At Day's Close: Night in Times Past (22 page)

The streets of large towns and cities generated fewer apprehensions of this sort. Certainly, a well-defined “ghostly topography,” as an Ulster child later described his rural environs, did not exist in most urban neighborhoods. Notwithstanding churchyards and heaths, natural landmarks were too sparse, populations too transient, and public spaces too animated for traditions to take root. Only haunted houses from time to time created a stir, such as when a home in Cambridge in the 1690s occasioned “strange noises” for two weeks.
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There, as in most urban areas, the threat of crime, not supernatural forces, redefined neighborhoods at night. London contained more than its share of hazardous thoroughfares, including the notorious Cut-throat Lane. In the Danish town of Roskilde, Thieve’s Alley had a fearful reputation. Always perilous at night were roads leading to cities. “Afraid of being robbed,” Sylas Neville found it “very disagreeable to travel all night alone” by coach, “especially so near London.” To travel by night on the roads east and northeast of Paris put both one’s life and purse at risk, as did crossing The Hague’s “Wood.” Even the small Somerset community of Wellington lay near a spot, Rogue’s Green, infamous for robbers.
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Ignorance was no excuse. Gibbets with human corpses littered the early modern countryside. These were tall wooden posts with one or more arms from which hung the decomposing remains of executed felons, though trees provided handy substitutes. Often corpses would remain suspended in an iron cage or chains for months, warning prey and predator alike. In the village of Brusselton Common, a skeleton finally fell to the ground after nearly four years when lightning split the gibbet into “a thousand splinters.” Sighting two corpses outside Coventry, a person remarked, “They serve as double warnings, to him that follow the same occupation, & to him who travels to guard against the attacks of such villains.” No vague warning this, for gibbets ordinarily stood at the site of the original crime. Crossing a section of Flanders, the Englishman John Leake encountered so many “unhappy wretches upon gibbets” that he lamented not being armed—“however, under the conduct of God’s good providence we found ourselves all safe” within town walls “before sunset.” Invariably, more than one traveler brushed past a dead body in the dark. “It made me shudder with fright,” wrote Felix Platter after nearly bumping into a corpse along a “dangerous road” in France.
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If nothing else, gibbets supplied wayfarers with a terrifying roadmap of perilous sites. Small wooden crosses and, in Danish towns, lit candles served a similar function, but they failed to convey the same sense of horror. The widespread belief that gibbets were haunted by the ghosts of executed malefactors only enhanced their terror. “Those places are so frightfull in the night time to some fearefull and timorous persons,” wrote Noel Taillepied in 1588, “that if they heare the voyce of any person neere the place where any be hanging, they will thinke it is their spirites or ghosts.”
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In areas ridden with crime, pedestrians often traveled in groups. Servants accompanied men and women of property, but other persons, too, avoided walking alone, especially in deserted locations. In the Scottish Highlands, custom discouraged solitary journeys at night. Thomas Platter, on his way to the Kent town of Rochester in 1599, journeyed an entire night by wagon “through many very dangerous localities.” But since “there was a whole wagon-load of us,” he “suffered no anxiety.” Joined by several guards, Pepys walked from Woolwich to Redriffe on the south bank of the Thames. “I hear this walk is dangerous to walk alone at night,” he acknowledged. Paolo da Certaldo advised, “Do not go unless you have a faithful friend and a big light.” Or a large dog. Tending his cows at 3:00
A.M.
, Richard Mitchel in 1749 took both his “man” and “a great dog” with him to the pasture.
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Weapons, naturally, strengthened frail spirits. In large parts of continental Europe, where thieves bore a fearsome reputation for violence, most people left home armed—not just gentlemen but peasants too, for whom bearing a dagger or quarterstaff was second nature. Country folk in France typically carried a “double-ended stick” reinforced top and bottom by iron caps. “From Verona to Brescia,” noted an English traveler to Italy in the early 1700s, “all the peasants carryed arms, there had been robberys on the road.” In the British Isles, pedestrians in towns and cities took similar precautions. Where laws restricted personal weapons, enforcement seems to have been ignored by a weak and indifferent nightwatch. Even in London’s affluent western suburbs, a newcomer, John Knyveton, was urged in 1750 to carry a cudgel or a small sword, particularly after dark.
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Crime represented less of a problem in the countryside, although coaches bore armed guards and often, too, armed passengers. Boswell kept a loaded pistol in his hand on a journey from Scotland to London. “During our two last stages this night, which we travelled in the dark, I was a good deal afraid of robbers.”
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Spells and amulets offered additional protection. Candles and lanterns, prayers, and rosaries, all were employed to deter sinister forces when venturing abroad. A variety of charms were laden with sacred meaning. For security in Sicily, coaches bore religious paintings on their sides. Images of “the virgin and child, and the souls in purgatory, are seldom omitted,” remarked a passing observer. Women in the Hautes Pyrenees, to guard against evil spirits, sprinkled their shifts with holy water. In Cologne, papers were hawked that reportedly had touched the faces of the three Magi. “Being carried in one’s pockett will protect one from all dangers and robberies,” reported Twisden Bradbourn in 1693.
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Other charms bore no discernible imprint of Christianity. Carrying a strap or apron in parts of France, for example, was thought to deter werewolves. In the fens of East Anglia, holly branches protected against witches; and among Breton peasants, it was common wisdom never to whistle in the dark lest the noise summon demons. In northern England, the same blunder, according to an early modern manuscript, required that the offender walk three times around his house “by way of penance.” Children in Yorkshire learned to “cruck” their thumbs as a defense, placing them within their balled hands. To ward off spirits, midwives in Liège wore articles of clothing inside out, as did slaves in different regions of America.
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Night set its own rules of engagement. Darkness precluded the normal courtesies that facilitated the give and take of daily life, the salutations and gestures of respect routinely exchanged on public lanes. Instead, advised Gay, “Let constant vigilance thy footsteps guide.” Unable to discern an approaching pedestrian’s clothing or demeanor, much less their identity or intentions, individuals relied upon other clues. Travelers proclaimed their identities as well as their proximity by their footsteps and voices. The mere act of coughing or spitting could give an inkling. “It is important for us to have an alert ear,” Rousseau wrote in
Emile
, “to be able to judge . . . whether the body causing it is big or little, far or near, whether its motion is violent or weak.” A miner in the Yorkshire village of Grasington, John Burnap, knew the doctor’s horse “by its foot.”
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Among strangers, distance was important to forestalling conflict—avoiding the paths of other passersby and ensuring that they avoided yours. Counseled a writer, “I would advise all strangers not to let any body come too near them particularly in the night-time.” Hence the narrow escape of the American Elkanah Watson when lost one evening on a rural road in France. Seeing an oncoming coach, he ran into its path, crying “
postillon, arrête! arrête!
” only to discover that the driver thought him a bandit. “Expecting he would send a ball at me, I made the best of my way down the hill, and the postillon made the best of his over it; being mutually afraid of each other.”
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When paths crossed, silence only heightened suspicions. Alarmed by a passing figure in the market square of Traunstein, the clerk Andre Pichler declared, “If you do not speak, I shall stab you.” Exchanges were terse and to the point: “Who is there?” or “Who is that?” were common questions. “A friend and a neighbor,” William Mowfitt replied in 1647 during his way home. As important as one’s words was tone of voice, which needed to be strong but inoffensive. Timidity, no less than hostility, invited clashes. Most wayfarers projected a brave front, often by brandishing their weapons. Fearful of being robbed in the Spanish countryside, Thomas Platter and his companions shook swords above their heads “to make them gleam in the light of the moon.” Scraping one’s sword against the ground, on the other hand, was an unmistakable “declaration of war.” Against bands of brigands in rural Scandinavia, a traveler in 1681 instructed the unarmed drivers of a convoy of carriages to equip themselves with white sticks of wood, “which appeared by the light of the moon, as if they had been muskets.” Thomas Ellwood crossed paths with a ruffian upon returning home from a court session in Watlington. “The suddain and unexpected sight of my bright blade, glittering in the dark night,” Ellwood marveled, “did so amaze and terrify the man.” Less fortunate, by contrast, was Michael Crosby as he made his way on a Sunday night from the alehouse Black Mary’s Hole. Jostled in a nearby field by a thief, Crosby declared that he “wanted nothing but civility,” only to be assaulted and robbed. Any bump in the night, cautioned Rousseau, required force. “Boldly grab the one who surprises you at night, man or beast—it makes no difference. Hold on and squeeze him with all your might. If he struggles, hit him.”
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Supernatural encounters called for different defenses. Evil spirits were identified by their dark color and threatening sounds. Many appeared as serpents, toads, or other creatures. Other than flight, one’s natural response was to recite a prayer while making the sign of the cross. “Here is the Cross, adverse forces disperse” was a customary verse in Poland. Local lore in France counseled boldness. In Basse-Bretagne, the admonition was direct: “If you are coming from the Devil, go on your way as I go on mine.” Before fainting, a young Spanish woman invoked the Holy Trinity upon sighting a “demon” on a moonlit evening, whereas the German father of Jean Paul faced them with “God or the cross” as his “buckler and shield.” A few stout souls responded more aggressively, with Satan himself on rare occasions reportedly put to flight. Felix Platter, during a visit to Marseilles, no doubt took comfort from knowing that his Swiss guide was nicknamed the “devil-chaser,” after one such encounter.
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Only in desperation did persons sleep abroad in the open countryside. “Who goeth abroad must look about him, and sleep in the night, as a hare,” warned an Italian proverb. So anxious was the German surgeon Johann Dietz when lost outside Lübeck that after trying to sleep in the woods he found strength enough to make his way to a granary (only to happen upon a band of robbers asleep in the cribs). And Thomas Platter, arriving too late to enter the city gate at Munich, sought overnight shelter at a “leper-house.”
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Besides listening for familiar sounds, stray souls “hallooed” into the dark, hoping to rouse a nearby family. Returning from Birmingham to Nottingham, the bookbinder William Hutton found himself lost in Charnwood Forest. “I wandered slowly, though in the wet, for fear of destruction, and hallooed with all my powers, but no returns.” Lost as a child, Ulrich Bräker called to two men across a meadow. “No answer was forthcoming; maybe they took me for some monster.” To extend their range, persons fired guns as a signal of distress. Plymouth Colony in 1636 forbade firing weapons at night, with just two exceptions: to kill a wolf and “for the finding of some one lost.” Benighted during a trip to Italy, Boswell “groped” his way to a town after hearing several gunshots. Not having fired any himself, he likely profited from someone else’s distress.
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V

I came ploughing home in the night, yet gott no harm thanks be to God who suffers not men nor devils to do all the mischief they would.

DAME SARAH COWPER,
1704
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No other time of the day so challenged the ingenuity and wit of ordinary mortals. Darkness tested their knowledge of local customs and magic as well as their understanding of the natural world. And, of course, night tried their souls or, at least, the mettle of their religious convictions. More than a few folk, upon safely returning from an evening abroad, thanked God for his protection. Even short jaunts merited occasional expressions of gratitude. To judge from early modern diaries, these were not formulaic phrases recited by rote but earnest expressions of relief. “Set out for home but had dark and dangerous travelling,” noted a Derbyshire vicar, “yet thro the mercy of God I came safe and found all well.” Thomas Turner recorded, “I came home about 9.10, thank GOD very safe and sober.”
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