Learned writers have differed as to whether
a real transformation takes place, or whether
the whole thing is not an illusion of the
devil. In support of the former opinion,
there is no end of stories to the effect that
certain persons have with their own eyes
beheld the change of a human being into a
wolf. An archduke of Russia seized a
sorcerer named Lycaon (a descendant, we
suppose, of the ancient Arcadian king), and
commanded him to go through his feats of
transmigration. The enchanter crouched
down, muttered some incantations, and
straightway passed into the wolf state,
grinning with his open jaws, glaring with his
eyes, and raging so fearfully that his keepers
found it necessary to hold him. But, the
archduke played the too-confiding Lycaon a
scurvy trick. He set two hounds upon him,
and he was speedily torn to pieces.

Another story sets forth that a woman
who was apprehended on suspicion of being
a wehr-wolf, was asked by the magistrate, in
return for his sparing her life, to show him
how she proceeded in that singular art for
the practising of which she was then before
him. She consented, and, as a necessary
preliminary, sent to her house for a particular
pot of ointment. Having obtained this, she
anointed various parts of her body, and fell
into a profound sleep, which lasted three
hours. When she woke, she stated, in answer
to inquiries, that she had taken the form of a
wolf in the interval, had proceeded to a
neighbouring town, and had mangled a sheep
and a cow. The magistrate sent to the place
to inquire whether any such damage had
been done, and was told that it had been
done. But the relater of this narrative
—one Sennertus—thinks that the devil was
the real author of the killing and slaying, and
that he influenced the woman to dream that
the credit was due to herself. In any case,
let us hope that the magistrate kept his
promise of sparing the culprit's life.

Stories are also told of women transforming
themselves into cats and hares, and of their
being discovered by receiving certain wounds
while in their abnormal condition, which
were found upon them after they had
returned to their proper form. According to
one of these tales, an honest man was cleaving
wood in his courtyard, when he was
suddenly attacked by three very large and
ferocious cats. He defended himself by his
prayers and his axe, and finally drove off the
animals, who were considerably the worse
for the combat. Shortly afterwards, he was
apprehended, and charged before a magistrate
with having wounded three honourable
matrons so grievously that they were confined
to their beds. It then turned out that the
ferocious cats were no cats at all; but, as the
matrons were of high lineage, the affair was
hushed up, and the man was dismissed
under a strict injunction to secrecy, on forfeit
of his life.

A great many anecdotes touching this
subject are contained in the writings of Olaus
Magnus, Archbishop of Upsal and
Metropolitan of Sweden in the sixteenth century,
who relates that, in the northern parts, at
Christmas, there is a great gathering of these
men-wolves, who, during the night, rage with
such fierceness against mankind (for they are
much more savage than natural wolves), that
the inhabitants suffer infinite miseries.  They
attack houses, break open the doors, destroy
the inmates, and, descending into the cellars,
drink amazing quantities of ale and mead,
leaving the empty barrels heaped one upon
another.  Somewhere in those wild northern
regions there was once a wall belonging to a
castle which had been destroyed; and here
the wehr-wolves would assemble at a given
time, and exercise themselves in trying to
leap over the wall.  Those that could not
succeed ("as, commonly," says Olaus, "the
fat ones cannot"), were whipped by their
captains. It was believed that the great
men and chief nobility of the land belonged
to this singular confraternity; so that it
appears to have been a kind of fashionable
recreation with the Swedish bloods, like
having your box at the Opera with us, or
being a man upon town or on the turf. The
manner of effecting the change was by
mumbling certain words, and drinking a cup
of ale to a man-wolf. It was necessary that,
at the moment of transformation either way,
you should retire into some secret cellar or
private wood; but you might change to and
fro as often as you pleased.

The Swedish Archbishop proceeds to give
some instances in point.  Here is one:

A nobleman was travelling with his
retainers; and one night they found themselves
in a thick wood, far from all human habitations.
They were hungry, but they had no
provisions with them, and the case began to
look awkward.  Several of the servants,
however, had the faculty of changing
themselves into wolves; and one of them told the
rest not to be surprised at anything that
might happen while he withdrew for a short
time. He then went into a thick, dark
dart of the forest, and transformed
himself, and came out as a wolf, and slew a
sheep, which he brought to his companions,
who received it gratefully; and then he
returned into the secret, dusky place and
resumed his proper shape.  By this device,
the nobleman and his retinue were saved
from famishing.

The wolf was a great person among the
traditions and mythology of the
Scandinavians.  We find him frequently in the
Edda. There was an enormous and appalling
wolf called Fenris, or Fenrir, who was the
offspring of Loki, the Evil Principle. His
name is supposed to mean "dweller in the
abyss."  The ancient Scandinavians believed
that he will continue to cause great mischief
to humanity until the Last Day, when, after