When Admiral Duncan came to London, he was made a Baron, and afterwards Earl of Camperdown; and, by an unanimous vote of the House of Commons, he received a pension or a sum of money, I forget which; my father was knighted, and made Colonel of Marines. Earl Spencer was First Lord of the Admiralty at the time, and Lady Spencer said to my father, ‘You ask for the promotion of your officers, but you never have asked a reward for yourself.’ He replied, ‘I leave that to my country.’ But his country did nothing for him; and at his death my mother had nothing to live upon but the usual pension of an Admiral’s widow, of seventy-five pounds a year. Our friends, especially Robert Ferguson°, junior, of Raith, made various attempts to obtain an addition to it; but it was too late: Camperdown was forgotten.
I remember one morning going to Lord Camperdown’s house in Edinburgh with my mother, to see a very large painting, representing the quarter-deck of the Venerable, Admiral Duncan, as large as life, standing upright, and the Dutch Admiral, De Winter, presenting his sword to my father. Another representation of the same scene may be seen among the numerous pictures of naval battles which decorate the walls of the great hall at Greenwich Hospital.30 Many years afterwards I was surprised to see an engraving of this very picture in the public library at Milan. I did not know that one existed.
At a great entertainment given to Lord Duncan by the East India Company, then in great power, the President asked my father, who sat at his left hand, if he had any relation in India? He replied, ‘My eldest son is in the Company’s military service.’ ‘Then,’ said the President, ‘he shall be a Writer, the highest appointment in my power to bestow.’ I cannot tell how thankful we were; for, instead of a separation of almost a lifetime, it gave hopes that my brother might make a sufficient fortune in a few years to enable him to come home. There was a great review of the troops at Calcutta, under a burning sun; my brother returned to the barracks, sun-struck, where he found his appointment, and died that evening, at the age of twenty-one.
[1D, 52: here there are in the first draft two rows of dots after the death of her brother.]
[My mother has often told us of her heart-broken parting with this brother on his going to India. It was then almost for a lifetime, and he was her favourite brother, and the companion of her childhood. He must have been wonderfully handsome, judging from a beautifully-painted miniature which we have of him.]
Public events became more and more exciting every day, and difficulties occurred at home. There had been bad harvests, and there was a great scarcity of bread; the people were much distressed, and the manufacturing towns in England were almost in a state of revolution; but the fear of invasion kept them quiet. I gloried in the brilliant success of our arms by land and by sea; and although I should have been glad if the people had resisted oppression at home, when we were threatened with invasion, I would have died to prevent a Frenchman from landing on our coast. No one can imagine the intense excitement which pervaded all ranks at that time. Every one was armed, and, notwithstanding the alarm, we could not but laugh at the awkward, and often ridiculous, figures of our old acquaintances, when at drill in uniform. At that time I went to visit my relations at Jedburgh. Soon after my arrival, we were awakened in the middle of the night by the Yeomanry entering the town at full gallop. The beacons were burning on the top of the Cheviots and other hills, as a signal that the French had landed. When day came, every preparation was made; but it was a false alarm.
The rapid succession of victories by sea and land was intensely exciting. We always illuminated our house, and went to the rocky bank in our southern garden to see the illumination of Edinburgh, Leith, and the shipping in the Roads, which was inexpressibly beautiful, though there was no gas in those times. It often happened that balls were given by the officers of the ships of war that came occasionally to Leith Roads, and I was always invited, but never allowed to go; for my mother thought it foolish to run the risk of crossing the Firth, a distance of seven miles, at a late hour, in a small open boat and returning in the morning, as the weather was always uncertain, and the sea often rough from tide and wind. On one occasion, my father was at home, and, though it was blowing hard, I thought he would not object to accepting the invitation; but he said, ‘Were it a matter of duty, you should go, even at the risk of your life, but for a ball, certainly not.’
We were as poor as ever, even more so; for my father was led into unavoidable expenses in London; so, after all the excitement, we returned to our more than usually economical life. No events worth mentioning happened for a long time. I continued my diversified pursuits as usual; had they been more concentrated, it would have been better; but there was no choice; for I had not the means of pursuing any one as far as I could wish, nor had I any friend to whom I could apply for direction or information. I was often deeply depressed at spending so much time to so little purpose.
24 In 1825 John Wilson (see ‘Brief Biographies’) bought a plot of ground above Windermere with a picturesque cottage, Elleray, and a beautiful view. Initially, he extended the cottage but finally built a house there. Wilson, eccentric in a number of ways, built the house on three sides of a square and only one storey high because he disliked stairs. The house looked west over the lake and so presumably ‘eastern-looking’ refers to its having been a bungalow which was not a normal western construction. Wilson did wear sailor’s dress and had quite a fleet of boats – seven sailing vessels and a ten-oared Oxford barge: see Elsie Swann, Christopher North (John Wilson) (Edinburgh; Oliver & Boyd, 1934). But this part of the draft is difficult to decipher and ‘lantern’ rather than ‘eastern’ has been suggested to me. But, unless it refers to light shining from the cottage/house, I can’t make much sense of it as a shape. The point of the story is, however, clear: whoever owns the house and all the boats must be a strange sort of man, but the traveller has no idea that he is speaking to him.
25 All Gothic novels: Clara Reeve, The Old English Baron (1777); Ann Radcliffe, A Romance of the Forest (1791); The Mysteries of Udolpho (1794).
26 In the case of this story, Martha may have realised that her mother’s memory had played her false. Sir Alexander Boswell of Affleck (1775–1822) was indeed killed in a duel by James Stuart of Dunearne (1775–1849) but not until much later than the period Mary Somerville chooses for the event. Boswell, the eldest son of Johnson’s biographer, had attacked the Whig Stuart in the Glasgow