ECCENTRIC VOWS.
No man takes or keeps a vow,
But just as he sees others do;
Nor are they 'bliged to be so brittle
As not to yield and bow a little:
For as best tempered blades are found
Before they break, to bend quite round,
So truest oaths are still more tough,
And, tho' they bow, are breaking-proof.
BUTLER'S "Hudibras," Ep. to his Lady, 75.
Some two hundred and fifty years ago, the prevailing colour in all
dresses was that shade of brown known as the "couleur Isabelle," and
this was its origin:--A short time after the siege of Ostend
commenced, at the beginning of the seventeenth century, Isabella
Eugenia, Gouvernante of the Netherlands, incensed at the obstinate
bravery of the defenders, is reported to have made a vow that she
would not change her chemise till the town surrendered. It was a
marvellously inconvenient vow, for the siege, according to the precise
historians thereof, lasted three years, three months, three weeks,
three days, and three hours; and her highness's garment had
wonderfully changed its colour before twelve months of the time had
expired. But the ladies and gentlemen of the Court, in no way
dismayed, resolved to keep their mistress in countenance, and, after a
struggle between their loyalty and their cleanliness, they hit upon
the compromising expedient of wearing dresses of the presumed colour,
finally attained by the garment which clung to the Imperial
Archduchess by force of religious obstinacy. But, foolish and
eccentric as was the conduct of Isabella Eugenia, there have been
persons gifted, like herself, with sufficient mental power and
strength of character to keep the vows they have sworn.
Thus, at a tournament held on the 17th November, 1559--the first
anniversary of Queen Elizabeth's accession--Sir Henry Lee, of
Quarendon, made a vow that every year on the return of that auspicious
day, he would present himself in the tilt yard, in honour of the
Queen, to maintain her beauty, worth, and dignity, against all comers,
unless prevented by infirmity, accident, or age. Elizabeth accepted
Sir Henry as her knight and champion; and the nobility and gentry of
the Court formed themselves into an Honourable Society of Knights
Tilters, which held a grand tourney every 17th November. But in the
year 1590, Sir Henry, on account of age, resigned his office, having
previously, by Her Majesty's permission, appointed the famous Earl of
Cumberland as his successor. On this occasion, the royal choir sang
the following verses as Sir Henry Lee's farewell to the Court:
My golden locks time hath to silver turned,
O Time, too swift, and swiftness never ceasing!
My youth 'gainst age, and age at youth both spurned,
But spurned in vain--youth waned by increasing;
Beauty, and strength, and youth, flowers fading been;
Duty, faith, love, are roots and evergreen.
My helmet now shall make a hive for bees,
And lover's songs shall turn to holy psalms;
A man-at arms must now sit on his knees,
And feed on prayers that are old age's alms.
And so from Court to cottage I depart,
My Saint is sure of mine unspotted heart.
And when I sadly sit in homely cell,
I'll teach my saints this carol for a song:
Blest be the hearts that wish my sovereign well!
Cursed be the souls that think to do her wrong!
Goddess! vouchsafe this aged man his right
To be your beadsman now, that was your knight.
But not long after Sir Henry Lee had resigned his office of especial
champion of the beauty of the sovereign, he fell in love with the new
maid of honour--the fair Mrs. Anne Vavasour--who, though in the
morning flower of her charms, and esteemed the loveliest girl in the
whole court, drove a whole bevy of youthful lovers to despair by
accepting this ancient relic of the age of chivalry.[12]
Queen Isabella vowed to make a pilgrimage to Barcelona, and return
thanks at the tomb of that City's patron Saint, if the Infanta Eulalie
recovered from an apparently mortal illness, and Queen Joan of Naples
honoured the knight Galeazzo of Mantua by opening the ball with him at
a grand feast at her castle of Gaita. At the conclusion of the dance,
Galeazzo, kneeling down before his royal partner, vowed, as an
acknowledgment of the honour he had received, to visit every country
where feats of arms were performed, and not to rest until he had
subdued two valiant knights, and presented them as prisoners to the
queen, to be disposed of at her royal pleasure. After an absence of
twelve months, Galeazzo, true to his vow, appeared at Naples, and laid
his two prisoners at the feet of Queen Joan, but who, it is said,
displayed commendable wisdom on the occasion, and "declined her right
to impose rigorous conditions on her captives, and gave them liberty
without ransom."
Such cases, it is true, have been somewhat rare, for made oftentimes
on the impulse of the moment, "unheedful vows," as Shakespeare says,
"may heedfully be broken." But, scarce as the records of unbroken vows
may be, they are deserving of a permanent record, more especially as
the direction of their eccentricity is, for the most part, in itself
curious and uncommon. Love, for instance, has been responsible for
many strange and curious vows in the past, and some years ago it was
stated that the original of Charles Dickens's Miss Havisham was living
in the flesh not far from Ventnor in the person of an old maiden lady,
who, because of the maternal objection to some love affair in her
early life, made and kept a vow that she would retire to her bed, and
there spend the remainder of her days. It was a stern vow but she kept
her word, "and the years have come and gone, and the house has never
been swept or garnished, the garden is an overgrown tangle, and the
eccentric lady has spent twenty years between the sheets." But whether
this piece of romance is to be accepted or not, love has been the
cause of many foolish acts, and many a disappointed damsel, has acted
in no less eccentric a fashion than Miss Havisham, who was so
completely overcome by the failure of Compeyson to appear on the
wedding morning that she became fossilised, and gave orders that
everything was to be kept unchanged, but to remain as it had been on
that hapless day. Henceforth she was always attired in her bridal
dress with lace veil from head to foot, white shoes, bridal flowers in
her white hair, and jewels on her hands and neck. Years went on, the
wedding breakfast remained set on the table, while the poor half
demented lady flitted from one room to another like a restless ghost;
and the case is recorded of another lady whose lover was arrested for
forgery on the day before their marriage was to have taken place. Her
vow took the form of keeping to her room, sitting winter and summer
alike at her casement and waiting for him who was turning the
treadmill, and who was never to come again.
On the other hand, vows have been made, but persons have contrived to
rid themselves of the inconveniences without breaking them, reminding
us of Benedick, who finding the charms of his "Dear Lady Disdain" too
much for his celibate resolves, gets out of his difficulty by
declaring that "When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think I
should live till I were married." Equally ludicrous, also, is the
story told of a certain man, who, greatly terrified in a storm, vowed
he would eat no haberdine, but, just as the danger was over, he
qualified his promise with "Not without mustard, O Lord." And
Voltaire, in one of his romances, represents a disconsolate widow
vowing that she will never marry again, "so long as the river flows by
the side of the hill." But a few months afterwards the widow recovers
from her grief, and, contemplating matrimony, takes counsel with a
clever engineer. He sets to work, the river is deviated from its
course, and, in a short time, it no longer flows by the side of the
hill. The lady, released from her vow, does not allow many days to
elapse before she exchanges her weeds for a bridal veil. However far
fetched this little romance may be, a veritable instance of thus
keeping the letter of the vow and neglecting the spirit, was recorded
not so very long ago: A Salopian parish clerk seeing a woman crossing
the churchyard with a bundle and a watering can, followed her, curious
to know what intentions might be, and discovered that she was a widow
of a few months' standing. Inquiring what she was going to do with the
watering pot, she informed him that she had been obtaining some grass
seed to sow on her husband's grave, and had brought a little water to
make it spring up quickly. The clerk told her there was no occasion to
trouble, the grave would be green in good time. "Ah! that may be," she
replied, "but my poor husband made me take a vow not to marry again
until the grass had grown over his grave, and, having a good offer, I
do not wish to break my vow, or keep as I am longer than I can help."
But vows have not always been broken with impunity. Janet Dalrymple,
daughter of the first Lord Stair, secretly engaged herself to Lord
Rutherford, who was not acceptable to her parents, either on account
of his political principles, or his want of fortune. The young couple
broke a piece of gold together, and pledged their troth in the most
solemn manner, the young lady, it is said, imprecating dreadful evils
on herself should she break her plighted faith. But shortly afterwards
another suitor sought the hand of Janet Dalrymple, and, when she
showed a cold indifference to his overtures, her mother, Lady Stair,
insisted upon her consenting to marry the new suitor, David Dunbar,
son and heir of David Dunbar of Baldoon, in Wigtonshire. It was in
vain that Janet Dalrymple confessed her secret engagement, for Lady
Stair treated this objection as a mere trifle.
Lord Rutherford, apprised of what had happened, interfered by letter,
and insisted on the right he had acquired by his troth plighted with
Janet Dalrymple. But Lady Stair answered in reply that "her daughter,
sensible of her undutiful behaviour in entering into a contract
unsanctioned by her parents, had retracted her unlawful vow, and now
refused to fulfil her engagement with him." Lord Rutherford wrote
again to Lady Stair, and briefly informed her that "he declined
positively to receive such an answer from anyone but Janet Dalrymple,"
and, accordingly, an interview was arranged between them, at which
Lady Stair took good care to be present, with pertinacity insisting on
the Levitical law, which declares that a woman shall be free of a vow
which her parents dissent from.
While Lady Stair insisted on her right to break the engagement, Lord
Rutherford in vain entreated Janet Dalrymple to declare her feelings;
but she remained "mute, pale, and motionless as a statue," and it was
only at her mother's command, sternly uttered, she summoned strength
enough to restore the broken piece of gold--the emblem of her troth.
At this unexpected act Lord Rutherford burst into a tremendous
passion, took leave of Lady Stair with maledictions, and, as he left
the room, gave one angry glance at Janet Dalrymple, remarking, "For
you, madam, you will be a world's wonder"--a phrase denoting some
remarkable degree of calamity.
In due time, the marriage between Janet Dalrymple and David Dunbar of
Baldoon, took place, the bride showing no repugnance, but being
absolutely impassive in everything Lady Stair commanded or advised,
always maintaining the same sad, silent, and resigned look.
The bridal feast was followed by dancing, and the bride and bridegroom
retired as usual, when suddenly the most wild and piercing cries were
heard from the nuptial chamber, which at length became so hideous that
a general rush was made to learn the cause. On opening the door a
ghastly scene presented itself, for the bridegroom was discovered
lying on the floor, dreadfully wounded, and streaming with blood. The
bride was seen sitting in the corner of the large chimney, dabbled in
gore--grinning--in short, absolutely insane, and the only words she
uttered were; "Take up your bonny bridegroom." She survived this
tragic event little over a fortnight, having been married on the 24th
August, and dying on the 12th September.
The unfortunate bridegroom recovered from his wounds, but, strange to
say, he never permitted anyone to ask him respecting the manner in
which he had received them; but he did not long survive this dreadful
catastrophe, meeting with a fatal injury by a fall from a horse as he
was one day riding between Leith and Holyrood House. As might be
expected, various reports went abroad respecting this mysterious
affair, most of them being inaccurate.[13] But the story has gained a
lasting notoriety from Sir Walter Scott having founded his "Bride of
Lammermoor" upon it; who, in his introductory notes to that novel, has
given some curious facts concerning this tragic occurrence, quoting an
elegy of Andrew Symson, which takes the form of a dialogue between a
passenger and a domestic servant. The first recollecting that he had
passed Lord Stair's house lately, and seen all around enlivened by
mirth and festivity, is desirous of knowing what has changed so gay a
scene into mourning, whereupon the servant replies:--
"Sir, 'tis truth you've told,
We did enjoy great mirth; but now, ah me!
Our joyful song's turned to an elegie.
A virtuous lady, not long since a bride,
Was to a hopeful plant by marriage tied,
And brought home hither. We did all rejoice
Even for her sake. But presently her voice
Was turned to mourning for that little time
That she'd enjoy: she waned in her prime,
For Atropos, with her impartial knife,
Soon cut her thread, and therewithal her life;
And for the time, we may it well remember
It being in unfortunate September;
Where we must leave her till the resurrection,
'Tis then the Saints enjoy their full perfection."
Many a vow too rashly made has been followed by an equally tragic
result, instances of which are to be met with in the legendary lore of
our county families. A somewhat curious legend is connected with a
monument in the church of Stoke d'Abernon, Surrey. The story goes that
two young brothers of the family of Vincent, the elder of whom had
just come into his estate, were out shooting on Fairmile Common, about
two miles from the village. They had put up several birds, but had not
been able to get a single shot, when the elder swore with an oath that
he would fire at whatever they next met with. They had not gone far
before a neighbouring miller passed them, whereupon the younger
brother reminded the elder of his oath, who immediately fired at the
miller, and killed him on the spot. Through the influence of his
family, backed by large sums of money, no effective steps were taken
to apprehend young Vincent, but, after leading a life of complete
seclusion for some years, death finally put an end to the
insupportable anguish of his mind.
A pretty romance is told of Furness Abbey, locally known as "The Abbey
Vows." Many years ago, Matilda, the pretty and much-admired daughter
of a squire residing near Stainton, had been wooed and won by James, a
neighbouring farmer's son. But as Matilda was the only child, her
father fondly imagined that her rare beauty and fortune combined would
procure her a good match, little thinking that her heart was already
given to one whose position he would never recognise. It so happened,
however, that the young people, through force of circumstances, were
separated, neither seeing nor hearing of each other for some years.
At last, by chance, they were thrown together, when the active service
in which James was employed had given his fine manly form an
appearance which was at once imposing and captivating. Matilda, too,
was improved in every eye, and never had James seen so lovely a maid
as his former playmate. Their youthful hearts were disengaged, and
they soon resolved to render their attachment as binding and as
permanent as it was pure and undivided. The period had arrived, also,
when James must again go to sea, and leave Matilda to have her
fidelity tried by other suitors. Both, therefore, were willing to bind
themselves by some solemn pledge to live but for each other. For this
purpose they repaired, on the evening before James's departure, to the
ruins of Furness Abbey. It was a fine autumnal evening; the sun had
set in the greatest beauty, and the moon was hastening up the eastern
sky; and in the roofless choir they knelt, near where the altar
formerly stood, and repeated, in the presence of Heaven, their vows of
deathless love.
They parted. But the fate of the betrothed lovers was a melancholy
one. James returned to his ship for foreign service, and was killed by
the first broadside of a French privateer, with which the captain had
injudiciously ventured to engage. As for Matilda, she regularly went
to the abbey to visit the spot where she had knelt with her lover; and
there, it is said, "she would stand for hours, with clasped hands,
gazing on that heaven which alone had been witness to their mutual
vows."
Another momentous vow, but one of a terribly tragic nature, relates to
Samlesbury Hall, which stands about midway between Preston and
Blackburn, and has long been famous for its apparition of "The Lady in
White." The story generally told is that one of the daughters of Sir
John Southworth, a former owner, formed an attachment with the heir of
a neighbouring house, and nothing was wanting to complete their
happiness except the consent of the lady's father. Sir John was
accordingly consulted by the youthful couple, but the tale of their
love for each other only increased his rage, and he dismissed them
with the most bitter denunciations.
"No daughter of his should ever be united to the son of a family which
had deserted its ancestral faith," he solemnly vowed, and to
intensify his disapproval of the whole affair, he forbade the young
man his presence for ever. Difficulty, however, only served to
increase the ardour of the lovers, and, after many secret interviews
among the wooded slopes of the Ribble, an elopement was arranged, in
the hope that time would eventually bring her father's forgiveness.
But the day and place were unfortunately overheard by the lady's
brother, who had hidden himself in a thicket close by, determined, if
possible, to prevent what he considered to be his sister's disgrace.
On the evening agreed upon both parties met at the appointed hour,
and, as the young knight moved away with his betrothed, her brother
rushed from his hiding-place, and, in pursuance of a vow he had made,
slew him. After this tragic occurrence, Lady Dorothy was sent abroad
to a convent, where she was kept under strict surveillance; but her
mind at last gave way--the name of her murdered sweetheart was ever on
her lips--and she died a raving maniac. It is said that on certain
clear, still evenings, a lady in white can be seen passing along the
gallery and the corridors, and then from the hall into the grounds,
where she meets a handsome knight, who receives her on his bended
knees, and he then accompanies her along the walks. On arriving at a
certain spot, in all probability the lover's grave, both the phantoms
stand still, and as they seem to utter soft wailings of despair, they
embrace each other, and then their forms rise slowly from the earth
and melt away into the clear blue of the surrounding sky.[14]
A strange and romantic story is told of Blenkinsopp Castle, which,
too, has long been haunted by a "white lady." It seems that its owner,
Bryan de Blenkinsopp, despite many good qualities, had an inordinate
love of wealth which ultimately wrecked his fortune. At the marriage
feast of a brother warrior with a lady of high rank and fortune, the
health was drunk of Bryan de Blenkinsopp and his "lady love." But to
the surprise of all present Bryan made a vow that "never shall that be
until I meet with a lady possessed of a chest of gold heavier than ten
of my strongest men can carry into my Castle." Soon afterwards he went
abroad, and after an absence of twelve years returned, not only with a
wife, but possessed of a box of gold that took three of the strongest
men to convey it to the Castle. A grand banquet was given in honour of
his return, and, after several days feasting and rejoicing, vague
rumours were spread of dissensions between the lord and his lady. One
day the young husband disappeared, and never returned to Blenkinsopp,
nothing more being heard of him. But the traditionary account of this
mystery asserts that his young wife, filled with remorse at her
undutiful conduct towards him, cannot rest in her grave, but must
wander about the old castle, and mourn over the chest of gold--the
cursed cause of all their misery--of which it is supposed she, with
the assistance of others, had deprived her husband. It is generally
admitted that the cause of Bryan de Blenkinsopp's future unhappiness
was the rash vow he uttered at that fatal banquet.
Associated with this curious romance there are current in the
neighbourhood many tales of a more or less legendary character, but
there has long been a firm belief that treasure lies buried beneath
the crumbling ruins. According to one story given in Richardson's
"Table Book of Traditions" some years ago, two of the more habitable
apartments of Blenkinsopp Castle were utilized by a labourer of the
estate and his family. But one night, the parents were aroused by
screams from the adjoining room, and rushing in they found their
little son sitting up in bed, terribly frightened. "What was the
matter?"
"The White Lady! The White Lady!" cried the boy.
"What lady," asked the bewildered parents; "there is no lady here!"
"She is gone," replied the boy, "and she looked so angry because I
would not go with her. She was a fine lady--and she sat down on my
bedside and wrung her hands and cried sore; then she kissed me and
asked me to go with her, and she would make me a rich man, as she had
buried a large box of gold, many hundred years since, down in a
vault, and she would give it me, as she could not rest so long as it
was there. When I told her I durst not go, she said she would carry
me, and was lifting me up when I cried out and frightened her away."
When the boy grew up he invariably persisted in the truth of his
statement, and at forty years of age could recall the scene so vividly
as "to make him shudder, as if still he felt her cold lips press his
cheeks and the death-like embrace of her wan arms."
Equally curious is the old tradition told of Lynton Castle, of which
not a stone remains, although, once upon a time, it was as stately a
stronghold as ever echoed to the clash of knightly arms. One evening
there came to its gates a monk, who in the name of the Holy Virgin
asked alms, but the lady of the Castle liked not his gloomy brow, and
bade him begone. Resenting such treatment, the monk drew up his
well-knit frame, and vowed:--"All that is thine shall be mine, until
in the porch of the holy church, a lady and a child shall stand and
beckon."
Little heed was taken of these ominous words, and as years passed by a
baron succeeded to the Lynton estates, whose greed was such that he
dared to lay his sacrilegious hand even upon holy treasures. But as he
sate among his gold, the black monk entered, and summoned him to his
fearful audit; and his servants, aroused by his screams, found only a
lifeless corpse. This was considered retribution for his sins of the
past, and his son, taking warning, girded on his sword, and in
Palestine did doughty deeds against the Saracen. By his side was
constantly seen the mysterious Black Monk--his friend and guide--but
"at length the wine-cup and the smiles of lewd women lured him from
the path of right." After a time the knight returned to Devonshire,
"and lo, on the happy Sabbath morning, the chimes of the church-bells
flung out their silver music on the air, and the memories of an
innocent childhood woke up instantly in his sorrowing heart." In vain
the Black Monk sought to beguile him from the holy fane, and whispered
to him of bright eyes and a distant bower. He paused only for a
moment. In the shadow of the porch stood the luminous forms of his
mother and sister, who lifted up their spirit hands, and beckoned. The
knight tore himself from the Black Monk's grasp and rushed towards
them, exclaiming, "I come! I come! Mother, sister, I am saved! O,
Heaven, have pity on me!" The story adds that the three were borne up
in a radiant cloud, but "the Black Monk leapt headlong into the depths
of the abyss beneath, and the castle fell to pieces with a sudden
crash, and where its towers had soared statelily into the sunlit air
was now outspread the very desolation--the valley of the rocks--" and
thus the vow was accomplished, all that remains nowadays to remind the
visitor of that stately castle and its surroundings being a lonely
glen in the valley of rocks where a party of marauders, it is said,
were once overtaken and slaughtered.
In some cases churches have been built in performance of vows, and at
the Tichborne Trial one of the witnesses deposed how Sir Edward
Doughty made a vow, when his son was ill, that if the child recovered
he would build a church at Poole. Contrary to all expectation, the
child "did recover most miraculously, for it had been ill beyond all
hope, and Sir Edward built a church at Poole, and there it stands
until this day." There are numerous stories of the same kind, and the
peculiar position of the old church of St. Antony, in Kirrier,
Cornwall, is accounted for by the following tradition: It is said
that, soon after the Conquest, as some Normans of rank were crossing
from Normandy into England, they were driven by a terrific storm on
the Cornish coast, where they were in imminent danger of destruction.
In their peril and distress they called on St. Antony, and made a vow
that if he would preserve them from shipwreck they would build a
church in his honour on the spot where they first landed. The vessel
was wafted into the Durra Creek, and there the pious Normans, as soon
as possible, fulfilled their vow. A similar tradition is told of
Gunwalloe Parish Church, which, a local legend says, was erected as a
votive offering by one who here escaped from shipwreck, for, "when he
had miraculously escaped from the fury of the waves, he vowed that he
would build a chapel in which the sounds of prayer and praise to God
should blend with the never-ceasing voice of those waves from which he
had but narrowly escaped. So near to the sea is the church, that at
times it is reached by the waves, which have frequently washed away
the walls of the churchyard." But vows of a similar nature have been
connected with sacred buildings in most countries, and Vienna owes the
church of St. Charles to a vow made by the Emperor Charles the Sixth
during an epidemic. The silver ship, given by the Queen of St. Louis,
was made in accordance with a vow. According to Joinville, the queen
"said she wanted the king, to beg he would make some vows to God and
the Saints, for the sailors around her were in the greatest danger of
being drowned."
"'Madam,' I replied, 'vow to make a pilgrimage to my lord St. Nicholas
at Varengeville, and I promise you that God will restore you in safety
to France. At least, then, Madam, promise him that if God shall
restore you in safety to France, you will give him a silver ship of
the value of five masses; and if you shall do this, I assure you that,
at the entreaty of St. Nicholas, God will grant you a successful
voyage.' Upon this, she made a vow of a silver ship to St. Nicholas."
Similarly, there was a statue at Venice said to have performed great
miracles. A merchant vowed perpetual gifts of wax candles in gratitude
for being saved by the light of a candle on a dark night, reminding
us of Byron's description of a storm at sea, in 'Don Juan' (Canto
II.):
"Some went to prayers again and made vows
Of candles to their saints."
Numerous vows of this kind are recorded, and it may be remembered how
a certain Empress promised a golden lamp to the church of Notre Dame
des Victoires, in the event of her husband coming safely out of the
doctor's hands; and, as recently as the year 1867, attired in the garb
of a pilgrim of the olden time, walked, in fulfilment of a vow, from
Madrid to Rome when she fancied herself at death's door.
Many card-players and gamesters, unable to bear reverse, have made
vows which they lacked the moral courage to keep. Dr. Norman Macleod
tells a curious anecdote of a well-known character who lived in the
parish of Sedgley, near Wolverhampton, and who, having lost a
considerable sum of money by a match at cock-fighting--to which
practice he was notoriously addicted--made a vow that he would never
fight another cock as long as he lived, "frequently calling upon God
to damn his soul to all eternity if he did, and, with dreadful
imprecations, wishing the devil might fetch him if he ever made
another bet."
For a time he adhered to his vow, but two years afterwards he was
inspired with a violent desire to attend a cock-fight at
Wolverhampton, and accordingly visited the place for that purpose. On
reaching the scene he soon disregarded his vow, and cried: "I hold
four to three on such a cock!"
"Four what?" said one of his companions.
"Four shillings," replied he.
"I'll lay," said the other, upon which they confirmed the wager, and,
as his custom was, he threw down his hat and put his hand in his
pocket for the money, when he instantly fell down dead. Terrified at
the sight, "some who were present for ever after desisted from this
infamous sport; but others proceeded in the barbarous diversion as
soon as the dead body was removed from the spot."
Another inveterate gambler was Colonel Edgeworth, who on one occasion,
having lost all his ready cash at the card tables, actually borrowed
his wife's diamond earrings, and staking them had a fortunate turn of
luck, rising a winner; whereupon he solemnly vowed never to touch
cards or dice again. And yet, it is said, before the week was out, he
was pulling straws from a rick, and betting upon which should prove
the longest. On the other hand, Tate Wilkinson relates an interesting
anecdote of John Wesley who in early life was very fond of a game of
whist, and every Saturday was one of a constant party at a rubber, not
only for the afternoon, but also for the evening. But the last
Saturday that he ever played at cards the rubber at whist was longer
than he expected, and, "on observing the tediousness of the game he
pulled out his watch, and to his shame he found it was some minutes
past eight, which was beyond the time he had appointed for the Lord.
He thought the devil had certainly tempted him beyond his hour, he
suddenly therefore gave up his cards to a gentleman near him to finish
the game," and left the room, making a vow never to play with "the
devil's pages," as he called them, again. That vow he never broke.
Political vows, as is well known, have a curious history, and an
interesting incident is told in connection with one of the ancestors
of Sir Walter Scott. It appears that Walter Scott, the first of
Raeburn, by Ann Isabel, his wife, daughter of William Macdougall, had
two sons, William, direct ancestor of the Lairds of Raeburn, and
Walter, progenitor of the Scotts of Abbotsford. The younger, who was
generally known by the curious appellation of "Bearded Watt," from a
vow which he had made to leave his beard unshaven until the
restoration of the Stuarts, reminds us of those Servian patriots who
during the bombardment of Belgrade thirty years ago, made a vow that
they would never allow a razor to touch their faces until the thing
could be done in the fortress itself. Five years afterwards, in 1867,
the Servians marched through the streets of Belgrade, with enormous
beards, preceded by the barbers, each with razor in hand, and entered
the fortresses to have the last office of the vow performed on them.
FOOTNOTES:
[12] Agnes Strickland, "Lives of the Queens of England," 1884, iii.,
454-5.
[13] See Sir Walter Scott's notes to the "Bride of Lammermoor."
[14] Harland's "Lancashire Legends," 1882, p. 263-4.