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.