Memoirs of a Highland Lady

by Elizabeth Grant

  We found the Doune all changed again, more of the backwater, more of the hill, and all the garden, gone. This last had been removed to its present situation in the series of pretty hollows in the birch wood between the Drum and the Miltown moor; a fashion of the day, to remove the fruit and vegetables to an inconvenient distance from the Cook, the kitchen department of the garden being considered the reverse of ornamental. The new situation of ours, and the way it was laid out, was the admiration of every body, and there could not well have been any thing of the sort more striking to the eye, with the nicely managed entrance among the trees, and the gardener’s cottage so picturesquely placed; but I always regretted the removal. I like to be able to lounge in among the cabbages, to say little of the gooseberries; and a walk of above a quarter of a mile on a hot summer’s day before reaching the refreshment of fruit is almost as tormenting to the drawing room division of the family as is the sudden want of a bit of thyme, or sage or parsley to those in authority in the offices, and no one beyond the swing door idle enough to have an hour to spare for fetching some. A very enjoyable shrubbery replaced the dear old formal kitchen garden, with belts of flowering trees, and gay beds of flowers, grass plots, dry walks, and the Doune hill in the midst of it, all neatly fenced from the lawn; and so agreeable a retirement was this piece of ornamental ground, that I can’t but think it very bad taste in my brother John and the Duchess of Bedford to take away the light green paling and half the dressed ground, and throw so large an open space about that very ugly half finished house: for I am writing now after having been with my husband and my children and three of my nephews in the highlands, a few really happy weeks at Inverdruie; finding changes enough in our Duchus, as was to be expected after an absence of twenty years; much to regret, some things to praise, and many more to wish for. In my older age it was the condition of the people that particularly engaged me; in 1812 it was the scenery, or the locality, for I had not arrived at distinguishing the landscape artificially.

  It has always seemed to me that this removal to Rothiemurchus was the first great era in my life. All our habits changed—all connexions, all surroundings. We had been so long in England, we elder children, that we had to learn our highland life again. The language, the ways, the style of the house, the visitors, the interests, all were so entirely different from what had been latterly affecting us, we seemed to be starting as it were afresh. I look back on it now even as a point to date up to and a point to date on from; the beginning of a second stage in the journey. Our family then consisted of my father and mother, we three girls and our governess, and our young French companion Caroline Favrin, William during the summer holidays, Johnny, and a maid between him and my Mother, poor Peggy Davidson. Besides her there were the following servants: Mrs Bird the Coachman’s wife, an Englishwoman, as upper housemaid and plain needle woman; under her Betty Ross, the gardener’s youngest daughter; Grace Grant, the beauty of the country, only daughter of Sandy Grant the Greusaich or shoemaker, who waited on the school room; old Belle Macpherson, a soldier’s widow who had followed the 92nd all over the world, and had learned to make up the Marquis of Huntly’s shirts remarkably well at Gibraltar, box plaiting all the frills—he never wore them small plaited, though my father did for many a long day after this! She was the Laundry maid. The Cook and housekeeper was an English Mrs Carr from Cumberland, an excellent manager; a plain cook under her from Inverness; and old Christie as kitchen maid, The men were Simon Ross, the gardener’s eldest son, as Butler, and an impudent English footman, Richard, with a flat bottle nose, who yet turned all the women’s heads; William Bird the Coachman, and George Ross, another son of the gardener’s, as groom; and old John Mackintosh who brought in all the peats and wood for the fires, pumped the water, turned the mangle, lighted the oven, brewed the beer, bottled the whiskey, kept the yard tidy, and stood enraptured listening to us playing on the harp ‘like David’! There was also a clerk of Mr Cooper’s generally, my father requiring assistance in his study, where he spent the greater part of his time managing all his perplexed affairs himself.

  At the Farm were the steward, called there Grieve, and as many ‘lads’ as he required for the work of the farm under him, who all slept in a loft over the stables, and ate in the farm kitchen. Old George Ross No. 1, not the gardener, had a house and shop in the offices; he was turner, joiner, butcher, weaver, lint dresser, wool comber, dyer, and what not; his old wife was the henwife, and had her task of so many hanks of yarn to spin in the winter. Old Jenny Cameron, who had never been young, and was known as Jenny Dairy always, was supreme in the farm kitchen. She managed cows, calves, milk, stores, and the spinning, assisted by an active girl whom I never recollect seeing do any thing but bake the oaten bread, and scour the wooden vessels used for every purpose, except on the washing and rinsing days called by the maids ranging, when Jenny gave help in the Laundry, in which abode of mirth and fun the under housemaid spent her afternoons. Besides this regular staff, John Fyffe, the handsome smith, came twice a week to the forge with his apprentices, when all the maids were sure to require repairs in the ironworks; and the greusaich came once a week for the cheque he carried in his bosom to the Bank at Inverness, walking the 36 miles as another man, not a highlander, would go three, and 36 back again, with the money in the same safe hiding place, my father at this time paying most of the wages in cash. And there was the Bowman, who had charge of the cattle, surnamed, I suppose, from the necessity of arming him in the olden time with the weapon most used, when he had to guard his herd from marauders. John Macgregor was our bowman’s name, though he was never spoken of but as John Bhain or John the fair, on account of his complexion. He was married to George Ross the orraman’s daughter, orraman means the jobber or Jack of all trades, and, like almost all the rest of them, lived with us till he died. The Gardener, with those of his family who were not married or in our service, lived in the pretty cottage at one entrance to the new garden, which also served as lodge to the white gate. The game keeper had an ugly little hut at the Polchar, a tall, handsome John Macpherson I think he was. The Foxhumer, little, active Lewie Gordon, had part of the Kainapool house. The principal shepherd, John MacGregor, known as the Muckle shepherd from his great stature, had the remainder; the under shepherd, also a MacGregor, lived nearer the mountains. The Carpenter, Donald Maclean, who had married my Mother’s first cook Nelly Grant, she who could make so many puddings, 99 if I remember right, had another part of Kainapool. The Colleys, the Masons, were at Riannachan; far enough apart all of them, miles between any two, but it little mattered; we were slow coaches in our highlands. Time was of little value, space of no account, an errand was a day’s work, whether it took the day or only an hour or two of it. Three or four extra aids, Tam Mathieson the Carrier, Tam McTavish the smuggler, and Mary Leosach and the Nairn fisher wives, with their creels on their backs, made up the complement of our highland servitors.

  Poor Miss Elphick. All this assemblage could not reconcile her at first to the wild country she had got into. Between the inns, the bleak moors and the gaelick she had been overpowered, and had hardly indeed articulated since we had traversed Drumochter. Her eye had yet to be taught to comprehend the grand features of mountain landscapes. She had yet to awake to the interest of her situation, to accommodate herself besides to manners so entirely different from any she had been accustomed to. How my Mother could have taken a fancy to this strange little woman was ever an enigma to Jane and me; she was very uneducated, had lived amongst a totally low set of people, and had not any notion of the grave business she had under taken. Her temper was passionate and irritable. We had to humour, to manage her, instead of learning from her to discipline ourselves. Yet she was clever, very warm hearted, and she improved herself wonderfully after being with us a little time. Her father, of German extraction, had been bailiff to the Duke of Clarence at Bushy Park. He lived jollily with a set of persons of his own station, spending freely what was earned easily, and so leaving nothing behind him. His son succeeded him
in his place; his elder daughters were married poorly; this youngest had nothing for it but the usual resource of her class, go out as Governess, for which responsible situation she had never been in the least prepared. Her childhood had been mostly passed under Mrs Jordan’s eye, among all her FitzClarences;7 she then went to a third rate school, and at eighteen she went to keep her rather dissipated brother’s house during the interval between his first and second marriage. Lady Glenbervie, who was in some way interested about the family, recommended her to my Mother. She had found her in old Mrs Wynch’s apartments in Hampton Court Palace, recommended her removing to London for a few months for masters, and promised to do all she could for her. We got on better with her after a while, but at first her constant companionship made us very miserable. Oh, how we regretted Annie Grant.

  It was the intention of my father and mother to remain quietly at the Doune for the next two years, that is, my father intended the Doune to be the home of his wife and children. He could only himself be with us occasionally, as he had to carry his Election, and then in the proper season to take his place in Parliament. I can’t bring to mind whether he wrote m.p. after his name this year or the next, but in either the one or the other Great Grimsby was gained—at what cost the ruin of a family could certify. Whether he were with us or no, visitors poured in as usual; no one then ever passed a friend’s house in the highlands, nor was it ever thought necessary to send invitations on the one part, or to give information on the other; the doors were open literally, for ours had neither lock nor bolt, and people came in sure of a hearty welcome and good cheer. The Lady Logie I remember well; I was always fond of her, she was so fond of me; and her old father, and her sister Grace Baillie, whom I overheard one morning excusing my plain appearance to my mother—pale and thin certainly, but very ladylike! ‘which is always sufficient.’ No Mr Macklin and his flute, how beautifully he played it!—he was in India recommended to the good graces of Uncle Edward! for he had gone as a Barrister to Bombay. And Burgie and Mrs Dunbar Brodie paid their regular visit. She measured all the rooms, and he played the flageolet in the boat upon the lake, not badly, though we young people preferred hearing Mrs Bird, the Coachman’s wife, sing the ‘Battle of the Nile’ in that situation; her voice really rang round the hill in such a style that the echo must have been very dull indeed not to have repeated the strain. Then we had poor Sir Alexander Boswell,8 not a Baronet then, ‘Bozzy’s’ son, his wife, wife’s sister and quiet husband, Mr Conynghame—new acquaintances made through the Dick Lauders, who lived near them; they were also with us, and all the old set. Amongst others, Sir William Gordon Cumming, newly come to his title and just of age; some of his sisters with him. He was the queerest creature. Ugly, yet one liked his looks, tall and well made, and awkward more from oddity it seemed than ungracefulness; strange, extraordinary in his conversation between cleverness and a kind of want of it. Every body liked Sir Willie, and many years afterwards he told me that he at this time very much liked me, and wanted my father to promise me to him in a year or two; but my father would make no promises, ‘sawtie,9 ye see’, only just a warm welcome on the old footing when this oddity should return from his Continental travels. He was just setting out on them, and I never heard of this early conquest of mine, for he fell in with Elizabeth Campbell at Florence; ‘And ye see, Lizzy, my dear,’ said he to me, as he was driving me in his buggy round the beautiful grounds at Altyre, ‘Eliza Campbell put Eliza Grant quite out of my head, the more’s the pity perhaps!’ We had no Kinrara; that little paradise had been shut up ever since the death of the Duchess of Gordon, except just during a month in the shooting season, when the Marquis of Huntly came there with a bachelour party.

  We girls saw little of all this company, old friends as some of them were, as, except at breakfast where Miss Elphick and I always appeared, we never now left our own premises. We found this schoolroom life at first very irksome; it was so very different from what we had been accustomed to in some respects it never became agreeable but we bore it better after a while. Governess and pupils slept in one large room up at the top of the new part of the house, the barrack room where I so well remembered Edwina Gumming combing her long yellow hair. We had each of us a little white curtained bed, made to fit into the slope of the roof in its own corner, leaving space enough between the bedstead and the end wall for the washing table. The middle of the room with its window, fireplace, toilettes, and book table, made our common dressing room—there were chests of drawers each side of the fireplace, and a large closet in the passage, so that we were very comfortably lodged. Miss Elphick began her course of instruction by jumping out of bed at six o’clock in the morning, and throwing on her clothes with the haste of one escaping from a house on fire. She then wiped her face and hands, and smoothed her cropped hair, and her toilette was over. Some woman, I forget who she was, telling Sir William Gumming, who was seated next her at breakfast, that she never took more than ten minutes to dress in the morning, he instantly got up, plate and cup in hand, and moved off to the other side of the table. He would not then have sat near me, for Miss Elphick considered ten minutes quite sufficient for any young lady to give to her dressing upon week days. We could ‘clean ourselves’ properly, as she did, upon Sundays. She could not allow us time for such unnecessary dawdling. We must get an hour of the harp or the pianoforte before breakfast, and our Papa chose that we should be out another; therefore, we must give ourselves a ‘good wash’ upon Sundays, and make that do for the week, as she did and as she made her shift do, for that only went on clean after the thorough scouring and then served by night and by day till cleaning day came again. Her stock of linen indeed would not have permitted a more profuse use of it. We were thoroughly disgusted. In after days I am sure she herself would have had difficulty in believing she had ever had habits so unseemly.

  Her acquirements were on a par with this style of breeding. She and I had a furious battle the first week we commenced business, because during a history lesson she informed dear Mary that Scotland had been conquered by Queen Elizabeth, and left by her with her other possessions to her nephew, King James. I was pert enough, I daresay, for the sort of education we had received had given us an extreme contempt for such ignorance, but what girl of fifteen, brought up as I had been, could be expected to shew respect for an illiterate woman of very ungovernable temper, whose ideas had been gathered from a Class lower than we could possibly have been acquainted with, and whose habits were those of the servant. She insisted too that there never had been a Caliph Haroun al Raschid—our most particular friend—that he was only a fictitious character in those eastern fairy tales; and when, to prove his existence, we brought forward the list of his presents to Charlemagne, we found she did not believe in him either.10 And she could run off a string of dates ‘could that ar, ooman’ like Isabella in The Good French Governess. I thought of her historical recollections a good many years afterwards, when visiting General Need’s nephew, Tom Walker, at Aston Hall, in Derbyshire, whom we had known very well in Edinburgh when he was in the Scots Greys. He was publick school and College bred, had been a dozen years in the army, was married to a marquis’s granddaughter, and had a fortune of £3000 a year, not bribe enough for Jane by the way. He was shewing his collection of coins, some of them very valuable, he had several very perfect of the reign of Elizabeth, and after calling attention to them, he produced some base money which she had coined on some emergency—to cheat the publick in plain terms. ‘And here, you see,’ added he, picking up other equally base pieces, ‘Philip and Mary, following her example! cheated the publick too!’ What a queer look that odd Count Lapâture gave across the open drawer of the cabinet.

  It was not to be supposed that we could get on very comfortably with poor Miss Elphick. We were ungovernable, I believe, but she was totally unfit to try to direct us; and then, when we saw from the windows of our Schoolroom, a perfect prison to us, the fine summer pass away, sun shining, birds singing, river flowing, all in vain for us; when we he
ard the drawing room party setting out for all our favourite haunts, and felt ourselves denied our ancient privilege of accompanying it, we, who had hitherto roamed really fancy free! no wonder we rebelled against being thus cooped up, and detested the unfortunate governess who thus deprived us of liberty. It was heart breaking, spirit breaking, or spirit stirring at any rate for we did stand up for our ancient rights, insisted on more out of doors exercise and refused to stay so much within, let come what might.

  Miss Elphick determined to leave. She felt herself quite unequal to the highlands and the highland children together so she went to make her complaint to my Mother. She returned after a long conference, seemingly little improved in temper by the interview. However she had fared, we fared worse; she was, to all appearance, civilly treated, which we were not. I was first sent for, and well reproved, but not allowed to speak one word to excuse myself; called impudent, ignorant, indolent, impertinent, deprived of all indulgences, threatened with still heavier displeasure, and sent back to my duties in such a state of wrath that I was more decided than ever on resisting the governess, and only regretted my powers of annoyance could not also be brought to bear on my Mother. Jane then had her maternal lecture, which gave her a fit of tears, so bitter that she had to be sent to bed to recover from them; she was silent as to what had passed, but she was more grieved perhaps than I was. My father had been from home during this commotion, but I suppose he was informed of what had taken place on his return, for an entire reform in every way was the result of this ‘agitation.’ Till he came back we were very miserable. Miss Elphick never spoke to Jane or me but with mock respect. She doubled our lessons, shortened our walks, threw our books at us, pens, and pencils in our faces, contradicted our every wish, to make us know, she said, that she was over us; her excessive vulgarity made us shudder. My Mother soon forgave Jane; I, who was never a favourite, was rather unreasonably continued out of favour—not a style of management this that much improved a naturally passionate temper.