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Classic Ghost Stories

Episode 8: The Phantom Coach by Amelia Edwards

Classic Ghost Stories

Tony Walker

Fiction, Drama, Science Fiction

4.9686 Ratings

🗓️ 11 October 2019

⏱️ 36 minutes

🧾️ Download transcript

Summary

Amelia Edwards was born in 1831 in London, England. As such she is one of the oldest writers we’ve read so far in this podcast. She died aged only 60 in Weston Supermare, a seaside resort in the west of England.She came from a wealthy background and didn’t have to work, but she was a very successful writer based on her own talents.She was in fact a very talented woman and had the potential to be a professional artist though her father, a banker, frowned on that as a career. She also made home with a woman, long before such things were accepted by polite British society.She was also an Egyptologist and after a cruise down the Nile and a long stay among the monuments, she devoted all of her efforts to saving the Egyptian monuments and took a lecture tour over several years in the United States to promote the cause.The Phantom Coach is a much anthologised story and it has some wonderful description. I think the story falls into three parts: lost on the Moors and despite what most commentators think, I suspect this is Northumberland rather than Yorkshire given what she says about the ‘far’ north of England. Despite that I have given Jacob a fudged Northern English accent which isn’t very Northumberland but draws on my native Cumbrian accent.The first part is well-done: lost. Then our man is found. He goes to a Victor Frankenstein type natural philosopher who has withdrawn from the world and lives with his alchemical and other vaguely occult thoughts, bitter that science has turned its back on spirits. Frankenstein by Mary Shelly was published in 1818, so predating Amelia by a way. Madame Blavatsky who founded the Theosophical Society was born the same year as Amelia so maybe the occult was in the air. The third part, which is a standard haunting story is very well described. The only connection I think it has with the Magus bloke in his remote house is that he has spoken about the reality of spirits: and here they are proved. No real moral point in this week’s story. Unlike the later bleak works of the early 20th Century, there is a happy ending!Support Us!Ways to support Tony to keep doing the show:https://www.podchaser.com/podcasts/classic-ghost-stories-923395 (Share and rate it!) http://bit.ly/2QKgHkY (Buy Tony a coffee) to help with the long nights editing!Become a http://bit.ly/barcudpatreon (Patreon) to get additional stuff and allow the show to go on in the long term. Website http://bit.ly/ClassicGhostStoriesPodcast (Classic Ghost Stories Podcast) MusicMusic is by the marvellous https://theheartwoodinstitute.bandcamp.com/album/witch-phase-four (Heartwood Institute) Support the showVisit us here: www.ghostpod.orgBuy me a coffee if you're glad I do this: https://ko-fi.com/tonywalkerIf you really want to help me, become a Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/barcudMusic by The Heartwood Institute: https://bit.ly/somecomeback Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Transcript

Click on a timestamp to play from that location

0:00.0

The The Phantom Coach by Amelia Edwards.

0:28.6

The circumstances I'm about to relate to you have truth to recommend them.

0:33.8

They happen to myself and my recollection of them is as vivid as if they had taken place

0:38.3

only yesterday.

0:39.3

Twenty years, however, have gone by since that night.

0:43.3

During those twenty years I have told a story to but one other person.

0:48.3

I tell it now, with the reluctance which I find difficult to overcome.

0:53.3

All I entreat, meanwhile, is that you will abstain

0:56.4

from forcing your own conclusions upon me. I want nothing explained away. I desire, no arguments.

1:03.6

My mind on this subject is quite made up, and having the testimony of my own senses to rely on,

1:09.5

I prefer to abide by it. Well, it was just

1:12.4

twenty years ago, and within a day or two over the end of the grouse season. I had been

1:17.4

out all day with my gun, and had had no sport to speak of. The wind was due east, the month,

1:22.9

December, the place a bleak, wide moor in the far north of England, and I had lost my way. It was not a pleasant

1:30.3

place in which to lose one's way with the first feathery flakes of a coming snowstorm just

1:35.3

fluttering down upon the heather and the leaden evening closing in all around. I shaded my eyes with my

1:41.7

hand and stared anxiously into the gathering darkness, where the

1:46.1

purple moorland melted into a range of low hills, some ten or twelve miles distant.

1:52.2

Not the faintest smoke-wreath, not the tiniest cultivated patch or fence or sheep-track met my eyes

1:59.0

in any direction. There was nothing for it but to walk on,

2:03.6

and take my chance at finding what shelter I could, by the way. So I shilled my gun again and

2:08.7

pushed wearily forward, for I had been on foot since an hour after daybreak and had eaten

...

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