"...we should pass over all biographies of 'the good and the great,' while we search carefully the slight records of wretches who died in prison, in Bedlam, or upon the gallows."
~Edgar Allan Poe

Wednesday, June 29, 2016

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

This week brings us number 3 in the "Boston Post's" series, "Famous Cats of New England." Meet the--to modern ears--regrettably named Chinky, king of Boston's City Hall:
Two claims to distinction win for Chinky third place in the hall of fame of New England catdom. He is the cat who adopted City Hall, driving out all the other cats that City Hall had adopted before he arrived, and he is the topaz puss of the stately stride, that coming down School street has often been mistaken for the great Von Hindenburg himself, the famous "Hindy" of the Post.

Naturally a social climber and a born politician is Chinky. The very fact that he was brought to Boston from his home on Peacedale road, Dorchester, for the sole purpose of exterminating the rats in Vincent Dell Aquilla's hat shop at 1 Province court, and that he turned his back on so humble a pursuit the moment he laid eyes on City Hall that looms across the way, goes to prove it.

To strut about the council chamber, to force his way unbidden into the Mayor's office, and to look as much like Hindy as possible, appear to be Chinky's aims in life. It is because he has made good in all of them that Chinky has won his place.

Let Graveyard Tom so much as set foot within the confines of the iron fence and it is a different story. Howls of hatred and hisses of wrath are lifted by Hindy and Chinky. Some sort of a stick-together bond links these two against the rest of catdom.

They look so much alike, these two, that everybody at the Hall and the Post from Mayor Peters and the City Editor down to the respective office boys have mistaken the one for the other at times. In fact, calling yesterday to interview Chinky, the reporter was baffled a bit. Chinky was reported as having just left the hall to make a brief call on his owner, across the way. Hugh McLaughlin, assistant custodian at City Hall, was the informant.

Lapping up a saucer of milk in the corner of the hat shop was a bouncing yellow cat. "Why, that's Hindy. He's deserted the Post," broke out the dismayed exclamation. But the hatmaker hastened to reassure. Chinky, he said, did not arrive in the vicinity of Newspaper Row until last July whereas Hindy's fame dated from Armistice Day.

To gambol on the lawn while waiting for Mayor Peters to arrive in the morning--to force himself through the revolving door in the same compartment with his Honor, to rub up against his feet in a wheedlesome manner--these are the tactics that have won Chinky his fame, by which he expects to climb higher still into favor.

The office-seeking hanger-on in City Hall has only one problem now. Will he be a "Goo-Goo" cat or will he line up with any one of the other ten unendorser candidates?
~December 9, 1920

[Note: "Goo-Goo" was the derisive nickname given Boston's Good Government Association, the organization backing Peters. And for those of you who have been following this blog for a while--yes, "Mayor Peters" is the same Andrew J. Peters who was a major figure in the Starr Faithfull mystery. It is a great pity that there is no record of Chinky biting him.]

Monday, June 27, 2016

The Search For Timbuktu

The history of exploration is full of strange stories, but it is hard to think of any that have more elements of both tragedy and comic opera than the 19th century search for Timbuktu. This so-called "lost city" was that era's most intriguing prize. It was reputed to be a site of unparalleled richness lying waiting to be discovered in the heart of Africa. Tales were told of it being a place of unimaginable wealth, learning, and power--a sort of Atlantis on dry land.

There were, naturally, many efforts to find this magnificent hidden kingdom. And they only succeeded in finding The Weird.

The earliest known effort by a Westerner to discover the city was an American named John Ledyard. He had never been to Africa and knew not a word of Arabic, but that did not stop him from setting boldly out in 1788. He made it as far as Cairo, when, while ineptly treating himself for a "bilious complaint," he accidentally overdosed himself with sulphuric acid. He died almost immediately. He could not know it, but his expedition was to set the tone for all explorers following in his footsteps.

The next hunt for Timbuktu was led by an Irishman, Daniel Houghton, in 1791. All went well until he reached Gambia. He was attacked by bandits, who stole his supplies and beat him to death.

In 1795, a Scottish explorer named Mungo Park set off for Timbuktu, only to also be robbed along the way. He tried again in 1803 with a party of 46 men. Not one of them came back alive.

In 1817, a British surgeon named Joseph Ritchie (now mostly known--if he's known at all--as a friend of the poet Keats) tried his hand at finding Timbuktu. Ritchie had no experience whatsover as an explorer, and it showed. He spent the small sum allocated to him in mostly worthless ways--including having himself circumcised so he could pass himself off as an Arab. His party soon ran out of supplies, and he wound up dying of starvation embarrassingly quickly.

The growth of serious Timbuktu madness can be blamed on a now-obscure fabulist named James Jackson. In 1809 he published a book with the alluring title, "An Accurate and Interesting Account of Timbuktu, the Great Emporium of Central Africa." It may not have been accurate, but it was certainly interesting. It described a huge city boasting vast wealth and natural resources--it was literally paved with gold--a paradisaical climate, and, perhaps of greatest interest to Jackson's male readers, loads of beautiful, sexually adventurous women. His Timbuktu was sort of a cross between the Garden of Eden and the Playboy Mansion.

It's still not quite certain if Jackson was a deliberate fantasist or a deluded lunatic, but in any case, the book was a massive best-seller, going through at least ten editions. No one, it seems, questioned the scientific accuracy of the book, and the hunt for Timbuktu became an obsession throughout Europe.

The first major search for this glittering prize was a Venetian Egyptologist named Giovanni Belzoni, who set off in 1823.  Before he had traveled more than ten miles, he died of dysentery.

In 1824, the British decided to give it another go. The responsibility for planning the expedition fell to Lord Henry Bathurst, the Secretary of State for Colonial Affairs. This was to prove to be an unfortunate choice. As Timbuktu was thought to lie about 500 miles inland from Africa's west coast, the logical thing to do would be to approach it from that direction.

Bathurst, however--for reasons no one has quite understood--opted to approach Timbuktu from the north. It did not seem to bother him that this meant crossing 3,000 miles of the Sahara Desert. He blithely assumed one could sail into Tripoli, rent a few camels, and just ride to one oasis after another until you reached Timbuktu. It was a thoroughly insane plan. One would have to be thoroughly insane to go through with it.

Enter Alexander Gordon Laing.

The thirty-year-old Laing was an officer in the Royal African Colonial Corps in Sierra Leone. He was handsome, idealistic, brave, energetic, dashing, adventurous, and highly ambitious.

Unfortunately, he was also a delusional egomaniac.

Laing, like nearly all seekers of Timbuktu, had no experience as an explorer. In fact, he had little experience in much of anything other than writing dreadful poems about himself. As for his capabilities as a military officer, his commander once wrote that "His military exploits are even worse than his poetry."

Nevertheless, he had from boyhood nursed dreams of making himself famous by "some important discovery." He felt he was the one destined to finally find the legendary Timbuktu. He wrote with his usual grandiloquence, "The world will forever remain in ignorance of the place, as I make no vainglorious assertion when I say that it will never be visited by Christian man after me...I am so wrapt in the success of this enterprise that I think of nothing else all day and dream of nothing else all night." When he learned of Bathurst's expedition, he immediately volunteered to lead the mission. Bathurst was favorably impressed by Laing's courage, poise, and willingness to make the trip on the cheap. The madcap young officer was hired on the spot.

Laing set off for Africa in 1825. He eventually made his way to Tripoli, where the British Consul, Hanmer Warrington, was to help him travel to the interior of the continent. However, the more Warrington saw of Laing, the more pessimistic he became about the would-be explorer's chances for success. The younger man's uncertain health, lack of money, and general air of fecklessness disturbed him.

Warrington became even more disturbed when his daughter Emma fell instantly in love with Laing. Before long, the young couple was begging him to allow them to marry. The idea of having this impecunious--and, he was now convinced, slightly cracked--would be explorer as a son-in-law horrified him, and he initially refused to even consider the idea. He wrote Bathurst, "Although I am aware that Major Laing is a very gentlemanly, honourable and good man still I must allow a more wild, enthusiastic and romantic attachment never before existed." Finally, when Emma threatened to kill herself if she was not allowed to marry Laing, Warrington relented--with one condition. He allowed them to go through with a marriage service, but the union was not to be consummated until Laing returned alive and well from his expedition.

Warrington evidently surmised that the chances of that happening were small.

The young lovers agreed to his terms, and they were wed in July 1825. Love gave a new impetus to Laing's ambitions. He was now seeking fame and fortune not just for himself, but for the lady of his heart. "I shall do more than has ever been done before," he vowed, "and shall show myself to be what I have ever considered myself, a man of enterprise and genius." Four days after the wedding, he began his trek across the Sahara, taking with him only a few camels and a small band of assistants.

Highly dangerous, uncharted territory, lack of any skilled planning, little outdoors experience, and a leader who was a real-life version of Monty Python's Black Knight. What could go wrong?

Everything, of course. Although we know very little about this expedition other than Laing's few surviving letters, it is clear that this was an enterprise doomed even before it began. The would-be conqueror's messages back to Tripoli consisted largely of poems (about himself, naturally) and paranoid attacks on his rival explorers, particularly one Hugh Clapperton, who was at that time conducting his own Timbuktu expedition. Although the two men did not know each other, Laing had become convinced that Clapperton was part of some sort of conspiracy against him. (As it happened, Clapperton--a far more experienced explorer--was himself resentful that the Colonial Office had commissioned a neophyte like Laing.) This sense of personal affront made Laing all the more obsessed with being the first to find the legendary land of Timbuktu.

In his letters, Laing repeatedly begged his reluctant father-in-law to send him a miniature of Emma. Otherwise, he added rather unnecessarily, "I might go mad." When he received the portrait, Laing was distraught. Emma, he thought, looked pale and unhappy. Was she ill? Pining for him? In a sudden panic, he wrote Warrington that he was immediately returning to Tripoli. The Consul, feeling himself unable to handle another dose of his lunatic son-in-law's society, quickly replied with reassuring words about Emma's good health and spirits.

As it happened, it was not Warrington that persuaded Laing to continue his journey, but a comet he saw in the sky. He saw it as a "happy omen" beckoning him on. He received further encouragement in the news that Clapperton's expedition was finding its own share of troubles. (Clapperton eventually died before reaching Timbuktu.)

Laing and his little party pressed on, undeterred by lack of food (at one point, Laing recorded that he had gone for an entire week without eating) and temperatures that soared as high as 120 degress Fahrenheit. Their small supply of drinking water was muddy and hot. Virtually all they had to eat were repulsive patties of dried fish soaked in camel milk. After five months of this slow torture, he reached an oasis in what is now Algeria. From there, Laing was certain, it was merely a short hop across the desert to his goal.

Unfortunately, at this stage in the journey, a new danger emerged. His planned route was dominated by tribesmen called the Tuareg, desert pirates who made a practice of preying on those foolhardy enough to travel through their domain. The local traders told Laing that it would be necessary for him to give a large bribe to the Tuaregs before they would allow him through. Even then, they advised, his safety was by no means assured. They strongly suggested that he just forget the whole thing.

Laing scoffed at such cautionary words. He was never one for taking anyone's advice, and besides, he was convinced he was a Man of Destiny. He refused to pay off the Tuaregs, and he certainly would not turn back now. In January of 1826, he resumed his journey. Within a couple of days, his caravan was attacked by the Tuaregs, who killed several of the party and took all their possessions. Laing himself was seriously wounded, with no one to help him except an injured driver and a couple of forlorn camels. Undeterred, he had the man strap him on one of his camels, and the nightmare trek went on. Laing wrote to Tripoli describing his injuries in harrowing detail. He had eight saber cuts on his head, "all fractures from which much bone has come away," a fractured jaw, a mutilated ear, a "dreadful gash" on the back of his neck, a musket ball through his hip, five saber cuts on his right arm which left three fingers broken, a broken left arm, and deep gashes on both legs. Oh, and he had caught the plague, as well.

Making his resemblance to the Black Knight complete, he seemed to shrug it all off as only a flesh wound. His main concern was that his beloved Emma would be turned off by his disfigured condition.

Never underestimate the power of blind obsession. Amazingly enough, this ill-equipped eccentric, now seriously broken in both body and mind, succeeded where so many other more experienced, more well-funded men had failed. On August 13, 1826, Laing entered the city of Timbuktu.

It must have been one of the greatest anticlimaxes in the history of exploration. A few centuries earlier, Timbuktu had indeed been a prosperous trading post and center of learning, but the town had long fallen into decay. Instead of the wealthy Valhalla Laing had been promised, he found a dreary little collection of mud brick buildings populated by largely impoverished villagers who were wondering what in the hell he was doing there.

Timbuktu in 1830

This letdown, instead of forcing Laing to come to his senses, seems to have propelled him all the way over the edge. He cheerfully wrote that this "great capital...has completely met my expectations." He took to parading through the streets in full dress uniform, informing the understandably bemused populace that he was the emissary of the King of England.

He had informed Tripoli that he intended to travel to Sierra Leone, but for reasons unknown, he headed in the opposite direction. On or about September 25, 1826, he and a servant were attacked by Tuaregs. They strangled Laing to death, then cut off his head. His body was left in the desert to rot. The servant, who had only survived by pretending to be dead, made his way to Tripoli two years later, where he told the world of the tragedy. [Note: Some historians believe Laing was actually murdered by his guide, a supposedly "friendly" sheik who had volunteered to escort him through the desert. The theory is that the sheik feared that if Laing returned alive, he would expose the area's thriving slave trade and bring in other highly unwanted foreigners.]

Emma Warrington Laing was devastated by the news of her husband's gruesome death. Although her father pushed her into an early remarriage--to his vice consul--she never recovered from the shock, and spent the short remainder of her life suffering from ill health and depression. She joined her first husband in the grave in 1829, aged only twenty-eight.

It is a cruel irony that although Laing had succeeded in his goal of being the first European to reach Timbuktu, he has received little of the glory he so yearned for. Although he had kept a journal detailing his adventure, it was lost after his death. In 1828, a Frenchman named René Caillié managed to enter the city. While there, he confirmed what little was known of Laing's fate. On his return, he published a grandiose history of his travels which reached a wide audience. The French gleefully publicized his achievement, boasting mendaciously that it was a Frenchman "with his scanty personal resources alone" who had been the first to reach Timbuktu, not one of the hated British. As a result, Laing's feat was curiously overshadowed.

That undoubtedly would have pained him more than any saber wound.

Friday, June 24, 2016

Weekend Link Dump

This weekend's Link Dump is proud to be sponsored by the legendary Puss in Boots!

Gustave Dore

How the hell did Wilma Montesi die?

Watch out for those toilet ghosts!

Watch out for those goblin jackets!

Watch out for those killer rabbits!

Watch out for those maggot rains!

Watch out for the Beast of Gevaudan!

Watch out for those Midsummer fairies!

The lopsided Great Pyramid.

Texas and Stephen F. Austin.

The New World Order and Cecil Rhodes.

An amusement park ride that really needs to make a comeback.

The whistling Caribbean Sea.

The woman who sees all too well.

Why you would not want to visit Venus.

Marriage, as seen by the "middling sort."

I can't say I'm unhappy to see National Insect Week come to a close.

The "three military arts."

One very special drinking glass.

The unfortunate Constance Wilde.

Dangerous dogs and escaping elephants.

Midsummer folklore and the Black Death.

The Devil's Column.

The curious fame of Buckminster Fuller.

A woman's life journey, told in one 1930s scrapbook.

How to be an 18th century criminal.

Tips from an 1871 guide to New York.

Tips from a medieval guide to faking virginity.

The Collapse of Civilization; or, Here We Go Again.

You just never know when you might become a witch.

One busy day at Newgate.

Pajamas and Kaiser Wilhelm.

Some 18th century female boxers.

There are some freaking old whales out there.

Look, he wasn't called "Charles the Bad" for nothing.

I'm assuming there'd be fewer divorces if married couples still got bacon as a reward.

Miss Bacillus, one hardy guinea pig.

19th century "confidence men."

Let's talk amputated bowels, shall we?

A description of medieval whaling.

The birth of the hot dog.

The notorious Madame Recamier.

The baby and the Fairy Bush.

The sad tale of the violent pauper.

The strange tale of the Gold Dust Twins.

The even stranger tale of the stumbling ghost.

The just freaking nuts tale of the Renwick Cockatrice.

Our weekly Sinking Siberia alert!

And that wraps it up.  See you on Monday, when we'll be going exploring!  In the meantime, let's dance:

Wednesday, June 22, 2016

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

This report of versatile and particularly disruptive Irish ghosts comes from the "Spiritual Magazine," May 1, 1868:

We should be glad to have a verification of the curious facts stated in the following extract from the Derry Standard:—

EXTRAORDINARY AND MYSTERIOUS OCCURRENCES.—In this age of common sense and disbelief in superstition, to find circumstances impossible to explain by ordinary criteria, awes and astonishes more than mere rustics. Such circumstances have been occurring in the village of Tillymoan, situated about a mile from Claudy, Strabane. 
The house of a man named Speers has been the object of some mysterious destructive agency for weeks past. The owner was threshing oats in the barn, and in every sheaf he found two or three small stones—this went on so long that he found himself compelled to cease. Then he was startled by a noise in the stable, and he went in there carrying his flail with him, which he dropped behind the horse, that he might fetch away a tub from the animal's head, and lo! the flail disappeared, and has not since been found. Then the kitchen fire got scattered through the floor; the plates and dishes were smashed off the dresser, and the pots and cans began to walk about through, the apartments. Then stones began to fly in all directions, cutting every one daring enough to approach the haunted dwelling. The panes of glass next began to be smashed; so, for safety, the windows were taken out and locked up in a press; but the mysterious visitors were too wise, for soon press, windows and chairs were smashed to pieces. The turf-stacks kept oscillating like a poplar tree; hammering constantly resounded from the chimney, and the stones kept flying in all directions, pelting and cutting and bleeding those venturous enough to risk visiting the place. 
On Friday evening week the crowds gathered distinctly saw a pot come flying through the door and fall in smashed pieces on the street. A religiously-inclined inhabitant of the locality volunteered to lay the Evil One, and so he repaired to the spot in vaunted hopes of success. Alas for human calculation! The stones rattled about his ears in the fated kitchen, they fell on his wrists, spraining them; and on his feet, hurting them. The combat was too unequal, his opponents were invisible, so he considered retreat justifiable. 
Strange to say, the disturbances ceased on Sunday last, from about 10 a.m. to 5 p.m., when they began with renewed vigour. Not alone in the house, but through the owner's lands—though no farther—do the stones pelt away the crowds. The circumstance is an extraordinary one, and is creating an extraordinary amount of excitement far and near. For miles round the people flock to see and certify regarding the unusual wonder. The people have fled the house, and all about it and within are in fearful confusion. The event deserves notice and investigation from its many peculiarities.  
We find the following extract in a subsequent number of the same paper:—

The Late Mysterious Proceedings At Tillymoan, Claudy.—The excitement in connexion with the above mysterious affair has not in the least subsided, but, on the contrary, has spread to such an extent, that on last Sunday and the preceding one large crowds from Strabane, Lifford and surrounding district, flocked to the residence of Speer, in whose house, it will be recollected, the mysterious work of destruction has been going on, to witness, as some of them expressed it, the performance of the Tillymoan ghost. However, I believe they were all, with one exception, sadly disappointed in their expectations, as the ghost was not at home to any of the numerous visitors who called to make his acquaintance. 
One person, a most respectable farmer, who resides in the next townland to where Speer's house is situate, told me that while talking to Mrs. Speer on Wednesday, he observed smoke issuing from a portion of the roof which suddenly broke out in a bright red flame. The application of a few buckets of water had the desired effect, when all became tranquil again. To shew, he said, that this could not possibly be the result of accident, or of any mischief-making person, none were in the house at the time, with the exception of Mrs. Speer and himself. On Wednesday morning last, a little boy, who is an inmate of Speer's residence, was kindling the fire, when the coals were suddenly lifted off the hearth and scattered in all directions through the house. 
On Monday last, an incident, calculated to create much fun, occurred. Two policemen, who were passing through the locality, seeing a large crowd collected round Speer's, thought they too would go and see for themselves. They accordingly proceeded to the house, which they entered, and where a great many neighbours were already assembled. One of the constables finding no chairs or any other substitute for a seat, (those articles having been all previously smashed) leaned over an old chest, when with a loud, long crash in went the lid, precipitating the unfortunate guardian of the peace to the bottom, where he lay for some considerable time to the evident enjoyment of some of the on-lookers, while more taking it for the commencement of performance, beat a hasty retreat from the dreaded premises. Scarcely a day has passed for the last fortnight without some fresh manifestation of the presence of the terrible, yet invisible mischief-maker. Surely it is a subject calculated in many respects to excite curiosity, and one for many reasons calling for a strict enquiry into the whole affair.
If there was this "strict enquiry," I have found no record of it.

Monday, June 20, 2016

The Great Burdon Poisoning

Death by poisoning often creates some of the greatest murder mysteries. Unlike other weapons, poison can do its lethal work without the killer being present on the scene. It is a secretive sort of murder, meaning that the criminal usually has to be an almost unimaginable blunderer to be "caught in the act." Often, the only way to catch the guilty party is to firmly tie him/her to the source of the poison. If that cannot be done, it can be very hard to solve the crime. If, on top of that, no solid motive can be found, the case can be considered virtually inscrutable.

As I have noted before on this blog, perhaps the most outstanding example of this judicial conundrum was the impenetrable death of Charles Bravo. A strong runner-up to this grim true-crime honor took place in the mid-19th century, in the otherwise unremarkable English township of Great Burdon.

At the center of our mystery is Joseph Snaith Wooler. Wooler was born in 1810. At the age of 26, he married 21-year-old Jane Brecknell. In 1848, following a career as a merchant in India, Wooler and his wife settled in Great Burdon to spend what they presumably assumed would be a long and peaceful retirement. The couple had no children. They lived alone except for one servant, 27-year-old Ann Taylor. By all appearances, the Woolers were a contented and devoted pair, giving absolutely no hint of the bizarre tragedy to come. Both were "constitutional invalids," (or what would probably now be called "hypochondriacs.") The Woolers took great care of their health, without anything in particular being the matter with them.

Life went on an uneventful course until May 8, 1855. The Woolers ate a dinner of "pig-cheek," which I fear is exactly what it sounds like, and beef. Mrs. Wooler also had soup.  Her husband did not. Soon after this meal, Mrs. Wooler suddenly began suffering extreme intestinal pain and vomiting. A Dr. Thomas Jackson was summoned. This medical man diagnosed a simple case of "influenza and disordered stomach." For a month, the unfortunate woman's symptoms gradually became more severe. A couple of neighbor ladies and Mrs. Wooler's brother often visited the ailing woman, but aside from the doctors, her only constant attendants were her husband and Ann Taylor. They both regularly gave Mrs. Wooler her prescribed medicines and when she could no longer eat, "injections" (enemas) of food. (Unbeknownst to everyone, nutrition given in this manner is undigested by the body, leaving the sick woman to virtually starve.) Mr. Wooler's attitude towards his suffering wife was described as unfailingly affectionate and devoted. He daily read the Scriptures to her.

Puzzled by his patient's stubbornly deteriorating condition, Dr. Jackson called another physician named Haslewood for consultation. This new doctor found himself equally baffled. Early in June, it began to dawn on them that Mrs. Wooler's illness had many characteristics suggesting poisoning.

The doctors kept this suspicion from both the Woolers. Dr. Haslewood later offered the rather lame explanation that "divulging our suspicion of poison at that time could not save the life of the sufferer; but if it came to her knowledge, the shock would hasten the final event." More bluntly, Dr. Jackson justified his silence by stating that if his intimations were proved false, "I was rendering myself liable to an action and damages." (In short, they were more concerned about their own necks than that of their patient.)

Jane Wooler died on June 27. The widower appeared--depending on your viewpoint--either stoically resigned or emotionally indifferent. The doctors refused to sign a death certificate until an autopsy was done.

This post-mortem confirmed their suspicions that she had died from the effects of an irritant poison, which chemical tests revealed to be that eternal standby, arsenic. It was believed Mrs. Wooler had been gradually murdered with small doses of poison administered over a long period of time. Further tests established that the victim had taken arsenic in the form of a solution, rather than the usual powder. The largest concentration of arsenic was found around her rectum, suggesting that her "injections" had been a major conduit for the poison. One of the syringes used to give Mrs. Wooler enemas was tested and found to contain residue of arsenic.

The coroner's jury returned an open verdict: Jane Wooler died of arsenic poisoning, but there was no evidence of how this was done.

This verdict--at least as far as the police were concerned--did not stand for long. There was a growing sense--shared by later crime writers such as William Roughead--that Wooler had spread his shows of piety and uxorial devotion just a bit too thick. Jane's brother William Brecknell--who had always disliked his brother in law--had little doubt about his sister's death. He gave a deposition before the local Justices of the Peace declaring that Joseph "did feloniously, of malice aforethought, and with intent to kill, administer poison to the said Jane Wooler."

Wooler was arrested two days after this deposition. He maintained his innocence, declaring, "I trust that Almighty God, before whom I stand, will bring to light the atrocious criminal who has perpetrated this foul deed."

Wooler's trial opened on December 7. Earlier, the prisoner had made the somewhat novel claim that, if his wife indeed had been poisoned, it must have been from the medicine provided by her doctors, and the defense essentially built their case upon that theory. (However, the remains of the medicines given Mrs. Wooler were tested, and no trace of the poison was found.)

The prosecution made much of the fact that Wooler had a good deal of knowledge about drugs and poisons. During his time in the India, he accumulated a formidable medicine chest, ("Enough to poison the whole village!" according to Dr. Haslewood,) which he continued to maintain at Great Burdon. Among the many drugs in Wooler's possession was "Fowler's Solution of Arsenic." Curiously enough, this bottle disappeared immediately after his wife's death.

One particularly inexplicable detail emerged at the trial. Dr. Jackson and his assistant, George Henzell, were regularly having Mrs. Wooler's urine tested during the latter part of her illness. The samples were stored in Wooler's coach house.  On June 22, Henzell, not finding any samples there, asked that some be sent to him.  Ann Taylor later gave a bottle of urine--which she said was in the usual place in the coach house--to Mr. Wooler, who had it delivered to the doctors.  The samples had consistently tested positive for the presence of a metallic deposit suspected to be arsenic. However, the sample sent on June 22 was free of this deposit. In fact, the doctors believed that the urine could not possibly have come from Mrs. Wooler.

One part of Dr. Haslewood's testimony in particular was considered significant. He reported that on June 23, Mr. Wooler told him that his wife had a "feeling of stiffness and tingling in her hands." Haslewood took great interest in this news, as it confirmed his belief that she was being poisoned. When the doctor asked how long Mrs. Wooler had this symptom, Mr. Wooler said it was for only that one day. When Haslewood later asked the invalid that same question, she said it had been going on for "three or four days." When her husband tried to correct her, she insisted that she was right, adding "I told you to tell the doctors two or three days ago, but you forgot." Was this a case of simple absent-mindedness, or, as the prosecution suggested, was Mr. Wooler displaying guilty obfuscation?  It was considered equally telling that on June 20--the one day when Mr. Wooler was absent from his wife's bedside--she showed a sudden and dramatic recovery. Upon his return, her condition again worsened. There was, the Crown argued, only one person around the victim who had the opportunity and the requisite knowledge of poisons to commit the murder: her husband.

The weakest part of the prosecution case was the complete lack of any discernible motive. The Crown admitted that they had been unable to find a reason why Mr. Wooler--or anyone else, for that matter--would want Jane Wooler dead. There was not even any insurance on her life. The prosecuting attorney could only say that some crimes were unaccountable "save to the eye of God himself."

As was stated previously, the argument made by Wooler's counsel, Serjeant Charles Wilkins, was essentially that a lot of bungling quacks misdiagnosed Mrs. Wooler throughout and, however inadvertently, were responsible for her death. While he did not dispute that she died from arsenic poisoning, he maintained that the source must have been the medicine provided by the doctors. Wilkins blithely threw around words such as "childish," "silly," "utterly devoid of sense," and "infamous in the extreme" to describe the physicians. If his client was poisoning his wife, Wilkins argued, why did he summon doctors? If his client was poisoning his wife, why did Wooler readily show investigators his collection of drugs? If his client was poisoning his wife, why, with his pharmaceutical knowledge, would he choose the easily-detectable arsenic, when he had strychnine, which was much more difficult to spot? Wilkins declared that there was no proof that the missing Fowler's bottle actually contained the arsenic solution, and there was no evidence connecting Wooler with its disappearance. As for the switched urine sample, Wilkins proposed that it had all just been an innocent mistake. (As a side note, it makes little sense that the poisoner--whoever it was--would see any benefit in deliberately providing a false sample after Mrs. Wooler's urine had already been examined.)  Naturally, Wilkins also stressed Wooler's complete absence of motive, and his consistent tenderness and devotion to his wife.

The judge's charge to the jury was very favorable to the defendant; in fact, it could almost be called a demand for an acquittal. After less than ten minutes of deliberation, the jurors complied: Joseph Wooler was pronounced "Not guilty." [As a footnote, Dr. Jackson subsequently sued Wooler for £16, the cost of the "drugs and attendance" he provided during Mrs. Wooler's illness. The jury found for the plaintiff. Wooler said afterwards that "he would not pay a sixpence, as he considered it his wife's blood-money." Spectators manifested "the greatest joy," at what they considered some small payback for what they believed was the earlier miscarriage of justice. The defendant, on the other hand, was received with "hooting and groaning."] Despite this public unpopularity, Wooler lived uneventfully at his Great Burdon home, with Ann Taylor staying on as housekeeper, until his death in 1871.

The verdict, as the "Durham County Advertiser" complained, left "the great sea of dark conjecture as stormy and shoreless as ever." Everyone agreed that Jane Wooler died from arsenic. No one thought for a minute that the poor woman committed suicide through the long, agonizing ordeal of slow poisoning. Aside from Wilkins' wild claims, there is no reason to believe that the doctors were in any way responsible for the victim's death. Someone got away with a particularly cruel and cold-blooded murder. But who?

In his charge to the Wooler jury, the judge, Baron Martin, made the baffling comment that "He could only say for himself that if he were making any surmises or were allowing his imagination to take scope, there was a person upon whom his suspicions would rest other than the prisoner." He later rather weakly explained that he saw no proof against anyone, but if he were to indulge in "surmise and fancy," "not the prisoner but some other person would first occur to my mind." In short, he felt pretty much anyone could have poisoned Jane Wooler.

On the other hand, Linda Stratmann, in her recent book "The Secret Poisoner: A Century of Murder," argued that the Great Burdon Mystery was not all that mysterious at all. She proposed that, just like an Agatha Christie novel, the real murderer was someone whom no one suspected: the servant, Ann Taylor. Stratmann pointed out that it was Taylor who prepared the soup that had first sickened Mrs. Wooler. Taylor played a major role in nursing Mrs. Wooler and preparing her enemas. As the servant had been the one to fetch the bogus urine sample from the coach house, Stratmann believed it was logical to believe Taylor was responsible for the substitution. (It should be again noted, however, that it was Mr. Wooler who actually sent the bottle.) This author was of the opinion that, despite what was claimed at the time, no particular expertise was required to carry out a program of slow poisoning. On the contrary, perhaps the long-drawn-out nature of Mrs. Wooler's death was a product not of practiced cunning, but the ineptness of an amateur.

While Ann Taylor certainly had the opportunity to commit the crime, finding a motive is even more difficult to fathom than it was with Joseph Wooler. Taylor seems to have had a sterling reputation. Not even the aggressive Serjeant Wilkins tried to cast suspicion upon her--even though she was the only other alternative suspect. There is not a hint of anything irregular or antagonistic about her relations with either of the Woolers. She did not profit in any way from her mistress' death. Unless Taylor had a well-hidden psychopathic side that compelled her to commit a murder for the sheer fun of it, it is extremely difficult to picture her as the guilty party.

Unfortunately, we will never know for certain who was responsible for the death of Jane Wooler. However, pace Ms. Stratmann, I am inclined to believe that Joseph Snaith Wooler privately considered himself to be a very clever and very lucky man.

[Note: For me, the most intriguing aspect of this strange case is the fact that Ann Taylor remained Wooler's housekeeper.  If, as almost had to have been the case, one of those two murdered Mrs. Wooler, the other virtually had to have known--or suspected--their guilt.  One would very much like to know what those two had to say to each other in private.]

Friday, June 17, 2016

Weekend Link Dump

The Link Dump opens on a different note this week, with a brief tribute to one wonderful, happy dog.  I had the pleasure of Lexi's acquaintance for years, and I can tell you that around Santa Anita, she'll be greatly missed.

Below are a couple of pictures I took a while back of Lexi on the job:

And taking time off for some R & R:

Why the hell did Beverly Sharpman leave home?

Watch out for those cursed ship-eating sand bars!

Watch out for those Night-Walkers!

Watch out for those Victorian reptiles!

Watch out for those one-legged murderous clowns!

Watch out for those two-legged murderous phrenologists!

Watch out for the Metal-Mouthed Dogman of Clare!

Nantucket's Summer of the Sea Serpent.

A horrible discovery at Gloucester.  The header is an image from the Illustrated Police News, so you know that description is not given lightly.

What a medieval Dr. Oz would be nagging you to eat.

The secrets of medieval bookspines.

More ancient Roman notes.

Regency seduction tips.  Watch out for those toes.

Oh, just another 4,000 year old bird that drips blood.

Stanley Kubrick looks at a dog's life in 1940's NYC.

The audacious Colonel Blood.

We revisit Grace O'Malley, Irish pirate queen.

A dinosaur dinner party.

A sampling of Scottish folktales.

The famed birth of Frankenstein.

An 18th century kraken.

A haunted mass grave.

An early fatal balloon accident.

A pub's "living sign."

The history of being in the doghouse.

A look back at Sergeant Monday.  Bring nuts.

Elizabeth Simmonds' very lucky escape.

The history of wedding night games.  No, no, not those games.  What kind of a blog do you think I'm running here?

A 19th century "witch burning."

The beginning of tourism.

A 19th century Ghostbuster.

The Electrostatic Flying Machine.

Our Thomas Morris Advice For the Week:  What not to do with a cow horn.

Bonus:  What not to do with a quantity of dried peas.

More information about a famous "ancient computer."

One of Early Modern London's many problems: coal smoke.

We keep creating artificial intelligence, even though we keep having so much trouble with the home-grown variety.

The not-so-mysterious sea mystery of Joshua Slocum.  Thankfully, there's also wine.

The Committee of Public Safety.

Julian Eltinge, at your service.

18th century gambling.

An unusual murder weapon.

The strange case of Friendship Island.

Rewriting Cambodian history.

In Hell's choir, the Devil is a tenor.  Just so you know.

Finding proof of an ancient Norwegian saga.

Why Bamberg, Germany persecuted a lot of witches.

An inside look at the court of George III.

Richard Hoodless, Horse Swimmer.

Victorian goldfish.

19th century Men in the Moon.

Napoleon felt castration had its benefits.  Oh, never mind, just click the link.

19th century Burmese fun and games.

That time the Devil showed up in police court.

The legend of the cursed Hayden House.

And so ends another Link Dump.  See you on Monday, when we'll be looking at that evergreen topic, arsenic.  In the meantime, here's the great Rose Maddox:

Wednesday, June 15, 2016

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

As I had previously threatened promised to do, here is more from the "Boston Post's" series, "Famous Cats of New England." This second entry pays tribute to Mike, right-hand-cat of Calvin Coolidge:
The First Cat in Massachusetts, "Mike," friend of Governor Coolidge and official rat catcher of the State House, saves the Commonwealth thousands of dollars every year.

Probably nowhere in New England breathes there a more democratic cat than State House Mike--he who walks intimately in the ways of the highest State executives, sleeps when he likes in the executive chamber and can rub his whiskers along the boots of the Vice-President-elect of the United States. The story of his remarkable rise from an abandoned-for-dead alley-way kitten to the stately boss of the State House is a story that every cat at present seeking out meagre existence from garbage boxes should know and draw courage from.

No Caesar, to forget the steps by which he climbed, is State House Mike. Not a day goes by that he does not call in the boiler rooms at the State House, there to visit "the boys" to whom he owes his start in life. If summoned suddenly therefrom by the dictates of his fancy to the treasury department or the Governor's Council chamber it bothers Mike not a bit that his erstwhile white nose is smootched by a generous dab of coal dust. He goes at once in his boiler room overalls as it were.

Six years ago Harry Morton, boiler inspector at the State House, picked up Mike, a wee bit of a kitten in an almost lifeless condition and in mercy took him in. Some one of the boys brought a bottle of milk and in relays the man began to feed the waif with a spoon. For three days he lay without moving on a camp stool, the men nursing him along.

"His life wasn't worth two cents. Now the librarian says he saves us thousands of dollars," proudly declared Assistant Engineer Charles A. Thompson, the man who brings in Mike's "chow" each day and to whom the cat reports three times regularly for meals.

In those days the State House was over-run with cats. One, a black cat, was especially officious. As Mike rallied he began to rid the premises of these errant felines. The black cat held out firmly, but one memorable day Mike engaged him in battle. Bits of black fur strewed the marble corridors of the State House, but the cat they came from was seen no more.

Then came a threat on Mike's life. The Sergeant-At-Arms of the State House decreed there should be no more cats. He ordered Mike killed. Gloom fell upon Mike's many foster-parents in the engine room. Finally it was decided that Engineer Thompson should take Mike home.

Word reached the library. Down came the librarian in fury. The State House simply could not get along without Mike. Since his arrival not a single book has had to be rebound. No rat or mouse lived long enough to set tooth in the precious tomes that contained the State's records. Mike had seen to that. Previously hundreds of dollars had to be spent in repairing books.

So Mike stayed. On the occasion of his sixth anniversary with the State House the engineers presented Mike with a collar. On it is engraved "Mike--State House."

Every department is visited daily by Mike. While the Post reporter waited to interview him it was reported that he was calling in the treasury department. Presently, however, he appeared, inspected the Governor's chamber thoughtfully and then jumped up in the Governor's great high backed official chair. Piled in its seat were the Laws of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. Mike sat down on them. He rubbed his nose a bit on the Indian embossed in the State seal that ornaments the back of the chair. He played with his paw for a minute with a blue ribbon that trained from an official seal on a document that lay on the Governor's desk. Then he looked disdainfully at his visitor. Mike does not like strangers.

Very straight backed and dignified he sat up in the big chair. Only the coal smootch on his nose detracted a bit from the dignity. Without enthusiasm he consented to have his head scratched. he did not abandon his chair. Neither did he "warm up" or express any pleasure.

Whenever the Governor is away Mike holds down the official chair. He seemed to realize that Governor Coolidge had gone home to Northampton to vote and that it was up to him to take his place. When the Governor is at his desk Mike usually contents himself by curling up and going to sleep on the rug near his feet. Occasionally he jumps on the desk, though, to see just how the day's work is coming along.

Mike's particular sanctum, where he likes to take his cat naps and where he spends that part of the night that is not spent in rat hunting is the engine field, in the boiler room. He curls up by the dynamo of the engine when it is not running. It is very warm there.

"The cat who made good." "The cat who is true to his old pals." "The boss of the State House." "Best mouser in Boston." These are the terms Mike's rooters use.

~December 8, 1920
I was unable to find out any more about Mike, but hopefully he continued to live a long and happy life at the helm of the Massachusetts ship-of-state.

Monday, June 13, 2016

The Haunting of Hinton Ampner

Hinton Ampner as it looks today

It is believed that Henry James' classic Gothic tale "The Turn of the Screw" was at least partly inspired by one of England's most famous and well-attested ghost stories, the eerie goings-on at the manor house of Hinton Ampner.  The following are the most relevant excerpts from the lengthy documentation of the case that was published in the "Gentleman's Magazine" for November/December 1872.  These letters and narratives, rather like an epistolary novel of the era, largely speak for themselves.

A Hampshire Ghost Story.

The existence of the following narrative is alluded to in the recently published life of the Rev. Richard Barham, but the version therein given is incomplete, and consequently erroneous in some particulars. It therefore appears to the possessors of the two manuscript copies made by Mrs. Ricketts that it is now desirable to publish the original MS., and that they are fully justified in doing so with the addition of extracts from letters of relatives and friends, which bear strongly on the subject.
Mary Ricketts was the youngest child of Swynfen Jervis, Esq., and Elizabeth Parker, his wife. She was born at Meaford, near Stone, in Staffordshire, in 1737-8. From her early childhood she evinced a love for reading, and an aptitude for mental improvement, which were developed by the wise training of Nicholas Tindal, the learned continuer of Rapin's History of England.

Her veracity was proverbial in the family. Her favourite brother and companion was John Jervis who for his distinguished naval services was created Baron Jervis and Earl St. Vincent. Though his junior by three years, she rapidly outstripped him in book learning, and to her superior acquirements may be traced the unwearied pains which John Jervis took to make up for lost time, when, at the age of eighteen, he devoted his spare hours to study, instead of sharing in the frivolous amusements of West Indian life.

She married in 1757 William Henry Ricketts, of Canaan, in Jamaica, Esq., whose grandfather, William Ricketts, Esq., was a captain in Penn and Venables' army at the conquest of Jamaica. Mrs. Ricketts was called upon to accompany her husband in his visits to the West Indies, or to remain alone in England. The charge of her three infant children determined her to accept the latter alternative in 1769.

The children were:—

1. William Henry, born 1764, Capt. R.N., assumed the surname of Jervis by sign-manual in 1801, as heir to his maternal uncle, Earl St. Vincent. He was drowned in 1805, when in command of H.M.S. Tonnant, leaving two daughters, to whom Mrs. Ricketts bequeathed the MSS.—1. Martha Honora Georgina, died 1865, whose only child, by her marriage with Osborne Markham, Esq., is Mrs. Wm. Henley Jervis, the editor of this narrative. 2. Henrietta Elizabeth Mary, married Capt. Edmund Palmer, R.N.

2. Edward Jervis, born 1767, who in consequence of the death of his brother without male issue became Viscount St. Vincent. He inherited the fine and powerful intellect of his mother, and died, aged ninety-two, at Meaford Hall, Sept. 1859.

3. Mary, born 1768, married William, seventh Earl of Northesk. She died 1835, leaving a numerous family, and the example of piety and unwearied benevolence.

During the absence of Mr. Ricketts in Jamaica, his wife continued to inhabit the old Manor House of Hinton Ampner, and it was there that the following series of strange disturbances occurred, the effect of which was to render her continued occupation of the house an impossibility. 
Mrs. Ricketts was a woman of remarkable vigour, both physical and mental. Her steadfast faith, and sense of the ever abiding presence of God, carried her through many bitter trials, and preserved her intellectual powers unimpaired to the advanced age of ninety-one, when she calmly resigned her spirit into "the hands of the God who gave it."

Mrs. Ricketts To The Rev. Mr. Newbolt.

Hinton, Wednesday Morning, August, 1771. 
My Dear Sir,—In compliance with my promise to you of yesterday, I would not delay to inform you of the operations of last night. It was settled (contrary to the plan when you left) that John, my brother's man, should accompany Captain Luttrell in the chintz room, and they remain together till my brother was called. Just after twelve they were disturbed with some of the noises I had frequently heard and described, and so plainly heard by my brother that he quitted his bed long before the time agreed on, and joined the other two; the noises frequently proceeding from the garrets, they went up just at break of day, found all the men servants in their proper apartments, who had heard no disturbance whatever. They examined every room. Everything appeared snug and in place, and, contrary to usual custom, the opening and shutting of doors continued (after the other noises ceased) till five o'clock. My brother authorises me to tell you that neither himself nor Captain Luttrell can account for what they have heard from any natural cause; yet as my brother declares he shall never close his eyes in the house, he and Edward are to watch to-night. At the same time that I derive satisfaction in my reports being fully accredited, I am hurt that the few days and nights he hoped to enjoy repose should be passed in the utmost embarrassment and anxiety. 
To the Rev. Mr. Newbolt, Winchester.

Captain Jervis To Mr. Ricketts.

Portsmouth, August 9, 1771. 
The circumstances I am about to relate to you, dear Sir, require more address than I find myself master of; it is easy to undertake but difficult to execute a task of this delicate nature. To keep you longer in suspense would be painful. I therefore proceed to tell you Hinton House has been disturbed by such strange, unaccountable noises from the 2nd of April to this day, with little or no intermission, that it is very unfit your family should continue any longer in it. The children, happily, have not the least idea of what is doing, but my sister has suffered exceedingly through want of rest, and by keeping this event in her own breast too long.

Happy should I have been to have known it earlier, as I might have got rid of the alarm with the greatest facility, and dedicated myself entirely to her service and support till your return; but engaged as I am with the Duke of Gloucester, there is no retreating without the worst consequences. You will do me the justice to believe I have, during the short space this event has been made known to me, employed every means in my power to investigate it. Captain Lutrrell, I, and my man John sat up the night after it was imparted, and I should do great injustice to my sister if I did not acknowledge to have heard what I could not, after the most diligent search and serious reflection, any way account for. Mr. Luttrell had then no doubt of the cause being beyond the reach of human understanding.

My sister having determined on the steps necessary to pursue, of which she will acquaint you, I think her situation ought not to accelerate your return, at least till you are gratified with proving the utility of the laborious alterations you have made. The strength of judgment, fortitude, and perseverance she has shown upon this very trying occasion surpass all example, and as she is harassed, not terrified, by this continual agitation, I have no doubt of her health being established the moment she is removed from the scene of action and impertinent inquiry, or I would risk everything to accompany her to the time of your arrival in England; for which and every other blessing Heaven can bestow you have the constant prayer of
J. Jervis.

[Addition in Mrs. Rickett's hand.]

I omitted to mention there are several people will prove similar disturbances have been known at Hinton many years past.

Mrs. Ricketts To W. Henry Ricketts, Esq.

Winchester, August 17, 1771.

The captain took his final leave of me last week, and greatly hurt I was to part with him—he has acted so very affectionately to me, and taken that true interest in everything that concerns me, as I never can forget; and most extraordinary is the subject I have to relate. Without the utmost confidence in my veracity—which I believe you have—you could not possibly credit the strange story I must tell. In order to corroborate my relation, the captain means to write to you, and I hope his letter will arrive in time for me to enclose. You may recollect in a letter I wrote about six weeks ago I mentioned there were some things in regard to Hinton you would not find so agreeable as when you left it, and I added that I could not satisfy your curiosity; nor did I intend it till you came over, had it been possible to have rubbed on till then, but when it was thought absolutely necessary by my brother and all my friends that were consulted that I should quit the place, and that the reason of it was so publicly known that you must hear it from other hands, we concluded it much more proper you should receive the truth from us, than a thousand lies and absurdities from others; and much will you feel for what your poor wife has undergone, though I cannot in writing transmit all the particulars.

On the 2nd of last April I awoke about two in the morning (observe, I lay in the chintz room, having resigned the yellow room to Nurse and Mary) and in a few minutes after I heard the sound of feet in the lobby. I listened a considerable time at the lobby door; the sound drew near; upon this I rang my bell; my maid came, we searched the room, nothing to be found; Robert was called, and went round with as little success. This appeared to me extraordinary, but I should have thought little more of it; had I not, and all the servants in the house, except Sleepy Jack, heard the strangest noises of knocking, opening and shutting of doors, talking, explosions, sometimes as loud as the bursting of cannon. 
I kept it to myself, tremendous as it was, except telling Mrs. Newbolt, till four months were almost expired, when, as I was so hurt for want of rest, and thought I could not support it much longer, I took the resolution to tell my brother, who upon that determined to sit up; Captain Luttrell and his own man with him. The noise was heard in the lobby, and in different parts of the house; they went all over it, every door shut, every person in his room; they were astonished, and the next morning they both declared that no house was fit to live in where such noises were heard, and no natural cause appeared. You know how much the notion of haunted houses is exploded, and how careful any man would be of asserting it, and in that I think them right; as for myself, I am not afraid or ashamed to pronounce that it must proceed from a supernatural cause; but why, except as Darby imagines—who passed some days with me—there has been a murder committed that remains yet undiscovered, or for some other wise purpose, though not yet manifest? I am at a loss to explain the noises increasing and coming in the daytime. At length I determined quitting the place, and be assured, my dearest life, I did not take this painful step while it was possible to continue there; and I thank God I am as I am; the want of rest created a little fever on my spirits, which the quiet life I have passed with the Newbolts, and Dr. Walsh's prescription, have removed, so that you need not have the least uneasiness about me. Whatever the cause of these disturbances is, I am sure there has always been something of the kind since we have lived here; you must recollect often hearing the doors open and shut below stairs, and your going down sometimes during the night, and finding no person there. The servants have behaved so well, and been so cautious, that the children have heard nothing of it, which was my great dread; they are now at Wolsey, which the Bishop desires I will command as my own, and I mean to go there next week, when I shall be able to get some necessaries from Hinton, and I can stay at Wolsey till the cold weather sets in. Sainsbury has behaved in the genteelest manner, and is certain Lady Hillsborough would not wish us to keep the house a moment longer than it would be a convenience. He has wrote to her, and when he receives an answer, will communicate to me; indeed, my dear, we cannot think of living there. Strange and recent (sic) as this must appear to you, be assured no means of investigating the truth has been left untried, and that it is no trick—though that is the current belief, and that Witerr (?) is concerned—but I know neither he nor any human being could carry it on. I have received the greatest friendship and attention from all my neighbours; the Shipleys have been particularly kind in offering me the house in town till the middle of January, and doing everything to contribute to my peace of mind, and so have the Newbolts. I shall not attempt to fix myself till you come over, as I can have Wolsey, I daresay, till that time, but if we should determine on going abroad, it will be very inconvenient to have any besides our own family, and by a letter from the lieutenant (G. Poyntz Ricketts), I forgot to mention, that the same noises have been heard by the servants since we quitted the house.

Hinton Parsonage, July, 1772.

To my dear children I address the following relation, anxious that the truths which I so faithfully have delivered shall be as faithfully transmitted to posterity, to my own in particular. I determined to commit them to writing, which I recommend to their care and attentive consideration, entreating them to bear in mind the peculiar mercy of Providence in preserving them from all affright and terror during the series of wonderful disturbances that surrounded them, wishing them to be assured the veracity of their mother was pure and undoubted, that even in her infancy it was in the family a proverb, and according to the testimony of that excellent person Chancellor Hoadly she was truth itself; she writes, not to gratify vanity, but to add weight to her relation.

To the Almighty and Unerring Judgment of Heaven and Earth I dare appeal for the truth, to the best of my memory and comprehension, of what I here relate.

Mary Ricketts.

The mansion-house and estate of Hinton Ampner, near Alresford, Hampshire, devolved in 1755 to the Right Honourable Henry Bilson Legge in right of his lady, daughter and sole heiress of Lord Stawell, who married the eldest daughter and co-heiress of Sir Hugh Stewkeley, Bart., by whose ancestors the estate at Hinton had been possessed many generations, and by this marriage passed to Mr. Stawell on the death of the said Sir Hugh. 
Mr. (who on the death of his elder brother became Lord) Stawell made Hinton his constant residence. Honoria, the youngest sister of his lady, lived with them during the life of her sister, and so continued with Lord Stawell till her death in 1754.

On the evening of April the 2nd, 1755, Lord Stawell, sitting alone in the little parlour at Hinton, was seized with a fit of apoplexy; he articulated one sentence only to be understood, and continued speechless and insensible till the next morning, when he expired.

His lordship's family at that time consisted of the following domestics:—Isaac Mackrel, house steward and bailiff. Sarah Parfait, housekeeper, who had lived in the family near forty years. Thomas Parfait, coachman, husband to said Sarah, who had lived there upwards of forty years. Elizabeth Banks, housemaid, an old servant . Jane Davis, dairymaid. Mary Barras, cook. Joseph Silbey, butler. Joseph, groom. Richard Turner, gardener, and so continued by Mr. Ricketts. Lord Stawell had one son, who died at Westminster School, aged sixteen.

Thomas Parfait, his wife, and Elizabeth Banks continued to have the care of the house during the lifetime of Mr. Legge, who usually came there for one month every year in the shooting season. On his death, in August, 1764, Lady Stawell, so created in her own right, since married to the Earl of Hillsborough, determined to let Hinton Mansion, and Mr. Ricketts took it in December following. Thomas Parfait was at that time lying dead in the house. His widow and Elizabeth Banks quitted it on our taking possession in January, 1765. We removed thither from town, and had the same domestics that lived with us there, and till some time afterwards we had not any house-servant belonging to the neighbourhood. Soon after we were settled at Hinton I frequently heard noises in the night, as of people shutting, or rather slapping doors with vehemence. Mr. Ricketts went often round the house on supposition there were either housebreakers or irregularity among his servants. In these searches he never could trace any person; the servants were in their proper apartments, and no appearance of disorder. The noises continued to be heard, and I could conceive no other cause than that some of the villagers had false keys to let themselves in and out at pleasure; the only preventive to this evil was changing the locks, which was accordingly done, yet without the effect we had reasonably expected.

About six months after we came thither, Elizabeth Brelsford, nurse to our eldest son, Henry, then about eight months old, was sitting by him when asleep, in the room over the pantry, appropriated for the nursery, and, being a hot summer's evening, the door was open that faces the entrance into the yellow bedchamber, which, with the adjoining dressing-room, was the apartment usually occupied by the lady of the house. She was sitting directly opposite to this door, and plainly saw (as she afterwards related) a gentleman in a drab-coloured suit of clothes go into the yellow room. She was in no way surprised at the time, but on the housemaid, Molly Newman, coming up with her supper, she asked what strange gentleman was come. Upon the other answering there was no one, she related what is already described, and desired her fellow-servant to accompany her to search the room; this they did immediately without any appearance of what she had seen. She was much concerned and disturbed, and she was thoroughly assured she could no ways be deceived, the light being sufficient to distinguish any object clearly. In some time after it was mentioned to me. I treated it as the effect of fear or superstition, to which the lower class of people are so prone, and it was entirely obliterated from my mind till the late astonishing disturbances brought to my recollection this and other previous circumstances.

In the autumn of the same year George Turner, son of the gardener of that name, who was then groom, crossing the great hall to go to bed, saw at the other end a man in a drab-coloured coat, whom he concluded to be the butler, who wore such coloured clothes, he being lately come and his livery not made. As he passed immediately upstairs to the room where all the men servants lay, he was in great astonishment to find the butler and the other men servants in bed. Thus the person he had seen in the hall remained unaccounted for, like the same person before described by the nurse; and George Turner, now living, avers these particulars in the same manner he first related them.

In the month of July, 1767, about seven in the evening, there were sitting in the kitchen, Thomas Wheeler, postilion; Ann Hall, my own woman; Sarah, waiting woman to Mrs. Mary Poyntz; and Dame Lacy; the other servants were out excepting the cook, then employed in washing up her things in the scullery.

The persons in the kitchen heard a woman come downstairs, and along the passage leading towards them, whose clothes rustled as of the stiffest silk; and on their looking that way, the door standing open, a female figure rushed past, and out of the house door, as they conceived. Their view of her was imperfect; but they plainly distinguished a tall figure in dark-coloured clothes. Dame Brown, the cook, instantly coming in, this figure passed close by her, and instantly disappeared. She described the person and drapery as before mentioned, and they all united in astonishment who or what this appearance could be; and their surprise was heightened when a man, coming directly through the yard and into the house the way she went out, on being asked who the woman was he met, declared he had seen no one.

Ann Hall, since married to John Sparks, now living at Rogate, near Petersfield, will testify to the truth of this relation, as will Dame Brown, now living at Bramdean. The postilion is since dead.

Meanwhile, the noises continued to be heard occasionally. Miss Parker's woman, Susan Maidstone, was terrified with the most dismal groans and rustling round her bed. At different times most of the servants were alarmed with noises that could no way be accounted for. In the latter end of the year 1769 Mr. Ricketts went to Jamaica; I continued at Hinton with my three infant children and eight servants, whose names and connections were as follows:—Ann Sparks, late Ann Hall, my own woman, the daughter of very industrious parents. Sarah Homer, nurse, sister to a substantial farmer of that name, and of a family of integrity and property. Hannah Streeter, nursemaid, of reputable parents and virtuous principles. Lucy Webb, housemaid, of honest principles. Dame Brown, cook, quiet and regular. John Sparks, coachman. John Homer, postilion, aged sixteen years, eldest son to the farmer above-mentioned. Lewis Chanson, butler, a Swiss of strict integrity. Richard Turner, gardener, but did not live in the house.

I have been thus particular in the description of those persons of ,whom my family was composed, to prove the improbability that a set of ignorant country people, excepting the Swiss alone, should league to carry on a diabolical scheme imputed to them so injuriously, and which in truth was far beyond the art and reach of man to compass.

Some time after Mr. Ricketts left me, I—then lying in the bedroom over the kitchen—heard frequently the noise of some one walking in the room within, and the rustling as of silk clothes against the door that opened into my room, sometimes so loud and of such continuance as to break my rest . Instant search being often made, we never could discover any appearance of human or brute being.

Repeatedly disturbed in the same manner, I made it my constant practice to search the room and closets within, and to secure the only door that led from that room on the inside in such manner as to be certain no one could gain entrance without passing through my own apartment, which was always made fast by a draw-bolt on the door. Yet this precaution did not preclude the disturbance, which continued with little interruption. 
About this time an old man, living in the poor-house at West Meon, came and desired to speak to me. When admitted, he told me he could not rest in his mind without acquainting me that his wife had often related to him that in her younger days a carpenter, whom she had well known, had told her he was once sent for by Sir Hugh Stewkeley, and directed by him to take up some boards in the dining-room, known in our time by the name of lobby, and that Sir Hugh had concealed something underneath which he, the carpenter, conceived was treasure, and then he was ordered to put down the boards in the same manner as they lay before. This account I repeated to Mr. Sainsbury, attorney to Lady Hillsborough, that if he thought it were a probability he might have the floor taken up and examined.

In February, 1770, John Sparks and Ann, his wife, quitted my service, and went to live upon their farm at Rogate. In place of John Sparks I hired Robert Camis, one of six sons of Roger and Mary Camis, of the parish of Hinton, and whose ancestors have been in possession of a little estate there upwards of four hundred years—a family noted for their moral and religious lives. In the room of Ann Sparks I hired Ruth Turpin, but she being disordered in mind continued with me but few months. I then took Elizabeth Godin, of Alresford, sister to an eminent grocer of that place. Lewis Chanson quitted me in August, 1770, and I hired Edward Russel, now living with Mr. Harris, of Alresford, to succeed him. 
I mention these changes among my domestics, though in themselves unimportant, to evince the impossibility of a confederacy, for the course of nearly seven years, and with a succession of different persons, so that at the time of my leaving Hinton I had not one servant that lived with me at my first going thither, nor for some time afterwards.

In the summer of 1770, one night that I was lying in the yellow bedchamber (the same I have mentioned that the person in drab-coloured clothes was seen to enter), I had been in bed half an hour, thoroughly awake, and without the least terror or apprehension on my spirits. I plainly heard the footsteps of a man, with plodding step, walking towards the foot of my bed. I thought the danger too near to ring my bell for assistance, but sprang out of bed and in an instant was in the nursery opposite; and with Hannah Streeter and a light I returned to search for what I had heard, but all in vain. There was a light burning in the dressing-room within, as usual, and there was no door or means of escape save at the one that opened to the nursery. This alarm perplexed me more than any preceding, being within my own room, the footsteps as distinct as ever I heard, myself perfectly awake and collected.

I had, nevertheless, resolution to go to bed alone in the same room, and did not form any conclusion as to the cause of this very extraordinary disturbance. For some months afterwards I did not hear any noise that particularly struck my attention, till, in November of the same year, I then being removed to the chintz bedroom over the hall, as a warmer apartment, I once or twice heard sounds of harmony, and one night in particular I heard three distinct and violent knocks as given with a club, or something very ponderous, against a door below stairs; it occurred to me that housebreakers must be forcing into some apartment, and I immediately rang my bell. No one hearing the summons, and the noise ceasing, I thought no further of it at that time. After this, and in the beginning of the year 1771, I was frequently sensible of a hollow murmuring that seemed to possess the whole house; it was independent of wind, being equally heard on the calmest nights, and it was a sound I had never been accustomed to hear.

On the morning of the 27th of February, when Elizabeth Godin came into my room, I inquired what weather. She replying in a very faint tone, I asked if she were ill. She said she was well, but had never in her life been so terrified as during the preceding night; that she had heard the most dismal groans and fluttering round her bed most part of the night, that she had got up to search the room and up the chimney, and though it was a bright moonlight she could not discover anything. I did not pay much attention to her account, but it occurred to me that should any one tell her it was the room formerly occupied by Mrs. Parfait, the old housekeeper, she would be afraid to lie there again. Mrs. Parfait dying a few days before at Kilmston, was brought and interred in Hinton churchyard the evening of the night this disturbance happened.

That very day five weeks, being the 2nd of April, I waked between one and two o'clock, as I found by my watch, which, with a rushlight, was on a table close to my bedside. I lay thoroughly awake for some time, and then heard one or more persons walking to and fro in the lobby adjoining. I got out of bed and listened at the door for the space of twenty minutes, in which time I distinctly heard the walking with the addition of a loud noise like pushing strongly against a door. Being thus assured my senses were not deceived I determined to ring my bell, to which I had before much reluctance on account of disturbing the nursery maid, who was very ill of a fever.

Elizabeth Godin during her illness lay in the room with my sons, and came immediately on hearing my bell. Thoroughly convinced there were persons in the lobby, before I opened my door, I asked her if she saw no one there. On her replying in the negative, I went out to her, examined the window, which was shut, looked under the couch, the only furniture of concealment there; the chimney board was fastened, and when removed, all was clear behind it . She found the door into the lobby shut, as it was every night. After this examination I stood in the middle of the room, pondering with much astonishment, when suddenly the door that opens into the little recess leading to the yellow apartment sounded as if played to and fro by a person standing behind it. This was more than I could bear unmoved. I ran into the nursery and rang the bell there that goes into the men's apartments. Robert Camis came to the door at the landing place, which door was every night secured, so that no person could get to that floor unless through the windows. Upon opening the door to Robert I told him the reason I had to suppose that some one was intrenched behind the door I before mentioned, and giving him a light and arming him with a billet of wood, myself and Elizabeth Godin waited the event. Upon opening the door there was not any being whatever, and the yellow apartment was locked, the key hanging up, and a great bolt drawn across the outside door, as usual when not in use. There was then no further retreat or hiding place. After dismissing Robert and securing the door, I went to bed in my sons' room, and about half an hour afterwards heard three distinct knocks, as described before; they seemed below, but I could not then or ever after ascertain the place. The next night I lay in my own room; I now and then heard noises and frequently the hollow murmur. 
On the 7th of May, exactly the day five weeks from the 2nd of April, this murmur was uncommonly loud. I could not sleep, apprehending it the prelude to some greater noise. I got up and went to the nursery, stayed there till half an hour past three, and then, being daybreak, I thought I should get some sleep in my own apartment; I returned and lay till ten minutes before four, and then the great hall door directly under me was slapped to with the utmost violence, so as to shake my room perceivably. I jumped out of bed to the window that commands the porch. There was light to distinguish every object, but none to be seen that could account for what I had heard. Upon examining the door it was found fast locked and bolted as usual.

From this time I determined to have my woman lie in a little bed in my room. The noises grew more frequent, and she was always sensible of the same sounds, and much in the same direction as they struck me. Harassed and perplexed, I was yet very unwilling to divulge my embarrassment . I had taken every method to investigate the cause, and could not discover the least appearance of trick; on the contrary, I became convinced it was beyond the power of any mortal agent to perform, but knowing how exploded such opinions were, I kept them in my own bosom, and hoped my resolution would enable me to support whatever might befall.

After Midsummer the noises became every night more intolerable. They began before I went to bed, and with intermissions were heard till after broad day in the morning. I could frequently distinguish articulate sounds, and usually a shrill female voice would begin, and then two others with deeper and manlike tone seemed to join in the discourse, yet, though this conversation sounded as if close to me, I never could distinguish words.

I have often asked Elizabeth Godin if she heard any noise, and of what sort. She as often described the seeming conversation in the manner I have related, and other noises. One night in particular my bed curtains rustled, and sounded as if dragged by a person walking against them. I then asked her if she heard any noise and of what kind. She spoke of it exactly in the manner I have done. Several times I heard sounds of harmony within the room—no distinct or regular notes, but a vibration of harmonious tones; walking, talking, knocking, opening and slapping of doors were repeated every night. My brother, who had not long before returned from the Mediterranean, had been to stay with me, yet so great was my reluctance to relate anything beyond the bounds of probability that I could not bring myself to disclose my embarrassed situation to the friend and brother who could most essentially serve and comfort me. The noises continuing in the same manner when he was with me, I wished to learn if he heard them, and one morning I carelessly said: "I was afraid last night the servants would disturb you, and rang my bell to order them to bed." He replied he had not heard them. The morning after he left me to return to Portsmouth, about three o'clock and daylight, Elizabeth Godin and myself both awake—she had been sitting up in bed looking round her, expecting as she always did to see something terrible—I heard with infinite astonishment the most loud, deep, tremendous noise, which seemed to rush and fall with infinite velocity and force on the lobby floor adjoining to my room. I started up, and called to Godin, "Good God! did you hear that noise?" She made no reply; on repeating the question, she answered with a faltering voice, "She was so frightened she scarce durst speak." Just at that instant we heard a shrill and dreadful shriek, seeming to proceed from under the spot where the rushing noise fell, and repeated three or four times, growing fainter as it seemed to descend, till it sank into earth. Hannah Streeter, who lay in the room with my children, heard the same noises, and was so appalled she lay for two hours almost deprived of sense and motion.

Having heard little of the noises preceding, and that little she did not regard, she had rashly expressed a wish to hear more of them, and from that night till she quitted the house there was scarce a night past that she did not hear the sound as if some person walked towards her door, and pushed against it, as though attempting to force it open. This alarm, so more than commonly horrible, determined me to impart the whole series to my brother on his return to Hinton, expected in a week. The frequency of the noises, harassing to my rest, and getting up often at unreasonable hours, fixed a slow fever and deep cough, my health was much impaired, but my resolution firm. I remained in anxious expectation of my brother, and he being detained a week longer at Portsmouth than he had foreseen, it occurred to me to endeavour, by changing my apartment, to obtain a little rest; I removed to that formerly occupied by Elizabeth Godin; I did not mention my intention till ten at night, when the room was prepared, and I went to bed soon after. l had scarce lain down when the same noises surrounded me that I before have related, and I mention the circumstance of changing my room without previous notice, to prove the impossibility of a plan of operations being so suddenly conveyed to another part of the house were they such as human agents could achieve. The week following I was comforted by the arrival of my brother. However desirous to impart the narrative, yet I forbore till the next morning; I wished him to enjoy a night's rest, and therefore contented myself with preparing him to hear on the morrow the most astonishing tale that ever assailed his ears, and that he must summon all his trust of my veracity to meet my relation. He replied it was scarce possible for me to relate any matter he could not believe, little divining the nature of what I had to offer to his faith.

The next morning I began my narrative, to which he attended with mixed surprise and wonder. Just as I had finished, Captain Luttrell, our neighbour at Kilmston, chancing to call, induced my brother to impart the whole to him, who in a very friendly manner offered to unite his endeavours to investigate the cause. It was then agreed he should come late in the evening, and divide the night watch between them, keeping profoundly secret there was any such intention. My brother took the precaution, accompanied by his own servant, John Bolton, to go into every apartment, particularly those on the first and attic story, examined every place of concealment, and saw each door fastened, save those to chambers occupied by the family; this done, he went to bed in the room over the servants' hall.

Captain Luttrell and my brother's man with arms sat up in the chintz room adjoining, and my brother was to be called on any alarm. 
I lay that night in Elizabeth Godin's room, and the children in the nurseries; thus every chamber on that floor was occupied. I bolted and locked the door that opened to that floor from the back stairs, so that there was no entrance unless through the room where Captain Luttrell kept watch. 
So soon as I lay down, I heard a rustling as of a person close to the door. I ordered Elizabeth God in to sit up a while, and if the noise continued, to go and acquaint Mr. Luttrell.

She heard it, and instantly Mr. Luttrell's room door was thrown open, and we heard him speak.

I must now give his account as related to my brother and myself the next morning.

He said he heard the footsteps of a person walking across the lobby, that he instantly threw the door open, and called, "Who goes there?" That something flitted past him, when my brother directly called out "Look against my door." He was awake, and heard what Mr. Luttrell had said, and also the continuance of the same noise till it reached his door. He arose and joined Mr. Luttrell . Both astonished, they heard various other noises, examined everywhere, found the staircase door fast secured as I had left it. I lay so near, and had never closed my eyes, no one could go to that door unheard. My brother and his man proceeded up stairs, and found the servants in their own rooms, and all doors closed as they had seen just before. They sat up together, my brother and Mr. Luttrell, till break of day, when my brother returned to his own chamber. About that time, as I imagined, I heard the chintz room door opened and slammed to with the utmost violence, and immediately that of the hall chamber opened and shut in the same manner. I mentioned to Godin my surprise that my brother, who was ever attentive not to alarm or disturb the children, should hazard both by such vehement noise. An hour after I heard the house door open and slam in the same way, so as to shake the house. No one person was then up, for as I had never slept, I heard the servants rise and go down about half an hour afterwards. When we were assembled at breakfast, I observed the noise my brother had made with the doors.

Mr. Luttrell replied, "I assure you Jervis made not the least noise; it was your door and the next I heard opened and slapped in the way you describe."

My brother did not hear either. He afterwards acknowledged to me that when gone to bed and Mr. Luttrell and I were sitting below, he heard dreadful groans and various noises that he was then and after unable to account for. His servant was at that time with mine below. 
Captain Luttrell declared the disturbances of the preceding night were of such a nature that the house was an unfit residence for any human being. My brother, though more guarded in his expressions, concurred in that opinion, and the result of our deliberations was to send an express to Mr. Sainsbury, Lady Hillsborough's steward, to request he would come over immediately on a very particular occasion, with which he would be made acquainted on his arrival.

Unluckily, Mr. Sainsbury was confined with the gout, and sent over his clerk, a youth of fifteen, to whom we judged it useless and improper to divulge the circumstances.

My brother sat up every night of the week he then passed at Hinton. In the middle of one of these nights I was surprised with the sound of a gun or pistol let off near me, immediately followed by groans as of a person in agonies, or expiring, that seemed to proceed between my chamber and the next, the nursery. I sent Godin to Nurse Horner, to ask if she had heard any noise; she had not. Upon my inquiry the next morning of my brother, he had heard it, though the report and groans were loud and deep.

Several instances occurred where very loud noises were heard by one or two persons, when those equally near and in the same direction were not sensible of the least impression.

As the watching every night made it necessary for my brother to gain rest in the day, he usually lay down after dinner. During one of these times he was gone to rest. I had sent the children and their attendants out to walk, the dairymaid gone to milk, the cook in the scullery, my own woman with my brother's man sitting together in the servants' hall; I, reading in the parlour, heard my brother's bell ring with great quickness. I ran to his room, and he asked me if I had heard any noise, "because," said he, "as I was lying wide awake an immense weight seemed to fall through the ceiling to the floor just by that mahogany press, and it is impossible I should be deceived." His man was by this time come up, and said he was sitting underneath the room as I before mentioned, and heard not the least noise. The inquiry and attention my brother devoted to investigate this affair was such as from the reach of his capacity and ardent spirit might be expected; the result was his earnest request that I would quit the place, and when obliged to return to Portsmouth, that I would permit him to send Mr. Nichols, his Lieutenant of Marines, and an old friend of the family, to continue till my removal with me.

One circumstance is of a nature so singularly striking that I cannot omit to relate it. In one of our evening's conversations on this wonderful train of disturbances I mentioned a very extraordinary effect I had frequently observed in a favourite cat that was usually in the parlour with me, and when sitting on table or chair with accustomed unconcern she would suddenly slink down as if struck with the greatest terror, conceal herself under my chair, and put her head close to my feet. In a short space of time she would come forth quite unconcerned. I had not long given him this account before it was verified to him in a striking manner. We neither then, nor I at other times, perceived the least noise that could give alarm to the animal, nor did I ever perceive the like effect before these disturbances, nor afterwards when she was removed with me to another habitation. The servants gave the same account of a spaniel that lived in the house, but to that, as I did not witness, I cannot testify.

These two narratives are for my grand-daughters Martha and Henrietta Jervis, not to be read until twenty-one or upwards, nor then unless their nerves are firm. The letters, &c., belonging to be carefully preserved.

First Narrative, In Mrs. Rickett's Handwriting. To Be Read At Leisure.

I do not recollect ever hearing of the circumstance mentioned by Mrs. Boyle in respect to her father and his friends at Hinton, and do not think it ever reached me; for her intimacy with Mr. Ricketts, who was received by her father, Stephen Poyntz, as a son, justified his going without permission, which was asked by the late Lord Clanricarde, then Colonel De Burgh, who came armed, as did the park-keepers from Holt Forest, belonging to the then Lady Stawell, the owner of Hinton.

Thomas, Bishop of Winchester, whose lady was first cousin to my mother (thence our relationship with Bullers, Agles, Bouveries, &c.), was satisfied with my narration that it was not achieved by human being, till wrought on by others. The late Lord Carhampton had, by laughing at the present lord, weakened his zeal for truth; doubts arose. He, good man, was preceptor to our late excellent King.

The unbelief of Chancellor Hoadley went nearest my heart. He that once, upon Mrs. Hoadley half jokingly saying, " I cannot believe her," said "I do believe her, for she is truth itself," and when I replied, it was hard not to be believed, said, with mild yet firm voice, "Jesus Christ Himself could not be believed!"

£60 reward was offered on discovery by Lady Stawell, which Mr. Ricketts, on his return, increased to £100. The Bishop of Winton lent me the old Palace Wolvesey at Winton, to occupy at races or on any public occasion, and thither I removed when it was no longer thought proper I should remain at Hinton; and when I left, the Bishop of St. Asaph offered me his house in town, where I stayed till I had taken one in Curzon Street. 
What determined my removal to Winton was, after trying to obtain rest by removing to Dame Camis's house, when I returned to the mansion I was soon after assailed by a noise I never before heard, very near me, and the terror I felt not to be described. It then appeared I was no longer to be supported, after my brother was convinced I ought not to delay my removal. I therefore accepted the earnest invitation of my friends Mr. and Mrs. Newbolt, and continued with them till Wolvesey was prepared for my dear children, where we remained till November, with the exception of three days, with Dr. Gilbert, Canon of Salisbury, and his daughter; and there Lord Radnor—then Lord Folkestone—was very desirous to see the lady that came from the haunted house.

The Bishop of St. Asaph opposed, on the ground that such means were unworthy the Deity to employ, while the good Bishop of Winton, when I related that Robert Camis had been thrice called at the window in a voice he well remembered, that of the steward of the late Lord Stawell, said he should have conjured him by the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost; which I told him, but believe no such occasion occurred, or courage failed. This steward stole his lord's gold buckles, and was much suspected of other dishonesty; whence, probably, arose the idea of concealed treasure. I never heard that any was found.

When Lord Stawell was seized with the fit that carried him off, he called to his man, "Cut a vein, cut a vein!" but no vein was cut. The excellent Dame Camis, from whom I had much information of the Stewkeley and Stawell family. Dr. Durnford, minister of Bramdean, who performed duty at Hinton, also told me that, in the number of years he had officiated, he had never known her miss Divine Service, unless illness of any one of her family or of herself prevented.

When Mr. Ricketts returned from Jamaica, having continued to keep Hinton on account of our cattle and the manor, Mr. Ricketts took the Parsonage, where we resided for two years, when the purchase of Longwood was made, and we removed thither.

Narrative No. 2, In Mrs. Ricketts's Handwriting, And Attested By Her Second Son Edward Jervis Ricketts, Afterwards Viscount St. Vincent.

After Mrs. Ricketts had quitted Hinton House, and before possession had been given to Lady Hillsborough, the keys were left with. Dame Camis, who came over every fair day to open the windows, she living close by.

Mr. George Ricketts and Mr. Poyntz Ricketts, active young men in the prime of life, were walking to and fro close to the house on the paddock side, when a great noise was heard within it, upon which one of them said, "They are at their tricks again, let us go in and see." They lost no time getting through the drawing-room window on the ground floor, and proceeding throughout the house. No living creature was to be found in it, neither was there any appearance of anything that could have been moved so as to occasion the sounds they had heard.
(Signed) Edward Jervis Ricketts.

Narrative No. 3.—Notes Taken By Osborne Markham, Esq., From Mrs. Ricketts's Dictation.

Miss Parker, mentioned in page 8 (page 558 in the Gentleman's Magazine of last month), was afterwards Lady St. Vincent, who with her sister (afterwards Mrs. Heathcote) was staying in the house during the time their father, Chief Baron Parker, was going the circuit . 
It is understood that when Mrs. Ricketts left Hinton she went to the palace of the Bishop of Winchester, of which his kindness gave her the occasional use, she being an intimate friend and relation to his wife. After Mrs. Ricketts left Hinton (say within a year) another family (Mr. Lawrence) came to reside there, who stayed about a year and then suddenly quitted it.

After this the house was never occupied. On being pulled down there was found by the workmen under the floor of one of the rooms a small skull, said to be that of a monkey; but the matter was never brought forward by any regular inquiry, or professional opinion resorted to as to the real nature of the skull.

The first appearance of anything being seen or heard was before Mrs. Ricketts took possession of Hinton, which did not come to her knowledge until some time after the disturbances had been heard in the house. Joseph (the groom) then being one of the servants left in occupation of the house, and being in bed in the garret, the moon shining brightly into the room, and he being clearly awake, saw a man in a drab coat with his hands behind him, in the manner his late master held them, looking steadfastly upon him.

Note by Martha H.G. Jervis.—A number of papers (broadsides, &c.) which had been concealed during the civil wars were found under the floor of the lobby when the house was pulled down, and a small box containing what was said to be the skull of a monkey.

Notes in the handwriting of Martha Honora Georgina Jervis, elder of Mrs. Ricketts's two grand-daughters, to whom the manuscripts were left, and second wife of Osborne Markham, Esq., the writer of the foregoing pages:—

Narrative By Martha H. G. Jervis.

Rosehill, July 10, 1818.

I called on old Lucy Camis at the farm and inquired if she had recently heard of Hannah Streeter. She replied that she lived at the Lower Brook, Winchester, and that she (Lucy) had been to see her last year, and asked her if she remembered having been disturbed by the noises at Hinton Ampner, particularly one night when the other servants were gone to bed, when, being in the servants' hall, they heard a sound as of the great iron brazier falling through the roof of the pantry (over which there was no room), and that it went "Twirl! twirl! twirl!" till it sank in the ground. They were so much terrified that Lucy would not venture up to the garrets, but slept that night in the nursery. They found the brazier the next morning in the place where it had been left.

When Lord St. Vincent was in the house, and the servants were suspected of making the disturbances, Mrs. Ricketts went one night for something she wanted to the housekeeper's room, which opened into the kitchen, where the domestics were all assembled at supper. She then heard noises, and was near fainting, and called to some one to accompany her up to her brother.

The morning after Mrs. Parfait's interment Elizabeth Godin complained to the other servants that she had been dreadfully disturbed the preceding night, and that soon after she was in bed something fell with force against the window, succeeded by a dismal groan. 
Lucy said, "God knows whether these noises were not in consequence of their sins."

I replied, "What did you suppose they were guilty of?"

She said, "God knows whether she had a child and killed it; but I cannot say; it is not for us to suspect them, God knows."

She spoke of Mrs. Ricketts in the highest terms and with many tears; said she did so much good in the neighbourhood that it was very unlikely any should seek to drive her away, above all, her servants, who loved her and were in perfect harmony with each other.

One night Lucy slept in a small bed in Mrs. Ricketts's room, Elizabeth Godin being ill. Mrs. Ricketts woke her and asked if she did not hear music, which she did, and "the steps of some one moving stately to it." The noises seemed mostly in the lobby and the yellow and adjoining chambers.

Lucy said that when Mr. Lawrence afterwards took possession of the house he forbid the servants from saying a word of the disturbances under penalty of losing their places. She heard that once, as his housemaid was standing in the lobby, a female figure rushed by and disappeared, but of the truth of this she could not vouch.

The foregoing information was given me by Lucy Camis, who was perfectly collected, and I merely made such queries as should lead her on without in any degree prompting her recollection.

Martha H. G. Jervis.

[Note:  The home was finally demolished in 1793, with a fine Georgian mansion built in its place. No hauntings were reported in the new house. If, as rumor suggested, Lord Stawell and his sister-in-law Honoria Stewkeley had a child together, which they killed and buried under the floorboards, it would not be surprising if the pair had an uneasy afterlife.]