The most monstrous and grotesque
fictions, originating with the blacks, were current in that part of the
State for many years, and probably are to this day; but what has been
here related is all that is certainly known of the matter. The courts
decided that Williamson was dead, and his estate was distributed
according to law. AN UNFINISHED RACE


JAMES BURNE WORSON was a shoemaker who lived in Leamington, Warwickshire,
England. He had a little shop in one of the by-ways leading off the road
to Warwick. In his humble sphere he was esteemed an honest man, although
like many of his class in English towns he was somewhat addicted to
drink. When in liquor he would make foolish wagers. On one of these too
frequent occasions he was boasting of his prowess as a pedestrian and
athlete, and the outcome was a match against nature. For a stake of one
sovereign he undertook to run all the way to Coventry and back, a
distance of something more than forty miles. This was on the 3d day of
September in 1873. He set out at once, the man with whom he had made the
bet—whose name is not remembered—accompanied by Barham Wise, a linen
draper, and Hamerson Burns, a photographer, I think, following in a light
cart or wagon. For several miles Worson went on very well, at an easy gait, without
apparent fatigue, for he had really great powers of endurance and was not
sufficiently intoxicated to enfeeble them. The three men in the wagon
kept a short distance in the rear, giving him occasional friendly “chaff”
or encouragement, as the spirit moved them. Suddenly—in the very middle
of the roadway, not a dozen yards from them, and with their eyes full
upon him—the man seemed to stumble, pitched headlong forward, uttered a
terrible cry and vanished! He did not fall to the earth—he vanished
before touching it. No trace of him was ever discovered. After remaining at and about the spot for some time, with aimless
irresolution, the three men returned to Leamington, told their
astonishing story and were afterward taken into custody. But they were
of good standing, had always been considered truthful, were sober at the
time of the occurrence, and nothing ever transpired to discredit their
sworn account of their extraordinary adventure, concerning the truth of
which, nevertheless, public opinion was divided, throughout the United
Kingdom. If they had something to conceal, their choice of means is
certainly one of the most amazing ever made by sane human beings. CHARLES ASHMORE’S TRAIL


THE family of Christian Ashmore consisted of his wife, his mother, two
grown daughters, and a son of sixteen years. They lived in Troy, New
York, were well-to-do, respectable persons, and had many friends, some of
whom, reading these lines, will doubtless learn for the first time the
extraordinary fate of the young man. From Troy the Ashmores moved in
1871 or 1872 to Richmond, Indiana, and a year or two later to the
vicinity of Quincy, Illinois, where Mr. Ashmore bought a farm and lived
on it. At some little distance from the farmhouse was a spring with a
constant flow of clear, cold water, whence the family derived its supply
for domestic use at all seasons. On the evening of the 9th of November in 1878, at about nine o’clock,
young Charles Ashmore left the family circle about the hearth, took a tin
bucket and started toward the spring. As he did not return, the family
became uneasy, and going to the door by which he had left the house, his
father called without receiving an answer. He then lighted a lantern and
with the eldest daughter, Martha, who insisted on accompanying him, went
in search. A light snow had fallen, obliterating the path, but making
the young man’s trail conspicuous; each footprint was plainly defined. After going a little more than half-way—perhaps seventy-five yards—the
father, who was in advance, halted, and elevating his lantern stood
peering intently into the darkness ahead. “What is the matter, father?” the girl asked. This was the matter: the trail of the young man had abruptly ended, and
all beyond was smooth, unbroken snow. The last footprints were as
conspicuous as any in the line; the very nail-marks were distinctly
visible. Mr. Ashmore looked upward, shading his eyes with his hat held
between them and the lantern. The stars were shining; there was not a
cloud in the sky; he was denied the explanation which had suggested
itself, doubtful as it would have been—a new snowfall with a limit so
plainly defined. Taking a wide circuit round the ultimate tracks, so as
to leave them undisturbed for further examination, the man proceeded to
the spring, the girl following, weak and terrified. Neither had spoken a
word of what both had observed. The spring was covered with ice, hours
old. Returning to the house they noted the appearance of the snow on both
sides of the trail its entire length. No tracks led away from it. The morning light showed nothing more. Smooth, spotless, unbroken, the
shallow snow lay everywhere. Four days later the grief-stricken mother herself went to the spring for
water. She came back and related that in passing the spot where the
footprints had ended she had heard the voice of her son and had been
eagerly calling to him, wandering about the place, as she had fancied the
voice to be now in one direction, now in another, until she was exhausted
with fatigue and emotion. Questioned as to what the voice had said, she was unable to tell, yet
averred that the words were perfectly distinct. In a moment the entire
family was at the place, but nothing was heard, and the voice was
believed to be an hallucination caused by the mother’s great anxiety and
her disordered nerves. But for months afterward, at irregular intervals
of a few days, the voice was heard by the several members of the family,
and by others. All declared it unmistakably the voice of Charles
Ashmore; all agreed that it seemed to come from a great distance,
faintly, yet with entire distinctness of articulation; yet none could
determine its direction, nor repeat its words. The intervals of silence
grew longer and longer, the voice fainter and farther, and by midsummer
it was heard no more. If anybody knows the fate of Charles Ashmore it is probably his mother. She is dead. * * * * *


SCIENCE TO THE FRONT


In connection with this subject of “mysterious disappearance”—of which
every memory is stored with abundant example—it is pertinent to note the
belief of Dr. Hem, of Leipsic; not by way of explanation, unless the
reader may choose to take it so, but because of its intrinsic interest as
a singular speculation.