The Book Of Were-Wolves E-Book

S. Baring Gould

• Herausgeber: S. Baring Gould
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

Rev. Sabine Baring-Gould (28 January 1834 – 2 January 1924) of Lew Trenchard in Devon, England, was an Anglican priest, hagiographer, antiquarian, novelist and eclectic scholar. His bibliography consists of more than 1240 publications, though this list continues to grow. With the shocking histories of 10 famous cases, this classic blends science, superstition, and fiction to tell the full story of the werewolves among us. The first serious academic study of lycanthropy and "blood-lust" written in English, this book draws upon a vast body of observation, myth, and lore.

Leseprobe

The BookofWere-Wolves

by

S. Baring-Gould

To the best of our knowledge, the text of this

work is in the “Public Domain”.

HOWEVER, copyright law varies in other countries, and the work may still be under

copyright in the country from which you are accessing this website. It is your

responsibility to check the applicable copyright laws in your country before

downloading this work.

Introductory.

Lycanthropy among the Ancients.

The Were-wolf in the North.

The Origin of the Scandinavian Were-wolf.

The Were-wolf in the Middle-ages.

A Chamber of Horrors.

Jean Grenier.

Folk-lore Relating to Were-wolves.

Natural Causes of Lycanthropy.

Mythological Origin of the Were-wolf Myth.

The Maréchal De Retz.-i. The Investigation of Charges.

The Maréchal De Retz.—ii. The Trial.

The Maréchal De Retz.—iii. The Sentence and Execution.

A Galician Were-Wolf.

Anomalous case.—The Human Hyæna.

A Sermon on Were-Wolves.

Chapter 1. Introductory.

I shall never forget the walk I took one night in Vienne, after having accomplished the examination of an unknown Druidical relic, the Pierre labie, at La Rondelle, near Champigni. I had learned of the existence of this cromlech only on my arrival at Champigni in the afternoon, and I had started to visit the curiosity without calculating the time it would take me to reach it and to return. Suffice it to say that I discovered the venerable pile of grey stones as the sun set, and that I expended the last lights of evening in planning and sketching. I then turned my face homeward. My walk of about ten miles had wearied me, coming at the end of a long day’s posting, and I had lamed myself in scrambling over some stones to the Gaulish relic.

A small hamlet was at no great distance, and I betook myself thither, in the hopes of hiring a trap to convey me to the posthouse, but I was disappointed. Few in the place could speak French, and the priest, when I applied to him, assured me that he believed there was no better conveyance in the place than a common charrue with its solid wooden wheels; nor was a riding horse to be procured. The good man offered to house me for the night; but I was obliged to decline, as my family intended starting early on the following morning.

Out spake then the mayor—“Monsieur can never go back to-night across the flats, because of the—the—” and his voice dropped; “the loups-garoux.”

“He says that he must return!” replied the priest in patois. “But who will go with him?”

“Ah, ha,! M. le Curé.