E-Book, Englisch, 96 Seiten
Roberts Haunted Halifax and District
1. Auflage 2014
ISBN: 978-0-7509-6013-7
Verlag: The History Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
E-Book, Englisch, 96 Seiten
ISBN: 978-0-7509-6013-7
Verlag: The History Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
KAI ROBERTS lived in the Calderdale region of Yorkshire and spent his childhood immersed in the curious traditions of the area. He wrote a number of books on folklore and local history, with a special interest in the relationship between landscape and legend.
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Ghosts of the Halifax Gibbet
In 1622, the poet John Taylor composed ‘The Beggars’ Litany’ and forever preserved the roguish wisdom, ‘From Hell, Hull and Halifax, Good Lord deliver us’. In the seventeenth century such miscreants were afraid of Hull on account of its notorious gaol, but Halifax held a worse terror still – the Gibbet Law. By this statute, anybody caught stealing goods worth more than 131/2d was condemned to death by decapitation by guillotine: a punishment which had long since been discontinued for such petty crimes elsewhere in the country.
The Gibbet Law stipulated that to condemn a felon to death, the Bailiff of Sowerbyshire must convene a jury of sixteen men to determine the guilt of the defendant. Such tribunals were typically held in Moot Hall near the parish church. If convicted, the prisoner would be held for three days in the stocks before being led to the gibbet. Originally, the device stood closer to the town centre, on Cow Green at the bottom of Gibbet Street, and was only moved further up the hill in 1645.
Moot Hall was a timber-framed building erected around 1274 and later cased in stone. Until its demolition in June 1957, it was with this building that ghosts of the Gibbet’s victims were most associated, rather than the site of the machine itself. Local historian, F.A. Leyland, wrote in 1852: ‘There are people living who remember, in their childhood, old men saying [how] in times past many [convicted criminals] had been conducted from its portals to the scaffold and that in the long winter nights the misty forms of men without heads might been seen gliding through its gloomy precincts.’
A replica erected on Gibbet Street in 1974. (Philip Roper)
A plaque marking the site of Moot Hall.
By the twentieth century, Moot Hall was known by the name ‘Jackson’s Court’ – supposedly after a fearsome judge who’d sent many men to the gibbet during his reign of terror and, rather bizarrely, kept a vicious pet weasel. The ghosts of Jackson and his companion were rumoured to haunt the vicinity of Moot Hall, but as their historical existence is entirely apocryphal, such traditions should be treated with caution.
Another apparition associated with the Gibbet Law was produced by one of the statute’s more idiosyncratic provisions. Any prisoner on the scaffold who could release themselves from their bonds before the axe fell and make it across the boundary of Halifax township was a free man – as long as he never returned. As the northern perimeter of Halifax was marked by the Hebble Brook, only 500 yards or so from the gibbet’s position, the feat was not impossible and history records that at least two men managed it.
The first man to escape from the gibbet was known simply as Dinnis and the chronological details of his escape are vague. Much more is known about the second – a robber called John Lacey, who evaded the blade in 1617. Lacey was foolish enough to return to Halifax several years later and his exploits had not been forgotten in the town. He was quickly recaptured and the gibbet finally claimed his head on 29 January 1623.
Since 1971, the achievement of Lacey and Dinnis has been commemorated by a pub on Pellon Lane known as The Running Man. It is a utilitarian modern structure and the building it replaced was no older than the nineteenth century; nonetheless, the headless ghost of John Lacey is rumoured to have been seen in the establishment. Sadly, details of the sighting are scarce and it may just be a rumour legend inspired by the name of the pub, or even deliberately fabricated by the owners to add further colour.
The sign of The Running Man. (Philip Roper)
The Minster Church of St John the Baptist, Halifax
The parish of Halifax was formerly the largest and richest in England. Although some vestiges of the original twelfth-century church remain within the fabric, the building seen today was mostly constructed between 1437 and 1449; whilst like many medieval churches, Halifax Minster was extensively restored during the Victorian era. The work was undertaken in 1878 on the instructions of Revd Francis Pigou, who described the church as ‘dilapidated, dusty, foul, strewn with human remains, and no better than a charnel house’.
Pigou’s account is scarcely surprising. During the eighteenth and nineteenth century, there seems to have been scant respect for burials in the churchyard; many tombstones were stolen for use in the construction of nearby houses and in the 1770s grave robbing was so rife that even the sexton is rumoured to have been involved. There were also a number of clandestine inhumations in this period, given to those refused official burial in consecrated ground.
One such instance occurred following the death of Nan Beverley in 1796; a hawker and prostitute who expired following a drinking binge at her cellar-dwelling in Woolshops. The vicar, Revd Henry William Coulthurst, and sexton, Joseph Binns, were adamant that a fallen woman could not be buried in the churchyard and left her to be interred beside the highway. However, at 4 a.m. the following morning, residents of nearby houses were disturbed by the sound of her family surreptitiously digging a grave for the unfortunate Nan Beverley at the bottom of the churchyard.
The Halifax coat of arms featuring the head of St John the Baptist.
The Minster of St John the Baptist.
An apotropaic stone head carved on Halifax Minster.
Popular superstition at this time often regarded the spirits of those buried without proper religious ceremony as prime candidates for post-mortem return and as a local writer later noted, ‘For many years the children were afraid to stay out late at night lest they should see Nan Beverley, the subject of an unhallowed and clandestine burial’. However, perhaps Nan Beverley’s ghost was not merely a nineteenth-century bogeyman used to encourage children to return home when darkness fell; perhaps her restless revenant disturbs the peace of the churchyard still …
Author Stephen Wade certainly had an uncanny experience whilst exploring the precincts of the churchyard one wintry Sunday evening in 2006. He wrote, ‘There was that eerie silence we feel when snow somehow insulates much of the normal sounds around … I had stopped for a few seconds in the evening twilight, close to the church walls, and I was aware of shuffling sounds from around the corner. It sounded like an animal – the kind of noise dogs might make if snuffling or digging. I walked slowly around to where the noise was coming from, but there was nothing to see – and yet I could still hear the sounds, as if there was something just a few feet from me.’
The Ring O’ Bells Inn, Upper Kirkgate
The Ring O’ Bells inn stands in the very shadow of Halifax Minster and if its current name was not enough to denote its ecclesiastic connections, it was formerly known as the Sign of the Church. Although the current building dates to 1720, a hostelry has stood on the site since at least the fifteenth century – no doubt providing for the crowds of pilgrims that once swarmed down Cripplegate to sup the curative waters of St John’s Well nearby. The surrounding streets were once the very centre of the medieval town, although by the Industrial Revolution the area was notorious for its slums and rookeries, leading to their demolition in 1890.
Ghostly activity at the pub was brought to public attention in 2007, when licensee Angie Hopkins told the Halifax Evening Courier about their resident fireside spook – familiarly dubbed ‘Walter’. ‘Sometimes people have said they can smell something strong like a pipe being lit and smoked,’ she explained, ‘I had one customer who came to me just as he was leaving. He said “I’ve been watching this old chap all night …” It would be lovely to know if he is an old customer or perhaps even a former landlord.’
Mrs Hopkins went on to describe common poltergeist-type activity, such as finding the bathroom taps had turned themselves on during the night or the beer taps had turned themselves off in the cellar. Her subsequent enquires revealed that a previous landlord and former staff had also encountered ghosts on the premises – including ‘a lady in old-fashioned clothing … [who] leaves a smell of lavender in her wake’. Hopkins was not fazed by the presence of such phantasmal guests, however. ‘I suppose you just get used to it,’ she said, ‘I don’t think they mean us any harm.’
The Ring O’ Bells with Halifax Minster in the background.
David Glover, an officer of the Halifax Antiquarian Society, wondered if the haunting was connected to one of the pub’s most curious features: an old gravestone cemented into a recess in the cellar. Dated July 1667, the slab commemorates the death of 3-year-old Hannah Priestley of Northowram. Glover also suggested that the stone’s position – in the corner closest to the Minster – suggests it may once have sealed a subterranean passage between the two buildings. Rumours of such tunnels have circulated since the eighteenth century, when the pub provided accommodation for the clerks and sextons of the church.
Square Chapel & Congregational Church, Talbot Square
These two Halifax landmarks dominate the north side of the Piece Hall and their history is intimately connected. The red-brick Square Independent Chapel – the oldest of the two buildings – was designed by the 19-year-old architect Thomas Bradley, two years before he worked on the Piece Hall. When it opened on 24 May 1772, it enjoyed...
