MONK’S CURSE

Te Awamutu Courier, Volume 54, Issue 3894, 26 April 1937, Page 7

MONK’S CURSE

LAID BY DEATH OF HEIR. “LAST OF THE SHERIDANS.” In Rye Harbour a tiny sailing ship, The Three Brothers, lies at anchor, its flag at half-mast. It was the pride of Dick Sheridan. In the south of France two women, one the famous sculptress and authoress Clare Sheridan, saw the body of Richard Brinsley Sheridan lowered into a grave at Port-Vendres. Mrs. Clare Sheridan was his mother, the other woman’s identity is a secret. Dick Sheridan—the last of the Sheridans —was only 21. His death in Algiers followed an operation for appendicitis. He was a descendant of Sheridan, the 18th century playwright, and his mother is cousin of Mr. Winston Churchill. “Dick Sheridan was born too late. He might have been one of those adventurous British sea dogs who built up this country’s greatness,” a friend of the dead youth told the News of the World. With his death many are wondering about the 400-year-old curse which has lain on the Sheridan family. Before she left England for her son’s funeral, Mrs. Sheridan told the story of the curse. 400 Years Ago. “Four hundred years ago,” she said, “our family home, Frampton Court, in Dorset, was cursed by the last of the monks as they were driven from what had been their monastery home by Henry VIII. “ ‘None who inherits the place,’ the curse ran, ‘will ever come of age.’

“For 400 years it had been so —then Dick inherited Frampton Court. Until he was 21 I knew fear. When he came of age four months -ago I thought that at last the curse on the Sheridans had been laid. Now he is dead . . .

“Dick’s father was killed in France, and for 21 years he and I have been all-in-all to each other. I feel now so alone —so completely alone that nothing can hurt me ever more.” In a spacious house in St. John’s Wood Dick Sheridan’s valet gazed sadly at a pile of telegrams coming in from all parts of the world carrying messages of sympathy at the death of “the young master.” “Although Master Richard was not very fond of the West End he enjoyed the dances his mother gave in the studio here,” the valet declared. “A month ago he was dancing merrily at his 21st birthday party. Twenty-one candles burned in a great chandelier. Mrs. Sheridan declared that the 21 church candles in the iron chandelier burned ‘every one a prayer of thankfulness that Dick had lived and broken the curse laid on the Sheridan family.’" More than six feet in height, Richard Sheridan had crowded in a lifetime of adventure into a few brief

years. “He was born to adventure,” the grief-stricken valet said. “He was never really happy in London. He had little time for the young people of his age and class. Rather he preferred to be roughing it, fighting the sea in tiny boats, or trekking over the Algerian sands in quest of further adventure.

“Very often we had no idea where he was. Messages would come in from obscure ports telling of his latest adventure. At other times a newspaper heading would be the first intimation that he had had some other thrilling experience. He loved his boat, The Three Brothers, and spent his happiest hours on board her. He has had many narrow escapes. He has told of thfem in his books, but seldom would he talk of them. Only a month ago he left London to find quietness in Algeria, where he proposed to write a new book of his life. The book has not been finished. I imagine his mother will complete it.” “Heavenly Hell” is the title of the book in which Dick Sheridan relates his many adventures. When only five he suffered malaria in a Mexican swamp area, and almost lost his life. At 14 he had to swim for his life when a dinghy he was sailing was swamped. He only just reached safety. The next year he signed on in a German sailing ship, which ran aground in a storm off Hamburg. Windjammer Adventure. Later he served on the Finnish windjammer Lawhill, which was engaged in the Australian grain trade. Most boys of his age were still at school. On the boat he was aloft when a foot-rope broke. But for his presence of mind in grasping a spar he would have been hurled to the deck. Only last February he had another narrow escape from death, when a 17ft. yacht in which he was sailing was caught in a sudden storm off Algeria. He was thrown out of the boat near the little island of Colombi, and after a terrific struggle managed to reach the island. There he spent the night on the rocks, and at dawn started to swim towards the coast several miles away. He reached safety, bruised and exhausted. “Dick Sheridan, the last of the Sheridans, knew of the monk’s curse.

He laughed at it, describing it as ‘tosh’,” a close friend said. “When he passed his 21st birthday it seemed that at last the curse had failed. Today I am wondering. Maybe it was the last trump of the displaced monks. “Anyhow, there are no Sheridans left now to inherit the old monastery site.”