THE LOVE PHILTRE
THE CASE OF MARY BLANDY
“Who hath not heard of Blandy’s fatal fame,
Deplored her fate, and sorrowed o’er her shame?”
—Henley, a poem, 1827.
During the reign of George II.—when the gallant
Young Pretender was leading Jenny Cameron toward
Derby, and flabby, gin-besotted England, dismayed by
a rabble of half-famished Highlanders, was ready to
take its thrashing lying-down—a prosperous attorney,
named Francis Blandy, was living at Henley-upon-Thames.
For nine years he had held the post of town
clerk, and was reckoned a person of skill in his
profession. A dour, needle-witted man of law, whose
social position was more considerable than his means
or his lineage, old Mr Blandy, like others wiser than
himself, had a foible. His pride was just great enough
to make him a tuft-hunter. In those times, a solicitor
in a country town had many chances of meeting his
betters on equal terms, and when the attorney of Henley
pretended that he had saved the large sum of ten
thousand pounds, county society esteemed him at his
supposed value. There lived with him—in an old-world home surrounded by gardens and close to the
bridge on the London road—his wife and daughter, an
only child, who at this period was twenty-five years
of age.
Mrs Blandy, as consequential an old dame as ever
flaunted
sacque or nodded her little bugle over a dish
of tea, seems to have spent a weary existence in wringing
from her tight-fisted lord the funds to support the
small frivolities which her social ambition deemed
essential to their prestige. A feminine mind seldom
appreciates the reputation without the utility of wealth,
and the lawyer’s wife had strong opinions with regard
to the propriety of living up to their ten-thousand-pound
celebrity. While he was content with the barren
honour that came to him by reason of the reputed
dot
which his daughter one day must enjoy—pluming himself,
no doubt, that his Molly had as good a chance of winning
a coronet as the penniless daughter of an Irish squireen—his
lady, with more worldly wisdom, knew the value
of an occasional jaunt to town, and was fully alive to
the chances of rout or assembly hard-by at Reading.
Thus in the pretty little home near the beautiful reach
of river, domestic storms—sad object-lesson to an only
child—raged frequently over the parental truck and
barter at the booths of Vanity Fair.
Though not a beauty—for the smallpox, that stole
the bloom from the cheeks of many a sparkling belle
in hoop and brocade, had set its seal upon her face—the
portrait of Mary Blandy shows that she was comely.
Still, it is a picture in which there is a full contrast
between the light and shadows. Those fine glistening
black eyes of hers—like the beam of sunshine that
illumines a sombre chamber—made one forget the
absence of winsome charm in her features; yet their
radiance appeared to come through dark unfathomable
depths rather than as the reflection of an unclouded
soul. With warmth all blood may glow, with softness
every heart can beat, but some, like hers, must be compelled
by reciprocal power. Such, in her empty home,
was not possible. Even the love and devotion of her
parents gave merely a portion of their own essence. From
a greedy father she acquired the sacred lust, and learnt
from infancy to dream, with morbid longing, of her
future dower; while her mother encouraged a hunger
for vain and giddy pleasure, teaching unwittingly that
these must be bought at the expense of peace, or by
the sacrifice of truth. To a girl of wit and intelligence
in whose heart nature had not sown the seeds of
kindness, these lessons came as a crop of tares upon
a fruitful soil. But, as in the case of all women, there
was one hope of salvation. Indeed, since the passion
of her soul cried out with imperious command that she
should fulfil the destiny of her sex, the love of husband
and children would have found her a strong but pliable
material that could be fashioned into more gentle
form. Without such influence she was one of those to
whom womanhood was insufferable—a mortal shape
where lay encaged one of the fiercest demons of discontent.
Molly Blandy did not lack admirers. Being pleasant
and vivacious—while her powers of attraction were
enhanced by the rumour of her fortune—not a few of
the beaux in the fashionable world of Bath, and county
society at Reading, gave homage and made her their
toast. In the eyes of her parents it was imperative
that a suitor should be able to offer to their daughter
a station of life befitting an heiress. On this account
two worthy swains, who were agreeable to the maiden
but could not provide the expected dower, received
a quick dismissal. Although there was nothing exorbitant
in the ambition of the attorney and his dame,
it is clear that the girl learnt an evil lesson from
these mercenary transactions. Still, her crosses in
love do not seem to have sunk very deeply into her
heart, but henceforth her conduct lost a little of its
maidenly reserve. The freedom of the coquette took
the place of the earnestness and sincerity that had
been the mark of her ardent nature, and her conduct
towards the officers of the regiment stationed
at Henley was deemed too forward. However, the
father, whose reception into military circles no doubt
made the desired impression upon his mayor and
aldermen, was well satisfied that his daughter should
be on familiar terms with her soldier friends. Even
when she became betrothed to a captain of no
great fortune, he offered small objection on account
of the position of the young man. Yet, although
the prospect of a son-in-law who held the king’s commission
had satisfied his vanity, the old lawyer, who
foolishly had allowed the world to believe him richer
than he was, could not, or (as he pretended) would not,
provide a sufficient dowry. Thus the engagement
promised to be a long one. Fate, however, decided
otherwise. Very soon her suitor was ordered abroad
on active service, and the hope of marriage faded
away for the third time.
In the summer of 1746, while no doubt she was sighing
for her soldier across the seas, the man destined to work
the tragic mischief of her life appeared on the scene.
William Henry Cranstoun, a younger son of the fifth
Lord Cranstoun, a Scottish baron, was a lieutenant of
marines, who, since his regiment had suffered severely
during the late Jacobite rebellion, had come to Henley
on a recruiting expedition. At first his attentions to
Miss Blandy bore no fruit, but he returned the following
summer, and while staying with his grand-uncle, General
Lord Mark Kerr, who was an acquaintance of the lawyer
and his family, he found that Mary was off with the old
love and willing to welcome him as the new. All were
amazed that the fastidious girl should forsake her gallant
captain for this little sprig from North Britain—an
undersized spindleshanks, built after Beau Diddapper
pattern—in whose weak eyes and pock-fretten features
love must vainly seek her mirror. Still greater was the
astonishment when ten-thousand-pound Blandy, swollen
with importance, began to babble of “my Lord of
Crailing,” and the little bugle cap of his dame quivered
with pride as she told her gossips of “my Lady Cranstoun,
my daughter’s new mamma.” For it was common
knowledge that the small Scot was the fifth son of a
needy house, with little more than his pay to support
his many vicious and extravagant habits. Such details
seem to have been overlooked by the vain parents
in their delight at the honour and glory of an alliance
with a family of title. In the late autumn of 1747 they
invited their prospective son-in-law to their home, where,
as no one was fonder of free quarters, he remained for
six months. But the cruel fate that presided over the
destinies of the unfortunate Mary intervened once more.
Honest Lord Mark Kerr (whose prowess as a duellist
is chronicled in many a page), perceiving the intentions
of his unscrupulous relative, made haste to give his
lawyer friend the startling news that Cranstoun was a
married man.
This information was correct. Yet, although wedded
since the year before the rebellion, the vicious little
Scot was seeking to put away the charming lady who
was his wife and the mother of his child. Plain enough
were the motives. A visit to England had taught him
that the title which courtesy permitted him to bear was
a commercial asset that, south of the Tweed, would
enable him to sell himself in a better market. As one
of his biographers tells us, “he saw young sparklers
every day running off with rich prizes,” for the chapels
of Wilkinson and Keith were always ready to assist the
abductor of an heiress. Indeed, before his arrival at
Henley, he had almost succeeded in capturing the
daughter of a Leicestershire squire, when the father,
who suddenly learnt his past history, sent him about
his business. Still, he persisted in his attempts to get
the Scotch marriage annulled, and his chances seemed
favourable. Most of the relatives of his wife, who
had espoused the losing side in the late rebellion, were
fled in exile to France or Flanders. Moreover, she
belonged to the Catholic Church, which at that time in
stern Presbyterian Scotland had fallen upon evil days.
Believing that she was alone and friendless, and relying,
no doubt, upon the sectarian prejudices of the law
courts, he set forth the base lie that he had promised to
marry her only on condition she became Protestant.
His explanation to the Blandys, in answer to Lord
Mark’s imputation, was the same as his defence before
the Scottish Commissaries. The lady was his mistress,
not his wife!
Miss Blandy took the same view of the case that
Sophy Western did under similar circumstances.
Human nature was little different in those days, but
men wore their hearts on their sleeve instead of exhibiting
them only in the Courts, and women preferred to be
deemed complacent rather than stupid. Doubtless old
lawyer Blandy grunted many Saxon sarcasms at the
expense of Scotch jurisprudence, and trembled lest son-in-law
Diddapper had been entangled beyond redemption.
Still, father, mother, and daughter believed the
word of their guest, waiting anxiously for the result of
the litigation that was to make him a free man. During
the year 1748 the Commissaries at Edinburgh decided
that Captain Cranstoun and the ill-used Miss Murray
were man and wife. Then the latter, being aware of the
flirtation at Henley, wrote to warn Miss Blandy, and provided her with a copy of the Court’s decree. Great
was the consternation at the house on the London road.
Visions of tea-gossip over the best set of china in the
long parlour at Crailing with my Lady Cranstoun
vanished from the old mother’s eyes, while the town
clerk forgot his dreams of the baby whose two grand-fathers
were himself and a live lord. Nevertheless, the
young Scotsman protested that the marriage was invalid,
declared that he would appeal to the highest tribunal,
and swore eternal fidelity to his Mary. Alas, she
trusted him! Within the sombre depths of her soul
there dwelt a fierce resolve to make this man her own.
In her sight he was no graceless creature from the
barrack-room, but with a great impersonal love she
sought in him merely the fulfilment of her destiny.
“In her first passion, woman loves her lover:
In all the others, all she loves is love.”
At this time Cranstoun’s fortunes were in a parlous
state. More than half of his slender patrimony had
been sequestered for the maintenance of his wife and
child, and shortly after the peace of Aix-la-Chapelle, his
regiment being disbanded, he was left on half-pay.
Still, he did not waver in his purpose to win the heiress
of Henley.
On the 30th of September 1749, the poor frivolous old
head, which had sported its cap so bravely amidst the
worries of pretentious poverty, lay still upon the pillow,
and Mary Blandy looked upon the face of her dead mother.
It was the turning-point in her career. While his wife
was alive, the old lawyer had never lost all faith in his
would-be son-in-law during the two years that he had
been affianced to his daughter, in spite of the rude
shocks which had staggered his credulity. Cranstoun
had been allowed to sponge on him for another six
months in the previous summer, and had pursued his
womenfolk when they paid a visit to Mary’s uncle,
Serjeant Stevens, of Doctors’ Commons. However,
soon after the death of his wife the patience of Mr
Blandy, who must have perceived that the case of the
pretender was hopeless, seems to have become worn
out. All idea of the baron’s grandchild faded from his
mind; the blear-eyed lover was forbidden the house,
and for nearly twelve months did not meet his trusting
sweetheart.
Although a woman of her intelligence must have
perceived that, but for some untoward event, her
relationship with her betrothed could never be one of
honour, her fidelity remained unshaken. Having passed
her thirtieth birthday, the dreadful stigma of spinsterhood
was fast falling upon her. If the methods of
analogy are of any avail, it is clear that she had
become a creature of lust—not the lust of sensuality,
but that far more insatiable greed, the craving for conquest,
possession, the attainment of the unattainable,
calling forth not one but all the emotions of body and
soul. A sacrifice of honour—a paltry thing in the face
of such mighty passion—would have been no victory, for
such in itself was powerless to accomplish the essential
metamorphosis of her life. In mutual existence with a
lover and slave the destiny of this rare woman alone
could be achieved. Thus came the harvest of the
tempest. It was not the criminal negligence of the
father in encouraging for nearly three years the pretensions
of a suitor, who—so a trustworthy gentleman had
told him—was a married man, that had planted the seeds
of storm. Nor did the filial love of the daughter begin
to fade and wither because she had been taught that
the affections, like anything which has a price, should
be subject to barter and exchange. Deeper far lay the
roots of the malignant disease—growing as a portion of
her being—a part and principle of life itself. Environment
and education merely had inclined into its stunted
form the twig, which could never bear fruit unless grafted
upon a new stalk! And while the sombre girl brooded
over her strange impersonal passion, there rang in her
ears the voice of demon-conscience, unceasingly—a
taunting, frightful whisper, “When the old man is in his
grave you shall be happy.”
The esteem of posterity for the eighteenth century,
to which belong so many noble lives and great minds,
has been influenced by the well-deserved censure
bestowed upon a particular epoch. The year 1750
marks a period of transition when all the worst characteristics
of the Georgian era were predominant. For
nearly a quarter of a century the scornful glance that
the boorish little king threw at any book had been
reflected in the national taste for literature. Art had
hobbled along bravely on the crutches of caricature,
tolerated on account of its deformity, and not for its
worth. The drama, which had drifted to the lowest ebb
in the days of Rich and Heidegger, was just rising
from its mudbank, under the leadership of Garrick,
with the turn of the tide. Religion, outside the pale
of Methodism, was as dead as the influence of the
Church of England and its plurality divines. The prostitution
of the marriage laws in the Fleet and Savoy had
grown to be a menace to the social fabric. London
reeked of gin; and although the business of Jack Ketch
has been seldom more flourishing, property, until
magistrate Fielding came forward, was never less secure
from the thief and highwayman. Our second George,
who flaunted his mistresses before the public gaze, was
a worthy leader of a coarse and vicious society. Female
dress took its form from the vulgarity of the times, and
was never uglier and more indecent simultaneously.
Not only was the ‘modern fine lady,’ who wept when
a handsome thief was hung, a common type, but the
Boobys and Bellastons were fashionable women of the
day, quite as much alive as Elizabeth Chudleigh or
Caroline Fitzroy. Such was the age of Miss Blandy,
and she proved a worthy daughter of it.
In the late summer of 1750 the fickle attorney, who
had become weary of opposition, consented to withdraw
the sentence of banishment he had pronounced against
his daughter’s lover. Possibly he fancied that there
was a chance, after all, of the Scotch lieutenant’s success
in the curious law-courts of the North, and perhaps a
present of salmon, received from Lady Cranstoun,
appeared to him as a favourable augury. Consequently
the needy fortune-hunter, who was only too ready to
return to his free quarters, paid another lengthy visit to
Henley. As the weeks passed, it was evident that the
temper of the host and father, whose senile humours
were swayed by gravel and heartburn, could not support
the new ménage. Fearful lest the devotion of his Molly
had caused her to lose all regard for her fair fame, wroth
that the clumsy little soldier should have disturbed the
peace of his household, the old man received every
mention of “the tiresome affair in Scotland” with sneers
and gibes. Vanished was the flunkey-optimism that had
led him to welcome once more the pertinacious slip of
Scottish baronage. Naught would have appeased him
but prompt evidence that the suitor was free to lead his
daughter to the altar. Nothing could be plainer than
that the querulous widower had lost all confidence in his
unwelcome guest.
The faithful lovers were filled with dismay. A few
strokes of the pen might rob them for ever of their
ten thousand pounds. Their wishes were the same,
their minds worked as one. A deep, cruel soul-blot,
transmitted perhaps by some cut-throat borderer through
the blood of generations, would have led William
Cranstoun to commit, without scruple, the vilest of
crimes. Those base attempts to put away his wife, and
to cast the stigma of bastardy upon his child, added to
his endeavour to entrap one heiress after another into a
bigamous marriage, make him guilty of offences less
only than murder. In his present position he had cause
for desperation. Yet, although utterly broken in fortune,
there was a rich treasure at his hand if he dared to seize
it. Were her father dead, Molly Blandy, whether as
wife or mistress, would be his—body, soul, and wealth.
Within the veins of the woman a like heart-stain spread
its poison. All the lawless passion of her nature cried
out against her parent’s rule, which, to her mind, was
seeking to banish what had become more precious than
her life. Knowing that her own fierce will had its
mate in his, she believed that his obduracy could not be
conquered, and she lived in dread lest she should be
disinherited. And all this time, day after day, the
demon-tempter whispered, “When the old man is in his
grave you shall be happy.”
Which of the guilty pair was the first to suggest the
heartless crime it is impossible to ascertain, but there is
evidence, apart from Miss Blandy’s statement, that
Cranstoun was the leading spirit. Possibly, nay
probably, the deed was never mentioned in brutal
plainness in so many words. The history of crime
affords many indications that the blackest criminals are
obliged to soothe a neurotic conscience with the anodyne
of make-belief. It is quite credible that the two spoke
of the projected murder from the first (as indeed Miss
Blandy explained it later) as an attempt to conciliate
the old lawyer by administering a supernatural love
philtre, having magical qualities like Oberon’s flower in
A Midsummer Night’s Dream, which would make him
consent to their marriage. Presently a reign of mystic
terror seemed to invade the little house in the London
road. With fear ever present in her eyes, the figure
of the sombre woman glided from room to room,
whispering to the frightened servants ghostly tales of
things supernatural—of unearthly music that she had
heard during the misty autumn nights, of noises that
had awakened her from sleep, of the ghastly apparitions
that had appeared to her lover. And to all these
stories she had but one dismal interpretation—saying
it had come to her from a wizard-woman in Scotland—they
were signs and tokens that her father would die
within a year! Those who heard her listened and
trembled, and the words sank deep into their memory.
So the winter crept on; but while all slunk through the
house with bated breath, shrinking at each mysterious
sound, the old man, doomed by the sorceress, remained
unsuspicious of what was going on around him.
Not long before Christmas, to the great relief of his
churlish host, the little Scotsman’s clumsy legs passed
through the front door for the last time, and he set out
for his brother’s seat at Crailing in the shire of
Roxburgh. Yet, though his lengthy visit had come to
an end, his spirit remained to rule the brain of the
woman who loved him. Early in the year 1751 she
received a box, containing a present from Cranstoun,
a set of table linen, and some ‘Scotch pebbles.’ Lawyer
Blandy viewed the stones with suspicious eyes, for he
hated all things beyond the Cheviot Hills, but did not
make any comment. The relationship between father
and daughter had become cold and distant. Quarrels
were constant in the unhappy home. Often in the
midst of her passion she was heard to mutter deep
curses against the old man. Indeed, so banished was
her love that she talked without emotion to the servants
of the likelihood of his death, in fulfilment of the witch’s
prophecy.
Some weeks later, when another consignment of the
mysterious ‘Scotch pebbles’ had arrived for Miss
Blandy, it was noticed that her conduct became still
more dark and strange. Slinking through the house
with slow and stealthy tread, she appeared to shun all
eyes, as though bent upon some hidden purpose. A
glance within the box from the North would have
revealed the secret. When the crafty accomplice found
that she was unable to procure the means of taking
her father’s life, he had been forced to supply her with
the weapons. During the spring, the health of the old
lawyer, who suffered more or less from chronic ailments,
began to grow more feeble. His garments hung loosely
upon his shrunken limbs, while the teeth dropped from
his palsied jaws. The old witch’s curse seemed to have
fallen upon the home, and, to those who looked with
apprehension for every sign and portent, it was fulfilled
in many direful ways. Early in June, Ann Emmet, an
old charwoman employed about the house, was seized
with a violent illness after drinking from a half-emptied
cup left at Mr Blandy’s breakfast. A little later, Susan
Gunnel, one of the maid-servants, was affected in a
similar way through taking some tea prepared for her
master. One August morning, in the secrecy of her
own chamber, trembling at every footfall beyond the
locked door, Mary Blandy gazed with eager, awestruck
eyes upon a message sent by her lover.
“I am sorry there are such occasions to clean your
pebbles,” wrote the murderous little Scotsman. “You
must make use of the powder to them, by putting it into
anything of substance, wherein it will not swim a-top
of the water, of which I wrote to you in one of my last.
I am afraid it will be too weak to take off their rust, or
at least it will take too long a time.”
From the language of metaphor it is easy to translate
the ghastly meaning. She must have told Cranstoun
that the white arsenic, which he had sent to her under
the pseudonym of ‘powder to clean the pebbles,’
remained floating on the surface of the tea. Possibly
her father had noticed this phenomenon, and, not caring
to drink the liquid, had escaped the painful sickness
which had attacked the less cautious servants. But now
she had found a remedy—‘anything of substance!’—a
safe and sure vehicle that could not fail. Louder
still in the ears of the lost woman rang the mocking
words, “When the old man is dead you shall be
happy.”
During the forenoon of Monday, the 5th of August,
Susan Gunnel, the maid, met her young mistress coming
from the pantry.
“Oh, Susan,” she exclaimed, “I have been stirring
my papa’s water gruel”; and then, perceiving other
servants through the half-open door of the laundry, she
added gaily, “If I was ever to take to eating anything
in particular it would be oatmeal.”
No response came from the discreet Susan, but she
marvelled, calling to mind that Miss Blandy had said to
her some time previously, noticing that she appeared
unwell:
“Have you been eating any water gruel? for I am
told that water gruel hurts me, and it may hurt you.”
Later in the day, her wonder was increased when she
saw her mistress stirring the gruel in a half-pint mug,
putting her fingers into the spoon, and then rubbing
them together. In the evening the same mug was taken
as usual to the old man’s bedroom. On Tuesday night
Miss Blandy sent down in haste to order gruel for her
father, who had been indisposed all day, and such was
her solicitude that she met the footman on the stairs,
and taking the basin from his hands, carried it herself
into the parlour. Early the next morning, while Ann
Emmet, the old charwoman, was busy at her wash-tub,
Susan Gunnel came from upstairs.
“Dame,” she observed, “you used to be fond of
water gruel. Here is a very fine mess my master left
last night, and I believe it will do you good.”
Sitting down upon a bench, this most unfortunate old
lady proceeded to consume the contents of the basin, and
for a second time was seized with a strange and violent
illness. Soon afterwards Miss Blandy came into the
kitchen.
“Susan, as your master has taken physic, he may
want some more water gruel,” said she. “As there is
some in the house you need not make fresh, for you are
ironing.”
“Madam, it will be stale,” replied the servant. “It
will not hinder me much to make fresh.”
A little later, while tasting the stuff, Susan noticed
a white sediment at the bottom of the pan. Greatly
excited, she ran to show Betty Binfield, the cook, who
bore no good-will towards her young mistress.
“What oatmeal is this?” asked Betty, significantly.
“It looks like flour.”
“I have never seen oatmeal as white before,” said the
maid.
Carefully and thoroughly the suspicious servants
examined the contents of the saucepan, taking it out of
doors to view it in the light. And while they looked at
the white gritty sediment they told each other in low
whispers that this must be poison. Locking up the pan,
they showed it next day to the local apothecary, who,
as usual in those times, was the sick man’s medical
attendant.
Nothing occurred to alarm the guilty woman until
Saturday. On that morning, in the homely fashion of
middle-class manners, the lawyer, who wanted to shave,
came into the kitchen, where hot water and a good fire
were ready for him. Accustomed to his habits, the
servants went about their work as usual. Some trouble
seemed to be preying upon his mind.
“I was like to have been poisoned once,” piped the
feeble old man, turning his bloodshot eyes upon his
daughter, who was in the room.
“It was on this same day, the tenth of August,” he
continued, in his weak, trembling voice, for his frame
had become shattered during the last week. “It was
at the coffee-house or at the Lyon, and two other
gentlemen were like to have been poisoned by what
they drank.”
“Sir, I remember it very well,” replied the imperturbable
woman, and then fell to arguing with her
querulous father at which tavern the adventure had
taken place.
“One of the gentlemen died immediately,” he resumed,
looking at her with a long, reproachful glance.
“The other is dead now, and I have survived them
both. But”—his piteous gaze grew more intense—“it is
my fortune to be poisoned at last.”
A similar ordeal took place in a little while. At
breakfast Mr Blandy seemed in great pain, making
many complaints. As he sipped his tea, he declared
that it had a gritty, bad taste, and would not drink it.
“Have you not put too much of the black stuff into
it?” he demanded suddenly of his daughter, referring to
the canister of Bohea.
This time she was unable to meet his searching
eyes.
“It is as usual,” she stammered in confusion.
A moment later she rose, trembling and distressed, and
hurriedly left the room.
There was reason for the old man’s suspicion. Before
he had risen from his bed, the faithful Susan Gunnel
told him of the discovery in the pan of water gruel, and
both agreed that the mysterious powder had been sent
by Cranstoun. Yet, beyond what he had said at breakfast,
and in the kitchen, he questioned his daughter no more! Still, although no direct charge had been made,
alarmed by her father’s hints she hastened to destroy
all evidence that could be used against her. During
the afternoon, stealing into the kitchen under pretence
of drying a letter before the fire, she crushed a paper
among the coals. As soon as she was gone the watchful
spies—servants Gunnel and Binfield—snatched it away
before it had been destroyed by the flames. This
paper contained a white substance, and on it was written
‘powder to clean the pebbles.’ Towards evening
famous Dr Addington arrived from Reading, summoned
by Miss Blandy, who was driven on account of her fears
to show a great concern. After seeing his patient the
shrewd old leech had no doubt as to the symptoms.
With habitual directness he told the daughter that her
father had been poisoned.
“It is impossible,” she replied.
On Sunday morning the doctor found the sick
man a little better, but ordered him to keep his bed.
Startling proofs of the accuracy of his diagnosis
were forthcoming. One of the maids put into his
hands the packet of arsenic found in the fire; while
Norton the apothecary produced the powder from the
pan of gruel. Addington at once took the guilty
woman to task.
“If your father dies,” he told her sternly, “you will
inevitably be ruined.”
Nevertheless she appears to have brazened the matter
out, but desired the doctor to come again the next day.
When she was alone, her first task was to scribble a
note to Cranstoun, which she gave to her father’s clerk
to “put into the post.” Having heard dark rumours
whispered by the servants that Mr Blandy had been
poisoned by his daughter, the man had no hesitation
in opening the letter, which he handed over to the
apothecary. It ran as follows:—
“Dear Willy,—My father is so bad that I have only
time to tell you that if you do not hear from me soon
again, don’t be frightened. I am better myself. Lest
any accident should happen to your letters be careful
what you write.
“My sincere compliments.—I am ever, yours.”
That evening Norton ordered Miss Blandy from her
father’s room, telling Susan Gunnel to remain on the
watch, and admit no one. At last the heartless daughter
must have seen that some other defence was needed than
blind denial. Still, the poor old sufferer persisted that
Cranstoun was the sole author of the mischief. On
Monday morning, although sick almost to death, he sent
the maid with a message to his daughter.
“Tell her,” said he, “that I will forgive her if she
will bring that villain to justice.”
In answer to his words, Miss Blandy came to her
father’s bedroom in tears, and a suppliant. Susan
Gunnel, who was present, thus reports the interview.
“Sir, how do you do?” said she.
“I am very ill,” he replied.
Falling upon her knees, she said to him:
“Banish me or send me to any remote part of the
world. As to Mr Cranstoun, I will never see him, speak
to him, as long as I live, so as you will forgive me.”
“I forgive thee, my dear,” he answered. “And I hope
God will forgive thee, but thee should have considered
better than to have attempted anything against thy
father. Thee shouldst have considered I was thy own
father.”
“Sir,” she protested, “as to your illness I am entirely
innocent.”
“Madam,” interrupted old Susan Gunnel, “I believe
you must not say you are entirely innocent, for the
powder that was taken out of the water gruel, and the
paper of powder that was taken out of the fire, are now
in such hands that they must be publicly produced. I
believe I had one dose prepared for my master in a dish
of tea about six weeks ago.”
“I have put no powder into tea,” replied Miss Blandy.
“I have put powder into water gruel, and if you are
injured,” she assured her father, “I am entirely innocent,
for it was given me with another intent.”
The dying man did not wait for further explanation,
but, turning in his bed, he cried:
“Oh, such a villain! To come to my house, eat of the
best, drink of the best that my house could afford—to take
away my life, and ruin my daughter! Oh, my dear,” he
continued, “thee must hate that man, thee must hate
the ground he treads on. Thee canst not help it.”
“Oh, sir, your tenderness towards me is like a sword
to my heart,” she answered. “Every word you say is like
swords piercing my heart—much worse than if you were
to be ever so angry. I must down on my knees and beg
you will not curse me.”
“I curse thee, my dear!” he replied. “How couldst
thou think I could curse thee? I bless thee, and hope
that God will bless thee and amend thy life. Go, my
dear, go out of my room.... Say no more, lest thou
shouldst say anything to thy own prejudice.... Go
to thy uncle Stevens; take him for thy friend. Poor
man,—I am sorry for him.”
The memory of the old servant, who repeated the
above conversation in her evidence at Miss Blandy’s
trial, would seem remarkable did we not bear in mind
that she went through various rehearsals before the
coroner and magistrates, and possibly with the lawyers
for the prosecution. Some embellishments also must
be credited to the taste and fancy of Mr Rivington’s
reporters. Still, the gist must be true, and certainly
has much pathos. Yet the father’s forgiveness of his
daughter, when he must have known that her conduct
was wilful, although piteous and noble, may not have
been the result of pure altruism. Naturally, the wish that
Cranstoun alone was guilty was parent to the thought.
Whether the approach of eternity brought a softening
influence upon him, and he saw his follies and errors in
the light of repentance, or whether the ruling passion
strong in death made the vain old man struggle to avert
the black disgrace that threatened his good name, and
the keen legal intellect, which could counsel his daughter
so well, foresaw the coming escheatment of his small
estate to the lord of the manor, are problems for the
student of psychology.
During the course of the day brother leech Lewis of
Oxford—a master-builder of pharmacopœia—was summoned
by the sturdy begetter of statesmen, and there
was much bobbing of learned wigs and nice conduct of
medical canes. Addington asked the dying man whom
he suspected to be the giver of the poison.
“A poor love-sick girl,” murmured the old lawyer,
smiling through his tears. “I forgive her—I always
thought there was mischief in those cursed Scotch
pebbles.”
In the evening a drastic step was taken. Acting on
the principle of ‘thorough,’ which made his son’s occupancy
of the Home Office so memorable at a later period,
the stern doctor accused Miss Blandy of the crime, and
secured her keys and papers. Conquered by fear, the
stealthy woman for a while lost all self-possession. In
an agony of shame and terror she sought to shield herself
by the pretence of superstitious folly. Wringing her
hands in a seeming agony of remorse, she declared that
her lover had ruined her.
“I received the powder from Mr Cranstoun,” she
cried, “with a present of Scotch pebbles. He had wrote
on the paper that held it, ‘The powder to clean the pebbles with.’ He assured me that it was harmless, and
that if I would give my father some of it now and then,
a little and a little at a time, in any liquid, it would make
him kind to him and to me.”
In a few scathing questions the worldly-wise Addington
cast ridicule upon this weird story of a love philtre.
Taking the law into his own resolute hands, with the consent
of colleague Lewis he locked the wretched woman in
her room and placed a guard over her. Little could be
done to relieve the sufferings of poor ten-thousand-pound
Blandy—who proved to be a mere four-thousand-pound
attorney when it came to the test—and on Wednesday
afternoon, the 14th of August, he closed his proud old
eyes for ever. In her desperation the guilty daughter
could think of naught but escape. On the evening of her
fathers death, impelled by an irresistible frenzy to flee
from the scene of her butchery, she begged the footman
in vain to assist her to get away. During Thursday
morning—for it was not possible to keep her in custody
without legal warrant—a little group of children saw a
dishevelled figure coming swiftly along the High Street
towards the river. At once there arose the cry of
‘Murderess!’ and, surrounded by an angry mob, she was
driven to take refuge in a neighbouring inn. It was vain
to battle against fate. That same afternoon the coroner’s
inquest was held, and the verdict pronounced her a parricide.
On the following Saturday, in charge of two
constables, she was driven in her father’s carriage to
Oxford Castle. An enraged populace, thinking that she
was trying again to escape, surrounded the vehicle, and
sought to prevent her from leaving the town.
Owing to the social position of the accused, and the
enormity of her offence, the eyes of the whole nation
were turned to the tragedy at Henley. Gossips of the
day, such as Horace Walpole and Tate Wilkinson, tell
us that the story of Miss Blandy was upon every lip.
In spite of the noble irony of ‘Drawcansir’ Fielding,
journalists and pamphleteers had no scruple in referring
to the prisoner as a wicked murderess or a cruel parricide.
Yet the case of Henry Coleman, who, during the
August of this year, had been proved innocent of a
crime for which he had suffered death, should have
warned the public against hasty assumption. For six
months the dark woman was waiting for her trial.
Although it was the custom for a jailor to make an
exhibition of his captive to anyone who would pay the
entrance fee, nobody was allowed to see Miss Blandy
without her consent. Two comfortable rooms were set
apart for her in the keeper’s house; she was free to take
walks in the garden, and to have her own maid. At
last, when stories of a premeditated escape were noised
abroad, Secretary Newcastle, in a usual state of fuss,
fearing that she might repeat the achievement of Queen
Maud, gave orders that she must be put in irons. At
first Thomas Newell, who had succeeded her father as
town clerk of Henley four years previously, was employed
in her defence, but he offended her by speaking
of Cranstoun as “a mean-looking, little, ugly fellow,” and
so she dismissed him in favour of Mr Rives, a lawyer
from Woodstock. Her old invincible courage had returned,
and only once—when she learnt the paltry value
of her father’s fortune—did she lose self-possession. For
a dismal echo must have come back in the mocking words,
“When the old man is in his grave you shall be happy.”
At last the magistrates—Lords Cadogan and ‘New-Style’
Macclesfield, who had undertaken duties which
in later days Mr Newton or Mr Montagu Williams would
have shared with Scotland Yard—finish their much-praised
detective work, and on Tuesday, the 3rd of March
1752, Mary Blandy is brought to the bar. The Court
meets in the divinity school, since the town-hall is
in the hands of the British workman, and because the
University, so ‘Sir Alexander Drawcansir’ tells his
readers, will not allow the use of the Sheldonian Theatre.
Why the most beautiful room in Oxford should be
deemed a fitter place of desecration than the archbishop’s
monstrosity is not made clear. An accident
delays the trial—this second ‘Great Oyer of Poisoning!’
There is a small stone or other obstruction in the lock—can
some sentimental, wry-brained undergraduate
think to aid the gallows-heroine of his fancy?—and
while it is being removed, Judges Legge and Smythe
return to their lodgings.
At eight o’clock, Mary Blandy, calm and stately,
stands beneath the graceful fretted ceiling, facing the
tribunal. From wall to wall an eager crowd has filled
the long chamber, surging through the doorway, flowing
in at the open windows, jostling even against the prisoner.
A chair is placed for her in case of fatigue, and her maid
is by her side. A plain and neat dress befits her serene
manner—a black bombazine short
sacque (the garb of
mourning), white linen kerchief, and a thick crape shade
and hood. From the memory of those present her
countenance can never fade. A broad high forehead,
above which her thick jet hair is smoothed under a cap;
a pair of fine black sparkling eyes; the colouring almost
of a gipsy; cheeks with scarce a curve; mouth full, but
showing no softness; nose large, straight, determined—it
is the face of one of those rare women who command,
not the love, but the obedience of mankind. Still it is
intelligent, not unseductive, compelling; and yet, in
spite of the deep, flashing eyes, without radiance of soul—the
face of a sombre-hearted woman.
Black, indeed, is the indictment that Bathurst, a
venerable young barrister who represents the Crown,
unfolds against her, but only once during his burst of
carefully-matured eloquence is there any change in her
serenity. When the future Lord Chancellor declares
that the base Cranstoun “had fallen in love, not with
her, but with her fortune,” the woman’s instinct cannot
tolerate the reflection upon her charms, and she darts a
look of bitterest scorn upon the speaker. And only once
does she show a trace of human softness. When her
godmother, old Mrs Mountenay, is leaving the witness-box,
she repeats the curtsey which the prisoner had
previously disregarded, and then, in an impulse of pity,
presses forward, and, seizing Miss Blandy’s hand, exclaims,
“God bless you!” At last, and for the first
time, the tears gather in the accused woman’s eyes.
Many abuses, handed down from a previous century,
still render barbarous the procedure of criminal trials.
The case is hurried over in one day; counsel for the
prisoner can only examine witnesses, but not address the
jury; the prosecution is accustomed to put forward
evidence of which the defence has been kept in ignorance.
Yet no injustice is done to Mary Blandy. Thirteen
hours is enough to tear the veil from her sombre
heart; the tongue of Nestor would fail to show her
innocent; of all that her accusers can say of her she
is well aware. Never for one moment is the issue
in doubt. What can her scoffing, sceptic age, with its
cold-blooded sentiment and tame romance, think of a
credulity that employed a love-potion in the guise of
affection but with the result of death! How is it
possible to judge a daughter who persisted in her black
art, although its dire effects were visible, not once, but
many times! Her defence, when at last it comes, is
spoken bravely, but better had been left unsaid.
“My lords,” she begins, “it is morally impossible for
me to lay down the hardships I have received.
I have been aspersed in my character. In the first
place, it has been said that I have spoke ill of my
father; that I have cursed him and wished him at hell;
which is extremely false. Sometimes little family affairs
have happened, and he did not speak to me so kind as I
could wish. I own I am passionate, my lords, and in
those passions some hasty expressions might have dropt.
But great care has been taken to recollect every word
I have spoken at different times, and to apply them to
such particular purposes as my enemies knew would do
me the greatest injury. These are hardships, my lords,
extreme hardships!—such as you yourselves must allow
to be so. It was said, too, my lords, that I endeavoured
to make my escape. Your lordships will judge from the
difficulties I laboured under. I had lost my father—I
was accused of being his murderer—I was not permitted
to go near him—I was forsaken by my friends—affronted
by the mob—insulted by my servants. Although I
begged to have the liberty to listen at the door where he
died, I was not allowed it. My keys were taken from
me, my shoe-buckles and garters too—to prevent me
from making away with myself, as though I was the
most abandoned creature. What could I do, my lords?
I verily believe I was out of my senses. When I heard
my father was dead and the door open, I ran out of the
house, and over the bridge, and had nothing on but a half
sack and petticoat, without a hoop, my petticoats hanging
about me. The mob gathered about me. Was this
a condition, my lords, to make my escape in? A good
woman beyond the bridge, seeing me in this distress,
desired me to walk in till the mob was dispersed. The
town sergeant was there. I begged he would take me
under his protection to have me home. The woman said
it was not proper, the mob was very great, and that I
had better stay a little. When I came home they said
I used the constable ill. I was locked up for fifteen
hours, with only an old servant of the family to attend
me. I was not allowed a maid for the common decencies
of my sex. I was sent to gaol, and was in hopes, there,
at least, this usage would have ended, but was told it
was reported I was frequently drunk—that I attempted to
make my escape—that I never attended the chapel. A
more abstemious woman, my lords, I believe, does not live.
“Upon the report of my making my escape, the gentleman
who was High Sheriff last year (not the present)
came and told me, by order of the higher powers, he
must put an iron on me. I submitted, as I always do to
the higher powers. Some time after, he came again, and
said he must put a heavier upon me, which I have
worn, my lords, till I came hither. I asked the Sheriff
why I was so ironed? He said he did it by command
of some noble peer, on his hearing that I intended to
make my escape. I told them I never had such a
thought, and I would bear it with the other cruel usage
I had received on my character. The Rev. Mr.
Swinton, the worthy clergyman who attended me in
prison, can testify that I was very regular at the chapel
when I was well. Sometimes I really was not able to
come out, and then he attended me in my room. They
likewise published papers and depositions which ought
not to have been published, in order to represent me as
the most abandoned of my sex, and to prejudice the
world against me. I submit myself to your lordships,
and to the worthy jury. I can assure your lordships, as
I am to answer it before that Grand Tribunal where I
must appear, I am as innocent as the child unborn of the
death of my father. I would not endeavour to save my
life at the expense of truth. I really thought the powder
an innocent, inoffensive thing, and I gave it to procure
his love. It was mentioned, I should say, I was ruined.
My lords, when a young woman loses her character, is
not that her ruin? Why, then, should this expression
be construed in so wide a sense? Is it not ruining my
character to have such a thing laid to my charge? And
whatever may be the event of this trial, I am ruined
most effectually.”
A strange apology—amazing in its effrontery!
Gentle Heneage Legge speaks long and tenderly,
while the listeners shudder with horror as they hear the
dismal history unfolded in all entirety for the first time.
No innocent heart could have penned that last brief
warning to her lover—none but an accomplice would
have received his cryptic message. Every word in the
testimony of the stern doctor seems to hail her parricide—every
action of her stealthy career has been noted
by the watchful eyes of her servants. And, as if in
damning confirmation of her guilt, there is the black
record of her flight from the scene of crime. Eight
o’clock has sounded when the judge has finished. For
a few moments the jury converse in hurried whispers.
It is ominous that they make no attempt to leave the
court, but merely draw closer together. Then, after
the space of five minutes they turn, and the harsh
tones of the clerk of arraigns sound through the
chamber.
“Mary Blandy, hold up thy hand.... Gentlemen of
the jury, look upon the prisoner. How say you: Is
Mary Blandy guilty of the felony and murder whereof
she stands indicted, or not guilty?”
“Guilty!” comes the low, reluctant answer.
Never has more piteous drama been played within
the cold fair walls of the divinity school than that
revealed by the guttering candles on this chill March
night. Amidst the long black shadows, through which
gleam countless rows of pallid faces, in the deep silence,
broken at intervals by hushed sobs, the invincible
woman stands with unruffled mien to receive her
sentence. As the verdict is declared, a smile seems to
play upon her lips. While the judge, with tearful eyes
and broken voice, pronounces her doom, she listens
without a sign of fear. There is a brief, breathless
pause, while all wait with fierce-beating hearts for her reply. No trace of terror impedes her utterance.
Thanking the judge for his candour and impartiality,
she turns to her counsel, among whom only Richard
Aston rose to eminence, and, with a touch of pretty
forethought, wishes them better success in their other
causes. Then, and her voice grows more solemn, she
begs for a little time to settle her affairs and to make
her peace with God. To which his lordship replies
with great emotion:
“To be sure, you shall have proper time allowed
you.”
When she is conducted from the court she steps
into her coach with the air of a belle whose chair is to
take her to a fashionable rout. The fatal news has
reached the prison before her arrival. As she enters
the keeper’s house, which for so long has been her
home, she finds the family overcome with grief and
the children all in tears.
“Don’t mind it,” she cries, cheerfully. “What does
it matter? I am very hungry. Pray let me have
something for supper as soon as possible.”
That sombre heart of hers is a brave one also.
All this time William Cranstoun, worthy brother in
all respects of Simon Tappertit, had been in hiding—in
Scotland perhaps, or, as some say, in Northumberland—watching
with fearful quakings for the result of the
trial. Shortly after the conviction of his accomplice he
managed to take ship to the Continent, and luckily for
his country he never polluted its soil again. There are
several contemporary accounts of his adventures in
France and in the Netherlands, to which the curious
may refer. All agree that he confessed his share in the
murder when he was safe from justice. With unaccustomed
propriety, our Lady Fate soon hastened to snap
the thread of his existence, and on the 3rd of December
of this same year, at the little town of Furnes in Flanders,
aged thirty-eight, he drew his last breath. A short
time before, being seized with remorse for his sins, he
had given the Catholic Church the honour of enrolling
him a proselyte. Indeed the conversion of so great a
ruffian was regarded as such a feather in their cap that
the good monks and friars advertised the event by
means of a sumptuous funeral.
Worthy Judge Legge fulfils his promise to the
unhappy Miss Blandy, and she is given six weeks in
which to prepare herself for death. Meek and more
softened is the sombre woman, who, like a devoted
penitent, submits herself day after day to the vulgar
gaze of a hundred eyes, while she bows in all humility
before the altar of her God. Yet her busy brain is
aware that those to whom she looks for intercession are
keeping a careful watch upon her demeanour. For she
has begged her godmother Mrs Mountenay to ask
one of the bishops to speak for her; she is said to
entertain the hope that the recently-bereaved Princess
will endeavour to obtain a reprieve. In the fierce war
of pamphleteers, inevitable in those days, she takes her
share, playing with incomparable tact to the folly of the
credulous. Although the majority, perhaps, believe her
guilty, she knows that a considerable party is in her
favour. On the 20th of March is published “A Letter
from a Clergyman to Miss Blandy, with her Answer,”
in which she tells the story of her share in the tragedy.
During the remainder of her imprisonment she extends
this narrative into a long account of the whole case—assisted,
it is believed, by her spiritual adviser, the
Rev. John Swinton, who, afflicted possibly by one of
his famous fits of woolgathering, seems convinced of
her innocence. No human effort, however, is of any
avail. Both the second and third George, knowing their
duty as public entertainers, seldom cheated the gallows
of a victim of distinction.
Originally the execution had been fixed for Saturday,
the 4th of April, but is postponed until the following
Monday, because the University authorities do not think
it seemly that the sentence shall be carried out during
Holy Week. A great crowd collects in the early
morning outside the prison walls before the announcement
of the short reprieve, and it speaks marvels for
the discipline of the gaol that Miss Blandy is allowed
to go up into rooms facing the Castle Green so that
she can view the throng. Gazing upon the assembly
without a tremor, she says merely that she will not
balk their expectations much longer. On Sunday she
takes sacrament for the last time, and signs a declaration
in which she denies once more all knowledge that the
powder was poisonous. In the evening, hearing that
the Sheriff has arrived in the town, she sends a request
that she may not be disturbed until eight o’clock the
next morning.
It was half-past the hour she had named when the
dismal procession reached the door of her chamber.
The Under-Sheriff was accompanied by the Rev. John
Swinton, and by her friend Mr Rives, the lawyer.
Although her courage did not falter, she appeared meek
and repentant, and spoke with anxiety of her future
state, in doubt whether she would obtain pardon for
her sins. This penitent mood encouraged the clergyman
to beg her declare the whole truth, to which she
replied that she must persist in asserting her innocence
to the end. No entreaty would induce her to retract
the solemn avowal.
At nine o’clock she was conducted from her room,
dressed in the same black gown that she had worn at
the trial, with her hands and arms tied by strong black
silk ribbons. A crowd of five thousand persons, hushed
and expectant, was waiting on the Castle Green to
witness her sufferings. Thirty yards from the door
of the gaol, whence she was led into the open air,
stood the gallows—a beam placed across the arms of
two trees. Against it lay a step-ladder covered with
black cloth. The horror of her crime must have been
forgotten by all who gazed upon the calm and brave
woman. For truly she died like a queen. Serene and
fearless she walked to the fatal spot, and joined most
fervently with the clergyman in prayer. After this
was ended they told her that if she wished she might
speak to the spectators.
“Good people,” she cried, in a clear, audible voice,
“give me leave to declare to you that I am perfectly
innocent as to any intention to destroy or even hurt
my dear father; that I did not know, or even suspect,
that there was any poisonous quality in the fatal powder
I gave him; though I can never be too much punished
for being the innocent cause of his death. As to my
mother’s and Mrs Pocock’s deaths, that have been
unjustly laid to my charge, I am not even the innocent
cause of them, nor did I in the least contribute to them.
So help me, God, in these my last moments. And may
I not meet with eternal salvation, nor be acquitted by
Almighty God, in whose awful presence I am instantly
to appear hereafter, if the whole of what is here asserted
is not true. I from the bottom of my soul forgive all
those concerned in my prosecution; and particularly the
jury, notwithstanding their fatal verdict.”
Then, having ascended five steps of the ladder, she
turned to the officials. “Gentlemen,” she requested,
with a show of modesty, “do not hang me high.”
The humanity of those whose task it was to put her
to death, forced them to ask her to go a little higher.
Climbing two steps more, she then looked round, and
trembling, said, “I am afraid I shall fall.” Still, her
invincible courage enabled her to address the crowd
once again. “Good people,” she said, “take warning
by me to be on your guard against the sallies of any
irregular passion, and pray for me that I may be
accepted at the Throne of Grace.” While the rope was
being placed around her neck it touched her face, and
she gave a deep sigh. Then with her own fingers
she moved it to one side. A white handkerchief had
been bound across her forehead, and she drew it over
her features. As it did not come low enough, a woman,
who had attended her and who had fixed the noose
around her throat, stepped up and pulled it down.
For a while she stood in prayer, and then gave the
signal by thrusting out a little book which she held
in her hand. The ladder was moved from under her
feet, and in obedience to the laws of her country she
was suspended in the air, swaying and convulsed, until
the grip of the rope choked the breath from her body.
Horrible! Yet only in degree are our own methods
different from those employed a hundred and fifty
years ago.
During the whole of the sad tragedy, the crowd, unlike
the howling mob at Tyburn, maintained an awestruck
silence. There were few dry eyes, though the sufferer
did not shed a tear, and hundreds of those who witnessed
her death went away convinced of her innocence. An
elegant young man named Edward Gibbon, with brain
wrapped in the mists of theology, who for three days
had been gentleman commoner at Magdalen, does not
appear to have been attracted to the scene. Surely
George Selwyn must be maligned, else he would have
posted to Oxford to witness this spectacle. It would
have been his only opportunity of seeing a gentlewoman
in the hands of the executioner.
After hanging for half an hour with the feet, in
consequence of her request, almost touching the ground,
the body was carried upon the shoulders of one of the
sheriff’s men to a neighbouring house. At five o’clock
in the afternoon the coffin containing her remains was
taken in a hearse to Henley, where, in the dead of night,
amidst a vast concourse, it was interred in the chancel
of the parish church between the graves of her father
and mother.
So died ‘the unfortunate Miss Blandy’ in the
thirty-second year of her age—with a grace and valour
which no scene on the scaffold has ever excelled. If, as
the authors of
The Beggars Opera and
The History of
Jonathan Wild have sought to show, in playful irony,
the greatness of the criminal is comparable with the
greatness of the statesman, then she must rank with
Mary of Scotland and Catherine of Russia among the
queens of crime. Hers was the soul of steel, theirs also
the opportunity.
In every period the enormity of a sin can be estimated
only by its relation to the spirit of the age; and in spite
of cant and sophistry, the contemporaries of Miss Blandy
made no legal distinction between the crimes of parricide
and petty larceny. Nay, the same rope that strangled the
brutal cut-throat in a few moments might prolong the
agony of a poor thief for a quarter of an hour. Had the
doctors succeeded in saving the life of the old attorney,
the strange law which in later times put to death
Elizabeth Fenning would have been powerless to
demand the life of Mary Blandy for a similar offence.
The protests of Johnson and Fielding against the
iniquity of the criminal code fell on idle ears.
Thus we may not judge Mary Blandy from the
standpoint of our own moral grandeur, for she is a
being of another world—one of the vain, wilful, selfish
children to whom an early Guelph was king—merely
one of the blackest sheep in a flock for the most part ill-favoured.
As we gaze upon her portrait there comes a
feeling that we do not know this sombre woman after all,
for though the artist has produced a faithful resemblance,
we perceive there is something lacking. We look into
part, not into her whole soul. None but one of the
immortals—Rembrandt, or his peer—could have shown
this queen among criminals as she was: an iron-hearted,
remorseless, demon-woman, her fair, cruel visage raised
mockingly amidst a chiaroscuro of crime and murkiness
unspeakable.
“a narrow, foxy face,
Heart-hiding smile, and gay persistent eye.”
In our own country the women of gentle birth who
have been convicted of murder since the beginning of
the eighteenth century may be counted on the fingers
of one hand. Mary Blandy, Constance Kent, Florence
Maybrick—for that unsavoury person, Elizabeth
Jefferies, has no claim to be numbered in the roll, and
the verdict against beautiful Madeleine Smith was ‘Not
proven’—these names exhaust the list. And of them,
the first alone paid the penalty at the gallows. The
annals of crime contain the records of many parricides,
some that have been premeditated with devilish art,
but scarce one that a daughter has wrought by the most
loathsome of coward’s weapons. In comparison with
the murderess of Henley, even Frances Howard and
Anne Turner were guilty of a venial crime. Mary
Blandy stands alone and incomparable—pilloried to all
ages among the basest of her sex.
Yet the world soon forgot her. “Since the two misses
were hanged,” chats Horace Walpole on the 23rd of
June, coupling irreverently the names of Blandy and
Jefferies with the beautiful Gunnings—“since the two
misses were hanged, and the two misses were married,
there is nothing at all talked of.” Society, however,
soon found a new thrill in the adventures of the young
woman Elizabeth Canning.
Miss MARY BLANDY
B. Cole Sculp
Aged 33 and Executed at Oxford
April 6, 1752, for poisoning her Father.
Compiled from sources in the public domain.
One of the main characters is scheduled to be burned atop a Pyre along with a dozen other victims of the inquisition as part of Shadows In A Timeless Myth.
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Smiles & Good Fortune,
Teresa
************************************
It
is not wealth one asks for, but just enough to preserve one’s dignity,
to work unhampered, to be generous, frank and independent. W.
Somerset Maugham (1874-1965) Of Human Bondage, 1915
