About this time, that is during the course of the two years which followed our arrival in London, various perceptions dawned on my young mind to which in recollection I can prefix no date, neither can I remember the order in which I learned them. My Aunt Lissy became known to me. She had lived generally with my father since his marriage; it was her home; but though she was the lady in the blue gown, I have no distinct idea of her before this, when she returned from some visit she had been paying and brought to Jane and me a pretty basket apiece. Mine went to bed with me, was settled at my feet that I might see it the first thing in the morning. I see it now, as plainly as then, an oval open basket of fine straw, not by any means small and with a handle apparently tied on by two knots of blue ribbon.
In the summer of this year we must have gone to Tunbridge Wells, for I remember perfectly a house near the Common there upon which we were allowed to run about all day, and where to our delight we found some heather which we greeted as an old friend. I recollect too a green paper on the walls of the room in which I slept covered all over with sprigs in a regular pattern, that it amused me extremely to wake up in the morning and fall a-counting. In the autumn we must have gone to Eastbourne, for I well remember the seashore, splashing my feet into the cool green water in the little pools between the rocks, picking up seaweed, star fish and jelly blobs, and filling my dear basket with quantities of shells. At some inn on our way either to or from one of these places, while we little people were at our bread and milk supper at one table, and the elders at their dinner at another, we were all startled by the sounds of a beautiful voice outside, clear and sweet and very tuneful, singing ‘Over the mountains and over the moors, Hungry and barefoot I wander forlorn.’ It was one of the fashionable ballads of the day out of a favourite farce—‘No song no supper,’8 I think, and not inappropriate to the condition of the poor creature who was wandering about singing it. My father opened the window and threw out ‘some charity,’ when the ‘kind gentlefolks’ were rewarded by another verse which enabled me to pick up the air, and it became my favourite for many a month to come, ‘piped in a childish treble’9 very unlike the silvery tones I had learned it from.
William and I were taken to see a ruin near Eastbourne, and what was called the field of Batile [Battle] Abbey, and my Mother, in that sack of a white gown with a little hat stuck round with bows of ribbon on one side of her head, showed us the spot where brave King Harold fell, for she was a Saxon in name and feeling, and in her historical lessons she never omitted the scanty praise she could now and then truthfully bestow on the race she gloried in descending from. It is curious that I have no recollection of learning anything from any body except thus by chance as it were, though I have understood I was a little wonder, my Aunts having amused themselves in making a sort of show of me, I read well at 3 years old, had long ballads off by heart, counted miraculously, danced heel and toe, the highland fling, and highland shuffle, and sang, perched upon the table, ever so many Scotch songs, ‘Tommin soo ze eye’ and such like, to the amusement of the partial assembly. I fancy I was indebted to Aunt Mary for these higher accomplishments; counting I know my Aunt Lissy taught me, with a general notion of the four first rules of arithmetick by the help of little bags of beans, which were kept in one of the compartments of an immense box full of all sorts of tangible helps to knowledge. My further progress in the art might have been checked had my father and mother been so unwise as to carry out an intention they frequently reverted to: that of going over from Eastbourne to France. The short peace with France had been signed early in the year. I can perfectly remember the illuminations in London on account of it. On a clear day the French coast was distinctly visible through a telescope from Eastbourne and so many fishing-boats came off from thence with cheap poultry, eggs, and other market wares that people were quite bit with a wish to make so short a voyage. Some that did never returned, war having been again declared, and Buonaparte retaining all travellers unlucky enough to have trusted themselves to his ill temper.
Before Christmas we were established in the tall house in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, which continued for 10 years to be the principal home of the family. 1803 therefore saw us settled in this new abode, where our fine, airy nurseries, though reached at the expense of a weary climb, were a delightful change from the gloom of Bury Place. We had the Square to play in, were allowed to run about there without a maid, and soon made acquaintance with plenty of children as well pleased with new companions as ourselves. From this time our town life was never an unhappy one. In the winter my Aunt Mary, who had been away, returned with Aunt Fanny, my Mother’s only other unmarried sister. They remained some months, which we children liked. Aunt Mary was dearly loved by us all. She knew how to manage us, could amuse without letting us plague her—an art poor Aunt Fanny did not understand so well. My Mother’s youngest brother, my Uncle Edward, who was pursuing his studies at Woolwich with the intention of proceeding to India, spent his vacations frequently with us. Besides these there were highland cousins innumerable, who, on their periodical flights from the wild hills where they could find nothing, to the broad world where they never failed to gather plenty if they lived, were sure of a resting-place on their passage with my father. It was a strange household for London, this hotel for all relations. We were play things for every one, and perhaps a little more made of than was good for some of us.
Amongst other indulgences this spring I was taken twice to the play and once to Sadler’s Wells with William, The first play was ‘The Caravan.’ John Kemble10 acted in it—the lover, and a very lugubrious one he seemed to be. The actor that delighted me was a dog, a real Newfoundland trained to leap into a cataract and bring dripping out of the water, real water, a doll representing a child which had spoken in the scene a few minutes before, and had then appeared to be dropt by a lady in distress while flying across a plank up at the top of the stage, the only bridge across the torrent. They could not persuade me the doll was not the real child; I thought it dead, drowned, and cried and sobbed so violently I was hardly to be pacified—not till all the audience had been attracted by the noise. The other play was ‘The busy body.’ Bannister in all sorts of scrapes, doing mischief continually from over officiousness, hid in a chimney, discovered when least welcome, etc., a collection of contretemps that fidgetted and annoyed much more than they amused me. The horsemanship with the tumblers, ropedancers, etc., I did not like, they frightened me. William, little as he was, was in extasies.
In the month of May of this year, 1803, on the 21st, in the evening, my sister Mary was born. From this I date all my perfect recollections. All that happened stands clearly before me now at the end of so long a life as if that one event had suddenly wakened up a sleeping intellect. It was indeed a matter of some moment to me, for in some way the new baby and I were thrown upon each other from her birth. Jane was so engrossingly the pet of my mother and the companion of my brother, that she was less my associate than the mere difference in our ages warranted. My father was always busy, my mother generally ill, William, the heir, was the child of consequence to all the family connexions of course more noticed by them than either of us his sisters were. I was not romp enough for him so that he did not seek me unless Jane was out of the way; therefore when my Aunts were away I was often lonely. The baby just suited me for a playmate—to watch her, amuse her, help to attend upon her, and by and bye to work for her and teach her, was my delight, and as I was six years old when she was born, I was quite a little mother to her, preferring her infinitely to the dolls which had hitherto chiefly occupied me. I was never weary of watching her. Cross Mrs Day had been replaced by a very good natared Mrs Herbert, a Widow, who had seen better days, and whose son, her only child, was in the blue coat school. He was now and then allowed to come and see his mother in his curious dress—the queer petticoat, coat, yellow stockings and little wee cap. Mrs Lynch was still with us. We spent most of our time in the Square with plenty of companions, so that altogether this spring in London has left a
sweet memory behind it.
My mother had been alarmingly ill after the birth of this her finest child. She had lost the use of her limbs, and was carried up and downstairs, and to and from the carriage, when she took her airings on a sort of King’s cushion. As my father found it necessary to proceed to the highlands in the summer and had to attend Circuit somewhere in the north of England, it was resolved that she and we should have a few weeks of sea bathing at Scarborough on our way. A sort of couch was contrived for her, on which she lay comfortably in the large berline11 we had hitherto used, and which the four horses must have found heavy enough when weighted with all its imperials, hat boxes, and the great hair trunk that had been poor William’s terrour in Bury Place. Mrs Lynch and McKenzie, who had been my father’s valet before he married, were on the outside; my father, Jane, and I within with my mother, and we travelled with our own horses driven by two postillions in green jackets and jockey caps, leaving London, I think, in July. In the heavy post chariot behind were the two nurses, the baby in a swinging cot, William, who was too riotous to be near my mother, and a footman in charge of them. What it must have cost to have carried such a party in such a style from London to the Highlands and how often we travelled that north road! Every good inn became a sort of home, every obliging Landlord and Landlady an old friend. We had cakes here, a garden with a summer-house there, a parrot further on, all to look forward to on every migration, along with the pleasant flatteries of surprise at our growth and our looks of health, as if such a train would not have been greeted joyously by every publican. We travelled slowly, 30 miles a day on an average, starting late and stopping early, with a bait soon after noon when we children dined. I forget when we reached Scarborough, neither can I recollect any particular impression made by the town itself or the country around, but I do remember feeling astonishment at the sight of the sea, and also surprise and annoyance —who would have believed this in such a child—at our not having a whole house to ourselves, but lodging in the lower and very upper part of a house, the rest of which was occupied by the family of Sir Thomas Liddell. Another merry set of children to play with might have reconciled me to the humiliation of sharing our temporary abode with ‘our neighbour,’ had we then been able to secure such companions as the first few days promised. Overtures on both parts were answered on both parts, and Lady Williamson, Lady Normanby,12 Lady Barrington and two little white faced brothers had arrived at blowing soap bubbles most merrily with William, Jane and me, when laughing too loud one unfortunate morning, our respective attendants were attracted by the uproar and flew to separate our happy group. They shook us well, shook Grants and Liddells, and scolded us well, and soon divided us, wondering what our Mammas would say at our offering to make strange acquaintance, when we knew we were forbid to speak to any one they did not know. So we Grants used to listen to the Liddells, who monopolised the garden, and to their mother who played delightfully upon the Harp, and amuse ourselves as we best could, alone.
We were a great deal out upon the beach, sometimes wandering about the sands with the nurses, and always taking one drive along that beautiful shore close to the sea with my mother. The sands are very extensive at Scarborough, very firm and very even, and there are caves and curiously shaped rocks, and an old Castle on a height, if I recollect rightly.
My father returned to us some time before we left, for I remember his explaining all about the Life Boat, taking us to see it, and telling us tales of wrecks and storms in which it had been useful, reading to us about the sea, and about ships and sailors and commerce, using the occasion to impress upon our minds all sons of information on these subjects, which was indeed the way he generally taught us. There was a violent storm of thunder and lightning about this time, which introduced us to electricity and Dr Franklin,13 and did an immensity of damage in and around Scarborough, killing cattle and people and destroying a great deal of property. It was quite unusually terrific, so as often to have been alluded to in after years as the frightful thunderstorm of 1803, a point of comparison with others.
A company of strolling players happening to arrive in the town, William and I were taken to see them. The state of their play house not a little astonished us. The small dirty house, though wretchedly lighted, brought the audience and the stage so close together that the streaks of paint on the actors’ faces were plainly visible, also the gauze coverings on the necks and arms of the actresses. Then the bungling machinery, the prompter’s voice, the few scenes and the shabby scene shifters, all so revealed the business that illusion there was none, and we who at Drury Lane and Astley’s and Covent Garden had felt ourselves transported to Fairy Land, were quite pained by the preparations for deception which the poor Strollers so clumsily betrayed to us. The Play was Rosina, an opera,14 and the prima donna so old, so wrinkled, so rouged, that had she warbled like my own Janey she would have been ill selected as the heroine; but she sang vilely, screamed and I must have thought so, for I learned none of her songs, and I generally picked up every air I heard. Soon after the Play I was laid up with scarlet fever, which I notice as I had it twice afterwards and have had returns of the scarlatina throat all my life.
Upon leaving Scarborough we proceeded to Houghton, where I must have been before, as many changes in the place struck me. I have no recollection, however, of a former visit.
As I remember it from this one, the village consisted of one long, wide, straggling, winding street, containing every variety of house, from the Hall standing far back beyond the large Court yard, and the low, square, substantial mansion even with the road, to the cottage of every size. A few shops here and there offered a meagre display of indifferent wares. About the middle of the village was the church half concealed by a grove of fine old trees, the Rectory, and the then celebrated boys’ school near it. The finest looking of the Court dignified Halls belonged to the Nesham family, from amongst whom my Grandfather Ironside had chosen his wife. She had had but to move across the little street to the most ancient looking of the low substantial houses which offered a long double row of windows and a wide doorway to the dusty path, only protected by posts and chains from the close approach of passengers. A kitchen wing had been added on one side; behind this were piled the roofs of the offices. A clump of old trees sheltered the east end. A large well filled garden at the back stretched down a long slope to a small brook that drained the neighbouring banks, and all around lay the fields which had descended from father to son, they said, at least for 700 years. In this quiet abode my Grandmother Ironside had passed her life of trials. Her Nesham home had not been happy. A violent, positive, money making father, no mother, one sister who never married, and two brothers, one at sea, the other as busy in the coal mines as her father, these composed the interior of the second house in size in the village, Houghton Hall, belonging to the Huttons, being the first. My Grandfather’s ranked third. My Grandmother’s love was another Romeo and Juliet story. The rich coal owner despised the Curate suitor, while the pride of seven centuries, collected in the bosoms of all having the remotest affinity to that much prized holy cross, revolted at so inferiour a connection for an Ironside as the gentle, graceful daughter of an upstart who had built his own house himself. Temper was very uncontrolled in those days. People, moving little, got into a set of prejudices they had no means of shaking by intercourse either with men or books, the reading of the period being of the most limited kind. And after habit had a little softened bitter feelings, children came fast and quick and noisy, funds were small, and my Grandfather, an hospitable careless man, leaving his farm to his man Jacky Bee, and his tithes to his clerk, Cuddy Kitson, his children to the pure air of his fields, and his wife to herself—her cares as soon as he found it pleasanter to be elsewhere was rather an encrease than a help to her difficulties. And for ten years the poor man was bed rid, paying assistants to do his duty, and thus still further diminishing the little my Grandmother could reckon on for the support of their numerous offspring. Only nine of her fifteen children grew up
to be provided for. My Mother and three sisters, the eldest of whom was married when very young to Mr Leitch. The eldest son, my Uncle William, went early into the army; Uncle Ralph was in the Law. My Uncles John and Edmund were taken into Mr Leitch’s Counting house; Uncle Edward was a boy at school when my Grandfather died. His wife did not long survive him, she lived but to bless me; and in the old family house at Houghton she had been succeeded by a pretty young woman of most engaging manners but small fortune, who had persuaded my Uncle William to give up his profession for her sake, and in the full vigour of his manhood to settle down for life on the few acres he had not the skill to make productive, and which in a less luxurious age had been found insufficient for the decent wants of a family.
Memoirs of a Highland Lady Page 3
