“The Haunted Homes and Family Traditions of Great Britain” by John Henry Ingram – Part Three

An extra episode from my COVID period. First: a ruin a monster and a tresure in eight minutes. Thanks to the Librivox recorders.

DOBB PARK LODGE

On the southern slope of a picturesque valley, through which the Washburn pours its waters, stands the ruins of Dobb Park Lodge ; a lofty, four-storied mansion of the Tudor period. About half of the original building is supposed to have been pulled down, not to have been destroyed by the slow processes of time, and the remainder to have been left standing though uninhabitable. In its pristine state the lodge must have been an elegant and spacious pile, and even now, ruined and deserted as it is, it is a picturesque feature in the romantic scenery around. There are some singular traits in the building, as, for instance, the fact that, apparently, the only means of access to its interior was by a winding stair in a projecting turret in the rear. Of the southern front of the residence one half remains, and contains square windows of two lights each, divided by a transom. Over the lower, relates a correspondent, is a cornice embracing both, supported by brackets, ornamented with armorial shields, charged with quoits or circular discs. In the centre are the remains of a projecting semi-circular window.

Who lived in this strange and romantically situated abode history tells not. Shaw, the historian of Wharfedale, says : ” There was a court held in it long after it was dilapidated, called Dog Court, belonging to the Duchy of Lancaster’ and that appears to be all that is known of it; although this same authority supposes, omitting all account of its Tudor architecture, that it was erected about the same time as Barden Lodge, a building in existence in 1311. But if history has neglected Dobb Park Lodge, tradition has not overlooked it; and, amongst other remarkable stories of it, records that the place is haunted by a strange being known as ” The Talking
Dog.” The tale of this marvellous spectre bears a likeness to a well-known Manx, and some other equally famous legends ; it has been related to us by Mr. William Grainge, of Harrogate, who obtained it from “a lover of forest lore, a collector and preserver of all that belongs thereto” ; but it was taken down in the dialect of the neighbourhood, and to render it comprehensible to the general reader it will be necessary to translate it into the ordinary vernacular. The legend is as follows.

At the foot of the winding stair already alluded to is a doorway (now choked with rubbish) leading into a dungeon. The country folks thereabouts believe this doorway to be the entrance to one of those mysterious passages, so generally ascribed to old ruins, which lead to some strangely terrible cavern, or other abode of horror. Such unearthly noises were heard to issue
from this subterranean place that no one ventured to explore its mysteries; until at length a countryman, one of those ne’er-do-wells who are ever ready to risk what respectable people prudently shrink from, determined to examine it thoroughly, and, in order to fortify himself
for the arduous task, he imbibed a no small quantum of potent stimulant.

Thus invigorated, the local Columbus seized his lanthorn, bravely entered the passage, and instantly disappeared in its gloomy recesses. His neighbours and admirers lingered about the place in expectation of his speedy return, but his absence was so prolonged that they became seriously alarmed. At length, when they had all given him up for lost, he reappeared, but in a most wretched, abject, and terrified condition. Some long time afterwards, when he had recovered from his fright, he was induced to give a recital of his adventures, and his account was this :

“Aiter leaving the doorway, I went for a long distance, rambling and scrambling, turning and twisting about the crooked passages, until I thought I should get to no place at all. So I began to feel rather dazed and tired like, and had some thoughts of turning back again, when, suddenly, the sweetest music that ever I had heard, in all my born days, struck up right before me. I couldn’t have turned back then if I had wanted to ever so much, for the sound charmed me completely.

I had never felt so lightsome before, and feared nothing, and could have gone anywhere. I followed up where the music seemed to come from, thinking I should come to it at last, but I was wrong ; I have never seen the players to this very day. I kept following the sound until at last I came to what seemed to be a great, long, high, wide room, as big as any church, and bigger than some. At one side of it was a great lire blazing away as bright as the sunshine; and either it, or something else, made everything glitter like gold.

“Thinks I to myself, this is a grand place, and no mistake ! But what struck me more than all was a
great, black, rough dog, as big as any two or three mastiffs, which stood before the fire, and appeared to be the master of the place, for not another living creature beside it could I see. I was troubled to make him out; I had heard tell of ‘barguests*,’ but had never seen one, and thought this might be one of them. At last, by all that is true, if the thing did not open its mouth and speak ! Not bark like a dog, as it ought to have done, but talked just like one of ourselves. Didn’t I feel queer now ! I think I just did. That did for me more than all the rest. I wished myself safe out again, and over the mile bridge.

*A provincial name for “spectre”.

It said: Now, my man, as you ‘ve come here, you must do one of three things, or you ’11 never see daylight again. You must either drink all the liquor there is in that glass ; open that chest ; or draw that sword.’

A few notes. A barguest isn’t a generic spectre, the term is for these sorts of ghost dogs. This trial is similar to that of the man who finds the Sleeping Arthur and is either to blow a horn or draw a sword. In different areas the correct choice seems to vary.

“I looked, and there I saw a strange, great chest, seemingly bound with iron bands, and with two or three great iron locks on it. At the top of that chest was placed a fine great glass, with a long stem, full of the nicest-looking drinking-stuff that ever I saw. Above that, on a peg, or something of the sort, against the wall was hung what he called the sword a great, long, broad, heavy, ugly thing, nearly as long as myself.

“I looked them all over and over, and over again, considering which job to do, for I dursn’t, for the life of me, think of not doing what that dog bade me. The chest looked much too strong for me to open besides, I had no tools with me that would be likely to open it with ; and, as for the sword, I knew nought about sword work, I had never held one in mv life, and should be quite as likely to cut myself as anyone else with it, so I thought I would let it alone. Then there was
naught but the drink left for me, and I began to feel rather dryish, what with rambling about the place so long, and what with the drop of drink I had before I started ; so, says I to myself,
‘ Here goes at the drink !’

I took hold of the glass with my hand, the dog all the time glowering at me with all the eves he had ; and, I assure you, he bad two woppers saucers are not so big ; thev were more like pewter plates, and gleamed and glittered like fire.

“I lifted the glass up to my mouth and just touched my lips with the stuff, to taste before I gave a big swig ; when, would you believe it? it scalded just like boiling water, or burnt like fire itself. All the skin ‘s off my lips and tongue-end with it yet. If I ‘d swallowed all the lot it would have burned my inside clean out, and I should have been as hollow as a drum ; but I stopped short of that, or else I should have made a bonnie mess of it. I just tasted the stuff, but what it was I cannot tell ; it was not the colour of aquafortis, but it was quite as hot.

Aquafortis is nitric acid. I’m not sure how he knows what that looks like.

As soon as ever I tasted it, up flew the lid of the chest with a bonnie bang ; and I do declare if it didn’t seem to be as full of gold as ever it could cram : I ‘d be bound to say there were thousands upon thousands of pounds in that very chest. But I ‘m no better for that, nor ever shall be, for I ’11 never go there any more. The sword, at the same time, was drawn by somebody’s hand that I didn’t see, and it glittered and flashed like lightning. I banged the glass down, and don’t know whether it broke or not, but all the stuff was spilt. In a minute after all was dark as pitch ; the fire went out; my lantern had gone out before; the music gave over playing, and instead of it such a howling and yelling struck up and filled the place as I ‘d never heard in my time ; it seemed as if hundreds of dogs were all getting walloped at once ; and something besides screamed and yelled as if it were frightened out of its wits. Oh, it was awful ! I fell down flat on the floor, I think in a swoon, and I could not have done better.

How long I lay I cannot tell, but for a goodish bit, I think. At last I came to myself, rubbed my eyes, and glowered about me, and wondered where I was. At last I bethought myself, and scrambled up, and after a great deal of ups and downs, I got my carcase dragged out ; and now, you may depend upon it, you ’11 not eaten me going in there any more of a sudden.” Such, says Mr. Grainge, was the result of the search for hidden treasure in the ruined vaults of Dobb Park Lodge. Since that time no one appears to have ventured into those subterranean recesses, so that the chest full of gold still remains, waiting for some explorer to brave the terrors of ” The Talking Dog” and his surroundings.

SMITHHILLS HALL

There are two origin stories here for a persistent, bloody footprint. I’m including the first one, even thought it is a little weak, because it gives an odd spell component. It’s either the fresh blood of a priest a hundred years dead or the blood of a saint, is you accept that the priest, as a martyr, is one of the unnumbered saints. The second story is about a powerful alchemist who is cursed to leave a trail of gore wherever he goes. He might seek you out for aid, or you might seek him for lessons.

Smithills Hall, Halliwell, Lancashire, the seat of Richard Henry Ainsworth, Esq., is one of those lovely and picturesque ancestral abodes for which England is famous. It is replete with the subdued charms which only antiquity can generate, and which no amount of expenditure, however lavish, can create. The origin of this splendid old mansion is lost in the proverbial
” mist of ages ” ; historians retrace its story to the time of the so-called Saxon ”Heptarchy,” and, as if in confirmation of this remote ancestry, an ancient gateway bears the date of 680. Less mythical records of the place and its various owners are carried back to the early part of the fourteenth century, when the Lord of the Manor of Smithills was a William Radcliffe. Subsequently, an heiress by marriage carried this manor and the estates into the Barton family, and from that family it passed by purchase, in 1801, into the possession of the Ainsworths, by whom it is still held.

In a description of this ancient mansion, recently given in the Bolton Journal, it is said :
” Smithills Hall requires to be sought for. It lies far from the road, which curves in its course, thus effectually hiding it from the public gaze. . . . When reached, the full beauty of the building is not at once seen. But passing through an arched gateway the south front is disclosed to view. Emerging by the gateway with the ‘680’ inscribed above it, the visitor finds himself in the antique court-yard, at the head of a beautiful lawn, reached by a flight of steps. Turning from the view before us to admire the architecture and appearance of the old building, one is impressed with the air of calm repose which seems to rest over all. The old Lancashire lath-and-plaster style of building is everywhere apparent. Black beams placed obliquely on a ground of dazzling whiteness, with ornamentations of quatrefoil standing out in charming relief, present a pleasing picture of the taste of our ancestors in matters architectural. The ivy clusters lovingly over porch and walls, the effect on the ‘ 680 ‘ gateway being especially lovely. The oldfashioned domestic chapel forms a wing to the east of the block, and around this, too, clusters the loving parasite, the healthy hue of green blending charmingly with the stained windows, rich in design, and commemorative of the heraldry of past and present of Smithills.”

The writer then proceeds to speak of the interior of this fine old place, of its rich wainscottings, its oaken mouldings, and of its other relics of the past, but then recurs, as must all who mention Smithills Hall, to the mysterious footprint, to the far-famed Bloody Footstep seen on the stone in the passage leading to the chapel. Above this indelible footstep is a plate bearing the inscription, “Footprint of the Reverend George Marsh, of Deane, martyr, who was examined at
Smithills, and burnt at Chester, in the reign of Queen Mary.”

The legend connected with this marvellous relic of the past is thus given in the local journal: Robert Barton, at one time owner of Smithills, was “the famous magistrate before whom George Marsh, the Martyr of Deane, appeared in 1555, to answer for his Protestant faith. Tradition described Mr. Barton as a zealous bigot, and alleges rude treatment on his part towards the martyr.

It was after the examination before this worthy that, it is stated, Marsh, descending the stairs leading from the court-room, stamped his foot on the stones, and ‘looking up to heaven, appealed to God for the justness of his cause ; and prayed that there might in that place remain a constant memorial of the wickedness and injustice of his enemies,’ the print of a man’s foot remaining to the present day as such ‘ constant memorial ” A tradition in the place, a resident of Smithills Hall informs us, says the stone bearing the imprint of the mysterious footprint was once removed and cast into a neighbouring wood, but ghostly noises became so troublesome in consequence that the stone had to be restored to its original position.

Nathaniel Hawthorne, the famous American novelist, at one time enjoyed the hospitality of Smithills Hall. The legend of the “Bloody Footstep” made an intense and lasting impression upon his mind, and in three separate instances he founded fictions upon it. He saw the “Bloody Footstep’ as he says himself, with his own eyes, and from the lips of his hostess heard the
particulars of its origin. Either from what he heard, or imagined, about this weird symbol of a bygone crime, he gave in his romance of Septimius the following story as that of the Bloody Footstep : ” On the threshold of one of the doors of Smithills Hall there is a bloody footstep impressed into the doorstep, and ruddy as if the bloody foot had just trodden there ; and it is averred that, on a certain night of the year, and at a certain hour of the night, if you go and
look at the door-step you will see the mark wet with fresh blood. Some have pretended to say that this appearance of blood was hut dew; but can dew redden a cambric handkerchief? Will it crimson the fingertips when you touch it ? And that is what the bloody footstep will surely do when the appointed night and hour come round. . . .”

It is needless to tell you all the strange stories that have survived to this day about the old Hall, and how it is believed that the master of it, owing to his ancient science, has still a sort of residence there and control of the place, and how in one of the chambers there is still his antique table, and his chair, and some rude old instruments and machinery, and a book, and everything in readiness, just as if he might still come back to finish some experiment. . . . One of the chief things to which the old lord applied himself was to discover the means of prolonging his own life, so that its duration should be indefinite, if not infinite; and such was his science that he was believed to have attained this magnificent and awful purpose. . . .

“The object of the lord of Smithills Hall was to take a life from the course of Nature, and Nature did not choose to be defrauded ; so that, great as was the power of this scientific man over her, she would not consent that he should escape the necessity of dying at i his proper time, except upon condition of sacrificing some other life for his ; and this was to be done once for every thirty years that he chose to live, thirty years being the account of a generation of man ; and if in any way, in that time, this lord could be the death of a human being, that satisfied the requisition, and he might live on. . . .

” There was but one human being whom he cared for that was a beautiful kinswoman, an orphan, whom his father had brought up, and dying, left to his care. . . He saw that she, if anyone, was to be the person whom the sacrifice demanded, and that he might kill twenty others without effect, but if he took the life of this one it would make the charm strong and good. . . . He did slay this pure young girl ; he took her into the wood near the house, an old wood that is standing yet, with some of its magnificent oaks, and there he plunged a dagger into her heart. . . .

” He buried her in the wood, and returned to the house ; and, as it happened, he had set his right foot in her blood, and his shoe was wet in it, and by some miraculous fate it left a track all along the wood-path, and into the house, and on the stone steps of the threshold, and up into his chamber. The servants saw it the next day, and wondered, and whispered, and missed the fair young girl, and looked askance at their lord’s right foot, and turned pale, all of them. . . . “

Next, the legend says, that Sir Forrester was struck with horror at what he had done . . . and fled from his old Hall, and was gone full many a day. But all the while he was gone there was the mark of a bloody footstep impressed upon the stone door-step of the Hall. . . . The legend says that wherever Sir Forrester went, in his wanderings about the world, he left a bloody track behind him. . . . Once he went to the King’s Court, and, there being a track up to the very throne, the King frowned upon him, so that he never came there any more. Nobody could tell how it happened; his foot was not seen to bleed, only there was the bloody track behind him. . . .
“At last this unfortunate lord deemed it best to go back to his own Hall, where, living among faithful old servants born in the family, he could hush the matter up better than elsewhere. … So home he came, and there he saw the bloody track on the door-step, and dolefully went into the Hall, and up the stairs, an old servant ushering him into his chamber, and half a dozen others following behind, gazing, shuddering, pointing with quivering fingers, looking horror-stricken in one another’s pale faces. . . .By-and-by he vanished from the old Hall, but not by death ; for, from generation to generation, they say that a bloody track is seen around that house, and sometimes it is traced up into the chambers, so fresh that you see he must have passed a short time before.”

” And this is the legend,” says Hawthorne, ” of the Bloody Footstep, which I myself have seen at the Hall door.” It will be seen, however, how widely different is the story told by the great American romancist from that given by the owner of Smithills Hall, and believed in by the tenants around. Whether the author of Septimius really had any traditional authority for his version, or whether he evolved the whole recital from the depth of his imagination, it would he difficult to say.