Scottish Legends.

[223]Who sat up with him.[224]I have this fact from Parental tradition only.[225]Death lengthens people to the eye.

[223]Who sat up with him.

[224]I have this fact from Parental tradition only.

[225]Death lengthens people to the eye.

The scenery and legend of Mr. James Hay Allan’s poem, “The Bridal of Caölchairn,” are derived from the vicinity of Cruachan, (or Cruachan-Beinn,) a mountain 3390 feet above the level of the sea, situated at the head of Loch Awe, a lake in Argyleshire. The poem commences with the following lines: the prose illustrations are from Mr. Allan’s descriptive notes.

Grey Spirit of the Lake, who sit’st at eveAt mighty Cruächan’s gigantic feet;And lov’st to watch thy gentle waters heaveThe silvery ripple down their glassy sheet;How oft I’ve wandered by thy margin sweet,And stood beside the wide and silent bay,Where the broad Urcha’s stream thy breast doth meet,And Caölchairn’s forsaken Donjon greyLooks from its narrow rock upon thy watery way.Maid of the waters! in the days of yoreWhat sight yon setting sun has seen to smileAlong thy spreading bound, on tide, and shore,When in its pride the fortress reared its pile,And stood the abbey on “the lovely isle;”And Fraòch Elan’s refuge tower greyLooked down the mighty gulf’s profound defile.Alas! that Scottish eye should see the day,When bower, and bield, and hall, in shattered ruin lay.What deeds have past upon thy mountain shore;What sights have been reflected in thy tide;But dark and dim their tales have sunk from lore:Scarce is it now remembered on thy sideWhere fought Mac Colda, or Mac Phadian died.But lend me, for a while, thy silver shell,’Tis long since breath has waked its echo wide;Then list, while once again I raise its swell,And of thy olden day a fearful legend tell—

Maid of the waters! in the days of yoreWhat sight yon setting sun has seen to smileAlong thy spreading bound, on tide, and shore,When in its pride the fortress reared its pile,And stood the abbey on “the lovely isle;”And Fraòch Elan’s refuge tower greyLooked down the mighty gulf’s profound defile.Alas! that Scottish eye should see the day,When bower, and bield, and hall, in shattered ruin lay.

What deeds have past upon thy mountain shore;What sights have been reflected in thy tide;But dark and dim their tales have sunk from lore:Scarce is it now remembered on thy sideWhere fought Mac Colda, or Mac Phadian died.But lend me, for a while, thy silver shell,’Tis long since breath has waked its echo wide;Then list, while once again I raise its swell,And of thy olden day a fearful legend tell—

“——the convent on the lovely isle.”

Inishail, the name of one of the islands in Loch Awe, signifies in Gaëlic “the lovely isle.” It is not at present so worthy of this appellation as the neighbouring “Fràoch Elan,” isle of heather, not having a tree or shrub upon its whole extent. At the period when it received its name, it might, however, have been better clothed; and still it has a fair and pleasant aspect: its extent is larger than that of any other island in the lake, and it is covered with a green turf, which, in spring, sends forth an abundant growth of brackens.

There formerly existed here a convent of Cistercian nuns; of whom it is said, that they were “memorable for the sanctity of their lives and the purity of their manners: at the Reformation, when the innocent were involved with the guilty in the sufferings of the times, their house was supprest, and the temporalities granted to Hay, the abbot of Inchaffrey, who, abjuring his former tenets of religion, embraced the cause of thereformers.”[226]Public worship was performed in the chapel of the convent till the year 1736: but a more commodious building having been erected on the south side of the lake, it has since been entirely forsaken; nothing now remains of its ruin but a small part of the shell, of which only a few feet are standing above the foundation. Of the remaining buildings of the order there exists no trace, except in some loose heaps of stones, and an almost obliterated mound, which marks the foundation of the outer wall. But the veneration that renders sacred to a Highlander the tombs of his ancestors, has yet preserved to the burying-ground its ancient sanctity. It is still used as a place of interment, and the dead are often brought from a distance to rest there among their kindred.

In older times the isle was the principal burying-place of many of the most considerable neighbouring families: among the tombstones are many shaped in the ancient form, like the lid of a coffin, and ornamented with carvings of fret-work, running figures, flowers, and the forms of warriors and two-handed swords. They are universally destitute of the trace of an inscription.

Among the chief families buried in Inishail were the Mac Nauchtans of Fràoch Elan, and the Campbells of Inbherau. Mr. Allan could not discover the spot appropriated to the former, nor any evidence of the gravestones which must have covered their tombs. The place of the Campbells, however, is yet pointed out. It lies on the south side of the chapel, and its site is marked by a large flat stone, ornamented with the arms of the family in high relief. The shield is supported by two warriors, and surmounted by a diadem, the signification and exact form of which it is difficult to decide; but the style of the carving and the costume of the figures do not appear to be later than the middle of the fifteenth century.

On the top of the distant hill over which the road from Inverara descends to Cladich there formerly stood a stone cross, erected on the spot where Inishail first became visible to the traveller. These crosses weregeneral at such stations in monastic times, and upon arriving at their foot the pilgrims knelt and performed their reverence to the saint, whose order they were approaching. From this ceremony, the spot on the hill above-mentioned was and is yet called “the cross of bending.”

“The refuge tower greyLooked down the mighty gulf’s profound defile.”

The little castellated isle of “Fràoch Elan” lies at a short distance from Inishail, and was the refuge hold of the Mac Nauchtans. It was given to the chief, Gilbert Mac Nauchtan, by Alexander III. in the year 1276, and was held by the tenure of entertaining the king whenever he should pass Loch Awe. The original charter of the grant was lately in possession of Mr. Campbell of Auchlian, and a copy is to be found in “Sir James Balfour’s Collection of Scottish Charters.” The islet of “Fràoch Elan” is in summer the most beautiful in Scotland. On one side the rock rises almost perpendicular from the water. The lower part and the shore is embowered in tangled shrubs and old writhing trees. Above, the broken wall and only remaining gable of the castle looks out over the boughs; and on the north side a large ash-tree grows from the foundation of what was once the hall, and overshadows the ruin with its branches. Some of the window-niches are yet entire in the keep, and one of these peeping through the tops of the trees, shows a view of fairie beauty over the waters of the lake, and the woody banks of the opposite coast. In the summer, Fràoch Elan, like most of the islands in Loch Awe, is the haunt of a variety of gulls and wild fowl. They come from the sea-coast, a distance of twenty-four miles, to build and hatch their young. At this season, sheldrakes, grey gulls, kitaweaks, white ducks, teal, widgeon, and divers, abound in the Loch. Fràoch Elan is chiefly visited by the gulls, which hold the isle in joint tenure with a water-eagle who builds annually upon the top of the remaining chimney.

It is not very long since this beautiful isle has been delivered over to these inhabitants; for a great aunt of a neighbouring gentleman was born in the castle, and in “the forty-five,” preparations were privately made there for entertaining the prince had he passed by Loch Awe.

From the name of Fràoch Elan some have erroneously, and without any authority of tradition, assigned it as the dragon’sisle,[227]in the ancient Gaëlic legend of “Fràoch and the daughter of Mey.” There is, in truth, no farther relation between one and the other, than in a resemblance of name between the island and the warrior. The island of the tale was called “Elan na Bheast,” the Monster’s Isle, and the lake in which it lay was named Loch Luina. This is still remembered to have been the ancient appellation of Loch Avich, a small lake about two miles north of Loch Awe. There is here a small islet yet called “Elan na Bheast,” and the tradition of the neighbourhood universally affirms, that it was the island of the legend.

“Where fought Mac Colda, and Mac Phadian died.”

“Alaister Mac Coll Cedach.” Alexander, the son of left-handed Coll, was a Mac Donald, who made a considerable figure in the great civil war: he brought two thousand men to the assistance of Montrose, and received from him a commission of lieutenancy in the royal service. He is mentioned by contemporary writers, under the corrupted name of Kolkitto; but time has now drawn such a veil over his history, that it is difficult to ascertain with any degree of certainty from what family of the Mac Donalds he came. By some it is asserted, that he was an islesman; but by the most minute and seemingly authentic tradition, he is positively declared to have been an Irishman, and the son of the earl of Antrim.

Of his father there is nothing preserved but his name, his fate, and his animosity to the Campbells, with whom, during his life, he maintained with deadly assiduity the feud of his clan. It was his piper who was hanged at Dunavàig in Ceantir, and in his last hour saved the life of his chieftain by composing and playing the inexpressibly pathetic pibroch, “Colda mo Roon.” But though he escaped at this juncture, Colda was afterwards taken by the Campbells, and hung in chains at Dunstaffnage. His death was the chief ground of that insatiate vengeance with which his son ever after pursued the followers of Argyle. Long after the death of his father, Alaister chanced to pass by Dunstaffnage in return from a descent which he had made in the Campbell’s country. As he sailed near thecastle, he saw the bones of his father still hanging at the place where he had suffered, and swinging in the sea-breeze. He was so affected at the sight of the lamentable remains, that he solemnly vowed to revenge them by a fearful retribution, and hastening his return to Ireland gathered what force he was able, and sailing back to Scotland offered his services to Montrose. He was gladly accepted; and during the various adventures of the marquis in the Hielands, Alaister Mac Colda was one of the most valuable of his adherents; and his followers were accounted among the bravest and best experienced in the royal army. Some of their exploits are recorded in the “Leobhair Dearg,” or “Red Book of Clanranald,” and fully justify the fame which they received.

Alaister was present at the battle of Inbherlochie, and after the action he was sent with his followers to the country of Argyle. He entered the Campbell lands by Glen Eitive, and wherever he came put all who bore the name of that clan to fire and sword. As he marched down Glen Eitive, he crossed the bounds of the Mac Intires in Glen O, and in passing the house of their chieftain, a circumstance occurred, which gives a lively picture of the extent of the ancient respect paid by a clansman to the ties of his blood. The Mac Intires were originally descended from the Mac Donalds, and lived from time immemorial upon the border of the Campbells, between that race and the south-east march of the Clan Donald in Glen Coe. Upon the decline of the vast power of this sept after the fatal battle of Harlow, and upon the subsequent increase of power to the Campbells, the Mac Intires placed themselves under the latter clan, and lived with them as the most powerful of their followers. When Alaister Mac Colda passed through Glen O, he was not acquainted with the name of the place nor the race of its inhabitants; but knowing that he was within the bounds of the Campbells, he supposed that all whom he met were of that clan. Glen O was deserted at his approach, and it is probable that the men were even then in service with Argyle. Alaister, in his usual plan of vengeance, ordered fire to the house of the chieftain. A coal was instantly set in the roof, and the heather of which it was made was quickly in a blaze. Before, however, the flames had made much progress, Alaister was told that the house which he was burning was that of the chieftain of Mac Intire. The man of Mac Donald immediately commanded his people to do their endeavour to extinguish the fire; “for,” said he, “it is the house of our ownblood.”[228]The flames were soon overcome, and Colda passed through the glen of the Mac Intires in peace into Glen Urcha, where he burnt and destroyed all within his reach. From hence, he marched entirely round Loch Awe, carrying devastation through the ancient and original patrimony of the Campbells. As he passed by the Loch of Ballemòr, the inhabitants (a small race named Mac Chorchadell, and dependant upon the former clan) retired from their huts into the little castle of their chieftain, which is situated in the midst of the Loch. Being in no way connected with his enemies by blood, Alaister did not conceive that with them he held any feud, and quietly marched past their deserted habitations, without laying a hand upon their property. But as his men were drawing from the lake, one of the Mac Chorchadells fired upon their rear, and wounded a Mac Donald. Alaister instantly turned: “Poor little Mac Chorchadell,” said he in Gaëlic, “I beg your pardon for my want of respect in passing you without stopping to pay my compliments; but since you will have it so, I will not leave you without notice.”—He returned, and burnt every house in Ballemòr.

The power of the Campbells had been so broken at Inbherlochie, that it was not until Mac Colda had arrived near the west coast of their country, that they were again in a condition to meet him in a pitched fight. At length they encountered him on the skirt of the moss of Crenan, at the foot of a hill not far from Auchandaroch. The battle was fought with all the fury of individual and deadly hatred, but at last the fortune of Alaister prevailed, and the Campbells were entirely routed, and pursued with great slaughter off the field of battle. Some time afterwards they again collected what numbers they could gather, and once more offered battle to Alaister, as he was returning to Loch Awe. The conflict was fought at the ford of Ederline, the eastern extremity of the lake; but here the success of the Mac Donalds forsook them. They were entirely beaten and scattered, so that not six men were left together; and those who escaped from the field were cut off by their enemies, as they endeavouredto lurk out of their country. Of Alaister’s fate each clan and each district has a different story. The Argyle Campbells say that he was killed at the ford, and a broadsword said to have been his, and to have been found on the field of battle, is at this day in the possession of Peter Mac Lellich (smith), at the croft of Dalmallie. The Louden Campbells, on the contrary, assert, that Alaister escaped from the overthrow, and wandering into Ayrshire, was slain by them while endeavouring to find a passage into Ireland. The Mac Donalds do not acknowledge either of these stories to be true, but relate that their chieftain not only escaped from the battle, but (though with much difficulty) effected his flight to Ireland, where a reward being set upon his head, he was at length, in an unguarded moment, when divested of his arms, slain by one of the republican troopers, by whom he was sought out.

The fate of Alaister Mac Colda is said to have been governed by that fatality, and predicted by that inspiration, which were once so firmly believed among the Highlanders. His foster-mother, says tradition, was gifted with the second sight; and, previous to his departure from Ireland, the chieftain consulted her upon the success of his expedition. “You will be victorious over all born of woman,” replied the seer, “till you arrive at Goch-dum Gho; but when you come to that spot, your fortune shall depart for ever.”—“Let it be so,” said Alaister, “I shall receive my glory.” He departed, and the spirit of his adventure and the hurry of enterprise, perhaps, banished from his mind the name of the fatal place. It was indeed one so insignificant and remote, that its knowledge was most probably confined to the circle of a few miles, and not likely to be restored to the notice of Mac Colda, by mention or inquiry. It was on the eve of his last battle, as his “bratach” was setting up at the ford of Ederline, that his attention was caught by a mill at a little distance; for some accidental reason he inquired its name:—“Mullian Goch-dum Gho,” replied one of his men. The prediction was at once remembered. The enemy were at hand, and Alaister knew that he should fall. Convinced of the fatality of the prophecy, he sought not to retreat from the evil spot: the bourne of his fortune was past, and he only thought of dying as became him in the last of his fields. He made no comment upon the name of the place; but, concealing from his followers the connection which it bore with his fate, gave directions for the proceedings of the approaching morning. In the battle he behaved as he was wont, and in the close of the day was seen fighting furiously with two of the Campbells, who appeared unable to overcome him. Nothing more was heard of him: his body was never discovered; but when the slain were buried by the conquerors, his claidh-mòr was found beneath a heap of dead.

Mac Phadian was an Irish captain, who, with a considerable body of his countrymen, assisted Edward I. of England in his war to subvert the independence of Scotland; but though he took a very active part in the turbulent period in which he lived, and possessed sufficient courage and talents to raise himself from obscurity to power, yet we have nothing left of his history but the account of his last enormities, and the overthrow and death which they finally brought. It is probable, that we are even indebted for this information to the celebrity of the man by whom he fell, and which in preserving the victory of the conqueror, has also perpetuated the memory of the vanquished.

The scene of the last actions of Mac Phadian lay in Lorn and Argyle; and the old people in the neighbourhood of Loch Awe still retain a tradition, which marks out the spot where he fell. Time, however, and the decay of recitation during the last century, have so injured all which remained of oral record, that the legend of Mac Phadian is now confined to a very few of the elder fox-hunters and shepherds of the country, and will soon pass into oblivion with those by whom it isretained——

Some time in the latter end of the year 1297, or the beginning of the year 1298, Edward made a grant to Mac Phadian of the lordships of Argyle and Lorn. The first belonged to sir Niel Campbell, knight, of Loch Awe, and chief of his clan; the second was the hereditary patrimony of John, chief of Mac Dougall. Sir Niel did his endeavour to resist the usurpation of his lands, and though fiercely beset by the traitor lords, Buchan, Athol, and Mentieth, he for some time maintained his independence against all their united attempts. But John of Lorn, who was himself in the interest and service of the English, and at that time in London, concurred with king Edward in the disponing of his territories, and received in remuneration a more considerable lordship. Mac Phadian did not, however, remain in quiet possession of hisill-acquired domains; he was strongly opposed by Duncan of Lorn, uncle to the lord; but joining with Buchan, Athol, and Mentieth, he at length drove out his enemy, and compelled him to seek shelter with sir Niel Campbell. Upon this success the above-mentioned allies, at the head of a mixed and disorderly force gathered from all parts, and from all descriptions, Irish and Scots, to the amount of fifteen thousand men, made a barbarous inroad into Argyle, and suddenly penetrating into the district of Nether Loch Awe, wasted the country wherever they came, and destroyed the inhabitants without regard to age or sex. In this exigency the Campbell displayed that constancy and experience which had rendered his name celebrated among his countrymen. Unable to resist the intoxicated multitude of his enemies, with Duncan of Lorn, and three hundred of his veteran clansmen, he retired by the head of Loch Awe and the difficult pass of Brandir to the inaccessible heights of Craiganuni, and breaking down the bridge over the Awe below, prevented the pursuit of the enemy to his position. Nothing could be more masterly than the plan of this retreat.

Mac Phadian, thus baffled and outmanœuvred, not only failed in his object of offence, but found himself drawn into an intricate and desolate labyrinth, where his multitude encumbered themselves: the want of subsistence prevented him from remaining to blockade sir Niel, and his ignorance of the clues of the place made it difficult to extricate himself by a retreat. In this exigence he was desirous of returning to Nether Loch Awe, where there was abundance of cattle and game for the support of his men. At length he discovered a passage between the rocks and the water; the way was only wide enough for four persons to pass abreast; yet, as they were not in danger of pursuit, they retired in safety, and effected their march to the south side of the lake.

The measures employed by Wallace to relieve the Campbell, and to reach the fastness wherein Mac Phadian had posted himself, were romantic anddaring——

Mac Phadian’s followers were completely surprised and taken at disarray. They snatched their arms, and rushed to defend the pass with the boldest resolution. At the first onset the Scots bore back their enemies over five acres of ground; and Wallace, with his iron mace, made fearful havoc among the enemy. Encouraged, however, by Mac Phadian, the Irish came to the rescue; the battle thickened with more stubborn fury; and for two hours was maintained with such obstinate eagerness on both sides, that neither party had any apparent advantage. At length the cause and valour of Wallace prevailed. The Irish gave way and fled, and the Scots of their party threw down their arms, and kneeled for mercy. Wallace commanded them to be spared for their birth sake, but urged forward the pursuit upon the Irish. Pent in by the rocks and the water, the latter had but little hope in flight. Many were overtaken and slain as they endeavoured to climb the crags, and two thousand were driven into the lake and drowned. Mac Phadian, with fifteen men, fled to a cave, and hoped to have concealed himself till the pursuit was over; but Duncan of Lorn having discovered his retreat, pursued and slew him with his companions; and having cut off the head of the leader, brought it to Wallace, and set it upon a stone high in one of the crags as a trophy of the victory.

In one of the steeps of Cruächan, nearly opposite the rock of Brandir, there is a secret cave, now only known to a very few of the old fox-hunters and shepherds: it is still called “Uagh Phadian,” Mac Phadian’s cave; and is asserted by tradition to be the place in which Mac Phadian died. The remembrance of the battle is nearly worn away, and the knowledge of the real cave confined to so few, that the den in which Mac Phadian was killed is generally believed to be in the cliffs of Craiganuni: this is merely owing to the appearance of a black chasm in the face of that height, and to a confusion between the action of Mac Phadian with Wallace, and his pursuit of sir Niel Campbell. But the chasm in Craiganuni, though at a distance it appears like the mouth of a cave, is but a cleft in the rock; and the few who retain the memory of the genuine tradition of the battle of the Wallace, universally agree that the cave in the side of Cruächan was that in which Mac Phadian was killed.

The “Bridal of Caölchairn” is a legendary poem, founded upon a very slight tradition, concerning events which are related to have occurred during the absence of sir Colin Campbell on his expedition to Rome and Arragon. It is said by the tale, that the chieftain was gone ten years, and that his wife having received no intelligence of his existence in that time, she accepted the addresses of one of her husband’s vassals, Mac Nab of Barachastailan. Thebridal was fixed; but on the day when it was to have been solemnized, the secret was imparted to sir Colin in Spain, by a spirit of the nether world. When the knight received the intelligence, he bitterly lamented the distance which prevented him from wreaking vengeance upon his presumptuous follower. The communicating spirit, either out of love for mischief, or from a private familiarity with sir Colin, promised to obviate this obstacle; and on the same day, before the bridal was celebrated, transported the chieftain in a blast of wind from Arragon to Glen Urcha. In what manner sir Colin proceeded, tradition does not say; it simply records, that the bridal was broken, but is silent upon the nature of the catastrophe. The legend is now almost entirely forgotten in the neighbourhood where its events are said to have taken place. “As far as I know,” says Mr. Allan, “it is confined to one old man, named Malcolm Mac Nab, who lives upon the hill of Barachastailan; he is between eighty and ninety years of age, and the last of the race of ancient smiths, who remains in the place of his ancestors. A few yards from his cottage there is the foundation of one of those ancient circular forts built by the Celts, and so frequently to be met in the Highlands: these structures are usually ascribed by the vulgar to Fion and his heroes. In a neighbouring field, called ‘Larich nam Fion,’ there were formerly two others of these buildings; their walls of uncemented stone were not many years since entire, to the height of eight or nine feet; but they have since been pulled down and carried away to repair the neighbouring cottages: it is from these buildings that the hill received its name of ‘Bar-a-chas-tailan,’ the ‘eminence of the castles.’”

The tide of centuries has rolled awayO’er Innishail’s solitary isle,The wind of ages and the world’s decayHas swept upon the Campbells’ fortress pile:And far from what they were is changed the whileThe monks’ grey cloister, and the baron’s keep.I’ve seen the sun within the dungeon smile,And in the bridal bower the ivy creep.I’ve stood upon the fane’s foundation stone,Heard the grass sigh upon the cloister’s heap,And sat upon the holy cross o’erthrown,And marked within the cell where warriors sleep,Beneath the broad grey stone the timorous rabbit peep.The legend of the dead is past awayAs the dim eye amid the night doth fail.The memorie of the fearful bridal dayIs parted from the people of the vale;And none are left to tell the weary tale.Save on yon lone green hill by Fion’s towerYet lives a man bowed down with age and ail:Still tells he of the fearful legend’s hour—It was his father fell within the bridal bower.But though with man there is a weary waste.It is not so beyond the mortal way;With the unbodied spirits nought is spaced;But when the aged world has worn away,They look on earth where once their dwelling lay.And to their never-closing eye doth showAll that has been—a fairie work of day;And all which here their mortal life did show,Yet lives in that which never may decay;When thought, and life, and memorie belowHas sunk with all it bore of gladness or of woe.At eventime on green Inchail’s isleA dim grey form doth sit upon the hill:No shadow casts it in the moonshine smile,And in its folded mantle bowed and stillNo feature e’er it showed the twilight chill,But seems beneath its hood a void grey.The owlet, when it comes, cries wild and shrill;The moon grows dim when shows it in its ray,None saw it e’er depart;—but it is not at day.By Caölchairn at night when all is still,And the black otter issues from his lair,He hears a voice along the water chill,It seems to speak amid the cloudy air;But some have seen beyond the Donjon stairWhere now the floor from the wall is gone,A form dim standing ’mid the ether fair,No light upon its fixed eye there shone,And yet the blood seems wet upon its bosom wan.

The legend of the dead is past awayAs the dim eye amid the night doth fail.The memorie of the fearful bridal dayIs parted from the people of the vale;And none are left to tell the weary tale.Save on yon lone green hill by Fion’s towerYet lives a man bowed down with age and ail:Still tells he of the fearful legend’s hour—It was his father fell within the bridal bower.

But though with man there is a weary waste.It is not so beyond the mortal way;With the unbodied spirits nought is spaced;But when the aged world has worn away,They look on earth where once their dwelling lay.And to their never-closing eye doth showAll that has been—a fairie work of day;And all which here their mortal life did show,Yet lives in that which never may decay;When thought, and life, and memorie belowHas sunk with all it bore of gladness or of woe.

At eventime on green Inchail’s isleA dim grey form doth sit upon the hill:No shadow casts it in the moonshine smile,And in its folded mantle bowed and stillNo feature e’er it showed the twilight chill,But seems beneath its hood a void grey.The owlet, when it comes, cries wild and shrill;The moon grows dim when shows it in its ray,None saw it e’er depart;—but it is not at day.

By Caölchairn at night when all is still,And the black otter issues from his lair,He hears a voice along the water chill,It seems to speak amid the cloudy air;But some have seen beyond the Donjon stairWhere now the floor from the wall is gone,A form dim standing ’mid the ether fair,No light upon its fixed eye there shone,And yet the blood seems wet upon its bosom wan.

[226]Statistical Account, vol. viii. p. 347.[227]Statistical Account of Scotland, vol. viii. p. 346; and Pennant’s Tour in Scotland, 1774, p. 217.[228]When the chieftain returned to his house, the coal which had so near proved its destruction, was found in the roof; it was taken out by order of Mac Intire, and preserved with great care by his descendants, till the late Glen O was driven to America by the misfortunes of the Highlands and the oppression of his superior.

[226]Statistical Account, vol. viii. p. 347.

[227]Statistical Account of Scotland, vol. viii. p. 346; and Pennant’s Tour in Scotland, 1774, p. 217.

[228]When the chieftain returned to his house, the coal which had so near proved its destruction, was found in the roof; it was taken out by order of Mac Intire, and preserved with great care by his descendants, till the late Glen O was driven to America by the misfortunes of the Highlands and the oppression of his superior.

For the Table Book.

In my humble opinion an arm-chair is far superior to a sofa; for although I bow to Cowper’s judgment, (who assigned the superiority to the sofa,) yet we must recollect that it was in compliance with the request of a fair lady that he chose that subject for praise: he might have eulogized in equal terms an arm-chair, had he consulted his own feelings and appreciation of comfort. I acknowledge the “soft recumbency of outstretched limbs,” so peculiar to the sofa—the opportunity afforded the fair sex of displaying grace and elegance of form, while reposing in easy negligence on a Grecian couch—but then think of the snug comfort of an easy-chair. Its very name conveys a multitude of soothing ideas: its commodious repose for your back; its generous and unwearied support of your head; its outstretched arms wooing you to its embraces:—think on these things, and ask yourself if it be possible to withstand its affectionate and disinterested advances.

On entering a room where there is an easy-chair, you are struck by the look of conscious self-importance which seems to distinguish it as the monarch of all the surrounding chairs; there is an appearance of regal superiority about it, blended, however, with such a charming condescension, that you immediately avail yourself of its gracious inclination to receive theburdenof your homage.

There is one kind of arm-chair for which I entertain a very resentful feeling, itassumesthe title of aneasy-chair to induce you to believe it one of that amiable fraternity, whereas it only claims kindred on account of its shape, and is in reality the complete antipodes of ease—I mean the horse-hair arm-chair. Its arms, like those of its brethren, invite you to repose; but, if you attempt it, you are repulsed by an ambush of sharp shooting prickles. It is like a person who has a desire to please and obtain you for his friend, but who is of so incorrigibly bad a temper that attachment is impossible. If you try to compose yourself with one of these pretenders, by endeavouring to protect the back of your head with your pocket-handkerchief for a pillow, you either dream that you are under the hands of a surgeon who is cupping you on the cheek, or that you are transformed into your cousin Lucy, and struggling to avoid being kissed by old Mr.D——,who does not shave above once a week. When you awake, you discover that your face has slipped off the handkerchief, and come immediately in contact with thechevaux de friseof bristles.

As an excellent specimen of an easy-chair, I select the one I at present occupy. Its ancient magnificence of red damask silk—embossed in wavy flowers and curved arabesques, surrounded by massive gilt carving—is now shrouded with an unostentatious covering of white dimity. This, however, does not compromise its dignity—it is rather a resignation of fatiguing splendour, and the assumption of the ease suitable to retirement in old age. Perhaps a happy father once sat in it surrounded by his smiling offspring: some climbing up the arms; others peeping over the lofty back, aiming to cling round his neck; his favourite little girl insinuating herself behind him, while he gazes with affectionate but anxious thoughts on the countenance of his eldest son, standing between his knees. Perhaps two lovers once sat in ittogether, although there were plenty of other chairs in the room. (For fear some of my fair readers should be incredulous, I beg leave to assure them that it is quite possible for two people to sit together in an arm-chair, if they choose to be accommodating; therefore I would not have them dislike an easy-chair on the plea of its beingunsocial.) Perhaps it may have been the means of concealment—in a similar way with the arm-chair in “Le Nozze di Figaro.” Often have I when a child curled myself round in it, and listened to my old nurse’s wonderful stories, till I have fallen fast asleep. Often have I since enjoyed many a delightful book, while lolling indolently enclosed in its soft, warm, cushionedsides—

M. H.

[From “Querer Por Solo Querer:” concluded fromlast Number.]

Address to Solitude.Sweet Solitude! still Mirth! that fear’st no wrong,Because thou dost none: Morning all day long!Truth’s sanctuary! Innocency’s spring!Inventions Limbeck! Contemplation’s wing!Peace of my soul, which I too late pursued;That know’st not the world’s vain inquietude:Where friends, the thieves of time, let us aloneWhole days, and a man’s hours are all his own.

Address to Solitude.

Sweet Solitude! still Mirth! that fear’st no wrong,Because thou dost none: Morning all day long!Truth’s sanctuary! Innocency’s spring!Inventions Limbeck! Contemplation’s wing!Peace of my soul, which I too late pursued;That know’st not the world’s vain inquietude:Where friends, the thieves of time, let us aloneWhole days, and a man’s hours are all his own.

Song in praise of the Same.Solitude, of friends the best,And the best companion;Mother of truths, and brought at leastEvery day to bed of one:In this flowery mansionI contemplate how the roseStands upon thorns, how quickly goesThe dismaying jessamine:Only the soul, which is divine,No decay of beauty knows.The World is Beauty’s Mirror. Flowers,In their first virgin purity,Flatt’rers both of the nose and eye.—To be cropt by paramoursIs their best of destiny:And those nice darlings of the land,Which seem’d heav’n’s painted bow to scorn.And bloom’d the envy of the morn,Are the gay trophy of a hand.

Song in praise of the Same.

Solitude, of friends the best,And the best companion;Mother of truths, and brought at leastEvery day to bed of one:In this flowery mansionI contemplate how the roseStands upon thorns, how quickly goesThe dismaying jessamine:Only the soul, which is divine,No decay of beauty knows.The World is Beauty’s Mirror. Flowers,In their first virgin purity,Flatt’rers both of the nose and eye.—To be cropt by paramoursIs their best of destiny:And those nice darlings of the land,Which seem’d heav’n’s painted bow to scorn.And bloom’d the envy of the morn,Are the gay trophy of a hand.

Unwilling to love again.—sadly I do live in fear,For, though I would not fair appear,And though in truth I am not fair,Haunted I am like those that areAnd here, among these rustling leaves,With which the wanton wind must play,Inspired by it, my sense perceivesThis snowy Jasmin whispering say,How much more frolic, white, and fairIn her green lattice she doth stand,To enjoy the free and cooler air,Than in the prison of ahand.[229]

Unwilling to love again.

—sadly I do live in fear,For, though I would not fair appear,And though in truth I am not fair,Haunted I am like those that areAnd here, among these rustling leaves,With which the wanton wind must play,Inspired by it, my sense perceivesThis snowy Jasmin whispering say,How much more frolic, white, and fairIn her green lattice she doth stand,To enjoy the free and cooler air,Than in the prison of ahand.[229]

Loving without hope.I look’d if underneath the copeWere one that loved, and did not hope;But from his nobler soul removeThatmodern heresy in loveWhen, hearing a shrill voice, I turn,And lo! a sweet-tongued Nightingale,Tender adorer of the Morn,—In him I found that One and All.For that same faithful bird and true,Sweet and kind and constant lover,Wond’rous passion did discover,From the terrace of an eugh.And tho’ ungrateful she appear’dUnmoved with all she saw and heard;Every day, before ’twas day,More and kinder things he’d say,Courteous, and never to be lost,Return’d not with complaints, but praiseLoving, and all at his own cost;Suffering, and without hope of ease:For with a sad and trembling throatHe breathes into her breast this note:“I love thee not, to make thee mine;But love thee, ’cause thy form’s divine.”

Loving without hope.

I look’d if underneath the copeWere one that loved, and did not hope;But from his nobler soul removeThatmodern heresy in loveWhen, hearing a shrill voice, I turn,And lo! a sweet-tongued Nightingale,Tender adorer of the Morn,—In him I found that One and All.For that same faithful bird and true,Sweet and kind and constant lover,Wond’rous passion did discover,From the terrace of an eugh.And tho’ ungrateful she appear’dUnmoved with all she saw and heard;Every day, before ’twas day,More and kinder things he’d say,Courteous, and never to be lost,Return’d not with complaints, but praiseLoving, and all at his own cost;Suffering, and without hope of ease:For with a sad and trembling throatHe breathes into her breast this note:“I love thee not, to make thee mine;But love thee, ’cause thy form’s divine.”

The True Absence in Love.Zelidaura, star divine,That do’st in highest orb of beauty shine;Pardon’d Murd’ress, by that heartItself, which thou dost kill, and coveted smartThough my walk so distant liesFrom the sunshine of thine eyes;Into sullen shadows hurl’d,To lie here buried from the world’Tis the least reason of my moan,That so much earth is ’twixt us thrown.’Tis absence of another kind,Grieves me; for where you are present too,Love’s Geometry does find,I have ten thousand miles to you.’Tis not absence to be far,But to abhor is to absent;To those who in disfavour are,Sight itself isbanishment.[230]

The True Absence in Love.

Zelidaura, star divine,That do’st in highest orb of beauty shine;Pardon’d Murd’ress, by that heartItself, which thou dost kill, and coveted smartThough my walk so distant liesFrom the sunshine of thine eyes;Into sullen shadows hurl’d,To lie here buried from the world’Tis the least reason of my moan,That so much earth is ’twixt us thrown.’Tis absence of another kind,Grieves me; for where you are present too,Love’s Geometry does find,I have ten thousand miles to you.’Tis not absence to be far,But to abhor is to absent;To those who in disfavour are,Sight itself isbanishment.[230]

To a Warrioress.Heav’n, that created thee thus warlike, stoleInto a woman’s body a man’s soul.But nature’s law in vain dost thou gainsay;The woman’s valour lies another way.The dress, the tear, the blush, the witching eye.More witching tongue, are beauty’s armoury:To railly; to discourse in companies,Who’s fine, who courtly, who a wit, who wise;And with the awing sweetness of a Dame,As conscious of a face can tigers tame,By tasks and circumstances to discover,Amongst the best of Princes, the best Lover;(The fruit of all those flowers) who serves with mostSelf diffidence, who with the greatest boast;Who twists an eye of Hope in braids of Fear;Who silent (made for nothing but to bearSweet scorn and injuries of love) enviesUnto his tongue the treasure of his eyes:Who, without vaunting shape, hath only wit;Nor knows to hope reward, tho’ merit it:Then, out of all, to make a choice so rare,So lucky-wise, as if thou wert notfair.[231]

To a Warrioress.

Heav’n, that created thee thus warlike, stoleInto a woman’s body a man’s soul.But nature’s law in vain dost thou gainsay;The woman’s valour lies another way.The dress, the tear, the blush, the witching eye.More witching tongue, are beauty’s armoury:To railly; to discourse in companies,Who’s fine, who courtly, who a wit, who wise;And with the awing sweetness of a Dame,As conscious of a face can tigers tame,By tasks and circumstances to discover,Amongst the best of Princes, the best Lover;(The fruit of all those flowers) who serves with mostSelf diffidence, who with the greatest boast;Who twists an eye of Hope in braids of Fear;Who silent (made for nothing but to bearSweet scorn and injuries of love) enviesUnto his tongue the treasure of his eyes:Who, without vaunting shape, hath only wit;Nor knows to hope reward, tho’ merit it:Then, out of all, to make a choice so rare,So lucky-wise, as if thou wert notfair.[231]

All mischiefs reparable but a lost Love.1.A second Argo, freightedWith fear and avarice,Between the sea and skiesHath penetratedTo the new world, unwornWith the red footsteps of the snowy morn.2.Thirsty of mines;She comes rich back; and (the curl’d rampire pastOf watry mountains, castUp by the winds)Ungrateful shelf near homeGives her usurped gold a silver home.3.A devout Pilgrim, whoTo foreign temple bareGood pattern, fervent prayer,Spurr’d by a pious vow;Measuring so large a space,That earth lack’d regions for hisplants[232]to trace.4.Joyful returns, tho’ poor:And, just by his abode,Falling into a roadWhich laws did ill secure,Sees plunder’d by a thief(O happier man than I! for ’tis) his life.5.Conspicuous grows a Tree,Which wanton did appear,First fondling of the year.With smiling bravery,And in his blooming prideThe Lower House of Flowers did deride:6.When his silk robes and fair(His youth’s embroidery,The crownet of a spring,Narcissus of the air)Rough Boreas doth confound,And with his trophies strews the scorned ground.7.Trusted to tedious hopeSo many months the Corn;Which now begins to turnInto a golden crop:The lusty grapes, (which plumpAre the last farewell of the summer’s pomp)8.How spacious spreads the vine!—Nursed up with how much care,She lives, she thrives, grows fair;’Bout her loved Elm doth twine:—Comes a cold cloud; and lays,In one, the fabric of so many days.9.A silver River smallIn sweet accentsHis music vents,(The warbling virginal,To which the merry birds do sing—Timed with stops ofgold[233]the silver string);10.He steals by a greenwoodWith fugitive feet;Gay, jolly, sweet:Comes me a troubled flood;And scarcely one sand stays,To be a witness of his golden days.—11.The Ship’s upweigh’d;The Pilgrim made a Saint;Next spring re-crowns the Plant;Winds raise the Corn, was laid;The Vine is pruned;The Rivulet new tuned:—But in the Ill I haveI’m left alive only to dig my grave.12.Lost Beauty, I will die,But I will thee recover;And that I die not instantly,Shews me more perfect Lover:For (my Soul gone before)I live not now to live, but to deplore.

All mischiefs reparable but a lost Love.

A second Argo, freightedWith fear and avarice,Between the sea and skiesHath penetratedTo the new world, unwornWith the red footsteps of the snowy morn.2.Thirsty of mines;She comes rich back; and (the curl’d rampire pastOf watry mountains, castUp by the winds)Ungrateful shelf near homeGives her usurped gold a silver home.3.A devout Pilgrim, whoTo foreign temple bareGood pattern, fervent prayer,Spurr’d by a pious vow;Measuring so large a space,That earth lack’d regions for hisplants[232]to trace.4.Joyful returns, tho’ poor:And, just by his abode,Falling into a roadWhich laws did ill secure,Sees plunder’d by a thief(O happier man than I! for ’tis) his life.5.Conspicuous grows a Tree,Which wanton did appear,First fondling of the year.With smiling bravery,And in his blooming prideThe Lower House of Flowers did deride:6.When his silk robes and fair(His youth’s embroidery,The crownet of a spring,Narcissus of the air)Rough Boreas doth confound,And with his trophies strews the scorned ground.7.Trusted to tedious hopeSo many months the Corn;Which now begins to turnInto a golden crop:The lusty grapes, (which plumpAre the last farewell of the summer’s pomp)8.How spacious spreads the vine!—Nursed up with how much care,She lives, she thrives, grows fair;’Bout her loved Elm doth twine:—Comes a cold cloud; and lays,In one, the fabric of so many days.9.A silver River smallIn sweet accentsHis music vents,(The warbling virginal,To which the merry birds do sing—Timed with stops ofgold[233]the silver string);10.He steals by a greenwoodWith fugitive feet;Gay, jolly, sweet:Comes me a troubled flood;And scarcely one sand stays,To be a witness of his golden days.—11.The Ship’s upweigh’d;The Pilgrim made a Saint;Next spring re-crowns the Plant;Winds raise the Corn, was laid;The Vine is pruned;The Rivulet new tuned:—But in the Ill I haveI’m left alive only to dig my grave.12.Lost Beauty, I will die,But I will thee recover;And that I die not instantly,Shews me more perfect Lover:For (my Soul gone before)I live not now to live, but to deplore.

A second Argo, freightedWith fear and avarice,Between the sea and skiesHath penetratedTo the new world, unwornWith the red footsteps of the snowy morn.

Thirsty of mines;She comes rich back; and (the curl’d rampire pastOf watry mountains, castUp by the winds)Ungrateful shelf near homeGives her usurped gold a silver home.

A devout Pilgrim, whoTo foreign temple bareGood pattern, fervent prayer,Spurr’d by a pious vow;Measuring so large a space,That earth lack’d regions for hisplants[232]to trace.

Joyful returns, tho’ poor:And, just by his abode,Falling into a roadWhich laws did ill secure,Sees plunder’d by a thief(O happier man than I! for ’tis) his life.

Conspicuous grows a Tree,Which wanton did appear,First fondling of the year.With smiling bravery,And in his blooming prideThe Lower House of Flowers did deride:

When his silk robes and fair(His youth’s embroidery,The crownet of a spring,Narcissus of the air)Rough Boreas doth confound,And with his trophies strews the scorned ground.

Trusted to tedious hopeSo many months the Corn;Which now begins to turnInto a golden crop:The lusty grapes, (which plumpAre the last farewell of the summer’s pomp)

How spacious spreads the vine!—Nursed up with how much care,She lives, she thrives, grows fair;’Bout her loved Elm doth twine:—Comes a cold cloud; and lays,In one, the fabric of so many days.

A silver River smallIn sweet accentsHis music vents,(The warbling virginal,To which the merry birds do sing—Timed with stops ofgold[233]the silver string);

10.

He steals by a greenwoodWith fugitive feet;Gay, jolly, sweet:Comes me a troubled flood;And scarcely one sand stays,To be a witness of his golden days.—

11.

The Ship’s upweigh’d;The Pilgrim made a Saint;Next spring re-crowns the Plant;Winds raise the Corn, was laid;The Vine is pruned;The Rivulet new tuned:—But in the Ill I haveI’m left alive only to dig my grave.

12.

Lost Beauty, I will die,But I will thee recover;And that I die not instantly,Shews me more perfect Lover:For (my Soul gone before)I live not now to live, but to deplore.

C. L.

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