Memoirs of a Highland Lady

by Elizabeth Grant

  Aunt Mary amused us very much by her admiration of handsome young men. One of the Macphersons of Ralea, and the two Clarkes of Dalnavert, John and William, were very much with us; they were dangerous intimates, but they did us no harm; I do not know that they did themselves much good. Aunt Mary would have woven a romance about the Clarkes had she had time; nobodies on the father’s side, but on the Mother’s lineally descended from the Shawes of Rothiemurchus. It was hard on them to see their ancient foes in their inheritance. It is curious how those highland laddies, once introduced to the upper world, take their places in it as if born to fill them. No young man, School and College bred, could have more graceful manners than John Clarke; he entered the army from his humble home at Dalnavert, just taught a little by the kindness of Belleville. He was a first rate Officer, became A.D.C., married a Baronet’s daughter, and became well the high position he won. The brother William, a gentlemanly sailor, married a woman of family and fortune, and settled in Hampshire. The sisters, after the death of their parents, went to an Aunt in South America, where most of them married well, the eldest to a nephew of the celebrated General Greene.6 All of them rose as no other race ever rises; there is no vulgarity for them to lose and there is the good blood and the old recollections to help them on. Then came John Dalzel, a good young man, said to be clever, known to be industrious, educated with all the care that clever parents, School, College, a good society in Lord Eldin’s house, could command; who, grave, dull, awkward, looked of inferiour species to the ‘gentle Celts.’

  This Autumn King George the 4th, then, I think, only Regent, visited Scotland. The whole country went mad. Every body strained every point to get to Edinburgh to receive him. Sir Walter Scott and the town Council were overwhelming themselves with the preparations. My Mother did not feel well enough for the bustle, neither was I at all fit for it, so we staid at home with Aunt Mary. My father, my two sisters and William, with lace, feathers, pearls, the old landau, the old horses, and the old liveries, all went to add to the Show, which they said was delightful. The Countess of Lauderdale presented my two sisters and the two Miss Grants of Congalton, a group allowed to be the prettiest there. The Clan Grant had quite a triumph, no equipage was as handsome as that of Colonel Francis Grant, our acting Chief, in their red and green and gold. There were processions, a Review, a Levée, a Drawing room, and a Ball, at which last Jane was one of the young ladies selected to dance in the reel before the Regent, with, I think, poor Captain Murray of Abercairney, a young naval officer, for her partner.7 A great mistake was made by the Stage Managers—one that offended all the southron Scots; the King wore at the Levée the highland dress. I daresay he thought the country all highland, expected no fertile plains, did not know the difference between the Saxon and the Celt.8 However, all else went off well, this little slur on the Saxon was overlooked, and it gave occasion for a good laugh at one of Lady Saltoun’s witty speeches. Some one objecting to this dress, particularly on so large a man, whose nudities were no longer attractive, ‘Nay,’ said she, ‘we should take it very kind of him; since his stay will be so short, the more we see of him the better.’ Sir William Curtis was kilted too, and standing near the King, many persons mistook them, amongst others John Hamilton Dundas, who kneeled to kiss the fat Alderman’s hand, when, finding out his mistake, he called out, ‘Wrong, by Jove,’ and rising, moved on undaunted to the larger presence.

  One incident connected with this bustling time made me very cross. Lord Conyngham, the Chamberlain, was looking every where for pure Glenlivet whiskey—the King drank nothing else—it was not to be had out of the highlands. My father sent word to me, I was the Cellarer, to empty my pet bin, where was whiskey long in wood, long in uncorked bottles, mild as milk, and the true contraband goût in it. Much as I grudged this treasure it made our fortunes afterwards, shewing on what trifles great events sometimes depend. The whiskey, and fifty brace of ptarmigan all shot by one man in one day, went up to Holyrood House, and were graciously received and made much of, and a reminder of this attention at a proper moment by the gentlemanly Chamberlain ensured to my father the Indian Judgeship.

  While part of the family were thus royally or loyally occupied, passing away a gay ten days in Edinburgh, my dear, kind Aunt and I were strolling through the beautiful scenery of Rothiemurchus. She loved to revisit all the places she had so admired in her youth. When attended by the train of retainers which then accompanied her progress, she had learned from her kilted suite more of the ancient doings of our race than I with all my research had been able to pick up even from dear old Mr Cameron. She was all highland, an enthusiast in her admiration of all that fed the romance of her nature, so different from the placid comfort of her early home. Our strolls were charming; she on foot, I on my poney. We went long distances, for we often stopt to rest beside some little sparkling burnie, and seated on the heather and beside the cranberries, we ate the luncheon we had brought with us to a basket that was hung on the crutch of my saddle. I was much more fitted to understand her fine mind at this time than I should have been the year before. My long illness, which had confined me for so many months to my room, where most of the time was passed in solitude, had thrown me for amusement on the treasures of my father’s library, First I took to light reading, but finding there allusions to subjects of graver import of which I was nearly ignorant, I chalked out for myself really a plan of earnest study. The history of my own country, and all connected with it, in eras, taking in a sketch of other countries, consulting the references where we had them, studying the literature of each period, comparing the past with the present. It was this course faithfully pursued till it interested me beyond idea that made me acquainted with the worth of our small collection of books. There was no subject on which sufficient information could not be got. I divided my reading time into four short sittings, varying the subjects, by advice of good Dr Smith, to avoid fatigue, and as I slept little it was surprising how many volumes even in this way I got through. It was ‘the making of me,’ as we Irish say. Our real mission here on earth had never been hinted to me. We had no fixed aim in life, nor even an idea of ‘wasted time.’ To do good, and to avoid evil, we were certainly taught, and very happy we were while all was bright around us. When sorrow came I was not fit to bear it, I had to bear it all alone. We were brought up in Spartan fashion, to let the fox bite beneath the cloke. The utmost reserve was inculcated upon us whenever a disagreeable effect would be produced by an exhibition of our feelings. In this case, too, the subject had been prohibited, so the fox bit hard and the long illness was the result, but the after-consequences were good, The mind was brightened, as well as chastened and strengthened by this wise occupation, the disposition improved by the habit of reflexion.

  It was new to me to think. I had never thought before. I often lay awake in the early summer morning looking from my bed through the large south window of that pretty ‘White room,’ thinking of the world beyond those fine old beech trees, taking into the picture the green gate, the undulating field, the bank of birch trees, and the Ord Bain, and on the other side the height of the Polchar, and the smoke from the gardener’s cottage; wondering, dreaming, and not omitting self accusation, for discipline had been necessary to me, and I had not borne my cross meekly. My foolish, frivolous, careless career and its punishment came back upon me painfully, but no longer angrily; I learned to excuse as well as to submit, so kissed the rod in a brave spirit which met its reward. Poor, poor Lizzy Glass, my name sake, the very pretty under dairy maid, used to come to my bedside every morning with a frothy cup of Ass’s milk, which I owed to the kindness of Jane and Emilia Cumming, and she always said in presenting it with her sweet, innocent smile—for she was innocent then, poor thing—in the only English she knew, ‘Sleep well’; which I generally did for an hour or two. I was still confined to my room, but being able now to write and to work, no longer found the time so weary and my wise Aunt found me a new and most pleasant employment. She set me upon writing essays, short tales, an
d at length a novel. I don’t suppose they were intrinsically worth much, and I am sure I do not know what has become of them, but the venture was invaluable. I tried higher flights afterwards with success when help was more wanted.

  All this while, who was very near us, within a thought of coming on to find us out, had he more accurately known our whereabouts. He who hardly seven years after became my husband. He was an Officer of the Indian Army at home on furlough,9 diverting his leisure by a tour through part of Scotland; he was sleeping quietly at Dunkeld while I was waking during the long night at the Doune. Uncle Edward, his particular friend, had so often talked of us to him that he knew us almost individually, but for want of a letter of introduction would not volunteer a better acquaintance. It was better for me as it was. I know well, had he come to Rothiemurchus, Jane would have won his heart. So handsome she was, so lively, so kind, a sickly invalid would have had no chance with her. Major Smith and Miss Jane would have ridden enthusiastically through the woods together, and I should have been unnoticed. All happens well, could we but think so; and so my future husband returned alone to India, and I had to go there after him!

  At the close of this Autumn my Aunt was to leave us to spend the winter with her old friend Miss Lawrence at Studley. I was to go with her, Doctor Smith not thinking it would be safe for me to risk the cold frosts of the highlands. Miss Lawrence so very kindly wished me to remain with her during my Aunt’s visit, but Annie Need had arranged with my father that I was to be her guest during this winter; it was a long promised treat, so I could only give a month to Studley on my way to Sherwood forest.

  Before we left the Doune there had been a family Council held on Weighty affairs. Our cousin Kate Ironside, the eldest of the Houghton family, who had been sent for to Bombay by Uncle Edward in the year 1819, had married well; her husband, Colonel Barnewall, an excellent man, was then Resident at Kaira, much considered in the Service; he had permitted Kate to send for her two next sisters, Eliza and Mary, and Uncle Edward wished my sister Mary to accompany them. She had been his pet in her babyhood. My father and Mother were rather offended by the proposal, but left the decision to Mary herself. She declined of course for the present, leaving the matter open for future consideration, with the caution for which she was so remarkable ‘There is no saying,’ said she, ‘but what Bombay might some day prove a Godsend. Life is dull enough here.’ At this same time a Writership offered by old Charles Grant to my brother John was refused, to my Mother’s grief. for she had set her heart upon it. She had a craze for India, and would have despatched every individual boy or girl over whom she had any influence to that land of the sun. My father and William, indeed our Aunt Mary too, thought that John’s great abilities would ensure him employment at home. So this matter was postponed.

  Towards the end of October my Aunt and I set out upon our travels, escorted by my brother William. We went in the travelling chariot with our own horses, sleeping two nights upon the road, and we staid a week in Edinburgh in our own house in King Street, which my father had lent to Uncle Ralph. His son Edmund, his nephew James Hamilton, and John Dundas were living with him and attending College. Very few people were in town, but Aunt Judy kindly brought these few of our old friends who were remaining there to see us, and gave two very pleasant little dinners to us. Miss Clerk, and Mary Dalzel of course, with her beautiful pianoforte musick, only equalled by poor Eliza’s own, and William Clerk, the clever oddity who, it was said, read up in the mornings for conversational purposes, and at the dinners adroitly brought in the prepared subject; he made himself most agreeable any way with his shrewd mother wit. I remember one bit of sarcasm particularly well. He could not bear a pompous little man, who had married his cousin, Mr Wedderburn, the Solicitor-General. As this little body was parading the Parliament house one day with the air of a Socrates, he was thus weighed and valued by the Cynick—‘Oh, gin I could buy you at my price and sell you at your own.’

  We proceeded by Coach to Carlisle, the first time I had ever set foot in a publick carriage, and very disagreeable I found it, so fine was the upper world in those days. The country we passed through was delightful to us who were learned in Ballad lore; Ettrick Shawes and Galla water, the braes of Yarrow and the Cowdenknowes, all spoke to us though from a distance, as we passed on to merry Carlisle, which we reached too late and too sleepy to look at. Next day we passed on over the Wolds to Greta Bridge and Kirby, find so on to Studiey, where I remained till close on Xmas, William found the life too dull, so he set off to Annie Need, with whom he remained visiting about till it was time to return for me.

  At that season of the year old Miss Lawrence lived nearly alone; her open house style ended with the autumn. We found only a few intimate friends with her. Two middle aged Miss Johnstones, who seemed to make regular tours among rich acquaintances. A very underbred and very flirting Miss Glaister the old lady’s goddaughter, the child of her Land Steward; Mr Charnock, her chaplain, a good kind of man in an humble way; his pupil, Mr Nares; Sir Tristram Ricketts, who romped with the younger Miss Johnstone and occasionally a Mr Newsam, a young clergyman to whom Miss Lawrence had given a good living, in expectation of his marriage with Miss Glaister.

  Breakfast was early; the post, needle work, and musick occupied the morning, and a ride or a walk before luncheon; a drive in the afternoon, or another walk. Dinner, which was served in the small dining room, and was always pleasant, and then duetts on the pianoforte in the evenings. Miss Lawrence always played the bass, Miss Johnstone and I in turn the treble. I daresay the old lady had been a good musician in her day, according to the style of musick and limited execution then in fashion. It was rather a melancholy performance now. She was quite unaware of this, for when she went out to dinner she always took musick and Miss Johnstone with her. Poor Miss Johnstone, she used to look up with such a peculiar smile while selecting the pieces.

  Miss Lawrence was very kind to me. She sent a pianoforte to my room that I might practise in quiet. She gave me a key to the bookcases in the library, and generally chose me as her companion in her morning rides. We rode two donkeys, she on Johnny, I on Jack. She rode first in a very old duffle cloke of a grey colour and a black gypsey hat, encouraging her somewhat slothful steed by a brisk ‘Johnny, get on’ every now and then. Jack required no stimulus, and thus we wandered for hours through the beautiful grounds of Studley Royal. It was one of the Lions of Harrogate, and certainly its extensive old fashioned gardens deserved a visit. There were lawns, thickets, laurel banks, lakes, grottoes, temples, statues, the beautiful old ruins of Fountains Abbey, kept most incorrectly clean and tidy as if washed and trimmed daily, and one old manor house near it—a gem—now the residence of the game keeper. The fruit gardens were large, the offices good, the house itself, though convenient, with many fine rooms in it, was hardly worthy of its surroundings. The pretty village of Ripon was within a couple of miles, a fine old Cathedral in it, which I was always to be sent to visit, but somehow never managed to get there. I did go one fine, sunny, frosty day on my donkey to Kirby Lonsdale, a pretty little bit of scenery in a tame country. It was Miss Lawrence’s original inheritance, she was very fond of it. She succeeded to Studley and the large Leicestershire estates on the death of her only brother, and had passed an uneasy life since, lived on by a host of parasites who knew well how to make their own use of her. She would have been happier had she married, but she had early determined to remain single. Very plain in person, very awkward in manner, no man had ever found out her real worth during her brother’s life. After his death proposals of marriage were showered on her, which so disgusted her that she made a resolution to refuse all. A sensible husband, though he could not have been a lover, would have been a true friend and would have managed her immense property, political interests and all, and kept the mean crew off.

  Her chaplain, good Mr Charnock, did his best to prevent her being too shamelessly imposed upon, but he could not save her altogether; neither could her Auditor, Sir Launcelot Shadweil, whose visits
were rare. She did not particularly like her heir, Lord Grantham, and she particularly disliked his very handsome Irish wife, whom she thought with reason to be rather worldly.

  At this time the kind old lady was quite occupied with Miss Glaister’s marriage. She had made the young pair many handsome presents, and had been deceived all through, both she and poor Mr Newsam, by this artful girl; for one fine day the young lady set out for the Border with that mere boy Mr Nares, Mr Charnock’s pupil, and such a fuss ensued as never was—Doctor Nares accused Mr Chamock of inattention; Lady Charlotte accused Mrs Lawrence with connivance, and the Bride being of humble birth, only the Land Steward’s daughter, the respectable Churchill blood never could forgive the misalliance. I never heard what became of the pair.

  It was very cold during my stay at Studley, frost and snow equal to the highlands. William and I had a very chilly journey after being set down, I forget where, out of Miss Lawrence’s comfortable chariot. Dear Annie Need was waiting for us at Doncaster, where poor William and I parted; he went back to Edinburgh. Annie took me to the pleasant jointure house of one of the Mrs Walkers, where we spent the night, and were amused and amazed at the Xmas Storeroom; it was as full as Mrs Lawrence’s. Blankets, flannels, great coats, clokes, petticoats, stockings, all the warmth that the poor could want in the wintry season. I was unused to such wholesale charity; neither do I think it wise; there can be no spirit either of independance or economy where the expectation of relief unearned is a habit. Next day we reached Fountain Dale to dinner. It was a neat, small house, with tiny grounds, well kept, planted out from a wide stretch of heath that had once been an oak forest. A chain of fish ponds, full of well preserved fish, carp, tench and such like, enlivened the scene, but though all was very tidy, there was no beauty either there or in the neighbourhood. The remains of Sherwood forest were not near this bleak and scantily populated district. There were one or two dull villages, the ugly little town of Mansfield, very few gentlemen’s seats, none with any pretensions, and a general want of wood. Perhaps if I were to see the country now I should wonder at these impressions—every body was planting busily, and thirty years gives a wonderful growth to well preserved timber.