High up in the old carved roof, meanwhile, the spiders of centuries
still hung their flaunting webs with a profusion that old Doctor
Grimshawe would have been ravished to see; but even this was to be
remedied, for one day, on looking in, Redclyffe found the great hall dim
with floating dust, and down through it came great floating masses of
cobweb, out of which the old Doctor would have undertaken to regenerate
the world; and he saw, dimly aloft, men on ladders sweeping away these
accumulations of years, and breaking up the haunts and residences of
hereditary spiders.
The stately old hall had been in process of cleaning and adapting to the
banquet purposes of the nineteenth century, which it was accustomed
to subserve, in so proud a way, in the sixteenth. It was, in the first
place, well swept and cleansed; the painted glass windows were cleansed
from dust, and several panes, which had been unfortunately broken and
filled with common glass, were filled in with colored panes, which the
Warden had picked up somewhere in his antiquarian researches. They were
not, to be sure, just what was wanted; a piece of a saint, from some
cathedral window, supplying what was lacking of the gorgeous purple of
a mediæval king; but the general effect was rich and good, whenever the
misty English atmosphere supplied sunshine bright enough to pervade it.
Tapestry, too, from antique looms, faded, but still gorgeous, was
hung upon the walls. Some suits of armor, that hung beneath the festal
gallery, were polished till the old battered helmets and pierced
breastplates sent a gleam like that with which they had flashed across
the battle-fields of old. [Endnote: 1.]
So now the great day of the Warden’s dinner had arrived; and, as may be
supposed, there were fiery times in the venerable old kitchen. The cook,
according to ancient custom, concocted many antique dishes, such as used
to be set before kings and nobles; dainties that might have called the
dead out of their graves; combinations of ingredients that had ceased
to be put together for centuries; historic dishes, which had long, long
ceased to be in the list of revels. Then there was the stalwart English
cheer of the sirloin, and the round; there were the vast plum-puddings,
the juicy mutton, the venison; there was the game, now just
in season,--the half-tame wild fowl of English covers, the
half-domesticated wild deer of English parks, the heathcock from
the far-off hills of Scotland, and one little prairie hen, and some
canvas-back ducks--obtained, Heaven knows how, in compliment to
Redclyffe--from his native shores. O, the old jolly kitchen! how rich
the flavored smoke that went up its vast chimney! how inestimable the
atmosphere of steam that was diffused through it! How did the old men
peep into it, even venture across the threshold, braving the hot wrath
of the cook and his assistants, for the sake of imbuing themselves
with these rich and delicate flavors, receiving them in as it were
spiritually; for, received through the breath and in the atmosphere, it
was really a spiritual enjoyment. The ghosts of ancient epicures seemed,
on that day and the few preceding ones, to haunt the dim passages,
snuffing in with shadowy nostrils the rich vapors, assuming visibility
in the congenial medium, almost becoming earthly again in the strength
of their earthly longings for one other feast such as they used to
enjoy.
Nor is it to be supposed that it was only these antique dainties that
the Warden provided for his feast. No; if the cook, the cultured and
recondite old cook, who had accumulated within himself all that his
predecessors knew for centuries,--if he lacked anything of modern
fashion and improvement, he had supplied his defect by temporary
assistance from a London club; and the bill of fare was provided with
dishes that Soyer would not have harshly criticised. The ethereal
delicacy of modern taste, the nice adjustment of flowers, the French
style of cookery, was richly attended to; and the list was long of
dishes with fantastic names, fish, fowl, and flesh; and _entremets_, and
“sweets,” as the English call them, and sugared cates, too numerous to
think of.
The wines we will not take upon ourselves to enumerate; but the juice,
then destined to be quaffed, was in part the precious vintages that had
been broached half a century ago, and had been ripening ever since;
the rich and dry old port, so unlovely to the natural palate that it
requires long English seasoning to get it down; the sherry, imported
before these modern days of adulteration; some claret, the Warden said
of rarest vintage; some Burgundy, of which it was the quality to warm
the blood and genialize existence for three days after it was drunk.
Then there was a rich liquid contributed to this department by Redclyffe
himself; for, some weeks since, when the banquet first loomed in the
distance, he had (anxious to evince his sense of the Warden’s kindness)
sent across the ocean for some famous Madeira which he had inherited
from the Doctor, and never tasted yet. This, together with some of the
Western wines of America, had arrived, and was ready to be broached.
The Warden tested these modern wines, and recognized a new flavor,
but gave it only a moderate approbation; for, in truth, an elderly
Englishman has not a wide appreciation of wines, nor loves new things
in this kind more than in literature or life. But he tasted the Madeira,
too, and underwent an ecstasy, which was only alleviated by the dread of
gout, which he had an idea that this wine must bring on,--and truly,
if it were so splendid a wine as he pronounced it, some pain ought to
follow as the shadow of such a pleasure.
As it was a festival of antique date, the dinner hour had been fixed
earlier than is usual at such stately banquets; namely, at six o’clock,
which was long before the dusky hour at which Englishmen love best to
dine. About that period, the carriages drove into the old courtyard of
the Hospital in great abundance; blocking up, too, the ancient portal,
and remaining in a line outside. Carriages they were with armorial
bearings, family coaches in which came Englishmen in their black coats
and white neckcloths, elderly, white-headed, fresh-colored, squat; not
beautiful, certainly, nor particularly dignified, nor very well dressed,
nor with much of an imposing air, but yet, somehow or other, producing
an effect of force, respectability, reliableness, trust, which is
probably deserved, since it is invariably experienced. Cold they were
in deportment, and looked coldly on the stranger, who, on his part, drew
himself up with an extra haughtiness and reserve, and felt himself in
the midst of his enemies, and more as if he were going to do battle
than to sit down to a friendly banquet. The Warden introduced him, as an
American diplomatist, to one or two of the gentlemen, who regarded him
forbiddingly, as Englishmen do before dinner.
Not long after Redclyffe had entered the reception-room, which was but
shortly before the hour appointed for the dinner, there was another
arrival betokened by the clatter of hoofs and grinding wheels in the
courtyard; and then entered a gentleman of different mien from the
bluff, ruddy, simple-minded, yet worldly Englishmen around him. He was a
tall, dark man, with a black moustache and almost olive skin, a slender,
lithe figure, a flexible face, quick, flashing, mobile. His deportment
was graceful; his dress, though it seemed to differ in little or
nothing from that of the gentlemen in the room, had yet a grace and
picturesqueness in his mode of wearing it. He advanced to the Warden,
who received him with distinction, and yet, Redclyffe fancied, not
exactly with cordiality. It seemed to Redclyffe that the Warden looked
round, as if with the purpose of presenting Redclyffe to this gentleman,
but he himself, from some latent reluctance, had turned away and
entered, into conversation with one of the other gentlemen, who said
now, looking at the new-comer, “Are you acquainted with this last
arrival?”
“Not at all,” said Redclyffe. “I know Lord Braithwaite by sight, indeed,
but have had no introduction. He is a man, certainly, of distinguished
appearance.”
“Why, pretty well,” said the gentleman, “but un-English, as also are his
manners. It is a pity to see an old English family represented by such
a person. Neither he, his father, nor grandfather was born among us; he
has far more Italian blood than enough to drown the slender stream of
Anglo-Saxon and Norman. His modes of life, his prejudices, his estates,
his religion, are unlike our own; and yet here he is in the position of
an old English gentleman, possibly to be a peer. You, whose nationality
embraces that of all the world, cannot, I suppose, understand this
English feeling.” [Endnote: 2.]
“Pardon me,” said Redclyffe, “I can perfectly understand it. An
American, in his feelings towards England, has all the jealousy and
exclusiveness of Englishmen themselves,--perhaps, indeed, a little
exaggerated.”
“I beg your pardon,” said the Englishman, incredulously, “I think you
cannot possibly understand it!” [Endnote: 3.]
The guests were by this time all assembled, and at the Warden’s bidding
they moved from the reception-room to the dining-hall, in some order and
precedence, of which Redclyffe could not exactly discover the principle,
though he found that to himself--in his quality, doubtless, of
Ambassador--there was assigned a pretty high place. A venerable
dignitary of the Church--a dean, he seemed to be--having asked a
blessing, the fair scene of the banquet now lay before the guests,
presenting a splendid spectacle, in the high-walled, antique, tapestried
hall, overhung with the dark, intricate oaken beams, with the high
Gothic windows, through one of which the setting sunbeams streamed, and
showed the figures of kings and warriors, and the old Braithwaites among
them. Beneath and adown the hall extended the long line of the tables,
covered with the snow of the damask tablecloth, on which glittered,
gleamed, and shone a good quality of ancient ancestral plate, and an
_épergne_ of silver, extending down the middle; also the gleam of golden
wine in the decanters; and truly Redclyffe thought that it was a noble
spectacle, made so by old and stately associations, which made a noble
banquet of what otherwise would be only a vulgar dinner. The English
have this advantage and know how to make use of it. They bring--in these
old, time-honored feasts--all the past to sit down and take the stately
refreshment along with them, and they pledge the historic characters in
their wine.
A printed bill of fare, in gold letters, lay by each plate, on which
Redclyffe saw the company glancing with great interest. The first dish,
of course, was turtle soup, of which--as the gentleman next him, the
Mayor of a neighboring town, told Redclyffe--it was allowable to take
twice. This was accompanied, according to one of those rules which one
knows not whether they are arbitrary or founded on some deep reason, by
a glass of punch. Then came the noble turbot, the salmon, the sole, and
divers of fishes, and the dinner fairly set in. The genial Warden seemed
to have given liberal orders to the attendants, for they spared not
to offer hock, champagne, sherry, to the guests, and good bitter ale,
foaming in the goblet; and so the stately banquet went on, with somewhat
tedious magnificence; and yet with a fulness of effect and thoroughness
of sombre life that made Redclyffe feel that, so much importance being
assigned to it,--it being so much believed in,--it was indeed a feast.
The cumbrous courses swept by, one after another; and Redclyffe, finding
it heavy work, sat idle most of the time, regarding the hall, the old
decaying beams, the armor hanging beneath the galleries, and these
Englishmen feasting where their fathers had feasted for so many ages,
the same occasion, the same men, probably, in appearance, though
the black coat and the white neckcloth had taken the place of ruff,
embroidered doublet, and the magnificence of other ages. After all, the
English have not such good things to eat as we in America, and certainly
do not know better how to make them palatable. [Endnote: 4.]
Well; but by and by the dinner came to a conclusion, as regarded the
eating part; the cloth was withdrawn; a dessert of fruits, fresh and
dried, pines, hothouse grapes, and all candied conserves of the Indies,
was put on the long extent of polished mahogany. There was a tuning up
of musicians, an interrogative drawing of fiddle-bows, and other
musical twangs and puffs; the decanters opposite the Warden and his
vice-president,--sherry, port, Redclyffe’s Madeira, and claret, were put
in motion along the table, and the guests filled their glasses for the
toast which, at English dinner-tables, is of course the first to be
honored,--the Queen. Then the band struck up the good old anthem, “God
save the Queen,” which the whole company rose to their feet to sing.
It was a spectacle both interesting and a little ludicrous to
Redclyffe,--being so apart from an American’s sympathies, so unlike
anything that he has in his life or possibilities,--this active and warm
sentiment of loyalty, in which love of country centres, and assimilates,
and transforms itself into a passionate affection for a person, in whom
they love all their institutions. To say the truth, it seemed a happy
notion; nor could the American--while he comforted himself in the pride
of his democracy, and that he himself was a sovereign--could he help
envying it a little, this childlike love and reverence for a person
embodying all their country, their past, their earthly future. He felt
that it might be delightful to have a sovereign, provided that sovereign
were always a woman,--and perhaps a young and fine one. But, indeed,
this is not the difficulty, methinks, in English institutions which
the American finds it hardest to deal with. We could endure a born
sovereign, especially if made such a mere pageant as the English make of
theirs. What we find it hardest to conceive of is, the satisfaction with
which Englishmen think of a race above them, with privileges that they
cannot share, entitled to condescend to them, and to have gracious and
beautiful manners at their expense; to be kind, simple, unpretending,
because these qualities are more available than haughtiness; to be
specimens of perfect manhood;--all these advantages in consequence of
their position. If the peerage were a mere name, it would be nothing to
envy; but it is so much more than a name; it enables men to be really so
superior. The poor, the lower classes, might bear this well enough;
but the classes that come next to the nobility,--the upper middle
classes,--how they bear it so lovingly is what must puzzle the American.
But probably the advantage of the peerage is the less perceptible the
nearer it is looked at.
It must be confessed that Redclyffe, as he looked at this assembly
of peers and gentlemen, thought with some self-gratulation of the
probability that he had within his power as old a rank, as desirable a
station, as the best of them; and that if he were restrained from taking
it, it would probably only be by the democratic pride that made him
feel that he could not, retaining all his manly sensibility, accept
this gewgaw on which the ages--his own country especially--had passed
judgment, while it had been suspended over his head. He felt himself, at
any rate, in a higher position, having the option of taking this rank,
and forbearing to do so, than if he took it. [Endnote: 5.]
After this ensued a ceremony which is of antique date in old English
corporations and institutions, at their high festivals. It is called the
Loving Cup. A sort of herald or toast-master behind the Warden’s chair
made proclamation, reciting the names of the principal guests, and
announcing to them, “The Warden of the Braithwaite Hospital drinks to
you in a Loving Cup”; of which cup, having sipped, or seemed to sip (for
Redclyffe observed that the old drinkers were rather shy of it) a small
quantity, he sent it down the table. Its progress was accompanied with
a peculiar entanglement of ceremony, one guest standing up while another
drinks, being pretty much as follows. First, each guest receiving it
covered from the next above him, the same took from the silver cup its
silver cover; the guest drank with a bow to the Warden and company, took
the cover from the preceding guest, covered the cup, handed it to the
next below him, then again removed the cover, replaced it after the
guest had drunk, who, on his part, went through the same ceremony.
And thus the cup went slowly on its way down the stately hall; these
ceremonies being, it is said, originally precautions against the risk,
in wild times, of being stabbed by the man who was drinking with you, or
poisoned by one who should fail to be your taster. The cup was a fine,
ancient piece of plate, massive, heavy, curiously wrought with armorial
bearings, in which the leopard’s head appeared. Its contents, so far as
Redclyffe could analyze them by a moderate sip, appeared to be claret,
sweetened, with spices, and, however suited to the peculiarity of
antique palates, was not greatly to Redclyffe’s taste. [Endnote: 6.]
Redclyffe’s companion just below him, while the Loving Cup was beginning
its march, had been explaining the origin of the custom as a defence
of the drinker in times of deadly feud; when it had reached Lord
Braithwaite, who drank and passed it to Redclyffe covered, and with the
usual bow, Redclyffe looked into his Lordship’s Italian eyes and dark
face as he did so, and the thought struck him, that, if there could
possibly be any use in keeping up this old custom, it might be so now;
for, how intimated he could hardly tell, he was sensible in his deepest
self of a deadly hostility in this dark, courteous, handsome face. He
kept his eyes fixed on his Lordship as he received the cup, and felt
that in his own glance there was an acknowledgment of the enmity that he
perceived, and a defiance, expressed without visible sign, and felt in
the bow with which they greeted one another. When they had both resumed
their seats, Redclyffe chose to make this ceremonial intercourse the
occasion of again addressing him.
“I know not whether your Lordship is more accustomed than myself to
these stately ceremonials,” said he.
“No,” said Lord Braithwaite, whose English was very good. “But this is
a good old ceremony, and an ingenious one; for does it not twine us into
knotted links of love--this Loving Cup--like a wreath of Bacchanals whom
I have seen surrounding an antique vase. Doubtless it has great
efficacy in entwining a company of friendly guests into one affectionate
society.”
“Yes; it should seem so,” replied Redclyffe, with a smile, and again
meeting those black eyes, which smiled back on him. “It should seem so,
but it appears that the origin of the custom was quite different, and
that it was as a safeguard to a man when he drank with his enemy. What
a peculiar flavor it must have given to the liquor, when the eyes of two
deadly foes met over the brim of the Loving Cup, and the drinker knew
that, if he withdrew it, a dagger would be in his heart, and the other
watched him drink, to see if it was poison!”
“Ah!” responded his Lordship, “they had strange fashions in those rough
old times. Nowadays, we neither stab, shoot, nor poison. I scarcely
think we hate except as interest guides us, without malevolence.”
This singular conversation was interrupted by a toast, and the rising
of one of the guests to answer it. Several other toasts of routine
succeeded; one of which, being to the honor of the old founder of the
Hospital, Lord Braithwaite, as his representative, rose to reply,--which
he did in good phrases, in a sort of eloquence unlike that of the
Englishmen around him, and, sooth to say, comparatively unaccustomed as
he must have been to the use of the language, much more handsomely than
they. In truth, Redclyffe was struck and amused with the rudeness, the
slovenliness, the inartistic quality of the English speakers, who rather
seemed to avoid grace and neatness of set purpose, as if they would be
ashamed of it. Nothing could be more ragged than these utterances
which they called speeches; so patched, and darned; and yet, somehow or
other--though dull and heavy as all which seemed to inspire them--they
had a kind of force. Each man seemed to have the faculty of getting,
after some rude fashion, at the sense and feeling that was in him; and
without glibness, without smoothness, without form or comeliness, still
the object with which each one rose to speak was accomplished,--and what
was more remarkable, it seemed to be accomplished without the speaker’s
having any particular plan for doing it. He was surprised, too, to
observe how loyally every man seemed to think himself bound to speak,
and rose to do his best, however unfit his usual habits made him for the
task. Observing this, and thinking how many an American would be taken
aback and dumbfounded by being called on for a dinner speech, he could
not but doubt the correctness of the general opinion, that Englishmen
are naturally less facile of public speech than our countrymen.
“You surpass your countrymen,” said Redclyffe, when his Lordship resumed
his seat, amid rapping and loud applause.
“My countrymen? I scarcely know whether you mean the English or
Italians,” said Lord Braithwaite. “Like yourself, I am a hybrid, with
really no country, and ready to take up with any.”
“I have a country,--one which I am little inclined to deny,” replied
Redclyffe, gravely, while a flush (perhaps of conscientious shame) rose
to his brow.
His Lordship bowed, with a dark Italian smile, but Redclyffe’s attention
was drawn away from the conversation by a toast which the Warden now
rose to give, and in which he found himself mainly concerned. With a
little preface of kind words (not particularly aptly applied) to
the great and kindred country beyond the Atlantic, the worthy Warden
proceeded to remark that his board was honored, on this high festival,
with a guest from that new world; a gentleman yet young, but already
distinguished in the councils of his country; the bearer, he remarked,
of an honored English name, which might well claim to be remembered
here, and on this occasion, although he had understood from his friend
that the American bearers of this name did not count kindred with the
English ones. This gentleman, he further observed, with considerable
flourish and emphasis, had recently been called from his retirement and
wanderings into the diplomatic service of his country, which he would
say, from his knowledge, the gentleman was well calculated to honor. He
drank the health of the Honorable Edward Redclyffe, Ambassador of the
United States to the Court of Hohen-Linden.
Our English cousins received this toast with the kindest enthusiasm,
as they always do any such allusion to our country; it being a festal
feeling, not to be used except on holidays. They rose, with glass in
hand, in honor of the Ambassador; the band struck up “Hail, Columbia”;
and our hero marshalled his thoughts as well as he might for the
necessary response; and when the tumult subsided he arose.
His quick apprehending had taught him something of the difference of
taste between an English and an American audience at a dinner-table;
he felt that there must be a certain looseness, and carelessness, and
roughness, and yet a certain restraint; that he must not seem to aim
at speaking well, although, for his own ambition, he was not content
to speak ill; that, somehow or other, he must get a heartiness into his
speech; that he must not polish, nor be too neat, and must come with
a certain rudeness to his good points, as if he blundered on them,
and were surprised into them. Above all, he must let the good wine and
cheer, and all that he knew and really felt of English hospitality, as
represented by the kind Warden, do its work upon his heart, and speak
up to the extent of what he felt--and if a little more, then no great
harm--about his own love for the father-land, and the broader grounds of
the relations between the two countries. On this system, Redclyffe began
to speak; and being naturally and habitually eloquent, and of mobile and
ready sensibilities, he succeeded, between art and nature, in making
a speech that absolutely delighted the company, who made the old hall
echo, and the banners wave and tremble, and the board shake, and the
glasses jingle, with their rapturous applause. What he said--or some
shadow of it, and more than he quite liked to own--was reported in the
county paper that gave a report of the dinner; but on glancing over it,
it seems not worth while to produce this eloquent effort in our pages,
the occasion and topics being of merely temporary interest.
Redclyffe sat down, and sipped his claret, feeling a little ashamed of
himself, as people are apt to do after a display of this kind.
“You know the way to the English heart better than I do,” remarked his
Lordship, after a polite compliment to the speech. “Methinks these dull
English are being improved in your atmosphere. The English need a
change every few centuries,--either by immigration of new stock, or
transportation of the old,--or else they grow too gross and earthly,
with their beef, mutton, and ale. I think, now, it might benefit both
countries, if your New England population were to be reciprocally
exchanged with an equal number of Englishmen. Indeed, Italians might do
as well.”
“I should regret,” said Redclyffe, “to change the English, heavy as they
are.”
“You are an admirable Englishman,” said his Lordship. “For my part,
I cannot say that the people are very much to my taste, any more than
their skies and climate, in which I have shivered during the two years
that I have spent here.”
Here their conversation ceased; and Redclyffe listened to a long train
of speechifying, in the course of which everybody, almost, was toasted;
everybody present, at all events, and many absent. The Warden’s old
wine was not spared; the music rang and resounded from the gallery; and
everybody seemed to consider it a model feast, although there were no
very vivid signs of satisfaction, but a decorous, heavy enjoyment, a
dull red heat of pleasure, without flame. Soda and seltzer-water, and
coffee, by and by were circulated; and at a late hour the company began
to retire.
Before taking his departure, Lord Braithwaite resumed his conversation
with Redclyffe, and, as it appeared, with the purpose of making a
hospitable proposition.
“I live very much alone,” said he, “being insulated from my neighbors
by many circumstances,--habits, religion, and everything else peculiarly
English. If you are curious about old English modes of life, I can show
you, at least, an English residence, little altered within a century
past. Pray come and spend a week with me before you leave this part of
the country. Besides, I know the court to which you are accredited, and
can give you, perhaps, useful information about it.”
Redclyffe looked at him in some surprise, and with a nameless
hesitation; for he did not like his Lordship, and had fancied, in truth,
that there was a reciprocal antipathy. Nor did he yet feel that he was
mistaken in this respect; although his Lordship’s invitation was given
in a tone of frankness, and seemed to have no reserve, except that his
eyes did not meet his like Anglo-Saxon eyes, and there seemed an Italian
looking out from within the man. But Redclyffe had a sort of repulsion
within himself; and he questioned whether it would be fair to his
proposed host to accept his hospitality, while he had this secret
feeling of hostility and repugnance,--which might be well enough
accounted for by the knowledge that he secretly entertained hostile
interests to their race, and half a purpose of putting them in force.
And, besides this,--although Redclyffe was ashamed of the feeling,--he
had a secret dread, a feeling that it was not just a safe thing to trust
himself in this man’s power; for he had a sense, sure as death, that he
did not wish him well, and had a secret dread of the American. But he
laughed within himself at this feeling, and drove it down. Yet it made
him feel that there could be no disloyalty in accepting his Lordship’s
invitation, because it was given in as little friendship as it would be
accepted.
“I had almost made my arrangements for quitting the neighborhood,”
said he, after a pause; “nor can I shorten the week longer which I
had promised to spend with my very kind friend, the Warden. Yet your
Lordship’s kindness offers we a great temptation, and I would gladly
spend the next ensuing week at Braithwaite Hall.”
“I shall expect you, then,” said Lord Braithwaite. “You will find me
quite alone, except my chaplain,--a scholar, and a man of the world,
whom you will not be sorry to know.”
He bowed and took his leave, without shaking hands, as an American would
have thought it natural to do, after such a hospitable agreement; nor
did Redclyffe make any motion towards it, and was glad that his Lordship
had omitted it. On the whole, there was a secret dissatisfaction with
himself; a sense that he was not doing quite a frank and true thing in
accepting this invitation, and he only made peace with himself on the
consideration that Lord Braithwaite was as little cordial in asking the
visit as he in acceding to it.