LETTERS

FROM

THE MOUNTAINS :

BEING

THE REAL CORRESPONDENCE

OF

A LADY,

BETWEEN THE YEARS 1773 AND 1807.

....... ........... " Memory swells

With many a proof of recollected love."

THOMSON.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

FIRST AMERICAN FROM THE THIRD LONDON EDITIOX.

PRINTED BY GREENOUGH AND STEBBINS.

Siiffolk'Buildingt ..... Congress-Street.

1809.

LETTERS

FROM

THE MOUNTAINS.

LETTER LIX.

TO MRS. SMITH, GLASGOW.

Laggan-, Miay 26, 1789.

MY DEAREST FRIEND,

WERE you as happy as your great world- ly prosperity, the esteem of all that know you truly, can make you, you would be very unfit to enter into the present feelings of my heart ; these acute returns of pain, these agonizing recollec- tions, that darken the summer's sun, and throw a veil of universal sadness over the fair face of na- ture ; — the recital of such sensations would form poor entertainment for a person engrossed or elated by the pleasures and gaities of this world. — Since writing the above, I went to Fort George, by particular desire ; but, alas ! I found, to my sorrow, that " change of place is only change of pain." The regiment in which my father served during the years of my childhood, and to which he is still much attached, he imagined would in-

4 LETTERS FROM

terest me ; but whether it be that the habit of a retired life has made me think differently from what I used to do, or that my mind is entirely en- grossed with one sad and tender idea, I see them not as old friends, but merely as worldlings flut- tering after trifles. I am now at home, after spending a dreary month at the Fort, without be- ing awake to any thing but poor C. We thought she would be the better for change of air and salt water. Her rapid growth enervates her. We

have brought your relation home with us.

Charlotte will be home this week. I am relieved at the thought of it. To her I dare talk fully of what is ever in my thoughts. With her I can venture to feed my insatiable sorrow with every little anecdote and recollection that will serve to keep his dear memory alive. His father, though he cannot get over it himself, blames me very justly for repining at my darling's happiness. I will not be surprised or angry, though you should reprove me for this extravagance ; but I am not well ; and returning here, I find my beloved child's image in every place, in some of those lively and striking attitudes which were almost peculiar to himself. I cannot go to the door without seeing the spot where the cold earth cov- ers that lovely countenance, which I never could behold without an emotion of pleasure, only ex- ceeded by my present anguish. Happily I have preserved his dear profile, taken when he was out of humour. His sensible frown adds strength to

THE MOUNTAINS 5

the expression of the most animated countenance I ever beheld. I do not acknowledge your kind- ness to Charlotte. I do not answer a sentence of your most affectionate letter, which I thankfully received a month ago. I can speak of nothing but the only thing I think of. Do not think I neglect the only method of procuring true conso- lation. I earnestly implore strength to bear my sorrows ; but I am not able to pray, or wish, in any degree, to enable me to forget the object of them — his remembrance is so sweet to my soul, and my aspirations after a re-union with him, where we shall part no more, are so consequently strong. Pray read Dr. Gregory's Comparative View, &c. and observe particularly the last sec- tion on the influence of religion ; that on taste ; and the strictures on false refinement. I long to have you share the entertainment they afforded to my happier hours. A letter from you is almost the only thing I could read now. Write amply ; give me good accounts of Mr. B— ; and believe you are one of the few that still interest me, Farewell !

A 2

LETTERS FROM

LETTER LX.

TO MRS. SMITH.

Lagg-an, August 3, 1789,

MY DEAR FRIEND,

WEEK after week has elapsed without my gratifying myself by writing to you, or being able to assign a good reason. I shall assign the true one ; which, at the same time, I own I cannot jus- tify. When I received your letter, in which you animadvert, very justly, on the folly, not to say guilt, of wasting that time and thought in fruitless mourning for the dead, which ought to be employ- ed in useful attention to those who are left, I was ashamed to discover the state of my mind even to you ; and from you how could I conceal it ? Truth is, my mind has been either wound up to a pitch, at which it could not long remain, or sunk in the deepest dejection. ---

But in vain do I weary and exhaust my worn-out spirits in pursuit of a vision that eludes my grasp. Alas 1 I must turn my eyes to objects more attain- able, and more suited to my situation, and the ties that still hold me to this world. I must again run the round of earthly cares and low pursuits, and wait patiently till my appointed day come. For I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me. A late alarm, from another part of my family, con-

THE MOUNTAINS. 7

vinced me forcibly of my own weakness and incon- sistency. The grief which I could neither soothe or reason down, grew more tolerable on being divided. A bright atmosphere, a busy scene, and the affectionate attention of a pleasing and easy companion, did more to relieve my mind than all that reason or reflection could suggest. I al- ways think of him, but with more composure. I view him as having passed the fiery trial of suf- fering, and as regarding us with tender compas- sion. The first thing that alleviated my distress was Charlotte's return, in itself pleasing, but still more gratifying, as her minute details about you all, made you in a manner visible and present to us. This suspended the sense of pain, by renew- ing the pleasing remembrance of the innocent happy hours we formerly passed together. My youngest boy had got a hurt, the consequences of which alarmed us, but he is now better. Our busy season coming on, and finding myself incapable of any steady application within doors, I sent his maid to the hay -making, a*id wandered out a good deal with him in my arms. In consequence of this exertion, I have found exercise in the open air operates beyond any thing towards the relief of depression of spirits. Long may it be before you require any such remedy for that heaviest of evils ! I have been indeed very little within, till of late that the bad weather has confined me.

I have thought much of what you say of a cer- tain friend of mine being in danger of running into

8 LETTERS FROM

the extreme of enthusiasm ; but, after all, cannot think the hazard very serious, though I h&vefiaus- cd and pondered sufficiently on the subject. The fact is, that it is in vain for us to flatter ourselves, that the great work of our salvation is a bye con- cern, for which we may occasionally set aside a few minutes, which, by chance, are left vacant from business or pleasures. This does not agree with the opinion which the wise and good in all ages, and of all persuasions, seem to have enter- tained (however different their degrees of light and intelligence) viz. that our manner of exist- ing here is not the final end of our being ; that this is merely a state of probation, in which there is a glimmering of light afforded us, barely suffi- cient to distinguish good and evil ; and a degree of choice and judgment, just enough to enable us to make a selection, and hold by the best. Were our intellect strong enough to discern the lucid order, and according harmony of the divine scheme of Providence in its full extent ; could the hor- rors of guilt, and its cpnsequent punishment, be made visible through the thick veil of humanity, or could weak mortal eyes bear the refulgence of celestial beauty ; there could be no room for choice or hesitation, no exercise of fortitude, dis- cernment, faith or hope, no struggles betwixt the erring will and the love of rectitude. Creatures left without choice, and impelled by the clear and glaring certainty before them, not struggling up the hill to virtue and felicity, but swimming with

THE MOUNTAINS. 9

the stream in torpid ease could not exercise those virtues, which our imperfect state so loudly calls for. All the noble exertions, all the softer emo- tions, of the mind, lose their meaning and their use, where there is no vice to combat, no distress to relieve, no weakness to protect* All this is so like common-place, that you must consider me as digressing very widely, Yet the perpetual strug- gle and warfare with guilt and sorrow, which is evidently our appointed task and duty here, leaves little room to suppose that any body can be right- eous over much. We see our duty imperfectly in this land of shades and apparitions. Thus much, however, we are certain of, that we walk continually oil the brink Of danger in th© open paths of life. If not happier, those are certainly- safer, who, in some measure, fly from the conflict. What do people pursue in the world but business or pleasure ? The regulation of the mind, and the exertion of that active beneficence which true pie- ty produces, form such an occupation to a mind so turned, as to exercise all its faculties in the most agreeable manner. With those who have made great advances in piety, I should suppose " perfect love casteth out fear ;" and that these exercises become a source of pure and lasting pleasure, as incomprehensible to the children of this world, as colours to the blind. Enthusiasm is the wine of life ; it cheers and supports the mind ; though excess, in either case, produces intoxication and madness.. I am not sure that the

10 LETTERS FROM

religion of the heart can exist without a certain degree of enthusiasm. What noble or tender emotion of the mind is excited in any great de- gree without producing it ? Very few affix a pre- cise or determinate idea to the word, used in a religious sense. You will hear many people, who have never thought about the matter, parrotizing about enthusiasm, when they mean bigotry or fanaticism, if, indeed, they mean any thing. Re- ligion has not so great an enemy upon earth as vanity ; and no wonder, since true piety must needs be founded in deep humility. Wealth, power, and distinction cannot be attained by all the vain and ambitious ; but the prize of wit and wisdom seems always within reach to r.nose deter- mined to be wise or witty. Those who wish to purchase these distinctions as cheap as possible, exchange the principles they only seemed to possess, for the character of wit and talents they only seemed to acquire. They hear impious wit oftenest quoted by the thoughtless and dissipated, and, therefore, they think impiety necessarily im- plies wit, and are indeed .very often incapable of distinguishing the one from the other. These are the people who so frequently talk with con- tempt and ridicule of enthusiasm, in the religious sense of that expression, as they misunderstand it. I have been very serious, and, as generally turns out in that case, very tedious ; but some late in- stances that I have met with, of absurd preten- sions to wit, founded on still more absurd pre-

THE MOUNTAINS. 11

tensions to infidelity, have really provoked me ; especially, as I very well know this pretender believes and trembles in the dark. For his impi- ety he must account to his Maker ; but his impertinent ostentation is an offence against so- ciety. I suppose you are very glad that I am going to bid you good night. I fancy you will think, after giving you this lecture on impiety, the next thing I shall set about will be to caution bees and ants against idleness, or our friend W. D. against too much gravity and austerity. I don't know whether you will be the better for reading this, but I am much the better for writing it, and that you will think a sufficient apology. Adieu ! my dear ; I have taken the declamation, and left action to you. Be ever what you have been, and I shall be at no loss for an example to illustrate some of my sage precepts.

LETTER LXL TO MRS. BROWN, GLASGOW.

Laggan, Aug. 13, 1789.

MY DEAR MRS. BROWN !

I AM such an economist of your pence, that I have deferred my sincere and cordial con- gratulations all this time, in hopes of getting them sent by one who has cheated me at last. Yet this

12 LETTERS FROM

is the only testimony in my power to give of the unabated friendship I shall always retain for you, and this is simply all ; for, with me, despondency and ill health have been so constantly producing and reproducing each other, for some time past, that I have neither the power nor inclination to furnish you with the least degree of entertain- ment. Charlotte and I were all last week on a tour of visits on Loch Laggan side, where the romantick singularity of the place, and peculiar turn of its sequestered inhabitants, might, in hap- pier hours, have afforded a subject for amusing description : as it is, I can only say, that the rocks and woods which border this fine piece of water, are equally gloomy and magnificent ; while the spot where we spent most of our allotted days, can be equalled by few in a singular assemblage of rural beauties. The deep silence which sur- rounds you, in a place secluded even from the Highland world, and distant from every other hu- man dwelling, affords leisure to contemplate the placid features of the scene around the house. This, from a small eminence, surveys a meadowy plain, bordering on the lake, in which large trees have been left here and there, producing a very fine effect to the eye. Through this extended meadow, a stream, delightfully pure, wanders over fine gravel, while you trace its progress by the copses of hazle and alder, vocal with the sweetest strain of woodland melody, and rich in all the smaller wild fruits that abound in this district.

THE MOUNTAINS. 13

In the immediate scene you are soothed with every thing that is beautiful, and in the surrounding ones, awed by all that is majestick. The lofty Coryarder^ the haunt of eagles and of clouds, tow- ers behind ; before, the lake spreads its still ex- panse ; opposite, the dark remains of the most ancient forest in Scotland borders the whole east side of the lake ; above it rises a mountain wooded almost to the top ; and beyond these awful soli- tudes appear rocks, at whose barren desolation the mind revolts. Of the inhabitants of this re- cess, I can only say, that they are peaceful and industrious, and seem as mild and harmless as the sheep, who are the sole subjects of this realm of solitude. I should tell you, that the lake con- tains two small wooded islands, on which are some fragments of buildings of the most remote antiquity. One is called the Isle of Kings ; the other that of Dogs ; for there, it would appear, their Caledonian majesties, who had here a hunt- ing seat, used to confine Bran and Luath, and all their other followers of the chace. It was hay- making time ; we worked at our needles, or wan- dered at will, all the long sun-shine day, in the haunt of roes. In the evening, we had regularly a party on the water, and musick. You start, but I am correct. When our landlord's sons had worked till tea-time, they came in to rest, and whenever tea was over, they launched out their boat, which two of them rowed to the opposite side of the lake, while the third played, on the vi-

VOL. II. B

14 LETTERS FROM

olin, some of our favourite old tunes, that brought you and your musick full on my recollection. But we were not merely regaled with airy sounds ; the central gloom of the ancient forest abounds in bilberries, strawberries, Sec. Sec. ; and having others with us to hasten the task of gathering, we left the youths fishing, returned by twilight, and supped on the trout they caught, the fruit we gathered, and richer cream than ever your Low- land eyes beheld. This literally pastoral excur- sion has set my pen in motion beyond my own expectations ; for I have so far lost the knack of writing upon nothing, which you once ascribed to me, that I seem now no longer able to write on any thing.

Were I possessed of descriptive talents. Char- lotte's extravagant joy, on the birth of your son, would give full room for their display. As for me, the moral and melancholy turn which my thoughts have lately taken, leads me to associate even the cradle with the grave, its sure, however distant successor.

" Birth's feeble cry, and death's deep dismal groan," are very properly connected by our favourite plaintive bard ; whom, by the bye, I am told it is not now the fashion to admire. Dear Jenny, con- tinue to love me, till I learn " the last new fashion of the heart," till I cease to have a taste and feel- ings of my own, and, to be in some measure guided by them. I wonder when it will be the fashion to regret that the grass is not blue, or the

THE MOUNTAINS. lo

skies green. Pray bestow the charity of a letter upon me very soon. A little time from you will now be valued like the widow's mite, because you

can ill spare it, — I heartily condole with Mrs. ,

on the loss of her son, which will wound her pride, as well as her more tender feelings ; for I sup- pose she was vain of having him. I too, was vain once, but my vanity, I hope, is buried with the cause of it. Charlotte, whose love of infancy is most inordinate, regrets that she is not with you, to assist in nursing your heir. Mr. G. joins me in warm and sincere wishes, that he may be a long continued blessing to you both ; and, with best respects to his father, let me add a caution which painful experience . dictates— -Love him with moderation, as we ought to do every earthly thing. Make my best wishes to your brothers and their mates, and thank the latter for me, on Char- lotte's account.

I am, my dear Mrs. Brown, with much affec- tion, Yours.

LETTER LXIL TO MRS. MACINTOSH.

Lag-gem, Dec. 23, 1789. MADAM,

THOUGH I feel a desire of expressing to you, in some degree, the deep sense we all have of the generous part you have acted towards Miss

16 LETTERS FROM

Grant, I own I am at a loss how to do justice to my own sentiments on that subject, without run- ning the risk of wounding your delicacy, or falling into the beaten track of unmeaning compliment. This I know has, by frequent misapplication, lost its value and significance. Yet I am sure no person, capable of acting as you have done on this occasion, c^ji be at a loss to judge how people must be touched with a kindness of the most es- sential importance, done them in that instance, where they feel it most tenderly ; and this by a person, whose character (the only thing we know of you) is such, as makes protection and advice doubly valuable, and thoroughly to be depended on. The partial light in which we view this ob- ject of our greatest earthly solicitude, endeared to us by innocence, misfortune, and a thorough knowledge of her disposition, led us to hope for the kind offices and good wishes of every well- disposed person. But it required a very liberal and superior mind indeed, to take so clear and just a view of objects so remote and detached. We will not take all the credit of doing, as you seem to think, what no one else would have done. Your present conduct convinces me that, in our place, you would have acted just as we did ; btft I am not, by any means, so clear that we, in your place, should have done as you did. Uncommon and disinterested exertions in the cause of virtue, by people who live in the world, are efforts like swimming against the current. Recluses, like

THE MOUNTAINS. 17

us, walk in the light which emanates from the un- biassed mind, and seek or hope no other approba- tion than the whispered plaudit of the gratified heart. In this case we have more ; we are doubly rewarded, by the distinguished merit of the ob- ject of our cares, and the daily improvements that mark her progress in knowledge and in vir- tue.

Her reception in the family of her worthy rela- tion, Mr. Douglas*, is a circumstance every way favourable to her. Every motive of prudence and gratitude conspire to make it highly proper for her to sacrifice her own views and inclinations to the slightest indication of their will. The circle of acquaintance she made, when she went to town, though not wide, nor perhaps highly fashionable, was among people of real worth and estimation, to whom she owes much for civility and most useful attention. These it would be most indeli- cate and ungrateful in her to drop* Yet it will not be proper in her to go any where without their full approbation (I m«an the Douglas's.) How ta act or apologize in this or any delicate case, I am sure she will be directed by your candid advice.

Mr. G. and Charlotte join in offering our most grateful respects to you and good Mr., Macintosh, Sec. kc.

* Mr. John Douglas, of Glasgow, was nearly related to this justly admired youug person ; and there a most affec- tionate intimacy began betwixt her and his daughter, now Mrs. Douglas, of Douglas Park,

1$ BETTERS FROM

LETTER LXIII.

TO MRS. BROWN.

Laggan, Feb. 13, 1790.

MY DEAR MRS. BROWN !

I HAVE deferred writing to you this long time, waiting the return of as much strength and spirits as should enable me to do it with some de- gree of fulness and precision. Though somewhat better, I am far from well, and have been this week past crowded with people coming to take leave of the young travellers, who go to-morrow. In the first place, my mind is perfectly at ease with regard to the deposit I am about to place in your hands ; so much so, that I shall never think of giv- ing you directions about it, convinced that, at this time of life, and in this stage of education, your judgment is far more to be depended on than my own. The arduous task of forming her heart, and instilling into her mind principles of moral recti- tude and devout submission to the source of all goodness, is, I hope, in some degree performed. She is docile, and willing to please, without the least tincture of levity on the one hand, or self- conceit and stubbornness on the other. You will find her disposed to pay you implicit obedience, on the best of principles, that of an interior con- viction, that you will only order what is right. It only remains for me to hint at the defects I ob-

THE MOUNTAINS. 19

served, yet durst not blame, in her past education, in which I have had little share.

Experience has taught me the evil of this. Kept constantly to my needle (of which application many trophies remain) I was childishly ignorant of eve- ry thing else when I got the charge of a family.

But I have employed her in this manner all win- ter, and find her so ashamed of deficiency, and willing to please and be useful, that I hope she will conquer all indolent habits. While absent from us, she was shut up with old people, with- out a companion, or any relaxation but what books afforded ; in these she took refuge, and in these found consolation : but they were taken without choice or selection. She has, from a kind of ne- cessity, read more, and perhaps reflected and di- gested more, than any Miss of her age you know. There is a certain thoughtful indolence, a degree of over-refinement, and an indifference towards ordinary characters, and common, though very useful things, to be feared, as the result of much knowledge early acquired. This is more espe- cially to be feared in a mind that unites a degree of masculine solidity and habits of reflection, with the quickness and sensibility common to the sex ; and such are generally those female minds that range beyond the usual limits in search of knowl- edge and entertainment. However, we need not

20. LETTERS FROM

much fear ; when our pupil enters her teens, and acquires the love of dress, and thirst for amuse- ment natural to that period, all this may scatter like morning mists. I do not however, wish her to read much at this time ; and what she does read, I wish to be of a moral and serious cast. Let her write, dance, and attend a geographical class, with Mr. S — 's children. Drawing and mu- sick are both out of the question : she has neither ear for the one, nor that turn of fancy which leads to excellence in the other. Tinkling and daub- ing are tolerable amusements for the supera- bundant leisure of the wealthy, who have the means, as far as possible, to make art supply the defects of nature ; but I would not waste time and money in swimming against the stream, were it but to prevent the painful hypocrisy of those who are forced, from mere compassion, to " d — n with faint praise" miserable musick, and wretched drawing. I despise the fashionable frippery of fillagree, which neither displays taste, nor forms habits of attention and diligence. Needle-work, good old court needle-work, is the thing. It ex- ercises fancy, fixes attention, and, by perseverance and excellence in it, habituates the mind to pa- tient application, and to those peaceful and still- life pleasures, which form the chief enjoyment of every truly amiable woman. Ton is an epidemi- cal frenzy, that follows and overtakes us every where, though we in following it can overtake it no where. Would you believe it is partly to shun

THE MOUNTAINS. 21

this, that I was impatient to send your from her former abode, which is become gay and fashionable, in as great excess as this is retired and rusticated.

*******

To remove her by such a quick transition from absolute retirement to the beau monde, would be destructive to all my views, whose object it is to bring up my children in the utmost frugality, simplicity, and industry ; and at the same time give them that culture of mind, and inspire them with that propriety and elegance of sentiment, which will dignify a blameless and virtuous ob- scurity, if that should be their lot, and form their manners to such softness and decorum as would not disgrace a more easy situation, if Providence were pleased to bestow it upon them. You ask, how people secluded from the world are to acquire manner. I answer, that where there is mind, there is always manner ; and when they are ac- customed to treat each other with gentleness and courtesy, they will feel that quick disgust at what is rude and inelegant, which contributes more than any instruction to the refinement of manners. I am sure this homily has worn out your patience. I regret exceedingly that your sister is out of town, because I could wish M — to be with her every moment she should be absent from you, except a few formal visits, which she may make to some of my old acquaintance. Children at her age can hardly be considered as making any

22 LETTERS FROM

part of the company, being rather an incumbrance. They however amuse themselves, and enlarge their circle of ideas by being present in mixed companies ; but in general I think they are more improved by being with those they know best and can be easy with, because they are more in- terested, and attend more to their conversation. I am but too sensible of the task I impose, and the trouble I occasion you : but you know not how desirous I am to have her in a private family. More I will not say ; for it avails not to tease you.

with apologies. With true esteem and

unbounded confidence,

I am yours most sincerely.

LETTER LXIV.

TO MISS OURRY.

Laggan, February 5, 1791,

MY EVER DEAR FRIEND,

I own it ; our correspondence did, for a while, languish on my side. But what has not this interruption cost me ! and how various and painful were the causes of it ! I have written, and enquired again and again, without success.* I shall, however, make this last effort to discover

* Miss Ourry was at this time in Ireland.

THE MOUNTAINS. 23

whether my clearest Anne is still a fellow-traveller through this vale of shadows ; or, whether I am to consider her as one of those separated spirits, whom tremulous hope and fond imagination flat- ter us with recognizing, at some future period, in holier, happier regions ; for I will not, cannot sup- pose you capable of neglecting, slighting, or even forgetting me.

Had my last letter reached you, I am certain you would have answered it. Even my unavail- ing friendship was worth gratitude ; because it was very warm and very true, and pure from every selfish motive, except the vanity of being esteemed by a person of superior merit, which was certainly very pardonable. However, as you are a human crea- ture, and,, as such, liable to change, I shall admit the bare possibility of your having received and neglected my letter ; and shall, therefore, suspend giving any account of my concerns till I have it under your hand, that you are desirous to hear of them.

I will not regale you with an account of the fine children, which it has pleased God to bestow on me; of the still finer ones whom he has thought fit to resume to himself: or of the tranquillity and comparitive happiness I have enjoyed since I saw you ; no, nor of the health and prosperity of my parents, or the great and wonderful vicissitudes that have happened in the circle of our acquaint- ance. I must not only be desired, but intreated, before I make any of these communications. I

24 LETTERS FROM

will tell you, however, that nothing shall ever abate that tender regard, which I shall carry to my grave for you. Mr. G. who is your great ad- mirer, longs also to hear of you. Don't mind postage ; mind only what you owe on the score of friendship to your unaltered.

LETTER LXV. TO MISS OURRY.

Laggan, March 2f, 1791.

MY DEAREST NANCY,

THE sight of your well-known dear-loved hand filled my heart with a pleasure to which I knew nothing comparable, unless what the woman of Zarepta might have felt, on receiving her la- mented son alive from the hands of the prophet. Alas ! I have a sad reason for too deeply feeling the force of that allusion ; but I will not cloud our first meeting with a detail of sorrows ; as little will I take up your time with a tedious recital of the ways and means I have used to hear of you.

I had not Mr. M.'s* address,

but endeavoured to point him out by the circum- stances of his being r. R. s. and having held a

* Malliet, the father of Miss Ourry's friend, Miss Mal- liet, who then held an office about the Palace, and lived in Westminster.

THE MOUNTAINS. 25

place at court. By your having formerly taught nv3 to address you under Lord Kinsale's cover, I was led to discover you in the manner which has proved so gratifying to us both. May my bene- dictions rest and remain with this good Lord. I wish it were as honourable to him, as the privi- lege of wearing his hat where he pleases. Why should I tell you why I was so much concerned and afflicted at the melancholy detail of what you have lost, and what you have suffered ? I can but too easily conceive what you must have felt at the final parting with your worthy parents. You all lived so much, and so entirely with each other, and loved each other so exclusively as well as ten- derly. You can better judge why Young was so great a favourite with me, now that you know, by sad experience,

" There is no pang like that of bosom torn

From bosom, bleeding- o'er the sacred dead." The depredations which fraud and villany have made on your little store, I sincerely regret. Yet, when I consider that your mind was always supe- rior to trappings and tinsel, and that sorrow and sickness must have long since dissolved the charm that attaches us to the mere exterior forms of life ; when I consider too that you appear to have gath- ered - - - - from the wreck of your father's prop- erty, and that you are now cherished in the tender bosom of friendship and true sympathy ; I would fain hope, your pecuniary resources are equal to your wants, though not to your spirits and past ex- VOL. ii. c

26 LETTERS FROM

pectations. At worst, you can purchase an annu- ity I must go lightly over past

transactions. My next will be under cover to * who is a Cornish member, and, having con- trived, like Orpheus, by the power of his lyre, to build a house in this country, is our neighbour and acquaintance. I hope the musical manes of the said Orpheus will forgive my blunder, in imputing to him what was done by Amphion, who, on bet- ter recollection* built the Theban walls ; and, though I know you -tlearly love a little hit at me, I hope you»;will have so much respect for my clas- sical recollections, as to resist the temptation of comparing me to one of those savages who danced to the said plastick strains : I lie the more open to this, from my singular delight in long descended

song. I am resolved, like Dogberry,

to bestow all my tediousness upon yoiu Receive, mean time, an abridged, but faithful description of the present state of my family and affairs.

We live on the banks of the Spey ; (would for your sake, it were the Tweed) Mr. G. possesses, one way or other, an income of We oc- cupy a comfortable cottage, consisting of four rooms, light closets, and a nursery, and kitchen built out by way of addition. It is situated in a south aspect, at the foot of an arable hill, behind which stretches an extensive moss, once a forest,

* James Macpherson, the translator of Ossian ; who was our neighbour in the country, and used to frank cov- ers for us.

THE MOUNTAINS. 27

and still abounding in fuel, which is surmounted by a lofty mountain, the top of which is often lost in the clouds, while its bosom, hollow and verdant, is a reservoir of copious springs, and abounds in early pasturage, and berries peculiar to these re- gions. Our little domain, to which the church- lands are added, stretches about a quarter of a mile through a meadowy, I might well add, flow- ery valley ; through which the river turns and returns again like the Links of Forth, which its waters far excel in purity. At the end of the house is a brook, which often reminds me of Franky's purling brooks, for it purls abundantly through summer, babbles in harvest, and brawls, like a termagant, all winter. In the meadows be- low, it assumes a new character, and winds, in a deep channel through richly decorated banks, with a murmur so dulcet, so softly plaintive, that one is almost tempted to ask what ails it. I should have told you, that at one end of our cottage is a garden, in which we have planted a variety of trees, and where small fruit abounds. At our door is a stone porch with seats ; this rural portico is so covered with honeysuckle, that you would take it for a bower ; we have a little green court enclosed before, which, in fine weather, forms a supplement to the nursery. I should have begun by telling you, that we hold a farm at a very easy rent, which supports a dozen milk cows, and a couple of hundred sheep, with a range of summer pasture on the mountains for our young stock,

28 LETTERS FROM

horses, &c. This farm supplies us with every thing absolutely necessary ; even the wool and flax, which our handmaids manufacture to clothe the children, are our own growth. But it is time to introduce you within doors, where you will find the master of the dwelling in the midst of the circle he most delights in, and in that home where he appears to most advantage ; because his hos- pitality and warmth of heart here shine through that cloud of reserve and diffidence which conceals him every where else. Singularly domestick, a fond husband, and tenderly indulgent father, he delights in his children from their birth, without nursing them like on old woman ; judicious and attentive in what regards out-door management, but totally unconcerned as to what passes within, considering, like a true Highlander, household affairs as entirely the female province ; and the duties of his sacred function as the only object, beyond his family, deserving of serious regard. Next, his mate, very little altered in sentiment and principle since you saw her, yet having the wings of romantick elevation somewhat dipt by- increasing years and cares; and the fervour of en- thusiasm a little abated, with that matronly cast of manners, which the constant exercise of au- thority, mingled with affection, natunilly produces. You will not think my taste improved when I tell you, 'tis, if possible, more primitive than ever ; and that all my pastoral, popular, and A- rnerican prejudices, have "grown with my growth,

THE MOUNTAINS. 29

and strengthened with my strength." How will all this agree with, your " prejudice against pre- judicies ?" But we shall agree in the long run, as we ever did. Our minds, indeed, must have had a strong predisposition to unite, when they surmounted so many differences in, what with common minds is every thing, early habits and education. My children I shall characterize at more leisure. At present I shall only say, the first is said to be like her mother, the second like her father, and the third like — a ewe lamb. Now, to form a more precise idea, you must consider these resemblances, as not only literal, but char- acteristick of my sons. C — and Petrina are twins, a perfect contrast, one being dark-haired, quick and lively, the other fair, soft, and delicate.

Here is the family-piece drawn, and

the landscape ; I have not yet shaded my drawing, but I shall throw in the shades in my next. I had more sons — but, Heaven has resumed its own, and I ought silently to bow to its decrees. Ex- pect in my next the eventful history of our friends at Fort Augustus, most of whom have already set out before us, to explore the wide ocean of eter- nity. Briefly, adieu 1

c 2

30 LETTERS FROM

LETTER LXVI. TO MISS OURRY.

Laggan, June 4, 1791. MY dear friend ! what a history would it make, were I to relate all the little family occur- rences, which, in rapid succession, have hurried on the time since I wrote my last. I carried down my second daughter, who had a threatening illness, to my father's, for sea air. You can't think how the good old people rejoiced to hear that I had found you again : — their lively feelings on this occasion delighted me. I love to see the evening of life warmed by the gentle flame of kindly affections. Of all the evils that wait on the decline of life, there is none I shrink from so much as that chilling torpor of the soul, which contributes more than all our infirmities to make old age unlovely. When I came in a little open machine we keep for these journies, I returned home through the country where Mr. G.'s rela- tions live, and went through a hasty course of visitation. He came down some miles to meet me, and presented your letter, which I snatched with avidity, and read over with delight. I shall defer the mentioning of its contents, till I go through my promised narrative. For some years after you went away, my letters furnished you with an unbroken series, of which take this suc- cinct and pithy sequel.

THE MOUNTAINS 31

********

I had been all this while projecting a visit to Glasgow, but had deferred it from time to time, out of sympathy for Mrs. Newmarch, who hoped for her lord's return, and would feel most forlorn without me ; but the marriage in the family, and the crowd of company which succeeded, leaving her no room to complain of solitude, I went south- wards, where my visit, only meant for a month, was drawn out to near a year, which was most a- greeably spent. I look back upon it, indeed, as one of the most pleasing periods of my life ; not being passed in a perpetual flutter of idle visits, but in confirming and strengthening the friend- ships of my earlier years, and making new and valuable additions to them, which have been ever since a source of great comforts and pleasure to me. Leaving the excellent family, with whom I spent this year of felicity, I returned home through Perth, where I had the high gratification of meeting some of my distant relations, who were people of distinguished merit, and whose taste and manners were so suited to my own, that my heart adopted them to a nearer connexion than those distant ties can form. Those lovely sisters,* who lived in this world with all their views directed to another, and meekly sheltered in the shade of re- tirement, qualities entitled to universal esteem

* Mrs. Young, of Perth ; and Mrs. Bannar, married to the minister of Cramond.

32 LETTERS FROM

and admiration, lived only long enough to prove that they could fulfil every duty, and grace every department of life. In the bloom of youth, ten- derly beloved by the worthiest of husbands, blest with every thing their regulated and modest wishes could aspire to, they obeyed the irresistible sum- mons. The youngest, who was the most beauti- ful, departed in her twenty-second year, in the high triumphs of faith, taking not only a serene but joyful leave of friends, whom she loved with unusual tenderness. Her sister, in whose arms she died, was immediately seized with the same disorder, and met death with the same well- grounded heroism.

" Surely to blissful realms those souls are flown, That never flatter'd, censur'd, envied, strove."

My dear, you will excuse this digressive tribute to departed excellence. What havock has been lately made in the little circle of those I loved ! —

" Yes, even here, amidst these secret shades, The simple scenes of unreprov'd delight,

Affliction's iron hand my breast invades,

And death's dread dart is ever in my sight." Indeed my meditations hover so constantly about the confines of the world unknown, where my ach- ing eyes are continually exploring the departing footsteps of those who still live in my remem- brance, that I now see this world and all its vani- ties, as the apostle says we do futurity, " through a glass darkly." These frequent excursions of the mind into the trackless ocean of vast eternity, con-

kTHE MOUNTAINS,

tribute not a little to throw a dim shade over eve- ry thing that dazzles and attracts, in this valley of vision. Unwillingly must I return to my Fort Augustus narrative, though no motive less potent than a desire to gratify you, would induce me to retrace such a series of crime, folly, and misfor- tune. Hear then, and be, if not amused, at least

instructed.

We three all fled at once our several ways, and left the demons of discord and deceit to rule their votaries ; none of us would have liked to have out- staid the other. My year's residence in Clydes- dale had revived and cherished the love of peace, virtue, and decorum in my heart. The disorders of that most beautiful, but most unhappy place, Fort Augustus, had shewn me vice and folly yi their ugliest aspect. Judge, then, whether, in the midst of tranquillity, mutual affection, (fomestick harmony, and the esteem and good will of a decent neighbourhood, I did not enjoy my situation, with- out repining after languid idleness, insipid chit- chat, artificial wants, poor attempts at finery, and all the mortifications which result from the feeble efforts of inferior people to grasp that fleeting phantom ton. \ am a wretched narrator, and mis- erable chronologer ; I write fluently from my heart, but very lamely from my memory. Two marriages, however, not of the number said to be made in heaven, I will detail ; and let Desdemona needfully attend, for 'tis no small plague to me to rake up my recollections,

34 LETTERS FROM

My father removed to Fort George some years ago, where he lives very happily, and derives much pleasure from his grand-children. Differ- ent friends from Glasgow and Edinburgh have visited us in this retreat. By the death of my third son, a charming infant, who lived not many days, I was convinced of what I could not have easily believed, that the death of such an infant could produce severe feelings of sorrow for the time ; a thing both sinful and unaccountable. I had, however, another son remaining, in whom all my delight was centered, and who was, indeed, every way an extraordinary child, spoke, walked, and shewed tokens of sensibility and understand- ing long before the usual period. Strong, robust, and manly, we looked on him as the future pillar of our family, and never dreaded that stroke which we bore so ill when it came. In the fatal May of 1789 our children were seized with the measles, and had it favourably, all but the darling and pride of our hearts ; who being seized at the same time with a worm-fever, which we were not aware of, and knew not how to manage, made his escape from the troubles of life, and left us over- whelmed with the most sinful and extravagant sorrow. But you are no novice in distress, and I will not awaken your griefs, by opening afresh the wounds of mine. My constitution, enfeebled by the rapid increase of my family, was greatly impaired by this shock, but I have had better

THE MOUNTAINS. 35

health since the birth of my twins, who, I hope will continue to be the youngest, My spirits are pretty equal, though that sad event has added to my habits of musing.

The soil here is very rich, though the climate is cold and gloomy. I am very fond of the lower class of people ; they have sentiment, serious habits, and a kind of natural courtesy ; in short, they are not mob, an animal which Smollet most emphatically says he detests in its head, midriff, and members ; and, in this point, I do not greatly differ with him. You would wonder how many of the genteeler class live here. They are not rich to be sure ; so much the better for us ; " Where no contiguous palace rears its head, To shame the meanness of the humble shed, "

people do very well, and keep each other in coun- tenance. They have been mostly in the army, are socially and kindly disposed, and have more both of spirit and good-breeding than is usually met with in people of their pitch ; and, as for an in- clination to gaiety and hospitality, you may judge of them by what you have seen among your quon- dam neighbours. If they have foibles, why should I expatiate on them ? They have treated us with uniform kindness and civility, and shewn us as much friendship as, in their idea, becomes them, to such as are not kindred, the sole measure of affection here. I shall quit the ungrateful topick of censure with observing, that, after all, they have more dignity in their pride, and less absurd-

36 LETTERS FROM

ity in their vanity, than your Hibernian friends, for whom too I still retain a sneaking kindness, after all : but indeed I saw an excellent sample of them.

I have made a great acquisition of late ; a fine young creature, a relation of Mr. G.'s. who is un- der his protection, and passes the winter with her friends in town, and the rest of the year here.* At more leisure I will tell you her story, but am now as sick of narrative as I have made you. Mr. G. has been at Edinburgh, attending the General Assembly, which answers to your poor dead, or rather dumb Convocation. I meet him next week at JLord Breadalbane's seat, where he is to come with some of my Glasgow friends.

When I hear from you again I shall acquaint you with the result, and give my ideas coolly and distinctly on the subject of your letter, and your present mode of living. I can now only congratulate you on enjoying the society of your Louisa, to whose superior mind yours must be a higher gratification than any that wealth can procure. What indeed can wealth procure that the vulgar - est wretch may not equally taste and enjoy, except that first of intellectual joys, which wealth so rarely attains, the society of an elegant mind, pu- rified by virtue, and endeared by friendship. I long to hear of your crossing the mountains on a goat, and how Wales agrees with you. I shall

* Miss Charlotte Grant, since Mrs. Smith.

THE MOUNTAINS. 37

•mark the geographical bearing of my dwelling minutely in my next. We live about fifty miles from both Inverness and Perth, which are the nearest towns ; yet, in spite of distance and ob- scurity, my sworn foe, the ton, pursues, overtakes, and surrounds me. Don't wait for a frank ; one who despises all other luxuries as I do, may well claim this single indulgence. Adieu ! beloved. I am yours unalterably.

LETTER LXVIL TO MISS OURRY.

Laggan, Sefit. 3, 1791. NEVER did a cordial come more oppor- tunely to a poor creature fainting with weakness, than my dearest A.'s kind letter, to soothe my agonizing heart, and divert, for a little, my atten- tion from one sad object, which fixes and engross- es it, in spite of my prayers and endeavours. Petrina, my lovely Petrina, the sweet image of my dear lamented Peter, is no more. This is a wound very near the heart, and yet I must own the justice of it. I had a darling before, on whose animated and sensible countenance I gazed with unbounded rapture, and whom I always regarded with unwarrantable partiality. Yet I might well have judged, from his dissimilarity to ourselves,

VOL. II. D

38 LETTERS FROM

and the rest of the family, that he would not re- main with us. After having dazzled and charmed us for four years and a few months, he returned to Him from whom he came, leaving us over- whelmedwith excessive and sinful anguish. About a year after his death, those twins were born. The eldest I instantly recognized to be the exact resemblance of my sweet boy, whose memory is twisted with the fibres of my heart. As she grew older, her vivacity, her open, generous temper, her robust appearance and quick growth, every thing renewed him to us, as well as the expressive and animated countenance that seized the eye of every stranger, and the heart of every one of the a mily. Indeed she was too lovely, and, till a week before her death, was the very picture of health and vigour. What a profusion of love was heaped upon her, during the period of her short life. Her brothers and sisters, her father, all doated upon her. But her heavenly Father has now vindicated his right, and punished our pre- sumptuous partiality. When I am abler, I shall tax your patience with a recital of the aggravating circumstances of her death. I can now only tell you, that on Sunday, the 12th, she made her way? through the keenest agonies, to everlasting felic- ity.

" Ye that e'er lost an angel, pity me." Never child gave so little trouble and so much pleasure to parents. I well know how rich I am in remaining blessings, and how both reason and

THE MOUNTAINS 39

religion forbid repining, because he who has be- stowed so many good gifts, sees fit in his own manner to resume them. When the prayers I daily offer have the desired effect, I may bow pa- tiently to the divine decree ; but now, my dearest friend, a cup can only hold its fill, and mine is filled to the very brim. Were all my earthly comforts removed, I could only grieve, as I do now, as much as my nature can sustain, though I might mourn longer and more excusably. Fare- well. Be charitable, for you do not know how you could bear this.

LETTER LXVIII. TO MISS OURRY.

Laggan, Sejit. 8, 1791.

MY DEAR FRIEND !

MY last sombre epistle has, by this time, reached you, and awakened all your sympathy. It affords a ray of comfort to me at this distance, to think you feel with, and for me. Those who are immersed, as most people around you are, in ea- ger pursuits of pleasure and ambition, can have no idea of distress like mine. They have not the simplicity of taste which enjoys and feels the at- tractive charm of infant innocence. Can those who grasp at a thousand shadows which render

40 LETTERS FROM

the mind both callous and fastidious, by their emptiness and variety, contemplate with steadfast gaze and ever new delight, the dawning of sensi- bility, the unfolding blooms of intelligence and af- fection ? It is in the shady vales, the obscure re- treats of life, far from the noise of turbulent pas- sions, and the parade of splendid vanities, that the soft and kindly affections root deep, and flourish fair. There all the pleasures they afford, are tast- ed in perfection ; but it is there, when these ten- der ties are broken, that anguish is most pungent, The twin sister of my Petrina has been very un- well. I regarded her danger with composure that excited my own wonder. Perhaps like Burns,

" With firm, resolved, despairing eye

I view each aimed dart, Since one has cut my dearest tie, And quivers in my heart."

O may I be forgiven for these effusions of de- spondency, and enabled to fix my thoughts on that awful day when I fondly hope to recognize my children among the blessed heirs of immortality. O ! if this hope be sinful, I am indeed a great sin- ner ; it feeds my imagination, and cherishes my heart, and, at intervals, soothes my woe-worn spir- its into a sublime tranquillity. Sure we shall not forget our fellow-travellers in this vale of mortal- ity, in the bright regions of blest futurity. We cannot retain a partial recollection of past events, that is, we cannot separate the retrospection of

THE MOUNTAINS. 41

them from the remembrance of those who have enjoyed and suffered with us in this transient state of probation. How can we remember the num- berless mercies received, the many dangers es- caped, and temptations resisted, which will fur- nish themes for praise, at least during our novici- ate in bliss — How, I say, can we remember these, without, at the same time, calling back those who were our associates in suffering, those who lived in our bosoms, and were to us the objects of an innocent and pure affection, such as helps to preserve us from the contagion of the world, and keeps the heart warm, and open to the best impressions ?

Mean, obscure, and dull as every thing must appear to you here, I have so made up my mind, and so fore-warned and fore-armed you, that I look forward to next May, as the time that is to relieve my mind of its burden. I am in no pain about finding out a tolerable companion for you. I shall set enquirers on foot very early, and will engage that you shall not find yourself a stranger here. At any rate, you shall not sojourn without benefit of clergy. As for your Clofen, I can only say, 'tis strange —

" A woman that bears all down with her brain, Should yield the world this ass."

*******

You well remember a time when the amor fia- trix burnt with uncommon and imprudent ardour in the breast of your friend. Now, though I used D 2

42 LETTERS FROM

to fight " tooth and nail" for Scotland, I had not then reflection enough to discriminate in my de- fensive operations ; that there were two or three causes equally dear to me, blended with my de- fence of Mother Meg — virtuous and dignified pov- erty, elegance of sentiment that lives in the heart and conduct, and subsists independent of local and transitory modes, a degree of amiable simplicity among the middle ranks of life, and of modest de- corum, resulting from pious impressions in the lower, not often to be met with in that class. For the ease of our social intercourse, and our gener- al good will towards strangers, we are certainly indebted to our former connexion with France. Our national pride and poverty, so well known, and "o generally stigmatized, is, notwithstanding;, of great advantage to us. From the one we de- rive a certain dignity, which when joined with our ordinary sense of integrity, preserves us from mean and unworthy actions. Our poverty, again, produces frugality and temperance, for which, I hear you observe, we are not much to be thanked. Observe the inference.

Clanship, doubtless, narrows the affections, and produces many absurd and unpleasing associa- tions ; yet it is better to love forty or fifty people warmly and exclusively on absurd grounds, than to love nobody at all ; and then pretend to love all the world (which does not care a straw for you), as the Parisian philosophers do, on whom the de-

THE MOUNTAINS. 43

mons of skepticism and discord will soon visit all the mischiefs they are doing, and the far greater mischiefs they occasion. My poor dear Odyssey tells a fine story of JEolus having the winds in a bag, and what havock followed when they were unskilfully let out. Now I think popular writers possess bags, in which those winds are contained that blow the embers of discontent into flames of destruction. What a dreadful account is to be made for the use of power so unlimited! No despo- tism is like that practised by the rulers of opin- ion ; but I believe it is become customary to have no settled opinion, but to keep the mind open for the reception of experimental whimsies. I feel the water deeper every moment, and will return to avoid drowning. Shallow streams are safest; Vherefore I bid you heartily farewell.

LETTER LXIX. TO MRS. SMITH, GLASGOW.

Laggan, Oct. 4, 1791.

MY DEAR FRIEND,

I HAD a hurried letter from you more than a month ago. Lest I forget again to tell you, I have heard twice from Miss O. since she went into Gloucestershire, where she is very happy with her aunt, to whom she must be a great com-

44 LETTERS FROM

fort. The health and freedom she enjoys in that peaceful retreat seem to have given a new turn to her spirits. She is evidently more cheerful, and makes reflections on her situation similar to your own. Her invaluable friend has, I hope by this time, received her at London. I always forgot to tell you Mr. Grant's answer to your query, " whether he had changed his mind about never more going from home. He bids me say he has been kissing his door-posts ever since his return, and always finds his devotion to his household gods much increased by any suspension of the usual worship. Yet I doubt not, the inducement of being able to carry these terafihim with him, might induce him to travel a good way in a given direction. What a stroller I have been this sum- mer ! When children came one at a time, I staid at home, and attended to them with great care j now they come in pairs, I scamper away like a hen ostrich, or a fine lady. I began my career by going to my father's in spring. That was on bu- siness, and I only staid two days, You know where we met in June. When I returned, I was obliged, in consequence of an old engagement, to visit some friends in the lower part of the coun- try, at a most beautiful place about ten miles dis- tance. I left C. in the house of the pastor there, whom you have heard me mention as a person of fine taste, superior abilities, and extensive infor- mation. I should have told you, how I happened, at this time, to go to Fort Augustus. I have a

THE MOUNTAINS. 45

cousin, who succeeded my father in his office there, and possesses a large farm in the neigh- bourhood. He had a most promising family growing up, and was very prosperous in the world, having fallen into the succession of a small estate since he came there. But, lately, they met with the deepest affliction, in consequence of having lost, at one time, their favourite son and daughter, the one about eighteen, the other nineteen, years old. Their father, always infirm and delicate, fell into a dangerous illness scon after, from which he is now slowly recovering. Mr. Grant had to go over to attend a church court, to be held there last week, and I accompanied him. We took an odd fancy, for grave people ten years wedded ; and, what was most to be wondered at, the pro- posal was not mine, to whom you would most readily impute it. It was, to leave the vehicle and Angus at the foot of Corryarrick, to go the circuit- ous road, which you may remember, while we took the shepherd's, foot-path from the bridge, which, leading down a steep, where no carriage can venture, led into the long-known, dear-loved recesses on the borders of the Tarfe, where the hazel-woods, the echoing Drimtn Duie, and the charming waterfall that I have so often described to you, lay in our path. Now you are not to sup- pose that we were so much of a Corydan and Pas- tora, as to come here for the mere purpose of en- joying sylvan beauties, and reviving tender recol- lections. It was humane, for it saved the poor

46 LETTERS FROM

horse ; it was prudent, for it saved near two miles ; it was civil, for it managed -our time and road so as to put it in our power to visit our friends at Culachy, to whose abode this pathway was a short cut. But you have no idea of the wild beauties of this walk ; their shades, sacred so often to contemplation and to friendship, have im- proved in solemnity and variety in the ten years interregnum. When the triad used to find such pleasure in haunting these deep retreats, the trees were not near so lofty, the incursions of hunters were more frequent, the country was more popu- lous ; but now the coppice is become a grove, whose tenants have increased, conscious of their safety. Oh ! that you could see these hazel bowers, and the light festoons of wild honeysuckle pendent from their topmost branches ! That you could hear the sweet responses of native musick, the deep murmur of the dark and secret stream, and the mysterious echo of Drimen Duie /* These

* Drimen Duie, often mentioned in these letters, is a very singularly shaped eminence, near three miles above Fort Augustus, in the deep woody recesses of Glentarfe. It projects forward into an angle formed by opposing pre- cipices, on the opposite side of the Tarfe, from which it is divided by the river, which makes a quick turn round the base of this beautiful height, the summit of which is flat and covered with verdure and flowers ; while the steep sides are adorned with the most beautiful shrubs ; and the opposite caverns reverberate every sound in such a man- ner that musick in this spot has a singular and fine effect. The rocky basin (mentioned also in the next page) receives a small fall of water which descends from the lofty rock that bounds Glentarfe, half a mile below Drimen Duie.

THE MOUNTAINS. 47

are, indeed, like sounds

" Sent by spirits to mortals good,

Or th* unseen genius of the wood." Do you think we could pass by the beautiful rocky basin I have so often told you of, where a little tributary stream falls in broken rills down a steep rock, decked with fantastick tufts of flow- ers and nodding plants ? We did not pass it byr but stood a while on the brink, recollecting the associate of our wild wanderings, and the une- qualled melody of the richest and mellowest wood- notes that ever met my ear. For here we used to rest and listen to " songs divine to hear ;" either such plaintive notes as the " voice of Cona sung," given in his native language, or our own sweetest pastoral lays, sung with simplicity, taste, and expression, that will never meet again in these days of artifice.

" O, lost Ophelia, sweetly flow'd the day,

To feel thy musick with my soul agree ; To taste the beauties of thy heartfelt lay, To taste, and fancy it was dear to thee !'*

I could not help saying this to my companion, here, where her image seemed to hover. We paid the due tribute of tenderness to the mem- ory of our hard-fated friend ; tenderness unmin- gled with regret ; for we were pleased to think she was escaped from a world, where she, in particular, had so much to suffer, and so little to enjoy. Full of her resemblance, we followed the course of the stream which led to the house

48 LETTERS FROM

of her favourite brother. He was not at home ; but his pretty little wife welcomed us with a grace, and cordiality that made us regret having only a single hour to spend with her. When we emerged from " the valley of vision," and saAv Loch Ness from the eminence on which the house stands, I felt as if time had run back ", but that was a mere momentary sensation. I will not tell you how glad my relations were to see me, or how the villagers flocked about me, to tell all their in- tervening history ; but, finding it vain to hope for solitude and quiet, to perform one of my custom- ary acts of recollection, I rose one morning at five, and went round the boundaries of our old domain and the Fort, then crossed the bridge of Oich, and from the rocks of Inchnacardach, took a wide sur- vey of the lake, then a perfect mirror, and the no- ble steep of Sigchurman, decked with fantastick wreaths of rolling mist, that changed their form every moment as the sun broke out upon them. I retired towards Inchnacardach, where I mused, undisturbed, till fancy had her fill. I felt like a person transplanted to the poetical shades, who wanders among myrtle groves and elysian vales in pensive contemplation, and sees the shadowy forms of those beloved in life, and mourned in death, glide silent by him. The sweet recesses, and sequestered scenes, in the vicinity, are be- come more beautiful than ever. I took a kind of solemn delight in thus retracing my wonted paths among them ; and, you may well believe, fancy

THE MOUNTAINS. 49

peopled them with the shades of the departed. The gentle spirit of poor Mrs. N. was not absent. Her death, or rather her release from life, I could think of with serenity, when I recollected how much she deserved, and how little she obtained, in this state of probation. Her father, whom I have so often looked on with indifference, I re- garded with unmixed compassion. Any thing so forlorn and helpless I have not seen. He seemed pleased to see me for her sake, and tried in trem- bling accents, to speak of her. My cousin seemed gratified by our visit, and I was glad we made it. I saw several people to whom I wish well, whom I shall probably never see again. Then my mind was so easy with regard to the family, and the lit- tle Gemini, as Charlotte had the entire charge of them, who is the very best deputy matron I ever knew. You see I have made the most of this summer, being the first, since I was married, that I was not -very particularly engaged at home.

It will refresh you, after all this tragi-pastoral, to hear that Gwynn is married quite to his mind, and is the happiest of human beings. Though no one had more the habits and notions of a confirmed bachelor, yet, formed only for do- mestick life, he languished in tasteless apathy, wanting he knew not what, for he was carefully taught to despise matrimony. He has got a very good little woman, with an easy temper, and just as' much intellect as he would wish for, who loves him, and has brought him a fine child, in which he VOL. it. E

50 LETTERS FROM

takes great pleasure. All this fills the void in his heart, and the vacancy in his time, that made him formerly most deplorably listless, though the best hearted creature imaginable. A brother of his wife who died abroad, has left her a pretty little fortune ; so he has, every way, drawn a prize in the lottery of marriage. Good connexions are not wanting, for the lady is one of Mr. Grant's hundred kinswomen, and, consequently, M.Gwynn is now allied to us. What a privilege ! Now that I have given you no brief abstract of my summer campaign since I saw you at our assignation in Canmore, you must needs do justice to my diligence in recording important transactions. Though you should not hear from me for half a year to come, these commentaries will bear witness of my unshaken fidelity. Now let me hear you venture, after this, to say you have nothing mate- rial. In return for these reveries of solitude, you owe me something from the busy haunts of men. Retirement at the Fairley is a mere pretence. You go to be merry, and at ease, among your in- timates, and then call it retiring. We found all well at home, and the little gemini the finest amus- ing little creatures. How lucky for you that I am near the end of my paper, or they might " Live in description, and look squat in song" ;" for squat they both are, this moment, on the floor. But I cannot " paint, ere they change, the Cynthia ,<>f the minute," though you should take an inter- est in them as the favourite playthings of your af- fectionate friend ! -- >

THE MOUNTAINS. 51

LETTER LXX. 1O MRS. SMITH, GLASGOW.

» Laggariy Oct. 7, 1791.

. MY DEAR FRIEND,

BY a letter from Charlotte, while at Edin- burgh, I find there is one from you on the way ; so that I can write again without descending from my dignity ; and I can do this with the more ease of mind, as my little twins are now recovered from the small-pox. They are the best children I ever had, and very healthy and pleasant-looking. My eldest girl is now staying here, and your name- daughter with Duncan at the Fort. *******

These are the outlines, as far as I can draw them, of this triad. You will smile, and call it a panegyrick. Though very unlike each other in many respects, one characteristick feature of similitude runs through them all. They are all artless and disin- terested : no traces of mean cunning or selfish grasping. This is an indication of an enlarged mind ; and, besides the future promise, has a pres- ent good effect. Whatever they have they share, with each other with readiness and pleasure ; so there is one source of wrangling and debate stop- ped. They all give pretty strong proofs of feeling as wqll as understanding ; and it is by the manage- ment of these feelings that I propose, in a great

52- LETTERS FROM

measure, to sway them, till their minds open and strengthen, so that one may reason with them without teaching themflarrotism. This, perhaps, might not be a safe way in the world ; but, if ever children can be brought up with uncorrupted hearts, they have a chance of being so. Their number, and being altogether strangers to those indulgences which wealth and ease admit of, will entirely prevent their being softened into a sickly sensibility, by those feelings being exercised. For the art lies in directing them to those ends for which it is presumed they were bestowed. In the first place, I am at the utmost pains to fix their affections ; we should be unhappy if we thought they loved any one near so well as their parents. Indulgence will not produce this effect solely, for to that there must at last be limits ; and a child, who is very seldom refused any thing, considers refusal as injury. When this happens oftener, the fear of being mortified makes him reflect before he makes any request, whether it be a proper one. One or two indulged children might be indured j but a large family of them would be Tophet and Gehenna. The thing is, to endeavour early so to manage their feelings and affections, that they shall shrink from the idea of giving pain to those they love. Having made sure of their affectioni the next point is to secure their esteem, that it may stamp authority on my decisions, and pre- serve that respect so necessary for maintaining; my influence. Shall I confess to you, that the

THE MOUNTAINS. 53

most finished coquette was never at greater pains to appear to advantage before her lovers, than I am to conceal every defect and weakness from my children. Thus I endeavour, by exciting their veneration, to preserve my ascendancy over their flexible and unformed minds. My great object is to form their hearts to an ardent love of virtue, to a generous admiration of superior excellence, and to compassion, not only for the weaknesses but even the vices of their fellow creatures. I would have them cherish those pure and delicate senti- ments, which make the vices of others not appear to them as objects of acrimonious censure and self-applauding comparison ; that they shall as habitually turn from the view of human nature thus degraded and deformed, as we do from any object that is peculiarly disgusting to our senses. In that case, they will turn their eyes with pleasure on every view of the human character which still retains any traces of that divine image in which we were created ;

" Tho' sullied and dishonour'd, still divine." It is not by formal maxims, or frigid precepts, that we teach them the great doctrines of morali- ty ; yet we are continually in a powerful, though indirect manner impressing them on their minds. I never forbid them formally to steal or covet, to envy or traduce, because, " they have the com- mandments," and are taught to reverence them as the dictates of inspiration ; and because I never observed in them the least symptom of a E 2

54 LETTERS FROM

sordid or malignant inclination. But in my gen- eral discourse, in the conversation I have with their father, or others, in their presence, I always set the contrary virtues in the strongest, fairest light ; avoid as much as possible, talking of other people's follies or crimes ; and, should they be casually mentioned, pass them lightly over with an air of indifference or disgust, not calculated to excite their attention or curiosity. JTis a sad thing that children should be taught, by the ex- ample of their seniors, to pursue vice into all its dirty recesses ; and to triumph in their superior- ity and discernment in making discoveries, which when they are made, afford neither profit nor pleasure. I prefer the more pleasing task of in- sinuating instruction, and awaking1 the generous thrill of emulative desire, by pointing out to their enamoured view all that is great, lovely, or ex- cellent, in the characters of the living or the dead ; nay, even of those that never lived or died, except in the creative imagination of poets and philoso- phers. Not but that I greatly prefer examples drawn from reality. What is necessary to be known of evil, by way of guard or prevention, may be very soon acquired ; for the whole world are in a combination to impress that kind of in- struction. When I have warmed their hearts, and enriched their minds, with abstracts of all that wisdom and devotion, truth, honour, magnanimity, and tenderness have done to adorn and exalt our nature, I descend a step lower in the scale of ex-

THE MOUNTAINS. 55

istence, and make them observe and admire the fidelity, affection, maternal tenderness, attachment, and gentleness, which are seen in little birds and domestick animals. All this helps to impress still stonger on their minds the sense I would have them entertain of these qualities whenever they meet with them. After thus endeavouring to give a right direction to that generosity and ten- d erness with which it has pleased God to endow them, I would (though I know them myself) be at no great pains to teach them those refinements in manners which it is become fashionable to talk so much about. The kind and degree of good breeding I should most approve and wish for, will naturally result from a well principled mind, a feeling heart, and a just and cultivated taste. Especially \vhen the manners of those they look up to for examples are not devoid of that softness which delicacy of sentiment always produces. Forms and punctilio are the mere superstition of good breeding, easily acquired and of little value. The ease of fashionable manners, the determined self-confident ease, nothing but mixing much with fashionable people can give : at least I should suspect a little native bronze, where it grew wild. A person, who, to a good, and in some measure cultivated, understanding, adds modesty, gentle- . ness, and some refinement of taste, may not be elegant, but can scarcely be vulgar. And such manners may, by a slight culture, be improved into elegant simplicity, of all elegant things the

56 LETTERS FROM

most desirable. Though elegance should prove unattainable, I would still have that simplicity, both in their taste and manners which would be most suitable to the humble station in which Prov- idence has placed them ; and, at the same time, have their minds impressed with that true digni- ty, which is compatible with any station which one may suppose the daughter of a gentleman, in the ordinary course of life, either to raise or sink into. You know what my religious opinions are, and what unspeakable importance I attach to them ; so you may believe we are at all time s anxious to leave this invaluable legacy unimpaired to those who have so little beside to inherit from us. On these subjects you and I have but one opinion ; and I am so unfashionable as to think, one nev- er can begin too soon to direct a child's hopes and fears to their proper and ultimate object ; though reason must not be addressed till it un- folds, for fear of teaching children to use words without annexing ideas to them, which is just the parrotism that I dislike. You will wonder to see me dwell so much on cultivating the taste, when I am such an admirer of undisguised nature ; but I respect taste as an outguard of virtue ; a just and regulated' taste would make the levity, the absurdity, the cunning and meanness, which often accompany depraved inclinations, more obvious and disgusting. Besides, it places every charm of all-beauteous nature, every grace and ornament of ingenious art, in the fairest point of view ;

THE MOUNTAINS. 57

which has the happiest effect upon the heart and temper. Time and paper so confine me, that I must reserve all that crowds on me to answer the objections you will naturally make to this mode of education. My children, you will say, after being brought up to my wish, will be, after all, but amiable ignoramuses, unacquainted with human life, and unable, from their extreme simplicity, to ward off the blows of malice, or avoid the snares of deceit. Some acquaintance \\ith human de- pravity, you will say, is necessary for enabling us to act with due caution in a corrupt world. I an- swer, that they will find too many instructors in this crooked science, and know but too soon what every one is too willing and able to teach. Deli- cacy and a high principle is a better guard than cunning and suspicion. A person possessed of the former qualities, feels not at home or easy with artificial characters, and shrinks unconscious- ly from the approach of the callous and designing. A large family is a little community within itself. The variety of dispositions, the necessity of mak- ing occasional sacrifices of humour and inclina- tion, and, at other times, resisting aggression or encroachment, when properly directed by an over- ruling mind, teach both firmness and flexibility, as the occasion may call forth the exercise of those qualities. Respect and submission to the elder branches of a family, tenderness and for- bearance to the younger, all tend more to moral improvement, if properly managed, than volumes

38 LETTERS FROM

of maxims and rules of conduct. With regard to modesty and deference too, people in our situation must needs enforce those in self defence. In a cottage, where children are continually under the eye of their parents, and confined within narrow bounds, petulance would be purgatory. This de- tail of mine wants nothing but a little method and arrangement to be the ape of a lecture. Regard, however, with indulgence, the hasty sketch, which conveys to you some idea of the manner in which we endeavour to discharge the most important of all social obligations, though a most confused and imperfect abstract of our own very imperfect scheme. You will be partial to it, merely because it is ours. If you are disappointed, my best apol- ogy must be reminding you how often you have so- licited this brief chronicle. Now reward my te- dious blear-eyed vigil, by giving me as minute an account of your family as I have given you of mine. Mr. Grant begs to be warmly remembered to Mr. Smith, who, I trust, has not forgotten that I can't endure to be forgotten. I am charmed with the accounts I hear of Mrs. B.'s little family. Make my love acceptable to her, and believe me, in spite of matrimony, distance, and Drimochter, most truly, most tenderly, yours.

THE MOUNTAINS. 59

LETTER LXXL TO MISS OURRY.

Laggan, Oct. 14, 1791.

MY DEAR FRIEND,

YOU may believe I received with very great pleasure an assurance of what before I greatly doubted, that you will once more breathe the pure mountain gales, impregnated with whole- some heath, and diffusive of the spirit of whole- some poverty ; the train of rigid, sinewy, and hard-featured virtues superadded. You see, not- withstanding your good-humoured irony, the hy- pothesis of situation continues to be a favourite one with me, and I despair not of making you, on rational grounds, a proselyte to my opinion. When France was the land of wit and refinement, if not of wisdom, it was a maxim of one of its best au- thors, that we are all in some degree, les animauoc d* habitude, that, in short, forms of life tincture our virtues with their peculiar die, and not only often produce, but in some measure excuse and palliate our vices. This is no nattering hypothe- sis for me. It always humbles me in my own eyes, by reminding me, that from the examples I have seen, from the pure precepts, and safe ob- scurity under the influence of which I was edu- cated, far from all that corrupts the heart and dazzles the imagination ; I say when I reflect on

60 LETTERS FROM

all these collateral aids to the propensities of a warm heart, in which the seeds of truth were early sown, I must in common honesty disclaim your compliments. So circumstanced, I must have been a monster of depravity, had I acted through life with less practical reverence for virtue than I have done. Though I have all the abhorrence of vice natural to a person of strong feeling, living much out of its reach ; yet, when I see, as it often happens, strong flashes of generosity, probity, and humanity, breaking through the gloom of mental sloth and ignorance, and casting a transient lustre over characters, debased by habitual vices, which too early intercourse with a bad world have pro- duced, my heart melts to think how amiable those might have been, had they gone out into the world, fortified with good principles, and acquainted with sublimer pleasures than the world has to bestow.

Now here are two marked instances

of virtues so modified, that have had no small in- jluence on your own mind.

I see you have greatly mistaken my political creed, which is borrowed from a much sounder judgment than my own, and much nearer your own than you are aware of. The only real griev- ance Scotland labours under, originates with land- holders ; perhaps, more remotely, in commerce ; since the tide of wealth which commerce has poured into the northern part of the island, has led our trading people to contend with our gentry, in all the exterior elegances of life. The latter

THE MOUNTAINS. 61

seem stung with a jealous solicitude to preserve their wonted ascendancy over their new rivals. This pre-eminence can only be kept up by height- ening at all hazards their lands. Thus the ancient adherents of their families are displaced. These, having been accustomed to a life of devotion, simplicity, and frugality, and being bred to en- dure hunger, fatigue, and hardship, while fol- lowing their cattle over the mountains, or navi- gating the stormy seas that surround their islands, form the best resource of the state, when diffi- culties, such as the inhabitants of a happier region are strangers to, must be encountered for its ser- vice. When we consider this world as merely a passing scene, at the conclusion of which the question will not be, who has supported the most consequential character, but who has acted best the part allotted, we must look upon that as the best destination, which affords the widest scope for the exercise and effects of various virtues. In civilized society, wealth does, and must give in- fluence ; but it would be a wretched state indeed, in which wealth should be the only distinction. A man whose ancestors have rendered themselves for a course of time eminent in the state, as gen- erally some among them, to whom he looks back for example, and whose virtues and abilities re- flect lustre on his descendants. Though the de- pravity of our nature appears but too conspicuous- ly among the higher classes of mankind, yet among these too, talents ajid merit appear with

VOL. II. V

62 LETTERS FROM

greater splendour, and are of more ornament and service to mankind, than the same qualities in their inferiors. Condescension and affability, for instance, would vanish, if we were all equal. The charity and hospitality of a nobleman will be more admired and imitated than the same qualities in a \vealthy tradesman :

" A saint in crape, is twice a saint in lawn." In short, every thing that decorates, or enlightens, is best seen from an eminence. Nothing but pure patriotism, great poverty, and perfect equality, an assemblage we shall never see combined, could make a republick on a large scale at all supporta- ble. Believe me, I have no prejudice against mon- archy, mildly exercised, or duly limited ; I con- sider it as an institution, naturally growing out of that patriarchal sovereignty, which, in the primi- tive ages, the parent, doubly revered for his many years and great experience, was wont to exercise over his numerous and obedient offspring. In a state, where no unalloyed good is indulged to us, we often shew our best wisdom, when of many evils we choose the least. For my own part, though I were so French and so new-fangled as to consider all legal governments as monsters let loose to cat up liberty, I should still prefer the three-headed Cerberus, whose salutary terrors prevent the condemned from entering the regions of bliss, like our threefold government, whose terrors only affect the wicked ; even this, I say, I should prefer to the many-headed hydra, who.

THE MOUNTAINS. 63

breathing death and contagion indiscriminately, may represent the barbarous genius of mob gov- ernment. Now that I am got into classical allu- sions, permit me to Burkify a little longer, and to assure you that I should be very much grieved to see that good old lady, or gentleman, (I know not which to call it,) the Constitution, cut up and dis- membered, because it has a few wrinkles or gray hairs, or to see Medea's old kettle put on again,

while Mr. and Lord L. stood chief cooks, and

Tom Paine scullion. I think I see Mary W

and so many more publick-spirited ladies bringing aprons-full of herbs, like witches, to the magick cauldron. The ways of the Almighty baffle our penetration. This temporary triumph of irre- ligion and false philosophy will tear the mask oft' the monster, who, wrapt in the specious disguise of moderation, and speaking the language of sen- timent and liberality, has for near a century past been undermining the foundations of religion and morality. What pains have been taken to promulgate that profound discovery, " that big- otry and religious zeal have done more hurt in society, than skepticism and all the mere spec- ulative evils of philosophy." The reason is plain. Great bodies of people were confederated together, under the influence of bigotry and superstition. The crafty and ambitious few made the passions of the well-meaning, though ignorant many, sub- servient to their cruelty and avarice, and thus pro- duced those tragedies which deform the face of

64 LETTERS FROM

history. But hitherto these enlightened philoso- phers have been dispersed here and there, without numbers or cohesion to enable them to begin their practical operations. We have never, till now, seen a nation of refined enlightened infidels gov- erned by the dictates of philosophy ; and it is to be hoped that the world will be terrified and warn- ed by the dreadful spectacle. I here dedicate to you the first-fruits of my pen upon the arduous and intricate subject of politicks ; and as I am pretty much of opinion it will also be my last excursion into those unexplored regions, pray regard it with some fellow feeling, it being, like yourself, an only child. Mr. Grant has not yet conquered his aston- ishment at your growing fat. " Bless me, Miss Ourry fat ! 'tis impossible :" his fancy had formed you a mere skeleton. A few gray hairs begin already to adorn my temples. The small portion which fell to my share of " celestial rosy red," has most ambitiously forsaken its native station, and mounted up to my " lack-lustre eyes." Con- stant solicitude and the cares of the nursery have made me

" Like a meagre mope adust and thin,

In a loose night-gown of my own wan skin." I will describe no longer. Come, see, and con- quer. Receive numberless loves from those I best love, and believe me

Yours, from her heart, and unaltered.

THE MOUNTAINS. 6,5

LETTER LXXII.

TO MISS OURRY.

Laggcm, Oct. 30, 1791'. YOU will not let me alone, nor will I give up my point. In spite of your raillery, I insist that the ties of blood bind stronger, and the duties of relationship are better understood in the High- lands, than any where else. I by no means except the Low country of Scotland. This too is not a reflected moral sense of duty, but the mere effect of honest habits and salutary prejudices. 3Tis a sin- gular instance of the Almighty's goodness, that,- in these poor barren countries, from which he has withheld so many of the blessings he bestows on others, the few who possess any portion of wealth should be stimulated by those kindly pro- pensities to diffuse it among their remote relations. These last, besides the habitual pride and indo- lence attending imagined high birth, have not, from education or situation, the means of procur- ing a livelihood, as in wealthy and commercial countries. This, no doubt, forms no pleasant chain of dependence, but in this, as in many other instances,

"What happier nature shrinks at with affright,

The hard inhabitants contend is right." Though I applaud this reverence for kindred, I do not benefit by it ; but on the contrary, though F 2

66 LETTERS FROM

I regard my neighbours with the utmost esteem and good will, I cannot give away any thing so precious as friendship to any one, who, after all, would prefer the most insignificant of her third cousins to me. Believe me, my children, though prepared to love and admire you, are neither taught to expect a beauty, wit, or fine lady ; but one who has no small merit in disclaiming pre- tensions to all those envied characters, and asso- ciating, by a rare combination, softness of manners with strength of mind, vivacity with reflection, and that common useful sense which hourly dis- cerns the proper and expedient in ordinary life, with that delicacy of perception which apprehends and tastes all that enlightens the understanding and enlarges the heart, in knowledge or sentiment. If, as you say, no wandering rivulet renovates your powers, you are surely like the Leeward Islands, visited by frequent water-spouts, that is, inspira- tions, that fertilize your intellects. I certainly have an ample cistern which retains all I acquire : this common observers mistake for a fountain. Tell Miss M. I love her as well as one can love a rival. Mr. Grant sends you his benediction, and rejoices to think your portly figure will do credit to his housekeeping, though I should still lament my leanness.

Adieu, dearest.

THE MOUNTAINS

LETTER LXXIII.

TO MISS OURKY.

Laggan, Nov. 19, 1791. YOU cannot conceive, indeed you cannot, how reviving the cordial warmth of your last let- ter was to my drooping heart — a heart from which all the cares and all the tendernesses arising out of a family, so large, so helpless, so loving and beloved, cannot exclude you. For the years I thought you dead, and when you were dead to me, your image would very often recur with a short quick pang, like that which now accompanies the angelick form of my dear lost Petrina, when it beams across my fancy ; for indeed I do not sit down to grieve, but endeavour to pay the best tribute to her memory, by a sedulous discharge of my various and complicated duties to those who loved her so tenderly while she was lent to us. I think of every thing I see with a reference to how you will like it. I foolishly think that you will be as much pleased as I am at all the budding virtues and graces with which my sanguine fancy decorates my children ; little considering that, from the external elegance to which you have been accustomed, they must at best appear to you, at first, a parcel of awkward cubs, unformed and overgrown. The culture of the heart is our great object. We let the acquisition of knowledge,

68 LETTERS FROM

manners, Sec. goon/wawo till we make sure of the main point. Where the natural temper is mild and generous, and theirs appears very much so, deep impressions of integrity and early habits of benevolence must communicate to the manners the unconstrained air of open rectitude, and that animated softness which a disinterested wish to please always produces. Indeed we have few maxims ; one of those few is, that it is easier to be than to seem.

*######

She* inquired about you of her brother, who spoke so highly of you, that she was quite delight- ed with the thoughts of making such an addition to the stock of living merit within the circle of her personal knowledge, and pleases herself with the thoughts of bringing you here herself, and setting you down at our little gate, where she hopes to meet yet another white crow, to express it elegantly. There is nothing like concluding a period sublimely ; yet I should not conclude with- out telling you that Mr. Macintosh is a man worth taking a journey to see, not of active benevolence only, but of restless, impetuous benevolence. I will teach you to venerate him at more leisure,

having now no time to do him justice.

I will no more wander into the maze of politicks, being sufficiently occupied with the care of our limited (very limited) monarchy at home, in which

* Mrs. Macintosh, of Dunchattan, with whose broth- er, Dr. John Moore, Mis.s Ourry was well acquainted.

THE MOUNTAINS 6<J

I participate, by turns, the legislative and execu- tive powers, and though I never aim at despotism, try to keep firm to my -veto. Our tumults in the north appear aggravated and formidable to you in London, which is the region of political panicks. Honest John Bull is very liable to the vapours ; and the stocks

" Turn at the touch of joy or woe,

But, turning1, tremble too ;"

of which those, who live by feeling their pulse, take the advantage. The only cause of complaint in Scotland is the rage for sheep-farming. The families removed on that account, are often as numerous as our own. The poor people have neither language, money, nor education, to push their way any where else ; though they often possess feelings and principles: that might almost rescue human nature from the reproach which false philosophy and false refinement have brought upon it. Though the poor Ross-shire people were driven to desperation, they even then acted under a sense of rectitude, touched no property, and in- jured no creature. As for the mobs in towns, they are mere ebullitions of ignorance and wan- tonness in a people who were never so rich be- fore, and to whom wealth and freedom are such novelties, that they know not the true use or bounds of either. I got your letters regularly from the quarter-deck, and wrote to you by the Fingalian cover. Tell Miss M. I respect her for her own sake, and love her for yours.

Adieu ! my dearest N,

70 LETTERS FROM

LETTER LXXIV. TO MRS. MACINTOSH.

Laggcm, Jan. 21, 1792.

DEAR MADAM,

THE deep sense I feel of the kindness ex- pressed in your much valued letter, and the con- solation which the acquisition of regard, from a character so estimable, affords, even under the pressure of my present affliction, encourages me to write to you, even now, when I am very unfit to communicate my ideas, except where they will be received with the most partial indulgence. I know it is unbecoming, nay, almost unchristianly, in me, to use the emphatick language cf sorrow, in speaking of an infant's happy transition from the dangers and snares of this chequered scene to a state of stable felicity. She is departed before she has known sin or sorrow, and before we could have room to judge whether those beautiful blos- soms of sprightliness, generosity, and tenderness, which charmed us so much in her enticing little ways, would ever ripen into the expected fruit. My reason not only acquiesces in the justice of the dispensation, but my heart so far acknowledges its mercy, that could a wish bring my darling back to my bosom, I think I would not form that wish. She was so unusually strong and healthy, that, we dreamt not of fear till it became too late. She spoke to me in a clear, distinct voice, shewing

THE MOUNTAINS. 71

tokens of the fondest affection, three hours before her death. Thus, you see, the stroke was very sudden. Then we had such delight in her ; not only for her own sake, but for the great resem- blance she bore to her dear departed brother, whose every look and gesture was restored in her. So that her death was just like losing him over again. It is also so melancholy to see the poor thing that remains, wandering like a ghost, and constantly bewailing her sister.

*******

Things are far better as they are. I once thought nothing would have made me so happy as to renew in town some of my earliest attachments and former habits of life ; but how are we gov- erned by events ! An incident, which to an indif- ferent person, would appear of no great moment in so large a family as ours, has entirely altered my views. I see nothing now so desirable as, by residing here, to ensure taking my final residence with those who were so dear to me in life. I have said a great deal too much on this subject ; but you will forgive me for indulging my reflections at the expense of your patience. There are few things that could gratify me more than to find you so cordially interested in poor Charlotte. I am not a little pleased to find your sentiments and mine, concerning her, coincide so entirely. Her integrity of heart, her sincerity, and general rec- titude of intention, are such as, to one that knows her intimately, are sufficient to ensure esteem,

W LETTERS FROM

and even affection, beyond all that shines, and all that pleases, in those, whom happier fortunes, and a more finished education, have set in a fairer point of view. I am very well satisfied to find that she is going to stay for some time at Mr. D.'s.

I hope she will take particular care to

please those who are so well worth pleasing. I conclude, from her thorough confidence in you, from whom no thought of her heart is concealed, that you know of a visitor whom she daily expects. This visitor is certainly an object of compassion. That attachment, from the beginning so singular and romantick, seems daily increasing. I have so very good an opinion of the person in question, and so very bad an opinion of the safety or stabil- ity of such premature engagements -------

What to judge or to determine, I am utterly at a loss. I leave her then entirely to your direction, who, with equal warmth of good will towards her, have more judgment, experience and knowledge of the world.

********

I have received Mr. M.'s friendly letter, and feel the full force of his judicious and affectionate consolation. The hopes of seeing you here, at no very distant period, please me, even now, when very few things indeed have power to interest

Your obliged and faithful, &c.

THE MOUNTAINS. 73

LETTER LXXV. TO MRS. MACINTOSH.

Feb. 17, 1792.

DEAR MADA3Vf,

ONCE more returned from the limits of that undiscovered country, on whose dim-seen confines our hopes and fears are continually hov- ering, I devote one of the first efforts of my pen to you, who are so well entitled to every mark of grateful attention on my part, on my own account, as well as that of others, who engross my tender- est cares, and occasion me perpetual anxiety. For, though I am satisfied that they are much happier and more attended to than they could be with me, even the scenes of gaiety and pleasure, that I know them to be engaged in, are a source of in- quietude to my fond apprehensions. " Perfect love," we are told, " casteth out fear." That may be the case when it is fixed on the All-perfect Object, who is alone worthy to excite and engross it; but when our weak human affections are en- gaged by beings as imperfect as ourselves, fear and doubt continually mingle with them. When my young travellers return to the cottage, the|ir allotted home, it will require more than common reflection and solidity to reconcile them to still life, frugality, and homely habits ; though after all, I sincerely believe it is the state most akin to safe-

VOL. II. G

F4 LETTERS FROM

ty and comfort. I am sorry to find those mutable beings, who change their sentiments and opinions so often and so easily, never once think of chang- ing for the right) or even for a better system.

„ ___ The less one

thinks of human depravity, the better ; one can't mend it ; and 'tis only being either sorry or angry to very little purpose. Charlotte says, she has been at a ball lately, which concludes her publick exhibitions for the season. I am glad of it ; for though I must own my vanity is much flattered by the admiration which her person and manners have excited, and that I am gratified by the pleas- ure she receives, my judgment and my fears mil- itate against her growing familiar to the publick eye. Her situation is too peculiar and delicate, to make it safe for her to attract so much atten- tion. This will not fail to turn the jealous and scrutinizing eye of female envy upon her. Publick admiration is a thing that soon dies of itself. A person who might never have had a wish for it, will feel forlorn at its departure. Besides, a per- son admired solely for beauty, will be always con- sidered as a mere pretty girl ; her merit will never be thought of. My young daughterly the by, has as much merit as any lady of her age can have ; for she is very quiet and never disobeys me. Having few good things to bestow on her, we resolved to begin with giving her a good name, and have called her Anne Ourry. Let me not be forgotten on the Dune ; and believe me incapable of forgetting its inhabitants.

THE MOUNTAINS. 75

LETTER LXXVI. TO MISS OURRY.

Laggan, April 2, 1792.

•IV DEAR 1-RlEND,

I KNOW it will give you concern to hear that my silence for most part of this winter, was owing to illness. This, though not dangerous or alarming, was of such a nature as to throw the most oppressive gloom upon my spirits. I am none of those querulous beings who delight in brooding over evils, and oppressing their friends with all that troubles them. That sanguine turn of mind which you early remarked in me, has ac- companied me through all the vicissitudes of health and sickness, all the quick shifting scenes of joy and sorrow, that have occupied the inter- vening period. I have often, as now, waited months for an interval of health and cheerfulness? to visit an absent friend, with the breathings of a mind in some degree composed and cheerful. Since I have set out so hopefully with egotism, I will e'en give you the detail of my winter's confine- ment, and have done with it. All my transactions, nay, my very ideas, are so blended and interwoven with the dear branches that sprout and depend from me, that you must extend the toleration of friendship beyond its usual bounds, before you can truly relish my correspondence. You must

7Q LETTERS FROM

not only indulge egotism in the first person, but you must have patience with egotism once re- moved, and hear me speak of my children as dif- fusely as I do of myself. Did I ever tell you of another daughter I have, who, though not born to me, is as dear and has cost me much dearer, than any of the rest ? This daughter of my affection is called Charlotte Grant ; she is nearly related to Mr. G. ; was left motherless in her tenth year.

I have not at present, I feel I have not,

spirits or resolution to go through the detail I meant. Yet if I could, it would do more than amuse, it would deeply interest and affect you. When she found a temporary home in our family, I had the pleasure to observe, that though in a great measure neglected and uncultivated, she possessed a strength of intellect, a purity of senti- ment and rectitude of principle, that afforded the best foundation for the embellishments which in- struction might add to the rich gifts of nature. It was evident that this disposition would richly reward the labour of any one who should by a lit- tle culture, unfold the beauties of a mind, which, though untainted with vice and undebased by fol- ly, had been so clouded by seclusion, and so shut up by reserve, that it required some penetration to discover of what it was capable.

My very friends were all against me ; they were sure my anxious tenderness for this amiable suf- ferer, and the trouble I should take about her,

THE MOUNTAINS. 77

would be a fresh source of painful solicitude to a mind already enfeebled with many cares. But I was resolute. Why should I renew my own sorrows, by telling you what difficulties and embarrassments attended the outset of my plan, what weeding and pruning I had to go through, and how I sacrificed every thing to the one favourite object of makiirg this child of sorrow appear to the world that lovely and estimable object for which nature de- signed her. I will rather invite your gratulation, by telling you how amply my cares have been re- paid, and how richly her warm gratitude, her rapid improvement, and the justice which even the self- ish world now does to her distinguished merit> have recompensed me for all I have done and

suffered. She has spent the two last

winters in town,* where she is very much admired and caressed. The other season she passes with us, and is as sedulous in her endeavours to share and soften the many cares incident to my large family, and bustling manner of life, as the most dutiful child could possibly bo* I find her now a most pleasing and rational companion, possessed of genuine sentiment, without romantick extrava- gance. She joins to the open and generous spirit of youth, a depth and solidity of reflection, which is the natural result of early affliction in a strong and well principled mind. She is admired for

* The toivn — throughout the western Highlands, means G 2

78 LETTERS FROM

beauty more by others than by me. But she con- fessedly excels in grace and elegance. Her countenance is certainly most singularly interest- ing ; and her manner, her air, her figure, and her motions, have all a mingled softness and dignity peculiar to herself. My eldest daughter lives constantly with my father and mother, who are very- happy in their new establishment. She shews a taste for letters, and a retentive memory. Her temper is even and placid. I have her here just now, and propose sending her to town, where I hope she will not only derive benefit from the schools she is to attend, but from the society and example of a lady of genuine worth, an old and true friend of mine, with whom she is to reside. By all that is sweet in sympathy, or sacred in friendship, I conjure you to write before youV heart cools, after perusing this desultory scroll. Should my present indisposition terminate fatally, it will be the last instance of long tried love and truth. Mr. G. insists on being crowded in. Ac- cept his regards, and believe I shall be to the last

hour of recollection, yours, Sic.

*#*##*-*

Yet could I invite you to share in the perfection of rural elegance ; could I send my carriage for you, 8tc. 8cc. with what eager importunity would I urge you ! You must allow I have been very modest on this subject ; the favour coming so entirely from your side, makes it far more pleas- ing to look forward to, than if I had urged you to

ft

THE MOUNTAINS. 79

take a journey so fatiguing, and share accommoda- tion so unlike what you have been used to. The consciousness of all this has made me mention my very wishes on the subject with fear and trem- bling. One text more, and I have done on

the subject. We all know him to be the man of wisdom, but you must also allow him to be a man effecting, who said, " Hope deferred makes the heart sick/* You gratify me beyond expres- sion by your ideas, so different from those of the rest of the world, and so consonant to my own, regarding the views and notions with which I ought to inspire my children. On a subject which thrills through the deepest recesses of the heart, and awakens all the ardour of enthusiasm, to find in a kindred bosom the image of our own reflec- tions and sensations, affords a pleasure like that of hearing unexpectedly the sweetest musick in per- fect unison with the awakened sensibility of the moment. Soon may you see those children whom I have been endeavouring to train to the exercise of humble and patient virtue. You will see, that, like the Laplanders,

" They love their mountains, and enjoy their storms ; No false desires, no pride-created wants, Disturb the peaceful current of their time."

*******

Our manner of living here is in some degree pa- triarchal. The large family of artless primitive people we are obliged to keep about, and the number of our children, who look up to us as the

80 LETTERS FROM

only object of love and veneration, occasion our lives to be spent in alternate acts of power and beneficence. Now what more have kings, but trappings and pageantry ! When shall I hear of your appearing at the bar of the national assembly, to claim the rights you inherit as representative of the eldest branch of your family ? for so you seem entitled to do by their late liberal edicts. Pray has Miss Malliet caught the Gallomania ? Yet its infection spreads widely. Farewell, hear- tily ! as the king says.

LETTER LXXVIL TO MRS. SMITH, GLASGOW.

Laggan, Feb. 11, 1793.

MY DEAR FRIEND,

I AM just recovering from an indisposition so severe, that it would have robbed you of a cor- respondent if it had continued much longer. This is a sickly season, even amidst these mountains, where the keen atmosphere is so often agitated with storms, as well .as by the dashing torrents, that it seldom* stagnates into impurity. This, with the temperance and exercise which whole- some poverty produces, is the reason that death confines his ravages to infancy and declining age. There are very few instances here, of people dying in early youth ; and, when they do happen,

THE MOUNTAINS, 81

they seem -objects of general concern and specu- lation. Mr. G. had a relation, a young lady re- markable for nothing but singular mildness, piety? and prudence. Having been from her earliest youth subject to nervous affections, she became last winter quite emaciated and enfeebled, and at last died of a mismanaged rose fever, like my sweet Petrina. Yet every one insisted that her death was caused by grief for the loss of her brother. Another young creature, who has lan- guished all this winter with similar complaints, is pronounced to be dying of love, though no mor- tal can say of whom. Thus primitive and roman- tick are the notions of our mountaineers. I am now to notify to you a removal, in which you will, for my sake, be interested : it is that of my father from Fort George to Glasgow, which you know was matter of doubtful speculation, but is now de- cided. I feel the increased distance very pain- fully ; yet there are many considerations, which at more leisure I will explain to you, that recon- cile me to.it. I have lived so long entirely for others, that self-denial becomes with me rather a habit than a virtue ; and whatever is proposed or thought of, it is not my own gratification, but the manner in which it affects the various branches of my individual self, that occurs first to me. I have likewise to inform you that Miss Gurry comes positively about the beginning of May. Glasgow is out of her way, and she will grudge every hour she is absent from us, after she enters Scotland

82 LETTERS FROM

She cannot stand a Highland winter,- and Miss Malliet will not be happy if she does not return at the appointed time. When that comes, I shall probably accompany her to Glasgow, and see my father's family, including some of my own, settled. I hope you do not think I had the confidence to urge my friend to come to such a place, and such humble accommodation. She invited herself most cordially, and I received her proffered visit with grateful joy ; but I have most pathetically repre- sented how like our peat reek, &c. are to the com- forts of Quilca and Cavan, immortalized by Swift. Yet she is unalterable, and I rejoice thereat. The ancestors of this lady and her friend both left France, for conscience sake, on the repeal of the Edict of Nantz, and they have no doubt many re- lations there. Judge how they must be affected by the state of that unhappy country, and what their feelings must be in consequence of the last fatal catastrophe. It was but last night we heard it. News reaches us but slowly. Would you think, after being so long engrossed by.domestick cares and anxieties, and drinking so lately the bit- ter draught of private and particular sorrow, that I should weep for aking? I wonder at itmyself ; and yet I wept abundantly, and was disturbed and agitat- ed all night. I am still under a dead weight of sad- ness : the recent wound of my heart, which is but skinned over, seeks only a pretence to bleed anew. Do you feel thus ? Pray get the tragedy of Agis, and read it for my sake and that of the

THE MOUNTAINS. 83

1'rench King. I remember when I was very young, and felt deep impressions from what I read, I was charmed with the choruses in that tragedy. I am as usual haunted with an apposite quotation :

When Joves decrees a nation's doom, He calls their worthies to the tomb. Fearless they fall, immortal rise, And claim the freedom of the skies.

He fell not as the warrior falls, Whose breast defends his native walls ; To treason Agis bow'd his head, And by his "guilty subjects bled.

I have altered one word, to make it the better ap- ply to the benign Louis. I have observed in the history of all nations, that when the women be- came impudent and licentious, and the sacred bond of marriage was made light of, that nation's downfall was near. We are very consequential beings, believe me. The purity of female man- ners is the basis on which, morally speaking, all the order and virtue of society are founded. Who cares for his country but in consequence of first loving the relations who attach him to it ? And who can care much for parents, brothers, and chil- dren, where relationship is dubious ? It is an abominable state of society ; even setting the great cordial of life, the hope of futurity, out of the question ! May you and I never live to see our dear country tainted with this infectious depravi- ty ! I am, in joy and sorrow, yours unalterably.

84 LETTERS FROM

LETTER LXXVI1I. TO MRS. MACINTOSH, GLASGOW.

Laggan, March 20, 1793.

DEAR MADAM,

I HAVE been for some days tortured with a most outrageous tooth-ach. I now snatch a lu- cid interval, which I fear will be but a short one, to enjoy and acknowledge the lively and sincere pleasure I feel from your intimation through Charlotte, I mean of your intention of coming in June. I hope your jaunt will .be favoured with good weather, and that you will see the harsh fea- tures of nature around us softened into their mild- est aspect. I flatter myself novelty will make you us partial to these wild and solitary scenes, as hab- it has made me. You shall have one of the warm- est corners both in our cottage, and in our hearts. If you come while Miss Ourry stays, each of you, I am sure, will put up with a little crowding, to share these apartments, or rather compartments, with the other. If you set out so soon as I wish, and hope, I dare say you will get the start of her, and be first in possession. She was detained in Lon- don three weeks beyond her intention, settling the affairs of an old grand-uncle. That intricate piece of business is now, I hope, satisfactorily concluded. Not hearing of her this fornight, I take for granted she has begun her journey. By

THE MOUNTAINS. 35

letters from Edinburgh I find our friends there are very willing to do her the honours of the good town most completely. Their politeness, and the fatigues of the former journey, may perhaps de- tain her there for some days. Among the various obligations I owe to you, the interest I am told you take in this highly valued friend, is not the least. The affection that subsists between her and me is too old, and too mellow, for the little jealousies and monopolies of recent girlish attachments. It is like a deep rooted tree, which, far from re- quiring to be fenced or propped up, extends its shelter to younger plants around it. By loving each other so long and so well, our hearts are more jitted to pay the warm tribute of esteem to merit wherever it exists. By reciprocal sympa- thy, we feel as if engaged for each other in debts of gratitude and kindness. Here you have a rhapsody, a simile, and I know not what. Peor pie, at my time of day, seldom deck out common objects with the vivid hues of enthusiam. But you have only to account for this natural curiosity* of a latter spring in the imagination, by supposing that in the tooth-ach, as in the gout, the intervals of ease are distinguished by an uncommon flow of spirits. As I take it for granted you come rather with a pious intention to hermitize and contem- plate, than with any view to amusement, I shall be in no pain for the sameness that awaits you here. Being a lover of nature, and a mother, perhaps it will afford you some pleasure to see a family of VOL. ir. H

86 LETTERS FROM

young creatures as happy as health, good nature, and perfect liberty, can make them ; who never knew what it was to form an artificial wish, or to have a natural one ungratified, unless it were for a little gilt book, whose wondrous assemblage of rare protraitures had excited their admiration. Your arrival will, I am sure, greatly revive Char- lotte, who has mourned immoderately for the great loss we have all sustained in Mrs. Mac P., of R.* I am happy to hear Miss P. has recovered, and has a prospect of passing the summer so agreea- bly, with the worthy family at Andmore, of whom I have been taught to think very highly indeed. Mr. G. joins in every good wish towards the dwellers on the Dune, and rejoices with me at the nearer prospect of seeing the lord of the said Dune

" Once more on the borders of the brawling brook.'* Believe me, my dear Madam, with warmest regard, Sec. See.

* Mrs. Macpherson, of Ralia, married to a near relation, an intimate friend, of the minister of Laggan. She was distinguished for beauty and understanding, and died a- bout her thirtieth year, on the birth of her youngest son, leaving- eleven children to lament her irreparable loss.

THE MOUNTAINS. 8?

LETTER LXXIX. TO MRS. BROWN, GLASGOW.

Laggan,Julij 23, 1793.

MY DEAR MRS. BROWN,

IF I had not been dying all winter, and half killed with fatigue all summer, in conse- quence of the number of things neglected which I was unable to overtake, it would have been un- pardonable in me to have been thus long silent to you, on whose friendship I set so great and just a value. Mrs. Smith says you had a sick child in your arms. This, I take for granted, was William, whom I know to be as fine a child as M — describ- ed. I think if there was any danger, she would have mentioned it more seriously. I am charmed

to hear you are so well pleased with , nor do

I much wonder at it, considering that there are many yoitisms about her ; though she wants that spirit of accuracy by which you were so early distinguished. She is active, lively, and has an ardent, generous disposition. This does not evaporate in profession, but labours rather to serve, than to please. For all your partiality, I still think she has many of the awkwardnesses which distinguish an unbred girl. Yet I willingly allow, it is not quite a vulgar awkwardness ; for, as I formerly observed to you, where there is mind, there is always, to a certain degree, manner. Miss

88 LETTERS FROM

Ourry and I used to call that embarrassment which results from much feeling and spirit, joined with little usage of the world, elegant awkwardness. I believe a certain portion of indifference must go towards the composition of perfect fashionable ease. You must be fully satisfied with yourself, before you can be fully convinced that every one else is satisfied with you, and the contrary idea is painful and embarrassing. I give you joy of the nephew or niece you are about to acquire. Your sister is astonished at my calling this a joyful event. No wonder, considering how I am worried and worn out with such acquisitions. Yet people here, though they should be at the utmost loss how to support their children, still continue to rejoice at every addition, and consider the loss of offspring as the greatest misfortune that can pos- sibly befall a family. Those who live in towns and highly civilized societies, where such numberless little somethings become necessary to make up the sum total of felicity, have no idea how strong the great simple outlines of what constitutes hap- piness in a state of nature, are drawn on the un- tutored heart. Without reasoning or reflecting, such hearts find the strongest and most pleasura- ble emotions excited, merely by the exercise of tender and laudable affections. Strangers to false refinement, and incapable from want of cultivation, of that exalted enjoyment that arises from senti- mental attachment, grounded on intellectual ex- cellence, the ties of nature, the " charities" of life,

THE MOUNTAINS. 89

are the great sources of their comfort, and sweet- en all their hardships. Since bad seasons, and new modes of farming, have impoverished the peasantry, I do not think there is a poor tenant in this parish, but what is in some measure support- ed by his children. And there is no instance of one failing in this tender retribution. Brought up with generous sentiments, but frugal and self- denying habits, they are not like the children of luxury and indulgence, whose desires go always beyond their acquisitions, and leave nothing for bounty or for gratitude. Neither are they like the groveling offspring of callous vulgarity, who are taught to glean and hoard and think for self only. I have rambled as usual. But I believe I at first meant to remark how insensibly, in course of time, we in some degree adopt the habits and prejudices of those about us, even while we pity their ignorance, and fancy ourselves more en- lightened. For my part, I have learnt to rejoice at the birth of people's fifteenth child, and to listen to stories of apparitions and predictions with, as much indulgence, though with less credulity, than N. B. Halhed exercises towards Brothers. For instance, t'other day, my dairy -maid, who has been above seven years in the house, and is a pious maiden, and a perfect treasury of local and tradi- tionary anecdote, told me a story, which I am going to translate literally for your behoof, and which I was forced to hear with a face of belief, for fear of being thought an infidel. I must premise that

90 LETTERS FROM

our dairy-maids always speak very wisely to the cows, though it is only in rare instances, like this, that the cows answer them. " Yesterday fort- night, (I am sure it is very true, for I saw a man with these eyes that saw the dairy-maid,) the min- ister of Mouline in Athol, you know — well, his dairy-maid went into the byre, and put out all the cows but one, who lay down and would not move : < Get up,' says the dairy -maid ; 4 I won't get up,' says the cow ; — < but you shall,' replied the dam- sel, a little startled. « Go to your master, and bid him come here,' says the cow. So the girl went, and her master came to the byre. c Get up,' said he to the cow ; « no, I won't,' said she, l I want to speak to you.' * Say on,' said her master, * since you are permitted.' The cow began; 'Ex- pect a summer of famine, a harvest of blood, and a winter of tears.' So then the cow went about her business." Now this fine story gains ample credit, and it would be thought impiety to doubt it. Could you have believed, that there existed manners and opinions so primitive as those which are still preserved in the parish of Laggan ? Will you condemn or laugh at my singularity, when I tell you, that I am so wearied and disgusted with seeing ignorant, conceited, and irreligious cox- combs, form absurd pretensions to reason and phi- losophy (by affecting to despise all that Newton, Boyle, Locke, and other lights and ornaments of their species believed, and all that inspiration and piety have taught,) that. I begin to think my poor

THE MOUNTAINS 9L

Anne's credulity more tolerable than such cold hearted skepticism ? I would, at any rate, sooner listen to the sad predictions of either Achilles' horse, or the minister of Mouline's cow, than to many " dreamers of gay dreams," who imagine themselves « wit's oracles." No doubt the true line lies between credulity and skepticism ; but if I quit that line, let me go where I am led by the imagination and the heart. Did you but know how very, very busy I have been all day, having twenty people at work, cutting our winter fuel in the moss, and only one servant at home to provide food for all these, with little aid, you would think my writing all this stuff, now that every body is asleep, as great an exertion as that of the minister of Mouline's cow. I bid you drowsily Adieu, for the first lark is warning me to bed, like an owl as I am.

LETTER LXXX.

TO MISS OURRY.

Glasgow, Jan. 2, 1794. I AM far from imputing neglect to you

after your two spirited efforts from F bridge

and London, and the other very pleasing testimo- nies of attention to my dear friends at Laggan, of which I heard as they passed through the town.

92 LETTERS FROM

After this elegant exordium, with which you must be greatly edified, it remains with me to account for staying so long here, contrary to my mate's tender injunction and your entreaties. First, then, my father has been very ill, and had I been much inclined, which I honestly confess was not the case, I could not, till now, have thought of return- ing. Then I have not put B. to school, or done half what I meant. I have seen Mary Woolstone- croft's book, which is so run after here, that there is no keeping it long enough to read it leisurely, though one had leisure. It has produced no other conviction in my mind, but that of the author's possessing considerable abilities, and greatly mis- applying them. To refute her arguments would be to write another and a larger book ; for there is more pains and skill required to refute ill-found- ed assertions, than to make them. Nothing can be more specious and plausible, for nothing can delight Misses more than to tell them they are as wise as their masters. Though, after all, they will in every emergency be like Trinculo in the storm, when he crept under Caliban's gaberdine for shelter. I consider this work as every way dangerous. First, because the author to consid- erable powers adds feeling, and I dare say a de- gree of rectitude of intention. She speaks from conviction on her own part, and has completely imposed on herself before she attempts to mislead you. Then because she speaks in such a strain of seeming piety, and quotes Scripture in a man-

THE MOUNTAINS. 93

ner so applicable and emphatick, that you are thrown off your guard, and surprised into partial acquiescence, before you observe that the deduc- tion to be drawn from her position, is in direct contradiction, not only to Scripture, reason, the common sense and universal custom of the world, but even to parts of her own system, and many of her own assertions. Some women of a good capacity, with the advantage of superior education, have no doubt acted and reasoned more conse- quentially and judiciously than some weak men ; but, take the whole sex through, this seldom hap- pens ; and were the principal departments, where strong thinking and acting become necessary, allotted to females, it would evidently happen so much the more rarely, that there would be little room for triumph, and less for inverting the com- mon order of things, to give room for the exercise of female intellect. It sometimes happens, espe- cially in our climate, that a gloomy, dismal winte r day, when all without and within is comfortless, is succeeded by a beautiful starlight evening, em- bellished with aurora borealis, as quick, as splen- did, and as transient, as the play of the brightest female imagination : of these bad days succeeded by good nights, there may, perhaps, be a dozen in the season. What should we think of a pro- jector, that, to enjoy the benefit of the one, and avoid the oppression of the other, should insist that people should sleep all day and work all night, the whole year round? I think the great

94 LETTERS FROM

advantage that women, taken upon the whole, 1 have over men, is, that they are more gentle, be- nevolent, and virtuous. Much of this only supe- riority they owe to living secure and protected in the shade. Let them loose, to go impudently through all the justling paths of politicks and business, and they will encounter all the corrup- tions that men are subject to, without the same powers either of resistance or recovery : for, the delicacy of the female mind is like other fine things ; in attempting to rub out a stain, you destroy the texture. I am sorry to tell you, in a -very low whisfier, that this intellectual equality that the Misses make such a rout about, has no real existence. The ladies of talents would not feel so overburdened, and at a loss what to do with them, if they were not quite out of the common course of things. Mary W. and some others put me in mind of a kitten we had last winter, who, finding a small tea-pot without a lid, put in its head, but not finding it so easy to take it out again, she broke the pot in the struggle ; her head how- ever, still remained in the opening, and she re- tained as much of the broken utensil round her neck, as made a kind of moveable pillory. She ran about the house in alarm and astonishment. She did not know what was the matter ; felt she, was not like other cats, but had acquired u greater power of making disturbance, which she was re- solved to use to the very utmost, and so would neither be quiet herself, or suffer any one else to

THE MOUNTAINS. 95

remain so. I leave the application to you. Our powers are extremely well adapted to the purposes for which they are intended ; and if now and then faculties of a superior order are bestowed upon us, they too are, no doubt, given for good and wise purposes, and we have as good a right to use them as a linnet has to sing ; but this so seldom hap- pens, and it is of so little consequence whether it happens or not, that there is no reason why Scrip- ture, custom, and nature, should be set at defiance, to erect up a system of education for qualifying women to act parts which Providence has not as- signed to the sex. Where a woman has those superior powers of mind to which we give the name of genius, she will exert them under all disadvantages : Jean Jacques says truly, genius will educate itself, and, like flame, burst through all obstructions. Certainly in the present state of society, when knowledge is so very attainable, a strong and vigorous intellect may soon find its level. Creating hot-beds for female genius, is merely another way of forcing exotick productions, which, after all, are mere luxuries, indifferent in their kind, and cost more time and expense than they are worth. As to superiority of mental pow- ers, Mrs. W. is doubtless the empress of female philosophers ; yet what has she done for philoso- phy, or for the sex, but closed a ditch, to open a gulf? There is a degree of boldness in her con- ceptions, and masculine energy in her style, that is very imposing. There is a gloomy grandeur

96 LETTERS FROM

in her imagination, while she explores the regions of intellect without chart or compass, which gives one the idea of genius wandering through chaos. Yet her continual self-contradiction, and quoting, with such seeming reverence, that very Scripture, one of whose first and clearest principles it is the avowed object of her work to controvert ; her considering religion as an adjunct to virtue, so far and no farther than suits her hypothesis ; the taking up and laying down of revelation with the same facility ; make me think of a line in an old song,

" One foot on sea and one on shore,

To one thing constant never."

What, as I said before, has she done ? shewed us all the miseries of our condition ; robbed us of the only sure remedy for the evils of life, the sure hope of a blessed immortality ; and left for our comfort the rudiments of crude, unfinished sys- tems, that crumble to nothing whenever you be- gin to examine the materials of which they are constructed. Come, let us for a moment shut the Bible, and listen to Mary. Let us suppose intel* lect equally divided between the sexes. We may deceive the understanding, but it would be a very bold effort of sophistry to attempt to impose on the senses. We know too well that our imagina- tions are more awake, our senses more acute, our feelings more delicate, than those of our tyrants. Say, then, we are otherwise equal. These quali- ties or defects would still leave the advantage on

THE MOUNTAINS. 97

their side ; we should much oftener resolve and act, before \ve called reason to counsel, than they would. Besides, I foresee that the balance will go in the old fashioned way at last, if Mary carries her point. When the desired revolution is brought about, will not the most sanguine advocates of equality be satisfied, in the first national council, with having an equal number of each sex elect- ed ? Now I foresee that when this is done, (as girls, or very old women, will not be eligible for the duties of legislation, and mothers have cer- tainly a greater stake in the commonwealth) a third of the female members will be lying-in, re- covering, or nursing ; for you can never admit the idea of a female philosopher giving her child to be nursed. Whatever other changes may be found proper, I hope they will retain the wool- sacks in the upper house, and add some more. The membresses of course will bring their infants into the house ; this will interrupt no debate ; for children that suck in philosophy with their milk, will not cry like the vulgar brats under the old regime, but they may possibly sleep during a long debate and then the wool-sacks will be very con- venient to lay them upon. There is no end either of reasoning or ridicule on this truly ridiculous subject. If the powers of a very superior female mind prove so inadequate to its own purposes, when thus absurdly exerted, what will become of those who adopt her vanity and skepticism, with- out her knowledge and genius to support them ?

VOL. II. I

98 LETTERS FROM

To conclude ; I see 'tis a great custom now for people to dabble in skepticism and speculative impiety, keeping all the while a slight hold of their original principles, that they may return when they please, as if thus far and no farther be- longed to finite natures. Yet these same people would be very unhappy, if they saw their young children going out of their depth into a current trusting to a slight hold of a twig on the brink ; though the worst that could happen in this latter case were only drowning. In fact, the Bible is or is not the charter of our salvation. It is neces- sary, both for our peace of mind and consistency of conduct, that we should either believe or not believe it. The nature of ^the subject admits no wavering ; it is all true, or all false. Let us then seriously regard the most important object that can ever be presented to our view. These truths must be either wedded or renounced. If we min- gle daring innovations and unwarranted practices with a feeble and dubious belief, haunted with pungent remorse or gloomy uncertainty, we shall not even enjoy the fleeting day that is passing from us. Let us then grasp hard our principles, or let them go. As the reformers manage, they have the fears without the hopes that religion in- spires. Let us at any rate, in these important concerns, be guided by the common sense that directs us in ordinary bargains. Let us examine well what we are to get, before we part with what we have. My poor brains could never support

THE MOUNTAINS, 99

the rotation of opinions which seems to delight some people here. They remind me of Hotspur, when he talks of living in a windmill. What a pleasing transition I am about to make from those who believe too little, to those who believe rather too much. With what delight and reverence I shall listen to dear Moome's awe compelling tales, after all this farrago. Adieu ! may you reap the fruits of steady principle and consistent conduct, both here and hereafter. Farewell, kindly.

LETTER LXXXL

TO MRS. MACINTOSH, GLASGOW.

Laggati) July 2, 1794.

DEAR MADAM,

WE begin now to be very impatient for the confirmation of the glad tidings of your com- ing north. It was wrong to mention it unless you mean to carry it through ; the prospect having so much elated the young family. B. is particularly so ; even her meek spirit is occupied in premedi- tating chicken slaughter, for the poultry are in her department ; and then she is so engrossed with considering what fruits and vegetables will be in season. My principal fear is, that our stock of good weather will be exhausted before you ar- rive ; for, as the man says of his Italian wash

100 LETTERS FROM

balls, we have really had Italian sunshine for six weeks past, which, with the addition of tranquilli- ty, and an easy, regular progression of family and farming, has been a great source of enjoyment to us : so that, were it not for the French and the caterpillars, we should be quite happy ; but the former disturb our peace, and the latter destroy our goosberries. I should not speak plurally, for my sovereign is not so much the sport of petty contingencies. You see thus, in the midst of in- nocent pleasures and laudable employments, I re- main a perturbed example of that great moral truth, that there is no unmixed felicity here ; — at least out of Plymouth, for there the orb of joy shines round and bright in the beatified dwelling of Capt. F — r and his mate, without being obscur- ed by clouds, or waning into diminution. In short, Mrs. F. seems highly pleased with the change of state, and delighted with the character of her mate. No wonder, if he be all she thinks ; and I do not doubt of her judgment or veracity in this or any other instance. Such mildness of dis- position, rectitude of principle, and singular deli- cacy of sentiment, as she ascribes to him, must enchant a person of her taste and feeling. The porch, like our own, is often the most decorated and pleasant part of the dwelling ; yet I flatter myself, my dear friend's case will not confirm this observation, but that she will find herself just as happy at the close of this century. Her great fear at present is, that her lord should be called

A

THE MOUNTAINS. 10 1

out to Channel service. But I hope, now that Lord Howe has so completely established our su- periority there, it will no longer be accounted a post of danger. You never tell me a word about your son John, which you ought to do, in common charity, to afford me a pretext for saying some- thing about mine. When did you hear from him, from St. Helena ?— I have used all means to get Charlotte home for near a month past, and am now like to succeed.

I see Robespierre too, has been lately the ob- ject of a young lady's enthusiasm. I hope he will meet some enthusiast soon, who will aend him on a journey he is little prepared for. Mr. G. is still ideal chaplain, for the choice is not declared ; but we think the same appointment in an old regi- ment would be better. With kind love to you all, in which the pastor joins,

I am very gratefully yours.

LETTER LXXXII.

TO MRS. MACINTOSH, GLASGOW.

August 30, 1794.

MY DEAR MADAM,

THOUGH I had not received your letter, inclination would prompt me to write to you with-

102 LETTERS FROM

out the stimulus of having any thing important to say ; but if you expect me to be punctual, you must give ample license for dulness and absurd- ity, besides a full allowance to my happy talent of digression, my rare felicity in parenthesis, and my peculiar knack at circumlocution. Do not let the solemnity of my parting with you too deeply impress you. It was merely the effect of a mo- mentary impulse, which I could not control. I am sorry it saddened so much of your journey. I too consumed the time at home in sympathetick dejection ; for the impression did not wear off so soon as these gusts of tenderness and melancholy generally do. The acuteness of my feelings, and the horror with which I shrink from the evils of life, are but short-lived in my mind, by a happy facility in rousing up images of joy and comfort, and catching at the bright side of every object, and every prospect. To a projector or adventurer, this might prove a dangerous faculty ; but to one whose fate it is to walk peaceably (though some- times pensively) through the obscure by-paths of life, it is an advantage to have a quickness in dis- covering every violet that springs up among brambles, and every rainbow that smiles through the tears of the sky. I think the soft melancholy produced in your mind by the musick of your Irish piper, would have a sweet accordance with the sensations which those" sympathetick glooms" about Dunkeld are so well fitted to inspire. I, for my part, though a, stranger to the art of musick,

THE MOUNTAINS. 103

am well acquainted with its power, and subject to its influence, in its rudest forms ; particularly when it breathes the spirit of that sentiment which, for the time, predominates in my mind, or wakes some tender remembrance with which ac- cident has connected it. When my clearest little boy was in the last stage of that illness which proved fatal to him, we had three maids who had all good voices ; one was afraid to sit up alone to attend my calls, on which the nurse-maid agreed to sit with her, and lull the infant beside her. The solitary maid was then afraid to stay alone in her attick abode. The result was, that the three Syrens sung in concert, a great part of the night, which seemed to soothe the dear sufferer so much, that when they ceased, he often desired they would begin again. He listened to it three hours before he expired. I never hear the most imper- fect note of Cro Challin* since, without feeling my heart-strings accord with it :

" It gives a very echo from the seat, Where grief is throned :"

and were I to hear those moving sounds, which we are told

" Drew iron tears down Pluto cheek," they could not open every source of anguish more effectually. You have it now in your power to taste the pathos of musick in its full extent. Mr.

* Cro Challin is a sweet and very popular strain of pas- toral, invariably sung in every highland fold.

104 LETTERS FROM

Balfour, I am told, has unrivalled power in doing justice to our old plaintive melodies. We were consoled for your short stay by knowing you found

his family at Dunchattan. Charlotte is,

and looks much better than when you saw her. This has been a day of joyful quiet to her, and no less joyful bustle to every one else. The servants, tenants, and bairns are all busy making our great haystack ; Jocjf and the men drive carts -r the rest trample down the top ; and the two little ones are handed back and forward, or driven up and down in the carts, to their great delectation. Being Saturday, the stack must needs be closed to-night ; so they have no time to come down to dress din- ner ; but a cold collation has been conveyed to the top of the stack with great glee, and devoured with alacrity. This is what I account one of the pleasures of a country life, to see so many people usefully busy, and innocently happy. ##*.*##*

Mr. Grant rejoiced to hear the 90th regiment belonged to so good a man as Balgowan.* He is much better of late, not at all the worse perhaps

for being chaplain. Robespierre's fall has

had all deserved aggravations. Imagination shrinks from the images that such a death sug-

* Colonel Graham of Balgowan possesses a great land- ed property in Perthshire ; and represents one of the most ancient and considerable families in Scotland. For his taste, his talents, his courage, and his virtues, he is justly considered as one of the greatest ornaments of his country,

THE MOUNTAINS. 105

gests. Of whom was it said that "Hell grew darker at his frown ?" I wonder if the modern philanthropists, whose affections comprehend all, but those who might be the better for them; I wonder, I say, if they have found out a cool place for this minister of vengeance, or wrapped him in a corner of the wide mantle of everlasting sleep.

Adieu, tenderly.

LETTER LXXX1II.

TO MRS. MACINTOSH, GLASGOW.

Sejit. 21, 1794.

DEAR MADAM,

MY last was to Mr. M. Since then, indo- lence and indisposition have induced me to seize the pretext of not hearing from you, as an excuse to delay writing. My better judgment however tells me I have no right to be ceremonious with you ; and past experience convinces me, that writing easily and fully to a real friend, will ex- hilarate my spirits, if once I could whip myself up to it. I have been just discharging a painful task of duty ; it is that of writing a long monitory epistle to poor M — y, whom I have a long while unpardonably neglected. I know she is cherished with the tenderest care, and has the advantage of having her moral and religious duties inculcated in the most forcible manner.

106 LETTERS FROM

Did I tell you what pleasure it gave me to find your friend and favourite Dr. Maclean had given up that wild scheme of going to America ? I was fond of that country to enthusiasm, and spent the most delightful and fanciful period of my life in it ; for mine was a very premature childhood. The place where I resided was the most desirable in the whole continent; there my first perceptions of pleasure, and there my earliest habits of think- ing, were formed ; and from thence I drew that high relish for the sublime simplicity of nature which has ever accompanied me. This has been the means of preserving a certain humble dignity in all the difficulties I have had to struggle through. Yet, from what I know of the alterations which the last twenty years have brought about in that country, and the still greater difference which other views and associations have made on myself, though I had it now in my power to return, my judgment would check my inclination. The paths that lead from nature and simplicity, towards ele- gance and false refinement in manners, and artifi- cial modes of living, do not indeed tend to happi- ness, but they slope with our inclinations, and wind with our caprices ; though, when too far pursued, they lead directly to selfishness and de- pravity. These paths can never be retrodden. When tired of the idle and frivolous bustle, and the vain empty pursuits, that fill up (I can scarce

THE MOUNTAINS. 107

say diversify) fashionable life, we languish under the burden of ceremony. The multiplied elegan- cies and conveniences, the various and mixed society which at first delighted, begin noy to encumber us. Those pleasures lose the force of novelty, and our riper judgment undervalues what we once thought essential to felicity. We now retrace our first and purest ideas of happiness ; the rural ease that dwells in the pastoral valley ; the soothing quiet and artless innocence of the cottage ; the solemn gloom of the forest, in which we wish to meditate undisturbed ; and the sublime solitude of the mountain, from whose elevation we wish to look down on low pursuits, and give a kind of repose to the wearied mind. We forget that nature presents us with no unmixed cup of enjoyment. Habituated to the profusion of art, which accumulates pleasures till they grow vapid and tasteless, we do not easily reconcile ourselves to the parsimony of nature, which preserves its relish by a frugal distribution. We endeavour to return to those habits which long distant recol- lection has endeared, which poetical description has decked with beauties innumerable, but which are incapable of being combined and enjoyed to- gether. Estranged from nature, enervated by luxury, and softened by false delicacy, we set about the experiment ; we find the cottage quiet indeed, but smoky, confined, and deficient in a thousand things on which we are become too .dependent. The narrow bounds imprison us, the

108 LETTERS FROM

low roof crushes, and scanty light which struggles in through the little casement, bewilders us. The inhabitants we find innocent, hospitable, and will- ing »to please ; but we are shocked with their vulgar language, disgusted with their uncouth manners, and tired with the sameness to which their narrow circle of ideas confines their conver- sation ; and we are unable either to descend to their topicks, or bring them up to ours ; we find dull uniformity and listless languor in the valley, whose culture does not employ, and whose pro- duce does not enrich us. The forest walks are damp and intricate, and its gloom melancholy and oppressive to us, who have not accustomed our- selves to reflect, but to observe and to find con- tinual employment for that faculty among the busy haunts of men. In vain we climb the mountain in search of more extended prospects, and more exalted serenity : fatigue follows, and chagrin overtakes us ; the wind pierces, and the cold be- numbs us ; the prospects are perhaps obscured by mist, or lost in dim confusion, and we hasten back weary and unsatisfied, from scenes that ex- pand the soul, and tranquillize the spirit of that faithful lover of nature, who has never quitted her bosom for artificial joys, or wandered in the vain search of happiness not meant for this threshold of existence. It is indeed a singular effort of a vigorous superior mind, to preserve through life the love of artless manners and cheap pleasures. Your unequalled steadiness in this respect, is one

THE MOUNTAINS- 109

of the strongest ties that hold me to you. Do not call this flattery. I cannot even flatter you so far as to say, that the disquisition I have just wan- dered into was meant for your amusement. Truly, I have amused myself by unburdening my mind, and arranging my ideas. If you too are amused, I shall not be sorry ; and if, on the contrary, you are wearied, I shall not be angry. I have had your letter, and Mr. M.'s : more of them anon. I am glad that Charlotte thinks I look so well ; I do not think so myself. Languor and thoughtful- ness grow upon me, and I become less able and willing to take exercise, I rather think I resem- ble grandmother Eve, of whom we are told that, " So much of death her thoughts had entertained,

As died her cheek with pale."

Yet you must not think me vapourish. That change in the mode of our existence which is be- fore us all, has become familiar to my mind from frequent perils. I can bear to look at it, and wish not to be surprised by it. I am not so ignorant of the nature and importance of preparation for futu- rity, as to wear myself out in fervours of forced devotion, during this short period of suspended fear and expectation, in hopes of blotting out the errors of a negligent and self- gratify ing life, by the feeble struggles produced, not by rational and vital piety, but mere selfish terror. I endeavour to repose my hopes on^. nobler and surer founda- tion. The dim and tremulous light that comes in short glimpses to my mind, beams forth from VOL. ii. K

110 LETTERS FROM

merits far transcending what human duties can pretend to, or human efforts arrive at. I do not think I have a worse chance for passing through the approaching crisis, than any other person, worn out by many similiar risks. And, if it be the Divine will to perserve me amidst my family, how will it lessen my after usefulness or enjoyment, by the having endeavoured to resign my mind to what must inevitably happen at some future peri- od ? — I am glad you were so pleased with the nymph of the Fountain, whom I have endeavoured to recommend to your attention, by making her both a Highlander and a moralist. Those light excursions of fancy, where

" Soft description holds the place of sense," are merely the relaxation and play of the mind. Were I to dilate my awakened powers towards greater objects, and give vent to my feelings on subjects still more serious and impressive, where there is abundant scope for pathetick painting, among the sad realities of life, I should require to be more self-possessed, and freed from the pres- sure of the present exigencies. But that time may come. I can only add that

I am always yours.

THE MOUNTAINS. Ill

LETTER LXXXIV. TO MRS. MACINTOSH, GLASGOW.

Laggcm, Monday morn, 2 o'clock^ Oct. 17, 1794.

DEAR MADAM,

I HAD the pleasure of your letter, and you may judge of my willingness to answer it, by my sitting up the past night to watch the dawn of Monday morn, that I might write without infring- ing on a better day. Don't smile ; 'tis not super- stition, but self-distrust ; I make resolutions, and try to hold them inviolable. I should be satisfied with your good will, but would fain preserve a deference for myself. On this past day, the most solemn ordinance of religion* has been celebrated here. Many of the congregation live at such dis- tances, and the service continues so long without interval, that we find it proper to bring down • a good many people to a slight refreshment through the day. The assisting clergy sleep here, and three other visitors ; so you may judge what bus- tle and fatigue all this must occasion to me, and how unfit I am to write ; but you will make all allowances. I am very glad that same visit is o- ver ; and, though I have the very best opinion of the heart and understanding of your visitor, 'tis

* The administration of the Sacrament.

112 LETTERS FROM

perhaps as well the affair is over ; for, I suppose we shall hear no more of it. I felt exceedingly for the person in question. Yet we must consid- er how very particular her situation is, and how very dangerous it would be for her to incur the imputation of even a pardonable deviation from strict prudence. I startle at the thought of her being led to favour any thing so vague at present, and which might prove dangerous in future. She has too much good sense, and too much depend- ance on those whose faithful friendship she has experienced, to form any connexion, (for what less is a correspondence) with any one in a preca- rious situation, who might incur blame on her ac- count. Of this person's delicacy of sentiment I have not the smallest doubt ; but that very delica- cy, youth, and natural shyness, preclude him from that knowledge of the world, and, perhaps, of ex- act propriety, that would render the consequences which might result to her, obvious to his view. People of the character I suppose him to possess, are more likely to conciliate esteem and respect, in the sphere of their particular acquaintance, than to push their way through a hard unfeeling

world. -- Will you also

tell Charlotte I shall write to her very soon, and inform her of many particulars which, I know, she would wish to be acquainted with. I wrote; her a long melancholy letter, with the narrative of dear Petrina's loss, and all my distresses, which wore me out so, that I left off abruptly. I told her,

THE MOUNTAINS. 113

however, how much I was satisfied with all she did. Tell her * * * has been talking very loud all the time I write ; so you may be thankful you have escaped his incoherences. I have a profu- sion of complimentary messages to send you, but intreat you will imagine them. Adieu, dear Madam ! I am, in all humours, and at all times, much yours.

LETTER LXXXV. TO MRS. MACINTOSH, GLASGOW.

Laggan, Dec. 20, 1794.

DEAR MADAM,

ANGUS MACKAY comes so sudden, and stays so short a time, that I have barely time to acknowledge your two last favours. Your atten- tion in the writing way, in this time of need, is very considerate ; it gives a necessary fillip to the drooping spirits, to know that one is of conse- quence enough to be pitied and remembered by one's absent friends ; and there is no one living more conscious of the efficacy of such a cordial. I shall not attempt to answer your letters in de- tail, being scarce able to answer them at all. All this day I am much indisposed, but am so used to these preparatory alarms, that I am not alarmed at them, - --- There is nothing more

K2

114 LETTERS FROM

natural than for a parent to be vain of the real or imputed excellencies of children. Yet, with me, much reflection, and some observation, have so far conquered that propensity, that I am not sure whether I should not be sorry to discover those tendencies to genius that some image to exist. Distinguished abilities are attended, especially in the undistinguished sex^ with much risk, and much envy. Second rate talents, again, afford a pretence for imaginary superiority, which flatters and in- toxicates the mind more than what is real. In fact, I think pretenders are far more liable to self opinion and affectation, than minds of a truly supe- rior order. * * * has reflection, taste, and an excellent memory, but has neither energy of mind, nor sprightliness of fancy, for any great effort of intellect. Whatever capacity she may possess, I have the comfort of knowing she will never use it invidiously or ostentatiously. Now that I am forced on thinking back on what I have done, and for- ward to the probable consequences, amidst the regrets I feel at not having it in my power, through constant hurry, occasional depression, and perhaps, negligence, to bring my children as for- ward as some others, in diligence, exactness, &c. amidst these regrets,! say, I feel a ray of comfort in retracing the unwearied pains I have taken in the cultivation of their hearts ; and impressing upon them such just notions of the dispensations of Prov- idence, and of their own peculiar state, as prevents their lookin g down on any one with contempt j while

THE MOUNTAINS, 115

the same regulated views make them regard their superiors with a respect free from envy or ser- vility. In short, I have laboured, I flatter myeslf not in vain, without having often recourse to for- mal precepts, to make my children love virtue, and despise and detest every instance of meanness and malignity. I have so far felt the advantage of this culture, that, whatever childish faults they may commit, covetousness, envy, or strife have not, as yet, been known amongst them j and they live united by a bond of the most disinterested affection. Forgive this, and consider it merely as a soliloquy, with which I am comforting myself, when I feel much need of all earthly comforts, to go no higher. It would be both ungrateful and unjust to quit this subject of my children and my comforts, without owning, that I have great reason to account our joint charge Charlotte one of the chief of them ; and should this be the last letter I ever write, I will not close it without making it a faint memoral of her faithful friendship, ardent gratitude, inflexbile integrity, unexampled ten- derness, and diligence of attention to all my cares and infirmities ; of a character, in short, which every day rises, even upon me, who know her so intimately, and breaks, with double lustre, through the gloom of adversity. I meant to say very little, yet I have said too much. I depend on your indulgence, and shall be, while I live, with the purest truth of affection,

Yours most sincerelv,

116 LETTERS FROM

LETTER LXXXVI.

TO MRS. MACINTOSH.

March, 1795.

DEAR MADAM,

YESTERDAY, and not till then, I received your letter with the account of poor George's departure ; which, as far as the change affected himself, was, I am sure, matter of gratulation. Well might he say with the patriarch, that, " few and evil had been the days of his pilgrimage." Doubtless, from the felicity of that new state of being, which, through the Divine mercy, he has now attained, he looks back on his past sufferings, as we do on a dream of misery that disturbed our sickly slumbers, when we awake to peace and comfort.

I do not \vonder you should feel the pang of separation very severely, in spite of all that reason offers to reconcile you to the stroke. However eagerly we may grasp at delusive pleasures, we have but to examine our own undepraved feelings, to be convinced, that even the most painful exer- tions, arising from a virtuous sentiment, afford a secret, unspeakable enjoyment. Even the sadly- pleasing recollection of friends long since ming- led with the dust, is endeared to us by the worth that sweetens their remembrance ; though the thought of them opens afresh the wounds that time has closed, yet we love to indulge it.

MOUNTAINS. 11?

**####*

When such are removed from us, we follow them with regret, though certain of their happiness. No doubt we feel a sad vacuity in our hearts ; yet I believe we miss full as much the innate con- sciousness of exercising a benevolence so exalted, so utterly disinterested. Your merit of this kind has been great and exemplary ; yet not unprece- dented or singular. Cynick philosophers delight to represent all our views as terminating in Self. Yet, without having recourse to the annals of he- roism, the domestick history of families affords so many instances of the virtue which I have been so long describing, and you so long practising, as may serve to overturn their frozen system. I understand too well the self-reproach you feel at what you think omissions in duty. My maternal tenderness was never put to so long, and so severe a trial ; yet a consciousness of a failure in duty to a beloved and lamented child, will wring my heart, and oppress my mind, as long as I can fee!, or remember.

118 LETTERS FROM

LETTER LXXXVII.

TO MRS. F R.

(Formerly MISS OURRY.)

Laggan, djiril 11, 1795.

MY DEAREST FRIEND,

I HAD your kind welcome letter from Goodamere in course ; and you would think your attention well bestowed, if you were present in- visible, to see the joy and pride of the whole family derived from your remembrance. I am charmed to find the oblivious matrimonial gulf has not swallowed up the image of your old unal- tered friend. After ascribing abundant merit to you, I begin to take a little to myself for holding, so long, a place in such a heart. Mr. Grant ob- serves, that I have told every one that comes to the house the wonder of your being as punctual since marriage, as before. Your description of the present state of matters on the quarter-deck, is very striking and impressive indeed. It re- quires much worth and wisdom to act the con- cluding scene decently, when there are no tender connexions to keep the heart warm and open.

******

******

Your accounts of and have made me

very thoughtful, and very thankful. Those who must needs tug through difficulties, such as I

THE MOUNTAINS. 119

have always been environed with, are very apt to think, whatever face they put on the matter, that there is but one impediment to their felicity. Blestwith comforts which wealth cannot purchase, they think the means of procuring some conven- ient elegancies, and extending their charity and hospitality a little, would make them completely happy. Even the gay social winter I spent in town was a most forcible lesson of instruction to me, in this respect ; all the friends I most value, except Lady Clan,* who is wise enough to neglect forms, and live as she pleases, are slaves to the world, and to a world they contemn, and have been long disgusted with. For some reason or other, of form, of policy, or convenience, elegant leisure, the nurse of fancy and of friendship, is sacrificed ; life seems to glide from them like a dream, in pursuits which their reason despises, and among people against whom their hearts are closed up. " O \vhy, since life can little more supply Than just to look about us, and to die,"

should the few among us who understand its val- ue, squander it so lavishly, and leave so little for active benevolence, social comfort, or elegant pleasures ; beside the great object of endeavour- ing to qualify ourselves for that exalted society, to which we aspire in an hereafter, divided as we are from that hereafter by so slight a barrier. Do

* Lady Clan, i. e. the Lady of Clan. — Clan was a favour- ite appellation given to Mr. Macintosh by his intimates, on account of his Highland enthusiasm.

120 LETTERS FROM

not think I am preaching like a cynick from my tub, either. Though I endeavour to be satisfied with the station allotted me, and feel I have many blessings which are withheld from those who have more visible sources of enjoyment ; yet I do not deny that I feel the privation of some for which I have a keen relish : elegant society, for instance, after which I should languish, were I at leisure to languish for any thing. But my consolation is, that my time is passed usefully ; I enjoy the peace and quiet of the evening exceedingly, when my hour of leisure is sweetened by reflecting, that I have all day been doing some service, or procur- ing some pleasure for those I dearly love. Even the unvaried self-same circle I move in, though confined and obscure, is interesting, because ev- ery thing in it connects with those branches of myself, in which I live and feel. I have no room for tedium ; my occupations so crowd upon me, that I find every day too short for its allotted task. Thank God, my tasks of every kind are grown much lighter ; my daughters are becoming as- sistants, and companions to me ; the younger are now no trouble, this blessed sewing school is such a relief. Their improvement is inconceiva- ble So much for egotism once re- moved. After all the sacrifices you have made, methinks it would be a very meritorious one, could you bring yourself to stay with your infirm who has so little comfort, while your belov- ed is destined to wander on the ocean. There,

THE MOUNTAINS, 121

for your comfort, he may now wander in security, and have little to do but sing " Rule Britannia." These vile French seem destined to do all their "mischief on one element ; like our witches, who, when in pursuit of a devoted object of vengeance, dare not cross a running water, that being a boundary by the laws of magick irremeable ; a very comfortable regulation this for good nautical Christians. I know you have a strong plea against what I hinted to you about your . You an- swer as the man did, who, being invited to some high party of pleasure, said, he had spent three quarters of his constitution for his friends, and was resolved to keep the fourth for himself. . You have certainly been rather too long acting the part of Noah's dove, and I don't greatly wonder that you should not wish to return a second time to the ark. It is rather hard that you should have been so long the victim of caprice, and such suc- cessive and oddly varied caprice ; all the wrorse, that the inflictors were people you loved, and who loved you as far as they were capable of loving any body ; and meaning, forsooth, no harm. Yet, daily experience will convince you of, what I have often told you, the state of a woman living alone. This fatal war must of necessity end soon ; it seems indeed drawing fast to a conclusion. Then you may hope for halcyon days, in the bosom of affection and tranquillity, with your best friend, whom I truly love for deserving you so well. It is indeed time your storm-beaten vessel should

VOL. II. I.

122 JLETTERS FROM

come into port ; but as this interim will be a pe- riod of disquiet and anxiety at any rate, what you cannot give to comfort, you may even give to vir- tue and self-denial, as you have done so great a portion of the time past.

Heartless beings ! I have

no patience to think of them. I do love old prej- udices, especially those which affinity and affec- tion have entwined with the heart-strings. Inno- vation disconcerts us ; new lights blind us ; we detest the Rights of Man, and abominate those of Woman. Think then how I am prepared to re- ceive your friend H. M. W.'s* new publication .; though I admire her style, and confess that no- body embellishes absurdity more ingeniously. I am greatly inclined too to respect the purity of her religious principles. Yet when I think of the associates with whom her political bigotry has connected her, I think I hear the Syrian leper en- treating the prophet's permission to bow a little occasionally in the house of their god Rimmon. Do you know your pupil's French is approved, and she is said to translate with purity and ele- gance. She passes this summer at home ; great part of which I mean to devote to the task of forming a mind, that appears to me possessed of solidity and stamina, which make it capable of culture, and worth the pains. Accept a thousand

* Helen Maria Williams, before she forsook her coun- try or her principles.

THE MOUNTAINS. 123

compliments, delivered in various forms ; but you must be content with the aggregate. I have not room for a literary curiosity, composed for your sole emolument. 'Tis an epistle in French, which will go under the next cover. Farewell, cordially.

LETTER LXXXVIU.

TO MRS. F R, PLYMOUTH.

Laggan, Aug. 15, 1795. DO you know that, by Mrs. M — 's friend- ly interference, J. L.* is an ensign ; not that we by any means intend him for the army. He will have leave to recruit, friends will recruit for him, and his education will proceed in the meantime. This is a fencible regiment, and will, I trust, be sent to graze before he is fit to kill or be killed. About ten clays since we made a great haystack, which brought you very fresh to memory, as treading on it last year, in the fulness of rural glee. Now, before I tell my sad story,'! must in- form you that, while the rest of Scotland, and England's own self, were pinched with scarcity, we had last year, in this corner, the best crop ever remembered, and this year's is at least equal.

* John Lowehlan Grant, the Author's eldest son.

124 LETTERS FROM

Judge of our distress, when, after driving a cart all day, John was brought in bleeding and torn, in consequence of Paddy's being startled, and going

off with the cart. He behaved

like a hero, and comforted his sisters ; but you never saw a family so distressed. The muscles and sinews, I trust, are not materially injured.

He will not, I hope, be lame.

The spirit and manliness he has shewn

in this exigence have greatly endeared him to us.

Give a little of your time to such another histo- ry. This employment of time will answer many good purposes. While it steals us a while from wearing cares and trivial occupations, it will per- form a half miracle, it will recal the fleeting phan- tom, Youth ; arrest the worst effects of time's silent progress. Yes, it will preserve the kindly propensities and tender confidence that are scat- tered fresh and sweet, like early dew in the de- lightful morning of life. Yet a while we may thus preserve the sunshine of the breast, and repel the unkindly frosts of cold suspicion and distrust, and the bleak sharp blasts of caprice and peevishness,

'" That make lov'd life unlovely,'* and force the callous and the crafty to say at last.

" The yellow leaf,

And that which should accompany old age, As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends^ I must not look to have."

THE MOUNTAINS. 125

1 grasp with avidity, the wish, the hope you ex- press of our meeting once more. It were indeed a consummation devoutly to be wished, and I have seen too many strange things to despair of this. I think with you that I should love your husband ; so much probity and tranquillity of temper would suit me, who detest art and finesse in all its shapes, and sicken at restless turbulent people, who are for ever in a bustle about they know not what. I do love a little constitutional philosophy. Farewell, dear friend,

LETTER LXXXIX. TO MRS. MACINTOSH, GLASGOW.

Laggan, Feb. 20, 1796. « WHY dost thou build the tower, son of ihe winged days I* Soon wilt thou depart with thy fathers. The blast from the desert shall rush through thy hall, and sound upon thy bossy shield," Sec. Sec. Do you recollect, dear Madam, when I stopped with you at the gate of B — e, I repeated those lines, and observed what a suitable inscrip- tion they might prove for the front of poor James's new house. It would appear I was moved by a

* The subject of this letter was a celebrated and well known translator of ancient Scottish poetry.

L 2

126 LETTERS FROM

prophetick impulse, when I predicted that he never would see it finished. Friday last, C. V. R. dined there. James had been indisposed since the great storm, yet received his guests with much kindness, seeming, however, languid and dispirit* ed. Towards evening he sunk much, and retired early. Next morning he appeared, but did not eat, and looked ill. R. begged he would frank a cover for Charlotte ; he did so, and never more held a pen. When they left the house he was taken extremely ill, unable to move or receive nourishment, though perfectly sensible. Be- fore this attack, finding some inward symptoms of his. approaching dissolution, he sent for a consultation, the result of which arrived the day after his confinement. He was perfectly sen- sible and collected, yet refused to take any thing prescribed to him to the last, and that on this principle, that his time was come, and it did not avail. He felt the approaches of death, and hop- ed no relief from medicine, though his life was not such, as one should like to look back on at that awful period. Indeed whose is ? It pleased the Almighty to render his last scene most affect- ing and exemplary. He died last Tuesday even- ing ; and, from the minute he was confined till a very little before he expired, never ceased im- ploring the divine mercy in the most earnest and pathetick manner. People about him were over- awed and melted by the fervour and bitterness of liis penitence. He frequently and earnestly en=

THE MOUNTAINS. ifr

treated the prayers of good serious people of the lower class who were admitted. He was a very good natured man ; and now that he had got all his schemes of interest and ambition fulfilled, he sbemed to reflect and grow domestick, and shew- ed of late a great inclination to be an indulgent landlord, and very liberal to the poor ; of which I could relate various instances, more tender and interesting than flashy or ostentatious. His heart and temper were originally good. His religious principles were, I fear, unfixed and fluctuating ; but the primary cause that so much genius, taste, benevolence, and prosperity, did not produce or diffuse more happiness, was his living a stranger to the comforts of domestick life, from which un- happy connexions excluded him. Tavern com- pany, and bachelor circles, make men gross, cal- lous, and awkward ; in short, disqualify them for superior female society. The more heart old bachelors of this class have, the more absurd and insignificant they grow in the long run ; for when infirmity comes on, and fame and business lose their attractions, they must needs have somebody to love and trust, and they then become the dupes of wretched toad-eaters, and slaves to designing housekeepers. Such was poor James, who cer- tainly was worthy of a better fate. His death, and the circumstances of it, have impressed my mind in a manner I could not have believed, I think we are somehow shrunk, and our consequence diminished, by losing the only person of eminence

128 LETTERS FROM

among us. 'Tis like extinguishing a light I have been diffuse, perhaps tedious, in what con- cerns the exit of this extraordinary man ; because I thought you might, like me, be anxious to know how people quit the world, who have made any noise or figure in it. His death found me sad, and has made me sadder. The sudden death of two poor men, our tenants, who have left young helpless families, which happened lastweek, threw a great damp over us. But I will no longer croak my funeral note : though death is ever present to my thoughts, not in his mildest form, I will •'< Give it its wholesome empire ; let it reign." Adieu, dear Madam !

LETTER XC, TO MRS. MACINTOSH.

Begun June 19, 1796, -at Blair.

DEAR MADAM,

I HAVE past three charming days here, during which I have been soothed by the novelty of ease and leisure ; so immersed in the luxury of embowering groves, flowery walks, solemn shades of dark larches with drooping branches, that seem to weep over the wanderers that muse or mourn beneath them, or soft glades along the murmuring

THE MOUNTAINS. 129

Tilt, where every vegetable beauty blooms in full luxuriance, safe from the nipping frost or chilling blast ; so lost, I say, in a dream of pensive mus- ing, which I have enjoyed at full leisure, free from the restraints of form, and the disturbance of intrusion, that, like other people given wholly up to pleasure, I seemed to forget my friends, my duty, and myself. Nay, I began to consider whether it was most eligible to turn hermitess or hamadryad. When the fair form of the virgin huntress of the woods, which adorns one of these sweet walks, drew my attention, I thought of sheltering in her haunts as a hamadryad ; but when the opening of a long vista disclosed the Gothick form of the old church of St. Bridget, my intentions took a more orthodox turn, and I began to adjust the dimensions of my cell, and think of cold vigils and midnight prayers. My head is now cooled ; my visions are vanished, and I am considering how I shall get home to make frocks and mend petticoats. M. would tell you why Mr. Grant brought and left me here, till his return from Stirling. If I could spend some days in this sweet place with you, one of my first little wishes would be gratified ; for I am now grown too wise to form many great wishes. I am just going; his reverence hurries me, yet sends you all many good wishes.

Farewell !

130 LETTERS FROM

LETTER XCL TO MRS. MACINTOSH, GLASGOW.

June 25, 1796.

DEAR MADAM,

YOUR very kind letter by Mr. Mackay gave me great ease of mind. 'His reverence, who delights in teasing me, and loves to hear the quick things I say when angry, would have it, you forgot me, was tired, Sec. Sec. I am too proud, and too jealous to tire any one. 'Tis the easiest thing in the world to stop my career, either in prose or verse, particularly the latter, which I always begin with fear and trembling. The dread of making myself ridiculous, and being laughed at as a pretender to genius, haunts and terrifies me, whenever, " the light of my soul begins to rise." Yet if the occasional short excursions of my fancy can give you a moment's pleasure, I should cer- tainly feel that a powerful motive to indulge my- self ; for I frankly own, that the exercise of this rhyming faculty does now and then cheer the gloom of care, and blunt the stings of anxiety. I feel the same solace, which I suppose those who possess untutored powers of musical excellence do, in warbling their " wood notes wild," merely to gratify themselves and divert their solitude. After the confinement of the winter, and the sickly lan- guor in which I had pined away the spring, I

THE MOUNTAINS. 131

enjoyed the return of health, ease, and leisure too much, while at Blair, to cramp myself with any set employment. Yet a ludicrous accident had very near set me to work. One afternoon I strolled down the approach towards the Duke's house alone, being unwilling to tax the complai- sance of any of the family with attending me, and always loving a solitary ramble. I was thus de- prived of the usual expedient of getting their private key to let myself into these elysian walks, in which I delighted to wander. The family that inhabit the mansion were not at home. However, hearing the Tilt murmur softly, and the birds sing sweetly within, I felt the true Highland impa- tience of bounds and enclosures, and, observing that part of the -wall was formed by the bridge of the Tilt, which was then very low, I scrambled, with an agility that would do honour to one of R.'s goats, down the parapet wall, and over the broken craggs below the arch, till I got in dry and safe. My joy at outwitting the keepers, and feeling my- self independent of locks and bars, broke out in a few stanzas, which I have not yet written down. As far as my pencil sketch assists memory, they "begin thus :

Thy jealous walls, great Duke,* in vain All access would refuse :

What bounds can highland steps restrain, What pow*r keep outr the muse ?

Where'er I go, I bring with me

That mountain nymph, sweet Liberty,

* Duke of Athol.

4.00 LETTERS FROM

Would you engross each breathing sweet

Yon violet banks exhale, Or trees, with od'rous blooms replete,

That scent the enamour'd gale ? Alike they smile for you and me,

Like nature and sweet liberty, &c. &c

There is a great deal more ; but I must not fill up with trifles a paper allotted to more serious subjects. I think, however, I ought to tell you, as the moral of my little story, how the fear of de- tection disturbed this stolen intrusion. I was re- solved to meditate a while in placid ease, as if tranquillity would come when bidden, and sought the thickest shades, but

" Still as I went, I look'd behind, I heard a voice in every wind, And snatch'd a fearful joy."

At length I set up my rest under a broad spread- ing cedar, beside the statue of Diana, which seem- ed to protect me. I thought of Dryden's de- scription :

" The graceful goddess was array'd in green, About her feet were little beagles seen, That watch'd with upward eyes the motions of their queen.'*

This figure was not so appropriate ; it was scarce arrayed at all ; and the crescent was the only mark by which the sylvan goddess was distin- guished. Here, however, I composed myself, was busy with my pencil, and forgot my fears ; when, all on a sudden, a monstrous heron bent its heavy

THE MOUNTAINS. 133

flight to my sheltering tree with such noisy im- petuosity, that I started up in terror, thought of hunters and I know not what, felt the horrors of detected guilt, and finally took a short leave of Diana, and again committed myself to the pro- tection of the nymph of the Tilt. Now you are to give this story importance, and make it in- structive by your comments.

C. treats his wife worse, if possible, than you could expect. 'Tis miserable to see so much in- nocence, understanding, and good humour, sacri- ficed to such a strange compound of folly and madness, who has neither the spirit nor manners of a gentleman, to make one tolerate his eccen-^ tricities. I hope, nay, am sure, Charlotte will rather live, bloom, and die in single blessedness, than throw herself away in this manner. Now that in her apparent merit, and the general esteem she has obtained, I reap the fruit of all my cares, the agonies of fear and sorrow, which I have hitherto felt on her account, are richly paid in self gratula- tion. In trying to improve her, I have improved myself. My strenuous efforts for that purpose have exalted my mind above follies and frivolities, to which it might have sunk. The cruel sin- gularity of her fate called forth in her support all the energies of my mind, and brought into ex- ertion powers that I should not otherwise have known myself to possess. The kindness my other children receive from those who have no relative

VOL. II. M

134 LETTERS FROM

tie to them, I consider as a reward for my ma- ternal tenderness to her. You see, my good friend, what it is to confer benefits on the super- stitious ; for I do not consider even you as merely generous and sympathising, but as an agent, im- pelled by an over-ruling impulse, to do what you cannot possibly avoid doing. I write a few lines, below, to Charlotte. Excuse it, and believe me very truly

Yours.

LETTER XCII. TO MRS. MACINTOSH, GLASGOW.

Laggan, July 6, 1796, J WISH to write both to you and Char- lotte to-day, but shall begin with you : having conquered some scruples of modesty which check- ed my first intention, I shall bluntly avow the purport of this, which is, to request you would leave all the comforts and conveniences of your own pleasant and spacious dwelling, all the beau- ties which summer scatters so profusely over the Dune, and all the pleasures of refined and elegant society, to encounter the fatigue and disgust pro- duced by a long journey, over dark moors and frowning mountains, by comfortless inns and bleak blasts ; and all this for what ? Will ye come into

THE MOUNTAINS. 135

the wilderness, not even to people clothed in the soft garb of insinuating manners, and flattering professions, but to be cooped up in a cottage, and share all its inconveniences ? To share them too with people who have lived too long out of the world to miss a thousand things become necessary in it ? To such, mutual affection, freedom, and simplicity, compensate for all the advantages, of which remoteness of situation and obscurity de- prive them. I only suggest this, in case of your being left alone on the Dune ; but if you have the remotest wish of joining the projected journey towards the south, I would not even wish to in- fluence your determination. Only if you ar*e alone, permit me to remind you of your resolution to make an excursion every summer ; and, pre- ferring the Highlands for your route, what would you think of taking forts William and Augustus in your way ? Mr. Grant begins to recover his looks and spirits, but has had a fever shock. A succession of indispositions in the family have made spring, and what is gone of summer, pass like an agitated dream.

Mr. G. is just come in, and insists on having his sincere regards included with mine, to you and your beloved.

I am, unchangeably,

Yours.

136 LETTERS FROM

LETTER XCIIL* TO MRS. MACINTOSH.

Laggan^ August 9, 1796.

DEAR MADAM,

I HOPE you have, ere now, safely received my letter from Blair, though it seems to have lingered on the way. I saw Mrs. Stuart put it in her drawer. If it has miscarried, your loss is great, but Miss Coates'sf incalculable ; for the immortality of her Bandeau depended upon it, and I have preserved no copy. It would have given me pleasure to have obliged that lady in any thing, because she is very obliging herself. Her frank, easy manners, and careless vivacity, together with certain emanations of goodness from the heart, had almost broken through all my out- guards of pride, prejudice, and independence. In spite of all her adventitious superiorities, I began to like her. Had she been as little in the sun- shine as myself, I am sure I should be fond of

* This letter was written after an interview Charlotte and I had with four ladies, who came from Glasgow to Blair to meet us : these were, Mrs. Munro, Miss Munro (now the Hon. Mrs, Henry Erskine), Mrs. Macintosh. Dunchattan, and Miss Coates.

f Miss Coates is a lady well known in the west of Scot- land, whose character is such as it appears in these let- ters. She left her Bandeau unconsciously on the tomb of Fingal, a place at least said to be such ; and the little poem alluded to was written ow this incident.

I

THE MOUNTAINS. 137

her ; but the glitter of fortune and fashion, which has such an attraction for sycophants and imita- tors, repels people of spirit and delicacy, who value themselves and others only for such quali- ties as are innate and permanent. I allow her, and other rich people, all the merit they possess, and give them much more credit than to others for the same degree of excellence ; because their manner of life is less adapted to exercise the sterner virtues, and keep the heart warm and open.

I am always jealous of hazarding the only thing of value I have to give, my affection, by giving it where it may be despised, or received as the com- mon tribute which servility pays to the prosperous. I am far from thinking myself poor, but I cannot bear others should think me so. In short, I will merely like Miss Coates, for I am not poor in

spirit. My next care was, to prepare for

Sandy's wedding, which proved, in his own way, a very splendid one. The day before the marriage, we had the bride's friends, with all the servants, dancing all the evening. The wedding-day, we had the same party at dinner, in the nursery. You are to understand, the bride served us eight years, and her swain seven, at a former period ; so we could not withhold our countenance. The sheriff*

* Alexander Kennedy was called the sheriff m the par- ish, from the deference which the neighbours had for his decisions on all occasions. His master considered him as possessing the soundest judgment and most acute dis- cernment of any person iu his station he had ever known, M2

138 LETTERS FROM

is rich, according to Anne's estimate of wealth, and excels in strong sound sense. You know that he is our tenant in the glebe, which forms an ad- ditional tie. He is counted penurious, but shone on this occasion. Four fat sheep, and abundance of game and poultry, were slain for the supper and following breakfast, which was only served in the Chinese manner to the inferior class. At this feast above a hundred persons assisted, three-score of which consisted of our children and rusticks, our tenants and servants, and the teachers of arts and sciences from the neighbouring hamlets. At the head of the long table was a cross one, raised higher, a humble imitation, I presume, of the deise, at which the courteous knights and no- ble dames sat in the days of Queen Guinever. There sat Capt. Donald, his reverence, and their ladies, with the professors of arts and sciences a- foresaid, and Moome, in full glory ; and C— ^ and K — , and D — ,* blooming and blushing like the morning. And there were poultry, and plovers, and a roast joint, and grouse in perfection. All this was lost on Charlotte, who only afforded her dignified presence at breakfast. The musick and dancing were very superior to any thing you could imagine. Don't whisper any thing so treasonable, but both were superior to many fashionable per- formers in each way. Mr. Grant took a fancy to be very wise and serious ; and reproved the sheriff

* The Author's children.

THE MOUNTAINS. 139

for killing so many sheep, and collecting so many people ; and wondered at me for being so pleased. I never saw him ungracious before j but he was not well. My versatility stood me in good stead. Every one was quiet, orderly, and happy in the extreme. I considered it was hard to grudge this one day of glorious felicity to those, who, though doomed to struggle through a life of hardship and penury, have all the love of society, the taste for conviviality, and even the sentiment that animates and endears social intercourse, which constitutes the enviable part of enjoyment in higher circles. It would be cruel to deprive such of the single opportunity their life affords, of being splendidly hospitable, and seeing all those, to whom nature or affection has allied them, rejoice together, at a table of their own providing ; and of seeing that table graced by such of their superiors, as they have been used to regard with a mixed sentiment of love and veneration. I never dance, and on those occasions join very little, outwardly, in the amusement. I rather sit rapt in reverie, or gaze in mute triumph at the collective felicity before me. The wedding was in a large barn. After breakfast, they danced a while on the green, and the scene closed with the young couple going home. The following evening we had all the chil- dren to dress, for the concluding ball in our itiner- ant dancing school ; so you must allow for my be- ing fatigued with festivities. I am sure I have tired you with the history of Anne's wedding.

140 LETTERS FROM

Had it been a fine ball, such as you are used to, I should not say half so much about it ; but I thought the scene would be new to you. It is such, indeed, as cannot take place but in these regions : here only you may condescend without degradation, for here only is the bond between the superior and inferior classes a kindly one. I cannot exactly say where the fault lies ; but cold disdain, on the one side, and a gloomy and rancorous envy on the other, fix an icy barrier between the upper and lower classes with you. Your low people are so gross, so sordid ; but if you treated them as we do ours, they would not be so coarse and hard j they are now, however, past recovery. It grieves me to think the iron age of calculation approaches fast towards the sacred retreats of nature and of sentiment ; " the unbought grace of life, the cheap defence of nations," is fast receding. May I close my eyes in peace, before its final departure ! — Pray tell Miss Munro, of whom I delight to think, and could love, though she were-mistress of thou- sands, that I recollect the night we spent togeth- er at Dunkeld, as an alderman does a turtle-feast ; but I fear the vigil was too much for her. Had I been purse-bearer, I would have urged a longer stay ; but delicacy kept me silent. On Monday a man goes, by whom I will enclose a pair of the Sybil's* garters for Miss Coates. I am grateful

* Mrs. Machardy, usually called the Sybil by the au- thor's family, was a native of the Isle of Sky, the widow of a worthy man who had served the Highland publick fifty

THE MOUNTAINS. 141

to that lady for encouraging the venerable Sybil's manufacture. She sang Lochaber and mournful Melpomene to Charlotte yesterday, very distinct- ly, if not melodiously, and will assuredly contend with Old Parr. Her brother is alive, and is an hundred and four. In her I have the pleasure of an old woman's conversation, without the plague of gossiping ; for, if she has any scandal, King William is the object of it. She is full of anec- dote, but scorns to talk of any thing that happened within the last forty years. Madame de Mainte- non is the heroine of her imagination ; she talks of her as if she were still living, and constantly quotes to our girls the ivory wheel with which she spun Lewis into subjection ; for she considers spinning as one of the cardinal virtues, and is at

»

years in the capacity of a school -master. She was a per- son of undaunted fortitude, great industry, and ingenuity ; and was remarkable for preserving- all her faculties to the last day of her life, which was extended to a hundred and eight years. At ninety-six, she danced reels with great spirit, and sung* the song's abovementioned when above a hundred. She looked up to the minister as her bene- factor, because he procured her a pension of three pounds yearly, and allowed her a cottag-e on his farm for her abode. Till the year of her death, she carried on a manufacture peculiar to the Isle of Sky. In a small loom, of primitive construction, she wrought garters of gaudy colours and particular texture, which make a kind of ornament to the Hig-hland dress, and are very much sought after for that purpose : these garters she spun, died, and wove ; and the author was frequently an ag-ent in disposing1 of them. Among the poems published by the author, is one sent, by the Sybil's request, with a pair of those garters, to the Marquis of Huntley, on his assuming' the habit of tlie country.

142 LETTERS FROM

this hour spinning fine wool on the distaff, of which she proposes making garters for the Mar- quis. You see I will not rest till you are com- pletely Lagganized. You must be interested in all my odd people, or I will have nothing to do with you. Ought you not ? Am I not interested in your Neptune, and your great cat, and did not I commemorate your turkey-hen ? The least you can do in return is to venerate my Sybil. Adieu ! Tell me if I have tired you.

LETTER XCIV. TO MRS. MACINTOSH, GLASGOW.

Laggan, October 3, 1796.

DEAR MADAM,

I HAD the pleasure of receiving your letter, and am much consoled by finding you un- derstand so well the motives of my grief for poor M. which I feel still a weighty pressure on my spirits. I feared you would consider the excess of my sorrow on this occasion, as absurd, or chi- merical. Mr. Macintosh reproaches me for not letting him know of poor Moome's* difficulties ;

* Moome is an endearing appellation in the Gaelick, to which the English affords no correspondent phrase ; it means a person who feels the affection, and performs the duties, of a mother to children not her own. Such was Moome's love to the children of the cottage ; and such their gratitude, that our friend was always distinguished by this kindly epithet.

THE MOUNTAINS 143

her noble spirit would have been hurt if I had. She was used to difficulties, and took pleasure, not to say pride, in conquering them. I believe one reason why I did not expatiate on her singu- lar merit to you, was a fear that you should think I wanted to awake your sympathy on her behalf. Besides her inflexible sincerity, which was to some very unwelcome, her strong attachments, and the reverence she paid to merit wherever she found it, she possessed a sturdy independent spirit, which was her chief distinction. This made her submit to work, and to live harder than any one, that she might have it in her power to enter- tain her friends occasionally, and bestow charity, without giving trouble to any one ; and her exer- tions in this way were incredible.

*******

******* Thus much of the

" Short and simple annals of the poor" you will hear with patience. Yet is it not pre- sumption to call Moome poor, who was so re- spectable, and gave so much away ? Her personal wants were few, and small indeed ; but her exer- tions, and the resources she found, or made, to preserve independence, and exert beneficence, were astonishing. Our children were the pleas- ure of her life, and pride of her heart. They were her theme wherever she went. None of the persons you ever served or obliged, could be so sensible of your kindness, as she was of yo\jr

144 LETTERS FROM

goodness to her son. Indeed, the generous are always grateful. She was as proud of Clan's* praise as the vainest of mortals could be of her own. She is buried with our children, under