admiration, and one of them, with the trained assurance of a rake,
observing her to be beautiful, a stranger, and not too well protected,
accosted her in a strain of language which caused her at once to blush
and tremble. Richard’s brow reddened with anger, as he hesitated not a
moment in stepping up and telling the offender to leave the lady alone,
on pain of certain consequences which might not prove agreeable. “And
who are you, my brave fellow?” said the youth, with bold assurance.
“Sirrah!” exclaimed Richard, so indignant as to forget himself, “I am
that lady’s husband—her servant, I mean;” and here he stopped short
in some confusion. “Admirable!” exclaimed the other. “Ha! ha! ha! ha!
Here, Sirs, is a lady lacquey, who does not know whether he is his
mistress’s servant or her husband. Let us give him up to the town-guard
to see whether the black-hole will make him remember the real state
of the case.” So saying, he attempted to push Richard aside, and take
hold of the lady. But he had not time to touch her garments with so
much as a finger, before her protector had a rapier flourishing in his
eyes, and threatened him with instant death, unless he desisted from
his profane purpose. At sight of the bright steel, he stepped back one
or two paces, drew his own sword, and was preparing to fight, when one
of his more grave associates called out, “For shame, Rollo!—with a
lady’s lacquey, too, and in the presence of the duke and duchess! I see
their royal highnesses, already alarmed, are inquiring the cause of the
disturbance.” It was even as this gentleman said, and presently came up
to the scene of contention some of the most distinguished personages
in the crowd, one of whom demanded from the parties an explanation
of so disgraceful an occurrence. “Why, here is a fellow, my lord,”
answered Rollo, “who says he is the husband of a lady whom he attends
as a livery-man, and a lady, too, the bonniest, I dare say, that has
been seen in Scotland since the days of Queen Magdalen!” “And what
matters it to you,” said the inquirer, who seemed to be a Judge of the
Session, “in what relation this man stands to his lady? Let the parties
both come forward, and tell their ain tale. May it please your royal
highness,” he continued, addressing a very grave dignitary who sat on
horseback behind him, as stiff and formal as a sign-post, “to hear the
_declaratur_ of thir twa strange incomers. But see—see—what is the
matter with Lord Wigton?” he added, pointing to an aged personage on
horseback, who had just pushed forward, and seemed about to faint, and
fall from his horse. The person alluded to, at sight of his daughter in
this unexpected place, was in reality confounded, and it was some time
before he mastered voice enough to ejaculate, “O, Jean, Jean! what’s
this ye’ve been about? or what has brocht you to Edinburgh?” “And
Lord have a care o’ us!” exclaimed at this juncture another venerable
peer, who had just come up, “what has brocht my sonsie son, Ritchie
Livingstone, to Edinburgh, when he should have been fechtin’ the Dutch
by this time in Pennsylvania?” The two lovers, thus recognised by their
respective parents, stood with downcast looks, and perfectly silent,
while all was buzz and confusion in the brilliant circle around them;
for the parties concerned were not more surprised at the aspect of
their affairs, than were all the rest at the beauty of the far-famed
but hitherto unseen Lady Jean Fleming. The Earl of Linlithgow,
Richard’s father, was the first to speak aloud, after the general
astonishment had for some time subsided; and this he did in a laconic
though important query, which he couched in the simple words, “Are
you married, bairns?” “Yes, dearest father,” said his son, gathering
courage, and coming close up to his saddle-bow; “and I beseech you to
extricate Lady Jean and me from this crowd, and I shall tell you all
when we are alone.” “A pretty man ye are, truly,” said the old man, who
never took any thing very seriously to heart, “to be staying at hame,
and getting yourself married, all the time you should have been abroad,
winning honour and wealth, as your gallant grand-uncle did wi’ Gustavus
i’ the thretties! Hooever, since better mayna be, I maun try and
console my Lord Wigton, who, I doot, has the worst o’ the bargain, ye
ne’er-do-weel!” He then went up to Lady Jean’s father, shook him by the
hand, and said, “that though they had been made relations against their
wills, he hoped they would continue good friends. The young people,” he
observed, “are no that ill matched; and it is not the first time that
the Flemings and the Livingstones have melled together, as witness the
blithe marriage of the Queen’s Marie to Lord Fleming, in the feifteen
saxty-five. At any rate, my lord, let us put a good face on the matter,
afore they glowering gentles and whipper-snapper duchesses. I’ll get
horses for the two, and they’ll join the ridin’ down the street; and
deil hae me if Lady Jean disna outshine them, the hale o’ them!” “My
Lord Linlithgow,” responded the graver and more implacable Earl of
Wigton, “it may set you to take this matter blithely; but, let me tell
you, it’s a muckle mair serious affair for me. What think ye am I to do
wi’ Kate and Grizzy noo?” “Hoot, toot, my lord,” said Linlithgow, with
a sly smile, “their chance is as gude as ever it was, I assure you, and
sae will every body think that kens them. I _maun_ ca’ horses though,
or the young folk will be ridden ower, afore ever they do mair gude, by
thae rampaugin’ young men.” So saying, and taking Lord Wigton’s moody
silence for assent, he proceeded to cry to his servants for the best
pair of horses they could get; and these being speedily procured, Lord
Richard and his bride were requested to mount; after which, they were
formally introduced to the gracious notice of the Duke and Duchess
of York, and the Princess Anne, who happened to attend Parliament on
this the last day of its session, when it was customary for all the
members to ride both to and from the house in an orderly cavalcade. The
order was now given to proceed, and the lovers were soon relieved,
in a great measure, from the embarrassing notice of the crowd, by
assuming a particular place in the procession, and finding themselves
confounded with more than three hundred equally splendid figures. As
the pageant, however, moved down the High Street, in a continuous and
open line, it was impossible not to distinguish the singular loveliness
of Lady Jean, and the gallant carriage of her husband, from all the
rest. Accordingly, the very trained bands and city-guard, who lined the
street, and who were, in general, quite as insensible to the splendours
of _the Riding_, as are the musicians in a modern orchestra to the
wonders of a melo-drama in its fortieth night—even _they_ perceived
and admired the graces of the young couple, whom they could not help
gazing after with a stupid and lingering delight. From the windows,
too, and the _stair-heads_, their beauty was well observed, and amply
conjectured and commented on; while many a young cavalier endeavoured,
by all sorts of pretences, to find occasion to break the order of the
cavalcade, and get himself haply placed nearer to the exquisite figure
of which he had got just one killing glance in the square. Slowly
and majestically the brilliant train paced down the great street of
Edinburgh, the acclamations of the multitude ceaselessly expressing
the delight which the people of Scotland felt in this sensible type
and emblem of their ancient independence. At length they reached the
court-yard of Holyrood-house, where the duke and duchess invited the
whole assemblage to a ball, which they designed to give that evening in
the hall of the palace; after which, all departed to their respective
residences throughout the town, Lords Wigton and Linlithgow taking
their young friends under their immediate protection, and seeking the
residence of the former nobleman, a little way up the Canongate. In
riding thither, the lovers had leisure to explain to their parents
the singular circumstances of their union, and address enough to
obtain unqualified forgiveness for their imprudence. On alighting at
Lord Wigton’s house, Lady Jean found her sisters confined to their
rooms with headaches, or some such serious indisposition, and in the
utmost dejection on account of having been thereby withheld from the
riding of the Parliament. Their spirits, as may be supposed, were not
much elevated, when, on coming forth in dishabille to welcome their
sister, they found she had had the good fortune to be married before
them. Their ill luck was, however, irremediable; and so, making a
merit of submitting to it, they condescended to be rather agreeable
during the dinner and the afternoon. It was not long before all parties
were perfectly reconciled to what had taken place; and by the time it
was necessary to dress for the ball, the elder young ladies declared
themselves so much recovered as to be able to accompany their happy
sister. The Earl of Linlithgow and his son then sent a servant for
proper dresses, and prepared themselves for the occasion without
leaving the house. When all were ready, a number of chairs were called
to transport their dainty persons down the street. The news of Lady
Jean’s arrival, and of her marriage, having now spread abroad, the
court in front of the house, the alley, and even the open street, were
crowded with people of all ranks, anxious to catch a passing glimpse
of the heroine of so strange a tale. As her chair was carried along, a
buzz of admiration from all who were so happy as to be near it, marked
its progress. Happy, too, was the gentleman who had the good luck to be
near her chair as it was set down at the palace gate, and assist her in
stepping from it upon the lighted pavement. From the outer gate, along
the piazza of the inner court, and all the way up the broad staircase
to the illuminated hall, two rows of noblemen and gentlemen formed a
brilliant avenue as she passed along, while a hundred plumed caps were
doffed in honour of so much beauty, and as many youthful eyes glanced
bright with satisfaction at beholding it. The object of all this
attention tripped modestly along in the hand of the Earl of Linlithgow,
acknowledging, with many a graceful flexure and undulation of person,
the compliments of the spectators. At length the company entered the
spacious and splendid room in which the ball was to be held. At the
extremity opposite to the entry, upon an elevated platform, sat the
three royal personages, all of whom, on Lady Jean’s introduction, rose
and came forward to welcome her and her husband to the entertainments
of Holyrood, and to hope that her ladyship would often adorn their
circle. In a short time the dancing commenced; and amidst all the
ladies who exhibited their charms and their magnificent attire in that
captivating exercise, who was, either in person or dress, half so
brilliant as Lady Jean?
FALLACIES OF THE YOUNG.
“FATHERS HAVE FLINTY HEARTS.”
I only quote this popular expression from a very popular play, in
order to warn my juvenile friends against being too much impressed
by it. It is a fatal error running through nearly the whole mass of
our fictitious literature, that parents are represented as invariably
adverse, through their own cruel and selfish views, to the inclinations
of their children: either the glowing ambition and high spirit of the
boy is repressed by the cold calculations of his father, who wishes him
to become a mere creature of the counting-room and shop like himself;
or the romantic attachment of the girl to some elegant Orlando,
procures her a confinement to her chamber, with no other alternative
than that of marrying a detestable suitor, whom her father prefers
to all others on account of his wealth. Then, the boy always runs
away from his father’s house, and, by following his own inclinations,
acquires fortune and fame; while the girl as invariably leaps a
three-pair-of-stairs window, and is happy for life with the man of her
choice. The same dangerous system pervades the stage, where, I am sorry
to remark, every vicious habit of society, and every impropriety in
manners and speech, is always sure to be latest abandoned.
I warn my juvenile readers most emphatically against the fallacy and
delusion which prevails upon this subject. Fathers, as a class, have
not flinty hearts, nor is it their wish or interest, in general, to
impose a cruel restraint upon their children. Young people would do
well to examine the circumstances in which they stand in regard to
their parents and guardians, before believing in the reality of that
schism which popular literature would represent as invariably existing
between their own class and that of their natural protectors. The
greater part, I am sure, of my young friends, must have observed,
that, so long as they can remember, they have been indebted for every
comfort, and for a thousand acts of kindness and marks of affection, to
those endeared beings—_their father and mother_. The very dawning light
of existence must have found them in the enjoyment of many blessings
procured to them solely by those two individuals. From them must have
been derived the food they ate, the bed they lay on, the learning at
school which enabled their minds to appreciate all the transactions
and all the wisdom of past times, and, greatest blessing of all, the
habits of devotional exercise which admitted them to commune with their
almighty Creator. Surely it is not to be supposed that, at a certain
time, the kindness and friendship of these two amiable persons is all
at once converted into a malignant contrariety to the interests of
their children. Is it not far more likely, my dear young friends, that
they continue, as ever, to be your well-wishers and benefactors: and
that the opposition which they seem to set up so ungraciously against
your inclinations, is only caused by their sense of the dangers which
threaten you in the event of your being indulged? It may appear to
you that no such danger exists: that your parents are actuated by
narrower and meaner views than your own, or that they do not allow for
the feelings of youth. But they are in reality deeply concerned for the
difference of _your_ feelings from _theirs_; they sympathise with them
in secret, from a recollection of what were their own at your period
of life; but know, from that very experience of your feelings, and of
their result, that it is not good for you that they should be indulged.
You are, then, called upon—and I do so now in the name of your best
feelings, and as you would wish for present or future happiness—to
trust in the reality of that parental tenderness which has never,
heretofore, known interruption, and in the superiority of that wisdom
with which years and acquaintance with the world have invested your
parents.
Perhaps, my young friends, you may have perceived, even in the midst of
your childish frolics and careless happiness, that your parents were
obliged to deny themselves many indulgences, and toil hard in their
respective duties, in order to obtain for you the comforts which you
enjoy. You may have perceived that your father, after he had returned
home from his daily employment, could hardly be prevailed upon to
enter, as you wished, into your sports, or to assist you with your
lessons, but would sit, in silent and abstracted reflection, with a
deep shade of care upon his brow. On these occasions, perhaps, your
amiable and kind protector is considering how difficult it is, even
with all his industry, and all his denial of indulgences to himself, to
procure for you an exemption from that wretchedness in which you see
thousands of other children every day involved. But though many are
the cares which your parents experience, in the duty of rearing you
to manhood, there is none so severe or so acute as that which comes
upon them at the period of your entering into life. Heretofore, you
were simple little children, with hardly a thought beyond the family
scene in which you have enjoyed so many comforts. Heretofore, with
the exception of occasional rebukes from your parents, and trifling
quarrels with your brothers and sisters, you have all been one family
of love, eating at the same board, kneeling in one common prayer,
loving one another, as the dearest of all friends. But now the scene
becomes very different. You begin to feel, within yourselves, separate
interests, and each thinks himself best qualified to judge for himself.
At that moment, my young friends, the anxiety of your parents is a
thousand times greater than it ever was before. Your father, probably,
is a man of formed habits and character; he occupies a certain
respectable station in the world; he has all his life been governed by
certain principles, which he found to be conducive to his comfort and
dignity. But though he has been able to conduct himself through the
world in this satisfactory manner, he is sensible, from the various and
perhaps altogether opposite characters which nature has implanted in
you, that you may go far wide of what have been his favourite objects,
and perhaps be the means of impairing that respectability which he, as
a single individual, has hitherto maintained. It is often observed in
life, that children who have been reared by poor but virtuous parents,
as if their minds had received in youth a horror for every attribute of
poverty, exert themselves with such vigorous and consistent fortitude,
as to end with fortune and dignity; while the children, perhaps, of
these individuals, being brought up without the same acquaintance with
want and hardship, are slothful through life, and soon bring back the
family to its original condition. If you then have been reared in easy
circumstances, you may believe what I now tell you, that your approach
to manhood or womanhood will produce a degree of anxiety in the breasts
of your parents, such as would, if you knew it, make your very heart
bleed for their distress, and cause you to appear as monsters to
yourselves if you were to act in any great degree differently from what
they wished.
How much, then, is it your duty, my young friends, to treat the advices
and wishes of your parents, at this period of life, with respect,
knowing, as you do, that the future happiness of those dear and kind
beings depends almost solely upon your conducting yourselves properly
in your first steps into life! Should you be so unfortunate as to be
beguiled into bad company, or to contract a disposition to indulgences
which are the very bane of existence, and the ruin of reputation, what
must be the agony of those individuals who have hitherto loved and
cherished you, and indulged, perhaps, in very different anticipations!
On the contrary, should you yield respect, as far as it is in your
nature, to the maxims which your father has endeavoured to impress,
with what delight does he look forward to your future success—with what
happy confidence does he rely upon your virtuous principles! And may
there be no happiness to _you_, in contemplating the happiness which
you have given to _him_? Yes, much, I am sure, and of a purer kind than
almost any which earthly things can confer upon you here below.
I have one word to add, and it is addressed to the female part of my
juvenile readers. Exactly as parents feel a concern for the first
appearance of their sons in the business of life, so do they experience
many anxious and fearful thoughts respecting the disposal of their
daughters in matrimony. Wedded life, I may inform them, is not the
simple matter which it appears prospectively in early and single life.
As it involves many serious duties and responsibilities, it must be
entered upon with a due regard to the means—above all things, the
pecuniary means—of discharging these in a style of respectability, such
as may be sufficient to support the dignity of the various connexions
of the parties. It is, therefore, necessary that no person of tender
years (this is most frequently the lot of the female) should contract
the obligations of matrimony, without, if possible, the entire sanction
of parents or other protectors. The people of this country happen to
entertain, upon this subject, notions of not so strict a kind as are
prevalent in most other nations. In almost all continental and all
eastern countries, the female is reared by her friends as the destined
bride of a particular individual, and till her marriage she is allowed
no opportunity of bestowing her affections upon any other. The custom
is so ancient and so invariable, that it is submitted to without any
feeling of hardship; and as prudence is the governing principle of the
relations, the matches are generally as happy as if they were more
free. Perhaps such a custom is inapplicable to this country, on account
of our different system of domestic life; but I may instance it, to
prove to my fair young readers, that the control of parents over their
choice of a husband ought to be looked upon as a more tolerable and
advantageous thing, than their inclinations might be disposed to allow,
or our popular literature represents it to be.
BRUNTFIELD,
A TALE OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.
The war carried on in Scotland, by the friends and enemies of Queen
Mary, after her departure into England, was productive of an almost
complete dissolution of order, and laid the foundation of many feuds
which were kept up by private families and individuals long after all
political cause of hostility had ceased. Among the most remarkable
quarrels which history or tradition has recorded as arising out of that
civil broil, I know of none so deeply cherished, or accompanied by
so many romantic and peculiar circumstances, as one which took place
between two old families of gentry in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh.
Stephen Bruntfield, laird of Craighouse, had been a zealous and
disinterested partisan of the queen. Robert Moubray of Barnbougle was
the friend successively of Murray and Morton, and distinguished himself
very highly in their cause. During the year 1572, when Edinburgh castle
was maintained by Kirkaldy of Grange in behalf of the queen, Stephen
Bruntfield held out Craighouse in the same interest, and suffered a
siege from a detachment of the forces of the regent, commanded by the
laird of Barnbougle. This latter baron, a man of fierce and brutal
nature, entered life as a younger brother, and at an early period chose
to cast his fate among the Protestant leaders, with a view of improving
his fortunes. The death of his elder brother in rebellion at Langside,
enabled the Regent Murray to reward his services with a grant of the
patrimonial estate, of which he did not scruple to take possession by
the strong hand, to the exclusion of his infant niece, the daughter of
the late proprietor. Some incidents which occurred in the course of the
war had inspired a mutual hatred of the most intense character into the
breasts of Bruntfield and Moubray; and it was therefore with a feeling
of strong personal animosity, as well as of political rancour, that
the latter undertook the task of watching the motions of Bruntfield at
Craighouse. Bruntfield, after holding out for many months, was obliged,
along with his friends in Edinburgh castle, to yield to the party of
the regent. Like Kirkaldy and Maitland of Lethington, he surrendered
upon a promise of life and estate; but while his two friends perished,
one by the hand of the executioner, the other by his own hand, he
fell a victim to the sateless spite of his personal enemy, who, in
conducting him to Edinburgh as a prisoner, took fire at some bitter
expression on the part of the captive, and smote him dead upon the spot.