‘Wha last beside his chair shall fa’
He is the king amang us three!’
It was the Princess Dashkoff who said, in the latter part of the eighteenth century, that of all the societies of men of talent she had met with in her travels, Edinburgh’s was the first in point of abilities.
One might make the same remark to-day, perhaps, and not depart widely from the truth. One does not find, however, as many noted1 names as are associated with the annals of the Cape2 and Poker3 Clubs or the Crochallan Fencibles, those famous groups of famous men who met for relaxation4 (and intoxication5, I should think) at the old Isle6 of Man Arms or in Dawney’s Tavern7 in the Anchor Close. These groups included such shining lights as Robert Fergusson the poet, and Adam Ferguson the historian and philosopher, Gavin Wilson, Sir Henry Raeburn, David Hume, Erskine, Lords Newton, Gillies, Monboddo, Hailes, Kames, Henry Mackenzie, and the Ploughman Poet himself, who has kept alive the memory of the Crochallans in many a jovial8 verse like that in which he describes Smellie, the eccentric philosopher and printer:—
‘Shrewd Willie Smellie to Crochallan came,
The old cocked hat, the grey surtout the same,
‘Twas four long nights and days to shaving night’;
or in the characteristic picture of William Dunbar, a wit of the time, and the merriest of the Fencibles:—
‘As I cam by Crochallan
Rattlin’, roarin’ Willie
Was sitting at yon boord en’;
Sitting at yon boord en’,
And amang guid companie!
Rattlin’, roarin’ Willie,
Ye’re welcome hame to me!’
or in the verses on Creech, Burns’s publisher, who left Edinburgh for a time in 1789. The ‘Willies,’ by the way, seem to be especially inspiring to the Scottish balladists.
And had o’ things an unco slight!
And trig and braw;
But now they’ll busk her like a fright—
Willie’s awa’!’
I think perhaps the gatherings13 of the present time are neither quite as gay nor quite as brilliant as those of Burns’s day, when
An’ Rob an’ Allan cam to pree’;
but the ideal standard of those meetings seems to be voiced in the lines:—
‘Wha last beside his chair shall fa’,
He is the king amang us three!’
As they sit in their chairs nowadays to the very end of the feast, there is doubtless joined with modern sobriety a soupcon of modern dulness and discretion15.
To an American the great charm of Edinburgh is its leisurely16 atmosphere: ‘not the leisure of a village arising from the deficiency of ideas and motives17, but the leisure of a city reposing18 grandly on tradition and history; which has done its work, and does not require to weave its own clothing, to dig its own coals, or smelt19 its own iron.’
We were reminded of this more than once, and it never failed to depress us properly. If one had ever lived in Pittsburg, Fall River, or Kansas City, I should think it would be almost impossible to maintain self-respect in a place like Edinburgh, where the citizens ‘are released from the vulgarising dominion20 of the hour.’ Whenever one of Auld Reekie’s great men took this tone with me, I always felt as though I were the germ in a half-hatched egg, and he were an aged21 and lordly cock gazing at me pityingly through my shell. He, lucky creature, had lived through all the struggles which I was to undergo; he, indeed, was released from ‘the vulgarising dominion of the hour’; but I, poor thing, must grow and grow, and keep pecking at my shell, in order to achieve existence.
Sydney Smith says in one of his letters, ‘Never shall I forget the happy days passed there [in Edinburgh], amidst odious22 smells, barbarous sounds, bad suppers, excellent hearts, and the most enlightened and cultivated understandings.’ His only criticism of the conversation of that day (1797-1802) concerned itself with the prevalence of that form of Scotch23 humour which was called wut; and with the disputations and dialectics. We were more fortunate than Sydney Smith, because Edinburgh has outgrown24 its odious smells, barbarous sounds, and bad suppers and, wonderful to relate, has kept its excellent hearts and its enlightened and cultivated understandings. As for mingled25 wut and dialectics, where can one find a better foundation for dinner-table conversation?
The hospitable26 board itself presents no striking differences from our own, save the customs of serving sweets in soup-plates with dessert-spoons, of a smaller number of forks on parade, of the invariable fish-knife at each plate, of the prevalent ‘savoury’ and ‘cold shape,’ and the unusual grace and skill with which the hostess carves. Even at very large dinners one occasionally sees a lady of high degree severing27 the joints28 of chickens and birds most daintily, while her lord looks on in happy idleness, thinking, perhaps, how greatly times have changed for the better since the ages of strife29 and bloodshed, when Scottish nobles
‘Carved at the meal with gloves of steel,
And drank their wine through helmets barred.’
The Scotch butler is not in the least like an English one. No man could be as respectable as he looks, not even an elder of the kirk, whom he resembles closely. He hands your plate as if it were a contribution-box, and in his moments of ease, when he stands behind the ‘maister,’ I am always expecting him to pronounce a benediction30. The English butler, when he wishes to avoid the appearance of listening to the conversation, gazes with level eye into vacancy31; the Scotch butler looks distinctly heavenward, as if he were brooding on the principle of co-ordinate jurisdiction32 with mutual33 subordination. It would be impossible for me to deny the key of the wine-cellar to a being so steeped in sanctity, but it has been done, I am told, in certain rare and isolated34 cases.
As for toilets, the men dress like all other men (alas35, and alas, that we should say it, for we were continually hoping for a kilt!) though there seems to be no survival of the finical Lord Napier’s spirit. Perhaps you remember that Lord and Lady Napier arrived at Castlemilk in Lanarkshire with the intention of staying a week, but announced next morning that a circumstance had occurred which rendered it indispensable to return without delay to their seat in Selkirkshire. This was the only explanation given, but it was afterwards discovered that Lord Napier’s valet had committed the grievous mistake of packing up a set of neckcloths which did not correspond IN POINT OF DATE with the shirts they accompanied!
The ladies of the ‘smart set’ in Edinburgh wear French fripperies and chiffons, as do their sisters every where, but the other women of society dress a trifle more staidly than their cousins in London, Paris, or New York. The sobriety of taste and severity of style that characterise Scotswomen may be due, like Susanna Crum’s dubieties, to the haar, to the shorter catechism, or perhaps in some degree to the presence of three branches of the Presbyterian Church among them; the society that bears in its bosom36 three separate and antagonistic37 kinds of Presbyterianism at the same time must have its chilly38 moments.
In Lord Cockburn’s time the ‘dames of high and aristocratic breed’ must have been sufficiently39 awake to feminine frivolities to be both gorgeously and extravagantly40 arrayed. I do not know in all literature a more delicious and lifelike word-portrait than Lord Cockburn gives of Mrs. Rochead, the Lady of Inverleith, in the Memorials. It is quite worthy41 to hang beside a Raeburn canvas; one can scarce say more.
‘Except Mrs. Siddons in some of her displays of magnificent royalty42, nobody could sit down like the Lady of Inverleith. She would sail like a ship from Tarshish, gorgeous in velvet43 or rustling44 silk, done up in all the accompaniments of fans, ear-rings, and finger-rings, falling sleeves, scent-bottle, embroidered45 bag, hoop46, and train; managing all this seemingly heavy rigging with as much ease as a full-blown swan does its plumage. She would take possession of the centre of a large sofa, and at the same moment, without the slightest visible exertion47, cover the whole of it with her bravery, the graceful48 folds seeming to lay themselves over it, like summer waves. The descent from her carriage, too, where she sat like a nautilus in its shell, was a display which no one in these days could accomplish or even fancy. The mulberry-coloured coach, apparently49 not too large for what it contained, though she alone was in it; the handsome, jolly coachman and his splendid hammer-cloth loaded with lace; the two respectful liveried footmen, one on each side of the richly carpeted step,—these were lost sight of amidst the slow majesty50 with which the Lady of Inverleith came down and touched the earth.’
My right-hand neighbour at Lady Baird’s dinner was surprised at my quoting Lord Cockburn. One’s attendant squires51 here always seem surprised when one knows anything; but they are always delighted, too, so that the amazement52 is less trying. True, I had read the Memorials only the week before, and had never heard of them previous to that time; but that detail, according to my theories, makes no real difference. The woman who knows how and when to ‘read up,’ who reads because she wants to be in sympathy with a new environment; the woman who has wit and perspective enough to be stimulated53 by novel conditions and kindled54 by fresh influences, who is susceptible55 to the vibrations56 of other people’s history, is safe to be fairly intelligent and extremely agreeable, if only she is sufficiently modest. I think my neighbour found me thoroughly57 delightful58 after he discovered my point of view. He was an earl; and it always takes an earl a certain length of time to understand me. I scarcely know why, for I certainly should not think it courteous59 to interpose any real barriers between the nobility and that portion of the ‘masses’ represented in my humble60 person.
It seemed to me at first that the earl did not apply himself to the study of my national peculiarities61 with much assiduity, but wasted considerable time in gazing at Francesca, who was opposite. She is certainly very handsome, and I never saw her lovelier than at that dinner; her eyes were like stars, and her cheeks and lips a splendid crimson62, for she was quarrelling with her attendant cavalier about the relative merits of Scotland and America, and they apparently ceased to speak to each other after the salad.
When the earl had sufficiently piqued63 me by his devotion to his dinner and his glances at Francesca, I began a systematic64 attempt to achieve his (transient) subjugation65. Of course I am ardently66 attached to Willie Beresford and prefer him to any earl in Britain, but one’s self-respect demands something in the way of food. I could see Salemina at the far end of the table radiant with success, the W.S. at her side bending ever and anon to catch the (artificial) pearls of thought that dropped from her lips. “Miss Hamilton appears simple” (I thought I heard her say); “but in reality she is as deep as the Currie Brig!” Now where did she get that allusion67? And again, when the W.S. asked her whither she was going when she left Edinburgh, “I hardly know,” she replied pensively68. “I am waiting for the shade of Montrose to direct me, as the Viscount Dundee said to your Duke of Gordon.” The entranced Scotsman little knew that she had perfected this style of conversation by long experience with the Q.C.‘s of England. Talk about my being as deep as the Currie Brig (whatever it may be); Salemina is deeper than the Atlantic Ocean! I shall take pains to inform her Writer to the Signet, after dinner, that she eats sugar on her porridge every morning; that will show him her nationality conclusively69.
The earl took the greatest interest in my new ancestors, and approved thoroughly of my choice. He thinks I must have been named for Lady Penelope Belhaven, who lived in Leven Lodge70, one of the country villas71 of the Earls of Leven, from whom he himself is descended72. “Does that make us relatives?” I asked. “Relatives, most assuredly,” he replied, “but not too near to destroy the charm of friendship.”
He thought it a great deal nicer to select one’s own forebears than to allow them all the responsibility, and said it would save a world of trouble if the method could be universally adopted. He added that he should be glad to part with a good many of his, but doubted whether I would accept them, as they were ‘rather a scratch lot.’ (I use his own language, which I thought delightfully73 easy for a belted earl.) He was charmed with the story of Francesca and the lamiter, and offered to drive me to Kildonan House, Helmsdale, on the first fine day. I told him he was quite safe in making the proposition, for we had already had the fine day, and we understood that the climate had exhausted74 itself and retired75 for the season.
The gentleman on my left, a distinguished76 Dean of the Thistle, gave me a few moments’ discomfort77 by telling me that the old custom of ‘rounds’ of toasts still prevailed at Lady Baird’s on formal occasions, and that before the ladies retired every one would be called upon for appropriate ‘sentiments.’
“What sort of sentiments?” I inquired, quite overcome with terror.
“Oh, epigrammatic sentences expressive78 of moral feelings or virtues,” replied my neighbour easily. “They are not quite as formal and hackneyed now as they were in the olden time, when some of the favourite toasts were ‘May the pleasure of the evening bear the reflections of the morning!’ ‘May the friends of our youth be the companions of our old age!’ ‘May the honest heart never feel distress79!’ ‘May the hand of charity wipe the eye of sorrow!’”
“I can never do it in the world!” I ejaculated. “Oh, one ought never, never to leave one’s own country! A light-minded and cynical80 English gentleman told me that I should frequently be called upon to read hymns81 and recite verses of Scripture82 at family dinners in Edinburgh, and I hope I am always prepared to do that; but nobody warned me that I should have to evolve epigrammatic sentiments on the spur of the moment.”
My confusion was so evident that the good dean relented and confessed that he was imposing83 upon my ignorance. He made me laugh heartily84 at the story of a poor dominie at Arndilly. He was called upon in his turn, at a large party, and having nothing to aid him in an exercise to which he was new save the example of his predecessors85, lifted his glass after much writhing86 and groaning87 and gave, “The reflection of the moon in the cawm bosom of the lake!”
At this moment Lady Baird glanced at me, and we all rose to go into the drawing-room; but on the way from my chair to the door, whither the earl escorted me, he said gallantly88, “I suppose the men in your country do not take champagne89 at dinner? I cannot fancy their craving90 it when dining beside an American woman!”
That was charming, though he did pay my country a compliment at my expense. One likes, of course, to have the type recognised as fine; at the same time his remark would have been more flattering if it had been less sweeping91.
When I remember that he offered me his ancestors, asked me to drive two hundred and eighty miles, and likened me to champagne, I feel that, with my heart already occupied and my hand promised, I could hardly have accomplished92 more in the course of a single dinner-hour.
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1
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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2
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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4
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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6
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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7
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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8
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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9
bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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10
cannily
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| 精明地 | |
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11
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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13
gatherings
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| 聚集( gathering的名词复数 )； 收集； 采集； 搜集 | |
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14
brewed
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| 调制( brew的过去式和过去分词 )； 酝酿； 沏（茶）； 煮（咖啡） | |
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15
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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16
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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17
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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18
reposing
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的现在分词 ) | |
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19
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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20
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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21
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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23
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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24
outgrown
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| 长[发展] 得超过（某物）的范围( outgrow的过去分词 )； 长[发展]得不能再要（某物）； 长得比…快； 生长速度超过 | |
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25
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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26
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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severing
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的现在分词 )；断，裂 | |
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joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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29
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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30
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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31
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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32
jurisdiction
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| n.司法权，审判权，管辖权，控制权 | |
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33
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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antagonistic
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| adj.敌对的 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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extravagantly
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| adv.挥霍无度地 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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42
royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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hoop
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| n.（篮球）篮圈，篮 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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51
squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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54
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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vibrations
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| n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 )；震动；感受；（偏离平衡位置的）一次性往复振动 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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subjugation
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| n.镇压，平息，征服 | |
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ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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conclusively
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| adv.令人信服地，确凿地 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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81
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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82
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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83
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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86
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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