"I will instruct my sorrows to be proud,
For grief is proud, and makes his owner stout.
Here I and sorrow sit."
Scott used to say that he was amazed at her power over him, saying to
Mrs. Keith, "She's the most extraordinary creature I ever met with, and
her repeating of Shakespeare overpowers me as nothing else does."
Thanks to the little book whose title heads this paper, and thanks
still more to the unforgetting sister of this dear child, who has much
of the sensibility and fun of her who has been in her small grave these
fifty and more years, we have now before us the letters and journals of
Pet Marjorie: before us lies and gleams her rich brown hair, bright and
sunny as if yesterday's, with the words on the paper, "Cut out in her
last illness," and two pictures of her by her beloved Isabella, whom
she worshipped; there are the faded old scraps of paper, hoarded still,
over which her warm breath and her warm little heart had poured
themselves; there is the old watermark, "Lingard, 1808." The two
portraits are very like each other, but plainly done at different
times; it is a chubby, healthy face, deep-set, brooding eyes, as eager
to tell what is going on within as to gather in all the glories from
without; quick with the wonder and the pride of life: they are eyes
that would not be soon satisfied with seeing; eyes that would devour
their object, and yet childlike and fearless; and that is a mouth that
will not be soon satisfied with love; it has a curious likeness to
Scott's own, which has always appeared to us his sweetest, most mobile,
and speaking feature.
There she is, looking straight at us as she did at him,--fearless, and
full of love, passionate, wild, wilful, fancy's child. One cannot look
at it without thinking of Wordsworth's lines on poor Hartley
Coleridge:--
"O blessed vision, happy child!
Thou art so exquisitely wild,
I thought of thee with many fears,--
Of what might be thy lot in future years.
I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest,
Lord of thy house and hospitality;
And Grief, uneasy lover! ne'er at rest
But when she sat within the touch of thee.
O too industrious folly!
O vain and causeless melancholy!
Nature will either end thee quite,
Or, lengthening out thy season of delight,
Preserve for thee, by individual right,
A young lamb's heart among the full-grown flock."
And we can imagine Scott, when holding his warm, plump little
playfellow in his arms, repeating that stately friend's lines:--
"Loving she is, and tractable, though wild;
And Innocence hath privilege in her,
To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes
And feats of cunning, and the pretty round
Of trespasses, affected to provoke
Mock chastisement and partnership in play.
And, as a fagot sparkles on the hearth
Not less if unattended and alone
Than when both young and old sit gathered round
And take delight in its activity,
Even so this happy creature of herself
Is all-sufficient; solitude to her
Is blithe society: she fills the air
With gladness and involuntary songs."
But we will let her disclose herself. We need hardly say that all this
is true, and that these letters are as really Marjorie's as was this
light brown hair; indeed, you could as easily fabricate the one as the
other.
There was an old servant--Jeanie Robertson--who was forty years in her
grandfather's family. Marjorie Fleming, or, as she is called in the
letters and by Sir Walter, Maidie, was the last child she kept.
Jeanie's wages never exceeded £3 a year, and when she left service she
had saved £40. She was devotedly attached to Maidie, rather despising
and ill-using her sister Isabella,--a beautiful and gentle child. This
partiality made Maidie apt at times to domineer over Isabella. "I
mention this," writes her surviving sister, "for the purpose of telling
you an instance of Maidie's generous justice. When only five years old,
when walking in Raith grounds, the two children had run on before, and
old Jeanie remembered they might come too near a dangerous mill-lade.
She called to them to turn back. Maidie heeded her not, rushed all the
faster on, and fell, and would have been lost, had her sister not
pulled her back, saving her life, but tearing her clothes. Jeanie flew
on Isabella to 'give it her' for spoiling her favorite's dress; Maidie
rushed in between, crying out, 'Pay (whip) Maidjie as much as you like,
and I'll not say one word; but touch Isy, and I'll roar like a bull!'
Years after Maidie was resting in her grave, my mother used to take me
to the place, and told the story always in the exact same words." This
Jeanie must have been a character. She took great pride in exhibiting
Maidie's brother William's Calvinistic acquirements when nineteen
months old, to the officers of a militia regiment then quartered in
Kirkcaldy. This performance was so amusing that it was often repeated,
and the little theologian was presented by them with a cap and
feathers. Jeanie's glory was "putting him through the carritch"
(catechism) in broad Scotch, beginning at the beginning with "Wha made
ye, ma bonnie man?" For the correctness of this and the three next
replies, Jeanie had no anxiety, but the tone changed to menace, and the
closed _nieve_ (fist) was shaken in the child's face as she demanded,
"Of what are you made?" "DIRT," was the answer uniformly given. "Wull
ye never learn to say _dust_, ye thrawn deevil?" with a cuff from the
opened hand, was the as inevitable rejoinder.
Here is Maidie's first letter, before she was six. The spelling is
unaltered, and there are no "commoes."
"MY DEAR ISA,--I now sit down to answer all your kind and beloved
letters which you was so good as to write to me. This is the first time
I ever wrote a letter in my Life. There are a great many Girls in the
Square, and they cry just like a pig when we are under the painfull
necessity of putting it to Death. Miss Potune, a Lady of my
acquaintance, praises me dreadfully. I repeated something out of Dean
Swift, and she said I was fit for the stage, and you may think I was
primmed up with majestick Pride, but upon my word I felt myselfe turn a
little birsay,--birsay is a word which is a word that William composed
which is as you may suppose a little enraged. This horrid fat simpliton
says that my Aunt is beautifull, which is intirely impossible, for that
is not her nature."
What a peppery little pen we wield! What could that have been out of
the Sardonic Dean? What other child of that age would have used
"beloved" as she does? This power of affection, this faculty of
_be_loving, and wild hunger to be beloved, comes out more and more. She
perilled her all upon it, and it may have been as well--we know,
indeed, that it was far better--for her that this wealth of love was so
soon withdrawn to its one only infinite Giver and Receiver. This must
have been the law of her earthly life. Love was indeed "her Lord and
King"; and it was perhaps well for her that she found so soon that her
and our only Lord and King Himself is Love.
Here are bits from her Diary at Braehead: "The day of my existence here
has been delightful and enchanting. On Saturday I expected no less than
three well-made Bucks, the names of whom is here advertised. Mr. Geo.
Crakey (Craigie), and Wm. Keith, and Jn. Keith,--the first is the
funniest of every one of them. Mr. Crakey and I walked to Craky-hall
(Craigiehall), hand in hand in Innocence and matitation (meditation)
sweet thinking on the kind love which flows in our tender-hearted mind
which is overflowing with majestic pleasure no one was ever so polite
to me in the hole state of my existence. Mr. Craky you must know is a
great Buck, and pretty good-looking.
"I am at Ravelston enjoying nature's fresh air. The birds are singing
sweetly, the calf doth frisk, and nature shows her glorious face."
Here is a confession: "I confess I have been very more like a little
young divil than a creature for when Isabella went up stairs to teach
me religion and my multiplication and to be good and all my other
lessons I stamped with my foot and threw my new hat which she had made
on the ground and was sulky and was dreadfully passionate, but she
never whiped me but said Marjory go into another room and think what a
great crime you are committing letting your temper git the better of
you. But I went so sulkily that the Devil got the better of me but she
never never never whips me so that I think I would be the better of it
and the next time that I behave ill I think she should do it for she
never never does it.... Isabella has given me praise for checking my
temper for I was sulky even when she was kneeling an hole hour teaching
me to write."
Our poor little wifie,--_she_ has no doubts of the personality of the
Devil! "Yesterday I behave extremely ill in God's most holy church for
I would never attend myself nor let Isabella attend which was a great
crime for she often, often tells me that when to or three are geathered
together God is in the midst of them, and it was the very same Divil
that tempted Job that tempted me I am sure; but he resisted Satan
though he had boils and many many other misfortunes which I have
escaped.... I am now going to tell you the horible and wretched plaege
(plague) that my multiplication gives me you can't conceive it the most
Devilish thing is 8 times 8 and 7 times 7 it is what nature itself cant
endure."
This is delicious; and what harm is there in her "Devilish"? It is
strong language merely; even old Rowland Hill used to say "he grudged
the Devil those rough and ready words." "I walked to that delightful
place Craky-hall with a delightful young man beloved by all his friends
espacially by me his loveress, but I must not talk any more about him
for Isa said it is not proper for to speak of gentalmen but I will
never forget him!... I am very very glad that satan has not given me
boils and many other misfortunes--In the holy bible these words are
written that the Devil goes like a roaring lyon in search of his pray
but the lord lets us escape from him but we" (_pauvre petite!_) "do not
strive with this awfull Spirit.... To-day I pronunced a word which
should never come out of a lady's lips it was that I called John a
Impudent Bitch. I will tell you what I think made me in so bad a humor
is I got one or two of that bad bad sina (senna) tea to-day,"--a better
excuse for bad humor and bad language than most.
She has been reading the Book of Esther: "It was a dreadful thing that
Haman was hanged on the very gallows which he had prepared for Mordeca
to hang him and his ten sons thereon and it was very wrong and cruel to
hang his sons for they did not commit the crime; _but then Jesus was
not then come to teach us to be merciful._" This is wise and
beautiful,--has upon it the very dew of youth and of holiness. Out of
the mouths of babes and sucklings He perfects His praise.
"This is Saturday and I am very glad of it because I have play half the
Day and I get money too but alas I owe Isabella 4 pence for I am finned
2 pence whenever I bite my nails. Isabella is teaching me to make simme
colings nots of interrigations peorids commoes, etc.... As this is
Sunday I will meditate upon Senciable and Religious subjects. First I
should be very thankful I am not a begger."
This amount of meditation and thankfulness seems to have been all she
was able for.
"I am going to-morrow to a delightfull place, Braehead by name,
belonging to Mrs. Crraford, where there is ducks cocks hens bubblyjocks
2 dogs 2 cats and swine which is delightful. I think it is shocking to
think that the dog and cat should bear them" (this is a meditation
physiological), "and they are drowned after all. I would rather have a
man-dog than a woman-dog, because they do not bear like women-dogs; it
is a hard case--it is shocking. I cam here to enjoy natures delightful
breath it is sweeter than a fial (phial) of rose oil."
Braehead is the farm the historical Jock Howison asked and got from our
gay James the Fifth, "the gudeman o' Ballengiech," as a reward for the
services of his flail, when the King had the worst of it at Cramond
Brig with the gypsies. The farm is unchanged in size from that time,
and still in the unbroken line of the ready and victorious thrasher.
Braehead is held on the condition of the possessor being ready to
present the King with a ewer and basin to wash his hands, Jock having
done this for his unknown king after the _splore_, and when George the
Fourth came to Edinburgh this ceremony was performed in silver at
Holyrood. It is a lovely neuk this Braehead, preserved almost as it was
200 years ago. "Lot and his wife," mentioned by Maidie,--two quaintly
cropped yew-trees,--still thrive, the burn runs as it did in her time,
and sings the same quiet tune,--as much the same and as different as
_Now_ and _Then_. The house full of old family relics and pictures, the
sun shining on them through the small deep windows with their plate
glass; and there, blinking at the sun, and chattering contentedly, is a
parrot, that might, for its looks of eld, have been in the ark, and
domineered over and _deaved_ the dove. Everything about the place is
old and fresh.
This is beautiful: "I am very sorry to say that I forgot God--that is
to say I forgot to pray to-day and Isabella told me that I should be
thankful that God did not forget me--if he did, O what would become of
me if I was in danger and God not friends with me--I must go to
unquenchable fire and if I was tempted to sin--how could I resist it O
no I will never do it again--no no--if I can help it!" (Canny wee
wifie!) "My religion is greatly falling off because I dont pray with so
much attention when I am saying my prayers, and my charecter is lost
among the Braehead people. I hope I will be religious again--but as for
regaining my charecter I despare for it." (Poor little "habit and
repute"!)
Her temper, her passion, and her "badness" are almost daily confessed
and deplored: "I will never again trust to my own power, for I see that
I cannot be good without God's assistance,--I will not trust in my own
selfe, and Isa's health will be quite ruined by me,--it will indeed."
"Isa has giving me advice, which is, that when I feal Satan beginning
to tempt me, that I flea him and he would flea me." "Remorse is the
worst thing to bear, and I am afraid that I will fall a marter to it."
Poor dear little sinner! Here comes the world again: "In my travels I
met with a handsome lad named Charles Balfour Esq., and from him I got
ofers of marage--offers of marage, did I say? Nay plenty heard me." A
fine scent for "breach of promise"!
This is abrupt and strong: "The Divil is curced and all his works. 'Tis
a fine work _Newton on the profecies_. I wonder if there is another
book of poems comes near the Bible. The Divil always girns at the sight
of the Bible." "Miss Potune" (her "simpliton" friend) "is very fat; she
pretends to be very learned. She says she saw a stone that dropt from
the skies; but she is a good Christian." Here comes her views on church
government: "An Annibabtist is a thing I am not a member of--I am a
Pisplekan (Episcopalian) just now, and" (O you little Laodicean and
Latitudinarian!) "a Prisbeteran at Kirkcaldy!"--(_Blandula! Vagula!
coelum et animum mutas quæ trans mare_ (i.e. _trans
Bodotriam_)--_curris!_)--"my native town." "Sentiment is not what I am
acquainted with as yet, though I wish it, and should like to practise
it." (!) "I wish I had a great, great deal of gratitude in my heart, in
all my body." "There is a new novel published, named _Self-Control_"
(Mrs. Brunton's)--"a very good maxim forsooth!" This is shocking:
"Yesterday a marrade man, named Mr. John Balfour, Esq., offered to kiss
me, and offered to marry me, though the man" (a fine directness this!)
"was espused, and his wife was present and said he must ask her
permission; but he did not. I think he was ashamed and confounded
before 3 gentelman--Mr. Jobson and 2 Mr. Kings." "Mr. Banester's"
(Bannister's) "Budjet is to-night; I hope it will be a good one. A
great many authors have expressed themselves too sentimentally." You
are right, Marjorie. "A Mr. Burns writes a beautiful song on Mr.
Cunhaming, whose wife desarted him--truly it is a most beautiful one."
"I like to read the Fabulous historys, about the histerys of Robin,
Dickey, flapsay, and Peccay, and it is very amusing, for some were good
birds and others bad, but Peccay was the most dutiful and obedient to
her parients." "Thomson is a beautiful author, and Pope, but nothing to
Shakespear, of which I have a little knolege. 'Macbeth' is a pretty
composition, but awful one." "The _Newgate Calender_ is very
instructive." (!) "A sailor called here to say farewell; it must be
dreadful to leave his native country when he might get a wife; or
perhaps me, for I love him very much. But O I forgot, Isabella forbid
me to speak about love." This antiphlogistic regimen and lesson is ill
to learn by our Maidie, for here she sins again: "Love is a very
papithatick thing" (it is almost a pity to correct this into pathetic),
"as well as troublesome and tiresome--but O Isabella forbid me to speak
of it." Here are her reflections on a pineapple: "I think the price of
a pine-apple is very dear: it is a whole bright goulden guinea, that
might have sustained a poor family." Here is a new vernal simile: "The
hedges are sprouting like chicks from the eggs when they are newly
hatched or, as the vulgar say, _clacked_." "Doctor Swift's works are
very funny; I got some of them by heart." "Moreheads sermons are I hear
much praised, but I never read sermons of any kind; but I read
novelettes and my Bible, and I never forget it, or my prayers." Bravo,
Marjorie!