affectionate inquiries of the morning, "you have often expressed a wish
that I would marry."
"I have, John," replied the good old lady. "Nothing in this world would
afford me greater gratification than to see you united to a woman who
should be every way deserving of you--one with whom you could live
happily."
"Ay, that last is the great, the important consideration, at least with
me. But where, mother, am I to find that woman? I have mingled a good
deal with the higher ranks of society, and there, certainly, I have not
been able to find her. I am not so uncharitable as to say--nay, God
forbid I should--that there are not as good, as virtuous, as amiable
women, in the upper classes of society as in the lower. I have no doubt
there are. All that I mean to say is, that I have not been fortunate
enough to find one in that sphere to suit my fancy, and have no hopes of
ever doing so. Besides, the feelings, sentiments, and dispositions of
these persons, both male and female, are so completely disguised by a
factitious manner, and by conventional rules, that you never can
discover what is their real nature and character. They are still
strangers to you, however long you may be acquainted with them. You
cannot tell who or what they are. The roller of fashion reduces them all
to one level; and, being all clapped into the same mould, they become
mere repetitions of each other, as like as peas, without exhibiting the
slightest point of variety. Now, mother," continued Sir John, "the wife
I should like is one whose heart, whose inmost nature, should be at once
open to my view, unwarped and undisguised by the customs and fashions of
the world."
"Upon my word, John, you are more than usually eloquent this morning,"
said Lady Gowan, laughing. "But pray now, do tell me, John, shortly and
unequivocally, what is the drift of this long, flowery, and very
sensible speech of yours?--for that there is a drift in it I can clearly
perceive. You are aiming at something which you do not like to plump
upon me at once."
Sir John looked a good deal confused on finding that his mother's
shrewdness had detected a latent purpose in his remarks, and endeavoured
to evade the acknowledgment of that purpose, until he should have her
opinion of the observations he had made; and in this he succeeded.
Having pressed her on this point:
"Well, my son," replied Lady Gowan, "if you think that you cannot find a
woman in a station of life corresponding to your own that will suit your
taste, look for her in any other you please; and, when found, take her.
Consult your own happiness, John, and in doing so you will consult mine.
I will not object to your marrying whomsoever you please. All that I
bargain for is, that she be a perfectly virtuous woman, and of
irreproachable character; and I don't think this is being unreasonable.
But do now, John, tell me at once," she added, in a graver tone, and
taking her son solemnly by the hand; "have you fixed your affections on
a woman of humble birth and station? I rather suspect this is the case."
"I have, then, mother," replied Sir John, returning his mother's
expressive and affectionate pressure of the hand--"the daughter of a
humble yeoman, a woman who----" But we will spare the reader the
infliction of the high-flown encomiums of all sorts which Sir John
lavished on the object of his affections. Suffice it to say, that they
included every quality of both mind and person which go to the adornment
of the female sex.
When he had concluded, Lady Gowan, who made the necessary abatements
from the panegyric her son had passed on the lady of his choice, said
that, with regard to his attachment, she could indeed have wished it had
fallen on one somewhat nearer his own station in life, but that,
nevertheless, she had no objection whatever to accept of Miss Harrison
as a daughter-in-law, since she was his choice. "Nay," she added,
smiling, "if she only possesses one-tenth--ay, one-tenth, John--of the
good qualities with which you have endowed her, I must say you are a
singularly fortunate man to have fallen in with such a treasure. But,
John, allow me to say that, old woman as I am, I think that I could very
easily show you that your prejudices, vulgar prejudices I must call
them, against the higher classes of society, are unreasonable, unjust,
and, I would add, illiberal, and therefore wholly unworthy of you. Does
the elegance, the refinement, the accomplishments, the propriety of
manner and delicacy of sentiment, to be met with in these circles, go
for nothing with you? Does----"
"My dear mother," here burst in Sir John, "if you please, we will not
argue the point; for, in truth, I do not feel disposed just now to argue
about anything. I presume I am to understand, my ever kind and indulgent
parent, that I have your full consent to marry Miss Harrison--that is,
of course, if Miss Harrison will marry me."
"Fully and freely, my child," said the old lady, now flinging her arms
around her son's neck, while a tear glistened in her eye; "and may God
bless your union, and make it happy! I would rather ten thousand times
see you marry such a girl as you have described, than that you should do
by her as many young men of your years and station would be but too
ready to do."
Sir John with no less emotion returned the embrace of his affectionate
parent, and, in the most grateful language he could command, thanked her
for her ready compliance with his wishes.
On the day following that on which the preceding conversation between
Sir John Gowan and his mother took place, the inmates of Todshaws were
surprised at the appearance of a splendid equipage driving up towards
the house.
"Wha in a' the world's this?" said Jeanie to her father, as they both
stood at the door, looking at the glittering vehicle, as it flashed in
the sun and rolled on towards them. "Some travellers that hae mistaen
their road."
"Very likely," replied her father; "yet I canna understand what kind o'
a mistake it could be that should bring them to such an out-o'-the-way
place as this. It's no a regular carriage road--that they micht hae
seen; an' if they hae gane wrang, they'll find some difficulty in
getting richt again. But here they are, sae we'll sune ken a' about it."
As Mr Harrison said this, the carriage, now at the distance of only some
twenty or thirty yards from the house, stopped, a gentleman stepped out,
and advanced smiling towards Mr Harrison and his daughter. They looked
surprised, nay confounded; for they could not at all comprehend who
their visiter was.
"How do you do, Mr Harrison?" exclaimed the latter, stretching out his
hand to the person he addressed; "and how do you do, Miss Harrison?" he
said, taking Jeanie next by the hand.
In the stranger's tones and manner the acute perceptions of Miss
Harrison recognised something she had heard and seen before, and the
recognition greatly perplexed her; nor was this perplexity lessened by
the discovery which she also made, that the countenance of the stranger
recalled one which she had seen on some former occasion. In short, the
person now before her she thought presented a most extraordinary
likeness to the fiddler--only that he had no fiddle, that he was
infinitely better dressed, and that his pockets were not sticking out
with lumps of cheese and cold beef. That they were the same person,
however, she never dreamed for a moment.
In his daughter's perplexity on account of the resemblances alluded to,
Mr Harrison did not participate, as, having paid little or no attention
to the personal appearance of the fiddler, he detected none of them; and
it was thus that he replied to the stranger's courtesies with a gravity
and coolness which contrasted strangely with the evident embarrassment
and confusion of his daughter, although she herself did not well know
how this accidental resemblance, as she deemed it, should have had such
an effect upon her.
Immediately after the interchange of the commonplace civilities
above-mentioned had passed between the stranger and Mr Harrison and his
daughter--
"Mr Harrison," he said, "may I have a private word with you?"
"Certainly, sir," replied the former. And he led the way into a little
back parlour.
"Excuse us for a few minutes, Miss Harrison," said the stranger, with a
smile, ere he followed, and bowing gallantly to her as he spoke.
On entering the parlour, Mr Harrison requested the stranger to take a
seat, and placing himself in another, he awaited the communication of
his visiter.
"Mr Harrison," now began the latter, "in the first place, it may be
proper to inform you that I am Sir John Gowan of Castle Gowan."
"Oh!" said Mr Harrison, rising from his seat, approaching Sir John, and
extending his hand towards him--"I am very happy indeed to see Sir John
Gowan. I never had the pleasure of seeing you before, sir; but I have
heard much of you, and not to your discredit, I assure you, Sir John."
"Well, that is some satisfaction, at any rate, Mr Harrison," replied the
baronet, laughing. "I am glad that my character, since it happens to be
a good one, has been before me. It may be of service to me. But to
proceed to business. You will hardly recognise in me, my friend, I
daresay," continued Sir John, "a certain fiddler who played to you at a
certain wedding lately, and to whose music you and your family danced on
the green in front of your own house the other night."
Mr Harrison's first reply to this extraordinary observation was a broad
stare of amazement and utter non-comprehension. But after a few minutes'
pause thus employed, "No, certainly not, sir," he said, still greatly
perplexed and amazed. "But I do not understand you. What is it you mean,
Sir John?"
"Why," replied the latter, laughing, "I mean very distinctly that _I_
was the musician on both of the occasions alluded to. The
personification of such a character has been one of my favourite
frolics; and, however foolish it may be considered, I trust it will at
least be allowed to have been a harmless one."
"Well, this is most extraordinary," replied Mr Harrison, in great
astonishment. "Can it be possible? Is it really true, Sir John, or are
ye jesting?"
"Not a bit of that, I assure you, sir. I am in sober earnest. But all
this," continued Sir John, "is but a prelude to the business I came
upon. To be short, then, Mr Harrison, I saw and particularly marked your
daughter on the two occasions alluded to, and the result, in few words,
is, that I have conceived a very strong attachment to her. Her beauty,
her cheerfulness, her good temper, and simplicity, have won my heart,
and I have now come to offer her my hand."
"Why, Sir John, this--this," stammered out the astonished farmer, "is
more extraordinary still. You do my daughter and myself great honour,
Sir John--great honour, indeed."
"Not a word of that," replied the knight--"not a word of that, Mr
Harrison. My motives are selfish. I am studying my own happiness, and
therefore am not entitled to any acknowledgments of that kind. You, I
hope, sir, have no objection to accept of me as a son-in-law; and I
trust your daughter will have no very serious ones either. Her
affections, I hope, are not pre-engaged?"
"Not that I know of, Sir John," replied Mr Harrison; "indeed, I may
venture to say positively that they are not. The girl has never yet,
that I am aware of, thought of a husband--at least, not more than young
women usually do; and as to my having any objections, Sir John, so far
from that, I feel, I assure you, extremely grateful for such a singular
mark of your favour and condescension as that you have just mentioned."
"And you anticipate no very formidable ones on the part of your
daughter?"
"Certainly not, Sir John; it is impossible there should."
"Will you, then, my dear sir," added Sir John, "be kind enough to go to
Miss Harrison and break this matter to her, and I will wait your
return?"
With this request the farmer instantly complied; and having found his
daughter, opened to her at once the extraordinary commission with which
he was charged. We would fain describe, but find ourselves wholly
incompetent to the task, the effect which Mr Harrison's communication
had upon his daughter, and on the other female members of the family, to
all of whom it was also soon known. There was screaming, shouting,
laughing, crying, fear, joy, terror, and amazement, all blended together
in one tremendous medley, and so loud, that it reached the ears of Sir
John himself, who, guessing the cause of it, laughed very heartily at
the strange uproar.
"But, oh! the cauld beef an' the cheese that I crammed into his pockets,
father," exclaimed Jeanie, running about the room in great agitation.
"He'll never forgie me that--never, never," she said, in great distress
of mind. "To fill a knight's pockets wi' dauds o' beef and cheese! Oh!
goodness, goodness! I canna marry him. I canna see him after that. It's
impossible, father--impossible, impossible!"
"If that be a' your objections, Jeanie," replied her father, smiling,
"we'll soon get the better o't. I'll undertake to procure ye Sir John's
forgiveness for the cauld beef an' cheese--that's if ye think it
necessary to ask a man's pardon for filling his pockets wi' most
unexceptionable provender. I wish every honest man's pouches war as weel
lined, lassie, as Sir John's was that nicht." Saying this, Mr Harrison
returned to Sir John and informed him of the result of his mission,
which was--but this he had rather made out than been told, for Jeanie
could not be brought to give any rational answer at all--that his
addresses would not, he believed, be disagreeable to his daughter,
"which," he added, "is, I suppose, all that you desire in the meantime,
Sir John."
"Nothing more, nothing more, Mr Harrison; she that's not worth wooing's
not worth winning. I only desired your consent to my addresses, and a
regular and honourable introduction to your daughter. The rest belongs
to me. I will now fight my own battle, since you have cleared the way,
and only desire that you may wish me success."
"That I do with all my heart," replied the farmer; "and, if I can lend
you a hand, I will do it with right good will."
"Thank you, Mr Harrison, thank you," replied Sir John; "and now, my dear
sir," he continued, "since you have so kindly assisted me thus far, will
you be good enough to help me just one step further. Will you now
introduce me in my new character to your daughter? Hitherto, she has
known me only," he said, smiling as he spoke, "as an itinerant fiddler,
and I long to meet her on a more serious footing--and on one," he added,
again laughing, "I hope, a trifle more respectable."
"That I'll very willingly do, Sir John," replied Mr Harrison, smiling in
his turn; "but I must tell you plainly, that I have some doubts of being
able to prevail on Jane to meet you at this particular moment. She has
one most serious objection to seeing you."
"Indeed," replied Sir John, with an earnestness that betokened some
alarm. "Pray, what is that objection?"
"Why, sir," rejoined the latter, "allow me to reply to that question by
asking you another. Have you any recollection of carrying away out of my
house, on the last night you were here, a pocketful of cheese and cold
beef?"
"Oh! perfectly, perfectly," said Sir John, laughing, yet somewhat
perplexed. "Miss Harrison was kind enough to furnish me with the very
liberal supply of the articles you allude to; cramming them into my
pocket with her own fair hands."
"Just so," replied Mr Harrison, now laughing in his turn. "Well, then,
to tell you a truth, Sir John, Jane is so dreadfully ashamed of that
circumstance that she positively will not face you."
"Oh ho! is that the affair?" exclaimed the delighted baronet. "Why,
then, if she won't come to us, we'll go to her; so lead the way, Mr
Harrison, if you please." Mr Harrison did lead the way, and Jane was
caught.
Beyond this point our story need not be prolonged, as here all its
interest ceases. We have only now to add, then, that the winning
manners, gentle dispositions, and very elegant person of Sir John Gowan,
very soon completed the conquest he aimed at; and Jeanie Harrison, in
due time, became LADY GOWAN.
THE AMATEUR LAWYERS.[3]
[Footnote 3: One of the characters of this tale may be easily recognised
by some of the older Edinburgh agents. It has been said of him, that one
day a travelling packman was seen to enter his farmhouse with a large
book under his arm, and in about a quarter-of-an-hour afterwards to
issue with a book of a very different appearance. The farmer had "swapt"
his family Bible for Erskine's "Institute of the Law of Scotland." From
that day he became litigious, and from that day he could date the
commencement of his ruin.--ED.]
The profession of the law is one of the highest respectability; the
study itself a sufficiently interesting one, nevertheless of its having
been called dry by those whose genius it does not suit, or by those
whose pockets have been made lighter by some of its technical behests;
yet we cannot conceive what there is, either in its language, its
technicalities, or its general practical operation, or its application,
to captivate the fancy of any one not connected with it professionally.
But, of a surety, the science has had many amateur attaches--men whose
whole souls were wrapped up in multiplepoindings, who loved summonses,
who were captivated by condescendences. Strange customers for the most
part--original geniuses in some of the queerest senses of the word. Born
with a natural propensity for litigation, possessed of a most
unaccountable aptitude for everything that is complicated and involved,
the law becomes with these persons, not only a favourite, but an
engrossing study--engrossing almost to the exclusion of everything else.
Law, in short, becomes their hobby. Of law they constantly speak; of law
they constantly think; of law, we have no doubt, they constantly dream.
The victims of this curious disease--for disease it is--are generally to
be found amongst the lower and uneducated classes, and are, for the most
part, men of confused intellect and large conceit, all of them, without
any exception, imagining themselves astonishingly acute, shrewd, and
clever fellows--sharp chaps, who know much more than the world is aware
of, or will give them credit for--screws for bungs of any
dimensions--dungeons of wit and wisdom. For these persons the jargon of
the law has charms superior to the sweetest strains that music ever
poured forth. They delight in its uncouthness and unintelligibility,
employ it with a gravity, composure, and confidence which, when
contrasted with their utter ignorance, or, at best, confused notions of
its meaning, is at once highly edifying and impressive.
Yet, notwithstanding of the natural tendencies of such persons to legal
pursuits and studies, they do not generally betake themselves to them
spontaneously, or without some original influencing cause. They will be
found, for the most part, to have been started in their legal career by
some small lawsuit of their own, and, being previously predisposed, this
at once inoculates them with the disease. From that moment to the end of
their natural lives they are confirmed, incorrigible lawyers. They have
imbibed a love for the science, a taste for litigation, which quits them
only with life. All which remarks we have made with the view of
introducing to the world, with the grandest effect possible, our very
good friend, Mr John Goodale, or, as the name was more generally and
more euphoniously pronounced by his acquaintances, Guidyill, who was
precisely such a person and character as we have endeavoured to picture
forth in this preliminary sketch with which our story opens.
Guidyill was a small laird or landed proprietor in the shire of Renfrew,
or, as it was anciently spelled, Arranthrough. He was a man of grave,
solemn demeanour, with a look of intense wisdom, which was hardly made
good by either his speech or his actions. It was evident that he was
desirous of palming himself on a simple world for a man of shining
parts, of great penetration and discernment, and profound knowledge. All
this he himself firmly believed he was, and this belief imparted to his
somewhat saturnine countenance a degree of calm repose, confidence, and
self-reliance particularly striking. In person, he was tall and thin, or
rather gaunt, with that peculiar conformation of face which has obtained
the fancy name of lantern-jawed. His age was about fifty-five. To
descend to items: the laird _always_ wore knee-breeches, and _never_
wore braces; so that the natural tendency of the former downwards being
thus unchecked, gave free egress to a quantity of linen, which, taking
advantage of the liberty, always displayed itself in a voluminous
semicircle of white across his midriff. A small, unnecessary exhibition
of snuff about the nose completed the _tout ensemble_ of the Laird of
Scouthercakes.
We have described Mr Guidyill (we prefer the colloquial to the classical
pronunciation of his name) as a small laird, and such he was at the
period we take up his history; but it had not been always so with him.
He was at one time the owner of a very extensive property; but lawsuit
after lawsuit had gradually circumscribed its dimensions, until he found
no difficulty in accomplishing that in ten minutes which used to take
him a good hour--that is, in walking round his possessions. Yet the
laird had still a little left--as much as would carry him through two or
three other suits of moderate cost; and this happiness he hoped to enjoy
before he died; for, like a spaniel with its master, the more the law
flogged him, the more attached he became to the said law.
Just at the particular moment at which we introduce Mr Guidyill to the
notice of the reader, he had no legal business whatever on hand--not a
single case in any one even of the petty local courts of the district,
to say nothing of his great field of action, the Court of Session. It
was a predicament he had not been in for twenty years before, and he
found it exceedingly irksome and disagreeable; for a dispute with some
one or other was necessary, if not to his existence absolutely, at
least most certainly to his happiness. The laird's last lawsuit, which
was with a neighbouring proprietor regarding the site of a midden or
dung-stead, and which, as usual, had gone against him, to the tune of
some hundred and eighty pounds, had been brought to a conclusion about a
year and a-half before the period we allude to; and, during all that
time, the laird had lived contrived to live, we should have said,
without a single quarrel with any one on which any pretext for a
law-plea could be grounded. Moreover, and what was still more
distressing, he was not only without a case at the moment, but without
the prospect of one; for he had exhausted all the pugnacity that was in
his vicinity. There was not now one left who would "take him up." But
better days were in store for the Laird of Scouthercakes--better than he
had dared to hope for. One thumping plea, a thorough cleaner out before
he died, was the secret wish of his heart, though unavowed even to
himself; and in this wish it was permitted him to be gratified.