Ardtaraig

night. The busy mother had her growing family to look after, numbers of visitors to entertain, besides a lot of men and women-servants to manage, all of which must have tested her powers to the utmost. The husband had his hands full; besides his farm, he had no end of calls upon his time, for he was pre-eminently social, neighbourly, and full to the brim of public spirit. Ardtarig was a crowded household; often twenty persons sat down to dinner within that by no means commodious domicile; indeed, were it not for many devices, I question if at times the overflow could have been housed. I suppose it would be when things were at their height, that the overtaxed little house-mother, as she herself has told, would cast her cares behind her, and rush away alone to where, beneath “the bower,” on the other side of “the plot,” the roaring waterfall foamed over the rocks. There, amid the birches and the brackens, and the nodding harebells, the weary little woman would crouch down unseen, and close to the noisy rushing water, strive to forget, if only for a brief interval, the din and turmoil of the household she had left. What a picture! Oh ye, who think married life an elysium, look on it for a little! I think it unspeakably touching, this mute appeal to the heart of mother Nature, and from her, most likely, to “the Powers above!” Have not most of us felt how wonderfully soothing is the sound of running water. Its “liquid lapse” seems to act upon the tired brain and unstrung nerves like a healing balm. They are happy, I have often thought, who can snatch an hour at will beside the rippling stream, “which all day long singeth a quiet tune.” We can hardly estimate the comfort thus afforded to our dear “Mam,” while she was in the thick of life’s battle. The wearied brain has been long at rest, yet still “the birnie rins,” and is as ready as ever to speak to the heart of those who have ears to hear. In justice to all parties, here let me say that there was no slavery in the case, no lack of assistance forthcoming, and always a couple of nursemaids in the nursery; but, notwithstanding, who can lift from human shoulders these two great burdens, care and responsibility, which so many among us, strong and weak alike, have got to bear. Thank God, there are compensations granted to us all, and of these our “Mam” had her full share; ay, to the very end, when there came both light and rest “at eventide.”
The church the family went to was many miles away, on the shores of Loch Striven, the parish church of Inverchaolain. The only way they could all get to it was by water. There, was a bridle-path above the rocks, and some of the more adventurous of the family, including my mother, often rode that way – a stiff break-neck path it was in some places. But the household at large went by boat – a huge four-oared affair – and the journey must have taken a considerable time. The spiritual food provided after all this toil was, sad to say, none of the richest. The Rev. Hugh MacTavish, the then minister, was a thorough-going “Moderate,” and (to make bad worse), a man of inferior ability, which, to do them justice, was not commonly characteristic of the clergy of the time. Some of these old divines my mother used to describe as most charming men – well-read, well-bred, though, let the truth be told, greatly given to the good things of this life. It was a joke as regards grandmamma, that she was never seen so much in her element as when entertaining a number of those worthies at her own table. Little wonder, for of all that varied social circle, from the lairds downwards, these jolly ministers were, beyond question, the most intellectual and the most stimulating persons she met. I have no doubt that they themselves had their minds quickened, and their eloquence warmed, not only by the good things provided, but by the wit and vivacity of their lively little hostess.
To the end of their days our grand-parents loved “the Auld Kirk.” When their seven daughters, five with husbands and families, “came out,” at the Disruption of the Church of Scotland, in the year 1843 – at which time nearly five hundred ministers gave up their all for conscience sake – and when society in Scotland was nearly rent in twain, the old couple looked on more in sorrow than in anger. They could see no cause for the excitement, and could still less comprehend the enthusiasm. When asked, would they not follow, they quietly said “No,” the Old Church had sufficed for them all their days, and would do so to the end. Dear souls! they were then entering the shadows; the rude shocks of change were distasteful to them, and no other decision could be expected. How hard it is sometimes, even for younger folks, to say farewell to the old paths!
But, in another way, the old pair were ensamples to the flock. They had none of the narrow-minded bitterness so common in those years of ecclesiastical strife. When their son-in-law, the Rev.