Highland Legend.

The Story of the Scotch Soldier.

“Upon my soul it’s a fact.”Matthews—and Self.

“Upon my soul it’s a fact.”

Matthews—and Self.

For the Table Book.

“Is the master at home, sir?” said a broad-shouldered Scotchman (wearing a regimental coat of the —— regiment, and with his bonnet in his hand) to myself, who had answered a ring at the office-bell. I replied that he was not. “Weel, that’s onlucky, sir,” said he, “for ye see, sir, a hae goten a pertection here, an’ a hae been till a’ the Scotchmen that a can hear ony thing o’, but they hae a’ signed for the month; an’ a hae a shorteness o’ brith, that wunna lat me wurk or du ony thing; an’ a’d be vary glaid gin a cud git doon to Scoteland i’ the nixt vaissel, for a hanna’ a baubee; an’, as a sid afore, a canna wurk, an’ gin maister B. wud jist sign ma pertection, a hae twa seagnatures, an’ a’d git awa’ the morn.” For once I had told no lie in denying Mr. B. to his visitor, and, therefore, in no dread of detection from cough, or other vivâ voce evidence, I ushered the “valiant Scot” into thesanctumof a lawyer’s clerk.

There is a very laudable benevolent institution in London, called the “Scottish Hospital,” which, on proper representations made to it, signed by three of its members, (forms whereof are annexed, in blank, to the printed petition, which is given gratuitously to applicants,) will pass poor natives of Scotland to such parts of their father-land as they wish, free of expense, and will otherwise relieve their wants; but each member is only allowedto sign one petition each month. This poor fellow had come in hopes of obtaining Mr. B.’s signature to his request to be sent home; and, while waiting to procure it, told me the circumstances that had reduced him to ask it.

He was a native of ——, where the rents had lately been raised, by a new laird, far beyond the capabilities of the tacksmen. They had done their best to pay them—had struggled long, and hard, with an ungrateful soil—but their will and industry were lost; and they were, finally, borne down by hard times, and harsh measures. ’Twas hard to leave the hearths which generations of their forefathers had shadowed and hallowed—’twas yet harder to see their infants’ lips worrying the exhausted breast, and to watch the cheeks of their children as they grew pale from want—and to see their frolics tamed by hunger into inert stupidity. An American trader had just touched at their island, for the purpose of receiving emigrants, and half its inhabitants had domiciled themselves on board, before her arrival had been known twelve hours. Our poor Scot would fain have joined them, with his family and parents, but he lacked the means to provide even the scanty store of oatmeal and butter which they were required to ship before they could be allowed to step on deck; so, in a fit of distress and despair, he left the home that had never been a day out of his sight, and enlisted with a party of his regiment, then at ——, for the sole purpose of sending to the afflicted tenants of his “bit housey,” the poor pittance of bounty he received, to be a short stay ’twixt them and starvation.

He had been last at St. John’s, Newfoundland; “and there,” said he, indignantly, “they mun mak’ a cook’s orderly o’ me, as gin a war’ nae as proper a man as ony o’ them to carry a musket; an’ they sint me to du a’ the odd jobes o’ a chap that did a wife’s-wark, tho’ there were a gude fivety young chaps i’ the regiment that had liked it wul aneugh, and were better fetting for the like o’ sican a place than mysel.—And so, sir,” he continued, “thar a was, working mysel intill a scalding heat, and than a’d geng out to carry in the cauld water; an’ i’ the deeing o’t, a got a cauld that sattled inwardly, an’ garr’d me hae a fivre an’ spit blood. Weel, sir, aifter mony months, a gote better; but oh! a was unco weak, and but a puir creature frae a strong man afore it: but a did na mak muckle o’t, for a thought ay, gin ony thing cam o’t to disable me, or so, that a should hae goten feve-pence or sax-pence a-day an’ that had been a great help.”

——Oh! if the rich would but take the trouble to learn how many happy hearts they might make at small expense—and fashion their deeds to their knowledge—how many prayers might nightly ascend with their names from grateful bosoms to the recording angel’s ears—and how much better would the credit side of their account with eternity appear on that day, when the great balance must bestruck!——

There was a pause—for my narrator’s breath failed him; and I took the opportunity of surveying him. He was about thirty, with a half hale, half hectic cheek; a strong red beard, of some three days’ growth, and a thick crop of light hair, such as only Scotchmen have—one of the Cain’s brands of our northern brethren—it curled firmly round his forehead; and his head was set upon his broad shoulders with that pillar of neck which Adrian in particular, and many other of the Roman emperors, are represented with, on their coins, but which is rarely seen at present. He must, when in full health, have stood about five feet seven; but, now, he lost somewhat of his height in a stoop, contracted during his illness, about the chest and shoulders, and common to most people affected with pulmonary complaints: his frame was bulky, but the sinews seemed to have lost their tension; and he looked like “one of might,” who had grappled strongly with an evil one in sore sickness. He bore no air of discontent, hard as his lot was; yet there was nothing theatrical in his resignation. All Scotchmen are predestinarians, and he fancied he saw the immediate hand of Providence working out his destiny through his misfortunes, and against such interference he thought it vain to clamour. Far other were my feelings when I looked on his fresh, broad face, and manly features, his open brow, his width of shoulders, and depth of chest, and heard how the breath laboured in that chest for inefficientvent——

“May be,” said he—catching my eye in its wanderings, as he raised his own from the ground,—“May be a’d be better, gin a were doon i’ wun nain place.” I was vext to my soul that my look had spoken so plainly as to elicit this remark. Tell a man in a consumption that he looks charmingly, and you have opened the sluices of his heart almost as effectually, to your ingress, as if you had really cured him. And yet I think this poor fellow said what he did, rather to please one whichhe saw took an interest in him, than to flatter himself into a belief of recovery, or from any such existing belief; for, shortly after, when I asked him what he would do in Scotland, “A dunna ken wat a mun du,” he replied; “a canna du ony labouring wark, an’ a ha na goten ony trade; but, ye see, sir, we like ay to die whar’ wer’re born; and my faither, an’ my gran’faither afore him forbye, a’ my ither kin, an’ the mither that bore me, there a’ i’ the nook o’ —— kirk-yaird; an’ than my wife an twa bairnies:”—There was a pause in the soldier’s voice; he had not learnt the drama of mendicity or sentimentality, but, by ——! there was a tear in hiseye.[78]—I hate a scene as much as Byron did, but I admire a feeling heart, and pity a sorrowful one——the tear did not fall. I looked in his face when I heard his voice again; his eye glistened, and the lash was wet, but the tear was gone—And there stood I, whose slender body scarcely comprehended one half of the circumference of his muscular frame.—“And the hand of Death is here!” said I; and then I turned my eyes upon myself, and almost wondered how my soul dwelt in so frail a tenement, while his was about to escape from such a seeming fastness of flesh.

After some further conversation, he told me his regiment had at one time been ordered off for Africa against the Ashantees; and sure never mortal man regretted counter orders on such grounds as he did those which balked his expectations of a visit to Sierra Leone.—“A thought,” said he, “wur regiment woud ha gien to Aifrica against the Aishantees—an a was in hopes it wud—it’s a didly climate, an’ there was nae money goten out o’ the laist fray; but thin—perhaps its jist as well to die in ae place as anither—but than we canna bring wursels to feel it, tho’ we may think it—an’ than ye see, sir, as a sid afore, a hae twa bairnies, an gin a’d laid doon wi’ the rast, the mither o’ them might hae goten the widow’s pension for them an’ hirsel.”—The widow’s pension! sixpence a-day for a woman and two children—and death to the fourth person as the only price of it! Hear this, shade of Lemprière! Manlius and the Horatii died to save a country, and to purchase earthly immortality by their deaths—but here’s a poor fellow willing to give up the ghost, by sword, plague, pestilence or famine, to secure a wife and two children two-pence each, per day!

Look to it, ye three-bottle beasts, or men—as the courtesy of a cringing world calls you—look to it, when ye toast the next lordly victor “with three times three!”—Shout ’till the roof rings, and then think, amid the din of your compeers, of thehumbledead—of those who walksilentlyin the path of the grave, and of the widowed and fatherless. Commanders die for glory, for a funeral procession, or a title, or wealth for those they leave behind; but who speaks of the private, who dies with a wound for every pore?—he rots on the earth; or, with some scores or hundreds of his comrades, a few inches beneath it; and his wife gets—“sixpence a day!”

Poor fellow, thought I, as I looked on my narrator—were I a king—but kings cannot scrape acquaintance with every man in the ranks of their forces—but had I been your officer, Ithinkyou should not have wanted your pension for the few days that are to shine on you in this world; and, had you fallen, it should have gone hard with me, but your wife and two children should have had their twopence each per day—and, were I a man of fortune, I would be proud to keep the life in such a heart, as long as God would permit—and so saying, or thinking—and blinking away the dimness of humanity from my eye—I thrust my hand into my pocket, and gave him Sixpence.—Reader! smile not; I am but a poor harum scarum headed mortal—’t was all I had, “in possession, expectancy, remainder, orreversion”—

J. J. K.

[78][“—TheACCUSING SPIRITflew up to heaven’s chancery with the oath, and blushed as he gave it in—theRECORDING ANGEL, as he wrote it down, dropped a tear upon the word, and blotted it out for ever!”—Sterne.Ed.]

The following poem originates in a legend which is still popular in many parts of the highlands of Scotland: that a female branch of the noble family of Douglas contracted an imprudent marriage with a kerne, or mountain peasant, who was drowned in the Western Islands, where he had escaped for concealment from the persecutions of the offended family of his wife. She survived him eighteen years, and wandered a maniac over the mountains, where, as superstition alleges, she is even now to be seen at daybreak. The stanzas are supposed to be the extempore recitations of an old bard to a group of attentive villagers.

THE LADY OF THE HILL.Poor girl! she seem’d of an unearthly mould,A thing superior to the frowns of fate;But never did my tearful eyes beholdA maid so fair, and so disconsolate;Yet was she once a child of high estate,And nurst in splendour, till an envious gloomSunk her beneath its harsh o’erpowering weight:Robb’d her pale features of their orient bloom,And with a noiseless pace, mov’d onwards to the tomb.She walk’d upon the earth, as one who knewThe dread mysterious secrets of the grave;For never o’er her eye of heav’nly blueLighten’d a smile; but like the ocean waveThat roars, unblest with sunshine, through the caveRear’d in the depths of Snowden, she had flownTo endless grief for refuge; and would rave,And tell to the night-winds her tale unknown,Or wander o’er the heath, deserted and alone.And when the rain beat hard against the hill,And storms rush’d by upon their wing of pow’r,Lonely she’d stray beside the bubbling rill,Or fearless list the deep-voic’d cataract’s roar;And when the tempest’s wrath was heard no moreShe wander’d home, the mountain sod to dressWith many a wreath, and many a summer flow’r:And thus she liv’d, the sister of distress,The solitude of love, nurst in the wilderness.She was the child of nature; earth, sea, sky,Mountain and cataract, fern-clad hill and dalePossess’d a nameless charm in her young eye,Pure and eternal, for in Deva’s valeHer heart first listen’d to a lover’s tale,Breath’d by a mountain kerne; and every sceneThat wanton’d blithely in the od’rous gale,Had oft beheld her lord’s enamour’d mien,As tremblingly she sought each spot where he had been.But she is gone! The cold earth is her pillow,And o’er her blooms the summer’s sweetest flow’r;And o’er her ashes weeps the grateful willowShe lov’d to cherish in a happier hour—Mute is the voice that breath’d from Deva’s bow’rChill is the soul of the neglected rover;We saw the death-cloud in destruction low’rO’er her meek head, the western waves roll’d overThe corse of him she lov’d, her own devoted lover.But oft, when the faint sun is in the west,And the hush’d gales along the ocean die,Strange sounds reecho from her place of rest,And sink into the heart most tenderly—The bird of evening hour, the humming bee,And the wild music of the mountain rill,Seem breathing sorrow as they murmur by,And whispering to the night, while all is still,The tale of the poor girl—the “Lady of the Hill.”W. F. D.—Indicator.

THE LADY OF THE HILL.

Poor girl! she seem’d of an unearthly mould,A thing superior to the frowns of fate;But never did my tearful eyes beholdA maid so fair, and so disconsolate;Yet was she once a child of high estate,And nurst in splendour, till an envious gloomSunk her beneath its harsh o’erpowering weight:Robb’d her pale features of their orient bloom,And with a noiseless pace, mov’d onwards to the tomb.She walk’d upon the earth, as one who knewThe dread mysterious secrets of the grave;For never o’er her eye of heav’nly blueLighten’d a smile; but like the ocean waveThat roars, unblest with sunshine, through the caveRear’d in the depths of Snowden, she had flownTo endless grief for refuge; and would rave,And tell to the night-winds her tale unknown,Or wander o’er the heath, deserted and alone.And when the rain beat hard against the hill,And storms rush’d by upon their wing of pow’r,Lonely she’d stray beside the bubbling rill,Or fearless list the deep-voic’d cataract’s roar;And when the tempest’s wrath was heard no moreShe wander’d home, the mountain sod to dressWith many a wreath, and many a summer flow’r:And thus she liv’d, the sister of distress,The solitude of love, nurst in the wilderness.She was the child of nature; earth, sea, sky,Mountain and cataract, fern-clad hill and dalePossess’d a nameless charm in her young eye,Pure and eternal, for in Deva’s valeHer heart first listen’d to a lover’s tale,Breath’d by a mountain kerne; and every sceneThat wanton’d blithely in the od’rous gale,Had oft beheld her lord’s enamour’d mien,As tremblingly she sought each spot where he had been.But she is gone! The cold earth is her pillow,And o’er her blooms the summer’s sweetest flow’r;And o’er her ashes weeps the grateful willowShe lov’d to cherish in a happier hour—Mute is the voice that breath’d from Deva’s bow’rChill is the soul of the neglected rover;We saw the death-cloud in destruction low’rO’er her meek head, the western waves roll’d overThe corse of him she lov’d, her own devoted lover.But oft, when the faint sun is in the west,And the hush’d gales along the ocean die,Strange sounds reecho from her place of rest,And sink into the heart most tenderly—The bird of evening hour, the humming bee,And the wild music of the mountain rill,Seem breathing sorrow as they murmur by,And whispering to the night, while all is still,The tale of the poor girl—the “Lady of the Hill.”

She walk’d upon the earth, as one who knewThe dread mysterious secrets of the grave;For never o’er her eye of heav’nly blueLighten’d a smile; but like the ocean waveThat roars, unblest with sunshine, through the caveRear’d in the depths of Snowden, she had flownTo endless grief for refuge; and would rave,And tell to the night-winds her tale unknown,Or wander o’er the heath, deserted and alone.

And when the rain beat hard against the hill,And storms rush’d by upon their wing of pow’r,Lonely she’d stray beside the bubbling rill,Or fearless list the deep-voic’d cataract’s roar;And when the tempest’s wrath was heard no moreShe wander’d home, the mountain sod to dressWith many a wreath, and many a summer flow’r:And thus she liv’d, the sister of distress,The solitude of love, nurst in the wilderness.

She was the child of nature; earth, sea, sky,Mountain and cataract, fern-clad hill and dalePossess’d a nameless charm in her young eye,Pure and eternal, for in Deva’s valeHer heart first listen’d to a lover’s tale,Breath’d by a mountain kerne; and every sceneThat wanton’d blithely in the od’rous gale,Had oft beheld her lord’s enamour’d mien,As tremblingly she sought each spot where he had been.

But she is gone! The cold earth is her pillow,And o’er her blooms the summer’s sweetest flow’r;And o’er her ashes weeps the grateful willowShe lov’d to cherish in a happier hour—Mute is the voice that breath’d from Deva’s bow’rChill is the soul of the neglected rover;We saw the death-cloud in destruction low’rO’er her meek head, the western waves roll’d overThe corse of him she lov’d, her own devoted lover.

But oft, when the faint sun is in the west,And the hush’d gales along the ocean die,Strange sounds reecho from her place of rest,And sink into the heart most tenderly—The bird of evening hour, the humming bee,And the wild music of the mountain rill,Seem breathing sorrow as they murmur by,And whispering to the night, while all is still,The tale of the poor girl—the “Lady of the Hill.”

W. F. D.—Indicator.

By John Hay Allan, Esq.

There is not probably, at the present day, a more social and exhilarating convocation than a highland wedding among the lower orders. The ancient hospitality and kindliness of character fills it with plenty and good humour, and gathers from every side all who have the slightest claim in the blood, name, and friendship of the bride or bridegroom. That olden attachment, which formerly bound together the superiors and their dependants, yet so far influences their character as to bring them together at the same board upon this occasion. When a wedding is to take place, the attendance of the chief, or laird, as well as that of the higher tacksmen, is always solicited by the respective parties, and there are few who would refuse this mark of consideration and good-will. The clansmen are happy in the honour which they receive, and the “Duinne-Uasal” is pleased with the regard and respect which renders the countenance of his presence necessary to his people.

Upon the day of the wedding, the friends of the bridegroom and the bride assemble at the house of their respective parents, with all the guns and pistols which can be collected in the country. If the distance of the two rendezvous is more than a day’s march, the bridegroom gathers his friends as much sooner as is necessary to enable them to be with the bride on the day and hour appointed. Both parties are exceedingly proud of the numbers and of the rank which their influence enables them to bring; they therefore spare no pains to render the gathering of their friends as full and as respectable as possible. The company of each party dines at the house of their respective parents. Every attainable display of rustic sumptuousness and rustic gallantry is made to render the festival worthy of an occasion which can happen but once in a life. The labour and the care of months have been long providing the means wherewith to furnish the feast with plenty, and the assistants with gayety; and it is not unfrequent that the savings of a whole year are expended to do honour to this single day.

When the house is small, and the company very numerous, the partitions are frequently taken down, and the whole “biel” thrown into one space. A large table, theentire length of the house, is formed of deal planks laid upon tressels, and covered with a succession of table-cloths, white though coarse. The quantity of the dinner is answerable to the space which it is to cover: it generally consists of barley broth, or cock-a-leeky, boiled fowls, roasted ducks, joints of meat, sheep’s heads, oat and barley cakes, butter, and cheese; and in summer, frothed buttermilk, and slam. In the glens where goats are kept, haunches of these animals and roasted kids are also added to the feast. In the olden time, venison and all kinds of game, from the cappercalich to the grouse, were also furnished; but since the breach of the feudal system, and its privileges, the highland lairds have become like other proprietors in the regulation of their game, and have prohibited its slaughter to their tenants upon pain of banishment.

Yet the cheer of the dinner is not so remarkable as the gear of the guests. No stranger who looked along the board could recognise in their “braws” the individuals whom the day before he had seen in the mill, the field, or the “smiddie.” The men are generally dressed to the best of their power in the lowland fashion. There are still a few who have the spirit, and who take a pride, to appear in the noble dress of their ancestors. These are always considered as an honour and an ornament to the day. So far however has habit altered the custom of the people, even against their own approbation, that notwithstanding the convenience and respect attached to the tartans, they are generally laid aside. But though the men are nothing deficient in the disposition to set themselves off in the lowland fashions, from the superior expense of cloth and other materials of a masculine dress, they are by no means so gay as the lasses. Girls, who the yester even were seen bare-headed and bare-footed, lightly dressed in a blue flannel petticoat and dark linen jacket, are now busked in white frocks, riband sashes, cotton stockings on their feet, and artificial flowers on their heads. The “merchant’s” and the miller’s daughters frequently exhibit the last fashion from Edinburgh, and are beautified and garnished with escalloped trimmings, tabbed sleeves, tucks, lace, gathers, and French frills! As it has been discovered that tartan is nothing esteemed in London, little or none is to be seen, except in the red plaid or broached tunic of some old wife, whose days of gayety are past, but who still loves that with which she was gay in her youth. It is to be regretted that Dr. Samuel Johnson had not lived to witness these dawnings ofreasonandimprovement; his philosophical mind might have rejoiced in the symptoms of approaching “civilization” among the highlanders.

The hour of dinner is generally about one o’clock; the guests are assembling for two hours before, and each as he enters is presented with a glass of “uisga” by way of welcome. When the company is seated, and the grace has been said, the bottle makes a regular round, and each empties a bumper as it passes. During the meal more than one circle is completed in the same manner; and, at the conclusion, another revolutionary libation is given as a finale. As soon after dinner as his march will allow, the bridegroom arrives: his approach is announced at a distance by a continual and running discharge of firearms from his party. These signals are answered by the friends of the bride, and when at length they meet, a general but irregular feu-de-joie announces the arrival. The bridegroom and his escort are then regaled with whiskey, and after they have taken some farther refreshment the two parties combine, and proceed in a loose procession to the “clachan.”

Sometimes, and particularly if there happens to be a few old disbanded sergeants among them, the whole “gathering” marches very uniformly in pairs; and there is always a strict regulation in the support of the bride, and the place of the bridegroom and his party. The escort of the former takes precedency in the procession, and the head of the column is generally formed of the most active and best armed of her friends, led by their pipes. Immediately after this advanced guard, come the bride and the females of her party, accompanied by their fathers, brothers, and other friends. The bride is supported on one side by a bridesman, and on the other by a bridesmaid; her arms are linked in theirs, and from the right and left hand of the supporters is held a white scarf or handkerchief, which depends in a festoon across the figure of the bride. The privilege of supporting the bride is indispensably confined to the bridesman and bridesmaid, and it would be an unacceptable piece of politeness for any other persons, however high their rank, to offer to supply their place. The bridegroom and his party, with their piper, form the rear of the procession and the whole is closed by two young girls who walk last at the array, bearing in a festoon between them a white scarf, similar to that held before the bride. During the march the pipes generally play the oldScots air, “Fye, lets a’ to the Bridal,” and the parties of the bride and bridegroom endeavour to emulate each other in the discharge of their fire-arms. In this order the bridal company reaches the church, and each pipe as it passes the gate of the surrounding cemetry becomes silent. In the old time the pipers played round the outside of the clachan during the performance of the service, but of later years this custom has been discontinued. The ritual of the marriage is very simple: a prayer for the happiness and guidance of the young couple who are about to enter upon the troubled tide of life; a short exhortation upon the duties of the station which they are to undertake, and a benediction by the imposition of the hands of the minister, is all the ceremonial of the union, and announces to them that they are “no longer two, but one flesh.”

In the short days of winter, and when the bridegroom has to come from a distance, it is very frequent that the ceremony is not performed until night. The different circumstances of the occasion are then doubly picturesque and affecting: while the cavalcade is yet at a distance, the plaintive pealing of the pipes approaching upon the stillness of the night, the fire-arms flashing upon the darkness, and their reports redoubled by the solitary echoes of the mountains, and when, at length, the train draws near, the mingled tread of hasty feet, the full clamour of the pipes, the mixed and confused visionry of the white figures of the girls, and the dark shadows of the men, with here and there the waving of a plaid and the glinting of a dirk, must be striking to a stranger, but wake inexpressible emotions in the bosom of a Gaël, who loves the people and the customs of his land.

The scene is still more impressive at the clachan. I have yet before me the groups of the last wedding at which I was present in the highlands. The church was dimly lighted for the occasion; beneath the pulpit stood the minister, upon whose head eighty-five winters had left their trace: his thinned hair, bleached like the “cana,” hung in ringlets on his neck; and the light falling feebly from above, shed a silvery gleam across his lofty forehead and pale features, as he lifted his look towards heaven, and stretched his hands above the betrothed pair who stood before him. The bridegroom, a hardy young highlander, the fox-hunter of the district, was dressed in the full ’a tans; and the bride, the daughter of a neighbouring shepherd, was simply attired in white, with a bunch of white roses in her hair. The dark cheek and keen eye of the hunter deepened its hue and its light as he held the hand which had been placed in his, while the downcast face of the bride scarcely showed distinctly more than her fair forehead and temples, and seemed, as the light shone obliquely upon them, almost as pale as the roses which she wore; her slim form bent upon the supporting arm of the bridesmaid—the white frill about her neck throbbing with a light and quick vibration.

After the ceremony of the marriage is concluded, it is the privilege of the bridesman to salute the bride. As the party leave the church, the pipes again strike up, and the whole company adjourns to the next inn, or to the house of some relation of the bride’s; for it is considered “unlucky” for her own to be the first which she enters. Before she crosses the threshold, an oaten cake is broken over her head by the bridesman and bridesmaid, and distributed to the company, and a glass of whiskey passes round. The whole party then enter the house, and two or three friends of the bridegroom, who act as masters of the ceremonies, pass through the room with a bottle of whiskey, and pour out to each individual a glass to the health of the bride, the bridegroom, and their clans. Dancing then commences to the music of the pipes, and the new-married couple lead off the first reel. It is a customary compliment for the person of highest rank in the room to accompany her in the next. During the dancing the whiskey-bottle makes a revolution at intervals; and after the reels and strathspeys have been kept up for some time, the company retires to supper. The fare of the supper differs little from that of the dinner; and the rotation of the whiskey-bottle is as regular as the sun which it follows.

[At highland festivals the bottle is always circulated sun-ways, an observance which had its rise in the Druidical “deas’oil,” and once regulated almost every action of the Celts.]

When the supper is announced, each man leads his partner or some female friend to the table, and seating himself at her side, takes upon himself her particular charge during the meal; and upon such occasions, as the means of the bride and bridegroom do not permit them to bear the expenses of the supper, he is expected to pay her share of the reckoning as well as his own. After supper the dancing again commences, and is occasionally inspired by the before-noticed circumvolutions of the “Uisga naBaidh.” The bride and bridegroom, and such as choose repose rather than merriment, retire to take a couple of hours’ rest before dawn; but the majority keep up the dancing till day. Towards morning many of the company begin to disperse; and when it is well light, breakfast is given to all who remain. Tea, multitudes of eggs, cold meat, a profusion of oat cakes, barley “scones,” and sometimeswheat bread, brought, perhaps, a distance of thirty miles, constitute the good cheer of this meal. When it is concluded, the bride takes leave of the majority of her friends, and accompanied only by her particular intimates and relations, sets off with the bridegroom and his party for her future residence. She is accompanied by her neighbours to the march of her father, or the tacksman under whom he lives, and at the burn-side (for such is generally the boundary) they dance a parting reel: when it is concluded, the bride kisses her friends, they return to their dwellings, and she departs for her new home. When, however, the circumstances of the bridegroom will permit, all those who were present at the house of the bride, are generally invited to accompany her on her way, and a renewal of the preceding festivities takes place at the dwelling of the bridegroom.

Upon these occasions it is incredible the fatigue which the youngest girls will undergo: of this one instance will give a sufficient proof. At a wedding which happened at Cladich by Loch Awe side, there were present as bridesmaids, two girls, not above fourteen years of age, who had walked to the bridal from Inbherara, a distance of nine miles. They attended the bride to the clachan of Inishail, and back to her father’s house, which is four miles farther. During the night none were more blithe in the dance, and in the morning after breakfast they accompanied the rest of the party to the house of the bridegroom at Tighndrum; the distance of this place is eighteen miles: and thus, when they had finished their journey, the two young bridesmaids had walked, without rest, and under the fatigue of dancing, a distance of thirty-one miles.

Such is the general outline of a highland wedding. In some districts, a few other of the ancient customs are yet retained: the throwing of the stocking is sometimes practised; but the blessing of the bridal couch disappeared with the religion of thepopes.[79]

Mr. Brand collects a variety of particulars respecting this wedding custom.

A curious little book, entitled “The West-country Clothier undone by a Peacock,” says, “The sack-posset must be eaten and the stocking flung, to see who can first hit the bridegroomon the nose.” Misson, a traveller in England at the beginning of the last century, relates, concerning this usage, that the young men took the bride’s stocking, and the girls those of the bridegroom; each of whom, sitting at the foot of the bed, threw the stocking over their heads, endeavouring to make it fall upon that of the bride, or her spouse: if the bridegroom’s stockings, thrown by the girls, fell upon the bridegroom’s head, it was a sign that they themselves would soon be married: and a similar prognostic was taken from the falling of the bride’s stocking, thrown by the young men. The usage is related to the same effect in a work entitled “Hymen,” &c. (8vo. 1760.) “The men take the bride’s stockings, and the women those of the bridegroom: they then seat themselves at the bed’s feet, and throw the stockings over their heads, and whenever any one hits the owner of them, it is looked upon as an omen that the person will be married in a short time: and though this ceremony is looked upon as mere play and foolery, new marriages are often occasioned by such accidents. Meantime the posset is got ready and given to the married couple. When they awake in the morning, a sack-posset is also given them.” A century before this, in a “A Sing-Song on Clarinda’s Wedding,” in R. Fletcher’s “Translations and Poems, 1656,” is the followingstanza:—

“This clutter ore, Clarinda layHalf-bedded, like the peeping dayBehind Olimpus’ cap;Whiles at her head each twitt’ring girleThe fatal stocking quick did whirleTo know the lucky hap.”

And the “Progress of Matrimony,” in “The Palace Miscellany,” 1733, says,

“Then come all the younger folk in,With ceremony throw the stocking;Backward, o’er head, in turn they toss’d it,Till in sack-posset they had lost it.Th’ intent of flinging thus the hose,Is to hit him or hero’ th’ nose:Who hits the mark, thus, o’er left shoulderMust married be, ere twelve months older.”

This adventuring against the most prominent feature of the face is further mentionedin “The Country Wedding,” a poem, in the Gentleman’s Magazine, for March 1735, vol. v. p. 158.

“Bid the lasses and lads to the merry brown bowl,While rashers of bacon shall smoke on the coal:Then Roger and Bridget, and Robin and Nan,Hit ’em each on the nose, with the hose if you can.”

Dunton’s “British Apollo,” 1708, contains a question and answer concerning this old usage.

“Q.Apollo, say, whence ’tis I pray,The ancient custom came,Stockings to throw (I’m sure you know)At bridegroom and his dame?“A.When Britons bold, bedded of old,Sandals were backward thrown;The pair to tell, that, ill or well,The act was all their own.”

“Q.Apollo, say, whence ’tis I pray,The ancient custom came,Stockings to throw (I’m sure you know)At bridegroom and his dame?

“A.When Britons bold, bedded of old,Sandals were backward thrown;The pair to tell, that, ill or well,The act was all their own.”

If a more satisfactory explanation of the custom could be found, it should be at the reader’s service. The practice prevails on the continent as well as in this country, but its origin is involved in obscurity.

[79]Note to the Bridal of Caölchairn, by J. H. Allan, Esq.

[From “Fortune by Land and Sea,” a Comedy, by T. Heywood, and W. Rowley, 1655.]

Old Forest forbids his Son to sup with some riotous gallants; who goes notwithstanding, and is slain.

Scene, a Tavern.

Rainsworth, Foster, Goodwin. To them enters Frank Forest.

Rain.Now, Frank, how stole you from your father’s arms?You have been school’d, no doubt. Fie, fie upon’t.Ere I would live in such base servitudeTo an old greybeard; ’sfoot, I’d hang myself.A man cannot be merry, and drink drunk,But he must be control’d by gravity.Frank.O pardon him; you know, he is my father,And what he doth is but paternal love.Though I be wild, I’m not yet so past reasonHis person to despise, though I his counselCannot severely follow.Rain.’Sfoot, he is a fool.Frank.A fool! you are aa—Fost.Nay, gentlemen—Frank.Yet I restrain my tongue.Hoping you speak out of some spleenful rashness,And no deliberate malice; and it may beYou are sorry that a word so unreverent,To wrong so good an aged gentleman,Should pass you unawares.Rain.Sorry, Sir Boy! you will not take exceptions?Frank.Not against you with willingness, whom IHave loved so long. Yet you might think me aMost dutiless and ungracious son to giveSmooth countenance unto my father’s wrong.Come, I dare swear’Twas not your malice, and I take it so.Let’s frame some other talk. Hear, gentlemen—Rain.But hear me, Boy! it seems, Sir, you are angry—Frank.Not thoroughly yet—Rain.Then what would anger thee?Frank.Nothing from you.Rain.Of all things under heavenWhat would’st thou loathest have me do?Frank.I wouldNot have you wrong my reverent father; andI hope you will not.Rain.Thy father’s an old dotard.Frank.I would not brook this at a monarch’s hand,Much less at thine.Rain.Aye, Boy? then take you that.Frank.Oh I am slain.Good.Sweet Cuz, what have you done? Shift for yourself.Rain.Away.—Exeunt.

Exeunt.

Enter Two Drawers.

1st Dr.Stay the gentlemen, they have killed a man. O sweet Mr. Francis. One run to his father’s.

2d Dr.Hark, hark, I hear his father’s voice below ’tis ten to one he is come to fetch him home to supper and now he may carry him home to his grave.

Enter the Host, old Forest, and Susan his daughter.

Host.You must take comfort, Sir.For.Is he dead, is he dead, girl?Sus.Oh dead, Sir, Frank is dead.For.Alas, alas, my boy! I have not the heartTo look upon his wide and gaping wounds.Pray tell me, Sir, does this appear to youFearful and pitiful—to you that areA stranger to my dead boy?Host.How can it otherwise?For.O me most wretched of all wretched men!If to a stranger his warm bleeding woundsAppear so grisly and so lamentable,How will they seem to me that am his father?Will they not hale my eye-brows from their rounds,And with an everlasting blindness strike them?Sus.Oh, Sir, look here.For.Dost long to have me blind?Then I’ll behold them, since I know thy mind.Oh me!Is this my son that doth so senseless lie,And swims in blood? my soul shall fly with hisUnto the land of rest. Behold I crave,Being kill’d with grief, we both may have one grave.Sus.Alas, my father’s dead too! gentle Sir,Help to retire his spirits, over travail’dWith age and sorrow.Host.Mr. Forest—Sus.Father—For.What says my girl? good morrow. What’s a clock,That you are up so early? call up Frank;Tell him he lies too long a bed this morning.He was wont to call the sun up, and to raiseThe early lark, and mount her ’mongst the clouds.Will he not up? rise, rise, thou sluggish boy.Sus.Alas, he cannot, father.For.Cannot, why?Sus.Do you not see his bloodless colour pale?For.Perhaps he’s sickly, that he looks so pale.Sus.Do you not feel his pulse no motion keep,How still he lies?For.Then is he fast asleep.Sus.Do you not see his fatal eyelid close?For.Speak softly; hinder not his soft repose.Sus.Oh see you not these purple conduits run?Know you these wounds?For.Oh me! my murder’d son!Enter young Mr. Forest.Y. For.Sister!Sus.O brother, brother!Y. For.Father, how cheer you, Sir? why, you were wontTo store for others comfort, that by sorrowWere any ways distress’d. Have you all wasted,And spared none to yourself?O. For.O Son, Son, Son,See, alas, see where thy brother lies.He dined with me to day, was merry, merry,Aye, that corpse was; he that lies here, see here,Thy murder’d brother and my son was. Oh see,Dost thou not weep for him?Y. For.I shall find time;When you have took some comfort, I’ll beginTo mourn his death, and scourge the murderer’s sin.O. For.Oh, when saw father such a tragic sight,And did outlive it? never, son, ah never,From mortal breast ran such a precious river.Y. For.Come, father, and dear sister, join with me;Let us all learn our sorrows to forget.He owed a death, and he hath paid that debt.

Enter young Mr. Forest.

Y. For.Sister!Sus.O brother, brother!Y. For.Father, how cheer you, Sir? why, you were wontTo store for others comfort, that by sorrowWere any ways distress’d. Have you all wasted,And spared none to yourself?O. For.O Son, Son, Son,See, alas, see where thy brother lies.He dined with me to day, was merry, merry,Aye, that corpse was; he that lies here, see here,Thy murder’d brother and my son was. Oh see,Dost thou not weep for him?Y. For.I shall find time;When you have took some comfort, I’ll beginTo mourn his death, and scourge the murderer’s sin.O. For.Oh, when saw father such a tragic sight,And did outlive it? never, son, ah never,From mortal breast ran such a precious river.Y. For.Come, father, and dear sister, join with me;Let us all learn our sorrows to forget.He owed a death, and he hath paid that debt.

If I were to be consulted as to a Reprint of our Old English Dramatists, I should advise to begin with the collected Plays of Heywood. He was a fellow Actor, and fellow Dramatist, with Shakspeare. He possessed not the imagination of the latter; but in all those qualities which gained for Shakspeare the attribute ofgentle, he was not inferior to him. Generosity, courtesy, temperance in the depths of passion; sweetness, in a word, and gentleness; Christianism; and true hearty Anglicism of feelings, shaping that Christianism; shine throughout his beautiful writings in a manner more conspicuous than in those of Shakspeare, but only more conspicuous inasmuch as in Heywood these qualities are primary, in the other subordinate to poetry. I love them both equally, but Shakspeare has most of my wonder. Heywood should be known to his countrymen, as he deserves. His plots are almost invariably English. I am sometimes jealous, that Shakspeare laid so few of his scenes at home. I laud Ben Jonson, for that in one instance having framed the first draught of his Every Man in his Humour in Italy, he changed the scene, and Anglicised his characters. The names of them in the First Edition, may not be unamusing.

How say you, Reader? do not Master Kitely, Mistress Kitely, Master Knowell, Brainworm, &c. read better than these Cisalpines?

C. L.

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