the Presbyterian lion to his very lair, and observing his home as well
as his company manners. In everything that related to the
distinctively religious side of the proceedings we sought advice from
Mrs. M'Collop, while we went to Lady Baird for definite information on
secular matters. We also found an unexpected ally in the person of our
own ex-Moderator's niece, Miss Jean Dalziel (Deeyell). She has been
educated in Paris, but she must always have been a delightfully breezy
person, quite too irrepressible to be affected by Scottish _haar_ or
theology. "Go to the Assemblies, by all means," she said, "and be sure
and get places for the heresy case. These are no longer what they once
were,--we are getting lamentably weak and gelatinous in our
beliefs,--but there is an unusually nice one this year; the heretic is
very young and handsome, and quite wicked, as ministers go. Don't fail
to be presented at the Marchioness's court at Holyrood, for it is a
capital preparation for the ordeal of Her Majesty and Buckingham
Palace. 'Nothing fit to wear'? You have never seen the people who go,
or you wouldn't say that! I even advise you to attend one of the
breakfasts; it can't do you any serious or permanent injury so long as
you eat something before you go. Oh no, it doesn't matter,--whichever
one you choose, you will cheerfully omit the other; for I avow as a
Scottish spinster, and the niece of an ex-Moderator, that to a
stranger and a foreigner the breakfasts are worse than Arctic
explorations. If you do not chance to be at the table of honor"--
"The gifted Miss Hamilton is always at the table of honor; unless she
is placed there she refuses to eat, and then the universe rocks to its
centre," interpolated Francesca impertinently.
"It is true," continued Miss Dalziel, "you will often sit beside a
minister or a minister's wife, who will make you scorn the sordid
appetites of flesh, but if you do not, then eat as little as may be,
and flee up the Mound to whichever Assembly is the Mecca of your
soul!"
"My niece's tongue is an unruly member," said the ex-Moderator, who
was present at this diatribe, "and the principal mistake she makes in
her judgment of these clerical feasts is that she criticises them as
conventional repasts, whereas they are intended to be informal
meetings together of people who wish to be better acquainted."
"Hot bacon and eggs would be no bar to friendship," answered Miss
Dalziel, with an affectionate _moue_.
"Cold bacon and eggs is better than cold piety," said the
ex-Moderator, "and it may be a good discipline for fastidious young
ladies who have been spoiled by Parisian breakfasts."
It is to Mrs. M'Collop that we owe our chief insight into technical
church matters, although we seldom agree with her "opeenions" after we
gain our own experience. She never misses hearing one sermon on a
Sabbath, and oftener she listens to two or three. Neither does she
confine herself to the ministrations of a single preacher, but roves
from one sanctuary to another, seeking the bread of life, often,
however, according to her own account, getting a particularly
indigestible "stane."
She is thus a complete guide to the Edinburgh pulpit, and when she is
making a bed in the morning she dispenses criticism in so large and
impartial a manner that it would make the flesh of the "meenistry"
creep were it overheard. I used to think Ian Maclaren's sermon-taster
a possible exaggeration of an existent type, but I now see that she is
truth itself.
"Ye'll be tryin' anither kirk the morn?" suggests Mrs. M'Collop,
spreading the clean Sunday sheet over the mattress. "Wha did ye hear
the Sawbath that's bye? Dr. A? Ay, I ken him ower weel; he's been
there for fifteen years an' mair. Ay, he's a gifted mon--_off an'
on_!" with an emphasis showing clearly that, in her estimation, the
times when he is "off" outnumber those when he is "on."... "Ye have na
heard auld Dr. B yet?" (Here she tucks in the upper sheet tidily at
the foot.) "He's a graund strachtforrit mon, is Dr. B, forbye he's
growin' maist awfu' dreich in his sermons, though when he's that
wearisome a body canna heed him wi' oot takin' peppermints to the
kirk, he's nane the less, at seeventy-sax, a better mon than the new
asseestant. Div ye ken the new asseestant? He's a wee-bit, finger-fed
mannie, ower sma' maist to wear a goon! I canna thole him, wi' his
lang-nebbit words, explainin' an' expoundin' the gude Book as if it
had jist come oot! The auld doctor's nae kirk-filler, but he gies us
fu' meesure, pressed doun an' rinnin' over, nae bit-pickin's like the
haverin' asseestant; it's my opeenion he's no soond, wi' his
parleyvoos an' his clish-maclavers!... Mr. C?" (Now comes the shaking
and straightening and smoothing of the first blanket.) "Ay, he's weel
eneuch! I mind ance he prayed for our Free Assembly, an' then he
turned roun' an' prayed for the Estaiblished, maist in the same
breath,--he's a broad, leeberal mon is Mr. C!... Mr. D? Ay, I ken him
fine; he micht be waur, though he's ower fond o' the kittle pairts o'
the Old Testament; but he reads his sermon from the paper, an' it's an
auld sayin', 'If a meenister canna mind [remember] his ain discoorse,
nae mair can the congregation be expectit to mind it.'... Mr. E? He's
my ain meenister." (She has a pillow in her mouth now, but though she
is shaking it as a terrier would a rat, and drawing on the linen slip
at the same time, she is still intelligible between the jerks.)
"Susanna says his sermon is like claith made o' soond 'oo [wool] wi' a
gude twined thread, an' wairpit an' weftit wi' doctrine. Susanna kens
her Bible weel, but she's never gaed forrit." (To "gang forrit" is to
take the communion.) "Dr. F? I ca' him the greetin' doctor! He's aye
dingin' the dust oot o' the poopit cushions, an' greetin' ower the
sins o' the human race, an' eespecially of his ain congregation. He's
waur syne his last wife sickened an' slippit awa.' 'Twas a chastenin'
he'd put up wi' twice afore, but he grat nane the less. She was a
bonnie bit body, was the thurd Mistress F! E'nbro could 'a' better
spared the greetin' doctor than her, I'm thinkin'."
"The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, according to his good will
and pleasure," I ventured piously, as Mrs. M'Collop beat the bolster
and laid it in place.
"Ou ay," responded that good woman, as she spread the counterpane over
the pillows in the way I particularly dislike--"ou ay, but whiles I
think it's a peety he couldna be guidit!"
XI
We were to make our bow to the Lord High Commissioner and the
Marchioness of Heatherdale in the evening, and we were in a state of
republican excitement at 22, Breadalbane Terrace.
Francesca had surprised us by refusing to be presented at this
semi-royal Scottish court. "Not I," she said. "The Marchioness
represents the Queen; we may discover, when we arrive, that she has
raised the standards of admission, and requires us to 'back out' of
the throne-room. I don't propose to do that without London training.
Besides, I detest crowds, and I never go to my own President's
receptions; and I have a headache, anyway, and I don't feel like
coping with the Reverend Ronald to-night!" (Lady Baird was to take us
under her wing, and her nephew was to escort us, Sir Robert being in
Inveraray.)
"Sally, my dear," I said, as Francesca left the room with a bottle of
smelling-salts somewhat ostentatiously in evidence, "methinks the
damsel doth protest too much. In other words, she devotes a good deal
of time and discussion to a gentleman whom she heartily dislikes. As
she is under your care, I will direct your attention to the following
points:--
"Ronald Macdonald is a Scotsman; Francesca disapproves of
international alliances.
"He is a Presbyterian; she is a Swedenborgian.
"His father was a famous old school doctor; Francesca is a
homoeopathist.
"He is serious; Francesca is gay.
"I think, under all the circumstances, their acquaintance will bear
watching. Two persons so utterly dissimilar, and, so far as
superficial observation goes, so entirely unsuited to each other, are
quite likely to drift into marriage unless diverted by watchful
philanthropists."
"Nonsense!" returned Salemina brusquely. "You think because you are
under the spell of the tender passion yourself that other people are
in constant danger. Francesca detests him."
"Who told you so?"
"She herself," triumphantly.
"Salemina," I said pityingly, "I have always believed you a spinster
from choice; don't lead me to think that you have never had any
experience in these matters! The Reverend Ronald has also intimated to
me as plainly as he dared that he cannot bear the sight of Francesca.
What do I gather from this statement? The general conclusion that if
it be true, it is curious that he looks at her incessantly."
"Francesca would never live in Scotland," remarked Salemina feebly.
"Not unless she were asked, of course," I replied.
"He would never ask her."
"Not unless he thought he had a chance of an affirmative answer."
"Her father would never allow it."
"Her father allows what she permits him to allow. You know that
perfectly well."
"What shall I do about it, then?"
"Consult me."
"What shall _we_ do about it?"
"Let Nature have her own way."
"I don't believe in Nature."
"Don't be profane, Salemina, and don't be unromantic, which is worse;
but if you insist, trust in Providence."
"I would rather trust Francesca's hard heart."
"The hardest hearts melt if sufficient heat be applied. Did I take you
to Newhaven and read you 'Christie Johnstone' on the beach for naught?
Don't you remember Charles Reade said that the Scotch are icebergs,
with volcanoes underneath; thaw the Scotch ice, which is very cold,
and you shall get to the Scotch fire, warmer than any sun of Italy or
Spain. I think Mr. Macdonald is a volcano."
"I wish he were extinct," said Salemina petulantly, "and I wish you
wouldn't make me nervous."
"If you had any faculty of premonition, you wouldn't have waited for
me to make you nervous."
"Some people are singularly omniscient."
"Others are singularly deficient"--And at this moment Susanna Crum
came in to announce Miss Jean Dalziel, who had come to see sights with
us.
It was our almost daily practice to walk through the Old Town, and we
were now familiar with every street and close in that densely crowded
quarter. Our quest for the sites of ancient landmarks never grew
monotonous, and we were always reconstructing, in imagination, the
Cowgate, the Canongate, the Lawnmarket, and the High Street, until we
could see Auld Reekie as it was in bygone centuries. In those days of
continual war with England, people crowded their dwellings as near the
Castle as possible, so floor was piled upon floor and flat upon flat,
families ensconcing themselves above other families, the tendency
being ever skyward. Those who dwelt on top had no desire to spend
their strength in carrying down the corkscrew stairs matter which
would descend by the force of gravity if pitched from the window or
door; so the wayfarer, especially after dusk, would be greeted with
cries of "Get out o' the gait!" or "Gardy loo!" which was in the
French "_Gardez l'eau_," and which would have been understood in any
language, I fancy, after a little experience. The streets then were
filled with the debris flung from a hundred upper windows, while
certain ground-floor tenants, such as butchers and candlemakers,
contributed their full share to the fragrant heaps. As for these too
seldom used narrow turnpike stairs, imagine the dames of fashion
tilting their vast hoops and silken show-petticoats up and down in
them!
That swine roamed at will in these Elysian fields is to be presumed,
since we have this amusing picture of three High Street belles and
beauties in the "Traditions of Edinburgh:"--
"So easy were the manners of the great, fabled to be so stiff and
decorous," says the author, "that Lady Maxwell's daughter Jane, who
afterward became the Duchess of Gordon, was seen riding a sow up the
High Street, while her sister Eglantine (afterwards Lady Wallace of
Craigie) thumped lustily behind with a stick."
No wonder, in view of all this, that King James VI., when about to
bring home his "darrest spous" Anne of Denmark, wrote to the Provost,
"For God's sake see a' things are richt at our hame-coming; a king
with a new-married wife doesna come hame ilka day."
Had it not been for these royal home-comings and visits of
distinguished foreigners, now and again aided by something still more
salutary, an occasional outbreak of the plague, the easy-going
authorities would never have issued any "cleansing edicts," and the
still easier-going inhabitants would never have obeyed them. It was
these dark, tortuous wynds and closes, nevertheless, that made up the
Court End of Old Edinbro'; for some one writes in 1530, "Via vaccarum
in qua habitant patricii et senatores urbis" (The nobility and chief
senators of the city dwell in the Cowgate). And as for the Canongate,
this Saxon _gaet_ or way of the Holyrood canons, it still sheltered in
1753 "two dukes, sixteen earls, two dowager countesses, seven lords,
seven lords of session, thirteen baronets, four commanders of the
forces in Scotland, and five eminent men,"--fine game indeed for Mally
Lee!
"A' doun alang the Canongate
Were beaux o' ilk degree;
And mony ane turned round to look
At bonny Mally Lee.
And we're a' gaun east an' west,
We're a' gaun agee,
We're a' gaun east an' west
Courtin' Mally Lee!"
Every corner bristles with memories. Here is the Stamp Office Close,
from which the lovely Susanna, Countess of Eglinton, was wont to issue
on Assembly nights; she, six feet in height, with a brilliantly fair
complexion and a "face of the maist bewitching loveliness." Her seven
daughters and stepdaughters were all conspicuously handsome, and it
was deemed a goodly sight to watch the long procession of eight gilded
sedan-chairs pass from the Stamp Office Close, bearing her and her
stately brood to the Assembly Room, amid a crowd that was "hushed with
respect and admiration to behold their lofty and graceful figures step
from the chairs on the pavement."
Here itself is the site of those old Assemblies presided over at one
time by the famous Miss Nicky Murray, a directress of society affairs,
who seems to have been a feminine premonition of Count d'Orsay and our
own McAllister. Rather dull they must have been, those old Scotch
balls, where Goldsmith saw the ladies and gentlemen in two dismal
groups divided by the length of the room.
"The Assembly Close received the fair--
Order and elegance presided there--
Each gay Right Honourable had her place,
To walk a minuet with becoming grace.
No racing to the dance with rival hurry,
Such was thy sway, O famed Miss Nicky Murray!"
It was half past nine in the evening when Salemina and I drove to
Holyrood, our humble cab-horse jogging faithfully behind Lady Baird's
brougham, and it was the new experience of seeing Auld Reekie by
lamplight that called up these gay visions of other days,--visions and
days so thoroughly our mental property that we could not help
resenting the fact that women were hanging washing from the Countess
of Eglinton's former windows, and popping their unkempt heads out of
the Duchess of Gordon's old doorway.
The Reverend Ronald is so kind! He enters so fully into our spirit of
inquiry, and takes such pleasure in our enthusiasms! He even sprang
lightly out of Lady Baird's carriage and called to our "lamiter" to
halt while he showed us the site of the Black Turnpike, from whose
windows Queen Mary saw the last of her kingdom's capital.
"Here was the Black Turnpike, Miss Hamilton!" he cried; "and from here
Mary went to Loch Leven, where you Hamiltons and the Setons came
gallantly to her help. Don't you remember the 'far ride to the Solway
sands'?"
I looked with interest, though I was in such a state of delicious
excitement that I could scarce keep my seat.
"Only a few minutes more, Salemina," I sighed, "and we shall be in the
palace courtyard; then a probable half-hour in crowded dressing-rooms,
with another half-hour in line, and then, then we shall be making our
best republican bow in the Gallery of the Kings! How I wish Mr.
Beresford and Francesca were with us! What do you suppose was her real
reason for staying away? Some petty disagreement with our young
minister, I am sure. Do you think the dampness is taking the curl out
of our hair? Do you suppose our gowns will be torn to ribbons before
the Marchioness sees them? Do you believe we shall look as well as
anybody? Privately, I think we must look better than anybody; but I
always think that on my way to a party, never after I arrive."
Mrs. M'Collop had asserted that I was "bonnie eneuch for ony court,"
and I could not help wishing that "mine ain dear Somebody" might see
me in my French frock embroidered with silver thistles, and my "shower
bouquet" of Scottish bluebells tied loosely together. Salemina wore
pinky-purple velvet; a real heather color it was, though the Lord High
Commissioner would probably never note the fact.
When we had presented our cards of invitation at the palace doors, we
joined the throng and patiently made our way up the splendid
staircases, past powdered lackeys without number, and, divested of our
wraps, joined another throng on our way to the throne-room, Salemina
and I pressing those cards with our names "legibly written on them"
close to our palpitating breasts.
At last the moment came when, Lady Baird having preceded me, I handed
my bit of pasteboard to the usher; and hearing "Miss Hamilton" called
in stentorian accents, I went forward in my turn, and executed a
graceful and elegant but not too profound curtsy, carefully arranged
to suit the semi-royal, semi-ecclesiastical occasion. I had not
divulged the fact even to Salemina, but I had worn Mrs. M'Collop's
carpet quite threadbare in front of the long mirror, and had curtsied
to myself so many times in its crystal surface that I had developed a
sort of fictitious reverence for my reflected image. I had only begun
my well-practiced obeisance when Her Grace the Marchioness, to my
mingled surprise and embarrassment, extended a gracious hand and
murmured my name in a particularly kind voice. She is fond of Lady
Baird, and perhaps chose this method of showing her friendship; or it
may be that she noticed my silver thistles and Salemina's
heather-colored velvet,--they certainly deserved special recognition;
or it may be that I was too beautiful to pass over in silence,--in my
state of exaltation I was quite equal to the belief.
The presentation over, we wandered through the spacious apartments,
leaning from the open windows to hear the music of the band playing in
the courtyard below, looking at the royal portraits, and chatting with
groups of friends who appeared and reappeared in the throng. Finally
Lady Baird sent for us to join her in a knot of personages more and
less distinguished, who had dined at the palace, and who were standing
behind the receiving party in a sort of sacred group. This indeed was
a ground of vantage, and one could have stood there for hours,
watching all sorts and conditions of men and women bowing before the
Lord High Commissioner and the Marchioness, who, with her
Cleopatra-like beauty and scarlet gown, looked like a gorgeous
cardinal-flower.
Salemina and I watched the curtsying narrowly, with the view at first
of improving our own obeisances for Buckingham Palace; but truth to
say we got no added light, and plainly most of the people had not worn
threadbare the carpets in front of their dressing-mirrors.
Suddenly we heard a familiar name announced, "Lord Colquhoun," a
distinguished judge who had lately been raised to the peerage, and
whom we often met at dinners; then "Miss Rowena Colquhoun;" and then,
in the midst, we fancied, of an unusual stir at the entrance
door--"Miss Francesca Van Buren Monroe." I involuntarily touched the
Reverend Ronald's shoulder in my astonishment, while Salemina lifted
her tortoiseshell lorgnette, and we gazed silently at our recreant
charge.
After presentation, each person has fifteen or twenty feet of awful
space to traverse in solitary and defenseless majesty; scanned
meanwhile by the maids of honor (who, if they were truly honorable,
would turn their eyes another way), ladies-in-waiting, the sacred
group in the rear, and the Purse-Bearer himself. I had supposed that
this functionary would keep the purse in his upper bureau drawer at
home, when he was not paying bills, but it seems that when on
processional duty he carries a bag of red velvet quite a yard long
over his arm, where it looks not unlike a lady's opera-cloak. It would
hold the sum total of the moneys disbursed, even if they were reduced
to the standard of vulgar copper.
Under this appalling fire of inspection, some of the victims waddle,
some hurry; some look up and down nervously, others glance over the
shoulder as if dreading to be apprehended; some turn red, others pale,
according to complexion and temperament; some swing their arms, others
trip on their gowns; some twitch the buttons of a glove, or tweak a
flower or a jewel. Francesca rose superior to all these weaknesses,
and I doubt if the Gallery of the Kings ever served as a background
for anything lovelier or more high-bred than that untitled slip of a
girl from "the States." Her trailing gown of pearl-white satin fell in
unbroken lustrous folds behind her. Her beautiful throat and shoulders
rose in statuesque whiteness from the mist of chiffon that encircled
them. Her dark hair showed a moonbeam parting that rested the eye,
wearied by the contemplation of waves and frizzes fresh from the
curling-tongs. Her mother's pearls hung in ropes from neck to waist,
and the one spot of color about her was the single American Beauty
rose she carried. There is a patriotic florist in Paris who grows
these long-stemmed empresses of the rose-garden, and Mr. Beresford
sends some to me every week. Francesca had taken the flower without
permission, and I must say she was as worthy of it as it of her.
She curtsied deeply, with no exaggerated ceremony, but with a sort of
innocent and childlike gravity, while the satin of her gown spread
itself like a great blossom over the floor. Her head was bowed until
the dark lashes swept her crimson cheeks; then she rose again from the
heart of the shimmering lily, with the one splendid rose glowing
against all her dazzling whiteness, and floated slowly across the
dreaded space to the door of exit as if she were preceded by invisible
heralds and followed by invisible train-bearers.
"Who is she?" we heard whispered here and there. "Look at the rose!"
"Look at the pearls! Is she a princess or only an American?"
I glanced at the Reverend Ronald. I imagined he looked pale; at any
rate, he was biting his under lip nervously and I believe he was in
fancy laying his serious, Scottish, allopathic, Presbyterian heart at
Francesca's gay, American, homoeopathic, Swedenborgian feet.
"It is a pity Miss Monroe is such an ardent republican," he said, with
unconcealed bitterness; "otherwise she ought to be a duchess. I never
saw a head that better suited a coronet, nor, if you will pardon me,
one that contained more caprices."
"It is true she flatly refused to accompany us here," I allowed, "but
perhaps she has some explanation more or less silly and serviceable;
meantime, I defy you to tell me she isn't a beauty, and I implore you
to say nothing about its being only skin-deep. Give me a beautiful
exterior, say I, and I will spend my life in making the hidden things
of mind and soul conform to it; but deliver me from all forlorn
attempts to make my beauty of character speak through a large mouth,
breathe through a fat nose, and look at my neighbor through crossed
eyes!"
Mr. Macdonald agreed with me, with some few ministerial reservations.
He always agrees with me, and why he is not tortured at the thought of
my being the promised bride of another, but continues to squander his
affections upon a quarrelsome and unappreciative girl, is more than I
can comprehend.
Francesca, escorted by Lord Colquhoun, appeared presently in our
group, but Salemina did not even attempt to scold her. One cannot
scold an imperious young beauty in white satin and pearls,
particularly if she is leaning nonchalantly on the arm of a peer of
the realm.