INDELIBLE BLOOD STAINS.
"Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood
Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnardine,
Making the green one red."--MACBETH.
It was a popular suggestion in olden times that when a person had died
a violent death, the blood stains could not be washed away, to which
Macbeth alludes, as above, after murdering Duncan. This belief was in
a great measure founded on the early tradition that the wounds of a
murdered man were supposed to bleed afresh at the approach or touch of
the murderer. To such an extent was this notion carried, that "by the
side of the bier, if the slightest change were observable in the eyes,
the mouth, feet, or hands of the corpse, the murderer was conjectured
to be present, and many an innocent spectator must have suffered
death. This practice forms a rich pasture in the imagination of our
old writers; and their histories and ballads are laboured into pathos
by dwelling on this phenomenon."[25] At Blackwell, near Darlington,
the murder of one Christopher Simpson is described in a pretty local
ballad known as "The Baydayle Banks Tragedy." A suspected person was
committed, because when he touched the body at the inquest, "upon his
handlinge and movinge, the body did bleed at the mouth, nose, and
ears," and he turned out to be the murderer. Similarly Macbeth (Act
III., sc. 4), speaking of the ghost, says:--
"It will have blood; they say blood will have blood;
Stones have been known to move and trees to speak,
Auguries and understood relations have
By magot pies and choughs and rooks brought forth
The secret'st man of blood."
Shakespeare here, in all probability, alludes to some story in which
the stones covering the corpse of a murdered man were said to have
moved of themselves, and so revealed the secret. In the same way, it
was said that where blood had been shed, the marks could not be
obliterated, but would continually reappear until justice for the
crime had been obtained. On one occasion, Nathaniel Hawthorne enjoyed
the hospitality of Smithells Hall, Lancashire, and was so impressed
with the well-known legend of "The Bloody Footstep" that he, in three
separate instances, founded fictions upon it. In his romance of
"Septimius" he gives this graphic account of what he saw: "On the
threshold of one of the doors of Smithells Hall there is a bloody
footstep impressed into the doorstep, and ruddy as if the bloody foot
had just trodden there, and it is averred that on a certain night of
the year, and at a certain hour of the night, if you go and look at
the doorstep, you will see the mark wet with fresh blood. Some have
pretended to say that this is but dew, but can dew redden a cambric
handkerchief? And this is what the bloody footstep will surely do when
the appointed night and hour come round." A local tradition says that
the stone bearing the imprint of the mysterious footprint was once
removed and cast into a neighbouring wood, but in a short time it had
to be restored to its original position owing to the alarming noises
which troubled the neighbourhood. This strange footprint is
traditionally said to have been caused by George Marsh, the martyr,
stamping his foot to confirm his testimony, and has been ever since
shewn as the miraculous memorial of the holy man. The story is that
"being provoked by the taunts and persecutions of his examiner, he
stamped with his foot upon a stone, and, looking up to heaven,
appealed to God for the justice of his cause, and prayed that there
might remain in that place a constant memorial of the wickedness and
injustice of his enemies." It is also stated that in 1732 a guest
sleeping alone in the Green Chamber at Smithells Hall saw an
apparition, in the dress of a minister with bands, and a book in his
hand. The ghost of Marsh, for so it was pronounced to be, disappeared
through the doorway, and on the owner of Smithells hearing the story,
he directed that divine service--long discontinued--should be resumed
at the hall chapel every Sunday.[26]
Then there are the blood stains on the floor at the outer door of the
Queen's apartments in Holyrood Palace, where Rizzio was murdered. Sir
Walter Scott has made these blood marks the subject of a jocular
passage in his introduction to the "Chronicles of the Canongate,"
where a Cockney traveller is represented as trying to efface them with
the patent scouring drops which it was his mission to introduce into
use in Scotland. In another of his novels--"The Abbot"--Sir Walter
Scott alludes to the Rizzio blood stains, and in his "Tales of a
Grandfather" he deliberately states that the floor at the head of the
stair still bears visible marks of the blood of the unhappy victim. In
support of these blood stains, it has been urged that "the floor is
very ancient, manifestly much more so than the late floor of the
neighbouring gallery, which dated from the reign of Charles II. It is
in all likelihood the very floor upon which Mary and her courtiers
trod. The stain has been shown there since a time long antecedent to
that extreme modern curiosity regarding historical matters which might
have induced an imposture, for it is alluded to by the son of Evelyn
as being exhibited in the year 1722."[27]
At Condover Hall, Shropshire, there is supposed to be a blood stain
which has been there since the time of Henry VIII., and cannot be
effaced. According to a local tradition, which has long been current
in the neighbourhood, it is the blood of Lord Knevett--the owner of
the hall and estate at this period--who was treacherously slain by his
son. But unfortunately this piece of romance, which is utterly at
variance with facts bearing on the history of Condover and its owners
in years gone by, must be classed among the legendary tales of the
locality. One room in Clayton Old Hall, Lancashire, has for years past
been knicknamed "The Bloody Chamber," from some supposed stains of
human gore on the oaken floor planks. Numerous stories have, at
different times, been started to account for these blood-tokens, which
have gained all the more importance from the mansion having, from time
immemorial, been the favourite haunt of a mischievious boggart until
laid by the parson, and now--
Whilst ivy climbs and holly is green
Clayton Hall boggart shall no more be seen.
In Lincoln Cathedral there are two fine rose windows, one made by a
master workman, and the other by his apprentice, out of the pieces of
stained glass the former had thrown aside. The apprentice's window was
declared to be the more magnificent, when the master, in a fit of
chagrin, threw himself from the gallery beneath his boasted _chef
d'oeuvre_, and was killed upon the spot. But his blood-stains on
the floor are declared to be indelible. At Cothele, a mansion on the
banks of the Tamar, the marks are still visible of the blood spilt by
the lord of the manor when, for supposed treachery, he slew the warder
of the drawbridge; but these are only to be seen on a wet day.
But there is no mystery about the so-called "Bloody Chamber," for the
marks are only in reality natural red tinges of the wood, denoting the
presence of iron.
In addition to the appearance of such indelible marks of crime,
oftentimes the ghost of the spiller of blood, or of the murdered
person, haunts the scene. Thus, Northam Tower, Yorkshire, an embattled
structure of the time of Henry VII.--a true Border mansion--has long
been famous for the visits of some mysterious spectre in the form of a
lady who was cruelly murdered in the wood, her blood being pointed out
on the stairs of the old tower. Another tragic story is told of the
Manor House which Bishop Pudsey built at Darlington. It was for very
many years a residence of the Bishops of Durham, and a resting place
of Margaret, bride of James IV., of Scotland, and daughter of Henry
VII., in her splendid progress through the country. This building was
restored at great expense in the year 1668, and gained a widespread
notoriety on account of the ghost story of Lady Jerratt, who was
murdered there; but, as a testimony of the violent death she had
received, "she left on the wall ghastly impressions of a thumb and
fingers in blood for ever," and always made her appearance with one
arm, the other having been cut off for the sake of a valuable ring on
one of the fingers.
One room of Holland House is supposed to be haunted by Lord Holland,
the first of his name and the chief builder of this splendid old
mansion. According to Princess Marie Lichtenstein, in her "History of
Holland House," "the gilt room is said to be tenanted by the solitary
ghost of its first lord, who, runs the tradition, issues forth at
midnight from behind a secret door, and walks slowly through the
scenes of former triumphs with his head in his hand." And to add to
this mystery, there is a tale of three spots of blood on one side of
the recess whence he issues--three spots which can never be effaced.
Stains of blood--stains that cannot be washed away--are to be seen on
the floor of a certain room at Calverley Hall, Yorkshire. And there is
one particular flag in the cellar which is never without a mysterious
damp place upon it, all the other flags being dry. Of course these are
the witnesses of a terrible tragedy which was committed years ago
within the walls of Calverley Hall. It appears that Walter Calverley,
who had married Philippa Brooke, daughter of Lord Cobham, was a wild
reckless man, though his wife was a most estimable and virtuous lady,
and that one day he went into a fit of insane jealousy, or pretended
to do so, over the then Vavasour of Weston. Money lenders, too, were
pressing him hard, and he had become desperate. Rushing madly into the
house, he plunged a dagger into one and then into another of his
children, and afterwards tried to take the life of their mother, a
steel corset which she wore luckily saving her life. Leaving her for
dead, he mounted his horse with the intention of killing the only
other child he had, and who was then at Norton. But being pursued by
some villagers, his horse stumbled and threw him off, and the assassin
was caught, being pressed to death at York Castle for his crimes. Not
only have the stains of this bloody tragedy ever since been indelible,
but the spirit of Walter Calverley could not rest, having often been
seen galloping about the district at night on a headless horse.[28]
And, speaking of ghosts which appear in this eccentric fashion, we may
note that Eastbury House, near Blandford--now pulled down--had in a
certain marble-floored room, ineffaceable stains of blood,
attributable, it is said, to the suicide of William Doggett, the
steward of Lord Melcombe, whose headless spirit long haunted the
neighbourhood.
As a punishment for her unnatural cruelty in causing her child's
death, it is commonly reported that the spirit of Lady Russell is
doomed to haunt Bisham Abbey, Berkshire, the house where this act of
violence was committed. Lady Russell had by her first husband a son,
who, unlike herself, had a natural antipathy to every kind of
learning, and so great was his obstinate repugnance to learning to
write that he would wilfully blot over his copy-books in the most
careless and slovenly manner. This conduct so irritated his mother
that, to cure him of the propensity, she beat him again and again
severely, till at last she beat him to death. To atone for her
cruelty, she is now doomed to haunt the room where the fatal deed was
perpetrated; and, as her apparition glides along, she is always seen
in the act of washing the blood stains of her son from her hands.
Although ever trying to free herself of these marks of her unnatural
crime, it is in vain, as they are indelible stains which no water will
remove.
By a strange coincidence, some years ago, in altering a window
shutter, a quantity of antique copy-books were discovered pushed into
the rubble between the joints of the floor, and one of these books was
so covered with blots as to fully answer the description in the
narrative above. It is noteworthy, also, that Lady Russell had no
comfort in her sons by her first husband. Her youngest son, a
posthumous child, caused her special trouble, insomuch so that she
wrote to her brother-in-law, Lord Burleigh, for advice how to treat
him. This may have been, it has been suggested, the unfortunate boy
who was flogged to death, though he seems to have lived to near man's
estate. Lady Russell was buried at Bisham, by the remains of her first
husband, Sir Thomas Hoby, and her portrait may still be seen,
representing her in widow's weeds and with a very pale face.
A mysterious crime is traditionally reported to have, some years ago,
taken place at the old parsonage at Market, or East Lavington, near
Devizes--now pulled down. The ghost of the lady supposed to have been
murdered haunted the locality, and it has been said a child came to an
untimely end in the house. "Previous to the year 1818," writes a
correspondent of _Notes and Queries_, "a witness states his father
occupied the house, and writes that 'in that year on Feast Day, being
left alone in the house, I went to my room. It was the one with marks
of blood on the floor. I distinctly saw a white figure glide into the
room. It went round by the washstand near the bed and disappeared!'"
It may be added that part of the road leading from Market Lavington to
Easterton which skirts the grounds of Fiddington House, used to be
looked upon as haunted by a lady who was locally known as the
"Easterton ghost." But in the year 1869 a wall was built round the
roadside of the pond, and curiously close to the spot where the lady
had been in the habit of appearing two skeletons were disturbed--one
of a woman, the other of a child. The bones were buried in the
churchyard, and no ghost, it is said, has since been seen. It would
seem, also, that blood stains, wherever they may fall, are equally
indelible; and even to this day the New Forest peasant believes that
the marl he digs is still red with the blood of his ancient foes, the
Danes, a form of superstition which we find existing in various
places.
For very many years the road from Reigate to Dorking, leading through
a lonely lane into the village of Buckland, was haunted by a local
spectre known as the "Buckland Shag," generally supposed to have been
connected with a love tragedy. In the most lonely part of this lane a
stream of clear water ran by the side of--which laid for years--a
large stone, concerning which the following story is told: Once on a
time, a lovely blue-eyed girl, whose father was a substantial yeoman
in the neighbourhood, was wooed and won by the subtle arts of an
opulent owner of the Manor House of Buckland.
In the silence of the evening this lane was their accustomed walk, the
scene of her devoted love and of his deceitful vows. Here he swore
eternal fidelity, and the unsuspecting girl trusted him with the
confiding affection of her innocent heart. It was at such a moment
that the wily seducer communicated to her the real nature of his
designs, the moon above being only the witness of his perfidy and her
distress. She heard the avowal in tremulous silence, but her deadly
paleness, and her expressive look of mingled reproach and terror
created alarm even in the mind of her would-be seducer, and he hastily
endeavoured to recall the fatal declaration; but it was too late, she
sprang from his agitated grasp, and, with a sigh of agony, fell dead
at his feet.
When he beheld the work of his iniquitous designs, he was seized with
distraction, and drawing a dagger from his bosom, he plunged it into
his own false heart, and lay stretched by the side of her he had so
basely wronged. On the morrow, as a peasant passed over the little
stream, he saw a dark stone with drops of blood trickling from its
heart into the pure limpid water. From that day the stream retained
its untainted purity, and the stone continued its sacrifice of blood.
Soon afterwards a terrific object was seen hovering at midnight about
this fatal spot, taking its position at first upon the "bleeding
stone," but it was ousted by the lord of the manor, who removed the
blood-tainted stone to his own premises, to satisfy the timid minds of
his neighbours. But the stone still continued to bleed, nor did its
removal in any way intimidate the spectre. Connected with this
alarming midnight visitor, writes a correspondent of _The Gentleman's
Magazine_, "I remember a circumstance related to me by those who were
actually acquainted with the facts, and with the person to whom they
refer. An inhabitant of Buckland, who had attended Reigate Market and
become exceedingly intoxicated, was joked by a companion upon the
subject of the 'Buckland Shag,' whereupon he laid a wager that if Shag
appeared in his path that night he would fight him with his trusty
hawthorn. Accordingly he set forth, and arrived at the haunted spot.
The spectre stood in his path, and, raising his stick, he struck it
with all his strength, but it made no impression, nor did the goblin
move. The stick fell as upon a blanket--so the man described it--and
he instantly became sober, while a cold tremor ran through every nerve
of his athletic frame.
He hurried on, and the spectre followed. At length he arrived at his
own door; then, and not till then, did the spectre vanish, leaving the
affrighted man in a state of complete exhaustion upon the threshold of
his cottage. He was carried to his bed, and from that bed he never
rose again; he died in a week."
Similarly, there is a romantic old legend connected with Kilburn
Priory, to the effect that there was formerly, not far distant, a
stone of dark red colour, which was said to be the stain of the blood
of St. Gervase de Mertoun. The story goes that Stephen de Mertoun,
being enamoured of his brother's wife, made immoral overtures to her,
which she threatened to make known to Sir Gervase, to prevent which
disclosure Stephen resolved to waylay his brother and slay him. By a
strange coincidence, the identical stone on which his murdered body
had expired formed a part of his tomb, and the eye of the murderer
resting upon it, adds the legend, blood was seen to issue from it.
Struck with horror at this sight, Stephen de Mertoun hastened to the
Bishop of London, and making confession of his guilt, demised his
property to the Priory of Kilburn.
In the same way the Cornishman knows, from the red, filmy growth on
the brook pebbles, that blood has been shed--a popular belief still
firmly credited. Some years ago a Cornish gentleman was cruelly
murdered, and his body thrown into a brook; but ever since that day
the stones in this brook are said to be spotted with gore--a
phenomenon which had never occurred previously. And, according to
another strange Cornish belief told of St. Denis's blood, it is
related that at the very time when his decapitation took place in
Paris, blood fell on the churchyard of St. Denis. It is further said
that these blood stains are specially visible when a calamity of any
kind is near at hand; and before the breaking out of the plague, it is
said the stains of the blood of St. Denis were seen; and, "during our
wars with the Dutch, the defeat of the English fleet was foretold by
the rain of gore in this remote and sequestered place."
It is also a common notion that not only are the stains of human blood
wrongfully shed ineffaceable, but a curse lights upon the ground,
causing it to remain barren for ever. There is, for instance, a
dark-looking piece of ground devoid of verdure in the parish of
Kirdford, Sussex. Local tradition says that this was formerly green,
but the grass withered gradually away soon after the blood of a
poacher, who was shot there, trickled down on the place. But perhaps
the most romantic tale of this kind was that known as the "Field of
Forty Footsteps." A legendary story of the period of the Duke of
Monmouth's Rebellion describes a mortal conflict which took place
between two brothers in Long Fields, afterwards called Southampton
Fields, in the rear of Montague House, Bloomsbury, on account of a
lady who sat by. The combatants fought so furiously as to kill each
other, after which their footsteps, imprinted on the ground in the
vengeful struggle, were reported "to remain, with the indentations
produced by their advancing and receding; nor would any grass or
vegetation grow afterwards over these forty footsteps." The most
commonly received version of the story is, that two brothers were in
love with the same lady, who would not declare a preference for
either, but coolly sat upon a bank to witness the termination of a
duel which proved fatal to both. Southey records this strange story in
his "Commonplace Book,"[29] and after quoting a letter from a friend,
recommending him to "take a view of those wonderful marks of the
Lord's hatred to duelling, called 'The Brothers' Steps,'" he thus
describes his own visit to the spot: "We sought for near half an hour
in vain. We could find no steps at all within a quarter of a mile, no,
nor half a mile, of Montague House. We were almost out of hope, when
an honest man, who was at work, directed us to the next ground
adjoining to a pond. There we found what we sought, about
three-quarters of a mile north of Montague House and five hundred
yards east of Tottenham Court Road. The steps are of the size of a
large human foot, about three inches deep, and lie nearly from
north-east to south-west. We counted only twenty-six; but we were not
exact in counting. The place where one or both the brothers are
supposed to have fallen is still bare of grass. The labourer also
showed us the bank where, the tradition is, the wretched woman sat to
see the combat." Miss Porter and her sister founded upon this tragic
romance their story, "Coming Out, or the Field of Forty Footsteps";
and at Tottenham Street Theatre was produced, many years ago, an
effective melodrama based upon the same incident, entitled "The Field
of Footsteps."
Another romantic tale of a similar nature is connected with Montgomery
Church walls, and is locally designated "The Legend of the Robber's
Grave," of which there are several versions, the most popular one
being this: Once upon a time, a man was said to have been wrongfully
hanged at Montgomery; and, when the rope was round his neck, he
declared in proof of his innocence that grass would never grow on his
grave. Curious to relate, be the cause what it may, there is yet to be
seen a strip of sterility--in the form of a cross--amidst a mass of
verdure.[30]
Likewise, the peasantry still talk mysteriously of Lord Derwentwater's
execution, and tell how his blood could not be washed away. Deep and
lasting were the horror and grief which were felt when the news of his
death reached his home in the north. The inhabitants of the
neighbourhood, it is said, saw the coming vengeance of heaven in the
Aurora Borealis which appeared in unwonted brilliancy on the evening
of the execution, and which is still known as "Lord Derwentwater's
Light" in the northern counties; the rushing Devil's Water, too, they
said, ran down with blood on that terrible night, and the very corn
which was ground on that day came tinged from the mill with crimson.
Lord Derwentwater's death, too, was all the more deplored on account
of his having long been undecided as to whether he should embrace the
enterprise against the House of Hanover. But there had long been a
tradition in his family that a mysterious and unearthly visitant
appeared to the head of the house in critical emergencies, either to
warn of danger, or to announce impending calamity. One evening, a few
days before he resolved to cast in his lot with the Stuarts, whilst he
was wandering amid the solitudes of the hills, a figure stood before
him in robe and hood of grey.
This personage is said to have sadly reproached the Earl for not
having already joined the rising, and to have presented him with a
crucifix which was to render him secure against bullet or sword
thrust. After communicating this message the figure vanished, leaving
the Earl in a state of bewilderment. The mysterious apparition is
reported to have spoken with the voice of a woman, and as it is known
that "in the more critical conjunctures of the history of the Stuarts
every device was practised by secret agents to gain the support of a
wavering follower," it is not difficult to guess at a probable
explanation of the ghost of the Dilston Groves. It may be added that
at Dilston, Lady Derwentwater was long said to revisit the pale
glimpses of the moon to expiate the restless ambition which impelled
her to drive Lord Derwentwater to the scaffold.
But how diverse have been the causes of many of these romantic blood
stains may be gathered from another legendary tale connected with
Plaish Hall, near Cardington, Shropshire. The report goes that a party
of clergymen met together one night at Plaish Hall to play cards. In
order that the real object of their gathering might not be known to
any but themselves, the doors were locked. Before very long, however,
they flew open without any apparent cause. Again they were locked, but
presently they burst open a second time, and even a third. Astonished
at what seemed to baffle explanation, and whilst mutually wondering
what it could mean, a panic was suddenly created when, in their midst,
there appeared a mysterious figure resembling the Evil One. In a
moment the invited guests all rose and fled, leaving the unfortunate
host by himself "face to face with the enemy."
What happened after their departure was never divulged, for no one
"ever saw that wretched man again, either alive or dead." That he had
died some violent death was generally surmised, for a great stain of
blood shaped like a human form was found on the floor of the room, and
despite all efforts the mark could never be washed out. Ever since
this inexplicable occurrence, the house has been haunted, and at
midnight a ghostly troop of horses are occasionally heard, creating so
much noise as to awaken even heavy sleepers.
And Aubrey in his "Miscellanies" tells how when the bust of Charles
I., carved by Bernini, "was brought in a boat upon the Thames, a
strange bird--the like whereof the bargemen had never seen--dropped a
drop of blood, or blood-like, upon it, which left a stain not to be
wiped off." The strange story of this ill-fated bust is more minutely
told by Dr. Zacharay Grey in a pamphlet on the character of Charles
I.: "Vandyke having drawn the king in three different faces--a
profile, three-quarters, and a full face--the picture was sent to Rome
for Bernini to make a bust from it. Bernini was unaccountably dilatory
in the work, and upon this being complained of, he said that he had
set about it several times, but there was something so unfortunate in
the features of the face that he was shocked every time that he
examined it, and forced to leave off the work, and, if there was any
stress to be laid on physiognomy, he was sure the person whom the
picture represented was destined to a violent end."
The bust was at last finished and sent to England. As soon as the ship
that brought it arrived in the river, the king, who was very impatient
to see the bust, ordered it to be carried immediately to Chelsea. It
was conveyed thither, and placed upon a table in the garden, whither
the king went with a train of nobility to inspect the bust. As they
were viewing it, a hawk flew over their heads with a partridge in his
claws, which he had wounded to death. Some of the partridge's blood
fell upon the neck of the bust, where it remained without being wiped
off. This bust was placed over the door of the king's closet at
Whitehall and continued there till the palace was destroyed by fire.
FOOTNOTES:
[25] D'Israeli's "Curiosities of Literature."
[26] See Harland and Wilkinson's "Lancashire Folklore," 135-136.
[27] "Book of Days," I., 235.
[28] This tradition is the basis of the drama called "The Yorkshire
Tragedy," and was adopted by Ainsworth in his "Romance of Rookwood."
[29] 2nd Ser., p. 21.
[30] A curious legend is related by Roger de Hoveden, which shows the
antiquity of the Wakefield mills. "In the year 1201, Eustace, Abbot of
Flaye, came over into England, preaching the duty of extending the
Sabbath from three o'clock p.m. on Saturday to sunrising on Monday
morning, pleading the authority of an epistle written by Christ
himself, and found on the altar of St. Simon at Golgotha. The people of
Yorkshire treated the fanatic with contempt, and the miller of
Wakefield persisted in grinding his corn after the hour of cessation,
for which disobedience his corn was turned into blood, while the
mill-wheel stood immovable against all the water of the Calder."