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1789-1800.
The particular
incidents of our return from this juvenile expedition I do not now
recollect, but between this event and the time we went to the school
of Dornoch there are several characters and incidents which pass in
review before me like objects in a mist. My father's serving men and
women, first of all, present themselves. He employed as his
principal farm-servant, during my boyish days, an elderly man called
James MacThomais. He lived at the west end of the globe in a cottage
built by himself. He kept a cow, for which a stall was fitted rip
close by his fireside; and as he had wrested from the moor on the
glebe-land a few patches of ground on which he raised black oats,
here, and potatoes, he had also a barn attached to his cottage, the
walls of which were built, from foundation almost to the top, with
huge boulders of granite. James himself was a wrathful little body.
His greed and selfishness and sharp temper have left a disagreeable
impression upon my mind. He was married, and had a family of two
sons and a daughter. His wife was a weak, silly woman, who, in the
profoundest ignorance of the power, made strenuous exertions in her
own way to keep up the form of godliness. These exertions consisted
in a punctual attendance on the ordinances of religion, during which
she watched the countenances and motions of those men who were
reputed for their piety. If the preacher pleased or displeased them,
Marsal, as she was called, shaped her course accordingly. If he
displeased them, she knit her brows, shook her head, and appeared to
be restless as a bird ready for flight. If, however, "the men" (na
daoine) listened attentively, Marsal listened too; if they exhibited
any outward emotion, or token of admiration, or approval of his
doctrine, Marsal was instantly thrown into a devout ecstasy; she
twisted her countenance into an absolute contortion, she groaned
aloud, she threw up her eyes like a duck in a storm, and kept
swinging back and fore like the pendulum of a clock. James eldest
son Thomas was considerably older than myself. He succeeded his
father, and married, many years afterwards, a Janet Gordon, one of
our servants, by whom he had a family. When minister of Achness, I
baptised a child for him at his dying-bed side. He lived then at
Kinbrace, and for some years before his death had given every
evidence of having experienced a saving change. James' second son
John was my more intimate acquaintance. He was about my own age, and
all my recollections of my boyish amusements and pursuits are
associated with him. My brother and I were, as boys, of a mechanical
turn. We were always building houses and mills, in imitation of
those at Kildonan. We built a clay house at the back of the manse,
and below the bank of the mill-lade (or "Eileach"), we had mills as
closely resembling their larger and far more useful prototype as our
limited capacities could approach. We were also great fishers, or
rather, I might say, trout butchers. We proceeded in two ways, first
by a contrivance called a "weel," or "athabh." wide at the mouth,
and tapering to a point, made of willow twigs. This sort of basket
was placed in the middle of the stream, and on each side of it, a
kind of warren was constructed across the burn to prevent the fish
from getting down the stream. We roused the trout from their hiding,
and drove them before us, hemming them in on every side, until we
forced them into the mouth of the weel, which was then raised,
carried out to the bank, and emptied of its contents. When the burn
was in good order, we would have nine or ten at each haul. Another
and still more barbarous method of killing trout was with a stick.
We traversed the shallow pools, causing the fish to fly from us in
all directions, and to rush under stones. We then, when an
opportunity offered, struck our sticks under the stones where the
trout had taken shelter with all our force; the wretched victims of
our pursuit often came up in fragments! We fished with bait and with
the fly, but that was at a later period. In all these youthful
amusements, John MacTh6mais was our constant companion, counsellor,
and associate. He was a pleasing and talkative companion, and was
furnished with an abundant store of old traditions, which he had
rather a knack of telling, and which made many a day, like those of
Thalaba, "merrily to go by." One of his many stories has puzzled me
ever since by its similarity to the account of the fearful meeting
between Ulysses and the one-eyed giant Polyphemus, described in the
ninth book of the Odyssey. Can it be that the tradition has been
handed down from the pagap ages of our Celtic ancestors? My father's
other domestics, as they in succession, like Angus's vision of his
royal progeny, pass before my memory's eye, were two young men of
the name of Gunn from Costally, Robert and Adam. They were the
grandsons of "John Happay," the frequent subject of Robb Donn's
withering and merciless satire. Their mother's name was Annabel,
who, the daughter of Ian Thapaidh, is mentioned by the bard in the
celebrated song of "Tha mi 'n mu chadal, 's na ddisgibh mi." I do
not know what became of Adam afterwards, but Robert, after leaving
my father's service, enlisted as a soldier, and was killed, many
years subsequent to this period, during the Spanish campaigns under
Wellington. The
individuals who next present themselves to my recollection are my
father's elders. The first, Rory Bain, I have already named as
enjoying the festivities of my father's wedding: My father and he,
as minister and elder, were much attached to each other. As his
house at Killearnan was at a considerable distance from church, at
which he was every Sabbath a most punctual attendant, my father very
frequently asked him to dinner. On one occasion Rory was seated at
table very much at his ease, and on a chair which, although it had
seen much service, looked as if it could stand a little more. Rory
had at the time finished his meal, and was earnestly engaged in some
interesting conversation with my father, when, all at once, he began
suddenly and rapidly to sink to the floor, until at last he rolled
flat on his back. We were all alarmed, thinking that he had got ill.
Rory, however, got up again all right, the cause of his fall being
nothing else than the dissolution of the veteran chair, which was
discovered lying in fragments on the floor. As an elder, he was a
most rigid disciplinarian. A wretched woman, who had lapsed socially
for the third time, had been appointed to appear before the pulpit
in sackcloth. On that occasion Rory, on a cold frosty day, dipped
the vestment in the burn, threw it over her head dripping wet, and
caused her to wear it in this condition for three mortal hours! Rory
considered himself the conservator of the congregation in respect of
devotional decencies. An old, half-crazy man, named Donald
Sutherland, or Donald Dalbhait, from the place of his residence,
when he attended church usually sat in the poor's seat, on the north
side of the area. Donald, sitting there one day, fell asleep, and
the impropriety immediately came under Rory's notice. It was not a
thing which, in Rory's estimation, was for an instant to be
tolerated, and, accordingly, as only the breadth of the " lateran "
area was between him and the delinquent, Rory pulled out his
handkerchief, rose up from his seat, and stretching out his hand.
smote Donald Dalbhait such a blow with the handkerchief across his
bald pate as served suddenly to awaken him. Donald eyed his monitor
with an angry look, and kept awake. Rory sat down in his seat, and
as the day was hot, he himself, in his turn, fell fast asleep. This
"weakness of the flesh" was eagerly noticed by old Donald, so
pulling from his pocket a ragged napkin, he tied two or three knots
upon it, rose rip, and advancing stealthily and cautiously towards
the "sleeper," returned the blow with such goodwill that Rory
started to his feet. On turning round, he at once discovered his old
friend Donald looking at him with all the proud consciousness of
having discharged a debt. The congregation who witnessed this scene
were sorely tempted to laugh aloud, and my father, under whose eye
the whole was enacted, was compelled to pass his hand over the whole
of his face, in order to prevent him participating in the mirth of
his hearers. The other elders were Donald Mackay, John Gordon, Ales.
Bannerman or Macdonald, Hugh Fraser, James Buidh or Sutherland, and
George Mackay. Donald Mackay was an old man and the parish
catechist, father of George Mackay who lived at Liriboll, and who,
after his father's death succeeded him in his office. He was the
husband of Marion Poison, my brother's nurse, was one of my father's
tenants, and lived detached from the rest on an elevated spot to the
east of the township of Kildonan. Donald Mackay was twice married.
His son George was by the first wife; his succession to his father's
office I distinctly remember. He was a man of deep and fervent
piety, as well as of great natural ability; and, as a public
speaker, was an Apollos, eloquent and mighty in the Scriptures. At
his first outset in his catechetical office he was harsh in manner,
and a terror to the timid and ignorant; but as he advanced in years,
and in the Christian life he mellowed exceedingly, and became a most
attractive Christian character. His father, by Marion Poison his
second wife, had three sons and a daughter, Peter, Angus, Isobel,
and John. Peter was my brother's foster-brother. Alexander Bannerman
lived at Ulbster in the Strath. He was a truly pious man, but very
hot-tempered. When he spoke at fellowship meetings he showed much
devotional feeling and soul-exercise in the truth, but his spirit
was vexed by sin in any one, as was shown by the warmth of temper
with which he launched forth his reproofs against it. His eldest son
and daughter were also pious, but subject to fits of insanity. He
survived my father and lived to be a very old man. James Buidh or
Sutherland, another elder, lived also at Ulbster. He was a native of
the parish of Loth, and one of the loudest protestors against Mr.
MacCulloch's Arminianism. He long was a follower of John Grant, and
was an absentee from public worship in church, but he afterwards
became one of my father's most attached supporters. When Lord
Selkirk came to Kildonan in 1813, for emigrants to cultivate his
North American settlements, James Buidh became one of them, and went
to Canada, where, after experiencing much hardship, he died. My
earliest remembrance of Hugh Fraser was as an old man, just on the
very limits of human life. He lived at Halgary, within a mile of the
manse, and the almost obliterated ruins of the cottage where he
lived and died i could yet recognise. He was a tall, gaunt figure,
and I distinctly remember his personal appearance at breakfast one
morning when he had come rather late, but was, notwithstanding,
plentifully served with broiled salmon and a basin of strong tea,
which he seemed much to relish. I was particularly struck with his
conduct in church. With the other elders he sat in the lateran, and,
during the time of sermon, Hugh kept up an almost unceasing
conversation in low whispers with his next neighbour. It was a
practice among elders in these primitive times. The conversation was
directly the reverse of anything in the slightest degree bordering
upon levity or profanation. Their low, whispering conversation was
nothing else than the communication of the impression made upon
their own minds by the truths they were hearing. It must be
admitted, however, that they very probably had a particular motive
in making themselves so conspicuous. lie principles upon which
elders in a Highland parish in those days invariably were elected
was, that they should be, not only the most advanced in years, but
the most eminent Christians in the parish. To sustain the character
of the office, and to act on the principle of their appointment to
it by the tacit suffrages of the people, must be allowed, reasonably
enough, to account for the rather ostentatious display which they
made before their fellow-parishioners of their attention to the
sermon. Hugh
Fraser was long confined to bed before his death. My brother and I
attended his funeral, as our father was from home. It was in the
dead of winter, a clear, hoar-frosty, short winter day. The people
assembled on the sloping green before his cottage, and were served
with oaten cakes and whisky. When the procession moved off with the
body, his wife and a female friend preceded us to the grave,
"weeping aloud as they went." The grave itself exhibited the hard
work of a winter day in that hyperborean climate. The sod, hardened
by a mid-winter frost, had been pierced through with a mattock
wielded with all the force of the stout arms of John MacPherson, the
kirk-officer, and his assistant, Donald Gunn. The earth, thrown out
of the grave, bad become almost a solid mass when the burial arrived
at its brink. The sound of the frozen earth falling in congealed
fragments upon Hugh Fraser's coffin still rings in my ears—it was
the first funeral I ever attended.
With the recollection of the elders of
Kildonan I can connect the remembrance of incidents in which they
along with my father were immediately concerned. The first of these
are the sacramental occasions. The bustle of preparation,
particularly in reference to "the things that are necessary for the
body," has very specially left its impression upon my memory. In the
north of Scotland a distinction prevailed in the annual
administration of that ordinance which in the south was utterly
unknown. That distinction was made between the public and the
private or parochial administration of the Lord's Supper in any
parish. The ordinance was considered as administered publicly when
communicants from other parishes joined with those of the parish in
its observance, and when, on that account, there were two distinct
services, one in Gaelic and the other in English, and two different
congregations, the one without, the other within doors. My father
administered the sacrament for the most part publicly, and it was
customary on those occasions for the minister on Sabbath to keep
open table, as the services were much prolonged on that day, and a
number of the parishioners lived at a distance from the church. To
provide for such emergencies, the whole of the preceding week was
occupied in receiving presents of mutton, butter, and cheese. On
these occasions I have seen the whole range of a large cellar so
closely laid with mutton carcases, that the floor was literally
paved with them, and the gifts, like the offerings of ancient
Israel, far exceeded the purpose for which they were intended. The
sacramental occasions at Kildonan, which still fling their shadows
upon my memory, are much associated with individuals who took part
in them. First, I recall the ministers who preached on the
Thursdays, the men who "spoke to the question" on the Fridays from
Tongue, Parr, Loth, Clyne, Rogart, Latheron, and Reay; also the
ministers who preached on the Saturdays, Sundays, and Mondays. Then
I recollect the impression which the solemnities of the sacrament
Sabbath produced more upon my imagination I fear than upon my
understanding and conscience. On one occasion I distinctly remember
that the congregation was assembled before the church, close by the
banks of the river, and the communion table, extending to about 30
feet in length, was covered with a white cloth and surrounded by a
dense multitude of between three and four thousand persons. On
another and similar occasion, I recollect that we children had been
seated with our step-mother near "the tent," or covered wooden
pulpit used for the out-door services. When the communicants, at the
close of the preliminary services of the day, rose to take their
places at the Lord's table, we all followed her, and placed
ourselves close by her side. The elders in attendance, with a smile
of compassion, removed us, and conducted us back to our seats. It
was on one of such occasions that I first saw Mr. MacCulloch of Loth,
whom I have already described. He was assisting my father, and in
his ministrations, both in English and Gaelic, he was, as usual, hot
on the Arminian controversy, alien as the subject was to the
occasion. The consequences were that, when he left the manse for
home on Tuesday, he was way laid on his journey homewards by the
notables of the parish, beaded by John Grant, who called him to a
reckoning for his heterodoxy. Mr. MacCulloch was as bold as a lion,
but his antagonists were more than a match for him; they had better
Gaelic and a more accurate knowledge of their bibles than he had,
and he was at length but too happy to make his escape from them as
fast as his horse could carry him. One Monday evening he entered
into a controversy with Mr. Hugh Mackenzie, minister of Tongue. That
gentleman was at the time a young man but recently returned from the
army, where he had acted for some years as chaplain to a Highland
regiment. He had preached on the Monday, whether in Gaelic or
English I now forget; but Mr. MacCulloch was his hearer, and Mr.
Mackenzie's views of doctrine, based as they were on the top stone
of Calvinistic orthodoxy, were accordingly directly opposed to Mr.
MacCulloch's Arminianism. Scarcely therefore had they both finished
their dinner, than Mr. MacCulloch broke ground by impugning Dr.
Hugh's discourse, whilst the preacher, thus assailed, vigorously
returned the fire, both parties arguing without intermission for
three weary hours.
The last sacramental occasion at
Kildonan but one, of which I have any recollection, was connected
with a circumstance which, childish and thoughtless as I then was,
yet deeply affected me. It was a schism which broke out between my
father and his elders in regard to the administration of that
ordinance. My father wished to celebrate it privately, or rather
parochially, about the middle of spring. This his elders resisted.
They wished him to defer it till the middle of summer, and to have
it publicly as usual. To this, however, my father would not agree,
and matters ran so high that all the elders refused to assist him on
that occasion. My father asked Mr. Mackenzie of Tongue to assist
him, and his popularity, which was then very high, drew a far
greater crowd than could be accommodated within the walls of the
church. To the repeated and earnest demands for out-preaching my
father would not listen, and on the Sabbath, during the fencing of
the tables and the table services, I remember seeing about two
hundred persons assembled on the north side of Torr-an-riachaidh,
whilst Donald MacLeod, the schoolmaster, read a few chapters of the
Scriptures to them, accompanied by prayer and praise. The elders,
with the exception of Rory Bain, kept stoutly to their resolution to
take no part. Although good old Rory was just as much opposed as any
of them to the parochial sacrament, yet he attended every day and
officiated, from his sincere regard and attachment to his minister.
It was on a sacramental occasion that I first saw, and thenceforward
became most intimately acquainted with Mr. Evan MacPherson of
Ruthven in Badenoch. This gentleman, for justly might he be so
styled, was the second teacher which the "Society in Scotland for
Propagating Christian Knowledge in the Highlands and Islands" sent
to the parish of Kildonan. His first commission from the Society
directed him to teach at Badenloch, but in the course of time he
migrated from place to place till, from the upper part of the
parish, he ultimately settled at Caen, in the lower and eastern
extremity of it. Here he died, and his memory is still venerated by
all who knew him.
In bringing my reminiscences down to the
beginning of the present century, there are a few things which occur
to my memory, and which, although I know that they took place within
this period, yet I cannot connect with any particular year. One of
them is the marriage of John Ross the miller, Eppy Mackay's
cake-and-pudding wooer and my early acquaintance. So long as Eppy's
importance remained, which John could turn to advantage, he was all
tenderness, love, and attention. But when, by my father's marriage,
Eppy first lost her place, and then, as a matter of course, her
influence, John drew off. lie now became the thriving wooer of the
eldest daughter of Rory Bain. Rory gave his consent and a hearty
wedding, which I recollect, took place in the dead of winter. After
feasting for two days at Killearnan, the young couple were
accompanied to their own house by the greater part of their guests,
and the ice was so thick on the river that, on their way to Kildonan,
men, women, and children, horse and foot of the party passed safely
over the river on the ice below Dalhalmy. At the house-warming in
Kildonan we were all present, and I remember seeing John Ross, after
the manner of the ancients, borne over his threshold.
Another incident which made a deep
impression upon me, not eradicated by the sober reasoning of maturer
years, I must now relate. A family, named Murray, lived at the place
of Tuaraidh. The head of the family was Alexander Murray, one of
Captain Baigrie's sub-tenants, as indeed he had been of his
predecessor, Major Sutherland of Midgarty, who held 'luaraidh as a
highland pendicle to Midgarty. Murray's wife was a sister of Barbara
Corbet, my nurse, and an intimacy, in consequence of this
connection, held between us children and the family. My brother, my
sisters, and myself were often invited, and nearly as often went to
spend days and even weeks at Tuaraidh, and the scenery, as well as
names of hill and dale, in that wild and sequestered spot, are still
familiar to me. The Innis mor, the Innis beag, the Lou, as also
Tuaraidh-bheag and Tuaraidh-mhor—the site of Alister Murray's house,
of his barn on the brow of the hill, of his swaggering corn-rigs, of
his peat-moss on the banks of the Loist, which meandered through the
Lon, and the houses of his sub-tenants, are all at this moment vivid
in my memory. Two events arise as fresh to my remembrance as if they
had happened but yesterday. These are the marriages of Murray's two
daughters, Barbara and Janet. Barbara was married to Robert Mackay,
a native of Clyne. At their wedding my sisters, my brother and I
were amused and feasted for nearly a week, whilst our fellow-guests
numbered about fifty. Her sister Janet, a few years later, also
married a young man named Mackay, a younger brother of William
Mackay in Ascaig, who was one of my father's elders, and as
single-hearted and sincere a Christian as I ever knew. It was at
Janet's wedding that this impressive incident took place. The
marriage service was performed by my father in church at noon. As
was the practice, after the day's festivities, the guests of both
sexes retired to sleep in the barn. My brother and I were placed
beside each other at the lower end of the building; the season might
be about the end of autumn, as I remember that the nights were dark.
So long as the sound of the voices, after we had all lain down, rang
in my ears from all corners, I felt very drowsy; but when to the hum
of speech, a deep silence succeeded, broken only by the bard
breathing of the sleepers, I became wide awake. I felt an
undefinable dread creep upon me, and, looking towards the upper part
of the barn, the whole of which was enveloped in pitchy darkness, I
noticed a white figure gliding slowly down from the upper to the
lower part of the building, where it disappeared. It seemed to be a
human form covered with some white garment hanging about it in loose
folds, but although it passed within little more than a yard of me,
I could neither see its countenance nor even hear the tread of its
feet. On my way home the next day, I told the circumstance to those
who accompanied us, and they accounted for it by saying that a young
woman at Tuaraidhbheag had long been confined to bed with
consumption, and that she had been found dead in her bed that
morning. Be that as it may, I never could satisfactorily account for
the singular apparition. Had it been any of my bed-fellows rising in
their sleep, and walking in their night-clothes, which, of course,
were white, I could not possibly have perceived them without the aid
of light, and light there was none, either shining from without
through the chinks of the doors, or yet from within. Then how could
the figure pass me without my hearing the tread of its feet. What it
was I am as unable now, after the lapse of forty years, to account
for as I was then.
The last event of this period of my life
which I shall mention is the raising of the 93rd Highlanders, or
Sutherland Regiment, better known under the name of "An Reismeid
Cattach." This gallant body of men is favourably spoken of by the
late General Stewart of Garth. "Not only in all those qualities,"
says he, "which constitute good soldiers are they not excelled by
any regiment in the service, but in those also which make men in any
profession valuable members of society. The light infantry company,
for a period of twenty years, had not a single man of their number
punished. After the regiment was completed in 1800, it embarked in
September of that year for the island of Guernsay."
There is nothing more
fresh in my memory than the enlisting of soldiers for this regiment.
It was in May 1800, and Major-General William Wemyss of Wemyss,
along with Major Gordon Cluness of Cracaig, and other gentlemen from
the coast, came up to Kildonan. Their arrival was expected, and
General Wemyss, to ingratiate himself with the Highlanders, sent up
to the manse of Kildonan immense quantities of tobacco-twist and
strong, black rapes snuff, together with the very suitable
accompaniment of a large snuff-horn superbly mounted with silver,
and having attached to it by a massive silver chain a snuff-pen of
the same costly material. He had, however, mistaken the tastes of
the Sutherland Highlanders, and had consequently put himself to
unnecessary expense. Smoking was a luxury then utterly unknown and
quite unappreciated by the men of Kildonan. What became of the
General's supply I know not; but none of it was used, the old men
contenting themselves with the light-coloured snuff which their
fathers had used before them. I remember an assemblage on the green
to the west of the manse; it was popularly called " the Review." The
majority who assembled were tall handsome young fellows, who at the
verbal summons of the Countess' ground-officer, Donald Bruce,
presented themselves before General Wemyss, that he might have for
the asking the pick and choice of them. But while the young men
showed no reluctance to enlist, some manoeuvring became necessary to
induce their parents to part with them. So two things were
promised—first, that the fathers should have leases of their farms,
and next, that the sons, if they enlisted, should all be made
sergeants. The first promise was to a certain extent fulfilled; the
second, it is needless to say, could not possibly be fulfilled.
I find that I have omitted to mention in
its proper place a very serious illness which I had when about eight
years old. It began with a hard, dry cough, which continued for
nearly nine months, accompanied with profuse morning sweats and
hectic fever, loss of sleep and appetite, shortness of breath, and
an almost total prostration of strength. I was sent up to the garret
to sleep alone, whilst another lay in the opposite conch to watch
me. It was then that my excellent step-mother proved herself in
possession of the skill of a physician in her treatment of my
disease. She never allowed me to take anything cold—whether tea, or
gruel, or soup—all must be warm; and this under God was the means of
my recovery. The complaint, however, long and obstinately resisted
treatment, so that on one occasion, when I was very low, I overheard
my step-mother say to my sisters that she had given up all hope of
my recovery, and that next week a bearer must he sent to the
merchant at Brora to purchase linen for a shroud. The complaint,
however, yielded at last, and of my step-mother's skill and
tenderness I shall carry a grateful, sense to my grave. Alas, that I
cannot feel equally grateful to Him in whose hands she was but the
instrument.
Closely associated with all my recollections of olden times at
Kildonan, is an individual who largely contributed to our amusement.
She was a Mrs. Gordon who died at Golspie, a daughter of the Rev.
Murdo Macdonald of Durness. She was then a widow with an only
daughter called Peggy. Inheriting her father's taste for music, she
played beautifully on the violin, and was a periodical visitor, and
an almost constant residenter at the houses of the Sutherland
gentry. Many a time and oft have we tripped it to her
heart-and-heel-stirring reels and strathspeys in the low easter-room
at the manse of Kildonan. She was universally known under the name
of "Fiddlag." Her fiddle was her god. When on her death-bed nearly
her last words were to "spread a cloth over the fiddle." When told
that it was her soul that should then be her chief concern, and not
her fiddle, she replied, "O I leave all these good things, as I ever
did, to the worthy man, Mr. Keith."
My father, during an incumbency of
nearly forty years, was only once a member of the General Assembly.
I remember his return after an absence of nearly a month. He had
brought a box from Edinburgh of many good and desirable things for
his wife and children. What they were I forget, but on that occasion
he secured the regular transmission of a London paper called
"Baldwin's London Weekly Journal." From that paper we received
information of the progress of the French Revolution, and of the
determined opposition of this country to that reckless and fertile
source of human enormities. I remember listening to my father
reading aloud to us both the foreign and domestic intelligence of
this journal—the atrocities of Robespierre and the whole Jacobin
faction under the "Reign of Terror;" the subsequent fall and death
of the miscreant; rise of Bonaparte; the victories of Lords Duncan
and Nelson; and many other public and stirring incidents. The
victory obtained by Admiral Duncan in 1797 over the Dutch fleet, off
the mouth of the Texel, made the triumphant thunders of his cannon
be heard throughout every glen in Scotland. Being himself a
Scotchman of ancient descent, his countrymen were proud of him, as
for many ages previously their country had produced no naval hero of
whom they could boast. Lord Duncan's prowess made its way to my
mind, however, merely through the instrumentality of a piece of
printed cotton which had been purchased for dresses to my sisters.
In honour of the Dundee hero the cloth was called "Camperdown," and
I recollect when the parcel arrived, and the piece of print was
spread on the table, I took it into my head to suppose that it came
direct from the great Admiral, as a token of his regard to his
friends at Kildonan. Lord Nelson's victory over the French fleet,
under the brave but unfortunate Bruyes, in 1798, off the coast of
Egypt, was the next note of war which reached us. Napoleon was then
rapidly rising to that height of power from which in 1815 he fell
"like lightning from heaven." His descent on Egypt was a blow struck
at the very vitals of the British power in India, and Nelson's
victory on the Nile was a blow still more deeply and mortally aimed
at the power of Bonaparte. The only tidings of this great victory
which made any impression upon my mind were conveyed by a pedlar who
wended his way to the manse, and who, among other articles for sale,
had a parcel of huge wood-cuts of Lord Nelson's battle of the Nile.
One of them my father readily purchased, and it was immediately
fastened up with wafers on the wall of the dining-room. Mr. Gordon
of Navidale, when his lease expired, took the Mains of Embo, in the
parish of Dornoch, and resided there for a few years, after which he
remained in Edinburgh. The farm of Navidale was taken in lease by
Mr. Robert Pope, second son of Mr. Peter Pope, tacksman of Gartimore,
younger brother of Mr. Alexander Pope, minister of Reay. This old
gentleman I recollect to have seen at Kildonan, and I was much
struck with his antique and venerable appearance. He must, when I
saw him, have been close upon seventy years of age. He wore what was
usually called a Welsh wig, and showed by his manners a rude and
choleric temper. When I saw him on that occasion we had a few more
guests at the manse, among others Mr. and Mrs. Mackay of Skerra in
the Reay country. My recollections of them remain in my memory owing
to a circumstance calculated to impress the mind of a boy. On the
second day after their arrival, an excursion around the glebe was
proposed and agreed to. My father and mother and their three guests,
accompanied by us young folks, sat down in a circle on the grassy
summit of the islet in the middle of the river. Having all
assembled, Mrs. Mackay distributed several rich and highly-seasoned
cakes of ginger-bread. In the round, however, I was forgotten, but
Mr. Mackay, who was an exceedingly amiable man, noticed the
omission, and immediately divided with me the portion he had got for
himself. Old Peter Pope amused us on our return by stuffing his coat
pockets with new-mown hay. His eldest son, William, whom I well
knew, was then in the East Indies. His second son, Robert, had just
returned from the West Indies, where, for upwards of twenty years,
he had been engaged as a planter, and had realised several thousand
pounds. On the expiry of Mr. Gordon's lease of Navidale, he took
that farm at a lease of thirty-eight years. Besides holding Navidale,
Mr. Robert Pope rented the Highland farms of Tiribol and Dallangal
in the parish of Kildonan, and in looking after these possessions he
had frequent opportunities of being a guest at the manse. He very
soon afterwards had another and a far more interesting reason for
being so often at Kildonan. Soon after Mr. Gordon's removal from
Navidale to Embo, Miss Bertie, of whom I have already made mention,
and who had resided with her sister whilst she was at Navidale, came
to live alternately with her sisters at Midgarty and Kildonan. My
step-mother had during one of these visits been confined to bed by a
serious ailment, and while she was ill Miss Bertie had charge of the
house, and her judicious and tender care of her sister as well as
her lady-like accomplishments and her rich vein of wit attached us
all so much to her that we almost idolised her. Mr. Robert Pope,
soon after his arrival from the West Indies, had seen her at
Midgarty, and at the very first interview, was smitten with the
tender passion. He made no secret of his attachment, and was in
consequence very much teased about it by the gentry of the parish of
Loth, and very particularly so by the minister of Loth and his
daughters, the Misses MacCulloch. Mr. Pope was annoyed at this, and
even Miss Bertie was compelled at last, in order to escape their
unceasing and clamorous raillery, to take refuge at Kildonan and
reside there almost entirely. Mr. Pope followed her thither, and was
all but her daily attendant. The event of their marriage is
impressed upon my memory in connection with an amusement in which I
was then engaged. It might be about the beginning of October, and a
good deal of rain had fallen. I resolved to build a house with the
mud which had collected during the rainy weather. Mr. Pope and Miss
Bertie were in the house, and after dinner, leaving them all engaged
in matters which, compared with mine, I considered secondary, I went
out, laid the foundation of my house, and finding the mud quite
plastic and ready to be formed into any shape, I was getting on with
a success that exceeded my expectations. I had no thought about
father, mother, sisters, or guests within—my house was everything to
me. Most unwillingly was I called off from my employment at
night-fall. I got up, however, in the morning with the very peep of
dawn to continue my architectural labours. I was well enough
acquainted with the internal arrangements of the manse to know where
guests usually slept. I knew that since Mr. Pope and Miss Bertie had
come to the house a few days before, Miss Bertie had slept in the
little garret, and fir. Pope in the principal bedroom. On passing
the door of Mr. Pupe's room, therefore, what was my astonishment to
notice Miss Bertie's little shoes placed side by side with Mr.
Pope's boots at his bedroom door. I thought this very strange, and
one of the servant-maids, meeting me at the time, participated in my
astonishment, but said with a sly leer, "'S cinnteach gu bhei had
posda," (Surely they are married). I came open-mouthed to my
sisters, and told them what I had seen; but they were already
initiated in the mystery, and told me that about 12 o'clock last
night Mr. Pope insisted on being married to Miss Bertie, and that my
father, after remonstrating upon the too great privacy and
precipitancy of the measure, had yielded and married them. So I
resumed my mud-building. Mr. and Mrs. Pope came often in the evening
to look at my edifice, and I was much gratified with their minute
examination of it and with their commendations. After remaining for
some days at Kildonan, during which they amused themselves by
strolling through the dells and woods, they went home accompanied by
my father and mother.
About this time died Mr. MacCalloch of
Loth, and was succeeded by Mr. George Gordon, of whom I have many
recollections. Mr. Gordon, was the eldest son, by his first
marriage, of Adam Gordon, tacksman of Rhenevy in Strathnaver, parish
of Farr, and a nephew of Charles Gordon of Pulrossie. When a young
man, and during his attendance at the University, he was tutor in
the family of Mr. Gordon of Carrel, who resided at Kiutradwell in
the parish of Loth. Mrs. Gordon, sister of the late Donald MacLeod
of Geanies, was an eminently pious woman, and took a deep interest
in the spiritual and temporal welfare of the tutor of her children.
George Gordon, after being a year or two in the family of Carrol,
resigned his situation, as advantageous prospects of entering into
the commercial line were held out to him by a near relative of his
residing in London. Mrs. Gordon of Carrol strongly dissuaded him
from availing himself of these prospects, and recommended him to
pursue his studies as a candidate for the ministry. This, however,
Mr. Gordon declined doing, upon the ground that he saw his call in
Providence clearer to the one than to the other. " Well, young man,"
said the venerable lady, "I shall not live to see it, but, mark my
words, you will die minister of Loth "--a prediction strictly
fulfilled. Mr. Gordon's London prospects burst like air bubbles, and
he himself, turning his attention to his theological studies, was
licensed to preach by the Presbytery of Tongue. He then succeeded
Mr. Alex. Urquhart as missionary of Achness, and afterwards became
assistant to my grand-uncle, Mr Thomas Mackay of Lairg, whose second
daughter Harriet he married. In 1801 he was settled minister of Loth,
where he died in 1822, in the 26th year of his ministry. While
missionary at Achness he used frequently to be at Kildonan, and he
particularly arrested my attention by his inexhaustible store of
anecdote, as well as by the hearty laugh with which he wound up
every story he told, and into which he seemed to throw his whole
heart. I always rejoiced when I saw him alight in the close on
Monday evening after preaching at Aeh-na-h'uaighe on the Sabbath. He
was ever and anon accompanied by his servant, who followed him on
foot like his shadow. What this man's name was I forget, but we
never knew him by any other name than the "Gillie Roy." He was
red-haired, and a young fellow of caustic, copious, and sterling
humour. His master told anecdotes of him which made us laugh till we
wept again, whilst he himself, at the very time, was setting the
kitchen fireside in a continuous roar of laughter at his witty
sallies.
Belonging to this period I have pleasing and painful recollections.
Captain Baigrie's eldest son Robert was, ever since my father's
second marriage, a frequent visitor at Kildonan. When I first began
the Rudiments, he used to throw me into a perfect ecstasy by the
fluency with which he read and translated the Latin language. He was
naturally very clever, but his progress in letters was
counter-balanced by the fatal progress which he made in those
dangerous propensities which to ardent youth are the direct road to
ruin. These propensities his affectionate, but inconsiderate parents
greatly, though unintentionally, indulged, and they did so in two
ways—first, they took him along with them in their visits to the
first families in the county, where his youthful precocity drew upon
him attention and applause by which he was entirely upset. Then they
gave no heed to his choice of companions, and he certainly did not
choose the best. Robert's introduction into genteel society gave
rise to habits of extravagance and to expenses which at last he
could not possibly meet. He had contracted "debts of honour" by
card-playing at the tables of the "great," which he could not pay,
and of which he was afraid to tell his father. In an evil hour
therefore, and with one John Gordon, footman at Midgarty, as his
accomplice, he, under silence of night broke open a shop in
Wester-Helmisdale, and plundered the till of nearly £20. The robbery
was discovered early next morning, and the hue and cry raised in the
neighbourhood. Suspicion fell upon the perpetrators. Gordon was
openly accused of it, but the charge against the man glanced
directly at his master and associate. With aching hearts and
streaming eyes did Captain Baigrie and his amiable wife hear the
confession of guilt from the lips of their misguided son; the
merchant's loss was refunded, John Gordon sent out of the country,
and poor Robert Baigrie sent to the West Indies, where, in a few
months after his arrival, he died of fever. Mrs. Baigrie died in
February, 1798; she happily did not live to witness this painful
termination of her son's career.
It was at this period that my mind
received its first religious impressions, though when I look back
upon the course of my life, I am almost afraid to call them such.
But I remember that I used to take much delight in the historical
parts both of the Old and New Testaments, more particularly the
books of Samuel and Kings, and the four Gospels. The history of our
blessed Lord made a vivid, if not a saving, impression upon me, so
much so that I used to lie awake at times for the greater part of
the night thinking of the Saviour, and in imagination following him
with his disciples from city to city in Judea and Galilee. At his
persecutors I felt a thrill of horror and indignation, and I often
wished that I had been some potent prince strong enough to interpose
in behalf of the meek and lowly Jesus. Peter's attempt to do so I
applauded in my heart, and I could not understand the Saviour's
reproof, nor his interposition in behalf of the high-priest's maimed
menial. It was the act of too high and holy a spirit for me to have
the slightest comprehension of at the time. These juvenile
meditations set me often to pray, which I did with many tears. I
thought I felt love to the Saviour in my heart, and this caused me
to form many resolutions to reform my conduct, to be always praying
and to keep myself in a serious frame. When such resolutions lay
strong upon me, I was most assiduous in the performance of what I
considered to be a religious duty. I dared not indulge myself so
much at play, I was afraid even to smile, and I laboured hard to
keep every vain thought out of my mind. But alas, these good
intentions were one after the other soon forgotten, and only renewed
with fear and gloomy anticipations of failure. If I now know the
truth (and that is a question for eternity), these first impressions
were so many initiatory lessons in self-knowledge, and led me
eventually to see that salvation is not of debt but of grace. |
