"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.