Monday, May 2, 2016
Back in the bad old days, people were accused of witchcraft for a variety of reasons. Some were the victims of a deluded, but utterly sincere hysteria. Others found themselves charged out of personal spite or envy. Still others were targeted by psychopaths who took advantage of a socially acceptable way to exercise their sadistic instincts. And some witch accusers had--as was likely the case in the following story--a simple financial motive.
Alice Kyteler (or Kettle) came from a family of prosperous Flemish merchants who settled in Kilkenny, Ireland in the mid-thirteenth century. Alice married a merchant and moneylender named William Outlaw. They had a son, also called William. At a fairly young age, William junior became his mother's chief partner in the highly successful family business, particularly after his father died sometime before 1300. Moneylenders are generally not terribly popular, but they can certainly turn a profit. Alice and her son became extremely wealthy and influential figures in their community.
By 1302 Alice was remarried, to another moneylender, Adam le Blund. In that same year, the couple was accused of having poisoned her first husband, but the charges were evidently not pursued. In 1307, Adam signed a quit-claim granting his stepson William all of his goods, as well as canceling any debts William owed him. We do not know for sure what led Adam to make this notably munificent act, but we have ample proof that Adam's children from his previous marriage didn't like it one bit.
Adam le Blund died not long afterward. Alice then took on a third husband, Richard de Valle, a rich landowner from Tipperary. De Valle proved to be just as generous towards his stepson as his predecessor had been. By 1316, Alice was once again a widow. She subsequently sued de Valle's son for nonpayment of her widow's dower. Alice clearly did not let the remarkably short lifespans of her husbands discourage her from matrimony. By 1324, she had married yet again, to Sir John le Poer.
Alice's stepchildren continued to seethe over how she and her son had profited at their expense. The unusual and seemingly unnatural tendency her husbands had shown to favor her over their blood kin led them to the conclusion that she was practicing witchcraft. Only the dark arts, they reasoned, could explain the strange hold she seemed to have over her spouses.
In 1324, the stepchildren made a formal accusation to Richard Ledrede, Bishop of Ossory. The charges were colorful ones: Alice and William allegedly worshiped a demon called the Son of Art, and practiced animal sacrifice as offerings to him. (Alice also had sexual relations with the entity.) They supposedly held nightly Satanic rituals in the local church. They had a skull of a decapitated thief, in which they placed such unwholesome items as the internal organs of cocks, worms, fingernails cut from dead bodies, and the hair cut from boys who died unbaptized. These were used to make potions that would cast spells over people. Alice would sweep the streets of Kilkenny between compline and twilight, raking all the filth towards the doors of her son while softly murmuring, "To the house of William my sonne/Hie all the wealth of Kilkennie towne." All this sorcery was used in order to lure rich men into marrying Alice and bestowing all their wealth on her and her son. Just for good measure, Alice was also accused of poisoning John le Poer with that classic inheritance powder, arsenic. Le Poer had become mysteriously emaciated, and his hair and nails dropped off. His suspicions aroused by these alarming symptoms, he stole his wife's keys and opened her chests. Inside them, he found sackfuls of "horrible and detestable things," which he sent to the bishop as proof of Alice's diabolical practices.
The bishop wrote to Roger Outlaw, the king's chancellor in Ireland, demanding Alice's arrest. As it happened, Outlaw was a close relative--perhaps even a brother--of Alice's first husband. He chose to take his former in-law's side in the dispute. He refused to arrest the alleged sorceress on the grounds that he could not do so unless Alice had been tried by the church and excommunicated. Outlaw also appointed advocates to speak on her behalf.
Ledrede followed orders and promptly excommunicated Alice--in her absence, as she had prudently fled to Dublin. William Outlaw was charged with heresy and ordered to appear in court. Fortunately for him, he, like his mother, had powerful friends, most notably Arnold le Poer, Kilkenny's seneschal [chief administrative and judicial officer.] Le Poer came to William's defense by imprisoning Ledrede until the deadline for Alice's son to appear before the bishop had passed.
Ledrede retaliated by again ordering William and his mother to appear before him, as well as placing the entire diocese under interdict, meaning that no baptisms, marriages, or funerals could take place. (However, this interdict was lifted by his superior, the vicar of the archbishop of Dublin.)
Ledrede--dressed in his full episcopal regalia for maximum impact--stormed into le Poer's courtroom to demand Alice and William's arrest. Le Poer shrugged and had the bishop thrown out, calling the obstreperous man of God "an ignorant low-born vagabond" and "that vile, rustic interloping monk," to boot.
At this point, Alice once again enters our story. She went to the Dublin court charging Ledrede with defamation of character. She argued that her excommunication had been unlawful. All the squabbling parties eventually met in the Dublin court to present their various cases. Arnold le Poer claimed that he was under no obligation to obey Ledrede: "If some vagabond from England has obtained his bull in the pope's court, we do not have to obey it unless enjoined on us by the king's seal." He appealed to Irish nationalism, declaring that "heretics have never been found in Ireland...Now this foreigner comes from England and says we are all heretics and excommunicates...we must all unite against this man."
Unfortunately for Alice, le Poer's eloquence had little effect. Patriotism was all well and good, but the court felt that the supremacy of the Church came first. They took a very dim view of the disparaging way in which Ledrede had been treated, and ordered that the bishop be allowed to pursue the charges against these accused witches in any way he saw fit.
Alice decided that the game was up. She hurriedly left Dublin and managed to disappear. It was believed she resettled somewhere in England or Flanders, but her subsequent history is unknown. Ledrede formally charged William Outlaw with heresy, usury, perjury, adultery, clericide, and a number of lesser offenses. William pled guilty and threw himself on the bishop's mercy. Ledrede imprisoned Alice's son, but William's powerful friends induced the bishop to reduce the sentence to one of public penance. Outlaw was ordered to hear three masses a day for a period of one year, feed the poor, and pay for a new lead roof for St. Canice's cathedral. However, when Ledrede learned that William was failing to follow these orders, he threw him back into jail.
Outlaw was still considerably more fortunate than others pursued by the bishop. Former servants of Alice were arrested and, it is said, immediately confessed to having assisted Alice in her black magic rituals. They even admitted to other crimes of which no previous mention had been made. They were given various punishments: fines, banishment, public penance, floggings, even execution. The luckiest ones were able to flee the jurisdiction. "And thus," in the words of a contemporary chronicler, "by the authority of Holy Mother Church, and by the special grace of God, that most foul brood was scattered and destroyed."
The most notable victim of the witch hunt was Alice's maidservant, Petronilla de Meath. Under torture, she confessed to acting as a "medium" between Alice and the demon Son of Art. Petronilla declared that although she was an expert in the Black Arts, she was nothing in comparison with Alice, whom she stated was the most skillful witch in the world. William Outlaw, the maidservant added, deserved death as much as she, for he had worn the devil's girdle around his body for a year and a day. Lacking William's wealth and influence, the unfortunate woman was burned at the stake. A large bonfire was built in the center of town, where the bishop solemnly burned the sacks containing Alice's magical items retrieved by John le Poer.
A secondary casualty to Ledrede's personal Inquisition was Arnold le Poer. The bishop accused him of heresy and had him excommunicated and imprisoned. Le Poer died in his cell in 1331.
William, understandably cowed by all these terrifying examples of the bishop's wrath, gave up the fight. He literally prostrated himself in the mud before an assembly of Ledrede and various members of the clergy, and confessed all. Ledrede increased his penance. In addition to all the other instructions, Outlaw was ordered to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. And that lead roof for the cathedral had to be up within four years. As a footnote, the weight of all that lead caused the cathedral to collapse in 1332.
Just call it "Alice's Revenge."
Friday, April 29, 2016
This week's Link Dump is sponsored by Strange Company HQ staffer Kate, world-renowned as the Amazing Boneless Wonder!
What the hell is this hair in a coffin?
Watch out for those American dragons!
Watch out for the Midnight Terror Cave of Belize!
The Land of Missing Persons.
Audubon, master hoaxer.
The Pythagorean Sayings, or why you need to watch out for the sun when you urinate.
There's a village in Spain that's been cursed for the last 500 years. Hell on the real estate values, I'd guess.
The million-dollar poodle.
One really freaking expensive tulip.
The mad dogs of London.
The Finnish Witch of the North.
The man who taught the East India Company how to speak Burmese.
A museum honoring the last European woman executed for witchcraft.
The Wendigo Hunters.
Victorian aerial daredevils.
The woman who was one of the leading Anglo-Saxon warriors.
Britain's most famous witch.
When fashion foiled the fiend.
William Brereton, tragic tragidian.
The sisterhood of Jackie and Lee.
The rise of the Howard Dynasty.
Shorter version: We're all gonna die. Happy weekend.
A terrible accident in a cemetery, 1838.
The role of hashish in assassinations.
Say "Happy Birthday" to the world's oldest tree. Wherever it is
Working women in the Victorian era.
Doing the laundry, Georgian style.
Victorian jobs you would not want to have.
Fat-shaming in the Victorian era.
The "puerperal derangement" of Elizabeth Potter.
The officer and the Anzac.
Did they hang Jack the Ripper?
The momentous fall of Troy.
William Kidd, the pirate who was framed.
Belgrade's Nikola Tesla museum.
A bullet in the archives.
Frances Thompson, unsuccessful forger.
The tragedy of the White Ship.
World War I and the wrist watch.
19th century animal welfare.
18th century Parisian fortune tellers.
17th century Swedish sin.
The palace of the King of Rome.
The folklore of St. George's Day.
And, finally, what better way to kick off the weekend than with this wonderful ancient mosaic?
And there we go for this week. See you on Monday, when we'll be talking medieval Irish witchcraft. And poison. In the meantime, here be trumpets:
Wednesday, April 27, 2016
|Orford Castle in 1600|
Some weeks ago, I reprinted a 15th century legend involving a mermaid. As it happens, Orford Castle in Suffolk has an oddly similar tradition about an amphibian "wild man":
A curious story relating to Orford is told by Ralph of Coggeshall (abbot of the monastery there in the early part of the 13th century). Some fishermen on this coast (A.D. 1161) caught in their nets one stormy day a monster resembling a man in size and form, baldheaded, but with a long beard. It was taken to the Governor of Orford Castle, and kept for some time, being fed on raw flesh and fish, which it "pressed with its hands" before eating. The soldiers in the Castle used to torture the unhappy monster in divers fashions "to make him speak;" and on one occasion, when it was taken to the sea to disport itself therein, it broke through a triple barrier of nets and escaped. Strange to say, not long afterwards it returned of its own accord to its captivity; but at last, "being wearied of living alone, it stole away to sea and was never more heard of." A tradition of this monster, known as "the wild man of Orford," still exists in the village.~Publications of the Folk-Lore Society, Volume 37 (1895) citing Francis Grose, "Antiquities of England and Wales," Volume 3.
Monday, April 25, 2016
"Alas! the record of her page will tell
That one thus madden'd, lov'd, and guilty fell.
Who hath not heard of Blandy's fatal fame,
Deplor'd her fate, and sorrow'd o'er her shame?"
~"Henley," anonymous 1827 poem
In the year 1720, Mary Blandy was born into a notably comfortable and pleasant mileau. Her father, Francis Blandy, was an attorney in the pretty town of Henley-upon-Thames, in Oxfordshire. He was a skillful and reputable lawyer with a busy practice that left him both wealthy and respected. Mary's mother, who also came from a "good family," was eulogized as "an emblem of chastity and virtue; graceful in person, in mind elevated." The little family (Mary was an only child,) was a well-liked part of the local gentry. Mary grew up into an intelligent, charming, and pampered child, who seemed set for a dull, but fortunate life.
No doubt this aura of placid respectability explains why Mary's eventual murder trial was one of the great scandals of the 18th century.
As Mary grew into young womanhood, her parents naturally anticipated finding her a suitable husband. She was no beauty, but her fine mind, pleasing manner, and--last but by no means least--her dowry of a reputed ten thousand pounds, made her an object of great fascination to the eligible young men of her circle.
However, the local beaus were not good enough for Francis Blandy. He doted on his daughter, and dreamed of her making a more brilliant match than she could find in the relative backwater of Henley. Mary's parents took her to spend a season at Bath, famed for being Britain's leading matrimonial shopping center. She made the acquaintance of a number of young men who would have been happy to propose to her, and whom she herself would have happily accepted. Although most parents of Blandy's station in life would have found any of them entirely acceptable, Francis still was not satisfied. Her suitors were all "in trade," or not wealthy enough for his liking. Mr. Blandy's insistence about finding Mary the husband of his dreams was leaving her in danger of never finding a husband at all.
By 1746, Mary was a 26-year-old spinster. She was well into the age when a young lady was considered "on the shelf" and she was getting increasingly frustrated about it. This sense of time running out undoubtedly contributed to the attraction she instantly felt to a man she met at a dinner party, a 32-year-old Scottish soldier named William Henry Cranstoun.
Cranstoun seemed an unlikely sort to sweep any woman off her feet. A contemporary bluntly but eloquently described him as "remarkably ordinary, his stature is low, his face freckled and pitted with the smallpox,his eyes small and weak, his eyebrows sandy, and his shape no ways genteel; his legs are clumsy, and he has nothing in the least elegant in his manner." If you are imagining that the Scot had a character and charm that made up for his lack of conventional male beauty, think again. This same biographer commented that "He has a turn for gallantry, but Nature has denied him the proper gifts; he is fond of play, but his cunning always renders him suspected."
At first, Francis Blandy was inclined to brush aside Mary's newest suitor as quickly as he had dismissed all the earlier contestants. But then, he learned that Cranstoun had blue blood in his inelegant veins. He was the grand-nephew of General Lord Mark Kerr, a leading Scottish patrician, and was the fifth son of William, fifth Lord Cranstoun.
Francis Blandy was, unfortunately, a complete snob. Unattractive and impecunious as William might have been, the idea of Mary landing a husband connected by blood to a good portion of the Scottish aristocracy absolutely enchanted her father. When Cranstoun made a formal offer for Miss Blandy's hand, her parents were joyfully ready to give it. Even when Cranstoun confided to Mary that he had a previous romantic entanglement, with a Scottish woman who was--completely falsely, of course!--claiming to be his wife, it did nothing to dampen the Blandy ardor for this highborn captain.
All was romantic bliss up until the moment when Lord Mark Kerr heard of the engagement. He wrote Francis to give the disconcerting news that young Cranstoun already had a quite bindingly legal wife and child back in Scotland.
When the Blandys confronted the captain with this revelation, Cranstoun waved it off with a quite epic effrontery. He admitted that the lady, Anne Murray, had been his mistress. However, he had only agreed to marry her if she renounced her Catholicism and joined the Presbyterian faith. As she refused to do so, he felt entirely justified in breaking their engagement. When it was pointed out to him that he had previously admitted that Anne was his wife, he coolly replied that he had only done so to "amuse" her family. The question of the disputed marriage was currently before the Scottish courts, where, Cranstoun assured the Blandys, he would soon be vindicated.
Francis Blandy reacted with all the outrage of someone who had thought they had struck gold, only to find they were saddled with plated tin. He was all for throwing the mendacious fellow out of the house and locking the door behind him. Mary's mother, however, had become genuinely charmed by the Scot, which just proves that old adage about never accounting for taste. She was more than willing to believe any alibi Cranstoun offered, no matter how feeble. And as for Mary herself, she was by now so anxious to avoid eternal spinsterhood that she was even more loath to let go of what she secretly feared would be her last chance at matrimony. Francis' womenfolk managed to convince him to let the conditional engagement stand.
In the spring of 1748, Cranstoun went off to London, where he was to remain until that happy day when the Scottish legal system would declare him to be a free man. In the meantime, he and Mary kept up a correspondence that would eventually lead them into true crime history.
On March 1, 1748, the Commissary Court delivered Cranstoun--and Mary--some very bad news. It decreed that he and Anne Murray were legally married, and ordered the captain to pay his wronged lady an annuity of forty pounds, plus ten pounds child support. Cranstoun also had to pay all the legal expenses involved, which amounted to some hundred pounds. Cranstoun appealed the decision, but this effort was soon dismissed. The captain was now not only in quite a financial hole, but his despicable treatment of his wife left him an object of public scorn.
Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy, really.
Despite these setbacks, Mary and her mother still stubbornly clung to Cranstoun. When Mrs. Blandy fell terminally ill in September 1749, practically her last act was to tell her husband, "Mary has set her heart upon Cranstoun; when I am gone, let no one set you against the match." Despite this deathbed appeal, Francis Blandy had come to the conclusion that Mary's Scottish suitor was much more trouble than he was worth. He would have been even more pessimistic if he was aware that Mary had learned still more uncomfortable news about her betrothed: Not only had Cranstoun fathered a child by a "Miss Capel," he was currently keeping a mistress. It is some measure of Mary's love--or, rather, desperation--that not even these revelations could dissuade her from doing everything in her power to marry this man.
Cranstoun confided to his lady-love that he had a plan for dealing with her father's negative attitude. He told her of a Mrs. Morgan, a "cunning-woman" who had provided him with certain wondrous "love powders." If a bit of this powder was mixed into something Mr. Blandy ate or drank, his attitude towards Cranstoun would be miraculously transformed from antipathy into affection!
In November 1750, Cranstoun returned to Scotland--carrying with him a generous sum Mary had given him to relieve the more pressing of his debts. Before departing, his stay had been made unpleasant by seeing a ghost in his room, which was accompanied by unsettling spectral music and knockings. Mary sadly told the servants that Cranstoun informed her that he feared this ghost was a messenger of death. She did not think her father would live very much longer.
Once Cranstoun left Henley, Mr. Blandy finally put his foot down. He ordered his daughter to write to her suitor, telling him not to show his face to them again until his matrimonial entanglements were "quite decided." Mary did write Cranstoun, but, unfortunately, we are unaware of how she communicated her father's ultimatum--or how Cranstoun replied. We do know, however, something that Mr. Blandy did not know: that Cranstoun's efforts to have his marriage dissolved had failed. He was bound to his wife "till death do they part." The lovers were greatly anxious that Mr. Blandy never find this out. If he did, the promised £10,000 dowry would undoubtedly be withheld. He might even write Mary out of his will altogether!
This was a highly uncomfortable situation, and clearly not one that could last forever.
In the summer of 1751, Cranstoun sent Mary a supply of the "love powder" he had obtained from Mrs. Morgan, along with some "Scotch pebbles" (a variety of agate that was a popular jewelry item of the day.) He instructed her to mix the powder in her father's tea. She did so, although she professed to feel doubts about its efficacy. As it was his habit to have his tea served in a different dish from the rest of the household, it was easy to see that he, and he alone, received the "love powder."
Soon, after this, Mr. Blandy began to suffer bouts of serious stomach pain and vomiting. One morning, a servant drank his untouched tea. She immediately became very sick for about a week after. On another occasion, his leftover tea was given to an elderly charwoman employed by the family. It was a gift that nearly killed her.
In early August, Mary prepared some gruel for her father. One of the maids noted that Mary performed the curious act of taking some of the gruel in a spoon and rubbing it between her fingers. After drinking this gruel, Mr. Blandy became ill--so much so, that the family apothecary was summoned. This medical man, a Mr. Norton, assumed the patient was merely suffering "a fit of colic." When he asked Mary what her father had been eating, she said nothing about the gruel, merely that he had had "some peas on the Saturday night before." After Norton left, Mary brought her father more gruel, which brought on another violent vomiting fit.
The next morning, when the remains of Mr. Blandy's gruel was brought down to the kitchen, their charwoman--who, after the tea incident, should surely have known to be wary about Blandy family leftovers--ate it. And, yes, she again became dreadfully ill.
It began to occur to the Blandy servants that something odd was going on. They examined the pan that had been used to make the gruel, and noticed a white, gritty substance at the bottom. They locked up the pan overnight, then took it to Norton the apothecary for professional examination.
Meanwhile, Francis' brother-in-law, the Rev. Mr. Stevens, arrived on the scene. The maids confided to him their suspicions about what was behind Mr. Blandy's alarming and mysterious illness. He advised them to bring their fears to Blandy himself.
The next morning, they broke the news to their master that they believed he was being poisoned by his own daughter. It is significant that Francis Blandy expressed no disbelief in the idea that Mary might try to kill him. He only questioned where she could have gotten the poison. When Cranstoun was proposed as a source, everything suddenly became dreadfully clear. "Oh, that villain!" Francis cried. "That ever he came to my house!"
Mr. Blandy went down to the breakfast table. Mary was already there, along with Francis' clerk, Robert Littleton. Littleton noted that his employer appeared to be "in great agony, and complained very much," which was surely justifiable under the circumstances. When Mary handed her father his tea, he tasted it gingerly. He stared at his daughter. The drink had a bad, gritty taste, he observed. Might she have put something in it?
Mary became very flustered and fled the room.
In a blind panic, Mary collected all of Cranstoun's letters and whatever remained of the "love powder," and dashed to the kitchen. She threw the bundle into the fireplace and "stirred it down with a stick." As soon as her back was turned, the maids--now thoroughly into their roles as amateur detectives--fished out from the grate what they could. They were able to retrieve a paper packet where Cranstoun had written the suggestive words, "The powder to clean the pebbles with." It still contained a small amount of white powder, which they handed over to Mr. Norton.
The next day, Mr. Blandy took a turn for the worse. Anthony Addington, a leading doctor of the day, was summoned. When he arrived, a brief consultation with the patient was all he needed to convince him that Blandy was being poisoned. Dr. Addington asked Mary if her father had any enemies. "Impossible!" she exclaimed. "He is at peace with all the world and all the world is at peace with him." She gave her opinion that her parent was merely suffering from "colic and heartburn."
Before Addington left, Norton gave him the sediment from the pan and the white powder retrieved by the maids. The doctor told Mary bluntly that if her father died, she would certainly be blamed.
This warning caused Mary's incredibly reckless behavior to cross over into sheer suicidal stupidity. She wrote to Cranstoun, advising him of her father's serious illness, and warning "Dear Willy" to "take care what you write," lest any accident happened to his letters.
Mary gave this letter to Robert Littleton to post. Instead, he opened the letter, read it, and promptly showed it to his employer. Blandy merely smiled wanly and said, "Poor love-sick girl! What won't a girl do for a man she loves?"
Although the household had decided that Mary should be barred from her father's bedside, Francis insisted on sending her word "that he was ready to forgive her if she would but endeavour to bring that villain to justice." When she was brought to see him, Mary begged his forgiveness, promising that she would never have anything to do with Cranstoun again. "I forgive thee, my dear," Francis replied, "and I hope God will forgive thee; but thou shouldst have considered better than to have attempted anything against thy father." Mary protested her innocence. Yes, she had put powder in his gruel, "but it was given me with another intent."
"Oh, such a villain!" cried Francis. "To come to my house, eat and drink of the best my house could afford, and then to take away my life and ruin my daughter! Oh, my dear, thou must hate that man, must hate the ground he treads on, thou canst not help it!" When a tearful--and, one hopes, sincerely repentant--Mary begged her father not to curse her, Francis replied, "Nay, I bless thee, and hope God will bless thee also and amend thy life." He advised his daughter to leave and say no more, "lest thou shouldst say anything to thine own prejudice."
If it's amazing to think what a girl might do "for a man she loves," it's even more incredible to contemplate what an indulgent father might do for his daughter.
In the meantime, Dr. Addington performed tests on the white powder Mary had employed. Relatively crude as the scientific methods of the day may have been, he had no trouble immediately identifying the substance as white arsenic.
Mary was immediately confined to her room, and all of her papers, as well as "all instruments wherewith she could hurt either herself or any other person" were taken away from her. She continued to insist that she was nothing more than Cranstoun's dupe. She had believed that the "white powder" would merely make her father "kind" towards Cranstoun. She had no idea it was poison "till she had seen its effects." Even to her own ears, it must have been a remarkably unconvincing defense.
Francis Blandy grew steadily weaker, until he finally died on August 14, 1751. Mary's reaction to the news was to try to persuade one of the servants into helping her escape to the Continent.
It will be no great surprise that the coroner's jury had little difficulty ruling that Francis Blandy died from ingesting arsenic, and that his daughter "did poison and murder" him. A warrant was issued to apprehend Cranstoun, who was believed to be in Berwick, but it was too late. Mary's evil genius had disappeared. His relatives, not wishing to see a hanging soil their otherwise illustrious family tree, had arranged to have him smuggled into France.
While in jail awaiting her trial, Mary received some news. As her father had died intestate, she was his sole heiress. Alas, it turned out that Francis' fortune amounted to less than £4,000. The promised £10,000 dowry that had inspired Cranstoun's courtship, and led Mary down the road to murder, proved to be nothing more than a figment of Francis Blandy's boastful imagination.
A novelist would never dare invent such a grimly ironic twist.
Mary stood trial on March 3, 1752. It has gone down in judicial history as the first murder trial where solid scientific proof of poisoning was given, but it's doubtful the defendant appreciated the honor.
The proceedings contained no suspense. There was no question that Francis Blandy died of arsenic poisoning, that arsenic was present in the gruel prepared by his daughter, and that arsenic was in the powder Mary had in her possession. Servants in the Blandy household testified that Mary often spoke of her father as "an old villain," and that if only her father were dead, she "would go to Scotland and live with lady Cranstoun." Even more charmingly, the defendant was quoted as remarking, "Who would grudge to send an old father to hell for £10,000?"
Obviously seeing the futility of trying to refute the evidence against her, Mary merely presented herself as a victim. She continued to insist that she had believed the powder Cranstoun sent her was "an inoffensive thing," that would do nothing more than make her father more amenable to her proposed marriage. It was a weak defense, to be sure, but it was the only one she could employ. She made no effort to try to explain why, after she saw that the gruel she gave her father had made him dreadfully ill, she attempted to serve him more of the same.
In his closing address to the jury, the judge summarized the entire case in one sentence: "What you are to try is reduced to this single question, whether the prisoner, at the time she gave it to her father, knew that it was poison, and what effect it would be?"
After consulting among themselves for five minutes, the jurors returned a verdict of guilty.
Mary retained the unsettlingly impassive demeanor she had shown ever since her arrest. Upon hearing that she was to be hanged, she merely asked the judge to "allow me a little time till I can settle my affairs and make my peace with God." Showing a good deal more emotion than the condemned woman, the judge assured her this would be done.
When Mary returned to her cell, she found the keeper and his family in tears at the news of the verdict. "Don't mind it," Mary told them coolly. "What does it signify? I am very hungry; pray, let me have something for supper as speedily as possible."
In the six weeks she was granted before her execution, Mary maintained her role as an innocent victim of Cranstoun's sinister deception. She wrote a "Narrative," giving her questionable version of events. It was a huge publishing success, spawning a flood of pamphlets either defending "The Fair Parricide," or excoriating her. Thanks to the power of the printing press, this otherwise commonplace poisoner became an 18th century literary sensation.
Mary's execution took place on April 6th. On the gallows, she swore to the last that she had never meant to kill her father. The 19th century Chief Justice, Lord Campbell, scoffed that this merely proved "the worthlessness of the dying declarations of criminals, and the absurdity of the practice of trying to induce them to confess." As she climbed the ladder, her last words were to ask the executioner, "do not hang me high, for the sake of decency." The following day, Mary was, at her own request, buried between her mother and father.
As for the man who instigated this domestic tragedy, while William Cranstoun paid no legal price for his sins, it is somewhat satisfying to report that he did not exactly escape punishment, either. The fugitive had taken lodgings in Flanders, where, on December 2, 1752, he died after a short but extremely painful illness. His small store of personal belongings, "consisting chiefly of Laced and Embroidered Waistcoats," was sold to pay his debts. As he had converted to Roman Catholicism on his deathbed, he was buried in the Cathedral Church, "in great solemnity...and a grand Mass was said over the corpse."
His was certainly a soul that needed all the prayers it could get.
Friday, April 22, 2016
This week's Link Dump is brought to you by the International Feline Laundry Workers' Union!
What the hell are the Nasca Holes? Now we know?
What the hell was the "Wow Signal?" Now we know?
What the hell caused the Great Vowel Shift? Now we know?
What the hell happened in Woodside, NY in 1894? Sorry, can't help you there.
Watch out for those nose worms!
Watch out for those William Tell fans!
Watch out for the Rabbit of Doom!
Watch out for Black Vaughan!
Watch out for the Holden Rag!
The much-buried Paul von Hindenburg.
The much-photographed Buzzer the Cat.
The life of a 17th century actress.
The Naked Woman of Duart Castle.
The execution of a murderer and her witch.
Life at a London police office, 1828.
That time magicians conspired to kill Edward II.
Hard times for an 18th century regiment.
Of Welshmen and mermaids.
That time an Irish island disappeared.
The last flight of the Glider King.
Dealing with 19th century burnout.
Why the Soulbury Stone never loses.
Joseph Crouch, body-snatcher.
Napoleonic soldier turned Greek hero.
Edward Ashford, a very unlucky baker.
Alexander Stewart, a very unlucky "first."
Why Benedict Arnold turned traitor.
Louis-Marie Prudhomme, Revolutionary author and journalist.
England's "wondrous, violent motion."
A banshee of the Titanic.
Boxing with Byron.
When you go down in history as "Half-Hangit Maggie," you know you've led quite a life.
When you go down in history as "Ethelred the Unready," prepare for 1,000 years of bad press.
A child's lonely death in 1891 is still memorialized.
The librarian who thwarted al Qaeda.
The northernmost town on earth.
A coded message and a lost civilization.
Elizabeth Richardson, who went to her death because of jealousy.
The strange death of a Sherlock Holmes scholar.
Mysterious ancient societies in Bulgaria.
The legendary land of Hy-Brasil.
An early 19th century serial killer.
Speaking severed heads.
The Isle of Mull's beautiful burial grounds.
The complicated marital history of King Philip II Augustus.
Dorothy Levitt, "the fastest girl on earth."
A murderer who possibly inspired Edgar Allan Poe.
A case of fratricide.
How Maupassant collaborated with himself.
Arthur Conan Doyle and the mediumistic maid.
Two famed "Nut" comedians.
Ann Wood of the East India Company.
A president's secret wedding.
Fighting over sea monkeys.
The significance of the Battle of Culloden.
Animals who were named in wills.
The magic hares of Pendle.
The history of Salic Law.
A string of unsolved murders in Japan.
The dangerous vanity of a necromancer.
The Ant Whisperer.
The strange death of Yuri Gargarin.
Interesting look at how modern-day trackers are being used to interpret ancient footprints.
An ancient dog pound.
A horse who made an excellent mailman.
Coca Wine, anyone?
And we're done! See you next week, when we'll be looking at one of the 18th century's most notorious poisoners. In the meantime, here's some country-rock I remember fondly from back in the day.
Wednesday, April 20, 2016
|La Danse du Sabbat, P. Christian, 1884|
This account of demonic domestic disruptions in 1718 comes from "Domestic Annals of Scotland: 1689-1748" (1890):
"At this time the house of the Rev. Mr. M'Gill, minister of Kinross, was represented as troubled with spirits. The first fact that excited attention, was the disappearance of some silver spoons and knives, which were soon after found in the barn, stuck up in straw, with a big dish all nipped in pieces. Next it was found that no meat was brought to table but what was stuck full of pins. The minister found one in an egg. His wife, to make sure against trick, cooked some meat herself; but behold, when presented at table, there were several pins in it, particularly a big pin the minister used for his gown. Another day, there was a pair of sheets put to the green, among other people's, which were all nipped to pieces, and none of the linens belonging to others troubled. A certain night several went to watch the house, and as one was praying, down falls the press, wherein was abundance of lime-vessels, all broke to pieces; also at one other time the spirits, as they call them, not only tore the clothes that were locked up in a coffer, to pieces, but the very laps of a gentlewoman's hood, as she was walking along the floor, were clipped away, as also a woman's gown-tail and many other things not proper to mention. A certain girl, eating some meat, turned so very sick, that, being necessitate to vomit, she cast up five pins. A stone thrown down the chimney wambled a space on the floor, and then took a flight out at the window. There was thrown in the fire the minister's Bible, which would not burn; but a plate and two silver spoons melted immediately. What bread is fired, were the meal never so fine, it's all made useless. Is it not very sad that such a godly family, that employ their time no otherwise but by praying, reading, and serious meditation, should be so molested, while others who are wicked livers, and in a manner avowedly serve the Wicked One, are never troubled?"Never a dull moment in 18th century Scotland.
"Wodrow, who relates these particulars, soon after enters in his note-book: 'I hear of a woman in Carstairs parish, that has been for some time troubled with apparitions, and needs much sympathy.'"
Monday, April 18, 2016
"Why have you made me manly and strong like my brothers, only to compel me now that I am fifteen to do nothing but mumble a lot of interminable prayers?"
~From the autobiography of Catalina de Erauso.
This week, we look at the story of how an once-obscure 17th century woman became one of the toughest men in the Spanish army.
Unfortunately, a good deal of what we know of Catalina de Erauso has become encrusted in exaggeration and mythology, but the bare, relatively unvarnished known facts about her life are quite remarkable enough. De Erauso was born sometime in 1592, in San Sebastian, Spain. At the age of four, her parents placed her in a nunnery, likely to spare themselves the expense of raising her rather than any sense the girl had any religious aptitude.
This proved to be a spectacularly wrong-headed career move. When Catalina was fifteen, she fled the convent before taking her final vows, determined to seek a life of adventure, not contemplation. Realizing that women warriors were not well received in her day, she disguised herself as a man, took on the grand name of “Alonso Diaz Ramirez de Guzman,” and eventually made her way to South America, where she enlisted in the army. While the tall, strongly-built de Erauso was not a terribly successful woman, the newly-christened Alonso made for a perfectly splendid man. The ex-novice had finally found her true calling.
The soldier-formerly-known-as-Catalina served in Chile and Peru, battling the local Indians. Among her commanders was her own brother, Miguel de Erauso, who never dreamed of the true identity of this dashing young fighter. (In fact, Miguel once gave her a beating after he caught her visiting his girlfriend.) De Guzman proved to be a brave and skillful soldier, soon reaching the rank of Lieutenant.
“Alonso” was an extroverted sort with a quick temper and an itchy trigger finger. Inevitably, she found herself fighting her share of duels. In one fight, she found herself acting as a second. Serving as second to the rival fighter was her still-oblivious brother. The duel wound up getting very much out of hand, leading to her accidentally killing Miguel. Catalina was so appalled by what she had done that she deserted the army and turned traveling outlaw, thieving, gambling, and brawling with the best of them. One fight wound up nearly killing her. On what was believed to be a deathbed, Catalina, to the shock of everyone present, admitted that “he” was a “she.” Embarrassingly enough, she recuperated, after which she tactfully—and quickly—moved on.
By this point, Catalina had become notorious throughout the New World—as much for her unruly activities as for her gender—forcing her to seek protection from a Peruvian bishop. When this scandalized worthy heard her life story, he persuaded her to re-enter the cloister and do penance for her unconventionality.
News of this highly unusual fighting wom…uh, man, soon spread. De Erauso became famed throughout Europe as “The Lieutenant Nun,” and this newly-minted celebrity was eventually summoned home. She arrived in Spain in 1624, after a journey that included her usual series of adventures.
Despite the lingering grumblings in the Church, she returned to find that she had become a popular hero. Not only did the King grant her an army pension, but after she made a triumphal tour of Rome, the Pope gave her a special dispensation to wear men’s clothes. It was during this period, in 1626, that we have the only detailed contemporary description of de Erauso. The writer Pietro Della Valle described her as “Tall and sturdy of stature, masculine in appearance, she has no more bosom than a little girl. She told me she had applied I don't know what method to make it disappear. I believe it was a plaster administered by an Italian; the effect was painful but much to her liking. She is not bad looking, but well worn by the years. She has the look of a Spanish gentleman and wears her sword as big as life, tightly belted. Only by her hands can one tell that she is a woman as they are full and fleshy, although large and strong, and occasionally gesture effeminately.”
Catalina/Alonso was, however, too restless a soul to accept any sort of comfortable retirement forever. By 1645, she had hit the road again, eventually settling in what is now Mexico. There, she gained a reputation as “a very valiant and capable individual,” working as a mule driver (under the name of “Antonio de Erauso,”) until her death in 1650.
Although various plays and pamphlets about the life of the “Lieutenant Nun” began to appear as early as 1625, it was not until 1829 that her “autobiography” was published. The memoir reads like an early Dumas swashbuckler, full of accounts of her acts of heroism in battle, duels-of-honor, and love affairs with beautiful women. (“My taste…was always the pretty faces.”) It is a document as entertaining and ingratiating as it is dubious historically. (No authentic manuscript from the hand of Catalina herself is known to exist.) However, enough of the narrative has been corroborated to prove that de Erauso did exist, and was almost—if perhaps not completely—as extraordinary a character as this book claimed.
These “memoirs,” it should be said, carefully noted that her love affairs were all platonic. Modern-day historians, of course, take this claim with a great many skeptical snorts, but the erstwhile Catalina de Erauso insisted that she remained a virgin till her dying day.
After all, she wouldn’t want to offend the proprieties.