Ardtaraig

In the case of the latter, while still a child, his mother found fault with Aunt Barbara for spoiling the boy. She turned to him appealingly and asked, “Have I spoiled you, Alick?” Whereupon Alick, too young to understand, but feeling himself in disgrace, owing, somehow, to her, sturdily answered, “Yes! you have spoiled me, and spoiled me so much that I never can be put right!” thereby thanklessly going over to the enemy, for who so ungrateful as an over-petted child? It was hard, but so far as I know, the love on the old auntie’s part continued unabated.
It has so happened that she and this nephew are buried side by side in Rothesay Churchyard. The grave was originally intended for her alone, but when Cousin Alick, then a young minister, died at Rothesay, he was buried there. When my mother wrote to my brother, the other favourite, then residing in Cape Colony, telling him of Aunt Barbara’s death, she added, “I much fear that no one mourns for her.” He replied, “Don’t say that no one mourns for Aunt Barbara. I have mounted crape for the old lady!” The seared old heart must have been capable of affection, and in the frost of a loveless old age had put forth its last few tendrils, only to have them brushed aside with half-contemptuous pity. Yet she was herself greatly to blame. Heaven only knows what soul pangs and longings may have been hers, but she allowed the bad side of her nature to get the upper hand, and this spoilt all. Some dispositions are not bettered, but the reverse, by trial; fortunately, however, it is not so with all, or this world would be a less pleasant place than it is.
Personally, I only remember Aunt Barbara as an old lady who, if she did not care for me, at least tolerated me. She was skillful at fancy-work, and would suffer me to come to her room, and watch her as she made her pretty things, but would teach me none of her accomplishments, saying I was “too young”, which perhaps was true. I could not have disliked her, for on wet days I often went to her room, and had pleasure in going. Seldom do I hear the patter of raindrops on the window, or see or smell a cabbage rose, without remembering Aunt Barbara and her quaint surroundings. We were usually at Ardtarig in the time of roses, and she was rarely without a large one of the old Scottish sort on her table. Not only Cousin Alick, but Cousin Georgie is buried in the same grave with Aunt Barbara. Cousin Duncan Brown erected a monument in memory of his brother and sister, and of the old grand-aunt long gone before.
Thus it comes to pass that Aunt Barbara’s name is recorded for the benefit of posterity, while grandmamma, the honoured wife and the mother of many children, lies in the same churchyard without any “storied urn” to mark the spot, or tell that she had lived and died. It is the same with grandpapa. He sleeps at Kilmun with his kindred, under moss-grown, crumbling stones, bearing the name and arms of many a Campbell, but his own was never carved. The stone which covers his remains is broken right across, and this, from my father’s description, was one of the signs by which I at first recognised it. On closer inspection, when, I last saw it, Gran’s father’s name, “Duncan,” could be traced on the upper part, and at the foot of the stone was the word, distinctly visible, “Ballochyle.” The Ardtarig family are not entirely to blame for this seeming neglect. In the case of both parents, memorial stones had already been placed to other members of the connection, and newer carvings were practically impossible. The part of the lovely little Kilmun Churchyard where Gran is buried seems almost entirely occupied by Campbells. It is an old part, not far from the church walls, on the side nearest the village of Kilmun, and the number of crests, shields, and emblems is wonderful, though they are, one and all, in sad decay.
It cannot be denied that over all the Highlands there was a prevailing carelessness of graves which was purely Celtic. With all his strong affections and his emotional nature, the Highlander, in this respect, was, and sometimes still is, strangely negligent. I may mention that the family burial-place of the Campbells of Ballochyle is within a clump of trees in the middle of a field at the head of the Holy Loch. There is no right-of-way to it, and at funerals, I have been told, the mourners sometimes have to find their way over ploughed land.
Well, I have got so far with this part of my story, intended mainly to show the old home as it was in my young days – “Ichabod” writ large over every nook and cranny. And now come some genealogies, which I wish had fallen into better hands. Grandpapa was, I find, beyond all question descended from the Campbells of Dergacha, or Dergachy, which latter form of the name I shall