The London Cleopatra’s Needle – having survived a deadly and storm-thrashed sea journey – has indeed accrued the most macabre legends. There are claims that Cleopatra’s Needle emits an occult power that encourages passers-by to fling themselves into the Thames. As well as being a favoured spot for suicides, this allegedly cursed artefact is said to contain the spirit of an Egyptian pharaoh and to have been the focus of a magical ritual by Aleister Crowley. The homeless and destitute who congregate on the Embankment will go nowhere near it, mocking laughter is said to echo over the water at night, and a character with scaly skin and a tall headdress has been seen diving into the Thames beside it without causing a ripple or splash.

Cleopatra’s Needle in London towers beside the Thames (Photo: Mrs Ellacott)

Cleopatra’s Needle in New York was the focus of rituals involving thousands of Freemasons. Hauled across the Atlantic and dragged through the city thanks to the most remarkable feats of engineering – and thanks to the interventions of America’s richest man – the needle is said to stand in a weird Masonic alignment with New York’s other obelisks. The London Cleopatra’s Needle, it’s claimed, is also positioned as part of a network of occult sites – arranged in the shape of a pentagram some reckon, as a diagram of the eye of the Egyptian god Horus insist others.

Cleopatra’s Needle in New York City’s Central Park (Photo: Ingfbruno)

Below is a story of colonial competition, of the jostling of rising and falling empires. It’s a tale of Masonic schemes to transmit age-old messages encoded in hieroglyphs; an account of eerie time capsules, World War I bombs, the spirits of dead sailors, and outpourings of dark energy said to have influenced none other than Jack the Ripper. It’s a story of how Cleopatra’s Needles crossed seas and oceans and how they continue to assert their weird and baleful power upon our minds even today.

The Early History of Cleopatra’s Needles – Sun Gods, Huge Granite Columns and Cleopatra’s Roman Lovers

Around 1450 BC, Pharaoh Thutmose III decided to commemorate his 30 years on the throne by ordering two obelisks to be sculpted from enormous, single blocks of red granite. These blocks were quarried at Aswan – close to the Nile’s first cataract – then somehow transported over 500 miles to Heliopolis, which now lies in the northern suburbs of Cairo. Though the Nile was definitely involved in moving these massive monuments, no one is quite sure how Thutmose managed to shift them over such a long distance. Thutmose had hieroglyphs inscribed in a single column on each of the four sides of Cleopatra’s Needles and the obelisks were then erected outside a temple to the sun, with each guarding one side of its gateway. (In Ancient Egypt, obelisks symbolised the rays of the sun god Aten-Ra.) Around two centuries after Thutmose had set the obelisks up, Pharaoh Ramesses II added more hieroglyphs to celebrate his military triumphs – arranging his text in two columns running down the obelisks’ sides, flanking Thutmose’s carvings.

The obelisks remained outside the temple of the sun for more than 1,400 years, although at some point they seem to have toppled over and lain buried in sand for half-a-century. In 12 BC, the Romans moved them over the-not-inconsiderable distance of 130 miles to Alexandria. (Again, the Nile was involved and – again – we don’t know exactly how they did it.) There they were erected outside the Caesareum – a temple built by Cleopatra in homage to her Roman lovers Julius Caesar and Mark Antony. (Hence, the obelisks’ connection with Egypt’s most famous – and last – pharaoh.) The monuments stayed at the Caesareum for almost two millennia, but the obelisk that would become the London Cleopatra’s Needle once again tipped over and was covered by sand. This turned out to be fortunate as it meant its hieroglyphs were protected from the eroding effects of the desert’s sand-blasting storms. But the ambitions of new and rising empires meant the long stay of Cleopatra’s Needles outside the Caesareum would not prove permanent.

A sketch of the ruins of the Caesareum from 1798. The Cleopatra’s Needle that ended up in New York City is upright. The London obelisk can be made out in the foreground, mostly buried in sand.

Cleopatra’s Needle Is Readied for Transport to London – Battles, Egyptomania, Rival Obelisks and the Beginnings of ‘the Curse’

In 1798, Napolean launched an invasion of Egypt, an act that began decades of struggles for control of the country between the British, the French, the fading Ottoman Empire that had ruled Egypt for centuries, and Egyptian leaders who wanted to establish a powerful independent state with colonial territories of its own. These conflicts would involve battles, revolts and diplomatic manoeuvrings. Additionally, when Napolean invaded Egypt, he brought with him around 160 ‘savants’ – scholars, linguists, archaeologists and scientists – to investigate that intriguing land of temples, statues and tombs. There were also around 2000 artists and engravers, who created images of these monuments. As the research of the savants and the sketches of the artists filtered back to Europe, they sparked a phenomenon known as Egyptomania, in which the continent went mad for all things Ancient Egypt. Egyptian designs influenced furniture and jewellery, Egyptian themes cropped up in novels and plays, and pyramid-shaped mausoleums appeared in Europe’s graveyards. Egyptomania also led to an enthusiasm for real Egyptian objects, with mummies, artefacts and even obelisks ‘acquired’ from the country. It’s against this backdrop of colonial power struggles and Egyptomania that the story of Cleopatra’s Needle plays out.

In 1819, the viceroy and de facto ruler of Egypt and Sudan – an Albanian named Mohammed Ali, who’d wrested significant power from the Ottomans – bestowed (the reclining) Cleopatra’s Needle on the British as a diplomatic gift. This present was intended to celebrate British triumphs over the French at the Battle of the Nile (courtesy of Lord Nelson) and the Battle of Alexandria (under Sir Ralph Abercromby). The prime minister, Lord Liverpool, expressed gratitude for the gift, but the Brits were faced with the problem of how on earth to transport the 224-ton, 69-foot megalith the 3880 nautical miles to England. With no solutions becoming apparent, the obelisk was allowed to stay in its age-old position in the Caesareum’s ruins. As time drifted on, however, certain people in the British establishment became increasingly unhappy at the thought of such a prestigious monument lying unappreciated under its centuries of sand.

Coloured photograph of Sir James Edward Alexander in 1860. Some years later he would strive to bring Cleopatra’s Needle to London.

In 1867, General Sir James Edward Alexander – a Scottish writer, traveller, soldier and Egypt enthusiast – visited Paris, where his competitive instincts were inflamed by his observation that the French already possessed an Egyptian obelisk. In the Place de la Concorde, there towered a magnificent, yellow-granite, 75-foot monolith, boasting a weight of over 250 tons. This obelisk – from Luxor – had been gifted by Muhammed Ali in 1833, possibly as part of a strategy of using Egypt’s wealth of ancient artefacts to play Egypt-obsessed European nations off against each other. Tolerating far less delay and dithering than the British, the French had shipped their megalith home and had unveiled it in October 1836 in a ceremony officiated by King Louis Phillipe in front of 200,000 people.

The Luxor obelisk in the Place de la Concorde, Paris (Photo: Craig Booth)

Alexander was determined that London should have an obelisk to match the one reared up in Paris. Accompanied by the British Consul General Edward Stanton, Alexander met the Khedive of Egypt, Isma’il Pasha. Isma’il was a visionary leader, but – under his ambitious rule – Egypt had slid into debt. Modernisation programmes – encouraging industrialisation, urbanisation, agricultural improvement and the expansion of education – as well as costly wars with Ethiopia had bankrupted the treasury. The European powers had used these pressures to wring concessions from Isma’il Pasha, with the British and French assuming control of most of Egypt’s finances and acquiring Egypt’s shares in the Suez Canal. Against such a background, it’s likely that Isma’il felt he had little choice but to go along with Alexander’s determination to get Cleopatra’s Needle out of Egypt. Incidentally, if Cleopatra’s Needle is cursed, Isma’il Pasha may have been one of its first victims. He would be swiftly removed from power – at France and Britain’s behest – in 1879. He went into exile, eventually being offered sanctuary by the Ottomans, where he ended up virtually a state prisoner in an Istanbul palace beside the Bosphorus. He died in 1895, due to – according to Time magazine – the effects of trying to down two bottles of champagne in one swig.

Isma’il Pasha, the Khedive of Egypt and Sudan. Was he the first victim of Cleopatra’s Needle’s curse?

Alexander now needed to work out a way to shift the colossal obelisk and to find the money to fund its voyage. Help for both these matters came through a friend, a stupendously wealthy surgeon, dermatologist and – yes – fellow Egypt nut called Sir William James Erasmus Wilson. In 1877, Wilson agreed to contribute the massive sum of £10,000 (almost one million in modern money) to finance the monolith’s journey. While trying to figure out how this journey would be accomplished, Wilson turned to a friend: a locomotive and railroad engineer and – again – Egypt obsessive named Mathew William Simpson. Simpson, who worked for the Khedive, came up with the idea of digging the obelisk out of the sand then cocooning it in an iron tube, 16 feet wide and 92 feet long. The plan was that, once constructed, this cocoon would become a cylinder-shaped boat, named the Cleopatra. The Cleopatra would be tugged by a steamship – the Olga – all the way to England.

1830s lithograph of the Caesareum. The New York Cleopatra’s Needle stands in the background while the London needle is partly buried in sand.

As Simpson – due to his obligations to the Khedive – was unable to devote himself to the work, he recruited another engineer – John Dixon – to finish off the design. John kitted out the Cleopatra with a rudder, keels, mast, bridge and cabin. He had the Cleopatra built in pieces in England, at the Thames Iron Works. These pieces were shipped out to Egypt then fitted around the obelisk under the direction of Waynam Dixon, John’s brother. Finally, the Cleopatra was ready for its journey, waiting to be hooked up to the Olga, which would be under the command of one Captain Booth. At this point – it seems – the obelisk was ready to show its fury and discomfort at being hauled away from its native land.

Ferocious Storms, Death at Sea and a Strange Time Capsule – Cleopatra’s Needle’s ‘Cursed’ Voyage to London

The strange procession of the Olga and Cleopatra – with the latter commanded by one Captain Carter and crewed by Maltese mariners – sailed through the Mediterranean with little incident. But as the ships were passing through the notoriously temperamental Bay of Biscay, an incredible storm blew up. With the rain smashing down, the wind battering the boats and the waves unrelenting and mountainous, Captain Booth became convinced the Cleopatra would sink, taking the Olga down with it. He decided to attempt a rescue of the Cleopatra’s crew before cutting the ropes and letting Cleopatra’s Needle drop to the ocean bed in its metal sarcophagus. A smaller boat, manned by six sailors, set out from the Olga to pick up the Cleopatra’s men. However, the raging sea overwhelmed the smaller boat and its sailors were lost. Eventually, the Olga managed to draw up alongside the Cleopatra and save its five crew members. Captain Booth then ordered the tow ropes cut and the Cleopatra was carried away on the waves, with all those present assuming the tubelike ship with its cursed cargo would sink. Five days later, however, a Spanish fishing craft spotted an odd-looking boat bobbing on the now-much-calmer sea. It was the Cleopatra, miraculously undamaged. Mathew Simpson’s innovative design had somehow survived all the Bay of Biscay could hurl at it. A Glasgow steamer – the Fitzmaurice – towed the Cleopatra to the northern Spanish port of Ferrol. The Anglia – a paddle tug – was then sent to haul the Cleopatra to Britain.

Cleopatra’s Needle Being Brought to England, by George Knight, 1877. The Olga and Cleopatra are depicted struggling in rough seas.

On 21st  January, 1878, the ships reached the Thames. Shoreside crowds clapped and cheered, cannons fired salutes and all the schoolchildren in the estuary town of Gravesend were given the day off. There was some debate about where Cleopatra’s Needle would go – a wooden model of the monolith had previously been put up outside the Houses of Parliament, but this location was deemed unsuitable. Eventually, the Embankment was chosen – the curious decision being made to erect an archaic monument on a symbol of modernity and progress: the elegant riverside walkway had recently been constructed to conceal an enormous sewer, the central part of an innovative underground network devised by Joseph Bazalgette. On 12th September 1878, Cleopatra’s Needle was hoisted into position. Two Victorian sphinxes – designed by English architect George John Vulliamy – were set up on each side of the obelisk, facing inwards towards it (more on this strange orientation below). The Embankment was also lined with Egyptian-style benches, boasting camels and winged sphinxes as part of their metalwork.

An illustration from the journal ‘Engineering’ showing Cleopatra’s Needle being erected on London’s Embankment

As the obelisk was lowered into place, a time capsule was entombed beneath it. The capsule’s contents could hardly have been more Victorian. It contained a gentleman’s lounge suit and 10 illustrated newspapers, including that day’s edition of The Times. The capsule also held Bradshaw’s Railway Guide (again, a thrusting achievement of Victorian progress), an assortment of women’s dresses and cosmetics, Queen Victoria’s portrait, children’s toys, Bibles, collections of coins, a razor (more on this later), and 12 photographs of what were considered exceptionally beautiful women (these pictures are said to have been chosen by Captain Carter). Other items included a baby’s bottle, some of the cables that had hauled Cleopatra’s Needle upright, a map of London, an account of the monument’s dramatic journey to England, a three-inch bronze miniature of the obelisk, a box of cigars and a selection of hairpins. As we shall see, certain elements of this ensemble have helped fuel the mythos of a haunted Egyptian megalith and its occult influence on the darker side of life in the capital.

The Creepy Mythology of Cleopatra’s Needle – Strange Beings, Eerie Laughter, Weird Alignments, Jack the Ripper and Aleister Crowley

A certain amount of paranormal lore is associated with Cleopatra’s Needle in London. Such lore has cropped up in ghost anthologies, on websites, and in literature, poetry and film. It is, indeed, sometimes difficult to separate what might be considered ‘genuine folklore’ from internet memes and the outpourings of artistic imaginations, but this section will attempt some sort of summary of the notions that have grown up around London’s ancient obelisk.

Perhaps the most famous piece of folklore linked to Cleopatra’s Needle is chronicled in the book Haunted Waters (1957) by the ghost-hunter Elliott O’Donnell. O’Donnell starts his tome by claiming: “I have often felt when in proximity to some rivers and pools as if the water possessed a strange, magnetic influence and attraction, as well as sensing the presence of a spirit, sometimes friendly and sometimes evil and inimical.” He feels this is especially true of the Thames, which “should assuredly be haunted, for no river in Great Britain has witnessed more murders and suicides.” O’Donnell recounts how, in the early 1890s, he would wander along the Embankment and chat to “the wretched down-and-outs, homeless and hopeless” who could be found “on nearly every seat.” Some of these homeless people confided that “they had felt a ghostly presence, urging them to end their miserable existence by jumping into the river.” O’Donnell goes on to say that the “spot where Cleopatra’s Needle stands was well-know to be haunted. None of the outcasts would venture near it. Two of them told me that one night they saw a tall, nude, shadowy figure, with a peak-shaped head and a body covered with what looked like scales, suddenly appear by the needle, wave a long arm at them and leap over the wall into the river. They said that they sometimes heard unearthly groans and hellish, mocking laughter in the river.”

According to the folklorist Steve Roud in his London Lore, a peculiar London myth concerns the siting of the sphinxes at the needle’s base. The two Victorian sphinxes – decorated with hieroglyphic inscriptions reading “the good god, Thuthmosis III given life” – are facing inwards towards the needle, rather than outwards as they would have been in Egypt. It is a widespread belief, Roud states, that they were “positioned inwards to protect London from its occult power”. If there’s any truth in this legend, the other folklore linked to Cleopatra’s Needle would suggest this precaution hasn’t worked.

In London, Cleopatra’s Needle is flanked by two Victorian sphinxes – were they positioned facing inwards to contain its occult power? (Photo: DaringDonna)

London legend states the monument is a popular location for suicides. Twice, apparently, policemen were approached by an agitated woman claiming someone was about to leap in the river. The officers ran towards the obelisk, only to see the very same woman plunge into the water. It’s also claimed that the apparition of the naked diving man began appearing shortly after Cleopatra’s Needle was set up and that it is in fact the spirit of one of the sailors who perished in the Bay of Biscay. Unearthly screams heard around the monument are said to issue from the lost sailors. An inscription on the needle’s pedestal commemorates the seafarers who drowned.

One of the large Victorian sphinxes positioned on either side of Cleopatra’s Needle, London. (Photo: Colin Smith)

An even more outlandish legend insists that the spirit of Rameses II is trapped inside the obelisk and that this has meant a powerful curse has been placed on London. This assertion is linked to the infamous British magician Aleister Crowley. Allegedly, one night, Crowley conducted a ritual to liberate the soul of Rameses. The ceremony involved the feeding of animal blood to a human skeleton. I’m not sure how Crowley would have got away with dragging a skeleton through the capital’s streets or how a skeleton could be fed with anything, but Crowley’s procedure is said to have failed. It’s claimed the laughter heard around the obelisk is Rameses mocking Crowley’s attempt.

Another tale attests that in 1880 a young woman, Mrs Davis, was walking along the Embankment when she felt herself pulled against her will towards Cleopatra’s Needle. As the force dragged her closer, terrifying laughter rang out, she lost all control over her legs and hurled herself into the Thames. A vagrant rescued her, but while recovering in hospital she suffered nightmares in which she was tormented by a tall red-robed woman with black almond-shaped eyes. The woman would open her mouth, exposing fang-like teeth, before the skin and flesh were torn from her face. Another incident some claim was caused by the obelisk’s curse is easier to verify. During World War I, a bomb exploded close to Cleopatra’s Needle, with its shrapnel pitting the plinth and scarring one of the sphinxes. Following the War, this damage wasn’t mended. It was felt the scars were part of the obelisk’s story and – some would say – evidence of its curse.

Hieroglyphs on Cleopatra’s Needle. Does this London obelisk imprison the spirit of a pharaoh? (Photo: Man vyi)

A curious piece of lore relates to the time capsule embedded beneath Cleopatra’s Needle. Among other objects, it contains – if you recall – pictures of attractive women and a razor. It’s been asserted that the positioning of these items under the occult monolith sent waves of evil energy into the capital that encouraged the crimes of Jack the Ripper. While such a notion might seem far-fetched, the obelisk has made it into artistic depictions of this sinister episode in London’s history. In Alan Moore’s graphic novel From Hell, Jack the Ripper is Dr William Gull, a high-ranking Freemason and physician to the Royal Family. Gull states: “Few symbols match this stone in its potency … carved fifteen hundred years before Christ’s birth and raised at Heliopolis by Thotmes, etched with hieroglyphic prayers that Atum, Egypt’s Sun god, might increase his sovereignty.” Gull also remarks on the “Daguerrotypes of our epoch’s most lovely women … and a razor”. Gull places the needle within a pattern of sites around the capital charged with dark mystical energy. The Ripper argues that if one were to draw lines connecting such sites – which include Hawksmoor churches (some boasting their own obelisks), Daniel Defoe’s obelisk tomb in Bunhill fields, the Tower of London with its macabre history and St Paul’s (apparently, previously, a temple of Diana) – they would make up a … pentagram. The film version of From Hell (2001) has Ian Holme, as the Ripper, informing a victim in his coach about the six men who died bringing the obelisk from Egypt before murdering her. 

Indeed, a number of writers and psychogeographers have embedded the needle as a central point in London networks of occult power. In his poetry collection Lud Heat, Iain Sinclair positions the needle as part of an arrangement of burial grounds, sacred hills, suicide ponds and Hawksmoor churches. (Nicholas Hawksmoor, nicknamed ‘the Devil’s architect’, was a Freemason fond of decorating his churches with ‘pagan’ symbols such as pyramids, mausoleums and – yes – obelisks.) The lines linking these sites form several shapes, including a triangle (or, if you like, a pyramid), a pentagram and a diagrammatic representation of the eye of the Egyptian god Horus. Sinclair writes, “There is a subsystem of fire obelisks: St Luke, Old Street, and St John, Horsleydown. They form an equilateral triangle, raised over the water, with London’s true obelisk – ‘Cleopatra’s Needle’.”

Let’s now move on to consider the Cleopatra’s Needle in New York, which – as we shall see – is also not lacking in occult significance nor in theorists eager to place it within systems of dark power in that metropolis.

Egyptian-style benches on London’s Embankment – evidence of Egyptomania? (Photo: Robin Sones)

Cleopatra’s Needle Comes to New York – America’s Egyptomania, Nautical Adventurers, Cannonballs and Freemasons

In New York’s Central Park, behind the Metropolitan Museum of Art, stands an artefact that at first looks somewhat incongruous. On a hillock – known as Greywacke Knoll – is a red granite obelisk covered in faded hieroglyphs. Weighing in at 250 tons (even its pedestal weighs a hefty 50), the obelisk is officially the oldest outdoor manmade structure in New York. This object – forming a strange backdrop to the park’s lycra-clad traffic of cyclists and joggers – reaches a height of 68 feet. It would have appeared even more striking when first set up in 1880, when few buildings in New York were that tall.

The process by which this monument came to be in this location is a story that in some ways mirrors the transportation of its twin obelisk to London. For New York – and American society in general – was experiencing its own version of Egyptomania. Some of the city’s more outlandish tombs – and even some of its prisons – had been built with Egyptian-influenced designs. The 50-foot granite walls of the Croton Reservoir – completed in 1842 – had been constructed in an Egyptian style. Around 1878, when London claimed its obelisk, New York was mushrooming in size and gaining in importance, with the Industrial Revolution and immigration firing its growth. As the prime city of an ambitious emerging empire, New York felt it needed its very own artefact from an impressive empire of yore. And, as with the London needle, this would be achieved courtesy of a determined and obsessive military officer, his influential backers, a very rich patron, some astounding feats of engineering, and a daring voyage.

An 1842 Lithograph of the Croton Reservoir – a sign of New York City’s Egyptomania?

How this version of Cleopatra’s Needle came to be in New York is outlined in an excellent 2020 episode of the Bowery Boys podcast. The podcast tells us that procuring the obelisk became the passion project of several wealthy men, but it particularly came to motivate one Colonel Henry Honychurch Gorringe. Gorringe was an intriguing character, much of whose life was bound up with both mythology and the sea. As a boy, he was shipwrecked then rescued from the coast of India. He served in the Union Army during the Civil War and by the beginning of the 1870s had got a job at the US Hydrographic Office, in which he produced maps of coastlines and drew nautical charts. Gorringe had numerous adventures at sea and at one point became convinced he’d rediscovered the mythical land of Atlantis. In the mid-1870s, he ended up in Alexandria, where he first beheld the twin set of Cleopatra’s Needles at the Caesareum. Perhaps knowing the recumbent obelisk had been promised to the British, Gorringe started to form ideas regarding its still-upright sibling. He began to agitate for the up-and-coming nation of the USA to claim its own gargantuan Egyptian artefact.

Henry Honychurch Gorringe in 1883 – did he fall victim to the curse of Cleopatra’s Needle?

He was far from the only American with such an ambition. The country’s growing self-confidence and the liberal dose of Egyptomania the young nation had ingested had led many to a conviction that they must match their European rivals and show them that New York was truly one of the globe’s foremost cities. With more than a hint of sarcasm, one newspaper commented, “It would be absurd for the people of any great city to hope to be happy without an Egyptian obelisk. Rome has had them this great while and so has Constantinople. Paris has one; London has one. If New York was without one, all those great sites might point the finger of scorn at us and intimate that we could never rise to any real moral grandeur until we had our obelisk.”

Gorringe was a Freemason, and this too would motivate him to acquire one of the Cleopatra’s Needles for New York. The Freemasons – a mysterious and influential secret society – had begun as guilds of stonemasons who worked on medieval cathedrals. Freemasons tend to be fascinated by the doings of ancient civilisations, by arcane emblems, and by what one might call the occult. Hence, it’s unsurprising they’re keen on Ancient Egypt – the ancient civilisation par excellence, with its mysterious hieroglyphs, intriguing religion, and powerful magical and metaphysical traditions. Also, the Egyptians had been experts in architecture and working in stone. When examining Cleopatra’s Needle, Gorringe discovered what he thought were ancient Masonic signs and seems to have persuaded himself that these hieroglyphs were attempts of Ancient Egyptian Freemasons to send messages to the Masons of the future. Gorringe, therefore, became convinced he had to get the obelisk over to New York to make its teachings available to America’s Masons.

Gorringe teamed up with Elbert Farman – the US Consul to Egypt – and they persuaded the Khedive to offer them Cleopatra’s Needle. With Egypt suffering deep financial problems – and eager to improve trade with the USA – the Khedive had little choice but to acquiesce. However, there was still opposition to Gorringe’s desire to remove the monolith. Britain and France objected to the upstart Americans acquiring an obelisk and discovered an eagerness to preserve Egypt’s heritage, lobbying the Egyptian authorities not to allow the artefact to go. In addition to this, the Egyptians themselves were growing more concerned about the carrying off of their inheritance. Demonstrations were organised and angry editorials appeared in newspapers. To top it all, an Italian man came forward claiming to own the land on which Cleopatra’s Needle stood – he was quietened by a threat from Gorringe to sue.

The Cleopatra’s Needle that would go to New York City still upright in the Caesareum in 1880. Its twin obelisk had already been removed to London.

Another potential source of friction had a more American tone. There was the possibility of debates in Congress, debates with the potential to delay the acquisition of Cleopatra’s Needle for years. An arrangement was therefore contrived by which the obelisk was directly gifted to the City of New York, thereby bypassing the threat of lengthy and tortuous disquisitions. The only problem remaining was how to facilitate and fund the transport of the monument, especially now that New York was expected to come up with the cash. Raising such a sum wasn’t guaranteed to be easy. The torch-bearing-arm of the Statue of Liberty was around that time exhibited in Madison Square Park, in an attempt to revive the stuttering campaign to generate the money to assemble the rest of the figure. However, as far as Cleopatra’s Needle was concerned, assistance soon arrived. The railroad magnate – and America’s richest man – William Vanderbilt stepped in and donated $100,000 (well over $3 million in modern money). Vanderbilt – a Freemason – helped select the site on which the obelisk would stand. Greywacke Knoll was chosen as Vanderbilt didn’t want the magnificent monolith overshadowed by growing city.

The challenge now was how to shift the obelisk and get it over the Atlantic to New York. Vanderbilt invited proposals on how this could be done and in August 1879, Gorringe was granted the commission. Gorringe first built a long wooden crate. After encasing Cleopatra’s Needle in this vast coffin, he used hydraulic jacks and various devices to lower it. The next problem was how to get the obelisk and its box to the Nile. Gorringe came up with a clever solution – he laid out a track of cannonballs and rolled the crate over them. Gorringe had bought an old Egyptian postal ship and reinforced its hull – and it was onto this ship he had Cleopatra’s Needle loaded. The monument’s pedestal and the stairs leading up to it were also hoisted on board. Unlike the disastrous voyage of Cleopatra’s Needle to London, the sea journey to New York was mostly hassle-free. On July 19th 1880, the postal ship with its ancient freight arrived off New York’s Fire Island.

Cleopatra’s Needle being loaded onto the modified postal ship to begin its voyage to New York City. It was slid onto the boat via a specially created portal in the hull.

The next day, a pilot boat guided the ship to Staten Island, where it passed through the quarantine station. Given the all-clear, the boat sailed up the Hudson River and docked at 23rd Street. New York had been ardently anticipating the artefact’s arrival, and while the boat was docked, 1700 people per day came aboard to gaze upon the monument. But even though Cleopatra’s Needle had been successful transported to New York, there was still the logistical issue of how to get it across the city to Central Park. The decision was made to first move the pedestal. The boat sailed further upriver to 51st Street, where a crane offloaded the 50-ton base onto a carriage. 32 horses dragged it through the city, with the carriage’s wheels carving deep grooves into the road due to the weight of its burden. The pedestal was, however, successfully put in place in Central Park, with the city now in even more of a ferment about its ancient acquisition. This would only be heightened when New York’s Masons put on a spectacular demonstration of reverence. Masonic mythology attaches great importance to the idea of cornerstones and the brotherhood were determined to welcome this very special foundation stone to their town.

Strange Masonic Rituals, Weird Occult Alignments and a Miniature Cleopatra’s Needle on a New York Grave

On October 9th 1880, a solemn procession of over 9,000 Masons and members of the Knights Templar paraded up 5th avenue to Central Park, with many clad in black clothes, tall hats, white gloves and aprons. A crowd of 50,000 lined the route. After the Masons arrived at the pedestal, a grand ceremony was conducted. Grain – symbolising plenty – was tipped over the stone. Next, the Grand Senior Mason poured on wine – symbolising joy – before his junior poured on oil, representing peace. The Grand Marshal then walked to each side of the platform and said: “In the name of the Grand Lodge of the State of New York, I now proclaim the cornerstone of this obelisk – known as Cleopatra’s Needle – duly laid in ample form.” On every side of the base, he recited these words three times, after which the mass of assembled Masons clapped their hands thrice. Grand Master Anthony then made a speech, all about the Ancient Egyptians and their pyramids and how they had the power to predict the future.

However, the Grand Master didn’t go as far as Gorringe in claiming a connection between Egypt’s ancient inhabitants and modern Freemasons. According to The New York Times: “The most remarkable part of the Grand Master’s address was that in which he disclaimed any Masonic origin for the hieroglyphics found upon the obelisk and this was a part of his oration, coming from such high Masonic authority, that could not have been edifying to those persons who have found – as are professed to believe – evidences of the existence of the Masonic Order at the time this obelisk was first erected.” Gorringe and others, as The New York Times implied, must have been gutted to hear the Grand Master’s words.

As for Cleopatra’s Needle itself, first the boat sailed to a dock on 96th Street, where the obelisk was floated from the ship catamaran-style on pontoons. To move the monument to its place in Central Park, Gorringe hit upon another ingenious idea. He had the obelisk rolled on railway-like tracks, with workers continually taking up the lengths of track behind and positioning them again in front of the monolith as it made its stately way through the city. In this manner, Cleopatra’s Needle covered approximately a block a day, taking 40 days in total to reach its destination. The most challenging part of the journey was when the obelisk had to get across the real railroad tracks of the Hudson River Railway. However, this railroad was part of a Vanderbilt-owned firm. One order from the tycoon halted the trains so the obelisk could lumber over the tracks. On January 5th 1881, Cleopatra’s Needle arrived at Greywacke Knoll.

The vast edifice was then kept suspended above the base, awaiting a ceremony set for January 22nd during which Gorringe himself would lower it onto its plinth. Gorringe had completed all the calculations, but remained anxious in case something might go wrong on his big day. So, on the night of January 20th, he crept into Central Park with a band of collaborators. They did a midnight test run, during which Gorringe was relieved to observe everything would be all right. On January 22nd – despite sub-zero temperatures – thousands of New Yorkers watched as the obelisk was manoeuvred into the position it still occupies today. As in London, a time capsule was placed beneath. Among other items, it contained the American Declaration of Independence, a set of military medals, and a guide to Egyptian and Masonic symbols.

Cleopatra’s Needle remains a popular attraction in Central Park, New York City (Photo: King of Hearts)

Since that time, Cleopatra’s Needle has remained a much-visited tourist site. The monument’s looming presence in the centre of New York helped fuel American Egyptomania into the 20th century, when the craze for all things Egyptian was again boosted by the British archaeologist Howard Carter’s discover of Tutankhamen’s tomb in 1922. It seems the needle’s position outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art has had a galvanising impact on the Met’s collection. Perhaps not willing to be outdone by European museums, the Met financed expeditions to Egypt between 1906 and 1936. The Met boasts a phenomenal collection of Ancient Egyptian artefacts, including the Temple of Dendur. An exceptionally holy site seen as home to the gods, the temple was rescued from the rising waters of the Aswan High Dam and reassembled in the Met in the 1960s.

Questions, though, remain about the positioning of Cleopatra’s Needle. As early as 1923, newspapers were pointing out that the obelisk isn’t in exact alignment with the sun. (Egyptian obelisks have traditionally also functioned as sun dials.) It’s been argued, however, that this is no mistake and that a different – possibly Masonic – alignment has always been intended. According to the website Forgotten New York, there are three obelisks in Manhattan, though the other two are significantly younger than Cleopatra’s Needle. One of these monuments – found in the graveyard of St Paul’s Chapel – was constructed in the 1830s to commemorate Thomas Addis Emmet, an Irish lawyer and revolutionary and Attorney General of New York State. Although a cube-shaped chamber lies under the obelisk, Emmet isn’t interred there. Instead, he was buried at St Mark’s Church in the Bowery and later reburied in Ireland. The third obelisk – in Worth Square, at the junction of 25th Street, Fifth Avenue and Broadway – marks the resting place of General William Jenkins Worth (a powerful Freemason). This obelisk – which dates to 1857 and stands close to the Flat Iron Building – reaches 51 feet and is the second oldest monument in New York. All three obelisks, it’s claimed, align perfectly at 29 degrees east of north, with General Worth’s marking the line’s midpoint. Just one block away from the Worth Obelisk is … New York’s Masonic Hall and Grand Lodge. The reader must use their judgement to decide whether this is all a coincidence, a bizarre Masonic code or some sort of occult psychogeography.

The Worth Monument in New York City. This obelisk stands in alignment with Cleopatra’s Needle and the obelisk of Thomas Addis Emmet (Photo: Jim Henderson)

This section of the post would, however, be incomplete without mentioning at least one other obelisk. In 1885, Henry Honychurch Gorringe died at the age of just 43 as a result of injuries received when either trying to alight from or board a moving train. The more superstitious might see the curse of Cleopatra’s Needle in Gorringe’s demise – a curse expressed in the irony of Gorringe meeting his end courtesy of the invention that had made so much money for the man who’d financed the obelisk’s transport. Moreover, 1885 was the year in which Gorringe published his book Egyptian Obelisks, which mainly explored his acquisition of Cleopatra’s Needle for Central Park. However, Gorringe’s friends did not seem to perceive the dark shadow of the obelisk in his death. Gorringe was buried in Rockland Cemetery, Sparkhill, New York State. His memorial stone declares: “his crowning work was the removal of Cleopatra’s Needle from Egypt to the United States, a feat of engineering without parallel.” In 1886, his friends erected a replica of Cleopatra’s Needle over his grave. The unveiling ceremony drew 500 people and was widely reported in the press. The monument – decorated with Egyptian-style cartouches and with an illustration showing how Gorringe raised and lowered the needle – stands at over 25 feet and is of white granite. It cost $25,000 dollars (around $840,000 in today’s money) and – like the original obelisk in Central Park – it stands on its own knoll, from where it overlooks the Hudson River.

The replica of Cleopatra’s Needle in Rockland Cemetery, Sparkhill, New York State, on Gorringe’s grave (Photo: John T. Chiarella)

Why might these Strange Legends Have Grown up around Cleopatra’s Needles and Might the Obelisks Be Returning to Egypt?

Along with Egyptomania, there was a general idea that Egyptian artefacts were cursed. Thus, all the legends of cursed mummies inhabiting the museums and disturbing the private collectors of North America and Europe. One legend, for example, concerns an artefact known as the Unlucky Mummy that ended up in the British Museum. Said to be the remains of a priestess or princess called Amen-Ra, the Unlucky Mummy was held responsible for illnesses and deaths, and for actions as outlandish as haunting London Underground stations via secret tunnels, sinking the Titanic and starting the Second World War. It’s perhaps inevitable that an Ancient Egyptian object as imposing as Cleopatra’s Needle would generate tales of curses and vengeful ghosts. The London Cleopatra’s Needle especially, given its traumatic voyage to England, fitted into the ‘cursed object’ narrative. Hence the legend of the sphinxes trying to deflect its occult power. Though there seem to be less stories of ghosts and curses linked to the New York obelisk, we could ask whether the elaborate Masonic ceremonies that prepared the plinth for the monument’s arrival were not also intended to abate its paranormal influence. As non-Masons, I suppose, we can only speculate and never know.

A frequent suggestion for this association of unquiet spirits, unruly occult powers and potent curses with Egyptian artefacts is guilt over colonial plunder and exploitation. And how could these artefacts – the obelisks ripped from their temples, the mummy cases with their mournful eyes and affectingly human faces gazing accusingly across millennia – not be offended by being carried across seas and oceans to cold, far-off lands? The story of Cleopatra’s Needles is very much the story of militarism and empire. These monuments to Egyptian imperial might, crowing in hieroglyphs of military victories, were unsurprisingly sought out by later empires to celebrate their conquests and triumphs. Carved on the base of the London obelisk is:

“This obelisk

Prostrate for centuries

on the sands of Alexandria

was presented to the

British nation A.D. 1819 by

Mohommed Ali, Viceroy of Egypt

A worthy memorial of

our distinguished countrymen

Nelson and Abercromby”

Britain and France – as well as batting for territory and influence in Egypt – also battled for its artefacts, the larger and more prestigious the better. As America was beginning to feel its status as the new and rising empire on the block, it inevitably wanted an obelisk of its own.

We might question, however, if Cleopatra’s Needles will always remain in Central Park and beside the murky Thames, with its tidal rise and fall perhaps a modest imitation of the mighty fluctuations of the Nile. Concern has been voiced about the condition of the artefacts in their foreign homes. The American needle especially is somewhat worn, with its hieroglyphs quite faded. Already blasted by the sands of the Libyan Desert – unlike its London cousin it wasn’t protected for centuries by lying under sand in the Caesareum – it has suffered from New York’s harsher climate, with its hotter summers and colder winters than London. There was also a disastrous attempt to renovate it in 1885, when it was covered in gasoline and 700 pounds of granite were chiselled away, a process that probably damaged or removed a good few hieroglyphs. In 2011, the needle was inspected by Zahi Hawass – the Minister of Egypt’s Supreme Council of Antiquities – who penned a letter declaring: “If the Central Park Conservancy and the City of New York cannot properly care for the obelisk, I will take the necessary steps to bring this precious artefact home and save it from ruin.” Though the London obelisk is in a somewhat better state, a comment from Hawass in 2018 suggested he was also less than impressed with its condition: “I went to see it yesterday and I was ashamed … If they don’t care, they should return it.”

The hieroglyphs on the Central Park Cleopatra’s Needle have become worn thanks to the New York climate, acid rain, air pollution and misguided attempts at renovation (Photo: Captain-tucker)

For now, however, the obelisks are likely to remain in position and these imported monuments will doubtless continue to form a central part of the networks of myth, folklore, imagination and foreboding that run through both cities. It’s as if the monoliths are immense pins holding in place these strange threads of energy and power. Or, as Jack the Ripper puts it in From Hell: “They call it Cleopatra’s Needle. He who’d wield it would the BEST of tailors be, to do its work, increase the Sun God’s sovereignty … encoded in this city’s stones are symbols thunderous enough to rouse the sleeping Gods submerged beneath the sea-bed of our dreams.”

This article’s main image shows Cleopatra’s Needle in London. (Photo: Colin Smith)

The post Cleopatra’s Needle – London & New York’s Cursed & Haunted Egyptian Obelisks appeared first on David Castleton Blog - The Serpent's Pen.

This legend maintained that a pregnant sow had somehow tumbled into a sewer and become lost in the maze-like world of London’s drains. After sustaining herself on the offal and rubbish that regularly washed through the system, the sow had given birth to her litter down there. According to one 19th-century account, her piglets soon grew up to ‘multiply exceedingly and become almost as ferocious as they are numerous’. Their inevitable inbreeding and strange light-starved environment apparently produced a race of monstrously large, black-furred hogs. These wild pigs were a terror to the ‘toshers’ – men who roamed the sewers hunting for coins, jewellery and other valuables that had slipped down drains to lie in the tunnels’ noxious silt. The toshers claimed the pigs hurtled out of the gloom to attack them if they got too close and that they had to keep a constant watch for the creatures if their subterranean wanderings took them anywhere near Hampstead. Some toshers even armed themselves in case they encountered the beasts.

It seems the story of the Hampstead sewer pigs first grew up as a piece of occupational folklore among the toshers before being introduced to the general public courtesy of the journalist Henry Mayhew in his book series London Labour and the London Poor (1851), a vividly written, popular and highly influential work. The legend would also make it into the Daily Telegraph and even get a mention from Charles Dickens, all of which no doubt led many Londoners to shiver with the fear that there actually might be bands of ferocious pigs charging about just a few feet below them.

A quiet lane in Hampstead – did wild pigs once rove the sewers beneath it? (Photo: Nigeljbee)

But could there really have been a colony of feral boars roaming the sewers beneath Hampstead? Other than the toshers’ legends, what evidence was there for the existence of such creatures? What exactly did Mayhew say about the sewer pigs in his book? And what aspects of the toshers’ dark and dangerous lives in the thousands of narrow miles of London sewers might have triggered the rise of such a strange piece of folklore?

Continue reading for legends of a ‘Queen Rat’ who could transform herself into a stunning woman with an exceptional appetite for sex, of accounts of alligators swimming in the sewers of New York, and of rat swarms devouring toshers lost in lonely pipes. Also read on to learn how an infamous ‘Great Stink’ finally forced London to reorganise its sewer system – courtesy of the legendary Joseph Bazalgette – and how this rationalisation eventually helped drive some of the more outrageous myths from that subterranean world.

How the Legend of Hampstead’s Giant Sewer Pigs Was Born

A story recorded as early as 1736 has a pig fleeing a butcher’s knife and escaping into the sewers somewhere around Smithfield, a famous meat market on the edge of the old City of London. This plucky hog apparently spent five months roaming London’s sewers and feasting on their detritus before eventually emerging from the Fleet Ditch (the River Fleet, which had by that time become little more than an open sewer, a watercourse that, according to the poet Alexander Pope, ‘rolls the large tribute of dead dogs to Thames’).

The first published account of Hampstead’s subterranean pigs, however, comes from Henry Mayhew’s London Labour and the London Poor. Mayhew had spent most of the 1840s scrutinising the lives of London’s more impoverished residents. He studied the work such people did, along with their domestic arrangements, sources of entertainment and religious beliefs, combining his own observations with official statistics. Among those he interviewed were food vendors, ‘bone grubbers’, ‘Hindoo tract sellers’, an eight-year-old girl who sold watercress, ‘pure finders’ (who hunted out dog dirt then sold it to tanners), rat catchers, prostitutes, sweatshop workers, and ‘sewer hunters’.

Did monstrous black pigs once haunt Hampstead’s sewers? (Photo: London Exposed)

The sewer hunters seem to have especially fascinated Mayhew. Also known as ‘toshers’ – after the ‘tosh’, meaning the scrap metal, nails, coins and bits of jewellery they sought out – these men walked London’s sewers with long-handled hoes. With these tools, they scoured the sediment on the pipes’ bottoms for such ‘treasures’. Mayhew wrote that until ‘some years ago, any person desirous of exploring the dark and uninviting recesses’ could get into London’s sewer system via the mouths of the huge pipes that gaped on the shore of the Thames and then simply ‘wander away, provided he could withstand the combination of villainous stenches that met him at every step, for many miles, in any direction.’ The toshers – their lanterns strapped to their chests – tended, however, to navigate this labyrinth in groups: due to fear of rat attacks. Through numerous conversations with the toshers, Mayhew came to piece together ‘a strange tale … of a wild race of hogs inhabiting the sewers near Hampstead’ which he described thus:

‘The story runs that, a sow in young, by some accident got down the sewer through an opening, and, wandering away from the spot, littered and reared her offspring in the drain: feeding on the offal and garbage washed into it continuously. Here, it is alleged, the breed multiplied exceedingly, and have become almost as ferocious as they are numerous. The story, apocryphal as it seems, nevertheless has its believers …’

A sceptic may, however, assert that – if a man could get into the sewers by simply walking into a pipe – surely the pigs could get out via the same method. According to Mayhew, though, the toshers ‘ingeniously argued, that the reason why none of the subterranean animals have been able to make their way to the light of day, is that they could only do so by reaching the mouth of the sewer at the riverside, while, in order to arrive at that point, they must necessarily encounter the Fleet Ditch (which was by then enclosed), which runs towards the river with great rapidity, and as it is the obstinate nature of a pig to swim against the stream, the wild hogs of the sewers invariably work their way back to their original quarters, and are thus never to be seen.’

A tosher at work in the London sewer system

Though Mayhew wrote somewhat sceptically that ‘the reader of course can believe as much of the story as he pleases’, the tale of the wild pigs seems to have spread. Dickens referred to the legend and on 10th October 1859 an article mentioning Hampstead’s feral hogs appeared in the Daily Telegraph, by which time the story seemed to have acquired apocalyptic overtones:

‘This London is an amalgam of worlds within worlds, and the occurrences of every day convince us that there is not one of these worlds but has its special mysteries and generic crimes. Exaggeration and ridicule often attach to the vastness of London, and ignorance of its penetralia common to us who dwell therein. It has been said that beasts of chase still roam in the verdant fastness of Grosvenor Square, that there are undiscovered patches of primeval forest in Hyde Park and that Hampstead sewers shelter a monstrous breed of black swine, which have propagated and run wild among the slimy feculence, and whose ferocious snouts will one day uproot Highgate archway, while they make Holloway intolerable with their grunting.’

But could there have been any truth in the legends of the monstrous swine of Hampstead’s sewers? Could a pig have really got down there and started a hideous mutant breed or might the legend rather be some strange projection, some outlandish symbol of the daily sufferings of the capital’s toshers? Let’s plunge deeper into the dark waters of this very odd tale and attempt to find out.

Could There Have Been Any Truth in the Legends of Hampstead’s Huge Underground Pigs and What in the Toshers’ Lives Might Have Led to Myths of Such Monsters?

Theoretically, it could be possible that domestic animals ended up falling into sewers. London was full of livestock at that time – wandering pigs, cattle being driven to market – and many ditches and sewers were wide open or at least easy to enter. Whether any of these beasts would have managed to survive down there, completely failed to get out and succeeded in breeding a tribe of descendants is, however, more questionable. Henry Mayhew was, despite the protests of those he interviewed, dubious about the existence of such creatures, noting, ‘What seems strange in the matter is, that the inhabitants of Hampstead never have been known to see any of these animals pass beneath the gratings, nor to have been disturbed by their gruntings … it is also right to inform (the reader) that the sewer hunters themselves have never yet encountered … the monsters of the Hampstead sewers.’

Henry Mayhew – author of London Labour and the London Poor – wrote the first known accounts of the monstrous pigs of Hampstead’s sewers.

So, while it’s not impossible that a colony of pigs might have bred in the London sewer system, we should perhaps lean towards the sceptical in this matter and look for other explanations as to why this outlandish legend might have grown up. Perhaps we could see the sewer-dwelling hogs as a kind of symbol – in fleshy ferocious form – of the dangers and discomforts the toshers faced.

Their job was certainly perilous. London’s sewers – built over centuries without much planning – sprawled for thousands of sludgy miles. Perhaps a thousand miles of these narrow passages would have been navigable to humans though – Mayhew noted – they averaged a height of just three-feet-nine-inches. The toshers faced threats such as cave-ins, getting hopelessly lost in the endless warren, and stagnant fumes, not to mention rat attacks and the danger of being drowned when the tide came creeping up the Thames and into the tunnels. The tide filled the sewers to their ceilings twice daily. But, in addition to this, some sluices were raised at low tide, releasing tsunamis of sewage that could drown or even pulverise the incautious. Explosive gases, such as sulphate hydrogen, could lurk in the passageways while another hazard was falling bricks. ‘The bricks of the Mayfair sewer,’ the biographer of London, Peter Ackroyd, writes, ‘were said to be as rotten as gingerbread, you could have scooped them out with a spoon.’

To make matters worse, in 1840, the work of the toshers was declared illegal. Nobody was allowed to enter London’s sewer network without permission and a £5.00 reward was available to those informing on anyone doing so. This added to the dangers toshers faced as it meant they had to do most do their work at night, relying solely on lanterns, deprived of even the light that filtered down through gratings or shone from tunnel mouths. ‘They won’t let us work … as there’s a little danger,’ one sewer hunter complained. ‘They fears as how we’ll get suffocated, but they don’t care if we get starved!’

Flushing London’s sewers – sluices could sometimes release water, drowning unwary toshers.

Mayhew described the sewer hunters thus: ‘(They) may be seen, especially on the Surrey side of the Thames, habited in long greasy velveteen cloaks, furnished with pockets of vast capacity, and their nether limbs encased in dirty canvas trousers, and any old slops of shoes … (They) provide themselves, in addition, with a canvas apron, which they tie round them, and a dark lantern similar to a policeman’s: this they strap before them on the right breast, in such a manner that on removing the shade, the bull’s eye throws the light straightforward when they are in an erect position … but when they stoop it throws the light directly under them so that they can distinctly see any object at their feet. They carry a bag on their back, and in their left hand a pole about seven or eight feet long, on one end of which there is a large iron hoe.’

This hoe was an essential part of the tosher’s kit. As well as being used to rake through the sewer’s muck in search of valuables, this implement could save lives. Mayhew stressed that ‘should they, as often happens even to the most experienced, sink in some quagmire, they immediately throw out the long pole armed with the hoe, and with it seizing hold of any object within reach, are thereby enabled to draw themselves out.’

A group of toshers photographed in London’s sewers in the late 19th century – unlike earlier illegal toshers, these men were employed by the city

Though the tosher’s job was a dangerous one, it did have some rewards. Most toshers worked in gangs of three or four, led by an experienced man who could be between 60 and 80-years-old. These veterans knew where hidden cracks were located, cracks in which coins were frequently found lodged. Mayhew wrote of men who’d ‘dive their arm down to the elbow in mud and filth and bring up shillings, sixpences, half-crowns, and occasionally half-sovereigns and sovereigns. They always find these coins standing edge-uppermost between the bricks in the bottom, where the mortar has been worn away.’

The sewers could indeed harbour riches and it’s estimated that they supported a workforce of around 200 scavengers, many of whom went by nicknames, such as Lanky Bill, One-eyed George and Short-armed Jack. Mayhew found they could earn as much as six shillings a day ( about £36 in modern money), which – while it might not sound much – would have placed them in the upper income bracket of the working class at the time. Mayhew, with some astonishment, noted, ‘At this rate, the property recovered from the sewers of London would have amounted to no less than £20,000 (about £2.38 million today) per annum.’

Despite its many hazards, the sewer hunters didn’t necessarily view their work as unhealthy. Mayhew noted the men were fit, strong and even ruddy in skin tone. They often enjoyed remarkable longevity. Some even felt the stinking air of the tunnels ‘contributes in a variety of ways to their general health.’ Mayhew suspected that – if they were to become ill – it was more likely to be the fault of the fetid slums they lived in. The journalist described one narrow court south of the Thames as containing around 30 houses, each with no less than eight rooms, with each room stuffed with nine or 10 inhabitants.

Around the time Mayhew was making his records, though, life in the sewers was worsening. In addition to the new law forcing toshers to work at night, the tunnels in which they laboured were becoming filthier. Until the early 1800s, sewers transported little more than rainwater, with toilets discharging into cesspits rather than the sewer network. A law of 1847, however, closed all cesspits and ordered that latrines should empty directly into sewers, resulting in the tunnels building up linings of excrement. By the end of the decade, the Thames they all flowed into was biologically dead.

According to Michelle Allen – author of Cleansing the City: Sanitary Geographies in Victorian London – by the mid-19th century London’s sewers were ‘volcanos of filth, gorged veins of putridity, ready to explode at any moment in a whirlwind of foul gas, and poison all those who they failed to smother.’  Mayhew noted that the ‘deposit’ found in London’s sewers ‘has been found to comprise all the ingredients from the gas works, and several chemical and mineral manufacturies; dead dogs, cats, kittens and rats; offal from slaughter houses, sometimes even including the entrails of animals; street pavement dirt of every variety; vegetable refuse, stable dung; the refuse of pig styes; night soil; ashes; rotten mortar and rubbish of different kinds.’

The Fleet runs through a London sewer – apparently the river’s force prevented Hampstead’s sewer pigs from escaping the network.

Despite all this, the toshers seem to have considered animal – specifically rat – attacks and bites as the greatest danger of their trade. (Though it’s likely that more rats would have entered the sewers and the rat colonies down there would have expanded thanks to the increasing levels of waste London’s subterranean pipes were struggling to deal with.) Mayhew interviewed one Jack Black – ‘Rat and Mole Destroyer to Her Majesty’ – who told him, ‘When a bite is a bad one … it festers and forms a hard core in the ulcer, which throbs very much indeed. This core is as big as a boiled fish’s eye, and as hard as stone. I generally cuts the bite out clean with a lancet and squeezes … I’ve been bitten nearly everywhere, even where I can’t name to you, sir.’

The rat catcher Jack Black, depicted in Henry Mayhew’s London Labour and the London Poor

Mayhew stated he’d heard many stories of mass rat attacks on toshers, with the desperate men ‘slaying thousands in their struggle for life’. The rats didn’t dare attack toshers in a group, but if a pack of the creatures assailed a single man, he had little hope. The tosher would fight bravely, swinging at and batting the animals with his hoe until ‘at last the swarms of the savage things overpowered him’. The unfortunate tosher would likely be ripped to pieces, pieces that would drift with the rest of the sewage towards the Thames. His fellow toshers might discover some of his remains a few days later ‘picked to the very bones’.

It’s perhaps not surprising that the worsening state of the sewers and the existence of – real life – monstrous animals in them led to tales of ferocious beasts of a more mythical nature, such as Hampstead’s subterranean pigs. Hazardous working conditions can produce legends of weird beings. In mining folklore, there were creatures called ‘knockers’ – leprechaun-like characters, often clothed in miniature miners’ garb – who created the ‘knocking’ sound miners heard just before cave-ins. Some miners saw knockers as malevolent spirits who tried to cause collapses by hammering away at supports while others viewed them as kindly sprites who knocked to warn miners of approaching disaster. In the US steel industry, there emerged a character called Joe Magarac – a superhuman labourer made entirely of steel who drank molten metal, moulded steel with his bare hands, and saved workers from accidents. In Glasgow, a legend of an iron-fanged, child-eating vampire grew up around an iron works, a foundry which blighted its poverty-plagued neighbourhood with air, noise and light pollution.

Jacqueline Simpson and Jennifer Westwood  – in their Lore of the Land: A Guide to England’s Legends – mention another mythical creature known to the toshers: one ‘Queen Rat’. This rat followed groups of toshers through the sewers and – when she saw one she liked the look of – she would transform into a beautiful and seductive woman. Despite her beauty, however, her eyes – like a rodent’s – still reflected light and she had claws on her toes. If the tosher ‘gave her a night to remember’, Queen Rat would grant him luck, making sure he found lots of coins and precious items. If, however, the tosher was brash enough to boast of his exploits to his friends or if he clumsily offended the rodent queen, his luck would abruptly change and he’d drown or suffer a terrible mishap.

A legend handed down in a London family claims that in around 1890 a tosher called Jerry Sweetly met Queen Rat in a public house. Jerry took the girl to a dance, after which she ‘led him to a rag warehouse to make love’. As the two frolicked, Queen Rat bit Jerry on the neck, which she commonly did to mark her lovers so no other rats would hurt them. This, however, surprised Sweetly, causing him to lash out, at which Queen Rat sprang into the warehouse’s rafters. From there, she shouted, ‘You’ll get your luck, tosher, but you haven’t done paying me for it yet.’ Sweetly’s first wife died while giving birth and his second spouse was killed on the Thames, crushed between a barge and wharf. But good luck favoured all his children and – each generation – a girl is born into the Sweetly family with contrasting eyes: one blue, the other the grey colour of the Thames.

Could it be that the giant sewer-dwelling pigs of Hampstead and the tales of Queen Rat were legends invented by the toshers to express in mythical form their grim working conditions and the dangers they faced, both general hazards and those specifically associated with animal attacks? This to me seems a likely explanation, but what we must now ask is what happened to this strange folklore and what made it die out?

‘The Great Stink’ – Joseph Bazalgette’s Improvements Rationalise London’s Sewers and Challenge the Legend of Hampstead’s Underground Pigs

By the middle of the 19th century, it was clear that the way London dealt with its human waste needed to be overhauled. While there was an extensive sewer network, it was piecemeal, uncoordinated and frequently burdened beyond its capacity to cope, mainly due to a mushrooming population that had increased from one to three million in the first half of the 1800s. Mayhew wrote that during spring tides, effluence ‘burst up through the gratings and into the streets’ until the districts close to the Thames ‘resembled a Dutch town, intersected by a series of muddy canals.’ Almost all the filth of London did, eventually, however, end up in the Thames, with the introduction of the flushing toilet making matters much worse as it allowed wealthier inhabitants to channel their waste straight into the river.

The scientist Michael Faraday described how ‘near the bridges, the feculence rolled up in clouds so dense they were visible at the surface’ while Charles Dickens complained the Thames was ‘a deadly sewer … I can certify that the offensive smells, even in a short whiff, have been of a most head and stomach distending nature.’ The Thames was also the source of much of the capital’s water for drinking and washing and – unsurprisingly – several cholera epidemics ravaged London. The Metropolitan Board of Works had wanted to improve the city’s system of sewer disposal for years but had never had enough money.

Monster Soup – Commonly Called Thames Water, by William Heath, 1828. A woman drops her teacup in horror after a microscope reveals her drink’s impurity.

Things changed, however, in the summer of 1858 – when London endured an episode known as ‘the Great Stink’. A spell of freakishly hot weather exposed just how much human effluent, industrial waste and other pollutants the Thames was carrying and resulted in the most unbearable stench rising from the river. The stink overwhelmed all neighbourhoods close to the Thames, Westminster included.

The curtains of the Houses of Parliament were soaked in chloride of lime in a futile effort to rebuff the pong and there were discussions about moving the government to St Albans or Oxford. The prime minister Benjamin Disraeli was reported as fleeing from a committee room, ‘with a mass of papers in one hand and his pocket handkerchief applied to his nose’ and during a debate he referred to the Thames as ‘a Stygian pool, reeking with ineffable and intolerable horrors’. The press too complained long and loud about the state of the river and newspapers filled up with garish cartoons highlighting just how disgusting the Thames was. The City Press observed that ‘it stinks, and whoso inhales the stink can never forget it and can count himself lucky if he lives to remember it’ while The Standard described the watercourse as a ‘pestiferous and typhus breeding abomination.’ Queen Victoria and Prince Albert did attempt to take a pleasure cruise on London’s river, but the foul stench soon drove them ashore.

The ‘Silent Highwayman’. Death rows on the Thames, claiming the lives of those who won’t pay to have the river cleaned up. From Punch magazine, 1858

Perhaps because the river’s problems – rather than just slaying the poor and middle class with recurrent epidemics of cholera and typhoid – had now reached right into the home of power and assailed the very nostrils of the monarchy, action was swiftly taken. A bill was rushed through Parliament, becoming law in just 18 days. The bill provided money for a massive new sewer scheme, with The Times commenting that MPs had been ‘forced by sheer stench’ to tackle the issue.

A filthy Father Thames meets the scientist Michael Faraday. Faraday performed an experiment in which he dipped a piece of white paper in the river to test its opacity.

Joseph Bazalgette – the chief engineer of the Metropolitan Board of Works – was hired to design this new system, a network projected to cost the massive sum of £2.5 million (over £317 million in modern money). Bazalgette connected up the existing labyrinths of municipal drains and built 1,100 miles of new drains under London’s streets. All these drains, in turn, fed into 82 miles of brick-lined sewers, which themselves flowed into six large ‘interceptor sewers’, some of which were built around London’s ‘lost’ buried rivers, like the River Fleet. The interceptors discharged into two even more enormous tunnels that ran along the north and south banks of the Thames. Aided by pumping stations at Deptford and Abbey Mills – which used the biggest steam engines then operating in the world – these tunnels shifted all of London’s effluent eight miles downstream to be dumped in the Thames Estuary.

Bazalgette’s gargantuan project devoured 318 million bricks and 670,000 cubic metres of concrete. Thousands of labourers were employed to dig the new tunnels while the demand for bricklayers drove the wages of those craftsmen up by 20%. Though the construction of his system wasn’t without its problems, many of Bazalgette’s sewers still serve London to this day and his designs have very much marked the face of the city. His huge riverside tunnels are buried under elaborate embankments – among them the Victoria, Chelsea and Albert Embankment – the construction of which narrowed the Thames by 22 metres. Bazalgette’s project was not completed until 1875, by which time the sewer system could carry two billion litres of wastewater every day.

A sewer being constructed as part of Bazalgette’s project in Bow, East London, 1859

We might ask what all this has to do with colonies of feral pigs living underneath Hampstead. It appears – as Bazalgette’s scheme involved so much surveying and reconstruction and the pouring of so many labourers and engineers down into London’s underworld – that the whole sewer network became far less of a enigma. Bazalgette himself insisted on inspecting every interchange between the old drains and new sewers and signing off every single plan that was part of his grand project. As there were absolutely no reports of any workmen or contractors encountering the supposedly large hoards of terrifying swine, the legend seems to have been discredited before fading from memory. But even the most rationally organised sewers will still have a certain mystery about them, will always represent a sort of urban Hades, a dark and claustrophobic netherworld, a collective unconscious of the city where strange, semi-mythical beings still might lurk, as we’ll find out in the next section.

Joseph Bazalgette depicted as a London sewer snake, in Punch magazine, 1883

Alligators in the Sewers of New York, Subterranean Cows and How ‘Improvements’ Might Sometimes Create Their Own Monsters

In addition to Hampstead’s wild pigs and the folklore of Queen Rat, there are other strange tales of underground animals. One of the most notorious legends of subterranean creatures comes from New York. On February 9th 1935, New York’s newspapers were abuzz with the news that an alligator had been found in an uptown sewer. Some East Harlem teenagers had been shovelling snow down a drain when one of them had noticed movement. Peering into the hole, he’d been shocked to realise he was looking at an alligator. The youths lassoed the animal with a clothesline, dragged it up into the street, and – when it snapped at them – they beat it to death with their shovels. The beast’s corpse weighed 125 pounds and boasted a length of seven-to-eight feet.

Could this report have been true? Though newspapers in the late 19th and early 20th centuries were often full of what we’d today call ‘fake news’ – ranging from ‘unlucky mummies’ to man-eating plants – there are other accounts of alligators cropping up in New York. In 1932, two alligators – one almost three feet long – were discovered near the Bronx River in Westchester while in 1937 a barge captain lassoed a nearly five-foot, one-hundred-pound creature off Pier Nine in the East River. ‘Well, I can’t throw it back where the boys go swimming,’ the captain said, when the police declined to take the alligator off his hands. ‘I guess I got myself a pet.’ Just six days later, a two-foot alligator was spotted crawling along a Brooklyn subway platform and was caught by the police.

The New York sewer alligators are likely to have been discarded pets. Baby alligators were once quite a craze, with one ad in a boys’ magazine stating: ‘Do you want a baby alligator? You bet you do. What boy wouldn’t?’ These alligators, the ad promised, could be sent through the post at a total charge of $1.50. Newspaper reports gave details of postal clerks sometimes struggling with such creatures that had escaped their packages. The alligators, of course, didn’t stay babies for long, no doubt leading to some being slipped down the drain. Though it seems there was some truth in the tales of alligators swimming in New York’s chilly waters and crawling in the city’s sewer pipes, it’s likely the extent of the issue was exaggerated by the media and a panicking public, resulting in scare stories somewhat similar to those of Hampstead’s subterranean swine.

An alligator is captured in New York’s East River

Cows were also once believed to run beneath New York streets – in special tunnels constructed at the end of the 19th-century to relieve ‘cow jams’ in Manhattan’s Meatpacking District. Such tunnels were rumoured to have existed beneath Twelfth Avenue, under Greenwich, Renwick or Harrison Street, and under Gansevoort Street in the West Village. Some say the tunnels are oak-lined, others that they’re lined with field stones or made of steel. Some claim these bovine corridors were demolished to make way for gas mains; others assert they still lie beneath New York in a perfect state of preservation. The Edible Geography website sees this legend as something of an eruption of the countryside into the heart of the new urban environment: ‘What’s amazing about these elusive cow tunnels is that, whether or not they actually exist, they form a shared urban fantasy – a mythical meat-processing infrastructure haunting contemporary New York.’

Edible Geography also delves into the folklore of Hampstead’s sewer pigs, pointing out that – in the mid-1800s – when the legend of Hampstead’s underground swine was at its most vigorous, Hampstead was a semi-rural farming village on the outskirts of London. At the time, however, London’s relationship with its rural surroundings was changing due to factors such as the advent of railways and factories, the Metropolis’s ever-expanding growth, and migration from the countryside to the city. Might Hampstead’s legends of sewer pigs then, like New York’s cow tunnels, have perhaps been a reaction against these upheavals, a way to remember the rural in an environment that was rapidly urbanising? Might the pigs have been a relatively short-lived, transitional myth that was doomed to be swept away by even greater progress – the building of Bazalgette’s sewer system? In 1859, the writer Richard Rowe complained of how such ‘improvements’ had blighted the landscape, lamenting how sewers and railways had ‘played sad havoc with the country around London’, scarring it with ‘cannon-like drained pipes’ that ‘crash the nettles in the ditches’ and ‘raw red entrances’ to tunnels that resembled wounds. It might also be said, however, that the Hampstead and Highgate area does seem to be home to a lot of odd myths – from haunted old pubs, to a vampire said to have skulked in Highgate Cemetery, to the ghost of a semi-plucked chicken that the 17th-century philosopher Francis Bacon had tried to preserve by stuffing with snow.

Whatever the cause of the strange legend of Hampstead’s underground pigs, it is perhaps a story that can be seen as mapping London’s rapid and traumatic development, a story which draws from the danger, tough working conditions, wealth, poverty, sickness, filth, progress, hope and myth that have clustered around the growth of one of the world’s darkest and most influential cities.

(This article’s main image is courtesy of Thought Catalogue)

The post The Monstrous & Terrifying Wild Pigs of Hampstead’s Sewers appeared first on David Castleton Blog - The Serpent's Pen.

The mausoleum was designed for the rich newspaper publisher, owl obsessive and notorious playboy James Gordon Bennett Jr. Bennett planned for his tomb to be entirely hollow and – even more strangely – for his coffin to hang in its centre, suspended from the roof by huge iron chains. Far from the tomb being a private place of rest, tourists and city dwellers would be encouraged to enter it. In the hollow interior, a staircase would spiral up from a pedestal and snake around the dangling coffin before ascending to the eyes of the owl. These eyes would be windows, offering vertigo-inducing views over New York.

The site James Gordon Bennett Jr. chose for his flamboyant sepulchre was Washington Heights, part of which was the property of the Bennett family. This piece of land – on 183rd Street and today known as Bennett Park – sits 265 feet above sea level. Altogether – with the owl itself standing at 125 feet and the pedestal at 75 – Bennett’s tomb would have loomed over the city at an incredible (for the time) 465 feet. By contrast, the Statue of Liberty thrusts her flame to a rather stunted-seeming height of just 305.

A sketch of the proposed owl-shaped tomb of James Gordon Bennett Jr., by the artist Andrew O’Connor

The man Bennett chose to design his ostentatious mausoleum was Stanford White, a brilliant architect and highly controversial character from the prestigious company McKim, Mead and White. This firm had already designed such notable edifices as Columbia University, the Brooklyn Museum and the second Madison Square Garden and would go on to sketch out the plans for Pennsylvania Station and the New York Public Library. So it’s clear Bennett wished for his mausoleum to be up there among New York’s most impressive structures.

Obviously, a massive owl-shaped tomb doesn’t tower over New York today, but was Bennett’s mausoleum actually ever constructed? Who exactly was James Gordon Bennett Jr., how did he acquire his stupendous wealth and shocking reputation, and where might his spooky obsession with owls have come from? Were any other owls made in response to Bennett’s wishes and can any still be seen peering gloomily down from New York buildings today?

Below is a tale of the jaw-dropping excesses of America’s ‘Gilded Age’, of philandering architects being most publicly murdered, of weird secret societies that used owls as emblems, of Greek goddesses popping up in late-19th-century New York, and of green eyes lit up eerily for over 100 years by incandescent bulbs.

The Privileged, Strange and Outrageous Life of James Gordon Bennett Jr

The source of most of James Gordon Bennett Jr.’s wealth was his newspaper the New York Herald, which he inherited from his father – James Gordon Bennett Sr. – in 1867. Born in Scotland, Bennett Sr. had moved to America at the age of 24 and – after working as a freelance journalist – had founded his own publication. Bennett Sr. possessed the noble idea that ‘the object of the modern newspaper is not to instruct but to startle and amuse’ and the New York Herald duly served up a moreish diet of crime, scandals, gossip and political intrigue. In just its second year, the Herald gained massive sales from its salacious coverage of the murder of a high-class prostitute and year-after-year repeated this feat with similar sensationalist stories. The Herald is also believed to have published the first ever interview in the United States media – conducted with, perhaps unsurprisingly, the madam of a brothel. Some of the Herald’s coverage was so shocking that angry crowds would gather around the newspaper’s headquarters – Bennett Sr. had a supply of weapons stashed in the office to deal with such mobs. By the time Bennett Sr. handed the running of the paper over to James Gordon Bennet Jr., such lurid reporting – along with the ‘penny paper’s’ cheap price – had given the New York Herald the highest circulation in the United States.

James Gordon Bennett Jr., photographed around 1901

James Gordon Bennett Jr. was, like his father, skilled at sniffing out sensationalist news items, but he certainly didn’t expend all his energies on his work. Bennett Jr. was known around Manhattan for his excesses and oddities. He indulged in all the usual rich boys’ hobbies – polo, hot-air ballooning and tennis as well as enthusiastic drinking and partying. One trick he was especially fond of was racing a carriage and four horses through midnight streets in the nude. Once, in Paris, he had to be taken to hospital – presumably in his birthday suit – after driving under a low arch and bashing his head. Despite all his antics, James maintained a furious work ethic, rising at dawn to deal with business correspondence and articles cabled to him by reporters and editors.

Perhaps his greatest passion was yachting. He learned to sail at a young age, becoming the youngest ever member of the New York Yachting Club at just 16. In 1866, he won the world’s first transatlantic yacht race and he also captained a ship in the Civil War for a year on the side of the Union. Legend states that during this service he was one night woken by a hooting owl – hoots that alerted him his boat was in danger of running aground. (Some say his craze for owls started then.) On his yachts, he entertained bon vivants, artists, painters and even a young Winston Churchill and was known in New York society as ‘the Mad Commodore’ (a commodore being the president of a yacht club).

During the Gilded Age (from around 1870 to about 1890) the American economy boomed and – despite the presence of inequality and poverty – there were fortunes to be made. Those lucky enough to amass – or inherit – such wealth often engaged in idiosyncratic behaviour that mirrored the roaring spirit of the epoch. Another famous New Yorker was the socialite Evander Berry Wall whose offbeat fashions – thigh-length leather boots for himself and collars and ties for his dogs – led to him being nicknamed the King of Dudes. The industrialist C.K.G Billings once threw a dinner party in a Fifth Avenue Ballroom, during which he appeared on horseback and insisted his guests drank their champagne from rubber tyres. Then there was Alva Vanderbilt who – in a huff at not being able to get a private box at the Academy of Music – stormed off to found the Metropolitan Opera. But one particular incident would mark James Gordon Bennett Jr. out from even this crazy cast of rich eccentrics.

On New Year’s Day in 1877, Bennett – completely drunk – staggered into a party hosted by the family of his fiancée Caroline May. There he distinguished himself by urinating into a fireplace (or, some say, a grand piano) in front of all the guests. The engagement was swiftly broken off, but such was the family’s outrage that Caroline’s brother Freddy assaulted Bennett with a horsewhip the next day and even challenged him to a duel. The pair met for pistols at dawn (a practice already considered archaic by that time) and seem to have only avoided killing or injuring each other through being such poor shots. Bennett, though, never recovered his social standing and – the following year – slunk off in disgrace to live in Paris. He’d spend much of the rest of his life in that city or travelling the world on a succession of yachts.

One yacht Bennett acquired during his early years in Paris was the Lysistrata, a 300-foot beast boasting a Turkish bath, a theatre troupe, a luxury French sports car and a crew of 100. The yacht also had its own cow – kept in a padded, fan-cooled stall – so that fresh cream could be served at the captain’s table. Bennett also for a time resided at Louis XIV’s old estate at Versailles, where he entertained regally. He kept his newspaper interests going from exile, founding the Paris Herald and dreaming up new stunts to sell his publications. For one of these, he decided to ‘find’ the explorer David Livingstone in Africa (despite the fact that Livingstone wasn’t actually lost). The journalist Henry Morton Stanley – who supposedly spoke the immortal words ‘Dr Livingstone, I presume’ – was funded by Bennett and the Herald. Bennett also financed an 1879 journey to the North Pole by the navy veteran George Washington de Long. This project was, however, less successful as de Long’s ship was crushed by ice in the Bering Strait, with 20 crew members dying on the freezing trek that then had to be made overland. Bennett’s antics, both personal and professional, were so widely known that it’s though the British expression of shock or surprise – ‘Gordon Bennett!’ – derived from him.

But how did this rowdy character – born into privilege and wealth – end up having such an obsession with owls, an obsession that took him to the point of demanding a massive tomb on prime New York real estate in the shape of one of those birds? What dark and occult meanings do owls have in folklore and mythology and how might these meanings have influenced Bennett? What secret societies in America at that time took owls as their emblems and is their any evidence that James Gordon Bennett Jr. was connected to any of them? Let’s investigate below.

James Gordon Bennett Jr.’s Obsession with Owls, Owls in Myth and Folklore, and Secret Societies with Spooky Owl Emblems

Bennett seems to have harboured an enthusiasm for owls for much of his life, an obsession that only seems to have grown over time. He began keeping live owls in his offices, he wore owl-themed cufflinks and even painted owls on the prow of his beloved yacht, the Lysistrata. He insisted an owl was printed on the masthead of the New York Herald and his newspapers carried articles and editorials arguing for the protection of the birds. When in the 1890s the Herald moved from ‘Newspaper Row’ in Lower Manhattan to a site in Midtown (now known as Herald Square), Bennett asked his friend and drinking partner, Stanford White, to design the new headquarters. Bennett unsurprisingly stipulated that plenty of owls should adorn the edifice.

Stanford White, the architect chosen by James Gordon Bennett Jr. to design both the New York Herald Building and his elaborate owl-shaped tomb

Though White based his design on the Renaissance-era Palazzo del Consiglio in Venice, he added some special features. The roofline of the building was strewn with bronze owls – 22 of them in total. Larger owls positioned on the building’s corners had green glass eyes illuminated with incandescent bulbs. A sculpture on the front of the building showed the Roman goddess Minerva positioned behind a large bell, upon which the deity’s attendant owl perched. Two burly typesetters wielding weighty mallets posed by the bell, which they’d ring according to the dictates of a complex mechanical apparatus.

The New York Herald Building, decorated with the statue of Minerva and many owls

This might be a good place to examine the role of the owl in folklore and myth. Minerva is seen as equivalent to the Greek goddess Athena and Athena has long had an association with owls. Owls have traditionally been symbols of wisdom, intelligence, art and scholarship, attributes associated with Athens and its patron goddess Athena, and the city and goddess both indeed had the owl as their emblem. Athens’s Acropolis was even home to a protected flock of the creatures. The owl also, however, has a darker aura of misfortune and death. The Roman poet Ovid (43 BC-17/18 AD) wrote that sighting the bird was an evil omen while his fellow Roman versifier Virgil (70 BC-19 BC) described an owl emitting a death howl from a temple at night, a screech that foreshadowed Dido’s death. According to Pliny the Elder (AD 23/4-79), Rome once had to undergo a cleansing ritual because one of the birds strayed into a temple on the Capitolium. In Kenya, seeing an owl or hearing its hoot means someone is about to die and in English folklore an owl hooting can also mean death. On a slightly more absurd note, Pliny the Younger (nephew of the Elder) claimed owls’ eggs were a good hangover cure.

We can perhaps see some of this folklore and symbolism reflected in Bennett’s life. I’m sure he would have seen intelligence as an important factor in his business dealings even if this virtue wasn’t so evident in the newspapers his company produced. The owl’s associations with death may be linked with his ideas of an extravagant owl-based tomb – he would have likely, being such an owl enthusiast, have known something of the bird’s mythical connections with mortality. Even Pliny the Younger’s notion of the hangover cure may have had some resonance with Bennett’s lifestyle!

A more fruitful line of enquiry may be, however, to look into the significance of the owl in secret societies. The Bavarian Illuminati – a late-18th-century group that has spawned countless global conspiracy theories about high society plots – had a grade known as the Minerval Academy, whose symbol was an owl. Though quite a low rank in the order, the Academy was important in the education of recruits. Initiates wore medallions that depicted an owl holding open a book – signifying wisdom – and surrounded by laurel leaves, symbolising graduation. The Illuminati also apparently liked the owl because it – like them – performed its important tasks at night and represented caution. Initiates recited a poem by Elizabeth Carter (1717-1806) which included much owl symbolism, with references to the ‘solitary bird of night’ and ‘favourite of Pallas’ (another name for Athena).

The owl of Minerva – on an Illuminati pamphlet – perched on an open book representing wisdom

A secret society that James Gordon Bennett Jr. is more likely to have had contact with, though, was known as the Bohemian Club. This association was a mysterious members’ club for journalists, publishers and those in the arts, and its symbol was an owl. The Bohemian Club – which still exists – states that the owl represents the wisdom of life and companionship, which allows humans to struggle with and survive the frustrations and cares of the world. A replica of an owl statue from the Acropolis adorns the library of the club’s headquarters in San Francisco, and even replicates the Greek bird’s chiselled-off beak. The seal of the Bohemian Club shows an owl and includes the motto ‘Weaving Spiders Come Not Here’. This alludes to an incident in which the mortal Arachne dared to challenge Athena – goddess of arts, needlework and handicrafts – to a weaving contest. Arachne’s impertinence led to her being turned into a spider as punishment. Interestingly, owls are also associated with Lilith, a vegetation demon and – according to Jewish folklore – Adam’s first wife. Lilith is described as a great screeching owl in the Book of Isaiah. A prominent ‘Boho’, the poet George Sterling, wrote a play called Lilith: A Dramatic Poem, in which Lilith mentions the owl, suggesting at least some Bohos knew of this symbolism. Sterling (1869-1926) lived in a private room in the Bohemian Club towards his life’s end, a room in which he – sadly – committed suicide.

Bas relief outside the Bohemian Club headquarters in San Francisco, showing an owl and the motto ‘Weaving Spiders Come Not Here’. (Photo: Binksternet)

The Bohemian Club owns a 2,700-acre campground in Monte Rio, California, known as Bohemian Grove, which is used for the club’s rituals and gatherings. The campground contains a 40-foot statue of an owl, which is the centrepiece of such ceremonies. Annual retreats began there in 1878 and have continued up until the present. In one pageant, a figure called ‘Care’ – representing the woes of life – is mocking burnt at the owl statue’s base. This ceremony was instituted in 1881 by the club’s co-founder James F. Bowman and it still goes on today, enlivened by colourful parades, pyrotechnics and brilliant costumes.

The 40-foot owl statue used by the Bohemian Club in their ceremonies. Was James Gordon Bennett Jr. a member?

It’s unclear whether James Gordon Bennett Jr. was a member of the Bohemian Club, but – with the nature of his work – he must have at least been aware of it and known people initiated into the organisation. The prominent nature of the owl on his planned tomb and the obsessive focus on that same symbol in the Bohemian Club may well suggest some link.

But what did actually happen to Bennett’s outlandish plans for an owl-inspired mausoleum? Was his looming monstrosity ever built and – if not – what eventually happened to Bennett and where was he laid to rest? What about the fate of the Herald’s extravagant owl-festooned headquarters and does anything remain of the building – or its owls – today? Read on and we’ll find out.

An Architect’s Murder, James Gordon Bennett Jr.’s Death and the Fate of His Owl-Shaped Tomb

However ludicrous James Gordon Bennett Jr.’s plans for his owl-like mausoleum might seem, his architects soon started work on the project in earnest. Stanford White hired a sculptor in Paxton, Massachusetts, to come up with designs and an artist, Andrew O’Connor, produced pencil sketches and clay models of the tomb. But an episode in June 1906 – involving the chief architect – would seriously undermine progress on the bird-shaped sepulchre.

White had a reputation for serial philandering and, more darkly, for sexual assaults. White’s home – in the original Madison Square Garden – was topped with a golden statue of the naked goddess Diana while across the park was an apartment in which he met women for erotic rendezvous. This ‘love lair’ – at 22 West 24 Street – appeared dingy from outside, but within was filled with red oriental silks and up-lit works of art. The actress Evelyn Nesbit described entering the apartment as ‘breath-taking … the predominating colour was a wonderful red … heavy velvet curtains shut out all the daylight.’ The bedroom was covered in mirrors and hanging from the ceiling was a ‘gorgeous swing with red velvet ropes around which trailed green similax.’

White had seen Evelyn Nesbit – one of the most famous and photographed actresses and models of the era – on stage and he was enchanted. Though almost three times Evelyn’s age, White deluged her with gifts before inviting her to his apartment where – following a lavish meal – he drugged and raped her. Evelyn, as baffling as it may seem, appears to have stayed smitten with White and the two then carried on a consensual affair that lasted several years.

Evelyn Nesbit – mistress of the architect Stanford White – in 1903

On 25th June 1906, White attended a performance of the musical Mam’zelle Champagne at the rooftop theatre of the old Madison Square Garden. As the show reached its finale, during a song – perhaps ironically – titled I Could Love a Million Girls, Evelyn’s then-husband, the multi-millionaire Harry K. Thaw, walked towards White’s table. Thaw pulled out a pistol, yelled either ‘you’ve ruined my life’ or ‘you’ve ruined my wife’, and fired three shots straight into White’s head, killing him instantly. The lengthy court case that followed gripped the nation, with the sensationalist newspapers – the New York Herald included – proclaiming it ‘The Trial of the Century’ and no doubt making plenty of money from their coverage. With White’s death, Bennett’s plans for his mausoleum were put on hold and in the end it was never constructed.

Bennett himself, surprisingly, settled down, but not until the age of 73, when he married Maud Potter, the widow of George de Reuter from the Reuters news agency. Five years later, in 1918, Bennett died, passing away at his luxury villa on the French Riviera. Bennett was buried in the Cimetière de Passy, in Paris, in a grave far more modest than the towering monument he’d once planned.

But did any of Bennett’s owls survive him? The spectacular, owl-festooned headquarters of the Herald outlasted Bennett by just three years, being demolished in 1921. Despite the effort and expense he’d put into the building, Bennett had only signed a 30-year lease on the land. When asked why the lease was so short, Bennett said, ’30 years from now, the Herald will be in Harlem and I’ll be in Hell!’ But even the New York Herald didn’t survive its energetic owner for long. It ceased publication in 1924, merging into the now-defunct New York Herald-Tribune, though its Paris edition lives on in the form of the International New York Times.

Statue of Minerva and her owl in New York’s Herald Square today. (Photo: ScoutingNewYork)

The Herald Building might have long since disappeared, but some of Bennett’s owls still haunt New York. The statue of Minerva, her owl and the mallet-brandishing typesetters was saved and incorporated into a clock-tower-cum-memorial to Bennetts Jr. and Sr., which can be seen in Herald Square today. Behind the clocktower lurks a door, decorated with an owl perched on a crescent moon and the French phrase la nuit porte conseil, which roughly translates as ‘sleep on it’. The monument also features two of the owls that once embellished the Herald Building’s roof. Their eyes still flicker with an eerie green light, but the birds seem of little interest to the city dwellers, tourists and commuters who hurry by each day beneath. It appears that – for a man who was so ostentatious, influential and wealthy – not a great deal is left of James Gordon Bennett Jr.’s fame.

One of James Gordon Bennett Jr.’s rescued glowing-eyed owls, in Herald Square, New York. (Photo: ScoutingNewYork)

The mysterious owl seal behind the Bennett memorial in Herald Square. (Photo: nycscout)

Another of James Gordon Bennett Jr’s rescued owls – in addition to those on the clocktower, a number are scattered through Herald Square, New York. (Photo: Ephemeral New York)

I can’t help wondering, though, how this might have been different if White hadn’t been murdered and Bennett had succeeded in having his massive mausoleum built. Would Bennett’s owl-like tomb now be a macabre tourist attraction, with visitors from across the world gawping up at it or pointing from boats and bridges or queueing to enter the monument to see the famous chain-suspended coffin? Would the tomb perhaps be a morbid counterpoint to sights such as the Statue of Liberty and Empire State Building, a garish though intriguing memorial not only to James Gordon Bennett Jr., but to an entire age of excess?

(This article’s main image – showing one of James Gordon Bennett Jr.’s glowing-eyed owls – is courtesy of nycscout.)

The post New York’s Towering Owl-Shaped Tomb – a Decadent Monument of the Gilded Age appeared first on David Castleton Blog - The Serpent's Pen.

Physicians, alchemists and surgeons brimmed with praise for the substance. The philosopher and pioneering scientist Francis Bacon (1521-1626) declared ‘mummy hath great force in staunching of blood’. Robert Boyle (1627-91) – the ‘father of modern chemistry’ – believed mummia was ‘one of the most useful medicines commended and given by our physicians for falls and bruises’. Mummia, it was claimed, could heal sicknesses as diverse as coughs, ‘pungent pains of the spleen’, hysteria, diarrhoea, ‘inflammation of the body’ and epilepsy, as well as aiding childbirth. The French king François I (1494-1547) took a pouch with him everywhere containing a mix of mummia and pulverised rhubarb. François feared ‘no accident if he had a little of that by him’ and asserted his weird concoction could deal with headaches, stomach upsets and even fractured bones.

A jar for mummia from an 18th-century apothecary’s shop. (Photo: Bullenwachter)

But Europeans weren’t just content with making ointments from millennia-old mummies or swallowing their powdered remnants in wine. The art world also sought mummia out. Painters prized a pigment made from the substance called mummy brown. A rich brown hue – which fell between the shades of burnt and raw umber – mummy brown was said to be good for glazes, shadows, shading and (yes) flesh tones. Mummy brown was popular among the Pre-Raphaelites and was available in London art shops as late as the 1960s.

But how did the outlandish and revolting idea arise that ancient human flesh could soothe health problems? Was everybody always convinced of mummia’s curative properties and when did learned opinion start to doubt the drug’s wholesomeness? What well-known paintings feature the macabre substance and why did artists eventually stop daubing the remains of ‘priests and Pharaohs’ onto their canvases?

Read on to learn of paints made from pulverised French monarchs, of aristocratic parties at which mummies were ‘unrolled’ before enraptured audiences, and of a mysterious lifeforce some believed could be transferred from mummy to patient. Continue reading to find out why mummia’s critics condemned it as a ‘diet of dismal vampirism’ and how one compassionate painter even gave a solemn burial to a tube of mummy brown.

Did the Obsession with Mummia Arise from Translation Blunders and Scientific Mistakes?

The idea that mummies could be ground down into a cure-all drug is certainly a strange one. Though the Ancient Egyptians were mummifying humans and animals as long ago as 3000 BC, mummified remains didn’t become a feature of European medicine until the High Middle Ages. The craze for mummia seems to have at first evolved from a more innocent and – somewhat – less disgusting source: an interest in the medical properties of bitumen.

Bitumen is a naturally occurring, pitch-like mineral (a form a petroleum or asphalt) that bubbled up from a few spots in the Near and Middle East. The Greeks – and others in the Ancient World – believed bitumen had therapeutic qualities. Proclaimed as a treatment for conditions ranging from dysentery to toothache, bitumen was extolled by such weighty authorities as the Roman historian and naturalist Pliny the Elder and the Greek physician Pedanius Dioscorides. Arab and Persian doctors later used bitumen for ailments including cuts, bruises, bone fractures, stomach ulcers and tuberculosis. During the Crusades, European soldiers learned of the drug’s remarkable attributes, especially its efficacy in healing cuts and fractures. They carried this knowledge home, thereby making demand for bitumen soar. This – combined with the scarcity of the mineral – created a problem of supply. The few sites where the substance seeped from the earth – such as a mountain in Persia and the floor of the Dead Sea – were unable to satisfy the new European appetite for the medicine.

Natural bitumen collected from the shore of the Dead Sea – the original mummia? (Photo: Daniel Tzvi)

People, then, began to search for alternative sources of this rare – and increasingly costly – mineral. The Ancient Egyptians were known to have used bitumen as an embalming agent – they’d indeed applied it to their dead from the Twelfth Dynasty (1991-1802 BC) onwards.  The idea, therefore, arose that the commodity could be obtained by rifling ancient tombs and scraping the substance from their long-dead tenants.

The Arab physician, historian and philosopher Abd’ el-Latif al-Baghdadi (1162-1231) bears much responsibility for popularising this notion. Latif wrote of a substance that ‘in the belly and skull of these corpses is also found in great abundance called mummy’. (Mum or mumiya – the Persian word for bitumen – is where the English word ‘mummy’ comes from.) Although Latif stressed the term ‘mummy’ usually denoted bitumen that had oozed from the ground, he added, ‘The mummy found in the hollows of corpses in Egypt differs but immaterially from the nature of mineral mummy; and where any difficulty arises in procuring the latter, may be substituted in its stead.’ It seems Latif, however, confused the sludgy black liquid that occasionally seeps from embalmed corpses with the bitumen the Egyptians used as a preserving agent. In reality, the two are different substances.

Refined asphalt or bitumen – the Ancient Egyptians used ‘mummia’ of this sort to help preserve their dead. (Photo: Burger)

Some European writers and translators made a rather different error. Instead of, like Latif, believing that mineral bitumen could be salvaged from ancient mummies, they thought the health-giving ‘mummia’ was actually produced by the mummies themselves. The Italian translator Gerard of Cremona (1114-1187) erroneously defined the Arabic word mumiya as ‘the substance found in the land where bodies were buried with aloes by which the liquid of the dead, mixed with aloes, is transformed, and it is similar to marine pitch.’ In his translation of the 12th-century Arab physician Serapion the Younger, Simon Geneunsis (died 1303) wrote, ‘Mummia, this is the mummia of the sepulchres with aloes and myrrh mixed with the liquid (humidiate) of the human body.’ According to Matthaeus Platearius – a teacher at the medical school in Salerno and author of the popular herbal manual Circa Instans  – ‘Mummia is a spice found in the sepulchres of the dead … That is best which is black, ill-smelling, shiny and massive.’

Over time, these mistakes were compounded, with people coming to think of mummia as not just the hardened secretions of the corpse or its residues of bitumen, but as the dried embalmed flesh of the whole cadaver. Therefore, any Ancient Egyptian mummy could be ground down to make the in-demand drug. (The fact that mumiya in Arabic can mean both ‘the kind of bitumen used medically’ and ‘a bitumen-embalmed body’ may have added to this confusion.) The Italian surgeon Giovani da Vigo (1450-1525) described mummia as: ‘The flesh of a dead body which is embalmed, and it is hot and dry … it has virtue to heal over wounds and staunch blood.’

Such errors, not surprisingly, led to a scramble to acquire Ancient Egyptian corpses. The age-old dead became a prized commodity. Let’s take a look at how this gruesome trade manifested itself and how some mummia might not have been quite as ancient or authentic as those gulping it down or rubbing it on their wounds would have liked to believe.

The Heyday of Mummia and the Disreputable Trade in Medicinal Mummies

By the 1500s, merchants – Spaniards, Frenchmen, Britons, Germans and others – were making massive profits shipping mummies, whole or in parts, out of Alexandria and Cairo. Both Egyptians and foreigners ransacked tombs seeking the lucrative cadavers.

In 1586, the London merchant John Sanderson – an agent for the Turkey Company – described the hunting out of the precious sources of mummia: ‘We were let down by ropes, as into a well, with waxe-candles burning in our hands, and so walked upon the bodies of all sorts and sizes … they gave no noisome smell at all … I broke off all the parts of the bodies to see how the flesh was turned to drugge, and brought home divers heads, hands, armes and feet, for a shew: we brought also 600 pounds for the Turkie Company in pieces; and brought into England in the Heracles: together with a whole body: they are lapped in above a hundred double of cloth, which rotting and pilling off, you may see the skin, flesh, fingers and nayles firme, altered blacke. One little hand I brought into England, to shew; and presented it to my brother, who gave the same to a doctor in Oxford.’

The diarist Samuel Pepys wrote in 1668 of seeing an Egyptian mummy in London before it was ground into powder: ‘And so parted, I having seen a mummy in a merchant’s warehouse there, all the middle of the man or woman’s body black and hard. I never saw any before, and, therefore, it pleased me much, though an ill sight; and he did give me a little bit, the bone of an arme.’

A mummy dealer in Egypt, photographed in 1875

The demand for mummia was, however, so phenomenal that Egypt’s once plentiful reserves of ancient corpses were being depleted. The temptation was, therefore, great for traders to offer mummies of a much more recent vintage. As early as 1564, the French physician Guy de La Fontiane – who worked for the King of Navarre – examined around 40 mummies held by a Jewish dealer in Alexandria. La Fontiane found many had been manufactured from recently deceased individuals, such as executed criminals and slaves. The corpses had been coated and filled with bitumen then exposed to the sun to create mummified tissue.

Another merchant, when asked if any of his mummies had died of horrific illnesses, said he ‘cared not whence they came, whether they were old or young, male or female, or of what disease they had died, so long as he could obtain them … when embalmed no one could tell.’ Traders sometimes even sold non-human remains. Mummified ibises could masquerade as ‘mummified children’ while other mummies incorporated camel flesh. According to Pierre Pomet’s A compleat history of drugges (1712), some mummies were made from the sun-dried bodies of travellers who’d been caught in sand storms.

Despite the dubiousness of many of the mummies that reached Europe, much medical opinion remained enthusiastic about mummia. Two fistfuls of the powder could, apparently, help with epilepsy, vertigo and palsy. Mummia – soaked in wine and turpentine – could act as a ‘counter-poyson’  and guard against plague and ‘all manner of infection’. According to Bechler’s Parnassus Medicinalis (1663), ‘Mummy dissolves coagulated blood, relieves cough and pain in the spleen, and is very beneficial in flatulency and delayed menstruation.’

A wooden container for mummia from the collection of an apothecary, displayed in Hamburg Museum, Germany. (Photo: Christoph Braun)

The physician John Hall – the son-in-law of none other than William Shakespeare – treated a patient’s epilepsy by getting them to inhale the smoke of ‘a mixture of aromatic resin, powdered mummy, black pitch and juice of rue’. Catherine de Medici, the Queen Consort of France, was so convinced of the curative effects of mummia she sent her physician to Egypt in 1549 to obtain a supply. Among the many medical problems mummia was said to ease were withering and contractions of the joints, ‘hardness of the cicatrices’ (the scars of old wounds), catarrh, the marks left by measles, difficult labours and diseases of the head.

We might wonder why, beyond mummia’s association with bitumen, people ascribed such wondrous health benefits to ingesting powdered pieces of Egyptian cadavers. There seems to have been an idea that mummies contained a mystical lifeforce that could boost the vitality of ailing patients. This, no doubt, partly came from the widespread notion that the Ancient Egyptians had understood many occult secrets and mysteries of the cosmos, an understanding they particularly expressed through their rituals of death, mummification and burial. But there also seems to have been a more general idea that by consuming a being’s flesh, a person could take on that being’s attributes. Eating the meat of a bear, for instance, could give you something of that creature’s courage and strength. The influential 16th-century Swiss alchemist and physician Paracelsus propagated this notion and felt the principle also applied to our own species. He, however, recommended medicine made from fresh corpses rather than ancient mummies, stating, ‘If doctors were aware of the power of this substance, no body would be left on the gibbet for more than three days.’

A disciple of Paracelsus, Johann Schroder – physician, pharmacologist and the first person to recognise that arsenic is an element – entertained similar beliefs. Schroder advocated gulping down medicine made from ‘the cadaver of a reddish man (because in such a man the blood is believed to be lighter and so the flesh is better), whole, fresh without blemish, of around 24-years-of-age, dead of a violent death (not of illness), exposed to the moon’s rays for one day and one night.’ The flesh should be treated so that it ‘resembles smoke-cured meat, without any stench’. Oswald Croll – an alchemist and professor of medicine at the University of Marburg – stated that mummia wasn’t ‘the liquid matter which is found in Egyptian sepulchres’ but argued it should be acquired from ‘the flesh of a man that perishes a violent death’. He had a recipe for making the substance from the body of a young red-headed man who’d been bludgeoned on a breaking wheel, hanged and exposed to the air for several days. Croll recommended the flesh should be chopped into small pieces, sprinkled with powdered myrrh and aloes, marinated in wine then dried.

Some writers, on the other hand, felt the best medicine was procured from young ‘unsullied’ females. In the early 1600s, the physician Pietro de la Valle claimed the best mummia came from ‘maidens and bodies of virgins’. As late as 1824, the French writer and historian Jean-Baptiste-Bonaventure de Roquefort concurred with this opinion. In Shakespeare’s Othello, Desdemona’s handkerchief is ‘dyed in mummy which the skilful conserved of maidens’ hearts.’

Despite authorities stating that good mummia could be obtained in Europe itself, the mystic lure of Ancient Egypt was strong and recent European corpses were often passed off as originating from the land of the Pharaohs. The barber surgeon Ambroise Paré (1510-90)  – a royal doctor and one of the ‘fathers of modern surgery’ – exposed the production of fake mummia in France, finding that apothecaries had been stealing the corpses of executed convicts, putting them in ovens and selling the dried flesh. Paré also came across similar practices in Egypt. One merchant, who confessed to making mummies from the recently departed, expressed astonishment that Christians ‘so dainty-mouthed could eat the bodies of the dead’.

Many European Christians, though, were in agreement with the conman Paré interviewed, feeling mummia was a disgusting and dangerous medicine. Read on to learn of how Shakespeare and other playwrights disparaged the drug, of the doctors and preachers who ranted against it, and of how precious Egyptian mummies gradually came to be put to a more exhibitionistic use.

The Questioning of Mummia’s Health-bestowing Benefits, Shakespeare’s Disapproval and the Stripping of Mummies for Show

Paré admitted to administering mummia to at least a hundred of his patients, but he was to become critical of the medicine. He thundered against ‘this wicked kind of drugge’ that not only ‘doth nothing to help the diseased’ but could actually be injurious to the health, causing ‘many troublesome symptomes, such as paine of the heart or stomacke, vomiting and stinke of the mouth’. Paré stopped prescribing mummia and urged other doctors to do likewise. Renaissance scholars were also becoming aware of the translation mistakes that had sparked much of the enthusiasm for mummia. The French naturalist Pierre Belon (1517-1564) pointed out that when Arab physicians had written of mummia, they’d been referring to pissasphalt (mineral pitch or asphalt) rather than the scrapings of ancient corpses or the powdered remains of bodies dried in the sun. In 1597, the English herbalist John Gerard also stressed that ‘mummia’ was in reality pissasphalt and accused the translator of Serapion the Younger of describing the drug ‘according to his owne fancie’. In 1599, the preacher Richard Hakluyt lamented that ‘these dead bodies are the mummie which the Phisitians and Apothecaries do against our willes make us to swallow.’

The philosopher Sir Thomas Browne in 1658 launched a blistering critique of the trade in mummia: ‘The Egyptian mummies, which Cambyses or time hath spared, avarice now consumeth. Mummie is become Merchandise, Mizraim cures wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for balsams … Surely such diet is dismal vampirism; and exceeds in horror the black banquet of Domitian, not to be paralleled except in those Arabian feasts, wherein Ghouls feed horribly.’ In 1546, the German physician Leonhard Fuchs complained about people ingesting ‘the gory matter of cadavers received evidently from the gallows or the torture wheel, spotted with the faeces of corpses in place of aloes and myrrh.’

A distaste for mummia can also be found in Renaissance literature and drama. In Macbeth, Shakespeare – despite his son-in-law’s enthusiasm for the substance – has his witches add ‘witches’ mummy’ to their diabolical cauldron along with unsavoury ingredients like ‘gall of goat’, ‘eye of newt’, ‘tongue of dog’ and ‘finger of birth-strangled babe’. In James Shirley’s The Bird in a Cage (1633) a character exclaims, ‘Make a mummy of my flesh and sell me to the apothecaries’. In Ben Johnson’s Volpone, it’s also suggested that a body should be sold ‘for mummia, he’s half-dust already’. Perhaps the most gruesome mummia-related lines come from John Webster’s The White Devil:

‘Your followers

Have swallowed you, like mummia, and being sick

With such unnatural and horrid physic,

Vomit you up i’ th’ kennel.’

Despite the disapproval of certain physicians, writers and intellectuals, the medical use of mummia only declined gradually as more scientific and less mythical modes of thinking seeped into society. Mummia’s popularity may have also dipped thanks to suspicions the drug exacerbated plague outbreaks in the 1600s. Another factor may, however, have been changing notions regarding the value of Ancient Egyptian mummies and artefacts.

Towards the end of the 18th century, the colonial opening up of Egypt and advances in archaeology led to ‘Egyptomania’ – an obsession with Ancient Egypt that swept across Europe. Egyptian themes featured in operas, novels and plays; Egyptian designs appeared on crockery, jewellery and furniture; and Egyptian-influenced mausoleums – including miniature pyramid tombs – sprang up in churchyards and cemeteries. Mummies themselves became desirable possessions rather than primarily being seen as sources of a drug, a drug which was anyway viewed with more and more scepticism. Tourist trips to Egypt increased and many of these tourists were determined to bring back souvenirs of ancient pedigree. Bits of Egyptian mummies had long been considered collectable – as we’ve seen from the attitudes of Samuel Pepys and John Sanderson – and would sometimes form part of a gentleman’s ‘cabinet of curiosities’. In 1639, an observer described one such collection as containing two ribs of a whale, a preserved pelican, the hand of a mermaid and the hand of a mummy. But as Egyptomania took hold – especially following Napoleon’s invasion of the country in 1798 – this thirst for mummified artefacts intensified.

Victorian tourists relax in Egypt, around 1890

In his Egypt of the Pharaohs (1974), Brian Fagan reports that ‘diplomats and tourists, merchants and dukes, all vied with one another to assemble spectacular collections of mummies and other antiquities.’ This obsession resulted in ‘ferocious rivalry, and the competitors could frequently be seen clambering over stones and broken sarcophagi, rooting through rubble and bartering with boys whose pockets were stuffed with ancient remains.’ Egyptian entrepreneurs had once supplied mummies of dubious antiquity to Europeans eager to make medicine. Now local businessmen reacted to the tourist influx by scattering visitor hotspots with mummies and artefacts transported from elsewhere to make sure that no travellers left disappointed. In 1833, the French abbot Father Géramb commented, ‘It would hardly be respectable, on one’s return from Egypt, to present oneself without a mummy in one hand and a crocodile in the other.’

But mummies could have an even more bizarre use than decorating aristocratic houses or furnishing gentlemen’s curiosity cabinets. They could prove quite a social attraction as the centrepiece of ‘mummy unrolling’ occasions. These events would consist of an ‘expert’ – usually a doctor or academic – divesting a mummy of its bandages in front of a fascinated audience. The unwrappings could range from sober sessions in lecture rooms to little more than ghoulish sources of entertainment at private parties. Often the unrollings would be something in between, combining a concern for education and science with elaborate showmanship. Thomas ‘Mummy’ Pettigrew – a surgeon, author, antiquarian and treasurer of the British Archaeological Society – started unrolling mummies and conducting autopsies upon them in a lecture theatre in London’s Charing Cross Hospital. Soon, however, he was unwrapping the ancient cadavers at private gatherings and public exhibitions – events which almost always sold out and had people turned away at the door. By 1848, Pettigrew was thought to have unrolled as many as 50 mummies.

The Egyptologist and folklorist Margaret Murray and her team unwrap the mummy of Khnum-Nakht in front of 500 people in a University of Manchester lecture theatre in 1908.

These mummy-unrolling rituals weren’t limited to England. The French novelist and critic Théophile Gautier attended a mummy unwrapping in 1857. He noted the ‘faint, delicate odour of balsam, incense and other aromatic drugs’ and how ‘a vast quantity of linen filled the room, and we could not help wondering how a box which was scarcely larger than an ordinary coffin had managed to hold it all.’ Gautier was shaken by the mummy’s eyes: ‘two white eyes with great black pupils shone with fictitious life between brown eyelids. They were enamelled eyes, such as it was customary to insert in carefully prepared mummies. The clear, fixed glance, gazing out of the dead face, produced a terrifying effect; the body seemed to behold with disdainful surprise the living beings that moved around it.’ Théophile related how ‘little by little the body began to show its sad nudity … is it not a surprising thing … to see on a table, in still appreciable shape, a being which walked in the sunshine, which lived and loved 500 years before Moses, 2,000 years before Jesus Christ?’

A mummy unwrapping session in Cairo in 1886 – note the fashionable lady spectator

But if mummies had largely become objects of touristic enthusiasm or items to be plundered and carried back to Europe to be either unwrapped or displayed, what of the powder mummia? Did Europeans finally stop grinding up the ancient dead? Mummia did continue to have a function even though far fewer people swallowed it as a drug. To understand that purpose, we’ll need to look to the world of fine art.

Mummia as an Artists’ Pigment – the Burial of ‘Mummy Brown’ and Painting with Ground-up French Kings

For some time, European artists had been using a paint known as ‘mummy brown’ – a rich brown bituminous pigment. This paint – also called Egyptian brown and caput mortuum (dead man’s head) – seems to have been developed in the 16th or 17th century. It was made from myrrh, white pitch and – ground-up Ancient Egyptian mummies. As with medical mummia, however, high demand could result in less-than-authentic mummies being used. Sometimes the mummies of cats replaced those of humans; sometimes the bodies of recently deceased criminals and slaves found their way into the paint. On occasion, mummies from the Canary Islands substituted the Egyptian variety – the aboriginal people of the islands, the Guanche, had also embalmed their dead.

Tubes of mummy brown paint from Roberson’s of London. (Photo: Lulu_Geek)

Opinions about mummy brown differed. Some artists felt it had good transparency and was good for glazes, shadows, flesh tones and shading. It was said to ‘flow from the brush with delightful freedom and evenness’. The pigment, however, varied in quality, with the paint from some batches prone to cracking. As mummy brown contained ammonia and particles of fat, it could sully other colours. One critic complained that ‘these crumbled remains of dead bodies’ were ‘more or less liable to injure the colours with which they may be united’ before concluding there was ‘nothing to be gained by smearing our canvas with a part perhaps of the wife of Potiphar, that might not be as easily secured by materials less frail and of more sober character.’

Liberty Leading the People by Eugene Delacroix (1830) might well have been painted with mummy brown.

The variability in mummy brown’s composition makes it difficult to know which paintings it appears in, but mummy brown was fashionable from the mid-18th to the late-19th century. Delacroix is known to have used it, the British portraitist William Beechey had stocks of the substance, and it was used by the Anglo-Dutch painter Lawrence Alma-Tadema, a friend of the Pre-Raphaelites. One work that made much use of mummy brown was Interior of a Kitchen (1815) by the French painter Martin Drolling. Drolling’s mummy brown is rumoured to have come from an astonishing source. The Royal Abbey of Saint-Denis (now in a Paris suburb) also served as a royal necropolis and almost every French monarch from the 10th century onwards had been buried there. After the French Revolution, the government ordered the destruction of the royal sepulchres. The royal bodies – some of which were exceptionally well-preserved – were yanked from their tombs, hurled into pits and covered with quick lime. But some workmen, apparently, couldn’t resist grabbing ‘souvenirs’. These mementoes allegedly included jaws, sections of skulls, nails, moustaches, Henry III’s teeth, Phillipe Auguste’s hair and an entire arm of Catherine de Medici. Some of the royal remains are said to have ended up transformed into mummy brown and – according to legend – Drolling daubed this very paint onto his canvas.

Martin Drolling’s Interior of a Kitchen (1815) – was it painted with mummy brown made from the corpses of French monarchs?

Mummy brown was popular with the Pre-Raphaelites, especially with Edward Burne-Jones (1833-98). It seems Burne-Jones was, however, using the pigment while unaware of its gruesome origins. According to a book by his widow Georgina, Burne-Jones had invited Alma-Tadema for Sunday lunch with his family. After the meal, the two men discussed colours. Georgina wrote, ‘Mr Tadema startled us by saying that he had lately been invited to go and see a mummy that was in his colourman’s workshop before it was ground down into paint.’ Burne-Jones scoffed at the notion that the pigment ‘had anything to do with a mummy’ and ‘said the name must only be borrowed to describe a particular shade of brown.’ When, Georgina maintains, Tadema managed to convince Burne-Jones the paint really was made from mummies, Burne-Jones ‘left us at once, hastened to the studio, and returning with the only tube he had, insisted on our giving it a decent burial there and then. So a hole was bored in the green grass at our feet, and we all watched it put safely in, and the spot was marked by one of the girls planting a daisy root above it.’

The Last Sleep of Arthur in Avalon by Edward Burne-Jones (1880-98), which was probably painted using mummy brown.

Another person present at the lunch was Georgina’s nephew, a young Rudyard Kipling. Kipling recalled Burne-Jones descending ‘in broad daylight with a tube of mummy brown in his hand, saying that he had discovered it was made of dead Pharaohs and we must bury it accordingly. So we all went out and helped – according to the rites of Mizraim and Memphis, I hope – and to this day I could drive a spade to within a foot of where that tube lies.’

The use of the pigment declined in the early 20th century as more artists – like Burne-Jones – learned of its unsavoury composition and respect for the historical, archaeological and cultural value of mummies increased. Mummy brown was, however, available to those who really wanted it for a surprisingly long time. This may have been due to the fact that large quantities of paint could be produced from just a few mummies. In 1915, one colourman stated that a single mummy had kept his customers supplied with the pigment for two decades. The famous colour-makers Roberson’s of London stocked the paint until the early 1960s though demand by that time was very low. In 1963, the firm had to remove the pigment from its catalogue because it had finally run out of mummies. ‘We might have a few odd limbs lying about somewhere,’ the director said, ‘but not enough to make any more paint. We sold our last complete mummy some years ago for, I think, £3. Perhaps we shouldn’t have. We certainly can’t get any more.’ Though you can purchase a modern pigment called mummy brown, it’s made of kaolin, quartz, goethite and hematite – with no taint of desiccated cadavers.

A modern version of mummy brown – entirely free from ancient mummies. (Photo: news.artnet)

But what of the medical use of mummia? By the early 1700s, the drug’s popularity was in sharp decline. The English medical author John Quincy wrote in 1718 that although mummia was listed in medical catalogues, ‘it is quite out of prescription’. So does this mean that the mania for mummia, that the belief that ingesting ancient corpses can boost our health, belongs solely to a superstitious past? This doesn’t entirely appear to be the case. The substance could be found as late as 1924 on the price list of the large pharmaceutical company Merck & Co. Even more incredibly, in 1973 a shop in New York that sold ‘witches’ supplies’ was offering what it claimed was powered mummy. Although Ancient Egypt’s magic and mystique seem destined to haunt the Western consciousness for some time to come, let’s hope our obsession with this culture will never again focus on edible artefacts.

(This article’s main image is a photo from the excavation of King Tutankhamen’s tomb in 1923. The king’s mummy wasn’t ground up to make mummia or mummy brown.)

The post Mummia – How Ground Egyptian Mummy Cured All Ailments & Painted Masterpieces appeared first on David Castleton Blog - The Serpent's Pen.

The mausoleum – resembling a hulking Greek temple and surrounded by pillars capped with the memento mori emblems of eternal flames – is the resting place of the Russian aristocrat Baroness Elizaveta Demidoff. Elizaveta (Elizabeth) died on 8th April 1818 and was buried in Père Lachaise the next day. Though in life Baroness Demidoff was famed for her beauty and light-hearted humour, a sinister legend would grow up around her tomb. Elizaveta is said to lie in a glass coffin, but the legend goes well beyond this Snow-White-like detail. What’s really creepy is the claim that a very odd clause lurks in Baroness Demidoff’s will.

Baroness Demidoff’s tomb looms over the other graves in Père Lachaise Cemetery, Paris. (Photo: Luca Borghi)

The will is said to promise a fortune – one million francs, some maintain; others assert as many as five million, equivalent at the time to about a million dollars – to any person brave enough to endure an especially gruesome ordeal. To earn this money, the person would have to spend 365 days and 366 nights alone with Baroness Demidoff in her tomb. Any such candidate would be forbidden all human contact for the duration of the trial. And – just to make the experience even grimmer – the tomb’s walls and ceilings are rumoured to be lined with mirrors. Wherever the contender looked, the sight of the baroness’s body in her crystal casket would assail them.

The legends claim several courageous, or at least greedy, individuals have taken up the challenge. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the same legends state none were able to see it through. After – in most cases – just a few days, contenders were pummelling the tomb door, begging to be let out. Some suffered mental breakdowns or heart attacks; others swore they’d felt a vampire-like entity draining their lifeforce.

But who exactly was Baroness Elizaveta Demidoff and how did these outlandish stories become attached to her? Did her will really lay down such a macabre challenge? What might the strange symbols and occult numbers carved on her tomb mean and why do some people associate them with the vampiric? Let’s investigate below.

The Colourful Life and Early Death of Baroness Demidoff

Baroness Elizaveta Alexandrovna Stroganova entered the world on 5th February 1779 in St Petersburg, Russia. She was born into one of the nation’s wealthiest families, a family that had risen from peasant origins to become landowners, traders and industrialists, making much of their money from salt and fur. This increase in social status was further boosted when Tsar Peter the Great (reigned 1682-1725) bestowed on them the title of Barons of the Russian Empire.

Elizaveta acquired a reputation as a beautiful and beguilingly light-hearted young woman. A number of portraits were made of her, which collectors still prize. At 16-years-old, she married Nikolay Nikitich Demidoff. Nikolay, born in 1773, was from an extremely rich family of industrialists that had acquired their cash from copper, silver and gold mines and iron foundries. He became a diplomat and the couple were posted to Paris.

Portrait of Baroness Demidoff as a child

They both enjoyed life in the city, but Paris especially suited Elizaveta’s outgoing lively nature. Nikolay, in contrast, was more reserved and focused much of his attention on increasing his family’s fortune, obsessing over how to modernise their industrial operations. The Demidoffs had four children, with two – Pavel and Anatoly – surviving to adulthood. Anatoly was destined to continue the family’s social rise – he’d have the title of Prince of San Donato bestowed on him by the Italian government and would marry Napoleon’s niece Mathilda.

During their years in Paris, Nikolay and Elizaveta became admirers of Napoleon Bonaparte, but in 1805 increasing tensions between Napoleon’s regime and Russia led to Nikolay being redeployed. The family spent some years in Italy before the Tsar recalled them to Russia in 1812. Nikolay and Elizaveta settled in Moscow, but – due to the differences in their personalities – they separated shortly after their return. Nikolay remained in the Tsar’s service and would fight against Napoleon in spite of the esteem in which he held the French Emperor. He’d later gain the post of Russian ambassador to the Court of Tuscany. In 1827, Grand Duke Leopold II granted Nikolay the title of Count of San Donato – a mark of gratitude for Nikolay’s role in establishing a silk factory there.

Portrait of Baroness Demidoff – a woman famed for her beauty and lively character

After separating from her husband, Baroness Demidoff moved back to her beloved Paris, but she died there in 1818 at the age of just 39. She was buried in the newly fashionable Père Lachaise Cemetery, which had only opened in 1804 to relieve pressure on overcrowded Paris churchyards. Elizaveta’s mausoleum was originally located in Division 39 of the vast necropolis, but was later moved to the 19th.

Elizaveta’s husband Nikolay Demidoff

So Elizaveta appears to have led a privileged, often enjoyable, but in many ways unremarkable life for a woman of her time and social position. She’s known to have died wealthy, but gossip claimed she was perhaps a little nutty towards the end. Her real fame, however, came after she passed away, thanks to the lurid rumours that circulated about her last will and testament, rumours that would make it into both the French and international newspapers.

The Strange Will of Baroness Demidoff, the Macabre Challenge to Spend a Year in Her Tomb and the ‘Vampiric Symbols’ on Her Mausoleum

Most of what we know about the strange and morbid will of Baroness Demidoff comes from articles in the 19th century press. These articles – some of which refer to the Baroness as a ‘countess’ or even a ‘princess’ – outlined how those taking up her challenge had to follow certain rules. The will, we are told, forbade ‘all visitors. The candidate must be alone with the dead for a whole year before the whole $1,000,000 is won.’ Though a servant would bring ‘meals regularly to the watcher’ and would carry away the bucket containing their bodily waste, any attempts to communicate with this employee were strictly forbidden. The contender was allowed to leave their gloomy lodgings once a day ‘to stroll among the tombs for an hour’. But – to make sure no human contact could be achieved – this walk had to be undertaken after the necropolis’s gates had closed for the night or before they opened in the morning.

The newspaper reports emphasised the horror of passing so much time in such proximity to the corpse of Baroness Demidoff. ‘The princess lies in a crystal coffin,’ one article stated, ‘Thus, the whole body is distinctly visible, and this is what causes so much fright to all who have as yet attempted to gain the prize.’ Another journalist described how ‘the body of the princess, according to legendary report, lies in a crystal coffin, in a wonderful state of preservation’, stressing that ‘in order that the man or woman who might undertake the long watch should never lose sight of it, and during the whole year and a day have his thoughts constantly occupied with the deceased princess, the walls and ceiling were lined with plate-glass mirrors, so that, whichever way the watcher might turn, he or she would always be confronted by the spectacle of the dead Princess in her glass coffin.’

How, then, might the watcher have achieved any respite from this grisly display? Though contenders were forbidden to distract themselves with any sort of work, books and newspapers were permitted. Such material could be read by ‘the funeral light at the head of the coffin’. But what would happen to the candidate if, in a moment of weakness, they attempted to talk to the meal-bearing servant or sneak over the cemetery walls? We’re told that ‘in the case of any of these stipulations being violated, the watch was to recommence, or all hope of inheriting the million francs be abandoned.’

Baroness Demidoff’s mausoleum in Père Lachaise Cemetery, Paris. (Photo: The Paranormal Guide)

Despite these rigorous demands, there was no shortage of applicants willing to go through the ordeal. An article in a Chicago newspaper stated, ‘Several Frenchmen have essayed to win the prize, but all have given up after a short trial. One lasted out nearly three weeks, by which time he had completely lost his reason and still remains a jabbering idiot. The will makes no mention of foreigners being ineligible; there is every chance, therefore, for a strong-minded American who fears neither ghosts, ghouls nor gravestones to become rich in the short period of 365 days. Applications to be made to the municipality of Paris.’

Letters indeed flooded in from across the world. ‘Though applications to watch by the coffin of the Russian Princess came from all parts of Europe, and even North and South America,’ one article related, ‘Belgium seems to have furnished the largest number of intrepid individuals willing and anxious to sit for a whole year beside the glass coffin.’ Would-be contenders included ‘an old soldier, occupying the post of night watcher in a factory’ who ‘declared he would certainly earn the million francs if the conservator of the cemetery would only admit him into the tomb of the Princess’ and ‘a young shepherd of Laekesles-Bruxelles’. This young man ‘was in such a hurry to commence the watch that would make him rich and enable him to marry the girl he loved, that he begged the conservator of Père Lachaise to indicate the day and hour at which he might present himself.’ A letter from an American, which still exists, earnestly requests ‘please tell me if this is a bona fide offer’ before adding ‘if it is, please consider me an applicant of these requirements at once’ then signing off ‘And greatly obliged – yours very truly, J.H. Davis.’

It wasn’t only men who were prepared to endure a gloomy year in the presence of Baroness Demidoff’s remains. An article expressed surprise at ‘the number of widows who presented themselves for the interminable watch … they disguised their desire to become rich with the supposed Princess’s million francs under all sorts of excuses. They wanted the money for this and that praiseworthy object – to help a friend, to provide for a daughter etc., and one even went so far to declare that if she earned the money she would found a home for orphans.’

Even newspaper reporters themselves, including those working for respectable journals, seem to have been seduced by the prospect of the Baroness’s fortune. One article related how ‘a journalist on Le Temps seriously enquired with whom the money had been lodged, and whether he was quite sure to receive the million if he succeeded in accomplishing the watch.’

The parade of people presenting themselves to undertake the ordeal grew as the story of Baroness Demidoff’s will spread. One American newspaper described how applicants ‘began to bombard the officials in Paris and our ambassador with letters seeking information and so numerous were these enquiries that the prefect of police had to hire another clerk, the city fathers had to increase their secretaries, and Mr Eustice had to call in the extra hall man at the embassy to open the communications that arrived from all parts of North America.’ Some would-be contenders tried to bribe officials with presents or with cuts of the prize money.

Most who attempted the challenge, however, are said not to have lasted long before screaming to be let out. Tortured by the inescapable presence of the Baroness’s corpse – and haunted by its incessant reflection in the mirrors all around them – few endured for more than a fortnight. One man is alleged to have gone totally insane, another to have died of a heart attack soon after his release. Others felt their vitality being drained, with one sensing his very life was seeping from him. Some contenders claimed to have ‘heard unearthly and mysterious sounds’ or to have ‘been struck with horror and fear by ghostly apparitions’. Certain candidates suspected the tomb was a portal leading to hell while others came out covered in scratches and bruises. Even present-day visitors to Père Lachaise have reported feelings of unease and emptiness around the mausoleum and strong urges not to linger nearby. It’s been theorised that Baroness Demidoff may be some sort of ‘energy vampire’, with the challenge in her will a means of providing her with victims so she could feed off their lifeforce.

The strange design of the Baroness’s tomb has also stimulated ideas about her ‘vampirism’. The mausoleum boasts carvings of bats and of wolves’ heads, with the wolves rumoured to guard the Baroness’s body during the daytime. The tomb also bears a carving of a knot – thought to depict the Knot of Hercules, which symbolises the binding together of the states of life and death. The date of Baroness Demidoff’s demise is also believed to be significant. She died on April 8th, 1818, and the number eight – with its interconnected loops – is said to be an emblem of infinity when laid on its side. Or it could represent the eternal ouroboros – the cosmic snake biting its own tail. It’s claimed three eights are to vampires what three sixes are to the Devil or that eight is a number of occult initiation, with nine being the number of the accomplished adept.

A wolf’s head on Baroness Demidoff’s tomb in Père Lachaise Cemetery, Paris – a daytime guardian of the vampire princess?

There’s also the tomb’s location within Père Lachaise Cemetery. It sits on the Alley of Acacias. The acacia plant is a symbol of resurrection, immortality and initiation, frequently found in Freemasonry. The Baroness’s tomb also lies on the Path of the Dragon – the name Dracula stems from the word meaning ‘dragon’ or ‘devil’ in the Romanian language. Baroness Demidoff’s body is said to face the setting sun, which also has – apparently – some vampiric significance, and it’s alleged her corpse doesn’t show any signs of decomposition. In modern times, there are those who have attempted to film inside the tomb – through a cross-like opening in its door – and who claim to have captured the eerie movements of some florescent figure or a glowing demonic face.

There’s no doubt that the newspaper reports about Baroness Demidoff appeared and that people did send letters asking to take up her challenge. But how much truth actually was there in these journalistic articles, what did the Baroness’s will really say, and – if not vampirism – what could explain the extremely odd decorations on her tomb? Keep reading and we’ll try to find out.

How Much Truth Is There in the Sinister Legends of Baroness Demidoff’s Bizarre Will and ‘Vampiric Tomb’?

For some time, people have tried to explain the weird contents of the Baroness’s will and the strange legends surrounding her. It’s been suggested that the stipulations in her last will and testament came from a fear of being interred in her mausoleum alive. A terror of live burial was common in the 18th and 19th centuries. Medical advances in the understanding of coma-like states had led people to realise it was possible for one to appear dead, be buried then wake up underground or sealed in the tomb.

These fears can be seen in fiction like Frankenstein and Dracula – books which obsess over the blurry boundaries between death and life and the dark possibilities of reanimation – as well as in the stories of Edgar Allan Poe. Some coffins were fitted with bells and flags, enabling people who suffered overhasty burial to signal to those on the surface. Or the ‘dead’ were buried with loaded pistols so they could end their anguish if it turned out a terrible mistake had occurred. Might Baroness Demidoff’s will have been an attempt to lure a watcher who could raise the alarm if he saw movement in her crystal coffin? Were the mirrors to make sure any such stirrings wouldn’t be missed?

This argument – considering the widespread fears of the time – might be compelling, but it’s unlikely to be accurate. As mentioned above, most of our knowledge of Baroness Demidoff’s will comes from newspaper reports and an analysis of these soon provides a simpler explanation. The dark fairy tale of the glass-coffined princess in Père Lachaise Cemetery appears to have sprung from nothing more than the 19th-century equivalent of ‘fake news’.

The greatest giveaway is the date of the articles. Research by Chris Woodyard – author of the Victorian Book of the Dead – has found that the earliest printed reference to the Baroness’s morbid myth crops up in the Chicago Daily Tribune on 25th October 1893. The Tribune’s short article claims that ‘five years ago a Russian princess died leaving a large fortune’ before going on to give details of the glass coffin, a five-million-franc reward and the requirement for anyone who wanted this cash to remain in the mausoleum for a year. Immediately, we can see an issue – the article implies the baroness died in 1888 when in fact she passed away in 1818.

The Chicago Daily Tribune article was picked up by newspapers in the United States, in France and throughout the world, leading to a deluge of letters from those willing to endure the ordeal. Another Chicago newspaper – probably the Chicago Herald – published an article on November 15th 1893 also stating the ‘Russian Princess’ had died five years earlier. When the American J.H. Davis wrote his charming letter – also in 1893 – asking to undertake the challenge, he enclosed ‘an article from the Chicago Herald to the effect that one million dollars are left by a Russian Princess to the person who will watch her tomb for the space of one year.’

Even at the time, it didn’t take most of the press long to see through the hoax around Baroness Demidoff’s will. Articles were published around the world giving details of the legend then thundering against the fraud it had sprung from. In January 1894, the San Francisco Morning Call denounced the story as ‘a very grim hoax’. The New Zealand Herald, on 17th February 1894, wrote, ‘How this story got circulated, no one knows, not even the conservator of Père Lachaise Cemetery, who has used every effort to discover its author. To put an end to the fable and to the streams of letters, he has sent notes to the journals contradicting the story, but they have not yet met with so much credence as the legend of the Princess’ million.’ In April 1894, the Boston Herald published  ‘A Bogus Special about the Will of a Princess’, stridently condemning ‘a certain Chicago newspaper as the cause of all sorts of emotions and of semi-diplomatic annoyances to the American embassy, to the prefecture of police and to the municipality of this great capital.’ This lamentable news item, the Boston Herald tells us, had aroused ‘the ambition of all the cranks in the country’.

A quiet lane in Père Lachaise Cemetery, Paris (Photo: X Days in Y)

I can’t help wondering, however, if these articles – which devoted more space to describing the macabrely fantastical legend than debunking it – didn’t increase the myth’s popularity and keep the torrent of letters from eager candidates gushing in. In 1896, Baroness Demidoff’s grim fame received fresh impetus from an article in Le Temps, which depicted the story in the manner of a morbid fairy tale. Even years later, the legend would surge into the popular consciousness from time to time. In 1932, the Emporia Gazette described how ‘some time last August an ex-soldier arrived at the cemetery and solemnly announced that he had come to win the million francs offered … his advent, so the authorities have informed reporters, was the beginning of a veritable procession of adventurers all equipped with the same tale and paraphernalia and all eager to pass a year in the tomb of the Russian Princess … Not only this, but letters have been received by the cemetery authorities from persons in Morocco, Tunisia, the Sudan and Indo-China, who desire to undergo the ordeal. Those who have appeared at the cemetery in person, although carefully interrogated by the authorities, have either declined or refused to divulge the source of their information.’

So it appears that the legend of Baroness Demidoff’s will was likely a creation of a journalistic pen (or typewriter) to provide content on a slow news day – a short article that then caused an unexpected sensation around the globe, memories of which lingered in the collective imagination for decades. There is, of course, the possibility that the articles may have been based on oral folklore that had grown up around the Baroness’s tomb, but there’s no way of proving this. As for the Baroness’s will itself – the document that would clear much of this speculation up – no one seems to know where it is or what is says. A figure with the wealth and social status of Baroness Demidoff would have likely left a last will and testament, but there is (perhaps mysteriously) no surviving record of it.

But what about the vampiric symbols on Baroness Demidoff’s tomb? The tomb does bear unusual emblems, though some of these – like hammers and depictions of small creatures, probably weasels – are references to the sources of the Demidoff family wealth in the metalworking and fur industries. The wolves’ heads function as water-spouting gargoyles and though bats are an unusual and somewhat sinister choice of tomb ornamentation, they’re not totally unheard of – another mausoleum in Père Lachaise is decorated with the creatures. The eights in the Baroness’s death date – as records show – simply refer to the day she died. As for the tomb’s location on the Path of the Dragon and Alley of Acacias, the case for any deliberate siting of the tomb on these thoroughfares must be weakened by the fact the tomb was moved from the 39th Division of Père Lachaise to the 19th. There’s also nothing in what we know of Baroness Demidoff’s life or her upbeat personality to suggest any dabblings in the darker aspects of the occult, let alone vampirism.

Hammers and weasels – representing the Demidoff’s sources of wealth – on Baroness Demidoff’s tomb in Père Lachaise Cemetery. (Photo: Guilhem Vellut)

Spooky and atmospheric Victorian-era cemeteries do, however, have a strange capacity to attract otherworldly legends. A vampire was once rumoured to lurk in London’s Highgate Cemetery while another vampire panic took place in Glasgow’s Southern Necropolis. In Hollywood Cemetery, Richmond, Virginia, a tomb is rumoured to be decorated with vampiric signs and emblems, rather like the Baroness’s resting place. In London’s Brompton Cemetery, a striking Neo-Egyptian mausoleum is said to be either a Victorian time-travelling contraption or a teleportation device.

Mausoleums in Père Lachaise Cemetery, Paris. (Photo: Whitty McCloud)

Whether or not Père Lachaise Cemetery contains a glass-casketed vampire princess – or whether or not you dare to peer into or hang around Baroness Demidoff’s mausoleum – the necropolis is certainly worth a visit. As well as being Paris’s largest cemetery, it’s the city’s biggest park. Paths thread pleasantly through the tree-shaded, landscaped grounds – grounds full of the most fascinating and beautiful tombs. Père Lachaise is like a history book of marble, granite and earth, hosting the graves of numerous cultural figures, such as Jim Morrison, Oscar Wilde, Édith Piaf, Honoré de Balzac, Sarah Bernhardt, Max Ernst, Gertrude Stein and Guillaume Apollinaire. But one of the graveyard’s most famous tombs – whether as the result of press sensationalism or something more supernatural and sinister – will always be the imposing mausoleum of the Russian baroness who made her eternal home in the French capital.

(This article’s main image – showing Baroness Demidoff’s tomb in Père Lachaise Cemetery – is courtesy of Guilhem Vellut.)

The post Baroness Demidoff – the Glass-Coffined ‘Vampire Princess’ of Père Lachaise Cemetery appeared first on David Castleton Blog - The Serpent's Pen.

Miss Havisham received the letter cancelling her wedding as she was getting dressed (a letter which also revealed her intended had swindled her). She has, thereafter, worn just one shoe, as she’d only managed to put one on before the letter was delivered. All the clocks in Miss Havisham’s house are stopped at twenty-to-nine, the moment she learned of her betrayal. The blinds are kept permanently down, meaning she lives in a candlelit twilight. She’s permitted nothing to be moved since the day she was deserted. The wedding cake and the remains of the bridal banquet are still laid out – rotting, mouldering and stale – on a disintegrating tablecloth. Beetles and spiders lurk among the remnants of the aborted feast. The rooms of Miss Havisham’s decaying mansion, Satis House, are never cleaned or dusted. Grime encrusts the windows – further restricting the penetration of daylight – and dust has piled up on the furniture and floors.

Many people think of Miss Havisham as old, but according to Dickens’s notes, he envisaged her as only in her mid-thirties at the beginning of the novel she appears in, Great Expectations. Dickens, however, implies that the years without sunlight have prematurely aged her. (Dickens obviously didn’t understand the effects of UV rays.) Pip, the hero of Great Expectations – who Miss Havisham lures as a young boy to her mansion while entertaining the possibility of perhaps ruining his life – describes her as looking like ‘some ghastly waxwork at the fair’ or ‘a skeleton in the ashes of a rich dress’. Miss Havisham informs Pip that she is ‘a woman who has never seen the sun since you were born.’ Dickens depicts Miss Havisham as resembling ‘the witch of the place’ while Pip sees the ‘withered bridal dress’ as like ‘grave clothes’ and ‘the long veil so like a shroud’. Miss Havisham is almost vampire-like, with Pip suspecting ‘the admission of the natural light of day would have struck her to dust’. She does perhaps follow the timeless existence of the nosferatu. After Pip’s first visit to Satis House, ‘the rush of daylight quite confounded me and made me feel as if I had been in the candlelight of that strange room many hours.’

Miss Havisham looking skeletal in a 1910 illustration by Harry Furniss

Miss Havisham adopts a girl, Estella, who she at first wishes to guard from suffering a fate such as hers by warning her against the evils of the male sex. She later, however, upon noting how beautiful Estella is becoming, decides to use her protégé as an instrument of revenge against men, rearing her to be cold and manipulative. Pip is one of the unfortunate males to come under Estella’s seductive influence. He falls for her and – unsurprisingly – Miss Havisham’s machinations have dismal consequences for both these young people’s lives.

Miss Havisham is certainly a peculiar character, but it may surprise you to know that many believe she didn’t slide fully formed from the imagination of Charles Dickens. There is said to have been a prototype – a dark figure of London legend – called Jane Lewson. Jane, who died when Dickens was a boy, also lived a secluded life in a gloomy mansion. She permitted no object to be moved and allowed no cleaning to be done. Her windows grew so grimy that she lived in continual dusk. Like Miss Havisham, Jane always wore the same clothes, clothes that appeared so gothically grand that ‘Lady Lewson’ became her nickname. Moreover, it’s claimed that Lady Lewson endured her hermit-like, twilit existence until the incredible age of 116.

But who exactly was Jane Lewson and did she really inspire Charles Dickens to create Miss Havisham? How might Dickens have heard of her? Could there have been other models for Miss Havisham – jilted women who never removed their bridal gowns, who lived as recluses and who never allowed their decades-old wedding feasts to be cleared away? And how might their stories have ended up in Great Expectations?

Keep reading for tales of candles perpetually burning on ancient wedding cakes, skins plastered with generations of make-up and pig fat, macabre takes on feng shui and new teeth freakishly growing in 87-year-old mouths.

The Dusty, Cobwebby, Reclusive and Very Long Life of Lady Lewson – a Model for Miss Havisham?

Jane Lewson was – or so she claimed – born in 1700, in London. Her maiden name was Vaughan and she grew up on Essex Street, off the Strand, with parents she would always emphasise were of the utmost respectability. At 19-years-of-age, Jane married an old and extremely wealthy merchant, taking his surname of Lewson. She moved into his large opulent house in Clerkenwell, a neighbourhood on the city’s then-northern fringes. The district was considered well-to-do, despite the presence of a few undesirables and eccentrics and the looming mass of the notorious Coldbath Fields Prison (now Mount Pleasant Sorting Office). As far as eccentrics were concerned, Jane Lewson was destined to become one of the area’s most famous human oddities.

Jane gave birth to a daughter, but when she was just 26, her husband passed away, with Jane inheriting much of his fortune and his grand house. For a time, Jane and her daughter lived a relatively normal life, with the only – possibly – perplexing thing about Jane Lewson being the fact she rejected so many suitors, all of whom were eager to gain the hand of the young, attractive and very rich widow. Things changed, however, when Jane’s daughter married and she left home to live with her husband. Jane then appeared to embrace solitude. She seldom went out to socialise and welcomed few visitors.

This in itself may not seem so unusual – society has always had its loners and recluses. It was more the whispers about how Jane lived inside her massive gloomy mansion that elevated eyebrows. She allowed nothing to be changed, moved, thrown out, washed or cleaned. The windows acquired a crust of grime, making the rooms duskier, while dust settled as thick as snow on tables, chairs and picture frames. Layers of dirt obscured mirrors and tinted walls. Jane’s hatred of cleaning even extended to her own person. She wouldn’t wash as she believed the grime on her skin shielded her from illness and that exposure to water was the surest way to get sick. Added to this, she’d smear her skin with pig fat each morning – fat that never got washed off – on top of which she’d apply powder and make-up. Believing each greasy layer was further protection against disease, she maintained she had no need for drugs or doctors.

Jane wore the same style of clothes throughout her life, a style which dated back to the reign of George I (1714-27). As the years passed, she began to resemble a person from another era, a time-travelling curiosity. Her neighbours referred to her as ‘Lady Lewson’ as her manner of dress – and the gold-headed cane she clutched – seemed so archaic and grand in the rapidly modernising city. She’d wear ruffs, frills and a long silk gown. Her hair would be piled to the height of half-a-foot around a horsehair frame, with a few curls left dangling, and the whole display would be capped by a large straw bonnet. A black silk cloak trimmed with lace protected her from the elements. This was her costume every day for her last 80 years.

A depiction of Lady Lewson from The Book of Wonderful Characters (1869) – was she a model for Dickens’s Miss Havisham?

As more dirt and generations of cobwebs built up on her windows, Lady Lewson went on insisting they shouldn’t be washed. She feared this would shatter the glass and either kill the person cleaning it or permit germs to be carried in with the outside air. This added to her mansion’s gloom as the filth-coated windows, in her later years, allowed barely a sliver of light in. Lady Lewson stipulated the beds must be kept made up for visitors – visitors she never invited. Some said the same clothes stayed on the beds for years, mouldering and mildewed. Others claimed Lady Lewson had her maids prepare the beds each morning – the only things that got changed in the house – in case the non-existent visitors unexpectedly turned up.

As Jane aged, she got more and more superstitious and her obsession with staving off illness and death deepened. She’d only drink out of one cup, believing this cut the likelihood of her catching a cold. Jane had similar ideas about knives, forks and plates and would only sit on one chair. She became even more insistent that nothing in the house should be moved, believing the mystic alignment of her possessions – in a kind of macabre feng shui – was responsible for her remarkable longevity and robust health. She barely suffered an hour’s illness though she lost her sight towards her life’s end.

Though she seldom ventured outside her property, Jane Lewson did enjoy her garden. She’d sit in it and read and would occasionally invite the few acquaintances she had left alive to come and take tea with her there. They’d sit and discuss ‘old times’. She was reputed to have an excellent memory and loved relating events from the early 1700s. The only journeys out she seems to have made were occasional trips to her local grocery store.

Pip with Miss Havisham inside the gloomy Satis House

The author Edith Sitwell described Lady Lewson as a ‘strange and ancient trumpery’, stating ‘her likeness to a cobweb is produced by the fact she wears the “ruffs and cuffs and fardingales” of her youth.’ In what seemed a further defiance of the natural order, Lady Lewson ‘at the age of 87 cut two new teeth, which were a source of pride to her and of wonder to her neighbours.’

Edith Sitwell continued, ‘Her large house in Coldbath Square contains only four other beings, ghosts like herself, two lapdogs, an aged cat, and an old man whose occupation had been that of wandering from house to house in the district earning pieces of food by running errands and cleaning boots.’ This man acted as her cook, butler and – by that time – sole servant.

Death Finally Lays His Skeletal Hand on Lady Lewson’s Shoulder

Many had likely begun to think of Lady Lewson as immortal. However, the sudden passing of an – also aged – neighbour in spring 1816 led her to shiver and realise her own appointment with death must come. The shock of her neighbour’s demise caused Jane to weaken. She became bedridden, refused medical help, and on Tuesday 28th May died at what she claimed was the age of 116. On June 3rd, she was buried in the famous dissenters’ graveyard Bunhill Fields, which contains the remains of Daniel Defoe and William Blake among other luminaries.

After Jane’s death, her house was opened to the curious, who must have gaped at its ancient, dust-shrouded artefacts. One Mr Warner was astonished by the lengths Jane had gone to in order to keep out germ-bearing intruders. Warner noted that strong boards – bound together with iron bars – reinforced the ceiling of the upper storey.

Jane Lewson’s fame is attested by the fact that obituaries to her appeared in several publications, including The Observer. The obituaries stressed she’d died at the age of 116 and had lived through the reigns of five monarchs. She was taken to Bunhill Fields in a grand hearse pulled by four horses. Two other carriages accompanied it, containing her executor and a few relations, relations she’d always refused to see.

So might Jane Lewson have been Dickens’s model for Miss Havisham? Dickens was only four when Lady Lewson died, but her story was well-known in London and it’s likely Dickens heard it growing up. Jane Lewson – who today might be diagnosed as suffering from obsessive compulsive disorder or anxiety or a hoarding syndrome or some phobia – certainly resembles Miss Havisham in her reluctance to have things cleaned or rearranged, in her always wearing the same clothes (though not a wedding gown) and her reclusiveness. However, Jane did marry and was not a jilted bride. She gave birth to, rather than adopted, a daughter and there’s no evidence she raised her child to take revenge on men. Contrary to common perceptions, Lady Lewson’s advanced age also isn’t reflected in the Miss Havisham character, a woman Dickens envisaged as in her early middle years.

Could there, then, have been other models that Dickens based Miss Havisham on rather than – or at least in addition to – Jane Lewson? Let’s find out below.

Might Charles Dickens Have Based Miss Havisham on an Australian, Eliza Emily Donnithorne?

Miss Havisham with Pip and Estella in Great Expectations

One possible candidate for Miss Havisham was an Australian woman, Eliza Emily Donnithorne (1821-1886). Eliza was born in South Africa and spent much of her childhood in Calcutta, India, where her father served as master of the mint and as a judge. When Eliza was about 17, her father relocated to Sydney, Australia, where Eliza later joined him. They lived in Cambridge Hall (later Camperdown Lodge) and when Eliza’s father died in 1852, he left her most of his estate.

Though evidence for Eliza’s story is scanty, most accounts claim that – at the age of about 30 – she was jilted on her wedding day. Her fiancé – some sources identify him as George Cuthbertson, a shipping clerk – failed to turn up at Cambridge Hall for the wedding breakfast. According to local legend, the distraught Eliza commanded that the feast and decorations should not be cleared away. After the embarrassed guests had left, Eliza had the blinds pulled down. They were never raised again, meaning she’d always live in semi-darkness. She spent the remainder of her life as a recluse amidst the decaying food and tattered streamers. Eliza never took off her wedding dress.

She had the front door chained, meaning it would only open a couple of inches. Callers therefore never saw her as – if she really was forced to answer the door – she could stay out of view. She never heard from Cuthbertson again and – when she died 30 years after being jilted – those who came to collect the body found her still attired in her wedding gown. Dust lay deep on the floor and grime encrusted the windows. In the dining room were the remnants of the three-decade-old wedding banquet – heaps of mouldy crumbs.

Eliza Emily Donnithorne was buried next to her father in St Stephen’s Churchyard (now Camperdown Cemetery), in the Sydney suburb of Newtown. Since the 1890s, many Australians have maintained that she inspired the Miss Havisham character, meaning her grave is one of the most visited in the necropolis. When vandals attacked the grave in 2004, the Australian National Trust and the UK Dickens Society funded most of the restoration work.

The grave of Eliza Donnithorne and her father James in Camperdown Cemetery, Sydney (Photo: TTaylor)

As Dickens never visited Australia, we might ask how he came to know about Eliza’s story. Dickens did follow events in the Australian colonies and discussed them in his weekly magazine Household Words. One 1935 newspaper article claimed Eliza’s father was ‘a great friend of the famous writer’, but gave no evidence to back this statement up. A more likely way of Dickens hearing about Eliza was through an Australian correspondent, one Caroline Chrisholm. Chrisholm – a humanitarian and social reformer – supplied Dickens with Australian news and Dickens published some of her articles in Household Words. Chrisholm could well have been acquainted with the Donnithorne family or at least known people close to them. She ran a shelter for young female immigrants in Newtown, near the Donnithorne home, and Chrisholm and her husband seem to have been involved in the same Sydney social circle as Donnithorne’s father. Chrisholm and Eliza Donnithorne were also once patients of the same doctor.

Caroline Chrisholm herself at least partly inspired a Dickens character – Mrs Jellyby in Bleak House. Mrs Jellyby – a busybody and inept do-gooder – takes on a variety of social causes with obsessive enthusiasm while neglecting her family. The most preposterous of these, Dickens implies, is her insistence on campaigning for votes for women. Chrisholm’s efforts were, however, at least impressive to some as she is considered a saint in the Anglican Church and is being considered for sainthood in the Catholic Church too, a religion she converted to when she married at 22-years-of-age.

Caroline Chrisholm – did she tell Dickens the story of Eliza Emily Donnithorne, on whom he then based Miss Havisham?

The problem with the claim that Eliza Emily Donnithorne was the model for Miss Havisham is that little is known for certain about Eliza’s life. An interesting take on her legacy, expounded in Evelyn Juers’ 2012 book The Recluse, is that – rather than Eliza inspiring the Miss Havisham character – Dickens’s depiction of Miss Havisham attached itself to Eliza’s legend after her death. Eliza’s story, therefore, became increasingly embroidered with details from Great Expectations as time went on.

Other Prototypes for Miss Havisham – the ‘Wealthy Recluse’ Elizabeth Parker and Margaret Catherine Dick

Many claim that – while staying at the Bear Inn in Newport, Shropshire – Charles Dickens heard a story that would inspire the figure of Miss Havisham. It’s said that one Elizabeth Sarah Parker (1802-1884), of Chetwynd House, Newport, became a recluse after being jilted by Sir Baldwyn Leighton on her wedding day. Following this traumatic experience, Miss Parker spent the rest of her life secluded in the upper storey of Chetwynd House while the ground floor remained bare and unfurnished. Except one room, that is. This room, which never saw daylight, contained her mouldering wedding cake, on which candles were kept continuously burning. Elizabeth only came out of her retirement once. She attended a ball in Newport clad in her wedding dress – because it was wrongly rumoured Sir Baldwyn Leighton would be there. Elizabeth Sarah Parker died in June 1884 and was buried in Chetwynd Church.

This intriguing story has, however, been subjected to some significant myth-busting. Extensive research by Newport archivist Linda Fletcher, in collaboration with the Dickens Fellowship, has unearthed no evidence of either Dickens visiting Newport or of Elizabeth Sarah Parker being the model for Miss Havisham. The letters and papers of the gossipy Newport researcher T.W. Picken (1834-1919) show no mention of any visit from Charles Dickens, even though such a visit would have happened during Picken’s time. A search of all of Dickens’s diaries, letters and journals has also revealed no references to trips to Newport. In addition, Miss Parker was living in Chester or Whitchurch rather than Newport at the time Dickens was writing Great Expectations and she didn’t move to Chetwynd House until she was around 60, after Great Expectations had been published. As for Sir Baldwyn Leighton, he actually married Elizabeth’s older sister, Mary, and there’s no evidence Elizabeth abandoned public life. Perhaps – as may have been the case with Eliza Emily Donnithorne – the details of Dickens’s Miss Havisham entwined themselves around memories of Elizabeth after her death.

The ghostly remains of Miss Havisham’s wedding banquet in Charles Dickens’s Great Expectations

Another possible prototype for Miss Havisham was Margaret Catherine Dick (1827-78) from the village of Bonchurch, on the Isle of Wight. Dickens spent the summer of 1849 in Bonchurch, working on David Copperfield, and got to know quite a few of its inhabitants. He dined with the Dick family at their house, Uppermount, and he’s said to have based the character of the harmless madman Mr Dick on Margaret’s father Samuel (or at least used his name).

Margaret Dick was jilted at the altar in Holy Trinity Church, in the nearby settlement of Ventor, in 1860. She thereafter left the family home and lived as a recluse at a house called Madeira Hall. Another Bonchurch woman, Catherine Haviland, may have supplied the name for the Miss Havisham character. Catherine moved to the Bonchurch area in 1852, living opposite Madeira Hall. The well-to-do Miss Haviland had a coach house and stables built, a building now called Haviland Cottage. A similar structure is mentioned as the coach house of Satis House in Great Expectations. Dickens returned to Bonchurch in November/December 1860 and it’s almost certain that he would have heard from his acquaintances about both Margaret Dick’s jilting and Miss Haviland’s arrival in the village. One possible objection to this theory is that the serialisation of Great Expectations began in the magazine All Year Round on 1st December 1860. This would make the timeframe from inspiration to publication incredibly tight, but it seems Dickens did write many of the novel’s episodes during the serialisation process and he may well have heard about goings-on in Bonchurch through letters prior to his trip there. Margaret Dick died in 1878 at the age of 52 and was buried in nearby Ventor Cemetery.

So Who Did Inspire Charles Dickens to Create Miss Havisham – Lady Lewson or Some Other Reclusive Woman?

I suspect much of the input for Dickens’s depiction of Miss Havisham did indeed come from tales of Lady Lewson. Much about Jane Lewson fits the Miss Havisham narrative – the long years of solitude in a badly lit, decaying, filthy mansion; the continual wearing of the same archaic clothes; the obsessive refusal to allow anything in the house to be changed. As Lady Lewson was not, however, a jilted bride, Dickens perhaps also found inspiration elsewhere. Of the other stories detailed above, it seems most likely he would have drawn from that of Margaret Catherine Dick in Bonchurch, especially as he had knowledge of that village’s gossip. Maybe he combined Margaret’s broken-hearted retirement with the retreat of Lady Lewson into an odd world of gloom and dust and things that can never be moved or cleared away. It’s also possible – if the story of Eliza Emily Donnithorne was true, rather than being embellished with Dickens’s own imaginings after her death – that Dickens may have taken inspiration from the letters of his Australian correspondent Caroline Chrisholm.

The narrative of Miss Havisham in Great Expectations does, however, have one significant difference to the tales of all the women presented here. The women above remained in their sombre solitude until they died of natural causes – mostly at ages which, for the time, would have been considered reasonably good lifespans. And Jane Lewson, of course, is reputed to have lived to an age that would be incredible even today. This was not the case with Dickens’s fictional Miss Havisham.

The final time Pip visits Miss Havisham, she – realising what she has done to him and Estella – throws herself at his feet, hugging his legs and begging him to forgive her. A startled Pip thinks, ‘And could I look upon her without compassion, seeing her punishment in the ruin she was in, in her profound unfitness for this earth on which she was placed, in the vanity of sorrow which had become a master mania, like the vanity of penitence, the vanity of remorse, the vanity of unworthiness, and other monstrous vanities that have been curses in this world?’

Miss Havisham begs Pip’s forgiveness, in an 1877 edition of Charles Dickens’s Great Expectations

As he’s leaving the grounds of Satis House, Pip looks back and sees ‘her seated in the ragged chair upon the hearth close to the fire, with her back towards me. In the moment when I was withdrawing my head to go quietly away, I saw a great flaming light spring up. In the same moment, I saw her running at me, shrieking, with a whirl of fire blazing all about her, and soaring at least as many feet above her head as she was high.’

Sprinting up the stairs and back into her room, Pip ‘dragged the great cloth from the table … and with it dragged down the heap of rottenness in the midst.’ With the mouldering table cloth – in the process burning his own hands – he covers Miss Havisham, trying to put out the flames as ‘patches of tinder yet alight were floating in the smoky air, which, a moment ago, had been her faded bridal dress. Then I looked around and saw the disturbed beetles and spiders running away over the floor, and the servants coming in with breathless cries.’

A surgeon is summoned and, though Miss Havisham is badly burnt, he judges her condition ‘far from hopeless’. He has her laid on the ‘great table’, the table that had so recently borne her wedding feast, ‘which happened to be well-suited to the dressing of her injuries.’

‘Though every vestige of her dress was burnt …’ Pip narrates, ‘she still had something of her old ghastly bridal appearance; for, they had covered her to the throat with white cotton wool, and as she lay with a white sheet loosely overlying that, the phantom air of something that had been and had changed was still upon her.’ Miss Havisham lingers on for a few weeks and – though for a time it seems she is improving – she relapses and dies.

It’s interesting that Dickens has Miss Havisham exit the book in this way. Though he obviously had compassion for the character, there was something about the unnaturalness of her lifestyle and her long-cherished resentments that made her seem like a ghost, a vampire or – as Dickens put it – a witch. Perhaps burning was the only way in which Dickens felt this eerie figure – and the strange mouldering world of decay and stopped time she had built up around her – could finally be exorcised.

(This article’s main image – showing Miss Havisham in her mouldering wedding dress – is courtesy of DeseretNews)

The post The Real Miss Havisham? Lady Lewson’s 116 Years amidst Cobwebs & Grime appeared first on David Castleton Blog - The Serpent's Pen.

This wooden casket – depicting the enigmatic face of a woman – is adorned with winged gods and hieroglyphs, their colours vibrant almost 3,000 years after being painted. You might be tempted to pause, to stare at the artefact. But maybe, after some time, though you wouldn’t want to yank away your gaze, you might become aware of a disturbing feeling, a mix of foreboding and fascination that grows more ominous the longer you look. Prickles could pass over your skin, your heart start to rap. Reluctantly, but thankfully, you might then haul away your eyes and drift on to other exhibits, but your weird encounter with the mummy case, and perhaps thoughts about its occupant, might linger for hours, days afterwards, cropping up in your dreams and invading quiet moments.

You wouldn’t be the first to feel this way. This object – given the identification number 22542 and currently displayed in room 62 of the museum – is at the centre of an extraordinary tangle of London folklore. Known as the ‘Unlucky Mummy’, this cursed artefact is said to have brought death, illness, injuries, bankruptcies and deep unhappiness to many who came into contact with it. It’s said to have smashed glass, spookily distorted photos, and created strange nocturnal lights and eerie footsteps in the houses it was kept in.

The Unlucky Mummy displayed in the British Museum. (Photo: Jack Shoulder)

After its donation to the British Museum, the Unlucky Mummy caused more deaths and accidents. Night-time knockings, shrieks and moans reverberated from the case. One legend asserts the Unlucky Mummy’s ghost travelled down secret passageways to haunt two London Underground Stations and was responsible for the disappearance of two women at one of those Tube stops. Some stories even maintain the mummy was on the Titanic and that it was the mummy’s curse that sank that famous ship. It’s claimed the Unlucky Mummy is the corpse of an Ancient Egyptian princess, who was also a priestess of the powerful sun god Amen-Ra. The potent magic and occult knowledge she learnt in this role allegedly made sure that all those responsible for removing her from her tomb and keeping her from her resting place were pursued and punished.

But where exactly did the Unlucky Mummy come from and how did it find its way to the British Museum? Could there be any truth in the outlandish stories attached to the artefact and – if not entirely accurate – where might these tales have originated? Read on to learn of ominous warnings from palm readers, of Victorian seances in the British Museum’s Egyptian Room, of the beginnings of lurid tabloid journalism, and of the tragic misfiring of shotguns in the marshes of the Nile.

The Ominous Legend of Amen-Ra, the British Museum’s Unlucky Mummy

A number of similar, but varying, stories tell of how the Unlucky Mummy was discovered, brought to England and ended up in the British Museum. Below is an attempt to weave these legends into a coherent narrative.

These accounts centre on one Thomas Douglas Murray (1841-1912), a wealthy Oxford graduate, author, horse breeder and amateur archaeologist. Fascinated with all things Ancient Egyptian, Murray had been in the habit of frequenting Cairo and exploring Egypt. It’s said that as a young man, Murray visited the palmist and astrologer Count Louis Hamon, otherwise known as ‘Cheiro’. The moment Cheiro took hold of his customer’s right hand, he’s reputed to have experienced foreboding and great fear, feeling that the hand would one day be separated from its owner. The palmist had visions of the hand drawing a valuable prize and of a succession of calamities following this event.

Most stories state that in the 1860s – though some place the occurrence as late as the 1880s – Murray travelled to Cairo with two companions. There they met an Arab who showed them the coffin of a freshly excavated mummy. Murray was enchanted with the well-preserved casket, dazzled by how wonderfully it was decorated in gold and enamel and by the queenly features of the young woman depicted on it. Examining the casket more closely, Murray concluded its hieroglyphs stated that the woman was a princess and high-priestess of Amen-Ra. Not only that, but the picture writing declared the princess herself was named ‘Amen-Ra’ after the god she followed. All three Englishmen yearned to purchase the splendid artefact and the Arab was eager to sell. The friends agreed that they’d draw lots and that the winner would then get to bargain for the coffin. Murray won, negotiated the relic’s price and had the case packed up and sent to England that evening.

The Unlucky Mummy, the notorious cursed exhibit of the British Museum

The Englishmen next headed up the Nile to enjoy some duck shooting. But Murray’s gun exploded, injuring his right arm. He hurried back to Cairo to seek medical attention, but his progress was hampered by weirdly powerful headwinds. What should have been a straightforward journey took 10 days and by the time Murray made it to Cairo gangrene had infected the wound. To halt the disease’s spread, his arm had to be amputated. After Murray had recovered somewhat, the three decided to return to England. Before they set off, however, they heard disturbing rumours about the man who’d discovered Murray’s mummy in Luxor. He’d either died shortly after touching its bandages or had walked off into the desert in a daze never to be seen again. Two Egyptian servants who’d handled the mummy case – and been somewhat disrespectful towards its occupant – would be dead within a year and another servant who’d cracked a joke about the mummy would meet his doom even more quickly.

On the voyage back to Britain, both Murray’s friends died and were buried at sea. On reaching his London house, and feeling far from well himself, Murray saw that the mummy’s casket had been unpacked and was waiting for him in the hallway. Rather than being struck by the beautiful craftsmanship that had so bewitched him in Cairo, Murray now sensed the artefact emanated an ancient malignity. Murray couldn’t shake the notion that an atmosphere of foreboding and evil had settled on his house. Some say that during this time Murray – who had an interest in spiritualism – was visited by the Russian occultist and founder of the Theosophy movement Madame Blavatsky (1831-91). Blavatsky immediately felt ‘an evil influence of incredible intensity’. On being asked if she could exorcise the Unlucky Mummy, Blavatsky said, ‘There is no such thing as exorcism. Evil remains evil forever. Nothing can be done about it. I implore you to get rid of this evil as soon as possible.’

Murray was, then, probably relieved when a journalist writing an article about him asked to borrow Amen-Ra’s casket. Soon after the Unlucky Mummy entered her house, her mother tumbled down some stairs and died. The journalist’s fiancé broke off their engagement, her prize dogs went mad and she became ill. She sent Amen-Ra back to Murray.

Murray, perhaps somewhat unethically, palmed the Unlucky Mummy off on a friend, a Mr Wheeler. Wheeler was deluged by misfortunes and soon died broken-hearted. Before his death, Wheeler had passed the mummy on to a married sister. Amen-Ra’s arrival in her house heralded an inevitable string of unfavourable events, but she was still fascinated enough by the casket to take it to a Baker Street studio to have it photographed. She was horrified to learn that ‘when the plate was developed, although the negative had not been touched in any way, it was seen that there looked out the face of a living Egyptian woman, whose eyes stared furiously with an expression of singular malevolence.’ Not long afterwards, the photographer died suddenly and his son suffered an accident during which he was badly cut. When a man who’d purchased one of his photos of Amen-Ra brought it into to his house, every piece of glass in his home shattered. Another photographer unwise enough to take a picture of the Unlucky Mummy smashed his thumb and his assistant – while adjusting the camera – fell and cut his face.

The next time Wheeler’s sister met Murray, she poured out this list of gruesome goings-on. Finally realising it was unfair to keep lumbering his acquaintances with Amen-Ra, Murray suggested donating the mummy to the British Museum. But this proposal didn’t lessen Amen-Ra’s malice. Murray asked a friend, an Egyptologist, to organise the transfer of the mummy to the museum. This man couldn’t resist arranging for the coffin to have a stopover at his house so he could study it. He soon died, with a servant confiding that his master hadn’t slept since the Unlucky Mummy had entered his home. The carrier who brought the case containing Amen-Ra to the British Museum died within a week. While transporting the Unlucky Mummy, his truck hit and trapped a pedestrian as it reversed and a worker who helped unload the artefact broke his leg.

Victorian visitors examine Ancient Egyptian artefacts in the British Museum.

When Amen-Ra was put on display, the problems didn’t end. Nightwatchmen and cleaners reported poltergeist-like phenomena, with tappings, hammerings, moans and sobs coming from the casket. A journalist covering Amen-Ra’s story took a photo of her coffin in its glass display case. Again, the photograph revealed a woman’s face glowering with hatred. After showing the horrifying image to Sir Ernest Wallace Budge – the museum’s Keeper of Egyptian and Assyrian Antiquities – the journalist went home, locked himself in a room and shot himself. Others who dared to photograph or sketch the exhibit also suffered misfortunes. A nightwatchman died as did the child of a visitor who flicked a cloth at the Unlucky Mummy. One museum employee claimed that one evening at dusk he’d seen a figure suddenly sit up in the bottom half of the casket. A being with a hideous yellow face then glided towards him in a repulsively smooth motion. Thinking the entity was going to push him down a nearby trapdoor, the man sprang forward and the apparition vanished.

Sir Earnest A. Wallis Budge, Keeper of Egyptian and Assyrian Antiquities at the British Museum

According to the ghost-hunter Robert Thurston Hopkins, Budge grew increasingly worried by such reports and tried moving the Unlucky Mummy to see if this would help. Some accounts claim he sent Amen-Ra to the basement. During the Unlucky Mummy’s removal to the cellar, a man sprained his ankle and a week later the manager who’d supervised her demotion died in the museum at his desk. Most stories, however, state that Amen-Ra was simply moved from the display case she shared with other exhibits to a more prestigiously positioned case of her own. Her new home was completed with a flattering explanatory label. After this, it’s said, the disturbances became less dramatic and less frequent although for decades night cleaning staff reported ghostly appearances around the case and feelings of dread and terror emanating from it. As for Thomas Douglas Murray, the man who started all the trouble with his rash purchase of the Unlucky Mummy in Cairo, his problems didn’t cease after the British Museum accepted Amen-Ra. As the years passed, Murray’s fortune was whittled away and he died – bankrupt and in poverty – in 1912.

A Merging of Mummy Tales, Lashings of Journalistic Embellishment and a Seance in the British Museum’s Egyptian Rooms

Records indeed show the artefact that became known as the Unlucky Mummy was presented to the British Museum by a Mr A.F. Wheeler on behalf of a Mrs Warwick Hunt of Holland Park in 1890 (Wheeler’s married sister?). This, however, immediately throws doubt on the assertions Wheeler died soon after Murray had given him the mummy.

What appears to have happened is that accounts of the ‘Unlucky Mummy’ became meshed with tales of an entirely different Egyptian artefact that Murray had heard about. Murray came across the story of an Englishwoman who’d acquired an Egyptian mummy and displayed it in her drawing room. The morning after she’d installed it, she entered the room to find everything smashed. She moved the mummy to another room, only to have that room’s contents pulverised too. The mummy was exiled to the attic, but this didn’t halt the weird goings-on. That night, weighty footsteps tramped up and down the stairs, accompanied by eerie flickering lights. The following morning, all the lady’s servants quit.

This tale seems to have ignited Murray’s imagination. It’s unclear to what extent Murray really was involved with the purchase of the Unlucky Mummy and its journey to England. Some sources state he had no association with the object whatsoever until it ended up in the museum while others claim he bought Amen-Ra from an American millionaire collector of antiques, called James Carnegie. Carnegie was a patron of the famous German archaeologist Heinrich Schliemann, who may have discovered the Unlucky Mummy during a dig. Whatever the truth, Murray – excited by the tale he’d heard and knowing Amen-Ra had recently been gifted to the British Museum – went to examine (or re-examine) the institution’s new artefact. He was accompanied by his friend, the famous – some would say notorious – journalist W.T. Stead.

The two men – both of whom had a deep interest in spiritualism – felt the face painted on Amen-Ra’s casket had an extremely sad look, going so far as to conclude ‘the expression on the face on the cover was that of a living soul in torment.’ This prompted Murray to contact the museum to ask if he and Stead could hold a seance in the Egyptian Section to attempt to contact the Unlucky Mummy’s spirit. According to Budge, ‘they wished to hold a seance … and to perform certain experiments with the object of removing the anguish and misery from the eyes of the coffin-lid.’

Mummies and other artefacts in the British Museum’s First Egyptian Room

W.T. Stead (1849-1912) was one of the first investigative journalists, whose style foreshadowed much of the shock, outrage and hyperbole that would characterise 20th-century tabloid-style reporting. He was also one of the earliest media figures to recognise that journalism could sway public opinion and as editor of The Pall Mall Gazette he ran a number of controversial campaigns.

The most famous of these was centred around a series of 1885 articles entitled The Maiden Tribute of Modern Babylon, which dealt with child prostitution. To prove the problem of child prostitution existed, Stead set up the ‘purchase’ of one Eliza Armstrong, the 13-year-old daughter of a chimney sweep. The first instalment in the four-part series warned that the next issues of The Pall Mall Gazette were certain to sell out. Stead was proved right – copies were swapped for 20 times their normal price, 10,000 customers besieged the Gazette‘s offices and the demand was so phenomenal the Gazette even ran out of printing paper. Though considered a hero by many for exposing this trade, Stead was sent to prison for abduction – on the ‘technical grounds’ that he hadn’t first obtained ‘permission’ for his purchase from Eliza’s father. He served three months in Coldbath and Holloway jails. His journalism, nevertheless, helped pass the Criminal Law Amendment Act of 1885, which raised the age of consent from 13 to 16. The bill was dubbed by many the ‘Stead Act’. Stead’s campaign against child prostitution is said to have inspired George Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion and even influenced Robert Louis Stevenson’s Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.

The journalist WT Stead in later life. Did he help invent the Unlucky Mummy myth?

Stead pioneered the use of enormous attention-grabbing headlines and inserted maps and diagrams to break up lengthy articles. He’d also incorporate eye-catching subheadings and did much to popularise the use of interviews, in which he’d sometimes mingle his own opinions with those of his subjects. His lurid descriptions of life in London’s slums pressured the government into appointing a Royal Commission, which recommended the slums should be demolished and low-cost housing put up. Stead also campaigned against brothels and gambling dens and badgered the government into the disastrous decision to send the eccentric General Gordon to protect British interests in the Sudan. As Stead’s career progressed, he became more interested in and committed to the peace movement, covering the Hague Peace Conferences of 1899 and 1907 and advocating for a ‘United States of Europe’ and ‘High Court of Justice among the Nations’ (ideals that foreshadowed the United Nations and EU). Stead was a repeated nominee for the Nobel Peace Prize.

Another, more controversial, obsession was spiritualism. Stead published a spiritualist magazine, Borderland, and maintained he was able to communicate with his deputy editor by means of telepathy and automatic writing. Stead also claimed to have acquired a spirit guide, one Julia A. Ames, an American temperance campaigner and journalist Stead met in 1890 shortly before her death. Though many Victorians lambasted spiritualism as superstitious nonsense, plenty more were fascinated by it and ouija boards and seances were fixtures of many polite drawing rooms. We had, then, the potent mix of a massively successful and influential journalist, the Victorian obsession with spiritualism and table tapping, and spooky rumours concerning Ancient Egyptian artefacts. (A craze for all things Ancient Egypt was another feature of the Victorian epoch.) This combustible concoction seems to have resulted in the birth of an explosive legend.

For any journalist at the time, the idea of a night-time seance being conducted in the British Museum’s Egyptian Rooms – with a table ringed by earnest figures surrounded by mummies and painted caskets and sombre gods – would have made excellent copy. And the unfortunate fact the museum turned down Murray and Stead’s request didn’t stop such articles being printed. The first appears to have been written by Stead himself and other excitable journalists soon picked up the story, with each likely adding in more sensationalist details in the hope of shifting newspapers. Their articles tended to merge the tormented soul of Amen-Ra’s mummy with the crockery smashing relic of the Victorian drawing room and to put this together with the idea of the aborted seance and other legends of Ancient Egyptian curses. The public lapped it up and an intriguing myth was soon in circulation.

We might wonder why Stead and Murray decided to propagate such a yarn. Both men were then in their forties, well-established and not in desperate need of funds. It seems that their profound spiritualist beliefs spurred them to make their claims about Amen-Ra’s curse. They may have hoped an outlandish story would capture the attention of those sceptical about the paranormal and lead them to an interest in spiritualist practices. If their aim was to publicise such beliefs, they succeeded as the story became widely popular, was retold frequently and resonated for years. Much of this popularity would, however, be aided by an unexpected incident, an incident that would involve W.T. Stead in the most tragic way imaginable. The myth of the Unlucky Mummy would become entwined with another story destined to assume the proportions of legend – the sinking of the Titanic.

Did the Unlucky Mummy Sink the Titanic?

One of the most fascinating claims about the Unlucky Mummy was that it was responsible for sinking the Titanic. Apparently, the British Museum had reached the point where it could no longer tolerate the spooky goings-on around the mummy and the artefact’s curse continually injuring or picking off its staff. The decision was made to try to offload the mummy and an American collector agreed to buy Amen-Ra. Her new owner packed her up and booked a passage for himself and his new possession on a ship to the States – a ship that just happened to be the infamous Titanic. This luxurious liner, the largest ship afloat at the time, hit an iceberg then went down in the early hours of 15th April 1912 on her maiden voyage from Southampton to New York. The tragedy resulted in 1,517 deaths, mainly due to insufficient lifeboats and confused and disorganised evacuation procedures.

The Titanic setting out from Southampton – did the Unlucky Mummy’s curse sink the ship?

So was this the end of Amen-Ra? Did she sink to the bottom of the North Atlantic’s cold waters, a place from which even her powerful magic would struggle to exert its malignant influence? Apparently not, according to some versions of the story. During the chaotic scramble for the lifeboats, amidst the cries of ‘women and children first’, the collector paid a bribe to have himself and his mummy stowed in one of these lifesaving crafts. After bobbing on the night-time waves, Amen-Ra – along with the surviving passengers – was rescued by a ship named the Carpathia and completed her journey to the New York.

Inevitably, however, the Unlucky Mummy was soon causing mayhem and misery at the home of its American owner so he decided to send her back to Britain. This, for some reason, was done via Canada, aboard a liner called the Empress of Ireland. After setting out from Quebec City, the Empress collided with a Norwegian coal ship on 29th May 1914 on the St Lawrence River. The Empress sank so quickly there was only time to launch seven of her 40 lifeboats and 840 people went down with the vessel to a watery doom. Amen-Ra, perhaps unsurprisingly, avoided this fate and ended up being placed on yet another liner, the Lusitania. Off the Old Head of Kinsale, Ireland, on 7th May 1915, the Lusitania was torpedoed by a German submarine. Almost 1,200 died and this time, it’s said, Amen-Ra sank with them.

A different version of the legend states Amen-Ra did indeed go down with the Titanic and that she’ll curse anybody who dares disturb her undersea tomb. Dark mutterings of this hex were supposedly heard among the crew on a failed 1980 expedition to locate the Titanic’s wreck.

But was the Unlucky Mummy really on the Titanic and did she finish up floating down to the ocean’s bottom? Records exist for the cargo that sailed with the Titanic, a fascinating list including feathers, hatters’ fur, auto parts, rabbit hair, elastics and early refrigeration gadgets, but absolutely no mummies, cursed or otherwise. The best evidence, however, that Amen-Ra didn’t end up in the chilly Atlantic depths is the fact you can still see her today, secure and dry, in a glass display case in the Egyptian Section of the British Museum. So how did this outlandish tale of the Unlucky Mummy on the Titanic come about?

Again, it appears W.T. Stead was to blame. Stead did travel on the Titanic – he was heading to the States because President Taft had invited him to address a peace conference at New York’s Carnegie Hall. Stead couldn’t resist entertaining the other passengers with the macabre tale of the Unlucky Mummy. He’s said to have begun his narrative during an 11-course dinner party on Friday 12th April and to have drawn it out until after midnight as his listeners sat rivetted.

On the night the iceberg struck, however, Stead had retired to bed early at 10.30 pm. Witnesses observed him helping women and children into the lifeboats and in an act ‘typical of his courage, generosity and humanity’ giving his life-jacket to another passenger. He was spotted calmly reading a book in the first-class smoking room as the Titanic went down, but a survivor, Phillip Mock, recalled him later clinging to a raft with the American business magnate John Jacob Astor IV. ‘Their feet became frozen,’ Mock said, ‘and they were compelled to release their hold. Both were drowned.’ Spookily, Stead had written an article in 1886 and a story in 1892 about the calamities that could result from ships having insufficient lifeboats and hitting icebergs. Stead’s tragedy was compounded by the fact it was widely believed he was due to be awarded 1912’s Nobel Peace Prize.

Luxury on the Titanic – inside the doomed ship’s Turkish baths

The notion the Unlucky Mummy was on the Titanic appears to have come about from an article published in the New York World a few days after the ship’s sinking. The article contained an interview with a survivor – one Frederic Kimber Seward – who mentioned Stead telling his creepy story. It seems that, over time, the accounts of Stead’s presence on the Titanic and the story he narrated morphed into a belief that Amen-Ra herself had travelled on the vessel. From there, it would be just a short logical hop to assume such a famous cursed artefact had caused the ship to sink.

The Unlucky Mummy’s Killing of an Over-Inquisitive Journalist and Amen-Ra’s Haunting of a London Underground Station

Even before the Titanic catastrophe, Amen-Ra had been getting quite a reputation. As mentioned above, much of this had to do with the embellishments of journalists and one of the most famous, and tragic, to have researched the Unlucky Mummy was Bertram Fletcher Robinson. A dashing up-and-coming editor and reporter, Robinson began with the intention of debunking the far-fetched stories that had grown up around Amen-Ra. The more he investigated, however, the more he became convinced the curse was real. In 1904, an article by Robinson – A Priestess of Death – appeared on the Daily Express front page. In it, Robinson ominously wrote, ‘It is certain that the Egyptians had powers which we in the 20th century may laugh at, yet can never understand.’

A few years later, Robinson was commissioned to write a longer article for Pearson’s Magazine, which had the same owner as the Express. As Robinson pried deeper into the secrets of Amen-Ra, his friends – aware of the disasters that had befallen those who’d dared meddle with the mummy – voiced concern. One such friend was Sherlock Holmes author Arthur Conan Doyle, who Robinson had shown around his native West Country when Doyle was researching legends of phantom black dogs for his Hound of the Baskervilles. Doyle stated, ‘I warned Mr Robinson against concerning himself with the mummy at the British Museum. He persisted …’

In January 1907 – before he could finish his article – Robinson died at the age of just 36. Much of his research did, however, end up in an article Pearson’s eventually published in August 1909. In the same piece, Doyle set forth his ideas about Robinson’s death. ‘I told him he was tempting fate by pursuing his enquiries,’ Doyle darkly stated. ‘The immediate cause of death was typhoid fever, but that is the way in which the elementals (nature spirits) guarding the mummy might act.’

Bertram Fletcher Robinson, who held editorial positions with Vanity Fair, the Daily Express and Granta. Was he killed by the Unlucky Mummy’s curse?

The Pearson’s article might be the source of – or at least be responsible for amplifying – much of the mythology around the Unlucky Mummy. The article mentions the photographer capturing Amen-Ra’s glowering face and the loss of an arm while duck shooting on the Nile. The piece, however, has the owner of the mummy dying in Cairo while we know that Murray (assuming these people were one and the same) didn’t pass away till 1912. It’s possible that the owner of Pearson’s Magazine took advantage of Robinson’s untimely death and resurrected the old mummy myth to shift copies of his publication. Throwing in quotes from the famous Arthur Conan Doyle likely did no damage to the magazine’s bottom line. Doyle could be credulous. A Freemason and committed spiritualist, he was convinced the escapologist Harry Houdini had supernatural powers, despite Houdini continually denying he possessed such attributes. Doyle was also duped into believing fairies supposedly photographed in Cottingley, Yorkshire, were real and – along with W.T. Stead – wrongly claimed two stage magicians, Julius and Agnes Zancig, had psychic abilities.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in 1893 – a believer in the curse of the British Museum’s Unlucky Mummy

An even more bizarre story about the Unlucky Mummy claims she haunted a London Underground station. British Museum Station – a now abandoned Tube stop that served the institution of the same name – was reputedly connected to the museum by a secret passageway. The ghost of Amen-Ra would progress down this tunnel at night sporting a loincloth and magnificent headdress. She’d terrify passengers and staff with horrendous, unearthly shrieks, shrieks said to have resulted from the trauma of being ripped from her tomb and brought many miles to a strange land. Her anguished howls would reverberate down corridors and along tracks, seriously disturbing all who heard them.

Was British Museum Underground Station haunted by the Unlucky Mummy’s ghost?

Thanks to the opening of Holborn Station – less than 100 metres away – in 1906, British Museum Station became less and less frequented (unless it was the ghost frightening people off). It was announced that British Museum Station would close in 1933 and – shortly before it shut – two British newspapers offered a cash reward to anyone brave enough to spend a night alone there. Nobody took up the challenge.

Some claim the legends of the haunting of British Museum Station were sparked by a film, a comedy thriller called Bulldog Jack. In this movie, a secret tunnel leads from a London Underground station to the British Museum, where it emerges from an Egyptian sarcophagus. But – as the film didn’t premier until 1935 and British Museum Station closed in 1933 – it’s more likely that the legend influenced the film rather than vice-versa. Bulldog Jack, however, helped keep alive and spread Amen-Ra’s myth, especially as the film itself would contribute in a strange way to the Unlucky Mummy’s notoriety. On the night Bulldog Jack was released, two women are said to have disappeared while walking through the tunnels of Holborn Station. Screams and moans were heard around the time they vanished and scratch marks appeared on the walls. During the following days, there were sightings of the headdress-wearing priestess. Even today, some assert, if you stand on the platform at Holborn, you can occasionally hear shrieks and wails echoing down the tracks from British Museum Station. Amen-Ra remains one of the most famous of the London Underground’s many ghosts.

Was the 1935 film Bulldog Jack partly inspired by legends of the Unlucky Mummy’s curse?

There are, though, no police records or newspaper accounts of women going missing or being murdered near Holborn Station on the night Bulldog Jack premiered and the rumours of their disappearance were likely connected to the hype around the film. The tales of British Museum Station being haunted, however, probably came from old stories of the Unlucky Mummy and the media sensationalism linked to them. Such legends were likely bolstered by the fanfare surrounding the discovery of King Tutankhamun’s tomb in 1922 and the rumours of curses in the years that followed. Again, the press played a role. Lord Carnarvon, who funded the tomb’s excavation, signed a strict and exclusive agreement with The Times that limited the rights of other papers to feature the story. When Carnarvon died shortly after the tomb’s discovery – from an infection following a mosquito bite, a similar cause of death to that which probably befell Tutankhamun  – it seems the other papers took revenge, and no doubt boosted their sales, by gleefully speculating about a ‘curse’. The Daily Express quoted a mystic and novelist who claimed, ‘The most dire punishment follows any rash intruder into a sealed tomb.’

How Much Truth Was There in the Outlandish Assertions about the Unlucky Mummy and What Were the Roots of Amen-Ra’s Strange Myth?

The Unlucky Mummy has been blamed for a lot of things – illnesses, injuries, deaths, abductions, the sinking of huge ships and the terrorising of passengers and staff on the London Tube. Legend even states that Sir Ernest Wallace Budge once muttered, ‘Never print what I saw in my lifetime, but the mummy case of Princess Amen-Ra caused the War.’ Apparently, the Unlucky Mummy was presented to the German Kaiser and the string of misfortunes that followed pushed the volatile emperor towards triggering World War I.

The truth would appear less dramatic. For a start, ‘Amen-Ra’ isn’t even a mummy. The artefact said to have caused all this trouble is merely the top half of a wooden coffin, dating from around 950 to 900 BC. The mummy it would have once shielded seems to have been left behind in Egypt. As for the knockings, apparitions, injuries and deaths supposedly visited on the British Museum after accepting Amen-Ra, these persistent rumours led Budge to issue a statement in 1934 that the museum had never possessed a mummy, coffin or cover that had been involved in any paranormal occurrences. He made it clear that the museum had never sold Amen-Ra’s coffin lid, that the coffin cover had never sailed on the Titanic and that it had not left the museum since arriving there. Budge admitted the artefact had been moved to the basement, but this was simply a precaution to protect the ornate lid – as well as many other treasures – during the First World War.

As early as 1923, Budge was trying to debunk the myths around the ‘Unlucky Mummy.’ In an interview with the New York Times, Budge related how the coffin lid of Amen-Ra had become confused with the crockery smashing mummy of the suburban drawing room and how the museum authorities had turned down Stead and Murray’s request to hold a seance. Budge described some of the hysteria that had grown up around the ‘mummy’, stating that people had sent letters from as far away as New Zealand and Algiers, containing money to buy flowers to be placed at Amen-Ra’s feet. The money had been put towards the general upkeep of the museum.

But was the coffin lid – despite its romance being somewhat lessened by the fact it no longer had a mummy to enclose – really part of the burial paraphernalia of a princess and priestess called Amen-Ra? Budge thought so, agreeing with Murray’s assessment by stating the cover’s owner would have been of ‘royal blood’. Early British Museum publications describe the artefact as having belonged to ‘a priestess of Amen-Ra’. Modern experts, however, disagree. The idea the casket sheltered the remains of a princess appears to have simply arisen from the high quality of the board. Though the coffin likely protected of a person of status, there’s no evidence its occupant was royal. There’s also no proof such a person was a priestess. Budge may have wrongly reached this conclusion because of a mention of King Amenhetep I on the coffin case, a benefactor of the priesthood of Amen-Ra at Thebes, where the lid probably came from. Moreover, there’s no indication the coffin’s tenant bore the name Amen-Ra herself.

Mummies and a frieze showing funeral rites in the British Museum’s First Egyptian Room

In addition to the embellishments of journalists and misunderstandings of early curators, it seems that a cast of colourful – and far from reliable – narrators have contributed outlandish additions to the Unlucky Mummy myth. The idea about the three disrespectful Egyptian servants dying appears to have come from a book called Witchcraft and Black Magic by Montague Summers (1880-1948). Summers was a highly eccentric character who claimed to be a Catholic priest, though there’s no evidence he was ever ordained. He believed in the literal existence of vampires and werewolves and could be seen swanning around the reading room of the British Museum – in a black cloak and buckled shoes – clutching a portfolio with ‘Vampires’ written on it in big blood-red letters.

Another colourful individual linked to the Unlucky Mummy myth was the folklorist and Egyptologist Margaret Murray. Murray put forward the notion that elaborate medieval secret societies practised witchcraft as an alternative religion to Christianity, a concept that – though now largely debunked – has had a strong influence on the Neo-Pagan movement. Murray, when almost 100 years old, confessed that she liked to entertain her students by talking about ‘Amen-Ra’s evil influence’ when taking them around the British Museum. Some were so frightened, they refused to enter the room containing the coffin case. Murray also claimed she’d invented certain myths about the mummy during an interview she didn’t take seriously. The ideas about the mummy sinking the Lusitania and Empress of Ireland appear to have come from her. Murray admitted she was astonished to hear such stories earnestly repeated as fact many years later.

There’s also the palmist Cheiro, who maintained that – after his dire predictions about Thomas Douglas Murray – Murray returned to see him with his empty right sleeve fastened across the front of his coat. During this meeting, Murray apparently related his Egyptian misadventures and subsequent struggles with the Unlucky Mummy. Cheiro was another unconventional figure who claimed to have – while still in his teenage years – travelled from his Irish home to India, where he learnt occult knowledge and the secrets of palmistry from the Brahmins. He’d acquire a high degree of fame, reading the hands of influential clients such as the Prince of Wales, Mark Twain, Oscar Wilde, W.T. Stead, and the prime ministers William Gladstone and Joseph Chamberlain. Other tales about the Unlucky Mummy seem to have originated from the ghost hunter Robert Thurston Hopkins, including the story about the photojournalist shooting himself.

And what About Sir Ernest Wallace Budge? Though he felt a professional duty to present himself as a man of science, reason and scepticism, he was also fascinated by the supernatural. Budge – the British Museum’s Keeper of Egyptian and Assyrian Antiquities for 30 years, a philologist and translator of the Egyptian Book of the Dead – was a member of the Ghost Club. According to Peter Underwood, author of Haunted London, ‘Budge, in private if not in public, certainly believed in Egyptian magic and the power of their dead.’ Budge died in 1934, shortly after making his statement dismissing the myths surrounding the Unlucky Mummy. Could ‘Amen-Ra’ have been avenging his belittling of her powers?

Pearson’s Magazine, featuring the curse of the Unlucky Mummy, in 1909

But we might also ask why tales of vengeful mummies and ancient curses so excited the Victorian and early 20th-century public. One reason was ‘Egyptomania’ – an enthusiasm for all things Ancient Egypt that began in Georgian times, springing from the colonial opening up of Egypt and advances in archaeology. Egyptian themes cropped up in operas and novels; tombs resembling miniature pyramids appeared in British churchyards; and Egyptian designs featured on furniture, jewellery and buildings. Egyptomania could lead to some far-fetched notions and outrageous goings-on. There were claims the Egyptians had understood the secrets of time travel – with a neo-Egyptian mausoleum in London’s Brompton Cemetery gaining a reputation as a ‘Victorian time machine’ – while the body of a Manchester heiress was even transformed by a less than honest doctor into an Egyptian-style mummy.

Yet could there be more behind this fascination for – and fear of – the legacy of Ancient Egypt? From 1798, when the French invaded Egypt under Napoleon, colonial powers – the French, the British, the Ottoman Turks and a dynasty descended from Albanian mercenaries originally employed by the Ottomans – vied for power and influence in the country. Britain launched an attack on Egypt in 1882, bombarding Alexandria for 10-and-a-half hours and causing a fire that destroyed much of the city. A successful land invasion followed and the British would remain in Egypt – in one way or another – until 1922.

Despite this victorious conquest, many in Britain felt disquiet about their country’s conduct. As would be the case in more modern times, people wondered whether a European nation should be getting involved in a Middle-Eastern country’s affairs, despite being told by their government the intervention was necessary to depose a tyrannical regime. Most of these doubters, however, didn’t express their unease openly through fear of seeming unpatriotic. Their anxieties and guilt perhaps manifested in another way – in a terror of cursed Egyptian artefacts taking revenge on Europeans who’d dared to disrespect them. An example of such an artefact is Cleopatra’s Needle, a huge obelisk that was shipped from Alexandria to London and now stands beside the Thames. The obelisk has accrued a rich folklore of hauntings, curses and occult powers.

All this combined with worries about how various types of science, and developing disciplines like history and archaeology, were upending old sacred ways of thinking. Advances in archaeology and comparative mythology – together with breakthroughs like Darwin’s laws of evolution – were making it harder to literally believe in the Bible and traditional Christianity, hence the fascination for seances and table rapping. (The growth of capitalist individualism also made it harder to accept that unique and precious individuals could one day cease to exist – thus the attempts to contact loved ones on ‘the other side’.) What better metaphor could there be for science overturning and outraging the ancient and sacred than archaeologists rifling Egyptian tombs and museum curators examining and labelling artefacts then placing them in the sterile environment of the glass case? And what better encapsulation of fears about where such sacrilege could lead than thrilling legends of age-old magical curses, legends ably amplified by a growing modern media?

In Guy Boothroyd’s 1899 novel Pharos the Egyptian, a character asks, ‘And pray by what right did your father rifle the dead man’s tomb? Perhaps you will show me his justification for carrying away the body from the country in which it had been laid to rest, and conveying it to England to be stared at in the light of curiosity.’

Such anxieties and fears have not departed even today. Visitors still report unsettling sensations when viewing the Unlucky Mummy’s coffin lid. In 2013, there was intense curiosity – and not a little unease – when an Egyptian statuette in the Manchester Museum began rotating in its case. (The rotating turned out to be caused by vibrations from passing traffic and visitors’ footsteps.) A May 2020 article in The Sun claimed that security guards in the British Museum had been witnessing strange phenomena like unexplained footsteps, glowing white orbs hovering above staircases, sightings of a ghostly female dwarf, alarms going off for no reason at midnight, and sudden plunges in temperature in the Egyptian galleries.

One guard – who’d worked at the museum for 29 years – said, ‘It was like walking into a freezer. My stomach turned over. The feel of the gallery was – you wanted to get out. I’m a great believer that, wherever you’re buried, you should stay there. A lot of the mummies there should be back in their graves.’

The post The Unlucky Mummy – Curse of the British Museum & Sinker of the Titanic? appeared first on David Castleton Blog - The Serpent's Pen.

The coffin contained the body of Lizzie Siddal, the wife, model and muse of the Pre-Raphaelite painter and poet Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Siddal, after years of poor health, drug use and psychological distress, had died on 11th February 1862, at just 32 years-of-age. As Lizzie had awaited burial, Rossetti – overcome by grief, tormented with guilt – made an impassioned gesture. He placed a book of his poems – the sole copy of his verses – in her casket. Rossetti wrapped the book in Lizzie’s long, striking, ginger hair; winding the tresses he adored, that he’d so often painted, that had drawn him to Lizzie Siddal in the first place, around and around the volume. This sacrifice enacted, the heartbroken Rossetti permitted his poetry – along with the woman he loved – to be lowered into the earth.

But seven years on, Rossetti changed his mind. Eager to publish a book of poems, and knowing some of his best work lay interred with his wife, Rossetti allowed himself to be persuaded Lizzie Siddal should be exhumed. Though Rosetti wasn’t at the disinterment – he couldn’t bear to be – his business agent Charles Augustus Howell would later describe to him the most astonishing scene.

After Lizzie’s coffin had been levered out of the grave, it was time to open the casket. A shudder likely went through the group as the ominous sound of a spade striking at the lid echoed across the night-time necropolis. But, when that lid came off, all – according to Howell – were amazed. Rather than the skeleton or rotting corpse they’d been bracing themselves to see, Lizzie Siddal was almost perfectly preserved and still beautiful. A kind of phantom glow added to her pallid charms and – most incredibly – her hair had grown during the seven years she’d been under the earth. The splendid red hair filled the coffin – yards of it glimmered in the firelight. So tightly wrapped was the book in the wonderous locks that they had to be cut before it could be freed. The book was then handed to the doctor, whose job was to disinfect it, making sure no diseases would pass from the grave to the living. (The lawyer was there so it could be clearly stated there’d been no foul play.)

I can imagine all those present – the labourers sweat-coated despite the cold night, the huddle of gentlemen – staring, for a moment, at the beauty they’d unearthed: at that pale – yet corruption-defying – face and, most of all, at the mass of fiery hair. But this morbidly serene image didn’t, apparently, last long. Thanks to the air coming into contact with Siddal’s corpse, she began to decompose and was hurriedly reinterred.

This exhumation marks a fascinatingly morbid chapter in the long and complex relationship between Dante Gabriel Rossetti and Lizzie Siddal, a relationship that would go on – in a strange way – well beyond Siddal’s death and even disinterment. It would haunt Rossetti to his own grave. It’s a tale of art and poetry; of love and neglect; of drugs and disaster; of sex and adultery and bohemian living and the manufacture of myth. It’s a story involving all kinds of strange – and often less than respectable – characters. But is this story – and even the exhumation that was perhaps its most dramatic episode – exactly what people have long perceived it to be?

Keep reading for tales of peanut-flicking prostitutes, of window-cleaning elephants and affectionate wombats, of furious attacks from morally outraged critics, of the origins of literary vampires, of bodies found with throats slit and coins in their mouths, and of some of the most tragic and talented artists the Victorian era knew.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti – the Passionate and Rebellious Young Artist Finds His Way

Gabriel Charles Dante Rossetti (he’d later invert his name in honour of the Italian poet Dante Alighieri) was born in London on May 12th 1828. His father, Gabriele Rossetti, was an Italian political refugee, who’d fled his homeland following a failed uprising in 1820. A professor of Italian at King’s College, Gabriele also wrote literary criticism and Romantic poems. Rossetti’s mother, Francis Polidori, was from an Anglo-Italian family, which also had literary connections – her brother, John William Polidori, had served as Lord Byron’s personal doctor and had penned the first vampire novel. Rossetti’s sister Christina would become a well-known poet, his brother William a critic and his sister Maria a novelist. In this artistic and intellectual ambiance, Gabriel (as his family called him) was at first home schooled, being immersed in Shakespeare, Dickens, Byron, Walter Scott, Arthurian legend, medieval poetry and the Bible. He’d later attended King’s College School in the Strand.

Descriptions of the young Rossetti ranged from ‘self-possessed, articulate, intelligent and charismatic’ to ‘ardent, poetic and feckless’. At first – like all his siblings – he yearned to be a poet, but also showed interest in painting and was especially obsessed with medieval art. Following four years at a drawing school, Rossetti – aged 17 – enrolled in London’s famous Royal Academy. He soon, however, found himself hating its academic and conservative approach, despising the prissy landscapes and portraits of glossy animals and pretty young women it encouraged artists to churn out. Rossetti – who was gathering a reputation as a Romantic free spirit – didn’t react well to any form of discipline and that included the ideas of rigorous training set down by Academy’s influential former president Sir Joshua Reynolds (1723-92). Rossetti found the prospect of spending laborious years copying ancient statues simply horrifying.

A self-portrait of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 1847, aged 19

Rossetti suspected his future might – after all – lie in poetry. In a move revealing a brash self-confidence, he wrote to the famous poet and critic Leigh Hunt for advice. Hunt wrote back, saying it was easier to survive as a painter than a poet, so Rossetti decided to stay on the painterly path though he continued to write poetry. In March 1848, Rossetti contacted the artist Ford Maddox Brown, asking to become his pupil. Rossetti admired Brown’s style – preferring its vividness to the over-polished Academy paintings – but his letter gushed with so many compliments Brown assumed the young man was playing a joke on him. Grasping a club, Brown rushed to Rossetti’s home to teach the youthful jester a lesson. Reassured Rossetti’s praise was genuine, Brown took him on as a pupil that summer. But – though the two painters would remain close for years – their master-apprentice relationship was brief. Just like in the Academy, Rossetti was unable to submit his wayward nature to formal training’s demands.

The next painter Rossetti sought out was William Holman Hunt, after admiring his The Eve of St. Agnes. This picture was based a poem by John Keats, a big influence on Rossetti at that time, and Rossetti hoped Hunt might share his interests. Hunt did and he introduced Rossetti to another young like-minded artist, John Everett Millais. All three looked with distaste on the increasing materialism of Victorian society and disapproved of the pedantic Academy painters. They longed to revitalise art by returning to a style that was heartfelt and truthful, a style in which the painter would ‘observe everything and reject nothing’. They disliked what they saw as the mechanistic attitude of the Mannerist painters who’d come after Raphael and Michelangelo (hence the term Pre-Raphaelite) and wished to revive an art of intense detail and vivacious colour, taking inspiration from the clear lines of Florentine medieval frescos, the gem-like colours of early Flemish art and the complex compositions of the Italian Quattrocento painters. Naming themselves the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, they ardently set out their principles in a secret manifesto. This secrecy at first also applied to their movement’s name and they would simply initial their paintings ‘P.R.B’. Though just three young men started the Brotherhood, as time went on more artists would join or become associated with the group.

The Age of Innocence by Sir Joshua Reynolds (1785 or 1788). Dante Gabriel Rossetti and the Pre-Raphaelites were reacting against this approach to painting.

Like many sensitive Victorians, the Pre-Raphaelites recoiled from the polluted, mechanical and highly commercial world the Industrial Revolution was shaping around them, often preferring to retreat into vivid dreams of medieval-inspired fantasy. Paradoxically, though, their art was also ultra-realistic, striving to depict people as they were and nature as it was. An early supporter, the wealthy and influential art critic John Ruskin, wrote, ‘Every Pre-Raphaelite landscape background is painted to the last touch, in the open air, from the thing itself. Every Pre-Raphaelite figure, however studied in expression, is a true portrait of some living person.’

These Pre-Raphaelite characteristics, under Rossetti’s brush, would become strongly associated with one particular subject – women. Vivid, detailed, strong, Rossetti’s depictions of women have been seen as combining the sexual and demure, the angel and the woman of the street, and the seeds of this approach can be seen in the early days of the Brotherhood. Rossetti contributed a poem to the first issue of the Brotherhood’s magazine, The Germ, which came out in late 1849. Perhaps prophetically, it depicts a painter being inspired by a vision of a woman who orders him to mix the human and divine in his art.

Rossetti was soon producing oil paintings in the early Pre-Raphaelite style. His Girlhood of the Virgin Mary had his sister Christina modelling the Virgin while his mother posed as Mary’s mum St Anne. In early 1850, Rossetti started his Ecce Ancilla Domini (or Behold the Handmaiden of the Lord). This picture, which also features Christina as the Virgin, shows an anxious Mary receiving the news she’ll bear God’s son. The Angel Gabriel – posed by Rossetti’s brother William – symbolically points the stem of a lily at the girl’s womb. Mary stares at the plant with compulsion and terror. She looks ill; she shrinks back from the angel; the interior of the house is claustrophobic, painted in a sickbed white, or a white representing the virginity soon to be lost. This painting could reflect the fear of sex Rossetti seems to have had at the time, a fear that wouldn’t have been unusual for a young Victorian. Though Rossetti was idealising women in his poetry, he seems to have had problems accepting the physical aspects of his relationships. But there’s also, if we look closely at the Virgin, an anticipation too. Christina’s red hair seems to be flickering; its strands appear charged with electricity. Red hair was somewhat disapproved of in Victorian England, with its vibrancy having connotations of moral looseness, but throughout his career, red female hair would fascinate Rossetti. The flickering hair might well portray the intriguing power of sensuality as much as the pallid Virgin symbolises anxieties around it.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s Ecce Ancilla Domini, featuring his sister Christina as a red-haired Virgin Mary

The Pre-Raphaelites may have felt they were revolutionising art, but when they began to show their work, the critics were hostile. One, perhaps thinking of Rossetti’s Girlhood of the Virgin Mary, complained of ‘reproductions of saints squeezed out perfectly flat’. Charles Dickens – mocking the Brotherhood’s medievalism –  proposed a Pre-Galileo Society for those who refused to believe the earth orbited the sun. In Spring 1850, the meaning of the initials P.R.B. leaked out, intensifying antipathy to the group. In 1848, attempted revolutions had rocked Europe so – to conservative minds – secret brotherhoods suggested cabals of plotting radicals. In a strongly Protestant England, the Brotherhood’s secrecy and medievalism also hinted at Catholic conspiracies. It seems Rossetti, to the annoyance of his Brotherhood, had been the one responsible for letting slip the name. Extremely sensitive to criticism, Rossetti soon tired of the ‘increasingly hysterical critical reaction that greeted Pre-Raphaelitism’ and decided – at the age of 22 – to stop exhibiting and just sell to private collectors. Despite the critics’ spiky words, there were always those eager to purchase his paintings. After showing the Girlhood of the Virgin Mary at the Free London Exhibition, Rossetti sold it for 80 guineas (around £12,000 today).

But the Pre-Raphaelites were about to meet a person who’d have a huge influence on them all. And especially on Dante Gabriel Rossetti.

The Pre-Raphaelites’ Discovery of Lizzie Siddal and an Encounter with Death in a Freezing Bathtub

Though the Pre-Raphaelites disparaged many of the ideas of the art establishment, one practice they didn’t abandon was using models. Sometimes they persuaded friends or family members to pose; occasionally, when they could afford it, they hired professionals. But often they’d rove London’s streets seeking out ‘stunners’, the Pre-Raphaelite term for the strikingly beautiful – but also somewhat unusual-looking – women they knew would give their paintings an extra pizzazz. Or they just looked out for likely models while going about everyday errands.

One winter day in 1849, legend maintains, Walter Deverell – an artist and friend of the Pre-Raphaelites – went with his mother to a hat shop close to Leicester Square. He spotted a young woman working in the shop’s backroom – an apprentice, apparently – and was immediately amazed by her long red hair and statuesque, slim figure. Walter begged his mother for an introduction and discovered the young lady was named Elizabeth – or Lizzie – Siddal. Deverell would burst into the studio in which Rossetti and Holman Hunt were painting and blurt out, ‘You fellows can’t tell what a stupendously beautiful creature I have found … She’s like a queen, magnificently tall!’

Recent research, however, indicates that Lizzie didn’t just passively wait for an excitable Pre-Raphaelite to stumble upon her. Lizzie Siddal – who’d loved sketching since she was a child – had her own artistic aspirations.  She’d taken some of her drawings to show Walter’s mum, whose husband was the secretary of the London School of Design. Hearing about Lizzie, Walter rushed round to the hat shop and – upon seeing her – was determined she should sit for him

Elizabeth Eleanor Siddall (she’d later drop the last ‘l’ of her surname) was born in London on July 25th 1829. Her father ran a cutlery business and Lizzie was the third of eight children. One brother, Harry, appears to have had a mental impairment. Though little is known of her early life, it seems Lizzie liked to draw and read poetry. One of her favourite poets was Tennyson and it’s said she discovered his work when she spotted one of his poems on a sheet of paper that had been used to wrap butter. The family – though respectably lower-middle class – were poor. It’s not known if Lizzie attended school though she definitely learned to read and write, but when still quite young she had to go out to work to help support the family. She laboured long hours in the milliner’s shop under often tough conditions and her family fretted about her fragile health.

These circumstances – along with the fact artists’ models could earn far more than milliners’ apprentices – likely inclined Lizzie’s mother to contemplate allowing her to pose for Deverell. The Victorians, though, viewed such an occupation as disreputable, even a little like prostitution. Too frightened to approach Mrs Siddall himself, Walter sent his mother round in a grand coach. Awed by this carriage rocking up outside her modest home on the Old Kent Road, Mrs Siddall agreed to Walter’s request though the 20-year-old Lizzie continued part-time for a while at the hat shop. Walter introduced Lizzie to other artists and Rossetti said that when he met her, he felt his ‘destiny was defined’.

Deverell had Lizzie Siddal model as Viola in his Twelfth Night (1850) and she also appeared in paintings like Holman Hunt’s A Converted British Family Sheltering a Priest from the Persecution of the Druids (1850) and Valentine Rescuing Sylvia from Proteus (1850-1). She posed for Rossetti for the first time for Rossovestia (1850), one of his lesser-known paintings. The use of such a model – like much connected with Pre-Raphaelitism – was controversial. Though in the modern era Lizzie might have found work as a supermodel, her willowy limbs, gaunt face and coppery hair weren’t considered conventionally attractive in the early Victorian epoch. (One female journalist labelled red hair ‘social suicide’.) Through featuring in famous paintings, however, Lizzie helped change such perceptions.

Even the Pre-Raphaelites’ close circle didn’t quite know what to make of the delicate, reserved young woman with her tendency towards sadness and unusual brand of beauty. A female acquaintance recalled, ‘Elizabeth’s eyes were a kind of luminous golden brown agate colour, slender, elegant figure, tall for those days, beautiful deep red hair that fell in soft heavy wings … She did not talk happily, (was) excited and melancholy, though with much humour and tenderness.’ A male friend remembered Lizzie Siddal as ‘sweet, gentle and kindly, and sympathetic to art and poetry … Her pale face, abundant red hair and long thin limbs were strange and affecting, never beautiful in my eyes.’ Rossetti’s brother William felt she was ‘a most beautiful creature with an air between dignity and greatness; tall, finely formed with a lofty neck and regular though somewhat uncommon features; greenish-blue “unsparkling” eyes, brilliant complexion and a lavish heavy wealth of copper-golden hair … a modest self-respect and disdainful reserve; her talk had a sarcastic tone.’ Though impressed with her looks, William still considered Lizzie ‘not physically beautiful enough’ to represent Viola in Deverell’s Twelfth Night. It’s interesting that perceptions of Lizzie could differ markedly, with her eyes – for instance – described as both ‘agate brown’ and ‘greenish-blue’, as if people tended to project their own notions onto the quiet though striking woman.

One of the most famous pictures Lizzie posed for was John Everett Millais’ Ophelia (1852). The painting depicts a scene from Shakespeare’s Hamlet in which Ophelia – sent mad by her father’s death and her rejection by Prince Hamlet – commits suicide by allowing herself to fall into a river, which she then floats down. In the obsessive Pre-Raphaelite manner, Millais wanted his picture to be as true to life as possible and this obsessiveness would mean the threat of death was not limited to his canvas. After spending hours on the banks of the River Ewell near Kingston-upon-Thames painting water, flowers and plants, Millais decided it was time to place Lizzie in his picture. In his quest for realism, he had her pose in a bathtub – filled with water from the filthy Thames – wearing a silver-embroidered antique wedding dress. It was January and the studio was freezing. Millais put candles and lamps under the bath to keep the water warm, but they kept going out. Millais relit them yet – as he became more and more absorbed in the details of his painting – he forgot to check the flames.

John Everett Millais’ famous Ophelia, for which Lizzie Siddal posed in a freezing bath

Lizzie lay in the bitterly cold bath for five hours and never complained once or asked Millais to relight the lamps. Maybe she didn’t dare – her family were poor, one brother had just died of TB and she knew she was set to earn more in that afternoon than she would in a whole year as a milliner’s apprentice. Jerking from his artistic trance, Millais realised Lizzie was shivering and looking feverish. He helped her out of the tub, but it was clear she was desperately ill, probably with pneumonia. Her family called a doctor – an enormous and unusual expense for people in their financial straits – and Lizzie’s father threatened to sue Millais, who agreed to pay the medic’s bill. The doctor probably prescribed laudanum – a tincture of opium in alcohol. Lizzie – though she recovered from her ordeal in the bath – would become addicted to this substance, a dependency which may have begun in the aftermath of that freezing episode. Her decline into addiction would lead to worsening physical and mental health.

Sketch of Lizzie Siddal painting by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Lizzie Siddal, however, went on posing for the Pre-Raphaelites. She modelled frequently for, and became especially close to, one particular artist – Dante Gabriel Rossetti. She’d visit him – often secretly – in his new home and studio at Blackfriars in the City of London. (Located just north of Blackfriars’ Bridge, the studio’s site is now entombed below Blackfriars’ Station.) Lizzie and Rossetti became lovers. Though, after modelling for a couple of years, Lizzie had earned enough to quit the hat shop, Rossetti – perhaps jealous – would persuade Siddal to give up modelling for other artists and pose just for him. Charles Allston Collins, the younger brother of the author Wilkie, asked Lizzie to sit and remembered the ‘freezing’ refusal he received. Lizzie, at some point, moved in with Rossetti at Blackfriars –  a scandalous arrangement in Victorian times. The extreme reserve of Lizzie’s character, however, appears to have extended to sexual matters, a factor that would soon cause issues in her relationship with Rossetti. Together in Blackfriars, the couple would experience intense creativity and intense strife, struggling with the demons of drugs, frustration, infidelity, failing health, depression and death.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s Life with Lizzie Siddal – Drug Addiction, Affairs and the Looming Spectre of Death

Over the next decade or so, Rossetti had Lizzie model for numerous oil paintings and watercolours, as well as sketching her obsessively. Between 1850 and 1862, he made over 60 drawings of her, drawings that were often relaxed and personal. She featured in his medievalist fantasies depicting queenlike figures and the restraints of courtly love, such as King Arthur and the Weeping Queens and the 1860 painting Regina Cordium.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s Regina Cordium (1860), featuring Lizzie Siddal

Rossetti frequently sketched her drawing and painting and Lizzie had certainly not given up her artistic ambitions. She made pen drawings and painted oils and watercolours as well as writing subtle melancholy poems. Life was challenging for aspiring female artists in the Victorian era. They couldn’t study at the Royal Academy schools despite the fact that when the Academy had been established in the previous century, two of its founders had been women. Female artists were usually dependent on males for financial assistance so an artistic life would probably be impossible without a supportive husband or well-off family. In this respect, Lizzie Siddal was, for a time, luckier than most. Rossetti encouraged her to draw and paint and tutored her. John Ruskin declared her a ‘genius’ and even gave her an allowance of £150 a year to enable her to paint, a sum that compared favourably to the £24 she would have earned in the hat shop. She was the only female painter included in the Pre-Raphaelite Exhibition of 1857. Though, as other Pre-Raphaelites had, she received mockery from critics, she sold a painting –  Clerk Saunders (1857) – to an American collector.

Lady Clare (1857) by Lizzie Siddal

But things were still difficult. Lizzie’s health was not improving. It’s not clear what malady Lizzie Siddal suffered from – suggestions have ranged from tuberculosis to anorexia to bulimia to a gastrointestinal ailment – but she was often weak and sick. Her laudanum addiction was becoming more severe, not helped by the fact the drug could be bought in any apothecary’s shop without a prescription. Strains were showing in her relationship with Rossetti. When, in 1855, Ford Madox Brown and his wife Emma visited the couple, the two women went out shopping, but when they got back Rossetti accused Emma of encouraging Lizzie to complain about him. The ravages of Lizzie’s illness were also becoming more apparent. Arriving at the Rossetti apartment one day, Brown – perhaps somewhat morbidly – noticed her ‘looking thinner and more deathlike and more beautiful and more ragged than ever, a real artist, a woman without parallel for many a long year.’

An ink drawing by Lizzie Siddal showing two lovers listening to music

As Lizzie grew sicker, Rossetti became more restless. Despite his gregarious personality, with Lizzie his social life was restricted. As well as the Browns, the Pre-Raphaelite painter Edward Burne-Jones and his wife sometimes visited their apartment. The poet Algernon Swinburne also popped round and – knowing Lizzie’s enthusiasm for poetry and literature – would read to her. Rossetti, Lizzie and Swinburne sometimes went to the theatre. Swinburne noted Lizzie was ‘quick to see and so keen to enjoy that rare and delightful fusion of wit, humour, character painting and dramatic poetry in Elizabethan drama.’

In addition to Lizzie’s illness and addiction, Dante Gabriel Rossetti was finding it increasingly hard to deal with her sexual restraint. Rossetti had begun seeking other models and sometimes his relationships with these women went well beyond the professional. On returning from a trip to France, Lizzie found out about an affair – which was probably not Gabriel’s first – with Annie Miller, a frequent model for Holman Hunt and also Hunt’s lover. Annie posed for Rossetti as Helen of Troy. Lizzie was enraged, telling Ford Maddox Brown she wanted nothing more to do with the painter. She decamped for a while to Bath, in the forlorn hope its famous spa might help her illness.

Helen of Troy by Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1863), featuring Annie Miller

One night in 1856 Rossetti was walking through Central London when he became aware of someone flicking peanuts at him. The peanut flicker turned out to be a prostitute called Fanny Cornforth. Struck by her voluptuous figure and thick wavy ginger hair, Rossetti immediately asked her to model and she agreed. Unlike the restrained and semi-respectable Lizzie, Fanny was an earthy girl, a blacksmith’s daughter from Sussex with a strong lower-class country accent. Though he couldn’t resist praising Fanny’s beauty, William Rossetti wrote she had ‘no charm of breeding, education or intellect’. Fanny soon began an intimate relationship with Gabriel, exhibiting none of Lizzie’s sexual reserve. Rossetti was profoundly affected by this carnal awakening, with his poems becoming more explicit and erotic, scattered with passionate metaphors and phallic symbols.

His portraits of Fanny are far more sensual than those of Lizzie. They’re fleshy and voluptuous with little hint of moral condemnation, all fiery hair and glowing skin, taking their influence right from the lustiness of the Venetian High Renaissance. One painting, 1859’s Bocca Baciata (or The Kissed Mouth) has Fanny pouting spectacularly, a rose in her hair and an apple of temptation positioned in front of her. The picture was inspired by a legend of a Saracen princess who – despite having sex 10,000 times with eight different lovers – still managed to present herself to her intended husband as a virgin bride. Rossetti had often combined his paintings with bits of poetry and on the back of Bocca Baciata he wrote: ‘The mouth that has been kissed loses not its freshness, Still it renews itself as does the moon.’ 

Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s Bocca Baciata, featuring Fanny Cornforth

Another well-known painting Fanny posed for was Found. This picture depicts a young farmer who, bringing a lamb to market in London, meets an old sweetheart by Blackfriars’ Bridge. His sweetheart has become an urban prostitute and the farmer unsuccessfully tries to ‘rescue’ her. Rossetti considered the painting – his sole attempt at tackling a contemporary subject – to be a failure. He couldn’t finish it and soon retreated back into his medieval dream world. But, in getting Fanny to pose as the prostitute, he certainly maintained the Pre-Raphaelite preference for vivid realism.

Found, by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, featuring Fanny Cornforth

It’s unclear how much Lizzie knew about Rossetti’s relationship with Fanny Cornforth, but one thing that did anger her was that Rossetti kept putting off the prospect of marriage. Though Lizzie had met Christina, she wasn’t introduced to Rossetti’s mother until 1855. His mother was against the match because of Lizzie’s lower social status, her poor health and lack of formal schooling. But, as her illness worsened, Lizzie eventually lost patience. She gave up Ruskin’s allowance and – via the spa town of Matlock – travelled to Sheffield (her father’s birthplace). There, determined to find success on her own terms, she enrolled in Sheffield School of Art. Rossetti made occasional journeys to see her, but his letters to friends from this period hint at liaisons with other women. Though not much is known about this phase of Lizzie’s life, she ended up in Hastings, a town popular with recuperating invalids.

By early 1860, Lizzie’s family had become very concerned about her health. They contacted John Ruskin, who alerted Rossetti. Ruskin wrote to Brown, ‘Lizzie is ready to die daily and more than once a day.’ Brimming with remorse, Rossetti finally promised to marry her. Their wedding took place in Hastings on May 23rd 1860 though Lizzie was so weak she had to be carried from the hotel to the church. The newly-weds enjoyed a lengthy honeymoon in Paris they could barely afford before returning with two street dogs they’d adopted. Lizzie’s health seemed to recover somewhat, she was happier and even became pregnant. Rossetti blissfully painted and drew her though ominously – while Lizzie seemed entranced at the prospect of motherhood – she was still hooked on laudanum. On 2nd May 1861, a stillborn daughter was delivered. Lizzie plummeted into depression. A friend recalled her rocking an empty cradle and saying, ‘Hush, you’ll waken it.’ She also suspected Rossetti was once again cheating on her. As for Rossetti, in later life he’d claim sounds in his house were the phantom footsteps of his stillborn daughter at the age she would have been then.

The Death of Lizzie Siddal and the Burial of Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s Poetry Book

In the early evening, on February 10th 1862, Gabriel and Lizzie went out to dinner with Swinburne. During the meal, Lizzie seemed sleepy, but maintained she was OK. The couple returned to their apartment and Rossetti went out again at about 8.00 pm, to teach an art class at the Working Men’s College. He left his wife preparing for bed and noticed she’d taken half-a-bottle of laudanum. Coming back a few hours later, Rossetti found her comatose. The vial of laudanum on the bedside table was now empty. There were claims – never substantiated – that Lizzie had fastened a note to her nightdress reading, ‘Please take care of Harry’ (her mentally handicapped brother).

Rossetti, it’s said, slipped the note into his pocket before calling a doctor and one of Lizzie’s sisters. After they arrived, Rossetti left again, to call on Ford Maddox Brown. Brown insisted the note be burnt. This was to ensure Lizzie wouldn’t be declared a suicide and, therefore, refused Christian burial. The two then returned to Rossetti’s apartment. During the night, Rossetti summoned three more doctors but it became increasingly obvious Lizzie had no hope. She passed away in the morning, just after 7.00 am. An Inquest the next day ruled she’d died from an accidental overdose. At the time of her death, Lizzie was pregnant again. It’s possible she feared the baby had stopped moving and was unwilling to face the trauma of losing another child.

William Rossetti’s daughter Helen Rossetti Angeli would claim, ‘Lizzie’s last message, as reported, is touching and romantic, but she did not write it.’ Helen may have been attempting to suppress a rumour that Gabriel had pushed Lizzie towards suicide or even murdered her. Oscar Wilde had spread a story that Rossetti had shoved the bottle of Laudanum into Lizzie’s hands and yelled ‘Drink the lot!’ before storming out.

The idea Lizzie wrote a note may, however, be based on a misunderstanding concerning her last poem. This poem was written in an unsteady hand and William Rossetti suspected it had been composed under influence of laudanum. Rossetti may have been talking about this poem when he told his friend Hall Caine about a message Lizzie had left. The poem’s entitled O Lord May I Come:

Life and night are falling from me,

Death and day are opening on me,

Wherever my footsteps come and go,

Life is a stony way of woe.

Lord have I long to go?

Hallow hearts are ever near me,

Soulless eyes have ceased to cheer me:

Lord, may I come to thee?

Life and youth and summer weather

To my heart no joy can gather.

Lord lift me from life’s stony way!

Loved eyes long close in death watch for me:

Holy death is waiting for me –

Lord, may I come to-day?

My outward life feels sad and still

Like lilies in a frozen rill;

I am gazing upwards to the sun,

Lord, Lord, remembering my lost one.

O Lord, remember me!

How is it in the unknown land?

Do the dead wander hand in hand?

God, give me trust in thee.

Do we clasp dead hands and quiver

With an endless joy forever?

Do tall white angels gaze and wend

Along the banks where lilies bend?

Lord, we know not how this may be:

Good Lord we put our faith in thee –

O God, remember me.

Devastated by grief, racked with remorse, Rossetti wouldn’t let Lizzie’s coffin leave their apartment for six days. He wrapped the manuscript of his poems –  a pretty much complete book of verse, which he felt was the finest thing he’d ever produced – in her hair and let it rest next to her cheek. Lizzie ‘the beautiful wraith’ was buried in Highgate Cemetery, interred – despite their previous misgivings about her – in the Rossetti family plot. Some claimed Gabriel saw her ghost every night for the next two years.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s Life after Lizzie Siddal – Drink, Drugs, Wombats and Naked Sliding down Banisters

Feeling his Blackfriars apartment contained too many agonising memories, Rossetti moved to a large Tudor house in Cheyne Walk, Chelsea. The move didn’t, however, prevent him suffering from insomnia and nightmares, problems which would plague him for the rest of his life. Perhaps fearing loneliness, in Cheyne Walk he created a menagerie of bizarre and exotic animals. Rossetti owned a Pomeranian puppy named Punch, an Irish deerhound called Wolf, dormice, rabbits, peacocks, armadillos, a llama, a kangaroo, a zebu and parakeets. His animals often absconded, causing mayhem in his neighbours’ gardens and even attacking, killing and eating each other. Rossetti’s favourite pet was a Wombat named Top, a creature he brought to the dinner table and allowed to sleep on it during meals. Rossetti even dreamed of acquiring an elephant and training it to clean his windows, in the hope passing pedestrians would be intrigued, inquire about the house’s occupant and consider purchasing a painting.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s home at 16 Cheyne Walk. (Photo courtesy of Edward X)

Rossetti opened his house to eccentric humans too. Algernon Swinburne lodged with him and there were rumours of Swinburne and the painter Simeon Solomon sliding naked down banisters during riotous parties. Rossetti also reconnected with Fanny Cornforth and moved her into Cheyne Walk as his housekeeper, lover, model and muse. Tales abounded of all-night boozing sessions, nocturnal poetry readings and passionate arguments, with Rossetti said to have once flung a cup of tea in the face of George Meredith. (A novelist who achieved immortality by posing as the doomed poet Thomas Chatterton for the Pre-Raphaelite Henry Wallis.) On a darker note, Rossetti was prescribed the powerful sedative chloral hydrate to help him sleep. To rinse the chloral’s disagreeable taste from his mouth, Rossetti – who until then had been a teetotaller – started glugging down whiskey. He became addicted to both substances.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti painted in the drawing room of 16 Cheyne Walk by Henry Treffy (1882)

Despite – or maybe even because of – all this chaos, Rossetti continued to paint. In fact, his works were becoming increasingly popular and selling well, perhaps something to do with their subject matter. He developed his new sensual style, painting Fanny Cornforth obsessively, focusing on her majestic head of loose hair (which to many Victorians signified loose morals). She posed – disdainfully combing her locks – for his Lady Lilith, Lilith being a dangerous and seductive female demon in Jewish mythology. In a poem he wrote to accompany the picture, Rossetti praised ‘Adam’s first wife, Lilith’ the ‘witch he loved before the gift of Eve’ whose ‘enchanted hair was the first gold, And still she sits, young while the earth is old.’

Lady Lilith by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, featuring Fanny Cornforth (1867). In a more famous version of the painting, Rossetti substituted Fanny’s face for that of another model,  Alexa Wilding.

In spite of his artistic triumphs, Rossetti suffered from doubts, fearing that – by churning out endless variations on the Pre-Raphaelite ‘stunner’ – he might be prostituting his art for commercial advantage. In a sombre moment, he reflected, ‘To be a painter is just the same as to be a whore.’ Perhaps such fears explain why Rossetti couldn’t finish Found – maybe he saw a little too much of himself in the picture. Some of Rossetti’s friends and supporters did suspect he was abandoning his Romantic ideals. Ruskin, for one, disapproved of his new paintings, declaring they were ‘as course as the prostitute who modelled for them’.

He also couldn’t escape memories of his wife. He made something of a return to his old preoccupations with medieval courtly love and queenly beauties admired from afar when in 1864 he began his Beata Beatrix. This picture depicts Beatrice – the great love of Dante Alighieri, who the poet adored despite only meeting twice – at the moment of her death. Beatrice – of course, modelled on Lizzie – is being mystically taken up to heaven. Her closed eyes hint at both deathly bliss and a drug-induced daze. A red dove, capped with a halo, drops a poppy – symbolising opium, sleep and death – into Lizzie’s hands. Rossetti always felt uneasy around the painting and bitterly reflected that artists often despise their best work. He knocked out numerous inferior versions of the picture for his clients, as if determined to besmirch its purity.

Beata Beatrix by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, featuring Lizzie Siddal

Fearing he’d betrayed the true spirit of his painting, Dante Gabriel Rossetti felt he had to seek artistic immortality via another means. He turned more of his attention towards his poetry and began to seriously consider putting a book of it out. This desire to grasp artistic renown was likely spurred on by the fact he knew his addictions to chloral and alcohol were worsening. There was also his belief that – despite his doctors’ reassurances – his sight was starting to fade. Rossetti, however, had a problem. Though he liked his recent verse, he felt much of the best stuff he’d ever penned was inaccessible. Much of his best work lay buried with Lizzie Siddal, deep in the earth of Highgate Cemetery.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti, the Exhumation of Lizzie Siddal, Vampire Legends and a Tsunami of Critical Hate

Rossetti was in a delicate position. Needing the manuscript, yet hating the thought of an exhumation, he worried about a disinterment becoming a subject of public gossip and about having to explain his intentions to his family, in whose plot Lizzie lay. Rossetti’s business agent, Charles Augustus Howell – perhaps motivated by the thought of how well a book from the famous artist might sell – seems to have soothed Rossetti’s doubts and persuaded him to go ahead with having Lizzie dug up. Rossetti signed power of attorney in the matter over to Howell, who knew the home secretary and so obtained an exhumation order without much fuss and without the other Rossettis finding out.

Gravestones marking the Rossetti family plot in Highgate Cemetery, where Lizzie Siddal is buried. (Photo courtesy of The Midnight Society)

It seems much of the mythology about Lizzie being perfectly preserved also came from Howell. He likely invented this piece of macabrely Romantic folklore to ease Rossetti’s conscience. Howell may have also hoped that concocting an outlandish legend around Rossetti would boost the value of his work. None of the facts support Howell’s account of Lizzie’s pristine condition. After the manuscript was rescued from the grave, pieces of putrefaction had to be scraped off. Then – before Rossetti could start transcribing the poems – the book needed to be soaked in disinfectant for a fortnight. Rossetti found wormholes in the pages, which had obliterated some words. Despite having been thoroughly disinfected, the book gave off a revolting stench. Once he’d finished his grim undertaking, Rossetti destroyed the manuscript. Three pages, however, survived and are still held in libraries. The notion Lizzie’s hair had grown to a spectacular length is also likely to be little more than legend. The idea the hair of corpses can grow probably just results from the skin shrinking towards the skull, making the hair seem longer.

A page of the book of poetry Dante Gabriel Rossetti rescued from the grave of Lizzie Siddal. (Held in Houghton Library, Harvard University)

The claims about Lizzie’s ‘undead’ state may have, however, had quite a cultural impact. It’s thought the inspiration for the beautiful vampire Lucy Westerna in Bram Stoker’s Dracula might have come from accounts of Lizzie’s exhumation. Lucy, even more stunning in death than while alive, was laid to rest in ‘Kingstead Churchyard’, which many see as a fictional depiction of Highgate Cemetery. Stoker knew Rossetti – they were for a time neighbours – and he also knew and worked closely with Rossetti’s friend, the Manx writer Hall Caine. The exhumation of Lizzie Siddal seems a central event pulling together several strands of the Western vampire myth. Rossetti’s uncle wrote the first vampire novel while the disinterment of his wife possibly influenced Bram Stoker. And, in the 1970s, Highgate Cemetery would find itself the focus of a famous outbreak of vampire hysteria, with rumours a bloodsucking resident of the necropolis was prowling North London’s suburbs.

Despite having to deal with the gruesome manuscript and its scents of the grave, Rossetti felt his artistic resurrection might well be imminent. And, buoyed by getting his old verses back, he composed a new batch of poems, many of them – for the time – outrageously sensual. Much of the impetus for this came from a new mistress, Janey Morris. Rossetti and Burne-Jones had spotted Jane – the daughter of an Oxford stableman and laundress – in 1857 when they were painting murals at the Oxford Union Library. Amazed by her dark thick curly hair and queenly – almost haughty – features, they asked her to model. She sat for Rossetti as Guinevere and ended up marrying Rossetti’s friend William Morris in 1859. Morris – a poet, designer, socialist, free thinker, entrepreneur and crafts enthusiast – put his working-class wife through a programme of education. Due to her keen intelligence, Jane soon grew accomplished, learning several languages and becoming a skilled embroiderer. Her designs were sold through William’s interior decor firm, Morris and Co, in which Rossetti was a partner.

Rossetti’s affair with Janey seems to have begun in 1865. She’s said to have ‘consumed and obsessed him in paint, poetry and life’. He deluged her with verse and – as with his other muses – painted her constantly. While Lizzie had been the distant queen of courtly love and Fanny a symbol of sensuality, Janey was cast as a goddess. As Proserpine, she clutches a fateful pomegranate, resplendent in a loose flowing medieval gown. This goddess, however, deigned to accept Rossetti as her earthly lover. Rossetti wrote: ‘This hour be her sweet body all my song, now the same heartbeat blends her gaze with mine, One parted fire … her arms lie wide open, throbbing with their throng of confluent pulses, bare and fair and strong, and her deep freighted lips expect me now, amidst the clustering hair that shrines her brow, five kisses broad, her neck ten kisses long.’

Janey Morris poses as Proserpine, the Greek goddess of death and the underworld

Rossetti’s collection of verse – which mixed the poems salvaged from Lizzie’s casket with newer, more sensual efforts – was published in 1870. The poems, tragically, turned out to be too advanced for their epoch. Society was only just starting to become more open to the erotic. Rossetti’s verse perhaps also foreshadowed the development of a capitalist commodity culture, in which consumers are encouraged to eagerly – and greedily – look, touch, taste, feel, smell and experience. Though Rossetti may have heralded an emerging modern identity, his poetry was too much for most people in his own time. Rossetti had hoped his poems would make his name immortal, but the critics weren’t impressed.

The critic – and rival poet – Robert Buchanan was particularly disgusted. ‘There was no soul in this verse only body,’ he ranted, thundering against its ‘females who bite, scratch, scream, bubble, munch, sweat, writhe, wriggle, twist, foam and in a general way slather over their lovers.’ Frothing with outrage – and perhaps a little jealousy – Buchanan accused Rossetti and his circle of encouraging ‘a morbid deviation from healthy forms of life … all the gross and vulgar conceptions of life, which are formulated into certain products of art, literature and criticism, emanate from this bohemian class … There lies the seat of the cancer, there in the bohemian fringe of society, spreading daily like all cancerous diseases, foul in itself and creating foulness.’ Buchanan was suggesting Rossetti’s ‘impure’ art and poetry had their wellspring in the life Rosetti led as an adulterer and libertine.

Rossetti was distraught. As well as launching a frenzied assault on Rossetti’s good name, Buchanan had spelled out certain fears Rossetti held about himself. He’d long fretted that his more spiritual and idealistic aspects had become just a façade and that his erotic adventures had reduced him to little more than a seedy sensualist. Rossetti expressed this anguish in a poem called Lost Days, in which a man is confronted with past versions of himself. ‘I am thyself, what has thou done to me?’ each doppelganger demands before vowing to haunt the man forever.

So Rossetti felt his efforts to establish himself as a serious poet had failed. According to Hall Caine, he’d bitterly regret the grisly disinterment, castigating himself for yielding to the pull of literary ambition. The thought of Lizzie’s exhumation tormented Rossetti for the rest of his days. And the man who’d persuaded him to do it, Charles Augustus Howell, would soon acquire a reputation as a con artist and blackmailer. For Swinburne, Howell was ‘the vilest wretch I ever came across’  while Edward Burne-Jones characterised him as ‘a base, treacherous, unscrupulous and malignant fellow’. Howell attempted to gain control of John Ruskin’s finances, persuaded a lover to create fake Rossetti drawings and was even rumoured to be enmeshed in a plot to assassinate the French emperor Napoleon III. After Swinburne had entrusted Howell with some ‘burlesque and indecent letters’, they found their way to a publisher who used them to blackmail Swinburne into given up the copyright of a poem. Howell was discovered dead near a Chelsea pub on 21st April 1890 with his throat slit and a ten shilling coin in his mouth, the traditional death meted out to a slanderer. At Howell’s home, letters from many highly placed people were found carefully filed. On hearing Howell had died, Swinburne said he hoped he was in the eighth circle of Dante’s hell, where those who flatter then exploit others are covered in ‘a coating of eternal excrement’.

The Dark Goddess Foreshadows Death – the Decline of Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Devastated by the criticisms he’d received, Rossetti’s mental health declined. Increasingly paranoid, he suffered from hallucinations. But a piece of good fortune then came along from an unlikely source. As Janey and Rossetti had got closer, William Morris had developed a philosophy of free love, according to which husbands and wives shouldn’t stand in each other’s way of finding fulfilment. In early 1871, Morris even took out a joint lease with Rossetti on Kelmscott Manor, a fine Oxfordshire country house. That summer, Morris took off on a lengthy trip to Iceland, leaving the lovers behind to enjoy their affair. In bucolic surroundings and in the company of his beloved muse, Rossetti felt much better, his health improved and he again started to paint. The couple took long walks and lounged blissfully around Kelmscott’s garden, reading Shakespeare to each other. Rossetti would say it was the happiest summer of his life.

Kelmscott Manor, Oxfordshire, where Dante Gabriel Rossetti spent a blissful summer with his muse Jane Morris (Photo: Boerkevitz)

In Autumn 1871, Rossetti returned to London. Though his paintings were more popular than ever and were selling for ever more astronomical amounts, his problems again seemed to cloud in on him: his addictions, the traumas of his wife’s death and exhumation, and the critics’ savaging of his poetry. In June 1872, he suffered a mental breakdown. One night – as his wife had years before – he gulped down an overdose of laudanum, but unlike the luckless Lizzie Siddal, Rossetti survived. That September, he again joined Janey at Kelmscott and – though she tried to nurse him back to health – his days there were spent ‘in a haze of choral and whiskey’. By the next summer, he’d improved. He went back to Kelmscott, where Janey sat for him, but it was becoming clear their on-off relationship couldn’t continue. Janey was increasingly disturbed by his addictions, her two daughters had begun asking embarrassing questions about ‘Uncle Dante’, and Morris had restructured his firm, cutting Rossetti out. The polite charade that the two men were simply sharing the manor was becoming harder to maintain. In 1874, Janey had to banish Rossetti from Kelmscott. Rossetti would never return and he dropped into deep despondency.

Back at Cheyne Walk, Rossetti slid into an increasingly reclusive existence. Ill, addicted and depressed, he found it harder to work, but – when he did – the results could still be astounding. His paintings – which often featured Janey – took on a darker tone. In 1874, he produced the picture of her as Proserpine, the pomegranate she held symbolising death and entrapment in the underworld. An 1877 painting depicted her as the deity Astarte Syriaca. Rossetti’s take on this Near-Eastern love goddess – a more sinister counterpart of the Roman Venus – is full-lipped and prominently bossomed. Her solemn attendants, however, hold torches around which plants twine – plants that might be deadly nightshade. Though some clients were disturbed by Rossetti’s darker turn, he had no trouble selling his paintings. Astarte Syriaca went for £2,100 (over £250,000 in modern money).

Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s Astarte Syriaca, featuring Jane Morris

One source of support was Fanny Cornforth. She stayed on at Cheyne Walk until 1877, when Rossetti’s family – more involved now in his life due to his failing health – forced her to move out. Rossetti funded a house for her nearby and gave her several of his pictures. They exchanged humorous notes about their swelling waistlines. He called her ‘My Dear Elephant’ and sent her elephant sketches. Her name for him was ‘Rhino’ and he’d sign letters to her ‘Old Rhinoceros’.

By 1878, Rossetti could no longer paint. He spent his last four years overweight, sick, depressed, addicted and abandoned by many friends. He became housebound due to paralysis of the legs and suffered from Bright’s disease, a kidney ailment. On April 9th 1882 – while staying at a friend’s house in Birchington-on-Sea, Kent, in an attempt to improve his health – he died, aged 53. He’s buried in Birchington Churchyard.

No painter before Rossetti had worked so hard to merge the personal, psychological and sexual with archetypal myths. Rossetti tackled the huge themes of sex, life and death by drawing on his own struggles, traumas and loves. His work foreshadowed a whole stream of modern art in which painters would strive to do the same, with notable examples being the Symbolists and also Picasso, who was a fan of Dante Gabriel Rossetti and Pre-Raphaelites.

But through all the chaos of Rossetti’s tragedies and triumphs, he was always haunted by the death of his first love and would never shake off the influence she had over him. Shortly before he passed away, Rossetti said of Lizzie Siddal: ‘As much as in a hundred years she’s dead, yet is today the day on which she died.’

(This article’s main image – showing Lizzie Siddal in John Everett Millais’ bathtub – is courtesy of The Kissed Mouth.)

The post Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Lizzie Siddal & an Infamous Exhumation in Highgate Cemetery appeared first on David Castleton Blog - The Serpent's Pen.

It’s easy to see why this phenomenon so startled the people of Devon. In some villages, almost every homestead had been visited and the hoofmarks went right up the sides of houses and over roofs. They meandered through churchyards and gardens and across fields, sometimes disappearing before starting again a few metres further on, as if the diabolical being had leapt or even flown. Sometimes they’d stop on one side of a haystack and continue on the other, without any hay being disturbed. Elsewhere, the creature had squeezed through tiny holes in hedges or jumped tall fences or impossibly high walls. Two witnesses claimed the footsteps had stopped at the entrance to a pipe just six inches in diameter then reappeared at the other end, a feat many felt had to be supernatural as no animal large enough to produce such prints could have wriggled through that tube. The prints apparently halted before the Exe estuary – a two-mile-wide span of water – then casually started again on the opposite bank.

Many gardens and fields were marked with mysterious single lines of ‘Devil’s Footprints’. (Photo: Claire Witham) 

There was also the sheer length of the beast’s damnable journey. Though accounts varied, it was estimated that the being must have walked between 40 and 100 miles on the night of 8th-9th February – an accomplishment no earthly creature could manage. The footprints seem mainly to have been concentrated in south and east Devon, travelling from Exmouth to Topsham then across the Exe to Dawlish and Teignmouth. Some stated that the prints had appeared as far south as Torquey and Totness, as far north as the outskirts of Exeter and as far east as Weymouth in Dorset. The Devil’s Hoofmarks did, however, show some variation. Within some the impress of a horseshoe could be seen; other hoofprints boasted claw marks, lending credence to the notion of their infernal origin.

Map of Devon – the Devil’s Footprints appeared mainly in the south and east around the Exe estuary.

News of the Devil’s Footprints soon spread through Devon and beyond. Articles appeared in The Times and in the local press. The Illustrated London News published a series of letters speculating about what could have caused the demonic imprints. These reports betray the terror – mingled with curiosity – that many locals felt. Residents, sometimes in armed groups, followed the footprints. Some traced the marks for miles, though without discovering much that could explain them. It’s, however, claimed that one local hunt tracked a mysterious beast to a wood near Dawlish. The huntsmen sent in the hounds to corner the creature, but the dogs soon ‘came back baying and terrified’.

The Western Luminary and Family Newspaper stated the footprints had created ‘an uproar of commotion’ while according to The Times a ‘considerable sensation has been evoked in the towns of Topsham, Lympstone, Exmouth, Teignmouth and Dawlish, in the south of Devon … the superstitious go so far as to believe that they are the marks of Satan himself … great excitement has been produced among all classes … many superstitious people in the above towns are actually afraid to go outside their doors after night.’ A letter in Woolmer’s Exeter and Plymouth Gazette said, ‘The poor are full of superstition and consider it little short of a visit from old Satan or some of his imps’. The Western Times related that Exmouth had been ‘thrown into a state of alarm, in consequence of a report that the town and neighbourhood had been visited in the night by no less a person than his Satanic Majesty, and that the marks of his feet were distinctly to be seen imprinted on the snow.’

Various sketches of the Devil’s Footprints made by eyewitnesses, from the papers of the Devon vicar the Reverend H.T. Ellacombe

Not everyone agreed the Devil’s Footprints had supernatural causes. Journalists, naturalists, clergymen, and the more educated who looked down on their superstitious neighbours were soon coming up with theories to explain the sinister occurrence. Later writers have also tried to identify who or what made the marks. Possible culprits have ranged from untethered balloons, to swans clad in padded shoes, to badgers, otters, and escaped kangaroos and monkeys. Some have blamed weird weather patterns; others have suggested UFOs and sea monsters. Some have seen a human influence at play – from attempts by austere Protestants to frighten religious opponents to Romany Gypsies on stilts creating the marks to scare off rival bands of Travellers.

The Devil’s Footprints were certainly a strange case. Let’s look at the explanations that have been put forward and try to make some sense of this diabolical conundrum.

Donkeys, Badgers, Cats – Could an Ordinary Animal Have Made the Devil’s Footprints?

Accounts from the time describe the Devil’s Footprints as between three-and-a-half and four inches long and around three inches wide. The marks were mainly in single file, rather than alternating to the left and right as the prints of humans and many animals would. The distance separating the marks was small, between eight and 16 inches, suggesting either short hops or an almost mincing gait. If these marks could have been made by some land animal rather than ‘His Satanic Majesty’, we must enquire if any creature common in the British Isles might have produced them.

Most of the marks were cloven and traces of horseshoes were found within some so we should start by asking whether the imprints may have simply been left by donkeys or ponies. People at the time noted that the marks indeed looked like the hoofprints of such animals. The Western Luminary and Family Newspaper described the marks as ‘exactly, in shape, like a donkey’s hoof’ while The Times stated ‘the impression of the foot closely resembled that of a donkey’s shoe’. The possibility that such a creature might have left the prints, though, was quickly dismissed due to the layout of the marks. As The Western Luminary put it, they were ‘evidently done by some two-footed animal’.

Might humble donkeys have made the Devil’s Footprints in Devon? (Photo: The Donkey Sanctuary of Canada)

But donkey prints can be deceptive. According to the researcher Theo Brown, ‘donkeys are the only animals that plant their feet in an almost perfect single line’, a fact that has led her to conclude that at least some of the Devil’s Footprints were made by such creatures. Though this might seem an easy answer to our mystery, the idea the prints were left by donkeys conjures up some tricky questions. Human steps weren’t seen alongside the Devil’s Hoofmarks and it’s unlikely that people would have led or ridden donkeys in the thick of a winter night through gardens and churchyards and across expanses of private land. Most of these theoretical donkeys must have, therefore, strayed and several such beasts would have needed to escape simultaneously to produce the quantities of marks seen. Also, there’s no way that donkeys could have trotted up the walls of houses or slithered through narrow pipes. And the creatures are unlikely to have walked over roofs.

We might also question why country people wouldn’t have recognised donkeys’ trails. To this objection, it might be said that significant falls of snow are uncommon in south Devon, an area with one of the most temperate climates in Britain. Might locals, agitated by the less explicable marks – such as those going up houses – have then seen the prints of stray donkeys in the unfamiliar snow and decided they were more sinister than they actually were? In opposition to this idea, we must consider a letter sent to The Illustrated London News by a correspondent calling himself ‘South Devon’, who gave the impression of being an veteran countryman who’d also spent time in Canada and who’d ‘much experience of tracking wild animals and birds upon the snow’. South Devon claimed that on the morning of 9th February the prints of well-known creatures were recognisable as ‘the snow bore the fresh marks of cats, dogs, rabbits, birds and men clearly defined’ and that – unlike the Devil’s Footprints – they excited little comment. South Devon did admit that the Devil’s Footprints ‘were the perfect impression of a donkey’s hoof’, but stressed that ‘foot had followed foot in a single line’ and that no known animal walks in a ‘line of single footsteps, not even man’. This suggests South Devon – and perhaps others in the area – were actually unaware of how donkeys’ hoofmarks can appear in snow.

A sketch of the Devil’s Footprints – sent in by the correspondent ‘South Devon’ – which appeared in The Illustrated London News

Though stray donkeys might well have made some of the hoofmarks, they can’t account for them all. Another creature accused of making the diabolical imprints was the humble badger. Also in a letter to The Illustrated London News, the well-known naturalist Richard Owen put the blame on this seemingly innocent animal. Owen emphasised that badgers are not only nocturnal but can travel significant distances while looking for food, especially in winter. Badgers also have long claws and claw marks were spotted in some of the Devil’s Hoofprints. The pawprints of badgers are, however, staggered and the creature has quite a large tread, meaning it would almost certainly leave a double line of marks. It’s also somewhat comical to imagine stout and sturdy badgers scaling walls, strolling across rooftops, and springing over haystacks and high fences.

Trails of animals that may have been mistaken for the Devil’s Hoofmarks: a. Whitetail deer; b. Cottontail Hare; c. Fox; d. Badger; e. Otter

Another everyday animal blamed for the Devil’s Footprints was the cat. On the morning of 9th February, the tenant of Aller Farm in Dawlish discovered that the night’s strange weather had distorted some pawprints his cat had left in the snow. Snow had come down heavily around midnight, but towards dawn there’d been a slight thaw and some rain. The temperature had then dropped again and there’d been a frost. Such melting and refreezing had warped the steps of the unassuming moggie ‘into the shape of a small hoof, with still the impression of the cat’s claws enclosed’. The tenant reported this to the Reverend Edward Fursdon, the vicar of Dawlish, who presumably noted it down.

The association of cats with the Devil’s Footprints is an interesting one. Cats can spring considerable distances, perhaps accounting for some of the (smaller) breaks in the lines of imprints. They’re also excellent climbers, which could maybe explain some of the marks on the sides of houses, although such prints would be unlikely to be in single file. (Also, except where snowdrifts had accumulated, the prints on house sides are likely to have been muddy ones rather than stamped in snow and so would have been recognisably feline.) Cats, though, have certainly been known to saunter across roofs. And while cats don’t create trails as linear as donkeys’, the prints of cats – and other animals like foxes – can give the impression of being in single file. Devon’s farms and villages in the mid-1800s no doubt contained lots of cats so the distorted tracks of domestic moggies might account for some of the Devil’s Footprints. It’s unlikely, however, that many cats would have taken it upon themselves to embark on journeys miles long through the snow.

More Possible Culprits for the Devil’s Footprints – Hopping Mice, Otters, Squirrels, Toads, Monkeys and Kangaroos

Yet more animals have been identified as possible creators of the Devil’s Footprints. On 8th March 1855, the Exeter Flying Post suggested the key to the mystery might be found in the form of the lowly toad. The paper reported that a Torquey man had followed a curious trail through his garden and found a large toad sitting by a tree stump at its end. It’s, however, unclear if it was the toad that made the tracks or if it just happened to have positioned itself where they stopped. It’s also uncertain whether the Devil’s Footprints did indeed extend as far south as Torquey despite what some claimed. Toads have webbed feet so it’s unlikely their trails would match the descriptions of the Devil’s Footprints unless weather conditions had substantially distorted them. The creatures can, though, presumably hop through pipes – perhaps providing an answer to the conundrum of the six-inch tube.

Comparison of eyewitnesses’ sketches of the Devil’s Footprints, made in Devon, England, from the papers of the Reverend H.T. Ellacombe

Other animals skilled at hopping, springing and jumping have been accused of making the diabolical marks. The Inverness Courier newspaper argued the Devon prints were made by a hare, as similar marks found near Inverness were thought to have been created by a hare or polecat. It remains unclear, however, whether such creatures really did leave those puzzling tracks near the Scottish town.

Rats, mice and other rodents sometimes engage in hopping and so have been viewed as possible causes of the Devil’s Footprints. In a letter to The Illustrated London News, one Thomas Fox wrote that he’d found tracks in his brother’s garden similar to those in Devon and suspected rats may have made them. In the 1950s, the zoologist Alfred Leutscher stumbled upon similar markings in Epping Forest. Leutscher knew that certain animals – including rabbits, hares, squirrels, mice and rats – sometimes leap with all four feet together. If there’s sufficient snow, their traces can resemble hoofmarks and Leutscher argued this effect is enhanced if the impressions thaw then refreeze. He believed only one animal, though, would have been the right size to make the Devon marks – the wood mouse – and claimed to have observed tracks left by this creature in Epping Forest that matched descriptions of the Devil’s Footprints. But – though wood mice might have made some of the Devon imprints – it seems unlikely that wood mice or other rodents would hop for such long distances rather than walking or scurrying or that single creatures could have made the trails that Devon villagers followed for miles.

Thomas Fox’s sketch of ‘rat prints’ in his brother’s garden – might this animal have left the Devil’s Footprints?

A more outlandish explanation for the Devil’s Footprints involved a hopping creature of a more exotic type. There were claims two kangaroos had left the marks after escaping from a private menagerie in Sidmouth. A Reverend G.M Musgrave seems to have been the first to put forward this idea, expounding it in a sermon. A letter to the Exeter and Plymouth Gazette outlined how ‘on Sunday last, the Rev. Musgrave, delivered one of his usual eloquent discourses in Lympstone Church, and in speaking of Satan as a tempter, who was continually besetting our path, though invisible, aptly alluded to this mysterious visitor who had left behind him visible evidence of his presence and expressed it as his opinion that the foot-prints were those of the kangaroo: but it must have been a busy animal indeed to have played up such pranks as this creature has done.’ Though kangaroos could have bounded over certain obstacles, even these incredible creatures would have struggled to get onto rooftops or leap high walls. Kangaroo prints are in no way similar to hoofmarks and the distance bounced by kangaroos certainly exceeds 16 inches, the maximum span recorded between the Devil’s Footprints. While there were indeed two kangaroos in the Sidmouth menagerie, there’s no evidence either of them escaped.

The Reverend Musgrave later admitted he came up with the kangaroo story to calm his congregation, who’d been terrified by the Devil’s Footprints. In March 1855, he sent a letter to The Illustrated London News: ‘the state of the public mind of the villagers … dreading to go out after sunset … under the conviction that this was the Devil’s work … rendered it very desirable that a turn should be given to such a degraded and vitiated notion … and I was grateful that a kangaroo served to disperse ideas so derogatory.’

Illustration of the tracks of a jumping wood mouse by Alfred Leutscher in his book Tracks and Signs of British Animals (1960). Might weather conditions have merged such marks into the Devil’s Footprints?

An even more incredible suggestion was that the marks were left by a monkey that had escaped from a menagerie or circus. A monkey might have had the agility to climb walls and skip across roofs, but a single monkey couldn’t have left so many footprints in one night and – again – there’s no evidence of such a creature absconding around the time the Devil’s Footprints appeared.

A more sensible notion is that otters caused some of the marks. Cold weather might have driven such creatures away from their frozen rivers and streams in search of food and all the places where the Devil’s Footprints were found were within half-a-mile of such watercourses. Even in the mid-1800s, otters weren’t common creatures so many country people may have not recognised their trails. The two witnesses who saw the prints near the pipe suspected an otter might have squeezed through it and they noticed the creature that had made the marks had slunk under low branches, like an otter would. In addition, crossing the Exe estuary would have probably not presented much of an obstacle to these semi-aquatic animals. Though some of the demonic prints may have been made by otters, it’s unlikely these creatures could have left them all, especially those running up walls or over rooftops.

Animal prints in Rupert Gould’s book Oddities (1928): a. Thomas Fox’s ‘rat prints’; b. Hind foot of an otter; C. Badger’s hind foot; D. One of the Devil’s Hoofmarks

It may be that a variety of animals were responsible for the Devil’s Footprints. Their marks may have been made somewhat more uniform by the thawing and refreezing action of the weather (though the extent of the similarity of the prints still raises questions). Early 1855 did see exceptional cold – the winter had been so intense that ‘the thermometer was one degree lower than has ever been known before by the oldest inhabitant’ and stretches of the rivers Exe and Teign froze over, allowing games and even a feast to be held on the ice. Such conditions could have driven animals to adopt unusual behaviours, travelling further in their search for food and leaving longer trails. These trails – in the excitable minds of some – could have merged into evidence of an epic trek, a journey so outlandish it could only have a supernatural explanation.

There are still many questions, however, about the Devil’s Footprints so we’ll leave behind the animal realm for now and look at the activities of birds, balloons and humans.

Might Birds Have Been Responsible for the Devil’s Footprints?

It might seem a rather obvious assertion that birds were to blame for some of the prints. Most bird species would have no trouble flapping over haystacks, walking across roofs, entering walled gardens or clearing the Exe estuary. Smaller varieties could have navigated pipes and got through holes in hedges. There’s also evidence that the freezing weather caused flocks of seabirds to come inland, which could explain why similar prints were found across a large area. The breaks in the lines of prints may have been caused by birds flying short distances before coming down and walking again.

The problem with this argument is that the feet of birds – whether clawed or webbed – leave prints that in no way resemble hoofmarks. Some have claimed the birds’ feet might have iced up, giving their tracks an unusual shape. One Reverend H.T. Ellacombe did apparently notice flurries in the snow around some of the Devil’s Footprints – flurries iced-laden birds may have created by beating their wings as they tried to take off. But it’s improbable that even iced-up bird feet would have left impressions like hoofmarks. It is possible, though, that already agitated observers – viewing, from some metres away, bird prints on roofs distorted by thawing and freezing – could have seen them as grim evidence the Evil One had visited.

Could birds have caused Devon’s Devil’s Footprints? (Image: Greg Williams)

An entertaining, though improbable, suggestion is that a domesticated swan sporting padded shoes caused the Devil’s Footprints. An escaped – and very much exhausted – swan is rumoured to have been caught at St Denis, near Paris, five days after the Devon footprints appeared. A silver collar round the swan’s neck showed it had come all the way from Germany, from ‘the domain of Prince Hohenlohe’. The bird’s feet were apparently padded to stop it damaging ornamental gardens and lawns. Swans can fly large distances, but it’s unlikely that even the most vigorous swan would have crossed the channel, flown all the way to Devon, left hundreds of thousands of footprints in one night then headed back to the Continent. A whole flock of such birds would have needed to abscond to produce the amount of prints seen.

Could a Stray Balloon Have Left the Devil’s Hoofmarks?

According to the novelist Geoffrey Household (1900-1988), an experimental balloon produced the Devil’s Footprints. The balloon, kept at the naval base Devonport Dockyard, somehow got free and set off on a journey across the countryside. The balloon carried two shackles on the end of its mooring ropes and these caused the balloon to continually dip down. It was these shackles – making frequent contact with the snow – that pitted Devon with its trail of curious marks. Household’s source was one Major Carter, a local man who’d heard the story from his grandad, an employee at the Devonport base. Carter’s grandfather told him that the incident had been hushed up because the balloon had damaged conservatories and shattered greenhouses and windows. The balloon finally ceased its flight at the east Devon town of Honiton.

Might an experimental balloon like this one have caused Devon’s Devil’s Footprints?

The balloon theory would explain how the Devil’s Footprints had got on roofs and how the entity that made them had bounded over haystacks and walls. It could also account for the gaps in the trails and the crossing of the Exe, during which the shackles would have presumably just hit water. It’s likely, however, that the balloon’s mooring ropes would have left marks in the snow too and there are no records of any such imprints. The balloon also would have probably sooner or later become tangled in a tree, bush, hedge or other obstruction. It seems more likely that the balloon story was invented after the appearance of the Devil’s Footprints as an attempt to explain them.

Might the Devil’s Hoofmarks Have Their Origin in a Religious Dispute?

One explanation for the Devil’s Footprints is that they were left as a hoax, a somewhat sinister prank arising out of disputes within the Church of England. The Church at the time was divided between High-Church followers of the Oxford Movement and more puritanical Low-Church Anglicans. The Oxford Movement – put simply – sought to reintroduce medieval elements into Anglicanism, with a stress on ritual, vestments, incense and the beauty of worship and the belief that religious services should be whole-body experiences rather than just appealing to the intellect. To more radical Protestants, this smacked too much of Catholicism and they wanted more focus on the Bible and sermons, with churches and ceremonies kept plain and austere.

Some suspect the Puritans – feeling their opponents were basically in league with the Devil – used the snowfall as an opportunity to frighten them. With some sort of implement – perhaps a horseshoe attached to a long pole – they made trails in the churchyards of vicars who supported the Oxford Movement, as well as across the landscape more generally. The use of such an implement might explain the marks going up houses, emerging from pipes, and on either side of undisturbed haystacks. It could also account for the similarity of many of the imprints. If an implement had been employed, however, one might expect all the Devil’s Footprints to be identical – which they weren’t – though thawing and refreezing may have distorted some.

The main objection to such a theory lies in the sheer number of marks – it would have taken a conspiracy of hundreds of Puritans to produce so many. What’s more likely is that – noticing the commotion the Devil’s Hoofmarks had caused – some Puritans took advantage of the uproar to make a religious point. This might explain the prints found in Topsham Churchyard on 13th February – several days after the bulk of the marks had been discovered on the morning of the 9th. Ominously, the tracks at Topsham went up ‘to the very door of the vestibule’. Though the vicar at Topsham was High Church, not all the churches where prints were found had vicars who adhered to the Oxford Movement. At Dawlish, a more Puritan parish, hoofmarks led ‘from the vicarage to the vestry door’ and prints were discovered ‘all over the churchyard and between the graves’.

Interestingly, the trauma of religious disputes does sometimes give rise to alleged experiences of the supernatural. For instance, a vampire legend in Croglin, Cumbria, may have its roots in the religious conflicts that arose around the time of the English Civil War. The Croglin legend even includes rumours of a vampiric bat flying out of the tomb of an unpopular clergyman.

Might the Devil’s Footprints Have Been Made by Gypsies on Stilts?

According to the autobiography of Manfri Frederick Wood In the Life of a Romany Gypsy (1973), the Devil’s Footprints were made as part of an elaborate plan hatched by Gypsies to frighten off rival travelling groups. Rather than Devon, Wood places the incident in Somerset though he admits, ‘I am not sure about the exact area or even the approximate date when this occurred – but it is a true story as I got it from one of my uncles and it filled the newspapers at the time and caused a great sensation.’

Wood goes on: ‘That night, as everybody in the area found first thing in the morning, the Devil walked right across the county of Somerset. Only it wasn’t the Devil at all but some seven Romany tribes using over 400 sets of measure stilts with size-27 boots at their base. The whole operation took over 18 months to plan and prepare.’

The issue the Romanies had was they felt their territory was being overrun by Didekais (people of part-Romany heritage) and ‘Pikies’. (‘Pikey’ is generally a derogatory term for Gypsies and Travellers, but in Wood’s account it probably refers to non-Romany travelling people.) The idea was to frighten away these competing groups by exploiting their fear of ‘the Mulo’. According to Wood, in Gypsy lore a Mulo is a vampire-type figure that ‘came out of its tomb every night as the dead man’s double’ and would also emerge for half-an-hour at high noon. Gypsies had once been so terrified of the Mulo that they ‘made a point of stopping at a camping site in time to get out of the Mulo’s way inside their tents or wagons. So the old Gypsies years ago never travelled at noon and were out of sight by dusk.’ Some Gypsies, though, saw the Mulo not as a revenant of a dead man but rather as the Devil in the deceased man’s guise.

Wood states that, having long ago converted to Christianity, most ‘of the pure Romanies in this country no longer bother about Mulos and travel at any time of the day or night’ whereas ‘a good many of the Didekais and Pikies are still very particular about keeping out of the Mulo’s way. In our family, the belief in Mulos was a very useful weapon for clearing an area more or less permanently of Pikies.’

A group of Gypsies in the snow – could Romanies have created the Devil’s Footprints?

The ‘measure stilts’ the Romanies used ‘consisted of a pair of step ladders that could be lengthened or shortened by means of slides and hinges. They were joined at the top by a wheel. The bottom of the step ladder stood in the great big boot and the man operating the stilts stood on one of the ladders and joggled about on it to make as deep a foot impression as possible. Then he would either swing the second ladder over the top by the wheel – if there was enough head room – or … he would raise the ladder by the slide and move it forward in one “Devil’s stride”. Either way, he got an exact measure of a stride, as the measure stilts were constructed so they could not over- or under-stride the three yards it was meant to do.’ In order to avoid being spotted when on public highways, the stilt-walkers would ‘throw a sheet over the whole works so the Devil would be seen walking rather than a man with ladders.’

The Romanies made it look as if the Devil had walked ‘right across Somerset in as straight a line as possible’, which even meant that ‘his footsteps had to go straight up one wall’ of any building in his path then ‘over the roof and down the other wall. The stilt-walker could not walk up walls – he had to straighten out his stilts to turn them into a long ladder and then make a muddy line of “devil’s strides” … Halfway over the top, he had to hoist the ladder up and swing it right round, and without too much noise, to the other side of the building. This was the snaggiest part of the whole business as it required exceptional strength and poise.’

Apparently, ‘the route was planned very carefully and every part of it studied … When the plan was put into operation, it went off without a single hitch … The next day, the Devil’s Footprints could clearly be seen along the whole route. It put the fear of God into all the locals – but that was not the point of the exercise. For the next few years it kept the area free from Pikies and Didekais who swore blind it was a Mulo that had crossed and they were not going to take any chances.’

As strangely fascinating as this account might be, this explanation for the Devil’s Footprints has flaws. Wood places the incident in Somerset rather than Devon (though he admits his memory may be faulty with regards to location). The size-27 boots the Gypsies attached to their stilts would have produced prints far bigger than the Devil’s Footprints and of a different shape. The stride between the marks left by the Romanies would have also been much larger. In addition, the Romanies made their trail in a straight line whereas many of the Devon tracks meandered. It’s difficult to believe that 400 people traversing the countryside on stilts wouldn’t have set dogs barking or that at least some of them wouldn’t have been apprehended or had accidents. There’s also no evidence – as far as I know – of Gypsies elsewhere using similar techniques to clear areas of rivals.

One detail might, however, hint that stilt-walkers could have left some of the marks. In 1889-90, the journal Notes and Queries discussed the Devil’s Footprints and one correspondent claimed that the impression of ‘a point of a stick’ had been left at lengthy but regular intervals besides the prints. Could such sticks have helped stilt-walkers balance? This detail was, however, reported decades after the footsteps appeared and the fact the stick-marks were regular wouldn’t fit with someone using such an implement whenever they feared they might topple over.

I suspect that the Devon incident entered Gypsy folklore and that the telling of the tale became ever more elaborate and ever more intertwined with Romany history as the years passed. Or perhaps – like the Puritans above – the Romanies heard of the Devil’s Footprints and hoaxed more marks (though on a smaller scale than claimed) to serve purposes of their own.

Could the Devil’s Footprints Have Been Formed by Weird Weather Patterns?

Another possible cause for the Devil’s Footprints was proposed by the Scotsman J. Allan Rennie. Rennie suspected the footsteps had been made by a strange weather phenomenon, one he claimed to have witnessed. In 1924, in northern Canada, Rennie saw a line of mysterious tracks in the snow while crossing a frozen lake. His companion, ‘a French-Canadian dog skinner’, became agitated, blaming the prints on a monster called the Windygo. So disturbed was the dog skinner that he deserted Rennie’s expedition. Not long afterwards, it was Rennie’s turn to be petrified. He saw tracks approaching him in the snow though no visible creature seemed to be making them:

‘The tracks were being made within 50 yards of me – 20 – 10 – then smack! I shouted aloud as a large blob of water struck me in the face. I swung around, brushing the moisture from my eyes, and saw the tracks continuing across the lake.’

When he’d recovered from the shock, Rennie reasoned that the prints had been caused by ‘some freakish current of very warm air coming into contact with the very low temperature which had set up the condensation.’ Rennie claimed to have observed similar tracks in Kent in 1939 and in Strathspey, Scotland, in December 1952 and January 1953.

Did a strange weather phenomenon cause Devon’s Devil’s Footprints? 

If such a phenomenon does exist, it could explain the Devon marks left in difficult-to-access places like rooftops, and presumably walls and high fences wouldn’t present obstacles to currents of air. The prints Rennie observed, however, travelled in straight lines rather than meandering as in Devon and were bigger than the Devon marks. Those Rennie saw in Canada looked as if snowshoes had made them while the marks in Strathspey were 19 inches long, 14 wide and 7 feet apart. Furthermore, meteorologists are dubious about whether air currents could produce such tracks. Those the naturalist and author of Animal Legends (1995) Maurice Burton consulted declared such claims ‘impossible’.

So What’s the Conclusion – What Did Cause the Devil’s Footprints?

This post shows that an incredible range of causes have been suggested for the Devil’s Footprints – from kangaroos, to stray balloons, to hopping mice, to Devil-obsessed Puritans to Gypsies teetering on stilts. But even more outlandish ideas have been proposed. In 1972, one George Lyall, writing in Flying Saucer Review, asserted a UFO had made the prints, by hovering over Devon and firing laser beams at the snow, apparently as part of a measuring exercise. The ex-navy officer Rupert Gould, on the other hand, put forward the idea that an unknown sea creature had emerged from the ocean to leave the marks. Gould’s theory mainly relies on the fact that all the prints appeared close to the sea or the Exe estuary. He also noted that pony-like footprints had once been found on the Antarctic Kerguelen Islands, at a time when that territory had no land animals.

Leaving aside the more offbeat suggestions, might we attempt a hypothesis for the Devil’s Footprints? No one explanation is completely satisfactory, but perhaps a combination of some of the ideas above could go some way towards accounting for the diabolical marks. I suspect most of the footprints were left by a variety of animals. Stray – or ridden – donkeys are likely to have created some, hence the hoofprints with horseshoes. Other marks could have been caused by creatures such as cats, otters and badgers or by the hopping of toads, mice, rats and other rodents. The thawing and refreezing that occurred on the night of 8th-9th February might have then distorted these prints into hoof-like shapes. Additional marks – also distorted and seen from a distance – could have been left by birds, which might account for some of the prints on roofs and on opposite sides of high walls and haystacks. The extreme cold weather might well have driven animals to stray from their regular territories and travel farther in search of food, meaning prints appeared where they wouldn’t normally. Though the correspondent South Devon claimed that the marks of ordinary animals were also visible in the snow and caused no excitement, these could have been left after the melting and refreezing that distorted earlier steps.

Marks in snow made by a red squirrel – could some of the Devil’s Footprints have been left by hopping rodents? (Photo: Fortpelhamfarm)

Observing the commotion these unusual prints provoked, human pranksters could have then created more over the next few nights. The activities of such people might account for those marks leading ominously up to churches or walking straight up house walls. The hysteria the Devil’s Footprints triggered also likely led to descriptions of them being exaggerated and over the years memories of the phenomenon were probably embellished further.

Even eye-witnesses at the time may have been prone to exaggerate. South Devon, for instance, rather than being a mature countryman was later revealed to be the 19-year-old William D’Urban, who’d go on to be the first curator of the Royal Albert Memorial Museum at Exeter. D’Urban was responsible for getting certain notions into the press: that all the marks were ‘exactly the same size and the step the same length’ (which, as we have seen, wasn’t quite true), that the prints extended for 100 miles (others estimated it was more like 40), were in a straight line (they often meandered) and were found as far south as Torquey and Totness. South Devon also mentioned a 14-foot wall being jumped and prints on the roofs of houses. It’s possible that youthful enthusiasm gave extra colour to South Devon’s account and some of his contemporaries did dispute his claims. The Reverend G.M. Musgrave (he of the ‘kangaroo theory’) wrote to The Illustrated London News about South Devon’s assertions: ‘The outline accompanying your intelligent correspondent’s recital of the circumstances hardly conveys a correct idea of the prints in question.’

As for the excitable account of hounds being terrified by a sinister creature near Dawlish, suggestions have been made that the passage of time has in fact enhanced a different tale – that of the hunt closing in on nobody more threatening than a village idiot. This imbecile – who was fond of ‘decking himself in layers of chicken and goose feathers’ and roaming through woods imitating animal noises – was almost lynched by the nervous party. With regards to the footprints’ audacious crossing of the Exe, the river is two miles wide only where it meets the sea. It can be waded across in places at low tide and may have even been frozen on the 8th-9th February, meaning many animals could have crossed it without occult help.

Phenomena similar to the Devil’s Footprints have been observed elsewhere, suggesting that certain combinations of circumstances may produce marks like those seen in Devon. In 1922, the Daily Mail reported that tracks ascribed to the Devil had appeared in Norfolk and the Cotswolds, including on rooftops. In January 1855, prints similar to a deer’s were discovered on the walls and roofs of several pubs near Wolverhampton. (The fact only pubs were targeted might suggest local moralists were responsible.) In 1957, cloven prints – 12 inches apart – were found in a Hull back garden. Prints found in Belgium towards the end of World War II are said to have run for two miles ‘in a dead straight line’. In March 1855, The Times reported that hoofmarks manifested annually in the snow on a certain hill in Russian Poland. Locals blamed the hoofmarks – which, if no snow had fallen, would appear in the hill’s sandy soil – on malign supernatural influences. Though the Devon case is the most famous – and seems the most extensive – example of mysterious footprints, the fact it isn’t the only one could indicate that natural conditions – with perhaps some added human hoaxing – may occasionally result in such spooky occurrences.

Mysterious tracks sketched in Belgium towards the end of World War II by Eric Frank Russell

But What If the Devon Footprints Really Were Left by a Devilish Creature?

By peering into English folklore, we can see why Devon locals decided the Devil had taken a night-time hike across their county. The single lines of prints suggest a hopping motion while the clearing of haystacks and high fences indicates spectacular jumps. The Devil has long been famous for his hops and leaps. Near Frensham, Surrey, three hills known as the Devil’s Jumps were apparently created by Satan kicking up mounds of earth as he bounded across the countryside. The London demon Spring-heeled Jack – who terrorised that city in Victorian times – was said to leap improbable distances, jump fences and bound onto rooftops thanks to springs hidden in his boots. Indeed, some blamed Spring-heeled Jack for the Devil’s Footprints.

Our nightmares of leaping devils don’t, however, seem to have completely faded, even in modern times. According to an article on the British Paranormal Website, in 2007 a well-respected couple from Shoreham-by-Sea, West Sussex – a teacher and businessman – were driving home from a restaurant at about 10.00 pm on an especially dark night. Passing a wood, they became aware of movement in the undergrowth and thought it was a deer. Suddenly a strange creature leapt from the trees. The couple described it as a cloven-hoofed, very thin and bearded biped. This Pan-type figure trotted into the middle of the road, stared at the couple and unleashed a cry ‘half-way between a tyre’s screech and a cow’s moo’. The creature then disappeared back into the wood with a ‘movement like that of a stop-motion figure from an old claymation movie, being both disjointed and angular.’

The couple saw this character near a gorge called the Devil’s Dyke, an area that’s been the location of many ‘devil sightings’. The article’s writer, A.L. Cuin, states the couple ‘are known personally to me and they are definitely not the kind of people to indulge in fantasies and then make them known. They are convinced by what they saw and will accept no challenge to their account.’ Make of that what you choose.

(This article’s main image is courtesy of Flower. An excellent summary of the Devil’s Footprints phenomenon, and copies of primary and secondary sources, can be found in this resource edited by Mike Dash.)

The post The Devil’s Footprints – Devon’s Diabolical Hoofmarks in the Snow appeared first on David Castleton Blog - The Serpent's Pen.

The Croglin Vampire is a strange tale of villagers breaking open vaults determined to destroy the beast, of vampiric bats flying out of churchyards, of ‘vampiric corpses’ burnt next to sacred holly bushes, of escaped asylum inmates, of bitter religious conflict, and of starving circus monkeys rampaging through the Cumbrian landscape. It’s also a tale that ends with a bricked-up window festooned with lucky horseshoes, an alteration designed to stop the entry of any similar creatures.

The tale of the Croglin Vampire was made known to the wider public thanks to its inclusion in Story of My Life, the autobiography of one Augustus Hare (1834-1903). A biographer, travel writer and raconteur, Hare felt his life’s story merited a whopping six volumes, which were published in two batches in 1896 and 1900. Hare – like many Victorians – was fond of a good ghost story and included plenty in his books. He claimed to have heard the fantastical account of the Croglin Vampire during an after-dinner chat involving a Captain Fisher-Rowe. Having impressed the assembled company by rattling off some of his eeriest tales, Hare was surprised when Fisher-Rowe responded with an even spookier story.

Fisher-Rowe stated that his family owned a large house named Croglin Grange and that the oddest legend was associated with it. After moving down to Surrey, the Fishers had let the Grange out. But one of their tenants – a young female – soon endured a petrifying ordeal. She found herself menaced by a vampire from a nearby churchyard – an incident that kicked off the most remarkable succession of events.

Claims have been made that the Croglin Vampire tale has over the years been embellished both by local folklore and excitable writers. A long series of researchers have queried, debunked and rehabilitated the legend then questioned it again. There have been accusations of plagiarism and of contamination from the copious gothic horror stories and penny dreadfuls clattered out by the printing presses of the vampire-obsessed Victorian age. Earnest investigators have spent days tramping over the bleak Cumbrian countryside, interviewing locals, searching for the remnants of chapels and poring over archives and property deeds.

The Croglin Vampire is indeed an elusive story. But let’s start with a summary of what’s alleged to have gone on, drawing mainly from Augustus Hare’s narrative with a little admixture from other accounts and from the folklore of the district.

The Truly Weird Tale of the Croglin Vampire

In Hare’s account, Captain Fisher begins by informing him that while ‘Fisher may sound a very plebeian name’ his family was ‘of a very ancient lineage, and for many hundreds of years they have possessed a very curious old place in Cumberland, which bears the weird name of Croglin Grange. The great characteristic of this house is that never at any period of its very long existence has it been more than one storey high, but it has a terrace from which large grounds sweep away towards the church in the hollow, and a fine distant view.’

Hare goes on to tell us that when ‘the Fishers outgrew Croglin Grange in family and fortune, they were wise enough not to destroy the long-standing characteristic of the place by adding another storey to the house, but they went away south, to reside at Thorncroft near Guildford and they let Crouglin Grange.’

Augustus Hare, who publicised the story of the Vampire of Croglin Grange

The Fishers were ‘extremely fortunate’ in the tenants they found – two brothers and a sister. Though Hare doesn’t name them, later sources give their surname as Cranswell, with the brothers called Edward and Michael and the sister Amelia. And while Hare doesn’t give a date for their tenancy, it’s been assumed they occupied the house at some point in the 1870s, as this was when the Fishers moved out.

The Cranswells loved living at Croglin Grange and soon made themselves popular in the surrounding area. Hare states that ‘to their poorer neighbours they were all that is kind and beneficent, and their neighbours of a higher class spoke of them as a most welcome addition to the little society of the neighbourhood.’

The Cranswells passed a winter and spring ‘most happily’ in Croglin Grange ‘sharing in all the little social pleasures of the district’ and found that the Grange, despite its unfortunate lack of a second floor, was ‘in every respect … exactly suited to them.’ During the summer, however, there came a day which was ‘dreadfully, annihilatingly hot’. The brothers could do nothing more active than lounging under trees reading books. Amelia positioned herself on the veranda and tried to work, though ‘in the intense sultriness of that summer day, work was next to impossible’.

After dinner, the siblings sat on the veranda, appreciating the evening’s slightly cooler air. Looking out over the grounds, towards the band of trees that separated the Grange’s lands from the adjacent churchyard, they watched the sun set and moon rise. Soon they were enjoying the sight of ‘the whole lawn … bathed in silver light, across which the long shadows from the shubbery fell as if embossed, so vivid and distinct were they.’

The Cranswells retired for the night, but Amelia found it too hot to sleep. Though her windows were closed, she hadn’t fastened the shutters, feeling that – in such a tranquil and unthreatening location – this wasn’t necessary. As she was unable to drop off, she just stared out at ‘the wonderful, the marvellous beauty of that summer night.’

After some time, though, she noticed a perplexing addition to the scene of moon-drenched gardens, trees and lawn. Two bright lights were flickering around the strip of trees close to the churchyard. Amelia found her gaze being drawn towards, being fixed on them. The lights soon stopped dodging in and among the tree trunks and started to advance across the lawn towards the house. Unable to stop staring at those eerie lights, Amelia released they part of some figure, a figure that – in a shambling walk – seemed to be heading in the direction of her window. Sometimes this being was obscured by the shadows of the trees, but the lights were always visible, getting closer and closer.

Amelia’s heart was now pounding, shivers were passing over her skin, and she knew she had to get away. The room’s door was, however, near the window that the beast was approaching and Amelia knew that unlocking it would put her closer to the creature for a moment. She wanted to scream, but her throat seemed paralysed, her tongue felt clamped to her mouth’s roof.

The being then turned aside and appeared to stumble away from her window. Amelia had the impression it was going around the house and wasn’t coming for her at all. Breaking out of the terror that had made her motionless, Amelia leapt from the bed, dashed to the door and fumbled the key into the lock. But then she heard a ‘scratch, scratch, scratch upon the window, and saw a hideous brown face with flaming eyes glaring in at her. She rushed back to the bed, but the creature continued to scratch, scratch, scratch’.

Somewhere in the panic of her mind, Amelia knew at least that the window was locked so the creature was unlikely to gain entry. The scratching did indeed stop, but now there came a pecking sound. An awful realisation flooded over Amelia – the beast was unpicking the lead that held the window in the frame. The peck, peck, pecking went on until the pane fell into the room, shattering into diamonds on the floor. Then ‘the long bony finger of the creature came in and turned the handle of the window, and the window opened.’

The creature clambered in and strode across Amelia’s room, but ‘her terror was so great that she could not scream … it came up to her bed, and it twisted its long, bony fingers into her hair, and it dragged her head over the side of the bed and – it bit her violently in the throat.’

As the fiend pierced Amelia’s flesh ‘her voice was released’. She let out a horrifying scream and her brothers were right at her door. Finding it locked, they searched for a poker to lever it open with, losing a vital minute as the creature bit deeper into their sister’s neck. With the fire iron, they got the door ajar and rushed into the room – just in time to see the creature escaping through the window. Their sister was unconscious, draped over the side of the bed, ‘bleeding violently from a wound in her throat’. One brother chased the vampire, but it scurried across the lawn ‘with gigantic strides’ and vanished over the churchyard wall.

Might the Vampire of Croglin Grange have taken a bite like this?

When Amelia had recovered consciousness and her shock had subsided a little, she said, ‘What has happened is most extraordinary and I am very much hurt. It seems inexplicable, but of course there is an explanation and we must wait for it.’

Amelia ‘was of strong disposition, not even given to romance or superstition’ and she soon came up with an idea to account for that night’s events. She said, ‘It will turn out that a lunatic has escaped from some asylum and found his way here.’

Amelia’s wound healed and she appeared to be getting over the trauma of her experience. Her doctor, however, insisted that – to fully recover – she must have a change of scene. Her brothers took her to Switzerland, where they undertook the typical pastimes of earnest Victorian tourists, such as climbing mountains, picking and preserving plants, and making sketches. As Autumn came on, however, Amelia agitated to go back to Croglin Grange.

‘We have taken it,’ she said, ‘for seven years, and we have only been there one; and we shall always find it difficult to let a house which is only one storey high, so we had better return there; lunatics do not escape every day.’

Amelia’s brothers were also missing their – vampire attacks excepted – pleasant life at Croglin so they agreed to her suggestion and the three headed back. As Croglin Grange, however, had only one storey it was difficult to make their living arrangements more secure. Amelia occupied her former bedroom, but always closed the shutters at night. As was typical for many old houses, though, the shutters left the top of the windowpane uncovered. The brothers now shared a room opposite Amelia’s and kept loaded pistols by their bedsides.

The siblings spent a happy and uneventful winter at the Grange though they did hear some disturbing reports of animals found dead with gashes in their throats. Then one spring night an ominously familiar noise woke Amelia up – a scratch, scratch, scratch at the window. She looked up and saw the same hideous shrivelled face she’d seen the previous summer, staring down at her from the top of the window with its blazing eyes. Amelia let out a huge scream, her brothers leapt from their beds and were soon charging out of the house’s front door clutching their pistols. The creature bolted across the lawn, scampering in its ungainly stride. One of the brothers fired and lodged a bullet in its leg. Though limping, the creature kept up its run, and again escaped by clambering over the churchyard wall. Although it was too dark to make out much, one brother – as he sprinted after the vampire – thought he saw it disappearing into the crypt of a long-extinguished family.

The following day, the brothers told Croglin Grange’s tenants about the ghastly episode of the night before. They assembled a band of men and went to investigate the vault. Breaking open the doors, they were confronted by the sight of shattered coffins and mangled human remains strewn across the ground. Just one casket was reasonably intact. Its lid – though not attached to the rest of the coffin – lay on top of it loosely. The brothers lifted it to reveal a withered, mummified creature similar to the one they’d chased. The vampire had a tell-tale pistol wound in its leg.

The brothers – or, more likely, their tenants – knew there was only one way a vampire could be quietened. They dragged the hideous corpse out of the crypt with the intention of burning it. Some say they pulled the vampire towards a holly tree in the churchyard, as holly was considered by the local folklore as beneficial in such an operation. There they incinerated the dreadful cadaver and all the outrages of the Croglin Vampire ceased. You can still see the holly tree’s stump in Croglin Churchyard.

Croglin Church, Cumbria, England – did the Croglin Vampire issue forth from a vault in its graveyard? (Photo courtesy of News & Star)

Might the Croglin Vampire Story Have Been Lifted from a Victorian Penny Dreadful?

The Croglin Vampire legend ensnared the imagination of the late-Victorian public and it remains known among vampire aficionados today, with some making the pilgrimage up to Croglin to mooch about the churchyard. Some even say the Croglin story inspired Dracula author Bram Stoker. As the tale, however, appeared in Augustus Hare’s second chunk of autobiography – which was only published in 1900 – and Dracula came out in 1897, this would seem unlikely, unless Stoker had heard the story some other way.

It wasn’t long, though, before the Croglin Vampire’s status as a creature of genuine folklore began to be challenged. One writer of note who expressed scepticism was Montague Summers (1880-1948). Summers was a highly eccentric character who posed as a Catholic priest, though there’s no firm evidence he was ever ordained. Obsessed with witchcraft, vampires and werewolves – all of which he claimed to literally believe in – Summers produced the first English translation of the notorious 15th-century witch hunters’ guide, the Malleus Maleficarum. Summers was known for waltzing around the reading room of the British Museum in a black cloak and buckled shoes, clasping a black portfolio with ‘vampires’ written upon it in large blood-red letters.

Despite his reputation for gullibility, Montague Summers queried Hare’s account of the Vampire of Croglin Grange.

Although Summers didn’t dismiss the idea there might have been a vampire at Croglin, he felt much was questionable about Hare’s account. In his 1929 book The Vampire in Europe, Summers republished Hare’s story along with the first chapter of a work known as Varney the Vampire. This exercise was intended to reveal the similarities between the two texts, thereby suggesting Hare’s narrative had been heavily influenced by Varney.

Varney the Vampire; or, the Feast of Blood is an enormously long tale that was first published in a series of penny dreadfuls. (Cheap sensationalist stories that were printed in pamphlet form, put out in weekly instalments and aimed at working-class men.) The Varney the Vampire penny dreadfuls came out between 1845 and 1847 and in 1847 they were also cobbled together as a book. The writers – James Malcolm Rymer and Thomas Peckett Prest – were paid by the line, an arrangement which didn’t encourage brevity. As a complete book, Varney the Vampire comprises 876 double-columned pages, 232 chapters and almost 667,000 words. By comparison, the Bible weighs in at around 807,300.

Varney the Vampire – inspiration for the Vampire of Croglin Grange?

The story follows the adventures of the aristocratic vampire Sir Thomas Varney. Though Varney wasn’t the first publication to make the shambling, zombie-like vampire of Eastern European folklore into a suave aristocrat – that honour goes to John William Polidori’s novella The Vampyre (1819), whose antagonist is based on Lord Byron – Varney the Vampire did much to establish certain vampire tropes in the popular consciousness. It was the first story to refer to vampires as having sharpened teeth, containing the line: ‘With a plunge he seizes her neck in his fanglike teeth.’ (Though Polidori describes teeth marks in victims’ throats, he doesn’t claim fangs have inflicted them). Varney also turns a female character into a vampire and has incredible strength and hypnotic powers.

Vampiric bites aren’t the only similarity between Varney the Vampire and the Croglin Vampire story. We read of Varney ‘standing on the ledge immediately outside the long window. It is its finger nails upon the glass … the pattering and clattering of the nails continue … long nails, that appear as if the growth of many years had been untouched’. As well as sharing glass-tapping tendencies with the Croglin Vampire, Varney enters a woman’s room in a similar manner to his Cumbrian counterpart: ‘a small pane of glass is broken and the form from without introduces a long, gaunt hand, which seems utterly destitute of flesh. The fastening is removed.’ Like Amelia, the heroine in Varney ‘tries to scream … but a choking sensation comes over her and she cannot’ and she finds she ‘cannot withdraw her eyes from the fiend’. She is soon lying ‘half across the bed and half off it … her long hair streams across the entire width of the bed’. Varney then clasps ‘the long tresses of her hair’ and ‘twining them round his bony hands, he held her to the bed.’ As with the Vampire of Croglin Grange, Varney is chased off by the lady’s menfolk.

Varney the Vampire – like the Vampire of Croglin Grange – touches a woman’s hair with his bony fingers.

Varney the Vampire wasn’t considered worthy or respectable literature and probably wouldn’t have been the type of publication Captain Fisher or Augustus Hare would have admitted to possessing. Full of purple sentences – ‘She drew her breath short and thick. Her bosom heaves, her limbs tremble.’ – Varney also suffers from a convoluted plot. The setting pings between the 1730s, the mid-1900s and the Napoleonic Wars while Varney’s motivations lurch from the need to drink blood to an urge to extort money to a desire for revenge. At times Varney is depicted as a real vampire; at other times as a human who behaves like one. Despite the work’s shortcomings and the lower-class audience it was targeted at, Varney – like the tackier fringes of the horror genre today – may have been a guilty pleasure for some educated individuals. The parallels between Varney the Vampire and the Croglin Vampire tale do suggest that either Augustus Hare or Captain Fisher had a copy of this much-disparaged publication lurking in their home.

Rebuke, Ridicule and Resurrection – the Croglin Vampire Tale is Both Dismissed and Defended

Even before Montague Summers started comparing vampire tales, another researcher – Charles G. Harper, an expert on haunted buildings – was snooping around in Cumbria. In his 1907 book Haunted Houses, Harper claimed he’d found no evidence Croglin Grange had even existed. He did stumble across two buildings – Croglin High Hall and Croglin Low Hall – but neither really matched Hare’s depiction of Croglin Grange. Croglin Low Hall came the closest, but it has two floors, a fact that would have probably obliged the vampire to shinny up the wall to get to Amelia’s window. Also, rather than having a spooky churchyard nestled in an adjacent hollow, Croglin Low Hall is around a mile from the nearest place of worship, St John the Baptist’s Church in the village of Croglin. And, though that church has a crypt underneath, there’s no vault in the churchyard dedicated to an extinct family nor any structure that even vaguely concurs with Hare’s description of the vampire’s mausoleum.

The next researcher to have a crack at the legend was Francis Clive-Ross. In a 1963 article for the journal Tomorrow, Clive-Ross stated he’d discovered information that might lend some truth at least to the setting of Fisher’s tale. Clive-Ross found out that Croglin Low Hall had actually been known as Croglin Grange until the beginning of the 18th century. The house had originally had only one storey and a second floor had been added later – Clive-Ross observed the corbels that would have once supported the roof. A chapel had also stood nearby, which Clive-Ross felt had been demolished around the time of the English Civil War (1642-51). He discovered the stubs of its walls and evidence of its foundations. (Historic England’s webpage about Croglin Low Hall also mentions the chapel, but states it was knocked down in the 19th century.) Clive-Ross found that the vampire story indeed seemed to be a long-standing legend in the Fisher-Rowe family. Croglin residents, however, told him that the incident hadn’t occurred in the 1870s, but rather way back in the 1680s.

Croglin Low Hall, Cumbria, England – site of the Croglin Vampire attack? This sketch must have been made after the building acquired its second storey.

In 1968, the American psychical researcher D. Scott Rogo had an article published in Fate magazine, which went into more detail about the similarities Montague Summers had noted between Hare’s account and Varney the Vampire. It was, however, a revelation in a book put out 10 years later that really added a new dimension to the Croglin Vampire conundrum. In his Haunted Churches and Abbeys of Britain, Marc Alexander stated he’d unearthed an account from a former Croglin rector, the Reverend Dr Matthew Roberts. Roberts linked a series of vampire attacks to sightings of a bat-like creature in Croglin Churchyard. Among the victims of this flying fiend was the daughter of one of Robert’s predecessors, the Reverend Joseph Ireland, who’d officiated at Croglin from 1804 to 1837. During the assault on Miss Ireland  – as was the case with the Croglin Vampire – the creature was wounded and fled back to a tomb. The tomb it escaped to was that of the Reverend George Sanderson, who’d served at Croglin in the 17th century. Local rumour asserted the bat had appeared from Sanderson’s grave before other vampiric incidents.

The findings about the bat were later expanded on by the writer and researcher Geoff Holder. In Paranormal Cumbria (2012), Holder suggested the bat legend may be linked to the religious traumas of the mid-to-late-17th century. After the English Civil War, Parliament had imposed radical Puritan vicars on a lot of parishes, men who were often unwelcome and disliked. Then, after the Monarchy came back, the 1662 Act of Conformity dismissed many of these Puritan priests, replacing them with men loyal to the re-established Monarchy and the mainstream Church of England. This double upheaval caused anger, division and resentment in communities. George Sanderson had at first sided with Parliament, being one of the ‘intruding vicars’ it had imposed. At the Restoration, however, he abruptly switched sides and – as an orthodox Church of England priest – was forced on Croglin in 1671, after the sacking of its previous vicar. A turncoat such as Sanderson, who remained at Croglin until his death in 1691, may well have been less than popular. Holder suspects that, in the 1680s and 1690s, gossip about Sanderson grew more outlandish and – as the years passed – transformed itself into rumours of malevolent supernatural beings. These legends could have perhaps merged with tales about Croglin Low Hall and the demolished chapel that once stood next to it.

Also, as  far as the Croglin Grange Vampire is concerned, Holder sees the 1950s as a ‘period of invention’ when a great deal of gothic baggage got added to Hare’s fairly sparse story. Hare’s narrative seems to have been combined with the vampire motifs widespread in fiction, film and the mass media at that time. During this decade, the young woman seems to have acquired the name Amelia, a suitable moniker for a gothic heroine. The brothers also appear to have got their names in this era, with one even referred to by the very un-nineteenth-century title of ‘Mike’.

In 2005, another twist was put on the Croglin Vampire saga by the crime historian Richard Wittington-Egan. Whittington-Egan discovered that Captain Fisher’s family were not the age-old owners of Croglin Grange as Hare had been led to believe. They were just tenants, who took on Croglin Low Hall’s lease in 1809. Whittington-Egan suspects the vampire legend was passed on to them, possibly by the Hall’s real owner – a man called Johnson – or by members of the Towry family. The Towries had owned Croglin Low Hall from the late 1680s to 1727 and some still lived nearby.

Fisher may have linked his family more firmly to both the Hall and its legend out of class consciousness. This might be seen in the fact that – while admitting to Hare that Fisher was a ‘very plebeian name’ – the Captain insisted his family was ‘of a very ancient lineage’. Finding himself at dinner with a well-known writer and other distinguished guests – who apparently included the Earl of Ravensworth – could Fisher have been tempted to invent an impressive ancestry, one that encompassed not only the generations-long ownership of a family seat but an aristocratic ghost story to go with it? In addition, it’s been suggested that the property the Fisher-Rowes moved to in Surrey, Thorncombe Park, also has resemblances to the Captain’s description of Croglin Grange.

This is all quite a jumble of information, spanning several centuries and involving varied characters each with their own motivations. Let’s try to untangle this heap of fact, rumour and legend in the next section and see if we can rearrange the threads and form some tentative conclusions about Croglin Grange’s vampire.

Revenants, Red-eyed Owls, Peckish Circus Monkeys and Blood-glugging Aristocrats – What Exactly Was the Vampire of Croglin Grange?

It’s my suspicion that the genesis of the Croglin Vampire story can be found in the traumas and upheavals of the English Civil War and the decades after it. I’d guess the story was then given – by Augustus Hare and Captain Fisher – a Victorian gothic gloss and was subjected to further gothic overlays in the mid-20th century.

We’ve already seen how the legend of the vampiric bat is linked to the tomb of the 17th-century vicar George Sanderson. I suspect the bat – as such creatures were staples of Victorian gothic horror – was an imposition on an earlier legend, especially as our clearest record of the creature has it attacking the maidenly daughter of a man who was the local vicar right before Queen Victoria came to the throne. But other things do point to Croglin’s vampire legends as having links to the mid-to-late 17th-century – the fact the house was then known as Croglin Grange and had just one storey and a chapel next to it; the period of George Sanderson’s reign as rector; the assertions of the villagers about when the legend took place; and the fact that period of history was a most traumatic time.

Supernatural occurrences and a fascination with the occult are often associated with eras of rapid change, disorientation and tragedy. As well as the death, maiming, sieges and general destruction caused by the English Civil War, the conflict also severely shook the mental worlds of many people. The King’s head was chopped off and a republic set up, both occurrences that would have been utterly unthinkable in the strictly hierarchical, semi-feudal society of just a few decades previously. Radical religious doctrines were preached and religious disputes grew more bitter. Political agitation also intensified and the roots of ideas like liberalism, socialism and democracy can be traced back to this tumultuous epoch, an epoch many termed ‘the world turned upside down’. In terms of economics, the emerging capitalist system was overturning old certainties, enriching some and impoverishing others, and straining social bonds. We might ask what all this has to do with vampires, but societal anxieties often manifest in rumours of such monsters. At the time of the Victorian vampire craze, for instance, society was undergoing rapid industrialisation and urbanisation and a realignment of gender roles.

People who know a little about bloodsuckers might be shocked to hear of a creature like the Vampire of Croglin Grange appearing in England. The folkloric vampire is much more associated with Central and Eastern Europe, the Balkans and Turkey. Unlike the later aristocratic vampire popularised by writers like John Polidori and Bram Stoker, this rustic creature was of peasant stock. In no way suave or sexually alluring, this being was a stinking corpse that couldn’t rest, usually because it had been murdered or improperly buried. The folkloric vampire would shuffle out of its tomb at night to feed on the blood of its relatives and ex-neighbours, thereby prolonging its miserably undead existence until a stake through the heart brought an end to its nocturnal wanderings.

Was Croglin’s vampire more of a folkloric nosferatu than a literary Victorian bloodsucker?

Though such creatures are uncommon in English folklore, there are occasional records of similar beings known as revenants. The term ‘revenant’ can simply refer to a ghost – the word derives from an Old French verb revenir, which means ‘to return’. A revenant, however, can also be a corpse that issues from its grave to cause mischief and – sometimes – to feed on the living. These entities mostly appear in England at times of turmoil.

Many revenant legends date from around the time of the Anarchy (1135-1153), a period of civil war in which law and order broke down and in which Stephen of Blois and the Empress Matilda contended for the English throne. William of Newbury (1136-1198) wrote that ‘it would not be easy to believe that the corpses of the dead should sally (I know not by what agency) from their graves, and should wander about to the terror or destruction of the living, and again return to the tomb, which of its own accord spontaneously opened to receive them, did not frequent examples, occurring in our own times, suffice to establish this fact, to the truth of which there is abundant testimony.’

William related the case of ‘a man of evil conduct’ who’d fled from York to a country village. The man died and was buried, but soon issued ‘by the handiwork of Satan, from his grave at night-time, and pursued by a pack of dogs with horrible barkings, he wandered through the courts and around the houses while all men made fast their doors, and didn’t dare to go abroad on any errand whatever from the beginning of the night till sunrise, for fear of meeting and being beaten black and blue by this vagrant monster.’

The revenant, however, managed to kill some people – and the way the locals dealt with it is interesting. ‘Hastening to the cemetery’ they began to dig and it wasn’t long until they had ‘laid bare the corpse, swollen to an enormous corpulence, with its countenance beyond measure turgid and suffused with blood.’ Some young men ‘inflicted a wound on the senseless carcass, out of which incontinently flowed such a stream of blood that it might have been taken for a leech filled with the blood of many persons. Then, dragging it beyond the village, they speedily constructed a funeral pile, and upon one of them saying that the pestilential body would not burn unless its heart were torn out, the other laid open its side by repeated blows of the blunted spade, and, thrusting in his hand, dragged out the accursed heart. This being torn piecemeal’ the body was ‘now consigned to the flames’.

Another 12th-century writer, the Welshman Walter Map, wrote of a ‘wicked man’ in Herefordshire who rose up from the dead and got into the habit of wandering through his village at night, shouting out the names of those who’d die of sickness within the next three days. A bishop advised the locals to ‘dig up the body and cut off the head with a spade, sprinkle it with holy water and re-inter it.’

So we can see that English revenants do have at least some similarities to Eastern European vampires. The Vampire of Croglin Grange to me seems more like a revenant than a Byronic, aristocratic bloodsucker from Georgian or Victorian literature. It has the appearance of a hideous corpse and it shambles from its tomb at night to cause mayhem and feed. Like William of Newbury’s revenant, it is dealt with by being burnt. If Croglin’s vampire does date from the time of the Civil War, might it be an example of societal stresses being expressed through fears of the supernatural, as happened in the earlier upheavals of the Anarchy? The only aristocratic aspect of the Croglin Vampire is the fact it retreated into the tomb of an extinct – though presumably well-to-do – family. Unlike in some Victorian vampire chronicles, there’s no suggestion of Amelia herself being turned into a vampire. Another folkloric feature of the Croglin beast is its blazing eyes, something British legend ascribes to a number of supernatural creatures, such as phantom black dogs.

The Croglin Grange tale has similarities to another Cumbrian legend involving a revenant-like being. In the village of Dent in 1715, a man died at the suspiciously advanced age of 94. Despite having a decent Christian burial, he was soon seen roaming around the village and was suspected of feasting on animals’ blood. A farmer one day saw a black hare, shot it and followed the injured animal as it fled. The hare disappeared into the revenant’s old house. The farmer looked through the window and saw the man bandaging a gunshot wound. (It’s common in folklore for evil beings to be identified by the wounds inflicted on them.) This revenant’s – or vampire’s – activities ceased when the corpse was reinterred in a new grave and a metal pole was pounded through its heart.

But what about the Victorian elements in the Croglin Vampire case? There are the influences from Varney the Vampire and the fact that the rather passive but sensible and resourceful Amelia shares traits with the heroines of writers like Charles Dickens and Bram Stoker. I suspect that either Augustus Hare or Captain Fisher or both of them couldn’t help mixing some of the gothic themes popular in Victorian fiction into an old legend. Hare had his book to sell and Fisher may have updated the story to lend a more aristocratic aura to his family tree.

Other explanations have been put forward for the Vampire of Croglin Grange: the young woman later known as Amelia might have spotted the eyes of an owl hovering over the lawn or flitting around the trees and – hypnotised by the moonlit night – let her imagination carry her off. A more outlandish suggestion is that an escaped circus monkey – who found himself starving and lost in Cumbria’s bleak terrain – launched the attack. But – unless I find out more about this curious story – I suspect the most likely scenario is that a legend stemming from Civil War trauma was later augmented with Victorian gothic outpourings.

Croglin Low Hall, with the window the vampire apparently came through bricked up and protected by lucky horseshoes. (Photo courtesy of Darren W. Ritson from The Spooky Isles)

Vampire commotions have occurred in modern times, as if the powerful archetype of the bloodsucker refuses to be laid to rest. In the 1950s, a vampire was rumoured to prowl Glasgow’s Southern Necropolis while the 1970s saw an outbreak of vampire hysteria focused on London’s Highgate Cemetery. But what of the Vampire of Croglin Grange? Does anyone still believe in or care about the legend, except for the occasional vampire obsessives who straggle into Croglin village? Lionel and Patricia Fanthorp’s 1997 book The World’s Greatest Unsolved Mysteries contains a photo of Croglin Low Hall, showing the window through which the vampire is alleged to have entered. A more recent photograph – exhibited in 2019 in a presentation given by Deborah Hyde, editor of The Skeptic Magazine – shows the same window. The window has been bricked up and is festooned with lucky horseshoes. Someone, it seems, doesn’t want to take chances.

(This article’s main image is from the 1922 German Expressionist vampire film Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror.)

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