Ghost Stories of an Antiquary
step I effected by the removal of one Phoebe Stanley, a girl of gipsy
extraction, on March 24, 1792. The second, by the removal of a
wandering Italian lad, named Giovanni Paoli, on the night of March 23,
1805. The final ‘victim’—to employ a word repugnant in the highest
degree to my feelings—must be my cousin, Stephen Elliott. His day must
be this March 24, 1812.
“The best means of effecting the required absorption is to remove the
heart from the _living_ subject, to reduce it to ashes, and to mingle
them with about a pint of some red wine, preferably port. The remains
of the first two subjects, at least, it will be well to conceal: a
disused bathroom or wine-cellar will be found convenient for such a
purpose. Some annoyance may be experienced from the psychic portion of
the subjects, which popular language dignifies with the name of ghosts.
But the man of philosophic temperament—to whom alone the experiment is
appropriate—will be little prone to attach importance to the feeble
efforts of these beings to wreak their vengeance on him. I contemplate
with the liveliest satisfaction the enlarged and emancipated existence
which the experiment, if successful, will confer on me; not only
placing me beyond the reach of human justice (so-called), but
eliminating to a great extent the prospect of death itself.”
Mr Abney was found in his chair, his head thrown back, his face stamped
with an expression of rage, fright, and mortal pain. In his left side
was a terrible lacerated wound, exposing the heart. There was no blood
on his hands, and a long knife that lay on the table was perfectly
clean. A savage wild-cat might have inflicted the injuries. The window
of the study was open, and it was the opinion of the coroner that Mr
Abney had met his death by the agency of some wild creature. But
Stephen Elliott’s study of the papers I have quoted led him to a very
different conclusion.
THE MEZZOTINT
Some time ago I believe I had the pleasure of telling you the story of
an adventure which happened to a friend of mine by the name of
Dennistoun, during his pursuit of objects of art for the museum at
Cambridge.
He did not publish his experiences very widely upon his return to
England; but they could not fail to become known to a good many of his
friends, and among others to the gentleman who at that time presided
over an art museum at another University. It was to be expected that
the story should make a considerable impression on the mind of a man
whose vocation lay in lines similar to Dennistoun’s, and that he should
be eager to catch at any explanation of the matter which tended to make
it seem improbable that he should ever be called upon to deal with so
agitating an emergency. It was, indeed, somewhat consoling to him to
reflect that he was not expected to acquire ancient MSS. for his
institution; that was the business of the Shelburnian Library. The
authorities of that institution might, if they pleased, ransack obscure
corners of the Continent for such matters. He was glad to be obliged at
the moment to confine his attention to enlarging the already
unsurpassed collection of English topographical drawings and engravings
possessed by his museum. Yet, as it turned out, even a department so
homely and familiar as this may have its dark corners, and to one of
these Mr Williams was unexpectedly introduced.
Those who have taken even the most limited interest in the acquisition
of topographical pictures are aware that there is one London dealer
whose aid is indispensable to their researches. Mr J. W. Britnell
publishes at short intervals very admirable catalogues of a large and
constantly changing stock of engravings, plans, and old sketches of
mansions, churches, and towns in England and Wales. These catalogues
were, of course, the ABC of his subject to Mr Williams: but as his
museum already contained an enormous accumulation of topographical
pictures, he was a regular, rather than a copious, buyer; and he rather
looked to Mr Britnell to fill up gaps in the rank and file of his
collection than to supply him with rarities.
Now, in February of last year there appeared upon Mr Williams’s desk at
the museum a catalogue from Mr Britnell’s emporium, and accompanying it
was a typewritten communication from the dealer himself. This latter
ran as follows:
DEAR SIR,
We beg to call your attention to No. 978 in our accompanying
catalogue, which we shall be glad to send on approval.
Yours faithfully,
J. W. BRITNELL.
To turn to No. 978 in the accompanying catalogue was with Mr. Williams
(as he observed to himself) the work of a moment, and in the place
indicated he found the following entry:
978.—_Unknown._ Interesting mezzotint: View of a manor-house, early
part of the century. 15 by 10 inches; black frame. £2 2s.
It was not specially exciting, and the price seemed high. However, as
Mr Britnell, who knew his business and his customer, seemed to set
store by it, Mr Williams wrote a postcard asking for the article to be
sent on approval, along with some other engravings and sketches which
appeared in the same catalogue. And so he passed without much
excitement of anticipation to the ordinary labours of the day.
A parcel of any kind always arrives a day later than you expect it, and
that of Mr Britnell proved, as I believe the right phrase goes, no
exception to the rule. It was delivered at the museum by the afternoon
post of Saturday, after Mr Williams had left his work, and it was
accordingly brought round to his rooms in college by the attendant, in
order that he might not have to wait over Sunday before looking through
it and returning such of the contents as he did not propose to keep.
And here he found it when he came in to tea, with a friend.
The only item with which I am concerned was the rather large,
black-framed mezzotint of which I have already quoted the short
description given in Mr Britnell’s catalogue. Some more details of it
will have to be given, though I cannot hope to put before you the look
of the picture as clearly as it is present to my own eye. Very nearly
the exact duplicate of it may be seen in a good many old inn parlours,
or in the passages of undisturbed country mansions at the present
moment. It was a rather indifferent mezzotint, and an indifferent
mezzotint is, perhaps, the worst form of engraving known. It presented
a full-face view of a not very large manor-house of the last century,
with three rows of plain sashed windows with rusticated masonry about
them, a parapet with balls or vases at the angles, and a small portico
in the centre. On either side were trees, and in front a considerable
expanse of lawn. The legend _A. W. F. sculpsit_ was engraved on the
narrow margin; and there was no further inscription. The whole thing
gave the impression that it was the work of an amateur. What in the
world Mr Britnell could mean by affixing the price of £2 2s. to such an
object was more than Mr Williams could imagine. He turned it over with
a good deal of contempt; upon the back was a paper label, the left-hand
half of which had been torn off. All that remained were the ends of two
lines of writing: the first had the letters—_ngley Hall_; the
second,—_ssex_.
It would, perhaps, be just worth while to identify the place
represented, which he could easily do with the help of a gazetteer, and
then he would send it back to Mr Britnell, with some remarks reflecting
upon the judgement of that gentleman.
He lighted the candles, for it was now dark, made the tea, and supplied
the friend with whom he had been playing golf (for I believe the
authorities of the University I write of indulge in that pursuit by way
of relaxation); and tea was taken to the accompaniment of a discussion
which golfing persons can imagine for themselves, but which the
conscientious writer has no right to inflict upon any non-golfing
persons.
The conclusion arrived at was that certain strokes might have been
better, and that in certain emergencies neither player had experienced
that amount of luck which a human being has a right to expect. It was
now that the friend—let us call him Professor Binks—took up the framed
engraving, and said:
“What’s this place, Williams?”
“Just what I am going to try to find out,” said Williams, going to the
shelf for a gazetteer. “Look at the back. Somethingley Hall, either in
Sussex or Essex. Half the name’s gone, you see. You don’t happen to
know it, I suppose?”
“It’s from that man Britnell, I suppose, isn’t it?” said Binks. “Is it
for the museum?”
“Well, I think I should buy it if the price was five shillings,” said
Williams; “but for some unearthly reason he wants two guineas for it. I
can’t conceive why. It’s a wretched engraving, and there aren’t even
any figures to give it life.”
“It’s not worth two guineas, I should think,” said Binks; “but I don’t
think it’s so badly done. The moonlight seems rather good to me; and I
should have thought there _were_ figures, or at least a figure, just on
the edge in front.”
“Let’s look,” said Williams. “Well, it’s true the light is rather
cleverly given. Where’s your figure? Oh yes! Just the head, in the very
front of the picture.”
And indeed there was—hardly more than a black blot on the extreme edge
of the engraving—the head of a man or woman, a good deal muffled up,
the back turned to the spectator, and looking towards the house.
Williams had not noticed it before.
“Still,” he said, “though it’s a cleverer thing than I thought, I can’t
spend two guineas of museum money on a picture of a place I don’t
know.”
Professor Binks had his work to do, and soon went; and very nearly up
to Hall time Williams was engaged in a vain attempt to identify the
subject of his picture. “If the vowel before the _ng_ had only been
left, it would have been easy enough,” he thought; “but as it is, the
name may be anything from Guestingley to Langley, and there are many
more names ending like this than I thought; and this rotten book has no
index of terminations.”
Hall in Mr Williams’s college was at seven. It need not be dwelt upon;
the less so as he met there colleagues who had been playing golf during
the afternoon, and words with which we have no concern were freely
bandied across the table—merely golfing words, I would hasten to
explain.
I suppose an hour or more to have been spent in what is called
common-room after dinner. Later in the evening some few retired to
Williams’s rooms, and I have little doubt that whist was played and
tobacco smoked. During a lull in these operations Williams picked up
the mezzotint from the table without looking at it, and handed it to a
person mildly interested in art, telling him where it had come from,
and the other particulars which we already know.
The gentleman took it carelessly, looked at it, then said, in a tone of
some interest:
“It’s really a very good piece of work, Williams; it has quite a
feeling of the romantic period. The light is admirably managed, it
seems to me, and the figure, though it’s rather too grotesque, is
somehow very impressive.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” said Williams, who was just then busy giving
whisky-and-soda to others of the company, and was unable to come across
the room to look at the view again.
It was by this time rather late in the evening, and the visitors were
on the move. After they went Williams was obliged to write a letter or
two and clear up some odd bits of work. At last, some time past
midnight, he was disposed to turn in, and he put out his lamp after
lighting his bedroom candle. The picture lay face upwards on the table
where the last man who looked at it had put it, and it caught his eye
as he turned the lamp down. What he saw made him very nearly drop the