University of Virginia Library

131. LETTER CXXXI.

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 everybody 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 phaeton 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 game-keepers 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, 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 sunset
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 gener
ally, 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 géne 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 mailcoach 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” (aword,
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 quarrels, 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 Americans. I mention it for the benefit of
those whom it may concern.