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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.