_Dependence! heavy, heavy, are thy chains,
And happier they who from the dangerous sea,
Or the dark mine, procure with ceaseless pains,
A hard-earned pittance--than who trust to thee._
Charlotte Smith.
By some untoward fate, the government of husbands generally falls into
the hands of those who are not likely to bring the art into repute.
Women of principle refuse the forbidden office; women of sense steadily
shut their eyes against its necessity in their own case; warm affection
delights more in submission than in sway; and against the influence of
genius an ample guard is provided in the jealousy of man. Mrs Boswell
being happily exempt from any of these disqualifications, did her best
to govern her husband. There was nothing extraordinary in the attempt,
but I was long perplexed to account for its success, for Mr Boswell was
not a fool. The only theory I could ever form on the subject was, that
being banished during his exile in the colony from all civilised
society, having little employment, and none of the endless resource
supplied by literary habits, Mr Boswell had found himself dependent for
comfort and amusement upon his wife. She, on her part, possessed one
qualification for improving this circumstance to the advancement of her
authority; she was capable of a perseverance in sullenness, which no
entreaties could move, and no submissions could mollify. She had,
besides, some share of beauty; and though this was of course a very
transient engine of conjugal sway, she gained perhaps as much from the
power of habit over an indolent mind, as she lost by the invariable law
of wedlock. Finally, where authority failed, Mrs Boswell could have
recourse to cunning. A screw will often work where more direct force is
useless; and whatever understanding Mrs Boswell possessed was of the
tortuous kind. All her talents for rule, however, were exerted upon Mr
Boswell. Her child, her servants, any body who would take the trouble,
performed the same office for herself. Except when she was capriciously
seized with a fit of what she thought firmness, clamour or flattery were
all-prevailing with her.
The very first evening which I spent in her house, furnished me with a
specimen of her habits. 'Will you begin French with Jessie to-morrow?'
said she to me, with one of her most complaisant simpers.
'I should think, my darling,' said Mr Boswell, not much in the tone of a
master, 'that, if you please, it may be as well to exercise her a little
more in English first.'
'She can learn that at any time,' said Mrs Boswell, dismissing her
smiles.
'Don't you think she had better begin with what is most necessary?' said
the husband.
'We can't be losing Miss Percy's time with English,' returned the wife,
without deigning to turn her eyes or her head.
Mr Boswell paused to recruit his courage; and then said meekly, 'I dare
say Miss Percy will not consider her time as lost in teaching any thing
you may think for the child's advantage.'
'Certainly not,' answered I; for Mr Boswell spoke with a look of appeal
to me.
Mrs Boswell sat silent for five minutes, settling all the rings upon all
her fingers. 'Any body can hear the child read,' said she, at last,
without altering her tone or a muscle of her face.
'But Miss Percy's language and pronunciation are such admirable models,
that----' Mr Boswell stopped short, arrested by symptoms which I had not
yet learned to discern. The lady uttered not another syllable, nor did
she once raise her eyes till we were about to retire for the night.
'Shall I then give Miss Jessie a lesson in English grammar to-morrow
morning?' said I, addressing myself to Mr Boswell; merely from a feeling
that the father had a right to direct the education of his child.
'As--as you think best--as you please,' answered Mr Boswell
hesitatingly; and casting towards his spouse a glance of timid enquiry,
which she did not answer even by a look.
I attended her to her bedchamber, where to my great surprise she drew
me in and hastily locked the door; leaving Mr Boswell, who was following
close behind, to amuse himself in the lobby. She then seated herself;
and, with all the coolness in the world, began talking to me of negroes,
gold dust, and ivory. Presently Mr Boswell came, and gently requested
admission. Of this request the lady took no notice whatever. Some time
afterwards the summons was repeated, but still without effect. 'I am
afraid I exclude Mr Boswell,' said I, rising and wishing her good night.
'Oh never mind,' said the lady, nodding her head, and endeavouring to
look arch. Again I offered to go, but she would not allow me to move;
and as she had put the key of the room-door into her pocket, I had no
means of retreat. At last Mr Boswell, hopeless of effecting a lodgment
in his own apartment, retired to another; and as soon as the lady had,
by listening, ascertained this fact, she opened the door and permitted
me to depart.
For four days Mrs Boswell never honoured her lord with the slightest
mark of her notice. When he addressed her, whether in the tone of remark
or of conciliation, she gave no sign of hearing. She would not even
condescend to account for her behaviour by seeming out of humour; for to
me she was all smiles and courtesy; and towards poor Mr Boswell she
merely assumed an air of unconquerable nonchalance. It was in vain that
he acceded to his lady's plan for her daughter's studies. The obdurate
fair was not so to be mollified. At length, on the fifth morning, she
deigned to acknowledge his presence by a short and sullen answer to some
trifle which he uttered. His restoration to favour, however, went on
with rapid progression; and before evening the pair were upon the most
gracious footing imaginable. Being now admitted behind the scenes, I was
perfectly aware of the reason of this change. Mrs Boswell wanted money.
Indeed I was early made a sort of confidante; that is to say, Mrs
Boswell told me all her likings and dislikes, all her husband's faults,
and all her grounds of quarrel with his relations and her own. She
unfolded to me, besides, many ingenious devices for managing Miss
Jessie, for detecting the servants, and for cajoling Mr Boswell. I must
own I never could discover the necessity for these artifices; but there
is pleasure in every effort of understanding, and I verily believe these
tricks afforded the only exercise of which Mrs Boswell's was capable.
It is not to be told with what disgust I contemplated this poor woman's
character. Her uniform selfishness, her pitiful cunning, her feeble
stratagems to compass baby ends, filled me with unconquerable contempt;
a contempt which, indeed, I scarcely strove to repress. I imagined it to
be the natural stirring of an honourable indignation. I often repeated
to myself, that 'I would willingly serve the poor creature if I could.'
I always behaved to her with such a show of deference as our mutual
relation demanded, and thus concealed from myself 'what spirit I was
of.' To forgive substantial injury is sometimes less a test of right
temper than to turn an eye of Christian compassion upon the dwarfish
distortion of a mind crippled in all its nobler parts.
But of all Mrs Boswell's perversions, the most provoking was her
mischievous interference with my pupil. Either from jealousy of my
influence, or from the mere habit of circumvention, a sort of intriguing
was carried on, which the folly of the mother and the simplicity of the
child constantly forced upon my notice. Some indulgence was bestowed,
which was to be kept profoundly secret from the governess; or some
neglected task was to be slily performed by proxy. If the child was
depressed by a sense of my disapprobation, she was to be comforted with
gingerbread and sugar-plums; and then exhorted to wash her mouth, that
Miss Percy might not discover this judicious supply of consolation.
I believe it is a mistake to suppose that we are not liable to be angry
with those whom we despise. I know I was often so much irritated by the
petty arts of Mrs Boswell, that necessity alone detained me under her
roof. I was the more harassed by her folly; because, duty apart, I had
become extremely interested in the improvement of my young charge. The
_eleve_ of such a mother was, of course, idle, sly, and self-willed; but
Jessie was a pretty, playful creature, with capacity enough to show that
talents are not hereditary, and such a strength of natural kindliness as
had outlived circumstances the most unfavourable to its culture. This
latter quality is always irresistible; and it was more particularly so
to an outcast like myself, who had no living thing to love or trust.
But for this child, indeed, Mr Boswell's house would have been to me a
perfect solitude. Mrs Boswell was utterly incapable of any thing that
deserved the name of conversation. Six pages a week of a novel, or of
the Lady's Magazine, were the utmost extent of her reading. She did
nothing; therefore we could have no fellowship of employment. She
thought nothing; therefore we could have no intercourse of mind. All
her subjects of interest were strictly selfish; therefore we could not
exchange sympathies. Either her extreme indolence, or a latent
consciousness of inferiority, made her averse to the society of her
equals in rank. Her ignorance or disregard of all established courtesies
had banished from her table every guest, except one old maiden relative,
whose circumstances obliged, and whose meanness inclined, her to grasp
at the stinted civilities of Mrs Boswell. To extort even the slightest
attention from Mr Boswell was, as I soon found, an unpardonable offence.
Thus, though once more nominally connected with my fellow-creatures, I
was, in fact, as lonely as when I first set foot upon a land where every
face was new, and every accent was strange to me.
In the many thoughtful hours I spent, what lessons did not my proud
spirit receive! All the comforts which I drew from human converse, or
human affection, I owed to a child. For my subsistence I depended upon
one of the most despicable of human beings. But my self-knowledge,
however imperfect, was now sufficient to render me satisfied with any
circumstances which tended to repress my prevailing sin; a temper from
which I even then endeavoured to forebode final, though, alas!
far-distant, victory.
Almost the only worldly interest or pleasure which remained for me to
forego, I found myself obliged to sacrifice to my new situation. I could
not introduce my pupil to the lowly habitation of my Highland friend;
and I was too completely shackled to go abroad alone. Thus ended my
expectations of reading Ossian in the original; and, what was perhaps a
greater disappointment, thus perished my hopes of surprising Mr
Maitland--if Maitland and I were ever again to meet. That we should meet
I believe I entertained an undefined conviction; for I often caught
myself referring to his opinions, and anticipating his decision.
Unfortunately this belief had no rational foundation. It was merely the
work of fancy, which, wandering over a world that to me had been
desolated, could find no other resting-place.
Though I had no longer leisure to pursue my Gaelic studies, I could not
entirely relinquish my interest in Cecil Graham; and I seized an hour to
visit and bid her farewell, one morning while Mrs Boswell and my pupil
were gone to purchase toys.
When I entered Cecil's apartment, she was kneading oat cakes upon the
only chair which it contained, the litter upon her table not leaving
space for such an operation; but on seeing me, she threw aside the
dough; and pulling down a ragged stocking from a rope that stretched
across the room, she wiped the chair, and very cordially invited me to
sit down. 'Don't let me interrupt you, Cecil,' said I.
'Oh it's no interruption, lady,' returned Cecil. 'I'm sure ye have a
lucky foot; and I was feared that I was no' to see you again, 'at I
was.'
'Why did not you come and visit me then Cecil?'
''Deed lady, I was at your lodging one day; and they told me you were
away, and where you were gone to; and I went two or three times and sat
with the childer' upon the step of the door to see if you would, may be,
come out; but I never had luck to see you.'
'Why did you not enquire for me?'
'I'se warrant, lady,' said Cecil, with a smile of proud humility, 'they
might have thought a wonder to see the like of me enquiring for you. But
much thought have I had about you. They say "cold is the breath of
strangers[5];" but troth, if you like to believe me, my heart warmed to
you whenever I saw you first.'
'Truly, Cecil, I like very much to believe you; for there are not many
hearts that warm to me.'
'I'se tell you, lady, the last time I saw you, ye were no like yoursel';
ye were a white's canna[6]; and I just thought that, may be, an ill ee,
with your leave, had taken you.'
'Does an evil eye injure the complexion of any body except the owner,
think you, Cecil?' said I.
'An eye will split a stone[7], as they'll say in Glen Eredine,' said
Cecil, shaking her head very gravely. 'But I have something, if you
would please to accept; she hit mysel' just on the coat, with your
leave, one night going through under the face of Benarde.' While she
spoke she was searching about her bed, and at length produced a small
stone shaped somewhat like a gun flint.[8] 'Now,' proceeded she, 'ye'll
just sew that within the lining of your stays, lady; or, with your
leave, in the band of your petticoat; and there'll nobody _can_ harm
you.'
'Thank you, Cecil. But if I rob you of this treasure, who knows how far
your own good fortune may suffer?'
'Oh laogh mo chridhe[9],' cried Cecil affectionately, 'it's good my part
to venture any thing for your sake; and if it just please Providence to
keep us till we be at Glen Eredine, I'll, may be, get another.'
I could not help smiling at Cecil's humble substitute for the care of
Providence, and inwardly moralising upon the equal inefficacy of others
which are in more common repute. But as a casual attempt to correct her
superstition would have been more likely to shake her confidence in
myself than in the elfin arrow, I quietly accepted of her gift;
enquiring when she would be in a situation to replace it.
'I don't know, lady,' answered Cecil with a sigh. 'The weather's clear
and bonny, and I am wearying sore for home; but--but I'm half feared
that Jemmy might no be easy, ye see, when he heard that I was at
Eredine.'
'How should it make your husband uneasy to hear that you were at home?'
'I don't know,' said Cecil, looking down with a faint smile, and
stopped; then sighing deeply, she proceeded, relieving her embarrassment
by twisting the string of her apron with great industry. 'Ye see, lady,
I have a friend in Glen Eredine,--I--I--'
'So much the better, Cecil. That cannot surely be an objection to your
going thither.'
'I mean,--I would say, a lad like that--I should have married, if it had
been so ordered.' Cecil stopped, and sighed again.
'And do you think your husband would scruple to trust you, Cecil?' said
I.
Her embarrassment instantly vanished, and she looked up steadily in my
face. 'No, no, lady!' said she, 'I'll never think such a thought of him.
He's no' so ill-hearted. But he would think that I might be dowie[10]
there, and he so far away; for it's a sore heart to me, that the poor
lad has never been rightly himsel', since my father bade marry Jemmy.
And he'll no be forbidden to stand and look after me, and to make of
little Kenneth there, and fetch hame our cows at night. And ever since
my father died, he'll no be hindered to shear[11] my mother's peats,
although I have never spoken one word to him, good or bad, since that
day that----'
Cecil paused, and drew her sleeve across her eyes. 'It was so ordered,'
said she, 'and all's for the best.'
'Yes, but, Cecil, were not you a little hard-hearted, to forsake such a
faithful lover?'
'Ochone! lady, what could I do? It was well kent he was no fitting for
me. His forbeers were but strangers, with your leave; and though I say
it, I'm sib[12] to the best gentles in the land. So you see my father
would never be brought in.'
'And you dutifully submitted to your father!' said I, my heart swelling
as I contrasted the filial conduct of this untutored being with my own.
'Woe's me, lady,--I was his own;--he had a good right that I should do
his bidding. And besides that, I knew that Robert was no ordained for
me;--well knew I that,--that I knew well.' And while I was musing upon
my ill-fated rebellion, Cecil kept ringing changes upon these words; for
she would rather have repeated the same idea twenty times, then have
allowed of a long pause in conversation, where she was the entertainer.
'How did you discover,' I enquired at length, 'that there was a decree
against your marrying Robert?'
'I'se tell you, lady,' answered Cecil, lowering her voice; 'we have a
seer[13] in Glen Eredine; and he was greatly troubled with me plainly
standing at Jemmy's left hand. And first he saw it in the morning, and
always farther up in the day, as the time came near. So he had no
freedom in his mind but to tell me. Well, when I heard it, I fell down
just as I had been shot; for I knew then what would be. But we must all
have our fortune, lady. No' that I'm reflecting; for Jemmy's a good man
to me; and an easy life I have had with him.'
'That is no more than you deserve, Cecil. A dutiful daughter deserves to
be a happy wife.'
'Well, now, that's the very word that Miss Graham said, when she was
that humble as to busk my first curch[14] with her _oun_ hand; ay that's
what she did; and when she saw me sobbing as my heart would break;
hersel' laid her _oun_ arm about my neck; and says she, just as had I
been her equal, "My dear Cecil," says she. The Lord bless her! I thought
more of these two words, than of all the good plenishing[15] she gave
me. But for a' that, I had a sorrowful time of it at the first; and a
sorrowfuller wedding was never in Glen Eredine, altho' Mr Henry was the
best man himsel'; for you see, Jemmy's his foster-brother.'
'The best man? Cecil; I do not understand you. I should have thought
the bridegroom might be the most important personage for that day at
least.'
Cecil soon made me comprehend, that she meant a brideman; whose office,
she said, was to accompany the bridegroom when he went to invite guests
to his wedding, and to attend him when he conducted his bride to her
home. She told me, that, according to the custom of her country, her
wedding was not celebrated till some weeks after she had taken the vows
of wedlock; the Highland husband, once secure of his prize, prudently
postponing the nuptial festivities and the honey-moon, till the close of
harvest brought an interval of leisure. Meanwhile, the forsaken lover,
whose attachment had become respectable by its constancy, as well as
pitiable by its disappointment, was removed from the scene of his
rival's success by the humanity of Henry Graham, who contrived to employ
him in a distant part of the country. But, in the restlessness of a
disordered understanding, poor Robert left his post; wandered
unconsciously many a mile; and reached his native glen on the day of
Cecil's wedding.
By means of much rhetoric and gesticulation upon Cecil's part, and
innumerable questions upon mine, I obtained a tolerably distinct idea of
the ceremonial of this wedding. Upon the eventful morning, the reluctant
bride presided at a public breakfast, which was attended by all her
acquaintance, and honoured by the presence of 'the laird himsel'.' I
will not bring discredit upon the refinement of my Gael, by specifying
the materials of this substantial repast, as they were detailed to me
with _naive_ vanity by Cecil; but I may venture to tell, that, like more
elegant fetes of the same name, it was succeeded by dancing. 'I danced
with the rest,' said Cecil, 'tho', with your leave, it made my very
heart sick; and many a time I thought, oh, if this dancing were but for
my lykwake.'[16] The harbingers of the bridegroom, (or, to use Cecil's
phrase, the _send_,) a party of gay young men and women, arrived. Cecil,
according to etiquette, met them at the door, welcomed, and offered them
refreshments; then turned from them, as the prisoner from one who
brings his death-warrant, struggling to gather decent fortitude from
despair.
At last the report of a musket announced the approach of the bridegroom;
and it was indispensable that the unwilling bride should go forth to
meet him. 'The wind might have blawn me like the withered leaf,' said
Cecil, 'I was so powerless; but Miss Graham thought nothing to help me
with her _oun_ arm. Jemmy and I _may_ be lucky,' continued she, with a
boding sigh; 'but I am sure it was an unchancy place where we had luck
to meet;--just where the road goes low down into Dorch'thalla[17]; the
very place where Kenneth Roy, that was the laird's grandfather, saw
something that he followed for's ill; and it beguiled him over the rock,
where he would have been dashed in pieces though he had been iron. The
sun never shines where he fell, and the water's aye black there. Well,
it was just there that Jemmy had luck to get sight of us; so then, ye
see, he ran forward to meet me, as the custom is in our country. Oh,
I'll never forget that meeting!' Cecil stopped, shuddering with a look
of horror, which I dared not ask her to explain. 'He took off his
bonnet,' she continued, 'to take, with your leave, what he never took
off my mouth before; but,--oh, I'll never forget that cry! It was like
something unearthly. "Cecil! Cecil!" it cried; and when I looked up,
there's Robert, just where the eagle's nest was wont to be; he was just
setting back's foot, as he would that moment spring down.'
'Did you save him?'
'I, lady! I could not have saved him though he had lighted at my foot. I
could do nothing but hide my eyes; and my hands closed so hard, that the
nails drew the very blood!'
'Dreadful!' I exclaimed, Cecil's infectious horror making the scene
present to me,--'could nobody save him?'
'Nobody had power to do ought,' answered Cecil, 'save Mr Henry, that's
always ready for good. He spoke with a voice that made the craigs shake
again; and they that saw his eyes, saw the very fire, as he looked
steadily upon Robert, and waved him back with's arm. So then the poor
lad was not so _un_sensible, but he knew to do _his_ bidding, for
they're no born that dare gainsay _him_. And then Mr Henry rounded by
the foot of the craig, and up the hill as he'd been a roe; and he caused
Robert go home with him to the Castle, and caused keep him there,
because he could no settle to work. No' that he's _un_sensible, except
when a notion takes him. There's a glen where we were used to make
carkets[18] when we were herds; and he'll no let the childer' pluck so
much as a gowan there; and ever since the lightning tore the great oak,
he'll sit beside her sometimes the summer's day, and calls her always
"Poor Robert."'
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 5: Is fuar gaoth nan coimheach.]
[Footnote 6: The down of a plant.]
[Footnote 7: Sgoltich suil a chlach.]
[Footnote 8: Elfin _arrow_; more properly, elfin 'bolt.' The Gaelic term
signifies, 'that which can be darted with destructive force;' there is,
therefore, no reason to expect, that these weapons should be feathered
and barbed like common arrows. These bolts are believed to be discharged
by fairies with deadly intent. Nevertheless, when once in the possession
of mortals, they are accounted talismans against witchcraft, evil eyes,
and elfish attacks. They are especially used in curing all such diseases
of cattle as may have been inflicted by the malice of unholy powers.
The author is in possession of one of these talismans; which
connoisseurs affirm to be no common elfin arrow, but the weapon of an
elf of dignity. It was hurled at a country beauty, whose charms had
captivated the Adonis of the district. The elf being enamoured of this
swain, projected a deadly attack upon her rival. But these arrows are
lethal only when they smite the uncovered skin. This proved the security
of the Gaelic Phillis. The weapon struck her petticoat; she instantly
possessed herself of the talisman, and was ever afterwards invulnerable
to the attacks of fairies.
Within these twenty years, a staunch Highlander contrived to make her
way into a bridal chamber; and, slitting the bride's new corsets,
introduced an elfin arrow between the folds. The lady, feeling some
inconvenience from this unusual addition to her dress, removed the
charm; in consequence of which rash act she has proved childless!]
[Footnote 9: A common term of endearment--literally, 'Calf of my
heart.']
[Footnote 10: Low-spirited.]
[Footnote 11: Cut her turf for firing.]
[Footnote 12: Related.]
[Footnote 13: One who has the second-sight.]
[Footnote 14: Until very lately, no unmarried woman in the Highlands
wore any covering on the head; not even at church, or in the open air. A
_snood_, or bandeau of riband or worsted tape, was the only head-dress
for maidens. On the morning after marriage, the cap or curch was put on
with great ceremony, and the matron never again appeared without this
badge of subjection.
In some parts of the Highlands it is still customary to delay the
wedding for weeks, often for months after the ceremony of marriage has
taken place. The interval is spent by the bride in preparing her bed,
bedding, &c. which it is always her part to supply. The wedding is, with
a coolness of calculation which might satisfy Mr Malthus, generally
postponed till the end of harvest, when labour is scarce, and provisions
plentiful. About a week before the bride's removal to her new home, the
bridegroom and she go separately to invite their acquaintance, sometimes
to the number of hundreds, to the wedding. The bride's approach to her
future dwelling is preceded by that of her household stuff; which
affords the grand occasion of display for Highland vanity. The furniture
is carefully exhibited upon a cart; always surmounted by a
spinning-wheel, the _rock_ loaded with as much lint as it can carry. It
is accompanied by the bride's nearest female relative, and attended by a
piper to announce its progress. The procession is met and welcomed by
the bridegroom and a few select friends.
The ceremonial of the wedding is conducted exactly according to Cecil's
statement.
The next morning, the matrons of the neighbourhood commence a visiting
acquaintance, by breakfasting with the married pair; each bringing with
her a present suited to her means, such as lint, pieces of linen, or
dishes of various sorts. Some of these good women generally 'busk the
bride's first curch.' The hair, which the day before hung down in
tresses mixed with riband, is now rolled tightly up on a wooden bodkin,
and fixed on the top of the head. It is then covered with the curch; a
square piece of linen doubled diagonally, and passed round the head
close to the forehead. Young women fasten the ends behind; the old wear
them tied under the chin. The corner behind hangs loosely down. Thus
attired, the bride sits in state, without engaging in any occupation
whatever, until she be 'kirked.' If, however, it happens that the parish
church is vacant, or if it be otherwise inconvenient to attend public
worship, this ceremony can be supplied by her walking three times round
the church, or any of the consecrated ruins with which the Highlands
abound.]
[Footnote 15: Household furniture.]
[Footnote 16: Latewake. Watching a corpse before interment. Dancing on
these occasions was once customary, though this practice is now
discontinued.
'It was a mournful kind of movement, but still it was dancing. The
nearest relation of the deceased often began the ceremony weeping; but
did, however, begin it, to give the example of fortitude and
resignation.'--_Mrs Grant's Essays on the Superstitions of the
Highlanders_, vol. i, p. 188.]
[Footnote 17: The Dark Den.]
[Footnote 18: Garlands of flowers for the neck.]