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NORMAN was born at
Campbeltown on June 3, 1812. His father had been ordained four years
previously to the pastoral charge of that large parish, and had been
married to Agnes Maxwell in 1811.
Campbeltown lies at the
head of a loch which runs for two miles into the long promontory of
Kintyre, and not far from its southern termination. The loch forms a
splendid harbour. The high island of Davar, thrown out like a sentinel
from the hills, and connected with the shore on one side by a natural mole
of gravel, protects it from every wind; while, from its position near the
stormy Mull, whose precipices breast the full swing of the Atlantic, it
affords a secure haven to ships that have rounded that dreaded headland.
The external aspect of the town is very much like that of any other Scotch
seaport —a central cluster of streets, with one or two plain churches
lifting their square shoulders above the other houses; a quay; a lean
steeple; the chimneys of some distilleries; thinner rows of whitewashed
houses stretching round the "Lochend," and breaking up into detached
villas buried in woods and shrubberies. The bay of Campbeltown is,
however, both picturesque and lively. Cultured fields clothe the slopes of
hills, whose tops are purple with heather, and beyond which ranges of
higher mountains lift their rough heads. There are fine glimpses, too, of
coast scenery, especially to the south, where the headlands of Kilkerran
fall steeply into the sea. But the bay forms the true scene of interest,
as it is the rendezvous of hundreds of fishing smacks and wherries. There
is continual movement on its waters—the flapping and filling of the brown
sails, the shouts of the men, and the "whirr" of the chain-cable as an
anchor is dropped, keep the port constantly astir. Larger vessels are also
perpetually coming and going—storm-stayed merchant ships, smaller craft
engaged in coast traffic, graceful yachts, and Revenue cruisers. Four or
five miles off, on the Western side of the low isthmus which crosses
Kintyre from the head of Campbeltown loch, lies another bay, in marked
contrast to this sheltered harbour. There the long crescent of
Machrihanish, girdled by sands wind-tossed into fantastic hillocks,
receives the full weight of the Atlantic. Woe to the luckless vessel
caught within those relentless jaws! Even in calm there is a weird
suggestiveness in the ceaseless moaning of that surf, like the breathing
of a wild beast, and in that line of tawny Yellow rimmed by creaming foam,
and broken with the black ribs of some old wreck sticking up here and
there from the shallows. But during storm, earth, sea, and sky are mingled
in a driving cloud of salt, spin-drift, and sand, and the prolonged roar
of the surge is carried far inland. When the noise of "the bay" is heard
by the comfortable burgesses, booming over their town like a distant
cannonade, they are reminded how wild the night is far out on the ocean.
To be "roaring like the bay" is their strongest description of a bawling
child or a shouting scold.
As the Highlands gave
Norman his strong Celtic passion, so Campbeltown inspired him with
sympathy for the sea and sailors, besides creating a world of associations
which never left him. It was a curious little town, and had a wonderful
variety of character in its society and customs. No fewer than seven large
Revenue cruisers had their headquarters at Campbeltown, and were commanded
by naval officers who, in the good old days, received a pay which would
startle modern economists. These cutters were powerful vessels, generally
manned by a double crew, and each having a smaller craft acting as tender.
Nor were they without occupation, for smuggling was then a trade made not
a little profitable by the high duties imposed on salt, spirits, and tea.
[Many stories are told of
these smuggling days. Once an old woman, whose "habit and repute" were
notorious, was being tried by the Sheriff. When the charge had been fairly
proved, and it fell to the good lawyer to pronounce sentence, an unusual
admixture of mercy with fidgetiness seemed to possess him, for, evading
the manifest conclusion, he thus addressed the prisoner—"I daresay, my
poor woman, it's not very often you have fallen into this fault."—"Deed
no, shirra," she readily replied, "I haena made a drap since yon wee keg I
sent yoursel."]
The officers and men of the
cutters made Campbeltown their home, and villas, generally built opposite
the buoy which marked the anchorage of their respective cruisers, were
occupied by the families of the different commanders. The element thus
introduced into the society of the town had many important effects. It not
only gave cheerfulness to its tone, but added a certain savour of the sea
to its interests. The merits of each cutter and officer were matters with
which every man and woman—but more especially every schoolboy—was
familiar, and how old Jack Fullarton had "carried on" till all seemed
going by the board, on a coast bristling with sunken rocks; or how Captain
Beatson had been caught off the Mull in the great January gale, and with
what skill he had weathered the wild headland—were questions which every
inhabitant, old and young, had repeatedly discussed.
Campbeltown was the
headquarters of other sorts and conditions both of men and women. There
were retired half-pay officers of both the services; officers of his
Majesty's Excise appointed to watch the distilleries, among whom were such
magnates as the collector and supervisor; there was the old sheriff with
his queue and top-boots; the duke's chamberlain, and the usual proportion
of doctors, writers, and bankers. There were, moreover, those without whom
all the teas, and suppers, and society of the town would have been
flavourless— the elderly maiden ladies, who found that their "annuities"
could not be spent in a. cheerier or more congenial spot than this kindly
seaport. These ladies were aunts or cousins to half the lairds in Argyllshire, and were often great characters. A society like this, thrown
together in a town utterly unconnected with the rest of the world, except
by a mail-gig, which had to travel some sixty miles before reaching any
settlement larger than a "clachan," and by a sailing packet, whose weekly
departure was announced by the bellman in the following manner, "All ye
who may desire a passage, know that the Caledonia cutter will sail------;"
was sure to be self-supporting in all the necessaries of life, among which
the "half-pays" and maiden ladies included amusements. So-called
tea-parties, followed by comfortable suppers, were the common forms of
entertainment; and these reunions being enlivened by backgammon and whist
for the older folks, and a dance for the younger, were not without their
innocent excitements. Sometimes there was also such a supreme event as a
county or militia ball; or still better, when some sloop-of-war ran in to
refit, the resources of the hospitable town were cheerfully expended in
giving a grand picnic to the officers, followed by the unfailing dance and
supper in the evening.
The ecclesiastical
relationships of the place were not less primitive and genial than the
social. When Norman's father went there, he soon attracted a very large
and devoted congregation. He was decidedly "evangelical," but free from
all narrowness, and had a word of cheerful kindliness for all. All sects
and parties loved him, and his fellow townsmen were the more disposed to
listen to his earnest appeals in public and private, when they knew how
manly and simple he was in daily life. Not only did he in this way secure
the attachment of his own flock, but, when on one occasion he was asked to
accept another and a better living, the dissenting congregation of the
place heartily joined with his own in making up his very small stipend to
a sum equal to what had been offered to him. The Roman Catholic priest was
among his friends. Few weeks ever passed without old Mr. Cattanach coming
to take tea at the Manse, and in all his little difficulties he looked to
the young parish minister for advice. These Highland priests were very
different men from those now furnished by Maynooth. They were usually
educated in France, and imbibing Gallican rather than Ultramontane ideas,
felt themselves to be Britons, not aliens, and identified themselves with
the interests of the people around them. Nor was the friendly relationship
which existed in Campbeltown an exceptional instance of good-feeling: for
whenever the priest of the district went to that part of the parish in
Morven which was near the Manse, he made it his home, and I am not aware
that any evil ever accrued to religion in consequence.
The house where Norman
Macleod was born was in the Kirk Street, but the family afterwards lived
in the old Manse, and finally in South-park. He seems from childhood to
have had many of the characteristics which distinguished him through
life—being affectionate, bright, humourous, and talkative. His mother, and
that aunt who was the friend of his earliest as well as of his latest
years, remember many incidents illustrative of his extreme lovingness and
ceaseless merriment. Another, of his own age, relates, as one of her
earliest memories, how she used to sit among the group of children round
the nursery fire, listening to the stories and talk of this one child
"whose tongue never lay." When a boy, he was sent to the Burgh school,
where all the families of the place, high and low, met and mingled; and
where, if he did not receive that thorough classical grounding—the want of
which he used always to lament, justly blaming the harsh and inefficient
master who had failed to impart it—he gained an insight into character
which served not only to give him sympathy with all ranks of life, but
afforded a fund of amusing memories which never lost their freshness.
Several of his boyish companions remained his familiar friends in
after-life, and not a few of them are portrayed in his "Old Lieutenant."
Among the numerous souvenirs he used to keep, and which were found after
his death in his "sanctum" in Glasgow, were little books and other trifles
he had got when a boy from these early associates. Ships and sailors were
the great objects of his interest, and, contrary to the wishes of his
anxious mother, many a happy hour was spent on board the vessels which lay
at the pier—climbing the shrouds, reaching the cross-trees without passing
through the lubbers hole, or in making himself acquainted with every stay,
halyard, and spar from truck to keelson. His boy companions were hardy
fellows, fond of adventure, and so thoroughly left to form their own
acquaintances that there was not a character in the place—fool or fiddler,
soldier or sailor—whose peculiarities or stories they had not learned.
Norman, even as a boy, seems thoroughly to have appreciated this
many-sided life. The maiden ladies and the "half-pays," the picnics and
supper parties, the rough sports of the schoolyard, or the glorious
Saturday expeditions by the shore and headlands, were keenly enjoyed by
him. He quickly caught up the spirit of all outward things in nature or
character, and his power of mimicry and sense of the ludicrous were even
then as marked as his affectionateness. Once, when he was unwell and about
six years old, it became necessary to apply leeches. These he named after
various characters in the town—the sheriff, the provost, &c.; and while
they were on his chest he kept up an unceasing dialogue with them,
scolding one or praising the other, as each did its curative work well or
ill, and all in the exact voice and manner of the various persons they
were meant to represent. When Mackay, the actor, afterwards so famous for
his personification of Bailie Nicol Jarvie, returned Jo Campbeltown—where
he had once been a drummer-boy—to astonish its inhabitants by the
performances of a clever little company in an improvised theatre, it was
like the opening up of a new world to Norman. An attic was fitted up, and
an audience of aunts and cousins invited to witness how well he and his
companions could "do Mac-kay's company." He had from the first a strong
tendency to throw a romantic colouring into common life, and such a desire
to have sway over others that he was never so much himself as when he had
some one to influence, and with whom he might share the ceaseless flow of
his own ideas and imaginations. Schoolboy expeditions became under him
fanciful and heroic enterprises, in which some ideal part was assigned by
him to each of his companions. A sail to some creek a mile away became a
voyage of discovery or a chase after pirates. A ramble over the hills took
the shape of an expedition against the French.
The great event of his
boyhood was his being sent to Morven. He had been frequently there as a
young child, but his father, anxious that his son should know Gaelic, and,
if possible, be a Highland minister, determined to board him with old Mr.
Cameron, the parish schoolmaster in Morven, and so, when about twelve
years of age, he was sent first to the Manse, and then to the
schoolmaster's house. His grandfather had died a few months before, but he
had many memories of the old man. derived from previous visits, and the
impressions of the venerable minister, then in extreme age, were never
lost. He was, for example, in church on that Communion Sunday when his
grandfather, blind with age, was led by the hand up to the communion table
by his servant "Rory," to address his people for the last time. This
grandfather had been minister there for fifty years, and the faithful
servant who now took his hand had been with him since he had entered the
Manse. It was then that touching episode occurred described in the
"Highland Parish," when the old man, having in his blindness turned
himself the wrong way, "Rory," perceiving the mistake, went back and
gently placed him with his face to the congregation. This picture of the
aged pastor, with snowy hair falling on his shoulders, bidding solemn
farewell to a flock that, with the loyalty of the Highland race, regarded
him as a father, was a scene which deeply touched the imagination of the
child in the Manse seat. One, who was herself present, remembers another
occasion when his grandfather, taking him on his knee, presented him with
a half-crown—an enormous sum in the eyes of the child—and then gave him
his blessing. Norman, dragging himself off, rushed away to the
window-curtain, in which he tightly rolled himself; when disentangled, his
cheeks were suffused with tears. The goodness of the old man had proved
too much for his generous nature.
With these and many other
loving recollections he now returned, as a boy of twelve, to be made a
"true Highlander" of, as his father called it. It was indeed as the
opening of a new life when, leaving the little county town, and the
grammar-school, and the lowland playmates in Campbeltown, he landed on the
rocky shore below the Manse of Morven. The very air was different. The
puffs of peat-reek from the cottages were to him redolent of Highland
warmth and romantic childish associations. There was not a boatman from
old "Eery" down to the betarred fisher-boy, not a shepherd, or herd, or
cottar, not a dairymaid or henwife, but gave him a welcome, and tried to
make his life happier. The Manse, full of kind aunts and uncles, seemed to
him a paradise which the demon of selfishness had never entered. And then
there was the wakening sense of the grand in scenery, nourished almost
unconsciously by the presence of those silent mountains, with their
endless ridges of brown heather; or by the dark glen roaring with
cataracts that fell into fairy pools, fringed with plumage of ferns, and
screened by netted roof of hazel and oak; or by many an hour spent upon
the shoreland, with its infinite variety of breaking surge and rocky bays,
rich in seaweeds and darting fish. But, above all, there was the elastic
joy of an open-air life, with the excitement of fishing and boating, and
such stirring events as sheep-shearing or a "harvest-home," with the fun
of a hearty house, whose laughter was kept ever alive by such wits as
Callum, the fool, or bare-footed Lachlan.
His life in the dwelling of
Samuel Cameron, the worthy schoolmaster and catechist of the parish, was
not less full of romance. The house was not a large one—a thatched cottage
with a but and a ben, and a little room between, formed the accommodation;
but every evening, except when the boys were fishing codling from the
rocks, or playing "shinty" in the autumn twilight, there gathered round
the hearth, heaped high with glowing peat, a happy group, who with Gaelic
songs and stories, and tunes played on the sweet "trump" or Jew's harp,
made the little kitchen bright as a drawing room; for there was a culture
in the very peasantry of the Highlands, not to say in the house of such a
schoolmaster as good Mr. Cameron, such as few countries could boast of.
There was an innate high breeding, and a store of tradition and poetry, of
song and anecdote, which gave a peculiar flavour to their common life; so
that the long evenings in this snug cottage, when the spinning-wheel was
humming, the women teazing and carding wool, the boys dressing flies or
shaping boats, were also enlivened by wondrous stories of old times, or by
"lilts" full of a weird and plaintive beauty, like the wild note of a
sea-bird, or by a "Port-a-Beal," or a "Walking Song," to the tune of which
all joined bands as they sent the merry chorus round. Norman had here an
insight into the best side of the Highland character, and into many
Highland customs now long passed away. Every week he used to go to the
Manse from Friday till Monday, and then came such grand expeditions as a
walk to the summit of Ben Shian, with its unrivalled view of mountain and
loch; or, still better, when whole nights were spent fishing at the rocky
islands in the Sound.
"Oh, the excitement of
getting among a great play of fish, which made the water foam for
half-a-mile round, and attracted flocks of screaming birds, which seemed
mad with gluttony, and while six or seven rods had all their lines tight,
and their ends bent to cracking with the sport. And then the fun and
frolic when we landed for the night on the lee of the island, and the
"sky-larking," as sailors call it, began among the rocks, pelting one
another with clods or wreck, till, wearied out, we all lay down to sleep
in some sheltered nook, and all was silent but the beating waves, the
eerie cry of sea-birds, and the splash of some sea-monster in pursuit of
its prey. What glorious reminiscences have I, too, of those scenes, and
especially of early morn as watched from these green islands ! It seems to
me as if I had never beheld a true sunrise since ; yet how many have I
witnessed! I left the sleeping crews, and ascended the top of the rock
immediately before day-break, and what a sight it was to behold the golden
crowns which the sun placed on the brows of the mountain monarchs who
first did him homage, what heavenly dawnings of light on peak and "scaur"
contrasted with the darkness of the lower valleys ! What gems of glory in
the eastern sky, changing the cold grey clouds of early morning into
bars-of gold and radiant gems of beauty ! and what a flood of light
suddenly burst upon the dancing waves as the sun rose above the horizon,
and revealed the silent sails of passing ships! and what delight to hear
and seethe first break of the fish upon the waters! With what pleasure I
descended and gave the cheer which made all the sleepers awake and
scramble to the boats, and, in a few minutes, resume the work of hauling
in our dozens. Then home with a will for breakfast, each striving to be
first on the sandy shore." ["Highland Parish."]
This was good education for
the affections, sympathies, and imagination. Other influences of a very
different nature might afterwards be experienced, but the foundation of
his character was laid in the boyhood spent in Campbeltown, Mull, and
Morven. Its associations never left him, and the memory of those hours,
whose sunshine of love had brightened his early life, made him in no small
measure the loving, genial man he always was. What he had found so full of
good for himself, he afterwards tried to bestow on others; and not only in
his dealing with his own children, but in the tone of his teaching and in
the ministry of his public life, can easily be traced the power of his
first sympathies:—
"Oh, sunshine of youth, let
it shine on! Let love flow out fresh and full, unchecked by any rule but
what love creates, and pour itself down without stint into the young
heart. Make the days of boyhood happy; for other days of labour and sorrow
must come, when the blessing of those dear eyes and clasping hands and
sweet caressings, will, next to the love of God from whom they flow, save
the man from losing faith in the human heart, help to deliver him from the
curse of selfishness, and be an Eden in the memory, when he is driven
forth into the wilderness of life." ["Highland Parish."] |
