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AT the end of last century
there were two families residing on opposite shores of the Sound of Mull,
in Argyllshire, their houses fronting one another across the blue strait
which winds in from the Atlantic. From the windows of the Manse of Mr.
Macleod, the minister of Morven, on the mainland, could be seen the dark
ruins of the old castle of Aros, in the island of Mull, frowning from its
rocky eminence over the Bay of Salen, and behind the castle appeared the
house of Mr. Maxwell, the chamberlain of the Duke of Argyll, and "tacksman"
[There are few now remaining or the class called "Gentlemen Tacksmen," who
ranked between laird and farmer, and once formed the bone and sinew of the
Highlands.] of Aros. These were the homes where the father and mother of
Norman Macleod were then enjoying their happy youth.
This memoir must begin with
a sketch of these families, and of the early life of that youthful pair;
for on few men had early influences a more permanent hold than on Norman
Macleod. What he was to the last, in some of the most conspicuous features
of his character, could he easily traced to the early associations which
clustered round Morven and Mull. The Highlands of those days no longer
exist, but he inhaled in his childhood the aroma of an olden time, and
learned from both lather and mother so much of its healthy and kindly
spirit, as left about his life, to the last moment, a fragrance of the
romance of which it was full.
Except to those immediately
concerned, genealogies are uninteresting, and those of Highland families,
with their endless ramifications, eminently unprofitable. It will be
sufficient to state that I have before me a family "tree,"—such as used to
be so common in the Highlands— in which are the names of the Camerons of
Glendessary, scions of Lochiel; of the Campbells of Ensay and of Saddell;
of the MacNeils of Crear; of the MacNeils of Drumdrissaig; and of the
Campbells of Duntroon—names once well known in their own country, although
now, alas! in some instances only found there on moss-grown tombstones.
Not far from Dunvegan
Castle, in Skye, a roofless house,—its garden weed-grown and abandoned to
utter solitude,—marks the place where lived Donald Macleod, the tacksman
of Swordale, who married Anne Campbell, a sister of Campbell of
Glensaddell. He was the great grand-father of Norman, who used to repeat
with grateful memory the tradition of Swordale, "having been a good man,
and the first in his neighbourhood to introduce regular family worship."
The eldest son of this good man, and the grandfather of the subject of
this memoir, was called Norman. He was educated for the Church, and in the
year 1774 was ordained minister of the parish of Morven, in Argyllshire,
that "Highland Parish" so affectionately described in the "Reminiscences."
The house of Fiunary, as the Manse was called, has given place to a better
and more ornamental dwelling. Pleasant woods now cover the green bank
beside the bright burn where stood the square house of orthodox Manse
architecture—a porch in the centre and a wing at each end—and where grew
up the happiest of families in the most loving of homes. Norman thus
describes Morven:—
"A long ridge of hill,
rising some two thousand feet above the sea, its brown sides, up to a
certain height, chequered with green strips and patches of cultivation,
brown heather, thatched cottages, with white walls; here and there a
mansion, whose chimneys are seen above the trees which shelter it;—these
are the chief features along its sea-board of many miles. But how
different is the whole scene when one lands! New beauties reveal
themselves, and every object seems to change its size, appearance, and
relative position. A rocky wall of wondrous beauty, the rampart of the old
upraised beach which girdles Scotland, runs along the shore; the natural
wildwood of ash, oak, and birch, with the hazel-copse, clothes the lower
hills, and shelters the herds of wandering cattle; lonely sequestered bays
are everywhere scooped out into beautiful harbours; points and
promontories seem to grow out of the land; and huge dykes of whinstone
fashion to themselves the most picturesque outlines; clear streams
everywhere hasten on to the sea; small glens, perfect gems of beauty, open
up entrances into deep dark pools, hemmed in by steep banks, hanging with
rowan-trees, ivy, honeysuckle, and ferns; while on the hillsides
scattered cottages, small farms, and shepherds' huts, the signs of culture
and industry, give life to the whole scene."
This minister of Morven was
in many ways a remarkable man. Noble-looking and eloquent, a good scholar,
and true pastor, he lived as a patriarch among his people. He had a small
stipend, and, as its usual concomitant, a large family. Sixteen children
were born in the Manse, and a number of families—a shepherd, a boatman, a
ploughman,—were settled on the glebe with others who had come there in
their need, and were not turned away. Never was a simpler or more loving
household. The minister delighted to make all around him happy. His piety
was earnest, healthy and genial. If the boys had their classics and the
girls their needlework, there was no grudging of their enjoyments. The
open seas and hills, boats and dogs, shepherds and fishermen, the green
height of Fingal's Hill, the Waterfall roaring in the dark gorge, had
lessons as full of meaning for their after-life as any that books could
impart. The boys were trained from childhood to be manly, and many an hour
taken from study was devoted to education of another kind—hunting otters
or badgers in their dens, with terriers whose qualities were discussed in
every cottage on the glebe; shooting grouse, and stalking the wary
black-cock (for no game laws were then enforced in Morven); fishing
through the summer nights; or sailing out in the "Sound" with old Rory,
the boatman when the wind was high, and the Roe, had to struggle,
close-hauled, against the cross-sea and angry tide. In the winter evenings
old and young gathered round the fireside, where songs and laughter
mingled with graver occupations, and not unfrequently the minister would
tune his violin, and, striking up some swinging reel or blythe strathspey,
would call on the lads to lay aside their books, and the girls their
sewing, and set them to dance with a will to his own hearty music. Family
worship, generally conducted in Gaelic, for the sake of such servants as
knew little English, ended the day.
Norman's grandmother was
one of the tenderest and wisest of minister's wives. The unconscious
centre of the every-day life of the household, her husband and children
leaned on her at all times, but especially in times of sickness or sorrow;
for if there were days of joy, there were also many days, not the less
blessed, of great sadness too, and of mournful partings, when one young
form after another had to be laid in the old churchyard.
The period when his father
[The late Norman Macleod, D.D., Minister of St. Columba, Glasgow, and Dean
of the Chapel Royal.] was a boy in Morven was remarkable in many ways. The
country was closely inhabited by an intensely Highland people. The hills
and retired glens, where now are spectral gables of roofless houses, or
green mounds concealing old homesteads, watched by some ancient tree
standing like a solitary mourner by the dead—were then tenanted by a happy
and romantic peasantry. It is impossible now, even in imagination, to
re-people the Highlands with those who then gave the country the savour of
a kindly and enthusiastic clan-life—
"The flocks of the stranger
the long glens are roamin',
Where a thousand bien homesteads smoked bonny at gloamin;
The wee crofts run wild wi' the bracken and heather,
And the gables stand ruinous, bare to the weather."
There were many men then
alive in Morven who had been out with "bonnie Prince Charlie," and the
chivalry of the younger generation was kept aglow by the great French war
and the embodiment of the "Argyll Fencibles." Among such influences as
these Norman's father grew up and became thoroughly imbued with their
spirit. Full of geniality, of wit, and poetry—fired with a passionate love
of his country—wielding her ancient language with rare freshness and
eloquence—he carried into the work of that sacred ministry to which his
life was devoted a broad and healthy human sympathy, and to his latest day
seemed to breathe the air imbibed in his youth on the hills of Morven.
[See Appendix A]
As the incidents of his
life were closely intertwined with those of his son, nothing need here be
said of his public career, He was a remarkably handsome man, with a broad
forehead, an open countenance full of benevolence, and hair which, from an
early age, was snowy white. His voice was rich, and of winning sweetness,
and when addressing a public audience, whether speaking to his own flock
in the name of Christ, or pleading with strangers on behalf of his beloved
Highlands, few could resist the persuasive tenderness of his appeals. He
was in many ways the prototype of Norman. His tact and common sense were
as remarkable as his pathos and humour. He left the discipline of the
children almost entirely to their mother. She was their wise and loving
instructor at home, and their constant correspondent in later life; while
he rejoiced in sharing their companionship, entering into their fun, and
obtaining the frankest confidence of affection. He seldom, if ever,
lectured them formally on religious subjects, but spread around him a
cheerful, kindly, and truly religious atmosphere, which they unconsciously
imbibed. "Were I asked what there was in my father's teaching and training
which did us all so much good," Norman wrote at the time of his father's
death, "I would say, both in regard to him and my beloved mother,—that it
was love and truth. They were both so real and human; no cranks, twists,
crotchets, isms or systems of any kind, but loving, sympathizing —giving a
genuine blowing-up when it was needed, but passing by. trifles, failures,
infirmities, without making a fuss. The liberty they gave was as wise as
the restraints they imposed. Their home was happy—intensely happy
Christianity was a thing taken for granted, not forced with scowl and
frown. I never heard my father speak of Calvinism, Arminianism,
Presbyterianism or Episcopacy, or exaggerate doctrinal differences in my
life. I had to study all these questions after I left home. I thank God
for his free, loving, sympathising and honest heart. He might have made me
a slave to any 'ism.' He left me free to love Christ and Christians."
The ancestor of Mr.
Maxwell, Norman's maternal grandfather, was a refugee, who, in the time of
the "troubles," under Claverhouse, had fled to Kintyre. He was, according
to tradition, a younger son of the Maxwells of Newark, and once lay
concealed for several weeks in the woods of Saddell, until, being pursued,
he escaped to the south end of the peninsula; again discovered, and hotly
chased, he rushed into a house where the farmer was carding wool.
Immediately apprehending the cause of this sudden intrusion, the man
quickly gave the fugitive his own apron and the "cards," so that when the
soldiers looked into the kitchen, they passed on without suspecting the
industrious youth, who sat "combing the fleece" by the peat hearth. This
young Maxwell settled afterwards in the neighbourhood, and his
descendants, removing to the half-lowland town of Campbeltown, made good
marriages and prospered in the world. Mr. Maxwell, of Aros, had been
educated as a lawyer, and became Sheriff Substitute of his native
district; but receiving the appointment of Chamberlain to the Duke of
Argyll, he settled in Mull, to take charge of the large ducal estates in
that island. He was an excellent scholar, and full of kindly humour. If
the grandfather at Morven valued Gaelic poetry, no less did the other take
delight in the ancient Border ballads of the Low Country and in the songs
of Burns, and read with keen interest the contemporary literature of an
age which culminated in Walter Scott. He drew a marked distinction between
"office hours" and the time for amusement. Strict and punctual in his own
habits, he attended carefully to the work of the tutor, and the studies of
his family; but, when lessons were over, he entered with a young heart
into their enjoyments. In summer the house was continually filled with
guests—travellers on their way to Staffa, with letters of introduction
from the South, and remaining sometimes for days beneath the hospitable
roof. Many of these were persons whose names are famous, such as Sheridan,
Peel, and Sir Walter Scott. Such society added greatly to the brightness
of the household, and shed a beneficial influence over the after-life of
the children.
Agnes Maxwell, Norman's
mother, was brought up with her uncle and aunt MacNeil at Drumdrissaig, on
the western coast of Knapdale, until she was twelve years of age. She
there passed her early youth, surrounded by old but wise and sympathetic
people; and, being left much to the companionship of nature, wandering by
herself along the glorious shore which looks across to islands washed by
the Atlantic surf, her mind, naturally receptive of poetic impressions,
awoke to the sense of the beautiful in outward things. She not only grew
up a deeply affectionate girl, but she also learned to feel and think for
herself. Her own words give a vivid picture of the healthy training of her
childhood:—
"My Aunt Mary was a woman
of strong sense and judgment, very accomplished and cheerful, and while
most exacting as to obedience and good conduct, was exceedingly loving to
me while I was with her. She gave me all my instruction, religious and
secular; and used in the evenings to take her guitar and hum over to me
old Scotch songs and ballads, till I not only picked up a great number,
but acquired a taste for them which I have never lost. From the windows
there was a charming view of the hills of Jura and of the sea, and I still
recall the delight with which I used to watch the splendid sunsets over
the distant point of Islay. I never knew what it was to miss a companion;
for it is extraordinary what a variety of amusements and manifold
resources children find out for themselves. I fear that some of the fine
young ladies of the Present day. attended by their nursery-maids, would
have thought me a demi-savage, had they seen me helping the dairy-maid to
bring in the cows, or standing in a burn fishing for eels under the
stones, climbing rocks, or running a madcap race against the wind. Our
next neighbour was a Captain Maclachan, who had a flock of goats, and of
all delightful things the best was to be allowed to go with Jeanie, the
goat-lassie, to call them from the hills, and see them milked."
Her picture of the habits
of the people at that time is curious and interesting:—
"There was none of the
ceremony and formality among neighbours that exist now; visitors came
without any previous notice, nor did their arrival make much alteration in
the arrangements of the house. Neither Christmas nor New-Year's Day was
allowed to pass without due observance. Invitations were issued to all the
neighbouring families; old John Shaw the 'Fiddler' was summoned from
Castle Sweyn to assist at the festivities; and I remember the amusement I
had at seeing my old uncle, who did not in the least care for dancing,
toiling with all his might at reels and country dances, until the ball was
ended by the 'Country Bumpkin.' On Twelfth-Day a great 'shinty' match was
held on one of the fields, when perhaps two hundred hearty young and
middle-aged men assembled to the music of the bagpipes, and played the
match of the year with a fury which only the presence of the 'laird'
prevented sometimes from passing into more serious combat. The 'shinty'
was always followed by a servants' ball, when it was not uncommon for the
country lasses to dress in coloured petticoats, green being the favourite
hue, and in a nice white calico 'bed-gown,' confined at the waist. Their
hair, falling over their shoulders, was held back by a long comb, which
was usually the gift of a young man to his sweetheart. I never understood
that there was intoxication at these festivities, for, indeed, the people
of the district were very regular in their habits, so that I cannot
recollect more than two persons noted for being addicted to excess. There
was only one woman in the neighbourhood who took tea, and the fact being
considered a piece of disgraceful extravagance, was whispered about with
much more sense of shame than would now be caused by the drinking of
whiskey. The parish clergyman was a frail old man, who preached very
seldom, and, when doing so, wore a white cotton night-cap. I remember his
once putting his hand on my head and blessing me, as he came down from the
pulpit. There was not a seat in the whole church except the family pews of
the heritors and minister. Some of the people supported themselves on the
communion table, which ran from end to end of the building, while others
brought in a stone or a turf, on which they ensconced themselves. And yet,
in spite of this extraordinary absence of religious instruction and of
pastoral superintendence, the people were moral and sober.
"I well recollect my aunt
weeping bitterly as she read aloud to us the account of the execution of
Louis XVI., while I sat on a stool at her feet and had it explained to me.
Then came the raising of the volunteers, the playing of pipes in the
remotest glen, and the drilling of recruits in the perpetual 'goose-step.'
My uncle was made a captain, and, to my intense amusement, I managed
regularly to hide myself in the barn to watch the old gentleman being put
through his exercise by the sergeant. A fit of uncontrollable laughter at
last betrayed my lurking-place."
When she returned to Aros,
after the usual "finishing" of an Edinburgh school her home became doubly
sweet to her by the merriment of a household of brothers and sisters, the
tenderness of a mother who loved every living thing, and, above all, by
the companionship of her father who delighted in her sweet rendering of
his favourite Scotch music, and shared with her all his own stores of old
romance All this tended to form that character which, ripening into purest
Christian life, has been as a living gospel to her children and her
children's children.
I have dwelt thus at length
on the early days of these parents, not merely from the natural desire to
speak of those we love, but because almost every page of this memoir, down
to its latest, will bear witness to how much Norman owed to that father
and mother. |
