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 man 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-

k THE 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 by r
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. J Tis 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 awaking 1 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. 3 Tis 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, turning 1 , 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,