Memoirs of a Highland Lady

by Elizabeth Grant

  I told her I would write what she dictated, sign Lord Glenlee’s ‘renunciation,’ promise to hold no secret communication with her son. I kept my word; she took back a short note in which, for the reasons Ms mother would explain to him, I gave him back his troth. He wrote, and I never opened his letter; he came and I would not speak, but as a cold acquaintance. What pain it was to me those who have gone through the same ordeal alone could comprehend. His angry disappointment was the worst to bear; I felt it was unjust, and yet it could not be explained away, and pacified. I caught a cold luckily, and kept my room awhile. I think I should have died if I had not been left to rest a bit.

  My father on his return from London never once alluded to this heart breaking subject; I think he felt for me, for he was more considerate than usual, bought a nice little pony and took me rides, sent me twice a week to Seafield for warm baths, and used to beg me off the parties, saying I had been racketted to death, when she, my mother, would get angry and say such affectation was unendurable—girls in her day did as they were bid without fancying themselves heroines. She was very hard upon me, and I am sure I provoked her not; I was utterly stricken down and to have lifted up my voice in any way was quite beyond me. What weary days dragged on till the month of July brought the change to the highlands.

  1. Thomas Charles Hope (1766−1844) was joint Professor of Chemistry with the celebrated Joseph Black; he is particularly remembered for his work on the newly discovered element, strontium. Thomas Brown (1778−1820), metaphysician, was awarded his chair in 1810. John Playfair (1748−1819), one of the leaders of the Scottish Enlightenment, was successively Professor of Maths from 1785 and Natural Philosophy, 1805.

  2. Sce Harward, XXIX (1815), pp.1026, 1123.

  3. Milton, Paradise Lost, 1,555.

  4. The best-known play (1766) of George Colman the Elder (1732−94); its most familiar lines (‘Love and a cottage! Eh, Fanny! Ah, give me indifference and a coach and six.’ II,ii) might also have come to mind.

  5. There is a poignancy about a couplet from Burns ‘song

  O, whistle an’ I’ll come to ye, my lad!

  Tho ‘father an’ mother an’ a’ should gae mad,

  and the chorus of the other favourite ballad of E.G.’s father

  For he’s low doun, he’s in the brume,

  That’s waitin’ on me,

  Waiting on me, my love,

  He’s waiting on me.

  (Alexander Whitelaw, Songs of Scotland).

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  1815−1816

  HAD I been left in quiet, to time—my own sense of duty, my conviction of having acted rightly, a natural spring of cheerfulness, with occupation, change, etc., all would have acted together to restore lost peace of mind, and the lesson, severe as it was, would have certainly worked for good, had it even done no more than to have sobered a too sanguine disposition. Had my father’s judicious silence been observed by all, how much happier would it have been for every one. Miss Elphick returned to us in June, and I fancy received from my Mother her version of my delinquencies, for what I had to endure in the shape of rubs, snubs, and sneers and other impertinences, no impulsive temper such as mine could possibly have put up with. My poor Mother dealt too much in the hard hit line herself, and she worried me with another odious lover. Defenceless from being blameable, for I should have entered into no engagement unsanctioned, I had only to bear in silence this never ending series of irritations. Between them, I do think they crazed me. My own faults slid into the shade comfortably shrouded behind the cruelties of which I was the victim, and all my corruption rising, I actually in sober earnest formed a deliberate plan to punish my principal oppressor—not Miss Elphick, she could get a slap or two very well by the way. My resolve was to wound my Mother where she was most vulnerable, to tantalise her with the hope of what she most wished for, and then to disappoint her. I am ashamed now to think of the state of mind I was in; I was astray indeed, with none to guide me, and I suffered for it; but I caused suffering, and that satisfied me. It was many a year yet before my rebellious spirit learned to kiss the rod.

  In journeying to the highlands we were to sleep at Perth. We reached this pretty town early, and were surprised by a visit from Mr Anderson Blair, a young gentleman possessing property in the Carse of Gowrie, with whom our family had got very intimate during the winter. William was not with us, he had gone on a tour through the west highlands with a very nice person, a College friend, an Englishman. He came to Edinburgh as Mr Shore, rather later than was customary, for he was by no means so young as William and others attending the Classes, but being rich, having no profession and not College bred, he thought a term or two under our Professors, our University was then deservedly celebrated,1 would be a very profitable way of passing idle time. Just before he and my brother set out in their tandem with their servants, a second large fortune was left to this favoured son of a mercantile race, for which, however, he had to take the ridiculous name of Nightingale. Mr Blair owed this well sounding addition to the more humble Anderson, borne by all the other branches of his large and prosperous family, to the bequest of an old relation. Her legacy was very inferiour in amount to the one left to Mr Nightingale, but the pretty estate of Inchyra with a good modern house overlooking the Tay, was part of it, and old Mr John Anderson, the father, was supposed to have died rich. He was therefore a charming escort for my Mother about the town. We had none of us ever seen so much of Perth before. We were taken to sights of all kinds, to shops among the rest, and Perth being famous for whips and gloves, while we admired, Mr Blair bought, and Jane and I were desired to accept a very pretty riding whip each, and a packet of gloves was divided between us. Of course our gallant acquaintance was invited to dinner.

  The walk had been so agreeable, the weather was so extremely beautiful, it was proposed, I can hardly tell by who, to drive no farther than to Dunkeld next morning, and spend the remainder of the day in wandering through all the beautiful grounds along the miles and miles of walks conducted by the riverside through the woods and up the mountains. ‘Have you any objection to such an arrangement, Eli,’ said my father to me. ‘I, papa! none in the world.’ It suited my tacticks exactly. Accordingly so it was settled, and a very enjoyable day we spent. The scenery is exquisite, every step leads to new beauties, and after the wanderings of the morning it was but a change of pleasure to return to the quiet inn at Inver to dine and rest, and have Neil Gow in the evening to play the violin. It was the last time we were ever there. The next time we travelled the road the new bridge over the Tay at Dunkeld was finished, the new inn, the Duke’s Arms, opened, the ferry and the quiet inn at Inver done up, and Neil Gow dead.

  Apropros of the Duke’s Arms, ages after, when our dear amusing Uncle Ralph was visiting us in the highlands, he made a large party laugh, as indeed he did frequently, by his comical way of turning dry facts into fun. A coach was started by some enterprising individual to run between Dunkeld and Blair during the summer season, which announcement my Uncle read as if from the advertisement in the newspaper as follows: ‘Pleasing intelligence. The Duchess of A thole starts every morning from the Duke’s Arms at eight o’clock, There was no need to manufacture any more of the sentence.

  The day had passed so agreeably at Dunkeld, it was decided on proceeding in the same way to Blair, a longer drive by a few miles, and through that most beautiful of all bits of mountain scenery, the pass of Killiecrankie, We did not spend our time near the Castle, we walked to the falls of the Bruar, first brought into notice by Burns, and then too much made of; as besides planting the banks and conducting a path up the stream,2 so many summer houses and hermitages and peep bo places of one sort or another had been perched on favourite situations, that the proper character of the wild torrent was completely lost—nature was much disturbed, but no ill taste could destroy so grand a scene. We were fortunate in finding plenty of water leaping in wide cascades over rocks of every size and shape, for there had been rain a few days before.

&
nbsp; Our obliging friend left us next morning with the consolatory information that we should meet again before the 12th of August, as a letter from Mr Nightingale had brought his agreement to a plan for them to spend the autumn in the highlands. They had taken the Invereschie Shootings, and were to lodge at the Dell of Killiehuntly with John and Betty Campbell.

  We had hardly got settled at the Doune before a note from Mr Blair, a very nice pony, and a basket of most delicious fruit, hothouse fruit, arrived from Inchyra; the fruit we ate with the greatest pleasure, the pony had been sent to be acclimatised as it would be used hereafter on the hill, and the note said it would be conferring the greatest favour if the young ladies would be so very kind as to ride and help to train it. We were all perfectly willing to accept all civilities, and Jane and I henceforth were able to ride out together, and found our chief happiness in resuming our old wanderings, which the encreasing stiffness of the poor old white pony had made us fear must for the future have been undertaken singly. Our excursions, however, were far from being as enjoyable as formerly. Inverdruie was shut up. The attraction of the Croft was gone; Duncan McIntosh, broken by ill health and distress of mind owing to the misconduct of his eldest son, was no longer the animated companion of former days. Aviemore was a painful visit. We had only Belleville and Kinrara and the scenery. Belleville was almost always our great resource. We young people were much liked there, and we ourselves liked going there. Kinrara, it must be confessed, was dull, too stiff, too constrained, although kindness was never wanting; but the Marquis and Marchioness were not to arrive till the famous 12th of August. Our first three weeks at home were very quiet, no company arriving, and my father being absent at Inverness, Forres, Garmouth, etc., on business. We had all our humble friends to see, all our favourite spots to visit. To me the repose was delightful, and had I been spared all those unkind jibes, my irritated feelings might have calmed down and softened my temper; exasperated as they continually were by the most cutting allusions, the persuasion that 1 had been most unjustly treated and was now suffering unjustly for the faults of others, grew day by day stronger and stronger, and estranged me completely from those of the family who so perpetually annoyed me. Enough of this. So it was, so it ever was, blame me who will.

  After this quiet beginning our highland autumn set in gaily. The 10th of August filled every house in the country in preparation for the 12th. Kinrara was full, though Lord Huntly had not come with the Marchioness; some family business detained him in the south, or he made pretence of it, in order that his very shy wife might have no assistance in doing the honours, and so rub off some of the awkward reserve which so very much annoyed him. Belleville was full, the inns were full, the farm houses attached to the shootings let were full, the whole country was alive, and Mr Nightingale, Mr Blair and my brother arrived at the Doune. Other guests succeeded them, and what with rides and walks in the mornings, dinners and dances in the evenings, expeditions to distant lakes or glens or other picturesque localities, the Pitmain tryst and the Inverness Meeting, a merrier shooting season was never passed. So every one said. I don’t particularly remember any one person as very prominent among the crowd, nor any thing very interesting by way of conversation. The Battle of Waterloo and its heroes did duty for all else, our highlanders having had their full share of its glories.

  We ladies went up for the first time this year to Glen Einich, our shooting friends with us. The way lay through the birch wood to Tullochgrue, past McAlpine’s well and a corner of the fir forest and wide heath, till we reached the banks of the Luinach, up the rapid course of which we went till the heath narrowed to a Glen, rocks and hills closed in upon us, and we came upon a sheet of water terminating the cul de sac, fed by a cataract tumbling down for ever over the face of the precipice at the end of it. All the party rode on ponies caught about the country, each rider attended by a man at the bridle head. Jane and I were better mounted, for the Inchyra pony had never been reclaimed; it was not wanted, so she and I had it by turns on all occasions. The Edinburgh pony, poor Toper, so called from its love of porter, carried the one that was not honoured with Paddle. A very pleasant day we passed, many merry adventures of course taking place in so singular a cavalcade. We halted at a fine spring to pass round a refreshing drink of whiskey and water, but did not unload our sumpter horses3 till we reached the granite pebbled shore of the lake. Fairy tales belong to this beautiful wilderness; the steep rock on the one hand is the dwelling of the Bodach4 of the Scarigour, and the Castle like row of precipitous banks on the other is the domain of the Bodach of the Corriegowanthill—titles of honour these in fairy land, whose high condition did not however prevent their owners from quarrelling, for no mortal ever gained the good graces of the one without offending the other, loud laughing mockery ever filling the Glen from one potentate or the other, whenever their territories were invaded after certain hours. Good Mr Stalker the Dominie had been prevented continuing his fishing there by the extreme rudeness of the Corriegowan thill, although encouraged by his opposite neighbour and fortified by several glasses of stiff grog. We met with no opposition from either; probably the Laird and all belonging to him were unassailable. We had a stroll and our luncheon, and we filled our baskets with those delicious delicate char which abound in Loch Einich, and returned gaily home in safety.

  Another much more adventurous expedition we made to the parallel roads, attended as usual. Our shooting friends did not thin their own moors too much. A tenant of the Duke of Gordon’s who lived near Kingussie, a most excellent oddity of a little old man, had a large sheep farm up in Laggan with a better sort of bothie in a pretty glen, where he and Mrs Mitchell frequently remained a day or two at shearing time. The poor Captain’s phaeton carried my Mother, Miss Elphick, and the carpet bags; the rest of us rode, and we came up with Mr and Mrs Mitchell by the way, travelling in their gig, a cart following them containing one of their pretty daughters and plenty of provisions. The bothie had but two rooms, a parlour and a kitchen; the gentlemen occupied the kitchen, the ladies the parlour, all sleeping at night on beds of heather thickly strewed over the floor. The cooking kitchen was outside in the open air, near an old wall under a tree. We took all our meals out of doors, and so merry were we, so happy in this gypsy life, we could have enjoyed a good week of it instead of the two days my mother limited our visit to, out of consideration for the resources of Mrs Mitchell; particularly as two fiddlers were of the party, and after walking miles all day we danced for hours at night in the gentlemen’s larger apartment. Our English friend, Mr Nightingale, was no great walker, nine miles there and back to fish for dinner in a beautiful little loch at the head of the Glen, where the trout actually leaped up by dozens to the hook, wore him and a fine pair of boots completely out, as he had the honesty to confess, and so declined a walk of sixteen miles on the morrow to the parallel roads in Glenroy. We suspected that our Scotch Mr Anderson Blair was little better able for such a highland amount of exercise, but this he would by no means allow, so he and William set out with a guide for the object of our enterprise, and lost their way, and returned very weary in the evening.

  Some dinners at Kinrara were rather dull, pleasanter at Belleville, very agreeable at home, so they all said. The Pitmain Tryst was a very good one. My principal partner was old Mr Mitchell, with whom I finished off in the Haymakers, he, short and fat and no great dancer, doing his part so lovingly, the spectators were all in convulsions of laughter. Jane, though only fifteen, was taken to this country gathering and to all the dinners at Belleville. At one party there we met the two Charles Grants, father and son, and brought them back with us to Rothiemurchus.

  At this time Mr Blair took leave, as he was one of the Stewards of the Perth Hunt, and their yearly Ball was approaching. He left us Paddle, and he sent us fruit and musick, and seemed much more to regret his going than some of us did to see him go. My Mother was consoled by retaining Mr Nightingale, whom really everybody liked-he staid, and went with us to the Inverness Meeting. It was a very bad o
ne, I recollect, no new beauties, a failure of old friends, and a dearth of the family connexions. Having a party with us we went to Grant’s hotel, much more in the midst of the fun than Mr Cooper’s quiet house in Church Street. Chisholm and Mrs Chisholm were in rooms next ours, once such dear friends of my father and mother’s. The connexion had long ceased, in spite of untiring efforts on the Chisholm part to renew it. She, in anticipation of the Meeting, had brought for me a french enamelled watch set with pearls, a Venetian chain to hang it on, a large packet of french gloves, and a whole suit of embroidery. There was a great consultation about the propriety of my keeping them. No reason could be assigned for a refusal, so I, at any rate, gained by the civility. My last year’s friend, the new Member for Ross-shire, Mr McKenzie of Applecross,5 was at this Meeting, more agreeable than ever, but looking extremely ill. I introduced him. by desire to my Cousin Charlotte Rose, who got on with him capitally. He was a plain man, and he had a buck tooth to which some one had called attention, and it was soon the only topick spoken of, for an old prophecy6 ran that whenever a mad Lovat, a childless Chisholm, and an Applecross with a buck tooth met, there would be an end of Seaforth. The buck tooth all could see, the mad Lovat was equally conspicuous, and though Mrs Chisholm had two handsome sons born after several years of childless wedlock, nobody ever thought of fathering them on her husband. In the beginning of this year Seaforth, the Chief of the McKenzies, boasted of two promising sons; both were gone, died within a few months of each other. The Chieftainship went into another branch, but the lands and the old Castle of Brahan would descend after Lord Seaforth’s death to his daughter. Lady Hood—an end of Caber-Feigh.7 This made every one melancholy, and the deaths had of course kept many away from the Meeting.