when the blow was given; but then, you know, there has been a great
deal of time since. And, love here or love there, people will speak of
such a thing in their ordinary way. The story was told the other day
in my presence to the French ambassador; and Monsieur’s first question
was, ‘Doth the man yet live?’ When told that he was both living and
life-like, he shrugged his shoulders, and looked more than I can tell.”
“Oh, Crawford,” said Bruce, “you agonise me. I hoped that this painful
tale would be kept between ourselves, and that there would be no more
of it. I still hoped, although tremblingly, that my union with the
woman I love would be accomplished, and that all should then be made
up. But now I feel that I have been but too truly foredoomed. That
union must be anticipated by a very different event.”
“You know best,” said the careless Crawford, “what is best for your own
honour.” And away he tripped, leaving the flames of hell in a breast
where hitherto every gentle feeling had resided.
The light talk of Crawford was soon confirmed in import by the
treatment which Bruce began to experience in society. It was the
fashion of the age that every injury, however trifling, should be
expiated by an ample revenge; that nothing should be forgiven to any
one, however previously endeared. Accordingly, no distinction was
made between the case of Bruce and any other; no allowance was made
for the circumstances in which he stood respecting the family of his
injurer, nor for their former extraordinary friendship. The public,
with a feeling of which too much still exists, seemed to think itself
defrauded of something which was its right, in the continued impunity
of Sackville’s insolence. It cried for blood to satisfy _itself_, if
not to restore the honour of the injured party. Bruce, of course,
suffered dreadfully from this sentiment wherever he appeared; insomuch
that, even though he might have been still disposed to forgive his
enemy, he saw that to do so would only be to encounter greater misery
than could accrue from any attempt at revenge, even though that attempt
were certain to end in his own destruction.
It happened that just at this time Bruce and Sackville had occasion,
along with many other _attachés_ of the court, to attend the Elector
Palatine out of the country, with his newly-married bride, Elizabeth,
the daughter of the king and queen. The two young men kept apart till
they came to Canterbury, where, as the royal train was viewing the
cathedral, it chanced that they saw each other very near. The elector,
who knew a little of their story, immediately called Sackville up to
him, and requested his sword, enjoining him, at the same time, in a
friendly manner, to beware of falling out with Bruce so long as he was
in attendance upon the court. His highness said, farther, that he had
heard his royal father-in-law speak of their quarrel, and express his
resolution to visit any transgression of the laws by either of them
with his severest displeasure. Sackville obeyed the command of the
elector, and withdrew to a part of the cortege remote from the place
where Bruce was standing. However, it happened, that, in surveying
the curiosities of that gorgeous architectural scene, they came to
the monument of a Scottish crusader, who had died here on his way
back from the Holy Land. Sackville muttered something respecting this
object, in which the words “beggarly Scot” were alone overheard by
Bruce, who stood at no great distance, and who immediately recriminated
by using some corresponding phrase of obloquy applicable to England,
to which Sackville replied by striking his former friend once more
upon the face. Before another word or blow could pass between them, a
number of courtiers had rushed forward to separate them, and they were
immediately borne back to a distance from each other, each, however,
glaring upon the other with a look of concentrated scorn and hate. The
elector thought it necessary, after what had taken place, that they
should be confined for a time to their apartments. But no interval of
time could restore amity to those bosoms where formerly it had reigned
supreme. It was now felt by both that nothing but blood could wipe
out the sense of wrong which they mutually felt; and, therefore, as
the strictness of the king regarding personal quarrels rendered it
impossible to fight in Britain, without danger of interruption, Bruce
resolved to go beyond seas, and thence send a challenge requesting
Sackville to follow him.
In forming this purpose, Bruce felt entirely like a doomed man. He
recollected the prediction of the old woman at Culross Abbey, which
had always appeared to him, somehow, as implying that Sackville should
be the unhappy survivor. Already, he reflected, the least probable
part of the prediction had been fulfilled by their having quarrelled.
Under this impression, he found it indispensable to his peace that he
should return to London, and take leave of two individuals in whom
he felt the deepest interest—his mother and his once-intended bride.
Notwithstanding the painful nature of his sensations, he found it would
be necessary to assume a forced ease of demeanour in the presence
of these beloved persons, lest he should cause them to interpose
themselves between him and his purpose. The first visit was paid to
his mother, who resided at his own house. He had received, he said,
some news from Scotland, which rendered it necessary that he should
immediately proceed thither; and he briefly detailed a story which he
had previously framed in his own mind for the purpose of deceiving
her. After having made some preparations for his journey, he came to
take leave of her; but his first precautions having escaped from his
mind during the interval, his forehead now bore a gloom as deep as the
shade of an approaching funeral. When his mother remarked this, he
explained it, not perfectly to her satisfaction, but yet sufficiently
so to avert farther question, by reference to the pain of parting with
his mistress on a long and dangerous journey, when just about to be
united to her for life. As he pronounced the words “long and dangerous
journey,” his voice faltered with tenderness; but there was so much
truth in the real meaning of the phrase (however little there might be
now), that no metaphorical interpretation occurred to the mind of Lady
Bruce. He even spoke of his will without exciting her suspicions. There
was but one point in it, he said, that he thought it worth while to
allude to. Wherever or whensoever it might please fate to remove him
from the coil of mortal life, he wished his mother, or whoever might
survive him, to recollect that his dying spirit reverted to the scenes
of his infancy, and that his heart wished in life that it might never
in death be parted from that spot. These words, of course, communicated
to Lady Bruce’s spirit that gravity which the mention of mortal things
must ever carry; but yet nothing seemed amiss in what she heard. It
was not till after she had parted with her son—not till she felt the
blank impression of his last embrace lingering on her bosom, and
thought of him as an absent being, whom it would be long before she saw
again—that his final words had their full force upon her mind. Those
words, like a sweet tune heard in a crowd with indifference, but which
afterwards in solitude steals into and melts the soul, then revived
upon her mind, and were pondered upon for days afterwards with a deep
and unaccountable sadness of spirit.
It now only remained that he should take leave of his mistress. She
was in the garden when he arrived, and no sooner did she obtain a
glimpse of his person, than she ran gaily and swiftly towards him,
with a face beaming with joy, exclaiming that she had such good news
to tell him as he had not ever heard before. This turned out, upon
inquiry, to be the permission of her father that their nuptials should
take place that day month. The intelligence fell upon Bruce’s heart
like a stab, and it was some moments ere he could collect himself to
make an appropriate answer. Lady Clementina observed his discomposure,
and, with a half-alarmed feeling, asked its cause. He explained it as
occasioned by regret for his necessary absence in Scotland, to which he
was called by some very urgent business, so as to render it necessary
that the commencement of their mutual happiness should be put off for
some time longer. “Thus,” he said, “to be obstructed by an affair of
my own, after all the objections of others had been removed with so
much difficulty, is particularly galling.” The disappointment of the
young lady was more deeply felt than it was strongly expressed. She was
reassured, however, by a fervent and solemn promise from her lover,
that, as soon as possible, he would return to make her his own. After
taking leave of her parents, he clasped her in one last fond embrace,
during which every moment seemed an age of enjoyment, as if all the
felicity of which he was about to be defrauded had been concentrated
and squandered in that brief space. At one moment, he felt the warm
pressure of a being beloved above all earthly objects, and from whom
he had expected a whole life of happiness; at another, he had turned
away towards the emptiness of desolation, and the cold breath of the
grave.
One hour did he give to reflection upon all he left behind—an hour such
as those which sometimes turn men’s hair gray—the next, and all after
it, he devoted to the enterprise upon which he was entering. Crawford,
whom he requested to become his second, readily agreed to accompany him
for that purpose; and they immediately set out for the Netherlands,
leaving a challenge for Sackville in the hands of a friend, along with
directions as to the proposed place of meeting.
The remainder of this lamentable tale may be best told in the words of
Sir George Sackville. That unhappy young man, some months after the
fatal tragedy, wrote an account of it to a friend, for the purpose of
clearing himself from certain aspersions which had been cast upon him.
The language is somewhat quaint, but it gives a more forcible idea than
could otherwise be conveyed of the frenzied feelings of Bruce, under
the wrongs which he had suffered from his antagonist, as well as of the
actual circumstances of the combat.
“——We met at Tergosa, in Zealand, it being the place allotted for
rendezvous; he being accompanied with one Mr Crawford, a Scotch
gentleman, for his second, a surgeon, and a man. There having rendered
himself, I addressed my second, Sir John Heidon, to let him understand
that now all following should be done by consent, as concerning the
terms whereon we should fight, as also the place. To our seconds we
gave power for their appointments, who agreed we should go to Antwerp,
from thence to Bergen-op-Zoom, where in the midway but a village
divides the states’ territories from the archduke’s. And there was
the destined stage, to the end that, having ended, he that could
might presently exempt himself from the justice of the country, by
retiring into the dominion not offended. It was farther concluded,
that, in case any should fall or slip, that then the combat should
cease, and he whose ill-fortune had subjected him, was to acknowledge
his life to have been in the other’s hands. But in case one party’s
sword should break, because that could only chance by hazard, it
was agreed that the other should take no advantage, but either then
be made friends, or else upon even terms go to it again. Thus these
conclusions being each of them related to his party, was by us both
approved, and assented to. Accordingly, we embarked for Antwerp. And
by reason, as I conceive, he could not handsomely, without danger of
discovery, had not paired the sword I sent him to Paris; bringing one
of the same length, but twice as broad; my second excepted against
it, and advised me to match my own, and send him the choice, which I
obeyed; it being, you know, the privilege of the challenged to elect
his weapon. At the delivery of the swords, which was performed by Sir
John Heidon, it pleased the Lord Bruce to choose my own, and then, past
expectation, he told him that a little of my blood would not serve his
turn; and, therefore, he was now resolved to have me alone, because he
knew (for I will use his own words) ‘that so worthy a gentleman, and
my friend, could not endure to stand by and see him do that which he
must, to satisfy himself and his honour.’ Therefore, Sir John Heidon
replied, that such intentions were bloody and butcherly, far unfitting
so noble a personage, who should desire to bleed for reputation, not
for life; withal adding, he thought himself injured, being come thus
far, now to be prohibited from executing those honourable offices he
came for. The lord, for answer, only reiterated his former resolutions;
whereupon Sir John, leaving him the sword he had elected, delivered
me the other, with his determinations. The which, not for matter but
manner, so moved me, as though to my remembrance I had not for a long
while eaten more liberally than at dinner, and therefore unfit for
such an action (seeing the surgeons hold a wound upon the full stomach
more dangerous than otherwise), I requested my second to certify
him I would presently decide the difference, and therefore he should
presently meet me on horseback, only waited on by our surgeons, they
being unarmed. Together we rode, but one before the other some twelve
score paces, for about two English miles; and then passion having so
weak an enemy to assail as my discretion, easily became the victor,
and, using his power, made me obedient to his commands. I being verily
mad with anger that the Lord Bruce should thirst after my life with a
kind of assuredness, seeing I had come so far and needlessly to give
him leave to regain his lost reputation, I bade him alight, which with
willingness he quickly granted, and there in a meadow, ancle deep in
water at the least, bidding farewell to our doublets, in our shirts
began to charge each other; having afore commanded our surgeons to
withdraw themselves a pretty distance from us, conjuring them, besides,
as they respected our favours, or their own safeties, not to stir,
but suffer us to execute our pleasure; we being fully resolved (God
forgive us!) to dispatch each other by what means we could. I made
a thrust at my enemy, but was short, and, in drawing back my arm, I
received a great wound thereon, which I interpreted as a reward for my
short shooting; but in my revenge, I pressed into him, though I then
missed him also, and received a wound in my right pap, which passed
level through my body, and almost to my back. And there we wrestled
for the two greatest and dearest prizes we could ever expect trial
for—honour and life. In which struggling, my hand, having but an
ordinary glove upon it, lost one of her servants, though the meanest.
But at last breathless, yet keeping our hold, there passed on both
sides propositions of quitting each other’s swords. But when amity was
dead, confidence could not live, and who should quit first was the
question, which on neither part either would perform; and restriving
again afresh, with a kick and a wrench I freed my long captive weapon,
which incontinently levying at his throat, being master still of his,
I demanded if he would ask his life, or yield his sword, both which,
though in that imminent danger, he bravely denied to do. Myself being
wounded, and feeling loss of blood, having three conduits running on
me, which began to make me faint, and he courageously persisting not to
accede to either of my propositions, through remembrance of his former
bloody desire, and feeling of my present estate, I struck at his heart,
but, with his avoiding, missed my aim, yet passed through the body, and
drawing out my sword, repassed it again through another place, when he
cried, ‘Oh! I am slain!’ seconding his speech with all the force he
had to cast me. But being too weak, after I had defended his assault,
I easily became master of him, laying him on his back—when being upon
him, I redemanded if he would request his life; but it seemed he prized
it not at so dear a rate to be beholden for it, bravely replying, ‘He
scorned it.’ Which answer of his was so noble and worthy, as I protest
I could not find in my heart to offer him any more violence, only
keeping him down until at length his surgeon afar off cried, ‘He would
immediately die, if his wounds were not stopped.’ Whereupon I asked if
he desired his surgeon should come, which he accepted of; and so, being
drawn away, I never offered to take his sword, accounting it inhuman to
rob a dead man, for so I held him to be. This thus ended, I retired to
my surgeon, in whose arms, after I had remained a while, for want of
blood, I lost my sight, and withal, as I then thought, my life also.
But strong water and his diligence quickly recovered me; when I escaped
a great danger; for my lord’s surgeon, when nobody dreamt of it, came
full at me with his lord’s sword; and had not mine with my sword
interposed himself, I had been slain by those base hands; although my
Lord Bruce, weltering in his blood, and past all expectation of life,
conformable to all his former carriage, which was undoubtedly noble,
cried out, ‘Rascal, hold thy hand!’ So may I prosper, as I have dealt
sincerely with you in this relation.
“Louvain, September 8, 1613.”
Such is the melancholy story of Edward Lord Bruce, a young nobleman,
who, but for a false point of honour, arising from the incorrect
judging of the world, might have lived to make many fellow-creatures
happy, and adorn the annals of his country. The sacred griefs of those
to whom he was most peculiarly endeared, it would be vain to paint. A
mistress who wore mourning, and lived single for his sake all the rest
of her life—a mother, who survived him only to mourn his irreparable
loss—upon such holy sorrow it is not for me to intrude. It may be
only mentioned, that the latter individual, recollecting the last
parting words of her son, caused his heart to be embalmed, and brought
to her in a silver case (the body being buried in the cathedral of
Bergen-op-Zoom), and carried it with her to Culross, where she spent
the remainder of her life in gloomy solitude, with that object always
before her upon her table. After her death, it was deposited in the
family vault already described, where it has ever since remained, the
best monument of its own fatal history.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Lord Buckhurst.
[2] The Earl of Dorset, a poetical ornament of the court of Charles the
Second.
CULTIVATIONS.
All men are not agriculturists, horticulturists, or arboriculturists;
but yet almost all men are _cultivators_. By this it is meant that men
in general cultivate, or coax, or unduly appreciate and fondle, some
particular feature of their persons, or else, perhaps, some integument
connected with their persons, to such a degree as to be rather
conspicuous, while to every thing else they only give the ordinary
degree of attention. There are many features of human nature which
remain to be detected and described; and this is one—_Cultivations_.
So far as I am aware, no one ever thought of pointing it out to
mankind: the subject of cultivation has hitherto remained totally
_uncultivated_. So it shall be no longer.
Hair, as the only part of the person which actually grows like a
vegetable, is naturally a large subject of cultivation. The Cavaliers
long ago cultivated love-locks, which they kept hanging down in
graceful fashion from their temples. These locks, or curls, are now
changed for tufts or bunches of hair, which the young men cultivate
at the same place, and are ever shaking up and tedding, exactly as
if it were a crop of hay instead of hair. Mark a modern beau as he
walks along the street, and you will observe at one glance that the
principal part of the man—the heart—the sensorium—the cynosure—the
point from which all the rest evolves—the root of the man, in short,
is the tuft under the right rim of his hat. All the rest of him is a
mere pendulum, vibrating from this axis. As he walks along, he hardly
feels that any other part of him is in existence, besides that. But
he feels his tuft most intensely. Thought, feeling, every thing, lies
concentrated in that: head, body, and limbs, are all alike mere members
devolved from it. If you were to cut off the side-bunch of a modern
beau in his sleep, he would, for the time, be utterly ruined. It would
be like the polypus, deprived of every thing but a single leg; and he
would require several months of dormant existence—that is, retirement
from the streets—to let the better part of him grow out again from the
worse, which had remained behind. Let not the demure Puritan, however,
think that the joke lies all against the gay Cavalier or beau. There
may be as much of the sin of cultivation in the stroked and glossy hair
of the Roundhead or _plain man_, as in the love-locks and bunches of
their antipodes in sentiment. I have seen some men, who affected to be
very unaffected, cultivate a peak on the top and centre of their brows
as sedulously, and with as much inward gratulation on account of it,
as ever I saw a dandy cultivate a tuft, or train a side-curl. It must
be understood that there are cultivations of a negative character,
as well as of a positive, and he who is guiltless of cultivation in
his heart is alone guiltless. Next to curls stand whiskers. What
a field of cultivation have we there! The whisker is a bounty of
nature, which man does not like to refuse taking advantage of. The
thing presses upon him—it is _there_; and to put it altogether aside,
except upon the demand of temporary fashion, is scarcely to be thought
of. Some men, however, are more able to resist the demon of whiskers
than others. There are some men so prone to the temptations of this
fiend, that they enlarge and enlarge their field of cultivation, by
small and imperceptible degrees, till at length the whole chin falls
a prey, excepting, perhaps, a small bit about the mouth, just enough
to preserve the cultivator within the pale of the Christian church.
Sometimes the Whisker Fiend makes an insidious advance or sally up
towards the corners of the mouth; and there—in those small creeks or
promontories—does the sin of cultivation invariably flourish more proud
and rampant than any where else. The whisker of the cheek is a broad,
honest, candid, downright cultivation, but that down about the corners
of the mouth is a sly and most impish one—a little pet sin, apt to
beset its cultivator in a far less resistible fashion than any other;
and it may indeed be said, that he who has given himself fairly up to
this crime is almost beyond redemption.
There are some men who cultivate white hands, with long fair nails.
For nothing else do they care very particularly—all is well, if only
their hands be neat. There is even a ridiculous notion that elegant
hands are the most unequivocal test of what is called good birth. I
can say, for my own part, that the finest hands I ever saw belonged
to a woman who kept a butcher’s shop in Musselburgh. So much for the
nonsense about fine hands. Then there is a set of people who cultivate
a ring on a particular finger—evidently regretting, from their manner
of managing it, that the South Sea fashion of wearing such ornaments in
the nose has not ever come into this country. Some men cultivate neat
ebony canes with golden heads, which, they tell you, cost a guinea.
Some cultivate a lisp. A few, who fall under the denomination of
stout gentlemen, rejoice in a respectable swell of the haunch, with
three wrinkles of the coat lying upon it in majestic repose. Some
cultivate a neckcloth—some a shirt-breast—some a jewelled pin, with
a lesser pin at a little distance, which serves to it as a kind of
anchor. There has also of late been a great fashion of cultivating
chains about the waistcoat. Some only show about two inches of a
gold or silver one between the buttons and the pocket; others, less
modest, have themselves almost laced round and round with this kind of
tracery. There is also to be detected, occasionally, a small patch of
cultivation in the shape of a curious watch-key or seal, which depends
from part of the chain, and is evidently a great pet. A not uncommon
subject of cultivation is a gold watch.