CHAPTER I.

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.