All his virtues he inherited from his parents. Among Evan MacColl’s old country friends have been John Mackenzie, of “The Beauties;” the late R. Carruthers, LL.D., Hugh Miller, the brothers Sobeiskie Stewart, at Eilean-Aigais, and drank with them out of a _cuach_, once the property of Prince Charlie; Dugald Moore, author of “Scenes before the Flood,” and “The Bard of the North;” Alexander Rogers, the author of “Behave yourself before Folk,” Rev. Dr. Norman McLeod, Dr. Chambers, Bailey, the author of “Festus;” Leighton, author of “The Christening of the Bairn;” J. Stuart Blackie, the great Edinburgh professor; James Logan, author of “The Scottish Gael;” Fraser, of _Fraser’s Magazine_, and Hugh Fraser, the publisher of “Leabhar nan Cnoc.” He is a member of the Royal Canadian Literary and Scientific Society, founded by the Marquis of Lorne, and was the guest several times of his lordship and the Princess Louise at Rideau Hall, Ottawa. MacColl has been twice married. Of a family of nine sons and daughters, Evan, the poet’s eldest son, has been educated for the ministry, and is now pastor of the Congregational Church at Middleville, Ontario. His eldest daughter’s productions have merited a very high admiration, and the more youthful members of his family give promise of proving worthy of the stock from whence they sprang. John Massie, of Keene, a brother poet, not having heard from the “Bard of Lock Fyne” for over six weeks after having written him a letter, thus addressed the Limestone City:—
Say, Kingston, tell us where is Evan? Thy bard o’ pure poetic leaven! And is he still amang the livin’? Or plumed supernal, Has taen a jink and aff to heaven, There sing eternal!
Or if within your bounds you find him, A’ bruised and broken, skilfu’ bind him; Or sick, or sair, O! carefu’ mind him, Thy darling chiel! And dinna lat him look behind him Until he’s weel.
But if he’s gane, ah, wae’s to me! His like we never mair shall see,— Nae servile, whinging coof was he, Led by a string, But noble, gen’rous, fearless, free, His sang he’d sing.
Hech, sirs! we badly could bide loss him, For should this world vindictive toss him. Or ony hizzie dare to boss him. Clean gyte he’d set her; The deil himsel’, he daur’dna cross him, Faith, he ken’d better!