them that politics was the peculiar bent of Neilson's mind, and that the shrewd, combative Scotchman was exactly the person suited to become (subject to their supervision) editor of a newspaper in which their opinions and principles were to be promulgated. We must suppose that Neilson could have possessed few of those qualities which in a later age made his countryman, Gordon Bennet, the beau ideal of an American journalist; more scrupulous, perhaps, and not sufficiently partisan to suit the violence of Republican feeling; but certain it is the speculation failed utterly, and after expending in fruitless litigation with his employers the small capital he brought with him, he was compelled to eke out a miserable existence by writing party squibs, which died the death such literature generally does-on the day of their birth. We will not attempt to describe Mrs Neilson's sufferings during her husband's declension and fall, nor dare to follow the workings of her breaking heart, as hope after hope was extinguished, and we cannot doubt but there was a bright future in store for one who had borne the trials of life in so patient and uncomplaining a spirit, for "as the shadows lengthened across the little landscape of her life," she saw more clearly that it was through much tribulation she was to attain eternal happiness. Forlorn, but not desponding, she did all that lay in her power to cheer the remaining days of her irritable, broken-spirited husband, whose continual regret of what he might and ought to have done it was difficult to bear, considering how hardly she had laboured to impress such opinions on him. Meantime she had seen her children, one by one, depart from her side with little hope of their ever again meeting; some with characteristic energy to penetrate the gloomy, and then scarcely known defiles of the Rocky Mountains, to perish, perchance, midst the boundless unexplored wastes of Prairie-the pioneers of a civilisation which was to extend to the distant shores of the Pacific. But those scattered units were not to be lost amidst the immensity of the American Continent. The name of Neilson, which went down in clouds and darkness, was again, after many years, to rise on the world's horizon in the persons of his descendants. To them it was reserved to develop some of the great natural resources of the country-to extend its commerce, enrich its literature, and assist in making the "Atlantic cities" of the Union the emporiums of wealth and intelligence they now present to the most superficial observer. The wildest and most sanguine dreams of the Scotch Radical as to the future of the country were to be more than realised; and although, like the great Jewish lawgiver, he was not permitted to enjoy the land of promise, to his children's children it was decreed to see such fabulous prosperity attained physically and materially as should place the "American Union" in the foremost rank of the civilized world. And if the political progress of the country has not kept pace with the material, if bribery and coercion have in their representative system been the rule and not the exception, if speculative "things" by which the public are defrauded that a "clique" may be enriched, have lowered the tone of their legislative body, and cast a blot on the reputation for fair and upright dealing of its people, it can only be hoped that as the country becomes awake to its responsibilities, and casts aside the passion for money, which at present blinds it to better and higher things, it will inaugurate an improved system of morality and administration. M. H. W. THE CELTIC SIDE OF BURNS. Ar first sight it would appear difficult even to the most diligent student of Scotland's greatest national bard to account for Burns' extraordinary sympathy with, and love for, the sentiments and aspirations of Highland ers. That he evinced these feelings in a remarkable degree can be abundantly shewn; and that such were only the natural and necessary outcome of his ardent patriotism-Celtic at least in its intensity--as a man, and his many-sided genius as a poet, it is the purpose of these articles to demonstrate. Let us look for a moment at his songs. His "Mary in Heaven" (with its still, rapt enthusiasm of sadness for her), which Lockhart characterises as "the noblest of all his ballads," was his "Highland" Mary and "Highland" Lassie O, whose loveliness and too early death the poet describes with so much beauty and pathos in these three inimitable songs. "My Heart's in the Highlands," composed by him to the Gaelic air of Failte na Misy, regarding which Allan Cunningham-himself no mean poet— writes:-"Burns had the north of Scotland spirit strong within him. His language is tinged with that of the district of the Keith-Marischall" (the poet's father was born on the lands of the noble family of Keith-Marischall in Kincardineshire), "and his love of the wild woods and lonesome glens is Celtic rather than Saxon. This accounts for his love of Ossian's poems: no one can properly feel the poetry of those compositions who shares not in the blood of the Gael, and is unacquainted with Highland. scenery and Highland chivalry." Burns himself says, speaking of his forefathers, "they followed boldly where their leaders led," and hints that they suffered in the cause of Prince Charles Edward in the fatal 1745. Be this as it may, it is unquestionable that the feelings of the poet were very early coloured with Jacobitism. In one of his letters to Thomson, Burns calls himself the voice of Coila, in imitation of Ossian, who denominates himself the voice of Cona. He was an ardent admirer of the Celtic bard, and like the Great Napoleon, carried his poems frequently about with him. The quotation from his letter to Thomson may be given. "What with my early attachment to ballads, ballad-making is now as completely my hobby-horse as ever fortification was Uncle Toby's; so I'll e'en canter it away till I come to the limit of my race (God grant that I may take the right side of the winning-post !), and then cheerfully looking back on the honest folks with whom I have been happy, I shall say or sing, 'Sae merry as we a' hae been,' and, raising my last looks to the whole human race, the last words of the voice of Coila shall be 'Good night, and joy be wi' you a'!" These are the names of two northern songs. Then we may glance at his famous song of "The Whistle," which was inspired by a sentiment of old Loda in Ossian's Caric-thura :— Old Loda still rueing the arm of Fingal, Old Poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill. The story of the Whistle is curious:-A Dane came to Scotland with the Princess of Denmark in the reign of James VI., and challenged all the topers of the north to a contest of the bottle. A whistle of ebony was to be the prize of the day; this he had blown in triumph at the Courts of Copenhagen, Stockholm, Moscow, and Warsaw, and was only prevented from doing the same at the Scottish Court by Sir Robert Laurie, the laird of Maxwellton, who, after a contest of three days and three nights, left the Dane under the table, "and blew on the whistle his requiem shrill." On Friday, the 16th October 1790, the whistle was again contended for in the same element by the descendants of the great Sir Robert:— Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw; And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines. And that their deeds might not be inglorious, they chose an inspired A bard was selected to witness the fray, This is one of the most dramatic of lyrics; all is in character, and in the strictest propriety of sentiment and language. The contest took place at Friar's Carse, a place of great natural beauty; but the combatants closed the shutters against the loveliness of the landscape, and lighting the dining-room, ordered the corks of the claret to be drawn. They had already swallowed six bottles apiece, and day was breaking when Craigdarroch, decanting a quart of wine, dismissed it at a draught. Upon this Glenriddel, recollecting that he was an elder, and a ruling one in the kirk, and feeling he was waging an ungodly strife, meekly withdrew from the contest, and Left the foul business to folks less divine. Though Sir Robert could not well contend both with fate and quart bumpers, he fought to the last, and fell not till the sun rose. Not so Craigdarroch and not so Burns; the former sounded a note of triumph on his whistle Next up rose our bard like a prophet in drink, The poet drank bottle for bottle in the arduous contest, and when the day dawned seemed much disposed to take up the conqueror. The whistle, it is said, is still kept as a great curiosity in the family of Craigdarroch. We conclude this article by quoting the Poet's "Highland Welcome," which he composed impromptu, when called upon for a toast at table and bidding farewell to the hospitalities of the north during one of his tours through the Highlands—of which more anon :— When death's dark stream I ferry o'er, A time that surely shall come; In Heaven itself I'll ask no more And we may add the following morceau found in a memorandum book belonging to Burns, and called the Highlander's Prayer at Sheriffmuir :— "O Lord, be thou with us; but if thou be not with us, be not against us; but leave it between the red coats and us." J. C. DONALD THE FIDDLER. CENTURIES ago, when the good old town of Inverness was yet in its infancy, there lived in one of its meanest streets a well-known character called Donald the Fiddler. He was a tanner by trade, and might have earned good wages, for at that time tanning was one of the principal industries of the town; but Donald was a lazy fellow who much preferred to roam about playing his fiddle than working at his useful though not odorous calling. He was a married man, and stood not a little in awe of the sharp tongue of his bustling, shrewish wife. It happened one morning that when Donald woke from his heavy sleep, induced by the strong potations of the previous evening, he found his wife already up and out, not, if the truth be told, an altogether unprecedented occurrence. Not feeling very much inclined for work, and his wife not being present to drive him to it, Donald determined to take his fiddle and enjoy a ramble into the country. He remembered hearing that there was to be a marriage at Petty, where he and his fiddle would be sure of a welcome. He had managed with many a yawn and stretch to get into his clothes, and was just slinking out of the door when, as ill-luck would have it, he met his wife full face. One glance at Donald and his fiddle was enough for her. Putting down the basket of clothes she had been washing in the river, she approached her good-for-nothing spouse with arms a-kimbo and treated him to a "bit of her mind." At a few yards distance from their house was the fosse or ditch which ran round the burgh, and which was the receptacle of so much refuse from the numerous tanpits and malt-kilns that it was commonly called the "fou," or foul pool. It was protected by a paling, but through the negligence of the proper authorities, this defence was often broken and dilapidated. Thus it happened, that as Donald slowly retreated before the menaces of his enraged wife, he reached an unprotected part of the fosse, and just at this moment the virago having worked herself up to a pitch, raised her by no means slender arm and aimed a blow at her husband, to avoid which Donald made a quick backward step, lost his balance, and before he knew where he was had fallen head over heels into the "fou." This performance was greeted with shouts of laughter from the neighbours, who had been attracted to the spot by the previous quarrel. Their laughter was renewed as they watched poor Donald spluttering and floundering about in the mire, until he succeeded in clambering out, a wretched object, on the other side, when, uttering maledictions on his tormentors, he took to his heels and quickly ran out of sight. He did not go to the marriage at Petty; but after getting himself somewhat cleaned, spent the day drinking and idling with his worthless companions, and it was long after nightfall before he left them to return home. He had a long way to go, for he was on the opposite side of the river to the town, but he knew his way, and it being a bright, moonlight night, he walked briskly on. It was with a feeling of relief that he passed Tomnahurich, that strangely shaped hill, which rises so abruptly from the surrounding level ground; for it was reputed to be the haunt of the fairies, indeed, its very name implied that fact. So with a half-fearful glance up at the uncanny mountain, he hurried on. After a while he began to feel weary. He did not think the way was so long. Surely he ought to be able to see the river by this time? The night is growing cold and he is very sleepy; but he stumbles on over the uneven and broken ground a little longer, until he pulls himself up short with an exclamation of supreme astonishment. "Why! what is this?” Here he is again under the very shadow of the fairy hill. He has been walking in a circle for the last hour. Tired out, perplexed, and annoyed, he sits down trying to collect his scattered ideas; but fatigue and the fumes of the drink he had taken overpower him, and he falls sound asleep. How long he sleeps he does not know, but it is still moonlight when he is aroused by some one shaking him and calling him by name, On opening his eyes he sees an old gentleman very richly dressed in black velvet, slashed with crimson satin, with a fine cloth cloak, trimmed with fur, thrown over his shoulders, and a tall, peaked hat on his head. As Donald rose to his feet rubbing his eyes, the old gentleman said, "Be quick, Donald, and come along with me. I have often heard of your skill as a fiddler, and as I have a large party of friends at my house to-night, I want you to come and play for them. I will pay you well; see, here is a gold piece to begin with, and if you please me I will give you another after you have done." Donald was delighted at his good luck in meeting such a liberal patron; but asked the gentleman in a tone of surprise where his house was, as he could not remember any house within some distance of where they stood. "Oh!" replied the old gentleman, "my house is close by, just a few steps this way and you will see it." And sure enough there was a splendid mansion lighted up with innumerable lamps, the courtyard full of servants in grand liveries, handsome carriages and spirited horses, while more guests kept arriving every minute. Donald was quite overwhelmed at the sight of all this magnificence, and would have drawn back; but the old gentleman taking his hand drew him forward, and together they entered the mansion. If Donald was astonished before, he was now doubly so. He was ushered into a sumptuous ball-room illuminated with thousands of parti-coloured lamps, and filled with a gay assemblage of handsome men and lovely ladies, all dressed in the richest materials, |