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 with the 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 and Brodic. 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 same minister 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 not packed 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.
BACK IN GLASGOW AGAIN.
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 the relief
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.
I DECIDE TO COME TO ADELAIDE.
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.