Ardtaraig

to have grand times, toasting bread and scones and concocting perfumes, pomades, etc. Alick, the youngest, was a bright, somewhat passionate boy, but affectionate in his way. He alone, as I have said, of all the Ardtarig descendants, has carried the old name down to posterity.
After some years Uncle Donald married again; this time his cousin, Miss Russel Turner. They resided for many years near Dunoon, and there Uncle Donald died in 1877, the same age as the century, having been born in 1800. His second wife died some years after. Uncle Donald was quite his father’s son, with much of the paternal charm, and a general resemblance in person, being stately, somewhat portly, and in manner most bland and polished. He was always very kind to me, and during the latter years of his life we became quite chums, writing frequently to each other, while, in countless ways, he manifested his pride in his five sons; as also, I may say, did the quiet little grand¬mother. At Rothesay the boys led a healthy out-of-door life. They boated a great deal on their own account, and besides were often away with friends on sailing cruises.
There is a refreshing flavour of seaweed and salt-water clinging to my Rothesay reminiscences. I can yet hear the boat being hauled up for the night, and the crunching of the stones and gravel; the rumble of the oars, as they were being lifted out, and see Cousin George, a big lad in his teens, in the shadows, slowly carrying up the gear. Always George, somehow, although the others, I can say it for them, were willing enough to share in whatever had to be done. Ah me! how many times since then have I seen a belated boat far out on the twilight bay, and the thought has flashed upon me, “The boys must be there!” The boys? Elderly men, thousands of miles away!
Years after the days I speak of, when the Rothesay menage had been broken up, my mother and I spent some part of a winter at Kirn, near Dunoon. Uncle Donald and his wife lived there and came often to see us. Very much we needed their companionship, as my father could only pay us occasional visits, being much engrossed with business, and the time hung heavy without him. The dear old uncle was an unmixed blessing to me, as I loved walking, and he could step out well. For hours we wandered “o’er moor and fen,” and then it was that we got thoroughly to know each other, and became, ever after, fast friends. So it was, also, with Uncle Andrew. Circumstances brought us a good deal together, and when we could not meet we corresponded frequently. I think the uncles enjoyed having these interchanges with a younger spirit, while to me it was a thing of pure delight to be thus honoured. Indeed, there is nothing connected with my early years which I recall with more pleasure and gratitude than the hearty affection shown me by these dear old uncles.
There was no very close resemblance between them in character, though there were not wanting certain traits in common, and in personal appearance not a little of the general family likeness. Both were men of the world – shrewd, keen-witted, even caustic at times; full of humour, with stores of anecdotes; men of distinctly social gifts, more prone, if I may say so, to take things easy than grimly to tackle the hard side of life. In their case (at the time I write of), all mundane illusions had long passed away. Not so with me. I still trod on air, and my girlish enthusiasm seemed to please them – occasionally, perhaps, pro¬voking an amused smile, or a sage contradiction. They never, I am sure, deliberately hurt my inexperience, or tried to shock me by their cynical remarks, but seeing, as they did, very clearly through the mists and subterfuges of what are called appearances, they gave a spade its proper name, and never minced matters when they had to express an opinion. Usually my comprehension was not, by a long way, equal to the occasion, fortunately, perhaps, for one so young; but what I did learn from them has often been of use to me.
Uncle Andrew was very proud, and carried the failing to such an excess that many a time it turned friends into foes, and seriously marred his prospects. It pursued him with its baneful influence until the day of his death. He was long a merchant in Cape Town, and it was to him that my dear step-brother, Patrick Dugald Martin, went in 1846. Of this dear brother I shall now say a few words, returning again to Uncle Andrew.¬