world. The barbarism and lawlessness attributed, with justice, to the Highlander till within the last hundred years, were purely relative. To the world at large he was barbarous, because he did not understand its usages -he was lawless, because he did not consider himself bound by its laws. But within his own circle, where alone he felt that he owed obedience and respect, no man was more observant of those habitual courtesies which constitute the greatest charm of polished life; or more implicitly subservient to all the laws by which his society was bound together. The absurdities and vices, flowing from the feeling of personal consequence we have attempted to describe, have almost entirely disappeared under the influence of an enlarged acquaintance and more frequent intercourse with the world; its benefits still remain to dignify and elevate the Highland character. In no part of the world, at this day, do men of very limited fortunes occupy a higher place in the social scale-no where are they more fully imbued with the feelings, or more liberally endowed with the qualifi cations, which raise and maintain men above the common level.

The poetical elements in the Highland character are easily deduced from its general features. Their mode

of life, active, but not laborious-full of enterprise and adventure, and free from the toil which depresses the spirit and cramps the faculties-gave full scope to the development of passion and imagination. Their little communities, with their rivalries, hostilities, and alliances, were each a theatre within whose narrow bounds the whole round of human feelings and passions were displayed and brought into play. The objects might be trifling and insignificant, but the passions and feelings were as active and vigorous as if they concerned the struggles of empires; and all the more picturesque in their exhibition, from the limited field to which they were confined. And from the closer contact of the hostile communities, and the greater importance in every struggle of each individual, the public feelings of friendship or hostility for the friends or enemies of the clan, were more dramatically interwoven than can often take place in the struggles of nations,-with the private feelings of individuals, which, either flowing with those public feelings, gave them greater vigour or intensity, or, running counter to them, disturbed the current by a conflict full of the richest elements of poetry.

All these peculiarities of Highland circumstances and character are now no more. The inaccessible character of their country has been destroyed. Clanship is little more than a tradition, or a fond memory lingering in the hearts of a few, who are unwilling to lose sight of the last distinguishing peculiarity of their native race; the enmities of rival clans have been laid asleep; and with that the exclusive devotion of clansmen to their chief and to each other has been cooled down. The few remaining points of distinction between the population of the Highlands and the other parts of the country, are wearing away day by day, and we shall, by and by, have only such books as Mrs. Ogilvy's Highland Minstrelsy, to furnish us with any knowledge regarding what once constituted so picturesque a feature in the character of the northern half of our island.

We have too long detained our readers from the slight taste we mean to give them of Mrs. Ogilvy's muse. We cannot attempt any general analysis of her book, but we select two poems as very favourable specimens of her powers in different styles. Each poem is prefaced by some general observations of a very interesting character illustrative of the story, and in general necessary to a full understanding of it. The first is founded upon the superstition of the "second sight," and is thus introduced:

"It has been well said by Mrs. Grant of Laggan, that the second sight of the Highlanders differed from all heathen divinations in this important respect, that it was entirely involuntary.

as a shuddering impulse, a mental spasm, that comes unsought, and often departs without leaving a trace behind by which it may be connected with any future event.

"The Highland seer did not go about like Balaam, to seek for enchantments; his gift was a fatality, and was generally as unwelcome as unlooked for. He was not consulted by those curious to pry into futurity; he made no trade of imposture; prophet was shunned rather than regarded by the vulgar. no honours were attached to this mysterious endowment; the Instead of possessing, he was possessed by the spirit within him, over the working of which he had no control."

"The seventh son of a seventh son was supposed, by the accident of his birth, to be gifted with this unenvied power. The consciousness of being so considered by those around him, would of itself foster in the mind of the unfortunate child a dreamy habit of reflection, an abstraction of manner, and a feeling of being unlike others, calculated as he grew to manhood to isolate him more and more from his fellows, and to teach him to people Such a character is with apparitions the solitude of his soul. that attempted to be portrayed in the following ballad :

MARY OF THE OAKENSHAWS.

"It was upon a summer night, A tranquil night of June, We rested on our idle oars

Beneath an amber moon, That mirrored upon Crinan's loch Thy ruined walls, Duntroon! The sky was calm, the air was balm, The night was clear as day, Our eyes could trace each wooded isle On Crinan's breast that lay, And e'en the mist of Scarba's hills Far out beyond the bay.

It was a night to meditate,

But full of speech were we,
As lark that singeth from the cloud,
Or mavis from the tree;
There was Mary of the Oakenshaws
With Willie Bhane and me.

Sweet Mary of the Oakenshaws
So thrillingly she sung;
No burn above its mosses flowed
So smoothly as her tongue,
No bluebell e'er so beautiful
In cleft of granite hung.

I scarce had hoped to mate with her,
Yet she to me was vowed,

And blushed so full of happiness,
That well I might be proud;
For I had won her manfully

From all the rival crowd.

And Willie Bhane, no common youth
Was fashioned like to him,

Of lineament so feminine,
So delicate of limb,
With eyes where saddest sentiment
Welled ever o'er the brim.

A stranger to our mountain shores
In earliest youth came he,
His mother was a dark eye'd dame,
From climes beyond the sea;
There was a spirit in her mien,
That spake of ancestry.
There was a lightning in her glance,
Although her tones were mild,
And there were sad and cloudy cares
Upon her forehead piled;
She never gazed as mothers gaze
Upon an only child.

But silent in that fisher glen

She dwelt where first she came, And if her homely neighbours asked Of lineage or of name,

She said, 'He is a seventh son,

His father was the same.'

belong to the circumstance of his birth-how the fishers feared to meet him alone, and how he did not mingle with other boys, but strayed away by himself, climbing the loftiest and most dangerous rocks, "to watch the sunset on the sea," and how he became the best and boldest boatman on the lake.

"But most his mood was pensiveness
When he would dreaming lie,
As if beneath the bubbling wave
Strange visions met his eye,
And whoso next he looked upon,
They said was soon to die."

Thus half we clung to him in love,
And half we shrank in dread,
Until he grew to be my friend
And hers, that maiden dead,
And words of angel sympathy
To him she pitying said."

The natural consequence followed-he loved Mary of the Oakenshaws-was necessarily rejected, and leaving her without upbraiding or complaint, went to sea.

Again he returned, and met the lovers as they were preparing to cross the loch. He warned them against the attempt, foretelling that it would end in disaster; but his warning was disregarded, and then he sprung into the boat beside them, that he might share Mary's fate. It was a lovely evening as they returned from their excur sion, so lovely that

"E'en Willie Bhane in that repose

Forgot his fatal gift."

The catastrophe is thus told :

"Then one by one we sank in thought,
And each began to muse;

Our hearts absorbed the gentle calm
As flowers the summer dews,
When Mary's voice spontaneously
Its magic did infuse.

So sweet she sang, so soft she sang,
She wiled our hearts away;
Forgetful of the helm and oar
We drifted from the ray

Of moonlight to the darkest shades
And shallows of the bay.

So sweet she sang, so sad she sang,
Our tears she did unlock;

When, all unsteered, the helpless boat
Drove rudely on a rock,

And by an eddying tide engulfed
Heeled over in the shock.

The music still was in our ears
Of that entrancing burst,

When we were struggling for our lives
In chillest waves immersed,
And madly grasping at the clothes
Of her who sank the first.

"Twas but a second-swimmers strong,
We both the deep could brave,
And near us lay the sheltering land,
But she was in the wave,
And Willie Bhane sank hopelessly
With her he died to save!"

The other poem, of which we extract a part, "The Vow of lan Lom," relates to a very remarkable character. Ian Lom Macdonald was born, says Mrs. Ogilvy—

"In the reign of James VI. of Scotland, and lived, it was alleged, till that of Queen Anne, a spectator and eloquent denouncer of the union of the two kingdoms. His poetical genius was of a high order, entirely devoted to the Jacobite cause, which he advanced as much, if not more, by his songs as others did by their claymores. He accompanied Montrose in most of his marches, and commemorated his victories. Charles II. created him Gaelic Poet-Laureate, a distinction of which he was justly proud, and which, beginning in his person, died in his death, never having been conferred on a successor. Ian Lom's last fight was the fatal victory of Killiecrankie, where he had gone with

Dundee, whose hapless fall in the very heat of success he laments with even more than his accustomed fervour. The story of the poem is strictly true. The two young Macdonalds of Keppoch, chieftains of the tribe to which Ian Lom belonged, were murdered by a family of the same name, a father and six sons, who were tacksmen on the lands of Keppoch, and had some private quarrel with the youths. The uncle of these unhappy brothers was present, but neither interfered to prevent the deed, nor took any subsequent steps to bring the criminals to justice. But the devoted and intrepid Scannachie was bound to his chieftains by closer ties than those of relationship. Indignant at the kinsman's apathy, he went from house to house, and from castle to castle, calling for vengeance on the assassins. After many fruitless attempts, he at last obtained from government a commission to take the murderers, dead or alive, and from Sir James Macdonald of Sleat, a body of men sufficient to execute the commission. The seven guilty men defended themselves with unparalleled bravery, barricading their house, and fighting till they fell dead beside their own hearthstone. Ian Lom has preserved the dirk with which they had slain their chieftains, and its edge was now turned against themselves.”

THE VOW OF IAN LOM.

Through the beeches by the river,

In whose shades a man might lurk,
Who is he that wildly searcheth,
Brandishing a dripping dirk?
On the night air, gore bedabbled,
Streams the mantle at his back,-
Ian Lom, the Blood Avenger,

Hurrying on the murderer's track!
Whither fled those caitiff brothers,
When the assassin's work was o'er ?
To the fastness of the mountain--
To the caverns on the shore?
Doth the kinsman's wrath pursue them,
In whose sight the deed befel ?
Or at peace, upon their homestead,
Are the guilty left to dwell?

Now with screaming of the pibroch-
Now with coronach and cry,
Clansmen bear the sons of Keppoch
In their father's grave to lie.
Wherefore silent is the minstrel ?

Chants he not their young renown,
Who went forth in manhood's glory
Where the red hand struck them down?

Ere the rites are fully ended

Ere the mourners hie them home, In the midst, with head uncovered, 'Hear me vow!' quoth Ian Lom; Till my chieftains be avenged Song shall be foresworn by me, Woman's heart and woman's beauty, Minstrel's praise and minstrel's fee!' On his brows he thrust his bonnet, Turned and strode along the vale, And the clansmen of Macdonald Answered with a thrilling wail. Deep it swelled from manly bosom, Silvery sad from woman's tongue; On the fresh-heaped grave of Keppoch Like a cloud of grief it hung. Oh! the minstrel's words were mighty, And the minstrel's soul was strong, With a more than mortal passion Writhing to avenge the wrong. Journeying swift to hall and castle, Fearlessly he told his tale, Crying, Vengeance for the orphans Is the glory of the Gael!

Journeying swift by firth and ferry,
Early starting, resting late,
Soon he reached the knight Macdonald
On the distant shores of Sleat.
Lond the minstrel's voice resounded

Through the rugged halls of Knock, And he shook the chief with passion, As the earthquake shakes the rock.

'Faithful vassal, truthful minstrel,
By the fell or by the flood,
I will find those sons of Dougal--

Shedders of the guiltless blood!
Forth he sent, that western chieftain,
Clansmen armed in strong array,
Ian Lom, the Blood Avenger,
Went to guide them on their way.
Hunted home into their dwelling,
Strongly barred with stone and wood,
Pale of face, but firm of purpose,

By the door those traitors stood. Seven were they, sons and father, Stalwart men to wield the brand,"Twas a strife of desperation

At the meeting hand to hand.
Broken down their vain defences,
One by one they fell and died,
And the sire upon
his hearthstone

Sank at last his sons beside.
Through thy woody paths, Glengarry,
Marched the victors of that fray,
In the waters of thy fountain
Seven heads were laved that day.
Sternly parting from the corses,
Left to blacken on the ground,
Ian Lom returned rejoicing,

For the vengeance he had found.

*

Girt through life by war and tempest,
He was great in his degree,
For he sang, Montrose, thy glory,

And he wailed thy fall, Dundee !
Kings arose and kings descended
Unlamented to the tomb,
Ere the coronach was pealing
For the death of Ian Lom.
Nor with life his greatness perished,
Left undying in his song
Words familiar by the fireside
When the winter nights were long;
Words familiar, ever chanted

To the bride when she was wed, To the babe when it was christened, To the corse when it was dead; By the shepherd in the shealing, By the lady in her home; Wheresoever men were gathered Went the songs of Ian Lom. And his voice again was breathing From the grave a trust and power, When the Stuart sailed for Scotland In a dark and evil hour. Mightier was the verse of Ian

Hearts to nerve, to kindle eyes, Than the claymore of the valiant, Than the counsel of the wise. Still he singeth unforgotten

In the echoes of his home; Every burn and every mountain Tells thy glory, Ian Lom!"

Miscellaneous.

"I have here made only a nosegay of culled flowers, and have brought nothing of my own, but the string that ties them."-Montaigne.

This gen

Το

gaol. The prison was in such a state, that he might have found little difficulty in escaping; but he considered himself as in the hands of authority, such as it was, and the same principle of duty which led him to take arms, made him equally ready to endure the consequences. After lying there a few days, he applied to the sheriff for leave to go out and work by day, promising that he would return regularly at night. His character for simple integrity was so well known, that permission was given without hesitation, and for eight months Jackson went out every day to labour, and as duly came back to prison at night. In the month of May the sheriff prepared to conduct him to Springfield, Jackson where he was to be tried for high treason. said this would be a needless trouble and expense. His word was once more taken, and he set off alone, to present himself for trial and certain condemnation. On the way he was overtaken in the woods by Mr. Edwards, a member of the council of Massachusetts, which at that time was the supreme executive of the state. tleman asked him whither he was going? To Springfield, sir,' was his answer, 'to be tried for my life.' this casual interview Jackson owed his escape, when, having been found guilty and condemned to death, application was made to the council for mercy. The evidence and the sentence were stated, and the president put the question whether a pardon should be granted. It was opposed by the first speaker; the case, he said, was perfectly clear; the act was unquestionably high treason, and the proof complete; and if mercy was shown in this case, he saw no cause why it should not be granted in every other. Few governments have understood how just and politic it is to be merciful; this hard-hearted opinion accorded with the temper of the times, and was acquiesced in by one member after another, till it came to Mr. Edwards's turn to speak. Instead of delivering his opinion, he simply related the whole story of Jackson's singular demeanour, and what had passed between them in the woods. For the honour of Massachusetts and of human nature, not a man was found to weaken its effect by one of those dry legal remarks, which, like a blast in the desert, wither the heart they reach. The council began to hesitate, and when a member ventured to say that such a man certainly ought not to be sent to the gallows, a natural feeling of humanity and justice prevailed, and a pardon was immediately made out."

In some unlucky dispositions, there is such an envious kind of pride, that they cannot endure that any but themselves should be set forth for excellent: so when they hear one justly praised, they will either seek to dismount his virtues: or, if they be like a clear night, eminent, they will stab him with a but of detraction : as if there were something yet so foul, as did obnubilate even his brightest glory. Thus when their tongue cannot justly condemn him, they will leave him in suspected ill, by silence. Surely, if we considered detrac tion to be bred of envy, nested only in deficient minds, we should find that the applauding of virtue would win us far more honour than the seeking slyly to disparage it. That would show we loved what we commended, while this tells the world we grudge at what we want in ourselves.-Feltham's Resolves.

N.B. The Second Volume of this Periodical is now ready; covers for binding, with table of contents, may be ordered of any Bookseller.

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PRINTED by RICHARD CLAY, of Park Terrace, Highbury, in the Parish of St. Mary, Islington, at his Printing Office, Nos. 7 and 8. Bread Street Hill, in the Parish of St. Nicholas Qlave, in the City of London, and published by THOSIAS BOWDLER SHARPE, of No. 15, Skinner Street, in the Parish of St. Sepulchre, in the City of London. -Monday, November 7, 1846.