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82 twelve. On November 27th, 1902, three peasants were returning from market at Lausanne, and had reached the glen of the Aubepine, when they heard startling noises issue from the mill of Perbet accompanied by screams of terror, and the bellowing of the cattle in the stable that was under the same roof. Next moment they saw the miller's wife—he himself was absent at the time—at the door gesticulating and calling for help. The men hastened to the door, and beheld the two girls writhing in convulsions on the floor, the crockery flying about the kitchen, and the furniture performing a waltz. Next moment a volley of stones was discharged at their heads. The men, panic-struck, crossed themselves and departed to talk about what they had seen. Next day and during several that followed crowds visited the ramshackle mill of Perbet, to witness the performances that continued till the clock, the sacred pictures, the window-panes, the crockery, every article the poor dwelling contained, had been reduced to wreckage. The children were conducted to the parish priest, who exorcised them, but all to no purpose. The editor of the Radical l'Avenir at Le Puy went to the scene, but saw none of the performances. He contented himself with collecting evidence from eye-witnesses, and convinced himself that the phenomena were due to some supernatural cause.

That the two girls were at the bottom of the diablerie admitted of no doubt. It was obvious to all. When they were removed to their uncle's elsewhere, the phenomena ceased at the mill and recommenced in the house into which they had been received.

Nevertheless it occurred to no one, not even to the freethinking editor, that all was due to clever legerdemain.


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Rh A precisely similar exhibition took place in my own neighbourhood many years ago, and was investigated by my father. In this instance there was one girl instead of two who called the performances into existence. My father speedily satisfied himself that they were due to sleight of hand. When a stone flew across the room and smashed a window every eye was turned in the direction taken by the projectile, and the girl obtained thereby an opportunity of providing herself with something fresh to throw. Plates and bowls were made to dance by horsehairs which had been attached to them by dabs of wax.

In the case of the mill of Perbet, it was noticed that the stones flung were warm, in itself a significant token that they had been in the hands of the children or secreted about their persons.

The witnesses at Perbet were doubtless all honourable men and disposed to speak the truth, but it is open to question whether there was one among them capable of observing correctly.

An account of the manifestations at the mill at Perbet found its way into the transactions of the Psychical Research Society in London. But one may say without hesitation that the whole "show was run" by Marie and Philomène, and that the only spirits responsible for the disturbance and damage done were the spirits of the two mischievous girls, who ought to have been exorcised by the use of a stick across their backs instead of Latin prayers.

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/


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Rh milk and dairy produce, but in the Isle of Man the tarroo ushtey only begets monsters and strangely formed beasts.

The kelpie, or, rather, what I take to be a kelpie, was called by my informants a glashtyn; and Kelly, in his Manx Dictionary, describes the object meant as "a goblin, an imaginary animal which rises out of the water". One or two of my informants confused the glashtyn with the Manx brownie. On the other hand, one of them was very definite in his belief that it had nothing human about it, but was a sort of grey colt, frequenting the banks of lakes at night, and never seen except at night.

Mermen and mermaids disport themselves on the coasts of Man, but I have to confess that I have made no careful inquiry into what is related about them; and my information about the giants of the island is equally scanty. To tell you the truth, I do not recollect hearing of more than one giant, but that was a giant; for I have seen the marks of his huge hands impressed on the top of two massive monoliths. They stand in a field at Balla Keeill Pherick, on the way down from the Sloc to Colby. I was told there were originally five of these stones standing in a circle, all of them marked in the same way by the same giant as he hurled them down there from where he stood, miles away on the top of the mountain called Cronk yn Irree Laa. Here I may mention that the Manx word for a giant is foawr, in which a vowel-flanked m has been spirited away, as shown by the modern Irish spelling, fomhor. This, in the plural in old Irish, appears as the name of the Fomori, so well known in Irish legend, which, however, does not always represent them as giants, but rather as monsters. I have been in the habit of explaining the word as meaning submarini; but no more are they invariably connected with the sea. So another etymology recommends itself, namely, one which makes the mor in fomori to be of the same origin as the mare in the English nightmare, French cauchemar, German mahr, 'an elf', and cognate words. This suggestion comes from Dr. Whitley Stokes.


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Hadrian de Castello


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 286 The Manx brownie is called the Fenodyree, and he is described as a hairy, clumsy fellow, who would, for instance, thrash a whole barnful of corn in a single night for the people to whom he felt well disposed; and once on a time he undertook to bring down for the farmer his wethers from Snæfell. When the Fenodyree had safely put them in an outhouse, he said that he had some trouble with the little ram, as it had run three times round Snaefell that morning. The farmer did not quite understand him, but on going to look at the sheep, he found, to his infinite surprise, that the little ram was no other than a hare, which, poor creature, was dying of fright and fatigue. I need scarcely point out the similarity between this and the story of Peredur, who, as a boy, drove home a doe with his mother's goats from the forest: he owned, as you will remember, to having had some trouble with the goat that had so long run wild as to have lost her horns, a circumstance which had greatly impressed him. To return to the Fenodyree, I am not sure that there were more than one in Man; but two localities at least are assigned to him, namely, a farm called Ballachrink, in Colby, in the south, and a farm called Lanjaghan in the parish of Conchan, near Douglas. Much the same stories, however, appear to be current about him in the two places, and one of the most curious of them is that which relates how he left. The farmer so valued the services of the Fenodyree, that one day he took it into his head to provide clothing for him. The Fenodyree examined each article carefully, and expressed his idea of it, and specified the kind of disease it was calculated to produce. In a word, he found that the clothes would make head and foot sick, and he departed in disgust, saying to the farmer, "Though this place is thine, the great Glen of Rushen is not." Glen Rushen is one of the most retired glens in the island, and it drains down through Glen Meay to the coast,


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Rh some miles to the south of Peel. It is to Glen Rushen, then, that the Fenodyree is supposed to be gone; but on visiting that valley last year in quest of Manx-speaking peasants, I could find nobody there who knew anything of him. I suspect that the spread of the English language even there has forced him to leave the island altogether. Lastly, with regard to the term Fenodyree, I may mention that it is the word used in the Manx Bible of 1819 for satyr in Is. xxxiv, 14, where we read in the English Bible as follows: "The wild beasts of the desert shall also meet with the wild beasts of the island, and the satyr shall cry to his fellow." In the Vulgate the latter clause reads: "et pilosus clamabit alter ad alterum." The term Fenodyree has been explained by Cregeen in his Manx Dictionary to mean one who has hair for stockings or hose. That answers to the description of the hairy satyr, and seems fairly well to satisfy the phonetics of the case, the words from which he derives the compound being fynney, 'hair', and oashyr, 'a stocking'; but as oashyr seems to come from the old Norse hosur, the plural of hosa, 'hose or stocking', the term Fenodyree cannot date before the coming of the Norsemen; and I am inclined to think the idea more Teutonic than Celtic; at any rate I need not point out to you the English counterparts of this hairy satyr in the hobgoblin, 'Lob lie by the Fire', and Milton's Lubber Fiend, whom he describes as one that


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Hadow, James


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Hadley, John (1731-1764)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Hadley, John (1682-1744)


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86 Beyraud, in a small habitation near the inn, in or about 1802. They had two daughters, Jeanne, born in 1800, and Marguerite, born after they came to this farm, in 1805. Martin and his wife did well there, by what means we do not know, but he speedily grew so easy in his circumstances that he purchased a site and land of Beyraud, and built a new inn which was completed in 1808.

This building still stands, very slightly altered. It is a long, low structure of granite and lava, with a huge stable, coachhouse, and loft over it adjoining. The front door from the road gave access to the kitchen, dimly lighted by one small hole of a window. In this kitchen was a large fireplace, beside which was the staircase leading to the upper floor, where were the principal bedrooms. On the left a door gave access to the salle-à-manger, lighted by two small windows. Beyond this was a washhouse, within it a huge oven in which Martin and his wife cremated the bodies of their victims. It must have been contrived for this purpose when the house was built, for it could serve no other, and since their time it has been destroyed. There was and is still an oven for domestic purposes in the kitchen. Behind this range of apartments was the bedroom of the Martins, husband and wife, adjoining it that of the two daughters and the servant-man Jean Rochette, and in rear of the washhouse a cellar. From the kitchen access was obtained by a door to the coachhouse. The vast stable had a door on to the road, and another at the further end. Above the stable the hayloft was reached by a sloping ascent from the ground. In the upper story of the dwelling-house were four bedrooms opening out of a wide passage in which was a fold-up


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Hadley, George (d.1798)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Hadley, George (1685-1768)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Hadfield, William


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Hadfield, Matthew Ellison


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Rh cupboard bed, and from which a doorway led into the hayloft.

Pierre Martin, towards the end of his life, had an appearance somewhat patriarchal, with long flowing hair almost white. He had a high colour in his cheeks, and was a short, thick-set man. His forehead was retreating, his mouth firm. In manner he was unctuous, and he affected to be gracious.

His wife Marie, or Marion as commonly called, was a woman of avaricious, violent character, with a strength of will and decision capable of urging on her husband and servant to the worst deeds. Their servant, Jean Rochette, was born in 1785; he was a strongly built man, with auburn hair, large bright eyes, and a face at variance with the ferocity of his character; he was aged forty-eight when executed.

The new inn at Peyrabeille (the Old Stone) was much frequented, lying on the main road from Clermont and Le Puy to Aubenas and Viviers, consequently linked with the Rhone valley as also with Langonne, the great cattle market for the farmers and cattle-breeders of the Margeride; merchants, dealers, colporteurs passed and repassed it, and as habitations were few and inns still fewer, and such as there were of the most wretched description, Peyrabeille could not be gone by without some refreshment being taken there, and in stormy and cold weather the blazing fire kept up in the kitchen out of wood from the forest of Bauzon lured travellers to stay.

Baron Haussmann, in his Memoirs, relates a visit made to this inn in 1832. He was then sous-préfet of Yssingeaux:—

"It was six o'clock at night. We decided reluctantly to


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 288 The fairies claim our attention next, and as the only other fairies tolerably well known to me are those of Wales, I can only compare, or contrast, the Manx fairies with the Welsh ones. They are called in Manx, Sleih Beggey, or Little People, and Ferrishyn, from the English word fairies, as it would seem. Like the Welsh fairies, they kidnap babies; and I have heard it related how a woman in Dalby had a struggle with the fairies over her baby, which they were trying to drag out of the bed from her. Like Welsh fairies, also, they take possession of the hearth after the farmer and his family are gone to bed. A farmer in Dalby used to hear them making a big fire in his kitchen: he used to hear the crackling and burning of the fire when nobody else could have been there except the fairies and their friends. I said "friends", for they sometimes take a man with them, and allow him to eat with them at the expense of others. Thus, some men from the northernmost parish, Kirk Bride, went once on a time to Port Erin, in the South, to buy a supply of fish for the winter, and with them went a Kirk Michael man who had the reputation of being a persona grata with the fairies. Now one of the Port Erin men asked a man from the North who the Michael man might be: he was curious to know his name, as he had seen him once before, and then the Michael man was with the fairies at his house—the Port Erin man's house—regaling himself with bread and cheese in company with the fairies.

Like Welsh fairies, the Manx ones take men away with them and detain them for years. Thus a Kirk Andreas man was absent from his people for four years, which he spent with the fairies. He could not tell how he returned, but it seemed as if, having been unconscious, he woke up at last in this world. The other world, however, in which he was for the four years was not far away, as he could see what his brothers and the rest of the family were doing every day, although they could not see him. To prove this, he mentioned to them how they were occupied on such and such


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88 stay anywhere for the night, dine, and rest our horses. We halted at a lonely inn at the crossing of two roads on a bleak plateau of most melancholy appearance. Darkness settled down, and the stars did not suffice to show the way. We were reluctantly induced to spend the night there. But it was stifling in the kitchen, which served also as salle-à-manger and as salon, and to take a breath of air we had opened the door, which the host had already barricaded. A light appeared between the mountains, and we soon became aware that the moon was about to rise. The prospect of escaping from beds of doubtful cleanliness to go elsewhere to rest where less suspicious, made us, late as it was, determine to proceed. We ordered our horses to be saddled, turning a deaf ear to the solicitations of our hosts, whom we urged to draw up our bill. Midnight struck when we arrived, greatly exhausted, at Le Puy."

Eight months later the papers rang with news of the arrest of the host and hostess and servant of the inn for repeated murders of their guests, whose bodies they burned in an oven. Among those who had disappeared was a stout cattle-dealer whom Haussmann and his companion had that night met in the tavern, and with whom they had held discussion.

It is doubtful whether the Martins would have ventured to assassinate two men so well known as Haussmann and his comrade, M. Dumoulin. Possibly, had they stayed the night, it would have saved the life of the cattle-dealer.

The Martins were cautious to treat well and leave unmolested persons of some condition, whose disappearance would rouse inquiry. Moreover, they did not always assassinate their victims in the house, but waylaid them at a distance, and disposed of the bodies in lava chasms or snow-drifts.


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Rh Only a fraction of their misdeeds came to light. At their trial such cases alone were brought up against them of which evidence was procurable to convict. Indubitably other persons were involved, sending information of intending lodgers well furnished with money, in advance of the arrival of the guests. Furthermore, André Martin, the nephew, aged thirty-five, was acquitted, although no doubt whatever existed that he had assisted in some of the murders. I will give a summary of the cases proved against the Martins and their man.

In 1808 Europe was the theatre of considerable wars, there was the continental blockade, the war in Spain and Portugal. The difficulties with Rome obliged Napoleon to raise 270,000 conscripts, torn from their families to lay their bones on foreign battlefields. The dislike to conscription caused many young men to retire into hiding away from their homes, and others to desert after enrolment. These were the object of incessant research by the imperial gendarmerie. Among such was a young fellow of twenty called Claude Béraud, son of well-to-do parents near Le Puy, who had already lost one son at Jena, and another was with the army of occupation of Naples, but had not been heard of for long. His parents furnished Claude with money sewn into a leather belt he was to wear next his skin, and bade him hide till the search was over. One winter night, in 1808, this unfortunate young man came to the inn at Peyrabeille and asked to be taken in. Snow was falling, and a storm raging. He was received, and incautiously told his hosts what he was and that he was well supplied with money. They made up for him a roaring fire, and gave him hot spiced wine as he sat


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90 over it. The change from the cold without to the heat within made him drowsy, and as he nodded, Pierre Martin struck the leg of his chair and upset the youth, about whose neck Rochette at once slipped a thong and strangled him. The body was searched, the belt taken off, and the pockets emptied. From the belt 350 francs were taken; from the pockets a peculiarly ornamented knife, which Jean Rochette appropriated, and a watch from which hung a piece of cornelian in the form of a disc. It was by identifying these latter articles twenty-five years later that the parents of Claude first learned his fate.

When he was dead, Pierre Martin and the serving-man carried the body to a distance, leaving a little loose silver in the pocket, and threw it into a snowdrift that filled a ditch. Not till late in the spring was the corpse found, and then it was so disfigured by wolves that identification was impossible, and the money in the pocket led the police to suppose that the death was due to accident.

In the month of July, 1812, Jean Rochette received news through a wagoner who halted at the inn that a stranger, presumedly a merchant and well-to-do, was on his way thither, and might or might not spend the night at Peyrabeille. He was riding on an apple-grey horse with a long tail, and had holsters to his saddle with pistols in them.

At six o'clock in the evening this man arrived, looked at the tavern, and not relishing its appearance was pushing on, when Jeanne, then aged fourteen, ran out, and standing before the horse, entreated the man to make proof of her mother's kitchen; at the same time Rochette came out and joined in persuading him


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Rh to alight. The traveller was on his way, he said, to Pradelles, and could not reach it till well on in the night. The merchant allowed himself to be persuaded, and surrendered the horse to the servant, who took it to the stables and at once removed the pistols from their cases. The stranger, whose name never transpired, remained in the inn and dined there; he did not leave till eight o'clock, when night was falling. He had not observed that whilst he was at his meal the two men, Martin and his servant, had disappeared.

After departing, he had gone some way on the road to Pradelles, when from a coppice the host and Rochette leaped out on him, and Martin dealt him a blow with a cudgel on the back of his head which sent him from his horse. Martin then laid hold of the bridle and bade his man finish the stranger. So soon as the traveller was dead he was robbed, despoiled of most of his clothes, and then the body flung across the saddle, the horse led to a great distance, and the corpse thrown into a cleft in the rock, and pieces of granite heaped upon it.

Some days later a couple of poachers after a fox pursued the animal till it took refuge in this very cleft, and in removing the stones to reach it discovered the dead man. The tidings of what had been found was buzzed about, but the police acted in such leisurely fashion that they did not go to the spot till three days after its discovery, and then—the body had disappeared. Pierre Martin had removed and cremated it in his oven. He took the horse, after having docked its tail, to Le Puy to sell it at a fair, but a dealer there seemed to recognise it, and asked inconvenient questions, so Martin hastily left, and he and Rochette killed the beast and buried it.


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92 In the same year a farmer named Brisac, living at no great distance, having sold some hay to Pierre Martin, went one morning very early, as dawn was breaking, to claim his money. On reaching Peyrabeille his surprise was great to see a strong light gleaming from the crevices of the door and the curtained window. He knocked with his stick, but only after some delay did a voice from within ask who he was and what he wanted. He stated his business; the woman Martin opened, and seemed to be somewhat disconcerted and in a very bad temper. The morning was raw, and Brisac went to the hearth, where he saw it piled up into faggots, making a huge blaze about a cauldron suspended in the flames, and the ebullition was so great that the lid of the cauldron was in constant agitation to emit the steam. At the same time, whatever was boiling sent forth a peculiar and disagreeable odour, as from something decayed.

Pierre Martin and his wife were obviously impatient to be rid of their creditor, and Pierre left the room to fetch the money that was due. Brisac seized the opportunity as Marie Martin's back was turned to lift the lid of the cauldron, and to his horror beheld a human hand. As he dropped the lid Pierre re-entered, observed what he had done, and fixing his eyes on Brisac, said to him sternly: "Here is your money. Be off, and take care that not a word as to what you have seen here passes your lips. If you forget my warning, you are a lost man."

Brisac took the money and fled the house, and never again set foot across its threshold. Such, however, is the cowardice of the peasant, his fear of compromising himself, his shyness of having anything to do with the


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 Rh a day, and, among other things, how they took their corn on a particular day to Ramsey. He reminded them also of their having heard a sudden sharp crack as they were passing by a thorn-bush he named, and how they were so startled that one of them would have run back home. He asked them if they remembered that, and they said they did, only too well. He then explained to them the meaning of the noise, namely, that one of the fairies with whom he had been galloping about the whole time was about to let fly an arrow at his brothers, but that as he was going to do this, he (the missing brother) raised a plate and intercepted the arrow; that was the sharp noise they had heard. Such was the account he had to give of his sojourn in Faery. This representation of the world of the fairies, as contained within the ordinary world of mortals, is very remarkable; but it is not a new idea, as we seem to detect it in the Irish story of the abduction of Conla Rúad : the fairy who comes to fetch him tells him that the Folk of Tethra, whom she represents, behold him every day as he takes part in the assemblies of his country and sits among his friends. The commoner way of putting it is simply to represent the fairies as invisible to mortals at will; and one kind of Welsh story relates how the mortal midwife accidentally touches her eyes, while dressing a fairy baby, with an ointment which makes the fairy world visible to her.

Like Welsh fairies, the Manx ones had, as you have seen from this, horses to ride; they had also dogs, just as the Welsh ones had. This I learn from another story, to the effect that a fisherman, taking a fresh fish home, was pursued by a pack of fairy dogs, so that it was only with great trouble he reached his own door. Then he picked up a stone and threw it at the dogs, which at once disappeared; but he did not escape, as he was shot by the fairies, and so hurt that he lay ill for fully six months from that day. He would have been left alone by the


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 290 fairies, I was told, if he had only taken care to put a pinch of salt in the fish's mouth before setting out, for the Manx fairies cannot stand salt or baptism. So children that have been baptized are, as in Wales, less liable to be kidnapped by these elves than those that have not. I scarcely need add that a twig of cuirn or rowan is also as effective against fairies in Man as it is against them in Wales. Manx fairies seem to have been musical, like their kinsmen elsewhere; for I have heard of an Orrisdale man crossing the neighbouring mountains at night and hearing fairy music, which took his fancy so much that he listened, and tried to remember it. He had, however, to return, it is said, three times to the place before he could carry it away complete in his mind, which he succeeded in doing at last just as the day was breaking and the musicians disappearing. This air, I am told, is now known by the name of the Bollan Bane, or White Wort. I believe that there are certain Welsh airs similarly supposed to have been derived from the fairies.

So far I have pointed out hardly anything but similarities between Manx fairies and Welsh ones, and I find very little indicative of a difference. First, with regard to salt, I am unable to say anything in this direction, as I do not happen to know how Welsh fairies regard salt; it is not improbable that they eschew salt as well as baptism, especially as the Church of Rome has long associated salt with baptism. There is, however, one point at least of difference between the fairies of Man and of Wales: the latter are, so far as I can call to mind, never known to


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 Rh discharge arrows at men or women, or to handle a bow at all, whereas Manx fairies are always ready to shoot. May we, therefore, provisionally regard this trait of the Manx fairies as derived from a Teutonic source? At any rate English and Scotch elves were supposed to shoot, and I am indebted to the kindness of my colleague. Prof Napier, for calling my attention to the Saxon Leechdoms for cases in point.

Now that most of the imaginary inhabitants of Man and its coasts have been rapidly passed in review before you, I may say something of others whom I regard as semi-imaginary, real human beings to whom impossible attributes are ascribed; I mean chiefly the witches, or, as they are sometimes called in Manx English, butches. That term I take to be a variant of the English word witch, produced under the influence of the verb bewitch, which was reduced in Manx English to a form butch, especially if one bear in mind the Cumbrian and Scotch pronunciation of these words, as wutch and bewutch. Now witches shift their form, and I have heard of one old witch changing herself into a pigeon; but that I am bound to regard as exceptional, the regular form into which Manx witches pass at their pleasure being that of the hare, and such a swift and thick-skinned hare that no greyhound, except a black one without a single white hair, can catch it, and no shot, except a silver coin, penetrate its body. Both these peculiarities are also well known in Wales. I notice a difference, however, between Wales and Man with regard


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Rh Both indicate that a great high road of ancient date led this way. In fact, that road was the main artery of communication between France proper and Languedoc. It was up this road that Caesar pressed in his memorable winter march when he surprised the Arverni.

The great road came down from Clermont to Le Puy, passed over the tableland to near the source of the Ardèche, and followed down that river to Aubenas and thence into the Rhone valley. At almost the highest point, 3,850 feet above the sea, in a bleak spot away from other human habitations, stood a hostelry, Peyrabeille, at which travellers were almost bound to halt to refresh or to pass the night. Faujas de Saint Fond, who was almost the first man to draw attention to the volcanic phenomena of the district, visited Peyrabeille in or about 1770, and he wrote: "There is no habitation so isolated as this inn; and not a year passes that solitary travellers do not find their safety in this shelter." If he had lived seventy years later he would not have used the same flattering language about it, for after that the family of Martin-Blanc took the tavern; for twenty-five years it became a murderous den, in which the travellers who lodged there were robbed and sent to their long rest. It was never known how many were there murdered, but it was believed that some sixty had become the victims of Pierre Martin, his wife, and his serving-man, and with what was taken from them the taverner bought up land and extended his possessions on all sides. Not till 1833 was this murderous band convicted and guillotined beside the inn, the scene of their crimes.

Pierre Martin, called also Blanc, with his wife Marie, came first of all as tenant farmer to a man named


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Rh police, that it was not till the Martins were in prison that he ventured to relate what he had seen, and he appeared in court with his evidence only when it was certain that they could do him no harm. The next case illustrates this timidity even more clearly. I will quote the deposition of the witness textually. It is that of Vincent Boyer, tinner, aged twenty-nine.

"One day, in the winter of 1824, I was going to my family at Aubenas, when I was surprised by the bad weather (the land was covered with snow), and I was forced to stay at the Martins' inn at Peyrabeille. I saw several persons there, notably an old man also delayed by the bad weather and forced to pass the night there. Martin's wife having invited me to draw near to the fire, entered into conversation with me, and questioned me on my gains in my trade, and as to how much money I had with me. She told me that there was a band of robbers in the neighbourhood, and she asked me what I would do if attacked by them. 'I would give up to them the thirty sous I have with me and be off.' 'But,' said she, 'supposing that they were disposed to kill another man and let you alone, what would you do?' 'I would defend him at the peril of my life if I saw there was a chance of saving him. If not, I would let be.' 'Are you a heavy sleeper? ' 'Very. When once asleep you might remove the house without awaking me.'

"This strange questioning frightened me; I saw clearly enough into what company I had got. However, I did my best to disguise my suspicions. After having catechised me, the woman Martin went to the old man and asked him the cause of his journey. He replied without mistrust that he had sold a cow and was taking the money back with him. This lack of reticence further alarmed me.

"Bed-time arrived. The people of the house told us plainly enough to go to our respective chambers aloft. Then


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94 only did some suspicion cross the mind of the old man, and he asked to share the same room with me, but this was peremptorily refused.

"They led us to our separate bedrooms at some little distance apart. I heard the old man make some demur as to his, and a voice replied: 'Manage as you will. There is no other room for you.' Then I heard the door of his chamber shut, and whoever had led him to his room descended. One of the girls had conducted me to my chamber, and she recommended me not to leave my door open, speaking in a tone that expressed an order.

"As soon as the girl Martin had left I examined my bed, and was horrified to find on the bolster splashes of blood as big as the bottom of a pail. I went to bed more dead than alive. At the end of about an hour some one entered my room, thinking that I was aleep—I made good pretence that I was so—and searched my pockets, and finding in them no more than the thirty sous, left them there and descended again.

"Two or three hours later I heard strokes at the old man's door, and a voice call, 'Get up, it is time.' There was, however, no response. Then those who had made this noise went back below, but returned in half an hour. They knocked again at the door, repeating the words as before. But seeing that the stranger persisted in refusing to reply, they burst in the door. Immediately I heard cries of 'Help! Help!' But soon the victim uttered no more articulate cries, but such as I can only liken to the squeals of a pig that is being killed. During the accomplishment of the crime—that is to say, whilst the unhappy man was uttering these cries of distress—the two Martin girls, aged twenty-eight and thirty, were keeping guard at my door, laughing in fits and singing. I could compare them only to demons from hell.

"Next morning I rose late, to give the scoundrels time to conceal their crime, and by this means make it safer for myself. The woman Martin asked me how I had slept and if I had


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Rh heard anything. I said that I had been sound asleep all night. I was so frightened, that when I had got a hundred paces from the house I ran the rest of my way as hard as my legs could carry me."

This self-revelation of abject cowardice and meanness in a young man drew from the judges no comment. It was in the nature of the peasant to be such, and comment would be useless. Only they remarked on Boyer having said nothing of what had occurred to the police or any one else for fourteen years. But this also was characteristic.

By means of repeated crimes Pierre Martin had amassed a good deal of money. He bought more land to round off his property, also another house, at a few paces from his own. He was also able to announce that he would give a handsome dot with each of his daughters. This brought a suitor, Philemon Pertuis, son of a well-to-do farmer, above the Martins in position, to ask the hand of Marguerite. They were married, and installed in the house that Pierre had bought. Young Pertuis was a mild, inoffensive man. There is no evidence that he took any part in the crimes, but he became aware of them, and cautioned his father-in-law to be more circumspect; and finally, in 1830, four years after his marriage, quitted the house and went to a distance so as to avoid implication in the misdeeds of the old man and his wife. He also said nothing to the police or to any one else of what he knew or suspected.

In 1826, just two months after the marriage, another crime was attempted, that came to light later.

A farmer, named Michel Hugon, was at the fair at Jaujac, where he sold a drove of young bullocks. He was annoyed at being followed and watched by a little


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Rh charge of theft and imprisoned for six months. In gaol he opened his mouth and complained to his fellow-prisoners that he had helped the innkeeper at Peyrabeille to do a good stroke of business, and that he had not been paid for his assistance; for he could not believe that Hugon had escaped with his money. This got spoken of. Moreover, ugly rumours began to circulate relative to the tavern, but no one was willing to speak out and lay a definite charge against the Martins.

The attempt on Hugon was in May. In June of the same year a pedlar-woman, named Catherine Vercasson, on a very hot day, came to the inn and showed her wares to the Martin girls and their mother, in the hopes that they would purchase. They bought a few trifles, and then Catherine locked her box with a key that she carried suspended to her belt. As she was hot and tired, she asked leave to lie down on a bed for a rest. This was readily accorded. She was given a tumbler of drugged wine, and led to one of the upper rooms, where she was soon fast asleep. As she lay unconscious Jeanne Martin possessed herself of the key, opened the box, and took from it several articles of jewellery, and the mother relieved the pedlar's purse of some of its contents.

Catherine Vercasson woke after a long sleep and unsuspiciously went on her way, but had not gone far before she sat down to count her money, when to her alarm she found that she had been robbed of two louis d'or. She went into the nearest village to sell more of her goods, and, on opening her box, found that that also had been rifled. She was now positive that she had been pillaged at Peyrabeille. She confided her distress to the innkeeper at Lanarce, the village where she was.


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98 He shrugged his shoulders and bade her put a good face on it, and not venture back to reclaim the money and goods. But Catherine was not disposed to accept her losses so easily, and with great difficulty she induced two young men to accompany her to Peyrabeille. They went with her, but no persuasion would induce them to enter the house. The determined woman went in and charged the mother and daughters with the theft, which they stoutly denied. "I will not leave till I receive my money and goods," said she. The women exchanged glances, and the mother bade one of her daughters go out and fetch Pierre and the servant. The girl returned in haste to say that two men were watching the house, but hiding their faces so as not to be recognised. Under these circumstances the three women deemed it expedient to restore the major part of what they had taken, and to pretend that the whole was a practical joke. The story got wind, and increased the suspicion with which the Martins were regarded.

In 1831, the eldest of the daughters was married to a man named Deleyrolles, he also occupying a better social position than the Martins; he was drawn to ask for her by the rich dot that went with her, and he took his wife with him to Vans.

One would have supposed that now all reason for amassing money by crime was taken away. The Martins had no more children for whom to save, and they were very comfortably off themselves. But avarice is insatiable.

Other crimes and attempted crimes I will pass over, to come to the last which led to the arrest of the Martins and their man.

In October, 1831, an old man of seventy-two, named


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102 night. Through all those months his life must have been a perfect hell.

"It turned out that the three of them had met earlier in the evening, dined—at some place where there was no piano!—and come here afterward.

"Well, you know that the brother demanded that Alicia's body be exhumed, which was done—and they found that sure enough she was saturated with arsenic. Pierce pleaded not guilty on grounds of insanity, but the alienists shot his story full of holes. They examined him and they put him in rooms with pianos, and he tried to fake the malady he said he'd been experiencing all along, and they proved that he was just faking. Then he tried to say that he hadn't heard that ghostly piano-playing any more since the minute he'd confessed, and that only made it worse. The prosecution made a monkey out of him. Proved that his business had been perilously close to the rocks, that he had been inordinately jealous of Alicia because of her radio reputation and because she made more money than he did, and that he'd killed Alicia for her insurance. The jury found him guilty in half an hour, and the judge sentenced him to burn. And tonight's the night. That's why you're here.

"Oh, there's one point that I forgot. Remember I said that the reason Pierce broke when he did was one of those jokes of Fate that nobody can forsee or guard against? Well, the joke was this: that same day, while Pierce was out, Mrs. Thomas bought a piano. A little spinet. She'd always wanted one anyway for the reception room, she didn't like Pierce of course and didn't care a damn whether he stayed on or moved out on account of it; so I suppose when she saw it she merely thought, 'The hell with him,' and ordered it sent out. It came that evening, and it was put in the reception room near the door, not ten feet from where Pierce went haywire as he walked into the house.

"But the real reason I've got you up here tonight, Jerry, is this—

"It may all be imagination, but, thinking back after all the commotion and excitement that night had subsided, I can't get out of my mind the notion that, just before Pierce screamed, I heard somebody playing that piano downstairs! Just a fragment of music, just for an instant, and then the scream blotted it out. Music that had a sort of unreal quality to it, as though someone was playing loudly, but at a great distance—like the music that comes across a lake at night, like, Oh, Lord, this is a lame comparison but it's accurate—like music heard when you hold just the needle to a phonograph record, in your fingers. Diminished almost to nothingness, yet strong and powerful. Microscopic, yet full of fury. You understand? And the piece was Dancing in the Wind!

"Jerry, you're here because I believe that I heard that music, that same music that drove Pierce to confess! Maybe it was only an emanation from Pierce's own tortured brain; I don't know. But I am certain that I heard it. There have been times when I thought that I was clairvoyant, Jerry; not tremendously so, like mediums, but just a little bit. And if I'm sensitive at all to such things, I know that you're ten times more so.

"Jerry, I feel that, if it were truly Alicia's spirit driving Harry Pierce to confess through her music, we will hear her play again tonight, for the last time, when he dies. Because she knows that I know the whole story, as no other person on earth knows it. And I feel that if Alicia's spirit exists, and can communicate with us, it will try to get one last message through to me—to let me know—that it lives and that it has triumphed."

I moved uneasily at that, looked down at my glass, which was empty, and shook my head.

"Sorry, John. It doesn't necessarily


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Rh Anjolras, a relative of Pierre Martin, had sold to him a cow at the fair at S. Cirgues, and as he wanted his money asked Martin to pay for it at once. The taverner said he had not the sum by him, but invited Anjolras to accompany him to Peyrabeille, where he would give him what was owed. The old man consented, and went with his kinsman to the fatal inn, which they reached at nightfall.

There were in the house at the time André, the nephew of Pierre Martin, and a girl named Marie Arnaud, the betrothed of André, engaged there at needlework, a pale, serious-faced girl, whose part in what follows is difficult to discover. There was also in the house at the time a beggar named Laurent Chaze, who had asked to be taken in for the night. Pierre Martin, as soon as he entered, demanded roughly what this fellow wanted, and when Chaze stated his requirements he was bidden be off, there was no bed at his disposal. Chaze went forth into the dark, walked some way along the road, then bethought himself of the hayloft, stole back, and finding the loft door unbarred went in and concealed himself in a corner beneath the hay. When bedtime arrived, under some excuse the host induced Anjolras to sleep in the loft and not in one of the bedrooms, and the beggar heard Martin bring his kinsman in and point out a place where he could lie, near the door of communication with the house. About an hour later Chaze saw Jean Rochette with a lamp enter and examine Anjolras to ascertain if he were asleep. Then he descended, but returned with Marie Martin, she carrying a large iron ladle full of scalding soup. Having satisfied themselves that the old man was sound, she said to Jean Rochette, "Strike!"


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The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Freiligrath, Ferdinand

FREILIGRATH, frī'lig-rät, Ferdinand, German poet: b. Detmold, 17 June 1810; d. Cannstadt, Würtemberg, 17 March 1876. His father was a teacher. Though apprenticed to a grocer at 15, he continued his studies and published verses in local journals. In 1831-36 he was a banker's clerk in Amsterdam. In 1836-38 he published a literary journal Rheinisches Odeon, became a bookkeper at Berman, but continued writing lyrics, one volume of which he published at Mainz in 1838, and as it proved successful he determined to devote himself entirely to literature. In 1842 he received a small pension from the King of Prussia; but this he retained for only two years, for having embraced views in politics of an advanced liberal stamp which placed him in opposition to the government, he felt bound to resign the benefits of royal favor. At the same time (1844) he published a poem entitled a ‘Confession of Faith’ (Glaubensbekenntnis), in which he became the champion of the political creed he had adopted. In 1848 three other political

poems by him: ‘Die Revolution’; ‘Februarklänge’; and ‘Die Todten an die Lebenden,’ saw the light; and the last of these led to his being put on trial for treason. This trial, in which he was acquitted, is memorable for another reason, being the first jury trial ever held in Prussia. From 1851 till 1867 Freiligrath resided in England as manager of the London branch of a Swiss banking establishment. On the failure of the bank a national subscription was got up in his behalf in Germany, and the proceeds of it enabled him to return to private life. The general amnesty of 1868 brought him back to Germany and he celebrated the triumph of 1870 with the very popular ‘Hurrah Germania’ and ‘Die Trompete von Vionville.’ The early poems of Freiligrath are distinguished by a wealth of glowing and highly-colored imagery, and by the prevalence of Oriental scenes and subjects. His political poems are too full of the tones of party warfare to live as poetry; but many of his lyrics seem destined to hold an abiding place in German literature. Germany is also indebted to him for many admirable translations from foreign languages, as from Burns, Tannahill, Moore, Hemans, Shakespeare, Longfellow and Victor Hugo. His works were collected in eight volumes and published at Stuttgart (1870-71). There is a volume of English translations of his select poems edited by his daughter, Mrs. Kroeker (Leipzig 1871). Consult Buchner, ‘Ferdinand Freiligrath, Ein Dichterleben in Briefen’ (Lahr 1881-82); Richter, ‘Freiligrath als Uebersetzer’ (Berlin 1899); Rodenberg, ‘Jugenderinnerungen’ (ib. 1899).


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100 and he brought a hammer down on the sleeper's head. As Anjolras started and opened his mouth she threw the scalding contents of the ladle into it. The old man fell. "Strike again," said the woman, "he is not dead yet." Jean obeyed till the skull was beaten in.

Before dawn the beggar had fled the scene.

The disappearance of Anjolras caused a commotion, and search was made for him in all directions. It was heard that he had been last seen along with Pierre Martin on his way to Payrabeille.

The murder had been committed on the night of the 12th October. On the 25th, thirteen days after, the authorities began to bestir themselves, and as every trace pointed to the inn, the Mayor of Lanarce, accompanied by a party of young men, went to Peyrabeille to institute inquiries. On entering the kitchen, Marie Martin informed him that the Juge de Paix of Coucouron was already there in the parlour, and would speak with him. No one knew what passed between these magistrates, but presently the mayor came out and said to his attendants: "Gentlemen, you may depart, there is nothing to be done"; and, in fact, nothing was done. No search was made; some politenesses passed between the two officials and the hostess, and they retired with bows. Yet the corpse, all the while, was within a few yards of the house. It was discovered in a startling manner.

Philemon Pertuis, son-in-law of the Martins, who had left the house in which he had been for a few years at Peyrabeille, had retained the little farm about it, and employed the sheds and stable and cellars for his crops, etc.

One day he sent his servant, Jean Testud, with a


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 Bowring of sixteen. Lord Palmerston appealed to the country, and in the elections that ensued the chief movers against Sir John Bowring lost their seats, while the ministry came back greatly strengthened. Lord Elgin, who succeeded Bowring as English plenipotentiary in China, endorsed and carried out his predecessor's policy.

During the hostilities with China the mandarins put a price on Sir John Bowring's head. He had a narrow escape of his life in January 1857, when the colony of Hong Kong was startled by a diabolical attempt to poison the residents by putting arsenic into their bread. The governor's family suffered severely, and the constitution of Lady Bowring was so undermined that in the ensuing year she was obliged to leave for England, where she died soon after her arrival.

Towards the close of 1858 Sir John Bowring proceeded to Manila, on a visit to the Philippine islands, chiefly with a view to the extension of the trade of the islands with Great Britain. Manila had been the only port accessible to foreigners, but the more liberal policy of the Spaniards had opened the harbours of Sual, Iloilo, and Zamboanga, which Bowring visited in H.M.S. Magicienne. As the representative of free trade he was everywhere welcomed, and on the completion of the tour he published his 'Visit to the Philippine Islands.' Sir John returned to China in January 1859, and in the following May resigned his office, after more than nine years of unusually harassing and active service. On leaving China he received from the Chinese people several characteristic marks of their appreciation of his government.

On the voyage home the Alma, in which he sailed, struck upon a sunken rock in the Red Sea. The passengers were compelled to remain for three days upon a coral reef, where they suffered greatly before relief arrived. The remainder of Bowring's life was passed in comparative quiet. In 1860 he was deputed by the English government to inquire into the state of our commercial relations with the newly formed kingdom of Italy. He had interviews with Count Cavour; but at Rome he was seized with illness, the attack being aggravated by the effects of the arsenical poisoning at Hong Kong three years before. He was not fully restored to health until 1862. In addition to Bowring's labours in connection with commercial treaties with various European and Asiatic powers, at home 'he was an active member of the British Association, the Social Science Association, the Devonshire Association, and other institutions, often contributing papers to their proceedings and taking a prominent part in their discussions.' He was a constant contributor o the leading reviews and magazines, and delivered many public lectures on oriental topics and the social questions of the day. Bowring was the writer of many poems and hymns, one at least of which, 'In the cross of Christ I glory,' has acquired universal fame. Early in his career he conceived an extensive scheme in connection with the poetic literatures of the continent. Enjoying the advantage of personal acquaintance with most of the eminent authors and poets of his time, he secured their assistance in his purpose (never fully carried out) of writing the history and giving translated specimens of the popular poetry, not only of the western, but of the oriental world. He was promised the co-operation of Rask and Finn Magnusen (Icelandic), Oehlenschlager and Munter (Danish), Franzén (Swedish), in the Scandinavian field ; of Karamsin and Kriulov (Russian), Niemcewicz and Mickiewicz (Polish), Wuk (Servian), Hanka and Celakowsky (Bohemian), Talvj (von Jakob), and many coadjutors in the Moravian, Illyrian, and other branches of the Slavonic stem ; while in the Magyar, Toldy and Kertbeny lent him their aid ; Fauriel in Romaic, and Tengstrom in Finnish. In the various kingdoms of southern Europe he gathered together extensive materials for a work which might well have occupied a lifetime. His scattered translations from the Chinese, Sanskrit, Cingalese, and other oriental languages, and his Spanish, Servian, Magyar, Cheskian, Russian, and other poetical selections, amply attest that he never relinquished his scheme, though the comprehensive and exhaustive plan he originally formed was found to be impossible of execution.

In the closing years of his life Bowring's mental and physical faculties were strong and apparently unimpaired. When verging upon eighty years of age he addressed an assemblage of three thousand persons at Plymouth with all the energy of youth. After a very brief illness he died at Exeter on 23 Nov. 1872, almost within a stone's-throw of the house where he was born. Bowring was a fellow of the Royal Society, a knight commander of the Belgian order of Leopold, and a knight commander of the order of Christ of Portugal with the star; he had the grand cordon of the Spanish order of Isabella the Catholic, and of the order of Kamehameha I ; he was a noble of the first class of Siam, with the insignia of the White Elephant, a knight commander with the star of the Austrian order of Francis Joseph, and of the Swedish order of the Northern Star,


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Rh tumbril to fetch away his potatoes that were in the cellar. Testud went in with a lamp and saw in a corner a barrel of bran. He was aware of an unpleasant smell in the cellar, which he could not explain. On one of his journeys the lamp went out, and he returned to grope for it. In so doing he put his hand into the barrel and encountered the cold remains of a human body. Frozen with horror, he staggered to the inn, sank in a chair, and said he was ill, and must go home to his parents at Banne.

Pierre Martin and his wife were uneasy. They went to the cellar and found there the lamp of Testud, and at once saw that the corpse must be removed. This was done during the night on the back of a mule, and was conveyed to a precipice at Lesperon and flung over it, so as to give an idea that Anjolras had fallen accidentally.

The body was discovered on October 26th, was identified and examined, and it was soon seen that this was no case of an accidental fall, but of murder. On November 1st, Martin and his wife and his nephew André, and after that Jean Rochette, were arrested, but were not brought to trial for three years, as the prosecution met with extraordinary difficulty in getting together evidence against them, so timorous were the peasants, so afraid of appearing in court and being subjected to cross-questioning, and of incurring the resentment of the relatives of the Martins, who were numerous. The two daughters were not arrested. Nothing could be wrung from the girl Marie Arnaud, who preserved throughout remarkable self-possession and self-restraint. André, as already said, was acquitted, but Pierre and his wife and Jean Rochette were guillotined close to the inn on October 2nd, 1833.


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Rh the vine becomes more and more accustomed to the soil.

The huge crag surmounted by the ruins of the castle of Crussol is extensively quarried. The stone is of a fawn colour, and receives a polish. The huge castle, with its rifted donjon called the Horns of Crussol, at one time contained a town within its enclosure. Now, all is ruin.

The family of Crussol was not of much note till Louis de Crussol gained the favour of Louis XI., and was appointed governor of Dauphiné. The son married the heiress of Uzès, and with her the title of viscount passed to their son Charles, whose son Antoine was created Duke of Uzès. The ruined castle belongs still to the Uzès family.

The castle was destroyed by Richelieu in 1623.

In my book, In Troubadour Land, I have told the story of how the Uzès race sprang from a strolling company of three travelling comedian brothers, and so will not here repeat it. On a terrace above the Miolan that enters the Rhone at S. Peray is the castle of Beauregard, formerly a State prison, now a café restaurant with a speciality in tripe. So the whirligig of Time brings about its revenges.

The most interesting excursion among the Boutières is up the valley of the Erieux, that takes its rise above S. Agrève. It is a capricious river, at one time a small stream, at another a boiling torrent. In the great flood of 1876 it rose forty feet, and rolled down three times the amount of water that does the Seine at Paris. It brings with it from the granite particles of gold, but not in sufficient amount to make it worth while searching for the precious metal.


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112 a stop to the destruction. From its isolated rock the castle was connected by a drawbridge with a terrace, beyond which was the farm, a building of the sixteenth century, that had not been molested. The terrace is sustained by a wall and was originally planted with trees, and must have been a delightful walk, suspended above the precipice, and from which one could look down on the birds of prey darting and fluttering in the depths, and which also had their habitations in these rocks.

In 1671, the Marquess de La Tourette bought the barony of Chalençon to the south of Vernoux. This was at one time one of the most powerful baronies in the country. It extended its jurisdiction over eighty parishes, all of which were bound to furnish men-at-arms when summoned to do so by the Seigneur of Chalençon.

In 1523, Jean de Poitiers, father of the famous Diana, Baron of Chalençon, was condemned to death for felony. But the beauty and the tears of his daughter saved his life; and after her father's death Diana became Baroness Chalençon and Privas. She seems never to have set foot in either. This left-handed queen died in 1566, and bequeathed the barony to the youngest of her daughters, Louise, who had married in 1546 Claude de Lorraine, Duc d'Aumale. In the square of Chalençon may be seen a gigantic elm, a Sully, one of the trees planted in all parishes on the conversion of Henry IV. The old castle was flanked by three towers, but was almost totally destroyed. It has been reconstructed.

The railway from S. Fortunat, where we abandoned it, deserves to be followed to its terminus at Le Cheylard, as it runs through some of the finest scenery in the Boutières to the cone of Mézenc, to which the chain hitches


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 vo, London (ib. 1782, p. 442), consisting chiefly of essays which had previously appeared in different periodicals. On 4 May 1780 Grose was elected F.S.A. (, Chronological List of Soc. Antiq. 1798, p. 33).

GROSE, JOHN HENRY (fl. 1750–1783), civil servant of the East India Company, younger brother of [q. v.], left England in March 1750 for Bombay, ' in the station of a covenant servant and writer to the East India Company.' He had the good fortune to be recommended by a director in London to a nephew of the governor of Bombay; his introduction to the new mode of life was made easy to him, and he would seem to have been afforded unusual opportunities, which a faculty for observation enabled him to turn to good account. In 1757 he published 'A Voyage to the East Indies' in one vol., and in 1766 a second edition (2 vols. 8vo), with a history of the war, 1756-1763, and etchings by his brother Francis. A third edition was published in 1772. The first edition gives a good account of Eastern manners and customs, then little known, and the work has been made the basis of many popular accounts. It is said to have been compiled from Grose's notes by John Cleland. A French translation by Philippe Hernandez was published in London in 1758. Grose, who was a member of the Society of Arts, lived at Richmond, Surrey, in 1783. By his wife, Sarah Smalley, daughter of John Browning, a woolstapler, of Barnaby Street, Southwark, he left issue; his son John is noticed separately.

GROSE, NASH (1740–1814), judge, son of Edward Grose of London, was born in 1740. He went to Cambridge, became a fellow of Trinity Hall, and took the degree of LL.B. in 1768. He was called to the bar at Lincoln's Inn in November 1766, and became serjeant-at-law in 1774. For many years he enjoyed the best practice in the court of common pleas. On 9 Feb. 1787 he was appointed a judge of the king's bench, and was knighted. Both personally and as a judge he earned the respect and esteem of his contemporaries. His growing infirmities compelled his resignation during the Easter vacation 1813, and on 31 May 1814 he died at his seat, the Priory, in the Isle of Wight. He married a Miss Dennett of the Isle of Wight.

GROSSE, ALEXANDER (1596?–1654), presbyterian divine, born about 1596, was the son of William Grosse, husbandman of Christow, Devonshire. After attending Exeter school for five years, he was admitted sizar of Gonville and Caius College, Cambridge, on 26 July 1618, and proceeded M.A. (College Admission Register, ed. Venn, p. 138). He became a preacher at Plympton St. Mary, Devonshire, but, wishing to attend Professor John Prideaux's divinity lectures at Oxford, he entered himself a sojourner in Exeter College, was incorporated M.A., and on 23 Feb. 1632 commenced B.D. (, Fasti Oxon. ed. Bliss, i. 466, 467). On the death of Henry Wallis in January 1633-4, Grosse was elected by the corporation of Plymouth to the vicarage of St. Andrew in that town. He was, however, refused institution by Bishop Hall (Rows, Old Plymouth, ii. 34, 55). On 16 Jan. 1638-9 he was presented by the crown to the rectory of Bridford, Devonshire (Cal. State Papers, Dom. 1638-9, p. 319), and in or after 1647 obtained the rich vicarage of Ashburton in the same county, 'where he, being a presbyterian, and a sider with the times, was much frequented by people of that persuasion' (, Athenæ Oxon. ed. Bliss, iii. 358-9). He died in the beginning of 1654, and was buried at Ashburton (Letters of Administration, P. C. C., granted on 5 May 1654 to his widow, Pascow). His son, Alexander Grosse, became an undergraduate of Exeter College in 1638.

Grosse was author of:
 * 1) 'Sweet and Soule-perswading Inducements leading unto Christ,' 4to, London, 1632.
 * 2) 'The Happiness of enjoying and making a true and speedy Use of Christ. … [Three Sermons] … Whereunto is added, St. Paul's Legacie, or Farewell to the Men of Corinth,' 8vo, London, 1640.
 * 3) 'Deaths Deliverance and Eliahes Fiery Chariot, or the Holyman's Triumph after Death. Delivered in two sermons preached at Plymouth, … the former [on Isaiah lvii. 1, 2] at the Funerall of Thomas Sherwill, … 1631,' 8vo. London, 1640 (containing the sermon on T. Sherwill only).
 * 4) 'A Fiery Pillar of Heavenly Truth: shewing the way to a Blessed Life. Composed 'by way of Catechisme' [anon.], 8vo, London, 1641; 2nd edition, 1644; 10th edition, 1663.
 * 5) 'The Mystery of Self-Denial; or the Cessation of Man's Living to Himself, and the Inchoations of Christ's Living in Man,' 4to, London, 1642.
 * 6) 'Man's Misery without Christ, opening the Sinful, Perplexed, Dishonourable, and Soul-destroying Condition of Man without Christ,' 4to, London, 1642.
 * 7) 'Christ the Christian's Choice; or a Sermon [on Phil. i. 23] preached


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Rh quicker than the way I have chosen

That's all, Chambers; everything. Now you know—why I am as I am, why I act as I do. I trust that you will keep this—this confession to yourself?

John Chambers, who for almost half an hour had been talking in a steady, quiet monotone as he gave to me, as nearly as possible in Harry Pierce's own words, the peculiar confession Pierce had made to him in this same room twelve months earlier, paused abruptly in his narrative. Without a word, he rose from the davenport, took my glass and his own, walked over to the liquor cabinet and mixed two more drinks. He handed me mine; I nodded without speaking, and he went back to his place and reseated himself. Then he said, his voice still quiet, still restrained, though I knew his thoughts were racing:

"It was good of you to listen to me so long, Jerry, without interrupting. I'm glad you did, for I wanted you to get the complete picture without missing anything, no matter how insignificant some details may seem. There are details which may have vast significance, contrasted with others which may mean nothing; I thought it best to tell you everything that I remembered.

"Well, the rest of the story is told from my own viewpoint; it's exactly what I saw and heard. Pierce never again mentioned his odd confession to me and I of course also refrained from referring to it. And—it was just two weeks later that he finally broke.

"Funny how it came about. One of those jokes of Fate that are always happening and that none of us can foresee or guard against. It happened on a Friday evening, about eleven-thirty; I know it wasn't any later than that because I have to work on Saturday mornings and I was still sitting up, fully dressed, reading—when I heard this awful scream. It wasn't like anything human, I can tell you; it wasn't even recognizable as a man's or a woman's voice—it was more like a—like a fiend screaming in hell or a witch burning at the stake, maybe. It was loud; it stabbed into my ears like a knife—left them ringing for seconds afterward. I was out of my room and down the stairs in nothing flat, and everybody else in the house, too—!

"They were down in the front hall—Harry Pierce and two men who, it turned out, were Kenny Coates and Alicia's brother. Frank Castle, his name was. Frank Castle and this Coates were both holding Pierce by the arms to keep him from sagging to the floor; after that single scream Pierce hadn't screamed any more but there was froth on his lips and dribbling down his chin and his face was white as paper and streaming sweat. And his eyes; God!—they were the eyes of a trapped, maddened beast! And he was mumbling over and over, his mouth lax and drooling, his whole body trembling spasmodically, 'Yes, I did it, Alicia! I'll confess, Alicia; hear me, Alicia; I'll confess! I killed you, killed you with arsenic so slowly that nobody knew. I'll tell now, tell the world now that if they exhume your body they'll find enough arsenic in you to kill a dozen people! Hear me, Alicia; hear me! I'm confessing; God, I'm confessing! It's what you've wanted, all along, I know. You've won, Alicia; you've won; you've beaten me! I'm confessing, Alicia; I'm confessing that I killed you with arsenic—!'

"Over and over and over he went on, like a broken record.

, except for a few loose ends that's all there is to the story to date that you haven't already read in the papers. The confession came as a total surprise to me, of course, but I can see now how completely it explained things; explained Pierce's terrible nervousness, his peculiar insanity—everything. His conscience was hounding him every minute, day and


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116 either because she is suffering from toothache or heartache at parting with her intended. But neither ache is very enduring. Before the train has gone a thousand metres, she is laughing and chirping like the rest. When settled into their seats they open their baskets to show each other the posies of flowers they are taking to Aubenas to brighten the poor little attic bedrooms and diffuse through them a fragrance and memory of home. But the sacks—what do they contain? As I helped some of the girls to heave these into the carriage and stow them under the seats or into the shelf above, I could guess from the feel, and see when the sack mouth gaped and discharged some of its contents. It holds their factory clothing washed by their mothers—aprons, bibs, and among them huge loaves of bread and greasy sausages, these latter wrapped round with a newspaper that has transferred its information reversed on to the skin of the saucisson.

These mill-hands do not wear the pretty scarlet or blue handkerchief over the head that adorns the Lancashire and Yorkshire factory girl, the theme of one of our most charming folk-songs. These Vivarais girls wear no costume. There is not much beauty among them; but their honest faces are good to look on. The glorious southern sun has


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 292 to the hare witches: in Wales only the women can become hares, and this property runs, so far as I know, in certain families. I have known many such, and my own nurse belonged to one of them, so that my mother was reckoned to be rather reckless in entrusting me to y gota, or "the Cutty One", as she might run away at any moment, leaving her charge to take care of itself. But I have never heard of any man or boy of any such family turning himself into a hare, whereas in the Isle of Man the witches may belong, if I may say so, to cither sex. I am not sure, however, that a man who turns himself into a hare would be called a wizard or witch; and I recollect hearing in the neighbourhood of Ramsey of a man nicknamed the gaaue mwaagh, that is to say, "the hare smith", the reason being that this particular smith now and then assumes the form of a hare. I am not quite sure that gaaue mwaagh is the name of a class, though I rather infer that it is. If so, it must be regarded as a survival of the magic skill associated with smiths in ancient Ireland, as evidenced, for instance, in St. Patrick's Hymn in the eleventh or twelfth century manuscript at Trinity College, Dublin, known as the Liber Hymnorum, in which we have a prayer against "the spells of women, and of smiths and druids".

The persons who had the power of turning themselves into hares were believed to be abroad and very active, together with the whole demon world, on the eve of May-day of the Old Style. And a middle-aged man from the parish of Andreas related to me how he came three or four times across a woman, reputed to be a witch, carrying on her evil practices at the junction of cross-roads, or the meeting of three boundaries. This happened once very early on old May morning, and afterwards he met her several times as he was returning home from visiting his sweetheart. He warned the witch that if he found her again that he would kick her: that is what he says. Well, after a while he did surprise her again at work at four cross-roads,


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 at the Funerall of John Caws, one of the Magistrates of … Plymouth,' 4to, London, 1645. He wrote two other treatises, 'The Anatomy of the Heart' and 'On Sacred Things.'
 * 1) 'The Buddings and Blossomings of Old Truths; or severall practicall points of Divinity, gathered out of … John iii. 22, ad finem,' 8vo, London, 1656, edited by John Welden, a presbyterian minister, of Stratcley in Ermington, Devonshire.

GROSSETESTE, ROBERT (d. 1253), bishop of Lincoln from 1235 to 1253, was born probably in 1175 in Suffolk (, p. 242). From what Trivet mentions in this place, and the report of his own words given in the Lanercost chronicle (p. 44, 'humili de patre et matre sum natus'), he was of humble origin; indeed he was reproached with this by the canons of Lincoln in the heat of their quarrel with him. The earliest mention of his name is in a letter of Giraldus Cambrensis (Symbolum Electorum, 18, i. 249, ed. Brewer), introducing him to William de Vere, bishop of Hereford, written certainly before December 1199, when the bishop died, which speaks of his knowledge both in law and medicine. He was sent by his friends to Oxford, and afterwards probably studied at Paris, as in his directions to the regents at Oxford he bids them follow the course of study pursued there. He afterwards returned to Oxford, became 'rector scholarum' and chancellor. In 1224 he became the first rector of the Franciscans at Oxford, and it was then that he laid the foundation of his knowledge of Aristotle and his skill in preaching. Eccleston (Monumenta Franciscana, i.37) speaks of the influence he had over the Franciscans, and of how much their powers of speaking and preaching were due to his teaching. His earliest preferments seem to have been the archdeaconry of Wilts (1214 and 1220), the archdeaconry of Northampton (1221), held with the prebend of Empingham in Lincoln Cathedral, which was afterwards exchanged for the archdeaconry of Leicester. He held also at different times the churches of St. Margaret's, Leicester, and Abbotsley in Huntingdonshire. In 1231, after a severe attack of fever, he resigned all his preferments, except the Lincoln prebend.

On the death of Hugh de Wells, bishop of Lincoln, in February 1235, the chapter elected Grosseteste as his successor. There was a difficulty as to the place of his consecration. The monks of Canterbury claimed as their right that he should be consecrated at Canterbury; the archbishop (St. Edmund) wished it elsewhere, and though Grosseteste was willing to give way, the archbishop was firm, and persuaded the monks to consent to his wishes, on the understanding it should not be used as a precedent. He was consecrated at Reading on 3 June (according to ) or 17 June (Annal. Winton and ). On being thus put in charge of the enormous diocese, which then contained the archdeaconries of Lincoln, Leicester, Stowe, Buckingham, Huntingdon, Northampton, Oxford, and Bedford, he at once set himself to reform all the abuses which his predecessors had left, directing his clergy to put down anything that tended to evil, such as games and parish processions leading to strife, drinking bouts, desecration of churchyards by their being used for games, private marriages, carelessness of mothers towards their children, the feast of fools, &c. In the first year of his episcopacy he visited the monasteries of his diocese, and removed no fewer than seven abbots and four priors. We find him at Oxford helping to allay a quarrel between the clergy and towns-people. In 1236 he witnessed the confirmation of Magna Charta. The next year he took part in the great London council under the legate Otho, and in obedience to its resolutions sent his constitutions through his diocese. He still kept up his connection with Oxford, and protected the students who had got into trouble for their attack on the legate Otho. It was in this year (1237) that he escaped with difficulty from an attempt to poison him, through the skill of his friend and physician, John of St. Albans [see ].

In 1239 began the quarrel between the bishop and the Lincoln chapter which occupied so many years of his life. Grosseteste asserted his right to visit the chapter as well as the rest of the diocese; the dean and canons asserted their independence. Otho thought he had only to appear on the scene to settle the whole matter; an appeal was made to Canterbury, but it soon became evident that the pope was the only authority that would be accepted as final. The chapter issued a mandate to the vicars and chaplains ministering in the prebends and churches belonging to them to disobey the bishop if he attempted to visit them. The bishop required them to recall this, and on their refusal suspended the dean, precentor, and subdean. They and some other canons started for Rome. They waited for the bishop in London, and while there agreed to apply to the pope to commit the decision of the question to three arbitrators, the Bishop of Worcester and the archdeacons of Worcester and Sudbury. But this came to nothing. The canons preached against the bishop in the cathedral. On one occasion in a sermon on the bishop's


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 Rh somewhere near Lezayre. She had a circle, he said, as large as that made by horses in threshing, swept clean around her. He kicked her and took away her besom, which he hid till the middle of the day. Then he made the farm boys fetch some dry gorse, and he put the witch's besom on the top of it. Thereupon fire was set to the gorse and, wonderful to relate, the besom, as it burned, crackled and made reports like guns going off. In fact, the noise could be heard from Andreas Church—that is to say, miles away. The besom had on it "seventeen sorts of knots", he said, and the woman ought to have been burned; in fact, he added that she did not long survive her besom. The man who related this to me is hale and strong, living now in the parish of Michael, and not in that of Andreas, where he was born.

There is a tradition at St. John's, which is overlooked by the mountain called Slieau Whuallian, that witches used at one time to be punished by being set to roll down the steep side of the mountain in spiked barrels; but, short of putting them to death, there were various ways of rendering the machinations of witches innocuous, or of undoing the mischief done by them; for the charmers supply various means of meeting them triumphantly, and in case an animal is the victim, the burning of it always proves an effective means of bringing the offender to book. I shall have occasion to return to this under another heading. There is a belief that if you can draw blood, however little, from a witch or one who has the evil eye, he loses his power of harming you; and I have been told that formerly this belief was sometimes acted upon. Thus, on leaving church, for instance, the man who fancied himself in danger from another would go up to him, or walk by his side, and inflict on him a slight scratch, or some other trivial wound, which elicited blood; but this must have been a course always attended with more or less danger.

The persons able to undo the witches' work, and


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Rh penetrated to their hearts and shines back on you from their merry eyes.

They do not leave the train at the Aubenas station, but go on to the next, the group of factories at the foot of the hill at the head of the basin, between the town and the opening of the Valley of Vals.

From the station is a long ascent to the town; there is a gradual inclined road for carriages, and a short, steep climb for foot travellers.

Aubenas is, next to Annonay, the most important town in the Vivarais; neither is the seat of the préfet, nor of the bishop, nor of a university.

The department of Ardèche has been treated somewhat perversely in this respect. Its capital is Privas, of difficult access at the extremity of a branch line served by trains that run forward and back, advance and retreat again to pick up or to discharge luggage trucks, and that is ignorant of any other train than an omnibus.

The cathedral city is at one end of the department at its extreme verge, at Viviers, one of the deadest of dead cities, with a population of three thousand. The is near the other end of the department, also at its eastern limit, with only a streak of water between it and Drôme. That is Tournon, which has indeed a population of a little over five thousand, whereas in Annonay it is seventeen thousand, and in Aubenas above eight thousand. Moreover, Aubenas is not even a chef-lieu d’arrondissement, which Largentière is, numbering 2,780.

Aubenas stands 930 feet above the sea. You can breathe there; you stifle at Vals. And what a prospect it commands! To the west the wild heights of the


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, one of them added, 'If we were to be silent the very stones would cry out,' on which a portion of the church behind the dean's seat outside the choir fell down (, iii. 638; Dunstable Annals, Annal. Monast. iii. 149). The quarrel continued its course; Grosseteste excommunicated the proctor of the chapter; they excommunicated his dean. The dean, William de Tournay, was deprived, and Roger de Weseham put in his place. The chapter produced a forged paper to the effect that the see of Lincoln had come to an end and been restored by William Rufus, and therefore the king might interfere with it as being a royal foundation. At length a direct appeal was made to the pope, and after dragging on for several years more it was settled at Lyons by a bull of Innocent IV, 25 Aug. 1245, entirely in favour of the bishop, who obtained full power over the chapter, though the dean and canons were excused from an oath of obedience to the bishop on their collation. While all this was going on the bishop had serious troubles with others; in 1241 he had a quarrel with the abbot of Westminster, costly and injurious to both, as Matthew Paris tells us, respecting the right to the church of Ashwell in Hertfordshire, and a still more serious one with the king about the prebend of Thame, which Henry III had conferred on John Mansel [q. v.] by a papal provision, though it had been previously conferred on Simon of London. Grosseteste went to London prepared to excommunicate John Mansel and all disturbers of the peace of the church. Mansel gave way, and the king followed his example, in fear lest Grosseteste should leave the country and place the see under an interdict. In 1243 the bishop became embroiled with the chapter of Canterbury, the see being vacant, as Boniface was not yet consecrated, and the chapter claiming metro-political power during the vacancy. A clerk who had a dispute with the abbot of Bardney laid a complaint before the archdeacon of Lincoln. The archdeacon cited the abbot to appear before him, and on his refusal cited him before the bishop. The abbot refused to acknowledge the bishop's authority, and Grosseteste excommunicated him. When the bishop sent lay visitors to Bardney to bring the monks to submission, the door was shut in their faces. He threatened to bring ruin on the convent, and the abbot appealed to the Canterbury chapter. The bishop then deposed the abbot, and the king seized on the temporalities. The Canterbury monks then assembled fifty priests of the diocese, and solemnly excommunicated the bishop. Grosseteste had always a violent temper, and on this occasion he threw the letters of the convent on the ground, though the seal contained the effigy of St. Thomas of Canterbury. Both parties then appealed to the pope (Innocent IV), who issued directions to relax the sentence of excommunication without prejudice to either party, a proceeding which by no means satisfied the bishop.

In 1244, in consequence of troubles at Oxford between the scholars and the Jews, Grosseteste obtained for the scholars the privilege that in future all quarrels as to loans, or taxes, or hiring, or buying provisions should be decided before the chancellor of the university. The same year he made a great stand against the king as to his treatment of William de Raleigh, bishop of Winchester, even threatening to lay the royal chapel at Westminster under an interdict, and with the help of the pope and the archbishop prevailed on the king to give way. He was also one of a committee of twelve, partly clergy and partly laymen, to discuss the king's demand of a subsidy, and prevailed on the other prelates to stand by the common opinion in the matter. 'It is written,' said he, 'if we are divided we shall soon die.' It was this year that by his means the election of Robert Passelew to the bishopric of Chichester was annulled, Grosseteste having examined him and found him incompetent. On 18 Nov. he set out in company with Adam de Marisco [q. v.] for Lyons, where the pope then was. After obtaining the decision of the quarrel with his chapter in his favour he returned by Beaune and Paris, landing on 14 Oct. 1245 in the Isle of Wight, and bringing back several commissions from the pope. In 1247 he was at Westminster when Henry III presented the vase containing the supposed blood of our Lord, sent by the masters of the templars and hospitallers. His address, vindicating the possibility of its genuineness, is preserved by Matthew Paris (Additamenta, 72, vi. 138). In 1248 he was at the parliament in London, summoned by the king to obtain a fresh subsidy. He continued the visitations of his diocese, in 1249 visiting Dunstable and Caldwell, then going to Oxford, where he met the chancellor, proctors, and masters at Osney, and gave them many instructions for their course of study. He was again this year embroiled with the king, through his excommunicating the sheriff of Rutland, in consequence of his refusing to imprison a criminous clerk whom Grosseteste had deprived and excommunicated. Though he set such store on his own right of visitation, he was very decided in opposing Archbishop Boniface's somewhat similar claim, and in 1250, when the archbishop held a visitation


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 294 move the malignant influence of the evil eye, are known in Manx English as charmers, and something must now be said of them. They have various ways of proceeding to their work. A lady of about thirty-five, living at Peel, related to me, how, when she was a child suffering from a swelling in the neck, she had it charmed by an old woman. This charmer brought with her no less than nine pieces of iron, consisting of bits of old pokers, old nails, and other odds and ends of the same metal, making in all nine pieces. After invoking the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, she began to rub the girl's neck with the old irons; nor was she satisfied with that, for she rubbed the doors, the walls, and the furniture likewise, with the metal. The result, I was assured, was highly satisfactory, as she has never been troubled with a swelling in the throat since that day. Sometimes a passage from the Bible is made use of in charming, as, for instance, in the case of bleeding. One of the verses then pronounced is Ezekiel xvi, 6, which runs thus:—"And when I passed by thee, and saw thee polluted in thine own blood, I said unto thee when thou wast in thy blood, Live; yea, I said unto thee when thou wast in thy blood. Live." This was told me by a Laxey man, who is over seventy years of age. The methods of charming away warts are various. A woman from the neighbourhood of St. John's explained to me how a charmer told her to get rid of the warts on her hands. She was to take a string and make a knot on it for every wart she had, and then tie the string round her hand, or fingers—I forget which; and I think my informant, on her part, forgot to tell me a vital part of the formula, namely, that the string was to be destroyed. However, she assured me that the warts disappeared, and never returned since. A lady at Andreas has a still simpler method of getting rid of warts. She rubs a snail on the warts, and then places the snail on one of the points of a blackthorn, and, in fact, leaves the snail to die, transfixed by the thorn; and as the snail dies, the warts disappear. She has done this in the


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at Dunstable, he took a prominent part with the other bishops in resisting it. Finding that many parishes had been impoverished and left without resident priests, in consequence of the monasteries converting to their own use much of the tithes and possessions of the churches, he obtained a papal letter authorising him to revoke these seizures, and to proceed against all that opposed. He cited the beneficed monks of his diocese to appear before him to hear this, his object being to take the benefices into his own hands, so that he might institute vicars in them. Those who had exemptions, the templars, hospitallers, and others, appealed to the pope, and Grosseteste at once started for Lyons, where the pope still was. If we may trust Matthew Parish’s account, the pope had been influenced by the gold of the religious orders, and the bishop could get no redress, and left the pope's presence after an exclamation against the influence of money at the Roman court. He remained some time longer at Lyons, and on 13 May delivered his celebrated sermon against the abuses of the papal court and the scandals prevalent among the clergy (, Fasciculus, ii. 250). In September he returned, 'tristis et vacuus,' to England, and even contemplated resigning his see, influenced by the example of his old friend Nicholas of Farnham, bishop of Durham. However, he soon recovered himself, and set about his duties with more than usual vigour, displaying especial severity in his visitation of the monasteries.

In 1251 he suffered a temporary suspension from the pope in consequence of his refusal to admit an Italian ignorant of English to a rich benefice in his diocese; but the next year, though he was thwarted in his endeavour to compel all beneficed persons to become priests, he obtained a papal letter authorising the appointment of vicars and their payment out of the revenues of the livings. In 1252 he excommunicated Hurtold, a Burgundian, who had been collated by the king to Flamstead in spite of the queen's having already appointed one of her chaplains, and laid the church under an interdict. In October, at the parliament, he took the lead in withstanding the king's demand for a tenth of church revenues for the necessities of his crusade, this to be estimated, not according to the old computation of the values of the churches, but by a new one to be made after the will of the king's creatures. It was alleged that to oppose both pope and king would be impossible, and that the French had been obliged to give way in a similar case. Grosseteste pointed out that this was an additional reason for resistance, seeing that 'twice makes a custom.' He had a calculation made this year of the revenues of the foreign clerks beneficed in England, and found that the incomes of those appointed by Innocent IV amounted to seventy thousand marks, more than three times the clear revenue of the king. In 1253 the pope wished to provide for his nephew, Frederick di Lavagna, and Grosseteste was ordered by the papal commissioners to induct him into a canonry at Lincoln. His answer refusing obedience (Letter 128), though perfectly respectful in tone, is very decided, the bishop pointing out how unfit the individual was for the post. This letter has done more to perpetuate Grosseteste's fame in modern times than all his other works. He was able to be at the parliament in May of this year, and to take part in the solemn excommunication of the violators of Magna Charta; but his health gave way soon afterwards, and in October he fell ill at Buckden, and sent for his friend and physician, John of St. Albans. He died on 9 Oct. 1253, and was buried in the upper south transept of his cathedral. Legends and miracles followed: bells were heard in the sky on the night of his death; the pope is said to have dreamed of his coming to him and wounding him in the side, from which he never recovered. There were several attempts to procure his canonisation (see the letter of Archbishop Romanus to Pope Honorius IV in 1287, and of Archbishop Greenfield to Pope Clement V in 1307,, Letters from Northern Registers, pp. 87, 182, and that of the dean and chapter of St. Paul's to Pope Clement V in 1307, , Anglia Sacra, ii. 343), and the university of Oxford expressed in strong terms its sense of what it owed him. His affection for the Franciscans remained to the last, as he left his books to the Franciscan convent at Oxford; they remained there till the sixteenth century, when Leland saw them reduced to little more than dust and cobwebs.

Probably no one had a greater influence upon English thought and English literature for the two centuries following his time than Bishop Grosseteste: few books written then will be found that do not contain quotations from 'Lincolniensis.' Roger Bacon says of him: 'Solus unus scivit scientias ut Lincolniensis episcopus;' 'solus dominus Robertus … præaliis hominibus scivit scientias.' Tyssyngton (, Fasciculi Zizaniorum, p. 135) speaks of 'Lincolniensis, cujus comparatio ad omnes doctores modernos est velut comparatio solis ad lunam quando eclipsatur.' It is not only works on theology, such as his ponderous 'Dicta' or his 'De cessatione legalium,' that he wrote, but


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Rh —that if you, or I, or both of us, hear this—ghost music—tonight, we're consequently demonstrated the reality of Alicia's spirit—and, naturally, of a whole spirit world. For telepathy does exist; we know that—and I can see no way in which we can eliminate beyond doubt the possibility that whatever music we may hear—might not have come to us direct from Pierce's brain at the moment of death. The human brain sends out strange and powerful impulses when it is about to die; visions of loved ones, sometimes startlingly vivid and real, sometimes speaking or otherwise transmitting definite messages. There're thousands of authenticated instances. So—whether the music originates with Alicia—or merely in Pierce's dying brain—that's a question we can never answer—"

John Chambers shivered, and his face went gray.

"Jerry! It's four minutes past twelve—and he's to die at midnight—!"

in that instant—God!—from downstairs, through that quiet house, came the sound of furious, triumphal piano playing! It was jazz, but what jazz! Sophisticated, transcendental playing, a strong lifting rhythm glittering with embellishments and flying notes that transformed the saccharine melody into a surging clangor of glamorous sound. Not ten jazz pianists in the world could play like that, I knew—and of those ten only Alicia Castle had ever played that particular special arrangement. It was Alicia Castle, all right—playing as I had heard her play innumerable times at the start and finish of her coast-to-coast network broadcasts!

The piece danced along to its conclusion, a sparkling shower of notes that burst and coruscated like a musical skyrocket, and then the music was gone from my brain. The silence that followed was deafening. For a full minute we sat there, neither speaking.

There was no sound in the house; whatever we had heard had been heard by nobody else.

Then John Chambers looked at me, and his face was white.

"Did you hear it?" he whispered.

I nodded. "Loud," I croaked. "Loud as hell. Dancing in the Wind."

He licked his lips like a frightened dog. "I only heard it faintly," he muttered. "Just like the other time. You're—you're more psychic than I—"

We sat there dumbly, as though paralyzed, through long minutes. At last John's lips moved.

"Pierce is dead, Jerry; I know it. He died when we heard that music. And you're right in what you said; we can never know beyond doubt whether that music came from Alicia, somewhere in the infinite, or from his own poor dying brain. It's a thing we'll never know—"

I nodded. It was a thing we would never know—

Again we sat silent. Then, almost musingly and wholly irrelevantly, I spoke the words that were to lead us to—the unbelievable conclusion.

"Funny thing about that damned music, John," I said. "The B flat above middle C didn't play. It was missing, all the way through the piece."

"B flat above middle C?" he echoed. "That's a black note, isn't it?"

I nodded.

"If it's busted on that piano downstairs, and if I know that it's only been busted a few days—that would prove that Pierce, up in the death house, couldn't have known of it, wouldn't it?"

Again I nodded. I was beginning to understand what he was driving at. He jumped to his feet.

"Come on. Wednesday night we were playing poker down there and Bob Ellis' chair went over backward and broke a black key on the piano. Mrs. Thomas doesn't