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."



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 maitre 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 a 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 Archaeological 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."