LAB DAILY Filmed & Processed by the Library Photographic Service University of California Berkeley 94720 JOB NO_- DATE Reduction Ratio g—— 1 zs 2 so Oo = IZ 2g i co lize ie lL |. fle No On MICROCOPY RESOLUTION TEST CHART NATIONAL BUREAU OF STANDARDS-1963-A LLL | JIE | WE Mh i [INCHES , METRIC 1 2 DOCUMENT SOURCE: fe Yon ARES ESSAYS SUPERSTITIONS OF THE HIGHLANDERS OF SCOTLAND: TO WHICH ARE ADDED, TRANSLATIONS FROM THE GAELIC; AND LETTERS CONNECTED WITH THOSE FORMERLY PUBLISHED. IN TWO VOLUMES. o BY THE AUTHOR OF ¢ LETTERS FROM THE MOUNTAINS. A. Yr 8 Gx ~ oY A land of apparitions—empty shades.—YouNa. I recommend, though at the risk Of popular disgust, yet boldly still, The cause of piety, and sacred truth, And virtue, and those scenes which God ordained Should best secure them, and promote them most— Scenes that I ldye? gnd With fegret pércéive Forsaken, or thhough ily hbt.enjoyed.—~CowrEr: e * 0 . - : St vs’ a’ NOL: T.,. ae, LONDON: PRINTED FOR LONGMAN, HURST, REES; ORME, AND BROWN SOLD ALSO BY J. HATCHARD, PICCADILLY } MRS COCK, PALL MALL ; AND MANNERS & MILLER, AND JOIN ANDERSON, EDINBURGIL SP ———————— 1811; DEDICATION. TO SIR WALTER FARQUHAR, Barr. Lay’ Ny . DEAR SIR, [| & y v 1 "THoveu 1 well know that the recol- § lection of your native land will ever be | it dear to you,—though the manners and R opinions that are about to pass awey, an. i oe and mingle with the things that havo 34. RL -. been, still retain an intro i ANAT a A 2 = and though J should fee! plcasu . irre BY | - waiciing that interest,—these are no. the motives of this address. I know not that I ought, (even though I had the power) to withdraw your attention from the weighty concerns which continually J. Hay & Co. Printers, Edinburgh. 425448 ( vi) engross your time, and exercise your hu- manity : Nor shall I, however it might gratify my private feelings to do so, take the liberty ‘of expressing here what I think on this last subject; my intention in this address being merely to have an occasion for saying, that I am, With the highest esteem, Respect, and gratitude, Dear Sir, Your obliged and faithful servant, Tue AUTHOR. 70 THE READER. 1 coxsipEr *his work as a kind of ad- junct to those poems and letters of mine which have already met with so mnch indulgence from the Public. The super- stitions of the highlands, and the nation- al manners that blend with, or originate from them, are here fully delineated. In connection with the writings already mentioned, this work completes that pic- ture of highland life, of which my other writings presented casual sketches or broken features. ; These volumes are not offered to the public as the result of labour or study. They contain merely the overflowings of a mind filled with retrospective views of the past, and reflections suggested by Miwon Bn L deep feeling, and long and close observ- ation among scenes of peculiar interest. I have been encouraged to pour forth these retrospections, by a conviction that my other writings derived their chief in- terest from the fidelity of the delineations they presented, and the images they re- flected, of = mode of life more primitive than what Is usually met with. The letters added were selected from: many others, os in a manner completing Ed - - ~ » : o bation da ¥ ; 5. 1°. 32 Tix Faia b 1 tac series aiready published. "Ihe au- 3 "5 rr} - v 31 . thor, when no iongsr connected with ; om wympir ites mee nn Boy mae SCETCS £0 peculiar and £0 ecnleared to her recollections, cannot expect to pre- serve that inte:-:% 1 22 minds of o- others, which she is conscious was in a- great measure derived from local cir-. cumsioiices. Edinburgh, May 20. 1811. § 5? fi. SE >= a be Pa g CONTENTS. ESSAY I. On the Superstitions of the Highlands, their Origin, and Tendency. Page 1 ESSAY II. On the Obstacles, which so long prevented the Legends and Traditions, preserved in the Celtic or Gaelic Language from becoming the objects of learned research ; and on the Causes which prevented those who understood them from giving them their due value and importance, in what ‘regards General Science, - - - - 11 ESSAY III On the Causes which, precluding Strangers from settling in the Highlands, prevented any knowledge of the Language or Customs of the Country from beivg obtained through such a medium, - p 44 ( vii. ) : ESSAY IV. 1. The particular State of Society, in which a belief of the existence of separate Spirits, a ESSAYS and their re-appearance, most probably ori 8 ginated. 2. An Attempt to assign the mo- tives of such belief in the earlier periods Hn sd hater VARIOUS SUBJECTS. ESSAY V. T'he Influence of Superstition, when combined ~ ESSAY I with Religion, and rendered, in some degree, On the Superstitions of the Highlands, subservient to the imperfect sense of it which Hair Oricin. und Tendenc then prevailed, - - . 122 on Y- Arent GI —— ESSAY VL Courteous manners, and polished conversa- 2 tion of the Highlanders accounted for.—In- } Unfold oo 3 WwW . i > Stinces of visionary terrors.~Encounters ¥ het Norlin or what vast regions hold € vl : 3 e immortal mind, that hath forsook Y . - . - - a . . . with Spirits, 197 | Her prison, in this fleshly nook. MicrToN. PREFATORY ESSAY. ESSAY VIL Imagined power of pious rites in banishing an knowledge and refinement, have arrived Apparition.—Food for credulity eagerly . Tn : sought by the ignorant of all nations.—De- i at a high state of cultivation, and are praved taste for the marvellous nourished by a: thus enabled to take extensive views of extravagance and absurdity, ~ 263 life and manners, from the height te VoL. 1. WHEN nations, in the progress of £3 go¢ { 2) abundant than those of the wilderness Yet the natural taste that leads us to wander and to speculate with a kind of hameless pleasure among the wildest re- cesses of the forest or the fell, does not abate, but exalt our delight in the fer- tility and beauty of cultivated scenes: On the contrary, the pleasure is height- ened by contrast. The anology betwixt the sensations 1 have been describing, and the intellec- tual pleasure derived from contemplating the human mind in its native state, op- posed to that to which the highest cul- ture can exalt it, holds very closely, ‘Were we to land on some savage island, where the foot of man has never trod, which they have attained, they begin to look with a mixture of contempt and self-gratulation on those wider regions still inhabited by tribes, as rude and barbarous as their own ancestors have been at a remoter period. Among others, slowly advancing in gradual progression from rudeness to re- finement, we find much to excite our wonder and compassion; yet often feel ourselves compelled to stoop from all “the pride of science, to bestow our tri- bute of esteem or admiration on the ta- ents that sometimes illuminate the gloom “of ignorance, or the mild affections and bt faithful attachments that sometimes en- | dear the abodes of humble simplicity. The eonvarison between an unciviliz- 4 nor his hand removed incwimbrance or ed and highly illuminated people, must 1 opened access, we should be harrassed certainly be very much in favour of the i with fears and perplexed with intricacies latter. We should cultivate the gar- > The tangled luxuriancy of a thorny wild den to very little purpose, if its produc- i would obstruct our path; and from the tions were not more beautiful and more 0" gloom of the impenetrable thicket, the 4 3 lurking tiger, or the envenomed serpent would seem ready to spring; and at least haunt the startled imagination. What nature appears to the senses un- cultivated and unsubdued by man,—man, savage and unsocial, appears to the un- derstanding, before his mind has been ele- vated by patriotic, or softened by tender feelings; before he has respected the ties of close affinity, and endeavoured to extend them to his tribe; before he has tasted the sweets of social life, and « the sympathies of love and friend- « ship dear;” nay, before he has been ‘in any doggie. « smit with the love of ¢e sacred song,” the first and surest symptom of tl ding intellect. The solitary, cruel, selfish, and capricious savage, far from forming an object of amusing speculation, fills us with sensa- tions of mingled horror and disgust, such as we feel at the Yahoo pictures of Swift; and make us, like his reader, ¢ 5 ) shudder at owning our fellow nature with a being so degraded. But among a people, whose progress towards civilization, is so far advanced, that the feelings of the heart, and the powers of the imagination have been call ed. forth, preceding the light of science, as the morning star and the dusky dawn do the effulgence of the sun. Among such people, the mind finds something te dwell on that is soothing ‘and satisfactory. We contemplate nations in this state, with a feeling like that which every unspoilt mind derives from the innocent prattle of such children as are not confined in artificial trammels, but allowed to ex- press their own thoughts in their own words. We feel all the comparative con- sciousness, that we can think. deeper, and express ourselves better ; yet, mak- ing the due allowances, we wonder how they think so soundly, and speak so well. To. this wonder is added the never ¢ 6) failing charm of simplicity, and the de- licht we take in detecting the first motions as they arise in the untutored breast; and assisting the retrograde view, we love to indulge of our own feelings and opinions, during that guileless pe- riod. # These nearly resemble the general motives, that prompts us to explore with 4 curiosity, ardent and not useless, the characters and manners of nations such as I have described. The philosopher and politician may be stimulated in their researches by many other causes ; but these are the leading sentiments of those who merely wish to be pleased and informed. Whoever has observed the very great pains taken by men of capaci- ous mind and enlightened curiosity, to trace the progress of mind in remote and uncivilized countries, as well as through the remote and obscure periods of local £ +} history or natural records, must wonder at our countrymen in particular. Their diligent search of what is remote, and in a great measure unattainable in the history of mind and manners, and total neglect of what is obvious and within reach, nay, concealed in the recesses. of their native country,—is not merely strange, but altogether unaccountable. They have bewildered themselves in end- less and fruitless researches, regarding the ancient Scythians and modern Tar- tars, the Belg, the Gauls, the Goths, the more modern Danes. 1 speak at. random, and merely repeat a string of names of which I know very little, and they cannot know very much. In the mean time, their curiosity seems very moderately excited hy the greatest of possible curiosities—even by the remains of the most ancient, unmingled, and ori- ginal people in Europe : of a people who, surrounded by strangers, have preserved ( & } for a series of ages, which ne records can trace, their national spirit, their nation- al language, their national habits, their national poetry, and, above all, their na- tional mode of thinking and expressing their thoughts; their stile of manners, and strain of conversation, and still more their local traditions, and family genea- logies in one uninterrupted series. Why has not this wide field for specu- lation been explored. Why have the lovers of useful knowledge neglected to dig into a mine so rich in science ; even that most valuable science, the know- ledge of human nature. But the lovers of this coy science, have too long delayed to follow her to her retreat. In the deep recesses of our Alpine glens, they might have wooed and won the nymph who presides over the hidden treasures of antique lore. In the Celtic Muse, they would have found an Egeria, who would have enlight- (‘9 ¥ ened them by her mystic counsels, and told them the secrets of other times, now doomed to long oblivion. Now it is too late. . ¢¢ Tha, caimine Malmhine gu dian.” * The fair form, where inspiration has for so many ages, awaked the bard, ani- mated. the hero, and soothed the lover, is fast gliding into the mist of obscu- rity, and will soon be no more than a remembered. dream, ¢“ When the hun- “ ter awakes from his noon-day slumber, “ and has heard in his vision the spirits “ of the hill.” The neglect of pretenders to science, in omitting to acquire a language, through which so much is to be known, and the apparent indifference of natives, in not producing at an earlier period, in- * The literal translation of these words is, ¢¢ The steps of Malvina drew near. But the metaphorical signification is more properly, The steps of Malvina are departing— they drew near to the awful forms of her fathers, to the : Cloudy Tabernacles,” of souls escaped from suffering and irom sorrow, - 2 TT ———————— ¢ 10 J in the light of a more current language, the hidden treasures of their own, seems equally unaccountable. Onewho, like the writer of these pages, is not absolutely a native, nor entirely a stranger, but has added the observant curiosity of the latter to the fdeilities of enquiry enjoyed by the former, might best, if otherwise qualified, explain this paradox. An attempt at such an ex- planation, will form the subject of the. next Essay. ESSAY IL cent - On the Obstacles, which so long prevented the Le- - gends and Traditions, preserved in the Celtic or - Gelic Language, from becoming the objects of learned research ; and on the Causes which pre- vented those who understood them from gwing them their due value and importance, in what re- - gards General Science. Be mine to read the visions old, Which thy awakening bards have told. Weze I to date back my observations : to remote ages, a field of discussion, . would be opened much too wide for my present consideration. The poetry of a: people of such ancient origin, and un- - mingled identity, is, however, valuable. and curious on many accounts. ( 12) First, as it includes so much of their history as continues to exist, or indeed has existed. Second, as it is a kind of document, for establishing many facts, relative to the manners and sentiments of remote times : and, 5 Finally, as the great quantity of it, and the singular beauty of much that still remains, account for a certain chi- valrous dignity, and refinement of sen- timent, not known to exist among the lower classes of any other country. This is so commingled with the lan- guage and the poetry, of which that is the vehicle, that in losing these memo- rials, the courtesy of manners, and ele- gance of thought and expression connec- ted with it, is also lost irrecoverably. That a warlike, musical, and poetical people, should, without the use of letters, in the course of ages, attain those height- ened sentiments, and generous feelings ( 18 ) of which I speak, will seem less wonder- ful as it is more nearly considered. The Celta appear, as far as we can trace them, to have been a spirited, war- like, and self-righted race. Driven back in process of time, to the rocks and fastnesses of their country, by a people whose military skill overpowered their unthought valour, the common suffer- ing formed a stronger bond of union. They loved each other the better, for having endured calamity together. Their exile from the plains and fo- rests, in which they were wont to roam at large, served both to exasperate them against the common enemy, and to ex- alt their patriotism, thus concentered within the bounds of these natural for- tressess. Courage and freedom were all that remained to them ; and the sense of other privations, made them value more highly the blessings that were left. Enured to all the hardships of the chace, ( 14) their only remaining means of sustenance;.. war had for them no terrors, but those attending the loss of friends, endeared to them by sharing the same dangers and privations, and being urged on by the same wrongs, and animated by the same lofty and honourable feelifigs. Amidst their perils and wanderings the imagination was exercised and called forth. They became social, from sharing - the same hazards and sufferings, and did not become selfish, because they neither had, or coveted any property, but such . as their pre-eminence in valour, and dex- . terity in hunting procured. This is exactly the period in which heroic poetry is born: and these are the scenes fitted to awake the sensations that nurse its infancy, and adorn its more advanced state. Those, who had no possessions but their wives and children, loved these with all - the ardour of concentrated affection. As { 15 ) ‘the rills from many fountains add their collected waters to the stream that winds along the valley its progressive course, enlarging as it advances ; so all this fer- vour of filial and fraternal affection, pour- ed in with united and redoubled force: into that current of kindred attachment, which flowed downwards among the des- cendants of one Patriarch head of a tribe, enlarging as it proceeded. Thus the affections of every kind were strengthened and sublimed; and thus love, pride, courage, patriotism, and in- dependence furnished fuel to that poetic flame which has burnt so clear for ages. Once kindled, it continued to burn, till the dross of sensuality, and all mean and sordid passions were consumed by its ve- hemence. To speak without a metaphor, the effect of poetry, so pathetic and sub- lime, and so generally understood, ‘was the production of a refinement of stile and. character, which to us appears al] ( 16 ) together incompatible with national poverty, and comparative ignorance; with a total want of letters, and the fine arts. Yet so it was, and it may be worth while to examine still more diligently, why it was so. In the first place, the great distinction by which these people are marked out, as differing fromr any other we know, is their unbroken lineage ; that uninterrup- ted series that has descended from the first occupiers of these secluded districts. I must here be supposed to include all the Celtic tribes that remain in any part of Britain ; though in regard to the ef- fects resulting from this unbroken line, I can only speak of these I have seen and known. There is another reason for confining to our own highlanders these observa- tions. They could not apply with equal force to the Welch, because Wales being a principality, possessed a court and { 17 ) sovereign of its own, living in the centre of the country, and keeping up regal state, forming alliances, giving away places, and receiving and sending em- bassies. These circumstances, with the fertility and high culture of some parts of that country, were all adverse to the seclusion that nourishes a singular, nay, unique national character. In the highlands, they knew, or cared very littie about their distant monarch. They never saw, or wished to see him. His existence in them excited neither hopes nor fears, excepting for their chiefs, who were to them the objects of exclu- sive attachment, and reverence. The more so, as they had not been accustome- ed to contemplate or admire any thing greater. Every one venerated in his chief an attached kinsman and kind protector. And with great reason: for if it so hap- pened that a highland chief was arbitrary or cruel, all the evil properties of his pa- RE srs. BA (18 ) ture were let loose upon adverse clans. To his own he was always partial and indulgent ; and should he be even fero- cious in disposition, or weak in under- standing, he was curbed and directed by the elders of his tribe, who, by in- violable custom, were his standing coun- sellors, without whose advice no measure of any kind was decided upon. In Wales, on the contrary, the visible and personal consequence of the chiefs was diminished by the splendour of the court to which they were attached ; and the civil wars among different pretenders to the principality, before it was subdued by the English, still further destroyed that intimate cohesion of families and. tribes on which this unbroken individu~ ality of character so much depends. When once the poetic spirit was a- wakened, it illuminated the race whose deeds it recorded. Patriotic feeling was: not only heightened by the local poetry i SL { and tradition, which reflected on the ex- isting clan the honours of virtues of a long line of ancestry, but the mind was enlarged, and the imagination waked into activity, by these hoarded treasures of the memory. To make people wise and prudent, and fit for conducting themselves in the world at large, it is necessary that his- tory should hold up to them in her im- partial mirror the errors and vices, as well as the wisdom and virtue of the de- parted. To form the generous and chi- valrous spirit, the self-subdued mind, the warm affections to his family—the fond attachments to his clan-—the love of story, and of song—the contempt 19 ) of danger and of luxury—the mystic superstition, equally awful and tender— the inviolable fidelity to every engage- ment,—and the ardent love of his na- tive heaths and mountains ;—To form this character, and to add to its courtesy : a HE a aL ima ae 3 or, AR £0 ATR hee” Ee oN a DV ie Fa (20 ) intelligence and taste, such as is very rarely, if at all found among other un- lettered people, these discriminating re- cords were not necessary. : Though ignorant of letters, the art of conversation, was well understood, and highly cultivated among these moun- taineers. Of this conversation, the he- roic actions, the wise or humorous say- ings, the enterprises, the labours, the talents, or even the sufferings of their ancestors, were the subject. These were sooften, andsofondly descanted on, where all the world abroad was shut out, and the meanest particulars became hallow- ed by their veneration of the departed, that they were carried on from father to son with incredible accuracy, and fideli- ty. I must be supposed to mean such an- ecdotes as did honour to the memory of their ancestors; departed vice and fol. ly slept in profound oblivion; no ong ( 21 ) talked of the faults of conduct, or de- fects in capacity of any of his forefathers. They might be, perhaps, too faithfully recorded by some rival family; but a- mong a man’s own predecessors, he only looked back upon sages and heroes. And even among the lowest classes, a man entertained his sons and daughters in a winter night by reciting ‘the plain- tive melody, or mournful ditty, which his great grandmother had composed on the death of her husband, who had lost his life crossing an overswelling stream, to carry, in time of war, an important message for his chief ;—or of her son who perished in trying to bring down the nest of an eagle, which preyed on the lambs of the little community—or who was lost in the drift, while humanely searching for the sheep of a sick or ab- sent neighbour. These, besides romantic tales of love, faithful and extravagant ; and of disinte- Ho atm A til A RAN A RS I 2 LM . ov FARR TI T BE ESCA i a y i a pT 2 Uo SR Ka a a nts oid pg jo ra or MOSMAN. SOT dls Ba gp Sen 3 (22) restedness and fidelity, almost incredible, formed the subjects of popular song, and local tradition ; and served as a basis for a pride of family, exalted by a firm be- lief, not in the importance and antiqui- ty only, but in the merit and talents of their progenitors. Family pride, thus born and cherish- ed, is never to be eradicated from the bo- som of a highlander. If he has the smallest pretensions to high ancestry, he respects himself on that account, and ex- acts respect from others with a kind of blind confidence though deficient in all exterior claims. Poverty does not diminish this pride, though it makes it more unaccountable and intolerable to others. He conde- scends to the meanest employments without thinking himself degraded. On the contrary, he thinks the employment dignified by his condescending to ex ercise it. His countrymen think the ( 23 ) same, apd his consciousness of inherent dignity, fortified by their respect, sup- ports him under all depression of exter- nal circumstances. He is supported by hope too; looking always forward to the time, when his indefatigable exertions and severe pri- vations shall enable him to resume his place in society. And he is not often disappointed. Of the support drawn from the con- viction, however fallacious, that one is gzscended from a long line of ancestry; illustrious, not merely for birth, but en- nobled by the exercise of all the har- dy and long suffering virtues, a strik- ing illustration might be drawn from the conduct of the victims of harsh poli- cy, after the insurrection of the year for- ty-five. Of the numerous orphans whose fathers perish’d in the field, or by the hands of the executioner, many were driven out at an early age, even in child- ( 24 ) hood, to seek for bread, where their pre- tensions to respect or compassion were not understood (I speak of the children of gentlemen, and of such as I have per- sonally known) these laboured under e- very possible disadvantage. | Their education was in every sense de- fective : They left home too young to have a distinct impression of the tradi- tionary lore, and poetical-history, which had in some respects supplied the wants of more formal and liberal instruction to their ancestors : They had not the meufis of procuring the most common benefits of instruction in many instances, but by going to school in the evening, and re- warding their teachers with a share of the pittance they made shift to earn through the day. They were often, amidst all these strug- gles, vain, ignorant, full of prejudice and bigotry, and rankled into acrimonious ebstancy, by the illiberal insults, and un- ( 25) disguised contempt « of those, whose fa- “ thers they would have disdained to @ “ with the dogs of their flock.” In some instances, their capacity was very moderate,—in all, it wanted every kind of cultivation ; yet, under all these disadvantages and humiliations, such was the inherent power of the lurking principle of honourable pride and gene- rous shame, in¢'supporting these fallen and wretched Qutcasts, that in no single instance did they by profligacy or dis- honesty disgrace their origin. Despised by the world, they respected each other. Met together like knight er- rants in disguise, and consoled each other with a proud retrospection of the past, and a sanguine anticipation of the fu- ture. Sanguine hope, like, popular pro- phecy, sometimes causes the event it an- ticipates. There is not one of all these children of Lalamity who survived their early struggles, but who have contrived VOL. I. B Ey & RRR; sn se OA DS bo AN, - or RR * Ar RRA 7 0 ** ( 26 ) by persevering industry, or undaunted” edurage and enterprise, to climb up to their original station; and many have left families highly respectable, and even opulent, on whom they have been most careful to bestow all those advantages of education, of which disastrous circum- stances had deprived themselves. This striking proof of the effect of what one may call a poetical and tradi-" tionary education, even where its force was diminished by distance, and its traces almost erazed by early banishment, may give some idea of its power over the mind, subject from childhood to its in- fluence. This national character, singular as it was, and invested with features of di- stinction, that, when investigated, appear both noble and amiable, was not even, in ancient times, discerned or understood by strangers. > ‘The low country was inhabited by a w people driven at a later period from the south, by successive invaders and oppres- sors, who were farther advanced in the arts of industry, #id the progress of ci- vilization than the highlanders, whom these last regarded as intruders, and who had scarce any thing in common with them. 5 Though their mountain - chiefs were in due time brought to yield a reluctant fealty to the Scottish monarchs, their followers were scarce conscious of this submission, and most unwilling to be- lieve, that a greater man than their own chief existed. No two nations ever were more distinct, or differed more complete- ly from each other, than the highland- ers and lowlanders; and the sentiments with which they regarded each other, was at best a kind of smothered animeo- sity. The lowlander considered the high- lander as a fierce and savage depredator, 2 speaking a barbarous language, and in- habiting a gloomy and barren region, which fear and prudence forbid all strangers to explore. (The attractions of his social habits, strong attachments, and courteous manners, were confined to his glens and to his kindred. ‘All the pathetic and sublime charms of his poetry, and all the wild wonders of his records, awere concealed in a language difficult to acquire, and utterly despised as the jargon of barbarians by their southern neighbours. If such were the light in avhich the cultivators of the soil regard- «ed the hunters, graziers, and warriors of the mountains, their contempt was am ply repaid by their high spitited neigh- bours. They again regarded the lowlanders, ps a very inferior mongrel race of in- truders; sons of little men, without he- roism, ancestry, or genius. Mechanical drudges, who could neither sleep with ORIGINAL DEFECTIVE 9 5" out on the snow, compose extempeore songs, recite long tales of wonder or of woe, or live without bread and with- * outs shelter, for weeks together, follow- ing the chase. Whatever was mean or effeminate, wghaterer was dull, slow, me-. chanical, or togpid, was in the high- lands imputed fo the lowlanders, and ex- emplified by some allusion to them : while, in the low country, every “thing ferocious or unprincipled—every species. of aukwardness or ignorance—of pride: or of insolence, was imputed to the highlanders.. No two communities, generally. speak- ing, could hate each other more cordi~ ally, or despise each other more heartily. Much of this. hatred, however, proceed- ed from ignorance of each other’s charac- ter ond manners. How “this ignorance should have continued so long, and ‘how this mutual red wa 5° gbstinate-- Th aT x a - - . Seems. ot MPEGS LSS Sa og pad wf rang Eth a SE AE ~ Ww ly cherished, remains now to be account- ed for. > Till of late years, letters were un- known in the highlands, except among the highest rank of gentry and the clex- gy. The first were but. partially’ enlight- ened at best. Their minds had been early embued with the po of know- ledge peculiar to their country, and ha- ving no view beyond that*of passing ‘their lives among their tenants and de- pendents, they were not much anxious for any other. If, in some instances, a chief had some taste for literature, the Latin poets en- gaged his attention more forcibly than the English, which he possibly spoke and wrote, but inwardly despised ; and, in fact, did not understand well enough to relish its delicaCies, or taste its poetry. “The Catholic clergy, (I speak now of a remote period) wereseducated abroad, where they had onlgdearned theirmative » A CL @ 3 § a oy ( 81.) tongue, and from whence, they only brought the A of. the country where they studied. : In some instances, , the younger bro- thers of patrician families were sent ear- ly out to lowland seminaries, and imme- diately engaged in some active’ pursuit for the advancement of their fortune. These rarely, scarce ever, returned to reside in the country. If they should, they went too early away to be learned in that species of learning cultivated at. home, and were besides taught by their college acquisitions, to hold it cheap as a thing i in itself desetving little atten- tion, though they were unconsciously: animated by the spirit, and influenced by the power of that very.species of at- tainment, which ‘they had heel taoht » ce a hdd to despise. Ea ef 5. The truth is, there “has not_been in former times, and 1 think, there har ly, gis is nove 4 a highlander, existing, qualified . A —_— ( 382 % a to taste alike the beauties of composi- tion in his own and the English language, unless such a one be found among the - clergy,—the only persons whose mode of life admits of commensurate skill in the delicacies and peculiarities of each. A man who has nét aliberal education, added to much taste and some ingenuity, is not able to give the English readers any idea of the peculiar felicity, copi- ousness, and energy of the Gaelig lan- guage. nlf A highland gentleman’s education is never finished at home ; and if goes so soon out of his owh country, as to obtain at an early period agritical knowledge of the English,—the period of. awakeneg faney and unsgphisticated feeling;—the period. of wonder ahd active curiosity,— of enthusiasm and reverie,—in short, the period favourable to strong poetical i im- pressions is ‘over. " In finding-what i$ correct and grama- - 9 * tical in another tongue, he has lost’ much of what is exquisite and expressive in his own. ‘This is the reason why. thidre never was a tolerable translation from the Gaelic, except in one well-- known instance} of which I shail say no more here, having-already discussed hat subject in angther place: I only repeat my Sint had he been as scru- pulous of fidelity, as capable of elegance, no person was so well qualified to tran-- slate Gaelie poetry as him to whom I al- lude—thdFoughly: understanding loth languages, and having both an ear for: melody and a taste for poetry. . I have now accounted for the singu--* lar fact of so few natives being quali-- ed to make ‘known the peculiarities : of this enthusiastic race. The matter of fact, inquirers, who wish to know all that they can acquire witheut costing them much trouble, can never attain: to an. intimate knowledge of the. Ccus-- 5 x Ey Se i Tor Fl RED - ; (84) toms and manners of those “people, far less of their very peculiar and difficult language, without making it a principal object, and in bestowing more time and pains than is usually given to matters of mere curiosity.’ ? What*appears singular to a stranger, is rendered, by early habit, so familiar to the natives, that ther Bh not think of it as matter of curious ‘speculation. And the illiberal, ignorant, and bigotted pre- Judice, with which the lowlanders for- merly regarded this insulated;¥and, in a manner, concealed people, whom they “only knew. as rude warriors or valiant « robbers—these prejudices, I say, usurp- ed some power over the mind of oy highlander who received the benefit ¢ 9 lowland education—in fact who a any education at all. He was like the Jewish converts in Portugal, to whom the opinions and manners of their an- cestors were a subject of secret and en- . “like a species of free masonry. iB 4 (ss) %, deared veneration, which they ‘c Biosely concealed for fear of the inquisition, y yet communicated among themselves, | ‘Nothing was so terrible to the punc- - tilious pride of a highlander as ridieule. To any but hisicountrymen, he ‘careful- ly avoided mentioning his customs, his: genealogies, and, above all, his supersti- tions. Nay, in. some instances, he af- 3 fected to speak of them with contempt, to enforce his pretensions. to literature or philosophy. These eatly impressions, however, and all the darling absurdities and fictions connected with them, only lay dormant in his mind, to be awaked by the first inspiring strain of his native poetry, the blast from the. mountain he had first ascended, or the roar of the torrent that was wont to resound by the halls of his fathers. *° & 3g % Lr A more pure and natural mode of re or SR a A Le Fu rr i pa COREE TE Le Cpe gg TR Yona Rn = An + Tn Sa Pe ( ligious bekief, too, might sem’ to have - invisible tie; which all’ born within its extinguished the lurking enthusiasm and influence feel, "yet none free from sub- 4 » cherished credulity ef the young moun- jection to the potent spell, can compre- a Waineer - It might appear, that PEE hend. This partial subjection to the ¢¢ The breath of Heaven had blown its spirit out, early habits, of resignation io the wil. «¢ Ahd strewed repentant ashes on its, head ; dering powers of song and superstition, § pe is a weakness to which no educated and but the moment that he felt himself ) polished higlilander will ever plead guil- within the stony girdle of the Gram- ty. It is a secret sin, and, ‘In géferal, plans, though he did not yield himself a ; he dies without confession; for this good prey to implicit belief, and its bewilder- reason, that should he confess, he could ing terrors and fantastic inspirations, 1 not have the least hope of absolution. still he resigned himsélf willingly to 3 Scorn, even that bitterest of potions, the sway of that potent charm, that ] the scorn:of fools; would be his certain mourntul, yet pleasing illusion, which i portion. dh the combined influence of a powerful 3 Those honest visionaries, who com- imagination and singularly warm affec- 3 bine « The love of folly with the scorn tions have created and preserved in those 4 | of fools,”-—who feel a secret. kindness for romantic regions. That fourfold band, 1 the venerable follies of their ancestors, wrought by music, poetry, tenderness, 1 and a contempt for pretenders, who, with and melancholy, which connects the past 3 greater folly, affect to despise them, with the present, and fire material with 3 take very good, care not to plead guilty the immaterial world, by a mystic and 1 to the crime of easy belief, Eb CT A a I STR ag RAT wis rie Os RE 8 i rT Indeed, to use the lapguage of the .%. gpoet, ave ¢ What high heart could ever yet sustain ¢¢ The public blast of insolence and scorn.” Who, that had even HKimself broken the chains of mental bondage, would choese to subject his revered ancestors to the chargé of gross folly, from those who are incapable of measuring the heights and depths of human strength and weakness. It requires a kind of knowledge not often attained in the closets of the learned, or in the haunts of the busy and the gay, to enable us to ascertain how much wisdom and talent is compa- tible with a cloudy atmosphere of the imagination. Nor is it easy for those who-are, in a rent Measure, * ‘guided by the dictates of plain good sense, im- proved by the mere elements of useful knowledge, to calculate how much arro- gance, presumption, and folly may be . found in mihds, whose ‘acquired chakrac- teristic is implicit ‘unbelief, if such a phrase be allowable ; and who owe this" honourable distinction to that emptiness which merely reverberates the opinions “of others. © s % No wonder though the Jews should have sunk into a state ripe for change and destruction, when the community became divided into two Sects in perni- cious opposition to each other, and to truth. It is evident, that the Sadducees, who believéd neither angel nor spirit, regard- ed, with infidel contempt, all those who listened for whispers of inspiration, or looked for visions of light. It seems equally certain, that the Pha- risees believed in thig existence, and, per- haps, in the occasional appearance of se- parate_ spirits. But they supposed them merely agents of divine vengeance to their enemies, or ministers to their bi- Fil { '3 i ! y ta ( 20 ) gotty and spiritual pride, having no con-- cern about any of the human race but ‘themselves. I think it is now pretty evident, why the highlanders, when once enlightened . B . i by science; were, betwixt shame and pru-: Eo “lp . ~% : dence, silent on many of the peculiari-- ties of their original modes of thinking, which, if known, might illustrate the history of thé human mind i# its pro-. gressive state. Werter looks back with sad compla-- cency, to the days of blessed ignorance, . when he knew no limits to théfearth. When, being equally a stranger to its. shape and its extent, he lay on the banks of a river, pondering on the end-. less course, as he supposed it, of the stream ; and, lost infsublime contempla- tions on immensity. | What a scope had his imagination. What an expansion had his mind in this progressive pursuit. While the school-. Bie ATs DEFECT] a LEE dS Eade aT (41) boy, Langht © read before he could think, Es ciation, without the least exercise of his intel- lectual powers, or the remotest compre- hension of the subject, repeats after his tutor that the earth is round. Thus “should a person of the highest attain- ments, the most exquisite taste for all that is beautiful and sublime in nature and composition, and most correct ap- prehension of moral excellence. Should such a person as I have been describing, be early and strongly imprest by the wild and the wonderful, amid the solitudes of a dreary country, where every spot is connected with some legend, well known, and fixed in popular belief; and where the most exalted and most pathe- tic strains of poetry gain double force from being obvious to the lgast cultured mind; his heart and his “imagination could scarce break the ties of early asso- Reason might restrain, but \could not extinguish that awful and un- in & % 3 = hs SUS EJ EE DR a I a FEN 3 a gE . EEE Ri TR RH io b - = 5 Ee oN Es FS EE Re Teg 25 ( 42 ) defined emotion which shrinksgfrom so- litude and darkness, and willingly shuns objects that too poy erfully recal these early combinations. This may, at worst, be called a poeti- cal state of ‘mind, in which reason clear- ly distinguishes, but cannot entirely ba- nish the phantom that glides on the con- fines of her dominions. Yet this ¢ last “infirmity” of the susceptible and seclud- ed mind, never fails to be the object of merciless ridicule to the most silly and cowardly pretenders to science, as well as to the acute’and enlightened philoso- pher. As Werter’s little boys repeated after ‘their master that the world is totind, unthinking beings, who, though ~ they have neither imagination to create, nor fortitudegto combat. the phantoms of superstition, can repeat trite sarcasms on credulitysand “ignorance. They can . talk plausibly after their teachers of the folly of those who will even trust their ORIGINAL DEFECTIVE x ( 43 ) . senses, when they present to them any thing out of the beaten road of common occurrences. i 4 In order that my illustration may be the clearer, I shall make the next thing proposed the subject of a separate essa This I am the more induced to do, because the various causes which pre- vented strangers, in past times, from settling among the original inhabitants” of our mountains, are such as tend much to throw light on their peculiar System of life"and manners. ak " ” ! iar JO Tot. 35, RS ts os ————— . & a ppt mo ORIGINAL DEFECTIVE n— pres—— Te | i | a5, Be Pe TE | 1 | h. wv. (45) 18 [i o n y patible with the influence of worldly cus- a | t HE oms in the present times. Much of this a | ESSAY IIL P ; i | : however, was owing to the peculiar sa- i] * credness of the bond of marriage, in 8 = ls those countries, where the violation of it if : , was regarded with a kind of holy hor- if On the Causes which, precluding Lon gers from set ror: And much to those affinities being iling in the-Highlands, prevented any knowledge for the most part contracted where they of the Language or- Customs of the Country wo from being obtained through such a medium. “ 2 And of those demons that are found. : In fire, air, flood, or under ground. MivrToN. ih th IKE a broken mirror, whose frag- ih o- ments imperfectly reflect a beautiful iN countenance, those scattered or divided tribes. still, in the fond affection subsist- ing among families, retain the remains of the attachments resulting from their, original patria chal goverment. o ¢ In certaine remote and secluded dis~« tricts, more of this did very lately sub-. sist, than one would havesthought com.. #** “ i. strengthened ties previously existing ;— where they, in amanner, added links to the chain of memory, as well as to an unbroken succession of family alli- ances: the subject of those connections delighting to recal the past, and to dwell fondly on the recollected proves, worth, or dignity of their mutual ances= tors. This accounts, in some measure, for the respect in which the name of spouse "js hold among these tribes. A good man will necessarily prove a good hus- band any where.” Even a mar, not dis- tinguished for any other species of merit, 5 CR Be a fd pike Sin? SF income wm —r ret Cr ce Ml 5 he SAE oe TLE Ty Joke ei =. ( 46 ) w sometimes makes a tolerable husband to a woman whose beauty has attracted him, and whose qualities of mind or man- ners are particularly engaging. In the highlands these prerequisites are not essential. A man who possesses scarce any other virtue, will not fail in this. Characters, otherwise remarkable for leyity, turbulence, or immorality, are still kind and generous to the creatures indissolubly united to them; and whom they feel, as well as know themselves bound to protect. Those who imagine these mountain- cers personages like Arcadian swains, in- “variably united to the objects of their first fond affections, will not wonder at this. They will, on the contrary, con- sider such a state of society as the result of theichoice in marriage being gener- ally made from the purest motives. This, however, is not much oftener the case here than in more polished Br a Gg Td aS nt RA at N - ba pet a g wo 7 EL i os Xe 5 4 a Bet SEE * 24 (4) countries. Young people are bred; not only with a profound reverence for their parents, but with a kind of implicit con- fidence in the elders of their tribe. Rash and imprudentattachments produce much amatory poetry, and many exquisite love- lorn plaints; for the Celtic muses, above all others, have skill to complain.” 5 They are said-also to occasion SOIrow, sickness, and, in some instances, death; They occasion, however, very few ill as- sorted marriages. A contract of this ins dissoluble nature is rarely entered into without a solemn consultation of the kin- dred on both sides ; where all advantages are’ nicely balanced, and where, asin the world, fancy is sometimes sacrificed to € * 5 - convenience. The Be though fertile in hardy and determined spirits, scarce ever produ- ced a Remeo, who had hardiness enough to incense his kindred, by chusing his Juliet from an adverse tribe. Connec- a » i "DEFECTIVE | pia SEA Re Lg Lg - ee 2 Wein rg ER fn Tia ET HE a EIA aph pa i arty grr te Apia CT oT dl a NS A h ko TR , id be ma————— wap EE ERAN a . . £2 Eo y ( 48) 3 tion with high lineage and powerful "al- liances, was a_great object among the upper classes. They laid very great stress too upon the character of the par- ents. What they called a good breed, where the frame of the parents was comely and healthy, and their charac- ter stainless. A highlander shuddered » at any alliance with ctimme, and could *" not easily divest himself of a faith in hereditary propensities. +: Last, after these, came the considera- tion of wealth. Money, literally such, was “ out of the question, but from the extreme poverty to which the younger branches of good families were liable,.shut out as they were from all ordinary resources, small matters to them acquired great im- portance. i To divest themselves entirely of the consequence attached to what they con- sidered as high birth was imflessible; to subsist, on what they considered as de- ( 49 ) cent mediocrity, without some little ad- vantage by marriage, and the very ex- treme of exertion and self-denial after it, was equally impossible. A wife who brought forty cows was a desireable match to one who could not possibly begin the world without such assistance. A thousand marks was a lure irresistible, so late as within fifty years past. Yet custom, necessity, and the habit of laying great weight on alliance, and on a stainless ancestry, in many instances produced matches, in which, at first, affection had little share. Once married, though the wife should neither excel'in beauty or understand ing, she borrowed a kind of sacredness from the tie which united her to her hus- band, and became blended with his very existence. Though perhaps not fitted to awake the raptures or agonies of ‘poetic passion, he was predisposed to re- gard her as VOL. I. ( 50 ) «<¢ "The kind fair friend by nature made his own.” from her he expected truth, fidelity, and a certain kind of respectful attachment, chastened by - 4¢ Pjousawe, and fear to have offended.” from the habitsdescended from old times, women looked up to their husbands as the representatives of warriors and of worthies; and as beings, born to protect them by their courage, and provide for them by exertions of a kind of which they themselves were incapable. The wife, again, independent of men- al charms or personal attractions, was endeared to the husband by this tacit homage, and by a tie, more prevalent by far here, than in more polished societies. She was the mother of his children; to her he was indebted for the link that connected him with the future descend- ants of his almost idolized ancestors. ( 51 ) No highlander ever once thought of himself as an individual. Amongst these people, even tffe meanest mind was in a manner enlarged by association, by anticipation, and by retrospect. In the most minute, as well as the most serious concerns, he felt himself one .of many connected together by ties the most lasting and endearing. He con- sidered himself merely with reference to those who had gone before, and those who were to come after him; to these immortals who lived in deathless song, and heroic narrative ; and to these dis- tinguished beings who were to be born heirs of their fame, and to whom their honours, and, perhaps, their virtues, were to be transmitted. This might be supposed merely to cherish pride ; but, besides this, it had a highly moral tendency. It was this in- timate association with the memory of the past, with the hopes of the future, Q ( 52) and with the interest and honour of his cotemporary kindred, that, mingling with all his thoughts and feelings, set him beyond the reach of every species of egotism, even that of being solely influ- enced by his own taste and fancy, in the most intimate of all connections. ‘Whatever might be the motive which produced a marriage, it was very rarely unhappy. To a genuine highlander, ther mother of his children was a character so sacred, ‘that to her he was never deficient in indulgence, or even respect. To her he could forgive any thing, provided her conduct did not impeach the honour of their mutual progeny, or create doubt, where suspicion would be misery. 1 cannot ‘here avoid observing the happy effects of plain good sense untu- tored in the schools, in regulating the most important of all earthly concerns, and of the benign influence of those salu- ( 338 ) tary prejudices by which the reign-of the affections is made to supersede that of the passions. It really harmonizes the mind to con- template the economy of human life, among those who have been at best con- sidered as a semi-barbarous people, when contrasted with the effects of a vicious and selfish refinement. There, without ny depth of reflection, or subtilty of argument, the mere habit of consulting the general good of these most dear to us, in preference to our ‘own fancies and humours, regulates and renders easy the first social duties... There, those who are united together by bonds which cannot be broken without a disarrangement of the whole domestic system, do not think decay of beauty, difference of taste, or even disagreement of temper, sufficient to warrant the very wanderings of at- tachment. In fact, they have been ha- bituated to think separation an impos- icky vs 0 ER Ah ( sible thing ; and it is wonderful how the mind accomodates itself to evils for which it knows no remedy. Where a man has been accustomed to seek and to find his pleasures in the bosom of his family. Where his chil- dren, bred up under his eye, and taught to look for happiness in his favour, re- joice in his smile like flowers in sunshine. Whatever materially affeets them be- comes with him a paramount consider- ation. 5% ) It could never enter into the minds of such parents, to tear asunder ties the most tender for their own selfish gratifi- cation. How dreadful would it appear to those unsophisticated beings to act any part, the result of which must be habi- ‘tuating young minds, whom it is the first human duty to cherish and instruct, to take part with one parent against another ; or, perhaps, lose respect and affection for both. This, indeed, is not ¢ 55) the worst evil of such separations, and such unions as wc are daily forced to- witness. The opening mind, in the very dawn of intelligence, in the first bloom of purity and delicacy, must be contami- nated with the consciousness of guilt, of the most aggravated nature, polluting the source of its existence, and debasing those whom it delights to venerate. In a highland family, a scene of this. nature rarely, if at all, occurred. If a man did not find his wife’s dispo-- sition gentle, or her temper amiable, he" never supposed that his happiness would’ be increased by seeking after a mode of felicity, which was not, in the ordinary course of things, permitted. He consi- dered this as he would any chronical . distemper, one of the many modes of: trial appointed for a state of probation. He no more thought of tearing asunder the union of divine appointment, be- cause it was not productive of unalloyed Ch IAI Cb Bo Ppt tometer == ra or Ne Be Atte BL, ( 56 ) felicity, than he would have cut off his leg or his arm, because it was pained by a rheumatic affection. Nothing less than the gangrene of dishonour could in- duce him to this dividing between soul and spirit, by which the whole system of life is shaken and undermined. To him any suffering was easier to bear than the thoughts of abandoning, to scorn and reproach, the confiding creature to whom he had vowed protec- tion.—To alienate from him, not only the maternal relatives of his children, but even his children themselves, who could never forgive the dereliction of their mother. The rights of the conju- gal tie were indeed, on all sides, guard- ed by barriers insurmountable. A man so basely selfish as to prefer the gratification of his own inclination, to the peace and honour of his own fa- mily, and the many others intimately { 87 ) connected with it, would be considered as an outcast from society. What a contrast does this reverential awe for the sanctity of the marriage bond among those primitive people hold out to modern degeneracy. Let us now view a near and recent picture of modern refinement—of that contemptible selfishness which, under a pretence of strong attachment, delicate feelings, and a distorted and illegitimate sense of honour, sacrifices to individual and capricious likings and dislikes the peace and honour of families. Of those who not only divide those whom God, by the laws of their country and their own consent, hath joined to- gether, but root out, from the hearts of their own innocent offspring, the native purity and simplicity, the best affections, and the sweetest hopes of childhood,— even those of being the pride and so- lace of their mutual parents—of dwell- - 5 ( 58 ) ing in peace under their protection, being blest by their affection and exam- ple,—and seeing them together attain a venerable old age, in all the sanctity and eomfort of endeared union. Yet these cruel parents, who thus murder the promise, the innocence, and the hopes of childhood, and undermine the very basis of morality, in the vio- lated feelings of the creatures whom they abandon. These very culprits will talk with horror of the infanticide of China, or of those hottentots, who, when their family is numerous, and food par- ticularly scarce, tie a feeble and unpro- mising infant to the branches of a tree, and leave it to perish. The instinct of nature, always power- ful, can only be conquered by extremity of misery. Beings wretched and de- graded, strangers to comfort, in whose minds long suffering has dulled the mo- zal sense,~who have not even the cor- ¢ 59 J dial of hope to support them under in- evitable evils, taste not the pleasurcs of the parental relation. . To love and be loved—to train up a creature qualified for the best enjoyments of this world, and the best hopes of the next, is not theirs, even in ideal anticipation :— - «¢ Nature stands. check’d, religion disapproves.” Yet stern necessity presses on the oh- - tuse feelings of those who, having no hope even in this world, are of all men most miserable; and if any degree of sensibility or reflection remain awake in such a mind, . they only wake to urge the hand of desperation, by suggesting the merey of an early dismission from a life which’ promises only to be varied by hardship and calamity. . The horrors of shame and despair - operating with united force on the mind of an unhappy female, when the veil is about to be torn from secret guilt, and m—— CR A a Gd J v . me 1 A] ) nd Ee ( 60 ) the gulph of ruin opens before her, has sometimes, in a moment of distraction, produced a deed she would have once feared to name. Pity, however, mingles with the horror awaked by the extreme of wretchedness, that stifles the plead- ings of nature in the parental breast. But il the natural feeling of the un- hardened mind shrinks from the deed that consigns back to its Creator the soul unknown to actual suffering, and unstained with actual guilt, how can we look calmly on crimes of a deeper dye, loaded with every possible aggravation. Have we not seen; nay, do we not daily see, parents blest with every fair- est gift of nature—with affluence to gra- tify every reasonable wish and taste, and information to direct the channels in which their superabundance may flow to adorn and enrich the scenes around them. Parents who walking in the mild light of Christianity, though its precepts should ( 61 ) not have reached their hearts, must have their minds softened by its beneficial in- fluence. Must I add the rest—must. I contrast the murder of innocent souls, wantonly committed by parents thus blest and thus enlightened, with the ef- fects of tortured and perverted feeling in the worst extremities of human suf- fering. Who can bear to hear the fa- thers, who, after forsaking, corrupting, and dishonouring their own children, talk of the feelings which move them to protect the creature who has renounced the -divine protection by seeking theirs. Of the honour which induces them to bind their souls to guilt, sheltered, but not sanctioned by marriage vows. This does not diminish, far less efface crimes. It is merely a daring attempt of consummate wickedness to force its way into the sanctuary, and level all the distinctions that remain. #< Whenscarlet vice lifts her triumphant ( 62 ) head,” decked with the ensigns of conju- gal union, it is not the crime that is. hallowed, but the state itself that is de-- graded. Well might Milton exclaim, «¢ Hail, wedded love, mysterious law, true source,” &c. and add, Sole property : In Paradise of all things common else. Wherever this sole property remains unviolated, the steps of Astrea still lin- ger. And, in some instances, where truth is softened by tenderness, and ex- alted by congenial virtue and intelli- . gence, “ the Paradise of hearts,” thus formed, seems like a relic of lost feli- - city, to remind us not only of the state from which we are fallen, but of that to which we should aspire. Where low- minded selfishness and sensual indul- . gence, the twin offspring of ease and luxury, assume the garb of refined taste and delicate fastidiousness, this sick ( 63) depravity of a capricious appetite, serves for a pretext to rid themselves of the partner who has palled upon their taste, and procure the charm of variety, height- ened by the zest of difficulty and disho- nour. These elegant culprits are not aware, that they are divesting themselves of one of the great privileges of humanity, and reducing themselves to a level with the beasts that perish ; but cannot, like them, perish for ever. Religious sanctions this class of people already despise. Upon those of morality they have al- ready trampled. What then remains to make them endure themselves, or be en- dured by others? Why, they are still men ‘of taste and refinement, of honour and humanity ; and that to them is quite enough. They are little aware, that the mean- est peasant in an Alpine shed, were he even as careless of religious and Bh ot mt: Fao a A a ee ( 64 ) moral sanctions as themselves, would, - from the simple dictates of good sense and good taste, regard their gross de- pravity with disgust. The titled offenders whose sordid, and abject vileness has obtruded itself on pub- - lic observation, are strangers to shame; they know they have broken the laws of God and their country; yet in that breach they glory; they are proud of having made such a costly sacrifice to taste and attachment. They know they are wicked, but are upon this principle somewhat vain of being so. "But they have so long lost sight of all purity of mind and delicacy of feeling, that they are scarce conscious of being both contemptible and detestable. It is this that I would have them know. ¢ Nay, I would have a Starling « taught to speak nothing but infamy ; « and give it them to keep their igno- “ miny still in motion.” (65 ,) From the degrading and odious theme, to which the force of contrast has impel- led me, I return to a more pleasing one. Feeling as if respiring with lightened spirits a purer air, while I return to shew how closely every bond of kindred affec- tion was drawn in consequence of the unviolated sanctity of the nuptial vow among the people I have been describing. In this state of society, the affections were so much excited, and so many were included in their sphere of action, that no individual sunk under the chil- ling sensation of being regarded with total indifference. With this perpetual spring of excitement in the mind, a state of apathy, the languor which proceeds from the extinction of hope and fear was impossible. ilvery one of the tribe. or neighbour- hood endeared by affinity or mutual zood offices, was in a greater or less de- IE ! EE a — w \ C—O SA SI Sb ( 66 ) ( 61) = her wal BE or = a a 3 EE -—-u gree beloved. This genial climate of the heart, this perpetual spring of the affections softened every hardship, and made privations tolerable, from which we. should shrink affrighted. It was in this warm atmosphere, that the flowers of theimagination delighted to unfold, with- out the aid of culture. Amid the desela- tion of these dark heaths and barren rocks, there was a perpetual action, and: re-action of fancy and affection. The glow of attachment waked the poetic fire in minds susceptible of the finer im- pressions, and capable of embodying their conceptions in appropriate lan- guage. Poetry again investing the best feel-. ings of the heart, with the bright ima-. gery and harmonious expression which only genius can supply, exalted and che-. rished the sentiments which it embel-. lished. Thus softened and excited, the mind was peculiarly open to =very kindly and tender impression; and from the habits and circumstances of their lives, equally tenacious of those it hadonce received; be- sides, thelikings and dislikes, merely excit- ted by extraneous circumstances, theyhad all those deepened shades of affection and aversion, produced, by quick perceptions of excellence and demerit; and a singular capacity of discriminating character; these were partly owing to their social habits, living so very much together, af- fording them all the facilities that could be desired for looking intimately into in- dividual nature. Their intimacy with poetry too, the frequency of that talent among them, and their readiness to eX- ercise it on all occasions, added greatly to their powers of discrimination. All that was estimable and amiable, gener- ous or noble, in character and conduct, received the meed of poetical applause, a ——— SAA STIS i ong IS IY a a YP ANAT ATO ( 68) and was thus held out as a model for imitation. Though they spared the feelings of the living in the recorded acts of the dead, much local and temporary satire flew about, rendered more pointed by po- etic fancy. Sometimes this was merely a playful and ludicrous exposure of the petty foibles of their friends, but oftener the most poignant ridicule or acrimonious sarcasm pointed at their enemies, or those of the clan. As for the bards by profes- sion, they might most truly say, ¢¢ Whoe’er offends at some unlucky time, ¢¢ Slides into verse and hitches into rhyme.” It will scarcely be believed by those who imagine, that there can be no re- finement, but what is produced by science and luxury, that this salutary ridicule was often applied to reform vain con- ceit, or boastful arrogance ; and that ab- surdity, indecorum, .and what we should ( 69 ) call ill-breeding, was frequently and successfully satirised by the Celtic muses. Indeed, the. high sense of pro- priety, and the delicacy and justness of feeling among the common highlanders, in all that relates to the decencies of life and conversation, could not be otherwise accounted for. Had Shakespeare been a highlander, he could not have found models among his competitors for his sordid or clown- ish characters. In that case, we should never have known Launcelot Gobbo, or Launce. However irrelevant all this may seem to the subject in question, it bears close upon the position first laid down in this essay, and tends to render more obvious these peculiarities by which strangers were prevented from residing among a people, whose language was so difficult to learn, and whose customs, while they drew them closer to each o- ther than any other people, were to a oem x a — aN i 1 i ( 70 ) { o%1 ) stranger altogether incomprehensible, and in their consequences, tended to ex- clude him from thebenefit of Society. The polish, or at least the amenity which pre- vailed in their social intercourse, though it was impossible for those wgo were not C—O BI oa most important. One of these tenants = RT Tr Taran a Er ——— = ge ” * could not be removed to make room for a stranger without giving mortal offence to the whole tribe. Their ideas of morality as well as of attachment, being outraged by such a proceeding. Thus though a SA eae EEE a pl or A ET " - - . " i St DN intimately acquainted with their lan- guage and manners to understand it, formed an additional barrier betwixt them and strangers... The manners of the lower class in other countries appear- ed to them deficient in courtesy and ci- vility. Then there really was not room for a stranger, in a country already overpeo- pled in proportion to its productions. Especially when it is considered, that every inch of ground was occupied by heads of families, who were perhaps the tenth generation on the same spot, and held their lands from a patriarchal chief, to whom and his ancestors they and their forefathers had performed services the stranger passing through the country or merely visiting it, was treated with kind- ness and indeed with the most liberal hospitality, if he attempted to settle there, he had nothing but prejudice and persecution to expect, by attempting to domicil himself, he lost all the courtesy due to a stranger, without establishing any claims to good will as a friend or neighbour. Such was the state of society : And so little could a single individual, even in tolerable circumstances do for himself, that 2 man who did not possess the ge- neral good-will, and receive the hourly good offices of his neighbours, lived in the state of an outlaw, excluded from ( 72) the comforts, and deprived of the privis leges of social life. This state of alienation, which any one was liable to incur, who was not regard- ed by the little close rivetted community around him, made it necessary for even natives to sacrifice much of humour and inclination to those on when they were so dependent. : A stranger found it impossible to live among them without such an entire re- signation of his habits, prejudices, and o- pinions, as none but a mind very liberal, very versatile, and very accommodating could submit to. Unless entirely na- turalised, every thing that such a one could attempt would fail, for want of co- operation, without which nothing can be done in these countries. He was here- by subject to petty vexations, and va- rious nameless injuries, destructive to peace, and even dangerous to safety. TR A SE pt aa or ( 18) Law there had barely power to protect {ife. The protection of property was matter of convention, understood and act- ed upon, but by no means including in. different persons. If twenty people saw a trespass com- mitted, no one durst, or indeed would in- cline to witness in favour of a stranger against their own clan. They might have gweversed the boast of the philo- sopher, and said, they loved truth well, but Plato and Socrates, (i. e. Donald and Macolm) better. All the intercourse of life was carried on by a kind of tacit agreement, in an interchange of good offices, that would appear extravagant and remantic any where else. Yet were here so necessary, that it was almost considered a crime to withhold them. The ground being all uninclosed, it depended entirely on the good faith and good herding of his neighbour, whether VOL. I. D REAP FH ul SEAS Lh a man ever put a sheaf into his barn. The sheep and cattle too, wandering promiscuously on the hills, the integrity of a man’s neighbours was all he had to depend on for their return. Spreaths were only taken by way of gallant inter- prise by people at a distance ; but if in any instance a petty trespass on sheep or goats was committed, a stranger, or a churlish and unpopular character was sure to be the object of such depreda- tion. ! David very justly thought himself en- titled to some extension of Nabal’s hos- pitality, when he and his men hod SO long pinedonscanty sustenance, while the fat herds and flocks of the thankless chur! were feeding round him. The herds that wandered on the mountains were the objects of equal seli. denial and exertions, proceeding from a refinement of integrety, which each by turns practised towards the other with ( 75) very great fatigue, and sometimes at the risk of life. A man would drive home his neighbour’s sheep overtaken in the whir- ling drift ; bring down cattle from heights which his life was endangered in ascend- ing ; or extricate them at the utmost risque from swamps and bogs in spring, when too weak themselves to make the requisite struggle. To make the importance of this mode of kindness understood, it will be neces- sary to explain one part of the singular system of life which formerly prevailed in these regions. A highlander’s whole wealth consisting of cattle, what he most valued himself upon, was that glory and joy of life, « a fine fold of cows,” to use his own favourite phrase. With cows his rents were paid, with cows his daughters were portioned, and his sons established in life. Were one to tell the most sagacious highlander, that such an one who had ne 2 ( 16 ) éows, was notwithstanding possessed of money enough to purchase his whole fold, and that he possessed this wealth with- out being liable to any risque, far less to the terrible contingences to which a highland herd is exposed ; far from be- ing dazzled, he would consider the possessor of this funded wealth as com= ‘paratively mean, sordid, and ignorant. And this he would do, on the principle, that if the man had common sense, Or the least idea wherein true dignity con- sisted, he would use this wealth for the purchase of cattle, whose abundance would do him credit in the eyes of his neighbours, and whose encrease would further enrich him. In vain would you urge to him the argument of Shylock, upon running the parallel between barren metal and 2 fruitful flock, “ 1 cannat « tell—I make it breed as fast.” A large stock of this kind was here jit dn ghiect of the two most influ- 1 & 248 15 ~ ¥ oud {: wr) encing passions that agitate the more polished world, avarice and vanity. A highlander has in some instances. much vanity. In this point, indeed half- civilized people exactly agree with the over-civilized. The ignorant and vain, because they know not the just value of the different objects of competition, and expect to be admired or envied for pos- sessing things, which they estimate far above their real worth: Those who are: become the slaves of luxury and artifi- cial desires, again become dead to the finer affections, which are cherished by truth of taste, and simplicity of life. "Their moral sensc becomesproportionably dull, consequently, to. relieve that stag-- nation ef life, which results from the: torpor of fancy and feeling, they feed on an imagined superiority, Which the: “« poor heart would fain deny, but dares « not,” derived from the possession of things, of no more value in the estimatios ( 78) of wisdom, virtue, or even true taste, than the coloured plumage of the Indian, or the ornamented weapens of the high- lander. Amid these desultory reflections and miscellaneous observations, suggested by the character of the people of whom I speak, the fact I endeavoured to prove seems fully established, I mean the dif- ficelty of a stranger’s making any estab- lishment among them. I have already accounted for the little intelligence, to be obtained from the transplanted, and educated natives, con- cerning the peculiar habits, and ancient customs, and superstitions of their tribes. It is new pretty evident, that the few strangers who have ever obtained a pre- carious and unsafe footing among them, were, from the causes I have detailed, prevented from obtaining, or communi- eating much of this kind of intelligence. These difficulties form a kind of apo- ( 79) logy, for the incurious dullness, that slumbered with such seeming apathy, be- side such sources of interesting specu- ation, and of the knowledge of human nature, differently modified from what it is, cither in the savage, pastoral, or ci: vilized state. ; The native would not, and the stran-- ger could not, present a picture of life and manners, so peculiar, so blended of contrarieties, a system . of thought, and action that seemed in constant opposition to each other. Where the mind ¢ tu- tored by poetry,” and exaited by a kind" of chivalrous and heroic sentiment, (influ-- encing even those who were unconscious. of its power and origin,) was nourished by a hereditary enthusiasiim, calculated to soften and refine the feelings. Yet where. the habits of life, and the lesson early taught of making a merit of endurance, and despising hardships, tend- ed to steel the mind and body to all the. ( 80 ) sufferings terminating merely in the in- dividual, a singular combination of cir- cumstances, which never will, or can take place elsewhere, stamped the general character with these extremes of fort} tude and tenderness, which one would think incompatible with each other: no studied course of mental culture, could ever produce. this effect in a community, scarcely indeed in an individual. In the common course of things, and a~ mong ordinary characters, a life sub- Ject to constant exertion, privation, and suffering, is generaliy adverse to the cul- tivation of taste, or to those exercises of imagination and feeling, which call forth the finer emotions of the mind. The hero, or the adventurer, is not often a poet or a musician. Itis only in that interval of painful leisure, when self-exiled from the field of glory, that we find Achilles soothing EE ——— ¢ 8L } Kis rage and grief by listening to the: late; and Ulysses shuts his ears to all songs but those that celebrate the wars- of Troy, where he and his compatriots fought and conquered. . | Minds hardened by. suffering and ex ertion, are often capable of much gene-- rous humanity ; but that is not because they are refined, but because they are : unspoilt... They have not so many arti- i: ficial wants, as to need all they can ac-- | quire ; nor have they learnt that sophis-- tty which is so ingenious in finding ar- aml " or ‘ x : pas guments against imprudent, and indis-- criminate compassion, and which. will’ F never endeavour to do good, because = such - endeavours have often been frus- trated, by the folly, or ingratitude, of the objects of them. . Yet the blunt humanity, which is so: often met with in uncultured minds, . hardened by the blasts of adversity, is deaf and blind to the pains and penal RRA a ear ne ce vs . 5. i da Sa Tp ( 82) fies of wounded delicacy. It will heal pains such as it is able to suffer, but un- derstands no other. In cultivated society, where feeling and imagination predominate in any indi- vidual, and are early «fed with food con- venient for them,” the character so form- ed, is very far indeed from that of self-de- nial, manly exertion, or voluntary priva- tion. In the habits of civilized life, when taste as connected with feeling and imagination is highly cultivated, a sickly, selfish, and enervating sensibility to pain, to evit, and to injury,—a fastidious, and fan- tastic passion for external elegance,— a love of ease, almost amounting to dis- ease,—and an illiberal contempt for or- dinary duties, ordinary sufferings, and plain unvarnished virtues, are the com- mon result of this species of refinement. He whose mind has been early, and unconsciously, imprest with a deep sense (+88 ) of all that is sublime in fortitude, and" all that is beautiful in tenderness; to whose imagination the poet and the hero are ever present as models of imitation ; who is taught by the first, all the pathos of thought and language, who learns from the last all that is noble in self-con- quest, generous shame, inflexible con- stancy, inviolable fidelity, contempt for pleasure and for ease, and self-devotion for the good of others;—he who thus feels, and acts without claiming praise, or once imagining himself an extraordi- nary character on that account ;—he whose life of continual hardships and privations is softened by the quick sense of musical delight and poetical excellence, and sweetened by all the endearing sym- pathies of domestic affection ;—He, in short, whose hardy and austere habits of life, so counteract his refined and deli- cate modes of feeling and thinking, as to produce that balance in the mind, so fa- - Wa A oo a a gaa SA Sr ( 84 }) vourable to moral excellence; where the habits of self-controul, and patient endu- rance enable the will to limit, without extinguishing, or even diminishing the affections; the character, I say, formed by such a coincidence, and certainly very much dependant on the external circum- stances which produce it, the virtues, in short, of habit, and of accident, it would: be presumptuous to compare, with those grounded on enlightened and liberal views, the consequence of valuable knowledge and judicieus instruction : far less do I here include the melioriat- ing influence of religion, even. on those members of a Christian community who are least sensible of its power; because this makes no part of the difference be- twixt the people I speak of and more enlightened societies; and because I mean to advert to its effects upon the character I have been describing in anc- ther place. ( 85 ) Yet, though I do not claim a rank in moral estimation for my Celta, equal to that of the virtuous, who are inform- ed and enlightened, and whose good ac tions are the result of good feelings ju- diciously directed, I should be glad to know, whether such beings as I have de- scribed, do not hold a place superior to the multitude, who act, in a manner, impulsively without feeling or reflect- ing ; or to the less useful, but more self- important class, who imagine that feel- ing and reflection with them supersede the necessity of exertion. Still further, does such a character excel ¢ the stoic « of the woods, the man without a tear?” I have been thus minute in explain- ing the influence of poetry and local ha- bit upon character; because, in fact, their poetry, which contains their his- tory, and the philosophy of their mo- ral sentiment, is the only key to the knowledge of their ancient character FT 0 - met, bh pa i pa EEA ( 86 ) and customs. What still remains, a-- gain, of that character and those cus- toms, when well understood, forms the best comment on their poetry, and af- fords the most convincing proof of its authenticity. It is no wonder that such bright gleams of all that is noble and delicate in thought and feeling, breaking out from the obscurity .of imputed barba- rism, should astonish ignorance, and provoke incredulity. But the tinge of all the fine colours of this antique en- thusiasm, is still obvious in the thought; speech, and action, of every unsophisti- cated highlander. Who that sees and feels its influence, can deny, or even doubt, its existence ? 1. The particular State of Society, in which a Be- lief of the Existence of seperate Spirits, and their " re-appearance, most probably Originated. 2. An Attempt to assign the Motives of such belief in the Earlier Periods of Society. ¢¢ Those, to whom the world unknown, «¢ With all its shadowy shapes is shown.” + CoLuivs. e— WE have been accustomed to hear a great deal of “ vulgar prejudice.” The very name of superstition is enough to recal this favourite phrase to the recol- lection, not only of the poorer retailers of phrases, but to the more wealthy ma- nufacturers of them: not only to those who willingly adopt the thoughts and ( 88 ) words of ethers, but to many who ima-- gine they think and act for themselves. Although the title of this Essay may lead the reader to suppose it is meant to- support vulgar prejudice, it will, on the contrary, begin with combating a very. vulgar and a very general one. But let us first examine what vulgar prejudice is: Is it not belief taken up: on slight grounds, received without ex-- amination, and cherished from mere sel- - fish adherence to an opinion, because we have once avowed it ? Such, then, is the prejudice by which: we are taught to conclude, that the be-- lief of spectral appearances, implying the continued existence of the spirits of the departed, first originated among minds. of the lower order. The weak, the ti-. mid, and the ignorant. The ground of this belief, or preju-- dice, seems to be, that among minds of this description, the dread of superna-. ( 89 ) tural agency still lingers; while more powerful, and more enlightened intel- lects, have long since conquered those visionary terrors. This prevailing idea, shews very little attention to the progress and exercise of the faculties of the human mind. The authors of this superstitious belief, musb at least have been possessed of a vigo- rous imagination, which is no attribute of a feeble intellect. Those assigned to their inferiors in capacity their own mode of belief, and were implicitly fol- lowed by them, through all the regions of doubt and fear, thus opened to them. In process of time, as the dawn of in- telligence began to brighten, those pos- sessing superior powers of intellect, climbed to higher stations, and took wider views; while ignorance and folly grovelled on, contented with the worn- out opinions which their superiors, in theirprogressive march, had thrown away. eg A 7 4 a SARE Tt. wor re ss . . - padi ~ Ro RE FL Rs icing ( 90) This ‘process cannot be more clear- ly illustrated than by another, which annually takes place in the capital, the last stage of which, any one may have an opportunity of seeing every May-day in its most public streets. It is well known, how fancy and ingenuity are exhausted, and wealth lavished, in the yearly exhibition of the noble and the elegant, on the birth-day of the Se- vereign. This « pride, pomp, and cir- « cumstance of glorious dress,” however, proves but a splendid incumbrance when the show is over. It is soon therefore di- vested of the jewels that adorn it, and dismissed to the green room, or some less creditable place of exhibition : Nothing can be more rapid than the declension and fall of finery, when it ceases to be either elegant cr useful. On the first of May, those robes of ce- remony sink to their last stage of de-. gradation. On that day, chimney-sweep--. ( 91) ing boys, in a kind of grotesque female attire, may be seen decked in faded wreaths, and torn plumage dragging a- long tarnished trains, still gleaming with tinsel and spangles, that once adorned the forms of beauty, and glittered in the presence of royalty. Yet, how would one be laughed at, who should assert, that those individual chimney-sweepers, or others of the same description, were the first inventors, and original weavers of those dresses! To be serious, it 1s nearly as easy, from the analogies of what we know, with what we only con- jecture, to trace the first belief of appa- ritions to their origin, as many other things which we trace through a chain of consequences to some remote cause, in a manner, which satisfies, if it does not convince us. Young, in one of his early poems, says, ( 92 ) : This earth is for my verse too small a bound, ¢ Attend me, all ye glorious worlds around.” ‘The aspiration which dictated this wish, to burst the barriers of mertality in search of new forms of being less limited’ than our own, is common to every mind susceptible at once of tenderness and sub-. limity. This desire may.be differently modified by circumstances, and may be differently directed by education ; but in powerful minds, replete with imagination and feeling, it every where exists. Every where, too, it forms an invisible and un- definable link between those spirits that still endure the probatory. state allotted to them, and those who have already ¢ Done their task, and ta’en their wages.” This description of feeling more parti¢u- larly applies to those who have been nursed in the bosom of fond affection, and in the habits of deep thoughtfulness, ( 98 ) amid the solitudes of a wild and gloomy country. When strong attachment, and the re- veries of a fertile and sublime imagina- tion were this indulged, to such charac- ters, the limited views to which their senses were confined, only served to sug- gest images of somewhat yet unseen, but not to fill up the capacity of a powerful, though uncultured intellect. The dim light of tradition, the profound reflection suggested by subjects so important, yet so mysterious, and the secret whispers of the aspiring soul, all led them forward to the limits of space, and prompted them to look for something beyond it. Thus prepared, intense meditation, which ever leads forward the awakened soul in search of something, s¢ Still out of reach, but never out of view,” would be more excited by the appear- ances and motions of the heavenly bodies: These, like the wheels which ( 94 ) Milton describes after the prophet Eze. kiel, « each appear instinct with spirit.” To a mind intelligent, though unin- formed, thus disposed to grasp eagerly, though blindly, at the future and invisible, what could more exalt the contemplation, or crowd the mind with images of things unseen, than being deprived of the object of concentrated and lasting affection, such as is peculiar to retired and primi- ture habits of life, and glows with most fervor in the strongest minds? In the course of the vain search made by the desponding spirit, for the soul with which it longs to re-unite, it finds the wish, the eager desire, and finally the lively hope of immortality. What we eagerly wish, we readily believe! I am now confining my probable con- Jectures (which, after all, is the utmost to which I pretend) to the remote ages, when society had assumed that form, among the people of whom I speak, ( 9% ) which the oldest poetry and tradition have brought down to us. We shall hereafter see, that the acqui- sition of religious knowledge while reli- gion itself was clouded with superstition, far from diminishing these visionary modes of thinking, only gave them a more extended basis, and reduced them to a more regulated form ; nay, even es- tablished them into a confirmed system of general belief. To recur to the period previous to the light of revelation being in any degree diffused in those obscure abodes of primi- tive life : During this dim dawn of intel- ligence, no reason appeared why the spi- rit, still supposed to exist in a seperate state, should not still cherish the pure af- fections and generous sentiments which made it lovely and beloved, while impri- soned in mortality. To such enthusiastic beings as we have been contemplating, it could not appear unlikely, that spirits { 96 y so attached and so lamented, should as- sume some semblance of their wonted form and countenance. That they should come in the hour of deep sorrow and si- lent recollection to soothe the solitary mourner, to assist his fond retrospections, and to cheer him with hopes of a future meeting in some state, no longer incident to change or seperation. The state of mind thus presupposed, was quitesufficient to give familiar voices to the winds of night, and well-known forms to the mists of the morning. Thus it is most likely that the first apparitions were the off- spring of genius and sensibility, nursed by grief and solitude. These phantoms however, which exalted the musings of the superior order of souls, and lent them wings to hover over the obscure abyss of futurity, were not long confined to their visionary selitudes. On the contrary, they soon became tos pics of vulgar discussion, and popular be (197 ) fief; the fancied forms which were now supposed to people solitude, added horror to obscurity, and doubtless gave new ter- rors to guilt; but then they also furnish- ed fresh materials for craft and credulity to work upon, and administered to folly the means of propogating absurdity. True, but we are speaking of the infancy of society, the only state in which it can frequently happen, that the strong mind either stung by remorse, or instigated by affection, endeavours to pursue the ob- Ject of its emotions beyond the ‘barriers of visible existence. It is only in such a state of society that the weak soul shrinks from phan- toms of its own creating, or sinks into helpless imbecility under the arts and stratagems to which so wide a field is opened by the implicit belief of superna- tural agency. The worst result of this supernatural agency is the belief of witchcraft, which VOL. I. E - £ Ta ER Ess a a ( 98) after all, is unjustly blended with the amore ancient faith in spectral appear- ances. This cruel and abject form of su- perstition, originated with the other cor- ruptions of Christianity in the dark ages, when an ambitious, though degenerated form of religion, extended its temporal influence, by adopting, not only the out- ward splendour but the dark and my- sterious horrors of Pagan superstition. The intention of the present disserta- tion on the popular belief, is to elucidate some of the peculiarities of the highland character and manners, as they existed within my own memory, and still con- tinue to exist in some remote COrners. To account for the manner in which this Lelief is so intimately blended with their traditions, their poetry, their customs and even their modes of thinking, it is necessary thus to trace it, to its remote origin. For this purpose, I shall endea- , wour to shew, how the imaginary connec- ( 99 ) tion betwixt the material and spiritual world grew up from an obscure and vi sionary dream of solitude, to a regular system of general belief. | That this belief originated in the semi- barbarous, yet heroic times, of which the memorialsstillfloatinbroken fragments on the waves of tradition, cannot be doubted. These ancient poems, so sacredly Ce: nerated by every genuine highlander are with them of ‘the first authority. : In these are found the remotest traces of those mystic shades that seemed to hover over the poet in the hour of in- spiration, and warn the warrior of the approach of danger. Though the mode In which this universal belief was wont to operate, seems to add confirmation to the questioned authenticity of these pa~ thetic strains of national poetry, yet it is not on them that I would ground my hy- pothesis, nor from them that I would draw my deductions : This_I defer to a 2 ( 100 ) later period, when religion was mingled with the reigning superstitions, and gave them in many instances a salutary di- rection. It may he worth while, however, to dwell a little longer among the mists and clouds of those earlier and darker times, to observe what a fine poetical ef- fect this imaginary intercourse was fit- ted to produce. It is odd enough 40-00 serve, in the course of speculation into which we are led by this species of re, search, that the same cause which gave a fantastic wildness to the waking dreams of those imaginative people, gave form and consistency to the visions of ir repose ne they mused upon, and wished and tried to see all day, appeared dis tinctly to them at night, for that rea- son. The train of images that floated in dim succession over their pensive tod Jabouring minds when waking, came ar; ( 101 ) rayed in all the forms and colours of re ality to visit their slumbers after this previous preparation. . Hence, in. time they could hardly distinguish on recollec- tion, « The visions of the night, when “ sleep cometh upon man,” from the un- real forms which haunted their waking fancy. Whatever effect this might have upon life in the period of society, which might properly be termed the reign of the affections, it gave much pathetic ef- fect to their descriptive poetry, in which this indistinct mixture of day dreams with night visions, is very perceptible. One of the most petulant, but not least powerful critics who has attacked the authenticity of the most ancient highland poems, is not content with denying their antiquity. He refuses them any claim to poetical merit; and, among many o- ther faults in their composition, is not a little scandalized at the multitude of a OG AE rag Co A TNE ER RETR RC SR IES SE i RnR SRE ie EERE en | | ( 102 ) ghests with which those productions a- bound. : In a faithful picture of the manners of the people, these were as necessary as a great number of mountains would be in a map of this eritic’s native country. Yet who ever objected to a map of Scotland, that it was dispropertionally encumbered with mountains. As it was said of ancient Rome, that, at the time of the invasion of the Goths it contained as many statues as men, it may be remarked of the ancient highland poetry, that it contained as many sha- dowy as substantial personages. On the description of night by the five Bards which Macpherson had not even the imputed honour of composing, Gray the poet observes, « that every one of « those Bards sees ghosts more or less.” Yet he does not seem surprised, or at all disgusted with their abundance. Now, though the whole tribe of Fingalian ghosts shoyld be proscribed and hunted : 10% ¥ down by caitifi’ critics as phantoms of theeighteenth century, numberlessshades of remote antiquity and unquestioned authenticity will remain to prove the picturesque and pathetic effects of such: appearances, upon minds prepared. to: « hold each strange tale devoutly true.” In the death of Gaul, a poem of sin- gular merit and undoubted antiquity, the hero is described, as being by some accident left alone in the island of I’Fruine, a horrid appellation, meaning « the infernal island,” given to that spot, on account of its ferocious and inhospi- table inhabitants. The warrior is at-. tacked by a party cf, these savages, sets his back to a rock, and by his single valour kills many, and repulses the rest. They leave him, however, though seem- ingly unconquered, pierced with many wounds, some of which soon after prove mortal. His faithful and affectionate. spouse, meanwhile, is filled with fear and ARE A MG DAO SUR TAD SS I ORS MR 0 rs _— v 0 A ES A SA ETT TE Be — Sd NLS ge ( 104 ) anxiety, by his prolonged absence. After a restless night, she falls into a perturbed slumber, but in the dawning has a sin- gular dream. “ And poets say, that morning dreams are true.” She sees Gaul with a pale and mournful countenance, standing on the approach that led towards their dwelling. Flying eagerly to meet him, she observes that he stands motionless, and that his limbs on one side, seem to be formed of mist ; this last pertentous sign of speedy death, alarms and awakes her: a form appear- ing as gradually dissolving into mist, was a fatal presage of no doubtful meaning. She snatches up the infant Gaul in her arms, launches instantly into her currach, or small boat, covered with skins, and hastens to the I’Fruine, where as I should have formerly said, the misty form told her she should find her beloved. She just arrives in time to exchange with ( 105 ) 4 hér expiring warrior, expressions of ex- quisite grief and tenderness, to soothe his last moments, and to die upon his bosom. A bard, the friend of the departed, ar- - ~ rives, too late, to his aid ; he, however, celebrates the virtues, and laments the fate of those affectionate and heroic lo- vers in a beautiful song, invoking the winds of heaven, the. waves of the sea, the bards of times to come, and the pass- ing traveller, to mourn over the grave of the lovely and the excellent: He invites the showers of spring to call forth the earliest verdure on the ¢ Bed of Gaul,” and to clothe the tree that shades the final repose of these lovers, with the freshest foliage, that the birds of swiftest wing and sweetest song, may be attract- ed to the spot, consecrated by their re- mains. This slight sketch gives a very imper- fect idea of the effect, which the descrip- tion of such a dream has on the imagi- <9 ( 106 ) nation of a highlander, familiar to all “the wonted results of these misty vi- sions. Dwelling too amidst clouds and storms, torrents and precipices, these grand accompanyments, and appropriate scenery gave: double effect to a song of ghostly pathos. One of this nature occurs in a collec- tion I have seen; which is abundantly ancient, and wonderfully pathetic. I have not the book beside me, and cannot even remember the name of the hero. The story and its effect on my feelings, however, I perfectly recollect. A boat is returning with some war- riors from an expedition to Lochlin, and through the darkness of a tempestuous winter night, attempts to reach the coast of Argyleshire. A young hero standing near the prow,. is disturbed and threatened by the ap- parition of a Norwegian chief whom he had slain in battle. This spectre being ,arrayed in complete armour, and not ap ( 107m ) pearing like the shadowy forms of fleet ing mist, that usually haunted the tem- pestuousblasts, the young warrior washur- ried on by an impulse of indignation, to aim his spear at the seeming chief. While he plunged, as he thought, his weapon inte the unresisting shade, he lost his balance in the effort, and sunk . into the waves unseen by his companions, whose attention was occupied in conduct- ing with much labour, their boat through the surge. They proceeded to some dis- tance before theymissed their friend, whom they lamented with hopeless sorrow, as swallowed up by the waves. They had . however passed very near a small islet, perhaps one of the Orcades, which the fury of the storm, and the darkness of the night, had prevented their seeing. The chief for some little time, with the assistance of his spear, floated on the sur- face. He was presently raised up on an . enormous billow, which threw him upon . & ATR SI AO TE GENRES SNR OTT _— se AER A ( ‘108 ) a eladdich or flat pebbly strand. Though stunned by the violence of the surge, he has strength enough to climb a rocky shelf, and there, languid and mournful, waits for the dawn, which brings him no hope or comfort. The account given by the solitary chief, of his sufferings and situation is very different from what we meet with in the poems of the Fingalian age, in which the descriptions rarely de- scend to minuteness, the great leading features only of scenery, or of sentiment, beingbroughtinto view. Onthe contrary, Cowper himself, could we suppose himina similarsituation, could not paint the scene, or the feelings of horrer, anxiety, and lassitude, succeeding each other in his mind, with more minute fidelity, and more lively truth of colouring. He de- scribes the barrenness of this desolate is- let, where he merely supported life by the aid of a few shell-fish, gathered in the clefts of the rocks, the short ans ( 109 ) gloomy days of a hyperborean winter, and the long and mournful nights of weary vigilance, in which every short slumber was haunted by images of *s The cold, the faithless, and the dead.” Could he have indulged in peaceful musings the recollections of Suilmath, the maid of his love, his condition would have been more tolerable: Could he have sung undisturbed the praise of his absent fair one, his soul, which seemed formed to delight in * concord of sweet “ sounds,” might have beensoothed by the melody of song: But it was the pecu- liar misfortone of this hard-fated lover, to suffer the privations, without tasting the quiet of solitude. The whales and the sea-fowl night and day disturbed him with endless turbulence and clamour.. The former drove the fish in shoals be- fore them, and with their bellowing and ( 110 ) spouting kept up a perpetual agitation; the latter, hovering in countless multi- tudes of various species, over the shoals of fish, driven by the whales on shallow banks, and into little openings of the is-. land, darkened the air, and deafened him with ceaseless clamour. The sun he never beheld in this gloomy sojourn : During its short and sickly pro- gress through the chill and cloudy at- mosphere, its obtuse rays never reached his drear abode: if the moon at times burst forth with transient lustre, it mere- . ly shewed the incessant agitation of tur- . bulent waves, and the white and restless wings of screaming sea-fowl. Thus estranged from every pleasur- able sensation, from quiet, and even from . hope, this forlorn exile wandered forth on the stormy beach, on one of the dark- . est, saddest days he had yet encountered. The whistling blasts, discordant cries. “ ( 111 ) and watery tumaults, us usual, formed a dismal concert round. On a sudden, all seemed stilled at. once. The elementary strife, the spouting whales, and clanging birds were hushed into profound silence. The melody of a sweet and well-known voice, accompa- nied by the exquisite tones of an unseen harp, that seemed hovering in the air a- bove him, filled him with speechless wonder and delight: «< Come,” it seem- ed to say, ¢“ come to the home of thy “ youth, to the dwelling of thy fathers ; “ why lingers my warrior on the storm- “ beat isle far from his faithful Suilma- « tha?” Thesong wascontinued withmuch eloquent tenderness, soliciting the return of the chief, and expressing the sorrow which his absence had occasioned to his. beloved. It is interrupted, however, by a chorus of virgins, who invite Suilmatha back to the windy hills of her native land, where the shades of her kindred ( 112 ) await her, and forbid her to linger lomn~ ger in the gloomy isle of the strangers. The lover continues, “ the heavenly mu- “ sic passed away, and left me dark, and “ lonely, and sorrowful: thevoice of my be- “ loved sounded faint in distant clouds. “ Again, I saw nought around me, but the stormy beach and echoing rocks ; again, the mingled clamour arose, and the eagle, the ospray, and the sea-maw, rushed fearless by me to their prey. But my soul sunk within me, for I knew it < was the music of the departed; I had heard the virgins of other times call « Suilmatha to the clouds of our hills, and « knew she had mourned for my absence, “ but would never more rejoice of my re- “ turn.” In spring, the kindred of the warrior, warned by a dream of his forlorn state, go to bring him from the place of his re- treat, and inform him that Suilmatha, coming te meet his bark on its return, ( 118 ) and not finding him among his compa- nions had sat daily on the shore, and pined away, and died with grief, &c. &c. Thus the ghosts, with which the dreams, the tales, and the songs of the highlanders so much abounded, were ge- nerally these conjured up by affection, and came like “ angels sent on errands “ full of love,” to warn or soothe the sur- vivors. This army of ghosts, that constantly hovered round those that mourned for them, and kept alive both their affection and their enthusiasm, had a twofold ef- fect upon the general character of the people. It was favourable to courage, as death, which did not put an end to ex- istence, and re-united them to their de- parted friends, could have nothing very terrible in it: and it strengthened at- tachment, because the deceased were not only ever present to the memory, but supposed to be often obvious to the senses. ( 114 ) The beloved object, who not only dwelt in the soul of the mourner, but seemed ever hovering round, with fond impa- tience, to watch the moment of re-union, became, if possible, more endeared than. ever. Whatever lifts the mind above objects merely of sense, enlarges the conceptions, and exalts the general character. In ex- ploring the habits of thinking among what we call barbarous nations, we shall. always find mere of savage virtue, and “stronger individual attachment, where departed souls are believed to re-visit, on particular occasions, their surviving friends. In fact, we never find the ap- pearance of spirits an article of belief, but where their immortality is also ac- credited. The existence of seperate spi- rits in a state, either of enjoyment or suf- fering, which totally removes them from all connection with mortality, is an .ar-. { 115 ) ticle of religious faith, far beyond the reach of the uncultured mind. The soul in such circumstances, either clings to the spirit of the departed, as something by which it is loved and re- membered, or with brute insensibility, forsakes all egre and thought of it. Thus, I think it appears pretty evi- dent, that the state which I have been describing, may be justly termed the reign of the affections. Ambition and avarice have little room to operate, and self-denying habits enable individuals to sacrifice their comfort and interest, for those they love, without feeling severe privation, whilst mutual dependance be- comes a source of mutual endearment. Yet the reign of the affections was by no means productive of that peace and meekness which might be supposed to re- sult from such a principle of action. Let no one trust much to the virtues of impulse, If these knew any bounds fc ory ou po Gi oh AY ( 116 ) —if they were regulated and moderated in their operation by any rational con- troul, we should indeed find this condi- tion of life, worthy of all the encomiums bestowed on’ the savage state, by one* whose abundant self-conceit and caprice made the necessary restraints of regu- lated society incompatible with the irri- table sickness of ungoverned sensibility. The virtues of mere impulse never stop where they ought, either in communities or individuals, who give themselves up to their guidance. Their excess, on the contrary, often produces consequences the very opposite to what might be ex- pected. The reign of the affections, in the in- fant state of society, to which I advert, produces in its exeess, the fiercest cruel-. ty and the bitterest revenge. These af- fections never extend beyond the kin- * Rousseau. { A171 ) dred or the tribe, who indeed are all accounted kindred. And in exact pro- portion to the fervour of these attach- ments, was the resentment raised by any attempt, in the slightest degree, to in Jure the objects of them. What has been said of the immutabi- lity of Oriental customs, is, in a great degree, applicable to those of the high landers. Wherever they remain in undisturbed possession of their own language, and the prejudices connected with it, they think and act pretty much as they would have done a thousand years ago, unless where restrained by religion. A creature impelled, in some in- stances, to do what is morally wrong, from the excess of fond attachment or laudable feeling, does still appear noble and amiable, no doubt, in comparison of the habitually depraved, or the sordid sensualist. Yet, if I am injured or de- ( 118 ) prived, by rash resentment, (or what the perpetrator may esteem generous re- venge,) of my best friend, or most be- loved child, it is no consolation to me, that it was not by a deed of deter- mined villainy, but of mistaken honour, that I suffered this misfortune. The virtues of mere impulse, like the virtues of a German tragedy, are very apt to lead those who are under their sole guidance, into situations that admit only of a choice of evils, and create a perplexity in the mind, fatal to the pre- cise distinction of right from wrong. Thus, during the period which I have thought fit to stile the reign of the affec- tions, the blind and devoted attachment with which a man loved his relations, ‘his tribe, and, above all, his chief, seem- ed to deprive him of all moral percep- tion, where his (the chief’s) interest, his honour, or even his caprice and resent- ment was concerned. , The very intense- ( 119 ) ness of a man’s love to his kindred seem- ed to kindle the flames of hatred to his enemies. i To this principle may be traced those fatal feuds, which, in after ages, became so exasperated by fierce retaliation. These were carried so far, as to stig- matize a people, naturally brave and generous, with the character of horrid cruelty: Yet, while their fury blazed so fiercely against the enemies of their clan, they were kind and compassionate, not ‘only to the most unworthy indivi dual of their own tribe, but to all who came within their reach, of those who were in alliance with them. Even to unarmed individuals of the tribes they most hated, if chance threw them in their way, they were generous and in- dulgent, and particularly so to strangers, who sought no settlement, but merely sojourned among them. "( 120 ) The superstition which heightened their affection to their friends, even to a pitch of extravagance, produced the same effect in exalting the fervour of their indignation. The “ Sean Dana” (ancient poems) are full of instances, in which the spirit of the departed came sadly to his surviving friend, shewed the wound in his breast, and invoked him, by all that was dear and sacred in their past affection, to revenge his death. . Such, no doubt, were the lively dreams suggested by sorrow and re- sentment, and their fatal consequences seldom concluded with the death of the aggressor. Thus ardent love, unre- strained in its effects, produced the fruits of deadly hatred, as might be shewn in many instances, which I can- not here enumerate. I shall next endeavour to point out the influence which the belief of spec- ( 121 ) tral appearances had on popular opinion, in a more advanced period, when it was blended with religious faith, and, in some measure, considered as essential to piety. VOL. I, ESSAY V. i Superstition, when ¢ Ye z in some degree, SUHSCr= 3 igi dered Religion, and ren me 2 i" oe the imperfect sensc of it which then p wailed. A — ams, and repeated dre and warn the favoured soul re.’ +s Of solemn visions, +6 "That hint pure thought, * « For future trial, fated to prep § tuinx 1 have satisfactorily ean, that the period of society which Lhas stiled the reign of the Smtr Boyes ductive of high sentiments of te : Be and generosity, Was Ce 2 sanguinary and unsettled. Ther a i be no medium in either the vic att of impulse. And, with re- ( 128 ) gard to the established principles of clanship, though these do not depend upon immediate impulse, yet are they 80 constructed, that the conduct, which is accounted virtuous, with regard to friends, becomes vicious, where it ap plies to those who are not so. No long chain of reasoning, or proba ble foresight of remote consequences, can take place in this early state, where strong and deep feeling of present inju~ ry or benefit, glory or shame, intercept the view of future results. -In a more advanced period of mental culture, though mere enlarged views might, in some degree, obtain, and though the light of religion began to dawn upon the obscurity of opinion, that light continued to be so imperfect, that superstition mingled with, and accoms modated itself to it. | Those unreal appearances which, still in this improved state, held their ground 2 ( 12% ) nn those visionary regions, were not so pernicious in their effects, as might be | osed. ah things ought not to be believed by those’ whom cultivated Yeason, and enlightened religion, have raised above the childhood of the faculties: By those who possess no share of a creative fancy, they cannot be believed, for an opposite reason’ Yet the same implicit manner of talking after others, which makes very silly people triumph in -all the su- periority, and repeat by rote -all the ar- guments against immateriality, as far as it deceives Or affects our senses ;— these very people, had they been bred among the mountains, would have been shuddering slaves to the grossest super- stition. This class: of persons, destined by Nature to live by borrowing, would have been full as ready to borrow ready- made spectres in a highland glen, as { 125 ) they are to repeat ready-made opinions: in an enlightened society. To those born to be deceived, the best thing that can happen is a salutary, or,. at any rate, harmless deception. He who is only afraid to enter a dark. room, is no just subject for contempt to him who does not fear to wander into the cheerless gloom of infidelity, or. plunge into the fearful obscurity of an unknown state of existence, without one ray to lighten, or to cheer the « form- “ less infinite.” The untutored mind, which believes more than reason or revelation will war- - rant, concerning the world unseen, is often misled by the excess of imagina- - tion and sensibility! Those who, on the contrary, assuming to be “ wise beyond “ what is written,” believe nothing that cannot be sensibly demonstrated, often owe their blind apathy regarding things . ~ ( 126 ) beyond the reach of sense, to a defect in both. Those, however, to whom the culture of mind is assigned, will find it much easier to lop off exuberances, than to supply defects. He, to whose awaken- ed fancy, solitude instantly recals the departed spirits of those whom he either loved or feared while hving— « To whomsy in every wind, some spirit calls, «¢ And more than echoes talk along the walls,” is certainly a weak and wild enthusiast; much of the little comfort that life af- fords, and all the peace of solitude, must be lost to such a sensitive and visionary being : Yet whatever the victim of su- perstitious terror may be doomed to en- dure of unreal suffering, still we cannot suppose him a suitable agent for the commission of a solitary crime, and should be less. afraid to meet him in a ( 127 ) wood, . than the fearless infidel, who ne ver doubts ¢¢ ‘That, when the brains are out, the man is dead.” Indeed, .the consequences of over and under belief are completely obvious, where the prevalence of either is dis- tinctly marked. . In the highlands, where supersiiiion: reigned paramount, surrounded by aw- ful, yet (for that form of life) salutary terrors, no people seemed more regard- less of life, or set it to hazard on lighter occasions. . To revenge an injury offer- ed to the meanest of their own clan, or even to protect the most unworthy of them from just punishment, a highlander would combat against odds, with fero- cious obstinacy. If he assisted in tak- ing a prey from his hereditary foe, the Lowland Scot, or from some adverse tribe, it was a point of honour, should ( 128 ) he be pursued, to fight till the last drop of his blood, for the plunder he had thus atchieved. And, at the command of his chief, he felt no scruple to combat with enemies, where the cause of aggression was unknown. In all this, he was supported by the custom of his ancestors; and had, as he thought, a clear conscience, never being disturbed by the spirits of those so fair- ly slain, where his own life was risked "in the combat. But of a murder, there is scarce an instance in the history of a clan: By a murder, I mean, what they would consider as such—suddenly and secretly taking away life, from motives either of revenge or avarice. The very imperfect Christianity which but dimly enlightened the clans, ante- rior to the last century, and the salutary dread of being haunted by the spirit of the deceased, did more to prevent secret assassination, than regular laws, and a ( 129 Y) nominal form of religion, have ever at- tained to, in wealthier countries, consi~ dered as more enlightened. - Whatever tragical effects might be produced by the fury of exasperated af- fection, kindled, like the wrath of Achil- les, by the-loss of its darling object, whatever frenzy of resentment might be excited by the infringement of some point of family honour -cencerning all the clan, or whatever outrages might be sanctioned by the implicit obedience of those clans to their prince or ehief, as in the days of Robert Bruce, or of Mon- trose; still, the individual highlander, nus- tured by poetry, in the highest degree tender and heroic, enlightened by the wisdom, and inspired by the valour of a long line of remembered ancestors, was a humane, courteous, and even chivalrous character, whose worst national faults had their origin in a kind of savage vir-. ( 130 ) tue. He was, in the mean time, despis- ed by strangers, because they did not understand him; and he hated strangers, because they despised him, while his proud spirit rose superior to the con- tempt which he did not deserve. The different forms that religion as- sumed, when it began to be deeply felt in both districts, had its influence in keeping up an alienation between the highland and lowland Scots. It is no disrepect to the vital spirit and renovating power of religion to say, that the popular mind, when newly en- lightened, is apt, in many instances, to degenerate into excesses unsuitable to the spirit of that faith, which is « first “ pure, then peaceable, gentle, and easy “ to be entreated.” The religion of the highlanders, then, an unlettered people, was eonsequently tinctured with the lofty and tender en- thusiasm so blended with their hapits of ( 181 ) thinking. It was also mingled with su- perstitions all their own, and entirely distinct from those of Popery. That mode of worship, however, in a kind of .. mutilated form, prevailed, and does still prevail in many districts; and the epis- copal persuasion, which best suited their - political prejudices, in many more. As the reformation of Scotland was forced by the middling and lower classes upon those above them, it was not that - implicit and blind compliance with su- - perior power, or even with superior knowledge, which-first induced this be- neficial ehange in other countries. The Scriptures, once laid open to the . people at large, were their daily study . and delight. Their pastors, renouncing all prospect. of worldly advantage; for the good of souls, proved the sincerity of their profession, by an austere con- tempt for worldly things. In the unsettled. state which succeed- . ( 182 ) ed the reformation, during she cruel wars between king’s men and queen’s men, and the tumultuary conflicts which agitated a long and feeble minority, civil strife produced its wonted effect of shewing all the depravity and deformity of the human mind in the strongest light. All that remained of integrity or principle in the nation, turned abhor- rent from the sight, and took shelter from corruption and degeneracy in the sanctity of a religion purely spiritual, which held out no rewards to its mini- sters, but those promised to the meek, to the pure in heart, and to those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake. In this religion, which plainly told them, that in this world they should have tribulatien, those who despised its allurements, and were wearied of its de- eeptions, sought for that peace which the world has not to bestow. That their search was not generally unsuc- ( 133 ) cessful, their purity of life and doctrine, their patience in suffering, and the in- fluence which their instructions and ex- ample have had upon their posterity, sufficiently testify. It would be hard, however, to deny, that, embittered as the spirits of many of our first reformers were, both by the corruptions which they witnessed, and the persecution which they suffered, their charity became limited, and their views confined. Of the narrowness of their views in after times they gave too plain a proof in- endeavouring to enslave the con- science of their sovereign. And, in ex- pecting with inexcusable confidence, a visible interposition of the divinity in their favour, till they were too late con- vinced ¢ that those who take the sword “ may perish by the sword.” be" During this cloudy and disturbed state of things, the study of theology in its most. Seba revere a — ar re aE ee a EE EE : Ee ow RT ( 184 )- abstruse points, was the favourite, if not" sole intellectual pursuit, among even the lowest class of believers: To spirits emDit--- tered by persecution, and narrowed by an utter ignorance of human affairs, as they are generally conducted, this pas- “sion for polemics, certainly led to a de- gree of bigotry, and spiritual pride. So satisfied were those good, though not li- beral men, with having broke the shackles of implicit belief, that they made war a- . gainst every relic of ancient prejudice ‘as the blackest crime. Imagination with all its under-working powers, was entire-. . ly banished from the precincts of presby- terianism. So far from seeing visions, the child of fancy was not even permit- ted to dream dreams, in the least prophe-. tic or significant. These were all declared to be, ¢ visit- « ings of Satan.” Yet they had warnings and inspirations of their own in many instances, but they could not endure the: ¢ 185 ) idea of dogs in the least sharing of those crumbs, as they considered such glimp- ses of intelligence. These warnings, how- ever, were only in rare instances; for with them, reason was indeed % Alone baptized, alone allowed to touch things sacred.” This tendency to bigotry could scarce, from the nature of things at the time, be avoided. A sober, steady, and laborious peasantry, fixea to one spot, and accus- tomed to one circle of ideas, and that not a very wide one, though they held with a firm grasp, the principles of recti- tude which they inherited, and those of piety which they were taught, were great strangers to the finer exertions of the mind, and wilder creations of the fancy : Far from possessing them themselves, they did not well comprehend them in others. This is evident from the old Scots ns 500700 AO U4 AE (- 186°) poetry, in which all the fine fictions and- heroic legends of the highlanders are mentioned with supreme contempt, though at the same time, in such a man-+ ner as shews, that their existence, (Which it is so fashionable to deny,) was well known to the lowlanders in very early times. This must have been, by means of the clergy, the only mode of communica- tion then exisiting; as oil and water never kept more sedulously seperate, than these two nations, as they may well be stiled. Thus it clearly appears, that if the po- pular religion of the highlanders did, and still does retain a portion of enthusiasm, - that of the lowlanders was not free from a shade of bigotry, such as gave very little allowance to inevitable igno- rance or prejudice. The rooted enmity - between these two extremes in religion has ever existed, and will ever continue to exist. He, whose faculties are en- ( 187 ) gaged in establishing and guarding points of doctrine, and he, whose heart is melt- ed and engrossed by pious feelings, both, if sincerely desirous of worshipping in spirit and truth, perform their duty in different ways, according to the capacity and different opportunities assigned to them. ¢ Though thousands at his bidding speed, ¢¢ Those also serve who only stand and wait.” Mirton.. But those differences, occasioned in a great measure by temperament and the influenee of local habit (which for ought we know, superior intelligences may re- gard with the same curiosity, as we do the variety in gems or plants,) produce no little dislike and prejudice among the parties so differing. The austere peasants of the countrybor- dering upon the highlands, looked upon those mountaineers, with their dreams, ( 188 ) their omens, their ghosts, and their fairies, as little better than heathens. The highlanders, again, branded the im- piety of the lowlanders, who tempted providence by going out alone at mid- night, and believed not, as they thought, in either angel or devil. With an appel-- lation of comprehensive reproach, they. called them Whigs. This was by no means among them a: term solely appropriated to political dif- ference. It might perhaps mean, in a confined sense, the adherents of King William, by far the greatest caitiff in the list of highland delinquency ; but it. meant much more: It was used to designate a character made up of nega- tives: One who had neither ear for music, nor taste for poetry ;—no pride of ancestry ;—no heart for attachment ;— no soul for honour: One who merely studied comfort and ‘ conveniency, and was more anxious for the absence of po-- ( 189 ) sitive evil, than the presence of relative good: A Whig, in short, was what all highlanders cordially hated,—a cold, sel~ fish, formal character. Very many of the western highland- ers, were, in compliance with the supre- macy of their chiefs, Whigs, according to our acceptation of the term, and good Presbyterians upon the whole. But even those had store of ghosts and vi- sions, whom they kept like Teraphim in their secret chambers, and were afraid to acknowledge, yet unwilling to resign. In order to investigate the manner in which those darling superstitions were cherished through all changes and improvements, entwined with their re- ligious belief, and by degrees reduced into a regular system, it will be neces- sary to take a view of the first intro- duction of Christianity into the high- lands, | ( 140 ) The first cause that operated power- fully and widely in corrupting Chris- tianity was undoubtedly the vanity and worldly-mindedness of those who, at- tempting to teach others what they had not rightly learned themselves,—prided in converting numberless heathens, when the faith they professed was established by human laws. When the professors of Christianity were invested with the imperial purple, and showered wealth and honours on those who joined in their worship, the church nourished in her own bosom ene- mies more dangerous than the most: cruel persecutors, whose power was on- ly temperal, and who could not kill the soul. These were the weak and vain, as well as the crafty and ambitious. Persons of both these descriptions, from an eager wish to make many con-~ verts, not only received many more into- { 141 ) the church, than they bestowed time and pains in instructing, but, in order to induce greater numbers of the weal- ‘thy and distinguished heathens to join in their communion, assimilated the wor- ‘ship. of the Divinity, to the magnificent ceremonial of Pagan superstition. Now that the great and the distin- guished saw worldly advantages likely to accrue from embracing the Christian ‘mode of worship, they were willing to come into the church, provided purity of heart and life, simplicity of worship, .and self-denied ‘humility ‘were not ac- «counted indispensible, and that they might retain their pomp, their luxury -and even their idols under other names. ‘Whilst “ St Peter’s keys, some christen’d Jove ador’d,” ‘the spirit of the old religion seemed, in ( 142 ) many instances, to linger under the form of the new one. | Amidst all this deception and corrup- tion there were still some who had not bowed the knee to Baal, and who wept in secret over this accommodating mode of making converts. Among this number, charity, as well as gratitude leads us to include these holy men who first carried the light of the Gospel into these remote TEZIONS, where there were none of the attrac tions that corrupt or delude. Here, if thelr hope had been only of this world, ” they would have been of all men most miserable. It is not easy at this time to ascertain who they were, who first disseminated Christianity through these regions. But as they were so remote, and shut out from the world, that nothing less than the most industrious and fearless zeal could penetrate into them, and so void ( 148 ) of all attraction from worldly motives, that none but the self-denied and disin terested could think of such an exile, there is every reason to suppose, that this great work was atchieved by holy men truly such; and the event shewed that they had all the success which was to be expected, both from the purity of their motive, and the peculiar adaptation of the soil they were to cultivate, to the « precious seed” which they were to entrust to it. To enter minutely into the details connected with this, would be to write a book, and no small one, on a subject of far superior interest to that which I have undertaken to illustrate. But for this purpose, I have neither lei- sure, nor the necessary documents. Nor do I think that any industry could pro- cure at this late period, the proper au- thorities to give connection and authen- ticity to such a detail. Neither will I ( 14% ) indulge the fondness of Highland parti- ality in any endeavour to revive the de- parted glories of Iona, the sacred isle of the west, from whence the rays of science and true religion so long emanated. ‘And which was the acknowledged Cyno- sure of the north of Europe, when all besides was dark and forndess. 1 shall only remark what immediately connects with the subject in hand; That the sublime truths there inculcated were taught in the Gaelic language ; and that, notwithstanding the poverty and igno- rance, - perhaps justly imputed to the highlands of Scotland at that period, there are religious establishments of very remote antiquity still remaining in the Hebridean isles. Among these are inscriptions in the Gaelic language, commemorating eccle- siastics who had officiated in these islands, and no doubt instructed the people in { “145 their own language, which is still legi- ble upon their tombs. Among these is the monument of Anna Donelach, (Anne M ns bl t AR TRS A “ SRE Shad a § co 0 a ots SSRN Son ol eo fa LCA WSIS, EEL Su lS hr EN a I RR ER ES i mr AR Pry gee ee jon hit bi 08 a ( 238 ) Some time after a fancy of the same kind seized upon a man whom I knew very well, and knew to be one of the most sensible and intelligent of his own class in the neighbourhood. He lived with his master in the deepest seclusion, on the banks of Loch Laggan, as a kind of principal trusted servant ; and became so great a favourite, that in the solitude of his retreat, he often conversed with him as an equal. He often boasted of him indeed as superior to any one in his station, he had ever met with, not only in fidelity and integrity, but in feeling and understanding. Here, however, he was often left for months in solitude, in his master’s ab- sence. Unable to find solace in books from a total want of education, and having derived a kind -of painful refinement from that gentleman’s various and intel- digent conversation, ‘he became in some degree thoughtful and abstracted. ( 289 He met with some Srm, when con- trary to all highland éustom, he went out alone at night. This sin of presump- tion was, as he imagined, punished by an encounter with a spirit, who wrestled violently with him, bruised him, and charged him to meet him some nights after, at an allotted place and hour. When the appointed time arrived, his brothers, by every affectionate entreaty endeavoured to detain him. He broke from their hands, went to some unknown place to meet the substantial ‘spirit, and returned as formerly, exhausted and Fiafiteq with bruises. Upon this, these assignations became matter of specula« tion in the neighbourhood, and all his friends assembled on the appointed even- ings, to prevent if possible, this dreaded ‘assignation from taking place. | Many were the counter-magical opera- ‘tions and precautions used for this _pur- pose] A small bible was sewed into.one { 240 ) NN 2 of his pockets, { hich would at any rate have the good effect of preventing the evil spirit from obtaining power to over- come him entirely. This, which was done with tremulous awe, was the der- nier resort. Before this final resource, nine knots of a very old pine tree, grow- ing in a certain situation aud exposure, which gave it a kind of sacredness, and adapted it for this purpose, were fasten- ed in different parts of his clothes, but without the desired effect. Two of Angus’s brothers very strong men, assist- ed by another, on one of these appointed nights, struggled to detain him, but in vain; with akind of preternatural strength he broke through them all, went out to his antagonist, and returned more ex- hausted and bruised than usual: This, doubtless, was a kind of madness, but there was method in it ; for on all other subjects, he was quite rational, and ( 241 ) though very unwilling to mention the apparition, argued consequentially on the subject, when forced to speak of it at all. If he were to break his assignation with this agent, who was permitted for the punishment of his sins to afflict him, this powerful and malicious spirit; igs avenge himself of him, by injuries stili ‘more serious to himself and his friends, ) This poor Angus apears to have been in the state of mind, ascribed by Le Sage to Olivarez, ever haunted by an apparition which poisoned his peace : ’ Without in other respects disturbing his reason. His master, who was in the Jap. gest sense of the word, his friend, re- turned to the country about the time that this peor man’s unfortunate state of mind was the prevailing subject of conversation in that neighbourhood. He immediately visited his faithful and af- fectionate adherent, of whose worth VOL. Is L 4 Hy ep ha be re kb RE TAGE | ( 242 ) he thought very highly, and to whom he owed much for courage and fidelity, called forth by very singular and trying exigencies. He found him pensive, but calm, sensible, and collected. He en- tered into a confidential conversation with him ; and heard with astonishment, a narrative, in itself most improbable, told with such circumstances as might stagger incredulity itself. The falsest premises laid down, and the truest con- clusions drawn from these premises. Never, he said, had he found so much occasion to admire the powerful native eloquence, and acuteness in argument of this extraordinary person. He let him into the whole secret of those struggles, and the conversations that preceded them. He considered his materially and literally wrestling with this goblin as a trial of his faith. He was so supported, he said, by this de- pendence, that this agent of evil had not power entirely to overcome him ; and he trusted never would. Various modes of trial were appointed to various characters ; no doubt this had been seen fit to be the most suited to his, And thus he went on, demonstrating with a plausibility that almost varnished abs dity, till his master knew not what to think. This same master, though no be- liever in spirits, was in some respects a knight very well suited to such a squire. He had much imagination, was a native of the district, and possessed, in a very high degree, enthusiasm and warmth of heart, which considerable in- tercourse with the world had not chilled All this fitted him for the subject of ga romantic adventure. Beginning to wa- ver, perhaps more than he chose to own, from his original opinion, that this was merely a deception of Angus’s fancy, L2 ( 244 ) s« “Bred from his weakness, and his melancholy," ‘he even proposed to accompany the un- fortunate visionary to the scene of his nightly combats. This proposal was at first resisted with extreme horror; partly from a fear of provoking his unearthly antagonist, but chiefly from terror, lest he should re- venge the intrusion of an unbidden vist- tor to witness these midnight meetings. He feared too, that his master was com- ‘mitting a sin, in thus needlessly expos- ing himself to trials, which he himself, when called to them, found so severe. His friend, however, with great diffi- culty, convinced him, ‘that as his intents were holy and charitable, and his con- fidence in the divine protection undoubt- ing, there was not the least danger of his being abandoned to unhallowed powers. After much eloquence exerted on ( 245 ) both sides, much preparation, and doubt-- less much prayer, the two friends set out about 11 o’clock in a very clear moonlight night, about the latter days of: June 1776. No person acquainted with the scene and: circumstances could re- flect without an emotion of horror, on- the state of mind in which this expedi- tion was undertaken. The whole parish. being at that season in the Glens, 12 miles distant, except, perhaps, an indi- vidual left in each hamlet to tend the: poultry ; the solitude and stillness were awful. They set out from the centre of the parish to the appointed place, which was, at_the time, a profound secret be- twixt them. The impression seems yet. fresh on my mind, as it was, when 1 heard it from the voluntary visitor of this formidable apparition. They proceeded northward three miles, . to. where the valley becomes narrow. ( 248 ) They then arrived at a place called Shir- ‘amore, wher, passing a little dreary lake, they turned westward to a very narrow and rocky pass, which serves courageous foot passengers, asanentrance towards Loch Laggan. This is a place of such utter and dreary desolation, that I should not risk the credit of my vera- city in describing it, were it not like the bricks in Jack Cade’s chimney, “ alive at this day to testify.” It is blocked up with great stones that have fallen from the naked and chearless. rocks that overhang this gloomy and al- most impervious pass. If ever there was vegetation there, the mountain tor- rents have long since washed it away.. It is a place where one would be glad to meet a frog, or sce the commonest insect. Birds and insects are there quite out of the question. There is not a leaf to attract them. The rocks, too, close out even the remote view of life { 247 ) and vegetation.” Twice when I passed this sanctuary of utter desolation, 1 thought of nothing but the blasted dis- trict around the Upas tree, as we hear it deseribed. He must, indeed, have a “ heart with strings of steel,” who does not feel it sink in some measure, in this total abstraction from all that belongs to life. The centre of this pass, was the place appointed for meeting the spi- rit, and the hour twelve. The friends walked slowly on, discoursing of the na- ture and extent of permitted evil; and Angus did not fail to warn his master of the alarm which he was to look for on approach of this terrible visitant, which, he said, often preceded by noises such as he could not describe, and as mo carthly creature could produce. His friend assured him that his faith or cou-. rage would not fail ; and that no power of darkness could successively assail any one whose trust was unshaken. Be os as B3 A A 7 : " an 4 EE er Hs TR ses + hi SA E ( 248. ) . When they advanced to the destined: Spot in profound silence, the shadow of the rocks seemed overwhelming ; the sound of their steps was reveberated from every side. All at once a noise was heard from the rocky recesses on the west, of a most unusual kind, neither like thunder, drums, or carriages, but a. compound of all three, which rapidly approached, and still the nearer it came was less mtelligible, « Alas! Alas! there “ it. comes,” said Angus; « Does it al- * ways come thus?” “ Very often, but * not invariably.” “.Stay Angus, your * spirits. are worn out with these en- * counters; your. life has been often “ risked for me, I determine to meet: “ and- challenge this fiend, and prefer “ going alone.” Angus required no per-. suasion; he was, in fact, in.a cold sweet, and trembling so, that he could scarce. stand. lis heroic master proceeded: forward into the recess heyond the open... ( 219 ) ing, but, as he owned, with very un-- equal steps. In his hand he held a bible, and on" his lips,. the accents of solemn adjuration, almost died away, when numberless quick steps drew near, and lie beheld a pretty large flock of sheep, driven hastily by two great coarse look- ing fellows, as little Arcadian as might be. This phenomenon, for such it was, in that detached corner, was soon explain- - ed. One would as little have expected a sheep as a spirit at that hour and place. This very unusual occurrence, however, had been occasioned by the extreme heat of the preceding day. These appa- ritions were Lochaber sheep drovers. They had been driving a large flock of those animals, through the steep and - difficult passages which separate Loch- aber from Badenoch. They found the meridian hour so excessively hot among the encircling rocks, where. the sun. 5. RPE, ( 250 ) bearas are concentrated as in a burning glass, that they thought it safest to con- cecal them in a deep hollow, hetween two rocks, where they might escape the notice of the proprietors of the ground. They honestly confest their dishonest intention of driving them down into the open country at midnight, while the people absent in the Glens could not detect the cneroachment. All this may appear very ridiculous: But one must have heard the strange sound in the hollow pathway, re-echoed {from every side, to have any idea of the horror produced by it. Angus was con- founded beyond measure; and still in- sisted that the appearance of his nightly foe was ushered in by a similar seand. Upon enquiry into the feelings of our friend on this issue of the adventure, he confessed with his usual candour, that he had worked himself up to such a pitch of. pious resolution, that though his ¢ 25t ) werves were not proof against all the terrors awaiting him, he was rather dis- appointed when he found he had no imp of darkness to encounter. One may easily imagine the lecture on fancy and folly that awaited poor Angus. . His alarms were as difficult to account for as ever. The approach- ing sound seemed to be quite familiar to him, and he appeared immediately to recognize it; yet, certain it was, that no other flock had been driven that sea- son in the same direction ; and that the driving those that night through the pass aforesaid, was an oceurrence singu- lar and unpremeditated. One carmoet help wondering at thie co-incidence -of the sheep, and these ad- venturers meeting so opportunely, tle only time they could ever possibly meet at such an hour and place. This, how- ever, did not abate the concern of this good master for the peace of his ser- & 252 ) vant’s mind.. Ie carried him away to. another part of the country where he had. a friend, who gave him (Angus) a. farm on easy terms. This, however, was ill situated for a. musing visionary like him, being a gra-. zing in a remote solitude :—I am con-. cerned to add,. that he died melancholy in three years afterwards. There would be no end of treading all the circling mazes of those strange tales held devoutly true by highland; superstition ; yet, one feels an. indefina-. ble satisfaction in listening to narrations, whether true or not, which are supposed: to be so by the reciter. Perhaps Shake- speare did net believe in the truth of any of his supernatural beings, with the: exception of the weird women. of Mac- beth, whieh had then a kind of histo-. rical sanction ; yet that he did, in com- mon with his co-temporaries, believe in. ¢ 253 J tie possibility of such appearances, scarces © admits of a doubt. To this is owing the unstudied solem-. nity, tlie irresistible awe produced by his visionary creations. Let any one that can feel and think, compare- the sensation thus produced, with that resulting from a perusal of the laboured and accumulated terrors heaped. up with unsparing profusion by a Radcliffe, a Lewis, or any other infi- del magician of our own enlightened times.. The stage is no doubt intended a deception, even when the powers of a Siddons give force to the illusion :. of a puppet-show too, the worst one can say is, that it is a deception ; yet, as far as the gross deception of a puppet-show falls short of the finest illusions of the thea- tre, so far do the laboured and exagge- rated fictions, which have neo prototype in the minds of their authors, fall short in producing the intended impression of ( 251 ) the simple strokes of magical delusion; . which originate in the ¢¢ Shuddering, meek, submitted thought” of a soul imbued with implicit faith in the legends of superstition. A man, in such a case, cannot make others fear, without first being afraid himself. We do not feel inclined to pay much deference to the ruling spirit, who sits calmly in the whirlwind, raised to disturb and agitate us. We expect, in short, sympathy in our terror, and are ill pleased when we do not find it. Before I quit this subject, I will men- tion the mode in which unhallowed cu- riosity has been sometimes punished One instance will be- sufficient for this purpose. A man passing a church-yard on 11al- toweven, indulged his mind in idly cu- rious speculation on the wonders -that would appear to the gifted eye to which ( 255 ) the shadowy forms, that night at liber ty, should become visible. Almost uns consciously, he formed a momentary wish for this dangerous privilege. In~ stantly a low and mingled murmur of hollow voices arose. He turned, and beheld numberless dusky and dim-seen forms rising above cach other in the air, and muttering indistinct sounds. Many approached him, and in some, he recog- nized familiar countenances. is head orew dizzy, and his eyes dim. He sup- ported himself an instant with difficulty on the church-vard wall; and when he recovered his recollection, found himself in solitude and darkness, with the stings of an upbraiding conscience, added to the-remembered terrors of this glimpse of the departed. Now, this recital, at second hand, pro- duces very little effect, for want of faith in the narrator. Yet, when told with ( 256 ) every symptom of firm belief and recent horror, it was calculated to produce an effect on the mind, of the same nature - with the recital of Alneas, when he de- scribes the veil of mortality for an in- stant removed from his eyes, and the: adverse deities at- once becoming visible, occupied: in the destruction of tlic: long defended towers of Troy. The instances by which I have chief- ly endeavoured to illustrate my subject, have net been chosen from the lowest classes (of mind: at least.) These, in every country, are credulous, and suscep- tible of groundless terrors.. The point I mean to establish, is the hold which long-descended habits of thinking, heightened by wild poetry. and wilder scenery, took of even the more powerful intellect, giving to the whole national character a cast of. “ dreary sublimity,” as an elegant critic ¢ 257 ) has happily expressed it, altogether u-. nique and peculiar. I knew a man of great worth, who some time since closed a life of unspot-. ted integrity, with a pious and exem-. plary death. He was a native of the. vale of Glenorchy, and had a good na-~. tural understanding, and a better edu-. cation than generally fell to the share of the highland gentlemen of his day.. As a devout and. rigid Presbyterian, he thought it his duty to war against superstition in all its forms. Yet he still kept a corner in his mind for one darling idol, fondly cherished by all true highlanders, with constant, though con- cealed love. This was the second sight, including: the ominous sights and sounds, by which the approach of death is announced ; not perhaps to the person who is to be sum- moned to another world, but possibly to. GCS te pa res Sas SEE UN AN 2 a > ar. AE had ATER CR ips na re gi Sa MT Ah Wan Te his ad i (0% orgy hg Te -— gpm ( 258 some friend, or even to an indifferent person. One instance of this, mentioned, and firmly believed by my old friend, shall serve as a specimen of this kind of fore- sight ; the varied instances of which, and the legends belonging to them might fill a folio. The Presbyterian clergy made fierce and apen war on all this host of airy ter- rors. Many of them, however, attempted to root. up the old belief in such a rough and contemptuous manner, as served ra- ther to exasperate than convince. One, however, of milder manners, and a better regulated mind than many of his brethren, combated these prejudices in a more gentle, and therefore more effectual manner. He was one of a family, eminent for sanctity in its most. attractive form, unspotted by the world, gentle, and easy to he entreated, ¢ 259° They were the ornament and comfors of their native valley, to which they were pastors in succession for three des cents; and which they enriched with the fruit of righteousness which is peace. I must not name them, but am pleased to_think that their piety, their learning, their benevolence, and simplicity of life and manners, still live in the venerable and amiable representative of their fami- ly and their virtues. The good old pastor to whom I allude, had in his own gentle way, banished a whole troop of apparitions and auguries from his parish, and in the decline of a well-spent life, was enjoying ¢ that sweet “ peace, which bosoms goodness ever,” in the midst of his family and flock. It was his custom to go forth and meditate at even; and this solitary walk he always directed to his church-yard, which was situated in a shaded spot, ou the bauks of a river. There, in a dusky ( 260 ) October evening, he took his wonted: path, and lingered, leaning on the church-yard wall, till it became twi- light, when he saw two small” lights rise from a-spot within, where there-was no stone, ner memorial of any. kind. He observed the course these lights took, and saw them cross the river, and stop at an opposite hamlet. Presently they returned, accompanied by a larger light, which moved on be-. tween them, till they arrived at the place from which the first two set out, when all the three seemed to- sink nto. the earth together. The good man went inte the church- yard and threw a few stones on the spot where the light disappeared. Next morning he walked out early, called for the sexton, and shewed him the place, asking if he remembered who was buried: there. The man said, that many years. ago, he remembered burying in that: ( 261 ) “spot, two young children, belonging to a blacksmith on the opposite side of the river, who was now a very old man. The pastor returned, and was scarce set down to breakfast, when a message ‘came to hurry him to come over to pray with the smith, who had been suddenly ‘taken ill, and who died next day. This story he told to my old friend, from whom I heard it; and I am much ‘more willing to suppose that he was de- ceived by an ignis-fatuts, than to think either could be guilty of falsehood. Of the second sight, ‘much remains to say ; butthis must be either from vague rumour, or from the information of per- sons living, who would not chuse ‘to be quoted on stich-an occasion. The connection which such waking dreams is supposed ‘to have with suc- ‘ceeding events, Is so difficult to trace and ascertain, and the legends of the ‘visionary must appear so like shadows of ( 262 ) shades to those who have no local know- ledge of the people and their customs, that I shall tread no farther over this hollow ground, where one perpetually hears reverberated echoes, without being able to trace the original voice. ESSAY VIL Imagined power of pious rites in banishing an Ape parition~Food for credulity eagerly sought by the ignorant of all nations.—Depraved taste Jor the marvellous nourished by extravagance and ab surdity. See the rude muse, the rural faith sustain, These are the themes of simple sure effect, That add new conquests to her boundless reign, And fill, with double force, her heart-commanding strain. I nave been minute in the details given in the former Essay, and have chosen rather the most familiar than the most wonderful ; the objects chiefly aimed at being to bring into view the peculiarities ( 264 ) of character and manners which distin- guish those people, and which, in some measure, are derived from, and blended with the popular belief. : To the naturalist, the varying fibres of a leaf, or shading of a flowet—2 few wing-feathers, more or less, m the ha age of a bird, or spots on the wing of an insect, are important, as they promote the purpose of distinction me classifica. tion. To the lover of Nature, who Wi to trace her in all her gradations of bn ‘tellectual progress, and to digo her in her pristine form, before Yalan has © disguised, or science exalted he A it is of importance to know, not only what untutored man believed, hg how that belief influenced his mind, and form- is character. or eligi awe which impresses ihe minds of the people\I have been describ- ing, and rises paramount even to their ’ . . s * ‘ Qo favourite superstitions, may be in som measure understood from the following anecdote. It is previously to be observed, that the writer of these pages was well ac- quainted with the scenery, and all the circumstances connected with this little narrative, which relates to an occurrence of not very distant date. In the narrow part of the valley through which the Spey makes its way “from the parish of Laggan downwards to that of Kingussie, there is some scene. ry of a very singular character. To the south, the Spey is seen making some fine bends round the foot of wooded hills. It is bordered by a narrow stripe of mea- dow, of the richest verdure, and fringed with an edging of beautiful shrubbery. On the north side rises, with precipitous boldness, Craigow, or the Black Rock, the symbol and boundary of the clan who inhabit the valley. It is very black indeed, yet glitters in the sun, from the VOL. I. M 7 7 { ( 266 ) many little streams which descend from. .its steep, indeed perpendicular svriace. In the face of this lofty rock arc many apertures, occasioned by the rolling down of portions of the stone, from which .e- choing noises are often heard. This scene of terror overlooks the soft features of a landscape below, that is sufficient, with this association, to re- mind us of what has been said of ¢ Beau- = ty sleeping in the lap of horror.” An eminence, as you approach towards ‘the entrance to the strait, appears cover- ed with regularly-formed hillocks, of a conical form, and of different sizes, cloth- ed with a kind of dwarf birch, extremely light-looking and fanciful, sighing and trembling to every gale, and breathing odours after a calm evening shower, or rich dewy morning. In the depth of the valley, there is a .lochan, (the diminutive of loch), of su- perlative beauty. It is a round, clear, ( 267 ) and shallow bason, richly fringed with water lilies, and presenting the clearest mirror to the steep wooded banks on the south, and the rugged face of the lofty and solemn rock which frowns darkly to the north. | On the summit, scarce approachable by human foot, is the only nest of the gosshawk now known to remain in Scot. land; and in the memory of the author, the nearest farm to this awful precipice was held by the tenure of taking down, €very year, one of the young of this rare bird, for the lord of the sojl. The screaming of the birds of prey on the summit, the roaring of petty water- falls down its sides, and the frequent. falls of shivered stone from the surface, made a melancholy confusion of sounds, very awful and incomprehensible to the travellers below, who could only proceed OR a very narrow path on the edge of M2 i 2 A — a” HE # PATE RR ei I aca Sate 2 So 4 Sh a : a I a ERs ot SL RT pa REN Ea ea a. » BL ha Lae Ete RR feo Tih a a pg ———— Ts Eid ) ng an pes HALT a ee _ " ’ i h { i } ! i ! | i (1 ol pt: 1 | I Bt! 4 i i i Wi } | + i ne iM ji i i I i ! gv 4 “Hh si hah | hi | a ae i SE RE i ——— ot Bt we Fen ( 268 ) the lake, and under the side of this oloomy rock. : This singular spot has too many mi- nute beauties to be pictured in descrip- tion. All its terrors, and all its beau- ties, however, conspire to give it the air of a nook, separated by surrounding bar- riers for some purpose of enchantment. It did not require a belief in fairies to look round for them in this romantic scene. If one had merely heard of them, an involuntary operation of fancy would summon them to a place so suited for their habitation. Many, like Audrey, may thank the Gods that they have not made them poe- tical. Yet, of even these sober think- ers, I should admire the.sang frowd of one, who could pass in sunshine or Moop- light between LochanUvie and Craigow, without looking round for some traces of this tiny population. How then could the children of fancy ( 269 ) and feeling—awakened fancy and in- dulged feeling, tread safely over this pe- rilous ground ? Indeed, they very rare- ly passed without meeting with some- thing that made “ their knotted and com- “ bined locks to part :” and this some- thing was always in the shape of a mea- gre and haggard woman with red hair, known and shunned for more than a cen- tury by the name of the Caillich Rua ; a title which comprehends all I have said above, This Caillich Rua had a sad history. Like other old women, she had once been young—had possessed charms to attract a lover, and tenderness to requite his attachment. She had a brother too, who, in conse- quence of some feud or animosity be- tween their families, attacked the lover. He, unwilling to kill one so dear to his beloved, did not exert all his powers of vesistance, and fell in the conflict. A Et iy reo fo gh yw whe £ a AR SC ———— ig Wp an THR SN te ht tw 3 TRE Sh nt SRT HR Ra rab — ( ‘Fhe widowed maiden buried her lover in one of those fairy hillocks, in some spot which neither friend nor enemy could discover. She never spoke afterwards, nor could be prevailed on to re-enter the dwelling of her father. She continued for a long period of years to wander in silence through the scene so fatal to her peace. Sometimes she was seen hovering over the little wooded mounts below ; some- times on the steep surface of the Crai- gow ; but oftenest appearing, and vanish- ing through the wood. When she died, or whether she died at all, was never ascertained. Still the shade wandered in mournful silence ; and still appeared to all of the tribe to which she herself belonged, towards which she seemed to retain some resent- ment for the unavenged death of ber lo. ver. She never annoyed any one; and by any, except the race stained with the { 271 J) blood so dear to her, she was never seen. Still her presence very much disturb-- ed the inhabitants of the valley, which was peopled by the kindred of the Cail: lich Rua. : It so chanced, that one beautiful, dry summer, several years since, there was a vacancy in the church of the neighbour- ing parish. The clergyman of the parish; in which this wondrous lockan lies, went sometimes to preach for the people be- low, then deprived of that gratification, for such they considered it. He cbserv- ed, that when he did not, they came per- haps eight or ten miles to hear him preach in his own church. Pleased with their zeal, and pitying their fatigue, the pastor took:the advan- - tage of the fine weather to preach one day in the open air, in the hollow below Craigow, merely with the benevolent in- - tention of accommodating both parishes . RD ER OR Se A WRITER Fo ( 172 ) at once, as this was the boundary of his own, to which Lis people could follow him without any material inconvenience, and where the people of the lower dis- trict could come without fatigue. Never was benevolent project more completely successful. The audience from both parishes was very numerous, and devoutly attentive. The day was se- renely bright ; the air sweetly pure; and the glow of gay and many-coloured tar- tan, with the expression of serious, yet animated countenances, disposed in groupes among the fairy mounts, and under the light-waving birches, formed a scene more singular and picturesque than can be easily imagined. The reverberation of Craigow gave great effect to the voice of the preacher: but when the psalm was sung by so ma- ny musical and according voices, echoing from all the rifted rocks and gloomy chasms above, drowning the sounds of ( 278 ) the waterfalls, and the notes of the mountain blackbirds, one was tempted “to cry out audibly— ‘¢ To Him, whose temple is all space, ¢¢ Whose altar, earth, sea, skies, “¢ One chorus let all beings raise, *« All Nature’s incence rise !” No one need be much surprised to hear, that the people all went home in an excellent frame of mind, declaring they had never heard so admirable a ser- mon. This was a great deal ; but yet it was not all; for the good people affirmed, with one consent, that it was impossible the Caillich Rua could ever again pro- fane with her unhallowed presence, a place which had been sanctified, by hav- ing divine worship performed ir it with such impressive solemnity. They thought among themselves, that possibly the sermon might have been preached in the scenc which the Caillich TRE ch SLANE oo. hb i / WO a TR RT ao 0 ¥ " HRT TEER ae a Rng at Ip RE IR DIOR {( 274 ) seemed to have appropriated, with a- view to her banishment from it. The sexton, or beadle, who certainly was, and is the strangest mixture of wit, simplicity, and knavery, that ever was- compounded, favoured the idea. He- thought every thing that exalted his. master gave additional. consequence to himself, Now, it unfortunately happened, that of al! earthly beings none more scorned and detested, all the petty artifices of vanity, than. this same master; every shade and gradation of pretension was abhorrent to his pure and delicate mind. He had, as in duty bound, warred against superstition ; but knew human nature in general, and highland nature in particu- lar too well, to think, that he could “ knock down iniquity like an ox.” He did not furiously combat, but gently re-- proved instances which met his view. Ke rode alone at midnight, through. ( 275 ) the most gloomy and sequestered mooks; to which duty or engagements led him, to give example to others; and when people mentioned before him, their tran- sient visions, which: indeed: from their re spect for his opinions,. did not often oc- eur, he neither taxed them with deceit or impiety, but merely told them that they dreamed awake, and ought to oc- - eupy their minds otherwise. Nothing eould have more shocked him than to have it supposed, that he assumed to. himself the functions of immediate in-- spiration, or, that by using means to ba- nish a fancied apparition, he should have: - given a sanction to the belief of its pre- vious appearance. = Of all this his sly sex-- ton had a kind of indistinet conception, and did not therefore venture to acquaint him of the new exaltation to which his character had attained. tle told it however to some of the fa» RL asa wR CR REN I I ED Ra 2 WEEE By ( 276 ) mily : It is difficult to express the ludi- crous confliet which succeeded. The honours offered to the expeller of evil spirits were scornfully rejected, and the people’s awkward astonishment at the perverseness of a person, whose sanc- tity was only exceeded by his obstinacy in denying its effects, was most amusing. * It was needless to deny it.” Had not hundreds seen the Caillich Rua before, and who ever saw her since theday of the sermon ? Well, sure enough the minister was not only a very good, but a very humble man, and wished to shun popu- tar admiration ! This was still more pro- voking: To take credit for such artful hu- mility, very ill suited the dignified can- dour of the pastor; he lost all patience ; and if he had been formerly displeased with hearing of the appearance of the - Caillich Rua, the mention of her disap- pearance was still more grating to him. It became at last, an interdicted sub- ( 271 ) Ject: Yet the popular opinion continues unshaken ; and as the imagination must needs be amused with something wonder- ful, the miracle supplies the place of the apparition. Lady Mary Montague re- marks, that foreigners of the lower class encourage no quacks; their love of the marvellous, being both excited and gra- tified to the full extent by saints and miracles. The love of the mere marvel- lous is not the only gratification found. There is a love of connecting ourselves ideally with the future and invisible. A stretching forward to catch a glimpse be- yond the abyss of obscurity, which death opens to the mind, must be the result of the first unfolding of the imagination, the slightest culture of the reasoning powers. The fancy though but partially en- lightened, catches eagerly at any the slightest link of the golden chain that connects this world with a better. Ee Ws 4 3 I ——— rs Ee ds ST ep. ( 278 J Deprived of superstition, without being - furnished with the light of a pure and . rational faith, an ignorant populace transfer the cares for the soul to tlrose that more immediately concern its frail associate, and bestow that implicit be- lief on quacks and pretenders; who af- fect to possess infallible medicines for the disorders of the body; which the vo- taries of a superstitious piety devote to those who offer inefficacious remedies for the diseases of the soul.. The mind must be occupied with something to hope, and something to be- lieve, beyond what the senses offer to our bounded view. The clastic:and soaring faculties gi- ven us to fly at heaven and gather im-~ mortality, if they attain not their pro- per direction, will wander in search of ghosts and fairies over the dreary heaths, and among the wooded lomhans of our mountains ; "or. will hover, with. fond F ( 279 y eredulity, round the shrine of a saint, ar the tomb. of a martyr, with the vulgar of other countries. With that class of the learned of alt countries, who are too wise to be spiri- tually taught, these wings are expanded in the regions of metaphysical subtilty, to reach at systems and hypotheses. - Perhaps the most unfortunate direc- tion that faith degraded can take, is quackery. In that region, all the dis- eases of the imagination wander with restless vigilance, and produce more pez- turbation than the whole invisible popu- lation of a highland parish, in much nap- rower bounds. The more natural and wholesome cre- dulity of the highlands, expands the mind, even while it distorts it: and feeds the imagination, though not with food convenient for it. Here, credulity tak- ing its native and original bent, finds full scope for exercise, without preying - » y ORIGINAL DEFECTIVE ( 280 ) on the mind, by being centred in the petty egotisms that relate to the perish- - ing body. A genuine highlander has no faith in medical science, and hates a doctor, next to a Whig; or, rather, to the character to which he gives that appellation. With the ¢ unpublished virtues of the « earth” he is most intimate. He de- . tests chemical medicines, but his skill in the common remedies for the few disor- ders with which they are. acquainted, is wonderful. © He does what no fashion- . able patient would submit to, drenches himself with the infusion of different herbs, which perhaps contain the virtues which medical skill concentrates in drops and pills. It will always appear, that the kind of credulity which invites quackery and . legerdemain, exists most where the po- pular mind is least busied in exploring ohjects beyond the reach of sense. “« 281 ) These open so wide a field to the exer- cise of imagination, and extend the do- minion of hope and fear so far into illi- mitable space, that they furnish abun- dant supply for this craving of the soul. The fairy mounts, or little regularly formed cones, which abound so much in the highlands, have been, from time im- memorial, accounted the abode of fai- ries. In some places, as at the foot of the mountain Corryarick, on the south side, a large space of ground is entirely covered with them. These are most re- gularly formed of equal size, and cover- ed with the bilberry and fox-glove. This, it is to be remarked, is a place famous for the perishing of travellers in the snow. All along that road, numbers of these conical hillocks are seen rising in dry, gravelly ground, and thickly covered with heath; whereas, at Lochan Uvie, they rise st a broader base, with a coni- ( 282 ) eal summit, to the height of eight or tea feet, and are covered with diminutive birch. The perfect regularity of their form, their resemblance to each other, and the light foliage constantly playing round them, gives a singular and fan- tastic appearance to the scenery. Here the fairies are supposed to dwell, and the children’s nursery tales are full of wonders performed by the secret dwellers of these fomhans, or fairy hil- locks.. I knew myself an old gentleman, who, though nervous, and a little inclined to the visionary, was “ much too wise to “ walk into a well,” and travelled, bought, and sold like other people. He was also much too wise to travel by night. In the day, however, he fre- quently passed the road I have been de- scribing. Far from human dwellings, near the foot. of Corryarick, he used to hear, in. ( 283 ) ? - passing near these fomhans, the fairies turning their bread on the girdle, and find the smell of the oatcakes they were toasting waken appetite very forcibly. This I believe that he believed ; yet I believe, at the same time, that if he had as many things to think back on, and anticipate, as people who live in the world, he would .not have heard so well what was geing on in these hillocks:. He was, indeed, the only person I ever knew, admitted to so near a cognizance of the domestic economy ef these fan- tastic sprites; and, to say truth, his own friends were wont to smile at his details. with complacent, but suspicious silence. But the youths who were accustomed to lead, during the spring months, a wild and solitary life, tending cattle among the hills of that dreary district, were often, as they said, cheared by the mu- sic of small sweet pipes, issuing from these awe-inspiring hillocks. These im- ( 284 ) pressions are early given, and deeply fixed by little songs which the children learn almost in infancy, of which the mystic intercourse betwixt fairies and the children of mortality are the sub- ject. These hold the same place with them, that Tom Thumb and Jack the Giant-killer do with our children; with this difference, that our nursery-tales of wonder have also something of the ludicrous mingled with them. Our children learn very soon to re- gard with ridicule and contempt, the objects of terror-mingled wonder, by which their imaginations were first’ ex- cited. Not so the little highlander! There was something like music which Collins gives to Despair, in the tales he first heard, conveyed in strains, of whose ex- pression one might truly say, « By fits *twas sad, hy starts ’twas wild.” ( 285 ) One of these, which I have heard children at a very early age sing, and which is just to them, the Babes in the Wood, I can never forget. The affect- ing simplicity of the tune, the strange wild imagery, and the marks of remote antiquity in the little narrative, gave it the greatest interest to me, who delight in tracing back poetry to its infancy. A little girl had been innocently be- loved by a fairy, who dwelt in a tomhan near her mother’s habitation. She had three brothers, who were the favourites of her mother. She herself was treated harshly, and tasked beyond her strength: Her employment was to go every morn- ing and cut a certain quantity of turf from dry heathy ground, for immediate fuel; and this with some uncouth and primitive implement. As she past the hillock, which con- tained her lover, he regularly put out his hand with a very sharp knife, of such 5a ROTI RET ( 286 ) power, that it quickly and readily te through all impediments. She " chearfully and early with her Jos : turf: and, as she past by the hi oc > she struck om it twice, and the fairy stretched out his hand through the sur- face, and received the knife. The mother, however, told the th thers, that her daughter must a. y have had some aid to perform the al i ted task. They watched her, saw receive the enchanted knife, and fr it from her. They returned, struck ! e “hillock, as she was wont to do, and Pn the fairy put out his hand, they out ; off with bis own knife. He drew in t e bleeding arm, in despair, and Se this cruelty was the result of reac ery on the part of his beloved, never saw her more. ie o I am very sorry, that the spirit of this most primitive song could not be oe fused into English, but it 1s as volati ( 287 as the fragrance of the wild lily, would, like it, €vaporate when m from its place. and oved ~ I shall try, however, how two op three stanzas will look in litera] English. The maiden speaks, and, as is usual in all ve ery old songs, the first verse is re. beated as a chorus to the rest. *¢ I behold yonder the tomhan covered wi th rowan * ang holly. y * Dear to me is the treasure which it contains, *“‘Sweet and deep was my slumber *“ On the brink of the Ia * I awoke “ ke of many salmon. s and half of ny bed remained not. See. yonder the tomhan of rowan and holly, &e, aan I see my brothers afar yonder, ** Mounted on sleek swift grey steeds: *“ They ride, but my heart goes not with them, “I see yonder the tombhan, &ec. ‘“ I see the house of my mother afar off; ““ Not as it were a house, but a Place deserted. ““ While sweet slumber falls on others, *¢ Green flames shall encompass her feet. * Rowan, the mountai-Ash. Mt he al td ETE, a { 288 ) ¢t I see yonder the tomhan of rowan and holly ; Ys «¢ Dear to me is the treasure it contains.” The first thing to be observed of this little melancholy ditty, is the picture of manners which it presents. . The bro- thers are, no doubt, hunters, and leave the hard task of cutting heathery turf to their little sister. A knife is a thing rare and highly valued. The hard- hearted brothers are persons of no ordi- nary condition. They are mounted on horses fleet, sleek, and of the favourite colour, when such animals conferred distinction on these possessed of them. She uses a most expressive figure to denote the misfortune which had over- taken her. While enjoying a sweet re- freshing sleep on the banks of the lake of salmon, a phrase meant to express ease and plenty, the water washes under her, and deprives her of half her bed; a metaphor signifying the loss of her fu- ture repose. ( 289 What she says of her brothers is high. ly expressive. The third verse describes her feelings on seeing them pass at a distance. They are mounted on sleek swift steeds: Yet though they move on with all this air of power and conse- quence, her heart, wounded by their cruelty, does not accompany them. : The final verse contains something like an imprecation on her ‘mother which is difficult to reconcile to the ioe. passioned veneration with which parents are mentioned in all the reliques of an- cient poetry. Here, too, occurs an expressive figure consonont to the stile prevalent to this day, in their emphatic language.—s | * see the house of my mother, not asif jt * were a house, but merely a bare place.” There is no longer any thing in the do- mestic hearth to create an interest. I see the habitation of my mother with as VOL. I. N much indifference as if it were a desert- ed spot. The green flames which are to sur- round or consume her mother’s feet, while others slept sweetly, must have been a figure to denote a disturbed mind ; or, perhaps, it might be descrip- tive of some punishment inflicted by the offended fairies. Green flames, or flames edged with green, being often used to express the dubious lustre of an ignis fatuus, or other wandering me- teor. This fragment is accounted the most ancient extant, and bears the marks of very primitive modes of think- ing, and expressing one’s sensations. I must no longer wander in the de- vious path of fairy lore, where new temptations to transgress my limits, as- sail me at every turning. There is some merit in leaving untold nursery legends, that rise to remembrance, con- nected with so many tender associations. { 201 ) I am sensible of hazarding a great. deal, by descending so far into these mi- nutie of antique lore, as I have done. It is indeed difficult to escape from the seduction of the subject. To a cal, reflecting, . and unsophisticated mind, jt has peculiar attractions, as opening a wide field of speculation .on the most in teresting of all merely speculative sub. Jects, the progress of the human mind, In a very peculiar state:—a state-ad verse to artificial and. external refine- ment; yet adapted to nourish all the fin- er emotions of the untaught and unre- gulated heart, and give scope to all the wild creation of excursive fancy. This latter peculiarity of primitive life, is fitted to take great hold on the imagination, which, sheltered in retire- ment, and prompted by feeling, loves to range undisturbed through the wilds of enthusiasm. We feel gratified, too, in the calm and N 2 ( 292 ) conseious superiority with which our bet- ter informed minds can look down on cur equals, perhaps superiors in intellect, struggling through the gloom of igno- rance, and combating the phantoms that inhabited it. One of the great pleasures which we unconsciously derive from the perusal of Don Quixote, is a blended sentiment arising from the respect which his wis- dem and virtue inspires, and a secret sense of self-gratulation at feeling our: own superiority to so much excellence, disfigured as it is by romantic credulity. Miguel Cervantes shews, in this in- stance, as in all others, an intimate knowledge of human nature, first, in making the knight of La Mancha a per- son of generous sentiment, habitual self- denial, and a heroic elevation of mind, as only such a person could have cou- rage to undertake, and perseverance to hold on in the path of adventure allotted ( 293 ) to him : and next in engaging our sym- - ‘pathy, and soothing our self-importance by making him at once so respectable and so absurd. Were he wholly fantastic and absurd, we should despise him ; were he entirely the mirror of knight- hood, renowned for valour and courtesy, . we should coldly esteem him, and seek our amusement: from some less dignified character. . The hero. of Cervantes too derives the - interest of probability from the times in - which he is supposed to. exist. The spirit of romantic chivalry, excited. by the Moorish wars, and nourished by the tales’ of wonder and necromancy,. had: hardly - subsided. The ashes of civil conflagra- tion were scarcely cold, and the religion: - of the country gave a kind of sanction to the extravagances of fiction; when the overheated brain of the knight did not entirely create, but greatly exaggerate the wonders familiar to his imagination. . N38. ( 294 ) A wandering knight in the present en-- lightened times, invested with the attri- butes of that flower of courtesy, would disgust more by the incongruity of his adventures, than he could amuse by their singularity. Of this, the story of Sir Launcelet Greaves is a striking instance. Well told as it is, not all the descriptive powers and rich invention of Smollet can give lasting interest to such a violation of all costume and probability. What Sir Launcelet Greaves is to Don Quixote, the tales of enchantment of the preseat century, with all their elaborate appara- tus are to the short and simple stories of enchantment recited with all the thril- ing horror of credulity in the former ages by honest believers. These, though they did nothing extenuate, set down nought in laboured exaggeration. With all due reverence to our venerable forefathers, we must confess, that they were very apt to be afraid of shadows, and had a pecu- ( 295 ) Har art of communicating the impressions received from these shadows, to their un- believing descendants. Yet amidst the broad effulgence of light, which has since flowed in upon us, we must shrink a little from the presumption of those of our contemporaries who expect to awak- ken all those emotions which Shakespeare and others, including even * blind Harry, had at command, by conjuring the sha- dows of these shades. In vain do they spin their narratives into immoderate length, and stretch their figures into im- measurable magnitude. The former only languish on the ear with wearisome mo- notony ; and the latter, like the shadow of Cowper’s limbs on a shining winter day, appear only the more ludicrous from their magnitude. The spider’s filmy net, seen through * See the fine diablerie of the spirit of Fawdon appearing to Wallace, oy ET ——— A SSA A — IR RE » JS a a i | iN ¥ i i} it] ie ( 296 ) the watery moonshine, might be a fit" ting vestment for the elves of antiquity ; but that they should, after their long ba- nishment, come out in full sunshine, ar- rayed in the still more transparent, though more glittering attire of dewy gossamer, is a violation of the aerial unities most offensive to supernatural criticism, and revolting even to the good taste of the nursery.. It is amusing to consider how this very worst species of perverted taste, . first sprung up amongst us. A very learned, and very vain, old nobleman, who had devoted his life to literary pur- ‘suits, and feasted upon all the varieties of knowledge, pleased himself with the idea of being above ambition. No man certainly had seen mere of the unsatis- factory nature of its highest rewards. . than he had the melancholy experience of in his own family : But still the lurk- ing principle inhabited his breast, and ( 297 ) wrought perversely with a kind of dis- torted energy. The want, the deadly and wretched want of some object beyond what earth affords, to stimulate or to satisfy the as- - piring mind, to warm and invigorate the fainting heart, must needs be supplied; and the stronger the mind, the more ne- cessary the stimulus. Whoever reads ever the works of Lord Oxford, and more particularly the life of Lord Herbert of Cherbury, will easily perceive, that historical doubls were but an inferior class of those, by which his mind was oc- cupied. That, in short, he wanted the comfort, the enlargement of views, and repose of mind derived fro religious be- lief. He had, like Solomon, tried all things, and found them vanity. He had explored cathedrals and tomh- stones ; had wrote mysterious tragedies, and had proved that he knew much bet- ter what was done in the era of the ri- pr —————————————— - - —— ret aged i i th on. Sed we AI SIRE ( 298 ) val roses than those who lived at the: time. He had corresponded with the: most cultivated and witty old ladies, and. conversed with the most beautiful, sprightly, and accomplished young ones. Still there was a sad desideratum, a dreary void: Imagination, vanity, and that distorted ambition, already describ- ed, stept forth to fill it. To form a new creation of his own, and call the world to wonder at it, appeared to him a de- sirable amusement for his declining years ; and so he built a castle in the air, and ‘called it Otranto. One cannot but smile to think of the laborious assiduity ex- pended on the construction of this clumsy ‘edifice, and of the awkward species of ingenuity exerted in the creation of its most incongruous inhabitants. This, ‘however, excited attention; not merely as being in itself wonderful, but marvel- ‘lous, as proceeding from such an author. The ideal structure, in short, had a vi-. sible relation to the material one pro- ceeding from the same mind. And the. same perversion of taste which solicited admiration for a gothic structure on the banks of the Thames in the eighteenth century, called back from the bottom of the Red Sea those spirits, which, ever since the days of Glendower, had quietly reposed there. This castle builder had various claims to attention. Noble, witty, learned, and singular, the more odd and incongruous the production was, the more it drew the - gaze of idle curiosity : yet, though it was read, and wondered at, it did not excite sufficient admiration to gratify the am- bition of the author. One of his post- humous letters sufficiently shews how in- ordinate that was. Ra The * cold reasoning age,” which had not been sufficiently dazzled, or astonish- ed by his performance, would, he hoped, be succeeded by one more fanciful and ( 800 ) enthusiastic. Posterity would hail the triumphs of his genius, and babes yet unborn tremble at horrors of his manu- facturing. Though he ascribed rather too much to the powers of his single arm in the regions of necromancy, he becanre unwittingly the leader of a pompous, if not powerful band of magicians, whose wands conjured up forms more elegant and aerial than their prototype had sum- moned ! Bells rung, owls shrieked, and chains rattled in all directions; our cir- culating libraries swarmed with home- bred apparitions ; and, moreover, to bor- row description from one of the best of these spurious productions. ¢¢ On a sudden, hideous yelling, ¢¢ Dismal groans and cries were heard, ¢¢ And, each heart with fear appalling, ¢¢ A pale troop of ghosts appear’d.” This band of German apparitions were 20 novel and outlandish, and suited so to the English love of caricature, that they ¥ ( 801 ) stalked: and skimmed through the land with no small approbation. It became the occupation of the few to make believe to be frightful, and of the many to make believe to be afraid. These lovers of the awful and terrible, affected the highest contempt for the honest believers who trembled at ghosts they thought real; yet they were no otherwise superior to them, than the pup- pies who bark at the reflection of the moon in a pond, are to the dogs. who, with more originality and better directed energy, bark at the moon herself. Mankind, are wonderfully disposed to move in a circle, or rather, ina kind of retrogade manner, after they attain to a certain point : Cloyed and satiated with all that can be known or enjoyed here, if the proper and natural process does not take place, if we do not endeavour: to reach at something beyond what is allotted to us in this limited period of VOL. I. 0 ( soz ) existence, we return with a kind of vitiated relish to the primary objects of the terror-mixed delights of infancy, the infancy of nations untaught, and of in- dividuals in every state. I callit a vi- tiated relish, because it is no longer an article of implicit belief, and consequent- ly, loses the powerful interest which agi- tates the savage and the child. Yet so dear to fancy, so consonant to the secret longings of the soul for a glimpse of worlds unknown, is this delusion, that those to whom the gates of light and im- mortality have never been opened, or who have willingly preferred darkness to light, can yet feel a mysterious pleasure in the improbable and impossible, merely because it carries the imagination for a moment beyond the circle of sensible ob- jects. Even this depraved appetite that lis- tens to wonders not only supernatural, but unconnected with any cause or mo- ( 8038 )) tive, with avidity, totally distinct from credulity, is still a lurking symptom of that aspiration which pants for a wider field of excursion, and higher objects of desire : “6 °Tis the Divinity which stirs within us.” When a beaver, torn away from his house, his kindred, and his woods, and dams, is forced into an unnatural state of domestication, he busies himself with awkward and fruitless assiduity in piling up sticks at the door of the house to which he is attached. With perverse and ludicrous eagerness he continues to ob- struct the enterance, by toiling without an object or an end ; yet it is this sa- lutary instinct, that, when permitted to take its natural course, works wonders of utility, that, checked and perverted, produces all this absurdity. It is awful to consider, that there is no resting place, no intermediate stationary ( 804) point for thé immortal soul ; once light’ ed up with hope and intelligence, it must - be in a state of progression or declension, must soar or sink. And, when its up- ward flight is checked, it must, like Mil- ton’s fallen angels; « descend with pain.” It is obvious, that I confine this ohserva- tion to souls who have not yet finished their probation. How many of the follies of the ‘wise, and weaknesses of the strong, can only Le accounted for on this principle ! END OF VOLUME FIRST. ESSAYS ON THE SUPERSTITIONS - OF THE HIGHLANDERS OF SCOTLAND: TO WHICH ARE ADDED, TRANSLATIONS FROM THE GAELIC } AND LETTERS CONNECTED WITH THOSE FORMERLY PUBLISHED. IN TWO VOLUMES. vn BY THE AUTHOR OF ** LETTERS FROM THE MOUNTAINS.” Pe aren A land of apparitions—=empty shades.—Youne. I récommend, though at the risk Of popular disgust, yet boldly still, The cause of piety, and sacred truth, And virtue, and those scenes which God ordained Should best secure them, and promnte them 1MoStes Scenes that I love, and with regret perceive Forsaken, or through folly not enjcyed,=~CowPER. VOL. IIL. LONDON: PRINTED FOR LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, AND BROWN SOLD ALSO By J. MATCHARD, PICCADILLY § MRS COCK, PALL MALL} AND MANNERS & MILLER, AND JOHN ANDERSON. “DiNBURGH, AENCTRIE RNR 1811. CONTENTS. OF THE SECOND VOLUME. ESSAY VIII. Recapitulation.— Prophecy of Ercildown. == Stream of tradition continually enlarging. — Manners not to be studied in this period’ of Society, but general nature more obvious and distinctly seen, when advanced beyond barbarity, yet not arrived at refinement.—= Love of the marvellous inherent in human nature.~— Various illustrations, - TI ESSAY IX. Progress of the Faculties in the wfancy of Knowledge.—~ Imagination first predomi- nant, and latterly subdued.—~Ravings of Ab-- surdity not the natural effervescence of high-- wrought Enthusiasm, but of an artificial attempt to dazzle with the Glaring, and 3 astonish with the Marvellous.— Power of the J. Hay & Co. 1 Affections. — Danger of their evaporating Printers, Edinburg. | i in the heated atmosphere of general Socie- ty.—~ Danger and difficulty of pouring Light too suddenly on weak and unpractised or- 4 ££ , re i CL 4 bed i 3 { 6 « Fwd lk (iv) gans ; and of removing suddenly the abori- gine of the Mountains to a *ind of civic ES SA YS establishment. — Military propensities of the Highlanders.—Self-denial and Home feel- ings.—Singular fortitude of certain Victims to Principle— Popularity of a lately de- VARIOUS SUBJ ECTS. oN ceased Chief, &c. - - 70 na ESSAY X. | Upon the popular and well-known Song of | ESSAY VIII Macgregor na Ruara. wr Lecapitulation.~ Prophecy of Ercildown.—Stream LETTER 1. _ - - 9230 nu of tradition continually enlarging.— Banners not IIL. - - - 263 to be studied in this period of Society, but general 111 - - - 265 ’ nature more obvious and distinctly seen, when ad- IV. - - - 204 | vanced beyond barbarity, yet not arrived at refine= V. - - - 278 ment.—Love of the marvellous in’ erent in human ree. VT, = - = 280 nature.— Various illustrations. VII. - = = 254 VIII. - - - 289 IX. i] _ s 204. ““ And do they only stand by ignorance ? X. - . “ 303 ¢¢ Is that their happy state ; x1. - - 320 “¢ The proof of their obedience and their love ?”"—Mivr. ereemmnines BYE» - = 3 1 Si 2 : : iy : T ue reflections and observations which XV. - a - 359 | I have hazarded in the foregoing essays will, I am sensible, appear to many pa- radoxical and visionary; but the poeti- cal records compared with existing tra- VOL. II. EA (2) ditions and manner, and the general ha- bits of thought and motives of action still prevailing among the unsophisticat- ed highlanders, form a body of evidence, which will in a great degree corroborate, if not establish the hypothesis I have ventured to advance. I have endeavour- -ed to point out, First, That a people accustomed to freedom, ably contending for it, and finally flying to the fastnesses of their country to secure it, must needs have carried with them high and indepen- dent feelings, such as cherish noble sen- timents, and produce heroic actions: That common -dangers and privations, the dread of a common foe, and sharing the common honours due to the utmost exertion of courage, patience, and forti- tude, must have greatly endeared them to each other. Second, That their conscious origin from one common stock, and that in their a Reale iE Bh. TN (8 ) apprehension ‘a noble one, must have mingled pride with that affection, which bound them to each other, and taught them to consider this common origin, and those warm affections which bound them to each other as the chief earthly good: As a dignity and privilege to be preserved at all hazards, and an abun- dant recompence for the severest priva- tions. Third, That the entire exclusion of science, and all the objects of interest and ambition, from the rocky abodes of these primitive hunters and graziers, left them free to the illusions of the imagi- nation and the emotions of the heart. And that these circumstances, combined with the love of fame, derived from their past exploits, and only tg be gratified in war or hunting, raised their minds to a highly sensitive and poetical state : That valour thus sublimed, affection thus con- centrated, and imagination unchecked A 2 ( 4) by sober and cultivated reason, and fed by all the peculiarities of awful and gloomy scenery, sounds of horror, and sights of wonder, furnished abundant ma- terials for the loftiest flights of the poet, and the darkest fears of the visionary. Hence, poetry was earlier born, and sooner matured here than in any other country; and hence, the native poetry nourished superstition by kindling en- thusiasm. The native superstition, in return, enriched poetry with images of unequalled tenderness and sublimity. ‘Poetry conducted the warrior to the field of battle, and from thence to the grave, with all the eulogies due to pre- eminent valour, patriotism, and genero- sity. For superstition, it remained to give a new theme to the poet, and open new sources of sorrow and tenderness to the fair mourner, who sat in solitude by some roaring stream, deploring her lost hero. ES Rt a A EEE SEAN LE a ( 5°) This dreary power brought the ghost of the departed, like a moon-beam, to the window of the bard’s repose, to challenge the permanent reward of ne- ver-dying praise. On the blast of night, it brought the whispers of an unseen form, to warn the visionary maid of her speedy re-union with the ¢ dweller of “ her secret soul;” and to furnish themes for dreams of mingled hope and terror. The unbroken lineage, the unaltered language, the unconquered country, and the ties of affinity, daily renewed, and hourly strengthened and endeared pre- served, unchanged, and undiminished, cvery tribute paid by affection, or by ge- nius to departed worth or valour. Those plants of fair renown, which, in a less genial climate of the heart, are nipped by chilling indifference, or which wither, like Jonah’s gourd, before the too ardent beams of public exposure, . were here perennial evergreens, che- - (6) rished by those who felt a dear connec- tion with the tombs they sheltered. The state of society was so very dif- ferent from any thing we have either seen or imagined, that no conclusions eould be more erroneous than those which we should draw from our own experience and cbservation of life, when applied to their modes of thinking and acting. I do not speak now of the views which the light of science enables us to- take, but of that fluctuation in modes of apparel, habits of civility, &ec. which we insensibly acquire from our association with various nations, and which as in- sensibly draw us away, not only from the customs, but from the opinions of our forefathers. These, in diminishing our respect for their way of thinking and’ acting, diminishes our reverence for their- memory, and unconsciously slackens those relative ties which derive their 7 er & 7) main power from the cherished remem: brance of a common ancestor. That change is, in many respects, im provement, cannot be doubted : as little can it be denied, that at this price many of our improvements are purchased. The case was directly contrary with. our mountaineers. There came neither books nor strangers to diffuse knowledge - among them. But if it was true, that nothing was acquired from extraneous “sources, nothing was lost that was worth preserving; of the wisdom, the wit, or- ‘the ingenuity of their ancestors; of their poetry or their proverbs; of their history or their biography. By thus directing every petty rill of intellect or intelligence into the common current of tradition, however scanty the sources might be, the stream gradually increased in force and magnitude. Nor can those accustomed to endless wells, and pipes, and reservoirs of far-fetched . von a Nnrsseres’ 388 ( 8 ) intelligence, easily believe what salutary draughts of useful and pleasing know- ledge were hence obtained. All this knowledge, however, was, as to exterior circumstances, merely local. The facts related were those that hap- pened within their own bounds, and were not of a nature to diminish, but rather to strengthen their pre-conceived preju- dices. In respect to general knowledge, use- ful arts, and profound or elegant sci- ence, this volume of tradition was very scanty, or entirely silent. Not so with regard to the heroic, the tender, the lu- dicrous, the moral, and the decorous : it is to the amplitude and accuracy of this volume upon such subjects, that much is owing of the intuitive observa- tion, and inexplicable refinement of the highland character. If, indeed, ¢ The proper study of mankind js man,” Ea Sag Cg Si to na RE on WK a RT ER RE Ra i Sn SAREE CE ERNEST SES {'y perhaps he cannot be studied to mere advantage than in this period of society ; when he knows enough to supply all ne- cessary wants, and discern the great boundaries between good and evil—feels enough to be capable of attachment, not only fervid, but permanent, and te sacri- fice individual gratification to the com- fort or advantage of a beloved ohject';— and when he imagines enough to add vi- vid colouring and exalted grace to all that is beautiful, and give deeper gloom and greater expansion to all that is ter- - rible. Man, when thus far advanced above barbarity, and thus far short of mental culture, is certainly best adapted to af- ford a subject for the study of human nature in the abstract. Civilization must be much farther advanced before one discovers how high man is capable of rising, or into what baseness and degra- dation he may sink. "3 - ( 10) The endless shadings and varieties that afford matter for the ¢“ manners- « painting muse,” too, are best found in various and cultivated society. But I know not that one finds means to take a more distinct and pleasing view of our nature than in this early stage : especial- ly when one class of society has not been so exalted as to depress and degrade the rest ; when language and sentiment has not been sifted, and the bran of words and thoughts thrown to the vulgar. The stream of tradition, with all the sentences, adages, and observations that have floated down the current of time, from their wise, witty, and courteous ancestry, was open te all, like the sa- cred writings to our Scottish peasantry ; and the highland muses sung in the same language to the noblest chieftain and the meanest vassal. Hence, though a certain chivalrous and romantic dignity, like that ascribed ( 11 )) to the courteous knight of La Mancha, more particularly attached to the high- descended, and though to them all the elegancies of life and appurtenances of wealth were supposed to belong exclu- sively ; yet the same sentiment, the same - strain of poetry, and the same legendary and traditional knowledge, were common. to the highest chieftain and the lowest retainer. The chief might knew a little more of what related to foreign countries ; but in every thing that related to the his-- tory of his own, or to the history of mind, illustrated by pictures or exam- - ples from antiquity, the peasant nowise differed from his lord of equal capacity ; but by having less leisure to attend to the ©“ Sean Dana ;’ and not having al- - ways at hand a kind of living library, in the bard and the seanachie, whose life was spent in acquiring and communi- eating such knowledge. Of the value of = (12) this unwritten wisdom, and of the anec- dotes, saws, and adages in which it was conveyed, the highly enlightened will be inclined to think very meanly. Yet, perhaps, a little examination and reflec- tion will shew it to be of more value, and of much greater variety than we are aware of. There is current in the highlands, a prophecy ascribed to the famous Thomas of Ercildown, which was in these terms: “ The timeiscoming,whenallthe wisdom of the world shall centre in the grey goose’s quill ; and the jawbone of the *« sheep cover the coulter of the plough “ with rust.” This I have heard from very old people, who had not a word of English. as +$ Yet notwithstanding of these excel- lent authorities, I do not exactly believe that Thomas said so. Nor do I give implicit credit to his being buried under that romantic and singular eminence, ( 18) the tomhan na heurich, which rises in a fine plain near Inverness, and’ is pre-emi- nent ameng enchanted tomhans. Nor do I entirely trust to his promise of throwing off all that incumbent load of earth, to rise and attest the truth of his prophecies (in very good Gaelic,) when they are all fulfilled. Yet, from what- ever source the prophecy sprung, the spirit and application of it indicate no common sagacity. The obvious implication is, that trust- ing to written wisdom, while it increas- ed the stock of acquired knowledge, would amongst them abate that eager- ness for preserving traditionary lore, that constant and diligent exercise of memory, and that acute sagacity, which awakened curiosity, eager of knowledge, and deficient of the means to attain it, is apt to produce. They thought, ‘that when every man had a well at his door, the living springs mat —aaE EES ——— (14) ! ( 15) pp—— EE RR DR SR a that gushed from their mountains with 3 perpetual freshness, and melodious mur- murs, would be neglected ; and that from these new sources of intelligence, they would with the diffusive know- ledge, drink of the languor and apathy of the land of strangers. This goose-quill information was aptly coupled with the rusting of the plough- irons. Their petty agriculture, till su- perseded by extensive sheep-walks; be- ing the means of keeping together the little cordial communities in which an- cient knowledge and anciént manners were cherished and perpetuated. It may be truly observed, that the possessors of this stock of local and tra- ditionary history and biography, could ill estimate the treasures to be acquired through the medium of the goose-quill, being too ignorant to form any concep- tion of either abstruse or elegant science. It is equally true, that were the sayings. I out « an a OF NEE Se AL ayant SEY lian or Me a i J Coa TEM Lk ee 5 ali pa pee GE rl Re eins * Ease San aa EY A and actions of individuals to be re- corded in the present day, excluding all that relates to general knowledge, sci- ence, and those materials for thought and action, which are furnished by an intercourse with the world at large, the aggregate could seldom be 0% pected to afford much Interest or in- struction, because now eultivanon has brought things to such a level. We all, under the same circumstances, act and think so much alike; we sit down like the Spartans, in their public halls, to one common table, where knowledge is dealt out in equal portions to all the members of the same community; and we all reason too much from the same pre- mises, and are hurried along by the stream of custom, to act so much on the same principles, that we have by ne means that originality either of thought or character, that can give great in- terest to what we think or say. That ( 16 ) is, unless we are called upon to act some distinguished part on the great stage of life, and: then we merely - derive in- terest and ‘originality from having great motives to stimulate us, and great num- bers agitated or influenced by the part we have to act." Our governors, our ‘laws, and esta- blished regulations, happily do so much for us, that little is left for ourselves, that calls for the exertion -of superior acuteness, or superior energy. It'is with our wisdom, as with our wealth ; it is all laid up in public banks, frem whence we get it, as we want it. Hence, there is no necessity for keeping a treasure that - requires exertions to watch and guard it continually in our own possession. With these ancient tribes, it was very different, there was nothing common- place, nothing of daily occurrence with them. Theirs was not like the savage life, a constant series of exigencies, yet. ( 17) these occurred often enough to keep up a constant exercise of the mental and corporeal faculties. It is the ianage- ment of great affairs; the conduct of arduous enterprises, that give room for the display of a strong character, and form great men. Where every valley was a petty so- vereignty, and every hamlet was goverh- ed more by the wisdom and equity of its clders than by external regulations, there was a perpetual balancing of rights, and adjusting of claims. These gave Yoom for the exercise of sagacity and the trial of probity, as well as of courage, forti- tude, and patience. Here, too, the love of reputation or of fame acted more powerfully, if possible, than on the large theatres of the world. ‘What was the world to him, who thought all that was desirable in it ex- isted within the rocky limits, and watery bofindaries of his Alpine home. Here ( 18 ) was no equivocal fame, nor any thing that rested on pretensions, or was veiled: by artifice. The world at large, which sees a man as he chuses to shew himself, may be, for a while at least, imposed upon ; but no man can assume a false character in his native district, where every action, with its motive and results is known. If he steps out of the common rank to exer- cise any faculty which he pre-eminent- ly possesses, or imagines. he possesses, whether it be the courage of the lion, —the sagacity of the fox,—the wisdom of the serpent,—or the gentleness of the dove, he can bear ne ambiguous charac- ter, he must be admired or despised, be- loved or detested. How dear to a human being is the - love and esteem, the respect or the ad- miration of that small concentrated cir- cle, whom he has ever been accustom- ¢ 19) ed to regard with affection and i terest, or with awe and reverence : How freely, how nobly does the song of genius or the blood of valour flow, whet this community, so well known, and so much beloved, furnish the mo- dive, and assign the reward for their ex rtions ! : Every thing perishes but immortal mind ; and to it all perishing things are subservient. It is, then, the display of its powers that gives dignity ad oonse quence to the cause that elicits them. So far from deriving importance from space and numbers, the greatest efforts of courage, magnanimity, or wisdom, are often shewn in simple efforts, and in nar- row bounds. The strait of Thermopylae does not make the. less figure in history, or occupy the less space in the mind, be- cause it was a very narrow pass, defend- ed by a very small number. We feel not the less deference for the wisdom of Solon, because the regulations which have transmitted his name with honour to posterity were made for Attica, a smaller district than that occupied by the Duke of Argyle and his clan. Any community that has a public form of distinct rule,—any district divided by distinct boundaries, forms a scene of ac- tion, sufficient to call forth ability, and give scope for wisdom or valour. Mere individual capacity, indeed, is more called forth in such narrow bounds, than where a wider field of action de- mands more co-operation of counsels and of talents. Of that despotism which was most ig- norantly imputed to the rulers of little separate societies, scarce any subsisted. It was, in fact, mental pre-eminence that governed them. The chief was im- plicitly obeyed ; but then, unless ip the day of battle, or in a paroxysm of rage or despair, occasioned by the hostility of Ran . oad Rasy Lr ARERR Ee A BERR Na Cr Ee (21) a neighbouring tribe, he never proceeded a single step without the concurrence of his kindred, and the seniors of his clan, most distinguished for valour and capa- city : so that it was in fact the ablest and most experienced person, influencing the rest, that did virtually rule the whole. If the chief himself was possessed of superior talent and intrepidity, he actu- ally did rule his clan; but then it was because all the leading men were con- scious of his innate superiority. Considering the state of society, it is wonderful how temperate and clement these petty sovereigns were to those who depended upon them. This consciousness of what was due to the rights of blood and vassalage ne- ver forsook them in the hour of inebrie- ty. Drinking, which is not only a north- ern vice, but habitual to the state of so- ciety which I am describing, was among [1] PE HE ( 22) them much too frequent, and considered as a venial trespass on good morals and good breeding : nay, the excess of it, under certain circumstances, was ac- counted a gallant exploit. Yet there is not upon record an instance of a high- land Alexander’s killing his Clytus, in the fury of intoxication. There is an old significant adage in the Scotch language to this purpose :— “ You make laws, I make proverbs.” This collected wisdom of ages was certainly very effective in regulating the interior of the clans. It did not keep them from feuds and wars with other tribes, any more than folios of divinity, and heavy tomes of political wisdom, kept the different states of Europe from tearing each other to pieces; yet the ef- fect of this traditional wisdom in pre- serving peace and order, mutual confi- dence, and mutual kindness, among peo- ple living under one head, was beyond ( 28 ) what could be easily credited in those larger societies which are regulated on very different principles. These maxims and opinions, by which so many societies were so calmly direct- ed, without the operation of any coer- cive laws, and with a very moderate portion of religious knowledge, could not be drawn from scanty Or mean Sources. ‘What, indeed, is all we read, and all we write, but the aggregate of what has been thought and said. We look into ‘books for the knowledge of “human cha- racter; and finding there the observa- tions which sagacity has been made in the olden time, digested and arranged, we never dream of its existing in any other form. It is inconceivable how much of what we meet with in books, either of sage remark, or invented story, is to be found in its elements, floating in the traditions of an acute and ingenious people, whose / EEE — : TRE z — ( 24 ) unbroken series of descent preserved e- very thing, and whose mode of life per- petually called forth the exertions of mind, refined by poetry, and enlarged by patriotism. Among these hunters, warriors, and graziers, who were continually varying their occupation, as well as occasionally changing their abode, a constant exer- tion of sagacity was required, both in those that governed and those who o- beyed, from the mutability of outward circumstances, and the permanence of individual characters and motives. This last arose from the habit of acting in concert. No one was sure of doing exactly to-day what he did yesterday ; but every one was pretty sure of hav- ing the same opinions and motives to stimulate or restrain him on the present, as on former occasions. A man, in fact, had few opinions or motives as an indi- vidual. Every thing was matter of con- ( 25 ) vention; and, therefore, every measure taken was the subject of discussion and serious argument before it was decided on. Before they went to hunt, before they began to reap, to mow their hay, or re- move to the shealings, or before a mar- riage or baptism, there was a serious and solemn consultation how or when it should be done. This gave all a reason- ing and deliberative habit, and called forth no small degree of eloquence. Savages, though not social, or addict. ed to conversation, are eloquent in pub- lic councils, and on national affairs, from the habit of being accustomed to act in concert, and to take an active part in general measures. The mere hunter, however, is taciturn and self-dependent. In the infancy of agriculture, when it is in a manner sub- ordinate to the pastoral state, the case is very different. VOL. II. B . ( 26 ) Till very lately, indeed, still where the reliques of ancient manners continue to exist, there is a perpetual subject of deliberation for the wise, and debate for ‘the foolish, furnished by farms held in a kind of partnership, called in Scotland, running rigs; that is, ploughing alter- nate ridges with a common plough, which the peasants of one hamlet hold by turns, and to which each furnishes a horse. Their cattle, in the uninclosed - grounds, are herded together, and as every measure, in this petty subdivision of a commonwealth, must be adjusted and debated together, it is inconceiva- ble how much reasoning and acuteness is brought forth by their petty exigen- cies, or how much the art of conversa- tion is cultivated in this close associa- tion, where there is no medium between being esteemed or despised. In this small community, usually con- sisting of eight families, the music, poe- w HAE = on try, anecdote, and information of each, becomes a common stock, from their constant intercourse with each other. It is with this kind of connection, as with marriage, in this primitive state. If the people in the same bhalli are well disposed, and well principled, the necessary and politic habit. of assisting and yielding to each other, polishes manners, and smoothes down asperities: It is a kind of convention, and ends in producing a general amenity and cor- dial attachment to each other, that lightens labour, and sweetens life, more than insulated self-dependent familics can possibly conceive. On the other hand, though it should happen, that people of discordant tem- pers, having no previous connection with each other, should be set down in the same bhalli, they will assuredly clash a- bout their petty humours and interests ; but, at length, finding that in all mat- B 2 ( 28 ) ters of importance, they mutually share every benefit and every injury derived from others, that the maxims of their ancestors, and general voice of the coun- try, condemn strife among people thus connected, they have, even in this case, a strong fellow feeling for each other, will support each other’s cause against every encroaching neighbour, and should he be sick or unfortunate, will share all their little comforts with the object of these smothered animosities. Though his cow should cast her calf, he will never want milk; and though his arm should be disabled, his neigh- ‘bours will cheerfully hold his plough, or cut his turf for him. The same good offices, in the day of calamity, will be done for him, as for a more valued asso- ciate. The chief difference lies in the spirit in which they are done. The a- lacrity of affection, eager for the power of obliging ; and the sense of duty, and ¢ 29 ) awe of opinion, produce, in a very differ ent manner, the same effects. Thus the highland peasant has been for ages, of all uninstructed beings, the most social, most accommodating, most - reflecting, and deliberating. It is the profound consultation, ba- lanced opinions, quoted precedents, and. cautious foresight of the morning coun- cils, conjoined with the social ease, open~ hearted gaiety, and stingless raillery that prevailed in the evening meetings, which form the character made up of harmo-- nious discord, which so- much puzzles strangers to comprehend. Hence that air of thoughtfulness, inclining to melan- choly—the shrewd, discriminating glance, —the cautious and hesitating, or cold and evasive reply—and the total ahsence of that guardless simplicity which we so naturally look for among the secluded inhabitants of pastoral vales. Hence too lies hid under this cold exterior, the - er RR SR — = oS HR a ( 80 ) gay, exuberant fancy, the active intel- lect, the quick perception of the ridicu- fous, the intuitive discernment, and the light-hearted hilarity, which flashes out in the mirth-inspiring song, or animates the sprightly dance, with peculiar grace and spirit. Donald by no means thanks any one for investing him with the attributes of infantine innocence and pristine simpli- city. He rather considers himself as a man of address and observation, skilled in affairs, versant in business, and rich in inherited experience. He loves to ar- gue and deliberate; and gives import- ance to the merest trifles, to find scope for his address and sagacity. He likes to exercise his shrewdness and caution where there is little occasion for it, and will scarce * drink his whey without a “ stratagem.” He perfectly comprehends, that we know many things of which be is igno- {(. 81 ) rant : but then he thinks, first, that ir his situation, none of those things would make him better or happier, though he did know them ; and, next, that he pos- sesses abilities to acquire all that is va- luable in knowledge, if accident had - thrown him in the way of culture. Character has been always his undi- vided study; and his progress in this difficult science is incredible. We in vain hope to dazzle him with our acqui- sitions ; and as vainly think to conceal from him the contempt with which learn- ed ignorance regards plain good sense. and untutored sagacity. They have not the least doubt, that, with our exterior helps, they could do all that we do. But they very well know, that were we set down in their bleak and barren country, with the same - means of support, we should be of all beings the most helpless. They understand the maxim of < Nit : SI 00 Sram at 1 VN co _ a a i aC FU pr OP RT in YR pr prem A -: L . AR cil lS Sa ES ht ( 82) “ admirari” as well as if they had stu- died Horace. They have no childish wonder, or vulgar admiration of finery. They appreciated elegance, and even magnificence, at its due rate ; and adorn- ed their songs with descriptions, such as Homer gives of robes, and arms, and ivory seats : but then it was quite enough for a whole tribe, that their chief pos- sessed these distinctions. The splen- dour of his costly arms, and the tapestry or paintings with which his castle was decorated, reflected lustre on the whole tribe ; and they no more thought of being dissatisfied with the want of such things, than of complaining because each had not some ¢ bright, particular star,” to il- luminate his own dwelling. The good Catholics in the dark ages had a treasury of the church, in which all supernumerary or super-ordinate good works were locked up, that the deficient might receive a dole out of these redun- ( 83 ) dant merits. Such was the treasury of wise and witty sayings, and the record of prudent or gallant actions laid up in the ample repositories of tradition. He who could not invent, could remember ; and he who could not emulate the deeds - of his ancestors, could recite them. .That even this very imperfect mode - of intellectual cultivation produced con- siderable effect, is evident, from one de- cided proof of improvement, besides o- thers less equivocal. In no other country did a refined iro- ny, a quick feeling of the ludicrous, and a keen, yet delicate stile of satire, pre- cede the knowledge of letters. Nothing can be more gross and palpable than the Jests of an uncivilized people. Wit and humour are the fruits of the garden and orchard : In the field, they are mere crabs. Witness the jests of Thersites and Antinous, the wit of the Hiad and Odyssey, the acerbity and roughness of 5 | ( 84 which cannot be smoothed down by all the melody of Pope’s numbers. Once more, I shall risk “ the world’s “ dread laugh,” by asserting, that their peculiar superstition of the second sight, as it is modified ameng them, is a proof of advancement beyond the barbarity which we are wont to ascribe to an illi- terate people. It is to be recollected, that this mode of anticipating futurity, is not, (like all other foresight, short of inspiration,) coupled with craft or pro- fit. It is a shuddering impulse, a men- tal spasm that comes unsought, and of- ten departs without leaving a trace he- hind, by which it may be connected with any future event. No one wishes for these mysterious Visions, nor can any one summon them at will. They are like, very like, « the “ stuff which dreams are made of,” and in the same manner vanish sometimes like fleeting illusions, and at others pic- Shae { 35 } ture on the brain the approaching events that are to produce fear, wonder, or sor- row. For gay visions seldom chear the mind of the pensive visionary. It is not, however, in the coarse and sluggish mind of apathy, that the imagi- native faculty thus predominates. “When “coming events cast their shadows be-- ¢« fore,” it is the smooth and calm surface that arrests and reflects them. It is not the vain, the volatile, the turbulent, or artful who combine the habits of deep: meditation ‘and sensitive and fantastic feeling, which nourish this creative fa- culty. ~ The ruddy cheek, the light wan- dering glance; or the important and self- satisfied air of egotism is not found com- bined with this disease of the. imagina- tion. The pale, pensive, and abstracted countenance marks the victim of those wild illusions. It in a great measure re- sembles that ¢ fine frenzy of the poet’s - 2 ¥ 4 Gow TERR eRe or we, ap SORE ( 86 ) ed. But the imagination must be awaken. ed, and the mind stored with images, on which to feed in deep and silent musing, before these shadows can occupy it. Thus, these airy creations or deceptions contribute to shew the process of intel- lect in that state of its progress when imagination becomes in minds peculiarly sensitive, the predominant faculty, an- other mark of progressive improvement is that easy playfulness of demeanour, that tone of softened raillery, with which, in old poems and tales, the superior class both of rank and mind are made to ex. press themselves. The tone of easy frank- ness approaching to gaiety, with which the Knight of Snowdown and the Lady of the Lake address each other, is as per- fectly in character, as if they had been drawn by a Highland bard. That chara acteristic of improved intelligence, which “eye,” which a poet has so well describ- Ns for wy ea CS i ge ee Do ie sis ( 87 ) never appears till the graces of improv- ed conversation begin to be understood, was not wanting to persons of distinc- tion among this unheard-of race. Another circumstance, which tended to form the Scots character in general, and that of the highlands in particular, to address, caution, and foresight, was the universality of patronage. Besides the general claims which a clan had on its chief, and the relations of every gentle- man on the head of his family, a custom prevailed similar to that of the Romans. Every patrician had a number of ple- beian clients or dependents, whom he was particularly bound to protect from injury. According as the person was re- markable for benevolence, energy of character, talent, or influence in his own sphere, his adherents were more or fewer. He carried them perpetually in his thoughts, and courted with great assidu- ity the favour of any one who could do a ™ FL — ais —— EE a ——————— Bl iL Li = 0 ————— - tlt : ——— Tr Re ew x TA aa = wo ee ( 88 ) the smallest service to any of his line ne chris, literally the children of his belt ; fi- guratively so called, I suppose, from cling- ing round him like his belt in‘time of dan+ ger. Should a neighbouring gentleman withhold a favour expected, or offer the smallest injury to one of them, the affront was not easily forgiven, and revenge in due time taken in some shape of the adhe- - rents of the offending party. The linne na chris were not ungrateful for this de: voted attention to their concerns. There was no service so hard; or so dangerous, that a ‘man might not demand from his linne na chris, and their zeal and fidelity were unequalled. Much of the singular address and acuteness, for which the Highland gentle- men of the old regime were remarkable; was exerted in a perpetual kind of chess game, carried on with their next neigh- bours about the interests, alliances, and accommodations of their respective linne a Peete i ( 39 ) na chris. This scldom broke out in to open hostility, the consequences of which were too well anticipated. But there was astonishing covert dexterity, and finesse made use of in this seeming- ly amicable contest. Two gentlemen in Strathspey, of the lasty century, had great, though secret rivalship for influence, and at times at- tacked each other’s linne na chris, yet were always politically well bred, and civil to each other. One of these gentle- men understood business as it was man- aged in the country extremely well; he had always the very best advice to give to the peasantry, and being a pious man and an elder, would pray by them when they were sick, yet was particu- larly fond of being treated with cere- monious respect. The ritual of Highland good-breeding demands, that an inferior should never be covered in the presence of his supe- CR ERE RA bo ais i" ( 41 } they felt very qualmish about giving them up to the power of the law for pet- ty offences. This same Glendower in one single instance, affected great igno- rance as to the character of one of his adherents, which was a little suspected in the neighhourhoed. His brother, who rior, unless by that superior’s desire ; bit then the courtesy of highland affability generally waves this prerogative. The rival of the above-mentioned gentleman Was generous, frank, and manly, never solicited popularity, but by his wit and vivacity, and liberal kindness in the hour - of need, made himself beloved, while his spirit and talents made him formidable - to transgressors of all kinds. A poor man once made some request with much humility, continuing uncover- ed. “ D—TJs in the fellow, put on your bonnet, I am not Glendower,” for so we shall call his rival. It was observed, that after ‘this sally, the adherents of the other sensibly decreased. was a man of a most upright and candid spirit, told him, that it was a shame to shelter such a man in his bounds. <« Be “ quiet Patrick, said he, the poor man “ is as honest as yourself.” ¢ No truly, A RT “ replied Patrick, neither him or his pro- “ tector is near as honest.” A far more striking instance of the singular power, which a man of talents PEE by I grieve to say, that 0: some occ sions iad over his adherents aEeurad in the be- | i | these gentlemen, though men of probity ain Babee oe le ils Stn i 1 themselves, had not all the requisite de phe fanny. : In thot Setriet the ) licacy about the morals of their sworn gentlemen stood in some awe of their i adherents. Maker, and had some respect and more i If they were but faithful to themselves, a attachment for their chiefs; but besides, 4 I Pa a ——— i ( 42 ) ¢ Created thing ¢ Neught valued they, nor feared,” and human laws least of all. They thought they had lived very comfortably under their old patriarchal rule, and wished for no other. Light, however, be- gan to be let in on these regions, and the lord of the soil who lived at a dis- tance, sent a highland gentleman pretty much of their own class, to superintend, administer justice, and uplift rents of lands which had been previously held by a kind of military tenure. This was not to be endured. Their equal to come and erect himself into a lord paramount, to tyrannize over them, was a thing not be suffered with impunity : Many wise heads were laid together to revenge what they could not prevent. A man of determined resolution who was the Cassius of the conspiracy, sent. his inne na chris to take the life of the re Se 5 uy wax wh ZA A ( 48 ) intruder, which he thought he might go with a safe conscience, on the same prin- ciple that Hamlet excused himself for the death of Polonius, and was equally inclined to say, : . Liver [RL] « Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell : The linne made no scruple of under- taking the business; and though the chief never felt any remorse at the medi- tated deed, he did not chuse to shock his family with the result; he sat down with two or three friends in a little tigh orda, or drinking house by the road, hav- ing given strict charges to the most deter- mined of his followers, to bring him the head of the common enemy. Towards morning, the band returned : The leader entering first, his patron cried, «« Where is the head ?” « The head is on « the neck, and will yet speak loudly,” said the disappointed kerne. They had surrounded the house and I i i | oS eT tr Eth Rebeca oi ron a A AGRE hg oy 0 a “ hE i Br TT ee ir " bY 1 a SERS Tr i Eo er Hh BLT AES a ¢ 44) set fire to.it ; this adherent, as faithful tg- his lord, as they were to their master, though urged by his servants to make the best of his way, would net leave the flaming house, without returning for papers relative to his lord’s business. Having on a plaid night-gown which. he had thrown about him in haste, he. put these papers for security within it, under his left arm: There they proved a shield to him, resisting both bullets and daggers, wounds which were aimed at his heart. He fought his way with deter- mined bravery, and escaped severely wounded. He of course left the country, and I never heard that there was any in- quisition made for the perpetrators of this outrage. Indeed it would not in the least have availed. Crimes of any mag-. nitude were very rare; and. when they were committed, it was generally, as in. this instance, in consequence of some . misapplied or misunderstood principle. - ur ( 45) ‘Therefore, it was in vain to seek a proof; for a highlander could not, on pain of in- famy to himself, and all his descendants, ‘betray another. It was not till after the spirit-break- ing 1745, that any one ventured into the country to replace this victim of popular fury. The dread of infamy, which in this in- stance stood in the way of the execution of the laws, was in other cases, a great support to them. This horror of dis- grace, and the love of honourable dis- tincticn, which was equally strong, forms ed indeed a kind of substitute for the laws, and were fully more effectual in preventing all crimes, understood to be such. ' The above is an instance how little guilt they saw in defending what they considered as their ancient rights and privileges. Taking spreaths of cattle from their TT Tg See 8 Se om SES Ea rE Ct I - a er Sag. a ( 46 ) Hereditary enemies, the inhabitants of the low countries, or from adverse tribes, did not in the least disturb their conscience. Yet, when it was found ne- cessary for the political regulations of a country they regarded as conquered, to make examples of caftle stealers, the ig- nominy of their punishment, soon affix- ed the stain of infamy to the crime, yet even under these circumstances, a high- lander whose cattle had been plundered, and who risked his life Lo recover them, would rather die than inform against the thieves, even when truly such. I make this distinction with regard to professed thieves who, in a bold and desperate manner came down in small numbers from the heights of Lochaber, and the wilds of Glenroy to plunder their own friends and countrymen. , In the very centre of the Grampians, a the mountains mid-way between the east and west sea, rise to their greatest height. ( 47 ) There the rivers, which run in different directions, have their sources ; and there the climate is so wet and stormy, the mountains so lofty and abrupt, and the glens so narrow, gloomy, and cut through with ravines and swelling waters, that one would wonder human beings able to remove should think of residing. There was a set of thieves by profes- sion, however, to whom these dreary and inaccessible fastnesses were a favourite residence. These ¢ minions of the moon” were very little ashamed of their calling, and as little afraid of the laws. The shealings where the cattle of the neigh- bouring districts were grazed in sum- mer, were, in the vicinity of Glenroy and Glenspean, their chosen refuge. The smallest mark of hostility to one of the confederacy, would be punished by mer- ciless plunder of these defenceless herds. There was, therefore, a kind of tacit ‘convention between this horde of esta- i { | i 15 B , 1 De el AT A Bh: " a iu] I Sr on oo oly Tw Nap Net Be NE Ba Tat ae oni a Cr HE SOREN GNI FUE i ¥ SE Ba ay to 5 rr RR RE aa Sar EI I : . Si SEE ee me EE Te et rte (48 ) blished professional thieves and their immediate neighbours. Therefore they brought their plunder from a greater distance, often from Strathspey and the lower end of Badenach. It was the fashion, till within these last thirty years, to arm one’s linne na chris, and pursue those thieves, though they should have taken away only three or four head of cattle : not for the value of that number, but hecause it was ac- counted most disgraceful not to fight for one’s property. Not satisfied with re- sisting these plunderers, it was necessa- ry for supporting a man’s reputation that he should pursue them to their fastness- es, and attack them in their strong holds. This was done, on one occasion, by a fine-spirited highland gentleman, then in the prime of life, allied to the writer of these anecdotes. He and his linne na chris ran for their arms to pursue some of the Glenroy thieves, who were driving i La 23 ag Sue 5 £ i ia o g di LAR Siig a ( 40 ) a few of their cattle. They traced them, entered their gloomy glen, and saw the thieves drive the cattle into some cow-house, where they hoped to conceal or defend them. They entered this building with them, attacked them, 1 met with a furious resistance. oT e gentleman. and his followers fought with equal rage in this darksome den? and he was-so hurried away by the heat and eagerness of the conflict, that it was not till he came out that he missed his left hand, which had been cut off with one stroke of ‘a dirk. Yet I make no doubt that this brave injured man would much rather have lost his other hand; than to have been the means of bringing . these culprits to an ignominious death. Semething was necessary to be done to avoid eontumely, that might attach to one’s family. Agentleman of no small note:in'Strathe Spey, had a'very remarkable animal sto- VOL. II. = 8 CE te a ny ian 5 Ss fo A fis 0 s F 3 E - § EOWA a i a sve SE SE NRRL te AT A APA win A en RR A ‘case no common stimulus. Mungo, ¢ “na chris. He took, however, his Serv: re ( 50 ) len from him. It was a white 0x: a co- lour rare in these northern countries, Mungo was not accounted a man of desperate courage ; but the white ox be- ing a great favourite, there was in this may be supposed, had no numerous with him, and went to the shealing of Drymen, at the foot of Corryarich, where he was credibly informed his white fa- vourite might be found. He saw this conspicuous animal quietly grazing, un- - guarded and alone ; but having thought better of the matter, or supposing the creature looked very happy where he was, he quietly returned without him. Being as deficient in true highland cau- tion as in courage, he very innocently told when he came home, that he had seen his ox, and left it there, The disgrace attending this failure was beyond the power of a lowland heart to conceive. He was, all his life after, called Mungo of the White Ox; and to this day, it is accounted very ill bred to ‘mention an ox of that colour before any x of his descendants. u t justice to the Woche horde iat whoever went unarmed a- them was treated with great kind- ness; and that they dealt their beef to all travellers with the most courteous hospitality. I remember hearing of a circumstance which occurred in the seventeenth cen- tury, in one of those districts, with whose history I am most familiar, which bears strongly upon two points which I have endeavoured to establish: First, That the chiefs were not those despotic tyrants they are represented ; and, se- cond, That fear of shame was the chief principle by which they were governed, and disgrace, consequently, the chief en- gine of punishment. c2 EN sy LC Es GS Se aN IESE Ee a RS Ys a ———ag—— oma ———— ee AE cor on oh - a — o_o Epa ab aS = . cn Sa rama i—20 es ( 52 ) T must not say what clan it is; whe, having been for ages governed by a se- ‘ries of chiefs singularly estimable, and highly beloved, in one instance provoked their leader to the extreme of indignas : tion. ha 2 I should observe, that the sranigren sion was partial, the culprits being the inhabitants of one single parish. These, in a hasty skirmish with a neighbouring clan, thought discretion the best part of valour, and sought safety in retreat. A cruel chief would have inflicted the worst of punishments—banishment from the bounds of his clan, which, indeed, fell little short of the curse of Kehama, for- «cing the fugitives to wander aboet, vain- ly seeking rest, and wishing in vain for death, as a refuge from calamity. This good laird, however, set bounds to his wrath, yet made ‘their punishment severe and exemplary. He appeared himself, with all the population of the ¢ 53) shree adjacent parishes, at the parish church of the offenders, where they were all by order convened. After divine ser- vice, they were all marched three times round the church, in presence of their offended leader and his assembled clan.. Bait individual, on coming out of the church-door, was obliged to draw out his tongue with his fingers, and then cry audibly, ¢ Sheit un blaether heich,”— “ This is the poltroon who fled,” and to repeat it at every corner of the church. After this procession of ignominy, no. other punishment was inflicted, except that of being left to guard the district, when the rest were called out to battle. It is credibly asserted, that no enemy has ever seen the back of one of that name since. And it is certain, that to this day, it is not safe for any person of another name to mention this circum- stance in the presence, of one of the af- fronted clan. ( 54) Having now endeavoured to illustrate, by these details, the position which I had laid down, that poetry, social intimacy, and social pursuits, with generous “ shame,” or the honourable sensibility i to reproach and disgrace, had a grea share in softening the manners, and pre serving the morals of the primitive an continuous race who form the subject of these discussions,—I shall now return once more to the primary object of these essays, which was, the history of high- land superstitions, traced as far as pos- sible up to its first causes; and, as far as is compatible with its obscurity, through its past and remaining effects. When I venture to insinuate, that su- perstition such as theirs, in the twilight of knowledge, and in the almost total absence of co-ercive power and legal re- striction, was a benefit rather than a dis- advantage, I have no doubt of exciting astonishment and displeasure: Many, ee Es perv ON rt ie Soha Rt SL TS Haat en es Rs ( 35) and those very well-intentioned, will be. ready to adopt the words of my motto— «¢ Aud do they only stand by ignorance ? *¢ Is that their happy state ? - Kr . - * y iL « The proof of their obedience and their love ?’ Sar » (1% : MivrToN. This plausible objection, and reflection’ on the manner in which the Author of our existence deals with his creatures; is put into the mouth of the enemy of man- kind ; and what he says of our first pa- rents appliés as closely to those to whom light is but partially revealed, and who ean. only -give proof of their obedience the path allotted to:them, under a per- of the Divinity. . of light; enjoyed by all among us who measure withheld, has little compara- tively to account for. * If his mind is pi- and their - faith by walking: humbly in petual consciousness of the felt presence. . He, from whom ‘thé wide effulgence de not wilfully exclude it; is in a great i aia. i ( 56 ) the doctrines revealed in the word of life have been distinctly traced upon it, —devout, though unregulated feeling, will prompt him, « in the visions of the “ night, when deep sleep falleth upon “ men,” to attribute the glimpses of fe- licity, or visions of terror that visit his slumbers, to seme operation of the all- controuling. Power which he awfully ac- knowledges in every goed that is Le- stowed; and in every evil that is permit- - ted—whose breath he feels propitious in the genial gale, and whese voice he hears terrific in the passing thunder. In this progressive state, when know=- ledge begins to dawn upen the awakening: mind, the cherished illusions that threw a glow-worm light across the gloom of ignorance are not soon or willingly re- linquished : When the clouds begin to. open, and the prospect of that futurity for which the soul feels an instinctive ously turned—if the leading outlines of aise ( 57 ) longing, to clear up, still the heart vib-- rates to the wonted tones, still: hears. the mystic sounds, and sees the misty forms, that first inspired the hely horror that shudders on the confines of the- world unseen. All the native sensibilities of the heart keenly alive, without a forming hand to- give them the proper direction, answer to the undefined breathings that thus call forth its impulses, as the olian harp dees to the passing breeze. From such slight and varying touches, no regular harmo-- ny can result; yet who but feels their thrilling influence ? “ To the pure, all things are pure.” To well-intentioned ignorance, the hum-- ble trust, that. voices are permitted to- warn, and visions to chear them in the- hour of approaching calamity, can scarce be supposed more than a pardonable pre sumption, if we reason from analogy. “Now,. the times of. this: ignorance: cs “ God winked at.” He, whose tender _mercies: are above all his other works, may be presumed to cast an eye of com- passion on creatures disposed to feel af- ter him, if haply they may find him; though, like the prophet Elijah, they should listen for him in the mighty wind, and look for him in the earth- quake, and in the fire, before the “ small “ still voice” is heard, which speaks peace to their hearts. Instead of regarding with illiberal and unchristian disdain those who were ever vigilant, with prayer and ejaculation, af- ter their own manner, to repel evil spi- rits, and constantly trembled least by presumption they should offend Omnipo- tence, it becomes us to think who it was who said, in the infancy of the revela- tion of his will, « He that is not against “ us, is for us.” The cords of love by which unenlight- ened souls are drawn towards the Father (3 of their spirits are to us “Invisible, or dip- « ly seen ;” but of their existence and ope- ration there is no room to doubt. Much is granted to us that was withheld from those who were but in the noviciate of instruction : And how can we be cer- tain that the Fatherly compassion that watches over ‘all, did not indulge them with some privileges withheld from us ? When the day-star arose with healing in his wings, the lights of prophecy were all extinguished among the chosen peo- ple ; and even among worshipped idols, « The oracles were dumb, . ¢¢ No voice or hideous hum We have no encouragement to at- tempt to be wise beyond what is writ- ten: nor. have we any warrant to set limits to .that wonder-working power which confounds the wisdom of the wise, by using the most unlikely means. to: ¢ Ran through the arched roof, with words deceiving.” ( 60 ) bring about the ends he has appointed, and fulfil his gracious purposes. But without undervaluing any of the high privileges we enjoy, or the num- berless: discoveries by which life has been enriched and adorned ; our comforts mul- tiplied;; our taste at once refined and gratified, and our views extended; we may revere the equal dealing of that bounteous hand, that allots to every state peculiar privileges and enjoyments adapted to it. We are not entitled by all our varied acquisitions to despise that state in which the finest emotions of the heart, and the most vigorous and.vivid paintings of the fancy were felt and understood, and where generous sentiments, and regu- lated affections so improved tlie moral sense, that shame was punishment, and praise reward. Their gratifications, like their knowledge, lay within narrower hounds, but: from their seldom occur: ( 61 Y) rence-had: a. more poignant relish. Their dangers, their stratagems, precautions, and exigencies, while they exercised invention, and sharpened sagacity, pre- vented. the monotony of life, which. is the disease. of high eivilization; that disease for which, so many vain fantas- tic remedies are sought, while change of place, the grand remedy, proves often only change of pain. The very terror of visionary forms, and unearthly voices, had to them’ some- thing soothing and elevating: It spoke to them aundibly of an. hereafter; and while it: kept. alive their sorrow for the departed; kept also awake these attach» ments, which: meliorate and dignify the character capable of forming them. Their devotional feelings were so habi- tually blended with these airy imagina-- tions, and in some instances prompted by them, that; on all occcasions faith ap- peared to them: the:great anchor of the (-62') soul, ‘because it was only in" their opi po nion, the most unlimited confidence in’ - the Divine protection, that could evade: the power of permitted agents of evil, or support their souls under the secret hor rors: which the- dread of their visitations produced. ° « To the upright, light shall arise in « darkness;” and-to the sincere and well- intentioned, light is shewn:in a manner of which we can-have no comprehension ; in various: instances -of which we can: only judge by the effects: It is a sooth~ ing reflection, considering how very few: enjoy all the ‘invaluable: advantages of high mental culture, and deep and clear views on subjects -the most important. to- a human being, that others less favoured, are not forsaken of mercy, nor entirely wretched. It must be very pleasing to a benevo~ lent, and very satisfactory to a pious. mind, to find, that the onward path that. ( 63 ) leads to mental improvement and high civilization, is not entirely dark and cheerless. We regard: with pleasure the sports: of infancy, because they belong to that interesting age. We know that the house built of twigs and sticks at the side of the brook, will hot afford warmth or shelter; and we should despise the grown person who should so employ: himself. Yet-the very operation which in an adult, would seem a proof of hope- less imbecility, we should consider as an indication of ingenious activity in a child. As I observed before, all nations have their childhood; and till they arrive at the stage of adolescence, that blended effort of the affections and the imagina- tion, which pursues the shades of the de- parted; or like a prisoned bird, beats with restless impatience the boundaries that confine it, and struggles with instinctive ardour for liberty to range the wilds of ( 64 ) space ; that blind eagerness to know more of the future and. invisible, which. surrenders up the powerful and ardent: mind, to so many weak: illusions in the state under consideration—is no more the subject. of contemptuous ridicule, than these imitative sports of ourchildren, from- which we draw a: pleasing presage of their future capacity. They have not: strength or intelligence to work, yet we. should be sorry to see them in a torpid- and inactive state. We think the bene- fit. they derive from mental and corpo- real exercise, a. full compensation for: some of those errors in opinion, and some of those mischances in action which may be easily repaired, and produce no lasting effects; though parental affection renders it. necessary for us in cases of obstinate continuance in error, or deter- mined disobedience to a known com-- mand, to inflict correction where it may be required. ( 65 ) In the progressive state to which I. allude; imagination becomes in many in. stances the predominant faculty. = This, while it must needs be productive of many delusions, is a spring of energy, perhaps required in a state, where: pro- found reflection, and deep disquisition could be of little use. The tree must: blossom before it can produce fruit; and: an: abundance of blossom is a. happy prognostic of its fertility. The sports of imagination in this dade of progression, are the recreations of the intellect, that exercise its: powers and indicate its approach towards maturity. . One of the most pleasing speculations in which the unhardened and unsophis< ticated mind can indulge, is that of tra- cing the bountiful’ and wise disposition of things, hy which, in every state where intelligenee. is excited, and moral order in any measure preserved, thereis a de< gree of happiness, at least enjoyment; te i ( 66 ) commensurate to the portion of know- ledge acquired, or of mild affections cul-- tivated. This is as equal to the filling up of their capacities for enjoyment, as all that science and refinement can af- ford for ours. I speak of them in their relative state, compared with other sen- tient beings ; further, we are not war-: ranted to explore. We have many sources not of know- ledge only, but of refined enjoyment open to us, that are withheld not: only from many other nations, but from by far the greatest. number of individuals among: ourselves. . Doubtless, many of these in-: dividuals, and even some of these nations benefit in some measure ‘by our discove- ries and attainments; and it is. equally: certain, that now, when we have been enabled te create and supply so many. new wants, we should be very miserable; should these: tastes and appetites con~ tinue, and.the means of their gratifica- : ( 67 ) tion be withheld; yet, the prevailing habit of considering all who are not ar- rived at a high state of culture, as wretch- ed outcasts from the Divine favour, with out intelligence or the capacity for en- joyment, will not, upon examination, be found very wise, or very pious. He who manages a war-horse with grace and agility, is not often found to lament or despise his former self, at the period when he bestrode a stick with: equal self-complacency, and indeed more lively delight. The gallant admiral, who sways the subject seas, and carries the British thunders farther than imagi- nation once dared to wander, still loves, when reposing beneath his laurels, to re- collect the little imitative model which he longed to launch in his father’s pond, and which first waked in his mind the phantom of naval glory. Why then should we collectively de- spise, -and endeavour to degrade, what Sted Ea : = Ee a TEE eee FC (68 ) individually we look back upon with a kind of tender complacence ? The rea- kindness for his former self, and has a. distinct recollection of the delights which. the unpractised mind finds in objects which higher intelligence regards with. contempt or indifference. We can have no collective recollec- tion—we see with illiberal disdain the deficiency of those who are far short of us in the progress. of improvement; but we do not, cannot: feel the peculiar en- Joyments of such a state—the allevia- tions and compensations allotted to them, any more than we can feel the transport of a child’ at finding a bird’s nest, or springing, for the first time, over a brook which had been the wonted houndary of" his excursions. i414 Man is made: to mourn ; but he is also. made to find consolation: He is made. to suffer; but he is also made to enjoy. son is obvious: The individual feels 3 is Co A V JA { 60) To every stage, ‘and to every mode of existence, something is given to make that existence ‘tolerable, and, ‘to a cer- tain degree, desirable. Apathy, the most suitable allotment for his condition, is given to the roaming savage, sunk near- ly to brutality. Those more ‘advanced, find delight in the exertions by which they procure their precarious subsistence, as well as in ‘the ingenious devices by which their ‘ornaments, and a few com- forts, are ‘supplied. That ‘the chace, in which so much of their lives are passed, affords very high enjoyments to minds of a certain cast, is obvious, from the gust with which mo- narchs and ‘nobles, who do net require to kill that they may eat, and ‘to whem every source of refined pleasure is open, return to this primitive amusement. To'those who are become a social and intelligent people, who have sufficient ( 7 ) agriculture to fix them to a home, with all its endearing localities, and sufficient .range of grazing to afford them much of ‘the variety and leisure which belong to the pastoral state ; who have enough re- maining of the chase to preserve the vi- gour, dexterity, and independence of the sylvan life ;—to those who, added to all this, feel the deep consciousness of im- - mortality, the horror of secret guilt, and the excited power of imagination, derived from primitive superstition—the shadow of better things to come :—To such be- ings, I say, life was not that stagnant pool, that melancholy blank, which the pride ‘of science is apt to suppose it. The dews of heaven fall as softly, and ‘the rising sun shines as sweetly, on the sbudding branches of intellect, as on those bending -under the richest fruits of im- provement. The last, no doubt, are more to be valued ; but the contemplation of ( 71) these is not less pleasing to the grateful and intelligent soul, willing to trace and acknowledge the divine beneficence through every stage of progressive exist- erice. ESSAY IX. etl Progress of the Faculties ‘in the infancy of Know- {edge.~Imagination first predominant, and lat terly subdued. — Ravings of Absurdity not the na« tural effervescence of high-wrought Enthusiasm, but of an artificial attempt to dazzle with the Glaring, and astonish with the Marvellous.—- Power of the Ajfections.—~Danger of their evapo- rating in the heated atmosphere of general Socie- 4y.~Danger and difficulty of pouring Light too suddenly on weak and unpractised organs ; and of removing suddenly the aborigine of the Moun= tains to a kind of civic establishment.— Military propensities of the Highlanders.—Self-denial and Home feelings.— Singular fortitude of certain Victims to Principle.—Popularity of a lately de- ceased Chief, &c. ¢¢ But know, that in the soul ¢ Are many lesser faculties, that serve *¢ Reason as chief: among these, Fancy next ¢¢ Her office holds.” I po not mean to infer from all that has been said, that the appearance of spirits actually was permitted in those dark ages: 1 would only suppose, that if those whom the light of revelation had not reached, or those among whom only a faint, im- perfect glimmering of the truth had ap- peared ;—if such, I say, actuated by the powerful enthusiasm I have described, originating in feelings only blameable in their excess, indulged that belief, nothing particularly impious or unscriptural could, under such circumstances, attach to such an opinion. Great allowance seems to have been made for the errors of well-intentioned ignorance in early times. The most remarkable event in the his- tory of the human mind is the commence- ment of the reign of reason, which claims superiority by right of conquest over the combined powers of feeling and imagina- tion, which long and stubbornly resist the despotism of this austere sovereign. When at length their united powers yield to his sole dominion, the conquest VOL. 1I. D EEE on is like that which a small number of well-armed and disciplined troops have so often achieved over numerous and splendid hosts of brave, but untaught barbarians ; where the victor, possessing much less power than the vanquished, derives his success from his superior skill in concentrating and wielding the force of which he is possessed. Yet all power, however achieved, when stretched beyond its due bounds, becomes tyranny ; and all tyranny proves finally as fatal to the oppressor as to the op- pressed. While feeling and imagination continue to be the lawful subjects of rea- son, like other subjects, they are sources of wealth and power to their ruler: but when they become slaves, they are, like other slaves, spiritless and impoverished, without energy or volition—useless or dangerous to their master in all emer- gencies. This revolution, at some time or other, takes place in every mind pos (75) sessed of powers in any degree vigorous. and in any measure cultivated. What happens to individuals also hap- pens to nations ; and it is because we do not ¢“ wink at the times of this igno- < rance,” and gradually and gently en- lighten them, without pouring derision on their notions and manners, that we have so little success in our attempts to enlighten and improve. How many uncivilized nations have either bowed to our yoke, or melted in- to helpless sloth and feebleness, from the influence of our enervating customs and contagious vices ! | Our endeavour to root out their pre- judices, and perhaps salutary habits, be- fore any thing better has been planted in their stead, is one of many reasons why our instructions produce so little effect, even where we are actuated with a sincere desire to do good. Far be it from us to suppose the state I have been describing preferable to, or by any means so desirable as entire civi- lization. It is, however, most desirable, that some rule of life, some system of conduct, and motive of action, should be clearly explained, and fully established, before the dim lights and imperfect no- tions of moral order, without which no society could exist, shall be exploded. It would be most absurd to compare such a state with that of complete improve- ment. I would only truly observe, that in many instances it is not so wretched as the pride of science, and the fastidi- ousness of polished taste suppose it. Since our gardens have been filled with exotics, many wholesome herbs have heen expelled from them ; and since all our faculties have become subject to an elaborate and artificial cultivation, the juxuriance of some wild and vigorous shoots of mental energy have been sub- dued. ( 77) The light which these discussions throw upon the progress of mind raise’ them above the nature of mere idly curious speculation. True it is, and of verity, that mankind cannot be all at once enlightened and polished. One must have known very much of the unitiformed of other countries, and: of the less instructed among ourselves, to know how much, and how little man. can do in the more primitive state of so- ciety :—how far sagacity and habit can carry him, how justly he can feel, how nobly he can imagine, how quickly ap- prehend, and how vigorously act. | But it is equally difficult for us to conceive how difficult it is to lead the mind in this state through any process of abstract reasoning, or even to light it up with one of those many ideas which we have so long and often talked of, that they seem easy and familiar to us. ( 78 ) though in fact few of us have ever in- vestigated them. There is a long and dreary tract to be past over, through wide desarts of in- tellectual barrenness, before any collec- uve body can reach « the green abodes” of enlightened science. Let us pity their tardy and unequal progress. Though the wells that refesh, and the carevan- saries which shelter them on their way be scanty and inadequate, let us not, in the abundance of our philosophical pride fill up the one, or demolish the shar, till we have supplied better resaurces in their stead. | To drop the metaphor, let us not aho- ish the customary powers of ding tion and feeling, however fotdscadie: exerted, till we arbres Tn ablished those: of reason and religion. To come home to our own mountaineers, as they have been in the past ages, and, in some in- stances, still remain, an ignorant. en’ thusiast must suffer great degradation by being sunk into an ignorant sensual- ist. | If we were to reason these ignorant, but well-meaning beings, out of the be- lief of ¢hose voices that echoed back the whispers of conscience, and these dim- seen forms that spoke of immortalitv. 1f we could do this, before their faculties were so improved as to be equal to the reception of abstracted truths, ¢ while: «« they yet saw men as trees walking,” what would be the consequence? They would be robbed: of that grateful and dusky dawn which precedes the rising sun, and left to wander in forlorn dark ness, where they might lose their way, before any one took the trouble to lead them aright. The mistake into which the teachers of civility, and in.some instances, those of religion, have fallen, is a desire of gather-- ing fruits before they are ripe. ( 80 ) If all the pleasing and terrible illusions of the imagination are obliterated before the mind is capable of abstract reason- ing, the interregnum must be a period of anarchy, fatal alike to the advancing and receding powers. I am not sure, that in the highest state of mental cultivation, these original pos- Sessors can or ought to be utterly extir- pated, were that possible. Should some few of the prejudices that imagination loves to cherish in secret as her illegiti- mate offspring, still remain, they will serve to exercise our vigilance in detect- ing, our fortitude in subduing, and our wisdom in ruling them. In deeply speculative philosophy and highly-polished society, very much is gained on the side of intelligence and re- finement, and not a little lost on the side of fancy and feeling. . Reason was made like man to walk ( 81) erect, with firm step and heaven-ward eye towards its appointed destination. It is to imagination warmed and ex- alted by feeling that the power 1s allot- ted of making excursions beyond the « flaming bounds of space and time, and ‘hovering on tremulous. wing Over the unknown abyss. . Tt But, as the well-trained falcon in ite boldest excursions, obeys the call of its master : so, in-a well-regulated mind en- lightened by science,imagination Seno. ledging the authority of Yeaser, or, as it may be more acurately stiled, judgment, submits to it in its wildest flights. The purpose, indeed, for which it exists, seems to be that of gathering from a distance ma- terials to be chosen or rejected by the 8 flecting and comparing faculty. But mn the progress of refinement, the ardour of affection is chilled, and the wings of zr gination clipped. We become too criti- cal -and too correct for fervent attach- 5 ( 82) ments. We can, when we become thus clear-sighted, only love what is highly excellent. That, however, from its very nature is more the object of respect and admiration than familiar fondness. Cultivation, carried to the utmost, has turnished us with a microscope which shews too clearly the smallest blemish, even of those we love. With the aid of this dear-bought optical glass, we ac- quire the same unlucky accuracy of vi- sion, which Gulliver found so adverse to admiration among the beauties of the court of Brobhdignag. To borrow an ex-- pression of simple energy from the most energetic of poets, we cannot ¢ love so “ kindly,” * because we cannot * love so * blindly,” as before we were enlightened. ¥ « Had we never loved so kindly, * Had we never loved so blindly, ¢¢ Never met, or never parted, We had not been broken-hearted.” Burns, ( 83 ) Enthusiasm, the rainbow of a cloudy state, vanishes with the mists which sup-- ported it; and we are scarcely grateful to the diffusive light which robs us of the fair illnsion. Reason, now usurping the power of imagination without either its weakness or its strength, sallies forth on the cobweb wings of ‘metaphysical re- search, into the future and invisible. Dis- daining the aid of the eternal lamp of re- velation, it vacillates between the dim and dreary regions of doubtfal suspense, and the cloud-formed perspective of vain . conjecture. | If we could suppose an individual ad-- vanced from total ignorance to that dawn of intelligence which most cherishes en- thusiasm, could we suppose him from thence to rise in a gradual scale of pro- gression to that self-deluding plenitude of intelligence, which should induce him to refuse all external aid, and rely en- tirely on his own powers for the disco ( 84) very of truth, surely we humble believers are warranted to consider the last state of that man, as worse than the first. We use a common metaphor to ex- press a due exercise of the judgment, and commensurate application of the intellec- tual powers. Such a one has a well-balanced mind. What is a well-balanced mind? Not surely that in which one predominating faculty utterly subdues, and entirely starves the rest. No, it must needs be that in which the controlling power sits paramount, yet leaves sufficient liberty and strength to his kindred subjects to perform the tasks originally assigned to them. The childhood of nations is long, and their advancement to maturity very slow indeed, when left to the common process. Yet man acts with vigour long before he argues with precision ; and when he becomes wise beyond what is written, a mere sophist, his vigour de- ( 85 ) clines. He sees through his metaphysical glasses all things stript of the forms and colours which make them desirable ob- jects of pursuit. He talks indeed of « fate, foreknowledge, and free-will,” but he merely talks as old men grow garri- lous, when they become feeble and sloth- fal. In this state of artificial senillity, to which the mind attains by trusting too much to its own PpOWErS, nothing is so much despised, nay, detested, as the honest and harmless visions of the unenlightened. To those, thus ¢ blast- « ed with excess of light,” ignorance appears so great a defect, or rather crime, that they seem totally unconscious of that portion of celestial fire, tht spark of vital energy which slumbers in many an uncultured breast, and wants but a favouring breeze to blow it hisp flame. Their prejudice against prejudices is so strong, that they will allow no one; to ( 86 ) believe any thing without the evidence . of his senses, but their own assertions. The antipathy with which the over-in- formed regard the under-informed, and the fear tinctured with dislike with whicl R the latter contemplate the former, in its nature and effects most resembles that mutual repulsion which subsists between those who have no claim to distinction, but the single one arising from the pos- session of wealth ; and those whose claims are so many and so manifest, that they attain pre-eminence and consideration without it. Yet among the many witty, and many learned, who regard with su- preme contempt ¢ Those to whom the world unknown ‘“ With all its shadowy shapes is shewn,” some may be found, who can accredit or create very strange voices and appear- ances of their own, when it happens to suit their system: Of these many instan- ( 87 ) ces might be given. The conclusion drawn from the inebriation of self-con- fident knowledge, tends pretty much to the same point with that inferred from the delusions of ignorance. ii of the world unseen, we know nothing but what we are told, and he who does not believe in the only intelligence afforded as must be equally ignorant, though not equally blameless. From all this it ap- pears, that humble trust in the truths re- vealed to us and full confidence in the divine protection is the only coriirive. medy for the delusions of the imagina- cally is no protection. Those who slight or disbelieve revelation have not been exempted from meeting with things supernatural and as incomprehen- sible in their tendency, as the most vul- gar visions of the most ignorant poneant. Witness the younger Lord Lystletons story of the mysterious hunter, or if the ( 88 ) letters ascribed to him, should be given up as apocryphal, still the vision by which his approaching death was announced, remains upon record uncontradicted. Of the general belief which prevailed even in fashionable circles of this last ap- parition, I shall say little, either as to its existence, or its effects; because those who do, or do not believe in revealed re ligion, might be from different motives equally concerned to establish or destroy the evidence of the fact. But there is a most extraordinary claim on our credulity advanced by a co- temporary nobleman whose literary re- putation is better established than that of his orthodoxy, and who indeed mentions every subject of that nature with great levity, when he mentions it at all. In his life of Lord Herbert of Cherbury, the most accomplished unbeliever of his day, he records a testimony against reve- lation of a very singular nature. ( 89 ) It seems this learned and gallant per- son “ by observation, travel, and deep «« thought,” had discovered that the he lief of revelation was merely a proof 0 the credulity of weak well-meaning peo- ple, and far below one who was at once an accomplished chevalier, a nobleman, hilosopher. ; gi yi time, the merit of os ginality, and his opinions were bright in all the gloss of novelty: Yet thinking , probably that opinions pleasing and suit- able to such exalted and informed per- sons as himself, might not be so perfect- ly convenient for the vulgar, ‘who were accustomed to support themselves under hardships and privations with the belief which he had relinquished, his lordship appears to have felt some humane qualms about diminishing the few comforts of "those whose hope is not of this world, by publishing his opinions. He prayed however for direction, what to do in this - ( 90 ) very difficult case: A case which admit- ted of no alternative. Either Lord Cherbury’s sublime dis- covery must have rested with himself, and the applause due to such exalted wisdom and profound knowledge be lost, on a very great number of good well- meaning people, who were going quietly on as they thought in their heaven-ward path, must be plunged in doubt and darkness, and robbed of their best conso- lation. Now, who ever heard of so con- siderate and humane a sceptic as Lord Cherbury. He first hesitated between the gratifying his own vanity, as leader of a sect, and the consequences which might result from it to others, and then actually prayed for direction : Nay, more, he did not pray in vain, for his historian tells us, that a voice was distinctly heard, encouraging, and even authorizing him to proceed. The noble historian of the noble unbeliever relates this calmly, with . ( 91) tittle or no-comment, and does Ao by any means insinuate ridicule. Yet . Wickliffe, or Luther, or even John Knox, who certainly had all abundance of en- thusiasm, and were not sparing of prayer and supplication, if any of these zealous reformers had set up a pretension to having prayed so efficaciously., $he sniey of contempt, and the smile of ridicule, would never have had an end among « Wit’s oracles.” It may be objected against what a formerly advanced of the powers of ima- gination drooping in the atmosphere of metaphysics, that the imagination of these learned sceptics was abundantly ac- tive : But this affords only an additional proof of the propensity we' dll hare to grope in the dark, after the hidden things of futurity, whether light is withheld from us, or whether we close our eyes agalnet it! Whether we find or ple the darkness that surrounds us, still the (92) appetite for the wonderful and invisible continues, and still, if we have not attain- ed, or have rejected the intelligence given to gratify this craving appetite of the soul, we walk in a vain shadow, and disquiet ourselves in vain, with wild illu- sions or fruitless enquiries. The native operations of fancy are checked by the rigid sovereignty of rea- son in its approaches to supremacy. But when speculation wanders without com- pass or pilot on a voyage of discovery in the world of intellect, it is apt to ar- rive at that region first discovered by the arch-fiend, ¢ Where nature breeds * Per verse, all monstrous, all prodigious things.” Besides this wonder-working power of. perverted imagination, when natural en- thusiasm has beeri long extinguished, there is an exaggerated imitation, or ra- ther caricature of it, by which poets and { 98 ) orators endeavour to supply the defects of genius, and the want of judgment. Nothing however can less resemble real enthusiasm, than this tawdry and inflated substitute. There is a certain degree of simplicity essential to real en- thusiasm without which it cannot exist. Any one who sees things as they really are, is no enthusiast. It is the very na- ture of enthusiasm to throw .its own bright hues on the object it contemplates, to exalt their properties, and enlarge their dimensions. But enthusiasm nei- ther distorts -nor is conscious of magni- fying. Ever willingly deceived, yet never wil- lingly deceiving, its creations, evanescent as dreams, still bear proportion and re- semblance to these realities which sug- gested them. There is nothing so revolting. to good taste, as affected or artificial enthusiasm, unless indeed it be studied attempts at ST Tee A Be ( 94 ) humour, or rather the imitation of what is in its very nature inimitable. Who does not loath imitations of Ossian, or imita- tions of Sterne ? Though such should be * passing fair” of their kind, they only serve to remind us “ who passed that passing fair.” We do not look with much complacence on a painted rainbow, nor can we suppose an attempt at representing the aurora bo- realis, could be attended with much suc- cess. The real poet, in the most advanced state of society, unless his mind is cor- rupted by bad taste and the affectation of singularity, is still an enthusiast. How then does this highly gifted being escape to the chilling contagion of the world, and preserve this charm of existence in its pristine freshness, in spite of the blasting influence of courts, colleges, and cotteries, not to mention all the public walks of men ? ‘True genius is modest, careless, and simple. The man of genius lives In a world of his own, inhabited by the fair creation of his fancy. Nature is the object of his silent ado- rations. She is the Egeria whom he seeks in the shades of privacy—whose counsels direct, and whose smiles delight him. She is the protecting goddess, whose maternal care provides her offspring with an invulnerable shield, rich in a thousand sculptured forms of grace and beauty. To speak without a metaphor, it is the simplicity of his character, and his high delight in natural feelings and na- tural objects—the privacy and silence in which he indulges his pursuits, and his total indifference, both to the glare and bustle of life, and the labour of abstruse speculation, that preserve that enthu$i- asm which only co-exists with simpli city. ( 9 ) Imagination, long deposed from its o- riginal station in the mind, can no doubt be awakened, and pressed into the ser- vice of talent ; but then it is merely for the purpose of gilding and making arti- ficial flowers, thrown together in profu- sion, without freshness or fragrance,—a heap of glaring and elaborate ornaments, which soon fatigue the eye, and never gratify the unsophisticated taste. The full lustre of the meridian sun scarce recompences us-for the glittering dew-drops, that gave: to every tree fresh beauty, and fragrance to every plant and flower, when his first beams broke through the grey veil of early dawn. Thus we look back to the primitive poetry of early days with a complacency not easily accounted for, otherwise than from the light of enthusiasm, with which its imperfect form was invested. Except in the case of legendary tales, which it was the duty of bards to recite, and the { 0% ) pride of chieftains to preserve, no poetry could be transmitted down among an il literate people, but that which contained within itself this vivifying principle. Much indifferent poetry must needs be born, where every one sung whatever grieved, delighted, or astonished him, without having the fear of criticism before his eyes. But the feebler offspring of the mind was not, as with us, cherished with peculiar fondness by the parent, but left to perish in infancy, like the other deformed and puny children of sa- vages. 70 Hence there is a tone of peculiar vi- gour and animation in what remains of ~ the ancient Gaelic poetry, calculated to nourish that enthusiasm, from which its existence was derived. There was also a kind of touching, though shadowy so- lemnity, which added to its power. This was originally derived from the superstitions so dear to the untutered VOL. II E ( 98 ) fancy, and greatly heightened by the deep impression of immortality, sensibly eonveyed to the mind by the imagined return of the departed, “ whose song « was of other worlds.” The lofty visions that shew man im- perishable, and still connected by links of tender recollection with those once loved or esteemed, have in them some- thing, not only interesting, but aggran- dizing. Where the mind was deeply, though not clearly impressed with the sense of immortality, every thing connected with a being that ceased nat to-exist, assumed importance. The image once dear and pleasing, be- came awful and impressive, when it was supposed, from the passing cloud or ra- pid whirlwind, to look with kindness on those who mourned its departure. To those, then, who had no deep-felt apprehension of futurity, the path of the ( 99 ) departed was but as that of a meteor, hurrying past with transient brightness. With the fond enthusiast, who listen- ed for the whispers of the passing spirit, and caught short glimpses of the dim- seen form, -it was far otherwise. They thought of the sacred dead as we do of a benignant planet, which, though be- yond our reach, still sheds: sweet influ- ence over us. bet One general result of the solemn re- veries thus suggested, was, a familiarity with death, of which we can scarce form an idea. We avoid speaking of the dead, to save our feelings. They speak of them intimately, to indulge theirs. | We consider it as shocking, coarse, and unfeeling, to speak to any one of his own death, or anticipate what shall be done, when that which necessarily hap- pens to all men happens to him. On the contrary, the highlanders, to this E 2 (¢ 100 ) day, speak very frequently and familiar- ly of their own death, and that of their friends. When I say fomiliarly, 1 do not mean to imply levity or carelessness. They speak with solemnity, but not with horror. It does not ‘seem to awaken gloomy images with them, but those of a calm and chastened awe. Indeed, in some instances, they speak of it cheerfully, yet usually avoiding the exact term by which death is denoted in their language. It is always shadow- ed out under the terms of repose, con- clusion, finishing, or some more circum- locutory mode of expression. But this belongs not to a wish to avoid the men- tion of death, but to the figurative form of speech commen to all primitive Jan- guages, and almost invariably used in poetry in every language. A highlander, in every other instance singulary cavtious of grating your feel. ings, or ‘alarming your fears, will very ¢ tor ) gravely ask you where you mean to be buried ; or whether you would not prefer such a place of abode, as being nearer the cementery of your ancestors. This familiarity, as far as it is regard-- ed merely as the mode in which sentient beings pass. from one: form of existence: to another, is the result, partly of their rooted superstitions, and, in some mea- sure, of their peculiarly warm afiections.. They have been so habituated to be-- lieve, that no ties are broken by death, except that which holds together the undying spirit, and. its perishing asscci- ate, that they feel the continued Xiste ence, not merely as an article of pious faith, or rational belief, but with that sensible conviction with which we think of the moon and stars, meteors and clouds, which, though out of our reach, are yet obvious to our senses. That strong affection, and ‘detach- ment from the hurrying varieties of the. ( 102 ) busy world, led them to dwell with unwearied minuteness on all the say- ings and actions of the departed, as we do on those of people that we nei- ther love nor esteem, merely because they are bustling on the stage of life, or conspicuous in the ranks of fashion. Thus preserved by the ardent spirit of fond attachment, every thing that re- lates to the departed, instead of sinking into sudden oblivion, derives importance, and is in a manner hallowed to memory by their departure. There, every man in the least distin- guished for eloquence or ability, had his Boswells and his Thrules, who here trea- sured up his sentences, and, without the stimulus of vanity, transmitted his cha- racter whole and entire, only softened by the lenient hand of friendship. They. do not feel death entirely as “ a wrench from all we love—from all “ we are; conscious as they are, that ( 108 ) they will continue to live in the songs, the conversation, the dreams and medi- tions of all whom they loved on earth. This seer:ingly close alliance belween the living and the dead certainly cannot * disarm futurity of its terrors to a guity conscience ; but physical terrors—the mere sinking and shuddering of the mind at death, considered as the priva- tion of life, and final separation from aii that made life desirable. . This deep and sensible feeling of im- mortality—this intimate link by which imagination connected the dead with the living, accounts for the calmness with: which a peculiarly sensitive and affec- tionate people speak of their own death, and that of those dearest to.them while here. It is this untamed, nay, exalted power of imagination, that so often. summons. the departed to visit their slumbers, “to . % {( 104 ) - « speak of other worlds,” and to advise and comfort them, No people mourn more deeply over the temporary separation, as they appre- hend it to be; but then the fond and constant dwelling on the worth, the ta- lents, the words, and even the looks of the deceased, mingles, in time, “ the joy “ of grief” with the sorrow, which is re- lieved by communication. Here the mourning muse will always « fit audience find,” and those not few : the whole clan, listening with eager in- terest to the most minute anecdotes, and holding sacred all the memorabilia that. grief and affection have preserved. A man, well known to the writer of these pages, was remarkable for his fi- lial affection, even among the sons and. daughters of the mountains, so distin- guished for that branch of piety. His mother being a widow, and hav- ing a numerous family, who had all mar- ( 105 ) ried very early, he continued to live sin- gle, that he might the more sedulously attend to her comfort, and watched over her declining years with the tenderest care. = On her birth-day, he always collected his brothers and sisters, and all their fa- - milies, to a sort of kindly feast, and, ix" conclusion, gave a. toast, not easy to translate from this emphatic language without circumlocution : .« An #asy and “ decorous departure to my mother,” comes nearest it. . : This toast, which would : shake the. nerves of fashionable delicacy, was re- - ceived with great applause : the old wo- - man remarking, that God had always been good to her, and she hoped she. should die as decently as she had lived ; for it is here thought of the utmost con- - sequence to die decently. . The ritual of decorous departure, and of behaviour to be observed by the friends : 5. EE ee —— ie ovis folly doll Ai =~ id TE FE Bec ee i eT ri, A == Sad ( 106 -) of the dying, on that solemn occasion be- being fully established, nothing is more common than to take a solemn leave of old people, as if they were going on a journey, and pretty much in the same terms. ; ] People frequently send conditional messages to the departed : « If you are “ permitted, tell my dear brother, that LB | have merely endured the world since « he lek it; and that I have been very « kind to every creature he used to che- « yish, for his sake.” I have, indeed, heard a person of a very enlightened mind seriously give a message to an aged person, to deliver to a child he had lost not long before, which she as seriously promised to deliver, with the wonted salvo, if she was permitted. There is another very singular effect of the highland prejudice, or the custom of retaining the attachment to the de- (+ 107 ) parted, and sensible consciousness, as it- were, of their continued existence. We all know how .often the page of- history is darkened with the crimes of- ambitious guardians, who have pillaged, and otherwise injured minor princes, un-- able to resist the temptation which the temporary possession of power and wealth afforded. The annals of private life, among the: most civilized people, are also often stain- ed with instances of this bad propensity in human nature. . So prevalent has it. ever been found, that it has often been: thought. unsafe to trust the care of.a minor entirely to that relation, who, in: case of his death, would inherit his pro- perty. To cite instances from history would be endless. . But the pictures of life: which the stage exhibits, and which no- vels often represent with equal vivacity and fidelity, may very well be depended. PRIA, Ss er pS ( 108 ) on, in many respects; for though they are often accused of leading opinion, and, consequently, influencing action, they, in fact, rather follow it. It is the time which gives them its form and pressure. Whatever changing hues the manners exhibit, are to be found in these mirrors ; heightened and exaggerated, perhaps, but still preserv ing a resemblance to the archetype. How often is the false guardian, the cruel uncle, or the crafty and designing relation, the principal hinge on which the story turns! From the Babes of the Wood, up to the usurping Richard, the ambitious Lancaster, and, nearer home, the despo- tie Duke of Albany, and the tyrannical regency of the Earl of Angus,—treach- -ery, cruelty, ambition, and avarice, vary their forms indefinitely ; but still appear to take the most dangerous shape, to tempt him whom every tie of blood, of ( 109 ) honour, and of consciénce, should most devote to the service of the monarch or the minor. Not so the legends or better authen- ticated histories of the clans. Of the treachery of a relation, I remember only one recorded instance ; and that was not the bleach of a trust of this nature. It was the rebellion of a turbulent and fe- rocious younger brother, in times of general disturbance, and in a country where, for a time, habits of piracy and = pillage had prevailed, to such a degree as to deaden the sense of morality. Among a warlike people, often drawn out as partizans, and often engaged in petty hostilities, occasioned by family feuds, minorities must have been fre- quent. The chief was always the lea- der, and often the victim of these pre- datory wars ; but this circumstance nei- ther prejudiced the estate, nor kept hack the education of the heir. ( 110 ) Unspotted with any instance of fraud or avarice in a guardian, the records of the highlands are brightened by the no- blest instances of fidelity, courage, and . conduct in the captains of clans; for so the nearest relation, who, in age or disa- bility, represented the chief, was called. The conduct of the. Tuit-fhears, or guardian-uncles of the minor chiefs, is matter of eulogium in the poetry and history of every clan. The most re- nowned heroes and sages of the songs and legends of antiquity, have been Tuit- fhears. And in the later times, about the beginning of the last century, the Tuit-fhear of Appin, Captain Clan-Dhom- noul, or the eaptain of the Macdonalds, with the respective Tuit-fhears of Appin and Glengary, were sung and celebrated for their valour, justice, and temperance, in the administration of the trust repos- ed in them. For care and fidelity to- wards their wards, they were not prais- ( 111 ) ed, because it was not thought possible they should be otherwise than affection- a charge. eh a Wi so little instruce- ed, to whom such small matters derived consequence from their poverty, and ig- norance of the world at large—how should they resist temptations so preva- lent among others, if there were not something peculiar in their mode of thinking, that tended to disarm ambi- tion and avarice of their wonted power over the human mind ? ) The operation of principle varies, ac- cording to the degree of strength or pu- rity in the mind it influences, ar the de- gree of light and instruction it has re- ceived. But the operation of early ha- bit, and deep-rooted prejudice, 1s uni form : to that, the valiant and the fear ful, the weak and the strong, In various, degrees, must submit. | : Macbeth conquers the « compunctious (. 112 ): 6c S 0.00, 9. . visitings™ of his nature, sets hereafter at a distance, and wears with a fair sem- blance his borrowed royalty ; but a sight of the blood-boltered Banquo at once unmans him : before this spectre, his courage ‘melts, his sinews relax, and all the horrors of guilt rise visibly before him. What this ghastly spectre was to Macbeth; the ‘anticipation of such a sj. tuation was to these faithful guardians. Had they once admitted a transient suggestion of the possibility of their committing a crime of this nature, the shades of their forefathers would fave. arisen in dread array to their terrified imagination, to forbid or avenge the deed. He who walks in darkness, walks in - fear, and continually apprehends stum- bling ‘or striking against some unseen - obstacle. : In this dusky state of intellect, the - ‘limits that divide the materia] werld ( 118 ) from that which is to be hercafter re- vealed, are not distinctly defined. A man conscious of a secret crime, fears meeting the invisible witnesses of if, with the same distinct and sensitive ter- ror that a feeble nervous person feels at striking against chairs and tables in the dark. The sacredness of orphan innocence, and the fidelity to all trust, over which: the dead were supposed to watch with jealous vigilance, had a sensible and powerful effect in the cases already men- tioned. So far from the petty regency of a clan being a period of assumption and ‘encroachment, one always finds, in tra- cing back the history of a tribe, that its greatest achievements, both in point of fame and property, took place during long minorities. The Tuit-fhear, or captain of the clan, had been, accustomed to live upon a 4 3 &3 | 2 at 1 7 Et Hy fg. 2 oy 4 HR La * ] He ES A rs ART BB orl I ED Dungy by ( 114 ) younger brother’s slender allotment. The moment this charge devolved upon him, he considered himself as having the eyes of the whole world upon him ; for clans to him were nations. In the field of battle, and on public grand occasions, he represented the chief, in all the consequence of autho, rity, and all the show of dress and ar- mour. But in his private life, it was very different. The chief always affected a certain state, supported. by liberal hospi- tality, and a kind of rude magnificence, in the numerous retainers, bards, senna- chies, &c. This frequently impoverished the fa- mily ; but for this evil a long minority was an infallible cure. The affectation of splendour and libe- rality, to which the chieftain owed much of his consequence and influence, would not have been endured in the Tuit-fhear. ( 115) When he took the charge of his ne- phew’s affairs, he was considered as hav- ing taken vows of voluntary poverty : like the monks of certain orders, he liv- ed parsimoniously ; and, instead of pro- fiting by his office, his own affairs were neglected, from his entire self-devotion to those of his charge. Nay, there have been instances of men, who never were suspected of pos- sessing talents, either for war or the conduct of affairs, who, from pure sin- gleness of mind, and the entire devotion of the faculties to one object, have shone out with peculiar lustre, when called to this arduous trial of integrity and abili- ties. Of such importante is it to walk in fear of the public eye, and have the mind enlarged by high notions of public good, and the hope of just applause. Before we dismiss this subject, it is worth while to remark, how the old and most true adage of honesty being the = a es —— Aged : sr es ( 116 ) ; ¢ 117 ) best policy, was verified by the result of this customary fidelity; for the Tuit- fhears devoted themselves, with self-de-. a ——— A ——— nso pt apt i on » and keeping alive that intimate connec- tion between the head of the family and his remotest kinsmen, which so long “i Rares gh pL in Bm Se Se tee ERR owl mL Ren 8 a a nying frugality, to the care of the estate, and all that concerned their young kins- man. The gratitude and generosity of the heir, when master of his fortune, and his conduct, does as much honour to the annals of those little nations as the fide- lity so rewarded. From the state of society, the fre- quent wars, to which the clans are call- ed in aid as allies, and the long-continu- ed feuds among themselves, in which: the chief was foremost in every danger, those minorities were of very frequent - occurrence. It- may safely be presumed, that this. constant reciprocation of fidelity and at- tachment between the guardian and the guarded, had a great general effect in strengthening the ties of relationship, preserved that patriarchal mode of life among those people, when every vestige of it had disappeared among their bet- ter instructed neighbours. It is not to be inferred from what has been said of certain mental graces, cul- tivated by the long-descended and wide- spread taste for poetry, and certain so- cial virtues, cherished by the pride and love of ancestry, and the prevailing re- verence for the conjugal relation, that I would have my Celte regarded as models of perfection. On the contrary, in a collective capacity, they were often vindictive and ferocious. In the latter ages, like all other north- ern people previous to the era of refine- ment, they were apt to drink to excess: not, indeed, habitually, but at feasts and meetings ; and intoxication was with ( 118 ) them productive of its usual consequen- ces,~—licentious conduct, quarrels, and sometimes bloodshed. Yet during this baechanalian disguise, certain ideas of decorum and manly firmness did not forsake them. They sat very long, and talked much : there was a considerable interval of gay enthusiasm, before they rose in their wrath ; and, by some strange perversion of opinion, though it was not considered as any great reflection for a man to rise in frantic rage, and strike down his fel- low ; yet if he drank till he could not stand firm, or speak plain, he was utter- ly disgraced. ra Drink was tolerated, as increasing strength of mind, eloquence, and gaiety ; and its excesses were tolerated, in con- sideration of those happy results : but if a man drank till he became feeble and stupid, he was considered as exposing the weakness of his mind and body. ( 119 ) A man was proud of drinking a great deal, without stuttering or sickening ; but beyond that point all was contempt and disgrace. . The quantity of their country spirits which they could drink, and the time they sat together, was really beyond be- lief. That their health was not materially affected by these occasional excesses, was owing to two circumstances. Hirst, That they were not frequent. They live very temperately in the intermedi- ate intervals; and then their custom, after such an indulgence, to lie in bed a day or two, living on water-gruel, which they drink in great quantities, to cool the fever of inebriation. After this ab- stinence, they rise seemingly free from every consequence of intemperance. Enough has been said already, to e- vince their unsettled notions with re- gard to property, as far as the cattle of = 8 a ORIGINAL DEFECTIVE enemies were concerned; and of many individuals, with regard to all but their own kindred and immediate neighbours. When a man became. the head of a family, he assumed ,a new character; but excess and undue:licence were there to be found among the young and impe- tuous, as inwother countries, though not carried to so great a length, nor attend- ed with such fatal consequences. Their spreaths can hardly be classed under the head of ordinary. theft; yet it was a proof of a very confused and imperfect notion of morality, in this re- spect, that such inroads should be made on peaceable neighbours, when no actual hostility existed. _, What was diminished of the PO excited by the depredation, by a certain air of daring gallantry, was, on the o- ther side, aggravated by the fury and bloodshed which the exasperations oceq: stoned. As Yor the lesser thefts of the prefes- sional “thieves, whom I formerly men- tioned, they do not impeach the integri- ty of a whole people. Their existence as a'fraternity is much owing to a kind of false humanity, which leaves thent un- punished. They arey orwere at Yeast, embodied, while ‘our ‘dishonesty is disseminated through all the different branches of society, ‘and assumes so many forms, that we mevéf can be aware of its ap- proach, in time to prevent its effects. It may besasked, Why are not the su- perior and well-educated members of a society so enthusiastic ? so governed by high-toned feeling’; and inheriting such ‘generous sentiments? Why are not they ‘fore delicate, more spirited, more refined, in short, than ‘others, when 3 superstra¢ture of information and at- tainment is raised upon this founda- tion ? VoL. II. 3) ORIGINAL DEFECTIVE It is melancholy to” tracesthe transi- tion, especially if it befa sndden one, from the primitive state: of: theseupos- sessed of good notions and good feelings, when the system of life is entirely chan- ged by the introduction of new customs, manners, and opinions. eal ee All winged insects, before: diy Jive their first habitation, to’ rise with buoy- ant powers, and sport im gir, havea state helpless torporito passthrough: Those whose mode of lifes has been much regulated bya kind of instinctive sagacity, ‘readily “accommodating - itself to all exigencies,—to whem the vencra- ted customs of their. ancestors were.as laws, and whose feelings were very much under the influence of their imagination, and only restrained bysfixed habits of patience and fortitude :—When people of this description, whose pride is equal to their ignoranee, amd, indeed, greatly owing to it, and who have obstinate pre- ( 123 ) judices . lurking ‘under all ‘their new at- tainments : «When such, I say, are sud- denly illuminated; or.at least brought to imagine'they are so; we expect too much, forgetting by what very gradual degrees ‘our own acquisitions.have come on. We expect them, in half a life-time, to pass from their old habits,” and acquire all to whiclissuecessive generations, by slow and silent progress, have attained. I shall.havesrecourse to a very fami- liar. illustration.— The sperson who first thought. of drawing wool‘ftom a distaff, to make these threads which were after- wards to’ form. the clothing of our ances- tors, must have been most Justly regard- ed as a prodigy of Saed Ra en EE FE Gt iE go =: Ee asm kindlesgrhe ‘who: would have beer the occasional poet. and musician: of his hamlet, and would have sought no highs er distinetion than the praise ofthis kins= men, languishes; deprived of that gratifi- cation: The sad-amnd sordid realities of life press hard upon him, mo-Jenger relieved by musical delight, or: transient gleams of .. visionary. "bliss. He no. ‘longer. sees any ghosts .butsthose of: departed enjoy ments she ‘hears.mo- voiges. but thie rude: ageentsy of 1 scorn sand. ‘contumely,. re~ proaching his. Baaowls -attempts to-do, for -the first ime, avhat- ‘others performy with all the ease of long habit: tains . Return: is “imdpossible : + Every spot is oceupicds by peasants that cannot, and shepherds thatgwillimot, amake room for him. - He wanders, Tike {adiscontented shade, along the dividing stream 3 but dees not long vainly search for the cup of oblivion : He finds it, filled with his native ‘eordial mquaivits ibut Fequiring renewal se often; that the wemedy be- comes of iitself a.disease iv Ei ‘From * forgetting his: carzs: wand. his country, heigoes om to forget: Himself: The highlands have: lost; tand- theilow- lands have not-found Hin: If dny thing recovers him’ from his hopeless apathy, it must be the * spirit-stirfing fife; or the martial-pipe of lis ancestors; cdlling him: to: thie field honourable: strife = «& “Here; if at alk thedrighlander résumés. the: energy of” his “Character: ‘andvfinds- room: toi display’ ‘onee ' more the'.viftues- of ‘habit afd “of sentiment; Afor'here he is generalynssocidted: with" Beings like himself. +Here“his enthusiasm finds an object: hisionourable feelings, his love of distinction, histeontenipt. for’ danger, and, what'is of: equal importance in the military life, his calm fortitude, stern hardihood, and patient endurance, all find scope for exercise. Here, too, min- gled with his countrymen, he tells and’ hears the tales of other times,~beguiles the weary watch of ht with the songs that echoed through the. balls of ‘his. chief,~~or repeats, on the toilsome march, the love-ditty inspired by. the: maiden that first charmed him with ‘the smile of beauty, and , the voice of Nod ia his : native glen: These redoliéetions. hd associations preserve, in’ pristine vigour, the fairest x trait im the: ‘highland character.’ Sogial and convivial as Donald’ inclinations are, when others join the mirthful band, : and share tlie cup of festivity, he retires. to his barrack er his tent, and adds the hard-saved | sixpence to’ ‘the Tittle heard" ; “which ‘the pa promises to remit. home, to pay. his father's arrear of rent, or purchase ; a cow to his widowed ‘mo- ther. Poor Donald is no mechanic : he can- not, like other soldiers, work at a trade. | ORIGINAL DEFECTIVE | ¢ 137 when in n quarters : Yet, day - after day, with unwearie perseverance, ‘he mounts guard for those whe have this resource, to add.a little to this fund, sacred | to the dearest charities of Tife—the best feel- ings of humanity. This. sobriety pre- serves alive the first impressions of prin- ciple,—~the rectitude, the humble piety, and habitual, self-danial, to “which. a camp life, or ‘the nnsettled wanderings that belong, to it, are so averse. | There are instances, of very Tate oc- currence, pot of individuals only, but 18. of whole regiments of highlanders, exer cising “this generous self-denial, {o remit money ‘to. ‘their poor: relations at | home, to an. extent that would stagger credy- oie 2 lity, were it pasticulariged, ¥ > WE to which I “allude, finding LA sums re- mitted through their hands, and seeing their men constantly either on guard or at bard labour, began to fear that they ( 188 were living too low to: support such per- petual exertion. - Every day they visit- cd the barracks; to be:assured that their men madesiseiof a proportion of animal food. © They’ were first deceived by sce- ing pots ony with meat boiling in them, as they thought ;. but, on a nearer in- spection, found, that.in many of them, a great stalk of what we in. Scotland call kail, was-the only article contained in them. Fhey brought long sticks with them afterwards, and sounded the pots, to make sure. This was, Hidoed, 3 ® 8 #3 ¢ Spare. fast, whieh, ox with gods doth dict” ‘ wt Cuppy ey AN WSS I should rather Hive kept this.quota- tion to grace: another anstance “of still nobler. self-denial; which ought to be re- corded in a more durable manner than this perishing page will admit of: + A highland regiment, commanded, I think, at the time, by General Macleod, were; during the wars with 'Lippoo Saib;. ( 139 ) engaged invan unfortunate rencontre, where jabovei200. of them fell«into the hands of that remorseless tyrants They were treated with the most-eruel indig- nity, and fed, upon avery, sparing’ ‘poi- tion- of unwholesome rice,. whichiopera- ted as a. slow poisen ;. assisted, by -the burning heat of.the sun by day, and the unwholesome dews. of night; to which they were purposely exposed, to busi their constamey.” «yu wo Daily: some of their companions drop- ped before their eyes, and daily they vere. offered liberty and plenty, in ex- change for this lingering torture, on con- dition of relinquishing their. religion, and taking the turban: yet not-one: could be prevailed uponito purchase life-on these terms. BL onuidam’ 48 Til. These: highlagders were Sromithe il and entirely illiterate. Scarce one of themweould have told the name of any particular sect of Christians ; and all the " ORIGINAL DEFECTIVE | EE ERE TER wis ( 140 ) idea they had of the Mahometan reli- gion, was, that it was adverse to their own ; and that, adopting it,. they should renounce Him who had died that they might Tive,’ and who loved them, and: could support them under all sufferings. The great outlines of their religion,— the peculiar tenets which distinguish it from every other,—were early and deep- ly impressed on their minds, and proved sufficient in the hour of trial.— ¢« Rise, muses, rise ! add all your tuneful breath : ss These must not sleep in darkness.and in death.” Nor shall they: Saints and angels will bear witness to their humble triumph, when the trophies of the proud, and the monuments of the great, shall have moul- dered into dust, or been swept away in the wreck of nature. The self-devoted band at Thermopylae have had their fame : they expected, and they deserved it. These did. not even Sh me tml ot i { 141 ) aspire to such distinction : far from their native land, without even the ‘hope of having their graves beheld by the eyes of mournful regtet, ft They passed away “ unseen, like the flower i in the desert, « when its head is heavy with the dews “ of night, and the sun arises in his “ strength, to scatter its leaves on the “ gale.” The: voice of applause, —the hope of future fame,—the sympathy. of friend- ship,~—all that the heart leans to.in the last extremity,~~was withheld from these victims of principle. It was not theirs to meet “death in the field of honour, while the mind, wrought up to fervid eagerness, went forth in search of him, They saw his slow approach ; and, tho’ sunk into languid debility, such as quenches the fire of mere temperament, they never once hesitated at the alter- native set before them. Their fortitude’ should at least be applauded, though EE a RR RE REE PEE LT “EF 7 Fy ’ i ) » their faith, and ‘the hope that supported them, weré not taken into account.® This. well-known, «though neglected instance of: what may be expected from being’s accustomed from “the cradle to self-command and self-denial, affords an additional ‘proof’ of the ‘importance of preserving, ‘unmixed and undebased, a race so fit to encounter those perils and labours, ¢avorse “than death, which the defence of our “wide-extended empire demands. 7 ns The highlands is, in‘fact, only calcu- lated for the purpose of that mixed pas- toral. and ‘agricultural - life which ‘suits * There are still a few living witnesses of the final tri- umpkh of this band of brothers. One, a brave general, since ‘honourably distinguished, lived twenty months in that ve- nal captivity 3 and, with a few companions, survived it, as was supposed, in consequence of being fed, instead of the damaged rice which proved fatal to the rest, with @ small pitranee ‘of seed, Such as birdsare usually fed with, cailcd grain by the natives. rT ——— - . -— ptt Em ——— ge BR LR ol ag = ¥ 3 ¢ ™ ( 148 ) the climate and habits of the people, and qualifies them, above all others, to fight the battles of - their country, when called forth to such exertions, «.- Those that feel a slight ‘degree of compunction: at. hanishing * them from their native hills’ and wonted occupa- tions, need never Lay the flattering ““ unction to their souls,” that they shall Dreserve the character, the energies, and the peculiar spirit of this distinct people, by building villages, and filling them with looms, and tools, &c. Nature never: meant Donald for a manufacturer: bornsto cultivate or de- fend his native soil, he droops and de- generates in any mechanical calling. He feels it as losing his east; and when he begins to be a weaver, he ceases to Le a highlander. Fixing a mountaineer o: 3 loca, too much resembles yoking a dcer in a plongh, and will not in the end suit much better. ORIGINAL DEFECTIVE | ——— - i RE rm ED — a ms : oe i 0 ) 1 TH a — . ( 144 ) Surely man does not live by manufac. turing alone; and there are thousands, and ten thousands, better qualified to weave, and less fitted for the endurance which is of more consequence in a dis- tant or protracted war than even per- sonal courage. There are a hundred that sink under fatigue, or murmur un- der privation, for one that actually re- coils in the day of battle: and that sol- dier who spends every spare hour in learning to write, that he may convey information of his welfare to his friends, or attain to the honourable distinetion of a halberts—he, too, who lays by every spare penny, to help his poor relations, or to enable him to return to them,—is more likely to be faithful and steady in the discharge of his duties, than he who, carrying the low-minded ideas and dis- sipated habits of the mob of manufac turers into the army, drowns in liquor every recollection of the cheerless past. TE — ¥ wv RR I aE Tg a Tg x Ta TT ey CIR RR nn RE TR TAR EYE. era fi dil IR i dao i ee ee sa ( 145 ) and every’ anticipation of the hopeless future. A sort of inverted benevolence seems to pervade every plan for the improve- ment of the highlands, with the excep tion of that truly generous and Judicious one lately suggested, of teaching the na- tives to read the Scriptures in their own language. This, indeed, is bringing the treasures -of life home to them, without. sending them to the mines to dig for it. But every other scheme that has been suggested for the amelioration of their condition, has the ultimate conse. quence of extinguishing their high-toned enthusiasm, degrading their character, and effacing all the peculiar habits that enable so very many to exist in so small bounds, and, moreover, to live on less than we could imagine : this, too, with- out shewing any traces of the subdued spirit, the squalid and sordid appearance, or the gross depravity which extreme VOL. 13 G RIGINAL DEFECTIVE | { 146 ) poverty never fails to produce, where numbers herd together in other coun- tries, without any mode of comfortable subsistence. It is impossible to see poverty wear a more mild and gracious form than in the little social highland hamlets: on the other hand, it nowhere appears more abject and disgusting than in a highland village ; to which manifold causes contri- bute. In the first place, These villages are necessarily inhabited by tradesmen. Time may, and will, perhaps, too soon for their happiness, wear off their national preju- dice against this mode of life; but, at present, a tradesman feels himself below a cultivator ; and nothing sinks the cha- racter, or damps emulation, more than a felt and irremediable inferiority. The cultivator has always before his eyes the care of his cattle, which here requires incessant vigilance and fore- ( 147 ) thought. His mind is occupied, above all things, the whole year round, with the means of providing his rent. This, to him, is of the last importance. If his resources fail, he is driven out from the Eden of his imagination,—from the spot to which his affections must ever tena- ciously adhere,—~the home of his infan- cy,—the dwelling of his forefathers. He must leave the spot where every cairn,—every little vestige of a decayed cottage,—and every larger stone, that marks the divided ridges,—tells some story of the past. He must leave it, to shelter in the detested village, or wan- der, an outcast, in the land of strangers. What will not a highlander do or suf. fer, to shun this dreadful catastrophe ? This sword of excision, hanging conti- nually over his head, impels him to ex. ertions almost incredible ; and this per- petual vigilance of foresight forms ha- bits of caution, self-denial N - and frugali. fe y rugali { 148 ) ty, that nothing less than the united force of such powerful motives could produce. Suppose the dreaded sword to fall af- ter some blighting spring, or drowning autumn, when this dividing asunder of soul and spirit takes place. We shall suppose the village, as the neatest re- fuge, obtains the preference. His little stock, after paying his arrears, affords the means of a scanty support for the first year or two, with the aid of a wretched shop, or the more wretched aesource of secretly brewing, or openly selling whisky. Donald is much too social and convi- vial for the inhabitant of a village: When dwelling in his dear-loved ham- let, his social propensities are innocent- ly, therefore happily indulged, among t¢he companions of his youth, in the win- ter evenings at home, or the summer days in the mountain shealings. His ¢ 149 ) gonvivial joys are only indulged at” # Christmas revel, or on the glad occasion of 2 marriage or baptism in the hamlet. His simple, frugal manners, exempt him from the temptation so fatal to the virtues of the poor. In: the village, how-: ever, he finds every thing to seduce, amd. nothing to protect him.. His wife, of course, becomes a gossip and tattler : his children, no longer ‘endeared to him by sharing the numberless tasks that an’ uninclesed country demands, now lounge: about his door, hungry, idle, and deprav- ed, a hopeless and loveless incumbrance. - The miserable, degraded husband and: father, finds, in tattling and tippling, a short palliative for woes incurable. While his neighbour tradesman, unaccustomed to think for to-morrow, improvident and. intemperate, is, with more resources,: scarce less wretched. O for a highland Crahbe, to paint, ins ‘Tue and dismal colours, the languor of . ( 150 ) idleness, the rancour of malevolence, and the extremity of indigence, that pervade these Utopian villages ;—those seats of industry and abundance, which we are taught to consider as a sovereign reme- dy for the evil, I had almost said, the crime of depopulation! All improve- ments, to be really such, must be gen- tle, gradual, and voluntary. ‘When a highland chief looked, from some eminence, into his subject Strath, and saw the blue smoke of twenty hamlets rise through the calm air of a bright summer morning,—when he view- ed those quiet abodes of humble content with the perfect consciousness that there was no individual contained in them but what regarded him with fond and proud attachment, as his friend and protector, to save or serve whom he would chear- fully die,—~what monarch could compare with him in genuine power, and heart- ( 151 ) felt consciousness of being loved and ho- noured beyond all ether earthly beings ? How perverted is the taste that would induce a man to deprive himself of such faithful adherents, and drive them out to miserable exile, for all the paultry - profits to be derived .from the change! Their attachment to their modern mas- . ters could not be supposed equal to that which led .them- to such extremities of . old. . Those -who lived among them, and found their greatest pleasure in their fa- milies, and -among their adherents, cer--. tainly had greater claims on the love of their people. Still, however, ancient faith lingers where it has been cherish- ed by ancient courtesy and kindness. His native Strath still mourns the recent loss of a chief, who, with all the polish of ‘the best modern manners, and all the meekness of the best Christian princi- ples, retained as much of the affections == i i ge i EY a ca ud i 5 ; Sr == — ( 152 ) of his people, and as entire controul over them, as was ever possessed by any pa- triarch or hero of antiquity, in the like circumstances. Gentleness and huma- nity were his distinguishing characteris- tics : yet his displeasure was as terrible to his people as that of the most feroci- ous leader of the ancient clans could have been to his followers.* Banishment from the domains of such a paternal ruler was, in itself, most ter- rible : but here it was aggravated by disgrace ; as his well-known probity and lenity, warranted the inference, that it was no small misdemeanour that occa- sioned so heavy an infliction. The community over which he presid- ed was, like that of the Quakers, kept on * Whoever has heard of Strathspey, or the clan that in- habit it, can be no stranger to the virtues of this departed worthy, and their effects. To others, the detail might ap. , pear fabulous or exaggerated. ( 1583 §- irom degenerating by the. expulsion of unworthy members. | I do not mark him by his title, though he possessed one. This good man, (to him a more appropriate and valued ad- dition,) left so thick a population upon his property, and possessed so much of the despotism I have described in it, that he could, at any time, with the greatest ease, have called out a regi- ment from his domain, in addition to two which he had formerly raised with- in that territory. It may be safely averred, that this re- vered name was never mentioned in the hearing of any of those willing vassals, without producing in his countenance a visible glow of grateful emotion. How pleasing to trace the wide and deep effects of those quiet, unpretending virtues, more felt:at home than heard of ~~ abroad, that made his people happy’. How rich-is the incense of praise tht 6s 5 ( 154 ) rises round his grave, from sincere and sorrowful hearts! and how superfluous to add, ¢ Peace be to his manes !”— «¢ Farewell, pure spirit! vain the praise we give ; ¢¢ The praise you sought, from lips angelic flows. ss Farewell, the virtues that deserve to live «¢« Deserve a nobler bliss than life bestows !*” It is painful to descend from the ele- vation of spirit produced by this « joy « of grief,” to trace the depressing and ruinous effects of a contrary conduct— Depressing to the vassals, and ruinous to the master. To the vassals, banishment is not ruin, ~ in the worldly sense of the word, though jit produces very great depression, both of spirit and character. They do but live and labour at home; and to live merely to labour, and labour merely to live, is the general fate of the very poor every where besides, though deprived of the solace of life,—robbed of ghosts, and dreams, and waking visions, and won- ( 155 ) derous voices, which are much too local to follow them beyond the Grampians. Still they may eat,—perhaps, oftener, and drink, perhaps, more than formerly .* Their industry may be more productive, and more paths of ‘adventure may, in time, open to them; though « dragging, “-at each remove, a lengthening chain.” It is in their feelings, chiefly, that they suffer. True, their feelings, in a degraded and exiled state, do become more obtuse ; and it is well for them that it is so. The grass that is daily trampled on, had not need to be a sensi- tive plant. - Yet the aborigines I am speaking of, while growing in their native soil, have their feelings and perceptions, not alive * Highlanders, till very lately, never made more than “wo. stated meals; one at 11 in the forenoon, the other early in the evening. The. first was called, in their Jan- - guage, the fittlc meal ; and the last, the great meal, - ( 156 only, but acute. Adapted as the scene. ry and their early modes of thinking are to exalt imagination, and cherish a kind: of romantic tenderness, whoever ‘rudely tears them from their birth-place, and the tombs of their fathers, may be compared to Aneas, when he tore up the myrtle plants from the grave of Po- lydore, and saw the roots drop blood, at parting from the parent earth. O that the lord of his native home would but regard the anguish of the ex- patriated highlander with the compunc- tious horror which this phenomenon ex- cited in the breast of the pious chief! .- A highland laird must be Caesar or nothing. He must have authority and consequence, such as mere wealth can- not give. In short, he must have ho- nour, love, obedience, troops of friends, or he must degenerate from his ances- tors, and shrink under that degeneracy. ‘The whole system of life is so differ- ( 157 ent in the highlands, and every attempt at sudden improvement so entirely de- ranges it, that it is vain to expect the common comforts ‘and conveniences ex- actly as one finds them in other coun- tries. ' They are different comforts,. pro- cured and enjoyed in a different man- ner. Any person: who, after depopulating a highland - estate, should endeavour to have a house like a villa on the Thames, with the like appertinances and accom- modations, would fall very short in his expectations. The object would never be attained. The romantic and chival: rous spirit, so consonant to the wild scenery around, would be entirely bas nished with the inhabitants; and the imperfect mimicry of polished life, : dear bought with desolation, could only sad- den the dreary and forlorn prospect stil more by the force of contrast. Magnifi- ¢ence sinks to littleness amidst the great (158 ) sublime of nature: Even - retired lei- «-pleasure,” is not-thére in his proper element. All the petty arts of rural de- coration.are here out of place. be severely simple. chosen people on plain ground; because their auspices. tinction of all enjoyment. To enumerate the causes of this dif- « sure, that in trim gardens takes his . To avoid incengruity, any slight de- gree of embellishment admitted, must The heathen hoped .to conquer the. “the gods of Judah were gods. of the « hills, not of the vallies.” This may truly be said of the household. gods of the highlanders ;—they are « gods of « the hills, not of the vallies:” nor can - the modes of the vallies succeed under There are a thousand peculiarities be- - longing to that mode of life, which can- not be separated from it, without the ex- . ference would be endless, and would lead ( 19 ) into a train of minute particulars, through which few would have patience. to follow me. Hearty plain hospitality,—a stile of baronial dignity, « disdaining little ¢ delicacies,” —liberal and splendid heli- days,—and great simplicity of life in the interims :—A total exclusion of fastidj.. ous taste, and of littleness in all its forms, . even the forms of minute decoration, and petty attentions to petty convenien- ces, (the sure bane of all that is liberal, noble, and manly, in opinions and con- duct,) should characterise a mountain chief. : Let no one smile at this: One must have lived i» and out of polished society, to know how much the mind shrinks and diminishes, under the influence of endless wants and necessary nothings. When people live in the luxurious and fashiona- ble world, they must needs comply with its customs; and perhaps they ought. But it is well to have a sanctuary among ( 160° the everlasting hills, to which the lover of nature may fly, when satiated with form and finery. It is the high privilege and distinc- tion of the strong superior mind, to ac- - commodate itself with ease to the varie- ties of exterior circumstances." Hercules did not wear his lion’s skin, while spinning with Omphale: But when he renounced the distaff for the club, he resumed, with alacrity, his for- mer garb and habits, Custom is, to commen minds, like the ‘old European dresses, which sat to the shape with adhesive tightness, and were put on or off with difficulty: Those capable of higher aims, and en- grossed by-greater objects, wear the dra- pery-of custom, without being restrained by it, like an eastern habit, of whose flowing folds, the wearer can easily di- vest himself, and as easily resume them. ( 161 Without entering into the detail of undescribable minutize, the mention oft one leading feature of dissimilarity from ether countries, with its obvious results, will illustrate my principle: of ‘the neces- sity of “ honour, love, obedience; troops ‘“ of friends,” to the daily wants and com- forts of a resident proprietor. So shall the lovers of innovation, ‘and promoters: of depopulation, “ mark how a plain tale * shall put them down.” Though a highland gentleman could divest himself of all manner of patriotic and patriarchal feeling, still the rites ne- cessary for the worship of that modern goddess, conveniency, cannot be duly verformed, without the assistance of will- Ing vassals. If ‘a gentleman, for instance, should throw his: wholé estate into the hands of three or four strangers, and come to live at home, with hopes of rural quiet and rural enjoyment, sad experience will soon. ( convince him of his mistake. Though “he should not happen to have that taste for rural occupation, without which, life must languish in such a country, he can- not subsist for a single month, without keeping some of the domain in his hands as a farm. The country round being a silent waste, an entire grazing can afiord him nothing but mutton and wool. The few inhabitants bring grain, with great difficulty, from a distance. A farm he must have, and must cultivate, for bread to his household; and: corn to his carriage horses, his plough horses, and those that he must necessarily keep to bring; from great distances, those luxuries which his ‘acquired habits have converted into ne-- cessaries. His very servants must live in a manner accounted luxurious hy the frugal highlander: And of these, he must keep thrice as.many as the old stile of living required, and support them at . thrice the expence. ( 163 ) This is easily explained. The people who cultivated, in common, very small spots of arable land, soon finished their harvest. Living as they did, three- fourths of the year on potatoes, little grain was needed. The gentleman on whom they depended, had a compara- tively extensive farm under cultivation. Winter, among these mountains, stays so late, and comes so early, preceded by “ wet October’s torrent flood,” that the period both for sowing and reaping is very limited indeed. Consequently, if a gentleman has tenants, their own sow- ing and reaping is so soon over, that it is no hardship to them to come the usual time, three days in spring, and three in harvest, to forward their master’s work. This, in a corn country, would be a serious hardship, but here it is a thing of course, considered as an adjunct to the rent. So far from conveying the idea of oppression, it is really an exhilerating ( 164 ) spectacle to see forty or fifty people going out socially and cheerfully toge- ther to the ficld, and while they rapidly clear its surface, making the neighbour- ing hills echo with songs of other times, the rural glee, and the loud laugh of careless hilarity, Without this prompt and powerful aid, the lord of the soil will be under the necessity of keeping a number of: ser- vants, sufficient for the spring and har- vest work. These must be nearly idle above half the year, and must eat all the year round. Thus the crop they raise; by no means supports them, and their necessary retinue of horses. They are consequently obliged, like the virtuous: woman, to bring their food from afar; and this importation: furnishes a most wearisome and unprofitable employment for them in the void spaces of unoccupied time. Another insuperable inconveniency at» ( 165 ) tending the want of tenants, is the im. possibility of obtaining, without their aid, a sufficient quantity of firing to serve the purposes of a large establishment. All-powerful wealth is here unavailable. Turf cannot be purchased; nor are the great man’s household adequate to the purposes of cutting and drying fuel in the short time allotted for that purpose. If he has no tenants, or has them not in his vicinity, he cannot pass the winter in the country, though so inclined. It was a common thing for a gentle- man, of very moderate estate, to have a hundred people in his peat-moss, and a very merry and convivial meeting it was, enlivened by no little rustic sport and mirth, and considered somewhat in the hature of a Saturnalia, or rural feast, Their food was carried to them, and consumed on the spot. It was in great- er quantity, and of better quality than usual ; and there was a kind of custom- ( 166 ) ary licence for taunting and jeering on that occasion. One heard, the whole year after, of satirical wit, tales, anec- dotes, and sarcastic sayings, that origin- ated in the peat-moss. Any gentleman, whether possessing property or not, who was popular, and ready to assist the poor in their difficulties, might expect a day in the moss, as they were wont to term it, and could have them longer for pay- ment. But with those who banish their fol- lowers, this want cannot be supplied. The daily wants of a large establish- ment, at a very great distance from market, it is equally difficult to supply, where the country is one forlorn sheep- walk. The laird’s kindly tenants, in the old- er time, and still in many places, paid a part of their rent in what is called kain, consisting of a stated quantity of poultry and eggs, and, in some instances, lambs ( 167 ) and-wedders: This kept always a fuil- ness in the house, and prometed a pleas- ing and popular intercourse. When the good woman brought her kain, the lady of the mansion, not onl ordered her to eat in her presence " graciously inquired for her family and welfare; and found no mean satisfaction in listening to language, eloquent re- spectful, and impressive. The kain was a due, yet received as a gift, and there Was a constant intercourse of kindness Powder, shot, snuff, and simple medi. Cines, were bestowed with courteous ij. heli and fish, game, kids, and lambs in their season, ¢ i i Wo » Came 1n as gifts from all But how incomprehensible is this strife betwixt graciousness and gratitude, to ‘those who have not witnessed the man- ers of Past times; and how different Was such a household, from the cold and hungry state, to which wealth canpot { 168 ) give warmth or plenty. It is the to- tal impossibility of procuring the very necessaries of life, without great ex- pence, that drives the owner of depopu- lated districts, to the sad resource of an entire town-life. | The result, as I formerly expressed it, is ruinous. Any one, ‘accustomed to that sort of dignity and consequence which 2 person of this description enjoys at home, ‘can ill brook the want of distinction, where the walks of life are'crowded with the opulent and well educated. He still ‘pants for the pre-eminence, Which he has thrown away at home, ° and can- ‘not recover abroad. The wretched want he feels of his irrecoverable consequence, tempts him to seek the renewal of it, by ‘a showy and expensive stile of living in the world. In this, after all his efforts, he may be éxceeded by those whom he despises, for not having what he has vo- luntarily renounced. ( 169 | The probable result of ‘this estrange ment from his first love are too Ss to need ‘explaining. Meantime it is le tain, born as all such are, to act iil think for others, the father of a country is not to be the pupil of impulse, or oy any means, to let his feelings Hy bis Judgment ; far less to allew his sy; : pathy for the temporary feelings of oats overbalarte his attention to their pe ’ manent comfort ard interest, re | In some instances, a sheltered glen or fertile Strath, under an indulgent mast 1s over-peopled. The drain of armed . vies, which carries off so many, and of . migrations, which takes away many re, do not together check population so much Bs the small pox. This destroying angel or spirit, was not to be offended, by i” : x . . pressing her ungracious name, She was ways spok ppl : en of as ’m 3 fas i Saini VOL. II. H boiadch, ‘the ( 170 ) beauty. It was among children, that this disease generally made its ravages.*- Whether they reverenced this ideal personage, as particularly commissioned to remove the young and innocent: from the evils of life, to early happiness; or whether they dreaded her as a permit- ted agent of evil, and feared to incense her, by mentioning her under. the de- scription of breachk, is difficult to decide. Perhaps the appellation was literally ap- plied to denote the appearance of this imaginary being, who, I have been cre- dibly informed, has been sometimes visi- ble, leaning on the grey down, over the bed of dying- infants, and wearing the form of a beautiful majestic woman, at- tired in green. - * The real name of this disease, in their language, is Breackk ; which signifies a broken or variegated surface. They are on no ceremony with the inoculated small-pox, which they call boldly ¢¢ Bredckl ri Leigh” ==The Doctors’ small-pox. ( 171 ) The genuine old highlander considers ignorance of any of those ancient super- stitions with the same illiberal contempt with which we should regard a person who was ignorant of the name of the first performers on the stage, or the most distinguished leaders of fashion. The boiadch was, among the ancient highlanders, like Marriataly in Keham- ma, the goddess of the poor. But now that she is disarmed and dethroned, and that patients are no longer smothered with ill-judged care, the highland po- pulation would overflow without some sluice of emigration. It is a necessary evil which, properly conducted, may, like all other evils, be productive of good. The hive must swarm; but let It swarm regularly and collectively; and let some pains be taken to attend to its movements, and direct its flight ; and let not, in the name of patriotism and humanity, the old hive he emptied. HZ { 13¢ ) ‘That the highlanders should, in any Yoreign land, preserve the poetry and “traditions which keep their ancient spi- Tit alive, it were needless to expect. Those local muses are like spirits that haunt old towers or manor houses. They are inseparably connected with the spot to which they belong,—have perpetusl references to the scenes they celebrate, —and become unintelligible elsewhere. Yet, though the volatile spirit should ‘evaporate, much remains, that, when they remove in a body together, may be transmitted beyond the Atlantic, and take root in a new soil. Hardihood, pa- “tience, contempt for dangers and diffi- culties, habitual dexterity in hunting and fishing, and an alacrity in meeting exigencies :—All these, with the addi- tional advantage of being accustomed, in a rude and artless manner, to form their own buildings, tools, and utensils, particularly qualify them for the sylvan ( 178 life, peculiar to new settlers. Of the necessity of a social removal for their future welfare, they scem themselves abundantiy sensible. In various instances, u set of illiterate peasants have, when forced tb remove, gone about it in a most systematical manner. They have themselves char: tered a ship, and engaged it to come for them, to one of their highland ports, and a whole cluster of kindred, of all ages, from four weeks to four score years, have gone in mournful procession to the shore: The bagpipes meanwhile playing before them a sad funereal air, and all their neighbours and relations accompanying tiem on board ‘to Lid a last farewell. Those kindred groupes. have gone on witli the same union and constancy be- yond the Atlantic. Far different fron, the single adventurers that yearly emi~ grate to the states, they usually keep within the bounds of British Amertea. { 174 ) and prefer going very far into the inte- rior, where they may get as much land as will accommodate them all, to sepa- rating for a more pleasant or advanta- geous settlement. : How desirable that those associate bands of brothers, who carry with them such a principle of union, and such a de- sire of preserving the sacred fire of their first principles and attachments—how desirable, I say, would it be, that they should be encouraged to preserve, as much as is compatible with removal, their former character and opinions. They cannot afford any inducement to prevail on a clergyman, or even a school- master to accompany them: Yet what a divine charity would it be, to send out a missionary with a small salary, to preach to them in their own language, and support their souls in the wilder- ness, with the bread of life. The want of such instruction, and of ( 175 ) such a bond of union is severely felt by those poor exiles in Upper Canada. In some instances they have, for want of this and other mental indulgences, given themselves up almost entirely to the chace, and relapsed into a. state little better than savages. There are some who have, in many respacts, adopted nearly the same mode of living with their neighbours the A- merican Indians; going, in winter, many days’ journey into the pathless forests, to pursue the bear, the beaver, and the buffalo; lying for nights together in the snow ; and adopting, with other habits of savages, their reserve and taciturni- - ty. Still, however, the love of their an- cient home, and their original principles, continye unalterable. | Last year, there was a persdn at Mon- treal, I know not whether a regular clergyman por a mere itinerant, who ( 176 ) told, administered the sacraments in the same language. Multitudes came from alk the parts of Upper Canada, to hear the glad tidings once more in their native language. 1 heard, indeed, of some that came five hundred miles for that purpose. It may appear a paradox to say, that those who went across the Atlantic without any knowledge of the English language, were less likely to acquire it there than among their native mountains: this is, nevertheless, strictly true. By means of the schools dispersed over all the highlands, the English spreads quickly. Youths and maidens, who go to serve in the bordering countries, also bring it home. But when a shipful of emigrants go together to settle in the remote wilds, they adhere so much to each other, and are so entirely detached from others, that they lose any little English they preached Gaelic, and, I think I was ET aT TT HE TE EE Ee Error Kon CES Aug Joi Labo GL ( 177 ) carried out, and speak nothing but Gae-- lic. Emigrations have been going on these fifty years and upwards; and there are numbers of people born in America, who never spoke a. word of English in their lives. Not only so; but where they have grown wealthy, and been enabled to purchase slaves, they have taught them their own language. I myself have seen negroes, born in such fami- lies, who could not speak a word of English. Music, ‘poetry, and, indeed, ‘imagina- tion, do not seem to bear transplanting: The language remains; but its delica- cles and its spirit evaporate. Enthusiasm and superstition seem to: - die together; and Donald is afraid of: nothing but wolves and rattlesnakes, when once he gets: beyond the mighty waters of the west, pensities, however, His devout pro- still continue, and > require but a little encouragement to shoot out and flourish with fresh vigour. How melancholy, even in a political view, to let those energies of mind, which devotion nourishes, die away ; and to see people inclined to make so much of a little knowledge, relapse into pro- found ignorance ! , Four or five missionaries, who were masters of the Gaelic language, and qua- lified and disposed, not only to preach, but to teach to read the Scriptures in that congenial and expressive tongue, would do incalculable good in British America. These poor well-meaning exiles have, even in their expatriated state, a more than common claim on the maternal feelings of the parent country. How very immaterial would be the expence, and how unspeakable the ad- vantage, of supplying their spiritual wants,—of sowing the good seed in the { 179 3} soil softened by tender sorrow, while it is moist with the tears of parting an- guish! How sweet to those subdued and melted souls, to be enabled, in so- cial worship, to lift up their voices in sacred chorus, with the words so dear to every. pious highlander : « Ski Dhia “ fhein ‘m buachalich”—< The Lord - “ himself is my shepherd "”* And how melancholy to allow the fire that keeps the poor banished heart ‘warm, even in . exile, . to languish into extimetion for want of a. favouring breath of instruc. tion ; that they may be. thus forced to hang the harp of sacred melody on the willows, by those unknown streams, till they literally know not how to sing the Lord’s song in a strange land. } If their original impressions, the pious iervour which serves as a .resource in this hopeless alienation; be once allowed * . 3 ® Psalm xxiii. ¢ 180 to languish into extinction, the wish fo» instruction will diminish, as the powen of procuring it increases. But at pre- sent, while the desire continues in full ardour, and the power is entirely with- held, if the spiritual wants of this well- meaning’ people’ were attended to, the union, industry, and good morals, that are the invariable result of streng im- pressions: of religion, would soon enable them to procure: for themselves this hal- lowed and much desired luxury.. New settlers, that can barely exist till they draw subsistence from: the bosom of the earth, may in a very few years have abundance of food and elothing ; but then, from the remoteness of their situation, they have nothing that they can turn into money, to answer so de- sirable a purpase.. How auspicious an omen would it be to the beginning of a new reign, if the golden sceptre of a compassionate sove- ne TTT ( 181 ) reign were extended to these remote, yet faithful subjects! How earnestly would they pray for him, whose munifi- cence should enable them to worship to- gether in their native tongue, and to learn, through that medium, to “ Fear * God, and honour the king !” The taste for knowledge, which would return to them (the highlanders) with this best knowledge, would do. much to. revive amd preserve their national cha. racter. How far this last is calculated to make them good soldiers, good sub- Jects, affectionate relatives, and faithful adherents, I leave the patient and ‘can- did reader of these pages to Judge. To nationality, and even to fond par- tiality, I plead guilty. Those may have insensibly kindled emotion, sufficient to give a glow to my language, on seme occasions, unsuitable to the calmness of cool discussion or sober narrative: Yet I think my facts prove more than my ( 182 reasonings ; and of the authenticity of those there is no room to doubt. To borrow a phrase from Scotch law, they are of “ notour authority.” Of those visionary facts which I re- late, merely as illustrations of the power of an imaginative habit of mind to im- pose upon the senses, and mislead the Judgment, it is enough for. me that I have not the merit of inventing them, and that I relate them merely as I heard them. I do not write for those that re- quire to be told, that they are here pre- served merely as indications of the state of mind existing in that period of civili- zation, the memorials of. which I have endeavoured to preserve. I have been minute, because the fine shadings of character can only be traced through minutize ;—I have been tedious, because investigation of what few com- prebend must always be tedious: Yet I am satisfied, because I have, however ( 183 ) imperfectly, preserved much that would otherwise perish. And I flatter myself, that the genuine lovers of truth and na- ture will regard with an eye of favour the lineaments thus feebly pourtrayed, on .account of their resemblance to the original, however defective the execu- tion may be. RS — i ef = a RT We ESSAY X. Upon the popular and: well-known Seng of Macgres gor na Ruara. T ur title of this song, or monody, as it" may more properly be called, is Macgre- - gor na Ruara.. Macgregor does not in this instanee imply a sirname : it is mere- ly a patronymic ; the peem affording in- ternal evidence, that the warrior whose fate it deplores was a cadet of the Clan Grant, te. whom the district of Glenlyon had at one time belonged ; and who had been, as the poet supposes,*unjustly de- - prived of his inheritance, and forced to-- wander as an outlaw, in continual dan- ger from the vigilance of his pursuers. ( 185 ) He is called, Macgregor na Rua Strua, 2. e. of the red or sanguine streams; which, to. suit the music, has been ab- breviated as we see it. This evidently was not his title, which. he must have derived from Glenlyon. The epithet seems rather to. have originated from some strife of warriors,” in which this hero had distinguished himself; in. con- sequence of which, some mountain-stream had been for the time tinged with the blood of the corabatants. There is a well-known tradition that seems connected: with this: appellation, of a desperate. engagement, which took place in times that answer to the. era in which Macgregor fought and bled. A party of that name engaged in a desperate combat a superior number of the Robertsons of Struan, on the borders of the river Tummel, where it is very narrow, with steep precipitous banks. The numbers. on each side were: small : % ( As far as I can recollect, they did not together amount to a hundred. The conflict was desperate ; and the party, who were at length forced to fly, were overtaken on the brink of this deep and rapid, though narrow river. One man, the only survivor of the vanquish- ed party, by a most astonishing leap, gained a rocky fragment in the midst of the channel, and, springing from thence to the other side, escaped his pursuers, who felt more inclined to admire than emulate such a desperate exploit. There is some reason to suppose, from ihe intrinsic evidence contained in this song, that it was composed during Mon- trose’s. wars. These were peculiarly fa- tal to the highlands of Scotland. The two greatest men in the kingdom, who, besides political differences, were inflamed with deadly rancour against each other, stirred up the ancient feuds and animosities between different’ clans. rani er - . EE EET ( 187 ) to serve each their gwn purposes. So deceitful is the human heart, that it is hard to say, whether the virtuous Mon- trose and the pious Argyle did not per- suade themselves that they were merely acting for the public good, while the means they made use of to promote what each considered as such, were so amply calculated ta gratify their private animosity. Never were means better suited to the ends of their respective leaders. A highlander felt the glory of his chief, in which the honour of his clan was inclu- ded, paramount to every other conside- ration. Hence that implicit obedience, and that blind and headlong fury, with which the sanguinary orders of those exasperated rivals were carried into ef- fect ; and hence, for a time, the sense of good and evil, in what regarded war and rapine, seemed to slumber in every breast. Confiscation and outlawry became sg fre- nian HO EN SLL HAN EI Se 3 ATH MR BOAT WL FEE NP EW, a TT AS Es —— to 12) LL i i. 1 A IO sou 4 i i" 3 i |G | i itd 5 it ie a ( 188 ) quent, that they were far from being ac. counted a disgrace: On the contrary, every person so suffering was considered by his own party as a martyr to princi- ple. Yet while the smothered fires of pri vate feuds were thus blown into flame, to add violence to the general conflagra- tion, the muses do not seem to have been altogether silenced, nor private virtue entirely extinguished. Fh The fidelity, and even the humanity of individuals in these calamitous times, have been commemorated in ever-living verse : And even tlie simple tribute of sorrow now under our consideration, af- fords a preof of feeling and attachment worthy of remembrance. Besides the strong ties of affinity held so sacred’ here, there were others that formed a bond of no smal"endearment. In the highlands, the children of gentle- men were alwavs given out to nurse :. ( 189 ) on this simple principle, that such a one could never have too many children, or too many adherents. The more sons the better: These were the ornament and defence. of the clan. The more daughters, still the better; for these formed ties by which useful alliances were procured : And the more foster- brothers and sisters that were created by the nursing of these children, the more a family had of adherents attached to them, with a fervour and fidelity be- yond example. Of this I remember a striking instance In our own times. A near relative of the writer of this discussion, being on service with the 42d regiment, when it was sent, with other troops, on a vain attempt to raise the siege of Bergen op Zoom : They lay entrenched for some time near the French lines. Some rash and unlikely project was formed for sur- prising a redoubt held by the enemy, in ER! i ng a ER CL RUT EN i REI Bi v A a ee? A a a OR NA TR TR SRA wo TR LILIA — ( 190 ) the night ; which, I think, did not after all succeed. It was, however, Btompie ed with great secrecy at A « moonless midnight.” An officer o the 42d was among the umhor py the proposed assailants; but no oh that regiment, to the great grief + at officer’s foster-brother, ni pling Ww i companied him. tty It a trenches God us utmost silence and secrecy ; but : oo the utter darkness, and their impertec knowledge of the ground, oy fused, and so bewildered, an they knew where to proceed. got y Culduthil, the officer already mentioned, in the act of getting over oo” remains of an inclosure a his path, felt his feet entangled i Son ” thing. Putting down his hand to - cover the cause, he caught hold plaid, and then seized the owner, " seemed to grovel on the ground. Hc ( 191 ) held the caitiff with one hand, and drew his dirk with the other, when he heard the imploring voice of his foster-brother, - —* What the d—1I brought you here 2” “ Just love of you, and care of your pers “son.” «Why so, when your love can “ do me no good, and has already done “ me evil 2° And why encumber yourself “ with a plaid ?” « Alas! how could I “ ever see my mother, had you been kill- “ed or wounded, and had I not been “ there, to carry yow home to the sur- “ geon, or to Christian burial : and how “could I do either, without my plaid to “avrap you in !”—1I cannot recollect the sequel of the adventure: but upon en- quiry, it was found, that the poor man had crawled out on his hands and knees between the centinels, then followed the party at some distance, till he thought they were approaching the place of as- Sault, and then again crept in the same manner on the ground beside his mas. ° ( 192 ) ter, that he might be near him unob. served. aif This faithfal adherent had too soon occasion to assist at thie obsequies of his foster-brother ; for Culduthil, looking over the edge of the trench, to view. the approaches of the enemy, was killed hy a-cannon-ball in a few days after. This subject of the tenderness of these kind of attachments, would admit ef much farther illustration ; but I suppress many curious and authentic facts, to re- turn to the foster-brother of Macgregor. But, first, I have chosen this very po- pular and pathetic song to translate and illustrate, not -merely as it is pathetic or popular, but that I do not know of any composition which, in the same bounds, exhibits a picture so correct and lively, both ef the manners of the age, and of the miseries resulting from a state of society so.licentious and un- settled as that must needs be, wheré the ( 193 ) power of the laws, as it were, are sus- pended, or made subservient to the fury of partizans. I have made a metrical translation of the first fourteen verses of this song ma- ny years since, which will be found at the end of this essay. I shall here insert the entire song li- terally translated, and shall add a com- ment on each verse, because each verse contains an allusion to some ancient cus- tom, which can, in such a series of ex- planation, be most clearly illustrated. There were two kinds of foster-bro- thers, bound to each other by the kindly ties IT have mentioned. One were the children of the person by whom the child was nursed ; the other, which was but of rare occurrence, were the children of other gentlemen who happened to be hursed by the same person. This could not often take place, be- Cause people generally fi en g y ound qualified ( 19% ) nurses within their own bounds. But when such a tie was thus erenied, it was very binding. The Cho Ai, i that was the term by which this relation was signified, was the nearer for being the child of one’s nurse; but he was the dearer for being one’s equal, born in the same rank, bred to the same pursuits, and having, as it were, an inherent title to be one’s chosen friend. In this relation, as will hereatter ap- pear, the author of the poem in question stood to the deceased warrior. He bit- terly laments his violent death; and la- ments it the more, as it appears to have been occasioned by his wan rashiiess, 2 neglecting various precautions Shr by his Chomh Alt. These ‘unavai ing counsels, however, the latter repeats with a kind of mournful retrospection. They contain many curious particulars that mark the manners then prevalent, ( 195 ) and the anxious and precarious life of an outlaw. I have endeavoured to transfuse some of the poetical spirit of the original ‘into the metrical translation. To that, the epithet of fidelity may more properly be applied, because the perusal of it will leave an impression on the English rea- der, more resembling that produced on the imagination of a highlander by the original, than can possibly be done by a literal translation. The last, however, conveys with ‘more distinctness and ac- curacy those facts and images which tlucidate ancient manners. The first verse is a chorus, repeated at the close of every stanza; and the song, tedious as it may appear to those who neither know its history nor feel its pathos, is always sung throughout, and meets with attention the hundredth time of repetition. i 2 ( 197 ) 196 ) “ Those that would revenge my wrongs «R. Ge ness : ¢¢ My sadness, great sadness, ““ Are low in the chapel to the eastward. és Deep sadness, lies on me. idl “ My sadness, &. ¢«¢ T am oppress’d with sadness deep and dark; «¢ Which I shall never conquer. ¢¢ Those that would support my cause, * It wounds me to think, are to me lost forever. ) Rua Strua, ’ “¢ Caused by Macgregor na ss M . »¢ Whose due was Glenlyon. ¥ sadness, &c «¢ My sadness, &e. “¢ My beloved Choaltan * s¢ By Macgregor of the banners, “¢ Lie with their heads low in the narrow bed. «¢ Who was accompanied by the clamour of pipes. “ My sadness, &c. ¢¢ My sadness, &e. ) “ Thou also art in a narrow shroud of thin linen, « By his badge, from the pine, So “ Without silk, or fitting ornaments. s« He was known, when ascending the heights. My sadness, &o. «¢ My sadness, &c. te «¢ His arrows were highly polished, «¢ And decked with the plumes of the eagle. ‘“ Thou soughtest not, to adorn thy funeral weeds, ‘‘ The high-born dames of thy country. ‘ My sadness, &ec. | ¢«« My sadness, &c. A ichly adorned, ¢ To thee I oft proffered counsel, ¢ Arrows ri Wouldst thou but have taken it. My sadness, &c. i it the s f a king, s¢ As might suit the son 0 g | s¢ Held gracefully in the dexterous hand of the son of ¢¢ Murdoch. The time, said I, thou goest to the house of drinking, S &c. : . ‘ My sadness, * Drink there no second draught, és s¢ Though struck by a peasant My sadness, &c. s¢ T should utter no complaint. « My sadness, &ec. “ Tuke the cup of chearfulness standing ; of Guarding thy valour with caution. +s Though I were deeply injured, * My sadness, &ec. s¢ Who but thyself would avenge me. ' * His foster brothers, « My sadness, &c. BERLE ST ( 198 ) i¢ Be not dainty of thy drinking vessels : “¢ The horn or juniper quaich may suffice. «« My sadness, &c. « Let winter be to thee as autumn, i¢ And the first bleak days of spring as summer. « My sadness, &c. i¢ Make thy bed on the o’erhanging rock, . ¢¢ And let thy slumbers be the lightest. «¢ My sadness, &c. «¢ Though the squirrel be nimble, s¢ By art it may be entangled. ¢¢ My sadness, &c. «« Though the spitit of the hawk be coy and lofty, i¢ By watchful dexterity she may be taken. « My sadness, &c. «« My sadness, great sadness, s¢ Deep sadness lies on me. ¢s I am oppress’d with sadness deep and dark, L2] ¢¢ Which I shall never-overcome. VERSE 1. swMacgregor na Rua Strua, « Whose due was Glenlyon.” The meaning of this verse was, that the lamented chief, whom the song was ( 199 ) meant to celebrate, was, or ought to: have been proprietor of Glenlyon, and was unjustly deprived of it. There is an existing tradition, which points out, how this hapless warrior might have attained the patronymic of Macgregor, When it so happened, that a person belonging to any name left the district, ruled and protected: by his chief, to set-- tle elsewhere, his children, instead of being called by the name of the clan, were denominated’ from his christian name; as, for instance, Gregor being a- frequent sirname among the Grants, the son of the expatriated individual of that: name, was called Macgregor, which be- came the common appellation of his de- scendants : They, in the mean time, being considered, and considering them- selves as cadets of the clan Grant, and entitled to wear their badge, and share: all their honaurs and privileges. ( 200 ) This Macgregor, as has been already observed, appears to have been possess- ed of Glenlyon, but exiled and outlawed hy the Argyle faction. VERSE 2. s« By Macgregor of the banners, « Who was accompanied by the clamour of pipes.” By « Macgregor of the banners,” is denoted a person of rank and conse- quence, sufficient to entitle him to have those warlike ensigns carried before him. ‘The clamour of pipes, by which he was attended, is a similar indication of his consequence. It is observable, that the sound of the pipes here is denominated clamour, not music. This is perfectly consonant with the ideas entertained of this instrument, by the people whose national music it has been most erroneously accounted. ( 201 ) One might, with equal justice affirm, that the drum and spirit-stirring fife were the national music of the English. The harp was, in fact, the national music of the highlands; of which their songs, adages, and legends of all kinds, afford sufficient proof. During the cruel wars between King's men and queen’s men, in the minority of James VI. the unity of the clans was. in a great measure broken. A sanguinary spirit was introduced, and the sweet sounds drawn by love and fancy, or by grief or tenderness, from the trembling strings of the clarsach, gave way to the ruder strains of martial mu- sic, which the bagpipe was so much bet- ter suited to convey. : Still. this did not supply the place of that instrument, so dear to Bards and heroes, the use of which was in some degree continued, ‘till the Sanguin- ary conflicts, in the time of the civil 15 A MI ASS — - RET CE Ren SE ET amt coat - ER tne ERR NS ES Ay ( 202 } wars, destroyed, for a season, all thé functions of music, but those of sum- moning the tribes to war, animating the battle, and bewailing its victims. For these purposes, the harsh and bold, or querulous and mournful strains of the pipe, were best adapted. The voice of music, such as delights and soothes the ear and the imagination, was hushed for a time: And, during his incursions to the lew country, the highlander found means to seize ¢¢ the brisk, awakening viol, “ Whose soul-entrancing voice he loved the best. And which has ever since entirely sup- planted the harp, and may now be just- ly stiled their national music. There are, indeed, few houses in the ‘highlands where there is not a violin. Another instrument, the very mention ef which seems to imply ridicule, they manage 50, as to produce sounds more ( 203 }- sweet and powerful, than can easily be believed. The Jew’s harp, as they use. it, forms no contemptible vehicle for their touching melodies. There are very few among the lower class who do not play upon it, and many play on two at once, which, with the ac- companyment of a female voice, pro- duces more effect than can well be ima gined. The bagpipe, unless in extreme cases, where no other instrument could be had, was never played within doors, except in the instance ¥ am about to refer to. It attended marriage processions, he. - cause it was the only instrument on which one could play, while walking a- long with the crowd assembled on such occasions; and funerals for the same reason. + The mistake of supposing this instru- ment the favourite, or national one of: the ‘highlands, was a very natural one. ( 204 ) It arose from strangers being always deafened with its clamour in thé halls of chieftains, where it was a customary piece of state to have the piper playing all the time of dinner. A foreigner, whose name I forget, having visited the court of Queen Eliza- beth, has left us a minute account of the ceremonial used in the meals of this wise princess, who took care to fence her in- nate dignity, with all the ¢ pride, pomp, « and circumstance” necessary to impress the common mind with an exalted idea of royalty. When the queen went to dinner, that circumstance was announced by a flou- rish of trumpets and kettle drums in the great hall ; and music continued to play all the time of the repast. In the same manner, it was usual for the piper to march through the great hall, playing different martial tunes, and others appropriated to his tribe, all the - ( 205 ) time his chief and his guests were at dinner: for a dinner without guests was not supposed to take place in the house of a chief. Livery clan had three appropriate tunes peculiar to itself, besides others of local significance. These were the gathering of the clan, its march, and its lament. Strains calculated to rouse valour, to nurse enthusiasm, and to add strength to those powerful ties that held together the descendants of a common father, It should have been observed, that every chief had also a banner, on which his device and motto was inscribed or embroidered. % 6 / » Thus «“ Macgregor of the banners,” round whom was the clamour of pipes } : > was a poetical mode of describing the rank of this lamented personage. Eg i ER A fa aDREL po fu rom al ( 206 ) VERSE 3 «¢ By whose badge, from the pine, « He was distinguished when ascending the heights.’ This clearly points out the family of the warrior : However distant the cadet might remove, or whatever patronymic he might assume, still he wore the badge or bourgeonet, as Shakespeare calls it, of his clan: He retained the remote pa- tronymic of the founder of his family, as Clanalpin of the Grants, Clanchallin of the Campbells, &c. and he wore the same insignia on his banner, to prove his claim to a remote origin, as well as his alliance with a powerful clan. The badges of the different tribes were of no small importance in their mi- litary arrangements, and all the ferris of life prevalent among them. Their il bits being all of the same form, and, in- deed, the same colours, differently ar- ranged, it was necessary, that, in time ( 207 ) of war, they should be able at once te distinguish their kinsmen or allies from their enemies; and, at all times, it was convenient to know the individuals of this or that family. To ascertain and discriminate those separate divisions of society, every clan wore a different sef, as they stile it, of tartan; and what formed a more conspi- cuous distinction, every clan wore a badge on the side of the bonnet, which ascertained the tribe of each individual. This badge was always of some plant or tree that does not shed the leaf, other- wise the distinction could not exist in winter. The Grants have the fir or pine—the Macleods the juniper—the Frazers the yew—the Macintoshes the box—the Mackenzies the holly—the Macdonalds the crimson heath—another clan, whom I do not remember, the blue heath, &c. Macgregor’s badge ascertained his ori- a a a A TE SR NST ORS. rn —————— EB TT A NE as a SCS 4 y us i 1 we a a an ! y Wr. Los Yn TR pg A ; ER . 3 ea a SRR ok I ER tn Ay ( 208 ) gin from the Clan Alpine, all the branches of which wear this symbol. VERSE 4. s¢ His arrows were highly polished, «¢ And decked with the plumes of the eagle.” Still feeding his grief with sad recol- lections, the mourner calls back every little circumstance that evinced the dig- nity and importance of his friend. The eagle’s plumes, and other decorations of his arrows, seem to refer to a pretty late period, immediately before these wea- pons were disused. ¢ That short brown shaft, sac meanly trimm’d, : ay 1? ¢¢ Looks like poor Scotland’s gear s savs the boastful Norwegian in Hardy- knute. The ballad is of dubious authenticity, but the language and sentiment are a- dopted from those indubitably ancient. ( 209 ) In latter times, the contempt in which the Scots archery had been held by the English and Norwegians, acted as a sti- mulus to the Scottish bowmen : yet, in the highlands, they were so far back in this respect, that it was only the high- born warrior whose shafts were polished and ornamented. VERSE 5. ¢¢ Arrows richly adorned, ¢ As might suit the son of a king.” Still he dwells with mournful com- placency on all the marks of distinction and superiority which surrounded the fallen hero. VERSE 6. ¢¢ In the excelling hand of the son of Murdoch, ‘¢ Held forward direct and gracefully.” Murdoch, it would appear, was the father of the outlaw; Macgregor being a { i i a 13 " |B + 8 is 18 I id 8 "og | Ra | I | 8 5 i 1 : § {8 o 8 3 8 HN eS ue He bl NY | P $ § ie > 4 } | {Ea i ch i 4 | i 3 48 #8 HNN ( 210 ) patronymic derived from a more remote ancestor, who had left Strathspey at an earlier period. VERSE 7.. * The blow of a peasant. # I should bear without complaining s" ie. my spirit is so extinguished by this misfortune, that even the blow of a me- nial could not rouse my indignation. VERSE 8. % Though I were deeply injured, ¢¢ Who but thyself would redress me :* & e. Fam left helpless: My friend, my- guide, my protector is gone, and my sorrow is incurable. VERSE 9. « Those whe would support my cause, ¢¢ It is my wound to think, are lost to me forever.” This manner of expressing a deep ( 211 ) teeling of sorrow is frequent in the Gae- lic. “ It is my wound that they are “ Jost :”—< It is my wound to think, 1 “ have myself been faulty,” &c. VERSE 10. *¢ Those who would avenge my wrongs ¢¢ Lie low in that chapel to the eastward.” The mourner here uses the plural: From whence it would appear, that there were others with Macgregor when he fell. The chapel is an expression applied in the Gaelic to consecrated ground, where probably the vestiges of such edi- fices remain. | East or west, the highlanders use con- stantly in speaking of distances :—* I am “ going east to such a place:”—* When “ do you go west,” &c. ( 212 ) VERSE 11. * Thou, alas! art in a narrow shroud of thin linen ; * Without silk or fitting érnament.” It would appear that the funeral of this warrior, like that of Ophelia, had been deficient in certain customary rites; which omission, the sorrowing survivor dwells upon as an added cause of lamen- tation. VERSE 12. * Thou soughtest not, to adorn thy funeral weeds, ¢¢ The high-born dames of thy country.” It seems in these days, when all orna- mental needle-work was peculiar to per- sons of superior education, that the la- dies of a district used to meet together to sew, with rare devices, the grave- clothes of any distinguished person. ( 218 ) VERSE 18. ¢ Often have I offered thee counsel : * Wouldst thou but have taken it from me.” He recurs to past days, and feeds his grief with the remembrance of the slight- est counsels of fond affection, the neglect of which had finally proved so fatal. VERSE 14. ‘¢ When thou goest, said I, to the house of drinking, * Take there no second draught.” A very necessary precaution, consi- dering the social and convivial habits of the highlanders, who, when they went to such a place, rarely indeed parted without seeing « the cup of cheerful- “ness” often circle round the Jovial board ; their gaiety, on these occasions, running like lightning flashes across the gloom of their wonted thoughtful- ness. he EI Ah i con jo TR A A 1 ON SA SOS 44 Rays ( 214 ) The single draught in this verse is particularly expressive of the constant apprehensions which haunt the mind of him who knows that his life 1s hunted with malicious diligence. The ancients tell of dogs on the borders of the Nile, who always drank running, for fon) of the crocodile. This is one of the live- liest images of habitual terror. VERSE 15. & Take the cup of chearfulness standing, . - ” “16 Guarding thy valour with caution. The image of perpetual vigilance and suspicion is continued through this verse} which shews, that though he was consci- ous that the valour of his friend could not fail, he is more distrustful of his pru- dence. The ardour which more endear- ed Macgregor to his friend, makes that friend tremble the more for his safety. ( 215 ) VERSE 186. “Be not dainty of thy drinking vessels’ “¢ The horn or juniper guaich may suffice,® In every gentleman’s house, and, ins deed, in every decent public-house, an- tecedent to the general use of glasses, there was a cup of silver, in which drink Was presented to persons of consequence. The poorer people, and meaner public- houses, had a cup, in the same form, of pewter. But the horn or juniper quaich served to contain the beverage of the commen people. These homely vessels are recommends ed on this occasion, that the rank of Macgregor might not be betrayed by his fastidiousness. The juniper quaich, as I have seen it preserved in old families, was, after all, no despicable utensil. It had a small, round bottom, little broader than a half trown, adorned with silver in the inside. ( 216 ) It was surrounded by staves, which were of smooth, polished juniper and birch al- ternately ; narrow at the bottom, and spreading wider, and growing broader to the top, till it took the form of a wide cup or small bowl. The staves, alter- nately dark and light, and the small and delicate hoops with which it was sur- rounded, rendered this no inelegant drinking-cup. | But the motive that produced this anxiety and precaution in his Cho Alt, was the fear that Macgregor’s nicety about his drinking apparatus might be the means of his rank being suspected, and his path explored. All the arts of fond solicitude which he had thus exert- ed, rise, embittered by regret, to the re- trospection of sorrow. It affords a sort of consolation too, that nothing which the vigilance of affection could suggest. had been omitted. { 217 ) VERSE 17. és 1 * Let winter be to thee as autumn, ““ And the three first bleak first bleak days of spriry as summer,” 7 e. To ensure your safety, and elude pursuit, support the inclemencies of win. ter, travel from place to place, and slee in he open air, as others in less Ey ous circumstances do in harvest. The Faoilteach, or three first days of February, serve many poetical purposes in the highlands. They are said to have been borrowed for some purpose by Fe- bruary from January, who was bribed by February with three young sheep | These three days, by highland yeckin Ing, occur between the 11th and 15th of February : and it is accounted a most favourable prognostic for the ensuin year, that they should be as stormy - possible. If these three days should be lair, then there is no more good weather ——— a Seb RSIS ERE CE Eo ate Rp Ege ( 218 ) the Faoilteach is used to signify the very ultimatum of bad weather. VERSE 18. “+ Make thy bed on the projecting crag, s And let thy slumbers be the lightest.” Who can read this without recalling the image described by Collins: « Who throws him on the ridgy steep « Of some loose hanging rock to sleep.” There is a striking coincidence here between the most terrifying image of danger which the English bard could produce, and the real danger to which the highland bard invites his friend to repose himself, that a still greater may be shunned. A crag overhanging wa- ter is meant in the original. Death was the worst consequence that could result from all the perils that might thus occur. But to have been taken a: ( 219 ) Nive Ty : wy enemies would have heen djs: Thus it appears, that the bard anxis ous as he was to save the life o his friend, was still more Solicitous to pre. serve his honour. This seems BE have been done ; for Ire fell in the ’ 3 bat with his pursuers, El, a may suppose, hy numbers, hi VERSE 19. % h' : * Though ‘the squirrel be nimble. «5 1 By art it may be entangled,” Verse 20. . Though ‘the spirit of the hawk be coy and I By watchful dexterity she may be taken,” PS In the progress ‘of the images whic), Jes through the afflicted fancy of a oe nn, the workings of a dant a in deep Sorrow may be traced genuine process. XK 2 He begins, ( 220 ) by lamenting, that the SOLOW which fills his mind is increased by time and reflection. He complains, not only of the present sorrow, but of a conscious- ness that it is never to be overcome. Macgregor, « In glittering arms ard « glory drest,” rises full before him. He hears his pipes sounding: he sees his banners waving. The graceful form of the hero, in act to loose the shafts of is imagination, vengeance, appears to his 1mag only to aggravate the sense of his iia forlorn and unprotected state. To Bs wounded spirit, this sense of privation recals the scene of the fatal combat, the lost Cho Altan, who perished with his friend, and the narrow house, where, deprived of funeral honours, ey ate for ever hidden from his view. The in- effectual efforts he had made to warn this victim of feudal revenge,—the coun- sels faithfully given,—the hardships of a ( 221 ) hunted life,—~all crowd on his remem- brance, and busy his thoughts. This “ short interval of weary woe,” sets his mind loose to frame figurative imagery, expressive of the theme of. every thought—the slaughter of Mac- gregor. His discriminated sketch of the qualities of the nimble and sportive squirrel, and the coy and lofty goshawk, for that is the species of hawk meant by the word in the original, shews the close observation of nature, and the happy adaptation of imagery, which character- ize the poet. He speaks of his outlawry, without attempting to palliate or evade the cir- cumstance, this being often the result of caprice, or the vindictive spirit created hy inherited feuds. The pathos of this song, in the Gaelic language, is much heightened by the re- iteration of the first stanza, with which, every verse is closed. a a a. . fastin. 5 LTH SA a fer ke 1 A or t - i WWI Reba tints gE ¢ 222 ) We, that are for ever hurried along the stream of existence, on the short, quick surges of incessant variety, have scarce patience to attend to our own sensations. But to those accustomed, in the language of the psalmist, * to. « commune with theix own heart, and be still,” this. mournful monotony pro-. duces an effect on the unpractised ear, somewhat like what one feels on reading the fine passage in which Thompson de~ scribes the widowed stock-dove.— ¢ Again « The sad idea of her murdered mate « Across her fancy comes, again resounds ts A louder song of sorrow through the grove.” Metrical Translation. of the Song af Magregor na; Ruara.. i hry sorrow, deep sorrow, incessant. returning, Time still, as he flies, adds. increase to my mourning. A ( 225 ) While ¥ think on Macgregor,. true heir of Glenlyan, Where still to sad’ fancy his banners seem. fying. My sorrow, deep sorrow, &c. On Macgregor na Ruara, whose pipes far resounding, With their true martiak strain set cach bosem a bounding; The badge of Strathspey, from yon pine by the fountain, Distinguish’d the hero, when climbing: the mountain. My sorrow, deep sorrow, &c. The plumes of the eagle gave wings: to his arrow, And destruction flew wide from the weapon so narrow = His shafts, highly polished and bright, were a treasure, That the son of a king might have boasted with pleasure. My sorrow, deep sorrow, &c.. When the brave son of Murdoch se gracefully held them,, Well pois’d and directed, no weapon excell’d them. Now dead to the honour and pride I inherit, Not the blow of a vassal could rouse my. sad spirit. My sorrow, deep sorrow, &c. Though insult or injury now should oppress me, My protector is gone, and nought else can distress mes. Deaf to my loud sorrows, and blind to my weeping, My. aid and support in yon chapel lie sleeping. My sosrow, deep sorrow, &c. In that cold, narrow bed they shall slumber for ever j Yetnought from my fancy their image shall sever. ( 224 ) He that shar’d the kind breast which my infancy nourish’d, Now cold in the earth, leaves no trace where they flourish’d. My sorrow, deep sorrow, &c. No cbsequies fitting, his pale corpse adorning, No funeral honours to soothe our long mourning, No virgins high-born, with their tears to bedew thee, To deck thy pale corpse, and with flow’rets to strew thee. My sorrow, deep sorrow, incessant returning, Time still, as it flies, adds increase to my mourning. The six following verses, though full of original imagery, and abounding in curious matter, would have rather a gro- tesque appearance, if faithfully translat- ed into English verse ; and without mi- nute accuracy, the peculiarity of the de- lineation, in which its merit lies, would be lost. The wild and plaintive melody to which it is sung, is not only familiar to the highlanders, but well-known, and frequently played in the south of Scot- land. In the fourth volume of Mr George ¢ 225 ) Thomson’s Collection of Scotch Songs, the above translation may be found, adapted to the original tune. To contrast the above sad image of fatal turbulence and hopeless anguish, and -to complete the: picture of highland life, I have added a song truly. pastoral : Not, indeed, the-production of entirely pastoral . times, but the theme and de- light of the enamoured milk-maid and the wandering shepherd. I shall subjoin to the song, part of a letter written to Mr Thomson, and which he published with it, as a kind of introduction. > “ The verses of Chrochallin have lived from the days when agriculture was in its’ infancy, and continue still to soothe every fold, and lull every cradle in these wild regions. “ A literal translation I do not pre- tend to give; but I will venture to ap- 5 ¢ 26 y peal to every judge of Gaelic and of poetry, whether I have not rendered the spirit of this curious fragment of anti- quity. « The changes which time and culture have effected orn manners, are best traced, in popular songs ; more particularly the Gaelic’ fragments, in which the: transi- tions from the life of a hunter to that of a herdsman, and from that to the more laborious and stationary pursuits of agri- culture, are strongly marked. «- Anciently, the hunter was admired as a person of manly courage, who, in the pursuit of a livelihood, exerted the vir- tues of patience and fortitude, and fol- lowed Nature into her most sublime re- tirements. Herdsmen were then ac- eounted the sons of little men,—sordid, inferior beings, who preferred ease and safety to noble daring, and boundless va- riety,—and were considered to be as much. below the hunter, as the cattle gy TE Te forty erty eee an me mr RR EE I ER re ¢ 227 y they tended were inferior in grace and. agility to the deer which the otters purs- sued.. “ Interest, however, reversed such opi-- nions : In process of time, the maidens boasted of the numerous herds of their: lovers, and viewed the huntsman as a. poor, wandering- adventurer. “ About this time, the song here translated seems to have been composed.- The enameoured nymph, willing to think Colin as rich as others,. talks-in an ob- scure and figurative manner of the cattle of Colin, (chro Challin), and pursues the metaphor through- many playful allu- sions to the deer, roes, fawns, &e. and. their manner of sporting. and feeding, . in a stile too minute for translation. In the end, however, . it appears, that the boasted cattle of Colin were no other- than those wild commoners of: nature,. and his sole profession that of hunting. “ I have endeavoured to preserve the- tender simplicity of the original, and te: ( 228 ) render almost. literally the fond repeti- tion of endearing epithets. “ The love-songs of those days were the breathings of real passion : Nobody thought of that most absurd of all things, —a fictitious love-song.” ¢ It is silly, sooth, ¢¢ And dallies with the innocence of love, ¢¢ Like the old age.” My Colin, lov'd Colin, my Colin, my dear, Who wont the wild mountains to trace without fear; Oh! where are thy flocks, that so swiftly rebound, And fly o’er the heath, without touching the ground ? So dappled, so varied, so beauteous their hue ; So agile, so graceful, so charming to view ; O’er all the wide forest, there’s nought can compeer With the light bounding flocks of my Colin, my dear.” My Colin, dear Colin, my Colin, my love, Oh! where are thy herds, that so loftily move ? With branches so stately, their proud heads are crowned ; ‘With their motion, so rapid, the woods all resound. ‘Where the birch trees hang weeping o’er fountains so clear, At noon-day they’re sleeping rownd Colin, my dear ; - ( 229 ) Oh! Colin, sweet Colin, my Colin, my joy, Must those flocks and those herds all thy moments employ 2 To yon waterfall’s dashing I tune my sad strain, And gather these violets for Colin in vain : 3 At sun-set he said he would ‘meet with me here, Then where can he linger, my Colin, 1 my dear ? Oh! Colin, my darling, my pleasure, my pride, While the flocks of rich shepherds are grazing so wide, Regardless I view them, unheeded the swains, Whose herds scatter’d round me, adorn the green plains. Their offers I hear, and their plenty I sees But what are their wealth and their offers to me? While the light bounding roes, and the wild mountain-deer, Are the cattle of Colin, my hunter, my dear, LETTER I. Dear Mapam, Accept of a very unpolished and very literal translation of the Song of nd « Owl;” popularly so called, from its: being addressed to the sage and solitary bird of night, whom a particular circum- stance had, in the hour of inspiration, associated with the equally forlorn and- solitary hunter. Poet, perhaps, we might stile him : But this swan-like dirge being all that remains of his composition, 1t: may be supposed to be merely the pic- ee pe ie Ad iat ( 231 ture of his local haunts and habitual feet ings, drawn by the pencil of pensive re- collection, and heightened occasionally by the colouring of fancy. A poem s6 long, and so’ connected; so-entirely original, and so evidently pro-. duced by individual feeling,—in whicl neither the tenderness of love, the ar- dour of heroic enterprise, nor the Joys of convivial intercourse, have any share,—. is certainly semewhat anomalous and: extraordinary. It is on this account cu- rious ; and more so, as giving a faithful picture of what we do not find any where else delineated, and’ what must throw light upon: the manner in which the hue man character adapts itself to a very pe~ ceuliar mode of existence. What passes in the mind of a solitary being; illiterate, yet not ignorant of the: charities, attachments, and occupations: of a mode of life very nearly approach- ing to complete civilization :—Iow the {+ 282°) sympathies of kindness and compassion, : —the powers of feeling and imagination, - are to be exercised in a life almost en- tirely passed in solitude, and under cir- : cumstances that seemingly tend to ex- tinguish all finer feeling,—all that con-- stitutes taste, and feeds enthusiasm,— . and to form, as.we should suppose, the - character of a gloomy, sordid savage, intent only on procuring food, and de-. vouring it in solitary safety :—How a person thus situated would think and. act,—every one who loves to trace hu-- man nature through all its various mo- difications must be desirous to know.- But from the incapacity of such persons to combine their reflections, or commu- nicate their ideas, so as to make them: intelligible to more enlightened enquir- ers, this chapter of the history of the human mind has hitherto been like a sealed book. The cogitations or conversations of ( 283 ) those hermits, whom piety, wrought up to a pitch of enthusiasm, had secluded from society, affords no parallel. Their minds were elevated, by the fervours of devotion, above this limited span of ex- istence, to wide views of boundless fu- turity, varied by the recollections which their former intercourse with active life afforded. The visionary and superstitious mode of worship, common to all ascetic re- cluses, wrought up their minds to a state which fitted them for- those abstracted reveries that peopled solitude with saints and angels,—with courteous spirits, pour- ing light and consolation on the soul,— or demons, permitted to try their faith and fortitude by strange and sundry temptations. Thus constant food for meditation a- rose from the objects to which their at- tention was devoted ; and the imagina-~ tion was always kept awake by the vis ( 284 ) sionary illusions which naturally arese out of the received articles of their faith. In this case, it is easy to trace the operations of mind in a recluse excluded from general conversation, and those ob- jeets by which the attention of mankind: in social life is most commonly engross- ed. But this singular offspring of fancy and memory, in which the sage, (who only became poet when no longer equal to the hardships of the chase,): unfolds. his former thoughts and feelings, opens quite a mew scene in the region of in- telleet. Here the power of the invent- ive and discriminating faculties are pe- culiarly exhibited ;—The glowing fancy. that embellishes, with a thousand beau- ties of its own creation, scenes. rugged and barren in the extreme te. an ordi- nary mind. The fine perception, and instinctive taste that discerns the slightest trace of. ( 285 grace or beauty in sounds, in forms, or colours,—in every pleasing or sublime feature of the ever-varying face of na- ture,—the sympathies of tenderness, so consonant to the lively sense of admira- tion,—and the strong habitual attach- ment, that in some measure, losing the grasp of those departed friends of whom “ only the mist remains,” seizes with fond enthusiasm on the glens and re- cesses they were wont to haunt,—on the rocks. that echoed to. their voices, and even the animals that were the objects. of their pursuit. | All these strong lines of the poetical character, unfolding in a sphere so unge- nial, and delineated by the. faithful pen-~ cil of unassisted nature, are certainly worthy of attention; and even the mi- nute detail of his pleasures and occupa- tions, and the almost unconscious tribute Re pays to his departed friends, adds te ( 236 ) the fidelity of the picture a more perfect finishing and verisimilitude. This faithful delineation of objects, minute” and peculiar to the spot where the solitary hunter lived and died, ren- ders the translation extremely difficult. In the Gaelic language, there are terms so happy and significant, made use of as names to particular rocks, bogs, glens, &c. that they at the same time convey an idea of their productions and form, and of the relations they stand in to neighbouring objects, These marking and felicitous appellations it is impos- sible to translate : whence much of the spirit of Gaelic poetry must evaporate with the imagery thus lost. But before you enter on the perusal of this singular composition, it is worth while to trace the accidental circum- stances that gave occasion to it, as well as to give a more particular account ot its author. ( 287 ) Before, and indeed for some. time af- ter the year 1745, there were here and there, in remote glens in the highlands, persons whose chief subsistence was de- rived from hunting, and a few solitary individuals who devoted themselves en- tirely to it. HN ; This they were obliged to do in the most silent and secret manner. The proprietors of the ground would not have suffered such continued slaughter : And more deer was killed by what was ailed “ stalking,” 2. e. moving unper- ceived amidst their haunts, and then standing motionless to shoot them as they passed, than by chasing them with greyhounds ; which they could only do on remote moors or mountains. Those habits of silence and watchful secrecy, together with abstinence from liguor, gave a peculiar cast to their countenance and character. They were gr.ve, taciturn, and steady. They did not entirely feed on the venison they caught, but brought it to the habitations of their friends, and shared with them of their common food. The skins they sold te procure clothing. They shot with arrows, long after such weapons had fallen into general disuse ; the report of a gun rendering it unsuitable to the privacy of their pursuits. Near the western extremity of the parish of Laggan, where the prospect appears at a little distance entirely shut in by mountains, is a beautiful little val- ley called Strathmashie, divided by a small river called the Maeshy, which descends through it, and discharges into the Spey. Loch Laggan lies about se: ven miles to the west. This fine lake, (much resembling the Windermere in Westmoreland,) dischar- ges itself into the west sea through the Spean. It is six or seven miles in length, and extends from south to north, be- { 239 ) tween those lateral chains of mountains that stretch in an easterly and westerly direction towards the sea from the cen- tre of the Grampians. This central spot, difficult of access, and covered with wood, has been of old accounted a secure retreat, peculiarly adapted to the chase ; and here the kings of Scotland, when they resided betwixt Dunkeld and Lochaber, had their sum- mer hunting-seat. Of this, several testimonies remain. The parallel roads in Glenroy, for in- stance, which descend from the southern boundary of this lake; a dark forest of six miles in length, on the east side of the lake, which is the only vestige re- maining of the Sylvee Caledonia, which actually extended from Dunkeld to the extremity of the north ; and two islands in the lake, on which are the ruins of buildings of high antiquity ; one of which is called « Filan nan Rhi,” 7. e. the ( 236 ) the fidelity of the picture a more perfect finishing and verisimilitude. This faithful delineation of objects, minute” and peculiar to the spot where the solitary hunter lived and died, ren- ders the translation extremely difficult. In the Gaelic language, there are terms so happy and significant, made use of as names to particular rocks, bogs, glens, &c. that they at the same time convey an idea of their productions and form, and of the relations they stand in to ‘neighbouring objects. These marking and felicitous appellations it is impos- sible to translate : whence much of the spirit of Gaelic poetry must evaporate. with the imagery thus lost. But before you enter on the perusal of this singular composition, it is worth while to trace the accidental circum- stances that gave occasion to it, as well: as to give a more particular account of: its author. Before, and indeed for some. time af- ter the year 1745, there were here and there, in remote glens in the highlands, persons whose chief subsistence was de- rived from hunting, and a few solitary individuals who devoted themselves en- tirely to it. si This they were obliged to do in the most silent and secret manner. The proprietors of the ground would not have suffered such continued slaughter : And more deer was killed by what was called ¢ stalking,” 2. e. moving unper- ceived amidst their haunts,” and then standing motionless to shoot them as they passed, than by chasing them with greyhounds ; which they could only do on remote moors or mountains. Those habits of silence and watchful secrecy, together with abstinence from liguor, gave a peculiar cast to their countenance and character. They were gr.ve, taciturn, and steady. They did { 2% ) not entirely feed on the venison they caught, but brought it to the habitations of their friends, and shared with them of their common food. The skins they sold te procure clothing. They shot with arrows, long after such weapons had fallen into general disuse ; the report of a gun rendering it unsuitable to the privacy of their pursuits. Near the western extremity of the parish of Laggan, where the prospect appears at a little distance entirely shut in by mountains, is a beautiful little val- ley called Strathmashie, divided by a small river called the Maeshy, which descends through it, and discharges into the Spey. Loch Laggan lies about se: ven miles to the west. This fine lake, (much resembling the ‘Windermere in Westmoreland,) dischar- ges itself into the west sea through the Spean. It is six or seven miles in length, and extends from south to north, be- { 239 ) tween those lateral chains of mountains that stretch in an easterly and westerly direction towards the sea from the cen- tre of the Grampians. This central spot, difficult of access, and covered with wood, has been of old accounted a secure retreat, peculiarly adapted to the chase ; and here the kings of Scotland, when they resided betwixt Dunkeld and Lochaber, had their sum- mer hunting-seat. Of this, several testimonies remain. The parallel roads in Glenroy, for in- stance, which descend from the southern boundary of this lake; a dark forest of six miles in length, on the east side of the lake, which is the only vestige re- maining of the Sylva Caledonia, which actually extended from Dunkeld to the extremity of the north ; and two islands in the lake, on which. are the ruins of buildings of high antiquity ; one of which is called “ Filan nan Rhi,” i. e the ( 240 ) King’s Island; the other, © Eilan nan « Conn,” the Dog’s Island. T radition assures us, that in one of these islands, the king and his train feasted in securi- ty after the chace; and in the other, the hounds and their keepers were accom- modated. There is a place shewn here, where seven kings are said to be buried ; and a brook, which descends into the lake, is called « Alt Merikie,” the Brook of the Standards, from their being usually placed there. Many other names of places in this retreat allude to the for- mer occasional residence of those mo- narchs, who are supposed to have chosen this almost inaccessible retreat, with a view of pursuing their silvan sports un- disturbed, durmg their wars with the Picts. | The banks of this lake, and the gras: sy and woody openings, or rather laby- rinths, that terminate it at each end. ( 241 ) were of all places the most inaccessible. On each side of the lake, rising above the woods and verdure, were ledges of lofty and barren rocks; and in the in- tricate outlets at each end, rocks, bogs ad impassible waters, were so Ser mingled, that it required all the dexte- rity of the natives to find a path for themselves or their cattle. Here the military never found their ‘way ; and it Js not long since any officer of civil law penstrated into this sanctuary of primi- tive highland manners. A road is now about to be made, at the public expence, through this retreat to lead from Athol to Lochaber, In he estimate given in for it, fifty bridges are calculated upon. Such is the CADencE and difficulty of pursuing Nature to he last retreats ! | This district was inhabited by some families of Macdonalds ; faithful, honest, and affectior nate among th vo ) g themselves, but ( 242 ) famous for their depredations in carry- ing off cattle from the more open and fertile countries. Indeed, they were not exactly the inhabitants of this secluded spot that were ouilty of these acts of Amidst the plenty which their violence. and hills afforded, they might streams say, with the same intention as the Shu- pamite, I dwell among my own peo “ ple.” The Lochabrians, ever famous for their i ations, made their descent through depred this wild district, so impervious to stran- oers; and carried off the cattle through e intricate paths to which the the sam conversation with the bard aitludes, in his owl. Her assertion of her innocence is a figure by which he justifies the people of the glens, as he calls them. Where the chains of mountains open t and west end of the lake, centre, a solitary mountain, « Stronavaties’ to the eas rises, in the called; from its form, ( 243 ) it stands, surrounded by rocks, bogs and precipices, with a mixture of wood, and beautiful scenery, and seems to be a central point between the two seas, in the midst of the Crampians. From the side of this mountain projects the «Craig (GGuanich,” or Rock of Security, as the name implies. This hill, this rock, the deep recesses and lofty, naked mountains around i. seems to have bounded the excursions of the hunter in question. He piques him- self upon being a nursling of the Craig Guanich, and on having spent his life among the roes and deer ; with the beau- ty and elegance of whose forms he seems to have been much delighted. He men- kong, with tender regret, the hunters the companions of his youth, who ire of the same kindred ; the inhabitants of this district being chiefly Macdonalds to which clan the hunter also belonged: Of a different family of the same name were the deprepredators to which he al- ludes. It is observable, that the last gentle- man known to have carried off a spreath of cattle, and the only individual who ever, (under the old regime,) suffered death for such a crime, was Macdonald of Bohuntine in Lochaber, not far from this secret vale. The Laird of Grant, then Sheriff of In- verness-shire, had him condemned and ex- ecuted by his own authority ; which event produced a general sensation of awe and astonishment, such as is NOW excited by condemning a man to death for fighting a duel; a crime equally condemned by the laws of God, and equally sanctioned in these days by false notions of honour and gallantry. } To return to our hunter.—Becoming too old to pursue the chase any longer on his beloved Craig Guanich, he came down to the inhabited glen of Stramashic, and sheltered with some of his kindred there. One night, in autumn 1772 or 1773, I am not sure which, as he was sitting quietly in the cottage where he resided, some cattle-drovers came in, called for whisky, and began to divide their pro- fits. They addressed some conversation to him, and offered him liquor. Habi- tually sober and taciturn, he declined both, and sat, looking on in an absolute silence. At first they were provoked at finding him so unsocial, and finally sus- pected him of being a spy, waiting to discover what profit they made of their bargains. . They got up in a rage, and turned the poor hunter out of doors.. He took shelter in a barn, and had lain long in solitary meditation, when he discovered a more suitable associate. This was an owl, seated on a beam opposite to him. He was too much chagrined by his late ( 246 ) expulsion to sleep; and, to banish the sense of the insult, amused himself with composing a long poem, containing the sketch of his former life ; which I have endeavoured to translate for your amuse- ment. Fle «lets his frail thoughts dally with “ false surmise,” so far as to suppose the accidental associate of his solitary vigil to be the self-same owl that he had, for many years before, heard hoot- ing upon the Craig Guanich; and, as Virgil ingeniously returns to the com- mencement of his history, by making A.neas recite his previous adventures to Dido, old Angus, by a convenient, poe- tical fiction, supposes the owl to have dwelt for ages in the Craig Guarich, and carries his hearer back to the heroic time of the Fersaid, by the owls an- swers to his queries. He goes on to describe his sensations, opinions, and recollections ; and intro- ( 247 ) duces an eulogium on the companions of his youth, who cleared the hills of the chace with him in the prime of man- hood ; and concludes with a soliloquy, supposed to take place near the top of the Craig Guanich, to the sammit of which he could no longer ascend. Liis fast farewell to haunts so long endear- ed to him, and the description of the various lakes and mountains which lay within his view while seated on that eminence, is not deficient either in pa- thos or sublimity. The west end of Loch Eroch on one side, ard Bennevis on the other, can ea- sily be seen from his ¢ rock of willows,” as well as the other objects he mentions. His half serious and half burlesque re- proaches to Old Age, who sits ghastly on his hearth, form no very dignified termi- nation to the poem, it must be allowed : Yet the resignation and good-humour with which he congratulates himself on. the term of enjoyment aiready allotted him, reminds cne of him who <¢ From Nature’s temperate feast rose satisfied, - ¢¢ Thank’d Heaven that he had liv’d, and that he dicd.” This translation is so difficult, that 1 think I should not have attempted it at all, if I had not found you take so lively an interest in one, who, being neither hero, lover, nor bon vivant, has nothing in common with common minds, and Address tothe Onl; or, as it is called in the Gaelic Language, the Song of the Owl.” On,-wailing owl of Srona! * Mournful is thy bed this night If thou hast lived in the days of Donnegal, -. No wonder-thy spirit is heavy. . Owi. “ I am coeval with the ancient oak, ‘‘ Whose roots spread wide in yonder moss. -: ¢ Many a race has past before me, * And still I am the lonely owl of Srona.”. .° can only excite interest in those who e love Nature well enough to follow her into her most secret recesses. To please yeu, I have translated it ; and, to please HuNTER. - myself, I shall some time or other polish Now since old age has overtaken thee, . . ] Confess as to a priest, and versify it.—With best respects to And fearless tell to me, Miss , whose benevolent regards I AEs Bra i The tales of days long past. depend upon for my hunter,—I1 am, dear Owe. - ‘‘ Rapine or falsehood I knew not, *¢ Nor grave nor sanctuary did I violate ; ‘* To the mate-of my youth-I was faithful se ** Iam old and forlorn, but guiltiess, wadam, yours, &c. RS ETE EI ( 250 ) s+ Vet I have seen the valiant son of Britta, «« And Fergus, the powerful champion 3 ss And the gray-haired Torradon of Srona : s¢ These were the heroes mighty and faithful.” HUNTER. Thou hast well begun, and must not cease Samer Relate what further thou hast seen ie These had passed away, Before Donnegal abode in the Fersaid. Owl. + J saw the mettled Alexander of the spears ;— «¢ The most renowned chief of Albin. «¢ Often have I listened to his voice, s¢ While clearing the hills of the chace. + I saw after him the gallant Angus—— s¢ Scarcely inferior. + In the Fersaid was his dwelling 3 « And his work, the mill of Altlaraich.” HuNTER. Many battles and inroads Came then from Lochaber.— ‘Where, bird of the gloomy brow, ‘Was the place of thy concealment ¥ 251 Owl. ¢¢ When the sounds of terror were heard, ¢ And plundered herds were passing, ¢ I turned atide from the sight, ¢¢ And dwelt in the Craig Guanich. ¢¢ Some of my kindred dwelt ¢¢ Between the Inch and the Fersaid :=— «¢ Some, on the sands by Loch Laggan, “¢ Where their evening cries were heard.” HuNTER. Rock of my heart! the secure rock— That rock where my childhood was cherished ! The joyous rock,~—fresh, flowery, haunt of birds, The rock of hinds, and bounding stags.— The rock encircled by the sound of the chace, Which it was my delight to frequent. Where melodious rose the cry of the noble hounds, - Driving the herds of deer in their fastnesses. Loud were the eagles round its precipices,=—= Sweet its cuckoos and swans. More chearing still the bleating Of its fawns, kid-spotted. Sweet to me, as the murmurs of the tufted woods. . At the elbow of the steep craggy rock: FIRM Tn a] ( 252 ) And the light-formed hind,. with slender limbs, Reposing under the foliage, in the sultry heat. She is nursed by the herbage, and hart’s tongue : The stag is her beloved and only mate {=— Mother of the sportive, small spotted fawn Spouse of him that abides..* Swiftly he scours the plain, He makes not his bed in the dust.. The top of the fresh tufted heather He prefers to the softest couch. Graceful is the beauty- of the brown deer, Descending from- searching the mountains 3 The son of the hind, and the excellent one, That bent not his head in disgrace. The hind; sharp-horned, of quick movements Dun-speckled, of nimble step, her breast towards the mourn- tains. The hart, spirited, antler-headed, majestic 3 Murmuring, as it were, an indistinct song i=rxed, of brin- dled head. » « Him that abides.” An expression which implies fortitude. ‘¢-Him that abides,” means a person uncon- scious of any motive for flight or concealment. ( 258 ) Admirably wouldst thou course it, - Up against the hard and steep declivity. Let every one praise the swift pursuer ie Be mine to praise the speed and beauty. that escapes. -- Rock of my heart !—the great rock! Beloved is the green plain under its extremity. More delightful is the deep valley behind it, . Than the rich fields and proud castles of the stranger } Oh my delight! thou reedy mountain’ of springs! - The rushy bog, whence the stag roars - The hound of clearest cry, who was went to chace The deer to Invermearain. - More pleasant to me than the humming song of the rustie, Over the quern, as he grinds the crackling. corn.- The low cry of the stag, of brownish hue, On the declivity of the mountain in the storm. When roars the stag of the little hill, And bellows the stag of the rocky height. These stags answer each other, And the deer ascend, alarmed, from the Corry of retreat.® * « Corry” signifies the hollow bosom of a mountain, in which, on account of the snow lying long there, the vege« tation is often: more luxuriant than in the lower grounds. | | ( 254 ) From my birth I have ever sought The society of deers and roes. I never bestowed a look on a skin of any other colour, Than yellow, red, or brindled. The banners of Alexander of the glens ; Its splendid streamer waving from the standard. The bright ensign of the race of Cona; Who regarded not the children of strangers. 1 broke not the band of kindness, Which held me to the Craig Guanich ; But old age has separated us. Long, however, was the festival I enjoyed. Rock of my heart! thou rock of refuge! The rock of leaves, of water-cresses, of freshening showers; Of the lofty, beautiful, grassy heights: Far distant from the shelly brink of the sea. Seldom did I listen To the spouting tumult of the whales; But much have I heard Of the murmuring of the wild harts. 1 placed not my confidence in searching For the swift-gliding fish with the baited hook se Far more delightful to me was the rapid chace Traversing the purple mountains in Autumn. ( 255 ) A joyful task is the chace t= Cheering are its circuits on the heights. There is more delight and melody in the sound of its song, Than in that of the mariner when loosing the rattling sail. As long as I beheld the light, And the breath remained in my body, I would continue within sight of the deer t= These are the herds im which I take pleasure. Where were heard sounds more melodious Than the cries of the gallant hounds approaching ! The slender stag rushing through the valley, And the greyhouuds mingling with the herds. When I had only two firm legs, Early did I wander on this side and on that ; But now that I have acquired a third, My motions are stiff and slow. The strength of my bow lies useless on my breast, To the joy of the dun harmless fawns; They sport secure and joyous, while I am gloomy and for- lorn. Alas! to-day my power continues not. Alas! that this day they do not live! That the mist only remains of the social band: Whose joy was in the voice of the hounds, tn Without riot, without drinking, without clamorous talk, Te din Famer aR Ce ( 256 ) Low is laid in Kingussie The foe of the red and dusky herd. -. An.arm dexterous to pierce the salmon, :.. And powerful in the strife of wrath... In that shealing below I have left: - Him whose death was woeful to me... Often did he fix his shafts In the ear of the brown antlered stag. -. Ronald *, the son of the hoary Donald, -- Who knew all that the schools could. teach. Excellent Macdonald of the clustering locks! ° He lives not who can compare with him. Dear loved Alexander of the glens,- Desolation remains where he is no more. - Often did he lay prone on.the hills, The son of the stag, with his dark gray dog. .. . Alexander, thou son.of the mighty Allan, - Fatal to the deer of the mountain, Long persevering in the chace. My hope is still in the brave son of Donald. i d Alexander, * Probably some relation of the lamente der, whose literature, as well as his dexterous archery, distin guished him in the glens. ( 257 ) A Macdonald thou art without fail A stream of glittering steel ; Allied to the Clan Chattan ; and & nursling of the Craig Guanich. Here follows a verse, scarce intelligi- ble, and untranslateable. The bard seems entering on an enthusiastic reverie. On the turret of fairies I sit, where the retiring sun Points his last beam upwards to the summit of the hill. I look on the end of Loch Treig :— The sheltering rock where the chace was wont to be.. I see the dark lakes dim at a distance 5 I see the mighty pile, and many coloured mountain = I see in the deep vale, the last dwelling of Ossian of Fin. gal: I see the hill of flat sep-:'chral stones. I see the towering Bennevis,, And the red cairn at its foot 3 And the deep and secret. corry behind it. I see the lonely western mountains, and the seabeyond them. Precious is that red corry Where we delighted to. haunt. The corry of fresh, heathy hillocks : The nightly abode of fawns and stately stags.. ( 858 ) I sce the spiry heights of the woods On this side of the forest of Leita.— The part where the slender stags meet— The nightly abode of fawns and stately stags. I sce the wide Strath of the cattle, Where the voice of heroes was wont to resound ; And the wild corry of the rocky strait, Where my hand oft inflicted a wound. I sce the rough heights of the brown stag, And the ridgy mount of the fairy hill. These, and the black mountain side, Oft have I shed blood in its forest. Once more I hail the streamy hill 3 Honoured as it is above the hills around. Hail to Loch Eroch side, haunt of many deer ! It was my happiness to be there. Carry my blessing to the lake, Extended far, and deeply sheltered, To the water of Lemina of the wild ducks; Nurse of the spotted fawn and kid. Lake of my heart art thou! O lake! Where played the shy water-fowl : And many a white and stately swan Did swim slowly amid their sport. 259 { shall drink of the Treig my fill, That I may not any longer be sorrowful : Clear water of the wholesome spring ! Drunk by the deer of graceful movements that bell round its source. Lasting was the connection, unbroken Between me and this pure stream. The juice of the lofty hills, that refreshes without intoxica- tiON —— Which I drank in abundance without satiety, Alas! the communication is now broken off Between me and the beloved rock of willows : To it, I can no longer rise ye To me, it will never bend. Haunts of my youth! I have now addressed you all,emm Unwillingly do I take my leave. of you :=— Of you and your swift inhabitants.— The deer of the deep glens between the little hills. The most sorrowful farewell that ever was taken Of the deer in whom was my great delight. I shall never more direct the hounds ee I and thou, my faithful white dog. We have lost the deer at bay, and the song that solaced us. Never more shall I direct the hounds. Mournful are our steps in the wonted track ; Thot re we i ough we were for a time most cheerful ! Kk r+ 1 260 ) The thick wood has taken from you the roe— The steepy height has taken from me the stag. Yet are we not disgraced, my hero! For age has fallen upon us both. Unkind art thou, old age! Though we cannot avoid thy grasp ie Thou bendest the man erect in stature, "Fhat grew stately and warrior like. His days thou shorteneste His limbs thou lessenestems His head thou deprivest of teethe= His countenance thou changest with wrinkles. Thou spectre! wrinkled, tattered, vile, Blear-eyed, dun-coloured, listless. Why, thou leper! should I permit thee To take away my bow by violence? I am myself more worthy Of my excellent bow of yew, . Than thou, deaf bald-pated age! Who sittest ghastly upon the hearth. Age again answered te ¢¢ Toa obstinately dost thou continue ¢s To bear that tough and stubborn bow ; ss More seemly for thee were a knotted s Wn: my = a {Lara oat ( 261 ) Take thou from me the knotted staff. Feeble coward, old age, thou mendicant ; Shalt thou deprive me of my faithful bow # ¢¢ Many a hero thy superior, “ Once bold and vigorous in youth, ‘¢ Have I left nerveless and feeble, “¢ Despoiling him of stature, strength, and courage.” ® This recluse, solitary as his life ap- pears to have been, seems to have had the power of clothing his few ideas in ’ * To Mr Alexander Kennedy, now resident in the island of Malta, I am indebted for assistance in translating many local and peculiar expressions in this poem. I once thought of versifying this very singular poem : But, on second thought, though I am conscious much of the beauty of the diction is lost in this prosaic form, yet the original form of the expressions, and the spirit of the Gescriprion are better preserved in a literal translation. Now, as the chief value of this consists in the faithful pic- ture it gives of a mode of life which has hitherto been a kind of nen-descript ; and, therefore, exhibits a new varie- ty of the human character, I prefered exact fidelity to any endeavour of transferring poetical graces from the original language at the expence of losing any of the fea. tures of similitude, ( 262 ) language nervous, animated, and singu- larly expressive. This is the less Oxia ordinary, as he cheared his Cu Bain, (white dog,) with songs, as they came homewards from the chase; and the Gaelic having been for so many ages the language of a nation of poets, pecu- liarly susceptible of musical delight, not only abounds in terms smoothed ss and suited to the sounding lyre,” but has actually a kind of poetical vocabula- ry, rich in lofty and elegant phrases, not profaned by common use, yet simple and familiar ; for that monster, Mob, exists not in the highlands. gone: ET Te ee aad aR a ( 268 ) The following few Letiers are of little consequence in themselves, but are inserted merely to complete the series of those that have been already received with so much indulgence by the Public. LETTER II. SIR, Laggan, Aug. 14, 180i. I had the pleasure of your very kind letter some time ago. I hope you have received my answer, inclosing a note from Sir James Grant. Since then, on a visit to a neighbour- ing clergyman’s family, I met with “ Burns’s Life, Correspondence, &c.”— You may believe, that ‘¢ By turns, I felt the glowing mind %¢ Disturb’d, delighted, rais’d, refin’d.” In short, I could not think that any thing out of my domestic circle could so : iV ee 4 : ik Te A ye ps jo a ew i Bs % rH a “1 oh na hs Gt Sf 2 + A . ds gh iE pit! Se i hi? RE eT ( 264 ) > much agitate and interest me, after what I have felt and seen. My admi- ration of worthy Mrs Dunlop, which was very great before, was kindled into a high fit of enthusiasm ; during the pa- roxysm of which fit, the within truly ex- tempore lines were poured forth ; which I have an unaccountable desire to trans- mit to the amiable subject of them, in such a way, that she should not know from whence they came. By the bye, 1 have never seen her, though she has met with some of my family, and I with some of hers ; so she cannot conjecture, which is just what I wish, You were kind enough to express a desire to serve or oblige me, which I believe very sincere. Now, you will gratify me much by taking the trouble to inclose the within in a blank cover, and direct it to Mrs Dunlop, whose ad- dress 1 don’t exactly recollect; but I think she lives at Loudon Castle. A a ( 265 ) line, informing me that you have receiv- ed this and my other letter, would be an additional favour, and will give me room to hope you excuse this great tron- he, and take in good part the confidence t repose in you.*—T am, with increasing esteem, (for I have read your letters too.) your chliged, humble servant, A. G. LETTER III. DEAR SIR, * Laggan, Feb. 10. 1802. I must answer your friendly. letter in such brief haste, that I can barely say, * The poem alluded to is gow published with the rest of the author’s poems. VOL. II. M ( 266 ) < 1 thank you” for all your adniirable zeal of sympathy and friendship so ac- tively displayed on this mournful occa sion. But who, capable of such disin- terested exertion, ever liked the language of profession ? And how much more ea- sy do I find it to express my feelings o this subject to any other than yourself! You cannot easily imagine the pertur- bation and horror with which I opened the proposals you sent. I dreaded my name staring in my face, and all the fa- therless train ranked up in order. But when 1 read it, what a relief! Think of one suddenly let out of purgatory. I shewed it to J , and the only other person of taste and delicacy I could con- sult, our neighbour pastor, who was then with me. They were charmed with the delicacy, and no less with the judgment e thing. | * wi on folio paper to tell you of all the people who have sent comph- ( 267 ) ments of condolence, and offers of every possible assistance in forwarding my fa- mily. OF these I should mention ¥ * * *. Of my other friends d will say nothing : both because I can- not say enough, and because I'am not entitled to place their offers to my own account ; Mr G. being, notwithstanding the shyness of his manners to strangers, and the obscurity of his situation, what renders all who knew him glad, in any way compatible, to serve his children. Lady Grant wrote to me above a week ago for a subscription-paper, and that in terms so kind. The most intimate friend I have, (except female friends,) I daily expect. He is my relation too. He is a man of much taste, and, I think, some genius: But then he has been tossed through the werld, in a manner which necessarily blunts the finer feelings and perceptions. He is now, too, engrossed in business: So that, though his mind M2 ( 268 ) could make the retrogade Yaonsicviing cessary for the task of poetical criieiony, his time is too much occupied id admit of his doing me this kind of service. 1 have not yet mentioned this matter to him : It costs me a great deal to il tion it for the first time to any one: Y oy must have seen how very genuine on reluctance is. Once for all, ! shall = plain the motives of it. Bellove > is not caprice, false pride, or the I bashfulness that embarrasses a gil a her first public appearance. id I as not utterly misjudge myself, 1t is an innate sense of decorous propriety,—of i humble dignity which a mind in any il gree delicate and informed may claim and assert, under all external disadvan- nr very well that my friends were pleased, and the more pleased be cause they were surprised, with my he ems. Some of the pleasure, and all the surprise, was owing to their springing up among so many cares amd occupa tions, like productions of a mind at ease, without interfering with duty, or en- croaching on time. Others, who neither knew nor cared much about poetry, were surprised at my liliacs and carna- tions, because they were the first that ever grew in the parish, gnd they found them where nothing of the kind was ox- pected. Now I very well know, that both the poems and the flowers owed their power of pleasing chiefly to their locality, and would comparatively be very little thought of in any other place. The value they (the: poems) have, lies merely in the simplicity of the thought, and the ease of the versification. They are, too, like portraits, whose chief me- rit is exact resemblance, but which have not even that merit, to those who have never seen the originals. Thus thinking, and, I am pretty sure, ( 270 ) thinking correctly, I do feel sore and conscientious in stepping forth to claim from the public the reward due to ge- nius, for the crude and hasty productions of medioerity. The highlanders were a mere skeleton, except the first and last hooks; and these I have wrought and finished for publication. In the last- mentioned instgnce, T only felt conscien- tiously ; but here I have acted conscien- tiously : that is, consulted my own sim- ple taste, and been much more attentive to truth of delineation than to the beau- ty and glow of colouring, which is so of- ten substituted for it.. « Pr I have drawn nature and manners as I see them around me, with correct chas- tity and scrupulous fidelity. Nothing is so cheap, nothing is so attainable, as flimsy and tinsel ornament. My muse hall have no ornament but the blue snood and silver broach of her country ; — no attire but the simple folds of cus- { 2711 ) tomary tartan. I know I should haye pleased much more, had I permitted my imagination to wander among the very beautiful glens and glades that here and there derive a nameless enchantment from the sublime nakedness that sur- rounds them. Here I could have wil- lingly luxuriated, and « paused on every “, charm,’ in happier days of unchecked enjoyment.. The present state of my mind, tied down to sad realities, is, however, fa- vourable to that severe and masculine truth of taste which rejects superfluous decoration, and adopts the great outline, which leaves a general impression that cannot deceive, because’ it, neither ex- aggerates, nor dwells exclusively on the softer features of the pictured scene. Arcadian images would please more; but verisimilitude will ~ please longer. Misses will not put my book in their work-hag ; but, as longevity is the por-- ( 272 ) tion of truth, it may work its way into light, and lie on the tables of their grandsons ; and this not as a fine poem, but a correct drawing. I wonder whether any human being will ever say so much of my muse as I have now said myself. Well knowing that Mr Mackenzie and you « set down « nought in malice,” I will « nothing « extenuate :” I will prune and com- press abundantly, but will not promise to alter much. Elegance I should never attain : and force and simplicity I should assuredly lose. Your answer is obvious and true: * In these days of universal « polish, every one understands’ ele- « gance ; but simplicity is only for the « few.” gia | But, then, I am not the advocate on- ly, but the enthusiast of simplicity, ap- proaching to wildness. I have grown half savage among the hills, and write verse faster than prose, while the fit is ( 278 ) on, and cannot write a line when it goes off ; and so am past reclaiming. Here, for your private amusement, is the epistle from the gander; very dif: fuse rand prolix, but strictly true, and most picturesque and characteristic to those who knew our farm and barn- yard. ‘The grief that made the gander eloquent was occasioned by a blunder of our dairy-maid, Anne Man, whom her master jestingly called Miss Homo, when we did not wish the children to know of whom we spoke. She killed the old brood goose in mistake for a young one, to send to Dunchattan: Which tough and ‘venerable matron being presented at their anniversary feast, “proved the source of no small disappointment to goose-eating guests ; while her mate at home bewailed his partner with a sul- len constancy that might be an example to unfeathered widowers. To you, half the merits of the gander’s epistle will he M5 ( 274 ) lost; to strangers, it only seems ludi- crous; but to the gander’s particular friends in this family, it appears in no small degree pathetic. If I say any more about my goose, you will be tempted to account me one of the sisterhood. I therefore willingly release you ; being ever yours, with pro- saic truth and poetic fervour. A. G. LETTER IV. DEAR SIR, Marck 18. 1802. Tuis is another, but not unprovoked trespass on your patience. Do you real- ly think, after my undissembled reluc- tance to look the public in the face me- taphorically, that any resemblance of my ( 275 ) fided countenance shall go forth to be: stared at ? I abhorred: female portraits before a. beok ever since I read Pope’s couplet about Mrs Centlivre : ¢¢ Fair as before her works she stands confess’d, « In flow’rs and pearls, by bounteous Kirkall dress’d.”” If, indeed, it were possible to give an inside view of the Penseroso grot, with its long festoons of ivy and woodbine depending from the top; the great moss- covered stone that closes up the en- trance ; and the large circular bason of pure water, surrounded thick with prim- roses and wild hyacinths, in the centre ; and could Miss O. and I be seen, as we often were, reclining on one side of the arched cavity; that would indeed be a scene worth preserving. : I make no doubt, when you read the allusion to ¢ These happy hours, beyond: - “ recovery, fled,” in. the journal, you: ( 276 ) thought it was all poetical painting. No such thing. If I have any romance with me, it is really, literally the romance of real life. The world does not suit me: It is cold, it is corrupt, it is joyless—I must have pleasures, and they must be pure. At the same time, I walk with the fear of common sense before my eyes; and therefore dare not join my brethren and sisters, the children of fan- cy, in their excursions to fairy-land; having sagaciously discovered that en- chanted region to be like the lion’s den, —many tracks of beasts going in, but none of any returning. The highway, again, is too crowded for me. People who think of nothing but running straight forward would jus- tle me into the ditch, while I was dream- ing of elysium. I had therefore a little quiet footpath of my own, which I took pleasure in decorating with = simple flowers, cherished by my own hands. ( 277 ) Into that I allured others, who equally hated sloth and bustle; and there we cultivated friendship, and gathered its fruits. Nothing was distorted, nothing was exaggerated ; yet every thing was brightened and enlivened. The post waits, and must break my thread. You talk of the likeness of your unseen friend. The best likeness extant of me is M. There is a picture ; but ’tis a family-piece, full of children. What think you of Moome’s grave, with this verse from the poem to her ‘me- mory ?— ¢¢ And Charity, with open hand, a Shall some angelic form assume, ¢¢ And like her guardian genius stand, “ To watch the long repose of Moome.” In this case, Charity would be personi- fied as the prominent figure—and, O ‘how justly Dear sir, adieu, affection- ately. LETTER V.. Laggan, March 15. 1802. .. I am going to indulge you with what, from me, you will accept as a great ra- rity ; viz. a short letter ; so very short, that. I will not even repeat any of the many. acknowledgments M. desires me to make for favours received, while un- expectedly remaining so long in your family. I received six packets, containing cettain invaluable manuscripts, which the kindness of my friends have rescued from oblivion, and to which I have be- - haved like a very ostrich. The sight of them has, however, awakened some ma- ternal feelings. The nymph. of the fountain, and the lines commemorating my dear John and Charlotte, were, how ( 279 ) ever, wanting. I did not despair, think- ing M. would bring them ; nor mention them, thinking it barely possible that they might still arrive. ‘Here she is, but here they are not. I wish you could procure from these, who have the only copies, the hymn for the sons of the clergy, and the poem relative to the dear departed. I have now got back copies of all the others, except that addressed to Mrs Dunlop, of which I did not retain one. If T had sent it off before either my en- thusiasm or my courage cooled, it would have shared, perhaps, the fate of many other forgotten things, or be found with Astolpho’s wits in the moon. I was, by distance and absence, so lost to all my friends, and, by constancy of affection, so endeared to them, that they treasured up my hasty scrawls, like memorials wafted from another planet. Had they been common friends, there would not ( 280 ) be any materials for the edifice you are constructing, ‘vulgarly stiled a book. It is more ‘valuable as a monument of their attachment than of my ability. There is dittle modesty in all this; for the inference: is, what attractions must I possess to win and ‘attach such friends : So the best way to escape mere egotism is, to run away as fast as possible; which I shall do, after assuring you,: that, run where I will, you shall always find me very truly yours. ae LETTER VI. DEAR SIR. Laggan, May 6..1802. I wiLL yet add a few lines to the songs, as you wish. - You would admire my condescension in this instance, as much ( 281 ) as you do my skill in military tactics, if you knew how much all my faculties are on the stretch at present on mournful heroics. But I am throwing all my nar- rative into notes, and condensing and concentrating to your heart’s. content. Witness this compendious tribute to the sufferers on the wrong side. « Forgive, ye valiant dead, ye kindred shades, ¢¢ That glide with heroes through elysian glades, t The muse whese trembling hands entwine the wreath, «« Whose mournful eyes retrace the paths of death. «¢« So fast ye crowd upon her dazzled view, ¢¢ Like sun beams on a cypress wet*with dew 3 ¢¢ She sinks, o’ercome, unequal to relate “ Your loyal zealy or your disastrous fate? I have, however, done justice to Cap- tain Mackenzie, whom you must have heard of as strongly resembling the prince, and passing-himself for him, with his dying breath, that he (the prince) might elude the searcli of his pursuers. This answered the purpose of giving him time to shelter in the cave of Glen ( 282 ) moriston with my great favourites, the thieves, whom I have also commemo- rated; and Flora Macdonald, though last, not least in love, shall: close the procession. The general * shall, as he well deserves, be the-sole subject of a letter: But, in the ‘meantime, I raust, extricate, excul- pate, and. exonerate myself, as to my principles. Know, then, that of all whigs, my father was the bluest, and taught me to look up to the reigiting family as some- what sublime and. celestial. I do not know that my mother ever expressed the: word politics i in her life, She, however, feelingly lamented : the ruin-of the fami- lies she was, connected with, and melted my heart -with sad tales of the tragical fate of many of her Stuart relations, some of them truly valuable characters. Irom this harmonious discord arose in my mind * General Graham of Balgowan and -Barossa. ( 288 ) a strange mixture of whig opinions and tory feelings, which 1 suppose will ap- pear sufficiently obvious; for whatever casual decorations faney may scatter over my subjects, I always write from my fix- ed principles and genuine feelings.—La- dy ’s« fancy about the ‘engraving is, with all due deference, absurd. A tomb- stone would cost less ; and that we shall extract from her son. Sure I could ne- ver have said a word about meretricious : I never think of a fine word : M. should have erased it.” | Adieu.—I was indeed very ill, and had'such a deptession, that if it had last- ed, I had not lasted. I'am now better, and all-active and’ diligent. From six to. nine, I am in the fields or garden ; : from ten to four, princefying as B. calls it; and the rest of the day, knitting with the children, or quacking with my poor neighbours, half a dozen of whom now await me.—Again adicu. LETTER VIL DEAR SIR, Laggan, June 9, 1802. I nave it now in my power to ac- knowledge your songs, which made me blush as I used to do twenty years ago. This I consider as a rehearsal of the confusion I am hereafter to undergo, when I not only make my public appear- ance, but suffer public chastisement un- der the hard hands of tae critics. Qf these 1 think just now as T used ‘to think of Raw-head and Bloody-bones about the beginning of his Majesty's ‘reign. You talk of my father Apollo, my stepfather, (for I will allow of no other appellation till he treats me better.) though himself a poet and physician, { 285 } has only allowed me to be a quack and a rhymer. Those rhyming and quack- ing occupations interfere greatly with each other in these busy days. In the midst of a sublime soliloquy I must -stop- to listen to an old woman’s tale of symptoms; or leave the pocr prince starving in a cold boat while I drop laudanum for a sick child.” If I give up quackery for rhyming, the death of some of my poor patients may ensue. But what is that compar’d to fair renown, After all this trifling, you must.congra- tulate me on having, like a good house- wife as I am, in spite of my stepfather, wound up my clue, that is; finished my hook, and I am now busied with notes historical’ and explanatory. For the cri- tical notes-I must be obliged to you." You will wish to know how I steered through between the yawning scylla of my Whig principles, and the whirling ( 286 ) charbydis of Jacobite sympathies. Take a specimen from what follows the con- versation between Flora and the old king. The Monarch still to honour’s dictates true, Nor mean revenge, nor cruel purpose knew 3 But long misled by faction’s treacherous art, As yet he reigned not in the general heart : To fury’s gripe resigned the imperial sword, Not heard when pity’s gentle voice implor’d, Nor kitew, exalted on a distant throne, How delegated power made misery groar. Now, is not all this true? What Whig can add to it, or what Tory detract from it. But to return to‘a more har- monious subject. I am quite pleased with this last vo- jume of songs: which proves, that your stores are by no means exhausted ; but you have kept the best to the last. 1 was glad to see from Burns,— « Bonny was yon rosy brier.” It is a song I delight in. That other ( 287 ) ¢harming song, too, free from ‘the odious chorus about Menie’s hawk e’e, which used to disfigure and degrade it. There" 13 a verse In it inimitably descriptive.— ¢¢ The shepherd steeks his faulding slap, ¢ And owre the muirlands whistles shill ; “ With wild, unequal, wand’ring stap, ‘¢ I meet him on the dewy hill.” No mortal could draw this picture seat- ed in a room. One must have wander- od over real moors, and met real shep- herds, with their cold abstracted aspect and long unequal steps. How unlike the Arcadian shepherds who have gone through so many hands, that it is like following the house that Jack built to trace them to their origin. Erskine’s « Lone Vale,” is truly what Burns called it. Sir Gilbert Elliot’s song to the air of ¢ Barbara Allan,” is delightful. We have no ballad of equal pathos and simplicity of our own age. Where can it have been all this time, ( 288 ) never to have been sung or admired ? The « Ewie wil the crooked horn,” is inimitable. It has, however, a proto- type in the Gaelic language, being a Strathspey song on the same subject, full of wild untranslateable humour. The poet tells you, for instance, that his crooked ewie moved with great force and dignity over the broad flags; and that with the very breath of her nostrils, she would throw a frog over on its back : — that every spring, in the first days of the season, she had twin lambs as large as calves, and as fat as butter, with ma- ny particulars equally astonishing, and meant to caricature the marvellous. Peter Pindar’s songs are all faultless elegance, but they do not come near the heart. One reads and admires, but does not wish to read again. His humour so amuses us, that we never wish to meet him in any other province.—Only think of hearing a tender tale from Parquin. ( 289 ) Boswell’s ¢ Country Laird” is incompa~ rable. I wonder you do not try to get more numerous songs from him. Here comes breakfast; I must, therefore, once more tell you that I am yours, &c. "LETTER VIIL DEAR SIR, Bristol Wells, Dec. 29. 1802. I RECEIVED both your letters, and sin- cérely condole with you on the delay of the book of books, well knowing that you will have little rest till that enemy of my peace is once fairly launched. I hasten to discuss your critical objec- tions : But first hear me excuse what I cannot deny—my inaccuracy, and defect In subsequent correction. Of the Jour- nal I sh i A s al only say, hat it was hastily a A eemgred SRA SEE: ee i a — sp AEE oe S— Ea a i H iw gi Ri Hh iH 4 ( 290 9 -snatched out of my hands, and fifty blun- dering copies taken of it before I had even leisurely read it over. The other ‘smaller poems, though none of them the production of 1eisure, you will own to “pe pretty correct. As for the Highland- .ers, part of which was in fact written last winter, you must ‘have yourself ob- served, that it has more force and less accuracy than any thing else. Thus, then, I account for the produc- tion of more advanced years, written un- der deep depression, appearing to have more vigour and less polish than the ‘last. That elasticity of mind, upon which my friends compliment me, always rises. most under distress and difficulty. When amy mind is depressed by sorrow, it often assumes a high tone of enthusiasm: 1 retire within myself : The world va- .pishes from before me; and, under these circumstances, composition of the most ( 291 ) solemn and serious kind is a task not ‘merely easy, but soothing and a tary. But when I came down from ie ahstraction, to eating cares and endl . interruptions,—rufiled and teased — longer mistress of myself,—I re a) the productions of my fancy oy ih gust and indifference, and could h endure to look over them. ay Certainly a female writer is an incon gruous thing! Minerva and the it never married ; and they were in io right of it—When I tell you th ry write almost extempore, it is boast of my blunders, but to make Hon Worn best apology for writing at dll ; : ich would have been inexcusable ei. 4 : in pa happy or sorrowful JTS, voted much time to that occupa- Yin si hi : for] very sore about the disser- on iv this age of doubt, when people vegin to cavil when they get out of the Ng { 292 } oS eradie, and go on doubting, till they find truth in the grave. There seems a kind of hardy presump- tion in hazarding opinions which the wise, the learned, and the many Have controverted. Moreover, the ; chain of evanescent evidence which has impressed on my mind that ‘which I have cries voured to convey to yours, would rele a very tedious and minute investigation indeed to elucidate it. In my progress through life, 1 have met with things so much out of the common way, that I should never think of relating them, i" cept to these who knew me thoroughly : Such is my dread of hazarding my vers Judge, then, how I must shrink city. from a public imputation, however un just! a The figurative expressions in the cient poem, which L. pretends to detec as borrowed from scripture and from " Gterne, &c. abound Mm periods anterior * { 298 eu” to. the existence of J. Macpherson, in authors who never heard of the exist- ence of Sterne or Fenelon. Now, as for the compliment to L. I assure you, | think exactly what I say ; for though I dislike his opinions, and am disgusted with certain affectations, I respect his abilities, and do not in the least doubt that he has persuaded himself to believe every word he says: But I am enraged at him for quoting, as evidence, a person without common morals or decency ; of whom I shall say no more at present, . but that I think him completely despi- cable. By the bye, if this caitiff had not been disgraced by numberless de- tected falsehoods, his evidence should weigh ; for he had Gaelic. But what is Gaelic without truth, or truth with- out Gaelic, to this purpose ? I am no way concerned about having tmputed to me a degree of exaggeration, relating to the Arcadian scenes and U- RT ara ee ai a as agua BF Shad Es VR dg A en TS SE rk NT ( 294 ) topian virtues of my Alpine regions. You know I have always represented the country as wild and barren, and the people as enduring 2 state of poverty and hardship. When I describe particu- lar glens as possessed of sylvan beauty, 1 speak truth; but this regards not the face of the country, which I allow to be very bleak indeed. LETTER IX. DEAR SIR, Laggan, Feb. 1803. ‘Tue great desideratum with me, in thought, word, and deed, is method. I wish 1 knew where a © commodity of «« good methods were to be bought.” * 1 would be as willing to purchase them as Charteris would have been to buy a fair character, which he rated so high from ( 295 ) a similar motive, knowing its value from. its want. Some disarranged folks pre- tend to be above method ; but I humbly own it to be above me. I am determin-- ed’that this letter, as a proof of my ho- nest endeavour to reform, shall proceed- methodically, and never once ¢ reverse. “ its march,” as L. most affectedly says, when any plain Christian or honest sol-- dier would say “ retreated.” ®* I shall cut and alter all you bid me about the Highlanders; and am daily, and more.and more sensible, that with-« out a pilot such as I have been so happy . as to find in you, it’ would be madness: in me to venture from shore. Unaccus- tomed to disguise, and hitherto having - no motive for it, I shall appear to the. world such as I really am, formed hy the accidents of education and situation,—a - solitary anomalous being, not thinking in track, or classing with any sect or - party. Such once was he, whose steady ( 296 ) judgment directed, and whose intuitive penetration enlightened me. What class of beings will now own or protect me ? I shall be like the bat, whom birds and mice alike shunned and diselaimed. The Jacobites will not endure me, because 1 honour the memory of the revelutionists. Whigs will detest me, because 1 have a great kindness for the Stuarts and their adherents, and dread all these factions who would make a cypher of their sove- reign, and crown King Hydra, whom I always thought a worse monster than fables yet have feigned, or fear conceiv- ed. Philosophers will regard me as a superstitious bigot, because all the powers and faculties of my soul repose with full confidence and joyful hope on, &c.—I refer you to the doxology, and think those much happier who understand . that, and nothing else, than those whe understand every thing else, and do not understand that. ( 297 ) I regard the sacred records with ad- wiring reverence, as the pure fountain and original prototype of all that is truly sublime and beautiful in composition, as well as of useful knowledge and sound: morality. Devotees, again, will utterly renounce me. Piety, even what is very sincere, has been lately driven by ¢ the “ world and its dread laugh,” to take shelter in tabernacles and conventicles,: where spiritual pride is continually nar- - rowing the limits of salvation, and with- m whose limits I could never confine myself. . It is among the lovers of truth and nature . alone that I am to seek for my partizans. Who that admires Mrs P. or Miss S. will ever tolerate me? 1 have: read no modern: authors but in extracts, that I have chanced upon here and there. But the only female writers of poetry I. can recollect at present, who have kept: their. garments unspotted, are Carter, 9 ; ( 298 ) Barbauld, and Williams. All the rest have sat mueh too long at their toilette, and are so bedizzened,—they nod such spangled plumes, and trail such pempous trains,—that, like every other artificial and superficial thing, they:are only cal- culated for the fashion of the day,—to please and dazzle for a moment: But of the two former particularly, one might say, « The teeth of time may graw Tan- « tallon—~—But they're for ever.” Miss Williams has since disfigured her stile with the slang.of party :* But how elegant. were her first productions ! I am told, the seng, ¢« Where Evan mingles with the Clyde,” is hers. I should have been charmed, though I had seen that only. Burns’ poems always excepted, 1 have seen no lyric production of latter days that has such power over my feelings. Pray do not omit to tell me how far ¢ 299 ) your feminine poetic tast¢ agrees with mine ; and how you like Darwin’s Bo- tanical Garden, of which I got a sight lately. They are really Hesperian gar- dens, glittering all over : the fruit gold, the leaves silver, and the stems brass. "Tis odd how many coincide in the same - sentiment. But Mrs M. Miss D. and - Mrs. F. have all said to me just what you say about the letters. . The latter - says, in her lively way, that she has her- - self what would make an interesting vo- lume. Whatever I do, it will be always my fixed opinion, that it is wrong and indelicate to publish correspondence in the author’s lifetime; and even were I persuaded to do such a thing, my opi- nion would remain unaltered. Pope did it, indeed ; but then: he was head of a seet, that looked up to him as infallible, —was a deep thinker; and wrote cn li- terary subjects. I do not speak of his genius ; for I do. not think that greatly ( 800 ) appears in familiar letters : they are va- luable for .omething that comes more generally home to the heart than genius itself. The only series of mine worth preserving were addressed to Charlotte. Wrote with all the ease of confidential intimacy, they were at the same time meant to enlighten a strong and pure mind ;—a mind whose early culture had been utterly neglected, and its very first principles. warped by naughty illiberal opinions, which it was my labour for years to obliterate. There was all that my reflection and observation, and the reflection and observation of one who saw far quicker and far deeper, could suggest for the direction of a young per- son, in eircamstances delicate and diffi- cult beyond example. There was the minute and faithful history of twelve years, during which very severe suffer- ings: were blended with very superior enjoyments. Even now that I am drink- ( 801 ) ng the bitter dregs of this salutary mix-- ture, I gratefully acknowledge, that its best ingredients are such as I hope to. meet exalted and refined hereafter ; and its worst, perhaps, the easiest and. safest: mode of trial here. This collection of letters, however, my girls, with extreme reluctance, commit-- ted to the flames, at the dying request. of the person to whom they. were ad-- dressed. She knew there was nothing in them that ought to have offended any. human being ; yet callous and restless curiosity might have found endless mat-- ter of speculation and conjecture, among. figurative expressions, remote allusions, and fanciful flights, quite out of the com- mon way : so she summarily desired them: to burn all the papers in her repositories. They did this, with great regret; and there remains nothing else either con- nected or instructive. Though they re- mained, we should still suspend the pro- ( 802 duction of farther localities till we see the reception the public gives to those already submitted to its mercy. L. whom I have read with great at- tention, and who has more plausibility and deeper research than any writer I have read on the subject, has not in the least shaken my Ossianick faith. If I were a man, which I always wish to be when I feel very angry-and very help- less, I would soon apply Ithuriel’s spear to his fair semblance. Indeed, his ety- mologies, in which the whole strength - of his detections lie, fall to the ground with a touch, like a house of cards, as I shall hereafter prove to your conviction. I am going to abstract myself from all the weighty concerns of potatoes, flax, and children, to transcribe the disquisi- tion by which I will live and die.—A- dieu kindly. A. G. ¢ s03 ) [Here follows the only letter of the se« ries mentioned in the above. It ac- cidentally escaped the conflagration of the rest, by being left at' Lag- be - —— "LETTER X.' tf MY DEAR C. . I Have got your letter; and your long journalizing: packet, which. has been just six weeks < suspendéd in mid air,” that is, lying at Dalnacardach. No person could possibly enter into details with more interest than we did. I was sure you must needs esteem Miss R.; her mind is very pure; and she is a person, whose truth and uprightness may be al- ways depended on. Now this is not one of my tautolo- sou) gies: People of very pure minds are: sometimes so. hurried away by imagina- tion and credulity, or so- fickle and un- certain, that. you are not safe with them. In her you will find a rational compa- nion and steady friend. - Principle built: on piety is a. pedestal on which one may safely lean. . The piety of a young wo-- man should be, like all her. other virtues amd graces, quiet and ‘void of ostenta-- tion. Yet, dépend upon it, besides the horror which a mind ‘rightly turned must - always feel at an impious charac- ter, a: young. girl without pious im- pressions must needs be very unamiable. She. must either have resisted such im«< pressions, or have beem so unhappily cir- cumstanced as to have no creature a- mong her early connections solicitous a- bout her. present safety and eternal felis - city. How one’s blood chills on reading Sa - vage’s tender complaint ;—= - { 805 ) ¢¢ No mother’s care «¢ Shielded my infant innocence with prayer.” A helpless feeble creature, born to obey and to he protected; who is only amia- ble while she is gentle—only endured while she is spotless. f Such a creature as this, rejecting, or slighting the protection of Omnipotence, bold in presumption, and fearing nothing but the breath of her fellow mortals, is a being that imagination revolts at. There is a melancholy truth, too, very little thought of during the triumph of youth and beauty; it is the considera- tion of young women’s being the sole material of which old women are made. Now an impious old woman,—a female that has made her way through all the peculiar sorrows that sex is heir to,— through a long life without seeking peace and consolation in the bosom of infinite mercy,—is so much the object of a peculiar undefined kind of horror, EN oa TI TS Ee m————————————— = ae = ( 306 ) that our ancestors, more pious, though less wise than their children, were very apt to consider such as very bewitching creatures, and feared to meet or look at them. Least I should lose your attention by. over-solemnity, I shall return to your Christmas letter. One of the first things that seems to have struck you was, the great scarcity of beauty among my town’s women; and the next, the frequency of those burials that met you in such num-. bers whenever you went out. Now, in. my time, there were as many beauties. and as few burials there, as in most other places; and though I cannot account ra- tionally for all this, I can.do it poetical- ly, by supposing all the fine women in town died of grief on your arrival, at seeing themselves outshone ; and that it was their burials that so frequently dis- turbed your feelings in your walks. Seriously, you feel strange and cold: ( 807 ) —you are not partial to the people, and therefore see nothing in a flattering light ;—their manners -do not generally please strangers: Yet, remember I pre- dict, that you will yet grow very fond of these very people; and then you will find wit, beauty, and politeness, wherever you go. I am glad to find you so sensible of the merit of those most estimable sisters to whose protection I recommended you; but I do not wisi you to think ¢ there “ is nobody like them.” You never in your life formed a more mistaken opi- nion, than in suppesing certain friends of mine :to resemble C. . I will not refute such an idea, but trust your own good sense and discernment -with dis- covering and rectifying this, and other errors of opinion. Having once. been very young myself, I'can easily:under- stand the triumphant satisfaction young: people feel in finding out the mistakes ( 808 ) and deceptions to which their seniors are liable, and how: ready they are to cry out with David, « I wiser than my teachers am:" But you, like other people, will find eve- ry year * a critic on the past »” and I do not wish you to adopt my opinions, mere- ly because they are mine.— « Time and I against any two.” Your last, which is just arrived, will supersede its elder sisters in my notice and attention; but I will yet return to my comments on them. In the mean time, I congratulate you on the well timed and considerate attention of your relations,—on Mrs D.’s goodness, which I hope you will never forget,—and even on Miss D.’s beauty, with which I see you yourself are dazzled ; and which, at any rate, can ‘do no harm to herself or .aghers, while she is so good natured and: ( 809 ) unaffected as you describe her. TI have enjoyed all your enjoyments,—~worn your white plumes, or rather deliglited to see you wear them,—danced along with you at your assembly,—and enjoyed, with my friend Mrs S. the pleasure of seeing ‘you dressed for it, and of hearing you and your lovely (not fair) cousin con- trasted like Bessy Bell and Mary Gray. May you both, like those charming cou- ‘sins, be as long celebrated for fidelity in friendship towards each other, as for ‘grace and beauty. It is odd enough that you should light on your namesake C. G. for a partner. —They say he is generous and good na- tured ; yet I think such a ‘sudden tide of ood fortune rushing on one bred to no expectations at so early an age, must be very dangerous. I consider the will as mere -caprice. "Had his father really loved him, he would have taken some “care to fit him for the enjoyments of all { 810 ) ihis ‘wealth. As it is, his very gooll qualities may be fatal tohim, and it is most likely « That dogs and men will drink him ¢ill they burst.” * I am glad you formed no other ac- quaintance. I am told, you-and Miss R. are visited by a swain of a very different descriptiony—just the kind of person I should like,” « were I as free to choose « at will,” &c.—but probably he is a mere acquaintance, or possibly knows that Miss R. has ¢ that within, which s« passeth show,” and looks on you mere- ly asa fine child, as indeed you would be little more, if lessons in the school of ca- lamity had not prematured your reason- ing faculties. Your little cousin is quite charmed with the ‘acquisition .you have made in the ==: He desires you to remember his last lesson -about your . — * "Fhis prediction has been literally fulfilled. ( 811 ) ‘morning studies; and I appeal to your ‘own feelings for testimony of the com- fort resulting from beginning the day, -as every rational creature, conscious of ‘being liable to error and requiring pro- ‘tection, ought to do. We have very great pleasure when we talk you over, (as indeed you are our frequent theme,)—in observing to ‘each other your noble veracity.—I call it noble, because your never stooping to ‘warp in the least, even when truth is disadvantageous to you, ‘denotes an in- nate dignity of mind. This is very well indeed: Yet I would have it-on a solid basis,— on piety, morality is built,”— built like the pyramids we used to talk ‘of, liable to no change or diminution. I always begin with the intention of amusing you with anecdotes, domestic and parochial; but you engross me so, that all centres in yourself. The new year and Christmas were past in the ac- customed ‘way j~=the young folks very ( 812 ) happy, the old folks enjoying their re- flected happiness; and the wonted in- terludes of fiddling and dancing, reliev- ed at times by a pastoral dialogue be- tween the pastors and their mates. The Christmas was this year spent at D——. Our friend’s leg would not allow him to come out. We went up—found him grumpy ; and his mate willing to soothe him and be agreeable. I rallied her: and Caro was in the humour of being very facetious. We projected some matches among the little folks; and, fi- nally, became guite joyous. Our friend shone out in his native colours —all chearfulness, candour, and benevolence. What a pity he should ever have min- gled with the dirty world! and how ho- nestly he tells us of the embarrassments it involved him in. He made us laugh by the hour with his London adventures, particularly his reading Greek to the bi- shop, to promote & project of Gen: John- ston’s, which proved abortive after all. {- 318 ) You €an’t think how much interest he takes in you ;'so does his mate, which is, in+one respect, more valuable ; for he, as Caro says, ‘scatters ‘his good will among the whole human race. They spent the new year with us, which was succeeded by a less welcome visit,—more conve- nient and amusing te the visitors than the visited. But I leave an account of this to a young lady of the party, who has promised to detail it, and much other petty history. ! am glad te find so much entertain mainment in my Clarissa. What you say of wigs, formality, and change of manners, is all true, but will hold more forcibly with regard to all other writings of the former age than this; particular ly the abominable comedies of King Charles’ time, from the heroes of which, two modern heroes, who you and I know, have taken their model of a fine gentleman. Modes are adventitious VOL. IIL 0 iy ( 814) ut nature is always the ‘same and where was ever nature SO truly and dis- tinctly painted. The little touches often repeated, not only unfold character, but imprint it on the mind, with. all its shades and variations. The tediousness you complain of 1s necessary in so long a work, to prevent your tiring. Thuis is odd, yet true. When once you are intimately acquainted with a person who has any marked features of character, you are interested in all he does and says: And how shall you be timate with one whom you only see, as Job's friend saw the vision, in an in- distinct and transient manner ? IT will make you understand me at once. 1 sincerely believe you when you say, that the remembrance of our cottage is very dear to you, and that you often draw pictures of it in your solitary musings. —Say that you saw a fine landscape of the surrounding hills, the green valley ( “815 and Serpentine windings of the river be Io, and our cottage, with its shelterin hill and rushing brook, in a ny you.aroyuld be pleased, no doubt silly again, that some laborious Dutch pair had drawn our cottage as the rs y ject of a piece, in which all i in j ; all its append- ages. should be faithfully delineated where you could see the tgs oo. the poreh, the pigeons sunning them relves on the thatch, Peter Ria content with the gander, Sone M milking the cows in the cuter yard oe the children listening in the Lover sermon preached by John out of the Wheelbarrow mwhile Caro, in es dignity, overlooked the whole from his wonted stand :—Say the picture Were 4 very minute as to include my favour- ite ash tree, and the house which the li teral Jack did literally build, to shltor the hatching goose.—~Now, here are the shadows of t wo shades, or pi les, pictures of 02 ¢ ( 816 ) imaginary drawings : Which would yeu prefer ?—The last, by all means. Well, Richardson is the Dutch painter, who has produced a drawing of superior in- terest, and equally minute detail. The shoe-strings of a person familiar to my imagination, and dear to my heart, are more to me, even in description, than the imperial purple which invests a form too great and too remote to come near mv affections. It is no proof of Claris- sa’s being a less valuable work, that it is less fashionable. All I have told you formerly is true. Clarissa is the shore, fixed and unchangeable as truth and na- ture must ever be. The fashionable world is the ship, sailing away from it, but steering without chart or direction. I tell you, C. I am sometimes tempted to say, with Wat Tyler’s mob, « It was « never a merry world since gentlemen « came up;’ that is to say, since ‘all manner of people must needs be ladies (- 817 ) and gentlemen. There is no fixed stand- ard for sentiment or opinion, more than for rank or place. Change, endiess mu- tation, is the thing; and while people are chacing a Proteus with vain dili- gence, the pursuit leaves no leisure for friendship, or for any serious and tran- quil enjoyment. People must wear eve- ry thing that is new,—must read every thing that is new ; for that only reason, must be every where,—sce every thing, and know every body. The consequence: is, that they are like rich people’s child- ren, who know no pleasure but getting new toys, breaking them, and throwing them away ; while ours build a house of turf and pebbles, spend a whole day in: gathering materials,—call, and almost think it a. palace, when they have done, and then rejoice over it for a week, from. the triumph of their conscious efforts in. producing it. Dear C. whatever you learn, do not. ' ORIGINAL DEFECTIVE | > er FREY ( 818 “) Jearn to despise peace, fri€ndship, and needlework. hat “ungquenchable’ thirst. for amusement, ‘that ufges some people, without asrfral. idea; without materials for thought, to fly through™these recesses in summer, merely to change, and to say they have beén in*odd, wild"places, is a fatal symptom of a deranged system. What can one expect of young people, drunk with conceit, idleness, and bound- less liberty, but what happens to other drunken people,—~transitions from the feverish joys of an irregular imagination to irksome languor, and intolerable self- reproach ? How I have run on!—Y¥oung said, « The grandeur of his subject was his “ muse :” By the same rule, talking of Richardson, one may allowably be mi- nute and tedious. Paper, fire, eyes, and candle, fail me, or I could give you, Sich curious. anecdotes of the Tearned Ham- let,” and. of David and J onathah, who Ean Shea © are in a temporary. state of exile from: ‘our*dominions, - and of Moome, whose hitherto wiicontested power as queen of theshamlet has lately been: if some dan-- “ger: . But Caro has: great merit in her . cyes just now, for sindicating her rights. | I Wish. you had ‘seen her in all her vin-- dictive’ majesty. You never heard one: so, eloquent., -All the aggressors were: forced to. hide their diminished heads be- fore her. 1 beg you will lay in a good stock of patience against your return; for she declarés, as a mark of peculiar grace, that-she will tell the dear erea- ture, Miss C. every word of. the dispute. Be prouds for Caro’s very self is go-- ing -to write to you. Parish news you will. get ffom other quarters. ..1 have long messages from all the children ; the general purport of which is, to bid you “return soon. The epoch fixed is, when the daisies come out. - My sister Paslo-. ving i you her kindest wishes, valu- % F - ¥ ® ae SE ie Ka Le fh Th tre ERNE Re I DR I TR YR RE Fa RC Ro ms pig SARE 7 WT Ym " ie Bg 8 va THEN ’ % (818 ) jearn ‘to despise peace, friendship, and needlework, That uncquenchable thirst for amusement, ‘that urges some people, without asrural idea, without materials for thought, to fly through these recesses in summer, merely to change, and to say they have been in'odd, wild places, is a fatal symptom of a deranged system. What can one expect of young people, drunk with conceit, idleness, and bound- less liberty, but what happens to other drunken people,—transitions from the feverish joys of an irregular imagination to irksome languor, and intolerable self- reproach ? How I have run on !—Y¥oung said, « "The grandeur of his subject was his muse :” By the same rule, talking of Richardson, one may allowably be mi- nute and tedious. Paper, fire, eyes, and candle, fail me, Or I could give you such curious. anecdotes of the learned Ham- let, and of David and Jonathan, who ESTER TREE ey TAR RET RE TT ; 2 et - are in a temporary state of exile from our “dominions, and" of Moome, whose hitherto uncontested power as queen of “the hamlet has lately been in som¢ dan-- ger: . But Caro has great merit in her eyes just now. for vindicating her rights. I wish. you had seen her in all her vin-- dictive ‘majesty. You never heard one so. eloquent., All the aggressors were forced to hide their diminished heads be- fore her. I beg you will lay in a good stock of patience against your return; for she declares, as a mark of peculiar grace, that she will tell the dear erea- ture, Miss C. every word of the dispute. Be proud; for Caro’s very self is go- ing -to write to you. Parish news you will. get from other quarters. . I have Jong messages from all the children ; the general purport of which is, to bid you return soon. The epoch fixed is, when the daisies come out. My sister Pasto- ring sends yon her kindest wishes, valu-- Eis et FERRET We Por " ORIGINAL DEFECTIVE § aT TITRE TERR TERETE ( 990.) ( 821 ) able for their sincerity, though unvar- ing weeds decay. I would not willingly. nished. 1 send you a thousand benedic- tions, on the express condition that you will no longer haunt my dreams. Is it not enough that you keep possession of my thoughts all day >—Adieu. Believe I pray for you as well as dream of you. Yours tenderly, faithfully, maternally. A. G. give pain to any human being, unless. there was some good purpose to be an- swered by it. I know the enemies of. gr pom og emg eg $ the good new old cause will think I have said too much in James's favour; and his few personal friends will wonder at. Ta. iia Wg my confidence, living poor as I do, to diminish in the smallest degree the con- Fa Ee Faw A sequence of a man who died rich. They little comprehend how small value I set on this extraneous part of his character; or how very little of the grace of humi- I. ETTER X. hity 1 derive, from the defect in pine, . which, in their view, should awe me in- to silence. At present. I cannot afford Bristol Wells. to be humble ; but if ever my wings are * * ® x * wet by a fertilizing shower, you will find my nest in the furrow. Ir you do print the dissertation, pray Every man, if not the artificer of hi . , Je artifice S soften every thing that might irritate, or give needless pain. Yet I do not know : Truth supports itself in the long run. The noble plant rises, while the choak- 2 much candour and justice to himself. 5. own fortune, is, at any rate, much the artificer of his fame. Had James shewn Phe ER ee | — 3 | Fl : “ 3 - » o er a a a tt at cies et ow Fs Pd ; : : Gr is Se AE ' ORIGINAL DEFECTIVE } a Tx ww PER Wk . oF Fa ( 822 ) as I have done to his character, this last would not have lain under the reflections which are now become so general, and believed as just. I am net afraid of poor and stingless resentment ; and will do all the justice to his memory that truth. allows, in spite of the ignorant prejudice which will; I doubt not, regard this offering to the shade of departed ge- nius with thankless malignity. I have said my say, and closed my evidence : Further I shall never by any provocation be led. My feet are much too tender to tread the thorny paths of controversy. ILfeel elastic and thankful, as the period draws near when we shall all shelter in that blessed asylum, Wood- end. This, to be sure, is a very beauti- ful, though very dear place. M. for whom the wells, have really done won- ders, walks about in a fine mall and crescent, just below our window, with some very agreeable (not pleasant) Irish EEE (828 ) acquaintances. . Feeling myself to be unpleasant, I keep very free of pleasant people, merely such. I sit here, like an owl'in a turret, contemplating the scene I'have no desire to mix in.. Sometimes - I go awhile down to the pump-room, . but oftener to the woody rocks that rise - above our-dwelling, to see Mr P’s ships - sail .by ; or catch with complacence the cold blast from Caledonia, and think I see - it waving the amber locks of my dear boy, or bending the trees planted by his - still dearer father round our once happy dwelling. Do not you be concerned about peo- ple’s imputing exaggeration to me, with regard to the Utopian scenes and Arca- dian virtues of my Alpine regions. What would you have? You know I have al- ways represented the country as wild and barren to the last degree, and the inhabitants living in a state of great po- - verty and hardship. ( 824 ) When I describe particular glens and "sylvan scenes as possessed of wild and singular beauties ;—when .I impute to the natives tenderness of sentiment, ar- dour of genius, and gentleness of man- ners beyond their equals in other coun- tries ;—every one that knows any thing of them must know, that these have al- ways characterized them. 1 am not afraid of being laughed at: Ridicule 1s not in this, nor in many other cases, the test of truth. In a word, I expect, but do not dread ridicule on this head. Now for the half guinea—. s¢ Between the acting ofa dreadful thing- “«¢ And the first motion, all the interim is « Like a phantasma or a hideous dream-:™ That is to say, between the writing of a book and the publishing, especially if it threatens to. come out with an addi-- tional half crown, like a page holding up its train. I am sensible there is no- ET ETRE ' ORIGINAL DEFECTIVE ? FRE oe = Fe . ERG EE ES iy 5 ( 325 3 thing essentially wrong, nor indeed very indelicate, in what you propose ; for the increased quantity of matter, beyond what all your wise’ heads had dreamed of, greatly augments the expence -of printing, and adds to the value, if any it has. There is a third more contained in it, as you, Mr Editor, assure me : Yet if this nymph of the wells were not, as she is, a most rapacious naiad, I would never balance a moment. Gather opi- nions, in the mean while, from the wise and the delicate; and upon no account let such a thing be mentioned in the north, where so many people subscribed for pure love,—and people, too, that must needs know that half-a-crown has no corners. Adieu.—I wish sometimes that the book were in the well; and when I am in better humour, I feel disposed to put the well in the book, in return for the } ORIGINAL DEFECTIVE § pr Pout » - 3 aE Tae aE Fre Rad » Fy (8 326 Y “ petiotits I hive derived. fron it. «pose’I should begin— “0 fount beriign ! in which I'fain would drown : My sad reflections, and this new half erown. . Or,. Why, greedy stream, dost thou, with whirlpool’s power, - My purse, and peace, and poetry devour ? This you will call low and prosaic. No such thing : Do mot you see the figure by which the well swallows my poetry, - which stands for the profits of my book, and the alliteration in the last verse ?— Pray, now, « let desert mount,” and put’ this into the volume. 3 I feel a little like poor Parson Evans, who sung because he was full of melan- choly.—But of this no more. I spend" all my sorrow where I spend much of my time—among the tombs. And surely no where are tombs so eloquent as here, . where so much intellectual light has - Ty ¥ been extinguished, and so many of thet fairest human flowers withered in their prime. Death is every where a glutton, but here an epicure.—Once more adieu. A. G LETTER XI Laggan, Sep. 15. 1808. * * * * * * Tuus far had I proceeded, when your last arrived, and found me in the very altitudes. of rural eccupation. “What use have I not made of these fine days! I have been in the court every morning, seeing the sun rise; and at the water side every evening, an hour after its set- ting.—Potatoes, rich in’ purple bloom, large as melons, and numerous as dew- | P— RIGINAL DEFECTIV EAE TER TES RIT TRE ( 828 ) drops, how shall. I leave you !—Lint, whose azure bells I meant this day to scatter ;—Turnips, whose broad foliage already delights the gazing cattle, how. shall IT part with you '—Luxuriant oats, with verdure brightening into yellow ; —Mildly fragrant hay, on whose half- finished stack the labourers dance to tunes, «s Of power to take the prison'd soul, ¢¢ And lap it in elysium,” how shall I-forsake you !—But, above all, sweet, smiling children, who move round me like obedient satellites, and exercise all your little ingenuity to at- tract me, how shall I frown repulsive, issue forth the cruel mandate that for- bids playing before the window, and leave you only the sad alternative of im- prisonment in.the nursery, or banishment beyond the burn '——Here, alas! must 1. sit immured, and instead of your, ani- WEL grrr = TERT “2 a i ¥ ~~ WL RL ( 829 ) mating gambols, see only opposed the poppies in the flower-plots, nodding their heavy heads with sympathetic dulness; or the convolvalus, looking still bluer than myself,” and emulous of my curi- ously involved periods ; while carnations, whose endeavours at display seem check- ed by the ungenial clime and declining season, warn me against a public exhi- bition under similar disadvantages. Now you must have patience with this pre- tusive flourish, and consider it merely as a trial of the instrument which is just about to play a lesson of your own set- ting.—TFollows extracts, criticisms, and amendments, of various kinds.— Stil! you cavil.— « Her gallant sons return no more :, ¢¢ In vain her eyes the watery waste explore ¢¢ For heroes, fated to return no more.” Thus it should be printed. Now these pathetic repetitions are so natural, and 5 " ORIGINAL DEFECTIVE ° hy xX a. do aa on =r a —_ > Si BL : 5 Te Sw : .- Li Tm. a AN hy od SREFTRE FRA { 880 ) do so abound in’ the poetry of nature, that I can never believe mine isthe only car ‘which is soothed, or the only heart that is touched by them. This is the only poetical artifice’ I have patience with : « And, reader, when thou seest my hobby-horse, «« Wish, for the world’s advantage and repose,. « No mortal man may ever ride a worse.” = » » » » . I wonder, now, if the meaning of this. last is as obvious to you as it is to me. On two things I value myself; yea, of three I am proud. One is steadiness in: friendship ; the pext, fidelity in transla- tion; and the last, felicity in choosing mottoes.. Of this last more hereafter. a ¥oo Hk # * i. My mottoes are ‘all''precisely correct, except in one instances that to the jour nal which is from: the {Lwo Gentlemen: of ‘Verona, where Lhave changed. my: or vl 331 y- ky love t0 my home; for Shvious reasons ; and another, where I change another word. I'know the rest are all correct, and if vou do not'say they are apposite, I must, for I really think so. Those from Mil- ton, are from Comus and Lyeidas, which I greatly delight in, maugre Johnson and the ancients. There is one pre- fixed to the ballad (my only ballad mind) from the charming poem on the Marchioness of Winchester. ¢ Gentle Lady, may thy grave «¢ Peace and quiet ever have.” You will find my mottoes all gospel, as you'say of my eulogium on my west country friends, I confess that Ossian, in the hands ofy his translators, somes= . times “swells into tumidity ; but then Ossian was mortal; and Homer is al- lowed sometimes to nod. - Rs like. the stile 81d character of * Motz = . : a F ORIGINAL DEFECTIVE Te TERE TT ETE RTT Tr orm cr TEER TRAE > 3 : ¢ 332 ) ( 833 ) duth as a warlike poem, better than most of his warlike poems. Tell me how I have executed the version ? Yet how should you, ignoramus that you are, who understand not the original ? as well as to a particular turn of mind. The inhabitant of a level and cultivated country, who dwells amidst a smiling landscape, where all is regular and tranquil, supposing the principles of taste to exist in his mind, will find them modified by the scenes around him. His soul will be soothed, and softened into the love of order and elegance. When brought to admire the rugged grandeur of solitary mountainous wilds, —abrupt precipices,—dashing torrents, —expansive lakes,—and echoing ca- verns, he will try to be pleased, and partly succeed. But the repulsive rug- gedness,—the chearless gloom,— the bleak aspect of desolation will affect his regulated spirit, and cultivated feel- ings, in a far different manner from what they ‘would a native, possessing originally ‘the very same principles of taste. To him the deep toned blast that sweeps resistless down the moun- But you can still criticize the versifica- tion, and there is nothing else mine. The nameless poet you must regard with distant awe, enveloped as his re- verend head is in the clouds of antiqu:- ty. I wish for my part I could find cut what kind of a plaid he wore, or whe- ther his great-coat was made of a deer skin or a wolf skin. Sons of earth in lowlands have no such laudable curiosity. If at any time they should, they would rather know what kind of veil Penelope wore, than what vestment infolded the noble form of the renowned Boadicea. Let us return to Morduth, who will take it amiss to be so long neglected. There is a certain stile of poetry adapted to a certain stile of landscape, rif w ih Wl Ye + « * ol ¥ ORIGINAL DEFECTIVE % TRE RTE RE TEE Tea RT Ea ow RETR AT a, 5 | | = SRR EW EEE w , " ‘ I i ed ( 834+ ) tains, sounds'a welcome prelude to the storm, that exalts while it agitates his mind. The dun solitude of the heathy waste,—the steep acclivity of the path- less rock, and the darkseme recesses of the narrow wooded glen, have to him peculiar attractions. He views them as scenes distinguished by the exploits, and hallowed by the songs of his ances- tors, the favourite haunts of the hunter, the hero, and the bard. It is needless to add, that each finds a strain of music ~and poetry congenial to these feelings, excited by his situation, and endeared by his habits. At different . periods “of my life, and ender warious circumstances, I have been very differently affected by the same objects. I believe IT might very early in some degrees affect.the wonder- ful and wild; for I liked thunder ex- ceedingly, ‘and one of the strongest childish wishes I remember, when stand- ( 835) ing on the banks of the Ontario, view- ing the passage of innumerable wild fowl to the upper lakes, was to mount on the wings of a swan to explore the depth of the luxuriant forests on their banks. When I came a few years after to to Scotland, Ossian obtained a complete ascendant over my imagination, to a much greater degree than ever he ‘has done since. Thus determined to like the Highlands: ‘a most unexpected cccurrence carried me, in my seven- teenth year, to reside there, and that in Abertarfe, the most beautiful place in it; yet it is not easy to say how much I was repelled and disappointed. In vain I tried to raise my mind to the tone cf sublimity. The rocky divisions that rose with so much majesty in description, seemed like enormous prisen walls, con- fining caitiffs in the narrow glens. These, too, seemed the dreary abodes of soli- tude and silence. These feelings, how- - bi i ORIG q a eg me —_—_ - re Bx Ee” rE Le a Pe BREE ey} NAL DEFECTIVE (“3% ) ever, I did not even whisper to the rushes, but in the mean while was bu- sied in all the little arts of self-decep- tion. I made myself believe, that 1 ad- mired a bold projection of rock, but, on reflection, discovered they were the fan- tastic tufts of flowers growing out of the crevices that had attracted me. I tried to think that a dark morass looked chearful when the summer sun shone on it, but I soon found that the silken tufts of Cannach, waving in the gale, and the groups of rhoit, which perfumed it, were the charms that engaged my fancy. Thus I went on with more industry than success, trying to create a taste suitable to my dwelling, like Satan, when he said, Hail horrors, hail,” &c. but I could not with him add, ¢ One « who brings a mind not to be changed « by place or time,” as the sequel will show. Two years after, 1 returned on a visit ( 837 ) tc my friends in the south, and thought myself in duty bound to talk rapturous- ly of Alpine scenery, the only affecta tion with which I can charge myself. Yet my heart did so warm to Stirling- shire, my mind expanded in these elysi- an fields, where every thing wore the as- pect of tranquil chearfulness. I discover- ed, that, however my fancy might be de- lighted with particular spots, the general aspect of things within the girdle of the Grampians was not congenial to me: And then the wild mountaineers, whose language I did not understand, and to whose character, of consequence, I was a stranger ; but like the potent Prince to whom I just now compared myself, I had nothing for it but to return to the place from whence I came, where it was my fate to be planted and naturalized. And now my activity of mind, and love of knowledge, were confined to very VOL. IL P ( 838 ) narrow limits indeed; but, like water whose channel is impeded, they took a different course. Whatever appeared to me a subject of laudable curiosity, 1 had seized and appropriated. New objects perfectly compatible with my new duties appeared, and I pursued these with pro- portionate eagerness, The language, the customs, the peculiar tone of senti- ment, and manners of the people,—the maxims, traditions, music, and poetry of the country I made my own with all possible expedition. I learnt them in the fields, the garden, and the nursery, in such a manner as rather to promote than interrupt my necessary avocations. And then I spoke of plants, from the fir on the top of Craigellachy, to the house- “leek on the cottage wall, What a scene did this open to me! what an interest did it create, in a country walled in from the world ; where the language, customs, and traditions ( 839 ) have remained so many ages unimprov- ed and undepraved, the native region of heroic, musical, and poetical enthusi- asm ! “ There was need to purge my visual orb, “ For 1 had much to sce.” Miron, I felt like a gifted seer, from whose eyes the unseen powers ad suddenly removed the veil of separation; while solemn visions of renowned heroes, de- parted bards, and the fair of other times. pass in airy groupes before him. 5 I am sure you are saying by this time, that if I had much to see, you have had rather too much to hear. But stay a little : In the ninety-three, I again went southwards, and began to look for the beautiful country I had left behind. It was gone. I saw nothing round me but tame, flat nature, and for- mal, frigid art. The people were such ® set of new-sprung, insulated beings; P2 ( 840 y so uninteresting : And for the mobility, —bless them, they were so ungraceful and ungracious, so devoid of all courte- sy and all sentiment ; the worst of them were like bears, and the very best like sheep at most. O how I did lift up my joyful voice, when I drew near the mountains of Perthshire, and at the pass of Killicrankie! I worshipped the ge- nius of the mountains with devotion the most ardent: And this morning I mount- ed the height above the house,—beheld the rising sun irradiate so many beauti- ful wreaths of mist, slowly ascending the aerial mountains ;—nay more, I had the whole parish in my view at once, and saw the blue smokes of eighteen ham- lets at once, slowly rising through the calm dewy air; every one of which ham- lets had some circumstance about it that interested me, or somebody in it that I knew or cared for.—Ifow populous, how vital is the Strath ! And with what a ( sil mixture of emotions did I behold it '—- And all this I must leave,—and some- thing that I value more than all this. There is no saying where this current may carry me. But before I go quite out of sight, I shall methodically deduce the inference from all this. I have ne- ver had so clear a view of the origin and progress of taste, or of its distinct modifications in any other mind, as its gradations and changes in my own have afforded. The result of those changes is what I may call a catholic taste. Not- withstanding of my raillery on my na- tive lowlands, these transitions have on-. ly enlarged my capacity of being de-- lighted, as I may very truly stile it. I can now repose among the softer scenes of nature, taste the more gentle and elegant beauties of art, and with equal relish “ mount in the rapid chariot of « the soul” to the regions of sublimity, ¢r sink as suddenly among the paper- ( 842 ) kites of levity, and pass through all pe- etical gradations, from the Paradise of Milton to the fire-side bagatelles of Swift, without missing pleasure or instruction. Now do not be angry with me for tiring you ; and, in return, 1 will not be angry at you for being tired. I did not by any means insist on your admiring the P.; he is so coldly classical when he: is best; and when he is worst,~quite a Q. Through what endless interruptions 1 must write! It was very judicious in the ancients to make Minerva a maiden lady : Had she had as numerous and noisy a family as mine, they would soon have teazed her out of her wisdom. Over seven children and seven servants must I extend the sceptre of authority, now that Duncan is come home. I cannot describe the sudden palpitation that seiz- ed me when I heard you were all at Dunkeld ; and Mrs B. too, to come so ( 848 ) near, without coming nearer. Hf fu Bruni. 'To see me any where else, would be but seeing my ghost, and that a wandering, discontented ghost. Send me a brief account of your travelling oc- currences and opinions, You will see that my spirits are much better; but you little know what need I had of this lucid. interval. I would not live over the last month for the Indies. Tell her, whom I admire and pity most, that I enter into her present feelings, in a man-- ner in. which few others can. The de- parture of him whom she must ever la- ment would make life insupportable, if he did indeed depart. But he must re- main, mingled with every idea. He is the companion of her solitude,—the sub- ject of her meditations,—the vision of" her slumbers. Long may you remain in. happy ignorance.~Adien. A..G.. LETTER XII DEAR SIR, Woodend, Sep. 13. 1803. I uavE been told, that the B— D—d people sending back their copies was quite in their stile. They certainly did subscribe, nevertheless,” but have possi- bly forgot it. Surely no one ever met with less of this mortification than I have done. My subscribers are the very best beings of the kind existing. For the sake of those who depend upon me, I rejoice in the humiliation that has brought so much human worth to my view. I positively forbid you to sink to the flatness of supposing, that I mean subscribing to my book to stand as a proof of worth. But you well know how much of all that is good in character has come to my knowledge through this me- ( 845 ) dium. Yet, notwithstanding, I think. seeking a subscription from people who- know nothing of one’s character or his- tory, associates one with so many im-- pudent and grovelling animals, that it comes very near the curse denounced on- that pretty creature who floated in such redundant folds and glittering curva- tures, according. to Milton, till he was ordered to lick the dust. . For myself, I never would have done it. - Those: for. whom I did it owe me no equal obligation... I have done nothing: for them half so painful. - I have, how- ever, got some consolotary cordials to - support me under such mischances. Mrs R. of K. who inherits the talents of that distinguished family, has taken the trou- ble to write observations upon it highly flattering. ¥ % * * *- ¥ * * £. # All those who have particularly distin- guished me are old, with the exception - 5 {( 846 of Miss Dunbar, who, you know, has a mother ;—and such a mother '—’Tis not altogether the sympathy of years, for my mind is young enough in all con- science. But ’tis the old school of poet- ry, from which affectation is excluded. Now, pray let me inform you, if you do not know it already, that a loathing of affectation is one of the first symptoms. of a ripened and confirmed taste. I knew well mine could not suddenly please. How eould it, having neither the tinsel and feathers of the late ode writers, nor the over-strained labour of thought, and quaint, not to say affected simplicity of language which distinguish the still later sonneteers. "Tis odd how close taste in poetry fol- lows taste in dress. Little as I ever dealt in decoration, I well remember being fatigued to death with making and arranging the endless knots, flowers, trimmings, puffings, frillings, and lap- ( 847 ) pets, with which my breast, elbows, and head, were adorned, when I, tho’ plainer : than any one else, followed the fashion of the day at humble distance. The poetry wore the same exaggera- tion of ornament, in the same inelegant profusion. Then. it was that the Della Crusca school arose —all of a flutter, —sparkling, streaming, . beaming, and gleaming ;—till common. sense was dis- gusted, and common patience exhaust- ed. All of a sudden, the ladies, with- out the.advantage of Grecian forms, or a Grecian climate, thought proper to assume. the ‘appearance of ‘naiads and dryads. Two thirds of their * modest. «. gpparel” were shaken off with their plaited hair and broidered- garments; and the simple folds of their thin dra- - pery invited the winds, and enriched the faculty. Like devoted Iphigenias, they came forward in their transparent vests. . ( 848 ) to perish at the shrine, not of Diana, but of Fashion. Caprice never sets bounds to any thing. Proceeding to make themselves as like nymphs as possible, by throwing off all unnecessary, and some very necessary appurtenances, (for wood-nymphs wore no pockets,) they next departed far from these models of elegant simplicity ; for who ever saw a nymph with a crop ? The very huntresses did not deprive themselves of that natural ornament, however unsuited to their mode of life. The poets upon this threw off their ornaments, and part of their attire, with all possible dispatch ; and they, too, are metaphorically cropped. They, too, have deprived themselves of the unborrowed ornament of flowing diction, equivalent to that graceful and natural one which their prototypes, the ladies, have dis- carded. ( 849 ) When I begun this letter, there was- no one up in the house but myself. This forms a kind of apology for its length. It has amused me, and interrupted no-- thing better. I must conclude, where I ought to have begun,~—with business. * * * * * * * Adieu, cordially. A. G. LETTER XIII. MY DEAR MR T. Woodend, Oct. 9. 1808. I HAVE just read your letter to Mrs T. which I consider as entirely address- ed to myself, and shall therefore take the liberty to answer. First, then, Mrs T. is well and chearful, and seems to enjoy the country. Next, I am about to make a discourse divided into three ( 350 ) branches, contrary to my wonted imme-- thodical ramble.—Alas! you little know how adverse my multifarious duties have been to method.—But now hear me. First, I will speak indignantly ; next, arithmetically ; and last, musically.—It is over-cold, over-lazy, and over-cautious in you, to defer your visit till spring, when 1 have so many hundred good and important things to say to you that will die with the winter's frost. With the possibility of my own death, I do not: mean to shock your nervous system, for. many good reasons: One is, that you will require all your firmness to support you in your character of gentleman vo- lunteer, in case of the apprehended in- vasion. Not that I in the least appre- hend it. Then to think of taking away CG. before she has finished her visit, and when I am just beginning to get leisure to improve the best of possible disposi- tions. And all this to be done, and your ( 851 ) visit deferred, merely on account of over- done preparations, the result of ground- less panic. Unless as a prisoner, depend upon it, no Frenchman will see the castle of E- dinburgh this year. I lose patience at hearing of people taking away their plate and papers. What would plate or pa- pers signify, if Edinburgh were in the hands of these tygers ? Or what would they avail to people who had not spirit to stay and defend them ? You are by this time rejoicing at the news of our naval victory. Come, then, and celebrate it at Woodend. You will ‘not find ‘any where so many assembled under one roof who will se heartily re- joice to see you, or whom you can so un- kindly disappoint. Now if you do not come, what will happen ? Why, all the ninety-nine good turns that you have done me will be forgotten. ( 848 ) to perish at the shrine, not of Diana, but of Fashion. Caprice never sets bounds to any thing. Proceeding to make themselves as like nymphs as possible, by throwing off all unnecessary, and some very necessary appurtenances, (for wood-nymphs wore no pockets,) they next departed far from these models of elegant simplicity ; for who ever saw a nymph with a crop? The very huntresses did not deprive themselves of that natural ornament, however unsuited to their mode of life. The poets upon this threw off their ornaments, and part of their attire, with all possible dispatch ; and they, too, are metaphorically cropped. They, too, have deprived themselves of the unborrowed ornament of flowing diction, equivalent to that graceful and natural one which their prototypes, the ladies, have dis- carded. ( 849 ) When I begun this letter, there was. no one up in the house but myself. This forms a kind of apology for its length. It has amused me, and interrupted no-- thing better. I must conclude, where I ought to have begun,~—with business. * %* * ¥* * * *.. Adieu, cordially. A. G. LETTER XIII. MY DEAR MR T. Woodend, Oct. 9. 1808. I HAVE just read your letter to Mrs. T. which I consider as entirely address- ed to myself, and shall therefore take the liberty to answer. First, then, Mrs T. is well and chearful, and seems to enjoy the country. Next, I am about to make a discourse divided into three ( 850 ) branches, contrary to my wonted imme-- thodical ramble.—Alas! you little know how adverse my multifarious duties have been to method.—But now hear me. First, I will speak indignantly ; next, arithmetically ; and last, musically.—It is over-cold, over-lazy, and over-cautious in you, to defer your visit till spring, when 1 have so many hundred good and important things to say to you that will die with the winter’s frost. With the possibility of my own death, 1 do not: mean to shock yeur nervous system, for many good reasons: One is, that you will require all your firmness to support you in your character of gentleman vo- Iunteer, in case of the apprehended in- vasion. Not that I in the least appre- hend it. Then to think of taking away GC. before she has finished her visit, and when I am just beginning to get leisure - to improve the best of possible disposi- tions. And all this to be done, and your ( 851 ) visit deferred, merely on account of over- done preparations, the result of ground- less panic. Unless as a prisoner, depend upon it, no Frenchman will see the eastle of E- dinburgh this year. I lose patience at hearing of people taking away their plate and papers. What would plate or pa- pers signify, if Edinburgh were in the hands of these tygers ? Or what would they avail to people who had not spirit to stay and defend them ? You are by this time rejoicing at the news of our naval victory. Come, then, and celebrate it at Woodend. You will not find ‘any where so many assembled under one roof who will so heartily re- joice to see you, or whom you can so un- kindly disappoint. Now if you do not come, what will happen ? Why, all the ninety-nine good turns that you have done me will be forgotten. ¢ 852 ) Now te be arithmetical, your account" as well as Mr Arbuthnot’s, appear to be perfectly exact, and most thankful am I for having my business in such kind and faithful hands. . I.shall discharge these accounts here when I see yom. The ob- ligation will assuredly be repaid, though never by me.. I have my courteous printer’s account,—a very moderate one Irsuppose. It is accompanied by .a let- ter.containing an:apology altogether un- - necessary. It'is evident Mr M has given up many points ‘which he. would be justified in asserting out-of indul- - gence to me. . What he charges can be no equivalent to the trouble and. charge of collection... Do you know. I have some thoughts of turning Catholic, purposely to get . you canonized for delivering me from the purgatory of collecting. . The very little I did in that way, I felt quite - i A A ( 853 ) spasmodic. I could not have outlived it, if I had it all to wade through. I wonder if ever such a thing was heard of as an enthusiastic printer. If such things are, I should think Mr M— had caught a little of Miss Dunbar’s enthusiasm. At this latter flame I warm myself whenever I felt the wintery breath of the world begin ta chill me. The British Critic is a very civil gentleman, and shews more candour and favour than I expected; for how very foreign is any thing I ever wrote to critics ;—these barbers of the brain, who merely recollect the face of nature as one remembers ones old nurse, after be- ing at college, getting acquainted with Hecuba and Clytemnestra, and old Rhea, the grandmother of the gods. Now to speak musically, you are in a mistake about the music of Chro Challin, it is tender but not plaintive. It is the delight of highlanders and calves. How ( 854 ) these latter acquire a taste for it, I shall presently explain, if you will, as. Pistol says, ** Perpend.” Know, then, that there is always a great deal of singing at tlie folds. The cows grow very impatient for their calves, who are not let in to suck them, till half the milk has been drained from them. To amuse them, and moderate their impatience, the dairy maids sing some appropriate tune all the time they are milking, to which said cows listen: with much complacence having very early acquired a taste for music, and shewing a decided preference to the tune they are most accustomed to, this same Cho Challin. The calves, mean time, profit by the same, and actually stand still to listen. Now I know I am preaching to the. winds, for you do not believe a word I say. Go, however, to the highlands, and convince yourself that our calves ( 855 ) are not a whit behind Lorenzo’s colts. See the fine speech on the power of mu- sic in the Merchant of Venice. The old air to which I alluded as be- ing the Ranz de Vaches of the highlands is, * Ha pill, Ha pill, Ha pill me tuillthdh,” which is played at all funerals, and on other sad occasions. I will endeavour to adopt some light and chearful, though pastoral, story to the old wife. Briefly now you may come here and set as many musical tasks as you please, I shall be the better for executing them. The first fine clear day that I can go alone to the wood, I shall perhaps meet my pensive muse there, and furnish words pathetic enough to suit my fa- vourite tune. How could it be thus long neglected. When I am under a tree with a pencil, and the back of an old letter, I shall do my very best. A room and decent paper would reduce me to mere common-place. I should then ( 856 ) think of being methodical. 1 have done sad ditty by me, wrote in the true lan- guage of the heart. The task you pro- pose will furnish occupation for my mind,—‘ a mind that fain would wan- “ der from its woe,” of which this long wandering letter is too clear a proof. I will, however, close this woeful wandering, with assuring you, that I am now and always, much yours, A. G. LETTER XIV. Woodend, December 4. 1803. I am all acquiescence,. and. will al-- ter till you say enough. Are not the songs your own adopted. children ; and shall they not be dressed to your taste. Did you ever meet one so amenable ta ( 837 ) advice,~so ready to correct every er: your the moment it is pointed out. Certainly ¢ If the powers the giftie gie me ¢ To see royself as ithers see me,” tT shall of myself retrench ; if not, you must do it for me. But you have, I doubt, not pronounced me incorrigible. Make allowance, however, for a mind enfeebled by ¢ eating cares,” which will not yield even to ¢ soft Lydian airs.” 1 am very quofative to day; but those who are both poor and impudent, are always ready to borrow. I have sa- crificed a favorite line to you—¢ Shared s the guiltless happiness he made.” But it is well bestowed to propitiate you, and expiate the sin of tautology. I am sincerely pleased with deserted and drear. T felt the t.meness and sameness of dark and sabl:, but could not pos- sibly help it. Nothing else occurred. ( 858 The song is a favourite of my own, se is the rising of the lark. If you do not make it suit the tune, your ear must be defective; for I have hummed it like a humble bee, and found it correct har- mony, and very applicable. I assure you I wondered at my own success, as Molieres Gentithomme Burgeois did at ‘his facility in making prose. You say 1 write too many letters; very true, but if you knew all, I cannot possibly help it. Iam deep in debt to some of my old- est and dearest friends, and necessary business is hard on me at this time ; for few indeed consult my ease, but I am assailed on all sides with reproaches for my remissness. I will try to get out of this thorny path, and really « lap me in “ soft Lydian airs;” that is, finish your songs. Tell me how your friends like my attempts; there is nothing so dif- ficult, unless one were merely fanciful ( 859 ) andpoetical, which serious sorrow never is. ~I am going to relax my over-stretched faculties in Glasgow. A fortnight hence then you shall hear such warbling—But ‘wherever I am, depend upon my being very much yours, A. G. LETTER XV.* DEAR SIR, Woodend, June 24, 1804. I Hap an epistle from you yesterday, by which I find that you are got many bars beyond the fat knight, who only wished to imitate the wise Romans in brevity,—~such Laconism is worthy of Lycurgus himself. Perhaps you meant this as an example, but I am very slow in taking hints. i —- * These letters were addressed to a particular friend of the author’s, George Thomson, Esq. of Edinburgh, who took gratuitously the whole eharge of editing the book sv often alluded to. : ( 560 ) I am not yet convinced that you are not charmed with the fluent redundency of my epistolarly stile, and have yielded from despair of rivalling its copious full- ness. Had I hoped for rapid sales and = high celebrity, Mr T's letter, inclosed in your last, would have greatly mortified me; but wrapt up as I am in a vest- ment of modesty, covered with a gar- ment of humility, and surmounted by a great coat of resignation, I can patient- ly endure to think that I am born to die like other mortals; and that my li- teral life may outlast my literary one. Those younger children will at least do no harm in Mr Stuart’s shop. It is well that they neither eat or wear out clothes like their seniors, who, in spite of their good example, continue to do both. If this « plurality” of copies continues un- diminished, I shall perhaps send some of them to the highland emigrants of In- dia ;—they will enjoy the simple picture ( 361 ) of the rude home for which they daily sigh, more than though all Arcadia o- pened in the song; and their hearts will bear testimony to the fidelity of the drawing. If any of them should fecl inclined to apostatize, (which I do not much fear,) this faithful presentment of home, with all its simple charms, will win them back from luxury and curry. A thousand other good effects it will have, that a lowlander like you cannot calculate upon. So if it ever comes in- to your head, that this purely patriotic scheme was suggested by the love of worldly gain, discard all such evil ima- ginings, and expand your soul to ena- ble you to form a due estimate of my beneficence, which I should call munifi- cence, if 1 were not under a sneaking heeessity of asking the price for the books. Never suppose me discouraged ; I have second sight enough to see a se- cond edition in dim and distant pros- VOL. IL Q ( 862 ) pect. This is not more sanguine in me, than printing three thousand copies was in my friends. It is not on my merit that 1 found my expectations unfortunately :— Every one has not your happy talent of discovering latent faculties and song- writing abilities.—I have a much surer dependence than my poetical or person- al merits. It is the plain fidelity of my descriptions which has enlisted the na- tionality of my countrymen on my side. Now nationality is an unvarying and universal feeling. The poetry is quite good enough for those to whom the beauties of English poetry are new,— their tastes are not refined to fastidious- ness, and I would not write beyond them if I could. Archdeacon Barbour is no more a poet than I am; but then he is what I am not, a good scholar. Yet it is not that which has preserved him alive through all changes of taste and language. It is the fidelity of his ( 8638 ) description, the truth of his narrative, and the noble nationality of his coun- trymen, that have made him immor- tal. Bannockburn could support itself by its own simple majesty. Pomp and pageantry of description would have spoiled it. You have no idea, by the by, what heroical nuts we shall gather when they ripen. It is but a short walk from this same Woodend to the source of that same glorious burn where they grow in great abundance ; and the walk through our wood is so beautifully varied, and tangled with honeysuckle and ivy, I had never imagined there could be a wood so populous and so musical in this country. The variety and number of birds is incredible. They are now in full song. Every little eminence round glows with thick blossomed broom and furze, that gives unspeakable gaiety to the face of nature ; and a little farther ( 864 ) on, there are brooks hid under wooded trees and waterfalls, that diffuse fresh- ness and solemnity, suitable to the wild music that waters, birds, and breezes make in concert. These spots inspire a kind of divine melancholy, that is both soothing and exalting. But why should I tell you of them, when you will not come. You do not deserve to see the luxuriant beauty of the tall wild hedge opposite my window, all fair and fragrant as it is, with great arching, eglantine of giant- size, end endless gean blossoms, and flowering hawthorn, and lavish honey- suckle. Nor do you deserve to behold or emulate the contentment of my well fed cows, that wander through a wil- derness of sweets over my wild lawn, that is so beautifully uneven, and so richly flowery. It is all too good for you who would perhaps like to see it rolled and shaved ; but its charms are ( 865 ) well bestowed on me who love its ne- gligence. I wish however you would deputize William to admire the summer beauties, I had almost said glories, of Woodend, before they fade ‘into sober autumn,—too sober for me. The melancholy that was once mere- ly tender, is now wounding in the ex- treme. Therefore, farewell. A. G. THE END, ERRATA.—VoL. I. Page 3, line 10, for anology, read analogy.—P. 6, 1. 9; for prompts, read prompt.—P. 9, line 5, for caimine, read ceimine.—P. 9. Note, for drew, read draw.—P. 32, 1. 14, Jor if goes, read if he goes.—P. 35, last line, for natural, read rational.—P. 42, last line, for will even trust, read will not even trust.—P. 47, 1. 21, for Remeo, read Romeo. ~-P. 48, 1. 23, for on, read in.—P. 73, 1. 18, for were, read was.—P. 124, line 10, for Yet the, read Yet from the.—P. 170, 1. 12, for his ways, read their ways.—P. 181, last line, Jor dark, read dank.—P. 195, last line, for matters, read magter.—P. 212, line 2, for lectable, read .delectahle.—P. 284, line 18, for music, read the musie.—P. 297, 1 10, for Oxford, read Orford. ERRATA.—VoL. IL Page 6, line 20, for diminishes, read diminish.—P. 33, L 22, for wit, read wits.—P. 43, 1. 13, for orda, read osda. —P. 48, 1. 5, for Badenach, read:Badenoch.—P. 69, 1. 15, for enjoyments, read enjoyment.---P. 94, line 22, for cot- teries, read coteries.---P. 124, 1. 16, for house, read door. ---P. 131, 1. 14, for sports, read spots.---P. 143, 1. 10, Jor treasures, read treasure.---P. 170, line 15, for on the grey down, read in the grey dawn.---P, 237, L 12, for was, read . were,