ENGLISH BREAKFASTS—SALMON FISHERY—LORD ABERDEEN—MR. MCLANE—
SPORTING ESTABLISHMENT OF GORDON CASTLE.
I arose late on the first morning after my arrival at Gordon Castle, and
found the large party already assembled about the breakfast table. I was
struck on entering with the different air of the room. The deep windows,
opening out upon the park, had the effect of sombre landscapes in oaken
frames; the troops of liveried servants, the glitter of plate, the
music, that had contributed to the splendor of the night before, were
gone; the Duke sat laughing at the head of the table, with a newspaper
in his hand, dressed in a coarse shooting-jacket and colored cravat; the
Dutchess was in a plain morning-dress and cap of the simplest character;
and the high-born women about the table, whom I had left glittering with
jewels, and dressed in all the attractions of fashion, appeared with the
simplest coiffure and a toilet of studied plainness. The ten or twelve
noblemen present were engrossed with their letters or newspapers over
tea and toast; and in them, perhaps, the transformation was still
greater. The _soigné_ man of fashion of the night before, faultless in
costume and distinguished in his appearance, in the full force of the
term, was enveloped now in a coat of fustian, with a coarse waistcoat of
plaid, a gingham cravat, and hob-nailed shoes, (for shooting,) and in
place of the gay hilarity of the supper-table, wore a face of calm
indifference, and ate his breakfast and read the paper in a rarely
broken silence. I wondered, as I looked about me, what would be the
impression of many people in my own country, could they look in upon
that plain party, aware that it was composed of the proudest nobility
and the highest fashion of England.
Breakfast in England is a confidential and unceremonious hour, and
servants are generally dispensed with. This is to me, I confess, an
advantage over every other meal. I detest eating with twenty tall
fellows standing opposite, whose business it is to watch me. The coffee
and tea were on the table, with toast, muffins, oat-cakes, marmalade,
jellies, fish, and all the paraphernalia of a Scotch breakfast; and on
the sideboard stood cold meats for those who liked them, and they were
expected to go to it and help themselves. Nothing could be more easy,
unceremonious, and affable, than the whole tone of the meal. One after
another rose and fell into groups in the windows, or walked up and down
the long room—and, with one or two others, I joined the Duke at the
head of the table, who gave us some interesting particulars of the
salmon fisheries of the Spey. The privilege of fishing the river within
his lands, is bought of him at the pretty sum of eight thousand pounds a
year! A salmon was brought in for me to see, as of remarkable size,
which was not more than half the weight of our common American salmon.
The ladies went off unaccompanied to their walks in the park and other
avocations, those bound for the covers joined the gamekeepers, who were
waiting with their dogs in the leash at the stables; some paired off to
the billiard-room, and I was left with Lord Aberdeen in the breakfast
room alone. The tory ex-minister made many inquiries, with great
apparent interest, about America. When secretary for foreign affairs, in
the Wellington cabinet, he had known Mr. McLane intimately. He said he
seldom had been so impressed with a man’s honesty and
straight-forwardness, and never did public business with any one with
more pleasure. He admired Mr. McLane, and hoped he enjoyed his
friendship. He wished he might return as our minister to England. One
such honorable, uncompromising man, he said, was worth a score of
practised diplomatists. He spoke of Gallatin and Rush in the same
flattering manner, but recurred continually to Mr. McLane, of whom he
could scarcely say enough. His politics would naturally lead him to
approve of the administration of General Jackson, but he seemed to
admire the President very much as a man.
Lord Aberdeen has the name of being the proudest and coldest aristocrat
of England. It is amusing to see the person who bears such a character.
He is of the middle height, rather clumsily made, with an address more
of sober dignity than of pride or reserve. With a black coat much worn,
and always too large for him, a pair of coarse check trousers very ill
made, a waistcoat buttoned up to his throat, and a cravat of the most
primitive _négligé_, his aristocracy is certainly not in his dress. His
manners are of absolute simplicity, amounting almost to want of style.
He crosses his hands behind him, and balances on his heels; in
conversation his voice is low and cold, and he seldom smiles. Yet there
is a certain benignity in his countenance, and an indefinable
superiority and high breeding in his simple address, that would betray
his rank after a few minutes’ conversation to any shrewd observer. It is
only in his manner toward the ladies of the party that he would be
immediately distinguishable from men of lower rank in society.
Still suffering from lameness, I declined all invitations to the
shooting parties, who started across the park, with the dogs leaping
about them in a phrensy of delight, and accepted the Dutchess’s kind
offer of a pony phæton to drive down to the kennels. The Duke’s breed,
both of setters and hounds, is celebrated throughout the kingdom. They
occupy a spacious building in the centre of a wood, a quadrangle
enclosing a court, and large enough for a respectable poor-house. The
chief huntsman and his family, and perhaps a gamekeeper or two, lodge on
the premises, and the dogs are divided by palings across the court. I
was rather startled to be introduced into the small enclosure with a
dozen gigantic blood-hounds, as high as my breast, the keeper’s whip in
my hand the only defence. I was not easier for the man’s assertion that,
without it, they would “hae the life oot o’ me in a crack.” They came
around me very quietly, and one immense fellow, with a chest like a
horse, and a head of the finest expression, stood up and laid his paws
on my shoulders, with the deliberation of a friend about to favor me
with some grave advice. One can scarce believe these noble creatures
have not reason like ourselves. Those slender, thorough-bred heads,
large, speaking eyes, and beautiful limbs and graceful action, should be
gifted with more than mere animal instinct. The greyhounds were the
beauties of the kennel, however. I never had seen such perfect
creatures. “Dinna tak’ pains to caress ’em, sir,” said the huntsman,
“they’ll only be hangit for it!” I asked for an explanation, and the
man, with an air as if I was uncommonly ignorant, told me that a hound
was hung the moment he betrayed attachment to any one, or in any way
showed signs of superior sagacity. In coursing the hare, for instance,
if the dog abandoned the scent to cut across and intercept the poor
animal, he was considered as spoiling the sport. Greyhounds are valuable
only as they obey their mere natural instinct, and if they leave the
track of the hare, either in their own sagacity, or to follow their
master, in intercepting it, they spoil the pack, and are hung without
mercy. It is an object, of course, to preserve them what they usually
are, the greatest fools as well as the handsomest of the canine
species—and on the first sign of attachment to their master, their
death warrant is signed. They are too sensible to live. The Dutchess
told me afterward that she had the greatest difficulty in saving the
life of the finest hound in the pack, who had committed the sin of
showing pleasure once or twice when she appeared.
The setters were in the next division, and really they were quite
lovely. The rare tan and black dog of this race, with his silky, floss
hair, intelligent muzzle, good-humored face and caressing fondness
(lucky dog! that affection is permitted in _his_ family!) quite excited
my admiration. There were thirty or forty of these, old and young; and a
friend of the Duke’s would as soon ask him for a church living as for
the present of one of them. The former would be by much the smaller
favor. Then there were terriers of four or five breeds, of one family of
which (long-haired, long-bodied, short-legged, and perfectly white
little wretches) the keeper seemed particularly proud. I evidently sunk
in his opinion for not admiring them.
I passed the remainder of the morning in threading the lovely alleys and
avenues of the park, miles after miles of gravel walk, extending away in
every direction, with every variety of turn and shade, now a deep wood,
now a sunny opening upon a glade, here along the bank of a stream, and
there around the borders of a small lagoon, the little ponies flying on
over the smoothly-rolled paths, and tossing their mimicking heads, as if
they too enjoyed the beauty of the princely domain. This, I thought to
myself, as I sped on through light and shadow, is very like what is
called happiness; and this (if to be a duke were to enjoy it as I do
with this fresh feeling of novelty and delight) is a condition of life
it is not quite irrational to envy. And giving my little steeds the
rein, I repeated to myself Scott’s graphic description, which seems
written for the park of Gordon castle, and thanked Heaven for one more
day of unalloyed happiness.
“And there soft swept in velvet green,
The plain with many a glade between
Whose tangled alleys far invade
The depths of the brown forest shade;
And the tall fern obscured the lawn,
Fair shelter for the sportive fawn.
There, tufted close with copse-wood green,
Was many a swelling hillock seen,
And all around was verdure meet
For pressure of the fairies’ feet.
The glossy valley loved the park,
The yew tree lent its shadows dark,
And many an old oak worn and bare,
With all its shivered boughs was there.”