Memoirs of a Highland Lady

by Elizabeth Grant

  At Relugas lived an old Mrs Cuming, with one m, the Widow of I don’t know who, her only child her heiress daughter, and the daughter’s husband, Tom Lauder. He had some income from his father, was to have more when the father died, and a large inheritance with a Baronetcy at an uncle’s death, Lord Fountainhall. It had been a common small Scotch house, but an Italian front had been thrown before the old building, an Italian tower had been raised above the offices, and with neatly kept grounds it was about the prettiest place that ever was lived in. The situation was beautiful, on a high tongue of land between the Divie and the Findhorn—the wild, leaping, rocky bedded Divie and the broader and rapid Findhorn. All along the banks of both were well directed paths among the wooding, a group of children flitting about the heathery braes, and the heartiest, merriest welcome within. Mr and Mrs Lauder were little more than children themselves, in manner at least; really young in years and gifted with almost bewildering animal spirits, they did keep up a racket at Relugas. It was one eternal carnival. Up late, a plentiful Scotch breakfast, out all day, a dinner of many courses, mumming all the evening, and a supper at the end to please the old lady. A Colonel Somebody had a story—ages after this, however—that having received an appointment to India, he went to take leave of his kind friends at Relugas. It was in the evening, and instead of finding a quiet party at tea, he got into a crowd of Popes, Cardinals, jugglers, gypsies, minstrels, flowergirls, etc., the usual amusements of the family. He spent half a lifetime in the east, and returning to his native place thought he would not pass that same hospitable door. He felt as in a dream, or as if his years of military service had been a dream—there was all the crowd of mountebanks again. The only difference was in the actors; children had grown up to take the places of their elders, some children, for all the elders were not gone. Sir Thomas Dick Lauder! wore as full a turban, made as much noise, and was just as thin as the Tom Lauder of twenty years before, and his good lady, equally travestied and a little stouter, did not look a day older with her grown up daughters round her, than she did in her own girlish times. It was certainly a pleasant house for young people. Sir Thomas, with all his frivolity, was a very accomplished man. His taste was excellent, as all his improvements shewed—no walks could have been better conducted, no trees better placed, no views better chosen, and this refinement was carried all through, to the colours of the furniture and the arrangement of it. He drew well, sketched very accurately from nature, was clever at puzzles, bout rimés,13 etc.—the very man for a country neighbourhood. Her merit was in implicitly following his lead—she thought, felt, saw, heard as he did, and if his perceptions altered or varied, so did hers. There never was such a patient Grizzle; and the curious part of their history was that being early destined to go together by their parents, they detested one another, as children did nothing but quarrel, agreed no better as they grew, being at one on one only point, that they never would marry. How to avoid such a catastrophe was the single subject they discussed amicably. They grew confidential upon it quite, and it ended in their settlement at Relugas.

  This merry visit ended our tour. We drove home in a few hours over the long, dreary moor between the Spey and the Findhorn, passing one of the old strongholds of the Grants, the remains of a square tower beside a lonely lake—a very lonely lake, for not a tree nor a shrub was near it; and resting the horses at the Bridge of Carr, a single arch over the Dulnan, near which had clustered a few cottages, a little inn amongst them sheltered by trees; altogether a bit of beauty in the desert. I had been so extremely good all this tour, well amused, made of, and not worried! that Miss Ramsay was extremely complimented on the improvement she had effected in my naturally bad disposition. As if there were any naturally bad dispositions. Don’t we crook them, and stunt them, and force them, and break them, and varnish them, and do every thing in the world except let them alone to expand in pure air to the sun, and nourish them healthfully.

  We were now to prepare for a ‘journey to London.’14 I recollect rather a tearful parting with a companion to whom we had become much attached, Mr Peter of Duthil’s youngest son—or only son, for all I know, as I never saw any other. Willie Grant was a fine handsome boy, a favourite with every body and the darling of his poor father, who had but this bright spot to cheer his dull home horizon. All this summer Willie had come to the Doune with the parson every third Sunday; that is, they came on the Saturday, and generally remained over Monday. He was older than any of us, but not too old to share all our out of doors fun, and he was full of all good, really and truly sterling. We were to love one another for ever, yet we never met again. When we returned to the highlands he was in the East India Military College, and then he sailed, and though he lived to come home, marry, and to settle in the highlands, neither Jane nor I ever saw him more. How many of these fine lads did my father and Charles Grant send out to India? Some that throve, some that only passed, some that made a name we were all proud of, and not one that ever I heard of that disgraced the homely rearing of their humbly positioned but gentle born parents. The moral training of those simple times bore its fair fruits: the history of half the great men in the last age began in a cabin.

  Sir Charles Forbes was the son of a small farmer in Aberdeenshire. Sir William Grant, the Master of the Rolls,15 was a mere peasant—his Uncles floated my father’s timber down the Spey as long as they had strength to follow the calling. General William Grant was a footboy in my Uncle Rothy’s family. Sir Colquhoun Grant,16 though a woodsetter’s child, was but poorly reared, in the same fashion as Mrs Pro’s fortunate boys. Sir William Macgregor, whose history should we tell it was most romantick of all, was such another. The list could be easily lengthened did my memory serve, but these were among the most striking examples of what the good plain schooling of the dominie, the principles and the pride of the parents, produced in young ardent spirits: forming characters which, however they were acted on by the world, never forgot home feelings, although they proved this differently. The Master of the Rolls, for instance, left all his relations in obscurity. A small annuity rendered his parents merely independant of hard labour; very moderate portions just secured for his sisters decent matches in their own degree; an occasional remittance in a bad season helped an Uncle or a brother out of difficulty. I never heard of his going to see them, or bringing any of them out of their own sphere to visit him. While the General shoved on his brothers, educated his nephews and nieces, pushed the boys up, married the girls well—such of them at least as had a wish to raise themselves—and almost resented the folly of Peter the Pensioner,17 who would not part with one of his flock from the very humble home he chose to keep them in. Which plan was wisest, or was either quite right? Which relations were happiest—those whose feelings were sometimes hurt, or those whose frames were sometimes over wearied and but scantily refreshed? I often pondered in my own young enquiring mind over these and similar questions; but just at the time of our last journey from the Doune to London less puzzling matters principally occupied my sister Jane and me.

  We were not sure whether or no Miss Ramsay were to remain with us; neither were we sure whether or no we wished it. We should have more of our own way without her, that was certain; but whether that would be so good for us, whether we should get on as well in all points by ourselves, we were beginning to be suspicious of. She had taught us the value of constant employment, regular habits, obliging manners, and we knew, though we did not allow it, that there would be less peace as well as less industry should we be again left to govern ourselves. However, so it was settled. Miss Ramsay was dropt at Newcastle amongst her own friends, and for the time the relief from restraint seemed most agreeable. She was not capable of teaching us much, neither was she an intelligent person, so that probably she was no loss had her place been better supplied; but from my recollections of nursery gossip, nursery misrule, wasted time, neglected studies, ill used masters, I should say that as far as our progress was concerned the sums my father paid to our several teachers might as well ha
ve remained in his pocket. It was an idea of my father’s that we were better unguided; characters self formed were to his mind more brave, more natural, than could ever be the result of over tutoring. We were therefore very little directed in our early days. We were always informed of our wrong doings, sometimes punished for them, but we were very much left to find out the right for ourselves; and so once more unshackled we proceeded on our way to town.

  1. ‘Flaxen hair, hence fiery-tempered, irritable person’ (S.N.D.).

  2. As M.P. for Oakhampton (1807–12) he brought eight charges against Frederick, Duke of York, for corrupt use of his military patronage.

  3. He was C. in C. from 1798 to 1827 (apart from these years 1809–11) and, in the opinion of the D.N.B., he had ‘the greatest influence on the history of the British Army’.

  4. Many lawyers in Scotland are Writers to the Signet.

  5. John Baillie (1772–1833), an exotic character: ‘Colonel, orientalist, political agent and director of the East India Company’ (D.N.B.).

  6. ‘The two hills enclosing the entrance to the Cromarty Firth on the north and the south, and resembling cobblers bent over their work’ (S.N.D.).

  7. Alexander Stewart, Earl of Buchan (d. 1405), whose reputation came from his ruthless extension to his power during the reign of his brother, Robert 111.

  8. The promontory-fort of Burghead is, in fact, between Forres and Lossiemouth. O. G. S. Crawford, Topography of Roman Scotland, writes sternly (p. 125) of the ‘Very thorough ransacking of 1809’, and doubts its Roman origin.

  9. The fourth Duke, after his estrangement from the Duchess, the Grants’ great friend, lived here with Mrs Jane Christie, ‘by whom he had a large family’ before marrying her in 1820 (D.N.B.).

  10. ‘O saw ye bonie Lesley’ (tune, The Collier’s Bony Dochter).

  11. A payment in kind (S.N.D.).

  12. Macbeth, iii, iv, 138.

  13. ‘A List of Words that rhyme to one another, drawn up by another Hand, and given to a Poet, who was to make a poem to the rhymes in the same order that they were placed upon the List’ (Addison’s definition in the O.E.D.).

  14. See footnote 2,1, p. 89.

  15. Sir William Grant (1752–1832), Attorney General for Canada, M.P. for Banffshire and Master of the Rolls l801 to 1817 (D.N.B.).

  16. Sir Colquhoun Grant (1864–5): ‘One of the most dashing hussars in the service’, he had ‘several horses killed under him at Waterloo’ (D.N.B.).

  17. See 1, p. 326.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  1809–1810

  Baltiboys, November 18451

  Having got so far in these memorials of past life, the pleasure of the many half forgotten incidents now revived induces me to proceed in stringing together such recollections of our generation as can hardly fail, dear children, to be interesting to you. The feebleness of my health at present confines me so much to my room that I am neglecting nothing else while thus employing myself, so, though I have lost one listener to the chapters as they are concluded, dear Janie Gardiner being no longer among us, on I go as at Avranches, feeling that if any of you are like me, this history of one of yourselves of the past age will be a curious family legend to refer to.

  We left the highlands, then, late in the autumn of 1809, and leaving our good natured Governess with her friends at Newcastle, reached London in about three weeks from the time we set out. During the winter, and the spring of 1810, we were occupied as usual with our several masters, under whom we could not fail to make a certain degree of progress, because we were quick children and they were clever instructors, but we by no means duly improved our time, or conscientiously worked out the value of my father’s money and kindness. For want of a steady Director we got into habits of dawdling, idling, omitting, and so on, and we were very irregular in our hours, setting the authourity of our maid, Margaret Davidson, at defiance. She waited on my Mother as well as on us, and might have made a good deal of mischief had she been given to tale bearing. My musick fell really back, though not apparently. Miss Horn was not Mr Morris. I recollect too that I took no trouble—nobody was there to make me. That is, in musick a difficult passage was slurred, in singing an uneasy note omitted, in drawing chance directed the pencil, in writing translations I never looked out in the dictionary for the meaning of such words as I did not know, I just popt in any word that struck me as suitable, and it was quite a bright idea given me by one of our companions in the Square, to read the rule before making the exercise; this had never struck me as necessary, so poor Mr Beekvelt must have taught us oddly; he was extremely pleased with the marked improvement caused by this study of the grammar, and I daresay gave himself all the credit of it. Mr Thompson, from whom we learned the most, did not take matters so easily. The dining room was given up to us, and there we lived by ourselves, as it was never wanted by any one else till about an hour before my father and mother’s dinner. We got up late, studied as little and amused ourselves as much as we could manage. My Mother was often ailing, she also hated the worry of children, and she did not herself understand the various accomplishments we were trying to learn. She therefore occupied the back drawing room; where, however, I made her breakfast, she being seldom down in time for my father, who required his early. Either Jane or I took it down to him in his study, and when my Mother had hers up in her room, we helped ourselves with great delight to the remains, our detestable porridge having been barely tasted. After this we always walked our two hours in the Square, then we returned to our studies, we dined, studied again by way of, and when the Butler entered with his plate trays we bundled up all our books, and departed to change our dress. In the evenings, when we were at home, we occupied ourselves pretty much as we liked, being reproved when we did foolishly.

  This kind of half haphazard education may preserve originality of character, or indeed produce some good effects in some cases, but I do not think it improved any of us, either physically or mentally. I am sure we should all have been stronger women had there been a better system pursued with our diet and general training; most certainly we should have been happier then and afterwards had we been more looked after, and so better understood; and it is likely that we should have been more skilled in all we were taught, our minds and memories much better stored, had there been some eye over us. I know for myself that I, all quickness and eagerness and volatility, required a steady hand to keep me back, to make me finish as I went on, complete what I had begun, think of what there was to do, how to do it, and why it was done. Naturally active, lively, negligent, capricious, vain, all good qualities verged too nearly upon bad for me to be safely left to my own impulses; for I never reflected, Jane, slow, cautious, conscientious, very sensitive and rather awkward, required encouragement and direction, and occasional shaking up. We had both to educate ourselves long years after, when taught by sufferings how much discipline we wanted. Dear Mary was petted one minute, repulsed the next, called idle when she was ill, stupid and obstinate for want of help in her childish difficulties, the seeds of evil were fostered till they grew to bear their bitter fruit—melancholy reflections! Common to many of us of the last age when the duties of our several stations were neither taught nor known. Mothers were ignorant of their responsibilities, assistants were incapable of supplying their place, the world in general as far behind in economick morals as in less momentous things. Our children have numberless advantages over us, their parents, they are benefit ting by our sad experience, passing happy youths, learning without effort what we bought by tears. I cannot reflect on the mistakes of our day and their consequences without a feeling that is very painful. I really think I must have turned out badly but for two people, Mr Thompson and Annie Grant. Mr Thompson did not suit Jane. She was plodding herself and wanted enlivening. Mary pretended utter dulness and would never attend to him. He vexed me with his chronological order, and his pricknickity neatness and his rigid arithmetick, but these methodical proceedings were just exactly what my volatile nature required. The man had not an idea, b
ut he somehow caught and made me look after mine. How hard he worked for the wife and half dozen children. Up every morning summer and winter at four, to get his breakfast and walk to Kensington by six, and then teach on till nine at night.

  We had an excellent dancing Master, an Irish Mr Blake, of whom we learned the good old minuet style of moving, which I wish from my heart were the fashion again, for I neither think the manner of the present day so graceful, nor the carriage by any means so good, nor the gestures so easy as in the days of the stately sinkings and risings and balancings of the body required in the minuet. We formed a small dancing class, which met once a week at alternate houses. We were three—four at William’s holidays; there were five Hultons, Mary, Sophy, Emily, Edward, and Henry, and a Miss and two Master Williams; all inhabitants of the Square, as we called Lincoln’s Inn Fields, the children of brother barristers! We had encreased our acquaintance in our playground. We had little Diana Wilson and her cousins Hotham next door to add to our list of friends; the younger Vivians, a set of Wyndhams—very nice children; three Tyndales, not so well born as some of the others, but clever girls—their father was an Attorney, vulgar enough, their mother a daughter of Mrs Rundell (Cookery book),2 an extremely accomplished woman, without an approach to refinement. My favourite companion was Julia Hankey, now the Widow of my brother William’s Schoolfellow, Seymour Bathurst. Her mother was an Alexander of Ballochmyle, and she lived with her two maiden sisters, honest Scotch gentlewomen, and their Uncle the Chief Baron, in one of the best houses in our then fashionable law situation. She was the Widow of the Alderman Hankey who died from putting brandy in his shoes when his feet were sore and hot with walking through the City, canvassing to be Lord Mayor: the chill of the evaporation produced apoplexy. They were all immensely rich on all sides, and Julia and her three brothers and one Cousin, Frederick, the only heirs of all. We also saw sometimes the Welshs and the Wards at the Admiralty, Fanny Hunter, and our cousin Raper. My father did not encourage young society for us.