Memoirs of a Highland Lady

by Elizabeth Grant

  My poor Mother just at this time received a great shock in the death of her eldest brother, my Uncle William Ironside of Hough ton le Spring. He was thrown from his horse and killed on the spot. She was much attached to all her family, and she felt this much; but there is a silver lining to most clouds. My father came back in the summer, John followed, and for a few weeks we passed our time as normal. Then came the end.

  The Borough of Tavistock, for which my father had sat in the last two Parliaments, was now wanted by the Duke of Bedford for his wonderful son, little vain Lord John Russell.8 This enforced retirement closed the home world to my poor father; without this shield his person was not safe. He left us; he never returned to his Duchus. When he drove away to catch the Coach that lovely summer morning, he looked for the last time on those beautiful scenes I do believe he dearly loved, most certainly was proud and vain of, though he never valued his inheritance rightly. He went first to London and then abroad, taking John with him. Then came the news of his appointment to a judgeship in India—Bombay; Charles Grant, now Lord Glenelg, had done it,9 and we were desired to proceed to London immediately to prepare for the voyage. It was a blessing, and a shock—to me at least; every one else was rejoicing. Letters of congratulation came by every post. My poor mother smiled once more, and set about her preparations for removal with an alacrity that surprised us.

  There was a good deal to be done, for the house was to be left in a proper state to be let furnished with the shootings, a new and very profitable scheme for making money out of bare moors in the highlands. We were to take nothing with us but our wardrobes, all else was to be left for sale, and lists of the property left had to be made to prepare the way for the Auction. The stock and crop at the farm, the wine, the plate, the linen, the books, there was the rub, all and everything that was not furniture was to go, even what belonged to my sister and me, except a few pet treasures packed in a small box and left to the care of Mrs Macpherson. She sent them to me, afterwards, and I have a few still, but what belonged to the Doune I gave back to John, and my own small collection of coins I sold during our Irish famine when we were sorely pressed for money; I believe I was cheated for they only brought £50 but it was very welcome at that sad time, a time that set me writing again, and with success.

  My mother upset herself by reading old letters before destroying them; she was seriously ill. She warned me not to go through such a trial, and begged of me to burn all letters. I have done so, and regret it. Memory remains, fresh ever, its recollections are often quite as painful as the words of a letter.

  William would not let the creditors have the little pony carriage; I don’t know that it was exactly right, but nothing was ever said about it. It was given with its two pretty ponies, Sir Peter and Lady Teazle,10 to Lady Gibson Craig, by whom it was most fully valued. It was the last remnant of our better days. When every other luxury was parted with, that was kept for my Mother’s use. She took no other exercise. When my father was at home he always drove her out in it daily. I see them now—he in his gray woodman’s coat with leather belt holding a short axe and a saw, breeches and long leather gaiters, and a hat lined with green and turned up behind, the shortness of his neck bringing the stiff collar of the coat too near the brim of it. She in a drab great coat with a cape, made purposely for all weathers, and a queer misshaped black straw bonnet. Away they went all alone, out for hours, the commonest object of their drive being the pretty hill of the Callert, at the end of the Cambus Mor, which had been lately planted by my mother herself with money left to her by her aunt Jane Nesham. Before Jane married, when my father was away she was the driver. She wore a large flap straw hat, such as they all wear now, lined with green, her spectacles on, a plaid thrown round her; standing up at difficult corners, nodding and calling out to every passerby, on she whipped, my Mother, the greatest coward in the world, quite at ease under her guidance. Dear old days, happy through all the troubles. ‘Is na the heart tough that it winna break,’ said the unhappy Widow Macpherson, who lost her three fine sons in the Spanish war.

  The difficulty now was to provide funds for our journey. My Mother had put by £10 of Aunt Mary’s money; we had £5 left of the ‘Inspector.’ Belleville, kind Belleville, brought us £40, part of the produce of another packet of papers already printed, part advanced by him on some more which had been accepted, and would be paid for shortly. The old landau was cleaned, the horses ordered, the heavy trunks packed and sent off to Inverness to go by sea to London, and we were to start in the evening to dine and sleep at Belleville.

  It was in August, early in the month; the weather was beautiful, the country looked lovely, the Spey sparkled under the sunshine, the wooded hills on either side stood as they stand now, and we watched the sun setting behind Tor Alvie on that last day, without a tear. Mary and I had determined to be brave. We had called on every one of all degrees; we had taken leave of none, purposely avoiding any allusion to our approaching departure. We denied ourselves the sad pleasure of bidding farewell to favourite scenes. Once unnerved we feared giving way, so keeping actively busy, we went on day by day, looking forward with hope and drawing the veil of resignation over the past.

  My father had been knighted, and was safe in France, with John. William had been in London and Edinburgh and I know not where else, and had returned to take charge of us. Poor William, how broken down he looked, how wise and thoughtful he was; he said a great mercy had been vouchsafed to us, an honourable recovery was before my father, happiness and comfort secured to my mother. We should nourish but one feeling, gratitude; he said this, yet looked so serious.

  On this last day, all packing being done by the help of my Mother’s old maid, whom we had brought over from her inn at Aviemore to be with her during the night, the only person in or out of the house who knew how near was our departure, William and my Mother were in the Study sorting papers in the large old black cabinet; Mary and I went out for a walk to the garden for fruit—the pretty garden, all banks and braes and little dells, with hanging birch all round. It was just a step into the wood at the upper end and then on to the Milltown burn, chafing and sparkling in its rocky bed as we followed it along the path under the Ord. We crossed the wooden bridge; I had always loved that shady lane with the old woman in her chair, with her fan, perched up high above, and the blue Cairngorm at the end. We went on; we caught the lake, its dark fir skreens, the cottages near this end, the flour mill, the ruined castle on its island, our own pretty cottage with its porch and little flower garden and small green lawn sloping down to the lake, our boat tyed to the old stump, our cow grazing; we did not enter, we could not have sat down in the parlour our own hands had fitted up. We passed on into the path along the shore of the lake, Loch an Eilein, we did not go on to Loch Gaun, but turned off up the hill to the sheep cote and so round that shoulder of the Ord by our own walk, to the seat round the birch tree on the knoll above the river where we had rehearsed our plays, and where Jane took the sketch of the Doune which Robson tinted,11 then we went down through the wood to the walk by the Spey, coming out at the gate by the church, and in again to the planting by the backwater and so to the green gate under the beech tree, with few words, but not a tear till we heard that green gate clasp behind us; then we gave way, dropt down on the two mushroom seats and cried so bitterly. Alas! for resolution, had we not determined to avoid this grief. Even now I hear the clasp of that gate; I have heard it all my life, since I shall hear it till I die, it seemed to end the poetry of our existence. We had not meant to take that round; we had gone on gradually, enticed by the beauty of the day, the loveliness of the scenery, the recollections of the life from which we were parting. Long after we returned to the memory of this walk, recalling views, words, thoughts, never to be forgotten, and that we spoke of at sea, in India, at Pau, and at Avranches with a tender melancholy which bound my poor sister Mary and me more firmly together. We had gone through so much, with none to help us. Every body has a life, an inner life; every body has a private histo
ry; every body, at least almost every body, has found their own lot at some particular period hard to bear. The trials of our house were severe enough, when our young cheerful spirits felt their bitterness. What must my poor Mother have felt that last sad day. She so reserved, so easily fretted, so weary of suffering, so ill, and so lonely; hers had been a thickly shadowed life, none of it that I can remember really happy.

  She had slept well, Mrs McKenzie said; all through the day she was composed, particularly kept busy by William. About 5 o’clock he shewed us the carriage on the shingle on the other side of the river, and putting my Mother’s arm within his own, he led her out. No one till that moment knew that we were to go that evening, there was therefore no crowd; the few servants from the farm, joined by the two maids from the house, watched us crossing in the little boat, to which Mary and I walked down alone behind the others. Crossing the hall, William had caught up an old plaid of my father’s, which he used to wear when sauntering about the grounds and now was carried off to be put upon the seat of the boat; he called old John McIntosh to row us over—Robert Allan was with the carriage. When leaving the boat, my Mother threw this plaid over the bewildered old man’s shoulders. He knew it was the Laird’s, and I heard he was buried in it. We entered the carriage, never once looked back, never shed a tear, though the eyes sometimes filled, very gravely we made out those eight miles among those hills and woods, and heaths and lakes, and the dear Spey, all of which we had loved from childhood and which never again could be the same to any of us.

  Belleville and Mrs Macpherson received us so kindly, so warmly, cheerfully as of old. The dinner was even pleasant, so skilfully did these best of friends manage the conversation. No one was with them. Mrs Macpherson sat a long while with Mary and me at night, strengthening all right feelings with all her powers of wisdom. She had had two pretty lockets made to enclose her hair, and she cut a long Trichinopoly12 chain in two to hang them on; these were her parting gifts. Belleville gave to each of us writing cases fully furnished. My Mother, who was a beautiful needle woman, had been embroidering trimmings broad and narrow to be left as remembrances with her friend of thirty years. We avoided a parting, having arranged with William to set off early, before our hosts were up; the only deceit we ever practised on them. We travelled on thro’ the bleak hill road, and posting all the way reached Perth to dinner.

  Here an unexpected difficulty met us. A coachmaker, not paid for some repairs done to the carriage at various times, seized it for a debt of £40. He was inexorable; we must pay our bill or lose our carriage. William came to me; I never saw him more annoyed; all our imperials and other luggage with their contents seized, like wise. We were in despair, feeling how very little would upset our poor mother—it was the last straw. I recollected kind Belleville’s £40 for my unfinished ‘Painter’s Progress,’ very grieved to give it to such a hard man to pay him all when others, more deserving, would only get their due by degrees; but we had no choice, so after a good night’s rest we entered our redeemed carriage and drove on to Edinburgh. There the carriage was seized again and allowed to go; we wanted it no longer. We were much annoyed my brother and I by hosts of unpaid tradesmen, whom it was agreed that I should see, as they were likely to be more considerate with me—I, who could do nothing. William kept out of the way and we would not allow my Mother to be worried. The only cross creditor among the crowd was old Sanderson the Lapidary; there really was not much owing to him; a few pounds for setting some of uncle Edward’s agates; these few pounds he insisted on getting, and as there was no money to be had he kept a pretty set of garnets he had got to clean, which had been left to me by Miss Neale, the sister of our great Uncle Alexander’s Wife; they were set in gold, and though not in fashion then, have been all the rage since. I was thankful to get rid of even one of those unfortunate men, whom I was ashamed of seeing daily at our hotel, Douglas’s in Saint Andrew’s Square, where we were very comfortably lodged, and where we had to stay for the sailing of the Steamer, which then went but twice a week from Leith to London, and for a remittance to provide for our expenses.

  At that season very few of our friends were in town, which was a relief to all, but Lord Jeffrey and Lord Moncrieff came in from their country houses to take leave of us. They were much attached both to my sisters and to me; it was a truly Uncle’s kiss and an Uncle’s blessing they left with us. I never saw Lord Moncreiff again; Lord Jeffrey lived to greet me with the old warmth years afterwards. What a Society we had lived with, those clever contemporaries of my father took very kindly to his children. We had sufficient intellect to understand their superiority and to shew that our minds were capable of enlargement in such company.

  One day and night we spent at Riccarton; neither house nor grounds were then finished. We thought the scale grand, quite suited to the old place and the fine fortune. They were all kind, the whole family, father, mother, sons and daughters. We had been intimate for so long, so much together. Mary was married, the rest were all at home and very sad at the parting. Even William, though he tried to affect high spirits with that strange vulgarity of feeling which he retained till very late in life till long after his marriage with that pretty, lady like Bessie Vivian, who introduced him to society, which improved his ways—he became a polished gentleman and though his father could not turn him into a politician, he made a very useful and agreeable country gentleman,—he gained great credit by the reforms he made in the Edinburgh Record office. He had a good clear head and good business habits, I was sorry to bid him goodbye; his brother, afterwards my brother in law, was I think less attractive.

  We were two beautiful days and two calm nights at sea; I recollect the voyage as agreeable, and there were incidents in it of no moment in themselves, and yet that turned to account. Mr and Mrs L’Espinasse and two of their children were on board going to France. She kept out of the way; he was always beside us chattering away in French in his lively style; two foreigners were attracted and edged their way up to the merry party, a Prussian and a Swiss, travelling on business more than for pleasure, but of what sort they did not say. They had scraped acquaintance with another passenger, a very agreeable American, Dr Birkbeck, whose lately published book Mary and I had just been reading, it was lent to us by Belleville.13 We got on so well with our learned companion that he gave me a copy of his book and a passion flower wreath made in feathers by the nuns of a convent in Canada, very pretty it was and very useful. The only lady we ventured on was a nice looking woman in an Indian shawl, a straw cottage bonnet and a green veil, who was lame and very delicate. On hearing we were bound for Bombay she told us we should find her husband there, a Doctor Eckford, and that he would be glad to hear of her from those who had so lately seen her. She wrote her name on a leaf of her pocket book, and the date, tore it out and gave it to me to show to him. It was so calm we steamed on in sight of the coast a great part of the way; the sea was alive with shipping, mostly small craft, and then we sighted the North Foreland, where the L’Espinasses left us, in a boat which conveyed them to the Boulogne Steamer. We entered the river, when I was actually startled by the sight of two large Indiamen outward bound, floating down with the tide so grandly, moving on their way, their long, long way, with such a silent dignity. There seemed to be no one on board but the crew. As we passed the huge hulls and gazed upon the open cabin windows, our own destiny, so little liked, seemed to come more certainly upon us, and I know I turned away and wept.

  We reached London, or rather Blackwall, in the afternoon, engaged two hackney coaches for ourselves and our luggage—my poor Mother, there was a fall; she did so feel it, and on we went to Dover Street, Piccadilly, where lodgings had been taken for us in the name of General Need. He and dear Annie were there to welcome us, and so began a busy time. It is so long ago, so much was done, so very much was suffered, that I can hardly now, at the end of twenty years, recall the events of those trying days; the order of them has quite escaped me. The few friends in or near London in the month of September gathered round.
Dear Aunt Lissy and all her Freres, and good old Sophy Williams, Jane and Colonel Pennington, Lord Glenelg and Robert Grant. Lastly my father and John, he had to come to see Sir Charles Forbes,14 but it encreased our difficulties for he was watched and tracked, though we had kept very quiet. A violent ringing disturbed us one day, and a violent knocking too, by several parties all insisting on being let in, on seeing some one, on finding Sir John Grant; he was in these lodgings, they were sure he was, he had lodged here before, he certainly had during a sharp fit of illness, and it was a mistake that they had been taken for us, but he knew the old maiden land lady who had been so kind to him would be attentive to his family, and she was; he had won her heart, as he won every one’s, and she stood to us well. She said she had let her rooms to General Need, whose wife’s trunks with her address upon them were luckily in the hall, and so she got rid of this alarm. For fear of another, it was determined to divide our party. John went to the Freres, Mary was carried off by Jane and her Colonel to Malshanger. My father and mother went to a lodging in a distant street, the General returned to his Cat and Fiddle, leaving dear Annie with me for a little time. Margaret Couper too came now and then to help me, and Mary having left her measure with the required trades people, I got through my work well, Lord Glenelg lending his carriage, for he would not allow Mrs Need and me to go to the City or the Dock in a hackney coach without a footman. Our imprudent father could not keep quiet; he was so well known he was followed once or twice, and being so short sighted he might have been seized but for the cleverness of the shop people. So it was resolved therefore to send him away, and on Sunday he and John steamed from the Tower stairs to Boulogne. William saw them safe off and then took my Mother to Malshanger. At rest at last, I got on quickly with the necessary preparations. Most of those I had to deal with were so kind, and when Mrs Need had to go home good Mrs Gillio came daily to me; her daughter Isabella was going to Bombay under my mother’s care, so that our business was the same. She went with me to the docks to see the ships and arrange the cabins. It was a new and a most wonderful sight to me—a world of shipping up and down, on every side masts and huge hulls filling all space. How any particular vessel was made out our land eyes could never discover. We should have been perplexed indeed to make out our Mauntstewart Elphinstone15 had we not had a guide. The cabins were furnished, and all the linen of our wardrobes, gentlemen and ladies, supplied by an Outfitter in the Strand, and even our ordinary dresses the few that we required. I had only to get besides, shoes, stockings, gloves, books, stationery, all the little necessaries our toilettes and our occupations needed. My Mother had herself given orders to Miss Steuart for the ornamental dresses, and a tailor had measured us for habits. I saw an Ayah too, a clever little Arab accustomed to wait on ladies. She had come home with a mistress who recommended her strongly, so I hired her to attend on Mary and me. My Mother had engaged in the highlands a pretty half cast girl, the child of a returned soldier, who was anxious to go back to the country she well remembered.