LORD JEFFREY AND HIS FAMILY—LORD BROUGHAM—COUNT FLAHAULT—
POLITICS—THE “GREY” BALL—ABERDEEN—GORDON CASTLE.
I was engaged to dine with Lord Jeffrey on the same day that I had
breakfasted with Wilson, and the opportunity of contrasting so closely
these two distinguished men, both editors of leading Reviews, yet of
different politics, and no less different minds, persons, and manners,
was highly gratifying.
At seven o’clock I drove to Moray-place, the Grosvenor-square of
Edinburgh. I was not sorry to be early, for never having seen my host,
nor his lady (who, as is well known, is an American,) I had some little
advantage over the awkwardness of meeting a large party of strangers.
After a few minutes’ conversation with Mrs. Jeffrey, the door was thrown
quickly open, and the celebrated editor of the Edinburgh, the
distinguished lawyer, the humane and learned judge, and the wit of the
day, _par excellence_, entered with his daughter. A frank, almost merry
smile, a perfectly unceremonious, hearty manner, and a most playful and
graceful style of saying the half-apologetic, half-courteous things,
incident to a first meeting after a letter of introduction, put me at
once at my ease, and established a partiality for him, impromptu, in my
feelings. Jeffrey is rather below the middle size, slight, rapid in his
speech and motion, never still, and glances from one subject to another,
with less abruptness and more quickness than any man I had ever seen.
His head is small, but compact and well-shaped; and the expression of
his face, when serious, is that of quick and discriminating earnestness.
His voice is rather thin, but pleasing; and if I had met him
incidentally, I should have described him, I think, as a most witty and
well-bred gentleman of the school of Wilkes and Sheridan. Perhaps as
distinguishing a mark as either his wit or his politeness, is an honest
goodness of heart; which, however it makes itself apparent, no one could
doubt, who had been with Jeffrey ten minutes.
To my great disappointment, Mrs. Jeffrey informed me that Lord Brougham,
who was their guest at the time, was engaged to a dinner, given by the
new lord advocate to Earl Grey. I had calculated much on seeing two such
old friends and fellow-wits as Jeffrey and Brougham at the same table,
and I could well believe what my neighbor told me at dinner, that it was
more than a common misfortune to have missed it.
A large dinner-party began to assemble, some distinguished men in the
law among them, and last of all was announced Lady Keith, rather a
striking and very fashionable person, with her husband, Count Flahault,
who, after being Napoleon’s aid-de-camp at the battle of Waterloo,
offered his beauty and talents, both very much above the ordinary mark,
to the above named noble heiress. I have seen few as striking-looking
men as Count Flahault, and never a foreigner who spoke English so
absolutely like a native of the country.
The great “Grey dinner” had been given the day before, and politics were
the only subject at table. It had been my lot to be thrown principally
among tories (_conservatives_ is the new name,) since my arrival in
England, and it was difficult to rid myself at once of the impressions
of a fortnight just passed in the castle of a tory Earl. My sympathies
in the “great and glorious” occasion were slower than those of the
company, and much of their enthusiasm seemed to me overstrained. Then I
had not even dined with the two thousand whigs under the pavilion, and
as I was incautious enough to confess it, I was rallied upon having
fallen into bad company, and altogether entered less into the spirit of
the hour than I could have wished. Politics are seldom witty or amusing,
and though I was charmed with the good sense and occasional eloquence of
Lord Jeffrey, I was glad to get up stairs after dinner to _chasse-café_
and the ladies.
We were all bound to the public ball that evening, and at eleven I
accompanied my distinguished host to the assembly-room. Dancing was
going on with great spirit when we entered; Lord Grey’s statesman-like
head was bowing industriously on the platform; Lady Grey and her
daughters sat looking on from the same elevated position, and Lord
Brougham’s ugliest and shrewdest of human faces, flitted about through
the crowd, good fellow to everybody, and followed by all eyes but those
of the young. One or two of the Scotch nobility were there, but whigism
is not popular among _les hautes volailles_, and the ball, though
crowded, was but thinly sprinkled with “porcelain.” I danced till three
o’clock, without finding my partners better or worse for their politics,
and having aggravated a temporary lameness by my exertions, went home
with a leg like an elephant to repent my abandonment of tory quiet.
Two or three days under the hands of the doctor, with the society of a
Highland crone, of whose ceaseless garrulity over my poultices and
plasters I could not understand two consecutive words, fairly finished
my patience, and abandoning with no little regret a charming land route
to the north of Scotland, I had myself taken, “this side up,” on board
the steamer for Aberdeen. The loss of a wedding in Perthshire by the
way, of a week’s deer-shooting in the forest of Athol, and a week’s
fishing with a noble friend at Kinrara, (long-standing engagements all,)
I lay at the door of the whigs. Add to this Loch Leven, Cairn-Gorm, the
pass of Killicrankie, other sights lost on that side of Scotland, and I
paid dearly for “the Grey ball.”
We steamed the hundred and twenty miles in twelve hours, paying about
three dollars for our passage. I mention it for the curiosity of a cheap
thing in this country.
I lay at Aberdeen four days, getting out but once, and then for a drive
to the “Marichal College,” the Alma Mater of Dugald Dalgetty. It is a
curious and rather picturesque old place, half in ruins, and is about
being pulled down. A Scotch gentleman, who was a fellow-passenger in the
steamer, and who lived in the town, called on me kindly twice a day,
brought me books and papers, offered me the use of his carriage, and did
everything for my comfort that could have been suggested by the warmest
friendship. Considering that it was a casual acquaintance of a day, it
speaks well, certainly, for the “Good Samaritanism” of Scotland.
I took two places in the coach at last (one for my leg,) and bowled away
seventy miles across the country, with the delightful speed of these
admirable contrivances, for Gordon Castle. I arrived at Lochabers, a
small town on the estate of the Duke of Gordon, at three in the
afternoon, and immediately took a post-chaise for the castle, the gate
of which was a stone’s throw from the inn.
The immense iron gate surmounted by the Gordon arms, the handsome and
spacious stone lodges on either side, the canonically fat porter in
white stockings and gay livery, lifting his hat as he swung open the
massive portal, all bespoke the entrance to a noble residence. The road
within was edged with velvet sward, and rolled to the smoothness of a
terrace walk, the winding avenue lengthened away before, with trees of
every variety of foliage; light carriages passed me driven by ladies or
gentlemen bound on their afternoon airing; a groom led up and down two
beautiful blood horses, prancing along, with side-saddles and morocco
stirrups, and keepers with hounds and terriers; gentlemen on foot,
idling along the walks, and servants in different liveries, hurrying to
and fro, betokened a scene of busy gayety before me. I had hardly noted
these various circumstances, before a sudden curve in the road brought
the castle into view, a vast stone pile with castellated wings, and in
another moment I was at the door, where a dozen lounging and powdered
menials were waiting on a party of ladies and gentlemen to their several
carriages. It was the moment for the afternoon drive.