{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_56157/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_56157","id":"gutenberg_56157","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/56157","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Nature/Gardening/Animals","Folklore -- Scotland -- Highlands","Natural history -- Scotland -- Highlands"],"text":"NETHER LOCHABER:\n\n                          THE NATURAL HISTORY,\n                         LEGENDS, AND FOLK-LORE\n                         OF THE WEST HIGHLANDS.\n\n\n                                   BY\n               The Rev. ALEXANDER STEWART, F.S.A. Scot.;\n\n          MINISTER OF THE PARISH OF BALLACHULISH AND ARDGOUR.\n\n\n                               EDINBURGH:\n                           WILLIAM PATERSON.\n                             MDCCCLXXXIII.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n        EDINBURGH: BURNESS AND COMPANY, PRINTERS TO HER MAJESTY.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                                   TO\n                      DONALD CAMPBELL, Esq., M.D.,\n                                   OF\n                      CRAIGRANNOCH, BALLACHULISH,\n   IN PLEASANT RECOLLECTION OF HAPPY HOURS AT ONICH AND CRAIGRANNOCH,\n                                  AND\n                 OF MANY A DELIGHTFUL MIDSUMMER RAMBLE,\n                        THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED\n              WITH MUCH AFFECTIONATE REGARD BY HIS FRIEND\n                              THE AUTHOR.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nPREFATORY NOTE.\n\n\nThe contents of this volume made their first appearance in the shape\nof a series of papers from \"Nether Lochaber\" in the Inverness Courier,\na well-known Northern Journal, long and ably conducted by the late\nDr. Robert Carruthers. They are now presented to the public in book\nform, in the hope that they may meet with a friendly welcome from\na still larger constituency than gave them kindly greeting in their\noriginal shape, as from fortnight to fortnight they appeared.\n\nAt one time it was the Author's intention to rewrite and rearrange\nall, or almost all, these papers, adding, altering, or expunging as\nmight be considered best. On second thoughts, however--second thoughts,\nbesides, approved of by many literary and scientific friends, in whose\njudgment and good taste the Author has the utmost confidence--it was\nresolved to let them retain very much the form in which they first\nattracted attention, in the belief that any good that could result\nfrom a rewriting and reconstructing of them would be dearly purchased\nif it interfered, as it was almost certain to interfere, with their\nprima cura directness of phrase and freshness of local colouring.\n\nIn a volume dealing so largely with the Folk-Lore of the West Highlands\nand Hebrides, there are necessarily many Gaelic rhymes and phrases\nwhich at the first blink may tend to startle and repel the southern\nreader. These Gaelic quotations, however, the Author has taken care\nto translate into fairly equivalent English, so that even in this\nregard it is to be hoped the volume may prove equally acceptable to\nthe Saxon, who is ignorant of the language of the mountains, as to\nthe Celt, who knows and loves it as his mother tongue.\n\n\nNether Lochaber,\n\nJune 1883.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n      PAGE\n\n    Primroses and Daisies in early March--\"The Posie\"--Burns--\"The\n    Ancient Mariner\"--William Tennant, Author of \"Anster\n    Fair\"--Hebridean Epithalamium--A Bard's Blessing--A\n    Translation--Macleod of Berneray,                                 1\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n    Autumnal Tints--Solomon and the Queen of Sheba--Sortes\n    Sacr\u00e6--Sortes Virgilian\u00e6--Charles the First and Lord\n    Falkland--Virgilius the Magician--Thomas of Ercildoune,           8\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n    An old Gaelic MS.--\"The Bewitched Bachelor Unbewitched\"--Fairy\n    Lore--Lacteal Libations on Fairy Knowes,                         18\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n    Transit of Mercury--Improperly called an \"Eclipse\" of--November\n    Meteors--Mr. Huggins--Spectrum Analyses of Cometary\n    Light--Translation of a St. Kilda Song,                          23\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n    Bird Music--The Skylark's Song--Imitation of, by a French\n    Poet--Alasdair Macdonald--Scott,                                 29\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n    Severe Drought--The Drive by Coach from Fort-William to\n    Kingussie--Breakfast at Moy--Where did Scott find Dominie Sampson's\n    \"Pro-di-gi-ous!\"?--Professor Blackie's Poem on Glencoe,          33\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n    O the Barren, Barren Shore--Brilliant Auroral Display--Intense\n    Cold--Birds--Glanders--Scribblings on the Back of One Pound\n    Notes,                                                           39\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\n    A Wet February--A Good Time coming--Sir Walter Scott--Mr\n    Gladstone--Death of Sir David Brewster,                          44\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\n    Long-Line Fishing--Scarcity of Fish--Their Fecundity--Large\n    Specimen of the Raia Chagrinea--The Wolf Fish--The Devil Fish,   50\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\n    Birds--Contest between a Heron and an Eel,                       54\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\n    Sea-Fishing--Loch and Stream Fishing--\"Brindled\n    Worms\"--Rush-Lights--Buckie-Shell Lamps--The Weasel killing a\n    Hare--Killing a Fallow Deer Fawn,                                58\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\n    Extraordinary aspect of the Sun--Sunset from\n    Rokeby--Mr. Glaisher--\"Demoiselle\" or Numidian Crane at\n    Deerness--The Snowy Owl in Sutherlandshire--Does the Fieldfare\n    breed in Scotland?--The Woodcock,                                66\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\n    Extraordinary Heat and Drought--Plentifulness of Fungi--Cows fond\n    of Mushrooms--Shoals of Whales--A rippling breeze, and a Sail on\n    Loch Leven,                                                      70\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\n    Herrings--Chim\u00e6ra Monstrosa--Cure for Ringworm--Cold Tea Leaves for\n    inflamed and blood-shot Eyes--An old Incantation for the cure of\n    Sore Eyes--A curious Dirk Sheath--A Tannery of Human Skins,      73\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\n    The Ring-Dove--A Pet Ring-Dove--Its Death--Shenstone--The\n    Belone Vulgaris or Gar-Fish--A Rat and a Kilmarnock\n    Night-cap--Extraordinary Roebuck's Head at Ardgour,              79\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\n    The \"Annus Mirabilis\" of Dryden--1870 a more wonderful Year\n    in its way than 1666--Winter--Number of Killed and Wounded\n    in the Franco-Prussian War--Battles of Langside, Tippermuir,\n    Cappel--Carrier Pigeons--The Velocity with which Birds fly,      86\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\n    Signs of a severe Winter--The Little Auk or Auklet--The\n    Gadwall--Falcons being trained by the Prussians to intercept\n    the Paris Carrier Pigeons--Ballooning--The King of Prussia's\n    Piety--John Forster--Solar Eclipse of 22d December 1870--The\n    Government and the Eclipse--Large Solar Spots--Visible to the\n    naked eye--Rev. Dr. Cumming--November Meteors,                   94\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\n\n    November Rains: 1500 tons per Imperial Acre!--Rainfall in Skye--An\n    old Gaelic Apologue--The Drover and his Minister--Grand Stag's\n    Head--Scott as a Poet--Mr. Gladstone and Scott--An old Lullaby\n    from the Gaelic,                                                 99\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\n\n    Winter--Auroral Displays in the West Highlands always indicative\n    of a coming Storm--Corvus Corax--Wonderful Ravens--Edgar Allan\n    Poe,                                                            106\n\nCHAPTER XX.\n\n    Along the Shore after Birds--An Otter in pursuit of a Fish--Tame\n    Otter at Bridge of Tilt: Employed in Fishing--His hatred of\n    all sorts of Birds--\"The Otter and Fox,\" a translation from the\n    Gaelic,                                                         114\n\nCHAPTER XXI.\n\n    Storms--An \"inch\" of Rain--Atherina Presbyter--Lophius\n    Piscatorius--Mr. Mortimer Collins' misquotation from the Times, 121\n\nCHAPTER XXII.\n\n    Aurora Borealis--Unfavourable weather for Birds about\n    St. Valentine's Day--The Water-Vole in the Rhi--In the Eden in\n    Fifeshire--In the Black Water, Kinloch Leven--Does it feed\n    on Salmon Fry and Ova?--The Kingfisher--Character of the\n    Water-Vole--Note about the Hedgehog,                            127\n\nCHAPTER XXIII.\n\n    March--The Story of a Spanish Dollar--The Spanish Armada--The\n    \"Florida\"--Faire-Chlaidh, or Watching of the Graveyard--Molehill\n    Earth for Flowers,                                              133\n\nCHAPTER XXIV.\n\n    The Beauty of the West Highland Seaboard--Dr. Aiton of\n    Dolphinton--Dr. Norman Macleod--Specimen of Turtle-Dove (Columba\n    Turtur) shot in Ardgour--The belief on the Continent of its\n    value as a Household Pet--Bechstein--Male Birds dropping Eggs in\n    confinement,                                                    140\n\nCHAPTER XXV.\n\n    Thunderstorm--Potato Field in Bloom--The Hazel Tree--Hazel\n    Nuts--Potato Shaws for Cattle--Ferns for Bedding\n    Cattle--Marmion--Scott,                                         144\n\nCHAPTER XXVI.\n\n    Harvest--Scythe and Sickle v. Reaping Machines--Potatoes--Garibaldi\n    and Potatoes at Caprera--Fishing--Platessa Gemmatus, or Diamond\n    Plaice--Mushrooms--The Poetry of Fairy Rings--Harvest-Home,     150\n\nCHAPTER XXVII.\n\n    The disappearance of the glories of Autumn, and the advent\n    of Winter--Innovations and Innovators--New Version of the\n    Scriptures--The Milkmaid and her Fairy Lover, translated from\n    the Gaelic,                                                     159\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII.\n\n    Wild Birds' Nests in early April--Rook stealing Eggs frightened\n    and almost captured--The Domestic Cock--What he was, and what he\n    is--Sadly demoralised by intermixture with \"Cochin-Chinas\" and\n    \"Bramahpootras,\"                                                165\n\nCHAPTER XXIX.\n\n    The Vernal Equinox--Beauty of Loch Leven--Astronomical Notes--How\n    an old Woman supposed to possess the Evil Eye escaped a cruel\n    death,                                                          172\n\nCHAPTER XXX.\n\n    Midges and other Bloodsuckers--The Tsetse of South Africa--The\n    Abyssinian Zimb--Livingstone--Adders and Grass Snakes--Lucan's\n    Pharsalia--Celsus--Legend of St. John ante Portam Latinam,      178\n\nCHAPTER XXXI.\n\n    The Leafing of the Oak and Ash--Splendid Stags' Heads--Edmund\n    Waller--Old Silver-Plate buried for preservation in the\n    '45--Mimicry in Birds--An accomplished Goldfinch,               185\n\nCHAPTER XXXII.\n\n    Potato Culture--Sensibility of the Potato Shaw to Weather\n    changes--The Carline Thistle--Burns--The true Carduus\n    Scotticus--The old Dog-Rhyme,                                   192\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII.\n\n    A non-\"Laughing\" Summer--Rheumatic Pains--Old Gaelic Incantation\n    for Cattle Ailments,                                            199\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV.\n\n    Early sowing recommended--Vitality of\n    Superstitions--Capnomancy--Hazel Nuts: Frequent References to\n    in Gaelic Poetry--How best to get at the full flavour of a ripe\n    Hazel Nut,                                                      204\n\nCHAPTER XXXV.\n\n    Strength of Insects--Necrophorus Vespillo, or\n    Burying-Beetle--Foetid smell of--How Willie Grimmond earned an\n    Honest Penny in Glencoe,                                        210\n\nCHAPTER XXXVI.\n\n    Seaweed as a Fertiliser--Homer, Horace, Virgil--November\n    Meteors--Gaelic Folk-Lore--A Curfew Prayer--A Bed Blessing--A\n    Cattle Blessing--Rhyme to be said in driving Cattle to\n    Pasture--\"Luath,\" Cuchullin's Dog--Notes from the Outer\n    Hebrides,                                                       217\n\nCHAPTER XXXVII.\n\n    The Delights of Beltane Tide--Bishop Gawin Douglas--His\n    Translation of the \u00c6neid--The Fat of Deer--\"Light and Shade\"\n    from the Gaelic--Mackworth Praed--Discovery of an old Flint\n    Manufactory in the Moss of Ballachulish,                        225\n\nCHAPTER XXXVIII.\n\n    Warm showery Summer disagreeable for the Tourist, but pastorally\n    and agriculturally favourable--Xiphias Gladius, or Sword-Fish,\n    cast ashore during a Mid-summer Gale--Garibaldi dining on Potatoes\n    and Sword-Fish steaks at Caprera--The General's Drink--Medicinal\n    virtues of an Onion--Nettle Broth--Translation of a New Zealand\n    Maori Song,                                                     233\n\nCHAPTER XXXIX.\n\n    Mountains--The Lochaber Axe, Ancient and Modern,                238\n\nCHAPTER XL.\n\n    Sea-Fowl--Weather Prognostics--Goosander (Mergus Merganser,\n    Linn.)--Gales of Wind--January Primroses--Lachlan Gorach, the Mull\n    \"Natural\"--A Dancing Rhyme,                                     244\n\nCHAPTER XLI.\n\n    Plague of Thistles in Australia and New Zealand--How to deal\n    with them--Cnicus Acaulis, Great Milk Thistle, or Stemless\n    Thistle--Fierce Fight between two Seals, \"Nelson\" and\n    \"Villeneuve,\"                                                   250\n\nCHAPTER XLII.\n\n    Wounds from Stags' Antlers exceedingly dangerous--The old Fingalian\n    Ballads--Number of Dogs kept for the Chase--Dr. Smith's \"Ancient\n    Lays\" of modern manufacture--The Spotted Crake (Crex Prozana)\n    at Inverness--Its Habits,                                       258\n\nCHAPTER XLIII.\n\n    Whelks and Periwinkles--An Ossianic Reading--The Sea-shore\n    after a Storm--The Rejectamenta of the deep--An amusing\n    Story of a Shore-Searcher--Severity of Winter--Wild-Birds'\n    Levee--Woodcock--Snipe--Blue Jay,                               264\n\nCHAPTER XLIV.\n\n    A \"Blessed Thaw\" after a Severe Frost--Longevity in Lochaber--A\n    ready \"Saline draught\"--A probatum est Recipe for Catarrh and\n    Colds--Egg-shell Superstition--Curious old Gaelic Poem,         272\n\nCHAPTER XLV.\n\n    \"Albert,\" a famous Labrador Dog--As a Water Dog--His\n    intelligence--Takes to Sheep-Stealing--Death!                   278\n\nCHAPTER XLVI.\n\n    An old Fingalian Hero--His keenness of Sight and sharpness of\n    Ear--Foresters and Keepers--Foxhunters--Donald MacDonald--His\n    Dogs--Sandy MacArthur the Mole-catcher,                         286\n\nCHAPTER XLVII.\n\n    Autumnal Night--Meteors--The Spanish Mackerel--Professor Blackie's\n    Translations from the Gaelic--The \"Translations\" of the Gaelic\n    Society of Inverness,                                           293\n\nCHAPTER XLVIII.\n\n    Crops--Potato Slug--Fern Slug--Brackens: How thoroughly to\n    extirpate them--The Merlin, Falcon, and Tringa,                 299\n\nCHAPTER XLIX.\n\n    The Hedgehog an Egg and Bird Eater?--Bird-catching--\"Old\n    Cowie\"--Mackenzie--Lanius Excubitor--The Butcher-Bird or\n    Shrike--Tea-Drinking and Sobriety,                              305\n\nCHAPTER L.\n\n    Superstition amongst the People--Difficulty of dealing\n    with it--Examples of Superstitions still prevalent in the\n    Highlands--Cock-crowing at untimely hours--Itching of the\n    Nose--Ringing in the Ears--The \"Dead-Bell\"--Sir Walter\n    Scott--Hogg--Mickle,                                            313\n\nCHAPTER LI.\n\n    Welcome Rain in May--Plague of Mice in Upper Teviotdale--Arvicola\n    Agrestis--Field-Mice in Ardgour--How exterminated--A Singing\n    Mouse--Farmers' Mistakes--Mackenzie the Bird-catcher,           319\n\nCHAPTER LII.\n\n    Tourist Grumblers; how to deal with them--Sea Fishing--Superstition\n    about a Gull--Josephus--Story of Mosollam and the Augur,        327\n\nCHAPTER LIII.\n\n    Heat in Mid-August--Early Planting and Sowing--Over-ripening of\n    Crops--Medus\u00e6--Stinging Jelly-Fish--The amount of solid matter\n    in Jelly-Fish,                                                  334\n\nCHAPTER LIV.\n\n    Approach of Winter--Contentedness of the People--Poets and\n    Wild-Bird Song--Differences in the Colouring and Markings of\n    Birds' Eggs--Late Nest-building--Anecdote of Provost Robertson\n    of Dingwall, Mr. Gladstone's Grandfather,                       341\n\nCHAPTER LV.\n\n    Spring--Hood's Parody of Thomson's Invocation--The excellence\n    of Nettle-Top Soup--Cock-crowing--Birds'-nesting--Professor\n    Geikie--Curious Story of an old Pipe-Tune,                      348\n\nCHAPTER LVI.\n\n    Rain in Lochaber--An Apple Tree in bloom by Candle-light--Mackenzie\n    the Bird-catcher--A Badenoch \"Wise Woman\" spitting in a Child's\n    Face to preserve it from the Fairies,                           355\n\nCHAPTER LVII.\n\n    Caught in a Squall on Loch Leven--Potatoes and Herrings: How\n    to cook them--A day in Glen Nevis--A visit to Uaimh Shomhairle,\n    or Samuel's Cave--The Cave-Men,                                 361\n\nCHAPTER LVIII.\n\n    Showers in Harvest Time--Magnificent Sunset--Night sometimes\n    seeming not to descend but to ascend--Death of M. Leverrier--The\n    Discovery of Neptune--Pigeon cooing at Midnight--The Owl at\n    Noon--Cage-Birds singing at Night,                              370\n\nCHAPTER LIX.\n\n    October Storms--Cablegram Predictions--Indications of\n    coming Storms--Geordie Braid, the St. Andrews and Newport\n    Coach-driver--The Naturalist in Winter--Drowned Hedgehogs: Spines\n    become soft and gelatinous--Lophius Piscatorius--Disproportion\n    between head and body in the Devil-Fish a puzzle--An Itinerant\n    Fiddler,                                                        379\n\nCHAPTER LX.\n\n    A Trip to Glasgow--Kelvin Grove Museum--Highland Association--A\n    run to Rothesay--Rothesay Aquarium,                             387\n\nCHAPTER LXI.\n\n    Overland from Ballachulish to Oban on a \"Pet Day\" in\n    February--Story of Clach Ruric--Castle Stalker: an old\n    Stronghold of the Stewarts of Appin--James IV.--Charles\n    II.--Magpies--Dun-Mac-Uisneachan,                               394\n\nCHAPTER LXII.\n\n    Nest-building--Cunningham's objection to Burns' Song, \"O were\n    my Love yon Lilac fair\"--Birds and the Lilac Tree--Rivalries of\n    Birds--Birds and the Poets--The Nightingale,                    402\n\nCHAPTER LXIII.\n\n    March Dust--Moons of Mars--Planetoids--Occultation of Alpha\n    Leonis--Zodiacal Light--Snow Bunting--Old Gaelic Ballad of\n    \"Deirdri:\" Its Topography,                                      410\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nNETHER LOCHABER.\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n    Primroses and Daisies in early March--\"The Posie\"--Burns--\"The\n    Ancient Mariner\"--William Tennant, Author of Anster Fair--Hebridean\n    Epithalamium--A Bard's Blessing--A Translation--Macleod of\n    Berneray.\n\n\nThe weather [March 1868] with us here still continues wonderfully\ngenial and mild: taken all in all, the season may be noted as in this\nrespect perhaps without precedent in our meteorological annals. The\nsun, with nearly eight degrees of southern declination, is not yet\nhalf-way through Pisces; we are still three weeks from the vernal\nequinox, and yet on our table before us, as we write these lines,\nthere is as pretty a posy of wild-flowers as you could wish to see,\nconsisting of daisies, primroses, and other modest beauties, the\n\"firstlings of the year,\" culled from bank and brae at a date when\nin ordinary seasons the country, snow-covered or ice-bound, is but\na bleak and barren waste. Older and wiser people than ourselves\nconfidently predict \"a winter in mid-spring\" as yet in store for us;\nbut meliora speramus, we had rather believe that to one of the mildest\nwinters on record will succeed a genial spring, a splendid summer,\nand an abundant harvest. In any case, as somebody said of Scaliger\nand Clavius, Mallem cum Scaligero errare quam cum Clavio rect\u00e8 sapere:\nI had rather, that is, be a partaker in the errors of Scaliger, than\na sharer in all the wisdom of Clavius. Even so, we had rather err\nwith the optimists than be ranked with the pessimists, even when their\npredictions turn out the truest. In our forenoon ramble on Friday last\ndid we not find a merle's nest in the close and well-guarded embrace\nof an old thorn root, with its pretty treasure of four brown-spotted,\ngreyish-green eggs? and with our wild-flower bouquet before us,\nare we not better employed in crooning one of Burns' sweetest lyrics\nthan in predicting evil, even if we were certain that our prediction\nshould become true?--said lyric being that entitled The Posie, which,\ndear reader, if you do not know it already, you should incontinently\nget by heart. Here is a verse or two:--\n\n\n    \"Oh, luve will venture in where it daurna weel be seen;\n    Oh, luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has been;\n    But I will down yon river rove, amang the wood sae green--\n      And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May.\n\n    \"The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year,\n    And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear;\n    For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms without a peer--\n      And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.\n\n    \"The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair,\n    And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there;\n    The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air--\n      And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.\n\n    \"The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller grey,\n    Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day;\n    But the songster's nest within the bush I winna tak away--\n      And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.\"\n\n\nMark that line in italics, and ponder its exquisite tenderness. How it\nmust have irradiated, like a sudden flood of sunshine over a mountain\nlandscape, the poet's heart as he penned it! Here you have the germ\nof the doctrine afterwards more broadly taught by Coleridge in the\nwell-known lines of the Ancient Mariner:--\n\n\n    \"Farewell, farewell, but this I tell\n      To thee, thou Wedding Guest,\n    He prayeth well, who loveth well\n      Both man, and bird, and beast.\n    He prayeth best, who loveth best\n      All things, both great and small;\n    For the dear God who loveth us,\n      He made and loveth all.\"\n\n\nWe love The Posie of Burns for its own sake, but we love it all\nthe more, perhaps, because our attention was first directed to its\nsweet simplicity and tender beauty by one of our earliest and kindest\nfriends, himself a poet of no mean order, the late Professor William\nTennant, author of Anster Fair, in all its fantastical gaiety and\nhomely mirth the most original poem, perhaps, to be found in the\nliterature of our country.\n\nA gentleman who resides at present in Cheltenham, a cadet of one of\nthe oldest and most respectable families on the West Coast, and himself\nthe head of a house not unknown in Highland story, has been so good as\nto send us a short Gaelic poem in manuscript, with a request that we\nshould give an English version of it. With this request we very readily\ncomply, such a task being to us a labour of love; the poem itself,\nbesides, being very beautiful, and the history of its composition\nextremely interesting, as throwing some light on the manners and\ncustoms of the olden times. The following prefatory note from the\nMS. itself sufficiently explains the origin of this quaint and curious\nHebridean Epithalamium:--\"It was the custom in the West Highlands of\nScotland in the olden time to meet the bride coming forth from her\nchamber with her maidens on the morning after her marriage, and to\nsalute her with a poetical blessing called Beannachadh B\u00e0ird. On the\noccasion of the marriage of the Rev. Donald Macleod of Durinish, in the\nIsle of Skye, this practice having then got very much into desuetude,\nand none being found prepared to salute his bride agreeably to it,\nhe himself came forward and received her with the following beautiful\naddress.\" We present our readers with the original lines verbatim et\nliteratim, precisely as they stand in the MS., only omitting two lines\nthat are partly illegible from their falling into the sharp foldings\nof the sheet. The sense and tenor of these lines, however, we have\nventured to guess at and to incorporate with our English version:--\n\n\n    Beannachadh B\u00e0ird.\n\n    M\u00ecle f\u00e0ilte dhuit le 'd bhr\u00e8id,\n    Fad' a r\u00e8 gu'n robh thu sl\u00e0n,\n    Moran laithean dhuit as s\u00ecth,\n    Le d' mhaitheas as le d' n\u00ec 'bhith f\u00e0s.\n    A chulaidh cheiteas a chaidh suas.\n    'S tric a thairin buaidh air mnaoi--\n    Bithse gu suilceach, ceiteach,\n    O thionnseain thu fhein 'san treubh.\n    An t\u00f9s do choiruith 's tu \u00f2g,\n    An t\u00f9s gach l\u00f2 iarr Righ nan D\u00f9l;\n    Cha'n' eagal nach dean e gu ceart\n    Gach dearbh-bheachd a bhios 'nad r\u00f9n,\n    Bithsa fialuidh--ach bith glic.\n    Bith misneachail--ach bith stolt.\n    Na bith brith'nach, 's na bith balbh,\n    Na bith mear na marbh 's tu \u00f2g;\n    Bith gleidhteach air do dhea ainm,\n    Ach na bith duinte 's na bith fuar;\n    Na labhair f\u00f2s air neach gu olc,\n    'S ged labhras ort, na taisbean fuath.\n    Na bith gearannach fo chrois,\n    Falbh socair le cupan l\u00e0n;\n    Chaoidh dh' an olc na tabhair sp\u00e8is--\n    As le 'd bhr\u00e8id ort, m\u00ecle f\u00e0ilt!\n\n\nWhether with the sense of the above we have succeeded in catching\nanything of its quaint beauty and tenderness in the following lines,\nis for the reader to judge:--\n\n\n    A Bard's Blessing.\n\n    Comely and kerchief'd, blooming, fresh and fair,\n      All hail and welcome! joy and peace be thine;\n    Of happiness and health a bounteous share\n      Be shower'd upon thee from the hand divine.\n    Wearing the matron's coif, thou seem'st to be\n    Even lovelier now than erst, when fancy-free,\n    Thou in thy beauty's strength did'st steal my heart from me.\n\n    Though young in years thou 'rt now a wedded wife;\n      O seek His guidance who can guide aright.\n    With aid from Him, the rugged path of life\n      May still be trod with pleasure and delight;\n    For He who made us bids us not forego\n    A single, sinless pleasure in this world of woe.\n\n    Be open-hearted, but be eident too,\n      Be strong and full of courage, but be staid;\n    Aught like unseemly folly still eschew--\n      Be faultless wife as thou wast faultless maid!\n    Guard against hasty speech and temper violent,\n    And knowing when to speak, know also to be silent.\n\n    Guard thy good name and mine from smallest stain;\n      In manner still be kindly, frank, and free;\n    If thou 'rt reviled, revile not thou again;\n      In hour of trial calm and patient be;\n    And when thy cup is full, walk humbly still,\n    A careless, proud, rash step the blissful cup may spill!\n\n    With this bard's blessing on thy wedded morn,\n      All at thy bridal chamber-door we greet thee;\n    May every joy of truth and goodness born\n      Through all thy life-long journey crowd to meet thee;\n    And may the God of Peace now richly shed\n      A blessing on thy kerchief-cinctured head!\n\n\nThe word breid in the original, which we have rendered kerchief\nand coif, was in the olden times the peculiar head-dress of married\nfemales, while virgins wore their braided locks uncovered, a simple\nribbon to bind the hair, and occasionally a sprig of heather or modest\nflower by way of ornament, being the only head-dress that could with\npropriety be worn by a maiden in the good old anti-chignon days of\nour grandmothers. The Highland maiden's narrow ribbon for binding\nthe hair was in the south of Scotland called a snood, probably from\nthe old English snod--\"neat, handsome\"--a word still in use in the\nEnglish border counties. In the south, even more pointedly than in\nthe north, the emblematical character of the maiden ribbon or snood\nwas recognised. It was only when a maiden became an honest, lawful\nwife that the coif--also called curch and toy--could be worn with\npropriety. If a damsel was so unfortunate as to lose pretentions\nto the name of maiden, without acquiring a right to that of matron,\nshe was neither permitted to wear that emblem of virgin purity, the\nsnood, nor advanced to the graver dignity of the coif or curch. In\nold Scottish songs there occur many sly allusions to such misfortunes,\nas in the original words of the popular tune of \"Ower the muir amang\nthe heather\"--\n\n\n    \"Down amang the broom, the broom,\n    Down among the broom, my dearie,\n    The lassie lost her silken snood,\n    That gart her greet till she was wearie.\"\n\n\nAnd in a verse of a curious old ballad that we took down some years\nago from the recitation of a grey-headed Paisley weaver--\n\n\n    \"And did ye say ye lo'ed me weel?\n      Then, kind sir, ye maun marrie me;\n    For that I maunna wear my snood\n      Aft brings the saut tear to my ee.\"\n\n\nThe reverend author of the above lines was probably born about the\nyear 1700, or perhaps ten or twenty years earlier, for we find\nthat he died a man well advanced in years in 1760. In the Scots\nMagazine of that year there is the following notice of Mr Macleod's\ndeath:--\"Jan. 12th.--At Durinish, in the Isle of Skye, the Rev. Donald\nMacleod, minister of that parish, a gentleman, says our correspondent,\nwho adorned his profession, not so much by a literary merit, of which\nhe possessed a considerable share, as by a consistent practice of the\nmost useful and excellent virtues. To do good was the ruling passion\nof his heart; in composing differences, in diffusing the spirit of\npeace and friendship, in relieving the distressed, in promoting the\nhappiness of the widow and orphan, his zeal was almost unexampled,\nhis activity unmeasured, his success remarkable. It is almost\nunnecessary to add that he lived with a most amiable character,\nand died universally regretted.\"\n\nA somewhat curious circumstance is the following:--One of the\nRev. Mr. Macleod's daughters was married to Macleod of Berneray, she\nbeing that gentleman's third wife. Berneray was at the date of this\nthird marriage seventy-five years of age, notwithstanding which he\nbecame by this lady the father of nine children. He lived a hale and\nhearty old man till he was upwards of ninety. He was reckoned in his\nday a splendid specimen of the stalwart, sterling, straight-forward,\nand chivalrous Highland gentleman, \"all of the olden time.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n    Autumnal Tints--Solomon and the Queen of Sheba--Sortes\n    Sacr\u00e6--Sortes Virgilian\u00e6--Charles the First and Lord\n    Falkland--Virgilius the Magician--Thomas of Ercildoune.\n\n\nWith occasional gales of wind and blustering showers [October 1868],\nthat, from their chilliness and snellness, you suspect to be sleet,\nalthough you don't like as yet exactly to say so--meteorological\nphenomena, however, in no way strange or unusual on the back of the\nautumnal equinox--the weather with us here continues delightfully\nbright and breezy, and the country looks beautiful. Field and\nupland are still as freshly green as at midsummer, while the deep,\nrich russet hues and golden tints of the declining year, gleaming\nin the fitful sunlight, and intermingling their glories with the\nstill beautifully fresh and unspotted foliage of our hardier trees\nand shrubs; with the ripe, ruddy bloom of the heather empurpling the\nmoorland and the hill, and a perfect sea of \"brackens brown\" mantling\nthe mountain side, and fringing, in loving companionship with the\nbirch, the alder, and the hazel, the torrent's brink, as it leaps\nin foam from rock to rock and dashes downwards with its wild music\nto the sea,--all this, with a thousand indescribable accessories,\nscarcely perceptible indeed in the general effect, but all bearing\ntheir fitting part in the delightful whole, presents at this season,\nand never more markedly than this year, a scene that you never tire\nof gazing at, and declaring again and again, and with all your heart,\nto be \"beautiful exceedingly.\" As you gaze on such a scene as this,\nyou feel that no painter could paint it; that there is a something\nin it all too subtile and spiritual to be transferred to canvas by\nany art whatever. An imitation, indeed, of all that is palpable and\ntangible about it you may get, and it may be very beautiful perhaps,\nand a triumph of art in a way; but, even as you gaze in admiration,\nready to grant the artist all the praise that is his due, are you\nnot apt, remembering the scene as nature has it, to\n\n\n    \"Start, for soul is wanting there?\"\n\n\nBut we must not be misunderstood. Painters and painting we love,\nand have always loved, and should be sorry, indeed, to be considered\nas in any way dead or indifferent to the power and beauty of the\nart. Painting, after all, however, and especially landscape painting,\nis but an imitative art, and the longer we live, and the more we are\nbrought face to face with nature, the more shall we feel that there is\na charm, an attractiveness, and a loveliness about her all her own--a\nsomething that you feel but cannot describe, that the artist as he\ngazes feels too, and strives to grasp and instil into his picture,\nbut cannot charm into interminglement with his colours, \"charm he\nnever so wisely.\" Viewed \u00e6sthetically, nature in sooth consists not of\nmatter only, but of matter and spirit, and therein is the secret of her\nsurpassing power over us. You may subtly imitate and reproduce exact\nrepresentations of her more prominent features and general outlines,\nand the painter, according as he is more or less gifted with the\npoetic mens divina, may infuse a moral meaning into his work, and a\nsubtile beauty entirely independent of the mere manipulation of his\nsubject--be it landscape, seascape, or cloudscape--and his work may\nimpart instruction as well as pleasure and delight; but, granting\nall this, there shall still be something awanting even in the finest\npictures, that something which we have ventured to call spirit--the\nspirit that pervades and permeates nature in all her works, that is\nher life, that may be \"spiritually discerned\" in her, but cannot be\ntransferred to canvas.\n\nIn the collection of Jewish traditions known as the Talmud there\nis a very pretty story of Solomon and the Queen of Sheba, that will\nserve to illustrate our meaning better than the longest dissertation\ncould be. It is to the following effect:--Attracted by his wealth, and\nwisdom, and power--the fame whereof had gone forth into all lands--the\nQueen of Sheba, the Beautiful, paid a visit to Solomon, the Wise,\nat his own court, that she might there admire the splendour of his\nthrone and be instructed of his wisdom. Charmed with the courtesy and\ngallantry of the accomplished King, delighted with the magnificence\nand splendour of his court, and amazed at his surpassing wisdom,\nwhich, indeed, exceeded all that she had heard reported of it, the\nQueen still thought that Solomon could be outwitted, and she resolved\nto have the glory of puzzling and outwitting one so wise. To this\nend she one day presented herself before the King, bearing in one of\nher hands a wreath of natural flowers, the most beautiful she could\ngather, and in the other a similar wreath of artificial flowers,\nthe most beautiful and like unto natural flowers that the cunning\nof herself and her handmaidens could fashion. Of the two wreaths\nthe hues were of the brightest, and the flowers of the one wreath\nwere as if they had been pulled off the same stalks that bore the\nflowers of the other. \"Tell me now, O King,\" said the Queen as she\nstood at some distance from the throne whereon the monarch sate,\n\"Tell me now, O King, which of these wreaths I hold in my hands is\nfashioned of artificial flowers, for one of them is so fashioned;\nand which of them of natural flowers, that grew from out the earth,\nand imbibed their beauty and their brightness from the sun, for of\nsuch of a truth is one of them formed?\" And, lo, the King was perplexed\nand sorely troubled, for he wist not what answer to make, seeing that\nthe two wreaths were as like one to another as twin sisters at their\nmother's breast, or twin lilies on the same stalk. And the courtiers\nof the King, and his princes, and his servants, were sorely grieved\nthat the sagacity of the King should be at fault, and his superhuman\nwisdom at last fail. But, lo, the spirit of wisdom came upon the\nKing in his perplexity. Observing some bees clustering outside,\nhe ordered the window to be opened, and soon the bees came swarming\ninto the court, and after hovering for a moment about the one wreath,\nthey straightway left it and settled upon the other, which observing,\n\"That,\" said the King, \"that, and not the other, is the wreath of\nthe flowers that grew from out the earth and in the sun, and were\nnot fashioned with hands.\" And the Queen was mightily surprised at\nthe exceeding wisdom of the King, and did obeisance unto Solomon,\nlaying the wreaths of flowers upon the steps of the ivory throne that\nwas overlaid with gold, and of which there was not the like made in\nany kingdom. And the courtiers, and the princes, and the servants of\nthe King clapped their hands and cried, \"O King! live for ever.\" If we\nare wise and judge aright, we shall always, like the bees of Solomon,\nbe attracted by nature rather than by art, however beautiful. Our\ndoctrine was never, perhaps, so briefly and pithily enforced as by\nthe Macedonian conqueror on a certain occasion. A courtier one day\nasked him to listen to him how well he could, whistling, imitate\nthe notes of the nightingale. Alexander declined the proffered\nmusical entertainment with the contemptuous remark, \"I have heard\nthe nightingale herself.\" No wonder that the would-be melodist slunk\naway abashed; and such be the fate of all mere echoers and imitators\nwhen at any time they claim more than is their due, or would have us\nappraise their pinchbeck at the value of sterling gold. There is an\namount of truth, and a hidden meaning and beauty, in Byron's lines,\nthat he was himself perhaps unconscious of in the ribald mood of the\nmoment, when, alluding to the statuary's art, he exclaimed--\n\n\n    \"I've seen much finer women, ripe and real,\n    Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal.\"\n\n\nIt is astonishing how difficult of thorough eradication are certain\nsuperstitions, if once established amongst a people. Once let the\npopular mind become inoculated with error in this shape, and although\ntimes may change and the manners of the people may alter, though a\nnew tongue even shall have succeeded the language in which the error\nwas imbibed, and knowledge have spread and civilisation have steadily\nprogressed, yet there the superstition still lurks, frightened it\nmay be at the outward light, and, owl-like, ashamed to appear in\nthe brightness of the blessed sunshine of unclouded truth, but ever\nready, nevertheless, under favourable circumstances, to manifest\nitself, and assert its sway over its votaries, like certain fabled\nmedi\u00e6val philters and potions that when administered are said to have\nlurked for years and years in the human system, till, under certain\nconditions, their subtle properties were called into active operation,\nand the desired effect was produced. A short time ago we spent an\nevening in the company of a gentleman from the south of Scotland, a\ndistinguished antiquary and arch\u00e6ologist, and of wonderful skill in\neverything connected with the folk-lore of Scotland, whether of the\npast or present. In the course of conversation, \"over the walnuts and\nthe wine,\" our friend surprised us not a little by informing us that\neven at this day, in certain parts of the south-western districts of\nScotland, the Sortes Sacr\u00e6 are frequently resorted to by the people\nwhen they are in doubt or perplexity about anything of sufficient\nimportance in their opinion to warrant their having recourse to this\nancient mode of divination. The Sortes Sacr\u00e6 are founded upon the more\nancient Sortes Virgilian\u00e6--Virgilian Lots, a method of divination which\nhad at least the merit of being extremely simple, and not necessarily\noccupying much of the votary's time. What may be called the literary\noracle, as distinguished from vocal oracles, was consulted in this\nwise: The operator having before him a copy of Virgil--the sortes were\ngenerally confined to the \u00c6neid--opened the volume ad aperturam libri,\nanywhere, at random, when the first passage that accidentally struck\nthe eye was carefully read and pondered with as little reference as\npossible to its immediate context, and a meaning extracted from it\nwhich was supposed to indicate the issue of the event in hand, and\nwhich was to be considered inevitable and irrevocable as the fates\nhad so decreed. A man with the knowledge thus obtained could not by\nany precaution or change of conduct avert the impending doom, good or\nevil; he could only put his house in order, and so arrange matters the\nbest way he could; that if evil came it might be borne with dignity\nand patience; if good, that it might be enjoyed with moderation and\ndevout gratitude to the gods. It is said that at the outbreak of the\ntroubles that culminated in the Commonwealth, Charles I. and Lord\nFalkland found themselves on a certain day in the Bodleian Library\nat Oxford, when the latter jocularly proposed that they should inform\nthemselves of their future fortunes by means of the Sortes Virgili\u00e6;\nand certainly, read by the light of after events, it must be confessed\nthat the passages stumbled upon seem singularly ominous of the fate\nthat overtook both. The passage read by the Martyr King was from the\nfourth book of the \u00c6neid, and is as follows:--\n\n\n    \"At bello audacis populi vexatus et armis,\n    Finibus extorris, complexu avulsus Iuli,\n    Auxilium imploret, videatque, indigna suorum\n    Funera: nec, cum se sub leges pacis iniqu\u00e6\n    Tradiderit, regno aut optata luce fruatur,\n    Sed cadat ante diem, mediaque inhumatus arena.\"\n\n\nWhich Dryden, if with rather too much amplification, still very\nbeautifully translates thus:--\n\n\n    \"Yet let a race untamed and haughty foes\n    His peaceful entrance with dire arms oppose,\n    Oppress'd with numbers in th' unequal field,\n    His men discouraged and himself expell'd:\n    Let him for succour sue from place to place,\n    Torn from his subjects and his son's embrace.\n    First let him see his friends in battle slain,\n    And their untimely fate lament in vain;\n    And when at length the cruel wars shall cease,\n    On hard conditions may he buy his peace.\n    Nor let him then enjoy supreme command,\n    But fall untimely by some hostile hand,\n    And lie unburied on the barren sand.\"\n\n\nLord Falkland's eye fell on the following lines in the eleventh book:--\n\n\n    \"Non h\u00e6c, O Palla, dederas promissa parenti.\n    Cautius ut s\u00e6vo velles te credere Marti!\n    Haud ignarus eram, quantum nova gloria in armis,\n    Et predulce decus primo certamine posset.\n    Primiti\u00e6 juvenis miser\u00e6! bellique propinqui\n    Dura rudimenta! et nulli exaudita Deorum\n    Vota, precesque me\u00e6!\"\n\n\n--which the same translator has rendered as follows:--\n\n\n    \"O Pallas, thou hast failed thy plighted word,\n    To fight with caution, not to tempt the sword;\n    I warn'd thee, but in vain, for well I knew\n    What perils youthful ardour would pursue;\n    That boiling blood would carry thee too far,\n    Young as thou wert to dangers, raw to war;\n    O curs'd essay of arms, disastrous doom,\n    Prelude of bloody fields and fights to come,\n    Hard elements of unauspicious war,\n    Vain vows to heaven and unavailing care.\"\n\n\nHow the most pious man of his age, and one of the best kings that\never adorned a throne, suffered death at the hands of his rebellious\nsubjects is well known. Poor Lord Falkland--a young nobleman of the\nmost estimable character; a poet and man of letters, so fond of books\nthat he used to say that \"he pitied unlearned gentlemen in a rainy\nday\"--fell gallantly fighting for the royal cause in the battle of\nNewbury, before he had yet completed his thirty-fourth year. It is\ncurious to find the eminent poet Abraham Cowley, a good man too--of\nwhom at his death Charles II. was heard to say that \"Mr. Cowley had\nnot left a better man behind in England,\"--it is curious, we say, to\nfind him on a certain occasion seriously referring to the Virgilian\nLots, and, what is more, avowing his firm belief in them! During\nthe Commonwealth, Cowley was in Paris, where he acted as secretary\nto the Earl of St. Albans (then Lord Jermyn), and had a good deal to\ndo with the negotiations that eventually led to the Restoration. In\none of his letters, speaking of the Scotch treaty then in agitation,\nhe says--seriously, observe, and in an official document--\"The Scotch\ntreaty is the only thing now in which we are vitally concerned. I am\none of the last hopers, and yet cannot now abstain from believing\nthat an agreement will be made; all people upon the place incline\nto that union. The Scotch will moderate something of the rigour of\ntheir demands; the mutual necessity of an accord is visible, the king\nis persuaded of it. And, to tell you the truth (which I take to be\nan argument above all the rest), Virgil has told the same thing to\nthat purpose.\" He had evidently consulted the Virgilian Lots, and a\npassage presenting itself that could somehow be twisted so as to point\nto a favourable issue to the Scotch business in hand, he accepts the\noracle, and in all seriousness announces his belief in it! When we\nfind a man of refinement and culture and high moral character like\nCowley crediting such nonsense, can we much wonder at the lengths to\nwhich fanaticism and superstition carried people in those unhappy\ntimes? To understand why Virgil, of all the ancient poets, Roman\nor Greek, was selected as the oracle in this mode of divination,\nwe must remember that the Mantuan bard had the credit amongst his\ncountrymen of having been a sorcerer or necromancer and prophet as\nwell as a poet, something like the British Merlin, or our own Thomas\nthe Rhymer and Michael Scott, only more famous, perhaps. \"Would the\nreader suppose, for example, that the theory of volcanic action is\nall a myth, and that it is to the magic of Virgil, and to nothing\nelse, that the south of Italy is indebted for all the earthquakes and\nsubterranean convulsions that have afflicted it for centuries? Yet so\nit is, if we are to credit all the stories of \"Virgilius the Magician\"\nthat were current during the Middle Ages. The celebrated Benedictine\nmonk, Bernard de Montfaucon, author of Antiquit\u00e9 Expliqu\u00e9e one of\nthe most learned and curious works in existence, repeats the story\nas it was told and credited in the Dark Ages. The following is from\nan old translation, quoted by Scott in his notes to the Lay of the\nLast Minstrel, in illustration of the magical spells attributed to\nthe Ladye of Branksome Tower. Virgil it seems, among other things,\nwas famous for his gallantries. On one occasion he fell in love with\nand carried away the daughter of a certain \"Soldan,\" and the story\nproceeds:--\"Than he thoughte in his mynde how he myghte marye hyr, and\nthoughte in his mynde to founde in the middes of the see a fayer towne,\nwith great landes belongynge to it; and so he did by his cunnynge,\nand called it Napells (Naples). And the foundacyon of it was of egges,\nand in that town of Napells he made a tower with iiii. corners, and in\nthe toppe he set an apell upon an yron yarde, and no man culde pull\naway that apell without he brake it; and thoroughe that yren set he\na bolte, and in that bolte set he an egge, and he henge the apell by\nthe stauke upon a cheyne, and so hangeth it still. And when the egge\nstyrreth so should the town of Napells quake; and when the egge brake,\nthen shulde the town sinke. When he made an ende, he lette calls it\nNapells.\" Thomas of \"Ercildoune,\" and he of \"Balivearie,\" and the two\nMerlins,--for there were two of them, the Merlin of the Arthurian\nlegends, and Merdwynn Wylet, or Merlin the Wild, who seems to have\nbeen a Scotchman, and whose grave is still pointed out beneath an aged\nthorn-tree at Drumelzier in Tweeddale,--these were accounted great\nmagicians and \"pretty fellows in their day;\" but what were they to\nVirgilius the earthquaker, who at least attained to such an enviable\nstate of independence, that he is represented as frequently playing\nat pitch and toss with the \"devyl,\" and cheating and outwitting that\ncrafty potentate as if he were the veriest greenhorn! The Sortes Sacr\u00e6\nwere just the Sortes Virgilian\u00e6, with this difference, that in the\nformer case, instead of a copy of Virgil, the New Testament was used\nin the process of divination. The oracle is consulted in this case,\naccording to our information, by the introduction at random of the\nwards end of a key (some allusion probably to the Apostolic keys)\nbetween the leaves of the closed volume, which is then opened at that\nplace, and from the first verse that arrests the eye the desired\nknowledge is extracted. On inquiry, we find that this superstition\nwas still occasionally practised in the Highlands of Scotland some\nfifty years ago, though we would fain hope and believe that it\nis now unknown. It is curious that it should still be frequently\nresorted to in the south-western districts. It seems to have been a\nvery general as well as a very ancient mode of divination. Hoffman,\nin his Lexicon Universale, &c., informs us that it was practised by\nthe Jewish Rabbins with their sacred books, as well as by the Pagans\nfrom very early times, and was common amongst the Christians of the\nMiddle Ages. We are informed by a gentleman, who spent many years\nin the East, that the Mahometans frequently resort to this method of\ndivination, taking the Koran as their oracle.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n    An old Gaelic MS.--\"The Bewitched Bachelor Unbewitched\"--Fairy\n    Lore--Lacteal Libations on Fairy Knowes.\n\n\nIn looking over some old papers the other day [October 1868]\nwe stumbled on some sheets of Gaelic MS. that had lain neglected\nfor years, and every existence of which, indeed, we had well-nigh\nforgotten. One of these sheets contained the original of the following\nlines. It is in many respects a curious composition, written in a\nsort of rhythmical alliterative prose rather than in verse, somewhat\nin the manner of the conversational parts of the Gaelic Sgeulachdan\nor fireside tales of the olden time. Its tone throughout is gay and\nlively, with an occasional admixture of humour and double entendre that\nis very amusing, while its allusions to the manners and customs and\nsuperstitious observances of a past age render it, to our thinking,\nextremely interesting. The sheet in our possession is only a copy,\nthe original, taken down from oral recitation, we believe, being in a\nMS. collection of Gaelic poems and tales by Rev. Mr. M'Donald, at one\ntime minister of the parish of Fortingall, in Perthshire. Having only\ninternal evidence to judge from, it is impossible with any confidence\nto assign even an approximate date to such a production as this,\nbut we are probably not far wrong in placing it as early at least\nas the middle or close of the last century. It bears no title in the\noriginal; we may call it--\n\n\n    The Bewitched Bachelor Unbewitched.\n\n    The gudeman mumbled and grumbled full sore\n      Over the butter-kits, all through the dairy:\n    Over cheese, over butter, and milk-pails, he swore\n      \"'Tis the work, I'll be bound, of some foul witch or fairy.\n\n    How can I ever be happy or rich,\n    If robbed and tormented by fairy and witch,\"\n    Quoth he; and lo, with a sudden turn\n    He stumbled and spilt the cream-full churn!\n\n    He went to his mother (she dwelt in the cot\n      Amid the hazels down by the linn:\n    Full well the wild birds loved that spot,\n      And taught its echoes their merry din)--\n    He went to his mother, that Bachelor gruff:\n      He was mild with her, though with others rough.\n\n    \"Mother,\" quoth he, \"I have not now\n    One-half the butter or cheese, I trow,\n    That loaded my dairy shelves when you\n    Had charge of my household and dairy too:\n    Tell me mother, what shall I do?\n    I vow and declare that some fairy or witch\n    Is robbing me still and doing me ill--I shall never be rich.\"\n\n    \"My son,\" the mother mild replied,\n      \"See that you pay the fairies their due;\n    A tribute due should ne'er be denied--\n      Others don't grudge it, and why should you?\n    Nor thrive their flocks nor kine, I ween,\n    Who scorn or neglect the shian green.\"\n\n    \"But, mother, the witch that lives down i' the glen?\"\n    \"A widow, my son, with a fatherless oe,\n    Who has seen much sorrow and years of woe;\n    Give her as heretofore, my son,\n    Of your curds and whey, and let her alone.\n    And oh, my son, if you would be rich,\n    And free from dread of fairy and witch.\n    And happy and well-to-do through life--\n    Go get thee, my son, a winsome wife!\"\n\n    The bachelor hied him home full soon--\n      He sent to the widow, far down in the glen,\n    A kebbuck of cheese as round as the moon,\n      Of oaten cakes he sent her ten,\n    With a kindly message, \"Come when you may\n    For curds and whey in the good old way.\"\n    He sent her withal, 'tis right you should know,\n    A braw new kilt for her fatherless oe.\n\n    And ever he saw that his maidens paid\n      To the fairies their due on the Fairy Knowe,\n    Till the emerald sward was under the tread\n      As velvet soft, and all aglow\n    With wild flowers, such as fairies cull,\n    Weaving their garlands and wreaths for the dance when the moon\n    is full!\n\n    And lo! at last he took him a wife,\n      A comely and winsome dame, I trow,\n    Who shed a sunshine over his life,\n    And silvered the wrinkles upon his brow.\n      'Twas well with the kine, and well with the dairy,\n    Nor dreaded he ought from witch or fairy;\n    (He had one of his own--she was hight Wee Mary!)\n    And often they went to the cot by the linn,\n    Where mavis and merle made merry din.\n\n\nThe English reader will probably require to be informed that oe--the\nGaelic ogha--signifies a grandchild, while shian (Gaelic sithean) is a\nfairy knoll. To show what a power fairies were at one time in the land,\nand how wide-spread was the belief in them, we have only to consider\nthat there is perhaps not a hamlet or township in the Highlands or\nHebrides without its shian or green fairy knoll so called. Within\nhalf a mile of our own residence, for example, there is a Sithean\nBeag and a Sithean Mor, a Greater and Lesser Fairy Knoll; there is,\nbesides, a Glacan-t' Shithein, the Fairy Knoll Glade, Tobar-an-t'\nShithein, the Fairy Knoll Well; and a deep chasm, through which\na mountain torrent plunges darkling, called Leum-an-t' Shithiche,\nthe Fairy's Leap, with which there is probably connected some very\nwonderful story, although we have been unsuccessful hitherto in\nmeeting with any one able or willing to repeat it. The truth is,\nthat a belief in fairies and fairyland, or faery--faint, no doubt,\nand ill-defined now-a-days--still lingers ghost-like, the shadow of its\nmore substantial former living self, in our straths and glens; and, in\naccordance with the old superstition, it is considered that the \"good\npeople\" should only be spoken of on rare and unavoidable occasions,\nand then only in serious and respectable terms. Hence it is that you\nalways find old people reluctant to impart such fairy lore as may\nbe known to them, though garrulous enough on all other subjects; and\nhence, also, it happens that in our old Sgeulachdan--the Arabian Nights\nEntertainments of our Celtic forefathers--although you find giants,\nand dwarfs, and misbegotten beings of every imaginable shape and size;\nanimals, too, that can speak and reason and lend their superhuman\naid to prince and peasant in extremity, as well as genii, kelpies,\nand spirits of flood and fell, you rarely if ever meet with one of\nthe \"good folks,\" or fairies proper, introduced upon the scene. The\npeople thoroughly believed in them, believed that they had a veritable\nexistence, and although invisible to mortal eye, that they might be at\nyour elbow at any moment; that they disliked being spoken of at all\nas a rule, and that a disrespectful word about them especially would\ninevitably be followed by some signal punishment, or \"mischance,\" as\nit was more cautiously termed in the South--all this they believed,\nand therefore they held it wisest to speak of fairies, good folks\nthough they were, as seldom as possible. The allusion to paying--\n\n\n    \"The fairies their due on the fairy knowe,\"\n\n\nhas reference to the custom, common enough on the western mainland\nand in some of the Hebrides some fifty years ago, and not altogether\nunknown perhaps even at the present day, of each maiden's pouring\nfrom her cumanbleoghain, or milking-pail, evening and morning, on\nthe fairy knowe a little of the new-drawn milk from the cow, by way\nof propitiating the favour of the good people, and as a tribute the\nwisest, it was deemed, and most acceptable that could be rendered, and\nsooner or later sure to be repaid a thousand-fold. The consequence was\nthat these fairy knolls were clothed with a richer and more beautiful\nverdure than any other spot, howe or knowe, in the country, and the\nlacteal riches imbibed by the soil through this custom is even now\nvisible in the vivid emerald green of a shian or fairy knoll whenever\nit is pointed out to you. This custom of pouring lacteal libations\nto the fairies on a particular spot deemed sacred to them, was known\nand practised at some of the summer shielings in Lochaber within the\nmemory of the people now living.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n    Transit of Mercury--Improperly called an \"Eclipse\" of--November\n    Meteors--Mr. Huggins--Spectrum Analyses of Cometary\n    Light--Translation of a St. Kilda Song.\n\n\nWe were early astir on the morning of the 5th November [1868];\nwith little thought, be sure, of Guy Fawkes or the Gunpowder Plot,\nintent only on witnessing, if we might be so fortunate, the transit\nof Mercury over the solar disc. The phenomenon in question we have\nseen referred to as an \"eclipse\" of Mercury, which it certainly was\nnot. A celestial body is properly said to be eclipsed when, by the\ninterposition of another and a nearer orb, it is temporarily hid from\nview. A star or planet so hidden by the body of the moon, for instance,\nis said to be \"occulted.\" The sun is truly said to be eclipsed when\nthe new moon at a particular conjunction steps in between us and him,\nand temporarily intercepts his beams. What again, for convenience sake,\nis called an eclipse of the moon, is really not an eclipse at all,\nso far at least as the terrestrial spectator is concerned; it would\nbe more strictly correct to call it simply a lunar obscuration. The\ntemporary appearance of Venus and Mercury as circular and sharply\ndefined black spots on the solar disc, has hitherto always, and very\nproperly, been called in the language of astronomers a \"transit\"\nof the particular planet by name, such as the \"transit of Venus,\" or\nthe \"transit of Mercury;\" and there is no reason to change the term,\nfor it is expressive and true, which the word eclipse, applied to\nsuch a conjunction, certainly is not.\n\nBe it called what it may, however--eclipse or transit--we were\ndisappointed in not getting a glimpse of the phenomenon in question on\nthe present occasion. Although duly at our post from before sunrise\ntill the minute calculated for the last contact of the planet with\nthe solar disc, we were unable to obtain anything more than the\nmost momentary blink even of the larger orb, and, of course, the\ndetection of the black button-like disc of the planet itself, in such\ncircumstances, was altogether out of the question. The disappointment,\nhowever, was less annoying to us in this instance from the fact\nthat we had already been privileged to witness all the phases of a\nsimilar conjunction from first to last on the 12th November 1861. The\nnext visible transit of Mercury does not take place till the 6th of\nMay 1878--ten years hence. There are several other transits during\nthe present century, invisible in our country, however, and on the\ncontinent of Europe; but which will probably afford much delight to\nmany an eager watcher over the length and breadth of the South American\ncontinent, and generally over the islands of the Pacific Ocean.\n\nNor, with us here at least, was the night of the 13-14th instant any\nway more favourable for observation than the dull beclouded morning\nof the 5th itself. The night was calm and rainless, to be sure, but\na heavy impenetrable mass of dark grey clouds, so low as to envelop\nall the mountain summits around, obscured the vault from horizon to\nhorizon, from sunset to sunrise, so that not a single meteor could\nbe seen by the keenest eye, even if above that pall of cloud the\ndisplay had been the most brilliant and splendid conceivable. From\nthe fact, however, that in several places widely distant from\neach other, from which we have had communications on the subject,\nand where the sky was abundantly clear and unclouded throughout,\nno unusual display of meteors was seen, the probability is that we\nhave on this occasion missed them in our country, either because\nthey came into contact with our atmosphere in the daytime, when, of\ncourse, they would be invisible, or more likely because our contact\nthis year with the meteorolithic annulus was of the slightest, and\nat a segment thereof where the meteoric bodies are least numerous,\nand thus we must patiently wait till we again dash through it at its\ndensest before we can hope for such a magnificent meteor shower as\nastonished and delighted us all in 1866. Only at Oxford, as far as our\ncountry is concerned, was there anything like a meteor shower on the\npresent occasion, and even there the display seems to have been too\nfaint and uninteresting to have attracted much attention. Intelligence\nhas reached our country from New York, however, that over that city,\nand over the States generally, the meteoric display of the morning\nof the 14th was very splendid indeed, though, owing to the morning\nbeing further advanced before it commenced, less of it was seen by the\npeople at large than on some previous occasions. The weather with our\nTransatlantic cousins seems to have been all that could be desired,\nas it is stated that \"astronomers and others were able to make very\ncomplete observations.\" The worst thing about our insular position\nwith respect to matters astronomical is the extreme uncertainty with\nwhich anything like continuous observation can be conducted. The\nchances always are twenty to one that in Great Britain, at any\ngiven hour in any given place, the weather should be such as to\nrender an observation of a celestial phenomenon impossible, or at\nthe least partial and unsatisfactory. One thing, at least, is now\npretty certain--that annually, and at a date that falls somewhere\nbetween sunset of the 13th and sunrise of the 14th November, we may\nconfidently look for greater or less displays of these meteoric bodies,\nthe only thing likely to interfere with the interesting pyrotechnic\nexhibition being an unfavourable state of the weather at a moment\nwhen we are most concerned that the sky shall be clear and cloudless.\n\nMr. Huggins, whose researches with the spectroscope have already made\nhis name famous, has recently communicated a most interesting paper\nto the Royal Society, giving an account of the spectrum analyses of\none of the smaller and commoner class of comets that was visible for a\nshort time in the month of June last. Avoiding technical details, which\nmight be uninteresting to some of our readers, we may simply mention\nthat on testing the nucleus of this comet with the spectroscope,\nMr. Huggins found that it was resolved into three broad \"bands,\"\nprecisely similar to the results obtained on examining with the\nsame wonderful instrument such carbon as follows the transmission of\nelectric sparks through olefiant gas. The conclusion arrived at by\nMr. Huggins is, that the nucleus of the comet in question consisted\nsolely of volatilised carbon. This paper of Mr. Huggins is altogether\na most interesting one, and we may have something more to say about\nit on a future occasion.\n\nThe following is a translation--somewhat freely rendered--of an old\nIrst or St. Kilda song, the solitary island home of a score or two\nof hardy inhabitants, and by all accounts a happy and hospitable race\ntoo, who cling with an unquenchable love to their lonely rock, as if\nit were a perfect paradise, ocean-girt and storm-beaten though it be--\n\n\n    \"Placed far amid the melancholy main.\"\n\n\nExcept another specimen given in a small collection of Gaelic songs,\nedited by the late Rev. Mr. M'Callum of Arisaig, the original of\nthe following is the only St. Kilda song that we have met with. Our\ncopy was procured in this way: Some years ago we were dining on board\nH.M. Revenue cruiser \"Harriet,\" Captain M'Allister. Going ashore on\na fine moonlight night, one of the seamen who rowed our boat sang\nthe song, which we had no hesitation in at once declaring to be of\nSt. Kilda origin, which the man admitted was the case, he having\npicked it up many years before from an old woman who had spent some\ntime on the island. Of the air, we can only remember that it was a\nwild, irregular sort of chant, very different from the soft low airs\nto which our mainland songs are for the most part sung, with the\nrefrain or burden (represented by our Alexandrines in each stanza)\ngiven in a shrill falsetto that was somewhat disagreeable to the ear,\nalthough abundantly appropriate, probably, in the circumstances in\nwhich the song was composed, and when sung amid all the surroundings\nof the scene depicted.\n\n\n    The St. Kilda Maid's Song.\n\n        Over the rocks, steadily, steadily;\n      Down to the clefts with a shout and a shove, O;\n        Warily tend the rope, shifting it readily,\n      Eagerly, actively, watch from above, O.\n    Brave, O brave, my lover true, he's worth a maiden's love:\n    (And the sea below is still as deep as the sky is high above!)\n\n        Sweet 'tis to sleep on a well feathered pillow,\n      Sweet from the embers the fulmar's red egg, O;\n        Bounteous our store from the rock and the billow;\n      Fish and birds in good store, we need never to beg, O;\n    Brave, O brave, my lover true, he's worth a maiden's love:\n    (And the sea below is still as deep as the sky is high above!)\n\n        Hark to the fulmar and guillemot screaming:\n      Hark to the kittiwake, puffin, and gull, O:\n        See the white wings of solan goose gleaming;\n      Steadily, men! on the rope gently pull, O.\n    Brave, O brave, my lover true, he's worth a maiden's love:\n    (And the sea below is still as deep as the sky is high above!)\n\n        Deftly my love can hook ling and conger,\n      The grey-fish and hake, with the net and the creel, O;\n        Far from our island be plague and be hunger;\n      And sweet our last sleep in the quiet of the Kiel, O.\n    Brave, O brave, my lover true, he's worth a maiden's love:\n    (And the sea below is still as deep as the sky is high above!)\n\n        Pull on the rope, men, pull it up steadily:\n      (There's a storm on the deep, see the scart claps his wings, O);\n        Cunningly guide the rope, shifting it readily;\n      Welcome my true love, and all that he brings, O!\n    Now God be praised, my lover's safe, he's worth a maiden's love:\n    (And the sea below is still as deep as the sky is high above!)\n\n\nOur song needs but little elucidation. The reader who knows that the\nwealth of the St. Kildians mainly consists of the feathers and eggs\nof wild-fowl, to procure which they are obliged to hang suspended\nfrom ropes over the most dreadful precipices, in the clefts and\nalong the otherwise inaccessible ledges of which the sea-fowl breed,\nwill have no difficulty in understanding the general drift of the\nisland maid's very spirited and very earnest song. It is, perhaps,\nunnecessary to say that as ling, conger, hake, and grey-fish are\ncertain kinds of sea fish, so fulmar, guillemot, kittiwake, puffin,\nand scart are certain kinds of web-footed sea-fowl.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n    Bird Music--The Skylark's Song--Imitation of, by a French\n    Poet--Alasdair Macdonald--Scott.\n\n\nConscious at last that pouting and inordinate weeping became him not,\nand that, being constantly on the \"rampage,\" like Mrs. Joe Gargery,\nwas hardly consistent with his place in the calendar, April [1869]\nbetimes resolved to \"tak a thocht and mend,\" and now, like Richard,\nis himself again--all sunshine and smiles. The rain-gauge, to be sure,\nwith stern impartiality, will still show an occasional \"inch,\" or parts\nof an inch, if you are very particular in your inquiries, when examined\nof a morning, but its readings now at least are in no way appalling,\nfor they represent the warm and genial rainfall of April showers,\nthat, after all, are as necessary on the west coast at this moment,\nand as refreshing to the soil, as the orthodox cup of mulled port of\nan evening was believed to be to the weary traveller in the good old\ndays of stage-coaches and post-chaises. The country, at all events,\nis looking very beautiful just now, everything so green and glad,\nso fresh and fair, and full of promise of a yet gladder, and gayer,\nand brighter day at hand, when the swallow, twittering, shall dart,\na glossy meteor, in the sunlight, and the cuckoo shall challenge\nthe truant schoolboy to repeat its well-known notes, correctly if\nhe can. Now is the time to hear our native song-birds at their best,\nwarbling their sweetest strains, and to decide, once for all, if it be\npossible, which you like best; the loud, clear, silvery tinkle of the\nseed-shelling finch's rich and rapid song; the liquid and mellifluous\nwarblings of the soft-billed tribes; or the soul-entrancing, round,\nrich, flute-like piping of the throstle, song-thrush, and merle. How\nit may fare with the reader who tries to decide the point we cannot\nsay. For our own part, no decision that we could ever arrive at could\nkeep its legs for two days together. No sooner did we decide that the\nskylark and its congeners had the best of it, than the goldfinch, with\na score of lively cousins to aid and abet, challenged the verdict, and\nforced us to acknowledge his exquisite mastery in song--an admission\nmade, however, only to be retracted again almost as soon as made,\nfor in our walk on the evening of that self-same day did we not stand,\nand for the life of us couldn't help standing--breathless, and hushed,\nand still--to listen to the merle and song-thrush from the neighbouring\ncopse pouring forth the indescribable riches of their God-taught\nvespers as the sun went down; and did we not, then and there, vow,\nin utter forgetfulness of finch and skylark, that no music of earth\ncould for a moment compare, in execution and compass, in distinctness,\nand cheeriness, and purity of note, with these matchless twilight\nstrains? The truth is that no music is equal to bird-music--wild-bird\nmusic, that is--in its season, and amid all its natural surroundings;\nand the probability is that we shall give the preference at any\ntime to the melody of one bird over that of another, not on any\nwell-defined principles of choice or selection in the matter, but\nsimply in accordance with our own prevailing mood and temperament\nof the moment. Such, at least, has been our own experience; but the\nreader has every opportunity at this season of studying the question\nfor himself and deciding. Except that of the nightingale, perhaps the\nmusic of no bird has attracted so much attention by its beauty and\nsuggestiveness as the merry trill of the skylark's ascending song. The\npoets of every country in which it is to be found have vied with each\nother in their praises of the only bird that sings as he soars, and\nsoars as he sings, scaling on quivering pinions the aerial terraces\nof heaven, until he can scarcely be discerned, a music-showering\nspeck against the background of the blue profound! The other day\nwe fell in with some curious verses by the French poet Du Bartas,\nin which he strives, and not altogether unsuccessfully, to imitate\nthe merry trill and rhythm of the skylark's song:--\n\n\n    \"La gentille alo\u00fcette, avec son tire-lire,\n    Tire-lire, \u00e0 lire, et tire-liran tire;\n    Vers la voute du ciel, puis son vol vers ce lieu,\n    Vire et desire dire adieu Dieu, adieu Dieu!\"\n\n\nThe last line, if rapidly repeated with the proper beat and\nintonation, will be found a really very successful imitation of\nthe concluding notes of the lark's well-known song. Many of our\nreaders will remember that the North Uist bard, Ian Mac Codrum,\nin his Smeorach Chlann-Domhnuill, manages very happily to imitate\nthe smeorach or song-thrush's notes in the burden or chorus; while\nAlexander Macdonald--Mac Mhaighstir Alasdair--very naturally falls,\nlike the French poet, into an imitation of the wild-bird music of the\nwoods and groves in a stanza that may be quoted not inappropriately\nat this season:--\n\n\n    \"Cha bhi cr\u00e8utair fo chupan nan sp\u00e8ur\n    'N sin nach tiunndaidh ri'n speur\u00e0d 's ri'n dreach,\n    'S gun toir Phoebus le buadhan a bhl\u00e0is\n    Anam-fas daibh a's caileachdan ceart,\n    Ni iad ais-eiridh choitcheann on uaigh\n    Far na mhiotaich am fuachd iad a steach,\n    'S their iad--guileag-doro-hidola-hann\n    Dh-fhalbh an geamhra's tha'n samhradh air teachd!\"\n\n\nThe lines of Du Bartas have little meaning in themselves, and\nare untranslatable, being simply an attempt on the poet's part,\nin some odd moment of hilarity and abandon, to embody the notes of\nthe skylark's song in something like articulate verse. The general\nsense of Macdonald's lines describing the irrepressible inclination\nof all living creatures to be jubilant and joyous at the return of\nspring, cannot better be rendered than in the first part of Scott's\nintroductory stanza to the second canto of the Lady of the Lake, only\nthat the return of spring in the one case, instead of the return of\nmorn in the other, prompts to the outburst of gladness and song:--\n\n\n    \"At morn the black-cock trims his jetty wing,\n      'Tis morning prompts the linnet's blithest lay,\n    All Nature's children feel the matin spring\n      Of life reviving, with reviving day;\n    And while yon little bark glides down the bay,\n      Wafting the stranger on his way again,\n    Morn's genial influence roused a minstrel grey,\n      And sweetly o'er the lake was heard thy strain,\n    Mixed with the sounding harp, O white-hair'd Allan-bane!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n    Severe Drought--The Drive by Coach from Fort-William to\n    Kingussie--Breakfast at Moy--Where did Scott find Dominie Sampson's\n    \"Pro-di-gi-ous!\"?--Professor Blackie's Poem on Glencoe.\n\n\nThat the people of Lochaber and the Western Isles should be rejoicing\nin the advent of heavy rains [August 1869], and seriously glad at the\nreappearance of clouds in the heavens and mists upon the mountain\ntops, may seem odd enough to those who know anything of our usual\nmeteorological characteristics; yet true it is, and of a verity that\nso it is, for here, as elsewhere, the heat was for many consecutive\nweeks intense, and the parching drought and fierce glare of a summer's\nsun from a constantly unclouded sky well nigh unbearable by man or\nbeast, whether in the sheltered valley, where for days and days no\nbreath of air shook the tiniest leaflet or ruffled the surface of the\nsullen tarn, or on the upland moor, where, if breath of air there was,\nit was hot and stifling as the breath of a furnace. Were it not for\nthe occasional sea breezes, that sometimes of an evening swept over\nthe almost pulseless deep, and copious falls of blessed night-dews,\nwe should have been badly off indeed. But, as matters have turned out,\nwe have much reason to be thankful, for if our crops are not quite so\nheavy as in average years, they are at least of excellent quality,\nand being ripe sooner than usual, we have a chance of getting them\nsecured in a condition that will add immensely to their value. So\nthorough and persistent was the drought even with us, that springs\nfailed that never before were known to refuse their waters to the\nthirsty; and water-courses that heretofore, even in the driest years,\nstill presented shady pools connected by purling rivulets, were for\nweeks together arid and waterless as the course of an ancient lava\nstream. As you wandered among the hills you could set your fusee\nalight on a stone in a torrent bed over which in ordinary summers\nrolls a volume of foaming waters. The demand for beer wherever you\nwent was in these circumstances something wonderful; and at times,\non the arrival of coach or steamer with its load of panting tourists,\nthe bawling from husky throats for a supply--an instant and copious\nsupply--of the delicious liquid was sufficiently amusing. One of\nthe happiest illustrations of the proverbial close treading of the\nridiculous on the heels of the sublime, and the wafer-like thinness\nof the partition that divides the sentimental from the absurd, was\nDr. Johnson's celebrated parody on the quasi-sentimental style of\npoetry so much in vogue in his latter years--and sooth to say too much\nin vogue in our day as well--a style as unlike the school of Pope as\nyou can well imagine, and the very antipodes of the sturdily masculine\nand didactic strains which Johnson, an intellectual giant--for there\nwere giants in these days--alone accounted true poetry:--\n\n\n    \"Hermit hoar, in solemn cell,\n      Wearing out life's evening grey,\n    Smite thy bosom, sage, and tell\n      What is bliss? and which the way?\n\n    \"Thus I spoke; and speaking sighed;\n      Scarce repressed the starting tear;\n    When the smiling sage replied,--\n      'Come, my lad, and drink some beer!'\"\n\n\nAnd very well hit off, you will confess; an arrow shot from an Ulysses'\nbow at the puling whimperers of a namby-pamby sentimentalism that they\nmiscalled poetry; but if we dared for the nonce to take these lines in\na more serious and literal sense than their author intended, we should\nsay that in such hot and parching weather as we have recently had, and\nare still having, there is more \"bliss\" in a good draught of \"Allsopp\"\nor \"Bass\" than is dreamt of in the philosophy of the sentimentalists,\nand thousands upon thousands of this season's tourists are ready,\nwe'll be bound, to homologate this statement.\n\nIt was Dr. Johnson, too, if we remember well, who spoke loudly and\ndogmatically, as was his wont, of the delightful feeling that one\nhas in being rapidly whirled along a good road in a post-chaise;\nand remembering the unsteadiness of the \"Rambler\" on his pins, and\nhis unwieldy corporation, one can readily understand that he found\nthe means of locomotion referred to the easiest and most enjoyable\npossible. Our own experience of post-chaises has, sooth to say, been\nsomewhat of the slightest, but in lieu thereof we would recommend\na well-appointed public coach, with sound, well-cared-for horses,\na steady and obliging driver and guard, good roads under foot, and a\nbright sky above all; and such a conveyance we on a recent occasion\nfound the mail-coach between Fort-William and Kingussie to be; and\nsuch a driver and guard, the two in one, is the renowned \"Davie Jack,\"\nwho knows his work, and does it too, in a style that reminds one of the\nold \"Defiance\" in its palmiest days; while the weather, if anything,\nwas too fine, too bright and cloudless--the best fault it could have,\nhowever, since it is impossible that the weather on any particular\nday should be faultless, any more than that any human being should be\nperfect. Nothing, indeed, can be finer than the drive through Lochaber\nand Badenoch to Kingussie, except perhaps the drive back again. With\nmountain scenery on all hands, unsurpassed even in the Highlands for\nwild, and savage, and solitary grandeur; with foaming torrents dashing\ndown the steeps, torrents that at a distance and at this season look\nlike so many threads of purest silver constantly being absorbed and\ninwefted with the river, that, with a voice more hushed, and a quieter,\nkindlier step, still gladdens and fertilises the valley as it seeks\nthe sea; with loch and river scenery the most attractive and lovely;\nand all, in short, that you can reasonably look for of the grand or\nbeautiful from the sea coast to the central Highlands. With all this,\nand the redoubted \"Davie\" to handle the ribbons, as only \"Davie\" can\nhandle them--said \"Davie\" the while as full of anecdote, and joke,\nand local tradition as an egg is full of meat--with all this we say,\nand much more that might be mentioned, the man who cannot enjoy\nsuch a journey at this season is little to be envied; for, be his\nother qualities and qualifications what they may, his non-enjoyment\nof such a drive clearly proves one of two things,--either he is\nphysically unwell, and out of sorts, and had better stay at home; or,\n\u00e6sthetically, he has no eye for, and no appreciation of, some of the\nmost splendid scenery in the Highlands, and in that case is less to\nbe blamed than pitied. Even in winter we should say that this was the\nreadiest, as well as the most pleasant, line of intercommunication\nbetween the north-western Highlands and the south. It were, finally,\nunpardonable in us, who enjoyed it so much, not to mention the very\nexcellent breakfast on the up-journey, and the equally excellent and\nsubstantial \"tea,\" or tea-dinner rather, on returning, to be had in\nthe shepherd's house at Moy. It may seem unromantic and prosaic to\nsay so, but it is a fact nevertheless, that one's appreciation of the\nsublime and beautiful--let Mr. Edmund Burke say what he likes--is not\na little enhanced by a due supply of creature comforts pari pass\u00fb. If\none cannot carry the comforts of home about with him, any more than\nhonest Bailie Nicol Jarvie could carry about with him the comforts\nof the \"Sautmarket,\" it is no small matter to meet with good cheer\noff a snow-white cloth, with the attentions of a smart, intelligent\nserving girl, in odd and out-of-the-way places, where you least expect\nit. Altogether, a trip by the Fort-William and Kingussie mail-coach\nduring the present fine weather is very enjoyable indeed--superior,\nupon the whole, we should say, to the \"Rambler's\" post-chaise, not\nforgetting that the latter is a solitary and somewhat surly sort of\nbusiness, whereas in the former you have the chance of pleasant and\nagreeable companionship, in addition to its other attractions.\n\nFor one to make a discovery, and to think that oneself has made a\ndiscovery, are two widely different things. We readily acknowledge\nthe distinction. That we have made a discovery we shall not venture\nto affirm, but we think we have. Our discovery, if discovery it be,\nis this, that Sir Walter Scott is indebted for Dominie Sampson's\n\"prodigious!\" to Boswell's Life of Johnson. Who can think of the\nworthy, kind-hearted, most unsophisticated, and withal most learned,\nalbeit life-long kirkless parson, without instantly recalling his\nfavourite exclamation of \"Pro-di-gi-ous?\" We stumbled on our discovery\nin this wise:--A few evenings ago we were reading the third volume of a\nvery fine edition of Boswell's \"Johnson,\" kindly placed at our disposal\nby Lady Riddell of Strontian--and a good edition of a good book is no\nsmall matter to one so far removed from libraries as we are--when we\ncame to a page that described Johnson's meeting with a gentleman who\nhad been his companion at Pembroke College, Oxford, some fifty years\npreviously. Mr. Edwards, for that was the gentleman's name, and Boswell\naccompanied Johnson home, where, in course of conversation, Mr. Edwards\nsaid, addressing Johnson, \"Sir, I remember you would not let us say\nprodigious at college. For even then, sir (turning to Boswell), he was\ndelicate in language, and we all feared him.\" Now, can any one doubt\nthat it was having his attention particularly called to the word in\nthis passage that made Scott first ponder the absurdity of using a word\nof such volume and import on every trifling occasion, and caused him,\npossibly at a long subsequent date (for Scott's memory, as we know,\nwas prodigiously retentive--there the word, you will observe, is pat\nand appropriate enough--prodigiously retentive, we say, of words,\nphrases, and odd turns of expression)--to put it so frequently as\nan exclamation of unspeakable, indescribable import into the mouth\nof honest Sampson, whom you can no more help laughing at, at times,\nthan you can loving him with all your heart always? The matter, after\nall, may seem a trifle, and it is a trifle, but such trifles are dear\nto the lovers of literature. Were Boswell in the flesh subsequent to\nthe publication of Guy Mannering, and had his attention drawn to such\na matter, slight as it seems, what a delightful chapter of gossip\nhe could write about it, with fresh reminiscences of his long and\nintimate intercourse with his \"illustrious friend,\" for whom till his\ndying day he cherished so much veneration and awe, ever-more mingled\nwith most pardonable pride that he knew him as no one else knew him,\nand loved him as no one else loved him, or perhaps could love him.\n\nWe have just been reading our friend Professor Blackie's poem on\n\"Glencoe.\" The manner in which he \"goes at\" his subject, to use a\nsporting phrase, the life, and vigour, and swing, and fervour of\nthe whole, is most refreshing in these days of poetical (save the\nmark!) namby-pambyisms, and eminently characteristic of the learned\nProfessor when at his best. Here you have him, like a knight of the\nMiddle Ages, high in his stirrups, with lance in rest, \"Dh'aindeoin\nco theireadh e!\" blazing on his shield, and who shall dare to stop\nhis fierce career against the perpetrators of the foulest deed\non record? Less polished and less artistic than Aytoun's \"Widow of\nGlencoe,\" it is, nevertheless, the better poem, on such a subject, of\nthe two. Its very ruggedness and stern headlong force are its chief\ncharm, they best befit the theme. Blackie is terribly in earnest;\nwith Aytoun you cannot help feeling it was a mere matter of sentiment\nand no more.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n    O the Barren, Barren Shore--Brilliant Auroral Display--Intense\n    Cold--Birds--Glanders--Scribblings on the Back of One Pound Notes.\n\n\nDuring a week's pleasant and gentle thaw [February 1870], we had\nhoped that the worst of winter was come and gone; but to our no small\ndisappointment the genial interregnum has been followed by another\nheavy fall of snow, and a wonderfully keen and biting frost, which,\nborne on the wings of a surly nor'easter, has again bound up the earth\nas if with fetters of iron. Under such circumstances the sea-coast,\nwe take it, presents the most dreary and desolate-looking winter\npicture imaginable; far more so, to our thinking, than either moss,\nor moorland, or mountain range. There is a something inexpressibly\ndismal and dowie in the black crape-like belt of sea beach which\ndivides a landscape deeply clad with snow and frost-bound, from the\ndull and leaden coloured deep beyond; the dashing of the waves of\nsaid deep upon the shore, uttering the while a sadly funereal and\ndirge-like moan. If our inland friends, in view of the wintry waste\naround them, take up the cry of \"O the dreary, dreary moorland\"--we,\ndwellers by the sea coast, have the best possible right to finish\nthe Tennysonian line by exclaiming \"O the barren, barren shore.\" It\nmust, by the way, have been on some fair summer eve that the Crown\nofficials first thought of depriving landowners of the sea-shore\nprivileges hitherto enjoyed by them; had it been in winter, the idea,\nit strikes us, would have withered in the bud; they would have fled\nthe very sight of the dark and dreary \"foreshore,\" and wisely confined\nthemselves to the shelter of their Woods and Forests!\n\nIt is worthy of record that the present severe snow-storm was\nushered in by a very splendid and in many respects peculiar auroral\ndisplay. Shortly after dark on Friday evening, a faint auroral film,\nover which an occasional streamer flashed impetuously, over-spread\nthe northern heavens. All this, however, soon died away, and the\nnorth assumed a cold, clear, frosty aspect. Between seven and eight\no'clock many meteors, some of them of great brilliancy and beauty,\nwere observed to cross and recross the zenith and its neighbourhood in\nall directions. Towards the latter hour, however, these ceased, and\nall of a sudden, in a very few seconds at most, the whole celestial\nhemisphere from E.N.E. to W.S.W.--from horizon to horizon--appeared\ncompletely spanned by a magnificent auroral arch, eight degrees\nin breadth; like a glorious bridge of a single semi-circular span,\nwith its edges or parapets of a deep blood-red colour, and its centre\npart or roadway of frosted silver; the rest of the heavens, in all\ndirections, being the while of an inky blue, and cold and cloudless,\nwithout the slightest appearance of anything like streamers to be\nseen anywhere. Some idea of the brilliancy of this auroral arch may\nbe formed from the fact that such bright stars as Arcturus, Castor\nand Pollux, Aldebaran, Mars, and others, which lay along its path,\nbecame quite dim, and when located near the centre and brightest part\nof the stream, almost invisible. Even Venus, which once or twice was\noverlapped for a few minutes by the arch's margin only, lost all its\nlustre and sheen, and had a burdened anxious aspect, as if the forehead\nand \"face divine\" of a mighty intelligence laboured under the shade\nof deep and profound thought. For upwards of an hour did this splendid\nauroral arch continue to span the heavens from horizon to horizon, and\nundergoing little or no change, until its final disappearance, by what\nseemed a process of gradual contraction into itself and towards its\nterminus in the east-north-east, whence it started. Such was the very\nsingular meteoric phenomena by which a severe snow-storm and an amount\nof cold almost unparalleled in its intensity was ushered in on the\nwestern sea-board of Scotland in February of the year of grace 1870.\n\nAnd how fares it with our feathered favourites, the wild birds, in\nthese hard times? Fertile as they are in resources, and indefatigable\nin providing for the wants of the passing hour, all their little\nshifts must frequently prove inadequate to the supply of their daily\nwants in such trying times as these. St. Valentine's day has come\nand gone, but neither in copse, nor hedgerow, nor ivy-mantled wall,\nfind we as yet any traces of nidification, nor has the love-prompted\nwarble, in past years so loud and incessant at this season, been yet\nheard around us. The robin only cheeps; the sparrow simply chirps;\nthe linnet merely twitters; and even the \"gay chaffinch\" can only give\nus a disconsolate \"fink, fink,\" in place of his well-known glad burst\nof choicest and cheeriest song. The mellow chaunt of the merle and\nsong-thrush delights not yet the ear from copse or brake at early morn\nor evening-tide. The intense and piercing cold, which, on the wings\nof the northern blast, sweeps over the land as we write, and as it\nmoans, and sighs, and wildly shrieks by starts in its progress over\nthe deep, causes the lone sea-bird to utter its eeriest and wildest\ncry, has succeeded in freezing, not only the rivulet and the pool,\nbut has actually bound up the voice of gladness and every source\nof joyful utterance in all our feathered friends as well. But \"nil\ndesperandum,\" better times are coming. Fields will yet be green,\ntrees will yet be leafy, rivers unbound from icy fetters will yet\ndance merrily in the sun, and laugh with all their ripples, as they\nhasten seawards; and then \"again shall flowers appear on the earth;\nthe time of the singing of birds shall have come, and the voice of\nthe turtle be heard in our land.\"\n\nAre glanders incurable? is a very ugly, but doubtless a very\nimportant question, which is being at present keenly discussed in\nthe columns of several metropolitan journals. By glanders is meant,\nnot the equine disease in the equine subject properly so called,\nand which comes so frequently under the treatment of the veterinary\nsurgeon, but the same frightful disease when introduced either by\naccident or design into the human system. Is it curable? This is\nthe question, and the general impression seems to be, that when it\nonce fairly lays hold of the human system, it is, like hydrophobia,\nquite and utterly incurable. We do not pretend to know anything of the\nsubject, and we allude to it merely to say that we well recollect of\nhearing, on undoubted authority, of a patient who was actually cured\nof glanders, caught, if we remember rightly, from eating some beans\nfound in a manger in which a horse having the disease had recently been\nfeeding. All the circumstances connected with the case and cure were\nrelated in our hearing by the late Dr. John Reid, Professor of Anatomy\nin the University of St. Andrews, one evening that we dined at his\nhouse during our attendance at the University. It is now some eighteen\nor twenty years ago, and we were then too young and thoughtless to\ngive that attention to the subject which it deserved. We recollect,\nhowever, that the case was said to have occurred in Edinburgh, and to\nhave been treated in the infirmary of that city, and that the patient,\non his recovery, having been found shrewd, intelligent, and steady,\nwas afterwards appointed one of the janitors of that institution. There\nmust be some medical gentleman still in Edinburgh able to speak to a\ncase of such importance; and amongst others present on the occasion\nthat we heard Professor Reid refer to it, were, if we rightly remember,\nPrincipal Sir David Brewster and Professor Martin, now of Aberdeen, and\nat that time Mathematical Master in the Madras College of St. Andrews.\n\nThe other evening a one pound note, which a lady friend of ours\nhad just received by post, was handed to us, with a request that we\nshould try and decipher some writing which was observed on the back\nof it. After some little trouble, we were a good deal amused to find\nthat the writing in question really consisted of the following lines:--\n\n\n    \"I am a note of the British Linen;\n    I've long been kept by L. Mackinnon;\n    Where'er you go you'll find them willing\n    To give for me just twenty shilling.--L. M'K.\"\n\n\nWe have no idea who this poetical L. Mackinnon is or was, but it is\npretty evident, we think, that both he and the British Linen Company's\nBank note had very excellent opinions of themselves. It was Lady Louisa\nStewart, if we rightly recollect, who sent Sir Walter Scott a copy of\nthe following lines, which she discovered on the back of a battered\nbank note which had come into her possession. It will be observed that\nthey are in all respects immeasurably superior to Mr. L. Mackinnon's:--\n\n\n    \"Farewell, my note, and wheresoe'er ye wend,\n    Shun gaudy scenes, and be the poor man's friend;\n    You've left a poor one; go to one as poor,\n    And drive despair and hunger from his door.\"\n\n\nLet cynics growl and snarl as they list, some people HAVE hearts,\nand the author of the above lines, be sure, had a right warm and\nkindly one.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\n    A Wet February--A Good Time Coming--Sir Walter\n    Scott--Mr. Gladstone--Death of Sir David Brewster.\n\n\nOne swallow doesn't make a summer, says the proverb, and unless\none fine day (the 19th) makes a spring, we haven't for the last\nsix weeks [February 1870] and more had a single hour of a character\nto be disassociated from one of the wettest and wildest winters on\nrecord. No sooner has one storm died away, less from any voluntary\ncessation on its part than from sheer exhaustion of its forces, than,\nafter a slushy, sludgy interregnum of brief duration, it has been\nsucceeded in every instance by another and another still of equal\nor greater violence and fury, so that of quiet or calm we have known\nlittle, and of sun or moon or stars we have seen hardly the briefest\nglimpse since Old New Year's Day. When Foote, the incomparable comedian\n(Johnson said of him that \"the dog was irresistible\"), after acquiring\nand dissipating several fortunes, was at last lucky enough to be able\nto set up his carriage in a more dashing style than ever, he selected\nas his motto, and emblematical of his career, the words Iterum,\nIterum, Iterumque! (Again, and Again, and Again!) It has struck us\nthat if the Meteorological Society were to apply to the Herald's\nCollege for a crest and armorial bearings to be displayed on the\ntitle-page of their volume of \"Transactions\" for the first quarter\nof the current year, we, should they do us the honour to consult us,\nwould suggest a cloud-cumulus, rain-surcharged, proper on the shield,\nwith Aquarius and the \"watery\" Hyades as supporters; Eolus ordering\n\"a fresh hand to the bellows\" as a crest, and the Iterum, Iterum,\nIterumque of Foote's chariot as a motto of singular appropriateness\nand meaning. How delighted, by the way, must our amphibious friend\nMr. Symons be in the midst of all this rainfall! His crest again\nshould be a man's head on a fish's body in an overflowed meadow,\nnatant, and his supporters an anemometer and rain-gauge proper! It is\nneedless to say that anything like spring work is with us not only in\na very backward state, but has hardly been commenced. Before the end\nof February we had our own corn seed and potatoes in the ground last\nyear. If we get them down this year any time during the next month,\nit will be earlier than the weather at the date of the present writing\npromises. Our ornithological studies extend over a greater number of\nyears than we care at this moment very accurately to count; but never\nhave we known our wild-birds so listless and loveless on Shrovetide Eve\nas they are this season. Except an occasional carol from the wren, who\nhas a soul as big as that of his namesake Sir Christopher, who built\nthe dome of St. Paul's (the wren also, by the way, is a dome-builder),\nand an irregular strophe at rare intervals from the redbreast, our\nwoods are songless, and of nidification there is not a sign. Meliora\nsperare, nevertheless, is sound philosophy. Let us hope for better\nthings: He is faithful that promised that while the earth remaineth,\nseed-time and harvest, and cold and heat, and summer and winter, and\nday and night, shall not cease. Scott has few finer passages than the\nfollowing, which we are fond of repeating in such a season as this. It\noccurs in his epistle to William Stewart Rose, introductory to the\nfirst canto of Marmion, and, though very beautiful, is seldom quoted:--\n\n\n      \"No longer Autumn's glowing red\n    Upon our Forest hills is shed;\n    No more, beneath the evening beam,\n    Fair Tweed reflects their purple gleam;\n    Away hath passed the heather bell\n    That bloomed so rich on Needpath fell;\n    Sallow his brow, and russet bare\n    Are now the sister-heights of Yair.\n    The sheep, before the pinching heaven,\n    To sheltered dale and down are driven,\n    Where yet some faded herbage pines\n    And yet a watery sunbeam shines:\n    In meek despondency they eye\n    The wither'd sward and wintry sky,\n    And far beneath their summer hill\n    Stray sadly by Glenkinnon's rill:\n    The shepherd shifts his mantle's fold,\n    And wraps him closer from the cold;\n    His dogs no merry circles wheel,\n    But, shivering, follow at his heel;\n    A cowering glance they often cast,\n    As deeper moans the gathering blast.\n      \"My imps, though hardy, bold, and wild,\n    As best befits the mountain child,\n    Feel the sad influence of the hour,\n    And wail the daisy's vanished flower;\n    Their summer gambols tell, and mourn,\n    And anxious ask--Will spring return,\n    And birds and lambs again be gay,\n    And blossoms clothe the hawthorn spray?\n      \"Yes, prattlers, yes. The daisy's flower\n    Again shall paint your summer bower;\n    Again the hawthorn shall supply\n    The garlands you delight to tie;\n    The lambs upon the lea shall bound,\n    The wild birds carol to the round;\n    And while you frolic light as they,\n    Too short shall seem the summer day.\"\n\n\nOn her rich roll of worthies, Scotland has but few names of whom\nshe has more reason to be proud than that of Walter Scott. If we\nhad even said not one, an objector might perhaps find the assertion\nmore difficult to disprove than he wots of. Nor has the star of his\nmarvellous power and influence for good set or been extinguished; it\nhas only been clouded for a season by the intervention of exhalations\nof the \"earth, earthy\"--exhalations that the growth of a healthier\nand holier taste is already dissipating, and the Wizard's star shall\nreappear in undiminished lustre, and young and old will clap their\nhands and rejoice in its purity and power. Some years ago arose a\nschool of poetry that flared and flickered for a season, and found\nadmirers on the same mysterious principle, we suppose, that Antoinetta\nBourignon and Joanna Southcott found followers. It was happily styled\nthe \"spasmodic\" school; and it died and disappeared--the best thing it\ncould do. A new school has succeeded, that may be called the sensuous,\nand, we had almost said, the lascivious, and with a strong tendency\nto the reproduction in modern guise of all that was worst and best\nin the ancient Greek drama. Of this school, Mr. Swinburne is, facile\nprinceps, the chief. It also will last but for a season, and will\ndie and disappear ignominiously, as did its predecessor. There is\nyet another school, that has existed for some time longer--full of\nmissyism, sentimentalism, and languid goodyism--\"too good for banning,\ntoo bad for a blessing.\" It also is slowly dwindling, and dwining,\nand dying, and must soon expire, leaving people hardly any better\nor worse than it found them. And so with the novels of the day,\nwith their \"sensations,\" their seductions, murders, and unspeakable\nhorrors, worse than were mingled in the bubbling cauldron of the\nwitches in Macbeth: their day is doomed; for purer taste, banished\nbut for a moment, must reappear--is already reappearing--and people,\nawakening as if from a dream, will once again consent to quench their\nthirst at healthier fountains, and to wander in less questionable\nbye-paths. The poetry and novels of Scott will then resume their\nattraction and reassert their influence and power; and whithersoever\nhe leads, no parent need be ashamed to follow, or feel obliged in the\ninterests of morality to forbid and forego the companionship of wife\nor children through scenes where there is everything to delight and\nnothing to offend. It is well that in the world of poetry and fiction,\nas in social and political affairs, the maxim holds true that--\n\n\n    \"Res nolunt diu male administrari.\"\n\n\nOf Mr. Gladstone, the politician, there are many more enthusiastic\nadmirers than ourselves, though we would not willingly be supposed to\nyield to any one in our ardent admiration of his ripe scholarship and\nunrivalled eloquence; but we shall think better of him while we live,\nand have a kindlier and warmer interest in all he says and does,\non account of his recent eulogium on the character and writings of\nSir Walter Scott.\n\nAnd who can speak of Scott, or think of Abbotsford and Melrose and\nthe classic Tweed at the present moment, without also thinking of\nAllerly and Sir David Brewster, one of the greatest men of science\nthat Scotland has ever produced; and greater far, as sometimes happens\nin such cases, out of it than in it, for during full forty years,\nwherever, throughout the habitable parts of the earth, science had\nlit her lamp and could count her votaries, however humble, there\nthe name of David Brewster was familiar as a household word, and his\ndiscoveries known and applauded. He was the first really distinguished\nman of letters and science we ever knew, and it was while writing one\nof the earlier chapters of this work, on a subject in which he felt\nthe keenest interest, and in connection with which we had occasion\nto mention his name, that the grand old man, venerable in honours\nand in years, was breathing his last, with a Christian resignation\nto the Divine will, and a Christian's joyful faith in the Divine\nmercy and goodness. Passing through the valley of death, he feared\nno evil, for his Lord and Saviour sustained his steps. Through the\nfirst Lady Brewster (n\u00e9e Macpherson), to whom we had the honour of\nbeing known before we had yet seen her distinguished husband, we\nwere fortunate enough to be admitted, at the very beginning of our\ncurriculum at college, to a degree of familiarity with the Principal\nof our University, that our relative positions would not otherwise have\nwarranted, and which we have the satisfaction to remember we had sense\nenough to value highly and to be proud of even at that early age. It\nwas by his practised hand that the instrument was adjusted through\nwhich we had our first view of two of the most beautiful sights that\nthe telescope reveals to us--Jupiter with his belts and retinue of\nattendant moons, and Saturn with his rings; and very patient and\ngood-natured and kindly were his replies to our eager questionings\nwith regard to the nature of the wonders then first opened to our\ngaze. Sir David, if forced into it, could fight, and never turned\nhis back on an assailant. If you hit him, he hit again, and he always\nhit severely; but he was, notwithstanding, a man of kindest heart and\nmost amiable disposition, and it would be difficult to meet with any\none more cheerful or courteous or pleasant within the circle of his\nown family and in his daily intercourse with his acquaintances and\nfriends. Requiescat in pace: he was in truth a great man. Not often\ndoes it happen that in the same country, and within so short a time\nof each other, two such stars so large and lustrous as Faraday and\nBrewster have disappeared from the firmament of science. A century may\nelapse ere the thrones they have left vacant shall again be adequately\nfilled. There is something extremely beautiful and affecting in one\nof Sir David Brewster's last utterances upon earth. On the morning\nof his death, Sir James Simpson, standing by his bedside, remarked\nthat it had been given to him to show forth much of God's great and\nmarvellous works; and the dying philosopher solemnly and quietly\nreplied, \"Yes, I have found them to be great and marvellous, and I\nhave found and felt them to be His.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\n    Long-Line Fishing--Scarcity of Fish--Their Fecundity--Large\n    Specimen of the Raia Chagrinea--The Wolf-Fish--The Devil-Fish.\n\n\nFor several years past [March 1870] the spring fishing with \"long\nlines\" in our western lochs has been so unsuccessful as to be hardly\nworth the while engaging in it. At our very doors, where with the\nhand-line during the summer and autumn months, some ten or twelve\nyears ago, we could almost always depend on a large basketful of\nthe finest rock cod, gurnard, haddock, and flounder, as the result\nof a couple of hours fishing, more recently very few, and sometimes\nnone at all, could be caught, with the cunningest exercise of all\nthe patience and piscatorial skill at our command, while in winter\nand spring the long-line fishing of grey cod, skate, and ling, and\neel has been equally disappointing. Why it should be so no one would\nventure to say; the utmost you could get out of the oldest fisherman\non the coast was an admission of the fact, with a shake of the head\nand a shrug of the shoulders, that if so disposed you could very\nreadily interpret into the line, albeit unknown to him, that--\n\n\n    \"'Twas true 'twas pity, pity 'twas 'twas true,\"\n\n\na cautious reticence on the point that was altogether praiseworthy,\nfor really and truly nobody did know or could say anything satisfactory\nin explanation of the mystery. Was it owing to the multiplication of\nthe number of steamers, screw and paddle, constantly coming and going,\nand like Tennyson's \"years\" at their unamiable meeting, \"roaring and\nblowing,\" keeping the waters in perpetual turmoil, and scaring the\nfish from their usual haunts? Such an hypothesis could be seriously\nentertained for a moment only to be rejected. Could it be owing to\nany cyclical meteorological changes, or to anything anomalous in the\norder of the seasons? Admitting that something of this kind has been\ngoing on for some time, and is still going on, it was readily seen,\nnevertheless, that it was all too inappreciable and remote to have\nhad the result complained of--to cause that in the waters of \"the\ngreat deep\" which it had failed to effect in any noticeable way on\nthe dry land. Or, was it that the fish themselves, by reason of their\nnumberless enemies, afloat and ashore, were actually diminishing in\nnumbers, and so necessarily becoming scarcer from year to year? No one,\nhowever, knowing anything of the economy of the fish in question,\ncould for a moment entertain such an idea. The fecundity of these\nfish is something incredible. We once had the roe of a female cod,\nthat weighed (the fish) six lbs., first boiled hard, and then divided\nwith tolerable exactness into so many ounces, and counting the number\nof eggs in one ounce, and multiplying by the number of ounces in the\nentire roe, we found, at a rough calculation, that in that single\nfish, of no great size, there were upwards of a million and a half\nof eggs--each egg destined to become a fish, and, barring accidents,\nto attain to the average age and size of its kind. But however we\nmay try to account for the scarcity of these fish in our lochs for\nseveral years back, it is an agreeable duty to have to record that\nduring the past winter and spring there has been a marked improvement\nalike in the quantity and quality of the fish caught all along the\nwestern seaboard. Not only have the common fish of our own coasts\nbeen taken in considerable numbers, but several kinds of fish formerly\nknown only as occasional visitors to our shores have this season been\nplentiful in all our lochs, and have well repaid the diligence of their\ncaptors. The long-nosed skate, for example, formerly a rare fish with\nus, has this season been common. It is known to ichthyologists as the\nRaia chagrinea, and is not only excellent eating, but from its enormous\nliver supplies a large quantity of very fine oil, that burns with a\nclearer and steadier light than that of any other fish with which we\nare acquainted. We are convinced, by the way, that, used medicinally,\nit would be found equally efficacious with cod liver oil in all cases\nwhere the latter is recommended, whilst its rather agreeable taste and\nflavour would render it a tolerably palatable dose in its purest and\nstrongest state, which cod oil never becomes, manufacture, and decoct,\nand clarify it as you may. A very fine specimen of the Chagrinea\nwas caught here about ten days ago. It was cut up and disembowelled\nbefore we saw it, but we should guess that its weight when taken off\nthe hook could not have been less than 70 lbs. All the skates are ugly\nbrutes, and the long-nosed Chagrinea is at once perhaps the ugliest\nand the best of its tribe. Some people don't eat skate, nor can we\nsay that we are partial to it ourselves, though we once heard a noted\ngourmand declare that the \"wing of a skate was equal to a shoulder of\na salmon.\" We should, for our own part, rather have the salmon. While\nin Oban about a month ago, an extremely fierce-looking and ugly fish,\nthe name and character whereof not a little puzzled its captors, was\nbrought for our inspection. Luckily for our credit as a naturalist,\nwe had previously seen more than one specimen of the same fish with\nthe St. Andrews fishermen, it being by no means a rare visitor to\nthe eastern and north-eastern shores of Scotland. It was the wolf or\ncat-fish, closely related to the family of the Gobies (Gobioid\u00e6),\nthe Anarrhicas lupus of ichthyologists. The head of this curious\nand most repulsive-looking fish has some peculiar markings, which,\nwith the fierce glaring eyes and their position in the face, and the\nformidable array of long, sharp-pointed, recurved teeth, give it much\nof the expression of an enraged cat, and hence doubtless its common\nname. For the same reasons, and on account probably of its character as\na fierce, relentless tyrant among more amiable and less powerful fish,\nit is known among the Channel Islands and along the coasts of England\nas the wolf-fish. The only fish at all approaching it in ugliness and\nrepulsiveness of features is the better-known angler or fishing-frog\n(Lophius piscatorius), which also, by the way, is not so common of\nlate years on our western coasts as it used to be.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\n    Birds--Contest between a Heron and an Eel.\n\n\nWith the exception of a slight drizzle on Saturday the last ten days\nhave been wonderfully fine for the season [February 1870]. Seldom,\nindeed, have we been so near realising the \"ethereal mildness\" of\nThomson's \"Spring\" so early in the year. And, in sooth, it was high\ntime that some such pleasant change in the weather should take place,\nfor no living wight can remember anything so incessant and persistent\nas were the rain and the storm of the previous six weeks.\n\n\n    \"When frost and snow come both together,\n    Then sit by the fire and save shoe leather,\"\n\n\nquoth Jonathan Swift, the honest Dean of St. Patrick's, being evidently\nno curler, and more given to satire than to snow-balling; but really\nfor the six weeks above specified nothing less than the direst\nnecessity could tempt one to any other pastime than the prudential\nand prosaic one recommended in the couplet. Grant him but license to\ngrumble, however, and man can endure, and that scathlessly, much more\nthan he wots of. And how easily is he after all restored to equanimity\nand even cheerfulness! Here we are already, placid and pleased,\nenjoying the fine weather; the cold and the wet and the boisterous\ngales of January and December altogether forgotten, or, if remembered,\nremembered only to give zest to the bright and sunshiny present. And\nnever, we believe, were song-birds in such free and full song on\nSt. Valentine's day. Morning and evening (the interval, you must know,\ndear reader, is as yet passed in tender dalliance and nest-building),\nfrom copse and woodland, ring out the richest strains of our native\nwarblers, thrush, redbreast, blackbird, throstle, white-throat, wren\n(whom the Germans, on account of his indomitable pluck and pre-eminence\nas a songster, term the kingbird), and a score of other \"musical\ncelebrities,\" vie with each other in the richness and the melody of\ntheir incomparable song. Within a month, should the weather continue\nfavourable as at present, most of our wild-birds will have finished\ntheir nests, and commenced the labours of incubation. We trust that\nour readers will do all they can this season to prevent children and\nothers from what is called \"birds'-nesting,\" one of the most cruel\npastimes to which any one could turn himself. All good men, and most\ngreat ones, have been remarkable for their attachment to animals,\nboth domesticated and wild, and particularly to song-birds. Listen to\nVirgil's passing allusion to the subject in his Georgics, a magnificent\npoem, of itself sufficient to immortalise the name of any one man:--\n\n\n    \"Qualis populea moerens Philomela, sub umbra,\" &c.,\n\n\nthus rendered into English:--\n\n\n    \"Lo, Philomela from the umbrageous wood,\n    In strains melodious mourns her tender brood,\n    Snatch'd from the nest by some rude ploughman's hand,\n    On some lone bough the warbler takes her stand;\n    The live-long night she mourns the cruel wrong,\n    And hill and dale resound the plaintive song.\"\n\n\nAnd hear our own matchless \"ploughman bard,\" in one of his sweetest\nlyrics, The Posie:--\n\n\n    \"The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller grey,\n    Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day,\n    But the songster's nest within the bush I winna tak away--\n    And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.\"\n\n\nVerily, dear reader, he who wrote that verse, despite the pious\nmurmurings of the rigidly righteous, and the cold shudderings of\nreligious fanaticism at his shortcomings, must have been a man of\nlargest heart and widest sympathies; and, properly understood, there\nis much truth, and no irreverence, in his own finding, that even\n\n\n    \"The light which led astray\n    Was light from heaven.\"\n\n\nWe were much amused the other day at seeing a heron, a long-necked,\nlong-legged bird, doubtless familiar to the reader, for once in\na \"fix.\" We say \"for once,\" for it is a most sagacious bird and\nthoroughly master of its own particular r\u00f4le, which, it is needless\nto say, is principally fish-catching. We were amusing ourselves on\nthe sea-shore during low-water, watching the habits of periwinkles,\nhermit-crabs, star-fish, &c., when we observed a heron at some hundred\nyards distance, leaping about, wriggling its body, and performing\nother strange and unheron-like antics, as if it had suddenly gone\nmad. Knowing the staid and sober habits of the bird in general,\nwe at once came to the conclusion that something extraordinary \"was\nup,\" and determined, if possible, to discover what it was. Making a\nslight d\u00e9tour to avoid alarming him--for it was a he, a very handsome,\nfull-crested male--we easily managed to creep within fifty yards or\nso of him, and the cause of his excitement and unwonted posturings\nbecame at once apparent. He had caught an eel (a great dainty with the\nheron family) of about two feet in length, and of girth like a stout\nwalking-stick, notwithstanding which, however, Mr. Heron would soon\nhave satisfactorily dined upon it, had he not made a slight mistake in\nthe mode of striking his prey. The eel was held in the heron's bill at\na point only some three or four inches from the extremity of its tail,\nthe greater part of its body and its head being thus left at liberty\nto twist, and wriggle, and wallop about ad libitum. To swallow the\neel in this position the heron knew was impossible, and to let it go,\neven for an instant, for the purpose of getting a better \"grip\" of\nhis slippery customer was altogether out of the question. The heron\nwas standing on the very margin of the sea, into which the eel,\nif for a moment at liberty, would have shot like an arrow. It was\ntoo large to be tossed into the air and recaught in its descent, as\nherons frequently do with other fish; and in short the heron was at\nhis wit's end, and wist not what to say or do. To make matters worse,\nthe eel was wriggling and twisting about its captor's legs, breechless\nand exposed legs be it observed, and might, for all we or the heron\nknew, take one of them at any time between its teeth, and sharp and\ncruel, as probably the heron knew, are an eel's teeth when any part\nof an enemy has the misfortune to get between them. Apprehensive,\ndoubtless, of some such danger, the heron danced and shuffled about,\nlifting now one leg and now another, as if he had been practising a\nnew and somewhat complicated hornpipe. He would at one time leap a\nfoot or two to one side, and immediately after spring into the air\nas many inches, attempting the while to strike his prey against the\nstones, but always failing in doing this effectually, owing to want of\nsufficient \"purchase\" and the insecurity of his hold. Having watched\nthis novel combat for some time, we made a rush to the scene of action,\nhoping to succeed in surprising, perhaps, both the spoiler and his\nprey. We were disappointed. The heron instantly took wing, carrying\nthe eel for some instance in his sharp-edged and powerful bill, but\nfinally dropping it into the sea, doubtless confessing to himself,\nas he indignantly winged his flight to another fishing ground, that\nonce in his life at least he had caught a Tartar.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\n    Sea-Fishing--Loch and Stream Fishing--\"Brindled\n    Worms\"--Rush-Lights--Buckie-Shell Lamps--The Weasel killing a\n    Hare--Killing a Fallow Deer Fawn.\n\n\nThough by no means everything that we could wish it, the weather of\nthe last fortnight [July 1870] was a decided improvement on that of\nthe preceding, and people have managed to get their hay secured in\ntolerably good condition after all. No appearance of the much-dreaded\npotato blight as yet; pity that it should show its unwished-for\nface this year at all, for a finer crop never lay ripening in the\nground. Something has been done in herring fishing, and there is some\nprospect of our having enough for local consumption at all events,\nand perhaps a little over, which is no small matter in those dear\ntimes. Other kinds of fish are plentiful, and, with sufficient leisure\nfor the pastime, there is hardly anything of the kind more enjoyable\nin fine weather than an afternoon's or early morning's fishing with\nrod or hand-line. You never, besides, see the country so well as on\nthese occasions, or so thoroughly understand the full force of the\npoet's beautiful line, that in such scenes\n\n\n    \"'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view.\"\n\n\nAny number of trout, too--few of them, however, of any size--may be\ncaught at present in our inland lochs and mountain streams, and a\ndish of these speckled beauties, fresh from the basket, is a very\ngood thing indeed, though the grilse and salmon eater may turn up\nhis nose in contempt and derision of such \"small deer.\" Let him; we\nshall be always prepared to take over his share along with our own! A\ncurious request was made to us a short time ago by a well-known book\n\"deliverer,\" who frequently passes this way, one of the keenest and\nmost successful fishers on lake or river we ever knew, and a very quiet\ndecent man to boot. \"Will you allow me, sir, to put down some worms\nin your place?\" \"To put down what?\" we exclaimed in surprise. \"Worms,\nsir, brindled worms for fishing with, when the rivers are swollen after\nheavy rains.\" We begged to have a look at the worms, and they proved\nto be a variety of the common earthworm that we had never seen before,\nthe difference consisting in their being rather smaller in size than\nthe common earthworm, and prettily speckled and streaked all over\ntheir length, whence, doubtless, their name of brindled worms. A lot\nhad been sent to him from Alyth, in Perthshire, very cunningly done\nup in a bunch of damp moss; and, having a few left over after a week's\nmost successful fishing, he wished to deposit them in this, a central\npart of his peregrinations, that they might multiply and be recoverable\nat any time he wanted them. Holding one by the middle, between index\nfinger and thumb, in a manner that would have delighted the heart of\nold Izaak Walton, the worm wriggling and twisting the while with all\nthe liveliness of an eel in similar circumstances, \"There, sir,\" he\nexclaimed, looking at the lively \"brindled\" as if he loved it, \"there,\nsir, is a bonny ane! no troot that ever swam could resist having a dash\nat that in a brown and swollen stream.\" In answer to our questions,\nhe told us that the brindled colour of the worm had, he thought, a\ngood deal to do with the trout's liking for it, but, in his opinion,\nthe brisk and lively motions of the worm upon the hook was the main\nattraction. The thing was so manifestly alive and active, and likely\nto escape, if not caught at once, that the trout made a rush at it,\nwith his eyes shut, so to speak, and only discovered how thoroughly\nhe had been done, when, hooked and landed, he lay flopping helplessly\nabout on the green grass by the burn side. Getting piscator a spade,\nhe searched about for a suitable spot, and buried his worms beneath\nthe turf as tenderly as if he were laying babies asleep in their\ncradles. \"There now, sir,\" he remarked, as he finished his colonising,\n\"they will breed fast, and soon be plentiful enough hereabouts, and\nthey will destroy the common earthworm till not one can be found.\" So\nthat you see we had an interesting lesson on bait angling and the\nnatural history of earthworms very unexpectedly from a very unexpected\nquarter. We still watch with interest if the assertion turns out to\nbe true, that the brindled worm exterminates the common earthworm,\nnotwithstanding their close relationship. Such a thing we know is\nquite possible, a notable case in point being the extermination of\nthe old well-known black rat by the more modern coloniser, the brown.\n\nThe amount of viva voc\u00ea information that one can pick up, not by going\nactually to look for it, but in the most casual and incidental manner,\nfrom all sorts of people with whom one may be brought in contact,\nis simply extraordinary. Some, to be sure, will have nothing to\ntell; they are as Dead Sea fruit, full of mere ashes, that never\nhad sap or substance for good to themselves or anybody else. Others,\nagain, may know much, but they are cautious and reserved, and never\nventure beyond the most superficial and commonplace chit-chat; but the\ngreat mass of people, if you approach them courteously and frankly,\nwill be found communicative enough, and if you go deftly about it,\nyou seldom work long in such mines without bringing some ore to the\nsurface. A day or two ago, for instance, we were sitting on a rock by\nthe roadside on the opposite shore of Appin, having rowed ashore from\nour fishing ground to have a smoke and a drink of sparkling water\nfrom one of the many rivulets that, like so many silver threads in\nsome rich embroidery, twist and twine with a glad music of their own\nadown the green slopes of Benavere. An old man passing along the way,\nwith a bundle of rushes under his arm, saluted us with the quiet and\nundemonstrative courtesy so characteristic of his class all over the\nHighlands. We invited him to sit down beside us, and at once he sat\ndown and entered into conversation with us about the weather, crops,\nfishing, and other such obvious matters as are seldom overlooked during\nthe first five minutes of a roadside crack at this season. By-and-by\nwe asked him about the bundle of rushes. There were too few of them\nto be of any use as thatch, and we observed that they were not of the\nkind generally used in basket-making--a common amusement for the idle\nhours of shepherds, herdboys, and others in the past generation, who\nmade very pretty rush baskets for carrying eggs, butter, and other such\nlight goods to the nearest shop, and bringing back the tea, sugar, &c.,\nusually taken in exchange. What were his rushes for then? He gathered\nthem, he told us, from time to time, always selecting the largest and\nbest, for the sake of their pith, which served as wick for his lamp;\nand he showed us the process of extracting the pith on the spot. He\nfirst split the rush longitudinally, by running his thumb-nail along\nits length, and then pressing his thumb transversely against the pith,\nhe ran it along until the whole beautifully soft and white substance\nwas gathered into a bundle free of its skin, the pith still remaining\nunbroken by the deftness of the process, and easily extended at will to\nits original length. This pith is inserted in the same manner as wick\nin the lamp, and answers its purpose admirably. We recollect seeing\nthe thing before, but it is many years since, and we had thought that\ncotton had everywhere, even in the remotest parts of the Highlands,\nlong since superseded the primitive rush pith as wick for lamps. \"All\nthe people about me,\" said the old man, \"now use paraffin lamps and\ncotton wicks, but although perhaps I could afford these as well as\nthey can, I prefer the good old rush-light of my boyhood. I remember,\"\nhe continued, \"when all the people in our hamlet gave a day's work\nto the tenant of the adjoining farm for leave to gather rushes for\ntheir lamps in the proper season. Fish oil of our own manufacture was\nalways used, and you will perhaps be surprised to hear, sir, that the\nlamp was often a \"buckie shell.\" \"A buckie shell!\" we exclaimed, \"how\ndid you manage to fix it properly? You probably glued its keel to a\npiece of wood or something of that kind?\" \"No, sir,\" was the response,\n\"we did not fix it at all. It was suspended from a cromag or hook of\nwood or iron projecting from the wall near the fire-place by a string,\none end of which was firmly tied round the hollow dividing the whorl\nat the smaller end of the shell, and the other round the furrow at\nits larger circumference near the lip. The loop of the string was\nthen thrown over the hook, and thus suspended, the shell was filled\nwith oil and a rush pith inserted as wick, and it made a very good\nlamp indeed, at once economical and serviceable. I recollect,\" said\nthe old man with a smile, \"that my father, God rest him! who was a\nvery economical man, and hated everything like extravagance or waste,\nallowed us just a shellful of oil for the winter's night. When that\nmuch was spent, we had to tell our tales, sing our songs, and go on\nwith the work we might have in hand by such light as was afforded by\nthe blazing peat-fire, or let it alone till the next evening, just as\nwe pleased.\" Our friend concluded by declaring in very emphatic phrase\nthat \"the people now are less industrious than they were then; have\nmore money in their hands, but use it less wisely; are less truthful,\nless honest, less to be depended upon in every way than were the\npeople of his boyhood and their immediate predecessors.\" \"Laudator\ntemporis acti,\" but there is some truth in it. You should have heard\nhow grandly and with what an air of dignity the old fellow spoke that\nconcluding sentence in the most beautiful and rhythmical Gaelic. The\nbuckie shell referred to above is the Buccinum undatum, or common\nwhelk, constantly to be met with on almost every shore. It is to be\nunderstood, we suppose, that the larger specimens only would be used\nas lamps in the manner described by our venerable friend.\n\nOf British quadrupeds--perhaps of all existing quadrupeds--the\npluckiest, and, according to its size and weight, by far the strongest,\nis the common weasel (Mustela vulgaris). The other day a man in our\nneighbourhood brought us a common brown hare, large and in excellent\ncondition, that had been hunted and killed by a weasel in a very\nextraordinary manner. In the evening the man was going up a green glade\non the wooded hill-side in search of his cows, when he heard what he\ntook to be the screaming of a child on the other side of a small hazel\ncopse which he was passing at the moment. Supposing it to be a child\nsearching for cows like himself, that had fallen and hurt itself,\nor that had perhaps been attacked by some stirk or quey, angry at\nbeing disturbed in a favourite bit of grazing ground, he ran forward,\nand hearing the screaming repeated, was astonished to find that it\nproceeded from a hare that toilsomely and with staggering steps was\nstruggling up the steep. On closer inspection, about which there was\nno difficulty, for by this time the poor hare was, in race-course\nphrase, about \"pumped out,\" and could barely stagger along, he was\nmore than astonished to observe that a weasel was extended couchant\nalong the hare's back, with his muzzle deeply sunk into the vertebr\u00e6\nof his victim's neck, a position from which no exertion on the hare's\npart could possibly dislodge him. Picking up a stone, the man rushed\nforward and threw it with all his might, not so much at the hare as\nat its lithe and blood-thirsty rider. The hare, however, was hit, and\nfell, and with a gasp or two was dead; less from the blow than from\nthe terrible injuries inflicted by the weasel's teeth, from which,\nunder any circumstances, it was impossible that the poor animal could\nhave recovered. Before the man and a dog which accompanied him could\nget at the wary weasel, it had with proverbial agility made good\nits escape. On examining the hare, we found that it was in truth\ndreadfully wounded, the ruthless Mustela having manifestly gone to\nwork in a very scientific manner, the little red-eyed wretch's motto\nbeing \"Thorough!\" Once fairly on the back of his victim, he anchored\nhimself firmly by his teeth right in the centre of the nape of the\nneck, just where the head is articulated to the cervical vertebr\u00e6;\nand as no exertion of the hare could shake him off, he leisurely\ndug down, drinking the blood and eating as he dug, until the poor\nhare, faint and exhausted, could only stagger about in response to\neach cruel dig of the dental spurs of its terrible rider. That a\ncreature so diminutive--weighing only about as many ounces as a hare\nweighs pounds--should be able thus to mount and master an animal\nso much bigger than itself, seems extraordinary, and is only to be\naccounted for by a lithe agility in the assailant, to be met with\nin no other creature perhaps, coupled with indomitable courage and\ninstinctive blood-thirstiness. We recollect some years ago that an\nold man, a James Cameron, belonging to Achintore, near Fort-William,\nwas savagely assaulted by a colony of weasels, and very severely\nwounded before he could get rid of his assailants. He was employed\nby a neighbour to remove a cairn of small stones from a grass field,\nin which it had long been an eyesore, from the centre of which cairn,\nwhen he had wheeled away several barrows-full, six or seven weasels\nrushed out and attacked him. So sudden and unexpected was the attack,\nthat before he could do anything to defend himself, his hands and\nchin and cheeks--for they instinctively flew at his throat, which\nwas luckily guarded by the thick folds of a homespun cravat--were\nseverely bitten. One or two he killed by taking them in his hands,\ndashing them to the ground, and trampling them under his feet; but the\nothers stuck to him with the pertinacity and viciousness of angry bees,\nand it was only by running into a house that was at hand, for aid and\nprotection, that they ceased their attack and left him. Happening to\nbe in Fort-William that day, we recollect examining the man's wounds,\nand getting the story of the weasel assault from his own lips. We\nremember remarking how astonishingly deep and formidable were the\nwounds, to be made by the comparatively small teeth, short though\nsharp, of the weasel; and what was worse, they festered again and\nagain, and gave the man much pain and trouble ere they fully healed\nup and disappeared. An old gamekeeper tells us that he once saw a\nfallow deer fawn, upwards of six weeks old, killed by a weasel in one\nof the Callart parks precisely as this hare was killed, and a fawn at\nthat age will weigh three times as much as a brown hare in ordinary\ncondition. In common with most people, we have rather a dislike to\nthe weasel, though one cannot but view with respect the courage and\npluck that carry him safely through such exploits as these.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\n    Extraordinary aspect of the Sun--Sunset from\n    Rokeby--Mr. Glaisher--\"Demoiselle\" or Numidian Crane at\n    Deerness--The Snowy Owl in Sutherlandshire--Does the Fieldfare\n    breed in Scotland?--The Woodcock.\n\n\nWe have just had a week of the finest weather imaginable, dry, bright\nand breezy, and with uninterrupted sunshine. The greater part of our\nhay crop has, in consequence, been secured in splendid condition,\nwithout a drop of rain, in fact--a piece of rare good fortune in\nLochaber. We do not know if the extraordinary aspect of the sun at\nits rising and setting on Monday, the 13th instant [June 1870], was\nnoticed elsewhere by any of our readers. On the morning of the day in\nquestion it presented a strangely mottled, yellowish copper-coloured\ndisc, so singularly unusual as to induce an old seaman, nearly\neighty years of age, in our neighbourhood, to call our attention\nto the circumstance. In the evening a little before its setting,\nit assumed a lurid blood-red colour, which was very remarkable,\nand forcibly reminded us at the moment of Scott's lines in Rokeby--\n\n\n    \"No pale gradations quench his ray,\n    No twilight dews his wrath allay;\n    With disc like battle-target red,\n    He rushes to his burning bed,\n    Dyes the wide wave with bloody light,\n    Then sinks at once--and all is night.\"\n\n\nWe were unanimous in predicting an immediate and violent storm of wind\nand rain, but the next morning came in bright, breezy, and cloudless,\nand such it has continued ever since. Such phenomena, and the nature\nof the weather following them, are always worth recording. Virgil,\nin his first Georgic instructs the husbandman to confide in those\nindications of the weather afforded by the aspect of the sun, for the\nrather curious reason, however, that the obscuration of the solar orb\ngave faithful warning of the impending fate of C\u00e6sar! A very striking\ninstance of a form of sophism, well known to the logician, in which an\naccidental circumstance is assumed as sufficient to establish efficient\nconnection. On the morning of Wednesday last we had a smart touch of\nfrost here in exposed situations--a strange and anomalous phenomenon\nin the dog-days truly! But when we remember that Mr. Glaisher (who\nfor purely scientific purposes has put his life into greater peril\nthan any other living man), in his recent aerial ascent met with a\nregular snow-storm at the elevation of only about one mile above the\nearth's surface, we shall not wonder so much, perhaps, that a frost\ncurrent should, under certain circumstances, occasionally penetrate\nearthwards even in the dog-days. We should have stated above that\non the 13th we carefully examined the solar disc with an excellent\nfour-feet telescope belonging to Ardgour, when it presented only two\n\"spots\" or macul\u00e6, and neither of these of remarkable size or form,\nsituated close together on the orb's south-western limb.\n\nWe are glad to observe that the \"Demoiselle\" or Numidian crane\nrecently shot at Deerness has been preserved, and is to fall into\ncareful keeping. Its feeding on oats, however, is very extraordinary,\nand only to be accounted for by the supposition that its natural\nfood was so scarce, in a locality so unlike its own sunny clime,\nthat it was fain to fill its crop with the readiest possible edible\nthat presented itself. The snowy owl, a specimen of which is stated\nto have been recently shot in Sutherland, is by no means a rare\nvisitor in Britain. A pair, male and female, in full plumage, were\nshot on the links of St. Andrews, by Captain Dempster, of the Indian\nArmy, in the winter of 1847, and are now, we believe, to be seen in\nthe University museum of that city. They have been known to breed\nin Shetland, but never, so far as we are aware, on the mainland,\nor anywhere, indeed, farther south than 59\u00b0 or 60\u00b0 of latitude. Is\nthe specimen in Mr. M'Leay's possession male or female? What is the\ncolour of its plumage--pure white, or slightly barred and mottled\nwith brown? These are important questions, and every account of such\nrare visitors should be as minute in such particulars as possible. The\nsnowy owl, like the Arctic fox, hare, ermine, &c, is supposed to change\nits plumage with the season, the immaculate white of its winter dress\nbeing exchanged for a summer garb of mixed, spotted, and barred brown\nand white. It is highly important that such a point as this should be\ndecided. The scientific name given it--Surna nyctea--is incorrect. It\nis probably a misprint for Strix nyctea, so styled by Linn\u00e6us, and\nafter him continued as most appropriate by succeeding naturalists\nwithout exception. In Sweden, where it breeds and is very common,\nit is said to feed principally upon hares, hence Buffon calls it La\nChouette Harfang, the latter word being the Swedish for the white or\nAlpine hare. It was the French naturalists, also, who first gave the\nname Demoiselle to the Numidian crane, its symmetry of form, tasteful\ndisposition of plumage, and elegance of deportment, in their opinion,\nfully justifying the complimentary appellation. Its economy was first\ncarefully studied, and a correct description of it given, about the\nbeginning of the present century by the naturalists who accompanied\nthe French expedition to Egypt under Napoleon, who, whatever his\nfaults were, was at least neither indifferent to, nor neglectful of,\nthe interests of the arts and sciences. Does the fieldfare breed in\nScotland? We are afraid the reply must still be in the negative. We\nhave little doubt that the bird seen by Mr. Fraser of Hamilton was the\nmissel-thrush, and that the nest and egg in his possession belong to\nthe same bird, that is, the Turdus vixivorus, and not to its congener\nthe Turdus pilaris. We are led to this opinion by the fact that the\nfemale missel-thrush is very like the fieldfare in plumage, and not\nvery noticeably different in size. The nest referred to by Mr. Fraser\nwas, he says, situated in the fork of a tree, about fourteen feet from\nthe ground, exactly about the height the throstle generally fixes upon\nfor its nest, whereas, according to our best authorities, the fieldfare\nbuilds at the top, or very near \"the top of the tallest pines.\" We give\nbut little weight to the shape and markings of the egg as described,\nfor it frequently happens that the eggs of different birds, even\nof the same species, differ in a very remarkable manner. The hint,\nhowever, that the fieldfare may sometimes breed in Scotland is worth\nattending to, and we have marked it down for future inquiry and\ninvestigation. It was for long a question of fierce debate whether\nor not the well-known woodcock bred in this country. The matter has,\nhowever, been of late years completely set at rest by the researches of\nnaturalists, clearly bringing out the fact that it not only breeds in\nScotland, but that such an event, instead of being rare, is, on the\ncontrary, of comparatively frequent occurrence. This very season,\nabout the middle of May, one of Ardgour's keepers brought us the\nwings of a young woodcock, with the quill feathers still pulpy and\nsoft, which, of the original bird, was all he could secure from the\nclutches of a hawk that was breakfasting on the dainty morsel in\nthe woods of Coirrechadrachan. We also understand that at least two\nwoodcock's nests, with eggs in them, were known to some parties in\nthis neighbourhood at the beginning of the season. It is, therefore,\npossible that the fieldfare may yet be proved to breed in Scotland,\nbut the evidence for the establishment of such a fact must be much\nstronger than that brought forward by Mr. Fraser.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\n    Extraordinary Heat and Drought--Plentifulness of Fungi--Cows fond\n    of Mushrooms--Shoals of Whales--A rippling Breeze, and a Sail on\n    Loch Leven.\n\n\nIf of late we had to admit--somewhat reluctantly be it confessed--that\nit was \"wet, very wet,\" even for Lochaber, we have it in our power\nnow at length [1st August 1870] to strike a different key-note,\nand to say that it is dry, very dry; bright, very bright; hot, very\nhot,--so dry, bright, and hot, in fact, that one might as well be on\nthe banks of the Nile or Niger as on the shores of Loch Leven, were\nit not for a delightful sea breeze that never fails to come to cheer\nand gladden us evening and morning; and then you may fancy--that is,\nif you can swim, dear reader--the unspeakable delight of a headlong\nplunge into the cool and sparkling waters of the advancing tide! The\nheat is in truth something extraordinary, and if it weren't that you\nfelt yourself fast retrograding into the same condition, it would be an\namusing study to watch a certain class of people, generally the most\nstaid and stiff and correct possible, who, as a rule, would rather\ndie than violate the least of the proprieties, now going about in a\nsemi-nude state, as if they had just escaped from a lunatic asylum,\npanting the while as if they were in the last stage of asthma, and\nstreaming with perspiration as if they had resolutely made up their\nminds to melt away and dissolve like untimely snowballs.\n\nCrops everywhere are splendid, and, after all the rain of the earlier\npart of the season, which gave them growth, this is just the weather\nthat suits them in their present stage, strengthening and consolidating\ntheir tissues, and bringing them to a rapid and healthy maturity. The\nmeadow hay crop is unusually heavy everywhere. We saw a field belonging\nto Mr. Maclean of Ardgour in the act of being cut the other day, and\nwe never saw anything finer or heavier fall before a scythe. This is\nprecisely the weather for securing such a heavy swathe in good order,\nalthough one cannot but feel for the poor scythesman, who, brown as\nan Indian and bathed in sweat, wields his glittering weapon under a\nburning, blazing sun, such as at a pinch might serve the turn of our\ncousins of Jamaica or Demerara. Some idea of the extraordinary heat\nand drought of the past week may be gathered from the fact that it\nwas frequently found possible to stack or carry into the barn in one\nday the hay that had only been cut on the day previous--something\nhitherto unheard-of, we should say, in Lochaber, or, indeed, in any\npart of the Highlands.\n\nWe cannot recollect having ever before seen all kinds of fungi so\nplentiful as they are throughout Lochaber this season. You meet\nmushrooms of all sizes and of all shapes, both edible and poisonous;\nwhile fairy rings are so common that you may encounter one or more of\nthem in every bit of old pasture and in every greenwood glade. One\nof these rings we had the curiosity to measure a few days ago,\nand we found its diameter to be precisely fifteen feet, giving it\na circumference of upwards of fifty feet, as nearly as possible a a\nperfect circle, the emerald outline, studded with its peculiar pretty\nwhite, button-like Agaraci, amid the lighter green of the surrounding\nherbage, as distinct and easily traceable, even at several hundred\nyards distance, as ever was halo round the moon. We noticed that a cow,\nhappening to come the way while we were examining another of these\nfairy rings, ate them all with evident relish, browsing so steadily\nalong and around, that when she completed the circle she had not left\na single one. We hope that they agreed with her, though we should not\nlike to have joined in the repast, for we have a salutary horror of\nthe whole mushroom tribe. The so-called edible mushroom is said to be\ndelicious when properly cooked: should it ever in any form be a dish\non a table at which we are seated, we promise to give our share of it,\ntotus, teres atque rotundus, whole and unimpaired, to the first that\nwill accept it. To the present intense heat, coming so suddenly on\nthe back of long-continued rains, is probably due the extraordinary\nabundance of all kinds of fungi.\n\nThe shoal of whales at present disporting themselves in Lochiel,\nintending probably, tourist fashion, to visit Inverness by-and-by,\nvia the Caledonian Canal, if they can only arrange it with the\nauthorities, did us the honour to visit Loch Leven, spending an\nentire day with us, evidently very much to their own satisfaction,\nif one might judge from their lively somersaultings and incessant\ngambollings. These whales--a shoal of some five or six hundred,\nwe should say--were a very interesting sight as they gambolled about\nwithin a hundred yards of us, blowing loudly the while and lashing the\nsea with foam, until you might have heard the hurly-burly from the top\nof the highest mountain in the neighbourhood. They were of all sizes,\nfrom full growth, and old age perhaps, down to veriest babyhood. In the\nshoal, two kinds of whale were mingled together in apparent amity and\ngood-fellowship: the common bottlenose (Baloenoptera acuto-rostrata of\nLa C\u00e8pede--the highest authority on cetaceous animals), measuring some\ntwenty or twenty-five feet in length, and the broad-nosed or rorqual\nwhale (Baloena musculus, Linn.; B. rorqual, La C\u00e8pede), from fifty to\nsixty feet in length, and appearing beside a bottlenose, as they came\nto the surface to breathe, like a Clydesdale horse beside a Shetland\npony. It will be strange if our friends at Fort-William do not manage\nto bag some of them ere they repass the narrows at Corran Ferry.\n\nThe heat is oppressive within doors; but Loch Leven, we observe, is\ndarkening under a rippling breeze from the south-east, and we are off\nfor a sail in our tidy, little craft, that, with lugsail sheeted home,\nwill go to windward of anything of equal size on the coast.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\n    Herrings--Chim\u00e6ra Monstrosa--Cure for Ringworm--Cold Tea Leaves\n    for inflamed and blood-shot Eyes--An old Incantation for the cure\n    of Sore Eyes--A curious Dirk Sheath--A Tannery of Human Skins.\n\n\nHowever unproductive the herring fishing season may be quoad herrings,\nand this has so far been the worst of a series of bad seasons\n[September 1870], it rarely fails to provide more or less grist for our\nmill in the shape of some rarity in marine life worth chronicling. A\nvery ugly and repulsive-looking fish, extremely rare too, was sent us\nrecently for identification. It was caught in Sallachan Bay, in our\nneighbourhood, having become entangled in the corner of a drift net\nwhich the fishermen were hauling into their boat in the grey morning,\nafter a long, wearisome, and profitless night's labours. We had seen\nthe fish before, though not often, and had therefore no hesitation\nin recognising it as the Chim\u00e6ra monstrosa--a scientific name, by\nthe way in which its lack of beauty is plainly enough indicated--a\ncartilaginous fish, two feet in length, and of somewhat elongated and\nhake-like form. The general colour is a dull leaden white, mottled\non the under parts with small spots of rusty brown. On examining\nthe contents of the stomach, they were found to consist of some very\nsmall herring fry, along with partly digested fragments of the adult\nfish, whence it may be concluded that the Chim\u00e6ra's favourite prey,\nwhen they can be had, is herring; a conclusion at which we might also\neasily arrive from the fact that it is seldom or never met with on\nour shores, except when herring are more or less plentiful. At one\ntime the Chim\u00e6ra must have been a less rare fish than it is now, for\nit has a Gaelic name, \"Buachaille-an-Sgadain,\" the Herring Herd or\nHerdsman. It was probably comparatively common in the good old times,\nwhen even our more inland western lochs swarmed annually with herring\nshoals, and so large was the capture, that the salt to cure them,\non which there was a considerable duty at the time, was frequently\nretailed over a vessel's side at a shilling the lippy. The late\nColonel Maclean of Ardgour, who attained a great age, with intellect\nclear and unimpaired, and who was most particular and exact in all\nhis statistics, has repeatedly assured us that, in his younger days,\nsay a hundred years ago, fifty thousand pounds worth of herring used\nto be captured annually in Lochiel alone. We don't suppose that for\nmany years past herring to the value of a tenth of that sum have been\ncaught in all the lochs between the Mull of Cantyre and the Point\nof Ardnamurchan.\n\nThe reader probably knows what ringworm is--a fungoid eruption on\nthe skin, not uncommon in the spring and early summer in children\nand young people of plethoric habits. There is a very wide-spread\nbelief over the West Highlands and in the Hebrides that ringworm\ncan be readily cured by rubbing it over and around once or twice\nwith a gold-ring--a woman's marriage ring, if it can be had, being\nalways preferred. In our younger days we recollect seeing the cure\napplied on more than one occasion, whether with the desired result,\nor ineffectually, we do not know--we probably little thought in those\ndays of kilts, cammanachd, and barley bannocks, of inquiring. For\nmany years we had neither seen nor heard anything either of the\ndisease or of its popular cure, until, by the merest accident, it\ncame under our notice a few days ago. Riding home one evening last\nweek, we observed two little girls and a sturdy long-legged haflin\nlad sitting patiently in front of a cottage, the door of which was\nshut and locked. The youngsters, rather better dressed than usual,\nhad come from a considerable distance, and we wondered what they could\nbe doing there. On mentioning the matter next day, we had the story in\nfull as follows:--The three were suffering from ringworm. The owner of\nthe cottage has a marriage ring of wonderful efficacy in curing this\nepidermic distemper. They had come from one of the inland glens to be\noperated upon, but the possessor of the ring was away in Glasgow, and\nonly returned home by steamer late that evening. When she did arrive,\nthe young people were duly manipulated and ring-rubbed secundum artem;\nand in four and twenty hours thereafter we were gravely assured\nthey were quite healed. Any gold ring is usually employed, but the\nparticular ring referred to in this case is much sought after on such\noccasions, because, as our informant said, it is of \"guinea gold,\"\nby which we suppose very pure gold, with the least possible alloy,\nis meant; and because it is the property of a widow who was married\nto one husband more than fifty years. A belief in the virtue of gold\nrings in cures of ringworm is, as we have said, very wide-spread and\nhonestly held by many. Whether, in common phrase, there is \"anything\nin it,\" or the whole affair is sheer nonsense, we shall not take it\nupon us to decide. We merely submit a common and curious article\nof popular belief for the consideration of our grave and learned\ndermatologists and the faculty at large. One thing is certain,--the\nowner of the marvellous ring makes no vulgar profit by her frequent\nuse of it in such cases. She is in comfortable circumstances, and\nthe whole affair, as far as she is concerned, is a mere labour of love.\n\nAnother popular cure, which for the first time came under our\nnotice recently, and which in many cases is really efficacious, as\nwe have heard averred by those who have been benefited by its use,\nis the application of a poultice of cold tea leaves to an inflamed\nor blood-shot eye. A handful of the leaves is taken from the pot, and\nplaced between two folds of thin cotton or muslin, and applied to the\neye at bed-time, kept in its place, of course, by a handkerchief or\nother band tied round the head. In cases of weak or inflamed eyes from\nany cause, this is reckoned, in this and the surrounding districts,\n\"the sovereignest thing on earth.\" And one can quite understand how\ntea leaves, at once cooling and astringent, employed in this way,\nmay benefit a hot and inflamed eye. It is a simple application at\nall events, and always at hand; and when more pretentious remedies\nare not readily attainable, one would be unwisely prejudiced, if not\nactually foolish, to suffer long without giving it a fair trial.\n\nA less simple and less readily available cure for sore eyes is the\nfollowing in old Gaelic verse:--\n\n\n    Leigheas Sul.\n\n    Luidh Challum-Chille agus sp\u00e8ir,\n    Meannt agus tri-bhilead corr,\n    Bainne atharla nach do rug laodh;\n    Bruich iad a's c\u00e0irich air br\u00e8id,\n    S'cuir sid rid' sh\u00f9il aig tra-n\u00e8in,\n    Air an Athair, am Mac agus Spiorad nan gr\u00e0s,\n    'S air Ostal na seirce; bi'dh do sh\u00f9ilean sl\u00e0n\n    Mu'n eirich a gheallach 's mu'n till an l\u00e0n.\n\n\nIn English, literally--\n\n\n    (Take of) St. Columba's wort and dandelion,\n    (Of) mint and a perfect plant of marsh trefoil,\n    (Take of) milk from the udder of a quey\n    (That is heavy with calf, but that has not actually calved),\n    Boil, and spread the mixture on a cloth;\n    Put it to your eyes at noon-tide,\n    In the name of Father, Son, and the Spirit of Grace,\n    And in the name of (John) the Apostle of Love, and your eyes\n                                                           shall be well\n    Before the next rising of the moon, before the turning of next\n                                                             flood-tide.\n\n\nWe were recently shown a great curiosity--a dirk sheath said to be\nmade of human skin. Its history, as related to us by the owner, is as\nfollows:--In the summer of 1746, about two months after the battle of\nCulloden, a detachment of Saighdearan Dearge, red (coated) soldiers,\nor Government troops, was passing through Lochaber and Appin on its\nway to Inveraray, the men amusing themselves, and enlivening the tedium\nof the march, by burning and plundering as they had opportunity. When\npassing through the Strath of Appin, a young woman was observed in\na field, busily engaged in the evening milking her cow. A sergeant\nor corporal of the band leaped over the wall into the field, and\nputting his musket to his shoulder, shot the cow dead upon the spot;\nafter which gallant exploit he began the most brutal ill-treatment\nof the woman. She, however, defended herself with great courage, and\nas she retreated towards the shore, she picked up a stone, which she\nhurled at her persecutor with such good aim that it struck him full\non the forehead, stretching him for the moment senseless upon the\ngrass. She then fled towards a boat that was afloat on the beach, and\nleaping in, rapidly rowed towards Eilean-bhaile-na-gobhar, an island\nat a considerable distance from the mainland, where she was safe\nfrom further annoyance. The tradition is so minute and precise that\nthe heroine's name is given as Silas-Nic-Cholla, or Julia MacColl;\nand our informant declared himself to be her great-grandson. The\nsergeant, stunned and bleeding, was picked up by his comrades,\nand carried to the place of halt for the night, near Tigh-an Ribbi,\nwhere, before morning, he died of his wound. His body was buried in\nthe old churchyard of Airds, but was not allowed to rest there. On\nthe disappearance of the soldiers from the district, the body was\nexhumed by the people, and cast into the sea; not, however, before a\nbrother of Silas-Nic-Cholla flayed the right arm from the shoulder\nto the elbow, and of the skin thus flayed was made a dirk sheath,\nand this sheath we saw and handled with no little curiosity a week or\ntwo ago. The sheath is of a dark brown colour, limp and soft, with no\nornament except a small virle of brass at the point, and a thin edging\nof the same metal round the orifice, on which is inscribed the date\n\"1747,\" and the initials \"D. M. C.\" There is no reason, we suppose,\nto doubt the genuineness of the article, though we hardly expected\nto find human skin--if it be human skin--of such thickness. It may,\nhowever, be partly the result of the tanning process which it probably\nunderwent, and of time. In connection with this strange relic of a\npast age may be stated the extraordinary fact--incredible, indeed,\nif it were not thoroughly authenticated--that during the horrors of\nthe French Revolution there was a tannery of human skins for many\nmonths in operation at Meudon. The raw material, so to speak, of\nthis strange manufacture, was the skins of the scores and hundreds\nthat were daily guillotined. It is asserted that \"it made excellent\nwash-leather.\" Montgaillard, a prominent character of the period, who\nhad the curiosity to visit the works, and saw the tanning process in\nfull operation, makes the following curious observation:--\"The skin\nof the men was superior in toughness and quality to shamoy; that of\nthe women good for almost nothing, so soft in texture, and easily\ntorn, like rotten linen!\" We have had some rebellious revolutions,\ncivil wars, and all the rest of it in Great Britain and Ireland,\nwith their attendant iniquities, bad enough in all conscience, but\nthe French may fairly boast of having beat us; a tannery of human\nskins is a venture and enterprise that no one has been pushing and\npatriotic enough yet to undertake amongst us, even when axe and\ngallows wrought their hardest in days happily long since passed away.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\n    The Ring-Dove--A Pet Ring-Dove--Its Death--Shenstone--The\n    Belone Vulgaris or Gar-Fish--A Rat and a Kilmarnock\n    Night-Cap--Extraordinary Roebuck's Head at Ardgour.\n\n\nThe weather [October 1870] with us here on the West Coast continues\nwonderfully mild and open for the latter end of October. Were it not,\nindeed, for an occasional sprinkling of snow along the mountain summits\nof an early morning, and finding as you wander about the pathways\neverywhere bestrewn with fallen leaves, we might find some difficulty\nin persuading ourselves, in weather so bright and summer-like, that\nthe season was at all so far advanced as it really is, that 1870,\nwith its immediate predecessor--the anni mirabiles of the century--had\nalready so nearly run its allotted course. A striking proof of the\nexceptional mildness of the weather since mid-August is the fact that\na young wood-pigeon or ring-dove (Columba palumbus), not yet nearly\nfull fledged, was brought to us a few days ago from a nest in the\nwoods of Coirrechadrachan. We have kept it with the view of rearing\nit as a pet, though the chances are all against us, the produce of\nsuch late incubations having always less robustness and vitality about\nthem than birds hatched in spring or early summer. There is a little\ndifficulty, as a rule, in rearing the ring-dove, and getting it to\nbecome even troublesomely tame, until it purrs and kur-doo's about\nyour feet, and rubs himself against you with all the familiarity and\nempressement of a kitten begging for its morning allowance of milk. It\nis, however, exceedingly quarrelsome and pugnacious among other pets,\nand so jealous of any attention bestowed on any one but itself, that\nit will pout and sulk for half a day if it considers itself injured\nin this respect; and yet so little grateful is it for any amount\nof kindness you may show it, that when full-grown it will take the\nfirst opportunity that offers to escape into its native wild woods,\nnever more to look near you. One that we reared from the nest several\nyears ago had one very amusing habit. Every morning after being\nfed he would watch the nursery door, which opened off the kitchen,\nuntil he got it ajar, when he would leap upon the dressing-table and\nspend a couple of hours in admiring himself in the looking-glass,\npreening his feathers and strutting about and kur-dooing to his alter\nego with the most beauish, self-satisfied air imaginable, the poor\nbird being evidently under the impression that his own reflection\nwas a Mademoiselle Ring-dove of irresistible attractions, and whom\nhe persuaded himself he was on these occasions busily courting in\nthe manner most approved of amongst the most fashionable circles of\nring-dovedom. His death was a singular one. A large Aylesbury duck,\nwith whom he used to have constant quarrels, he being invariably\nin fault and always the aggressor, got a hold of him one day near\nher ducking pond, and in a scuffle, which the ring-dove himself had\ncauselessly provoked, dragged him into the water, and beat him with\nher wings until he was, like Ophelia, \"drown'd, drown'd.\"\n\nWe never see these very handsome wild birds, or hear their soft\nmelodious cooing of summer eve from the neighbouring woods, but we\nthink of Shenstone's beautiful lines--\n\n\n    \"I have found out a gift for my fair:\n      I have found where the wood-pigeons breed;\n    But let me that plunder forbear,\n      She will say 'twas a barbarous deed:\n    For he ne'er could be true, she averr'd,\n      Who could rob a poor bird of its young;\n    And I lov'd her the more when I heard\n      Such tenderness fall from her tongue.\n\n    \"I have heard her with sweetness unfold\n      How that pity was due to a dove;\n    That it ever attended the bold,\n      And she called it the Sister of Love.\n    But her words such a pleasure convey,\n      So much I her accents adore,\n    Let her speak, and whatever she say,\n      Methinks I should love her the more.\"\n\n\nIn the same poem--the Pastoral Ballad--occurs this exquisite verse:--\n\n\n    \"When forced the fair nymph to forego,\n      What anguish I felt at my heart!\n    Yet I thought--but it might not be so--\n      'Twas with pain she saw me depart.\n    She gazed as I slowly withdrew;\n      My path I could hardly discern:\n    So sweetly she bade me adieu,\n      I thought that she bade me return.\"\n\n\nBut alas, and woe the while! William Shenstone of the Leasowes, with\nhis many tuneful contemporaries, are forgotten, or at least unread, by\nthe present generation, and the poetasters of our day claim Parnassus,\nits Castalian spring and Temple of Apollo, for their own! All we\ncan is that in r\u00ea poetica the taste of an age tolerant of such an\nusurpation is little to be commended.\n\nA gentleman in the opposite district of Appin sent us a message a\nfew days ago begging us to go and have a look at what he termed\na rarissimus piscis, a most rare fish that had been caught in a\nscringe net along with a lot of sethe and mackerel. In complying\nwith such messages we can seldom be charged with dilatoriness,\nas most of our friends will bear witness. Nor was it otherwise in\nthis case; Cha be'n ruith ach an le\u00f9m, as the Highlanders say--it\nwas not a run but a rush, with a leap and a bound--when they would\nemphatically characterise a person's conduct in going about anything\nwith extraordinary alacrity. The fish in question we found to be\nan old acquaintance of ours, though so rare on the west coast that\nwe never saw or heard of it before during a twenty years' residence\nin the country, and constantly, too, on the out-look for everything\nin the shape and semblance of a rara avis, whether encased in fur,\nfeather, or scales. It was the gar-fish of British zoologists,\nknown in ichthyological nomenclature as the Belone vulgaris of the\nfamily Scomberesocid\u00e6, having the body, which is covered with minute\nscales, elongated to a degree almost conger-like. It is frequently\ncaptured on the east coast, sometimes intermingling with mackerel and\nhaddock shoals in considerable numbers. We have seen it in the Perth,\nDundee, and Edinburgh fish markets; never, as we have said, on the\nwest coast. It is said to be excellent eating when in proper season,\nalthough there is a prejudice against its use amongst the fishermen\nthemselves; and it is a remarkable fact, by the way, that some of\nthe finest fish in the sea--most in esteem, at all events, with the\nfish-eating public--are frequently rejected by their professional\ncaptors for their own eating in favour of what we should call the\ncoarser and inferior kinds. For a long time we thought this was\nentirely a matter of economy, those that brought the largest price\nin the market being sold, and the inferior sorts kept for their own\nconsumption. Subsequently we had abundant opportunities of finding\nout that it was far otherwise. An east coast fisherman will give the\npreference at any time, for his own eating that is, to a flounder,\nhowever flabby and flaccid, over a whiting or plaice; he will eat the\nhake rather than the finest cod or haddock, and considers the wing of\na skate, dried in the smoke until it is of the colour of the darkest\nmahogany, with a bouquet the very opposite, be sure, of the ottar of\nroses, a tit-bit with which, in his estimation, neither sea-trout,\nmackerel, nor turbot can for a moment bear comparison. Fishermen, too,\nwe have observed with some surprise, seldom eat their fish fresh;\nthey prefer it salted--salted, moreover, as a rule to a degree that\nto other people would render it almost uneatable. For the prejudice\nagainst the gar-fish there is, however, some excuse. In popular\nsuperstition, \"lang-nebbed\" things have always been in bad odour;\nand the gar-fish's snout is greatly elongated, so much so that it\nbears no small resemblance to a curlew's bill, giving it a wicked,\nvicious look, that its structure otherwise, however, belies; for\nit is altogether incapable of hurting anything bigger than the\nvery small fry and marine insects on which it feeds. The prejudice\nagainst the gar-fish is no doubt to be accounted for in part by the\ncurious fact that its bones are of a dirty green colour, strange\nand perhaps disagreeable to an eye accustomed to the ivory-like\nwhiteness of the osseous structure of most other fishes that are\nbrought to table. We have seen specimens of the gar-fish captured by\nthe St. Andrews fishermen that exceeded three feet in length: the fish\nmore immediately referred to only measured nineteen inches. Our friend\nhas since written us a note to say that on being shown to a gentleman,\n\"professing to know something of ichthyology,\" he declared it to be\na specimen of the pipe-fish, which is just about as correct as if a\nman said that a pelican was a parrot, or a pig was a giraffe.\n\nIn one particular, at least, we resemble Dr. Samuel Johnson. We\nhave never during our whole lifetime once worn a nightcap. \"I\nhad the custom by chance,\" replied the \"Rambler,\" with a growl\nat Boswell's inquisitiveness on the subject, \"and perhaps no man,\nsir, shall ever know whether it is best to sleep with or without a\nnightcap.\" But if we don't wear a nightcap, some of our neighbours\ndo, and to one of these useful articles of nocturnal toilette befell\nthe following adventure a short time ago. One of our neighbours, a\nfine old Highlander, still straight as a pine tree, and strong and\nstalwart withal, though already past the grand climacteric, having\nhad occasion to be in the south in the early summer, bought himself a\nspeck and span new nightcap, which, neatly folded up along with some\nbraws for the gudewife, formed a parcel of which, you may be sure,\nhe was exceedingly careful on the return journey, constantly \"keeping\nhis eye on it\" all the way from the Broomielaw to Ballachulish Pier,\nand watching over its safety as anxiously as if it contained the wealth\nof the Rothschilds in Bank of England notes, or the title-deeds of\nan earldom. When at last produced at home, and displayed before the\nadmiring gaze of a select few in every imaginable angle of light, it\nwas really a very fine nightcap, a sort of ribbed magenta-coloured\n\"Kilmarnock,\" with a tassel at top, in which were intermingled all\nthe hues of the rainbow, such a splendid tassel as was never before\nseen in Lochaber: Cardinal Antonelli might have been proud of it\nas a pendant to his hat. Having at last been sufficiently admired,\nthe nightcap was duly put to its proper use, and was found to answer\nits purpose perfectly; but one night, while yet the gay Kilmarnock\nretained almost all its pristine bloom, lo! it was amissing at bedtime\nfrom its usual place of honour on the corner of its owner's pillow,\ngreatly to his annoyance you may believe, and not a little to the\nsurprise and consternation of his amiable bedfellow. Then, and for\nweeks afterwards, all search for the missing nightcap was but so\nmuch fruitless labour; nothing could be seen or heard of it, and it\nwas finally agreed on all hands that it must have been stolen by some\nperson whose honesty became weak as water in view of the Kilmarnock's\nrare magenta colour and gay pendulous tassel. And the nightcap in very\ntruth was stolen, though the thief was probably actuated less by the\nbrilliancy of its colours than the cozy feel of its soft and silken\ntexture. Some time in mid-autumn the mystery was cleared up in this\nwise. The nightcap owner was one day engaged in redding up his barn\npreparatory to the ingathering of his crops, when a large rat bolted\nfrom between his feet, and, scuttling across the floor, disappeared,\nrat fashion, in a hole in the divot wall. A spade was instantly got,\nand the hole dug about until its innermost recess was reached, in\nwhich was found a gigantic dam rat with a litter of a dozen or more\nyoung ones. These were all of them of course straightway despatched,\nand the cozy nest of moss, dried grass, and nibbled straw scattered\nabout, when lo! as its foundation appeared the long missing bonnet de\nnuit, the incomparable Kilmarnock, without a rent or tear, and its\ncolours as bright almost, and its tassel bobbing as coquettishly as\nwhen first displayed on the points of the shopman's distended fingers\nover the counter in the Cowcaddens. There was great rejoicing over the\nreappearance of the nightcap, which is now again prized as highly and\nwatched over as carefully as if it were the nightcap of Fortunatus;\nand the owner, a wag and humorist in a quiet way, as are most of\nour old Highlanders, has composed a song on the subject (Oran do m'\nChurrachd-oidhche), which, after some coaxing, we got him to repeat\nto us some days ago. It pleased us immensely, and made us laugh until\nour sides were sore. For the benefit of our readers we may dash off\na translation of it some evening or other when we are \"i' the vein.\"\n\nGoing to call at Ardgour House one day last week, and taking a short\ncut through the woods, we came across the keeper just as he had shot\na roebuck, the largest we think we ever saw, and with the finest\nhead. The horns were something extraordinary, both as to size and\nshape, so much so, indeed, that although we have in our day met with\nmany fine ones, we never saw anything for a moment to be compared\nwith these. We have, for instance, a roebuck's head of our own,\nkindly given us some years ago by Lochiel, the horns on which are\nallowed to be uncommonly good ones; but we find that they are nearly\ntwo inches shorter in the beam, and less by nearly a whole inch in\ncircumference of root of antler at its junction with the skull than\nthose of the specimen shot in Ardgour on Tuesday.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\n    The \"Annus Mirabilis\" of Dryden--1870 a more wonderful Year\n    in its way than 1666--Winter--Number of Killed and Wounded\n    in the Franco-Prussian War--Battles of Langside, Tippermuir,\n    Cappel--Carrier Pigeons--The Velocity with which Birds fly.\n\n\nOne of Dryden's best poems, and in many respects one of the most\ncurious poems in the language, is the Annus Mirabilis, an effusion\nof historical panegyric, which, after the lapse of two centuries, no\none can read unmoved or undelighted, so beautifully is it written,\nso masterly is the versification, and so vividly are its events\nportrayed. The year commemorated is 1666, and the \"wonders\" that\nentitled it to such pre-eminence were the naval war with the Dutch\nand Danes and the great fire in London. If 1666, however, was an annus\nmirabilis, surely 1870 is an annus mirabilior, a more wonderful year\nstill, nay, an annus mirabilissimus, if you like, for you shall go\nback in our annals very far indeed--much farther, if you try it, than\nat the outset you might think at all necessary--before you meet its\nmatch. Just consider, first of all, the great Franco-Prussian war,\nwith its countless hosts of slain; with its sieges of Strasbourg,\nMetz, and Paris, not to mention strongholds of less importance;\nits capitulation of Sedan and captive Emperor; the Empire ruined,\nand a Republic in its place, with all that may yet happen ere peace is\nproclaimed and the Germans have recrossed the Rhine. Think, again, of\nthe promulgation of the doctrine of Papal Infallibility, so speedily,\nand let us say unexpectedly, followed by the capture of Rome and\nthe dethronement of this very infallible Pope as a temporal Prince,\nby the Catholic (proh pudor!) King of Italy. At home, a daughter of\nthe Queen, with the royal consent and concurrence, marries one of\nthat Queen's subjects, for we suppose we may regard the matter as\na fait accompli, an event so unheard-of and unusual that we must\ngo back for an exact parallel for more than two hundred years,\nwhen the Duke of York, afterwards James II., \"a man of many woes,\"\nmarried the Lady Anne Hyde, daughter of Lord Chancellor Clarendon,\nwhose history of the Rebellion is one of the most interesting, and,\non account of its inimitable portraiture, one of the most valuable\nworks of its kind in the English language. If to all this be added such\nevents as the loss of the \"Captain,\" built and armed on a principle,\nthe ultimate adoption or rejection of which will so materially affect\nthe navy of the future; the revision of the Authorised Version of the\nScriptures; and many other matters, both at home and abroad, that will\nreadily occur to the reader, this may be regarded as a very wonderful\nyear indeed. Occupying the centre, as it were, of all these events,\nwe are too near them at present to appraise either their magnitude\nor importance at their legitimate value. Not the man at the base of\na lofty tower, but he who stands at some distance from it can take\nits proportions aright, and we may depend upon it that the reader\nof the history of our period a hundred years hence will turn to the\npage that records the events of 1870 as at once the most interesting\nand important in the annals of many centuries. Reverting for a moment\nto the Annus Mirabilis of Dryden, it is but fair to acknowledge that\nthey seem to have had one wonder to boast of in 1666 that we cannot\nclaim for 1870, to this date at least; the wonder in question being\ntwo blazing comets in the nocturnal sky. Describing the English fleet\nadvancing to attack the enemy at night, the poet, with a boldness of\nhyperbole for which he is always remarkable, says--\n\n\n    \"To see that fleet upon the ocean move,\n      Angels drew down the curtains of the skies;\n    And Heaven, as if there wanted lights above,\n      For tapers, made two glaring comets rise!\"\n\n\nBut if we have no comets to boast of in 1870, let not the reader\nforget that the 14th November is nigh at hand, and that he who gets up\nbetimes on the morning of that day, and watches till the daybreak, will\nassuredly witness a sight more startling, and grand and \"glaring\" than\nDryden's comets, wonderful and startling as they doubtless were. We\nmust be permitted one other extract from this extraordinary poem. It\ndescribes the state of the contending fleets and the feelings of their\nrespective crews on their withdrawing for a time from an engagement\nthat resulted in something like what at the present day we should\ncall a drawn battle:--\n\n\n    \"The night comes on, we eager to pursue\n      The combat still, and they ashamed to leave\n    Till the last streaks of dying day withdrew,\n      And doubtful moonlight did our rage deceive.\n\n    \"In th' English fleet each ship resounds with joy,\n      And loud applause of their great leader's fame;\n    In fiery dreams the Dutch they still destroy,\n      And, slumbering, smile at the imagin'd flame.\n\n    \"Not so the Holland fleet, who, tired and done,\n      Stretch'd on their decks, like weary oxen lie;\n    Faint sweats all down their mighty members run\n      (Vast hulks which little souls but ill supply).\n\n    \"In dreams they fearful precipices tread,\n      Or, shipwreck'd, labour to some distant shore;\n    Or in dark churches walk among the dead;\n      They wake with horror, and dare sleep no more.\"\n\n\nWe do not know whether the reader will agree with us, but we look upon\nthese verses as wonderfully fine, and upon the Annus Mirabilis as,\nof its class, amongst the finest, if not the very finest, poem in\nthe language.\n\nEven from a meteorological point of view, this year, in our part of\nthe country at least, has had not a little of the mirabilis about\nit. Byron, we know, awoke one morning and found himself famous, and\nwe awoke one morning last week and found ourselves in mid-winter,\nalbeit the previous day had been mild, and calm, and sunny, and\nbright as if it were Whitsuntide, rather than the Eve of St. Luke the\nEvangelist. Since then we have had incessant storms, shifting about\nand sometimes blowing from every point of the compass within the\nfour-and-twenty hours, with such deluges of rain as Lochaber alone\ncan supply in season, or sometimes, entre nous, out of season as\nwell. The mountain summits are, at the moment we write, covered with\na lamb's-wool-like coating of virgin snow, and the air has become\nso chill and raw that we were fain some days ago to don our winter\nhabiliments for the season. We have no right or reason to complain,\nhowever; a finer summer and autumn were never known in the Highlands,\nand since winter must come some time or other, it is better that it\nshould come in season. The fourth week of October is not a bit too\nearly for snow, and sleet, and storms, so that when we hear the\nwinds howling over ferry and firth, and the waves breaking with\nsullen roar upon the vexed strand, and listen to the rattle and\nthe dash of rain and sleet upon the window panes, we shall, first\ntaking care that the shutters are properly closed and the curtains\ndrawn, just draw our arm-chair a little nearer the fire, which our\n\"lassie,\" you may be sure, has trimmed betimes, like Horace's boy,\nlarge reponens peats and coals thereon, and then, with the Courier,\nScotsman, or Standard on our knee, or a stray copy of the Saturday\nReview or Spectator, which some distant friend has kindly sent us,\nor some fresh volume from Ardgour's library, the worst we shall say\nwill be in the words of poor old Lear, \"Blow wind, and crack your\ncheeks! rage! blow!\" blessing God the while that if our lot be a\nhumbler one, it is also a happier one than the poor old king's.\n\nA good deal has been written about the enormous numbers of killed\nand wounded in the present Franco-Prussian war, the fact being\nnevertheless, as we learn on competent authority, that notwithstanding\nthe improvements made of late years in arms of precision, there were,\nconsidering the numbers engaged, quite as many men disabled as in the\ngood old days of \"Brown Bess\" in the wars of the first Napoleon and in\nour battles in India. Mr. Hill Burton, in one of his recently published\nvolumes of the History of Scotland, and an admirable and very impartial\nhistory it is, tells us that in the battle of Langside, an historical\ncombat on the issue of which so much in the after history of England\nand Scotland depended, 10,000 men were engaged for three-quarters of\nan hour, with a loss to the Queen's party of 300 hors de combat, while\nthe victors only lost one man! A very extraordinary fact certainly; but\na more wonderful fact still, and neither Mr. Burton nor his reviewers\nseem to be aware of it, is that of the battle of Tippermuir, fought\nin 1644, between the Covenanters and the famous Marquis of Montrose,\nin which Montrose was victorious without the loss of a single man on\nhis own side, although of the Covenanters between four and five hundred\nwere killed in the battle and pursuit. Another curious thing connected\nwith the battle of Tippermuir was this: a body of Highlanders, keen\nenough for the fray, were without arms of any kind, when Montrose,\npointing to the stones that thickly strewed the field, advised them\nto try these to begin with, and they did, appropriating the arms\nof their enemies as they fell, and using them with such effect that\nthe battle proper was over in less than half an hour. The only other\nbattle that we can recollect in which such primitive weapons as stones\nwere employed by the combatants was that of Cappel, fought in 1531,\nbetween the Protestants of Zurich and the Catholics of the neighbouring\ncantons. It was in this battle that the celebrated reformer Zwingle,\nor Zwinglius, met his death. He was first of all knocked down by a\nstone that, fiercely hurled, struck him on the head, and then, with\nthe exclamation, \"Die, obstinate heretic,\" the sword of Fockinger of\nUnterwalden pierced his throat, and the reformer was no more.\n\nThe reader has, of course, seen in the papers how beleaguered Paris\nkeeps up communication with Belgium and the provinces, by means of\nballoons and carrier pigeons. Of balloons and ballooning we have no\npractical experience; of carrier pigeons we do know something, the bird\nbeing as well-known to us as is a robin redbreast to a gardener. We\nkept them for some time, but were obliged to get quit of them on\naccount of their ineradicable propensity to purloin our neighbours'\nturnip seed from the drill immediately after being sown and before\nthey got time to sprout. All pigeons have this habit, but the carrier\nworse and more persistently than any other. The speed and power of\nwing appertaining to the carrier pigeon is extraordinary, and if not\nwell attested would be deemed incredible. We remember, for instance,\nthat at the Christmas of 1845, when a student at the University of\nSt. Andrews (best as well as oldest university in Scotland, gainsay\nit who may!) we spent our holidays at Kirkmichael, a pleasant little\nvillage in the Highlands of Perthshire. On leaving St. Andrews we took\nwith us a carrier pigeon, a magnificent bird. On the 1st of January\n1846, at the hour of noon precisely, we gave this bird, with a bit\nof narrow blue ribbon tied under his wing, his liberty on the bridge\nof Kirkmichael. When let out of his basket he instantly soared up in\na sort of spiral flight, ascending and ascending cork-screw fashion\nuntil he seemed to the eye no bigger than a wren, then straight\nand swift as an arrow from a bow he urged his flight southwards,\nand became lost to view. On returning to St. Andrews, we found that\nour bird had reached his dovecot, eagerly watched and waited for\nby his owner, as the College bells were chiming one o'clock on the\nsame day, so that it must have done the distance, about fifty-four\nmiles as the crow flies, in about one hour, or very nearly at the\nrate of a mile a minute. Now, it must be remembered that this was\nthe bird's ordinary flight. He doubtless sought his distant home in\nwhat one might call a brisk and business-like manner, nor swerved,\nwe may be sure, an inch from his course, nor loitered by the way. He\nwas going well--very well, if you like--throughout, but not going\nhis best. The probability is that under extraordinary pressure, with\na falcon in chase, for instance, the same bird could and would have\ngone twice as fast, or at a rate of something more than a hundred\nmiles an hour. If the reader likes to experiment in this direction,\nhe can easily try it with the common domestic pigeon, as we have done\nmore than once. Years ago we recollect a brother of ours taking, at\nour suggestion, a common black and white pigeon from the dovecot here\nto Oban, where, at a preconcerted hour on a day agreed upon, he set it\nat liberty. The bird took nearly two hours to do the distance, some\ntwenty-three or twenty-four miles as the crow flies; but it probably\nlingered some time by the way to feed, as, instead of being well fed,\nwhich should always be strictly attended to, it received no food\nat all on the morning of its liberation at Oban. The house-pigeon,\nhowever, is useless except for comparatively short distances, and\neven then is never to be much depended upon. His extreme domesticity\npredisposes him to pay a visit to every dovecot on the route, and to\nfraternise with every flock of brother pigeons he may happen to fall in\nwith. His peculiar mode of flight, besides, and his extreme timidity,\nmark him out as an easy and desirable prey for any keen-eyed hawk or\nfalcon that may be at the moment impransus, as Johnson in his early\ndays once signed a note in London--dinnerless. The common pigeon,\ntoo, wings his flight at a comparatively low altitude, and becomes an\neasy shot to any one with a gun ready to hand when it passes by. Not\nso the true carrier pigeon, which flies at a great height, far out\nof range of needle-gun or artillery--out of range of human sight,\nin fact; so that it is never in danger of being brought to grief,\nas was poor Gambetta in his balloon when passing above the Prussian\nlines the other day. The velocity with which some birds fly is almost\nincredible. A hungry falcon, with his blood up and in eager pursuit\nof his quarry, will fly at the rate of 150 miles an hour, and keep\nit up too until his object is attained; and the tremendous impetus\nof the bird at such a speed accounts for the dreadful wounds that\na falcon inflicts when it strikes its prey, sometimes ripping up\na grouse, or blackcock, or mallard, from vent to breastbone, as if\nit had been done by the keen edge of a butcher's cleaver. A goshawk\n(Falco palumbarius) belonging to Henry of Navarre--the Henri Quatre\nof after days--having its royal owner's name engraved on its golden\nvarvels, made its escape from Fontainebleau in 1574, and was caught\nin Malta within four-and-twenty hours afterwards--a distance of 1400\nmiles, or at the rate of sixty miles an hour, supposing him to have\nbeen on the wing the whole time. But a hawk never flies by night,\nso that, on a fair computation, the bird's speed in winging the\nenormous distance must have been at the rate of at least 100 miles an\nhour. We have calculated that a snipe, thoroughly alarmed, and going\nits best, can fly at the rate of a mile a minute, and there are other\nwell-known birds equally fleet of wing. Nor must it be supposed that\nthe velocity of birds is a mere \"flash-in-the-pan,\" so to speak--a\n\"spurt,\" as it were--which could not be kept up. The long-sustained\nflights of migratory birds proves the contrary--that birds are not\nonly inconceivably fleet, but, to use a racing term, that they can\nstay as well. Of our more familiar birds, we should say that the\ncommon wild duck of our meres flies with greater velocity than any\nother bird with which the reader is likely to be well acquainted.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\n    Signs of a severe Winter--The Little Auk or Auklet--The\n    Gadwall--Falcons being trained by the Prussians to intercept\n    the Paris Carrier Pigeons--Ballooning--The King of Prussia's\n    Piety--John Forster--Solar Eclipse of 22d December 1870--The\n    Government and the Eclipse--Large Solar Spots--Visible to the\n    naked eye--Rev. Dr. Cumming--November Meteors.\n\n\nIt must have been in view of some such scene [November 1870] as the\nearly morning presents to the eye at present that Horace began his\ncelebrated ode to Augustus--\n\n\n    \"Jam satis terris nivis, atque dir\u00e6\n    Grandinis misit Pater\"--\n\n\nEnough, enough of snow and direful hail! Or if you prefer the wintry\nscene in the ninth Ode--\n\n\n    \"Vides, ut alta stet nive candidum\n    Soracte, nec jam sustineant onus\n    Sylv\u00e6 laborantes: gel\u00fbque\n    Flumina constiterint acuto?\"\n\n\nWhich our countryman Theodore Martin thus renders--\n\n\n    \"Look out, my Thaliarchus, round!\n      Soracte's crest is white with snow,\n    The drooping branches sweep the ground,\n    And, fast in icy fetters bound,\n      The streams have ceased to flow.\"\n\n\nThe snow-clad Soracte itself could not wear a colder or wintrier aspect\nthan does our own Ben Nevis at this moment. We have, in truth, had a\ngreat deal of sleet and snow and rattling hail showers of late, with\nbitterly cold winds and frost enough to induce one to don his warmest\nhabiliments when venturing abroad, and thoroughly to appreciate the\ncomforts of a bright and blazing fire within doors. Winter, in short,\nhas fairly set in; and we must just battle with its inclemencies\nas best we may until a more genial season has come round. And an\nunusually inclement and severe winter is this likely to prove. Our\nlochs and estuaries are swarming with Arctic sea-fowl, that already\nventure quite close to the shore, and seek their food in the most\nsheltered bays, a sure sign that much cold weather, with heavy\ngales from the north and north-west, cannot be far away. Among these\nweb-footed visitors from the far north we have observed two that are\nextremely rare on our part of the west coast, even in the severest\nwinters. One of these is the ratch or auklet (Alca alle, Linn.),\na very pretty little black and white diver, the smallest bird of\nthe genus with which we are acquainted, a little more rotund in form\nand of a robuster frame than the well-known dipper of our streams,\nbut otherwise very like it. Another is the gadwall (Anas strepera),\na species of duck very rare in our north-western waters--a very\npretty little duck, with a remarkably loud and harsh voice, so loud\nthat on a calm frosty day it reaches you over a sea surface distance\nof several miles. We have only identified the latter at a distance\nby the aid of a powerful binocular. It is not a difficult bird to\nrecognise, however, on account of its distinct markings, and we are\nas confident that we have repeatedly seen it during the present month\nas if we had it in our cabinet. And talking of birds, what does the\nreader think the Prussians are up to now? Annoyed at the ballooning and\npigeon-carrying by means of which beleaguered Paris manages to keep up\ncommunication with the outer world, the Germans are training falcons\nto be employed in coursing and capturing such carrier pigeons as may\nbe observed passing over their outposts and siege works. Such at least\nis one item in the last batch of news notes from Versailles. If the\nPrussians really mean this, all we can say is that it is \"a fine idea,\nbut impracticable,\" as Hannibal said of Maharbal's suggestion to push\non to the capture of the Capitol after the battle of Cann\u00e6. In the\nfirst place it is allowed on all hands that a few months at most,\nprobably a few weeks, must decide the fate of Paris one way or\nother, while a hawk, to be employed as proposed, requires years of\ncarefullest training ere it can be depended upon as an aerial cruiser\nin any way subject to human control, nor, even if it were otherwise,\ncould a sufficient number of falcons for the purpose be procured in\nEurope or elsewhere. Such an attempt at an aerial blockade must prove\na failure. Even from a well-trained hawk, under the most favourable\ncircumstances, a carrier pigeon ought to be able in nine cases out of\nten to make good its escape by reason of the velocity and altitude\nof its flight. Depend upon it that in all time to come ballooning\nand pigeon carrying will be employed by a besieged city, as Paris\nemploys them now; and while gas can be had to inflate a balloon, and\na carrier-pigeon is available, there is nothing that a besieging force\ncan do to prevent the constant voyaging of such aerial messengers. One\nresult of this war will be that carrier pigeons will be bred in larger\nnumbers, and more highly valued than ever--carrier pigeon dovecots in\neach city at the public expense--while aerial navigation by means of\nballoons, having lost much of its terrors, will more and more become\na common and every-day mode of locomotion. There is an \"Aeronautical\nSociety\" in England, which boasts the names of many distinguished men\non its roll of members, but which, nevertheless, couldn't in twenty\nyears have done so much for aerial navigation as the Franco-Prussian\nwar has done in little more than a month. Most people, by the way,\nhave been disgusted with the King of Prussia's repeated appeals for\nDivine aid and pretended recognition of Divine guidance, while wading\nat the head of his forces knee-deep in a mare magnum of bloodshed and\ncarnage from the Rhine to the Seine. One anecdote, apropos of a king's\npretended piety and close alliance with the Divine powers in all his\nundertakings, we have not seen quoted. It is this: some person once\ncalling on John Forster, took occasion to remark that the Emperor\nAlexander (of Russia) was a very pious man. \"Very pious, indeed,\"\nobserved Forster, with tremendous sarcasm, \"Very pious, indeed;\nI am credibly informed that he said grace ere he swallowed Poland!\"\n\nPreparations on a large scale are being made on the Continent and in\nAmerica for observing the great solar eclipse of the 22d December,\nwith a care and precision never known in the examination of a similar\nphenomenon. Never before, indeed, could a solar eclipse be observed\nand analysed in its every phase as this one will be. Aided by the\nspectroscope, polariscope, photometer, and photograph, with the most\npowerful telescopes, and meteorological and magnetic instruments of\nthe utmost delicacy and exactness, it will be strange, indeed, if\nour knowledge of the chemistry and constitution of the great central\norb is not very largely increased on this occasion. In our country\nthe eclipse will be a partial one only. At the moment of maximum\nobscuration, supposing the sun to consist of twelve digits, about nine\ndigits, or three-fourths of the disc, will be occulted. According to\nEdinburgh mean time the eclipse will begin at 10 h. 54 m. morning;\nmaximum observation, 0 h. 8 m. afternoon; and of eclipse, 1 h. 22\nm. afternoon. A glass of very moderate powers is sufficient for\nobserving such partial eclipses. Partial though this eclipse is,\nhowever, no phenomenon of the kind of equal magnitude will be seen\nagain in our country till August 1887, when the eclipse will be very\nnearly, though not quite, total.\n\nNever, perhaps, has the solar disc been so constantly and so largely\ncrowded with macul\u00e6, or \"spots,\" as during the present year. Some of\nthese spots have recently been very large. On the 9th of the present\nmonth, for instance, there was an immense circular spot as nearly\nas possible on the centre of the solar disc, like a bull's-eye in a\nbright target of living light, which a little before sunset was plainly\nvisible to the naked eye. It was the evening of the Fort-William market\nday, and we drew the attention of several people returning from the\nfair to the unusual phenomenon. One jolly old fellow, who had probably\nbeen largely patronising the \"tents\" on the market stance throughout\nthe day, would insist upon it that he saw, not one big spot on the sun,\nbut two or more--and perhaps he did. A few days previously a perfect\nstream of macul\u00e6 of all sizes might easily be observed along the solar\nequator, looking for all the world as if a flock of ravens were at\nthe moment passing, in struggling order within the telescope's field\nof view, between us and the sun. At the moment we write these lines,\nthere is a very large spot half-way between the solar centre and\nits western limb, that towards sunset, if the sky is clear, might,\nwe think, be discerned by the unaided eye. Auroral displays, too,\nstill continue to render our nights, though at present moonless,\nand frequently cloudy withal, bright and cheerful by their broad and\nmysterious effulgence.\n\nThe November meteors of the present year seem to have made little\nor no display anywhere. Here it was wet and cloudy, so that we could\nnot have seen them even if the sky was ablaze with them.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\n\n    November Rains: 1500 tons per Imperial Acre!--Rainfall in Skye--An\n    old Gaelic Apologue--The Drover and his Minister--Grand Stag's\n    Head--Scott as a Poet--Mr. Gladstone and Scott--An old Lullaby\n    from the Gaelic.\n\n\nWith the exception of two, or at most three, tolerably fine days at\nthe beginning of the month, December [1870] has been hardly less\nrainy and generally disagreeable than November itself, and this,\nalthough in November a fall of 18 inches--1500 tons of rain water\nto the imperial acre--was duly registered. A recent communication\nfrom Skye went to show that in the matter of rainfall that island is\nfar ahead, not only of Lochaber, but of every other station in the\nkingdom--a pluvial pre-eminence which we had really thought belonged\nto ourselves, but which, claimed for Skye on the impartial authority\nof the rain-gauge, we give up ungrudgingly, simply exclaiming with\nMeliboeus in the Virgilian eclogue--\n\n\n    \"Non equidem invideo, miror magis.\"\n    (In sooth I feel not envy, but surprise.)\n\n\n\"With such a rainfall as is claimed for Skye, one only wonders how it\nis that the inhabitants of the island seem not to suffer a whit because\nof it. As a rule, they are a robust and remarkably long-lived people;\nand, what is even more surprising, they are exceedingly good-humoured\nand cheerful--the pleasantest people in the world to meet with,\nwhether at home or abroad. There is an old Gaelic apologue current in\nLochaber, which may perhaps have some bearing on the point:--\"It was\nlong, long ago that, in the grey dawn of an intensely cold January\nmorning, after a wild night of drift and snow, the heathcock of Ben\nNevis clapped his wings, and, in a loud, prolonged, interrogative crow,\naddressed his first cousin by the father's side, the heathcock of Ben\nCruachan--'How do you feel yourself this morning, dear heathcock of\nCruachan?' 'So, so,' with a feeble attempt at wing-clapping, responded\nthe heathcock of Cruachan; 'So, so; miserable enough, believe me,\nafter such a night as last night was. And if I am thus miserable\ndown here, it only puzzles me to understand how you can at all endure\nit, and live up there on Ben Nevis.' 'Thanks, my dear fellow,' with\na second vigorous clapping of his wings, quoth the Ben Nevis bird;\n'Thanks, my dear fellow, for your kind and cousinly solicitude for my\nwelfare. Know this, however, that, bad as it doubtless is up here on\nBen Nevis, I am made to it.'\" We can only suppose that our friends in\nSkye bear this prodigious rainfall with such philosophic equanimity\nand impunity because, like the heathcock of Ben Nevis, they are\n\"made to it.\" The first time we heard this apologue was many years\nago, in the cabin of one of the Messrs. Hutcheson's steamers. A\nrubicund visaged drover--a fine-looking man, of burly frame and\nAtlantean shoulders--had just swallowed quite half-a-tumblerful of\npotent and unadulterated \"Talisker\" at a gulp rather than a draught,\nwhen his parish clergyman, who happened to be reclining on a sofa\nat the opposite side of the cabin, got up and expostulated with\nhis parishioner for drinking ardent spirits in such a way as that;\nprophesying that unless he stopped it very quickly it would kill him,\nand only wondering that it had not killed him long ago. The drover,\nwho was not aware until then that his minister was on board, and a\nwitness to his potations, respectfully took off his broad bonnet, and,\nwith a bow, begged to repeat the apologue, which he did, ore rotundo,\nin the most beautiful Gaelic; the application being so manifestly apt\nand pertinent to his particular case that we all burst out a laughing,\nthe venerable clergyman--now, alas, no more!--enjoying it as much as\nany one that the tables had been so cleverly turned upon him. Fables\napart, however, the fact of the matter seems to be simply this, that\nthe humidity of the climate along our western sea-board, and amongst\nthe Hebrides, is in nowise inimical to robust health or longevity. It\nis of course disagreeable enough at times, and frequently a sad\ndrawback on our agricultural prosperity; but a minute examination\nof the vital statistics of the Western Highlands and Islands would\nprobably go far to show that our superabundance of rain is rather\nfavourable to health and long life than otherwise. Ach bi'dh sin\nmar a chithear da, a beautiful Gaelic phrase literally. But be that\nparticular matter as it may seem to it,--what would most please us at\nthis moment would be a month or more of the good old-fashioned winters\nof our boyhood, when everything was blanketed for weeks together\nin soft and virgin snow, and the earth was at times so braced and\nbound with frost that under the rapid tread and multitudinous rush\nof all the village schoolboys at play, it rang again like a hollow\nglobe of iron! It is now, alas, dribble and drip, and splash, slop,\nand slush from year's end to year's end.\n\nWe are indebted to our excellent friend Mr. Snowie, of Inverness,\nfor a very curious and valuable stag's head, admirably stuffed,\nwhich reached us the other day by steamer. It is a splendid trophy,\na veritable Cabar-F\u00e9idh, which the Chief of the Mackenzies himself,\nwhen the clan was at its proudest, might be glad to have to adorn the\nentrance-hall of Brahan Castle. The antlers are of immense girth and\nspread; one, except for the brow tine, what is called a cabar-slat;\nthe other with two tines, each of them almost big enough for an antler\nof itself. We have seen many grand and curious heads in our day, both\ncabar-slats and multicornute; but this, which is properly neither the\none nor the other, is, from its size and peculiar style of antlers,\na trophy to be singled out and admired in a collection of the best\nheads of the kingdom. It faces us as we write from the opposite\nwall of our study, and constantly reminds us of Scott's magnificent\ndescription of the stag that led Fitzjames and his attendants such a\nmerry dance in the Lady of the Lake. We must be pardoned for quoting\na passage with which every one is familiar:--\n\n\n    \"As Chief, who hears his warder call,\n    'To arms! the foemen storm the wall,'\n    The antler'd monarch of the waste\n    Sprang from his heathery couch in haste.\n    But, ere his fleet career he took,\n    The dew-drops from his flanks he shook;\n    Like crested leader proud and high,\n    Toss'd his beam'd frontlet to the sky;\n    A moment gazed adown the dale,\n    A moment snuff'd the tainted gale,\n    A moment listened to the cry,\n    That thicken'd as the chase drew nigh;\n    Then, as the foremost foes appeared,\n    With one brave bound the copse he clear'd\n    And, stretching forward free and far,\n    Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var.\"\n\n\nAnd yet some stupid people will ask if Scott was a poet! Even\nLandseer never painted anything finer or truer to the life than that\nword-painting of Scott's. Every one admits that Homer was a poet: well,\nthen, search the Iliad, point out anything better, or anything, entre\nnous, quite as good, and when you have found it, please let us know,\nand we promise to reperuse the passage, with every attention and care,\nin the original of Homer himself, as well as in the translations of\nPope, Cowper, and Blackie; and if you are right and we are wrong,\nwe shall not hesitate to confess it, and humbly cry peccavi. Meantime\nwe shall continue steadfast in our belief that Scott is a poet, and\nnot only a poet, but a poet of the highest order; more \"Homeric,\"\ntoo, than any other poet you can name, either of the present or\npast century; and that Mr. Gladstone has had the good sense and\npenetration to discover this, and the courage to avow it, is one,\nand not the least, of many things which make us have a liking for\nthat distinguished statesman and scholar.\n\nA lady, to whom we are indebted for numberless obligations of a like\nnature, has sent us a copy of an old Gaelic lullaby or baby-song,\nthe composition of which must clearly be referred to the days when\ncattle-lifting forays and spuilzies of every description were in high\nfashion and favour with the gentlemen of the north--\n\n\n    \"When tooming faulds, or sweeping of a glen,\n    Had still been held the deed of gallant men.\"\n\n\nIt is in many respects so curious that we venture on a translation\nof it. Attached to it is a very pretty air, low and soft and subdued\nas a lullaby air should be, though consisting but of a single part,\nas was always the case with such compositions, unlike ordinary songs,\nwhich generally had two parts, and admitted of endless variations,\naccording to the taste and vocal capabilities of the singer. It is\nproper to state that our version is not intended to be sung to the\noriginal air, for which the measure we have selected is unsuitable. Our\nonly object has been to convey to the English reader the general sense,\nwith something of the spirit and manner, of the original.\n\n\n    A Lullaby.\n\n    \"Hush thee, my baby-boy, hush thee to sleep,\n    Soft in my bosom laid, why should'st thou weep;\n    Hush thee, my pretty babe, why should'st thou fear,\n    Well can thy father wield broadsword and spear.\n\n    \"Lullaby, lullaby, hush thee to rest,\n    Snug in my arms as a bird in its nest;\n    Sweet be thy slumbers, boy, dreaming the while\n    A dream that shall dimple thy cheek with a smile.\n\n    \"Helpless and weak as thou 'rt now on my knee,\n    My eaglet shall yet spread his wings and be free--\n    Free on the mountain side, free in the glen,\n    Strong-handed, swift-footed, a man among men!\n\n    \"Then shall my dalt' bring his muim' a good store\n    Of game from the mountain and fish from the shore;\n    Cattle, and sheep, and goats--graze where they may--\n    My dalta will find ere the dawn of the day.\n\n    \"Thy father and uncles, with target and sword,\n    Will back each bold venture by ferry and ford;\n    From thy hand I shall yet drain a beaker of wine,\n    And the toast shall be--Health and the lowing of kine!\n\n    \"Then rest thee, my foster-son, sleep and be still,\n    The first star of night twinkles bright on the hill;\n    My brave boy is sleeping--kind angels watch o'er him,\n    And safe to the light of the morning restore him.\n    Lullaby, lullaby, what should he fear,\n    Well can his father wield broadsword and spear!\"\n\n\nTo the proper understanding of this curious composition, a few words\nof comment and elucidation may be necessary. The lullaby must be\nunderstood as sung by a foster-mother to her foster-son, the Gaelic\nwords from which the exigencies of verse oblige us to retain in our\nparaphrase. In lulling her charge to sleep, the foster-mother fondly\nanticipates the time when the boy on her knee shall have become a\nfull-grown and perfect man; her beau-ideal of a perfect man, observe,\nbeing that, like the heroes of ancient song, he should be brawny\nlimbed, strong of hand, and swift of foot, able and willing at all\nrisks to seize and appropriate his neighbour's goods, especially his\ncattle, whenever necessity--an empty larder--or honour urged him to the\nadventure. The coolness with which the old lady commits her foster-son\nto the immediate care and guardianship of the heavenly powers, in\nthe self-same breath in which she hopes and believes that he will,\nwhen he becomes a man, prove an active and expert thief--a stealer of\nbeeves from the pastures of neighbouring tribes, in utter defiance of\nthe decalogue--is ludicrous in the extreme. To understand it aright,\nwe must recollect that in former times it was accounted not only lawful\nbut honourable among hostile tribes to commit depredations on one\nanother; and as hostility among the clans was the rule rather than the\nexception, every species of depredation was practised,--cattle-lifting\nraids, however, being accounted the most honourable of all, and in\nthe conduct of which the best gentlemen of the clan might without\na blush take an active part. The \"lowing of kine,\" ge\u00f9mnaich bh\u00e0,\noccurring in this lullaby, was an old toast of the cattle-lifting\ntimes, that the late Dr. Macfarlane of Arrochar told us, he himself had\noften heard when a young man at baptismal feasts and bridals on Loch\nLomond side. The secret of it is this: The ge\u00f9mnaich, or \"lowing,\"\nimplied that the cattle were strangers to the glen, whilst those\nthat belonged to the glen itself, and were the bona fide property of\nthe clan, if such there were, were quiet and staid and well-behaved,\nas decent cattle should be. The cattle \"stolen or strayed,\" as the\nadvertisements have it, \"lowed,\" and were troublesome; while those\nborn and bred in the glen were content to graze in peace, and to \"low\"\nonly when they deemed it absolutely necessary. \"The lowing of kine,\"\ntherefore, was a toast that meant neither more nor less than success\nto the cattle-lifting trade! As ancient Pistol says--\n\n\n    \"'Convey,' the wise it call. 'Steal!' foh, a fico for the phrase.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\n\n    Winter--Auroral Displays in the West Highlands always indicative\n    of a coming Storm--Corvus Corax--Wonderful Ravens--Edgar Allan Poe.\n\n\nSnow continues to accumulate on the mountain summits [December 1870],\nwhich all around, from Ben Nevis to Ben Cruachan, and from the peaks\nof Glen-Arkaig to Benmore in Mull, now present so many Sierra Nevadas,\nwhile you are conscious at last, and to an extent that admits of no\npossible mistake on the subject, that the wind, which, whether it blows\nadown the glen or across the sea, has a chill and penetrating edge to\nit, is neither the breeze of autumn nor the zephyr of summer, but the\nbreath of winter itself--the hoary-headed and icicle-bearded season,\nthat, with all its drawbacks, has its uses in the general economy\nas well as its gentler confr\u00e8res in the annual. With the exception\nof one or two pet days, the weather of the past fortnight has been\nstormy and wild, with heavy falls of rain on the lowlands, and sleet\nand snow among the mountains. In no one season since we first became\na student of the heavens, now more than a quarter of a century ago,\nhave we had so many splendid exhibitions of aurora borealis as the last\nthree weeks have presented us with in a series of tableaux vivants,\nwhich, while they charmed and delighted the intelligent observer,\nmade the vulgar gape in astonishment and alarm. In every instance\nthese auroral displays have invariably been followed within twelve\nhours by heavy gales of wind and much rain, and so constantly have\nwe noticed this sequence throughout the observations of many years,\nthat there is perhaps no meteorological prediction on which we should\nbe disposed to venture with so much confidence and boldness as that\nwithin twelve or fifteen hours of a bright auroral display there\nshall be a storm, and that that storm shall be of heavy rain or sleet,\nas well as of high wind. We speak principally of the West Highlands,\nbut we have no doubt that observation would prove the phenomena to\nbe the same throughout the kingdom. If we were in command of a ship\nat sea, we should consider ourselves quite as justified in making all\nnecessary preparations for a coming storm on the back of a brilliant\naurora, as we should on observing a sudden fall in the barometer, the\nonly difference being that the \"merry dancers\" give you longer notice\nof the approaching gale than does the mercury. The latter exclaims,\n\"Look out!\" and if you don't look out, and that instantly, calling\nall hands and making everything snug, you come to grief, while time\nenough generally elapses after the auroral warning, to enable you\nto prepare at leisure for the coming storm, and, if it catch you\nnapping, the fault is all your own. The recent auroral displays seem\nto have been very general over the whole of Europe, and are said to\nhave been unusually brilliant in Canada and the Northern States of\nAmerica. A more than ordinarily severe and protracted winter may be\nexpected after all these aerial perturbations, which, when a French\nsavant remarked the other day to a compatriot, \"Tant pis,\" replied the\nchassepot-bearing mobile, with the invariable shoulder shrug and grin,\n\"Tant pis pour Messieurs les Prussiens!\"--thinking, no doubt, of the\ndisastrous retreat from Moscow, and hoping to see it repeated in a\ndifferent direction at no distant day. Except the wren and redbreast,\nwhose pluck is indomitable, and who are never altogether out of voice,\nour singing birds are now songless and silent, or if they do utter a\nnote, it is but a cheep and a chirp, not a song, another sign that our\nwinter is to be regarded as having fairly set in. We notice, besides,\nthat some of our winter visitors from Arctic seas have made their\nappearance along our shores, while we observe that the rook and grey\ncrow have already begun to frequent the beach at low water in search\nof what may be picked up in the way of a meal, a sure sign that they\nalso look upon it as already come, and that their food in more inland\nparts has disappeared until a kindlier season has come round.\n\nA very large raven (Corvus corax), the biggest specimen of this bird\nwe have ever seen, was trapped at the head of Glencreran a few days\nago by a bird-catcher that annually pays the West Highlands a visit at\nthis season. It was a female, as fat and plump as a Michaelmas goose,\nand weighed within an ounce or two of four pounds. The plumage, as\nmight be expected in a bird of such high condition, was perfect,\nwith the exception of two of the upper alar feathers, which were\nperfectly white, an abnormality, however, that only rendered the\nspecimen all the more interesting. The raven is the craftiest and\nshyest of birds, never venturing within shot of fowling-piece or rifle,\nand more difficult than any other bird, perhaps, to be outwitted or\ncircumvented in any way. With all his craft and caution, however,\nthe raven is, when occasion calls, one of the most courageous and\nboldest of birds. At the time of nidification, for instance, the\nmale will fearlessly attack the largest falcon and drive him from\nwhat he considers his own proper territory, nor will he shun the\ncombat, as we have often observed, even with the osprey or bald\nbuzzard when they met in mid-air on their predatory excursions,\nand a sufficient casus belli has been found or feigned by either\nbelligerent. We remember seeing an encounter of this kind several\nyears ago, which continued nearly an hour, and was a very pretty and\ninteresting sight, the combatants performing the most beautiful aerial\nevolutions as they charged, and parried, and soared, and swooped in\nfierce and determined conflict. We noticed that the raven frequently\nuttered his hoarse and threatening croak, as if to intimidate his\nopponent, while the osprey fought in perfect silence. The combat\nfinally resulted in a drawn battle, the belligerents separating as\nif by mutual consent, and slowly winging their flight in opposite\ndirections. The probability is that the raven's pugnacity was excited\non this occasion (March 1863) by the osprey's cruising about, however\nunwittingly, in the vicinity of the precipice in a cleft of which the\nfemale raven was at the time brooding on her nest. At such a time the\nraven will boldly attack the passing eagle, and harass and annoy it\nuntil the eagle, pestered and teased by the assault, rather than in\nany way alarmed, with great good nature evacuates the territory which\nthe raven claims as its own. The raven has from the earliest ages\nbeen accounted a bird of evil omen, and an object of superstitious\ndread and awe, and allusions to the bird in this connection are to\nbe met with in the literature of most countries, the raven being as\ncosmopolitan as man himself. Its croak, so disagreeable, and dismal,\nand hoarse, and startling; its colour, a funereal black; its habitat,\nthe lonely and demon-haunted mountain peaks, giddy precipices, and\ndreary solitudes; its lamb-slaying and carrion-eating propensities;\nits shy and suspicious manner, as if he knew that he had done evil and\nwas apprehensive of well-merited punishment--all combine to render him\nin the first instance a noticeable and remarkable bird, and one sure\nto be selected for frequent reference in the days of bird divination,\na superstition of which traces may probably be found in the early\nhistory of every country, and thus it would readily be raised to the\n\"bad eminence\" of a bird of evilest omen--\n\n\n    \"The hateful messenger of heavy things,\n    Of death and dolour telling.\"\n\n\nThe Moor of Venice says--\n\n\n    \"It comes o'er my memory,\n    As doth the raven o'er the infected house,\n    Boding to all.\"\n\n\nAnd you remember Macbeth, and cannot fail to catch the allusion--\n\n\n    \"The raven himself is hoarse,\n    That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan\n    Under my battlements.\"\n\n\nDuring his tour in the Highlands with Dr. Johnson, Boswell writes\na highly characteristic letter to David Garrick, and, describing\ntheir visit to Macbeth's Castle, says--\"The situation of the old\ncastle corresponds exactly to Shakspeare's description. While we were\nthere to-day, it happened oddly that a raven perched upon one of the\nchimney tops and croaked. Then I, in my turn, repeated 'The raven\nhimself,' &c.\" Now, if a raven in truth did so perch, all we can say\nis that it was a very curious place for a raven to be, or ravens,\nwithin a hundred years, must have very much changed their habits\nand nature. The explanation probably is that it was a tame raven,\nor a rook perhaps, or, likeliest of all, that it was a common jackdaw\n(Corvus monedula), a pert, impudent, and garrulous little gentleman\nin black--no bigger than a dovecot pigeon--that Mr. Boswell mistook\n(proh pudor!) for the grave, stately, and sagacious raven, who is as\nmuch bigger, and weightier, and wiser than his loquacious cousin the\ndaw, as Samuel Johnson was bigger, and weightier, and wiser than his\ntravelling companion, James Boswell. It is curious to meet with the\nfollowing on the authority of no less renowned a personage than the\nvalorous and puissant knight Don Quixote de la Mancha, the flower of\nchivalry. \"Have you not read, sir,\" proceeds the knight, \"the annals\nand histories of England, wherein are recorded the famous exploits\nof King Arthur, whom in our Castilian tongue we perpetually called\nKing Artus, of whom there exists an ancient tradition, universally\nreceived over the whole kingdom of Great Britain, that he did not die,\nbut that by magic art he was transformed into a raven, for which reason\nit cannot be proved that from that time to this any Englishman hath\nkilled a raven.\"\n\nWe have just called the raven our \"friend,\" nor are we at all ashamed\nso to designate a bird whom we have known long, and regarding whom,\nif other people speak nothing but evil, we at least can speak a great\ndeal that is good. There is a well-known proverb to the effect that a\ncertain potentate of sable hue is not so black as he is painted, nor\nis the raven. First of all, he is an apt scholar, and a bird generally\nof much sagacity, of long memory, and ready wit. It is on record that\non one occasion when the Emperor Augustus was returning victorious\nfrom a battlefield, a tame raven that had received his lesson, and\nremembered it to the letter, alighted on the conqueror's chariot,\nand saluted him in these words--Ave C\u00e6sar, Victor, Imperator! The\nEmperor was pleased, as he well might be, and ordered the raven a\nhandsome pension for life. Bechstein, who probably knew more about\nthe habits and economy of ravens, especially in their tame state,\nthan any other ornithologist before his day or since, vouches for\nthe facility with which they may be taught to speak, and for their\nsagacity and docility generally. He tells the following amusing\nstory:--\"A very clever raven was kept at a nobleman's residence in\nthe district of Mannsfeldt. Among other things he could say, 'Well,\nwho are you?' very strongly and distinctly. One day, as he was walking\nabout among the grass in the garden, he observed a setter dog which\nremained near him, and kept constantly walking after him. Not liking\nto be thus watched and followed, the raven turned rapidly round and\nsternly exclaimed, 'Well, who are you?' The dog was alarmed at this,\nhung his tail, and ran hastily away, and not until he had gained\na considerable distance did he turn round and howl.\" The raven,\nbesides, is a thorough anti-Mormonite, and wouldn't live in Utah for\nthe world. If he visits the polygamist colony at all, it is always\nunder protest against the institutions of that delectable land,\nand to be ready to pick the bones of the first many-wived \"elder\"\nhe may catch in articulo mortis. Rather should the raven be elected\nto a seat upon the bench of bishops, for he is ever careful to fulfil\nthe apostolic injunction to be the husband but of one wife; and until\naccident or old age deprives him of her, he is the model and pattern\nof faithful and affectionate husbands, never violating his conjugal\nvows, not even to the extent of the most innocent of flirtations\nor the most Platonic of intimacies with a neighbouring raveness,\neven though she should be younger, and sleeker, and glossier than\nhis own. The raven, in short, when he pairs, which he does at the\nearliest moment permitted by the laws of ravendom, pairs for life,\nand while his first choice is spared to him he will no more think of\npaying court to another, be her charms what they may, than he will\nof dying of hunger while there is a bone to pick, a tender lamb, or\nbraxied sheep within a circuit of a hundred miles of his eyrie, in the\nmost inaccessible cleft of yonder beetling precipice. We might now say\nsomething if we liked of the raven's usefulness in the general economy\nas a hard-working and indefatigable inspector of nuisances, and how\nputrid animal matter of every description disappears, as if by magic,\nwherever he is known and appreciated; but this is a utilitarian age,\nand as we hate utilitarianism, we are content merely to hint that\nthe raven deserves special regard as a sanitary reformer. We prefer\ninsisting on the fact that the raven is a gentleman of very ancient\ndescent, being able, in the clearest manner, to trace his pedigree\nin unbroken line up to the days of \"Captain\" Noah himself, as Byron\nirreverently styles the patriarch. When any one in our day becomes\ndistinguished and attracts our special regard, we instantly set to work\nto trace his descent, and although he himself can hardly tell who was\nhis grandfather, we are never satisfied until we have, by hook and by\ncrook, traced his ancestry to the Ragman Roll or the Norman Conquest,\nand, having thus ennobled him to our own entire satisfaction, we cease\nnot to pet and praise him until he is dead, and then the newspapers\nswarm with obituary notices of the distinguished man who has just\ndeparted, and a monument, erected by public subscription, concludes\nthe farce. The raven's ancestor was unquestionably with Noah in the\nark, and although he has incurred some odium in connection with the\nassuaging of the waters, we confess we cannot well tell why, for all\nthat the ancient, and beautiful, and simple narrative says of him\nis this: \"And he sent forth a raven, which went forth to and fro,\nuntil the waters were dried up from off the earth.\" On the point\nof ancestry, in short, there is no bird that has a better right to\nhold up his head than the raven. And just consider: wasn't Dickens'\nstuffed raven \"Grip\" sold the other day for a hundred and twenty\nguineas! although if his portrait in the Graphic is to be depended\non, he never was a handsome specimen of the family, or if he was,\nthen the man who stuffed and \"set him up\" should have received a\nflogging for his pains. Should the reader wish to know more about our\nfriend Corvus corax, we can confidently recommend him to make the\nacquaintance, the intimate acquaintance if he can, of \"The Raven\"\nto be met with in the works of Edgar Allan Poe, the most weird and\nwonderful raven that has ever yet appeared in song or story.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX.\n\n    Along the Shore after Birds--An Otter in pursuit of a Fish--Tame\n    Otter at Bridge of Tilt: Employed in Fishing--His hatred of all\n    sorts of Birds--\"The Otter and Fox,\" a translation from the Gaelic.\n\n\nNovember closed with a week of the most delightful weather one\ncould wish for at this season [December 1870], cold, but crisp and\nclear; nor has December thus far shown any tendency to exceptional\n\"rampaging\" either, though come it must, if we are not much mistaken,\nand in a style we fear that will cause it to be remembered. Woodcocks,\nfieldfares, redwing thrushes, snow buntings, and starlings are at\nthis moment more plentiful than we ever saw them before; while\nArctic sea-fowl in great numbers crowd our creeks and bays, and\nimmense flocks of grallatores, curlews, gedwits, purrs, dunlins,\nand oyster-catchers, may be seen all along our shores diligently\nattending the sea margin as the tide recedes, or with weird and wild\nscream urging their eccentric flights from an exhausted sandbank in\nindefatigable search of \"fresh fields and pastures new.\" Creeping among\nthe rocks on the back of Cuilchenna Point, a quiet, sequestered shore,\nseldom visited by anybody but ourselves at this season, one evening\nlast week, watching a pair of web-feet that we finally decided to\nbe smews, a species of merganser, we were unexpectedly treated to an\nexhibition of aquatic feats that we had never before seen equalled,\nand that we thought no animal, biped or quadruped, could accomplish in\nan element not properly its own. Squatted on the beach behind two huge\nboulders, a narrow opening between which enabled us to look seawards,\nand to see without being seen, we were watching the elegant smews as\nthey preened themselves, floating gracefully the while, without the\nmovement of a web, on the calm surface of the cold, clear sea, when\nright before us, and within less than a dozen fathoms of the shore,\na dark object suddenly dashed to the surface with a flop and a splash,\nand as suddenly disappeared. We took it to be a seal in pursuit of\nsome fish, as is his wont; but on its reappearance a minute or so\nafterwards, we were delighted to see that it was not a seal, but a\nlarge otter hard at work in chase of some favourite fish for supper;\nand small blame to him for that same, for if one might judge from his\nexertions in the pursuit, he was dreadfully hungry and thoroughly\nin earnest, not yet having dined, perhaps, nor even broken his\nfast since the preceding evening, for your otter (Lutra vulgaris)\nis for the most part an evening and nocturnal feeder. Nothing could\nexceed the elegance and ease with which the otter performed the most\nextraordinary and complicated evolutions in pursuit of his prey,\nhis long, lithe body, pliant and supple as an eel's, twisting and\ntwining in every direction as the fish darted hither and thither, or\nswept in rapid circles in its efforts to escape. Its tail, we noticed,\nseemed to act not merely as a rudder in aid of its owner's incessant\nperisaltations, but to be in constant motion like a propeller, as if to\nassist the broad and muscular web feet in every act of natation. For\nten minutes or more, perhaps, did the chase continue, the fish, that\nseemed to be either a haddock or sea-trout of some three or four\npounds weight, occasionally leaping bodily out of the water in its\nefforts to escape from the unfriendly attentions of its stern pursuer,\nthe said pursuer, like a staunch hound, doubling as the fish doubled,\ncircling as it circled, and diving as it dived, with a persistency\nand perseverance that it was impossible to elude, until at last,\nfairly beaten in his own element, the fish was captured in a pool of\nshallow water, whither it had darted in its terror and bewilderment,\nthe otter instantly pouncing upon it and seizing it in his mouth,\nas you have seen a terrier deal with a rat. At this moment we rushed\nfrom our concealment with a shout, hoping to frighten the otter and\nget hold of the fish, but Monsieur Lutra was too quick for us. With\nthe fish in his mouth he plunged into the sea, and in a second had\ndisappeared among some boulders that would probably have afforded him\na secure asylum, even if we had a pack of otter hounds to aid in our\nattempt at the dislodgment of a gentleman so cunning.\n\nWith the common otter of our inland rivers and lakes we have been more\nor less familiar since our school-boy days; but we cannot recollect\nhaving ever seen a marine otter until this occasion. Our naturalists\nseem to be very generally agreed that the sea otter and that of\nour rivers and fresh-water lakes are one and the same animal,--an\nopinion from which we are not at this moment prepared to dissent,\nthough the animal referred to above seemed to us to be larger in\nsize, blacker in colour, with more prominent ears, and a bigger,\nbushier tail than any specimen, living or dead, that had hitherto\ncome under our notice. Certain peculiarities, however, of form and\ncolouring in the individual are frequently attributable to accidental\ncircumstances. We remember seeing a very fine dog otter many years ago,\nthat its owner had succeeded in rendering comparatively tame, and of\nsome use in the capture of fish for its master's table, as well as for\nits own sustenance. The animal belonged to the innkeeper at Bridge\nof Tilt, in Athole, and was usually kept chained in an empty stall\nin the stable. It was very good-natured and docile, and evinced its\nsatisfaction on being stroked with the hand and patted by a curious\npurring, sort of half whine half bark, altogether unlike the utterance\nof any other animal with which we are acquainted. We saw it presented\nwith a dish of milk, which it readily lapped up, using its tongue\nby way of spoon, as a dog does under similar circumstances. With\na collar round its neck, to which a long rope was attached, it was\nfrequently taken to the river, where it never failed to catch fish,\nfirst driving them, after the manner of a collie with a flock of\nsheep, into the nearest pool in which there was a considerable depth\nof water, when he pounced upon them with the agility of a wild cat,\nand seldom failed to secure two or three of the best and biggest fish\nin the shoal ere they could manage to escape. We were assured, however,\nthat the best place to see the otter at work was not the river, but\none of the moorland lochs, in the depths of which he was perfectly\nat home. Here he exhibited the most astonishing feats of agility in\npursuit of his prey; his activity and matchless swimming powers being\nbacked by a pertinacity and cunning that left neither trout nor pike\nmuch chance of escape. Having marked out and selected the fish to be\ncaptured, it was observed that he stuck to it with the staunchness of\na well-trained hound through all its doublings and windings, as if for\nthe moment the loch contained none but it, until he had fairly run it\ndown; the capture generally taking place among the reeds that bordered\nthe margin of the mere, into which the fish always rushed on becoming\nsensible that its adversary was not to be eluded in open water. If\nleft to himself, it was remarked that the otter was somewhat dainty\nand fastidious of taste, rarely eating more of a captured fish than\na little at the back of the head and about the pectoral fins, when,\nafter a short rest, he was ready to start in pursuit of another. If\nthis be the habit of otters in their wild state--as there is reason to\nbelieve it is--one can fancy how terribly destructive to fish they must\nbe, killing ten times more than they actually eat, and these, too, the\nbest and biggest fish they can meet with in their depredations. Even\na single pair of otters, with a family to rear, must be a terrible\nscourge on any river they may select to honour with their attentions\nfor a season; nor is the marine otter, we may be sure--such as we\nsaw the other day--less destructive when he takes up his residence in\nthe vicinity of salmon fishings. Whatever the price of salmon in the\nmarket, depend upon it that the otter's larder is always well supplied.\n\nThe semi-domesticated otter above referred to, after leading a not\nunuseful life for a year or two under the careful and always kindly\nsuperintendence of its intelligent owner, managed at last somehow to\nbreak its chain and escape, and was never more seen or heard of. The\nonly other curious thing about this animal that we can recollect\nwas his deadly aversion to every feathered creature that came near\nhim. Whether goose or duck, barn-door fowl or pigeon, he seemed to\ndetest them all, and would readily, and with every sign of anger,\nkill such as he could get hold of, not to eat them, observe, for\nthat he was never known to do, but just because he disliked them. To\nall other animals he could be easily reconciled, and was on good\nand even friendly terms with all the dogs, cats, and pigs about the\nplace, particularly manifesting his love for his stable companions,\nthe horses, by whining in his strange fashion and straining on his\nchain to the utmost, as if he would fain welcome them with a caress,\nwhen after a day's work in the fields they returned to the stable of\nan evening. We are not aware that, except milk, which it would readily\nlap and seemed to enjoy, this otter was ever known to touch anything in\nthe shape of food except its natural fish diet. In the old Sgeulachdan,\nor fireside tales of the ancient Highlanders, we frequently meet with\nthe \"dun otter\" or dobhran donn, as one of the dramatis person\u00e6. He\nis generally introduced to us under an amiable character, rescuing\nneglected merit from obscurity, relieving distressed damsels, or\nsuccouring the widow and orphans with bountiful supplies of silvery\nfish from the tarn amongst the mountains, or the eddying pool beneath\nthe cascade in the glen. The amiable and friendly otter sometimes\nturns out to be an enchanted prince, who, timeously released from\nthe spell that has doomed him to amphibious habits and quadrupedal\nform, assumes his proper shape, and marries the always virtuous and\nbeautiful, though frequently humble, heroine of the tale. In the\nHebrides to this day the otter is looked upon with some degree of\nsuperstitious reverence, and a bit of otter skin worn by way of charm\nis regarded as an antidote against infection in fever and small-pox,\na preservative from death by drowning, and of singular efficacy in\nbringing the labours of parturition to a happy issue. A mole on a\nperson's skin, whatever its place or proportions, is in the Hebrides\nnever reckoned a deformity. It is regarded rather as a \"beauty spot\"\nthan otherwise, and believed to betoken a long life and good luck to\nthe fortunate possessor. In the West Highlands and Hebrides such a\nmark on the skin is called a ball-dobhrain, an otter mark or otter\nspot, and is no more accounted a blemish or deformity than was the\nmole on the right lip of Dulcinea del Toboso by Don Quixote, though\nit looked \"like a whisker, and had seven or eight red hairs in it\nabove a span long!\" In some places a piece of otter skin placed on\nthe head under a woman's coif, and worn inside a man's blue bonnet,\nis supposed to relieve the headache and prevent baldness, while\ngentle friction along the affected part with the furry side of a\nbit of otter skin is esteemed of sovereign efficacy in erysipelas or\n\"rose.\" The following is a somewhat free rendering from the Gaelic\nof a fable occurring in an old Sgeulachd, with which many of our west\ncoast readers at least must be acquainted. The moral is obvious.\n\n\n    The Otter and Fox.\n\n    The otter had caught in the pool below\n    A silvery salmon so full of roe,\n    And clambering bore it over the rocks,\n    When who should he meet but his cousin the fox.\n    \"Friend,\" quoth the wily fox, \"pray go\n    And bring me a fish from the pool below--\n    I've not tasted fish for a year or mo'.\n    Leave here thy salmon; go, haste thee back,\n    We'll dine together and have our crack;\n    Believe me, dear otter, that over one's food\n    The face of a friend is always good.\"\n\n    The otter tumbled into the stream\n    Where the floating foam was white as cream;\n    He sought and searched in each cranny and hole,\n    But not a fish could he find in the pool.\n    \"Well,\" quoth the otter, \"I'll hasten back\n    To my cousin the fox, and we'll have our crack\n    Over the salmon I left above;\n    One fish will go far that is eaten in love;\n    'Tis large, and fat, and full of roe,\n    And, fairly divided, will serve for two.\"\n\n    Clambering over the rocks in haste\n    The otter returned to join his guest;\n    But guess his surprise when he reached the spot;\n    Where the fox had been--the fox was not,\n    And nought of the salmon that could be seen\n    But some silvery scales where the salmon had been!\n    The otter but said, \"'Tis my belief\n    My cousin the fox should be hanged for a thief;\n    He'll never again make me his tool,\n    For myself alone I'll haunt the pool.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI.\n\n    Storms--An \"inch\" of Rain--Atherina Presbyter--Lophius\n    Piscatorius--Mr. Mortimer Collins' misquotation from the Times.\n\n\nA finer winter [January 1871] never was known all over the West\nHighlands and Hebrides. Some tempestuousness is to be looked for\nat this season, and some tempestuousness we have had, but of actual\nwinter rigour and cold we have hardly had a trace. Only twice during\nthe winter have we had any frost, and even then it was but slight\nand of short duration. On several occasions, however, we have had\nsuch terrible rainfalls as are only known perhaps within sight of the\nmountain peaks of Jura and Mull and Morven. On the 19th of January,\nand again on the 23d, the rainfall within a given time was heavier\nthan anything known even with us for many years past. In about sixteen\nhours on the 19th, 4\u00b719 inches fell, and quite as much, if not more,\non the 23d. Now, does the reader know what an inch of rain means? It\nmeans a gallon of water spread evenly over a surface of something like\ntwo square feet, or, to put it in a more striking and intelligible\nform, it means a fall of a hundred tons upon an acre of land; so that\nin sixteen hours on the 19th upwards of four hundred tons of rain\nfell on every acre of land for miles and miles around us. It will\nbe confessed that thus the country was for once at least well soaked\nand saturated. All our rivers and mountain torrents were, of course,\nin full flood, and throughout the night, when it had calmed down a\nlittle, the \"noise of many waters,\" as you lay awake on your pillow\nand listened, made wild and eerie music enough, to which the fitting\nbass was the boom of the storm-driven rollers as they broke in sullen\nthunder along the shore. We had occasion to be across Corran Ferry on\nthe wettest of these days, bad as it was, and, in spite of waterproofs\nand haps of most approved texture and form, we returned in the evening\nso soaked and drenched and droukit, to use an expressive Scotticism,\nthat we might as well have been for half an hour up to our chin,\nover head and ears for that matter of it, in the deepest pool of\nthe Rhi. When changing our clothes in our own room after getting\nhome, we managed to raise a quiet laugh with ourselves over it all,\nby the recollection of the music and words of a favourite Scotch\nreel not altogether inapplicable to our then condition. The reel in\nquestion is a well-known one, though we forget at present its proper\ndistinctive name. It is, we think, one of Neil Gow's. A gudewife,\npresumably of Amazonian heart, and also of Amazonian proportions,\nmakes her husband wince and quail, and conduct himself with becoming\namiability and decorum, as she sings--\n\n\n                 \"Mur 'bi'dh agam ach trudair bodaich,\n                  Bhogain anns an allt e;\n                 Mur 'bi'dh agam ach trudair bodaich,\n                  Bhogain anns an allt e;\n    Bhogain agus bhogain agus bhogain th'ar a cheann e,\n    'S mur 'bi'dh a glan 'nuair bhidh e tioram,\n                  Bhogain 'rithisd ann e!\"\n\n\nNot very easily turned into English, but this is something like it--\n\n\n                 \"If my gudeman were cross and dour,\n                  I'd dip him in the burn, O!\n                 If my gudeman were cross and sour,\n                  I'd dip him in the burn, O;\n    I'd dip the dear o'er head and ears until he'd grane and girn, O,\n    And till he promised better things, he'd get the tother turn, O.\"\n\n\nWhile stripping, it struck us that we were quite as wet on the occasion\nin question, as if for our sins we had undergone all the \"dipping\"\nthreatened by the gudewife in the old reel; and the idea put us into\ngood humour until tea and other fireside comforts made us forget\nall the pelting of the pitiless storm. How the remainder of winter\nand early spring may turn out meteorologically, it is impossible to\nforecast with any confidence, but meantime our old people, in their\nown opinion, at least, weatherwise and shrewd quoad hoc, are gravely\nshaking their heads over what they deem an unusual dearth of frost\nand snow in mid-winter.\n\nOur West Coast storms, if in one sense sometimes disagreeable enough,\nrarely fail, however, to bring us a good thing in the shape of hundreds\nof tons of drift-ware, which, gathered and spread on the land, is\nfound to be a valuable fertiliser. It is a labour, besides, which\nfalls to be done in a season when there is little else to occupy the\npeople's time, and saves an immense deal of trouble when the spring\ncomes round, for the land is ready for the plough and the immediate\nreception of the seed, whatever the crop--thus saving at once the\nmanure heap for purposes in which farmyard manure is indispensable,\nand all the trouble of long cartage afield. In collecting his\nshare of a huge swathe of this drift-ware the other day, one of our\nneighbours found a dead fish, quite fresh and unmutilated, which\nbeing new to him, though a fisherman and sea-shore man all his life,\nhe thought might be interesting to us. He accordingly brought it to\nus, and to us also it was new, and as such, of course, exceedingly\ninteresting. We puzzled long over it ere we satisfied ourselves that\nwe had determined its identity. It was a small fish, some six inches\nin length, and of smelt-like shape and form and colouring, but it\nwas not a smelt. After some little trouble, we finally decided that\nit was a species of atherine (Atherina) belonging to the Mugilid\u00e6 or\nmullet family. Our particular specimen was the Atherina presbyter,\na not uncommon visitor on some of the south of England shores, but so\nrare in our seas that, as we have already said, we never saw a specimen\nbefore. We are told that the atherine is very good eating, and we can\nquite believe it, for it is a pretty, delicate-looking little fish,\nthat, nicely fried until properly crimp and brown, ought to taste\nwell. A much commoner fish, but interesting in this instance for the\ngreat size of the specimen, was an angler, fishing-frog, or sea-devil\n(Lophius piscatorius), which was cast ashore near Corran Ferry last\nweek. This was the largest individual of the species--the ugliest,\nperhaps, of all fishes--that we ever saw. It measured five feet seven\ninches from snout to tip of tail, and weighed fifty-three pounds. It\nwas poor and fleshless, and had died seemingly of sheer inanition or\natrophy; had it been in full condition, it would have weighed a third\nmore. Its terrible mouth, with its formidable array of sharp recurved\nteeth, was enough to scare a friend that accompanied us to a distance,\nthough we assured him that the brute was dead and harmless. On opening\nout its jaws to a fair extent--that is, as far as we thought the animal\nitself would open them easily if need were, we placed a large turnip\nfrom a pit that was conveniently at hand, a turnip nearly as large as\na man's head, easily within the horrid cavern. We would willingly have\ntaken this specimen home with us, for the purpose of preserving the\nskeleton, but we had no conveyance with us, and any idea of carrying\nit was out of the question. It had, besides, evidently lain some\ntime on the beach, and its odour on moving it in the least was, the\nreader may believe, the very antipodes of Eau de Cologne or ottar of\nroses. We contented ourselves therefore with slitting open its stomach\nwith our pocket-knife, and found it, as we expected, perfectly empty,\ncontaining nothing in the shape of food, except the tips of two claws\nand small bits of the carapace of a not uncommon species of crab,\nthe velvet fiddler (Portunas puber). The Highlanders of the west coast\nand Hebrides call the angler Mac L\u00e0mhaich, properly Mac L\u00e0thaich--the\nson (that is, inhabitant) of the mud or ooze; a very expressive and\nappropriate name for it, for it is essentially a mud fish, in which,\nhalf buried and perdu, it hides and watches, tiger-like, for its\nprey. The naturalist meets with many things to puzzle him, and it has\nalways puzzled us to account for the large size of this animal's head\nand mouth, altogether disproportioned to the size of the rest of the\nbody. No matter how insatiable the cravings of the brute's maw--to\nuse a Miltonic word--no matter how gluttonous soever of appetite, the\nhead and mouth, and number and size of teeth, do seem unnecessarily\nformidable, monstrous indeed, for any conceivable work that they\ncan be called upon to perform; and yet there is unquestionably good\nreason for it all, if we could only find it out. It may interest some\nof our readers to know that the sea-devil belongs, ichthyologically,\nto the Acanthopterygious family of fishes. Acanthopterygious! what a\nstaggerer to any one except a learned ichthyologist at a Spelling Bee.\n\nMr. Mortimer Collins and others are recently down, somewhat\nhypercritically we can't help thinking, on Mr. Tennyson's occasional\nnatural history references throughout his poems. The fun is\nthat in almost every instance in which fault is found with him,\nMr. Tennyson is right and his critics wrong! Here is one example of\nthis hypercriticism in which Mr. Mortimer Collins is fairly hoist\nwith his own petard. Mr. Tennyson writes--\n\n\n    \"In spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast.\"\n\n\nUpon which Mr. Collins comments--\"As a fact, that fuller crimson comes\nin autumn, as all know who watch the half-shy, half-familiar bird--\n\n\n    \"That ever in the haunch of winter sings.\"\n\n\nHere Mr. Mortimer Collins is partly right and largely wrong,\nwhile Mr. Tennyson is altogether right. It is true that our native\nsong-birds, moulting in autumn or early winter, assume at this season a\nthicker, warmer, fresher plumage after all the wear and tear consequent\non the labours of nidification, incubation, and love-making throughout\nthe spring and summer; but it is equally true that it is only in\nspring, as Mr. Tennyson correctly asserts, that our wild birds assume\ntheir gaudiest and gayest attire, every colour and shade of colour\nin the individual bird's feathering there and then only being at its\nbest and brightest. And when we remember that spring is the season of\nlove and incipient song, we should be very much surprised, and with\ngood reason, if the fact were otherwise. So far as our recollection\nserves us, Mr. Mortimer Collins, or any one else, will find it rather\ndifficult to catch Mr. Tennyson tripping in the direction indicated. We\nshould say that the Poet Laureate was rather remarkable than otherwise\nfor his fidelity to nature and truth in all his local colouring.\n\nSome time ago, by the way, we had occasion to call attention to the\nexceeding frequency of misquotation in our current literature, and\nin quarters, too, where one would least expect it. Here is a curious\nand very unpardonable instance, all things considered. In a review\nof the South Kensington Handbooks, in the Times of the 18th January,\na sentence opens thus--\"It is well-known that weary lies the head that\nwears a crown.\" Every one will see that the manifest intention here is\nto quote from the monologue of the poor harassed and sleepless King\nin Shakespeare's Henry IV. (part second), one of the finest things\nthat even Shakespeare ever wrote, and we had thought too well-known\nby every one with any pretensions to literature to be misquoted. The\nconcluding lines are these:--\n\n\n    \"Can'st thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose\n    To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude;\n    And in the calmest and most stillest night,\n    With all appliances and means to boot,\n    Deny it to a king? Then, happy, low, lie down:\n    Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII.\n\n    Aurora Borealis--Unfavourable weather for Birds about\n    St. Valentine's Day--The Water-Vole in the Rhi--In the Eden in\n    Fifeshire--In the Black Water, Kinloch Leven--Does it feed\n    on Salmon Fry and Ova?--The Kingfisher--Character of the\n    Water-Vole--Note about the Hedgehog.\n\n\nA brilliant display of aurora borealis on the early morning of the 8th\n[February 1871] led us to conclude that a change of weather was not\nfar distant; and before sunset of that same day the wind had gone\nround from east by south to south-west, and a drizzling rain, with\na very much milder temperature than we had known for three months,\ntold us that, for the present at least, King Frost had agreed\nto suspension of hostilities. Since then it has been mostly wet,\nwith occasional hailstone showers, and turbulent withal, if not\nactually stormy. The revictualling of Paris under the terms of the\ncapitulation and armistice was not a more sensible relief to the\nstarving inhabitants than was the recent thaw to our wild birds on\nsea and shore. The moment they became convinced that it was no sham,\nbut a real, veritable thaw, they revived amazingly. Shaking off the\ntorpidity in which cold and want had so pitilessly bound them, they\ntook heart, and bustled about in search of such food as might now\nbe procured by diligent seeking in copse and hedgerow, by pool and\nstream. An occasional strophe, sadly inconsecutive and discordant,\nmay now again be heard when the sun shines out and the storm has\nlulled, from some of our hardier warblers, and we have observed that\nin some instances rooks have begun to pair; but our bird-world, upon\nthe whole, is far from what it should be at this date; more taken up,\nlike vanquished France, with the thought of the mere necessities of\nlife and the reestablishment of their exhausted energies, than with\nlove or music, or the gaiety and abandon so characteristic in ordinary\nseasons of our feathered friends on the back of St. Valentine's\nDay. The meridian sun, however, is now steadily climbing zenithwards,\nand the day perceptibly lengthening apace, so that our wild birds,\nrapidly gathering strength, and daily improving in tone and tune, may,\nafter all, arrive at their day of jollity and joyousness sooner than\nwe anticipated. We captured a beautiful Scarlet Emperor butterfly\na few days ago, as brisk and lively as possible, on a window pane\nin Ardvulin Cottage, Ardgour. How beautiful, by the way, and how\nsuggestive of spring and vernal delights in a land of plenitude\nand peace, is the following from the Song of Solomon:--\"For, lo,\nthe winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on\nthe earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice\nof the turtle is heard in our land; the fig-tree putteth forth her\ngreen figs, and the vines with the tender grapes give a good smell.\"\n\nAnother animal besides the hedgehog has of recent years made its\nappearance in Lochaber, though previously unknown, so far as we are\naware, anywhere in the West Highlands. The animal in question is\nthe water-rat, water-vole, or British beaver. The last is, perhaps,\nits most appropriate name, for the animal is neither kith nor kin to\nthe rat, while very much in its economy and habits, as well as in its\ncorporeal structure, particularly its dentition, allies it not remotely\nto the beaver tribe. In size, the water-vole is more robust in body and\nlarger in every way than the common rat, with a more silken pile, and\na bigger and brighter eye. It frequents the banks of streams and ponds,\nfeeding on the more delicate aquatic plants, and on the bark and tender\nshoots of the willow, alder, and such other shrubs as love to grow\n\n\n    \"The quiet waters by.\"\n\n\nThat such an animal inhabited Lochaber was accidentally revealed to us\ntwo years ago, and so unmistakeably that there was no room for doubt\nor hesitation in the matter. We were returning from Fort-William on a\nbeautiful summer afternoon, walking by the hill route through Lundavra,\nwhen having already accomplished more than half the distance at our\nbest pace, we sat down to rest and solace ourselves with a pipe--not\nthe Arcadian musical instrument, observe, but the more prosaic article\nanathematised in the royal Counterblast--by the side of a canal-like\nreach in the River Rhi, as it slowly winds through Glenshelloch, when\nour attention was drawn to a splash in the water at a short distance\nabove us, to which, however, we gave but little heed, taking it for\nthe lively flop of a half-pound trout engaged in fly-catching for\nsupper. Another and a louder splash, however, aroused our curiosity,\nand induced us to creep cautiously in the direction whence the sound\nproceeded, and there, sure enough, disporting themselves round a\ngnarled alder stump that projected into the stream from the water-line\non the opposite bank, were a pair of water-voles, full-grown, and brisk\nand lively as ever we had seen them in our younger days in the upper\nreaches of the beautiful Eden in Fifeshire, a favourite habitat. After\nwatching their gambols for some time, we threw a pebble into the pool,\nwhen they instantly dived and disappeared, only to emerge in a few\nseconds near a large boulder further up the stream, behind which,\nand cunningly concealed beneath the overhanging bank, was their hole,\ninto which they popped as readily as does an alarmed mouse into a wall\ncrevice. As they dived and pursued their subaqueous flight in the\ndirection of their hole, the eye could follow their every movement,\nfor the water was as clear as crystal. Keeping very near the bottom,\nit seemed as if they progressed partly by swimming and partly by\nrunning along the gravel, at any rate with amazing celerity and\nease. We noticed that about their necks and shoulders their pile\nappeared as if adorned with numberless tiny pearls--air bubbles, in\nfact--that adhered to their fur, and that, frequently shifting the\nposition like quicksilver drops, as the animals moved, had a very\npretty effect. Since that time the water-vole has been repeatedly\nseen about the lower reaches of the same river, between the Inchree\nFalls and the highway. It has also been seen in some parts of the\nBlackwater above Kinlochleven. Ardent disciples of Izaak Walton and\nothers interested in the preservation of trout and salmon hold the\nwater-vole in great dislike, under the belief that it feeds largely\non fry and ova. The accusation we believe to be unfounded, as much so\nas the egg-eating charge against the hedgehog. We shall not attempt\nto prove a negative, the onus probandi of their averments logically\nresting with the accusers; but we will say that we have known the\nwater-vole for many years, and at one time had every opportunity\nof studying its habits, and we never had cause to entertain the\nslightest suspicion that it was anything else than a vegetable\nfeeder. We recollect once questioning old John Robertson of Perth,\nthan whom a better fisher, whether on lake or stream, never cast\na fly or impaled a worm, about the water-vole's alleged liking for\nfish-spawn and fry. His reply was in these words, \"I dinna believe it,\nsir; I have fished in maist feck o' the rivers, burns, and lochs in\nPerth, Fife, and Kinross, and other counties forbye, and the fish\nwere just as plentiful where the splash o' the gleb (a local name\nfor the water-vole) was heard a'maist at every cast o' the line,\nas where none could be seen for days together.\" We know, besides,\nthat the late Professor John Reid of St. Andrews, one of the most\ndistinguished comparative anatomists of his day, and who had dissected\nmany of them, was of opinion that the water-vole was a vegetable feeder\nand nothing else, he having never been able to detect anything to lead\nhim to the conclusion that it fed on fish or their spawn. Suspicion\nof the water-vole's being addicted to the malpractices in question\nwas first of all grounded on the fact that fish-bones were frequently\nfound along the banks of the streams he inhabited, and sometimes about\nthe entrance of, and even in, the hole which was his habitat and home;\nand on this evidence alone the water-vole soon got into very bad repute\nindeed. As to the finding occasionally of fish bones along a water-vole\ninhabited stream, although the fact is indisputable, it really goes\nfor nothing, suspicious as it looks, for similar relics of defunct\ntrouts and troutlets may be seen any day on the margin of streams\nwhere a water-vole was never yet known to exist. The real culprits\nin such cases are the otter, the common rat (a great fish-eater in\nshallow streams and almost as expert a swimmer as the vole itself,\nonly that it cannot dive so well), the heron, king-fisher, and\ngrey crow, all of whom are fond of fish, either as an article of\nconstant diet, or as an occasional make-shift in default of more\nlegitimate fare. As to the fish bones to be sometimes met with in\nthe water-vole's holes, the dusky-coated and white-vested dipper and\nthe beautiful plumaged king-fisher are alone to blame. The castings,\nindeed, of a single pair of king-fishers would of itself suffice to\naccount for all the fish bones one meets with by the banks of ponds\nand streams, for the beautiful Alcedo is a voracious fish-devourer,\nand his hole going backwards and upwards some three or four feet\ninto the bank, invariably a perfect charnel-house of bleached fish\nbones of minnows and troutlets. The number of small fish that a pair\nof king-fishers, with their young, dispose of in a single season\nmust amount to many thousands, and as the larger bones at least are\nalways cast or regurgitated, their presence may always be taken as a\nsure indication that the spot has recently been the haunt of the most\nbeautifully coloured of British birds. When the bones of larger fish,\nhowever, are met with, the blame, if blame there be, must be shifted\nfrom the king-fisher to the shoulders of one or other or all of the\nanimals above mentioned. It is only fair that the spirit of our laws,\nwhich accounts a man innocent until he is proved guilty, should be\nextended to beasts and birds as well. In this view of the matter the\nwater-vole has good reason of complaint that it has been over hastily\nand unwarrantably condemned on insufficient evidence, without even\nthe form of a fair and impartial trial. Unlike Ritson, the antiquary\nand balladist, who, although he was a strict vegetarian in diet,\nholding all manner of animal food in utter abhorrence, and writing a\nvolume on the subject, was yet as cross-grained and as irascible as a\nwasp, the water-vole, like a true vegetarian, is quiet and unobtrusive\neven to timidity, leading an inoffensive life, and in his play hours,\nwhich--in proof of his good sense, let us remark--are very numerous,\nas frolicsome and sportive as a kitten. He will show fight, it is\ntrue, if attacked in his hole or otherwise brought to bay, and his\nbite, whether on the nose of an over-venturesome terrier, or the hand\nthat would rashly seize him, is very severe and difficult to heal;\nbut it is only doing him the merest justice that those who know him\nshould bear witness that in general character and disposition he is\nthe most peaceable and harmless of animals.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII.\n\n    March--The Story of a Spanish Dollar--The Spanish Armada--The\n    \"Florida\"--Faire-Chlaidh, or Watching of the Graveyard--Molehill\n    Earth for Flowers.\n\n\nA fall of snow on Monday, followed by keen frost during three\nconsecutive nights, rendered the past week [March 1871], as to mere\ncold at least, the most wintry of the season; but with a bright sun\ncircling at mid-March altitude, the frost had no time to penetrate\nthe soil to any depth, and spring work has been steadily pushed on,\nwith hardly any retardation. In the upland glens, however, the frost\nwas for some days intense, and had it continued much longer, weakly\nsheep must have suffered severely. But solvitur hiems, the frost is\ngone; the weather is now again open, and mild and spring-like, and\nour wild birds--scores of them within a stone's cast of our window\nas we write--only seem all the more jubilant because of the past\nweek's temporary dip of temperature to the freezing-point. \"Speed\nthe plough\"--one of our very best Scotch reels, by the way--should\nnow be the cry, at once earnest and cheery, of every one connected\nwith arable land, for what says the old Gaelic proverb--\n\n\n    \"Am fear nach cuir 'sa Mh\u00e0rt,\n    'Sanmoch a bhuaineas e.\"\n\n\nHe that sows not in March shall have a late ingathering.\n\nA coin was sent us for identification a few days ago, the history of\nwhich strikes us as interesting. We had no difficulty in determining\nit to be a silver Spanish dollar of the time of Philip II. It is\nmuch corroded and worn, but the following letters of the original\ninscription are distinctly legible:--Ph. II., D.G. Hisp: et Ind:\nRex. 1585. On the reverse disc is what seems to have been intended\nfor the prow of a ship between two palm trees. The owner of this coin\ntells us that it came into his possession in the following manner:--A\nbrother of his, who owned and commanded a coasting schooner about\nfifty years ago, chancing to be becalmed while passing through the\nSound of Mull, thought it best to come to anchor for the night. Next\nmorning, when getting under weigh, the anchor, as it came to the\nbows, was found to have brought up a large mass of tangle. While\nclearing this away, the edge of the coin was observed sticking out\nfrom among a lot of sand and shingle attached to the tangle roots,\nand having been secured and handed to the Captain, he ever after\nkept it in his purse as a \"luckpenny,\" on which he set a high value,\nand all the more so, perhaps, that it happened to be found on the\nmorning of Easter Sunday, a fact that to him, as a good Catholic, had\na significance and meaning that the rest of the crew took no account\nof. Be this as it may, he was from that day an exceedingly prosperous\nand lucky man in all his undertakings, and till the day of his death\nhe carried the coin about him wherever he went, as a \"luckpenny\"\nand talisman of extraordinary virtue. The present owner, too, sets\na very high value on this numismatic talisman, which, he declares,\nhardly anything would induce him to part with. During the ten years\nthat it has been in his possession, he assures us that he has been\nprosperous and successful as he never was before, with never a moment's\nillness; and although too sensible and shrewd a man actually to assert\nthat the coin has anything to do with it, it is a fact that he very\nseriously looks upon his Spanish dollar as a sort of \"lee-penny,\"\ngiving its possessor a fair chance of an amount of health and wealth,\nthat without it he might struggle for in vain. This nonsense apart,\nhowever, the question remains, What business had a Spanish dollar\nin the bottom of the Sound of Mull? How came it there? Our theory is\nthat the coin originally belonged to some one connected with the great\n\"Invincible Armada\" of 1588. It is a well-known historical fact that,\nafter the defeat of the Armada, the already shattered and discomfited\nfleet, in attempting to return to Spain by sailing round Scotland\nand Ireland, was overtaken by a dreadful storm, in which many of the\nships were wrecked. One ship, named the \"Florida,\" ran for shelter\ninto the Sound of Mull, and while at anchor off Tobermory harbour,\nwas captured and destroyed by a body of Mull and Morvern men, under\nthe command of Maclean of Duart. This fact is sufficiently attested\nby a remission, under the Privy Seal, to that chief for his share in\nthe somewhat questionable transaction, bearing date the 20th March\n1589. The \"Florida\" was destroyed by being blown up, with all her\narmament and stores, and many of her crew--a treacherous and cruel\nact, for Scotland at least was then at peace with Spain--and it is\nprobable that the Spanish dollar so recently examined by us reached\nthe bottom of the Sound on that occasion, and there remained till\nfished up in the curious manner above related, upwards of two centuries\nafterwards. Some of the timbers of the submerged \"Florida\" have from\ntime to time been brought to the surface, and a casket formed out of\npart of her windlass was presented by Sir Walter Scott to George IV.,\nduring his visit to Scotland in 1822.\n\nAn unsuccessful attempt, by means of divers, was made in 1740 to\nrecover some of a large amount of treasure said to have been sunk\nin her; but some very beautiful brass guns were brought up, one of\nwhich is still to be seen at the Castle of Dunstaffnage, near Oban,\nand another, we believe, at Inveraray. These were last made to speak\nloud and lustily, not against a Queen of England, as was their original\nerrand to our shores, but in honour of the marriage of the daughter\nof a Queen of Great Britain with the son of a Scottish Duke, who now\nowns the lands which belonged to the Macleans, by whom the \"Florida,\"\ncarrying those very guns, was destroyed. Thus does \"the whirligig\nof time bring about its revenges.\" Some years ago we were shown by a\ngentleman in Glasgow a large ebony-stocked pistol, beautifully carved\nand inlaid with mother-of-pearl and silver, which was said to have\nbeen secured from the wreck of the \"Florida.\" We recollect that the\ncorroded state of the barrel and lock abundantly satisfied us at the\ntime that, whether it had belonged to the \"Florida\" or not, it had at\nall events long lain in water, and more probably, from the peculiar\nform of corrosion, in salt water than in fresh. As to the dollar,\nwe have only further to state that its owner now thinks more of it\nthan ever: our suggestion as to its very probable connection with the\nSpanish Armada having largely enhanced its value in his estimation. Its\nmere intrinsic value as a bit of silver would, we think, be fully\nand fairly appraised at something like twenty pence sterling.\n\nWe were the other day accidentally brought into contact with a\ncurious superstition, which, although not peculiar to this district,\nbut common, we believe, over all the Highlands, was yet quite new\nto us. We were sailing past the beautiful island of St. Mungo, in\nLoch Leven, the burial-place for many centuries of the people of\nNether Lochaber and Glencoe, when the following conversation took\nplace between ourselves and an old man who managed the sails while we\nsteered. It was all in Gaelic, of course, but we give the substance\nin English:--\"You were at the funeral on the island the other day,\nsir?\" interrogatively observed our companion. \"I was, indeed,\" we\nreplied. \"John ----,\" he continued, naming the deceased, \"was a very\ndecent man.\" \"He was a fine old Highlander, shrewd and intelligent,\"\nwe replied, \"and, what is more, I believe a very good man.\" \"Donald\n----,\" naming a person we both knew, \"is very ill, and not likely\nto last long.\" \"I saw him to-day,\" we observed, \"and I fear that\nwhat you say is true: he cannot last long.\" \"Well, sir, it will be\na good thing for John ---- (the person recently buried); his term of\nwatching will be a short one.\" \"I do not understand what you mean,\"\nwe observed, with some curiosity. \"The man is dead and buried; what\nwatching should he have to do?\" \"Why, sir, don't you know that the\nspirit of the last person buried in the island has to keep watch and\nward over the graves till the spirit of the next person buried takes\nhis place?\" \"I really did not know that,\" we replied. \"Is it a common\nopinion that such is the case, and do you believe it yourself?\" \"Well,\nsir, it is generally believed by the people; and having always heard\nthat it was so, I cannot well help believing it too. The spirit whose\nwatch it is, is present there day and night. Some people have seen\nthem: my mother, God rest her! once pointed out to me, when I was\na little boy, an appearance, as of a flame of light on the island,\nslowly moving backwards and forwards, and she assured me it was the\nwatching spirit going his rounds.\" \"What particular object has the\nspirit in watching?\" we asked. \"Well, I don't exactly know,\" was\nthe answer. \"He just takes a sort of general charge of the Island\nof the Dead, until his successor arrives.\" We have since found that\na belief in this superstition is common among the old people. The\nspirit or ghost is supposed to be to a certain extent unhappy, and\nimpatient of relief while in the discharge of this office, and thus,\nit is considered, that the sooner after a funeral there is occasion\nagain for the opening of a grave, the better it is for the spirit of\nthe last person interred, who then, and not till then, passes finally\nand fully to his rest.\n\nWe have to warn such of our readers as dwell by the sea, and all\n\"who go down to the sea in ships, and see His wonders in the deep,\"\nthat unusually high tides may be expected in connection with the\nnew moon of the 18th. The highest tide, however, is not likely to\nbe exactly coincident with the change of the moon, but at the time\nof the second or third flood thereafter. Along our Scottish coasts\nthe tidal wave will probably be highest on the morning of the 20th,\nso that this notice may yet be sufficiently timeous. Much, however,\nwill depend on the state of wind and weather, as to the height the\ntide may attain at any particular place. In any case, it can do no\nharm to be prepared.\n\nTo such of our readers as may be engaged in the rearing and tending of\nflowers at this season we very willingly communicate a hint that may\nbe found useful. And it is this. In filling flower-pots or window-sill\nboxes, there is frequently considerable difficulty in procuring soil\nthat will be at once sufficiently rich, free of weed seeds, and finely\npulverised. The despised and sadly persecuted mole provides the very\nthing wanted, and in little round heaps, waiting only to be gathered,\ncommonly called molehills. For flowers, whether in pots or borders,\nthere is nothing so good as molehill earth. The rationale of the\nthing is, as is well-known to every one in the least acquainted with\nthe natural history of the interesting velvet-coated subterranean\ntunnelists, that they live on worms and insect larv\u00e6. These are\nalways found in the best soil, which is hurled to the surface in round\nheaps by the industrious little animal while in pursuit of his prey,\nand in so pulverised a state, and so free of weed seeds, as to be\nabove all others the soil most suitable for all manner of ordinary\nfloriculture. With such soil we have grown the purest dahlias and\nwallflowers we ever saw anywhere. The old Royalist toast, \"To the\nlittle gentleman in the black velvet coat!\" was in sly allusion to\nthe death of a high personage from injuries received by his horse\nstumbling over an insignificant molehill, and whose name by the\nway is disagreeably connected with a dark deed done heretofore in\nGlencoe, whose wild gorge and frowning precipices are in view as we\nwrite. But if any of our readers will feel cause of gratitude to the\nmole on the hint above given, as they bend over a moss rose or dahlia\nwhich has grown in soil so procured, why, we shall be glad for all\nour sakes. For our reader's, in that he or she has been gratified\nin such a delightful and holy taste as flower culture; for our own,\nthat the secret was ours to divulge; and for the mole's sake, poor\npersecuted fellow, for he sadly needs a friend.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV.\n\n    The Beauty of the West Highland Seaboard--Dr. Aiton of\n    Dolphinton--Dr. Norman Macleod--Specimen of Turtle-Dove (Columba\n    Turtur) shot in Ardgour--The belief on the Continent of its\n    value as a Household Pet--Bechstein--Male Birds dropping Eggs\n    in confinement.\n\n\nIf somewhat over-showery for the comfort of tourists, whose season\n[June 1871] may now be said to have fairly commenced, the weather\nwith us on the west coast is at least all that the agriculturist and\nsheepowner could wish it to be, for pasture everywhere is rich and\nabundant to a degree that has rarely been known even here, while crops\nof all kinds never perhaps presented a healthier or more luxuriant\ngrowth. The truth is that a certain amount of rainfall, and that\namount a large one, is absolutely necessary for the wellbeing of our\ncrops in the West Highlands, and the longer we live the more do we\nfeel the truth and force of the saying of a shrewd old gentleman,\nat his own dinner table many years ago, to the effect that he had\nalways observed that the season in which there was some difficulty\nin getting peats secured in good condition was invariably the best\nfor Lochaber and the neighbouring districts from a pastoral and\nagricultural point of view. This is particularly observable this\nyear, for while you cannot as yet see a stack of this season's peats\nanywhere, the country is clothed in richer, greener verdure, the woods\nare leaner, and crops of every description more luxuriant than we can\nrecollect to have been the case for at least a dozen years past. If\nanybody wishes to see the West Highlands in all their magnificence and\nbeauty, now is the season, for, go where you may, turn whithersoever\nyou will, wander forth at any hour and in any direction, you cannot\nfail to be charmed with the infinite variety of pictures that present\nthemselves for your admiration, pictures which, while they only charm\nand enchant the ordinary beholder, delight at once and distress the\nartist--delight him by their marvellous beauties, but distress him\nnot the less, because he cannot with all his cunning transfer these\nbeauties in their entirety to canvas. An American gentleman whom we\nmet the other day candidly confessed that, although he had gone over\nmost of his native land, and made the tour of Continental Europe and\nthe East, he had not in all his travels seen anything more beautiful\nthan the shores of Loch Linnhe, Loch Leven, and Lochiel at sunset on\na fine evening in June. The late Dr. Aiton of Dolphinton told us on\nhis return from Palestine that he had seen nothing at all to equal\nLoch Linnhe on a summer's evening. In all the breadth of his native\nDoric, which he always employed in familiar conversation, he declared\nthere was \"naething in a' the Archipelago till touch't,\" and we have\nheard Dr. Norman Macleod on his return from India express himself\nvery much to the same effect. The Queen says in her Journal that\n\"the scenery in Loch Linnhe is magnificent--such beautiful mountains.\"\n\nA specimen of a very rare bird, shot by the keeper in Ardgour Garden\na few days ago, has been kindly sent to us by Mr. Maclean. It turns\nout to be a male in beautiful plumage of the turtle-dove (Columba\nturtur, Linn.; La tourterelle of Buffon), a bird rarely seen anywhere\nin Scotland, and which, except in this instance, has never, so far as\nwe are aware, been met with in the West Highlands. We remember seeing\na young bird, a female in immature plumage, that was said to have been\nshot somewhere near Falkland Palace in the summer of 1847, from which\nit was reasonably concluded that a pair of these beautiful birds had\nin that year at least nidified and reared their young somewhere in\nthe Howe of Fife. Except in the case of the specimen now before us,\nwe are not aware that it has ever been met with anywhere in the\nnorth or north-western counties. The turtle is, as we have said,\nan exceedingly beautiful and handsome bird, the breast of a delicate\nvinaceous tint, and a black patch on either side of the neck, each\nfeather of which is tipped with a crescent of pure white, giving it a\nvery elegant and striking appearance. It is less bulky and less rotund\nin form than the common dove, its shape more nearly resembling that\nof the blue jay or throstle cock, which latter it also about equals\nin size. We have never seen this bird in confinement, but it is said\nto exhibit a remarkable degree of tenderness and sagacity, whether\nas a cage or chamber bird. On the Continent it is kept not only for\nits tameness and beauty, but because it is a common belief among the\npeople that it attracts to itself bad humours, and is to a family\nin the matter of diseases what a lightning-rod is to a building in a\nthunderstorm. Bechstein, a shrewd and intelligent man, seems to think\nthat the belief in question, absurd as it may appear to us, is not\nso ill-founded after all, for he says quietly, \"Thus much at least is\ncertain, that during the illness of men it readily becomes sickly.\" The\nexplanation probably is that, being a tender and delicate bird, the\nodour and effluvia attendant on certain human ailments affects it as\ndescribed. Other birds are occasionally similarly affected; thus, when\nour own children were laid up with a very bad kind of scarlatina, our\ncage-birds, gold and green finches, were out of sorts for some time,\ndrooping and dejected and unable to sing as usual, though the month\nwas April, when they should have been in all respects at their best\nand in full and free song. You may be sure, by the way, that we were\nnot a little pleased with a paragraph which appeared the other day\nabout the male cockatoo that dropped the egg, very much, no doubt,\nto the astonishment of his amiable mistress. When some years ago we\nventured to assert that males of various birds, notably the common\ndomestic cock, sometimes dropped an egg, the thing was scouted as\nridiculous, and from Dan to Beersheba, from London to John O'Groat's,\nthe cry was that it couldn't be, that it was impossible; one writer\ngoing so far in his scepticism as plainly to declare that \"he would\nas soon believe that a bull had given birth to a calf.\" Much was the\nchaffing that we had to endure in connection with the subject, and\nour most intimate friends could hardly believe that we were serious\nin it at all. And yet we were perfectly in earnest; we had known the\nthing happen repeatedly, and since then a very fine cock goldfinch\nof our own, one of the best singers, too, we have ever heard, laid an\negg in his cage which is still in our possession, and several of our\ncorrespondents having had their attention directed to the subject,\nhave assured themselves that, not only is the thing possible, but\nin the case of the domestic cock at least, and of many cage-birds,\nof rather common occurrence. It is a very odd and curious thing,\nno doubt, and difficult of explanation, but there are thousands\nof undisputed facts in natural history in the same category, the\nexistence of which is beyond all question, though the how, and why,\nand wherefore is a mystery.\n\nFrom our window, as we write these lines, we can see quite a fleet\nof herring boats sailing up Loch Linnhe on their return from the\nfishing stations at Barra, Lochmaddy, and the Lewis--a very pretty\nsight--not less than two hundred or more boats under full sail,\nstretching in one long line from Corran Ferry to the Sound of Mull,\nlooking at this distance for all the world like the notes in a line\nof complicated printed music.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV.\n\n    Thunderstorm--Potato Field in Bloom--The Hazel Tree--Hazel\n    Nuts--Potato Shaws for Cattle--Ferns for Bedding\n    Cattle--Marmion--Scott.\n\n\nWith an occasional fine day [August 1871], the past fortnight must,\nwe fear, be characterised as having been upon the whole wet--very\nwet, a stranger would say--and not a little stormy withal. We had\na tremendous thunderstorm early on Sunday morning, with the most\nmagnificent display of forked lightning that we have ever seen, while\nthe very earth seemed to quake and tremble under the crash of peal\nupon peal of thunder, so near and loud at times as to be absolutely\nterrible. It is no wonder that the soundest sleepers were awakened\nfrom their midnight slumbers by the hurly-burly. We ourselves got up\nfor a time, and sat at our window, watching the lightning that darted\nincessantly among the mountain summits with startling vividness,\nrevealing their serrated peaks at times through the very heart of the\nthunder-cloud as distinctly as if it were clearest noonday. Rain, too,\nfell the while in torrents, that instantly filled river and mountain\nstream to overflowing; and as the storm passed away, and we retired\nto rest in the grey, uncertain twilight of the early dawn, we were\nlulled into a sleep, that lasted well nigh until noon, by the weird\nand wild music of \"the noise of many waters.\" We thought, as we sat\nalone in the midst of that magnificent storm, of him (was it John\nFoster?) who, on a similar occasion, turned round to his companion\nand remarked, in a tone of deep solemnity, \"It is a fine night; the\nLord is abroad!\" Crops, though generally further from maturity than is\nusual at this date, continue to grow rapidly, and everywhere present\na strong and healthy appearance,--\"a guarantee,\" as newspaper editors\nsay, \"of their good faith\" and honest intentions in the direction of\na bounteous yield when cometh the season of ingathering. Potatoes\nare now in full flower; and a very pretty sight, if you deign to\nlook at it with an unprejudiced eye, is a potato field in blossom\nat this season. If the incomparable esculent were not cultivated\nfor its utility and value as an article of food, it would still\ndeserve a place in our gardens for its elegance and beauty simply as\na flower. Nothing but its commonness causes its beauty as a flowering\nplant to be so constantly overlooked. We are in the midst of our hay\nseason, and we are only anxious about good weather for securing it in\ntolerable order. Eight consecutive days of dry, breezy weather would\nbe of incalculable value to us at this moment. Anything will grow,\nand grow luxuriantly, on the West Coast: our difficulties only begin\nwith the season of ripening and after preservation. If there be any\ntruth in the old Scottish saying, that \"a year of nuts will also be\na year of corn,\" then may the grain-growers of the West Highlands at\nleast already congratulate themselves, for we have seldom seen the\nhazel boughs so laden with nut clusters; and a prettier sight than a\nhazel wood so laden, either now or when decked in its autumnal robes,\nit would be difficult to conceive. It is, besides, a fragrant, cleanly\nwood, through which you can at any time dash fearlessly and at will,\nall the better of your contact with the leaves, branches, and nut\nclusters, when you have reached the open beyond. There is not a leaf\nin the woods so thoroughly clean, so fragrant when you have crushed it\nin your hand, so soft and pleasant to the touch in its every stage,\nas the leaf fresh plucked from the hazel bough. And apropos of hazel\nnuts, a gentlemen from the south of England, at present resident in\nour neighbourhood, told us something the other day that we did not\nknow before. \"In our part of England,\" observed our friend, \"the\nhazel is common, and grows to a larger size, has more pretentions\nto the name of tree, in fact, than here with you; and our nuts, I\nshould say, must be larger, juicier, and in all respects better than\nyours.\" (A \"soft impeachment,\" at which, for the honour of Nether\nLochaber, we took the liberty of gravely shaking our head in token\nof dissent). \"We seldom, however,\" he went on, \"can get a ripe hazel\nnut in autumn, the reason being that in many places they are gathered\nwhile yet in a half-formed and green state. You look surprised, but\nthe reason is this: the husk of the green, unripe hazel nut is rich,\nas you must be aware, in a bitterly sharp and astringent acid, that\nmust have often made your teeth water when you have essayed to crack\na nut in a state of immaturity. This acid, then, you must know, is\nvaluable as a mordant (a technical term) in the printing and dyeing of\ncotton and other fabrics, and it commands a high price in the market\naccordingly. It is a maxim in commerce that demand creates supply;\nand the consequence is, that every year in the month of July, when\nthe nuts are at their greenest, and the acid in their husks at its\nacridest, women and children plunder the woods of their hazel nut\nclusters, which are sold to the manufacturers, who, by a process of\ncrushing by machinery, and washing and maceration, extract all the\nacid, to be employed, as I have already mentioned, in cotton printing\nand dye works.\" So far in substance, if not in ipsissimis verbis,\nour friend. All we could reply was that we should be sorry indeed\nto see our own bonny hazel woods similarly despoiled. Another thing\ntold us by this friend somewhat surprised us. He observed our servant\ngirl carrying a bundle of potato \"shaws\" into the byre, and asked\nus what they were for. On our replying that these were the shaws of\nthe potatoes taken up for dinner, and that they were thrown before\nthe cows, and devoured by them with avidity on their return from\ntheir hill pasture in the evening, he earnestly advised us never to\ndo so again; that in England it was never done, because it was found\nthat potato shaws given to milch cows not only lessened the quantity\nof milk yielded, but actually vitiated the milk itself, giving it\na disagreeable taste, and making it decidedly unwholesome. All we\ncould answer was that we had known potato shaws given to milch cows\nall over the Highlands since ever we could remember, and that we had\nnever known or heard any of the evils stated to result from the use\nof them. What says the reader? It is true, no doubt, that the potato\nbelongs botanically to a family of plants many of whom are highly\npoisonous--such as the common deadly nightshade of our lanes and\nroadsides, for example--and it is averred that, although the tuber\nof the potato is healthy and nutritious when cooked, it is a poison\nin its raw state, and that its stem, leaves, flower, and \"apple\"\nare all more or less poisonous; and yet we have known boys, while\nthe blight was yet unheard of, and when potatoes were more prolific\nof apples or plums than they have ever been since, eat the large,\nsoft, full, ripe apples with relish, and they never suffered the\nslightest inconvenience in consequence that ever we heard of. As a\nboy we have often ate them ourselves, and very saccharine, juicy,\nand pleasant flavoured we recollect they were, not at all unlike the\npurple plum of our gardens in taste and flavour, and hardly inferior\nto it as a pleasant succulent bonne bouche. Cattle, as we know, will\ngreedily eat the fresh shaws, as they will a decidedly poisonous plant,\nthe hemlock (Celtic\u00e8, Iteotha); and it is a well-known fact that in\nsevere cases of scurvy on board ships that have to go long voyages a\nfeast of raw potatoes is an immediate and certain cure; so that after\nall it would seem that if the potato is originally a poisonous plant,\ncultivation has eradicated all, or almost all, traces of the evil. As\nto the deleterious effects of the shaws on the milk of cattle we have\nour doubts, our amiable and learned friend above mentioned to the\ncontrary notwithstanding. And while on such subjects let us record a\npiece of information received from an old woman in our neighbourhood\na few days ago. We were cutting some green ferns on the hillside,\nwhen the old lady in question, who happened to pass the way at the\ntime, stood to have a crack with us about the weather and crops and\nthings in general, said crack concluding somewhat as follows:--\"You\nare cutting ferns, sir,\" said the old lady, \"what are you to make of\nthem if you please, sir?\" \"They are for bedding,\" we replied, \"bedding\nfor the cows and pony.\" \"Well, sir,\" she rejoined, \"there is no harm\nin bedding the pony with them; they will do him no evil; but take an\nold woman's advice, and don't put them under your cows.\" \"Why so,\" we\nasked in astonishment. \"What can be cleaner, fresher, fragranter for\nbedding, whether for horse or cow, than these nice green ferns? Just\nlook how beautiful and soft they are.\" \"Still, sir,\" she persisted,\n\"you must not place them under your cows, particularly your milch\ncows; if you do, their udders will assuredly fester, and they will\ngo wrong in their milk. I have known it happen often, and no sensible\nperson in the country ever does such a thing now-a-days. Ferns cut in\nautumn when brown and ripe make excellent bedding for milch cows as\nfor all other cattle, but July cut ferns, green, juicy, and unripe,\nshould never be used for bedding milch cows. I do not pretend to tell\nyou why they should produce the evils I have mentioned, but I do know\nthat if I had fifty cows I had rather have them without bedding at all\nthan put such green, fresh ferns as those under them.\" We stood for the\nmoment aghast at this piece of information, which was perfectly new to\nus, and from the positive and decided tone of the old lady, a shrewd\nintelligent woman of her class, we felt that there must be something\nin it. On inquiry we have since found that the old lady's belief in the\nevil of ferns--green, unripe ferns, that is--as bedding for milch cows,\nis common among the people of this part of the West Highlands. Whether\nthe whole affair is a mere superstition, the fern having always been\naccounted a sacred plant in the Highlands, or whether there is really\nsome foundation in fact for the belief that a bedding of green ferns\ncauses the udders of cows to swell and fester as is alleged, we are\nnot at this moment prepared to say; perhaps some of our readers may be\nable to throw light on the subject. It is just possible that green-cut\nferns, when pressed by the recumbent animal, may exude an acrid juice\nthat, coming in contact with the tender udder, may be absorbed with\nthe effects alleged. Meantime we doubt it. One thing we know is this,\nthat cattle are fond of lying down among growing ferns in their every\nstage, and that both roe and red deer frequently make their lair among\ngrowing ferns at this season. Do you remember, by the way, Scott's\nmagnificent description in Marmion of a fern-couched deer roused from\nhis midnight lair by the awful tolling of the passing-bell over the\nliving entombment of poor Constance in the monastery of Lindisfarne?--\n\n\n    \"Slow o'er the midnight wave it swung,\n    Northumbrian rocks in answer rung;\n    To Warkworth cell the echoes roll'd,\n    His beads the wakeful hermit told.\n    The Bamborough peasant raised his head,\n    But slept ere half a prayer he said;\n    So far was heard the mighty knell,\n    The stag sprung up on Cheviot Fell,\n    Spread his broad nostril to the wind,\n    Listed before, aside, behind,\n    Then couch'd him down beside the hind,\n    And quaked among the mountain fern,\n    To hear that sound so dull and stern.\"\n\n\nThan the whole of the trial and doom of poor Constance, who \"loved\nnot wisely but too well,\" in the second canto of Marmion, even Scott\nnever wrote anything more solemn or terrible.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI.\n\n    Harvest--Scythe and Sickle v. Reaping Machines--Potatoes--Garibaldi\n    and Potatoes at Caprera--Fishing--Platessa Gemmatus, or Diamond\n    Plaice--Mushrooms--The Poetry of Fairy Rings--Harvest-Home.\n\n\nWith such fine weather as we enjoy at present, September [1871] is one\nof the pleasantest months of the year. Harvest operations are now in\nfull swing, and the redbreast--having moulted, and proudly conscious\nof the splendour of his scarlet vest--has already begun his autumnal\nsong--more delectable now and more appreciated, because now, with the\nexception of an occasional voluntary from the wren, he only sings,\nwhereas his vernal strains are lost in their amalgamation with the full\nchorus of a thousand performers. It is pleasant now, as you saunter\nor ride along, to listen to the merry laughter of the reapers afield,\nand to their song, as, mor\u00ea majorum, it floats in chorus on the gale:\npleasant, too, to us at least, and far from unmusical, the frequent\nsound of the whetting of scythe and sickle in every direction--the\nbloodless weapons--as they are deftly handled in the process,\nglancing brightly in the sunlight! Reaping \"machines\" and \"steam\"\nploughs may be very good things in their way, but we are not ashamed\nto confess that we are glad that, as yet at least, we know nothing\nof them in the West Highlands. The utilitarian must be content if we\nadmit all their value and importance from his point of view, while at\nthe same time we yet assert that wherever they appear all the poetry\nof agriculture incontinently becomes plain prose--Sic transit gloria\nCereris. Very excellent, at all events, are our crops this season,\nand very excellently are they being harvested. A good deal has already\nbeen secured in barn and stackyard, and in such condition, too, as\nis but rarely possible under the weeping skies of the west coast. The\nweather is still so favourable that our people are working with a will,\nand making every exertion to have their harvesting concluded while\nit lasts. Potatoes still continue sound and untainted, although an\noccasional spottiness of the leaf in some fields shows that our old\nenemy the \"blight\" has not yet forgot the time of his coming. The\ncrop is now, however, about ripe, and may be considered very much\nout of danger for the season. In our last, we had a good deal to say\nabout this invaluable root, and how it should be brought to table;\nand to show that such a subject-matter is not quite so infra dig. as\nsome of our readers might suppose, listen to what the Times says of\nGaribaldi's doings at Caprera. After recounting the General's failures\nin connection with his orchard, the acclimation of the silk-worm, &c.,\nthe Times proceeds:--\"Garibaldi, however, points with exultation to\nhis potato fields. No species of the favourite root is neglected, and\nthere is no treat he so heartily enjoys as a dish of his own potatoes,\nbaked with his own hand under embers, in the open air--a treat which\ncalls up reminiscences of his camp life on the Tonale or the Stelvis,\nor of his pioneer's experience in the backwoods of the Mississippi\nor the Plate.\" We wonder if this \"hero in an unheroic age,\" who yet\ndisdains not to exult in his potato fields, or to cook his delicious\n\"earth apples,\" as the French so happily term them, in the embers\nwith his own hand--we wonder if he eats his fish with his fingers? We\ncould lay a wager that he does; that in eating his ember-roasted\npotatoes in the open air, with some broiled tunny, let us suppose,\nas a fitting accompaniment--(the Thynnus vulgaris, in highest esteem\nwith the ancients as with the moderns, abundant about Caprera and\nall the shores of Proven\u00e7e, Sardinia, and Sicily, and than which,\nindeed, there is hardly any better fish)--we could lay a wager,\nwe say, that in eating his potatoes and fish al fresco he discards\nthe use of knife and fork utterly, eating his fish with his fingers,\nand using the running brook beside him as a convenient finger-glass.\n\nThere is a lull at present in our herring fishing, rather because,\nhowever, of the paramount claims of harvest operations on the attention\nof our people just now, than from any dearth of the fish in our\nlochs. In a week or ten days, when all or most of the corn has been\ncut, the fishing will be resumed, and it is hoped with success. In\nan old Fingalian tale it is very beautifully said--\"Rejoice, O my\nson, in the gifts of the sea; for they enrich you without making\nany one else the poorer.\" A rather rare fish in our western waters\nwas caught a few days ago by our excellent neighbour, J. P. Grant,\nEsq., who occupies Cuilchenna House this season. Mr. Grant was good\nenough to send this odd fish for our inspection, and we determined\nit to be a species of plaice (Platessa)--and the handsomest of the\nfamily--the Platessa gemmatus of ichthyologists, commonly called\nthe diamond or diamond-spotted plaice. This very handsome fish is\nquite as good on the table as it is beautiful when fresh from its\nnative element. Another fish, rare on the west coast, was captured\nby ourselves with the rod while mackerel fishing last week. It was\na specimen of the sapphirine gurnard (Trigla hirundo), one of the\nfamily of \"hard-cheeked\" fishes, of which the common red or cuckoo\ngurnard (Trigla cuculus) is a familiar example. A peculiarity in\nall the family is the abnormal development of the pectoral fins,\nso large in one species as to enable it to fly bird-like for short\ndistances in the air. All our readers must have heard and read of\nthe flying-fish (Trigla volitans), even if they have never seen\nit. It is of the gurnard family--a very near relation, indeed, of\nour common gurnard. All the \"hard-cheeked\" fishes, without exception,\nare excellent eating. Our sapphirine gurnard was delicious.\n\nWe do not know whether any of our readers has observed it to be the\ncase elsewhere, but in this and the neighbouring districts we have\nagain and again remarked how very plentiful all kinds of mushrooms--the\nwhole family of Agarici--are this season. Never have we seen so\nmany beautiful \"fairy rings,\" many of them almost mathematically\nperfect circles. Although they are always interesting and beautiful,\nyou cannot help being a little startled, and feeling a shade of awe\nmingling with your curiosity and admiration, as you suddenly come\nupon one of these emerald rings in burnside meadow or upland glade,\nand contrast the vivid green and well-defined periphery of the charmed\ncircle with the general every-day colour of the surrounding verdure. We\nare not surprised--on the contrary, we can perfectly understand--how\nin the good old times, ere yet the schoolmaster was abroad, or science\nhad become a popular plaything, people--and, doubtless, very honest,\ndecent people too--attributed those inexplicable emerald circles to\nsupernatural agency; if, indeed, anything connected with the \"good\nfolks\" or \"men of peace\" could properly be called super-natural\nin times when a belief in fairies, and every sort of fairy freak\nand frolic, was deemed the most correct and natural thing in the\nworld. Didn't these circles, it was argued, appear in the course of a\nsingle night? In the sequestered woodland glade, nor herd nor milkmaid\ncould see anything odd or unusual as the sun went down, and, lo! next\nmorning, as they drove their flocks afield, there was the mysterious\ncircle, round as the halo about the wintry moon. Was not the colour,\ntoo, of these circles green, and not only green, but a deeper,\nricher, and more vivid green than natural verdure is ever seen to\nbe? and whose work, therefore, could it be but that of the fairies,\nwhose own favourite, peculiar colour was green, that no mere mortal\ndurst wear but at his peril, and who, it was well known, delighted\nto dance hand-in-hand in merry circles round, footing it featly, as\nthe owl flittered ghost-like by the scene, all by the silvery light\nof the moon, until the dawn of day. As Tom D'Urfey has it--\n\n\n    \"O how they skipped it,\n    Capered and tripped it,\n    Under the greenwood tree!\"\n\n\nThe popular belief in the origin of these bright green circles, that\nthey were caused by fairy feet in many a midnight merry-go-round,\nis frequently alluded to in the poetry alike of Celt and Saxon. Thus\na fairy song of the time of Charles the First begins--\n\n\n    \"We dance on hills above the wind,\n    And leave our footsteps there behind,\n    Which shall to after ages last,\n    When all our dancing days are past.\"\n\n\nThe reader will probably remember Queen Mab's very quaint and beautiful\nsong in Percy's Reliques of English Poetry:--\n\n\n      \"Come, follow, follow me,\n      You fairy elves that be:\n      Which circle on the green,\n      Come follow Mab your queen.\n    Hand in hand let's dance around,\n    For this place is fairy ground.\n\n      \"Upon a mushroom's head\n      Our table-cloth we spread;\n      A grain of rye or wheat,\n      Is manchet which we eat:\n    Pearly drops of dew we drink,\n    In acorn cups fill'd to the brink.\n\n      \"The grasshopper, gnat, and fly,\n      Serve for our minstrelsy:\n      Grace said, we dance a while,\n      And so the time beguile;\n    And if the moon doth hide her head,\n    The glow-worm lights us home to bed.\n\n      \"On tops of dewy grass\n      So nimbly do we pass,\n      The young and tender stalk\n      Ne'er bends when we do walk;\n    Yet in the morning may be seen\n    Where we the night before have been.\"\n\n\nAnother poet says--\n\n\n    \"O'er the dewy green,\n    By the glow-worm's light,\n    Dance the elves of night,\n    Unheard, unseen.\n    Yet where their midnight pranks have been,\n    The circled turf will betray to-morrow.\"\n\n\nNor was the superstition unknown to Shakspeare; was there anything\nunknown to him? Listen:--\n\n\n    \"And nightly meadow-fairies, look you sing,\n    Like to the Garter's compass, in a ring;\n    The expressure that it bears, green let it be,\n    More fertile-fresh than all the field to see;\n    And, Honi soit qui mal y pense, write\n    In emerald tufts, flowers, purple, blue, and white:\n    Like sapphire, pearl, and rich embroidery,\n    Buckled below fair knighthood's bending knee!\n    Fairies use flowers for their charactery.\"\n\n\nAnd if we know better now-a-days than to believe these green circles\nto be fairy rings, we also know better than to give the slightest\ncredence to certain authors of our own day who have gravely asserted\nthat they are caused by electricity. We prefer the fairy agency theory,\nas the more poetical and picturesque of the two, for, as to the truth\nof either, why, the one is every whit as true as the other. Fairy\nrings, as we continue for convenience sake to call them, are, in truth,\ncaused by a species of mushroom (Agaricus pratensis), the sporule dust\nor seed of which, having fallen on a spot suitable for its growth,\ninstantly germinates, and constantly propagating itself by sending out\na net-work of innumerable filaments and threads, forms the rich green\nrings so common everywhere this season. On the outer edge of this ring,\nand sometimes also, though more rarely, on the inner edge, grows the\nperfect plant, the fruit, the mushroom proper itself; and if some of\nour modern wiseacres had only had half an eye in their heads and the\nleast particle of gumption, they could easily have gone to the fields\nand seen all this for themselves, instead of lazily theorising on the\norigin of the apparent mystery in their dressing-gowns and slippers\nby the fireside, and sagely ascribing the whole to the agency of\nelectricity! There was a time, you may remember, when it was the\nfashion to ascribe everything that people didn't readily understand\nto electricity--very convenient certainly, but if you pushed these\nsavans a little, and asked them what this electricity itself was,\nthey were incontinently dumb, or, if they talked, they were bound to\ntalk nonsense. We can forgive, and even admire, the fairy dance theory,\nfor it is full of poetry and beauty, and in an age when people seldom\ntroubled themselves to trace natural phenomena to their source, it was,\nupon the whole, a rather happy conjecture; if it was not the actual\nvrai, it had of vraisemblance about it enough to recommend it to the\nacceptance of the multitude. Grant but the existence of fairies,\nand the rest was easy of belief. The \"electricity\" theory, on the\ncontrary, was unpardonable: it was not only false in fact, but it had\nnothing whatever about it to recommend it either to one's faith or\nfancy. Hardly more excusable than the electricity theorists themselves\nare those authors who tell us that the West received the first hint of\nthe existence of fairies from the East at the time of the Crusades,\nand that almost all our fairy lore is traceable to the same source;\nthe fact being, nevertheless, that Celt and Saxon, Scandinavian and\nGoth, Lap and Fin, had their \"duergar,\" their \"elfen,\" without number,\nsuch as dun-elfen, berg-elfen, munt-elfen, feld-elfen, wudu-elfen,\nsae-elfen, and waeter-elfen--elves, or spirits, of downs, hills, and\nmountains, of the fields, of the woods, of the sea, and of the rivers,\nstreams, and solitary pools--fairies, in short, and a complete fairy\nmythology, long centuries before Peter the Hermit was born, or Frank\nand Moslem dreamt of making the Holy Sepulchre a casus belli. It is a\ncurious fact in connection with fairy lore, and we have not seen it\nnoticed elsewhere, that although these anomalous beings are always\ncredited with much capriciousness, and are constantly described as\nsensitive in the extreme to anything like slight or insult, keenly\nvindictive in their dispositions and easily irritated, they are never\nrepresented as encompassing the death of human beings. They tease,\nterrify, and torment in a thousand ways where they take a dislike,\nbut they never kill. Their power is described as great, but it is also\nlimited--the issues of life and death are beyond their reach. In the\nfairy song (temp. Charles I.) first quoted, there are two amusing\nverses indicating such pranks as fairies could play on mortals,\nif mortals offended them. Thus concludes Queen Mab her song:--\n\n\n    \"Next turned to mites in cheese, forsooth,\n    We get into some hollow tooth;\n    Wherein, as in a Christmas hall,\n    We frisk and dance, the devil and all!\n\n    \"Then we change our wily features,\n    Into yet far smaller creatures,\n    And dance in joints of gouty toes,\n    To painful tunes of groans and woes.\"--\n\n\nA pathology of toothache and gout that we recommend to the attention\nof the faculty. The fairy ring agaric is one of the British species of\nmushroom that may be eaten with safety. For our own part we abominate\nthe whole tribe. Our table may be scantier at times than we could\nwish, but it will be scantier far than a kind Providence has ever\nyet permitted it to be before we shall think of dining or supping on\nfunguses. Chacun \u00e0 son go\u00fbt, however, and if anybody wants mushrooms in\nabundance, now is the time, and Nether Lochaber is the place for them.\n\nThe new moon that comes in this morning (the 6th) will be the harvest\nmoon of the year. It is full on the 20th, and for a few evenings before\nand after will be very beautiful, and well worth attention. If you\ncan command telescopic aid on the occasion, so much the better, but\neven without it, it were strange if we could not view with admiration\nand delight the silver orb that probably at some such conjunction\nas that of the 20th, when walking in her brightness and her beauty,\ntempted the patriarch of old to kiss his hand in acknowledgment of\nher excellency, and bow before her in adoration.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII.\n\n    The disappearance of the glories of Autumn, and the advent\n    of Winter--Innovations and Innovators--New Version of the\n    Scriptures--The Milkmaid and her Fairy Lover, translated from\n    the Gaelic.\n\n\nIchabod! the glory is departed [November 1871]. The gorgeous autumnal\nhues, which were so beautiful when we penned our last, have already\npassed away. In the first fierce breath of winter the trees have\nshed their golden glories, while the few remaining leaves that still\ncling trembling to branch and bough, shrivelled up and blackened at\ntheir edges, present only that pallid, corpse-like hue that betokens\napproaching dissolution, making you sad and thoughtful as you gaze,\nand reminding you that everywhere, on all hands, last while it may,\nthe end of all life is death. It is a sad lesson for the moment,\ndoubtless, but a useful one; and even at its worst, when the thought\nbears heaviest upon us, the cloud presents its silver lining, and\na gleam of gladness bursts upon the soul, in the recollection that\nas sure as all things are subject to decay and death, so sure are\ndecay and death themselves but the vassals of a brighter life and\nmore excellent glory. In one of our Scripture Paraphrases there is a\nvery beautiful reference to the decay of nature at this season, and\nto the hope that gladdens us amidst all the desolation of the scene:--\n\n\n    \"All nature dies, and lives again:\n      The flow'r that paints the field,\n    The trees that crown the mountain's brow,\n      And boughs and blossoms yield,\n\n    \"Resign the honours of their form\n      At Winter's stormy blast,\n    And leave the naked leafless plain\n      A desolated waste.\n\n    \"Yet soon reviving plants and flow'rs\n      Anew shall deck the plain;\n    The woods shall hear the voice of Spring,\n      And flourish green again!\"\n\n\nWe have no patience with your innovators, whether in matters of\nChurch or State. We do not deny, indeed, that certain innovations may\nbe sometimes permissible, even if not absolutely necessary, that by\ntheir adoption things may be done more decently and in order; nor do\nwe object even to a radical change in a given direction, when such a\nchange has by common consent become imperative. We believe, in fact,\nin development and progress; only let that progress and development\nbe slow and sure, that they may be lasting; gradual, that they may\nbe graceful, and fall easily into their place, without unnecessary\njostling or disturbance of the established order of things. Festina\nlente--hasten slowly--was the motto of the learned Erasmus, and\nquoad hoc it is ours also; and, if you care to know it, is our creed\nin affairs political and ecclesiastical. Some people, however,\nseem born to be innovators and nothing else, and the innovator,\npure et simple, is surely a pest. He seems to have been born never\nto know peace himself, and never, as much as in him lies, to permit\nothers a moment's rest or peace, or quiet either. Your thoroughbred,\nfull-blooded innovator always reminds us of our first housekeeper--a\nvery good woman in her way, too, but who had a perfect craze for\nshifting and reshifting, adjusting and readjusting, as well as dusting\nand redusting every article of furniture throughout the house, at\nall sorts of unseasonable hours, and when to ordinary mortals such\nlabour seemed utterly uncalled for. When we were at home she went\n\"at it\" in out-of-the-way closets and bedrooms as much and as often\nas the immediate calls of the moment permitted. But when she got\nus away from home for a day or two, how she did enjoy it! How she\ndid luxuriate in the power to innovate \"at her own sweet will\"--the\nquotation, by the way, is rather inapt, for her temper was somewhat\nof the sourest. Sometimes when we came back after a day or two's\nabsence, we could hardly believe it to be the same house, so great\nwas the change in the place and position of everything. At last the\nthing became unbearable. One evening, on our return from a walk,\nwe found our writing-table, at which we had been employed during\nthe day, carefully placed in the darkest corner of the room, with\nits drawers, containing letters, paper, pens, &c., jammed up hard\nand fast against the wall, while books and manuscripts were most\nartistically arranged in pyramidal form, the ink-bottle representing\nthe graceful entablature on the top of a book-case, where it must have\ncost her no small pains, and a great deal of stretching on tip-toe,\neven with the aid of a chair, to place them. The thing was too absurd\nfor any one to be really angry; but we pretended to be so, and at\nlast peace was proclaimed, under a sort of compromise that she should\narrange and readjust all the rest of the house at her pleasure, as\noften and as radically as she chose, but that that particular room,\nhaving been put to rights to our mutual satisfaction once for all,\nmust in all time coming be let alone. This treaty being duly ratified,\nwas upon the whole faithfully observed by the contracting parties. The\nmischief, however, with your thoroughbred innovator is that you can\nnever completely satisfy him, his appetite for change is insatiable,\nhe will make no compromise with you. Grant him all he asks to-day,\nand as sure as to-morrow comes, he is at it anew. If you gave him the\nwhole world, and his own way everywhere and in everything, he would\nbe in worse plight than the conqueror who wept because there were no\nmore worlds to subdue, and fret himself to death that there were no\nmore changes for him to effect. The probability is that, rather than\nbe idle, he would, in hunting phrase, \"hark back\" upon his old track,\nand diligently undo all he had spent his life in doing, and without\nmuch regard to the consequences.\n\nWe have been led into these remarks by the recollection, when quoting\nthe above verses of the Eighth Paraphrase, that there are at this\nmoment some people busily bestirring themselves in the matter of\na new translation of the Scriptures, to supersede the authorised\nversion now in use. Now, we most solemnly protest against all this,\nas a most rash proposal, ill-advised, and utterly uncalled for. At\npresent we object very much on the same principle that we should\nobject to a painting by one of the old masters being cleansed and\nretouched by a modern R.A., however eminent in his own person, or\non the same principle that we should feel tempted to kick the ladder\nfrom under the feet of a man we should detect white-washing a stately\npile of the olden time, under the plea, forsooth, that in obliterating\nweather stains, and freely applying putty and paint, he was thereby\nimproving, renovating, and beautifying the whole fabric. That there\nare verbal inaccuracies in our authorised version of the Scriptures\nis on all hands admitted; let these be rectified, if people please,\nand let the corrections so made, under adequate authority, appear in\nthe form of marginal notes opposite the passage amended, but let the\nbody of The Book stand as it is--intact. The edifice, as it exists,\nis too grand, and stately, and beautiful, and hallowed, not to suffer\nunder the proposed remodelling, even in the most competent hands.\n\nBut to turn to a different theme. The following is a translation from\nthe Gaelic, as literal as we could make it, with anything like due\nregard to the spirit and manner of the original. It is a fairy song,\nif song it can be called, from the manuscript volume referred to in\na former communication. Fairy tales, both in prose and verse, were\ncommon with our Celtic forefathers, and, if we only examine them with\nsufficient care, we shall find that, underlying all their quaintness,\nthere is always to be found a substratum of sound and healthy moral. It\nbears no title in the original, but we may call it--\n\n\n    The Milkmaid and her Fairy Lover.\n\n      Gaily the milkmaid came tripping along;\n      The echoes so loved her, they joined in her song;\n      The hare and the wild-roe that browsed in the glade,\n      The bird on the bough swinging high over-head--\n    They saw and they heard, but they feared not--they KNEW the\n                                                               milkmaid.\n\n      Abundant her tresses, bright golden their hue;\n      And soft as a dove's was her eye in its blue;\n      Elastic her footstep, and lightsome and free\n      As a fawn's when in gladness it skips o'er the lea--\n    Of the old and the young the delight, and the pride of Glentallon\n                                                                was she.\n\n      In secret she met with the Hunter in Green,\n      Beside the lone fountain of Coirre-na-Sheen;\n      A gallant more gay ne'er did maiden behold,\n      His manner so gentle, his bearing so bold;\n    By his side freely dangled, and well could he wind it, a bugle\n                                                                of gold!\n\n      Full fondly he kissed her--she thought it no sin,\n      Though she knew not his name, nor his kith, nor his kin;\n      They plighted their troth by the fount's bubbling stream,\n      Where oft, it is said, when frail mortals but dream,\n    The fairies hold revel, and trippingly dance in the moon's\n                                                            mellow beam.\n\n      On the Eve of St. Agnes the maiden confessed,\n      As was proper she should, all her sins to the priest;\n      When she left him, the blush in her check mantled high;\n      There was care in her step, and a tear in her eye.\n    Yet pure was the maiden and spotless, I ween, as a star in the\n                                                        blue of the sky.\n\n      Next day, by the fountain of Coirre-na-Sheen,\n      The milkmaid again met the Hunter in Green.\n      As he kissed her she quietly slipped under his vest\n      A relic she long had worn next to her breast--\n    'Twas a relic in sooth the most sacred--a Cross that the holy\n                                                 St. Colomb had blessed.\n\n      And lo! in the place of the Hunter in Green\n      ('Twas all by the fountain of Coirre-na-Sheen),\n      A brown, withered twig, so elf twisted and dry,\n      Was all--'twas amazing--the maid could espy!\n    While the Cross, with a bright burning light round its edges,\n                                                      beside it did lie.\n\n      And the maid grasped the Cross, which devoutly she kissed,\n      And hid it again in the snow of her breast;\n      Homewards she turned her with pensive steps slowly,\n      But her heart was at peace--meek, submissive, and lowly,\n    As maid and as mother (the Cross at her breast) she passed a\n                                                              life holy.\n\n      Often still wake the echoes of Coirre-na-Sheen,\n      At the blast of thy bugle, O Hunter in Green!\n      Go get thee a mate from the green fairy knowe--\n      A cross-bearing maid dare not wed such as thou:\n    Let fairy wed fey, and let mortal wed mortal. Come, Annabel,\n                               stir up the fire till it blaze in a lowe!\n\n\nThe moral of the fairy song is instantly apparent. A young lady--miss\nor milkmaid--is not to hold clandestine appointments with any young\ngentleman, however lovable and attractive, until at least she knows\nwho and what he is, whence he cometh and whither he goeth. Having met\nand loved, however, she is instantly to consult those who are older\nand wiser than herself, and, under their friendly care and direction,\nshe is to be sure that, on her own part and on that of her lover, all\nshall be pure and holy. The touch at the end is admirable. We must\nsuppose a mother telling the story, herself and sons and daughters\nsitting round the fire, which, in the absorbing interest of the tale,\nhas been for the time neglected. \"Annabel,\" addressed at the close, we\nmust fancy to be the eldest daughter, just entering upon womanhood. The\nwhole moral of the story, flung obliquely at her head in the command\nto stir the fire and make it blaze, is exquisite, and we can fancy\nthe gentle \"Annabel\" quietly smiling to herself the while--she also\nhaving a secret--as she cheerily obeys the maternal mandate.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII.\n\n    Wild Birds' Nests in early April--Rook stealing Eggs frightened\n    and almost captured--The Domestic Cock--What he was, and what he\n    is--Sadly demoralised by intermixture with \"Cochin-Chinas\" and\n    \"Bramahpootras.\"\n\n\nAfter a month's cold, clear weather, with dry, parching, northerly\nwinds--the finest heather-burning season that ever was seen--a\nconsiderable rainfall during the past week has been welcomed as a boon\nrather than otherwise, and the country around is all the greener and\ngladder because of it [April 1872.] During an afternoon's ramble on\nSaturday we found a redbreast's nest, a blackbird's, and a chaffinch's,\nall with their full complement of eggs in them; while the nests of\nseveral other species, some completed and some still abuilding, were\nto be found by diligent searching in almost every likely locality. For\nmany years past there has been no such favourable season for wild\nbirds. An amusing scene a day or two ago was the following:--One of\nour hens, disregarding the companionship of the rest, and desirous of\nmore freedom of action, in a matter so important, than the hen-house\ncould supply, took to laying her eggs in a hole she had scratched\nout under an old hazel root in a neighbouring copse. Complaints were\nby-and-by brought into the house that although this hen regularly\ndropped her quotidian egg in the spot selected, it was found that,\nunless immediately taken away from her, the egg was sure to be sucked\nby some sly thief who doubtless enjoyed such a delicacy at this season\namazingly, and all the more so, we daresay, that his pilferings had\nhitherto passed undetected, despite the strictest vigilance on the\npart of those more immediately interested. It was very annoying, as\nyou may believe, morning after morning to find the fresh and pearly\nshell at the nest's side, its contents abstracted through a gaping\nhole in its bulge, instead of the snowy treasure, totus, teres atque\nrotundus, as it should be. Appealed to for such assistance as we could\nrender in detecting and punishing the culprit, whoever he might be,\nwe began by setting a trap for ground vermin, properly baited, and as\ncunningly as possible placed, but without result. Determined, however,\nto discover the petty larcenist, if possible, we took advantage of\nan idle forenoon last week to sit and watch the nest from a distance,\nour object in the first instance being to find out who the depredator\nreally was; we could afterwards and at our leisure take such steps as\nwe might deem advisable for his capture. Selecting a convenient spot\nwhence we could see without being seen, and provided with a powerful\nbinocular, we watched and waited with the most exemplary diligence\nand patience, and were rewarded, after some time, by discovering the\nculprit to be neither rat, stoat, nor weasel, nor other quadrupedal\nmarauder, but a common crow, or rook rather--Corvus frugilegus, Linn\u00e6us\ncalls him, though Corvus omnivorus would be nearer the mark--a large\nold male bird, as he afterwards proved to be, who had doubtless in\nhis day sucked many an egg and sacked many a homestead of its callow\nfledglings. We first observed him alighting on the branch of a large\nash tree, whence he had a full view of the nest, and there he sat with\nmuch patience, preening his feathers, and uttering an occasional craa,\nas if to encourage the hen in her labours. No sooner did the latter,\nhaving deposited her egg, leave the nest with the usual cackle of\nself-congratulation, than Monsieur Corvus glided from his perch,\nand in a twinkling, by the dexterous use of head and bill, had the\negg rolled out on the grass by the nest's side. Turning it round and\nround, and rolling it over and over, stepping back at times as if the\nbetter to contemplate its pearly whiteness and handsome proportions,\nand already in imagination rolling the sweet morsel under his tongue,\nhe finally stepped forward, and with his pick-axe-like bill delivered\na stroke at the egg's bigger end, which made a sufficiently large\nhole for him to suck away at comfortably. And how he did seem to enjoy\nit! Removing his bill now and again as if to draw breath, and looking\nup and around with an air of innocence and self-satisfaction that was\nexceedingly comical. Meanwhile, so intent was Corvus on his egg-flip,\nthat we managed to creep quite close to the scene unperceived by\nhim, resolved to give him a good fright at least, if we could do no\nmore. We took advantage of a moment when he had his head buried in\nthe egg up to the eyes to start to our feet, uttering at the instant\na favourite shout of ours in such circumstances--a sort of war-whoop,\na legacy, we suppose, from our Fingalian ancestors--and the happiness\nof Corvus, sucking his egg in such fancied security, vanished like\na dream. With a prolonged cra-a-a he made a sudden dig into the egg\nin his fright, his bill passing clean through it, and spreading his\nwings he fluttered upwards, the egg sticking over his bill and eyes\nlike a mask, and preventing him from seeing anything, and causing him\nto perform the most ridiculous evolutions ever exhibited perhaps by a\nbird on wing. Fluttering along obliquely, with many a dolorous cra-a,\nhe came to the ground like a collapsed balloon in a neighbouring field,\nwhere we hoped to capture him, but just as we ran up to him he managed\nto shake the egg from his head, and in an instant was up and away and\nout of sight at a rate that must have brought him to Culloden Moor\nwithin the hour if he stopped not by the way. A bird rarely fails to\nprofit by experience, least of all a crow, and we have no hesitation\nin saying that the particular rook in question will remember his\negg-shell mask and our unearthly war whoop till his dying hour.\n\nAnd while on such subjects, let us ask the reader by the way if he has\nnoticed that cocks don't crow now-a-days as they used to do? We refer\nof course to the common barndoor fowl--Gallus domesticus, the domestic\ncock. He, we assert, does not now-a-days crow with the same regularity\nand timeousness, nor with the clear, clarion notes with which he did\n\n\n    \"Salutation to the morn,\"\n\n\nsay a score of years ago. This may seem a startling assertion, but any\none who deigns to turn his attention to the subject will find that it\nis true. The cock-crowing and wing-clapping of the House of Commons\nwhen in the humour is no doubt highly creditable to that august\nassembly. (It was Boswell, if we recollect well, who imitated the\nlowing of a cow to admiration, and was naturally very proud of so rare\nan accomplishment.) But the march of civilisation, and cross-breeding,\nwhich you may call \"internationalism\" if you like, have been the ruin\nof our cocks, so far as crowing is concerned. They may weigh more than\nthey did a score of years ago, and present a plumper form on the table,\nbut their crowing is gone: at the best it is but a harsh, spasmodic,\nunmusical half-scream half-wheeze, altogether unlike the loud and\nlusty, the clear, ringing notes of the cock-crowing of our boyhood\ndays. Our cocks are no longer chanticleers, but chantiqueers. If you\nhave occasion to sit up at night, or to start on a journey betwixt\nmidnight and morning, the cock no longer lends you any countenance or\naid in the matter--he sleeps on his perch in utter oblivion of the\npassing hours, and as heedless of the \"watches of the night\" as the\nbrooding hen in the coop beneath him. The day may dawn, and the sun\nmay flood the mountain peaks with light, glad and golden, without a\nnote of welcome or recognition on the part of the bird that, from the\nearliest ages until recent years, was known as the herald of the dawn,\nand deservedly held in high honour and esteem as the vigilant sentinel\nof the homestead throughout the midnight and early morning hours. Any\nconvivial \"Willie\" whom it so pleases may now brew his \"peck o' maut,\"\nif the Inland Revenue will let him, and sit down to enjoy it with\nhis boon companions into all the hours of the night and morning,\nunwarned of the flight of time by anything like a cock-crow. The\nmoon may fill her silver horn, and shine bright as aforetime, \"to\nwile them hame,\" and the day may \"daw,\" but the cock's \"crawing\"\nwill no longer convey its notes of warning and expostulation. If the\nbird crows at all, it is sometime throughout the day, generally,\nwe have noticed, in the afternoon, when nobody thanks him for it,\nand then in notes so discordant as to make your teeth water, as if\nyou had suddenly bitten deep into an unripe apple, with the chance\nof a headache for the rest of the evening. The last time we heard\na cock crow in the good old fashion was in an out-of-the-way corner\nof Arisaig, some three years ago. Being a stranger in the place, and\nhaving to sleep on a \"shake-down\" on the floor of our room, our sleep\nwas less sound than usual, but throughout the night we were cheered by\nthe companionship of a cock that was roosting in an out-house not far\nfrom our window. Shortly after midnight he announced the first watch\nof the night as ended, and afterwards at intervals, of as nearly as\npossible two hours, his clear, clarion notes, repeated two or three\ntimes, startled the stillness of the glen, until at last the rising\nsun invited him to the labours of the day, and called us to boot and\nsaddle. Nor is the degeneracy and demoralisation of the modern domestic\ncock less apparent in another direction. Surrounded by his harem, he\nused to be considered the beau-ideal by common consent of all that is\ngallant, and courteous, and brave. With proud step and stately bearing\nhe led his dames about, finding for them the sunniest spots wherein to\nbask and dust themselves when the day was at its height. He diligently\nsearched for, and rarely failed to find, the particular corner wherein\nfood was most abundant, scratching with might and main that the ladies\nof his court might have as little unnecessary trouble as possible,\nrarely eating anything himself until they had first of all picked the\nbest and biggest share; and if he came across any dainty titbit that\nhis followers had overlooked, he took it up in his bill, and by certain\npeculiar notes reserved for such occasions, called them around him,\ndropping the toothsome morsel with strict impartiality at his feet,\nto be picked up by the first to respond to his summons. Now all this is\nchanged. They may sun and dust themselves when and where they please,\nor not at all, for all he cares. Instead of being the active leader\nand gallant protector in feeding excursions, he is content to be no\nmore than as any other of the band, exhibiting the utmost selfishness\nand greed in gobbling up the first grain-pickle or earthworm that\ncomes in the way, nor is he, proh pudor! ashamed even to cuff and\ndrive away his decidedly better halves, when the mean wretch has,\nby accident rather than by any diligence of his own, fallen on a good\nscratching-place. Neither do you find in the cock of the present day\nthe pugnacity and pluck, the indomitable courage and love of warfare,\nonce so characteristic of the genus, from the tiniest bantam to the\nlordliest gamecock, that would rather die than cry quarter or show\nthe white feather to an opponent. We don't suppose that the reader,\nany more than ourselves, has seen a cock-fight for years; not from any\nelevation of morals, we submit, in Monsieur Gallus, or increase at\nall of amiability, but from sheer poltroonery and want of pluck. He\nwill still bully about among his hens, and fight with them, and we\nhave seen some of them turn upon him and give him a good drubbing,\nas he deserved; but a fair stand-up fight with another cock--oh no,\nwe never mention it!--he has still the spurs, but no longer the heart\nfor it. When afield at the head of his following; if the shadow of a\nsuspicious bird on wing, as likely to be a crow as a gled or hawk,\nor other bird of prey, passes along, instead of the old warning\nnote to his wives, with preparation on his own part to receive the\nenemy \u00e0 l'outrance, be he who he may, he is the first himself, in\nYankee phrase, to skedaddle and make tracks for a place of security\nand shelter, leaving his hens to their fate. Our bill of indictment\ncontra gallum, the reader may say, is a heavy one, but it is in the\nmain very true, as any one who chooses may satisfy himself when he\nhas the opportunity. How, then, do we account for it? Well, it is very\ndifficult satisfactorily to account for it in any way. We are inclined\nto the belief that the demoralisation of our domestic cock is to be\ntraced to the introduction into our country of such splay-footed,\nloutish, awkward fowls as the \"Cochin China,\" \"Bramahpootra\" et hoc\nomne genus, whose brains seem to have subsided into the feathers on\ntheir feet, and whose only good quality is their size, and even that\nis dearly purchased, we suspect, when the immense feeding they require\nis taken into account. These fowls have spread everywhere, so that,\nexcept in some out-of-the-way localities, a cock or hen of the old\nnative breed, of blood pure and uncontaminated by foreign intermixture,\nis very rarely to be met with, while cross-breeds and mongrels of\nevery shape and size are abundant in all directions. Whatever the\ngood qualities of these latter in other respects, courage, gallantry,\nand pluck are not of the number. Just inquire into the subject for\nyourself, good reader, and you will find that, neither physically,\nintellectually, nor morally is the cock of the present day to be\ncompared for a moment with the gallant, handsome, proud-stepping\nbiped of your boyhood.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX.\n\n    The Vernal Equinox--Beauty of Loch Leven--Astronomical Notes--How\n    an old Woman supposed to possess the Evil Eye escaped a cruel\n    death.\n\n\nThe vernal equinox has come and gone, unaccompanied this year\n[April 1872], as it was unheralded and unannounced, by anything\nlike the storms that from the earliest times have been observed to\nbe attendant on the sun's crossing the equator. It is by no means\ncertain, however, that these storms may not even now be a-brewing,\nto make themselves yet felt in all their fierceness, for we have\nnoticed in recent years particularly that what are called the\n\"equinoctial gales\" quite as frequently follow, as accompany or\nprecede, the exact equality of day and night. We have just had a\nfortnight of genuine March weather--clear, cold days, and frosty\nnights--the air snell and biting, to be sure, and keen of edge, as\nmight be expected on the uplands; but in places sheltered from the\neast and north it is delightfully bright and sunny, the incessant\nsong of birds, the hum of wild bees, and the gay fluttering of early\nbutterflies, making one think of Whitsuntide rather than All Fools'\nDay; the twittering of swallows and the cheery notes of the cuckoo\nalone are wanting to make the illusion perfect, and these, unless\nthe weather should undergo some extraordinary and unexpected change,\nmust certainly soon be heard, much earlier this year, we should think,\nthan usual. We are particularly favoured in this respect along the\nnorthern shores of Loch Leven. Here, to quote Burns--\n\n\n    \"Simmer first unfaulds her robe, and here the langest tarry;\"\n\n\nand as we wander afield we often apply the words of Horace to our\nown little spot, as from some neighbouring height we view it cozily\nnestling in the sunlight--\n\n\n    Ille terrarum mihi pr\u00e6ter omnes\n    Angulus ridet;\n\n\nwhich may be rendered--\n\n\n    Whate'er the beauties others boast,\n    This spot of ground delights me most.\n\n\nOr, as we prefer putting it in our own case--\n\n\n    Of brighter skies and sunnier climes let others boast and jabber,\n    Give me the sunny, southern shores of mountain-girt Lochaber!\n\n\nOr yet again, if you will have it still more literally in Gaelic--\n\n\n    'S anns' leam na spot eil' fo 'a ghr\u00e9in,\n    M' oisinneag bheag, ghrianach f\u00e9in.\n\n\nDuring the present clear, cold spring nights the starry heavens are\nvery beautiful. Jupiter, just below Castor and Pollux, is at his\nbrightest, and very favourably situated for observation, his cloudy\nbelts and bright diamond-point-like satellites being visible in an\ninstrument of very moderate powers. If between nine and ten o'clock the\nreader will turn to the north-east, he will find a constellation pretty\nhigh up in the heavens, and consisting of five or six principal stars,\nnone of them, however, of the first magnitude, opening towards the\npole star in the form of a widely spread-out W. This constellation\nwill be an object of more than usual interest during the present\nyear. It is Cassiopeia, or The Lady in her Chair, the scene of a\nvery startling and strange phenomenon in 1572, which, it has been\nasserted with some confidence, is not at all unlikely to be repeated\nin 1872. In 1572 a new star of great splendour appeared in Cassiopeia,\noccupying a place that had hitherto been blank. It was first observed\non the 6th August, by Schuler, of Wittemburg, shortly after which it\narrested the attention of the celebrated Danish astronomer Tycho Brahe,\nwho watched its rapid increase of brilliancy night after night with\nthe liveliest interest. Its magnitude at last rivalled, if it did not\neven exceed, that of Jupiter, with an effulgence equally bright and\nvivid. After shining with great splendour some time, and attracting\nthe earnest gaze of the most distinguished astronomers of the period,\nits brilliancy began steadily to decline, changing its colour in a very\nremarkable manner as it became fainter and fainter, until finally it\nbecame invisible in March 1574, and has never been seen since. Sir John\nHerschel and other astronomers have suggested that its reappearance in\n1872 is by no means an improbable event; and towards no constellation\nin the northern heavens, in consequence, will the observer's eye be\nso constantly turned throughout the present year as to Cassiopeia. The\nreappearance of such a star would be certain to give rise to the most\nstartling theories. With the spectroscope in our possession, however,\nand the marvellous telescopic power at our command now-a-days, we could\nnot fail to arrive at more intimate terms with such a stranger than\nwas possible in the days of Tycho Brahe. The interest and excitement\nin the astronomical world in connection with the sudden burst of\nsplendour in the star in Corona a year or two ago was very great,\nbut would be still greater in the event of the reappearance of the\nlong absent stranger in Cassiopeia. In the one case it was only a\nremarkable increase of light and lustre in the star already existent\nand visible; but the reappearance of a new orb in a spot blank and\nstarless in the most powerful telescopes for three hundred years, would\nbe almost equal to the sudden creation of a new sun. Here, by the way,\ngood reader, if you are ambitious, is a chance for fame. Be but the\nfirst to detect the reappearance of this remarkable star-stranger,\nand your immortality into all time shall be more secure than if you\nwrote an epic to rival the Iliad, or a tragedy equal to Hamlet or\nOthello. The name and memory of George Palitch, the amateur peasant\nastronomer, who was so fortunate as to obtain the earliest glimpse of\nHalley's Comet on its first return to perihelion after its periodicity\nhad been so boldly, and as some thought so rashly asserted, is more\nsecure in that connection than if, either as king or conqueror,\nhe had all the honours of the most imperishable brass or marble.\n\nA hundred years ago or more, when Highlanders were more superstitious\nthan they are now, or when, to be more correct, they took less pains to\nconceal their superstitious beliefs than at the present day, a certain\nhamlet in a remote part of the country was sadly troubled by an \"evil\neye,\" whose unhallowed powers wrought \"mickle woe,\" to the manifest\nloss and discomfort of the good people around. The cows no longer\nyielded their lacteal treasures in the desired abundance, nor did the\ncalves grow and thrive, as calves in good keeping should. Churns,\nhowever shaken and jolted, refused to turn out their hebdomadal\npot of butter; or if, after much weary labour, they did reluctantly\nyield any, it was found to be pale and rancid as unsalted suet in the\ndog-days. Stirks and other young \"beasts,\" though the rents depended\non them, sickened and dwined and died, without apparent reason;\nand even children, hitherto in rude and ruddy health enough, were\nfrequently prostrated by sudden and unaccountable illnesses. That an\n\"evil eye\" of more than ordinary virulence and power was at work was\nat last conceded even by the most sceptical as to such influences,\nand suspicion straightway fell upon a lone old woman, who lived in\na hut on the outskirts of the township. Originally a stranger to\nthe district, and of a taciturn and retiring disposition, she had\nlong been looked upon with suspicion and dislike, and now a number\nof young men resolved to be revenged on her as the secret author of\nall that was amiss in the hamlet. At a late hour one dark night they\nproceeded to the poor old woman's hut, with the intention of setting\nfire to the roof and burning it about her ears, not caring very much\neither even if the \"evil-eyed witch\" herself, as they called her,\nshould be buried under the burning rafters of her cottage. As the\nyoung men noiselessly surrounded the hut, they found that the old\nwoman was just about retiring for the night, and as some of them\nstood at her window, and looked and listened, they could see her,\nby the light of a bog pine fire, kneel at her bedside, and after a\nlittle they heard her repeat the following prayer:--\n\n\n    \"Tha 'n la nis air falbh \u00f9ainn,\n    Tha 'n oidhche 'tighinn orm dl\u00f9th;\n    'S ni mise luidhe gu dion\n    Fo dhubhar sgiath mo r\u00f9in.\n    O gach cunnart 's o gach b\u00e0s,\n    'S o gach n\u00e0mhaid th'aig Mac Dhe,\n    O n\u00e0dur dhaoine borba,\n    'S o choirbteachd mo n\u00e0duir f\u00e8in,\n    Gabhaidh mis' a nis armachd Dhe,\n    Gun bhi reubta no brisd',\n    'Sge b'oil leis an t's\u00e0tan 's le ph\u00e0irt\n    Bi'dh mis' air mo ghe\u00e0rd a nis.\"\n\n\nWhich, literally rendered into English, will read thus:--\n\n\n    \"The day has now departed from us;\n    Dark night gathers around,\n    And I will lay me safely down (to sleep)\n    Under shadow of my Beloved One's wing.\n    Against all dangers, and death in every form,\n    Against each enemy of God's good Son,\n    Against the anger of the turbulent people,\n    And against the corruption of my own nature,\n    I will take unto me the armour of God--\n    That shall protect me from all assaults:\n    And in spite of Satan and all his following,\n    I shall be well and surely guarded.\"\n\n\nThe old woman's confidence in the Divine protection was not misplaced;\nthe heart of youth is generous, and the beauty and solemnity of the\nscene carried it captive. The young men felt that one who could thus,\non retiring to rest, commend herself to God and God's Son, could not\nbe the \"evil\" old woman they had thought her. Awed and impressed,\nsilently and on tip-toe, they departed for their homes, leaving the\nold woman in peace. By-and-by things went well again with the cattle of\nthe hamlet, sickness disappeared from the district, and the old woman\ncontinued to live the same quiet, unobtrusive life a few years longer,\nand was as much respected and loved latterly, the story says, as she\nwas at one time hated and feared. Nor did she ever know of the young\nmen's midnight visit to her hut on an errand so happily frustrated.\n\nThe following are a couple of very excellent \"toimhseachan\" that were\nsent us a few days ago. Finding the correct solutions will afford\nsome amusement to our Gaelic readers during the first idle half-hour--\n\n\n      Chi mi, chi mi thar an eas,\n      Fear cruaidh, colgarra glas,\n      Cirb do l\u00e9ine sios mu leis,\n      'S ceum an cirinnaich fo cho\u00efs.\n\n    A mhuc a mharbh mi 'n uiridh\n    Bha uirceanan aice am bliadhna.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX.\n\n    Midges and other Bloodsuckers--The Tsetse of South Africa--The\n    Abyssinia Zimb--Livingstone--Adders and Grass Snakes--Lucan's\n    Pharsalia--Celsus--Legend of St. John ante Portam Latinam.\n\n\nAlong the west coast the weather is now [May 1872] as mild and May-like\nas you could wish; the swallow twitters gaily in the sunlight, and\nwhen he ceases his zig-zag flight for a moment to rest on chimney-top\nor house-ridge, he sings a gladsome song, low and faint indeed, and\nfrequently lost on that account in the general chorus, but exceedingly\nsweet and musical, as you will find if you give it the attention it\nmerits; while in the distance you hear the cheery notes of the cuckoo,\nwild and startling as yet, as they burst suddenly upon the ear from\nout the woodland glade or from the old rowan tree that finds root\nroom, you wonder how, in yonder crevice in the rock above the foaming\nwaterfall, but soon to become familiar as the season advances, and\npressed upon your notice whether you will or no, and at all sorts of\nimpossible times and places, by the truant schoolboy's oft-repeated,\nthough rarely successful, attempts at imitation. For the first week\nin May the temperature is unusually high, and we do not recollect\never before having seen insect life so plentiful so early in the\nseason. Midges, gadflies, and other bloodsuckers are already astir\nin their thousands, their taste for their favourite fluid keen and\nunabated, as they fail not abundantly to manifest by an activity that\none cannot help admiring, even while wishing that it could possibly be\ndirected to a more legitimate and less personally annoying end. But\n\"'tis their nature to,\" as the hymn-book says, and we must grin and\nbear it, protecting ourselves from their assaults as best we may,\nthankful the while that the evil is no worse. Our winged pests are\ninnocence itself compared with their congeners in other lands. Our\nmidge, for instance, is to the mosquito as the dog-fish is to the\nshark, as the domestic cat is to the tiger; while our gadflies and\n\u00c6stri, though sufficiently annoying to our cattle at certain seasons,\nare to be regarded as absolutely harmless if we compare them with the\nvenomous Zimb of Abyssinia, or the still deadlier Tsetse of Southern\nAfrica. The Abyssinian insect, by the way--the Zimb--is probably\nthe Zebub of the Hebrew Scriptures, the estimation in which it was\nheld from the earliest ages being clearly enough indicated by its\nplace in the word Beelzebub, \"the prince of devils.\" Livingstone's\naccount of the Tsetse is one of the most interesting chapters in his\nTravels. Shall the intrepid explorer be restored to us? We are afraid\nnot. It is only too probable that, as Scott said of his proteg\u00e9 and\nfriend, the author of the Scenes of Infancy--\n\n\n    \"A distant and a deadly shore\n      Has Leyden's cold remains!\"\n\n\nThe districts of Ardgour and Sunart have always had an unenviable\nnotoriety for the great numbers of adders and grass snakes to be\nfound in them, the reptiles frequently attaining to a size unknown,\nwe believe, anywhere else in the West Highlands. Within the last\ntwo or three years we have noticed that they are rapidly becoming\nnumerous in Lochaber, much more so than they used to be, though the\ngeneral opinion, in which we heartily concur, is that we were getting\non very well without them. During an ornithological ramble among the\nhills a few days ago, we knelt to drink at a fountain that we fell in\nwith, welling up cool and sparkling beside a large moss-covered drift\nboulder among the heather, when we were not a little startled by the\npresence of no less than three adders that lay coiled together in a\nsort of Gordian knot on a patch of green moss close by the fountain's\nbrink. The day was hot and dry, and they had probably come there\nto drink and bathe; but we were very thirsty, having just smoked a\npipe on the top of the hill, and there being no appearance of water\nanywhere else for miles around, and knowing, besides, that there\ncould be really no danger, even if the vipers had been ten times\nlarger and more venomous than they were, we drank a long draught of\nthe pure sweet water, and then proceeded with the stick in our hand to\nattack the enemy, and soon had the satisfaction of knocking them into\nwriggling, writhing bits, and crushing their heads under our heel. Our\nassault was so sudden and unexpected that they had no time to show\nfight; otherwise an adder, when his blood is up and thoroughly on\nhis guard, is an ugly customer to attack with no better weapon than a\nwalking-stick, and nothing can be imagined more deadly, wicked-looking,\nand savage than such an animal, as with erected crest and flashing eye\nhe steadies himself in act to strike. It is curious that the poison\nof these reptiles, though certain death if commingled in sufficient\nquantity with the blood through an abrasion or wound, is perfectly\ninnocuous if taken into the stomach--a fact, by the way, that has been\nknown from very early times. On taking our drink, for instance, from\nyonder viper-guarded fountain, we recollected that Lucan had something\non a somewhat similar circumstance in his Pharsalia. Describing Cato\nand his soldiers coming to a fountain of water in the desert, and\nhow horrified they were to find innumerable serpents of the deadliest\nkind--asps and dipsades--disporting themselves in and around the pool,\nhe has the following fine passage, the finest indeed in the poem,\nwhich we took care to turn up when we reached home:--\n\n\n                      \"Jam spissior ignis,\n    Et plaga, quam nullam superi mortalibus ultra,\n    A medio fecere die calcatur, et unda\n    Rarior; inventus mediis fons unus arenis\n    Largus aqu\u00e6; sed quem serpentum turbat tenebat\n    Vix capiente loco; stabant in margine sicc\u00e6\n    Aspides, in mediis sitiebant Dipsades undis.\n    Ductor, ut aspexit perituros fonte relicto\n    Alloquitur: Vana specie conterrite leti\n    Ne dubita miles tutos haurire liquores;\n    Noxia serpentum est admisto sanguine pestis;\n    Morsu virus habent et fatum dente minantur;\n    Pocula morte carent. Dixit dubuumque venenum\n    Hausit.\"\n\n\nWhich has been elegantly rendered into English as follows:--\n\n\n    \"And now with fiercer heat the desert glows,\n    And mid-day sun-darts aggravate their woes;\n    When, lo! a spring amid the sandy plain\n    Shows its clear mouth to cheer the fainting train;\n    But round the guarded brink in thick array,\n    Dire aspics roll'd their congregated way,\n    And thirsting in the midst the deadly dipsas lay.\n    Black horror seized their veins, and at the view\n    Back from the fount the troops recoiling flew;\n    When, wise above the crowd, by cares unquell'd,\n    Their trusted leader thus their dread dispell'd--\n    'Let not vain terrors thus your minds enslave,\n    Nor dream the serpent brood can taint the wave;\n    Urged by the fatal fang their poison kills,\n    But mixes harmless with the bubbling rills.'\n    Dauntless he spoke, and, bending as he stood,\n    Drank with cool courage the suspected flood.\"\n\n\nCelsus, an older writer still, and styled the \"Roman Hippocrates,\"\ntells us in his great work, De Medicin\u00e2, that the poison of serpents\nmay be safely enough sucked by the mouth from the wound, warning the\noperator, however, to be careful that the lips and palate are free from\nany cut or excoriation by which the venom might find its way into the\nblood, in which case it might be just as dangerous as if introduced\ninto the circulation by the fang itself. It should be stated that the\ngrass or ringed snake spoken of above is not in the least poisonous,\nthough ugly enough to look at, and ready enough to assume a threatening\nattitude if rudely disturbed. Nor, by the way, is the date of the\npresent writing inappropriate to the discussion of such a subject, as\nwe have at this moment discovered by the merest accident. The 6th of\nMay you will find is a Saint's day in the Calendar, being dedicated\nto St. John ante Portam Latinam, the legend connected with which\nis as follows:--The Beloved Disciple, after preaching the Gospel in\nvarious parts of the world, was in his old age taken to Rome by the\nEmperor Domitian, and because he refused to renounce the religion\nof Christ, was put into a cauldron of boiling oil before the Latin\nGate--Porta Latina--which, however, did him no more harm than did\nNebuchadnezzar's fiery furnace to Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego;\non the contrary, John came out of the cauldron rejuvenated, younger,\nfairer, and more beautiful than before. Afterwards a cup of deadliest\npoison was given him to drink, but as he was putting it to his lips,\nthe poison, assuming the appropriate shape of a venomous serpent,\nglided from the cup, leaving the draught harmless and pure. He was\nfinally banished to Patmos, where he wrote the Apocalypse.\n\nOld Fingalian rhymes and proverbs having reference to dogs and the\nhunting of the stag, as it was then pursued, are very common in\nthe Highlands, and show how devoted to the chase were our Celtic\nancestors. Our neighbour, the Rev. Mr. Clerk of Kilmallie, in his\nsplendid edition of Ossian, gives some of these old rhymes in his\nvery interesting and learned notes on Fingal. The following was\nsent us a short time ago, and as it has never appeared in print, we\npresent it to the reader with a liberal translation. We are always\nglad to be able to rescue from oblivion even the smallest shred of\nthe folk-lore of the olden time. The story goes that this rhyme was\nfirst of all taught by a fairy to a gay young hunter \"of the period,\"\nunder the following circumstances:--Once upon a time, a sprightly,\ngreen-robed fairy, a sort of princess in her way, fell in love with\na young Fingalian hunter, who had frequent occasion, on his way to\nand from the chase, to pass the shian or green knoll in which the\nfairy band of the glen had taken up their abode. The fairy and her\nhunter lover had frequent opportunities of meeting in secret, until\nsome evil-disposed sister fairy divulged Brianag's--for that was the\nfairy's name--imprudent and unfairy-like conduct to the powerful fairy\nprince A\u00ebrlunn, who was himself over head and ears in love with the\nbeautiful Brianag, though she gave him no encouragement at all; on\nthe contrary, she flatly told him that, great and powerful as he was,\nshe did not love him in the least, and would have nothing to do with\nhim. On hearing how things were going on, A\u00ebrlunn was very jealous and\nvery angry, just as a mortal might be under similar circumstances, and\nhe issued an edict, as Prince of the Fairies of that glen, by which,\nafter reflecting severely on the unfairy-like conduct of Brianag and\nothers of the band, he prohibited Brianag from leaving the shian on\nany pretence whatever, except for the one hour before midnight on the\nnight when the moon completed her first quarter--perfect liberty to\ndo as they like during this one hour in the month is every fairy's\nbirthright, and no power can deprive them of it. He would have done\nsomething very dreadful to Brianag's lover, only the latter was\nprotected from any evil a fairy enemy could do to him by a talisman\nof extraordinary value, which his uncle, a priest of the Druids,\nhad given him, and which he always carried on his person. Brianag\nand her lover were thus able to meet for one hour in every month,\ndespite the opposition of the angry A\u00ebrlunn, whose jealousy became at\nlast so insupportable, that he resolved to shift his court and people\nfrom that glen to another at a great distance. To this arrangement,\nmuch as she regretted it, as it separated herself and her lover,\nBrianag dare not object. It is a prerogative appertaining to the\nPrinces of Fairyland that they can shift their court at will, when\nand whither they please. The fairy palace thus forsaken is still\nto be seen in Glen Etive, and has ever since been called An Sithean\nSamhach--the Quiet or Deserted Fairy Knoll. On parting with her lover\nat their last interview, Brianag presented him with a silver horn,\nwhose blast could be heard, loud and clear, over the Seven Hills and\nacross the Seven Glens; and knowing that it was his ambition to excel\nall others in the chase, she instructed him as to the best kind of\ndog to have and hunt withal as follows:--\n\n\n    Cuilean bus-dubh, buidhe,\n    Ceud mhac na saidhe,\n    Air \u00e0rach air meog 's air bainne ghabhar,\n    Cha deach' air sliabh air nach beireadh.\n\n\nWhich may stand in English thus:--\n\n\n    Get a yellow brindled dog,\n    First-born of his dam's first litter,\n    With a muzzle black as jet,\n    Reared on whey and milk of goats;\n    No stag in forest can escape him.\n\n\nThose who rear deer-hounds, et juvenes qui gaudent canibus, might do\nworse than experiment a little according to the fairy's receipt; we\nshouldn't wonder at all if a splendid dog was the result, for these\nold rhymes are rarely devoid of reason. There is no reason at all\nevents why such a dog might not turn out well.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI.\n\n    The Leafing of the Oak and Ash--Splendid Stags' Heads--Edmund\n    Waller--Old Silver-Plate buried for preservation in the\n    '45--Mimicry in Birds--An accomplished Goldfinch.\n\n\nWhile mild and May-like enough in the valleys and along the coast line,\nthe weather [May 1872] is reported as having more of March than May\nabout it on the uplands, owing to the prevalence of north-easterly\nwinds, that are at once exceedingly piercing and unseasonably snell. It\nis pleasant at the same time to have to report that, so far, crops of\nall kinds look extremely well, and have seldom been seen so forward\nin mid-May. Potatoes have been distinguishable from field's end to\nfield's end in regular drills for ten days past, and in some instances\nare already undergoing their first weeding and hoeing. Oats show a\nstrong, healthy braird, and nothing but a deficiency of moisture in\nits present stage can prevent ryegrass from being the best crop that\nhas been known in the West Highlands for many years. Much, however,\nwill depend on the nature of the weather for the next fortnight: those\nwho should know best say that the country would be all the better\nof more or less rain on every day for the remainder of the month,\nand we daresay they are right. The lambing season has hitherto been a\nhighly favourable one, though the drought and the keen-edged easterly\nwinds are beginning to be complained of by shepherds in charge of\nupland hirsels. As we write, however, there is appearance of rain,\nwhich cannot fail to be attended by a change of wind to a more genial\nairt, and it is hoped it may fall abundantly. The summer, by the way,\nis likely to be a hot and dry one, if there be any truth in the popular\nbelief that when the oak takes precedence of the ash in presenting its\nrich green foliage to the light, a cloudless, rainless summer is sure\nto follow. We observe that everywhere the oak is now in leaf, while\nthe ash is yet budless and bare to its topmost bough, manifesting\nan unwonted dulness and drowsiness for mid-May, as if it was loth,\neven at the call of summer, to be roused from its hybernal repose.\n\nWe are indebted to the monks of the middle ages for the introduction\ninto our country, and successful cultivation, of some of our choicest\nfruits and most beautiful flowers; nor is it any wonder that in\ntimes when herbalism and the culling of simples was universally\npractised and believed in, numberless shrubs and plants of real or\nsupposed efficacy in the cure of particular ailments should also be\nimported and assiduously cultivated by the same benefactors. In some\ncases, however, the supposed plants of virtue then introduced have\nin our day turned out to be no better than noisome weeds, extremely\ndifficult of eradication, and one of these--how it found its way into\nthis district it would be difficulty to say--is becoming a perfect\npest in some parts of Lochaber. We refer to the plant commonly known\nas Bishopweed, Goatweed, or Herb Gerard, which the botanists have\nhonoured by the high-sounding name \u00c6gropodium podagraria. Gout, as\nits botanical name implies, was the disease in which this rank and\nfoul-smelling weed was supposed to be of extraordinary virtue, and\nfor anything we know to the contrary, it may still possess all the\nvirtues at one time so confidently ascribed to it; but then you see\ngout is altogether unknown in Lochaber--we are too poor, and perforce\nlive too soberly, to be visited by such aristocratic ailments--and\nwhat business therefore this weed has to grow and spread amongst us,\nand become unto us a nuisance and a plague, we cannot imagine: not\nknowing the disease, we could get on very well without the unsavoury\nantidote. Bishopweed, if allowed free growth in suitable soil, will\nquickly cover the ground, to the destruction of everything else,\nits innumerable stalks, crowned with pinnated ash-like leaves,\nattaining to the height of a foot or more. When a single plant once\ngets root-hold in pasture land, it spreads with amazing rapidity,\ndamaging and crowding out the grass in all directions, so that whenever\nand wherever it appears its utter and thorough extirpation, whatever\nthe labour and cost, should be insisted upon with the least possible\ndelay. When plucked by the hand the plant emits a foetid, sickening\nsmell, all trace of which is only effaced from the fingers by a very\nthorough washing indeed. We have observed that neither horse, nor ox,\nnor sheep will of choice touch it, though its being in many places\ncalled goatweed would seem to indicate that it is no more rejected\nby that animal than many other acrid and poisonous plants and herbs\nwhich our other ruminants will not touch even if starving. Of all the\nground pests with which we are acquainted, bishopweed is the worst,\nand we warn our readers, if ever they meet with it in any neglected\ncorner of garden or field, to show it no mercy at all, for it is of\nan unmerciful nature itself, killing every blade of grass it comes\nin contact with, and choking unto the death every other vegetable\nthat it can surmount and master.\n\nThe finest stag's head and antlers that we have ever seen form a\ntrophy in the possession of our neighbour, Mr. Bill, Kilmalieu, the\nmagnificent \"monarch of the waste\" that bore them having fallen to\nthat gentleman's own rifle in Glengour two or three years ago. The\nother day, however, we were shown a set of larger horns, though not\nquite so handsome perhaps, or so faultless in spread and curve,\nand unfortunately imperfect from the loss of one of the tines,\nwhich was picked up by a shepherd in the Black Mount Forest many\nyears ago. The size of beam throughout was something extraordinary,\nand one could not help regretting that it had not the head and neck\nattached, that it might be set up in the style for which the good city\nof Inverness has of recent years become so famous. Such a trophy of\nthe chase, complete in all its parts, would have deserved the place\nof honour amid a thousand such trophies in the noblest hall in the\nkingdom. As we handled these antlers, and poised them at arm's length\nwith admiration, the thought suddenly struck us that Edmund Waller,\nthe poet, must have had some such magnificent trophy before him when\nhe burst into the following apostrophe, in which a well-known fact\nin the natural history of the animal is so happily interwoven with\nthe old mythological legend:--\n\n\n    \"O fertile head! which every year\n    Could such a crop of wonder bear!\n    The teeming earth did never bring\n    So soon so hard, so huge a thing:\n    Which, might it never have been cast,\n    Each year's growth added to the last,\n    These lofty branches had supplied,\n    The earth's bold sons' prodigious pride;\n    Heaven with these engines had been scal'd\n    When mountains heaped on mountains failed.\"\n\n\nLines, by the way, that would form a most happy and appropriate\ninscription for any really fine trophy of this kind.\n\nCalling upon the Misses Macdonald of Achtriachtan the other day at\nFort-William, we were shown some very fine old silver-plate, having\na history of its own, to the recital of which we listened with no\nsmall interest. After the battle of Culloden, a party of \"red-coat\"\nsoldiers entered Lochaber, and employed themselves in pillaging and\nplundering in all directions. Hearing that visitors so unwelcome\nwere in the neighbourhood, Mrs. Cameron of Glenevis, a lady of great\nspirit and decision of character, had all her silver-plate, china,\nand other valuables buried deep in the ground outside the garden wall,\nafter which she removed, with her children and personal attendants,\nto a spacious cave called Uaimh Shomhairle (Samuel's Cave), far up\nthe glen, in the south-western shoulder of Ben Nevis. Meanwhile the\nsoldiers visited Glenevis House, but, disappointed at not finding\nthe valuables they looked for in such a residence, they burned and\nplundered the glen without mercy, the terrified inhabitants taking\nto the mountains, only too glad to escape with their lives, while\ntheir homesteads were in flames, and their cattle either driven away\nor slaughtered on the spot. Lady Glenevis was at last discovered in\nher cave by a party of soldiers, who had somehow heard of her place\nof retreat, and had to undergo much rude treatment at their hands,\nbecause, in defiance of all their threats, she refused to tell where\nthe valuables of which they were in search had been hidden away. As\nthey were about to leave the cave, one of the soldiers, observing\nthat she had something bulky in her breast, of which she seemed very\ncareful, and over which her plaid, fastened with a silver brooch,\nwas carefully drawn, made a snatch at the trinket, and, when the\nlady resisted, drew his sword and made a thrust, which cut open the\nplaid at its point of fastening, wounding her infant son at the same\nmoment in the neck; for the hidden treasure in her bosom, though the\nsoldier doubtless thought it might turn out to be something of more\nmarketable value, was a child only a few months old. The soldiers at\nlast departed, carrying with them the brooch and plaid as the only\ntrophies of their victory over the defenceless lady of the cave. The\nwounded child recovered, though he bore the mark of the sword-thrust\nto his dying day. He lived to be laird of Glenevis, was father of the\nlate much-respected Mrs. Macdonald of Achtriachtan, and grandfather of\nthe ladies above mentioned. We remember hearing our friend, the late\nDr. Macintyre of Kilmonivaig, repeating some very fine Gaelic lines to\na waterfall, something in the style of Southey's address to Lodore,\nwhich he said was by the Mrs. Cameron of Glenevis above mentioned,\nand composed by her while in hiding in the cave. When quieter times\ncame round, the buried valuables were of course exhumed, and were\nfound to be none the worse of their temporary interment.\n\nMost birds are endowed with considerable powers of mimicry, the\nexercise of which, under favourable circumstances, seems, we have\nobserved, to afford them great delight. The bird most celebrated in\nthis respect is, perhaps, the mocking-thrush of America, the singularly\nexpressive and appropriate name of which, among the Mexican aborigines,\nis Cencontlatlolli, which means four hundred tongues or languages,\nconferred upon it in honour and acknowledgment of the fact that,\nwith a rich and varied song of its own, it correctly imitates all\nother songs and sounds as well. Though we have nothing equal to the\nfour-hundred-tongued wonder of America, many of our native British\nbirds are in truth excellent mimics, particularly after they have\nbeen some time in confinement, the tedium and irksomeness of their\nimprisonment being probably alleviated by a constant exercise of their\ngifts in this way, until individuals sometimes attain to a mastery in\nthe art that is perfectly astonishing. Amongst our pets at present is a\ngoldfinch cock, a very fine bird, still perfect at all points, though\nhe must be at least a dozen years old, during ten of which he has\nbeen in our possession as a favourite cage-bird. He is a magnificent\nsinger, and the wisest little fellow in the world; you only wonder,\nindeed, how such a rich flood of song, clear and long sustained, can\nissue from such a tiny throat, and how such a little scarlet-capped\nhead can contain so much intelligence and sagacity. \"Cowie\"--for so\nhe is called, after the bird-catcher from whom we purchased him--is\nabove all things an extraordinary mimic. We have never, indeed,\nknown any bird to equal him in this respect. The chirping of the\nsparrow in the hedge opposite the window at which usually hangs his\ncage; the twittering of swallows, as they flit past on their zigzag\ninsect cruise; the fink, fink of the lively chaffinch; the chirr\nof the ox-eye tit; the bell-like jingle of the blackbird scolding\na prowling cat; the lugubrious notes of the corn bunting's evening\nplaint; the love-cheep of the lesser white-throat; and the quick\nrasping utterances of the excited wren, into whose proper territories\na rival has dared to intrude;--these are each and all imitated by our\nlittle pet with marvellous exactness of note, emphasis, and tone. The\nquerulous cheeping of a chicken that has met with some little accident,\nor for the moment lost sight of its mother, he mimics to the life;\nand he will on such occasions stand on tip-toe, stretch his neck to\nthe utmost, or cling parrot-like to the topmost wire of his cage, in\norder to catch a glimpse of the victim of his ridicule. When tired\nof this, the commoner and coarser part of his art, he will burst\nsuddenly into song, which he will continue sometimes for an hour on\nend, introducing voluntaries and variations without number, in which\nyou can readily distinguish longer or shorter strophes from the songs\nof almost all the birds he has ever had a chance of hearing. Any one,\nindeed, thoroughly familiar with bird-music could easily name the\nprincipal songsters in the district immediately around us solely\nfrom the singing of our talented little polyglot, so faultless is\nhis imitation of the songs as well as \"conversational utterances,\"\nso to speak, of all such birds as he is in the habit of hearing and\nseeing from his cage at the frequently open window. You may be sure\nthat \"Cowie\" is an immense favourite with us all, and that his weight\nin diamonds would hardly induce us to part with him.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII.\n\n    Potato Culture--Sensibility of the Potato Shaw to Weather\n    changes--The Carline Thistle--Burns--The true Carduus\n    Scotticus--The old Dog-Rhyme.\n\n\nOf no place in existence, perhaps, is the old adage, in its most\nliteral sense, truer than of Lochaber, that \"it never rains but\nit pours\" [June 1872]. When we last wrote rain was much needed;\nno mid-March could be dustier or colder than was our mid-May;\nrain, rain was the cry on all hands; the birds, as they alighted\non the branches or flew overhead, cheeped it querulously; the ducks\nquacked it energetically; the hens cackled and gaped for it; while\nthe cattle afield lowed for it in a manner the meaning of which there\nwas no mistaking; and at last the change of weather, so universally\nwished for, came--came first of all in the shape of hail, the dira\ngrando of Horace, the downright pea-size genuine article, which\nleft the hills around as white as if, in questionable taste, they\nhad whitewashed themselves for the season. Hail! fellow, well met,\nwas the natural and appropriate greeting. Then came sleet, a milder\nform of the same visitation, not very pleasant, perhaps, but we were\ngrateful; then with the wind from the west, soft and pleasant as the\nbreath of a child, came warm, genial summer rain; the tiniest blade\nof grass felt the benign influence, and, in the beautiful language\nof oriental imagery, \"the mountains and the hills broke forth before\nus into singing, and the trees and fields clapped their hands.\" It\nis now mild and beautiful exceedingly, with just enough of rain from\ntime to time to keep everything fresh and green, and at full stretch\nof growth, so that crops of all kinds are everywhere making the most\nsatisfactory progress; and although the unseasonable hail and intense\ncold of ten days ago was very trying to the young potato plants in\nexposed situations, we are glad to say that no serious damage has\nresulted, the change from cold to milder weather having been very\ngradual. The damage in such cases always depends on the suddenness,\nor the contrary, of the transition from a low to a high temperature;\na night of frost, followed by a hot sun next day, being most dangerous\nto vegetable life, while frost, followed by rain and cloud, and so\non gradually to heat and sunshine again, rarely does any more harm\nthan merely to give a slight check to what might otherwise prove an\nunhealthy rapidity of growth. In the same way it is found that in\nthe case of animals generally, and in man particularly, it is not the\nactual and immediate amount of cold undergone at any time that kills\nor maims, but the too sudden transition from a very low temperature\nto a comparatively high one. It is probably well enough known to the\nreader that very many of our flowers and plants are hygrometric, some\nof them very sensitively so. By hygrometric we mean that they spread\nout or expand their parts when the sun is bright and the weather is\ndry, while they contract or close them on the approach of moisture\nand cloud. We would at present draw attention to the fact that the\npotato plant, in its earlier stages of growth, is very sensitive in\nthis respect, more so in some years than in others perhaps, according\nas the plants have come up, strong and vigorous and healthy, or the\nreverse; for we think our observations during many years warrant us\nin saying that the more vigorous and healthier the plant, the more\nsensitive will it be found to weather changes--its very sensitiveness\nin this respect, observe, helping forward its growth and preserving its\nvitality, by enabling it to avail itself of every favourable influence,\njust as it enables it to protect itself against such influences as\nare unfavourable or adverse. We were particularly struck with this\nhygrometric sensitiveness in the potato plant a day or two ago. We\nhave an early planted field, more forward, perhaps, than anything\nelse of the kind in the West Highlands, over which we took a friend\nwho happened to call upon us. It was about mid-day, with a bright,\nhot sun overhead, and our friend agreed with us that he had never\nseen potatoes that had come up more regularly, or that looked more\nhealthy and vigorous at the same stage of growth, the fully expanded\nplants already showing leaves broad and beautiful as those of a hazel\ntree in June. In an hour or two afterwards we had occasion to pass\nthe same field, and the change in the appearance of the plants was\nextraordinary. They seemed to have actually grown a couple of inches\nsince mid-day, and our friend exclaimed, \"Well, your potatoes are\nwonderful! look at them now.\" And we did look, not so much, however,\nat the potato field as our friend did; we looked upwards and saw that\nclouds were rapidly forming in the west, one black, finger-like stripe\nof which had already nearly mounted to the zenith, and looking at that\nand at our potato field, we assured our friend that a heavy fall of\nrain, with possibly a gale of wind, was at hand. Our companion was\nastonished; the sun was yet shining brightly, and the greater part\nof the heavens was clear and cloudless; but within little more than\nan hour afterwards the rain fell in torrents, and a smart gale from\nthe south-west was blowing. Our potatoes, however, had foreseen it\nall; were sensible of its approach, while our friend and ourselves\nthought ourselves in the midst of fine weather that might, perhaps,\nlast unbroken for days; and what struck our companion as a sudden\nand mysterious addition to the height of the plants was merely the\neffect of their having gathered themselves together--contracted all\ntheir parts into the least possible compass--thus assuming an upright\npyramidal form, as best enabling them to withstand the assaults of the\napproaching storm. Plants of less health and vigour would, according\nto our theory, have shown the same sensitiveness in the circumstances,\nbut in a manner not so immediate, and to a degree less marked and\nstriking. Our companion of that day, who got a thorough drouking,\nas we say in Scotland, on his way home that afternoon, writes us with\nsome humour that \"as he has always had a great regard for potatoes on\nthe table, both mashed and 'balled,' in their 'jackets,' so in future\nwill he, in acknowledgment of their infallibility in the matter of\nweather changes, view them with respect even in the field.\" It should\nbe stated, by the way, that this hygrometrical property in the potato\nplant rapidly diminishes in sensitiveness as the haulm increases in\nheight and strength, as if it felt that when approaching its full\ngrowth it could afford very much to disregard such weather changes\nas are incident to the mid-summer season; but the reader who has the\nopportunity may verify all we have said upon the subject for himself.\n\nAnother plant still more remarkable for hygrometric properties\nis the common carline, or carlen thistle, the Carlina vulgaris of\nbotanists. It is common enough in some districts of Scotland, though\nthose who do not know it already need not be in the least ambitious of\nthe honour of its acquaintance, unless indeed from a purely scientific\npoint of view, for the carline, wherever it appears, is almost always\nthe infallible sign of a poor soil, miserably farmed. The species\nreceives its name of Carlina from an old story that Charlemagne\nintroduced it into Europe on account of some valuable medicinal\nqualities attributed to it; its virtues in this respect having been\nrevealed, it was said, to Carolus Magnus by an angel in a vision of the\nnight during the prevalence of a deadly plague. Certain preparations\nof its roots and leaves were for centuries afterwards held of great\nvirtue in such internal complaints as demanded violent purgatives for\ntheir removal; and to this day it is, we believe, held in great repute\nby herbalists for the cure of vertigo, headache, and other cerebral\ndiseases. As a weather prognosticator, it is perhaps unequalled by\nany other British plant, the sensitiveness of its involucral scales to\nthe slightest weather changes being so extraordinary as to have from\nvery early times attracted the attention and aroused the wonderment\nof those unacquainted with the fact that similar properties, in a\ngreater or less degree, are common to all plants and flowers--to the\nwhole vegetable kingdom indeed. The carline has a stem of some eight\nor ten inches in height, and bears many pretty purple flowerets set\nin the midst of straw-coloured rays. The carline's sensitiveness\nto weather changes continues long after it has been cut or pulled,\nprovided the heads have not been much hurt or bruised in the process;\non the same principle, we suppose, that some animals are known to\nmanifest unmistakeable signs of muscular irritability long after they\nare otherwise, as we should say, to all intents and purposes dead. We\nhave generally met with the carline thistle among sickly-growing oats,\non poor, thin soil, and sometimes among other luxuriant weeds in a\nneglected potato field. It is amusing, by the way, sometimes to see\nbonnet-badges and pictorial representations of what you are supposed to\nbelieve is the Scottish thistle, evidently copied to the life from one\nof the carline family! which are but pigmies in stature and absolutely\nharmless in the matter of prickliness compared with the grand stately\nfellow bristling with prickles strong as darning needles, and sharp\nand venomous as the sting of a bee, with \"Nemo me impune lacessit\" in\nthe very look of him--the true national emblem! You remember Burns'\nreference to it in a very fine stanza that has been often quoted,\nthat indeed everybody has by heart--\n\n\n    \"Even then, a wish (I mind its power)--\n    A wish that to my latest hour\n      Shall strongly heave my breast--\n    That I for poor auld Scotland's sake\n    Some usefu' plan or book could make,\n      Or sing a sang at least.\n\n    The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide\n      Amang the bearded bear,\n    I turn'd the weeder-clips aside,\n      And spared the symbol dear:\n             No nation, no station,\n               My envy e'er could raise;\n             A Scot still, but blot still,\n               I knew nae higher praise.\"\n\n                          --(Epistle to the Guidwife of Wauchope House.)\n\n\nThe true Carduus Scotticus is not fond of cultivated land, but is\na tremendous fellow when he gets hold of a waste outlying corner to\nhimself, sometimes attaining a height of four or five, or even six\nfeet, with a stem as thick as your wrist, and prickles--no, spikes\nis the word--with spikes, then, as formidable as the bayonets of a\nkilted regiment going into action.\n\nAn anonymous lady correspondent in London sent us a manuscript sheet of\npaper of the last century, containing a very old dog-rhyme. \"The paper\nhas been in our family as long as I can remember, and I have heard my\ngrandfather repeat the lines often before we left the Highlands fifty\nyears ago. The Ronald Mac Ronald Vic John mentioned in the rhyme was,\nI believe, one of the Glencoe family, a celebrated hunter of deer\nin his day. He was killed, as I have heard my grandfather relate,\nat the battle of Philiphaugh. It was the fairy dog-rhyme in one of\nyour recent letters that brought to my mind that such a thing was in\nmy possession.\" Owing to the faded state of the writing, and a very\npeculiar orthography, we had some difficulty in deciphering the lines;\nbut, modernising the spelling a little, the following we believe to\nbe an accurate transcript:--\n\n\n    An c\u00f9 'bh'aig Raonull-mac-Raonuil-'ic-Iain,\n    Bheiradh e sithionn a beinn:\n    Ceann leathan eadar 'dha shuil, ach biorach 's bus dubh air\n    gu shroin.\n    Uchd gearrain, seang-leasrach; 's bha fhionnadh\n    Mar fhrioghan tuirc nimheil nan c\u00f2s.\n    Donn mar \u00e0irneag bha shuil; speir luthannach l\u00f9bta,\n    'S faobhar a chnamh mar ghein.\n    An c\u00f9 sud 'bh'aig Raonull-mac-Raonuil-'ic-Iain,\n    'S tric thug e sithionn a beinn.\n\n\nWhich, rendered as literally as possible, many stand thus in English--\n\n\n    Ronald-son of Ronald-son of John's good dog,\n    He could bring venison from the mountain.\n    He was broad between the eyes; otherwise sharp and black-muzzled\n    to the tip of his nose.\n    With a horse-like chest, he was small flanked, and his pile\n    Was like the bristles of the den frequenting boar.\n    Brown as a sole was his eye;\n    Supple-jointed (was he), with houghs bent as a bow;\n    All his bones felt sharp and hard as the edge of a wedge.\n    Such was Ranald Mac Ranald vic John's good dog,\n    That often brought venison from the mountain.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII.\n\n    A non-\"Laughing\" Summer--Rheumatic Pains--Old Gaelic Incantation\n    for Cattle Ailments.\n\n\nThe best thing, perhaps, that can be said of our summer up to this\ndate [July 1872], is that it has, upon the whole, been amiable and\nsummer-like; has, after the manner of a love-lorn maiden, wept much\nand often smiled, although, until within the last day or two, it has\nnever actually laughed. You loved it, and couldn't help yourself,\nbut your love wanted warmth and fervour, just because of its want of\njocundity and joyousness. Even in our climate, summer is not summer by\nthe mere reading of the thermometer, however sensitive and delicate its\nmercurial indications; one wants brilliant sunshine, with cloudless,\nor almost cloudless skies, to make up a summer as a summer proper\nought to be. The poets of the East and South always speak of summer\nand summer scenes as \"laughing,\" while in more northern and less\nfavoured lands your poet is content to describe otherwise exactly\nsimilar scenes and situations as simply \"smiling,\" \"gentle,\" \"sweet,\"\n\"quiet,\" and so forth, so that an acute critic, by attending to this\nalone, could tell, were other proofs entirely wanting, whether a poet\nwas born under northern skies, or lived and loved, soared and sang,\nin sunnier and more southern climes. Horace has--\n\n\n    --\"mihi angulus ridet.\"\n\n\nHis \"corner,\" observe, does not merely smile; it \"laughs\" under the\nbright blue Italian sky. Lucretius has--\n\n\n    --\"tibi rident \u00e6quora ponti;\"\n\n\nwhich Creech and Dryden, bards of a colder clime, have rendered\n\"smiles,\" but which literally and truly is honest, open, joyous\n\"laughter\" in the southern bard. Metaetasio has--\n\n\n    \"A te fioriscono\n    Gli erbosi prati;\n    E i flutti ridono\n    Nel mar placati.\"\n\n\n\"Ridono,\" observe--laughter again--like his earlier countrymen,\nHorace and Lucretius. Our British poets rarely venture to make spring\nor summer do more than smile; they are afraid of the laughter of the\nsouth, as being quoad hoc an over-bold hyperbole. We can only quote\nat this moment two instances in which the laughter of more favoured\nlands is boldly introduced. John Langhorne, a poet and miscellaneous\nwriter of the last century, author of the Fables of Flora, very\nbeautifully says--\n\n\n    \"Where Tweed's soft banks in liberal beauty lie,\n    And Flora laughs beneath an azure sky.\"\n\n\nAnd Chaucer, the father of English poetry, has the following:--\n\n\n    \"The busy lark\u00eb, messager of daye,\n    Salueth in hire song the morwe gray;\n    And fyry Phebus ryseth up so brighte,\n    That al the orient laugheth of the light.\"--\n\n\nVery finely modernised by Dryden thus:--\n\n\n    \"The morning lark, messenger of day,\n    Saluted in her song the morning grey;\n    And soon the sun arose with beams so bright\n    That all the horizon laughed to see the joyous sight.\"\n\n\nOur summer, then, thus far, has not been a \"laughing,\" but, at the\nbest, a merely smiling summer. There has been but little actual\nsunshine, rarely such a thing as a blue, unclouded sky; but, if we\ndo not err, if the wish be not altogether father to the thought, a\nsplendid autumn, glad and golden--summer and autumn in one, like the\ncompanion scenes in a stereoscope, in close and kindly combination--is\nin store for us. Even as it is, the country is very beautiful, and the\nrains of the west, if superabundant, are at least perfectly harmless\nto any one in ordinary health, no matter how often you get drenched\nthrough and through, as the saying is, provided always you do not idly\nsaunter or sit down for any length of time in wet clothes; neglect this\nprecaution, however, and you may look out for an attack of rheumatism,\nand the taste of pains to which the tortures of the rack were but\na joke--pains as fiery and intense as those threatened against the\nfoul-mouthed Caliban in the Tempest. You recollect what Prospero says--\n\n\n    \"Hag-seed hence!\n    Fetch us in fuel; and be quick, thou wert best\n    To answer other business. Shrug'st thou, malice?\n    If thou neglect'st, or dost unwillingly\n    What I command, I'll rack thee with old cramps;\n    Fill all thy bones with aches; make thee roar\n    That beasts shall tremble at thy din!\"\n\n\nGet wet, then, as often and as much as you like, in the West Highlands,\nbut don't sit down or idle about in wet clothes, is a friend's advice;\notherwise, you will soon have a pretty correct idea of the nature\nof the cramps and aches of which even the brutal Caliban had such a\nhorror that he exclaims:--\n\n\n    \"No, 'pray thee!--\n    I must obey: his art is of such power,\n    It would control my dam's god, Setebos,\n    And make a vassal of him.\"\n\n\nSupplementary to our last paper on the spells and incantations of the\nHighlands, the following has been sent to us by our kind correspondent,\nMr. Carmichael, of the Inland Revenue, Island of Uist, a gentleman\nof whom highly honourable mention is made in Mr. Campbell's West\nHighland Tales, and in some of the notes to the Rev. Dr. Clerk's\nOssian. Mr. Carmichael is more conversant, perhaps, than anybody\nelse with the antiquities and folk-lore of the Outer Hebrides. The\nincantation that follows was taken down by Mr. Carmichael from the\nrecitation of \"an honest, unsophisticated old Banarach, or dairymaid,\nin North Uist, who is even yet occasionally consulted about sickly\ncows\":--\n\n\n    Rann Leigheas Galar Cruidh.\n\n    Cr\u00ecosd' 'us Ostail 'us Eoin\n    An triuir sin is binne gloir\n    A dh-\u00e8irich a dheanada na h-\u00f2ra,\n    Roimh dhorus na Cathrach,\n    No air gl\u00fan deas De Mhic.\n    Air na mnathan m\u00far-shuileach,\n    Air na feara geur shuileach,\n    'Sair na saighdean sitheadach;\n    Dithis a lasachadh alt agus ga 'na adhachadh\n    Agus triuir a chuireas mi 'an urra rin sin,\n    An t-Athair, 'sar Mac 'san Sprorad Naomh,\n    Ceithir ghalara fichead 'an aoraibh duine 's beathaich,\n    Dia ga sgriobanh, Dia ga sguabadh,\n    As t-fhail, as t-fheoil, 'sad 'chn\u00e0imh 'sad 'smuais;\n    'Smar a thog Cr\u00ecosd' meas air bharra gach crann,\n    Gum b'ann a thogas Edhiotsa\n    Gach s\u00f9il, gach gn\u00f9 'sgach farmad,\n    On 'l\u00e0 u dingh gu latha deireannach do shaoghail. Amen.\n\n\nIn English--\n\n\n    A Healing Incantation for Diseases in Cattle.\n\n    Christ and His Apostle and John,\n    These three of most excellent glory,\n    That ascended to make supplication\n    Through the gateway of the city,\n    Fast by the right knee of God's own Son.\n    As regards evil-eyed women;\n    As regards blighting-eyed men;\n    As regards swift-speeding elf-arrows;\n    Two to strengthen and renovate the joints,\n    And three to back (these two) as sureties--\n    The Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost.\n    To four-and-twenty diseases are the reins of man and beast\n    (subject);\n    God utterly extirpate, sweep away, and eradicate them\n    From out thy blood and flesh, thy bones and marrow,\n    And as Christ uplifted its proper foliage\n    To the extremities of the branches on each tree-top,\n    So may He uplift from off and out of thee\n    Each (evil) eye, each frowning look, malice and envy--\n    From this day forth to the world's last day. Amen.\n\n\n\"It is not always an easy task,\" writes our correspondent, \"to\nwrite from the dictation of partially deaf and toothless old women,\"\nand we perfectly agree with him. \"Ostail,\" in the first line of the\nabove spell, we take to be an insular form of Abstol, voc.--Abstoil\nor Abstail--the Apostle par excellence, namely, Paul. Mr. Carmichael\nappends the following elucidatory note:--\"This \u00f2ra or spell can be\nused for either man or beast, and is guaranteed to effect a cure\nin any case! In the case of a four-footed animal a worsted thread\nis tied round the tail, and the \u00f2ra or incantation repeated. The\n\"sn\u00e0thaile\" (sn\u00e0thainn, a thread), as this charm is called, undergoes\nmuch mysterious spitting, handling, and incantation by the woman from\nwhom it is got. The rann or spell is muttered over it at the time of\n\"consecration.\" Usually two threads (d\u00e0 shnathaile) are given, and if\nthe first is not quite successful, the second is sure to be effectual!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV.\n\n    Early sowing recommended--Vitality of\n    Superstitions--Capnomancy--Hazel Nuts: Frequent References to\n    in Gaelic Poetry--How best to get at the full flavour of a ripe\n    Hazel Nut.\n\n\nA fortnight's incessant rain [September 1872]--rain descending\nat times in solid sheets--not only wets the ground and puddles\nthe roads, but makes one's very brains feel soft and sloppy\nand mashed-turnip-wise. You take up a book only to lay it down\nagain. You fill your pipe and set it alight, but with less than\nhalf a dozen whiffs you are more than satiated. The weed has lost\nits flavour. You sit down to write \"doggedly,\" as Johnson says,\nbut with all your doggedness the pen totters over the sheet with\npace uncertain and listless, as if even he felt disinclined for the\ntask, and the sentences, like a squad of raw recruits, refuse to\nfall gracefully into their places, and stumble against each other in\nludicrous confusion, to the consternation and grief of the most patient\nof drill-sergeants. You will not, perhaps, believe it, but it is true,\nnevertheless, that so persistent, penetrating, and inter-penetrating\nhas been the last fortnight's rain, that in nineteen cases out of\ntwenty a lucifer match, \"vesuvian,\" or fusee will obstinately refuse\nto ignite by any other process than putting it into actual contact\nwith fire, and in that case, why, a slip of paper is just as easily\ndealt with, as well as more efficacious for your purpose. Hay and corn\nluckily stand a good deal of rain without being completely spoiled,\nbut we are afraid to estimate the amount of damage that another week's\nwet weather will cause over the West Highlands. All our own hay and\ncorn has been snugly housed more than three weeks ago. Why shouldn't\neverybody sow in February or early March as we do, and have their\ningathering in August, generally our best and driest month? In a\nclimate so treacherous and inconstant as ours is, it is the greatest\nfolly in the world to run the smallest risk that you can possibly\navoid. We have been preaching this particular doctrine for a dozen\nyears past, and it has had some effect in our immediate neighbourhood;\nbut it is sad to see the country at large at this moment--corn and\nhay rotting in the fields, that might, with ordinary prudence and a\nlittle effort, be long ere now snug and safe under \"thack and rape.\"\n\nThe more one inquires the truer does he find the dictum of a\nphilosopher of the last century to be, that \"the superstitions,\nas well as the languages, of all lands and ages are linked together\nby mysterious bonds, which neither time nor distance seem able to\ndestroy.\" In our immediate neighbourhood an instance of a very old\nsuperstition was brought under our notice a few days ago, such as,\nwith all our knowledge of such matters, we had hitherto never dreamt\nof as existing in the Western Highlands. A man went to market at a\nconsiderable distance to sell a good strong two-year-old colt. He did\nnot return on the day his wife expected him, and she became uneasy,\nnot so much for the well-being of her laggard liege lord and master--he\nhad often gone the same errand before, and had always returned safe\nand sound, even if a little later than his better half had a right to\nexpect--but as to whether he had sold the colt, and if for anything\nlike the price settled between the twain as being his fair price\nbefore he left home. She put on a large fire on her hearth, placing,\nwhen it had reached a certain stage of ignition, a bundle of green\nalder boughs atop. When the whole was fully ablaze, she went outside\nand watched the direction of the smoke issuing from her chimney. The\nsmoke was carried in an easterly direction, a lucky quarter, and she\nreturned to the house and told her daughter that, whatever had come\nover the father--and she threatened to tell him a bit of her mind\nas to his doings on his return--the colt at least had been sold, and\nwell sold, for the alder smoke had gone in the best and luckiest of\nall directions, towards the east, in the direction of the rising sun;\nand she had never known the omen fail. The curious thing is that within\nan hour or so on that very evening the man returned, and counted into\nhis wife's lap two pounds and four shillings sterling over and above\nthe expected price of the colt, as agreed upon at home. The only other\ncurious thing that we could gather in connection with the superstition\nis that the alder branches must be cut specially for the occasion, and\nby a virgin. It was so in this case; and we are gravely assured that,\nif it had been otherwise, the ascending smoke would either have drifted\nhither and thither without a purpose, unsteadily, or have uselessly\nintermingled with that of the neighbouring cottages. The superstition,\nyou must know, is a very old one; the Greeks and Romans practised\nit, and from them it spread widely over the European Continent. In\nbooks on magic and divination it is called Capnomancy, derived, as\nour friend Professor Blackie could tell you better than anybody else,\nfrom the Greek Capnos, smoke, and manteia, divination, witchcraft. The\nancients paid attention principally to the smoke of sacrifices, as well\nas to the briskness with which the fire burned. If the smoke ascended\nin a straight columnar body zenithwards, it was a favourable omen;\nif it was violently blown aside, or fell back over the altar and the\nsacrificers, it was of evil augury. Our Highland dame's notion of its\ntaking an easterly course, towards the direction of the breaking day,\nof the dawn, and the morning sun, seems to us full of a rough and rude\npoetry such as you frequently meet with in carefully examining into the\ndetails of even the grossest superstitions. Having had occasion to be\nof some little service to the priestess in this rare act of divination,\nwe had the whole from her own lips, though she was averse at first,\nas is generally the case when a clergyman is the inquirer, to entering\nupon the subject at all. How these practices root themselves among\na people, defying eradication, is very extraordinary.\n\nDid you ever, reader, crack a nut? Not the aristocratic walnut or\nfilbert over your wine, but the far superior, rich, ripe hazel nut\nin its season from off the hazel bough, when the bright autumnal sun\nwas overhead, and the autumnal breeze stirred the leaves around you,\ntheir multitudinous murmur resembling the far-heard music of the\nrestless sea. A ripe hazel nut is good anywhere, but best of all when\ngathered by your own hand in its native wild wood from the overhanging\nbranch, whence the beautiful cluster nods at you as if soliciting\nyour attention, now and again, as you approach to pull it, seeming\nto delight in playing a game of bo-peep with you among the leaves,\nlike as you have seen the Pleiades at times when, though the night\nbe clear, many blanket-like clouds are chasing each other in wild\ncareer athwart the starry blue. Throughout the whole range of poetry,\nthe hazel nut, though often mentioned, has never perhaps had so much\njustice done to it as by the Gaelic bard Duncan B\u00e0n Macintyre. In\nhis Coire-Cheathaich, one of his finest poems, he says:--\n\n\n    Bha cus ra' fhaotainn de chnothan caoine,\n    'S cha b' iad na cacohagan aotrom gann,\n    Ach bagailt mhaola, bu taine plaoisge,\n    'Toirt brigh \u00e1 laoghan na' maoth-shlat fann:\n    'S rath nan caochan 'na dhosaibh caorainn,\n    'S na phreasaibh caola, l\u00e0n chraobh a's mhearg;\n    Na gallain \u00f9ra, 's na faillein dhl\u00f9tha,\n    'S am barrach d\u00f9inte mu ch\u00f9l nan crann.\n\n\nEwen Maclachlan, commonly styled \"of Aberdeen,\" because he taught the\nGrammar School there, and there died, but who was, in truth, a Lochaber\nman--nay, a Nether Lochaber man, born and bred, and whose ashes rest\nin Killevaodain of Ardgour, without, we are ashamed to confess it,\n\"One gray stone to mark his grave;\" he, born at Tarrachalltuinn--the\nHeight of Hazel Trees--in our parish, knew something of hazel nuts,\nand thus happily describes them in their season:--\n\n\n    'S glan f\u00e0ile nan cno gaganach,\n      Air ard-Shlios nan cr\u00f2c bad-dhuilleach;\n    'S trom f\u00e0sor am por bagailteach,\n      Air bharr nam fad-gheug s\u00f2lasach;\n    Theid br\u00ecgh nam fiuran slat-mheurach,\n      'An cridhe nam \u00f9r-chnap blasadach;\n    Gur brisg-gheal s\u00f9gh a chagannaich,\n      Do neach a chaguas d\u00f2rlach dhin.\n\n    'S clann bheag a ghn\u00e0 le'm pocannan,\n      A streup ri h-ard nan dos-chrannabh,\n    A bhuain nan cluaran mog-mheurach,\n      Gu l\u00f9gh'or, docoir, luath-lamhach;\n    'Nuair dh'fhaoisgear as na mogail iad,\n      'S a bhristear plaoisg nan cochall diu,\n    Gur caoin am maoth-bhlas fortanach\n      Bhios air an fhros neo-bhruaileanach.\n\n\nOur nuts are unusually plentiful this year, and of a size and flavour\nthat we do not recollect ever to have seen equalled. They are now\nat that stage of ripeness when they are most delicious to the taste,\nand one may indulge in any amount of them with perfect safety. Most\npeople are fond of nuts, but if the reader wants to enjoy the full\nflavour, to get out of a nut all that is in it, let him take the\nfollowing recipe:--\"First of all, let the nut be cracked, if possible,\nbetween your own molars, for these are, after all, the first and\nmost natural and best of all nut-crackers, better quoad hoc than\nan instrument of the purest silver or steel; and there is besides,\nremember, something pleasant to the palate in the feel and flavour\neven of an uncracked nut. Having cracked your nut, then--and fairly\nplaced between the grinders, a really good nut is not difficult to\ncrack, the worst nuts being always the most difficult to deal with,\nfor the more insignificant the kernel the thicker and dourer the\nshell--having cracked your nut and extracted the kernel, whole if\npossible, introduce it into your mouth, not per se, by itself, as\nis commonly done, but with a small fragment of the shell,--a bit\nof pin's head size will do. Proceed now to masticate the delicious\nmorsel, and confess that there is a delicacy and flavour about a hazel\nnut that you knew not how to extract in full, although in your day\nyou had cracked your bushels of them, until you were taught it from\nNether Lochaber. The philosophy of the thing is that the particle of\nshell introduced with the kernel causes the act of mastication to be\nperformed more thoroughly than it otherwise would be, setting free\nthe full flavour and aroma--all, in short, that a nut has to give.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV.\n\n    Strength of Insects--Necrophoris Vespillo, or\n    Burying-Beetle--Foetid smell of--How Willie Grimmond earned an\n    Honest Penny in Glencoe.\n\n\nThe strength of insects, proportionably to their weight and size,\nwas probably the first characteristic in the minor world to arrest\nthe attention and call forth the admiration of entomologists; and soon\nafterwards, we may believe, the ingenuity, patience, and perseverance\ndisplayed by these pigmies in dealing with any self-imposed piece of\nlabour, must have made the intelligent observer feel and acknowledge,\neven if he could not repeat and had never heard of the mad-wise\nHamlet's dictum, that--\n\n\n    \"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,\n    Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.\"\n\n\nTake an example of something wonderful in insect life, as it chanced\nto come under our notice a few days ago [September 1872]. We were\nraking hay--raking hay, too, after others had raked the same ground\nshortly before us, for we are most particular that, both for the look\nof the thing, as well as for the profit, not a wisp, not a strawlet\nshall be left upon the ground--when, as we raked, we came across a\ndead mole. No rare or wonderful thing, the reader may exclaim, but\nrare enough when you come to think of it, and wonderful enough, too,\nto attract the attention of any one even less observant of natural\nhistory than Nether Lochaber. Lying on its side was the mole, already\nhalf-hidden by the swiftly growing aftermath. Touching it with the\ncorner of our rake, and moving it slightly, we got a glimpse of a\nyellow-banded beetle busy underneath; and at once understanding what\nwas going on, we called our bairns, a couple of girls and a boy, who\nwere raking and laughing a la Madame de S\u00e9vign\u00e9 in the field beside\nus, to give them a lesson on entomology; and as our lesson was fresh\nand to the point, and interesting, though we say it ourselves, and\nrather out of the common track of entomological experience, we give\nit to the reader, that he may know and believe, and reverently ponder,\na truth that has never been so well expressed as by St. Augustine, the\nsturdy, old, bellicose Bishop of Hippo, who of all the Fathers had the\nmost sensitive nose for the out-ferreting of a heretic, and who, when\nhe got hold of one, treated him very much as a Scotch terrier does a\nrat--but who could say and do good things notwithstanding. Deus magnus\nin magnis, maximus in minimis. God is great, that is, in great things,\nbut greatest of all in least things. The mole, as we have said, was\nlying on his side on a grassy patch of fast-growing aftermath, and our\nglimpse of the beetle beneath showed us that it was the Necrophorus\nvespillo, or burying-beetle, rare anywhere in Britain, and so rare\nin Lochaber and the west coast, that this was only the third or\nfourth instance in which we had met with it. It is a black beetle,\nrather more than an inch in length, with two bright orange-coloured\nbands across the back, and more active in all its movements than any\nof its congeners. There were just two beetles, observe--a pair, male\nand female--engaged upon the mole, and the \"mole\" of Adrianus, when\na-building, showed not more labour and not half the mechanical skill\nor indomitable perseverance on the part of its constructors exhibited\nby these tiny but thoroughly skilled excavators in the case of their\nmole. \"You see that mole,\" we said to our attentive audience, leaning\nupon our rake for the moment, as if it were a sceptre of prerogative\nand power, as in truth it was. \"It is almost as big as an ordinary\nsized rat--bigger, you will confess, than three full-grown mice. It\nhas only been dead, say, a dozen of hours; his sleek and still glossy\ncoat proves it. This pair of beetles, then, a single pair remember,\nhave discovered him by an instinct and sense of smell which must be\nwonderfully delicate and keen. They are now, as you may see, busy\ndigging under and around him, and after breakfast to-morrow morning we\nshall come and see the result.\" \"Suppose, papa,\" said one of the girls,\nwith a demure look, though with a merry twinkle in her eye the while,\n\"Suppose, sir, that this afternoon a passing kestrel or owl should\npick up our mole and make a meal of him, what then could we see in\nthe morning?\" \"What you suggest is, no doubt, possible enough,\" was\nour rejoinder, \"but we believe the mole will be here to-morrow morning\nall the same, provided you take example from the animal's proverbial\nwakefulness, and are up and have breakfast ready for us all in good\ntime.\" Meantime, that they might know it again, should they ever come\nacross it, we took up the male beetle, distinguishing the sex from\nhis being somewhat smaller and rather more active than his mate, on\nthe palm of our left hand, and with the fingers of the right turned\nhim on his back to show him properly, the delicate markings of his\nabdomen, his muscular thorax and cas-chrom shaped antenn\u00e6. We soon\nwished we had not done it; it was a thoughtless proceeding on our part,\nand we should have known better. We nearly fainted, and our children\nstarted back in horror and alarm at the foul and foetid smell of the\ncarrion-eating Vespillo. It was horrible; never in all our experience\nwere our olfactory nerves so offended. A pot of stale assafoetida from\na druggist's shop, all the proverbial many dozen stinks of Cologne in\ncombination, would have been a joke to it, a bouquet of roses compared\nwith our Vespillo. It made us quite sick and ill for the moment; but\nwe had the presence of mind to lay down our malodorous beetle beside\nhis beloved mole ere we followed our audience, who were by this time\nscampering in all directions across the field, with their fingers\ntightly compressing their nostrils, and vowing that they would have no\nmore to do with dead moles or burying-beetles, be they ever so brightly\nbanded or interesting from papa's point of view. A message now came\nforth that tea was ready; but no tea could we drink, nor bread could\nwe handle, on account of the horrible smell that still adhered to our\nfingers and palm. Washing with soap and water had no effect upon it,\nfor it seemed to have instantly and thoroughly penetrated and permeated\nskin, flesh, and muscle, and to have reached and lodged in the very\nbone itself, whence it refused to be extirpated. It was only late\nat night, sitting by a briny rock-pool, and using the viscous clay\nof the beach after the manner of soap, that we managed to get quit\nof the foul odour; and even after a final washing with hot water\nand scented soap, as we retired for the night, we still persuaded\nourselves that the loathsome smell had not altogether departed. All\nthe carrion beetles, without exception, and most of the ground beetles\nproper, have always more or less of a disagreeable, sickening smell\nabout them, but in this respect the burying-beetle is worse than all\nthe rest put together; seeming to have centered in his own person a\ncombination of the essences of all possible stenches in their worst and\nfoulest form. In the case of the Vespillo, it is to be noted that the\nfoetid smell, though always there, and easily perceptible, is bearable\nenough while the animal is quiescent and undisturbed, and you do not\napproach it too closely. Tease it, however, in any way; touch it with\nthe point of a switch, or take it up, as we foolishly did, in your\nhand, and the stench, emitted probably in self-defence, as in the\ncase of the skunk and polecat, is of all others the most abominable\nin itself, and the most difficult to get rid of. Next morning, then,\non visiting the mole, as proposed, we found it completely buried,\nwith at least half an inch depth of earth neatly shovelled over it,\nwith a slight ridge in the centre, and sloping sides, showing that\nthe Vespillones are practised grave-diggers. Averse to disturbing\na work that had cost the tiny excavators so much labour, we only\nremoved the earth sufficiently to bring a small patch of the mole's\nfur to view, in proof to those accompanying us that the animal had\nreally been buried by the beetles, as we had said it would be. A\nfull-grown elephant buried by a pair of field mice would hardly be a\nmore wonderful labour. The rationale and raison d'\u00eatre of the whole\nlabour thus carried out with so much diligence and engineering skill\nis this: the carrion of the dead mole, mouse, or bird thus operated\nupon, serves in the first instance partly as food for the beetles\nthemselves (and they richly deserve a feast, such as it is, in reward\nfor their arduous labours), after which the female lays her eggs in\nthe fast-rotting carcase, and it is then left as the doubtless savoury\nbanquet of the larv\u00e6, while the parent pair cruise about in search\nof another dead bird or quadruped of the proper size, whereupon to\nbestow similar attentions. It is principally owing to the labours of\nthese beetles that it happens that although you may see a dead mole,\nmouse, or bird lying in the corner of a field to-day, you shall look\nfor it in vain next morning elsewhere than in a beetle-dug grave,\nas in the above instance. That a single pair of these comparatively\nsmall insects should be able to perform such a gigantic task in so\nshort a time is, in truth, very wonderful, and must seem incredible\nto any one unacquainted with the habits and economy of the order.\n\nThere are doubtless many odd and curious ways of earning even an\nhonest livelihood in this world, but the oddest, and to us, while\nuninitiated, the most puzzling we have met with for a long time, was\nthe following:--On a fine day lately, we took our boat to the mouth\nof the Coe, and were leisurely proceeding up the far-famed glen,\nwhen we saw, a little before us, a diminutive but still active old\nman, whom, from his peculiar style of dress, we had no difficulty\nin recognising as a peripatetic vendor of ballads, letter-paper,\nsteel pens, and other knick-knacks, who frequently pays us a visit in\nLochaber, and with whom, in lieu of better company, we have had many a\nfar from uninteresting roadside crack. As, with a longer and livelier\nstride than his, we were rapidly overtaking him, we noticed that he\nfrequently stopped and picked up something, now from the middle of\nthe road, now from the footpath at the side, and occasionally from\nthe grass beyond, which something he instantly deposited in a sort\nof canvas side-pouch, or wallet slung at his side. \"Well, Willie,\"\nwe exclaimed, as we came up with him, \"what in the world are you\ndoing in the glen to-day, and where's your pack? I wish to have a\nlook at your bundle of ballads?\" \"Weel, sir,\" was Willie's response,\n\"my pack is laid by at Duror just now; my present wark\"--here he made\na dart at something on the grass that looked to us uncommonly like a\nbig black beetle, and transferred it to his wallet,--\"my present wark,\"\nhe went on to say, \"pays far better, and is mair pleasant, besides, in\nthis dreadfu' hot weather.\" \"But what is your present work, Willie?\" we\ninquired, \"what are you so industriously picking up along the road and\ntransferring to your wallet? Snails? beetles? what?\" \"No mony snails,\nor beetles either, sir,\" said Willie, with more entomological good\nsense than we gave him credit for, \"abroad in such hot and dry weather\nas this is. I'm no very fond of telling what I am doing to everybody;\nand when I see anybody coming, I generally sit down and let them pass;\nbut I saw you coming, sir, and I kent ye brawly, and didn't mind. And\nnow I'll show ye what I'm gathering.\" With this he put his hand in his\ncapacious pouch, and took out a handful of cigar and cheroot stumps,\nof all shapes and sizes. Some had been \"smoked out,\" that is, till only\nan inch or so remained; others were only half smoked, and a few had\nonly afforded the smoker a whiff or two, when, from a disinclination to\nsmoke any further, or, perhaps, from some defect in the cigar itself,\nit was thrown away as of no further use. Of these cigar stumps \"Willie\"\nhad at that moment nearly a pound weight in his wallet, the result\nof his forenoon's labours. We daresay we looked, as we really were,\nvery much puzzled, which, Willie observing, he politely asked us for\na light for his pipe, and invited us to sit on a ledge of rock by\nthe roadside, and he would \"tell us a' aboot it.\" Our pipes alight,\nwe sat down accordingly, and Willie proceeds as follows:--\"Weel, sir,\nI doubt if ever there was such a number of strangers--tourists, as\nthey ca' them--day after day in Glencoe as there are this year. And\na' the gentlemen that goes up the glen smoke, and I have seen some\nof the ladies--forrenders, I suspect--smoking too, the mair shame to\nthem. They a' maistly smoke cigars, and they throw them from them when\nthey're done with them; sometimes only a short stump, and sometimes\nalmost a hail ane, as I have shown ye; and I pick them up and sell\nthem in Greenock or Glasgow for three ha'pence or tuppence the ounce,\nand that's a' aboot it.\" \"But what,\" we inquired, \"do they make of\nthem in Glasgow?\" \"Weel, sir,\" he replied, \"I believe some of them,\nthe cleanest, langest, and best bits, are unrolled, and made up anew\ninto cigars, and the shorter and dirtier stumps are dried and broken\ndown to mix with other tobacco, in making the mixtures called 'bird's\neye,' 'shag,' exetry, exetry.\" We ordered Willie a glass of beer\nat Clachaig, and went on our way with a bit of curious information,\ntill that particular date undreamt of in all our philosophy.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVI.\n\n    Seaweed as a Fertiliser--Homer, Horace, Virgil--November\n    Meteors--Gaelic Folk-Lore--A Curfew Prayer--A Bed Blessing--A\n    Cattle Blessing--Rhyme to be said in driving Cattle to\n    Pasture--\"Luath,\" Cuchullin's Dog--Notes from the Outer Hebrides.\n\n\nFrom a utilitarian point of view, at least, the ancients seem\nto have looked upon the sea and all its products--exclusive, of\ncourse, of its myriad inhabitants of finny tribes--as absolutely\nworthless. Homer in the Iliad constantly speaks of the sea as\n\"unfertile,\" al\u00f2s atrug\u00e9toio,--literally, the ocean where no harvest\ncan be gathered; and Horace in one of his satires says that a man\nmay be possessed of all the virtues, and all the accomplishments,\n&c. to boot, but if yet sine r\u00ea--without means, moneyless, or to use,\nperhaps, the best equivalent that our language can afford, without\nsubstance--he shall be accounted \"vilior alg\u00e2,\" viler than seaweed,\nor, as we should say, viler than the dust on which he treads. Even\nVirgil in the Georgics has no good word for the sea as in any sense,\ndirectly or indirectly, subservient to husbandry, or an ally to the\ntiller of the ground. Had these master-poets of Greece and Rome,\ngentle reader, lived with us here in Nether Lochaber, in the seventh\ndecade of the nineteenth century, they would have thought and said\ndifferently. Homer would have probably selected a more appropriate\nepithet than that constantly employed by him; Horace would have\ncast about for some other fitting dissyllable as a substitute for\n\"alg\u00e2;\" and Virgil would have written, as he alone could write, a\nscore or two of unexceptionable hexameters in praise of seaweed as\nan excellent manure and fertiliser of the soil. \"It is an ill wind,\"\nquoth the proverb, \"that blows nobody good;\" and disastrous in many\na place as was the dreadful storm of the first week of this month\n[November 1872], here along the western seaboard it only blew us\ngood, in the very tangible and tangly shape of thousands of tons of\ndrift-ware, that, laid on the soil in fair abundance just now, prepares\nit without any more trouble for the reception of seed, when, ushered\nin by the vernal equinox, the jocund, jolly spring comes round. For\nthe last fortnight, wherever you wandered about the coast, you found\nthe people in every direction--men, women, and children--busy as busy\ncould be gathering and carting afield this really valuable product\nof the sea--Homer and Horace to the contrary notwithstanding. We draw\nattention to the subject at present by reason of its timeousness, and\nbecause within recent years we have had it made clear to us beyond all\ncavil, and in the most practical manner possible, that for potatoes\nat least there is no manure for a moment to be compared with a heavy\nblanketing of drift-ware laid on the ground in early winter. On our\nown land this year a field of potatoes thus treated was a third at\nleast better than another of equal size manured from the farmyard\n\"heap\" in the usual orthodox manner. The soil, observe, was the same,\nthe seed the same, the date of planting the same--the only difference\nbeing in the manure. In the experience of such of our neighbours, too,\nas have tried it, the result has been precisely the same. The salts and\nother essential ingredients of seaware seem to be really antagonistic\nto the spread of \"blight\" among the tubers; and we would strongly\nadvise as many of our readers as have the opportunity to experiment\nfor themselves in the direction indicated during the present winter and\nspring, and we are ready to wager our good porcupine-shafted \"Pickwick\"\nsteel pen against the vilest crow-quill, that, on the ingathering of\nthe crop this time twelve months, our advice, in nineteen cases out\nof twenty, will have been found to be a sound and good one.\n\nSince the cessation of the terrible gales of the early part of\nthe month, the weather has been bright, bracing, and breezy,\nwith occasional snow showers along the uplands, that have already\nconverted the many mountain ridges around each into a veritable Sierra\nNevada. On the nights of the 13-14th and 14-15th we sat up till a late,\nor rather an early hour, keenly on the watch for a meteoric display,\nin railway nomenclature, then due, but which, up to the date of the\npresent writing, has not yet put in an appearance. Meteors there were,\nbut they were the mere phosphorescent streaks rarely looked for in\nvain by the student of the heavens on a fairly cloudless night at\nthis season. The lunar eclipse of the early morning of the 15th was\nwell seen, the beautiful orb, like a shield of burnished silver,\nriding serene in the unclouded blue; but the obscuration was too\npartial to be in any way interesting or striking to any one who had\ngazed on the phenomenon in its grander phases as often as we have done.\n\nTo our good friend Mr. Carmichael of South Uist we are indebted for\nthe following contributions to our stock of ancient Celtic folk-lore,\na subject much neglected, but of very great interest notwithstanding:--\n\n\n    Urnuigh Smalaidh Teine.\n\n    A prayer to be said at covering up the fire at bedtime.\n\n    (Taken down from the recitation of a man living at Iocar of Uist.)\n\n\n    Sm\u00e0laidh mise an teine;\n    Mar a sm\u00e0las Mac Moire.\n    Gu'm bu sl\u00e0n an tigh 's an teine,\n    Gu'm bu sl\u00e0n do 'n chuideachd uile.\n    Co sid air an l\u00e0r?\n    Peadair agus P\u00e0l,\n    Co air a bhith's an aire 'nochd?\n    Air Moire geal 's air a Mac.\n    Beul De a dh'innseas,\n    Aingeal geal a lann'ras,\n    Aingeal 'an dorus gach taighe\n    Gu solus gael a maireach.\n\n\nWhich may be rendered into English as follows:--\n\n\n    I will cover up the fire aright,\n    Even as directed by the Virgin's own Son.\n    Safe be the house, and safe the fire,\n    And safe from harm be all the indwellers.\n    Who is that that I see on the floor?\n    Even Peter himself and Paul.\n    Upon whom shall this night's vigil rest?\n    Upon the blameless Virgin Mother and her Son.\n    God's mouth has spoken it.\n    A white-robed angel shall gleam in the darkness,\n    An angel (to keep watch and ward) at the door of each house\n    Till the return of the morrow's blessed light.\n\n\nHaving thus duly covered up the fire, and committed the house and\nits inhabitants to the Divine protection during the watches of the\nnight, the following \"Bed Blessing\" was repeated by each as the people\nretired to rest:--\n\n\n    Altachadh Leapa'.\n\n    Laidhidh mise 'nochd\n    Le Moire's le 'Mac,\n    Le mathair mo Righ,\n    'Ni mo dhion 'o dhroch-bheairt,\n    Cha laidh mise leis an olc,\n    'S cha laidh an t'olc leam;\n    Ach laidhidh mi le Dia,\n    'S laidhidh Dia ma' rium.\n    Lamh dheas Dhe fo'm cheann,\n    Crois nan naoi aingeal leam.\n    'O mhullach mo chinn\n    Gu craican mo bhonn.\n    Guidheam Peadair, guidheam P\u00f2l,\n    Guidheam Moir-Oigh' 'sa Mac.\n    Guidheam an da ostal deug,\n    Gun mise 'dhol eug le'n cead.\n    'Dhia 'sa Mhoire na gloire.\n    'S a Mhic na oighe cubhraidh\n    Cumabh mise o na piantan dorcha,\n    'S Micheal geal' an c\u00f2'ail m'anama.\n\n\nWhich, fairly translated into English, will stand thus:--\n\n\n    A Blessing to be said at Bedtime.\n\n    This night I will lay me down to sleep\n    In the companionship of the Virgin and her Son,\n    Even with the mother of my King,\n    Who protects me from all evil.\n    I will not lie down to sleep with evil,\n    Nor shall evil lie down to sleep with me;\n    But I shall sleep with God.\n    And with me shall God lie down.\n    His good right arm be under my head;\n    The cross of the Nine Angels be about me,\n    From the top of my head\n    Even to the soles of my feet.\n    I supplicate Peter, I supplicate Paul,\n    I supplicate Mary the Virgin and her Son,\n    And I supplicate the twelve Apostles,\n    That evil befall me not this night, with their consent.\n    Good and ever glorious Mary,\n    And Thou, Son of the sweet-savoured Virgin,\n    Protect me this night from all the pains of darkness!\n    And thou, Michael, ever beneficent, be about for the safe keeping\n                                                             of my soul!\n\n\nApart from the appropriateness and almost absolute faultlessness\nof the rhythm and language in which they are couched, nothing\nabout these old Hebridean \"Blessings\" seems to us so beautiful and\nstriking as the nearness with which they bring Heaven and its active,\nceaseless beneficence, to the very firesides and commonest affairs\nof men. Nothing is too small or insignificant to be placed, not in\na general way observe, but in the most literal particular sense,\nunder the Divine guardianship. With these old people, in their\nocean-girt and storm-swept islands, God was not merely the creator,\nbut the ever present, ever near father, protector, and friend,\nwhile to them His angels were in very truth \"ministering spirits,\nsent forth to minister for them who shall be heirs of salvation\"--not\nmerely in spiritual matters, we are to remark, but in all the affairs\nof common, every-day life. Since the days of the ancient Hebrews,\nnowhere shall we find so firm and fixed a belief in a direct and\nconstant intercourse and communion for good between Heaven and Earth.\n\nThe following \"Blessing,\" to be said over cattle when being led to\npasture of a morning, is exceedingly interesting:--\n\n\n    Rann Buachailleachd.\n\n    Siubhal beinne, siubhal coille,\n    Sinbhal gu r\u00e8idh fada, farsuinn,\n    Banachag Phadruig ma 'n casan,\n    'S gu faic mise sl\u00e0n a rithisd sith.\n    An seun a chuir Moire mu 'buar,\n    Moch 'us anmoch 'sa tigh'n bhuaidh',\n    Ga'n gleidheadh o pholl, o eabar.\n    O fheithe, o adh'rcean a cheile,\n    O liana' na Craige-Ruaidhe,\n    'S o Luaths na F\u00e9inne.\n    Banachag Phadruig ma'r casan,\n    Gu'm bu sl\u00e0n a thig sibh dhachaidh.\n\n\nIn English thus--\n\n\n    A Rhyme to be said in driving Cattle to Pasture.\n\n    Wandering o'er uplands, wandering through woods,\n    Hither and far away wander ye still,\n    St. Patrick's own milkmaid attend your steps\n    Till safe I see you return to me again.\n    The charm that Mary made to her cattle,\n    Early and late, going and coming from pasture,\n    Still keep you safe from quagmire and marsh,\n    From pitfalls and from each other's horns,\n    From the sudden swelling (of the torrent about) the Red Rock\n    And from Luath of the Fingalians.\n    St. Patrick's milkmaid attend your feet,\n    Safe and scaithless come ye home again.\n\n\nThe reference to \"Luath,\" Cuchullin's matchless dog, so celebrated\nin the Ossianic poems and old Fingalian tales, is curious. The ghosts\nof the Fingalian heroes, existing in a sort of middle state--not yet\nexactly saved nor wholly lost--with those of their famous dogs, were\nbelieved to visit at times the scenes of their former exploits for the\nsake of the hunting, in which they so much delighted, and a cow or\nother animal, running about excitedly and wildly, and, to all human\ninvestigation, causelessly, was supposed to be the work of a passing\nFingalian hunting party, invisible to mortal eyes, Luath, unmatched\nin spirit-land as upon earth, still leading the chase as of old. On\nthe lines about St. Patrick's dairymaid or milkmaid Mr. Carmichael\nhas the following note, which will be read with interest, and which\nwe give in his own words:--\n\n\n    \"'Banachag Phadriug mu'r casan.'\n    (St. Patrick's dairymaid be around your feet.)\n\n\nBanachag is the Hebridean form of the Banarach of the mainland, and\nBanachogach or Banacach is the Hebridean term for the smallpox. You\nwill observe the close resemblance between the Gaelic word for\na dairymaid and that for the smallpox. I think the explanation is\nobvious. Dairymaids were wont to get the cow-pox, and people confounded\nthe cow-pox with the smallpox. Hence, in the Highlands old people will\ntell you that effects of the cow-pox were known long before Jenner's\ncelebrated discovery. Hence, also, you will rarely meet with a woman\nin the Highlands disfigured from the effects of smallpox. Not so the\nmen, however. In England, again, in the rural parishes, the case is\nreversed. There you will see women pox-marked, but seldom men. The\nreason I take it to be is this:--In the Highlands it is the woman who\nmilk the cattle, and in doing so they get the cow-pox off the cows\nin milking them. A Highlander would consider it unmanly to milk a\ncow. I have never seen or heard of one who could or would do this,\nexcept a young man in Lismore. Three or four young men, brothers,\nhad a small farm among them. Their mother died and their two sisters\nmarried, and probably remembering Calum-Cille's celebrated saying--\n\n\n             'Far am bi b\u00f2 bith'dh bean,\n             S' far am bi bean bithidh buaireadh.'\n    (Where there is a cow there will be a woman,\n    And where there is a woman there will be mischief.)\n\n\nThey resolved to do without a woman in their house at all; and they\nsucceeded for a time, but not for long, for--\n\n\n    'Man, the hermit, sighed, till woman smiled.'\n\n\nOne of them ultimately brought home a wife, who soon became a cause\nof discord and ill-will among the previously happy and affectionate\nbrothers. But this is digressing. In England it is the men who\nmilk the cows. Most men in rural parishes can milk, and but few\nwomen. Consequently in the agricultural districts of England you\nhardly ever see an elderly man disfigured by the smallpox, but you\ncan see many women so disfigured. These suggestions are simply the\nresults of my own observations in England and in the Highlands. They\nmay be to the purpose or not, I don't know.\"\n\nWe think they are to the purpose, and we are very much obliged to our\ncorrespondent for his many interesting contributions from the Outer\nHebrides to our stock of \"auld-world\" folk-lore.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVII.\n\n    The Delights of Beltane Tide--Bishop Gawin Douglas--His\n    Translation of the \u00c6neid--The Fat of Deer--\"Light and Shade\"\n    from the Gaelic--Mackworth Praed--Discovery of an old Flint\n    Manufactory in the Moss of Ballachulish.\n\n\nIn the poetry and proverbs of our country you constantly meet with\nreferences which go to prove that alternations of sunshine and\nshower [April 1873] have for ages been held to be the meteorological\ncharacteristics of an April day throughout the British Islands,\nand most of all, perhaps, in Scotland. To go no further, you will\nremember Scott's concluding lines in Rokeby--\n\n\n    \"Time and Tide had thus their sway,\n    Yielding, like an April day,\n    Smiling noon for sullen morrow,\n    Years of joy for hours of sorrow.\"\n\n\nThis, however, has been the driest April known in the West Highlands\nfor at least a score of years past. Hardly any rain has fallen during\nthe month, and with a bright sun overhead, and drying north-easterly\nwinds, rivers and streams have seldom been at a lower ebb even in\nmidsummer, while in some places you hear complaints of an absolute\nscarcity of water even for ordinary household purposes--a very rare\nthing, indeed, in the West Highlands at this season of the year,\nor for that matter of it at any season. There was, however, such a\nsuperabundance of moisture in the ground, from the heavy rains of the\npast winter, that vegetation has as yet suffered little or nothing\nfrom the drought, and the country is beautiful exceedingly in all\nits greenery of leaf and gaiety of expanding blossom and bursting\nbud. Our wild-birds never had a finer nesting season, and they are\nnow literally as merry as the day is long, for with the first flush\nof dawn in the east they begin their rich and varied song, which, with\na short interval of quiescence and repose about mid-day, is continued\nwithout interruption until long after the sun has set and the earlier\nstars are already twinkling through the twilight gloom. April will\nbe succeeded by the \"merry month of May,\" which, with the exception\nof two, or at most three, cold days, with frost at night, about the\n10th, is pretty sure to be an unusually fine month even for May. It\nwas an article of belief in the hygienic code of the old Highlanders,\nand which you come across occasionally even at the present day, that\nthe invalid, suffering under no matter what form of internal ailment,\nupon whom the sun of May once fairly shed its light, was pretty sure\nof a renewed lease of life until at least the next autumnal equinox,\nand how fine, by the way, and lightsome and cheery withal, Bishop\nGawin Douglas' apostrophe (circa 1512):--\n\n\n   \"Welcum the lord of licht, and lamp of day,\n    Welcum fosterare of tender herbis grene,\n    Welcum quickener of flurest flouris schene,\n    Welcum supporte of every rute and vane,\n    Welcum comfort of all kind frute and grane,\n    Welcum the birdis beild upon the brier,\n    Welcum maister and ruler of the yeare,\n    Welcum weilfare of husbands at the plewis,\n    Welcum repairer of woddis, treis, and bewis,\n    Welcum depainter of the blomyt medis,\n    Welcum the lyf of every thing that spedis,\n    Welcum storare of all kind bestial,\n    Welcum be thy bricht beams gladand all!\"\n\n\n(Prologue to \"xii. Buke of Eneados of Virgill.\")\n\n\nThe \u00c6neid has been often translated into English, both in prose and\nverse, since the days of Gawin Douglas, but we doubt if the Mantuan\nbard has ever been more happily rendered than by the good Bishop of\nDunkeld. The following is his rendering of perhaps the best known\nand perhaps the most frequently quoted passage in Virgil:--\n\n\n                  \"Facilis descensus Averni,\n    Noctes atque dies patet atri janua Ditis;\n    Sed revocare gradum, superasque evadere ad auras\n    Hoc opus, hic labor est,\" &c.\n\n    \"It is richt facill and sith gate, I th\u00e8 tell,\n    For to descend and pass on doun to hell:\n    The black yettis of Pluto and that dirk way,\n    Standis evir open and patent nycht and day:\n    But therefra to return agane on hicht,\n    And bere aboue recouir this airis light,\n    That is difficill werk, there labour lyis;\n    Full fewe there bene quhom heich aboue the skyis,\n    Thare ardent vertew has rasit and upheit,\n    Or yet quhame squale Jupiter deifyit,\n    Thay quhilkis bene gendrit of goddis may thidder attane.\n    All the midway is wilderness vnplane,\n    Or wilsum forrest; and the laithly flude\n    Cocytus with his dresy bosom vnrude\n    Flowis enuiron rounde about that place.\"\n\n\nWarton (History of English Poetry) says of Bishop Douglas' \u00c6neid,\nthat \"it is executed with equal spirit and fidelity, and is a proof\nthat the Lowland Scotch and English languages were then nearly the\nsame.\" We may state that Douglas' \u00c6neid, irrespective of its many\nand great intrinsic merits, is especially interesting, as being the\nfirst translation of a Roman classic into the English language either\nin verse or prose. We have quoted above an old Highland belief in the\nexceeding efficacy, even in the most serious ailments, of the kindly\nbeams of a May-day sun. Another belief of theirs was this--\n\n\n    \"Geir f\u00e8idh air a ghabhail 'n ad bhroinn, 's air a shuathadh ri d'\n    dhruim 's ri d' thaobh--\n    Am fear nach leighis sid, cha'n 'eil leagheas ann.\"\n\n\nThat is--the fat of deer applied internally and externally, the\ninvalid whose sickness that does not heal, why, then, there is no\nhealing for him. The old Highlanders, you see, knew the value of deer:\nthey hadn't a good word to say of sheep.\n\nA few days ago we went into a cottage where a woman was sitting\nspinning, and singing a song we had not heard for many years, though we\nrecollect hearing it frequently sung in boyhood. The soft and plaintive\nair was an old favourite, and her style of singing pleasing. With a\nvery sweet voice and much feeling, she sang it all on requesting her to\ndo so; and after tea in the evening we threw the verses into English,\nas follows. It is, however, rather an imitation than a translation. The\noriginal, which is probably known to many of our readers, beginning--\n\n\n    \"Tha'n oidhche dorcha, dubh, gun reult\n    Tha aibh's na speur fo ghruaman,\" &c.\n\n\nis old; how old we know not. Nor have we any clue to the name of the\nauthor, or more probably authoress. Of the authors, indeed, of many\nof our very finest Gaelic songs may be said what was said of the old\nnameless border-bard, that they--\n\n\n    \"Nameless as the race from whence they sprung,\n    Saved other names and left their own unsung.\"\n\n\nThe song in Gaelic has no particular title. It is known by the two\nfirst lines quoted above, just as we say, \"Of a' the airts the wind\ncan blaw,\" and \"Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon.\" In default of\nanything better, our English version may perhaps appropriately enough\nbe entitled--\n\n\n    Light and Shade.\n\n    Dark and dreary is the world to me,\n      No sun, no moon, no star;\n    Vainly I struggle on my midnight sea,\n      No beacon gleams afar;\n    A wilderness of winter, frost and snow,\n    Sad and alone I hang my head in woe.\n\n    'Tis vain to strive against the will of fate\n      (No sun, no moon, no star);\n    Where I had looked for love, I found but hate\n      (No beacon gleams afar);\n    I gave my heart, my all, to one who cares\n    Now nought for me--no one my sorrow shares.\n\n    Cares not my love though I were dead and gone\n      (No sun, no moon, no star!)\n    God help me, I am weak and all alone\n      (No beacon shines afar):\n    I dare not reveal my grief, I dare not tell;\n    The fire that burns my heart no tears can quell.\n\n    Traveller that passest o'er hill\n      (May thy night have its star!)\n    Acquaint my love that you have left me ill,\n      And seen my bleeding scar;\n    'Twere better to have killed than maimed me thus--\n    A bird with broken wing in the lone wilderness.\n\n    I once was happy, and how bright was then\n      Sun, moon, and every star!\n    Spotless and pure I laughed along the glen;\n      When, swift to mar\n    This happiness and peace, the spoiler came\n      And left me all bereft--the child of shame.\n\n    And yet I do not hate him, woe is me\n      (No sun, no moon, no star!)\n    But shun him, O ye maidens frank and free!\n      'Twere better far\n    That you were lifeless laid in the cold tomb,\n    In all your virgin pride and beauty's bloom.\n\n    But God is good, and He will mercy have;\n      (How bright the morning star!)\n    Even the weary-laden find a grave--\n      (The beacon shines afar!)\n    Bless, Father of our Lord so meek and mild,\n      An erring mother and a helpless child.\n\n\nThe moral of our song is obvious, though you will observe the story is\ntold with all possible delicacy and good taste, a characteristic, by\nthe way, of our best Gaelic poetry. The reader may easily understand\nthat, sung in proper time and place, and with proper feeling, such\na song is calculated to have a good effect, and convey a healthy\nlesson in its own indirect way, when a sermon or moral exhortation,\nhowever well meant, would be altogether out of the question. There\nis much sound sense in Mackworth Praed's Chaunt of the Brazen Head,\nthe first verse of which is this--\n\n\n    \"I think, whatever mortals crave\n      With impotent endeavour,\n    A wreath--a rank--a throne--a grave--\n      The world goes round for ever;\n    I think that life is not too long,\n      And, therefore, I determine,\n    That many people read a song,\n      Who will not read a sermon.\"\n\n\nAt a bridal, baptism, or other merry-making, such a song as the above\nis calculated to do more good than the most laboured, well-meant,\nand goody-goody sermon that ever was preached. As we rode away from\nyonder cottage door, the woman resuming her task, and chanting a gay\nand lively air in accompaniment, we were reminded of a verse quite\napropos to the occasion:--\n\n\n    \"Verse sweetens toil, however rude the sound:\n      All at her work the village maiden sings;\n    Nor while she turns the giddy wheel around,\n      Revolves the sad vicissitude of things.\"\n\n\nAnd we also thought of the simple and beautiful epitaph on the tomb\nof a nameless Roman matron:--\n\n\n    \"Domum mansit, lanam fecit,\"\n\n\nwhich old Robertson of Strowan has so admirably rendered into our\nScottish Doric:--\n\n\n    She keepit weel the house, and birlt at the wheel!\n\n\nA discovery of considerable arch\u00e6ological interest has recently been\nmade by some people employed in trenching the moss of Ballachulish\nin our neighbourhood. At a depth of ten feet in the \"drift\" subsoil,\nunderlying six or seven feet of moss, only removed within recent years\nin the ordinary course of peat-cutting, was found the remains of what,\nin the far past, must have been a flint instrument manufactory on\na large scale. Within an area of twenty or thirty square yards was\ndisclosed several cartloads of flint chippings, manifestly broken\noff in the manufacture of flint instruments, for we have been able\nto secure several arrow heads, two roughly finished chisels, and\na hammer head of curious shape, with a hole in the centre, which\nmust have cost the maker no small amount of time and trouble in the\nmanipulation. What renders this \"find\" more interesting is the fact\nthat the material must have been brought to the place of manufacture\nfrom a considerable distance, flint being of rare occurrence anywhere\nin Nether Lochaber. Underlying such a depth of solid moss and drift,\nsuch a discovery necessarily carries us back to a race of men who\nlived in a very remote period indeed; how remote, even geology is\nas yet unable absolutely to say. We were unfortunately from home\nat the time the discovery was made, and were thus prevented from\nexamining the whole in sit\u00fb. This much, however, is certain, that\nunder a diluvial bed of drift, gravel, and sand of upwards of two\nfeet in thickness, underlying a thickness of at least six feet of\nsolid moss, a flint instrument manufactory is found, the work of\na people who lived before the deposit of that drift and the growth\nof that moss. How many thousands and thousands of years ago lived\nthat flint-working race, who, in view of the extreme slowness of\ngeological changes, can say? We know that in the celebrated case of\nthe discovery of flint weapons at Abbeville and elsewhere in France\nthe remains of extinct species of elephant, rhinoceros, and other\nmammals were found at an immense depth in the drift alongside of\nflint instruments unquestionably fashioned by human hands. Whether\nour Ballachulish discovery is to be held as a connecting link with\na people of an antiquity as remote as those of Abbeville, it would\nbe rash positively to assert; but the flint workers, some remains of\nwhose labours have, as we have stated, been recently brought to light\nin our neighbourhood, must have lived at a period when the face of\nthe country was geologically very different from what it is now; and\nremembering how slowly as a rule geological changes are brought about,\nwe shall probably be still within the mark, if approximately we fix\nthe era of the earliest flint workers at something like ten thousand\nyears ago, and in the case of Abbeville, Continental arch\u00e6ologists\nhave had no hesitation in suggesting a still remoter antiquity.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVIII.\n\n    Warm showery Summer, disagreeable for the Tourist, but pastorally\n    and agriculturally favourable--Xiphias Gladius, or Sword-Fish,\n    cast ashore during a Midsummer Gale--Garibaldi dining on Potatoes\n    and Sword-Fish steaks at Caprera--The General's Drink--Medicinal\n    virtues of an Onion--Nettle Broth--Translation of a New Zealand\n    Maori Song.\n\n\n\"Rather showery, sir,\" exclaims the pleasure-seeking butterfly tourist\nas he stands at his hotel window, or settles himself as comfortably\nas may be on the box-seat of the coach in the morning. \"Not a bit of\nit, sir,\" responds the sturdy agriculturist or well-to-do drover;\n\"not a bit of it, sir, the finest growing weather we could have:\ncattle and sheep getting into condition famously!\" [July 1873]. In\nsuch a case it is best to avoid declaring positively for either\nparty. In medio tutissimus ibis. Both are right from their individual\nstandpoint; that of the agriculturist and drover being the utilitarian\nand anti-poetic, while the sentimental tourist, bent on sight-seeing\nand recreation, very pardonably grumbles that instead of clear skies\nand refreshing breezes he is as often as not enveloped in mist and\nsmall rain. In any case the country is at present most beautiful,\nand despite the grumblings of a few, who foolishly expect to have \"a'\nthe comforts of the Sautmarket\" about them whithersoever they wander,\nsuch batches of tourists as we forgather with from time to time are\nin raptures with our glens, and bens, and lochs, and richly wooded\nshores, as well they may. And never before in the West Highlands\nwere all the conveniences for \"touristing\" with ease and comfort,\nand all reasonable despatch, so perfect and so varied.\n\nA tolerably perfect, though not very large specimen of the sword-fish,\nthe Xiphias gladius of ichthyologists, was cast ashore in our\nneighbourhood during an unusually heavy midsummer gale from the\nsouth-west last week. The length of the elongated snout, commonly\ncalled the sword or dagger, was two feet seven inches, a really\nformidable weapon, with which it has been known, whether willingly\nor unwillingly it would be difficult to say, to perforate the bottom\ntimbers of the stoutest ships, the sword in such cases luckily breaking\noff as a rule, and thus becoming an immediate as well as an efficient\nplug or stop-gap to the perforation. It is a more frequent visitor to\nour shores than our natural history books would lead one to believe,\nhardly a summer passing but you hear of one or more being caught\nor cast ashore somewhere. This is the fourth specimen that within\ntwenty years has come under our personal inspection here on the west\ncoast. The largest and finest we ever saw was captured by a well-known\nFort-William fisherman, Iack Cr\u00f9bach, or Lame Jack. If we well\nremember, we think he told us that somebody gave him a sovereign for\nit. Its flesh is said to be excellent eating, while its liver affords\nan oil equal to eel oil in transparency, and of marvellous virtue,\nit is said, as a medicament. The favourite habitats of the sword-fish\nare the Sicilian and the Italian shores of the Mediterranean, where,\nat certain seasons of the year, it is caught in great numbers,\nthe average weight being quite a hundred, and sometimes two hundred\npounds or more. We have it in our Common-Place Book that Major Healy,\nof the yacht \"Wildbird,\" informed us in Fort-William (August 1869)\nthat he had just returned from the Mediterranean; had called on\nGaribaldi at Caprera, and dined with him on potatoes and sword-fish\nsteaks, which the gallant Major pronounced excellent. We may state, as\nsomething curious, that while the Major at said dinner had his choice\nof very good wines, with lots of capital bottled \"Bass\" from England,\nthe General himself drank a funny decoction composed of Marsala and\nwater--half-and-half--in which a large onion, sliced lemon-wise,\nhad been steeping for the whole previous night--a drink which the\nMajor tasted, and in very emphatic phrase declared to be \"beastly,\"\nbut which he shrewdly guessed had something to do with the General's\nrheumatism and gout. Any of our readers having a tendency thitherwards\nmight do worse than take the hint. There may be something in it,\nfor we recollect, when a little boy in Morven, that an onion was\nsomehow considered a panpharmacon, a perfect panacea--good for any\nand every ailment. That the medi\u00e6val herbalist, like the medi\u00e6val\nalchemist, was often a quack is very likely. In many instances he\ncould hardly be otherwise when his profession was in such repute; but\nit is a question if our revulsion has not gone too far; if our modern\nmedicinists do not rather much overlook, too contemptuously ignore,\nthe inherent virtues, as to human ailments, of roots and herbs and\n\"flowers of the field.\" An old lady in our neighbourhood, shrewd\nand intelligent beyond most of her class, told us not long ago as\nshe was cutting nettles by the roadside, as an evening bonne bouche\nfor her cow, that Stewart of Invernahyle, Sir Walter Scott's friend,\nmade it a point every spring to have nettle broth or soup on three\nconsecutive days about the season of the vernal equinox, which he\nreligiously believed acted as a safe and efficient diuretic for the\nremainder of the year. From Mairi Bh\u00e0n, Invernahyle's sister, the\n\n\n    \"Mhairi Bh\u00e0n gur barrail thu\"\n\n\nof Macintyre's well-known song, are descended at least two\nPresbyterian clergymen, though the Invernahyles themselves were\nstrongly Episcopalian--ourselves, namely, and the Rev. Mr. Cameron,\nFree Church minister of Ardersier. And the writing of the word\n\"Episcopalian\" above reminds us of the fact that the titular dignity\nof the Bishopric of Argyll and the Isles is at present vacant. The\nlate Bishop, Dr. Ewing, with whom we had the honour of being on most\nintimate and friendly terms, was an unostentatiously pious, thoroughly\ngood, and really very able man, whom nine-tenths of the clergy of his\nown Church would not or could not understand. Thank God that in the\nenumeration of the good men whom we have known, the fingers of both\nhands do not suffice; and of the really good men whom we have been\nprivileged to know and honour with affectionate regard was the late\nBishop Ewing.\n\nSome months ago we wrote to an old college chum, now farming in\nNew Zealand, advising him, as some occupation for his idle hours,\nto pick up and send us such scraps of songs and poems as he might\nfind among the Maori race around him. No uncivilised people that\nwe had read or heard of seemed to us, in many respects, so like our\nancient Highlanders--the Fingalians, so called, of our older ballad\npoetry--and we thought that so much of their poetry and folk-lore as\ncould be gathered could not fail to be interesting. Our correspondent\nsays:--\"The Maoris, as you so shrewdly guessed, have a good deal\nof poetry among them; short songs, however, for the most part,\nand rhymed proverbs, and \"wisdom words,\" as they call them, very\nmuch like the Welsh \"Triads,\" for they generally teach some three\nparticular doctrines, or state historically some three particular\nfacts. A few weeks ago I got an old man who came this way to sing me\nsome aboriginal songs, and the one that most struck my fancy I now\nsend to you. It is perfectly literal, for I know the native language\nwell, and as you are fond of rhyming, you may put it into verse if\nyou like. I can only send a true translation, line for line.\n\n\n    Maori Song.--(Translation.)\n\n    Fish in the pool? No fish in the pool;\n    And the women are sad because of it.\n    The men, too, are sad; but to-morrow\n    The fish will be big, and fat, and many.\n\n    I heard the bird singing a pleasant song.\n    He sang of food; he also sang of love.\n    The name of this bird is known to me,\n    But I will not tell it till we meet under the moon.\n\n    The stranger, with his face so ugly and pale,\n    Has come from far over the sea.\n    He loves us, he says; but a Maori maid\n    Will not listen to his love.\n\n    The mountains and vales of our own land\n    Are pleasant to see and live among.\n    And the sun at his setting is very red--\n    Red with love to the Maori; angry at the stranger.\n\n    My father lived here long ago;\n    He lived here, and here also lived the paraipa (a kind of bird).\n    The paraipa is not here, and my father is dead:\n    Woe is me, I wander among strangers.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIX.\n\n    Mountains--The Lochaber Axe, Ancient and Modern.\n\n\n\"With occasional gales, by no means out of place or untimeous at this\ndate [October 1873], with the sun already in its retrogression, almost\nhalf-way back through Scorpio, the weather is upon the whole mild and\nmore autumn-like than was any portion of autumn proper itself. Winter,\nas yet, has hardly descended lower than the highest summits of our\nmountain ranges, and how beautiful in the golden after-glow, even at\nthis season, are these same mountain peaks, impending over us like\nso many living presences! Tutelary divinities we sometimes fancy\nthem, interested in all that belongs to the dwellers at their feet,\nwith living hearts under their rocky ribs, loving us even as we love\nthem, if we only knew it, and speaking to us in their own solemn and\nmysterious language, as at midnight, in our communings with the stars,\nwe are startled now and again by the weird, inexplicable sighs and\nsounds, and deep-toned murmurings that seem to rise from glen and\ncorry and frowning gorge--sounds of much meaning, doubtless, if one\nonly knew the language, and could respond, as the sea seems to do,\nin the palpitation of its heaving waves, and the boom of its billows\nupon the beach. Pantheism and atheism are the very antithesis and\nantipodes of each other--errors both, just as blind credulity is\nthe antithesis of stubborn unbelief--but, if forced to decide in\nfavour of either, give us pantheism for choice, as the more poetical,\nat least, and pardonable error of the two; for the recognition of a\nDivine intelligence pervading and dwelling lovingly in all things is\nsurely preferable to the cold and bloodless anti-creed that professes\nto have searched the universe for a God, but failed to find Him. For\nour own part, we have dwelt so long among the mountains, and within\nsight and sound of the sea, that we have learned to love them with a\nstrange, undefinable affection, such as one bestows only on what is\nat once weird and mysterious, as well as intelligent and potent, and,\nupon the whole, beneficent and friendly. So impressed are we with this\nfeeling at times, that we fear that, however weighty the advantages\notherwise, a city life for us would now be irksome and unenjoyable,\nand anything like a lengthened sojourn in a mountainless land, far\nfrom the sight of ocean waves, well-nigh unendurable. There is some\nmeaning, however wild and improbable it may seem at first sight,\nin the theory that accounts for the Egyptian pyramids as erected by\na nomade people, who finally settled along the valley of the Nile,\nin remembrance of the mountains of their native land, and to serve\ninstead of these mountains in making the astronomical observations\nfor which the ancient Assyrians and Chaldeans were so famous. Be these\nthings as they may, we dearly love the mountains by which our humble\nhome is surrounded, whether basking in jubilant sunshine or wrapt\nin sorrowing cloud, whether robed in midsummer green, in autumnal\npurple, in brown and gold, or snow-covered and ice-bound to their\nbase; what time the day is shortest, and the sun, almost shorn of\nhis beams, shines but faint and far down at its farthest point of\nsouthern declination. It is recorded of Queen Mary, of sanguinary,\nor rather igneous memory, that so affected was she by the loss of\nCalais, that had been in the possession of England since the victory\nat Cressy under the gallant Edward III., upwards of two hundred years\npreviously, that she declared in her last moments that, if her body\nwas opened after death, the name of the lost city would be found\nwritten upon her heart; probably the nearest approach to anything\nlike poetry to be found in any word or act of her dark and bigoted and\nwholly unhappy life. If such things were possible--and the ancients,\nat least, believed they were--we should be apt to say the same in our\nown case of the mountain ranges and sea views around us, with which\nwe have held such intimate fellowship for upwards of twenty years.\n\nIf one asked us where he could get coals, we should without hesitation\nbe disposed, were it but to keep the well-known proverb in countenance,\nto direct him to Newcastle-on-Tyne. If he consulted us as to where\nhe could best procure a serviceable and trustworthy sword-blade\nof finest workmanship and highest value, we should probably direct\nhim to Damascus or Toledo. If slings and slingers, we should send\nhim to the Balearic Isles; if bows and arrows, and how to use them\nwith perfectest dexterity, to the Parthians; and in so advising the\nanxious inquirer for coals, or the warlike weapons in question, we\nshould probably be disposed to feel that we had advised him wisely\nand well. And suppose one wanted a \"Lochaber axe,\" where would he\nmost naturally look for it but in Lochaber? And yet, in all Lochaber\nthere is probably at this moment not a single specimen of a weapon\nat one time so common and so peculiar to the district as to have\nbeen called after it. The Secretary of the Royal Institution of\na seaport city of England wrote us lately, begging us to procure\nfor them a Lochaber axe, to be placed in a collection of shafted\nweapons in their museum. He wrote as if he thought there need be no\ndifficulty about the matter; living as we do in Lochaber, he seemed\nto think that we could lay our hands upon such a weapon as easily\nas upon a tuft of heather or a twig of birch. We were, of course,\nobliged to write him in reply that neither in Lochaber proper, nor,\nso far as we knew, in any of the neighbouring districts, was there to\nbe found a single specimen of the formidable weapon in question. There\nshould be a good many Lochaber axes in the country however, though\nnot in Lochaber. We wonder if such a thing as a \"Jeddart staff\"\ncould be had to-day in its proper locality? We recollect that during\nHer Majesty's first visit to Scotland in 1842, when she was received\nby such a splendid gathering of the Clans at Dunkeld, there was a\ncompany of a hundred men, commanded by the Honourable Captain James\nMurray, brother of Lord Glenlyon, the biggest men that could be got in\nAthole and the surrounding districts, all armed with Lochaber axes,\nand a very fine sight they were as they poised and swung about their\nponderous and terrible weapons. We were then but a boy at school,\njust entering upon our teens, but the appearance of these kilted\ngiants, with their dreadful battle-axes, is as fresh and vivid as if,\nsince that bright and beautiful September noon, hardly thirty days\nhad elapsed, instead of upwards of thirty years. We doubt, however,\nif the Lochaber axe, so called, as seen at Dunkeld on the occasion\nreferred to, and as usually shown in our collections of weapons, is at\nall a true representative of the ancient arm so formidable in many a\ndour conflict in the hands of the Camerons, Macmartins, Macmillans,\nand Macphees of Lochielside, Glenarkaig, and Glenlochy, and of the\nMacdonalds of the Braes, and Mackenzies of Lochlevenside. The weapon\nas now shown is decidedly too big, too ponderous and unwieldy ever to\nhave been used in actual fight. Only a Clan Samson or Clan Goliath,\nand all of them of ancestral stature and strength, could hope to\nwield such an arm in the heat and hurry of conflict with anything\nlike dexterity and ease. Like the immense two-handed \"Wallace\" style\nof sword that is sometimes shown to you as having been the favourite\nweapon of some celebrated warrior of the middle ages and subsequent\ncenturies, but which it is simply impossible that any mere man could\never have wielded with effect in actual fight, the modern Lochaber\naxe is too gigantic for use, and must have been manufactured, a big\npattern of a lesser weapon, merely for parade and show. That a weapon\nof the kind, however, once existed, and was a favourite arm with the\nmen of Lochaber, is unquestionable, and a truly formidable weapon it\nmust have been. With a crescent axe face to cut with, it had a hook at\nthe back by which horsemen could be caught hold of and dragged from\ntheir saddles, to be despatched at leisure as they lay helpless upon\nthe ground. The shaft was necessarily of considerable length, about\nsix feet, of ash or other tough wood, and of no greater girth than\na common hay-fork handle. The shaft of the modern weapon, however,\nis between seven and eight feet long, and of a girth that an ordinary\nhand does not suffice to grasp. The axe proper, too, or head of the arm\nusually shown as a Lochaber axe, is nearly twice the weight of that\nof the older and more business-like weapon. An Indian tomahawk with\na six-foot shaft, or a medi\u00e6val knight's battle-axe with a six-foot\nhandle, such as that with which the Bruce cleft the skull of Henry de\nBoune at Bannockburn, would probably be nearer to the pattern of the\noriginal Lochaber axe than the ridiculously big and cumbrous modern\narticle. You remember the scene in Scott's Lord of the Isles--\n\n\n    \"Of Hereford's high blood he came,\n    A race renown'd for knightly fame.\n    He burn'd before his Monarch's eye,\n    To do some deed of chivalry.\n    He spurr'd his steel, he couched his lance,\n    And darted on the Bruce at once.\n\n    \"As motionless as rocks, that bide\n    The wrath of the advancing tide,\n    The Bruce stood fast. Each breast beat high,\n    And dazzled was each gazing eye.\n    The heart had hardly time to think,\n    The eyelid scarce had time to wink,\n    While on the King, like flash of flame,\n    Spurr'd to full speed the warhorse came!\n    The partridge may the falcon mock,\n    If that slight palfrey stand the shock;\n    But, swerving from the knight's career,\n    Just as they met, Bruce shunn'd the spear.\n\n    Onward the baffled warrior bore\n    His course--but soon his course was o'er!\n    High in his stirrups stood the King,\n    And gave his battle-axe the swing.\n    Right on De Boune, the whiles he pass'd,\n    Fell that stern dint--the first--the last!\n    Such strength upon the blow was put,\n    The helmet crush'd like hazel nut;\n    The axe shaft, with its brazen clasp,\n    Was shiver'd to the gauntlet grasp.\n    Springs from the blow the startled horse,\n    Drops to the plain the lifeless corse.\n    First of that fatal field, how soon,\n    How sudden fell the fierce De Boune!\"\n\n\nA real Lochaber axe-head we have seen, never the complete weapon\nproperly shafted, though surely real and genuine specimens of the\nold and famous war-arm must be found in some of our museums. At what\nperiod the Lochaber axe ceased to be carried as a battle-arm by the\nHighlanders it is impossible to say; probably soon after the general\nintroduction of fire-arms into the northern half of the kingdom,\nfor it was certainly not used in the '45, nor, so far as we know,\nin the '15, nor even in the wars of Montrose; so that for upwards of\ntwo hundred years at least it has not been used in actual combat.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XL.\n\n    Sea-Fowl--Weather Prognostics--Goosander (Mergus Merganser,\n    Linn.)--Gales of Wind--January Primroses--Lachlan Gorach, the Mull\n    \"Natural\"--A Dancing Rhyme.\n\n\nWhen a prophet's vaticinations are verified by the event, the world\nrarely fails to be reminded of it; when it is otherwise, however;\nwhen the vaticinations turn out to be the very reverse of true,\npeople are rarely ever troubled with a note on the matter, least of\nall on the part of the disappointed vaticinator himself. The fact\nis that everything like vaticination had better, as a rule, be let\nalone; sooner or later, and in nine cases out of ten, or oftener,\nthe prophet never fails to come to grief. So convinced, for our own\npart, are we of this, that while reserving our right to vaticinate\nand predict as much and as recklessly as anybody else, when it so\npleased us, yet, as a matter of fact, we never do venture further\ninto the treacherous territories of vaticination than the mere\noutskirts, so to speak, of what may well be called the debateable\nland of weather prognostics; and even there we tread as gingerly and\ncautiously as if at this moment we were on the banks of the Prah, in\nconstant dread of a lurking ambuscade of fierce and fetish-valorous\nAshantees. Our weather prophecies from time to time have often,\nas the courteous reader may remember, been fully justified by the\nevent; but if the whole truth is to be told, we fear we must confess\nthat they have almost as frequently turned out to be wrong, and it\nis not every weather prophet who will confess so much. It requires\na larger share of magnanimity than the reader is perhaps aware of,\nto be able to confess one's errors with anything like complaisance,\neven in such a matter as weather prognostics, and we therefore trust\nthat the following confession will be valued as it ought. Some time\nago the number of Arctic sea-fowl in our creeks and bays, and the near\napproach of a rather early fall of snow to the sea line, justified us,\nas we thought, in predicting an early and severe winter, meaning by\n\"severe\"--for we scorn to be disingenuous in the matter--that it\nwas likely to be excessively cold as well as unusually stormy. The\nexperience of upwards of twenty years, during which we have been a\nkeen and close student of meteorological phenomena and wild-bird life,\nseemed to us to warrant the conclusion at which we had arrived. But\nhow at mid-winter stands the fact? Why, thus: that up to this date\n[January 1874], it has been, upon the whole, the \"openest\" and mildest\nseason for at least a quarter of a century! How, then, about your\nArctic sea-birds? the reader may exclaim, and we can only answer\nthat their presence so early and in such numbers is to be accounted\nfor by the almost incessant gales that have been sweeping over the\nAtlantic and northern seas, with such disastrous effects, for nearly\ntwo months past. Feeling the first blast of the approaching tempest,\nand assured of its prolonged continuance by a marvellous instinct,\nfurther and more correctly prescient of such matters than man, with\nall his boasted science, they fled to the shelter of our, to them\nin such cases, Friendly Islands; for an Arctic web-foot dreads an\nunusual severity of hyperborean storms, long continued, quite as much\nas it dreads an excessive intensity of hyperborean cold, and for the\nsame reason--both equally interfere with the allotted comforts of its\neconomy and due supply of food. The winter, besides, is not yet past;\nwhistling before one is fairly out of the wood is proverbially foolish,\nand there is, after all, time enough yet betwixt this and the vernal\nequinox for the advent of any amount of cold, so that there is still\na chance for our wild-bird friends and ourselves standing higher in\nthe reader's estimation as weather prophets, ere the winter is ended,\nthan we do at present. Our web-foot visitors from the far north, at\nall events, are still with us, and in large numbers, and a very pretty\nsight a flock of them is as you quietly approach them congregated in\nsome sheltered bay, and with a good binocular watch their graceful\nmotions, now disporting themselves and chasing each other in many\na merry round over the surface of the water; now, as if by common\nconsent and in obedience to some, to you inaudible, word of command,\nthey seem to leap rather than dive into the blue depths beneath\nthem, until not one is to be seen, then as suddenly reappearing,\nagain to chase each other, and disport and dive, as if they knew you\nwere looking at them, and admired and loved them, and would as soon\ncut off your finger as think of levelling a murder-dealing weapon at\ncreatures so beautiful and harmless.\n\nA bird generally rare in our inland waters is this year quite common\non all our shores. We refer to the goosander (Mergus merganser,\nLinn.), one of the handsomest and most interesting of sea-fowl. Of the\nMerganser family the goosander is the largest, and the whole order\nis remarkable for their serrated mandibles, the nearest approach to\nanything like teeth to be met with among birds, and admirably adapted\nfor retaining firm hold, when seized, of their slippery prey, which\nmainly consists of eels, lampreys, &c., in dealing with which \"kittle\ncattle\" in deep water an ordinary unarmed duck-bill would be a very\ninefficient weapon. Once in the firm grip of the Merganser's serrated\nbill, however, the chance of such comparatively small fish as it can\nalone feed upon must be very small indeed. We saw a very fine male\nspecimen a few days ago, which a young man had shot, believing it to\nbe a \"wild duck,\" as he termed it, and necessarily good for eating. We\ntold him that he had been guilty of a piece of very unnecessary and\nindefensible cruelty, for that the bird in his hand was in truth a\nMerganser, and no more fit to be eaten than a ten-year-old herring\ngull or an octogenarian guillemot. He looked at us with a smile,\nin which we thought we detected a considerable shade of incredulity,\nand we do believe that the thought passed through his mind at that\nmoment that we only spoke so disparagingly of the bird because we\nwanted to get hold of it ourselves, either by its being given to us\nas a present, or for the smallest possible money payment, and then\nwhat a jolly feed we should have at the expense of his ornithological\nignorance and juvenile simplicity! Perhaps we do him injustice; but,\nat all events, he carried the bird away with him, observing that he\n\"would try it at any rate.\" We met his sister a day or two afterwards,\nand on inquiring if they had cooked the \"wild duck,\" and how they\nliked it, we confess that it was with an inward chuckle of intense\nsatisfaction that we listened as she told us that, after having duly\nboiled and cooked it secundum artem, until it ought to have been good\nand tender, it turned out to be so rank, and fishy, and tough, that no\none could eat a morsel of it, and it had to be thrown into the dinner\nrefuse basket as worthless! These birds, though necessarily hardy, and\nable to outlive a vast amount of cold and storm, are exceedingly fond\nof still water, rarely resting or fishing when there is any surface\ndisturbance beyond a slight ripple; and hence it is that you so seldom\nmeet with them elsewhere than in the most sheltered bays, creeks,\nand estuaries, where the water is least liable to the surface turmoil\nand commotion of a storm. The finest stuffed specimen of the Merganser\nwe ever saw is at Achnacarry Castle, Lochiel's seat in Lochaber.\n\nWe have said above that the winter has thus far been almost\nunprecedentedly open and mild, by which we mean only that the\ntemperature throughout has been unusually high, not, by any means,\nthat it has been calm. The very contrary is the case. It has been\none continued storm, with an occasional breathing time, so to speak,\nof a fine day at rare intervals, for upwards of eight consecutive\nweeks. But the storms have, as to temperature, been rather the\nstorms of early summer or autumn, than the boisterously cold and burly\nshriekings of the lone winter \"Storm King,\" as we used to know and fear\nhim. The reader will best understand what we mean, when we say that,\nnotwithstanding the storminess, anemometrically, of the season, not\na single snowflake has fallen in the lowlands of Nether Lochaber this\nwinter, except a little which fell last night, but of which there are\nno traces again this morning; nor, except twice, and then only for an\nhour or so, has the thermometer touched the freezing-point. We much\ndoubt if the thickness of a sixpenny piece of ice could be gathered\nat any one moment from pool or puddle in our district of Lochaber\nduring the present winter. The consequence is, that in all our gardens\nflowers are at this moment in bloom that perhaps were never known\nto be in bloom at the same date before. Our privet and elder hedges\nbear quite a close green vesture of young leaves; the columbine has\nalready reached an April altitude of growth, and a woman who happened\nto walk from Fort-William early last week brought us a small bouquet\nof primroses that she had picked up while passing through the woods of\nCoirrechaorachan, as beautiful and perfect as if it were in truth the\nproper season of these favourite flowers, instead of the last days of\nthe first month of the year. We shouldn't wonder, however, if we have\nto pay for it all yet, ere the truant schoolboy again begins to imitate\nthe cuckoo's note, or \"the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.\"\n\nThere is at this moment sitting in our kitchen a poor, half-witted\nnatural, \"Lachlan Gorach,\" from Mull, whose conversation is always\ngarnished with \"Davie Gelletly\"-like snatches of quaint song. Sometimes\nthe rhyme is in English, and sometimes in Gaelic, and frequently\nhas no connection whatever with what may be the immediate subject\nof conversation. On going up to have a crack with him a few moments\nago--for poor Lachlan is, in a way, a great favourite of ours--he\nreturned our friendly greeting of \"Well, how are you, Lachlan?\" with\na hearty shake of the hand, and a bow that, for close proximity of\nforehead to the ground and duration, might have graced the court of\nLouis the Fourteenth, and immediately on regaining the erect position,\nstruck, to an air that was probably original, into the following verse,\nwhich we took down on the spot:--\n\n\n      \"First the heel and then the toe,\n      That's the way the polka goes;\n      First the toe and then the heel,\n      That's the way to dance a reel;\n      Quick about and then away,\n      Lightly dance the glad Strathspey.\n      Jump a jump, and jump it big,\n      That's the way to dance a jig;\n      Slowly, smiling as in France,\n      Follow through the country dance.\n    And we'll meet Johnny Cope in the morning.\"\n\n\nIt was very amusing. Where he picked up the uncouth rhyme we do not\nknow, and it was bootless to inquire. Having ordered him some dinner,\nwe bade him good-bye, when we caught hold of the following verse of\nLachlan's favourite ditties as we disappeared:--\n\n\n    \"Kilt your coaties, bonnie lassie,\n    As you wade the burnie through;\n    Or your mother will be angry\n    If you wet your coaties now.\"\n\n\nPoor Lachlan, always cheerful and perfectly harmless, is a welcome\nguest at every fireside throughout the many districts which he\nperiodically peregrinates. We may have something more to say of\nhimself and his quaint scraps of songs on a future occasion.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLI.\n\n    Plague of Thistles in Australia and New Zealand--How to deal\n    with them--Cnicus Acaulis, Great Milk Thistle, or Stemless\n    Thistle--Fierce Fight between two Seals, \"Nelson\" and \"Villeneuve.\"\n\n\nIt is true to a proverb that one may have too much even of a good\nIt is true to a proverb that one may have too much even of a good\nthing. It was the most natural thing in the world, for instance, that\nour countrymen should have introduced the thistle, the national emblem,\ninto the fertile plains and straths of Australia and New Zealand,\nto remind them of home, and to speak to them, even at the Antipodes,\nof memories and traditions that patriotism will in nowise \"willingly\nlet die.\" The inevitable result of such introduction, however, was\nnot foreseen, or rather was never thought of. A correspondent in the\nprovince of Otago, in a very pleasant letter by last mail [August\n1874] informs us that the \"symbol dear\" of Burns has so flourished\nand spread over large tracts of land in New Zealand as to be already\nan intolerable nuisance; so much so, that legislative enactments are\nbeing passed, in view, if possible, to its total extirpation. \"You\nmay think I exaggerate,\" says our friend, \"but I positively do not,\nwhen I tell you that in the course of a fifty miles ride the other day\nI saw whole paddocks containing many hundred acres of splendid land\nquite overrun with thistles, so close, and thick, and formidable,\nthat neither man nor horse could force a way through them. And such\nthistles, too! I measured several that were quite eight feet in height,\nand as thick in the stem as my wrist, with spikes on them as large\nas horse-shoe nails, and as sharp-pointed as the sharpest needle. The\nproprietor of one of the paddocks thus overgrown with thistles swore\nat them awfully--and most unpatriotically, too, you will say, for he\nwas a Scotchman--when I spoke to him on the subject. I assure you it\nis a very serious matter, for unless the obnoxious weed is somehow got\nrid of, many places will soon be uninhabitable, and, as you can easily\nunderstand, the evil is daily and rapidly becoming worse. The thistles\nare at present ripe, with large heads like cauliflowers, and when a\nsmart breeze is blowing, where they are plentiful, the air is filled\nwith thistle-down like a heavy snow-storm. If you, who know so many\nthings, could only suggest some effectual way of ridding ourselves\nof this pest, you would be doing us a very real service.\" At home,\ntoo, thistles, if not more plentiful, are at least of larger growth\nthan usual. In a corner of our own garden, for instance, there is\nstill growing at the present moment a splendid fellow, nearly six\nfeet in height, to which we pay a daily visit in admiration of its\nlusty growth, and the rich emerald green of its imbricated involucral\nleaves. We have purposely preserved it unhurt till now, as something of\na curiosity, but in a day or two it must be cut down, for the seeds\nare fast ripening, and it were unwise, if not actually criminal,\nto allow them to escape on downy wings only to fall and germinate\nafter their kind, a very nuisance, elsewhere. Most herbaceous plants\nwill bleed to death if cut down two years running, just as they have\nabout attained half their growth; and we can only suggest to our New\nZealand friends that they should treat their thistle fields after a\nsimilar fashion. Let them be mowed down when about half, or rather\nmore than half-grown, with the scythe for two consecutive seasons,\nand we believe the roots will infallibly die and disappear. We\nhave known bracken, ragwort, and burr-dock, &c. very effectively\ndisposed of in this way, and have some confidence that thistles,\ntoo, might be thoroughly eradicated by a similar process of vital\nwounding at the hastiest stage of growth. From our correspondent's\ndescription of them, we should say that the New Zealand thistles, so\nloudly complained of, are of the same species as that in our garden,\nthe Carduus marianus of botanists, or Great Milk Thistle, a biennial\ncommon over all Europe, but nowhere so plentiful as in Scotland,\nwhence it is probable that it is so frequently pointed to by poets,\npainters, and patriots as the Scotch Thistle, though its claims to\nthe high honour of being the actual and real national emblem are\nsomewhat questionable. The tradition in the south and south-west,\nwhere the true story, if ever there was a true story in the matter,\nis most likely to have rooted itself in its perfectest form, is to the\neffect that, during an invasion of the Norsemen, the Danes advancing\nagainst the Scots on a dark night, one of their barefooted scouts,\nwhen prowling about the Scottish encampment, chanced to tread on a\nthistle, the sharp prickles of which piercing his foot, caused him\nto utter a loud imprecation, which reaching the ears of the Scots,\nhitherto lying in fancied security, warned them that the enemy was at\nhand, and enabled them, instantly standing to their arms, to take their\nfoes at such disadvantage that the fierce Norsemen were totally routed\nand driven to their ships with immense slaughter. The thistle that\nthus opportunely prevented the Scots being taken unawares is still\npointed out, not, however, as being any of the large, formidable,\nlong-stemmed varieties, but the stemless thistle that spreads out\nits leaves and spikes quite close to the ground, common enough in old\npastures and waste grass lands. The stemless thistle is botanically\nknown as the Cnicus acaulis, and lowly and unpretending as it may\nseem at first sight, there is, we make bold to assert, no species\nof thistle so well entitled to bear and boast the grand old legend,\nNemo me impune lacessit. Its spines are as fine, and quite as tough\nand piercing withal, as the finest cambric needle; impossible, too,\nof extraction, once it has fairly penetrated the flesh, except by\na surgical operation; and we have a shrewd suspicion that it is to\nsome extent poisonous, for, from the moment one pierces the flesh\ntill its expulsion by suppuration of the part, the pain is keen and\nexcruciating beyond conception. Barefooted Dane, Saxon, or Celt,\nunexpectedly treading on a nearly ripe and full-formed Cnicus, might\nwell be excused an oath, however lusty and loud, in acknowledgment\nand hearty execration of such an impediment. We can say something\nof a Cnicus spike wound from personal experience. Several years ago,\nwhen we were younger and lighter than we are to-day, we were vaulting\nover a wall that divided an infield of corn from an outfield of old\npasture. Safely over, but alighting awkwardly, we slipped forward and\nfell, instinctively stretching out our hands to secure ourselves as\nwe came almost headlong to the ground. The fall was nothing, but one\nof our hands had, as ill-luck would have it, alighted, with all our\nweight upon it, in the very bosom of a full-armed, irate Cnicus. The\npalm of the hand somehow escaped, but one of the prickles entered our\nwrist, and the pain was at once intense--stinging, sharp, and burning,\nas if the spike was the point of a red-hot needle from the fire. It\ncould not be extracted, for it could not be seen; and there was nothing\nfor it but patience and such local applications as might best aid the\ninevitable suppuration by which alone, after fourteen days' acute pain,\nrelief was finally obtained. Upon the whole, then, and keeping the\nbarefooted Danish scout tradition in view, we are disposed to consider\nthe stemless Cnicus as the true national emblem. If there be any doubt,\nthe honour, at all events, must be left between itself and the burly,\nbig-stemmed Marianus. Of a certainty, in any case, the cotton thistle\n(Onopordon acanthium), though frequently spoken of by horticulturists\nand amateur gardeners as the Scotch thistle, cannot be the species\nindicated, for this last is not properly a Scotch plant at all,\nit being rarely, if ever, found growing wild anywhere north of the\nTweed, though comparatively common in England. The first public and\nproperly authenticated mention of the thistle as the national badge\nis, we believe, in an inventory of the jewels and wardrobe effects of\nJames III., about the year 1467. Whether there was an \"ancient\" Order\nof the Thistle seems doubtful; what is commonly called the revival\nof the order dates from the reign of James the Seventh of Scotland,\nSecond of England, in 1687.\n\nA more natural and less apocryphal combat than the recent dwarf and\nbulldog business at Hanley is the following. Be not alarmed; ours is\nsimply a brief account of a fight, fierce and furious enough to be\nsure, but very natural--for of the Phocid\u00e6, we suppose, as of the\n\"bears and lions\" in the well-known hymn, it may be predicted that\n\"'tis their nature to\"--a fight, then, between a pair of dog-seals in\nthe bay under our house a few evenings ago. In nothing else are the\nresults of the Gun Tax Act so pleasantly manifest as in the increased,\nand still increasing, confidence and friendly relations now so happily\nestablished between seals and sea-birds of every kind and the sea-side\nnaturalist, as, throwing books and papers for the time aside, he\ntakes his evening walk abroad within sight and sound of the setting\nsunlit sea, that gently murmurs the while, as if for very gladness,\nin response to the rosy smile of the departing god. Ever since the\nbeginning of summer, a large dog-seal, recognisable as such by his\nimmense, square, bulldog-like head and fierce hirsute beard, has\nmade our beautiful Onich Bay his favourite evening fishing-ground,\nuntil we have come to know him perfectly; no difficult matter either,\nfor he has a curious grey patch, larger than one's hand, on his left\ncheek, and, unlike most seals, sinks, not log-like, when he disappears\nunder water, but almost always with a lively \"header,\" in which the\nwhole back, arched and shining, is brought to view, as if for our\nspecial delectation, as we sit and watch his graceful motions with\na glass powerful enough to detect the wary and intelligent glance of\nhis beautiful dark-brown eye, and count, if need were, every separate\nbristle in his moustache. He is a big and powerful animal, and when\nin our bay doubtless accounts himself lord of all he surveys, for,\nof the hundreds of seals in Loch Leven, he alone constantly frequents\nthis particular semi-oval, sandy-bottomed inlet, his size and strength\nprobably ensuring it to him as a sort of reserve, in which woe unto\nthe interloping poacher caught sight of flagrante delicto by the\nbright eye of \"Lord Nelson,\" as we have long since called him, and\nall the people about call him, for he is now known to everybody in the\nhamlet, and frequently spoken about with all the interest attached to\na wild animal, actually suspicious and shy, but perfectly harmless,\nwhen, with a confidence extremely rare in animals of its kind,\nit approaches human habitations. On the afternoon of Friday last,\n\"Nelson\" was fishing, as usual, in our bay, which at the time was\nmirror-smooth and calm as calm could be. We had watched him for some\ntime through our glass, and seen him come to the surface more than\nonce, and dispose of a flounder in his usual quiet and leisurely\nway, when, somewhat to our surprise, we caught sight of another\nseal, seemingly as large as \"Nelson\" himself, and about a hundred\nyards from him; and at the same moment his \"lordship\" evidently saw\nhim too! There could be no mistake about it, for he, first raising\nhimself half-way out of the water, and gazing excitedly around, with a\nsplendid header and a very significant flourish of his hind flippers,\ninstantly dived; the stranger seal also, who probably knew what was\ncoming, diving immediately afterwards. What happened below is only\nknown to such subaqueous spectators as might be about at the moment;\nwe can only bear witness to what followed, and that was, that in\nabout two minutes there was wild splashing and violent commotion of\nthe waters near the spot at which the stranger seal had disappeared,\nfrom the centre of which turmoil the two seals soon emerged, fighting\nin fierce grip like a pair of enraged bulldogs. For several minutes\nthis wild combat continued; Greek had met Greek; the belligerents\nhugging each other, bear-like, with their anterior flippers, and\ntearing at each other's heads and throats with their terrible fangs,\nfor the canine teeth of seals are exceedingly formidable, and their\nstrength of jaw enormous. All this time they wrestled and rolled\nover and over each other in deadly and desperate encounter, the sea\nfor yards around them one sheet of boiling, hissing foam, here and\nthere streaked with blood, as we could plainly discern by the aid of\nthe glass, for we had, in the meantime, advanced to the very margin\nof the sea, and were standing within some thirty yards of them. In\nthe wild hurly-burly of the conflict, it was impossible to see or\nsay whether \"Nelson\" or \"Villeneuve\" was winning--for by the latter\nname had our son, who was along with us, already dubbed the stranger\nseal, as, with true boy-like interest and eagerness, he watched the\nfight. Had there been any betting on the event, we, knowing \"Nelson,\"\nand believing in his prowess--for it was impossible to be impartial\nin such a case--would probably have laid two to one freely on our\nfavourite; remembering, too, the pithy Gaelic adage, \"'S laidir c\u00f9 air\na dh\u00f9nan fein:\" Strong is the dog that has his own home knoll for a\nbattle-field! As it was, the battle was fought out and finished under\nwater, so that we were not privileged to see the last of it. After\na final fierce worry, in which the combatants reared their bodies\nmore than half-way out of the water, and much surface splashing and\nsomersaulting, the belligerents, as if by common consent, disappeared,\nstill fighting, however, as the hundreds of bursting bubbles that for\na time kept coming to the surface clearly testified. In about a couple\nof minutes the stranger seal came to the surface, swimming rapidly\nseawards; he had evidently had enough of it; and shortly afterwards,\n\"Nelson,\" known at once by the grey patch on his cheek, reappeared in\nthe centre of the bay, quietly floating about, as if thoroughly tired\nof the tussle, and shaking his head dog-fashion now and again, from\nwhich we gathered that \"Villeneuve,\" though beaten, had left his mark\nupon the victor, and the victor was in this wise very significantly\nacknowledging the fact. It is worthy of remark, that throughout the\nwhole of this curious fight, though from first to last it was as fierce\nand furious as anything of the kind could be, not a sound was uttered\nby either combatant, except an occasional heavy, sigh-like breathing,\nwhich was probably involuntary, and merely the natural result of\nunwonted physical exertion. And yet seals are by no means dumb, for\ntheir curious bleatings--we can find no better word for it--in the\nbreeding season, must be known to every sea-side naturalist. \"Nelson,\"\nthe reader will perhaps be glad to hear, is all right again, and, as\nyet, sole admiral of our bay, in which at this moment, as we write,\nhe is busy fishing for supper.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLII.\n\n    Wounds from Stags' Antlers exceedingly dangerous--The old Fingalian\n    Ballads--Number of Dogs kept for the Chase--Dr. Smith's \"Ancient\n    Lays\" of modern manufacture--The Spotted Crake (Crex Prozana)\n    at Inverness--Its Habits.\n\n\nIt is not generally known, we believe, that a wound from a stag's\nantlers, however slight--the merest scratch or abrasion of the skin,\nif only blood is drawn--is exceedingly dangerous. A short time ago\n[December 1874], on ascending from the cabin of a steamer, we went\nforward in order to enjoy an uninterrupted smoke in the fresh breeze\nthat swept across the vessel, when we noticed a fine-looking young\nman, closely wrapped up in cape and plaid seated, in the shelter of\nthe capstan, as if the breeze, to him at least, was, if anything,\ntoo brisk and keen. Glancing at him once and again, we observed\nthat he was pale and sickly looking; and concluding from his dress\nand caste of features that he must be a Highlander, we went over to\nhim and addressed him in Gaelic. It turned out that although we did\nnot know him, he knew something of us, and we were soon on friendly\nterms. He told us he was going to Glasgow to consult the doctors\nabout a stag's horn wound in the thigh that was daily, in spite of\nall the salves, ointments, and healing applications that he and all\nthe \"wise\" people of his glen could think of, getting worse instead\nof better. About two months ago he was helping to take a stag off\na hill pony's back, when, by some accident, the sharp point of one\nof the tines penetrated the thigh for a short distance, and then,\nby the force of the falling weight of the head, rasped downwards for\nabout an inch and a half, leaving an ugly, ragged gash, though of no\ngreat depth. He thought but little of it, he told us, having often\nhad more serious wounds before, though not from a stag's horn, that\ngave hardly any trouble, and soon healed of themselves--of the first\nintention, as the surgeons have it. How it may fare with him among\nthe Glasgow doctors we do not know: well, poor fellow, we sincerely\nhope, though we shouldn't wonder if the wound continued to trouble\nhim all his life long. The subject of stag-horn wounds having thus\nbeen brought before us in a way that could not fail to interest us,\nwe took the matter to avizandum, as the sheriffs say; and, in dearth\nof anything better at this dull season, we present our readers with\nthe result of our inquiries in every direction whence there was the\nleast chance of enlightenment. Dogs wounded by stags' horns usually\ndie from mortification or gangrene of the wound; and even if the wound\nheals, and they recover, it is only in an unsatisfactory sort of way,\nfor they are almost always afterwards paralytic in the wounded limb,\nor they are epileptic. An old forester, who knows more about deer and\ndeerhounds than anybody else we ever met, tells us that in very few\ninstances has he ever known a dog that has actually bled at the touch\nof a stag's horn, recover in such wise as to be fairly serviceable\nagain. With the least drop of blood in such cases, they seem to\nlose all their courage. Another man, a shepherd near us, says that\na very fine collie dog of his was once severely wounded by a stag in\nGlenarkaig, on Lochiel's estate, and that although the wound healed\nsatisfactorily enough, and to the eye of an ordinary observer there\nwas nothing the matter with the dog, it was, in fact, ever afterwards\nperfectly useless. \"Chaidh e g\u00f2rach, le'r cead.\" A good dog before,\n\"he became perfectly stupid, sir!\" said the man. The above-mentioned\nforester says that the poisonous character of stag-horn wounds is well\nknown to every one in the least acquainted with deer-stalking, as the\nsport was followed in the good old ante-breech-loading rifle days,\nwhen explosive bullets were yet unknown; and that rough contact with\nthe tines of the animal, whether living or dead, was, in his younger\ndays, avoided as one would avoid the tooth of a rabid dog or a viper's\nfang. A stag antler's wound, he avers, is dangerous at all times,\nbut most so in the end of autumn--the rutting season--or, as he put\nit, \"an \u00e0m dhaibh 'bhi dol 'san damhair,\" when they take to their\n\"wallowing pools.\" Curiously enough, and by the merest accident, we\nhave fallen in with the following proverbial distich from an old volume\non Venerie, or Hunting of the Buck, published in London in 1622:--\n\n\n    \"If thou art hurt by boar's tooth, the leech thy life may save;\n    If thou art hurt by buck's horn, 'twill bring thee to thy grave.\"\n\n\nSo that the venom of a stag's horn wound seems to have been quite as\nwell known two hundred years ago as it is now; better, indeed, for\nthose who followed the chase in the olden time were more liable to\nsuch hurts than is possible in the case of the modern deer-stalker,\nwhen the aid of dogs and the \"gillie's\" knife to give the coup de\ngrace to the \"stag at bay,\" are matters of comparatively little\nmoment. It was a much more serious and risky affair in the days of\nthe old \"flint\"-bearing musket. There was a paragraph a short time\nago about a serious attack by a stag on some men in the island of\nRaasay. It would be interesting to know whether blood was drawn on\nthe occasion, and if so, how the wounds have healed.\n\nHardly anything in our old Ossianic ballads, of which we have such\nan interesting and ably edited collection in Mr. J. F. Campbell of\nIslay's Leabhar-na-Feinne, is so curious as the great number of dogs\nemployed by the Fingalians in their huntings,--that is, if we are to\nread the ballads with anything like literalness. Fifty, a hundred,\ntwo hundred, and even five hundred dogs are spoken about as freely\nas a modern sportsman speaks of couples. In one ballad, for instance,\nrecovered by ourselves, ten men, one of them the balladist himself, the\nlast remnant of the Fingalian host, are represented as going to hunt\nin the \"Glen of Mist,\" attended by fifty dogs a piece, or five hundred\nin all--surely an unnecessary, if not an impossible number. In these\nballads, besides, you find frequent reference to scarcity of food,\nand the shifts the \"heroes\" were often put to, to provide for the\nbarest wants of the passing day; and yet, if such an army of dogs was\nnecessary, it also had to be fed, which one conceives must have been\na matter of some difficulty, when the heroes themselves were, as the\nballads inform us, frequently reduced to the necessity of splitting\n\"marrow bones,\" when all the flesh that covered them had already been\nused up. The whole question of the natural history of these old ballads\nis well worth more attention than has yet been bestowed on it. Some\nday or other we shall devote a special chapter to it. Meantime, let\nus merely say that we decided many years ago against the authenticity\nand genuineness of one at least of Dr. Smith's so-called Ancient Lays,\nbecause of the incorrectness of a reference to the natural history\nof a well-known bird, the common pigeon. Here are the lines in Gaul\nwhich first made us shake our head in dubiety over the genuineness\nof the composition--\n\n\n    \"Mar cholum an carraig na h-Ulacha,\n    'S i solar dhearca da h-\u00e0l beag,\n    'S a' pilltinn gu tric, gun am blasad i fein,\n    Tra dh'eireas an t-seabhag 'na smuainte.\"\n\n    As a dove on the rock of Ulla,\n    That gathereth berries for her young;\n    Oft she returns, nor tastes herself the food,\n    When rises the hawk within her thoughts.\n\n\nOn which passage we would first of all remark that pigeons are not\nberry eaters, and even if they were, they would not carry them to\ntheir young in such wise as the poet clearly implies. A pigeon itself\neats the food meant for its young, and only after undergoing a certain\nprocess of maceration and digestion in the parent's crop, is it again\nregurgitated in form suitable for the young. In genuine Gaelic poetry,\nthe natural history is in a very remarkable manner almost invariably\ncorrect. Here it was not, and we recollect tossing the volume aside,\nand remarking that while much of Gaul might certainly be \"ancient,\"\nquite as much was modern, and that, wittingly or unwittingly, Dr. Smith\nhad been dealing in patch-work. Dr. Smith cites a parallel passage\nto the above from Thomson's Spring--\n\n\n                    \"Away they fly,\n    Affectionate, and, undesiring, bear\n    The most delicious morsel to their young.\"\n\n\nBut the context shows that Thomson is not referring to doves, but to\nTurdi and warblers that build\n\n\n                  \"Among the roots\n    Of hazel pendent o'er the plaintive stream.\"\n\n\nAnd these do feed their callow young as represented in the poem,\nthough the Columbid\u00e6 certainly do not.\n\nWe observe that Mr. T. B. Snowie, of Inverness, has recently been so\nfortunate as to secure a specimen of the spotted crake or Crex porzana,\na very rare bird indeed, of which we never saw a living specimen. It\nseems, however, to be a more regular visitor to our shores than is\nimagined, specimens having from time to time been met with in almost\nall parts of Scotland. Our friend Mr. Robert Gray, in his excellent\nvolume on The Birds of the West of Scotland and the Outer Hebrides,\nwrites of the spotted crake as follows:--\"So far as I have observed,\nthe spotted crake is a very uncommon species in the western counties;\nit is, however, more numerously distributed throughout the eastern\ncounties, extending from Orkney to Berwickshire. In Aberdeen and Forfar\nshires, according to Macgillivray, it can scarcely be called very\nrare. 'In Scotland,' says Mr. More in the Ibis, 'the nest has been\nfound only in Perth, Aberdeen, and at Loch Spynie, in Elgin; but as\nbirds have been repeatedly taken in the breeding season in Banffshire,\nFife, East Lothian, and Berwick, it is not unreasonable to infer that\nthe species nest in these counties also. In the west of Scotland,\nthe spotted crake has been taken in Wigtonshire, Renfrewshire, and\nArgyllshire; but I have no authentic instance of its occurrence north\nof the last-named district. In its habits this bird closely resembles\nits congener the water-rail, and, like it, is not easily flushed from\nits haunts. Although a migratory species, the spotted crake appears\nto come early, specimens being occasionally taken about the beginning\nof April; as a rule, it also lingers much later than other migratory\nbirds, stray examples having been shot in November, December, and even\nJanuary, so that it is absent not more than two or three months. It\nmay, indeed, be yet found to be, in some of the southern districts,\npermanently resident. From its shy and unobtrusive habits, and its\nlife of seclusion and silence in marshy places, from which it but\nrarely issues, it is much less frequently seen than birds which try\nto escape by flight when disturbed. Rather than take wing, it will\nthrust itself, when molested, into any hole or tuft of grass, and\nremain concealed until quiet is restored; and on this account the\ncomparative numbers of the species cannot readily be ascertained.'\"\n\nThe bird is, however, unquestionably a rara avis, a rarissima avis\neven, in the north of Scotland, and to have seen the bird as Mr. Snowie\nwas privileged to see and handle it, we should cheerfully have walked\nten miles, were it the coldest day in mid-winter.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIII.\n\n    Whelks and Periwinkles--An Ossianic Reading--The Sea-shore\n    after a Storm--The Rejectamenta of the Deep--An amusing\n    Story of a Shore-Searcher--Severity of Winter--Wild-Birds'\n    Levee--Woodcock--Snipe--Blue Jay.\n\n\nIt has been our habit for many years [January 1875] to take our\nmorning walk along our beautiful sea-beach, one of the coziest and\nprettiest silver-sanded bays on the West Coast, descending now and\nagain, when the tide is at ebb, to search for objects of interest in\nmarine animal and vegetable life, in every likely spot along what\nOssian calls \"tr\u00e0igh na faoch,\"--the periwinkled shore. Our friend\nand neighbour Dr. Clerk, by the way, in his admirable edition of the\ngreat Celtic bard, renders it \"the shore of whelks,\" and in a note\ngives us to understand that he thinks the expression so unpoetical,\ninfra dig., and every way inappropriate, as almost to warrant its\nrejection as a corruption of the text. As a conjectural emendation,\nhe suggests \"tr\u00e0igh na faobh,\" the shore of spoils, as probably the\ntrue reading. Faoch, however, is not the whelk, but the periwinkle or\nwilk. The whelk is the Buccinum undatum, the cnogag or cnocag of the\nGaels of the Western seaboard and Hebrides. The wilk or periwinkle\nis the faoch or faochag; and to it and not to the whelk the passage\nclearly refers. The whelk or cnogag rarely allows itself to be left\nbehind on the beach by the receding waters, even in spring tides,\nwhen ebbs are at their lowest. The periwinkle, on the contrary,\nsticks, regardless of the receding waves, to its place or stone or\nalgae stem and frond, until the ebbing waters have returned, as return\nhe knows full well they shall; so that at any time after half ebb,\na suitable shore, rich in alg\u00e6, presents a most interesting sight,\nevery stone and smallest bit of sea-weed covered with millions of\nperiwinkles at all stages of growth. It is to a scene of this kind\nthat the poet refers, and very happily we think: \"the periwinkled\nshore\" is a thousand times better than the \"barren, barren shore\"\nof Tennyson. No one objects to \"daisied mead\" or \"daisied lea,\" and\n\"periwinkled shore,\" as we have seen it, and as hundreds, we make\nno doubt, of our readers have also seen it, is, to our thinking,\nevery whit as poetical, and in no sense inconsistent even with\nepic dignity. Wilks having within recent years become an article\nof considerable marketable value, being carefully gathered on every\nbeach, the \"periwinkled shore\" of Ossian is, of course, a rarer sight\nnow-a-days than it used to be. Nearly as plentiful on our shores as\nthe common periwinkle itself is its first cousin, the Purpura lapillus\nof conchologists, or yellow periwinkle, one of those creatures that\nfurnished the famous purple dye of the ancients. It has a bitter,\nastringent taste, and is in consequence not eaten like its congener,\nthe wilk. We have said that our favourite morning walk is invariably,\nif we can accomplish it, along the sea-beach; and hardly a day passes\nbut we can show something interesting and new, picked up in these our\nlittoral perambulations. After a storm particularly, we endeavour,\nwhatever our other engagements, to devote an hour at least to a ramble\nalong the shore, and it is rarely we return empty-handed: some curious\nwaif or other, cast up by the storm, seldom fails to be forthcoming as\nthe reward of our matutinal diligence. After a severe gale one morning\nlast week, we found a dead kittiwake, but perfectly plump and fresh,\nlying on the top of a mass of drift tangle. The bird itself was no\ngreat rarity, for the kittiwake (Larus rissa, Linn.), a very pretty\nlittle gull, is common on all our shores, even in winter. The curious\nthing was that, on taking up the bird in our hand, we found that one\nof its feet was firmly held in the vice-like grasp of a large mussel,\nthe mussel in its turn being anchored by its byssus to a tangle root\n(Laminaria digitata) of immense size. The poor kittiwake had evidently\nbeen fairly trapped: the case was clear. Walking along the beach\nat low-water, in search of food, it must have stepped inadvertently\nand unwittingly into the jaws, so to speak, of the open, or rather\nhalf-open, mussel, which, in resentment of the intrusion, instantly\nclosing with a steel trap-like snap, held the poor bird firm and\nfast. There was no chance or hope of escape, and the unfortunate\nlittle gull, thus anchored to the bottom, was miserably drowned by the\nadvancing tide. Its body would, to a certain extent, act as a float or\nbuoy to the mussel and tangle root, which, thus loosened, the storm\nwould readily dislodge, and cast up on the beach, even as we found\nit. Web-feet of all kinds are, of course, as liable to death in all\nits forms, natural and accidental, as any other animals, but we dare to\nsay that in any accurate return of the vital statistics of sea-birds,\ndeath by drowning, Ophelia-like, would be found about the rarest. In\nmore ways than one, therefore, was our dead kittiwake a curiosity of\nno every-day occurrence, though, in nineteen cases out of twenty, the\npasser-by would probably be content to kick it aside as a dead gull,\nand no more, if, indeed, he condescended to notice it at all. We were\nlately told an amusing story about a Fort-William man who lived some\nfifty years ago, and was in his day a great shore-searcher after\nstorms, incited thereto, not exactly in the interests of science,\nbut by more mundane and prosaic considerations. Summer and winter,\nall the year round, he searched the shores (Bhi'dh e g'iarraidh nan\ncladaichan, was the phrase) of Achintore and Drumarbin after every\ngale of wind, wandering ghost-like in the grey dawn by the margin\nof the sea, and diligently picking up every conceivable article\nof flotsam and jetsam that came in his way. In all this there was\nperhaps nothing to object to; but this mild specimen of a Cornish\nwrecker had the habit of appropriating, without compunction, such\noars, thwarts, baling-dishes, and other articles of boat gearing\nas came in his way, even though he knew that they belonged to his\nneighbours, and had only been carried away from their proper places\nby an unusually high tide or a gale of wind. This was a breach of the\netiquette and good-neighbourhood prevailing among boatmen that could\nnot be tolerated. A Drumarbin man, therefore, who had lost some oars\nin a storm, and suspected that the Fort-William shore-searcher had\nfound and kept them, determined on reprisal, and in hope of curing\nhim of such shabby peculations, to give him a good fright, which\ncould be done the more easily, as the shore-searcher was a nervous,\ntimid creature, brimful of belief in apparitions, ghosts, and ghost\nstories of the wildest and most improbable character. Getting up one\nmorning after a storm, the Drumarbin man put on a pair of new shoes,\nand slipping to the shore, unobserved by the wrecker, whom he could see\nwandering along the beach, as was his custom, in the grey day-break,\nhe lay down at length on the shingle, and covered his head and body\ndown to his ankles with the drift-ware that had been cast up by the\nstorm. All he left exposed was his feet, on which we have said there\nwas a pair of good substantial new shoes. Meanwhile the \"wrecker\" was\nadvancing along the beach, carefully searching about, and stooping from\ntime to time, oyster-catcher or curlew-wise, in order to pick up such\nwaifs and strays as he fancied worth the while. At last he reached\nthe recumbent and sea-ware-covered Drumarbin man. The shoes at once\ncaught his eye, and as he gazed wistfully on what he considered the\nmost fortunate and valuable jetsam that had fallen to his luck for a\nlong time, he was heard to soliloquise,--\"A drowned man! Poor fellow;\nbut he has good shoes on, and as he can have no more use for them,\nI may as well take them now as anybody else later in the day.\" No\nsooner said than done. Throwing down his bundle of gatherings, he\npulled the shoes evenly and steadily off the supposed \"body's\" feet,\nand was moving away with them, when a smothered sepulchral voice from\nunder the sea-ware struck his ear--an ear painfully acute under the\ncircumstances,--\"Gabh mo chomhairl' 's f\u00e0g na br\u00f2gan sin!\" \"Take\nmy advice, and leave these shoes alone!\" At the same time he saw\nthe mass of drift-weed heaving and moving. Dropping the shoes as if\nthey had suddenly become each a mass of red-hot iron in his hand,\nhe started off with a yell that frightened the sea-birds all the way\nto Camus-na-Gall, and ran a terrible race without once halting or\nlooking over his shoulder, till, penitent and breathless, he reached\nhis own fireside. He was completely cured of shore-wandering, for,\nas our informant told us, he soon after sickened and took to his bed,\nfrom which he never rose again. Told in excellent Gaelic, and with a\nlarge admixture of the serio-comic quiet humour so characteristic of\nan old Highlander, the story made us laugh heartily; and not the less\nso that it was told in sly reference to our own frequent sea-shore\nperambulations.\n\nIt is many years since our wild birds have had to encounter a winter\nof such unmitigated severity as the present. Dead rooks, blackbirds,\nchaffinches, and hedge sparrows are only too common in copse, hedgerow,\nand open field, stiffened and starved all of them, nothing but the\nbones, skin, and feathers remaining as you take them up and handle\nthem, so that one only wonders how it is they did not drop and die\nlong before reaching such a sad state of utter fleshlessness and\nemaciation. A whole month, however, of intense frost, making every one\nexposed to its direct influence, even for a moment, put their fingers\nto their mouths with a \"poor Tom's a-cold\" attitude and grin--of\nintense frost, in which the earth became hard and resonant as iron,\nclearly accounts for it all. Some idea of the keenness of the frost at\ntimes may be gathered from the following facts:--On Friday afternoon\nwe had occasion to go to look if our boat on the beach was all right,\nfor the darkening heavens threatened an immediate storm, a not uncommon\nend to such rare meteorological phenomena as long continued frosts\non the West Coast. Sitting on the end of a log of wood that lay on\nthe beach, a little above high-water mark, was a rook or crow, which,\nas we approached, attempted to fly away, but could not. It stretched\nitself, and strained, and flapped its wings frantically as we drew\nnear, but there it was, tethered firm and fast, manifestly unable to\nbudge an inch, unless it carried the immense log bodily along with\nit. We wondered for a moment what in the world could be the matter,\nfor we could not recollect ever seeing a rook, of all our birds the\nmost knowing, perhaps, and self-possessed, act so absurdly. Running\nforward and laying hold of the bird, we had a ready solution of the\nmystery in the fact that the poor, struggling creature's feet were\nfirmly frozen to the log--more firmly than the best bird-lime or\nglue could have held them. Thawing the frozen feet with some little\ntrouble by the warmth of our hand, we had the pleasure of setting the\npoor bird at liberty. He--for it was a male--did not certainly weigh\nmore, as we poised him in our hand, than six or seven ounces, though\nthe ordinary weight of a rook in fair condition is nearly a couple of\npounds. Even within doors the frost was unusually intense. In a small\nroom off our own kitchen--and in the latter there is, of course,\nalways a fire, and generally a large fire, burning--the night's\nmilk was frequently found frozen into a hard and solid mass in the\nmorning; so thoroughly frozen that the servant girl could, by tilting\nup the vessel and smartly tapping its bottom get the solid contents\nof frozen milk into her hand, and carry it, for the amusement of the\nyoungsters, about the house, from one room to another, as if it were\na Dunlop cheese. Such a frost we have not had on the West Coast for\nat least a score of years. Our wild-bird levee of a morning is a\nmost interesting scene--the most pleasant episode, perhaps, in the\nnecessarily dull routine of a winter's day in the country. On these\noccasions we can depend on the presence of such birds as redbreasts,\nwrens, finches of all kinds, the lively and ubiquitous chaffinch,\nhowever, being most numerous; coral-billed blackbirds, shy at\nfirst, but easily made familiar and friendly enough; ox-eye tits,\nvery pretty birds, but nervous and fidgety always; house and hedge\nsparrows, with a self-assertion and impudence that is most amusing,\nand a bold familiarity that would always place them in the front rank\nof bread-crumb recipients, if the redbreasts, seldom otherwise than\nquarrelsome and testy, did not drive them back. Most of those birds,\nwhen they found an open door or window, would boldly venture into\nthe house, and eagerly pick up the bread crumbs from off the floor\nor table, undisturbed by anything one said or did, provided only you\nrefrained from any attempt to lay hold of them; in that case they\nwere off and out instantly, and in a manifest pet at your rudeness and\ninhospitality, shy to trust you again until the matter was forgotten,\nor perhaps only overlooked perforce of the inexorable logic of intense\ncold and gnawing hunger. All the birds that we have handled for more\nthan a month past were but the merest skin and bone, emaciated to a\ndegree altogether unknown in less severe winters. Curiously enough,\nhowever, we had a brace of woodcocks a few days ago which were as\nplump and fat as one could wish them; and some brace of snipe, shot\nin the neighbourhood of Inverness, kindly sent to us as a Christmas\npresent, were in excellent condition, and good in every way. Why\nthese long-billed, sucking birds should be fat, when all other birds\nare unnaturally lean, is to be accounted for by the fact that the\nintense frost drives the worms and minute animals which constitute\ntheir food into the open \"eyes\" and rivulets, which never freeze,\nlike sheep in a fank; and thus the woodcock and snipe have their food\nwith rather less trouble in frost than in more open weather. Some ten\ndays ago, a very fine specimen of the jay (Corvus glandarius, Linn.;\nthe Scriachan-Coille of the Gael) was sent us. This is one of our\nhandsomest birds, and we are glad to say that it has within recent\nyears become comparatively common in Lochaber. Like its congener the\nmagpie, it is looked upon with considerable suspicion as an enemy to\ngame; eating up, it is alleged, grouse, and partridge, and pheasant\neggs as a favourite bonne bouche, and even devouring the newly hatched\nyoung. It is a shy and solitary bird, even where it is common, and we\ndo not know its habits and economy sufficiently to entitle us, much as\nwe are inclined, to enter on its defence under such an indictment;\nbut, from all we have been enabled to gather on the subject, we\nshould meantime be disposed to record the tertium quid verdict of\n\"Not proven.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIV.\n\n    A \"Blessed Thaw\" after a Severe Frost--Longevity in Lochaber--A\n    ready \"Saline draught--A probatum est Recipe for Catarrh and\n    Colds--Egg-shell Superstition--Curious old Gaelic Poem.\n\n\nHow intense was the recent frost [January 1875], and how hyperborean\nall our surroundings, may be judged of from the fact that on coming out\nof church yesterday, one of our people, a greyheaded, pious old man,\nspoke of the happy change to open weather and \"westlan' breezes\" very\nsolemnly as \"the blessed thaw\"--an t'aiteamh beannaichte. Before any\none else north or south of the Tweed made any reference to the coming\nwinter, our readers may remember that we did, and that we inculcated\non every one the wisdom of keeping themselves warm and comfortable, by\nmeans of good fires and otherwise, as the best way of being jolly in\nthe best and truest sense of that much misapprehended and frequently\nmisapplied term. It was, in truth, a trying season; but sensibly and\nthickly clad in many a fold of honest home-spun c\u00f9rain, or plaiding,\nour people for the most part got over it without any very serious\nailments. Influenzas, catarrhs, and colds in every form were of course\ncommon, and, for a time, one was met on every side by an uncomfortable\nand sometimes disagreeable amount of coughing, expectoration,\nsniftering, sneezing, and nose-blowing; but now all this has almost\nor altogether passed away, and people are again going about as usual,\nclad no otherwise than ordinarily, and as becometh the inhabitants\nof a temperate zone: plaids, comforters, double-ply mittens, and\n\"bosom-friends,\" having been laid aside as unnecessary incumbrances in\nweather that is now actually warm and spring-like, as compared with\nthat dreadful month or six weeks of Baffin's Bay-like temperature,\nthat, when it got fairly at you, and off your guard, seemed capable of\nmaking the very blood freeze in one's veins, even as it froze the water\nin our subterranean and best guarded lead pipes. Nothing, perhaps,\ncould more pointedly illustrate the healthy vigour and vitality of\nour people generally than the fact that, although we have amongst us\nmany who have arrived at extreme old age, and some who have been more\nor less valetudinarian for years, there has not been a single death\nin the district--a district which, as we look around us, contains\nsome two or three thousand inhabitants--since the beginning of last\nDecember; a fact which, considering the inclemency of the weather,\nand the high death-rate everywhere else, is something surely worthy\nchronicling. We are probably correct in believing that the worst at\nleast of winter is already past, but much cold and stormy weather\nmay be still in store for us, and as colds and coughs may return,\nwe beg to make friendly offer of the following probatum est recipe,\nquite a popular cure in this part of the country for every form of\nwinter influenza. Cure or no cure, the recipe has at all events the\nmerit of being extremely simple, and to thousands of our readers very\nreadily available at any time. Take a pint--say a tumblerful--of sea\nwater that has been heated to the boiling-point, without having been\nallowed actually to boil. Sprinkle over it some pepper, rather more\nplentifully than you do in your soup; drink this as hot as you can\nbear it as you step into bed at night. Next day your cold and cough\nwill have disappeared like an unpleasant dream. You may be weak,\nbut you will, upon the whole, be well! We cannot personally vouch\nfor the efficacy of this draught, but we find that many people here\ninvariably resort to it as a ready and popular cure for their colds,\nand they speak highly of its virtues, and, contrary to what one would\nexpect, of its comparative pleasantness and palatability as well. A\nsensible old man whom we questioned on the subject a few days ago,\nand a firm believer in the efficacy of this \"saline\" draught, told\nus in confidence that the rationale of the thing consisted in the\nfact that it immediately acted as a powerful sudorific; and that to\nthis, he thought, was to be attributed the thoroughness as well as the\nrapidity of the cure. Probably he was right. It is a simple, cheap, and\nreadily available remedy at all events, and dwellers by the sea-side\nmight do worse than give it a trial at a pinch, when more orthodox\nremedies have failed, or are not ready to hand. One grand thing about\nit is the certainty that, if it does no good, it cannot possibly do\nharm. Another old man in our neighbourhood, still hale and active,\nthough in his eighty-fourth year, told us lately that he never took\na dose, not a ha'penny's worth, of medicine, druggist's or doctor's\nstuff in his life. \"Whenever I felt out of sorts,\" he continued,\n\"I just went down to the sea and drank a good large draught of salt\nwater; that was always my medicine, and it never once failed to do me\ngood.\" So that there may be more virtue in sea water as a curative\nagent in bronchial and stomachic ailments than the world generally\nwots. And if so, how consoling the thought that this druggist's shop\nis never shut; the supply is exhaustless, and no charge!\n\nA curious bit of popular superstition is the following, which a\ngentleman in a neighbouring district was good enough to bring recently\nunder our notice. After breakfast, at which, among other good things,\nwe had some excellent fresh eggs, he suggested that we should go into\nthe kitchen to smoke, \"and watch,\" he said, \"what my housekeeper will\ndo with the empty egg-shells as the breakfast things are brought\nup from the parlour.\" We went and stood and watched accordingly,\nand this is what we saw, chatting with our host the while, that the\nhousekeeper might not suspect that we took any particular interest\nin her doings. We noticed that when the girl came into the kitchen\nand laid the tray upon the table, the housekeeper, a staid and\nrespectable-looking woman, well advanced in years, walked over and\ntook the egg-shells--there were four or five of them--and, placing\nthem one after another into an egg-cup, she took a small knife, and\npassed it with a smart tap through the bottoms or hitherto unbroken\nends of the lot, and then turned away to some other employment. This\nwas all, for our host immediately suggested that we should visit the\nstables. We were a good deal puzzled, having seen so little, where\nwe expected to have seen a great deal, and that little so seemingly\nwithout meaning and purposeless. When we got to the stables, our host\nasked if we understood the meaning of the old lady's manner of dealing\nwith the egg-shells. We confessed our profound ignorance, having never\nseen--never, at least, seen so as seriously to notice--anything of this\nkind before. \"My housekeeper, you must know,\" continued our friend,\n\"is a most excellent woman, but much given to little superstitious\nobservances and harmless giosragan. She will not allow a single\negg-shell to go out of her sight without first making a hole through\nit, knocking out its bottom in short, in case, as she has more than\nonce seriously told me, a witch should get hold of it and use it\nas a boat, in which to set to sea in order to raise violent storms,\nin which the ablest seamanship could not possibly save hundreds of\nvessels from being miserably wrecked!\" \"You may smile,\" he went on,\n\"for it is supremely absurd, to be sure, that an otherwise sensible\nwoman should give credence to such nonsense; but, after all, if you\nmake inquiry, you will find that the superstition in question is quite\na common one. Few middle-aged women, brought up in the Highlands,\nbut will act as you saw my housekeeper act with the empty egg-shells,\nknocking a hole through their unbroken ends before throwing them aside,\nor frequently even more effectually providing against the possibility\nof their being used as witched life-boats, by crushing the whole\nshell into a crumpled mass bodily in the hand.\" We haven't as yet had\nmany opportunities of making inquiry into the matter, but from all we\ncan gather from some old women in our neighbourhood, we believe empty\negg-shells are, or perhaps we should say were, frequently treated after\nthe fashion stated, and for the reason assigned. Some of our readers\nin the north-west Highlands and Hebrides may perhaps know something\nmore about a very odd and curious superstition to be met with in the\nlatter half of the nineteenth century. For obvious reasons, it is a\nsuperstition more likely to be prevalent among islanders and dwellers\nby the sea-shore than in the more inland parts of the country.\n\nThe following fragment of a curious old poem we picked up about\nten days ago from the recitation of Alexander Maclachlan, shepherd,\nDalness. It is unfortunately but a fragment, as we have said, but\nwe give it here in the hope that some of our friends of the Gaelic\nSociety, or of our many readers throughout the Hebrides, may be able\nto supply more or less of the remainder. Maclachlan heard the entire\npoem from a Glenetive forester, a very old man, some years ago, but\nthis man is now unfortunately dead, and the reciter could not direct us\nto any one likely to be able to repeat the poem at length. Perhaps our\nfriend Mr. J. F. Campbell of Islay, so indefatigable and marvellously\nsuccessful in his search after Celtic song and story, \"all of the olden\ntime,\" may have met with it in a more or less complete form; if so,\nhe would very much oblige us all in the north by giving us a version\nof it and its history, as far as he knows it. We may state that it does\nnot appear in Leabhar-na-Feinne, which we have searched for it, though\nunquestionably a production of considerable antiquity. Maclachlan\ntold us that the old forester, in reciting it, called it Conaltradh\nnan Ian, or The Parliament of Birds. The following were evidently the\nopening lines of the poem, and likeliest to be remembered by one who\nonly heard it repeated once or twice:--\n\n\n    Conaltradh nan Ian--(Fragment).\n\n    \"Nuair 'bha Gaelig aig na h'eoin,\n    'Sa 'thuigeadh iad gl\u00f2ir nan d\u00e0n,\n    Bu tric an comhradh anns a choill\n    Air iomad pong, ma's fhior na B\u00e0ird.\n    Thainig pi\u00e0id luath na gleadhraich,\n    'S shuidh i air grod mheur c\u00f2sach fearna,\n    Ma choinneamh c\u00f2'chaig a ghuib chruinn,\n    'Sa caog-shuil dhonn na ceann mar \u00e0irnaig.\n    'N so dh'\u00e8irich a phiaid gu grad,\n    'S thubhairt i 's i 's tailceadh a bonn,\n    'An tusa sin a'd mheall air stop\n    Nuair a bhi's do cheod-cheann trom?\n    Am bi do theanga 'ghnath fo ghlais\n    'S tu gun luaidh air reach na \u00f9i,\n    'S tu cho duinte ri cloich bhric\n    'Bhi's air meall a chnaip gun bhri.\"\n\n    \"Bu treis dhaibh mar so a c\u00f2mhstri,\n    Gearradh, 'bearradh gl\u00f2ir a cheile,\n    Ach gus an d'leum a nois an glas-eun;\n    'S rinn esan gach c\u00f9is a r\u00e8iteach,\n    'S crog a phiaid air a ceann\n    'S dh-fhag e i gu fuar, fann,\n    'N sin bh'\u00e8irich fir\u00e8un nan gl\u00e9us\n    A shinbhlas an sp\u00e8ur ga luath.\"\n\n                                [C\u00e6tera desunt.]\n\n\nThis curious poem seems to have been throughout of a dramatic\nform. Maclachlan says that, as he heard it repeated, almost all our\nbetter known wild-birds were introduced, and had appropriate speeches\nand parts assigned to them. He particularly referred to a very funny\nspeech by the wren, who finally quarrels with the wagtail, by whom\nhe had been insulted, and gives him a good licking. The end of it\nall is that the eagle is unanimously elected king of birds, with\nthe glas-eun or falcon-kite as his lieutenant. The throstle cock is\nelected bard of birds, and the dipper admiral and commander-in-chief\nof the wild-bird fleet. Any one recovering the whole poem would be\nconferring no small boon on Gaelic literature.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLV.\n\n    \"Albert,\" a famous Labrador Dog--As a Water-Dog--His\n    intelligence--Takes to Sheep-stealing--Death!\n\n\nIn a recent number of Land and Water, Mr. Frank Buckland, in\nwriting about the Ophiophagus elaps, a serpent-eating serpent\nlately introduced into the Zoological Gardens, London, with all the\nhonours due to a visitor so choice and curious in its diet, remarks\nthat \"the saying that 'Dog will not eat dog' is proverbial amongst\nus.\" North of the Tweed, neither in Gaelic nor in guid braid Scotch,\nis any such proverb known. The nearest approach to it that we can\nthink of at this moment [April 1875] is the saying that \"Hawks winna\npick oot hawks' een,\" and this is applied in a sense very different\nfrom that suggested by Mr. Buckland's proverb, if such a proverb\nexists. At all events the saying that dog will not eat dog is not\ntrue; dog will eat dog, ravenously and greedily enough, when he is\nhungry and gets the chance. Notwithstanding his domestication and\nlong acquaintance with the usages of civilised life, the dog is,\nunder certain circumstances, as thorough a cannibal and savage as\never was Fiji islander in the days when that worthy Polynesian would\ngive the best finger of his right hand for a prime haunch of full-fed\nand fat \"missionary.\" Out of many instances that had come under our\nown observation of cannibalism in dogs, take the following, all the\ncircumstances connected with which, although it is somewhat of an old\nstory now, are for many reasons as fresh in our recollection as if\nthey had occurred but yesterday. When we came to Lochaber, upwards\nof twenty years ago (Eheu! fugaces labuntur anni), we had a large\nLabrador dog, a present, when a three-months-old pup, from one of the\nbest and kindliest men we have ever known, the late Rev. Dr. Macnair,\nof the Abbey Church, Paisley. He grew to be a magnificent animal, the\nlargest and most powerful dog, perhaps, ever seen in the Highlands, and\nas sagacious and good-tempered as he was big and bold and strong. The\nlate Mr. Campbell of Monzie, an excellent judge of dogs, used to say\nthat he was the finest dog he ever saw, and made it a point every\nyear to call once or twice during the shooting season purposely to\nhave \"a friendly talk,\" as he termed it, with \"Albert,\" for such was\nour canny Goliath's name. As a water-dog, he was simply perfect,\nas amphibious almost as a seal. Any stone that you took in your\nhand and threw into twelve, fifteen, or even twenty feet of water,\nhe instantly dashed after, and took from the bottom, and laid at your\nfeet, seldom making a mistake, though how he was able to select from\na stony bottom the very stone that had been handled and thrown in by\nyou was then, and is still, a puzzle to us: not by scent, one would\nthink, for all traces of contact with the hand must surely have been\nlost in passing through such a depth of salt water. He probably was\nable to recognise the proper stone partly from its colour and shape,\nand from its being in a less saturated state, and less in contact with\nthe bottom than were those that always lay there. On one occasion we\nhad left our boat on the beach, neglecting to tie the painter, as we\nintended returning immediately. Something came in the way, however,\nthat occupied us longer than we expected, and on returning to the\nshore, our boat was off and away, drifting before a land breeze that\nhad already carried it quite a quarter of a mile from the beach. There\nwas no other boat at hand in which to overtake the runaway, and to\ngo round by the ferry, to meet it on the opposite side of the loch,\nwas a longer walk than one cared about just then, and the boat,\nbesides, was likely to be considerably damaged if it reached the\nrocks on the other side, as the chances were it would, before we could\narrive. While thus in a state of anxiety and indecision, our eye fell\nupon \"Albert,\" then our constant companion, afloat and ashore. \"Albert,\nold fellow,\" we remarked, \"the boat, you see, is adrift; what's to\nbe done?\" With a grand, deep bass bark in response, he dashed into\nthe water, and ere we could well understand it all, he was a hundred\nyards away, swimming hastily and rapidly in the direction of the\ntruant yawl. We could only sit down on a rock to watch and wait the\nupshot of the adventure. Soon overtaking the runaway boat, \"Albert\"\nswam once or twice round it, and then observing that the painter was\ndragging in the water over the bow, he seized the rope in his mouth,\nand strongly and steadily towed the boat towards us, against a stiff\nbreeze and a considerable ripple of a sea, until he reached the beach,\nand dropped the painter on the shingle at our feet, and with a jolly,\nself-approving bark, in response to our words of hearty welcome, that\nmade the mountain echoes ring again, he shook a perfect shower-bath\nof brine from his shaggy coat, and scampered away along the sands to\ndry himself. He was manifestly proud, as he well ought to be, of an\nexploit so timeously and sagaciously performed, and so, be sure, were\nwe. \"Albert's\" readiness to take to the water was, on one occasion at\nleast, attended by rather awkward circumstances. One beautiful summer\nafternoon, a young Oxford friend and ourselves were in the same boat,\nwith \"Albert,\" as usual, for a companion. It was too calm for sailing,\nand we were too lazy to row, so we allowed the boat to drift about at\n\"its own sweet will,\" while we lounged on the thwarts and read the\npapers, of special interest then on account of the Crimean war. We\nwere half a mile from land, and our friend by-and-by suggested that\na swim in the invitingly cool, clear sea would be a good thing before\nreturning home to dinner. As he was an excellent swimmer, with whom,\nfor a small wager, we had the day before done a considerable distance,\nwe readily agreed. We had long known, however, how difficult it is to\nget into a buoyant, floating boat of such a comparatively small size\nas ours was, without any purchase to aid but such as is afforded by the\nunstable water, and it was arranged that he should have his dip first,\nand when he was tired of it, and we had helped him on board, that we\nshould have a plunge in our turn. \"Albert,\" who had not been consulted\nin our arrangement, was stretched the while at length, half or wholly\nasleep, along the bottom of the boat. When he had stripped, our young\nfriend stood up in the bow, with one foot on the foremost thwart and\nthe other on the gunwale, and with a loud shout took a splendid header\ninto the cool, green depths, disappearing like an arrow, with a clean,\nclear cut, that hardly left a ripple on the surface. \"Albert,\" who\nclearly thought it an accident, and that the young man's life was\nin danger, with one brave bound, and before we could prevent him,\nwas instantly over the side, and, diving after the swimmer, met him\nas he was returning to the surface, and laid hold of him awkwardly,\nthough with the best intention, by the fleshy part of the left arm\nnear the shoulder. When they appeared on the surface, the swimmer,\nwho had manifestly lost all his self-possession, struggled violently\nto free himself from the dog, and would certainly have been drowned by\nhis own struggles and the very exertions intended by the noble animal\nto save his life, if we had not quickly rowed the boat alongside,\nand taking our friend very unceremoniously by his \"Hyperion curls,\"\ndragged him on board, panting and sputtering as only the half-drowned\nand wholly frightened can pant and sputter in such circumstances. On\nexamination, his arm was found to be less hurt by the dog's teeth\nthan we expected it to be; a firm and friendly grip with such kindly\nintentions as actuated the honest would-be rescuer being a very\ndifferent thing from a bite and worry in good earnest. His back and\nshoulders, however, were seriously scratched in livid lash-like weals\nby the dog's nails, while they were hugging each other and struggling\nin the water. \"Albert\" was of course very little if at all to blame\nin the adventure, and his only punishment--if what indeed was to him\nalways a delight could be called a punishment--was that, refusing\nto take him back into the boat, he was obliged to swim a full half\nmile to the beach; which, however, he easily reached before us. Our\nfriend felt sore and uncomfortable for a day or two, but was soon all\nright again; and both he and we had got a lesson which we were not\nlikely to forget in a hurry, that a powerful dog, no matter how well\nmeaning and kindly his intentions, is rather a dangerous companion\nto a swimmer in puris naturalibus in deep water.\n\nBut what has all this, it may be asked, to do with Mr. Frank Buckland\nand his proverb that \"Dog will not eat dog\"? A little patience,\nas is your wont, courteous reader, and we shall come to the point\nwithout much more ado. When \"Albert\" was about four years old,\nand as powerful, and perfect, and pleasant a dog as ever growled in\nanger or barked with glee, it began to be rumoured abroad that he was\nfast falling into bad habits--whether from following evil example, or\ninstinctively and proprio mot\u00fb, was never determined. He was accused,\nin fact, of sheep-worrying, and of course we couldn't and wouldn't\nbelieve a bit of it. Other dogs might be guilty of such vulgar\nmisconduct; in the case of our dog the thing was impossible. Wasn't\nhe regularly and well fed? Didn't he sleep every night at our own\nbedroom door? All this, of course, we said, and urged, and argued,\nand furthermore we urged a fact which seemed to us to be conclusive of\nour dog's innocence of the great misdemeanour laid to his charge--we\nhad sheep of our own, and there were sheep belonging to others in\nour immediate neighbourhood, and with none of these, we pointed out,\nhad our dog ever been known to make or meddle in any way further than\nby an occasional deep bow-wow! which, though it sometimes made them\nscamper, was uttered more in rollicking fun and merry make-believe\nthan in anything like anger or earnest. Precisely so, answered a host\nof crook-carrying shepherds from farms five, seven, ten miles away:\n\"Your dog is too knowing to kill sheep at your own doors; he goes to a\nconsiderable distance on his raids, the better to escape detection,\nslipping away at night or early in the morning unknown to you,\nand returning as innocent-seeming as the last sheep he has worried,\nbefore you appear in your breakfast parlour!\" It was not alleged that\nhe had ever been caught in the act, or actually seen eating forbidden\nmutton or lamb, minus the \"mint sauce;\" but more than one shepherd\naverred that he had more than once been seen wandering at improper\nhours on hill-sides, where he had no good right or reason to be,\non which occasions, too, he exhibited the stealthy, prowling pace,\nand all the hang-dog looks and other signs of an evil-doer. Half\nafraid that it was too true, but irritated by their strenuousness of\nassertion, and defiant to the last, \"Catch him, then!\" we exclaimed,\n\"shoot him, kill him, if he is harming you; but I am not going to put\naway or kill my dog--and such a dog, too! worth the best hirsel in\nyour charge!--simply to please you.\" And thus the matter rested for a\ntime, but not for long. Early one Monday morning, about a fortnight\nafterwards, our good neighbour Mr. Linton, of the farm of Coruanan,\nseven or eight miles away, drove up to our door in his gig, and asked\nto see us. After the usual civilities, \"Your big dog is killing my\nsheep, Mr. S.!\" was the charge, straightforward and unqualified. We\nargued, of course, that it couldn't be, &c., as above, but Mr. Linton\nsoon brought the matter to a very practical issue. \"What is the value\nof your dog?\" We couldn't say; he was very valuable, a great favourite,\nand we declined to put a price upon him. \"Well,\" continued Mr. Linton,\n\"say that he is worth \u00a35, or \u00a310, or \u00a320. I charge him with killing\ntwo of my sheep this very morning. I have my gun here in the gig: let\nme shoot him, and if I don't find and show you wool and mutton-flesh\ntaken from his stomach, I will gladly pay over the dog's price; if I\nshow you what I am certain I can show, his still undigested morning\nmeal of mutton-flesh and wool, we are quits. That's surely fair!\" And\nthere was no denying that it was perfectly fair, but we declined,\nnevertheless, bringing the matter to the arbitrament suggested. We\nparted good friends, however, for we promised that whether he was to\nbe shot or drowned, or sent out of the country, the dog would never\nagain be allowed a chance of killing another sheep in Lochaber,\nand our friend Mr. Linton is, we are glad to say, still in life to\nbear testimony to the fact that we were as good as our word. On due\nconsideration of the case in all its aspects, we decided that it\nwas best, in the interest of peace and good neighbourhood, to have\nthe dog shot forthwith, and shot he was accordingly within an hour\nof the interview above described. We directed the executioner of\nthe sad sentence to open him, that we might examine the contents of\nthe stomach, and sure enough, intermixed with wool enough to stuff\na small cushion, it was found to contain many pounds of recently\nkilled and undigested mutton. It was clear that some at least of the\nmany grave charges against him were true. Anxious to preserve the\nskin for stuffing, the eviscerated body was placed in the fork of\nan apple tree in the garden, until we could procure the services of\nsome one expert in flaying to do the job handsomely. Next morning,\non going into the garden to have a look at all that remained of poor\n\"Albert,\" what was our astonishment and horror at finding the corpus\nvile--vile, indeed, at last!--dragged from the tree to the ground,\nand almost entirely devoured by some half-dozen jackal looking curs,\nthat were having what was manifestly to them a jolly banquet on the\nremains of the gallant animal whose single bark when in lusty life\nwas sufficient to scatter a whole score of such sorry mongrels, as if\neach had a firebrand at his tail. Except a few ragged shreds of skin\nand the larger bones, they had devoured every particle of him; and\nso much for Mr. Frank Buckland and his proverb that \"Dog will not eat\ndog.\" Won't he just, when he has the chance! Nor is this by any means\nthe only instance of canine cannibalism that might be adduced from our\ncommon-place book in disproof of any proverb or saying whatever to the\ncontrary. Poor \"Albert!\" we are ashamed to confess how much grieved\nwe were for his death, his ovicidal tendencies notwithstanding. His\nupper jaw, showing a development of dentition of which a Bengal tiger\nneed not have been ashamed, is the only relic of our gallant dog now\nremaining to us; and on the ex pede Herculem principle, we point to\nthat with a melancholy satisfaction in telling how big and brave,\nafloat and ashore, was our matchless Labrador.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVI.\n\n    An old Fingalian Hero--His keenness of Sight and sharpness of\n    Ear-- Foresters and Keepers--Foxhunters--Donald MacDonald--His\n    Dogs--Sandy MacArthur the Mole-catcher.\n\n\nThe hero of one of our most popular old Fingalian tales is described as\nvery marvellously gifted. In order to secure the hand of a beautiful\nScandinavian princess, whose locks are as the beams of the setting\nsun, about the time the summer sea is flecked and barred with gold,\nand with whom he has long been in love, he has to undertake the most\nstrange and startling adventures; and not the least important of his\nqualifications for combating the frequent difficulties of his position\nis a preternatural acuteness of eye and ear, of sight and hearing. His\nkeenness of sight, for instance, is indicated by his being able to\ncount the beats of the swallow's wings in all the gyrations of its\nflight over the summer grove; and as for his acuteness of ear, enough\nis said when the veracious chronicler does not hesitate to assert that\nhis hero could hear the grass grow? We, in our unheroic and degenerate\nday, cannot boast of anything like this. We are content to know that\nthe swallow skims the pool with a swiftness due to a motion of wing\ntoo rapid to be detected in its separate beats by the acutest eye,\nand that the grass does grow, and at times with marvellous rapidity,\nalbeit the stir and tumult of its upward rush is inaudible to human\nears. But if we cannot hear the grass grow, we can safely aver that\nin such exceptionally splendid seasons as this [July 1875], and\nwithout fear of being charged with any very culpable exaggeration,\nwe can see it grow, not only from day to day, but almost literally\nfrom hour to hour--so rapid, so marked, and visibly perceptible is\nthe progress towards a large and lusty maturity of grass and grain\nand every green herb of the field. Anything, indeed, to equal the\nsturdy vigour and upward rush of vegetation during the month of June\nlast past we never did see before, and had it not come immediately\nunder our own observation, we could hardly have believed it possible\nanywhere outside the tropics. The harvest must necessarily be a late\none, though not quite so late as it was at one time feared must be\nthe case. If we say that the season of ingathering will be later than\nusual by ten days, or a fortnight at the most, we are probably not\nfar from the mark. But, late or early, it is sure to be an exceedingly\nabundant harvest, there being at present all over the West Highlands\nevery promise of very heavy returns, the heaviest, perhaps, that,\nunder any circumstances whatever, the land could safely bear, with\nthe hope of an eventually fully ripe and lusty maturity.\n\nReaders of our Nether Lochaber papers will in nowise be surprised to\nhear that we have all our lifetime made it a point to cultivate the\nconfidence and friendly goodwill of keepers, foresters, and their\nfollowers, wherever we chanced to meet with them; nor would it be\nproper to suppress our grateful acknowledgment of the fact that to\nthem we have been largely indebted in all our zoological studies for\na long quarter of a century. We look upon foresters and gamekeepers\nas at the head of their profession, what the French call \"princes of\nthe game,\" and we have ever found them exceedingly courteous and kind,\nhighly intelligent almost without exception, and not merely willing but\nwell pleased to be examined, and cross-examined when occasion calls,\non anything and everything appertaining to, or at all connected with,\ntheir office. With their humbler brethren of the craft, too, we have\nlong been thoroughly en rapport; these humbler brethren being the\nfox-hunters, mole-catchers, and vermin-killers generally, by whatever\nname or designation known from the Moray Firth, to the Clyde. Most\nreaders of poetry will remember how Pope, in one of his finest poems\n(Prologue to the Satires), apostrophises his friend Dr. Arbuthnot as\n\n\n    \"Friend to my life! which did not you prolong,\n    The world had wanted many an idle song.\"\n\n\nAnd if one dared to parody any couplet from a poem so beautiful, we\nshould be disposed to address the first fox-hunter or mole-catcher of\nour numerous acquaintances among them who are deacons of their craft,\nwe chanced to meet, in some such words as these--\n\n\n    \"Friend to my mill! which did not you supply\n    With frequent grist, I'd wither, wane, and die.\"\n\n\nA few days ago the Ardgour fox-hunter, Donald Macdonald by name, a\nMoidart man, and an excellent specimen of his class, called upon us\nwith his quarterly budget of news from glen and upland, from hill and\nscaur, and den and corrie; and a wonderful season in his particular\nline he vows it has been. Since the middle of April last he has killed\nand bagged no fewer than fifty-one foxes all told, besides a number,\nboth young and old, that were worried to the death by his terriers\nin the deepest recesses of their saobhies or dens, whence, when the\nturmoil of battle had ceased, and his dogs had emerged bearing very\nvisible marks of the deadly conflict within, it was impossible to dig\nthem out. All these foxes were got on the borders of three conterminous\nfarms--Aryhuelan (Dr. Simpson's), Conaglen and Inverscaddle (the Earl\nof Morton's), and Glennahuirich (Mr. Milligan's). Donald, who has been\na fox-hunter for upwards of thirty years, never before knew foxes so\nnumerous, and this not in one or more favourite haunts within a given\ndistrict, but generally over the country. He couldn't himself in any\nway satisfactorily account for the fox fecundity of 1874-75, and we\ncould only regret that we were unable to enlighten him in the least,\nfor he avowedly came for enlightenment on a subject that was very\nnaturally exceedingly interesting to him. We were obliged to confess\nthat the matter was as much a puzzle to us as to himself, but promised\nto think it over. Account for it as we may, it is in truth a fact\nthat has attracted attention everywhere, that not for many years,\nif indeed ever before, have foxes been so numerous all over the\nHighlands. In the three adjoining districts of Badenoch, Lochaber,\nand Ardgour, the last including a part of Sunart, we are assured\nthat no less a number than two hundred and forty-three foxes have\nbeen killed or captured since mid-April, besides, as already stated,\na considerable number worried in the recesses of their big rock dens\nwhich could not be actually \"bagged\" or charged for after the fashion\nof the craft by brush or pad, though there was no doubt at all of their\nhaving succumbed after, in each case, a more or less desperate battle,\nto the assaults of their terrier assailants. And here, good reader, you\nmust permit us, en parenthese, a slight disgression, not altogether, we\nhope, uninteresting. We wonder if in the great family of dogs anywhere\nthroughout the world there is anything to equal in hardihood, pluck,\nand all endurance the Highland fox-hunter's canine following? They are\ninvariably a rough and ragged lot enough, and seemingly at sixes and\nsevens as to anything like assortment; no two of them exactly alike in\ncolour, size, or breed; and they are usually low in stature, though\nof considerable bone and well developed muscle what there is of it;\nbut be what they may in these respects, when you fall in with one of\nour fox-hunter's packs, six, seven, eight, or a dozen in number, as\nthe case may be, be sure you have before you the gamest, varmintest\nlittle beggars to tackle otter, fox, or badger that the whole world\ncan show. Our visitor of the other day had only one little fellow\nof his pack along with him. \"What's his name, Donald?\" we asked,\npointing to his wiry follower, that we could easily see was, from the\nink-black tip of his nose to the extremity of his tail, a \"varmint\"\nof the first order. \"What do you call him?\" \"Speach,\" he replied, and\nspeach, our non-Gaelic readers must be told, means a wasp or hornet,\nand, even like a wasp, we knew that that little fellow with his dander\nup in the labyrinthine recesses of a fox's den or a badger's garaidh,\nwould fight against any odds until he was torn into ribbons, and on\neach and every occasion would prove himself\n\n\n    \"Impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis, acer,\"\n\n\nwhich old Robertson of Struan admirably rendered into our native Doric,\nwithout the loss of a particle of meaning or force--\n\n\n    \"A fiery ettercap, a fractious chiel,\n    As het as ginger, and as stieve as steel!\"\n\n\n\"And is 'Speach' good, then, Donald?\" we inquired. \"Yes, sir,\" was the\nreply, \"a very good little dog. He is but small, you see, and light;\nthe smallest, indeed, at present in my pack, but he will take hold\nof fox or badger or otter at the readiest spot that offers, and,\nhaving once got hold, will never let go again while his antagonist\nis in life; at every dig only burying his muzzle deeper into his\nopponent.\" We quite agreed with him that a dog that did that must be\ngood indeed; and we are perfectly satisfied that he did not in the\nleast exaggerate the indomitable pluck and never-say-die tenacity of\nhis tiny favourite. Two very good things remain to be said in praise of\nour Highland fox-hunters' dogs. They are never known to bite, and very\nrarely even to bark at human beings; and no fox-hunter's dog was ever\nknown to be affected with hydrophobia or canine madness. The exemption\nfrom canine madness may, perhaps, be largely due to their open air\nand natural mode of life, but it is difficult to understand why they\nshould be so entirely free from any propensity to bite or otherwise\nannoy a human being, a vice common enough to dogs of unexceptionable\ncharacter and breeding otherwise, and from which even the highly\nintelligent and much-lauded collie is by no means so free as his many\nadmirers seem to suppose. Even a collie is always prepared to bark,\nand oftentimes to bite on very little provocation, or no provocation\nat all. The fox-hunter's terrier, whether he is pure or a nondescript\ncross, very rarely indeed barks at a stranger, and never under any\ncircumstances offers to bite. We question if there is a human being\nto-day in life who can honestly assert that he has ever been bitten\nby a fox-hunter's dog. With Macdonald we had a long and interesting\ncrack, in the course of which we touched on some matters of sufficient\nimportance to be introduced to the reader on a future occasion.\n\nWe had also a visit some little time ago from Sandy Macarthur, a\nwell-known mole-catcher in Lochaber and the neighbouring districts;\na very intelligent and civil man, whose only fault is that when\nyou have collared him there is no spontaneity in his crack. Even\nwhen you have got firm hold enough of him, you have to extract his\nfrequently very valuable information from him by a process akin to\nthat which an ingenious and learned counsel employs in the case of a\nrecalcitrant and unwilling witness at an important jury trial. Sandy,\nhowever, is a good fellow all the same, slow but sure; and his\nquiet unobtrusiveness and reticence is perhaps to be attributed to\nthe exigencies of his profession; a \"rattling, roaring Willie\" of a\nmole-catcher, with, to use a Gaelic phrase, his tongue constantly\non his shoulder, would probably prove but an unsuccessful hunter\nof the velvet-coated quick-eared, and timid subterranean family of\nthe Mac Talpa. Sandy, on the contrary, goes to work in dead silence\nand a-tiptoe, and bags his mole as quietly as an angler baskets his\ntrout from out the glassy pool, over which, if but his shadow moved,\nhe would angle long in vain. Sandy assures us that moles are to be\nfound this season where they were never seen before, and where he was\nat first a good deal puzzled to account for their appearance. On a full\nconsideration of the case Macarthur's theory is briefly to this effect:\nMoles are mainly underground dwellers, and even their travelling and\nmigrating from place to place are done subterraneously. If, however,\nthey find themselves, as in the Highlands they must frequently do,\nin a district or part of district separated from other parts in\nwhich they have never been by rocky spurs and ridges, they will not\nventure over these latter unless they carry sufficient earth to hide\ntheir tunnelling, which, it is needless to say, they frequently do\nnot. The mole in such a case remains insulated, a prisoner, so to\nspeak, within his present domain. Last winter and spring, however,\naccording to Sandy's theory, the snow lay so deep and lay so long,\nthat the moles took advantage of the fact, and making their tunnels\nunder the snow, where it lay on spur and ridge, just as if it had been\nso much superincumbent soil, they easily got into fresh fields and\npastures new. In this way alone can Sandy account for the appearance\nof moles this summer in places into which hitherto they had no means of\nready access; and he may be right, though it is a point in the natural\nhistory of the Talpa well deserving further investigation. Sandy\nfurther avers that moles sometimes swim across rivers, fresh-water\nlakes, and even arms of the sea in their migrations; and this is just\npossible, though we took the liberty of expressing ourselves slightly\nincredulous. Sandy, however, ought to know; he has spent the best part\nof a life already approaching its grand climacteric in the careful and\nclose and constant study of, as one may say, a single animal--to wit,\nthe mole--and it is always hazardous gravely to doubt or contradict\nthe deliberately expressed opinion of such a man on a matter strictly\nwithin his proper province. All the same we still venture to question\nthe assertion that the mole ever voluntarily enters water deep enough\nto swim in, or ever dims the velvety sheen of its glossy pile even\nby such a luxury as a voluntary bath in the shallows, till we have\nsome stronger proof for it than has yet been adduced.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVII.\n\n    Autumnal Night--Meteors--The Spanish Mackerel--Professor Blackie's\n    Translations from the Gaelic--The \"Translations\" of the Gaelic\n    Society of Inverness.\n\n\n    \"On the Rialto, every night at twelve,\n    I take my evening's walk of meditation.\"\n\n\nSo says the love-sick knight in Venice Preserved. We have never, much\nas we should like it, had an opportunity of enjoying a Rialto midnight\nmeditation ramble. There is poetry and romance in the very thought of\nit; but we know something more poetical and in every way better still,\nnamely, a midnight meditative stroll along our own beautiful silvery\nsanded beach, what time the sea is so calm that its breathings are low\nand soft as the respirations of a child whose sleep is undisturbed\nsave by angel-whispered dreams; the cloudless sky above, with its\nwaning moon and thousands of sparkling stars, each star a living\nintelligence; its sparkling speech, and no sound to disturb the solemn\nsilence, except now and again the wakeful sea-bird's eerie scream,\nand the voice of many waters, as the mountain torrents leap adown\ntheir channels to the sea, a voice so mellowed by the distance that\nit becomes solemn and musical as the fast-falling concluding notes\nof a grand organ hymn--the Pentecostal \"Veni, Creator Spiritus,\nfor example. During the fine weather of this exceptionally fine\nseason [August 1875] we have rarely gone to bed before midnight,\nmore frequently, indeed, long after, and our last thing at night\nhas been a sea-shore stroll, a half or quarter hour so thoroughly\nenjoyable that we have come to miss it sadly, if by adverse weather,\nabsence from home, or any other cause, we are obliged to forego it. In\naddition to all the other attractions of a midnight sea-side stroll in\nsuch weather as the tropics themselves might be proud of, the reader\nmust remember that August is one of our meteor months--the second\nweek particularly being remarkable for the number and brilliancy of\nthe Perseides, so called from their seeming mainly to radiate from\nthe direction of the constellation Perseus. Never was there a finer\nseason to observe them than this; and although they have, perhaps,\nbeen less numerous than usual, the brilliancy of many of them was so\nremarkable, and their paths throughout so easily followed, that their\nvery infrequency only added to the eagerness and interest with which\none watched and waited for them. The finest display of the season was\nfrom midnight on to nearly two A.M. on the night of the 11th and 12th,\nin which time we counted thirty-three noticeable meteors--of which\nseven were what might be called first-class meteors of a nucleus\nbrilliancy equal to or exceeding that of first magnitude stars,\nwith broad, bright, well-defined trains, that wholly or in part, in\nthree or four instances, remained in sight, mapping out the meteor's\ntrajectory for several seconds after the disappearance or extinction\nof the parent orb or meteor proper itself. Mr. W. B. Symington,\nwho was among the Hebrides at the time on a yachting cruise, writes\non the subject as follows:--\"Notwithstanding your injunction to be\non the qui vive as to the August meteors, I am sorry to say that\nI forgot all about it on the nights of the 9th and 10th, although\nthe weather was beautifully clear. On the 11th, 12th, and 13th,\nhowever, the sailing-master and myself were sharply on the look-out,\nand our watchfulness was rewarded by the sight of some really very\nsplendid examples. There were on each night scores and scores of the\nmore common, lesser, and fainter meteors, but our attention was of\ncourse principally directed to the more brilliant ones. Of these\nlatter we had, during about an hour and a quarter's observation,\nfour very fine ones, with long bright tails, on the 11th; nine on\nthe 12th; and one magnificent fellow, that lighted up the deck,\nsails, and rigging of the yacht with a strange greenish glare, on\nthe 13th. This last was at 11.5 P.M. One of the men said that before\ndaybreak on the 12th there were some very large and bright meteors. As\nfar as my observations went, the course of these meteors seemed to\nbe mainly to the west and south-west, although two at least of the\nlarger ones rushed in a directly opposite path, namely, to east and\nnorth-east. As I am likely to be at sea in November, though in a very\ndifferent kind of craft, I will endeavour to give you a more careful\nand satisfactory account of the meteor display of that month. I may\ntell you that one of the men caught a scad of large size, the biggest,\nI believe, I ever saw. It weighed nearly four pounds. I thought it not\nbad eating, though the rest of them in the cabin said it was coarse\nand tasteless. It was caught by a long line and herring baited hook,\nthat was allowed to drag after the ship in a breeze that gave us at\nthe time a speed of at least eight knots an hour.\"\n\nThe fish referred to by our correspondent is also called the Spanish\nmackerel, it being very common on some parts of the Spanish coast. It\nbelongs to the order Scomberid\u00e6, and is a cousin of our own better\nknown mackerel proper, though a considerably larger fish, and not\nnearly so good for the table as its beautiful congener. The Spanish\ndiffers from the mackerel proper in one very remarkable particular;\nit has an air bladder which the true mackerel of our shores has not,\nand yet the latter is one of the readiest and swiftest swimmers,\nand at all depths, of any fish in the sea. The fact is that the real\nuse of the air bladder in the economy of fish still continues an\nunresolved and seemingly an unresolvable puzzle.\n\nLovers of living, healthy poetry--healthy as the mountain breeze,\nand free and sparkling as the mountain stream, and more especially\nour Celtic friends who have been taught to honour and reverence\nthe \"kilted\" muse--will be glad to know that Professor Blackie\nhas in preparation the materials of what cannot fail to prove a\nvery interesting volume, consisting of translations of some of the\nmost admired compositions of our modern Gaelic bards. Macintyre's\nBen. Dorain, Alasdair Macdonald's Berliun, with many of such lesser\npopular lyrics, as Am Breacan Wallach, Failte na Mor-Thir, A Bhanarach\nDhoun a Cruidh, &c., will thus appear for the first time in a becoming\nSaxon garb; not--to use the milliner's phrase--too tight a fit,\nobserve, but natural and easy, though \"made to measure,\" and we venture\nto predict that our English readers, who as yet know them not at all,\nand our Gaelic friends, who know them well and have long known them,\nwill alike be pleased with the results of the learned Professor's\ngallant raid into bard-land. The Professor has been visiting us\nhere lately, and we can honestly say that such specimens of his\nwork as he was good enough to read to us--and there are few better\nreaders than Professor Blackie--seemed to us admirably done. His\nversion of Ben. Dorain particularly, which we had an opportunity of\nhearing twice, and of which we can thus speak most positively, is\nthoroughly well done; so well, so faithfully, and with such spirit\nand verve as must delight not only the ordinary reader, but the very\n\"ghost\" of the original author--Macintyre himself--if, like the\nOssianic departed heroes, he is permitted to know and appreciate\nsublunary affairs from out the bosom of \"his cloud.\" The Professor\ntranslates these Gaelic poems into English verse just as, in our\nopinion, they should be translated; not too literally, but with all\nnecessary freedom and elbow room, and yet so literally that any one\nknowing the English version may rest assured that he knows also the\noriginal quite as intimately and correctly as it is possible in the\ncircumstances for any mere outsider to know it. Johnson, in his Life\nof Dryden, referring to the latter's version of the \u00c6neid, &c., has a\nparagraph which is worth quoting in this connection:--\"When languages\nare formed upon different principles, it is impossible that the same\nmodes of expression should always be elegant in both. While they\nrun on together, the closest translation may be considered the best;\nbut when they divaricate, each must take its natural course. Where\ncorrespondence cannot be obtained, it is necessary to be content\nwith something equivalent. 'Translation, therefore,' says Dryden,\n'is not so loose as paraphrase, nor so close as metaphrase.'\" With all\nthis we entirely concur, more especially when such widely different\nlanguages as the English and Gaelic have to be dealt with. We do not\nknow that Professor Blackie ever read the paragraph quoted, or, even\nif he did read it, that he now remembers it; but to his translations\nfrom the Gaelic, to so much of them, at all events, as were submitted\nto our notice, Dryden's dictum is entirely applicable--they are not\nso loose as paraphrase, nor so close as metaphrase. They strike a\ngolden mean very difficult of attainment in such efforts; and on\nthe appearance of the volume itself, we shall be disappointed if\nnine-tenths at least of the many readers it is sure to command do\nnot entirely agree with us. But nous verrons, if we live we shall see.\n\nThe Transactions of the Gaelic Society of Inverness for 1873-4 and\n1874-5, have reached us. The Secretary's paper on \"Coinneach Odhar,\"\nthe Brahan seer, is most interesting, containing as it does the best\naccount that we have met with of that uncanny Ross-shire worthy. That\nhe was an impostor, and a vulgar impostor too, there can be no doubt;\nbut the story of a man--clever, shrewd rascal as he was--in whom the\npeople so thoroughly believed, is worth the telling, and Mr. Mackenzie\ntells it very well. He should, we think, give us, if possible,\na second paper, containing the many other wonderful vaticinations\nattributed to his hero, who seems to have latterly been too clever\nby half; for he who could foresee the misfortunes of others--the\ndeath even of a cow--couldn't evidently foresee the well-merited fate\nthat awaited himself; for he was hanged, and we have no doubt at all\nthat he richly deserved that species of exaltation. What Thomas the\nRhymer--him of Ercildoune--was in the south of Scotland at a much\nearlier period, this Coinneach Odhar, comparing small things with\ngreat, seems to have been in the North-West Highlands during the\nlatter half of the seventeenth century. \"True Thomas,\" however, was\na gentleman and a scholar; whereas Coinneach was, of course, utterly\nilliterate, conducting his scheme of imposture solely by the aid of\nnatural talents, which must have been considerable, and a large and\never-ready stock of impudence and cunning, nicely calculated to impose\nupon the vulgar. He made his grand mistake when he flew at such high\ngame as Lady Seaforth and her domestic affairs. She was too clever,\ntoo intelligent and well-educated to be imposed upon. She ordered\nhim to be hanged, a doom to which many were led at that period\nwho probably less richly deserved it than such a prying, meddling,\nmischief-maker as was Kenneth the Seer.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVIII.\n\n    Crops--Potato Slug--Fern Slug--Brackens: How thoroughly to\n    extirpate them--The Merlin--Falcon and Tringa.\n\n\nWe have had a full fortnight of magnificent summer weather [August\n1875], a bright sun over-head from morning till night, with brisk\nbreezes, a leanachd na gr\u00e9ine, following the sun; that is, beginning\nin the morning at east, and gradually wearing round pari pass\u00fb with\nthe solar march, till at sunset it is north-west, and so on round\nand round the compass day after day, a phenomenon usually attendant\nupon the very finest weather in our northern latitudes. Under these\ncircumstances it will not surprise those who care for such matters\nto hear that our hay crop, about which we were in such anxiety,\nhas been secured in splendid condition, in such condition, indeed,\nas we can rarely boast of in the West Highlands. Our meadow hay crop,\ntoo, is this year unusually heavy, and already, in obedience to the\nadage which teaches that it is well and wise to make one's hay while\nthe sun shines, we are all busy getting it cut down and secured,\nalthough the old, orthodox season is not yet for a fortnight to\ncome--about old Lammastide. Oats with us here are generally a light\ncrop, but it will as such be easier to secure in good condition than\na heavier crop would be, and, upon the whole, may thus turn out quite\nas profitable. Potatoes are not so heavy haulmed as usual, but in\nother respects they promise well, and there is no appearance of our\nold enemy the \"blight.\" We hear, however, a good deal of complaint in\nsome districts on account of the prevalence this year of yellow shaw,\nor bar-buidhe as our Highlanders term it, the work of a small grey\nslug that attacks the main-stem shaw just at its point of junction\nwith the soil, and eating and tunnelling it through and through until\nthe leaves first assume a yellow and withered appearance, and the\nwhole shaw finally falls down paralysed, and practically useless and\ninoperative as to its proper functions, though not actually rotten\nor dead, as in the case of the \"blight.\" Many such shaws in a field\ngive it an unsightly appearance, but beyond this there is no great\nharm done after all, for as the slug seldom begins its work until the\nplant is large and well forward, the tubers underground, though they\nmay be of smaller size than their neighbours that have escaped the\nslug's attentions, are yet sound and wholesome food enough either for\nman or beast. We have observed that this particular slug, or a closely\nallied species, is also much given to feeding on the stem of the common\nfern or bracken, dealing with it just as it does with the potato shaw,\nthough, to be sure, it finds the fern a rather harder nut to crack;\nfor the brave bracken, with its firmer contexture of stem, refuses\nto bend its head to the ground, no matter the number or direction\nof the slug's insidious tunnellings and perforations. If you glance\nat a fern clump as you ride along the road or climb the mountain\nsteep, the yellow, withered fronds of an occasional plant, here and\nthere painfully conspicuous amid the rich, dark, emerald green of\nits healthy companions, tell you where the grey slug--and a nasty,\nslimy little wretch it is--is busy at its evil work, drinking up,\nlike consumption among the human race, the very heart's blood, so to\nspeak, of the fairest and finest plants it can find. We have found\nin our own experience that the best protection of the potato from\nits ravages is to give the ground a sprinkling of lime just as the\nplants are appearing above ground, about the end of April or beginning\nof May. For the early varieties usually planted in our gardens, a\nsprinkling of soot is less unsightly and equally efficacious with lime.\n\nAnd speaking of the bracken, let us observe that, while it is a\nmagnificent and beautiful plant, it is, like everything else of\nbeauty, most beautiful in its proper place. Meet it on mountain slope,\nin copsewood covert, or greenwood glade, and you cannot admire it\nsufficiently. In the end of autumn, particularly when its graceful\nfronds have assumed a certain indescribable tinge of mingled brown\nand ruby and gold, a bracken covert is beyond measure lovely. At such\na stage, and in the warm and mellow light of the setting September\nsun, it is to ourselves all that an ocean of broom in flower was to\nthe great Linn\u00e6us. If, however, you live in the near neighbourhood\nof brackens, you will find that it is apt to creep down from its\nproper wild and upland habitat, and to encroach unduly upon your\nold grass lands, wherever it can get an undisturbed footing. If you\nconsult books on the subject, they will tell you that if you cut them\ndown for a season or two running before they ripen, they will die\naway and disappear. With our large, soft-stemmed herbaceous plants,\nthis method of eradication is sometimes effectual enough; with the\nbracken, as we know to our cost, it avails nothing. The roots are so\ncuriously ramified and intertwined that they will live on and put\nforth a new growth year after year, no matter how constantly and\nclosely you cut and crop them. We gave up trying a plan so futile,\nand only hit upon the right way of dealing with them by the merest\naccident. Walking along the edge of one of our old grass parks about\nmid-June some few years ago, we wished to get hold of a switch or\nsomething similar, wherewith to drive a fractious pony on before us\nto the park gate. There was no switch just then at hand, and, without\nthinking of it, we bent down, and with both hands pulled steadily and\nstraight upwards at one of the largest of a luxuriant bracken patch\nthat skirted the path beside us. To our surprise the plant came up\neasily and from the very root, or we should rather say with the very\nroot attached, long, dark-brown, and something cigar-like in shape\nand size. That particular plant, a slight examination satisfied us,\nwas fairly or literally and for ever eradicated, extirpated. When you\nget hold of plant and root, you get all; no other plant can grow in its\nstead; no plant, at all events, can honestly call it progenitor. The\nthing now was clear; we knew what we had to do, and how simple it\nwas! One afternoon soon afterwards we called all our people into\nthat field along with us. In all such cases best lead yourself,\nif you would have the thing done right. We pulled a bracken or two\nstraight up and steadily in their presence, and showed them how it\nwas extracted, even as a practised dentist, \"deacon of his craft,\"\ndeals with an offending tooth--root and all complete. They then\nset to work along with us, and in an hour or so we had the whole\nfield cleared of ferns--quite a large cart-load of them--each plant\nwith its black root attached, all of which were afterwards found\nuseful as bedding for the pony, and the largest and least broken for\nthatch. In that field no brackens have since shown themselves. So, if\nyou are troubled with ferns, the proper way is not to cut them down,\nfor they will grow again, but to deal with them as we did, and they\nwill trouble you no more. There is some trouble about it, no doubt,\nthough far less than you would suppose, and then, you see, we really\nknow nothing at this moment worth the having to be had without trouble;\nso take the trouble and the good together, and be wise.\n\nIn your sea-shore wanderings, good reader, you must many a time and\noft have witnessed the graceful flight of the tern or sea-swallow,\nthe handsomest bird, perhaps, that ever saw its own image reflected in\nthe glassy surface of a waveless sea; and you must have noticed its\nsudden dart and dip, now and again, after its prey into the bosom of\nthe green, unbroken waves. This, of course, you have seen and admired\na thousand times. But have you ever seen the merlin or merlin falcon\n(Falco \u00e6salon), perform the same feat? No! Well, we did a few evenings\nago; albeit the momentary immersion in the briny blue was probably,\nnay certainly, what the merlin would have avoided if it could. It\nhappened in this wise: We were engaged on the beach painting our\nboat--there are few things but we can put our hand to with more or\nless success, always barring shooting, of our deficiency in which we\nrecently made full and honest confession--when we suddenly heard that\ncurious and indescribable half-scream, half-cheep, so well-known to\nthe ornithologist, and which tells him so plainly that the utterer\nis a bird--usually a small bird--in dire distress, in constant fear\nand danger of its life. Looking round, we saw a merlin in hot chase\nof a sandpiper (Tringa hypoleucus), pursuer and pursued circling and\nwheeling in their arrow-like flight over the bent some hundred yards\nfrom the margin of the sea. Were it not for the manifest distress of\nthe poor sandpiper, evidenced by its frequent scream, as if invoking\nall the kindly powers of heaven and earth to its aid, we should have\nconsidered it a most beautiful and interesting sight. The merlin was\nevidently hungry and in earnest, and we made no doubt at all, for\nthere was no possible way that we could aid it, that the sandpiper\nwas distined to be the fiery little falcon's evening meal. But Diis\naliter visum--the gods had otherwise ordered it. All of a sudden\nit seemed to occur to the Tringa that if there was the slightest\nchance of escape for it, it must be in closer relationship with its\nfavourite and familiar element, the sea; and to the sea accordingly in\none rapid dart the poor bird betook itself. The merlin, as if aware\nthat there was now at least a possibility that its prey might after\nall escape its clutches, made a magnificent dash after, and just as\nthe sandpiper was over the sea, reached it, and pounced to strike,\nbut missed; by the smallest fraction of a single second, a sharp\nzig-zag in the Tringa's flight kept it clear of the stroke, and the\nmerlin, by the force and impetus of its flight, plunged head over\nears into the sea, whence, with draggled plumage and brine-blinded\neyes, it arose with difficulty, and betook itself to a rock ledge\nat hand to preen and dry itself, with no other consolation in its\ndisappointment, probably, than a sotto voce merlin-wise muttering of\nthe adage, \"Better luck next time.\" The sandpiper, it is needless\nto say, was soon a mile away, winging its terrified flight to the\nopposite Appin shore. We were glad that the sandpiper had escaped,\nthat the merlin was disappointed. It is always pleasant to see an\nevil-doer baulked in the accomplishment of his evil intentions. And\nyet we don't know either. We have called the merlin an evil-doer:\nare we entitled so to call him? Was he not as much entitled, could\nhe have secured it, to have that Tringa for his evening meal, as\nwe the delicious red rock cod that in an hour or two afterwards we\nenjoyed so heartily to our own supper? Let the reader think it over,\nand answer the question to himself at his leisure.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIX.\n\n    The Hedgehog an Egg and Bird Eater?--Bird-catching--\"Old\n    Cowie\"--Mackenzie--Lanius Excubitor--The Butcher-Bird or\n    Shrike--Tea drinking and Sobriety.\n\n\nAudi alteram partem is a sensible maxim, so reasonable in itself,\nand mild and deprecatory of tone, that it rarely fails to commend\nitself to our sense of right and candour; for if we would arrive\nat a right conclusion on any matter in dispute, we must learn to\nlisten without prejudice to both sides of a question. We can only\nhold our own convictions wisely and well, by knowing all that can\nbe said in antagonism and per contra. The following letter from a\ncorrespondent in London, who writes under the pseudonym of \"Observer,\"\ntells rather in favour of those who entertain grave suspicions as to\nthe morality and harmlessness of our prickly friend the hedgehog,\nand, of course, against Mr. Frank Buckland and ourselves. We are\nhonest enough, however, to give \"Observer's\" communication in full,\nmeanwhile merely remarking that, obliged as we are to our correspondent\nfor his attention, and really interesting note, we are by no means\nconvinced that the hedgehog is either oviphagous or a bird-killer and\nbird-eater. At this date [February 1876], and with all our knowledge\nof the animal, we fear that nothing less than the catching of him\nin the very act would convince us, any number of uncompromising\nand hard-hearted gamekeepers, with \"Observer\" to back them, to the\ncontrary notwithstanding.\n\n\"While perusing your interesting article on the hedgehog, some\nslight personal experiences of this animal recurred to my mind, and\nI therefore thought it might be as well to communicate them to you,\nto show that, according to my limited experience, the hedgehog is not\nquite such a harmless and innocent creature as you endeavour to make\nhim, and further, that your practical experiments with the hungry\nanimals and the eggs are not sufficiently satisfactory to establish\nand set at rest once and for ever the hedgehog's innocency. To be\nbrief: two or three summers ago, while living in the Highlands of\nScotland, and within one hundred and fifty miles of the Highland\ncapital, about ten o'clock on a beautiful Sunday evening in the\nmonth of June, and shortly after a most genial shower of rain had\nfallen to refreshen the young crops, my attention was attracted by\nthe most alarming and violent cackling of a hen that had just begun\nto incubate on two or three addled eggs, or 'nest eggs' as they are\ncalled. Wondering what would be the cause of this noisy demonstration\non the part of the hen, and thinking that probably a thief might be\nat hand, I at once repaired to where the hen was. I could see no one\nabout, but there the hen was, as noisy as ever, looking towards her\nnest, advancing apparently to charge some unseen enemy, and then\nsuddenly making a retrograde movement in the most frantic manner,\nwithout attacking her enemy. On stooping down and peeping into the\ncorner where the nest was (for by this time it was almost dark), I\nobserved a round dark object in comfortable possession of the nest;\nthis was a hedgehog. If I remember well, one of the eggs was broken,\nand there was very little of the contents left. This, I am almost\nsure, was the case, though I would hardly go so far as to swear to\nit at this distance of time. Probably in these circumstances you\nwill say, 'Then, if you can't actually swear to it, your information\ndeserves no attention.' However, bear with me a little longer. On\nanother occasion, on a similar fine evening, about the same hour,\nand about four weeks after the above, I heard another hen, which,\nwith a brood of some eight or ten fine young chickens, had taken up\nits night quarters quite near the scene of the first row, making a like\nnoise. Thinking a cat might be about, and therefore must be the enemy\nnow, I went up to see what was doing. There the hen was, standing a\nshort distance from the nest, with only two chickens by her side; the\nothers could not be seen. On going nearer the nest, there was another\nhedgehog in quiet possession. Below him in the nest were one or two\ndead chickens; their little heads were crushed quite flat and wet,\nas if some animal had been trying to chew the heads. Outside the nest\nwere two more dead chickens, their heads being in the same flat and\nwet condition. The chickens were about a week old, and, so far as I\ncan recollect, there was no other disfigurement. In the morning two\nmore live chickens turned up, and the poor hen had to be content with\na reduced brood of four or five instead of eight or ten. The hedgehog\nhad been sentenced to a violent death, but, fortunately for himself,\nmade his escape while search was being made for any of the surviving\nchickens. During the next summer a duck had laid a number of eggs--more\nthan a dozen--in a quiet secluded spot at the root of a birch tree,\nand which were not discovered by human eye until they were rather\nfar on in a state of incubation to be fit for use; so the duck was\nallowed to keep her eggs in order to hatch them. One night, about 11\nor 11.30 P.M., some of the inmates of the house were disturbed by the\nduck coming to one of the doors, making a great noise, and would not\nleave. So, to save further annoyance, the servant rose and locked\nup poor duck with the other ducks. In the morning the prisoner was\nreleased, and allowed to go to resume possession of the nest, which,\non examination, was found undisturbed, except that two or three of the\neggs were amissing; but this was thought nothing of, and allowed to\npass unnoticed. However, a few nights after this occurrence, the duck\nrepeated her visit to the house, was in a greatly disturbed state,\nand would on no account whatever be pacified; so, as the night was\ndark, a light was procured, and the writer, along with a friend,\nwent to the nest, and found a hedgehog sitting on the eggs. Some of\nthem were broken, and the nest in a great mess. Outside there was\nan empty shell, and a large round hole in it. On this occasion the\nhedgehog had to pay the extreme penalty. Mentioning these things\nto the people about, the writer was informed that it was understood\ngenerally that hedgehogs destroyed eggs, but it had never been known\nto them that they attacked young chickens. However, they had never\ngiven the matter any attention. Perhaps these facts I have related\nmay be of some use to you in making further inquiries about the\nhedgehog. At any rate, you may rely on the truth of my statements,\nas they are no hearsay stories, but facts that took place before my\nown eyes. Query--Granted that the hedgehog does not eat eggs, then\nwhat was he doing in possession of these three different nests? How\nwere the eggs broken? What animal killed the chickens, if it was not\nthe hedgehog? Perhaps a weasel would have done it, but in that case,\nwould the weasel not have inflicted some serious wound about the\nthroat, and which would have left some bloody marks?\"\n\nOf some half-dozen bird-catchers, or bird-fanciers, as they prefer\ncalling themselves, that visit the West Highlands professionally\nfrom time to time, our favourite is Mackenzie, a north countryman,\nwe believe, as one indeed might readily guess from his surname,\nand well enough known, we daresay, in and about Inverness, where\nduring our last visit we noticed with pleasure--for it is a good\nsign of a people--that birds in cages were exceedingly common. \"Old\nCowie,\" another of the fraternity, is a respectable man, with\nmore knowledge, perhaps, of things in general than any of his\nbrethren that have chanced to come our way; but for a knowledge\nof our native wild-birds, their favourite haunts, food, song, and\nindividual habits--idiosyncrasies--for a knowledge, we say, precise\nand accurate to the most astonishing degree on all those matters, you\nmay trust Mackenzie, for he is far and away at the head of his class,\npositively unrivalled by any one else that we ever met with. Of the\nornithology of books, of ornithology as a science, with its systems,\nclassifications, genera, and species, he knows nothing, of course, but\nhe knows every bird you can refer to under some favourite provincial\ncognomen, and he knows it so thoroughly that no one could possibly\nknow it better. It is true that he knows little or nothing but birds,\nbut he knows them so well (the birds of Scotland), so intimately, from\nconstant intercourse with them in their native haunts and homes, that\na \"crack\" with him about them, when once you get him fairly started,\nis no ordinary treat to any one so interested in all that concerns\nour wild-birds as we are, and have been for well-nigh a quarter of\na century. Remembering that bird-catching is a sort of profession or\ntrade, by which a livelihood, however precarious, is encompassed, an\naffair of demand and supply, with the usual prosaic result of pounds,\nshillings, and pence--or rather of shillings and pence without the\npounds, these last seldom tickling the palms or troubling the purses\nof the order--one would expect to find the bird-catcher a dull,\nmechanical rogue, a mere bird-trapper and bird-seller in the dearest\nmarket, with no more of poetry or sentiment about him than about a\nwhite-aproned poulterer. This, however, is far from being the case,\nat least not always nor even frequently, for Mackenzie, \"Old Cowie,\"\nand others that we could name, really and truly love birds for their\nown sakes, without a thought frequently of their market value, and you\ncan gather as you converse with them from their frequent references\nto the delights as well as the d\u00e9sagr\u00e9ments of their profession,\nthat they are by no means either unconscious of or indifferent to the\npoetry of birds and bird life in their native haunts, whether on moor\nor mountain side, by solitary tarn or stream, in copse and wildwood,\namid the wildernesses of inland mountains or by the margin of the\nsea. We never knew any one so correctly and minutely conversant with\nthe language of birds as Mackenzie is. By the language of birds, we\ndo not mean their song, for song is no more the ordinary speech of\nbirds, though most people think it is, than it is the ordinary speech\nof men. Mackenzie, it is true, can imitate the songs of our different\nspecies of warblers with great taste and exactness, but when we say\nthat he is conversant with the language of birds, we mean not their\nsong, but their little notes, abrupt chirpings, and faint whisperings,\nindicative to the initiated of the particular thought or motif at the\nmoment predominant in the feathered breast, whether love or terror,\nor mere apprehension of danger, or envy, or rivalry, or combativeness,\nor notes of warning, or call of invitation to its kind--all these,\nand for every separate species, Mackenzie imitates with such consummate\nskill, exactness, and dexterity, that he not only deceives an ordinary\nlistener when off his guard--he has more than once deceived us, though\nfamiliar with birds and bird-notes all our life--but he deceives the\nvery birds themselves, as we have often witnessed with no little\nadmiration and delight. That much of this imitatory work is done\nventriloquistically renders it all the more effective, as well as\nmore difficult of attainment by others of the fraternity ambitious of\ncatching and cultivating on their own behalf so desirable a gift. This\nknowledge of bird language is, of course, of great value to him as\na bird-catcher, and accounts for his success at seasons seemingly\nthe most inopportune, and in localities the most unlikely, that an\nordinary bird-catcher would probably search in vain for a single\nspecimen of goldfinch or aberdevine, linnet or redpole, or anything\nelse in the shape of a valuable song-bird. In passing and repassing\nour place, this wonderful bird-man, as our servant girl styles him,\nalways calls with such bird news and rare specimens as he thinks\nmost likely to interest us. The other day he came in a state of great\nexcitement to inform us that just as he had got several siskins on his\nlimed twigs, a bird--not a hawk of any kind, he was certain--dashed\nout of a copse at hand, pounced upon one of the siskins, and bore\nit off and away before his very eyes, ere he could do anything--so\nsudden and unexpected was the attack--to prevent it! Momentary as\nwas his glimpse of it, however, Mackenzie's quick and practised\neye enabled him to take in the marauder's predominant colouring,\nits shape and size, and mode of flight; and on describing these to\nus, we at once exclaimed, a butcher-bird--a shrike! The description\ncould apply to no other British bird-killer that we could think of;\nand that we were right we have no more doubt than if we had the culprit\nalready in our cabinet. Mackenzie was in a rage. \"You are right, sir;\nit must have been a butcher-bird, for now I recollect having once seen\na specimen in Ayrshire. I'm bound, however, to lay salt on yon chap's\ntail before I am done with him; and you, sir, shall have him, dead or\nliving. I swear it by all my illustrious ancestors, the Mackenzies of\nKintail!\" he exclaimed, with a melodramatic air that was very amusing;\nand shouldering his cages and other paraphernalia of his craft, he\ndeparted with a touch of his cap and a bow that showed that amongst\nbirds he had learned good manners and politeness to an extent that\nas a navvy or hired labourer he would probably be all his lifetime\nvery much a stranger. He has not returned to us as yet, so we suppose\nhe is still in pursuit, detective-wise, of the shrike; and it had\nbetter look out, for Mackenzie is just the man to succeed sooner or\nlater in laying salt upon its tail, as threatened. The butcher-bird,\nor shrike, is the Lanius excubitor of Linn\u00e6us, an exceeding rare bird\nin the West Highlands--in Scotland, indeed--so rare that we never\nsaw a living bird of the order, only stuffed or otherwise preserved\ncabinet specimens. It preys on small birds, mice, insects, &c.,\nwhich it does not tear up from under its feet like the hawk tribe,\nbut fixes it on a thorn-prickle, or in the fork of a small branch,\nand then tears it to pieces with its bill, which is very strong, and\ntoothed and hooked at the point. When Mackenzie catches the offender\nhe is now in search of, we shall have something more to say about\nthe butcher-bird, if butcher-bird it proves to be.\n\nWe have noticed, by the way, that all bird-catchers--all at least\nwith whom we have had any acquaintance--are prodigious tea-drinkers,\nnot sipping the grateful beverage from cups, observe, but literally\ndrinking it in bowls'-full. They have assured us that they find it\nthe best thing they can take, not merely as a refresher, but as a long\nsustaining element in their dietary throughout their many wanderings by\nflood and field. And like all large tea-drinkers, bird-catchers are a\nvery sober class of men; that they should be so is indeed a necessity\nof their craft, for a knock-kneed, shaky-handed, blear-eyed, nerveless\nbird-catcher would be as unfit for the successful prosecution of the\nlabours incident to his profession, as would a similar physical wreck\nbe for the successful manipulation of his tools in the more minute\nand delicate departments of mathematical instrument making.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER L.\n\n    Superstition amongst the People--Difficulty of dealing\n    with it--Examples of Superstitions still prevalent in the\n    Highlands--Cock-crowing at untimely hours--Itching of the\n    Nose--Ringing in the Ears--The \"Dead-Bell\"--Sir Walter\n    Scott--Hogg--Mickle.\n\n\nWe live in an age of intense literary and intellectual activity; the\ntendency of the highest culture of our time [March 1876], however,\nit is complained, being towards materialism and scepticism, the\nlatter either in the form of indifferentism or absolute negation. The\ngreat mass of our people, however--the uneducated or only partially\neducated--stand at the other extreme; for whilst it is complained that\nthose of the highest culture believe too little, or don't believe at\nall, the common people, it is averred, believe too much. And it is\nperfectly true that the latter are indeed superstitious to an extent\nof which the mere outsider can have no adequate conception; and yet,\nphilosophically pondered, there can be no difficulty, we think,\nin arriving at the conclusion that of the two evils over-belief\nis better than its opposite; that it is better, upon the whole,\nto believe too much than too little. A man with any form of creed,\neven if it be false, may be led in time to believe aright, whereas\nthe case of the utterly creedless man is well-nigh hopeless. For\nour own part, therefore, we do not look upon the superstitions of\nour people with such horror and alarm as many well-meaning persons,\nclerical or lay, feel or feign when brought in contact with an evil\nwhich, let the philosophers say what they will, has its good as well\nas its bad side. We greatly doubt if, under present circumstances, and\nin their present stage of civilisation, the inhabitants of Scotland\ngenerally, and of the Highlands, with which we are best acquainted,\nin particular, would be at all so religious and devout a people as\nthey are confessedly allowed to be, were it not for the substratum\nof superstition that underlies their better founded beliefs and\nreligious aspirations. Constantly en rapport with the supernatural\nand the unseen, they are more disposed than they might otherwise be\nto believe in and shape the conduct of their daily lives in accordance\nwith the doctrine of a future world, with its rewards and punishments,\nfeeling and acknowledging in a very remarkable manner, even through\nthe medium of their superstitions--if erroneous, yet not always\ndegrading--the full force and meaning of what the apostle speaks of in\na general way as \"the powers of the world to come.\" An interesting\npaper might be written in support of the theory here indicated,\na theory that to some may seem a paradox, but meanwhile it must lie\nover for some more fitting occasion. Such a task requires time; for of\nall the delicate tasks that the philosophic mind can concern itself\nwith, the most delicate is the endeavour to discover and recognise\nthe spirit of good things in things evil, and of reason in things\nunreasonable. Meanwhile, it is the truth, account for it as we may,\nthat notwithstanding the multiplication of ministers and churches,\nschoolmasters and school boards, \"Increase of Episcopate\" Bill, and all\nthe rest of it, there is still a lively undercurrent of superstition\namongst our people, do what you can to stamp it out or otherwise;\nand that those who believe in it most implicitly are by no means\nthe worst people either. An example of a very common superstition\nis the following:--A few evenings ago, at an accidental gathering\nof some half-dozen families in a house in our neighbourhood, the\nsubjoined conversation took place with regard to a recent death in the\nparish. Mrs. B.--\"I suppose you have all heard of the death of X. L.,\npoor fellow. It was reported he was better yesterday, but I knew last\nnight that I should hear of a death some time to-day, and knowing of\nno one else at present unwell, I decided that it must be X. L.'s death\nthat was foretold me.\" Mrs. C.--\"Foretold you! how?\" Mrs. B.--\"Why,\nthus: long after dark last night, as I was busy getting the children's\nsupper, the cock, that had gone to roost as usual, suddenly stood\nup on his perch, and crowed a long and loud crow that startled us\nall; and I made Katie say the Lord's Prayer, for I knew that a cock\ncrowing at an hour so untimeous meant a death in our neighbourhood,\nand nothing else. On inquiry, I find that X. L. died just about that\ntime.\" Mrs. D.--\"I knew it too, that there was to be a death in our\nneighbourhood. My nose itched so much all last evening, and the itching\nwas on the left nostril side, and I was certain that it was to be the\ndeath of a male that I should hear of. I had not, however, heard that\nX. L. was so very poorly.\" Mrs. F.--\"While at breakfast this morning,\nI could hardly eat anything, so loud and persistent was the ringing\nin my ears. It was just like the tolling of the church bell.\" Now,\nthe reader must remember that these were highly respectable women,\nof some education, and in every way of good repute; and yet they had\nno idea at all that there was anything silly or wrong about their\nsuperstition, of which they made no secret, and which was reported to\nus immediately afterwards by one who was present. Now, we ask, if one\nwas present and heard it all, how could he best deal with the believer\nin this superstition, a superstition so wide-spread that it may be said\nto be universal. Any attempt at getting angry and driving it out of\nthem by the mere force and weight of your superior enlightenment would\nbe a false move, sure to be attended by no good results. Laughing at\nthe whole affair might perhaps be a more successful way of dealing\nwith the nonsense, but in neither way would you be likely to make\nthem look at the matter from your particular light and point of\nview. Admitting that it was rank superstition and sheer nonsense,\nthere was this one good thing attending it; it led to much moralising\non the shortness and uncertainty of human life, and the unabidingness\ngenerally of all sublunary things; and the superstition was perhaps\nmore effectual in this direction than would be the most carefully\ncomposed sermon. But the philosophic aspect of the case apart, let\nus inquire why the facts mentioned should be held as premonitory of\ndeath. The crowing of the cock has probably some connection with the\ndenial of St. Peter, and in it, too, may perhaps be traced a faint\nremnant of the bird divination of the ancients. As to the itching\nof the nose, we confess our inability to say anything satisfactory,\nbeyond the fact that in old times anything unusual and difficult to\nbe reasonably accounted for in man's physical economy, as well as\nin his mental, was at once attributed to a supernatural cause. Of\nthis the ringing in the ears, as well as the itching in the nose,\nmust be held to be an example. The well-known ringing in the ears\ndoes come with extraordinary suddenness, as we have all experienced,\nand when it comes makes the most staid philosopher look foolish and\nout of sorts for the moment. Its connection with death is perhaps to\nbe traced to the passing bell of early and medi\u00e6val times, and to the\ntolling of bells at funerals even in our own day. Sir Walter Scott,\nwho knew the peasantry of Scotland so well, and sympathised so much\neven with their superstitions, has a happy reference to the death-bell\nin a passage in Marmion:--\n\n\n    \"For soon Lord Marmion raised his head,\n    And, smiling, to Fitz-Eustace said--\n    'Is it not strange, that, as ye sung,\n    Seem'd in mine ear a death-peal rung,\n    Such as in nunneries they toll\n    For some departing sister's soul?\n      Say, what may this portend?'\n    Then first the Palmer silence broke\n    (The livelong day he had not spoke),\n      'The death of a dear friend.'\"\n\n\nOn this passage there is an interesting note very apropos to our\nsubject:--\"Among other omens to which faithful credit is given among\nthe Scottish peasantry is what is called the 'dead-bell,' explained by\nmy friend James Hogg to be that tinkling in the ears which the country\npeople regard as the secret intelligence of some friend's decease.\" He\ntells a story to the purpose in the \"Mountain Bard,\" p. 26--\n\n\n    \"O lady, 'tis dark, an' I heard the dead-bell,\n    An' I darena gae younder for gowd nor fee.\"\n\n\n\"By the dead-bell,\" says Hogg, \"is meant a tinkling in the ears,\nwhich our peasantry in the country regard as a secret intelligence\nof some friend's decease. Thus this natural occurrence strikes many\nwith superstitious awe. This reminds me of a trifling anecdote which\nI will relate as an instance. Our two servant girls agreed to go an\nerrand of their own one night after supper, to a considerable distance,\nfrom which I strove to persuade them, but could not prevail. So, after\ngoing to the apartment in which I slept, I took a drinking-glass,\nand coming close to the back of the door, made two or three sweeps\nround the lips of the glass with my fingers, which caused a loud,\nshrill sound. I then overheard the following dialogue:--B.--\"Ah,\nmercy! the dead-bell went through my head just now with such a knell\nas I never heard.\" C.--\"I heard it too.\" B.--\"Did you indeed? That\nis remarkable. I never knew of two hearing it at the same time\nbefore.\" C.--\"We will not go to Midgehope to-night.\" B.--\"No! I\nwouldn't go for all the world! I warrant it is my poor brother, Wat;\nwho knows what these wild Irishes may have done to him?\" Tinkling,\nhowever, which both Scott and Hogg use, is not the word. It is more\nof a ringing, so clear and loud at times, that we once heard a little\ngirl say \"there was a bell in her head.\" Our authorities above confess\nthat it is called the \"dead-bell\" amongst the peasantry, and by bell\nthey mean not a tinkling but a loud and very pronounced sound, as if\nof solid metal striking hollow metal, and causing the bell-sound with\nwhich we are all so familiar. Mickle, in his fine ballad Cumnor Hall,\nhas a reference to the same superstition:--\n\n\n    \"The death-bell thrice was heard to ring,\n      An aerial voice was heard to call,\n    And thrice the raven flapp'd its wing\n      Around the towers of Cumnor Hall.\"\n\n\nTo sneer at such beliefs, and pooh-pooh them superciliously and\nfrom a philosophical stand-point, is easy; it has been tried\nwith but little satisfactory result. The true philosopher will\nbe more and more disposed, the more he deals with such matters,\nand the closer he examines them, to fall back on Hamlet's dictum,\n\"That there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of\nin our philosophy.\" So ineradicable is superstition of this sort,\nthat you may battle with it long enough--we have battled with it for\nyears--and find it at last by no means the weaker of your assaults,\nno matter how cautiously and circuitously you select to deal with it.\n\nAfter an unusually mild and open season, we have just had a taste of\ndownright winter in the bitterly cold gales and drifting snow-storms of\nthe last few days. Our weatherwise old folks are of course delighted\nthat winter in proper dress and form has come at long last; better\nlate than never, is the cry, and a bright and warm spring in due\ncourse is confidently predicted.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LI.\n\n    Welcome Rain in May--Plague of Mice in Upper Teviotdale--Arvicola\n    Agrestis--Field-Mice in Ardgour--How exterminated--A Singing\n    Mouse--Farmers' Mistakes--Mackenzie the Bird-Catcher.\n\n\nAfter rather more than six consecutive weeks of weather so hot and dry\nand parching [May 1876], that we were all rapidly becoming hide-bound,\nbrown-skinned, and sapless as so many Egyptian mummies, the rain\ncame at last; came, too, not deluge-wise, and with a splash and a\nroar as is generally the case after such long-continued droughts,\nbut calmly and softly as falls the dew of sleep on infant eyelids,\nand without a breath of accompanying wind. The earth, long agape\nwith thirst, drank it in greedily, and vegetable and animal life\nalike rejoiced in the grateful quiet as well as in the copiousness\nof the blessed rainfall. You should have heard how, when the first\ndrop began to fall, our wild-birds welcomed it. All at once, in wood,\nand copse, and hedgerow, they burst out into loud and gladsome song;\nnor did they cease when the rainfall was heaviest, as they usually do,\nbut kept it up far into the night, the merle and song-thrush now and\nagain breaking out afresh as if they couldn't sufficiently express\ntheir joy, even after we had retired to rest, and well pleased lay\nlistening to the music of the raindrops as they fell plashing and\npattering from the eaves. Even our least accomplished songsters took\ntheir share in this concert, and if they did not, simply because\nthey could not, sing as well as their more gifted companions, they\nmade at least, as the Ancient Mariner has it, a pleasant \"jargoning,\"\ntherein, dear reader, teaching us all this lesson, that if our gifts\nprevent us from playing any great or prominent part in the orchestra\nof life, we are yet all the same to perform the parts assigned us as\nbest we may, and always cheerily and with a will. Next morning again\nwas calm and mild and beautiful as a summer morning could be, while\nthe country already looked so fresh and green and lovely that one\ncould hardly believe that such a marvellous change had taken place\nin the course of a single night; so potent, in such circumstances,\nis the kindly touch of the Rain King's-magic wand.\n\nThe plague of mice in Upper Teviotdale is a very serious matter indeed,\nand the most energetic steps should at once be taken in order to\ncheck and, if possible, stamp out the evil. These little rodents\nmultiply with incredible rapidity, and if they are to be fought\n\u00e0 l'outrance and conquered, the sooner the campaign is opened,\nand the more vigorously it is conducted, the easier and speedier\nwill be the victory. The short-tailed field-mouse is fortunately a\nrare animal in the Highlands, though we have occasionally met with\nit in the districts of Lorne, Lochaber, and Badenoch. We have also\nseen it on the lands of Drumfin, near Tobermory, in the island of\nMull. Once seen, it is easily recognised again. Its colour, instead\nof being of the ordinary \"mouse\" shade of grey or brown, is red,\nor reddish; its head is more bullet-like and rounder, and its snout\nblunter than in any of its congeners; and its tail ends abruptly,\ngiving that appendage a docked and stumpy look, as if by accident or\ndesign one-third of its proper length had been cut off in early life;\nand hence its common designation of short-tailed field-mouse. Every one\nwho has tried to capture a common domestic mouse with the bare hand,\nknows to his cost how quickly and sharply it can bite; but the little\nfield-mouse never once attempts to bite the hand that holds it. If\npounced upon while running about in the rough bent grass in which it\nusually shelters, it no sooner feels itself fairly enclosed in your\nhand than it seems to become paralysed through sheer excess of terror,\nand you may handle it for a time and turn it about in all directions\nas if it were a stuffed specimen, without its once offering to escape\nor defend itself in any way. If, however, you let it slip from your\nhand to the ground, it is at once off and away, and, search for it\nas you may, you are never likely to see it again. For its size the\nArvicola agrestis is a very powerful little animal, particularly\nstrong in the neck, shoulder, and fore-arm, a provision whereby it\nis enabled to dig and burrow its way underground when necessary, with\nall the ease and rapidity almost of the mole itself. It is very fond\nof water, which it drinks often and greedily, and hence it is that\nit is never found at any great distance from a plentiful supply of\nits favourite beverage. One that a lady friend of ours kept for some\nmonths in a cage, drank, more or less, she assures us, during every\nhalf-hour of the day, and if its supply at any time happened to fail\nby any neglect or oversight of its mistress, the thirsty little toper\nsqueaked querulously and nibbled angrily at the bars and wood-work\nof its cage until its water-dish was replenished. When it had drank\nenough, it frequently stepped into the dish, and frisked about in such\na manner as to wet its breast and lower parts of its body thoroughly,\nwhen it would retire to a corner of its cage in which was a little\nraised platform, and, sitting up on its quarters, squirrel-wise,\nrub and cleanse its head and face with both paws in a very comical\nmanner. It was fed on succulent grasses and lettuce leaves and endive\nfrom the garden, of which latter it was very fond. It also ate bread\nsteeped in milk, and apples, both raw and boiled. It finally met the\nfate of most cage pets; the cat got at it and killed it. We have only\nheard of one instance in which the Arvicola became so numerous in the\nWest Highlands as to become a pest that was only got rid of with great\ntrouble and no little expense. This was on the estate of Ardgour, in\nour own parish. About seventy years ago, the late Colonel Maclean,\ngrandfather of the present proprietor, planted the greater part of\nthe woods that now make the place so beautiful--at this moment one\nof the loveliest spots in all the Highlands. Shortly after the young\ntrees were planted, the field-mouse made its appearance, and in a\nfew months so rapidly increased its numbers, that they were on all\nhands declared a nuisance that must be got rid of at any cost. Their\nfavourite food in this instance seemed to be the tender rootlets\nand bark of the smaller trees, thousands of which straightway\nshrivelled up and died away owing to the little rodent's unkindly\nattentions. Colonel Maclean, who was eminently a man of action,\nvowed that such a state of things was beyond all bearing, and must\nbe put a stop to at all hazards. With a host of willing workers,\nhe straightway set about what for a time appeared a hopeless task,\nemploying every conceivable means that wit or ingenuity could devise\nin order to check, and if possible stamp out the mouse plague. Having\nheard of a plan adopted under similar circumstances in the Dean and\nNew Forests in England, holes and trenches were dug in all directions,\nand pitfalls ingeniously constructed, in which very soon scores of\nthe marauders were caught and killed every morning. The cats in every\nhouse in the hamlet, purposely kept for the time on short commons at\nhome, were locked out at night and allowed to cater for themselves;\nand they fell upon the rodents tooth and nail, doing such execution\nthat they soon became sleek and fat as cats were never known in\nArdgour before or since. At convenient spots large fires were kindled,\non which cauldrons of water were boiled, kettles of which, as hot\nas hot could be, were poured into such burrows as showed signs of\nhabitation, with a view to scalding the inmates to death. This was\ngenerally done in the early morning, to make sure of finding the enemy\nat home, for the field-mouse, like most of the rodents, is mainly a\nnocturnal feeder. The keepers had orders for the time to cease annoying\nvermin--so-called--of any kind, the result being that in a short time\nstoats, weasels, ravens, grey crows, hawks, and owls abounded, and\nthese, you may believe, did yeoman service in the campaign; they were\nthe cavalry that swept off the scattered fugitives. By such active\nmeasures the enemy was exterminated in a single season, and never\nagain, so far as we know, showed face on Loch-Linnhe-side. It was\nColonel Maclean's opinion that the mice were imported; that the first\npair, or more, perhaps, were brought from the south in the straw and\nmoss and matting in which the roots of the more valuable and delicate\nplants and trees were packed. From the above our Teviotdale friends\nmay perhaps gather some wrinkles that may be of use to them in their\nefforts to relieve themselves from their field-mouse invasion.\n\nAnd writing of the field-mouse reminds us that amongst our own domestic\nmice there is at present what is generally, if somewhat erroneously,\ncalled a \"singing mouse.\" About a fortnight ago it attracted the\nattention of a young lady, who heard it at midnight, and thought at\nthe time it was the twittering of some bird at her bedroom window. It\nwas afterwards heard by others, and finally by ourselves, as we sat up\nlate one night writing. That it was not a bird we were certain, and\nguessing the truth--for years ago we had become acquainted with the\nnotes--we watched and waited until the \"jargoning\" seemed to proceed\nfrom a closed press immediately behind our chair, which we gently\nopened, and had a glimpse of the performer, who vanished, of course,\nbut soon again began its voluntary, or involuntary rather, behind the\nwainscoting in another corner of the room. It was, in short, a \"singing\nmouse;\" an involuntary music, however, with which the poor mouse would\ngladly dispense if it could. Birds, as we know, are sometimes incited\nto song by sheer rivalry and rage; sometimes by poignant sorrow for\nthe loss of a mate, or the despoliation of a nest of its treasure of\neggs or callow young; but as a rule a bird sings from pure joyousness\nof heart and exhilaration of spirits. When a mouse \"sings\" it is owing\nto a laryngeal disease, a sort of fungoid growth in the throat, which\nobstructs the breathing, causing the animal to emit the notes which\nhave been foolishly called \"singing,\" and which, the clearer and more\nbird-like they become, only in truth indicate the more advanced stages\nof a malady which invariably ends in death. Our attention was first\ndirected to this matter by a distinguished comparative anatomist,\nthe late Professor John Reid of St. Andrews, whose curiosity as a\nnaturalist was unbounded, only equalled by the untiring patience\nand care and caution with which, step by step, he wrought out his\nconclusions. It is difficult to describe the \"singing\" of a mouse thus\naffected to those who have not heard it for themselves. It may be said\nto be in the main a half-whistle half-wheeze, now and again interrupted\nby some rapid clicking notes of a somewhat metallic ring, as if a small\nbit of stick was being smartly and rapidly, but very lightly, struck\non the very extremity of the treble string of a guitar or violin. Our\n\"singing mouse,\" in whom, poor thing, we were all much interested,\nhas not been heard for a night or two; it has probably gone the way\nall mice, as well as men, must go when respiration becomes impossible.\n\nAn amusing paragraph is at present going the round of the papers\nabout a farmer who, having ordered a hogshead of nitrate of soda for\nagricultural purposes, got hold somehow of a hogshead of sugar instead,\nwhich latter, in ignorance of its quality, he sowed broadcast over his\nland. Now, at length aware of the mistake, he is said to be waiting\nand watching with much curiosity as to how the saccharine crystals\nturn out as fertilisers. The story, which may be true enough, reminds\nus of an amusing mistake of a somewhat similar nature into which one\nof the crofters in our neighbourhood very innocently fell some years\nago. He had attended the Fort-William June market, and amongst other\nthings brought home with him, on his return in the evening, two small\nparcels, one containing one pound of turnip seed, the other the same\nquantity red clover seed. Next morning he was up bright and early,\nand as an exercise that might perhaps help to drive away a headache,\nnot uncommon on such occasions, he resolved, the day being favourable,\nto sow his turnip and clover seeds. He commenced, and, very unwittingly\nyou may believe, sowed the turnip seed broadcast among the barley\nbraird, and the red clover seed in the drills prepared for the\nturnips! The blunder was only discovered several days afterwards,\nwhen the seeds began to sprout after their kind, and matters were\nrectified as the case best allowed; but poor Donald never heard the\nlast of the joke, which, when followed beyond certain limits, used\nto make him exceedingly angry.\n\nMackenzie the bird-catcher, facile princeps the king and head of his\norder, called upon us to-day, and made us a present of the bonniest\nlittle redpole we ever set eyes upon. Its colouring is exquisitely\nbeautiful, differing from the usual plumage of the species in having\nseveral little snow-white spots irregularly sprinkled over the coverts\nof either wing, and its neck and breast of a mingled shade of pink\nand crimson of exceeding richness, that makes it far and away the\nhandsomest bird of the order we ever saw. At first we took it for a\nforeign bird, or a bird that had been artificially painted in order to\ndeceive us, and it was only on handling and thoroughly examining him\nthat we became convinced that the bird was a genuine, though curiously\ncoloured, specimen of its species, and that we had it before us just\nas it was captured some days ago in Glentarbet, near Strontian. Of all\nour cage-birds, the redpole (Fringalla linaria, Linn.) is perhaps the\nsoonest reconciled to loss of liberty and prolonged captivity. Our\nlittle pet, whose cage hangs almost within arm's length of us as we\nwrite, seems perfectly happy, and is already singing with all his\nmight, a goldfinch in another cage beside him busily scolding him all\nthe time for having the impudence to sing so well, or sing at all, in\ninterruption of his own louder and clearer notes. Cage-birds properly\ntreated are a great amusement, and, if you pay them due attention,\nevince in a very short time a degree of intelligence so remarkable\nthat you only wonder, philosophising craniologically, how so much of\nit can find lodging-room within their little heads.\n\nMackenzie is commissioned to go to Norway and Sweden this summer in\nsearch of a lot of crossbills, grossbeaks, and other birds, for a\nwealthy gentleman in the south, who is a great bird-fancier. Let him\nonly once get to their habitat, and Mackenzie is just the man to lay\nsalt on the tail of any bird that flies.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LII.\n\n    Tourist Grumblers; how to deal with them--Sea Fishing--Superstition\n    about a Gull--Josephus--Story of Mosollam and the Augur.\n\n\nWith a bright sun overhead, at noon as nearly vertical as it can\never be in our latitudes, and a steady, kindly warmth, and no lack\nnow of genial showers, our West Highlands are now [June 1876]\nbeautiful exceedingly, almost at the height and heyday of their\nsummer loveliness, while crops of all kinds are at their present\nstage all that we could wish them. Tourists in considerable numbers\nare already on the move; and coaches and steamers alike are beginning\nto carry daily increasing crowds of passengers, so delighted with the\nattention paid them, and the elegance and comfort of their surroundings\nwhether afloat or ashore, that a crack with them, as you chance to\nforgather of an evening, is always pleasant, for the essentials of\na pleasant conversation are there to begin with; they are pleased,\nand you are glad that it is so; the rest is all smooth sailing. You\nmeet an occasional grumbler of course; a wretch, miserable himself,\nand anxious to make every one else miserable also. An extraordinary\ncuriosity, in truth, is your thorough grumbler. The faculty would\nprobably explain it all away by a reference to dyspepsia or some\nserious derangement of liver. From frequent and close study, however,\nof a not uninteresting phenomenon, we are rather inclined to think\notherwise. In the genuine grumbler the disposition to look at things\nobliquely, and from a false or foreshortened point of view, seems\ningrained in and interwoven with his very nature. In everything he says\nand does you detect a perverseness of disposition and a thrawnness\nof temper that you cannot believe to be temporary or accidental, but\na veritable part and portion of the man's being from the first. The\nold dictum about the poet, which after all is only true in a sense,\nis true of the grumbler absolutely. Grumblerus nascitur, non fit; he\nwas born a grumbler, and if you put his mother in the witness box,\nand she chose to entertain you with reminiscences of his infancy,\nher testimony, we venture to say, would go to show that he kicked\nand screamed at existence and all the surroundings of his nursery at\nthe earliest moment possible for such an exhibition, and that this\ndisposition to hit out right and left indiscriminately at every one and\neverything, grew with his growth and strengthened with his strength,\ntill in fulness of time he became the thoroughbred grumbler who sat\nopposite you at the table d'h\u00f4te a week ago, or rode with you atop\nof the coach yesterday. With spur on heel, and once fairly in the\nstirrups, your grumbler is ready to tilt, in dearth of anything more\nsubstantial, at his own shadow. Any attempt to mollify him, however\nwell-meant and carefully worded, only makes him worse. Do what you\ncan, he remains a grumbler still--implacable, unappeasable. As we\ngenerally meet with him here, his grievances for the most part are as\nto the steamer or coach by which he has travelled, and the food that\nhe has had to eat. Try to put him right according to your view of it,\nand you are sure to catch it hot and heavy for your interference in\na matter which he declares concerns him alone, and yet with which he\nhas been pestering everybody that would for a moment listen to him all\nthe way from Oban to Staffa, or from Ballachulish to Tyndrum. Give\na man of this kind the softest cushion in the coziest corner of\nCleopatra's barge; the box seat in the victor's own chariot in a\ntriumphal procession; a first and full supply of all the delicacies\nat the table of Apicius of De r\u00ea Culinaria fame, and he would still\nbe the same fault-finder and grumbler. One way of shutting up the\ninveterate grumbler, very effectual in most cases, is to fool him to\nthe top of his bent--to give him line, in the piscatorial sense. If\nhe complains that his seat on the coach is hard and the rails behind\nhurt his spine, assure him at once, in a confidential sort of way,\nthat you believe the axle is horribly twisted, and is as likely as\nnot to snap in twain just about half-way down the next incline. If he\ncomplains of the dust, give it as your candid opinion that the Road\nTrustees should be heavily fined for not allaying the nuisance by a\nproperly arranged water-cart service all over the Black Mount. If he\ncomplains that the steamer trembles in all her timbers, and the steam,\nas it escapes at the calling-places, makes a horrible noise, agree\nwith him at once, hinting that an explosion of the boiler is by no\nmeans an unlikely event through the carelessness of the coal-begrimed\nstoker, who is just then cooling himself at an open air-hole, and\nwiping his brow with a wisp of tow. If at dinner he abuses the soup,\nask him how it could possibly be good, seeing that the water whereof\nit is made was taken a week ago, by means of a tarry bucket, from\nthe third lock of the Crinan Canal? Does he abuse his salmon? Shake\nyour head sadly, and point with your fork towards the round of beef,\nhinting that at this season cattle sometimes die a natural death, and\nthen their carcasses are to be had for a third of the market price\nof good beef. Go with him and beyond him in this sort of way for a\nlittle, and he will soon see that you are only poking your fun at him,\nand the chances are that he will cease troubling you at all events\nwith his complaints for the rest of the day. After all, however,\nit is but justice to observe that even your inveterate grumbler is\nnot infrequently a much more amiable person than he seems; kind, too,\nafter a fashion, and amazingly liberal when a proper occasion offers.\n\nFish are now becoming plentiful along our shores, and with a little\ntrouble in selecting a very early or a very late hour, and watching\nthe state of the tides, they may be caught in considerable numbers\nwith rod and line; and irrespective of their value as an article of\nfood, the pastime is by no means contemptible even as a matter of\nsport, though, sooth to say, many people live within sight of the\nsea for years, and know little or nothing of the amusement that may\nbe had so readily and cheaply in this way. Those caught at present\nare principally whitings, lythes, and seths, or coal-fish, with an\noccasional sea-bream. This last is reckoned a somewhat coarse fish,\nbut it is by no means bad eating when properly cooked and served,\nand you recollect as you eat that the price of mutton is something\nlike a shilling the pound, and frequently not to be had even at that.\n\nMore prone, perhaps, to superstition in every form than their more\ninland brethren, our maritime population have quite a number of freits,\nforms, fancies, and superstitious observances, most of them only\nsilly and harmless enough, in connection with all their sea-fishing\nadventures, whether with rod, net, or line. A few evenings ago, as a\nparty of four, douce and decent men enough, were preparing to launch\ntheir boat to go a-fishing, we chanced to pass along the beach,\njoining them, as has long been our habit in such circumstances,\nfor a few minutes' conversation. Suddenly, as we were speaking,\na large black-backed gull (Larus marinus) wheeled towards us out of\na flock that were lazily circling about at a considerable distance\nseawards. Right towards us, as if on some express and special errand,\ncame the gull, one of the largest and most beautiful of sea-birds,\nuntil he was within less than fifty yards of us, when by a change of\npoise, and a scarcely perceptible movement of wing, he slowly swept\nround our heads, screaming the while as only a black-backed gull can\nscream--a wild and eerie note that may be heard for a league. The\ngull's business, whatever it might be, was so manifestly connected\nwith one or all of us, or with the boat, perhaps, round which we\nwere standing on the beach, that it could not but attract attention\nand provoke comment from the most unobservant. After circling some\nhalf-dozen times round and round and right above our heads, the bird,\nwith one loud parting scream--and yet scream is not the word either;\nthe Gaelic guileag is nearer it--and with an upward oblique sweep, so\nbeautifully easy and effortless that it seemed the result of a simple\nact of volition rather than a grand pas in volitation, flew away to\njoin his companions, who were now heard clamouring over a coal-fish\ngoil or boil, as the Highlanders call the ebullition of the surface\nplay of a shoal of sea-fish. The men looked at each other and at us\nmeaningly; and at last out it came. \"Small chance,\" said one of them,\n\"have we of anything like a good fishing this evening: better for\nus to stay at home.\" \"Why so?\" we quietly inquired. \"Well, sir,\"\nwas the response, \"I never knew a gull act in that sort of way but it\nmeant bad luck in fishing, and the non-accomplishment of one's errand\nafloat, whatever it might be.\" The rest agreed with the speaker, but we\npersuaded them, after some trouble, to proceed to their fishing-ground,\nto give it a trial at least; and when, at a much later hour, they\nreturned, we were on the beach to meet them, and found that after\nall they had made an excellent fishing. There and then we sat down\nbeside them as they were dividing their fish into equal shares, and\ntold them the following story from Josephus, Against Apion. Quoting\nfrom Hecat\u00e6us, the great Jewish historian proceeds:--\"As I was myself\ngoing to the Red Sea, there followed us a man, whose name was Mosollam;\nhe was one of the Jewish horsemen who conducted us. He was a person\nof great courage, of a strong body, and by all allowed to be the most\nskilful archer that was either among the Greeks or barbarians. Now,\nthis man, as people were in great numbers passing along the road,\nand a certain augur was observing an augury by a bird, and requiring\nthem all to stand still, inquired what they staid for. Hereupon the\naugur showed him the bird from whence he told his augury, and told him\nthat if the bird staid where he was, they ought all to stand still;\nbut that if he got up and flew onward, they must go forward; but that\nif he flew backward, they must retire again. Mosollam made no reply,\nbut drew his bow and shot at the bird, and hit him and killed him; and\nas the augur and some others were very angry, and wished imprecations\nupon him, he answered them thus:--'Why are you so mad as to take this\nmost unhappy bird into your hands? for how can this bird give us any\ntrue information concerning our march, which could not foresee how\nto save himself? For had he been able to foreknow what was future,\nhe would not have come to this place, but would have been afraid lest\nMosollam the Jew would shoot him as he has done, and kill him.'\" The\nmen, who had listened most attentively, smiled as we concluded, and\nagreed that Mosollam must have been a very sensible man; and vowed\nthat for the future they would attach no more meaning or importance\nto a circling, screaming gull, than to the chirping of a wren in the\nelder bushes at the cottage doors. And what after all, the reader\nmay ask, brought the black-backed gull circling and screaming over\nyour heads? Well, from its great and immense spread of wing, it was\nprobably the leader and guardian of its own particular flock, and as\nsuch thought it his duty to reconnoitre in person, in case the five\nmen about the boat on the beach should have sinister intentions as\nto him or his. His scream or guileag was just his way of telegraphing\nthe results of his observations to his distant companions; or he may\nhave been scolding us in his own manner for our manifest intention\nof leaving the land, and invading what he considered his own proper\nelement and territory, the sea. A more prosaic explanation, if it\nplease you better, is perhaps to be found in the fact that the boat\nwas internally largely incrusted with fish scales, and smelt strongly\nof fish, and that that, to one of his sensitive olfactory nerves, was\nthe only or main attraction, the rest being mere idle curiosity, from\nwhich birds are no more exempt than men. One thing only is certain,\nif difficult to be accounted for, and that is, that individual gulls\nfrequently act as this gull acted when a boat is about to put off from\nthe shore in the fishing season, which being occasionally connected,\nas must sometimes happen, however accidentally, with an unsuccessful\nfishing adventure, gave rise to the silly superstition which, by\nthe aid of Flavius Josephus, we were able in this instance at least\nsuccessfully to combat.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LIII.\n\n    Heat in Mid-August--Early Planting and Sowing--Over-ripening of\n    Crops--Medus\u00e6--Stinging Jelly-Fish--The amount of solid matter\n    in Jelly-Fish.\n\n\nThe unprecedented heat of mid-August lasted with us here precisely\na fortnight [September 1876]. Beginning on the 10th, it continued\nwith little intermission or mitigation till the 24th, when the wind\nsuddenly chopped round to the south-west, our rainy quarter; the sky\nassumed the threatening aspect, an ugly interminglement of black and\ndark grey, with which we are only too familiar, and rain began to fall\nwith that dour, persistent pattering, and aimless horizontal drift,\nwhich sufficed to convince the most careless and unobservant student\nof our West Highlands meteorology that it was neither a thunder-plump\nnor a mere passing shower, but a determined and regular \"set-in\" of\nprobably some days, or, it might be, of some weeks' duration. The\nlast ten days have accordingly been more or less wet, and as the\ncorn over the country generally is about ripe for scythe and sickle,\nmany an anxious eye is cast heavenwards with wistfullest glance,\nmorning, noon, and night, in hopes of a change of wind and a return\nto fair weather. We are about tired of advocating the advantages of\nearly sowing to our friends of the West Highlands. We are content\nwith once again stating the fact that, having sown early, our own\ncorn was cut in ripe and good condition on the 17th August, and\nsafely housed without having once been touched by a single drop of\nrain. A single armful of such well-preserved provender is worth a\nwhole back-burden of the washed-out and sapless stuff that usually\ngoes by the name of \"wintering\" and \"winter keep\" in this and the\nneighbouring districts. It is proper to say, however, that, though\nso difficult to move to an earlier date in corn-sowing, our people\nhere have of recent years been more amenable to good advice in the\nmatter of potato culture. This year a large breadth of potatoes\nwas planted in March and early April, and the consequence is that\nthese are now nearly ripe, and of the best quality, stronger too,\nand in every way better able to resist the attacks of blight--absit\nomen!--should it unfortunately come their way, as we hope it won't;\nwhile the still green and half-ripe tubers of later plantings would\nprobably suffer largely under a similar visitation. Not even when\nit is quite ready for the sickle do people generally cut their corn\ntimeously. Too often it is allowed to ripen overmuch, till the straw\nis over-dry and sapless, besides the inevitable loss of grain in the\nstooking and subsequent ingathering. It is very much the same with\nhay. As a rule, it is left too long uncut, by which its quality is\nsadly deteriorated. Nor is this mistake in haymaking peculiar to\nthe west coast, but much too common over all the country. Even in\nMorayshire and about Inverness the hay crop is, as a rule, allowed\nto ripen over-much. If it were cut ten days or a fortnight earlier\nit would weigh more, smell sweeter, be more nutritious, and better\nevery way than under the present system, which allows it not merely\nto ripen, but to more than ripen, to wither up and lose most of its\nsap and seed before it is cut and secured. It may, perhaps, be laid\ndown as an axiom that root crops cannot be allowed to ripen over-much;\ncereals and grasses most certainly may.\n\nCavill's recent attempt to swim the Channel, in rivalry of Captain\nWebb's feat, was a failure, and had medical aid not been so opportunely\nat hand when the swimmer, comatose and unconscious, was lifted out\nof the water by his friends in the attendant lugger, the venture,\nnoteworthy, though unsuccessful, for its pluck and daring, would\nprobably have resulted in something far more serious than mere\nfailure. In accounting for his non-success, and his state of extreme\nexhaustion when taken out of the water, Cavill largely blames the\njelly-fish or sea-blubber, through perfect shoals of which he had\nonce and again to force his way; and although he wore a thin jersey,\nwhich must have been some protection, enough of the bare skin was\nexposed to contact with the cold, clammy, slimy Medus\u00e6, to make him\nexceedingly nervous and generally uncomfortable throughout a full third\nof the distance covered. The number of these Medus\u00e6 to be met with at\ncertain seasons all along the British shores is enormous; and towards\nthe close of summer and early autumn they are more abundant, perhaps,\nin our western lochs than anywhere else. Looking over the boat's side\non a fine day, we have seen them in our own Loch Leven in incalculable\nnumbers, thick as autumnal leaves in Vallambrosa, or the stars in the\nMilky Way--of all shapes and sizes too, swimming about aimlessly by\na slow but constant contraction and expansion, regular as the beat\nof a pendulum, of their umbrella-like bodies, fringed like a lady's\nparasol, with a close edging of thread-like cilia, and frequently\nhaving long, pendulous tentacul\u00e6 attached to their under surface,\ngiving the healthy animal, when busy in its proper element, a very\ncurious appearance. Though the jelly-fish is in constant motion--in\nperpetual motion, so to speak, for it never rests, that ever we could\ndiscover, either by night or day--its progress in the sea is rather\ndue to the set of the wind and the tide-drift than its own exertions,\nits incessant labours of contraction and expansion being performed\nnot so much for the purpose of shifting its place in the water, as\nfor the purpose of grasping and sucking in at each contraction such\nmicroscopic organisms as form its food. It is true that in a calm and\ntideless sea its motions cause it to be carried in the direction of\nthe contracting beat an inch or thereby at a time, but this progress\nis clearly accidental and unintentional, so far as it is concerned,\nthe great object of the incessant contraction and expansion being, as\nwe have said, not so much change of place as the capture and insuction\nof its ordinary food. The Medus\u00e6 swim at all depths in the sea, but\nas a rule they seem to prefer feeding within a fathom or two of the\nsurface, particularly if the sun is bright and the sea is perfectly\ncalm. The mouth of the Medusa is in the centre of the under concave\nsurface, and the animal's modus operandi in sweeping in its food\ntowards this orifice is not difficult to understand. Stretch out your\nright hand, with its back or knuckle surface uppermost. First expand\nthe hand and fingers to their full extent, then contract so as almost,\nbut not quite, to close the hand, not quickly, but very firmly and\ndecidedly. Continue in this way opening out and closing the hand and\nfingers, not quite so fast as a second's beating pendulum oscillates,\nand you have the perfect analogue, or more properly the homologue,\nof the Medusa's action. If you can fancy an orifice or mouth in the\ncentre of your palm, and your fingers to be the fringe surrounding\nthe jelly-fish disc, and if you perform the action indicated in a\ntub or pool of water, into which a little flour or fine oatmeal has\nbeen thrown to represent the animalcul\u00e6 forming the Medusa's food,\nso much the better: you will at once understand how the animalcul\u00e6\nand food particles are swept and sucked in by the current created\ntowards the animal's mouth, or gastric cavity, as it might be more\nproperly termed. When one or more of these animals comes in contact\nwith a swimmer's skin, the sensation is anything but agreeable, a\nfeeling of indescribable loathing and horror being engendered by the\ntouch of the cold, gelatinous mass, that you are yet conscious is not\ndead matter, but an animated pulsating organism. But though contact\nwith the ordinary Medusa is bad enough, there is another species\nof jelly-fish not uncommon in British waters at certain seasons,\naccidental contact with which is a very serious matter indeed. These\nare known to naturalists as Acaleph\u00e6, from a Greek word signifying\na nettle. They are not so numerous on our shores as the true Medusa,\nbut they grow to a much larger size, some of them measuring eighteen,\ntwenty, or even twenty-four inches across the disc, and thick and heavy\nin proportion, large enough, when fresh from the sea, to fill a tub\nof considerable size. If one of these wretches comes in contact with\nthe human skin, it is found to sting like a nettle, only much more\nseverely, and hence its scientific name. A swimmer stung by contact\nwith an acaleph feels not only the cruel smarting of the nettle-like\nand burning stinging, but he is in a few minutes frequently overcome\nby a feeling of languor and sickness, that lasts for a considerable\ntime, and is sometimes only relieved by a violent fit of vomiting,\njust as if he was a sufferer for the moment under the influence of\na powerful emetic. We have more than once been stung by an acaleph,\nand can speak feelingly on the subject. Only last season a boy on\nthe opposite coast of Appin was, while bathing, so severely stung\nby one or more acalephs that he was for some days confined to bed,\nseriously ill, and under medical treatment. This power of stinging\nseems to be a wise provision in the economy of the animal, for the\npurpose of rendering helpless and numbing its prey, to make them easier\nof capture and subsequent deglutition, just as the Mysotis, or electric\neel, with like purpose puts to a very important and practical use its\nelectro-battery shocks. The true acaleph may generally be distinguished\nfrom the more harmless jelly-fish by having a good deal of colour in\nits tissues, being striated with red, pink, and pale green, which\ngives it a very beautiful appearance as under the bright sunlight\nit floats about, contracting and expanding with the regularity of\na pendulum beat, near the surface of the calm, unruffled sea. The\namount of solid matter in a jelly-fish of any kind, however large,\nis amazingly small. Within a thin, filmy skin, they are entirely made\nup of water, with a few threads spider-net-wise running through it to\nkeep it in shape, like the ropes on which was stretched the immense\nvelarium of an ancient amphitheatre. After a summer storm we have seen\nthe sea-beach covered with a considerable wall of jelly-fish that had\nbeen cast ashore, a yard in breadth, perhaps, and a couple of feet in\nheight; and before the evening of the next day, during which the sun\nshone out hot and clear, the whole had melted away like so much snow,\nleaving only a thin film of gelatinous matter, which, if gathered\ntogether in a single heap, wouldn't have filled our venerable but still\nuseful \"Clachnacuddin\" hat. There is a good story told of a farmer,\nsomewhere from the altitudes of Druimuachdar, who took some land by\nthe sea, not a hundred yards from our own neighbourhood. One morning\nhe saw the beach covered with a deep ring of jelly-fish as above,\nand being an eident body, he got his horses and carts in order, and\ncommenced to cart them afield, in the belief that they could not but\nprove excellent manure for the land. After working at the job nearly\nhalf a day, a naturalist, who chanced to pass the way, astonished the\nfarmer not a little by assuring him that some hogsheads of sea-water,\nand a single pocket-handkerchief full of manure from the nearest\ndung-heap, would fitly and fully represent all that he had on his\nland in the fifty odd carts of jelly-fish that had cost him so much\nlabour! The story goes on to say that that particular farmer looked\naskance at jelly-fish ever afterwards, and didn't care much to have\ntheir natural history discussed in his presence at kirk or market,\nat bridal or funeral, all his life long. The fact is, that a mass of\njelly-fish sufficient to load the \"Great Eastern\" wouldn't probably\nyield a peat creelful of solid serviceable matter for any purpose\nor purposes whatever. The jelly-fish is known to the Gaels of the\nHebrides and West Coast by a curious name--Sgeith an R\u00f3in for the\nsmaller ones, that is, the seal's vomit, and for the larger ones,\nSgeith na Muicamara, the whale's vomit, in the absurd belief that\nthey were the vomits respectively of the uncanny Sealchs, of whom\nthe Highlander had always a superstitious dread, and of the largest\nof marine monsters, after they had gorged themselves to repletion on\na shoal of extra-oleaginous herring or mackerel. These names for the\njelly-fish are doubtless absurd enough, and yet, in defence of the\ngood old Gaelic name-givers, let us observe that they are not a whit\nmore absurd than the Caprimulgus (goat-sucker) of Linn\u00e6us as applied\nto the night-jar, or the Frugilegus (corn-gatherer) of the same high\nauthority as applied to the common rook.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LIV.\n\n    Approach of Winter--Contentedness of the People--Poets and\n    Wild-Bird Song--Differences in the Colouring and Markings of\n    Birds' Eggs--Late Nest-Building--Anecdote of Provost Robertson\n    of Dingwall, Mr. Gladstone's Grandfather.\n\n\nThe meteorological vaticinations of our weather-wise octogenarian\nneighbours have met with abundant and speedy verification in the\nstorms and heavy rains of the past ten days [October 1876]. For the\nmonth of October, however, the weather continues wonderfully mild;\neven with wind and rain the temperature is higher than it usually\nis at this date; an occasional fine day, besides, encouraging us in\nthe hope that winter proper, winter with its thousand discomforts,\nits snow and sleet, its cold and cheerlessness and gloom, may be\nchecked in his advance for some weeks to come, by the uncompromising\nattitude of an autumn so lusty of life and bright of eye, but,\ndespite an occasional overclouding of countenance, it seems yet but\nonly little past its prime. Agriculturally the season is being wound\nup satisfactorily enough; crops have, upon the whole, been secured in\nvery fair condition, and although the herring fishing in our lochs\nas elsewhere has proved a failure, our people are prepared to meet\nthe coming winter in comparative abundance, and with a cheerfulness\ncalculated to disarm the gloomy season of more than half its\nterrors. The poet has philosophically observed that man\n\n\n    \"Wants but little here below,\n    Nor wants that little long\"--\n\n\nwhere \"wants,\" you will observe, has to be read in a restricted and\npeculiar sense: the plain prose of it being, that for all his essential\nneeds man requires but little, that merely to live a little suffices,\nand that, on account of the shortness and certainty of human life, even\nthat \"little\" is soon dispensed with--is no longer required. Granted,\nO Poet! but not the less true is it that during man's allotted time\nthe \"little,\" however small, is indispensable all the same, and any\nsensible diminution or curtailment of his \"little\" will make a man,\nhowever abstemious and sober of life, just as miserable as his fellow\nwho has to bewail the diminution, not of his \"little,\" but of his\nabundance. Nothing pleases us in our people here more than their\nconstant cheerfulness in the enjoyment of their \"little.\" They would\ndoubtless take more if they could get it, and rejoice exceedingly if\ntheir \"little\" could be converted into an abundance; but meantime they\nhave the good sense to be contented, and even happy with what they\nhave, and that, too, to a degree that no one perhaps less intimate\nwith them than we are could believe possible in the circumstances.\n\nOur \"Indian summer,\" that seems still to linger, as if loth to\nleave us to the tender mercies of a winter that is likely to prove\nunusually inclement, has been a season of unwonted jubilation to our\nwild-birds; for, guided by an instinct that is a monitor sufficiently\nto be depended upon in ordinary circumstances, they had already,\neach after his kind, prepared themselves, not for equinoctial\nwarmth and sunshine, but for equinoctial storms. All the more,\nthen, from its very unexpectedness, did they feel bound to rejoice\nin the incalculable blessing of twenty free days of midsummer warmth\nand calm at a time when, in the usual course of events, the tempest\nshould have been howling through the woods and careering over moss and\nmoorland, they the while glad to cower for shelter and safety in such\ncrevices and corners as might be best suited to their purpose. At\nand after the autumnal equinox, in ordinary seasons, the only one\nof our native wild-birds that sings, or attempts to sing, a fairly\nfinished song, is the redbreast; though, to be sure, the wren also\nsometimes strikes up an occasional voluntary when we least expect it;\nthe lively Lilliputian in his song, as in everything else, being a\ncreature of unbridled impulse, guided solely by the whim and caprice\nof the moment, as if in utter contempt and disregard of the method and\norder by which other birds are fain to regulate the conduct of their\nlives. Not the redbreast alone, however, backed by the intermittent\nmelodies of the wren, who, Sims Reeves-like, only sings when the\nhumour seizes him, obstinately silent when you would expect him\nto sing, and as obstinately singing when you would expect him to\nbe silent; but the blackbird also, and chaffinch, the corn bunting\nand goldfinch, have been of late delighting us with their music, in\nvolume and compass and exquisite finish hardly inferior, though so\nout of season, to their most successful performances in spring and\nearly summer, which, be it noted, is the season for wild-bird song\nat its best. Our poets, as if by tacit arrangement and preconcert,\ndo all in their power to impress us with the notion that June is not\nonly the month of flower and leaf, but the great bird music month as\nwell, a mistake partly owing, no doubt, to their ignorance of bird\nlife, but mainly, we suspect, arising from the fact that \"June\" and\n\"tune\" are such pat and perfect rhymes, that the poet dealing with\nsummer glories and summer joys never fails to pounce upon them for\ninstant use, without a thought of their inappropriateness, so far\nat least as bird music is concerned. It is true that with reference\nto bird song our poets are also liberal enough with their \"May\" and\n\"lay,\" which, as nearer to the mark, is somewhat better. Better still,\nhowever, would be April, if our poets would be correct, to which we\nmight perhaps suggest \"trill\" as a rhyme; not a good rhyme to be sure,\neven if \"April\" could be decently placed at the end of a line (as in\nthe old \"valentines\") without being misaccented; but we ornithologists\ncould forgive the halting rhyme and barbarous accent for the sake of\nthe correctness of the \"colouring\" otherwise. The truth is that our\nbest wild-bird music time may be set down as properly belonging to the\neight weeks between the 15th March and the 15th May. Let our poets,\nthen, look out for and find appropriate rhymes for \"March,\" \"April,\"\nand \"May.\" It is their business and not ours; but for any sake, in\ndealing with wild-bird music and summer joys, let them beware of the\nfatal facility of the rhymes of \"June\" and \"tune.\" Poets and poetry\napart, however, it was extremely interesting to watch the conduct of\nour wild-birds during our late \"Indian summer.\" For the first few days\nthey fluttered about and chirped interrogatively amongst themselves, as\nif in a state of doubt and indecision, if not of actual bewilderment,\nevidently puzzled what to say to it, but, upon the whole, of opinion\nthat it was too good to last. Last, however, it did, longer than\neither they or we thought at all likely, and before the end of the\nweek the chirping had developed into actual song, and the fluttering\ninto a business-like activity, as if they had fully thought it over,\nand had decided that it was best, proverb wise, to be making some\nhay while the sun shone. Our attention was first of all attracted\nby a pair of house sparrows passing and repassing our study window,\nnow with a stray feather, now with a bit of straw in their bills,\nwith which they disappeared in a clump of ivy high up on a corner of\nthe garden wall. On climbing by the aid of a small ladder to inquire\nwhat they were about, we found that they were repairing a nest,\nin which they had already reared a brood this season, and which the\nyoungsters, in their unfledged and awkward babyhood, had considerably\ndamaged and generally knocked out of shape--\"into a cocked hat,\" in\nfact, as they say across the Atlantic. With a care and painstaking,\nhowever, which our \"featherless biped\" architects, in executing their\nrepairs on our stone and lime habitations would do well to imitate,\nthe sparrows in a surprisingly short time got their house in order,\nand in a few days thereafter we found a couple of eggs in it. These\neggs we took away, for it would only be cruel to allow a brood to\nbe hatched at this season, only to starve and die before they could\npossibly be strong enough of wing to shift for themselves. And here,\nin connection with these same sparrow eggs, let us record a fact\nthat seems to have hitherto escaped the notice of our oologists\n(egg-students), even the most lynx-eyed and observant of them,\nand it is this: that in the case of such of our wild-birds as breed\nmore than once in a single season, the eggs of the second laying,\nand of the third, if third laying there is--of all eggs, in short,\ndropped after the first laying--are, as a rule, either entirely free\nfrom spots, or, if they have the spots, they are so faint as to\nbe scarcely distinguishable. In the case of the sparrow eggs, for\nexample, taken from the nest as just related, they were perfectly\nspotless, pearl-white and clean as they could be. Even under a\nlens of considerable power they presented hardly a trace of spot or\ncolouring in any form. And yet take an egg from a sparrow's nest in\nearly spring--from the first laying that is--and you will invariably\nfind it to be spotted or blotched with a perfect constellation, so\nto speak, round its larger end of greyish and dusky brown dots and\nmarkings. On due examination, we suspect it will be found to be the\nsame in the case of all our \"spotted\" egg layers; and to this fact,\nthat has been so unaccountably overlooked hitherto, is to be mainly\nattributed, we make no doubt, the many dissensions and disagreements\nthat so frequently have set our best, and otherwise good-natured,\noologists by the ears. In another particular, too, the eggs of later\nlaying differ from those of the first--in the thickness, namely, of\nthe shell; that of the later laying being thinner and more fragile in\nthe handling. On account of their fragility, indeed, it is extremely\ndifficult to blow without damaging an egg of this kind, taken from\none of our smaller bird's nests towards the close of the season. All\nwhich, the faintness of colouring in or total absence of the spots,\nwith the thinness, transparency, and general fragility of the shell,\nis doubtless due to an impaired vitality, quoad hoc, consequent upon\nthe prodigality of energy thrown into the loves and labours of rearing\nthe first or spring brood.\n\nOn this occasion, too, a pair of blackbirds began a nest de novo,\neither despising the labours of mere repairing, or having no old\nnest, perhaps, to repair. The blackbirds, however, wiser than the\nsparrows, left off before a third--the lower flat, so to speak--of\ntheir building was finished; as if they had duly thought it all over\nagain, and had wisely concluded that it was better to wait till spring,\nit being manifestly too late to finish a nest and attempt to rear a\nbrood any more this season. We fully expected to see the redbreast,\nand wren perhaps, also attempt the rearing of an \"Indian summer\"\nbrood; and had they tried, they might, perhaps, have succeeded,\nfor both birds in such circumstances select cozy corners about open\nsheds and out-houses, where they are pretty safe from the assaults\nof the weather, and can always find suitable food in more or less\nabundance. So far as we could see, however, they never once thought\nof anything like love-making or nidification, contenting themselves\nwith thoroughly enjoying the calm and sunshine while it lasted, as\nwas abundantly, and, so far as we were concerned, very delightfully\nevidenced by the frequency of their loud and lightsome song.\n\nA recent paragraph in the newspapers about Provost Robertson of\nDingwall, whose daughter was Mr. Gladstone's mother, reminds us of an\nanecdote which was told us some years ago by the late Mrs. Morrison of\nSalachan, in Ardgour, an old lady whose reminiscences of the people\nof the Hebrides and mainland of Ross-shire, about the beginning of\nthe present century, were extremely interesting. Provost Robertson\nof Dingwall--Mr. Gladstone's grandfather by the mother's side--on\none occasion paid a visit to London, for the first, and, we believe,\nthe only time in his life. His friends in the metropolis put him under\nthe charge of a gentleman, a far-away cousin of his own, who undertook\nto show him all the wonders of the great city, and look after him\ngenerally. The worthy Provost was thoroughly Scotch, and dressed after\na somewhat outr\u00e9 fashion, \u00e0 la Dingwall of the period. Walking one day\nalong one of the streets of London, a little in advance of his guide,\nthe worshipful Provost's appearance and tout ensemble attracted the\nattention of some half-dozen street arab boys, who, always ready for\na \"lark,\" desired no better pastime for the present than to chaff\nand poke their fun at the Chief Magistrate of one of Scotland's\nmost distinguished northern burghs. The Provost, indignant at the\nimpudence and rudeness of the young rascals, at last turned round, and,\nshaking his silver-headed cane at the offending gamins, exclaimed,\nin tones loud enough to be heard by his guide, who was almost choked\nwith laughter at the scene, \"Ah, you young vagabonds; if I had you\nin Dingwall, wouldn't I make you pay for your davayrshon!\" The term\n\"diversion\" was then used, both in English and Gaelic, all over the\nHighlands, as indeed it still is to some extent, in the sense of\nfun with a backbone of mischief to it; rough horse-play, in fact,\naccompanied by what is now-a-days commonly called chaff.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LV.\n\n    Spring--Hood's Parody of Thomson's Invocation--The excellence\n    of Nettle-Top Soup--Cock-crowing--Birds'-nesting--Professor\n    Geikie--Curious Story of an old Pipe-Tune.\n\n\nThis is the 1st of May [1877], sacred in the ecclesiastical calendar to\nSt. Philip and St. James the Apostles. In ordinary speech we may now\ncall it summer, we suppose, and it is to be hoped that it may prove\nsummer indeed, not in name merely, or astronomically, but veritably,\nthat is, meteorologically as well; such a summer as delighted our\nboyhood with its bright sun and cloudless skies, or with such clouds\nonly as served to modify and temper a brilliancy and heat that might\notherwise have been excessive; the earth verdant and flower-bespangled\nunder foot and around, the very floods and trees of the forest, in\nthe grand hyperbole of Scripture, \"clapping their hands for joy:\"\nthe singing of birds the while, jubilant and joyous, in copse and\nwild-wood, its fitting bass, the murmur of innumerable bees; while the\nfluttering of splendidly coloured butterflies, as they danced along\nin many a lawless zig-zag and merry-go-round, constantly verified\nand bore witness to the beauty of the Roman poet's famous line,\nwhich may be rendered--\n\n\n    \"Lo! fluttering past, flowers swimming in liquid air!\"\n\n\nHowever the summer may turn out, of the spring at least but little\ngood--speaking of course meteorologically--can be said. It was,\nquoad hoc, an imposture, and nothing else, and always reminding us\nof Hood's wicked parody on the opening lines of Thomson's big and\nbow-wow invocation to the season:--\n\n\n    \"'Come, gentle Spring, ethereal mildness, come!'\n        O, Thomson, void of sense as well as reason;\n      Why in our ears such arrant nonsense drum?\n        There's no such season!\"\n\n\nTo housewives in rural districts we offer a \"wrinkle\" that may be\nfound of use at the present season, when most vegetable gardens may\nbe ransacked in vain for delicacies that shall be common enough at\na later period. While rambling through the district a few days ago,\nwe chanced to drop in upon a widow lady and daughter, who occupy a\nnice little cottage. They were going to sit down to an early dinner,\nand although we were not very hungry, and could have fasted till\na later hour, not merely without inconvenience, but from choice,\nyet on their earnest invitation we sat down along with them. The\nfare consisted of soup and a boiled fowl, the latter fat, tender,\nand good as a fowl should always be, and the soup was simply\ndelicious. A green vegetable of some kind floating thickly in it,\ngave it a relish and gout that was very remarkable, and we asked what\nit was. \"Nettle-tops, sir,\" was the answer, and had we not been told,\nit is probable that we should have guessed and blundered long ere\nwe could hit upon it. But not only can nettle-tops be thus utilised\nas an admirable condiment in soup at this season, but they may also\nbe served up asparagus-wise, and, to our taste, are every whit as\ngood. In this latter form we have eaten them often, and, as Johnson\nsaid, after swallowing several platefuls of Scotch broth, in reply\nto Boswell's observation--\"You never ate it before?\" \"No, sir, but\nI don't care how soon I eat it again.\" And so say we invariably when\nwe have finished a dish of nettle-top asparagus. After our nettle-top\nsoup it occurred to us that there might be more truth in Goldsmith's\nremark about the French than he was perhaps aware of, for he meant\nit as satire, that they can roast a sirloin if they only had beef,\nand prepare \"ten different dishes from nettle-tops.\"\n\nWe had occasion to be up and about very early this morning, not,\nhowever, for the purpose of washing our face in May dew, although\nthe morning was very beautiful, and the dew lay plentiful enough,\nand pearl-like on grass and birchen bough, but in order to go on what\nsome may think an even sillier errand, to wit, a birds'-nesting. For\nthis sort of thing the earlier the hour the better at this season,\nand as we mounted the coppiced slopes which we proposed searching,\nthe sun was beginning to gild the loftiest peaks of Glencoe with\npurple and amber and gold, and all the cocks in the hamlet, as if at\na preconcerted signal, were cheerily greeting the rising god, or if\ntheir thoughts were more mundane and prosaic, as perhaps they were,\nyou may interpret the crowing of each individual chanticleer as some\none else did before you in some such lines as these--\n\n\n    \"The cock rose in the morning;\n    He called his favourite hen,\n    With a cockle-do-doo, and a how-d'ye-do,\n    And how-d'ye-do again.\"\n\n\nIn the economy of birds, the most important labours are those of\nnest-building and incubation; and owing to the wintriness of the\nspring, we were quite prepared this morning to find matters in\na decidedly backward state throughout the length and breadth of\nbird-land, wherever we might wander. We were not, however, prepared\nto find things in anything like the sad plight in which we actually\nfound them; for in no district of the remotest Highlands, we venture\nto say, are the agricultural labours proper to man at this season so\nbackward as are their own proper labours this year amongst our native\nwild-birds. Usually at this date nine-tenths of our birds have already\ncompleted the labours of nidification, and with some species even\nincubation is far advanced, if not actually completed. The results\nof our morning's ornithological ramble may be very briefly stated. Of\nthirteen nests discovered, four only contained eggs, and even of these\nfour only one had its proper complement, that of a song-thrush, namely,\nwhich contained five bonny blue eggs, spotted with black at the larger\nend, a number rarely, if ever, exceeded. In a merle or blackbird's nest\nthere were only two eggs, instead of the usual complement of four or\nfive. A chaffinch's nest had only one egg, whereas four is the proper\nnumber; while in the nest of a greenfinch, there was also only one\negg instead of five, and that one, from certain signs known only to\nthe initiated, we decided had only been laid yesterday, or even early\nthis morning--perhaps shortly before our visit. Of the remaining nests,\na few were fairly completed, and ready for their egg treasures at any\ntime, but the greater number were only partially finished, and in their\nunfinished state had suffered so much from sleet and wind and rain,\nthat we much doubt if their builders will have anything more to do\nwith them, for it is a curious fact, that with such rare exceptions\nas only serve to accentuate and emphasise the rule, all birds prefer\nbuilding a new nest from the very foundation to occupying an old one,\nor making the slightest repairs on one that has met with any serious\ninjury. And this, too, you will please observe--a bird never improves\nin his architecture and never declines. He builds to-day neither\nbetter nor worse than did his ancestors a thousand or five thousand\nyears ago. The sense or instinct that taught him to build of certain\nmaterials and of a certain form, long before Homer was born or Troy\nwas besieged, is the same sense or instinct still. Nothing added;\nnothing subtracted. From all we have seen, we should say that the\nannual addition to bird life in our country will be considerably\nsmaller than the average. Even first broods will be so late that\nsecond hatching is out of the question. Bird-song, however, will\nlast longer into the summer, and begin again earlier in autumn than\nin ordinary seasons.\n\nOn a dull day last week we were routed out of our study by a visit\nfrom Professor Geikie, who, accompanied by some half-dozen others, was\ngeologising in the districts of Appin and Lochaber. In such a place as\nthis, it was impossible but that they should find much to interest them\ngeologically and otherwise; and we were glad to hear them all say that\nthey were much delighted with their wanderings. An occasional invasion\nof this kind, sometimes, too, when you least expect it, never fails to\ndo one good. It makes you, nolens volens, shake yourself clear, as best\nyou may, of the accumulated cobwebs of months, and you return to your\nordinary work not a little invigorated and refreshed by having had an\nopportunity of comparing notes, rubbing shoulders, and even crossing\nblades--in all friendship of course--with foemen worthy of your steel.\n\nA lady correspondent writes us from London as follows:--\"I was much\npleased with your reference to the old pipe tune. The music I have\nlong known, but the origin and history of the piece was unknown to\nme, nor had I ever heard any of the words attached to it. I agree\nwith you that all such scraps of information should be collected and\npreserved, adding so largely as they do to the interest with which\nwe Highlanders must always regard our national melodies. I need not,\nof course, ask you if you know the very fine pipe tune 'Macrimmon's\nLament,' Cha till mi tuilleadh. When I was a girl in the Hebrides--I\nam afraid to say how many years ago--I often heard the following\nstory associated with this tune. In the island of Mull there is a\nlarge cave which in popular belief reaches right across the island\nfrom the east shore to the west. This cave, in the old times, was\ninhabited, so ran the tradition, by a colony of wolves and other wild\nanimals. No man in consequence had ever the courage to explore its dark\nlabyrinthine windings. At a wedding party assembled in a hamlet in the\nneighbourhood of the cave, its vastness and many dangers became the\nsubject of conversation. All agreed that no human being could possibly\npass through it and live. The piper of the district was a very brave\nman as well as an admirable piper, and in an evil hour for himself, as\nit proved, he offered for some slight wager to traverse the cave from\nside to side of the island, with a pine torch stuck in the front of his\nbonnet to give him light, and playing the pipes all the time. The piper\nthereupon entered the cave, playing a lively march, while most of the\nwedding guests followed above, led in the proper course by the music,\nwhich could be heard faintly from below. More than half the cave was\ntraversed, when suddenly the music changed from a brisk march to a\ndoleful lament. This lament, duly interpreted, told the people above\nthat things were becoming uncomfortable with the piper; first, that\nthe pine torch was almost burnt out, and again that his breath was\nfailing him, while the boldest of the wolves slowly retired before\nhim, only kept at bay by the flickering of the torch and the sound\nof the pipes, but ready to spring upon and devour him the instant\nthe torch should be extinguished and the music of the pipes should\ncease. It was then that the doomed piper played Cha till mi tuilleadh'\nso mournfully--'I will return no more!' And this too--\n\n\n    'Mo dh\u00ecth, mo dh\u00ecth, gun tr\u00ec lamhan;\n    D\u00e0 l\u00e0mh 's a phiob, 's l\u00e0mh 's a chlaidheamh.'\n\n    ('Alas, and my great want, that I have not three hands,\n      Two for (playing) the pipes, and one to wield my sword.')\n\n\nIf he had only a third hand he thought he could manage to kill the\nwolves that were every instant becoming bolder, as if they knew he\nmust fall into their jaws at last. The last notes caught by the people\nabove were known to mean--\n\n\n    ''Si ghall' uaine 'sh\u00e0raich mi,\n    'Si ghalla' uaine 'sh\u00e0raich mi!'\n\n    ('It is the green bitch wolf that most harasses me!')\n\n\nAnd then the music ceased, and they knew that the poor piper had been\ntorn to pieces by the wolves. Such is something like the story I used\nto hear in connection with the big cave in Mull and the well-known\nlament, more than fifty years ago.\"\n\nThe cave referred to is on the estate of Lochbuy. So far as it has\nbeen explored, its length is over 500 feet, with a breadth of some 25\nfeet, and a height of 40. It is proper to say that the people of Skye\nclaim the whole story as belonging to their island. The piper was a\nMacrimmon; the cave is pointed out near Dunvegan, and the story of\nthe wolves and the piper's sad fate is just as likely to be true of\nthe one island as of the other. Our own opinion is, that so far as\nthere is any truth in the story, it must be located in Skye rather\nthan in Mull, although our friends in the latter island will perhaps\nbe angry with us for saying so.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LVI.\n\n    Rain in Lochaber--An Apple Tree in bloom by Candle-light--Mackenzie\n    the Bird-Catcher--A Badenoch \"Wise Woman\" spitting in a Child's\n    Face to preserve it from the Fairies!\n\n\n\"It never rains but it pours,\" and nowhere is the familiar adage\nin its utmost literalness truer than in Lochaber. During a long\nprotracted drought of nearly a couple of months' duration [June\n1877], we were constantly calling for rain; and no wonder, for the\nearth was hard and hide-bound as an Egyptian mummy; sheep and cattle\nfinding little more to gather on the parched uplands than if they\nwere nibbling at the bulge of an ironclad laid up in ordinary. For\nfull five and twenty years--so far back, eheu and alas! do our own\nindividual meteorological records extend--we have had no May month so\npersistently ungenial and cold; nor, when one comes to think of it,\nis it much matter of surprise, for we have just been reading that\nin the North Atlantic, within a few hundred leagues of the British\nshores, and up to the very margin of the Gulf Stream, a ship recently\narrived in port had to fight her way through quite a continent of\ndrift ice, with occasional icebergs \"from two to three hundred feet\nin height.\" With such grim, hyperborean neighbours on the one hand,\nand a keen-edged east wind on the other, it was impossible that it\nshould be otherwise than cold and uncomfortable all round. On the 26th,\nhowever, came the long-looked-for change, the wind came slowly round\nto S.S.W., rain began to fall, and the effect was magical. There\nwas instantly a blanket-like kindliness and a balminess in the air\nthat was delicious. The birds, that a little before could only chirp\ndolorously, burst out into loud and jubilant song, the cattle lowed\nin their pastures, wild-flowers seemed to laugh with quiet delight,\nand the very boom of the big waves as they broke on the beach had a\npleasant music in it. It has continued to rain more or less ever since,\nso that with regard to mere personal comfort one is ready to cry \"Hold,\nenough!\" but so far as the interests of agriculture and pasturage\nare concerned, not a drop too much has fallen. The fact is that,\nfrequent as is the complaint about what people are pleased to speak\nabout as our superabundant rainfall, we require it all. We question\nif a diminution of our annual rainfall by a third, say, or even by\na fifth of its amount, would, from a practical and utilitarian point\nof view, be any improvement, but the reverse. A shrewd south country\nshepherd, with whom we had a long crack on Saturday, was right when,\nspeaking of the rain, he remarked that \"it would be a puir country\nfor sheep at ony rate, if we had much less o't frae year's end\nto year's end.\" How ill the drought of April and May agreed with\nus here may be understood from the fact that there was an unusual\namount of sickness amongst the people; while the leanness of sheep\nand kine bore sad and emphatic witness to the scarcity of succulent\npasture, and the general backwardness of the season is to this moment\nnoticeable from our window as we write, for neither the lilac nor the\nhawthorn is yet in bloom, nor are potatoes, even the earliest planted,\nany more than just becoming discernible in regular drills. We should\nsay that vegetation is generally quite a fortnight later than usual,\nand only an exceptionally fine summer and early autumn can bring\nabout a fairly seasonable harvest-time. Dum spiro, spero, however,\nis a good maxim, and we shall hope that, even if harvest is late, the\ningathering may be all the more pleasant and abundant. The drought,\nhowever, and persistent east wind, it is but fair to confess, were\nrather favourable than otherwise to the fruit trees of all kinds in\ngarden and orchard. Bud and blossom were, to use a military term, held\nin check until after the middle of May, thus escaping the night frosts\nusual in the early part of the month. All sorts of fruit trees and\nberry bushes are consequently only now in full bloom, and a large fruit\ncrop may very confidently be looked for, though it may be a little\nlater than usual in attaining to perfect ripeness. Did you ever, by\nthe way, good reader, look at an apple tree in full blossom on a calm,\ndewy night by candle-light? Recently we had occasion to go into our\ngarden towards midnight in search of a bird that had escaped from his\ncage during the day. Coming under a large apple tree in full bloom,\nwe held up the open lantern in our hand and peered a-tiptoe among\nthe branches in hopes of getting a sight of the foolish runaway. Him\nwe did not find then, but the apple tree, bending under its weight of\nblossoms \"dew besprent,\" was the most beautiful thing we ever saw, and\nwe called everybody about the place to come and look at it, and they\nall agreed that the sight was as beautiful as it was new to them. If\nyou have an opportunity try it for yourself, and you will thank us\nall your life long for calling your attention to a thing of beauty,\nwhich the poet is not wrong in assuring you \"is a joy for ever.\"\n\nWe didn't get our bird in the apple tree, but we were in great good\nluck notwithstanding, for who chanced to come the way next morning\nbut Mackenzie the bird-catcher, who soon discovered the runaway's\nwhereabouts in a neighbouring copse, and whistled him back to hand\nas easily as a shepherd whistles back his truant collie. It is a\ngoldfinch, a magnificent singer, whom we have long had as a cage-bird;\nand being unaccustomed to liberty, it was all the easier enticing him\nback to his cage, although we much doubt if any man in the kingdom\ncould have done it so immediately and with such unfaltering confidence\nin his own power to do it as Mackenzie, who knows wild-bird music\nbetter than any one else we ever met, and can imitate it in its every\ntwist and turn, chirp or cheep or chant, so deftly and unmistakeably as\nto deceive the birds themselves, each after his kind, the severest test\nto which such an accomplishment could be put. If there be any truth in\nthe old doctrine of metempsychosis, Mackenzie, having shaken off the\n\"mortal coil\" of his present form, is pretty sure to reappear as a\nrock-linnet, redpole, or goldfinch. Like an honest man, who knows and\nacknowledges the value and force of an Act of Parliament, he hadn't\non this occasion much to show us, but what he had was in part at least\ninteresting, and captured in early spring. One curiosity was a linnet\nwith one wing pure white, which he would insist upon was a different\nspecies from the ordinary linnet, because he had caught so many with a\nsinister or dexter, one or other, wing white or variegated. We fought\na hard battle in trying to convince him that it was a mere accidental\nbit of colouring, due probably to some hurt received in its downy\ndays, or at all events before its first moult; and made it no more a\ndifferent species than an accidental hurt, which causes a man to go\nlame, makes him anything else than a specimen of homo sapiens all the\nsame. Arguing, however, with men of Mackenzie's stamp is rather uphill\nwork. He listened, to be sure, with a politeness and attention which\nseems to us to be inseparable from the character of the true practical\nnaturalist, and seemed to give acquiescence in all we asserted, but\nwe shouldn't wonder a bit if he remained of his own opinion still. A\nrather rare bird was a specimen, in excellent condition and feather,\nof the grey crow, at one time quite a common bird along the shores\nof the West Highlands, but owing to the incessant war waged against\nthem by shepherds, gamekeepers, and vermin-trappers, now become so\nrare that we stopped our pony to have a good look at a pair that we\nsaw the other day near Strontian, at the head of Loch Sunart. If you\nwant a specimen of any British bird, just commission Mackenzie to get\nit for you. He will only bring you a specimen that is perfect of its\nkind, and if you only give him time he will succeed in getting it,\neven if he walked a thousand miles in the pursuit.\n\nWith reference to our explanation of the term study applied to a small\nplateau, a well-known spot at the top of Glencoe, a correspondent\nwrites as follows:--\"You do not seem to be aware that study is the\nword in common use in Lowland Scotland for an anvil as well as amongst\nthe unlisping Celts. I wonder you forgot Burns' well-known lines--\n\n\n    'Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel;\n    The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel,\n    Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel\n        The strong forehammer,\n    Till block and studdie ring and reel\n        Wi' dinsome clamour.'\"\n\n\nWe are much obliged to our friendly correspondent. The quotation\nproves that the Lowland Scotch as well as the Highlanders have a\ndifficulty with the lisping sound of th, preferring the simpler and\nmore natural sound of d.\n\nA gentleman from Badenoch greatly amused us the other day by his\naccount of a certain superstitious observance on the part of a \"wise\nwoman\" in his neighbourhood. The gentleman's wife was sitting with\nher baby, only a few weeks old, in her lap. It was of course a marvel\nof a baby; for bigness and beauty the finest baby, like all babies,\nthat ever was seen, and of which its parents were naturally and very\nexcusably as proud as proud could be. The \"wise woman\" of the place had\ncalled to see the child, and congratulated the parents on their good\nluck. The crone got a chair opposite to that occupied by the happy\nmother, while the father looked on and smiled with becoming dignity\nand pride. As the old woman was looking at the child, it chanced to\nyawn, bored probably by the amount of attention paid to it, and getting\nsleepy. As it yawned, the old woman got up from the chair, and walking\nover to the \"infant phenomenon,\" coolly and deliberately spat in its\nface! The mother was horrified; the father in a rage asked what the\ndeuce she meant by spitting in his son's face? The old lady quietly\nanswered that the yawn was owing to an evil influence at that moment\nat work with the child, and her spitting in its face was the readiest\nand most effectual way of saving it from one or more of the mischievous\ntricks which ill-natured fairies are so fond of playing off on babies\nthat are \"beautiful exceedingly,\" and more especially when they are\novermuch petted and bepraised by their parents and friends. The \"wise\nwoman\" was at once liberally supplied with the refreshments usual\non such occasions, and as soon as possible dismissed, care being\ntaken the while not to offend her, which might have been a serious\nmatter for baby and all concerned. It is not a little curious that\nalthough in all countries to spit at one is expressive of the utmost\ndetestation and contempt, yet in the superstitions of the Lowlands\nof Scotland, as well as in the Highlands, to spit on a person or\nthing, under certain conditions and circumstances, is supposed to be\ncounteractive of evil influences, and therefore a highly commendable\nact. We have seen a woman spit on the nets in a boat as it left the\nshore, to ensure a successful fishing; and when hand-line fishing,\na man who has had little luck and is getting impatient, as he baits\nhis hook afresh, spits on it before dropping it again into the sea,\nin the belief that good luck attends the act. An old woman who has\njust bound up a bruised or broken limb, whether of man or beast,\nwill sometimes finish the operation by spitting on the bandage. In\nthe superstitions of most countries, such involuntary and apparently\ncauseless acts as sneezing and yawning are attributed to supernatural\nagencies, and spitting at the sneezer or yawner is still sometimes\npractised as a counter-charm by the oldest and most learned professors\nof such lore, an older superstition probably than the more common\npractice of invoking the Divine blessing on the subjects in such\ncases. Questionable, therefore, and rude as at first sight seemed\nthe act, we assured our Badenoch friend that the \"wise woman,\" in\nacting as she did, meant his bairn no evil or disrespect at all,\nbut the very contrary.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LVII.\n\n    Caught in a Squall on Loch Leven--Potatoes and Herrings: How\n    to cook them--A day in Glen Nevis--A visit to Uaimh Shomhairle,\n    or Samuel's Cave--The Cave-Men.\n\n\nThe reader may remember that we concluded our last with a hopeful and\njubilant note, believing that really fine weather--a long track of\nit, perhaps--was just at hand. We much regret having to say that our\nmeteorological vaticinations proved utterly incorrect. It still rains\n[July 1877], not constantly, indeed, but with sufficient persistence\nto make everybody miserable, and to reduce our hopes of a good harvest\nalmost to zero. Yesterday, for example, we had occasion to cross the\nLoch in our boat. It was a nice bright day enough at starting, with a\nfresh breeze from N.W., which carried us along at racing pace. All of\na sudden the heavens became black and threatening; a terrible squall\nalmost capsized us ere we had time to sing out to our companion to let\ngo \"everything by the run.\" He did, fortunately, let go just in time,\nand grasping an oar ourselves, and calling on him to take another,\nwe had her head turned to the wind and waves as quietly but as quickly\nas possible. Thus we held her, just like a horse by the reins, while\nthe squall lasted, and cunningly took advantage of its drift to get to\nthe Appin shore. We managed to reach it, but in very sorry plight, as\nyou shall hear. With the squall had come rain, literally the heaviest\nwe ever saw, which drenched us to the skin; every drop big enough to\nfill as it fell the largest of thimbles, and driven by the squall,\nremember, it fell with the force of a spent bullet. As \"drookit\" and\ndrenched we landed, and crawled with all the miserable, and woebegone,\nand shambling gait of the really and thoroughly through-and-through\nwet, you would have laughed in the teeth of all the rain had you\nonly met us; and we much doubt if any one who did not know us would\njust then have been disposed to appraise ourselves and our whole\nbelongings at the value of a much bigger coin of the realm than a\nshabby florin. And this is just the sort of weather it continues to\nbe. You cannot depend upon it for an hour. It is sunshine and blue\nabove just for five minutes; it is all of a sudden gloomy and black\nas Erebus, and raining so multitudinously that you are fain to draw\nthe skirts of your coat anyhow over your head and run for the nearest\nshelter. When we are to have better weather let the meteorologists,\nwho ought to know, say.\n\nThere is an old and frequent proverb, though rarely heard now-a-days,\nto the effect that \"there goes reason to the roasting of eggs,\"\nthe meaning of which, as we apprehend it, is that the smallest\nculinary operation is of importance, and should be gone about with\njudgment and care. If the proverb, however, in its actual words,\nas a mere popular saw, is very much forgotten, it is a good sign of\nour time that its spirit at least is in this our own day claiming\nno little attention, as the establishment of \"cookery classes,\" and\nthe praiseworthy attempts to disseminate culinary lore amongst the\npeople, abundantly testify. It has been said that the man who makes\ntwo blades of grass to grow where only one blade grew before is a\nbenefactor to his species, and equally so, would we venture to assert,\nis he a benefactor to the human race who shows how any single article\nof food, usually cooked and served in an unsatisfactory and tasteless\nfashion, may, with no extra expense and little extra trouble, be made\npalatable and savoury. The other day, landing from our boat, we went\ninto a cottar's house close by the sea, in a neighbouring district,\njust as the gudewife was preparing the family dinner. A pot of new\npotatoes was boiling on the fire, and as she knew that it would take\nus still some time to get home, she very good-naturedly invited us\nto wait a little and take a share with herself and her husband of the\ndinner about to be served, a bit of hospitality as frankly accepted as\nit was kindly offered. Looking now and again into the boiling potato\npot, and listening with inclined ear to the sound, actually musical\nin such a case, of its boil and bubbling, she was ready at the proper\ninstant to snatch it off the fire, and, carrying it to a corner of the\nkitchen, she poured off the water, and immediately re-hung it over\nthe fire again, shortening the chain by which it was suspended by a\nlink or two, that the fire might not, now that it was waterless, have\ntoo much effect upon it. She then got some half-dozen fresh herrings,\ncaught early that morning--herrings large, and beautiful, and silvery\nscaled as a salmon--and drying them nicely with a cloth, she placed\nthem flat-wise side by side on the top of the potatoes in the pot,\nthe lid of which she was careful to make fit tightly by means of a\ncoarse kitchen towel, which served at once to cover the contents, and\nto cause the lid to fit so tightly that all the steam was effectually\nretained. For the time being, in short, the pot by this ready expedient\nmay be said to have been hermetically sealed. During a quarter of\nan hour, perhaps, and while the gentleman and ourselves carried on\na lively conversation, the wife kept an attentive eye on the pot,\nnever once lifting the lid, however, but from time to time raising or\nlowering a link of the chain as in her judgment was necessary. All\nbeing ready at last, she took the pot off the fire, and set it on a\nlow stool in the middle of the floor. She then lifted the lid and\nthe cloth, and the room was instantly filled with a savoury steam\nthat made one's mouth water merely to inhale it. Occupying each a\nlow chair, we were invited to fall to, to eat without knife, or fork,\nor trencher, just with our fingers out of the pot as it stood. It was\na little startling, but only for a moment. After a word of grace we\ndipped our hand into the pot, and took out a potato hot and mealy,\nand with the other we took a nip out of the silvery flank of the\nherring nearest us. It was a mouthful for a king, sir! We have in our\nday a thousand times dined well and heartily both at home and abroad,\nbut we greatly question if we ever enjoyed a dinner half so much as\nthat. The savouriness of that potato and herring feast will haunt\nus till our dying day. What struck us was simply this: A new potato\nand fresh herring as usually served is something terribly insipid;\nas we got it that day it was a meal for an emperor. We actually felt\ninclined to lick our fingers after every mouthful, than which surely\nthere could be no higher praise of any food whatever. Let such of our\nreaders as have the opportunity just try a potato and herring cooked in\nthe manner stated, eating it digitally, with their own proper fingers,\nand they will thank us, if they are honest, for bringing so savoury\nand delicious a dish to their knowledge.\n\nOne of the finest glens in all the West Highlands is Glen Nevis,\nwhich, opening out in the direction of the old Castle of Inverlochy,\nextends eastwards and inland, the valley gradually narrowing into\nglen and gorge as you proceed, for nine or ten miles, presenting at\nevery turn and standpoint throughout its many windings a succession\nof the most striking and beautiful pictures imaginable, so striking\nand startling at times, and new at least in some of their details,\nthat a genuine lover of mountain scenery wishes that he could devote\nan entire day to every separate mile of its extent, rather than have to\nhurry through it all in something like half a dozen hours, which is the\nway the thing is usually done. It is like being dragged, as happened to\nus once, by a nervous and impatient lady friend of ours, at a sort of\nhalf trot through a picture gallery, where, if you had your own way,\nyou would gladly lounge and linger till the custodier of the place,\nperhaps, came respectfully to hint that the afternoon was far advanced,\nand that shutting-up time was at hand. With the entrance to Glen Nevis,\nas far as the mansion-house, we had long been familiar, and once at\nleast we had a bird's-eye glance into the glen proper itself, from\nthe summit of Dundearduil, which we had approached from the south in\norder to examine its curious and still inexplicable vitrifications. It\nwas not, however, till Friday last, that we had an opportunity of\nthoroughly exploring the glen through all its windings, and coming\nwith little difficulty to the conclusion already expressed, that of\nall our West Highland glens, it is, perhaps, the most beautiful and\n(Glencoe always apart) the most deserving of a thorough and leisurely\nexamination. We were fortunate in having hit upon a highly favourable\nday--not too bright, for glaring sunshine and unclouded brightness\namongst mountain scenery is a great mistake--and no less fortunate in\nour companions, each one of them blessed with eyes that, open, could\nreally see, and hearts that, duly appealed to, could truly feel; who\nknew full well what they had come to do, and from first to last did\nit admirably. Barely, we should say, has the noble glen exposed its\nstern grandeur and innumerable beauties under favourable skies, to the\nglad and earnest gaze of more intelligently appreciative spectators;\nand more rarely still, perhaps, have the splendid falls of the Nevis\nborne burden to peals of honester or merrier laughter than we indulged\nin as over the well-plenished luncheon basket we fortified ourselves\nfor the ascent of the upper gorges,--a somewhat \"stiff\" climb, but\nneither really difficult nor dangerous. When we say that at Glen Nevis\nHouse our party was joined by Mr. Macpherson--fear a ghlinne e f\u00e9in,\nthe goodman of the glen himself, as the Highlanders say--who kindly\naccompanied us throughout, and to whom every foot of the glen was\nas familiar as the floor of his own dining-room, many of our readers\nwill understand how really pleasant and enjoyable, coeteris paribus,\nmust have been our upland wanderings on that delightful day.\n\nWe have no intention of entering on anything like a minute\nor photographic description of Glen Nevis, for which, indeed,\nhalf-a-dozen Nether Lochaber columns would hardly suffice; we can\nonly hurriedly glance at what most instantly and indelibly struck\nus in the day's excursion. First of all, we were all struck by the\nexceeding pellucidity and crystal clearness of the waters of the\nNevis. Nowhere else did we ever see a mountain stream so beautifully\ntransparent. Standing on the brink of any selected pool, many feet\nin depth, you distinguished the smallest pea-sized pebble, its veins,\nscratches, and striations, as distinctly as if you had it on the palm\nof your hand, under a lens, and within less than a foot focus of\nyour eyeball! And all this remarkable pellucidity, observe, not in\none particular pool, or in any one particular stretch of the river,\nbut throughout all its beautiful windings. Another remarkable feature\nof the glen is the manner in which its natural birch woods grow. They\noccupy a pretty broad belt almost half-way up the mountains, leaving a\nstill broader belt between themselves and the river banks comparatively\nbare and treeless. In all the other Highland glens with which we\nhave any acquaintance, whatever of wood there is always begins,\nas seems most natural, at the river banks, where it is thickest and\nmost luxuriant, growing away and upwards on either side to a greater\nor less altitude, according to the nature of the soil and the shelter\nto be had from the prevailing winds. And speaking of winds, this is\nthe place to observe that of all our glens Glen Nevis is perhaps the\nstormiest, the wind in a gale not blowing steadily, but in fitful\ngusts and whirlwind-wise, striking in from the corries right and\nleft, and meeting in the centre with a force and fury unimaginable by\nnon-residenters. How do you know, the reader may ask, for it was calm\nand quiet enough during your visit on Friday? True, and yet we failed\nnot to notice a very striking proof of the storminess at times of Glen\nNevis notwithstanding. As you pass the forester's house at Auchreoch,\nlift up your eyes, and please observe how carefully, how thoroughly,\nclosely, compactly, and painstakingly it is thatched; and observe\nfurther and over all a network of wire as thick and strong as that\nused in our overland telegraphy, and to the end of each wire as it\nalmost reaches the ground in front and at the back of the house,\nplease notice suspended a large stone, water-worn boulders from the\nriver below, each of a hundredweight or more, and you will not fail,\nwe think, to understand how we so confidently decided that Glen Nevis\nat times must be an exceedingly stormy place. If you assert that\nother Highland glens may be quite as stormy in the season of storms,\nwe shall not contradict you; what we do say is this, that never did a\nhouse-roof speak to us so eloquently of furious and frequent storm and\nwhirlwind as did the roof of that house at Auchreoch, and a very good\nhouse it is, and a very pretty place to the bargain. A little beyond\nAuchreoch, and to the left of the path, there is a bit of wild and\nrugged rock scenery well worth attention. Here and there, over the\nface of what seems the hard impenetrable rock, many trees grow and\nflourish as if through the very heart of the granite. The explanation\nof course is, that the rock which seems so homogeneous and solid at\na distance is in reality fissured and fractured in all directions,\nand that in these fissures the trees find soil and food enough to\nsustain a wonderfully luxuriant growth and opulence of foliage for\nsuch a situation. About a mile further up the glen, we separated from\nour companions for a while, we having determined to cross the Nevis\nat this point in order to visit Uaimh Shomhairle, or Samuel's Cave,\nthe entrance to which was pointed out to us by Mr. Macpherson in\nthe face of the opposite steep. To get across the river we had to\nstrip until in a state of almost puris naturalibus, and even then it\nwas somewhat dangerous, a single false step might have been attended\nby very serious consequences. With a little circumspection and care,\nhowever, we got safely over, and half-dressed and barefooted we climbed\nthe rock like a chamois, and in less than ten minutes we were standing\nat the mouth of the celebrated cave. Samuel's Cave is in fact two\ncaves, the outer and smaller one, with a broad portal that admits\nabundant light and air, forming a sort of vestibule or antechamber\nto the inner cave. Provided with one or two old newspapers and some\nwax vestas, we improvised a couple of rude torches which we carried\nwith us as we crept through a narrow opening by which alone access\nis obtained into the inner antrum. Lighting one of these torches,\nwhich answered our purpose quite well enough, we explored the cave at\nleisure, closely scrutinising the walls and roof as high as we could\nreach, in the hope of perhaps finding some scratch or sculptures,\nhowever rude, to prove that the place had been inhabited in the times\nof the \"cave-men.\" Nothing of the kind, however, was discernible. The\ncave in its every part is exceedingly damp and cold, with green, slimy\nroof and walls, where not even the hardiest wild beast of mountain or\nforest would think of taking up its abode, far less any human being\nwith the faintest notion of the value of warmth and comfort. There\nare scores of lesser caves and fissures in the rocks around where\none would elect to live by reason of their dryness, in preference\nto the big and pretentious Samuel's Cave, which, as a mere cave,\nis perhaps interesting enough, and not unworthy of a visit; otherwise\nit is a \"sell,\" in exploring which no one can spend more than the\nshortest five minutes to any good purpose. In the times of civil\nwars and clan feuds it is conceivable that one or more outlawed and\n\"broken\" men might find the outer cave a secure and not altogether\nunpleasant place of shelter to pass a night in where no better might\nbe. As a place also to hide one's more valuable goods and chattels in\nan emergency, the cave may at times have had its value and use. It\nnever, depend upon it, was inhabited for any length of time by\nany human being. A week of it would kill the stoutest, robustest\nsavage that ever trod the Caledonian wilds. An additional proof, if\nadditional proofs are wanting, that Samuel's Cave can never have been\n\"inhabited\" in any proper sense of that term, or even much frequented\nfor any purpose whatever, is to be found in the fact that there is\nnot a vestige of a path either from the river bank below or from the\nhill above leading towards it. Had it at any time been much in use\nfor any purpose, there must have been a path leading to it either\nfrom above or from below, and some traces at least, however faint,\nof such a path, must still exist. We searched and searched, above and\nbelow, and round and round, and no trace or vestige at all of such\na path could we find. Go, good reader, and see the cave by all means\nwhen you have the opportunity; it is a fair enough cave as caves go;\nbut take our word for it that the attempt to invest the vast dark,\ndamp, slimy antrum with any arch\u00e6ological interest is the greatest\ndelusion in the world.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LVIII.\n\n    Showers in Harvest Time--Magnificent Sunset--Night sometimes\n    seeming not to descend but to ascend--Death of M. Leverrier--The\n    Discovery of Neptune--Pigeon cooing at Midnight--The Owl at\n    Noon--Cage-Birds singing at Night.\n\n\nThe weather continues wonderfully fine for the season [October 1877],\nand with the exception of the potato-lifting, all our harvest labours\nare at length concluded. The ingathering has upon the whole been\nhighly satisfactory, far more so than any one could have had the\ncourage to predict up to the very advent of this our autumnal summer,\nwhich has already lasted just thirty days, uninterruptedly sunny\nand dry, without any more serious break than a mere passing shower,\nwhich invariably did more good than harm. More good? the reader\nexclaims interrogatively, how can a shower do good, how can it be\notherwise than harmful in harvest time? Patience, courteous reader,\nand we shall explain. It is a case of something of this kind. You are\ndriving along the road; the horse in the shafts before you is upon\nthe whole a steady-going and willing animal enough, but you have let\nhim have it just his own way for the last half hour, and dreaming,\nperhaps, of fresh fields and pastures green, he has for the moment\nforgotten your existence, and begins to lag. His usual pace of a good\neight miles an hour is now hardly over five, and what in such a case\nshall you do? You drop the lash gently across his flank, as light and\ngently as falls the angler's cast on the waveless pool; you are too\nmuch of a Christian and a gentlemen--the terms are or ought to be\nsynonymous--to do otherwise until it is absolutely necessary. Your\nhorse forgets his dream; becomes instantly alive to the work before\nhim; gathers himself together, and with a responsive toss of his head\nand a lively play of ears, goes along at rather more than his average\nspeed until the next stage is reached; knowing full well that the\nhand that laid on that serpent-like lash so tenderly, can lay it on in\nvery different fashion, hot and heavy enough when occasion calls. Or,\ndropping metaphor, let us state the matter plainly, thus:--Here in\nLochaber, and we suppose it is just the same over all the Highlands,\nwhen really fine weather comes, we are for the first few days up and\ndoing, busy enough. But as one fine day succeeds another, we are very\nready to fall into the error that after all it is best to take things\nleisurely. Where's the need, we ask ourselves, for so much hurry and\nbustle? The fine weather has lasted a week; it may last a month,\nis indeed likely so to last; it is no more like rain to-day than\nit was yesterday; and thus we lapse, often unconsciously, perhaps,\ninto a spirit of dilatoriness and procrastination, out of which only\na lowering sky, and a shower that for all we know may become a flood,\ncan fairly rouse us. You slept long, for instance, this morning;\nyou dawdled over your porridge and milk at breakfast time, and it\nis now noonday. But see! the heavens yonder in the north-west are\nsuddenly overcast; an ominous gloom creeps over the Outer Hebrides;\na few drops of rain have already fallen, one on the back of your left\nhand, on which placing the index finger of your right, you can find\nthat it is wet, that it is rain; a second on your cheek with a soft,\ntepid thud; and a third right into your open, uplifted eye, and you\nstraightway start into activity and life. All hands on deck! is the\ncry. You rush into the field amongst the stooks; you bustle about\ncheerily, and calling all hands into your service, for idlers are now\nout of place, you cart and carry away as fast as you can into your\nbarn or stack-yard, and by sunset, so expeditiously have you worked,\nthat the field from head-rig to head-rig is but bare and stookless\nstubble. It was after all but a passing shower; the gloom has given\nplace to cloudless blue; you have been cheated, so to speak. But what\nmatters it? Your crop is safely stacked or housed, and were it not for\nthe passing shower and temporary mid-day gloom, your stooks were still\nafield, running a risk there was no reason they should run; and so,\ngood reader, you will understand how a slight shower in the season of\ningathering may not always be an evil, but a very good thing indeed;\nand only a few such passing, labour-inciting showers have we known\nhere for a whole month, and that is much to say when the month is to\nbe counted from mid-September to mid-October.\n\nAnd, O gentle reader, we only wish you were with us here to see for\nyourself, propriis oculis, for no pen can describe it, one or more\nof the many magnificent sunsets we have had in the course of this\nsame bypast month of fine weather. The sunsets of the equinoctial\nseasons, both vernal and autumnal, are almost always beautiful,\nmore particularly those of the autumnal equinox; but never before,\nwe think, have we seen them so startling, gloriously beautiful, so\ngorgeously magnificent, as on several occasions lately. A few evenings\nago, as we were busy in our study, a young lady burst in upon us in\na state of great excitement, begging us to throw aside our pen for a\nlittle, and come out to see the exceeding glory of the setting sun. We\nreadily complied of course, and taking the young lady by the hand we\nmade a race of it till we reached our \"coigne of vantage,\" a grassy\ngreen knoll, a favourite standpoint when any celestial phenomenon\nof importance to the W. or S.W. of us is to be observed. The scene,\nin truth, was indescribably beautiful, and we stood in speechless\nadmiration, not unmingled with awe, in sight of the most glorious\nsunset our eyes ever beheld. Before us lay the whole expanse of the\nLinnhe Loch, shimmering as if gently aboil in a flood of pale golden\nlight. Beyond, rose what seemed the one vast unbroken range of the\nmountains of Ardgour, Kingerloch, and Morven, bathed in a rich dark\npurple hue, that for the moment so thoroughly obliterated every trace\nof their native ruggedness, that our companion prettily observed,\n\"Haven't you the idea, sir, as I have, that if one were only near\nenough these beautiful mountains to pat them lovingly with the hand,\nthey would feel to the touch soft and warm as a roll of velvet?\" a\nthought, unconsciously perhaps, tinged with poetry, though the\nwoman pure and simple comes out very unmistakeably in the reference\nto the \"roll of velvet.\" In the far background, thirty miles away,\nrose the glory and pride of Mull (Blackie's favourite island of all\nthe Hebrides), the huge mountains of Benmore and Ben-na-Bairnich,\ntheir base and middle zones ink-black, their shoulders dark orange,\nhere and there curiously streaked with threads of pearly light, their\nsummits and sloping ridges fringed with living fire. Above, the whole\nwestern heavens was full of vast continents, peninsulas, isthmuses,\nand islands of cloud, all afire at their edges, with firths, ferries,\nand Mediterraneans of liquid gold between. As the full-orbed sun, fiery\nand red, slowly sank to the horizon, the clouds were rent asunder as\nif by the very excellency of the glory that beat upon them; some of\nthem assuming fantastic shapes, in which a lively imagination had no\ndifficulty in tracing striking resemblances to the hugest animals of\nour own and past ages, a monster saurian in sharply defined silhouette,\nbeing so marvellously outlined that our fair companion sketched it on\nthe spot, as a memento of a sunset that neither of us is likely ever\nto forget. As the sun's lower limb seemed just to touch and rest an\ninstant on the highest peak of the Kingerloch range, a large mass\nof cloud immediately above him rapidly assumed a columnar shape,\nperpendicular to the plane of the horizon, and, as the splendid orb\ndipped and disappeared, this huge \"pillar of cloud\" became a perfect\nIonic column, sharply outlined, and admirably correct in all its\nproportions from base to entablature, and all aglow with living fire;\nshaft and pediment with richest crimson; frieze and architrave and\ncornice with the glow of molten mettle at \"white heat\" as it issues\nfrom a blast furnace. There was, truth to say, something terrible\nabout the scene, a wild and weird combination of the sublime and\nbeautiful such as Edmund Burke never beheld even in his dreams. It was\nimpossible, in the presence of the \"terrible majesty\" of that glory,\nto avoid thinking of the awfulness that must appertain to a scene of\nwhich all of us shall one day be spectators, when the \"elements shall\nmelt with fervent heat,\" and the \"earth also, and the works that are\ntherein,\" shall be consumed with fire. The succeeding afterglow of\nthat same evening was singularly beautiful. The mountains of Appin and\nGlencoe were for a time bathed from their summits to their shoulders\nin the richest purple and gold, making them look so soft and warm,\nthat for the moment their actual ruggedness was utterly forgotten, and\none felt towards them a far stronger and tenderer sentiment than mere\nadmiration. And very curiously, as we gazed, did the night immediately\nsucceed the afterglow, for of twilight there was none--there rarely\nis indeed in autumn, as the old Highlanders were too observant not\nto notice, for what saith the old and well-known rhyme?--\n\n\n    \"Mar chlorich a ruith le gleann,\n    Tha feasgar fann, fogharaidh.\"\n\n\nThe meaning of which is, that no longer lasts the autumnal twilight\nthan it takes a stone to roll adown the mountain steep into the glen\nbelow. We generally speak of the night's descending; we say the falling\nnight, the darkness fell, &c., as if the darkness came down from above,\nand sometimes, doubtless, it does seem so to fall--to descend like a\ncurtain. On this occasion, however, and frequently, we have noticed,\nin the autumnal season, the night did not seem so much to descend\nas to ascend, like an exhalation from out the entrails of the earth;\nthe blackness of gorge and corrie and glen slowly creeping upwards,\nbanishing the gold and purple as it ascended, just as you have seen\nthe earth's shadow in an eclipse of the moon obliterate the silvery\nradiance of the lunar disc--finally reaching ridge and summit and\nloftiest peak, and lo, it was night, the ruddy orb of Mars over the now\nink-black top of Buachaille-Etive putting the fact beyond all question;\nand, while our fair companion went for a stroll along the beach, gaily\nsinging a merry roundelay as became her innocence and her years, we\nretired in a mood of mind that, while it was pleasant upon the whole,\nhad yet a tinge of sadness about it, to our study and our books.\n\nFrance has recently lost one of her greatest men by the death of\nM. Leverrier, her distinguished astronomer, the most distinguished\nastronomer, it is not too much to say, of the present century. Many,\nindeed, achieved greater triumphs with the telescope, for with the\ntelescope Leverrier did comparatively little; it was as a mathematical\nastronomer that he was unrivalled. He came first prominently into\nnotice while still a young man, with his cometary investigations, and\nhis researches into the motions of the planet Mercury, constructing\ntables by which transits of the latter can be predicted with such\nabsolute correctness that the mean error never exceeds sixteen\nseconds of time. But it is with the discovery of the planet Neptune\nthat Leverrier's name is imperishably associated. The case briefly\nstated was this:--It was found, after a time, that the planet Uranus,\ndiscovered by Sir William Herschel, did not actually follow the orbit\nwhich theory had assigned to it. It had a mysterious trick of leaving\nthe computed track, and describing a greater orbit, if the law of\ngravitation was to hold good, than the tables founded on that law\nwarranted. Astronomers were puzzled to account for the vagaries of an\norbit that, according to their theory, ought to be well-behaved, and\nstaid and steady-going as any other member of the solar system. What\ncould the perturbations of Uranus mean? was the question asked; and\nat the suggestion of his friend the distinguished Arago, Leverrier\nundertook to answer it, and in due time did answer it in such wise\nas filled the world with astonishment and admiration. Resolutely\ngrasping with his task, Leverrier laboured long and laboured hard to\nresolve the mystery, and as a first step with this result, that the\nproblem was utterly unresolvable on any other conceivable theory or\nconjecture than that another planet, albeit unknown to astronomers,\nand hitherto as unsuspected as it was unseen, existed exterior to\nUranus, and that it was to the attraction or disturbing influence of\nthis hitherto undreamt-of orb that the perturbations and mysterious\nvagaries of Uranus could alone be ascribed. A memoir stating the\nconclusion arrived at, and all the calculations leading towards it,\nwas read before the Royal Academy of Sciences in June 1846, and the\nyoung and daring astronomer straightway resumed his labours, of which\nthe aim was now to determine the elements of the orbit of the unknown\nplanet, in the existence of which he now believed as firmly as in\nthat of the visibly perturbed orb Uranus itself. The astronomical\nworld shook its head dubiously, and waited. Did such a planet really\nexist, and if it did, could this daring Frenchman find it? M. Leverrier\nmeantime laboured on, and finally mastering every difficulty, he gave\nthe computed plans of orbit, the mass and natural position of his\nconstructed world, if in truth, that is, such a world existed. This\nwas in a second memoir to the Academy of Sciences on the last day\nof August 1846. Towards the end of the following month (September\n1846), Leverrier wrote to M. Galle, of Berlin, requesting him to\nlevel the powerful telescope under his charge at a particular point\nof the heavens, and there, in effect, said the wonderful Frenchman,\nyou will find the cause of the perturbations of Uranus, a new and\ndistant world, hitherto undreamt of and unseen by mortal eye, but\nexisting all the same. M. Galle, on the first favourable opportunity,\ndirected his telescope as requested, and there, within less than a\nsingle degree of its computed place, and flinging back its light from\nthe enormous distance of more than three billions of miles, was the\nplanet of Leverrier's analysis, with a diameter, magnitude, and orbit\nall as calculated and predicted. It was a glorious triumph, the most\nwonderful achievement in the annals of a science where all is wonder.\n\nPublicly and privately has this query been put to us--Is it\nunusual to hear a pigeon cooing at midnight, and the owl hooting in\nbright noonday? We answer very unhesitatingly that it is unusual,\nso unusual in the case of the owl at least, that in a quarter of\na century's familiar and friendly intercourse with our wild-birds\nunder all possible circumstances, we have never heard an owl hoot\nexcept \"darkling,\" as Milton has it, that is, from out the darkness\nor sombre shade. Even at night, if the moon is shining bright, it\nnever hoots from a spot on which the moonbeams fall in full flood;\nit selects the deepest shadow even in faint moonlight when uttering\nits eerie notes. It will hoot in twilight, and it will hoot when\nthe heavens are bright ablaze with the most brilliant coruscations\nof the aurora, but never, so far as our experience has extended,\ndoes it hoot in honest daylight or even in moonlight, except when,\nas we have said, it is itself in deep shade. We have kept pets of all\nour native species of owls, and most interesting pets they make, and\nthough, when angry or in any way out of sorts, it will utter a ready\nhiss, ending in a curious rasping guttural, we have never known it to\nhoot except in the darkness of night, and, more rarely, in the dim,\nuncertain light of evening or morning twilight. The cooing of a pigeon\nat midnight, while it may be said to be unusual, is yet a thing that,\nunder certain circumstances, may be heard at any time. Many birds,\ncaptives in cage or aviary, frequently sing short and incomplete\nstrophes of their special song in the warm stillness of summer nights,\nevidently in their dreams. Others, in their natural state of freedom,\nabout the time of the longest day, when there is hardly any night\nin our latitudes, may be heard singing, generally unconnectedly,\nand in a faint, uncertain key. The pigeon will coo at any time when\nbrooding, if rudely disturbed in any way, just as a brooding hen will\npurr and scold if you annoy her or her nest at any hour of the day or\nnight. The cooing of a pigeon, therefore, at midnight is nothing very\nwonderful. The hooting of an owl at noonday, however, is surprising,\nand a thing which, although we live in a district where owls are\nplentiful, is altogether unknown in our experience.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LIX.\n\n    October Storms--Cablegram Predictions--Indications of\n    coming Storms--Geordie Braid, the St. Andrews and Newport\n    Coach-driver--The Naturalist in Winter--Drowned Hedgehogs: Spines\n    become soft and gelatinous--Lophius Piscatorius--Disproportion\n    between head and body in the Devil-Fish a puzzle--An Itinerant\n    Fiddler.\n\n\nThe storms of the latter days of October [November 1877] were\nexceedingly severe along our western seaboard, and terribly so, as\nmore than one correspondent assures us, amongst the Hebrides. It is\nworth noting with what marvellous punctuality these Trans-atlantically\ntelegraphed storms reach our shores. They are \"up to time,\" with\nall the precision almost of our best appointed mail trains; quite as\npunctual, at all events, to their predicted time on several occasions\nlately as our ocean mail-carrying steam ships to their appointed dates\nof arrival. This last October storm, for example, was telegraphed as\nbeing due on our British shores on or about Saturday, the 27th, and\nso correct, considering all the difficulties of such meteorological\nvaticinations, was the prediction, that the storm actually reached us\nhere on the evening of the 26th, increasing in intensity throughout\nthe night and until mid-day of the 27th, the very day fixed upon,\nwhen it blew with all the force of a hurricane, and the rain fell in\ntorrents, accompanied, too--that none of the essentials of a great\nstorm might be wanting--by vivid lightning, and thunder peals loud\nenough to make the deafest hear, or at all events feel, for it is no\nexaggeration to say that the very ground seemed at times to thrill\nresponsive to the a\u00ebrial concussion. The 26th had dawned bright and\nclear, and so continued throughout the day; one of those \"pet days,\"\nin short, not uncommon at this season,--the sea, too, calm and glassy\nas a mirror. In the afternoon, however, we were called out from the\ntea-table to look at a phenomenon which had already attracted the\nattention of some of our more observant neighbours, and about which\nthey wanted our opinion, as they had some thoughts of going a herring\nfishing. The phenomenon in question was this: Not a breath of air\nwas stirring, Loch Linnhe was unruffled by the slightest zephyr, and\nyet a heavy surge quite suddenly began to break along the beach with\na sudden boom that was remarkable in such a calm. A somewhat similar\nphenomenon, lasting but for a short time, however, is observed in our\nlochs when, on a calm summer evening, one of the Messrs. Hutcheson's\npaddle steamers--the \"Chevalier,\" for instance--passes at full speed\nclose in shore. What could this swell and surge, troubling a loch\notherwise calm as a mill-pond, mean? You might have safely carried\na lighted candle exposed and lanternless along the beach on which\nthat heavy swell with hollow boom was breaking--breaking in great\ngreen waves that showed not a bell or fleck of foam on their crests\nuntil they thundered on the shingle. It was, in a word, a phenomenon\nfor which there was no apparent adequate cause. The sea, had it been\nin keeping with all its visible surroundings, should have been calm\nand still; on the contrary, it was restless and perturbed, and there\nlay the mystery. Even had we recollected nothing of the telegraphed\nstorm, it was easy of solution, and our instant interlocutor, as\nthe law courts have it, was this: \"A storm in the Atlantic, my good\nfriends. Calm as it is here, there is a storm, and a wild one, depend\nupon it, outside yonder island of Mull, for all it basks so peacefully\nin the golden sunset. Nothing else can adequately account for such\na swell on our calm inland waters on an evening so summer-like and\nwarm; and when I tell you that a storm likely to reach our shores\nto-morrow has been telegraphed from America several days since, I\nconclude that it is that very storm fast approaching us that causes\nthis swell upon our shore. It must be just at hand; so haul up your\nboats high and dry; take down your nets from the drying-poles, and\nput them in a place of safety. Stay thankfully at home, and let the\nherring fishing stand over till the predicted gales have come and\ngone. Many a gallant fellow at this moment afloat would be glad to\nhave his foot like you on terra firma: a chas air talamh tioram were\nthe words,--his foot on dry land.\" With some such remarks as these,\nwe sent the men home, still wondering, however; and within a couple of\nhours the storm was upon us with a loud prolonged shriek, that showed\nhow thoroughly in earnest it was. Timeously warned, no danger was\ndone in our district, and we are now unanimous in speaking with the\nutmost respect of the Atlantic cable in connection with storm warnings\nfrom the Western Continent. These telegraphic warnings from America,\nby the way, of coming storms are of the utmost importance and value,\nmore particularly to the western shores of the British Islands. We\nhave no doubt at all that on the western seaboard of Scotland alone\nmany valuable lives were saved, as well as much valuable property,\nby the submarine cable notice that put us all on our guard with\nreference to the gale that raged on the 27th of October, and for\nseveral days subsequently. We wonder if from Britain or the Continent\nany of the terrible easterly storms of last winter were telegraphed\nto America--timeously and purposely telegraphed, that is--so as to\nbe of benefit to our Transatlantic cousins, as their recent telegrams\nhave been to us. We fear not. But now at least it is surely a matter\nof the merest courtesy and cousinly goodwill that we be prepared and\nready to send them betimes telegraphic messages of all our easterly\nstorms, in return for similar favours on their part in respect to\nthose that are westerly.\n\nReading over the foregoing paragraph, which the reader may see was\nwritten currente calamo--at a gallop, as it were, and without a check,\nas the foxhunter says--we find that we have used the often-quoted Latin\nphrase terra firma; words which rarely fail to make us smile in their\nconnection with an anecdote current in St. Andrews in our early college\ndays. It was to this effect: The driver of a two-horse coach that ran\nat that time between St. Andrews and Newport was a George Braid, a\nrespectable old man, familiarly known to everybody, and notably to the\nUniversity students, as \"Geordie,\" a liberty with his Christian name\nwhich Mr. Braid in nowise resented, for he was intelligent and shrewd,\nand knew that he was thus spoken of and addressed out of goodwill\nand kindly regard rather than otherwise. Frequently patronised on his\nroute by learned professors and lively students, Geordie had picked\nup many big words and learned phrases, which he was fond of using in\nhis family, and, as the Catechism says, amongst his \"inferiors and\nequals.\" In connection with frequent storm and shipwreck on the wild\neast coast, it was the most natural thing in the world that Geordie\nshould often have heard from the lips of some of his learned \"fare\"\nthe words terra firma, with which he associated a general idea of\nprotection, comfort, and safety. One terrible night of snow and storm,\nhaving driven a large coachful from Newport to the city, Geordie, when\nhe had duly seen to his cattle, and paid a short visit to the bar of\nthe \"Cross Keys\" hostelry, wended his way by the West Port to his home,\nwhich lay beyond the old city walls. His wife, a brisk and eident bit\nbody, had a roaring fire and a cheery welcome for her goodman on his\nentrance, while his children gathered round him to help him off with\ncaps, coats, leggings, and all the other belongings of the outer man of\na driver in the good old coaching days. Reduced at last to something\nlike his natural dimensions, Geordie, having sufficiently rubbed his\npurple hands before the fire, looked benignantly around and exclaimed,\n\"Ah! Meg, my woman, you and the bairns hae muckle cause to be thankful\nto your Maker that ye hae terra firma abune your heads this night! Its\njust awfu' out yonder by the Guard Brig and Strathtyrum.\" We have met\nwith not a few in our day with a strange craze for using words and\nphrases of which they evidently knew as little of the real meaning\nand proper application as honest Geordie Braid with his terra firma.\n\nThe new moon of the 5th, aided by a wind that at times almost amounted\nto a gale, gave us along the western seaboard three very high tides\nin succession; that of the afternoon of the 6th, however, being the\nhighest. The naturalist who is fairly diligent on such occasions\nis pretty sure to meet with more or less interesting matter for\nthoughtful study; nor, so far as our own experience extends, need\nthe entries in one's note-book, even for what is called the \"dead\"\nseason of mid-winter, be fewer in number, or less interesting or\ninstructive than those of the pages devoted to the summer season\nitself. We have known naturalists whose note-books presented little\nbut a dreary succession of blank pages for the winter half-year,\nand who thought it odd that we should be surprised at it. It has been\nsaid that the laws of disease are as beautiful as those of health, and\nthat peace has its victories as well as war, and we have no hesitation\nin saying that to the true naturalist the winter season, if fairly\nand diligently encountered, is in its way just as interesting as\nthe summer, and that the observer who has all his wits about him,\nand who goes to work with a will, may have his \"victories\" even in\nthe season of the winter solstice--victories as important in their\nway and gratifying as are those of midsummer itself, when the days\nare at their longest, when summer seas are calm and summer woods are\ngreen. In the course of half an hour's ramble on the beach the other\nday, we fell in with some curious waifs, each of which might be made\nthe text of an interesting monograph. Three drowned hedgehogs, for\nexample, was a somewhat startling \"find\" to turn up in a swathe of\nseaware that the advancing tide was slowly rolling up the shingle. One\nwas full-grown, a female; the other two, both males, were but half or\nthree parts grown. What brought them there? was the natural question;\nfor a hedgehog, dead or living, on the sea-shore under high-water mark,\nis as odd and out-of-place an object as would be a mackerel far up the\nhills amongst the heather. The following is probably a satisfactory\nenough explanation of the mystery:--Hedgehogs, which twenty years ago\nwere quite unknown in Lochaber, are now plentiful. A pair, captured\non Lord Abinger's lands at Torlundy, were sent to us some dozen or\nfifteen years ago as a great curiosity; and in this district then\nthey were a curiosity, so much so, that we can recollect that during\nthe time they remained in our possession as exceedingly tame and most\ninteresting pets, people from all parts of the country used to come\nin order to have a close look at the black-snouted, spine-armoured\nhedge pigs, as Shakespeare calls them, the graineag or repulsive\none of the midland Highlanders of Athole and Strathspey, where the\nanimal has always been plentiful. They have now become so common in\nthis district that a hedgehog is no more accounted a rarity than is\na stoat or a weasel. Hedgehogs are fond of making their cozy nests\nof moss, grass fibres, and fallen leaves, near the roots of trees and\nbushes growing on the banks of rivers and mountain streams. These last\nhave of late been frequently swollen beyond their usual bounds by the\nheavy rains; and in a spate of this kind poor Mrs. Hedgehog and her\nyoungsters were caught napping, and carried away by the torrent to\nthe sea, and ultimately cast ashore by the wind and waves, where we\nfound them in their winding-sheet of slimy sea-wrack, and for a moment\nwondered how it came to pass that they lay there, like poor Ophelia,\n\"drown'd, drown'd.\" One remarkable circumstance connected with these\ndrowned hedgehogs was this: we found to our surprise that we could\nhandle them with impunity; their spines, so formidable in the living\nanimal, being quite soft and gelatinous to their very tips. This is\nby no means the case with the spines of such hedgehogs as are killed\nby trap, or otherwise on land. In this latter case the spines retain\ntheir point and prickliness, as in the living animal, till in the\nprocess of decay they separate from their sockets in the skin, and\ndrop in brittle, broken fragments to the ground. A question, then, for\nfuture investigation is this,--Do the spines of all drowned hedgehogs\nlose their prickliness and point, and become soft and gelatinous? If\nso, has fresh water alone this effect, or is it necessary that the\nanimal should be some time immersed in salt water?\n\nWithin a short distance of the drowned hedgehogs, lay a large\nangler or fishing-frog, the Lophius piscatorius of ichthyologists,\nand a frequent waif on our shores after a gale. It had evidently been\ncaught by the storm in shallow water, and been beaten to death by the\nweight and force of the waves, for it was in excellent condition,\nand there was nothing to indicate death in any other way. Why in\nthis fish such a huge head, with its formidable array of recurved\nteeth, and such a cavernous, capacious gullet, should be joined to a\nbody comparatively so diminutive, is a puzzle that has never yet been\nsatisfactorily solved; nor can we ourselves, up to this present moment,\nadvance even a plausible conjecture in explanation of an anomaly that\nmust have attracted the attention of thousands. The disproportion\nbetween the immense head and the small and slender body is as great\nas if you erected a porch lofty and wide enough to serve as the main\nentrance to a cathedral, and vestibule to correspond, in order to\nenter a dwelling consisting after all but of a single bedroom. Or,\nto put it in another way, it is as if you built a large mill, with\nthe most powerful machinery possible, in order to grind sufficient\nmeal for the daily consumption of a single dyspeptic customer. The\nfishing-frog, has, we believe, been of late successfully introduced\ninto more than one of our many aquaria, but we are not aware that any\nsatisfactory explanation of the difficulty which we are considering\nhas as yet been arrived at. A full and sufficient explanation, however,\nyou may be sure there must be, if we only know enough of the animal's\neconomy to get at it.\n\nBut we must stop; for hark! an itinerant fiddler has this moment\nstruck up \"Bob of Fettercairn\" just in front of our study window. He\nplays admirably too, lovingly caressing the polished base of his\ninstrument--his bread-winner, poor fellow--with his wan and withered\ncheek, and wielding a powerful, yet light and delicate, bow-hand;\nand we must go and have a crack with him. Nor must you sneer at us\nfor so doing, gracious reader. The arrival even of a peripatetic,\nout-at-elbows fiddler is an event of some importance in such a place\nas this on a cold, grey November afternoon. We shall order him a big\nbowl of tea, with something to eat, satisfied that if in so doing we\nare not entertaining an angel unawares (though there is no reason that\nwe know of why an angel should not appear in peripatetic fiddler guise,\nas well as in any other form), we are at all events entertaining one\nwho by his appearance manifestly needs something warm and comfortable,\nand a little rest by a cheerful fireside at this season, not forgetting\nthe while that he is a capital fiddler--of some intelligence, too,\nand full of capital stories we warrant him. Depend upon it that Homer,\nwho was after all but an inspired gaberlunzie, has many a time and oft\nappeared in quite as sorry a plight, and with as little externally to\nrecommend him as this same itinerant fiddler; and think how proud and\nglad you and we should be to have a chance of entertaining the blind\nold Chian, wandering ballad-singer as he was! You must, therefore,\nlet us have our way with this poor old man, who, by the way, in not\nblind, but, on the contrary, has a good large dark brown eye of his\nown, so common, we have noticed, in people musically inclined, that\nit may be called the musical eye; and if he is all we take him for,\nand he and we got on well together, you may perhaps hear of him again.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LX.\n\n    A Trip to Glasgow--Kelvin Grove Museum--Highland Association--A\n    run to Rothesay--Rothesay Aquarium.\n\n\nFavoured by the most splendid Christmas weather [January 1878],\npiercingly cold, indeed, but beautifully bright and clear, a run\nfrom Lochaber to Clydesdale on an agreeable errand is exceedingly\nenjoyable. Our first day in Glasgow was devoted to the Kelvin\nGrove Museum, which we had now an opportunity, for the first time,\nof examining thoroughly and at leisure, and with which, as the\nreader may believe, we were very much delighted. On handing our\ncard to Mr. Paton, the curator, we were received by himself and his\nassistant, Mr. Campbell--the latter, of course, a Highlander--in\nthe friendliest manner; and a couple of hours were very pleasantly\nand profitably spent in examining a really curious and valuable\ncollection, so admirably catalogued and arranged, that we believe\nwe saw and minutely studied everything to be seen as leisurely and\nsatisfactorily as was possible in the time at our disposal. Our friend\nMr. Snowie, of Inverness, had written us before leaving home that he\nwas sending some contributions to the museum, of which he begged us\nto undertake the formal delivery, and see properly placed; and this\nof course we had much pleasure in doing. These contributions are a\nvaluable acquisition to the museum, and are as follows:--(1.) Hoopoe\n(Upupa epops, Linn.), a female, in fine plumage, and admirably set\nup. This bird was captured by the boys at the Inverness Reformatory\nSchool, and dying, notwithstanding it received all the attention\nand kindly care that could be bestowed upon it, it passed into\nMr. Snowie's hands. (2.) Wild cat, stuffed, an excellent specimen,\nwith very prominent markings, trapped at Fasnakyle, on The Chisholm's\nestate. (3.) A white blackbird, and an albino bunting, both shot\nby Mr. T. B. Snowie near Inverness. (4.) Snipe and other marsh-bird\nskins, shot by the same. (5.) Two small hares preserved in a bottle;\ntaken out of an unusually large-sized female shot at Dochfour in\nSeptember 1875; a very interesting preparation. (6.) Head of otter,\ntrapped on the River Peffer in 1876. (7.) Owl (Strix flammea, Linn.),\nshot in October 1877 by Mr. T. B. Snowie. (8.) Egg of golden eagle;\nthis last, perhaps, the most welcome gift of all, as eagles' eggs\nare now become so rare as readily to command prices ranging from \u00a35\nto \u00a310 each. Attached to the museum proper there is a fresh-water\naquarium. In one of the tanks, in which several fine pike are\n\"interned,\" we noticed that one of the largest, who advanced to the\nfront of the tank, in order to examine as closely as possible a slip\nof paper which we were trailing along the glass by way of bait, had\nhis muzzle, more particularly the anterior part of the upper jaw,\nseriously disfigured by a fungoid growth of jelly-like appearance;\nand calling the curator's attention to the fact, we made the remark\nthat the poor pike seemed too seriously diseased to live long. We\nwere surprised when told that the fish was none the worse for his\nfungoid moustache; that it had been long in that way, and that all\nthat was needed was an occasional cleansing of the muzzle, as you\nwould wipe away a clot of jelly that had accidentally fallen on your\nknife-handle at dessert, and the fish then seemed all right enough\nuntil it grew again to such a size as to be an inconvenience.\n\nLeaving the museum, we had but barely sufficient time for dress and\ndinner before proceeding to take the chair at the Gathering of the\nClans in the City Hall, and a very splendid and enthusiastic gathering\nit was. From floor to ceiling the huge building was crammed, and as\nwe took our seat and bowed in acknowledgment of the truly Highland\nwelcome that greeted us in the shape of round upon round of loud and\nlusty cheers, we could not help feeling a little nervous and out of\nsorts in realising the fact that we were for the moment \"the observed\nof all observers,\" and, by the kind partiality of the Highlanders\nof Glasgow, made to occupy a position of which any one might well be\nproud. We were soon at our ease, however, and found no difficulty in\ndischarging our duties in connection with a meeting which was from\nfirst to last, and in all its belongings, a great success. The dancing\nwas excellent; the singing could hardly have been better; while the\npipe music was of itself well worth going a much longer distance to\nhear than that which separates Nether Lochaber from the City Hall of\nGlasgow. No other living man, perhaps, can play reels and strathspeys\nas Donald Macphee can play them; and we do not think we ever heard\nanything more admirably played than was Malcolm Macpherson's port\nm\u00f2r or piobaireachd proper, Fhuair mi p\u00f2g's laimh mo righ, composed\nat Holyrood in 1745 by Ewen Macdhomhnuil Bhuidhe, a Macmillan from\nGlendessary and piper to Lochiel, on seeing his chief kiss Charles\nEdward's hand at a levee held in the palace of his ancestors by\nthat Prince a day or two after the victory at Gladsmuir. Macpherson\nplayed this piobaireachd so exquisitely that some of us felt our\neyes grow moist, and were in no wise ashamed of it, long ere he\nhad reached the difficult but beautifully managed fingering of the\nconcluding urlar. We have always had a warm regard for James Boswell,\nJohnson's biographer, for this amongst other reasons, that, on his\nown confession, music frequently affected him as it affected many of\nus on this occasion. \"Sir,\" growled Johnson, \"I should never hear it\nif it made me such a fool.\" But then a man, however great, cannot be\neverything; and Johnson was not only not a Scotchman, but the very\nantipodes of a Scotchman--he was an Englishman, proud and prejudiced,\nand deaf and dead as a stone to the charms of music, whether vocal or\ninstrumental. When at Sleat, in Skye, many years afterwards, he made\nthe confession that \"he knew a drum from a trumpet, and a bagpipe from\na guitar, which was about the extent of his knowledge of music.\" We\nparted with our friends of the Highland Association on the best terms;\nthey were good-natured enough to say that they were pleased with us;\nwe certainly had every reason to be pleased with them.\n\nWe were astir betimes next morning, in order to fulfil an engagement\nundertaken at the request of some naturalist friends in London--a\nvisit, namely, to the Aquarium at Rothesay, an admirably conducted\ninstitution, one of the best in the kingdom. We expected to see a\ngreat deal that could not well fail to interest us, and we did see a\ngreat deal that pleased us very much indeed; the best proof of which\nis that after several hours' wandering from tank to tank, it was with\na sigh of regret that our attention was called to the fact that it\nwas already time for us to put up our note-book and find our way as\nquickly as possible to the pier, if we would overtake the Mountaineer\nfor Greenock, in order to reach Glasgow again that evening. Of all\nthe tanks, that which we lingered longest before, perhaps, was that\nset apart for sea anemones, of which the collection is exceedingly\ncurious and interesting. All the specimens seemed perfectly healthy\nand well-to-do, though, owing to the fact that the afternoon had now\nbecome wet and dull, they were disinclined to display their beauties\nin full. In another of the tanks, of which the most distinguished\ninhabitant is a conger eel of a large size, we were much amused\nwith the conduct of a seven or eight pound cod, that seemed as if he\nwould willingly have spoken to us if he could. As soon as he became\naware of our presence, he came sailing out of a dark recess behind\na rocky promontory--a sort of Mull of Kintyre in miniature--which\nis his usual howf, and advancing straight to the front of the tank,\nput his nose to the glass, wagging his tail, and staring at us with\nan expression of countenance so queer and comical, that it made us\nlaugh outright. \"Well, Nether Lochaber, my boy,\" he seemed inclined\nto say, \"how are you? This is all very fine, but on the word of a\ncod, believe me that I'd far rather be cruising about the shores\nand shallows of Loch Linnhe, down yonder in your own neighbourhood,\nthan be confined here from year's end to year's end, to be stared at\nby a lot of people who may pretend some interest in me from a purely\nscientific point of view, but who, between ourselves, if the truth\nwere known, never see me but they straightway think of how I should\nbe boiled and served with sauce. Only the other day, for instance, a\nlady visitor from Glasgow asked one of the attendants what he thought\nmight be my weight, and if he was of opinion that a cod out of an\naquarium tank would be quite as good eating as one direct from the\nsea? When I hear talk of that kind, it hurts my feelings, I can tell\nyou.\" All this, and a great deal more, we fancied the cod would have\nsaid if he could; and as we tapped the glass at his nose and bade him\na friendly good-bye, we almost persuaded ourselves that he responded\nwith a knowing wink, as with a single sweep of his tail he put about\nand joined the conger in a brisk constitutional round and athwart the\ntank--a tank so crystal clear, and clean and comfortable, as indeed\nare all the tanks, that the inmates, abundantly and regularly fed,\nought to be happy enough, were it not that, like Sterne's starling,\nthey probably find the great drawback on their happiness in the fact\nthat after all they are prisoners, that they can't get out. We were\nmuch delighted with the seal-house and its lively and intelligent\noccupants. The shape of a seal's head is sufficient to convince\nthe most careless observer that it must contain a great deal of\nbrains; while its full and lively eye bespeaks a high and active\norder of intelligence. Those at present in the Rothesay Aquarium,\nthree in number, are most interesting animals, and almost as tame as\nlapdogs. It so happened that we entered their house at a time when they\nwere exceedingly active and lively, for they were well aware that a\nlarge basket, which had just been carried to the side of their tank,\ncontained fresh fish of some kind or other for their dinner; and they\nraced and leaped about in eager expectation of the treat, for they\nwere evidently hungry--always a good sign of an aquarium inmate. The\nfish consisted of small flounders; and the agility and graceful ease\nof the motions of these seals, as they dived and dashed after a fish,\nwhich, while they were begging dog-like before us at one end of the\ntank, we suddenly tossed to the other end, was so admirable that we\ncontinued a long time to play at a sort of pitch-and-toss game that\nwas quite as agreeable to them as it could possibly be interesting to\nus. We only ceased our part of the performance when we thought that\nfor the time they must have had enough, the seal being probably as\nliable to indigestion as the result of a surfeit as is any other\nanimal. When, however, they found that they had nothing more to\nexpect from us, they showed their intelligence and nous by at once\ncommencing to climb out of their tank, at the very spot, too, where\nit was easiest of accomplishment, on the side on which they knew\nthe fish-basket was placed. What could they now be after? was the\nquestion we asked ourselves. One after another they got out and waddled\nalong the pavement, awkwardly indeed, but as quickly as they could,\npast us, keeping their big and beautiful eyes steadily fixed on ours,\ntill they reached the basket, and in a moment each had seized a fish,\nwith which he instantly tumbled heels-over-head into the tank again\nat the point nearest him, evidently afraid that we might try and\nintercept him, and deprive him of a bonne bouche, which all of them\nseemed perfectly well somehow to understand they had no right to take\nin such reiving fashion. We noticed that when we threw a fish into\nthe tank, and one of them got hold of it, the other two endeavoured\nto snatch it from him, and for the moment there was a wild tumult and\ntumble, in which the water was lashed into foam. In this, however,\nas far as we could judge, there was no manifestation of anything like\nanger, or the slightest attempt to hurt or injure each other. It\nwas more like the rough and tumble play of children after a ball,\nor something of that sort, which all may strongly desire to possess,\nbut which only one can have for the moment.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXI.\n\n    Overland from Balluchulish to Oban on a 'Pet Day' in\n    February--Story of Clach Ruric--Castle Stalker: an Old\n    Stronghold of the Stewarts of Appin--James IV.--Charles\n    II.--Magpies--Dun-Mac-Uisneachan.\n\n\nWith all their tendency, in their every reference to the past,\nto become laudatores temporis acti, the sturdy upholders of the\nsuperiority of all that was, in comparison with anything and everything\nthat is, our weather-wise octogenarian friends here are all agreed that\nso summer-like a February [1878] month they never knew before. It is\ntrue that in making this admission they shake their heads sapiently,\nand hint that no good can come of such an unnatural commingling of\nthe times and seasons. It will be well, they add, if before cuckoo day\n(mun d'thig latha na cuaig) we haven't to pay for it all in the shape\nof storm and cold at a time when these are as unseasonable and out\nof place as is summer calm and summer sunshine now. It was amusing\nto see these honest old croakers selecting the coziest nooks air ch\u00f9l\ngaoithe's air aodain gr\u00e9ine, as the Fingalian tale has it,--that is,\nat the back of the wind and in the face of the sun--and thoroughly\nenjoying the calm and sunshine at the very moment that they would\nimpress upon us the unnaturalness and unseasonableness of it all. The\nfirst fortnight of February was, indeed, wonderfully fine; from the\nbeginning of the month up to the evening of St. Valentine's Day, more\nlike the close of April or early May than anything usually looked\nfor while the sun is still in Aquarius. Driving overland to Oban on\nthe 11th, and, by the ferries of Ballachulish, Shian, and Connel,\na very beautiful drive it is, hardly to be equalled elsewhere even\nin the West Highlands; the day was so bright, and calm, and clear,\nthat while mavis and merle, and hedge-accenter and chaffinch greeted\nus from copse and hedgerow with their rich and mellow song, the driver,\nsitting beside us, couldn't help observing as we passed by Appin House,\n\"Na 'n robh chuag again a nis, bha 'n samhradh fhein ann!\" \"If we had\nbut the cuckoo now, it would be summer its very self!\" On the beach,\na little above high-water mark, just under Appin House, and within an\neasy stone's cast of the public road, there is an immense spherical\nboulder of granite, to which there is attached a curious old story,\nwhich invests with additional interest an object deserving enough of\nattention for its own sake--for the sake, that is, of its huge size\nand almost perfect spherical form, this latter peculiarity, in the\nhuge solid mass, making it the most remarkable thing of the kind on\nthe mainland, at least of the West Highlands. The story of the Appin\nHouse boulder, or Clach Ruric as it is called, is, dropping minor\nand unessential details, to the following effect:--Long, long ago\na Prince of Lochlin or Scandinavia, with a formidable fleet of war\ngalleys, made a descent upon the Hebrides, killing and plundering\neverywhere with a ruthlessness known only, even in those days of\nrude lawlessness, to the Vikings of the north. Having thoroughly\ndevastated the islands, Ruric--for such was the Prince's name--steered\nfor the mainland of Morven, and took up his residence in the castle\nof Mearnaig, in Glensanda. In this stronghold, the ruins of which\nstill exist, he resolved to pass the winter, with the intention of\nover-running and plundering the adjoining districts in the spring,\nand afterwards sailing homewards in the calm of summer seas, for his\ngalleys were so deeply laden with booty that he feared to encounter\nthe turbulence of the North Sea at any other season. In the early\nspring the cruel Northman was betimes astir, killing and plundering\nwith but little opposition throughout the districts of Kingerloch,\nSunart, and Ardgour, to the head of Lochiel. While of his numerous\nfleet a single galley showed more than a foot and a span (troidh agus\nr\u00e8is were the words of the narrator) of gunwale unsubmerged, Ruric was\nunsatisfied, and to complete his ill-gotten freight he resolved on the\nplunder of the opposite district of Appin, the smoke of whose dwellings\ncould be seen, and the lowing of whose numerous herds could be heard\n(when the summer morning was still and the Linnhe Loch was calm) by\nthe pirate prince from the battlements of the castle of Mearnaig. One\nmorning Ruric anchored his galleys in the Sound of Shuna, and landing,\nerected his tents on the green knoll now occupied by Appin House. With\nthis spot as his head-quarters, it was his intention to plunder\nthe district north and south of him at his leisure, believing that\nhe would meet with as little opposition here as he had already met\nwith elsewhere. The inhabitants of Appin, however, were partly on\ntheir guard, and determined to resist, and if possible chastise, the\ninvader. And first conveying their old men, women, and children, with\ntheir flocks and herds, into the fastnesses of the upland glens, they\nresolved to watch the movements of the Norsemen, ready to fall upon\nthem whenever a favourable opportunity should offer. That same night,\nas some cattle herds, acting as scouts, were on the hill immediately\nabove the tents of the invaders, one of them directed the attention\nof his companions to a huge granite boulder with so slight a hold of\nthe hill crest, that, with some little labour, it might be let loose\nat any time--a terrible messenger of wrath--amongst the tents of the\nenemy below, whose shouts of laughter at that moment, and snatches\nof rude song, proved that they had feasted plentifully and had no\napprehension of immediate death or danger in any form. After much\nlabour, the herdsmen managed so to dig about and undermine and loosen\nthe boulder in its bed on the hill-face, that, on a given signal,\ntheir united strength sufficed to tilt it headlong over the steep,\nleaping and thundering on its terrible path. The largest trees in\nits course snapped before the boulder like reeds: when it came into\nmomentary contact with a rock, the sparks flew heavenward as if\nfrom an exploded meteor! In a dozen of bounds it reached the tents\nof the Norsemen, crushing, mangling, grinding into pulp or powder (a\npronnadh agus a bruanadh, are the Gaelic words) everything it touched,\nand finally stopping where it now stands, to be long regarded by the\npeople of the district with a feeling akin to superstitious awe, and\nto be known by the name of Clach Ruric. In the morning, the Norsemen\ncould only know by the mangled fragments of their bodies that their\nPrince, with his two sons, and many of those next to him in power,\nhad met with a terrible death. Before the Appin men could gather in\nsufficient force to attack them, the Norsemen unmoored their galleys,\nchanting the death-song of their chief as they unmoored, and set sail\nfor Lochlin, never more to trouble the mainland of the West Highlands\nwith their invasions. The venerable seanachie from whom we picked up\nthis tradition, added that Castle Coefin, or Cyffin, in Lismore, is\nso called after a Danish prince of that name, who also was connected\nwith Ruric's expedition, though in what manner he was unable to say.\n\nNot far from Clach Ruric, on an island rock in the entrance to the\nSound of Shuna, are the ruins of another castle, of a later date,\nhowever, and more recent interest than can be attached to the many\nstrongholds of the Viking period perched on the rocks and promontories\nof this part of the West Highlands. This is Castle Stalker, or, in the\nlanguage of the district itself, Caisteal-an-Stalcaire, the Castle of\nthe Falconer or Fowler. The small rock-island on which it is built is\nSgeir-an-Sgairbh (the sea-rock, or skerry of the cormorant), from very\nearly times the gathering cry at once and rendezvous of the Stewarts\nof Appin in all their maritime expeditions. Castle Stalker dates from\nabout the beginning of the reign of James IV., for whose convenience\nand accommodation, when, as frequently happened, he extended his\nhunting expeditions to this district, it was built. Stewart of Appin,\nwho was a great favourite with the king, was appointed hereditary\nkeeper, and the castle continued in the possession of the family until,\nabout the year 1645, the Mac Ian Stewart of that date, in a moment of\ndrunken folly, made it over to his wily neighbour, Donald Campbell of\nthe Airds, receiving in return the handsome and adequate equivalent\nof an eight-oared birlinn, or small wherry! Stewart, when sober, would\nhave gladly cancelled so manifestly one-sided a barter-bargain at any\nsacrifice, but Campbell, having got possession, kept it; while the\ndisgraceful transaction so stung the pride of the Stewarts that they\npractically deposed the Baothaire (the silly one), as they nicknamed\nthe chief, from his chieftainship, by unanimously electing his cousins\nof Invernahyle and Ardsheal to be their leaders in the subsequent\nwars of Montrose. For a short time during Montrose's ascendancy in\nthe Highlands, and for a longer period towards the close of the reign\nof Charles II., Castle Stalker was again in the possession of the\nStewarts; but at the Revolution the Campbells had it all their own way;\nthey repossessed themselves of the castle, and it has remained theirs\never since. About forty years ago a gentleman of the family of Ailein\n'Ic Rob of Appin, who had amassed a considerable fortune in the West\nIndies, offered the then proprietor a large sum for the bare rock\nand ruins of Castle Stalker, but the offer was refused.\n\nFrom the wooded knoll to the left, as we entered the village\nof Portnacroish, we heard some notes that, harsh as they were,\ndelighted us, for we had not heard them for many years; and the\nreader will perhaps smile when we confess delight in association\nwith what was neither more nor less than the chattering of a pair\nof magpies! Knowing that it must be magpie chattering and nothing\nelse, though the lively confabulators were for the moment invisible,\nwe got out of our conveyance, and on reaching an open glade we got\nsight of a pair of these beautiful birds perched on the topmost\nbough of an old ash tree; and so busy were they in the discussion\nof what must have been a matter of grave and immediate importance,\nthat the usually shy and wary birds did not notice our approach till\nwe were quite close upon them, when, with a scream of alarm and an\nindignant flirt of their tails, they glided in graceful curve, rather\nthan flew, over the tree tops and disappeared. So rare has the magpie\nbecome in Lochaber and the immediately surrounding districts, that\na sight of a pair of these handsome and sagacious birds delighted\nus exceedingly. We had little difficulty in concluding that their\nlively chattering on that bright and beautiful morning was about no\nless important a matter than the propriety of at once putting their\nhouse in order and setting about the labours of incubation. If there\nwere any truth in popular superstition, that particular day ought to\nhave afterwards turned out a disagreeable one to us; for had we not\nseen two magpies together, and what is more, did we not go out of our\nway to see them, when we might have easily passed on unseen of them,\nas they were invisible to us? In the south of Scotland the old pyet\nrhyme is something like this--\n\n\n    \"One's joy,\n    Two's grief,\n    Three a wedding,\n    Four death.\"\n\n\nIn the old sgeulachd the Gaelic rhyme is of similar import--\n\n\n    \"Chunnaic mi pioghaid a's dh-\u00e9irich leam;\n    Chunnaic mi dh\u00e0 'sgum b'iargain iad;\n    Chunnaic mi tri a's b'aighearach mi;\n    Ach ceithir ri'm linn chan iarrainn iad.\"\n\n\nIn our own case, on that particular occasion, the superstition\ncould not have been more completely falsified by the event, for,\nmaugre the magpies, our trip to Oban was in its every circumstance as\nagreeable and pleasant as it could well be. What a pity it is that\nthese beautiful birds, whose favourite residence, too, if they were\nonly permitted to live in peace, is the immediate vicinity of human\ndwellings, should be of such evil repute that gamekeepers everywhere\nconsider themselves justified in accomplishing their utter destruction\nby every means in their power. Their utter destruction we have said;\nand it is only as to their total extirpation that we would venture on\na word of expostulation with gamekeepers and their employers. It is\ntrue that the magpie is an enemy to winged game, being a cunning and\npersistent nest-robber, an adroiter sucker of eggs than the proverbial\n\"grandmother\" herself. That the gamekeeper should therefore dislike\nthem is the most natural thing in the world, and that, in gamekeeper's\nown phrase, they should \"be kept down\" is proper enough. But we\ncannot agree that it is necessary that the bird should be utterly\ndestroyed. Here and there on a wide estate an occasional pair of\nmagpies might surely be tolerated for the sake of their beauty and\namusingly lively manners, and on the divine principle of \"live and\nlet live.\" For our own part, in approaching a gentleman's residence,\nthe sight of a pair of these birds flitting about \"the old ancestral\nelms\" always intensifies our respect for the place and the owner.\n\nCrossing Loch Creran, by the Ferry of Shian, we are in\nBenderloch--classic ground, and arch\u00e6ologically the most interesting\nspot, perhaps, in all the West Highlands. \"Everything here is\nbeautiful,\" says Dr. Macculloch. \"The distance between the ferries\nof Shian and Connel is but five miles; but it is a day's journey for\na wise man.\" About half-way is D\u00f9n-Mac-Uisneachain (the Fort of the\nSon of Uisneach), one of the most interesting of our vitrified forts,\nqu\u00e2 such, and supposed to be the Beregonium of Hector Boethius, and\nthe site of the still older Selma, the \"Hall of Swords\" of Ossianic\nsong. That it was a place of importance long before the time of\nthe Dalriad Scots seems very certain; and, leaving Macpherson's\n\"Ossian\" altogether out of the question, there occur in the old\nFingalian ballads, and tales of the F\u00e9inne, about the antiquity\nof which there has never been dispute; numberless local references\nwhich seem in a very remarkable manner to point to this spot as the\nprincipal stronghold in Scotland (for they were of Ireland also) of\nthe Fingalians at one period, and that the most important, perhaps,\nin their history. Within a short distance of Dun-Mac-Uisneachain,\nand commanding it, is a steep, rocky eminence of considerable\nheight, called Dunvallary or Dunvallanry, the etymology of which\nmay be D\u00f9n-bhail'-n-righ, the Fortified Place of the King's Town;\nor D\u00f9n-bhail' n 'fhr\u00ecth, the Fort of the Town on the verge of the\nHunting Forest. Stretching away towards Connel and Loch Etive is the\nwide moorland flat of Achnacree, which, with its numerous cairns,\nDruidical circles, monoliths, and other relics of the olden time, may\nvery well be the ancient \"plains of Lora;\" Lora itself, frequently\nmentioned in Ossianic poetry, and meaning Luath shruth, the loud,\nswift current, par excellence, meeting us face to face, so to speak,\nin the turbulently impetuous rapids of Connel.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXII.\n\n    Nest-building--Cunningham's Objection to Burns' Song, \"O were\n    my Love yon Lilac fair\"--Birds and the Lilac-Tree--Rivalries of\n    Birds--Birds and the Poets--The Nightingale.\n\n\nA finer February month from first to last was never known in the West\nHighlands. With an amount of sunshine that April might be glad of,\nit was mild and open throughout; the sort of weather, in short,\nthat Thomson must have been dreaming about, when he invoked the\nseason of bursting bud and wildflower as \"Gentle Spring, ethereal\nmildness.\" March [1878], too, has come in, not lion-like, as the\nmeteorological proverb would have it, but \"like a lamb,\" as it is\nhoped it may continue and end. Everybody is now astir, and \"speed the\nplough\" is the order of the day, as well, indeed, it may, for the bud\nhas already opened into leaf, and primroses are plentiful--so plentiful\nthat they may be gathered in handfuls from the hazel copse and woodland\nglade. As for our wild-bird friends, they are in ecstasies with it all,\neverywhere in full and fluent song, and making love with an ardour and\ndirectness of purpose that rarely fails of its reward. Nest-building,\nthe most important and serious labour of their lives, but a labour of\nlove all the same, is being rapidly proceeded with, the God-taught\narchitects knowing not only to labour, but how best to labour,\nfrequently resting a space to refresh themselves with song:--\n\n\n    \"Song sweetens toil, however rude the sound,\n      All at her work the village maiden sings;\n    Nor while she turns the giddy wheel around,\n      Revolves the sad vicissitudes of things.\"\n\n\nAnd while speaking of birds, this is, perhaps, the proper place to\nrefer to a paragraph that appeared recently:--\n\n\"The Lilac Tree and Birds.--Burns has a song, 'Oh, were my love yon\nlilac fair,' &c. Cunningham has remarked that Burns had made an unhappy\nselection of a tree for sheltering his little bird; for the feathered\nsongsters are found to avoid the lilac when in flower, owing to its\npeculiar smell. We confess we are not skilled enough in natural history\nto attest the accuracy of Cunningham's assertion.\"--Paterson's Burns,\nvol. iii.\n\n\nFully to appreciate Cunningham's objection, it is proper that we quote\nthe song in full; but before doing so, it may be observed that it is\nfounded on an older version, of which the best lines are retained,\nas is the case with not a few of Burns' finest love-songs. Writing\nto George Thomson in the summer of 1793, the poet says--\n\n\"Do you know the following beautiful little fragment in Witherspoon's\nCollection of Scots Songs?--\n\n\n    \"'Oh, gin my love were yon red rose,\n    That grows upon the castle wa.'\"\n\n\n\"This thought is inexpressibly beautiful, and quite, so far as I\nknow, original. It is too short for a song, else I would forswear you\naltogether, unless you give it a place. I have often tried to make\na stanza to it, but in vain. After balancing myself for a musing\nfive minutes on the hind legs of my elbow-chair, I produced the\nfollowing. The verses are far inferior to the original, I frankly\nconfess; but if worthy of insertion at all, they might be first in\nplace; as every poet who knows anything of his trade will husband\nhis last thought for a concluding stroke:--\n\n\n    \"Oh, were my love yon lilac fair,\n      Wi' purple blossoms to the spring;\n    And I a bird to shelter there,\n      When wearied on my little wing.\n\n    How I wad mourn when it was torn\n      By autumn wild, and winter rude!\n    But I wad sing on wanton wing\n      When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd.\n\n    Oh, gin my love were yon red rose,\n      That grows upon the castle wa',\n    And I mysel' a drap o' dew,\n      Into her bonnie breast to fa'!\n\n    Oh! there, beyond expression blest,\n      I'd feast on beauty a' the night;\n    Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest,\n      Till fleyed awa' by Phoebus' light.\"\n\n\nCunningham's ornithological objection to the song we believe to be\nwell founded; and it is not a little to his credit, as proving what\na close and clear observer of the habits of our song-birds he must\nhave been, that he was the first, so far as we know, to notice,\nhow reluctant they are to have anything to do with the lilac while\nin flower, though at other seasons they perch upon it as freely as\nupon other shrubs. We are not as sure, however, that our song-birds\nobject to the lilac because of anything disagreeable to them in the\nperfume of its flowers. Except in the case of some of the Raptores,\nbirds as a rule are neither acute nor delicate of smell, our little\nsong-birds least of all perhaps. We rather think the reason of\ntheir dislike to it is to be found, partly at least, if not wholly,\nin the fact that while it is in flower, its bark, particularly along\nthe smaller branches and twigs, is covered with a slimy secretion or\nexudation at once viscid and acrid; and if there is one thing more\nthan another which our wild-birds unanimously and with all their hearts\ndetest, it is to have their legs or toes come in contact with anything\nglutinous or \"sticky.\" Every bird-fancier knows how uncomfortable and\ngenerally miserable is a bird just upon being taken off a limed twig;\nnot, observe, because he is a captive--thoughts of that may trouble\nhim afterwards--but immediately and in the first instance because\nof the bird-lime about his toes. The first thing, therefore, that\nthe bird-catcher does is to cleanse the captive's feet and toes by\nrubbing them gently between his finger and thumb with fine sand, and\nafterwards washing them with water; an operation no sooner performed\nand the bird restored to its cage, than it evinces its satisfaction\nat being relieved from its state of intolerable discomfort in many\nlittle ways that cannot well escape the notice of even the most\nunobservant. We have known a newly captured chaffinch, placed in a\ncage directly on being taken off the limed twig, and inadvertently\nleft uncared for till the evening, peck its toes until red flesh\nappeared, in his attempts to rid them of the bird-lime attached to\nthem. But whether the song-bird's dislike to the lilac when in flower\nbe owing to its perfume or to the disagreeably glutinous exudations\nof its bark in early summer, or to both combined, it is simply the\nfact that such an aversion exists; and Allan Cunningham's objection\nto the lilac in this connection is perfectly well founded. And even\nif this particular objection had not been well founded, it would\nhave been better, we think, if Burns had selected some one or other\nof our native flowering shrubs, such as the hawthorn, for example,\nrather than a comparatively rare exotic like the lilac--rare now,\nand rarer still a hundred years ago. If those who give any heed at all\nto these matters will only consider the question, they will be ready,\nwe think, to confess that they never yet knew an instance of a bird's\nnest in a lilac tree. About our own place here, where the lilac grows\nto a large size, and flowers splendidly, we ourselves have never known\nor heard of such a thing. Within the shelter of every other tree and\nshrub of any consequence about the place, we have known our song-bird\nfriends to build at some time or other--never once in the lilac, nor,\nit may be added, in the fuchsia, which in the warm shelter of this\ngenial spot grows to the dimensions of a tree, all the year round\ntoo, without the slightest petting or special protection of any kind,\nas hardy and self-reliantly as its companion hawthorns, hollies, and\nhazels. The fuchsia is probably avoided for the same reason as the\nlilac. It also exudes in spring and early summer a viscid secretion\nalmost as \"sticky\" and disagreeable, if you run your hand along a twig,\nas that of the lilac itself; and, as we have already said, anything\nof this kind is an utter abomination to the Insessores or perchers,\nwho are as particular about their feet and toes as ever was dainty\nand delicate belle about the state of her hands and fingers.\n\nSuch of our readers as care about these things, and have the\nopportunity, may very profitably and pleasantly give an occasional\nhalf-hour to the doings of our song-birds at this season. Their little\nlove quarrels and rivalries are very amusing. All this forenoon a pair\nof cock chaffinches have been bickering and quarrelling after their\nfashion along the hedgerows and amongst the trees immediately opposite\nour study window. The casus belli is of course a female, handsome\nand coy, and fully conscious, you may believe, of her own value,\nwho keeps flitting about at a little distance, proud and pleased,\ndoubtless, to be the object of rivalry between a pair of such gay and\nlively chaffinch beaux. Varium et mutabile, she has evidently great\ndifficulty in making up her mind as to which of the suitors she shall\nselect; her state of indecision being probably akin to that of the\nrenowned Captain Macheath in the Beggar's Opera:--\n\n\n    \"How happy could I be with either,\n      Were t'other dear charmer away!\n    But while you thus tease me together,\n      To neither a word will I say.\"\n\n\nThe rival birds are in their gayest spring plumage; and when tired\nof mere vulgar scolding and abuse, they try to sing each other down;\nand then it is that they are well worth not merely the listening to,\nbut the looking at. Directly opposite the gean-tree near the top of\nwhich the lady chaffinch sits preening her feathers, and occasionally\nuttering a twink-twink of self-admiration, is an aged hawthorn,\non which the rivals select to hold their tournament of song; and\nthe energy and heart with which a bird sings in such a case must be\nseen and quietly studied to be fully appreciated. Swaying lightly\neach on his own bough, the rivals begin to sing as if their very\nlives depended upon it; their throats swollen almost to bursting;\nthe feathers on their polls erected into a crest, and their whole\nbodies tremulous to the very tips of the quill feathers of their wings,\nas they pour forth a torrent of song so rapid, clear, and loud, that\nall the other birds in the neighbourhood are for the moment silent,\nas if they had purposely ceased their own aimless melodies to listen\nto the impassioned strains of the competitors in the thorn. Of human\neloquence, Quintilian says, \"Pectus, id est quod disertum facit\"--the\nheart (and not the brain) is that which makes a man eloquent; and even\nmore than of eloquence, with all the might of its \"winged words,\" is\nthe same thing true of song. To be all it ought to be, and be at its\nbest, it must well up a living stream from the hot, impassioned heart;\nnot from the marble fountain of mere intellect, which, if always clear,\nis not the less always cold. If ever song came, in Quintilian's phrase,\ndirect a pectore--from the heart, it is the song at this moment of\nthe rival competitors in yonder thorn. It is only when one has seen\nand studied a bird singing after this fashion that the full force\nand meaning of a line in Gray's Ode to Spring can be understood and\nappreciated. Under the lens of a cold, critical analysis, the line\nis sheer nonsense; in sight of the bird itself, as at this moment,\nsinging with all his might, heart and soul in every note, its truth\nand beauty are at once apparent. The line is this--\n\n\n    \"The Attic warbler pours her throat,\n    Responsive to the cuckoo's note.\"\n\n\nHad not the poet seen, and closely and intelligently observed, a bird\nin the act of loud and excited song, he would never have ventured\non an assertion that at first sight seems so curiously extravagant,\nthat a warbler \"pours her throat.\" It is to be observed, however,\nthat the really beautiful and expressive phrase is not original, but\nsecond-hand as regards Gray. He borrows it from Pope, in whose Essay\non Man (Ep. iii.), published ten or a dozen years before Grays ode,\noccurs this line--\n\n\n    \"Is it for thee the linnet pours his throat?\"\n\n\nBut it is a pity to separate the line from its context, and as the\npassage is not too well known, we may be pardoned for quoting it:--\n\n\n    \"Has God, thou fool! worked solely for thy good,\n    Thy joy, thy pastime, thy attire, thy food?\n    Who for thy table feeds the wanton fawn,\n    For him as kindly spread the flowery lawn;\n    Is it for thee the lark ascends and sings?\n    Joy tunes his voice, joy elevates his wings.\n    Is it for thee the linnet pours his throat?\n    Loves of his own, and raptures swell the note.\n    The bounding steed you pompously bestride\n    Shares with his lord the pleasure and the pride.\n    Is thine alone the seed that strews the plain?\n    The birds of heaven shall vindicate their grain.\n    Thine the full harvest of the golden year?\n    Part pays, and justly, the deserving steer:\n    The hog, that ploughs not, nor obeys thy call,\n    Lives on the labours of this Lord of all.\"\n\n\nIt will be seen that Gray makes his nightingale--his \"Attic\nwarbler\"--feminine, \"pours her throat,\" while Pope, more correctly,\nmakes his linnet songster a mate, \"pours his throat;\" and Pope who,\nindeed, from his habits of life, must have known more about birds than\nGray, is right, for it is the males of song-birds that sing, and not\nthe females. Milton makes the same mistake as Gray, and adds to the\nblunder by saying that the nightingale sings \"the summer long,\" which\nit does not. It is curious that our English poets should so frequently\nerr, as Gray did, in attributing the melodies of song-birds to the\nfemales instead of to the males. The explanation, we suppose, is that,\nas amongst ourselves women as a rule are more musically inclined, and\nusually have sweeter voices than men, even so the poets, knowing no\nbetter, rashly conclude that the rule must hold good amongst song-birds\nalso. The very contrary, however, is the fact. It is the male bird\nthat always sings; the female attempts at song being extremely rare,\nand when attempted always a failure, never for a moment to be compared\nwith the rich and long-sustained melodies of the male. Of all our\nsong-birds, the most frequently mentioned by the poets is, of course,\nthe nightingale, and almost invariably they make it a \"she\" instead of\na \"he.\" One of the finest passages in English poetry is a reference to\nthe nightingale in The Lover's Melancholy of the dramatist John Ford\n(d. 1639). We are fond of reciting this passage when \"i' the vein\"\nfor such things, but we always take the liberty of changing the\n\"she,\" \"hers,\" and \"her\" of Ford, into the \"he,\" \"his,\" and \"him\"\nof ornithological fact.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXIII.\n\n    March Dust--Moons of Mars--Planetoids--Occultation of Alpha\n    Leonis--Zodiacal Light--Snow Bunting--Old Gaelic Ballad of\n    \"Deirdri:\" Its Topography.\n\n\nIf for the first few days March [1878] seemed inclined to emulate\nthe peaceful calm and sunshine of its predecessor, it very suddenly\nassumed a more warlike aspect; a change came over the spirit of its\ndream; it became boisterous and rude; snow, and sleet, and rain, and\nstorm battling in wild comminglement. It still continued what is called\n\"open\" weather, however; there was no frost, no razor-edged and biting\nwinds, and vegetation was rather temporarily checked than seriously\nhurt or hindered. After this wild burst, in vindication, it is to\nbe presumed, of the month's right to be called after the bellicose\nMars, things slowly but steadily improved, and the weather is now\nsuch as permits us to get on with our spring work uninterruptedly and\npleasantly enough. We have not yet, however, had a sufficiency of the\n\"March dust,\" so proverbially invaluable at seed-time; and nowhere\nperhaps so invaluable, so absolutely essential indeed, in its proper\nseason, as in the West Highlands. The day, however, is now lengthening\napace, and with a bright warm sun overhead, and brisk north-easterly\nbreezes, we shall doubtless soon have dust enough and to spare.\n\nOur reference to Mars the war-god, reminds us that Mars the planet,\nwith whose fiery effulgence every one is familiar, has recently\nhad an accession of dignity such as the old-world star-gazers never\ndreamt of in connection with the ruddy orb. It is found to have at\nleast two attendant moons, small, and so exceedingly difficult of\ndetection even by the aid of the best instruments, that it is only\nunder the most favourable circumstances that they can be observed. It\nis more than suspected that a third, and even a fourth satellite,\nexists, and the planet will in consequence be subjected to the\nclosest possible scrutiny at all the observatories at home and\nabroad for some time to come, in order to determine with certainty\nthe number of its attendant moons, and whether they be two or more,\nto decide their sidereal revolutions, their diameters, masses,\nand inclinations of orbits. By reason of his retinue of satellites,\nMars is now exalted to equal dignity with Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus,\nand Neptune; and by the discovery another point is scored in favour of\nthe nebular hypothesists. It was on the night of the 1st January 1801\nthat the first of the planetoids, Ceres, was discovered by Piazzi of\nPalermo. Next year Olbers of Bremen discovered the second planetoid,\nPallas, and so constant and searching has been the scrutiny to\nwhich the planetoidal zone, situated between the orbits of Mars and\nJupiter, has been subjected, that the number of these minor worlds\nis now no less than 182, the last three in the series, Nos. 180,\n181, and 182, having been discovered since the beginning of February\nlast. Of these three, two were discovered by French observers; the\nthird by Professor Peters of Hamilton College, U.S., America. This\nlast, however, is suspected to be only a rediscovery, so to speak;\nto be identical with Antigone, discovered five years ago by the same\nindefatigable observer. If this be so, the asteroidal series amounts\nat present date to 181. In favour of the ingenious hypothesis that\naccounted for the existence of these minor orbs by suggesting that\nthey might be the fragments of a large disrupted world--of a large\nplanet rent asunder by some terrible internal convulsion--a great deal\ncould be said while the number of fragments was under half a dozen\nor even double that number, but when the fleet of orblets began to\nbe counted by the score, the disrupted world theory was dropped as\nno longer tenable in the circumstances. The hypothesis of Olbers,\nhowever--for it originated with the discoverer of Pallas--led to a\ngreat deal of curious research that resulted in no little gain to\nastronomical science; and if it had to be given up as insufficient\nin the case of a planetoidal zone, it left us a legacy that may yet\nbe turned to good account, that such a catastrophe, namely, as the\ndisruption of a planetary world into fragments that in the shape of\nminor orbs would continue to revolve in orbits coincident with that\nof the parent globe, is not only possible, but, under certain easily\nenough conceivable circumstances, a probable enough occurrence.\n\nOccultations by the moon of planets and first magnitude stars are\nalways interesting phenomena, and for many years we have rarely\nmissed observing such conjunctions as they became due, even if\nthe hour was otherwise inconvenient, if only the weather chanced\nto be favourable. Last week there were two occultations, which for\nparticular reasons we were very anxious to observe, and as the weather\nwas clear and bright we had but little fear of disappointment. The\nstars to be occulted were Alpha and Delta Leonis, the one on the\nnight of the 16th, the other on the night succeeding. Alpha Leonis\nis of the first magnitude, distinguished, like some others of its\nclass, from the mere alphabetical order of stars by its proper name\nof Regulus. Up to within a quarter of an hour of the computed moment\nof occultation or disappearance of the star behind the moon's disc,\nthe sky was clear; and as we stood at our post everything promised\na highly satisfactory and successful observation; but alas, as the\nmoon and star, in nautical phrase, were close aboard each other,\na huge bank of cloud, driven by a north-westerly breeze, swept over\nthe scene, effectually occulting moon and stars alike from the most\npenetrating gaze. It was provoking enough, but there was no help\nfor it. An observer in our climate must make up his mind to frequent\ndisappointments of this kind. We were still in hopes that although the\nimmersion was thus hidden from us we might be more fortunate in the\ncase of the emersion--the reappearance, that is--of the star on the\nmoon's western limb. But it was no use. Two or three times, indeed,\nthe moon shone forth for a minute or two together from through an old\ncathedral porch-like rent in the intervening wall of cloud, but only to\nbe again obscured; and thus it continued so tantalisingly promising,\nthat we stood to our post until a glance at the clock showed that\nthe moment of emersion was already past, and it was useless waiting\nor watching any longer. The great object in closely watching these\noccultations is to observe, with all possible certainty, if there\nis any distortion or momentary projection on the moon's disc of the\nplanet or star occulted at the instant of immersion and emersion,\nin order to decide if the moon has an atmosphere or not. We have seen\nenough, we think, from our own observations during the last five and\ntwenty years, to lead us to the conclusion that such distortion and\nprojection is occasionally to be seen, and that therefore, contrary to\nthe general belief of astronomers, a lunar atmosphere very probably\nexists, though it may be of greatly less weight and density than\nour own. Looking over our astronomical note-book, we find that the\nwinter just past--let us hope that at this date we may so speak of\nit--was remarkable for two things--the almost total absence, namely,\nof auroral displays, and the exceeding brilliancy of the zodiacal\nlight. We have only two recorded instances of the occurrence of\nthe aurora borealis, both in December, and both but partial, faint,\nand ill-defined. The zodiacal light, on the contrary, was remarkably\nbright and noticeable on almost every evening in February and early\nMarch, its apex reaching up to and beyond the Pleiades, and with an\noutline clear and sharply defined as ever was sheaf of the brightest\nauroral light. So noticeable was it on several occasions, that all\nthe people of the hamlet began to speak about it, and inquire what\nit could mean, for its perfect quiescence, its appearance night after\nnight in the same quarter of the heavens, and the absence of anything\nlike accompanying storms or aerial disturbance, satisfied even them\nthat it was not the fir-chlis or \"merry-dancers\" as they used to know\nthem. Let us assure our Celtic readers that an attempt on our part to\nexplain the nature of the zodiacal light in Gaelic was no easy task;\nand if the truth were known, we fear our prelection quoad hoc was a\nsad failure.\n\nWe have received the following note from \"A Constant Reader:\"--\n\n\n\"Nether Lochaber.\n\n\"Sir--Would you kindly let us know, through the columns of the\nInverness Courier, the proper name of the accompanying little bird,\nand what part of this country it is properly a native of. It is never\nseen in Ross-shire but during very heavy snow, and then they fly about\nin large flocks, and disappear again as soon as the snow is gone.--I\nam, yours respectfully,\n\n\"A Constant Reader.\"\n\n\nNeatly packed in a couple of lucifer match-boxes ingeniously conjoined,\nthe bird reached us, and the locale of its being shot or captured we\ncan only approximately indicate by the fact that the package bore the\npost-mark \"Garve.\" There was no difficulty in at once recognising\nthe bird as the snow-fleck or snow bunting, the Emberiza nivalis\nof Linn\u00e6us, a common enough bird in early winter over the whole of\nScotland. Although it has been known to breed in Scotland, a few\nbeing found all the year round along the summits of the Grampians,\nand other mountain ranges to the north and north-west, it is probably\na bird of considerably higher latitudes than ours; visiting our shores\nas a migrant in October or November, according as the winter is early\nand severe or otherwise, and leaving us again in March or April. It\nis a hardy little bird, of plain and rather sombre plumage, prettiest\nin the act of flight, when the white on the edges and tips of the\ntail-feathers, and quills, and secondaries, comes out in pretty bars,\ncontrasting pleasantly with the dark and chestnut brown, which may\nbe said to be the prevailing colour. The snow-fleck has hardly any\nsong beyond a tremulous twittering, and a few call-notes so loud and\nshrill that in the strange and solemn calm that sometimes precedes a\nsnow-storm, they may be heard at a great distance. Our correspondent\nshould have stated where, when, and how the bird was got, a knowledge\nof such matters vastly enhancing the interest and value of a specimen,\nespecially if it has any claims to be accounted a rara avis.\n\nWe are indebted to our excellent Celtic friend, Mr. William Mackay,\nInverness, for a copy of his exceedingly interesting monograph on\nThe Glen and Castle of Urquhart, one of the most interesting spots\nin the Highlands. Mr. Mackay attempts to make Glen Urquhart classic\nground by associating the story of Dearduil and Clann-Uisneachean,\nas related in the medi\u00e6val Gaelic ballads, with the locality, by\npointing out that there is a Dun Dearduil in the neighbourhood--a\nplace so called after the hapless heroine of the ballad story. But in\nthe old and unquestionably authentic ballads her name is not Dearduil\nbut Deirdri; Deirdir and Daordir. Dearduil is a much later form of\nthe name, not older, Mr. J. F. Campbell hints, than the Darthula of\n\"Ossian\" Macpherson. But there are other Dun Dearduils besides that\nreferred to by Mr. Mackay; one, for instance, near us in Glenevis;\nand it is to be observed that all the places so called are vitrified\nforts. An old man in our neighbourhood, one of our best seannachies,\nalways speaks of the Glenevis vitrified fort as Dun Dearsail\nor Dearsuil, and this is probably the correct form of the term,\nclosely connecting it with dears and dearsadh, to shine, a shining;\nto beam and be effulgently aglow like flame of fire. Remembering\nthat all the places so called present more or less marked traces\nof vitrifaction, in the formation of which fire and flame, on a\nlarge scale, must have been the chief and most remarkable agents,\nthe name comes to have a fitting and appropriate enough meeting,\nwithout the necessity of taking in the name of Deirdri or Dearduil\nat all. Mr. Mackay next gives a translation of a couple of quatrains\nfrom the oldest known version of the Clann-Uisneachan ballad; that,\nnamely, of the vellum manuscript in the Advocates' Library, bearing\nthe date 1238, and quoted in the Highland Society's Report on Ossian:--\n\n\n             \"Beloved land, that eastern land,\n               Alba, with its lakes;\n             Oh, that I might not depart from it;\n               But I go with Naois.\n             Glen Urchain, O Glen Urchain,\n    It was the straight glen of smooth ridges:\n    Not more joyful was a man of his age\n             Than Naois in Glen Urchain.\"\n\n\nMr. Mackay will have it, of course, that this \"Glen-Urchain\" is his\nGlen Urquhart. The Gaelic name of Urquhart, however, is invariably a\ntrisyllable; but this apart, the Glen-Urchain of Mr. Mackay has no\nexistence in the ballad from which he professes to translate. The\nquatrain stands thus in the original:--\n\n\n    \"Mo chen Glen Urchaidh,\n    Ba hedh in Glen direach dromchain;\n    Uallcha feara aoisi\n    Ma Naise an Glend Urchaidh.\"\n\n\nIt is Glen Urchaidh, observe, not Urchain; the Glenurchay\nof Argyllshire, in short, not the Glen Urquhart or Urchadan of\nInverness-shire. This is further proved by the context, the immediately\npreceding and succeeding stanzas, which speak of Glen Mason and\nGlendaruel in Cowal; of Duntroon; of Innisstrynich on Loch Awe; of Eite\nor Etive, &c. In so far, in short, as this story of Clann-Uisneachan of\nIreland has to do with Scotland, we find it connected with Argyllshire,\nwhere indeed we should most naturally look for it; and chiefly with\nGlen Etive and Loch Etive, where we have Dun-Mhac-Uisneachan; Grianan\nDheirdir; Caoille Naois; Eilean Uisneachan, &c. &c. In Argyllshire,\ntoo, it was that the Clann-Uisneachan ballads were preserved till\ndiscovered and taken down from oral recitation by the collectors. And\nif Dun-Dearduil and \"Glen-Urchain\" must be given up as having no\nconnection with the ballads in question, so would it seem to follow\nthat some other etymology than any connection with the name of Naois,\nmust be found for Loch Ness, Inverness, &c.","title":"Nether Lochaber: The Natural History, Legends, and Folk-lore of the West Highlands","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":134859}