Plutarch mentions that Harpocrates was born lame, that is to say, with his lower limbs feebly developed, and interprets this as a parable of the new corn with its tender and imperfect shoots. We find, however, that the offspring born of the unnatural connection with a dead man is represented as being as remarkable as the manner of his generation, and not infrequently monstrous. We have seen that the Toba-bataks thus account for the birth of an albino. A story told by the Transylvanian Gypsies concerns a girl named Mariutza of the Chale tribe, the daughter of a wealthy chief. She loved a youth named Jarko, to whom her father refused to give her. Her brothers caught her in his arms one night, and slew him. They killed one of their father’s horses and buried it with him in a grave on the edge of the forest, spreading the report abroad that he had fled and would never return to the tribe. She was not a witness of his death, and did not know what had become of him. One night, unable to sleep, she went out of the tent, sat down beside a brook and wept bitterly, crying aloud: “Oh that I could once more see him, dead or alive!” Hardly had she uttered the words when she heard the ring of a horse’s hoofs, and her lover galloped up on a white steed, his clothing covered with blood and his hair with icicles. He took her up; and the steed made off to the grave, where he lay down with her in his arms. She rested thus in her lover’s arms until day began to break, when he sent her back to her tent, charging her to cease from disturbing his rest any further with her tears. As she hurried away the grave closed. After nine months she bore a great stone that flew from tent to tent until it met her brothers, and, striking them on the head, hurled them both dead to the ground. Then it disappeared; and when folk came to look for Mariutza, she too lay dead on her bed.[199.1] In a modern Icelandic tale a youth and maiden love one another, but are prevented from marrying. The youth dies, but after death visits his beloved by night. An old woman in whom she confides compels the dead man to confess. He tells her that the girl is pregnant, and will bear a son who will surpass all men in beauty and intellect, and will become a priest; but unless someone be found bold enough to stab him in the breast during his first mass, the church will sink into the earth with all the people in it. It was done; and the young priest disappeared, leaving behind on the floor of the church nothing but three drops of blood.[199.2]
In Brittany a story is told with much circumstance of place and name, relating how a peasant-farmer of the village of Keranniou died, leaving a wife much younger than himself and seven children. After death he reappeared as ghost, and played a variety of tricks. At length his widow found herself pregnant, and, seeking the priest, confessed with tears that the deceased had lain with her several times, insisting that he had been sent back by God because he had not had his full tale of children. The duty of bringing into the world one’s allotted number of children, it may be observed, is a motive in many of the grimmer Breton stories. As her condition became visible the neighbours taunted the unfortunate widow; but the priest took her part openly in the church. A child was born, but without eyes. The ghost appeared again, and took far more interest in it than in any of the children born during his lifetime. The child was extremely precocious, but lived only for seven months. When it died the dead man’s ghost was seen to accompany the funeral procession. From that hour he was never beheld again; and the villagers said he had been waiting for the babe to lead him by the hand to Paradise.[200.1] A similar incident is found as far away as among the Bella Coola of the British Columbian fiords. There a husband and wife who were devoted to one another made vows of mutual fidelity, even after the death of either of them. The husband died; and his body was placed, as was usual, in a little dead-hut. The widow wept bitterly, entered the dead-hut and lay down to sleep beside the corpse. In her dreams she saw him once more alive. He begot upon her a child, which was born after the lapse of a fortnight. It was not like other children, for it consisted only of a head without a body. The widow was unwilling to exhibit such a monster; but her mother did not rest until she was allowed to take it in her arms. When she saw what it was she let it fall in terror. The head sank into the earth and disappeared from view.[201.1]
Cases like these suggest that Plutarch’s view of the crippled condition in which Harpocrates was born is not to be accepted. It does not necessarily follow that the interpretation of Osiris as a deity of vegetation, adumbrated by the philosopher and adopted by Professor Frazer, is wholly incorrect. We are in error if we suppose the myth of Osiris to be one and self-consistent. The myths of Osiris were innumerable. The realm of Egypt was formed by the union of a number of small independent states or communities. Each of these communities had its own customs, institutions, beliefs, märchen. Many stories told, whether for serious credence or by way of pastime, in every district were doubtless common to all Egypt. But probably even they had their local variants; and these variants must often have been irreconcilable. The phenomenon is familiar. It is abundantly exemplified in the tales of the Greek and Scandinavian mythologies. In Egypt, however, the formation of a strong central authority, and the consequent growth and maintenance during many ages of a powerful and educated priesthood, were among the influences that led to a persistent attempt to unify and explain the principal divine myths, to attach them to the various local and periodical solemnities already observed from time immemorial, and to educe from the jumble something like a system, a philosophy. Whether in this process an originally independent myth had become united with a series of agricultural rites, or whether a myth previously annexed to such rites had acquired an independent existence by virtue of a higher inspiration, matters not to us. The story of Osiris is found on the Egyptian monuments in a number of frequently disconnected texts, of which there is no authoritative canon. Among those texts the exact status and meaning of the Harpocratian episode is probably a subject on which the Egyptians themselves would have been unable to agree. We can hardly be wrong in indulging our scepticism at the expense of Plutarch’s interpretation, though he may simply have reported it as it was given to him. The parallel tales, whether of Europe or America, at least are purely human. They yield no trace of vegetable symbolism. They are founded upon impulses and beliefs that have all over the world influenced the conduct of men towards the supernatural.
It was a common belief in antiquity, and thence through the Middle Ages and right down, among the uneducated classes, to modern times, that dead men and other supernatural beings might have intercourse with living women. Upon this belief and the innumerable tales connected therewith was founded Bürger’s famous ballad of Lenore.[202.1] The story told by Herodotus of the paternity of Demaratus, King of Sparta, is an early example. Demaratus, being accused of not being the son of his predecessor, Ariston, adjured his mother in a solemn ceremony to tell him the truth. Her account was that, on the third night after her marriage to Ariston, an apparition in his likeness and wearing garlands came to her, and, having embraced her in conjugal wise, transferred to her the garlands it wore and departed. Ariston, coming in afterwards, saw the garlands and asked who had given them to her. She told him he had done so himself; and when he denied it she confirmed it with an oath. Ariston then began to suspect divine interference. On making enquiry it was found that the garlands were from the adjacent temple of the hero Astrabakus; and the diviners identified the apparition with the hero himself. In that night Demaratus’ mother became pregnant of him.[203.1] Satyrs and Fauns, under the name of incubi, were generally held to be guilty of criminal assaults upon women when opportunity offered. Among the Gauls, we are told by Saint Augustine, this kind of evil spirit was known as Dusii; and their constant exploits, as well as those of the Silvans and Fauns, were so well attested that to the great ecclesiastic it seemed it would be impudent to deny them.[203.2]
Incubi were identified by later theologians with devils; and their embraces were almost always an item in the accusation against witches before a legal tribunal. When offspring resulted, it was naturally a monster. The romance of Merlin, born of such a connection, born grisly to sight and rough and not as other children, was cited as a fact by the credulous writers of those days on witchcraft and demonology.[203.3]
According to Bulgarian belief a ghost against which proper precautions are not taken may cause, especially in the winter, much annoyance. Such ghosts may even have sexual intercourse with women. As lately as the year 1888, at the village of Orzoja, the death of a certain girl was attributed by the people to this cause.[204.1] A Ruthenian story represents a dead husband as haunting his wife every night for a whole year. Whether he actually came to conjugal intercourse does not appear. However that might have been, he gave her no rest from his bodily attacks. Worn out, she sought for help against him, and was advised to take poppy-seed to bed with her, to fasten upon her head a large bowl, and to light a taper. When the dead man came as usual she threw the poppy-seed in his face, as she had been prescribed. He asked in a tone of surprise who had given her this advice. By way of answer she threw more. In a fury the dead man flung himself upon her, by main force tore the bowl from her and took to flight, apparently convinced that he had torn off her head. The door banged after him so violently as to split from top to bottom; and in the morning the bowl was found some distance away, smashed to pieces. But the woman was delivered from her tormentor from that hour.[204.2]
Sir Walter Scott’s novel, The Pirate, was based on the deeds and capture of one John Gow. This man was taken prisoner in the Orkney Islands and afterwards tried before the High Court of Admiralty in London, condemned for piracy and executed. Before his capture he had become affianced to an Orcadian girl. “It is said,” writes Sir Walter in the advertisement prefixed to the book, “that the lady whose affections Gow had engaged went up to London to see him before his death, and that, arriving too late, she had the courage to request a sight of his dead body; and then, touching the hand of the corpse, she formally resumed the troth-plight which she had bestowed. Without going through this ceremony she could not, according to the superstition of the country, have escaped a visit from the ghost of her departed lover, in the event of her bestowing upon any living suitor the faith which she had plighted to the dead.”[205.1] In the Orkney Islands these superstitions were then vivid. If we may judge by a phrase in the record of a witch-trial at Kirkwall, it was the belief in the early part of the seventeenth century that a man slain at the going down of the sun remained neither living nor dead, but was capable of sexual intercourse with any woman who would yield herself to him; in return for which he gave “a guidly fe,” in the shape of second sight and power of divining the future.[205.2] A circumstantial and horrible account of a series of occurrences of the same period in Iceland is given by contemporary authorities. A man of position named Ivar Eyjulfsson was wedded to Herdis, daughter of Sera Magnus Jonsson of Ottrardal. They lived at Reykjarfjörd on affectionate terms; and the husband often prayed his wife in case of his death not to marry again, or something untoward would happen. In the year 1604, despite foreboding dreams during the whole of the previous winter, he went to sea with four companions. On taking leave of his wife and father-in-law as if he never expected to see them again, he reiterated his injunctions to her to remain single. A quarrel arose at sea between Ivar and one of his companions named Jon; the boat foundered, and Ivar, Jon, and another of the crew were drowned. The bodies came to shore at Langardal, and were buried in the churchyard there. On digging the grave an older grave, lying in heathen fashion north and south, was found; and just where the breast of the corpse lay was a great stone, and beside it an iron arrowhead. This incident seems to have been regarded as having some connection with the spooks which were subsequently manifested. Whatever that connection may have been, it speedily began to be noised abroad that Ivar and Jon “walked,” and that their quarrel was far from being ended with their death. After a year or two of widowhood Herdis was courted by an honourable man, one Sturla Gottskalksson, and on her father’s advice consented to marry him. Already, however, she had been suffering from an ulcer on the foot; and after she had given her consent to Sturla it became worse. Nor was this all. One night her first husband came to her bed and had intercourse with her. Another night she struggled with him, seizing the coverlet with her teeth to protect herself from him. One disaster followed another. A black blister on her tongue burst and sloughed away half of that member. In spite of all, the formal betrothal took place; but it was followed by such an exhibition of ghostly fury that even Sturla wished to withdraw, and only Sera Magnus’ firmness in insisting on the wedding prevented the engagement from being broken off. When the wedding was solemnized, no sooner had the vows been spoken in the church than Herdis uttered a piercing cry, and those of the company who, being Sunday-born children, had the gift of seeing spirits beheld Ivar’s ghost approach her. Such was the horror and confusion that the ceremony had to be cut short, and the newly wedded pair left the church without the customary prayer and blessing. The persecution was repeated every time that Sturla attempted to consummate the marriage, until even ordinary folk who were not ghost-seers saw how the ghost waylaid the unfortunate Herdis. Recourse was had to a renowned practitioner of supernatural arts, who by his incantations succeeded in making things somewhat quieter in the house; but after awhile matters were as bad as ever, and his spells ceased to be effective. Sometimes Ivar appeared alone, sometimes with Jon, and then both were usually in fierce contest. If the word of God were read they slunk out of the house; as soon as the reading was over they returned. Herdis was again subjected to the dead man’s assaults; and the magician could only protect her by setting on her lap a woman holding upright a naked blade of steel. At length the ghost attacked the magician himself, and, blowing in his mouth, caused him a frightful ulcer in the neck; so that he was compelled to leave the place, declaring that he could not cope with all the devils that followed Ivar’s ghost. Herdis sought refuge in a chapel, but in vain. She returned home, therefore; and shortly after, on a Sunday morning, a loud crash was heard; her bed had broken down, and two of its timbers had fallen to the ground. That was the culmination of the ghostly persecution. The unhappy woman breathed her last. The magician said, when he heard of it, that the ghost had strangled her. Then he did what, by all the rules of the ghostlayer’s art, he ought to have done before. Venturing back to Sturla’s house, he ordered Ivar’s grave to be opened. Ivar’s body and that of Jon were found undecayed, but right evil to look upon. They were disinterred and burnt, and with that all manifestations came to an end.[208.1]
This narrative is not an ordinary saga, located indeed at a specified place, but the events of which are told of an indefinite past, or are clustered in a manner known to all students of folklore round a celebrated name. It is quite distinguishable in character from the Icelandic tale I have mentioned on a previous page. It was soberly reported in the year 1606 by persons of credit, if also of credulity, according to our standard, while most of the actors and a number of persons who had more or less acquaintance with the facts were yet living; it was related as something which had occurred not within their recollections at some distant date, but quite recently. The ghostlayer whose services were called in survived until the year 1647, and was well known in the island. The account therefore discloses the kind of horrors that in that age, as in earlier ages, witness the Heimskringla and various sagas, enlivened the long gloom of an arctic winter. Foremost among those horrors may be reckoned the belief that dead men still, in some circumstances at any rate, retained their sexual instincts, and attempted, not in vain, to gratify those instincts upon living women.
Indeed, communities boasting themselves of the culture and progress of the twentieth century have not entirely discarded the terrors born of some such belief. I do not refer to solitary cases of mania,[208.2] such as are probably to be found in all communities from time to time, but to cases in which the belief has been adopted by society at large and stamped with the collective approval, or at least acceptance. This may be said to be done when a court of law, in the course of a judicial investigation, admits evidence of haunting and solemnly gives judgement based upon such evidence.
On the 16th February 1912, at Macon, Georgia, in the United States of America, the second husband of a lady was actually granted a decree of divorce on the ground that the ghost of her first husband haunted both his wife and himself, and the difficulty was so great that it was utterly impossible for them to live together. It was not of course given in evidence that the ghost committed assaults, such as those we have just been considering. The advance of civilization since the seventeenth century has softened the manners even of ghosts. But it was stated that the wife had promised her former husband that she would not marry again; she violated the promise; and it was solemnly testified in court that the first husband’s spirit appeared nightly with groans and reproachful glances, and only ceased to do so when the lady left her new husband.[209.1] In our country a luckless husband would find that the posthumous jealousy of his predecessor in the ménage is no ground for divorce. Since the days of the witch-trials our courts have remained unmoved by ghostly perturbations. They have even been known to refuse assistance to the tenant of a haunted house. But Europe is effete.