The Vampyre and Other Tales of the Macabre

by John Polidori

  ‘The Preacher listened attentively, but like one who had heard the tale before. “My son,” said he, “the evils which beset thee arise from the living, and not from the dead, and you are more in jeopardy from one ripe and rosy madam in warm flesh and blood, than from all the bones of all the dames that ever graced the courts of the Stuarts. The words which you uttered were indeed unguarded, and must be repented of; but they were uttered in a dull ear—death and the grave listen to no voice, save that of the archangel. No, no, my son, imagine not that rash words can call dust into life; can summon the spirit from the realms of bliss or of woe, or that thou art so supremely blessed, or so splendidly wicked, as to have spirits of good, or of evil, for thy boon companions. In the blinded and melancholy days of Popery, when men made their own gods, then evil spirits were rife in the land; but since the pure light of Presbyterianism arose, they have been chased into their native darkness.* Even I, weak and imperfect as I am, and unworthy of being named with some of the chosen sons of the sanctuary, have driven the children of perdition before me. So, my son, clear thy brow, say thy prayers, seek thy pillow, and thy rest shall be sound—I have said it.”

  ‘“Holy man,” said the young lady, “how fortunate was I in coming into this tower to-night; how much shall I profit by thy discourse! Ah, the professors of my Church are full fed, and of a slothful nature, and are not rigid in their visitations nor frequent in their admonitions. You have driven, you say, the children of darkness before you—excuse the forwardness of ignorance—may a daughter of a less gifted Church inquire how this miraculous undertaking was accomplished?”—“Oh, most willingly, Madam,” answered the Preacher—“there was no magic in it, all was plain, and easily understood; but here comes supper, sending up a savour such as would waken hunger in an anchorite. I hope, Master, that you have not tempted me with superstitious meats or drinks—with pudding stuffed with blood, for that is unclean, or porridge made with plums, for that is Episcopalian.”

  ‘The dishes were arranged on the table while the Preacher was still speaking; he stretched his hands over them, and over the wine, which was sparkling in silver flagons, and said, “God be present at this table to-night, and bless the meat and bless the drink, and let every mouthful of the one, and every drop of the other, be to thy glory alone.—Now, my fair foe,” said the Clergyman, “to what shall I help thee? A wing of this fowl, or a slice of this salmon?”—“Most reverend and learned Sir,” said she, with a smile, “I consider supper to be an undue indulgence, which inflames the blood, and makes the complexion coarse. As I desire to be loved, I avoid the vulgar practice, and am surprised to see it countenanced by a stickler for all manner of simple and plain things.”—“Madam,” replied the Preacher, “corrupt and craving nature must be relieved; to fast entirely is Popish, to have a meal of particular and stated dishes is Prelatical, but to take what comes is a trusting in Providence, and is Presbyterian. This wild-fowl, now,” he said, smiling, “has fattened itself on the heather top, and might supper a prophet; and this sauce is fit for the General Assembly,* and ought to be restricted to divines.” He ate away with an excellent appetite, neither looking to the right nor to the left, till he had rendered the bones worthy of admission to a museum of anatomy.

  ‘“Most holy Preacher,” said the lady, “there is a fair fish before you and a flagon of wine; as they are both permitted by your Church, they will, no doubt, be agreeable to your stomach. While you are occupied silently and laboriously upon them, allow me, a daughter of self-denial, to touch this little musical instrument, and chaunt you a song; and as I make it while I sing it, it shall be measured by your meal.” The Preacher had helped himself to a weighty slice of salmon; had deluged it in sauce; had filled up his glass to the brim in a challenge from his entertainer—and giving an approving nod, fell anxiously on, lest the poetic resources of the lady should fail early. Thus permitted, she lifted a cittern,* touched it with exquisite skill, and began to sing the following ballad, in a voice which could only be matched by the united notes of the blackbird and the thrush.

  SANDY HARG

  The night-star shines clearly,

  The tide’s in the bay,

  My boat, like the sea-mew,

  Takes wing and away.

  Though the pellock* rolls free

  Through the moon-lighted brine,

  The silver-finn’d salmon

  And herling are mine—

  My fair one shall taste them,

  May Morley of Larg,

  I’ve said and I’ve sworn it,

  Quoth young Sandy Harg.

  He spread his broad net

  Where, ’tis said, in the brine

  The mermaidens sport

  Mid the merry moonshine:

  He drew it and laugh’d,

  For he found ’mongst the meshes

  A fish and a maiden

  With silken eyelashes—

  And she sang with a voice,

  Like May Morley’s of Larg,

  “A maid and a salmon

  For young Sandy Harg!”

  Oh white were her arms,

  And far whiter her neck—

  Her long locks in armfuls

  Overflow’d all the deck:

  One hand on the rudder

  She pleasantly laid,

  Another on Sandy,

  And merrily said—

  “Thy halve-net has wrought thee

  A gallant day’s darg*—

  Thou’rt monarch of Solway,

  My young Sandy Harg.”

  Oh loud laugh’d young Sandy,

  And swore by the mass,

  “I’ll never reign king,

  But mid gowans and grass.”

  Oh loud laugh’d young Sandy,

  And swore, “By thy hand,

  My May Morley, I’m thine,

  Both by water and land;

  ’Twere marvel if mer-woman,

  Slimy and slarg,*

  Could rival the true love

  Of young Sandy Harg.”

  She knotted one ringlet,

  Syne knotted she twain,

  And sang—lo! thick darkness

  Dropp’d down on the main—

  She knotted three ringlets,

  Syne knotted she nine,

  A tempest stoop’d sudden

  And sharp on the brine,

  And away flew the boat—

  There’s a damsel in Larg

  Will wonder what’s come of thee,

  Young Sandy Harg.

  “The sky’s spitting fire,”

  Cried Sandy—“and see

  Green Criffel* reels round

  And will choke up the sea;

  From their bottles of tempest

  The fiends draw the corks,

  Wide Solway is barmy,

  Like ale when it works;

  There sits Satan’s daughter,

  Who works this dread darg,

  To mar my blythe bridal,”

  Quoth young Sandy Harg.

  From his bosom a spell

  To work wonders he took,

  Thrice kiss’d it, and smiled,

  Then triumphantly shook

  The boat by the rudder,

  The maid by the hair,

  With wailings and shrieks

  She bewilder’d the air;

  He flung her far seaward—

  Then sailed off to Larg

  There was mirth at the bridal

  Of young Sandy Harg!

  ‘The Master of Logan was unable to resist the influence of this wild ballad, and the sweet and bewitching voice which embodied it. The supper table, the wines and fine dishes, were unregarded things: his hands, as the infection stole through him, kept temperate time, and his right foot beat, but not audibly, an accompaniment to the melody. Nor did the lady seem at all unconscious of her delicate witchery; she gradually silenced the cittern as the song proceeded, and before it ended, her voice, and her voice alone, was heard; and filled the chamber, and penetrated to the remotest rooms
and galleries. The servants hung listening in a crowd over each other’s shoulders at the door of the room. The Preacher alone seemed untouched by the song and the voice; his hand and mouth kept accurate time; with a knowing eye and a careful hand did he minister to his own necessities, giving no other indication of his sense of the accompaniment than an acquiescent nod, as much as to say, “Good, good!” At length he desisted; leaned back on the chair, and reposed, thankful and appeased. The Master wondered to see a man, accounted austere and abstemious, yield so pleasantly to the temptations of carnal comforts; and the domestic who attended—a faithful follower of the Kirk—shook his head amongst his companions, and said, “There’s an awful meaning in the Minister’s way of eating this blessed night.” The young lady seemed to take much pleasure in what she called drawing the black snail out of its shell. No sooner had she finished her song—which concluded with the supper—than she took her seat at the table, and the conversation was resumed.

  ‘It was now nigh twelve o’clock; the night, which had hitherto been wild and gusty, refused to submit to the rule of morning without strife: the wind grew louder; the rain fell faster; the thunder of the augmenting streams increased; and now and then a flash of lightning rushed from a cloud in the east to one in the west, showing, by a momentary flame, the rustling agitation of the pines, and the foaming plunges which the mountain streams made from precipice to precipice. “The prince and power of the air is at work to-night,” said old Rodan, “and there will be sad news from the sea.”—“From the sea, said ye?” replied a matron, who presided over the duties of the dairy; “him whom ye speak of, and I mauna name, is none sae far off as the sea. I wouldna gang down the Deadman’s Gill this blessed night for the worth of Scotland’s crown.”—“Whisht, for God’s sake! whisht,” said the dame who ruled amongst the poultry; “the fiend has long lugs,* and is a sad listener; but, cummers, there’s something about to come to pass in this tower to-night, that will be tauld in tale and ballad when the youngest of us is stiff and streeket.* But we’re safe—the buckler of the Gospel is extended before us, and the thick tempest will fall from us, like rain from a wild swan’s wings. Lord send that the auld Tower may haud aboon our heads!”

  ‘Never, from the time the Tower was founded, did it contain a more joyous party: the Master had drowned the memory of his fears in song and wine; the Preacher had, apparently, sweetened down the severity of his manners by converse with the young lady and by the social cup; and the lady herself gave a loose to her mirth and her eyes, and was willing to imagine that she had laid upon both the necks of her companions the pleasing yoke of her bondage. “Minister,” said she, “I have long mistaken your character. I thought you a melancholy, morose man, given to long preachments and much abstinence, and one who thought that a gladsome heart was an offence worthy of punishment hereafter. Come, now, let me ask you a question or two in your own vocation. What manner of woman was the Witch of Endor?”* There was a sparkling humour in the lady’s eye when she asked this—there was a still slyer humour in the Preacher’s when he answered it: “On her personal looks, scripture is silent; but I conceive her to have been a lovely young widow with a glorious jointure.”—“Well, now, Parson,” she said, “I like you for this; we must be better acquainted; you must come and visit me; I have heard that you are famous for discomfiting evil spirits, and for warring hand to hand with aërial enemies.”—“Ay, truly, young lady,” answered the Preacher; “but that was when this land was in the bonds of iniquity: with our Kirk establishment, a new dispensation hath come upon the land.* Master, the wine tarries with you.”

  ‘“Well, now,” said the young lady, “there’s our friend of the Tower here—he imagined to-night that something evil would break right through all your new dispensations: he expected a visit from the grave—a social dame, in her winding-sheet, was invited to supper. Parson, are you man enough for her, should she come bounce in upon us? I am alarmed at the very image I have drawn.”—“And let her come,” said the Preacher, pouring out a brimming cup of wine—“e’en, young lady, let her come—I trow I should soon sort her—this wine is exquisite now, and must be as old as the accession of the Stuarts*—I trow I should sort her—I know the way, lady, how to send refractory spirits a-trooping—I have learned the art frae a sure hand. It would do your heart good, were a spirit to appear, to see how neatly I would go to work. Ah! the precious art will perish for want of subjects—witchcraft will die a natural death for lack of witches, and my art will perish from the same cause. I hope the art of making wine will be long remembered—for this is worthy of Calvin.”*

  ‘“Minister,” said the young lady, looking slyly while she spoke at the Master, “let not such gifts perish. Suppose this chair, with the saint carved on the back, to be a spirit, and show us how you would deal with it.”—“Ye are a cunning dame,” said the Preacher; “d’ye think that I can make a timber utensil dissolve and depart like a spirit? Awa with your episcopal wit—and if you will grow daft, drink wine.” He took another sip.—“Thou art a most original parson,” said the young lady, laughing; “but I am desirous of becoming a disciple. Come! this chair is a spirit—take to your tools.”—“Weel, weel, lady,” said the Preacher, impatiently, “I shall e’en waste so much precious time for your amusement. But ye must not grow feared as I grow bold and serious.”—“Are you sure that you will not be afraid yourself?—such things have happened,” said the young lady. He only answered, “Verily, I have heard so,” and then began.

  ‘He took a sword from the wall, and described a circle, in the centre of which he stood himself. “Over a line drawn with an instrument on which the name of God is written, nought unholy can pass. Master, stand beside me, and bear ye the sword.” He next filled a cup with water, and said, “Emblem of purity, and resembling God, for he is pure, as nought unholy can pass over thee whilst thou runnest in thy native fountain, neither shall aught unholy abide thy touch, thus consecrated—as thou art the emblem of God, go and do his good work—Amen.” So saying, he turned suddenly round and dashed the cupful of water in the face and bosom of the young lady—fell on his knees, and bowed his head in prayer. She uttered scream upon scream; her complexion changed; her long locks twined and writhed like serpents; the flesh seemed to shrivel on her body; and a light shone in her eyes which the Master trembled to look upon. She tried to pass the circle towards him, but could not; a burning flame seemed to encompass and consume her; and as she dissolved away, he heard a voice saying, “But for that subtle priest, thou hadst supped with me in hell!”

  ‘“Young man,” said the Preacher, rising from his knees, “give praise to God, and not to me—we have vanquished, through him, one of the strongest and most subtle of Satan’s emissaries. Thy good angel, thy blessed mother, sent me to thee in thy need, and it behoved me to deal warily with the artificer of falsehood. Aid me in prayer, I beseech thee, for forgiveness for putting on the sinful man to-night—for swilling of wine and wallowing in creature-comforts, and for uttering profane speeches. Ah! the evil one thought he had put on a disguise through which even penetration could not penetrate; but I discerned him from the first, and could scarce forbear assailing him at once, so full was I of loathing. He was witty to his own confusion.” The Master knelt, and prayed loud and fervently; the domestics were called in, and the worship of God was, from that night, established in his household.

  ‘Look on me, my child,’ said the old man, when he had concluded his wild story; ‘I could have told this tale in a soberer fashion—yea, I could even have told it to thee in a merrier shape—nathless the end and upshot would have been the same. I tell it to thee now, lest its memory should perish on the earth and its moral warning cease. Tell it to thy children, and to thy children’s children, as I have told it, and do not lend an ear to the glozing* versions which the witty and profane relate. Hearken to them, and you will believe that this fair and evil spirit was a piece of lascivious flesh and blood, and that the power which the Preacher and the Master of Logan laboured to su
bdue was a batch of old wine, which proved the conqueror, and laid them in joy side by side, while the head domestic, a clever and a sagacious man, invented this wondrous tale to cover their infirmities. Nay, an thou smilest, even relate it as thou wilt. Laughter is happiness, and sorrow is admonition—and why should not a story have its merry side and its sad, as well as human life? Farewell, my son—when thou tellest this story, say it was related to thee by an old man with a grey head, whose left foot was in the grave and the right one breaking the brink—the last of the house of Logan.’

  THE VICTIM

  Anonymous

  SOME years ago, myself and a fellow-student went to Dawlish* for the summer months. An accident, which I need not narrate, and which was followed by a severe attack of pleurisy, chained me a prisoner to my room for several weeks. My companion, whose name was St Clare, was a young man of high spirits and lively temper; and though naturally kind and affectionate, escaped, as often as he could, from the restraint of a sick room. In one of his walks, he chanced to encounter a young lady, whom he fell in love with, as the phrase is, at first sight, and whose beauty he dwelt upon with a warmth of enthusiasm not a little tantalizing to one, like myself, who could not even behold it. The lady, however, quitted Dawlish very suddenly, and left my friend in ignorance of every other particular concerning her than that her name was Smith, and her residence in London. So vague a direction he, however, resolved to follow up. We returned to town sooner than we otherwise should have done, in order that the lover might commence his inquiries. My friend was worthy of the romantic name that he bore, Melville St Clare—a name that was the delight of all his boarding-school cousins, and the jest of all his acquaintance in the schools.