and if you'll sit down, rest yourself and take a snuff we'll afterwards see whether you'll take the rent to Edinburgh or I'll take it back to Glencoe.' Having rested themselves they rose and the fight at once began, and whether from the exercise of skill or coolness the old man was at length victorious, and leaving his vanquished foes on the field, after casing them of the coins, he returned to his dwelling with the rents of the Glen in his own pocket. In consequence of this conduct, and it being found impossible to recover rent or taxes-they would pay nothing at all—an order came from the King to kill the whole of them; and I suppose it was done, but one child and a woman. It was very hard to kill the

whole of them too.

"I have heard that it was on Sunday night that the massacre took place. I was told that each house contained one soldier. In one was a young lad against whose heart it went very hard to kill the people in the house where he lodged, because they had shown him great kindness; he dursen't disobey orders, however; in the evening, before the day fixed for the massacre, in presence of the people he went out, and from his pouch he took a grey stone, and in the sight of the people drew his sword and struck the stone saying the while, 'Well grey stone if you knew what was going to happen this night you wouldn't lie there;' thinking that the hint would be taken by his friends, but they not understanding him did not take the advice but remained in the house; and he rose during the night, and in obedience to his orders, killed them all.

"The woman and child who escaped were hidden in the hollow of a burn, and they heard soldiers approaching. The officer in charge thinking from the look of the place that some men might be hiding there, sent a soldier to kill any one he might find; the soldier made a search, but seeing only a helpless woman and child, left them alone; and on his return, being asked, boldly said that he had found a man and had killed him.

66 Many years after an old soldier arrived one day at a house in Appin, and craved and of course got a night's ludging; in the course of the evening he happened to mention that he had been one of the soldiers engaged at Glencoe.

"It came into the mind of the man of the house, when he heard this, that he would rise in the night time and kill the soldier, but he didn't. In the morning they had some more talk about Glencoe, and the soldier mentioned how he had saved a woman and child when they were hiding on the side of a burn. On hearing this the man of the house at once jumped up, embraced the soldier, crying out, 'I am the man that was that child,' and he was glad that he had not followed his first thought to arise in the night to kill him."

Penetrated by the absurdity of this story, in so far as it dealt with the origin of the massacre, I was at first inclined to doubt its genuineness as a tradition. After a good deal of cross-examination, however, and knowing the narrator to be truthful, the conviction was forced on me that such was the account of the massacre told at this day in the district, and firmly believed by my informant as well as by others. Glencoe has to a great extent ceased to be occupied by human

beings; deer and sheep are now its tenants and occupants. The surrounding district is sparsely populated. Few, if any, among the unlettered residenters have ever heard any more than my decent friend the forester, of the connection of Stair, Breadalbane, or Glenlyon with the massacre. The forester, indeed, didn't even know the name of the King, and he listened to the true account with a very incredulous smile, which clearly meant, "Don't you think you can get me to believe that cock and bull story!" He looked exactly as I felt during the delivery of his version.

The object of this communication is to show, strange though the statement may sound, that little is apparently known among the uneducated classes, living in the very district of its perpetration, about one of the most cold blooded and cruel murders, on a wholesale scale, ever conceived and executed by so-called civilized men. Now, however, that the schoolmaster is being introduced into all our glens and straths, and presumably into Glencoe among others, the next generation, in all probability, will know more of the historic truth than did their predecessors for several generations.

Meantime it is quite evident, tradition, in so far at any rate as regards the details of a story, cannot always be relied on after the lapse of any such period as 200 years. Tradition, however, in this particular instance has, it may be said, not had a fair chance, because there are probably few, if any, persons now living in the district whose families have, in an unbroken line, occupied holdings therein for anything like the above period.

CHARLES INNES.

66

Our friend, The Highland Pioneer, which, for the first year, has been conducted, at least in name, as a monthly journal devoted to the consideration and advancement of all matters relating to the welfare of Highlanders at home and abroad," has thrown the "Highland" and the "Highlanders overboard in his last issue, and now sails simply under the more cosmopoliton flag of "The Pioneer, an illustrated monthly journal of special interest to all." We shall make every effort to aid the discarded-not necessarily drowning-Highlanders to a shore of safety, and we hope that this throwing overboard of such an uncongenial cargo will aid the Captain of the Pioneer to arrive in a harbour of refuge-safe from the storms and billows of a perilous voyage-without having to throw his whole cargo into the sea. In any case, it is well that the interests of Highlanders are not altogether bound up with the safety of the Pioneer, and to sink or swim with a Captain who, on the first appearance of a storm, casts into the sea the cargo with which he first specially left the shore. We had occasion, elsewhere, to suggest a little modesty when, on our first trip, the Captain of the Pioneer attempted to "run us down"!!!

THE DEATH OF OSSIAN.

Torlutha's tow'rs rang to the shouts of revelry and mirth,
Torlutha's chief a galley saw swift bounding from the north,
Torlutha's chief and warriors rose and sought blue Corriefin,†
Torlutha's chief saw Morven's seer! then still'd his warriors' din:
With broken and inconstant stops, with anguish-throbbing brow,
On Alpin's son he weary leans, be silent warriors now,

Be silent braves! the Minstrel comes: he comes with solemn tread,
Down with each shield and sword and spear, uncovered be each head:
His grey hair trembles in the breeze, his cheek is pale and wan,
His sightless orbs to heaven are raised with grief's unvisioned scan,
His limbs are yielding 'neath the yoke of time's remorseless years
Behold the weird and hoary bard! behold his silent tears!

Those lips which oft in other times the deeds of heroes sung,
Or poured the battle songs of kings green Ullin's plains among,
Or woke dark Cona's echoes deep, and Selma's sounding halls,
Are quiv'ring songless as the oak which 'neath the tempest falls :

Those hands which shook dread Trenmor's spear by Lubar's rushing stream,
Or swept the harp till rolling fell the heavenly music dream,
Are shaking now, and with'ring hang bereft of ancient might,
No more the sword to grasp again, or strike the lyre of light :
Lead him unto his father's grave ere grief his soul consumes,
Where mighty Fingal sleeps amid a thousand heroes' tombs,
There let him mourn unhappy days, and far off happy years,
Let him the sward o'er Morven's king bedew with filial tears:
Where battle-scorning Oscar sleeps, lead him with tender hand,
There let him touch the mossy stones, there let him lonely stand,
There let him clasp the flow'rs that grow his warrior son above,
There let him weeping kiss the spot in agony of love :

He moves a fading meteor o'er dark Lutha's‡ narrow heath,
Where sleeps the daughter of his heart, within the house of death,
Lead him to where her cromlech lies, he longs his tears to shed
Upon the cold grey stone that marks his lov'd Malvina's bed:

Lead! Lead him where the south winds blow from Ullin's distant shore,
Still bearing on their noiseless wings his love-fraught songs of yore.
O! let them fan his pallid cheek and whisper in his ear
That dark-haired Evirallin's shade still fondly hovers near:

Warriors around him gather! See! the hero-minstrel falls,
Hark! Hark! from every drooping cloud a voice triumphant calls,
The spirits of his fathers join in one far-sounding lay,

And o'er him circle joyously to bear his soul away:

* Torlutha is Drumadoon. + Corriefin is Fingal's landing place. Lutha is the Blackwater. All these places are in the Island of Arran, and are unquestionably the scene of Ossian's decease, and where he is buried. For further elucidation of this, all lovers of Morven's bard, nay all Scotsmen, should consult that noble tribute to Ossian's truth, and Scottish literature-viz., "Ossian and the Clyde," by Dr Hately Waddell,

W. A.

Swift rushing to his ocean bed of golden-clouded fires,
The sad sun sinks in sorrow as his lover slow expires,
One ling'ring look of grief he casts, and lo! in love's repose,
A glistering crown of living light illumes the minstrel's brows:
Moi-Lutha's oaks moan to the wind, and bow'd is every leaf;
Dark Lutha's stream rolls fitfully and pours its song
of grief.
Night's hollow blast is but a wail from every hero's grave,
Death's ghostly dirge peals mournfully from every surging wave:
Lone Selma trembles at the sound! blue Morven hears it then!
Ghosts shriek from every mountain cave in Cona's gloomy glen!
Pale lightnings flash from every cloud! and muffled thunders roar !
And Nature groans in agony; her Ossian is no more!

Raise high ye braves the fun'ral pyre! back to its source give ye
The soul that sung of heroes' deeds in deathless minstrelsy,
On to the cloudy halls where braves in glory gathered are,

Let it in majesty ascend upon its fiery car:

Raise high ye braves, The Minstrel's tomb! where Ullin's breezes sweep, Where ever peal the requiem songs and dirges of the deep,

Let coming ages mark the spot, let coming heroes trace,

The grey stones guarding Ossian's dust- the last of all his race.
Torlutha's tow'rs are clad in night, grief's silence brooding reigns,
Torlutha's unhelm'd warriors chant their low despairing strains,
Torlutha's chief stalks thro' his halls, and sees amid the gloom,
Dark shadows of the coming years which bode Torlutha's doom.
WM. ALLAN.

SUNDERLAND.

THE HIGHLAND EMIGRANTS.

SONG.

There's sighing and sobbing in yon Highland forest;
There's weeping and wailing in yon Highland vale,

And fitfully flashes a gleam from the ashes

Of the tenantless hearth in the home of the Gael.
There's a ship on the sea, and her white sails she's spreadin',
A' ready to speed to a far-distant shore;

She may come hame again wi' the yellow gowd laden,
But the sons of Glendarra shall come back no more.

The gowan may spring by the clear-rinnin' burnie,
The cushat may coo in the green woods again :

The deer o' the mountain may drink at the fountain,
Unfettered and free as the wave on the main ;

But the pibroch they played o'er the sweet blooming heather
Is hush'd in the sound of the ocean's wild roar ;

The song and the dance they hae vanish'd thegither,
For the maids o' Glendarra shall come back no more.

ST. ANDREWS

A. V.

MARVELLOUS ESCAPE OF CAPTAIN M'ARTHUR OF THE SCOTTISH HIGHLANDERS OF CAROLINA.

The discharge of the musket was the signal to those within hearing that somebody was about. It awakened to his senses an old negro, the honest "Uncle Ned," and brought him to the edge of the "clearing," in order to satisfy his curiosity, and to see if it was "old Massa" making an unceremonious visit to the farm of which Ned was virtually overseer. Our disconsolate party could not avoid an interview even if they would. They summoned their courage and affected to feel at ease. And truly they might, for Ned, like the class to which he belonged, would never dream of asking impertinent questions of any respectable white man, his known duty being to answer, not to ask, questions. Our weary party invited themselves to "Uncle Ned's" cabin, which stood in the edge of the clearing close by, and turned out to be a tidy log cottage. The presiding divinity of its single apartment was our kind hostess, "Aunt Lucy," Ned's better half, who felt so highly charmed and flattered by the visit of such distinguished guests that she scarcely knew what she was saying or doing. She dropt her lighted pipe on the floor, bustled and scraped and curtsied to the gentle lady over and over, and caressed the beautiful little "Missie" with emotions which bordered on questionable kindness. This ovation over, our hungry guests began to think of the chief object of their visit getting something in the shape of warm luncheon--and with this in view they eyed with covetous interest the large flock of fine plump pullets about the door. There was fine material for a feast to begin with. The hint was given to "Aunt Lucy," and when that aged dame became conscious of the great honour thus to be conferred upon her, she at once set to work in the culinary department with a dexerity and skill of art which is incredible to those who are ignorant of the great speciality of negresses. There was sudden havoc among the poultry, and fruit and vegetables found their way from the corn field in abundant variety to the large chimney place. Meanwhile the captain shouldered his piece and brought, from an adjacent thicket, two whapping big fox squirrels to add to the variety of the feast, extorting from the faithful Ned the flattering compliment "b' gollies Boss, you is the best shot I ever see'd." Preparation is rapidly advancing, and so is the appetite of the longing expectants. But such preparation was not the work of a moment, especially, from the scantiness of Lucy's cooking utensils. So the guests thought they would withdraw for a time in order to relieve the busy cook of all ceremony, and at the same time relieve themselves of the uncomfortable reflection of three blazing fires in the chimney place. After partaking of a few slices of a delicious water melon, they retired to the shade of a tree in the yard, and there enjoyed a most refreshing nap. In due course the sumptuous meal is ready; the small table is loaded with a most substantial repast, the overplus finding a receptacle upon the board floor of the apartment which was