During his life-time three of the Macdonalds of Sleat were proprietors of North Uist-Sir Alex., who died in 1746; the amiable and accomplished Sir James, who died at Rome in 1766, at the early age of twentyfive, and Sir Alex., his brother, who succeeded him, and is mentioned in Boswell's account of Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides, as having entertained the great lexicographer at Armadale in 1773. All these were men of intelligence and culture. Their admiration for the peasant genius incited them to acts of kindness; his gratitude for those favours was profound, his admiration of their noble qualities sincere, and in some of his best productions he celebrates their praises and laments their loss. As a pensioner on their bounty he spent the days and years of a long life, with the exception of a few trips to neighbouring islands, in his native Uist, and died there towards the end of last century. A Greek poet has remarked that there is no other remedy for love, either in the way of salve or plaster, except the muses. The history of all literature shews, that the poet, of all sublunary mortals, is the being most susceptible to the influences of love. Love songs constitute no small element of every national literature, as it has in war inspired some of the most memorable actions on record, so "In peace love tunes the shepherd's reed." The poet, a being so keenly alive to all external influences, in whom the beautiful aspects of nature stir such profound and genuine sympathy, whose enthusiasm is roused by heroism and valour, whose admiration and reverence are kindled by the contemplation of human goodness-the poet can scarcely fail to be touched by loveliness and grace when manifested in female form; to none so truly as to him can it be said that A thing of beauty is a joy for ever. Nor have the hearts of our most distinguished Highland bards been callous to the claims of beauty. Not to speak of the princely bard of Cona, who, in a far past age, painted ideals of beauty that the world shall not willingly let die, those foremost in the ranks of modern Gaelic poetry have sung of their loves, and handed down the names of their mistresses to posthumous fame. Duncan Ban Macintyre sang the praises of his "Mairi bhan Og," in strains of immortal tenderness; Alex. Macdonald, in "Moladh Moraig," indulges in a boundless exuberance of expression, in giving utterance to what seemed to be his feelings of admiration and affection, while William Ross expended all the ardour of his nature, in singing of a passion which ended only with his life. The subject of these papers is an almost solitary exception. All the other strings of the Gaelic lyre have at his touch responded in strains that shall not soon be forgotten. Clio, Melpomene, and Thalia, each in turn, have not in vain been invoked. He has sung the praises of living goodness and departed worth, and celebrated in warlike measures the heroes of his native land; he has reflected on the uncertainty of life, the evanescence of youth, and the sorrows of old age; she " in heav'n yclept Euphrosyne," has been responsive to his beck, and "laughter holding both its sides" has not been slow to follow. But if ever he felt the tender passion he has left nothing to show it, for although thrice married, he never composed a love song. The Greek poet Anacreon complains in one of his odes of his own too amorous propensities, for of whatever subject he would wish to sing, whether of the doughty deeds of the Atreides, or of the exploits of Cadmus, his lyre would ever answer in the strains of love. Anacreon and John MacCodrum seem to have been at the poles of inspiration in regard to the fair sex, for the latter, even when composing songs to women, does not reveal a trace of the language of passion, but is inclined to hold up the sex as objects of satire. The only woman who seems to have called forth his eulogy was the celebrated Flora Macdonald. to whom he composed the two last verses in his song to her husband, Captain Allan Macdonald of Kingsburgh, in Skye. Of her he said what subsequent history has verified : Le barrachd uaisl' 'us righealachd (Right nobly and royally Gave lasting talk to generations, The probability is that John passed through life unscathed by the arrows of the winged god, esteeming the daughters of Eve not even one of Nature's agreeable blunders, and in no sense the peculiar gift of heaven. Therefore, in a classification of his poetry, we find love-songs are a blank. The rest of his compositions may be arranged as follows:-Satirical, Ethical, Patriotic, and Elegaic. I. Satirical. It is a characteristic of Gaelic poetry, from the days of Ossian until now, that, as a general rule, it does not look at the ludicrous aspect of things. Its humourists are indeed few and far between, as scarce as roses in December. The Gaelic bards have been a serious race, whose sombre gravity is not very often relieved by the sunshine of a laugh. They can make us weep and shudder, admire and muse; they can inspire us with awe by their descriptions of those aspects of earth, and sea, and sky, which are to be seen in their native land; but they are not fond of tickling our fancies with merry thoughts. The genius of the people, as a whole, has received a melancholy tinge, probably from the stern character of their country's scenery. Their music seems to a stranger to be characterised by sadness. The note of the piobmhor is wild and wailing, and the minor key is a prevailing one in the airs of Gaelic songs. Thus it is that the comic element is not strongly represented in our poetry. There is only one Gaelic bard who is purely and solely comicArchibald Macdonald, popularly known as Gille na Ciotaig-and even those satires by well-known Gaelic poets, in which the element of humour might be expected to predominate, are not of a kind to make us laugh. Duncan Macintyre and Alexander Macdonald, peerless in their own peculiar domain, do not achieve anything particularly great in this vein of poetical composition. They are scurrilous and abusive, powerful in vituperation, hearty and earnest in their expression of dislike, but seldom funny. Nor would we express anything like unmingled admiration for Rob Donn's satires, the bumour of which, although genuine and amusing, is in its character so often questionable that an expurgated edition of them, fit for a drawing-room table, would be like the play of Hamlet, wanting Hamlet's part. Laying all partiality and prejudice aside, I have no hesitation in according the first place among Gaelic satirists to John MacCodrum, and for the reason that, in wit and humour, rather than in an emphatic expression of malevolence, consists the excellence of his satires. When satirical, he is generally funny, often side-splitting. Of course, it would be too much to say that he invariably avoided Rob Donn's coarseness, on the one hand, or Macintyre's and Macdonald's mere heaping up of abuse on the other, but his satires in general were composed more with the view of expressing what to him appeared ludicrous, than of venting his own. spleen, or manifesting his powers of metrical scolding. In considering this class of his compositions, we may first mention a few minor ones of a fugitive nature, which are illustrative of one of his poetic moods. We have alluded to the fact that our bard was three times married, and it was during his third anti-nuptial probation that a good-humoured skit, called "Oran nam bantraichean" was composed. In this effusion he more than hints his suspicions that he himself, an eligible widower, is the object of too many attentions from the widows of his acquaintance. His experience of that class of females seems to have repelled rather than attracted him. He does not seem to have needed that sovereign cure for gout which Tony Weller "took reg'lar," and recommended to those similarly affected with himself, namely, a widow with a strong voice and a disposition to use it. MacCodrum disposes of the matter in his usual light and airy fashion : Tha na bantraichean 'g am sharach' Theireadh iad gur mi 'n coireach Ma theid mi Shannda na Shollas Gu'm bi dream dhiubh anns gach dorus Leis mar a chuir iad 'n am bhoil mi Theid mi sgor am faigh mi sith. Theireadh iad, &e. I may add a literal rendering of the above, although in the process of translation the aroma of the original must necessarily be lost : I am tired of the widows, Being careless about some of them; Although they say I am to blame, If I go to Sannda or Sollas, There's sure to be one of them in each door;' Since they've almost set me crazy, I'll go to some nook to be at rest. Although, &e. A. M'D. U A LEGEND OF INVERSHIN. LONG ages ago there stood in the vicinity of Invershin a strong massive Castle, built and inhabited by a foreign knight-a stern, haughty manof whose antecedents nothing could be learned with certainty, although there were plenty of rumours concerning him; the most generally received one being that he had fled from his own country on account of treason, or some other crime. Be that as it may, he had plenty of wealth, built a splendid castle, and kept a great number of retainers. He was extremely fond of fishing, and spent the greater part of his time in the pursuit of the gentle craft. He invented a peculiar kind of cruive, so ingeniously constructed that the salmon on entering it set in motion some springs to which bells were attached: thus they literally tolled their own funeral knell. He was accompanied in his exile by his daughter Bona, and his niece Oykel, both alike beautiful in face and figure, but very dissimilar in disposition. Bona was a fair, gentle being, who seemed formed to love and be loved. Oykel was a dark beauty, handsome, proud, and vindictive. Among their numerous household there was one who, without being a relative, seemed on terms of intimacy and equality. He was called Prince Shin of Norway, and was supposed to have retired to this northern part of the kingdom for the same reason as his host. He was young, handsome, and brave, and, as a matter of course, the two young ladies fell violently in love with him. For a while he wavered between the two, but at last he fixed his affections upon the gentle Bona, and sought her hand in marriage. The old knight gave his consent, and the future looked bright and full of happiness for the young lovers. The proud Oykel was deeply mortified at the Prince for choosing her cousin in preference to herself, and the daily sight of their mutual attachment drove her into a perfect frenzy of jealousy and wounded pride, until at length nothing would satisfy her but the death of her rival. She accordingly bribed one of her uncle's unscrupulous retainers to murder her cousin Bona, vainly hoping that in time the Prince would transfer his love to herself. The ruffian carried out his cruel order, and concealed the body in a disused dungeon of the castle. Great was the consternation and dismay caused by the sudden and mysterious disappearance of the lovely Bona; hill and dale, mountain and strath, corrie and burn, were searched in vain; river and loch were dragged to no purpose. Prince Shin was inconsolable; he exerted himself to the utmost in the fruitless search, then, wearied in mind and body, he wandered listless and sad through the flowery fields of Inveran until he reached the birchen groves of Achany, the quiet solitude of which suited better his desolate state. Here, with no prying eyes to see his misery, nor babbling tongues to repeat his sighs and exclamations, he gave himself up for a while to the luxury of grief. Then arose in the breast of the father the agonizing suspicion of foul play; but upon whom could his suspicions fall? Who could have the slightest reason or incentive to injure the kind and gentle Bona? He pondered and mused in gloomy solitude until the terrible idea grew in his mind that it must have been her lover and affianced husband who had thus so cruelly betrayed her trustful love. "Yes," he muttered, "it must be Prince Shin who has committed this diabolical crime; he has tired of her, and took this way to release himself from his solemn contract with her and me, but the villain shall not escape; his punishment shall be as sudden and as great as his crime." Having thus settled his conviction of the Prince's guilt, he caused him to be seized during the night, and thrown into the same dungeon in which, unknown to him, lay the body of his beloved daughter. The accusation and his seizure was so sudden and unexpected, that for a time Shin lay in his dungeon totally overwhelmed with grief and indignation -grief at the loss of his bride, and indignation at the suspicion and treatment of himself. He was at length aroused and startled by hearing a faint moan somewhere near him, as if from some one in great pain. He strained his eyes to pierce the gloomy darkness that surrounded him; at last, guided by the sound being repeated, he discovered at the other end of the dungeon a recumbent figure, so still and motionless, that it might have been lifeless, but for the occasional faint, unconscious moan. "Alas!" exclaimed he, "this is another victim of treachery and cruelty, who is even worse off than I, but who can it be? I have missed no one from the castle, except my adored and lamented Bona." While thus speaking, he knelt down to examine the figure more closely, and as he began to get used to the gloom, he could see a little better, when to his inexpressible horror, dismay, and astonishment, he discovered it to be no other than his lost bride, whose young life was fast ebbing away through a frightful stab in her snow-white bosom. Nearly frantic with grief, he strove with trembling hand to staunch the blood and bind up the wound, at the same time calling her by every endearing name that love could suggest. Again and again he kissed her cold lips, and pressed her tenderly to his heart, trying in vain to infuse life and warmth to the inanimate form of her he loved so well. interrupted in his melancholy task by the heavy door of the dungeon creaking on its rusty hinges, as it slowly opened to admit a man-at-arms, whom Shin recognised as one of the foreign retainers of the old knight, He was "Ah! Randolph, is it thou they have sent to murder me? Well, do thy work quickly, death has lost its terrors for me, now that it has seized on my Bona; but yet I would that another hand than thine should strike the fatal blow, for I remember, tho' perhaps thou forgettest, the day when stricken down in the battle-field thou wert a dead man, had not I interposed my shield, and saved thy life at the risk of my own." So saying, he looked the man calmly but sadly in the face. Randolph had, on first entering, seemed thunderstruck at seeing the Prince, and looked, during the delivery of his speech, more like a victim than an executioner; he changed colour, trembled, and finally, throwing himself at the feet of the Prince, faltered out with broken voice, "Oh! my lord; indeed, indeed, you do me wrong. I knew not that you were here; never would I raise an arm to injure you, my benefactor, my preserver! No, I came to-to." Then glancing from the Prince to the lady Bona, he hid his face in his hands and groaned out, "I knew not you loved her, or I would rather have died than " |