The Resurrection of George Hayward

Before leaving the subject of death in Victorian times entirely behind, the following is an astonishing story that encompasses two of the era’s greatest fears; namely the dread of being buried alive, and the scourge of grave robbers. The following account first appeared in The Encyclopaedia of Death and Life in the Spirit-world, by John Reynolds Francis, published in 1900.

Mr. Hayward is a man of sixty-nine years of age. … “It was in Marshville, England, County Gloucestershire, where I was buried,” said Mr. Hayward very grimly. … “I was quite young, and it was my chief delight to go to the fields with my older brothers. … It was a bright morning when we started for the fields, and I ran ahead of the horses. The horses in England are not driven with reins, but they follow the command of the voice. After reaching the fields the pitching of the straw commenced. The men used hop picks, which are fashioned somewhat after a heavy pitchfork. While standing near one of the hands, by accident I was struck on the head with one of the picks. It penetrated my scull (sic), and at the time, made me feel faint and dizzy. My injury was not considered serious. After returning to the house I was sent into the cellar, and much to my surprise, I could see in the dark as well as in the light. After coming from the cellar, my strength failed me, and I was soon bedfast.

Two doctors were called. One of them insisted that my condition was due to the blow on the head, the other that I had pleurisy. At any rate two weeks elapsed, and my eyes closed in supposed death. It was death as far as my relatives were concerned, yet I was painfully conscious of every movement going on around me. My eyes were half closed, and as I was laid out I heard my elder brother, John, walk into the house. I saw him approach the cot with tears in his eyes, and sympathizing friends consoled him by asking him to dry his tears. “He is gone,” they said, and other similar expressions were used around the bier. … Tears rained on my face as the burial shroud was wrapped around my body. As soon as the undertaker arrived, I knew I was to be buried alive. Try as I would, nothing could break the spell which bound me.

Well, the time for the funeral arrived, and the service was preached over my living but rigid body. The undertaker approached and the lid of my little prison-house was fastened down. Life seemed all but gone when this took place; but as I stated, no effort of mine could break the spell. … I was painfully conscious of the fact that I was soon to be lowered into my grave. Strange as it may seem, at times I did not feel fear at my impending fate. The coffin was taken out of the wagon and lowered into the grave. … The clods of earth fell heavy on the lid of the casket. There I was being entombed alive, unable to speak or stay the hands of my friends. My effort to move proved futile, and the close air of the coffin seemed stifling to me. Suddenly the shovelling ceased, and the silence of the tomb was complete. I did not seem to have the fear then that a person would naturally expect under such circumstances. All I remember is that the grave is a lonely place, and the silence of the tomb was horribly oppressive.

A dreamy sensation came over me, and a sense of suffocation became apparent. My whole system was paralysed; were it otherwise my struggles would have been desperate. How long I remained in this condition I do not know. The first sense of returning to life came over me when I heard the scraping of a spade on my coffin lid. I felt myself raised and borne away. I was taken out of my coffin, not to my home, but to a dissecting room. I beheld the doctors who had waited on me at my home, dressed in long white aprons. In their hands they had knives. Through my half closed eyes I saw them engaged in a dispute. They were trying to decide how to cut me up. One argued one way, while the other doctor took another view of the matter. All this I witnessed through my half open eyes. My sense of hearing was remarkably acute.

 Both approached the table and opened my mouth to take out my tongue, when, by superhuman effort, my eyelids were slightly raised. The next thing I heard was; “Look out you fool, he is alive!” “He is dead,” re-joined the other doctor. “See, he opens his eyes!” continued the first doctor. The other physician let his knife drop, and a short time after that I commenced to recover rapidly. Instead of cutting me up, they took me home. There was great rejoicing among my relatives. … I suppose I was kept alive for some purpose,” continued Mr. Hayward, as he finished his gruesome tale, “for I am the father of ten children.”

Unfortunately, George did not tell us what became of the doctors and their grave robbing sidekicks. George Hayward died for real in 1903, aged in his seventies. He is buried in Woodlawn Cemetery, Independence, Missouri, United States. What a remarkable story.

One note of caution. The place name of Marshville does not exist in Gloucestershire, England. There is however, a Moreton-in-Marsh in Gloucestershire. Given that George was quite old when he recounted the tale, and that he had clearly emigrated to the United States many years before, I am prepared to accept that he made a genuine mistake in his recollection of the place name.

Source:

The Victorian Book of the Dead. Woodyard C. Kestrel Publications