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Marriage

by Susan Ferrier · English · Gutenberg #12669 · 933,889 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Marriage

Author: Susan Ferrier


        
Release date: June 1, 2004 [eBook #12669]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARRIAGE ***

MARRIAGE

A Novel by Susan Ferrier

"Life consists not of a series of
illustrious actions; the greater part of our time passes in
compliance with necessities--in the performance of daily  duties--in
the removal of small inconveniences--in the procurement of petty
pleasures; and we are well or ill at ease, as the main stream of life
glides on smoothly, or is ruffled by small and frequent
interruption."--JOHNSON.



Edinburgh Edition

IN TWO VOLUMES

VOLUME I.

LONDON

RICHARD BENTLEY & SON

Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen

1881

_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, _Edinburgh._




PREFATORY NOTE.

MISS FERRIER'S Novels have, since their first appearance, suffered
curtailment in all subsequent Editions. The present Edition is the first
reprint from the original Editions, and contains the whole of the
omissions in other reprints. It is, therefore, the only perfect Edition
of these Novels.

Works which have received the praise of Sir Walter Scott and Sir James
Mackintosh, and been thought worthy of discussion in the _Noctes
Ambrosianae,_ require no further introduction to the reader. The almost
exceptional position which they occupy as satirizing the foibles rather
than the more serious faults of human nature, and the caustic character
of that satire, mingled with such bright wit and genial humour, give
Miss Ferrier a place to herself in English fiction; and it is felt that
a time has come to recognize this by producing her works in a form which
fits them for the library, and in a type which enables them to be read
with enjoyment.

          G.B.

NEW BURLINGTON STREET,

_December_
_1881._




MISS FERRIER'S NOVELS. [1]

In November 1854 there died in Edinburgh one who might, with truth, be
called almost the last, if not the last, of that literary galaxy that
adorned Edinburgh society in the days of Scott, Jeffrey, Wilson, and
others. Distinguished by the friendship and confidence of Sir Walter
Scott, the name of Susan Edmonstone Ferrier is one that has become
famous from her three clever, satirical, and most amusing novels of
_Marriage, The Inheritance,_ and _Destiny._ They exhibit, besides, a
keen sense of the ludicrous almost unequalled. She may be said to have
done for Scotland what Jane Austen and Maria Edgeworth have respectively
done for England and Ireland--left portraits, painted in undying
colours, of men and women that will live for ever in the hearts and
minds of her readers. In the present redundant age of novel writers and
novel-readers, and when one would suppose the supply must far exceed the
demand from the amount of puerile and often at the same time prurient
literature in the department of fiction that daily flows from the press,
it is refreshing to turn to the vigorous and, above all, healthy moral
tone of this lady's works. To the present generation they are as if they
had never been, and to the question, "Did you ever read _Marriage?"_ it
is not uncommon in these times to get such an answer as, "No, never. Who
wrote it?" "Miss Ferrier." "I never heard of her or her novels." It is
with the view, therefore, of enlightening such benighted ones that I pen
the following pages.

[1] Reprinted from the _Temple Bar_ Magazine for November 1878, Vol I.


Miss Ferrier was the fourth and youngest daughter of James Ferrier,
Writer to the Signet, and was born at Edinburgh, 7th of September 1782.
Her father was bred to that profession in the office of a distant
relative, Mr. Archibald Campbell of Succoth (great grandfather of
the present Archbishop of Canterbury).To his valuable and extensive
business, which included the management of all the Argyll estates, he
ultimately succeeded. He was admitted as a member of the Society of
Writers to the Signet in the year 1770. He was also appointed a
Principal Clerk of Session through the influence (most strenuously
exerted) of his friend and, patron, John, fifth Duke of Argyll, [1] and
was a colleague in that office with Scott. He also numbered among his
friends Henry Mackenzie, the "Man of Feeling," Dr. Hugh Blair, and last,
though not least, Burns the poet. His father, John Ferrier, had been in
the same office till his marriage with Grizzel, only daughter and
heiress of Sir Walter Sandilands Hamilton, Bart., of Westport, county
Linlithgow. [2] John Ferrier was the last Laird of Kirklands, county
Renfrew, subsequently sold to Lord Blantyre. Mr. James Ferrier was the
third son of his parents, and was born 1744. [3] Miss Ferrier was in the
habit of frequently visiting at Inveraray Castle in company with her
father, and while there had ample opportunity afforded her of studying
fashionable life in all its varied and capricious moods, and which have
been preserved to posterity in her admirable delineations of character.
Her reason for becoming an authoress is from her own pen, as follows,
and is entitled a preface to _The Inheritance_:--

[1] To this nobleman, in his later years, Mr. Ferrier devoted much of
his time, both at Inveraray and Roseneath. He died in 1806. His Duchess
was the lovely Elizabeth Gunning. Mr. Ferrier died at 25 George Street,
Edinburgh, January 1829, aged eighty-six. Sir Walter Scott attended his
funeral. After his death Miss Ferrier removed to a smaller house, in
Nelson Street.

[2] Sir Walter's father, Walter Sandilands of Hilderston, a cadet of the
Torphichen family (his father was commonly styled Tutor of Calder),
assumed the name of Hamilton on his marriage with the heiress of
Westport.

[3]  His brothers were: William, who assumed the name of Hamilton on
succeeding his grandfather in the Westport estate. He was in the navy,
and at the capture of Quebec, where he assisted the sailors to drag the
cannon up the heights of Abraham; m. Miss Johnstone of Straiton, co.
Linlithgow; died 1814. Walter; m. Miss Wallace of Cairnhill, co. Ayr,
father of the late Colonel Ferrier Hamilton of Cairnhill and Westport.
Ilay, major-general in the army; m. first Miss Macqueen, niece of Lord
Braxfield, second, Mrs. Cutlar of Orroland, co. Kirkcudbright. He was
Governor of Dumbarton Castle, and died there 1824.

An introduction had been requested for the first of these three works,
_Marriage;_ but while the author was considering what could be said for
an already thrice-told tale, it had passed through the press with such
rapidity as to outstrip all consideration. Indeed, what can be said for
any of them amounts to so little, it is scarcely worth saying at all.
The first was begun at the urgent desire of a friend, and with the
promise of assistance, which, however, failed long before the end of the
first volume; the work was then thrown aside, and resumed some years
after. [1] It afforded occupation and amusement for idle and solitary
hours, and was published in the belief that the author's name never
would be guessed at, or the work heard of beyond a very limited sphere.
_'Ce n'est que le premier pas qu'il coute'_ in novel-writing, as in
carrying one's head in their hand; _The Inheritance_ and _Destiny
_followed as matters of course. It has been so often and confidently
asserted that almost all the characters are individual portraits, that
the author has little hope of being believed when she asserts the
contrary. That some of them were sketched from life is not denied; but
the circumstances in which they are placed, their birth, habits,
language, and a thousand minute particulars, differ so widely from the
originals as ought to refute the charge of personality. With regard to
the introduction of religious sentiment into works of fiction, there
exists a difference of opinion, which, in the absence of any
authoritative command, leaves each free to act according to their own
feelings and opinions. Viewing this life merely as the prelude to
another state of existence, it does seem strange that the future should
ever be_ wholly_ excluded from any representation of it, even in its
motley occurrences, scarcely less motley, perhaps, than the human mind
itself. The author can only wish it had been her province to have raised
plants of nobler growth in the wide field of Christian literature; but
as such has not been her high calling, she hopes her 'small herbs of
grace' may, without offence, be allowed to put forth their blossoms
amongst the briars, weeds, and wild flowers of life's common path.

[1] It underwent several changes before its final publication in 1818.



"Edinburgh,
_April_ 1840."

The friend on whose assistance she relied was Miss Clavering, daughter
of Lady Augusta Clavering, and niece of the late Duke of Argyll. Between
this lady and our author an early friendship existed, which was severed
only by death. It commenced in 1797, when Miss Ferrier lost her mother,
[1] and when she went with her father to Inveraray Castle she was then
fifteen, and her friend only eight. Miss Clavering became the wife of Mr.
Miles Fletcher, advocate, but was better known in later years as Mrs.
Christison. She inherited all the natural elegance and beauty of face
and form for which her mother, and aunt Lady Charlotte Campbell, were so
distinguished, and died at Edinburgh, 1869, at an advanced age. While
concocting the story of her first novel, Miss Ferrier writes to her
friend in a lively and sprightly vein:--



[1] Mrs. Ferrier _(nee_ Coutts) was the daughter of a farmer at Gourdon,
near Montrose. She was very amiable, and possessed of great personal
beauty, as is attested by her portrait by Sir George Chalmers, Bart., in
a fancy dress, and painted 1765. At the time of her marriage (1767) she
resided at the Abbey of Holyrood Palace with an aunt, the Honourable
Mrs. Maitland, widow of a younger son of Lord Lauderdale's, who had been
left in poor circumstances, and had charge of the apartments there
belonging to the Argyll family. After their marriage Mr. and Mrs.
Ferrier occupied a flat in Lady Stair's Close (Old Town of Edinburgh),
and which had just been vacated by Sir James Pulteney and his wife Lady
Bath. Ten children were the fruit of this union (six sons and four
daughters), viz.--

1. John, W.S., of 12 York Place, Edinburgh, d. 1851; m. Miss Wilson,
sister of Professor Wilson, and father of the late Professor Ferrier
of St. Andrews, N. B.

2. Archibald Campbell, W.S., d. 1814; m. Miss Garden.

3. Lorn, d. 1801, at Demerara.

4. James, d. in India, 1804.             }
                                         } Both Officers
5. William  Hamilton, d. 1804, in India. }

6. Walter, W.S., d. 1856; m. Miss Gordon.

7. Jane (Mrs. Graham), d. 1846.

8. Janet (Mrs. Connell), d. 1848.

9. Helen (Mrs. Kinloch), d. 1866, at Torquay, aged 90.

10. Susan Edmonstone.


"Your proposals flatter and delight me, but how in the name of Postage
are we to transport our brains to and fro? I suppose we'd be pawning our
flannel petticoats to bring about our heroine's marriage, and lying on
straw to give her Christian burial. Part of your plot I like much, some
not quite so well--for example, it wants a _moral_--your principal
characters are good and interesting, and they are tormented and
persecuted and punished from no fault, of their own, and for no
possible purpose. Now I don't think, like all penny-book manufacturers,
that 'tis absolutely necessary that the good boys and girls should be
rewarded and the naughty ones punished. Yet I think, where there is much
tribulation, 'tis fitter it should be the _consequence_ rather than the
_cause_ of misconduct or frailty. You'll say that rule is absurd,
inasmuch as it is not observed in human life: that I allow, but we know
the inflictions of Providence are for wise purposes, therefore our
reason willingly submits to them. But as the only good purpose of a book
is to inculcate morality and convey some lesson of instruction as well
as delight, I do not see that what is called a _good moral_ can be
dispensed with in a work of fiction. Another fault is your making your
hero attempt suicide, which is greatly too shocking, and destroys all
the interest his misfortunes would otherwise excite--that, however,
could be easily altered, and in other respects I think your plot has
great merit. You'll perhaps be displeased at the freedom of my remarks;
but in the first place freedom is absolutely necessary in the cause in
which we are about to embark, and it must be understood to be one if not
the chief article of our creed. In the second (though it should have
been the first), know that I always say what I think, or say nothing.
Now as to my own deeds--I shall make no apologies (since they must be
banished from our code of laws) for sending you a hasty and imperfect
sketch of what I think might be wrought up to a tolerable form. I do not
recollect ever to have seen the sudden transition of a high-bred English
beauty, [1] who thinks she can sacrifice all for love, to an
uncomfortable solitary Highland dwelling [2] among tall red-haired
sisters and grim-faced aunts. Don't you think this would make a good
opening of the piece? Suppose each of us try our hands on it; the moral
to be deduced from that is to warn all young ladies against runaway
matches, and the character and fate of the two sisters would be
_unexceptionable._ I expect it will be the first book every wise matron
will put into the hand of her daughter, and even the reviewers will
relax of their severity in favour of the morality of this little work.
Enchanting sight! already do I behold myself arrayed in an old mouldy
covering, thumbed and creased and filled with dogs'-ears. I hear the
enchanting sound of some sentimental miss, the shrill pipe of some
antiquated spinster, or the hoarse grumbling of some incensed dowager as
they severally inquire for me at the circulating library, and are
assured by the master that 'tis in such demand that though he has
thirteen copies they are insufficient to answer the calls upon it, but
that each of them may depend upon having the very first that comes in!!!
Child, child, you had need be sensible of the value of my
correspondence. At this moment I'm squandering mines of wealth upon you
when I might be drawing treasures from the bags of time! But I shall not
repine if you'll only repay me in kind--speedy and long is all that I
require; for all things else I shall take my chance. Though I have been
so impertinent to your book, I nevertheless hope and expect you'll send
it to me. Combie [1] and his daughter (or Mare, as you call her) are
coming to town about this time, as I'm informed, and you may easily
contrive to catch them (wild as they are) and send it by them, for
there's no judging what a picture will be like from a mere pen-and-ink
outline--if that won't do, is there not a coach or a carrier? One thing
let me entreat of you: if we engage in this undertaking, let it be kept
a profound secret from every human being. If I was suspected of being
accessory to such foul deeds, my brothers and sisters would murder me,
and my father bury me alive--and I have always observed that if a secret
ever goes beyond those immediately concerned in its concealment it very
soon ceases to be a secret."

[1] Lady Juliana.

[2] Glenfern. Dunderawe Castle, on Loch Fyne, was in Miss Ferrier's mind
when she drew this sketch of a "solitary Highland dwelling."


Again she writes to her friend and copartner in her literary work:--

"I am boiling to hear from you, but I've taken a remorse of conscience
about Lady Maclaughlan and her friends: if I was ever to be detected, or
even suspected, I would have nothing for it but to drown myself. I mean,
therefore, to let her alone till I hear from you, as I think we might
compound some other kind of character for her that might do as well and
not be so dangerous. As to the misses, if ever it was to be published
they must be altered or I must fly my native land."

[1] Campbell of Combie.

Miss Clavering writes in answer:--

"ARDENCAPLE CASTLE,
_Sunday Morning.-_

"First of all I must tell you that I approve in the most signal manner
of Lady Maclaughlan. The sort of character was totally unexpected by me,
and I was really transported with her. Do I know the person who is the
original? The dress was vastly like Mrs. Damer, [1] and the manners like
Lady Frederick. [2] Tell me if you did not mean a touch at her. I love
poor Sir Sampson vastly, though it is impossible, in the presence of his
lady, to have eyes or ears for anyone else. Now you must not think of
altering her, and it must all go forth in the world; neither must the
misses upon any account be changed. I have a way now of at least
offering it to publication by which you never can be discovered. I will
tell the person that I wrote it (indeed, quothà, cries Miss Ferrier, and
no great favour; see how she loves to plume herself with borrowed
fame!). Well, however, my way is quite sure, and the person would never
think of speaking of it again, so never let the idea of detection come
across your brain while you are writing to damp your ardour.

[1] Daughter of General Seymour Conway, and a distinguished sculptor.
She was niece of the fifth Duke of Argyll.

[2] Lady Frederick Campbell is believed to have suggested the character
of Lady Maclaughlan to Miss Ferrier, and there is little doubt she was
the original. She was the widow of Earl Ferrel's, of Tyburn notoriety,
and was burnt to death at Coombe Bank, _Kent,_ in 1807.


"Positively neither Sir Sampson's lady nor the foolish virgins must be
displaced."

Again she writes from Inveraray Castle (of date December 1810), eight
years before the work was published:--

"And now, my dear Susannah, I must tell you of the success of your
first-born. I read it to Lady Charlotte [1] in the carriage when she and
I came together from Ardencaple, Bessie [2] having gone with mamma. If
you will believe, I never yet in my existence saw Lady C. laugh so much
as she did at that from beginning to end; and, seriously, I was two or
three times afraid that she would fall into a fit. Her very words were,
'I assure you I think it without the least exception the cleverest thing
that ever was written, and in wit far surpassing Fielding.' Then she
said as to our other books they would all sink to nothingness before
yours, that they were not fit to be mentioned in the same day, and that
she felt quite discouraged from writing when she thought of yours. The
whole conversation of the aunties [3] made her screech with laughing;
and, in short, I can neither record nor describe all that she said; far
from exaggerating it, I don't say half enough, but I only wish you had
seen the effect it produced. I am sure you will be the first author of
the age."

[1] Lady Charlotte Campbell, her aunt, better known latterly as Lady
Charlotte Bury, and celebrated for her beauty and accomplishments.

[2] Miss Mure of Caldwell.

[3] These oddities were the three Misses Edmonstone, of the
Duntreath family, and old family friends, after one of whom Miss Ferrier
was named.


In another letter she writes:--

"I had an immense packet from Lady C. the other day, which I confess
rather disappointed me, for I expected volumes of new compositions. On
opening it, what should it prove but your book returned? so I shall keep
it safe till I see you. She was profuse in its praises, and so was
mamma, who said she was particularly taken with Lady Juliana's brother,
[1] he was so like the duke. Lady C. said she had read it all
deliberately and critically, and pronounced it _capital,_ with a dash
under it. Lady C. begs that in your enumeration of Lady Olivia's
peccadilloes you will omit waltzes."

[1] Lord Courtland.

That dance had just been introduced in London (1811), and the season of
that year Miss Clavering spent with her aunt, Lady Charlotte, in the
metropolis, in a round of gaiety, going to parties at Kensington Palace
(where the Princess of Wales [1] then lived), Devonshire House, and the
witty Duchess of Gordon's, one of the "Empresses of Fashion," as Walpole
calls her. _Àpropos_ of waltzes, she writes to Miss Ferrier:--

[1] Lady Charlotte was one of the Princess's ladies-in-waiting.

"They are all of a sudden become so much the rage here that people
meet in the morning at one another's houses to learn them. And they are
getting on very much. Lady Charlotte and I get great honour for the
accomplishment, and I have improved a few scholars. Clanronald [1] is
grown so detestably fine. He waltzes with me because he thinks he
thereby shows off his figure, but as to speaking to me or Lady Charlotte
he thinks himself much above that. He is in much request at present
because of his dancing; next to him Lord Hartington is, I think, the
best dancer; he is, besides, very fond of it, and is much above being
fine; I never met with a more natural, boyish creature."

[1] Macdonald of Clanronald, a great beau in the fashionable London
world.

To return to the novel. The only portion from Miss Clavering's pen is
the history of Mrs. Douglas in the first volume, and are, as she herself
remarked, "the only few pages that will be skipped." She further adds:--

"Make haste and print it then, lest one of the Miss Edmonstones should
die, as then I should think you would scarce venture for fear of being
haunted.

    *   *   *   *   *

"I shall hasten to burn your last letter, as you mention something of
looking out for a father for your _bantling,_ so I don't think it would
be decent to let anybody get a sight of such a letter!"

At last, in 1818, the novel was published by the late Mr. Blackwood, and
drew forth loud plaudits from the wondering public, as to who the author
of so original a book could be. "In London it is much admired, and
generally attributed to Walter Scott," so writes a friend to Miss
Ferrier; and she replies in her humorous style: "Whosever it is, I have
met with nothing that has interested me since." Sir Walter must have
been flattered at his being supposed its father, for he says, in the
conclusion of the _Tales of my Landlord_:--

"There remains behind not only a large harvest, but labourers capable
of gathering it in; more than one writer has of late displayed talents
of this description, and if the present author, himself a phantom, may
be permitted to distinguish a brother, or perhaps a sister, shadow, he
would mention in particular the author of the very lively work entitled
_Marriage_."

Mr. Blackwood, whose opinion is of some value, thought very highly of
_Marriage,_ and he writes to Miss Ferrier (1817):--

"Mr. B. will not allow himself to think for one moment that there can be
any uncertainty as to the work being completed. Not to mention his own
deep disappointment, Mr. B. would almost consider it a crime if a work
possessing so much interest and useful instruction were not given to the
world. The author is the only critic of whom Mr. B. is afraid, and after
what he has said, he anxiously hopes that this censor of the press will
very speedily affix the _imprimatur."_

In allusion to Sir Walter's eulogium on the novel above quoted, Mr.
Blackwood writes to the author:--

"I have the pleasure of enclosing you this concluding sentence of the
new _Tales of my Landlord,_ which are to be published to-morrow. After
this call, surely you will be no longer silent. If the great magician
does not conjure you I shall give up all hopes."

But Miss Ferrier seems to have been proof against the great magician
even. _Marriage_ became deservedly popular, and was translated into
French, as appears from the annexed:--

"We perceive by the French papers that a translation of Miss Ferrier's
clever novel _Marriage_ has been very successful in France."-_New_
_Times,_ 6 Oct. '25.

For _Marriage_ she received the sum of £150. Her second venture was more
successful in a pecuniary sense. Space, however, prohibits me from
dwelling any longer on _Marriage,_ so we come next to _The Inheritance._
This novel appeared six years after, in 1824, and is a work of very
great merit. To her sister (Mrs. Kinloch, in London) Miss Ferrier
writes:--

"John (her brother) has now completed a bargain with Mr. Blackwood, by
which I am to have £1000 for a novel now in hand, but which is not
nearly finished, and possibly never may be. Nevertheless he is desirous
of announcing it in his magazine, and therefore I wish to prepare you
for the _shock._ I can say nothing more than I have already said on the
subject of _vigilence,_ if not of secrecy. I never will avow myself, and
nothing can hurt and offend me so much as any of my friends doing it for
me; this is not _faron de_ _parler,_ but my real and unalterable
feeling; I could not bear the fuss of authorism!"

Secrecy as to her authorship seems to have been the great desire of her
heart, and much of _The Inheritance_ was written in privacy at
Morningside House, old Mr. Ferrier's summer retreat near Edinburgh, and
she says, "This house is so small, it is very ill-calculated for
concealment."

It was not till 1851 that she publicly avowed herself by authorising her
name to be prefixed to a revised and corrected edition of her works. [1]
Sir Walter Scott was delighted with this second novel, a proof of which
was conveyed to Miss Ferrier by Mr. Blackwood:--

[1]  Published by the late Mr. Richard Bentley, to whom she sold her
copyrights in 1841. A previous edition was published by him in 1841.


"On Wednesday I dined  in company with Sir Walter Scott, and he spoke of
the work in the very highest terms. I do not always set the highest
value on the baronet's favourable opinion of a book, because he has so
much kindness of feeling towards everyone, but in this case he spoke so
much _con amore,_ and entered so completely, and at such a length, to
me, into the spirit of the book and of the characters, that showed me at
once the impression it had made on him. Everyone I have seen who has
seen the book gives the some praise of it. Two or three days ago I had a
note from a friend, which I copy: 'I have nearly finished a volume of
_The Inheritance._ It is unquestionably the best novel of the class of
the present day, in so far as I can yet judge. Lord Rossville, Adam
Ramsay, Bell Black and the Major, Miss Pratt and Anthony Whyte are
capital, and a fine contrast to each other. It is, I think, a more
elaborate work than _Marriage_, better told, with greater variety, and
displaying improved powers. I congratulate you, and have no doubt the
book will make a prodigious _sough'."_ [1]

[1] Sensation.

Mr. Blackwood adds: "I do not know a better judge nor a more frank and
honest one than the writer of this note."

Again he writes:--

"On Saturday I lent in confidence to a very clever friend, on whose
discretion I can rely, the two volumes of _The Inheritance._ This
morning I got them back with the following note: 'My dear Sir--I am truly
delighted with _The Inheritance._ I do not find as yet any one character
quite equal to Dr. Redgill, [1] except, perhaps, the good-natured,
old-tumbled (or troubled, I can't make out which) maiden, [2] but as a
novel it is a hundred miles above _Marriage._ It reminds me of Miss
Austen's very best things in every page. And if the third volume be like
these, no fear of success triumphant.'"

[1] In _Marriage_ the gourmet physician to Lord Courtland, and "the
living portrait of hundreds, though never before hit off so well."

[2] Miss Becky Duguid.


Mr. Blackwood again says:--

"You have only to go on as you are going to sustain the character
Sir Walter gave me of _Marriage,_ that you had the rare talent of making
your conclusion even better than your commencement, for, said this
worthy and veracious person, 'Mr. Blackwood, if ever I were to write a
novel, I would like to write the two first volumes, and leave anybody to
write the third that liked.'"

In the following note, Lister, author of _Granby,_ also expresses his
admiration in graceful terms, and with a copy of his own novel for Miss
Ferrier's acceptance:--

_T. H. Lister to Miss Ferrier._

"17 Heriot  Row, _Feb._ 3, 1836.

"My DEAR MADAM--I should feel that, in requesting your acceptance of the
book which accompanies this note, I should be presuming too much upon
the very short time that I have had the honour of being known to you, if
Mrs. Lister had not told me that you had kindly spoken of it in
approving terms. I hope, therefore, I may be allowed, without
presumption, to present to you a book which you have thus raised in the
opinion of its writer, and the composition of which is associated in my
mind with the recollection of one of the greatest pleasure I have
derived from novel-reading, for which I am indebted to you. I believe
the only novel I read, or at any rate can now remember to have read,
during the whole time I was writing _Granby_, was your _Inheritance_.
--Believe me, my dear Madam, your very faithful, T. H. LISTER."

From Mrs. Lister (afterwards Lady Theresa Cornewall Lewis) Miss Ferrier
also received the following complimentary note:--

_Mrs. Lister to Miss Ferrier._

"_Thursday Night._ 17 HERIOT Row.

"My DEAR MISS FERRIER--I cannot leave Edinburgh without a grateful
acknowledgment of your very kind and flattering gift. Mr. Lister called
upon you in hopes of being able to wish you good-bye, and to tell you in
person how much we were pleased with the proof you have given us that we
are not unworthy of enjoying and appreciating your delightful
works--pray accept our very best thanks, and I hope as _an authoress_
you will not feel offended if I say that they will now have an added
charm in our eyes from the regard which our personal acquaintance with
the writer has engendered. I knew that, to those who do not mix much in
society, the acquaintance with strangers is often irksome: we therefore
feel the more obliged to you for having allowed us the pleasure of
knowing you, and I hope that if we return in the course of the year that
we may find you less suffering in health, but as kindly disposed to
receive our visits as you have hitherto been. We feel very grateful for
all the kindness we have met with in Edinburgh, and amongst the pleasant
reminiscences of the last five months we must always rank high the
having received from you as a token of regard so acceptable a
gift.--Believe me (or, indeed, I ought to say us), my dear Miss Ferrier,
yours most sincerely,

M. THERESA LISTER."

Lord Murray, the late Scotch Judge, writes to a mutual friend of his and
Miss Ferrier's (Miss Walker of Dalry):--

"I received a copy of _Inheritance_ in the name of the author, and as I
do not know who the _author_ is, and I suspect that you know more than I
do, trust you will find some channel through which you will convey my
thanks. I read _Inheritance_ with very great pleasure. The characters
are very well conceived, and delineated with great success. I may add I
have heard it highly commended by much better judges. Jeffrey speaks
very favourably. He is particularly pleased with the Nabob (Major) and
spouse, the letter from the Lakes, and the _P.S._ to it. Lord Gwydyr,
who lives entirely in fashionable circles, said to me much in its
praise, in which I concurred.

"From many other symptoms I have no doubt of its complete success."

Miss Hannah Mackenzie, daughter of the "Man of Feeling," writes to her
friend Miss Ferrier:--

"Walter Scott dined here the other day, and both he and papa joined
heartily in their admiration of uncle Adam, and their wish to know who
he is. Sir W. also admires Miss Becky Duguid, and said he thought her
quite a new character. I should like very much to see you, and talk all
over at length, but fear to invite you to my own bower for fear of
suspicion; but I trust you will soon come boldly, and face my whole
family. I do not think you need fear them much; of course, like other
people, they have their thoughts, but by no means speak with certainty,
and Margaret has this minute assured us that she does _not_ think it Miss
Ferrier's."

Uncle Adam, with "his seventy thousand pounds," and as "cross as two
sticks," in some degree resembled old Mr. Ferrier, who was somewhat
brusque and testy in his manner, and alarmed many people who were
otherwise unacquainted with the true genuine worth and honesty of his
character. Miss Becky is a poor old maid, saddled with commissions from
all her friends of a most miscellaneous description.

"She was expected to attend all _accouchements,_ christenings, deaths,
chestings,  and burials, but she was seldom asked to a marriage,
and never to any party of pleasure."

She is an admirable pendant to the "Pratt," who is inseparable, however,
from her invisible nephew, Mr. Anthony Whyte. Miss Pratt is a sort of
female Paul Pry, always turning up at the most unexpected moment at Lord
Rossville's, and finally puts the finishing stroke to the pompous old
peer by driving up to his castle door in the hearse of Mr. M'Vitie, the
Radical distiller, being unable to procure any other mode of conveyance
during a heavy snow-storm, and assured every one that she fancied she
was the first person who thought herself in luck to have got into a
hearse, but considered herself still luckier in having got well out of
one.

Caroline, Duchess of Argyll, [1]  expresses her appreciation of _The
Inheritance_ to the author, for whom she entertained a warm
friendship:--

[1]  Daughter of Lord Jersey, and wife of the first Marquis of Anglesea,
whom she divorced, when Lord Paget, in 1810: m. the same year George,
sixth Duke of Argyll.

"UPPER BROOK STREET, _Monday Evening._

"What can I say sufficiently to express my thanks either to you, my dear
Miss Ferrier, or to the _author_ of _The Inheritance,_ whoever she may
be, for the most perfect edition of that _most perfect_ book that was
ever written! and now that I may be allowed to have my _suspicion,_ I
shall read it again with double pleasure. It was so kind of you to
remember your promise! When I received your kind letter and books this
morning I was quite delighted with my beautiful present, and to find I
was not forgotten by one of my best friends."

_The Inheritance_--a fact not generally known--was dramatised and
produced at Covent Garden, but had a very short run, and was an utter
failure, as might have been expected. Mrs. Gore was requested to adapt
it for the stage by the chief comic actors of the day, and she writes to
Miss Ferrier on the subject:--

"Since the management of Covent Garden Theatre fell into the hands of
Laporte, he has favoured me with a commission to write a comedy for him,
and the subject proposed by him is again the French novel of
_L'Héretière,_ which turns out to be a literal translation of _The
Inheritance._ He is quite bent upon having Miss Pratt on the stage. I
have not chosen to give Monsieur Laporte any positive answer on the
subject without previously applying to yourself to know whether you have
any intention or inclination to apply to the stage those admirable
talents which are so greatly appreciated in London."

Mrs. Gore, meanwhile, had been forestalled in her attempt, as a play on
the subject had been laid before the reader to Covent Garden, and she
writes again to Miss Ferrier:--

"I have since learned with regret that the play is the production of a
certain Mr. Fitzball, the distinguished author of the _Flying Dutchman,_
an sixty other successful melodramas, represented with great applause at
the Surrey, Coburg, City, and Pavilion Theatres, etc.; in short, a
writer of a very low class. The play of _The Inheritance_ has been
accepted at Covent Garden; but, from my knowledge of the general
engagements of the theatre, I should say that it has not the slightest
chance of approaching to representation. For your sake it cannot be
better than in the black-box of the manager's room, which secures it at
least from performance at the Coburg Theatre."

We must let the curtain, so to speak, drop on _The Inheritance,_ and
pass on to _Destiny._ This novel also appeared six years after, in 1831,
and was dedicated to Sir Walter Scott. And he acknowledges the
compliment as follows:--

_Sir Walter Scott to Miss Ferrier._

"My DEAR MISS FERRIER--Ann returned to-day, and part of her Edinburgh
news informs me that you meditated honouring your present literary
offspring with my name, so I do not let the sun set without saying how
much I shall feel myself obliged and honoured by such a compliment. I
will not stand bandying compliments on my want of merit, but can swallow
so great a compliment as if I really deserved it, and indeed, as
whatever I do not owe entirely to your goodness I may safely set down to
your friendship, I shall scarce be more flattered one way or the other.
I hope you will make good some hopes, which make Ann very proud, of
visiting Abbotsford about April next. Nothing can give the proprietor
more pleasure, for the birds, which are a prodigious chorus, are making
of their nests and singing in blithe chorus. 'Pray come, and do not make
this a flattering dream.' I know a little the value of my future
godchild, since I had a peep at some of the sheets when I was in town
during the great snowstorm, which, out of compassion for an author
closed up within her gates, may prove an apology for his breach of
confidence. So far I must say that what I have seen has had the greatest
effect in making me curious for the rest.

"Believe me, dear Miss Ferrier, with the greatest respect, your most
sincere, humble servant,

"WALTER SCOTT.

"Abbortsford, _Tuesday Evening_."

In the next note he acknowledges a copy of _Destiny_, sent him by the
author:--

_Sir Walter Scott to Miss Ferrier._

DEAR MISS FERRIER--If I had a spark of gratitude in me I ought to have
written you well-nigh a month ago, to thank you in no common fashion for
_Destiny,_ which by the few, and at the same time the probability, of
its incidents, your writings are those of the first person of genius who
has disarmed the little pedantry of the Court of Cupid and of gods and
men, and allowed youths and maidens to propose other alliances than
those an early choice had pointed out to them. I have not time to tell
you all the consequences of my revolutionary doctrine. All these we will
talk over when you come here, which I am rejoiced to hear is likely to
be on Saturday next, when Mr. Cadell [1] will be happy to be your beau
in the Blucher, [2] and we will take care are met with at the toll. Pray
do not make this a flattering dream. You are of the initiated, so will
not be _de trop_ with Cadell.--I am, always, with the greatest respect
and regard, your faithful and affectionate servant,

WALTER SCOTT.

[1] Destiny was published by Cadell through Sir Walter's intervention,
and by it the author realised £1700.

[2] Name of the Stage-coach.

In 1832, the year after the birth of his godchild _Destiny,_ poor Sir
Walter began to show signs of that general break-up of mind and body so
speedily followed by his death. Of this sad state Miss Ferrier writes to
her sister, Mrs. Kinloch (in London):--

"Alas! the night cometh when no man can work, as is the case with that
mighty genius which seems now completely quenched. Well might he be
styled 'a bright and benignant luminary,' for while all will deplore the
loss of that bright intellect which has so long charmed a world, many
will still more deeply lament the warm and steady friend, whose kind and
genuine influence was ever freely diffused on all whom it could benefit.
I trust, however, he may be spared yet awhile; it might be salutary to
himself to con over the lessons of a death-bed, and it might be edifying
to others to have his record added to the many that have gone before
him, that all below is vanity. But till we _feel_ that we shall never
believe it! I _ought_ to feel it more than most people, as I sit in my
dark and solitary chamber, shut out, as it seems, from all the 'pride of
life'; but, alas! Worldly things make their way into the darkest and
most solitary recesses, for their dwelling is in the heart, and from
thence God only can expel them."

Her first visit to the author of _Waverley_ was in the autumn of 1811,
when she accompanied her father to Ashestiel. The invitation came from
Scott to Mr. Ferrier:--

_Walter Scott, Esq., to James Ferrier, Esq._

"My DEAR SIR--We are delighted to see that your feet are free and
disposed to turn themselves our way--a pleasure which we cannot consent
to put off till we have a house at Abbotsford, which is but a distant
prospect. We are quite disengaged and alone, saving the company of Mr.
Terry the comedian, who is assisting me in planning my cottage, having
been bred an architect under Wyat. He reads to us after coffee in the
evening, which is very pleasant. This letter will reach you to-morrow,
so probably _Thursday_ may be a convenient day of march, when we shall
expect you to dinner about five o'clock, unless the weather should be
very stormy, in which case we should be sorry Miss Ferrier should risk
getting cold. To-day is clearing up after a week's dismal weather, which
may entitle us to expect some pleasant October days, not the worst of
our climate. The road is by Middleton and Bankhouse; we are ten miles
from the last stage, and thirty from Edinburgh, hilly road. There is a
ford beneath Ashestiel generally very passable, but we will have the
boat in readiness in case Miss Ferrier prefers it, or the water should
be full. Mrs. Scott joins in kind respects to Miss Ferrier, and I ever
am, dear Sir,--yours truly obliged,

W. SCOTT.

"Ashestiel, _October_ 7."

It was in 1811 that Scott was appointed a clerk of session, and to Mr.
Ferrier he was in some measure indebted for that post.

Her last visit to Abbotsford is touchingly alluded to by Lockhart in his
_Life of Scott:--_

"To assist them in amusing him in the hours which he spent out of his
study, and especially that he might make these hours more frequent, his
daughter had invited his friend the authoress of _Marriage_ to come out
to Abbotsford, and her coming was serviceable. For she knew and loved
him well, and she had seen enough of affliction akin to his to be well
skilled in dealing with it. She could not be an hour in his company
without observing what filled his children with more sorrow than all the
rest of the case. He would begin a story as gaily as ever, and go on, in
spite of the hesitation in his speech, to tell it with highly
picturesque effect--but before he reached the point, it would seem as if
some internal spring had given way. He paused and gazed round him with
the blank anxiety of look that a blind man has when he has dropped his
staff. Unthinking friends sometimes gave him the catch-word abruptly. I
noticed the delicacy of Miss Ferrier on such occasions. Her sight was
bad, and she took care not to use her glasses when he was speaking, and
she affected also to be troubled with deafness, and would say, 'Well, I
am getting as dull as a post, I have not heard a word since you said so
and so,' being sure to mention a circumstance behind that at which he
had really halted. He then took up the thread with his habitual smile of
courtesy, as if forgetting his case entirely in the consideration of the
lady's infirmity."

A very interesting account of her recollections of visits to Ashestiel
and Abbotsford appeared in the February (1874) number of this magazine:
it is short, but gives a sad and pathetic picture of the great man and
his little grandson as they sat side by side at table.

The following letter on _Destiny_ is from Mrs. Fletcher, [1] a
distinguished citizen of Edinburgh at the commencement of this century,
and a leader of the Whig society there. For that reason it is worthy of
insertion here. Her son married Miss Clavering, as before mentioned:--

[1] Her _Memoir,_ by her daughter, Lady Richardson, was published not
long since.

_Mrs. Fletcher to Miss Ferrier._

"TADCASTER, _April_ 16, 1831.

"My DEAR MISS FERRIER--I should not have been so long in thanking you
for your kind present, had I not wished to subject _Destiny_ to a
severer test than that chosen by the French dramatist. _His_ old woman
probably partook of the vivacity of her nation, but my old aunt, as Mary
will tell you, is sick and often very sorrowful, and yet _Destiny_ has
made her laugh heartily, and cheated her of many wearisome hours of
lamentation. My grandson, Archibald Taylor, too, forsook football and
cricket for your fascinating book, and told me 'he could sit up all
night to see what had become of Ronald.' Mr. Ribley and 'Kitty, my
dear,' hit his comic fancy particularly. My two most bookish neighbours,
one an Oxford divine, and the other a Cambridge student, declare that,
Glenroy and M'Dow are exquisite originals.' My own favourite, 'Molly
Macaulay,' preserves her good-humour to the last, though I thought you
rather unmerciful in shutting her up so long in Johnnie's nursery. The
fashionable heartlessness of Lady Elizabeth and her daughter is coloured
to the life, and the refreshment of returning to nature, truth,
affection, and happiness at Inch Orran is admirably managed. Mary tells
me you have returned from Fife with fresh materials for future volumes.
Go on, dear Miss Ferrier, you are accountable for the talents entrusted
to you. Go on to detect selfishness in all its various forms and
foldings; to put pride and vanity to shame; to prove that vulgarity
belongs more to character than condition, and that all who make the
world their standard are essentially vulgar and low-minded, however
noble their exterior or refined their manners may be, and that true
dignity and elevation belong only to those to whom Milton's lines may be
applied:

"'Thy care is fixed, and zealously attends To fill thy odorous lamp with
deeds of light, And hope that reaps not shame.'"

The following letter from Joanna Baillie gives a very just and truthful
criticism on _Destiny:--_

_Miss Joanna Baillie to Miss Ferrier._

"Hampstead, _May_ 1831.

"My DEAR MADAM--I received your very kind present of your last work
about three weeks ago, and am very grateful for the pleasure I have had
in reading it, and for being thus remembered by you. I thank you also
for the pleasure and amusement which my sisters and some other friends
have drawn from it. The first volume struck me as extremely clever, the
description of the different characters, their dialogues, and the
writer's own remarks, excellent. There is a spur both with the writer
and the reader on the opening of a work which naturally gives the
beginning of a story many advantages, but I must confess that your
characters never forget their outset, but are well supported to the very
end. Your Molly Macaulay [1] is a delightful creature, and the footing
she is on with Glenroy very naturally represented, to say nothing of the
rising of her character at the end, when the weight of contempt is
removed from her, which is very good and true to nature. Your minister,
M'Dow, [2] hateful as he is, is very amusing, and a true representative
of a few of the Scotch clergy, and with different language and manners
of a great many of the English clergy--worldly, mean men, who boldly
make their way into every great and wealthy family for the sake of
preferment and good cheer. Your Lady Elizabeth, too, with all her
selfishness and excess of absurdity, is true to herself throughout, and
makes a very characteristic ending of it in her third marriage. But why
should I tease you by going through the different characters? Suffice it
to say that I thank you very heartily, and congratulate you on again
having added a work of so much merit to our stock of national novels.
Perhaps before this you have received a very short publication of mine
on a very serious subject. I desired my bookseller to send a copy to
you, enclosed along with one to your friend, Miss Mackenzie. How far you
will agree with my opinions regarding it I cannot say, but of one thing
I am sure, that you will judge with candour and charity. I should have
sent one to Mr. Alison had I not thought it presumptuous in me to send
such a work to any clergyman, and, with only one exception (a
Presbyterian clergyman), I have abstained from doing so. I was very much
obliged to Mrs. Mackenzie, Lord M.'s lady, for the letter she was so
good as to write me in her sister-in-Iaw's stead. If you should meet her
soon, may I beg that you will have the goodness to thank her in my name.
I was very sorry indeed to learn from her that Miss Mackenzie had been
so ill, and was then so weak, and that the favourable account I had
received of your eyes had been too favourable. With all good wishes to
you, in which my sister begs to join me,--I remain, my dear Madam,
gratefully and sincerely yours,

"J. BAILLIE."

[1] The humble and devoted dependant of the proud chief Glenroy, and
governess to his children. She was drawn from life, for Mrs. Kinloch
writes to her sister, Miss Ferrier: "Molly Macaulay is charming; her
niece, Miss Cumming, is an old acquaintance of mine, and told me the
character was drawn to the life. The old lady is still alive, in her
ninety-first year, at Inveraray, and Miss C., who is a very clever,
pleasing person, seems delighted with the truth and spirit of the whole
character of her aunty."

[2] Lord Jeffrey considered M'Dow "an entire and perfect chrysolite, not
to be meddled with."


Granville Penn, the descendant of the founder of Pennsylvania, records
the impression _Destiny_ made on him, and which he communicates to Miss
Erskine of Cardross, who copied and sent it to the author, as follows:--

"My DEAR MADAM--I return your book, but I an unable to return you
adequate thanks for being the cause of my reading it. I have done this
(and all with me) with delight, from the interest and admiration at the
whole composition, the novelty and excitement of its plan, the exquisite
and thrilling manner of its disclosure, the absence of all flat and
heavy intervals, the conception and support of the characters, the sound
and salutary moral that pervades it all--these make me love and honour
its valuable authoress, and lament that I am not in the number of her
acquaintance. We all _doat_ upon Miss Macaulay, and grieve that she is
not living at Richmond or Petersham; and Mr. M'Dow has supplied me with
a new name for our little young dog, whom I have called, in memorial of
his little nephew (or niece), Little M'Fee. With all the thanks,
however, that I can offer, etc.

GRANVILLE PENN.

"Devonshire Cottage, 1_st May_ 1831."

The next tribute of admiration bestowed on _Destiny_ was from Sir James
Mackintosh:--

_Sir James Mackintosh to Miss Ferrier._

"LONDON, _10th June_ 1831.

"DEAR MISS FERRIER--Let me tell you a fact, which I hope you will excuse
me from mentioning, as some subsidiary proof of your power. On the day
of the dissolution of Parliament, and in the critical hours between
twelve and three, I was employed in reading part of the second volume of
_Destiny._ My mind was so completely occupied on your colony in
Argyleshire, that I did not throw away a thought on kings or
parliaments, and was not moved by the general curiosity to stir abroad
till I had finished your volume. It would have been nothing if you had
so agitated a youth of genius and susceptibility, prone to literary
enthusiasm, but such a victory over an old hack is perhaps worthy of
your notice.--I am, my dear Miss Ferrier, your friend and admirer,

"J. MACKINTOSH."

Professor Wilson, "Christopher North," and his uncle, Mr. Robert Sym,
W.S., "Timothy Tickler," discuss the merits of _Destiny_ in the
far-famed _Noctes_:

"_Tickler.--' _I would also except Miss Susan Ferrier. Her novels, no
doubt, have many defects, their plots are poor, their episodes
disproportionate, and the characters too often caricatures; but they are
all thick-set with such specimens of sagacity, such happy traits of
nature, such flashes of genuine satire, such easy humour, sterling good
sense, and, above all--God only knows where she picked it up--mature and
perfect knowledge of the world, that I think we may safely anticipate
for them a different fate from what awaits even the cleverest of
juvenile novels.'

"_North.-' _They are the works of a very clever woman, sir, and they
have one feature of true and melancholy interest quite peculiar to
themselves. It is in them alone that the ultimate breaking-down and
debasement of the Highland character has been depicted. Sir Walter Scott
had fixed the enamel of genius over the last fitful gleams of their
half-savage chivalry, but a humbler and sadder scene--the age of
lucre-banished clans--of chieftains dwindled into imitation squires, and
of chiefs content to barter the recollections of a thousand years for a
few gaudy seasons of Almacks and Crockfords, the euthanasia of kilted
aldermen and steamboat pibrochs was reserved for Miss Ferrier.'

"_Tickler.--'_ She in general fails almost as egregiously as Hook does
in the pathetic [1] but in her last piece there is one scene of this
description worthy of either Sterne or Goldsmith. I mean where the young
man [2] supposed to have been lost at sea, revisits, after a lapse of
time, the precincts of his own home, watching unseen in the twilight the
occupations and bearings of the different members of the family, and
resolving, under the influence of a most generous feeling, to keep the
secret of his preservation.'

[1] This is not true, as there are many pathetic passages in _Destiny_,
particularly between Edith, the heroine, and her faithless lover, Sir
Reginald.

[2] Ronald Malcolm.

"_North.-' _I remember it well, and you might bestow the same kind of
praise on the whole character of Molly Macaulay. It is a picture of
humble, kind-hearted, thorough-going devotion and long-suffering,
indefatigable gentleness, of which, perhaps, no sinner of our gender
could have adequately filled up the outline. Miss Ferrier appears
habitually in the light of a hard satirist, but there is always a fund
of romance at the bottom of every true woman's heart who has tried to
stifle and suppress that element more carefully and pertinaciously, and
yet who has drawn, in spite of herself, more genuine tears than the
authoress of _Simple Susan.'"_

The story of _Destiny,_ like its predecessors, is laid in Miss Ferrier's
favourite Highlands, and it contains several picturesque and vivid
descriptions of scenery there,--Inveraray, and its surroundings
generally, forming the model for her graphic pen. Much of this novel was
written at Stirling Castle, when she was there on a visit to her sister,
Mrs. Graham, [1] whose husband, General Graham, was governor of that
garrison. After the publication of this last work, and the offer of a
thousand pounds from a London publisher for anything from her pen, [2]
she entirely ceased from her literary labours, being content to rest
upon the solid and enduring reputation her three "bantlings" (as she
called her novels) had won for her. The following fragment, however, was
found among her papers, and is the portrait of another old maid, and
might serve as a companion to Miss Pratt. As it is amusing, and in the
writer's satirical style, I lay it before my readers:--

[1] Celebrated by Burns, the poet, for her beauty. She inspired his muse
when turning the corner of George Street, Edinburgh. The lines addressed
to her are to be found in his _Poems._ She was also a highly-gifted
artist. The illustrations in the work called the _Stirling Heads_ are
from her pencil. It was published by Blackwood, 1817.

[2] She says (1837) "I made two attempts to write _something_, but could
not please myself, and would not publish _anything_."

Miss Betty Landon was a single lady of small fortune, few personal
charms, and a most jaundiced imagination. There was no event, not even
the most fortunate, from which Miss Betty could not extract evil;
everything, even the milk of human kindness, with her turned to gall and
vinegar. Thus, if any of her friends were married, she sighed over the
miseries of the wedded state; if they were single, she bewailed their
solitary, useless condition; if they were parents, she pitied them for
having children; if they had no children, she pitied them for being
childless. But one of her own letters will do greater justice to the
turn of her mind than the most elaborate description.


"'My DEAR Miss------ I ought to have written to you long before now, but
I have suffered so much from the constant changes of the weather that
the wonder is I am able to hold a pen. During the whole summer the heat
was really quite intolerable, not a drop of rain or a breath of wind,
the cattle dying for absolute want, the vegetables dear and scarce, and
as for fruit--that, you know, in this town, is at all times scarce and
bad, and particularly when there is the greatest occasion for it. In the
autumn we never had two days alike, either wind or rain, or frost, or
something or another; and as for our winter--you know what that
is--either a constant splash of rain, or a frost like to take the skin
off you. For these six weeks I may say I have had a constant running at
my head, with a return of my old complaint; but as for doctors, I see no
good they do, except to load people's stomachs and pick their pockets:
everything now is imposition; I really think the very pills are not what
they were thirty years ago. How people with families continue to live is
a mystery to me; and people still going on marrying, in the face of
national debt, taxes, a new war, a starving population, ruined commerce,
and no outlet for young men in any quarter--God only knows what is to be
the end of all this! In spite of all this, these thoughtless young
creatures, the Truemans, have thought proper to make out their marriage;
he is just five-and-twenty, and she is not yet nineteen! so you may
judge what a prudent, well-managed establishment it will be. He is in a
good enough business at present, but in these times who can tell what's
to happen? He may be wallowing in wealth to-day, and bankrupt to-morrow.
His sister's marriage with Fairplay is now quite off, and her prospects
for life, poor thing, completely wrecked! Her looks are entirely gone,
and her spirits quite broken. She is not like the same creature, and, to
be sure, to a girl who had set her heart upon being married, it must be
a great and severe disappointment, for this was her only chance, unless
she tries India, and the expense of the outfit must be a complete bar to
that. You would hear that poor Lady Oldhouse has had a son--it seemed a
desirable thing, situated as they are with an entailed property; and yet
when I look around me, and see the way that sons go on, the dissipation
and extravagance, and the heartbreak they are to their parents, I think
a son anything but a blessing. No word of anything of that kind to the
poor Richardsons; with all their riches, they are without anyone to come
after them. The Prowleys are up in the air at having got what they call
"a fine appointment" for their fourth son, but for my part I'm really
sick of hearing of boys going to India, for after all what do they do
there? I never hear of their sending home anything but black children,
and when they come home themselves, what do they bring but yellow faces,
worn-out constitutions, and livers like cocked-hats, crawling about from
one watering-place to another, till they are picked up by some
light-hearted, fortune-hunting miss, who does not care twopence for
them.'"

A beautiful and strong feature in Miss Ferrier's character was her
intense devotion to her father, and when he died the loss to her was
irreparable. She also was much attached to a very handsome brother,
James; he was colonel of the 94th regiment, or Scots Brigade, and died
in India in 1804, at the early age of twenty-seven. He had been at the
siege of Seringapatam in 1799, and was much distinguished by the notice
of Napoleon at Paris in February 1803, whence he writes to his sister
Susan:--

"I think I wrote you I had been introduced to the Chief Consul. I was on
Sunday last presented to his lady, whom I do not at all admire. The
great man spoke to me then again, which is a very unusual thing, and I
am told by the French I must be in his good graces; however, I myself
rather think it was my good fortune only: at all events it has given me
much pleasure, for it would have only been doing the thing half if he
had not spoken to me. I do not think any of the pictures like him much,
although most of them have some resemblance; they give him a frown in
general, which he certainly has not--so far from it, that when he speaks
he has one of the finest expressions possible."

Here, unfortunately, this interesting description comes abruptly to an
end, the rest of the letter being lost. On account of failing health and
increased bodily languor, Miss Ferrier latterly lived a very retired
life, seeing few but very intimate friends, and, as she said, "We are
more recluse than ever, as our little circle is yearly contracting, and
my eyes are more and more averse to light than ever."

Again she writes:--

"I can say nothing good of myself, my cough is very severe, and will
probably continue so, at least as long as this weather lasts; but I have
many comforts, for which I am thankful; amongst those I must reckon
silence and darkness, which are my best companions at present."

For years she had suffered from her eyes, being nearly quite blind of
one. [1] In 1830 she went to London to consult an oculist, but
unfortunately derived little benefit. While there, she visited
Isleworth, in order to see a villa belonging to Lord Cassillis, and
which subsequently figured in _Destiny_ as "Woodlands," Lady
Waldegrave's rural retreat near London. A valued friend [2] who
saw much of her remarked:--

[1] Lady Morgan, a fellow-sufferer from her eyes, was most anxious
she should consult Mr. Alexander, the eminent oculist, as he entirely
cured her after four years' expectation of total blindness.

[2] Lady Richardson.

"The wonderful vivacity she maintained in the midst of darkness and pain
for so many years, the humour, wit, and honesty of her character, as
well as the Christian submission with which she bore her great privation
and general discomfort when not suffering acute pain, made everyone who
knew her desirous to alleviate the tediousness of her days, and I used
to read a great deal to her at one time, and I never left her darkened
chamber without feeling that I had gained something better than the book
we might be reading, from her quick perception of its faults and its
beauties, and her unmerciful remarks on all that was mean or unworthy in
conduct or expression."

But perhaps the most faithful picture of her is conveyed in this brief
sentence from Scott's diary, who describes her

"As a gifted personage, having, besides her great talents, conversation
the least _exigeante_ of any author-female, at least, whom I have ever
seen among the long list I have encountered; simple, full of humour, and
exceedingly ready at repartee, and all this without the least
affectation of the blue-stocking."

From the natural modesty of her  character she had a great dislike to
her biography, or memorial of her in any shape, being written, for she
destroyed all letters that might have been used for such a purpose,
publicity of any kind being most distasteful to her, evidence of which
is very clearly shown in the first part of this narrative. The chief
secret of her success as a novelist (setting aside her great genius) was
the great care and time she bestowed on the formation of each novel--an
interval of six years occurring between each, the result being
delineations of character that are unique.

Unfortunately there is little to relate regarding her childhood, that
most interesting period of human existence in the lives of (and which is
generally distinguished by some uncommon traits of character) people of
genius--save that she had for a school companion and playfellow the late
Lord Brougham, the distinguished statesman; she was remarkable also for
her power of mimicry. An amusing anecdote of this rather dangerous gift
is the following: Her brothers and sisters returned home from a ball,
very hungry, and entered her room, where they supposed she lay asleep,
and, while discussing the events of the evening and the repast they had
procured by stealth (unknown to their father), they were suddenly put to
flight by the sounds and voice, as they thought, of their dreaded parent
ascending the stairs, and in their confusion and exit from the room
overturned chairs and tables, much to the amusement of little Susan,
who, no doubt, enjoyed the fright and commotion she had caused, and who
mimicked under the cover of the bedclothes the accents of her
redoubtable parent--a fit punishment, as she thought, for their ruthless
invasion of her chamber, and their not offering her a share of their
supper. An old Miss Peggy Campbell (sister to Sir Islay Campbell,
President of the Court of Session) was also taken off by her, and so
like that her father actually came into the room, where she was amusing
her hearers, thinking that Miss Campbell was really present. When she
died a blank was left in her native city that has not been since filled,
the modern Athens having somewhat deteriorated in the wit, learning, and
refinement that so distinguished her in the days that are gone.




RECOLLECTIONS OF VISITS
TO ASHESTIEL AND ABBOTSFORD, [1]

[1]  Reprinted from the _Temple Bar_ Magazine for February 1874.

By SUSAN EDMONSTONE FERRIER,

_Author of 'Marriage,' 'Inheritance,' and 'Destiny.'_

I HAVE never kept either note-book or journal, and as my memory is not a
retentive one I have allowed much to escape which I should now vainly
attempt to recall. Some things must, however, have made a vivid and
durable impression on my mind, as fragments remain, after the lapse of
years, far more distinct than occurrences of much more recent date;
such, amongst others, are my recollections of my visits to Ashestiel and
Abbotsford.

The first took place in the autumn of 1811, in consequence of repeated
and pressing invitations from Mr. Scott to my father, in which I was
included. Nothing could be kinder than our welcome, or more gratifying
than the attentions we received during our stay; but the weather was too
broken and stormy to admit of our enjoying any of the pleasant
excursions our more weather-proof host had intended for us.

My father and I could therefore only take short drives with Mrs. Scott,
while the bard (about one o'clock:) mounted his pony, and accompanied by
Mr. Terry the comedian, his own son Walter, and our young relative
George Kinloch, sallied forth for a long morning's ride in spite of wind
and rain. In the evening Mr. Terry commonly read some scenes from a play,
to which Mr. Scott listened with delight, though every word must have
been quite familiar to him, as he occasionally took a part in the
dialogue impromptu; at other times he recited old and awesome ballads
from memory, the very names of which I have forgot. The night preceding
our departure had blown a perfect hurricane; we were to leave
immediately after breakfast, and while the carriage was preparing Mr.
Scott stepped to a writing-table and wrote a few hurried lines in the
course of a very few minutes; these he put into my hand as he led me to
the carriage; they were in allusion to the storm, coupled with a
friendly adieu, and are to be found in my autograph album.

    "The mountain winds are up, and proud
    O'er heath and hill careering loud;
    The groaning forest to its power
    Yields all that formed our summer bower.
    The summons wakes the anxious swain,
    Whose tardy shocks still load the plain,
    And bids the sleepless merchant weep,
    Whose richer hazard loads the deep.
    For me the blast, or low or high,
    Blows nought of wealth or poverty;
    It can but whirl in whimsies vain
    The windmill of a restless brain,
    And bid me tell in slipshod verse
    What honest prose might best rehearse;
    How much we forest-dwellers grieve
    Our valued friends our cot should leave,
    Unseen each beauty that we boast,
    The little wonders of our coast,
    That still the pile of Melrose gray,
    For you must rise in minstrel's lay,
    And Yarrow's birk immortal long
    For yon but bloom in rural song.
    Yet Hope, who still in present sorrow
    Whispers the promise of to-morrow,
    Tells us of future days to come,
    When you shall glad our rustic home;
    When this wild whirlwind shall be still,
    And summer sleep on glen and hill,
    And Tweed, unvexed by storm, shall guide
    In silvery maze his stately tide,
    Doubling in mirror every rank
    Of oak and alder on his bank;
    And our kind guests such welcome prove
    As most we wish to those we love." [1]

    _Ashestiel, _October 13, 1811.

[1]  Lines written by Walter Scott while the carriage was waiting
to convey my father and me from Ashestiel.--S. E. F.

The invitation had been often repeated, but my dear father's increasing
infirmities made him averse to leave home, and when, in compliance with
Sir Walter's urgent request, I visited Abbotsford in the autumn of 1829,
I went alone. I was met at the outer gate by Sir Walter, who welcomed me
in the kindest manner and most flattering terms; indeed, nothing could
surpass the courtesy of his address on such occasions. On our way to the
house he stopped and called his two little grandchildren, Walter and
Charlotte Lockhart, who were chasing each other like butterflies among
the flowers--the boy was quite a Cupid, though not an _alfresco_ one;
for he wore a Tartan cloak, whose sundry extras fluttered in the breeze
as he ran to obey the summons, and gave occasion to his grandfather to
present him to me as "Major Waddell;" [1] the pretty little
fairy-looking girl he next introduced as "Whipperstowrie," and then
(aware of my love for fairy lore) he related the tale, in his own
inimitable manner, as he walked slowly and stopped frequently in our
approach to the house. As soon as I could look round I was struck with
the singular and picturesque appearance of the mansion and its
_environs._ Yet I must own there was more of _strangeness_ than of
admiration in my feelings; too many objects seemed crowded together in a
small space, and there was a "felt want" of breadth and repose for the
eye. On entering the house I was however charmed with the rich
imposing beauty of the hall, and admired the handsome antique appearance
of the dining-room with its interesting pictures. After luncheon Sir
Walter was at pains to point them out to my notice, and related the
histories of each and all; he then conducted me through the apartments,
and showed me so much, and told me so many anecdotes illustrative of the
various objects of interest and curiosity they contained, that I retain
a very confused and imperfect recollection of what I saw and heard. It
was a strong proof of his good-nature that in showing the many works of
art and relics of antiquity he had continued to accumulate and arrange
with so much taste and skill, he should have been at such pains to point
out the merits and relate the history of most of them to one so
incapable of appreciating their value. But he never allowed one to feel
their own deficiencies, for he never appeared to be aware of them
himself.

[1] One of Miss Ferrier's characters in her novel of _The Inheritance._

It was in the quiet of a small domestic circle I had again an
opportunity of enjoying the society of Sir Walter Scott, and of
witnessing, during the ten days I remained, the unbroken serenity of his
temper, the unflagging cheerfulness of his spirits, and the unceasing
courtesy of his manners. I had been promised a quiet time, else I should
not have gone; and indeed the state of the family was a sufficient
guarantee against all festivities. Mrs. Lockhart was confined to bed
by severe indisposition, while Mr. Lockhart was detained in London
by the alarming illness of their eldest boy, and both Captain Scott and
his brother were absent. The party, therefore, consisted only of Sir
Walter and Miss Scott, Miss Macdonald Buchanan (who was almost one of
the family), and myself. Being the only stranger, I consequently came in
for a larger share of my amiable host's time and attention than I should
otherwise have been entitled to expect. Many a pleasant tale and amusing
anecdote I might have had to relate had I written down half of what I
daily heard; but I had always an invincible repugnance to playing the
_reporter_ and taking down people's words under their own roof. Every day
Sir Walter was ready by one o'clock to accompany us either in driving or
walking, often in both, and in either there was the same inexhaustible
flow of legendary lore, romantic incident, apt quotation, curious or
diverting story; and sometimes old ballads were recited, commemorative
of some of the localities through which he passed. Those who had seen
him only amidst the ordinary avocations of life, or even doing the
honours of his own table, could scarcely have conceived the fire and
animation of his countenance at such times, when his eyes seemed
literally to kindle, and even (as some one has remarked) to change their
colour and become a sort of deep sapphire blue; but, perhaps, from being
close to him and in the open air, I was more struck with this
peculiarity than those whose better sight enabled them to mark his
varying expression at other times. Yet I must confess this was an
enthusiasm I found as little infectious as that of his antiquarianism.
On the contrary, I often wished his noble faculties had been exercised
on loftier themes than those which seemed to stir his very soul.

The evenings were passed either in Mrs. Lockhart's bedroom or in
chatting quietly by the fireside below, but wherever we were he was
always the same kind, unostentatious, amusing, and _amusable_ companion.

The day before I was to depart Sir David Wilkie and his sister arrived,
and the Fergussons and one or two friends were invited to meet him. Mrs.
Lockhart was so desirous of meeting this old friend and distinguished
person, that, though unable to put her foot to the ground, she caused
herself to be dressed and carried down to the drawing-room while the
company were at dinner. Great was her father's surprise and delight on
his entrance to find her seated (looking well and in high spirits) with
her harp before her, ready to sing his favourite ballads. This raised
his spirits above their usual quiet pitch, and towards the end of the
evening he proposed to wind up the whole by all present standing in a
circle with hands joined, singing,

   "Weel may we a' be!
    Ill may we never see!"

Mrs. Lockhart was, of course, unable to join the festive band. Sir David
Wilkie was languid and dispirited from bad health, and my feelings were
not such as to enable me to join in what seemed to me little else than a
mockery of human life; but rather than "displace the mirth," I _tried,_
but could not long remain a passive spectator; the glee seemed forced
and unnatural. It touched no sympathetic chord; it only jarred the
feelings; it was the last attempt at gaiety I witnessed within the walls
of Abbotsford.

Although I had intended to confine my slight reminiscence of Sir Walter
Scott to the time I had passed with him under his own roof in the
country, yet I cannot refrain from noticing the great kindness I
received from him during the following winter in town.

I had, when at Abbotsford in the autumn, spoken to him for the _first_
time of my authorship and of the work on which I was then engaged. He
entered into the subject with much warmth and earnestness, shook his
head at hearing how matters had hitherto been transacted, and said
unless I could make a better bargain in this instance I must leave to
him the disposal of _Destiny._ I did so, and from the much more liberal
terms he made with Mr. Cadell I felt, when too late, I had acted
unwisely in not having sooner consulted him or some one versant in these
matters. But _secrecy_ at that time was all I was anxious about, and so
I paid the penalty of trusting entirely to the good faith of the
publishers.

I saw Sir Walter frequently during the winter, and occasionally dined
_en famille_ with Miss Scott and him, or with one or two friends, as I
did not go into parties, neither indeed did he give any, but on account
of the state of his affairs lived as retiredly as he possibly could.

In the month of February he sustained a paralytic shock; as soon as I
heard of this I went to Miss Scott, from whom I learned the particulars.
She had seen her father in his study a short time before, apparently in
his usual health. She had returned to the drawing room when Sir Walter
opened the door, came in, but stood looking at her with a most peculiar
and _dreadful_ expression of countenance. It immediately struck her he
had come to communicate some very distressing intelligence, and she
exclaimed, "Oh, papa! Is Johnnie gone?" He made no reply, but still
continued standing still and regarding her with the same fearful
expression. She then cried, "Oh, papa! speak! Tell me, is it Sophia
herself?" Still he remained immovable. Almost frantic, she then
screamed, "It is Walter! it is Walter! I know it is." Upon which Sir
Walter fell senseless on the floor. Medical assistance was speedily
procured. After being bled he recovered his speech, and his first words
were, "It was very strange! very horrible." He afterwards told her he
had all at once felt very queer, and as if unable to articulate; he then
went upstairs in hopes of getting rid of the sensation by movement; but
it would not do, he felt perfectly tongue-tied, or rather _chained,_
till overcome by witnessing her distress. This took place, I think, on
the 15th, and on the 18th I was invited to dine with him, and found him
without any trace of illness, but as cheerful and animated as usual.

Not being very correct as to dates, I should scarcely have ventured to
name the day had not a trifling circumstance served to mark it. After
dinner he proposed that instead of going to the drawing-room we should
remain with him and have tea in the dining room. In the interval the
post letters were brought, and amongst others there was one from a
sister of Sir Thomas Lawrence (Mrs. Bloxam), enclosing a letter of her
brother's, having heard that Sir Walter had expressed a wish to have
some memorial of him, "rather of his pencil than his pen," said he, as
he handed the letter to me, who, as a collector of autographs, would
probably value them more than he did; and on referring to Mrs. Bloxam's
letter I find the Edinburgh post-mark February the 18th.

I received repeated invitations to Abbotsford, and had fixed to go on
the 17th of April, when, the day before, Mrs. Skene called upon me with
the sad tidings of another paralytic stroke, which not only put a stop
to my visit for the present, but rendered it very doubtful whether I
should ever see him again. But the worst fears of his friends were not
yet to be realised.

Early in May the invitation was renewed in a note from himself, which I
availed myself of, too well assured it was a privilege I should enjoy
for the last time. On reaching Abbotsford I found some morning visitors
(Mr. and Mrs. James, etc.) in the drawing-room, but as soon as they were
gone Sir Walter sent for me to his study. I found him seated in his
armchair, but with his habitual politeness he insisted upon rising to
receive me, though he did so with such extreme difficulty I would gladly
have dispensed with this mark of courtesy. His welcome was not less
cordial than usual, but he spoke in a slow and somewhat indistinct
manner, and as I sat close by him I could perceive but too plainly the
change which had taken place since we last met. His figure was unwieldy,
not so much from increased bulk as from diminished life and energy; his
face was swollen and puffy, his complexion mottled and discoloured, his
eyes heavy and dim; his head had been shaved, and he wore a small black
silk cap, which was extremely unbecoming. Altogether, the change was no
less striking than painful to behold. The impression, however, soon wore
off (on finding, as I believed), that his mind was unimpaired and his
warm kindly feelings unchanged.

There was no company, and the dinner party consisted of Mr. and Mrs.
Lockhart, Miss Scott, and myself. Sir Walter did not join us till the
dessert, when he entered, assisted by his servant, and took his place at
the foot of the table. His grandchildren were then brought in, and his
favourite, Johnnie Lockhart, was seated by his side. I must have forgot
most things before I can cease to recall that most striking and
impressive spectacle, each day repeated, as it seemed, with deepening
gloom. The first transient glow of cheerfulness which had welcomed my
arrival had passed away, and been succeeded by an air of languor and
dejection which sank to deepest sadness when his eye rested for a moment
on his once darling grandson, the child of so much pride and promise,
now, alas! how changed. It was most touching to look upon one whose
morning of life had been so bright and beautiful and, still in the sunny
days of childhood, transformed into an image of decrepitude and decay.
The fair blooming cheek and finely chiselled features were now shrunk
and stiffened into the wan and rigid inflexibility of old age; while the
black bandages which swathed the little pale sad countenance, gave
additional gloom and harshness to the profound melancholy which clouded
its most intellectual expression. Disease and death were stamped upon
the grandsire and the boy as they sat side by side with averted eyes,
each as if in the bitterness of his own heart refusing to comfort or be
comforted. The two who had been wont to regard each other so fondly and
so proudly, now seemed averse to hold communion together, while their
appearance and style of dress, the black cap of the one and the black
bandages of the other, denoted a sympathy in suffering if in nothing
else. The picture would have been a most affecting and impressive one
viewed under any circumstances, but was rendered doubly so by the
contrast which everywhere presented itself.

The month was May, but the weather had all the warmth of summer with the
freshness and sweetness of spring. The windows of the dining-room were
open to admit the soft balmy air which "came and went like the warbling
of music," but whose reviving influence seemed unfelt by the sufferers.
The trees, and shrubs, and flowers were putting forth their tender
leaves and fragrant blossoms as if to charm _his_ senses who used to
watch their progress with almost paternal interest, and the little birds
were singing in sweet chorus as if to cheer _him_ who was wont to listen
to their evening song with such placid delight. All around were the dear
familiar objects which had hitherto ministered to his enjoyment, but
now, alas! miserable comforters were they all! It was impossible to look
upon such a picture without beholding in it the realisation of those
solemn and affecting passages of Holy Writ which speak to us of the
ephemeral nature of all earthly pleasures and of the mournful
insignificance of human life, even in its most palmy state, when its
views and actions, its hopes and desires, are confined to this sublunary
sphere: "Whence then cometh any wisdom, and where is the place of
understanding?" "Thus saith the Lord, Let not the wise man glory in his
wisdom, neither let the mighty man glory in his might; let not the rich
man glory in his riches: but let him that glorieth glory in this, that
he understandeth and knoweth me, that I am the Lord."









MARRIAGE.



CHAPTER I.

    "Love!--A word by superstition thought a God; by use turned to an
    humour; by self-will made a flattering madness."

            _Alexander and Campaspe._

"COME hither, child," said the old Earl of Courtland to his daughter,
as, in obedience to his summons, she entered his study; "come hither, I
say; I wish to have some serious conversation with you: so dismiss your
dogs, shut the door, and sit down here."

"Lady Juliana rang for the footman to take Venus; bade Pluto be quiet,
like a darling, under the sofa; and, taking Cupid in her arms, assured
his Lordship he need fear no disturbance from the sweet creatures, and
that she would be all attention to his commands--kissing her cherished
pug as she spoke.

"You are now, I think, seventeen, Juliana," said  his Lordship in a
solemn important tone.

"And a half, papa."

"It is therefore time you should be thinking of establishing yourself in
the world. Have you ever turned your thoughts that way?"

Lady Juliana cast down her beautiful eyes, and was silent.

"As I can give you no fortune," continued the Earl, swelling with
ill-suppressed importance, as he proceeded, "you have perhaps no great
pretensions to a very brilliant establishment."

"Oh! none in the world, papa," eagerly interrupted Lady Juliana; "a mere
competence with the man of my heart."

"The man of a fiddlestick!" exclaimed Lord Courtland in a fury; "what
the devil have you to do with a heart, I should like to know? There's no
talking to a young woman now about marriage, but she is all in a blaze
about hearts, and darts, and--and--But hark ye, child, I'll suffer no
daughter of mine to play the fool with her heart, indeed! She shall
marry for the purpose for which matrimony was ordained amongst people of
birth--that is, for the aggrandisement of her family, the extending of
their political influence--for becoming, in short, the depository of
their mutual interest. These are the only purposes for which persons of
rank ever think of marriage. And pray, what has your heart to say to
that?"

"Nothing, papa," replied Lady Juliana in a faint dejected tone of voice.
"Have done, Cupid!" addressing her favourite, who was amusing himself
in pulling and tearing the beautiful lace veil that partly shaded the
head of his fair mistress.

"I thought not," resumed the Earl in a triumphant tone--"I thought not,
indeed." And as this victory over his daughter put him in unusual good
humour, he condescended to sport a little with her curiosity.

"And pray, can this wonderful wise heart of yours inform you who it is
you are going to obtain for a husband?"

Had Lady Juliana dared to utter the wishes of that heart she would have
been at no loss for a reply; but she saw the necessity of dissimulation;
and after naming such of her admirers as were most indifferent to her,
she declared herself quite at a loss, and begged her father to put an
end to her suspense.

"Now, what would you think of the Duke of L---?" asked the Earl in a
voice of half-smothered exultation and delight.

"The Duke of L-----!" repeated Lady Juliana, with a scream of horror and
surprise; "surely, papa, you cannot be serious? Why, he's red-haired and
squints, and he's as old as you."

"If he were as old as the devil, and as ugly too," interrupted the
enraged Earl, "he should be your husband: and may I perish if you shall
have any other!"

The youthful beauty burst into tears, while her father traversed the
apartment with an inflamed and wrathful visage.

"If it had been anybody but that odious Duke," sobbed the lovely
Juliana.

"If it had been anybody but that odious Duke!" repeated the Earl,
mimicking her, "they should not have had you. It has been my sole study,
ever since I saw your brother settled, to bring about this alliance;
and, when this is accomplished, my utmost ambition will be satisfied. So
no more whining--the affair is settled; and all that remains for you to
do is to study to make yourself agreeable to his Grace, and to sign the
settlements. No such mighty sacrifice, me thinks, when repaid with a
ducal coronet, the most splendid jewels, the finest equipages, and the
largest jointure of any woman in England."

Lady Juliana raised her head, and wiped her eyes. Lord Courtland
perceived the effect his eloquence had produced upon the childish fancy
of his daughter, and continued to expatiate upon the splendid joys that
awaited her in a union with a nobleman of the Duke's rank and fortune;
till at length, dazzled, if not convinced, she declared herself
"satisfied that it was her duty to marry whoever papa pleased; but--"
and a sigh escaped her as she contrasted her noble suitor with her
handsome lover: "but if I should marry him, papa, I am sure I shall
never be able to love him."

The Earl smiled at her childish simplicity as he assured her that was
not at all necessary; that love was now entirely confined to the
_canaille;_ that it was very well for ploughmen and dairymaids to marry
for love; but for a young woman of rank to think of such a thing was
plebeian in the extreme!

Lady Juliana did not entirely subscribe to the arguments of her father;
but the gay and glorious vision that floated in her brain stifled for a
while the pleadings of her heart; and with a sparkling eye and an
elastic step she hastened to prepare for the reception of the Duke.

For a few weeks the delusion lasted. Lady Juliana was flattered with the
homage she received as a future Duchess; she was delighted with the
éclat that attended her, and charmed with the daily presents
showered upon her by her noble suitor.

"Well, really, Favolle," said she to her maid, one day, as she clasped
on her beautiful arm a resplendent bracelet, "it must be owned the Duke
has a most exquisite taste in trinkets; don't you think so? And, do you
know, I don't think him so very--very ugly. When we are married I mean
to make him get a Brutus, cork his eyebrows, and have a set of teeth."
But just then the smiling eyes, curling hair, and finely formed person
of a certain captivating Scotsman rose to view in her mind's eye; and,
with a peevish "pshaw!" she threw the bauble aside.

Educated for the sole purpose of forming a brilliant establishment, of
catching the eye, and captivating the senses, the cultivation of her
mind or the correction of her temper had formed no part of the system by
which that aim was to be accomplished. Under the auspices of a
fashionable mother and an obsequious governess the froward petulance of
childhood, fostered and strengthened by indulgence and submission, had
gradually ripened into that selfishness and caprice which now, in youth,
formed the prominent features of her character. The Earl was too much
engrossed by affairs of importance to pay much attention to anything so
perfectly insignificant as the mind of his daughter. Her _person_ he had
predetermined should be entirely at his disposal, and therefore
contemplated with delight the uncommon beauty which already
distinguished it; not with the fond partiality of parental love, but
with the heartless satisfaction of a crafty politician.

The mind of Lady Juliana was consequently the sport of every passion
that by turns assailed it. Now swayed by ambition, and now softened by
love, the struggle was violent, but it was short. A few days before the
one which was to seal her fate she granted an interview to her lover,
who, young, thoughtless, and enamoured as herself, easily succeeded in
persuading her to elope with him to Scotland. There, at the altar of
Vulcan, the beautiful daughter of the Earl of Courtland gave her hand to
her handsome but penniless lover; and there vowed to immolate every
ambitious desire, every sentiment of vanity and high-born pride. Yet a
sigh arose as she looked on the filthy hut, sooty priest, and ragged
witnesses; and thought of the special license, splendid saloon, and
bridal pomp that would have attended her union with the Duke. But the
rapturous expressions which burst from the impassioned Douglas made her
forget the gaudy pleasures of pomp and fashion. Amid the sylvan scenes
of the neighbouring lakes the lovers sought a shelter; and, mutually
charmed with each other, time flew for a while on downy pinions.

At the end of two months, however, the enamoured husband began to
suspect that the lips of his "angel Julia" could utter very silly
things; while the fond bride, on her part, discovered that though her
"adored Henry's" figure was symmetry itself, yet it certainly was
deficient in a certain air--a _je ne sais quoi_--that marks the man of
fashion.

"How I wish I had my pretty Cupid here," said her Ladyship, with a sigh,
one day as she lolled on a sofa: "he had so many pretty tricks, he would
have helped to amuse us, and make the time pass; for really this place
grows very stupid and tiresome; don't you think so, love?"

"Most confoundedly so, my darling," replied her husband, yawning
sympathetically as he spoke.

"Then suppose I make one more attempt to soften papa, and be received
into favour again?"

"With all my heart."

"Shall I say I'm very sorry for what I have done?" asked her Ladyship,
with a sigh. "You know I did not say that in my first letter."

"Ay, do; and, if it will serve any purpose, you may say that I am no
less so."

In a few days the letter was returned, in a blank cover; and, by the
same post, Douglas saw himself superseded in the Gazette, being absent
without leave!

There now remained but one course to pursue; and that was to seek refuge
at his father's, in the Highlands of Scotland. At the first mention of
it Lady Juliana was transported with joy, and begged that a letter might
be instantly despatched, containing the offer of a visit: she had heard
the Duchess of M. declare nothing could be so delightful as the style of
living in Scotland: the people were so frank and gay, and the manners so
easy and engaging--oh! it was delightful! And then Lady Jane G. and Lady
Mary L., and a thousand other lords and ladies she knew, were all so
charmed with the country, and all so sorry to leave it. Then dear
Henry's family must be so charming: an old castle, too, was her delight;
she would feel quite at home while wandering through its long galleries;
and she quite loved old pictures, and armour, and tapestry; and then her
thoughts reverted to her father's magnificent mansion in D---shire.

At length an answer arrived, containing a cordial invitation from the
old Laird to spend the winter with them at Glenfern Castle.

All impatience to quit the scenes of their short lived felicity, they
bade a hasty adieu to the now fading beauties of Windermere; and, full
of hope and expectation, eagerly turned towards the bleak hills of
Scotland. They stopped for a short time at Edinburgh, to provide
themselves with a carriage, and some other necessaries. There, too, she
fortunately met with an English Abigail and footman, who, for double
wages, were prevailed upon to attend her to the Highlands; which, with
the addition of two dogs, a tame squirrel, and mackaw, completed the
establishment.






CHAPTER II.

   "What transport to retrace our early plays,
    Our easy bliss, when each thing joy supplied;
    The woods, the mountains, and the warbling maze
    Of the wild brooks." THOMSON.

MANY were the dreary muirs and rugged mountains her Ladyship had to
encounter in her progress to Glenfern Castle; and, but for the hope of
the new world that awaited her beyond those formidable barriers, her
delicate frame and still more sensitive feelings must have sunk beneath
the horrors of such a journey. But she remembered the Duchess had said
the inns and roads were execrable; and the face of the country, as well
as the lower orders of people, frightful; but what signified those
things? There were balls, and sailing parties, and rowing matches, and
shooting parties, and fishing parties, and parties of every description;
and the certainty of being recompensed by the festivities of Glenfern
Castle, reconciled her to the ruggedness of the approach.

Douglas had left his paternal home and native hills when only eight
years of age. A rich relation of his mother's happening to visit them at
that time, took a fancy to the boy; and, under promise of making him his
heir, had prevailed on his parents to part with him. At a proper age he
was placed in the Guards, and had continued to maintain himself in the
favor of his benefactor until his imprudent marriage, which had
irritated this old bachelor so much that he instantly disinherited him,
and refused to listen to any terms of reconciliation. The impressions
which the scenes of his infancy had left upon the mind of the young
Scotsman, it may easily be supposed, were of a pleasing description. He
expatiated to his Juliana on the wild but august scenery that surrounded
his father's castle, and associated with the idea the boyish
exploits, which though faintly remembered, still served to endear them
to his heart. He spoke of the time when he used to make one of a
numerous party on the lake, and, when tired of sailing on its glassy
surface to the sound of soft music, they would land at some lovely spot;
and, after partaking of their banquet beneath a spreading tree, conclude
the day by a dance on the grass.

Lady Juliana would exclaim, "How delightful! I doat upon picnics and
dancing! --_àpropos,_ Henry, there will surely be a ball to
welcome our arrival?"

The conversation was interrupted; for just at that moment they had
gained the summit of a very high hill, and the post-boy, stopping to
give his horses breath, turned round to the carriage, pointing at the
same time, with a significant gesture, to a tall thin gray house,
something resembling a tower, that stood in the vale beneath. A small
sullen-looking lake was in front, on whose banks grew neither tree nor
shrub. Behind rose a chain of rugged cloud-capped hills, on the
declivities of which were some faint attempts at young plantations; and
the only level ground consisted of a few dingy turnip fields, enclosed
with stone walls, or dykes, as the post-boy called them. It was now
November; the day was raw and cold; and a thick drizzling rain was
beginning to fall. A dreary stillness reigned all around, broken only at
intervals by the screams of the sea-fowl that hovered over the lake, on
whose dark and troubled waters was dimly descried a little boat, plied
by one solitary being.

"What a scene!" at length Lady Juliana exclaimed, shuddering as she
spoke. "Good God, what a scene! How I pity the unhappy wretches who are
doomed to dwell in such a place! and yonder hideous grim house--it makes
me sick to look at it. For Heaven's sake, bid him drive on." Another
significant look from the driver made the colour mount to Douglas's
cheek, as he stammered out, "Surely it can't be; yet somehow I don't
know. Pray, my lad," setting down one of the glasses, and addressing the
post-boy, "what is the name of that house?"

"Hoose!" repeated the driver; "ca' ye thon a hoose? Thon's gude Glenfern
Castle."

Lady Juliana, not understanding a word he said, sat silently wondering
at her husband's curiosity respecting such a wretched-looking place.

"Impossible! you must be mistaken, my lad: why, what's become of all the
fine wood that used to surround it?"

"Gin you mean a wheen auld firs, there's some of them to the fore yet,"
pointing to two or three tall, bare, scathed Scotch firs, that scarcely
bent their stubborn heads to the wind, that now began to howl around
them.

"I insist upon it that you are mistaken; you must have wandered from
the right road," cried the now alarmed Douglas in a loud voice, which
vainly attempted to conceal his agitation.

"We'll shune see that," replied the phlegmatic Scot, who, having
rested his horses and affixed a drag to the wheel, was about to proceed,
when Lady Juliana, who now began to have some vague suspicion of the
truth, called to him to stop, and, almost breathless with alarm,
inquired of her husband the meaning of what had passed.

He tried to force a smile, as he said, "It seems our journey is nearly
ended; that fellow persists in asserting that that is Glenfern, though I
can scarcely think it. If it is, it is strangely altered since I left it
twelve years ago."

For a moment Lady Juliana was too much alarmed to make a reply; pale and
speechless, she sank back in the carriage; but the motion of it, as it
began to proceed, roused her to a sense of her situation, and she burst
into tears and exclamations.

The driver, who attributed it all to fears at descending the hill,
assured her she need na be the least feared, for there were na twa
cannier beasts atween that and Johnny Groat's hoose; and that they wad
ha'e her at the castle door in a crack, gin they were ance down the
brae."

Douglas's attempts to soothe his high-born bride were not more
successful than those of the driver: in vain he made use of every
endearing epithet and tender expression, and recalled the time when she
used to declare that she could dwell with him in a desert; her only
replies were bitter reproaches and upbraidings for his treachery and
deceit, mingled with floods of tears, and interrupted by hysterical
sobs. Provoked at her folly, yet softened by her extreme distress,
Douglas was in the utmost state of perplexity--now ready to give way to
a paroxysm of rage; then yielding to the natural goodness of his heart,
he sought to soothe her into composure; and, at length, with much
difficulty succeeded in changing her passionate indignation into silent
dejection.

That no fresh objects of horror or disgust might appear to disturb this
calm, the blinds were pulled down, and in this state they reached
Glenfern Castle. But there the friendly veil was necessarily withdrawn,
and the first object that presented itself to the highbred Englishwoman
was an old man clad in a short tartan coat and striped woollen
night-cap, with blear eyes and shaking hands, who vainly strove to open
the carriage door.

Douglas soon extricated himself, and assisted his lady to alight; then
accosting the venerable domestic as "Old Donald," asked him if he
recollected him.

"Weel that, weel that, Maister Hairy, and ye're welcome hame; and ye tu,
bonny sir" [1] (addressing Lady Juliana, who was calling to her
footman to follow her with the mackaw); then, tottering before them, he
led the way, while her Ladyship followed, leaning on her husband, her
squirrel on her other arm, preceded by her dogs, barking with all their
might, and attended by the mackaw, screaming with all his strength; and
in this state was the Lady Juliana ushered into the drawing-room of
Glenfern Castle!

[1]  The Highlanders use this term of respect indifferently to
both sexes.






CHAPTER III.

   "What can be worse,
    Than to dwell here!"

            _Paradise Lost._

IT was a long, narrow, low-roofed room, with a number of small windows,
that admitted feeble lights in every possible direction. The scanty
furniture bore every appearance of having been constructed at the same
time as the edifice; and the friendship thus early formed still seemed
to subsist, as the high-backed worked chairs adhered most pertinaciously
to the gray walls, on which hung, in narrow black frames, some of the
venerable ancestors of the Douglas family. A fire, which appeared to
have been newly kindled, was beginning to burn, but, previous to showing
itself in flame, had chosen to vent itself in smoke, with which
the room was completely filled, and the open windows seemed to produce
no other effect than that of admitting the rain and wind.

At the entrance of the stranger a flock of females rushed forward to meet
them.  Douglas good humouredly submitted to be hugged by three long-chinned
spinsters, whom he recognised as his aunts; and warmly saluted five awkward
purple girls he guessed to be his sisters; while Lady Julian stood the image
of despair, and, scarcely conscious, admitted in silence the civilities of
her new relations; till, at length, sinking into a chair, she endeavoured
to conceal her agitation by calling to the dogs and caressing her mackaw.

The Laird, who had been hastily summoned from his farming operations,
now entered. He was a good looking old man, with something the air of a
gentleman, in spite of the inelegance of his dress, his rough manner,
and provincial accent. After warmly welcoming his son, he advanced to
his beautiful daughter-in-law, and, taking her in his arms, bestowed a
loud and hearty kiss on each cheek; then, observing the paleness of her
complexion, and the tears that swam in her eyes, "What! not frightened
for our Hieland hills, my leddy? Come, cheer up--trust me, ye'll find as
warm hearts among them as ony ye ha'e left in your fine English
_policies_"--shaking her delicate fingers in his hard muscular gripe as
he spoke.

The tears, which had with difficulty been hitherto suppressed, now burst
in torrents from the eyes of the high-bred beauty, as she leant her
cheek against the back of a chair, and gave way to the anguish which
mocked control.

To the loud, anxious inquiries, and oppressive kindness of her homely
relatives, she made no reply; but, stretching out her hands to her
husband sobbed,

"Take, oh, take me from this place!"

Mortified, ashamed, and provoked,  at a behavior so childish and absurd,
Douglas could only stammer out something about Lady Juliana having been
frightened and fatigued; and, requesting to be shown to their apartment,
he supported her almost lifeless to it, while his aunts followed, all
three prescribing different remedies in a breath.

"For heaven's sake, take them from me!" faintly articulated Lady
Juliana, as she shrank from the many hands that were alternately applied
to her pulse and forehead.

After repeated entreaties and plausible excuses from Douglas, his aunts
at length consented to withdraw, and he then exerted all the rhetoric he
was master of to reconcile his bride to the situation love and necessity
had thrown her into. But in vain he employed reasoning, caresses, and
threats; the only answers he could extort were tears and entreaties to
be taken from a place where she declared she felt it impossible to
exist.

"If you wish my death, Harry," said she, in a voice almost inarticulate
from excess of weeping, "oh! kill me quickly, and do not leave me to
linger out my days, and perish at last with misery here."

"For heaven's sake, tell me what you would have me do," said her
husband, softened to pity by her extreme distress, "and I swear that in
everything possible I will comply with your wishes."

"Oh, fly then, stop the horses, and let us return immediately. Do run,
dearest Harry, or they will be gone; and we shall never get away from
this odious place."

"Where would you go?" asked he, with affected calmness.

"Oh, anywhere; no matter where, so as we do but get away from hence: we
can be at no loss."

"None in the world," interrupted Douglas, with a bitter smile, "as long
as there is a prison to receive us. See," continued he, throwing a few
shillings down on the table, "there is every sixpence I possess in the
world, so help me heaven!"

Lady Juliana stood aghast.

At that instant the English Abigail burst into the room, and in a voice
choking with passion, she requested her discharge, that she might return
with the driver who had brought them there.

"A pretty way of travelling, to be sure, it will be," continued she, "to
go bumping behind a dirty chaise-driver; but better to be shook to a
jelly altogether than stay amongst such a set of _Oaten-toads."_ [1]

[1] Hottentots.

"What do you mean?" inquired Douglas, as soon as the voluble Abigail
allowed him an opportunity of asking.

"Why, my meaning, sir, is to leave this here place immediately; not that
I have any objections either to my Lady or you, sir; but, to be sure, it
was a sad day for me that I engaged myself to her Ladyship. Little did I
think that a lady of distinction would coming to such a poor pitiful
place as this. I am sure I thought I should ha' swooned when I was
showed the hole where I was to sleep."

At the bare idea of this indignity to her person the fury of the
incensed fair one blazed forth with such strength as to choke her
utterance.

Amazement had hitherto kept Lady Juliana silent; for to such scenes she
was a stranger. Born in an elevated rank, reared in state, accustomed to
the most obsequious attention, and never approached but with the respect
due rather to a _divinity_ than to a mortal, the strain of vulgar
insolence that now assailed her was no less new to her ears than
shocking to her feelings. With a voice and look that awed the woman in
to obedience, she commanded her to quit her presence for ever; and then,
no longer able to suppress the motions of insulted pride, wounded
vanity, and indignant disappointment, she gave way to a violent fit of
hysterics.

In the utmost perplexity the unfortunate husband by turns cursed the
hour that had given him such a wife; now tried to soothe her into
composure; but at length, seriously alarmed at the increasing attack, he
called loudly for assistance.

In a moment the three aunts and the five sisters all rushed together
into the room, full of wonder, exclamation, and inquiry. Many were the
remedies that were tried and the experiments that were suggested; and at
length the violence of passion exhausted itself, and a faint sob or deep
sigh succeeded the hysteric scream.

Douglas now attempted to account for the behaviour of his noble spouse
by ascribing it to the fatigue she had lately undergone, joined to
distress of mind at her father's unrelenting severity towards her.

"Oh, the amiable  creature!" interrupted the unsuspecting  spinsters,
almost stifling her with their caresses as they spoke: "Welcome, a
thousand times welcome, to Glenfern Castle," said Miss Jacky, who was
esteemed by much the most sensible woman, as well as the greatest orator
in the whole parish; "nothing shall be wanting, dearest Lady Juliana, to
compensate for a parent's rigour, and make you happy and comfortable.
Consider this as your future home! My sisters and myself will be as
mothers to you; and see these charming young creatures," dragging
forward two tall frightened girls, with sandy hair and great purple
arms; "thank Providence for having blest you with such sisters!" "Don't,
speak too much, Jacky, to our dear niece at present," said Miss Grizzy;
"I think one of Lady Maclaughlan's composing draughts would be the best
thing for her."

"Composing draughts at this time of day!" cried Miss Nicky; "I
should think a little good broth a much wiser thing. There are some
excellent family broth making below, and I'll desire Tibby to bring a
few."

"Will you take a little soup, love?" asked Douglas. His lady assented;
and Miss Nicky vanished, but quickly re-entered, followed by Tibby,
carrying a huge bowl of coarse broth, swimming with leeks, greens, and
grease. Lady Juliana attempted to taste it; but her delicate palate
revolted at the homely fare; and she gave up the attempt, in spite of
Miss Nicky's earnest entreaties to take a few more of these excellent
family broth.

"I should think," said Henry, as he vainly attempted to stir it round,
"that a little wine would be more to the purpose than this stuff."

The aunts looked at each other; and, withdrawing to a corner, a
whispering consultation took place, in which Lady Maclaughlan's opinion,
"birch, balm, currant, heating, cooling, running risks," etc. etc.,
transpired. At length the question was carried; and some tolerable
sherry and a piece of very substantial _shortbread_ were produced.

It was now voted by Miss Jacky, and carried _nem. con._ that her Ladyship
ought to take a little repose till the hour of dinner.

"And don't trouble to dress," continued the considerate aunt, "for we
are not very dressy here; and we are to be quite a charming family
party, nobody but ourselves; and," turning to her nephew, "your brother
and his wife. She is a most superior woman, though she has rather too
many of her English prejudices yet to be all we could wish; but I have
no doubt, when she has lived a little longer amongst us, she will just
become one of ourselves."

"I forget who she was," said Douglas.

"A grand-daughter of Sir Duncan Malcolm's, a very old family of the
--------- blood, and nearly allied to the present Earl. And here they
come," exclaimed she, on hearing the sound of a carriage; and all rushed
out to receive them.

"Let us have a glimpse of this scion from a noble stock," said Lady
Juliana, mimicking the accent of the poor spinsters, as she rose and ran
to the window.

"Good heavens, Henry! do come and behold this equipage;" and she
laughed with childish glee as she pointed to a plain, old-fashioned
whisky, with a large top. A tall handsome young man now alighted, and
lifted out a female figure, so enveloped in a cloak that eyes less
penetrating than Lady Juliana's could not, at a single glance, have
discovered her to be a "frightful quiz."

"Only conceive the effect of this dashing equipage in Bond Street!"
continued she, redoubling her mirth at the bright idea; then suddenly
stopping, and sighing--

"Ah, my pretty _vis-à-vis!_ I remember the first time I saw you,
Henry, I was in it at a review;" and she sighed still deeper.

"True; I was then aid-de-camp to your handsome lover, the Duke of
L----------."

"Perhaps I might think him handsome now. People's tastes alter according
to circumstances."

"Yours must have undergone a wonderful revolution, if you can find
charms in a hunchback of fifty three."

"He is not a hunchback," returned her Ladyship warmly; "only a little
high shouldered; but at any rate he has the most beautiful place and the
finest house in England."

Douglas saw the storm gathering on the brow of his capricious wife, and
clasping her in his arms, "Are you indeed so changed, my Julia, that you
have forgot the time when you used to declare you would prefer a desert
with your Henry to a throne with another."

"No, certainly, not changed; but--I--I did not very well know then
what a desert was; or, at least, I had formed rather a different idea of
it."

"What was your idea of a desert?" said her husband, laughing. "Do tell
me, love."

"Oh! I had fancied it a beautiful place, full of roses and myrtles, and
smooth green turf, and murmuring rivulets, and, though very retired, not
absolutely out of the world; where one could occasionally see one's
friends, and give _dejeunés et fêtes champêtres_."

"Well, perhaps the time may come, Juliana, when we may realise your
Elysian deserts; but at present, you know, I am wholly dependent on my
father. I hope to prevail on him to do something for me; and that our
stay here will be short; as, you may be sure, the moment I can, I will
take you hence. I am sensible it is not a situation for you; but for my
sake, dearest Juliana, bear with it for a while, without betraying your
disgust. Will you do this, darling?" and he kissed away the sullen tear
that hung on her cheek.

"You know, love, there's nothing in the world I wouldn't do for you,"
replied she, as she played with her squirrel; "and as you promise our
stay shall be short, if I don't die of the horrors I shall certainly try
to make the agreeable. Oh! my cherub!" flying to her pug, who came
barking into the room "where have you been, and where's my darling
Psyche, and sweet mackaw? Do, Harry, go and see after the darlings."

"I must go and see my brother and his wife first. Will you come, love?"

"Oh, not now; I don't feel equal to the encounter; besides, I must dress.
But what shall I do? Since that vile woman's gone I can't dress myself.
I never did such a thing in my life, and I am sure it's impossible that
I can," almost weeping at the hardships she was doomed to experience in
making her own toilet.

"Shall I be your Abigail?" asked her husband, smiling at the distress;
"me thinks it would be no difficult task to deck my Julia."

"Dear Harry, will you really dress me? Oh! That will be delightful! I
shall die with laughing at your awkwardness;" and her beautiful eyes
sparkled with childish delight at the idea.

"In the meantime," said Douglas, "I'll send someone to unpack your
things; and after I have shook hands with Archie, and been introduced to
my new sister, I shall enter on my office."

"Now do, pray, make haste; for I die to see your great hands tying
strings and sticking pins."

Delighted with her gaiety and good humour, he left her caressing her
favourites; and finding rather a scarcity of female attendance, he
despatched two of his sisters to assist his helpless beauty in her
arrangements.






CHAPTER IV.

    And ever against eating cares,
    Lap me in soft Lydian airs."

            _L'Allegro._

WHEN Douglas returned he found the floor strewed with dresses of every
description, his sisters on their knees before a great trunk they were
busied in unpacking, and his Lady in her wrapper, with her hair about
her ears, still amusing herself with her pets.

"See how good your sisters are," said she, pointing to the poor girls,
whose inflamed faces bore testimony to their labours. "I declare I am
quite sorry to see them take so much trouble," yawning as she leant back
in her chair; "is it not quite shocking, Tommy? 'kissing her squirrel.'
Oh! pray, Henry, do tell me what I am to put on; for I protest I don't
know. Favolle always used to choose for me; and so did that odious
Martin, for she had an exquisite taste."

"Not so exquisite as your own, I am sure; so for once choose for
yourself," replied the good-humoured husband; "and pray make haste, for
my father waits dinner."

Betwixt scolding, laughing, and blundering, the dress was at length
completed; and Lady Juliana, in all the pomp of dress and pride of
beauty, descended, leaning on her husband's arm.

On entering the drawing-room, which was now  in a more comfortable
state, Douglas led her to a lady who was sitting by the fire: and,
placing her hand within that of the stranger, "Juliana, my love," said
he, "this is a sister whom you have not yet seen, a with whom I am sure
you will gladly make acquaintance."

The stranger received her noble sister with graceful ease; and, with a
sweet smile and pleasing accent, expressed herself happy in the
introduction. Lady Juliana was surprised and somewhat disconcerted. She
had arranged her plans, and made up her mind to be _condescending;_ she
had resolved to enchant by her sweetness, dazzle by her brilliancy, and
overpower by her affability. But there was a simple dignity in the air
and address of the lady, before which even high-bred affectation sank
abashed. Before she found a reply to the courteous yet respectful
salutation of her sister-in-law Douglas introduced his brother; and the
old gentleman, impatient at any farther delay, taking Lady Juliana by
the hand, pulled, rather than led her into the dining-room.

Even Lady Juliana contrived to make a meal of the roast mutton and
moorfowl; for the Laird piqued himself on the breed of his sheep, and
his son was to good a sportsman to allow his friends to want for game.

"I think my darling Tommy would relish this grouse very much," observed
Lady Juliana, as she secured the last remaining wing for her favourite."
Bring him here!" turning to the tall, dashing lackey who stood behind
her chair, and whose handsome livery and well-dressed hair formed a
striking contrast to old Donald's tartan jacket and bob-wig.

"Come hither, my sweetest cherubs," extending her arms towards the
charming trio, as they entered, barking, and chattering, and flying to
their mistress. A scene of noise and nonsense ensued.

Douglas remained silent, mortified and provoked at the weakness of his
wife, which not even the silver tones of her voice or the elegance of
her manners could longer conceal from him. But still there was a charm
in her very folly, to the eye of love, which had not yet wholly lost its
power.

After the table was cleared, observing that he was still silent and
abstracted, Lady Juliana turned to her husband, and, laying her hand on
his shoulder, "You are not well, love!" said she, looking up in his
face, and shaking back the redundant ringlets that shaded her own.

"Perfectly so," replied her husband, with a sigh.

"What? Dull?  Then I must sing to enliven you."

And, leaning her head on his shoulder, she warbled a verse of the
beautiful little Venetian air, _La Biondina in Gondoletta._ Then
suddenly stopping, and fixing her eyes on Mrs. Douglas, "I beg pardon,
perhaps you don't like music; perhaps my singing's a bore."

"You pay us a bad compliment in saying so," said her sister-in-law,
smiling; "and the only atonement you can make for such an injurious
doubt is to proceed."

"Does anybody sing here?" asked she, without noticing this request. "Do,
somebody, sing me a song."

"Oh! we all sing, and dance too," said one, of the old young ladies;
"and after tea we will show you some of our Scotch steps; but in the
meantime Mrs. Douglas will favour us with her song."

Mrs. Douglas assented good-humouredly, though aware that it would be
rather a nice point to please all parties in the choice of a song. The
Laird reckoned all foreign music--_i.e._ everything that was not
Scotch--an outrage upon his ears; and Mrs. Douglas had too much taste to
murder Scotch songs with her English accent. She therefore compromised
the matter as well as she could by selecting a Highland ditty clothed in
her own native tongue; and sang with much pathos and simplicity the
lamented Leyden's "Fall of Macgregor:"

    "In the vale of Glenorehy the night breeze was sighing
    O'er the tomb where the ancient Macgregors are lying;
    Green are their graves by their soft murmuring river,
    But the name of Macgregor has perished for ever.

    "On a red stream of light, by his gray mountains glancing,
    Soon I beheld a dim spirit advancing;
    Slow o'er the heath of the dead was its motion,
    Like the shadow of mist o'er the foam of the ocean.

    "Like the sound of a stream through the still evening dying,--
    Stranger! who treads where Macgregor is lying?
    Darest thou to walk, unappall'd and firm-hearted,
    'Mid the shadowy steps of the mighty departed?

    "See! round thee the caves of the dead are disclosing
    The shades that have long been in silence reposing;
    Thro' their forms dimly twinkles the moon-beam descending,
    As upon thee their red eyes of wrath they are bending.

    "Our gray stones of fame though the heath-blossom cover,
    Round the fields of our battles our spirits still hover;
    Where we oft saw the streams running red from the mountains;
    But dark are our forms by our blue native fountains.

    "For our fame melts away like the foam of the river,
    Like the last yellow leaves on the oak-boughs that shiver:
    The name is unknown of our fathers so gallant;
    And our blood beats no more in the breasts of the valiant.

    "The hunter of red deer now ceases to number
    The lonely gray stones on the field of our slumber.--
    Fly, stranger! and let not thine eye be reverted.
    Why should'st thou see that our fame is departed?"

"Pray, do you play on the harp," asked the volatile lady, scarcely
waiting till the first stanza was ended; "and, _apropos,_ have you a
good harp here?"

"We've a very sweet spinnet," said Miss Jacky, "which, in my opinion, is
a far superior instrument: and Bella will give us a tune upon it. Bella,
my dear, let Lady Juliana hear how well you can play."

Bella, blushing like a peony rose, retired to a corner of the room,
where stood the spinnet; and with great, heavy, trembling hands, began
to belabour the unfortunate instrument, while the aunts beat time, and
encouraged her to proceed with exclamations of admiration and applause.

"You have done very well, Bella," said Mrs. Douglas, seeing her
preparing to _execute_ another piece, and pitying the poor girl, as well
as her auditors. Then whispering Miss Jacky that Lady Juliana looked
fatigued, they arose to quit the room.

"Give me your arm, love, to the drawing-room," said her Ladyship
languidly. "And now, pray, don't be long away," continued she, as he
placed her on the sofa, and returned to the gentlemen.






CHAPTER V.

    "You have displaced the mirth, broke the good meeting,
    With most admired disorder."

            _Macbeth._

THE interval, which seemed of endless  duration to the hapless Lady
Juliana, was passed by the aunts in giving sage counsel as to the course
of life to be pursued by married ladies. Worsted stockings and quilted
petticoats were insisted upon as indispensable articles of dress; while
it was plainly insinuated that it was utterly impossible any child could
be healthy whose mother had not confined her wishes to barley broth and
oatmeal porridge.

"Only look at thae young lambs," said Miss Grizzy, pointing to the five
great girls; "see what pickters of health they are! I'm sure I hope, my
dear niece, your children will be just the same--only boys, for we are
sadly in want of boys. It's melancholy to think we have not a boy among
us, and that a fine auntient race like ours should be dying away for
want of male heirs." And the tears streamed down the cheeks of the good
spinster as she spoke.

The entrance of the gentlemen put a stop to the conversation.

Flying to her husband, Lady Juliana began to whisper, in very audible
tones, her inquires, whether he had yet got any money--when they were to
go away, etc. etc.

"Does your Ladyship choose any tea?" asked Miss Nicky, as she
disseminated the little cups of coarse black liquid.

"Tea! oh no, I never drink tea. I'll take some coffee though; and Psyche
doats on a dish of tea." And she tendered the beverage that had been
intended for herself to her favourite.

"Here's no coffee," said Douglas, surveying the tea-table; "but I will
ring for some," as he pulled the bell.

Old Donald answered the summons.

"Where's the coffee?" demanded Miss Nicky.

"The coffee!" repeated the Highlander; "troth, Miss Nicky, an' it's been
clean forgot."

"Well, but you can get it yet?" said Douglas.

"'Deed, Maister Harry, the night's owre far gane for't noo; for the
fire's a' ta'en up, ye see," reckoning with his fingers, as he
proceeded; "there's parritch makin' for oor supper; and there's patatees
boiling for the beasts; and--"

"I'll see about it myself," said Miss Nicky, leaving the room, with old
Donald at her back, muttering all the way.

The old Laird, all this while, had been enjoying his evening nap; but,
that now ended, and the tea equipage being dismissed, starting up, he
asked what they were about, that the dancing was not begun.

"Come, my Leddy, we'll set the example," snapping his fingers, and
singing in a hoarse voice,

   "The mouse is a merry beastie,
    And the moudiwort wants the een;
    But folk sail ne'er get wit,
    Sae merry as we twa ha'e been.'

"But whar's the girlies?" cried he. "Ho! Belle, Becky, Betty, Baby,
Beeny--to your posts!"

The young ladies, eager for the delights of music and dancing, now
entered, followed by Coil, the piper, dressed in the native garb, with
cheeks seemingly ready blown for the occasion. After a little strutting
and puffing, the pipes were fairly set a going in Coil's most spirited
manner. But vain would be the attempt to describe Lady Juliana's horror
and amazement at the hideous sounds that for the first time assailed her
ear. Tearing herself from the grasp of the old gentleman, who was just
setting off in the reel, she flew shrieking to her husband, and threw
herself trembling into his arms, while he called loudly to the self
delighted Coil to stop.

"What's the matter? what's the matter?" cried the whole family,
gathering round.

"Matter!" repeated Douglas furiously; "you have frightened Lady Juliana
to death with your infernal music. What did you mean," turning fiercely
to the astonished piper, "by blowing that confounded bladder?"

Poor Coil gaped with astonishment; for never before had his performance
on the bagpipe been heard but with admiration and applause.

"A bonny bargain, indeed, that canna stand the pipes," said the old
gentleman, as he went puffing up and down the room. "She's no the wife
for a Heelandman. Confoonded blather, indeed! By my faith, ye're no
blate!"

"I declare it's the most distressing thing I ever met with," sighed Miss
Grizzy. "I wonder whether it could be the sight or the sound of the
bagpipe that frightened our dear niece. I wish to goodness Lady
Maclaughlan was here!"

"It's impossible the bagpipe could frighten anybody," said Miss Jacky,
in a high key; "nobody with common sense could be frightened at a
bagpipe."

Mrs. Douglas here mildly interposed, and soothed down the offended pride
of the Highlanders by attributing Lady Juliana's agitation entirely to
_surprise._ The word operated like a charm; all were ready to admit that
it was a surprising thing when heard for the first time. Miss Jacky
remarked that we are all liable to be surprised; and the still more
sapient Grizzy said that, indeed, it was most surprising the effect that
surprise had upon some people. For her own part, she could not deny but
that she was very often frightened when she was surprised.

Douglas, meanwhile, was employed in soothing the terrors, real or
affected, of his delicate bride, who declared herself so exhausted with
the fatigue she had undergone, and the sufferings she had endured, that
she must retire for the night. Henry, eager to escape from the questions
and remarks of his family, gladly availed himself of the same excuse;
and, to the infinite mortification of both aunts and nieces, the ball
was broken up.






CHAPTER VI

    "What choice to choose for delicacy best."

            Milton

OF what nature were the remarks passed in the parlour upon the new
married couple has not reached the writer of these memoirs with as much
exactness as the foregoing circumstances; but they may in part be
imagined from the sketch already given of the characters which formed
the Glenfern party. The conciliatory indulgence of Mrs. Douglas, when
aided by the good-natured Miss Grizzy, doubtless had a favourable effect
on the irritated pride but short-lived acrimony of the old gentleman.
Certain it is that, before the evening concluded, they appeared all
restored to harmony, and retired to their respective chambers in hopes
of beholding a more propitious morrow.

Who has not perused sonnets, odes, and speeches in praise of that balmy
blessing sleep; from the divine effusions of Shakespeare down to the
drowsy notes of newspaper poets?

Yet cannot too much be said in its commendation. Sweet is its influence
on the careworn eyes to tears accustomed. In its arms the statesman
forgets his harassed thoughts; the weary and the poor are blessed with
its charms; and conscience--even conscience--is sometimes soothed into
silence, while the sufferer sleeps. But nowhere, perhaps, is its
influence more happily felt than in the heart oppressed by the harassing
accumulation of petty ills; like a troop of locusts, making up by their
number and their stings what they want in magnitude.

Mortified pride in discovering the fallacy of our own judgment; to be
ashamed of what we love, yet still to love, are feelings most
unpleasant; and though they assume not the dignity of deep distress, yet
philosophy has scarce any power to soothe their worrying, incessant
annoyance. Douglas was glad to forget himself in sleep. He had thought a
vast deal that day, and of unpleasant subjects, more than the whole of
his foregoing life would have produced. If he did not curse the fair
object of his imprudence, he at least cursed his own folly and himself;
and these were his last waking thoughts.

But Douglas could not repose as long as the seven sleepers, and, in
consequence of having retired sooner to bed than he was accustomed to
do, he waked at an early hour in the morning.

The wonderful activity which people sometimes feel when they have little
to do with their bodies, and less with their minds, caused him to rise
hastily and dress, hoping to pick up a new set of ideas by virtue of his
locomotive powers.

On descending to the dining-parlour  he found his father seated at the
window, carefully perusing a pamphlet written to illustrate the
principle, _Let nothing be lost,_ and containing many sage and erudite
directions for the composition and dimensions of that ornament to a
gentleman's farmyard, and a cottager's front door, ycleped, in the
language of the country, a _midden_--with the signification of which we
would not, for the world, shock the more refined feelings of our
southern readers.

Many were the inquiries about dear Lady Juliana; hoped she had rested
well; hoped the found the bed comfortable, etc. etc. These inquiries
were interrupted by the Laird, who requested is son to take a turn with
him while breakfast was getting ready, that they might talk over past
events and new plans; that he might see the new planting on the hill; the
draining of the great moss; with other agricultural concerns which we
shall omit, not having the same power of commanding attention for our
readers as the Laird had from his hearers.

After repeated summonses and many inquiries from the impatient party
already assembled the breakfast table, Lady Juliana made her appearance,
accompanied by her favourites, whom no persuasions of her husband could
prevail upon her to leave behind.

As she entered the room her olfactory nerves were smote with gales,
not of "Araby the blest," but of old cheese and herrings, with which the
hospitable board was amply provided.

The ladies having severally exchanged the salutations of the morning,
Miss Nicky commenced the operation of pouring out tea, while the Laird
laid a large piece of herring on her Ladyship's plate.

"Good heavens! what am I to do with this?" exclaimed she. "Do take it
away, or I shall faint!"

"Brother, brother!" cried Miss Grizzy in a tone of alarm, "I beg you
won't place any unpleasant object before the eyes of our dear niece. I
declare! Pray, was it the sight or the smell of the beast [1] that
shocked you so much, my dear Lady Juliana? I'm sure I wish to goodness
Lady Maclaughlan was come!"

[1] In Scotland everything that flies and swims ranks in the bestial tribe.

Mr. Douglas, or the Major, as he was styled, immediately rose and pulled
the bell.

"Desire my gig to be got ready directly!" said he.

The aunts drew up stiffly, and looked at each other without speaking;
but the old gentleman expressed his surprise that his son should think
of leaving them so soon.

"May we inquire the reason of this sudden resolution?" at length said
Miss Jacky in a tone of stifled indignation.

"Certainly, if you are disposed to hear  it; it is because I find that
there is company expected."

The three ladies turned up their hands and eyes in speechless horror.

"Is it that virtuous woman Lady Maclaughlan you would shun, nephew?"
demanded Miss Jacky.

"It is that insufferable woman I would shun," replied her nephew, with a
heightened colour and a violence very unusual with him.

The good Miss Grizzy drew out her pocket-handkerchief, while Mrs.
Douglas vainly endeavoured to silence her husband, and avert the rising
storm.

"Dear Douglas!" whispered his wife in a tone of reproach.

"Oh, pray let him go on," said Miss Jacky, almost choking under the
effort she made to appear calm. "Let him go on. Lady Maclaughlan's
character, luckily, is far above the reach of calumny; nothing that Mr.
Archibald Douglas can say will have power to change our opinions, or, I
hope, to prejudice his brother and Lady Juliana against this most
exemplary, virtuous woman--a woman of family--of fortune--of talents--of
accomplishments; a woman of unblemished reputation--of the strictest
morals, sweetest temper, charming heart, delightful spirits, so
charitable--every year gives fifty flannel petticoats to the old people
of the parish---"

"Then such a wife as she is!" sobbed out Miss Grizzy. "She has
invented I don't know how many different medicines for Sir Sampson's
complaint, and makes a point of his taking some of them every day; but
for her I'm sure he would have been in his grave long ago."

"She's doing all she can to send him there, as she has done many a poor
wretch already, with her infernal compositions."

Here Miss Grizzy sank back in her chair, overcome with horror; and Miss
Nicky let fall the teapot, the scalding contents of which discharged
themselves upon the unfortunate Psyche, whose yells, mingling with the
screams of its fair mistress, for a while drowned even Miss Jacky's
oratory.

"Oh, what shall I do?" cried Lady Juliana, as she bent over her
favourite. "Do send for a surgeon; pray, Henry, fly! Do fetch one
directly, or she will die; and it would quite kill me to lose my
darling. Do run, dearest Harry!"

"My dear Julia, how can you be so absurd? There's no surgeon within
twenty miles of this."

"No surgeon within twenty miles!" exclaimed she, starting up. "How
could you bring me to such a place? Good God! those dear creatures may
die--I may die myself--before I can get any assistance!"

"Don't be alarmed, my dearest niece," said the good Miss Grizzy; "we are
all doctors here. I understand something of physic myself; and our
friend Lady Maclaughlan, who, I daresay, will be here presently, is
perfect mistress of every disease of the human frame."

"Clap a cauld potatae to the brute's tae," cried the old
Laird gruffly.

"I've a box of her scald ointment that will cure it in a minute."

"If it don't cure, it will kill," said Mr. Douglas, with a smile.

"Brother," said Miss Jacky, rising with dignity from her chair, and
waving her hand as she spoke-"brother, I appeal to you to protect the
character of this most amiable, respectable matron from the insults and
calumny your son thinks proper to load it with. Sir Sampson Maclaughlan
is your friend, and it therefore becomes your duty to defend his wife."

"Troth, but I'll hae aneugh to do if I am to stand up for a' my friends'
wives," said the old gentleman. "But, however, Archie, you are to blame:
Leddy Maclaughlan is a very decent woman--at least, as far as I
ken--though she is a little free in the gab; and out of respect to my
auld friend Sir Sampson, it is my desire that you should remain here to
receive him, and that you trait baith him and his Lady discreetly."

This was said in too serious a tone to be disputed, and his son was
obliged to submit.

The ointment meanwhile having been applied to Psyche's paw, peace
was restored, and breakfast, recommenced.

"I declare our dear niece has not tasted a morsel," observed Miss Nicky.

"Bless me, here's charming barley meal scones," cried one, thrusting a
plateful of them before her. "Here's tempting pease bannocks,"
interposed another, "and oat cakes. I'm sure your Ladyship never saw
such cakes."

"I can't eat any of those things," said their delicate niece, with an
air of disgust. "I should like some muffin and chocolate."

"You forget you are not in London, my love," said her husband
reproachfully.

"No indeed, I do not forget it. Well then, give me some toast," with an
air of languid condescension.

"Unfortunately, we happen be quite out of loaf bread at present," said
Miss Nicky; "but we've sent to Drymsine for some. They bake excellent
bread at Drymsine."

"Is there nothing within the bounds of possibility you would fancy,
Julia?" asked Douglas. "Do think, love."

"I think I should like some grouse, or a beefsteak, if it was very
nicely done," returned her Ladyship in a languishing tone.

"Beef-steak!" repeated Miss Grizzy.

"Beef-steak!" responded Miss Jacky.

"Beef-steak!" reverberated Miss Nicky.

After much deliberation and consultation amongst the three spinsters, it
was at length unanimously carried that the Lady's whim should be
indulged.

"Only think, sisters," observed Miss Grizzy in an undertone, "what
reflections we should have to make upon ourselves if the child was to
resemble a moorfowl!"

"Or have a face like a raw beef-steak!" said Miss Nicky.

These arguments were unanswerable; and a smoking steak and plump
moor-fowl were quickly produced, of which Lady Juliana partook in
company with her four-footed favourites.






CHAPTER VII

   "When winter soaks the fields, and female feet--
    Too weak to struggle with tenacious clay,
    Or ford the rivulets--are best at home."

        _The Task_

THE meal being at length concluded, Glenfern desired Henry to attend him
on a walk, as he wished to have a little more private conversation with
him. Lady Juliana was beginning a remonstrance against the cruelty of
taking Harry away from her, when her husband whispering her that he
hoped to make something of the old gentleman, and that he should soon be
back, she suffered him to depart in silence.

Old Donald having at length succeeded in clearing the table of its
heterogeneous banquet, it was quickly covered with the young ladies'
work.

Miss Nicky withdrew to her household affairs. Miss Jacky sat with one
eye upon Lady Juliana, the other upon her five nieces. Miss Grizzy
seated herself by her Ladyship, holding a spread letter of Lady
Maclaughlan's before her as a screen.

While the young ladies busily plied their needles, the elder ones left
no means untried to entertain their listless niece, whose only replies
were exclamations of weariness, or expressions of affection bestowed
upon her favourites.

At length even Miss Jacky's sense and Miss Grizzy's good nature were _at
fault;_ when a ray of sunshine darting into the room suggested the idea
of a walk. The proposal was made, and assented to by her Ladyship, in
the twofold hope of meeting her husband and pleasing her dogs, whose
whining and scratching had for some time testified their desire of a
change. The ladies therefore separated to prepare for their _sortie,_
after many recommendations from the aunts to be sure to _hap_ [1] well;
but, as if distrusting her powers in that way, they speedily equipped
themselves, and repaired to her chamber, arrayed _cap a' pie_ in the
walking costume of Glenfern Castle. And, indeed, it must be owned their
style of dress was infinitely more judicious than that of their
fashionable niece; and it was not surprising that they, in their shrunk
duffle greatcoats, vast poke-bonnets, red worsted neckcloths, and
pattens, should gaze with horror at her lace cap, lilac satin pelisse,
and silk shoes. Ruin to the whole race of Glenfern, present and future,
seemed inevitable from such a display of extravagance and imprudence.
Having surmounted the first shock, Miss Jacky made a violent effort to
subdue her rising wrath; and, with a sort of convulsive smile, addressed
Lady Juliana: "Your Ladyship, I perceive, is not of the opinion of our
inimitable bard, who, in his charming poem, 'The Seasons,' says' Beauty
needs not the foreign aid of ornament; but is, when unadorned, adorned
the most.' That is a truth that ought to be impressed on every young
woman's mind."

[1]  Wrap.

Lady Juliana only stared. She was as little accustomed to be advised as
she was to hear Thomson's "Seasons" quoted.

"I declare that's all quite true," said the more temporising Grizzy;
"and certainly our girls are not in the least taken up about their
dress, poor things! which is a great comfort. At the same time, I'm sure
it's no wonder your Ladyship should be taken up about yours, for
certainly that pelisse is most beautiful. Nobody can deny that; and I
daresay it is the very newest fashion. At the same time, I'm just afraid
that it's rather too delicate, and that it might perhaps get a little
dirty on our roads; for although, in general, our roads are quite
remarkable for being always dry, which is a great comfort in the
country, yet you know the very best roads of course must be wet
sometimes. And there's a very bad step just at the door almost, which
Glenfern has been always speaking about getting mended. But, to be sure,
he has so many things to think about that it's no wonder he forgets
sometimes; but I daresay he will get it done very soon now."

The prospect of the road being mended produced no better effect than the
quotation from Thomson's "Seasons." It was now Miss Nicky's turn.

"I'm afraid your Ladyship will frighten our stirks and stots with your
finery. I assure you they are not accustomed to see such fine figures;
and"--putting her hand out at the window--"I think it's spitting
already." [1]

[1]  A common expression in Scotland to signify slight rain.

All three now joined in the chorus, beseeching Lady Juliana to put on
something warmer and more wiselike.

"I positively have nothing," cried she, wearied with their
importunities, "and I shan't get any winter things now till I return to
town. My _roquelaire_ does very well for the carriage."

The acknowledgment at the beginning of this speech was enough. All three
instantly disappeared like the genii of Aladin's lamp, and, like that
same person, presently returned, loaded with what, in their eyes, were
precious as the gold of Arabia. One displayed a hard worsted shawl, with
a flower-pot at each corner; another held up a tartan cloak, with a
hood; and a third thrust forward a dark cloth Joseph, lined with
flannel; while one and all showered down a variety of old bonnets, fur
tippets, hair soles, clogs, pattens, and endless _et ceteras_. Lady
Juliana shrank with disgust from these "delightful haps," and resisted
all attempts to have them forced upon her, declaring, in a manner which
showed her determined to have her own way, that she would either go out
as she was or not go out at all. The aunts were therefore obliged to
submit, and the party proceeded to what was termed the high road, though
a stranger would have sought in vain for its pretensions to that
title. Far as the eye could reach--and that was far enough--not a single
vehicle could be descried on it, though its deep ruts showed that it was
well frequented by carts. The scenery might have had charms for Ossian,
but it had none for Lady Juliana, who would rather have been entangled
in a string of Bond Street equipages than traversing "the lonely heath,
with the stream murmuring hoarsely, the old trees groaning in the wind,
the troubled lake," and the still more troubled sisters. As may be
supposed, she very soon grew weary of the walk. The bleak wind pierced
her to the soul; her silk slippers and lace flounces became
undistinguishable masses of mud; her dogs chased the sheep, and were, in
their turn, pursued by the "nowts," as the ladies termed the steers. One
sister expatiated on the great blessing of having a peat moss at their
door; another was at pains to point out the purposed site of a set of
new offices; and the third lamented that her Ladyship had not on thicker
shoes, that she might have gone and seen the garden. More than ever
disgusted and wretched, the hapless Lady Juliana returned to the house
to fret away the time till her husband's return.






CHAPTER VIII.

    "On se rend insupportable dans la société par des
     défauts légers, mais qui se font sentir à tout
     moment."--VOLTAIRE.

THE family of Glenfern have already said so much for themselves that it
seems as if little remained to be told by their biographer. Mrs. Douglas
was the only member of the community who was at all conscious of the
unfortunate association of characters and habits that had just taken
place. She was a stranger to Lady Juliana; but she was interested by her
youth, beauty, and elegance, and felt for the sacrifice she had made--a
sacrifice so much greater than it was possible she ever could have
conceived or anticipated. She could in some degree enter into the nature
of her feelings towards the old ladies; for she too had felt how
disagreeable people might contrive to render themselves without being
guilty of any particular fault, and how much more difficult it is to
bear with the weaknesses than the vices of our neighbours. Had these
ladies' failings been greater in a moral point of view, it might not
have been so arduous a task to put up with them. But to love such a set
of little, trifling, tormenting foibles, all dignified with the name of
virtues, required, from her elegant mind, an exertion of its highest
principles--a continual remembrance of that difficult Christian precept,
"to bear with one another." A person of less sense than Mrs. Douglas
would have endeavoured to open the eyes of their understandings on what
appeared to be the folly and narrow mindedness of their ways; but she
refrained from the attempt, not from want of benevolent exertion, but
from an innate conviction that their foibles all originated in what was
now incurable, viz. the natural weakness of their minds, together with
their ignorance of the world and the illiberality and prejudices of a
vulgar education. "These poor women," reasoned the charitable
Mrs. Douglas, "are perhaps, after all, better characters in the sight of
God than I am. He who has endowed us all as His wisdom has seen fit, and
has placed me amongst them, oh, may He teach me to remember that we are
all His children, and enable me to bear with their faults, while I study
to correct my own."

Thus did this amiable woman contrive not only to live in peace, but,
without sacrificing her own liberal ideas, to be actually beloved by
those amongst whom her lot had been cast, however dissimilar to herself.
But for that Christian spirit (in which must ever be included a liberal
mind and gentle temper), she must have felt towards her connexions a
still stronger repugnance than was even manifested by Lady Juliana; for
Lady Juliana's superiority over them was merely that of refined habits
and elegant manners; whereas Mrs. Douglas's was the superiority of a
noble and highly-gifted mind, which could hold no intercourse with
theirs except by stooping to the level of their low capacities. But,
that the merit of her conduct may be duly appreciated, I shall endeavour
to give a slight sketch of the female _dramatis personae_ of Glenfern
Castle.

Miss Jacky, the senior of the trio, was what is reckoned a very sensible
woman--which generally means, a very disagreeable, obstinate, illiberal
director of all men, women, and children--a sort of superintendent of
all actions, time, and place--with unquestioned authority to arraign,
judge, and condemn upon the statutes of her own supposed sense. Most
country parishes have their sensible woman, who lays down the law on all
affairs, spiritual and temporal. Miss Jacky stood unrivalled as the
sensible woman of Glenfern. She had attained this eminence partly from
having a little more understanding than her sisters, but principally
from her dictatorial manner, and the pompous decisive tone in which she
delivered the most commonplace truths. At home her supremacy in all
matters of sense was perfectly established; and thence the infection,
like other superstitions, had spread over the whole neighbourhood. As
sensible woman she regulated the family, which she took care to let
everybody see; she was conductor of her nieces' education, which she
took care to let everybody hear; she was a sort of postmistress
general--a detector of all abuses and impositions; and deemed it her
prerogative to be consulted about all the useful and useless things
which everybody else could have done as well. She was liberal of her
advice to the poor, always enforcing upon them the iniquity of idleness,
but doing nothing for them in the way of employment--strict economy
being one of the many points in which she was particularly sensible. The
consequence was, while she was lecturing half the poor women in the
parish for their idleness, the bread was kept out of their mouths by the
incessant carding of wool and knitting of stockings, and spinning, and
reeling, and winding, and pirning, that went on amongst the ladies
themselves. And, by-the-bye, Miss Jacky is not the only sensible woman
who thinks she is acting a meritorious part when she converts what ought
to be the portion of the poor into the employment of the affluent.

In short, Miss Jacky was all over sense. A skilful physiognomist would,
at a single glance, have detected the sensible woman, in the erect head,
the compressed lips, square elbows, and firm judicious step. Even her
very garments seemed to partake of the prevailing character of their
mistress: her ruff always looked more sensible than any other body's;
her shawl sat most sensibly on her shoulders; her walking shoes were
acknowledged to be very sensible; and she drew on her gloves with an air
of sense, as if the one arm had been Seneca, the other Socrates. From
what has been said it may easily be inferred that Miss Jacky was in fact
anything but a sensible woman; as indeed no woman can be who bears such
visible outward marks of what is in reality the most quiet and
unostentatious of all good qualities. But there is a spurious sense,
which passes equally well with the multitude; it is easily assumed, and
still more easily maintained; common truths and a grave dictatorial air
being all that is necessary for its support.

Miss Grizzy's character will not admit of so long a commentary as that
of her sister. She was merely distinguishable from nothing by her simple
good nature, the inextricable entanglement of her thoughts, her love of
letter-writing, and her friendship with Lady Maclaughlan. Miss Nicky had
about as much sense as Miss Jacky; but, as no kingdom can maintain two
kings, so no family can admit of two sensible women; and Nicky was
therefore obliged to confine hers to the narrowest possible channels of
housekeeping, mantua-making, etc., and to sit down for life (or at least
till Miss Jacky should be married) with the dubious character of "not
wanting for sense either." With all these little peccadilloes the
sisters possessed some good properties. They were well-meaning,
kind-hearted, and, upon the whole, good-tempered they loved one another,
revered their brother, doated upon their nephews and nieces, took a
lively interest in the poorest of their poor cousins, a hundred degrees
removed, and had a firm conviction of the perfectibility of human
nature, as exemplified in the persons of all their own friends. "Even
their failings leaned to virtue's side;" for whatever they did was with
the intention of doing good, though the means they made use of generally
produced an opposite effect. But there are so many Miss Douglases in the
world that doubtless everyone of my readers is as well acquainted with
them as I am myself. I shall therefore leave them to finish the picture
according to their ideas, while I return to the parlour, where the
worthy spinsters are seated in expectation of the arrival of their
friend.






CHAPTER IX.

   "Though both
    Not equal, as their sex not equal seemed--
    For contemplation he, and valour formed;
    For softness she, and sweet attractive grace."

        MILTON.


"WHAT _can_ have come over Lady Maclaughlan?" said Miss Grizzy, as she
sat at the window in a dejected attitude.

"I think I hear a carriage at last," cried Miss Jacky, turning up her
ears. "Wisht! let us listen."

"It's only the wind," sighed Miss Grizzy.

"It's the cart with the bread," said Miss Nicky.

"It's Lady Maclaughlan, I assure you," pronounced Miss Jacky.

The heavy rumble of a ponderous vehicle now proclaimed the approach of
the expected visitor; which pleasing anticipation was soon changed into
blissful certainty by the approach of a high-roofed, square bottomed,
pea-green chariot, drawn by two long-tailed white horses, and followed
by a lackey in the Highland garb. Out of this equipage issued a figure,
clothed in a light-coloured, large-flowered chintz raiment, carefully
drawn through the pocket-holes, either for its own preservation, or the
more disinterested purpose of displaying a dark short stuff petticoat,
which, with the same liberality, afforded ample scope for the survey of
a pair of worsted stockings and black leather shoes, something
resembling buckets. A faded red cloth jacket, which bore evident marks
of having been severed from its native skirts, now acted in the capacity
of a spencer. On the head rose a stupendous fabric, in the form of a
cap, on the summit of which was placed a black beaver hat, tied
_à la poissarde._ A small black satin muff in one hand, and a
gold-headed walking-stick in the other, completed the dress and
decoration of this personage.

The lackey, meanwhile, advanced to the carriage; and, putting  in both
his hands, as if to catch so something, he pulled forth a small bundle,
enveloped in a military cloak, the contents of which would have baffled
conjecture, but for the large cocked hat and little booted leg which
protruded at opposite extremities.

A loud but slow and well-modulated voice now resounded through the
narrow stone passage that conducted to the drawing-room.

"Bring him in--bring him in, Philistine! I always call my man
Philistine, because he has Sampson in his hands. Set him down there,"
pointing to an easy chair, as the group now entered, headed by Lady
Maclaughlan.

"Well, girls!" addressing the venerable spinsters, as they severally
exchanged a tender salute; "so you're all alive, I see;--humph!"

"Dear Lady Maclaughlan, allow me to introduce our beloved niece, Lady
Juliana Douglas," said Miss Grizzy, leading her up, and bridling as she
spoke with ill-suppressed exultation.

"So--you're very pretty--yes, you are very pretty!" kissing the
forehead, cheeks, and chin of the youthful beauty between every pause.
Then, holding her at arm's length, she surveyed her from head to foot,
with elevated brows, and a broad fixed stare.

"Pray sit down, Lady Maclaughlan," cried her three friends all at once,
each tendering a chair.

"Sit down!" repeated she;  "why, what should I sit down for? I choose to
stand--I don't like to sit--I never sit at home--do I, Sir Sampson?"
turning to the little warrior, who, having been seized with a violent
fit of coughing on his entrance, had now sunk back, seemingly quite
exhausted, while the _Philistine_ was endeavouring to disencumber him of
his military accoutrements.

"How very distressing Sir Sampson's cough is!" said the sympathising
Miss Grizzy.

"Distressing, child! No--it's not the least distressing. How can a thing
be distressing that does no harm? He's much the better of it--it's the
only exercise he gets."

"Oh! well, indeed, if that's the case, it would be a thousand pities to
stop it," replied the accommodating spinster.

"No, it wouldn't be the least pity to stop it!" returned Lady
Maclaughlan, in her loud authoritative tone; "because, though it's not
distressing, it's very disagreeable. But it cannot be stopped--you might
as well talk of stopping the wind--it is a cradle cough."

"My dear Lady Maclaughlan!" screamed Sir Sampson in a shrill pipe, as he
made an effort to raise himself, and rescue his cough from this
aspersion; "how can you persist in saying so, when I have told you so
often it proceeds entirely from a cold caught a few years ago, when I
attended his Majesty at-----" Here a violent relapse carried the
conclusion of the sentence along with it.

"Let him alone-don't meddle with him," called his lady to the assiduous
nymphs who were bustling around him; "leave him to Philistine; he's in
very good hands when he is in Philistine's." Then resting her chin upon
the head of her stick, she resumed her scrutiny of Lady Juliana.

"You really are a pretty creature! You've got a very handsome nose,
and your mouth's very well, but I don't like your eyes; they're too
large and too light; they're saucer eyes, and I don't like saucer eyes.
Why ha'nt you black eyes? You're not a bit like your father--I knew
him very well. Your mother was an heiress; your father married her for
her money, and she married him to be a Countess; and so that's the
history of their marriage-humph."

This well-bred harangue was delivered in an unvarying tone, and with
unmoved muscles; for though the lady seldom failed of calling forth some
conspicuous emotion, either of shame, mirth, or anger, on the
countenances of her hearers, she had never been known to betray any
correspondent feelings on her own; yet her features were finely formed,
marked, and expressive; and, in spite of her ridiculous dress and
eccentric manners, an air of dignity was diffused over her whole person,
that screened her from the ridicule to which she must otherwise have
been exposed. Amazement at the uncouth garb and singular address of Lady
Maclaughlan was seldom unmixed with terror at the stern imperious manner
that accompanied all her actions. Such were the feelings of Lady Juliana
as she remained subjected to her rude gaze and impertinent remarks.

"My Lady?" squeaked Sir Sampson from forth his easy chair.

"My love?" interrogated his lady as she leant upon her stick.

"I want to be introduced to my Lady Juliana Douglas; so give me your
hand," attempting, at the same time, to emerge from the huge leathern
receptacle into which he had been plunged by the care of the kind
sisters.

"Oh, pray sit still, dear Sir Sampson," cried they as usual all at once;
"our sweet niece will come to you, don't take the trouble to rise; pray
don't," each putting a hand on this man of might, as he was half risen,
and pushing him down.

"Ay, come here, my dear," said Lady Maclaughlan; "you're abler to walk
to Sir Sampson than he to you," pulling Lady Juliana in front of the
easy chair; "there--that's her; you see she is very pretty."

"Zounds, what is the meaning of all this?" screamed the enraged baronet.
"My Lady Juliana Douglas, I am shocked beyond expression at this freedom
of my lady's. I beg your ladyship ten thousand pardons; pray be seated.
I'm shocked; I am ready to faint at the impropriety of this
introduction, so contrary to all rules of etiquette. How _could _you
behave in such a manner, my Lady Maclaughlan?"

"Why, you know, my dear, your legs may be very good legs, but they can't
walk," replied she, with her usual _sang froid._

"My Lady Maclaughlan, you perfectly confound me," stuttering with rage.
"My lady Juliana Douglas, see here," stretching out a meagre shank, to
which not even the military boot and large spur could give a respectable
appearance: "You see that leg strong and straight," stroking it down--;
"now, behold the fate of war!" dragging forward the other, which was
shrunk and shrivelled to almost one half its original dimensions. "These
legs were once the same; but I repine not--I sacrificed it in a noble
cause: to that leg my Sovereign owes his life!"

"Well, I declare, I had no idea; I thought always it had been
rheumatism," burst from the lips of the astonished spinsters, as they
crowded round the illustrious limb, and regarded it with looks of
veneration.

"Humph!" emphatically uttered his lady.

"The story's a simple one, ladies, and soon told: I happened to be
attending his Majesty at a review; I was then aid-de-camp to Lord -----.
His horse took fright, I--I--I,"--here, in spite of all the efforts that
could be made to suppress it, the _royal_ _cough _burst forth with a
violence that threatened to silence its brave owner for ever.

"It's very strange you will talk, my love," said his sympathising lady,
as she supported him; "talking never did, nor never will agree with you;
it's very strange what pleasure people take in talking--humph!"

"Is there anything dear Sir Sampson could take?" asked Miss Grizzy.

_"Could_ take?  I don't know what you mean by _could_ take. He couldn't
take the moon, if you meant hat; but he must take what I give him; so
call Philistine; he knows where my cough tincture is."

"Oh, we have plenty  of it in this press," said Miss Grizzy, flying
to a cupboard, and, drawing forth a bottle, she poured out a bumper,
and presented it to Sir Sampson.

"I'm poisoned!" gasped he feebly; "that's not my lady's cough-tincture."

"Not cough-tincture!" repeated the horror-struck doctress, as for the
first time she examined the label; "Oh! I declare, neither it is--it's
my own stomach lotion. Bless me, what will be done?" and she wrung her
hands in despair. "Oh, Murdoch," flying to the _Philistine,_ as he
entered with the real cough-tincture, "I've given Sir Sampson a dose of
my own stomach lotion by mistake, and I am terrified for the
consequences!"

"Oo, but hur need na be feared, hur will no be a hair the war o't; for
hurs wad na tak' the feesick that the leddie ordered hur yestreen."

"Well, I declare things are wisely ordered," observed Miss Grizzy; "in
that case it may do dear Sir Sampson a great deal of good."

Just as this pleasing idea was suggested, Douglas and his father
entered, and the ceremony of presenting her nephew to her friend was
performed by Miss Grizzy in her most conciliating manner.

"Dear Lady Maclaughlan, this is our nephew Henry, who, I know, has the
highest veneration for Sir Sampson and you. Henry, I assure you, Lady
Maclaughlan takes the greatest interest in everything that concerns Lady
Juliana and you."

"Humph!" rejoined her ladyship, as she surveyed him from head to foot.
"So your wife fell in love with you, it seems; well, the more fool she;
I never knew any good come of love marriages."

Douglas coloured, while he affected to laugh at this extraordinary
address, and withdrawing himself from her scrutiny, resumed his station
by the side of his Juliana.

"Now, girls, I must go to my toilet; which of you am I to have for my
handmaid?"

"Oh, we'll all go," eagerly exclaimed the three nymphs; "our dear niece
will excuse us for a little; young people are never at a loss to amuse
one another."

"Venus and the Graces, by Jove!" exclaimed Sir Sampson, bowing with an
air of gallantry; "and now I must go and adonise a little myself."

The company then separated to perform the important offices of the
toilet.






CHAPTER X.

    "Nature here
     Wanton'd as in her prime, and played at will
     Her virgin fancies."

    MILTON.

THE gentlemen were already assembled round the drawing-room fire,
impatiently waiting the hour of dinner, when Lady Maclaughlan and her
three friends entered. The masculine habiliments of the morning had been
exchanged for a more feminine costume. She was now arrayed in a
pompadour satin _négligée,_ and petticoat trimmed with Brussels lace. A
high starched handkerchief formed a complete breast work, on which, amid
a large bouquet of truly artificial roses, reposed a miniature of Sir
Sampson, _à la militaire_. A small fly cap of antique lace was scarcely
perceptible on the summit of a stupendous frizzled toupee, hemmed in on
each side by large curls. The muff and stick had been relinquished for a
large fan, something resembling an Indian screen, which she waved to and
fro in one hand, while a vast brocaded workbag was suspended from the
other.

"So, Major Douglas, your servant," said she, in answer to the
constrained formal bow with which he saluted her on her entrance. "Why,
it's so long since I've seen you that you may be a grandfather for ought
I know."

The poor awkward Misses at that moment came sneaking into the room:
"As for you, girls, you'll never be grandmothers; you'll never be
married, unless to wild men of the woods. I suppose you'd like that; it
would save you the trouble of combing your hair, and tying your shoes,
for then you could go without clothes altogether--humph! You'd be much
better without clothes than to put them on as you do," seizing upon the
luckless Miss Baby, as she endeavoured to steal behind backs.

And here, in justice to the lady, it must be owned that, for once,
she had some grounds for animadversion in the dress and appearance of
the Misses Douglas.

They had stayed out, running races and riding  on a pony, until near the
dinner hour; and, dreading their father's displeasure should they be too
late, they had, with the utmost haste, exchanged their thick morning
dresses for thin muslin gowns, made by a mantua-maker of the
neighbourhood in the extreme of a two-year-old fashion, when waists
_were not._

But as dame Nature had been particularly lavish in the length of theirs,
and the stay-maker had, according to their aunt's direction, given them
_full measure_ of their new dark stays, there existed a visible breach
between the waists of their gowns and the bands of their petticoats,
which they had vainly sought to adjust by a meeting. Their hair had been
curled, but not combed, and dark gloves had been hastily drawn on to
hide red arms.

"I suppose," continued the stern Lady Maclaughlan, as she twirled her
victim round and round; "I suppose you think yourself vastly smart and
well dressed. Yes, you are very neat, very neat indeed; one would
suppose Ben Jonson had you in his eye when he composed that song." Then
in a voice like thunder, she chanted forth--

   "Give me a look, give me a face
    That makes simplicity a grace;
    Robes loosely flowing, hair as free,
    Such sweet neglect more taketh me."

Miss Grizzy was in the utmost perplexity between her inclination to urge
something in extenuation for the poor girls, and her fear of dissenting
from Lady Maclaughlan, or rather of not immediately agreeing with her;
she therefore steered, as usual, the middle course, and kept saying,
"Well, children, really what Lady Maclaughlan says is all very true; at
the same time"--turning to her friend--"I declare it's not much to be
wondered at; young people are so thoughtless, poor lambs!"

"What's aw this wark aboo?" said the old gentleman angrily; "the girlies
are weel eneugh; I see naething the matter wi' them; they're no dresse
like auld queens or stage-actresses;" and he glance his eye from Lady
Maclaughlan to his elegant daughter-in-law, who just then entered,
hanging, according to custom, on her husband, and preceded by Cupid.

Mrs Douglas followed, and the sound of the dinner bell put a stop to the
dispute.

"Come, my leddie, we'll see how the dinner's dressed," said the Laird,
as he seized Lady Maclaughlan by the tip of the finger, and holding it
up aloft, they marched into the dining room.

"Permit me, my Lady Juliana Douglas," said the little Baronet, with much
difficulty hobbling towards her, and attempting to take her hand. "Come,
Harry, love; here, Cupid," cried she; and without noticing the enraged
Sir Sampson, she passed on, humming a tune, and leaning upon her
husband.

"Astonishing! perfectly astonishing!" exclaimed the Baronet; "how a
young woman of Lady Juliana's rank and fashion should be guilty of such
a solecism in good breeding."

"She is very young," said Mrs. Douglas, smiling, as he limped along with
her, "and you must make allowances for her; but, indeed, I think her
beauty must ever be a sufficient excuse for any little errors she may
commit with a person of such taste and gallantry as Sir Sampson
Maclaughlan."

The little Baronet smiled, pressed the hand he held; and, soothed by the
well-timed compliment, he seated himself next to Lady Juliana with some
complacency. As she insisted on having her husband on the other side of
her, Mr. Douglas was condemned to take his station by the hated Lady
Maclaughlan, who, for the first time observing Mrs. Douglas, called to
her--

"Come here, my love; I haven't seen you these hundred years;" then
seizing her face between her hands, she saluted her in the usual style.
"There," at length releasing Mrs Douglas from her gripe--"there's for
you! I love you very much; you're neither a fool nor a hoyden; you're a
fine intelligent being."

Having carefully rolled up and deposited her gloves in her pocket, she
pulled out a pin-cushion, and calling Miss Bella, desired her to pin her
napkin over her shoulders; which done, she began to devour her soup in
silence.

Peace was, however, of short duration.   Old Donald, in removing a dish
of whipt cream, unfortunately overturned one upon Lady Maclaughlan's
pompadour satin petticoat--the only part of her dress that was
unprotected.

"Do you see what you have done, you old Donald, you?" cried she, seizing
the culprit by the sleeve; "why, you've got St. Vitus's dance. A fit
hand to carry whipt cream, to be sure! Why, I could as well carry a
custard on the point of a bayonet--humph!"

"Dear me, Donald, how could you be so senseless?" cried Miss Jacky.

"Preserve me, Donald, I thought you had more sense!"
squeaked Miss Nicky.

"I am sure, Donald, that was na like you!" said Miss Grizzy, as the
friends all flocked around the petticoat, each suggesting a different
remedy.

"It's all of you, girls, that his has happened. Why can't you have a
larger tablecloth upon your table! And that old man has the palsy. Why
don't you electrify him?' in a tone admirably calculated to have that
effect.

"I declare, it's all very true," observed Miss Grizzy; "the tablecloth
_is_ very small, and Donald certainly _does_ shake, that cannot be
denied;" but, lowering her voice, "he is so obstinate, we really don't
know what to do with him. My sisters and I attempted to use the
flesh-brush with him."

"Oh, and an excellent thing it is; I make Philistine rub Sir Sampson
every morning and night. If it was not for that and his cough, nobody
would know whether he were dead or alive; I don't believe he would know
himself--humph!"

Sir Sampson's lemon face assumed an orange hue as he overheard this
domestic detail; but not daring to contradict the facts, he prudently
turned a deaf ear to them, and attempted to carryon a flirtation with
Lady Juliana through the medium of Cupid, whom he had coaxed upon his
knee.

Dinner being at length ended, toasts succeeded: and each of the ladies
having given her favourite laird, the signal of retreat was given, and a
general movement took place.

Lady Juliana, throwing herself upon a sofa with her pugs, called Mrs.
Douglas to her. "Do sit down here and talk with me," yawned she.

Her sister-in-law, with great good-humour, fetched her work, and seated
herself by the spoilt child.

"What strange thing is that you are making?" asked she, as Mrs. Douglas
pulled out her knitting.

"It's a child's stocking," replied her sister-in-law.

"A child's stocking! Oh, by-the-bye, have you a great many children?"

"I have none," answered Mrs. Douglas, with a half-stifled sigh.

"None at all?" repeated Lady Juliana, with surprise "then, why do you
make children's stockings?"

"I make them for those whose parents cannot afford to purchase them."

"La! what poor wretches they must be, that can't afford to buy
stockings," rejoined Lady Juliana, with a yawn. "It's monstrous good of
you to make them, to be sure; but it must be a shocking bore! and such a
trouble!" and another long yawn succeeded.

"Not half such a bore to me as to sit idle," returned Mrs. Douglas, with
a smile, "nor near so much trouble as you undergo with your favourites."

Lady Juliana made no reply, but turning from her sister-in-law, soon
was, or affected to be, sound a sleep, from which she was only roused by
the entrance of the gentlemen. "A rubber or a reel, my Leddie?" asked the
Laird, going up to his daughter-in-law.

"Julia, love," said her husband, "my father asks you if you choose
cards or dancing."

"There's nobody to dance with," said she, casting a languid glance
around; "I'll play at cards."

"Not whist, surely!" said Henry.

"Whist! Oh, heavens, no."

"Weel, weel, you youngsters will get a roundgame; come, my Leddy
Maclaughlan, Grizzy, Mrs. Douglas, hey for the odd trick and the
honours!"

"What would your Ladyship choose to play at?' asked Miss Jacky,
advancing with a pack of cards in one hand, and a box of counters in the
other.

"Oh, anything; I like 100 very well, or quadrille, or--1 really don't
care what."

The Misses, who had gathered round, and were standing gaping in joyful
expectation of Pope Joan, or a pool at commerce, here exchanged
sorrowful glances.

"I am afraid the young people don't play these games," replied Miss
Jacky; "but we've counters enough," shaking her little box, "for Pope
Joan, and we all know that."

"Pope Joan! I never heard of such a game," replied Lady Juliana.

"Oh, we can soon learn you," said Miss Nicky, who having spread the
green cloth on the tea-table, now advanced to join the consultation.

"I hate to be taught," said Lady Juliana, with a yawn; "besides, I am
sure it must be something very stupid."

"Ask if she plays commerce," whispered Miss Bella to Miss Baby.

The question was put, but with no better success, and the young ladies'
faces again bespoke their disappointment, which their brother observing,
he good-naturedly declared his perfect knowledge of commerce; "and I must
insist upon teaching you, Juliana," gently dragging her to the table.

"What's the pool to be?" asked one of the young ladies.

"I'm sure I don't know," said the aunts, looking to each other.

"I suppose we must make it sixpence," said Miss Jacky, after a
whispering consultation with her sister.

"In that case we can afford nothing to the best hand," observed Miss
Nicky.

"And we ought to have five lives and grace," added one of the nieces.

These points having been conceded, the preliminaries were at length
settled. The cards were slowly _doled_ out by Miss Jacky; and Lady
Juliana was carefully instructed in the rules of the game, and strongly
recommended always to try for a sequence, or pairs, etc. "And if you
win," rejoined Miss Nicky, shaking the snuffer-stand in which were
deposited the sixpences, "you get all this."

As may be conjectured, Lady Juliana's patience could not survive more
than one life; she had no notion of playing for sixpences, and could not
be at the trouble to attend to any instructions; she therefore quickly
retired in disgust, leaving the aunts and nieces to struggle for the
glorious prize. "My dear child, you played that last stroke like a
perfect natural," cried Lady Maclaughlan to Miss Grizzy, as the rubber
ended, they arose from the table.

"Indeed, I declare, I daresay I did," replied her friend in a
deprecating tone.

"Daresay you did! I know you did-humph! I knew the ace lay with you; I
knew that as well as if I had seen it. I suppose you have eyes--but I
don't know; if you have, didn't you see Glenfern turn up the king, and
yet you returned his lead--returned our adversary's lead in the face of
his king. I've been telling you these twenty years not to return your
adversary's lead; nothing can be more despicable; nothing can be a
greater proof of imbecility of mind--humph!" Then, seating herself, she
began to exercise her fan with considerable activity. "This has been the
most disagreeable day I ever spent in this house, girls. I don't know
what's come over you, but you are all wrong; my petticoat's ruined; my
pockets picked at cards. It won't do, girls; it won't do--humph!"

"I am sure I can't understand it," said Miss Grizzy in a rueful
accent; "there really appears to have been some fatality."

"Fatality!--humph! I wish you would give everything its right name.
What do you mean by fatality?"

"I declare--I am sure--I--I really don't know," stammered the
unfortunate Grizzy.

"Do you mean that the spilling of the custard was the work of an angel?"
demanded her unrelenting friend.

"Oh, certainly not."

"Or that it was the devil tempted you to throw away  your ace there? I
suppose there's a fatality in our going to supper just now," continued
she, as her deep-toned voice resounded through the passage that
conducted to the dining-room; "and I suppose it will be called a
fatality if that old Fate," pointing to Donald, "scalds me to death with
that mess of porridge he's going to put on the table--humph!"

No such fatality, however, occurred; and the rest of the evening passed
off in as much harmony as could be expected from the very heterogeneous
parts of which the society was formed.

The family group had already assembled round the breakfast-table, with
the exception of Lady Juliana, who chose to take that meal in bed; but,
contrary to her usual custom, no Lady Maclaughlan had yet made her
appearance.

"The scones will be like leather," said Miss Grizzy, as she wrapped
another napkin round them.

"The eggs will be like snowballs," cried Miss Jacky, popping them into
the slop-basin.

"The tea will be like brandy," observed Miss Nicky, as she poured more
water to the three teaspoonfuls she had infused.

"I wish we saw our breakfast," said the Laird, as he finished the
newspapers, and deposited his spectacles in his pocket.

At that moment the door opened, and the person in question entered in
her travelling dress, followed by Sir Sampson, Philistine bringing up
the rear with a large green bag and a little band-box.

"I hope your bed was warm and comfortable. I hope you rested well. I
hope Sir Sampson's quite well!" immediately burst as if from a thousand
voices, while the sisters officiously fluttered round their friend.

"I rested very ill; my bed was very uncomfortable; and Sir Sampson's as
sick as a cat--humph!"

Three disconsolate "Bless me's!" here burst forth.

"Perhaps your bed was too hard?" said Miss Grizzy.

"Or too soft?" suggested Miss Jacky.

"Or too hot?" added Miss Nicky.

"It was neither too hard, nor too soft, nor too hot, nor too cold,"
thundered the Lady, as she seated herself at the table; "but it was all
of them."

"I declare, that's most distressing," said Miss Grizzy, in a tone of
sorrowful amazement. "Was your head high enough, dear Lady Maclaughlan?"

"Perhaps it was too high," said Miss Jacky.

"I know nothing more disagreeable than a high  head," remarked Miss
Nicky.

"Except a fool's head--humph!"

The sound of a carriage here set all ears on full stretch, and presently
the well-known pea-green drew up.

"Dear me! Bless me! Goodness me!" shrieked the three ladies at once.
"Surely, Lady Maclaughlan, you can't--you don't--you won't; this must be
a mistake."

"There's no mistake in the matter, girls," replied their friend, with
her accustomed _sang froid._ "I'm going home; so I ordered the carriage;
that's all--humph!"

"Going home!" faintly murmured the disconsolate spinsters.

"What! I suppose you think I ought to stay here and have another
petticoat spoiled; or lose another half-crown at cards; or have the
finishing stroke put to Sir Sampson--humph!"

"Oh! Lady Maclaughlan!" was three times uttered in reproachful
accents.

"I don't know what else I should stay for; you are not yourselves,
girls; you've all turned topsy-turvy. I've visited here these twenty
years, and I never saw things in the state they are now--humph!"

"I declare it's very true," sighed Miss Grizzy; "we certainly are a
little in confusion, that can't be denied."

"Denied! Why, can you deny that my petticoat's ruined?" Can you deny
that my pocket was picked of half-a-crown for nothing? Can you deny that
Sir Sampson has been half-poisoned? And---"

"My Lady Maclaughlan," interrupted the enraged husband, "I--I--I am
surprised--I am shocked! Zounds, my Lady, I won't suffer this! I cannot
stand it;" and pushing his tea-cup away, he arose, and limped to the
window. Philistine here entered to inform his mistress that "awthing was
ready." "Steady, boys, steady! I always am ready," responded the Lady in
a tone adapted to the song. "Now I am ready; say nothing, girls--you
know my rules. Here, Philistine, wrap up Sir Sampson, and put him in.
Get along, my love. Good-bye, girls; and I hope you will all be restored
to your right senses soon."

"Oh, Lady Maclaughlan!" whined the weeping Grizzy, as she embraced her
friend, who, somewhat melted at the signs of her distress, bawled out
from the carriage, as the door was shut, "Well, God bless you, girls, and
make you what you have been; and come to Lochmarlie Castle soon, and
bring your wits along with you."

The carriage then drove off, and the three disconsolate sisters returned
to the parlour to hold a cabinet council as to the causes of the late
disasters.




CHAPTER XI.

    "If there be cure or charm
    To respite or relieve, or slack the pain
    Of this ill mansion."

            MILTON.

TIME, which generally alleviates ordinary distresses, served only to
augment the severity of Lady Juliana's, as day after day rolled heavily
on, and found her still an inmate of Glenfern Castle. Destitute of very
resource in herself, she yet turned with contempt from the scanty
sources of occupation or amusement that were suggested by others; and
Mrs. Douglas's attempts to teach her to play at chess and read
Shakespeare were as unsuccessful as the endeavours of the good aunts to
persuade her to study Fordyce's Sermons and make baby linen.

In languid dejection or fretful repinings did the unhappy beauty
therefore consume the tedious hours, while her husband sought
alternately to soothe with fondness he no longer felt, or flatter with
hopes which he knew to be groundless. To his father alone could he now
look for any assistance, and from him he was not likely to obtain it in
the form he desired; as the old gentleman repeatedly declared his utter
inability to advance him any ready money, or to allow him more than
a hundred a year--moreover, to be paid quarterly--a sum which could
not defray their expenses to London.

Such was the state of affairs when the Laird one morning entered the
dining-room with a face of much importance, and addressed his son with,
"Weel, Harry, you're a lucky man; and it's an ill wind that blaws
naebody gude: here's puir Macglashan gane like snaw aff a dyke."

"Macglashan gone!" exclaimed Miss Grizzy. "Impossible, brother; it was
only yesterday I sent him a blister for his back!"

"And I," said Miss Jacky, "talked to him for upwards of two hours last
night on the impropriety of his allowing his daughter to wear white
gowns on Sunday."

"By my troth, an' that was eneugh to kill ony man," muttered the Laird.

"How I am to derive any benefit from this important
demise is more than I can perceive," said Henry in a somewhat
contemptuous tone.

"You see," replied his father, "that by our agreement his farm falls
vacant in consequence."

"And I hope I am to succeed to it!" replied the son, with a smile of
derision.

"Exactly! By my faith, but you have a be in downset. There's three
thousand and seventy-five acres of as good sheep walk as any in the
whole country-side; and I shall advance you stocking and stedding, and
everything complete, to your very peatstacks. What think ye of that?"
slapping his son's shoulder, and rubbing his own hands with delight as
he spoke.

Horrorstruck at a scheme which appeared to him a thousand times worse
than anything his imagination had ever painted, poor Henry stood in
speechless consternation; while "Charming! Excellent! Delightful!" was
echoed by the aunts, as they crowded round, wishing him joy, and
applauding their brother's generosity.

"What will our sweet niece say to this, I wonder?" said the innocent
Grizzy, who in truth wondered none. "I would like to see her face when
she hears it;" and her own was puckered into various shapes of delight.

"I have no doubt but her good sense will teach her to appreciate
properly the blessings of her lot," observed the more reflecting Jacky.

"She has had her own good luck," quoth the sententious Nicky, "to find
such a down set all cut and dry."

At that instant the door opened, and the favoured individual in question
entered. In vain Douglas strove to impose silence on his father and
aunts. The latter sat, bursting with impatience to break out into
exclamation, while the former, advancing to his fair daughter-in-law,
saluted her as "Lady Clackandow?" Then the torrent burst forth, and,
stupefied with surprise, Lady Juliana suffered herself to be kissed and
hugged by the whole host of aunts and nieces, while the very walls
seemed to reverberate the shouts, and the pugs and mackaw, who never
failed to take part in every commotion, began to bark and scream in
chorus.

The old gentleman, clapping his hands to his ears, rushed out of the
room. His son, cursing his aunts, and everything around him, kicked
Cupid, and gave the mackaw a box on the ear, as he also quitted the
apartment, with more appearance of anger than he had ever yet betrayed.

The tumult at length began to subside. The mackaw's screams gave place
to a low quivering croak; and the insulted pug's yells yielded to a
gentle whine. The aunts' obstreperous joy began to be chastened with
fear for the consequences that might follow an abrupt disclosure; and,
while Lady Juliana condoled with her favourites, it was concerted
between the prudent aunts that the joyful news should be broke to their
niece in the most cautious manner possible. For that purpose Misses
Grizzy and Jacky seated themselves on each side of her; and, after duly
preparing their voices by sundry small hems, Miss Grizzy thus began:

"I'm sure-I declare-I dare say, my dear Lady Juliana, you must think
we are all distracted."

Her auditor made no attempt to contradict the supposition.

"We certainly ought, to be sure, to have been more cautious, considering
your delicate situation; but the joy--though, indeed, it seems cruel to
say so. And I am sure you will sympathise, my dear niece, in the cause,
when you hear that it is occasioned by your poor neighbour Macglashan's
death, which, I'm sure, was quite unexpected. Indeed, I declare I can't
conceive how it came about; for Lady Maclaughlan, who is an excellent
judge of these things, thought he was really a remarkably stout-looking
man for his time of life; and indeed, except occasional colds, which you
know we are all subject to, I really never knew him complain. At the
same time--"

"I don't think, sister, you are taking the right method of communicating
the intelligence to our niece," said Miss Jacky.

"You cannot communicate anything that would give me the least pleasure,
unless you could tell me that I was going to leave this place," cried
Lady Juliana in a voice of deep despondency.

"Indeed! if it can afford your Ladyship so much pleasure to be at
liberty to quit the hospitable mansion of your amiable husband's
respectable father," said Miss Jacky, with an inflamed visage and
outspread hands, "you are at perfect liberty to depart when you think
proper. The generosity, I may say the munificence, of my excellent
brother, has now put it in your power to do as you please, and to form
your own plans."

"Oh, delightful!" exclaimed Lady Juliana, starting up; "now I shall be
quite happy. Where's Harry! Does he know? Is he gone to order the
carriage! Can we get away to-day?" And she was flying out of the room
when Miss Jacky caught her by one hand, while Miss Grizzy secured the
other.

"Oh, pray don't detain me! I must find Harry; and I have all my things
to put up," struggling to release herself from the gripe of the sisters;
when the door opened, and Harry entered, eager, yet dreading to know the
effects of the _éclaircissernent._ His surprise extreme at
beholding his wife, with her eyes sparkling, her cheeks glowing, and her
whole countenance expressing extreme pleasure. Darting from her keepers,
she bounded towards him with the wildest ejaculations of delight; while
he stood alternately gazing at her and his aunts, seeking by his eyes
the explanation he feared to demand.

"My dearest Juliana, what is the meaning of all this?" he at length
articulated.

"Oh, you cunning thing! So you think I don't know that your father has
given you a great, great quantity of money, and that we may go away
whenever we please, and do just as we like, and live in London,
and--and--oh, delightful!" And she bounded and skipped before the eyes
of the petrified spinsters.

"In the name of heaven, what does all this mean?" asked Henry,
addressing his aunts, who, for the first time in their lives, were
struck dumb by astonishment. But Miss Jacky, at length recollecting
herself, turned to Lady Juliana, who was still testifying her delight by
a variety of childish but graceful movements, and thus addressed her:

"Permit me to put a few questions to your Ladyship, in presence of those
who were witnesses of what has already passed."

"Oh, I can't endure to be asked questions; besides, I have no time to
answer them."

"Your Ladyship must excuse me; But I can't permit you to leave this
room under the influence of an error. Have the goodness to answer me the
following questions, and you will then be at liberty to depart. Did I
inform your Ladyship that my brother had given my nephew a great
quantity of money?"

"Oh yes! a great, great deal; I don't know how much, though--"

"Did I?" returned her interrogator.

"Come, come, have done with all this confounded nonsense!" exclaimed
Henry passionately. "Do you imagine I will allow Lady Juliana to stand
here all day, to answer all the absurd questions that come into the
heads of three old women? You stupefy and bewilder her with your eternal
tattling and roundabout harangues." And he paced the room in a paroxysm
of rage, while his wife suspended her dancing, and stood in breathless
amazement.

"I declare--I'm sure--it's a thousand pities that there should have been
any mistake made," whined poor Miss Grizzy.

"The only remedy is to explain the matter quickly," observed Miss Nicky;
"better late than never."

"I have done," said Miss Jacky, seating herself with much dignity.

"The short and the long of it is this," said Miss Nicky, "My brother has
not made Henry a present of money. I assure you money is not so rife;
but he has done what is much better for you both,--he has made over to
him that fine thriving farm of poor Macglashan's."

"No money!" repeated Lady Juliana in a disconsolate tone: then quickly
brightening up, "It would have been better, to be sure, to have had the
money directly; but you know we can easily sell the estate. How long
will it take?--a week?"

"Sell Clackandow!" exclaimed the three horrorstruck daughters of the
house of Douglas. "Sell Clackandow! Oh! oh! oh!"

"What else could we do with it?" inquired her Ladyship.

"Live at it, to be sure," cried all three.

"Live at it!" repeated she, with a shriek of horror that vied with that
of the spinsters--"Live at it! Live on a thriving farm! Live all my
life in such a place as this! Oh! the very thought is enough to kill
me!"

"There is no occasion to think or say any more about it," interrupted
Henry in a calmer tone; and, glancing round on his aunts, "I therefore
desire no more may be said on the subject."

"And is this really all? And have you got no money?  And are we not
going away?" gasped the disappointed Lady Juliana, as she gave way to a
violent burst of tears, that terminated in a fit of hysterics; at sight
of which, the good spinsters entirely forgot their wrath; and while one
burnt feathers under her nose, and another held her hands, a third
drenched her in floods of Lady Maclaughlan'shysteric water. After going
through the regular routine, the lady's paroxysm subsided; and being
carried to bed, she soon sobbed herself into a feverish slumber; in
which state the harassed husband left her to attend a summons from
his father.




CHAPTER XII.

    "See what delight in sylvan scenes appear!"

                            Pope.

    "Haply this life is best,
    Sweetest to you, well corresponding
    With your stiff age; but unto us it is
    A cell of ignorance, a prison for a debtor."

                                   _Cymbeline._

HE found the old gentleman in no very complaisant humour, from the
disturbances that had taken place, but the chief cause of which he was
still in ignorance of. He therefore accosted his son with:

"What was the meaning o' aw that skirling and squeeling I heard a while
ago? By my faith, there's nae bearing this din! Thae beasts o' your
wife's are eneugh to drive a body oot o' their judgment. But she maun
gi'e up thae maggots when she becomes a farmer's wife. She maun get
stirks and stots to mak' pets o', if she maun ha'e _four-fitted
_favourites; but, to my mind, it wad set her better to be carrying a
wiselike wean in her arms, than trailing aboot wi' thae confoonded dougs
an' paurits."

Henry coloured, bit his lips, but made no reply to this elegant address
of his father's, who continued, "I sent for you, sir, to have some
conversation about this farm of Macglashan's; so sit down there till I
show you the plans."

Hardly conscious of what he was doing, poor Henry gazed in silent
confusion, as his father pointed out the various properties of this his
future possession. Wholly occupied in debating within himself how he was
to decline the offer without a downright quarrel, he heard, without
understanding a word, all the old gentleman's plans and proposals for
building dikes, draining moss, etc.; and, perfectly unconscious of what
he was doing, yielded a ready assent to all the improvements that were
suggested.

"Then as for the hoose and offices,-let me see," continued the Laird, as
he rolled up the plans of the farm, and pulled forth that of the
dwelling-house from a bundle of papers. "Ay, here it is. By my troth,
ye'll be weel lodged here. The hoose is in a manner quite new, for it
has never had a brush upon it yet. And there's a byre--fient a bit, if I
would mean the best man i' the country to sleep there himsel.'"

A pause followed, during which Glenfern was busily employed in poring
over his parchment; then taking off his spectacles, and surveying his
son, "And now, sir, that you've heard a' the oots an' ins o' the
business, what think you your farm should bring you at the year's end?"

"I--I--I'm sure--I--I don't know," stammered poor Henry, awakening
from his reverie.

"Come, come, gi'e a guess."

"I really--I cannot--I haven't the least idea."

"I desire, sir, ye'll say something directly, that I may judge whether
or no ye ha'e common sense," cried the old gentleman angrily.

"I should suppose-I imagine-I don't suppose it will exceed seven or
eight hundred a year," said his son, in the greatest trepidation at this
trial of his intellect.

"Seven or eight hunder deevils!" cried the incensed Laird, starting up
and pushing his papers from him. "By my faith, I believe ye're a born
idiot! Seven or eight hunder pounds!" repeated he, at least a dozen
times, as he whisked up and down the little apartment with extraordinary
velocity, while poor Henry affected to be busily employed in gathering
up the parchments with which the floor was strewed.

"I'll tell you what, sir," continued he, stopping; "you're no fit to
manage a farm; you're as ignorant as yon coo, an' as senseless as its
cauf. Wi' gude management, Clackandow should produce you twahunder and
odd pounds yearly; but in your guiding I doot if it will yield the half.
However, tak' it or want it, mind me, sir, that it's a' ye ha'e to trust
to in my lifetime; so ye may mak' the maist o't."

Various and painful were the emotions that struggled in Henry's breast
at this declaration. Shame, regret, indignation, all burned within him;
but the fear he entertained of his father, and the consciousness of his
absolute dependence, chained his tongue, while the bitter emotions that
agitated him painted themselves legibly in his countenance. His father
observed his agitation; and, mistaking the cause, felt somewhat softened
at what he conceived his son's shame and penitence for his folly. He
therefore extended his hand towards him, saying, "Weel, weel, nae
mairaboot it; Clackandow's yours, as soon as I can put you in
possession. In the meantime, stay still here, and welcome."

"I--am much obliged to you for the offer, sir; I--feel very grateful for
your kindness," at length articulated his son; "but--I--am, as you
observe, so perfectly ignorant of country matters, that I--I--in short,
I am afraid I should make a bad hand of the business."

"Nae doot, nae doot ye would, if ye was left to your ain discretion;
but ye'll get mair s

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