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vi CONTENTS

Do I Know My Own Interests? 58

Liberals and Welfare States 61
Liberalism Today 65

Chapter 4 Marxism 73
The principles of Marx’s own theory are explained in this
chapter, which also gives a brief account of later developments
of Marxist theory and offers a critical perspective.
Problems in Reading Marx 74
The Vocabulary of the Dialectic 76
Marx’s Economics 79
The Social Consequences 82
History and Revolution 84
Communist Society 89
Criticizing Marx 91
The Evolution of Marxism 96
Revisionism and Recantation 102

Chapter 5 Socialism 107

This chapter shows how the cluster of socialist ideas are all
interconnected: taken together, they form a socialist philosophy,
which this chapter examines point-by-point. The main
objections to socialist thought and practice are then considered.
The Nucleus of Socialism 108
The Changing Face of Socialism 117
Objections to Socialism 124
The Contradictions of Social Democracy 127

Chapter 6 Anarchism 133

Anarchist doctrine has been plagued by the notion of anarchism as
a synonym for disorder and chaos. This chapter dispels this myth
and examines anarchism as arising initially from a feeling of moral
indignation at the corrupt state of society, coupled with the perception
that individuals are naturally good. This apparent paradox leads to
the analysis of social evils, at the source of which is the institution of
authority.
The Critique of Authority 135
The Anarchist Order 138
 CONTENTS vii

The Moral Basis of Anarchist Society 138

Freedom within Society 141
Order without Dependence 143
Anarchist Individualism 146
Anarchist Values 148
Contemporary Anarchism 149
Objections to Anarchist Theory 151
The Ethics of Violence 152

Chapter 7 Conservatism 161

Conservatism can be seen as an ideology which derives from
a collection of beliefs and intuitions that form a coherent
worldview. This chapter discusses the connection between
these beliefs and conservative doctrines and offers a critique of
conservative ideology.
Against Change 162
The Virtues of Tradition 166
Human Imperfection and Inequality 168
Conservative Politics 171
The Conservative Mentality 174
Conservatism Today 177
Ideology or Intuition? 179

Chapter 8 Authoritarian Ideologies: 183

Totalitarianism, Fascism, Fundamentalism
Authoritarianism has always existed, in the sense of
‘oppressive elite rule’. ‘Totalitarianism’ was identified by
political scientists as a distinctive political system in the
twentieth century; the concept itself, constructed from
generalizations about Nazism and communism, may now be
anachronistic but its animating principle, ‘state totalism’, is
still central to some doctrines and practised by some regimes.
Fascism is a strongly authoritarian ideology which advocates
state totalism. Today’s religious fundamentalisms are also
markedly authoritarian doctrines which appear to have
totalitarian aspirations. After a review of these archetypally
authoritarian doctrines, the chapter offers a theoretical
critique of the ideas of totalitarianism and state
totalism.
viii CONTENTS

Contrasting Dystopias 185

The Term ‘Totalitarianism’ 188
The ‘Phenomenological’ Approach 189
The ‘Essentialist’ Analysis 191
Fascism as Totalitarianism 198
Fascism as Ideology 199
The Psychological Roots of Totalitarianism 203
Fundamentalist Authoritarianism 205
Totalitarianism Reconsidered 209

Chapter 9 Feminism 217

Feminism is about the oppression of women by men; it is also
an innovatory form of identity politics. This chapter focuses
on the main social and political issues identified by Western
feminists and their views on human nature, gender, patriarchy
and oppression. Finally, three feminist strategies to combat
oppression are considered.
The Demonization of Women, and of Feminism 218
Feminists and Human Nature 220
Gendered Society 223
Patriarchal Society 225
Women and Capitalism 228
Oppression 232
Feminist Strategies 239
Feminism as Ideology 247

Chapter 10 Green Ideologies 253

The Green Movement encompasses many controversies and
internal differences and there is now a wealth of material
available on ecological thought. This chapter offers an
overview of the arguments of light and dark Greens and a
consideration of problematic questions, such as whether an
authoritarian state is needed to enforce Green policies.
Shades of Green 255
Economic Arguments 257
Anti-Pollution Arguments 262
 CONTENTS ix

Moral Arguments 264

Green Utopias 267
Problematic Questions 271
Green Successes 277

Chapter 11 Beyond Ideology: Nationalism 281

Nationalist movements have led to many wars and internecine
disputes. Nationalism invites us to make distinctions between
people based on national or ethnic identity or geographical
location. This chapter argues that such distinctions are not
only shifting and questionable but also analytically suspect.
What is a Nation? 283
The Incoherence of Nationalism 285
The Origins of Nationalism 289
Is Nationalism an Ideology? 291
Nationalism, Liberalism and Democracy 294
Rights of Secession 295
Objections to Nationalism 298

PART III IDEAS

Chapter 12 Democracy 305

Democratic theory specifies not only that people should govern
themselves but also that the purpose of government is the
good of the people. This chapter first gives an account of the
diverse theories of democracy before discussing the problems of
democratic theory and practice.
The Classical Ideal 306
Elitists and Pluralists 311
‘Radical’ Democracy 315
Democracy’s Paradox 320
The Problem of Minorities 322
Democracy and Liberalism 325
Democracy and Truth 328
The Will of the People 331
New Forms of Democracy 333
x CONTENTS

Chapter 13 Power, Authority and the State 341

This chapter deals with the polarity between the state and
the individual citizen by reviewing the concepts of power and
authority. In particular, authority and the obligations imposed
by citizenship are examined: they are important subjective
components that determine our attitude to the contemporary
reality of the state.
What is Power? 342
What Creates Authority? 346
Power and Authority 350
The State Leviathan 351

Chapter 14 Freedom and Rights 361

This discussion of freedom and rights takes place within a
framework of liberal-democratic thought; it examines some
internal contradictions and the criticisms of liberal freedoms
offered from alternative ideological perspectives.
The Meaning of Freedom 362
Varieties of Freedom 364
Freedom and Illusion 368
The ‘Rights of Man’ 371
Human Rights 373
Special Rights for Women? 377
Rights and Liberty 380
The Climate of Tolerance 382

Chapter 15 Citizenship, Obligation and Protest 389

This chapter considers where obligation ends and where protest
is justified. The duties of citizenship are often discussed in
terms of the question ‘Why should I obey the law?’ This is often
answered by reference to contract and consent theories, which
are considered in this chapter. The possible justifications for
civil disobedience, protest and revolution are then examined.
Contractual Obligation 391
The Just Government 396
Self-Interest and Gratitude 398
Why Do I Obey the Law? 400
 CONTENTS xi

The Right to Protest 402

The Scope of Protest 406
The Right of Revolution 410

Chapter 16 Social Justice and Equality 415

Justice is the highest goal of political life, yet it is injustice
which dominates political debate. Different ideologies produce
radically different theories of justice. This chapter assesses
various theories of justice, and examines the conceptual
problems that surround the ideals of justice and equality.
The Criteria for Justice 417
Liberal, Socialist and ‘Natural’ Justice 420
Retributive Justice 428
What is Justice? 430
Nations and Generations 432
Justice and Equality 435

Chapter 17 New Political Dimensions 443

Changing social, economic and demographic circumstances
have affected political ideologies and ideas. New emerging
concepts and doctrines reflect the context in which we live
in the twenty-first century. This chapter reviews some of the
political debates which have been stimulated by these new
phenomena.
Religion and Politics 444
Multiculturalism, Diversity and Identity Politics 447
Globalization and Global Terrorism 450

Glossary 455

Index 469
About the Author

Barbara Goodwin is Emeritus Professor of Politics at the University of East Anglia,

Norwich. Her publications include Justice by Lottery (2nd edn, 2005) and Ethics at
Work (2000) and several books on the political importance of utopian ideas. She has
broadcast two series of programmes about democracy on the BBC World Service.
Her interests range widely in politics, philosophy and social science.

xiii
Preface to the Sixth Edition

My motivation for writing a book entitled Using Political Ideas was, and is, the belief
that ideas underpin and animate political debate and action, even when they mainly
seem to operate on the basis of rhetoric and spin. I think that we all need a clear
understanding of ideas and their ideological underpinnings to help us evaluate and
discuss political issues; we especially need this clarity as a basis for effective political
interaction and political activism. The purpose of the book, then, is first to introduce
students to ideologies in an analytical and critical way and, second, to suggest how
they should investigate political ideas and concepts in the context of those ideologies. An
idea such as equality means something different to a socialist and to a conservative and
would be interpreted differently again by a feminist or by an ecologist who believes
that other species should be treated equally with human beings. So political ideas
need to be carefully defined and spelt out, in order that all the participants in a debate
know where everyone is coming from. This approach of combining the analysis of
both ideas and ideologies distinguishes this book from some other contemporary
texts, which tend to focus on one or the other.
Using Political Ideas has sold some 50,000 copies since first publication and has
been used widely in universities at all levels of undergraduate study and for some
postgraduate courses; it is also often used for A-level politics teaching. The book is
said (by readers) to be accessible and readable, but also intellectually challenging and
guaranteed to stimulate discussion.
This new edition, the sixth, is needed because politics does not stand still. There
are always new controversies and ideological confl icts and the climate of discussion
changes. For example, in the light of growing extreme right-wing politics in parts
of Europe (including Britain) it is important to look in more detail at the ideas that
galvanized fascists in the 1930s – ideas which are being revived in the context of multi-
cultural societies. Religious fundamentalism is also growing in strength and some of
its adherents directly oppose the liberal-democratic tradition. So fundamentalism and
fascism are discussed at some length in the new chapter on authoritarian ideologies.
As in previous editions, the book has three parts:
Part I sets the subject matter, political ideas, in the context of the disciplines of
political theory and political philosophy, and defines some of the key terms used
in political debate and critique. It then explores the many interpretations of the
term ‘ideology’, as a prelude to the discussion of particular ideologies.
Part II consists of a chapter on each of the main ideologies, with exposition and
critical analysis.

xv
xvi PREFACE TO THE SIXTH EDITION

Part III examines the main concepts used in political discussion, which are also
the subject matter of political philosophy – ideas such as rights and justice. Such
concepts are strongly normative and have been described as ‘essentially contested’,
meaning that no uncontested or incontestable definition of such terms is ever likely
to be achieved: there will always be arguments about them. All the ideas in Part III
merit and, indeed, have whole books dedicated to them; they are the subject of active
debate and analysis, both political and academic. Here, they are discussed in relation
to the ideologies reviewed in Part II, and are examined analytically and critically. Part
III concludes with a chapter on new dimensions of political debate, including religion
and multiculturalism.
This edition also provides a variety of new learning features: some key definitions
appear in textboxes and the most important terms and concepts are explained in the
text itself. There is a comprehensive glossary at the end of the book. Each chapter
concludes with a list of further reading recommendations and a list of questions for
discussion, which are intended to be useful for debates in class and may also form the
basis of written assignments.

Barbara Goodwin
University of East Anglia
 PART I
INTRODUCTION
WHAT IS POLITICAL
THEORY?
This chapter sets out to define terms such as political theory, polit-
ical philosophy and ideology, and to clarify the meaning of various
specialist terms used by political theorists. It offers examples of
contentious or fallacious arguments to illustrate the fact that any
political argument advanced can be contested from a different ide-
ological perspective and to demonstrate the importance of politi-
cal theory for evaluating the validity of ideological arguments.

Should people be more equal? Is the state more important than the individual? Can a
socialist society be free? Is political violence ever justified? Must we tolerate the intol-
erant? Can the majority dictate to the minority? Is it right that the rich should also be
powerful? Such questions are the concerns of political theory. Although they sound
deceptively simple, susceptible to ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ answers, when we try to answer them
it becomes evident that each conceals a wealth of disputable assumptions and that
the meaning of its key words is also disputable. Furthermore, the answers inevitably
express opinions on what ought to be the case, rather than describing what is the case.
Political values and ideals are at stake here, and choices between ideals must be made.
I may give priority to freedom rather than equality because I think it more vital to
human happiness, you may judge the opposite. Most of us are infl uenced by political

3
4 CHAPTER 1 WHAT IS POLITICAL THEORY?

ideology the term ideology, whether we knowingly subscribe to it or unconsciously

literally means ‘the sci- absorb it as part of received opinion, so not only do the answers to
ence of ideas’ but in the political questions vary according to individual opinion, they also dif-
early nineteenth century
a more critical usage
fer with the individual’s ideological position.
was established: it came The practice of political theory helps us to set about answering
to mean an abstract, such questions logically, and to criticize the answers which others
visionary or speculative give, by dealing with political matters at a more abstract and general
way of thinking; today,
it signifies an action-
level than does political science. Take the question ‘Is political vio-
guiding set of beliefs, lence ever justified?’ A ‘scientific’ answer would be an emphatic nega-
though often with the tive since violence is outlawed both legally and constitutionally. But
connotation that these political theory asks if justification might not be advanced according
beliefs are erroneous or
deluded
to circumstance. Does not an oppressed minority, denied the free-
dom to state its case, have a justification for using violence? Does not
the validity of that justification further depend on what sort of violence and against
whom it is directed? And so on. The usefulness of political theory is that it allows
us to consider such problems without always returning to the factual replies of the
constitutionalist or lawyer. It frees us to think critically, normatively, speculatively or
idealistically, instead of being trapped into describing what exists as if it could never
be changed. A critical approach rests on the ability to escape from the existent.
At first it appears that most ‘great’ political theorists are engaged not in criticism
but in a permanent struggle to legitimize rulers or governments and to justify the
phenomenon of power. Plato looked to absolute justice to justify his Guardians as
rightful rulers, Christian theologians of the Middle Ages looked to God’s intentions
to sanction the rule of kings, while contract theorists such as Hobbes and Locke
saw government as founded on the people’s rational choice. But Plato, Hobbes and
Locke were also among the foremost critics of the politics of their own societies and
voiced this opposition in their descriptions of government as it should be: ideal govern-
ment. Naturally, there have also been theoretical apologists for most existing regimes,
but propagandists are intrinsically less interesting, except to the social historian, and
rarely end up on political theory syllabuses. Political theory is a technique of analysis
which can be used to overturn, as well as to uphold. Departing from fact and detail,
it describes and explains politics in abstract and general terms, which allow scope for
the critical imagination.
Political theory may therefore be defined as the discipline which aims to explain,
justify or criticize the disposition of power in society. It delineates the balance of
power between states, groups and individuals. ‘Power’ is used broadly here: even
‘obedience’ is an aspect of power, for it connotes deliberate self-restraint by citizens
who might otherwise resist the government. Essentially, power lies where resources
(personal, economic, moral, ideological, etc.) lie, and operates through inducements
as much as through threats and through the withholding as well as the deployment
of resources. Sociologists often analyse power in terms of individual interaction,
as A’s capacity to get B to comply with her (A’s) desires; political theory sets these
familiar, everyday machinations in a formal power structure. However, even theorists
observing the same phenomena may conceptualize the power structure differently
 CHAPTER 1 WHAT IS POLITICAL THEORY? 5

(where liberals saw equality and social harmony, Marx saw confl ict and oppression).
Different conclusions result, for example, a constitutionalist who viewed politics in
terms of institutions might consider that unions should not be politically active, while
someone viewing politics as pressure group activity would think it inevitable that
they should be. Diverse conceptualizations of power therefore generate diverse polit-
ical ideals and problems.
The reader new to political theory could raise the following objection to the sub-
ject: surely it would be better to study political institutions rather than abstract con-
cepts, since ideas must be incarnated in institutions if they are to have any meaning?
We can best discover the meaning of ‘democracy’, it could be thought, by examining
the institutions of our own and other democratic countries and extrapolating their
crucial features, rather than by reading Plato et al. This raises a fundamental problem
which haunts all social science subjects: which comes first, concept or fact, theory or
reality? Is there an essence of democracy or is it constituted by a configuration of the
institutions observed in Western-style democracies? This is a modern reiteration of
the most ancient philosophical controversy: does reality reflect ideas, or vice versa?
This perennial question cannot be answered satisfactorily here, but it provides
an opportunity to define some of the mysterious labels which are tied to various
arguments in political theory. Plato’s view, also associated with Descartes and others,
that reality approximates to unchanging transcendental ideas, is labelled idealist (not
to be confused with the more familiar ‘idealistic’, which means ‘promoting ideals or
values’). In social science, an idealist approach means that ideas and theory precede
factual observation. The opposing view, originally associated with Locke, that our
concepts and ideas derive from our observation of physical or material reality, is gen-
erally called materialist (again, differing from ‘materialistic’, which means ‘concerned
with material wealth or goods’).
A materialist outlook is often associated with the empirical and inductive scien-
tific method, although not invariably. Empiricism requires that natural scientists and
social scientists should first observe reality and then induce a general theory based
on a large number of instances or facts. It is associated with philosophical positivism,
which insists that the only meaningful statements are those which are verifiable by
reference to the real world; moral, religious and metaphysical statements are, as a
consequence, held to be meaningless and empty. Empiricism is the dominant scien-
tific method in the Anglo-Saxon world. The Greek root of ‘empirical’ means ‘trial’,
which suggests that the empiricist rejects preconceptions and acts as a naive observer
who makes discoveries through experiment: this contrasts with the procedure of
the rationalist, who starts with a theory. The confl ict between the
empiricist and rationalist viewpoints is one of epistemology, that is, it rationalism the
is concerned with the criteria by which knowledge can be established approach to under-
and so with truth, falsehood and proof. This debate, although philo- standing society which
starts with a theory or
sophical, is closely related to issues in political theory, as we shall see. a ‘grand theory’ (i.e. a
Meanwhile, the objector who wants to define democracy by theory of everything),
observing democratic states still awaits an answer. She is evidently rather than with obser-
advocating an empirical approach which would supply the general vation of facts
6 CHAPTER 1 WHAT IS POLITICAL THEORY?

principles of democracy by investigating its organizational features. The obvious

drawback is that to analyse the idea by examining countries or institutions which
are reputedly democratic leaves us with no independent criterion to judge whether
they are so or not. And how would this approach cope with non-Western, self-pro-
claimedly democratic countries which seem authoritarian to the Western observer,
such as Singapore and Tanzania? It has no obvious justification for excluding them
from its analysis. To define ‘democracy’ through a study of existing, self-proclaimed
democracies assumes that we already know what democracy is and that they instan-
tiate it. A theory so formed can only mirror observed phenomena, whereas a theory
which is to have critical power needs to make reference to the ideal composition of
democracy.
The case against the empirical or ‘concrete’ approach to political concepts was well
put by the left-wing philosopher Marcuse. He contended that our political vocabulary
had become increasingly ‘closed’, with key words being defined in concrete, factual
terms (e.g. ‘democracy means one man one vote, the secret ballot, equal constituen-
cies. . .’), so that critical usages have become impossible.

Such nouns as ‘freedom’, ‘equality’, ‘democracy’, and ‘peace’ imply, analytically,

a specific set of attributes which occur invariably when the noun is spoken or
written. . . The ritualized concept is made immune against contradiction.1

In other words, political concepts have become like the minor characters in
Dickens’ novels, each with his or her distinguishing trait. We cannot imagine free-
dom without consumer choice any more than we can picture Mrs Gamp without
a gin bottle, hence we have a ‘one-dimensional’ view of freedom. Marcuse cited
research about factory workers’ grievances in which the researchers made the com-
plaints concrete, transforming vague grumbles about conditions and pay into specific
complaints about dirty washrooms or the financial problems of particular workers.
By such devices (which employers also use), heartfelt alienation is dissolved into con-
crete trivia and the critical element of the grievances is banished. Marcuse’s general
thesis was that the concrete approach to political matters deliberately precludes the
proper use of abstract concepts as open-ended tools for criticism and protest. Even
if Marcuse’s attack on capitalism is rejected, his point, that the critical dimension is
essential to thought and argument, is indisputable.
The term ‘criticism’ is frequently given a pejorative undertone,
Enlightenment a term
used to describe eight-
but in defining criticism as the central task of political theory, I view
eenth century Europe, it in the neutral sense in which Enlightenment philosophers saw
where thinkers (philoso- it, as the tool by which our reason appraises the social order. Only
phers, social scientists by taking an abstract, conceptual approach, starting from ideals or
and scientists) criticized
religion and autocratic
theory, can we achieve an appraisal which is detached from existing
regimes and proclaimed society, even if it cannot be entirely impartial. Political science and
the doctrines of reason political sociology often lack such detachment; political theory is
and human progress important because it can offer this perspective.
 CHAPTER 1 WHAT IS POLITICAL THEORY? 7

Such arguments may convince the sceptic that political theory is indeed worth-
while, but she may still doubt its relevance to real life. Is it not an ivory-tower subject
of no interest to ordinary citizens, a subject whose detached approach prevents it
from infl uencing the world below? The next few pages are intended to show not only
that political theory can sharply analyse current political controversies but also that
even the crudest political argument relies on the fundamental concepts and ideals
supplied by theory. Often these are unvoiced, but their role in determining the forms
which political argument and Realpolitik take is crucial. Consequently, the political
theorist has the important task of exposing these hidden mechanisms.
The long-running debate about workers’ participation in management, alias
‘industrial democracy’, appears to concern industrial relations but is really a con-
temporary rehearsal of age-old arguments as to the best form of government. The
advocates of workers’ management (including some employers) see participation as
a positive good. It increases the number of viewpoints considered, gives the work-
ers the sense that they are controlling their own destinies, increases the acceptability
of decisions and emphasizes workers’ responsibility to follow management policies.
(The idea of workers’ representatives on boards of directors could in this sense be
said to draw implicitly on Hobbes’ view that the elector has a duty to abide by what
his/her representative decides.2) Against this, opponents assert the value of special-
ist and expert management, reflecting the justification of elite government which,
since Plato’s time, has often rested implicitly on an assumed division between mental
and manual labour. In the context of this argument, workers are said to be preoccu-
pied with their own short-term wellbeing, and unable to make the strategic industrial
choices which require economic know-how and managerial experience. By contrast,
a board of experts, managers and informed outsiders would supposedly make unself-
interested decisions benefiting both firm and employees.3
The two underlying principles in this debate were familiar even in classical times,
when both government by experts and participation by the people were tried in the
Greek polis, or city-state, of ancient Athens. The former emphasizes the benefits
that knowledge and wisdom bring to mankind, while the more egalitarian principle
spells out the subjective importance for individuals of having a voice in public affairs.
Expertise and efficiency or participation and greater satisfaction? These rival values
are incommensurable and cannot be simultaneously realized; a choice about worker
participation (or, more generally, about good governance) requires an ordering of
priorities. A change of priorities, or values, changes the social institutions which
embody the values, so the ability to identify and evaluate the old and new values is
important for participants in such political debate.
I now turn to a set of arguments based on less reputable principles. It is often
argued that immigrants in Britain have no right to be here, even
natural justice the
‘third-generation immigrants’, and that they consume resources fallacious idea that there
to which indigenous British people are entitled. Underpinning this is a set of natural social
assertion is a view of natural justice, which deems that being born principles and that a
in a country gives one a special right to its resources, including a situation in accordance
with these must be just
right to welfare and a right to work. This is an instinctive or ‘gut’
Another random document with
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 In the fulness of time, and when our domestic seemed doomed to a
life of single blessedness, a wooer at last appeared in the person of
Peter Pearson, the pensioner. Peter had lost his wife; and six months
after her decease, he came to the conclusion that it is not good—that
it is utterly uncomfortable, in fact—for man to be alone. And so he
looked favourably upon Nanny Welsh, admired her proportions,
estimated her energy at its true value, and finally managed to make
his way into the manse kitchen of an evening. It must have cost him a
considerable effort to effect this at first, as he regarded the minister
with great awe. Peter had been in the artillery force. He had served in
Spain and South America, and returned home, not disabled, but “dull
of hearing,” to enjoy his hard-won pension. He was a quiet and
stolid, but kind-hearted man. He was very uncommunicative as
regarded his military service and exploits. It was impossible to force
or coax him to “fight his battles o’er again” by the fireside. Whether it
was owing to want of narrative power, or to some dark remembrance
that overshadowed his mind, Peter invariably maintained discreet
silence when soldiers and war became the topics of conversation. On
one occasion he was asked if he had ever been at Chili, and his
answer was, “I’ve been at Gibraltar at ony rate!” This sounds
somewhat like the reply of the smart youth who, when it was
inquired of him, if he had ever been in Paris, quickly responded, “No;
but my brother has been to Crail!”
The wooing of Peter Pearson, pensioner, and Nanny Welsh,
spinster, might have formed a new era in the history of courtship. No
sighs were heard. No side-long, loving glances passed between them.
There was no tremulous pressure of the hands, or tingling touch of
meeting lips. Peter was “senselessly ceevil,” although, I verily believe,
if he had attempted to kiss Nanny she would have brained him on the
spot with the beetle, and left the warrior to die ingloriously on the
hearthstone. No, they did not wish to make “auld fules” of
themselves. They wooed in their own way, and understood each
other perfectly well. Peter sat by the hearth, smoking his twist
peacefully, and squirting out the juice as he had done at camp-fires
in former years; and Nanny went about cleaning dishes, lifting
tables, and arranging chairs, and only exchanging occasional words
with her future husband. She was never so talkative when Peter was
present as when he was absent. It was only on rare occasions that she
ventured to sit down on a chair beside him. She seemed always afraid
of being caught doing anything so indecorous in the manse kitchen. I
scarcely think that Peter required to propose. It was a tacit
understanding, and their marriage-day was fixed, apparently, by
mutual uncommunicated arrangement.
On the night before the bridal some of the neighbouring domestics
and other women invaded the kitchen, and subjected Nanny to the
painful pleasure of feet-washing—a ceremony somewhat different
from the annual performance at Vienna. She kicked furiously at first,
calling her tormentors impudent hizzies and limmers; but she was
compelled at last to succumb, and yielded with more reluctance than
grace.
The marriage was celebrated quietly in the manse next day, and
the youngest of the family sat crowing on Nanny’s knee, while she
was being told the sum and substance of her duties as a wife. No
sooner was the ceremony concluded, than she tucked up her wedding
gown, and expressed her desire and determination to “see a’ things
putten richt i’ the kitchen afore she gaed awa’.” Peter had leased a
cottage in a little way-side village, about two miles distant from the
manse, and this was the extent of their marriage jaunt. No doubt the
evening would be spent hilariously by their friends and
acquaintances, who would drink the health of the “happy pair” with
overflowing bumpers.
Peter and Nanny lived very happily together, although “the gray
mare was the better horse.” She continued to be as industrious as
ever, and the pensioner managed to eke out his government pay by
what is called, in some parts of the country, “orra wark.” Nanny came
regularly every Sabbath to the manse between sermons, and took
pot-luck with the family. We were always glad to see her, and hear
her invariable, “Losh, laddie, is that you?” Many a time and oft we all
visited her cottage in a body, and what glorious teas she used to give
us! Still do I remember, and not without stomachic regrets, the
mountains of bannocks, the hills of cakes, the hillocks of cookies, the
ridges of butter, the red congealed pools of jelly, and the three tea-
spoonfuls of sugar in each cup! It was a never-to-be-forgotten treat.
Compare Nanny’s tea-parties with the fashionable “cookey-shines” of
the present generation! But, soft; that way madness lies! The good
woman had a garden too; and how we youngsters pitched into her
carrots, currants, and gooseberries, or rather, to speak correctly,
pitched them into ourselves. We remembered her own advice about
not returning home “garavishin’ and eatin’.” She prided herself
greatly upon her powers of pig-feeding, and next to the pleasure of
seeing us feasting like locusts was the delight she experienced in
contemplating, with folded arms, her precious pig devouring its meal
of potatoes and greens. “Isn’t it a bonny beastie?—did you ever see
sic a bonny beastie?” she would frequently exclaim. I never saw so
much affection bestowed before or since upon the lowest of the lower
animals. The pig knew her perfectly well, and responded to her
laudatory phrases by complacent grunts. Between Peter and the pig,
I am verily persuaded, she led a happier life than imperial princes in
their palaces. No little artilleryman ever made his appearance to
disturb the harmony of the house by tying crackers to the cat’s tail.
Nanny’s first visit to Edinburgh formed a rare episode in her life.
This happened a good many years after her marriage. The ride on the
top of the coach through the kingdom of Fife, she described as
“fearsome;” and the horses dashing up hill and down, excited her
liveliest compassion. When asked how she felt after her sail between
Kirkcaldy and Leith (the day was pleasant and the water smooth),
her reply was—“Wonnerfu’—wonnerfu’ weel, after sic a voyage!” The
streets of the city, the high houses, the multitudinous shops, and the
crowds of people, excited her rustic astonishment beyond all bounds.
“Is’t a market the day?” she would interject—“whaur’s a’ the folk
gaun?” Her own appearance on the pavement attracted the notice of
passers-by; and no wonder. Figure a big-boned, ungainly woman,
with long, freckled face and open mouth, and dressed in defiance of
the fashion of the time, striding up the Bridges, and “glowering” into
everybody’s face, as if she expected to see her “aunty’s second
cousin”—figure such a person, and you will form a respectable
picture of Nanny Welsh, alias Mrs Pearson, as she appeared many
years ago on the streets of Modern Athens. She could never go out
alone from the house where she was staying without losing herself.
Once she went to the shop next door, and it took her an hour to find
the way back again. On another occasion, when she had taken a
longer trip than usual, she went completely off her reckoning, forgot
the name of the street, mistook the part of the town, and asked every
person she met, gentle or simple, swells or sweeps, “Gin they kent
whaur Mrs So-and-so stopit!” I never learned correctly how she got
out of that scrape. All she could say was that “a ceevil man brocht her
to the bottom o’ the stair.” She was perfectly dumfoundered when
she saw and heard that the people of Edinburgh had to buy the “bits
o’ sticks” with which they kindled their fires in the morning. She
protested that she could bring “a barrowfu’ o’ rosity roots frae the
wuds that would keep her chimley gaun for a fortnicht.” Going to the
market to buy vegetables she looked upon as perfectly preposterous.
“Flingin’ awa,” she would say, “gude white saxpences an’ shillin’s for
neeps, carrots, ingans, an’ kail—it beats a’!”
The open-mouthed wonder of Nanny reached its height when one
night, after long and urgent solicitation, she was persuaded to go
under good protection to the Theatre Royal. Mackay was then in the
zenith of his fame, and attracted crowded houses, more especially by
his unique representation of Bailie Nicol Jarvie. Nanny was taken to
the pit. The blaze of light, the galleries rising one above another, the
gaily-dressed ladies, the sea of faces surging from floor to roof, the
whistling, hooting, and laughing—all these mingled together
produced a bewildering effect upon the poor woman, and her
bewilderment increased as the curtain rose and the play proceeded.
She was speechless for about an hour—she did nothing but gape and
gaze. A human being suddenly transported into some brilliant and
magical hall, or into another world, could scarcely have betrayed
more abject astonishment. At last her wonder found vent, and she
exclaimed in the hearing, and much to the amusement, of those who
surrounded her—“Tak me awa—tak me awa—this is no a place for me
—I’m just Peter Pearson’s ain wife!” She would not be persuaded to
remain even when the Bailie kept the house dissolved in loosened
laughter. The idea seemed to be strong in her mind that the people
were all laughing at her. She was the best actress, although the most
unconscious one, in the whole house. What a capital pair the Bailie
and Nanny would have made! She would have beat Miss Nicol. Her
first appearance on the stage would have been a perfect triumph—it
would have secured the fame and fortune of Mrs Pearson. Nanny
never liked to be asked her opinion of the Edinburgh theatre. She
only shook her head, and appeared to regard it as something akin to
Pandemonium.
Nanny’s stories about the sayings and doings of the Edinburgh
people served her for fireside talk many a winter evening after she
returned home to Peter Pearson. Peter, who had seen more of the
world, used to take a quiet chuckle to himself when she finished her
description of some “ferlie” that had excited her astonishment or
admiration. The gilded wonders above shop doors—the Highlanders
taking pinches of snuff—the wool-packs—the great glittering
spectacles—the rams’ heads and horns—these had excited her rustic
curiosity almost as much as they attract the interest of a child. Poor
honest Nanny! she has now slept for years where the “rude
forefathers of the hamlet sleep,” and Peter, after life’s fitful fever,
sleeps well by her side.—Pax Vobiscum!
 LADY JEAN:
A TALE OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.

Chapter I.
The Yerl o’ Wigton had three dauchters,
O braw walie! they were bonnie!
The youngest o’ them and the bonniest too,
Has fallen in love wi’ Richie Storie.
Old Ballad.

The Earl of Wigton, whose name figures in Scottish annals of the

reign of Charles II., had three daughters, named Lady Frances, Lady
Grizel, and Lady Jean,—the last being by several years the youngest,
and by many degrees the most beautiful. All the three usually resided
with their mother at the chief seat of the family, Cumbernauld
House, in Stirlingshire; but the two eldest were occasionally
permitted to attend their father in Edinburgh, in order that they
might have some chance of obtaining lovers at the court held there
by the Duke of Lauderdale, while Lady Jean was kept constantly at
home, and debarred from the society of the capital, lest her superior
beauty might interfere with and foil the attractions of her sisters,
who, according to the notion of that age, had a sort of “right of
primogeniture” in matrimony, as well as in what was called
“heirship.”
It may be easily imagined that, while the two marriageable ladies
were enjoying all the delights of a third flat in one of the “closes” of
the Canongate, spending their days in seeing beaux, and their nights
in dreaming of them, Lady Jean led no pleasant life amidst the
remote and solitary splendour of Cumbernauld, where her chief
employment was the disagreeable one of attending her mother, a
very infirm and querulous old dame, much given (it was said) to
strong waters. At the period when our tale opens, Lady Jean’s
charms, though never seen in the capital, had begun to make some
noise there; and the curiosity excited respecting them amongst the
juvenile party of the vice-regal court, had induced Lord Wigton to
confine her ladyship even more strictly than heretofore, lest
perchance some gallant might make a pilgrimage to his country seat,
in order to behold her, and from less to more, induce her to quit her
retirement, in such a way as would effectually discomfit his schemes
for the pre-advancement of his elder daughters. He had been at pains
to send an express to Cumbernauld, ordering Lady Jean to be
confined to the precincts of the house and the terrace-garden, and to
be closely attended in all her movements by a trusty domestic. The
consequence was that the young lady complained most piteously to
her deaf old lady-mother of the tedium and listlessness of her life,
and wished with all her heart that she was as ugly, old, and happy as
her sisters.
Lord Wigton was not insensible to the cruelty of his policy,
however well he might be convinced of its advantage and necessity.
He loved his youngest daughter more than the rest; and it was only
in obedience to what he conceived to be the commands of duty, that
he subjected her to the restraint. His lordship, therefore, felt anxious
to alleviate in some measure the désagrémens of her solitary
confinement; and knowing her to be fond of music, he had sent to
her by the last messenger a theorbo lute, with which he thought she
would be able to amuse herself in a way very much to her mind,—not
considering that, as she could not play upon the instrument, it would
be little better to her than an unmeaning toy. By the return of his
messenger, he received a letter from Lady Jean, thanking him for the
theorbo, but making him aware of his oversight, and begging him to
send some person who could teach her to play.
The earl, whose acquirements in the philosophy of politics had
never been questioned, felt ashamed of having committed such a
solecism in so trivial a matter; and like all men anxious to repair or
conceal an error in judgment, immediately ran into another of ten
times greater consequence and magnitude: he gratified his daughter
in her wish.
 The gentry of Scotland were at that time in the custom of
occasionally employing a species of servants, whose
accomplishments and duties would now appear of a very anomalous
character, though at that time naturally arising from the peculiar
situation of this country, in respect to its southern neighbour. They
were, in general, humble men who had travelled a good deal, and
acquired many foreign accomplishments; who, returning to their
native country after an absence of a few years, usually entered into
the service of the higher class of families, partly as ordinary livery-
men, and partly with the purpose of instructing the youth of both
sexes, as they grew up and required such exercises, in dancing,
music, writing, &c., besides a vast variety of other arts,
comprehended in the general phrase of “breeding.” Though these
men received much higher wages, and were a thousand times more
unmanageable than common serving men, they served a good
purpose in those days, when young people had scarcely any other
opportunities of acquiring the ornamental branches of education,
except by going abroad.
It so happened, that not many days after Lord Wigton received his
daughter’s letter, he was applied to for employment by one of these
useful personages, a tall and handsome youth, apparently five-and-
twenty, with dark, Italian-looking features, a slight moustache, and
as much foreign peculiarity in his dress as indicated that he was just
returned from his travels. After putting a few questions, his lordship
discovered that the youth was possessed of many agreeable
accomplishments; was, in particular, perfectly well qualified to teach
the theorbo, and had no objection to entering the service of a young
lady of quality, only with the proviso that he was to be spared the
disgrace of a livery. Lord Wigton then made no scruple in engaging
him for a certain period; and next day saw the youth on the way to
Cumbernauld, with a letter from his lordship to Lady Jean, setting
forth all his good qualities, and containing among other endearing
expressions, a hope that she would both benefit by his instructions,
and be in the meantime content on their account with her present
residence.
Any occurrence at Cumbernauld of higher import than the
breaking of a needle in embroidering, or the miscarriage of a brewing
of currant-wine, would have been quite an incident in the eyes of
Lady Jean; and even to have given alms at the castle-gate to an
extraordinary beggar, or to see so much as a “stranger” in the candle,
might have supplied her with amusement infinite, and speculation
boundless. What, then, must have been her delight, when the goodly
and youthful figure of Richard Storie alighted one dull summer
afternoon at the gate, and when the credentials he presented
disclosed to her the agreeable purpose of his mission! Her joy knew
no bounds; nor did she know in what terms to welcome the stranger;
she ran from one end of the house to the other, up stairs and down
stairs, in search of she knew not what; and finally, in her transports,
she shook her mother out of a drunken slumber, which the old lady
was enjoying as usual in her large chair in the parlour.
Master Richard, as he was commonly designated, soon found
himself comfortably established in the good graces of the whole
household of Cumbernauld, and not less so in the particular favour
of his young mistress. Even the sour old lady of the large chair was
pleased with his handsome appearance, and was occasionally seen to
give a preternatural nod and smile at some of his musical
exhibitions, as much as to say she knew when he performed well, and
was willing to encourage humble merit. As for Lady Jean, whose
disposition was equally lively and generous, she could not express, in
sufficiently warm terms, her admiration of his performances, or the
delight she experienced from them. Nor was she ever content
without having Master Richard in her presence, either to play
himself, or to teach her the enchanting art. She was a most apt
scholar—so apt, that in a few days she was able to accompany him
with the theorbo and voice, while he played upon an ancient
harpsichord belonging to the old lady, which he had rescued from a
lumber room, and had been at some pains to repair. The exclusive
preference thus given to music for the time threw his other
accomplishments into the shade, while it, moreover, occasioned his
more constant presence in the apartments of the ladies than he
would have been otherwise entitled to. The consequence was, that in
a short time he almost ceased to be looked upon as a servant, and
began gradually to assume the more interesting character of a friend
and equal.
It was Lady Jean’s practice to take a walk, prescribed by her father,
every day in the garden, on which occasions the countess conceived
herself as acting up to the letter of her husband’s commands, when
she ordered Master Richard to attend his pupil. This arrangement
was exceedingly agreeable to Lady Jean, as they sometimes took out
the theorbo, and added music to the pleasures of the walk. Another
out-of-doors amusement, in which music formed a chief part, was
suggested to them by the appropriate frontispiece of a book of
instruction for the theorbo, which Master Richard had brought with
him from Edinburgh. This engraving represented a beautiful young
shepherdess, dressed in the fashionable costume of that period: a
stupendous tower of hair hung round with diamonds, and a
voluminous silk gown with a jewel-adorned stomacher, a theorbo in
her arms, and a crook by her side,—sitting on a flowery bank under a
tree, with sheep planted at regular distances around her. At a little
distance appeared a shepherd with dressed hair, long-skirted coat,
and silk stockings, who seemed to survey his mistress with a
languishing air of admiration, that appeared singularly ridiculous as
contrasted with the coquettish and contemptuous aspect of the lady.
The plate referred to a particular song in the book, entitled “A
Dialogue betwixt Strephon and Lydia; or the proud Shepherdess’s
Courtship,” the music of which was exceedingly beautiful, while the
verses were the tamest and most affected trash imaginable.
It occurred to Lady Jean’s lively fancy, that if she and her teacher
were to personify the shepherdess and shepherd, and thus, as it
were, to transform the song to a sort of opera, making the terrace-
garden the scene, not a little amusement might be added to the
pleasure she experienced from the mere music alone. This fancy was
easily reduced to execution; for, by seating herself under a tree, in
her ordinary dress, with the horticultural implement called a rake by
her side, she looked the very Lydia of the copperplate; while Richard,
standing at his customary respectful distance, with his handsome
person and somewhat foreign apparel, was a sufficiently good
representation of Strephon. After arranging themselves thus, Master
Richard opened the drama by addressing Lady Jean in the first verse
of the song, which contained, besides some description of sunrise, a
comparison between the beauties of nature, at that delightful period,
and the charms of Lydia, the superiority being of course awarded to
the latter. Lady Jean, with the help of the theorbo, replied to this in a
very disdainful style, affecting to hold the compliments of lovers very
cheap, and asseverating that she had no regard for any being on
earth besides her father and mother, and no care but for these dear
innocent sheep (here she looked kindly aside upon a neighbouring
bed of cabbages), which they had entrusted to her charge. Other
verses of similar nonsense succeeded, during which the
representative of the fair Lydia could not help feeling rather more
emotion at hearing the ardent addresses of Strephon than was
strictly consistent with her part.
At last it was her duty to rise and walk softly away from her swain,
declaring herself utterly insensible to both his praises and his
passion, and her resolution never again to see or speak to him. This
she did in admirable style, though perhaps rather with the dignified
gait and sweeping majesty of a tragedy-queen, than with anything
like the pettish or sullen strut of a disdainful rustic. Meanwhile,
Strephon was supposed to be left inconsolable. Her ladyship
continued to support her assumed character for a few yards, till a
turn of the walk concealed her from Master Richard; when, resuming
her natural manner, she turned back, with sparkling eyes, in order to
ask his opinion of her performance, and it was with some confusion,
and no little surprise, that on bursting again into his sight, she
discovered that Richard had not yet thrown off his character. He was
standing still as she had left him, fixed immovably upon the spot in
an attitude expressive of sorrow for her departure, and bending
forward as if imploring her return. It was the expression of his face
that astonished her most; for it was not at all an expression
appropriate to either his own character or to that which he had
assumed. It was an expression of earnest and impassioned
admiration; his whole soul seemed thrown into her face, which was
directed towards her, or rather the place where she had disappeared;
and his eyes were projected in the same direction, with such a look as
that perhaps of an enraptured saint of old at the moment when a
divinity parted from his presence. This lasted, however, but for a
moment, for scarcely had that minute space of time elapsed before
Richard, startled from his reverie by Lady Jean’s sudden return,
dismissed from his face all trace of any extraordinary expression, and
stood before her, endeavouring to appear, just what he was, her
ladyship’s respectful servant and teacher. Nevertheless, this
transformation did not take place so quickly as to prevent her
ladyship from observing the present expression, nor was it
accomplished with such address as to leave her room for passing it
over as unobserved. She was surprised—she hesitated—she seemed,
in spite of herself, conscious of something awkward—and finally she
blushed slightly. Richard caught the contagion of her confusion in a
double degree; and Lady Jean again became more confused on
observing that he was aware of her confusion. Richard was the first
to recover himself and speak. He made some remarks upon her
singing and acting—not, however, upon her admirable performance
of the latter part of the drama; this encouraged her also to speak, and
both soon became somewhat composed. Shortly afterwards they
returned to the house; but from that moment a chain of the most
delicate, yet indissoluble sympathies began to connect the hearts of
these youthful beings, so alike in all natural qualities, and so
dissimilar in every extraneous thing which the world is accustomed
to value.
After this interview there took place a slight estrangement between
Master Richard and Lady Jean that lasted a few days, during which
they had much less of conversation and music than for some time
before. Both observed this circumstance; but each ascribed it to
accident, while it was in reality occasioned by mutual reserve. Master
Richard was afraid that Lady Jean might be offended were he to
propose anything like a repetition of the garden drama; and Lady
Jean, on her part, could not, consistently with the rules of maidenly
modesty, utter even a hint at such a thing, however she might
secretly wish or long for it. The very consciousness, reciprocally felt,
of having something on their minds, of which neither durst speak,
was sufficient to produce this reserve, even though the emotions of
the “tender passion” had not come in, as they did, for a large share of
the cause.
At length, however, this reserve was so far softened down, that
they began to resume their former practice of walking together in the
garden; but, though the theorbo continued to make one of the party,
no more operatic performances took place. Nevertheless, the mutual
affection which had taken root in their hearts, experienced on this
account no abatement, but, on the contrary, continued to increase.
As for Master Richard, it was no wonder that he should be deeply
smitten with the charms of his mistress; for, ever as he stole a long,
furtive glance at her graceful form, he thought he had never seen in
Spain or Italy any such specimens of female loveliness; and (if we
may let the reader so far into the secret) he had indeed come to
Cumbernauld with the very purpose of falling in love.
Different causes had operated upon Lady Jean. Richard being the
first love-worthy object she had seen since the period when the
female heart becomes most susceptible,—the admiration with which
she knew he beheld her,—his musical accomplishments, which had
tended so much to her gratification,—all conspired to render him
precious in her sight. In the words of a beautiful modern ballad, “all
impulses of soul and sense had thrilled” her gentle and guileless
heart—
——hopes, and fears that kindled hopes,
An undistinguishable throng,
And gentle wishes, long subdued,
Subdued and cherished long,

had exercised their tender and delightful influence over her; like a
flower thrown upon one of the streams of her own native land, whose
course was through the beauties, the splendours, and the terrors of
nature, she was borne away in a dream, the magic scenery of which
was alternately pleasing, fearful, and glorious, and from which she
could no more awake than could the flower restrain its course on the
gliding waters. The habit of contemplating her lover every day, and
that in the dignified character of an instructor, gradually blinded her
in a great measure to his humbler quality, and to the probable
sentiments of her father and the world upon the subject of her
passion. If by any chance such a consideration was forced upon her
notice, and she found occasion to tremble lest the sentiments in
which she was so luxuriously indulging should end in disgrace and
disaster, she soon quieted her fears, by reverting to an idea which
had lately occurred to her, namely, that Richard was not what he
seemed. She had heard and read of love assuming strange disguises.
A Lord Belhaven, in the immediately preceding period of the civil
war, had taken refuge from the fury of Cromwell in the service of an
English nobleman, whose daughter’s heart he won under the disguise
of a gardener, and whom, on the recurrence of better times, he
carried home to Scotland as his lady. This story was then quite
popular, and at least one of the parties still survived to attest its
truth. But even in nursery tales Lady Jean could find examples which
justified her own passion. The vilest animals, she knew, on finding
some beautiful dame, who was so disinterested as to fall in love with
them, usually turned out to be the most handsome princes that ever
were seen, who invariably married and made happy the ladies whose
affection had restored them to their natural form and just
inheritance. “Who knows,” she thought, “but Richard may some day,
in a transport of passion, throw open his coat, exhibit the star of
nobility glittering on his breast, and ask me to become a countess!”
Such are the excuses which love suggests to reason, and which the
reason of lovers easily accepts; while those who are neither youthful
nor in love wonder at the hallucination of their impassioned juniors.
Experience soon teaches us that this world is not one of romance,
and that few incidents in life ever occur out of the ordinary way. But
before we acquire this experience by actual observation, we all of us
regard things in a very different light. The truth seems to be that, in
the eyes of youth, “the days of chivalry” do not appear to be gone; our
ideas are then contemporary, or on a par with the early romantic
ages of the world; and it is only by mingling with mature men, and
looking at things as they are, that we at length advance towards, and
ultimately settle down in the real era of our existence. Was there
ever yet a youth who did not feel some chivalrous impulses,—some
thirst for more glorious scenes than those around him,—some
aspirations after lofty passion and supreme excellence—or who did
not cherish some pure firstlove that could not prudentially be
gratified?
The greater part of the rest of the summer passed away before the
lovers came to an eclaircissement; and such, indeed, was their
mutual reserve upon the subject, that had it not been for the
occurrence of a singular and deciding circumstance, there appeared
little probability of this ever otherwise taking place. The Earl of
Home, a gay and somewhat foolish young nobleman, one morning,
after attending a convivial party, where the charms of Lady Jean
Fleming formed the principal topic of discourse, left Edinburgh, and
took the way to Cumbernauld, on the very pilgrimage, and with the
very purpose, which Lord Wigton had before anticipated. Resolved
first to see, then to love, and lastly to run away with the young lady,
his lordship skulked about for a few days, and at last had the
pleasure of seeing the hidden beauty over the garden-wall, as she was
walking with Master Richard. He thought he had never seen any lady
who could be at all compared to Lady Jean, and, as a matter of
course, resolved to make her his own, and surprise all his
companions at Edinburgh with his success and her beauty. He
watched again next day, and happening to meet Master Richard out
of the bounds of Cumbernauld policy, accosted him, with the
intention of securing his services in making his way towards Lady
Jean. After a few words of course, he proposed the subject to
Richard, and offered a considerable bribe, to induce him to work for
his interest. Richard at first rejected the offer, but immediately after,
on bethinking himself, saw fit to accept it. He was to mention his
lordship’s purpose to Lady Jean, and to prepare the way for a private
interview with her. On the afternoon of the succeeding day, he was to
meet Lord Home at the same place, and tell him how Lady Jean had
received his proposals. With this they parted—Richard to muse on
this unexpected circumstance, which he saw might blast all his
hopes, unless he should resolve upon prompt and active measures,
and the Earl of Home to enjoy himself at the humble inn of the
village of Cumbernauld, where he had for the last few days enacted
the character of “the daft lad frae Edinburgh, that seemed to hae
mair siller than sense.”
On the morning of the tenth day after Master Richard’s first
interview with Lord Home, that faithful serving-man found himself
jogging swiftly along the road to Edinburgh, mounted on a stout nag,
with the fair Lady Jean seated comfortably on a pillion behind him.
It was a fine morning in autumn, and the road had a peculiarly gay
appearance from the multitude of country people, mounted and
dismounted, who seemed also hastening towards the capital. Master
Richard, upon inquiry, discovered that it was the “market-day,” a
circumstance which seemed favourable to his design, by the
additional assurance it gave him of not being recognised among the
extraordinary number of strangers who might be expected to crowd
the city on such an occasion.
The lovers approached the city by the west, and the first street they
entered was the suburban one called Portsburgh, which leads
towards the great market-place of Edinburgh. Here Richard,
impatient as he was, found himself obliged, like many other rustic
cavaliers, to reduce the pace of his horse to a walk, on account of the
narrowness and crowded state of the street. This he felt the more
disagreeable, as it subjected him and his interesting companion to
the close and leisurely scrutiny of the inhabitants. Both had
endeavoured to disguise everything remarkable in their appearance,
so far as dress and demeanour could be disguised; yet, as Lady Jean
could not conceal her extraordinary beauty, and Richard had not
found it possible to part with a slight and dearly beloved moustache,
it naturally followed that they were honoured with a good deal of
staring. Many an urchin upon the street threw up his arms as they
passed along, exclaiming, “Oh! the black-bearded man!” or, “Oh! the
bonnie leddie!”—the men all admired Lady Jean, the women Master
Richard—and many an old shoemaker ogled them earnestly over his
half-door, with his spectacles pushed up above his dingy cowl. The
lovers, who had thus to run a sort of gauntlet of admiration and
remark, were glad when they reached an inn, which Richard, who
was slightly acquainted with the town, knew to be a proper place for
the performance of a “half-merk marriage.”
They alighted, and were civilly received by an obsequious landlady,
who conducted them into an apartment at the back of the house.
There Lady Jean was for a short time left to make some
arrangements about her dress, while Richard disclosed to the
landlady in another room the purpose upon which he was come to
her house, and consulted her about procuring a clergyman. The
dame of the house, to whom a clandestine marriage was the merest
matter of course, showed the utmost willingness to facilitate the
design of her guests, and said that she believed a clerical official
might be procured in a few minutes, provided that neither had any
scruples of conscience, as “most part o’ fouk frae the west had,” in
accepting the services of an episcopal clergyman. The lover assured
her that so far from having any objection to a “government minister”
(for so they were sometimes termed), he would prefer such to any
other, as both he and his bride belonged to that persuasion. The
landlady heard this declaration with complacency, which showed
that she loved her guests the better for it, and told Richard, that if he
pleased, she would immediately introduce him to the Dean of St
Giles, who, honest man, was just now taking his “meridian” in the
little back garret-parlour, along with his friend and gossip, Bowed
Andrew, the waiter of the West Port. To this Richard joyfully
assented, and speedily he and Lady Jean were joined in their room
by the said Dean,—a squat little gentleman, with a drunken but
important-looking face, and an air of consequentiality even in his
stagger that was partly imposing and partly ridiculous. He addressed
his clients with a patronizing simper, of which the effect was
grievously disconcerted by an unlucky hiccup, and in a speech which
might have had the intended tone of paternal and reverend
authority, had it not been smattered and degraded into shreds by the
crapulous insufficiency of his tongue. Richard cut short his ill-
sustained attempts at dignity by requesting him to partake of some
liquor. His reverence almost leaped at the proffered jug, which
contained ale. He first took a tasting, then a sip—shaking his head
between—next a small draught, with a still more convulsion-like
shake of the head; and, lastly, he took a hearty and persevering swill,
from the effects of which his lungs did not recover for at least twenty
respirations. The impatient lover then begged him to proceed with
the ceremony; which he forthwith commenced in presence of the
landlady and the above-mentioned Bowed Andrew; and in a few
minutes Richard and Lady Jean were united in the holy bonds of
matrimony.
 Chapter II.

When the ceremony was concluded, and both the clergyman and
the witnesses had been satisfied and dismissed, the lovers left the
house, with the design of walking forward into the city. In conformity
to a previous arrangement, Lady Jean walked first, like a lady of
quality, and Richard followed closely behind, with the dress and
deportment of her servant. Her ladyship was dressed in her finest
suit, and adorned with her finest jewels, all of which she had brought
from Cumbernauld on purpose, in a mail or leathern trunk—for such
was the name then given to the convenience now entitled a
portmanteau. Her step was light, and her bearing gay, as she moved
along; not on account of the success which had attended her
expedition, or her satisfaction in being now united to the man of her
choice, but because she anticipated the highest pleasure in the sight
of a place whereof she had heard such wonderful stories, and from a
participation in whose delights she had been so long withheld.
Like all persons educated in the country, she had been regaled in
her childhood with magnificent descriptions of the capital—of its
buildings, that seemed to mingle with the clouds—its shops, which
apparently contained more wealth than all the world beside—of its
paved streets (for paved streets were then wonders in Scotland)—
and, above all, of the grand folks that thronged its Highgates, its
Canongates, and its Cowgates—people whose lives seemed a
perpetual holiday, whose attire was ever new, and who all lived in
their several palaces.
Though, of course, Edinburgh had then little to boast of, the
country people who occasionally visited it did not regard it with less
admiration than that with which the peasantry of our own day may
be supposed to view it, now that it is something so very different. It
was then, as well as now, the capital of the country, and, as such,
bore the same disproportion in point of magnificence to inferior
towns, and to the country in general. In one respect it was superior to
what it is in the present day, namely, in being the seat of government
and of a court. Lady Jean had often heard all its glorious peculiarities
described by her sisters, who, moreover, took occasion to colour the
picture too highly, in order to raise her envy, and make themselves
appear great in their alliance and association with so much
greatness. She was, therefore, prepared to see a scene of the utmost
splendour—a scene in which nothing horrible or paltry mingled, but
which was altogether calculated to awe or to delight the senses.
Her ladyship was destined to be disappointed at the
commencement, at least, of her acquaintance with the city. The first
remarkable object which struck her eye, after leaving the inn, was the
high “bow,” or arch, of the gate called the West Port. In this itself
there was nothing worthy of particular attention, and she rather
directed her eyes through the opening beneath, which half disclosed
a wide space beyond, apparently crowded with people. But when she
came close up to the gate, and cast, before passing, a last glance at
the arch, she shuddered at the sight then presented to her eyes. On
the very pinnacle of the arch was stuck the ghastly and weather-worn
remains of a human head, the features of which, half flesh, half bone,
were shaded and rendered still more indistinctly horrible by the long
dark hair, which hung in meagre tresses around them.
“Oh, Richard, Richard!” she exclaimed, stopping and turning
round, “what is that dreadful-looking thing?”
“That, madam,” said Richard, without any emotion, “is the broken
remnant of a west country preacher, spiked up there to warn his
countrymen who may approach this port, against doing anything to
incur the fate which has overtaken himself. Methinks he has
preached to small purpose, for yonder stands the gallows, ready, I
suppose, to bring him some brother in affliction.”
“Horrible!” exclaimed Lady Jean; “and is this really the fine town
of Edinburgh, where I was taught to expect so many grand sights? I
thought it was just one universal palace, and it turns out to be a great
charnel-house!”
“It is indeed more like that than anything else at times,” said
Richard; “but, my dear Lady Jean, you are not going to start at this
bugbear, which the very children, you see, do not heed in passing.”
“Indeed, I think, Richard,” answered her ladyship, “if Edinburgh is
to be at all like this, it would be just as good to turn back at once, and
postpone our visit to better times.”
 “But it is not all like this,” replied Richard; “I assure you it is not.
For Heaven’s sake, my lady, move on. The people are beginning to
stare at us. You shall soon see grand sights enough, if we were once
fairly out of this place. Make for the opposite corner of the
Grassmarket, and ascend the street to the left of that horrible gibbet.
We may yet get past it before the criminals are produced.”
Thus admonished, Lady Jean passed, not without a shudder,
under the dreadful arch, and entered the spacious oblong square
called the Grassmarket. This place was crowded at the west end with
rustics engaged in all the bustle of a grain and cattle market, and at
the eastern and most distant extremity, with a mob of idlers, who
had gathered around the gibbet in order to witness the awful
ceremony that was about to take place. The crowd, which was
scarcely so dense as that which attends the rarer scene of a modern
execution, made way on both sides for Lady Jean as she moved
along; and wherever she went, she left behind her a “wake,” as it
were, of admiration and confusion. So exquisite and so new a beauty,
so splendid a suit of female attire, and so stout and handsome an
attendant—these were all calculated to inspire reverence in the
minds of the beholders. Her carriage at the same time was so stately
and so graceful, that no one could be so rude as to interrupt or
disturb it. The people, therefore, parted when she approached, and
left a free passage for her on all sides, as if she had been an angel or a
spirit come to walk amidst a mortal crowd, and whose person could
not be touched, and might scarcely be beheld—whose motions were
not to be interfered with by those among whom she chose to walk—
but who was to be received with prostration of spirit, and permitted
to depart as she had come, unquestioned and unapproached. In
traversing the Grassmarket, two or three young coxcombs, with
voluminous wigs, short cloaks, rapiers, and rose-knots at their knees
and shoes, who, on observing her at a distance, had prepared to treat
her with a condescending stare, fell back, awed and confounded, at
her near approach, and spent the gaze, perhaps, upon the humbler
mark of her follower, or upon vacancy.
Having at length passed the gibbet, Lady Jean began to ascend the
steep and tortuous street denominated the West Bow. She had
hitherto been unable to direct any attention to what she was most
anxious to behold,—the scenic wonders of the capital. But having