III.
When Didcott woke the next morning he was at first unable to convince himself that his previous night's experience was not merely a bad dream. Then he was lost in astonishment that he could have behaved so idiotically.
He started for Fleet Street at the usual time, but to his disgust found himself blenching before every policeman. Always impulsive, he darted into a barber's shop, and emerged with a beardless face. After this, he was able to confront the world with eyes that did not shift uneasily.
During the course of the day, he wrote a letter to Miss Winder, telling her he had been unfortunate enough to leave her priceless manuscript in a hansom cab, but that he had no doubt of eventually recovering it.
The immediate effect of his note was to bring Miss Winder pale with consternation to his office.
"'OH, MR. DIDCOTT,' SAID MISS WINDER, 'HAVE YOU FOUND MY NOVEL YET?'"
"Oh, Mr. Didcott," she cried, as she entered breathlessly, "have you found it yet?"
"Not yet, Miss Winder. There has been no time."
"How could you have been so—so careless?"
It had not struck him before that his imagined tale left him culpable. In a moment he rent the air with his lamentation.
"Can you ever forgive me my shameful carelessness?" he wound up. "But even if you do, it will matter little, for I can never forgive myself."
She softened at once. "You mustn't blame yourself, Mr. Didcott," she observed, earnestly. "It is an accident that might have happened to anyone."
He took her hand, and pressed it tenderly. "How good you are to me!" he said, brokenly.
She blushed and withdrew her hand hastily, and then felt a little sorry she had done so.
During the following weeks nothing was heard of the unfortunate manuscript. Didcott was always at Mr. Winder's house consulting with the daughter and devising schemes for the recovery of her novel.
Each day brought with it an increase of intimacy. The novel was still the ostensible cause of his visits, but as a subject for conversation it had begun to show a tendency to diminish in value. Something more purely personal commenced to take its place.
One day, about a month after the episode that has been related, Didcott and Miss Winder sat together in the latter's boudoir, chatting confidentially.
"I have been wondering whether I ought to write another book," observed Miss Winder, meditatively.
"I should not if I were you," replied Didcott, with considerable emphasis.
"Why?"
"I don't deny it would be a great book," said Didcott, diplomatically, "but somehow I don't want you to be a literary woman."
Miss Winder smiled a little to herself.
"Why not, Mr. Didcott?" she asked, coyly.
"Oh, I don't know." Then he looked at her. "You were never meant for literary work."
"What!"
"I mean, judging from your appearance," he explained hastily. "Literary ladies are seldom attractive. Their shoulders have an ugly stoop, and they always wear glasses. Oh, no, you mustn't go in for literature."
She smiled tolerantly.
"There is something in what you say—literary women do dress anyhow; but I should like to write just one more book."
He went on hurriedly—
"No sensible man would ever marry a literary woman, however much he cared for her. If a friend of mine was going to marry a lady novelist, I would at once go out and buy him a millstone—yes, and I could fix it for him. It would be an obvious duty."
"Oh, Mr. Didcott!" exclaimed this very young lady, impressed, "are they as bad as all that?"
He nodded darkly.
"But, Mr. Didcott, if a woman has genius——"
He glanced up.
"Take your case, Miss Winder. You have genius. Go on, and you may become a famous novelist. On the other hand, you may marry, and live happily ever afterwards; but you cannot do both."
"I think," Miss Winder observed, ingenuously, "that I shall not write any more."
He pressed her hand.
"Elsie," he began, passionately, "there is something I want to ask you. Oh! Elsie——"
And then the door opened, and the maid came in to say that a man wished to speak to Miss Winder.
"What man—what about?" asked Miss Winder, sharply; for the interruption had come at an inopportune moment.
"About some advertisement, miss."
"Oh, yes, I know. Show him in." She turned to Didcott. "It's about my novel—news at last, evidently."
"News?"
"Yes. I forgot to tell you that I put an advertisement in the Times and the Morning Post. It only appeared this morning, and here is somebody already."
Didcott felt a faintness steal over him. "What did you say in the advertisement?" he asked.
"Oh, I simply said that on such and such a date, and at such and such a time, a parcel was left in a cab, and I asked anyone who knew anything about it to call here."
"I will leave you to interview this man," said Didcott. "I shall only be in the way."
"Oh, no, no," she cried; "it is so lucky you are here."
"THE DOOR OPENED, AND DIDCOTT
RECOGNISED THE FORM OF THE POLICEMAN
FROM WHOM HE HAD ESCAPED."
"THE DOOR OPENED, AND DIDCOTT RECOGNISED THE FORM OF THE POLICEMAN FROM WHOM HE HAD ESCAPED."
Just then the door opened, and with a sinking heart Didcott recognised the short stout form of the policeman from whom he had escaped. He shrank back in his seat and uttered a fervent prayer for non-recognition.
"I saw your advertisement, miss," began the policeman, "and I thought as how I might give you some information."
"Thank you," replied Miss Winder. "And do you really think you know where the parcel is?"
The policeman pursed his lips. "I know where a parcel is. But p'raps it ain't the same."
"Oh, it must be the same. Have you got it with you?"
"Did the parcel contain valuables?"
"No—yes. Yes, very valuable contents."
"I thought so," said the policeman.
"Where is it?" repeated Miss Winder, impatiently.
The policeman shook his head. "It was like this, miss," he went on. "I was on Westminster Bridge one night, and I sees a gentleman running very quick and nervous like."
"A gentleman?" queried Miss Winder.
"In evening dress. Quite the toff. So I turns and follows him."
"Did he have the parcel?"
"No, miss. Suddenly a cab drives along the bridge, and the cabman hollers out to the gentleman as how he has left a parcel in the cab. The gen'leman was took aback, and said as how it wasn't his. So the cabman said he'd drive round to where he had picked up his fare and inquire——"
"Yes," said the girl.
"At that the gentleman turns quite white, and says it is his parcel. He hops into the cab, picks up the parcel, and is off before you could say 'Jack Robinson.'"
"You shouldn't have let this strange man take my parcel," said Miss Winder, excitedly.
"I didn't know as how it was yours," said the policeman, "but being suspicious like, I hangs about the bridge, and presently I sees the gen'leman come creeping back, and then he chucks the parcel over the bridge."
"Oh, oh!" cried the girl. "Into the water? "
"Yes, 'm."
"Who was this man? Mr. Didcott, who could this man have been?"
"I don't know," muttered Didcott, painfully conscious that the policeman's heavy eyes were on his face. "Probably it was a different parcel altogether."
"What was the man like," demanded Miss Winder.
"Beg pardon, lady, but he was very much like this here gentleman."
"What!" cried Miss Winder.
"Don't listen to such rubbish," exclaimed Didcott, rising. "Constable, how dare you talk such nonsense?" He stood trembling, with beads of perspiration starting on his forehead.
"The gen'leman had a beard," observed the policeman, impartially.
"You had a beard then, don't you remember?" said Miss Winder, mystified. "How very strange!"
"I am quite sure now as how it was this gen'leman," remarked the constable, imperturbably.
The girl turned on Didcott. Thought after thought chased each other in succession through her brain.
"Did you throw my story into the water?" she asked, in a low voice.
"Yes," said Didcott, and felt relieved. For the first time he dared to meet the policeman's gaze. "Send this man away, and I'll tell you the whole thing." He felt in his waistcoat pocket and drew out a sovereign. "Here, take this and get out."
The policeman took the coin, and stood doubtfully with it between his finger and thumb.
"Yes, please go," said Miss Winder, faintly.
"Shall I wait outside, mum?"
"Confound you, no," shouted Didcott. "Go right away."
"Right away," echoed Miss Winder.
The constable turned and left the room, not dissatisfied with the results of his interview. When the door had closed on him, Didcott turned to Miss Winder.
"What will you think of me? What can you think of me? Of course you will never speak to me again."
"I—I don't understand. Why ever did you throw my story into the water?"
Didcott groaned. "I would to heaven I had thrown myself. How I could have done so monstrous a thing, I can't understand."
"But why? You must have had some kind of reason," persisted the young lady.
"Your father insisted that it should be published in the Didactic Weekly, and it seemed the only way to get rid of it," blurted out Didcott.
Miss Winder drew back a pace. "But you liked it. You said it reminded you of George Eliot at her best. You said it was a work of genius."
"It wasn't!" replied Didcott, briefly.
"What!" cried Miss Winder, her voice raised an octave.
"It was pure drivel," said Didcott, firmly.
Miss Winder sat down suddenly, and began to cry.
Didcott struck his forehead. "I am a brute!" he cried. "I am still a brute." He went on his knees and implored her to smile.
"You pretended you liked it," sobbed the girl.
"I know I did. I was a hypocrite; and now I am being punished."
"You have been laughing at me, all this time," said Miss Winder, wiping her eyes, and becoming dignified.
"No, no. Understand how I was situated. I have worked for years for the Didactic Weekly. My life's work is in it. I have struggled for it and brought it to success; it is part of my life. And then I was told I must publish your story. It would have made me the laughing stock of the journalistic world. It would have damaged if not ruined my paper. I couldn't bear it. I——"
"You might have told me this," said Miss Winder, proudly. "I should have accepted your opinion. I have sense enough not to insist on publishing what is not fit for publication. Why could you not have treated me like a reasonable being?"
"I wanted to," said Didcott, still on his knees. "I came here to do so, but couldn't. I didn't like to disappoint you. I hadn't the heart."
"It was your duty to do so."
"'GET UP, MR. DIDCOTT,' SHE SAID,
'YOU DO LOOK RIDICULOUS ON THE CARPET.'"
"'GET UP, MR. DIDCOTT,' SHE SAID, 'YOU DO LOOK RIDICULOUS ON THE CARPET.'"
"Ah, I am only a man, and you are a beautiful woman. I was weak."
"Oh," said the lady, and pondered. A pause intervened. "Get up, Mr. Didcott," she said at length. "You do look rather ridiculous on the carpet."
Didcott rose. "I will go away, and you need never see me again. I will resign my editorship at once." He moved towards the door.
"Oh, no," she cried.
He turned.
She came towards him. "Don't you see, Mr. Didcott," she said, a little petulantly, "I don't want to be made ridiculous. I have been conceited and foolish, believing I was a great authoress, when really I have been writing nonsense. I don't want it to get about."
"I will tell no one," he said, earnestly.
"Yes, but——" She was silent a moment. "What I want is that we should mutually agree to forget the whole of this stupid business."
"It is a bargain," he answered, eagerly. "We will slam the door on the past."
She looked away. "Not on all the past," she murmured, "only the past that is concerned with my novel."
"Shall we take up our history from the point where it intervened to-day?" he queried.
She made no sign, save that the flush on her cheek deepened.
Remarkable Secret Chambers.
STORIES OF QUEER HIDING PLACES
Written and Illustrated by Allan Fea.
The secret chamber is a favourite item in the properties of the novelist, but few people are aware how many secret chambers really exist. They are not quite so numerous as "ghosts," but many of our country houses still possess these queer hiding places. The majority of them owe their origin to the religious persecutions of Queen Bess.
CAPTAIN ARTHUR JONES WAS HARDLY CONCEALED IN THE SECRET CHAMBER AT CHASTLETON, WHEN THE ENEMY ARRIVED TO SEARCH THE HOUSE.
In the mansions of the old Roman Catholic families we often find an apartment in a secluded part of the house or garret in the roof, named "the Chapel," where religious rites could be performed with the utmost privacy; and close handy was usually an artfully contrived hiding place, not only for the officiating priest to slip into in case of emergency, but also where the vestments, sacred vessels, and altar furniture could be put away at a moment's notice.
It appears that most of the hiding places for priests, called "Priests' Holes," were invented and constructed by the Jesuit, Nicholas Owen, a servant of Father Garnet, who devoted the greater part of his life to constructing these places in the principal Catholic houses all over England.
"With incomparable skill," says Father Tanner, writing in the seventeenth century, "he knew how to conduct priests to a place of safety along subterranean passages, to hide them between walls and bury them in impenetrable recesses, and to entangle them in labyrinths of a thousand windings.
"He alone was both their architect and their builder, working at them with inexhaustible industry and labour; for generally the thickest walls had to be broken into, and large stones excavated, requiring stronger arms than were attached to a body so diminutive as to give him the nickname of 'Little John'; and by this his skill many priests were preserved from becoming the prey of the persecutors."
SWINGING SHELVES IN A CUPBOARD AT ABBOTS SALFORD OPENING INTO A SECRET RECESS.
The shelves closed.
After the discovery of the Gunpowder Plot, "Little John" and his master Father Garnet were arrested at Hindlip Hall, Worcestershire, from information given to the Government by Catesby's servant, Bates.
The grey old Jacobean mansion, Chastleton, preserves in its oak-panelled hall the sword and portrait of the gallant Cavalier, Captain Arthur Jones, who, narrowly escaping from the battlefield, rode home with all speed with some of Cromwell's soldiers at his heels, and his wife, a lady of great courage, had scarcely concealed him in the secret chamber, when the enemy arrived to search the house.
PRIEST'S HOLE AT BOSCOBEL HOUSE USED BY CHARLES II.
Little daunted, the lady, with great presence of mind, made no objection whatever—indeed, facilitated their operations by personally conducting them over the mansion. Here, as in so many other instances, the secret room was entered from the principal bedroom, and in inspecting the latter the suspicion of the Roundheads was in some way or other aroused. So here they determined to remain for the rest of the night.
An ample supper and a good store of wine (which, by the way, had been carefully drugged) was sent up to the unwelcome visitors, and in due course the drink effected its purpose, and its victims dropped off one by one until the whole party lay like logs upon the floor.
Mrs. Arthur Jones then crept in, having even to step over the bodies of the inanimate Roundheads, released her husband, and, a fresh horse being in readiness, by the time the effects of the wine had worn off, the Royalist captain was far beyond their reach. The secret room is situated in the front of the building, and has now been converted into a very cosy little dressing-room, preserving its panelled wainscoting, and but little altered, with the exception of the entry to it, which is now by an ordinary door.
The shelves open.
The above tradition has been provided by Miss Whitmore Jones, the present representative of the family.
Abbots Salford, another fine old mansion, has its chapel and resident priest for the services still held there.
In a dark passage up in the garrets is the priest's hole, as ingeniously concealed and intact as it was three centuries ago. By removing a wooden peg from a particular shelf in the most innocent-looking of cupboards, the whole back of it, oak shelves and all, swings backwards into a large and dismal recess four feet in depth. This ingenious swing door may be fastened on the inside by a stout wooden bolt provided for that purpose.
SECRET CHAMBER UNDER A ROOM IN MOSELEY HALL—ALSO USED BY CHARLES II.
When the Civil War was raging, many a defeated Royalist owed his preservation to the priests' holes and secret chambers of the old Catholic houses all over the country. Did not King Charles II. himself owe his life to the artful hiding-places of Boscobel, Moseley, Trent, and Heale?
After the defeat of Wigan the gallant Earl of Derby sought refuge at Boscobel, and after a sojourn of two days proceeded to Gatacre Park—now rebuilt, but also famous for its hiding holes—where he was concealed by a Mr. Humphrey Elliot. When the day was lost on the disastrous 3rd of September, the Earl suggesting his recent place of concealment and the loyalty of the Penderels, Boscobel House was decided upon as the safest place for the King in his dire extremity. "I chose to trust them," says King Charles, "because I knew they had hiding holes for priests that I thought I might make use of in case of need."
A door now occupies the position of the sliding panel in the wainscoting of "the squire's bedroom," behind which one of the hiding places is situated. In the floor a trap-door can be raised, below which is a recess some five feet square, and this communicated by a narrow flight of steps in the great chimney to an outlet screened by creepers, leading to the garden.
The other hiding place is entered from the floor above through a small square hole at the top of a staircase leading to what is known as "the gallery"—a large attic from the windows of which Charles II. could get a good view of the surrounding country, and where he could take some exercise and stretch his limbs after the narrow confinement of his uncomfortable sleeping quarters. The hiding place in the garret is five feet two inches in depth and 3¼ by 4½ feet wide.
SECRET CHAMBER UNDER A WINDOW SEAT AT PARHAM HALL.
The priest's hole at Moseley Hall, whither His Majesty removed when he left Boscobel, is situated at the back of a large brewhouse chimney, and is entered through a trap-door in the floor of a small room or closet adjoining the apartment which was occupied by the fugitive King. His narrow escape when the house was visited by Southall, the notorious priest-catcher, has thus graphically been described by Charles' host, Mr. Thomas Whitgreave:—
"In the afternoon, reposing himself on his bed in the parlour chamber, and inclining to sleep, as I was watching at the window, one of the neighbours I saw came running in, who told the maid soldiers were coming to search, who therefore presentlie came running to the staires' head and cried, 'Soldiers! Soldiers are coming!' which His Majesty hearing, presentlie started out of his bedd, and ran to his privacie, where I secured him the best I could, and then leaving him, went forth into the street to meet the soldiers who were comeing to search; as soon as they saw me and knew who I was, they were readie to pull mee to pieces, and take me away with them, saying I was come from the Worcester fight, but after much dispute with them, and by the neighbours being informed of their false information that I was not there, being very ill a great while, they let mee goe, but till I saw them clearly all gone forth of the town, I returned not. But as soon as they were I returned to release him."
In a corner of the priest's hole is a low brick seat. The walls are of brick, and huge oak beams, in one of which we noticed a wooden pin, about an inch in diameter, that could be easily pulled out by the fingers. In all likelihood a straw or reed could be passed through to supply an inmate with liquid food, as we shall see was the case at Harvington.
Window seats often contained secret means of ingress to priests' holes. In the long gallery of Parham Hall, Sussex, not far from "the chapel," is an example wherein Charles Paget was concealed for some days after the failure of the Babington Conspiracy.
THE MOVABLE STAIR AT HARVINGTON HALL, BENEATH WHICH IS A ROOM FIVE FEET SQUARE.
TRAP-DOOR IN ROCHESTER HOUSE, SAID TO HAVE BEEN USED BY JAMES II.
If we visit Harvington Hall in Worcestershire at twilight and ascend the massive oak staircase, it will require no great stretch of the imagination to people it with "pursuivants" hunting for their prey; or if we climb to the top landing, to conjure up an indistinct form stealthily removing the floorboard from one of the stairs and creeping beneath it.
This particular step of a short flight running from the landing into the garrets is upon closer inspection indeed movable, and beneath gapes a dark cavity about five feet square, on the floor of which still remains the piece of sedge matting whereon a certain Father Wall reclined a few days prior to his capture and execution in August 1679.
A small concealed aperture in the wainscoting of the "banqueting-room" would admit a straw being thrust from the hiding hole, through which caudles and broths could be sucked up by the unfortunate inmate should his friends be upon the alert.
The house of the loyal Sir Richard Head still exists at Rochester, where King James II. went from Whitehall for the last few days ere he quitted the country. He departed thence secretly. About twelve at night he was rowed to a smack which was waiting without the fort at Sheerness.
HIDING PLACE IN THE GARRET OF UFTON HALL.
There is a secret passage in the upper story communicating with a trap-door to the floor of one of the garrets; this leads by a private staircase to the back of the house. Whether King James found it necessary to make use of the secret passage and trap-door must remain an open question.
The curious, many-gabled mansion Ufton Court, Berkshire, both from its secluded situation and quaint internal construction, appears to have been peculiarly suitable for the secretion of persecuted priests.
A remarkable hole is to be seen in one of the gables close to the ceiling, of which a sketch is given in the heading to this article. It is triangular in shape, and is opened by a spring bolt that can be unlatched by pulling a string which runs through a tiny hole pierced in the framework of the door of the adjoining room. The door of the hiding place swings upon a pivot, and externally is thickly coated with plaster, so as to resemble the rest of the wall, and is so solid that when sounded there is no hollow sound from the cavity behind, where it is supposed the crucifix and sacred vessels were secreted.
Not far off, in an upper garret, is a hiding place in the thickness of the wall large enough to contain a man standing upright. Like the other, the door or entrance forms part of the plaster wall, intersected by thick oak beams, into which it exactly fits, disguising any appearance of an opening.
Sawston Hall, Cambridgeshire, the fine old mansion of the Huddlestons, has a remarkable hiding place on the top landing of a quaint spiral staircase. When one of the floor-boards is raised, a round hole or tunnel is discovered in the stone masonry slanting into the wall, where is a space ten or twelve feet deep, and of sufficient breadth to contain any sized priest, should he succeed in squeezing through the aforesaid circular entrance, which would not admit a very bulky person.
Blocks of oak fixed upon the inside of the floor-board fit exactly into sockets scooped out of the beams which run at right angles and support the landing, and unless the movable board be pointed out it is impossible to detect it, so ingenious is its construction.
These are but a few of the stories that might be told of these quaint hiding-places which abound in England and Scotland. Unfortunately the buildings in which they exist are gradually disappearing. The pictures and facts here given, however, will bring vividly to mind the romantic and exciting conditions under which some of our forefathers lived.
ENTRANCE TO TUNNEL UNDER FLOOR-BOARDS AT SAWSTON HALL.
THIS TOWER ON LEITH HILL CONTAINS ITS BUILDER'S BODY.
DEAD MEN'S STRANGE WISHES.
SOME QUEER BURIAL PLACES.
By H. G. Archer.
Strange requests are often made by men when they are dying or in their wills. And few are stranger than those made concerning their mode of burial.
The most extraordinary of all was that made by the celebrated Jeremy Bentham. The great philanthropist and exponent of the doctrine of utilitarianism, dying in 1832, left directions that his body should be dissected, and that the skeleton should be put together, and after being clothed in his old vestments, should be seated in a sort of glasshouse on wheels. The first part of the programme was performed by his faithful disciple, Dr. Southwood Smith, who, in endeavouring to preserve the head, deprived the face of all expression. Seeing this would not do for exhibition purposes, Dr. Smith had a model made in wax by a distinguished French artist, who succeeded in producing a most admirable likeness.
The skeleton was then stuffed out to fit Bentham's own clothes, and the wax likeness fitted to the trunk. This figure was placed seated on the chair in which he usually sat, with one hand holding the walking-stick which was his constant companion in life, called by him (like a dog) "Dapple." The whole was enclosed in a mahogany case with a glass front, covered by folding doors, and presented to University College, Gower Street, where it can be seen in the south gallery of the college museum. Our sketch was made on the spot specially for this article.
To those knowing the story the spectacle is certainly a startling one—to all appearances a living man is seated within the case; while to those ignorant of the facts the figure seems to be nothing more than a wax effigy. Mr. Bentham has a whole host of visitors, nearly all Americans though, many of whom want to take photographs.
THE STUFFED BODY OF JEREMY BENTHAM IN UNIVERSITY COLLEGE.
Next in point of interest comes the strange request of Anthony Ettericke, who was an eminent lawyer, and once Recorder of Poole. Having some cause of offence against the people of Wimborne, in which town he lived, he declared that he was to be buried in a consecrated spot, but not above nor below the ground, not in the church nor out of it.
To make certain that this was done he got permission to build a coffin into the wall of Wimborne Minster, so that it is half in the church and half out, half above the ground and half below it. To do this a special arch had to be made, and for the repair of this arch and the coffin Anthony Ettericke gave to the church a sum of 20s. from a farm. To bury him the wall of the church level with the pavement was opened and the body deposited in the coffin as described. It is of slate, and is emblazoned with many coats-of-arms.
There are two dates on it, 1691 and 1703, one over the other, so as to render both almost unreadable. He was fully convinced that he should die in 1691, and had his coffin made and that date placed upon it. But he did not die till 1703, and so the second date was cut over the first.
An art gallery seems a queer place in which to bury bodies, and probably few of the inhabitants of Dulwich are aware that Dulwich College Picture Gallery contains three bodies—the bodies of the three people to whom that collection of pictures owes its existence.
Noll Joseph Desenfans was a native of Douai in France, but settled in London, first as a teacher of languages. He became possessed of a valuable picture by Claude, which he sold to George III. for 1,000 guineas, and so became a picture dealer.
Then Stanislaus, King of Poland, commissioned him to purchase pictures to form a National Gallery for Poland, and in this work Desenfans was helped by his friend Sir Francis Bourgeois, R.A.
THE SLATE COFFIN OF A MAN WHO WOULD NOT BE BURIED IN THE CHURCH NOR OUT OF IT, NOT ABOVE THE GROUND NOR BELOW IT.
When the Polish King was overthrown, the collection of pictures came back to Desenfans, and was housed in Sir F. Bourgeois' house in Charlotte Street, Portland Place, where Desenfans lived.
On his death Desenfans left his pictures to Bourgeois, and he decided to hand them over to some public body for the benefit of the public. Accident directed his attention to Dulwich College, to which he bequeathed his pictures.
The bequest was conditional. He wished a mausoleum to be erected in the gallery where his own remains and those of his friends Mons. and Mme. Desenfans might repose. The condition was accepted, and our photograph shows the burial place of these three patrons of the fine arts. The mausoleum can be entered from the Art Gallery.
Students of De Quincey will remember his tale of the "clock-case mummy." This was none other than the embalmed corpse of a Miss Beswick, which for many years posed as an exhibit in the Manchester Natural History Museum. When in the flesh, during the middle of the last century, this lady had been attended medically by a Dr. White, to whose skill she had owed much alleviation of her sufferings from chronic neuralgia. Accordingly, she left him a bequest of £25,000, but with the condition annexed to it that she should be embalmed, and that once a year Mr. White, accompanied by two witnesses of credit, should withdraw the veil from her face. To render this easy, Mr. White placed his benefactor in an ordinary grandfather's clock case, with the usual glass face. The doctor died in the year 1813, and the greater part of his museum was divided among the Manchester hospitals and museums, the mummy finding its way to the old Natural History Museum. When, however, the contents of this museum were transferred to Owens College, the authorities had the mummy buried.
EXTERIOR OF THE TRIPLE GRAVE IN THE DULWICH COLLEGE PICTURE GALLERY.
In 1783, the remains of Margaret, widow of Richard Coosins, of Parrock, Gravesend, were deposited in Cuxton church, near Rochester. Under a pyramidal mural monument is a vault with a glass door, covered with a green silk curtain, with a lock having a key standing inside. Here, resting upon tressels, is a mahogany coffin with gilt furniture, the lid of which is not screwed down. This coffin contains the body of the above lady, attired, so it is said, in a costly dress of scarlet satin, according to her wish.
In 1766, Richard Hull, a native of Bristol, bencher of the Inner Temple, and an ex-member of the Irish Parliament, resided at Leith Hill Place, Dorking. In that year, having obtained permission of the lord of the manor, Sir John Evelyn, of Wotton, he erected a tower on the summit of Leith Hill, both for the benefit of the public and to form his own cenotaph. Dying on January 18, 1772, his body was deposited within the east wall of the building, where a tablet of Portland stone marks the spot.
The subsequent history of this tower is rather curious. For many years it remained open to the public, but as this privilege was abused and the tower became a harbour for smugglers, gypsies, and other lawless characters, a subscription was raised in 1795 among the gentry in the locality to make it uninhabitable. The whole of the interior was then filled up with stones and cement, and remained in this state until a dozen years ago, when the present holder of the property announced his intention of reopening it to the public.
So solid was the cement, however, that it was found impossible to reopen the old entrance and interior staircase. Accordingly, a staircase tower was built by the side in order to make it available for the original purpose. A splendid view is to be obtained from its commanding situation—on a clear day the sea is even visible—but few of the holiday folk frequenting it are acquainted with its real history.
THIS SUMMER HOUSE IN RUINS HAS BEEN USED FOR NEARLY A HUNDRED YEARS AS A MAUSOLEUM.
Another well-known case of eccentric burial is that of the Rev. Langton Freeman, of Whilton, Northamptonshire. This gentleman, by his will, dated September 16, 1783, left the following singular directions for his interment. Five days after death his body was to be wrapped in a strong, double winding-sheet, and to be conveyed to a summer-house in his garden, where it was to be laid in the bed he had slept in during life. This being carried out, the doors and windows of the fragile mausoleum were to be locked up and bolted, and the building planted around with evergreen plants, and fenced off with oak pales, painted a dark blue colour.
His wishes were fulfilled to the letter, and only twenty years ago, when the property, owing to litigation, was without a rightful owner, and consequently much neglected, it was said that the remains in the derelict summer-house were plainly visible. The body is still there, but a large stone slab has been placed over the remains in the bedstead, as some time ago several vandals forced their way in and disturbed them. There is now some talk of removing the bones to the churchyard.
Before railroads swept away the mail-coaches, the coachmen on the London and York stage, as they clattered through Stevenage, used to point out the barn containing within its rafters the body of a farmer named Trigg. This worthy, who died in 1805, ordered that his remains, in a leaden coffin, should rest in this curious position for a period of thirty years. As a considerable sum of money depended upon the fulfilment of this caprice, the heirs were careful to see that it was duly carried out.
CHURCH TOWER AT PINNER WITH A PROJECTING COFFIN.
Another and somewhat similar case may be seen in Pinner churchyard at the present day, where a mausoleum, raised on arches above the ground, has a stone coffin inserted through it, one end of which—utilised as a tablet for the inscription—projects through. The story goes that the descendants of the occupant, a Scotch merchant named Loudoun, who died in 1804, enjoy a large property so long as it remains in this position, plainly above ground. There are even gratings at the foot of the edifice, probably in order to prove that there is no deception.
Sepulchral vagaries—of far commoner occurrence than might generally be supposed—vary considerably both in character and degree. Some are whimsical and fantastical in the extreme; others apparently consist only in shunning the usual and appointed places of interment, while the peculiarity of others appears, not in the place, but in the mode of burial. In the majority of instances where outlandish places have been chosen for sepulture, the individuals who selected them have been marked by some peculiarities worthy of observation.
For instance, Baskerville, the celebrated printer, whose infidel opinions shocked even the hardened Wilkes, directed that his body should be buried in a tomb of masonry on the site of an old windmill in the garden of his Birmingham residence. This direction proceeded from some curious disbelief in the "Revelation," but his wish was duly carried out on his death in 1775.
More extraordinary still is the case of Major Peter Labellere, the religious fanatic, who, in the year 1800, was interred upon the summit of Box Hill as follows:—The place appointed to receive his remains was about ten feet deep, more in the form of a well than a grave. The coffin was let down and placed on its head, with the feet upright, in that situation. The eccentric Major was firmly convinced that at the resurrection the world will be turned topsy-turvy, and he took this precaution in order that he might then find himself on his feet!
But queer burials are things of the past. For county councils and parish councils now prevent these eccentric interments in cellars, haylofts, and summer-houses.