Prophecies of Robert Nixon, Mother Shipton, and Martha, the Gypsy Part 9

The servants were summoned-medical aid was called in-but it was all too late! and the wretched parents were doomed to mourn their loved, their lost Maria! George, her fond and affectionate brother, who was at Oxford, hastened from all the academic honours which were awaiting him, to follow to the grave his beloved sister.

The effect upon Frederick Langdale was most dreadful: it was supposed he would never recover from a shock so great, and at the moment so unexpected; for, although the delicacy of her const.i.tution was a perpetual source of uneasiness and solicitude, still the immediate symptoms had taken rather a favourable turn during the last few days of her life, and had re-invigorated the hopes which those who so dearly loved her entertained of her eventual recovery. Of this distressed young man I never indeed heard anything, till about three years after, when I saw it announced in the papers that he was just married to the only daughter of a rich west-country baronet, which event, if wanted to work another proverb here, would afford me a most admirable opportunity of doing so.

The death of poor Maria, and the dread which her father entertained of the third visitation of Martha, made a complete change in the affairs of the family. By the exertion of powerful interest, he obtained an appointment for his son to act as his deputy in the office which he held, and having achieved this desired object, resolved on leaving England for a time, and quitting a neighbourhood in which he must be perpetually exposed to the danger which he was now perfectly convinced was inseparable from his next interview with the weird woman.

George, of course, thus checked in his cla.s.sical pursuits, left Oxford, and at the early age of nineteen commenced active official life, not certainly in the particular department which his mother had selected for his _debt_; and it was somewhat observable, that the Langdales, after the death of Maria, not only abstained from frequent intercourse with the Hardings during their stay in England, but that the mighty professions of the purse-proud citizen dwindled by degrees into an absolute forgetfulness of any promise, even conditional, to exert an interest for their son.

Seeing this, Mr. Harding felt that he should act prudentially, by endeavouring to place his son where in the course of time, he might perhaps attain to that situation, from whose honourable revenue he could live like a gentleman, and 'settle comfortably.'

All the arrangements which the kind father had proposed, being made, the mourning couple proceeded on a lengthened tour of the continent; and it was evident that his spirits mended rapidly, when he felt conscious that his liability to encounter Martha had decreased. The sorrow of mourning was soothed and softened in the common course of nature, and the quiet domesticated couple sat themselves down at Lausanne, 'the world forgetting, by the world forgot,' except by their excellent and exemplary son, whose good qualities, it seems, had captivated a remarkable pretty girl, a neighbour of his, whose mother seemed to be equally charmed with the goodness of his income.

There appeared, strange to say, in this love affair, no difficulties to be surmounted, no obstacles to be overcome; and the consent of the Hardings (requested in a letter, which also begged them to be present at the ceremony, if they were willing it should take place,) was presently obtained by George; and at the close of the second year, which had pa.s.sed since their departure, the parents and son were again a.s.sembled in that house, the sight of which recalled to their recollection their unhappy daughter, and her melancholy fate, and which was still a.s.sociated most painfully in the mind of Mr. Harding with the hated Gipsy.

The charm, however, had, no doubt, been broken. In the two past years, Martha was probably either dead or gone from the neighbourhood. Gypsies were a wandering tribe-and why should she be an exception to a general rule?-and thus Mrs. Harding checked the rising apprehensions and renewed uneasiness of her husband; and so well did she succeed, that when the wedding-day came, and the bells rang, and the favours fluttered in the air, his countenance was lighted up with smiles, and he kissed the glowing cheek of his new daughter-in-law with warmth, and something like happiness.

The wedding took place at that season of the year when friends and families meet jovially and harmoniously, when all little bickerings are forgotten, and when, by a general feeling founded upon religion, and perpetuated by the memory of the blessings granted to the world by the Almighty, an universal amnesty is proclaimed; when the cheerful fire, and teeming board, announce that Christmas is come, and mirth and gratulation are the order of the day.

It unfortunately happened, however, that to the account of Miss Wilkinson's marriage with George Harding, I am not permitted, in truth, to add, that they left town in a travelling carriage and four, to spend the honeymoon. Three or four days permitted absence from his office, alone, were devoted to the celebration of the nuptials, and it was agreed that the whole party, together with the younger branches of the Wilkinson's, their cousins and second cousins, etc., should meet on twelfth-night to celebrate, in a juvenile party, the return of the bride and bridegroom to their home.

When the night came, it was delightful to see the happy faces of the smiling youngsters: it was a pleasure to behold them pleased-a partic.i.p.ation in which, since the highest amongst us, and the most accomplished prince in Europe, annually evinces the gratification he feels in such sights, I am by no means disposed to disclaim. And merry was the jest, and gaily did the evening pa.s.s; and Mr. Harding, surrounded by his youthful guests, smiled, and for a season forgot his care; yet, as he glanced around the room, he could not suppress a sigh, when he recollected, that in that very room his darling Maria had entertained her little parties on the anniversary of the same day in former years.

Supper was announced early, and the gay throng bounded down stairs to the parlour, where an abundance of the luxuries of middle life crowded the board. In the centre appeared the great object of the feast-a huge twelfth-cake; and gilded kings and queens stood lingering over circles of scarlet sweet-meats, and hearts of sugar lay enshrined with warlike trophies of the same material.

Many and deep were the wounds the mighty heap received, and every guest watched with a deep anxiety the coming portion, relatively to the glittering splendour with which its frosted surface was adorned.

Character cards, ill.u.s.trated with pithy mottoes, and smart sayings, were distributed; and by one of those little frauds which, in such societies, are always tolerated, Mr. Harding was announced as king, and the new bride as queen; and there was such charming joking, and such harmless merriment abounding, that he looked to his wife with an expression of content, which she had often, but vainly, sought to find upon his countenance, since the death of his dear child.

Supper concluded, the clock struck twelve, and the elders looked as if it were time for the young ones to depart. One half-hour's grace was begged for by the 'King,' and granted; and Mrs. George Harding on this night was to sing them a song about 'poor old maidens'-an ancient quaintness, which, by custom and usage ever since she was a little child, she had annually 'performed' upon this anniversary; and, accordingly, the promise being claimed, silence was obtained, and she, with all that show of tucker-heaving diffidence which is so becoming in a pretty plump downy-cheeked girl, prepared to commence the venerable chaunt, when a noise resembling that produceable by the falling of an eight-and-forty pound shot, echoed through the house. It appeared to descend from the very top of the building, down each flight of stairs rapidly and violently. It pa.s.sed the room in which they were sitting, and rolled its impetuous course downwards to the bas.e.m.e.nt. As it seemed to leave the hall, the parlour door was forced open, as if by a rude gust of wind, and stood ajar.

All the children were in a moment on their feet, huddled close to their respective mothers in groups. Mrs. Harding rose and rang the bell to inquire the meaning of the uproar. Her daughter-in-law, pale as ashes, looked at George; but there was one of the party who moved not, who stirred not; it was the elder Harding, whose eyes first fixed steadfastly on the half-opened door, slowly followed the course of the wall of the apartment to the fire-place;-there they rested.

When the servants came, they said they had heard the noise, but thought it proceeded from above. Harding looked at his wife; and then turning to the servant, observed carelessly, that it must have been some noise in the street, and desiring him to withdraw, entreated the bride to pursue her song. She did; but the children had been too much alarmed to enjoy it, and the noise had in its character something so strange and so unearthly, that even the elders of the party, although bound not to admit anything like apprehension before their offspring, felt extremely well pleased when they found themselves at home.

When the guests were gone, and George's wife lighted her candle to retire to rest, her father-in-law kissed her affectionately, and prayed G.o.d to bless her. He then took a kind leave of his son, and putting up a fervent prayer for his happiness, pressed him to his heart, and bade him adieu with an earnestness which, under the common-place circ.u.mstance of a temporary separation, was inexplicable to the young man.

When Harding reached his bed-room, he spoke to his wife, and entreated her to prepare her mind for some great calamity.

'What it is to be,' said Harding, 'where the blow is to fall I know not; but it is over us this night!'

'My life!' exclaimed Mrs. Harding, 'what new fancy is this?'

'Eliza, love!' answered her husband, in a tone of unspeakable agony, 'I have seen her for the third and last time.'

'Who?'

'MARTHA, THE GIPSY.'

'Impossible,' said Mrs. Harding, 'you have not left the house to-day.'

'True, my beloved,' replied the husband; 'but I have seen her. When that tremendous noise was heard at supper, as the door was supernaturally opened, I saw her. She fixed those dreadful eyes of her's upon me; she proceeded to the fire-place, and stood in the midst of the children, and there she remained till the servant came in.'

'My dearest husband,' said Mrs. Harding, 'this is but a disorder of the imagination!'

'Be it what it may,' said he, 'I have seen her. Human or superhuman-natural or supernatural-there she was. I shall not strive to argue upon a point where I am likely to meet with little credit: all I ask is, pray fervently, have faith, and we will hope the misfortune, whatever it is, may be averted.'

He kissed his wife's cheek tenderly, and after a fitful feverish hour or two fell into a slumber.

From that slumber never awoke he more.-He was found dead in his bed in the morning.

'Whether the force of imagination, coupled with the unexpected noise, produced such an alarm as to rob him of life, I know not,' said my communicant; 'but he was dead.'

The story was told me by my friend Ellis in walking from the City to Harley-street late one evening; and when we came to this part of the history we were in Bedford-square, at the dark and dreary corner of it where Caroline-street joins it.

'And there,' said Ellis, pointing downward, 'is the street where the circ.u.mstance occurred.'

'Come, come,' said I, 'you tell the story well, but I suppose you do not expect it to be received as gospel.'

'Faith,' said he, 'I know so much of it that I was one of the twelfth-night party, and heard the noise.'

'But you did not see the spectre?' cried I.

'No,' replied Ellis, 'I certainly did not.'

'Nor anybody else,' said I, 'I'll be sworn.'-A quick footstep was just then heard behind us.-I turned half round to let the person pa.s.s, and saw a woman enveloped in a red cloak, whose sparkling black eyes, shone upon by the dim l.u.s.tre of a lamp above her head, dazzled me.-I was startled-'Pray remember old MARTHA, THE GIPSY,' said the hag.

It was like a thunder-stroke.-I instantly slipped my hand into my pocket, and hastily gave her three from a five-s.h.i.+lling piece.

'Thanks, my bonny one,' said the woman, and setting up a shout of contemptuous laughter she bounded down Caroline-street towards Russell-street, singing, or rather yelling a wild air.

Ellis did not speak during this scene-he pressed my arm tightly, and we quickened our pace. We said nothing to each other till we turned into Bedford-street, and the lights and pa.s.sengers of Tottenham-court-road re-a.s.sured us.

'What do you think of _that_?' said Ellis to me.

'_Seeing is believing_,' was my reply.

I have never pa.s.sed that dark corner of Bedford-square in the evening since.

REMARKABLE FULFILMENT OF A PREDICTION.

A certain German author relates the following:

In my younger days, there was a dinner given in the _Florenburg Westphalen_, where I was born, on the occasion of a baptism to which a clergyman was invited. During dinner, the conversation turned upon the gravedigger of the place, who was well known on account of his second-sight; for, as often as he saw a corpse, he was always telling that there would be a funeral from such and such a house. Now, as the event invariably took place, the inhabitants of the house he indicated were placed by the man's tale in the greatest anxiety.

This man's prophecying was an abomination to the clergyman. He therefore forbade him, but all to no purpose; for the poor dolt, although he was a drunkard, and a man of low and vulgar sentiments, believed firmly that it was a prophetic gift of G.o.d, and that he must make it known, in order that the people might still repent. At length the clergyman gave him notice that, if he announced one funeral more, he should be deprived of his place, and expelled from the village. This availed-the gravedigger was silent from that time forward. Half a year afterward, in the autumn of 1745, the gravedigger came to the clergyman, and said to him: 'Sir, you have forbidden me to announce any more funerals, and I have not done so since, nor will I do it any more; but I must tell you something that is particularly remarkable, that you may see that my second sight is really true. In a few weeks a corpse will be brought up the meadow, which will be drawn on a sledge by an ox.' The clergyman seemingly paid no attention to this, but listened to it with indifference, and replied: 'Only go about your business, and leave off such superst.i.tious follies.

It is sinful to have anything to do with them.'