T. F. Thiselton Dyer - Strange Pages from Family Papers

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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.

CHAPTER IV.

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.

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