BARBARA IS ACCUSED OF CRUELTY AND INDISCRETION
The day after this we returned to Alva, bearing with us a request from
my Lord Sinclair to his daughter Catherine, that she would come and
make her abode with him in the meantime, and in the absence of his
eldest son, help him in the management of his estate. This my lady,
though greatly touched by the old gentleman’s trust in her, knew was
impossible, for indeed her presence was required at Alva for many
reasons, and she judged rightly that her first duty was to her husband
and his affairs. So far as our own case was concerned things were
growing easier, for after representing as strongly as she could, the
wrongs she had suffered in the loss of cattle, fowls, and fodder, to
those whose influence might be exercised in her favour, my lady was
relieved of this burden in the surest way possible. Her brother-in-law,
Mr. Haldane of Gleneagles, though strongly against the Rebellion, and
keen about all measures for punishing the offenders, yet suffered his
family affection to mitigate his severity in the case of Sir John’s
family. It was by his means that General Cadogan was prevailed upon to
grant a protection to my Lady Erskine to prevent her being plundered
any further, and her nephew, Mr. James Haldane, arrived one day from
Edinburgh to give notice of the same to Lord Rothes at Stirling Castle.
This, as you can imagine, was a vast relief; and as the same privilege
was extended to my Lady Jean at Bannockburn, and to Lady Keir, our
hearts were set at rest on their account also.
Now I must tell you that some time back, when she first began to have
doubts of the wisdom and ultimate success of the Rising, my Lady
Erskine had conceived a secret project which, with great good sense,
she kept as much as possible to herself and a few friends. Since the
Battle of Sheriffmuir the working of the Silver Mine had been given up,
on account of the danger of discovery from any of Argyle’s men who then
over-ran the hills. But after hearing from Sir John in the beginning of
the year, my lady sent one day for Mr. Hamilton, and after pledging him
to secrecy, and telling him she believed in his loyalty to her and her
house, enough to trust him with an important matter, she divulged her
plan for securing the riches of the Mine.
She made him overseer of four miners (though up till now he had but
superintended the smelting of the ore), and these he set to work in the
mine, which work, being underground and well watched, was kept very
private.
As the ore was lifted it was stored in casks, hogsheads, or barrels,
which were buried in a vast hole that my lady caused to be dug on the
north-west side of the house just by the gate. They had managed in
this way to hide some forty tons of ore, when one morning Mr. Hamilton
appeared at the house to say that, so far as he could see, the vein
they were working had given out, and he wished to know if Lady Erskine
advised any further excavation to be made. As this would have entailed
a good deal of expense, my lady, after consulting with Mr. Erskine,
decided that at present the work should be given up, which she did with
the more ease of mind that certain rumours had got abroad of untold
riches to be found on Sir John’s estate. The great hole in the broad
walk having attracted some attention, she made it known that ’twas only
one of Sir John’s mad notions, which was not likely to be of much use,
and this according with the country people’s opinion of my guardian’s
projects, the gossip soon died down, and we hoped the danger was past.
I believe that with the treasure they collected my lady had framed
the notion of being able, when the time was ripe, to purchase Sir
John’s full pardon from the King, and in this idea Mr. Erskine and Mr.
Campbell encouraged her. It was necessary, however, to keep its very
existence private, until all danger of the knight’s being attainted
was past, seeing that, if his name appeared upon the Black List, his
whole estate was forfeit to the Crown. In the event of this happening,
my lady then designed to unearth the casks, and by disposing of the
contents in a profitable manner, to be able to follow her husband to
the Continent, where they might live comfortably with their children
for the rest of their lives.
* * * * *
About a week after our return from Dysart, I was walking one morning
with little Hal down the glen, where by Heaven’s kind providence I had
found my dear Anthony, when Mr. Hamilton met us, and accosted me with
his usual cordiality. Now, to tell the truth, I had almost forgotten
that I had ever had even a slight interest in this young gentleman;
and though when we met we were friendly enough, my heart being fully
occupied by the thought of another, it left me very indifferent to
strangers. I was therefore surprised when he said rather abruptly,
“I have something of a private nature to say to you, Mistress Barbara;
can you not send the child away?”
“What!” cried I, laughing, with no thought of what was coming, “have
you a secret to divulge? Run, Hal, and gather some of those pretty
anemones for Cousin Barbara.”
“I suppose you have by now,” said Hamilton, “discovered the meaning of
my words last summer as to your gaining wisdom about many things.”
“Why, yes,” I answered slowly, thinking of all that I had gained since
then, “I fancy we are all a year wiser.”
“And sadder?” said he.
“Ah, no!” I cried, softly, “not sadder.”
“Are you then,” he exclaimed eagerly, “on the other side? Have you seen
the folly of that mad attempt; do you realise the character of the man
you imagined had come to rule us? Are you relieved at the issue of
events? How glad I am, Mistress Barbara, to find you so sensible.”
“Nay, sir,” cried I, quite startled out of my private thoughts; “I
protest I do not understand you.”
“Why, mistress,” said he, puzzled in his turn, “if you are not saddened
by the failure of the Rising, it must needs be because you think it a
lucky providence that it did not succeed. What else can you mean?”
“The Rising! Forgive me, Mr. Hamilton, I was thinking of other things.
But how,” said I, “can you possibly imagine that I am not grieved
to the heart by the terrible happenings of the past six months, and
bitterly disappointed at the departure of the King? Can I know of the
sufferings and imprisonment of so many good friends, the deaths, the
losses, the anxiety; can I watch my dear lady’s sad face day after day,
with the knowledge of the pain she bears in her brave heart, and not be
saddened myself? I should indeed be callous beyond belief were such a
thing possible!”
“Nay, madam,” he said, “I pray you to believe I had no such thought.
I myself am grieved enough for the calamities that have been brought
upon the country, both public and private; but I hoped that you did at
last see how wrong and mistaken was the Rebellion, and what a miserable
dastard is the man whom they sought to put upon the throne of Britain.”
“Stop!” cried I, “I will not hear the King slandered. Misled,
mismanaged, he certainly was, but dastard--no!”
“But can you believe he would make a good king?” cried he. “Would not
his accession plunge us into all the horrors of Romanism? You cannot
deny, madam, that the Chevalier is a Papist at heart.”
“Why, what else would you expect him to be?” cried I. “And Pretender
as he is called, he has never pretended to be willing to give up his
religion for the sake of a crown, as another might have done. He is
honest, and devoted to his Church, as a good man should be; but he is
no bigot either, for I have heard from Sir John that he has a very
liberal and open mind towards his Protestant subjects, and I do not
believe he would ever interfere with their religion were he reigning
over us.”
“I must beg leave to differ from you, Mistress Barbara,” replied
Hamilton. “I have seen some friends who met the Chevalier in the north,
and were bitterly disappointed in him. Did he not refuse to have
_Grace_ said at his table by any but his own private chaplain, though
there were both Presbyterian and Episcopalian clergymen present?”
“Why,” returned I, “I think little of that. I doubt if his Hanoverian
Majesty would tolerate the benediction of a Romish priest at the Royal
table, though many of them are his subjects.”
“Certainly he would not!” cried Mr. Hamilton. “’Twould be a monstrous
wrong if he did!”
“And if one man is to be upheld for his narrowness, because he acts
from a sense of right, why not another?” cried I hotly. “Oh, I have no
patience with such prejudice! This cry about Religions is used but to
mask other things--politics, social ambition, party strife and personal
rancour.”
By this time, walking slowly, with little Hal running backwards and
forwards round us, we had reached the garden, which lay bare and
orderly in the sunshine, with only a few of the early spring flowers
showing themselves in the borders. When I looked at Mr. Hamilton’s face
after my last speech, I found he was smiling.
“You are a brave and stout partisan, Mistress Barbara,” said he, “and
I should find it difficult to move you. As it is, Providence hath
ordained that the present dynasty be established in Britain--”
“For the time being,” murmured I.
“And we must needs bow to that decree,” he went on unheeding. “This,
however, was not what I wished to talk of. Will you pardon me for
allowing myself to wander so far from the subject at my heart, for
indeed it is the chief thought in my life at present, and has been for
long.”
“Pray, go on,” said I, somewhat coldly, for I was ruffled by our
discussion, and felt now more out of sympathy with my companion than
before.
“It is now a year since first I saw you, madam, and I make no secret
of the fact that I was more struck by your appearance than by that of
anyone I ever met. Since then all I have seen and heard of you confirms
my first impressions. You are the most charming woman in the world,
madam, and I beg you to be my wife.”
Surprise, chagrin, and anger filled my breast, mingled with a certain
shame that I should have permitted this man to go so far. I fear my
reply was both pert and rude.
“You must think a vast deal of yourself, sir, if you imagine you are
worthy to be the husband of the most charming woman in the world!”
He laughed good-naturedly; he was too dense to notice the disdain in my
voice.
“No one on earth is really worthy to hold that position, madam; but I
beg you to believe that I shall count myself lucky should you dream of
giving it to me.”
“I fear,” said I shortly, “that that is impossible.”
“Why impossible?” he cried, only half understanding. “My family, madam,
is as good as yours; my present occupation is not to last for ever. I
mean to establish myself well, and gain a position that even you will
not disdain to share. Let me go to my lady this evening, Barbara, and
get her consent to our union.”
How different--ah, how different was this man’s wooing!
“Pardon me, sir,” I answered, “I cannot be your wife. Oh, will you not
understand and leave me in peace!”
I spoke impatiently, for I wanted to be rid of him. He stood before me,
his face very white and set.
“Listen, Barbara Stewart,” he said. “There is more depending on your
consent than you think. If you reject me thus you will regret it, not
so much for your own sake as for some of the friends you love so well.
Consider well, my girl, before you decide. You would not care to bring
disaster upon this house. After to-day ’twill be too late.”
Angry, but scarcely alarmed, I drew myself up.
“Do you dare to threaten me, sir?” I cried. “What mean you? Or no, I
do not care for your meanings; what you have said is enough. If you
think Barbara Stewart would marry one who would stoop to injure any
human-being of set purpose and design, you know her very little. I am
indifferent to your threats, for I do not believe in your power to do
much harm.”
In scorn and indignation I turned away, and calling to little Henry I
walked towards the house. James Hamilton followed.
“Is it thus you despise an honest man’s love, mistress?” he said
hoarsely. “Oh ho, my Lady Disdain, but the day may come when you will
wish that you had listened more kindly. You think lightly of my power;
you shall see by-and-bye what it can do. Barbara!” he said, and his
voice broke as he laid his hand upon my arm. “You will not be so cruel!”
“Sir,” said I, stopping and speaking more gently, “I have answered you,
and I would beg you now to leave me. In that you have honoured me by
your regard, I thank you. If I have hurt you, I ask your forgiveness;
but a woman’s love is not to be won by methods such as yours, and I
must own that your speeches this morning have put me greatly out of
sympathy with you as a friend.”
I looked in his face, but found it hard to read. There was an
expression of regret certainly, mingled with discomfort and doubt; but
my woman’s instinct told me well enough that behind this was no wounded
heart of despairing lover, and not even his next words moved me to
belief.
“Then farewell, mistress,” he said in a low voice; “you have broken
my life in two. Henceforth we go separate ways. Heaven grant you
tenderness to know how cruelly you have used me!”
Angered again by this accusation, I bowed to him without reply, and
walked away towards the house with the child clinging to my hand.
Seated at work next morning in the parlour, we were listening amused
to the chatter of the little boys, when Charles gave a great sigh and
exclaimed, “How I wish my papa would come home! I do weary to see him.”
“So do I, too!” cried Henry, with a sigh to match his brother’s. “Tell
me, mama, how many years is it since my papa went away?”
My lady put down her work to pat the curly head at her knee, and sighed
herself, though she laughed at the childish question.
“The months are years to us who love him, are they not, Hal?” she said.
“We must pray God to send him back to us very soon.”
“I do,” cried Charles. “Last night I said in my prayers, ‘Please, God,
let my papa come home before the trees are green.’ That will be very
soon now, mama, will it not?”
Just then came a knock at the door, and one entered to say that Mr.
Hamilton waited without, desiring to speak to her ladyship.
“Very well, bid him come in!” said my lady; but on hearing that he had
something of a private nature to communicate, she rose with a perturbed
look and hurried from the room.
It was half-an-hour before she returned, and when she did so, ’twas
with a vexed and ruffled countenance. She dismissed the children
abruptly, and standing in front of me, cried,
“Well, Barbara, do you know the mischief you have wrought?”
Trembling and surprised, I dropped my needle and looked at her.
“Madam,” I stammered, “I am sorry; but you know yourself, cousin, that
I could not listen to Mr. Hamilton’s proposals.”
“And yet you encouraged him; you led him to believe his suit was not in
vain! You drew him on, only to have the triumph of rejecting him. Was
this the part of a modest maiden, Barbara?”
Wounded to the quick, and with the tears starting to my eyes, I yet
answered her with some spirit.
“If Mr. Hamilton has told you this, madam, he has done me great
injustice. A year ago, I own, I wished him to admire me--foolish girl
that I was, all new to intercourse with men--and accepted his small
attentions with a kind of pleasure. But since our return from Dysart
last October, I have never given him a look that he could construe into
interest of the faintest sort. I beg you to believe, cousin, that Mr.
Hamilton is a man it is not easy to flout. He thinks the whole world
has as high an opinion of him as he himself has; and if he has made up
his mind to establish himself in any woman’s favour, he would be so
firm in the belief of his success that the news of his failure would
come as a great shock to his pride.”
I dried my eyes, for as I spoke my anger returned.
“And even if his accusations were true, I take it, madam, that ’tis
not the part of a chivalrous gentleman to blame a woman for his own
conceited blunder. I have nothing but contempt for the man. I never
wish to speak to him again.”
“’Tis not likely that you will,” returned my lady, gloomily; “he leaves
Alva to-day.”
“Leaves Alva?” cried I. “But how can he go and abandon his work? How
can he leave you alone?”
“’Twill make it very uneasy for me,” she replied; “but there is no more
to be said. He is like a man wrong in the head, and was neither to hold
nor to bind, as the saying is. I talked till I was tired, but his mind
was made up; he could not stay where he might see Mistress Stewart any
day. His heart was broken, he repeated, his life spoiled.”
“Pray, madam,” I entreated, “will you forgive me for my share in this
new trouble, and say you believe I am not so much to blame! I cannot be
happy to lie under such an imputation in your eyes. I regret more than
I can say the annoyance it causes you, but I cannot heartily believe
that Mr. Hamilton is so greatly afflicted as he pretends. All the time
he was talking to me yesterday, I felt that his speech did not ring
true; ’twas as if he were working himself into a passion to make an
effect.”
While I was speaking I was considering in my mind the wisdom of
repeating to my lady the threatening language the man had used; but
having no particular belief in it, and not wishing to disturb her
unnecessarily, I held my peace. She pondered my last words for some
time, and when she spoke again, her voice had lost its coldness.
“Why, Barbara,” she said, “to say truth, I doubted the man myself. He
was too violent, he talked too much. At first I was so put about at
the prospect of his leaving me that I did not stop to reason, but now
that I am calm again, I acknowledge you are right to despise the way
James has behaved. So far as the Mine is concerned I can trust him to
be silent, and for his work I have no doubt I shall find a successor.
There is not much to be done at present in any case, so perhaps after
all he will not be missed. Forget about him, child; he has taken
himself out of our life in a pet. ’Tis not likely he will enter it
again.”
* * * * *
“Ah!” cried Betty when she heard of it, “do you not see now that I was
right? Did I not warn you, Barbara, of what he was capable, and tell
you to be on your guard with him? Well, thank heaven, he has done no
harm, and as my sister says, I do not suppose we shall ever see him
again. But, though I never liked the man, I am amazed, I must own, at
his ingratitude.”
And so James Hamilton departed from Alva, hiding his treachery under a
very flimsy cloak, for, as you know, his love for Barbara was only a
blind, and his despair a mere pretence to allow him to escape and work
his wicked will.
LETTER VII
I begin to be impatient to hear from my Dear Life. This is the
fourth letter I have writ, and I have got but one. If you are well
I am very happy, but I have many melancholy dreams about you which
is occasioned by anxious concern to have you easy in your mind, and
satisfied with your present state, which indeed is a great tryal but
such as God in His providence thinks fit to send us, and it is no
small mercy in so general a calamity that you are preserved and will
have what may make us live comfortably together. I must own it is not
easy for me to be at so great a distance from you, nor can I have any
prospect yet how soon I can be with you, until some settlements be
made in affairs here, which will take a considerable time. I am doing
in the meantime what is for your interest.
As for old W.’s work I am obligt to give it up yesterday, until we be
in a state of more freedom than we are at present, and people began
to suspect that there was something in it more than ordinary that I
continued it so long. My counsel determined me in doing so, and they
have some projects in vein to secure all. I hope they will not all
fail ... it’s lucky for us P.C. is at London, and will be there for
a great while. His wife is gone home to lye, and designs to take her
two eldest children to London with her against June.
Your mother is here and is very concerned about you, and is very
thankful you got so early off. In short, that supports her in all
the difficulties that occur, as it does me, for the violence cannot
always last, tho’ in the meantime it’s very hard upon those that are
in their hands. I am in great fear for J. Paterson, for I am told
that base wretch, Jock Muir, says his house was the place of their
meeting which makes his friends afraid. I pity my poor sister, and
when I think of her I think my own sufferings easy. In short I am
not to be pityed for anything but being absent from you, for your
friends have a particular regard and concern for me, and Charls omits
nothing that can be for your interest, and I believe your sister
Nell will make her spouse (Mr. Haldane) do all that’s possible for
you att Court, and I hear he is much in favour at present. But that
family distinguish themselves in violence at present, tho’ as to your
particular (case) I believe they will do all that’s possible. Your
nephew, James, was here the other day, and procured a protection for
my house and all things I am concerned in, which makes me easy. In
the meantime I believe there is some care taken to hinder your being
denounct, but I fear it will not doe, but if it could be done it
would be an advantage; but be it as it will there shall none of your
stockin’ be lost.
If your brother Robin come to Holland with his master, Charls has
some thoughts of coming there, and desiring you to meet them if you
can do it with safety. Some people here think it would be easy for
Robin’s master to procure your pardon, which I think should be done
if possible; tho’ you did not return to Britain for some time the
interest of your family and the present circumstances of your affairs
require it, but when your brothers and you meet you can talk freely
of that and other things.
Andrew (Argyle) has lost the command of the troops here, and Mr.
Beggar (Cadogan) has got it. I wish Andrew had known it sooner for
it’s talkt Beggar had it seven weeks before Andrew left this Country,
and yesterday Mr. Beggar went northwards. Perth, Aberdeen, and
Inverness are to be fortified. If the common people who are still
under arms will now come to surrender they are to be allowed to go
home, and I hear some of the Clans have done so. In that case their
Heads will doe well to take care of themselves.... Colonel Pary,
and Mr. Balfour have given up themselves, my Lord Rollo and several
others of like degree, which is very surprising. There came an order
to the common prisoners either to choose to stand their tryal or be
sold to the plantations. I hear that most have chosen rather to stand
their tryal than live slaves. Your fellow-travellers came south and
were taken care of. I doubt not you will hear of them soon. All our
neighbours are safe. Your boys are well and nothing shall be wanting
that’s fit for them; for their education I hop, one way or other, you
shall doe it to your own mind.
I am in great grief for Kid (the King) and your freind Mill (Mar),
tho’ I think he is the only cause for all my sufferings, but I find
he is blamed by all sides. How far it’s just I know not, but I shall
never blame him, tho’ in my heart I cannot but think he should not
have taken such an affair upon him without positive orders from Kid.
However, in the meantime, I could wish for your own sake you wold not
be near Kid or Mill, because that may be a hindrance to some projects
which we have in view; and since you may doe yourself and family
prejudice and can do them no service, it is but common prudence to do
so.
I long to hear from my Dearest Life. May you be happy always, and
remember the only way to be kind to me is to take care of yourself. I
got a proposal from my father to come to keep house to him, and bring
my boys with me, or he will come and board with me; but he wants me
to manage his estate in his son’s absence, both which proposals I
have rejected; and he says he will goe abroad. Where it will end I
know not.
Charles salutes you and Betty, and your sons offer their humble duty
to you, and
I am ever yours,
my Dearest Soul.
LETTER VIII
_March 23._
MY DEAREST LIFE,
I received two of your letters this week which were
most acceptable, one without a date, and the last of the 16th of
March. By both I see all my letters have miscarry’d, which does not
a little vex me. You was not eight days out of Britain when I writ
first, and this is the fifth I have writ. I have been so lucky to
receive three letters from you, which is no small comfort; but by
your not receiving mine you have not drawn for 100 pound I desired
you to take from your factor, and that you should be straitened is
what I am very much afraid of. Pray doe not want what is fit for you,
for I hope in God I shall always have (means) to supply you till I
be so happy (as) to see you again, which is what I very much long
for; and my absence from you is the only suffering I have, but that
I ought to submit to with cheerfulness when you are well and out
of danger. I must own the thought of your safety has been a great
support to mee, and as to other particulars in my own affairs, the
grief and concern I had for others made me very easy about them, and
hitherto there has nothing happened in my little affairs that could
make me uneasy. I am still in my own house and looking carefully to
all things, and am so much of your mind, however dark things may look
at present, that both this place and the other (Cambuswallace) may
be possesst by you and yours, that I have planted trees this season,
and made up all the wants in your hedges, and shall not omit to doe
everything that can be for your interest.
Mr. R(ose) labours your own farms this year. As to your debts of all
kinds all care has been taken, and as I told you before not one can
lose a groat by you so you may be easy. My being so much a stranger
to your debts makes it a little uneasy, but a little time will put
that over. There is not a thing I doe were it never so trifling,
but I consult first whether my friend would approve of this; and I
daresay you would if you saw my actings approved of, the most part if
not all. Your brother has been twice here, and does in every respect
act the part of a kind friend, and does not omit the least thing that
can be either useful or agreeable to me.
I send you one enclosed from your mother. She is indeed a kind woman,
and tho’ she disapproves what you have done, yet she cannot bear to
have you blamed and reflected on, and is as cheerful as ever I saw
her, for she thinks there will be favour got one way or other, and
the family will be preserved. And she hopes this may be a means to
make you serious, which I pray God it may, for afflictions are not
sent in vain. I pray earnestly that we may all have the right use of
them, and that seeing the uncertainty of all human things we may seek
what is more lasting.
I am in hops our two good friends att London will not be in danger.
My poor sister writes they have few enemies, and if her spouse is
banished she will send for her children to goe with him. There is
many gentlemen given up themselves, which I wonder much at. I think
they have had no encouragement to do so. Your fellow-travellers
will be in their own country again by this time, and a great many
of your friends. Poor Polmaise is dead. All your servants are well.
Some people think the clans can keep out a year, others are afraid
of them. There is no accounts yet since Mr. Beggar went north. Your
servant, Andrew S----t, came safe here two months agoe; I writ to
you of him before, and desired to know if I should send him to you.
If anything can be done for you, it is not fit you be with Kid and
Mill; and since you cannot serve them, it’s but a reasonable prudence
not to give new provocations. P.C. is att London, and will not fail
to doe all that can be done, and your sister Nell’s spouse I hear
is much in favour. But they are very violent tho’ I doubt not their
good-will to you. Your children are well. There shall be nothing
wanting that’s fit for them, and as for their education, I hop you
shall do that yourself, for if ever I be put from this place, I’ll
come and bring them with me; but I must own I do not expect to leave
this place, and I rather think you will be allowed to return, for
things cannot always continue, as they have been violent long, so the
contrary may now be hoped for.
I blame you much that you do not tell me more of Kid, for I have a
great concern for him and great pity. As to my health I am rather
better than usual. The season is good, and I am much in the fields,
sometimes employed in business, and thinking on the unhappy state of
many different people at other times, and reflecting on the mercy’s
I daily meet with, which are such as I should never forget, for I am
not to be pitied for anything but my being absent from you, which if
I suffer patiently God may in a little time give me the comfort of
being with you again.
I think you should read much; I will recommend Monsieur Paskal’s
Thoughts to you, which I doubt not you will like. Wishing my dear
soul all manner of happiness, I am in all sincerity, Yours.
Your friend Bess salutes you kindly. Pray be so kind to me (as) to
take good care of your self, and write frequently when you see I doe
not miss one.
Apri. 4.
LETTER IX
My Dearest Life,
I am uneasy you have never got any of my letters
and I am much afraid you are in want of money. I have writ six
letters since you left Britain, and in every one of them beg’d (you)
to cause your factor to draw upon his correspondent for 100 pound.
Pray do not want what is necessare nor be afraid of want, for I hop
we shall always have enough. I am told things have a better aspect of
late and I am hopfull our friends att London will be safe. As to the
fortunes, if things should come to the worst, I hop we shall still
have what will give us what is needful for Life. In the meantime I
am as easy at home as I can be when absent from you. I must own that
is the greatest part of my suffering but I dare not allow myself to
think of itt. When I consider how mercifully you have been preserved,
and that you have a good country and liberty, the sad state of many
good people has hitherto affected me so much, I thought myself happy
in comparison. Your friends have been very careful to doe me all
manner of kindness, and I am very sure I am to be as little pityed
as any in my state. I have had 3 of your letters which gave me great
comfort. I wish both of us may be thankful for every degree of mercy
we meet with, and submitt with chearfulness to what Providence orders
for us.
I was some time perfectly incapable of doeing anything being so much
overwhelmed with greif, but saw soon the folly and fault of giving
way to it, and am now doing all I can to be usefull to you in your
present circumstances. I hope God will bless my indeavors for I
shall endeavor to doe the best without anxiety which I have been too
long liable to. I shall be glad to hear you are well in your country
retreat, and are contented with your present state. Your mother has
been here, and writ to you in my last letter. She is both cheerfull
and easy. Her concern was great till you was gone, but she has none
now, for she does not doubt your family will be preserved and she
hopes this will make you good.
I told you in my last old W.’s work was given up; it went off, and we
thought it a good opportunity because of impertinent people talking,
and both Ch. and P.C. have several projects in vein to secure itt.
How or what way things will be no body can yett guess, but if you are
preserv’d I fear nothing. For your boys I have not the least concern
or fear they will ever want. They are young, and there may be many
changes before they are men.
I have planted trees and put all the hedges to rights, and shall not
fail to take all manner of care that nothing you have done be lost. I
find my Counsel think I have too much land in my own hand, and they
incline I should let out in Tenantry the place I do not live at. I
must own I think I have more to do than I can well manage, but I fear
you will lose all you have laid out, and it will not give so much now
to let it as it might do sometime afterwards; but I have no money
to lay out on improvements, but I would be glad to have your own
opinion. You will laugh at this way of writing, but I have some faint
hope you will never be attainted, having ’scapt the first brunt. You
will hear many of your friends is gone to Holand, some are yet in
this country.
I hear Rob Roy’s house is burnt and his cattle caryed off by a party.
He thought fit to wait for them in a wood, and, they talk, has killed
a great many. I am sorry for it. I have heard nothing of Mr. Beggar,
but nobody doubts but he will have work enough this summer.
Pray write often and oblige me, for all you have writ comes very safe
to my hand. I told you before P. C. is att London, and I believe you
may have no doubt but he will serve you. I hear his friend, Andrew,
is very great at Court and is a great Countryman. I hope God will
bless their endeavors.
I am angry you never mention Kid or Mill for I have a great desire
to hear of them, but I do not wish you to be with them in case it
would stop what your friends is earnest to have done for you here.
Your boys are well and want much to see you, and ask me how many
years it is since their Papa went away. Dearest Life, wishing you all
happiness.
Adieu.
Apr. 13.
I am very well in my health.