E-text prepared by Roger Frank and the Project Gutenberg Online
Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
PENELOPE'S PROGRESS
by
KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN
* * * * *
BY MRS. WIGGIN.
THE BIRDS' CHRISTMAS CAROL. Illustrated. Square 12mo, 50 cents.
THE STORY OF PATSY. Illustrated. Square 12mo, 60 cents.
A SUMMER IN A CANYON. A California Story. Illustrated. 16mo, $1.25.
TIMOTHY'S QUEST. A Story for Anybody, Young or Old, who cares to read
it. 16mo, $1.00.
THE SAME. Holiday Edition. Illustrated. Crown 8vo, $1.50.
A CATHEDRAL COURTSHIP, AND PENELOPE'S ENGLISH EXPERIENCES.
Illustrated. 16mo, $1.00.
PENELOPE'S PROGRESS. In unique Scottish binding. 16mo, $1.25.
POLLY OLIVER'S PROBLEM. Illustrated. 16mo, $1.00.
THE SAME. In Riverside School Library. 60 cents, net.
THE VILLAGE WATCH-TOWER. 16mo, $1.00.
MARM LISA, 16mo, $1.00.
NINE LOVE SONGS, AND A CAROL. Music by Mrs. WIGGIN. Words by
Herrick, Sill, and others. Square 8vo $1.25.
BY MRS. WIGGIN AND MISS SMITH.
THE STORY HOUR. A Book for the Home and Kindergarten. By Mrs.
Wiggin and Nora A. Smith. Illustrated. 16mo, $1.00.
CHILDREN'S RIGHTS. By Mrs. Wiggin and Nora A. Smith. A Book of
Nursery Logic. 16mo, $1.00.
THE REPUBLIC OF CHILDHOOD. By Mrs. Wiggin and Nora A. Smith.
In three volumes, each, 16mo, $1.00.
I. FROEBEL'S GIFTS.
II. FROEBEL'S OCCUPATIONS.
III. KINDERGARTEN PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICE.
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY,
Boston and New York.
* * * * *
PENELOPE'S PROGRESS
Being Such Extracts from
the Commonplace Book
of Penelope Hamilton
As Relate to Her
Experiences in
Scotland
by
KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN
Boston and New York
The Riverside Press
Boston And New York
Houghton, Mifflin and Company
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
1899
Copyright, 1897 and 1898, by Houghton, Mifflin and Company
Copyright, 1898, by Kate Douglas Riggs
All Rights Reserved
Thirtieth Thousand
TO
G. C. R.
CONTENTS
PART FIRST. IN TOWN
PAGE
I. A Triangular Alliance 1
II. "Edina, Scotia's Darling Seat" 12
III. A Vision in Princes Street 18
IV. Susanna Crum couldna say 29
V. We emulate the Jackdaw 38
VI. Edinburgh Society, Past and Present 48
VII. Francesca meets th' Unconquer'd Scot 60
VIII. "What made th' Assembly shine?" 70
IX. Omnia Presbyteria est Divisa in Partes Tres 82
X. Mrs. M'collop as a Sermon-Taster 93
XI. Holyrood awakens 101
XII. Farewell to Edinburgh 117
XIII. The Spell of Scotland 124
PART SECOND. IN THE COUNTRY
XIV. The Wee Theekit Hoosie in the Loaning 137
XV. Jane Grieve and her Grievances 147
XVI. The Path that led to Crummylowe 161
XVII. Playing Sir Patrick Spens 168
XVIII. Paris comes to Pettybaw 182
XIX. Fowk o' Fife 190
XX. A Fifeshire Tea-Party 207
XXI. International Bickering 214
XXII. Francesca entertains the Green-Eyed Monster 224
XXIII. Ballad Revels at Rowardennan 234
XXIV. Old Songs and Modern Instances 244
XXV. A Treaty between Nations 255
XXVI. "Scotland's burning! Look out!" 260
XXVII. Three Magpies and a Marriage 265
PENELOPE'S PROGRESS
PART FIRST. IN TOWN
I
"Edina, Scotia's darling seat!
All hail thy palaces and towers!"
Edinburgh, April, 189-.
22, Breadalbane Terrace.
We have traveled together before, Salemina, Francesca, and I, and we
know the very worst there is to know about one another. After this
point has been reached, it is as if a triangular marriage had taken
place, and, with the honeymoon comfortably over, we slip along in
thoroughly friendly fashion. I use no warmer word than "friendly"
because, in the first place, the highest tides of feeling do not visit
the coast of triangular alliances; and because, in the second place,
"friendly" is a word capable of putting to the blush many a more
passionate and endearing one.
Every one knows of our experiences in England, for we wrote volumes of
letters concerning them, the which were widely circulated among our
friends at the time and read aloud under the evening lamps in the
several cities of our residence.
Since then few striking changes have taken place in our history.
Salemina returned to Boston for the winter, to find, to her amazement,
that for forty odd years she had been rather overestimating it.
On arriving in New York, Francesca discovered that the young lawyer
whom for six months she had been advising to marry somebody "more
worthy than herself" was at last about to do it. This was somewhat in
the nature of a shock, for Francesca has been in the habit, ever since
she was seventeen, of giving her lovers similar advice, and up to this
time no one of them has ever taken it. She therefore has had the not
unnatural hope, I think, of organizing at one time or another all
these disappointed and faithful swains into a celibate brotherhood;
and perhaps of driving by the interesting monastery with her husband
and calling his attention modestly to the fact that these poor monks
were filling their barren lives with deeds of piety, trying to
remember their Creator with such assiduity that they might, in time,
forget Her.
Her chagrin was all the keener at losing this last aspirant to her
hand in that she had almost persuaded herself that she was as fond of
him as she was likely to be of anybody, and that, on the whole, she
had better marry him and save his life and reason.
Fortunately she had not communicated this gleam of hope by letter,
feeling, I suppose, that she would like to see for herself the light
of joy breaking over his pale cheek. The scene would have been rather
pretty and touching, but meantime the Worm had turned and dispatched a
letter to the Majestic at the quarantine station, telling her that he
had found a less reluctant bride in the person of her intimate friend
Miss Rosa Van Brunt; and so Francesca's dream of duty and sacrifice
was over.
Salemina says she was somewhat constrained for a week and a trifle
cynical for a fortnight, but that afterwards her spirits mounted on
ever ascending spirals to impossible heights, where they have since
remained. It appears from all this that although she was piqued at
being taken at her word, her heart was not in the least damaged. It
never was one of those fragile things which have to be wrapped in
cotton, and preserved from the slightest blow--Francesca's heart. It
is made of excellent stout, durable material, and I often tell her
with the care she takes of it, and the moderate strain to which it is
subjected, it ought to be as good as new a hundred years hence.
As for me, the scene of my own love story is laid in America and
England, and has naught to do with Edinburgh. It is far from finished;
indeed, I hope it will be the longest serial on record, one of those
charming tales that grow in interest as chapter after chapter unfolds,
until at the end we feel as if we could never part with the delightful
people.
I should be, at this very moment, Mrs. William Beresford, a highly
respectable young matron who painted rather good pictures in her
spinster days, when she was Penelope Hamilton of the great American
working-class, Unlimited; but first Mrs. Beresford's dangerous
illness, and then her death, have kept my dear boy a willing prisoner
in Cannes, his heart sadly torn betwixt his love and duty to his
mother and his desire to be with me. The separation is virtually over
now, and we two, alas, have ne'er a mother or a father between us, so
we shall not wait many months before beginning to comfort each other
in good earnest.
Meantime Salemina and Francesca have persuaded me to join their
forces, and Mr. Beresford will follow us to Scotland in a few short
weeks, when we shall have established ourselves in the country.
We are overjoyed at being together again, we three women folk. As I
said before, we know the worst of one another, and the future has no
terrors. We have learned, for example, that:--
Francesca does not like an early morning start. Salemina refuses to
arrive late anywhere. Penelope prefers to stay behind and follow next
day.
Francesca scorns to travel third class. So does Salemina, but she will
if urged.
Penelope hates a four-wheeler. Salemina is nervous in a hansom.
Francesca prefers a Victoria.
Salemina likes a steady fire in the grate. Penelope opens a window and
fans herself.
Salemina inclines to instructive and profitable expeditions. Francesca
loves processions and sightseeing. Penelope abhors all of these
equally.
Salemina likes history. Francesca loves fiction. Penelope adores
poetry and detests facts.
Penelope likes substantial breakfasts. Francesca dislikes the sight of
food in the morning.
In the matter of breakfasts, when we have leisure to assert our
individual tastes, Salemina prefers tea, Francesca cocoa, and I,
coffee. We can never, therefore, be served with a large comfortable
pot of anything, but are confronted instead with a caravan of silver
jugs, china jugs, bowls of hard and soft sugar, hot milk, cold milk,
hot water, and cream, while each in her secret heart wishes that the
other two were less _exigeante_ in the matter of diet.
This does not sound promising, but it works perfectly well in practice
by the exercise of a little flexibility.
As we left dear old Dovermarle Street and Smith's Private Hotel
behind, and drove to the station to take the Flying Scotsman, we
indulged in floods of reminiscence over the joys of travel we had
tasted together in the past, and talked with lively anticipation of
the new experiences awaiting us in the land of heather.
While Salemina went to purchase the three first-class tickets, I
superintended the porters as they disposed our luggage in the van, and
in so doing my eye lighted upon a third-class carriage which was, for
a wonder, clean, comfortable, and vacant. Comparing it hastily with
the first-class compartment being held by Francesca, I found that it
differed only in having no carpet on the floor, and a smaller number
of buttons in the upholstering. This was really heart-rending when the
difference in fare for three persons would be at least twenty dollars.
What a delightful sum to put aside for a rainy day; that is, you
understand, what a delightful sum to put aside and spend on the first
rainy day; for that is the way we always interpret the expression.
When Salemina returned with the tickets, she found me, as usual,
bewailing our extravagance.
Francesca descended suddenly from her post, and, snatching the tickets
from her duenna, exclaimed, "'I know that I can save the country, and
I know no other man can!' as William Pitt said to the Duke of
Devonshire. I have had enough of this argument. For six months of last
year we discussed traveling third class and continued to travel first.
Get into that clean, hard-seated, ill-upholstered third-class carriage
immediately, both of you; save room enough for a mother with two
babies, a man carrying a basket of fish, and an old woman with five
pieces of hand-luggage and a dog; meanwhile I will exchange the
tickets."
So saying, she disappeared rapidly among the throng of passengers,
guards, porters, newspaper boys, golfers with bags of clubs, young
ladies with bicycles, and old ladies with tin hat-boxes.
"What decision, what swiftness of judgment, what courage and energy!"
murmured Salemina. "Isn't she wonderfully improved since that
unexpected turning of the Worm?"
Francesca rejoined us just as the guard was about to lock us in, and
flung herself down, quite breathless from her unusual exertion.
"Well, we are traveling third for once, and the money is saved, or at
least it is ready to spend again at the first opportunity. The man
didn't wish to exchange the tickets at all. He says it is never done.
I told him they were bought by a very inexperienced American lady
(that is you, Salemina) who knew almost nothing of the distinctions
between first and third class, and naturally took the best, believing
it to be none too good for a citizen of the greatest republic on the
face of the earth. He said the tickets had been stamped on. I said so
should I be if I returned without exchanging them. He was a very dense
person, and didn't see my joke at all, but then, it is true, there
were thirteen men in line behind me, with the train starting in three
minutes, and there is nothing so debilitating to a naturally weak
sense of humor as selling tickets behind a grating, so I am not really
vexed with him. There! we are quite comfortable, pending the arrival
of the babies, the dog, and the fish, and certainly no vender of
periodic literature will dare approach us while we keep these books in
evidence."
She had Laurence Hutton's "Literary Landmarks" and "Royal Edinburgh,"
by Mrs. Oliphant; I had Lord Cockburn's Memorials of his Time; and
somebody had given Salemina, at the moment of leaving London, a work
on "Scotia's darling seat," in three huge volumes. When all this
printed matter was heaped on the top of Salemina's hold-all on the
platform, the guard had asked, "Do you belong to these books, mam?"
"We may consider ourselves injured in going from London to Edinburgh
in a third-class carriage in eight or ten hours, but listen to this,"
said Salemina, who had opened one of her large volumes at random when
the train started.
"'The Edinburgh and London Stage-Coach begins on Monday, 13th October,
1712. All that desire ... let them repair to the _Coach and Horses_ at
the head of the Canongate every Saturday, or the _Black Swan_ in
Holborn every other Monday, at both of which places they may be
received in a coach which performs the whole journey in thirteen days
without any stoppage (if God permits) having eighty able horses. Each
passenger paying L4 10s. for the whole journey, alowing each 20 lbs.
weight and all above to pay 6d. per lb. The coach sets off at six in
the morning' (you could never have caught it, Francesca!), 'and is
performed by Henry Harrison.' And here is a 'modern improvement,'
forty-two years later. In July, 1754, the 'Edinburgh Courant'
advertises the stage-coach drawn by six horses, with a postilion on
one of the leaders, as a 'new, genteel, two-end glass machine, hung on
steel springs, exceeding light and easy, to go in ten days in summer
and twelve in winter. Passengers to pay as usual. Performed (if God
permits) by your dutiful servant, Hosea Eastgate. _Care is taken of
small parcels according to their value._'"
"It would have been a long, wearisome journey," said I, contemplatively;
"but, nevertheless, I wish we were making it in 1712 instead of a
century and three quarters later."
"What would have been happening, Salemina?" asked Francesca politely,
but with no real desire to know.
"The Union had been already established five years," began Salemina
intelligently.
"Which Union?"
"Whose Union?"
Salemina is used to these interruptions and eruptions of illiteracy on
our part. I think she rather enjoys them, as in the presence of such
complete ignorance as ours her lamp of knowledge burns all the
brighter.
"Anne was on the throne," she went on, with serene dignity.
"What Anne?"
"I know the Anne!" exclaimed Francesca excitedly. "She came from the
Midnight Sun country, or up that way. She was very extravagant, and
had something to do with Jingling Geordie in 'The Fortunes of Nigel.'
It is marvelous how one's history comes back to one!"
"Quite marvelous," said Salemina dryly; "or at least the state in
which it comes back is marvelous. I am not a stickler for dates, as
you know, but if you could only contrive to fix a few periods in your
minds, girls, just in a general way, you would not be so shamefully
befogged. Your Anne of Denmark, Francesca, was the wife of James VI.
of Scotland, who was James I. of England, and she died a hundred years
before the Anne I mean,--the last of the Stuarts, you know. My Anne
came after William and Mary, and before the Georges."
"Which William and Mary?"
"What Georges?"
But this was too much even for Salemina's equanimity, and she retired
behind her book in dignified displeasure, while Francesca and I meekly
looked up the Annes in a genealogical table, and tried to decide
whether "b. 1665" meant born or beheaded.
II
The weather that greeted us on our unheralded arrival in Scotland was
of the precise sort offered by Edinburgh to her unfortunate queen,
when,
"After a youth by woes o'ercast,
After a thousand sorrows past,
The lovely Mary once again
Set foot upon her native plain."
John Knox records of those memorable days: "The very face of heaven
did manifestlie speak what comfort was brought to this country with
hir--to wit, sorrow, dolour, darkness and all impiety--for in the
memorie of man never was seen a more dolorous face of the heavens than
was at her arryvall ... the myst was so thick that skairse micht onie
man espy another; and the sun was not seyn to shyne two days befoir
nor two days after."
We could not see Edina's famous palaces and towers because of the
_haar_, that damp, chilling, drizzling, dripping fog or mist which the
east wind summons from the sea; but we knew that they were there,
shrouded in the heart of that opaque mysterious grayness, and that
before many hours our eyes would feast upon their beauty.
Perhaps it was the weather, but I could think of nothing but poor
Queen Mary! She had drifted into my imagination with the _haar_, so
that I could fancy her homesick gaze across the water as she murmured,
"_Adieu, ma chere France! Je ne vous verray jamais plus!_"--could
fancy her saying as in Allan Cunningham's verse:--
"The sun rises bright in France,
And fair sets he;
But he hath tint the blithe blink he had
In my ain countree."
And then I recalled Mary's first good-night in Edinburgh: that
"serenade of 500 rascals with vile fiddles and rebecks;" that singing,
"in bad accord," of Protestant psalms by the wet crowd beneath the
palace windows, while the fires on Arthur's Seat shot flickering
gleams of welcome through the dreary fog. What a lullaby for poor
Mary, half Frenchwoman and all Papist!
It is but just to remember the "indefatigable and undissuadable" John
Knox's statement, "the melody lyked her weill and she willed the same
to be continewed some nightis after." For my part, however, I distrust
John Knox's musical feeling, and incline sympathetically to the Sieur
de Brantome's account, with its "vile fiddles" and "discordant
psalms," although his judgment was doubtless a good deal depressed by
what he called the _si grand brouillard_ that so dampened the spirits
of Mary's French retinue.
Ah well, I was obliged to remember, in order to be reasonably happy
myself, that Mary had a gay heart, after all; that she was but
nineteen; that, though already a widow, she did not mourn her young
husband as one who could not be comforted; and that she must soon have
been furnished with merrier music than the psalms, for another of the
sour comments of the time is, "Our Queen weareth the dule [weeds], but
she can dance daily, dule and all!"
These were my thoughts as we drove through invisible streets in the
Edinburgh _haar_, turned into what proved next day to be a Crescent,
and drew up to an invisible house with a visible number 22 gleaming
over a door which gaslight transformed into a probability. We
alighted, and though we could scarcely see the driver's outstretched
hand, he was quite able to discern a half-crown, and demanded three
shillings.
The noise of our cab had brought Mrs. M'Collop to the door,--good (or
at least pretty good) Mrs. M'Collop, to whose apartments we had been
commended by English friends who had never occupied them.
Dreary as it was without, all was comfortable within doors, and a
cheery (one-and-sixpenny) fire crackled in the grate. Our private
drawing-room was charmingly furnished, and so large that,
notwithstanding the presence of a piano, two sofas, five small tables,
cabinets, desks, and chairs,--not forgetting a dainty five-o'clock tea
equipage,--we might have given a party in the remaining space.
"If this is a typical Scotch lodging I like it; and if it is Scotch
hospitality to lay the cloth and make the fire before it is asked for,
then I call it simply Arabian in character!" and Salemina drew off her
damp gloves, and extended her hands to the blaze.
"And isn't it delightful that the bill doesn't come in for a whole
week?" asked Francesca. "We have only our English experiences on which
to found our knowledge, and all is delicious mystery. The tea may be a
present from Mrs. M'Collop, and the sugar may not be an extra; the
fire may be included in the rent of the apartment, and the piano may
not be taken away to-morrow to enhance the attractions of the
dining-room floor." (It was Francesca, you remember, who had
"warstled" with the itemized accounts at Smith's Private Hotel in
London, and she who was always obliged to turn pounds, shillings, and
pence into dollars and cents before she could add or subtract.)
"Come and look at the flowers in my bedroom," I called, "four great
boxes full! Mr. Beresford must have ordered the carnations, because he
always does; but where did the roses come from, I wonder?"
I rang the bell, and a neat white-aproned maid appeared.
"Who brought these flowers, please?"
"I couldna say, mam."
"Thank you; will you be good enough to ask Mrs. M'Collop?"
In a moment she returned with the message, "There will be a letter in
the box, mam."
"It seems to me the letter should be in the box now, if it is ever to
be," I thought, and I presently drew this card from among the fragrant
buds:--
"Lady Baird sends these Scotch roses as a small return for the
pleasure she has received from Miss Hamilton's pictures. Lady Baird
will give herself the pleasure of calling to-morrow; meantime she
hopes that Miss Hamilton and her party will dine with her some evening
this week."
"How nice!" exclaimed Salemina.
"The celebrated Miss Hamilton's undistinguished party presents its
humble compliments to Lady Baird," chanted Francesca, "and having no
engagements whatever, and small hope of any, will dine with her on any
and every evening she may name. Miss Hamilton's party will wear its
best clothes, polish its mental jewels, and endeavor in every possible
way not to injure the gifted Miss Hamilton's reputation among the
Scottish nobility."
I wrote a hasty note of thanks to Lady Baird, and rang the bell.
"Can I send a message, please?" I asked the maid.
"I couldna say, mam."
"Will you be good enough to ask Mrs. M'Collop, please?"
Interval; then:--
"The Boots will tak' it at seeven o'clock, mam."
"Thank you; is Fotheringay Crescent near here?"
"I couldna say, mam."
"Thank you; what is your name, please?"
I waited in well-grounded anxiety, for I had no idea that she knew her
name, or that if she had ever heard it, she could say it; but, to my
surprise, she answered almost immediately, "Susanna Crum, mam!"
What a joy it is in a vexatious world, where things "gang aft agley,"
to find something absolutely right.
If I had devoted years to the subject, having the body of Susanna Crum
before my eyes every minute of the time for inspiration, Susanna Crum
is what I should have named that maid. Not a vowel could be added, not
a consonant omitted. I said so when first I saw her, and weeks of
intimate acquaintance only deepened my reverence for the parental
genius that had so described her to the world.
III
When we awoke next morning the sun had forgotten itself and was
shining in at Mrs. M'Collop's back windows.
We should have arisen at once to burn sacrifices and offer oblations,
but we had seen the sun frequently in America, and had no idea (poor
fools!) that it was anything to be grateful for, so we accepted it,
almost without comment, as one of the perennial providences of life.
When I speak of Edinburgh sunshine I do not mean, of course, any such
burning, whole-souled, ardent warmth of beam as one finds in countries
where they make a specialty of climate. It is, generally speaking, a
half-hearted, uncertain ray, as pale and as transitory as a martyr's
smile; but its faintest gleam, or its most puerile attempt to gleam,
is admired and recorded by its well-disciplined constituency. Not only
that, but at the first timid blink of the sun the true Scotsman
remarks smilingly, "I think now we shall be having settled weather!"
It is a pathetic optimism, beautiful but quite groundless, and leads
one to believe in the story that when Father Noah refused to take
Sandy into the ark, he sat down philosophically outside, saying, with
a glance at the clouds, "Aweel! the day's jist aboot the ord'nar', an'
I wouldna won'er if we saw the sun afore nicht!"
But what loyal son of Edina cares for these transatlantic gibes, and
where is the dweller within her royal gates who fails to succumb to
the sombre beauty of that old gray town of the North? "Gray! why, it
is gray, or gray and gold, or gray and gold and blue, or gray and gold
and blue and green, or gray and gold and blue and green and purple,
according as the heaven pleases and you choose your ground! But take
it when it is most sombrely gray, where is another such gray city?"
So says one of her lovers, and so the great army of lovers would say,
had they the same gift of language; for
"Even thus, methinks, a city reared should be, ...
Yea, an imperial city that might hold
Five times a hundred noble towns in fee, ...
Thus should her towers be raised; with vicinage
Of clear bold hills, that curve her very streets,
As if to indicate, 'mid choicest seats
Of Art, abiding Nature's majesty."
We ate a hasty breakfast that first morning, and prepared to go out
for a walk into the great unknown, perhaps the most pleasurable
sensation in the world. Francesca was ready first, and, having
mentioned the fact several times ostentatiously, she went into the
drawing-room to wait and read "The Scotsman." When we went thither a
few minutes later we found that she had disappeared.
"She is below, of course," said Salemina. "She fancies that we shall
feel more ashamed at our tardiness if we find her sitting on the hall
bench in silent martyrdom."
There was no one in the hall, however, save Susanna, who inquired if
we would see the cook before going out.
"We have no time now, Susanna," I remarked. "We are anxious to have a
walk before the weather changes if possible, but we shall be out for
luncheon and in for dinner, and Mrs. M'Collop may give us anything she
pleases. Do you know where Miss Francesca is?"
"I couldna s--"
"Certainly, of course you couldn't; but I wonder if Mrs. M'Collop saw
her?"
Mrs. M'Collop appeared from the basement, and vouchsafed the
information that she had seen "the young leddy rinnin' after the
regiment."
"Running after the regiment!" repeated Salemina automatically. "What a
reversal of the laws of nature! Why, in Berlin, it was always the
regiment that used to run after her!"
We learned in what direction the soldiers had gone, and pursuing the
same path found the young lady on the corner of a street near by. She
was quite unabashed. "You don't know what you have missed!" she said
excitedly. "Let us get into this tram, and possibly we can head them
off somewhere. They may be going into battle, and if so my heart's
blood is at their service. It is one of those experiences that come
only once in a lifetime. There were pipes and there were kilts! (I
didn't suppose they ever really wore them outside of the theatre!)
When you have seen the kilts swinging, Salemina, you will never be the
same woman afterwards! You never expected to see the Olympian gods
walking, did you? Perhaps you thought they always sat on practicable
rocks and made stiff gestures from the elbow, as they do in the Wagner
operas? Well, these gods walked, if you can call the inspired gait a
walk! If there is a single spinster left in Scotland, it is because
none of these ever asked her to marry him. Ah, how grateful I ought to
be that I am free to say 'yes,' if a kilt ever asks me to be his! Poor
Penelope, yoked to your commonplace trousered Beresford! (I wish the
tram would go faster!) You must capture one of them, by fair means or
foul, Penelope, and Salemina and I will hold him down while you paint
him,--there they are, they are there somewhere, don't you hear them?"
There they were indeed, filing down the grassy slopes of the Gardens,
swinging across one of the stone bridges, and winding up the Castle
Hill to the Esplanade like a long, glittering snake; the streamers of
their Highland bonnets waving, their arms glistening in the sun, and
the bagpipes playing "The March of the Cameron Men." The pipers
themselves were mercifully hidden from us on that first occasion, and
it was well, for we could never have borne another feather's weight of
ecstasy.
It was in Princes Street that we had alighted,--named thus for the
prince who afterwards became George IV.--and I hope he was, and is,
properly grateful. It ought never to be called a street, this most
magnificent of terraces, and the world has cause to bless that
interdict of the Court of Sessions in 1774, which prevented the
Gradgrinds of the day from erecting buildings along its south side,--a
sordid scheme that would have been the very superfluity of
naughtiness.
It was an envious Glasgow body who said grudgingly, as he came out of
Waverley Station, and gazed along its splendid length for the first
time, "_Weel, wi' a' their haverin', it's but half a street,
onyway!_"--which always reminded me of the Western farmer who came
from his native plains to the beautiful Berkshire hills. "I've always
heard o' this scenery," he said. "Blamed if I can find any scenery;
but if there was, nobody could see it, there's so much high ground in
the way!"
To think that not so much more than a hundred years ago Princes Street
was naught but a straight country road, the "Lang Dykes" and the "Lang
Gait," as it was called.
We looked down over the grassy chasm that separates the New from the
Old Town; looked our first on Arthur's Seat, that crouching lion of a
mountain; saw the Corstorphine hills, and Calton Heights, and
Salisbury Crags, and finally that stupendous bluff of rock that
culminates so majestically in Edinburgh Castle. There is something
else which, like Susanna Crum's name, is absolutely and ideally right!
Stevenson calls it one of the most satisfactory crags in nature--a
Bass rock upon dry land, rooted in a garden, shaken by passing trains,
carrying a crown of battlements and turrets, and describing its
warlike shadow over the liveliest and brightest thoroughfare of the
new town. It dominates the whole countryside from water and land. The
men who would have the courage to build such a castle in such a spot
are all dead; all dead, and the world is infinitely more comfortable
without them. They are all gone, and no more like unto them will ever
be born, and we can most of us count upon dying safely in our beds, of
diseases bred of modern civilization. But I am glad that those old
barbarians, those rudimentary creatures working their way up into the
divine likeness, when they were not hanging, drawing, quartering,
torturing, and chopping their neighbors, and using their heads in
conventional patterns on the tops of gate-posts, did devote their
leisure intervals to rearing fortresses like this. Edinburgh Castle
could not be conceived, much less built, nowadays, when all our energy
is consumed in bettering the condition of the "submerged tenth"! What
did they care about the "masses," that "regal race that is now no
more," when they were hewing those blocks of rugged rock and piling
them against the sky-line on the top of that great stone mountain! It
amuses me to think how much more picturesque they left the world, and
how much better we shall leave it; though if an artist were requested
to distribute individual awards to different generations, you could
never persuade him to give first prizes to the centuries that produced
steam laundries, trolleys, X rays, and sanitary plumbing.
What did they reck of Peace Congresses and bloodless arbitrations when
they lighted the beacon-fires, flaming out to the gudeman and his sons
ploughing or sowing in the Lang Dykes the news that their "ancient
enemies of England had crossed the Tweed"!
I am the most peaceful person in the world, but the Castle was too
much for my imagination. I was mounted and off and away from the first
moment I gazed upon its embattled towers, heard the pipers in the
distance, and saw the Black Watch swinging up the green steeps where
the huge fortress "holds its state." The modern world had vanished,
and my steed was galloping, galloping, galloping back into the
place-of-the-things-that-are-past, traversing centuries at every
leap.
"To arms! Let every banner in Scotland float defiance to the breeze!"
(So I heard my newborn imaginary spirit say to my real one.) "Yes, and
let the Deacon Convener unfurl the sacred Blue Blanket, under which
every liege burgher of the kingdom is bound to answer summons! The
bale-fires are gleaming, giving alarm to Hume, Haddington, Dunbar,
Dalkeith, and Eggerhope. Rise, Stirling, Fife, and the North! All
Scotland will be under arms in two hours. One bale-fire: the English
are in motion! Two: they are advancing! Four in a row: they are of
great strength! All men in arms west of Edinburgh muster there! All
eastward, at Haddington! And every Englishman caught in Scotland is
lawfully the prisoner of whoever takes him!" (What am I saying? I love
Englishmen, but the spell is upon me!) "Come on, Macduff!" (The only
suitable and familiar challenge my warlike tenant can summon at the
moment.) "I am the son of a Gael! My dagger is in my belt, and with
the guid broadsword at my side I can with one blow cut a man in twain!
My bow is cut from the wood of the yews of Glenure; the shaft is from
the wood of Lochetive, the feathers from the great golden eagles of
Lochtreigside! My arrowhead was made by the smiths of the race of
Macphedran! Come on, Macduff!"
And now a shopkeeper has filled his window with Royal Stuart tartans,
and I am instantly a Jacobite.
"The Highland clans wi' sword in hand,
Frae John o' Groat's to Airly,
Hae to a man declar'd to stand
Or fa' wi' Royal Charlie.
Come through the heather, around him gather,
Come Ronald, come Donald, come a' thegither,
And crown your rightfu', lawfu' king,
For wha'll be king but Charlie?"
It is the eve of the battle of Prestonpans. Is it not under the Rock
of Dunsappie on yonder Arthur's Seat that our Highland army will
encamp to-night? At dusk the prince will hold a council of his chiefs
and nobles (I am a chief and a noble), and at daybreak we shall march
through the old hedgerows and woods of Duddingston, pipes playing and
colors flying, bonnie Charlie at the head, his claymore drawn and the
scabbard flung away! (I mean awa'!)
"Then here's a health to Charlie's cause,
And be 't complete an' early;
His very name my heart's blood warms
To arms for Royal Charlie!
"Come through the heather, around him gather,
Come Ronald, come Donald, come a' thegither,
And crown your rightfu', lawfu' king,
For wha'll be king but Charlie?"
I hope that those in authority will never attempt to convene a peace
congress in Edinburgh, lest the influence of the Castle be too strong
for the delegates. They could not resist it nor turn their backs upon
it, since, unlike other ancient fortresses, it is but a stone's throw
from the front windows of all the hotels. They might mean never so
well, but they would end by buying dirk hat-pins and claymore brooches
for their wives, their daughters would all run after the kilted
regiment and marry as many of the pipers as asked them, and before
night they would all be shouting with the noble Fitz-Eustace,
"Where's the coward who would not dare
To fight for such a land?"
While I was rhapsodizing, Salemina and Francesca were shopping in the
Arcade, buying some of the cairngorms, and Tam O'Shanter purses, and
models of Burns's cottage, and copies of "Marmion" in plaided covers,
and thistle belt-buckles, and bluebell penwipers, with which we
afterwards inundated our native land. When my warlike mood had passed,
I sat down upon the steps of the Scott monument and watched the
passers-by in a sort of waking dream. I suppose they were the usual
professors and doctors and ministers who are wont to walk up and down
the Edinburgh streets, with a sprinkling of lairds and leddies of high
degree and a few Americans looking at the shop windows to choose their
clan-tartans; but for me they did not exist. In their places stalked
the ghosts of kings and queens and knights and nobles: Columba, Abbot
of Iona; Queen Margaret and Malcolm--she the sweetest saint in all the
throng; King David riding towards Drumsheugh forest on Holy Rood-day,
with his horns and hounds and huntsmen following close behind; Anne of
Denmark and Jingling Geordie; Mary Stuart in all her girlish beauty,
with the four Maries in her train; and lurking behind, Bothwell, "that
ower sune stepfaither," and the murdered Rizzio and Darnley; John
Knox, in his black Geneva cloak; Bonnie Prince Charlie and Flora
Macdonald; lovely Annabella Drummond; Robert the Bruce; George Heriot
with a banner bearing on it the words "I distribute chearfully;" James
I. carrying The King's Quair; Oliver Cromwell; and a long line of
heroes, martyrs, humble saints, and princely knaves.
Behind them, regardless of precedence, came the Ploughman Poet and the
Ettrick Shepherd, Boswell and Dr. Johnson, Dr. John Brown and Thomas
Carlyle, Lady Nairne and Drummond of Hawthornden, Allan Ramsay and Sir
Walter; and is it not a proof of the Wizard's magic art, that side by
side with the wraiths of these real people walked, or seemed to walk,
the Fair Maid of Perth, Jeanie Deans, Meg Merrilies, Guy Mannering,
Ellen, Marmion, and a host of others so sweetly familiar and so
humanly dear that the very street-laddies could have named and greeted
them as they passed by?
IV
Life at Mrs. M'Collop's apartments in 22, Breadalbane Terrace is about
as simple, comfortable, dignified, and delightful as it well can be.
Mrs. M'Collop herself is neat, thrifty, precise, tolerably genial, and
"verra releegious."
Her partner, who is also the cook, is a person introduced to us as
Miss Diggity. We afterwards learned that this is spelled Dalgety, but
it is not considered good form, in Scotland, to pronounce the names of
persons and places as they are written. When, therefore, I allude to
the cook, which will be as seldom as possible, I shall speak of her as
Miss Diggity-Dalgety, so that I shall be presenting her correctly both
to the eye and to the ear, and giving her at the same time a
hyphenated name, a thing which is a secret object of aspiration in
Great Britain.
In selecting our own letters and parcels from the common stock on the
hall table, I perceive that most of our fellow lodgers are hyphenated
ladies, whose visiting-cards diffuse the intelligence that in their
single persons two ancient families and fortunes are united. On the
ground floor are the Misses Hepburn-Sciennes (pronounced
Hebburn-Sheens); on the floor above us are Miss Colquhoun (Cohoon) and
her cousin Miss Cockburn-Sinclair (Coburn-Sinkler). As soon as the
Hepburn-Sciennes depart, Mrs. M'Collop expects Mrs. Menzies of
Kilconquhar, of whom we shall speak as Mrs. Mingess of Kinyukkar.
There is not a man in the house; even the Boots is a girl, so that 22,
Breadalbane Terrace is as truly a _castra puellarum_ as was ever the
Castle of Edinburgh with its maiden princesses in the olden time.
We talked with Miss Diggity-Dalgety on the evening of our first day at
Mrs. M'Collop's, when she came up to know our commands. As Francesca
and Salemina were both in the room, I determined to be as Scotch as
possible, for it is Salemina's proud boast that she is taken for a
native of every country she visits.
"We shall not be entertaining at present, Miss Diggity," I said, "so
you can give us just the ordinary dishes,--no doubt you are accustomed
to them: scones, baps or bannocks with marmalade, finnan-haddie or
kippered herrings for breakfast; tea,--of course we never touch coffee
in the morning" (here Francesca started with surprise); "porridge, and
we like them well boiled, please" (I hope she noted the plural
pronoun; Salemina did, and blanched with envy); "minced collops for
luncheon, or a nice little black-faced chop; Scotch broth, peas brose
or cockyleekie soup, at dinner, and haggis now and then, with a cold
shape for dessert. That is about the sort of thing we are accustomed
to,--just plain Scotch living."
I was impressing Miss Diggity-Dalgety,--I could see that clearly; but
Francesca spoiled the effect by inquiring, maliciously, if we could
sometimes have a howtowdy wi' drappit eggs, or her favorite dish, wee
grumphie wi' neeps.
Here Salemina was obliged to poke the fire in order to conceal her
smiles, and the cook probably suspected that Francesca found howtowdy
in the Scotch glossary; but we amused each other vastly, and that is
our principal object in life.
Miss Diggity-Dalgety's forbears must have been exposed to foreign
influences, for she interlards her culinary conversation with French
terms, and we have discovered that this is quite common. A "jigget" of
mutton is of course a _gigot_, and we have identified an "ashet" as an
_assiette_. The "petticoat tails" she requested me to buy at the
confectioner's were somewhat more puzzling, but when they were finally
purchased by Susanna Crum they appeared to be ordinary little cakes;
perhaps, therefore, _petits gastels_, since gastel is an old form of
_gateau_, as was _bel_ for _beau_. Susanna, on her part, speaks of the
wardrobe in my bedroom as an "awmry." It certainly contains no
weapons, so cannot be an armory, and we conjecture that her word must
be a corruption of _armoire_.
"That was a remarkable touch about the black-faced chop," laughed
Salemina, when Miss Diggity-Dalgety had retired; "not that I believe
they ever say it."
"I am sure they must," I asserted stoutly, "for I passed a flesher's
on my way home, and saw a sign with 'Prime Black-faced Mutton' printed
on it. I also saw 'Fed Veal,' but I forgot to ask the cook for it."
"We ought really to have kept house in Edinburgh," observed Francesca,
looking up from "The Scotsman." "One can get a 'self-contained
residential flat' for twenty pounds a month. We are such an
enthusiastic trio that a self-contained flat would be everything to
us; and if it were not fully furnished, here is a firm that wishes to
sell a 'composite bed' for six pounds, and a 'gent's stuffed easy' for
five. Added to these inducements there is somebody who advertises that
parties who intend 'displenishing' at the Whit Term would do well to
consult him, as he makes a specialty of second-handed furniture and
'cyclealities.' What are 'cyclealities,' Susanna?" (She had just come
in with coals.)
"I couldna say, mam."
"Thank you; no, you need not ask Mrs. M'Collop; it is of no
consequence."
Susanna Crum is a most estimable young woman, clean, respectful,
willing, capable, and methodical, but as a Bureau of Information she
is painfully inadequate. Barring this single limitation she seems to
be a treasure-house of all good practical qualities; and being thus
clad and panoplied in virtue, why should she be so timid and
self-distrustful?
She wears an expression which can mean only one of two things: either
she has heard of the national tomahawk and is afraid of violence on
our part, or else her mother was frightened before she was born. This
applies in general to her walk and voice and manner, but is it fear
that prompts her eternal "I couldna say," or is it perchance Scotch
caution and prudence? Is she afraid of projecting her personality too
indecently far? Is it the influence of the "catecheesm" on her early
youth? Is it the indirect effect of heresy trials on her imagination?
Does she remember the thumb-screw of former generations? At all
events, she will neither affirm nor deny, and I am putting her to all
sorts of tests, hoping to discover finally whether she is an accident,
an exaggeration, or a type.
Salemina thinks that our American accent may confuse her. Of course
she means Francesca's and mine, for she has none; although we have
tempered ours so much for the sake of the natives, that we can
scarcely understand each other any more. As for Susanna's own accent,
she comes from the heart of Aberdeenshire, and her intonation is
beyond my power to reproduce.
We naturally wish to identify all the national dishes; so, "Is this
cockle soup, Susanna?" I ask her, as she passes me the plate at
dinner.
"I couldna say."
"This vegetable is new to me, Susanna; is it perhaps sea-kail?"
"I canna say, mam."
Then finally, in despair, as she handed me a boiled potato one day, I
fixed my searching Yankee brown eyes on her blue-Presbyterian,
non-committal ones and asked, "What is this vegetable, Susanna?"
In an instant she withdrew herself, her soul, her ego, so utterly that
I felt myself gazing at an inscrutable stone image, as she replied, "I
couldna say, mam."
This was too much! Her mother may have been frightened, very badly
frightened, but this was more than I could endure without protest. The
plain boiled potato is practically universal. It is not only common to
all temperate climates, but it has permeated all classes of society. I
am confident that the plain boiled potato has been one of the chief
constituents in the building up of that frame in which Susanna Crum
conceals her opinions and emotions. I remarked, therefore, as an
apparent afterthought, "Why, it is a potato, is it not, Susanna?"
What do you think she replied, when thus hunted into a corner, pushed
against a wall, driven to the very confines of her personal and
national liberty? She subjected the potato to a second careful
scrutiny, and answered, "I wouldna say it's no!"
Now there is no inherited physical terror in this. It is the
concentrated essence of intelligent reserve, caution, and obstinacy;
it is a conscious intellectual hedging; it is a dogged and determined
attempt to build up barriers of defense between the questioner and the
questionee: it must be, therefore, the offspring of the catechism and
the heresy trial.
Once again, after establishing an equally obvious fact, I succeeded in
wringing from her the reluctant admission, "It depends," but she was
so shattered by the bulk and force of this outgo, so fearful that in
some way she had imperiled her life or reputation, so anxious
concerning the effect that her unwilling testimony might have upon
unborn generations, that she was of no real service the rest of the
day.
I wish that the Lord Advocate, or some modern counterpart of
Braxfield, the hanging judge, would summon Susanna Crum as a witness
in an important case. He would need his longest plummet to sound the
depths of her consciousness.
I have had no legal experience, but I can imagine the scene.
"Is the prisoner your father, Susanna Crum?"
"I couldna say, my lord."
"You have not understood the question, Susanna. Is the prisoner your
father?"
"I couldna say, my lord."
"Come, come, my girl! you must answer the questions put you by the
court. You have been an inmate of the prisoner's household since your
earliest consciousness. He provided you with food, lodging, and
clothing during your infancy and early youth. You have seen him on
annual visits to your home, and watched him as he performed the usual
parental functions for your younger brothers and sisters. I therefore
repeat, is the prisoner your father, Susanna Crum?"
"I wouldna say he's no, my lord."
"This is really beyond credence! What do you conceive to be the idea
involved in the word 'father,' Susanna Crum?"
"It depends, my lord."
And this, a few hundred years earlier, would have been the natural and
effective moment for the thumb-screws.
I do not wish to be understood as defending these uncomfortable
appliances. They would never have been needed to elicit information
from me, for I should have spent my nights inventing matter to confess
in the daytime. I feel sure that I should have poured out such floods
of confessions and retractations that if all Scotland had been one
listening ear it could not have heard my tale. I am only wondering if,
in the extracting of testimony from the common mind, the thumb-screw
might not have been more necessary with some nations than with
others.
V
Invitations had been pouring in upon us since the delivery of our
letters of introduction, and it was now the evening of our debut in
Edinburgh society. Francesca had volunteered to perform the task of
leaving cards, ordering a private victoria for the purpose, and
arraying herself in purple and fine linen.