|
IN my father’s side I am
of pure plebeian extraction. My paternal great-great-grandfather crossed
the hills from Strathdon or Corgarff, the officina of our name, and
settled on Gaimside, tending a few sheep on the hills and tilling a few
acres of land by the moors. His name appears in the Poll Book, 1696.
Whence the origin of the name or how the Michies came to Dee or Donside
I do not wait to inquire. The following genealogy is sufficient for my
present purpose:—L John Michie came from Corgarff; died about 1720;
issue—ii. Alexander Michie; settled in Wester Micras c. 1710; died c.
1760; issue—iii. Charles Michie; bom c. 1750; married Mary Fraser, of an
old Protestant family; died c. 1810; issue—iv. James Michie,, my father;
bom 1792; married Margaret Grant, 1823; died 1861.
On the mother’s side my descent is traced thus:—Sir James Grant of
Freuchie, laird of Grant, and father of the 1st Earl of Se&field of that
name, had by a daughter of the goodman of Aviemore an illegitimate son
Alexander, The paternity was acknowledged, and the mother, whose name
was Janet Grant, was handsomely paid for his maintenance and education.
She afterwards married one of the Grants of Rothiemurchus, to whom she
bore at least one daughter, who became the mother of Mr. John Grant,
bank agent, Kemnay. Besides Alexander, his illegitimate son, Sir James
had six legitimate children. One of the sons was Major Grant of
Auchterblair, who was brother-german to my grandfather. Major Grant was
the father of Field-Marshal Sir Patrick Grant, who was my mother’s
cousin-german. The relationship was fully acknowledged, though there was
not much intercourse between them.
Alexander Grant was born in 1758, came to Deeside in 1776, and married
Elizabeth Brown, of an old family, and one of the best educated women of
her time in the district He died in 1842. His daughter Margaret, my
mother, was born in 1800, married in 1823, and died in 1892.
My mother’s forebears had thus some claim to quality; and though, by the
misfortune of his birth, my grandfather’s education may not have been so
well attended to as it otherwise might have been, it was much in advance
of that of young men of his own class on Deeside. His manners and whole
bearing were also of a higher type, and soon gained him both friendship
and respect In a short time he was able to take a croft from Farquharson
of Monaltrie. Thence he removed to Torgalter, where he married and
succeeded his father-in-law in a small holding under MacDonald of
Rineaton. The proverb that “ like draws to like” was well exemplified in
my grandfather’s marriage. He selected his help-mate from the only
family for many miles around that had any credit for learning, and no
more congenial spirits were ever joined in matrimony. They were stricken
in years when I first saw the light, but I am more indebted to them for
some modes of feeling and traits of character than even to my own
parents.
Without the least tincture of sentimentality, my father had the warmest
heart of any man I ever knew. Easily touched and painfully irrepressible
when affected, his feelings were never proof against the slightest
appeals, and by them he was generally governed. I know from sad
experience how unpleasant an inheritance he left to one of his children
in this sensitiveness of nature. Veneration was the predominant element
of his religious feelings. No Jew had ever greater reverence for the
sacred word Jehovah than my father had for that and the other names of
the Deity. He never relished a book in which these occurred too
frequently, and could never be induced to read it aloud, either because
the needless repetition grated on his feelings or the solemnity of their
use touched them too keenly. When reading for his own benefit merely, if
the former was the effect produced he would soon desist, and if the
latter, he would find some excuse to retire, book and all, that his
weakness might not be observed. But he was sometimes caught in
circumstances when neither course was practicable, and then it was
almost amusing to note the awkward shifts he would adopt to escape. When
he read aloud, whether there were strangers present or not, any piece
that became too pathetic for him, he would find something the matter
with the text, or with his spectacles, or the light required adjusting,
or if none of these availed he would suddenly recollect something that
required his absence for a little, and so contrive to conceal the real
cause of his inability to proceed. I have watched him on such occasions
when his uneasiness was due to the too frequent repetition of God’s
name: he would at first hesitate to pronounce it, then drop it out of
the sentence altogether, or substitute some less direct appellation,
such as his favourite one, “The Supreme Being”—an evasion which often
increased his perplexity by giving to the subject a greater degree of
solemnity. Once I remember, after all his attempts had failed to
extricate him from his embarrassment, he slightly lost his temper, and
throwing down the book exclaimed, “The man does not know what he is
about. He presumes too much with the name of the Almighty.” Mackenzie’s
man of feeling was stoical in comparison with my father.
Though a staunch Roman Catholic, he had a great respect for the Bible,
especially for the New Testament; for I must own that he made a
distinction between it and the Old Testament Scriptures. The latter he
very seldom read, and was but imperfectly acquainted with their
contents. A copy of the New Testament, however, published with the
authority of his own Church, he sedulously perused, but almost always by
himself, and generally out of sight even of his own family. There were
plenty of Protestant copies of the Scriptures in our house, and on the
Sabbaths he would see to it that we made a good use of them for
ourselves. He was all that the most strict Sabbatarian could desire,
except on the single point of reading the newspapers. The deepest
feeling in his nature was veneration for the Church of his forefathers,
and he was proof against any battery of logic that could be opened on
him by the assailants of his religion. He rather sought than avoided
controversy of this kind, and though no man could be worse adapted for
such contests both from his meagre glossary of English words and his
equally meagre acquaintance with the history of his Church, he was fond
of being considered her champion.
In my father’s youth smuggling had become the trade of the Highlands. Of
course, he engaged in it; all then did. But it was never a favourite
occupation with him. On Deeside it was carried on very much in this
manner. The men procured the bere or barley, often going to the low
country for it, and fetching it home in currachs and crook saddles on
the backs of a whole herd of Highland ponies. It was then handed over to
the women, who manufactured it into malt, with some slight assistance
occasionally from the men. They also converted the malt into spirits,
which it was afterwards the business of the men to convey to market.
While to their wives, daughters and female servants fell the drudgery,
the men moved about the hills from bothy to bothy, gadding and getting
drunk. When the Excise appeared, however, both sexes ' were equally
active and daring, and it is difficult to determine from the traditions
of the trade which were the bolder and more masculine.
My father’s favourite pastime, I should rather say occupation, was not
smuggling but shooting—poaching it would now be called. He was
passionately fond of the gun, mainly, I believe, because he thought
hunting and shooting of all kinds a manly exercise. A peculiar trait of
his character was to act the gentleman, to aim at being courteous,
generous, and dignified. Poaching at that time in the Highlands was not
the sneaking, thievish breaking into preserves and parks with nets and
gins to steal game, which in the low country and England goes by the
name, but the real wild sport of the chase, in which the prey was hunted
down in the wild mountains or wilder glens with almost as much freedom
and regardlessness as if it were the right of the bold to practise it
Indeed, so little did some proprietors then regard the preservation of
their game that I have heard my father tell that Captain Macdonald of
Rineaton, whose tenant he was, would sometimes scold him, not for
shooting his grouse, but for disturbing his wedders with his dog and gun
in doing so. When poaching began to be considered an offence he gave it
up, and never within my recollection did he go beyond the bounds of his
own farm in the pursuit of game, though to the end of his days nothing
gave him greater pleasure than a shot at a hare when she took too great
liberties with his turnips or kailyard whether by day or night
To return now to myself. I was bom on 22nd January, 1830, being the
fourth child and oldest son, followed afterwards by three brothers and
two sisters—nine in all were we. My earliest recollections of this world
do not form a subject of pleasant reflection. I was only eighteen months
old when my next brother was born, who was either so sickly or peevish,
perhaps both, that he gave my poor mother no end of trouble and no time
to think of me. And as for my father he had no taste for children of any
age. I do not think he ever had any of us on his knee for five minutes
at a time. From that early age I was therefore little cared for. I had
indeed no childhood. We were already too large a family to be brought up
on the poor croft (for it was little more) to the produce of which we
looked for both food and clothing. Of course, we were not worse off than
some of our neighbours, and as we knew of no better condition we were
wonderfully content with our lot Let me try to sketch the hamlet in
which it was cast Wester Micras at that time consisted of eleven
inhabited houses. There were three small farms, of which ours was one,
the arable land consisting of from ten to fourteen acres besides the
hill pasture. Three crofts had from three to four acres of land with no
hill pasture attached. Each of these was supposed to keep a cow, but
never did, and their produce had to be supplemented by fodder, begged or
bartered for work done to farmers who had it to spare. As the old race
of crofters died out, their holdings were added to the farms. There were
besides five cottars with no land beyond a kailyard.
The barns, byres and stables were built as near to the dwelling-house as
possible, often attached to the end of it, ^with the dung-heap directly
in front, and only a few paces, in some cases only a few feet, from the
door. The cottars1 houses had each a pig-stye at the back and sometimes
a hen-house, but always an ash-pit handy in front The walls of the
houses were all built of undressed stones, called “ dry stone walls,”
with fell (turf) gables and roofs of the same material cut on the
hillside in thin flakes by a flauchter-spade. Of course, the wind
whistled through such walls with but little let or hindrance. This did
not matter in summer, for it provided splendid ventilation, but it was
different in winter when the winds were loaded with snowdrift It became,
therefore, a part of the autumn labour, as necessary as the “cocking”
(fencing with thorns) of the kailyards to prevent the invasion of sheep,
to bung the holes in the walls to keep the wind away. This was done in
the go-hairst (after-harvest) by the women and children collecting a
quantity of moss crop and inserting it carefully, bit by bit, into every
external crevice—an operation which was called fogging the wets.
The internal accommodation of the better sort of houses generally
consisted of a but and a ben, with a bed, sometimes two, in each, and
one or two in the trance or passage between them. The cottars’ houses
were minus the but, except when it was used as an apartment for the
fowls to roost in. They got the benefit of the heat of the ben end as
well as of its smoke, neither of which seems to have disagreed with
them, for they were always the plumpest and fattest that were so housed.
The yearly round of occupation of the crofters or small farmers was as
follows. As soon in the spring as practicable the pkuch was streekit,
i.e., put to use. The horses, unaccustomed to such work, were restive,
and generally required two or three loons to guide them and make them
draw evenly; but loons were plentiful in those days, and though they did
not like the work it kept them out of mischief. A strong man held the
wooden plough, and at times it required all his strength; for though a
light implement that he generally carried on his shoulders to and from
the field, it was very vicious when put to work, jumping from side to
side, often quite out of the furrow, and sometimes tossing the holder
upon his back on the red land, wherever its course was opposed by a big
stone, or kicking up its heels when it encountered a yird-fast one to
the serious danger of his ribs. Ploughing was therefore no child’s play,
nor an artistic operation such as it is now, for there were no straight
furrows but windings along crooked baulks, into shapeless gushets and
round jutting rocks and huge boulders. The first portion of the spring
work was called the ait seed. It was generally completed before any
other was undertaken. Then followed the here seed, a most important
piece of work, especially in the smuggling days, but going out of
fashion ere the ’thirties began. The land for this crop required
manuring; hence the saying, “When the muck’s a’ oot the bere seed’s
done.” Potatoes and turnips came next after a short interval, but though
so important now they were not, especially the latter, of much account
then, and did not require, at least did not get, much of the men’s work.
These operations finished, the “labouring” was said to be done. For the
rest of the summer, except for a week at the moss and two or three days
at making the hay and clipping the sheep—all occasions of rural
festivity—most of the younger men engaged themselves where work was to
be got; the others amused themselves the best way they could, doing what
they called jots, but really spending their time in idleness. The women
and children did all the rest of the field work till harvest came on,
and most of it even then. The reaping was wholly done by means of the
toothed hook, later on by the scythe hook, and seldom indeed did a
full-grown man bend his back so far as to use even the one or the other.
Often the women went to their knees in the process of shearing, and the
work was so carefully done that not a straw was dropped nor one
misplaced in a sheaf. It was the men who built and thatched the stacks,
and in so doing they were supposed to have contributed their part of the
harvesting. It was not till the ’forties had well begun that the scythe
in its most primitive form, that is, with the long sned, was employed in
reaping oats. For years after it was considered unsuitable for bere or
barley, though for some time before it had been used to cut such patches
of artificial hay as were then grown. The harvest completed, the men
laid themselves up for the winter, seeking amusement by gadding about
the country—stralking, they called it—and by ball shooting by day and
ball dancing by night, drinking a good deal of whisky at both. Not so
the women. Besides the ordinary work of the household, they took charge
of the cattle, and during the long forenights their busy hands never
ceased plying the spinning wheel or the knitting wires. Variety in their
life work there was little; two or three big balls in the winter, which
to them were great events, and a fireside dance for an hour now and
again, constituted their amusements. Such was the mode of life in my
early boyish days. It may be asked how under such circumstances did the
people get food and raiment The raiment they. made for themselves; as to
food, even the crofts of from three to four acres, nearly all under oats
and potatoes, were supposed to supply enough of these articles for a
family of about the same number of individuals, and the small farms
supplied whatever deficiency there was in payment of work rendered.
Seldom was money given; any one offering it was considered to be rich.
All the cottars had a drill or two of potatoes on an adjacent farm given
in exchange for the manure of the ash-pit A pig was killed at Martinmas
and a ham cured for use throughout the year.
I believe the earliest event I retain any recollection of was a
cock-fight I remember nothing about the combat; what is impressed upon
my memory was seeing my eldest sister crying bitterly with many tears
because the fowl she had presented for the championship had turned out a
fugiey that is, a cock that would not fight. Her grief was to me a thing
never to be forgotten. It was the first and last tournament of the kind
I ever saw, and was intended, in theatrical phrase, to be the teacher’s
benefit day. Every scholar paid him sixpence of entry money, and he got
all the fugie cocks. I have a recollection of an adventure I had in the
autumn of 1838, the year of the “big storm,” as it was called Though
eight years old, I had not been to school, my education having been
conducted by my elder sisters; but, being the oldest boy, I had plenty
of work to do at home in the shape of herding the cattle and sheep and
taking charge of my two younger brothers. The adventure was in this
wise. I had been sent with my next youngest brother to look after and
bring home some cattle that were pasturing on the hillside about a mile
distant A fearful storm of wind and rain came on. There was no shelter
anywhere but in the “howe bum,” the deep den cut in the mountain side by
an impetuous torrent Thither we were all, boys and beasts, soon driven
by the violence of the tempest. The rain became blinding sleet, and the
cattle refused to face it. Every time my brother and I attempted to
leave our shelter we were driven back by the force of the wind. The snow
now began to accumulate above us as the only place where the hurricane
would permit it to rest. At last, in sheer desperation, I rolled my
little plaid round my brother’s neck and dragged him by the hand out
into the storm to make for home. He cried bitterly, but the loud blast
prevented my hearing his wailing, though I saw it plainly in his face.
We had to cross an open field which had been newly cut There was not a
stook standing, and the sheaves were flying before the wind as if hurled
by an army of demons. Three or four times we were dashed to the ground
by the blows they dealt us. At last I perceived a human figure
approaching, a tall, lanky woman, with a considerable sprinkling of
beard on her chin. I knew her, but why she should be there—it was not
near her own home—struck me as something very strange. However, she gave
us the help we needed, and brought us home. She was the “howdie” of the
district, and the occasion of her visit to our mother explained—though
we did not then understand it—why we had been so little thought of for a
time. The storm is still (1896) remembered as one of the severest that
for many years had visited Deeside. Meteorologically considered, the two
months beginning with this storm formed a period of an exceptional
character. A month later began a snow-storm which, alternating with
intervals of keen frost, continued till late in the month of February,
attaining a depth never remembered before. All I remember of it is the
dreary confinement to the house while the snow was falling; the
miserable shifts we were put too for meal, the hand-quems being often in
requisition; the cutting of steps or boring of tunnels in the huge mass
of drift in front of our dwelling. Then came a memorable day in August
It was the Sunday on which the new Roman Catholic Chapel in Braemar was
opened, and the whole population of that persuasion—and they were then
very numerous—crowded to the ceremony from all parts of Upper Deeside.
From early dawn the elements poured down torrents of rain, which raised
the river to a higher level than it had attained since the famous flood
of 1829.
It was a grand sight for us boys to watch the trees, logs, fragments of
bridges, and other material borne along at headlong speed by the
impetuous torrent. Dr. Robertson was wont to tell an anecdote
illustrative of the Scotch proverb, "It’s an ill wind that blaws naebody
good.” Next day, or the following, as he was riding along, he saw an old
man contemplating from the public highway his com rigs, on which he had
been collecting a crop of sheaves. “Do you think, John, you have got
about the bulk of your own?” interrogated the doctor. John, still
keeping a critical eye on the result of his labours, answered, “I think,
Doctor, I have, and if ony odds—raither.”
School Days
My early school days were
quite uneventful. I recollect stealing away two or three times with some
neighbouring boys, without parental permission, and presenting myself at
school with them. This was in the fine summer days, when the object was
more play and companionship than lessons. Winter came on, and then I was
sent in regular form. This was, I think, in 1839, when I was eight or
nine years of age. I could read a little; but, having up till then used
only the Gaelic language at home, I must have felt rather awkward at
first among boys who spoke only English—nothing else was spoken at
school For the rest of the year—from April to November—being the oldest
boy in the family, I was kept constantly at work, often much harder work
than was suitable for my years; or I was put to herding—an occupation I
always detested. At school, I was not fond of play, and merely took part
in the usual games that I might not appear singular.
The Presbyterial Examination was then the great field day of the school
year, when prizes of books, as rewards of merit, were awarded by
competition to the best scholars. This took place annually, in March or
April, after which only those (a small number) whose services were not
required at home remained at school.
On one of these occasions the Society for the Propagation of Christian
Knowledge offered a set of prizes to be competed for by the four schools
in the district, namely, Crathie, Aberarder, Castleton of Braemar, and
Inverey. The teachers selected a number of their best scholars, and sent
them to the competition, which took place at Aberarder, as being the
most central locality. The contest was keen, as on the result depended
not only the merit of the competitors, but the reputation of the several
teachers. I mention it merely because I can distinctly date from this
event my first liking for books and desire for learning. It put into my
hands two volumes—“Robinson Crusoe” and Thomson’s “Seasons” and “Castle
of Indolence.” The first inspired a love for reading, the other a desire
to understand. From this time every book was a treasure, and as they
were few, they were proportionately diligently perused. As I have said,
I hated herding; but as that occupation afforded opportunities for
reading in fine summer weather—though that made me a worse herd—I took
to it more kindly, and about this time it happened that I had a good
deal of it to do.
Floating
An event now happened to
which I trace one of the banes of my life. Michael Gordon, laird of
Abergeldie, having become embarrassed in his circumstances, was obliged
to sell a large quantity of his wood, which was purchased by a timber
merchant in Aberdeen, of the name of Smith. My father unfortunately
entered into a contract with this man to drag the trees to the Dee, and
float them in single logs to Aboyne. I was then a raw boy of scarcely
sixteen, but, to save expense, I had to do the work of a strong man in
dragging the timber to the river. It was rough work, often not
unattended with danger. I have the most unpleasant recollection of it,
having had charge of a very intractable and vicious horse. This work
lasted for eight or nine months, during which I had neither proper food
nor clothing; for our family were in great poverty at the time, to
relieve which was the reason why my father engaged in the business.
Before this part of it was finished, I felt my strength giving way,
lassitude by day and troubled dreams at night In short, I was not well,
and had a feeling that I was in a manner crushed.
But this was not the worst of my suffering. With the spring thaws came
the floating. A number of the roughest and most daring hands were
engaged, men who, twenty years before, had floated the Braemar timber,
and were inured to the work. Though once a means of livelihood to a
considerable number of the labouring population, floating timber on the
Dee is now so much a thing of the past, never again to be revived, that
some account of the mode of operation may be of some interest to
antiquaries. First, then, the entire trees had to be tumbled on to the
bank of the river, where they were heaped up in great piles. When the
thaw came, those nearest the flood were first pushed into it, and sent
on their watery journey. This was exciting work. Great care had to be
taken lest the loosening of a log below should not bring down those
behind, and hurl both logs and men into the raging stream. Several fatal
cases of this kind are recorded.
When all the logs have been thus set afloat, the floaters take to their
boats and follow them down the river. Conceive it in full flood—and the
Dee in this condition is a wild cataract throughout the whole stretch
between Abergeldie and Aboyne—hurrying along on its foaming billows its
burden of logs, mingled with masses of floe ice impinging now on one
bank and again on another, sometimes getting stranded, but often
wheeling round and taking to the stream again, and you will have some
idea of the excitement and danger incurred by the men in the boats, four
or five in each, whose business it is to refloat the stranded logs,
often on rocks where they cannot land, but must strike the log with a
long clip as they sweep past, and haul it after them into the current
This is an exceedingly dangerous operation, and one that requires great
care and expertness, for, should the log remain fixed, the dip will
either be lost or the boat swamped. But the greatest difficulty and
danger occur when the logs get jammed up into what the floaters call a
cairn ; that is, when they get heaped together in a confused pile on a
jutting rock, on the bank at some sharp turn of the river, or on an
island in its midst They then become huddled together in the utmost
disorder, some endwise, some broadside, and so locked that a great part
of the logs, though in deep water, remains immovable. To disentangle
them is a most dangerous business. The boatmen ply their clips from the
side of the water, while other men venture on the floating cairn from
the shore, and try to loosen the logs with levers and crowbars. If the
river is rising, there is the risk that the whole cairn, or a
considerable portion of it, may move off at once, carrying the men along
with it, and many lives have been lost when this takes place. Usually,
however, there is some warning, and then there is a rush for the land on
one side and a flight of the boats on the other.
I had to take my full share of this hard and perilous work, wading in
the snow water from morning to night, what they contained; and I now
began to read and study the Scriptures not as a school book as formerly,
but with an earnest desire to learn from them the way of salvation.
It is not my intention to describe the mental struggle through which I
at this time passed. It was severe and protracted, but I bore it in
silence and tried to conceal it from every one. It could not, however,
altogether escape the notice of some of the family. The priest became
suspicious that my learning Latin was not with a view to taking orders
in his Church, and spoke to my father on the subject, proposing that I
should be sent to Blairs Roman Catholic College. This I did not learn
till some years after, when my father, becoming somewhat reconciled to
the change, told me what trouble he had got from the priest on my
account. Me he persecuted with threatenings and anathema, fulminating
the vengeance of his Church against me if I dared to sever myself from
her communion. I was in a state of the utmost distress. The terrors of
the priest’s denunciations were not altogether ineffectual. They did not
break down my resolution, but I dreaded what he might do —some dire
unknown thing. I had not yet been to confession, and that was now urged
upon me with great vehemence, but I had made up my mind not to go
whatever might happen. Thinking no time was to be lost, he urged my
father to send me on a particular day, and, if necessary, to use extreme
means to compel me to attend. This brought matters to a crisis. When my
father asked me to accompany him, I informed him of the state of my
feelings, and that I had, after much thought, resolved to leave the
Church of Rome. He was very angry, but not so violent as I feared he
would be. The truth is that he had seen the change in my religious
sentiments for some time past, and was not wholly unprepared for the
declaration I had now made. I had resolved to soothe him by paying him
even greater regard and affection than I had done before, and I was not
unsuccessful; for as one after another of the family followed my example
he was less and less vexed at their desertion of his Church. In fact,
before his death he had become at heart very much a Protestant himself.
I do not intend, even in an autobiography meant to be candid, to say
anything regarding my personal religious sentiments and struggles. These
I hold to be too sacred for any eye to see but the eye of the Omniscient
alone. They are matters that concern only the creature and his Creator
and Judge. I shall only say that at this time I passed through a season
of spiritual trial and conflict with myself that was very hard to bear.
Struggling on
In the month of August,
1846, there occurred one of the most violent and destructive
thunderstorms ever experienced on Upper Deeside. I have given some
account of it in “ Deeside Tales.” * The mountain torrents bursting
their bounds covered much arable ground with gravel and mountain debris
several feet in depth, and swept away some bridges. Employed by the road
trustees, I wrought hard at repairing this damage, and in a few months
found myself richer by a few pounds, with which I proposed to carry out
my project of educating myself for a session at the Grammar School. With
this view, and still further to increase my little store, I continued to
teach the side school I have mentioned during the following winter, and
in the spring went to reside with a sister near Ballater, to attend the
school there during the summer months.
Ballater was then very different from what it is now, small in
comparison and more homely in its manners. The school was then taught by
the Rev. James Smith, a licentiate of the Church of Scotland, a man of
fair abilities, well known in the district and not a little esteemed by
all classes of the community; but getting old and having offices besides
that of schoolmaster, he often entrusted the junior classes to the care
of his more advanced pupils. This task was generally laid on me; and it
is needless to say that my own studies made but little progress. At
least, I got little help from my teacher.
Being at home assisting at the harvest and other work about the new and
enlarged farm on which my father had just entered, and seeing some
prospect of getting a session at the Grammar School, which a year ago
had been the summit of my ambition, I employed every spare minute in
studying Latin and learning a little Greek. Some higher attainment began
now dimly to loom in the distance. At this time I received not a little
assistance in my studies and much encouragement to aim even at a session
at college » from a former school fellow, now living with his father on
a neighbouring farm, and preparing to enter the magistrand class in
King's College, Aberdeen. He was some years my senior, and had been
little at home since my early school days, so that our companionship had
not been very intimate; but now there sprang up between us a friendship
which has lasted unimpaired to the present hour, and done much to shape
the whole after course of my life. He is now (1896) the Rev. George
Davidson, LL.D., the respected minister of Logie-Coldstone.
The following winter (1847-8) I went to Ballater School again, this time
avowedly to teach, and receive in return private lessons and board and
lodgings in the schoolhouse.
I had few or no companions outside the school, but there were there
several pupils—some of them girls—of about my own age, and quite equal
to me in some branches of learning. The girls teased me unmercifully,
but were always easily forgiven.
Among the elder members of Ballater society there was only one
outstanding figure, and he was a surgeon. Dr. Sheriffs, as he was
called, though he was not an M.D., was a shrewd headed, rough mannered
man, with a moral character not of the highest order, but with a great
reputation in his profession, much knowledge of the ways of the world
and skill to use it to his own advantage. If not much respected he was
greatly feared, and he ruled in Ballater without a rival. Some years
before he had attended me during an attack of typhus fever, and I had
now the rare fortune to stand pretty high in his good graces, which was
of some advantage to me.
The Rev. James Smith, M.A., schoolmaster, with whom I lived, was a man
of totally different life and character. As I have already said, he
filled many offices besides that of schoolmaster. He had been Clerk to
the Justices of the Peace in the smuggling days, to the Parochial
Heritors, to the Road Trustees, to the Savings Bank Managers, and to the
Kirk Session; and afterwards Inspector of Poor, Collector of Rates, and
Registrar of Births, Deaths and Marriages. These offices brought him
into contact with both high and low. A frequent guest at the tables of
the former, and a prominent person at all public meetings and parties,
he had a wide reputation as a man of business and of great social
qualities. No man had a greater fund of anecdotes nor a happier way of
telling them, which made him a great favourite with the ladies, of whose
society he was very fond, and to which he devoted much of his time. He
was of a happy temperament, disposed to be at peace with all mankind;
yet there was one man who constantly crossed his path and poisoned his
cup of pleasure. This was Dr. Sheriffs, of whom he stood in dread, and
who missed no public opportunity of treating him with ridicule; and the
doctor was a sarcastic dog. When at the Grammar School in Aberdeen he
had as a class-fellow, Lord Byron, and often told how he was present on
the occasion when the Rector, Mr. Cromar, in calling the catalogue, came
to Byron’s name and pronounced it for the first, and, as Mr. Smith
asserted, the last time, “Domine Byron,” laying particular emphasis on
the “Domine,” and how his pupil, instead of answering “ Adsum,” burst
into a flood of tears. Mr. Smith was early appointed to the school of
Ballater, and had been a witness of, and taken a keen interest in its
rise and progress, to which he contributed in no inconsiderable measure.
It was mainly through his efforts that the bridge, which succeeded the
one carried away by the great flood of 4th August, 1829, was subscribed
for and built Indeed, he originated or greatly promoted every public
improvement in the village for the long space of 68 years. And now he
lies in the quiet Churchyard of Tullich, not yet forgotten by a few
scattered over the wide world, to whom he was the great figure of their
school days.
As a preacher, Mr. Smith composed neat and effective discourses. At one
time he had expectations of succeeding to the church of Ballater, and it
was said that he diligently cultivated the favour of the parishioners
with this view. But the incumbent, the Rev. Hugh Burgess, lived too
long, and saw Mr. Smith too old to permit of this taking place. I knew
Mr. Burgess well—a stem, somewhat overbearing man, but withal not
unkindly. I joined the last young communicants’ class he admitted to the
Lord’s Table, and thus, in 1848, became a member of the Church of
Scotland.
In the summer of that year I obtained work at Balmoral, then getting
ready for the reception of Her Majesty and Prince Albert, and in the
autumn I was engaged as a ghillie to His Royal Highness. Here I had a
good deal of time on my hands, which I employed in prosecuting my study
of Latin, seldom going out to the moors or forest without a Caesar or
some other Latin book in my pocket, to be pored over when my attendance
was not required. I was very careful, however, that this should not be
known, for I should have been laughed at if it had been discovered.
For the following nine months I returned to Ballater, teaching and being
taught—plenty of the former, for I had now most of the work to do, but
very little of the latter. I was left almost entirely to my own efforts.
It will easily be understood that, under these circumstances, my
knowledge of Latin, and still more of Greek, was neither very accurate
nor extensive.
Grammar School
I entered myself here in
the 5th; or highest class, in August, 1850, under the celebrated
Latinist, Dr. James Melvin. I had not been in this class a week when I
found out my great deficiencies, and almost lost heart During this
quarter there was a great influx of the best scholars from the parochial
schools of the north of Scotland. These were designated extraneans,
while those who had come through the regular course of the Grammar
School were called alumni. The object of both was to be coached up for
the Bursary competition, then held in the end of October. No effort of
mine could raise even the faintest hope of success at the approaching
dread trial of learning. I had made considerable progress, and learned
what was of much advantage to me, my deficiencies, and how far I was
behind. This gave direction to my work, in order to be ready by another
year. I, however, attended the competition to acquaint myself with the
nature of it It is needless to say I was unsuccessful The first bursar
at King’s College was an extranean, now the Rev. James McLauchlan,
minister of Inveravon, and the first bursar at Marischal College was
Charles Robertson, afterwards ranking third in the competition for
appointments in the Indian Civil Service—an alumnus and justly esteemed
the best student of his year.
I had now realised my early dream—for the aspiration at first was little
more than a dream—of a quarter at the Grammar School, though the
attainment had been with small credit, and given less satisfaction.
Nothing would content me now but to make a bold push for a college
education. For the next nine months I was again engaged as Mr. Smith’s
assistant in the Ballater School, this time without any promise from him
of help in my studies.
My second quarter at the Grammar School then followed, just a year after
the first An extranean I was again, of course, but this time no stranger
to Dr. Melvin, the august rector, or to the majority of my
class-fellows. From the first I took a respectable position among them.
We had what was called a trial version every Friday. These the Doctor
took home with him, examined each carefully, marking the errors, which
in inverse order determined our status in the class for the following
week. There were maxim^ medii and minimi errors, counting 4, 2 and 1
respectively. I never on these occasions succeeded in making a sine
errore version, though I sometimes came near to it Before the end of the
quarter there would be from four to ten sine errore versions at every
trial
I am not to attempt to describe Dr. Melvin—that has been often attempted
by very able pens, but never, in my opinion, with complete success.
Suffice it to say that I regarded him with mingled feelings of awe,
respect, affection and fear. No teacher I ever had, and no man I ever
knew, made so deep an impression on me: I believe quite as much by the
high moral tone of his character as from my admiration of his learning.
The Bursary Competition
This was to me a most
anxious, and in many respects the most important, event in my life. If I
were successful in gaining a fairly good bursary, there was the prospect
of being able to work my way through college, and thereafter take my
chance of what good things Providence might cast in my lot If
unsuccessful, my past labour would be lost, and “all my day-dreams of
what I then dreamt” would have vanished into thin air, leaving only a
dark cloud over my future. I had brooded over this so long and so
intensely that my mind had become almost unhinged; and to add to my
misery I was struck down a few days before the competition with my
indefatigible enemy, gastric catarrh, always brought on by excessive
anxiety or excitement I, however, went to it at Marischal College, and I
shall never forget the misery of that day. I could scarcely raise my
head from the desk on which I was attempting to write; I had almost lost
the power of thinking, my mind was nearly a blank. I sickened once or
twice, but put in such papers as I had been able to write, and went home
to my lodgings in a state bordering on despair.
A few days after there was to be at King’s College a competition for the
McPherson bursary—value £20— limited to Gaelic speaking students; and,
being a little recovered in health, I went to it and sat down with other
six competitors to work the papers presented to us. In giving their
decision the examiners said they had much difficulty in deciding between
the first two, and regretted not having two bursaries. This was small
consolation to me who was finally assigned the second place. The
declaration of the bursaries at Marischal College was made from the Town
House that same night at n o’clock Almost all the competitors had been
waiting for hours in the street to hear their fate. I did not go, I knew
mine already, and I was indeed too ill to be out so late. I learned,
however, that I was in the list of bursars, but very far down. It turned
out to be a £7 10s. bursary, out of which the class fees and other dues
had to be paid. I saw I could not maintain myself for the five months of
the session on the remainder, and was now possessed of no means of my
own, and had no hope of obtaining any. In this difficulty—I might say
despair—I resolved to apply for teaching, and, knowing that Dr. Melvin
had great influence in procuring such, and believing that he had some
favour for me, I plucked up courage to call upon him and tell him
exactly how I was circumstanced. He received me kindly, and asked me to
call upon him again next day. I did so, thinking there was now some
prospect of finding teaching. He advised me to wait on Dr. Cruickshank,
Professor of Mathematics in Marischal College, at a certain hour, which
I punctually did, still thinking of teaching. The professor told me that
he had seen Dr. Melvin, and it so happened that there was a lapsed
bursary of the value of £14, which, after examination, might perhaps be
obtained for me on resigning my competition bursary of £*] 10s., but
that it only ran for three years, whereas the one I was entitled to was
for four. To me this offer was like life from the dead. I accepted it
gratefully, was examined, passed, and so entered on my college career.
College: Session 1851-2
I took a fairly good
position in the class from the beginning; and though much troubled with
illness consequent on early hardships, comfortless lodgings and poor
fare, I worked hard to maintain this position throughout My success was
doubtful. A large number of my class-fellows were the Hite of the
Grammar School, the Gymnasium, and all the best schools in the north. I
formed friendships with many of them which death only has severed. Their
memories are even now the most pleasant recollections of my youth.
About the middle of the session, I obtained some private teaching, for
which I received a guinea a month for six hours a week It was a mistake;
but nullam hdbet necessitas legem. The compulsory classes of the session
were only two, Latin and Greek. For the former I was pretty well
prepared, but for the latter my preparation was almost wholly limited to
my own private study—not very satisfactory it may well be supposed. The
Greek Chair was then held by the Rev. Robert Brown, D.D., well read in
the language, but getting old, and somewhat absent-minded. His kindly
disposition was sometimes taken advantage of by the more idle and
frolicsome of the students. He occasionally gave lectures on the manners
and customs of the ancient Greeks, in which there were so frequent
references to those of the Dorians that among the students the worthy
Doctor was only known by the appellation of The Dorian. He gave us
plenty of work to do at home, which only a few honestly did, the others
finding the means of copying their exercises. The fraud was seldom
detected, which gave rise to the suspicion that the exercises were not
very carefully, if at all, examined compulsory, Chemistry and Higher
Latin being optional. I did not take these.
I have already described Dr. Brown and his manner of conducting the work
of his class. The doctor’s authority was even less respected in the
Senior Class, and the order was far from good. He often imposed fines,
sometimes as high as half-a-crown, which were generally promptly paid;
but the doctor, instead of appropriating them, laid them upon his desk,
whence they generally found their way back to the pockets of the
culprits, and by next morning the good doctor had forgotten all about
the offence and the fine.
In the mathematical classroom we were confronted by a man who did not
need to fine or even reprove a student One look was sufficient to quell
the most audacious. It would be difficult adequately to describe Dr.
Cmickshank. It was not alone sternness of manner that kept us so much in
awe of him. It was a feeling that to offend him would bring about some
dire calamity of the nature of which we could form no conception. It was
a mixture of respect and awe and terror with which we regarded him
during our first year under him. The element of terror wore off the
second year, but the respect and awe remained. One of the best of his
students, the late Colonel Duncan, M.P., told me that, after having been
absent from the country for twelve years, he met Dr. Cruickshank on the
street, and all the feelings with which he regarded him in the classroom
came back upon him, and he could not divest himself of them,
notwithstanding the doctor’s efforts at familiarity. It was different
with me. I had never been so long out of his sight, and he had been my
friend in need While a student, I had been deeply impressed with respect
for him, but instead of fear I had a feeling of gratitude, more powerful
than fear, to make me desire to do my best to please him in the only way
in which he could be pleased, by doing my duty as a student In after
life, I found him both pleasant and sociable. He was a kind of Dr.
Johnson in manner, and I think also in character. Deeply learned in many
subjects besides that of his own chair, like him he spoke with
authority. Johnson was burly and corpulent; Cmickshank—or “Croikie” as
we called him when out of sight and hearing—was long and lank, but both
had the same ungainly gait in walking.
It may be here noticed that in conducting the work of the class during
the first year he never condescended to call any student by name, but,
“next student,19 or thus, “the fourth student in the 3rd faction.” But
in his senior class we were called by name, thus—“John Michie”; and in
the select class, consisting of the Simpson and Boxill bursars with
three or four others of his best students who attended in their
magistrand year, our Christian names were dropped and their places
supplied with “ Mr.”
The Natural History class was taught by Mr. James Farquharson (now the
Rev. James Farquharson, D.D., Minister of Selkirk), who read to us the
lectures of Professor McGillivray, who had died in the previous year.
The patrons of the chair had left it vacant for two years, the
emoluments, less a fee for the lecturer, being paid to Mrs. McGillivray.
Mr. Farquharson, though thus not in the position of professor, secured
our attention and regard. He had been one of Dr. McGillivray's most
distinguished students, a son of the Manse, his father, an eminent
botanist, having been minister of Alford. The month of February being
this year very fine, we had several Saturday excursions to Rubislaw and
the Cove, collecting specimens and enjoying much free intercourse with
each other. These laid in me the foundation of that predilection for the
study of geology, which I have ever since retained. Although I felt the
work somewhat hard, I believe this was to me the most enjoyable of all
my sessions at college. What with my bursary and private teaching, I was
able to live in a little more comfort than I had done the previous year,
and I was less troubled with illness.
I went home to prepare for next session towards the end of June. At
intervals during the summer I rambled much among the neighbouring hills,
and made two excursions which I think worth recording, the first by
myself soon after my release from town.
I had been several times to Lochnagar, both in company and alone, and
had visited most of the mountains and crossed all the passes between the
Capel and the Caimwell; but had never explored the grand group of the
Cairngorms with Ben Muicdhui at their head presenting such an imposing
and attractive panorama from Lochnagar and the other summits of the main
range of the Grampians. I determined, therefore, to invade their
solitudes and acquaint myself with their topographical, and geological
characters. With this view I took up my quarters with an old
acquaintance, a gamekeeper in Inverey. Here I stayed a fortnight, and
every day was spent among the mountains and glens—sometimes both day and
night—seeing occasionally a gamekeeper but no other human creature in my
wanderings, for there was no Cairngorm Club in those days to incite its
members to dare these high altitudes at all seasons of the year. I shall
describe one of these excursions, and it may be taken as a sample of
several others.
Having provided myself with a supposed sufficiency of cheese and
oatcakes, a knapsack, a pocket compass, a chisel and hammer, and a
highland plaid, I set off from Inverey at sunrise on, I think, the 24th
June, 1853. The course I took was along Glendee to Pol Dee, then
northward through the narrow pass between Scur-mor and Ben Bhrotan,
northward still by the infall of the Guisachan, the Devil’s Point to the
junction of the Dee and the Garchory, loitering a good deal by the way
to examine every interesting object that came under my observation. At
the Garchory I took some pains to ascertain which of the two streams
contributed the larger volume of water—the Garchory Bum or the Gruamach
Pass Bum, j.i., the Larig Bum. There was no doubt that at this time, and
I should think at all seasons of the year, the Larig branch of the Dee
contributed the larger volume, and on this account is entitled to be
held as the infant Dee. Topographically viewed also, the Garchory, like
the Guisachan, is of the nature of a tributary. I therefore stuck to the
Larig Bum as still the Dee, and sought some amusement in calculating
when I should be first able to leap across it I might have succeeded
earlier than I did; but I did not care to risk a failure. I succeeded at
a spot about half a mile beyond the junction with the Garchory. I now
considered the stream vanquished, and mentally compared it with the
great volume that passes my native abode, coming to the conclusion that
the river gathers more water in the first 15 miles of its course than in
any other 30 miles of it, and that before it reaches Invercauld it has
at least half as much water as it discharges into the sea. Two miles
north from the Garchory it issued from a great mass of frozen snow, much
as Swiss streams leave the glaciers. Of course, I did not then know what
that was like, but I fancied it, and I in after years verified my fancy.
This snow bridge was about 300 yards broad I crossed on it several
times, and this was in the end of June. It occurred under a great brow
in the Pass, into which a vast quantity of snow had drifted during the
winter. Beyond the brow, the stream, though still considerable, was
often hid among the rough boulders of granite that obstructed its
course. From this to the Pools, or Wells of Dee, a distance of about a
mile, the Larig is narrow and exceedingly rough. The pools are two in
number, each about 4 yards in diameter. They are situated almost on the
watershed in the very heart of the Pass, and are fed by streamlets
issuing from springs high up on Ben Muicdhui and Braeriach. I disturbed
a flock of ptarmigan that had gathered about the pools. They allowed me
to approach quite , close to them before they took wing. I dined here,
and then set out to mount the big Ben, keeping in view the largest of
the rills that came tumbling down its precipices. I found it was
impracticable to scramble up along the side of it; and had to make a
considerable detour to the north. Once above the rocks, I went in search
of the highest well, and was fortunate in finding it, drank a very
little of its icy cold water, and made for what I believed was the
highest point in Great Britain. That reached, I had a glorious view; but
almost nothing but hills and mountains were to be seen in every
direction. In the extreme distance, north by east, the sea was plainly
visible; but neither cultivated fields nor human habitation could I see
anywhere. And as for the mountains, they were far too numerous for me to
make out by name those in the distance. It seemed as if I could jump
across to Braeriach and CaimtouL Cairngorm looked well, so did Lochnagar
and Benabuird, but the other hundreds or thousands seemed as if they
were hiding their diminished heads.
As the sun was now nearing the Monadhlia horizon, I made my way towards
the Shelter Stone, of which I had heard much, but had no very distinct
idea where it was to be found. The descent was difficult, and not
without danger, but by twisting about a good deal I at last reached the
shores of Loch Avon, and soon found my quarters for the night under the
great stone, or rather fallen rock. I cannot say I was comfortable; it
was too cold, but I slept some two or three hours, and was again up with
the sun to make another exploration. My bread and cheese had shrunk into
very small bulk, and required to be carefully husbanded in case of
accidents. I would fain have gone to Cairngorm, but the food supply
would not permit of passing another night under the Shelter Stone, and
without doing that I could not examine the mountain to my satisfaction.
I therefore relinquished the idea, and took up the shoulder of Ben
Muicdhui to Corrie Etchachan. I was greatly fascinated with the stem
aspect of this wild corrie, with its dark tam and overhanging
precipices. The feeling produced by the scenery of Loch Avon is that of
sheer desolation; the gloom of Corrie Etchachan inspires awe. I spent
some time scrambling round the loch, and picked up a few specimens of
small cairngorms; but from this and other visits to Ben Muicdhui I have
come to be of opinion that it does not so much abound in these gems as
some of its neighbours. Very little of the mountain has been searched
compared with the old diggings on Benavon and Cairngorm. Whether this is
owing to its situation as more distant from the abodes of men, or that
there may be some geological reason why the central mass of the group
should not be so favourable to their production, I cannot say.
On leaving Loch Etchachan, I followed the outflow into Glenderry. The
upper end of this narrow glen presents rather a curious geological
feature. The granite mass of the Cairngorms is shattered in a very
peculiar way. Rents on a large scale are common in granite ranges, and
occur at pretty regular intervals. Glenderry is such a rent, but at the
upper end it divides itself into three branches, separated from each
other by rugged rocky mountains, the region presenting the idea of a
ruined fortress or battered ancient castle, on nature’s scale. These
three or four corries would in the ice age have given lodgement to an
enormous quantity of nev£, sufficient indeed even in the last decay of
that dreary period to feed a glacier large enough to occupy the glen to
its junction with Luibeg. As I descended through it, I saw sufficient
traces of glacier action, and at one remarkable place the ice had
scooped out a bed for a lake that doubtless existed for ages after the
glacier disappeared. This place had a peculiar interest for me, as it
had in quite recent times (c. 1820) been again converted into a lake by
running a dam across the valley, in order to store water to float the
timber which then abounded in it to the Dee, and thence to Aberdeen. My
father, when a young man, had worked at the “floating,” and told me many
stories of the life the men led, of hairbreadth escapes, and fatal
accidents that sometimes befel them. The sun was now setting, but it was
not dark, and I had time to follow the Lui and mark the many linns—some
of them very picturesque—in its way to the Dee, through which I waded,
and got at midnight to my quarters at Inverey. [End of the
Autobiography.]
The latter part of
Michie’s manuscript is written in a tremulous hand, and though his
memory of the past was still obviously fresh and vivid, and he had
reached only the threshold of his career, he laid down the pen. The rest
of his life may be briefly summarized. After graduating in the spring of
1855, he spent some months teaching in Dyke Academy and in Milne’s
Institution, Fochabers, and towards the end of the year was appointed
parochial schoolmaster of
Logie-Coldstone, which post he held for the next twenty-one years. Like
many country schoolmasters of those days he kept the possibility of the
ministry in view, and during his early years at Coldstone attended the
Divinity classes at Aberdeen University, and became a licentiate of the
Church of Scotland. His ambition in life would have been completely
satisfied had he obtained a charge, but during the days of patronage his
efforts in this direction were fruitless.
As a teacher, Michie was highly successful Without effort, his
individuality made a strong impression on his pupils; and, at a time
when Spartan methods of maintaining discipline and instilling knowledge
were still by no means obsolete, he proved that there are other ways of
reaching the hearts and minds of children. Further, being himself a
life-long student he continued in natural sympathy with the developing
minds of learners of all ages. The period of the ’sixties and
’seventies, subsequent to the passing of the second Reform Bill, was
marked by a wave of enthusiasm for education, or, perhaps, more
accurately, general information, which gave rise in towns to the
establishment of Mechanics’ Institutes and similar institutions, and in
the rural districts to the starting of debating and mutual improvement
societies. With this movement Michie was in full sympathy, and during
the winter months, in his own and neighbouring parishes, he frequently
gave lectures, or courses of lectures, on geology and allied sciences,
or on his summer rambles at home and abroad, to which the absence of
domestic ties allowed him to devote many of his vacations. The duties of
a teacher, according to his conception of them, were not confined to the
schoolroom. He made it his business, as it was his pleasure, to
encourage and assist all the intellectual activities of a somewhat
remote and sparsely populated district The high regard in which his
work, both professional and personal, was held, was attested by his
receiving in 1876 a unanimous call to the newly formed quoad sacra
parish of Dinnet, some miles from Coldstone, where the remainder of his
life was spent In 1903, the growing infirmities of age rendered
necessary an application to the Presbytery to be relieved of the active
duties of the ministry, but he enjoyed his retirement for less than a
year, dying in the manse of Dinnet on 21st January, 1904. By his own
wish, he was buried in the old churchyard of Glentanar, within sound of
the river Dee, whose murmur he had known and loved from infancy.
Apart from his educational and ministerial work, Michie, like many
another country schoolmaster and minister, was mainly interested in
local history and antiquities and in some branches of science. He had,
however, what is less common, a strongly marked natural inclination
towards committing the results of his investigations and enquiries to
literary form. He began at College to follow this practice of
composition and continued it all his life, even when much of what he
wrote was evidently never meant to see the light of print Brought up to
hear the language of the Gael at his father’s fireside, he was reared in
an atmosphere where his Celtic passion for the past was fed on tales “
of the days of other years.” These he began to collect in his boyhood,
and never lost an opportunity of adding to his stores of legend and
tradition. He had a fine eye for the picturesque both in nature and in
men, and a specially affectionate regard for the local setting and
circumstance of the romantic incidents of the past His feelings towards
the representatives of the great families associated with the history of
Deeside were marked by a warmth of devotion that was apt to be
misunderstood by those who failed to recognise how much of the old
Highland sentiments of loyalty and affection still survived in his
nature.
Michie’s equipment, therefore, for antiquarian and historical work was
based on the excellent foundation of an intimate acquaintance with the
field of local traditions, thanks to the keen appreciation which he had
of the interest and value attaching to this kind of material At the same
time he was a diligent student of books, and the most characteristic
productions of his pen may be described as a happy blend of elements
derived from both sources. He was in no hurry to seek publication, and
it was not till 1872, when his powers were ripe and his matter
thoroughly assimilated, that his first work, the M Deeside Tales,”
appeared. It was written off rapidly, and con amort. Every page of it
bears evidence of the author’s gusto and relish for his subject, and
though he wrote much afterwards, this continues to be his most popular
book. His idea of illustrating the different types of the society of the
past by sketches of individuals drawn from life is a felicitous one, and
variety in the incidents selected for narration is skilfully attended
to. The humorous, the mysterious, the romantic, and the tragic all find
a place in his pages. His writing is characterised by easy grace and
simple dignity. While the level of expression never rises very high, at
its lowest it does not fail to meander with a certain amount of
pleasurable charm.
The district where Michie lived and the surrounding neighbourhood are
interesting ground to the archaeologist They abound in prehistoric
antiquities of various kinds, “eird” houses or underground dwellings, “
Druidical ” circles, inscribed stones, hill forts, and generally in
those remains of the vanished past, the problems and puzzles of which
are at once a fascination and a field of contention to the antiquarian
mind. The shores and waters of Loch Kinnord had yielded a considerable
crop of relics to the collector for many years, and in 1859, owing to a
reduction of its level by drainage operations, some important finds were
made. Among these was a specimen of the pre-historic log-canoe. Much
interest was aroused, and the district became for a time the focus of
keen antiquarian activity. Michie’s enthusiasm took fire, and he threw
himself with ardour into the investigation of the archaeological
problems presented. Besides contributions to the Society of Antiquaries,
the outcome of his studies was the “History of Loch Kinnord,” published
in 1877. Although his primary motive in this book was to treat of the
archaeology of the district, he digresses into various bypaths, as
accident or inclination leads. Geological problems are touched upon,
place-names are explained (rather unhappily in most cases, as later
Celtic scholarship would say), genealogy and family history are strong
attractions, and such subjects as Byron’s boyish loves, or even the
popular fireside story pleasantly diversify the exposition of the main
theme. It may here be mentioned that at his suggestion the late Sir
William Brooks erected close by the- loch a neat little building
intended as a museum for the preservation of the antiquarian relics,
geological specimens and other objects of interest It was to Michie a
cause of bitter mortification that, owing to changes in the
proprietorship, this project was not ultimately realised
Whether the archaeological views advanced in “Loch Kinnord ” would
always be accepted by experts to-day may be doubtful. The subject is
notoriously obscure, and much is still being done towards its
elucidation. His researches at any rate brought to light many new and
interesting facts, and if his explanations did not in every case command
assent, they provoked discussion and further investigation. His
reputation as the best authority on the antiquities and history of Upper
Deeside was established, and led to a large correspondence with friends
and acquaintances, or, it might be, casual enquirers, whose tastes and
pursuits were similar to his own. One of the most amiable features of
his character was his extreme readiness to put his knowledge at the
disposal of those who might solicit his advice or assistance. The list
of names which occur from time to time among his letters is practically
co-extensive with his fellow-workers in the north-east of Scotland, and
includes many that are known in a wider field, such as Miss Maclagan,
author of “Hill Forts and Stone Circles". Dr. R. Angus Smith, author of
“Loch Etive and the Sons of Uisnach”; Professor Rhys, of Oxford; Sheriff
Nicholson, the Gaelic scholar; Mr. R. E. Prothero, the editor of Byron's
letters; the Earl of Southesk, author of “Ogham Inscriptions,” and
others.
One of the earliest of his antiquarian friends was Andrew Jervise,
author of “Land of the Lindsays,” to whom Michie was able to give
considerable assistance for the Deeside parishes in his “Epitaphs and
Inscriptions.” In collaboration with Dr. William Alexander, of the
Aberdeen Free Pressf he wrote the memoir of Jervise which is prefixed to
the second volume of the “Epitaphs” (1879). Between the authors of
“Johnny Gibb” and “Deeside Tales” a deep and lasting friendship
subsisted. Alexander was a constant visitor at the manse of Dinnet, and
their summer holiday was often spent together in tours in various parts
of Britain and on the Continent To the Free Press Michie was a frequent
contributor for many years. Many of his reviews of books, when his own
special subjects were dealt with, might take rank as original essays;
and occasional articles on topics of antiquarian interest appeared from
his pen.
In 1897, his “History of Logie-Coldstone” was issued in connection with
the occurrence of a bazaar there. Though the book was hurriedly
prepared, and, as regards the greater port, is largely a compilation
from printed sources, the materials are skilfully selected and woven
into a picturesque and agreeable narrative.
His largest work, to which several of the later years of his life were
devoted, was the “Records of Invercauld,” published by the New Spalding
Club in 1901. To deal with the large mass of family papers that were
entrusted to him for examination was a formidable undertaking for his
advanced years and somewhat enfeebled health, and in certain respects
the book might be improved upon, particularly in the matter of plan and
arrangement It may be remarked, too, that the younger school of
genealogists and writers of family history have set a higher standard of
accuracy than their more easy-going elders either practised or felt the
need of; and Michie was not trained in the newer methods. Living as he
did at a distance from a good library, he was not always sufficiently
acquainted with the results of later research. When all deductions,
however, are made, the book remains an invaluable contribution to the
history of the highlands of Deeside, and a storehouse of material from
which future writers will draw. The imperfections of execution of which
we have spoken are amply atoned for by the unique advantages which
Michie brought to his task. In such a work, where the records extend
over centuries and embrace all kinds of documents, demands are made on
the editor’s knowledge in the most various directions. Unless he is at
home in the district with which he is dealing, familiar with its
topography present and past, with the history of its people, their
language, agriculture, manner of life, and so forth, he will be
continually at fault All this Michie knew better than any other man of
his time; nor should we omit to mention, as one of the attractions of
the book, the note of personal interest, arising from the affection
which he felt as a native of Crathie for the race and name of
Farquharson.
Next to his antiquarian and historical work, he devoted considerable
attention to the study of geology. He wrote and lectured on geological
subjects, and, though he never published anything in this line, at one
time he projected and commenced work on a somewhat extended study of the
physical features of the Dee basin. His interest, however, in the
history of men was greater than in nature, and he wisely allowed the
superior attraction to prevail. Like the man in Boswell^ who tried hard
to be a philosopher, but “ always found cheerfulness breaking in,”
Michie would have found it difficult, even if he had wished it, to
remain a mere geologist “The Bum of Torgalter” in the present volume is
a good illustration of the combination of science and story, which he
found most congenial, and which he used with great effect in his popular
lectures. While he lived at Coldstone, his scientific studies were no
doubt stimulated by the society of his life-long friend and neighbour,
Dr. Davidson, the minister of the parish. Davidson was deeply interested
in certain branches of natural science, particularly meteorology and
botany, and one of his discoveries attracted much attention at the time.
He was fortunate enough to recognise the presence in a moss on the
Dinnet moor of a large deposit of kieselguhr, an exceedingly uncommon
infusorial earth which is used in the manufacture of dynamite. In the
negotiations that were subsequently carried through for the working of
the deposit on a commercial basis, Michie took an active part, prompted
by the expectation, which, however, was hardly realised, that a large
and flourishing industry might be established in the district.
His position at Dinnet suited admirably his quiet habit of life and
literary inclinations. The parish and congregation being both limited in
extent and number, his pastoral duties left him with a large margin of
leisure for his favourite pursuits. In early life he was an
indefatigable walker. He was rather above the middle height, and his
figure was muscular, but light, active, and well proportioned. Nothing
gave him more pleasure than rambling among the mountains, and much of
his spare time was spent in excursions undertaken for geological or
topographical investigation, or for the gratification of the mere
aesthetic pleasures of exploration. In later life, however, when the
writer was acquainted with him, he seldom ventured far from the manse.
He was by nature affable and approachable, and his habitual bearing was
one of polished, but quiet, courtesy. In company or in public his savoir
faire was never at fault; no one could be readier with tactful remark or
graceful compliment With a keen sense of humour, he was an admirable
raconteur, particularly of those stories that savoured of the soil or
were reminiscent of bye-gone days and manners. The anecdotist with a
large repertoire is apt, it must be confessed, to become a bore, but
Michie kept his faculty in due control, and his stories remained
strictly the seasoning, and not the staple, of his talk. In the company
of a congenial friend or two, his conversation was in the highest degree
delightful—genial, informing, and original With all his social
qualities, however, at the basis of his character there was an essential
element of reserve, and his life, though full of happiness, seemed
solitary. He never married. The household affairs were attended to for
more than thirty years by “ Nanse ” (Agnes Henderson) with
self-sacrificing devotion, and the welcome she extended to his friends
was as cordial and personal as if she had been (what in effect she was)
a member of the family. The manse is situated on a gravelly plateau a
little above, but on the very brink of the Dee, and was then surrounded
on three sides by plantations of growing fir trees. The view across the
swirling waters of the river and its rocky ledges to the steep, grassy
slopes beyond, thickly clothed with feathery, waving birches, was
exceptionally beautiful His cosy study, lined on one side with books of
a dingy, but workmanlike and well-used aspect, and filled from a large
oriel window with plenty of sunshine, looked out on this delightful
picture. Here Michie was to be found seated at the table with an array
of books and papers around him. He would readily discuss any piece of
work on which he happened to be engaged, but in a characteristically
restrained and undemonstrative manner. Visitors from a distance anxious
to leam anything about the neighbourhood—and in the summer months they
were numerous— always found him accessible, and his stores of local
knowledge freely at their command.
The autobiographical fragment emphasizes—perhaps to an undue extent—the
res angusta domt of his early upbringing. At the same time it exhibits
an impressive picture of steady and unsubduable resolution in the face
of adverse circumstances. Among the peasantry of Aberdeenshire and the
north-east of Scotland as a whole the ambition to succeed in life would,
if ever conceived, remain in most cases in the realm of dreams but for
the opportunities afforded by the University of Aberdeen, which has
rendered an incalculable service to the country by extending the horizon
of life’s possibilities. In this aspect the case of Michie is only one
of thousands.
In most essentials he may be said to have attained the limits of his
ambition, and among the many gratifications of his career none gave him
more pleasure than the success which his writings met with, and the
general recognition that he had done something of value for the history
of Deeside. His life may be contemplated with the satisfactory feeling
with which one regards a completed whole — rather hard festead at the
outset, vigorous and strenuous in mid-career, and towards the close (as
is befitting) calmer and quieter, but at all stages well filled with a
fruitful activity.
|
