Historic Ghosts and Ghost Hunters
Historic Ghosts and Ghost HuntersPrefaceThe Devils of LoudunThe Drummer of TedworthThe Haunting of the WesleysThe Visions of Emanuel SwedenborgThe Cock Lane GhostThe Ghost Seen by Lord BroughamThe Seeress of PrevorstThe Mysterious Mr. HomeThe Watseka WonderA Medieval Ghost HunterGhost Hunters of Yesterday and To-dayNotesCopyrightHistoric
Ghosts and Ghost Hunters
H. Addington Bruce
Preface
The following pages represent in the main a discussion of certain
celebrated mysteries, as viewed in the light of the discoveries set
forth in the writer's earlier work "The Riddle of
Personality."
That dealt, it may briefly be recalled, with the achievements of
those scientists whose special endeavor it is to illumine the
nature of human personality. On the one hand, it reviewed the work
of the psychopathologists, or investigators of abnormal mental
life; and, on the other hand, the labors of the psychical
researchers, those enthusiastic and patient explorers of the
seemingly supernormal in human experience. Emphasis was laid on the
fact that the two lines of inquiry are more closely interrelated
than is commonly supposed, and that the discoveries made in each
aid in the solution of problems apparently belonging exclusively in
the other.
To this phase of the subject the writer now returns. The problems
under examination are, all of them, problems in psychical research:
yet, as will be found, the majority in no small measure depend for
elucidation on facts brought to light by the psychopathologists. Of
course, it is not claimed that the last word has here been said
with respect to any one of these human enigmas. But it is believed
that, thanks to the knowledge gained by the investigations of the
past quarter of a century, approximately correct solutions have
been reached; and that, in any event, it is by no means imperative
to regard the phenomena in question as inexplicable, or as
explicable only on a spiritistic basis.
Before attempting to solve the problems, it manifestly was
necessary to state them. In doing this the writer has sought to
present them in a readable and attractive form, but without any
distortion or omission of material facts.
H. Addington Bruce.
The Devils of Loudun
Loudun is a small town in France about midway between the ancient
and romantic cities of Tours and Poitiers. To-day it is an
exceedingly unpretentious and an exceedingly sleepy place; but in
the seventeenth century it was in vastly better estate. Then its
markets, its shops, its inns, lacked not business. Its churches
were thronged with worshipers. Through its narrow streets proud
noble and prouder ecclesiastic, thrifty merchant and active
artisan, passed and repassed in an unceasing stream. It was rich in
points of interest, preëminent among which were its castle and its
convent. In the castle the stout-hearted Loudunians found a refuge
and a stronghold against the ambitions of the feudal lords and the
tyranny of the crown. To its convent, pleasantly situated in a
grove of time-honored trees, they sent their children to be
educated.
It is to the convent that we must turn our steps; for it was from
the convent that the devils were let loose to plague the good
people of Loudun. And in order to understand the course of events,
we must first make ourselves acquainted with its history. Very
briefly, then, it, like many other institutions of its kind, was a
product of the Catholic counter-reformation designed to stem the
rising tide of Protestantism. It came into being in 1616, and was
of the Ursuline order, which had been introduced into France not
many years earlier. From the first it proved a magnet for the
daughters of the nobility, and soon boasted a goodly complement of
nuns.
At their head, as mother superior, was a certain Jeanne de Belfiel,
of noble birth and many attractive qualities, but with
characteristics which, as the sequel will show, wrought much woe to
others as well as to the poor gentlewoman herself. Whatever her
defects, however, she labored tirelessly in the interests of the
convent, and in this respect was ably seconded by its father
confessor, worthy Father Moussaut, a man of rare good sense and
possessing a firm hold on the consciences and affections of the
nuns.
Conceive their grief, therefore, when he suddenly sickened and
died. Now ensued an anxious time pending the appointment of his
successor. Two names were foremost for consideration—that of Jean
Mignon, chief canon of the Church of the Holy Cross, and that of
Urbain Grandier, curé of Saint Peter's of Loudun. Mignon was a
zealous and learned ecclesiastic, but belied his name by being
cold, suspicious, and, some would have it, unscrupulous. Grandier,
on the contrary, was frank and ardent and generous, and was
idolized by the people of Loudun. But he had serious failings. He
was most unclerically gallant, was tactless, was overready to take
offense, and, his wrath once fully roused, was unrelenting.
Accordingly, little surprise was felt when the choice ultimately
fell, not on him but on Mignon.
With Mignon the devils entered the Ursuline convent. Hardly had he
been installed when rumors began to go about of strange doings
within its quiet walls; and that there was something in these
rumors became evident on the night of October 12, 1632, when two
magistrates of Loudun, the bailie and the civil lieutenant, were
hurriedly summoned to the convent to listen to an astonishing
story. For upwards of a fortnight, it appeared, several of the
nuns, including Mother Superior Belfiel, had been tormented by
specters and frightful visions. Latterly they had given every
evidence of being possessed by evil spirits. With the assistance of
another priest, Father Barré, Mignon had succeeded in exorcising
the demons out of all the afflicted save the mother superior and a
Sister Claire.
In their case every formula known to the ritual had failed. The
only conclusion was that they were not merely possessed but
bewitched, and much as he disliked to bring notoriety on the
convent, the father confessor had decided it was high time to learn
who was responsible for the dire visitation. He had called the
magistrates, he explained, in order that legal steps might be taken
to apprehend the wizard, it being well established that "devils
when duly exorcised must speak the truth," and that consequently
there could be no doubt as to the identity of the offender, should
the evil spirits be induced to name the source of their
authority.
Without giving the officials time to recover from their amazement,
Mignon led them to an upper room, where they found the mother
superior and Sister Claire, wan-faced and fragile looking creatures
on whose countenances were expressions of fear that would have
inspired pity in the most stony-hearted. About them hovered monks
and nuns. At sight of the strangers, Sister Claire lapsed into a
semi-comatose condition; but the mother superior uttered piercing
shrieks, and was attacked by violent convulsions that lasted until
the father confessor spoke to her in a commanding tone. Then
followed a startling dialogue, carried on in Latin between Mignon
and the soi-disant demon possessing her.
"Why have you entered this maiden's body?"
"Because of hatred."
"What sign do you bring?"
"Flowers."
"What flowers?"
"Roses."
"Who has sent them?"
A moment's hesitation, then the single word—"Urbain."
"Tell us his surname?"
"Grandier."
In an instant the room was in an uproar. But the magistrates did
not lose their heads. To the bailie in especial the affair had a
suspicious look. He had heard the devil "speak worse Latin than a
boy of the fourth class," he had noted the mother superior's
hesitancy in pronouncing Grandier's name, and he was well aware
that deadly enmity had long existed between Grandier and Mignon. So
he placed little faith in the latter's protestation that the naming
of his rival had taken him completely by surprise. Consulting with
his colleague, he coldly informed Mignon that before any arrest
could be made there must be further investigation, and, promising
to return next day, bade them good night.
Next day found the convent besieged by townspeople, indignant at
the accusation against the popular priest, and determined to laugh
the devils out of existence. Grandier himself, burning with rage,
hastened to the bailie and demanded that the nuns be separately
interrogated, and by other inquisitors than Mignon and Barré. In
these demands the bailie properly acquiesced; but, on attempting in
person to enforce his orders to that effect, he was denied
admittance to the convent. Excitement ran high; so high that,
fearful for his personal safety, Mignon consented to accept as
exorcists two priests appointed, not by the bailie, but by the
Bishop of Poitiers—who, it might incidentally be mentioned, had his
own reasons for disliking Grandier.
Exorcising now went on daily, to the disgust of the serious-minded,
the mystification of the incredulous, the delight of
sensation-mongers, and the baffled fury of Grandier. So far the
play, if melodramatic, had not approached the tragic. Sometimes it
degenerated to the broadest farce comedy. Thus, on one occasion
when the devil was being read out of the mother superior, a
crashing sound was heard and a huge black cat tumbled down the
chimney and scampered about the room. At once the cry was raised
that the devil had taken the form of a cat, a mad chase ensued, and
it would have gone hard with pussy had not a nun chanced to
recognize in it the pet of the convent.
Still, there were circumstances which tended to inspire conviction
in the mind of many. The convulsions of the possessed were
undoubtedly genuine, and undoubtedly they manifested phenomena
seemingly inexplicable on any naturalistic basis. A contemporary
writer, describing events of a few months later, when several
recruits had been added to their ranks, states that some "when
comatose became supple like a thin piece of lead, so that their
body could be bent in every direction, forward, backward, or
sideways, till their head touched the ground," and that others
showed no sign of pain when struck, pinched, or pricked. Then, too,
they whirled and danced and grimaced and howled in a manner
impossible to any one in a perfectly normal state. 1
For a few brief weeks Grandier enjoyed a respite, thanks to the
intervention of his friend, the Archbishop of Bordeaux, who
threatened to send a physician and priests of his own choice to
examine the possessed, a threat of itself sufficient, apparently,
to put the devils to flight. But they returned with undiminished
vigor upon the arrival in Loudun of a powerful state official who,
unfortunately for Grandier, was a relative of Mother Superior
Belfiel's. This official, whose name was Laubardemont, had come to
Loudun on a singular mission. Richelieu, the celebrated cardinal
statesman, in the pursuit of his policy of strengthening the crown
and weakening the nobility, had resolved to level to the ground the
fortresses and castles of interior France, and among those marked
for destruction was the castle of Loudun. Thither, therefore, he
dispatched Laubardemont to see that his orders were faithfully
executed.
Naturally, the cardinal's commissioner became interested in the
trouble that had befallen his kinswoman, and the more interested
when Mignon hinted to him that there was reason to believe that the
suspected wizard was also the author of a recent satire which had
set the entire court laughing at Richelieu's expense. What lent
plausibility to this charge was the fact that the satire had been
universally accredited to a court beauty formerly one of Grandier's
parishioners. Also there was the fact that in days gone by, when
Richelieu was merely a deacon, he had had a violent quarrel with
Grandier over a question of precedence. Putting two and two
together, and knowing that it would result to his own advantage to
unearth the real author to the satire, Laubardemont turned a
willing ear to the suggestion that the woman in question had
allowed her old pastor to shield himself behind her name.
Back to Paris the commissioner galloped to carry the story to
Richelieu. The cardinal's anger knew no bounds. From the King he
secured a warrant for Grandier's arrest, and to this he added a
decree investing Laubardemont with full inquisitorial powers.
Events now moved rapidly. Though forewarned by Parisian friends,
Grandier refused to seek safety by flight, and was arrested in
spectacular fashion while on his way to say mass. His home was
searched, his papers were seized, and he himself was thrown into an
improvised dungeon in a house belonging to Mignon. Witnesses in his
favor were intimidated, while those willing to testify against him
were liberally rewarded. To such lengths did the prosecution go
that, discovering a strong undercurrent of popular indignation,
Laubardemont actually procured from the King and council a decree
prohibiting any appeal from his decisions, and gave out that, since
King and cardinal believed in the enchantment, any one denying it
would be held guilty of lese majesty divine and human.
Under these circumstances Grandier was doomed from the outset. But
he made a desperate struggle, and his opponents were driven to sore
straits to bolster up their case. The devils persisted in speaking
bad Latin, and continually failed to meet tests which they
themselves had suggested. Sometimes their failures were only too
plainly the result of human intervention.
For instance, the mother superior's devil promised that, on a given
night and in the church of the Holy Cross, he would lift
Laubardemont's cap from his head and keep it suspended in mid-air
while the commissioner intoned a miserere. When the time
came for the fulfilment of this promise two of the spectators
noticed that Laubardemont had taken care to seat himself at a
goodly distance from the other participants. Quietly leaving the
church, these amateur detectives made their way to the roof, where
they found a man in the act of dropping a long horsehair line, to
which was attached a small hook, through a hole directly over the
spot where Laubardemont was sitting. The culprit fled, and that
night another failure was recorded against the devil.
But such fiascos availed nothing to save Grandier. Neither did it
avail him that, before sentence was finally passed, Sister Claire,
broken in body and mind, sobbingly affirmed his innocence,
protesting that she did not know what she was saying when she
accused him; nor that the mother superior, after two hours of
agonizing torture self-imposed, fell on her knees before
Laubardemont, made a similar admission, and, passing into the
convent orchard, tried to hang herself. The commissioner and his
colleagues remained obdurate, averring that these confessions were
in themselves evidence of witchcraft, since they could be prompted
only by the desire of the devils to save their master from his just
fate. In August, 1634, Grandier's doom was pronounced. He was to be
put to the torture, strangled, and burned. This judgment was
carried out to the letter, save that when the executioner
approached to strangle him, the ropes binding him to the stake
loosened, and he fell forward among the flames, perishing
miserably.
It only remains to analyze this medieval tragedy in the light of
modern knowledge. To the people of his own generation Grandier was
either a wizard most foul, or the victim of a dastardly plot in
which all concerned in harrying him to his death knowingly
participated. These opinions posterity long shared. But now it is
quite possible to reach another conclusion. That there was a
conspiracy is evident even from the facts set down by those hostile
to Grandier. On the other hand, it is as unnecessary as it is
incredible to believe that the plotters included every one
instrumental in fixing on the unhappy curé the crime of
witchcraft.
Bearing in mind the discoveries of recent years in the twin fields
of physiology and psychology, it seems evident that the
conspirators were actually limited in number to Mignon, Barré,
Laubardemont, and a few of their intimates. In Laubardemont's case,
indeed, there is some reason for supposing that he was more dupe
than knave, and is therefore to be placed in the same category as
the superstitious monks and townspeople on whom Mignon and Barré so
successfully imposed. As to the possessed—the mother superior and
her nuns—they may one and all be included in a third group as the
unwitting tools of Mignon's vengeance. In fine, it is not only
possible but entirely reasonable to regard Mignon as a
seventeenth-century forerunner of Mesmer, Elliotson, Esdaile,
Braid, Charcot, and the present day exponents of hypnotism; and the
nuns as his helpless "subjects," obeying his every command with the
fidelity observable to-day in the patients of the Salpêtrière and
other centers of hypnotic practice.
The justness of this view is borne out by the facts recorded by
contemporary annalists, of which only an outline has been given
here. The nuns of Loudun were, as has been said, mostly daughters
of the nobility, and were thus, in all likelihood, temperamentally
unstable, sensitive, high-strung, nervous. The seclusion of their
lives, the monotonous routine of their every-day occupations, and
the possibilities afforded for dangerous, morbid introspection,
could not but have a baneful effect on such natures, leading
inevitably to actual insanity or to hysteria. That the possessed
were hysterical is abundantly shown by the descriptions their
historians give of the character of their convulsions, contortions,
etc., and by the references to the anesthetic, or non-sensitive,
spots on their bodies. Now, as we know, the convent at Loudun had
been in existence for only a few years before Mignon became its
father confessor, and so, we may believe, it fell out that he
appeared on the scene precisely when sufficient time had elapsed
for environment and heredity to do their deadly work and provoke an
epidemic of hysteria.
In those benighted times such attacks were popularly ascribed to
possession by evil spirits. The hysterical nuns, as the chronicles
tell us, explained their condition to Mignon by informing him that,
shortly before the onset of their trouble, they had been haunted by
the ghost of their former confessor, Father Moussaut. Here Mignon
found his opportunity. Picture him gently rebuking the unhappy
women, admonishing them that such a good man as Father Moussaut
would never return to torment those who had been in his charge, and
insisting that the source of their woes must be sought elsewhere;
in, say, some evil disposed person, hostile to Father Moussaut's
successor, and hoping, through thus afflicting them, to bring the
convent into disrepute and in this way strike a deadly blow at its
new father confessor. Who might be this evil disposed person? Who,
in truth, save Urbain Grandier?
Picture Mignon, again, observing that his suggestion had taken root
in the minds of two of the most emotional and impressionable, the
mother superior and Sister Claire. Then would follow a course of
lessons designed to aid the suggestion to blossom into open
accusation. And presently Mignon would make the discovery that the
mother superior and Sister Claire would, when in a hysterical
state, blindly obey any command he might make, cease from their
convulsions, respond intelligently and at his will to questions put
to them, renew their convulsions, lapse even into seeming
dementia.
Doubtless he did not grasp the full significance and possibilities
of his discovery—had he done so the devils would not have bungled
matters so often, and no embarrassing confessions would have been
forthcoming. But he saw clearly enough that he had in his hand a
mighty weapon against his rival, and history has recorded the
manner and effectiveness with which he used it.
The Drummer of Tedworth
There have been drummers a plenty in all countries and all ages,
but there surely has never been the equal of the drummer of
Tedworth. His was the distinction to inspire terror the length and
breadth of a kingdom, to set a nation by the ears—nay, even to
disturb the peace of Church and Crown.
When the Cromwellian wars broke out, he was in his prime, a stout,
sturdy Englishman, suffering, as did his fellows, from the misrule
of the Stuarts, and ready for any desperate step that might better
his fortunes. Volunteering, therefore, under the man of blood and
iron, tradition has it that from the first battle to the last his
drum was heard inspiring the revolutionists to mighty deeds of
valor. The conflict at an end, Charles beheaded, and the Fifth
Monarchy men creating chaos in their noisy efforts to establish the
Kingdom of God on earth, he lapsed into an obscurity that endured
until the Restoration. Then he reëmerged, not as a veteran living
at ease on laurels well won, but as a wandering beggar, roving from
shire to shire in quest of alms, which he implored to the
accompaniment of fearsome music from his beloved drum.
Thus he journeyed, undisturbed and gaining a sufficient living,
until he chanced in the spring of 1661 to invade the quiet
Wiltshire village of Tedworth. At that time the interests of
Tedworth were identical with the interests of a certain Squire
Mompesson, and he, being a gouty, irritable individual, was little
disposed to have his peace and the peace of Tedworth disturbed by
the drummer's loud bawling and louder drumming. At his orders rough
hands seized the unhappy wanderer, blows rained upon him, and he
was driven from Tedworth minus his drum. In vain he begged the
wrathful Mompesson to restore it to him; in vain, with the tears
streaming down his battle-worn, weather-beaten face, he protested
that the drum was the only friend left to him in all the world; and
in vain he related the happy memories it held for him. "Go," he was
roughly told—"go, and be thankful thou escapest so lightly!" So go
he did, and whither he went nobody knew, and for the moment nobody
cared.
But all Tedworth soon had occasion to wish that his lamentations
had moved the Squire to pity. Hardly a month later, when Mompesson
had journeyed to the capital to pay his respects to the King, his
family were aroused in the middle of the night by angry voices and
an incessant banging on the front door. Windows were tried;
entrance was vehemently demanded. Within, panic reigned at once.
The house was situated in a lonely spot, and it seemed certain
that, having heard of its master's absence, a band of highwaymen,
with whom the countryside abounded, had planned to turn burglars.
The occupants, consisting as they did of women and children, could
at best make scant resistance; and consequently there was much
quaking and trembling, until, finding the bolts and bars too strong
for them, the unwelcome visitors withdrew.
Unmeasured was Mompesson's wrath when he returned and learned of
the alarm. He only hoped, he declared, that the villains would
venture back—he would give them a greeting such as had not been
known since the days of the great war. That very night he had
opportunity to make good his boast, for soon after the household
had sought repose the disturbance broke out anew. Lighting a
lantern, slipping into a dressing-gown, and snatching up a brace of
pistols, the Squire dashed down-stairs, the noise becoming louder
the nearer he reached the door. Click, clash—the bolts were slipped
back, the key was turned, and, lantern extended, he peered into the
night.
The moment he opened the door all became still, and nothing but
empty darkness met his eyes. Almost immediately, however, the
knocking began at a second door, to which, after making the first
fast, he hurried, only to find the same result, and to hear, with
mounting anger, a tumult at yet another door. Again silence when
this was thrown open. But, stepping outside, as he afterward told
the story, Mompesson became aware of "a strange and hollow sound in
the air." Forthwith the suspicion entered his mind that the noises
he had heard might be of supernatural origin. To him, true son of
the seventeenth century, a suspicion of this sort was tantamount to
certainty, and an unreasoning alarm filled his soul; an alarm that
grew into deadly fear when, safe in the bed he had hurriedly
sought, a tremendous booming sound came from the top of the house.
Here, in an upper room, for safe-keeping and as an interesting
relic of the Civil War, had been placed the beggar's drum, and the
terrible thought occurred to Mompesson: "Can it be that the drummer
is dead, and that his spirit has returned to torment me?"
A few nights later no room for doubt seemed left. Instead of the
nocturnal shouting and knocking, there began a veritable concert
from the room containing the drum. This concert, Mompesson informed
his friends, opened with a peculiar "hurling in the air over the
house," and closed with "the beating of a drum like that at the
breaking up of a guard." The mental torture of the Squire and his
family may be easier imagined than described. And before long
matters grew much worse, when, becoming emboldened, the ghostly
drummer laid aside his drum to play practical, and sometimes
exceedingly painful, jokes on the members of the household.
Curiously enough, his malice was chiefly directed against
Mompesson's children, who—poor little dears—had certainly never
worked him any injury. Yet we are told that for a time "it haunted
none particularly but them." When they were in bed the coverings
were dragged off and thrown on the floor; there was heard a
scratching noise under the bed as of some animal with iron claws;
sometimes they were lifted bodily, "so that six men could not hold
them down," and their limbs were beaten violently against the
bedposts. Nor did the unseen and unruly visitant scruple to plague
Mompesson's aged mother, whose Bible was frequently hidden from
her, and in whose bed ashes, knives, and other articles were
placed.
As time passed marvels multiplied. The assurance is solemnly given
that "chairs moved of themselves." A board, it is insisted, rose
out of the floor of its own accord and flung itself violently at a
servant. Strange lights, "like corpse candles," floated about. The
Squire's personal attendant John, "a stout fellow and of sober
conversation," was one night confronted by a ghastly apparition in
the form of "a great body with two red and glaring eyes."
Frequently, too, when John was in bed he was treated as were the
children, his coverings removed, his body struck, etc. But it was
noticed that whenever he grasped and brandished a sword he was left
in peace. Clearly, the ghost had a healthy respect for cold steel.
It had less respect for exorcising, which, of course, was tried,
but tried in vain. All went well as long as the clergyman was on
his knees saying the prescribed prayers by the bedside of the
tormented children, but the moment he rose a bed staff was thrown
at him and other articles of furniture danced about so madly that
body and limb were endangered.
