The first letter of Mrs. Montagu’s in the hitherto unpublished series
is addressed “To Mr. Robinson,” the writer’s brother. It is dated from
“London, 28th of May, 1762.” Mr. Robinson was then residing at Naples,
where his wife had recently given birth to a son. After the usual
congratulations, Mrs. Montagu says: “I would have answered your letter
the day after I received it, but was obliged to wait for the letter
of recommendation to Mr. Pitt. Neither Lord Lyttelton or the Bishop
of Carlisle are related to or acquainted with Mr. Pitt. Their sister
married a distant cousin of Mr. George Pitt’s, and was parted from him,
I believe, long before Mr. George Pitt was a man, and they have not ever
had the least commerce with him.” After this explanation, the writer
refers to the news of the day, and to one of the leading men of the
time: “The Duke of Newcastle is about to resign his office and retire to
the joys of private life. I am afraid he will find that the mind used
to business does not find quiet in idleness. There is hardly a greater
misfortune than to have the mind much accustomed to the tracasseries
of the world. A country gentleman can amuse himself by angling in a
trout-stream, or venturing his neck in a fox-chase; a studious man can
enjoy his books in solitude, and, with tranquill pleasure, ‘woo lone
quiet in her silent walk;’ but chiefs out of war and statesmen out
of place, like all animals taken out of their proper climate, make a
miserable affair of rural life. I dare say his Grace of Newcastle will
fall to serpentizing rivers, and then wish himself again a fisher of men.
Aurora may put on her finest robe to unbar the gates of Morn; he will
still sigh that his folding doors are not open to a crowded levée. The
notes of Philomel are not sweet to ears used to flattery; and what is the
harvest home to a man used to collect the treasure of England?
“The king has purchased Buckingham House, and is going to fit it up
elegantly for his retired hours. Her majesty promises to give us an heir
very soon. Princess Amelia has purchased Gunnersbury House. The Duke of
Portland died about ten days ago, and the Duke of Manchester last week.
“There has been a cold and fever in town, as universal as a plague, but,
thank God! less fatal. Mr. Montagu had it violently, and we had ten
servants sick at the same time. This distemper is not yet over. It grows
more fatal, but I hope we shall have some rain, which will probably put
a stop to it.... My poor friend Mrs. Donellan dyed of it the day before
yesterday. She had been ill all the winter, and was unable to struggle
with a new distemper.... We propose to go to Sandleford very soon, and
I hope to have my sister Scott’s company there, which will make me very
happy. Lady Bab Montagu has lost her sister, Lady Charlotte Johnson, who
dyed in childbed.
“Lord Hallifax is returned with great glory from his Lord Lieutenancy
in Ireland. He pleased all people; he united all parties; he contented
those he was sent by and those he was sent to; and has shown it is
possible to please the government and to be popular there.... I suppose
you have heard of the death of Sir Edward Dering, which was sudden. He
has entailed everything on his grandson, and left but very small fortune
to his younger children. People seem to think that by making one person
in their family rich, they can make one very happy; but alas! human
happiness cannot be carried beyond a certain pitch. Competency will make
every one easy: great wealth cannot make any one happy. It is strange,
parents should seem to feel only for one child, or, indeed, that the
heir should be dearer than the child; for it is as heir they show their
regards to one of the family. No personal merit, no tender attachment, no
sympathy of disposition can overrule that circumstance. Sir Edward Dering
dyed very rich....
“Mr. Harrison’s watch” (the fourth and most perfect time-keeper, for
ascertaining the longitude at sea, invented by the Yorkshire carpenter’s
son, by which he ultimately received £24,000) “has succeeded beyond
expectation; navigation will be improved by it, which all who have the
spirit of travelling shall rejoice at. The wives of some of our general
officers are gone to Lisbon with their husbands, which I tell you for
the honour of the fair sex. Lord Anson is in a very bad state of health.
I am told Rome is the best place so get books at; I should be glad to
have Muratori ‘Sopra le cose delli secoli passi.’ I have his ‘Annals
of Italy.’ ... My love to my sister and dear little godson.... Pray
remember, you owe me a goddaughter still.”
Mrs. Scott’s letter in June, to Mr. W. Robinson, has two passages in it
which are like notes to her sister’s epistle.
“You will find few commoners in England. We make nobility as fast as
people make kings and queens on Twelfth Night, and almost as many....
Lady Townshend says, she dare not spit out of her window for fear of
spitting on a lord.”
“.... The Duke of Newcastle, after his resignation, had a very numerous
levée, but somebody observed to him, there were but two bishops,
present. He is said to have replied, that bishops like other men, were
too apt to forget their maker. I think this has been said for him, or
the resignation of power has much brightened his understanding; for
of whatever he may be accused, the crime of wit was never laid to his
charge.”
Walpole states, with regard to the prelates at the old duke’s levée:
“As I suppose all bishops are prophets, they foresee that he will never
come into place again; for there was but one that had the decency to
take leave of him, after crowding his rooms for forty years together:
it was Cornwallis.” The duke went out on finding he had no chance of
carrying a pecuniary aid to Prussia. If he was almost a fool, as some
kind friends said, he had the wisdom to keep in place longer than any
of his contemporaries. He was succeeded as Prime Minister by Lord Bute.
Cornwallis, Bishop of Lichfield and Coventry, reaped the reward of his
fidelity. He was promoted to the Archbishopric of Canterbury in 1768.
It should be added to the honour of the duke, who, however mentally
ill-endowed and eccentric, was a gentleman in practice, that he declined
a pension on his retirement. He might be incapable of serving his
country, he said, but England should certainly not find him a burthen.
Chesterfield cites, as an example of his timidity, the duke’s childish
fear at Lord Chesterfield’s bill for correcting the calendar, and, as a
proof of his integrity, the fact that “he retired from business above
four hundred thousand pounds poorer than when he engaged in it.”
The duke left “business” in a considerable amount of confusion. In a
letter dated July 27, 1762, Mrs. Scott writes to Mr. Robinson at Rome,
after much small talk on babies and jokes on prophesied lyingsin, in
these words:
“Political disputes never ran so high in print as at present. The
periodical papers are numerous and abusive to the greatest degree. By
what I hear, the lawyers find it some substitution for the decay of
business in the courts; for the minority papers regularly undergo the
inspection of council learned in the law before they are published, that
the authors who stand on the very verge of treason may not, by some
inadvertency, make a _faux pas_ that will throw them down the precipice;
and some persons of consequence are under engagements to the printer to
indemnify him should the heavy hand of authority oppress him....
“... The king has given Johnson a pension of £300 per annum,—a necessary
step for one who wishes to be thought the patron of literature, and what
every one must approve.”
_The North Briton_ was not of Mrs. Scott’s opinion with regard to
Johnson’s merits. “I hope,” says Wilkes (No. 11, August 14th), “Johnson
is a writer of reputation, because, as a writer, he has just got a
pension of £300 per annum. I hope, too, that he has become a friend to
this constitution and the family on the throne, now he is thus nobly
provided for; but I know he has much to unwrite, more to unsay, before he
will be forgiven by the true friends of the present illustrious family
for what he has been writing and saying for many years.”
In the last-named month, occurred that great event, the birth of “the
first gentleman in Europe.” Mrs. Scott thus speaks of mother and child:
_August 13, 1762._ Mrs. Scott to Mrs. Robinson, Rome.—“On Thursday, the
queen was brought to bed of a son, and both, we are told, are well. Many
rejoiced, but none more than those who have been detained during all this
hot weather in town to be present at the ceremony. Among them, no one
was more impatient than the Chancellor, who, not considering any part
of the affair as a point of law, thought his presence very unnecessary.
His lordship and the Archbishop must have had a fatiguing office; for,
as she was brought to bed at 7 in the morning, they must have attended
her labour all night, for fear they should be absent at the critical
moment of delivery. I wish they were not too much out of humour before
the prince was born, to be able to welcome it properly.... The lady’s
person is not the only thing that displeased. There is a coarseness
and vulgarity of manners that disgust much more. She does not seem to
choose to fashion herself at all.... Ned Scott’s wife is to suckle the
Prince of Wales—an employment which in all probability will prove as good
nourishment to her own family as to the royal babe; for her numerous
offspring can scarcely fail of being provided for after she has served in
such an office.
“... Peace is being much talked of, tho’ the terms are unknown. The Duke
of Bedford is spoken of as the person who is to go to Paris to transact
it. I hope much will not depend on secret articles; for I think he gave a
proof, when old Bussy was here, that his old nurse could not be a greater
blab!”
The chancellor who was present on the above occasion was “cursing Lord
Northington,”—a coarse, witty man, married to a fool, who became the
mother of the witty Lady Bridget Fox Lane. Northington, like Newcastle,
had his fling at the bishops. In serious illness, he was counselled to
send for a certain prelate. “He will never do,” said the patient. “I
should have to confess that I committed my heaviest sin when I made him
a bishop!” The primate who attended at the birth of the Prince of Wales
was Secker; and as he was originally a dissenter, and was never baptised
in the Church of England, there were anxious church-women who thought
that his christening George Prince of Wales would never make a Christian
of him. And it can’t be said that it did! Meanwhile, how things were
otherwise going in England, Mrs. Scott relates to her brother, in Rome,
in a letter dated September, 1762.
“The lowest artificer thinks now of nothing but the constitution of the
government.... The English always seemed born politicians, but were never
so universally mad on the subject as at present. If you order a mason to
build an oven, he immediately inquires about the progress of the peace,
and descants on the preliminaries. A carpenter, instead of putting up a
shelf to a cupboard, talks of the Princess Dowager, of Lord Treasarre,
and of secretaries of state. Neglected lie the trowel and the chisel; the
mortar dries and the glue hardens while the persons who should use them
are busied with dissertations on the government.
“... The Duke of Marlborough and Lady Caroline Russell were married eight
and forty hours after his grace declared himself a lover. The Duke of
Bedford was always known to be a man of business, but he never despatched
a matter quicker than this. He gave to Lady Caroline £50,000 down, and is
to give as much more at his death.”
The next letter, written at Sandleford, October the 8th, 1762, is
addressed to the writer’s sister-in-law, “Mrs. Robinson, Recommendé à
Monsieur Jenkins, Gentilhome Anglois au Caffé Anglois, sur la Place di
Espana, Rome.” It commences with “My dear Madam,” and after a very prolix
argument on the lack of interest in home news sent to travellers abroad,
Mrs. Montagu refers with pride to the English triumphs at the Havanna
and Martinico, and thus continues.... “But we are not much the nearer to
a peace; for, as ambition subsides or crouches in the House of Bourbon,
it rises in the Court of Aldermen, in London. When we shut the Temple
of Janus, we shut up the trade of Change Alley, and the city finds its
account in a war, and they clamour against any peace that will not give
us the commerce of the whole world!...
“We have lately had a very fine public ceremony, the instalment of the
new Knights of the Garter at Windsor. The king, assuming the throne of
sovereign of the order, gave great lustre to the spectacle. I should have
liked to have seen so august a ceremony; and my Lord Bath was so good as
to ask me to go to Windsor with him, from his house at Maidenhead Bridge;
but Mr. Montagu, not being fond of public shows, and apprehending his
lordship offered to go out of complaisance, I declined it, and my lord
spent three days here; so it was plain, his politeness to us was his only
inducement to go to the instalment. I must own I should have taken some
pleasure in being led back into former ages and the days of our great
Plantagenets. I have a reverence, too, for the institutions of Chivalry.
The qualities of a Knight were valour, liberality, and courtesy, and to
be _sans peur et sans reproche_. And though the change of government and
manners make this knightly character now appear a little extravagant,
the Redresser of wrongs was a respectable title before a regular police
and a good system of laws secured the rights and properties of the weak.
I hear the late instalment was extremely brilliant. The helmets of the
knights were adorned with gems; military honours, indeed, did not sit
proudly on their crests; but if they have the virtues suited to the times
we live in, we will be contented. The knights of Edward ye Third were,
indeed, very great men. The assembly of British Worthies might have
disputed personal merit with, perhaps, the greatest Heroes of antiquity,
considering them singly and independently; but to enjoy an extensive or a
lasting fame, men’s actions must be tyed to great events; then they swim
down Fate’s innavigable tyde, otherwise, they soon sink into oblivion.”...
In the February of this year, 1762, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu had
returned to England, after many years of absence. In October, in the same
year, she died. Of her appearance on her return, Mrs. Montagu wrote as
follows to her sister-in-law at Naples:
_February 16, 1762._—“You have lately returned to us from Italy a very
extraordinary personage, Lady Mary Wortley. When Nature is at the trouble
of making a very singular person, Time does right in respecting it.
Medals are preserved, when common coin is worn out; and as great geniuses
are rather matters of curiosity than of art, this lady seems reserved
to be a wonder for more than our generation. She does not look older
than when she went abroad, has more than the vivacity of fifteen, and
a memory which, perhaps, is unique. Several people visited her out of
curiosity, which she did not like. I visit her because her cousin and
mine were cousin-germans. Though she has not any foolish partiality for
her husband or his relations, I was very graciously received, and you may
imagine entertained, by one who neither thinks, speaks, acts or dresses
like anybody else. Her domestick is made up of all nations, and when you
get into her drawing-room, you imagine you are in the first story of the
Tower of Babel. An Hungarian servant takes your name at the door: he
gives it to an Italian, who delivers it to a Frenchman; the Frenchman to
a Swiss, and the Swiss to a Polander; so that, by the time you get to
her ladyship’s presence, you have changed your name five times, without
the expense of an act of parliament.”
In October, the same writer thus wrote of Lady Mary’s death, and of the
son who survived his mother:
“Lady Mary Wortley Montagu returned to England, as it were, to finish
where she began. I wish she had given us an account of the events that
filled in the space between. She had a terrible distemper; the most
virulent cancer I ever heard of, which carried her off very soon. I met
her at Lady Bute’s in June, and she then looked well. In three weeks, at
my return to London, I heard she was given over. The hemlock kept her
drowsy and free from pain; and the physicians thought if it had been
given early, might possibly have saved her. She left her son one guinea.
He is too much of a sage to be concerned about money, I presume. When
I first knew him, a rake and a beau, I did not imagine he would addict
himself at one time to Rabbinical learning, and then travel all over the
East, the great Itinerant Savant of the World. One has read that the
believers in the transmigration of souls suppose a man, who has been
rapacious and cunning, does penance in the shape of a fox. Another, cruel
and bloody, enters the body of a wolf; but I believe my poor cousin, in
his pre-existent state, having broken all moral laws, has been sentenced
to suffer in all the various characters of human life. He has run through
them all unsuccessfully enough. His dispute with Mr. Needham has been
communicated to me by a gentleman of the Museum, and I think he will gain
no laurels there; but he speaks as decisively as if he had been bred in
Pharaoh’s court, in all the learning of the Egyptians. He has certainly
very uncommon parts, but too much of the rapidity of his mother’s genius.
“... I am sure my brother will be glad to hear that Mrs. Scott, of
Scottshall, is wet-nurse to our Prince of Wales, and is much liked by
our king and royal family; so that I hope she will be able to make
interest to establish all her children. A little of the royal favour and
protection will bring them forward in professions, and the girls may have
little places in the household; and I hope the scheme which I forwarded
to the utmost of my power, will save an ancient, honourable family from
ruin. She is vastly pleased and happy in her situation, and her royal
nursling is as fine and healthy a child as can be.
“... I have rambled a good deal this summer, much to my amusement and
the amendment of Mr. Montagu’s health, who was greatly out of order in
the spring. We went to Lord Lyttelton’s in Worcestershire, with a large
party consisting of my Lord Bath, Mr. and Mrs. Vesey, and Doctor Monsey.
Lord Lyttelton had his daughter, his sister, Mrs. Hood, and the Bishop of
Carlisle (his brother) with him, so we made a pretty round family. The
weather was fine, and the place is delightful beyond all description. I
should do it wrong, if I were to attempt to describe it. Its beauties are
summed up in the lines of my favourite Italian poet:
“‘Culte pianure e delicati colli,
Chiare acqe, ombrose ripe, e prati molli.’
These lines seem to have been written for Hagley; but, besides these soft
beauties, it has magnificent prospects of distant mountains, and hills
shaded with wood. The house is magnificent and elegant; we had several
agreeable entertainments of musick in different parts of the Park, and
adapted to the scenes. In some places, the French horns reverberated from
hill to hill. In the shady parts near the cascades, the soft musick was
concealed and seemed to come from the unseen genius of the wood. We were
all in great spirits, and enjoyed the amusements prepared for us. Mr.
Montagu grew better every day, by the air and exercise, and returned to
London quite well, though he had been much pulled down by the fashionable
cold called l’influenza.
“... He carried me to see Oxford, which, indeed, I had been at before;
but when there are so many cities built for trade and commerce, it
is always so pleasant to me to see there are places dedicated to the
improvement of the human mind and the nobler commerce with the Muses; and
tho’ it is easy to find fault in everything, yet I think these places
of education and study must have been of great service in advancing
the noblest interests of mankind, the improvement of knowledge, and
harmonizing the mind.
“We went to Blenheim, which I saw with great pleasure, as the monument
of England’s foreign glory and national gratitude. In our return to
town, we saw Warwick Castle, the seat of the great Neville, surnamed
‘the Make-King.’ We visited his tomb and the monuments of Beauchamps,
Nevilles, and Brookes. I walked an hour under some trees, on a beautiful
terrass where Lord Brooke and Sir Philip Sydney used to take their
morning’s walk, blending, I dare say, as in his ‘Arcadia,’ Wisedom of
state and schemes of great enterprize with rural talk.
“In our next stage, we saw Kenilworth Castle, once the strong place
of Simon de Montfort, since the seat of the Earl of Leicester. He
entertained Queen Elizabeth there in all the pageantry of the old times
of chivalry. From the lake a lady came, who told the queen, in rude
rhime, that she had been confined there ever since the days of Merlin,
but her majesty’s power had set her free. The lake is now dry’d up. The
place no longer belongs to ambition or luxury. Laughing Ceres re-assumed
the land, and what the proud rebel and the assuming favorite left is
enjoy’d by a farmer. There are great remains of the stately castle, made
more venerable by the finest ivy I ever saw. I could wish this object
placed rather at the edge of a bleak mountain, and that it frowned on a
desert, but it unhappily overlooks a sweet pastoral scene; however, the
memory of the illustrious persons it has belonged to gives the mind that
serious solemn, disposition its situation wants.
“But you who walk on classic ground will despise my Gothick antiquities.
I will own my Nevilles and Montforts dare not stand equal with your
Gracchi, nor my Earl of Leicester with any of the favorites of Augustus;
but, perhaps, to the rough virtues and untamed valour of these potent
rebels, we owe part of our present liberty and happiness, and even our
taste for the venerable remains of ancient Rome.... I desire my most
affectionate love to my brother; and to my nephew and godson, my best
wishes; and I desire he will be a Roman, not an Italian. I beg to go
back as far as before the ruin of Carthage for his morals.” ...
In a fragment of a letter written in 1763, Mrs. Montagu says:
“Miss Hunter has come back in the character of the Fair Penitent. Her
lover was soon tired of an engagement which had not the sanctions of
virtue and honour. Shame and a fatherless babe she has brought back.
I hope her miserable fate will deter adventurous damsels from such
experiments.” Kitty Hunter’s fate was far from being miserable. She
married Captain Clarke, who became Field Marshal Sir Alured Clarke; and
the once audacious maid of honour died in the odour of fashion, A. D.
1810.
In 1764, Mrs. Montagu was an invalid—one who would fulfil the duties of
her position, but who was glad to withdraw from them to the repose of
Sandleford. Supremely admired as she was in society for the brilliancy of
her talents, Mrs. Montagu was seen to the greatest advantage when at home
with one or a very few choice friends. After Mrs. Elizabeth Carter had
spent some time with her at pleasant Sandleford, she wrote to Mrs. Vesey.
“... For most part of the time we were entirely alone.... Our friend,
you know, has talents which must distinguish her in the largest circles;
but there it is impossible for one fully to discover either the beauties
of her character or the extent and variety of her understanding, which
always improves on a more accurate examination and on a nearer view....
The charm is inexpressibly heightened when it is complicated with the
affections of the heart.” Mr. Pennington, Mrs. Carter’s nephew, and
editor of her correspondence, states that those who did not know Mrs.
Montagu in her exclusive home character were ignorant of the real charms
of her understanding, the strength of her mind, and the goodness of her
heart.
One of her great trials visited her this year—the death of her
constant and venerated friend, the Earl of Bath. There is no letter in
the unpublished collection which bears any reference to Lord Bath’s
death—Walpole’s great enemy, and Mrs. Montagu’s most devoted and admiring
friend. It would be difficult to say whether this accomplished nobleman,
or the good Lord Lyttelton, or the profound Lord Kames, or discerning
Burke had the greatest veneration for the mental endowments of Mrs.
Montagu. It may be here added, as a sample of one or two other ladies of
the last century, that after Lord Bath was a widower, and had been made
childless by the loss of his gallant son, unattached ladies made offers
of marriage to him, he being one of the wealthiest men of the day. They
proposed seriously, like Mrs. Anne Pitt, or by strong innuendo, like Lady
Bell Finch. The latter, on Lord Bath returning to her half a crown which
he had borrowed, wished he could give her a crown. Lady Bell replied,
that though he could not give her a crown, he could give her a coronet,
and that she was ready to accept it! Lyttelton celebrated the friendship
which existed between Mrs. Montagu, Lord Bath, and himself in 1762, in a
little poem called “The Vision.” The noble poet told how a bard appeared
to him, and how the minstrel sang of the superiority of the myrtle to the
oak, then—
“... closed the bard his mystic song,—his shade
Shrunk from my grasp and into air decay’d,
But left imprinted on my ravish’d view,
The forms of Pult’ney and of Montagu.”
After the earl’s death, his will was as much the subject of conversation
as his decease. Chesterfield calculated that, in money and land, he
left to the value of £2,400,000, and made his sole legatee the brother,
General Pulteney, whom he never loved. “The legacies he has left are
trifling; for, in truth, he cared for nobody. The words give and bequeath
were too shocking for him to repeat, and so he left all in one word, to
his brother.” In 1767 General Pulteney died.
The next letter is dated from Mrs. Montagu’s Northumberland residence,
Denton Castle (or Hall), December 7, 1766. It is addressed to Mrs.
Robinson, and contains long and premature congratulations on the expected
birth of her sister-in-law’s next baby, and then continues: “I am still
in the northern regions, but I hope in a fortnight to return to London.
We have had a mild season, and this house is remarkably warm, so that I
have not suffered from cold. Business has taken up much of my time, and
as we had farms to let against next May-day, and I was willing to see
the new colliery begin to trade to London before I left the country, I
had the prudence to get the better of my taste for society. I had this
day the pleasure of a letter from Billingsgate (a polite part of the
world for a lady to correspond with) that the first ships which were
then arrived were much approved. At Lynne they have also succeeded, and
these are the two great coal-markets. So now, as soon as I can get all
the ends and bottoms of our business wound up, I shall set out for Hill
Street.
“I spent a month in Scotland this summer, and made a further progress
than Mr. Gray did. An old friend of Mr. Montagu’s and mine came to us
here, and brought his daughter the end of July, and summoned me to keep a
promise I had made him, of letting him be my knight-errant and escort me
round Scotland.
“The 1st of August we set forward. I called on the Duke and Duchess of
Northumberland at Alnwick Castle, in my way. It is the most noble Gothick
building imaginable. Its antique form is preserved on the outside. Within
the apartments are also Gothick in their structure and ornaments, but
convenient and noble; so that modern elegance arranges and conducts
antique strength and grandeur, leaves its sublimity of character, but
softens what was rude and unpolished.
“My next day’s journey carried me to Edinburgh, where I staid about ten
days. I passed my time there very agreeably, receiving every polite
attention from all the people of distinction in the town. I never saw
anything equal to the hospitality of the Scotch. Every one seemed to
make it their business to attend me to all the fine places in the
neighbourhood, to invite me to dinner, to supper, etc. As I had declined
an invitation to go to Glasgow, the Lord Provost of Glasgow insisted on
my coming to his villa near the town, instead of going to a noisy inn. I
staid three days there to see the seats in the environs, and the great
cathedral, and the college and academy for painting, and then I set out
for Inverary. I should first tell you, Glasgow is the most beautiful
town in Great Brittain. The houses, according to the Scotch fashion, are
large and high, and built of freestone; the streets very broad, and built
at right angles. All dirty kinds of business are carried on in separate
districts, so that nothing appears but a noble and elegant simplicity.
“My road from Glasgow to Inverary lay by the side of the famous lake
called Loughlomon. Never did I see the sublime and beautiful so united.
The lake is in some places eight miles broad, in others less; adorned
with many islands, of which some rise in a conical figure, and are
covered with fir-trees up to the summit. Other islands are flatter. Deer
are feeding in their green meadows. In the lontananza rise the mountains,
on whose barren breast
“‘The labouring clouds do seem to rest.’
The lake is bright as crystal, and the shore consists of alabaster
pebbles. Thus I travelled near twenty miles, till I came to the village
of Leess, where I lay at an inn, there being no gentleman’s house near
it. The next morning I began to ascend the Highland mountains. I got
out of the chaise to climb to the top of one, to take my leave of the
beautiful lake. The sun had not been long up; its beams danced on the
lake, and we saw this lovely water meandering for twenty-five miles.
Immediately after I returned to my chaise, I began to be inclosed in a
deep valley between vast mountains, down whose furrowed cheeks torrents
rushed impetuously, and united in a river in a vale below. Winter’s
rains had so washed away the soil from some of the steep mountains,
there appeared little but the rock which, like the skeleton of a giant,
appeared more terrible than the perfect form. Other mountains were
covered with a dark brown moss. The shaggy goats were browsing on their
sides. Here and there appeared a storm-struck tree or blasted shrub,
from whence no lark ever saluted the morn with joyous hymn, or Philomel
sooth’d the dull ear of night; but from thence the eagle gave the first
lessons of flight to her young, and taught them to make war on the kids.
“In the Vale of Glencoe, we stopp’d to dine amidst the rude magnificence
of nature rather than in the meanest of the works of art, so did not
enter the cottage which called itself an inn. From thence, my servant
brought me fresh herrings and bread; and my Lord Provost’s wife had
fill’d my maid’s chaise with good things; so very luxuriously we feasted.
I wish’d Ossian would have come to us, and told a tale of other times.
However, imagination and memory assisted, and we recollected many
passages in the very places that inspired them. I staid three hours
listening to the roaring stream, and hoped some ghost would come on the
blast of the mountain and show us the three grey stones erected to his
memory. After dinner, we went on about fourteen miles, still in the
valley; mountain rising above mountain till we ascended to Inverary.
There we at once entered the vale where lies the vast lake called Lough
Fine, of whose dignity I cannot give you a better notion than by telling
you the great leviathan had taken his pastime therein the night before
I was there. Tho’ it is forty miles from the sea, whales come up there
often in the herring season....
“At Inverary, I was lodged at a gentleman’s house, invited to another’s
in the neighbourhood, and attended round the Duke of Argylle’s policy
(such is called the grounds dedicated to beauty and ornament). I went
also to see the castle built by the late duke. It appears small by the
vast objects near it. This great lake before—a vast mountain covered with
firr and beech behind—it, so that, relatively, the castle is little. I
was obliged to return back to Glasgow the same way, not having time to
make the tour of the Highlands. Lord Provost had an excellent dinner
and good company ready for us. The next day I went to Lord Kames’,
near Sterling, where I had promised to stay a day. I pass’d a day very
agreeably there, but could not comply with their obliging entreaties to
stay a longer time, but was obliged to return to Edinburgh. Lord Kames
attended me to Stirling Castle, which is on the road, and from thence
to the iron-works at Carron. Then again I was on classical ground. We
dined at Mr. Dundass’s. At night, I got back to Edinburgh, where I rested
myself three days, and then, on my road, lay at Dr. Gilbert Elliot’s,
and spent a day with him and Lady Elliot. They facilitated my journey by
lending me relays, which the route did not always furnish; so I sent my
own horses a stage forward. I crossed the Tweed again; dined and lay at
the Bishop of Carlisle’s, at Rose Castle, and then came home much pleased
with the expedition, and grateful for the infinite civilities I had
received.
“My evenings at Edinburgh passed very agreeably with Doctor Robertson,
Doctor Blair, Lord Kames, and divers ingenious and agreeable persons.
My friend, Doctor Gregory, who was my fellow traveller, tho’ he is a
mathematician, has a fine imagination, an elegant taste, and every
quality to make an agreeable companion.... He came back to Denton with
me, but soon left us. I detain’d his two daughters, who are still with
us; they are most amiable children....
“I was told Mr. Gray was rather reserved when he was in Scotland, tho’
they were disposed to pay him great respect. I agree perfectly with
him, that to endeavour to shine in conversation and to lay out for
admiration is very paltry. The wit of the company, next to the butt of
the company, is the meanest person in it. But at the same time, when a
man of celebrated talents disdains to mix in common conversation, or
refuses to talk on ordinary subjects, it betrays a latent pride. There
is a much brighter character than that of a wit or a poet, or a savant,
which is that of a rational and sociable being, willing to carry on the
commerce of life with all the sweetness and condescension decency and
virtue will permit. The great duty of conversation is to follow suit,
as you do at whist. If the eldest hand plays the deuce of diamonds, let
not his next neighbour dash down the king of hearts, because his hand is
full of honours. I do not love to see a man of wit win all the tricks
in conversation, nor yet to see him sullenly pass. I speak not this of
Mr. Gray in particular; but it is the common failing of men of genius
to assert a proud superiority or maintain a prouder indolence. I shall
be very glad to see Mr. Gray whenever he will be pleased to do me the
favour. I think he is the first poet of the age; but if he comes to my
fireside, I will teach him not only to speak prose, but to talk nonsense,
if occasion be.... I would not have a poet always sit on the proud summit
of the forked hill. I have a great respect for Mr. Gray as well as a high
admiration.” ...
Whenever Mrs. Montagu got up to ride a simile, there was ground for
anxiety on the part of her friends; some among them, too, must have
wished that she had called a nightingale a nightingale, and not
“philomel.” In travel, however, she saw what she saw, which many
travellers never do. She was not at all like the wife of Sir George
Cornewall mentioned by Lady Malmesbury, in a letter to her son, written
at Chambéry, 1816: “She never looks at anything, but works in the
carriage all day long. She will not even go to Chamouni;” or that other
lady who, passing through the sublimest of mountain scenery, kept her
eyes shut, declaring that it was too beautiful to look at.