|
No account of the social
entertainments of Edinburgh over which Mistress Murray presided so
skilfully would be complete without some mention of a still more famous
lady, who long adorned them with her presence and was generally admitted
to be the most beautiful woman of her time. The sight of that lengthy
procession of sedan chairs, of which contemporary chroniclers write in
such glowing terms, bearing the lovely Susannah, Countess of Eglinton, and
her seven equally lovely daughters to the Assembly Rooms, was one
calculated to send the blood coursing more quickly through the veins of
each fashionable dandy of the day, and make the oldest beau feel young
again. It would not indeed be easy to call to mind the name of any woman
who caused so great a stir in the society of the Scottish capital as did
Lady Eglinton, perhaps the most famous “toast” of the eighteenth century.
Susannah Kennedy was the
daughter of Sir Archibald Kennedy of Culzean, and the granddaughter of the
first Lord Newark. When she first appeared in Edinburgh society her
extraordinary beauty took the city completely by storm. No girl was so
much admired, toasted, talked about. Rich suitors offered her their titles
and fortunes; less eligible admirers hastened to lay their hearts and
their debts at her feet. Amateur poets vied with one another in composing
amorous sonnets in praise of her eyebrows: young bloods fought each other
before breakfast, or shot themselves at twilight, victims of the jealousy
or despair which she inspired. But Miss Kennedy rode proudly by, heedless
of the havoc she was causing, dragging a crowd of captives at her
chariot-wheels along a path strewn with the shattered hearts of rejected
suitors.
Upon one admirer she
deigned to smile, indeed, but only for a time. He, too, was shortly
destined to join the melancholy band of the unaccepted. But he at least
was permitted to cherish hopes, though his hopes were eventually doomed to
disappointment. Sir John Clerk of Pennycuik was rich, good-looking, and
very much in love. An accomplished and clever writer, he was generally
acknowledged, as Anderson says, to be “one of the most enlightened men of
his time.” [Anderson’s Scottish Nation, vol. i. p.260.] He
is remembered as being the author of a humorous poem founded upon the old
Scottish lay, “o merry may the maid be that marries the miller,” as well
as of several serious literary works, and was for many years a regular
correspondent of Roger Gale, the English antiquary. At the time of his
infatuation for Miss Kennedy, however, he had no spare moments to waste
upon correspondence, but was kept busy trying to impress the haughty belle
of Edinburgh with his undoubted personal attractions. He loaded the fair
Susannah with presents, he overwhelmed her with polite attentions. One day
he even went so far as to send her a flute as a love-offering, from which,
blow as she might, the lady could extract no music. A careful examination
of the instrument showed it to be blocked with a sheet of paper, which on
removal proved to be a copy of verses in Sir John’s handwriting. It is not
usual to conceal amorous poems in the interior of an otherwise harmless
wind-instrument, but lovers have been forced ere now to adopt stranger
means of communication. Sir John’s “jewels five words long” were not at
any rate unworthy of their casket.
“Go happy pipe, (he sang)
and ever mindful be
To court bewitching Sylvia for me.
Tell all I feel – you cannot tell too much –
Repeat my love at each soft melting touch,
Since I to her my liberty resign,
Take thou the care to tune
her heart to mine.” [Chambers’s Traditions of Edinburgh, vol. i.
p.260.]
Small wonder if the “happy
pipe,” declining to compete with such a rival, remained ingloriously mute.
But the bewitching Sylvia,
or rather Susannah, was not to be won by even so inspired an outburst, and
politely gave back his liberty (and the piccolo) to her poetic suitor. The
world held in store for the beauteous Miss Kennedy a richer gift than Sir
John could hope to offer. She was destined to occupy a high position on
society as the bride of no less a personage than the proud old Earl of
Eglinton, and her family was only too anxious to further the arrangements
for so promising a match. It seemed as though the very heavens smiled upon
the alliance, and that Fortune herself was in league with Lord Eglinton
and the lady of his choice. For one fine day, as she was walking in her
father’s garden at Culzean, a hawk, bearing upon its bells the name of the
earl, alighted upon Miss Kennedy’s shoulder – an omen which the least
superstitious of her relations could not utterly disregard, even if they
had wished to do so. Since the gods themselves were determined upon this
marriage, there was nothing left to be done, one would imagine, save to
order the trousseau and address the invitations.
There were, however,
several obstacles in the way. In the first place, the earl was many years
older than Miss Susannah; in the second – and this was perhaps the more
insuperable of the two – he was already married.
Alexander, 9th
Earl of Eglinton, had already taken unto himself two wives; first of all,
the Lady Margaret Cochrane, and subsequently the Lady Anne Gordon. The
latter was still alive, and, anxious though Lord Eglinton may have been to
wed the youthful Susannah, it may well be imagined that he shared the
popular prejudice which exists against bigamy. His countess was, however,
a confirmed invalid, and, after lingering on for a period which was not
really so lengthy as it seemed to her impatient husband, tactfully passed
away just in time to allow the earl to snatch Miss Kennedy from Sir John
Clerk. This he at once proceeded to do, and his rival was forced to retire
with the best possible grace. It is said that when Sir John proposed to
Susannah, that young lady’s calculating father took the precaution of
asking the advice of Lord Eglinton before allowing his daughter to reply
to her importunate suitor. “Bide a wee, Sir Archie,” said that flippant
old gentleman, with a twinkle in his eye, “my wife’s very sickly!” So
strong a hint as this was not to be neglected. Sir Archie had a few words
with his daughter, and Sir John was promptly dismissed. It is pleasant to
learn that the poetic baronet mended his broken heart, survived to hold
the office of one of the Barons of the Exchequer for many years, and was
twice happily married.
Lord Eglinton was a
warm-hearted old gentleman. Like old Lord Cromarty, [Lord Mackenzie, 1st
Earl of Cromarty, married at seventy a young, beautiful, and wealthy
widow.] he made a wife a kind though somewhat fatherly husband. [“Susannah
and the Elder” was the title given to this pair by facetious friends.]
But if there was one thing in the world that the earl desired, it was a
male heir to carry on the title and uphold the dignity of his ancient
family. For a long time it looked as though he would be disappointed.
The three sons of his first
wife had died in childhood; his second wife had but one child, a girl; and
for many years his third wife insisted upon bearing him a monotonous
series of daughter – seven in all. Lord Eglinton was a short-tempered man,
inheriting the impetuosity of his ancestor and namesake, the 6th
earl, nicknamed “Greysteil” after the hero of an old Scottish ballad who
was notoriously as quick with his sword as with his temper. Exasperated at
length by his lady’s apparent inability to provide him with an heir male,
he even went so far as to threaten her with a divorce. “By all means,” was
her ladyship’s calm reply, “but first of all give me back all that I
brought you.” The earl at once assured her that every penny of her
marriage portion should be returned. “Na, na, my Lord, that winna do,”
insisted the lady. “Return me my youth, my beauty, and my virginity, and
then dismiss me whenever you please!” Whereupon the disappointed old peer
melted, and, as if to reward him for his kindness and good sense, his wife
presented him with a son before the year was out. Moreover, she continued
the practice of this excellent habit, and, when Lord Eglinton died in
1729, he was the happy father of three sons as well as the seven original
daughters, and could thus hope that the continuation of his line was
secured. He was buried with all the ceremonial befitting his rank, one
peculiar feature of his funeral being the attendance of nearly a thousand
beggars, many of whom came all the way from Ireland to share the £50 which
by the old earl’s wish was distributed among them.
On the death of her
husband, the countess, by this time a woman of forty, retired into the
country and devoted herself to the education of her children. At Auchans,
the Eglinton seat, she lived for a long time in great state, and the
entertainments she gave there and in her husband’s house on the west side
of Old Stamp Office Close, High Street, Edinburgh, were long noted for
their magnificence.
As the guardian of her
eldest son, Alexander, she exhibited the greatest ability in the
management of domestic affairs. Her children were brought up in the stern
old-fashioned manner, and taught to regard their mother with profound
respect, tempered, however, by a very real affection. An unusual amount of
strict ceremonial was always observed at Auchans in the home circle. Every
day at the dinner-hour the eldest boy would take his mother by the hand,
and the two would march solemnly down to the dining-room together. All the
children invariably addressed their mother as “Your Ladyship,” and the
girls were taught to call their eldest brother “Lord Eglinton,” even in
the nursery. Such rigorous training did not in any way diminish the charms
of the countess’s lovely daughters, who were all, like their mother,
“divinely tall and most divinely fair,” and the “Eglinton air” became a
common phrase in Edinburgh to signify all that was stately and dignified.
The enthusiastic French
writer, from whose eulogy of Scottish women I have already quoted in a
previous chapter, could scarcely find words adequate to express his
emotions of first seeing the lovely countess and her daughters at one of
the Edinburgh assemblies. “La Tristesse pensa m’accabler,” he says, “quand
la belle Famille D’EGLINTOUN se presenta à mes yeux, & Madame la COMTESSE
à leur Tête, reluisant comme le Soleil à Midy, dardant de ses yeux mille
Trepas. Les Petits Cupidons sembloient voltiger autour de My Lady MARY, &
quelque fois alloient se reposer sur son beau Sein, & quelque fois se
cacher dans ses aimables Fossettes. My Lady BETTY paroissoit toute
charmant, par la petite Rougeur qui lui montoit au Visage, d’entendre
élever de tous cotez, sa belle Taille & son beau Teint, jusqu’aux Cieux.
Les Autres jolis Rejettons de cette Illustre Famille, dans fort peu de
tems feront ravage parmi les Coeurs; & deja on est sur ses gardes.”
[L’Eloge d’ecosse at des Dames Ecossoises, p.20.]
The Montgomerie girls were
indeed almost as much admired in society as their mother had been, and to
a great extent shared her intellectual qualities as well. “What would you
give to be as pretty as I?” Lady Eglinton once asked the eldest of them.
“Not half so much as you would give to be as young as I,” replied Lady
Bettie at once.
The following amusing
letter, [Memorials of the Montgomeries, by Sir W. Fraser, vol. i.
pp.113-114.] written by six of Lord Eglinton’s daughters to their
guardian, Lord Milton, begging him to interest himself on behalf of some
unfortunate man who had been thrown into prison for debt, says as much for
their kindness of character as for their sense of humour:-
“The Petition of the Six
Vestal Virgins of Eglinton to the Honourable Lord Milton. Humbly sheweth –
that whereas your petitioners has taken upon them to solicite in behalf of
Alexander Aickenhead, part of whose storie your Lordship knows already.
His new misfortune is, that after he had received sentence of banishment
for three years out of this regality, he was unhappily seduced by his
principal creditors to come privetly to his own house to compound some
debts, but was not an hour there before the malitious neighbourhood
inform’d against him, and had him unexpectedly apprehended and carried to
Irvine gaol; So we being importun’d by his wife (who is extremely
handsome), join’d with our own inclinations to serve the poor man, we’re
in hopes that these two motives will have some ascendant over your
lordship’s natural disposition to relieve the distress’d; and to excite
you still further to this good action, his wife, as the only acceptible
reward she thinks she can make for this piece of humanity, she hopes from
your lordship in favour of her husband’s liberty, she protests you shall
have as many kisses as you please to demand. (And we likewise bind and
oblige ourselves to do the same, when your lordship makes your publick
entrie here in May); but we once more beg you’ll use your interest to get
the man out of prison, which you’ll do a particular good to his family and
an infinite obligation to your pupils, whose ambition’s to subscribe
themselves.
“Your lordship’s most
affectionate children,
BETTIE MONTGOMERIE
ELEANOR MONTGOMERIE
SUSANNA MONTGOMERIE
MARY MONTGOMERIE
FRANCES MONTGOMERIE
CHRISTIAN MONTGOMERIE
“P.S. – We’ll esteem it a
favour if you lordship will honour us with an answer. But for heaven’s
sake remember that the wife is hansom.
“To the Honourable
LORD MILTON,
At his lodgings,
Edinburgh.”
All Lady Eglinton’s
daughters who grew up, with one exception, married happily. One of them,
Lady Margaret, enjoyed the privilege of helping Flora Macdonald to secure
the escape of Bonnie Prince Charlie. She was the wife of Sir Alexander
Macdonald, near whose family residence, Mougstot, in Skye, the fugitive
Prince landed after Culloden. Sir Alexander was loyal to the crown, but
was fortunately absent from home at the time. Flora appealed for help to
Lady Margaret, who in her turn confided in her husband’s factor, Macdonald
of Kingsburgh, and with his assistance the Pretender’s safety was ensured.
Like Mistress Nicky Murray
the Countess of Eglinton was at heart a thorough Jacobite, and, warmly
though she espoused the cause of Literature and the Arts, never surmounted
her political prejudices so far as to patronise any of the Whig poets. She
was, however, a patroness of many of the foremost literary men of the
time. The unfortunate Boyse dedicated a book of verse to her. Allan
Ramsay, in phrases of the most fulsome adulation, offered his Gentle
Shepherd to the lovely countess, “whose superior wit and sound
judgement shine out with an uncommon lustre, while accompanied with all
the Diviner charms of goodness and equality of mind” – whatever that may
mean. “It is personal merit,” he adds, “and the heavenly sweetness of the
fair that inspire the tuneful lays. Here every Lesbis must be excepted,
whose tongues give liberty to the slaves which their eyes have made
captive; such may be flattered; but your ladyship justly claims our
admiration and profoundest respect; for whilst you are possessed of every
outward charm in the most perfect degree, the never failing beauties of
wisdom and piety which adorn you ladyship’s mind command devotion.” [The
Gentle Shepherd: A Scots Pastoral Comedy, by Allan Ramsay, p.iv.
(Edin., 1725.)] As though this were not enough, another poet, William
Hamilton of Bangour, commended the Gentle Shepherd to the
countess’s favour in a lengthy rhymed address.
[“From the tumultuous
rule of passions freed,
Pure in thy thought, and
spotless in thy deed;
In virtue rich, in
goodness unconfin’d,
Thou shin’st a fair
example to thy kind;
Sincere and equal to thy
neighbour’s name,
But swift to praise! how
guiltless to defame!
Bold in thy presence
bashfulness appears,
And backward merit loses
all its fears,
Supremely blest of
Heav’n, Heav’n’s richest grace
Confest is thine, an
early blossoming race;
Whose pleasing smiles
shall guardian wisdom arm,
Divine Instruction!
taught of thee to charm;
What transports shell
they to thy soul impart
(The conscious
transports of a parent’s heart),
When thou beholds’t them
of each grace possest,
And sighing youths
imploring to be blest.
After thy image form’d
with charms like thine
Or in the visit, or the
dance to shine!
Thrice happy who succeed
their mother’s praise,
The lovely Eglintounes
of other days.”
(See
Works and Life of Allan Ramsay, by E. Chalmers, vol. ii.p. 43.)]
Even that old bear, Dr.
Johnson, was captivated by the charms of the beautiful countess. He has
always been accused of saying that women have no minds, and his dislike of
Scotland and its inhabitants is notorious. To a friend who told him that
Scotland had many “noble wild prospects,” Johnson remarked that “the
noblest prospect which a Scotchman ever sees, is the high road that leads
him to England.” [Boswell’s Life of Johnson, p.117. (Malone,
1791.)] To another who said to him apologetically that, after all, God
had made Scotland. “Certainly,” he replied, “but we must always remember
that he made it for Scotchmen, and – comparisons are odious, but God made
Hell!”
Lady Eglinton certainly did
not impress Dr. Johnson like that other old Scottish lady of his
acquaintance whom he likened to a dead nettle, adding that, were she
alive, she would sting. He visited Auchans in 1773, when its mistress was
well over eighty, spent several hours there, and subsequently expressed
himself as being hugely delighted with his reception, and particularly
impressed with the charms of his hostess. “Her figure was majestick,” says
the inevitable Boswell, “her manners high-bred, her reading extensive, and
her conversation elegant.” [Boswell’s Life of Johnson, p.395.
(Croker, 1860)] She gave the biographer the original manuscript of
Ramsay’s great pastoral poem which the poet had presented to her, and
enchanted the two fellow-travellers with her vivacity and the brilliance
of her conversation. In the course of the interview it transpired that
Lady Eglinton had married her husband the year before Dr. Johnson was
born. Whereupon the old lady playfully remarked that she might have been
his mother, and that she now adopted him. When he took his departure she
embraced him, saying, “My dear son, farewell!” Boswell she laughingly
called “the boy.” “Yes, madam,” said Dr. Johnson, “we will send him to
school.” “He is already in a good school, replied the countess, and
expressed her hope of his improvement. “I was sorry to leave her,”
[Letters to and from the late Samuel Johnson, LL.D., vol. i. p.200.
(Published by Hester Lynch Piozzi.)] wrote Samuel to his friend Mrs.
Thrale; and one can readily believe him. Later on, Boswell recounted this
interview to some friends, but erroneously stated that Lady Eglinton had
adopted Dr. Johnson as a son in consequence of her having been married the
year after he was born. The Doctor, who was present, corrected his
satellite at once, declaring with a great show of annoyance that to make
such a suggestion was to defame the countess. “Might not the son have
justified the fault?” inquired an ingenuous young lady of the party – a
remark which cause Dr. Johnson much satisfaction.
The young Earl of Eglinton
was among Samuel’s staunchest admirers. One day at supper he was
regretting the great man’s rough manners, and declared that he could not
help wishing that Dr. Johnson had been educated with more refinement. “No,
no,” exclaimed a fellow guest; [Baretti, the Italian lexicographer.]
“do with him what you would, he would always have been a bear.” “True,”
answered the earl, “but he would have been a dancing bear!” [Boswell’s
Life of Johnson, p.195. (Croker.)]
The Countess of Eglinton
was exceedingly fond of her beautiful daughters, but she was even more
passionately devoted to her eldest son. It is said that during the whole
course of his life she only refused him one request. Alexander’s father
had been a Privy Councillor and Commissioner of the Treasury to King
William and Queen Anne, and on the accession of George III., the son was
appointed one of his Majesty’s Lords of the Bedchamber. Proud as he was of
his mother’s beauty, which age could not in any way diminish, Alexander
begged Lady Eglinton to take her rightful place in the Coronation
procession. But the old lady asked to be excused, laughingly declaring
that she was far too old to pay for new robes.
The tragic and untimely
death of the young earl was a source of the deepest grief to his mother.
Alexander was riding one day on his estate when he came suddenly upon a
man poaching in the Eglinton preserves. This man was Mungo Campbell, an
Excise officer who had formerly held a commission in the army, and son of
old Provost Campbell of Ayr. An argument ensued, in the course of which
Campbell shot and killed Lord Eglinton. This was a dastardly deed, as the
murdered man was unarmed and therefore unable to defend himself. The
earl’s servants arrived upon the scene too late to save their master’s
life, but in time to arrest his assassin. It is said that they would have
shot Campbell then and there had not Lord Eglinton, almost with his last
words, forbidden them to ill-treat his murderer. Campbell was eventually
tried at Edinburgh, and condemned to be executed, but anticipated his
sentence by hanging himself in his prison cell. [His body was buried
privately, but the Edinburgh mob discovered the whereabouts of the grave,
rifled its contents, and subjected the corpse to many indignities.
Campbell’s friends managed at length to rescue his remains, and buried
them at sea, out of reach of the fury of the populace. There was a legend
prevalent at one time to the effect that Mungo Campbell had cheated the
hangman of his due by taking the place of a drunken soldier who had died
in prison. It was said that he allowed himself to be carried away in this
man’s coffin, and “came to life” at the brink of the grave, much to the
dismay of the sexton, who was about to bury him. There does not, however,
seem to be much foundation in fact for this story.]
With advancing years the
aged countess lost none of her good looks and stately bearing, though,
like many other old Scottish ladies of quality, [As, for instance, Lady
Lovat (who was so afraid of being poisoned that she lived for two years
exclusively of eggs), the bearded Lady Hyndford, and old Lady Galloway,
who was accustomed to pay ceremonious visits to her next-door neighbours,
in the narrow Horse Wynd where she lived, in a coach and six.] she
became a trifle eccentric in her habits. One of her chief amusements
consisted of taming and feeding the numerous rats which haunted the
wainscotting of Auchans. After meals she would tap lightly upon one of the
panels in the wall, and immediately a score of these disagreeable animals
would appear and hungrily devour the scraps of food which she threw to
them. At another signal they would scamper away to their holes again,
thereby, as Lady Eglinton sagely remarked, comparing favourably with many
of her human guests, who never knew when the moment had arrived to say
“goodbye.”
She died at Auchans, 18th
March 1780, in her ninety-first year. Even at that extreme age she
retained the exquisite complexion of a girl. Its perennial freshness has
been attributed to the fact that she made a practice of washing her face
periodically in sow’s milk – a curious treatment, perhaps, but in her case
eminently successful. Her beauty, which she bequeathed to her descendants,
has become proverbial, and the dignity of her bearing and the charm of her
character have combined to hand her memory down to posterity as that of an
accomplished and admirable lady who, in the words of Dr. Johnson, “for
many years gave the laws of elegance to Scotland.” [Letters to and from
the late Samuel Johnson, vol. i. p.200. (Mrs Thrale.)] |
