Marriage | Page 3

mother, and aunt Lady
Charlotte Campbell, were so distinguished, and died at Edinburgh,
1869, at an advanced age. While concocting the story of her first novel,
Miss Ferrier writes to her friend in a lively and sprightly vein:--

[1] Mrs. Ferrier (nee Coutts) was the daughter of a farmer at Gourdon,
near Montrose. She was very amiable, and possessed of great personal
beauty, as is attested by her portrait by Sir George Chalmers, Bart., in a
fancy dress, and painted 1765. At the time of her marriage (1767) she
resided at the Abbey of Holyrood Palace with an aunt, the Honourable
Mrs. Maitland, widow of a younger son of Lord Lauderdale's, who had
been left in poor circumstances, and had charge of the apartments there
belonging to the Argyll family. After their marriage Mr. and Mrs.
Ferrier occupied a flat in Lady Stair's Close (Old Town of Edinburgh),

and which had just been vacated by Sir James Pulteney and his wife
Lady Bath. Ten children were the fruit of this union (six sons and four
daughters), viz.--
1. John, W.S., of 12 York Place, Edinburgh, d. 1851; m. Miss Wilson,
sister of Professor Wilson, and father of the late Professor Ferrier of St.
Andrews, N. B.
2. Archibald Campbell, W.S., d. 1814; m. Miss Garden.
3. Lorn, d. 1801, at Demerara.
4. James, d. in India, 1804. } } 5. William Hamilton, d. 1804, in India. }
Both Officers
6. Walter, W.S., d. 1856; m. Miss Gordon.
7. Jane (Mrs. Graham), d. 1846.
8. Janet (Mrs. Connell), d. 1848.
9. Helen (Mrs. Kinloch), d. 1866, at Torquay, aged 90.
10. Susan Edmonstone.
"Your proposals flatter and delight me, but how in the name of Postage
are we to transport our brains to and fro? I suppose we'd be pawning
our flannel petticoats to bring about our heroine's marriage, and lying
on straw to give her Christian burial. Part of your plot I like much,
some not quite so well--for example, it wants a moral--your principal
characters are good and interesting, and they are tormented and
persecuted and punished from no fault, of their own, and for no
possible purpose. Now I don't think, like all penny-book manufacturers,
that 'tis absolutely necessary that the good boys and girls should be
rewarded and the naughty ones punished. Yet I think, where there is
much tribulation, 'tis fitter it should be the consequence rather than the
cause of misconduct or frailty. You'll say that rule is absurd, inasmuch
as it is not observed in human life: that I allow, but we know the

inflictions of Providence are for wise purposes, therefore our reason
willingly submits to them. But as the only good purpose of a book is to
inculcate morality and convey some lesson of instruction as well as
delight, I do not see that what is called a good moral can be dispensed
with in a work of fiction. Another fault is your making your hero
attempt suicide, which is greatly too shocking, and destroys all the
interest his misfortunes would otherwise excite--that, however, could
be easily altered, and in other respects I think your plot has great merit.
You'll perhaps be displeased at the freedom of my remarks; but in the
first place freedom is absolutely necessary in the cause in which we are
about to embark, and it must be understood to be one if not the chief
article of our creed. In the second (though it should have been the first),
know that I always say what I think, or say nothing. Now as to my own
deeds--I shall make no apologies (since they must be banished from our
code of laws) for sending you a hasty and imperfect sketch of what I
think might be wrought up to a tolerable form. I do not recollect ever to
have seen the sudden transition of a high-bred English beauty, [1] who
thinks she can sacrifice all for love, to an uncomfortable solitary
Highland dwelling [2] among tall red-haired sisters and grim-faced
aunts. Don't you think this would make a good opening of the piece?
Suppose each of us try our hands on it; the moral to be deduced from
that is to warn all young ladies against runaway matches, and the
character and fate of the two sisters would be unexceptionable. I expect
it will be the first book every wise matron will put into the hand of her
daughter, and even the reviewers will relax of their severity in favour of
the morality of this little work. Enchanting sight! already do I behold
myself arrayed in an old mouldy covering, thumbed and creased and
filled with dogs'-ears. I hear the enchanting sound of some sentimental
miss, the shrill pipe of some antiquated spinster, or the hoarse
grumbling of some incensed