Memoirs of a Highland Lady

by Elizabeth Grant

  The gay set in Edinburgh was increased by the advent of Mr and Mrs Inglis, Mr and Mrs Horrocks, the McLeods of Harris, and others. Mr Inglis was but a Writer to the Signet, but a hospitable man reputed to be thriving in business; his Wife, sister to Mr Stein, the rich distiller, with a sister married to General Duff, Lord Fife’s brother, kept a sort of open dancing house, thus, as she fancied, ushering her two very pretty little daughters, really nice natural girls, into the world with every advantage. Her aim was to marry them well, that is, highly or wealthily. She fixed on McLeod of Harris for the younger, and got him; the elder fixed on Davidson of Tulloch for herself, and lost him. Did I forget to name Duncan Davidson among our peculiar friends. A finer, simpler, handsomer, more attractive young man was never ruined. Spoiled by flattery, and not very judiciously managed at home, year by year with sorrow we saw him falling from the better road, till at last no one named him. He was much in love with Catherine Inglis, and there was no doubt meant to marry her. He might perhaps have turned out better had his early inclinations not been thwarted. The old stock broker was as ambitious as Mrs Inglis, and expected a very much superiour connexion for his eldest son. Harris, having no father, could choose his own wife, too blind to see how very distasteful he was to her. This miserable beginning had a wretched ending hereafter. Charles McLeod, the brother, would have been more likely to take a young girl’s fancy. The McLeod sisters were nothing particular. Mr Horrocks was the very rich and extremely under bred son of a Liverpool merchant, a handsome little man married to a Glasgow beauty, a cold, reserved woman, who did not care for him a bit. They could do nothing better than give balls.

  Of course Miss Baillie gave her annual fête, no longer an amusing one. An Ayrshire aunt had died and left her and Mrs Gumming handsome legacies, upon the strength of which the Lady Logie came up to live in Edinburgh, and Grace Baillie bought a good house, furnished it neatly, and became quite humdrum. She had taken charge of a ‘decent man,’ for whom she wanted a proper wife—Sir Ewan Cameron of Fassiefern, made a Baronet as a mark of honour to the reputation of two, if not three, elder brothers all killed in the battlefield, leaving this poor body the only representative of the old family. She offered him both to Jane and me, and that we might not buy a pig in a poke, she paraded him several times before our windows on the opposite side of the street. These old kind of men were beginning to fancy us. I suppose we were considered, like them, on the decline. Mr Crawford, of Japan reputation, was seriously attracted first by one and then the other, but Jane carried the day, got all the languishing looks from such bilious eyes, an ivory fan, and the two heavy volumes of his Eastern history.16 A year or two after, he married Miss Perry, the Morning Chronicle,17 she being referred to me for his character, like a servant, and getting Mary Gillies to write to me to beg for a candid opinion of her elderly lover. When ladies arrive at asking for such opinions, one only answer can be given. Mine was highly satisfactory. We really knew no ill of the man; his appearance was the worst of him, and there was a drowned wife too, lost on her voyage home. She might have been saved on a desert island, and so start up some day like the old woman in the farce, to destroy the happiness of the younger bride and the bridegroom.

  But I had an old lover all to myself, unshared with any rival, won, not by my bright eyes, but by my spirited fingers, from playing the highland marches as Lady Huntly had taught me them. Old Colonel Steuart of Garth, seventy, I should think, always in a green coat, and silver broad rimmed spectacles, was writing the history of the 42nd Regiment, and the slow Black Watch, and the quickstep of the Highland Laddie, given better, he said, than by the band of his old love, so over excited or over enchanted him that he hardly ever quitted my side, and he gave me his precious work on its publication. I had my two thick volumes too, but they were not heavy ones. He was a fine old soldier, though a little of a bore sometimes, so very enthusiastick about the deeds of his warrior country men.18 He never went further in his love making than to wish he were a young man for my sake, so that Jane had the advantage over me of a real offer. As for poor little Sir Ewan, we left him to Grace Baillie.

  It was a great addition to the quiet home society we were beginning to prefer to the regular gaiety, the having Mrs Gumming settled near us. Her two elder sons had already gone out to India, Alexander in the Civil Service, Robert in the Artillery, both to Bengal. The three younger it was necessary to educate better, as it was gradually becoming more difficult to get passed through the examinations, and all were destined for the East. Besides, there was May Anne, who had hitherto, happy child, been let to run wild on the beautiful banks of the Findhorn, and who was now declared to be of an age requiring taming and training. John Peter, the third son, whom you know best as the Colonel, soon got his Cadetship and sailed away to Bombay. George and Willie, intended for army surgeons, were to study medicine, and were also to have their manners formed by appearing occasionally in society. Willie made his entrance into fashionable life at a large evening party of my mother’s. He was a handsome lad, very desirous of being thought a Beau, so he dressed himself in his best carefully, and noticing that all the fine young men were scented, he provided himself with a large white cotton pockethandkerchief of his mother’s which he steeped in peppermint water, a large bottle of this useful corrective always standing on the chimney piece in her room. Thus perfumed, and hair and whiskers oiled and curled, Willie, in a flutter of shyness and happiness, entered our brilliant drawing rooms, when he was pounced on by Miss Shearer, the very plain sister of Mrs James Grant, an oldish woman of no sort of fashion and cruelly marked with the small pox. ‘We’ll keep together, Willie,’ said Miss Shearer, at every attempt of poor Willie’s to shake himself clear of such an encumbrance in the crowd. How Dr Gumming laughed at these recollections when he and I met again after a lifetime’s separation. Up and down this ill assorted pair paraded, Miss Shearer seeming determined to shew off her beau. ‘There’s an extraordinary smell of peppermint here,’ said Lord Erskine to Mrs Henry Siddons, as the couple turned and twirled round to pass them, Willie flourishing the large pockethandkerchief in most approved style. It was really overpowering, nor could we contrive to get rid of it, nor to detect the offending distributor of such pharmaceutical perfume, till next day, talking over the party with the Lady Logie, she enlightened us, more amused herself by the incident than almost any of the rest of us.

  She was right to keep the bottle of peppermint where it could easily be found, as the sort of housekeeping she practised must have made a frequent appeal to it necessary. She bought every Saturday a leg of mutton and a round of beef; when the one was finished, the other was begun; the leg was roasted, the round was boiled, and after the first day they were eaten cold, and served herself, her daughter, her two sons, and her two maid servants the week. There were potatoes, and in summer cabbage, and peas that rattled, in winter oranges, and by the help of the peppermint the family throve. We never heard of illness among them; the minds expanded too, after their own queer fashion, even George, the most eccentrick of human beings, doing credit to the rearing. He was so very singular in his ways, his Mother was really uncertain about his getting through the College of surgeons. She made cautious enquiries now and then as to his studies, attention to lectures, notes of them, visits to the hospital, preparation for his thesis and so on, and getting very unsatisfactory replies, grew very fidgetty. One day one of the Medical Examiners stopt her in the street to congratulate her on the admirable appearance made by her son George when he was passed at Surgeon’s hall; his answers had been remarkable, and his thesis, dedicated to my father, had been No.2 or No.3 out of fifty. She was really amazed. ‘George,’ said she, when they met, ‘when did you get your degree?’ When did you pass your trials?, ‘Eh!’ said George, looking up with his most vacant expression. ‘Oh! just when I was ready for them.’ ‘You never told me a word about it?’ ‘No? Humph! you’d have heard fast enough if I’d failed.’ That was all she could get out of him; but he told us, that seeing the door of the Surgeon
’s hall open and finding it was an examining day, it just struck him that he would go in and get the job over; it was very easy to pass, he added. He has since at Madras risen high in his profession, been twice publickly thanked for the care of the troops, made money, married a wife; yet when he was at home on furlough he acted more like Dominie Sampson19 than any other character ever heard of.

  George Carr was also a medical student, a very attentive one, making up by diligence for no great natural capacity; he was kept in order by his sister, a young lady lately from Bath, as we were without ceasing reminded. She was a ladylike, rather nice looking person, without being at all handsome; beautifully neat and neat handed, and amiable, I believe, in her home, though dreadfully tiresome in ours; for when asked for a day, she staid a week, sharing my small room and civilly begging the loan of pins, oils, gloves, ribbons, handkerchiefs, and other small articles with none of which I was particularly well provided, and yet none were ever returned. We were not comfortably managed with regard to our private expenses, Jane and I. My Mother bought for us what she judged necessary, and she was apt to lay out more on handsome gowns than left her sufficient for clean gloves, neat shoes, fresh flowers; a way of proceeding that greatly distressed us—distressed me at least, for I was by nature tidy, had all the Raper methodically pricknickity ways, and a five guinea blonde trimmed dress, with calico or dirty gloves and ill made shoes, made me wretched; besides, there was no pleasure in managing a wardrobe not under my own controul. Out of economy I made most of my own clothes, many of my mother’s and Jane’s, yet reaped no benefit from this diligence, as what I disliked was often chosen for me, and what I hated I had to wear. The extreme neatness of Miss Carr exactly suited me; all her under clothes, made by herself, were perfection; her dresses of simple materials, except such as had been presents, were well fitting and fresh, so that she looked always nicer in a room than many much more expensively attired. She had the fault of hinting for presents, but then she loved dress, she loved company, she was not very wise, and her purse was very scanty. She amused us another way. She had such a string of lovers—had had; it was poor Miss Elphick and her early adorers over again; and if any one danced twice with her, she wriggled about like an eel when his name was mentioned. Every now and then we were informed in confidence that she was going to be married, or to try make up her mind to marry—that was the form. However, these affairs never progressed. A Mr Lloyd did ‘make his offer’; mother and daughter walked up in pleased agitation to tell us. He was an ugly, little, shabby old man, a friend of Mr Massie’s, who wanted a wife and was taken with her, but when they came to particulars, there was not money enough on either side to make the connexion prudent. It was a great feather though in Miss Carr’s thirty year cap, and she shook it out on all occasions with much complacency.

  Bessie Goodchild likewise favoured us with another visit; her teeth again required attention. She did not trust to a request and a favourable answer, but very sagaciously made sure she would be welcome for three days, and then contrived one way or another to stay above a month. She was very entertaining, and made herself very agreeable to my Mother with funny gossip about all the old Durham relations. She was no plague in the house, but we had been brought up too honestly to approve of her carrying tales from family to family, and mimicking the oddities of persons from whom she had received kindness. We had an odd family party sometimes—a Carr, a Goodchild, a Gillio, and Grace Baillie who thrice a week at least walked in at dinner time. My brother’s young men friends continued popping in morning and evening, when it suited them. He brought us most frequently William Gibson, Germaine Lavie, Robert Ferguson, now the superfine colonel, Mr Beauclerk, grandson of Topham’s20 John Dalzel, and the two Lindsays while they remained at College. Mary, now grown into a very handsome girl, did her part well in all home company. Johnny also was made a little man of; he had a Tutor for Latin, attended the French and dancing classes, and read English history with Jane. We had given up all masters except the Italian and the harp, which last taught us in classes, and thereby hangs a tale.

  Monsieur Elouis, the Harp master, charged so high for his private lessons, that my Mother suggested to him to follow the Edinburgh fashion of Classes at so much a quarter, three lessons a week. He made quite a fortune. There were eight pupils in a Class, the lessons lasting two hours. We three, the two Hunters, Grace Stein, afterwards Lady Don, Amelia Gillio and Catherine Inglis were his best scholars. We played concerted pieces doubling the parts. Chorus’s arranged by him, and sometimes duetts or solos, practising in other rooms. The fame of our execution spread over the town, and many persons entreated permission to mount up the long Common Stair to the poor frenchman’s garret to listen to such a number of harps played by such handsome girls. One or two of the Mamas would have had no objection, but my mother and Lady Hunter would not hear of their daughters being pan of an exhibition. We went there to learn, not to shew off. Miss Elphick, too. had her own ideas upon the subject. She always went with us, and was extremely annoyed by the group of young men so frequently happening to pass down the street just at the time our Class dispersed, some of them our dancing partners, so that there were bows and speeches and attendance home, much to her disgust. She waited once or twice till the Second Class assembled, but the Beaux waited too. So then she carried us all of a quarter of an hour too soon, leaving our five companions to their fate; and this not answering long, she set to scold Monsieur Elouis, and called the Edinburgh gentlemen all sorts of vile names. In the midst of her season of wrath the door of our musick room opened one day, and a very large fine looking military man, braided and belted and moustached, entered and was invited to be seated. Every harp was silent. ‘Mesdemoiselles,’ said Monsieur Elouis with his most polished air of command, ‘recommence if you please; this gentleman is my most particular friend, a musical amateur, etc.’ Miss Elphick was all in a flame; up she rose, up she made us rise, gather our musick together, and driving us and Amelia Gillio before her, we were shawled and bonnetted in less time than I am writing of it, and on our way down stairs before poor Monsieur had finished his apologies to the officer and the other young ladies. Never was little woman in such a fury. We never returned to the Harp Classes, neither did the Hunters, and very soon they were given up. It was certainly an unwarrantable liberty, an impertinence, and the man must either have been totally unaware of the sort of pupils he was to find, or else an illbred ignorant person. Poor Elouis never recovered the mistake; he had to leave for want of business.

  Margaret Gillio and I went shares in another master, mistress rather. She had a sweet, flexible, bird like voice and sang her little English ballads very prettily. I tried higher flights, but my singing was very so so till we had some lessons from Mrs Bianchi Lacey. She came with her husband and her apprentice, a Miss Simmons, to give a Concert or two and take a few pupils by the way. The concerts were delightful, the three sang so well together, the musick they gave us was so good, and it was all so simply done; her pianoforte the only accompaniment, and in the small Assembly room so that they were perfectly heard. It was a style of singing, hers, that we may call peculiarly ladylike; no very powerful voice, and it was now going, for she was no longer young; still it was round and true and sweet in the upper notes, and the finish of her whole song, the neatness of every passage, the perfect expression she gave both to musick and words, was all new to me. I could now understand it, and it gave to me a different notion of the art from any that had ever entered into my head before. The first Concert she gave we were so much amused with old Sir John Hay, one of the Directors, squiring her about, bringing her negus,21 a shawl, a chair, and what not, and my brother William doing ditto by Miss Simmons, that the first song by that young lady, ‘Hangels ever bright and fair,’22 she was Birmingham, made less impression than it should have done, for her voice was splendid. We never heard what became of her; she was pretty, so perhaps she married a pinmaker and led a private, instead of a hazardous publick, life. But the moment Mr Lacey and his Wife began th
eir delightful duetts we had ears for none else. My father offered me a dozen lessons. We had time for only ten—all, I may say, I ever got—but we went to her three concerts. They dined with us twice, and sang as much as we liked, and my mother gave an evening party for them at which their singing enchanted every body. It was essentially suited to the Drawing room. She was taught by old Bianchi, who made her a perfect musician. She played admirably and had a thorough knowledge of the Science. She was his apprentice and he married her. After a short widowhood she rather threw herself away on too young a husband,23 a very vulgar man with so much presumption of manner as to keep one in a fright lest he should commit some atrocity. It was like sitting on needles and pins, that young monkey our brother Johnny said, to sit in company with him. However, he never offended, and if he had, his fine voice would have secured his pardon.

  Mrs Lacey took a fancy to me, gave me extra long lessons, and the kindest directions for the management of my voice in her absence. She was very particular about the erect position of the head and chest, the smile with which the mouth was to be opened, the clear pronunciation of every word. She gave me a set of exercises to develop the powers of the voice, every tone, every half tone being brought out in every one of them; the inequalities were to be carefully marked and carefully improved. When we came to songs, she made me study one. First the poet’s meaning; his intentions were to be accurately ascertained, as accurately expressed aided by the musick, which was to accompany the words and follow out the idea. In fact the song was to be acted. Next it was to be embellished with a few occasional graces, very neatly executed, applied in fit pauses, the whole got up so perfectly as to be poured forth with ease, any effort, such as straining or forcing the voice or unduly emphasising a passage, being altogether so much out of taste as to produce pain instead of pleasure. Lastly she bid me practise what I liked, but never inflict on other ears what was not completely within my compass—no effort to myself. I owed her much, very much, and yet she did not teach me singing, at least not altogether. Her valuable advice, and her care of the form of the mouth, were the foundation of my after fame. My finishing instructress was Mrs Robert Campbell, She and her sister Mrs James Hamilton were two little Jewesses four feet high, whose father had been Consul at some of the Italian ports. One evening, at a small party at Mrs Munro’s, Mrs Robert Campbell sang a simple Italian ballad so beautifully, so exactly according to Mrs Lacey’s rules, it was all so easy, so satisfying, my lesson in singing was then, I felt, given me. She was encored by acclamation; this enabled me to follow every note. On going home I sat down to the piano forte, sang the ballad myself with every little grace that she had given it, next day repeated it, took another from a store sent us by Eliza Cottam, Ironside, then decorated it after my own taste, got every little turn to flow as from a flute, and in the evening treated my father to both. His surprise was only equalled by his extreme pleasure. It seemed to be the height of his musical expectations. However, we did more for him than that. He really loved musick, he loved us and was proud of us, and though he could sternly express his dissatisfaction, he was no niggard of praise when praise was due. We worked with a heart for a person so discriminating.