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SPIRIT
OF
CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL.
SPIRIT
OF
CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL:
ORIGINAL TALES, ESSAYS, AND SKETCHES,
SELECTED FROM THAT WORK.
BY
WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.
EDINBURGH:
W. & R. CHAMBERS, WATERLOO PLACE; AND
ORR & SMITH, LONDON.
1834.
PRINTED BY W. & R. CHAMBERS, 19, WATERLOO PLACE, EDINBURGH.
NOTICE.
By the recommendation of a number of their friends and agents, MESSRS
CHAMBERS have been induced to reprint a selection of the principal
original articles of their JOURNAL; in order that such individuals as
might desire to possess those articles in a portable shape, distinct
from the mass of compilations and extracts with which they were
accompanied in the numbers, might be gratified in their wish; and in
order that this new series of Essays, in which an attempt has been
made, almost for the first time, to delineate the maxims and manners of
the middle ranks of society, might have an opportunity, in the shape
of a book, of attracting the attention of those by whom it might be
overlooked in its original form and progressive mode of publication.
The articles embodied in the present volume are chiefly selected from
the forty earliest numbers of the JOURNAL. Should it be favourably
received, the authors will probably, from time to time, throw further
selections into the same form.
EDINBURGH, _February 12, 1834_.
CONTENTS.
Page
Lady Jean, a Tale, 1
Fallacies of the Young.—“Fathers have Flinty Hearts,” 27
Bruntfield, a Tale of the Sixteenth Century, 32
The Passing Crowd, 41
A Tale of the Forty-Five, 44
Removals, 61
Victims, 71
Fallacies of the Young.—“Acquaintances,” 83
Subjects of Conversation, 86
Secure Ones, 89
To Scotland, 98
Story of Mrs Macfarlane, 100
The Downdraught, 118
Tale of the Silver Heart, 134
Cultivations, 152
Fits of Thrift, 157
Susan Hamilton, a Tale of Village Life, 163
Flitting Day, 182
Fallacies of the Young.—“Debtors and Creditors,” 193
General Invitations, 197
Confessors, 205
A Chapter of Political Economy, 209
The Drama, 214
Recognitions, 218
The Ladye that I Love, 226
Pay your Debt! 227
Children, 238
Tea-Drinking, 246
Husbands and Wives, 249
They, 255
Relations, 258
The Strangers’ Nook, 261
Nobody to be Despised, 265
Trust to Yourself, 270
Leisure, 275
My Native Bay, 278
Advancement in Life, 279
Controllers-General, 286
A Turn for Business, 291
Setting up, 296
Consuls, 303
Country and Town Acquaintances, 309
Where is my Trunk? 314
SPIRIT
OF
CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL.
LADY JEAN.—A TALE.
The Yerl o’ Wigton had three dauchters,
Oh, braw walie! they were bonnie!
The youngest o’ them, and the bonniest too,
Has fallen in love wi’ Richie Storie.
_Old Ballad._
The Earl of Wigton, whose name figures in Scottish annals of the reign
of Charles the Second, had three daughters, named Lady Frances, Lady
Grizel, and Lady Jean—the last being by several years the youngest, and
by many degrees the most beautiful. All the three usually resided with
their mother at the chief seat of the family, Cumbernauld House, in
Stirlingshire; but the two eldest were occasionally permitted to attend
their father at Edinburgh, in order that they might have some chance
of obtaining lovers at the court held there by the Duke of Lauderdale,
while Lady Jean was kept constantly at home, and debarred from the
society of the capital, lest her superior beauty might interfere with,
and foil, the attractions of her sisters, who, according to the notion
of that age, had a sort of _right of primogeniture_ in matrimony, as
well as in what was called _heirship_.
It may be easily imagined that while the two marriageable ladies were
enjoying all the delights of a third flat in one of the _closes_ of
the Canongate, spending their days in seeing beaux, and their nights
in dreaming of them, Lady Jean led no pleasant life amidst the remote
and solitary splendours of Cumbernauld, where her chief employment
was the disagreeable one of attending her mother, a very infirm and
querulous old dame, much given (it was said) to strong waters. At the
period when our tale opens, Lady Jean’s charms, though never seen in
the capital, had begun to make some noise there; and the curiosity
excited respecting them amongst the juvenile party of the vice-regal
court, had induced Lord Wigton to confine her ladyship even more
strictly than heretofore, lest, perchance, some gallant might make a
pilgrimage to his country-seat in order to behold her, and, from less
to more, induce her to quit her retirement, in such a way as would
effectually discomfit his schemes for the pre-advancement of his elder
daughters. He had been at pains to send an express to Cumbernauld,
ordering Lady Jean to be confined to the precincts of the house and
the _terrace-garden_, and to be closely attended in all her movements
by a trusty domestic. The consequence was, that the young lady
complained most piteously to her deaf old lady-mother of the tedium and
listlessness of her life, and wished with all her heart that she were
as ugly, old, and happy as her sisters.
Lord Wigton was not insensible to the cruelty of his policy, however
well he might be convinced of its advantage and necessity; he loved his
youngest daughter more than the rest; and it was only in obedience to
what he conceived to be the commands of duty, that he subjected her to
this restraint. His lordship, therefore, felt anxious to alleviate in
some measure the _desagremens_ of her solitary confinement; and knowing
her to be fond of music, he had sent to her by the last messenger a
theorbo lute, with which he thought she would be able to amuse herself
in a way very much to her mind—not considering that, as she could not
play upon the instrument, it would be little better to her than an
unmeaning toy. By the return of his messenger, he received a letter
from Lady Jean, thanking him for the theorbo, but making him aware of
his oversight, and begging him to send some person who could teach her
to play.
The earl, whose acquirements in the philosophy of politics had never
been questioned, felt ashamed of having committed such a solecism in
so trivial a matter; and, like all men anxious to repair or conceal an
error in judgment, immediately ran into another of ten times greater
consequence and magnitude: he gratified his daughter in her wish.
The gentry of Scotland were at that time in the custom of occasionally
employing a species of servants, whose accomplishments and duties would
now appear of a very anomalous character, though at that time naturally
arising from the peculiar situation of this country, in respect to its
southern neighbour. They were, in general, humble men who had travelled
a good deal, and acquired many foreign accomplishments; who, returning
to their native country after an absence of a few years, usually
entered into the service of the higher class of families, partly as
ordinary livery-men, and partly with the purpose of instructing the
youth of both sexes, as they grew up and required such exercises, in
dancing, music, writing, &c., besides a vast variety of other arts,
comprehended in the general phrase of _breeding_. Though these men
received much higher wages, and were a thousand times more unmanageable
than common serving-men, they served a good purpose in those days,
when young people had scarcely any other opportunities of acquiring
the ornamental branches of education, except by going abroad. It so
happened, that not many days after Lord Wigton received his daughter’s
letter, he was applied to for employment by one of these useful
personages, a tall and handsome youth, apparently five-and-twenty, with
dark Italian-looking features, a slight moustache, and as much foreign
peculiarity in his dress as indicated that he was just returned from
his travels. After putting a few questions, his lordship discovered
that the youth was possessed of many agreeable accomplishments; was,
in particular, perfectly well qualified to teach the theorbo, and had
no objection to entering the service of a young lady of quality—only,
with the proviso that he was to be spared the disgrace of a livery.
Lord Wigton then made no scruple in engaging him for a certain period;
and next day saw the youth on the way to Cumbernauld, with a letter
from his lordship to Lady Jean, setting forth all his good qualities,
and containing among other endearing expressions, a hope that she would
both benefit by his instructions, and be in the meantime content on
their account with her present residence.
Any occurrence at Cumbernauld, of higher import than the breaking of
a needle in embroidering, or the miscarriage of a brewing of currant
wine, would have been quite an incident in the eyes of Lady Jean; and
even to have given alms at the castle-gate to an extraordinary beggar,
or to see so much as a stranger in the candle, might have supplied her
with amusement infinite, and speculation boundless. What, then, must
have been her delight, when the goodly and youthful figure of Richard
Storie alighted one dull summer afternoon at the gate, and when the
credentials he presented disclosed to her the agreeable purpose of his
mission! Her joy knew no bounds; nor did she know in what terms to
welcome the stranger: she ran from one end of the house to the other,
up stairs and down stairs, in search of she knew not what; and finally,
in her transports, she shook her mother out of a drunken slumber, which
the old lady was enjoying as usual in her large chair in the parlour.
Master Richard, as he was commonly designated, soon found himself
comfortably established in the good graces of the whole household of
Cumbernauld, and not less so in the particular favour of his young
mistress. Even the sour old lady of the large chair was pleased
with his handsome appearance, and was occasionally seen to give a
preternatural nod and smile at some of his musical exhibitions, as
much as to say she knew when he performed well, and was willing to
encourage humble merit. As for Lady Jean, whose disposition was equally
lively and generous, she could not express in sufficiently warm terms
her admiration of his performances, or the delight she experienced
from them. Nor was she ever content without having Master Richard in
her presence, either to play himself, or to teach her the enchanting
art. She was a most apt scholar—so apt, that in a few days she was
able to accompany him with the theorbo and voice, while he played
upon an ancient harpsichord belonging to the old lady, which he had
rescued from a lumber room, and been at some pains to repair. The
exclusive preference thus given to music, for the time, threw his other
accomplishments into the shade, while it, moreover, occasioned his more
constant presence in the apartments of the ladies than he would have
been otherwise entitled to. The consequence was, that in a short time
he almost ceased to be looked upon as a servant, and began gradually to
assume the more interesting character of a friend and equal.
It was Lady Jean’s practice to take a walk prescribed by her father,
every day in the garden, on which occasions the countess conceived
herself as acting up to the letter of her husband’s commands, when
she ordered Master Richard to attend his pupil. This arrangement
was exceedingly agreeable to Lady Jean, as they sometimes took out
the theorbo, and added music to the other pleasures of the walk.
Another out-of-doors amusement, in which music formed a chief part,
was suggested to them by the appropriate frontispiece of a book of
instruction for the theorbo, which Master Richard had brought with
him from Edinburgh. This engraving represented a beautiful young
shepherdess, dressed in the fashionable costume of that period—a
stupendous tower of hair hung round with diamonds, and a voluminous
silk gown with a jewel-adorned stomacher, a theorbo in her arms and a
crook by her side—sitting on a flowery bank under a tree, with sheep
planted at regular distances around her. At a little distance appeared
a shepherd with dressed hair, long-skirted coat, and silk stockings,
who seemed to survey his mistress with a languishing air of admiration,
that appeared singularly ridiculous, as contrasted with the coquettish
and contemptuous aspect of the lady. The plate referred to a particular
song in a book, entitled “A Dialogue betwixt Strephon and Lydia, or
the Proud Shepherdess’s Courtship,” the music of which was exceedingly
beautiful, while the verses were the tamest and most affected trash
imaginable. It occurred to Lady Jean’s lively fancy, that if she
and her teacher were to personify the shepherdess and shepherd, and
thus, as it were, to transform the song to a sort of opera, making
the terrace-garden the scene, not a little amusement might be added
to the pleasure she experienced from the mere music alone. This fancy
was easily reduced to execution; for, by seating herself under a
tree, in her ordinary dress, with the horticultural implement called
a rake by her side, she looked the very Lydia of the copper-plate;
while Richard, standing at his customary respectful distance, with his
handsome person, and somewhat foreign apparel, was a sufficiently good
representation of Strephon. After arranging themselves thus, Master
Richard opened the drama by addressing Lady Jean in the first verse
of the song, which contained, besides some description of sunrise, a
comparison between the beauties of nature at that delightful period,
and the charms of Lydia, the superiority being of course awarded to the
latter. Lady Jean, with the help of the theorbo, replied to this in
a very disdainful style, affecting to hold the compliments of lovers
very cheap, and asseverating that she had no regard for any being on
earth besides her father and mother, and no care but for these dear
innocent sheep (here she looked kindly aside upon a neighbouring bed
of cabbages), which they had entrusted to her charge. Other verses of
similar nonsense succeeded, during which the representative of the
fair Lydia could not help feeling rather more emotion at hearing the
ardent addresses of Strephon than was strictly consistent with her
part. At the last it was her duty to rise and walk softly away from her
swain, declaring herself utterly insensible to both his praises and his
passion, and her resolution never again to see or speak to him. This
she did in admirable style, though, perhaps, rather with the dignified
gait and sweeping majesty of tragedy-queen, than with any thing like
the pettish or sullen strut of a disdainful rustic; meanwhile Strephon
was supposed to be left inconsolable. Her ladyship continued to
support her assumed character for a few yards, till a turn of the walk
concealed her from Master Richard; when, resuming her natural manner,
she turned back, with sparkling eyes, in order to ask his opinion
of her performances; and it was with some confusion, and no little
surprise, that on bursting again into his sight, she discovered that
Richard had not yet thrown off his character. He was standing still,
as she had left him, fixed immovably upon the spot, in an attitude
expressive of sorrow for her departure, and bending forwards as if
imploring her return. It was the expression of his face that astonished
her most; for it was not at all an expression appropriate to either his
own character or to that which he had assumed. It was an expression of
earnest and impassioned admiration; his whole soul seemed thrown into
his face, which was directed towards her, or rather the place where she
had disappeared; and his eyes were projected in the same direction,
with such a look as that perhaps of an enraptured saint of old at
the moment when a divinity parted from his presence. This lasted,
however, but for a moment; for scarcely had that minute space of time
elapsed, before Richard, startled from his reverie by Lady Jean’s
sudden return, dismissed from his face all trace of any extraordinary
expression, and stood before her (endeavouring to appear) just what he
was, her ladyship’s respectful servant and teacher. Nevertheless, this
transformation did not take place so quickly as to prevent her ladyship
from observing the present expression, nor was it accomplished with
such address as to leave her room for passing it over as unobserved.
She was surprised—she hesitated—she seemed, in spite of herself,
conscious of something awkward—and finally she blushed slightly.
Richard caught the contagion of her confusion in a double degree; and
Lady Jean, again, became more confused on observing that he was aware
of her confusion. Richard was the first to recover himself and speak.
He made some remarks upon her singing and her acting—not, however,
upon her admirable performance of the latter part of the drama; this
encouraged her also to speak, and both soon became somewhat composed.
Shortly afterwards they returned to the house; but from that moment
a chain of the most delicate yet indissoluble sympathies began to
connect the hearts of these youthful beings, so alike in all natural
qualities, and so dissimilar in every extraneous thing which the world
is accustomed to value.
After this interview there took place a slight estrangement between
Master Richard and Lady Jean, that lasted a few days, during which they
had much less of both conversation and music than for some time before.
Both observed this circumstance; but each ascribed it to accident,
while it was in reality occasioned by mutual reserve. Master Richard
was afraid that Lady Jean might be offended were he to propose any
thing like a repetition of the garden drama; and Lady Jean, on her
part, could not, consistently with the rules of maidenly modesty, utter
even a hint at such a thing, however she might secretly wish or long
for it. The very consciousness, reciprocally felt, of having something
on their minds, of which neither durst speak, was sufficient to produce
the said reserve, though the emotions of “the tender passion” had not
come in, as they did, for a large share of the cause.
At length, however, this reserve was so far softened down, that they
began to resume their former practice of walking together in the
garden; but though the theorbo continued to make one of the party,
no more operatic performances took place. Nevertheless, the mutual
affection which had taken root in their hearts experienced on this
account no abatement, but, on the contrary, continued to increase.
As for Master Richard, it was no wonder that he should be deeply
smitten with the charms of his mistress; for ever as he stole a long,
furtive glance at her graceful form, he thought he had never seen,
in Spain or in Italy, any such specimens of female loveliness; and
(if we may let the reader as far into the secret) he had indeed come
to Cumbernauld with the very purpose of falling in love. Different
causes had operated upon Lady Jean. Richard being the first love-worthy
object she had seen since the period when the female heart becomes
most susceptible—the admiration with which she knew he beheld
her—his musical accomplishments, which had tended so much to her
gratification—all conspired to render him precious in her sight. In the
words of a beautiful modern ballad, “all impulses of soul and sense had
thrilled” her gentle and guileless heart—
——hopes, and fears that kindled hope,
An undistinguishable throng,
And gentle wishes, long subdued,
Subdued and cherished long,
had exercised their tender and delightful influence over her; like a
flower thrown upon one of the streams of her own native land, whose
course was through the beauties, the splendours, and the terrors of
nature, she was borne away in a dream, the magic scenery of which was
alternately pleasing, fearful, and glorious, and from which she could
no more wake than could the flower restrain its course on the gliding
waters. The habit of contemplating her lover every day, and that in
the dignified character of an instructor, gradually blinded her in a
great measure to his humbler quality, and to the probable sentiments
of her father and the world upon the subject of her passion. If by
any chance such a consideration was forced upon her notice, and she
found occasion to tremble lest the sentiments in which she was so
luxuriously indulging should end in disgrace and disaster, she soon
quieted her fears, by reverting to an idea which had lately occurred
to her—namely, that _Richard was not what he seemed_. She had heard
and read of love assuming strange disguises. A Lord Belhaven, in the
immediately preceding period of the civil war, had taken refuge from
the fury of Cromwell in the service of an English nobleman, whose
daughter’s heart he won under the humble disguise of a gardener, and
whom, on the recurrence of better times, he carried home to Scotland
as his lady. This story was then quite popular, and at least one of
the parties still survived to attest its truth. But even in nursery
tales Lady Jean could find examples which justified her own passion.
The vilest animals, she knew, on finding some beautiful dame, who was
so disinterested as to fall in love with them, usually turned out to be
the most beautiful princes that ever were seen, and invariably married
and made happy the ladies whose affection had restored them to their
natural form and just inheritance. Who knows, she thought, but Richard
may some day, in a transport of passion, throw open his coat, exhibit
the star of nobility glittering on his breast, and ask me to become a
countess?
Such are the excuses which love suggests to reason, and which the
reason of lovers easily accepts; while those who are neither youthful
nor in love wonder at the hallucination of their impassioned juniors.
Experience soon teaches us that this world is not one of romance, and
that few incidents in life ever occur out of the ordinary way. But
before we acquire this experience by actual observation, we all of
us regard things in a very different light. The truth seems to be,
that, in the eyes of youth, “the days of chivalry” do not appear to be
“gone;” our ideas are then contemporary, or upon a par with the early
romantic ages of the world; and it is only by mingling with mature men,
and looking at things as they are, that we at length advance towards,
and ultimately settle down in, the _real era_ of our existence. Was
there ever yet youth who did not feel some chivalrous impulses—some
thirst for more glorious scenes than those around him—some aspirations
after lofty passion and supreme excellence—or who did not cherish some
pure first-love, that could not prudentially be gratified?
The greater part of the rest of the summer passed away before the
lovers came to an eclaircissement; and such, indeed, was their mutual
reserve upon the subject, that, had it not been for the occurrence
of a singular and deciding circumstance, there appeared little
probability of this ever otherwise taking place. The Earl of Home, a
gay and somewhat foolish young nobleman, one morning after attending
a convivial party where the charms of Lady Jean Fleming formed the
principal topic of discourse, left Edinburgh and took the way to
Cumbernauld, on the very pilgrimage, and with the very purpose which
Lord Wigton had before anticipated. Resolved first to see, then to
love, and lastly to run away with the young lady, his lordship skulked
about for a few days, and at last had the pleasure of seeing the hidden
beauty over the garden wall, as she was walking with Master Richard.
He thought he had never seen any lady who could be at all compared to
Lady Jean, and, as a matter of course, resolved to make her his own,
and surprise all his companions at Edinburgh with his success and
her beauty. He watched again next day, and happening to meet Master
Richard out of the bounds of _Cumbernauld policy_, accosted him, with
the intention of securing his services in making his way towards Lady
Jean. After a few words of course, he proposed the subject to Richard,
and offered a considerable bribe, to induce him to work for his
interest. Richard at first rejected the offer, but immediately after,
on bethinking himself, saw fit to accept it. He was to mention his
lordship’s purpose to Lady Jean, and to prepare the way for a private
interview with her. On the afternoon of the succeeding day, he was
to meet Lord Home at the same place, and tell him how Lady Jean had
received his proposals. With this they parted—Richard to muse on this
unexpected circumstance, which he saw might blast all his hopes unless
he should resolve upon prompt and active measures, and the Earl of Home
to enjoy himself at the humble inn of the village of Cumbernauld, where
he had for the last few days enacted the character of “the daft lad
frae Edinburch, that seemed to ha’e mair siller than sense.”
On the morning of the tenth day after Master Richard’s first interview
with Lord Home, that faithful serving-man found himself jogging swiftly
along the road to Edinburgh, mounted on a stout nag, with the fair
Lady Jean seated comfortably on a pillion behind him. It was a fine
morning in autumn, and the road had a peculiarly gay appearance from
the multitude of country-people, mounted and dismounted, who seemed
also hastening towards the capital. Master Richard, upon inquiry,
discovered that it was the _market-day_, a circumstance which seemed
favourable to his design, by the additional assurance it gave him of
not being recognised among the extraordinary number of strangers who
might be expected to crowd the city on such an occasion. The lovers
approached the city by the west, and the first street they entered
was the suburban one called Portsburgh, which leads towards the great
market-place of Edinburgh. Here Richard, impatient as he was, found
himself obliged, like many other rustic cavaliers, to reduce the pace
of his horse to a walk, on account of the narrowness and crowded state
of the street. This he felt the more disagreeable, as it subjected
him and his interesting companion to the close and leisurely scrutiny
of the inhabitants. Both had endeavoured to disguise every thing
remarkable in their appearance, so far as dress and demeanour could
be disguised; yet, as Lady Jean could not conceal her extraordinary
beauty, and Richard had not found it possible to part with a slight and
dearly-beloved moustache, it naturally followed that they were honoured
with a good deal of staring. Many an urchin upon the street threw
up his arms as they passed along, exclaiming “Oh! the black-bearded
man!” or, “Oh! the bonnie leddie!”—the men all admired Lady Jean, the
women Master Richard—and many an old shoemaker ogled them earnestly
over his half-door, with his spectacles pushed up above his dingy
cowl. The lovers, who had thus to run a sort of gauntlet of admiration
and remark, were glad when they reached an inn, which Richard, who
was slightly acquainted with the town, knew to be a proper place for
the performance of a _half-merk marriage_. They alighted, and were
civilly received by an obsequious landlady, who conducted them into an
apartment at the back of the house. There Lady Jean was for a short
time left to make some arrangements about her dress, while Richard
disclosed to the landlady in another room the purpose upon which he was
come to her house, and consulted her about procuring a clergyman. The
dame of the house, to whom a clandestine marriage was the merest matter
of course, showed the utmost willingness to facilitate the design of
her guests, and said that she believed a clerical official might be
procured in a few minutes, provided that neither had any scruples of
conscience, as “most part of fouk frae the west had,” in accepting the
services of an Episcopal clergyman. The lover assured her that, so far
from having any objection to “a government minister,” for so they were
sometimes termed, he would prefer such to any other, as both he and his
bride belonged to that persuasion. The landlady heard this declaration
with complacency, which showed that she loved her guests the better
for it; and told Richard that, if he pleased, she would immediately
introduce to him the Dean of St Giles, who, honest man, was just now
taking his _meridian_ in the little back garret parlour, along with
his friend and gossip, Bowed Andrew, the waiter of the West Port. To
this Richard joyfully assented, and speedily he and Lady Jean were
joined in their room by the said dean, a squat little gentleman, with
a drunken but important-looking face, and an air of consequentiality
even in his stagger, that was partly imposing and partly ridiculous. He
addressed his clients with a patronising simper, of which the effect
was grievously disconcerted by an unlucky hiccup, and in a speech which
might have had the intended tone of paternal and reverend authority,
had it not been smattered and degraded into shreds by the crapulous
insufficiency of his tongue. Richard cut short his ill-sustained
attempts at dignity, by requesting him to partake of some liquor. His
reverence almost leaped at the proffered jug, which contained ale. He
first took a tasting, then a sip—shaking his head between—next a small
draught, with a still more convulsion-like shake of the head; and
lastly, he took a hearty and persevering swill, from the effects of
which his lungs did not recover for at least twenty respirations. The
impatient lover then begged him to proceed with the ceremony, which he
forthwith commenced in presence of the landlady and the above-mentioned
Bowed Andrew; and in a few minutes, Richard and Lady Jean were united
in the holy bands of matrimony.
When the ceremony was concluded, and both the clergyman and the
witnesses had been satisfied and dismissed, the lovers left the house,
with the design of walking forwards into the city. In conformity to a
previous arrangement, Lady Jean walked first, like a lady of quality,
and Richard followed closely behind, with the dress and deportment of
her servant. Her ladyship was dressed in her finest suit, and adorned
with her finest jewels, all which she had brought from Cumbernauld on
purpose, in a mail or leathern trunk—for such was the name then given
to the convenience now entitled a portmanteau. Her step was light, and
her bearing gay, as she moved along—not on account of the success which
had attended her expedition, or her satisfaction in being now united
to the man of her choice, but because she anticipated the highest
pleasure in the sight of a place whereof she had heard such wonderful
stories, and from a participation in whose delights she had been so
long withheld. Like all persons educated in the country, she had been
regaled in her infancy with magnificent descriptions of the capital—of
its buildings, that seemed to mingle with the clouds—its shops, which
apparently contained more wealth than all the world beside—of its paved
streets (for paved streets were then wonders in Scotland)—and, above
all, of the grand folks who thronged its Highgates, its Canongates,
and its Cowgates—people whose lives seemed a perpetual holiday, whose
attire was ever new, and who all lived in their several palaces.
Though, of course, Edinburgh had then little to boast of, the country
people who occasionally visited it did not regard it with less
admiration than that with which the peasantry of our own day may be
supposed to view it now that it is something so very different. It was
then, as well as now, the capital of the country, and, as such, bore
the same disproportion in point of magnificence to inferior towns, and
to the country in general. In one respect, it was superior to what
it is at the present day—namely, in being the seat of government and
of a court. Lady Jean had often heard all its glorious peculiarities
described by her sisters, who, moreover, sometimes took occasion to
colour the picture too highly, in order to raise her envy, and make
themselves appear great in their alliance and association with so much
greatness. She was, therefore, prepared to see a scene of the utmost
splendour—a scene in which nothing horrible or paltry mingled, but
which was altogether calculated to awe or to delight the senses.
Her ladyship was destined to be disappointed at the commencement, at
least, of her acquaintance with the city. The first remarkable object
which struck her eye, after leaving the inn, was the high _bow_, or
arch, of the gate called the West Port. In this itself there was
nothing worthy of particular attention, and she rather directed her
eyes through the opening beneath, which half disclosed a wide space
beyond, apparently crowded with people. But when she came close up
to the gate, and cast, before passing, a last glance at the arch,
she shuddered at the sight then presented to her eyes. On the very
pinnacle of the arch were stuck the ghastly and weatherworn remains of
a human head, the features of which, half flesh half bone, were shaded,
and rendered still more indistinctly horrible by the long dark hair,
which hung in meagre tresses around them. “Oh, Richard, Richard!” she
exclaimed, stopping, and turning round, “what is that dreadful looking
thing?” “That, madam,” said Richard, without any emotion, “is the
broken remnant of a west country preacher, spiked up there to warn his
countrymen who may approach this port, against doing any thing to incur
the fate which has overtaken himself. Methinks he has preached to small
purpose, for yonder stands the gallows, ready, I suppose, to bring him
some brother in affliction.” “Horrible!” exclaimed Lady Jean; “and is
this really the fine town of Edinburgh, where I was taught to expect so
many grand sights? I thought it was just one universal palace, and it
turns out to be a great charnel-house!” “It is indeed more like that
than any thing else at times,” said Richard; “but, my dear Lady Jean,
you are not going to start at this bugbear, which the very children,
you see, do not heed in passing.” “Indeed I think, Richard,” answered
her ladyship, “if Edinburgh is to be all like this, it would be just as
good to turn back at once, and postpone our visit till better times.”
“But it is not all like this,” replied Richard; “I assure you it is
not. For heaven’s sake, my lady, move on. The people are beginning
to stare at us. You shall soon see grand sights enough, if we were
once fairly out of this place. Make for the opposite corner of the
Grassmarket, and ascend the street to the left of that horrible gibbet.
We may yet get past it before the criminals are produced.”
Thus admonished, Lady Jean passed, not without a shudder, under the
dreadful arch, and entered the spacious oblong square called the
Grassmarket. This place was crowded at the west end with rustics
engaged in all the bustle of a grain and cattle market, and at the
eastern and most distant extremity with a mob of idlers who had
gathered around the gibbet, in order to witness the awful ceremony
that was about to take place. The crowd, which was scarcely so dense
as that which attends the rarer scene of a modern execution, made way
on both sides for Lady Jean as she moved along; and wherever she went,
she left behind her a _wake_, as it were, of admiration and confusion.
So exquisite and so new a beauty, so splendid a suit of female attire,
and such a stout and handsome attendant—these were all alike calculated
to inspire reverence in the minds of the beholders. Her carriage at the
same time was so steady and so graceful, that no one could be so rude
as to interrupt or disturb it. The people, therefore, parted when she
approached, and left a free passage for her on all sides, as if she
had been an angel or a spirit come to walk amidst a mortal crowd, and
whose person could not be touched, and might scarcely be beheld—whose
motions were not to be interfered with by those among whom she chose
to walk—but who was to be received with prostration of spirit, and
permitted to depart as she had come, unquestioned and unapproached.
In traversing the Grassmarket, two or three young coxcombs, with
voluminous wigs, short cloaks, rapiers, and rose-knots at their knees
and shoes, who, on observing her at a distance, had prepared to treat
her with a condescending stare, fell back, awed and confounded, at her
near approach, and spent the gaze, perhaps, upon the humbler mark of
her follower, or upon vacancy.
Having at length passed the gibbet, Lady Jean began to ascend the
steep and tortuous street denominated the West Bow. She had hitherto
been unable to direct any attention to what she was most anxious to
behold—the scenic wonders of the capital. But having now got clear of
the crowd, and no longer fearing to see the gallows, she ventured to
lift up her eyes and look around. The tallness and massiveness of the
buildings, some of which bore the cross of the Knights Templars on
their pinnacles, while others seemed to be surmounted or overtopped
by still taller edifices beyond, impressed her imagination; and the
effect was rendered still more striking by the countless human figures
which crowded the windows, and even the roofs of the houses, all alike
bending their attention, as she thought, towards herself. The scene
before her looked like an amphitheatre filled with spectators, while
she and Richard seemed as the objects upon the arena. The thought
caused her to hurry on, and she soon found herself in a great measure
screened from observation by the overhanging projections of the
narrower part of the West Bow, which she now entered. With slow and
difficult, but stately and graceful steps, she then proceeded, till she
reached the upper angle of the street, where a novel and unexpected
scene awaited her. A sound like that of rushing waters seemed first
to proceed from the part of the street still concealed from her view,
and presently appeared round the angle the first rank of an impetuous
crowd, who, rushing downward with prodigious force, would certainly
have overwhelmed her delicate form, had she not dexterously avoided
them, by stepping aside upon a projecting stair, to which Richard also
sprung, just in time to save himself from a similar fate. From this
place of safety, which was not without its own crowd of children,
women, and sage-looking elderly mechanics, with Kilmarnock cowls, both
in the next moment saw the massive mob rush past, like the first wave
of a flood, bearing either _along_ or _down_ every thing that came in
their way. Immediately after, but at a more deliberate pace, followed
a procession of figures, which struck the heart of Lady Jean with as
heavy a sense of sorrow as the crowd had just impressed with terror and
surprise. First came a small company of the veterans of the city-guard,
some of whom had perhaps figured in the campaigns of Middleton and
Montrose, and whose bronzed inflexible faces bore on this melancholy
occasion precisely the same expression which they ordinarily exhibited
on the joyful one of attending the magistrates at the drinking of the
king’s health on the 29th of May. Behind these, and encircled by some
other soldiers of the same band, appeared two figures of a different
sort. One of them was a young-looking, but pale and woe-worn man, the
impressive wretchedness of whose appearance was strikingly increased
by the ghastly dress which he wore. He was attired from head to foot
in a white shroud, such as was sometimes worn in Scotland by criminals
at the gallows, but which was, in the present instance, partly assumed
as a badge of innocence. The excessive whiteness and emaciation of his
countenance suited well with this dismal apparel, and, with the wild
enthusiasm that kindled in his eyes, gave an almost supernatural effect
to the whole scene, which rather resembled a pageant of the dead than
a procession of earthly men. He was the only criminal; the person who
walked by his side, and occasionally supported his steps, being—as the
crowd whispered around, with many a varied expression of sympathy—his
father. The old man had the air of a devout Presbyterian, with harsh,
intelligent features, and a dress which bespoke his being a countryman
of the lower rank. According to the report of the bystanders, he had
educated this his only son for the unfortunate Church of Scotland, and
now attended him to the fate which his talents and violent temperament
had conspired to draw down upon his head. If he ever felt any pride in
the popular admiration with which his son was honoured, no traces of
such a sentiment now appeared. On the contrary, he seemed humbled to
the very earth with sorrow; and though he had perhaps contemplated the
issue now about to take place, with no small portion of satisfaction,
so long as it was at a distance and uncertain, the feelings of a
father had evidently proved too much for his fortitude when the event
approached in all its dreadful reality. The emotions perceptible in
that rough and rigid countenance were the more striking, as being so
much at variance with its natural and characteristic expression; and
the tear which gathered in his eye excited the greater commiseration,
in so far as it seemed a stranger there. But the hero and heroine of
our tale had little time to make observations on this piteous scene,
for the train passed quickly on, and was soon beyond their sight. When
it was gone, the people of the Bow, who seemed accustomed to such
sights, uttered various expressions of pity, indignation, and horror,
according to their respective feelings, and then slowly retired to
their dens in the stairs and booths which lined the whole of this
ancient and singular street.
Lady Jean, whose beautiful eyes were suffused with tears at beholding
so melancholy a spectacle, was then admonished by her attendant to
proceed. With a heart hardened to all sensations of wonder and delight,
she moved forward, and was soon ushered into the place called the
Lawnmarket, then perhaps the most fashionable district in Edinburgh,
but the grandeur and spaciousness of which she beheld almost without
admiration. The scene here was however much gayer, and approached more
nearly to her splendid preconceptions of the capital than any she had
yet seen. The shops were, in her estimation, very fine, and some of
the people on the street were of that noble description of which she
had believed all inhabitants of cities to be. There was no crowd on
the street, which, therefore, afforded room for a better display of
her stately and beautiful person; and as she walked steadily onwards,
still _ushed_ (for such was then the phrase) by her handsome and
noble-looking attendant, a greater degree of admiration was excited
amongst the gay idlers whom she passed, than even that which marked
her progress through the humbler crowd of the Grassmarket. Various
noblemen, in passing towards their homes in the Castle Hill, lifted
their feathered hats and bowed profoundly to the lovely vision; and
one or two magnificent dames, sweeping along with their long silk
trains, borne up by livery-men, stared at or eyed askance the charms
which threw their own so completely into shade. By the time Lady Jean
arrived at the bottom of the Lawnmarket, that is to say, where it
was partially closed up by the Tolbooth, she had in a great measure
recovered her spirits, and found herself prepared to enjoy the sight of
the public buildings, which were so thickly clustered together at this
central part of the city. She was directed by Richard to pass along the
narrow road which then led between the houses and the Tolbooth on the
south, and which, being continued by a still narrower passage skirting
the west end of St Giles’s church, formed the western approach to the
Parliament Close. Obeying his guidance in this tortuous passage, she
soon found herself at the opening or the square space, so styled on
account of its being closed on more than one side by the meeting-place
of the legislative assembly of Scotland. Here a splendid scene awaited
her. The whole square was filled with the members of the Scottish
Parliament, barons and commons, who had just left the house in which
they sat together—with ladies, who on days of unusual ceremony were
allowed to attend the house—and with horses richly caparisoned, and
covered with gold-embroidered foot-cloths, some of which were mounted
by their owners, while others were held in readiness by footmen. All
was bustle and magnificence. Noblemen and gentlemen in splendid attire
threaded the crowd in search of their horses; ladies tripped after them
with timid and careful steps, endeavouring, by all in their power, to
avoid contact with such objects as were calculated to injure their
fineries; grooms strode heavily about, and more nimble lacqueys jumped
every where, here and there, some of them as drunk as the Parliament
Close claret could make them, but all intent on doing the duties of
attendance and respect to their masters. Some smart and well-dressed
young gentlemen were arranging their cloaks and swords, and preparing
to leave the square on foot by the passage which had given entry to
Master Richard and Lady Jean.