STRANGE BANQUETS.
"O'Rourke's noble feast will ne'er be forgot
By those who were there--or those who were not."
In the above words the Dean of St. Patrick has immortalised an Irish
festival of the eighteenth century; and some such memory will long
cling to many a family or historic banquet, which--like the tragic one
depicted in "Macbeth," where the ghost of the murdered Banquo makes
its uncanny appearance, or that remarkable feast described by Lord
Lytton, where Zanoni drinks with impunity the poisoned cup, remarking
to the Prince, "I pledge you even in this wine"--has been the scene of
some unusual, or extraordinary occurrence.
At one time or another, the wedding feast has witnessed many a strange
and truly romantic occurrence, in some instances the result of
unrequited love, or faithless pledges, as happened at the marriage
feast of the second Viscount Cullen. At the early age of sixteen he
had been betrothed to Elizabeth Trentham, a great heiress; but in the
course of his travels abroad he formed a strong attachment to an
Italian lady of rank, whom he afterwards deserted for his first
betrothed. In due time arrangements were made for their marriage; but
on the eventful day, while the wedding party were feasting in the
great hall at Rushton, a strange carriage, drawn by six horses, drew
up, and forth stepped a dark lady, who, at once entering the hall and,
seizing a goblet--"to punish his falsehood and pride"--to the
astonishment of all present, drank perdition to the bridegroom, and,
having uttered a curse upon his bride, to the effect that she would
live in wretchedness and die in want, promptly disappeared to be
traced no further.
No small consternation was caused by this unlooked-for _contretemps_;
but the young Viscount made light of it to his fair bride, dispelling
her alarm by explanations which satisfied her natural curiosity. But,
it is said, in after days, this unpleasant episode created an
unfavourable impression in her mind, and at times made her give way to
feelings of a despondent character. As events turned out, the curse of
her marriage day was in a great measure fulfilled. It is true she
became a prominent beauty of the Court of Charles II., and was painted
with less than his usual amount of drapery by Sir Peter Lely. It is
recorded also, that she twice gave an asylum to Monmouth, in the room
at Rushton, still known as the "Duke's Room"; but, living unhappily
with her husband, she died, notwithstanding her enormous fortune, in
comparative penury, at Kettering, at a great age, as recently as the
year 1713.
A curious tale of love and deception is told of Bulgaden Hall,
once--according to Ferrers, in his "History of Limerick"--the most
magnificent seat in the South of Ireland--erected by the Right Hon.
George Evans, who was created Baron Carbery, County of Cork, on the
9th of May, 1715. A family tradition proclaims him to have been noted
for great personal attractions, so much so, that Queen Anne, struck by
his appearance, took a ring from her finger at one of her levees, and
presented it to him--a ring preserved as a heir-loom at Laxton Hall,
Northamptonshire. In 1741, he married Grace, the daughter, and
eventually heiress of Sir Ralph Freke, of Castle Freke, in the County
of Cork, by whom he had four sons and the same number of daughters;
and it was George Evans, the eldest son and heir, who became the chief
personage in the following extraordinary marriage fraud.
It appears that at an early age he fell in love with the beautiful
daughter of his host, Colonel Stamer, who was only too ready to
sanction such an alliance. But, despite the brilliant prospects which
this contemplated marriage opened to the young lady, she turned a deaf
ear to any mention of it, for she loved another. As far as her parents
could judge she seemed inexorable, and they could only allay the
suspense of the expectant lover by assuring him that their daughter's
"natural timidity alone prevented an immediate answer to his suit."
But what their feelings of surprise were on the following day can be
imagined, when Miss Stamer announced to her parents her willingness to
marry George Evans. It was decided that there should be no delay, and
the marriage day was at once fixed. At this period of our social life,
the wedding banquet was generally devoted to wine and feasting, while
the marriage itself did not take place till the evening. And,
according to custom, sobriety at these bridal feasts was, we are told,
"a positive violation of all good breeding, and the guests would have
thought themselves highly dishonoured had the bridegroom escaped
scathless from the wedding banquet."
Accordingly, half unconscious of passing events, George Evans was
conducted to the altar, where the marriage knot was indissolubly tied.
But, as soon as he had recovered from the effects of the bridal feast,
he discovered, to his intense horror and dismay, that the bride he had
taken was not the woman of his choice--in short, he was the victim of
a cheat. Indignant at this cruel imposture, he ascertained that the
plot emanated from the woman who, till then, had been the ideal of his
soul, and that she had substituted her veiled sister Anne for herself
at the altar. The remainder of this strange affair is briefly
told:--George Evans had one, and only one, interview with his wife,
and thus addressed her in the following words: "Madam, you have
attained your end. I need not say how you bear my name; and, for the
sake of your family, I acknowledge you as my wife. You shall receive
an income from me suitable to your situation. This, probably, is all
you cared for with regard to me, and you and I shall meet no more in
this world."
[Illustration: "MADAM, YOU HAVE ATTAINED YOUR END. YOU AND I SHALL
MEET NO MORE IN THIS WORLD."]
He would allow no explanation, and almost immediately left his home
and country, never to meet again the woman who had so basely betrayed
him. The glory of Bulgaden Hall was gone. Its young master, in order
to quench his sorrow and bury his disgust, gave way to every kind of
dissipation, and died its victim in 1769. And, writes Sir Bernard
Burke, "from the period of its desertion by its luckless master,
Bulgaden Hall gradually sank into ruin; and to mark its site nought
remains but the foundation walls and a solitary stone, bearing the
family arms."
A strange incident, of which, it is said, no satisfactory explanation
has ever yet been forthcoming, happened during the wedding banquet of
Alexander III. at Jedburgh Castle, a weird and gruesome episode which
Edgar Poe expanded into his "Masque of the Red Death." The story goes
that in the midst of the festivities, a mysterious figure glided
amongst the astonished guests--tall and gaunt, and shrouded from head
to foot in the habiliments of the grave, the mask which concealed the
visage resembling the countenance of a stiffened corpse.
"Who dares," demands the royal host, "to insult us with this
blasphemous mockery? Seize him and unmask him, that we may know whom
we have to hang at sunrise from the battlements."
But when the awe-struck revellers took courage and grasped the figure,
"they gasped in unutterable horror on finding the grave cerements and
corpse-like mask, which they handled with so violent a rudeness,
untenanted by any tangible form, vanishing as suddenly as it had
appeared." All sorts of theories have been suggested to account for
this mysterious figure, but no satisfactory solution has been
forthcoming, an incident of which, it may be remembered, Heywood has
given a graphic picture:
In the mid-revels, the first ominous night
Of their espousals, when the room shone bright
With lighted tapers--the king and queen leading
The curious measures, lords and ladies treading
The self-same strains--the king looks back by chance
And spies a strange intruder fill the dance,
Namely, a mere anatomy, quite bare,
His naked limbs both without flesh and hair
(As he deciphers Death), who stalks about,
Keeping true measure till the dance be out.
Inexplicable, however, as the presence of this unearthly, mysterious
personage was felt to be by all engaged in the marriage revels, it
was regarded as the forerunner of some approaching catastrophe.
Prophets and seers lost no time in turning the affair to their own
interest, and amongst them Thomas the Rhymer predicted that the 16th
of March would be "the stormiest day that ever was witnessed in
Scotland." But when the supposed ill-fated day arrived, it was the
very reverse of stormy, being still and mild, and public opinion began
to ridicule the prophetic utterance of Thomas the Rhymer, when, to the
amazement and consternation of all, there came the appalling news,
"The king is dead," whereupon Thomas the Rhymer ejaculated, "That is
the storm which I meant, and there was never tempest which will bring
to Scotland more ill-luck."
The disappearance of the heir to a property, which has always been a
favourite subject with novelists and romance writers, has occasionally
happened in real life, and a Shropshire legend relates how, long ago,
the heir of the house of Corbet went away to the wars, and remained
absent so many years that his family--as in the case of Enoch
Arden--gave up all hope of ever seeing him again, and eventually
mourned for him as dead. His younger brother succeeded to the
property, and prepared to take to himself a wife, and reign in the old
family hall.
But on the wedding day, in the midst of the feasting, a pilgrim came
to the gate asking hospitality and alms. He was bidden to sit down
and share the feast, but scarcely was the banquet ended when the
pilgrim revealed himself as the long lost elder brother. The
disconcerted bridegroom acknowledged him at once, but the latter
generously resigned the greater part of the estates to his brother,
and, sooner than mar the prospects of the newly married couple, he
lived a life of obscurity upon one small manor. There seems, however,
to be a very small basis of fact for this story. The Corbets of
Shropshire--one branch of whom are owners of Moreton Corbet--are among
the very oldest of the many old Shropshire families. They trace their
descent back to Corbet the Norman, whose sons, Robert and Roger,
appear in Domesday Book as holding large estates under Roger, Earl of
Shrewsbury. The grandsons of Roger Corbet were Thomas Corbet of
Wattlesborough, and Robert Corbet. Thomas, who was evidently the elder
of the two, it seems went beyond seas, leaving his lands in the
custody of his brother Robert. Both brothers left descendants, but the
elder branch of the family never attained to such rank and prosperity
as the younger one." Hence, perhaps, the origin of the legend; but
Moreton Corbet did not come into the possession of the family till
long after this date.[15]
Whatever truth there may be in this old tradition, there is every
reason to believe that some of the worst tragedies recorded in family
history have been due to jealousy; and an extraordinary instance of
such unnatural feeling was that displayed by the second wife of Sir
Robert Scott, of Thirlestane, one of the most distinguished cadets of
the great House of Buccleuch. Distracted with mortification that her
husband's rich inheritance would descend to his son by his first wife,
she secretly resolved to compass the destruction of her step-son, and
determined to execute her hateful purpose at the festivities held in
honour of the young laird's twentieth birthday. Having taken into her
confidence one John Lally, the family piper, this wretched man
procured three adders, from which he selected the parts replete with
the most deadly poison, and, after grinding them to fine powder, Lady
Thirlestane mixed them in a bottle of wine. Previous to the
commencement of the birthday feast, the young laird having called for
wine to drink the healths of the workmen who had just completed the
mason work of the new Castle of Gamescleugh--his future residence--the
piper Lally filled a silver cup from the poisoned bottle, which the
ill-fated youth hastily drank off. So potent was the poison that the
young laird died within an hour, and a feeling of horror seized the
birthday guests as to who could have done so foul a deed. But the
father seems to have had his suspicions, and having caused a bugle to
be blown, as a signal for all the family to assemble in the castle
court, he inquired, "Are we all here?"
A voice answered, "All but the piper, John Lally!"
These words, it is said, sounded like a knell in Sir Robert's ear, and
the truth was manifest to him. But unwilling to make a public example
of his own wife, he adopted a somewhat unique method of vengeance, and
publicly proclaimed that as he could not bestow the estate on his son
while alive, he would spend it upon him when dead. Accordingly, the
body of his son was embalmed with the most costly drugs, and lay in
state for a year and a day, during which time Sir Robert kept open
house, feasting all who chose to be his guests; Lady Thirlestane
meanwhile being imprisoned in a vault of the castle, and fed upon
bread and water. "During the last three days of this extraordinary
feast", writes Sir Bernard Burke,[16] "the crowds were immense. It was
as if the whole of the south of Scotland was assembled at Thirlestane.
Butts of the richest and rarest wine were carried into the fields,
their ends were knocked out with hatchets, and the liquor was carried
about in stoups. The burn of Thirlestane literally ran with wine." Sir
Robert died soon afterwards, and left his family in utter destitution,
his wife dying in absolute beggary. Thus was avenged the crime of this
cruel and unprincipled woman, whose fatal jealousy caused the ruin of
the family.
Political intrigue, again, has been the origin of many an act of
treachery, done under the semblance of hospitality, or given rise to
strange incidents.
To go back to early times, it seems that Edward the Confessor had long
indulged a suspicion that Earl Godwin--who had in the first instance
accused Queen Emma of having caused the death of her son--was himself
implicated in that transaction. It so happened that the King and a
large concourse of prelates and nobility were holding a large dinner
at Winchester, in honour of the Easter festival, when the butler, in
bringing in a dish, slipped, but recovered his balance by making
adroit use of his other foot.
"Thus does brother assist brother," exclaimed Earl Godwin, thinking to
be witty at the butler's expense.
"And thus might I have been now assisted by my Alfred, if Earl Godwin
had not prevented it," replied the King: for the Earl's remark had
recalled to his mind the suspicion he had long entertained of the Earl
having been concerned in Prince Alfred's death.
Resenting the king's words, the Earl holding up the morsel which he
was about to eat, uttered a great oath, and in the name of God
expressed a wish that the morsel might choke him if he had in any way
been concerned in that murder. Accordingly he there and then put the
morsel into his mouth, and attempted to swallow it; but his efforts
were in vain, it stuck fast in his throat--immovable upward or
downward--his respiration failed, his eyes became fixed, his
countenance convulsed, and in a minute more he fell dead under the
table.
Edward, convinced of the Earl's guilt, and seeing divine justice
manifested, and remembering, it is said, with bitterness the days past
when he had given a willing ear to the calumnies spread about his
innocent mother, cried out, in an indignant voice, "Carry away that
dog, and bury him in the high road." But the body was deposited by the
Earl's cousin in the cathedral.
Several accounts have been written of that terrible banquet, to which
the Earl of Douglas was invited by Sir Alexander Livingstone and the
Chancellor Crichton--who craftily dissembled their intentions--to sup
at the royal table in the Castle of Edinburgh. The Earl was foolhardy
enough to accept the ill-fated invitation, and shortly after he had
taken his place at the festive board, the head of a black bull--the
certain omen, in those days in Scotland, of immediate death--was
placed on the table. The Earl, anticipating treachery, instantly
sprang to his feet, and lost no time in making every effort to escape.
But no chance was given him to do so, and with his younger brother he
was hurried along into the courtyard of the castle, and after being
subjected to a mock trial, he was beheaded "in the back court of the
castle that lieth to the west". The death of the young earl, and his
untimely fate, were the subjects of lament in one of the ballads of
the time.
"Edinburgh castle, town, and tower,
God grant them sink for sin;
And that even for the black dinner
Earl Douglas gat therein."
This emphatic malediction is cited by Hume of Godscroft in his
"History of the House of Douglas," as referring to William, sixth Earl
of Douglas, a youth of eighteen; and Hume, speaking of this
transaction, says, with becoming indignation: "It is sure the people
did abhorre it--execrating the very place where it was done, in
detestation of the fact--of which the memory remaineth yet to our
dayes in these words."
Many similar stories are recorded in the history of the past, the
worst form of treachery oftentimes lurking beneath the festive cup,
and in times of commotion, when suspicion and mistrust made men feel
insecure even when entertained in the banqueting hall of some powerful
host, it is not surprising that great persons had their food tasted by
those who were supposed to have made themselves acquainted with its
wholesomeness. But this practice could not always afford security when
the taster was ready to sacrifice his own life, as in King John (act
v. sc. 6):
HUBERT. The king, I fear, is poisoned by a monk:
I left him almost speechless.
BASTARD. How did he take it? Who did taste to him?
HUBERT. A monk, I tell you; a resolved villain.
But, in modern days, one of the most unnatural tragedies on record was
the murder of Sir John Goodere, Foote's maternal uncle, by his brother
Captain Goodere, a naval officer. In the year 1740, the two brothers
dined at a friend's house near Bristol. For a long time they had been
on bad terms, owing to certain money transactions, but at the dinner
table a reconciliation was, to all appearance, made between them. But
it was a most terrible piece of underhand treachery, for on leaving
that dinner table, Sir John was waylaid on his return home by some men
from his brother's vessel--acting by his brother's authority--carried
on board, and deliberately strangled; Captain Goodere not only
unconcernedly looking on, but actually furnishing the rope with which
this fearful crime was committed. One of the strangest parts of this
terrible tale, Foote used to relate, was the fact that on the night
the murder was committed he arrived at his father's house in Truro,
and was kept awake for some time by the softest and sweetest strains
of music he had ever heard. At first he fancied it might be a serenade
got up by some of the family to welcome him home, but not being able
to discover any trace of the musicians, he came to the conclusion that
he was deceived by his own imagination. Shortly afterwards, however,
he learnt that the murder had been committed at the same hour of the
same night as he had been haunted by the mysterious sounds. In after
days, he often spoke of this curious occurrence, regarding it as a
supernatural warning, a conviction which he retained till his death.
But, strange and varied as are the scenes that have taken place at the
banquet, whether great or small, such acts of fratricide have been
rare, although, according to a family tradition relating to
Osbaldeston Hall, a similar tragedy once happened at a family banquet.
There is one room in the old hall whose walls are smeared with several
red marks, which, it is said, can never be obliterated. These stains
have some resemblance to blood, and are generally supposed to have
been caused when, many years ago, one of the family was brutally
murdered. The story commonly current is that there was once a great
family gathering at Osbaldeston Hall, at which every member of the
family was present. The feast passed off satisfactorily, and the
liquor was flowing freely round, when, unfortunately, family
differences began to be discussed. These soon caused angry
recriminations, and at length two of the company challenged each other
to mortal combat. Friends interfered, and, by the judicious
intervention on their part, the quarrel seemed to be made up. But soon
afterwards the two accidentally met in this room, and Thomas
Osbaldeston drew his sword and murdered his brother-in-law without
resistance. For this crime he was deemed a felon, and forfeited his
lands. Ever since that ill-fated day the room has been haunted.
Tradition says that the ghost of the murdered man continues to haunt
the scene of the conflict, and during the silent hours of the night it
may be seen passing from the room with uplifted hands, and with the
appearance of blood streaming from a wound in the breast.[17]
But, turning to incidents of a less tragic nature, an amusing story is
told of the Earl of Hopetoun, who, when he could not induce a certain
Scottish laird, named Dundas, to sell his old family residence known
as "The Tower," which was on the very verge of his own beautiful
pleasure grounds, tried to lead him on to a more expensive style of
living than that to which he had been accustomed, thinking thereby he
might run into debt, and be compelled to sell his property.
Accordingly, Dundas was frequently invited to Hopetoun House, and on
one occasion his lordship invited himself and a fashionable shooting
party to "The Tower," "congratulating himself on the hole which a few
dinners like this would make in the old laird's rental." But, as soon
as the covers were removed from the dishes, no small chagrin was
caused to Lord Hopetoun and his friends when their eyes rested on "a
goodly array of alternate herrings and potatoes spread from the top to
the bottom," Dundas at the same time inviting his guests to pledge
him in a bumper of excellent whiskey. Drinking jocularly to his
lordship's health, he humorously said, "It won't do, my lord; it won't
do! But, whenever you or your guests will honour my poor hall of Stang
Hill Tower with your presence at this hour, I promise you no worse
fare than now set before you, the best and fattest salt herrings that
the Forth can produce, and the strongest mountain dew. To this I beg
that your lordship and your honoured friends may do ample justice."
It is needless to say that Lord Hopetoun never dined again at Stang
Hill Tower but some time after, when Dundas was on his death-bed, he
advised his son to make the best terms he could with Lord Hopetoun,
remarking, "He will, sooner or later, have our little property." An
exchange was made highly advantageous to the Dundas family, the estate
of Aithrey being made over to them.[18]
A curious and humorous narrative is told of General Dalzell, a noted
persecutor of the Covenanters. In the course of his Continental
service he had been brought into the immediate circle of the German
Court, and one day had the honour to be a guest at a splendid Imperial
banquet, where, as a part of his state, the German Emperor was waited
on by the great feudal dignitaries of the empire, one of whom was the
Duke of Modena, the head of the illustrious house of Este. After his
appointment by Charles II. as Commander-in-Chief in Scotland, he was
invited by the Duke of York--afterwards James II., and then residing
at Holyrood--to dine with him and the Duchess, Princess May of Modena.
But as this was, we are told, what might be called a family dinner,
the Duchess demurred to the General being admitted to such an honour,
whereupon he naively replied that this was not his first introduction
to the house of Este, for that he had known her Royal Highness's
father, the Duke of Modena, and that he had stood behind his chair,
while he sat by the Emperor's side.
There was another kind of banquet, in which it has been remarked the
defunct had the principal honours, having the same ceremonious respect
paid to his waxen image as though he were alive. Thus we are reminded
how the famous Henrietta, Duchess of Marlborough demonstrated her
appreciation for Congreve in a most extraordinary manner. Report goes
that she had his figure made in wax, talked to it as if it had been
alive, placed it at the table with her, took every care that it was
supplied with different sorts of meat, and, in short, the same
formalities were, throughout, scrupulously observed in these weird and
strange repasts, just as if Congreve himself had been present.
Saint Foix, it may be remembered, who wrote in the time of Louis XIV.,
has left an interesting account of the ceremonial after the death of
a King of France, during the forty days before the funeral, when his
wax effigy lay in state. It appears that the royal officers served him
at meals as though he were still alive, the maître d'hotel handed the
napkin to the highest lord present to be delivered to the king, a
prelate blessed the table, and the basins of water were handed to the
royal armchair. Grace was said in the accustomed manner, save that
there was added to it the "De Profundis." We cannot be surprised that
such strange proceedings as these gave rise to much ridicule, and
helped to bring the Court itself into contempt.
FOOTNOTES:
[15] Miss Jackson's "Shropshire Folklore," 101.
[16] Family Romance, 1853, pp. 1-8.
[17] Harland's "Lancashire Legends," 271-2.
[18] Sir Bernard Burke, "Family Romance," 1853, I., 307-12.