to lurk out of their country. Of Alaister's fate each clan and each district has a different story. The Argyle Campbells say that he was killed at the ford, and a broadsword said to have been his, and to have been found on the field of battle, is at this day in the possession of Peter Mac Lellich (smith), at the croft of Dalmallie. The Louden Campbells, on the contrary, assert, that Alaister escaped from the overthrow, and wandering into Ayrshire, was slain by them while endeavouring to find a passage into Ireland. The Mac Donalds do not acknowledge either of these stories to be true, but relate that their chieftain not only escaped from the battle, but (though with much difficulty) effected his flight to Ireland, where a reward being set upon his head, he was at length, in an unguarded moment, when divested of his arms, slain by one of the republican troopers, by whom he was sought out.

The fate of Alaister Mac Colda is said to have been governed by that fatality, and predicted by that inspiration, which were once so firmly believed among the Highlanders. His foster-mother, says tradition, was gifted with the second sight; and, previous to his departure from Ireland, the chieftain consulted her upon the success of his expedition. "You will be victorious over all born of woman," replied the seer, "till you arrive at Goch-dum Gho; but when you come to that spot, your fortune shall depart for ever."-" Let it be so," said Alaister, "I shall receive my glory." He departed, and the spirit of his adventure and the hurry of enterprise, perhaps, banished from his mind the name of the fatal place. It was indeed one so insignificant and remote, that its knowledge was most probably confined to the circle of a few miles, and not likely to be restored to the notice of Mac Colda, by mention or inquiry. It was on the eve of his last battle, as his "bratach" was setting up at the ford of Ederline, that his attention was caught by a mill at a little distance; for some accidental reason he inquired its name:"Mullian Goch-dum Gho," replied one of his men. The prediction was at once remembered. The enemy were at hand, and Alaister knew that he should fall. Convinced of the fatality of the prophecy, he sought not to retreat from the evil spot the bourne of his fortune was past, and he only thought of dying as became him in the last of his fields. He made no comment upon the name of the place; but, concealing from his followers the connection which it bore with his fate, gave

directions for the proceedings of the approaching morning. In the battle he behaved as he was wont, and in the close of the day was seen fighting furiously with two of the Campbells, who appeared unable to overcome him. Nothing more was heard of him his body was never discovered; but when the slain were buried by the conquerors, his claidh-mòr was found beneath a heap of dead.

Mac Phadian was an Irish captain, who, with a considerable body of his countrymen, assisted Edward I. of England in his war to subvert the independence of Scotland; but though he took a very active part in the turbulent period in which he lived, and possessed sufficient courage and talents to raise himself from obscurity to power, yet we have nothing left of his history but the account of his last enormities, and the overthrow and death which they finally brought. It is probable, that we are even indebted for this information to the celebrity of the man by whom he fell, and which in preserving the victory of the conqueror, has also perpetuated the memory of the vanquished.

The scene of the last actions of Mac Phadian lay in Lorn and Argyle; and the old people in the neighbourhood of Loch Awe still retain a tradition, which marks out the spot where he fell. Time, however, and the decay of recitation during the last century, have so injured all which remained of oral record, that the legend of Mac Phadian is now confined to a very few of the elder fox-hunters and shepherds of the country, and will soon pass into oblivion with those by whom it is retained

Some time in the latter end of the year 1297, or the beginning of the year 1298, Edward made a grant to Mac Phadian of the lordships of Argyle and Lorn. The first belonged to sir Niel Campbell, knight, of Loch Awe, and chief of his clan; the second was the hereditary patrimony of John, chief of Mac Dougall. Sir Niel did his endeavour to resist the usurpation of his lands, and though fiercely beset by the traitor lords, Buchan, Athol, and Mentieth, he for some time maintained his independence against all their united attempts. But John of Lorn, who was himself in the interest and service of the English, and at that time in London, concurred with king Edward in the disponing of his territories, and received in remuneration a more considerable lordship. Mac Phadian did not, however, remain in quiet possession of his

ill-acquired domains; he was strongly opposed by Duncan of Lorn, uncle to the lord; but joining with Buchan, Athol, and Mentieth, he at length drove out his enemy, and compelled him to seek shelter with sir Niel Campbell. Upon this success the above-mentioned allies, at the head of a mixed and disorderly force gathered from all parts, and from all descriptions, Irish and Scots, to the amount of fifteen thousand men, made a barbarous inroad into Argyle, and suddenly penetrating into the district of Nether Loch Awe, wasted the country wherever they came, and destroyed the inhabitants without regard to age or sex. In this exigency the Campbell displayed that constancy and experience which had rendered his name celebrated among his countrymen. Unable to resist the intoxicated multitude of his enemies, with Duncan of Lorn, and three hundred of his veteran clansmen, he retired by the head of Loch Awe and the difficult pass of Brandir to the inaccessible heights of Craiganuni, and breaking down the bridge over the Awe below, prevented the pursuit of the enemy to his position. Nothing could be more masterly than the plan of this retreat.

Mac Phadian, thus baffled and outmanoeuvred, not only failed in his object of offence, but found himself drawn into an intricate and desolate labyrinth, where his multitude encumbered themselves: the want of subsistence prevented him from remaining to blockade sir Niel, and his ignorance of the clues of the place made it difficult to extricate himself by a retreat. In this exigence he was desirous of returning to Nether Loch Awe, where there was abundance of cattle and game for the support of his men. At length he discovered a passage between the rocks and the water; the way was only wide enough for four persons to pass abreast; yet, as they were not in danger of pursuit, they retired in safety, and effected their march to the south side of the lake.

The measures employed by Wallace to relieve the Campbell, and to reach the fastness wherein Mac Phadian had posted himself, were romantic and daring-

Mac Phadian's followers were completely surprised and taken at disarray. They snatched their arms, and rushed to defend the pass with the boldest resolution. At the first onset the Scots bore back their enemies over five acres of ground; and Wallace, with his iron mace, made fearful havoc among the enemy. Encouraged, however, by Mac Phadian, the Irish camé to the rescue; the battle thickened with

more stubborn fury; and for two hours was maintained with such obstinate eager. ness on both sides, that neither party had any apparent advantage. At length the cause and valour of Wallace prevailed. The Irish gave way and fled, and the Scots of their party threw down their arms, and kneeled for mercy. Wallace commanded them to be spared for their birth sake, but urged forward the pursuit upon the Irish. Pent in by the rocks and the water, the latter had but little hope in flight. Many were overtaken and slain as they endea voured to climb the crags, and two thousand were driven into the lake and drowned. Mac Phadian, with fifteen men, fled to a cave, and hoped to have concealed himself till the pursuit was over; but Duncan of Lorn having discovered his retreat, pursued and slew him with his companions; and having cut off the head of the leader, brought it to Wallace, and set it upon a stone high in one of the crags as a trophy of the victory.

In one of the steeps of Cruächan, nearly opposite the rock of Brandir, there is a secret cave, now only known to a very few of the old fox-hunters and shepherds: it is still called " Uagh Phadian," Mac Phadian's cave; and is asserted by tradition to be the place in which Mac Phadian died. The remembrance of the battle is nearly worn away, and the knowledge of the real cave confined to so few, that the den in which Mac Phadian was killed is generally believed to be in the cliffs of Craiganuni : this is merely owing to the appearance of a black chasm in the face of that height, and to a confusion between the action of Mac Phadian with Wallace, and his pursuit of sir Niel Campbell. But the chasm in Craiganuni, though at a distance it appears like the mouth of a cave, is but a cleft in the rock; and the few who retain the memory of the genuine tradition of the battle of the Wallace, universally agree that the cave in the side of Cruachan was that in which Mac Phadian was killed.

The "Bridal of Caölchairn" is a legen dary poem, founded upon a very slight tradition, concerning events which are related to have occurred during the absence of sir Colin Campbell on his expedition to Rome and Arragon. It is said by the tale, that the chieftain was gone ten years, and that his wife having received no intelligence of his existence in that time, she accepted the addresses of one of her husband's vassals, Mac Nab of Barachastailan. The

bridal was fixed; but on the day when it was to have been solemnized, the secret was imparted to sir Colin in Spain, by a spirit of the nether world. When the knight received the intelligence, he bitterly lamented the distance which prevented him from wreaking vengeance upon his preSumptuous follower. The communicating spirit, either out of love for mischief, or from a private familiarity with sir Colin, promised to obviate this obstacle; and on the same day, before the bridal was celebrated, transported the chieftain in a blast of wind from Arragon to Glen Urcha. In what manner sir Colin proceeded, tradition does not say; it simply records, that the bridal was broken, but is silent upon the nature of the catastrophe. The legend is now almost entirely forgotten in the neighbourhood where its events are said to have

taken place. "As far as I know," says Mr. Allan," it is confined to one old man, named Malcolm Mac Nab, who lives upon the hill of Barachastailan; he is between eighty and ninety years of age, and the last of the race of ancient smiths, who remains in the place of his ancestors. A few yards from his cottage there is the foundation of one of those ancient circular forts built by the Celts, and so frequently to be met in the Highlands: these structures are usually ascribed by the vulgar to Fion and his heroes. In a neighbouring field, called 'Larich nam Fion,' there were formerly two others of these buildings; their walls of uncemented stone were not many years since entire, to the height of eight or nine feet; but they have since been pulled down and carried away to repair the neighbouring cottages: it is from these buildings that the hill received its name of Bar-a-chastailan,' the eminence of the castles." "

6

The tide of centuries has rolled away

O'er Innishail's solitary isle,

The wind of ages and the world's decay
Has swept upon the Campbells' fortress pile:
And far from what they were is changed the while
The monks'
grey cloister, and the baron's keep.
I've seen the sun within the dungeon smile,
And in the bridal bower the ivy creep.
I've stood upon the fane's foundation stone,
Heard the grass sigh upon the cloister's heap,
And sat upon the holy cross o'erthrown,
And marked within the cell where warriors sleep,
Beneath the broad grey stone the timorous rabbit peep.

The legend of the dead is past away
As the dim eve amid the night doth fail.
The memorie of the fearful bridal day
Is parted from the people of the vale;
And none are left to tell the weary tale,
Save on yon lone green hill by Fion's tower

Yet lives a man bowed down with age and ail:
Still tells he of the fearful legend's hour-
It was his father fell within the bridal bower.

But though with man there is a weary waste,
It is not so beyond the mortal way;
With the unbodied spirits nought is spaced;
But when the aged world has worn away,
They look on earth where once their dwelling lay,
And to their never-closing eye doth show
All that has been-a fairie work of day;
And all which here their mortal life did show,
Yet lives in that which never may decay;
When thought, and life, and memorie below
Has sunk with all it bore of gladness or of woe.
At eventime on green Inchail's isle
A dim grey form doth sit upon the hill:
No shadow casts it in the moonshine smile,
And in its folded mantle bowed and still
No feature e'er it showed the twilight chill,
But seems beneath its hood a void grey.
The owlet, when it comes, cries wild and shrill;
The moon grows dim when shows it in its ray,
None saw it e'er depart ;-but it is not at day.

In my humble opinion an arm-chair is far superior to a sofa; for although I bow to Cowper's judgment, (who assigned the superiority to the sofa,) yet we must recollect that it was in compliance with the request of a fair lady that he chose that subject for praise: he might have eulogized in equal terms an arm-chair, had he consulted his own feelings and appreciation of comfort. I acknowledge the "soft recumbency of outstretched limbs," so peculiar to the sofa-the opportunity afforded the fair sex of displaying grace and elegance of form, while reposing in easy negligence on a Grecian couch-but then think of the snug comfort of an easy-chair. Its very name conveys a multitude of soothing ideas: its commodious repose for your back; its generous and unwearied support of your head; its outstretched arms wooing you to its embraces: think on these things, and ask yourself if it be possible to withstand its affectionate and disinterested advances.

On entering a room where there is an easy-chair, you are struck by the look of conscious self-importance which seems to distinguish it as the monarch of all the surrounding chairs; there is an appearance of regal superiority about it, blended, however, with such a charming condescension, that you immediately avail yourself of its gracious inclination to receive the burden of your homage.

There is one kind of arm-chair for which I entertain a very resentful feeling, it assumes the title of an easy-chair to induce you to believe it one of that amiable frater nity, whereas it only claims kindred on account of its shape, and is in reality the complete antipodes of ease-I mean the horse-hair arm-chair. Its arms, like those of its brethren, invite you to repose; but, if you attempt it, you are repulsed by an ambush of sharp shooting prickles. It is like a person who has a desire to please and obtain you for his friend, but who is of so incorrigibly bad a temper that attachment is impossible. If you try to compose yourself with one of these pretenders, by endeavouring to protect the back of your head with your pocket-handkerchief for a pillow, you either dream that you are under the hands of a surgeon who is cupping you on the cheek, or that you are transformed into your cousin Lucy, and struggling to avoid being kissed by old Mr. D who does not shave above once a week. When you awake, you discover that your face has slipped off the handkerchief, and come immediately in contact with the chevaux de frise of bristles.

As an excellent specimen of an easychair, I select the one I at present occupy. Its ancient magnificence of red damask silk-embossed in wavy flowers and curved arabesques, surrounded by massive gilt carving is now shrouded with an unostentatious covering of white dimity. This, however, does not compromise its dignity —it is rather a resignation of fatiguing splendour, and the assumption of the ease suitable to retirement in old age. Perhaps a happy father once sat in it surrounded by his smiling offspring: some climbing up the arms; others peeping over the lofty back, aiming to cling round his neck; his favourite little girl insinuating herself behind him, while he gazes with affectionate but anxious thoughts on the countenance of his eldest son, standing between his knees. Ferhaps two lovers once sat in it together, although there were plenty of other chairs in the room. (For fear some of my fair readers should be incredulous, I beg leave

to assure them that it is quite possible for two people to sit together in an arm-chair, if they choose to be accommodating; therefore I would not have them dislike an easychair on the plea of its being unsocial.) Perhaps it may have been the means of concealment—in a similar way with the armchair in "Le Nozze di Figaro. Often have I when a child curled myself round in it, and listened to my old nurse's wonderful stories, till I have fallen fast asleep. Often have I since enjoyed many a delightful book, while lolling indolently enclosed in its soft, warm, cushioned sides

Garrick Plays.

No. XXII.

M. H.

[From "Querer" Por Solo Querer:" concluded from last Number.]

Address to Solitude.

Sweet Solitude! still Mirth! that fear'st no wrong,
Because thou dost none: Morning all day long!
Truth's sanctuary! Innocency's spring!
Inventions Limbeck! Contemplation's wing!
Peace of my soul, which I too late pursued ;
That know'st not the world's vain inquietude:
Where friends, the thieves of time, let us alone
Whole days, and a man's hours are all his own.

Song in praise of the Same.

Solitude, of friends the best,
And the best companion;

Mother of truths, and brought at least
Every day to bed of one :
In this flowery mansion

I contemplate how the rose

Stands upon thorns, how quickly goes

The dismaying jessamine :

Only the soul, which is divine,

No decay of beauty knows.

The World is Beauty's Mirror. Flowers,
In their first virgin purity,

Flatt'rers both of the nose and eye.-
To be cropt by paramours
Is their best of destiny:

And those nice darlings of the land,
Which seem'd heav'n's painted bow to scorn,
And bloom'd the envy of the morn,
Are the gay trophy of a hand.

Unwilling to love again.

- sadly I do live in fear,
For, though I would not fair appear,
And though in truth I am not fair,
Haunted I am like those that are;

And here, among these rustling leaves,
With which the wanton wind must play,
Inspired by it, my sense perceives
This snowy Jasmin whispering say,
How much more frolic, white, and fair
In her green lattice she doth stand,
To enjoy the free and cooler air,
Than in the prison of a hand.*

Loving without hope.

I look'd if underneath the cope
Were one that loved, and did not hope;
But from his nobler soul remove
That modern heresy in love:
When, hearing a shrill voice, I turn,
And lo! a sweet-tongued Nightingale,
Tender adorer of the Morn,-

In him I found that One and All.

For that same faithful bird and true,
Sweet and kind and constant lover,
Wond'rous passion did discover,
From the terrace of an eugh.
And tho' ungrateful she appear'd
Unmoved with all she saw and heard;
Every day, before 'twas day,
More and kinder things he'd say.
Courteous, and never to be lost,
Return'd not with complaints, but praise;
Loving, and all at his own cost;
Suffering, and without hope of ease:
For with a sad and trembling throat
He breathes into her breast this note:
"I love thee not, to make thee mine;
But love thee, 'cause thy form's divine."

The True Absence in Love.

Zelidaura, star divine,

That do'st in highest orb of beauty shine;
Pardon'd Murd'ress, by that heart

Itself, which thou dost kill, and coveted smart:
Though my walk so distant lies
From the sunshine of thine eyes;
Into sullen shadows hurl'd,

To lie here buried from the world;

'Tis the least reason of my moan,
That so much earth is 'twixt us thrown.

'Tis absence of another kind,

Grieves me; for where you are present too,

Love's Geometry does find,

I have ten thousand miles to you.

'Tis not absence to be far,

But to abhor is to absent;

To those who in disfavour are,

Sight itself is banishment.†

To a Warrioress.

Heav'n, that created thee thus warlike, stole
Into a woman's body a man's soul.

But nature's law in vain dost thou gainsay;
The woman's valour lies another way.

*Claridiana, the Enchanted Queen, speaks this, and the following speech.

† Claridoro, rival to Felisbravo, speaks this...

The dress, the tear, the blush, the witching eye,
More witching tongue, are beauty's armoury:
To railly; to discourse in companies,
Who's fine, who courtly, who a wit, who wise;
And with the awing sweetness of a Dame,
As conscious of a face can tigers tame,
By tasks and circumstances to discover,
Amongst the best of Princes, the best Lover;
(The fruit of all those flowers) who serves with most

Self diffidence, who with the greatest boast;
Who twists an eye of Hope in braids of Fear;

Who silent (made for nothing but to bear
Sweet scorn and injuries of love) envies
Unto his tongue the treasure of his eyes:
Who, without vaunting shape, hath only wit;
Nor knows to hope reward, tho' merit it:
Then, out of all, to make a choice so rare,
So lucky-wise, as if thou wert not fair.*