LETTER VIII. TO MISS HARRIET REID. Oban, May, 1773. Now, my dear Harriet, I have commenced a bad custom both to you and myself. I write so minutely, that when I settle and have something else to do, I must needs be concise, and then you will think me careless; but you must not, for my manner of writing to you is so like our old wandering chit-chat, that I fly to it as Lizzy does to her snuff-box; and this so often, that I neglect those I ought to like and attend to, and would attend to, if I did not feel as if I had you always, in a corner, to run to. I will not write these two days, unless a little matter-of-fact before breakfast, and a gossiping whisper at bed-time. My taste for solitary amusement, and indifference to the volatile chit-chat of some people, begin to excite much observation. Shake off the imputation as we please, every one has their own mode of selfishness, and I feel mine to be that of running away to my solitary pleasures. I repent, will mortify myself, and "do penance in gay young company." Evening. I am reformed, and amended, but cannot fatigue myself or you with the description of this day; you will find it in Thomson: "deceitful, vain, and void, passes the day." Why should I speak with peevishness of good-humoured, harmless people, who show a wish to please me? Why am I not pleased with trifles, when the best of us are doomed to pass great part of our lives in a manner which our own reflections must call trifling? But then I should like to trifle in my own way. I could play half a day with sweet little Anne, or even with a sportive kitten, or puppy; I could gather shells and sea-weed on the shore, or venture my neck for nests, which I would not plunder after finding them; nay, I could talk nonsense, as we used to do, and laugh heartily at vagaries of our own contriving. But the nonsense of these good people I cannot for my life relish: they think it wit, and I cannot accredit it as such. Then they think cunning wisdom, and mistake simplicity for folly. Very rural all this; here is gossiping for you with a witness! Do not think that I indulge myself in the conceit of not caring for any body, unless they have the taste for reading, which great leisure and solitude, in a manner, forced upon me. But I would have people love truth and nature; I would have them look a little into the great book which their Maker has left open to every body. I would have the rising and setting sun, the blossoming trees and opening flowers, give them the same pleasure, which many taste without knowing their alphabet. O! when, or where shall I see another Harriet, uncultured and untaught, yet awake to all that is grand or beautiful in nature, all that is excellent or desirable in knowledge-whose intuitive sense of what is delicate and proper, is worth volumes of instruction! The more I know of others, the more I regret you; and the best use I ever could make of the knowledge which I have accidentally acquired, would be to impress it on the fair tablet of your spotless mind. Good night, my dear; I am neither very well nor very easy. I have got cold in these meadowy traverses. My father and mother go away to-morrow. Were it not for the dear old man, and his little girl, and his library, I would go too. Write to me here, and never mind incorrectness; you will daily improve; or, though you should not, "Thou hast no faults, or I no faults can spy, LETTER IX. TO MISS HARRIET REID. my Fort-William, May 12, 1773. Be astonished, O Harriet, for here I am. Ask why I am here, and I can only tell you it was owing to the strangest caprice. Yet, so it is, and you know I do not use to be fickle. The day after I wrote to you, it was settled that father and mother were to proceed from Oban to Fort-William in the King's wherry. "Mark that, Mary Jones." Two o'clock was the hour fixed. Mary Macvicar proposed a forenoon walk,-I went reluctantly, on condition of not passing the boundary rivulet on the way to Soroba. There she lingered with teasing perseverance; hoping, no doubt, that some of our friends would appear. At length I would go, fearing my parents might go without seeing me. The first object that met my eyes, crossing the hill, was His Majesty's wherry, going full sail up the bay. I grew cold as lead; I felt the oddest sensation; surprise and remorse for being away, and a strange forlorn feeling I cannot express, stupified me for a few moments, and then my eyes filled, and I was relieved. Yet I felt as if I were alone in the world, and cared for nothing. After dinner there came a sudden violent blast, with drift and squalls. The Collector retired to write, and I to the library. Just as we all met at tea, lamenting the sad evening, there came an outcry from below, that the wherry was seen returning. I was so agitated. In short, the storm had driven them back, and I was seized with the strongest desire to go with them; I knew I should miss many pleasures I had promised myself; that, for instance, of seeing Kitty Macalman, whom I like better than any one ever I knew from this quarter. But it was odds if I should get away till the end of summer; I had lost all influence over Mary's mind, and I saw clearly she was in hands I could not take her out of so far from profiting by advice, I knew she would dislike me for advising her: she might sink into vulgarity or folly, but why should I grieve myself with seeing what I could not mend? I knew the Collector would be sorry to part with me. I hope it was not cunning, but delicacy, that made me beg my mother to say that she had changed her mind, and would not leave me. How my heart pined for the sweet little girl! I should have delighted to take her with me, and make a little sister of her. We left Oban at five next morning, for then the tide made. Poor Mary was not so indifferent as I thought. After we had parted, while the boat was putting off, she sprung, as from a sudden impulse, on a great stone, and from thence to the boat again; she silently embraced me, with a tear on her cheek. If we never meet again I shall remember this as ominous, for Mary is unused to the melting mood. I thought she never looked so pretty: what a fine face her's would be, with suitable expression! The morning was clear, though cold; I enjoyed very much the views on each side, betwixt Mull and the coast, and saw the old castles of Dunolly and Dunstaffnage on rocks projecting into the sea, and many other places of old renown. Do you know, that the Collector, who knows but everything, says, Robert Bruce held a parliament in Dunstaffnage, where all the barons spoke Gaelic. We passed the pleasant and fertile island of Lismore, a name signifying a large garden, and on the other side saw the coast of Appin, rich in early verdure, and sheltered with groves of oak. The scenery is various and beautiful. This estate is at present possessed by a gentleman of taste and liberality,* who has improved it exceedingly, and, though not a native, seems very much attached to the place. He has built a stately mansion on it, and, being an enthusiast in regard to antiquities, and a lover of nature, is regarded by the people with as fond an attachment as any of their native chiefs. He is indeed, they say, very good and kind to them. I never saw a place that had more attractions for me; it is wild, * Henry Seton, Esq. of Touch. The beautiful estate of Appin has since belonged, successively, to the Marquis of Tweeddale and the late Robert Downie, Esq. (1845.) |