they all adjourned: for now the farming men were coming into the kitchen, where they sate, for the evening.
Tea over, the two gentlemen again had a pipe, and the conversation wandered over a multitude of things, and people known to both. But the night was come down pitch dark, wild, and windy, and old John Basford had to return to Leicester.
"To Leicester!" exclaimed at once man and wife.
"To Leicester!" No such thing. He must stay where he was,—where could he be better?
John Basford confessed that was true; he had great pleasure in conversing with them, but then was it not an unwarrantable liberty to come to a stranger's house, and make thus free?
"Not in the least," the farmer replied; "the freer the better!"
The matter thus was settled; and the evening wore on; but in the course of the evening the guest, whose simple manner, strong sense, and deeply pious feeling, had made a most favourable impression on his entertainers, hinted that he had heard some singular rumours regarding this house, and that, in truth, had been the cause which had attracted him thither. He had heard, in fact, that a particular chamber in this house was haunted, and he had for a long time felt a growing desire to pass a night in it. He now begged that that favour might be granted him.
As he had opened this subject, an evident cloud, and something of an unpleasant surprise, had fallen on the countenances of both man and wife. It deepened as John Basford proceeded; the farmer had withdrawn his pipe from his mouth, and laid it on the table, and the woman had risen up and looked uneasily at their guest. The moment that he uttered the wish to sleep in the haunted room, both exclaimed, in the same instant, against it.
"No, never!" they exclaimed; "never, on any consideration! They had made a fair resolve on that point, that nothing would induce them to break through."
The guest expressed himself disappointed, but did not press the matter further at the moment. He contented himself with turning the conversation quietly upon this subject, and after a while found the farmer and his wife confirmed to him everything that he had heard. Once more then, and as incidentally, he expressed his regret that he could not gratify the curiosity which had brought him so far, and before the time for retiring had arrived, again ventured to express how what he had now heard had added to his previous desire to pass a night in that room. He did not profess to believe himself invulnerable to fears of such a kind, but was curious to convince himself of the actual existence of spiritual agency of this character.
The farmer and his wife steadily refused. They declared that others who had come with the same wish, and had been allowed to gratify it, had suffered such terrors as had made their after lives miserable. The last of these guests was a clergyman, who received such a fright that he sprang from his bed at midnight, had descended, gone into the stable, and, saddling his horse, had ridden away at full speed. Those things had caused them to refuse, and, that firmly, any fresh experiment of the kind.
The spirit visitation was described to be generally this. At midnight the stranger sleeping in that room would hear the latch of the door raised, would in the dark perceive a light step enter, and as with a stealthy tread, cross the room, and approach the foot of the bed. The curtains would be agitated, and something would be perceived mounted on the bed, and proceeding up it, just on the body of the person in it. The supernatural visitant would then seem to stretch itself full length on the person of the agitated guest; and the next moment he would feel an oppression at his chest as of a nightmare, and something extremely cold would touch his face.
At this crisis the terrified guest would usually utter a fearful shriek, and often go into a swoon. The whole family would be roused from their beds by the alarm; but on no occasion had any trace of the cause of terror been found, though the house had been, on such occasions, everywhere diligently searched. The annoying visit was described as being by no means uniform. Sometimes it would not take place for a very long time, so that they would begin to hope that there would be no more of it; but it would, when least expected, again occur. Few people, of late years, however, had ventured to sleep in that room, and never since the aforementioned clergyman was so terribly alarmed, and that was two years ago, had it once been occupied.
"Then," said John Basford, "it is probable that the annoyance is done with for ever. If the troublesome visitant was still occasionally present, it would, no doubt, take care to manifest itself in some mode or place. It was necessary to test the matter, to see whether this particular room still was subject to so strange a phenomenon." The old man urged his suit all the more earnestly, and after further show of extreme reluctance on the part of his entertainers, finally prevailed.
The consent once being given, the farmer's wife retired as if to give orders for this mysterious room being prepared. Our friend heard sundry goings to and fro; but at length it was announced to him that all was ready; the farmer and his wife both repeating that they would be much better pleased if Mr. Basford would be willing to sleep in some other room. The old man, however, remained firm to his purpose; he was shown to his chamber, and the maid who led the way stood at some distance from the dreaded door, and pointing to it, bade him good night, and hurried away.
Mr. Basford found himself alone in the haunted room. He looked round, and discovered nothing that should make it differ from any other good and comfortable chamber, or that should give to some invisible agent so singular a propensity as that of disturbing any innocent mortal that nocturnated in it. Whether he felt any nervous terrors, we know not, but as he was come to see all that would or could occur there, he kept himself most vigilantly awake. He lay down in a very good feather bed, extinguished his light, and waited in patience. The time and tide, as they will wait for no man, went on. All sounds of life ceased in the house; nothing could be heard but the rushing wind without, and the bark of the yard dog occasionally amid the soughing blast. Midnight came, and found John Basford wide awake and watchfully expectant. Nothing stirred, but he lay still on the watch. At length—was it so? Did he hear a rustling movement, as it were, near his door; or was it his excited fancy? He raised his head from his pillow, and listened intently. Hush! there is something!—no! it was his contagious mind, ready to hear and see—what?—There was an actual sound of the latch! he could hear it raised! he could not be mistaken. There was a sound as if his door was cautiously opened.—List! it was true; there were soft, stealthy footsteps on the carpet; they came directly towards the bed; they paused at its foot; the curtains were agitated; there were steps on the bed; something crept—did not the heart, and the very flesh of the rash old man now creep too?—and upon him sunk a palpable form, palpable from its pressure, for the night was dark as an oven. There was a heavy weight on his chest; and in the same instant something almost icy cold touched his face!
With a sudden convulsive action the old man flung up his arms, clutched at the terrible object which thus oppressed him, and shouted, with aloud cry, "I have got him! I have got him!"
There was a sound as of a deep growl—a vehement struggle—but John Basford held fast his hold, and felt hat he had something within it huge, shaggy, and powerful. Once more he raised his voice loud enough to arouse the whole house; but it seemed no voice of terror, but one of triumph and satisfaction. In the next instant, the farmer rushed into the room with a light in his hand, and revealed to John Basford that he held in his arms the struggling form of—a huge Newfoundland dog!
"Let him go, sir, in God's name!" exclaimed the farmer, on whose brow drops of real anguish stood and listened in the light of the candle.—"Down stairs, Cæsar!" and the dog, released from the hold of the Quaker, departed, as if much ashamed.
In the same instant the farmer and his wife, who now also came in, dressed, and evidently never having been o bed, were on their knees by the bed side.
"You know it all, sir!" said the farmer. "You see through it. You were too deep and strong-minded to be imposed upon. We were, therefore, afraid of this when you asked to sleep in this room. Promise us now, that while we live you will never reveal what you know,"
They then related to him that this house and chamber had never been haunted by any other than this dog, which had been trained to play the part. That for generations their family had lived on this farm; but some years ago their landlord, having suddenly raised their rent to an amount that they felt they could not give, they were compelled to think of quitting the farm. This was to them an insuperable source of grief. It was the place that all their lives and memories were bound up with, They were extremely cast down. Suddenly it occurred to them to give an ill name to the house. They hit on this scheme, and having practised it well, they did not want long an opportunity of putting it in practice. It had succeeded beyond their utmost expectation. The superstitious fears of their guests were found to be of a force which completely blinded them to any discovery of the truth. There had been occasions when they thought some clumsy accident must have stripped away the delusion—but no! there seemed a thick veil of blindness, a fascination of terror cast over the strongest minds, which nothing could pierce through. Case after case occurred, and the house and farm acquired such a character, that no money, or consideration of any kind, would have induced a fresh tenant to live there. The old tenants continued at their old rent, and the comfortable ghost stretched himself every night in a capacious kennel without any need of disturbing his slumbers by calls to disturb those of the guests of the haunted chamber.
Having made this revelation, the farmer and his wife again implored their guest to preserve their secret.
He hesitated. "Nay," said he, "I think it would not be right to do that. It would be to become a party in a public deception. It would be a kind of fraud on the world and the landlord. It would serve to keep up those superstitious terrors which should be, as speedily as possible, dissipated."
The farmer was in an agony. He rose, and strode to and fro in the room. His countenance grew red and wrathful. He cast dark glances at his guest, whom his wife continued to implore, and who sate silent, and, as it were, lost in reflection.
"And do you think it a right thing, sir, thus to force yourself into a stranger's house and family, and, in spite of the strongest wishes expressed to the contrary, into his very chambers, and that only to do him a mischief? Is that your religion, sir? I thought you had something better in you than that. Am I now to think your mildness and piety were only so much hypocrisy put on to ruin me?"
"Nay, friend, I don't want to ruin thee."
"But ruin me you will, though, if you publish this discovery. Out I must turn, and be the laughing-stock of the whole country to boot. Now if that is what you mean, say so, and I shall know what sort of a man you are. Let me know at once whether you are an honest man or a cockatrice."
"My friend, canst thou call thyself an honest man in practising this deception all these years, and depriving thy landlord of the rent he would otherwise have got from another? And dost thou think it would be honest in me to assist in the continuance of this fraud?"
"I rob the landlord of nothing. I pay a good fair rent, but I don't want to quit th' old spot; and if you had not thrust yourself into the affair, you would have had nothing to lay on your conscience concerning it. I must, let me tell you, look on it as a piece of unwarrantable impertinence to come thus to my house, and be kindly treated, only to turn Judas against us."
The word Judas seemed to hit the Friend a great blow.
"A Judas!"
"Yes! a Judas!" said the farmer, still striding about.
"Yes! a Judas! a real Judas!" exclaimed the wife.
"Who could have thought it?"
"Nay, nay," said the old man. "I am no Judas. It is true I forced myself into it; and if you pay the landlord an honest rent, why, I don't know that it is any business of mine—at least, while you live."
"That is all we want," replied the farmer, his countenance changing, and again flinging himself by his wife's side on his knees by the bed. "Promise us never to reveal it while we live, and we shall be quite satisfied. We have no children, and when we go, those may come to th' old spot who will."
"Promise me never to practise this trick again," said John Basford.
"We promise faithfully," rejoined both farmer and wife.
"Then I promise, too, that not a whisper of what has passed here shall pass my lips during your lifetime."
With warmest expressions of thanks, the farmer and his wife withdrew, and John Basford, having cleared the chamber of its mystery, lay down and passed one of the sweetest nights he ever enjoyed.
The farmer and his wife lived a good many years after this: but they both died before Mr. Basford; and after their death he related to his friends the facts which are here detailed. He, too, has passed, years ago, to his longer night in the grave, and the clearing up of greater mysteries than that of the Haunted House of Charnwood Forest.