The autumn was passing, and I thought I would not like to be at this place in the winter. I had really no one to care what I did with my life or where I lived. There were no Christian friendly societies for young girls at that time. I felt the want of sympathy and approval in what I did. I saw the housekeeper at Colonel Cathcart's, and hoped when I was a grown woman to return there. I was old enough to admire the lovely scenery, but not old enough to disbelieve in witches and warlocks and fairies. Ayrshire is so full of glens and caves that I expected to see natural wonders, and not the work of man, for the imagination runs riot at times.
Gipsies I saw in plenty, and was afraid of them. They did not live in houses, but only in the wood; quite large numbers of them all together, and there were children, young girls, and youths who had never lived in a house. They came and went at will, and nobody seemed to take any notice of them. They were travelling tinkers. They made tinware, and sold it as they went through. The older women would come about to tell fortunes, and they would steal fowls or anything else they could lay hands on. The farmers always lost sheep and lambs when the gipsies were about, while one heard tales of them stealing away children of the high-class people.
It was the end of October when I left Ayrshire, and Mrs. Macblean's son had not come. I know she was grieving acutely about him. I promised that I would go and see him again when Ireturned to my own people. I found myself in Glasgow, and left my box at the station, and paid a penny for a ticket, for which they agreed to keep my box till I came for it. I saw Mrs. Stirling, and stopped there all night, and read the paper with a long column of advertisements for all sorts of working-girls. One, she thought, I might enquire about. It was from a lady and gentleman at No. 5, Florence-place, who wanted a young country girl, who must be useful. So I went. I found it was a furnished flat in a stylish part of the city. I told the lady that I had come from Dalmellington the day before, and that Mrs. Stirling would speak for me. I was engaged to come that evening. They only intended to stay in Glasgow for three months, but I thought I could get something else at the end of that time. They seemed rich people, but were in trouble. Their name was Skirven. They had one daughter at home. I was not long there before I learned that it was through another daughter that they came from their home in Fifeshire. The youngest daughter, while going to boarding-school, fell in love with a young medical student. She ran away with him and got married, and came to Glasgow. He was a Roman Catholic and an Irishman, while her parents were Scotch. As they were married by a Catholic priest, Mr. Skirven said it was no marriage. That is what brought him to Glasgow. He came to find those two runaways, and to make them get married again in their church. Mr. Skirven had his gun loaded to shoot the young doctor if he objected. His name was Dr. Reily. They found the young lady and took her to Florence-place, and the doctor was not allowed to come near her. It seemed so sad. She was a pretty little lady, and so young. A strict watch was kept on her, and she saw nobody. She soon found that she could trust me with a letter, and many times a letter came for her in my name from the husband. I even saw him, and brought messages to her from him. He was waiting for his diploma, and he had a good practice in view. Then he intended to show that they could not keep his wife from him. It was my first experience of the fact that love can destroy happiness.
I never knew how matters were fixed up, but the old folks went back to Fife, and I got another place as under-nurse with Dr. Fargus, in Elmbank-street, off Sauchihall-street, Glasgow, close to where I had been living. Dr. Fargus was eminent in his profession as a medical man, and of great distinction. And his wife—How can I write about that gentle lady? It was a Christian home, and well appointed. The nurse had been with them ever since they had got married, and there were three children. It was a large, new house, four storeys high, with everything up to date, and so convenient. There was no carrying water, for both hot and cold water were in all the rooms, and there were bathrooms right up to the top, where the nurseries were. The lady's mother had died a week before I went there. There were other servants, andwe all had mourning, a dressmaker being in the house. I had a black-and-white print, and a black stuff dress, with a cape and hat to match, because I had to go out so much with the children and the nurses. We were well looked after, both as regards our bedrooms and our food. And there was a whole pew for us in a church in Cudoging-street, not far from the Clyde. They had a summer residence, about seven miles from Glasgow, and a man and his wife to keep it always ready for them. The children were all small, and if the doctor thought they wanted a change, the nurse and I very often went to this old castle, some of which was in ruins, but there was plenty of room for us and lovely grounds for us to romp about in. The lady would come sometimes and stop for a few days. The locality was Eastkillbride. There was no railway. On the way we passed through the very old towns of Rutherglen and Hamilton. All along near at hand I could see the coal-pits, like Slamannan. But there were none at Eastkillbride. The doctor would sometimes bring his wife in his carriage, or in the omnibus, the only way of conveying passengers to that part. She was kind to the poor and the sick. There were no district nurses heard of then. Every day she took some broths and dainties to those who needed them. One poor woman appealed to me. She was in bed for seven years with rheumatism. She had the use partly of the right hand and that was all. I often went when I could, and tried to do something for Mrs. Kennedy. If Mrs. Fargus was not there the nurse looked after her poor pensioners all the same. The houses were spread about with quite a distance between. There was no interesting scenery, but only an old ruin.
Close by there was a church with a manse. It seemed out of keeping with all the rest of the place, for it looked new. It had an air of freshness about it, and belonged to the Free Church of Scotland. The minister was quite a young man and a friend of Mr. and Mrs. Fargus. He came much to the house, and the children knew him, so that we often found him rambling about with them. His housekeeper used to be his nurse when he was a child. We went to the manse often. The minister was the Rev. Dr. James Oswald Dykes, and he came out to Australia many years ago. The church in Eastkillbride was his first appointment. His fame as a preacher and a good man spread all about. The way he filled that church with the scattered people was wonderful. He would go miles and miles after parishioners. Hehad a persuasiveness in his preaching, although it was homely and plain. I went to the Bible-class, and he explained things to me of which I was formerly ignorant. After months of catechising I became a member of the Free Church of Scotland. It gave me thoughts which enabled me to resolve to do the common things I had to do well, and to be happy in doing what was right.
I was in the manse one night with Mrs. Clark, his housekeeper, when he came in all wet and muddy. He had found a man and woman living together who were not married. The man was ill end likely to die, and he thought the children would be guarded from some threatening injury if the father and mother were married. The man, however, did not care what became of woman or children. He turned his face to the wall, and for a long time would not listen to the minister, but Dr. Dykes got him face-to-face with the woman and a witness, and married them while the man was still in bed. Dr. Dykes was very upset about this event. Happily, in Scotland such things are rare.
One of the maids had not been well, and Mrs. Fargus thought I might do for the house in town for a week or so, so as to let Elsie come to Killbride. The climate there was mild and healthy. The doctor arranged to dine out, so I had only to get breakfast for him and take any messages and write them on a slate. By this time I knew how to do many things neatly. The lady would come and go to see how I got on. She had not been long in one afternoon when a fearful ring came at the door. I opened it, but could see nobody. I went away, but the bell rang again. I looked over the other side of the street and saw a tattered looking sailor. He came over and asked if Elsie was in. I answered in the negative. He could hardly speak. The lady came to see what was the matter; he told her who he was. She told me to take him downstairs and get him something to eat. Then she told me that he was Elsie's sweetheart, and that Elsie had heard that he was wrecked and drowned four years before. She went in mourning for him. The ship in which he had arrived within half an hour before had also been reported a wreck. There was such excitement. Mrs. Fargus wrote to Elsie to look out for her lost lover the next day. His ship was at the Broomilaw, whence they had sailed long ago. The man had come back well off, but he was brown and rough. The next day he had other clothes and his whiskers were trimmed. Elsie had been with Mrs. Fargus for a long time, so Mrs. Fargus said that she would like her to get married there. The date was settled, and the Rev. Dr. Oswald Dykes was to perform the marriage ceremony. We had plenty to talk about, for it was the first wedding for me to see. Elsie came to town, and I went back to Eastkillbride.
Mrs. Fargus was skilled in botany and the natural history of insects as well as plants. She had a museum full of all sortsof things. While at Killbride she would take me with her to carry her things, and talk to me so nicely all the time. We went down deep dells and to all the out-of-the-way places hunting for specimens. One day, in a deep dell, she found a gooseberry bush, with large gooseberries on it quite green, although the season for the berry was over. She sat down and explained why that berry was not ripe. She said the sun had not shed its rays on that bush, as it was far down in the dell. Some birds had dropped the berry, and it grew into a bush, but the fruit would always be green and sour. She compared this with some poor people whom we visited. They were hard and sour, and she thought if their environment were more bright they would not be so sour. She meant spiritually and temporarily. It was new to me to listen to so grand a lady. She would get us all in her beautiful room and kneel down and pray and read with us. God's best blessing rest on her if she is living, or on her memory if she is dead.
It was drawing near time to go back to town, and there was Elsie's wedding to look forward to. It was a common occurrence to let the servants have a party two or three times a year. We had had one already, and the wedding was to be the next. We were to have games and dancing, and Elsie was to be married in the best drawing-room, upstairs. By this time I had seen the sailor many times and many of his relations. His home was in Dundee. The Rev. Dr. Oswald Dykes had received a call to go to a grand church in Edinburgh, but he agreed to come for the wedding. I was passionately fond of dancing, and I knew that we were to have dancing, but I thought, being a member of the church, I must not dance any more. I met Dr. Dykes in the corridor and asked him if I could dance at Elsie's wedding. He said—"Yes; by all means. Those who can dance, let them dance, and those who want to play games, let them play." Then he showed me how dancing could be made both wrong and sinful, if we went to objectionable places to gratify the pleasure of dancing. How little did I think that in so short a time I would be out here all alone, without any of this moral directing power to act upon.
So the wedding night came. Elsie looked lovely, and the sailor looked splendid. He had some trouble to get off his white kid gloves. Mr. and Mrs. Fargus, and also some of their friends, were present. The cake was cut in the drawing-room, and then brought down to the hall, where the supper was laid, and all the place was filled with plants and bunting. We kept the gaiety up all night. In the middle of the fun our master and mistress and the minister came to have a look at us. The minister said if he could dance he would have a dance with the bride, just to show that it was good recreation. Elsie had some lovely presents. The master gave her a kitchen range, while themistress gave her a chest of drawers and a dressing-table and washstand. She had something from all. The servants from all round were kind, and we spent a good time.
After Elsie went away the nurse took the children to her own home, which she often did. They were too young for instruction, and only childish books were read for them. There were two boys and one girl, the girl being the oldest. I shall say more about them later on.
I found where the Dr. and Mrs. Reily lived, and saw them. They were well and happy. Mrs. Stirling was not in good health in Glasgow, so she was often away. I was happy anyhow, and hoped for courage to face the life that lay before me. I had a holiday, and went to Slamannan, and learned that my sister was to be married very soon, so the dresses I had for Elsie's wedding would just do. It was at New Year's time, and I was the bridesmaid. They were married at the Old Established Church of Scotland, and in the evening the snow was falling, and thick on the ground. I felt glad for my sister's sake. It was not much of a prospect, but they were young. My brother was my whole care; I did not know what my father was going to do with him. He was growing up and learning nothing. Father kept off the drink, and we all the time thought that some news would come to us from our relatives who had gone to "America." These were uncles and aunts; we had no grandparent living. For myself, I knew that I had to work hard for everything I got; but I could not see how to help my dear brother. I was afraid that my father would take him down into the pits to work. If only my mother had lived she would have put him to some useful pursuit. I suppose the mind seeks something upon which the emotions may grow as we get older. One thing I was nearer than if I had stopped in Ayrshire. I could do some things for him. There seemed no "self-help" for him.
I got back to my work again, feeling inspired with the idea that I would try and get my brother to Glasgow also. At Dr. Fargus' the Sundays were properly observed. We set aside toil for that day and were not allowed to do anything that could be avoided. Our own clothing had to be laid all ready to put on. The dinner was cooked the day before. Such peaceful days I have never had since. We went to the Rev. A. N. Sommervil's Church. It was near to the shipping part of the city, and the church and congregation were large. Other ministers would come some times. Dr. Guthrie came from Edinburgh. He was a real friend to the servant girls, and pleaded with the mistresses to be kind to their handmaids and see to their general wellbeing and the cheerfulness of their surroundings.
Dr. Thomas Guthrie was then a popular preacher. He started the ragged school movement in Edinburgh, and his efforts to suppress vice and to promote temperance made him a power onsocial questions. He used to hold services in the open air and in barns, or wherever people would come. While on his visits he found so many houses without a Bible or any book at all. He often stood in rooms bare of furniture, where father and mother and half-a-dozen children had to sleep, the destitution being all through drink. The stories he told were sad and true. Wherever he preached, there you would see the serving-maids and the persons of every rank in life. He had a good voice, and would sometimes describe in his sermon natural scenery, showing the wisdom of God, and that the earth is full of beauty. We had Dr. Norman Macleod, who preached to the Queen while she was at Balmoral. I could not follow his speeches like Dr. Guthrie's, although he wrote books and was the editor of "Good Words" and others, as well as a leading minister.
The misery I suffered, by reason of seeing so much of human woe and want and sin, made an old woman of me at the age of 16. I shall never forget one Sunday after church I went with some other girls to see their "district," if it could be called a district. In some instances there were foul underground cellars, where the inmates never breathed the fresh air. The children were covered with rags, and hunger reigned everywhere. This afternoon a starved-looking boy had broken a street lamp, and the policeman was taking him to the lock-up. One of the girls knew him, and asked the man how much it would cost for the lamp. If 7/6 could be found he said he would let the boy go. I told them to wait and I would get the money. I went to my mistress and to my Bible-teacher and to some others that I knew, and got the 7/6, and the boy was released, or, at least, I thought so. We took the money to the boy's mother, and told her to go to the office and get the boy back. That was on Monday evening. I went to see on my own account if the boy had got back. It was so dark that I could not find my way to the cellar. I went to a shop to buy a candle to see the underground room.
The man in the shop said, "Are you the youngster that found the 7/6 for that awful woman that lives down in that cellar?"
I said, "Yes."
"Well," he said, "that woman has been drunk ever since. She did not go for the boy, but has been quarrelsome and is making such a noise."
To my view it was sad, but not singular. I went down to the cellar and saw the sweetest and prettiest little girl I ever saw in my life stretched on the floor sleeping. There was no mother or anyone else there. I learned that the father was a sailor, and that was why. The girl was eight years old. Oh, what a picture she was as she lay calm in sleep, forgetful of her sorrows!
The daughters of well-to-do farmers and mechanics went to service to help themselves. There seemed no other way. Thenthrough Elsie and the nurse I got to know a number of nice girls. We could come and go to each other. In different homes there were different rules. There was always plenty to be done. I know the sanitary part of the work was a study at the doctor's house. The furniture was mostly carved, and that meant some polishing. Then the wide halls and bannisters must be kept free from dust, while the fireplaces and the steel had to be kept bright. I was not old enough to have charge, but I learned how the work was done. In the winter it was hard, but I felt as if I were getting taught everything. My mind was full of hope the more I knew.
Unaware of what had happened, we went to church on a Sunday morning and found it all draped in black. The news had come that very morning that Prince Albert, the Queen's Consort, was dead. It cast a sadness over all the place, as he had been in Glasgow not long before to lay the foundation-stone of some public building.
I had nothing to grumble about, but still the array of so much sorrow among the people round me made me wonder what failure or success lay in the future for me. Independence is so fondly sought after. Reluctantly, and with a touch of uneasiness, I heard of a place that I thought I would like. The lady was a friend of Mrs. Fargus, and the house was close by, while a smaller girl than myself would do for Mrs. Fargus' children. Then, too, I would have a little more wages. It was spoken of between the two ladies, and I was engaged to go in six weeks, when my term ended. Mrs. Mouncey was the name of the lady, and there were three in family. Mr. Mouncey had been married twice, and had one grown-up daughter by the first wife, with a son and daughter by the second wife—a boy of eight and a girl of ten. It was not a large house, and was on Victoria-terrace, facing the West-End park. From the windows could be seen the pleasure ground of the city, with its shrubs and monuments; that was its beauty spot. The West-End looked like the country yet in a few minutes one could be in the Trongate or Buchanan-street. I thought those two streets seemed the most busy, at least, with fashionable folk. Mr. Mouncey was the editor of some publication, and also wrote for some magazine. He seemed a man of independent means. They did not live in a showy manner, but they travelled a good deal. "You will have plenty of hard work," my fellow matesused to say to me, but I thought I would extract some happiness by coming to see them, and I would be gaining fresh experience.
Before I went to my new place I had an excursion to Slamannan. Glasgow, like all large cities, had its grievances and distresses in some of the dark and destitute parts. I had seen a little of both sides of the picture. I wondered at the goodness of those ladies, who went to the squalid and neglected. One had only to read the newspapers to learn that evil was not confined to the poor and degraded. Close to where I then lived the daughter of people in high rank was arrested for giving her lover poison. Her name was Madeliene Smith. So widespread was the interest felt that people chipped bits of the stone window-sill, where she passed the poison to him which caused his death. Her trial took place in Edinburgh. "Not proven," was the Scotch verdict returned. I saw a book with the whole account when I came to South Australia. I found comfort in going to see my own friends. A whole week before going to Mr. Mouncey's there was trouble in the air. A fresh gloom was over the place, as war in America was threatened, and people were rushing back from America as fast as the boats could bring them. In less than two weeks one could get to America.
We made the most of my holiday at home. I went once more to work. It was a mixed kind of position to rely on, but I determined to do my best. I found no difficulty; the mistress said, "Come along, my lass, you are welcome." I had a comfortable bedroom, and everything was convenient. The mistress undertook the care of providing and attending to the cookery, that nothing should be lost by carelessness, and there was Miss Mouncey with me to help to keep the house beautiful, and in a state of cleanliness. I could go to the same church and see my friends at Dr. Fargus'. I soon learned that Miss Mouncey was looked on as a rich woman, and that her mother's money would come to her. She had a mind of her own, and did not intend to marry. I think the condition of the homeless and uncared-for children was her special care. She would come and sit with me and tell me about the wretched little urchins she found amid dirt and disease, while the parents of the poor creatures were drinking. I confess many things seemed to me hopeless. It was depressing to hear of evil about everywhere I went. Mind and memory in moments of solitude tell me still how much I owe to the impression and influence of that sad time. In after years, when one or another would say what happy times they had when they were young, I thought "no, I would not like to be young again if this is all." I could not shut out of mind the long years that lay before me in that far-away time. In the present, all the world is behind me, and what does it matter?
Such a lot of people came to see Mr. Mouncey. Some wished to see Miss Mouncey particularly, and some she wanted to avoid.She only laughed. She was 22 years of age, fair, and accomplished, without a touch of vanity, and with the sweet name of Mary. The youngest child went to school. They liked to tell me of the good times we would have when we went to the Island of Arran, where they spent the summer months. We had family worship night and morning. By that time reading was no effort to me. I could read writing and write a little, with the aid of Miss Mouncey.
I brought a canary songbird from Slamannan to Mrs. Reily. I had no cage, but I had a strong paper-bag, and cut some tiny holes in it for air. I knew she had a cage, so I went one evening to see her and to learn how the bird was getting on. The doctor opened the door, and did not speak. He led me into a room, and there, in a coffin, lay Mrs. Reily. I flung myself on my knees beside her and cried bitterly. The doctor stood by and said, "Weep, girl, weep, for that is the first tear I have seen shed for my wife." He told me that her father, mother, and sister had come only to see what of her jewellery they could take and then they went away. He sent for the nurse, and I saw a little baby girl, which he said was all he had left. He had a good practice, and was growing rich, and, as he stood there with bent head, he looked sad and cheerless, but young and handsome. Such is the inevitable! I saw the little bird that I gave her; it was hanging in the window of the same room. My heart was full of compassion, as I remembered the beautiful face of that young wife. She was only 20 years of age. All must have courage to submit to their own destiny.
Preparations for going away for the summer were hurried on, and there seemed more visitors than usual. I was pleased at the idea of going to the Island of Arran, which had many attractions for visitors, I longed to see the place, having heard so much about its hills and mountains. Miss Heslip, a young friend of Miss Mouncey's, was with them for the summer. From that day things were pleasing and mirthful. One evening, while I was passing the cake-basket in the drawing-room, I held the cake to a tall and dark gentleman. In place of taking some cake he took hold of my hand and shook it warmly. I was not used to shaking hands with people in the drawing-room. I felt so confused that I nearly let the basket and cake fall. I could see that the act was noticed by the smiles on the faces. I knew that Garibaldi was in the room, for I had seen him there before, but who could this be?When Miss Mouncey came out I asked her, and she told me I had shaken hands with a great man. He was the President of America, Abraham Lincoln. She told me then that there was going to be a civil war. I did not know what that was.
It was so delightful to see Iona again. We left in the morning and called at so many places. There seemed quite a crowd, and such beautiful scenery. We arrived in the afternoon at Lamlash. There was someone to take the luggage, and we walked by the sea. The name of the house was Oakbank, and it was right on the top of a hill, with steps leading down to the boating-house, and there we could see the house-boat. The boat was called Oakbank, too. The house seemed small after Glasgow, with its little green gate, but the people only wanted somewhere to sleep. We lived outside, either on the water or on the mountains, there being plenty of caves as well. It was the month of June. The people who belonged to the house lived on the place in some way for the time. We could get milk and butter and eggs and poultry from them, but all the rest of the provisions came from the city, and the lovely fish they could get themselves in plenty. What a different life for the people who lived there when compared to that I had seen in the city. Whether they took me with them or not I had very little to do, there being a lot of people on the island known to each other. They would go off in the morning and take provisions with them, and I would not see them again till dark. Very often they took me as well. I could climb on my hands and feet, and did not trouble if I rolled down, so long as the sea was not immediately underneath me. How the people lived has often puzzled me more since than it did at the time.
It seemed that the whole, or nearly all, the island belonged to the Duke of Hamilton, and he was said to be eccentric. He would not let people make any alteration, but wished every place to remain in its wild state. It was known that coal could be got there in any quantity, but they dare not dig to get it. Some of the old people, with whom I liked to talk, told me that they were born on the island, and had never been out of it, even to cross the Clyde, and they hoped to die there. Only in summertime, when visitors were there, they spoke in English. To each other they spoke in Gaelic. The language was very strange to listen to, and more so when they made blunders, for one must laugh. The church was at Brodic, and it was quite two miles and a half to walk there.The minister preached in the morning in Gaelic, and it was good to see the old men and women coming over the hills to hear this Gaelic. I went one Sunday with the people of the house to hear the preaching. The minister was Mr. Davis, and he did look so cross, and railed at the dear creatures, who had come six and seven miles to hear him. I used to like to hear some of the old stories about the place.
It interested me when they told me that the deep valleys we were then passing would be filled up with snow in the winter months, and they showed me places here and there where some poor shepherd had perished in the snow, while he was looking for his sheep. They also said that for many months in the year they could not go to see anyone, and no one could come and see them because of the snow. There were no roads, but only footpaths on top of the hill or at the bottom. On seeing the place one could understand what it would be like after a heavy fall of snow. Then it would roll down from the mountains. The habits of those people were plain and without art. They let their houses in the summer, and that brought them a little money. They had little patches of land on which they grew flax and all sorts of things. It was rare to see a ploughed field between Lamlash and Brodic. The Duke of Hamilton's palace was at Brodic. It looked a grand place. He need not stop shut in it all the winter, however, for he had other places. Then the people had to make provision for the winter. They killed a sheep, and had it dried in some way. I saw some of it. They called it braxxie. Then there was the fish, also dried, in plenty. They made cheese and they had bacon. Those who were too far back from the sea had to have stores inside their homes. From Oakbank one could clear away the snow from the steps and get to the ships in a small boat, but none of the steamers could come near, although they would come as close as they dare in the rough weather. We counted as many as fourteen one morning, after a stormy night. There were all sorts, some being good-sized sailing vessels and yachts.
One more thing I found, and that was that the people made the linen from the flax that grew on the place. The bed-linen that they had in use for the visitors they said was a hundred years old. I saw some that was newly made. It would be something to remember to sleep between sheets newly made. I ought to explain that these ships I saw came in for the shelter of the hills from the fearful gales. I think now that was the most enjoyable time I ever spent. One way and another I got to see a good deal, and was learning to know that there was both dignity and independence in the labors of a house-servant. The charm is to feel assured that your services are approved. I am quite sure that Mr. Mouncey could get plenty of inspiration for his magazine; he was always taking notes, and was not above calling my attention to things interesting or instructive if I were with them.
Miss Heslip came from near Falkirk, and knew all about Denny. Both she and Miss Mouncey often took me with them. I rejoiced in a scamper, so one morning we took the two children and tracked off to climb a hill called Goat-Fell. We had some lunch with us. Mr. and Mrs. Mouncey had gone somewhere else; at any rate, we began to climb, and kept on climbing and resting for I do not know how long. Well on in the afternoon we had lunch, and started to come down. We did not go to the top. It was awful, perfectly awful to see the sheep browsing about on those hills. They looked like mere specks. My wonder was that they did not roll into the sea, which foamed at the foot in some places. We were to be there from June 1 till the last day in August. The beach was a picture, with the cliffs above and underfoot the Scotch pebbles and shells and the rocks and seaweed. I had only to sit and think.
Many people came to the island on a Saturday afternoon and brought tents with them, and stopped till Monday. The caves were used as well. Some minister would come from the city and preach in the open air. We all went on the hilltop to hear him. It was like a fairyland. From there you could see the Ailsa Crag, which looked as if it were in the clouds. There were no public buildings, no fine arts, and yet few places have so much natural attraction for the holiday season as the Island of Arran.
While bathing I made the acquaintance of a young girl, who, like myself was with some visitors from the city. She could swim and float on the water for ever so far. She told me that her father and brothers were fishermen, and that she had been often away with them for weeks at a time, and they had taught her to swim. I used to watch her in terror when she would go under water and come up in another place. Her name was Annie Smith, and she took me in hand to teach me to swim. I tried to do as she told me, but one morning I went too far. I could not see her, and I felt myself being carried out to sea. I was helpless, and the seawater was in my mouth and ears, and I was trying to catch hold of some seaweed. All at once Annie got sight of me. She gave a scream, and, coming out, pulled me to the shore. I did not know how I got there, but I found myself in bed with all the young people and the master and mistress in my room. I soon got alright, but never again went beyond my depth in the sea. It was a strange feeling, and for days I could hear the roaring of the water. I felt that I should always remember that girl who saved me from drowning. Annie could manage a boat and use the oars. The young ladies often went for a sail and took me with them. They had gentlemen friends, and sometimes we had the Scotch bagpipes on board. I thought what a pity it was that such glorious days should pass so quickly.
Mrs. Pringle, from whom we rented the house, would let me come with her to the dairy, and I helped her sometimes withthe churning. The butter was made differently then. She had fowls and plants and a vegetable garden. Everything was speckless and clean. All this gave me an insight into the ways of the world not to be regretted. She had three children, and her husband and her brother, who was an elderly man, worked about the place. They had some hay growing some distance from the house. Mrs. Pringle let the young couple and me go to see the haymaking. We would go off in the cart and come back on top of a load of hay, which was put in the loft for the winter. The fresh sea wind and the smell of the hay were beautiful. How one can enjoy life in the open air! I looked forward to coming again the next year.
It looked such a short distance from where we bathed to cross over to The Holy Isle, which was once the burying-place. The dead were taken there in boats, and there was an old monastery where the monks lived, and where many of them were buried. It was much patronised by visitors. There was but one house there with people living in it, and that was a public-house. All our people with some friends went one afternoon. It was not convenient to take me, although it had been promised that I should go to The Holy Isle before we left.
That memorable summer was nearly ended. Mr. Mouncey had gone to Glasgow. Mrs. Pringle's brother and his nephew got the boat. I made arrangements with Annie Smith to come with me to see the isle. The days were still long, so we got there in time to see the ruins of the abbey, and to try and read the indiscernible names on the tombs. There were no headstones, but all were lying flat, and were covered over with moss. Such were the graves of the monks. We rushed about to see all we could. The moss was more than a finger in length, and there were feathery-like ferns. The higher up the old building the more dainty they appeared. I asked the young man if he thought he could get some for me from the top, for I wanted some pulled up by the root to plant. At some risk he went, and, to my grief, he just pulled the ferns off. I brought different curios to keep in remembrance. We went into the house. I only saw one woman, and she did not look very bright. No wonder, either, surrounded by the sea and its deadliness. Mr. Cook, who was with us, spoke to her in Gaelic, and she brought in some scones and whisky. Neither Annie Smith nor I drank whisky, nor were we asked to, but the scones I shall never forget. They were made of flour, ground from green peas. I tested them, and I asked Mr. Cook afterwards what they were made of. He said they had a field of green peas, which, on being, gathered, they dried and ground after the Bible custom between two stones. They were as green as grass, but not bad to taste.
Mr. Cook was well acquainted with the isle, and he showed all the places of antiquity. The people who lived there had boats, and some more than one, and ran to and fro from Lamlash andBrodic. They made a good living in that way in summertime. We went back to our boat, and the tide had gone and left it high and dry on the side, such a long way from the water. Mr. Cook stood and looked in despair. He forgot that the tide was receding, as we were in such haste to get ashore, and he told us afterwards that he had never been on the isle after dark. The men who lived there had gone either to Brodic or Lamlash. The young man who was with Mr. Cook was named Cooke also. The strength of the four of us could move the boat, but it could not be dragged down the side of the rocks for fear of damage. So three we had to wait till the tide came in. It was moonlight, and the mental visions that passed through my mind are there yet. The people were anxious about us. Mr. Cook had only one eye, and they thought that some mishap had occurred. We got home alright, and I was glad I had seen The Holy Isle.
While it is fresh in my mind, I may add here that many years after I was telling a friend about my trip to The Holy Isle. A friend of hers came in and sat down. She begged me to finish the incident, and I went all through about the ferns, and so on. Someone called to the man that sat by me. I looked to see if he were going. He called out to the questioner that he would not move till I had told my experience of that night on the isle. He then said he was the young man that climbed up the ruins to get me the ferns. His name was Cook, and he was employed in a confectioner's shop in Adelaide. He had a wife and children. I hoped to see him again, but I was away from Adelaide for some time. When I returned I made enquiries, and was told that he bought a place near Blackwood. It was laughable that, not knowing the man, I should be telling a story in which he had a part. If he is alive and sees his name in print I hope he will pardon me.
I still love the beautiful and the true. Nothing lasts, pleasure least of all. I knew the joy of living and of my freedom, with no one to make me afraid. My name was then Anna Macdonald. The name gave me an entrance amongst the people of Arran, as I was one of them. I understood that my by-gone relations had all drifted from Scotland through some religious matter, but that did not trouble me.
But I must not linger over by-gones. I felt a sort of responsibility to myself and those I loved. I had only myself to depend on for my food and clothing and to help others. It seemed very well for the preachers to tell you of the lilies of the field that toiled not, neither did they spin, and so on. Scotland is not the place for that style of life. This is not meant ironically.
The time for going back to town was drawing nearer, and we had only two more Sundays. I used often to go with some of the people to church in the morning, although I did not understand the Gaelic. They had Gaelic Bibles as well. The sameminister would preach in English in the afternoon, and then we often saw people from Glasgow. I saw a young gentleman one Sunday from Mr. Somervill's church. His name was Malcolm White, and he was studying to be a minister, but was not yet ordained. I told the young ladies on the way home. I was so pleased to see him, although I was not near enough to speak to him, as I would like to have done, as he was my teacher at a Bible-class.
Miss Heslip said she wished that she had seen him, as he had been one time tutor to her brothers. He had just published a book, of which he was the author. They asked me many things about him when they saw that I knew him. We all knew at the class that he was a young man from amongst the working people. It was he who helped me to gather the money to pay the fine for the little boy who broke the lamp-glass one Sunday. I had to tell him of the sad sequel at the time, and he told me to try and forget it. I had been thinking of all the questions I would ask him when I got back about Arran. One very old man told me that when the apostles were sent "far hence," that some of them landed at Arran.
Soon the time of our stay concluded. We were getting some pebbles and shells and seaweed, and I dearly wanted some ferns with the root attached. There were a lot of large ferns growing near the bathing-place, so I got Master Robert and Miss Annie Mouncey to come and help me. Miss Annie and I held them back and Master Robert, in the hope of finding some tiny fronds, pushed right through till he entered a large cave. He ran and called his father, and then Mr. Cook came and made a clear way into a place that went ever so far in the rock. There was a strange-looking thing, like a lamp, hanging from the roof. Mr. Mouncey could stand upright in the place. Neither Mr. Pringle nor any of the others knew anything about it. How we wished we had found it in the early part of our stay, but we hoped to examine it the next year, and begged the people to let it remain hidden till we came back. No doubt something could be discovered about it to tell a tale. It seemed natural that we should think of all the countless cruel deeds of olden times wrought by a blind and brutal humanity.
The thought of "home, sweet home," brought happiness to the young people. Annie Smith promised to come with me to Slamannan when I went, and to tell my relatives how she saved me from the deep sea. After many kind good-byes, we were once more on board the Iona, and the Isle of Arran was far away. As it was well towards the end of the season there was a scene of excitement coming and going between the shore and the boat. We had to go in small boats. How it has all clung to my memory. There was one laughable incident. Some economist had been saving or buying eggs till he had a hamperful. Because they were notpacked well, or owing to the heedless way they were carried, they tumbled on the deck. The eggs began to roll about. Like that of some sudden explosion was the effect, and both ladies and gentlemen got up on the seats. Anyone who saw those sailors mopping up the decks and cleaning away the eggs would never forget the look on their faces. Every now and then, when they thought all was cleared, the lurching of the ship would send some more eggs rolling out from under the seats. The comic episode caused laughter to everyone but the sailors and the person to whom the eggs belonged.
I could not help being glad that I was back in Glasgow again. Everyone seemed so happy. Yet all was strange, and in the midst of my happy feelings I could not forget the uncertainty at home, or the trouble as to what we were going to do. My dearest ambition was to live at home with my father and brother and sister. But I had a dread of the pinch of poverty, and Glasgow was then in a fearful state. The war in America had broken out, and hundreds and thousands of people were thrown out of employment. All the cotton-mills were stopped, as the raw cotton came from America. Then all the commerce or trade from Glasgow to America was at a standstill. I thought it bad enough before we went to Arran, but it was worse then. Every day persons were coming to the door begging, and one could see tradesmen and mechanics digging in the West-End park for a shilling per day. How often I have found, too, in the morning sleeping in the archway some poor boys that had been there all night. They had no home. I was all the time in sadness, but what could I do? No efforts of mine could lessen the sorrow of even one human being. I should assist my own people first. And despair sometimes possessed me.
Miss Heslip went to her home, and Mr. Mouncey went away to Italy, and when we had things straight I was to have a few days and go to Slamannan. I went and saw my friends at Dr. Fargus', and to the Bible-class, and told Mr. White that I had seen him at Brodic, and I told him about Miss Heslip being a visitor with Mr. Mouncey's people. Mr. White said he knew Mr. Mouncey, but he had never met Miss Mouncey. Before Miss Heslip went there was a concert at the Queen's Rooms, close to us. Jenny Lind was the singer. It was a guinea to go in to hear her. She gave all she got for that night and many other nights to therelief of the poor and the distressed. Our two young ladies were in evening-dress, and I was to bring wraps. While I was waiting, together with some other girls on the same errand, the man at the door asked us if we would like to see and hear the singer, there being a place on the ground-floor from which we could both see and hear her without being seen. We were glad, and thanked the man. There was only Jenny Lind's husband with her to play the accompaniment. She had just commenced to sing "John Anderson, my jo, John," and her husband was at the piano. He seemed older than she was, and his head was bald, but the singing and the playing were beautiful. She sang a Swiss song, too, and that was all I heard. Could anyone ever forget the voice of that woman? And it seemed no effort for her to get the Scotch words so nicely. The ladies were pleased that I saw and heard her, even ever so little. I thought that Miss Mouncey and Miss Heslip sang very well, but both said that they would never sing again after hearing Jenny Lind.
Glasgow was a manufacturing city and crowded with human beings in the struggle to live. Edinburgh did not seem to me so bad, but I never lived there. There was some restless discontent going on in Italy. The world must move on. Life's destiny lay hidden from me. Mrs. Mouncey was good and kind. My sister came to see me. She had a baby girl! I was allowed to go out with her and show her some wonderful places about, and she stopped with me all night. My father and brother called to see me now and again, and my sensitive nature was keenly alive to every act of kindness shown to them.
In conversation with Mr. Malcolm White I told him that Miss Mouncey was going to Miss Heslip's for a time. He said he wished that he was acquainted with Miss Mouncey, as he had something to send to Miss Heslip. It came out very unexpectedly that I heard Miss Mouncey express herself equally anxious for an introduction to him, so I said, "Why not come to-morrow afternoon, Miss Mouncey will be at home?" I went into her room when I got home that night, and told her that Mr. White was coming to see her the next day. She could not understand it, and questioned me a lot as to what I said. She was perplexed, but not angry. He came, and I opened the door to him, and led him to the drawing-room. I found Miss Mouncey and announced her and shut the door, and I learned that the Rev. M. White became Miss Mouncey's husband two years after I came to Adelaide. He was a gentleman, according to my standard, and in every sense of the word she was a lady. Everything came about as I hoped. She often said that if ever she married she would like to marry a minister. I knew that she was sought for by others. I did not forget to ask about the apostles landing at Arran. I asked Mr. Somervill, as well as Mr. White. I had some things made plain to me which need not be added here.
The time came for me to go to Slamannan. All was turmoil there. I had not long been in the little house when my father came in and said, "Anna, why don't you go to Australia?" He had seen two young girls whom I knew, and they had only that day received a reply from London to tell them they were to sail for Queensland in two weeks' time. I sat and looked at him. I thought he was joking, and I said, "No, father, I will do all I can for you, but I will never cross the sea so far."
Later on, when I went out with my brother, I said, "Well, Mac, what would you say if I went to Australia?" He told me how he wished he could go somewhere out of Slamannan. I learned for the first time that he was working down in the coal-pits. And the next day when I saw him come in I made up my mind to come to Australia if they would take me. No one but myself knew my thoughts. My brother was a little over 14 years of age, and I was not 17. When I returned to Glasgow I knew that there were bills all about in the streets notifying that free passages would be given to capable young women as domestic servants to three different colonies, Queensland, South Australia, and Victoria. The notice went on to say that a doctor and a matron would be on board, and that the ships were fitted up with sanitary and other arrangements according to rule. I had often seen the advertisement before, but I never read it. I went to the place in Hope-street, and saw the agent, and asked if I could get my brother to come with me. When I told him the age he said "No," but added that if I had some friends out in the colonies they could send a grant or get an assisted passage for my brother. I said I had no one out there.
"Well," he said, "we will take you, and you can soon send for your brother." He talked to me for a long time, and gave me some papers to get filled in and to bring them back to him again. I took the papers, but I did not like to say anything to Mrs. Mouncey. That night I went to friends at Dr. Fargus', and they tried all they could to persuade me not to go to Australia. The Dr. and Mrs. Fargus were in London at the time, as there was a great exhibition there, and they had gone to see it.
I had no wish to see the world, and doubted if I would have the courage at the end. I mistrusted myself, but still I had the papers filled up. Some said I had lost my senses. When I explained the facts to my master and mistress, and showed them the conditions of the voyage in a printed form, they added their names as to what they knew of my reputation. Then the minister's name and the doctor's name were put on in addition, and the forms were sent to London.
Meanwhile I had gone to hear a man who was lecturing. He dealt with all the colonies in turn, and when he referred to South Australia and Adelaide, so pleasing were the pictures he drew of the country all round, that they made a deep impression on me. I knew no one in Adelaide, and I knew no one in that lecture-hall, but as I sat there my mind was made up to come to South Australia, having the choice between it and either Melbourne or Queensland. I told the Rev. A. N. Somervill, when I showed him the papers, that I would like to come to Adelaide, and he said that a college friend of his was in the city of Adelaide. His name was Dr. Gardner, and they wrote to each other. From Dr. Gardner's account he thought it would be a nice place to live, and when I left Glasgow Mr. Somervill gave me a letter to Dr. Gardner, who was minister of Chalmer's Church, North-terrace.
I was healthful, sound of body, and free from disease, and I did not think so much of the trouble of the voyage.
It seemed, such a short time after the papers were sent away till I had an answer back to say that I was to hold myself in readiness to sail from Liverpool or Birkenhead in a ship called the Morning Star. That was near the end of October. I had not told them at home what I had done in regard to applying for a passage, and I was to be at the place of embarkation not later than November 2. With a fluttering heart I went to Slamannan. They would not believe me. Then they did not want me to go. I was sorely tried. I wondered at the maze of difficulties; the only thing which determined me was that it was too late to draw back. I craved for their sympathy, and asked them to let me go. I overheard a man speaking to my father. He asked if it was true that I was going out to the colonies. My father said "Yes." He replied, "Surely you will not let your daughter go." My father said "Yes." The man had some family himself, and he then said, "If it were a daughter of mine that wanted to go to that wild, outlandish place I would take her to the plantation and take a gun and shoot her rather than let her go to such a place."
I heard it all, and had a cry. I did not know enough to realise the distance or the time I would be on the sea. The Morning Star was a sailing vessel.
In spite of my impulsive nature it was hard to give up all the humble joys of youth, and I thought I could face the future better in Scotland. What would a strange land hold for me? It is no use to tell how the colliers and their wives and friends crowded to see me, as they said to mix up the sour with the sweet. We were living in the main street of Slamannan then, and my sister and her husband, as well as the colliers and others,gathered together and got the large hall and arranged a concert on my behalf. I felt grateful to many whom I had never seen before. All round I was asked such strange questions, and was told I was rushing to destruction. Some thought I would get eaten when I got out here.
The final morning came. It was dark and cold on November 2. All my own relations travelled with me to Glasgow, but at the railway-station at Slamannan there were the people again with their hearty farewells. I told them I would come back and see them some day, and I did so. The brave spirit which sustained me gave way, and I went in tears to say good-bye to my friends in Glasgow. Oh, the bitterness of that hour! To see the old scenes of my daily life and say the last word. I saw Dr. Reily, and he gave me some useful advice for ship life. In Scotland the days are short in November. The train left at 5 p.m. It was dark, and every familiar object grew dim. There was no one in the train whom I knew. I was told that it would be 7 o'clock the next morning before I would get to Liverpool. All night the train journeyed on, and at some of the stations we picked up some more weeping passengers. It seemed to console me when I saw others who I learned were going to Adelaide in the Morning Star.
When we got to Liverpool we were taken to Birkenhead. There was a queer-looking building where we were taken. I soon found that plenty of people were there to the appointed time for the voyage, and they did not seem afraid to travel to the fair land beyond the sea. Such a mixed lot of strangers I saw. There were Welsh and English married couples with their families. There were Welsh and English single young men and Welsh and English single young woman. Then there were Scotch and Irish married couples, and also their families, and single young Scotch men, and single young Scotch women. I can still remember how many single women there were altogether. There were 105. We had nothing to complain of. There were separate divisions for all the young women in a department by themselves with the married couples next to us. Then the young men were at the other side, and in the ship the same plan was carried through all the way on the voyage.
We did not sail till November 19, but there were no unreasonable restrictions. We went in and out at will. I went about with some of the married people, and clung to them all the way out and after. I go and see some of them at this date when I can find the time. The ship was brought alongside of the depot, as this place was called, and I thought it looked so splendid, so clean and nice; but, for all that, more than I thought it might be our last resting-place. The touch of kindness in it all was wonderful to me. One lady, also a free passenger, was elected as matron. She was an English lady, and she endeared herself to all. The doctor had all our names on a roll, and he called themover every evening and morning, and we had to answer to our names to see that none of us got lost. The doctor acted as chaplain. He was a bachelor, and had many years' experience of sea life. There was a punt that went to and fro from Birkenhead to Liverpool, and vehicles of all kinds with horses attached passed over on this punt. It cost a half-penny for each individual. We often went in companionship in that way, and we saw many things to surprise us in Liverpool.
We were watching to see when the Morning Star would sail, and wondering why we were there so long and were provided for, without payment, with good as well as suitable food. The last afternoon before we sailed we had our tea on board the ship. Some were skilled in music amongst the men, and they formed in a harmonious way and marched on board in order playing some lively tunes with flute and fiddle. Only to think that we must gradually get settled and be pent up within the walls of a ship for three months and not see land in that time! We girls were arranged so many for each table, and the table had a number. We took it in turns to keep the utensils and vessels that we used clean. The sleeping convenience, too, was adjusted for sleeping only. There were comfortable hammock-like beds, and two shared a compartment together. A young English girl came to me and said her name was put with mine for sleeping in the same division. I had not seen her before, as she came on board only in time to sail, as her home was in Liverpool. She cried bitterly at leaving home and mother. She was about 20 years of age, and so beautiful and pleasing, and she could sing. We went to sleep, and in the morning when I awoke I found the ship moving gently. We were being towed out of the dock by a steamboat.
It was a foggy morning. I could see the boat and I learned that we were in the River Mersey. How different it looked from the River Clyde! I was on the poop and a man was standing waving to a woman in the boat, who was also waving a handkerchief. He was a tall, strong-looking man, with such a tanned face. I looked up at him and saw the tears standing on his brown cheeks. That was our captain. When we got fairly out to sea a great many felt ill. Strange to say, I did not, and was able to be helpful and to go here and there and assist the others. Some were never on the deck for weeks, but rough or fine I never missed being in the open air for one day during the voyage. Iloved to watch the wheel that controlled the helm and guided that great ship in a direct course to Adelaide. A few verses, written by one of the married men, will give some idea of the high opinion we all had of the captain. They are still in a legible state, although written so long ago. I will add them here. The author of them is dead, but in his lifetime in South Australia his name was popular and high in public favor. Here are the lines:—
ON THE MORNING STAR.