Ardtaraig

how lavish the ferns and wild-flower’s! Over the hills from far away would come the fragrance of the heather and the bracken, with a spice of bog-myrtle (the Campbell badge), and a dash of “peat reek” to complete “the blend”! Ah! it was a feast for all the senses, and we revelled in it! By and by there would come softly on the breeze, mellowed and half-muffled, the toot-tooting of the old Indian conch shell, calling all wanderers home to early dinner.
That dear homely dining-room, with its quaint straight-backed chairs that would now make glad the heart of any virtuoso, is still before my mind’s eye. The huge dining-table, with as many legs as a centipede, and folding leaves that nearly touched the floor – what a splendid hiding-place for a little child to creep under, and still more to the purpose, how suggestive of good cheer! There were half-moon ends, which, when necessary, added to its length, and which, at other times, served as side-tables. When extended to its full length, it must indeed have been an ample board. I can also see in memory an old green “aumbry” upstairs, with folding-doors thrown back, displaying a quantity of rare old china, such as few modern drawing-rooms can boast. Most of the ancient gear, including an antique bookcase (after which my heart still yearns), was sold at Rothesay after grandmamma’s death. Things that can never be replaced are apt to be scattered at such times, and regrets are useless.
The old house of Ardtarig, as I remember it, was sweet and homelike, from the horns and skins that adorned the entrance, to the topmost garret. On this garret-stair was a great door, shutting off that floor from the rest of the house. It swung on its hinges with a groaning sound, that for long used to come back to me, and almost does so yet. There was about the house an indescribable freshness, a smell of country air quite delicious to the senses of a town-bred child; the purity of the white curtains, the summer-decked fireplaces filled to overflowing with the silver leaves of the old-fashioned plant called “honesty,” all added to the charm and novelty. There must have been other things worthier of admiration which might be noted, but I am simply following what my memory recalls, and the fancy of a child is very different in matters of taste from that of a grown-up person. Let me not, however, forget the garden, for it too, was a point of interest, though, like other things, not what it used to be. It lay a little apart, was large, square, formal, and divided into different portions. That nearest the house was called “the orchard,” and had evidently been well stocked with fruit-trees, of which there was a goodly remainder. A curious comer was to be found, devoted to “small fruit,” an enchanting tangle of luxuriance; there little hands got pricked and torn, showers of crystal drops, shaken from the bushes, were apt to fall when an investigating little head pushed its way into the maze. Roses bloomed in wild profusion; far down, at the very bottom of the garden, was a row of forest trees (the loch’s blue waters shining past their trunks), and beyond them, the remains of an ancient burial-place. Trees abounded every-where – pine, oak, beech, ash, hazel, birch, rowan-tree, elderberry, etc.
I must now speak of the inmates of the old home as they then were and first of all comes dear old “Gran” himself, well on in the eighties, but tall, stately, and handsome still, with snow-white hair, shining and soft as silk. He had a habit of pacing up and down in the twilight (or the “gloaming,” I should say), with a firm but somewhat heavy tread, for he, was a big man, sometimes going from room to room, his hands clasped behind his back, throwing, now and then, a word to those around him. Sometimes I would steal up behind him, and holding by his coat-tails, march proudly in his wake. He was always kind to me, and would suffer me to play as long as I liked with his silvery locks. This was his bearing to a small child; I shall have more to say of him in other aspects. Grandmamma, full fifteen years his junior, was at this time still slight and active, though, of course, looked upon as quite an old lady. She would take me upon her knee, and patiently endure my ardent hugs and kisses. After a while, to quiet me, she would cuddle my head upon her shoulder, and sing what she called “the cat’s song,” a kind of purring which she managed very cleverly. She had been herself a very clever little child, and it is reported of her that she began to write when only six years old.
Of Aunt Grace and Aunt Margaret, the two unmarried daughters of the house, I have at this time no distinct recollection. They were simply “the aunts,” accepted as such, without any special recognition. Children, for the most part, are selfish little animals, and remember best what touches their own small personalities. Consequently, the only reminiscence I have of Aunt Margaret at this time is