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 of corporal punishment for them—women as well as men. A curious record of this period, a whipping post, which bears the date of 1666, can still be seen in a prominent place in the grounds of Zampach. Though these, now fortunately obsolete, arguments in favour of religious conformity were very numerous in Bohemia, Zampach is one of two places in the country where the ancient whipping-post has been preserved.

The Romanist reign of terror of course became legendary among the Bohemian peasantry, and many weird tales referring to it no doubt circulated among them. They, however, gradually fell into oblivion when the progress of time firmly established the Roman Church in the land, and all reminiscences both religious and political—of the past of Bohemia were discouraged. Yet the legend of the “Ghost of Zampach” is probably one of many which are still known among the inhabitants of a small area of country, and which refer to the re-establishment of the Roman Church in Bohemia, and to the Jesuits, whose work it principally was. The tale is told in various manners. I here give the version which was told me by one of the gamekeepers, who has the distinction—a very great one in Bohemian villages—of being the “oldest inhabitant” of Zampach.

After the disaster of the White Mountain, it was the policy of the Jesuits to gain over to their creed and their order those members of the nobility who had not fled the country, and many youths belonging to Protestant families were more or less forcibly enlisted as novices to the order. In Zampach also, the legend tells us, a young Protestant noble was obliged to join, as a novice, the new foundation of the Jesuits. The young man had, before the battle of the White Mountain, been betrothed to the daughter of a neighbouring noble, but, of course, from the moment that he had become a novice, he was bound by vow to celibacy. Unfortunately, his love did not die, and he still occasionally, at night, escaped from the monastery where he was imprisoned to meet his former bride. Masters in the art of espionage as the Jesuits have always been, it was not likely that these escapades of the young novice would long escape their vigilance. He was—according to the legend—watched, and forcibly brought back to the monastery. His punishment was terrible, though by no means unprecedented in the days of monasticism. It was decided that he should be immured. A hole was made in the thick walls of the monastery near the present morning-room of the Countess, of which a representation is here given, and he was confined there and left to die of starvation. From that moment the spot became haunted. Every night at midnight, so the peasants state, his ghost leaves the spot where he was immured, and for about an hour paces the vast corridor of the monastery. It is impossible to persuade any of the peasants to approach this passage after sunset. They tell us that years ago a workman who had been employed to do some repairs there, and had continued his work up to the evening, had seen the ghost of the novice. He was so terrified at the apparition that he hurried away and immediately committed suicide by hanging himself. The peasants, however, give no details as to the appearance of the ghost. They only say that he still wears ecclesiastical dress, and that his eyes are large and terrible.