Book: Marriage

S >> Susan Edmonstone Ferrier >> Marriage




GRANVILLE PENN.

"Devonshire Cottage, 1_st May_ 1831."

The next tribute of admiration bestowed on _Destiny_ was from Sir James
Mackintosh:--

_Sir James Mackintosh to Miss Ferrier._

"LONDON, 10_th June_ 1831.

"DEAR MISS FERRIER--Let me tell you a fact, which I hope you will excuse
me from mentioning, as some subsidiary proof of your power. On the day
of the dissolution of Parliament, and in the critical hours between
twelve and three, I was employed in reading part of the second volume of
_Destiny._ My mind was so completely occupied on your colony in
Argyleshire, that I did not throw away a thought on kings or
parliaments, and was not moved by the general curiosity to stir abroad
till I had finished your volume. It would have been nothing if you had
so agitated a youth of genius and susceptibility, prone to literary
enthusiasm, but such a victory over an old hack is perhaps worthy of
your notice.--I am, my dear Miss Ferrier, your friend and admirer,

"J. MACKINTOSH."

Professor Wilson, "Christopher North," and his uncle, Mr. Robert Sym,
W.S., "Timothy Tickler," discuss the merits of _Destiny_ in the
far-famed _Noctes_:

"_Tickler.--' _I would also except Miss Susan Ferrier. Her novels, no
doubt, have many defects, their plots are poor, their episodes
disproportionate, and the characters too often caricatures; but they are
all thick-set with such specimens of sagacity, such happy traits of
nature, such flashes of genuine satire, such easy humour, sterling good
sense, and, above all--God only knows where she picked it up--mature and
perfect knowledge of the world, that I think we may safely anticipate
for them a different fate from what awaits even the cleverest of
juvenile novels.'

"_North.-' _They are the works of a very clever woman, sir, and they
have one feature of true and melancholy interest quite peculiar to
themselves. It is in them alone that the ultimate breaking-down and
debasement of the Highland character has been depicted. Sir Walter Scott
had fixed the enamel of genius over the last fitful gleams of their
half-savage chivalry, but a humbler and sadder scene--the age of
lucre-banished clans--of chieftains dwindled into imitation squires, and
of chiefs content to barter the recollections of a thousand years for a
few gaudy seasons of Almacks and Crockfords, the euthanasia of kilted
aldermen and steamboat pibrochs was reserved for Miss Ferrier.'

"_Tickler.--' _She in general fails almost as egregiously as Hook does
in the pathetic [1] but in her last piece there is one scene of this
description worthy of either Sterne or Goldsmith. I mean where the young
man [2] supposed to have been lost at sea, revisits, after a lapse of
time, the precincts of his own home, watching unseen in the twilight the
occupations and bearings of the different members of the family, and
resolving, under the influence of a most generous feeling, to keep the
secret of his preservation.'

[1] This is not true, as there are many pathetic passages in _Destiny_,
particularly between Edith, the heroine, and her faithless lover, Sir
Reginald.

[2] Ronald Malcolm.

"_North.-' _I remember it well, and you might bestow the same kind of
praise on the whole character of Molly Macaulay. It is a picture of
humble, kind-hearted, thorough-going devotion and long-suffering,
indefatigable gentleness, of which, perhaps, no sinner of our gender
could have adequately filled up the outline. Miss Ferrier appears
habitually in the light of a hard satirist, but there is always a fund
of romance at the bottom of every true woman's heart who has tried to
stifle and suppress that element more carefully and pertinaciously, and
yet who has drawn, in spite of herself, more genuine tears than the
authoress of _Simple Susan.' "_

The story of _Destiny,_ like its predecessors, is laid in Miss Ferrier's
favourite Highlands, and it contains several picturesque and vivid
descriptions of scenery there, --Inveraray, and its surroundings
generally, forming the model for her graphic pen. Much of this novel was
written at Stirling Castle, when she was there on a visit to her sister,
Mrs. Graham, [1] whose husband, General Graham, was governor of that
garrison. After the publication of this last work, and the offer of a
thousand pounds from a London publisher for anything from her pen, [2]
she entirely ceased from her literary labours, being content to rest
upon the solid and enduring reputation her three "bantlings" (as she
called her novels) had won for her. The following fragment, however, was
found among her papers, and is the portrait of another old maid, and
might serve as a companion to Miss Pratt. As it is amusing, and in the
writer's satirical style, I lay it before my readers:--

[1] Celebrated by Burns, the poet, for her beauty. She inspired his muse
when turning the corner of George Street, Edinburgh. The lines addressed
to her are to be found in his _Poems._ She was also a highly-gifted
artist. The illustrations in the work called the _Stirling Heads_ are
from her pencil. It was published by Blackwood, 1817.

[2] She says (1837) "I made two attempts to write _something_, but could
not please myself, and would not publish _anything_."

"Miss Betty Landon was a single lady of small fortune, few personal
charms, and a most jaundiced imagination. There was no event, not even
the most fortunate, from which Miss Betty could not extract evil;
everything, even the milk of human kindness, with her turned to gall and
vinegar. Thus, if any of her friends were married, she sighed over the
miseries of the wedded state; if they were single, she bewailed their
solitary, useless condition; if they were parents, she pitied them for
having children; if they had no children, she pitied them for being
childless. But one of her own letters will do greater justice to the
turn of her mind than the most elaborate description.


"'My DEAR Miss------ I ought to have written to you long before now, but
I have suffered so much from the constant changes of the weather that
the wonder is I am able to hold a pen. During the whole summer the heat
was really quite intolerable, not a drop of rain or a breath of wind,
the cattle dying for absolute want, the vegetables dear and scarce, and
as for fruit--that, you know, in this town, is at all times scarce and
bad, and particularly when there is the greatest occasion for it. In the
autumn we never had two days alike, either wind or rain, or frost, or
something or another; and as for our winter--you know what that
is--either a constant splash of rain, or a frost like to take the skin
off you. For these six weeks I may say I have had a constant running at
my head, with a return of my old complaint; but as for doctors, I see no
good they do, except to load people's stomachs and pick their pockets:
everything now is imposition; I really think the very pills are not what
they were thirty years ago. How people with families continue to live is
a mystery to me; and people still going on marrying, in the face of
national debt, taxes, a new war, a starving population, ruined commerce,
and no outlet for young men in any quarter--God only knows what is to be
the end of all this! In spite of all this, these thoughtless young
creatures, the Truemans, have thought proper to make out their marriage;
he is just five-and-twenty, and she is not yet nineteen! so you may
judge what a prudent, well-managed establishment it will be. He is in a
good enough business at present, but in these times who can tell what's
to happen? He may be wallowing in wealth to-day, and bankrupt to-morrow.
His sister's marriage with Fairplay is now quite off, and her prospects
for life, poor thing, completely wrecked! Her looks are entirely gone,
and her spirits quite broken. She is not like the same creature, and, to
be sure, to a girl who had set her heart upon being married, it must be
a great and severe disappointment, for this was her only chance, unless
she tries India, and the expense of the outfit must be a complete bar to
that. You would hear that poor Lady Oldhouse has had a son--it seemed a
desirable thing, situated as they are with an entailed property; and yet
when I look around me, and see the way that sons go on, the dissipation
and extravagance, and the heartbreak they are to their parents, I think
a son anything but a blessing. No word of anything of that kind to the
poor Richardsons; with all their riches, they are without anyone to come
after them. The Prowleys are up in the air at having got what they call
"a fine appointment" for their fourth son, but for my part I'm really
sick of hearing of boys going to India, for after all what do they do
there? I never hear of their sending home anything but black children,
and when they come home themselves, what do they bring but yellow faces,
worn-out constitutions, and livers like cocked-hats, crawling about from
one watering-place to another, till they are picked up by some
light-hearted, fortune-hunting miss, who does not care twopence for
them.'"

A beautiful and strong feature in Miss Ferrier's character was her
intense devotion to her father, and when he died the loss to her was
irreparable. She also was much attached to a very handsome brother,
James; he was colonel of the 94th regiment, or Scots Brigade, and died
in India in 1804, at the early age of twenty-seven. He had been at the
siege of Seringapatam in 1799, and was much distinguished by the notice
of Napoleon at Paris in February 1803, whence he writes to his sister
Susan:--

"I think I wrote you I had been introduced to the Chief Consul. I was on
Sunday last presented to his lady, whom I do not at all admire. The
great man spoke to me then again, which is a very unusual thing, and I
am told by the French I must be in his good graces; however, I myself
rather think it was my good fortune only: at all events it has given me
much pleasure, for it would have only been doing the thing half if he
had not spoken to me. I do not think any of the pictures like him much,
although most of them have some resemblance; they give him a frown in
general, which he certainly has not--so far from it, that when he speaks
he has one of the finest expressions possible."

Here, unfortunately, this interesting description comes abruptly to an
end, the rest of the letter being lost. On account of failing health and
increased bodily languor, Miss Ferrier latterly lived a very retired
life, seeing few but very intimate friends, and, as she said, "We are
more recluse than ever, as our little circle is yearly contracting, and
my eyes are more and more averse to light than ever."

Again she writes:--

"I can say nothing good of myself, my cough is very severe, and will
probably continue so, at least as long as this weather lasts; but I have
many comforts, for which I am thankful; amongst those I must reckon
silence and darkness, which are my best companions at present."

For years she had suffered from her eyes, being nearly quite blind of
one. [1] In 1830 she went to London to consult an oculist, but
unfortunately derived little benefit. While there, she visited
Isleworth, in order to see a villa belonging to Lord Cassillis, and
which subsequently figured in _Destiny_ as "Woodlands," Lady
Waldegrave's rural retreat near London. A valued friend [2] who
saw much of her remarked:--

[1] Lady Morgan, a fellow-sufferer from her eyes, was most anxious
she should consult Mr. Alexander, the eminent oculist, as he entirely
cured her after four years' expectation of total blindness.

[2] Lady Richardson.

"The wonderful vivacity she maintained in the midst of darkness and pain
for so many years, the humour, wit, and honesty of her character, as
well as the Christian submission with which she bore her great privation
and general discomfort when not suffering acute pain, made everyone who
knew her desirous to alleviate the tediousness of her days, and I used
to read a great deal to her at one time, and I never left her darkened
chamber without feeling that I had gained something better than the book
we might be reading, from her quick perception of its faults and its
beauties, and her unmerciful remarks on all that was mean or unworthy in
conduct or expression."

But perhaps the most faithful picture of her is conveyed in this brief
sentence from Scott's diary, who describes her

"As a gifted personage, having, besides her great talents, conversation
the least _exigeante_ of any author-female, at least, whom I have ever
seen among the long list I have encountered; simple, full of humour, and
exceedingly ready at repartee, and all this without the least
affectation of the blue-stocking."

From the natural modesty of her character she had a great dislike to
her biography, or memorial of her in any shape, being written, for she
destroyed all letters that might have been used for such a purpose,
publicity of any kind being most distasteful to her, evidence of which
is very clearly shown in the first part of this narrative. The chief
secret of her success as a novelist (setting aside her great genius) was
the great care and time she bestowed on the formation of each novel--an
interval of six years occurring between each, the result being
delineations of character that are unique.

Unfortunately there is little to relate regarding her childhood, that
most interesting period of human existence in the lives of (and which is
generally distinguished by some uncommon traits of character) people of
genius--save that she had for a school companion and playfellow the late
Lord Brougham, the distinguished statesman; she was remarkable also for
her power of mimicry. An amusing anecdote of this rather dangerous gift
is the following: Her brothers and sisters returned home from a ball,
very hungry, and entered her room, where they supposed she lay asleep,
and, while discussing the events of the evening and the repast they had
procured by stealth (unknown to their father), they were suddenly put to
flight by the sounds and voice, as they thought, of their dreaded parent
ascending the stairs, and in their confusion and exit from the room
overturned chairs and tables, much to the amusement of little Susan,
who, no doubt, enjoyed the fright and commotion she had caused, and who
mimicked under the cover of the bedclothes the accents of her
redoubtable parent--a fit punishment, as she thought, for their ruthless
invasion of her chamber, and their not offering her a share of their
supper. An old Miss Peggy Campbell (sister to Sir Islay Campbell,
President of the Court of Session) was also taken off by her, and so
like that her father actually came into the room, where she was amusing
her hearers, thinking that Miss Campbell was really present. When she
died a blank was left in her native city that has not been since filled,
the modern Athens having somewhat deteriorated in the wit, learning, and
refinement that so distinguished her in the days that are gone.




RECOLLECTIONS OF VISITS
TO ASHESTIEL AND ABBOTSFORD, [1]

[1] Reprinted from the _Temple Bar_ Magazine for February 1874.

By SUSAN EDMONSTONE FERRIER,

_Author of 'Marriage,' 'Inheritance,' and 'Destiny.'_

I HAVE never kept either note-book or journal, and as my memory is not a
retentive one I have allowed much to escape which I should now vainly
attempt to recall. Some things must, however, have made a vivid and
durable impression on my mind, as fragments remain, after the lapse of
years, far more distinct than occurrences of much more recent date;
such, amongst others, are my recollections of my visits to Ashestiel and
Abbotsford.

The first took place in the autumn of 1811, in consequence of repeated
and pressing invitations from Mr. Scott to my father, in which I was
included. Nothing could be kinder than our welcome, or more gratifying
than the attentions we received during our stay; but the weather was too
broken and stormy to admit of our enjoying any of the pleasant
excursions our more weather-proof host had intended for us.

My father and I could therefore only take short drives with Mrs. Scott,
while the bard (about one o'clock:) mounted his pony, and accompanied by
Mr. Terry the comedian, his own son Walter, and our young relative
George Kinloch, sallied forth for a long morning's ride in spite of wind
and rain. In the evening Mr. Terry commonly read some scenes from a play,
to which Mr. Scott listened with delight, though every word must have
been quite familiar to him, as he occasionally took a part in the
dialogue impromptu; at other times he recited old and awesome ballads
from memory, the very names of which I have forgot. The night preceding
our departure had blown a perfect hurricane; we were to leave
immediately after breakfast, and while the carriage was preparing Mr.
Scott stepped to a writing-table and wrote a few hurried lines in the
course of a very few minutes; these he put into my hand as he led me to
the carriage; they were in allusion to the storm, coupled with a
friendly adieu, and are to be found in my autograph album.

"The mountain winds are up, and proud
O'er heath and hill careering loud;
The groaning forest to its power
Yields all that formed our summer bower.
The summons wakes the anxious swain,
Whose tardy shocks still load the plain,
And bids the sleepless merchant weep,
Whose richer hazard loads the deep.
For me the blast, or low or high,
Blows nought of wealth or poverty;
It can but whirl in whimsies vain
The windmill of a restless brain,
And bid me tell in slipshod verse
What honest prose might best rehearse;
How much we forest-dwellers grieve
Our valued friends our cot should leave,
Unseen each beauty that we boast,
The little wonders of our coast,
That still the pile of Melrose gray,
For you must rise in minstrel's lay,
And Yarrow's birk immortal long
For yon but bloom in rural song.
Yet Hope, who still in present sorrow
Whispers the promise of to-morrow,
Tells us of future days to come,
When you shall glad our rustic home;
When this wild whirlwind shall be still,
And summer sleep on glen and hill,
And Tweed, unvexed by storm, shall guide
In silvery maze his stately tide,
Doubling in mirror every rank
Of oak and alder on his bank;
And our kind guests such welcome prove
As most we wish to those we love." [1]

_Ashestiel, _October 13, 1811.

[1] Lines written by Walter Scott while the carriage was waiting
to convey my father and me from Ashestiel.--S. E. F.

The invitation had been often repeated, but my dear father's increasing
infirmities made him averse to leave home, and when, in compliance with
Sir Walter's urgent request, I visited Abbotsford in the autumn of 1829,
I went alone. I was met at the outer gate by Sir Walter, who welcomed me
in the kindest manner and most flattering terms; indeed, nothing could
surpass the courtesy of his address on such occasions. On our way to the
house he stopped and called his two little grandchildren, Walter and
Charlotte Lockhart, who were chasing each other like butterflies among
the flowers--the boy was quite a Cupid, though not an _alfresco_ one;
for he wore a Tartan cloak, whose sundry extras fluttered in the breeze
as he ran to obey the summons, and gave occasion to his grandfather to
present him to me as "Major Waddell;" [1] the pretty little
fairy-looking girl he next introduced as "Whipperstowrie," and then
(aware of my love for fairy lore) he related the tale, in his own
inimitable manner, as he walked slowly and stopped frequently in our
approach to the house. As soon as I could look round I was struck with
the singular and picturesque appearance of the mansion and its
_environs._ Yet I must own there was more of _strangeness_ than of
admiration in my feelings; too many objects seemed crowded together in a
small space, and there was a "felt want" of breadth and repose for the
eye. On entering the house I was however charmed with the rich
imposing beauty of the hall, and admired the handsome antique appearance
of the dining-room with its interesting pictures. After luncheon Sir
Walter was at pains to point them out to my notice, and related the
histories of each and all; he then conducted me through the apartments,
and showed me so much, and told me so many anecdotes illustrative of the
various objects of interest and curiosity they contained, that I retain
a very confused and imperfect recollection of what I saw and heard. It
was a strong proof of his good-nature that in showing the many works of
art and relics of antiquity he had continued to accumulate and arrange
with so much taste and skill, he should have been at such pains to point
out the merits and relate the history of most of them to one so
incapable of appreciating their value. But he never allowed one to feel
their own deficiencies, for he never appeared to be aware of them
himself.

[1] One of Miss Ferrier's characters in her novel of _The Inheritance._

It was in the quiet of a small domestic circle I had again an
opportunity of enjoying the society of Sir Walter Scott, and of
witnessing, during the ten days I remained, the unbroken serenity of his
temper, the unflagging cheerfulness of his spirits, and the unceasing
courtesy of his manners. I had been promised a quiet time, else I should
not have gone; and indeed the state of the family was a sufficient
guarantee against all festivities. Mrs. Lockhart was confined to bed
by severe indisposition, while Mr. Lockhart was detained in London
by the alarming illness of their eldest boy, and both Captain Scott and
his brother were absent. The party, therefore, consisted only of Sir
Walter and Miss Scott, Miss Macdonald Buchanan (who was almost one of
the family), and myself. Being the only stranger, I consequently came in
for a larger share of my amiable host's time and attention than I should
otherwise have been entitled to expect. Many a pleasant tale and amusing
anecdote I might have had to relate had I written down half of what I
daily heard; but I had always an invincible repugnance to playing the
_reporter_ and taking down people's words under their own roof. Every day
Sir Walter was ready by one o'clock to accompany us either in driving or
walking, often in both, and in either there was the same inexhaustible
flow of legendary lore, romantic incident, apt quotation, curious or
diverting story; and sometimes old ballads were recited, commemorative
of some of the localities through which he passed. Those who had seen
him only amidst the ordinary avocations of life, or even doing the
honours of his own table, could scarcely have conceived the fire and
animation of his countenance at such times, when his eyes seemed
literally to kindle, and even (as some one has remarked) to change their
colour and become a sort of deep sapphire blue; but, perhaps, from being
close to him and in the open air, I was more struck with this
peculiarity than those whose better sight enabled them to mark his
varying expression at other times. Yet I must confess this was an
enthusiasm I found as little infectious as that of his antiquarianism.
On the contrary, I often wished his noble faculties had been exercised
on loftier themes than those which seemed to stir his very soul.

The evenings were passed either in Mrs. Lockhart's bedroom or in
chatting quietly by the fireside below, but wherever we were he was
always the same kind, unostentatious, amusing, and _amusable_ companion.

The day before I was to depart Sir David Wilkie and his sister arrived,
and the Fergussons and one or two friends were invited to meet him. Mrs.
Lockhart was so desirous of meeting this old friend and distinguished
person, that, though unable to put her foot to the ground, she caused
herself to be dressed and carried down to the drawing-room while the
company were at dinner. Great was her father's surprise and delight on
his entrance to find her seated (looking well and in high spirits) with
her harp before her, ready to sing his favourite ballads. This raised
his spirits above their usual quiet pitch, and towards the end of the
evening he proposed to wind up the whole by all present standing in a
circle with hands joined, singing,

"Weel may we a' be!
Ill may we never see!"

Mrs. Lockhart was, of course, unable to join the festive band. Sir David
Wilkie was languid and dispirited from bad health, and my feelings were
not such as to enable me to join in what seemed to me little else than a
mockery of human life; but rather than "displace the mirth," I _tried,_
but could not long remain a passive spectator; the glee seemed forced
and unnatural. It touched no sympathetic chord; it only jarred the
feelings; it was the last attempt at gaiety I witnessed within the walls
of Abbotsford.

Although I had intended to confine my slight reminiscence of Sir Walter
Scott to the time I had passed with him under his own roof in the
country, yet I cannot refrain from noticing the great kindness I
received from him during the following winter in town.

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