SCOTCH HOSPITALITY—IMMENSE POSSESSIONS OF THE NOBILITY—DUTCHESS’
INFANT SCHOOL—MANNERS OF HIGH LIFE—THE TONE OF CONVERSATION IN
ENGLAND AND AMERICA CONTRASTED.
The aim of Scotch hospitality seems to be, to convince you that the
house and all that is in it is your own, and you are at liberty to enjoy
it as if you were, in the French sense of the French phrase, _chez
vous_. The routine of Gordon castle was what each one chose to make it.
Between breakfast and lunch the ladies were generally invisible, and the
gentlemen rode or shot, or played billiards, or kept their rooms. At two
o’clock, a dish or two of hot game and a profusion of cold meats were
set on the small tables in the dining room, and every body came in for a
kind of lounging half-meal, which occupied perhaps an hour. Thence all
adjourned to the drawing-room, under the windows of which were drawn up
carriages of all descriptions, with grooms, outriders, footmen, and
saddle horses for gentlemen and ladies. Parties were then made up for
driving or riding, and from a pony-chaise to a phæton and four, there
was no class of vehicle which was not at your disposal. In ten minutes
the carriages were usually all filled, and away they flew, some to the
banks of the Spey or the sea-side, some to the drives in the park, and
with the delightful consciousness that, speed where you would, the
horizon scarce limited the possession of your host, and you were
everywhere at home. The ornamental gates flying open at your approach,
miles distant from the castle; the herds of red deer trooping away from
the sound of wheels in the silent park; the stately pheasants feeding
tamely in the immense preserves; the hares scarce troubling themselves
to get out of the length of the whip; the stalking gamekeepers lifting
their hats in the dark recesses of the forest—there was something in
this perpetual reminding of your privileges, which, as a novelty, was
far from disagreeable. I could not at the time bring myself to feel,
what perhaps would be more poetical and republican, that a ride in the
wild and unfenced forest of my own country would have been more to my
taste.
The second afternoon of my arrival, I took a seat in the carriage with
Lord Aberdeen and his daughter, and we followed the Dutchess, who drove
herself in a pony-chaise, to visit a school on the estate. Attached to a
small gothic chapel, a few minutes’ drive from the castle, stood a
building in the same style, appropriated to the instruction of the
children of the Duke’s tenantry. There were a hundred and thirty little
creatures, from two years to five or six, and, like all infant schools
in these days of improved education, it was an interesting and affecting
sight. The last one I had been in was at Athens, and though I missed
here the dark eyes and Grecian faces of the Ægean, I saw health and
beauty of a kind which stirred up more images of home, and promised,
perhaps, more for the future. They went through their evolutions, and
answered their questions, with an intelligence and cheerfulness that
were quite delightful, and I was sorry to leave them even for a drive in
the loveliest sun-set of a lingering day of summer.
People in Europe are more curious about the comparison of the natural
productions of America with those of England than about our social and
political differences. A man who does not care to know whether the
president has destroyed the bank, or the bank the president, or whether
Mrs. Trollope has flattered the Americans or not, will be very much
interested to know if the pine tree in his park is comparable to the
same tree in America, if the same cattle are found there, or the woods
stocked with the same game as his own. I would recommend a little study
of trees particularly, and of vegetation generally, as valuable
knowledge for an American coming abroad. I think there is nothing on
which I have been so often questioned. The Dutchess led the way to a
plantation of American trees, at some distance from the castle, and
stopping beneath some really noble firs, asked if our forest trees were
often larger, with an air as if she believed they were not. They were
shrubs, however, compared to the gigantic productions of the West.
Whatever else we may see abroad, we must return home to find the
magnificence of nature.
The number at the dinner-table of Gordon castle was seldom less than
thirty, but the company was continually varied by departures and
arrivals. No sensation was made by either one or the other. A travelling
carriage dashed up to the door, was disburdened of its load, and drove
round to the stables, and the question was seldom asked, “Who is
arrived?” You were sure to see at dinner—and an addition of half a
dozen to the party made no perceptible difference in anything.
Leave-takings were managed in the same quiet way. Adieus were made to
the Duke and Dutchess, and to no one else, except he happened to
encounter the parting guest upon the staircase, or were more than a
common acquaintance. In short, in every way the _gêne_ of life seemed
weeded out, and if unhappiness or ennui found its way into the castle,
it was introduced in the sufferer’s own bosom. For me, I gave myself up
to enjoyment with an _abandon_ I could not resist. With kindness and
courtesy in every look, the luxuries and comforts of a regal
establishment at my freest disposal; solitude when I pleased, company
when I pleased, the whole visible horizon fenced in for the enjoyment of
a household, of which I was a temporary portion, and no enemy except
time and the gout, I felt as if I had been spirited into some castle of
felicity, and had not come by the royal mail-coach at all.
The great spell of high life in this country seems to be _repose_. All
violent sensations are avoided as out of taste. In conversation, nothing
is so “odd” (a word, by the way, that in England means everything
disagreeable) as emphasis or startling epithet, or gesture, and in
common intercourse nothing so vulgar as any approach to “a scene.” The
high-bred Englishman studies to express himself in the plainest words
that will convey his meaning, and is just as simple and calm in
describing the death of his friend, and just as technical, so to speak,
as in discussing the weather. For all extraordinary admiration the word
“capital” suffices; for all ordinary praise the word “nice!” for all
condemnation in morals, manners, or religion, the word “odd!” To express
yourself out of this simple vocabulary is to raise the eyebrows of the
whole company at once, and stamp yourself under-bred, or a foreigner.
This sounds ridiculous, but it is the exponent not only of good
breeding, but of the true philosophy of social life. The general
happiness of a party consists in giving every individual an equal
chance, and in wounding no one’s self-love. What is called an
“overpowering person,” is immediately shunned, for he talks too much,
and excites too much attention. In any other country he would be called
“amusing.” He is considered here as a mere monopolizer of the general
interest—and his laurels, talk he never so well, shadow the rest of the
company. You meet your most intimate friend in society after a long
separation, and he gives you his hand as if you had parted at breakfast.
If he had expressed all he felt, it would have been “a scene,” and the
repose of the company would have been disturbed. You invite a clever man
to dine with you, and he enriches his descriptions with new epithets and
original words. He is offensive. He eclipses the language of your other
guests, and is out of keeping with the received and subdued tone to
which the most common intellect rises with ease. Society on this footing
is delightful to all, and the diffident man, or the dull man, or the
quiet man, enjoys it as much as another. For violent sensations you must
go elsewhere. Your escape-valve is not at your neighbor’s ear.
There is a great advantage in this in another respect. Your tongue never
gets you into mischief. The “unsafeness of Americans” in society (I
quote a phrase I have heard used a thousand times) arises wholly from
the American habit of applying high-wrought language to trifles. I can
tell one of my countrymen abroad by his first remark. Ten to one his
first sentence contains a superlative that would make an Englishman
imagine he had lost his senses. The natural consequence is continual
misapprehension, offence is given where none was intended, words that
have no meaning are the ground of quarrel, and gentlemen are shy of us.
A good-natured young nobleman, whom I sat next to at dinner on my first
arrival at Gordon castle, told me he was hunting with Lord Abercorn when
two very gentleman-like young men rode up and requested leave to follow
the hounds, but in such extraordinary language that they were not at
first understood. The hunt continued for some days, and at last the
strangers, who rode well, and were seen continually, were invited to
dine with the principal nobleman of the neighborhood. They turned out to
be Americans, and were every way well-bred and agreeable, but their
extraordinary mode of expressing themselves kept the company in
continual astonishment. They were treated with politeness, of course,
while they remained, but no little fun was made of their phraseology
after their departure, and the impression on the mind of my informant
was very much against the purity of the English language, as spoken by
the Americans. I mention it for the benefit of those whom it may
concern.