FOOTNOTES:

FOOTNOTES:[B]General Stewart's Sketches, vol. II., pp. 245-6.[C]Historical Record of the 79th Regiment by Captain Robert Jamieson, Edinburgh, 1863.[D]Captain Jamieson's Historical Record, Blackwood, Edinburgh, 1863.[E]The Rev. Mr Clerk's Memoir of Colonel Cameron of Fassifern, p. 109.[F]Mr Cameron of Lochiel, and Mr Cameron of Earrachd (Alan's father), had been, or were, at differences about the ownership of part of the property, when it was alleged that the latter was hardly used in the matter, by the former and his trustees, of whom Cameron of Fassifern was the most active. This misunderstanding led to a coolness between the families.[G]It was returned to the Lord-Lieutenant by this company under the designation of "Cameron Lochiel." The captain's attention was drawn to the misnomer, who disclaimed any knowledge of the error. It has transpired since to have been the act of an officer of the corps, now deceased, who must have committed this paltry piece of piracy, either from ignorance or subserviency.

[B]General Stewart's Sketches, vol. II., pp. 245-6.

[C]Historical Record of the 79th Regiment by Captain Robert Jamieson, Edinburgh, 1863.

[D]Captain Jamieson's Historical Record, Blackwood, Edinburgh, 1863.

[E]The Rev. Mr Clerk's Memoir of Colonel Cameron of Fassifern, p. 109.

[F]Mr Cameron of Lochiel, and Mr Cameron of Earrachd (Alan's father), had been, or were, at differences about the ownership of part of the property, when it was alleged that the latter was hardly used in the matter, by the former and his trustees, of whom Cameron of Fassifern was the most active. This misunderstanding led to a coolness between the families.

[G]It was returned to the Lord-Lieutenant by this company under the designation of "Cameron Lochiel." The captain's attention was drawn to the misnomer, who disclaimed any knowledge of the error. It has transpired since to have been the act of an officer of the corps, now deceased, who must have committed this paltry piece of piracy, either from ignorance or subserviency.

TheGael, their language, their songs, and their melodies, will live or die together. If the one sinks they shall all sink. If the one rises they shall all rise. If the one dies they shall die together, and shall all be buried in the same grave. Is it possible that a people, with such a language, such songs, and such delicious melodies, shall vanish and disappear from the earth, and their place become occupied by others? It cannot happen, and I candidly assert for myself that, were the whole of the Breadalbane Estate mine, I would willingly part with it for the sake of being able to master the songs and the melodies of my Highland countrymen. I have reason to be thankful for the circumstances in which I was placed in the days of my youth. I had eight brothers and a sister. My father had a fine ear for music, and an excellent voice, and frequently gratified our young ears, during the long winter evenings, by playing on the Jew's harp and singing the words connected with the different Highland airs. There was also a man in our immediate neighbourhood who was frequently in the house, who played on the violin, and who was one of the best players of our native airs I ever listened to. The consequence was that as I grew up I was very fond of singing, and to this moment of my life I do not think that it had any bad effect upon me; and certainly my fondness for Gaelic songs was the first thing that led me to read the Gaelic language. From fifteen to the age of twenty I herded my father's sheep among the Grampians. The following is a true description of my state then:—

'Nuair bha e 'na bhalachGu sunndach, 's lan aighear,'S mac-talla 'ga aithrisA cantuinn nan oran,Toirt air na cruaidh chreagan,Le 'n teangannan sgeigeil,Gu fileant 'ga fhreagradh,Gu ceileireach ceolmhor.A laddie so merry'Mong green grass and heather,The voice of the echoRehearsing his story:The mountains so rockyTo mimic and mock him,Becoming all vocalLike songsters so joyful.

About the age of twenty a change came over me, when I forsook the songs, but not their melodies, and had recourse to Buchanan's, M'Gregor's, and Grant's hymns as a source of gratification. I was, in a measure, prepared to enjoy them, as I found several of the melodies I used to sing, in the hymns. M'Gregor was my great favourite. He was every inch a man, a Gael, a scholar, a poet, a Christian, and a great divine. I regret that his hymns are not more extensively known. Forty-two years ago I composed several hymns—six or seven years afterwards a few more—but during the last ten years, I suppose, nearly fifty. I have done as much as I could to regenerate the songs of my country. My predecessors carefully avoided cheerful and lively airs, especially those with a chorus, but I find these generally, when the subject is applicable to them, the most powerful and the most appropriate for use in connection with the preaching of the gospel. Last summer I sang one of them in a Free Church, on a Sabbath evening, to the Gaelic part of the congregation. As I was descending from the pulpit, the Gaelic precentor, and a deacon, whispered in my ears, "Tha i sin fad air thoiseach air laoidhean Shanci." (That is far before Sankey's hymns.)

So far as I know, singing Gaelic songs has had no evil effect upon our countrymen. Indeed, singing is one of the prettiest, and one of the most harmless things connected with human nature, even in its degenerate state. A man who can sing a Gaelic song well is properly considered a favourite. It is felt that he spreads kindness, and infuses joy and happiness in the social circle—the language and the sweet melody of the piece will banish all melancholy and bitter feelings from the mind. A man influenced by a wicked malicious disposition is certainly not disposed to sing. The practice they have of fulling or shrinking cloth in the West Highlands has had a great tendency to keep up the native melodies. Five, six, or seven females are seated in a circle facing one another. The cloth having been steeped, is folded in a circle. Each holds it in both hands, while they raise it as high as the breast, and then bring it down with a thump on the board. In this way it goes gradually round from the one to the other. A person standing outside would only hear one thump. The chosen leader commences the song, all unite, and by raising and lowering their hands they beat time to the tune. This generally attracts a crowd of listeners. I have seldom listened to finer singing.

Lachlan M'Lean, the author of "Adam and Eve," and one of the greatest enthusiasts for the language, the songs, and the music of the Gael, that ever lived, was one day on board a steamer going from Tobermory to Oban. A number of Skye females were on board. He placed them seated in a circle on deck, and they commenced singing, with their handkerchiefs in their hands, to the great delight of all on board, with the exception of an elderly austere professor of religion, who frowned upon them and silenced them. If such be the effect of real religion, I have yet to learn it. I have no doubt the same man, if he could, would prevent the larks from singing; and as well attempt to do the one as the other. I am certain that he would rather have his ears stuffed with cotton than listen toPiobaireachd Dho'il Duibhplayed on the bagpipes.

Robert Burns has been greatly vilified by a certain class of preachers. He and his songs have been held forth as a great curse to his countrymen; but when these Rev. Divines and their hot, but mistaken, zeal is forgotten, Robert Burns will shine forth, and in the long run will be found to be a greater blessing to his country than his accusers. For certainly no man ever did more to keep up the native language and the melodies of the Lowland Scotch than he has done. The same is equally true respecting our Highland bards.Taing dhuit a Dhonnachaidh Bhain, agus do d' chomh-Bhaird airson nan oranan gasda, agus nam fuinn bhinn a dh'fhag sibh againn.I am certain that the Scotch must return to the melodies in their native language. Sankey's melodies may do for a short time, but will never find a lasting lodgment in the Scottish heart like their own delicious melodies. There is as inseparable a connection betweentheirmelodies and their native language, as there is between our Highland melodies and our native Gaelic. The Gaelic may easily take up their melodies, but the English never.

Those tunes that are used in public worship have no melody to my soul like our native airs, and it is utterly impossible for me to feel otherwise. This assertion will find a testimony in the bosoms of men, although their prejudices may be opposed to it. Where is the man that would compose a song in praise of his fellow-creature, that would attempt to sing it to a psalm tune? Should he do so, all men would look upon him as a blockhead. And what is the great difference between praising a fellow-creature and praising the Redeemer? I can conceive none, except that the latter deserves a sweeter, and, if possible, a more delicious melody. I think it was Rowland Hill who wisely said that "he could not see why the devil should have all the finest tunes," and I quite agree with him.

It is also a fact, although I understand English as well as Gaelic, that it has not the same effect upon me in singing it. Although the English were sung with the greatest art, and in the best possible style, it would neither warm our hearts nor melt our souls like singing in Gaelic. I feel that the great "mistress of art" has a tendency to puff me up, whereas I have no such feelings in my Gaelic. Perhaps one-third of the songs of the Gael are love songs, and the delicacy of feeling which is manifest in most of them is extraordinary. They will not offend the most refined ear; so that we have reason to be proud of our race in that respect. Our songs may be divided into two classes—the cheerful and plaintive. In the former we have M'Lachlan's "Air fatll-ir-inn, ill-ir-inn, uill-er-inn o." M'Intyre's song to his spouse, "Mhairi bhan og," and "Ho mo Mhairi Laghach"—translated by Professor Blackie in the first number of theCeltic. These are instances of lyric poetry as beautiful as ever saw the light, and melodies as sweet as can be listened to. In the other may be placed "Fhir a bhata 's na ho ro eile," which was lately sung in Inveraray Castle in the presence of Her Majesty. Another is:—

A Mhalaidh bhoidheach,A Mhalaidh ghaolach,A Mhalaidh bhoidheach,Gur mor mo ghaol duit,A Mhalaidh bhoidheach,'S tu leon 's a chlaoidh mi,'S a dh'fhag mi bronachGun doigh air d'fhaotainn.

What a delicious piece! how full of sweet melody! Can the English language produce its equal? Poor fellow, he was sincere. The deer would be seen on wings in the air, fish on tops of mountains high, andblacksnow resting on the tree branches, before his love to her would undergo any change.

Perhaps one-fourth of our songs are Elegies to the departed; and the melodies to which these are sung are as plaintive and melting as can be listened to. I place at the head of this class the "Massacre of Glencoe," and Maclachlan's Elegy, to the same air, in memory of Professor Beattie of Aberdeen. I said in my "Address to Highlanders" that the Fort-William people might, on the top of Ben Nevis, defy the English and broad Scotch to produce its equal:—

Ghaoil, a ghaoil, de na fearaibh,'S fuar an nochd air an darach do chrè,'S fuar an nochd air a bhord thu,Fhiuran uasail bu stold ann a'd bheus,'N cridhe firinneach soilleir,D'am bu spideal duais foille na sannt,Nochd gun phlosg air an deileSin mo dhosguinn nach breugach mo rann.

It is utterly impossible to give a proper expression of that piece in any other language.

Lachlan M'Lean, already referred to, composed an elegy, to a daughter of the Laird of Coll, who died in London and was buried there, to the same air:—

Och! nach deach do thoirt dachaidhO mhearg nigheana Shassuinn 's an uair,Is do charadh le mōrachd.Ann an cois na Traigh mhor mar bu dual;Fo dhidean bhallachan ardaFar am bheil do chaomh mhathair 'na suain,'S far am feudadh do chairdean,Dol gach feasgair chuir failte air t'uaigh.

I entered his shop soon after this appeared in theTeachdaire Gaelach, and sung him some verses of it. He could scarcely believe that it was his own composition. He seemed in a reverie, his eyes speaking inexpressibles.

"Gaoir nam Ban Muileach"—(The wail of the Mull women)—is another extraordinary piece. I am sorry that I could not get hold of it. M'Gregor also has three hymns suited to this beautiful air. There is a good deal of monotony in singing the few first lines, but it reaches a grand climax of expression at the sixth. The last line is repeated twice. When two or three sing it together, and the whole join in chorus at the sixth line, I have seldom heard singing like it.

Dr M'Donald composed an elegy, to the Rev. Mr Robertson, with a very plaintive air—the air of a song occasioned by the great loss at Caig—

Ochan nan och, is och mo leon,Tha fear mo ruin an diugh fo'n fhoid,Tha fear mo ruin an diugh fo'n fhoid,'S cha teid air ceol no aighear leam.

Many of the songs of the Gael might be called patriotic songs, and they make us feel proud that we are Gaels. Their daring feats in the field of strife against the enemies of our country, as at Bannockburn, Waterloo, Alma, &c., are celebrated in song. Their quarrels, amongst themselves, is the only thing that makes us feel ashamed of them. Several of their songs raise us in our own estimation, with good cause, above our neighbours the Lowlanders, the English, and the French. The songs of the Gael embrace every variety—their language, mountains, corries, straths, glens, rivers, streams, horses, dogs, cows, deer, sheep, goats, guns, field labour, herding, boats, sailing, fishing, hunting, weddings—some of them as funny as they can be, and some the most sarcastic that was ever written. There is always something sweet and pretty about them. The artless simplicity of the language, with its extraordinary power of expression, gives them an agreeable access to the mind, which no other language can ever give.

The power these melodies have over the Gael is really extraordinary. I was told by a piper, who was at the Battle of Alma, that when on the eve of closing with the Russians, he, contrary to orders, played "Sud mar chaidh 'n cal a' dholaidh, aig na Bodaich Ghallda," which had a most powerful effect upon the men, on which account alone he was pardoned. I saw a man who heard a piper playing "Tulloch gorm" in the East Indies, and it made him weep like a child. About two years ago a young man, a native of Oban, was out far in the country, in Australia, and having entered a hotel, he saw a man who had the appearance of being a Highlander, in the sitting-room. He (of Oban) was in a room on the opposite side of the passage, and thought to himself "If he is a Gael I'll soon find out," and leaving the door partially open, that he might see him without being seen, he commenced playing, on the flute, the most plaintive Highland airs. No sooner did he begin than the other began to move his body backward and forward. At last he bent down his body, covering both his eyes with the palms of his hands, and began to sob out "Och! och mise; och! och mise." He (my informant) then played some marching airs, and instantly the other raised his head and began to beat time with both feet. At last he played some dancing airs, when one foot only was engaged in beating time. He then raised a hearty laugh and closed the door with a bang. The man rushed forward, but finding the door closed he settled down a little. The door was opened, and what a meeting of friends! what union of hearts! what kindness of feeling! what joy! What was the cause of all these? What but the melodies of the Gael.

Now, I am certain that were I to listen to the native melodies of my country in distant parts of the world, I would also weep. But there is nothing that ever I listened to that would affect me so much as: "Crodh Chailean." Many a cow has been milked to that air, and many a fond mother soothed her child to rest with it, and I am sure it would be a greater accomplishment for young ladies to be able to sing it properly than any German or Italian air they could play on the piano:

Bha crodh aig Mac Chailean,Bheireadh bainne dhomh fhein,Eadar Bealtuinn is Samhainn,Gun ghamhuinn, gun laogh,Crodh ciar, crodh ballach,Crodh Alastair Mhaoil,Crodh lionadh nan gogan,'S crodh thogail nan laogh.

Shaw composed several hymns to this air.

I suppose there is not a class of people on the face of the earth that have finer imaginations than the Gael. This has arisen partly, no doubt, from their language, so adapted for lyric poetry and composition, and verses calculated to give scope to the imaginative faculty. It has arisen likewise from the place of their birth. The roaring Atlantic, the grandeur of the resounding flood in their rocky glens. Waterfalls, down dashing torrents, fast flowing rivers. The scream of the curlew, the lapwing, the plover, and the shrill whistle of the eagle. The shadows of the clouds seen moving majestically along in the distance—all these have a great tendency to move and to give wing to the imagination. But I believe that the ditties they have been accustomed to hear sung in their youth have had a far greater effect upon them. Could these be all collected they would form a rare collection. How often has "Gille Callum" been sung—

Gheibh thu bean air da pheghinn,Rogh is tagh air bonn-a-se,Rug an luchag uan boirionn,'S thug i dhachaidh cual chonnaidh.

When one begins to tell what is not true, it is better to tell falsehoods which no one can believe. Now I am certain that children at the age of four would not believe "Gille Callum's" lies, and would understand at once that they were all for fun, and still it would have the effect of setting them a-thinking, perhaps more than had it been sober truth.

The following I have frequently heard:—

H'uid, uid eachan,C'ait am bi sinn nochdan,Ann am baile Pheairtean,Ciod a gheibh sinn ann,Aran agus leann,'S crap an cul a chinn,'S chead dachaidh.

Huid, uidis used in Perthshire for making horses run. The boy is set astride on a man's knee, which is kept in motion like a trotting horse. Stretching both his hands, the boy, in imagination, is trotting to Perth, where he expects bread and ale; and as a finish to the whole, a knock on the back of the head, and leave to go home. Many a hearty laugh have I seen boys enjoy when they got the knock on the head. Another is—seizing a child's hand, and beginning at the thumb giving the following names—"Ordag, colgag, meur fad, Mac Nab, rag mhearlach nan caorach 's nan gobhar, cuir gad ris, cuir gad ris." Reaching the small finger, the thief is seized and severely scourged with the rod, and a roar of laughter is raised by the youngsters. Placing a child between the knees and slowly placing the one foot before another with the following words, is another—

Cia mar theid na coin do n' mhuileannMar sud, 's mar so,'S bheir iad ullag as a phoc so,'S ullag as a phoc sin,

And then moving them quicker—

'S thig iad dachaidh air an trot,Trit, trot, dhachaidh.

Ullagmeans the quantity of meal raised by the three fingers. What a glee of hilarity is raised when the quick motion commences?

The following is a very imaginative piece, descriptive of a flighty individual who proposes to do more than he can accomplish:—

Cheann a'n Tobermhuire'S a chollainn 's a Chrianan,Cas a'm Boad hoi-e,'S a chas eil a'n GrianaigHead in Tobermory,Body in Crianan,Foot in Boad (Bute) hoi-e,Other foot in Grianaig (Greenock).

It is a most melancholy fact, that at present there is a combined and a determined effort put forth to banish the native language, and the native melodies of the Gael entirely from the country, and to bring the whole population under the sway of the artificial language taught in our schools, and of its artificial melodies. The foreigner represents ourlanguage as low and vulgar, quite destitute of the sterling qualities peculiar to his own; and consequently not deserving either to be held fast, or to be worthy of attentive study. And in order that he may be the more successful in his effort, he pretends to be our greatest, our only friend; heartily disposed to make us learned, wealthy and honourable, yes, and, of course, pious too. I say to him at once, without any ceremony, keep back, sir, give over your fallacious, your blustering bombast, we know the hollowness of your pretensions. The Gael has a language and melodies already, superior to any that you can give him, and would you attempt to rob him of his birthright and inheritance, which is dear to him as his heart's blood? Every true friend of the Gael would certainly give him a good English education; but instead of doing away with his own language and melodies, it would be such an English education as would ground him more than ever in a knowledge of his own. Is it not an acknowledged fact that, there is nothing that grounds students more thoroughly in a knowledge of a language than to translate it from his own. This mode of teaching is perhaps more troublesome to schoolmasters at first, but when once fairly tried and put in practice, it will, without doubt, be the most agreeable and the most successful part of their work, and would not have such a deadening effect, either upon their own minds, or upon those of their scholars.

ARCHD. FARQUHARSON.

Island of Tiree.

O autumn! to me thou art dearest,Thou bringest deep thoughts to me now,For the leaves in the forest are searest,And the foliage falls from each bough.And then as the day was declining,While nature was wont to repose,A sage on his harp was recliningWho sang of Lochaber's bravoes.He played and he sang of their glory,Their deeds which the ages admire;Then softly, then wildly, their storyHe told on the strings of his lyre.While praise on the heroes he lavished,And lauded their triumphs again,A maid came a-list'ning, enravished—Enrapt by his charming refrain.O! bright were the beams of her smiling,I sigh for the peace on her brow,Not a trace on her features of guiling,My heart singeth songs to her now.Inspired by the rapturous measure,This fair one skipt over the lea:One morning I sought the young treasure,Now dear as my soul she's to me.

O autumn! to me thou art dearest,Thou bringest deep thoughts to me now,For the leaves in the forest are searest,And the foliage falls from each bough.

And then as the day was declining,While nature was wont to repose,A sage on his harp was recliningWho sang of Lochaber's bravoes.

He played and he sang of their glory,Their deeds which the ages admire;Then softly, then wildly, their storyHe told on the strings of his lyre.

While praise on the heroes he lavished,And lauded their triumphs again,A maid came a-list'ning, enravished—Enrapt by his charming refrain.

O! bright were the beams of her smiling,I sigh for the peace on her brow,Not a trace on her features of guiling,My heart singeth songs to her now.

Inspired by the rapturous measure,This fair one skipt over the lea:One morning I sought the young treasure,Now dear as my soul she's to me.

DONALD MACGREGOR.

Member of the Gaelic Society of London.

(Continued.)

"Oh! nach be 'n ceatharnach am fleasgach, bu mhor am beud cuir as da gun chothrom na Feinne" (Ah! what a valiant youth, it would be a pity to extinguish him without according him Fingalian fair play), shouted several voices at once. "Did you ever hear the story about Glengarry and his old castle, when he was buried alive with Macranuil under the foundation?" askedAlastair Mac Eachain Duibh. "I heard it, when, last year in Strathglass, and you shall hear it." At this stage "Norman" exhibited signs of his intention to go away for the night, when several members of the circle, backed up by the old bard, requested the favour of one more story ere he departed. Norman would rather hearAlastair'sstory of Glengarry, and would wait for it. "No, no," exclaimedAlastair, "you can have my story any time; let us have one more from Norman before he leaves, and I will give mine afterwards, for he may never come back to see us again." "That I will," says Norman, "as often as I can, for I have just found out a source of enjoyment and amusement which I did not at all expect to meet with in this remote corner of the country. However, to please you, I'll give you a story about Castle Urquhart; and afterwards recite a poem of my own composition on the Castle, and on the elopement of Barbara, daughter of Grant of Grant, with Colin Mackenzie, "High-Chief of Kintail."

Glen Urquhart, where Castle Urquhart is situated, is one of the most beautiful of our Highland valleys, distant from Inverness some fourteen miles, and expands first from the waters of Loch Ness into a semicircular plain, divided into fields by hedgerows, and having its hillsides beautifully diversified by woods and cultivated grounds. The valley then runs upwards some ten miles to Corriemonie, through a tract of haughland beautifully cultivated, and leading to a rocky pass or gorge half-way upwards or thereabouts, which, on turning an inland valley, as it were, is attained, almost circular, and containing Loch Meiglie, a beautiful small sheet of water, the edges of which are studded with houses, green lawns, and cultivated grounds. Over a heathy ridge, beyond these two or three miles, we reach the flat of Corriemonie, adorned by some very large ash and beech trees, where the land is highly cultivated, at an elevation of eight or nine hundred feet above, and twenty-five miles distant from, the sea. At the base of Mealfourvonie, a small circular lake of a few acres in extent exists, which was once thought to be unfathomable, and to have a subterranean communication with Loch Ness. From it flows the Aultsigh Burn, a streamlet which, tumbling down a rocky channel, at the base of one of the grandest frontlets of rock in the Highlands, nearly fifteen hundred feet high, empties itself into Loch Ness within three miles of Glenmoriston. Besides the magnificent and rocky scenery tobe seen in the course of this burn, it displays, at its mouth, an unusually beautiful waterfall, and another about two miles further up, shaded with foliage of the richest colour. A tributary of the Coiltie, called the Dhivach, amid beautiful and dense groves of birch, displays a waterfall, as high and picturesque as that of Foyers; and near the source of the Enneric river, which flows from Corriemonie into the still waters of Loch Meigle, another small, though highly picturesque cascade, called the Fall of Moral, is to be seen. Near it, is a cave large enough to receive sixteen or twenty persons. Several of the principal gentlemen of the district concealed themselves here from the Hanoverian troops during the troubles of the '45.

On the southern promontory of Urquhart Bay are the ruins of the Castle, rising over the dark waters of the Loch, which, off this point, is 125 fathoms in depth. The castle has the appearance of having been a strong and extensive building. The mouldings of the corbel table which remain are as sharp as on the day they were first carved, and indicate a date about the beginning of the 14th century. The antiquary will notice a peculiar arrangement in the windows for pouring molten lead on the heads of the assailants. It overhangs the lake, and is built on a detached rock separated from the adjoining hill, at the base of which it lies, by a moat of about twenty-five feet deep and sixteen feet broad. The rock is crowned by the remains of a high wall or curtain, surrounding the building, the principal part of which, a strong square keep of three storeys, is still standing, surmounted by four square hanging turrets. This outward wall encloses a spacious yard, and is in some places terraced. In the angles were platforms for the convenience of the defending soldiery. The entrance was by a spacious gateway between two guard rooms, projected beyond the general line of the walls, and was guarded by more than one massive portal and a huge portcullis to make security doubly sure. These entrance towers were much in the style of architecture peculiar to the Castles of Edward I. of England, and in front of them lay the drawbridge across the outer moat. The whole works were extensive and strong, and the masonry was better finished than is common in the generality of Scottish strongholds.

The first siege Urquhart Castle is known to have sustained was in the year 1303, when it was taken by the officers of Edward I. who were sent forward by him, to subdue the country, from Kildrummie near Nairn, beyond which he did not advance in person, and of all the strongholds in the north, it was that which longest resisted his arms.

Alexander de Bois, the brave governor and his garrison, were put to the sword. Sir Robert Lauder of Quarrelwood in Morayshire, governor of the Castle ina.d.1334, maintained it against the Baliol faction. His daughter, marrying the Earl of Strathglass, the offspring of their union, Sir Robert Chisholm of that Ilk, became Laird of Quarrelwood in right of his grandfather. After this period it is known to have been a Royal fort or garrison; but it is very likely it was so also at the commencement of the 14th century, and existed, as such, in the reigns of the Alexanders and other Scottish sovereigns, and formed one of a chain of fortresses erected for national defence, and for insuring internal peace. In 1359 the barony and the Castle of Urquhart were disponed by David II. to William,Earl of Sutherland, and his son John. In 1509 it fell into the hands of the chief of the Clan Grant, and in that family's possession it has continued to this day.

How it came into the possession of John Grant the 10th Laird, surnamed the "Bard," is not known; but it was not won by the broadsword, from Huntly, the Lieutenant-General of the king. It has been the boast of the chiefs of the Clan Grant that no dark deeds of rapine and blood have been transmitted to posterity by any of their race. Their history is unique among Highland clans, in that, down to the period of the disarming after Culloden, the broadswords of the Grants were as spotless as a lady's bodkin. True it is, there were some dark deeds enacted between the Grants of Carron and Ballindalloch; and at the battles of Cromdale and Culloden, the Grants of Glenmoriston were present, but far otherwise was the boast of the Grants of Strathspey—a gifted ancestry seemed to transmit hereditary virtues, and each successive scion of the house seemed to emulate the peaceful habits of his predecessor. That this amiable life did not conceal craven hearts is abundantly evident from the history of our country. There is a continual record of gallant deeds and noble bearing in their records down to the present time, and there are few families whose names, like the Napiers and the Grants, are more conspicuous in our military annals. But their rise into a powerful clan was due to the more peaceful gifts, of "fortunate alliances," and "Royal bounties."

It is much to be regretted that so little has been transmitted to posterity of the history of this splendid ruin of Castle Urquhart.

The probability is that it is connected with many a dark event over which the turbulence of the intervening period and the obscurity of its situation have cast a shade of oblivion.

The most prominent part of the present mass, the fine square tower of the north-eastern extremity of the building is supposed to have been the keep, and is still pretty entire. From this point, the view is superb. It commands Loch Ness from one end to the other, and is an object on which the traveller fixes an admiring gaze as the steamer paddles her merry way along the mountain-shadowed water. On a calm day the dashing echo of the Fall of Foyers bursts fitfully across the Loch, and when the meridian sun lights up the green earth after a midsummer shower, a glimpse of the distant cataract may be occasionally caught, slipping like a gloriously spangled avalanche to the dark depths below. "My story," said Norman, "in which the castle was the principal scene of action is quite characteristic of the times referred to. A gentleman of rank who had been out with the Prince and had been wounded at Culloden, found himself on the evening of that disastrous day, on the banks of the river Farigaig, opposite Urquhart Castle. He had been helped so far by two faithful retainers, one of whom, a fox-hunter, was a native of the vale of Urquhart. This man, perceiving the gentleman was unable to proceed further, and seeing a boat moored to the shore, proposed that they should cross to the old Castle, in a vault of which, known only to a few of the country people, they might remain secure from all pursuit. The hint was readily complied with, and, in less than a couple of hours, they found themselves entombed in the ruins of Urquhart Castle, where sleepshortly overpowered them, and, the sun was high in the heavens next day ere any of them awoke. The gentleman's wound having been partially dressed, the fox-hunter's comrade yawningly observed 'that a bit of something to eat would be a Godsend.' 'By my troth it would,' said the fox-hunter, 'and if my little Mary knew aught of poorEoghainn Brocair's(Ewan the fox-hunter) plight, she would endeavour to relieve him though Sassenach bullets were flying about her ears.' 'By heaven! our lurking-place is discovered!' whispered the gentleman, 'do you not observe a shadow hovering about the entrance.' ''Tis the shadow of a friend' replied theBrocair; and in an instant a long-bodied, short-legged Highland terrier sprung into the vault. 'Craicean, a dhuine bhochd,' said the overjoyed fox-hunter, hugging the faithful animal to his bosom, 'this is the kindest visit you ever paid me.' As soon as the shades of evening had darkened their retreat,Eoghainnuntied his garter, and binding it round the dog's neck, caressed him, and pointing up the Glen, bade him go and bring theBrocairsome food. The poor terrier looked wistfully in his face, and with a shake of his tail, quietly took his departure. In about four hours 'Craicean' reappeared and endeavoured by every imaginable sign to makeEoghainnfollow him outside. With this theBrocaircomplied, but in a few seconds he re-entered accompanied by another person.Eoghainnhaving covered the only entrance to the cave with their plaids, struck a light and introduced, to his astonished friends, his betrothed young Mary Maclauchlan. The poor girl had understood by the garter which bound the terrier's neck, and which she herself had woven, that herEoghainnwas in the neighbourhood, and hastened to his relief with all the ready provision she could procure; and not least, in the estimation of at least two of the fugitives, the feeling maiden had brought them a sip of unblemished whisky. In this manner they had been supplied with aliment for some time, when one night their fair visitor failed to come as usual. This, though it created no immediate alarm, somewhat astonished them; but when the second night came and neither Mary nor her shaggy companion arrived,Eoghainn'suneasiness, on Mary's account, overcame every other feeling, and, in spite of all remonstrance, he ventured forth, in order to ascertain the cause of her delay. The night was dark and squally, andEoghainnwas proceeding up his native glen like one who felt that the very sound of his tread might betray him to death. With a beating heart he had walked upwards of two miles, when his ears were saluted with the distant report of a musket. Springing aside he concealed himself in a thicket which overhung the river. Here he remained but a very short time when he was joined by theCraiceandragging after him a cord, several yards in length. This circumstance brought the cold sweat from the brow of theBrocair. He knew that their enemies were in pursuit of them, that the cord had been affixed to the dogs neck in order that he might lead to their place of concealment; and alas!Eoghainnfeared much that his betrothed was at the mercy of his pursuers. What was to be done? The moment was big with fate, but he was determined to meet it like a man. Cutting the cord and whispering to the terrier, "cul mo chois" (back of my heel) he again ventured to the road and moved warily onward. On arriving at an old wicker-wrought barn, he saw a light streaming from it, when creeping towards it, he observed a party of the enemy surrounding poor Mary Maclauchlan, who was, at the moment, undergoing a close examination by their officer. 'Come girl,' said he, 'though that blind rascal has let your dog escape, who would certainly have introduced us to the rebels,youwill surely consult your own safety by guiding me to the spot; nay, I know you will, here is my purse in token of my future friendship, and in order to conceal your share in the transaction you and I shall walk together to a place where you may point me out the lurking place of these fellows, and leave the rest to me; and do you,' continued he, turning to his party, 'remain all ready until you hear a whistle, when instantly make for the spot.' TheBrocaircrouched, as many a time he did, but never before did his heart beat at such a rate. As the officer and his passive guide took the road to the old Castle,Eoghainnfollowed close in their wake, and, when they had proceeded about a mile from the barn, they came upon the old hill road when Mary made a dead halt, as if quite at a loss how to act. 'Proceed, girl,' thundered the officer, 'I care not one farthing for my own life, and if you do not instantly conduct me to the spot where the bloody rebels are concealed, this weapon,' drawing his sword 'shall, within two minutes, penetrate your cunning heart.' The poor girl trembled and staggered as the officer pointed his sword to her bosom, when the voice ofEoghainnfell on his ear like the knell of death, 'Turn your weapon this way, brave sir,' said theBrocair, 'Turn it this way,' and in a moment the officer and his shivered sword lay at his feet. 'Oh, for heaven's sake,' screamed the fainting girl, 'meddle not with his life.' 'No, no, Mary; I shall not dirty my hands in his blood. I have only given him the weight of my oak sapling, so that he may sleep soundly till we are safe from the fangs of his bloodhounds.' That very night the fugitives left Urquhart Castle and got safe to the forests of Badenoch, where they skulked about with Lochiel and his few followers until the gentleman escaped to France, whenEoghainn Brocairand his companion ventured once more, as they themselves expressed it, 'to the communion of Christians.' The offspring of theBrocairand Mary Maclauchlan are still in Lochaber."

ALASTAIR OG.

(To be Continued.)

"After many years he returned to die."

The last of the clansmen, grey-bearded and hoary,Sat lone by the old castle's ruin-wrapt shade,Where proudly his chief in the bloom of his gloryOft mustered his heroes for battle arrayed:He wept as he gazed on its beauties departed,He sighed in despair for its gloom of decay,Cold-shrouded his soul, and he sung broken-hearted,With grief-shaking voice a wild woe-sounding lay.—"Weary, weary, sad returning,Exiled long in other climes,Hope's last flame, slow, feebly burningSeeks the home of olden times:In my joy why am I weeping?Where my kindred? Where my clan?Whispers from the mountains creeping,Tell me 'I'm the only man.'"Yon tempest-starred mountains still loom in their grandeur,The loud rushing torrents still sweep thro' the glen,Thro' low-moaning forests dim spirits still wander,But where are the songs and the voices of men?Tell me, storied ruins! where, where are their slumbers?Where now are the mighty no foe could withstand?The voice of the silence in echoing numbers,Breathes sadly the tale of fate's merciless hand."Ah me! thro' the black clouds, one star shines in heaven,And flings o'er the darkness its fast waning light,'Tis to me an omen so tenderly given,Foretelling that soon I will sink in my night:The coronach slowly again is far pealing!The grey ghosts of kinsmen I fondly can trace!Around me they gather! and silent are kneeling,To gaze in deep sorrow on all of their race!Slowly, slowly, sadly viewingWith their weird mysterious scan,Desolation's gloomy ruin!All of kindred! all of clan!Ah! my heart, my heart is fainting,Strangely shaking are my limbs,Heav'nward see! their fingers pointing,And my vision trembling swims.Slowly, slowly, all-pervading,O'er me steals their chilly breath,See! the single star is fading,Ling'ring in the joy of death,Darkness swiftly o'er me gathers,Softly fade these visions wan,Welcome give, ye spirit fathers,I'm the Last of all the Clan!"

"Ah me! thro' the black clouds, one star shines in heaven,And flings o'er the darkness its fast waning light,'Tis to me an omen so tenderly given,Foretelling that soon I will sink in my night:The coronach slowly again is far pealing!The grey ghosts of kinsmen I fondly can trace!Around me they gather! and silent are kneeling,To gaze in deep sorrow on all of their race!Slowly, slowly, sadly viewingWith their weird mysterious scan,Desolation's gloomy ruin!All of kindred! all of clan!Ah! my heart, my heart is fainting,Strangely shaking are my limbs,Heav'nward see! their fingers pointing,And my vision trembling swims.Slowly, slowly, all-pervading,O'er me steals their chilly breath,See! the single star is fading,Ling'ring in the joy of death,Darkness swiftly o'er me gathers,Softly fade these visions wan,Welcome give, ye spirit fathers,I'm the Last of all the Clan!"

WM. ALLAN.

Sunderland.

BARON BRUNO OR THE UNBELIEVING PHILOSOPHER, AND OTHER FAIRY STORIES.ByLouisa Morgan. Macmillan & Co.

Wedo not care for Fairy Tales, as a rule, but we have read this book with genuine pleasure. It is written in a pleasant, easy style, and though it has the full complement of witchcraft, enchanted princesses, and, sudden transformations, it deals more with human sympathies and affections than is usual, in this class of literature. There are five different stories, of which the scene of two is laid in Germany, one in Denmark, one in Wales, and the other in the Highlands of Scotland. Baron Bruno, or the Unbelieving Philosopher, is the story of the Prime Minister at the Grand Ducal Court of Rumple Stiltzein. The Baron is not only a clever Statesman, but a Philosopher and Astronomer; albeit, a sceptic in religious matters. He is so wrapt up in his abstruse studies that he ignores the pleasures of domestic life, and lives a solitary man without wife or children. At last he begins to feel the loneliness of his home life, and overcome in spite of himself, he cries aloud—"To you distant stars! I nightly offer the homage of a constant worshipper; would that you in return could give me to know the spell of love, and teach me what it is that inspires the painter, the poet, and the lover." This impassioned address is immediately answered by the appearance of a beautiful maiden, who informs him that she is sent to teach him the spell of love, and to try to lead him through the influence of human affections to believe in the immortality of the soul. She becomes his wife, but exacts a promise from him, that once every month she is to spend the evening hours in undisturbed solitude, as her life depends on the strict observance of this. She also tells him that if he doubts her faith even for a moment she will have to leave him and return to her celestial home. They live happily for a time, but at length, through the machinations of a wicked Countess Olga, a spinster of uncertain age, who had hoped to have gained the Baron for herself, he becomes uneasy, and one night is so worked upon by the wily insinuations of the spiteful Countess, and irritated at the non-appearance of his wife at a Grand State Ball, that he rushes home in a frenzy of suspicion, and regardless of his promise, breaks in on the Baroness' seclusion. The result is disastrous, the child dies and his wife returns to her starry home; but her mission is fulfilled, for over the death-bed of his infant—a scene full of pathos—his heart softens and he avows his belief. This story is capitally told, and considerable humour is displayed in the account of a grand Court Dinner, at which the young Prince and his mischievous companions amuse themselves by sticking burrs on the footmen's silk stockings, much to the discomfiture of the poor flunkeys, the dismay of the high officials, and the indignation of the Grand Duke.

"Esgair: The Bride of Llyn Idwyl," is founded on an old Welsh Legend, and is a graceful, though rather weird story. "Eothwald, the young sculptor," tells how a Mermaiden was wooed and won, but in Eothwald's breast the artist was stronger than the lover, and the poor Mermaid died broken-hearted.

"Fido and Fidunia" is the longest of the tales, and will, we think, be the favourite with young folks. Fido is the very embodiment of canine sagacity, and poor, plain, unsophisticated Fidunia is a well drawn character, though she seems to be rather hardly dealt by. There is one thing which may be considered a defect in this otherwise charming book; all the heroines, though amiable and faultless, come to a sad end. They are made the scapegoats of their masculine companions. Though this is too often the case in real life, it is much more pleasant in a Fairy Tale, that all the amiable characters should be married and "live happy ever after."

Eudæmon, the hero of the Highland story, is the son of Valbion, the wild sea-king, who has deserted him and his mother. Eudæmon, as may be supposed from his mixed parentage, is a singular being, living a hermit-like life in the lonely Castle Brochel, on the Island of Raasay. Carefully educated by his mother, he knows all the medicinal properties of herbs and minerals. This, combined with magic lore inherited from his father, enables him to perform such wonderful cures that he is known far and wide as "The Enchanter of the North." His fame reaches the Lowlands, where lives a beautiful princess, afflicted, through the magical spells of Valbion, with dumbness. Her parents bring her to Castle Brochel in the hope that Eudæmon may work her cure. He begins by teaching her the game of chess, and then tries the power of music. This enables her to sing but not to speak. To complete the cure it is necessary that she should visit the abode of the powerful Valbion himself in the mysterious submerged halls of Thuisto—an expedition fraught with great danger; and which, though it proves the means of restoring speech to the princess, proves fatal to Eudæmon, through the indiscretion of the Queen. The poor Princess in gaining the use of her tongue loses her heart, and, like a second Ophelia, goes distracted, for the loss of her lover.

The following is given as the Highland Legend of Castle Brochel, on which the story is founded:—

On the eastern side of the Isle of Raasay there still stands a lonely ruin known as Castle Brochel. Parched upon precipitous rocks at the very verge of the ocean, it is easy to imagine how, armed and provisioned, this fortress held its own amid the perpetual warfare of early Celtic times. Castle Brochel has always borne a doubtful reputation. According to tradition, it was originally built with the price of blood, for the ancient legend runs somewhat after this fashion. Shiel Torquil went forth with his dogs one morning to hunt the red deer on the wild mountains Blaven and Glamaig, in the neighbouring Island of Skye. Sheil Torquil had with him only one retainer, but he was a host in himself, being surnamed, from his immense size and strength, the Gillie More. After some time they sighted a stag. In the ardour of the chase the dogs soon ran out of sight, pursuing their quarry towards the shore at Sligachan. Now it so happened that the young Kreshinish in his galley was anchored on that side of the island within sight of the beach. He saw the hunted animal about to take to the water, and swim, as deer are often known to do, across the narrow strait which lies between Skye and Raasay. Kreshinish and his men at once landed and took possession, not only of the stag itself, but of the dogs which, panting and exhausted, were unable to offer any resistance. Shiel Torquil presently appeared on the scene and angrily asked for his deer and his hounds. Kreshinish refused to deliver them up. A bloody struggle ensued, during which the Gillie More inflicted a fatal wound upon the ill-fated young chieftain who unwittingly(at first) had interfered with the sports of another. This brought the affray to a speedy conclusion, and Shiel Torquil with his follower carried off deer and dogs in triumph. Not long after this the poor old father of Kreshinish came to Skye to seek for the murderer of his son, and publicly offered the reward of a bag of silver to any one who would show him the guilty man. The Gillie More, hearing of the promised guerdon, boldly entered the presence of the elder Kreshinish. Confessing that he himself had slain the youthful chieftain, he urged in self-defence the young man's overbearing conduct in attempting to carry off Shiel Torquil's stag-hounds and game. The bereaved father, obliged by the stringent laws of Highland honour to fulfil his solemn promise, reluctantly bestowed the bag of silver on the very man who had cut off his only child in the early bloom of manhood. The Gillie More, however, haunted by remorse, and still fearing the avenger's footstep, entreated his master to accept the money and build therewith a retreat for them both. Shiel Torquil granted his henchman's request. After some time spent in searching for a suitable site, they at last selected the wild easterly shore of Raasay. Here were speedily raised the frowning walls of Castle Brochel. Secured from sudden attack by the inaccessible situation of their refuge, the Gillie More and his master lived in peace for many years. Their retired habits, and their dislike to intruders, coupled with this strange tale of robbery and murder, caused the Castle, though newly-built, to be regarded with no friendly eye. When they died, it was left untenanted for a considerable time. Many reports were circulated concerning the strange sights and sounds to be seen and heard at the eerie hour of twilight, or amid the silent watches of the night, by the belated traveller who chanced to pass that way by sea or by land. At the period of which we speak, Castle Brochel had, however, for some time been inhabited by a being whose origin was partially shrouded in mystery, the gloomy Eudæmon, known as the "Enchanter of the North."

It will be seen that our author is ignorant of the Gaelic language; for she thinksShiel Torquil—or correctly,Siol Torquil—is a proper name, and applies it to a person, instead of a sept or branch of the Macleods. She is also defective in her knowledge of Hebridean geography. OldKreshinish—correctlyGrishernish—comestoSkye, while we all know the place, and the man, who was called after it, to beinSkye.

We are divulging no secret however, in stating that, although the author appears to be but indifferently acquainted with the Highlands, she is of Highland extraction. And now that the connection is re-established by her brother, John Darroch, Esq., by his recent purchase of the Estate of Torridon, she will enjoy better opportunities of making herself more fully acquainted with the country of her ancestors.

The book is beautifully illustrated by R. Caldecott.

Logan's Scottish Gael.—This publication, by Hugh Mackenzie, Bank Lane, has reached the fourth part. In the third we have coloured and well executed plates of the Bonnets of the Highlanders, and the Sporans of the different Highland Regiments; after which we have an account of the peculiar Oaths of the Gael; the Chief's Body Guard; Mode of Drawing up the Highland Armies; Right of certain Clans to certain positions; Military tactics and Mode of Attack; Valour of the Celtic Females; Duties of the Bards; Origin, Adaptation to the country, and Equity of Clanship; Fosterage; Mode of Electing Chiefs, and Titles of Celtic Nobility; Origin of Feudal Tenures; Creachs; Blackmail; &c., &c. Part four treats of Gaelic Law and Law Terms; Judges; Punishments; Manner of Dress; Painting the Body; Animal's Skins; Origin of Clan Tartans; Native Dyes; Costumes; Bonnet; Shield Ornaments; Women's Dress; Defensive Armour; Mail and Helmets; Shields, and other interesting matter. Great credit is due to the publisher for the expeditious progress he is making in bringing out the work.

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