AS I shall soon be taking
leave of Aline and removing myself to Soval, it is only fit and proper
that, before doing so, I should give some account of that distinguished
firm, the joint tenants of the Aline shootings. They consisted of F. M.,
R. M., and myself.
I think there are few who
know F. M. who will not allow (himself among the number) that Lucina, at
his birth, turned into the goddess of good luck. I will give but one
small instance of this, and then pass on. When a subaltern, quartered at
Gibraltar, he kept a small yacht, in which he disported himself by
sometimes going over to the Barbary coast to shoot wild boars or
anything he could get. In one of these expeditions he was caught by a
pleasant Mediterranean squall, which blew his sails, masts, and rigging
anywhere, smashed his rudder, and carried his oars overboard, leaving
himself and his boy sitting in his half-swamped boat, like a she-bear
with, its cub. In this state he was tossed about the Mediterranean for
two days, with nothing but a bottle of cherry-brandy for provision,
when, fortunately, he was descried by Spanish smugglers. It was blowing
still so hard that they could not take him on board, but flung him a
rope, by which he managed to hold on, in imminent danger of being driven
under water; and in this way he was towed into Malaga, whence he
notified his safe arrival to the colonel of his regiment, thus
accounting for his absence without leave. As nothing had been heard of
him for a fortnight, his friends had been written to, and the untimely
end of so promising a youth mourned over—the more bitterly as, at the
very time of the announcement of his sad supposed death, a relation died
and left him a very good property. So when our friend arrived at
Gibraltar, he was. consoled for the loss of his yacht by the
intelligence of his accession of fortune, and at once got leave of
absence to proceed to England and console his anxious relations. Thus,
then, most assuredly Fred, as he was called, was not born to be drowned,
and I never cared a straw for Loch Seaforth when he was on board; for if
the little Spanish yacht and the craft (the Heather Bell) he had at
Aline could not drown him, what on sea could ? Besides, he was really a'
first-class boatman. I never saw one steer with an oar like him ; and I
verily believe that, once in particular, we should have been swamped
while crossing from the Park to Aline after deer-stalking, with a very
full boat, but for the manner he steered.
I have said before that
our Fred was a very good sportsman, a good shot, a fine rider, and a
capital fisherman. Of deer-stalking, however, he at that time had had
very little experience indeed, none of the party, myself excepted, knew
much about deer, and my limited experience was confined to shooting in
France and Germany, where stalking, as practised in the Highlands, is
not known; though waiting and watching deer, particularly shooting them
from trees near their favourite feeding-places, and also driving, are. I
killed a great many fallow-deer in Ireland, and was suspected of having
poached a great many stags when I lived at Gheramene, on the Upper Lake
of Killarney; but, on the honour of a gentleman, I never did poach, or
attempt to poach, a single one, though I might many.
Fred’s first stalk was an
important epoch in his life. M‘Aulay took him to a stag, but the beast
shifting a little during the stalk, he could not get nearer than some
two hundred yards, and the only part of the stag he could then see to
shoot at was not the entire head, but the angle formed by the jaw-bone
with the head. McAulay said it was useless to shoot, and proposed
letting the stag feed out of the spot; but Fred raised his rifle and
shot him as dead as a stone, to Mac’s wonderment—not to mine, for I am a
believer in bottle-imps, and feel convinced that at that very moment
Fred entered into compact with one, and that the day will arrive when
the said imp will come and claim his reward. I have never doubted this,
as I have often told him; and if there could be a doubt, his next stalk
settled the question.
He got at a stag lying at
the bottom of a steep glen, above which was some very high, rocky
ground. All you could see of the stag, as he lay crouched down, was the
top of the neck and shoulders—the back-bone, in short. The distance was
over two hundred yards, and Fred shot him through the backbone, behind
the shoulders, and he never stirred. After this the confidence between
M‘Aulay and F. M. was perfect; and the latter has often told me that
whenever they get at a stag, he is as certain of him as if he was
already gralloched. I have stalked a great deal with him, and I remember
only one instance-of his missing a stag,—and I have seen him make really
marvellous shots, both standing and running.
He was, as I have already
said, a very good game shot—not that Lews grouse required any very good
shooting, as the birds never are too wild there. But he once killed a
hundred brace of grouse to his own gun at Aline in one day, as already
mentioned—a feat I would not have believed any man could have done; nor
would he have done it, but for his imp. Pew men I have ever seen could
fish better; but here he had a failing—he was the most inveterate
fish-poacher it was ever my fortune to encounter. When at Harrow, he and
a confederate dragged every pond for miles round that sacred spot. He
was never happy in the fishing way but when he was getting that blessed
net of his into the water somehow or other. There was a nice little loch
(Georgium) about four miles from Aline, good for sea-trout and an
occasional salmon, but very sulky. We caught him one day coming home in
his cart, with his net and some fish, having taken a haul in this our
little sanctum, and looking as pleased as a schoolboy that had
successfully pillaged an orchard. He could not resist poaching, even his
own loch.
As to the womankind
belonging to F. M., I do not at present feel myself np to describing
them. Perhaps I may gain courage hereafter; let me content myself with
saying now that they were of that sort, that could safely be admitted
into shooting quarters. I remember once an old gentleman who in days of
yore filled his glens with his friends, and took immense pleasure in
giving away all his quarters, was so particular about female influence,
that he never iallowed even his own wife to come into them.
There was, however, one
particular female in F. M.’s establishment, that was so quaint in her
ways, and such an endless source of amusement to us all, that I cannot
withstand dedicating a few lines to her. This was one Celery, Fred’s
head nurse. In her vocation she was perfection. She doted on the
children —they on her; and there was a conscious dignity about her which
I never could make out—whether it proceeded from her idea of her
importance as nurse to F. M.’s children, or the infinite privilege it
was to the said children to be under the care of so sage a matron as
herself. There was something in her not of the governess, but of the
head of that wonderful establishment for the tuition of young ladies so
graphically described in “Vanity Fair.”
“Miss Halice,” she would
say to the eldest little totterer in the nursery, “you should consider
the dignity and the importance of the position you hold as the eldest
daughter of this house.” “Miss Minnie,” she would address the other
little female, scarcely out of arms, “you should early learn to look up
to Miss Halice for example and guidance.” To both, as they toddled down
stairs to dessert, “Young ladies, I hope you will not forget the manners
you learn here, or do discredit to my nurturing.” But it was in her care
of the boy of the establishment that the grandeur of Celery’s ideas of
the present and her mysterious predictions of the future were developed
in all their full-blown beauty. To see her parade “Master Arry,” as she
called him, up and down Prince’s Street! One morning, it being very
cold, she had sensibly wrapped the little thing’s head up in a woollen
nightcap, and an inquisitive young lady insisted upon stopping her, and
begging to see so fine a child. “No, mem; not to-day, if you please, mem.
He is not got up as such a hinfant should be—he has not got his hat and
feathers on.” Another time, when he had his hat and feathers on more
anxious females accosted her, and insisted on knowing whose child he
was, saying he looked like a little lord. Celery cliuckled, pursed up
her mouth, and answered mysteriously, “No, ma’am, he ain’t a lord yet;
but there is no knowing into what he may not turn—he might become a duke
some day.” Thus, you may see, Celery had ways of her own, and she
expressed herself oddly. No doubt, her nursery education had been
attended to, but her English had been neglected.
Mrs. Malaprop’s confusion
of the Queen’s English and of ideas was not greater than Celery’s; and
these, added to the mystery of her communications, rather obscured the
meaning of her quaint words. She was a very excellent woman, I believe,
sincerely good and religious; and thought it right to keep a missionary
box, into which she was always soliciting every one to put something.
She was trying R. M. very hard one day, in vain; but at last she burst
forth, “ Now, dear Mr. M., do drop in something; there is no knowing
where it is going to, or when it will come back to you.” No one has yet
been able to fathom the profundity of this speech.
But dear old Celery had
yet other accomplishments, which must not be forgotten. In the frequent
little festivities that need to take place at the birth or christening
day of a little F. M., she was, of course, the mistress of the
ceremonies. She brewed the best, and by far the strongest, toddy I ever
drank in my life; and when, in the pauses of the pipers’ strains, and
after the Reel of Tulloch, perhaps she, by way of a little variation, on
the earnest call of the company, sang the charming ditty, “Sweet
Richmond.’Ill,” one resigned oneself to one’s fate, and, softened by her
punch and beguiled by her melody, gave way to the spell, and Celery was
the hour of the hour.
Years passed on, and one
fine day, long after I had taken to Soval, I got a letter to say that C.
was getting odd, and falling into a species of religious melancholy, and
doing queer things. The only point on which there was no variation was
her love and care for the missionary-box. I could make nothing of her,
excepting that she had grown much more mysterious. She also was in a
melancholy state about her young charges—her awful responsibility as to
the future if the young ladies did not turn out so many young "Miss Frys;”
if her young gentlemen were not fit and willing to carry her
missionary-box cause throughout all heathendom. We began all to
entertain the most serious fear that some fine morning, out of the
sincerest love and anxiety for their spiritual welfare, and to secure
the future salvation of her young charges, she might cut their throats
and throw th6m into Loch Sea-forth.
Pending these anxious
fears, news came that rendered it necessary for both Fred and myself to
go to England. It was all very well saying "go;” but how were we to go?
It was winter, and during the winter time there was but one weekly
steamer, and, unfortunately, just at this-time this steamer was wrecked.
A temporary one, it is true, was put on; but there was an interregnum of
irregularity which put us both much out.
There was at that time a
revenue cutter, a fine boat, commanded by a lieutenant in the navy, a
very good officer and seaman, who had seen and done much good service.
He is dead now, poor fellow! and, though de mortuis nil nisi bonum,
still one may be allowed to allude to some of his peculiarities. He was
a very neat-made, gentlemanlike-looking fellow, but not a giant,
certainly; yet in no specimen of mortality I ever beheld did there exist
such elements of noise. As if there was not din enough in the elements
in those wild climes, he trained certain of his sailors to play upon
some of the noisiest instruments, of all kinds, I ever heard : there was
not one, but several, Bones. When in harbour, at Stornoway or elsewhere,
he was perpetually scaling his guns. Then he never came ashore in his
gig but accompanied by his band, and he was perpetually scaring the
slumbers of the poor Stornowegians. A friend of mine was once inveigled
into going on board the cutter to dine and sleep. He was nearly deafened
by the band during the dinner and the evening; and all night, whenever
there was the slightest chance of sleep, his host jumped into the cabin
to know how he was getting on, or called out from his berth, with his
speaking-trumpet, to inquire after the comfort of his bed. It is odd
that, after this slight warning, my friend -was rash enough to dine with
him again, and induce me to do so, one Christmas Eve; and I do not think
we shall either of us easily forget it. Of course the usual noises went
on; but after dinner it came on to blow, as it can in those latitudes—so
hard that, though we were in the harbour of Stornoway and not far from
the shore, our skipper either would not or could not land us; at least,
he said his boat could not get back, and he would not risk it. The gale
was really frightful, and during the evening the mate came down to say
we were dragging our anchors. There was no doubt of the fact. Chain
cables and all sorts of things were to be let go and hauled upon all
night, and I think that night was the origin of a deafness that has been
a great discomfort to me since. But above the roaring of the wind, the
creaking of cables and chains, and steam getting up and steam letting
off, rose that little skipper’s voice, and he outnoised everything. I
was glad when morning came; and sure enough we had dragged, for we were
all but on shore on the islands in the harbour.
This skipper had heard of
the strait in which Fred and I were, and he sent us word that, if we
would be in readiness, he would bring his cutter round into Loch
Seaforth and take us all over the Minch to the mainland; and, in due
course of time, in came the cutter and anchored opposite Aline—whether
with the intention of really taking us away, I never could tell; but he
said so, and he was a British seaman and a gentleman. The wind was
awkward at all times for getting out of Loch Seaforth, and it would not
do, as he said, for the week he passed there. And what a week ! As for
the band, it was always going, either on board or on shore. We were
startled from our beds every morning with his guns to notify his
readiness to sail, and by constant boats, always attended with part of
the crew’s band, to say he would not sail. Of course he always dined
with us every day, and, though we were tired, stupefied—crushed, in
short—his powers of noise seemed to increase in proportion to our
prostration. At last, one night, he invented a new species of torture.
He took two plates with rough borders, and rubbed and clattered them
together, producing so excruciatingly painful and discordant an uproar—I
can give, it no other name—that some of our party rushed out of the room
to preserve their senses. I think one day more would have sent us all to
the nearest lunatic asylum, when, fortunately, the next morning—a
bright, clear, frosty morning—a small steamer came into the loch, Fred
having sent to Stornoway to beg the agent to send round the first
steamer that turned up for us, and rescued us from our tormentor’s
grasp; and we steamed away most gladly, leaving him nothing, but the
high hills to awaken with his noises.
By-the-bye, it is worthy
of remark that next summer, as we all steamed back again into. Loch
Seaforth joyfully, but a little subdued with two or three nights on
board the steamer—as we were all standing on deck and nearing joyfully
our beloved Aline, all of a sudden I saw Fred’s countenance change.
“Bless that fellow ! there he is again! ” he remarked; and, true enough,
there lay the cutter, dressed, as they say, with her flags and signals,
and yards manned, welcoming our arrival with band, and salutes, and
cheers, among which there was no mistaking the skipper’s. It was,
however, his last torment. He was on his way to Greenock to give up the
command of the cutter, the term of his service being out. Well, peace be
to his ashes; but I do not think anything so mischievously noisy could
be at peace. If he went aloft, I think he must have destroyed the
equilibrium of Heaven itself. If he went below, I think he must have
tired out the devils themselves, who would have returned him to earth,
not by their sovereign’s commands out of jealousy for Madame Pluto, but
from inability to bear him among them.
It was during this
memorable epoch that poor Celery’s malady reached its climax. When the
little steamer hove in sight, everybody commenced doing the last things
to the carpet-bags. Celery, making rapturous allusions to her
responsibility, disappeared into the nursery, from which, in due time,
she emerged with her charges, some of whom she delivered up to her
subordinate; and then, seating herself at the end of the pier, on her
own particular carpet-bag, of which she never for a second lost sight,
with her little white terrier at her side, and holding “Master Arry”
tight by the hand, she threw up her eyes to the bright blue sky above,
and said, majestically, “ My duties is performed, and you will find all
is *right; and now I resigns myself trustfully to a gracious
Providence.”
I always liked teasing
her a little, and could not help saying I thought it would be fine to
Portree, at any rate. She retorted rather spitefully, and practically
enough, too, that “these frostes sometimes turned into bad weather,” and
she solemnly adjured me to go back into the house, and see if all was as
it ought to be in her department. I could not help doing as she bade,
and, going up to her nursery, found it arranged and in order as if her
charges were coming in that night, not leaving it that morning. This
struck us all as odd, and we kept our eye on her till we were all safely
on board the little steamer.
We had a beautiful sail
to Portree; there was not a ripple on the water; and one must have seen
that country on a bright, clear, frosty day, when you could discern a
midge almost on the top of Cliesham, to know how beautiful it can be. We
slept at Portree, where a gentleman—or, at least, a well-dressed
man—distinguished himself by a feat of chivalrous disregard of self I
have seldom seen equalled. There were many passengers, and but scant
accommodation at the hotel. The individual in question, then, on our
landing, made the best use of his legs, and, arriving first, selected
the largest and best room in the house, and secured his own possession,
to the exclusion of all others, by locking the room up and putting the
key in his pocket.
The next morning was as
fine as the preceding, and we steamed on to Oban, where we arrived
happily in the evening, and here poor Celery’s mystery was solved. She
had been more than usually careful of her charges, her white terrier,
and particularly her carpet-bag. She had been more than ever awfully
enigmatical in her views of the past and the future. We had all retired
to our apartments, when sounds seem to issue from the sufferer’s room.
We all rushed to see what could the matter be. We opened the door, when
lo ! full-dressed and cross-legged like a Turk, sat Celery on her bed,
the immortal carpet-bag by her side, her dog looking wistfully in her
face; while his mistress, flourishing an empty whisky-bottle over her
head, trolled out, not in the soft strains of “ Sweet Richmond ’111,”
but in a deep, rich, almost bass voice:—
“Old King Cole was a merry
old soul,
And a merry old soul was he.
He called for his pipe, he called for his bowl,
And he called for his fiddlers three.”
Poor O! from that time
all was over with her. To the regret of all who knew that establishment,
she had to go; but even in her fall, Celery was dignified, and she
delivered over her missionary box, with all its contents, to her
mistress, accounting for every farthing received, and begging her to
remit the funds to their proper destination. So much of sympathy was
felt by all for her misfortune—which turned out to be only that
temporary giving way to whisky’s charms that so often overtakes
Southerners on their first acquaintance with the North —that she was
very soon well placed again, and acquired, as she so well deserved it,
the entire confidence of her new employers. I never heard of any whisky
relapse, or another chant of “ Old King Cole.” In one thing, indeed, she
showed her great good sense and good feeling.
She left off her
missionary box, on the ground that “kimparisons was hodious.” She still
keeps up a close connection with F. M.’s family, and it is gala day when
old Celery comes to pass a day with her “young charges" as she still
persists in calling them.
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