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For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
DESPONDENCY.
BY JENNIE ELDER
A mood all sad and filled with dreary gloom,
Hath wrapt my spirit, shutting out the light
Os life, and fitful flickerings illume
The shadowy realms of the spirit’s night—
. Showing but spectres of the hopes that were,
Like lump all pale within a sepulchre.
Spring blossoms forth their dewy incense flings
Bright leaflets flutter in the gentle breeze —
The moon-rays fall in gentle quivering,
Ail beauteous; yet, my spirit brooks not these.
All rose-hued fancy, pale and sick doth lie—
With sorrow 1 have made affinity
This earth ! this life—a vanity, a mask—
A tempting, fair yet ever shifting scene ;
An aching void—a craving that doth ask
To span the brinks where Lethe rolls between,
And there to plunge all bitter memories in,
Washing away all stain of wo or sin.
Hope, faith and memory! ye cherished things.
Why cower ye all faintly drooping now ?
Why hear I not your silver-rustling wings,
Whose gentle music doth my soul endow
With transport pure, as if a thousand strings
Thrilled there with soft, delicious murmuring.-*.
All, for the moment, still! yet, one dim shade
Stands up before me in the sickly light:
His brow is with dark cypress wreaths arrayed—
His mantle of the sub'e hue of night—
His presence chills with dampness all the uir:
I faint before thee, grim and dark Despair!
Ah ! what a solemn funereal sense
Pervades my being ! Hope so very faint,
Her flutterings breaking not the awe intense —
The silence moved not by her feeble plaint.—
Now, the dark shadow lifts his rigid hands.
Flinging against my soul those sable bands
An effort! as one waking from a trance,
Flings back the cold habiliments of death,
And gazes round with pleased, yet troubled
glance,
And draws, with painful joy, a buoyant breath.
My soul doth spring—the shade hath pass’d from
sight—
O, joy enhanced ! thrice welcome exiled light!
lAincnburg , Va
if la a a® Ei a ei s as*
From Graham's Magaiine, for Marrh.
A RECEPTION MORNING:
OR people in glass houses, etc.
BY F. E. F., AUTHOR OF “A MARRIAQE OF CON-’
VENIENCE,” ETC.
•• Je m'oublie,
Tu t'oublies ,
It ou ellt t'lmblie,” etc.
Verb S oublier.
,l Why were you not at Elliot's last
night, Mrs. Fortesque V’ asked Mrs. Ly
man.
“We do not visit,” replied Mrs. For
tesque, with a slight shade of mortifica
tion.
“Not visit!"’ repeated her friend, in an
accent of surprise, and fixing her eyes, as
she spoke, with a prolonged look of as
tonishment, that caused Mrs. Fortesque to
color. “Is it possible I It was an ele
gant party—very select—the handsomest
I have been at this winter. Indeed, the
party of the season.”
“It could scarcely surpass Rawley’s,”
said Mrs. Fortesque with smothered indig
nation. “I am sure there was nothing
spared there, and their house is larger than
Elliot’s.”
“Yes. But it was such a jam at Raw
ley’s,” replied Mrs. Lyman, in the tone of
one oppressed even by the recollection of
the crowd—“and such a m'elit —all sorts
of people ! This paying off debts in this
way is, in my opinion, very vulgar. Now
at Elliot’s it was so different. Just every
body you would wish to meet, and no
m ore. Room to see and be seen—and the
ladies so beautifully dressed —no crowd—
everything elegant and recherche.”
“The dressing at Rawley’s was as ele
gant as possible,” remarked Mrs. For
tesque, evidently piqued that the party
•he had just been describing to Miss Ap-
pleton with no small degree of complacen
cy as so fashionable, should now be spoken
of as a melee.
“ Did you think so ?” said Mrs. Lyman,
with affected surprise. “It was ver>’ in
ferior to that of last night. Indeed, in
such a crowd, there’s no inducement to
wear any thing handsome; but last night,
the ladies really came out. I never saw
such dressing—and the supper was exqui
site.”
“ It seems to me that all suppers are
alike,’ said one of the Miss Appletons,
with true girlish ignorance.
“Oh, my dear!” exclaimed both ladies
in a breath.
“The ditrerence between such a supper
as we had at Elliot’s, and such a one as at
Rawley’s,” continued Airs. Lyman, “isim
mense. The exquisite china, the plate, and
then the natural flowers! Such a supper
as you car. only have at a select party.”
Mrs. Fortesque looked very angry.—
The Rawleys were rather her grand peo
ple, and as she had not been at Elliot's,
she did not like this being set down in the
crowd of “anybodies” invited.
“ 1 am fairly tired out,” pursued Mrs.
Lyman languidly, “with this succession of
parties. I do wish people would be quiet
tor a little while, and let one rest. The
girls, too, are quite jaded and fagged with
this dancing night after night.”
“Oh, it’s too much,” said Emma Apple
ton. “I never go more than two or three
times a week. I wonder you do.” turning
to Aliss Lyman.
“Hjw can you help it, my dear ?” said
Airs. Lyman, in the tone of one bewailing
a great hardship. “ You give such of
fence if you decline.”
“I decline whenever it suits me,” re
plied Aliss Appleton, “and people bear the
disappointment very philosophically,” she
added, smiling.
“ You may well say that, Emma.” said
Airs. Fortesque, with an emphasis meant
at Airs. Lyman. “ Society is so large now,
that lat least never find offence is taken
when I decline.”
“ But you cannot refuse a first invita
tion,” pursued Airs. Lyman. “ Now the
Elliots, for instance. They have just call
ed upon us—we could not decline. Are
you going to Hammersley’s to-morrow,
Emma ?”
“ No,” said Emma, “ we are not invited
Are you f”
“ Yes. It’s a small party. We shall
go there first, and afterwards to Las
celles’.”
“ I saw you all at the opera on Alon
day,” remarked Emma.
“Yes, we were there the first two acts;
we went from there to Shaw's. By the
way, did you call upon the bride yester
day r
“No,” replied Emma. “1 have never
visited the Halseys.”
“But as Hamilton’s friends,” pursued
Airs. Lyman. “I called on his account.”
“No,” said Emma carelessly, “I hate
bridal receptions, and avoid them whenever
1 possibly can.” Mrs. Lyman had risen
while she was speaking, and she said—
“Oh, don’t go! Why are you in such a
hurry?”
“ I must, my dear,” replied Airs. Lyman.
“The Armstrongs and Ringolds receive
to-day, and then I must call at Aleredilh’s.
We have not been there since the party.
And Cadwalader’s, too, Mary,” she said,
turning to her daughtei, “don’t forget
them. We have been owing that visit so
long—and the Harrisons, and l don’t know
how many,” she continued, as if quite op
pressed with the w-eight of fashionable
cares. “I don’t suppose we shall get
through with the half of them. Come,
Alaryand so bidding Emma and her
friends good morning, she withdrew.
The door had hardly closed upon her,
when Airs. Fortesque, still wrathy at the
manner in which Airs. Lyman had spoken
of the Rawleys, and angrier still at finding
she was going to Hammersley’s, vented
some of her indignation, exclaiming—
“ How that woman does work for so
ciety !”
“One would think she had been at court,
to hear her talk of the Elliot’s,” said Em
ma, laughing.
“Just so, Emma,” said Mrs. Fortesque,
in a tone of bitter satisfaction at the young
lady’s laughing satire. “ It’s too absurd !
And as to saying the Elliots called first, I
don’t believe it. They, strangers here,
and people of their fortune, are not likely
to go about making first calls.”
“ What’s that?” said Charlotte Appleton,
who had been engrossed in conversation
with a gentleman on the opposite side of
the room. What’s that about the Elliots
making first calls.”
“ 1 was saying it was rather remarkable
that they should have called first on Mrs.
Lyman,” replied Airs. Fortesque.
“They did not,” exclaimed Charlotte.
“Os course, as strangers, you know, Mrs.
Fortesque, they would not; and I know
the Lymans called upon them some time
ago.”
“ Are you sure of that, Charlotte ?’’ ask
ed Mrs. Fortesque, with the triumphant
manner of one securing an important fact.
“Certainly.” replied Charlotte, “for she
asked mamma and myself to call and in
troduce her, but we were engaged that
morning, and she said it was no matter—
she would leave her card, and be intro
duced the first time they met.”
“ I thought so!” said Mrs. Fortesque,
exultingly. “ It’s just like her !”
“There’s no reason why she should not
have called, Airs. Fortesque,” said Einma.
But Airs. Fortesque did not look assent
ing at this. She only said, however—
“ Perhaps so. But I don’t like calling
on these people for their parties—for it
amounts to that, when you can’t return
them.”
“ But, my dear Airs. Fortesque,” said
Emma, “then only the rich would know
the rich. And there are a great many
charming people in society, who cannot
afford to entertain, and who the Elliots
and others aie delighted to have.”
“Oh, my dear,” returned the lady with
much excitement of manner, “that's all
very well, when you have happened to
know them; but I would not go out of my
way to make their acquaintance. There's
nobody of any consequence in society, or
who entertains, that Mrs. Lyman does not
make it a point of knowing. Now, her
calling on the tiride yesterday, as one of
Hamilton's friends. Why, she knows
Hamilton just as you and 1 and half the
town do—a slight bowing acquaintance—
but now he is marrying a rich, fashionable
girl, she finds out that it is incumbent on
her, as ‘one of his friends,’ to call on his
bride! So absurd! And she won’t effect
her object by this sort of thing, either,”
she added spitefully. “ The young men
are tired of seeing those two ugly girls of
hers at every place they go.”
“Oh, Airs. For:esque!” said Emma ex
postulatingly, yet half laughing.
“Os course, my dear,” returned Airs.
Fortesque warmly. “ Everybody sees lhat,
and she'll fail.”
“\Vell, if lhat is the object—” said
Emma.
“ And it is,” persisted Airs. Fortesque,
decidedly.
“ 1 don’t agree with you iu thinking
she’ll fail,” continued Emma, without no
ticing tlie interruption. “I think the Ly
mans are nice girls, and generally liked.”
“No beauties, you'll admit,” said Airs.
Fortesque, scornfully.
“No, not beauties,” replied Emma, “but
they get on quite as well as if they were.
Besides, really, Airs. Fortesque, to do Airs.
Lyman justice, I never saw anything about
her like a match-making mother.”
“Oh, my dear!” ejaculated Mrs. For
tesque, “ she is very anxious to marry
them off. And well she may be. The
other two are growing up as last as they
can. I only think she is taking the wrong
course. And then such a labor as she
makes of it! She’s somewhere every
night.”
“Oh, yes. Sometimes at two parties, be
sides the opera,” said Charlotte. “There's
no pleasure in society at such a rate. —
They have an idea that it is fon-ish, I be
lieve.”
“ Too absurd!” repeated Mrs. Fortesque,
who had evidently not yet dischaiged all
her wrath. But being obliged to make
other calls, she rose, and as Lady Teazle
says, “ left her character behind her,” for
she was not fairly out of the room before
Emma laughed, and said—
“ Poor Mrs. Fortesque! She cannot
get over the Lymans getting on so well in
society. To be sure they do push for it,
but they get it. And their beingat Elliot’s,
where she was not invited and does not
visit, seems to have capped the climax of
her vexation.”
“And to speak slightingly of Rawley’s
party,” said Charlotte. “ That really was
unkind in Mrs. Lyman, for she knows
how much Mrs. Fortesque thinks of the
Rawleys.”
“That was the reason, of course,” re
plied Emma, laughing. “She knows the
Rawleys are Mrs. Fortesque’s grandees.—
For there's no one that thinks so much of
fine people as Mrs. Fortesque. ’
“No. How droll it is,” said Charlotte.
“Every invitation is taken as such a com
pliment, and every omission as a particular
slight.”
“That struck me very much,” remaked
Mrs. Henry Willing, who happened to be
present, but who had not joined much in
the conversation hitherto, “ for 1 have al
ways looked upon Airs. Fortesque as a
person who rather pinned her faith upon
fashionable people, and who rated her ac
quaintance very much according to their
consequence in society.”
“Oh, she does, decidedly,” said both the
girls in a breath.
“It’s that,” continued Emma, “that
makes her so angry wilh Airs. Lyman.—
They are intimate’, and Airs. Lyman is al
ways ahead of her in making fine acquaint
ances, and in getting invited to parties that
are rather exclusive. Now, you will see
that Airs. Fortesque does not rest until she
visits and is invited at Elliot’s too.”
“ But I think she is really unjust, Em
ma,” said Charlotte, “in saying her object
is to get the girls married ”
“To be sure she is,” replied Emma.—
But the fact is, her own head is so full
of anxiety on the subject of marrying Cor
nelia, that she thinks every other mother’s
head must be the same.”
“The Lymans are no beauties,” said
Charlotte, “ but they are quite as hand
some as Cornelia Fortesque.”
“And a great deal pleasanter,” replied
Emma. “ They have something at least,
but poor Cornelia has nothing.”
As the Appletons were “at home” that
morning, the conversation was here inter
rupted by other visiters.
Elliot's party was again the theme un
dei discussion, the display of wealth and
beauty on the occasion giving rise to much
animated remark.
“One of the most striking persons there
was your friend Mrs. Norton, Aliss Apple
ton,” said Mrs. Henry Willing.
“ 1 never saw her look more beautiful,”
remarked another.
“ Nor more beautifully dressed,” said
Airs. Willing quietly, but with meaning.
Emma colored at this, for she felt the
inuendo. Air. Norton had failed not very
long since, and the extravagance of his
pretty wife had not escaped its due portion
at least of animadversion.
“ What was it ?” asked Emma.
“Avery rich blue silk, with flounces of
superb lace almost to the hips,” replied
Airs. Willing, in a tone that conveyed as
much reprehension as tones could convey.
“ Oh, that's the same lace she has worn
these three years,” said Emma, vexed that
her pretty friend could not even wear her
old things without exciting unkind re
marks.
“ It does not look well, Emma,” remark
ed Mrs. Grayson. “Though it is not new,
it is expensive, and not in keeping with
their present circumstances. It’s in bad
taste.”
Emma looked disconcerted, and said she
thought that a matter of very little impor
tance, when everybody knew the lace al
most as well as they did Airs. Norton her
self.
Mrs. Willing, however, did not think
so. “ Everybody knew the expense at
tendant on society, and she thought it al
together indiscreet in Airs. Norton to be
out as constantly as she was. It excited
much remark.”*
Whereupon, an animated discussion en
sued, in which poor Mrs. Norton was well
pulled to pieces. Emma, however, defend
ed her bravely, though driven from point
to point. That she was very expensive,
if not extravagant, seemed, however, to be
settled beyond dispute, and Mrs. Willing
was not inclined to make any allowance
for her youth and inexperience, nor permit
her grace and beauty any weight at all in
extenuating her imprudence. Emma was
for overlooking everything—Airs. Willing
nothing—and the discussion was certainly
as warm as is ever deemed allowable
among ladies, when Airs. Willing rose to
leave. No one remaining, fortunately for
Emma, but Airs. Grayson, with whom the
Appletons were very intimate; and so she
gave unrestrained vent to her indignation,
almost before Airs. Willing was out of
hearing.
“ She is a pretty one!” she exclaimed,
“to find fault with Mrs. Norton! She is
just as expensive as her means will allow,
without Airs. Norton's excuse of youth
and beauty.”
“ But, my dear,” interposed Mrs. Gray
son, ‘•'■her husband has not failed.”
“ No,” said Emma, “for he is not a mer
chant. But everybody knows their cir
cumstances. He is over head and ears in
debt, and yet they entertain and give din
ners, and she is forever at the opera. But
because she is not a beauty, and does not
care particularly sot dress, she is very tyr
tuous about poor Mrs. Norton.”
“ Very true,” said Mrs. Grayson, laugh
ing. “ I could not but be amused while
she was talking, to think how much that
she was saying would apply equally well
to herself. But people never think of that
when they are laying down the law for
others. But have you heard this story,
girls, about Mrs. Craw ford ?’’
“No. What?” they both asked.
And then followed a piece of scandal
that had just burst upon the town, too
naughty to repeat.
“Shocking!” and “Can it be true?”
they exclaimed.
“No doubt of it,” returned Airs. Gray
son. “No one will visit her.”
And with much interest, she continued
to add circumstance and suspicion, one on
top of the other, without mercy or stint.
All minor gossip was forgotten in the
engrossing interest of the new subject.—
Airs. Grayson talked on till the French
clock on the mantel-piece struck the dinner
hour, when, starting up, she exclaimed—
“So late ! Is it possible ? You have
been so agreeable, girls, 1 had quite for
gotten the hour, aud my husband is wait
ing for me, I suppose ;” and off she hur
i led.
“She has had all the talk,” said Emma,
“ and that is what she calls finding us
agreeable. But this story is very bad, if
it is true.”
“ Yes, hut 1 don’t believe half of it,”
said Charlotte. “ Airs. Grayson, you know,
always puts the worst construction upon
everything. She is so very harsh in her
judgments.”
“And she, of all others, should have
mercy upon those in trouble,” observed
Airs. Appleton, who had just then come
into the room. “ But what were you talk
ing of, girls?
And with great animation they related
Mrs. Grayson’s bit of gossip to their mo
ther.
“Strange!” said Mrs. Appleton, “that
Airs. Grayson should be the first to tell it.”
“Why. mamma?” asked both daughters
at once.
“Because just such an affair occurred in
her own family.”
“In hers! When ?” exclaimed they in
astonishment. “ I never heard that be
fore!”
“Oh, year- ago—you can hardly remem
ber it. Ind< tJ, it was just after I was
married.”
“Then,” said Charlotte laughing, “it is
not surprism we do not remember the cir
cumstance.”
“ I had for .otten it was so long ago,”
said their mo her. “It made a great talk
at the time.”
And then scandal that had been buried
for years and years, was revived and lis
tened to with no small interest.
“Strange!” said Emma, “that Mrs.
Grayson should talk of Mrs. Crawford.”
“1 should think she would avoid all
such stories as carelully as possible,” said
Charlotte.
“ I suppose she thought we knew no
thing about it,” pursued Emma.
“But if we did not, she must,” replied
Charlotte. “People cannot forget such
things themselves.”
“ Airs. Grayson has gone through severe
trials and mortifications in life,” observed
their mother.
“ Then it ought to give her some charity
for others,” said Charlotte. “ But she is
the hardest woman 1 know.”
“It appears to me that is always the
case,” said Emina. “One would tnink
that suffering would soften and purify, but
it does not.”
“Not that kind of suffering,” remarked
their mother. “ That which comes of mor
tification, and which we experience at the
hands of our fellew men, there are few na
tures fine enough not to grow hard un
der it.”
Emma heard her mother afterwards, in
a low voioe, telling their father the slur)
she had just heard from her daughters,
and giving Airs. Grayson as authority.
“ The less she says about it the better,”
dryly remarked Air. Appleton.
“ You remember, my dear,” continued
his wife, “ that affair of her sister.”
“To be sure,” he replied. “A bad bu
siness. 1 always wondered how they got
over it.”
And then Mr. and Mrs. Appleton had a
long, comfortable, cosy talk, in which
things long past and forgotten were brought
to life, as the old couple warmed up in
their reminiscences of ‘old times.’ Emma
soon tired, and gave up trying to keep the
thread of grandmothers and grand-aunts,
particularly as her father and ntorher fre
quently confounded the present with the
past generation, and she found that the
“ young Tom Somebody” that they were
talking of, was now the “old Tom” of
present times; the “young Tom” being a
middle-aged man, with a Tom junior tread
ing fast on his heels.
Charlotte and Emma were now talking
over their morning visiters, and Emma
again spoke with some warmth of Airs.
Willing’s remarks on Airs. Norton, who
happened to be Emma's particular admira
tion, her extravagance being, in her opin
ion, very natural.
“I can conceive,” she added, “of peo
ple's
* Compounding sins they are inclined for,
By damning those they have no mind for,’
but to abuse people for doing what you are
doing yourself, is rather too much.”
“ It is the old principle, I suppose,” said
Charlote, “of ‘Lord, 1 thank thee that I
am not as other men.’”
“ Yes, but,” persisted Charlotte, “ when
you are like other men.”
“Well, then, not so bad, then,” said
Charlote, laughing ; “ Mrs. Willing takes
comfort in thinking she is only expensive,
while Mrs. Norton is extravagant. Eve
rybody has their besetting sin, it seems.”
“ 1 wonder what ours is,” said Emma.
“If we have one,” said Charlotte, laugh
ing. “For my part, I think we approach
perfection as near as possible— 1 Sans peur
et satis reproilic.’ ”
“ Sins peur, certainly,” said Emma, in
the same tone of p'ayful mockery, “if not
sans reproche. Well, but what do weabuse
others most for?” she added. For, depend
upon it, that is the particular weakness we
are given to ourselves.”
“What do we most criticise others for?”
said Charlotte. “Why for abusing others,
I think. And we are called satirical, you
know. ‘People in glass houses should
not throw stones.’ ”
“ No,” said Emma, carelessly, “ that is,
if they care about having their windows
broken.”
“Nobody likes to have their windows
broken,” said Airs. Appleton gravely, who,
just entering, caught the last part of the
sentence, which she took literally, with a
true housekeeper’s feeling.
“That is true, mother,” said the girls,
laughing at the odd application of her re
mark. “It is very true, though you did
not mean it.”
But whether they remembered these sage
reflections and kept them the next “recep
tion morning,” we think very doubtful.
emssbililaeiv.
From Chamber's Journal
LYCANTHROPY.
Whoever has read the “ Arabian Nigtits’
Entertainments,” will be acquainted with
the words ghoul and vanipyre. A ghoul
was believed to be a being in the human
form, who frequented graveyards and cem
eteries, where it disinterred, tore to pieces,
and devoured the holies buried there. A
vampyre was a dead person, who came
out of his grave at night to suck the blood
of the living, and whoever was so sucked
became a vampyre in his turn when he
died. Both these persuasions have been
rejected by the modern scientific world, as
altogether unworthy of credence or inqui
ry, although, about a century ago, the ex
ploits of vainpyres createJ such a sensa
tion in Hungary, that they reached the
ears of Louis XV., who directed his min
ister at Vienna to report on them. In a
newspaper of lhat period, there appeared
a paragraph, to the effect that Arnold Paul,
a native of Aladveiga, being crushed to
death by a wagon, and buried, had since
become a vampyre, and that he had him
self been previously bitten by one. The
authorities being informed of the terror his
visits were occasioning, and several per
sons having died with all the symptoms of
vampyrism, his grave was solemnly open
ed ; and although he had been in it forty
days, the body was like that of a living
man. To cure his roving propensities, a
stake was driven into it, whereupon he ut
tered a cry ; aflpr which, his head was cut
off, and the body burnt. Four other bodies,
which had died tiom the consequences of
his bites, and which were found in the
same perfectly healthy condition, were
served in a similar manner; and it was
hoped that these vigorous measures would
extinguish the mischief. But no such
thing: the evil continued more or less,
and five years afterward, was so rife, that
the authorities determined to make a thor
ough clearance of these troublesome indi
viduals. On this occasion, a vast number
of graves were opened, of persons of all
ages and both sexes ; and strange to say,
the bodies of all those accused of plaguing
the living by their nocturnal visits, were
found in the vatnpyre state —full of blood,
and free from every symptom of death.—
The documents which record these trans
actions hear the date of June 7, 1732, and
are signed and witnessed by three sur
geons, and other creditable persons. The
facts, in short, arc indubitable, though what
interpretation to put upon them remains
extremely difficult One that has been
suggested is, that all these supposed vam
pyres were persons who had fallen into a
state of catalepsy or trance, and been bu
ried alive. However this may be, the
mystery is sufficiently perplexing; and the
more so, that through the whole of East
ern Europe innumerable instances of the
same kind of thing have occurred, while
each language has an especial word to de
signate it.
That which in the East is called “ghoul
ism,” has in the West been denominated
“ wolfomania and this phenomenon, as
well as vampyrism, has been treated of by
numerous ancient authors; anil though lat
terly utterly denied and scouted, were
once generally believed.
There are various shades and degrees of
lycanthropy. In some cases, the lycan
thrope declares that he has the power of
transforming himsell into a wolf, in which
disguise—his tastes corresponding to his
form—he delights in feeding on human
flesh: and in the public examinations of
iliese unhappy individuals, there was no
scarcity of witnesses to corroborate their
confessions. In other instances, there was
no transformation, and the lycanthrope ap
pears more closely to resemble a ghoul.
In the year 1603, a case oflycanthropy
was brought before the parliament of Bor
deaux. The person accused was a boy of
fourteen, called Jean Grenier, who herded
cattle. Several witnesses, chiefly young
girls, came forward as his accusers, declar
ing that he had attacked and wounded
them in the disguise of a wolf, and would
have killed them but for the vigorous de
fence they made with sticks. Jean Grenier
himself avowed the crime, confessing to
having killed and ealen several children;
and the father of the children confirmed all
he said. Jean Grenier, however, appears
to have been little removed from an idiot.
In the fifteenth century, lycanthropy
prevailed extensively amongst the Vaudois,
and many persons suffered death for it;
hut as no similar case seems to have been
heanl of for a long while, lycanthropy and
ghoul ism were set down amongst the su
perstitions of dark ages. A circumstance,
however, has just now come to light in
France, that throws a stiange and unex
pected light upon this curious subject.—
The account we are going to give, is
drawn from a report of the investigation
before a cauncil of war, held on the 10th
of the present month, tJuly, 1849,) Colo
nel Manselon president. It is remarked
that the court was extremely crowded, and
that many ladies were present.
The facts of this mysterious affair, as
they came to light in the examinations,
are as follows: For some months past, the
cemeteries in and around Paris have been
the scenes of a frigh:ful profanation, the
authors of which had succeeded in eluding
all the vigilance that was exerted to detect
them. At one time, the guardians or keep
ers of these places of burial were them
selves suspected; at others, the odium was
thrown on the surviving relations of the
dead.
The cemetery of Here la Chaise was the
first field of these horrible operations. It
appears that, for a considerable titne, the
guardians had observed a mysterious figure
Hitting about by night among the tombs,
on whom they could never lay their hands.
As they approached, he disappeared like a
phantom; and even the dogs that were let
loose, and urged to seize him, stopped
short, and ceased to bark, as if they were
transfixed by a charm. When morning
broke, the ravages of this strange visitant
were hut too visib:e—graves had been
opened, coffins forced, and the remains of
the dead, frightfully torn and mutilated,
lay scattered upon the earth. Could the
surgeons be the guilty parties? No. A
member of the profession being brought to
the spot, declared that no scientific knife
had been there ; but certain parts of the
human body might be required for ana
tomical studies, and the grave-aiggers
might have violated the tombs to obtain
money by the sale of them. . . • The
watch was doubled, but to no purpose. A
young soldier was one night seized in a
tomb, but he declared he had gone thereto
meet his sweetheart,and had fallen asleep;
and as he evinced no trepidation, they let
him go.
At I ength these profanations ceased in
Pere la Chaise, but it was not long before