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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
- Sprache: Englisch
In "Historic Oddities and Strange Events, 1st Series," Sabine Baring-Gould compiles a fascinating anthology of peculiar historical anecdotes that challenge conventional narratives and illuminate the shadows of the past. His meticulous research and engaging prose style invite readers into a world filled with oddities, strange occurrences, and the uncanny, encapsulating a Victorian fascination with the bizarre. Baring-Gould deftly intertwines folklore with documented history, exploring various incidents that reveal the curious nature of humanity and its tendency towards the extraordinary amidst the mundane, making it a compelling read for both history enthusiasts and casual explorers of the unknown. Sabine Baring-Gould was not only a prolific writer but also a clergyman and folklorist, deeply invested in the cultural and historical narratives of his time. His diverse interests'—including archaeology, legend, and the social changes occurring in 19th-century England'—greatly influenced his writing. Baring-Gould's intimate knowledge of folklore and his desire to preserve unique historical anecdotes positioned him uniquely to undertake this ambitious project, reflecting his belief in the importance of these narratives as part of the collective memory. This book is a treasure trove for readers intrigued by history's eccentricities and those who appreciate literature that melds the factual with the fantastical. Baring-Gould's captivating storytelling will enchant and challenge your perceptions of historical events, making it a must-read for anyone eager to embrace the oddities that lie just beyond the veil of the familiar. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A succinct Introduction situates the work's timeless appeal and themes. - The Synopsis outlines the central plot, highlighting key developments without spoiling critical twists. - A detailed Historical Context immerses you in the era's events and influences that shaped the writing. - A thorough Analysis dissects symbols, motifs, and character arcs to unearth underlying meanings. - Reflection questions prompt you to engage personally with the work's messages, connecting them to modern life. - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
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Historic Oddities and Strange Events, 1st Series
Table of Contents
Introduction
By following the past at its strangest angles—cases and chronicles where accepted explanations falter—Historic Oddities and Strange Events, 1st Series asks how communities confront the inexplicable, how authority and rumor vie to shape understanding, and how the exceptional throws the ordinary into relief, revealing the pressures of belief and skepticism, the weight of institutions and custom, and the narrative habits by which people stitch sense onto disorder, so that each aberration becomes a mirror for its age, each recorded marvel or misdeed a study in evidence and credulity, and each retold incident a meditation on truth, memory, and interpretation.
Sabine Baring-Gould’s volume is a work of historical nonfiction, gathering reports of unusual occurrences from past centuries and arranging them as lucid, self-contained studies. Published in the late nineteenth century, it reflects the era’s antiquarian curiosity while striving for a disciplined appraisal of sources. As the 1st Series, it inaugurates a sequence later accompanied by a further collection, yet it stands fully on its own. The book’s setting is not a single place but the documentary landscape of history itself, moving across periods and regions as evidence permits, and inviting readers into archives where the extraordinary was carefully recorded.
Readers encounter an array of episodes selected for their striking character and documentary interest rather than for sensational effect. Each chapter offers a compact narrative shaped by research, guiding the audience from the circumstances as contemporaries understood them toward a measured consideration of what can be known. The voice is learned and composed, attentive to tone and texture, with an eye for human particularity. The mood ranges from eerie to reflective, but always returns to inquiry. The result is a series of historical portraits that satisfy curiosity while asking for patient, critical reading.
The themes are those of threshold and testing: where does credible testimony end and embellishment begin; how do communities decide what constitutes proof; when do institutions intervene, and why; what fears, longings, and moral frameworks surface when the unexpected appears. The book considers the circulation of stories through pamphlet, chronicle, and hearsay, and examines how repetition confers authority even as it distorts. It explores the entanglement of law, religion, and custom in shaping outcomes. Throughout, it shows how anomalous events can expose a society’s hidden assumptions, mapping the boundary between collective imagination and the stubbornness of fact.
Baring-Gould approaches his material with a balance of narrative craft and documentary caution. He attends to the origins of a report, compares versions when they exist, and weighs the plausibility of motives and circumstances. Without reducing complex episodes to facile explanations, he nonetheless resists credulity, asking the reader to notice how evidence accumulates, contradicts, or dissolves. His method is quietly pedagogical: to tell a gripping story but let the record speak, to frame uncertainty as part of the historical texture, and to model a humane skepticism that neither scoffs at the past nor accepts it unexamined.
Contemporary readers may find special resonance in the book’s attention to how information spreads and settles into accepted truth. The dynamics it traces—confident assertions founded on thin evidence, contested expertise, the allure of extraordinary claims—mirror dilemmas that persist in modern discourse. Engaging with these studies can sharpen habits of critical evaluation while fostering empathy for people who confronted risk, wonder, or panic with the tools available to them. The work also invites reflection on historical perspective, including sensitivity to period language and judgments, encouraging readers to discern value while recognizing the limits and biases of its time.
Taken as a whole, the 1st Series offers a cabinet of curiosities arranged with discipline rather than caprice, an excursion through the archives where pattern and anomaly meet. It is well suited to readers who enjoy microhistory, cultural history, and the study of folklore as it intersects with documented fact. The chapters can be read singly or in sequence, each illuminating a particular corner of the past while contributing to a broader meditation on how we know what we think we know. In turning these pages, one enters a conversation about evidence, imagination, and the enduring appetite for wonder.
Synopsis (Selection)
Historic Oddities and Strange Events, 1st Series gathers a sequence of historical essays in which Sabine Baring-Gould investigates unusual episodes, puzzling careers, and long-debated mysteries. Drawing on chronicles, legal records, letters, and earlier historians, he summarizes the evidence accessible to his period and presents each case in a self-contained narrative. The tone remains measured and documentary, with attention to dates, provenance, and the reliability of testimony. Across the volume, Baring-Gould highlights how anomalies illuminate broader habits of belief, administration, and law. The arrangement moves from personal enigmas and political intrigues to impostures, marvels, and popular delusions, preparing the reader for a cumulative view of the extraordinary in history.
The opening chapters examine state secrets and the ambiguities of identity within courts and prisons. Baring-Gould recounts episodes in which a life is obscured by deliberate concealment, sometimes creating a legend out of sparse facts. He surveys contending identifications, tests them against contemporary documents, and explains how administrative routine or security could produce myths. In discussing a celebrated masked prisoner and similar puzzles, he distinguishes between rumor and verifiable detail, concluding that gaps in record and the allure of intrigue foster enduring conjecture. The analysis emphasizes method: trace the paper trail, weigh motives for secrecy, and resist embellishments that proliferate around official silence.
From political enigmas, the book turns to sensational crimes and the legal mechanisms that addressed them. Baring-Gould reconstructs notorious cases through indictments, witness statements, and executions, observing how narrative coherence is built from partial and sometimes contradictory testimony. He notes the role of confession, the pressures surrounding trials, and the public appetite for horror, which together could color proceedings. The essays place individual offenses in social context, illustrating how jurisdictional conflicts, evidentiary standards, and penal customs shaped outcomes. The main conclusion is cautious: extraordinary acts often reveal ordinary institutional limits, and legal certainty in past centuries was hard-won, contingent, and occasionally illusory.
The sequence then considers imposture and false identity, especially in the form of pretended heirs or resurrected persons. Baring-Gould outlines how such figures gained traction, the networks that sustained them, and the documentary tests used to challenge their claims. He tracks the interplay of memory, material tokens, and political faction in deciding authenticity. The essays reveal recurring patterns: crises of succession, communal longing for restitution, and the persuasive power of performance. Outcomes typically depended on credibility under examination and the willingness of authorities to prosecute or tolerate ambiguity. The narrative stresses that pretenders flourish where records are weak and social needs invite convincing fictions.
Medical marvels and prodigies follow, including alleged monstrous births, inexplicable recoveries, and physiological anomalies that unsettled practitioners. Collating physicians’ reports, pamphlets, and correspondence, Baring-Gould shows how professional reputations, constrained methods, and public curiosity influenced interpretation. He describes how extraordinary claims underwent staged scrutiny, often collapsing when specimens, attendants, or procedures were carefully inspected. Yet he also records instances where observation outpaced prevailing theory, leaving cautious descriptions rather than firm explanations. The underlying conclusion is clear: early modern medicine could be both credulous and rigorously empirical, and singular cases became tests of method, exposing the line between demonstration and display.
The book next addresses witchcraft, possession, and hauntings, tracing the migration of fear from village rumor to courtroom and pulpit. Baring-Gould summarizes depositions, exorcisms, and poltergeist disturbances, marking how suggestion, coercion, and communal stress produced coherent but unreliable narratives. Apparent marvels often yielded to mundane causes or artifice when material checks were applied. He notes legal reforms that curtailed spectral evidence and shifted trials toward demonstrable harm. In poltergeist cases, the pattern of performative noises and staged tricks recurs, with exposure frequently following close supervision. The essays refrain from metaphysical verdicts, instead emphasizing procedural safeguards that narrowed the space for supernatural proof.
Collective manias and popular delusions receive extended treatment, including dance manias, tarantism, and periodic epidemics of dread. Using municipal records and medical treatises, Baring-Gould describes the choreography of outbreak: a catalyzing incident, rapid imitation, and the imposition of ritual countermeasures. He outlines therapeutic responses—music, processions, confinement—that both acknowledged and contained social emotion. These chapters underscore how environment, authority, and expectation can shape bodily expression, yielding apparent marvels explicable as psychosocial contagion. The conclusion is not reductionist; rather, it registers the complexity of crowd behavior and the role of sanctioned narratives in lending form to otherwise diffuse anxiety and pain.
Antiquarian puzzles and material curiosities close the sequence of cases: disputed relics, forged charters, architectural anomalies, and tales of buried treasure. Baring-Gould tracks provenance chains, compares inscriptions, and checks stylistic details against known periods to assess authenticity. He records how patriotic enthusiasm or local pride could sponsor credulous attributions, while the painstaking work of cataloging and comparison slowly corrected errors. Even when forgeries stand exposed, their histories yield insight into the values and economies that produced them. The emphasis remains steady: extraordinary objects demand ordinary tests—origin, custody, and corroboration—so that romance may be appreciated without displacing the discipline of evidence.
The concluding reflections draw together method and matter. Across prisons and courts, sickrooms and sanctuaries, archives and attics, the essays model a way of reading the past that privileges documented fact, plausible inference, and clearly stated limits. Baring-Gould neither insists on finality where records run thin nor indulges in embellishment where testimony suffices. The volume’s central message is that oddities are not mere curiosities: they highlight how institutions function, how belief circulates, and how inquiry advances. By arranging the material from personal mysteries to collective phenomena and material culture, the book illustrates a consistent discipline of scrutiny that makes the strange historically intelligible.
Historical Context
Published in 1891 in London, Sabine Baring-Gould’s Historic Oddities and Strange Events, 1st Series is a late-Victorian work assembled by an Anglican clergyman-scholar rooted in Devon but ranging across European archives. Written at the high tide of the British Empire and of professionalizing historical method, it draws on the networks of antiquaries and folklorists (e.g., the Folklore Society, 1878) and on contemporary debates about psychical phenomena (Society for Psychical Research, 1882). Its temporal “setting” is deliberately miscellaneous: medieval to eighteenth-century Europe, with forays into Britain’s own legal and social past. The place is Victorian Britain’s study and vestry, from which the author surveys, verifies, and moralizes the past.
Between the late fifteenth and late seventeenth centuries, Europe experienced recurrent witchcraft persecutions, catalyzed by ecclesiastical and secular authorities. After the papal bull Summis desiderantes (1484) and the Malleus Maleficarum (1487), mass trials erupted, notably at Würzburg and Bamberg (1626–1631), where hundreds were executed, and in Scotland under the 1563 Witchcraft Act, with episodes like North Berwick (1590). England saw the Pendle trials (1612), and New England the Salem panic (1692). Baring-Gould collects and anatomizes such proceedings to show how spectral “proofs,” torture, and rumor produced legal certainty out of fear. His “oddities” are case-studies in the pathology of authority and community under confessional stress.
Medieval eschatological expectation around the year 1000 has long been exaggerated. Chroniclers such as Rodulfus Glaber (d. 1047) record a “white mantle of churches” after 1000, while figures like Pope Sylvester II (999–1003) and Emperor Otto III (996–1002) navigated millennial symbolism. Comets, famines, and local prophecies colored the decades around 980–1030, but universal panic is poorly evidenced. Baring-Gould re-reads Latin sources and charters to separate later romantic invention from contemporary testimony, arguing for episodic anxieties rather than a Europe-wide terror. By situating “end of the world” predictions within material crises, he turns a famous legend into a lesson about how myths accrete upon thin documentary traces.
In 1534–1535 the Westphalian city of Münster became the stronghold of radical Anabaptists. After Jan Matthys’s death, Jan van Leiden (Jan Beuckelsz) proclaimed a New Jerusalem with communal property and polygamy under the besieging pressure of Prince-Bishop Franz von Waldeck. The city fell in June 1535; Van Leiden, Bernhard Knipperdolling, and Bernhard Krechting were executed in January 1536 and displayed in iron cages on St. Lambert’s Church. Baring-Gould treats Münster as an extraordinary convergence of apocalyptic politics, urban governance, and theatrical cruelty, using it to explore how charismatic authority and siege conditions can convert religious enthusiasm into coercive spectacle and enduring civic memory.
The Protestant Reformation (Luther’s 95 Theses, 1517; Diet of Worms, 1521) and the Catholic responses reshaped law, ritual, and political allegiance. England’s Acts of Supremacy (1534) and the subsequent oscillations under Mary I and Elizabeth I recast loyalty tests, while France’s Wars of Religion culminated in the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre (24 August 1572). The Thirty Years’ War (1618–1648) devastated Central Europe before the Peace of Westphalia institutionalized confessional plurality. In Baring-Gould’s collection, sectarian fracture frames many “strange events”: miracles, martyr-cults, iconoclasm, and court intrigues are read against the pressures of allegiance and propaganda, showing how political theology manufactures rumor and marvel.
Urban modernity produced celebrated impostures and panics. In 1726, Mary Toft of Godalming claimed to give birth to rabbits, deceiving Nathaniel St André, surgeon to George I, before the hoax collapsed in London. The Cock Lane Ghost (1762) in Smithfield—“Scratching Fanny”—turned a domestic quarrel between William Kent and Richard Parsons into a media sensation, ultimately exposed by investigators including Samuel Johnson. Financial delirium likewise peaked in the South Sea Bubble (1720). Baring-Gould mines depositions, broadsides, and newspapers to show how commerce, print, and credulity intertwine, treating such episodes as civic theater that tests the boundaries between testimony, expertise, and popular belief.
From the late seventeenth to early nineteenth centuries, English criminal justice combined spectacular punishment with macabre afterlives. Under the “Bloody Code,” more than 200 offenses were capital by the 1810s; executions moved from Tyburn to Newgate in 1783. The Murder Act (1752) mandated dissection or hanging in chains; gibbeting was abolished only in 1834. Shortages of cadavers fed “resurrectionists,” culminating in the Burke and Hare murders (Edinburgh, 1828) and the Anatomy Act (1832). Baring-Gould’s dossiers on grisly legal curiosities illuminate how deterrence, medical need, and commerce converged. He reads these practices as cultural symptoms, where law and science turned bodies into instruments of policy.
Assembling extraordinary cases allows the book to criticize ordinary structures: clerical and judicial overreach, the volatility of crowds, and the moral hazards of publicity. By juxtaposing witch trials with financial manias and medical markets, it exposes how power often targets the marginal—poor women, dissenters, provincial sick—for exemplary punishment or profitable spectacle. Its reconstruction of rumors and marvels emphasizes evidentiary standards, implicitly urging a politics of restraint and a jurisprudence grounded in verifiable proof. In late-Victorian Britain, that stance reads as social critique: a call to temper reform with historical memory, and to resist new credulities that mimic the old under modern guises.
Historic Oddities and Strange Events, 1st Series
PREFACE
A READER of history in its various epochs in different countries, comes upon eccentric individuals and extraordinary events, lightly passed over, may be, as not materially affecting the continuity of history, as not producing any seriously disturbing effect on its course. Such persons, such events have always awakened interest in myself, and when I have come on them, it has been my pleasure to obtain such details concerning them as were available, and which would be out of place in a general history as encumbering it with matter that is unimportant, or of insufficient importance to occupy much space. Two of the narratives contained in this work have appeared already in the Cornhill Magazine, but I have considerably enlarged them by the addition of fresh material; some of the others came out in the Gentleman's Magazine, and one in Belgravia. With only two of them—"Peter Nielsen" and "A Wax-and-Honey Moon"—are the authorities somewhat gone beyond and the facts slightly dressed to assume the shape of stories. S. Baring Gould. Lew Trenchard, N. Devon, July, 1889.
I. — THE DISAPPEARANCE OF BATHURST
THE mystery of the disappearance of Benjamin Bathurst on November 25, 1809, is one which can never with certainty be cleared up. At the time public opinion in England was convinced that he had been secretly murdered by order of Napoleon, and the Times in a leader on January 23, 1810, so decisively asserted this, that the Moniteur of January 29 ensuing, in sharp and indignant terms repudiated the charge. Nevertheless, not in England only, but in Germany, was the impression so strong that Napoleon had ordered the murder, if murder had been committed, that the Emperor saw fit, in the spring of the same year, solemnly to assure the wife of the vanished man, on his word of honour, that he knew nothing about the disappearance of her husband. Thirty years later Varnhagen von Ense, a well-known German author, reproduced the story and reiterated the accusation against Napoleon, or at all events against the French. Later still, the Spectator, in an article in 1862, gave a brief sketch of the disappearance of Bathurst, and again repeated the charge against French police agents or soldiers of having made away with the Englishman. At that time a skeleton was said to have been discovered in the citadel of Magdeburg with the hands bound, in an upright position, and the writer of the article sought to identify the skeleton with the lost man.[1]
[1] The discovery of a skeleton as described was denied afterwards by the Magdeburg papers. It was a newspaper sensational paragraph, and unfounded.
We shall see whether other discoveries do not upset this identification, and afford us another solution of the problem—What became of Benjamin Bathurst?
Benjamin Bathurst was the third son of Dr. Henry Bathurst, Bishop of Norwich, Canon of Christchurch, and the Prebendary of Durham, by Grace, daughter of Charles Coote, Dean of Kilfenora, and sister of Lord Castlecoote. His eldest brother, Henry, was Archdeacon of Norwich; his next, Sir James, K.C.B., was in the army and was aide-de-camp to Lord Wellington in the Peninsula.
Benjamin, the third son of the bishop, was born March 14, 1784,[2] and had been secretary of the Legation at Leghorn. In May, 1805, he married Phillida, daughter of Sir John Call, Bart., of Whiteford, in Cornwall, and sister of Sir William Pratt Call, the second baronet. Benjamin is a Christian name that occurs repeatedly in the Bathurst family after the founder of it, Sir Benjamin, Governor of the East India Company and of the Royal African Company. He died in 1703. The grandfather of the subject of our memoir was a Benjamin, brother of Allen, who was created Baron in 1711, and Earl in 1772.
[2] Register of Baptisms, Christchurch, Oxford, 1784, March 14, Benjamin, s. of Henry Bathurst, Canon, and Grace his wife, born, and bap. April 19.
Benjamin had three children: a son who died, some years after his father's disappearance, in consequence of a fall from a horse at a race in Rome; a daughter, who was drowned in the Tiber; and another who married the Earl of Castlestuart in 1830, and after his death married Signor Pistocchi.
In 1809, early in the year, Benjamin was sent to Vienna by his kinsman, Earl Bathurst, who was in the ministry of Lord Castlereagh, and, in October, Secretary of State for the Foreign Department. He was sent on a secret embassy from the English Government to the Court of the Emperor Francis. The time was one of great and critical importance to Austria. Since the Peace of Pressburg she had been quiet; the Cabinet of Vienna had adhered with cautious prudence to a system of neutrality, but she only waited her time, and in 1808 the government issued a decree by which a militia, raised by a conscription, under the name of the "Landwehr," was instituted, and this speedily reached the number of 300,000 men. Napoleon, who was harassed by the insurrection in the Peninsula, demanded angrily an explanation, which was evaded. To overawe Austria, he met the Emperor Alexander of Russia at Erfurth, and the latter when sounded by Austria refused to have any part in the confederation against Napoleon. England, in the meantime, was urging Austria to cast down the gauntlet. In pledge of amity, the port of Trieste was thrown open to the English and Spanish flags. In December, a declaration of the King of England openly alluded to the hostile preparations of Austria, but the Cabinet at Vienna were as yet undecided as to the course they would finally adopt. The extreme peril which the monarchy had undergone already in the wars with Napoleon made them hesitate. England was about to send fifty thousand men to the Peninsula, and desired the diversion of a war in the heart of Germany. Prussia resolved to remain neutral. Napoleon rapidly returned from Spain, and orders were despatched to Davoust to concentrate his immense corps at Bamberg; Massena was to repair to Strasburg, and press on to Ulm; Oudenot to move on Augsburg, and Bernadotte, at the head of the Saxons, was to menace Bohemia. It was at this juncture that Benjamin Bathurst hurried as Ambassador Extraordinary to Vienna, to assure the Cabinet there of the intentions of England to send a powerful contingent into Spain, and to do all in his power to urge Austria to declare war. Encouraged by England, the Cabinet of Vienna took the initiative, and on April 8 the Austrian troops crossed the frontier at once on the Inn, in Bohemia, in Tyrol, and in Italy.
The irritation and exasperation of Napoleon were great; and Bathurst, who remained with the Court, laboured under the impression that the Emperor of the French bore him especial enmity, on account of his exertions to provoke the Austrian Ministry to declaration of war. Whether this opinion of his were well founded, or whether he had been warned that Napoleon would take the opportunity, if given him, of revenging himself, we do not know; but what is certain is, that Bathurst was prepossessed with the conviction that Napoleon regarded him with implacable hostility and would leave no stone unturned to compass his destruction.
On July 6 came the battle of Wagram, then the humiliating armistice of Znaim, which was agreed to by the Emperor Francis at Komorn in spite of the urgency of Metternich and Lord Walpole, who sought to persuade him to reject the proposals. This armistice was the preliminary to a peace which was concluded at Schönbrun in October. With this, Bathurst's office at Vienna came to an end, and he set out on his way home. Now it was that he repeatedly spoke of the danger that menaced him, and of his fears lest Napoleon should arrest him on his journey to England. He hesitated for some time which road to take, and concluding that if he went by Trieste and Malta he might run the worst risks, he resolved to make his way to London by Berlin and the north of Germany. He took with him his private secretary and a valet; and, to evade observation, assumed the name of Koch, and pretended that he was a travelling merchant. His secretary was instructed to act as courier, and he passed under the name of Fisher. Benjamin Bathurst carried pistols about his person, and there were firearms in the back of the carriage.
On November 25, 1809, about midday, he arrived at Perleberg, with post-horses, on the route from Berlin to Hamburg, halted at the post-house for refreshments, and ordered fresh horses to be harnessed to the carriage for the journey to Lenzen, which was the next station.
Bathurst had come along the highway from Berlin to Schwerin, in Brandenburg, as far as the little town of Perleberg, which lies on the Stepnitz, that flows after a few miles into the Elbe at Wittenberge. He might have gone on to Ludwigslust, and thence to Hamburg, but this was a considerable détour, and he was anxious to be home. He had now before him a road that led along the Elbe close to the frontier of Saxony. The Elbe was about four miles distant. At Magdeburg were French troops. If he were in danger anywhere, it would be during the next few hours—that is, till he reached Dömitz. About a hundred paces from the post-house was an inn, the White Swan, the host of which was named Leger. By the side of the inn was the Parchimer gate of the town, furnished with a tower, and the road to Hamburg led through this gate, outside of which was a sort of suburb consisting of poor cottagers' and artisans' houses.
Benjamin Bathurst went to the Swan and ordered an early dinner; the horses were not to be put in till he had dined. He wore a pair of grey trousers, a grey frogged short coat, and over it a handsome sable greatcoat lined with violet velvet. On his head was a fur cap to match. In his scarf was a diamond pin of some value.
As soon as he had finished his meal, Bathurst inquired who was in command of the soldiers quartered in the town, and where he lodged. He was told that a squadron of the Brandenburg cuirassiers was there under Captain Klitzing, who was residing in a house behind the Town Hall. Mr. Bathurst then crossed the market place and called on the officer, who was at the time indisposed with a swollen neck. To Captain Klitzing he said that he was a traveller on his way to Hamburg, that he had strong and well-grounded suspicions that his person was endangered, and he requested that he might be given a guard in the inn, where he was staying. A lady who was present noticed that he seemed profoundly agitated, that he trembled as though ague-stricken, and was unable to raise a cup of tea that was offered him to his lips without spilling it.
The captain laughed at his fears, but consented to let him have a couple of soldiers, and gave the requisite orders for their despatch; then Mr. Bathurst rose, resumed his sable overcoat, and, to account for his nervous difficulty in getting into his furs again, explained that he was much shaken by something that had alarmed him.
Not long after the arrival of Mr. Bathurst at the Swan, two Jewish merchants arrived from Lenzen with post-horses, and left before nightfall.
On Mr. Bathurst's return to the inn, he countermanded the horses; he said he would not start till night. He considered that it would be safer for him to spin along the dangerous portion of the route by night when Napoleon's spies would be less likely to be on the alert. He remained in the inn writing and burning papers. At seven o'clock he dismissed the soldiers on guard, and ordered the horses to be ready by nine. He stood outside the inn watching his portmanteau, which had been taken within, being replaced on the carriage, stepped round to the heads of the horses—and was never seen again.
It must be remembered that this was at the end of November. Darkness had closed in before 5 P.M., as the sun set at four. An oil lantern hung across the street, emitting a feeble light; the ostler had a horn lantern, wherewith he and the postillion adjusted the harness of the horses. The landlord was in the doorway talking to the secretary, who, as courier, was paying the account. No one particularly observed the movements of Mr. Bathurst at the moment. He had gone to the horses' heads, where the ostler's lantern had fallen on him. The horses were in, the postillion ready, the valet stood by the carriage door, the landlord had his cap in hand ready to wish the gentleman a "lucky journey;" the secretary was impatient, as the wind was cold. They waited; they sent up to the room which Mr. Bathurst had engaged; they called. All in vain. Suddenly, inexplicably, without a word, a cry, an alarm of any sort, he was gone—spirited away, and what really became of him will never be known with certainty.
Whilst the whole house was in amazement and perplexity the Jewish merchants ordered their carriage to be got ready, and departed.
Some little time elapsed before it was realised that the case was serious. Then it occurred to the secretary that Mr. Bathurst might have gone again to the captain in command to solicit guards to attend his carriage. He at once sent to the captain, but Mr. Bathurst was not with him. The moment, however, that Klitzing heard that the traveller had disappeared, he remembered the alarm expressed by the gentleman, and acted with great promptitude. He sent soldiers to seize the carriage and all the effects of the missing man. He went, in spite of his swollen neck, immediately to the Swan, ordered a chaise, and required the secretary to enter it; he placed a cuirassier and the valet on the box, and, stepping into the carriage, ordered it to be driven to the Golden Crown, an inn at the further end of the town, where he installed the companions of Bathurst, and placed a soldier in guard over them. A guard was also placed over the Swan, and next morning every possible search was made for the lost man. The river was dragged, outhouses, woods, marshes, ditches were examined, but not a trace of him could be found. That day was Sunday. Klitzing remained at Perleberg only till noon, to wait some discovery, and then, without delay, hurried to Kyritz, where was his commandant, Colonel Bismark, to lay the case before him, and solicit leave to hasten direct to Berlin, there to receive further instructions what was to be done.
He was back on Monday with full authority to investigate the matter.
Before he left he had gone over the effects of Mr. Bathurst, and had learned that the fur coat belonging to him was missing; he communicated this fact to the civil magistrate of the district, and whilst he was away search was instituted for this. It was the sable coat lined with violet velvet already mentioned, and this, along with another belonging to the secretary, Fisher was under the impression had been left in the post-house.
The amazing part of the matter is that the city authorities—and, indeed, on his return, Captain Klitzing—for a while confined themselves to a search for the fur coat, and valuable time was lost by this means. Moreover, the city authorities, the police, and the military were all independent, and all jealous of each other. The military commander, Klitzing, and the burgomaster were in open quarrel, and sent up to headquarters charges against each other for interference in the matter beyond their rights. The head of the police was inert, a man afterwards dismissed for allowing defalcation in the monies entrusted to him. There was no system in the investigation, and the proper clues were not followed.
On December 16th, two poor women went out of Perleberg to a little fir wood in the direction of Quitzow, to pick up broken sticks for fuel. There they found, a few paces from a path leading through the wood, spread out on the grass, a pair of trousers turned inside out. On turning them back they observed that they were stained on the outside, as if the man who had worn them had lain on the earth. In the pocket was a paper with writing on it; this, as well as the trousers, was sodden with water. Two bullet holes were in the trousers, but no traces of blood about them, which could hardly have been the case had the bullets struck a man wearing the trousers. The women took what they had found to the burgomaster. The trousers were certainly those of the missing man. The paper in the pocket was a half-finished letter from Mr. Bathurst to his wife, scratched in pencil, stating that he was afraid he would never reach England, and that his ruin would be the work of Count d'Entraigues, and he requested her not to marry again in the event of his not returning.
The English Government offered £1,000 reward, and his family another £1,000; Prince Frederick of Prussia, who took a lively interest in the matter, offered in addition 100 Friedrichs d'or for the discovery of the body, or for information which might lead to the solution of the mystery, but no information to be depended upon ever transpired. Various rumours circulated; and Mrs. Thistlethwaite, the sister of Benjamin Bathurst, in her Memoirs of Dr. Henry Bathurst, Bishop of Norwich, published by Bentley in 1853, gives them. He was said to have been lost at sea. Another report was that he was murdered by his valet, who took an open boat on the Elbe, and escaped. Another report again was that he had been lost in a vessel which was crossing to Sweden and which foundered about this time. These reports are all totally void of truth. Mrs. Thistlethwaite declares that Count d'Entraigues, who was afterwards so cruelly murdered along with his wife by their Italian servant, was heard to say that he could prove that Mr. Bathurst was murdered in the fortress of Magdeburg. In a letter to his wife, dated October 14, 1809, Benjamin Bathurst said that he trusted to reach home by way of Colberg and Sweden. D'Entraigues had been a French spy in London; and Mrs. Thistlethwaite says that he himself told Mrs. Bathurst that her husband had been carried off by douaniers-montés from Perleberg to Magdeburg, and murdered there. This it is hard to believe.
Thomas Richard Underwood, in a letter from Paris, November 24, 1816, says he was a prisoner of war in Paris in 1809, and that both the English and French there believed that the crime of his abduction and murder had been committed by the French Government.
The European Magazine for January, 1810, says that he was apparently carried off by a party of French troops stationed at Lenzen, but this was not the case. No French troops were on that side of the Elbe. It further says, "The French Executive, with a view to ascertain by his papers the nature of the relations subsisting between this country and the Austrian Government, has added to the catalogue of its crimes by the seizure, or probably the murder, of this gentleman."
If there had been French troops seen we should have known of it; but none were. Every effort was made by the civil and military authorities to trace Bathurst. Bloodhounds were employed to track the lost man, in vain. Every well was explored, the bed of the Stepnitz thoroughly searched. Every suspicious house in Perleberg was examined from attic to cellar, the gardens were turned up, the swamps sounded, but every effort to trace and discover him was in vain.
On January 23, 1810, in a Hamburg paper, appeared a paragraph, which for the first time informed the people of Perleberg who the merchant Koch really was who had so mysteriously vanished. The paragraph was in the form of a letter, dated from London, January 6, 1810—that is, six weeks after the disappearance. It ran thus: "Sir Bathurst, Ambassador Extraordinary of England to the Court of Austria, concerning whom a German newspaper, under date of December 10, stated that he had committed suicide in a fit of insanity, is well in mind and body. His friends have received a letter from him dated December 13, which, therefore, must have been written after the date of his supposed death."
Who inserted this, and for what purpose? It was absolutely untrue. Was it designed to cause the authorities to relax their efforts to probe the mystery, and perhaps to abandon them altogether?
The Jewish merchants were examined, but were at once discharged; they were persons well-to-do, and generally respected.
Was it possible that Mr. Bathurst had committed suicide? This was the view taken of his disappearance in France, where, in the Moniteur of December 12, 1809, a letter from the correspondent in Berlin stated: "Sir Bathurst on his way from Berlin showed signs of insanity, and destroyed himself in the neighbourhood of Perleberg." On January 23, 1810, as already said, the Times took the matter up, and not obscurely charged the Emperor Napoleon with having made away with Mr. Bathurst, who was peculiarly obnoxious to him.
In the mean time, the fur coat had been found, hidden in the cellar of a family named Schmidt, behind some firewood. Frau Schmidt declared that it had been left at the post house, where she had found it; and had conveyed it away, and given it to her son Augustus, a fellow of notoriously bad character. Now, it is remarkable that one witness declared that she had seen the stranger who had disappeared go out of the square down the narrow lane in which the Schmidts lived, and where eventually the fur coat was found. When questioned, Augustus Schmidt said that "his mother had told him the stranger had two pistols, and had sent her to buy him some powder. He supposed therefore that the gentleman had shot himself." Unfortunately the conflict of authorities acted prejudicially at this point, and the questions how the Schmidts came to know anything about the pistols, whether Frau Schmidt really was sent for powder, and whether Bathurst was really seen entering the alley in which they lived, and at what hour, were never properly entered into. Whatever information Klitzing obtained, was forwarded to Berlin, and there his reports remain in the archives. They have not been examined.
Fresh quarrels broke out between Klitzing and the Burgomaster, and Klitzing instead of pursuing the main investigations, set to work to investigate the proceedings of the Burgomaster. So more time was lost.
On Thursday, November 30th, that is to say, five days after the disappearance of Bathurst, Captain Klitzing ordered the town magistrates; 1. To have all ditches and canals round the place examined; 2. To have the neighbourhood of the town explored by foresters with hounds; 3. To let off the river Stepnitz and examine the bed. Then he added, "as I have ascertained that Augustus Schmidt, who is now under arrest for the theft of the fur coat, was not at home at the time that the stranger disappeared, I require that this fact be taken into consideration, and investigated"—and this, as far as we can ascertain, was not done; it was just one of those valuable clues which were left untraced.
The whole neighbourhood was searched, ditches, ponds, the river bed, drains, every cellar, and garden, and nothing found. The search went on to December 6, and proved wholly resultless. It was not till December 16 that the trousers were found. It is almost certain that they were laid in the Quitzow wood after the search had been given over, on December 6th.
As nothing could be proved against the Schmidt family, except that they had taken the fur coat, Frau Schmidt and her son were sentenced to eight weeks' imprisonment.
The matter of the pistols was not properly cleared up. That, again, was a point, and an important point that remained uninvestigated.
The military authorities who examined the goods of Mr. Bathurst declared that nothing was missing except the fur cloak, which was afterwards recovered, and we suppose these pistols were included. If not, one may be sure that some notice would have been taken of the fact that he had gone off with his pistols, and had not returned. This would have lent colour to the opinion that he destroyed himself. Besides no shot was heard. A little way outside the gateway of the town beyond the Swan inn is a bridge over the small and sluggish stream of the Stepnitz. It was possible he might have shot himself there, and fallen into the water; but this theory will not bear looking closely into. A shot fired there would certainly have been heard at night in the cottages beside the road; the river was searched shortly after without a trace of him having been found, and his trousers with bullet holes made in them after they had been taken off him had been discovered in another direction.
The Moniteur of January 29 said: "Among the civilised races, England is the only one that sets an example of having bandits[3] in pay, and inciting to crime. From information we have received from Berlin, we believe that Mr. Bathurst had gone off his head. It is the manner of the British Cabinet to commit diplomatic commissions to persons whom the whole nation knows are half fools. It is only the English diplomatic service which contains crazy people."
[3] When, in 1815, Napoleon was at St. Helena, on his first introduction to Sir Hudson Lowe, he addressed the governor with the insulting words, "Monsieur, vous avez commandé des brigands." He alluded to the Corsican rangers in the British service, which Lowe had commanded.
This violent language was at the time attributed to Napoleon's dictation, stung with the charge made by the Times, a charge ranking him with "vulgar murderers," and which attributed to him two other and somewhat similar cases, that of Wagstaff, and that of Sir George Rumbold. It is very certain that the Moniteur would not have ventured on such insulting language without his permission.
In April Mrs. Bathurst, along with some relatives, arrived in Perleberg. The poor lady was in great distress and anxiety to have the intolerable suspense alleviated by a discovery of some sort, and the most liberal offers were made and published to induce a disclosure of the secret. At this time a woman named Hacker, the wife of a peasant who lived in the shoe-market, was lying in the town gaol—the tower already mentioned, adjoining the White Swan. She was imprisoned for various fraudulent acts. She now offered to make a confession, and this was her statement:
"A few weeks before Christmas I was on my way to Perleberg from a place in Holstein, where my husband had found work. In the little town of Seeberg, twelve miles from Hamburg, I met the shoemaker's assistant Goldberger, of Perleberg, whom I knew from having danced with him. He was well-dressed, and had from his fob hanging a hair-chain with gold seals. His knitted silk purse was stuffed with louis d'ors. When I asked him how he came by so much money, he said, 'Oh, I got 500 dollars and the watch as hush-money when the Englishman was murdered.' He told me no more particulars, except that one of the seals was engraved with a name, and he had had that altered in Hamburg."
No credit was given to this story, and no inquiry was instituted into the whereabouts of Goldberger. It was suspected that the woman had concocted it in the hopes of getting Mrs. Bathurst to interest herself in obtaining her release, and of getting some of the money offered to informers.
Mrs. Bathurst did not return immediately to England; she appealed to Napoleon to grant her information, and he assured her through Cambacières, and on his word of honour, that he knew nothing of the matter beyond what he had seen in the papers.
So the matter rested, an unsolved mystery.
In Prussia, among the great bulk of the educated, in the higher and official classes, the prevailing conviction was that Napoleon had caused the disappearance of Bathurst, not out of personal feeling, but in political interests, for the purpose of getting hold of the dispatches which he was believed to be conveying to England from the Austrian Government. The murder was held to be an accident, or an unavoidable consequence. And in Perleberg itself this was the view taken of the matter as soon as it was known who the stranger was. But then, another opinion prevailed there, that Klitzing had secretly conveyed him over the frontier, so as to save him from the spies, and the pursuit which, as he and Bathurst knew, endangered the safety of the returning envoy.
In Perleberg two opinions were formed, by such as conceived that he had been murdered, as to the manner in which he had been made away with.
Not far from the post-house was at the time a low tavern kept by Hacker, who has been mentioned above; the man combined shoemaking with the sale of brandy. Augustus Schmidt spent a good deal of his time in this house. Now shortly after this affair, Hacker left Perleberg, and set up at Altona, where he showed himself possessed of a great deal of money. He was also said to have disposed of a gold repeater watch to a jeweller in Hamburg. This was never gone into; and how far it was true, or idle rumour, cannot be said. One view was that Bathurst had been robbed and murdered by Hacker and Schmidt.
