Strange Pages from Family Papers
by T. F. Thiselton-Dyer · English · Gutenberg #17050 · 463,945 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Strange Pages from Family Papers
Author: T. F. Thiselton-Dyer
Release date: November 11, 2005 [eBook #17050]
Most recently updated: December 12, 2020
Language: English
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[Illustration: "FOR THE BLAST OF DEATH IS ON THE HEATH, AND THE
GRAVE YAWNS WIDE FOR THE CHILD OF MOY."]
STRANGE PAGES
FROM
FAMILY PAPERS
By T.F. THISELTON DYER
AUTHOR OF
"GREAT MEN AT PLAY," "CHURCH LORE GLEANINGS,"
"THE GHOST WORLD," &C.
LONDON
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON & COMPANY
LIMITED
St. Dunstan's House,
FETTER LANE, FLEET STREET, E.C.
1895
LONDON:
PRINTED BY HORACE COX, WINDSOR HOUSE,
BREAM'S BUILDINGS, E.C.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
Fatal Curses page 1
CHAPTER II.
The Screaming Skull 29
CHAPTER III.
Eccentric Vows 46
CHAPTER IV.
Strange Banquets 69
CHAPTER V.
Mysterious Rooms 88
CHAPTER VI.
Indelible Bloodstains 114
CHAPTER VII.
Curious Secrets 135
CHAPTER VIII.
The Dead Hand 154
CHAPTER IX.
Devil Compacts 162
CHAPTER X.
Family Death Omens 180
CHAPTER XI.
Weird Possessions 198
CHAPTER XII.
Romance of Disguise 208
CHAPTER XIII.
Extraordinary Disappearances 229
CHAPTER XIV.
Honoured Hearts 253
CHAPTER XV.
Romance of Wealth 262
CHAPTER XVI.
Lucky Accidents 279
CHAPTER XVII.
Fatal Passion 289
Index 309
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
1. "For the blast of Death is on the heath,
And the grave yawns wide for the child of Moy."
Frontispiece.
2. She opened it in secret page 38
3. "Madam, you have attained your end. You
and I shall meet no more in this world" 72
4. The figure stood motionless 150
5. Lady Sybil at the Eagle's Crag 168
6. Dorothy Vernon and the Woodman 214
7. Lady Mabel and the Palmer 248
8. There came an old Irish harper, and sang an
ancient song 272
STRANGE PAGES
FROM
FAMILY PAPERS.
CHAPTER I.
FATAL CURSES.
May the grass wither from thy feet! the woods
Deny thee shelter! Earth a home! the dust
A grave! The sun his light! and heaven her God.
BYRON, _Cain_.
Many a strange and curious romance has been handed down in the history
of our great families, relative to the terrible curses uttered in
cases of dire extremity against persons considered guilty of injustice
and wrong doing. It is to such fearful imprecations that the
misfortune and downfall of certain houses have been attributed,
although, it may be, centuries have elapsed before their final
fulfilment. Such curses, too, unlike the fatal "Curse of Kehama," have
rarely turned into blessings, nor have they been thought to be as
harmless as the curse of the Cardinal-Archbishop of Rheims, who
banned the thief--both body and soul, his life and for ever--who stole
his ring. It was an awful curse, but none of the guests seemed the
worse for it, except the poor jackdaw who had hidden the ring in some
sly corner as a practical joke. But, if we are to believe traditionary
and historical lore, only too many of the curses recorded in the
chronicles of family history have been productive of the most
disastrous results, reminding us of that dreadful malediction given by
Byron in his "Curse of Minerva":
"So let him stand, through ages yet unborn,
Fix'd statue on the pedestal of scorn."
A popular form of curse seems to have been the gradual collapse of the
family name from failure of male-issue; and although there is,
perhaps, no more romantic chapter in the vicissitudes of many a great
house than its final extinction from lack of an heir, such a disaster
is all the more to be lamented when resulting from a curse. A
catastrophe of this kind was that connected with the M'Alister family
of Scotch notoriety. The story goes that many generations back, one of
their chiefs, M'Alister Indre--an intrepid warrior who feared neither
God nor man--in a skirmish with a neighbouring clan, captured a
widow's two sons, and in a most heartless manner caused them to be
hanged on a gibbet erected almost before her very door. It was in vain
that, with well nigh heartbroken tears, she denounced his iniquitous
act, for his comrades and himself only laughed and scoffed, and even
threatened to burn her cottage to the ground. But as the crimson and
setting rays of a summer sun fell on the lifeless bodies of her two
sons, her eyes met those of him who had so basely and cruelly wronged
her, and, after once more stigmatizing his barbarity, with deep
measured voice she pronounced these ominous words, embodying a curse
which M'Alister Indre little anticipated would so surely come to pass.
"I suffer now," said the grief-stricken woman, "but you shall suffer
always--you have made me childless, but you and yours shall be
heirless for ever--never shall there be a son to the house of
M'Alister."
These words were treated with contempt by M'Alister Indre, who mocked
and laughed at the malicious prattle of a woman's tongue. But time
proved only too truly how persistently the curse of the bereaved woman
clung to the race of her oppressors, and, as Sir Bernard Burke
remarks, it was in the reign of Queen Anne that the hopes of the house
of M'Alister "flourished for the last time, they were blighted for
ever." The closing scene of this prophetic curse was equally tragic
and romantic; for, whilst espousing the cause of the Pretender, the
young and promising heir of the M'Alisters was taken prisoner, and
with many others put to death. Incensed at the wrongs of his exiled
monarch, and full of fiery impulse, he had secretly left his youthful
wife, and joined the army at Perth that was to restore the Pretender
to his throne. For several months the deserted wife fretted under the
terrible suspense, often silently wondering if, after all, her
husband--the last hope of the House of M'Alister--was to fall under
the ban of the widow's curse. She could not dispel from her mind the
hitherto disastrous results of those ill-fated words, and would only
too willingly have done anything in her power to make atonement for
the wrong that had been committed in the past. It was whilst almost
frenzied with thoughts of this distracting kind, that vague rumours
reached her ears of a great battle which had been fought, and ere long
this was followed by the news that the Pretender's forces had been
successful, and that he was about to be crowned at Scone. The shades
of evening were fast setting in as, overcome with the joyous prospect
of seeing her husband home again, she withdrew to her chamber, and,
flinging herself on her bed in a state of hysteric delight, fell
asleep. But her slumbers were broken, for at every sound she started,
mentally exclaiming "Can that be my husband?"
At last, the happy moment came when her poor overwrought brain made
sure it heard his footsteps. She listened, yes! they were his! Full of
feverish joy she was longing to see that long absent face, when, as
the door opened, to her horror and dismay, there entered a figure in
martial array without a head. It was enough--he was dead. And with an
agonizing scream she fell down in a swoon; and on becoming conscious
only lived to hear the true narrative of the battle of Sheriff-Muir,
which had brought to pass the Widow's Curse that there should be no
heir to the house of M'Alister.
This story reminds us of one told of Sir Richard Herbert, who, with
his brother, the Earl of Pembroke, pursuing a robber band in Anglesea,
had captured seven brothers, the ringleaders of "many mischiefs and
murders." The Earl of Pembroke determined to make an example of these
marauders, and, to root out so wretched a progeny, ordered them all to
be hanged. Upon this, the mother of the felons came to the Earl of
Pembroke, and upon her knees besought him to pardon two, or at least
one, of her sons, a request which was seconded by the Earl's brother,
Sir Richard. But the Earl, finding the condemned men all equally
guilty, declared he could make no distinction, and ordered them to be
hanged together.
Upon this the mother, falling upon her knees, cursed the Earl, and
prayed that God's mischief might fall upon him in the first battle in
which he was engaged. Curious to relate, on the eve of the battle of
Edgcot Field, having marshalled his men in order to fight, the Earl of
Pembroke was surprised to find his brother, Sir Richard Herbert,
standing in the front of his company, and leaning upon his pole-axe
in a most dejected and pensive mood.
"What," cried the Earl, "doth thy great body" (for Sir Richard was
taller than anyone in the army) "apprehend anything, that thou art so
melancholy? or art thou weary with marching, that thou dost lean thus
upon thy pole-axe?"
"I am not weary with marching," replied Sir Richard, "nor do I
apprehend anything for myself; but I cannot but apprehend on your part
lest the curse of the woman fall upon you."
And the curse of the frantic mother of seven convicts seemed, we are
told, to have gained the authority of Heaven, for both the Earl and
his brother Sir Richard, were defeated at the battle of Edgcot, were
both taken prisoners and put to death.
Sir Walter Scott has made a similar legend the subject of one of his
ballads in the "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," entitled "The
Curse of Moy," a tale founded on an ancient Highland tradition that
originated in a feud between the clans of Chattan and Grant. The
Castle of Moy, the early residence of Mackintosh, the chief of the
clan Chattan, is situated among the mountains of Inverness-shire, and
stands on the edge of a small gloomy lake called Loch Moy, in which is
still shown a rocky island as the spot where the dungeon stood in
which prisoners were confined by the former chiefs of Moy. On a
certain evening, in the annals of Moy, the scene is represented as
having been one of extreme merriment, for
In childbed lay the lady fair,
But now is come the appointed hour.
And vassals shout, "An heir, an heir!"
It is no ordinary occasion, for a wretched curse has long hung over
the Castle of Moy, but at last the spell seems broken, and, as the
well-spiced bowl goes round, shout after shout echoes and re-echoes
through the castle, "An heir, an heir!" Many a year had passed without
the prospect of such an event, and it had looked as if the ill-omened
words uttered in the past were to be realised. It was no wonder then
that "in the gloomy towers of Moy" there were feasting and revelry,
for a child is born who is to perpetuate the clan which hitherto had
seemed threatened with extinction. But, even on this festive night
when every heart is tuned for song and mirth, there suddenly appears a
mysterious figure, a pale and shivering form, by "age and frenzy
haggard made," who defiantly exclaims "'Tis vain! 'Tis vain!"
At once all eyes are turned on this strange form, as she, in mocking
gesture, casts a look of withering scorn on the scene around her, and
startles the jovial vassals with the reproachful words "No heir! No
heir!" The laughter is hushed, the pipes no longer sound, for the
witch with uplifted hand beckons that she had a message to tell--a
message from Death--she might truly say, "What means these bowls of
wine--these festive songs?"
For the blast of Death is on the heath,
And the grave yawns wide for the child of Moy.
She then recounts the tale of treachery and cruelty committed by a
chief of the House of Moy in the days of old, for which "his name
shall perish for ever off the earth--a son may be born--but that son
shall verily die." The witch brings tears into many an eye as she
tells how this curse was uttered by one Margaret, a prominent figure
in this sad feud, for it was when deceived in the most base manner,
and when betrayed by a man who had violated his promise he had
solemnly pledged, that she is moved to pronounce the fatal words of
doom:
She pray'd that childless and forlorn,
The chief of Moy might pine away,
That the sleepless night, and the careful morn
Might wither his limbs in slow decay.
But never the son of a chief of Moy
Might live to protect his father's age,
Or close in peace his dying eye,
Or gather his gloomy heritage.
Such was the "Curse of Moy," uttered, it must be remembered, too, by a
fair young girl, against the Chief of Moy for a blood-thirsty
crime--the act of a traitor--in that, not content with slaying her
father, and murdering her lover, he satiates his brutal passion by
letting her eyes rest on their corpses.
"And here," they said, "is thy father dead,
And thy lover's corpse is cold at his side."
Her tale ended, the witch departs, but now ceased the revels of the
shuddering clan, for "despair had seized on every breast," and "in
every vein chill terror ran." On the morrow, all is changed, no joyous
sounds are heard, but silence reigns supreme--the silence of death.
The curse has triumphed, the last hope of the house of Moy is gone,
and--
Scarce shone the morn on the mountain's head
When the lady wept o'er her dying boy.
But tyranny, or oppression, has always been supposed to bring its own
punishment, as in the case of Barcroft Hall, Lancashire, where the
"Idiot's Curse" is commonly said to have caused the downfall of the
family. The tradition current in the neighbourhood states that one of
the heirs to Barcroft was of weak intellect, and that he was fastened
by a younger brother with a chain in one of the cellars, and there in
a most cruel manner gradually starved to death. It appears that this
unnatural conduct on the part of the younger brother was prompted by a
desire to get possession of the property; and it is added that, long
before the heir to Barcroft was released from his sufferings, he
caused a report to be circulated that he was dead, and by this piece
of deception made himself master of the Barcroft estate. It was in one
of his lucid intervals that the poor injured brother pronounced a
curse upon the family of the Barcrofts, to the effect that their name
should perish for ever, and that the property should pass into other
hands. But this malediction was only regarded as the ravings of an
imbecile, unaccountable for his words, and little or no heed was paid
to this death sentence on the Barcroft name. And yet, light as the
family made of it, within a short time there were not wanting
indications that their prosperity was on the wane, a fact which every
year became more and more discernible until the curse was fulfilled in
the person of Thomas Barcroft, who died in 1688 without male issue.
After passing through the hands of the Bradshaws, the Pimlots, and the
Isherwoods, the property was finally sold to Charles Towneley, the
celebrated antiquarian, in the year 1795.[1] Whatever the truth of
this family tradition, Barcroft is still a good specimen of the later
Tudor style, and its ample cellarage gives an idea of the profuse
hospitality of its former owners, some rude scribblings on one of the
walls of which are still pointed out as the work of the captive.
In a still more striking way this spirit of persecution incurred its
own condemnation. In the 17th century, Francis Howgill, a noted
Quaker, travelled about the South of England preaching, which at
Bristol was the cause of serious rioting. On returning to his own
neighbourhood, he was summoned to appear before the justices who were
holding a court in a tavern at Kendal, and, on his refusing to take
the oath of allegiance, he was imprisoned in Appleby Gaol. In due
time, the judges of assizes tendered the same oath, but with the like
result, and evidently wishing to show him some consideration offered
to release him from custody if he would give a bond for his good
behaviour in the interim, which likewise declining to do, he was
recommitted to prison. In the course of his imprisonment, however, a
curious incident happened, which gave rise to the present narrative.
Having been permitted by the magistrates to go home to Grayrigg for a
few days on private affairs, he took the opportunity of calling on a
justice of the name of Duckett, residing at Grayrigg Hall, who was not
only a great persecutor of the Quakers but was one of the magistrates
who had committed him to prison. As might be imagined, Justice Duckett
was not a little surprised at seeing Howgill, and said to him, "What
is your wish now, Francis? I thought you had been in Appleby Gaol."
Howgill, keenly resenting the magistrate's behaviour, promptly
replied, "No, I am not, but I am come with a message from the Lord.
Thou hast persecuted the Lord's people, but His hand is now against
thee, and He will send a blast upon all that thou hast, and thy name
shall rot out of the earth, and this thy dwelling shall become
desolate, and a habitation for owls and jackdaws." When Howgill had
delivered his message, the magistrate seems to have been somewhat
disconcerted, and said, "Francis, are you in earnest?" But Howgill
only added, "Yes, I am in earnest, it is the word of the Lord to thee,
and there are many living now who will see it."
But the most remarkable part of the story remains to be told. By a
strange coincidence the prophetic utterance of Howgill was fulfilled
in a striking manner, for all the children of Justice Duckett died
without leaving any issue, whilst some of them came to actual poverty,
one begging her bread from door to door. Grayrigg Hall passed into the
possession of the Lowther family, was dismantled, and fell into ruins,
little more than its extensive foundations being visible in 1777, and,
after having long been the habitation of "owls and jackdaws," the
ruins were entirely removed and a farmhouse erected upon the site of
the "old hall," in accordance with what was popularly known as "The
Quaker's Curse, and its fulfilment." Cornish biography, however, tells
how a magistrate of that county, Sir John Arundell, a man greatly
esteemed amongst his neighbours for his honourable conduct--fell under
an imprecation which he in no way deserved. In his official capacity,
it seems, he had given offence to a shepherd who had by some means
acquired considerable influence over the peasantry, under the
impression that he possessed some supernatural powers. This man, for
some offence, had been imprisoned by Sir John Arundell, and on his
release would constantly waylay the magistrate, always looking at him
with the same menacing eye, at the same time slowly muttering these
words:
"When upon the yellow sand,
Thou shalt die by human hand."
Notwithstanding Sir John Arundell's education and position, he was not
wholly free from the superstition of the period, and might have
thought, too, that this man intended to murder him. Hence he left his
home at Efford and retired to the wood-clad hills of Trevice, where he
lived for some years without the annoyance of meeting his old enemy.
But in the tenth year of Edward IV., Richard de Vere, Earl of Oxford,
seized St. Michael's Mount; on hearing of which news, Sir John
Arundell, then Sheriff of Cornwall--led an attack on St. Michael's
Mount, in the course of which he received his death wound in a
skirmish on the sands near Marazion. Although he had broken up his
home at Efford "to counteract the will of fate," the shepherd's
prophecy was accomplished; and tradition even says that, in his dying
moments, his old enemy appeared, singing in joyous tones:
"When upon the yellow sand,
Thou shalt die by human hand."
The misappropriation of property, in addition to causing many a family
complication, has occasionally been attended with a far more serious
result. There is a strange curse, for instance, in the family of Mar,
which can boast of great antiquity, there being, perhaps, no title in
Europe so ancient as that of the Earl of Mar. This curse has been
attributed by some to Thomas the Rhymer, by others to the Abbot of
Cambuskenneth, and by others to the Bard of the House at that epoch.
But, whoever its author, the curse was delivered prior to the
elevation of the Earl, in the year 1571, to be the Regent of Scotland,
and runs thus:
"Proud Chief of Mar, thou shalt be raised still higher, until thou
sittest in the place of the King. Thou shalt rule and destroy, and thy
work shall be after thy name, but thy work shall be the emblem of thy
house, and shall teach mankind that he who cruelly and haughtily
raiseth himself upon the ruins of the holy cannot prosper. Thy work
shall be cursed, and shall never be finished. But thou shalt have
riches and greatness, and shall be true to thy sovereign, and shalt
raise his banner in the field of blood. Then, when thou seemest to be
highest, when thy power is mightiest, then shall come thy fall; low
shall be thy head amongst the nobles of the people. Deep shall be thy
moan among the children of dool (sorrow). Thy lands shall be given to
the stranger, and thy titles shall lie among the dead. The branch that
springs from thee shall see his dwelling burnt, in which a King is
nursed--his wife a sacrifice in that same flame; his children
numerous, but of little honour; and three born and grown who shall
never see the light. Yet shall thine ancient tower stand; for the
brave and the true cannot be wholly forsaken. Thou, proud head and
daggered hand, must _dree thy_ weird, until horses shall be stabled in
thy hall, and a weaver shall throw his shuttle in thy chamber of
state. Thine ancient tower--a woman's dower--shall be a ruin and a
beacon, until an ash sapling shall spring from its topmost stone. Then
shall thy sorrows be ended, and the sunshine of royalty shall beam on
thee once more. Thine honours shall be restored; the kiss of peace
shall be given to thy Countess, though she seek it not, and the days
of peace shall return to thee and thine. The line of Mar shall be
broken; but not until its honours are doubled, and its doom is ended."
In support of this strange curse, it may be noted that the Earl of
1571 was raised to be Regent of Scotland, and guardian of James VI. As
Regent, he commanded the destruction of Cambuskenneth Abbey, and took
its stones to build himself a palace at Stirling, which never advanced
farther than the façade, which has been popularly designated "Marr's
Work."
In the year 1715, the Earl of Mar raised the banner of his Sovereign,
the Chevalier James Stuart, son of James the Second, or Seventh. He
was defeated at the battle of Sheriff-Muir, his title being forfeited,
and his lands of Mar confiscated and sold by the Government to the
Earl of Fife. His grandson and representative, John Francis, lived at
Alloa Tower (which had been for some time the abode of James VI. as an
infant) where, a fire breaking out in one of the rooms, Mrs. Erskine
was burnt, and died, leaving, beside others, three children who were
born blind, and who all lived to old age.
But this remarkable curse was to be further fulfilled, for at the
commencement of the present century, upon the alarm of the French
invasion, a troop of the cavalry and yeomen of the district took
possession of the tower, and for a week fifty horses were stabled in
its lordly hall; and in the year 1810, a party of visitors were
surprised to find a weaver plying his loom in the grand old Chamber of
State. Between the years 1815 and 1820, an ash sapling might be seen
in the topmost stone, and many of those who "clasped it in their hands
wondered if it really were the twig of destiny, and if they should
ever live to see the prophecy fulfilled."
In the year 1822, George IV. visited Scotland and searched out the
families who had suffered by supporting the Princes of the Stuart
line. Foremost of them all was the Erskine of Mar, grandson of Mar who
had raised the Chevalier's standard, and to him the King restored his
earldom. John Francis, the grandson of the restored Earl, likewise
came into favour, for when Queen Victoria accidentally met his
Countess in a small room in Stirling Castle, and ascertained who she
was, she detained her, and, after conversing with her, kissed her.
Although the Countess had never been presented at St. James's, yet, in
a marvellous way, "the kiss of peace was given to her, though she
sought it not"; and then, after the curse had worked through 300
years, the "weird dreed out, and the doom of Mar was ended."[2]
Another instance which may be quoted relates to Sherborne Castle.
According to the traditionary accounts handed down, it appears that
Osmund, one of William the Conqueror's knights, who had been rewarded,
among other possessions, with the castle and barony of Sherborne, in
the decline of life determined to resign his temporal honours, and to
devote himself exclusively to religion. In pursuance of this object,
he obtained the Bishopric of Salisbury, to which he gave certain
lands, but annexed to the gift the following conditional curse: "That
whosoever should take those lands from the Bishopric, or diminish them
in great or small, should be accursed, not only in this world, but in
the world to come, unless in his lifetime he made restitution
thereof." In a strange and wonderful manner this curse is said to have
been more than once fulfilled. Upon Osmund's death, the castle and
lands fell into the hands of the next bishop, Roger Niger, who was
dispossessed of them by King Stephen, on whose death they were held by
the Montagues, all of whom, it is affirmed, so long as they kept these
lands, were subjected to grievous disasters, in so much that the male
line became altogether extinct. About two hundred years from this
time, the lands again reverted to the Church, but in the reign of
Edward VI. the Castle of Sherborne was conveyed by the then Bishop of
Sarum to the Duke of Somerset, who lost his head on Tower Hill. Sir
Walter Raleigh, again, obtained the property from the crown, and it
was to expiate this offence, it has been suggested, he ultimately lost
his head. But in allusion to this reputed curse, Sir John Harrington
gravely tells how it happened one day that Sir Walter riding post
between Plymouth and the Court, "the castle being right in the way, he
cast such an eye upon it as Ahab did upon Naboth's vineyard, and
whilst talking of the commodiousness of the place, and of the great
strength of the seat, and how easily it might be got from the
Bishopric, suddenly over and over came his horse, and his very
face--which was then thought a very good one--ploughed up the earth
where he fell." Then again Prince Henry died shortly after he took
possession, and Carr, Earl of Somerset, the next proprietor fell in
disgrace. But the way the latter obtained Sherborne was far from
creditable, for, having discovered a technical flaw in the deed in
which Sir Walter Raleigh had settled the estate on his son, he
solicited it of his royal master, and obtained it. It was in vain that
Lady Raleigh on her knees appealed to James against this injustice,
for he only answered, "I mun have the land, I mun have it for Carr."
But Lady Raleigh was a woman of high spirit, and there on her knees,
before King James, she prayed to God that He would punish those who
had thus wrongfully exposed her, and her children, to ruin. She was,
in fact, re-echoing the curse uttered centuries beforehand. And that
prayer was not long unanswered, for Carr did not enjoy Sherborne for
any length of time. Committed to the Tower for the murder of Sir
Thomas Overbury, he was at last released and restricted to his house
in the country, "where in constant companionship with the wife, for
the guilty love of whom he had become the murderer of his friend, he
passed the remainder of his life, loathing the partner of his crimes,
and by her as cordially detested."
Spelman goes so far as to say that "all those families who took or had
Church property presented to them, came, either in their own persons or
those of their descendants, to sorrow and misfortune." One of the many
strange occurrences relating to Sir Anthony Browne, standard-bearer to
King Henry VIII., was communicated some years ago in connection with
the famous Cowdray Castle, the principal seat of the Montagues. It is
said that at the great festival given in the magnificent hall of the
monks at Battle Abbey, on Sir Anthony Browne taking possession of his
Sovereign's gift of that estate, a venerable monk stalked up the hall
to the daïs, where Sir Anthony Browne sat, and, in prophetic language,
denounced him and his posterity for usurping the possessions of the
Church, predicting their destruction by fire and water--a fate which
was eventually fulfilled.
One of the last viscounts was, in 1793, drowned when trying to pass
the Falls of Schaffhausen on the Rhine, accompanied by Mr. Sedley
Burdett, the elder brother of the distinguished Sir Francis. They had
engaged an open boat to take them through the rapids; but it seems the
authorities tried to prevent so dangerous an enterprise. In order,
however, to carry out their project, they started two hours earlier
than the time previously fixed--four o'clock in the morning--and
successfully passed the first or upper fall. But, unhappily, the same
good fortune failed them in their next descent, for "the boat was
swamped and sunk in passing the lower fall, and was supposed to have
been jammed in a cleft of the submerged rock, as neither boat nor
adventurers ever appeared again. In the same week, the ancient seat of
the family, Cowdray Castle, was destroyed by fire, and its venerable
ruins are the significant monument at once of the fulfilment of the
old monk's prophecy, and of the extinction of the race of the great
and powerful noble."
It is further added that the last inheritor of the title--the
immediate successor and cousin of the ill-fated young nobleman of
Schaffhausen, Anthony Browne, the last Montague, who died at the
opening of this century--left no male issue, and his estates devolved
on his only daughter, who married Mr. Stephen Poyntz, a great
Buckinghamshire landlord. Some years after their marriage Mr. Poyntz
was desirous of obtaining a grant of the dormant title "Viscount
Montague" in favour of the elder of his two sons, issue of this
marriage; but his hopes were suddenly destroyed by the death of the
two boys, who were drowned while bathing at Bognor, the "fatal water"
thus becoming the means, in fulfilment of the monk's terrible
denunciation on the family in his fearful curse.
In a similar manner the great Tichborne trial followed, it is said,
upon the fulfilment, in a manner, of a prophecy, respecting that
ancient family, made more than seven hundred years before. When the
Lady Mabelle Tichborne, wife of the Sir Roger who flourished in the
reign of Henry II., was lying on her death-bed, she besought her
husband to grant her the means of leaving behind her a charitable
bequest in the form of an annual dole of bread. To gratify her whim,
he accordingly promised her the produce of as much land in the
vicinity of the park as she could walk over while a certain brand was
burning; for, as she had been bedridden for many years, he supposed
that she would be able to go round only a small portion of the
property. But when the venerable dame was carried out upon the ground,
she seemed to regain her strength, and, greatly to the surprise of her
husband, crawled round several rich and goodly acres, which, to this
day, retain the name of "The Crawls." On being reconveyed to her
chamber, Lady Mabelle summoned her family to her bedside and predicted
its prosperity so long as the annual dole was observed, but she left
her solemn curse on any of her descendants who should discontinue it,
prophesying that when such should happen, the old house would fall,
and the family name "become extinct from failure" of male issue. And
she further added, that this would be foretold by a generation of
seven sons being followed immediately after by a generation of seven
daughters and no son.
The custom of the annual doles was observed for six hundred years on
every 25th of March, until--owing to the complaints of the magistrates
and local gentry that vagabonds, gipsies, and idlers of every
description swarmed into the neighbourhood, under the pretence of
receiving the dole--it was discontinued in the year 1796. Strangely
enough, Sir Henry Tichborne, the baronet of that day, had issue seven
sons, and his eldest son, who succeeded him, had seven daughters and
no son. The prophecy was apparently completed by the change of name
of the possessors of the estate to Doughty, in the person of Sir
Edward Doughty, who had assumed the name under the will of a relative
from whom he inherited certain property. Finally, it may be added,
"the Claimant" appeared, and instituted one of the most costly
lawsuits ever tried, in which the Tichborne estate was put to an
expense of close upon one hundred thousand pounds!
But, occasionally, the effect of a family curse, through the
misappropriation of property, has been more sweeping and speedy in its
retribution, as in the case of Furvie or Forvie, which now forms part
of the parish of Slains, Scotland--much, if not most of it, being
covered with sand. The popular account of the downfall of this parish
tells how, in times gone by, the proprietor to whom it belonged left
three daughters as heirs of his fair lands; who were, however, most
unjustly bereft of their property, and thrown homeless on the world.
On quitting their home--their legal heritage--they uttered a terrible
curse, which was quickly accomplished, and was considered an
unmistakable sign of Divine displeasure at the wrong they had
received. Before many days had elapsed, a storm of almost unparalleled
violence--lasting nine days--burst over the district, and transformed
the parish of Forvie into a desert of sand;--a calamity which is said
to have befallen the district about the close of the 17th century. In
this way, many local traditions account for the ruined and desolate
condition of certain wild and uninhabited spots. Ettrick Hall, for
instance, near the head of Ettrick Water, had such a history. On and
around its site in former days there was a considerable village, and
"as late as the Revolution, it contained no fewer than fifty-three
fine houses." But about the year 1700, when the numbers in this little
village were still very considerable, James Anderson, a member of the
Tushielaw family, pulled down a number of small cottages, leaving many
of the tenants--some of whom were aged and infirm--homeless. It was in
vain that these poor people appealed to him for a little merciful
consideration, for he refused to lend an ear to their complaints, and
in a short time a splendid house was built on the property, known as
Ettrick Hall. What was considered by the inhabitants far and wide as
an act of cruel injustice incurred its own punishment, for a prophetic
rhyme was about the same period made on it, by whom nobody could tell,
and which, says James Hogg, writing in the year 1826, has been most
wonderfully verified:
Ettrick Hall stands on yon plain,
Right sore exposed to wind and rain;
And on it the sun shines never at morn,
Because it was built in the widow's corn;
And its foundations can never be sure,
Because it was built on the ruin of the poor.
And or an age is come and gane,
Or the trees o'er the chimly-taps grow green,
We kinna wen where the house has been.
The curse that alighted on this fair mansion at length accomplished
its destructive work, because nowadays there is not a vestige of it
remaining, nor has there been for these many years; indeed, so
complete was the collapse of this ill-fated house, that its site could
only be identified by the avenue and lanes of trees; while many clay
cottages, on the other hand, which were built previously, long
remained intact. Equally fatal, also, was the curse uttered against
the old persecuting family of Home of Cowdenknowes--a place in the
immediate neighbourhood of St. Thomas's Castle.
Vengeance, vengeance! When and where?
Upon the house of Cowdenknowes, now and evermair!
This anathema, awful as the cry of blood, is generally said to have
been realised in the extinction of the family and the transference of
their property to other hands. But some doubt, writes Mr. Robert
Chambers,[3] seems to hang on the matter, "as the Earl of Home--a
prosperous gentleman--is the lineal descendant of the Cowdenknowes
branch of the family which acceded to the title in the reign of
Charles I., though, it must be admitted, the estate has long been
alienated."
Love and marriage, again, have been associated with many imprecations,
one of which dates as far back as the time of Edmund, King of the East
Angles, in connection with his defeat and capture at Hoxne, in
Suffolk, on the banks of the Waveney not far from Eye. The story, as
told by Sir Francis Palgrave in his Anglo-Saxon History, is this:
"Being hotly pursued by his foes, the King fled to Hoxne, and
attempted to conceal himself by crouching beneath a bridge, now called
Goldbridge. The glittering of his golden spurs discovered him to a
newly-married couple, who were returning home by moonlight, and they
betrayed him to the Danes. Edmund, as he was dragged from his hiding
place, pronounced a malediction upon all who should afterwards pass
this bridge on their way to be married. So much regard was paid to
this tradition by the good folks of Hoxne that no bride or bridegroom
would venture along the forbidden path."
That inconstancy has not always escaped with impunity may be gathered
from the following painful story, one which, if it had not been fully
attested, would seem to belong to the domain of fiction rather than
truth: On April 28, 1795, a naval court-martial, which had lasted for
sixteen days, and created considerable excitement, was terminated. The
officer tried was Captain Anthony James Pye Molloy, of H.M. Ship
_Cæsar_ and the charge brought against him was that, in the memorable
battle of June 1, 1794, he did not bring his ship into action, and
exert himself to the utmost of his power. The decision of the court
was adverse to the Captain, but, "having found that on many previous
occasions Captain Molloy's courage had been unimpeachable," he was
sentenced to be dismissed his ship, instead of the penalty of death.
It is said that Captain Molloy had behaved dishonourably to a young
lady to whom he was betrothed. The friends of the lady wished to bring
an action for breach of promise against the Captain, but the lady
declined doing so, only remarking that God would punish him. Some time
afterwards the two accidentally met at Bath, when the lady confronted
her inconstant lover by saying: "Capt. Molloy, you are a bad man. I
wish you the greatest curse that can befall a British officer. When
the day of battle comes, may your false heart fail you!"
Her words were fully realised, his subsequent conduct and irremediable
disgrace forming the fulfilment of her wish.[4]
Another curse, which may be said to have a historic interest, has been
popularly designated the "Midwife's Curse." It appears that Colonel
Stephen Payne, who took a foremost part in striving to uphold the
tottering fortunes of the Stuarts, had wooed and won a fair wife amid
the battles of the Rebellion. The Duke of York promised to stand as
godfather to the first child if it should prove a boy; but when a
daughter was born, the Colonel in his mortification, it is said,
"formally devoted, in succession, his hapless wife, his infant
daughter, himself and his belongings, to the infernal deities."
But the story goes that the midwife, Douce Vardon, was commissioned by
the shade of Normandy's first duke to announce to her master that not
only would his daughter die in infancy, but that neither he nor anyone
descended from him would ever again be blessed with a daughter's love.
Not many days afterwards the child died, "whose involuntary coming had
been the cause of the Payne curse." Time passed on, and that "Heaven
is merciful," writes Sir Bernard Burke,[5] Stephen Payne experienced
in his own person, for his wife subsequently presented him with a son,
who was sponsored by the Duke of York by proxy. "But six generations
of the descendants of Colonel Stephen Payne," it is added, "have come
and gone since the utterance of the midwife's curse, but they never
yet have had a daughter born to them." Such is the immutability of the
decrees of Fate.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Harland's "Lancashire Legends" (1882), 4, 5.
[2] See Sir J. Bernard Burke's "Family Romance," 1853.
[3] "Popular Rhymes of Scotland" (1870), 217-18.
[4] See "Book of Days," I., 559.
[5] "The Rise of Great Families," 191-202.
CHAPTER II.
THE SCREAMING SKULL.
"Look on its broken arch, its ruined wall,
Its chambers desolate, its portals foul;
Yes, this was once Ambition's airy hall--
The dome of thought, the palace of the soul."
BYRON.
There are told of certain houses, in different parts of the country,
many weird skull stories, the popular idea being that if any profane
hand should be bold enough to remove, or in any way tamper with, such
gruesome relics of the dead, misfortune will inevitably overtake the
family. Hence, for years past, there have been carefully preserved in
some of our country homes numerous skulls, all kinds of romantic
traditions accounting for their present isolated and unburied
condition.
An old farmstead known as Bettiscombe, near Bridport, Dorsetshire, has
long been famous for its so-called "screaming skull," generally
supposed to be that of a negro servant who declared before his death
that his spirit would not rest until his body was buried in his native
land. But, contrary to his dying wish, he was interred in the
churchyard of Bettiscombe, and hence the trouble which this skull has
ever since occasioned. In the August of 1883, Dr. Richard Garnett, his
daughter, and a friend, while staying in the neighbourhood determined
to pay this eccentric skull a visit, the result of which is thus
amusingly told by Miss Garnett:
"One fine afternoon a party of three adventurous spirits started off,
hoping to discover the skull and investigate its history. This much we
knew, that the skull would only scream when it was buried, and so we
hoped to get leave to inter it in the churchyard. The village of
Bettiscombe was at length reached, and we found our way to the old
farmhouse, which stood at the end of the village by itself. It had
evidently been a manor house, and a very handsome one, too. We were
admitted into a fine paved hall, and attempted to break the ice by
asking for milk. We then endeavoured to draw the good woman of the
house into conversation by admiring the place, and asking in a guarded
manner respecting the famous skull. On this subject she was most
reserved. She had only lately had the farmhouse, and had been obliged
to take possession of the skull also; but she did not wish us to
suppose that she knew much about it; it was a veritable 'skeleton in
the closet' to her. After exercising great diplomacy, we persuaded her
to allow us a sight of it. We tramped up the fine old staircase till
we reached the top of the house, when, opening a cupboard door, she
showed us a steep, winding staircase, leading to the roof, and from
one of the steps the skull sat grinning at us. We took it in our hands
and examined it carefully; it was very old and weather-beaten, and
certainly human. The lower jaw was missing, the forehead very low and
badly proportioned. One of our party, who was a medical student,
examined it long and gravely, and then, after first telling the good
woman that he was a doctor, pronounced it to be, in his opinion, the
skull of a negro. After this oracular utterance, she resolved to make
a clean breast of all she knew, which, however, did not amount to
much. The skull, we were informed, was that of a negro servant, who
had lived in the service of a Roman Catholic priest. Some difference
arose between them; but whether the priest murdered the servant, in
order to conceal some crimes known to the negro, or whether the negro,
in a fit of passion, killed his master, did not clearly appear.
However, the negro had declared before his death that his spirit would
not rest unless his body was taken to his native land and buried
there. This was not done, he being buried in the churchyard of
Bettiscombe. Then the haunting began; fearful screams proceeded from
the grave, the doors and windows of the house rattled and creaked,
strange sounds were heard all over the house; in short, there was no
rest for the inmates until the body was dug up. At different periods
attempts were made to bury the body, but similar disturbances always
recurred. In process of time the skeleton disappeared, 'all save the
skull,' and its reputation as 'the screaming skull' remains
unimpaired."
In a farm-house in Sussex are preserved two skulls from Hastings
Priory, about which many gruesome stories are current in the
neighbourhood. One of these skulls, it appears, has been in the house
many years; the other was placed there by a former tenant of the farm.
It is the prevalent impression in the locality, that, if by any chance
the former skull were to be removed, the cattle in the farm would die,
and unearthly sounds be heard in and about the house at night time.
According to a local tradition, the skull belonged to a man who
murdered the owner of the house, and marks of blood are pointed out on
the floor of the adjoining room, where the murder is said to have been
committed, and which no washing will remove. But, on more than one
occasion, the skull has been taken away without any ill-effects, and,
one year, was placed by a profane hand in a branch of a neighbouring
tree, where it remained a whole summer, during which time a bird's
nest was constructed within it, and a young brood successfully reared.
And yet the old superstition still survives, and the prejudice
against tampering with this peculiar skull has in no way
diminished.[6]
There are the remains of a skull, in three parts, at Tunstead, a
farmhouse about a mile and a half from Chapel-en-le-Frith, which,
although popularly known by the male cognomen "Dickie," has always
been said to be that of a woman. How long it has been located in its
present home is not known, but tradition tells how one of two
co-heiresses residing here was murdered, who solemnly affirmed that
her bones should remain in the place for ever. In days past, this
skull has been guilty of all sorts of eccentric pranks, many of which
are still told by the credulous peasantry with respectful awe. It is
added,[7] also, that if "Dickie" should accidentally be removed,
everything in the farm will go wrong. The cows will be dry and barren,
the sheep have the rot, and horses fall down, breaking their knees and
otherwise injuring themselves. The story goes, too, that when the
London and North-Western Railway to Manchester was being made, the
foundations of a bridge gave way in the yielding sands and bog, and,
after several attempts to build the bridge had failed, it was found
necessary to divert the highway, and pass it under the railway on
higher ground. These engineering failures were attributed to the
malevolent influence of "Dickie," but as soon as the road was
diverted it was bridged successfully, because no longer in Dickie's
territory.
A similar superstition attaches to a skull kept in a farmhouse at
Chilton Cantelo, in Somersetshire. From the date on the tombstone of
the former owner of the skull--1670--it has been conjectured that he
came to the retired village, in which he was buried, after taking an
active part, on the Republican side, in the Civil War; and that seeing
the way in which the bodies of some of them who had acted with him
were treated after the Restoration, he wished to provide against this
in his own case. But, whatever the previous history of this curious
skull, it has at times caused a good deal of trouble, resenting any
proposal to consign it to the earth, for buried it will not be, no
matter how many attempts are made to do so. Strange to say, most of
this class of skulls behave in the same extraordinary fashion. At a
short distance from Turton Tower--one of the most interesting
structures in the neighbourhood of Bolton--is a farmhouse locally
designated Timberbottom, or the Skull House, so called from the
circumstance that two skulls are or were kept there, one of which was
much decayed, whereas the other appeared to have been cut through by a
blow from some sharp instrument. These skulls, it is said, have been
buried many times in the graveyard at Bradshaw Chapel, but they have
always had to be exhumed, and brought back to the farm-house. On one
occasion, they were thrown into the adjacent river, but to no purpose;
for they had to be fished up and restored to their old quarters before
the ghosts of their owners could once more rest in peace.
A popular cause assigned for this strange behaviour on the part of
certain skulls is that their owners met with a violent death, and that
the avenging spirit in this manner annoys the living, reminding us of
Macbeth's words:
"Blood hath been shed ere now, i' the olden time,
Ere human statute purg'd the gentle weal;
Ay, and since too, murders have been performed
Too terrible for the ear; the times have been
That, when the brains were out, the man would die
And there an end; but now they rise again,
With twenty mortal murders on their crowns,
And push us from our stools. This is more strange
Than such a murder is."
Hence, a romantic and tragic story is told of two skulls which have
long haunted an old house near Ambleside. It appears that a small
piece of ground, known as Calgrath, was owned by a humble farmer,
named Kraster Cook, and his wife Dorothy. But their little inheritance
was coveted by a wealthy magistrate, Myles Phillipson, who, unable to
induce them to part with it, swore "he'd have that ground, be they
'live or dead." As time wore on, however, he appeared more gracious to
Kraster and Dorothy, and actually invited them to a great Christmas
banquet given to the neighbours. It was a dear feast for them, for
Myles Phillipson pretended they had stolen a silver cup, and, sure
enough, it was found in Kraster's house--a "plant," of course. Such an
offence was then capital, and, as Phillipson was the magistrate,
Kraster and Dorothy were sentenced to death. Thereupon, Dorothy arose
in the court-room and addressed Phillipson in words that rang through
the building and impressed all for their awful earnestness:
"Guard thyself, Myles Phillipson! Thou thinkest thou hast managed
grandly, but that tiny lump of land is the dearest a Phillipson has
ever bought or stolen, for you will never prosper, neither your breed.
Whatever scheme you undertake will wither in your hand; the side you
take will always lose; the time shall come when no Phillipson shall
own an inch of land; and while Calgarth walls shall stand we'll haunt
it night and day. Never will ye be rid of us!"
Henceforth, the Phillipsons had for their guests two skulls. They were
found at Christmas at the head of a staircase. They were buried in a
distant region, but they turned up in the old house again. Again and
again were the two skulls burned; they were brazed to dust and cast to
the winds, and for several years they were cast in the lake, but the
Phillipsons could never get rid of them. In the meantime, Dorothy's
weird went steadily on to its fulfilment, until the family sank into
poverty, and at length disappeared.[8]
As a more rational explanation of the matter, it is told by some local
historians "that there formerly lived in the house a famous doctress,
who had two skeletons by her for the usual purposes of her profession,
and these skulls, happening to meet with better preservation than the
rest of the bones, they were accidentally honoured" with this singular
tradition.[9]
Wardley Hall, Lancashire, has its skull, which is supposed to be the
witness of some tragedy committed in the past, and to have belonged to
Roger Downes, the last male representative of his family, and who was
one of the most abandoned courtiers of Charles II. Roby, in one of his
"Traditions," entitled "The Skull House," has represented him as
rushing forth "hot from the stews," drawing his sword as he staggered
along, and swearing that he would kill the first man he met. Terrible
to say, that fearful oath was fulfilled, for his victim was a poor
tailor, whom he ran through with his weapon and killed on the spot. He
was apprehended for the crime, but his interest at Court quickly
procured him a free pardon, and he soon continued his reckless course.
But one evening, as his sister and cousin Eleanor were chatting
together at Wardley, the carrier from Manchester brought a wooden
box, "which had come all the way from London by Antony's waggon."
Suspecting that there was something mysterious connected with this
package, for the direction was "a quaint, crabbed hand," she opened it
in secret, when, to her amazement and horror, this writing attracted
her notice:
"Thy brother has at length paid the forfeit of his crimes. The wages
of sin is death! And his head is before thee. Heaven hath avenged the
innocent blood he hath shed. Last night, in the lusty vigour of a
drunken debauch, passing over London Bridge, he encounters another
brawl, wherein, having run at the watchmen with his rapier, one blow
of the bill which they carried severed thy brother's head from his
trunk. The latter was cast over the parapet into the river. The head
only remained, which an eye witness, if not a friend, hath sent to
thee!" His sister tried at first to keep the story of her brother's
death a secret, and hid with all speed this ghastly memorial for ever,
as she hoped, from the gaze and knowledge of the world. It was her
desire to conceal this foul stain upon the family name, but "the grave
gives back its dead. The charnel gapes. The ghastly head hath burst
its cold tabernacle, and risen from the dust." No human power could
drive it away. It hath "been torn in pieces, burnt, and otherwise
destroyed, but even on the subsequent day it is seen filling its
wonted place. Yet it was always observed that sore vengeance
lighted on its persecutors. One who hacked it in pieces was seized
with such horrible torments in his limbs that it seemed as though he
might be undergoing the same process. Sometimes, if only displaced, a
fearful storm would arise, so loud and terrible that the very elements
themselves seemed to become the ministers of its wrath." Nor will this
eccentric piece of mortality allow the little aperture in which it
rests to be walled up, for it remains there still, whitened and
bleached by the weather, "looking forth from those rayless sockets
upon the scenes which, when living, they had once beheld." Towards the
close of the last century, Thomas Barritt, the Manchester antiquary,
visited this skull--"this surprising piece of household furniture," as
he calls it, and adds that "one of us who was last in company with it,
removed it from its place into a dark part of the room, and there left
it, and returned home." But on the following night a violent storm
arose in the neighbourhood, causing an immense deal of damage--trees
being blown down and roofs unthatched--and the cause, as it was
supposed, being ascertained, the skull was replaced, when these
terrific disturbances ceased. And yet, as Thomas Barritt sensibly
remarks, "All this might have happened had the skull never been
removed; but withal it keeps alive the credibility of the tradition."
Formerly two keys were provided for this "place of a skull," one being
kept by the tenant of the Hall, and the other by the Countess of
Ellesmere, the owner of the property. The Countess occasionally
accompanied visitors from the neighbouring Worsley Hall, and herself
unlocked the door, and revealed to her friends the grinning skull of
Wardley Hall.[10]
[Illustration: SHE OPENED IT IN SECRET.]
Another romantic story is associated with Burton Agnes Hall, between
Bridlington and Driffield, Yorkshire, which is haunted by the spirit
of a lady a former co-heiress of the estate--who is popularly known as
"Awd Nance." The skull of this lady is carefully preserved in the
Hall, and so long as it is left undisturbed all goes well, but
whenever any attempt is made to remove it, the most unearthly noises
are heard in the house, and last until it is restored. According to a
local tradition, many years ago the three co-heiresses of the estate
of Burton Agnes were possessed of considerable wealth, and finding the
ancient mansion, in which they resided, not in harmony with their
ideas of what a home should be suited to their position, determined to
erect a house in such a style as should eclipse all others in the
neighbourhood. The most prominent organiser of the scheme was the
younger sister, Anne, who could talk or think of nothing but the
magnificent home about to be built, which in due time, it is said,
"emerged from the hands of artists and workmen, like a palace erected
by the genii of the Arabian Nights, a palace encrusted throughout on
walls, roof, and furniture with the most exquisite carvings and
sculptures of the most skilled masters of the age, and radiant with
the most glowing tints of the pencil of Peter Paul."
But soon after its completion and occupation by its three
co-heiresses, Anne, the enthusiast, paid an afternoon visit to the St.
Quentins, at Harpham. On starting to return home about nightfall with
her dog, she had gone no great distance when she was confronted by two
ruffianly-looking beggars, who asked alms. She readily gave them a few
coins, and in doing so the glitter of her finger-ring accidentally
attracted their notice, which they at once demanded should be given up
to them. This she refused to do, as it had been her mother's ring, and
was one which she valued above all price.
"Mother or no mother," gruffly replied one of the rogues, "we mean to
have it, and if you do not part with it freely, we must take it,"
whereupon he seized her hand and attempted to drag off the ring.
Frightened at this act of violence, Anne screamed for help, at which
the other ruffian, exclaiming, "Stop that noise!" struck her a blow,
and she fell senseless to the earth. But her screams had attracted
attention, and the approach of some villagers caused the villains to
make a hasty retreat, without being able to get the ring from her
finger. In a dying condition, as it was supposed, Anne was carried
back to Harpham Hall, where, under the care of Lady St. Quentin, she
made sufficient recovery to be removed the following day to her own
home. The brutal treatment she had received from the highwaymen,
however, had done its fatal work, and after a few days, during which
she was alternately sensible and delirious, she succumbed to the
effects. Her one thought previous to death was her devotion to her
home, which had latterly been the ruling passion of her life; and
bidding her sisters farewell, she addressed them thus:--
"Sisters, never shall I sleep peacefully in my grave in the churchyard
unless I, or a part of me at least, remain here in our beautiful home
as long as it lasts. Promise me this, dear sisters, that when I am
dead my head shall be taken from my body and preserved within these
walls. Here let it for ever remain, and on no account be removed. And
understand and make it known to those who in future shall become
possessors of the house, that if they disobey this my last injunction,
my spirit shall, if so able and so permitted, make such a disturbance
within its walls as to render it uninhabitable for others so long as
my head is divorced from its home."
Her sisters promised to accede to her dying request, but failed to do
so, and her body was laid entire under the pavement of the church.
Within a few days Burton Agnes Hall was disturbed by the most
alarming noises, and no servant could be induced to remain in the
house. In this dilemma, the two sisters remembered that they had not
carried out Anne's last wish, and, at the suggestion of the clergyman,
the coffin was opened, when a strange sight was seen. The "body lay
without any marks of corruption or decay; but the head was disengaged
from the trunk, and appeared to be rapidly assuming the semblance of a
fleshless skull." This was reported to the two sisters, and on the
vicar's advice the skull of Anne was taken to Burton Agnes Hall,
where, so long as it remained undisturbed, no ghostly noises were
heard. It may be added that numerous attempts have from time to time
been made to rid the hall of this skull, but without success.
Many other similar skulls are still existing in various places, and,
in addition to their antiquarian interest, have attracted the
sightseer, connected as they mostly are with tales of legendary
romance. An amusing anecdote of a skull is told by the late Mr. Wirt
Sikes.[11] It seems that on a certain day some men were drinking at an
inn when one of them, to show his courage and want of superstition,
affirmed that he was "afraid of no ghosts," and dared to go to the
church and fetch a skull. This he did, and after an hour or so of
merrymaking over the skull, he carried it back to where he had found
it; but, as he was leaving the church, "suddenly a tremendous blast
like a whirlwind seized him, and so mauled him that he ever after
maintained that nothing should induce him to do such a thing again."
The man was still more convinced that the ghost of the original owner
of the skull had been after him, when his wife informed him that the
cane which hung in his room had been beating against the wall in a
dreadful manner.
Byron had his skull romance at Newstead, but in this case the skull
was more orderly, and not given to those unpleasant pranks of which
other skulls have seemingly been guilty. Whilst living at Newstead, a
skull was one day found of large dimensions and peculiar whiteness.
Concluding that it belonged to some friar who had been domesticated at
Newstead--prior to the confiscation of the monasteries by Henry
VIII.--Byron determined to convert it into a drinking vessel, and for
this purpose dispatched it to London, where it was elegantly mounted.
On its return to Newstead, he instituted a new order at the Abbey,
constituting himself grand master, or abbot, of the skull. The
members, twelve in number, were provided with black gowns--that of
Byron, as head of the fraternity, being distinguished from the rest. A
chapter was held at certain times, when the skull drinking goblet was
filled with claret, and handed about amongst the gods of this
consistory, whilst many a grim joke was cracked at the expense of
this relic of the dead. The following lines were inscribed upon it by
Byron:
Start not, nor deem my spirit fled;
In me behold the only skull
From which, unlike a living head,
Whatever flows is never dull.
I lived, I loved, I quaff'd, like thee;
I died: let earth my bones resign.
Fill up, thou canst not injure me;
The worm hath fouler lips than mine.
Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone,
In aid of others, let me shine,
And when, alas! our brains are gone,
What nobler substitute than wine.
Quaff while thou canst. Another race,
When thou and thine, like me, are sped,
May rescue thee from earth's embrace,
And rhyme and revel with the dead.
Why not? since through life's little day
Our heads such sad effects produce;
Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay,
This chance is theirs, to be of use.
The skull, it is said, is buried beneath the floor of the chapel at
Newstead Abbey.
FOOTNOTES:
[6] Sussex Archæological Collections xiii. 162-3.
[7] See _Notes and Queries_, 4th S., XI. 64.
[8] Told by Mr. Moncure Conway in _Harper's Magazine_.
[9] "Tales and Legends of the English Lakes," 96-7.
[10] "Harland's Lancashire Legends," 1882, 65-70.
[11] "British Goblins," 1880, p. 146.
CHAPTER III.
ECCENTRIC VOWS.
No man takes or keeps a vow,
But just as he sees others do;
Nor are they 'bliged to be so brittle
As not to yield and bow a little:
For as best tempered blades are found
Before they break, to bend quite round,
So truest oaths are still more tough,
And, tho' they bow, are breaking-proof.
BUTLER'S "Hudibras," Ep. to his Lady, 75.
Some two hundred and fifty years ago, the prevailing colour in all
dresses was that shade of brown known as the "couleur Isabelle," and
this was its origin:--A short time after the siege of Ostend
commenced, at the beginning of the seventeenth century, Isabella
Eugenia, Gouvernante of the Netherlands, incensed at the obstinate
bravery of the defenders, is reported to have made a vow that she
would not change her chemise till the town surrendered. It was a
marvellously inconvenient vow, for the siege, according to the precise
historians thereof, lasted three years, three months, three weeks,
three days, and three hours; and her highness's garment had
wonderfully changed its colour before twelve months of the time had
expired. But the ladies and gentlemen of the Court, in no way
dismayed, resolved to keep their mistress in countenance, and, after a
struggle between their loyalty and their cleanliness, they hit upon
the compromising expedient of wearing dresses of the presumed colour,
finally attained by the garment which clung to the Imperial
Archduchess by force of religious obstinacy. But, foolish and
eccentric as was the conduct of Isabella Eugenia, there have been
persons gifted, like herself, with sufficient mental power and
strength of character to keep the vows they have sworn.
Thus, at a tournament held on the 17th November, 1559--the first
anniversary of Queen Elizabeth's accession--Sir Henry Lee, of
Quarendon, made a vow that every year on the return of that auspicious
day, he would present himself in the tilt yard, in honour of the
Queen, to maintain her beauty, worth, and dignity, against all comers,
unless prevented by infirmity, accident, or age. Elizabeth accepted
Sir Henry as her knight and champion; and the nobility and gentry of
the Court formed themselves into an Honourable Society of Knights
Tilters, which held a grand tourney every 17th November. But in the
year 1590, Sir Henry, on account of age, resigned his office, having
previously, by Her Majesty's permission, appointed the famous Earl of
Cumberland as his successor. On this occasion, the royal choir sang
the following verses as Sir Henry Lee's farewell to the Court:
My golden locks time hath to silver turned,
O Time, too swift, and swiftness never ceasing!
My youth 'gainst age, and age at youth both spurned,
But spurned in vain--youth waned by increasing;
Beauty, and strength, and youth, flowers fading been;
Duty, faith, love, are roots and evergreen.
My helmet now shall make a hive for bees,
And lover's songs shall turn to holy psalms;
A man-at arms must now sit on his knees,
And feed on prayers that are old age's alms.
And so from Court to cottage I depart,
My Saint is sure of mine unspotted heart.
And when I sadly sit in homely cell,
I'll teach my saints this carol for a song:
Blest be the hearts that wish my sovereign well!
Cursed be the souls that think to do her wrong!
Goddess! vouchsafe this aged man his right
To be your beadsman now, that was your knight.
But not long after Sir Henry Lee had resigned his office of especial
champion of the beauty of the sovereign, he fell in love with the new
maid of honour--the fair Mrs. Anne Vavasour--who, though in the
morning flower of her charms, and esteemed the loveliest girl in the
whole court, drove a whole bevy of youthful lovers to despair by
accepting this ancient relic of the age of chivalry.[12]
Queen Isabella vowed to make a pilgrimage to Barcelona, and return
thanks at the tomb of that City's patron Saint, if the Infanta Eulalie
recovered from an apparently mortal illness, and Queen Joan of Naples
honoured the knight Galeazzo of Mantua by opening the ball with him at
a grand feast at her castle of Gaita. At the conclusion of the dance,
Galeazzo, kneeling down before his royal partner, vowed, as an
acknowledgment of the honour he had received, to visit every country
where feats of arms were performed, and not to rest until he had
subdued two valiant knights, and presented them as prisoners to the
queen, to be disposed of at her royal pleasure. After an absence of
twelve months, Galeazzo, true to his vow, appeared at Naples, and laid
his two prisoners at the feet of Queen Joan, but who, it is said,
displayed commendable wisdom on the occasion, and "declined her right
to impose rigorous conditions on her captives, and gave them liberty
without ransom."
Such cases, it is true, have been somewhat rare, for made oftentimes
on the impulse of the moment, "unheedful vows," as Shakespeare says,
"may heedfully be broken." But, scarce as the records of unbroken vows
may be, they are deserving of a permanent record, more especially as
the direction of their eccentricity is, for the most part, in itself
curious and uncommon. Love, for instance, has been responsible for
many strange and curious vows in the past, and some years ago it was
stated that the original of Charles Dickens's Miss Havisham was living
in the flesh not far from Ventnor in the person of an old maiden lady,
who, because of the maternal objection to some love affair in her
early life, made and kept a vow that she would retire to her bed, and
there spend the remainder of her days. It was a stern vow but she kept
her word, "and the years have come and gone, and the house has never
been swept or garnished, the garden is an overgrown tangle, and the
eccentric lady has spent twenty years between the sheets." But whether
this piece of romance is to be accepted or not, love has been the
cause of many foolish acts, and many a disappointed damsel, has acted
in no less eccentric a fashion than Miss Havisham, who was so
completely overcome by the failure of Compeyson to appear on the
wedding morning that she became fossilised, and gave orders that
everything was to be kept unchanged, but to remain as it had been on
that hapless day. Henceforth she was always attired in her bridal
dress with lace veil from head to foot, white shoes, bridal flowers in
her white hair, and jewels on her hands and neck. Years went on, the
wedding breakfast remained set on the table, while the poor half
demented lady flitted from one room to another like a restless ghost;
and the case is recorded of another lady whose lover was arrested for
forgery on the day before their marriage was to have taken place. Her
vow took the form of keeping to her room, sitting winter and summer
alike at her casement and waiting for him who was turning the
treadmill, and who was never to come again.
On the other hand, vows have been made, but persons have contrived to
rid themselves of the inconveniences without breaking them, reminding
us of Benedick, who finding the charms of his "Dear Lady Disdain" too
much for his celibate resolves, gets out of his difficulty by
declaring that "When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think I
should live till I were married." Equally ludicrous, also, is the
story told of a certain man, who, greatly terrified in a storm, vowed
he would eat no haberdine, but, just as the danger was over, he
qualified his promise with "Not without mustard, O Lord." And
Voltaire, in one of his romances, represents a disconsolate widow
vowing that she will never marry again, "so long as the river flows by
the side of the hill." But a few months afterwards the widow recovers
from her grief, and, contemplating matrimony, takes counsel with a
clever engineer. He sets to work, the river is deviated from its
course, and, in a short time, it no longer flows by the side of the
hill. The lady, released from her vow, does not allow many days to
elapse before she exchanges her weeds for a bridal veil. However far
fetched this little romance may be, a veritable instance of thus
keeping the letter of the vow and neglecting the spirit, was recorded
not so very long ago: A Salopian parish clerk seeing a woman crossing
the churchyard with a bundle and a watering can, followed her, curious
to know what intentions might be, and discovered that she was a widow
of a few months' standing. Inquiring what she was going to do with the
watering pot, she informed him that she had been obtaining some grass
seed to sow on her husband's grave, and had brought a little water to
make it spring up quickly. The clerk told her there was no occasion to
trouble, the grave would be green in good time. "Ah! that may be," she
replied, "but my poor husband made me take a vow not to marry again
until the grass had grown over his grave, and, having a good offer, I
do not wish to break my vow, or keep as I am longer than I can help."
But vows have not always been broken with impunity. Janet Dalrymple,
daughter of the first Lord Stair, secretly engaged herself to Lord
Rutherford, who was not acceptable to her parents, either on account
of his political principles, or his want of fortune. The young couple
broke a piece of gold together, and pledged their troth in the most
solemn manner, the young lady, it is said, imprecating dreadful evils
on herself should she break her plighted faith. But shortly afterwards
another suitor sought the hand of Janet Dalrymple, and, when she
showed a cold indifference to his overtures, her mother, Lady Stair,
insisted upon her consenting to marry the new suitor, David Dunbar,
son and heir of David Dunbar of Baldoon, in Wigtonshire. It was in
vain that Janet Dalrymple confessed her secret engagement, for Lady
Stair treated this objection as a mere trifle.
Lord Rutherford, apprised of what had happened, interfered by letter,
and insisted on the right he had acquired by his troth plighted with
Janet Dalrymple. But Lady Stair answered in reply that "her daughter,
sensible of her undutiful behaviour in entering into a contract
unsanctioned by her parents, had retracted her unlawful vow, and now
refused to fulfil her engagement with him." Lord Rutherford wrote
again to Lady Stair, and briefly informed her that "he declined
positively to receive such an answer from anyone but Janet Dalrymple,"
and, accordingly, an interview was arranged between them, at which
Lady Stair took good care to be present, with pertinacity insisting on
the Levitical law, which declares that a woman shall be free of a vow
which her parents dissent from.
While Lady Stair insisted on her right to break the engagement, Lord
Rutherford in vain entreated Janet Dalrymple to declare her feelings;
but she remained "mute, pale, and motionless as a statue," and it was
only at her mother's command, sternly uttered, she summoned strength
enough to restore the broken piece of gold--the emblem of her troth.
At this unexpected act Lord Rutherford burst into a tremendous
passion, took leave of Lady Stair with maledictions, and, as he left
the room, gave one angry glance at Janet Dalrymple, remarking, "For
you, madam, you will be a world's wonder"--a phrase denoting some
remarkable degree of calamity.
In due time, the marriage between Janet Dalrymple and David Dunbar of
Baldoon, took place, the bride showing no repugnance, but being
absolutely impassive in everything Lady Stair commanded or advised,
always maintaining the same sad, silent, and resigned look.
The bridal feast was followed by dancing, and the bride and bridegroom
retired as usual, when suddenly the most wild and piercing cries were
heard from the nuptial chamber, which at length became so hideous that
a general rush was made to learn the cause. On opening the door a
ghastly scene presented itself, for the bridegroom was discovered
lying on the floor, dreadfully wounded, and streaming with blood. The
bride was seen sitting in the corner of the large chimney, dabbled in
gore--grinning--in short, absolutely insane, and the only words she
uttered were; "Take up your bonny bridegroom." She survived this
tragic event little over a fortnight, having been married on the 24th
August, and dying on the 12th September.
The unfortunate bridegroom recovered from his wounds, but, strange to
say, he never permitted anyone to ask him respecting the manner in
which he had received them; but he did not long survive this dreadful
catastrophe, meeting with a fatal injury by a fall from a horse as he
was one day riding between Leith and Holyrood House. As might be
expected, various reports went abroad respecting this mysterious
affair, most of them being inaccurate.[13] But the story has gained a
lasting notoriety from Sir Walter Scott having founded his "Bride of
Lammermoor" upon it; who, in his introductory notes to that novel, has
given some curious facts concerning this tragic occurrence, quoting an
elegy of Andrew Symson, which takes the form of a dialogue between a
passenger and a domestic servant. The first recollecting that he had
passed Lord Stair's house lately, and seen all around enlivened by
mirth and festivity, is desirous of knowing what has changed so gay a
scene into mourning, whereupon the servant replies:--
"Sir, 'tis truth you've told,
We did enjoy great mirth; but now, ah me!
Our joyful song's turned to an elegie.
A virtuous lady, not long since a bride,
Was to a hopeful plant by marriage tied,
And brought home hither. We did all rejoice
Even for her sake. But presently her voice
Was turned to mourning for that little time
That she'd enjoy: she waned in her prime,
For Atropos, with her impartial knife,
Soon cut her thread, and therewithal her life;
And for the time, we may it well remember
It being in unfortunate September;
Where we must leave her till the resurrection,
'Tis then the Saints enjoy their full perfection."
Many a vow too rashly made has been followed by an equally tragic
result, instances of which are to be met with in the legendary lore of
our county families. A somewhat curious legend is connected with a
monument in the church of Stoke d'Abernon, Surrey. The story goes that
two young brothers of the family of Vincent, the elder of whom had
just come into his estate, were out shooting on Fairmile Common, about
two miles from the village. They had put up several birds, but had not
been able to get a single shot, when the elder swore with an oath that
he would fire at whatever they next met with. They had not gone far
before a neighbouring miller passed them, whereupon the younger
brother reminded the elder of his oath, who immediately fired at the
miller, and killed him on the spot. Through the influence of his
family, backed by large sums of money, no effective steps were taken
to apprehend young Vincent, but, after leading a life of complete
seclusion for some years, death finally put an end to the
insupportable anguish of his mind.
A pretty romance is told of Furness Abbey, locally known as "The Abbey
Vows." Many years ago, Matilda, the pretty and much-admired daughter
of a squire residing near Stainton, had been wooed and won by James, a
neighbouring farmer's son. But as Matilda was the only child, her
father fondly imagined that her rare beauty and fortune combined would
procure her a good match, little thinking that her heart was already
given to one whose position he would never recognise. It so happened,
however, that the young people, through force of circumstances, were
separated, neither seeing nor hearing of each other for some years.
At last, by chance, they were thrown together, when the active service
in which James was employed had given his fine manly form an
appearance which was at once imposing and captivating. Matilda, too,
was improved in every eye, and never had James seen so lovely a maid
as his former playmate. Their youthful hearts were disengaged, and
they soon resolved to render their attachment as binding and as
permanent as it was pure and undivided. The period had arrived, also,
when James must again go to sea, and leave Matilda to have her
fidelity tried by other suitors. Both, therefore, were willing to bind
themselves by some solemn pledge to live but for each other. For this
purpose they repaired, on the evening before James's departure, to the
ruins of Furness Abbey. It was a fine autumnal evening; the sun had
set in the greatest beauty, and the moon was hastening up the eastern
sky; and in the roofless choir they knelt, near where the altar
formerly stood, and repeated, in the presence of Heaven, their vows of
deathless love.
They parted. But the fate of the betrothed lovers was a melancholy
one. James returned to his ship for foreign service, and was killed by
the first broadside of a French privateer, with which the captain had
injudiciously ventured to engage. As for Matilda, she regularly went
to the abbey to visit the spot where she had knelt with her lover; and
there, it is said, "she would stand for hours, with clasped hands,
gazing on that heaven which alone had been witness to their mutual
vows."
Another momentous vow, but one of a terribly tragic nature, relates to
Samlesbury Hall, which stands about midway between Preston and
Blackburn, and has long been famous for its apparition of "The Lady in
White." The story generally told is that one of the daughters of Sir
John Southworth, a former owner, formed an attachment with the heir of
a neighbouring house, and nothing was wanting to complete their
happiness except the consent of the lady's father. Sir John was
accordingly consulted by the youthful couple, but the tale of their
love for each other only increased his rage, and he dismissed them
with the most bitter denunciations.
"No daughter of his should ever be united to the son of a family which
had deserted its ancestral faith," he solemnly vowed, and to
intensify his disapproval of the whole affair, he forbade the young
man his presence for ever. Difficulty, however, only served to
increase the ardour of the lovers, and, after many secret interviews
among the wooded slopes of the Ribble, an elopement was arranged, in
the hope that time would eventually bring her father's forgiveness.
But the day and place were unfortunately overheard by the lady's
brother, who had hidden himself in a thicket close by, determined, if
possible, to prevent what he considered to be his sister's disgrace.
On the evening agreed upon both parties met at the appointed hour,
and, as the young knight moved away with his betrothed, her brother
rushed from his hiding-place, and, in pursuance of a vow he had made,
slew him. After this tragic occurrence, Lady Dorothy was sent abroad
to a convent, where she was kept under strict surveillance; but her
mind at last gave way--the name of her murdered sweetheart was ever on
her lips--and she died a raving maniac. It is said that on certain
clear, still evenings, a lady in white can be seen passing along the
gallery and the corridors, and then from the hall into the grounds,
where she meets a handsome knight, who receives her on his bended
knees, and he then accompanies her along the walks. On arriving at a
certain spot, in all probability the lover's grave, both the phantoms
stand still, and as they seem to utter soft wailings of despair, they
embrace each other, and then their forms rise slowly from the earth
and melt away into the clear blue of the surrounding sky.[14]
A strange and romantic story is told of Blenkinsopp Castle, which,
too, has long been haunted by a "white lady." It seems that its owner,
Bryan de Blenkinsopp, despite many good qualities, had an inordinate
love of wealth which ultimately wrecked his fortune. At the marriage
feast of a brother warrior with a lady of high rank and fortune, the
health was drunk of Bryan de Blenkinsopp and his "lady love." But to
the surprise of all present Bryan made a vow that "never shall that be
until I meet with a lady possessed of a chest of gold heavier than ten
of my strongest men can carry into my Castle." Soon afterwards he went
abroad, and after an absence of twelve years returned, not only with a
wife, but possessed of a box of gold that took three of the strongest
men to convey it to the Castle. A grand banquet was given in honour of
his return, and, after several days feasting and rejoicing, vague
rumours were spread of dissensions between the lord and his lady. One
day the young husband disappeared, and never returned to Blenkinsopp,
nothing more being heard of him. But the traditionary account of this
mystery asserts that his young wife, filled with remorse at her
undutiful conduct towards him, cannot rest in her grave, but must
wander about the old castle, and mourn over the chest of gold--the
cursed cause of all their misery--of which it is supposed she, with
the assistance of others, had deprived her husband. It is generally
admitted that the cause of Bryan de Blenkinsopp's future unhappiness
was the rash vow he uttered at that fatal banquet.
Associated with this curious romance there are current in the
neighbourhood many tales of a more or less legendary character, but
there has long been a firm belief that treasure lies buried beneath
the crumbling ruins. According to one story given in Richardson's
"Table Book of Traditions" some years ago, two of the more habitable
apartments of Blenkinsopp Castle were utilized by a labourer of the
estate and his family. But one night, the parents were aroused by
screams from the adjoining room, and rushing in they found their
little son sitting up in bed, terribly frightened. "What was the
matter?"
"The White Lady! The White Lady!" cried the boy.
"What lady," asked the bewildered parents; "there is no lady here!"
"She is gone," replied the boy, "and she looked so angry because I
would not go with her. She was a fine lady--and she sat down on my
bedside and wrung her hands and cried sore; then she kissed me and
asked me to go with her, and she would make me a rich man, as she had
buried a large box of gold, many hundred years since, down in a
vault, and she would give it me, as she could not rest so long as it
was there. When I told her I durst not go, she said she would carry
me, and was lifting me up when I cried out and frightened her away."
When the boy grew up he invariably persisted in the truth of his
statement, and at forty years of age could recall the scene so vividly
as "to make him shudder, as if still he felt her cold lips press his
cheeks and the death-like embrace of her wan arms."
Equally curious is the old tradition told of Lynton Castle, of which
not a stone remains, although, once upon a time, it was as stately a
stronghold as ever echoed to the clash of knightly arms. One evening
there came to its gates a monk, who in the name of the Holy Virgin
asked alms, but the lady of the Castle liked not his gloomy brow, and
bade him begone. Resenting such treatment, the monk drew up his
well-knit frame, and vowed:--"All that is thine shall be mine, until
in the porch of the holy church, a lady and a child shall stand and
beckon."
Little heed was taken of these ominous words, and as years passed by a
baron succeeded to the Lynton estates, whose greed was such that he
dared to lay his sacrilegious hand even upon holy treasures. But as he
sate among his gold, the black monk entered, and summoned him to his
fearful audit; and his servants, aroused by his screams, found only a
lifeless corpse. This was considered retribution for his sins of the
past, and his son, taking warning, girded on his sword, and in
Palestine did doughty deeds against the Saracen. By his side was
constantly seen the mysterious Black Monk--his friend and guide--but
"at length the wine-cup and the smiles of lewd women lured him from
the path of right." After a time the knight returned to Devonshire,
"and lo, on the happy Sabbath morning, the chimes of the church-bells
flung out their silver music on the air, and the memories of an
innocent childhood woke up instantly in his sorrowing heart." In vain
the Black Monk sought to beguile him from the holy fane, and whispered
to him of bright eyes and a distant bower. He paused only for a
moment. In the shadow of the porch stood the luminous forms of his
mother and sister, who lifted up their spirit hands, and beckoned. The
knight tore himself from the Black Monk's grasp and rushed towards
them, exclaiming, "I come! I come! Mother, sister, I am saved! O,
Heaven, have pity on me!" The story adds that the three were borne up
in a radiant cloud, but "the Black Monk leapt headlong into the depths
of the abyss beneath, and the castle fell to pieces with a sudden
crash, and where its towers had soared statelily into the sunlit air
was now outspread the very desolation--the valley of the rocks--" and
thus the vow was accomplished, all that remains nowadays to remind the
visitor of that stately castle and its surroundings being a lonely
glen in the valley of rocks where a party of marauders, it is said,
were once overtaken and slaughtered.
In some cases churches have been built in performance of vows, and at
the Tichborne Trial one of the witnesses deposed how Sir Edward
Doughty made a vow, when his son was ill, that if the child recovered
he would build a church at Poole. Contrary to all expectation, the
child "did recover most miraculously, for it had been ill beyond all
hope, and Sir Edward built a church at Poole, and there it stands
until this day." There are numerous stories of the same kind, and the
peculiar position of the old church of St. Antony, in Kirrier,
Cornwall, is accounted for by the following tradition: It is said
that, soon after the Conquest, as some Normans of rank were crossing
from Normandy into England, they were driven by a terrific storm on
the Cornish coast, where they were in imminent danger of destruction.
In their peril and distress they called on St. Antony, and made a vow
that if he would preserve them from shipwreck they would build a
church in his honour on the spot where they first landed. The vessel
was wafted into the Durra Creek, and there the pious Normans, as soon
as possible, fulfilled their vow. A similar tradition is told of
Gunwalloe Parish Church, which, a local legend says, was erected as a
votive offering by one who here escaped from shipwreck, for, "when he
had miraculously escaped from the fury of the waves, he vowed that he
would build a chapel in which the sounds of prayer and praise to God
should blend with the never-ceasing voice of those waves from which he
had but narrowly escaped. So near to the sea is the church, that at
times it is reached by the waves, which have frequently washed away
the walls of the churchyard." But vows of a similar nature have been
connected with sacred buildings in most countries, and Vienna owes the
church of St. Charles to a vow made by the Emperor Charles the Sixth
during an epidemic. The silver ship, given by the Queen of St. Louis,
was made in accordance with a vow. According to Joinville, the queen
"said she wanted the king, to beg he would make some vows to God and
the Saints, for the sailors around her were in the greatest danger of
being drowned."
"'Madam,' I replied, 'vow to make a pilgrimage to my lord St. Nicholas
at Varengeville, and I promise you that God will restore you in safety
to France. At least, then, Madam, promise him that if God shall
restore you in safety to France, you will give him a silver ship of
the value of five masses; and if you shall do this, I assure you that,
at the entreaty of St. Nicholas, God will grant you a successful
voyage.' Upon this, she made a vow of a silver ship to St. Nicholas."
Similarly, there was a statue at Venice said to have performed great
miracles. A merchant vowed perpetual gifts of wax candles in gratitude
for being saved by the light of a candle on a dark night, reminding
us of Byron's description of a storm at sea, in 'Don Juan' (Canto
II.):
"Some went to prayers again and made vows
Of candles to their saints."
Numerous vows of this kind are recorded, and it may be remembered how
a certain Empress promised a golden lamp to the church of Notre Dame
des Victoires, in the event of her husband coming safely out of the
doctor's hands; and, as recently as the year 1867, attired in the garb
of a pilgrim of the olden time, walked, in fulfilment of a vow, from
Madrid to Rome when she fancied herself at death's door.
Many card-players and gamesters, unable to bear reverse, have made
vows which they lacked the moral courage to keep. Dr. Norman Macleod
tells a curious anecdote of a well-known character who lived in the
parish of Sedgley, near Wolverhampton, and who, having lost a
considerable sum of money by a match at cock-fighting--to which
practice he was notoriously addicted--made a vow that he would never
fight another cock as long as he lived, "frequently calling upon God
to damn his soul to all eternity if he did, and, with dreadful
imprecations, wishing the devil might fetch him if he ever made
another bet."
For a time he adhered to his vow, but two years afterwards he was
inspired with a violent desire to attend a cock-fight at
Wolverhampton, and accordingly visited the place for that purpose. On
reaching the scene he soon disregarded his vow, and cried: "I hold
four to three on such a cock!"
"Four what?" said one of his companions.
"Four shillings," replied he.
"I'll lay," said the other, upon which they confirmed the wager, and,
as his custom was, he threw down his hat and put his hand in his
pocket for the money, when he instantly fell down dead. Terrified at
the sight, "some who were present for ever after desisted from this
infamous sport; but others proceeded in the barbarous diversion as
soon as the dead body was removed from the spot."
Another inveterate gambler was Colonel Edgeworth, who on one occasion,
having lost all his ready cash at the card tables, actually borrowed
his wife's diamond earrings, and staking them had a fortunate turn of
luck, rising a winner; whereupon he solemnly vowed never to touch
cards or dice again. And yet, it is said, before the week was out, he
was pulling straws from a rick, and betting upon which should prove
the longest. On the other hand, Tate Wilkinson relates an interesting
anecdote of John Wesley who in early life was very fond of a game of
whist, and every Saturday was one of a constant party at a rubber, not
only for the afternoon, but also for the evening. But the last
Saturday that he ever played at cards the rubber at whist was longer
than he expected, and, "on observing the tediousness of the game he
pulled out his watch, and to his shame he found it was some minutes
past eight, which was beyond the time he had appointed for the Lord.
He thought the devil had certainly tempted him beyond his hour, he
suddenly therefore gave up his cards to a gentleman near him to finish
the game," and left the room, making a vow never to play with "the
devil's pages," as he called them, again. That vow he never broke.
Political vows, as is well known, have a curious history, and an
interesting incident is told in connection with one of the ancestors
of Sir Walter Scott. It appears that Walter Scott, the first of
Raeburn, by Ann Isabel, his wife, daughter of William Macdougall, had
two sons, William, direct ancestor of the Lairds of Raeburn, and
Walter, progenitor of the Scotts of Abbotsford. The younger, who was
generally known by the curious appellation of "Bearded Watt," from a
vow which he had made to leave his beard unshaven until the
restoration of the Stuarts, reminds us of those Servian patriots who
during the bombardment of Belgrade thirty years ago, made a vow that
they would never allow a razor to touch their faces until the thing
could be done in the fortress itself. Five years afterwards, in 1867,
the Servians marched through the streets of Belgrade, with enormous
beards, preceded by the barbers, each with razor in hand, and entered
the fortresses to have the last office of the vow performed on them.
FOOTNOTES:
[12] Agnes Strickland, "Lives of the Queens of England," 1884, iii.,
454-5.
[13] See Sir Walter Scott's notes to the "Bride of Lammermoor."
[14] Harland's "Lancashire Legends," 1882, p. 263-4.
CHAPTER IV.
STRANGE BANQUETS.
"O'Rourke's noble feast will ne'er be forgot
By those who were there--or those who were not."
In the above words the Dean of St. Patrick has immortalised an Irish
festival of the eighteenth century; and some such memory will long
cling to many a family or historic banquet, which--like the tragic one
depicted in "Macbeth," where the ghost of the murdered Banquo makes
its uncanny appearance, or that remarkable feast described by Lord
Lytton, where Zanoni drinks with impunity the poisoned cup, remarking
to the Prince, "I pledge you even in this wine"--has been the scene of
some unusual, or extraordinary occurrence.
At one time or another, the wedding feast has witnessed many a strange
and truly romantic occurrence, in some instances the result of
unrequited love, or faithless pledges, as happened at the marriage
feast of the second Viscount Cullen. At the early age of sixteen he
had been betrothed to Elizabeth Trentham, a great heiress; but in the
course of his travels abroad he formed a strong attachment to an
Italian lady of rank, whom he afterwards deserted for his first
betrothed. In due time arrangements were made for their marriage; but
on the eventful day, while the wedding party were feasting in the
great hall at Rushton, a strange carriage, drawn by six horses, drew
up, and forth stepped a dark lady, who, at once entering the hall and,
seizing a goblet--"to punish his falsehood and pride"--to the
astonishment of all present, drank perdition to the bridegroom, and,
having uttered a curse upon his bride, to the effect that she would
live in wretchedness and die in want, promptly disappeared to be
traced no further.
No small consternation was caused by this unlooked-for _contretemps_;
but the young Viscount made light of it to his fair bride, dispelling
her alarm by explanations which satisfied her natural curiosity. But,
it is said, in after days, this unpleasant episode created an
unfavourable impression in her mind, and at times made her give way to
feelings of a despondent character. As events turned out, the curse of
her marriage day was in a great measure fulfilled. It is true she
became a prominent beauty of the Court of Charles II., and was painted
with less than his usual amount of drapery by Sir Peter Lely. It is
recorded also, that she twice gave an asylum to Monmouth, in the room
at Rushton, still known as the "Duke's Room"; but, living unhappily
with her husband, she died, notwithstanding her enormous fortune, in
comparative penury, at Kettering, at a great age, as recently as the
year 1713.
A curious tale of love and deception is told of Bulgaden Hall,
once--according to Ferrers, in his "History of Limerick"--the most
magnificent seat in the South of Ireland--erected by the Right Hon.
George Evans, who was created Baron Carbery, County of Cork, on the
9th of May, 1715. A family tradition proclaims him to have been noted
for great personal attractions, so much so, that Queen Anne, struck by
his appearance, took a ring from her finger at one of her levees, and
presented it to him--a ring preserved as a heir-loom at Laxton Hall,
Northamptonshire. In 1741, he married Grace, the daughter, and
eventually heiress of Sir Ralph Freke, of Castle Freke, in the County
of Cork, by whom he had four sons and the same number of daughters;
and it was George Evans, the eldest son and heir, who became the chief
personage in the following extraordinary marriage fraud.
It appears that at an early age he fell in love with the beautiful
daughter of his host, Colonel Stamer, who was only too ready to
sanction such an alliance. But, despite the brilliant prospects which
this contemplated marriage opened to the young lady, she turned a deaf
ear to any mention of it, for she loved another. As far as her parents
could judge she seemed inexorable, and they could only allay the
suspense of the expectant lover by assuring him that their daughter's
"natural timidity alone prevented an immediate answer to his suit."
But what their feelings of surprise were on the following day can be
imagined, when Miss Stamer announced to her parents her willingness to
marry George Evans. It was decided that there should be no delay, and
the marriage day was at once fixed. At this period of our social life,
the wedding banquet was generally devoted to wine and feasting, while
the marriage itself did not take place till the evening. And,
according to custom, sobriety at these bridal feasts was, we are told,
"a positive violation of all good breeding, and the guests would have
thought themselves highly dishonoured had the bridegroom escaped
scathless from the wedding banquet."
Accordingly, half unconscious of passing events, George Evans was
conducted to the altar, where the marriage knot was indissolubly tied.
But, as soon as he had recovered from the effects of the bridal feast,
he discovered, to his intense horror and dismay, that the bride he had
taken was not the woman of his choice--in short, he was the victim of
a cheat. Indignant at this cruel imposture, he ascertained that the
plot emanated from the woman who, till then, had been the ideal of his
soul, and that she had substituted her veiled sister Anne for herself
at the altar. The remainder of this strange affair is briefly
told:--George Evans had one, and only one, interview with his wife,
and thus addressed her in the following words: "Madam, you have
attained your end. I need not say how you bear my name; and, for the
sake of your family, I acknowledge you as my wife. You shall receive
an income from me suitable to your situation. This, probably, is all
you cared for with regard to me, and you and I shall meet no more in
this world."
[Illustration: "MADAM, YOU HAVE ATTAINED YOUR END. YOU AND I SHALL
MEET NO MORE IN THIS WORLD."]
He would allow no explanation, and almost immediately left his home
and country, never to meet again the woman who had so basely betrayed
him. The glory of Bulgaden Hall was gone. Its young master, in order
to quench his sorrow and bury his disgust, gave way to every kind of
dissipation, and died its victim in 1769. And, writes Sir Bernard
Burke, "from the period of its desertion by its luckless master,
Bulgaden Hall gradually sank into ruin; and to mark its site nought
remains but the foundation walls and a solitary stone, bearing the
family arms."
A strange incident, of which, it is said, no satisfactory explanation
has ever yet been forthcoming, happened during the wedding banquet of
Alexander III. at Jedburgh Castle, a weird and gruesome episode which
Edgar Poe expanded into his "Masque of the Red Death." The story goes
that in the midst of the festivities, a mysterious figure glided
amongst the astonished guests--tall and gaunt, and shrouded from head
to foot in the habiliments of the grave, the mask which concealed the
visage resembling the countenance of a stiffened corpse.
"Who dares," demands the royal host, "to insult us with this
blasphemous mockery? Seize him and unmask him, that we may know whom
we have to hang at sunrise from the battlements."
But when the awe-struck revellers took courage and grasped the figure,
"they gasped in unutterable horror on finding the grave cerements and
corpse-like mask, which they handled with so violent a rudeness,
untenanted by any tangible form, vanishing as suddenly as it had
appeared." All sorts of theories have been suggested to account for
this mysterious figure, but no satisfactory solution has been
forthcoming, an incident of which, it may be remembered, Heywood has
given a graphic picture:
In the mid-revels, the first ominous night
Of their espousals, when the room shone bright
With lighted tapers--the king and queen leading
The curious measures, lords and ladies treading
The self-same strains--the king looks back by chance
And spies a strange intruder fill the dance,
Namely, a mere anatomy, quite bare,
His naked limbs both without flesh and hair
(As he deciphers Death), who stalks about,
Keeping true measure till the dance be out.
Inexplicable, however, as the presence of this unearthly, mysterious
personage was felt to be by all engaged in the marriage revels, it
was regarded as the forerunner of some approaching catastrophe.
Prophets and seers lost no time in turning the affair to their own
interest, and amongst them Thomas the Rhymer predicted that the 16th
of March would be "the stormiest day that ever was witnessed in
Scotland." But when the supposed ill-fated day arrived, it was the
very reverse of stormy, being still and mild, and public opinion began
to ridicule the prophetic utterance of Thomas the Rhymer, when, to the
amazement and consternation of all, there came the appalling news,
"The king is dead," whereupon Thomas the Rhymer ejaculated, "That is
the storm which I meant, and there was never tempest which will bring
to Scotland more ill-luck."
The disappearance of the heir to a property, which has always been a
favourite subject with novelists and romance writers, has occasionally
happened in real life, and a Shropshire legend relates how, long ago,
the heir of the house of Corbet went away to the wars, and remained
absent so many years that his family--as in the case of Enoch
Arden--gave up all hope of ever seeing him again, and eventually
mourned for him as dead. His younger brother succeeded to the
property, and prepared to take to himself a wife, and reign in the old
family hall.
But on the wedding day, in the midst of the feasting, a pilgrim came
to the gate asking hospitality and alms. He was bidden to sit down
and share the feast, but scarcely was the banquet ended when the
pilgrim revealed himself as the long lost elder brother. The
disconcerted bridegroom acknowledged him at once, but the latter
generously resigned the greater part of the estates to his brother,
and, sooner than mar the prospects of the newly married couple, he
lived a life of obscurity upon one small manor. There seems, however,
to be a very small basis of fact for this story. The Corbets of
Shropshire--one branch of whom are owners of Moreton Corbet--are among
the very oldest of the many old Shropshire families. They trace their
descent back to Corbet the Norman, whose sons, Robert and Roger,
appear in Domesday Book as holding large estates under Roger, Earl of
Shrewsbury. The grandsons of Roger Corbet were Thomas Corbet of
Wattlesborough, and Robert Corbet. Thomas, who was evidently the elder
of the two, it seems went beyond seas, leaving his lands in the
custody of his brother Robert. Both brothers left descendants, but the
elder branch of the family never attained to such rank and prosperity
as the younger one." Hence, perhaps, the origin of the legend; but
Moreton Corbet did not come into the possession of the family till
long after this date.[15]
Whatever truth there may be in this old tradition, there is every
reason to believe that some of the worst tragedies recorded in family
history have been due to jealousy; and an extraordinary instance of
such unnatural feeling was that displayed by the second wife of Sir
Robert Scott, of Thirlestane, one of the most distinguished cadets of
the great House of Buccleuch. Distracted with mortification that her
husband's rich inheritance would descend to his son by his first wife,
she secretly resolved to compass the destruction of her step-son, and
determined to execute her hateful purpose at the festivities held in
honour of the young laird's twentieth birthday. Having taken into her
confidence one John Lally, the family piper, this wretched man
procured three adders, from which he selected the parts replete with
the most deadly poison, and, after grinding them to fine powder, Lady
Thirlestane mixed them in a bottle of wine. Previous to the
commencement of the birthday feast, the young laird having called for
wine to drink the healths of the workmen who had just completed the
mason work of the new Castle of Gamescleugh--his future residence--the
piper Lally filled a silver cup from the poisoned bottle, which the
ill-fated youth hastily drank off. So potent was the poison that the
young laird died within an hour, and a feeling of horror seized the
birthday guests as to who could have done so foul a deed. But the
father seems to have had his suspicions, and having caused a bugle to
be blown, as a signal for all the family to assemble in the castle
court, he inquired, "Are we all here?"
A voice answered, "All but the piper, John Lally!"
These words, it is said, sounded like a knell in Sir Robert's ear, and
the truth was manifest to him. But unwilling to make a public example
of his own wife, he adopted a somewhat unique method of vengeance, and
publicly proclaimed that as he could not bestow the estate on his son
while alive, he would spend it upon him when dead. Accordingly, the
body of his son was embalmed with the most costly drugs, and lay in
state for a year and a day, during which time Sir Robert kept open
house, feasting all who chose to be his guests; Lady Thirlestane
meanwhile being imprisoned in a vault of the castle, and fed upon
bread and water. "During the last three days of this extraordinary
feast", writes Sir Bernard Burke,[16] "the crowds were immense. It was
as if the whole of the south of Scotland was assembled at Thirlestane.
Butts of the richest and rarest wine were carried into the fields,
their ends were knocked out with hatchets, and the liquor was carried
about in stoups. The burn of Thirlestane literally ran with wine." Sir
Robert died soon afterwards, and left his family in utter destitution,
his wife dying in absolute beggary. Thus was avenged the crime of this
cruel and unprincipled woman, whose fatal jealousy caused the ruin of
the family.
Political intrigue, again, has been the origin of many an act of
treachery, done under the semblance of hospitality, or given rise to
strange incidents.
To go back to early times, it seems that Edward the Confessor had long
indulged a suspicion that Earl Godwin--who had in the first instance
accused Queen Emma of having caused the death of her son--was himself
implicated in that transaction. It so happened that the King and a
large concourse of prelates and nobility were holding a large dinner
at Winchester, in honour of the Easter festival, when the butler, in
bringing in a dish, slipped, but recovered his balance by making
adroit use of his other foot.
"Thus does brother assist brother," exclaimed Earl Godwin, thinking to
be witty at the butler's expense.
"And thus might I have been now assisted by my Alfred, if Earl Godwin
had not prevented it," replied the King: for the Earl's remark had
recalled to his mind the suspicion he had long entertained of the Earl
having been concerned in Prince Alfred's death.
Resenting the king's words, the Earl holding up the morsel which he
was about to eat, uttered a great oath, and in the name of God
expressed a wish that the morsel might choke him if he had in any way
been concerned in that murder. Accordingly he there and then put the
morsel into his mouth, and attempted to swallow it; but his efforts
were in vain, it stuck fast in his throat--immovable upward or
downward--his respiration failed, his eyes became fixed, his
countenance convulsed, and in a minute more he fell dead under the
table.
Edward, convinced of the Earl's guilt, and seeing divine justice
manifested, and remembering, it is said, with bitterness the days past
when he had given a willing ear to the calumnies spread about his
innocent mother, cried out, in an indignant voice, "Carry away that
dog, and bury him in the high road." But the body was deposited by the
Earl's cousin in the cathedral.
Several accounts have been written of that terrible banquet, to which
the Earl of Douglas was invited by Sir Alexander Livingstone and the
Chancellor Crichton--who craftily dissembled their intentions--to sup
at the royal table in the Castle of Edinburgh. The Earl was foolhardy
enough to accept the ill-fated invitation, and shortly after he had
taken his place at the festive board, the head of a black bull--the
certain omen, in those days in Scotland, of immediate death--was
placed on the table. The Earl, anticipating treachery, instantly
sprang to his feet, and lost no time in making every effort to escape.
But no chance was given him to do so, and with his younger brother he
was hurried along into the courtyard of the castle, and after being
subjected to a mock trial, he was beheaded "in the back court of the
castle that lieth to the west". The death of the young earl, and his
untimely fate, were the subjects of lament in one of the ballads of
the time.
"Edinburgh castle, town, and tower,
God grant them sink for sin;
And that even for the black dinner
Earl Douglas gat therein."
This emphatic malediction is cited by Hume of Godscroft in his
"History of the House of Douglas," as referring to William, sixth Earl
of Douglas, a youth of eighteen; and Hume, speaking of this
transaction, says, with becoming indignation: "It is sure the people
did abhorre it--execrating the very place where it was done, in
detestation of the fact--of which the memory remaineth yet to our
dayes in these words."
Many similar stories are recorded in the history of the past, the
worst form of treachery oftentimes lurking beneath the festive cup,
and in times of commotion, when suspicion and mistrust made men feel
insecure even when entertained in the banqueting hall of some powerful
host, it is not surprising that great persons had their food tasted by
those who were supposed to have made themselves acquainted with its
wholesomeness. But this practice could not always afford security when
the taster was ready to sacrifice his own life, as in King John (act
v. sc. 6):
HUBERT. The king, I fear, is poisoned by a monk:
I left him almost speechless.
BASTARD. How did he take it? Who did taste to him?
HUBERT. A monk, I tell you; a resolved villain.
But, in modern days, one of the most unnatural tragedies on record was
the murder of Sir John Goodere, Foote's maternal uncle, by his brother
Captain Goodere, a naval officer. In the year 1740, the two brothers
dined at a friend's house near Bristol. For a long time they had been
on bad terms, owing to certain money transactions, but at the dinner
table a reconciliation was, to all appearance, made between them. But
it was a most terrible piece of underhand treachery, for on leaving
that dinner table, Sir John was waylaid on his return home by some men
from his brother's vessel--acting by his brother's authority--carried
on board, and deliberately strangled; Captain Goodere not only
unconcernedly looking on, but actually furnishing the rope with which
this fearful crime was committed. One of the strangest parts of this
terrible tale, Foote used to relate, was the fact that on the night
the murder was committed he arrived at his father's house in Truro,
and was kept awake for some time by the softest and sweetest strains
of music he had ever heard. At first he fancied it might be a serenade
got up by some of the family to welcome him home, but not being able
to discover any trace of the musicians, he came to the conclusion that
he was deceived by his own imagination. Shortly afterwards, however,
he learnt that the murder had been committed at the same hour of the
same night as he had been haunted by the mysterious sounds. In after
days, he often spoke of this curious occurrence, regarding it as a
supernatural warning, a conviction which he retained till his death.
But, strange and varied as are the scenes that have taken place at the
banquet, whether great or small, such acts of fratricide have been
rare, although, according to a family tradition relating to
Osbaldeston Hall, a similar tragedy once happened at a family banquet.
There is one room in the old hall whose walls are smeared with several
red marks, which, it is said, can never be obliterated. These stains
have some resemblance to blood, and are generally supposed to have
been caused when, many years ago, one of the family was brutally
murdered. The story commonly current is that there was once a great
family gathering at Osbaldeston Hall, at which every member of the
family was present. The feast passed off satisfactorily, and the
liquor was flowing freely round, when, unfortunately, family
differences began to be discussed. These soon caused angry
recriminations, and at length two of the company challenged each other
to mortal combat. Friends interfered, and, by the judicious
intervention on their part, the quarrel seemed to be made up. But soon
afterwards the two accidentally met in this room, and Thomas
Osbaldeston drew his sword and murdered his brother-in-law without
resistance. For this crime he was deemed a felon, and forfeited his
lands. Ever since that ill-fated day the room has been haunted.
Tradition says that the ghost of the murdered man continues to haunt
the scene of the conflict, and during the silent hours of the night it
may be seen passing from the room with uplifted hands, and with the
appearance of blood streaming from a wound in the breast.[17]
But, turning to incidents of a less tragic nature, an amusing story is
told of the Earl of Hopetoun, who, when he could not induce a certain
Scottish laird, named Dundas, to sell his old family residence known
as "The Tower," which was on the very verge of his own beautiful
pleasure grounds, tried to lead him on to a more expensive style of
living than that to which he had been accustomed, thinking thereby he
might run into debt, and be compelled to sell his property.
Accordingly, Dundas was frequently invited to Hopetoun House, and on
one occasion his lordship invited himself and a fashionable shooting
party to "The Tower," "congratulating himself on the hole which a few
dinners like this would make in the old laird's rental." But, as soon
as the covers were removed from the dishes, no small chagrin was
caused to Lord Hopetoun and his friends when their eyes rested on "a
goodly array of alternate herrings and potatoes spread from the top to
the bottom," Dundas at the same time inviting his guests to pledge
him in a bumper of excellent whiskey. Drinking jocularly to his
lordship's health, he humorously said, "It won't do, my lord; it won't
do! But, whenever you or your guests will honour my poor hall of Stang
Hill Tower with your presence at this hour, I promise you no worse
fare than now set before you, the best and fattest salt herrings that
the Forth can produce, and the strongest mountain dew. To this I beg
that your lordship and your honoured friends may do ample justice."
It is needless to say that Lord Hopetoun never dined again at Stang
Hill Tower but some time after, when Dundas was on his death-bed, he
advised his son to make the best terms he could with Lord Hopetoun,
remarking, "He will, sooner or later, have our little property." An
exchange was made highly advantageous to the Dundas family, the estate
of Aithrey being made over to them.[18]
A curious and humorous narrative is told of General Dalzell, a noted
persecutor of the Covenanters. In the course of his Continental
service he had been brought into the immediate circle of the German
Court, and one day had the honour to be a guest at a splendid Imperial
banquet, where, as a part of his state, the German Emperor was waited
on by the great feudal dignitaries of the empire, one of whom was the
Duke of Modena, the head of the illustrious house of Este. After his
appointment by Charles II. as Commander-in-Chief in Scotland, he was
invited by the Duke of York--afterwards James II., and then residing
at Holyrood--to dine with him and the Duchess, Princess May of Modena.
But as this was, we are told, what might be called a family dinner,
the Duchess demurred to the General being admitted to such an honour,
whereupon he naively replied that this was not his first introduction
to the house of Este, for that he had known her Royal Highness's
father, the Duke of Modena, and that he had stood behind his chair,
while he sat by the Emperor's side.
There was another kind of banquet, in which it has been remarked the
defunct had the principal honours, having the same ceremonious respect
paid to his waxen image as though he were alive. Thus we are reminded
how the famous Henrietta, Duchess of Marlborough demonstrated her
appreciation for Congreve in a most extraordinary manner. Report goes
that she had his figure made in wax, talked to it as if it had been
alive, placed it at the table with her, took every care that it was
supplied with different sorts of meat, and, in short, the same
formalities were, throughout, scrupulously observed in these weird and
strange repasts, just as if Congreve himself had been present.
Saint Foix, it may be remembered, who wrote in the time of Louis XIV.,
has left an interesting account of the ceremonial after the death of
a King of France, during the forty days before the funeral, when his
wax effigy lay in state. It appears that the royal officers served him
at meals as though he were still alive, the maître d'hotel handed the
napkin to the highest lord present to be delivered to the king, a
prelate blessed the table, and the basins of water were handed to the
royal armchair. Grace was said in the accustomed manner, save that
there was added to it the "De Profundis." We cannot be surprised that
such strange proceedings as these gave rise to much ridicule, and
helped to bring the Court itself into contempt.
FOOTNOTES:
[15] Miss Jackson's "Shropshire Folklore," 101.
[16] Family Romance, 1853, pp. 1-8.
[17] Harland's "Lancashire Legends," 271-2.
[18] Sir Bernard Burke, "Family Romance," 1853, I., 307-12.
CHAPTER V.
MYSTERIOUS ROOMS.
A jolly place, said he, in days of old;
But something ails it now--the spot is curst.
WORDSWORTH.
A peculiar feature of many old country houses is the so-called
"strange room," around which the atmosphere of mystery has long clung.
In certain cases, such rooms have gained an unenviable notoriety from
having been the scene, in days gone by, of some tragic occurrence, the
memory of which has survived in the local legend, or tradition. The
existence, too, of such rooms has supplied the novelist with the most
valuable material for the construction of those plots in which the
mysterious element holds a prominent place. Historical romance, again,
with its tales of adventure, has invested numerous rooms with a grim
aspect, and caused the imagination to conjure up all manner of weird
and unearthly fancies concerning them. Walpole, for instance, writing
of Berkeley Castle, says: "The room shown for the murder of Edward
II., and the shrieks of an agonising king, I verily believe to be
genuine. It is a dismal chamber, almost at the top of the house, quite
detached, and to be approached only by a kind of footbridge, and from
that descends a large flight of steps that terminates on strong gates,
exactly a situation for a _corps de garde_." And speaking of Edward's
imprisonment here, may be mentioned the pathetic story told by Sir
Richard Baker, in his usual odd, circumstantial manner: "When Edward
II. was taken by order of his Queen and carried to Berkeley Castle, to
the end that he should not be known, they shaved his head and beard,
and that in a most beastly manner; for they took him from his horse
and set him upon a hillock, and then, taking puddle water out of a
ditch thereby, they went to wash him, his barber telling him that the
cold water must serve for this time; whereat the miserable king,
looking sternly upon him, said that whether they would or no he would
have warm water to wash him, and therewithal, to make good his word,
he presently shed forth a shower of tears. Never was king turned out
of a kingdom in such a manner." And there can be no doubt that many of
the rooms which have attracted notice on account of their
architectural peculiarities, were purposely designed for concealment
in times of political commotion. Of the numerous stories told of the
mysterious death of Lord Lovel, one informs us[19] how, on the
demolition of a very old house--formerly the patrimony of the
Lovel's--about a century ago, there was found in a small chamber, so
secret that the farmer who inhabited the house knew it not, the
remains of an immured being, and such remnants of barrels and jars as
appeared to justify the idea of that chamber having been used as a
place of refuge for the lord of the mansion; and that after consuming
the stores which he had provided in case of a disastrous event, he
died unknown even to his servants and tenants. But the circumstances
attending Lord Lovell's death have always been matter of conjecture,
and in the "Annals of England," another version of the story is
given:[20] "Lord Lovel is believed to have escaped from the field, and
to have lived for a while in concealment at Minster Lovel,
Oxfordshire, but at length to have been starved to death through the
neglect or treachery of an attendant."
At Broughton Castle there is a curiously designed room, which, at one
time or another, has attracted considerable attention. According to
Lord Nugent, in his "Memorials of Hampden," this room is "so
contrived, by being surrounded by thick stone walls, and casemated,
that no sound from within can be heard. The chamber appears to have
been built about the time of King John, and is reported, on very
doubtful grounds of tradition, to have been the room used for the
sittings of the Puritans." And, he adds: "It seems an odd fancy,
although a very prevailing one, to suppose that wise men, employed in
capital matters of state, must needs choose the most mysterious and
suspicious retirements for consultation, instead of the safer and less
remarkable expedient of a walk in the open fields." It was probably in
this room that the secret meetings of Hampden and his confederates
were held, which Anthony à Wood thus describes: "Several years before
the Civil War began, Lord Sage, being looked upon as the godfather of
that party, had meetings of them in his house at Broughton, where was
a room and passage thereunto, which his servants were prohibited to
come near. And when they were of a complete number, there would be a
great noise and talkings heard among them, to the admiration of those
that lived in the house, yet never could they discern their lord's
companions."
Amongst other secret rooms which have their historical associations,
are those at Hendlip Hall, near Worcester. This famous residence--which
has scarcely a room that is not provided with some means of escape--is
commonly reported to have been built by John Abingdon in the reign of
Queen Elizabeth, this personage having been a zealous partisan of Mary
Queen of Scots. It was here also, under the care of Mr. and Mrs.
Abingdon, that Father Garnet was concealed for several weeks in the
winter of 1605-6, but who eventually paid the penalty of his guilty
knowledge of the Gunpowder Plot. A hollow in the wall of Mrs.
Abingdon's bedroom was covered up, and there was a narrow crevice into
which a reed was laid, so that soup and wine could be passed by her
into the recess, without the fact being noticed from any other room.
But the Government, suspecting that some of the Gunpowder Conspirators
were concealed at Hendlip Hall, sent Sir Henry Bromley, of Holt Castle,
a justice of the peace, with the most minute orders, which are very
funny: "In the search," says the document, "first observe the parlour
where they use to dine and sup; in the last part of that parlour it is
conceived there is some vault, which to discover, you must take care to
draw down the wainscot, whereby the entry into the vault may be
discovered. The lower parts of the house must be tried with a broach,
by putting the same into the ground some foot or two, to try whether
there may be perceived some timber, which if there be, there must be
some vault underneath it. For the upper rooms you must observe whether
they be more in breadth than the lower rooms, and look in which places
the rooms must be enlarged, by pulling out some boards you may discover
some vaults. Also, if it appear that there be some corners to the
chimneys, and the same boarded, if the boards be taken away there will
appear some secret place. If the walls seem to be thick and covered
with wainscot, being tried with a gimlet, if it strike not the wall but
go through, some suspicion is to be had thereof. If there be any
double loft, some two or three feet, one above another, in such places
any person may be harboured privately. Also, if there be a loft towards
the roof of the house, in which there appears no entrance out of any
other place or lodging, it must of necessity be opened and looked into,
for these be ordinary places of hovering (hiding)."
The house was searched from garret to cellar without any discovery
being made, and Mrs. Abingdon, feigning to be angry with the
searchers, shut herself up in her bedroom day and night, eating and
drinking there, by which means through the secret tube she fed Father
Garnet and another Jesuit father. But after a protracted search of ten
days, these two men surrendered themselves, pressed, it is said, "for
the need of air rather than food, for marmalade and other sweetmeats
were found in their den, and they had warm and nutritive drinks passed
to them by the reed through the chimney," as already described. This
historic mansion, it may be added, on account of its elevated
position, was capitally adapted as a place of concealment, for "it
afforded the means of keeping a watchful look-out for the approach of
the emissaries of the law, or of persons by whom it might have been
dangerous for any skulking priest to be seen, supposing his reverence
to have gone forth for an hour to take the air."
Another important instance of a strange room is that existing at
Ingatestone Hall, in Essex, which was, in years gone by, a summer
residence belonging to the Abbey of Barking. It came with the estate
into possession of the family of Petre in the reign of Henry VIII.,
and continued to be occupied as their family seat until the latter
half of the last century. In the south-east corner of a small room
attached to what was probably the host's bedroom, there was discovered
some years ago a mysterious hiding place--fourteen feet long, two feet
broad, and ten feet high. On some floor-boards being removed, a hole
or trap door--about two feet square--was found, with a twelve-foot
ladder, to descend into the room below, the floor of which was
composed of nine inches of dry sand. This, on being examined, brought
to light a few bones which, it has been suggested, are the remains of
food supplied to some unfortunate occupant during confinement. But the
existence of this secret room must, it is said, have been familiar to
the heads of the family for several generations, evidence of this
circumstance being afforded by a packing case which was found in this
hidden retreat, and upon which was the following direction: "For the
Right Honble the Lady Petre, at Ingatestone Hall, in Essex." The wood,
also, was in a decayed state, and the writing in an antiquated style,
which is only what might be expected considering that the Petre family
left Ingatestone Hall between the years 1770 and 1780.
There are numerous rooms of this curious description which, it must be
remembered, were, in many cases, the outcome of religious intolerance
in the sixteenth century, and early in the seventeenth, when the
celebration of Mass in this country was forbidden. Hence those families
that persisted in adhering to the Roman Catholic faith oftentimes kept
a priest, who celebrated it in a room--opening whence was a secret one,
to which in case of emergency he could retreat. Evelyn in his _Diary_,
speaking of Ham House, at Weybridge, belonging to the Duke of Norfolk,
as having some of these secret rooms, writes: "My lord, leading me
about the house, made no scruple of showing me all the hiding places
for Popish priests, and where they said Masse, for he was no bigoted
papist." The old Manor House at Dinsdale-upon-Tees has a secret room,
which is very cleverly situated at the top of the staircase, to which
access is gained from above. The compartment is not very large, and is
between two bedrooms, and alongside of the fireplace of one of them.
"It would be a very snug place when the fire was lighted," writes a
correspondent of "Notes and Queries," "and very secure, as it is
necessary to enter the cockloft by a trap door at the extreme end of
the building, and then crawl along under the roof into the hiding-place
by a second trap-door." Among further instances of these curious relics
of the past may be mentioned Armscott Manor, two or three miles distant
from Shipston-on-Stour. According to a local tradition, George Fox at
one time lived here. In a passage at the top of the house is the
entrance to a secret room, which receives light from a small window in
one of the gables, and in this room George Fox is said to have been
concealed during the period he was persecuted by the county
magistrates.
But sometimes such rooms furthered the designs of those who abetted
and connived at deeds that would not bear the light, and Southey
records an anecdote which is a good illustration of the bad uses to
which they were probably often put: "At Bishop's Middleham, a man died
with the reputation of a water drinker; and it was discovered that he
had killed himself by secret drunkenness. There was a Roman Catholic
hiding place, the entrance to which was from his bedroom. He converted
it into a cellar, and the quantity of brandy which he had consumed was
ascertained." Indeed, it is impossible to say to what ends these
secret rooms were occasionally devoted; and there is little doubt but
that they were the scenes of many of those thrilling stories upon
which many of our local traditions have been founded.
Political refugees, too, were not infrequently secreted in these
hiding places, and in the Manor House, Trent, near Sherborne, there is
a strangely constructed chamber, entered from one of the upper rooms
through a sliding panel in the oak wainscoting, in which tradition
tells us Charles II. lay concealed for a fortnight on his escape to
the coast, after the battle of Worcester. And Boscobel House, which
also afforded Charles II. a safe retreat, has two secret chambers; and
there are indications which point to the former existence of a third.
The hiding place in which the King was hidden is situated in the
squire's bedroom. It appears there was formerly a sliding panel in the
wainscot, near the fireplace, which, when opened, gave access to a
closet, the false floor of which still admits of a person taking up
his position in this secret nook. The wainscoting, too, which
concealed the movable panel in the bedroom was originally covered with
tapestry, with which the room was hung. A curious story is told of
Street Place, an old house, a mile and a half north of Plumpton, in
the neighbourhood of Lewes, which dates from the time of James I., and
was the seat of the Dobells. Behind the great chimney-piece of the
hall was a deep recess, used for purposes of concealment; and it is
said that one day a cavalier horseman, hotly pursued by some troopers,
broke into the hall, spurred his horse into the recess, and
disappeared for ever.
Bistmorton Court, an old moated manor house in the Malvern district,
has a cunningly contrived secret room, which is opened by means of a
spring, and this hidden nook is commonly reported to have played an
important part in the War of the Roses, when numerous persons were
concealed there at this troublous period. And a curious discovery was
made some years ago at Danby Hall, in Wensleydale, Yorkshire, when, on
a small secret room being brought to light, it was found to contain
arms and saddlery for a troop of forty or fifty horse. It is generally
supposed that these weapons had been hidden away in readiness for the
Jacobite rising of 1715 or 1745.
In certain cases it would appear that, for some reason or other, the
hiding place has been specially kept a secret among members of the
family. In the north of England there is Netherall, near Maryport,
Cumberland, the seat of the old family of Senhouse. In this old
mansion there is said to be a veritable secret room, its exact
position in the house being known but to two persons--the heir-at-law
and the family solicitor. It is affirmed that never has the secret of
this hidden room been revealed to more than two living persons at a
time. This mysterious room has no window, and, despite every endeavour
to discover it, has successfully defied the ingenuity of even visitors
staying in the house. This Netherall tradition is very similar to the
celebrated one connected with Glamis Castle, the seat of Lord
Strathmore, only in the latter case the secret room possesses a
window, which, nevertheless, has not led to its identification. It is
known as the "secret room" of the castle, and, although every other
part of the castle has been satisfactorily explored, the search for
this famous room has been in vain. None are supposed to be acquainted
with its locality save Lord Strathmore, his heir, and the factor of
the estate, who are bound not to reveal it unless to their successors
in the secret. Many weird stories have clustered round this remarkable
room; one legend connected with which has been thus described:
The castle now again behold,
Then mark yon lofty turret bold,
Which frowns above the western wing,
Its grim walls darkly shadowing.
There is a room within that tower
No mortal dare approach; the power
Of an avenging God is there.
Dread--awfully display'd--beware!
And enter not that dreadful room,
Else yours may be a fearful doom.
According to one legendary romance--founded on an incident which is
said to have occurred during one of the carousals of the Earl of
Crawford, otherwise styled "Earl Beardie" or the "Tiger Earl"--there
was many years ago a grand "meet" at Glamis, as the result of which
many a noble deer lay dead upon the hill, and many a grizzly boar dyed
with his heart's blood the rivers of the plain. As the day drew to its
close, "the wearied huntsmen, with their fair attendants, returned,
'midst the sounds of martial music and the low whispered roundelays of
the ladies, victorious to the castle." In the old baronial dining hall
was spread a sumptuous and savoury feast, at which "venison and
reeking game, rich smoked ham and savoury roe, flanked by the wild
boar's head, and viands and pasties without name, blent profusely on
the hospitable board, while jewelled and capacious goblets, filled
with ruby wine, were lavishly handed round to the admiring guests."
At the completion of the banquet, the minstrel strung his ancient
harp, and soon the company tripped lightly on the oaken floor, till
the rafters rang with the merry sounds of their midnight revelry. For
three days and nights the hunt and the feast continued, and as, at
last, the revelries drew to a close, still four dark chieftains
remained in the inner chamber of the castle, "and sang, and drank, and
shouted, right merrilie. The day broke, yet louder rang the wassail
roar; the goblets were over and over again replenished, and the
terrible oaths and ribald songs continued, and the dice rattled, and
the revelry became louder still, till the many walls of the old castle
shook and reverberated with the awful sounds of debauchery, blasphemy,
and crime."
"At length their wild, ungovernable frenzy reached its climax. They
had drunk until their eyes had grown dim, and their hands could
scarcely hold the hellish dice, when, driven by expiring fury, with
fiendish glee, they defiantly gnashed their teeth and cursed the God
of heaven! Then, with returning strength, and exhausting its last and
fitful energies in still louder imprecations and more fearful yells,
they deliberately and with unanimous voice consigned their guilty
souls to the nethermost hell! Fatal words! In a bright, broad sheet of
lurid and sulphurous flame the Prince of Darkness appeared in their
midst, and struck--not the shaft of death, but the vitality of eternal
life--and there to this day in that dreaded room they sit, transfixed
in all their hideous expression of ghastly terror and dismay--doomed
to drink the wine cup and throw the dice till the dawning of the Great
Judgment Day."[21]
Another explanation of the mystery is that during one of the feuds
between the Lindsays and the Ogilvies, a number of the latter Clan,
flying from their enemies, came to Glamis Castle, and begged
hospitality of the owner. He admitted them, and on the plea of hiding
them, he secured them all in this room, and then left them to starve.
Their bones, it is averred, lie there to this day, the sight of which,
it has been stated, so appalled the late Lord Strathmore on entering
the room, that he had it walled up. Some assert that, owing to some
hereditary curse, like those described in a previous chapter, at
certain intervals a kind of vampire is born into the family of the
Strathmore Lyons, and that as no one would like to destroy this
monstrosity, it is kept concealed till its term of life is run. But,
whatever the mystery may be, such rooms, like the locked chamber of
Blue Beard, are not open to vulgar gaze, a circumstance which has
naturally perpetuated the curiosity attached to them. The reputation,
too, which Glamis Castle has long had for possessing so strange a room
has led to a host of the most gruesome stories being circulated in
connection with it, many of which from time to time have appeared in
print. According to one account,[22] "a lady, very well known in
London society, an artistic and social celebrity, went to stay at
Glamis Castle for the first time. She was allotted very handsome
apartments just on the point of junction between the new
buildings--perhaps a hundred or two hundred years old--and the very
ancient part of the castle. The rooms were handsomely furnished; no
grim tapestry swung to and fro, all was smooth, easy, and modern, and
the guest retired to bed without a thought of the mysteries of Glamis.
In the morning she appeared at the breakfast table cheerful and
self-possessed, and, to the inquiry how she had slept, replied, "Well,
thanks, very well, up to four o'clock in the morning. But your
Scottish carpenters seem to come to work very early. I suppose they
are putting up their scaffolding quickly, though, for they are quiet
now."
Her remarks were followed by a dead silence, and, to her surprise, she
noticed that the faces of the family party were very pale. But, she
was asked, as she valued the friendship of all there, never to speak
on that subject again, there had been no carpenters at Glamis for
months past. The lady, it seems, had not the remotest idea that the
hammering she had heard was connected with any story, and had no
notion of there being some mystery connected with the noise until
enlightened on the matter at the breakfast table.
At Rushen Castle, Isle of Man, there is said to be a room which has
never been opened in the memory of man. Various explanations have been
assigned to account for this circumstance, one being that the old
place was once inhabited by giants, who were dislodged by Merlin, and
such as were not driven away remain spellbound beneath the castle.
Waldron, in his "Description of the Isle of Man," has given a curious
tradition respecting this strange room, in which the supernatural
element holds a prominent place, and which is a good sample of other
stories of the same kind: "They say there are a great many fine
apartments underground, exceeding in magnificence any of the upper
rooms. Several men, of more than ordinary courage have, in former
times, ventured down to explore the secrets of this subterranean
dwelling-place, but as none of them ever returned to give an account
of what they saw, the passages to it were kept continually shut that
no more might suffer by their temerity. But about fifty years since, a
person of uncommon courage obtained permission to explore the dark
abode. He went down, and returned by the help of a clue of packthread,
and made this report: 'That after having passed through a great number
of vaults he came into a long narrow place, along which having
travelled, as far as he could guess, for the space of a mile, he saw a
little gleam of light. Reaching at last the end of this lane of
darkness, he perceived a very large and magnificent house, illuminated
with a great many candles, whence proceeded the light just mentioned.
After knocking at the door three times, it was opened by a servant,
who asked him what he wanted. "I would go as far as I can," he
replied; "be so kind as to direct me, for I see no passage but the
dark cavern through which I came hither." The servant directed him to
go through the house, and led him through a long entrance passage and
out at the back door. After walking a considerable distance, he saw
another house, more magnificent than the former, where he saw through
the open windows lamps burning in every room. He was about to knock,
but looking in at the window of a low parlour, he saw in the middle of
the room a large table of black marble, on which lay extended a
monster of at least fourteen feet long, and ten round the body, with a
sword beside him. He therefore deemed it prudent to make his way back
to the first house where the servant reconducted him, and informed him
that if he had knocked at the second door he never would have
returned. He then took his leave, and once more ascended to the light
of the sun.'"
But, leaving rooms of this supernatural kind, we may allude to those
which have acquired a strange notoriety from certain peculiarities of
a somewhat gruesome character; and, with tales of horror attached to
their guilty walls, it is not surprising that many rooms in our old
country houses have long been said to be troubled with mysterious
noises, and to have an uncanny aspect. Wye Coller Hall, near Colne,
which was long the seat of the Cunliffes of Billington, had a room
which the timid long avoided. Once a year, it is said, a spectre
horseman visits this house and makes his way up the broad oaken
staircase into a certain room, from whence "dreadful screams, as from
a woman, are heard, which soon subside into groans." The story goes
that one of the Cunliffes murdered his wife in that room, and that the
spectre horseman is the ghost of the murderer, who is doomed to pay an
annual visit to the house of his victim, who is said to have predicted
the extinction of the family, which has literally been fulfilled. This
strange visitor is always attired in the costume of the early Stuart
period, and the trappings of his horse are of a most uncouth
description; the evening of his arrival being generally wild and
tempestuous.
At Creslow Manor House, Buckinghamshire, there is another mysterious
room which, although furnished as a bedroom, is very rarely used, for
it cannot be entered, even in the daytime, without trepidation and
awe. According to common report, this room, which is situated in the
most ancient portion of the building, is haunted by the restless
spirit of a lady, long since deceased. What the antecedent history of
this uncomfortable room really is no one seems to know, although it is
generally agreed that in the distant past it must have been the silent
witness of some tragic occurrence.
But Littlecote House, the ancient seat of the Darrells, is renowned,
writes Lord Macaulay, "not more on account of its venerable
architecture and furniture, than on account of a horrible and
mysterious crime which was perpetrated there in the days of the
Tudors." One of the bedchambers, which is said to have been the scene
of a terrible murder, contains a bedstead with blue furniture, which
time has made dingy and threadbare. In the bottom of one of the bed
curtains is shown a strange place where a small piece has been cut out
and sewn in again--a circumstance which served to identify the scene
of a remarkable story, in connection with which, however, there are
several discrepancies. According to one account, when Littlecote was
in possession of its founders--the Darrells--a midwife of high repute
dwelt in the neighbourhood, who, on returning home from a professional
visit at a late hour of the night, had gone to rest only to be
disturbed by one who desired to have her immediate help, little
anticipating the terrible night's adventure in store for her, and
which shall be told in her own words:
"As soon as she had unfastened the door, a hand was thrust in which
struck down the candle, and at the same time pulled her into the road.
The person who had used these abrupt means desired her to tie a
handkerchief over her head and not wait for a hat, and, leading her to
a stile where there was a horse saddled, with a pillion on its back,
he desired her to seat herself, and then, mounting, they set off at a
brisk trot. After travelling for an hour and a half, they entered a
paved court, or yard, and her conductor, lifting her off her horse,
led her into the house, and thus addressed her: 'You must now suffer
me to put this cap and bandage over your eyes, which will allow you to
breathe and speak, but not to see. Keep up your presence of mind; it
will be wanted. No harm will happen to you.' Then, taking her into a
chamber, he added, 'Now you are in a room with a lady in labour.
Perform your office well, and you shall be amply rewarded; but if you
attempt to remove the bandage from your eyes, take the reward of your
rashness."
Shortly afterwards a male child was born, and as soon as this crisis
was over the woman received a glass of wine, and was told to prepare
to return home, but in the interval she contrived to cut off a small
piece of the bed curtain--an act which was supposed sufficient
evidence to fix the mysterious transaction as having happened at
Littlecote. According to Sir Walter Scott, the bandage was first put
over the woman's eyes on her leaving her own house that she might be
unable to tell which way she travelled, and was only removed when she
was led into the mysterious bedchamber, where, besides the lady in
labour, there was a man of a "haughty and ferocious" aspect. As soon
as the child was born, adds Scott, he demanded the midwife to give it
him, and, hurrying across the room, threw it on the back of a fire
that was blazing in the chimney, in spite of the piteous entreaties of
the mother. Suspicion eventually fell on Darrell, whose house was
identified by the midwife, and he was tried for murder at Salisbury,
"but, by corrupting his judge, Sir John Popham, he escaped the
sentence of the law, only to die a violent death by a fall from his
horse." This tale of horror, it may be added, has been carefully
examined, and there is little doubt but that in its main and most
prominent features it is true, the bedstead with a piece of the
curtain cut out identifying the spot as the scene of the tragic
act.[23]
With this strange story Sir Walter Scott compares a similar one which
was current at Edinburgh during his childhood. About the beginning of
the eighteenth century, when "the large castles of the Scottish
nobles, and even the secluded hotels, like those of the French
_noblesse_, which they possessed in Edinburgh, were sometimes the
scenes of mysterious transactions, a divine of singular sanctity was
called up at midnight to pray with a person at the point of death." He
was put into a sedan chair, and after being transported to a remote
part of the town, he was blindfolded--an act which was enforced by a
cocked pistol. After many turns and windings the chair was carried
upstairs into a lodging, where his eyes were uncovered, and he was
introduced into a bedroom, where he found a lady, newly delivered of
an infant.
He was commanded by his attendants to say such prayers by her bedside
as were suitable for a dying person. On remonstrating, and observing
that her safe delivery warranted better hopes, he was sternly
commanded to do as he had been ordered, and with difficulty he
collected his thoughts sufficiently to perform the task imposed on
him. He was then again hurried into the chair, but as they conducted
him downstairs he heard the report of a pistol. He was safely
conducted home, a purse of gold was found upon him, but he was warned
that the least allusion to this transaction would cost him his life.
He betook himself to rest, and after a deep sleep he was awakened by
his servant, with the dismal news that a fire of uncommon fury had
broken out in the house of ****, near the head of the Canongate, and
that it was totally consumed, with the shocking addition that the
daughter of the proprietor, a young lady eminent for beauty and
accomplishments had perished in the flames.
The clergyman had his suspicions; he was timid; the family was of the
first distinction; above all, the deed was done, and could not be
amended. Time wore away, but he became unhappy at being the solitary
depository of this fearful mystery, and, mentioning it to some of his
brethren, the anecdote acquired a sort of publicity. The divine,
however, had long been dead, and the story in some degree forgotten,
when a fire broke out again on the very same spot where the house of
**** had formerly stood, and which was now occupied by buildings of an
inferior description. When the flames were at their height, the tumult
was suddenly suspended by an unexpected apparition. A beautiful
female, in a nightdress, extremely rich, but at least half a century
old, appeared in the very midst of the fire, and uttered these words
in her vernacular idiom: "Anes burned, twice burned; the third time
I'll scare you all." The belief in this apparition was formerly so
strong that on a fire breaking out and seeming to approach the fatal
spot, there was a good deal of anxiety manifested lest the apparition
should make good her denunciation.
But family romance contains many such tales of horror, and one told of
Sir Richard Baker, surnamed "Bloody Baker," is a match even for Blue
Beard's locked chamber. After spending some years abroad in
consequence of a duel, he returned to his old home at Cranbrook, in
Kent; he only brought with him a foreign servant, and these two lived
alone. Very soon strange stories began to be whispered of unearthly
shrieks having been frequently heard at nightfall to issue from his
house, and of persons who were missed and never heard of again. But it
never occurred to anyone to connect incidents of this kind with Sir
Richard Baker, until, one day, he formed an apparent attachment to a
young lady in the neighbourhood, who always wore a great number of
jewels. He had often pressed her to call and see his house, and,
happening to be near it, she determined to surprise him with a visit.
Her companion tried to dissuade her from doing so, but she would not
be turned from her purpose. They knocked at the door, but receiving no
answer determined to enter. At the head of the staircase hung a
parrot, which, on their passing, cried out:
"Peapot, pretty lady, be not too bold,
Or your red blood will soon run cold."
And the blood of the adventurous women did "run cold" when on opening
one of the room doors they found it nearly full of the bodies of
murdered persons, chiefly women. And when, too, on looking out of the
window they saw "Bloody Baker" and his servant bringing in the body of
a lady, paralysed with fear they concealed themselves in a recess
under the staircase, and, as the murderers with their ghastly burden
passed by, the hand of the murdered lady hung in the baluster of the
stairs, which, on Baker chopping it off with an oath, fell into the
lap of one of the concealed ladies. They quickly made their escape
with the dead hand, on one of the fingers of which was a ring.
Reaching home, they told the story, and in proof of it displayed the
ring. Families in the neighbourhood who had lost friends or relatives
mysteriously were told of this "blood chamber of horrors," and it was
arranged to ask Baker to a party, apparently in a friendly manner, but
to have constables concealed ready to take him into custody. He
accepted the invitation, and then the lady, pretending it was a dream,
told him all she had seen.
"Fair lady," said he, "dreams are nothing; they are but fables."
"They may be fables," she replied, "but is this a fable?" And she
produced the hand and ring, upon which the constables appeared on the
scene, and took Baker into custody. The tradition adds that he was
found guilty, and was burnt, notwithstanding that Queen Mary tried to
save him on account of his holding the Roman Catholic religion.[24]
This tradition, of course, must not be taken too seriously; the red
hand in the armorial bearings having led, it has been suggested, to
the supposition of some sanguinary business in the records of the
family. Among the monuments in Cranbrook Church, Kent, there is one
erected to Sir Richard Baker--the gauntlet, red gloves, helmet, and
spurs, having been suspended over the tomb. On one occasion, a visitor
being attracted by the colour of the gloves, was accosted by an old
woman, who remarked, "Aye, Miss, those are Bloody Baker's gloves;
their red colour comes from the blood he shed." But the red hand is
only the Ulster badge of baronetcy, and there is scarcely a family
bearing it of which some tale of murder and punishment has not been
told.
FOOTNOTES:
[19] Andrew's "History of Great Britain," 1794-5.
[20] Oxford, 1857.
[21] "Scenes and Legends of the Vale of Strathmore." J. Cargill
Guthrie, 1875.
[22] "All the Year Round," 1880.
[23] See "Wilts Archæological Magazine," vols. i.-x.
[24] See "Notes and Queries," 1st S., I., p. 67.
CHAPTER VI.
INDELIBLE BLOOD STAINS.
"Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood
Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnardine,
Making the green one red."--MACBETH.
It was a popular suggestion in olden times that when a person had died
a violent death, the blood stains could not be washed away, to which
Macbeth alludes, as above, after murdering Duncan. This belief was in
a great measure founded on the early tradition that the wounds of a
murdered man were supposed to bleed afresh at the approach or touch of
the murderer. To such an extent was this notion carried, that "by the
side of the bier, if the slightest change were observable in the eyes,
the mouth, feet, or hands of the corpse, the murderer was conjectured
to be present, and many an innocent spectator must have suffered
death. This practice forms a rich pasture in the imagination of our
old writers; and their histories and ballads are laboured into pathos
by dwelling on this phenomenon."[25] At Blackwell, near Darlington,
the murder of one Christopher Simpson is described in a pretty local
ballad known as "The Baydayle Banks Tragedy." A suspected person was
committed, because when he touched the body at the inquest, "upon his
handlinge and movinge, the body did bleed at the mouth, nose, and
ears," and he turned out to be the murderer. Similarly Macbeth (Act
III., sc. 4), speaking of the ghost, says:--
"It will have blood; they say blood will have blood;
Stones have been known to move and trees to speak,
Auguries and understood relations have
By magot pies and choughs and rooks brought forth
The secret'st man of blood."
Shakespeare here, in all probability, alludes to some story in which
the stones covering the corpse of a murdered man were said to have
moved of themselves, and so revealed the secret. In the same way, it
was said that where blood had been shed, the marks could not be
obliterated, but would continually reappear until justice for the
crime had been obtained. On one occasion, Nathaniel Hawthorne enjoyed
the hospitality of Smithells Hall, Lancashire, and was so impressed
with the well-known legend of "The Bloody Footstep" that he, in three
separate instances, founded fictions upon it. In his romance of
"Septimius" he gives this graphic account of what he saw: "On the
threshold of one of the doors of Smithells Hall there is a bloody
footstep impressed into the doorstep, and ruddy as if the bloody foot
had just trodden there, and it is averred that on a certain night of
the year, and at a certain hour of the night, if you go and look at
the doorstep, you will see the mark wet with fresh blood. Some have
pretended to say that this is but dew, but can dew redden a cambric
handkerchief? And this is what the bloody footstep will surely do when
the appointed night and hour come round." A local tradition says that
the stone bearing the imprint of the mysterious footprint was once
removed and cast into a neighbouring wood, but in a short time it had
to be restored to its original position owing to the alarming noises
which troubled the neighbourhood. This strange footprint is
traditionally said to have been caused by George Marsh, the martyr,
stamping his foot to confirm his testimony, and has been ever since
shewn as the miraculous memorial of the holy man. The story is that
"being provoked by the taunts and persecutions of his examiner, he
stamped with his foot upon a stone, and, looking up to heaven,
appealed to God for the justice of his cause, and prayed that there
might remain in that place a constant memorial of the wickedness and
injustice of his enemies." It is also stated that in 1732 a guest
sleeping alone in the Green Chamber at Smithells Hall saw an
apparition, in the dress of a minister with bands, and a book in his
hand. The ghost of Marsh, for so it was pronounced to be, disappeared
through the doorway, and on the owner of Smithells hearing the story,
he directed that divine service--long discontinued--should be resumed
at the hall chapel every Sunday.[26]
Then there are the blood stains on the floor at the outer door of the
Queen's apartments in Holyrood Palace, where Rizzio was murdered. Sir
Walter Scott has made these blood marks the subject of a jocular
passage in his introduction to the "Chronicles of the Canongate,"
where a Cockney traveller is represented as trying to efface them with
the patent scouring drops which it was his mission to introduce into
use in Scotland. In another of his novels--"The Abbot"--Sir Walter
Scott alludes to the Rizzio blood stains, and in his "Tales of a
Grandfather" he deliberately states that the floor at the head of the
stair still bears visible marks of the blood of the unhappy victim. In
support of these blood stains, it has been urged that "the floor is
very ancient, manifestly much more so than the late floor of the
neighbouring gallery, which dated from the reign of Charles II. It is
in all likelihood the very floor upon which Mary and her courtiers
trod. The stain has been shown there since a time long antecedent to
that extreme modern curiosity regarding historical matters which might
have induced an imposture, for it is alluded to by the son of Evelyn
as being exhibited in the year 1722."[27]
At Condover Hall, Shropshire, there is supposed to be a blood stain
which has been there since the time of Henry VIII., and cannot be
effaced. According to a local tradition, which has long been current
in the neighbourhood, it is the blood of Lord Knevett--the owner of
the hall and estate at this period--who was treacherously slain by his
son. But unfortunately this piece of romance, which is utterly at
variance with facts bearing on the history of Condover and its owners
in years gone by, must be classed among the legendary tales of the
locality. One room in Clayton Old Hall, Lancashire, has for years past
been knicknamed "The Bloody Chamber," from some supposed stains of
human gore on the oaken floor planks. Numerous stories have, at
different times, been started to account for these blood-tokens, which
have gained all the more importance from the mansion having, from time
immemorial, been the favourite haunt of a mischievious boggart until
laid by the parson, and now--
Whilst ivy climbs and holly is green
Clayton Hall boggart shall no more be seen.
In Lincoln Cathedral there are two fine rose windows, one made by a
master workman, and the other by his apprentice, out of the pieces of
stained glass the former had thrown aside. The apprentice's window was
declared to be the more magnificent, when the master, in a fit of
chagrin, threw himself from the gallery beneath his boasted _chef
d'oeuvre_, and was killed upon the spot. But his blood-stains on
the floor are declared to be indelible. At Cothele, a mansion on the
banks of the Tamar, the marks are still visible of the blood spilt by
the lord of the manor when, for supposed treachery, he slew the warder
of the drawbridge; but these are only to be seen on a wet day.
But there is no mystery about the so-called "Bloody Chamber," for the
marks are only in reality natural red tinges of the wood, denoting the
presence of iron.
In addition to the appearance of such indelible marks of crime,
oftentimes the ghost of the spiller of blood, or of the murdered
person, haunts the scene. Thus, Northam Tower, Yorkshire, an embattled
structure of the time of Henry VII.--a true Border mansion--has long
been famous for the visits of some mysterious spectre in the form of a
lady who was cruelly murdered in the wood, her blood being pointed out
on the stairs of the old tower. Another tragic story is told of the
Manor House which Bishop Pudsey built at Darlington. It was for very
many years a residence of the Bishops of Durham, and a resting place
of Margaret, bride of James IV., of Scotland, and daughter of Henry
VII., in her splendid progress through the country. This building was
restored at great expense in the year 1668, and gained a widespread
notoriety on account of the ghost story of Lady Jerratt, who was
murdered there; but, as a testimony of the violent death she had
received, "she left on the wall ghastly impressions of a thumb and
fingers in blood for ever," and always made her appearance with one
arm, the other having been cut off for the sake of a valuable ring on
one of the fingers.
One room of Holland House is supposed to be haunted by Lord Holland,
the first of his name and the chief builder of this splendid old
mansion. According to Princess Marie Lichtenstein, in her "History of
Holland House," "the gilt room is said to be tenanted by the solitary
ghost of its first lord, who, runs the tradition, issues forth at
midnight from behind a secret door, and walks slowly through the
scenes of former triumphs with his head in his hand." And to add to
this mystery, there is a tale of three spots of blood on one side of
the recess whence he issues--three spots which can never be effaced.
Stains of blood--stains that cannot be washed away--are to be seen on
the floor of a certain room at Calverley Hall, Yorkshire. And there is
one particular flag in the cellar which is never without a mysterious
damp place upon it, all the other flags being dry. Of course these are
the witnesses of a terrible tragedy which was committed years ago
within the walls of Calverley Hall. It appears that Walter Calverley,
who had married Philippa Brooke, daughter of Lord Cobham, was a wild
reckless man, though his wife was a most estimable and virtuous lady,
and that one day he went into a fit of insane jealousy, or pretended
to do so, over the then Vavasour of Weston. Money lenders, too, were
pressing him hard, and he had become desperate. Rushing madly into the
house, he plunged a dagger into one and then into another of his
children, and afterwards tried to take the life of their mother, a
steel corset which she wore luckily saving her life. Leaving her for
dead, he mounted his horse with the intention of killing the only
other child he had, and who was then at Norton. But being pursued by
some villagers, his horse stumbled and threw him off, and the assassin
was caught, being pressed to death at York Castle for his crimes. Not
only have the stains of this bloody tragedy ever since been indelible,
but the spirit of Walter Calverley could not rest, having often been
seen galloping about the district at night on a headless horse.[28]
And, speaking of ghosts which appear in this eccentric fashion, we may
note that Eastbury House, near Blandford--now pulled down--had in a
certain marble-floored room, ineffaceable stains of blood,
attributable, it is said, to the suicide of William Doggett, the
steward of Lord Melcombe, whose headless spirit long haunted the
neighbourhood.
As a punishment for her unnatural cruelty in causing her child's
death, it is commonly reported that the spirit of Lady Russell is
doomed to haunt Bisham Abbey, Berkshire, the house where this act of
violence was committed. Lady Russell had by her first husband a son,
who, unlike herself, had a natural antipathy to every kind of
learning, and so great was his obstinate repugnance to learning to
write that he would wilfully blot over his copy-books in the most
careless and slovenly manner. This conduct so irritated his mother
that, to cure him of the propensity, she beat him again and again
severely, till at last she beat him to death. To atone for her
cruelty, she is now doomed to haunt the room where the fatal deed was
perpetrated; and, as her apparition glides along, she is always seen
in the act of washing the blood stains of her son from her hands.
Although ever trying to free herself of these marks of her unnatural
crime, it is in vain, as they are indelible stains which no water will
remove.
By a strange coincidence, some years ago, in altering a window
shutter, a quantity of antique copy-books were discovered pushed into
the rubble between the joints of the floor, and one of these books was
so covered with blots as to fully answer the description in the
narrative above. It is noteworthy, also, that Lady Russell had no
comfort in her sons by her first husband. Her youngest son, a
posthumous child, caused her special trouble, insomuch so that she
wrote to her brother-in-law, Lord Burleigh, for advice how to treat
him. This may have been, it has been suggested, the unfortunate boy
who was flogged to death, though he seems to have lived to near man's
estate. Lady Russell was buried at Bisham, by the remains of her first
husband, Sir Thomas Hoby, and her portrait may still be seen,
representing her in widow's weeds and with a very pale face.
A mysterious crime is traditionally reported to have, some years ago,
taken place at the old parsonage at Market, or East Lavington, near
Devizes--now pulled down. The ghost of the lady supposed to have been
murdered haunted the locality, and it has been said a child came to an
untimely end in the house. "Previous to the year 1818," writes a
correspondent of _Notes and Queries_, "a witness states his father
occupied the house, and writes that 'in that year on Feast Day, being
left alone in the house, I went to my room. It was the one with marks
of blood on the floor. I distinctly saw a white figure glide into the
room. It went round by the washstand near the bed and disappeared!'"
It may be added that part of the road leading from Market Lavington to
Easterton which skirts the grounds of Fiddington House, used to be
looked upon as haunted by a lady who was locally known as the
"Easterton ghost." But in the year 1869 a wall was built round the
roadside of the pond, and curiously close to the spot where the lady
had been in the habit of appearing two skeletons were disturbed--one
of a woman, the other of a child. The bones were buried in the
churchyard, and no ghost, it is said, has since been seen. It would
seem, also, that blood stains, wherever they may fall, are equally
indelible; and even to this day the New Forest peasant believes that
the marl he digs is still red with the blood of his ancient foes, the
Danes, a form of superstition which we find existing in various
places.
For very many years the road from Reigate to Dorking, leading through
a lonely lane into the village of Buckland, was haunted by a local
spectre known as the "Buckland Shag," generally supposed to have been
connected with a love tragedy. In the most lonely part of this lane a
stream of clear water ran by the side of--which laid for years--a
large stone, concerning which the following story is told: Once on a
time, a lovely blue-eyed girl, whose father was a substantial yeoman
in the neighbourhood, was wooed and won by the subtle arts of an
opulent owner of the Manor House of Buckland.
In the silence of the evening this lane was their accustomed walk, the
scene of her devoted love and of his deceitful vows. Here he swore
eternal fidelity, and the unsuspecting girl trusted him with the
confiding affection of her innocent heart. It was at such a moment
that the wily seducer communicated to her the real nature of his
designs, the moon above being only the witness of his perfidy and her
distress. She heard the avowal in tremulous silence, but her deadly
paleness, and her expressive look of mingled reproach and terror
created alarm even in the mind of her would-be seducer, and he hastily
endeavoured to recall the fatal declaration; but it was too late, she
sprang from his agitated grasp, and, with a sigh of agony, fell dead
at his feet.
When he beheld the work of his iniquitous designs, he was seized with
distraction, and drawing a dagger from his bosom, he plunged it into
his own false heart, and lay stretched by the side of her he had so
basely wronged. On the morrow, as a peasant passed over the little
stream, he saw a dark stone with drops of blood trickling from its
heart into the pure limpid water. From that day the stream retained
its untainted purity, and the stone continued its sacrifice of blood.
Soon afterwards a terrific object was seen hovering at midnight about
this fatal spot, taking its position at first upon the "bleeding
stone," but it was ousted by the lord of the manor, who removed the
blood-tainted stone to his own premises, to satisfy the timid minds of
his neighbours. But the stone still continued to bleed, nor did its
removal in any way intimidate the spectre. Connected with this
alarming midnight visitor, writes a correspondent of _The Gentleman's
Magazine_, "I remember a circumstance related to me by those who were
actually acquainted with the facts, and with the person to whom they
refer. An inhabitant of Buckland, who had attended Reigate Market and
become exceedingly intoxicated, was joked by a companion upon the
subject of the 'Buckland Shag,' whereupon he laid a wager that if Shag
appeared in his path that night he would fight him with his trusty
hawthorn. Accordingly he set forth, and arrived at the haunted spot.
The spectre stood in his path, and, raising his stick, he struck it
with all his strength, but it made no impression, nor did the goblin
move. The stick fell as upon a blanket--so the man described it--and
he instantly became sober, while a cold tremor ran through every nerve
of his athletic frame.
He hurried on, and the spectre followed. At length he arrived at his
own door; then, and not till then, did the spectre vanish, leaving the
affrighted man in a state of complete exhaustion upon the threshold of
his cottage. He was carried to his bed, and from that bed he never
rose again; he died in a week."
Similarly, there is a romantic old legend connected with Kilburn
Priory, to the effect that there was formerly, not far distant, a
stone of dark red colour, which was said to be the stain of the blood
of St. Gervase de Mertoun. The story goes that Stephen de Mertoun,
being enamoured of his brother's wife, made immoral overtures to her,
which she threatened to make known to Sir Gervase, to prevent which
disclosure Stephen resolved to waylay his brother and slay him. By a
strange coincidence, the identical stone on which his murdered body
had expired formed a part of his tomb, and the eye of the murderer
resting upon it, adds the legend, blood was seen to issue from it.
Struck with horror at this sight, Stephen de Mertoun hastened to the
Bishop of London, and making confession of his guilt, demised his
property to the Priory of Kilburn.
In the same way the Cornishman knows, from the red, filmy growth on
the brook pebbles, that blood has been shed--a popular belief still
firmly credited. Some years ago a Cornish gentleman was cruelly
murdered, and his body thrown into a brook; but ever since that day
the stones in this brook are said to be spotted with gore--a
phenomenon which had never occurred previously. And, according to
another strange Cornish belief told of St. Denis's blood, it is
related that at the very time when his decapitation took place in
Paris, blood fell on the churchyard of St. Denis. It is further said
that these blood stains are specially visible when a calamity of any
kind is near at hand; and before the breaking out of the plague, it is
said the stains of the blood of St. Denis were seen; and, "during our
wars with the Dutch, the defeat of the English fleet was foretold by
the rain of gore in this remote and sequestered place."
It is also a common notion that not only are the stains of human blood
wrongfully shed ineffaceable, but a curse lights upon the ground,
causing it to remain barren for ever. There is, for instance, a
dark-looking piece of ground devoid of verdure in the parish of
Kirdford, Sussex. Local tradition says that this was formerly green,
but the grass withered gradually away soon after the blood of a
poacher, who was shot there, trickled down on the place. But perhaps
the most romantic tale of this kind was that known as the "Field of
Forty Footsteps." A legendary story of the period of the Duke of
Monmouth's Rebellion describes a mortal conflict which took place
between two brothers in Long Fields, afterwards called Southampton
Fields, in the rear of Montague House, Bloomsbury, on account of a
lady who sat by. The combatants fought so furiously as to kill each
other, after which their footsteps, imprinted on the ground in the
vengeful struggle, were reported "to remain, with the indentations
produced by their advancing and receding; nor would any grass or
vegetation grow afterwards over these forty footsteps." The most
commonly received version of the story is, that two brothers were in
love with the same lady, who would not declare a preference for
either, but coolly sat upon a bank to witness the termination of a
duel which proved fatal to both. Southey records this strange story in
his "Commonplace Book,"[29] and after quoting a letter from a friend,
recommending him to "take a view of those wonderful marks of the
Lord's hatred to duelling, called 'The Brothers' Steps,'" he thus
describes his own visit to the spot: "We sought for near half an hour
in vain. We could find no steps at all within a quarter of a mile, no,
nor half a mile, of Montague House. We were almost out of hope, when
an honest man, who was at work, directed us to the next ground
adjoining to a pond. There we found what we sought, about
three-quarters of a mile north of Montague House and five hundred
yards east of Tottenham Court Road. The steps are of the size of a
large human foot, about three inches deep, and lie nearly from
north-east to south-west. We counted only twenty-six; but we were not
exact in counting. The place where one or both the brothers are
supposed to have fallen is still bare of grass. The labourer also
showed us the bank where, the tradition is, the wretched woman sat to
see the combat." Miss Porter and her sister founded upon this tragic
romance their story, "Coming Out, or the Field of Forty Footsteps";
and at Tottenham Street Theatre was produced, many years ago, an
effective melodrama based upon the same incident, entitled "The Field
of Footsteps."
Another romantic tale of a similar nature is connected with Montgomery
Church walls, and is locally designated "The Legend of the Robber's
Grave," of which there are several versions, the most popular one
being this: Once upon a time, a man was said to have been wrongfully
hanged at Montgomery; and, when the rope was round his neck, he
declared in proof of his innocence that grass would never grow on his
grave. Curious to relate, be the cause what it may, there is yet to be
seen a strip of sterility--in the form of a cross--amidst a mass of
verdure.[30]
Likewise, the peasantry still talk mysteriously of Lord Derwentwater's
execution, and tell how his blood could not be washed away. Deep and
lasting were the horror and grief which were felt when the news of his
death reached his home in the north. The inhabitants of the
neighbourhood, it is said, saw the coming vengeance of heaven in the
Aurora Borealis which appeared in unwonted brilliancy on the evening
of the execution, and which is still known as "Lord Derwentwater's
Light" in the northern counties; the rushing Devil's Water, too, they
said, ran down with blood on that terrible night, and the very corn
which was ground on that day came tinged from the mill with crimson.
Lord Derwentwater's death, too, was all the more deplored on account
of his having long been undecided as to whether he should embrace the
enterprise against the House of Hanover. But there had long been a
tradition in his family that a mysterious and unearthly visitant
appeared to the head of the house in critical emergencies, either to
warn of danger, or to announce impending calamity. One evening, a few
days before he resolved to cast in his lot with the Stuarts, whilst he
was wandering amid the solitudes of the hills, a figure stood before
him in robe and hood of grey.
This personage is said to have sadly reproached the Earl for not
having already joined the rising, and to have presented him with a
crucifix which was to render him secure against bullet or sword
thrust. After communicating this message the figure vanished, leaving
the Earl in a state of bewilderment. The mysterious apparition is
reported to have spoken with the voice of a woman, and as it is known
that "in the more critical conjunctures of the history of the Stuarts
every device was practised by secret agents to gain the support of a
wavering follower," it is not difficult to guess at a probable
explanation of the ghost of the Dilston Groves. It may be added that
at Dilston, Lady Derwentwater was long said to revisit the pale
glimpses of the moon to expiate the restless ambition which impelled
her to drive Lord Derwentwater to the scaffold.
But how diverse have been the causes of many of these romantic blood
stains may be gathered from another legendary tale connected with
Plaish Hall, near Cardington, Shropshire. The report goes that a party
of clergymen met together one night at Plaish Hall to play cards. In
order that the real object of their gathering might not be known to
any but themselves, the doors were locked. Before very long, however,
they flew open without any apparent cause. Again they were locked, but
presently they burst open a second time, and even a third. Astonished
at what seemed to baffle explanation, and whilst mutually wondering
what it could mean, a panic was suddenly created when, in their midst,
there appeared a mysterious figure resembling the Evil One. In a
moment the invited guests all rose and fled, leaving the unfortunate
host by himself "face to face with the enemy."
What happened after their departure was never divulged, for no one
"ever saw that wretched man again, either alive or dead." That he had
died some violent death was generally surmised, for a great stain of
blood shaped like a human form was found on the floor of the room, and
despite all efforts the mark could never be washed out. Ever since
this inexplicable occurrence, the house has been haunted, and at
midnight a ghostly troop of horses are occasionally heard, creating so
much noise as to awaken even heavy sleepers.
And Aubrey in his "Miscellanies" tells how when the bust of Charles
I., carved by Bernini, "was brought in a boat upon the Thames, a
strange bird--the like whereof the bargemen had never seen--dropped a
drop of blood, or blood-like, upon it, which left a stain not to be
wiped off." The strange story of this ill-fated bust is more minutely
told by Dr. Zacharay Grey in a pamphlet on the character of Charles
I.: "Vandyke having drawn the king in three different faces--a
profile, three-quarters, and a full face--the picture was sent to Rome
for Bernini to make a bust from it. Bernini was unaccountably dilatory
in the work, and upon this being complained of, he said that he had
set about it several times, but there was something so unfortunate in
the features of the face that he was shocked every time that he
examined it, and forced to leave off the work, and, if there was any
stress to be laid on physiognomy, he was sure the person whom the
picture represented was destined to a violent end."
The bust was at last finished and sent to England. As soon as the ship
that brought it arrived in the river, the king, who was very impatient
to see the bust, ordered it to be carried immediately to Chelsea. It
was conveyed thither, and placed upon a table in the garden, whither
the king went with a train of nobility to inspect the bust. As they
were viewing it, a hawk flew over their heads with a partridge in his
claws, which he had wounded to death. Some of the partridge's blood
fell upon the neck of the bust, where it remained without being wiped
off. This bust was placed over the door of the king's closet at
Whitehall and continued there till the palace was destroyed by fire.
FOOTNOTES:
[25] D'Israeli's "Curiosities of Literature."
[26] See Harland and Wilkinson's "Lancashire Folklore," 135-136.
[27] "Book of Days," I., 235.
[28] This tradition is the basis of the drama called "The Yorkshire
Tragedy," and was adopted by Ainsworth in his "Romance of Rookwood."
[29] 2nd Ser., p. 21.
[30] A curious legend is related by Roger de Hoveden, which shows the
antiquity of the Wakefield mills. "In the year 1201, Eustace, Abbot of
Flaye, came over into England, preaching the duty of extending the
Sabbath from three o'clock p.m. on Saturday to sunrising on Monday
morning, pleading the authority of an epistle written by Christ
himself, and found on the altar of St. Simon at Golgotha. The people of
Yorkshire treated the fanatic with contempt, and the miller of
Wakefield persisted in grinding his corn after the hour of cessation,
for which disobedience his corn was turned into blood, while the
mill-wheel stood immovable against all the water of the Calder."
CHAPTER VII.
CURIOUS SECRETS.
"And now I will unclasp a secret book,
And to your quick-conceiving discontent
I'll read your matter deep and dangerous."
1. HENRY IV., Act 1., sc. 3.
"The Depository of the Secrets of all the World" was the inscription
over one of the brazen portals of Fakreddin's valley, reminding us of
what Ossian said to Oscar, when he resigned to him the command of the
morrow's battle, "Be thine the secret hill to-night," referring to the
Gaelic custom of the commander of an army retiring to a secret hill
the night before a battle to hold communion with the ghosts of
departed heroes. But, as it has been often remarked of secrets--both
political and social--they are only too frequently made to be
revealed, a truth illustrative of Ben Jonson's words in "The Case is
Unaltered "--
A secret in his mouth
Is like a wild bird put into a cage,
Whose door no sooner opens but 'tis out.
In family history, some of the strangest secrets have related to
concealment of birth, many a fraud having been devised to alter or
perpetuate the line of issue. Early in the present century, a romantic
story which was the subject of conversation in the circles both of
London and Paris, related to Lady Newborough, who had always
considered herself the daughter of Lorenzo Chiappini, formerly gaoler
of Modigliana, and subsequently constable at Florence, and of his wife
Vincenzia Diligenti. Possessed in her girlhood of fascinating
appearance and charming manners, she came out as a ballet dancer at
the principal opera at Florence, and one night she so impressed Lord
Newborough that, by means of a golden bribe, he had her transferred
from the stage to his residence. His conduct towards her was tender
and affectionate, and, in spite of the disparity of years, he
afterwards married her, introducing her to the London world as Lady
Newborough.
Some time after her marriage, according to a memoir stated to be
written by the fair claimant of the House of Orleans, and printed in
Paris before the Revolution of 1830 but immediately suppressed, when
staying at Sienna she received a posthumous letter from her supposed
father, which, from its extraordinary disclosures, threw her into
complete bewilderment.[31] It ran as follows:
MY LADY,--I have at length reached the term of my days without
having revealed to anyone a secret which directly concerns me and
yourself. The secret is this:
On the day when you were born, of a person whom I cannot name and
who now is in the other world, a male child of mine was also
born. I was requested to make an exchange; and, considering the
state of my finances in those days, I accepted to the
often-repeated and advantageous proposals, and at that time I
adopted you as my daughter in the same manner as my son was
adopted by the other party.
I observe that heaven has repaired my faults by placing you in
better circumstances than your father, although his rank was
somewhat similar. This enables me to end my days with some
comfort.
Let this serve to extenuate my culpability towards you. I entreat
your pardon for my fault. I desire you, if you please, to keep
this transaction secret, in order that the world shall not have
any opportunity to speak of an affair which is now without
remedy.
This, my letter, you will not receive until after my death.
LORENZO CHIAPPINI.
After receiving this letter, Lady Newborough sent for Ringrezzi, the
confessor of the late gaoler, and Fabroni, a confessor of the late
Countess Borghi, and was told by the former that, in his opinion, she
was the daughter of the Grand Duke Leopold; but the latter disagreed,
saying, "Myladi is the daughter of a French lord called Count
Joinville, who had considerable property in Champagne; and I entertain
no doubt that if your ladyship were to go to that province you would
there find valuable documents, which I have been told were there left
in the hands of a respectable ecclesiastic."
It is further stated that two old sisters of the name of Bandini, who
had been born and educated in the house of the Borghis, and been
during all their life in the service of that family, informed Lady
Newborough, and afterwards in the Ecclesiastical Court of Faenza, that
in the year 1773 they followed their master and mistress to
Modigliana, where the latter usually had their summer residence in a
chateau belonging to them; that, arriving there, they found a French
count, Louis Joinville, and his countess, established in the Pretorial
Palace. They further affirmed that between the Borghis and this family
a very intimate intercourse was soon established and that they daily
interchanged visits.
Furthermore, the foreign lord, it is said, was extremely familiar with
persons of the lowest rank, and particularly with the gaoler,
Chiappini, who lived under the same roof. The wives of both were
pregnant; and it appeared that they expected their delivery much about
the same time. But the Count was tormented with a grievous anxiety;
his wife had as yet had no male offspring, and he much feared that
they would never be blessed with any. Having communicated his project
to the Borghis, he at length made an overture to the gaoler, telling
him he apprehended the loss of a very great inheritance, which
absolutely depended on the birth of a son, and that he was disposed,
in case the Countess gave birth to a daughter, to exchange her for a
boy, and that for this exchange he would liberally recompense the
father. The man, highly pleased at finding his fortune thus
unexpectedly made, immediately accepted the offer, and the bargain
was concluded.
Immediately after the accouchment of the ladies, one of the Bandinis
went to the Pretorial Palace to see the new-born babies, when some
women in the house told her that the exchange had already taken place;
and Chappiani himself being present, confirmed their statement. But as
there were several persons in the secret--however solemnly secrecy had
been promised--public rumour soon accused the barterers. The Count
Louis, fearing the people's indignation, concealed himself in the
Convent of St. Bernard, at Brisighella.
The lady, it is added, departed with her suppositious son; her own
daughter being baptized and called Maria Stella Petronilla, and
designated as the daughter of Lorenzo Chappiani and Vincenzia
Diligenti.
Having learnt so much, Lady Newborough being in Paris in the year
1823, had recourse to a stratagem by which she expected to gain
additional information. Accordingly she inserted in the newspapers,
"that she had been desired by the Countess Pompeo Borghi to discover
in France a Count Louis Joinville, who in the year 1773 was with his
Countess at Modigliana, where the latter gave birth to a son on the
16th April, and that if either of these persons were still alive, or
the child born at Modigliana, she was empowered to communicate to them
something of the highest importance.
Subsequently to this advertisement, she was waited upon by a Colonel
Joinville, but he derived his title only from Louis XVIII. But before
the Colonel was out of the door, she had a call from the Abbé de
Saint-Fare, whom she gave to understand that she was anxious to
discover the identity of a birth connected with the sojourn with the
late Comte de Joinville. In the course of conversation, this Abbé is
stated to have made most injudicious admissions, from which Lady
Newborough gathered that he was the confidential agent of the Duke of
Orleans, being currently said to be his illegitimate brother.
Lady Newborough was now convinced in her own mind that she was the
eldest child of the late Duke of Orleans, and hence was the first
princess of the blood of France, and the rightful heiress of immense
wealth. But this discovery brought her no happiness, and subjected to
her to much discomfort and misery. Her story--whether true or
false--will in all probability remain a mystery to the end of time,
being one of those political puzzles which must remain an open
question.
Secret intrigue, however, at one time or another, has devised the most
subtle plans for supplanting the rightful owner out of his
birthright--a second wife through jealously entering into some
shameful compact to defraud her husband's child by his former wife of
his property in favour of her own. Such a secret conspiracy is
connected with Draycot, and, although it has been said to be one of
the most mysterious in the whole range of English legends, yet,
singular as the story may be, writes Sir Bernard Burke, "no small
portion of it is upon record as a thing not to be questioned; and it
is not necessary to believe in supernatural agency to give all parties
credit for having faithfully narrated their impressions." The main
facts of this strange story are briefly told: Walter Long of Draycot
had two wives, the second being Catherine, daughter of Sir John
Thynne, of Longleat. On their arrival at Draycot after the honeymoon,
there were great rejoicings into which all entered save the heir of
the houses of Draycot and Wraxhall, who was silent and sad. Once
arrived in her new home, the mistress of Draycot lost no time in
studying the character of her step-son, for she had an object in view
which made it necessary that she should completely understand his
character. Her design was, in short, that the young master of Draycot,
"the heir of all his father's property--the obstruction in the way of
whatever children there might be by the second marriage--must be
ruined, or at any rate so disgraced as to provoke his father to
disinherit him." Taking into her confidence her brother, Sir Egremont
Thynne, of Longleat, with his help she soon discovered that the
youthful heir of Draycot was fond of wine and dice, and that he had on
more than one occasion met with his father's displeasure for
indulgence in such acts of dissipation. Having learnt, too, that the
young man was kept on short supplies by his parsimonious father, and
had often complained that he was not allowed sufficient pocket-money
for the bare expenses of his daily life; the crafty step-mother seized
this opportunity for carrying out her treacherous and dishonourable
conduct. Commiserating with the inexperienced youth in his want of
money, and making him feel more than ever dissatisfied at his father's
meanness to him, she quickly enlisted him on her side, especially when
she gave him liberal supplies of money, and recommended him to enjoy
his life whilst it was in his power to do so.
With a full rather than an empty purse, the young squire was soon seen
with a cheerful party over the wine bottle, and, at another time, with
a gambling group gathered round the dice box. But this kind of thing
suited admirably his step-mother, for she took good care that such
excesses were br
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