The grey lights of morning shone mild on Glenalbert, as the carriage,
which was conveying Laura to scenes unknown, wound slowly up the hill.
With watery eyes she looked back on the quiet beauties of her native
valley. She listened to the dashing of its stream, till the murmur died
on her ear. Her lowly home soon glided behind the woods; but its early
smoke rose peaceful from amidst its sheltering oaks, till it blended
with the mists of morning; and Laura gazed on it as on the parting steps
of a friend. 'Oh, vales!' she exclaimed, 'where my childhood
sported--mountains that have echoed to my songs of praise, amidst your
shades may my age find shelter--may your wild-flowers bloom on my
grave!'--Captain Montreville pressed the fair enthusiast to his breast
and smiled. It was a smile of pity--for Montreville's days of enthusiasm
were past. It was a smile of pleasure--for we love to look upon the
transcript of our early feelings. But, whatever it expressed, it was
discord with the tone of Laura's mind. It struck cold on her glowing
heart; and she carefully avoided uttering a word that might call forth
such another, till, bright gleaming in the setting sun, she first beheld
romantic Edinburgh. 'Is it not glorious!' she cried, tears of wonder and
delight glittering in her eyes, and she longed for its re-appearance,
when the descent of the little eminence which had favoured their view,
excluded the city from their sight.
As the travellers approached the town, Laura, whose attention was
rivetted by the castle and its rocks, now frowning majestic in the
shades of twilight, and by the antique piles that seemed the work of
giants, scarcely bestowed a glance on the neat row of modern buildings
along which she was passing, and she was sorry when the carriage turned
from the objects of her admiration towards the hotel where Captain
Montreville intended to lodge.
Next morning, Laura, eager to renew the pleasure of the evening,
proposed a walk; not without some dread of encountering the crowd which
she expected to find in such a city. Of this crowd, she had, indeed,
seen nothing the night before; but she concluded, ere that she reached
town, most of the inhabitants had soberly retired to rest. At the season
of the year, however, when Laura reached Edinburgh, she had little cause
for apprehension. The noble streets through which she passed had the
appearance of being depopulated by pestilence. The houses were
uninhabited, the window-shutters were closed, and the grass grew from
the crevices of the pavement. The few well-dressed people whom she saw,
stared upon her with such oppressive curiosity, as gave the uninitiated
Laura a serious uneasiness. At first she thought that some peculiarity
in her dress occasioned this embarrassing scrutiny. But her dress was
simple mourning, and its form the least conspicuous possible. She next
imagined, that to her rather unusual stature she owed this unenviable
notice; and, with a little displeasure, she remarked to her father, that
it argued a strange want of delicacy to appear to notice the
peculiarities of any one's figure; and that, in this respect, the upper
ranks seemed more destitute of politeness than their inferiors. Captain
Montreville answered, with a smile, that he did not think it was her
height which drew such attention. 'Well,' said she, with great
simplicity, 'I must endeavour to find food for my vanity in this notice,
though it is rather against my doing so, that the women stare more
tremendously than the gentlemen.'
As they passed the magnificent shops, the windows, gay with every
variety of colour, constantly attracted Laura's inexperienced eye; and
she asked Montreville to accompany her into one where she wished to
purchase some necessary trifle. The shopman observing her attention
fixed on a box of artificial flowers, spread them before her; and tried
to invite her to purchase, by extolling the cheapness and beauty of his
goods. 'Here is a charming sprig of myrtle, ma'am; and here is a
geranium-wreath, the most becoming thing for the hair--only seven
shillings each, ma'am.' Laura owned the flowers were beautiful. 'But I
fear,' said she, looking compassionately at the man, 'you will never be
able to sell them all. There are so few people who would give seven
shillings for what is of no use whatever.' 'I am really sorry for that
poor young man,' said she to her father, when they left the shop. 'Tall,
robust, in the very flower of his age, how he must feel humbled by
being obliged to attend to such trumpery?' 'Why is your pity confined to
him?' said Montreville. 'There were several others in the same
situation.' 'Oh! but they were children, and may do something better by
and by. But the tall one, I suppose, is the son of some weak mother, who
fears to trust him to fight his country's battles. It is hard that she
should have power to compel him to such degradation; I really felt for
him when he twirled those flowers between his finger and thumb, and
looked so much in earnest about nothing.' The next thing which drew
Laura's attention was a stay-maker's sign. 'Do the gentlemen here wear
corsets?' said she to Montreville. 'Not many of them, I believe,' said
Montreville. 'What makes you inquire?' 'Because there is a _man_
opposite who makes corsets. It cannot surely be for women.'
Captain Montreville had only one female acquaintance in Edinburgh, a
lady of some fashion, and hearing that she was come to town to remain
till after the races, he that forenoon carried Laura to wait upon her.
The lady received them most graciously, inquired how long they intended
to stay in Edinburgh; and on being answered that they were to leave it
in two days, overwhelmed them with regrets, that the shortness of their
stay precluded her from the pleasure of their company for a longer
visit. Laura regretted it too; but utterly ignorant of the time which
must elapse between a fashionable invitation and the consequent visit,
she could not help wondering whether the lady was really engaged for
each of the four daily meals of two succeeding days.
These days, Captain Montreville and his daughter passed in examining
this picturesque city--its public libraries, its antique castle, its
forsaken palace, and its splendid scenery. But nothing in its singular
environs more charmed the eye of Laura than one deserted walk, where,
though the noise of multitudes stole softened on the ear, scarcely a
trace of human existence was visible, except the ruin of a little chapel
which peeped fancifully from the ledge of a rock, and reminded her of
the antick gambols of the red deer on her native hills, when, from the
brink of the precipice, they look fearless into the dell below. Captain
Montreville next conducted his daughter to the top of the fantastic
mountain that adorns the immediate neighbourhood of Edinburgh, and
triumphantly demanded whether she had ever seen such a prospect. But
Laura was by no means disposed to let Perthshire yield the palm to
Lowland scenery. Here indeed, the prospect was varied and extensive, but
the objects were too various, too distant, too gay--they glared on the
eye--the interest was lost. The serpentine corn-ridges, offensive to
agricultural skill; the school, with its well frequented Gean-tree; the
bright green clover fields, seen at intervals through the oak coppice;
the church, half hid by its venerable ash trees; the feathery birch,
trembling in the breath of evening; the smoking hamlet, its soft colours
blending with those of the rocks that sheltered it; the rill, dashing
with fairy anger in the channel which its winter fury had
furrowed--these were the simple objects which had charms for Laura, not
to be rivalled by neat enclosures and whitened villas. Yet the scenes
before her were delightful, and had not Captain Montreville's appeal
recalled the comparison, she would, in the pleasure which they excited,
have forgotten the less splendid beauties of Glenalbert.
Montreville pointed out the road that led to England. Laura sent a
longing look towards it, as it wound amid woods and villages and gentle
swells, and was lost to the eye in a country which smiled rich and
inviting from afar. She turned her eyes where the Forth is lost in the
boundless ocean, and sighed as she thought of the perils and hardships
of them who go down to the sea in ships. Montreville, unwilling to
subject her to the inconveniencies of a voyage, had proposed to continue
his journey by land, and Laura herself could not think without
reluctance of tempting the faithless deep. The scenery, too, which a
journey promised to present, glowed in her fervid imagination with more
than nature's beauty. Yet feeling the necessity of rigid economy, and
determined not to permit her too indulgent parent to consult her
accommodation at the expence of his prudence, she it was, who persuaded
Montreville to prefer a passage by sea, as the mode of conveyance best
suited to his finances.
The next day our travellers embarked for London. The weather was fine,
and Laura remained all day upon deck, amused with the novelty of her
situation. Till she left her native solitude, she had never even seen
the sea, except, when from a mountain top, it seemed far off to mingle
with the sky; and to her, the majestic Forth, as it widened into an
estuary, seemed itself a 'world of waters.' But when on one side the
land receded from the view, when the great deep lay before her, Laura
looked upon it for a moment, and shuddering, turned away. 'It is too
mournful,' said she to her father--'were there but one spot, however
small, however dimly descried, which fancy might people with beings like
ourselves, I could look with pleasure on the gulf between--but here
there is no resting place. Thus dismal, thus overpowering, methinks
eternity would have appeared, had not a haven of rest been made known to
us.' Compared with the boundless expanse of waters, the little bark in
which she was floating seemed 'diminished to a point;' and Laura raising
her eyes to the stars that were beginning to glimmer through the
twilight, thought that such a speck was the wide world itself, amid the
immeasurable space in which it rolled. This was Laura's hour of prayer,
and far less inviting circumstances can recal us to the acts of a
settled habit.
Five days they glided smoothly along the coast. On the morning of the
sixth, they entered the river, and the same evening reached London.
Laura listened with something like dismay, to the mingled discord that
now burst upon her ear. The thundering of loaded carriages, the wild
cries of the sailors, the strange dialect, the ferocious oaths of the
populace, seemed but parts of the deafening tumult. When they were
seated in the coach which was to convey them from the quay, Laura begged
her father to prevail on the driver to wait till the unusual concourse
of carts and sledges should pass, and heard with astonishment that the
delay would be in vain. At last they arrived at the inn where Captain
Montreville intended to remain till he could find lodgings; and, to
Laura's great surprise, they completed their journey without being
jostled by any carriages, or overturned by any waggoner--for ought she
knew, without running over any children.
Being shown into a front parlour, Laura seated herself at a window, to
contemplate the busy multitudes that thronged the streets; and she could
not help contrasting their number and appearance with those of the
inhabitants of Edinburgh. There the loitering step, the gay attire, the
vacant look, or the inquisitive glance, told that mere amusement was the
object of their walk, if indeed it had an object. Here, every face was
full of business--none stared, none sauntered, or had indeed the power
to saunter, the double tide carrying them resistlessly along in one
direction or the other. Among all the varieties of feature that passed
before her, Laura saw not one familiar countenance; and she
involuntarily pressed closer to her father, while she thought, that
among these myriads she should, but for him, be alone.
Captain Montreville easily found an abode suited to his humble
circumstances; and, the day after his arrival, he removed with his
daughter to the second floor above a shop in Holborn. The landlady was
a widow, a decent orderly-looking person; the apartments, though far
from elegant, were clean and commodious. They consisted of a parlour,
two bedchambers, and a small room, or rather closet, which Laura
immediately appropriated as her painting-room. Here she found amusement
in arranging the materials of her art, while Captain Montreville walked
to the west end of the town, to confer with his agent on the unfortunate
cause of his visit to London. He was absent for some hours; and Laura,
utterly ignorant of the length of his walk, and of its difficulties for
one who had not seen the metropolis for twenty years, began to be uneasy
at his stay. He returned at last, fatigued and dispirited, without
having seen Mr Baynard, who was indisposed, and could not admit him.
After a silent dinner, he threw himself upon a sofa, and dismissed his
daughter, saying that he felt inclined to sleep. Laura took this
opportunity to write to Mrs Douglas a particular account of her travels.
She mentioned with affectionate interest some of her few acquaintances
at Glenalbert, and inquired for all the individuals of Mrs Douglas's
family; but the name of Hargrave did not once occur in her letter,
though nothing could exceed her curiosity to know how the Colonel had
borne her departure, of which, afraid of his vehemence, she had, at
their last interview, purposely avoided to inform him.
Having finished her letter, Laura, that she might not appear to repress
civility, availed herself of her landlady's invitation to 'come now and
then,' as she expressed it, 'to have a chat;' and descended to the
parlour below. On perceiving that Mrs Dawkins was busily arranging the
tea equipage, with an air that showed she expected company, Laura would
have retreated, but her hostess would not suffer her to go. 'No, no,
Miss,' said she, 'I expects nobody but my daughter Kate, as is married
to Mr Jones the haberdasher; and you mustn't go, for she can tell you
all about Scotland; and it is but natural to think that you'd like to
hear about your own country, now when you're in a foreign land, as a
body may say.'
The good woman had judged well in the bribe she offered to her guest,
who immediately consented to join her party; and who, perceiving that
Mrs Dawkins was industriously spreading innumerable slices of bread and
butter, courteously offered to share her toils. Mrs Dawkins thanked her,
and accepted her services, adding, 'indeed it's very hard as I should
have all them here things to do myself, when I have a grown up daughter
in the house. But, poor thing, it a'n't her fault after all, for she
never was larnt to do nothing of use.' 'That was very unfortunate,'
said Laura. 'Yes, but it might'nt have been so misfortunate neither,
only, you see, I'll tell you how it was. My sister, Mrs Smith, had a
matter of £10,000 left her by her husband, and so she took a fancy when
July was born as she'd have her called a grand name; and I'm sure an
unlucky name it was for her; for many a fine freak it has put into her
head. Well, and so as I was saying, she took July home to herself, and
had her larnt to paint, and to make fillagree, and play on the piano,
and what not; and to be sure we thought she would never do less than
provide for her. But what do you think, why, two year's ago, she ran
away with a young ensign, as had nothing in the varsal world but his
pay; and so July came home just as she went; and what was worst of all,
she could'nt do no more in the shop nor the day she was born.'
'That was hard, indeed,' said Laura.
'Wasn't it now,--but one comfort was, I had Kate brought up in another
guess-way; for I larnt her plain work and writing, and how to cast
accounts; and never let her touch a book, except the prayer-book
a-Sundays; and see what's the upshot on't. Why, though July's all to
nothing the prettiest, nobody has never made an offer for she, and
Kate's got married to a warm man as any in his line hereabouts, and a
man as has a house not ten doors off; and besides, as snug a box in the
country as ever you seed,--so convenient you've no idear. Why, I dare
say, there's a matter of ten stage-coaches pass by the door every day.'
To all this family history, Laura listened with great patience,
wondering, however, what could induce the narrator to take so much
trouble for the information of a stranger.
The conversation, if it deserves the name, was now interrupted by the
entrance of a young woman, whom Mrs Dawkins introduced as her daughter
July. Her figure was short, inclining to embonpoint--her face, though
rather pretty, round and rosy,--and her whole appearance seemed the
antipodes of sentiment. She had, however, a book in her hand, on which,
after exchanging compliments with Laura, she cast a languishing look,
and said, 'I have been paying a watery tribute to the sorrows of my fair
name-sake.' Then pointing out the title-page to Laura, she added, 'You,
I suppose, have often done so.'
It was the tragedy of THE MINISTER, and Laura, reading the name aloud,
said, she was not acquainted with it.
'Oh,' cried Mrs Dawkins, 'that's the young woman as swears so horridly.
No, I dares to say, Miss Montreville never read no such thing. If it
an't a shame to be seen in a Christian woman hands, it is. And if she
would read it by herself, it would be nothing; but there she goes,
ranting about the house like an actress, cursing all aloud, worser nor
the drunken apple-woman at the corner of the street.'
'Pray Mamma, forbear,' said Miss Julia Dawkins, in a plaintive tone; 'it
wounds my feelings to hear you. I am sure, if Miss Montreville would
read this play, she would own that the expressions which you austerely
denominate curses, give irresistible energy to the language.'
'This kind of energy,' said Laura, with a smile, 'has at least the merit
of being very generally attainable.' This remark was not in Miss Julia's
line. She had, therefore, recourse to her book, and with great variety
of grimace, read aloud one of Casimir's impassioned, or, as Laura
thought, frantic speeches. The curious contrast of the reader's manner,
with her appearance, of the affected sentimentality of her air, with the
robust vulgarity of her figure, struck Laura as so irresistibly
ludicrous, that, though of all young ladies, she was the least addicted
to tittering, her politeness would have been fairly defeated in the
struggle, had it not been reinforced by the entrance of Mr and Mrs
Jones. The former was a little man, in a snuff-coloured coat, and a
brown wig, who seemed to be about fifty,--the latter was a good-humoured
commonplace looking woman, of about half that age. Laura was pleased
with the cordiality with which Mr Jones shook his mother-in-law by the
hand, saying, 'Well, Mother, I's brought you Kate pure and hearty again,
and the little fellow is fine and well, tho'f he be too young to come a
wisiting.'
As soon as the commotion occasioned by their entrance was over, and
Laura formally made acquainted with the lady, Mrs Dawkins began, 'I
hopes, Kate, you ha'nt forgot how to tell about your jaunt to Scotland;
for this here young lady staid tea just o'purpose to hear it.' 'Oh, that
I ha'nt,' said Mrs Jones, 'I'm sure I shall remember it the longest day
I have to live.' 'Pray Miss,' added she, turning to Laura, 'was you ever
in Glasgow?' 'Never,' said Laura; 'but I have heard that it is a fine
city.' 'Ay, but I've been there first and last eleven days; and I can
say for it, it is really a handsome town, and a mort of good white-stone
houses in it. For you see, when Mr Jones married me, he had not been
altogether satisfied with his rider, and he thoft as he'd go down to
Glasgow himself and do business; and that he'd make it do for his
wedding jaunt, and that would be killing two dogs with one stone.'
'That was certainly an excellent plan,' said Laura. 'Well,' continued
Mrs Jones, 'when we'd been about a week in Glasgow, we were had to dine
one day with Mr Mactavish, as supplies Mr Jones with ginghams; and he
talked about some grand house of one of your Scotch dukes, and said as
how we must'nt go home without seeing it. So we thought since we had
come so far, we might as well see what was to be seen.' 'Certainly,'
said Laura, at the pause which was made to take breath, and receive
approbation. 'Well, we went down along the river, which, to say truth,
is very pretty, tho'f it be not turfed, nor kept neat round the edges,
to a place they call Dumbarton; where there is a rock, for all the
world, like an ill-made sugar loaf, with a slice out o' the middle on't;
and they told us there was a castle on it, but such a castle!' 'Pray,
sister,' said Miss Julia, 'have you an accurate idea of what constitutes
a castle? of the keeps, the turrets, the winding staircases, and the
portcullis?' 'Bless you, my dear,' returned the traveller, 'ha'nt I seen
Windsor Castle, and t'other's no more like it--no more than nothing at
all. Howsoever, we slept that night at a very decent sort of an inn; and
Mr Jones thought as we were so comfortable, we had best come back to
sleep. So as the duke's house was but thirty miles off, we thought if we
set off soon in the morning, we might get back at night. So off we set,
and went two stages to breakfast, at a place with one of their
outlandish names; and to be sartain, when we got there, we were as
hungry as hounds. Well, we called for hot rolls; and, do but think,
there was'nt no such thing to be had for love or money.'
Mrs Jones paused to give Laura time for the expression of pity; but she
remained silent, and Mrs Jones resumed: 'Well, they brought us a loaf as
old as St Paul's, and some good enough butter; so thinks I, I'll make us
some good warm toast; for I loves to make the best of a bad bargain. So
I bid the waiter bring us the toast-stool; but if you had seen how he
stared,--why, the pore fellor had never heard of no such thing in his
life. Then they shewed us a huge mountain, as black as a sootbag, just
opposite the window, and said as we must go up there; but, thinks I,
catch us at that; for if we be so bad off here for breakfast, what shall
we be there for dinner. So my husband and I were of a mind upon it, to
get back to Glasgow as fast as we could; for, though to be sure it cost
us a power of money coming down, yet, thinks we, the first loss is the
best.'
'What would I have given,' cried Miss Julia, turning up the whites of
her eyes, 'to have been permitted to mingle my sighs with the mountain
breezes!' Mrs Jones was accustomed to her sister's nonsense, and she
only shrugged her shoulders. But Mrs Dawkins, provoked that her daughter
should be so much more than usually ridiculous before a stranger, said,
'Why, child, how can you be so silly,--what in the world should you do
sighing o' top of a Scotch hill? I dare to say, if you were there you
might sigh long enough before you'd find such a comfortable cup of tea,
as what you have in your hand.' Miss Julia disdained reply; but turning
to our heroine, she addressed her in a tone so amusingly sentimental,
that Laura feared to listen to the purport of her speech, lest the
manner and the matter united should prove too much for her gravity; and
rising, she apologized for retiring, by saying, that she heard her
father stir, and that she must attend him.
When two people of very different ages meet tête à tête in a room, where
they are not thoroughly domesticated,--where there are no books, no
musical instruments, nor even that grand bond of sociality, a fire,--it
requires no common invention and vivacity to pass an evening with
tolerable cheerfulness. The little appearances of discomfort, however,
which imperceptibly lower the spirits of others, had generally an
opposite effect upon those of Laura. Attentive to the comfort of every
human being who approached her, she was always the first to discover the
existence and cause of the 'petty miseries of life;'--but, accustomed to
consider them merely as calls to exertion, they made not the slightest
impression on her spirits or temper. The moment she cast her eyes on her
father, leaning on a table, where stood a pair of candles, that but
half-lighted the room; and on the chimney, where faded fennel occupied
the place of a fire, she perceived that all her efforts would be
necessary to produce any thing like comfort. She began her operations,
by enticing her father out of the large vacant room, into the small one,
where she intended to work. Here she prepared his coffee, gave him
account of the party below stairs, read to him her letter to Mrs
Douglas, and did and said every thing she could imagine to amuse him.
When the efforts to entertain are entirely on one side, it is scarcely
in human nature to continue them; and Laura was beginning to feel very
blank, when it luckily occurred to her, that she had brought her little
chess-board from Glenalbert. Away she flew, and in triumph produced this
infallible resort. The match was pretty equal. Captain Montreville had
more skill, Laura more resource; and she defended herself long and
keenly. At last she was within a move of being checkmated. But the move
was hers; and the Captain, in the heat of victory, overlooked a step by
which the fortune of the game would have been reversed. Laura saw it,
and eagerly extended her hand to the piece; but recollecting that there
is something in the pride of man's nature that abhors to be beaten at
chess by a lady, she suddenly desisted; and, sweeping her lily arm
across the board, 'Nay, now,' she cried, with a look of ineffable good
nature, 'if you were to complete my defeat after all my hair-breadth
'scapes, you could not be so unreasonable as to expect that I should
keep my temper.' 'And how dare you,' said Captain Montreville, in great
good humour with his supposed victory, 'deprive me at once of the
pleasures of novelty and of triumph?' By the help of this auxiliary, the
evening passed pleasantly away; and, before another came, Laura had
provided for it the cheap luxury of some books from a circulating
library.