once looked on these green hillocks in his northern ramble, and described his own and the popular feeling in

THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS.

The lovely lass o' Inverness,

Na joy nor pleasure can she see;
For e'en and morn she cries alas!
And ay the saut tear blins her e'e:-

"Drumossie Moor, Drumossie day,
A waefu' day it was to me!
For there I lost my father dear,
My father dear and brethren three,

"Their winding-sheet the bloody clay,
Their graves are growing green to see;
And by them lies the dearest lad
That ever blest a woman's e'e!

"Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,

A bloody man I trow thou be;
For many a heart thou hast made sair,

That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee."

That we might not miss any information connected with the spot, we entered a hut not very far from the old smith's forge, and to our great satisfaction found a family that could speak English. They were, a widow of the name of Mackenzie, and her son and daughter, both grown up. They appeared very intelligent, and took a warm interest in every thing relating to the field of battle. They told us that some of their family had lived on this spot from the day of the contest. That, besides the smith's hut, this was the only one in the

Drumossie was the old name of Culloden.

immediate vicinity of the field. That it had been called Stable Hollow ever since, from a number of the English troopers after the fight putting up their horses in the shed belonging to it, while they went to strip the slain. That their ancestors, the occupiers of the cottage, all made their escape, with the exception of one young man who was compelled by the Highlanders to go into the battle. That such was his horror and frenzy, when he saw the flight and bloody havoc that took place, that he flew across the field without knowing whither he was going, and was not heard of for more than two months, when he most unexpectedly again made his appearance wasted almost to a skeleton. They had supposed him killed in the battle. They afterwards learned that he had been roving amongst the hills of Badenoch, in a state of apparent idiocy; and only saved from starvation by the pity of the inhabitants. Of this, however, he himself could give no account, nor did he ever afterwards regain his former tone of mind.

William, or as they called him, Wully Mackenzie, the widow's son, was a short strong-built youth of about twenty years of age; he was a gardener by trade, and as well informed as Scotch gardeners generally are. We were particularly pleased with the openness and intelligence of his countenance, and on his part he offered with great evidence of pleasure to conduct us over the field. He pointed out to us a large stone, not far from their cottage; i.e. on the north side of the scene of action, and on the left wing of the Highland army, where tradition said that a French engineer had posted his artillery,

and committed considerable havoc on the English line. When we reached the graves, he directed our attention to a little stream that wandered through the heath near them, and a spring which was before the battle particularly admired for its delicious water. During the contest a number of the wounded crawled to it to assuage their thirst; and amongst them an officer who, as he was just raising his head, again was struck with a ball, and fell with his head into the spring. There, after the battle, he was found; the fountain itself perfectly choked up with the stiffened corses of himself and the heaps of combatants that had fallen there. From that day to the present, he said, nobody would ever drink from that spring; and in truth it was nearly overgrown with long grass and weeds, that testified to its not being disturbed by visitants.

As we sate on the greensward of one of these battle-graves, we observed that in many places the turf had been broken up by digging; and our young guide told us that scarcely a party came there but was desirous to carry away the fragment of a bone as a relic. "What," said we, "are the bones soon come at?" "Yes," he replied, "in some places they lie within a foot of the surface." These graves have been dug into in hundreds of places, yet you can scarcely turn a turf but you come upon them. He dug out a sod with his knife, and throwing out a little earth, presently came to fragments of the crumbling bones of the skeletons of 1746. He told us that in one instance, a quantity of bones which had been carried off by a traveller, had been sent back at a great expense,

and buried again; the person who conveyed them away being continually tormented by his conscience and his dreams, till that was done;" and the next visiter," added Wully Mackenzie, "would most probably carry them off once more." Balls and portions of military accoutrements are still not unfrequently found about the heath. We picked up as we walked across it, a leaden bullet, flattened by having struck against some hard body and rendered quite white with age.

"Many a clever fellow lies here!" said young Mackenzie, as he was busy turning up the sod in quest of some appearance of bones; and indeed what a contrast was that quiet scene, with the sun and breeze of August playing over it, to what it was ninety years before, when these dry bones lived! In such situations we often, and very naturally, wish that we could call up some of the dead to tell us what were their thoughts and feelings in that moment of wrath and confusion; but we had no need of that here. All those who were now reduced beneath our feet to dust and mouldering bones, had left their representatives behind them, to tell us not only what they had suffered, but what the surviving Highlanders suffered. Many who fought in that battle, have left more or less some written account of it; but remarkably enough, an officer of each contending army has been the historian of the whole war. Home in the king's army, and the Chevalier Johnstone in that of the prince, have left us vivid records of the field of Culloden, and all that led to it, and all that followed it. The escape, and wanderings of Prince Charles for more than five months

through the Highlands, with the king's soldiers after him, with the price of 30,0007. set upon his head, and the peremptory orders of the Duke of Cumberland to put him to death the instant he was found-his living in the cave in the wild mountain Coramhian, with the seven Macdonalds-his escape by Captain Mackenzie personating him, and sacrificing his life for him; the adventure of Flora Macdonald, the prototype of Scott's Flora Mac Ivor, who rescued him from his pursuers in one of the Western Isles, by conveying him away disguised as her Irish maid Betty Burke,-all these things, from their own romantic nature, and the rank of the person concerned, have been made familiar to all readers. The narrative of the escape of the Chevalier Johnstone, however, as written by himself, is to the full, in my opinion, as interesting, because it may be considered as the recital of one out of the multitude of those who fled from Culloden for their livessome to escape by a hair's-breadth, but many more to perish by the sword of the pursuer, or the scaffold, as Kilmarnock, Balmerino, old Lovat, and their fellows, whose heads so long dried in the winds on Temple Bar and London Bridge.*

The Chevalier Johnstone's history is a romance of real life, to the full as interesting, and abounding with hair-breadth escapes, as the tales of the author of Waverley; and, indeed, frequently reminds you of his characters and incidents. The chevalier was the only son of James Johnstone, merchant in Edinburgh. His family, by descent and alliance, was connected with some of the first houses in Scotland. His sister Cecilia was married to a son of Lord Rollo, who succeeded to the title and estate in 1765. The chevalier moved in the best society of the Scottish capital, and was treated by the then celebrated Lady Jane Douglas with the tenderness of a parent. Educated in episcopalian and Jacobite