Ardtaraig

THIS record of an old Highland family was undertaken by me at the request of one who was the most enthusiastic, loving, and loyal of all their descendants – my dear cousin, Hugh Matheson Brown. It is hard for me to realise that he has been cut off in the prime of life, and has now taken his place with those whom he so delighted to honour, and whose memories he was so anxious to perpetuate. He died on June 24th, 1902, of cholera, at Swatow, China, aged thirty-seven years. There had just then begun for him what would have been a period of much worldly prosperity, but on this I need not dwell. It is enough that a warm and loving heart has ceased to beat, and that to some of us the world will be a poorer place since he has left it.
He wished several copies of these reminiscences to be made, and he himself designed a suitable frontispiece, which he had to leave unfinished, as it now remains. Originally, I intended them to be in the shape of a letter to himself, and they were, for the most part, so written; but I mean now to reproduce them in this new form, so that his wishes may not only be carried out, but that the record may, in some sort, be a tribute to his memory. It pleased him to read, as it pleased me to write, but I am doubtful if the simple story will much commend itself to others. What does it matter?

“The one remains, the many change and pass;
Heaven’s light forever shines; earth’s shadows fly:
Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass,
Stains the white radiance of Eternity,
Till death tramples it to fragments.
Die, if thou would’st be with that which thou dost seek,
Follow, where all is fled.” – SHELLEY.

Our ancestors were not specially distinguished, but I may safely say “they bore, without reproach, the grand old name of gentleman.” Countless families have lived, and suffered, and died, just as they did, and have passed “on,” and been forgotten. But while we are part and parcel of this mortal life, our dear ones, our very own, ought to be specially regarded, and their memories cherished.
I shall begin by recalling my maternal grandparents as I remember them, giving my impressions as faithfully as I can, following these up by facts as told me, or by other records to which I have had access. My first recollections are those of the old house amongst the hills, then, alas! in its decadence, both as to its bygone hospitality, and as to the number and prosperity of its inmates. Even in my childhood some vestiges of the ancient glamour still hung about it – a nameless charm that long encircled it – and not until the old stock had finally departed did the glory, like a mantle, fall from it forever. The first few summers of my life were spent under the venerable roof-tree, and though all things were sadly changed, the little child saw nothing of the shadows, but lived in a sunshine of her own creating. The beauty of her surroundings, the peace, the security, the delight of mere existence in such a place, made up to her something like an earthly Paradise.
The inmates of the old abode, so long the centre of rare hospitality and good cheer, had, by this time, dwindled down into a small group of elderly people. To them, the change must have been terrible! Where were the crowds of young men and maidens who had made the echoes ring with their glad voices? Where the endless coming and going of the strangers whom my grandfather had so loved to entertain? In the former days of bright prosperity, a goodly company of twenty persons was wont to sit down to dinner, in the simply appointed, but well-provisioned dining-room.
I do not wish to say too much, and so incur the charge of giving way to exaggerated praise, neither do I see any reason why I should say too little. “The pride that apes humility” is, I think, the most despicable form of that odious thing. Indeed, about the charms of the old Ardtarig far more flattering things have been said, by those who were not of our blood at all, than I myself should care to