University of Virginia Library

128. LETTER CXXVIII.

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 conveyances,
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 store 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.