CHAPTER X.

THE PIPERS OF OUR HIGHLAND REGIMENTS.

Our sketch of the Highland Regiments would be incomplete without some allusion to the men whose martial music inspired them with courage, and often rose loud and triumphant amid the din of battle. The bagpipe has always been a favourite instrument of music among the Celtic race. There is reason to believe that its invention is almost coeval with the origin of the human race; traces of it, at least, are to be found in the bas-reliefs of those ancient cities which have been brought to light by modern explorers. It was known to the Hindoos, the Chinese, and the Assyrians; it is still valued and appreciated by the natives of Ireland and Brittany. It may be justly regarded as the national instrument of Scotland, inasmuch as all our Scottish regiments are provided with pipers; and our Highland soldiers have always preferred their inspiring strains to every other kind of music. This feeling of preference has been well expressed by the poet:—

“Then wild and high the Cameron’s gathering rose, The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn’s hills Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes. How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce daring which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years; And Evan’s, Donald’s fame rings in each clansman’s ears.”

The influence of music depends very much upon association. The _Marseillaise_, for example, is to most men simply a warlike air, inferior to many others with which they have been familiar from infancy, while to the Frenchman it is the sacred chant of liberty, presaging the downfall of tyrants, and the destruction of all that stand in the way of human progress; the _Ranz des Vaches_ awakens no unusual emotion in the breast of him who hears it for the first time, while to the Swiss, wandering in foreign lands, it brings back the snow-capped mountains, the wooden chalets, the tinkling of the cow-bells in the deep valleys, and all the other reminiscences of his native land. The sound of the bagpipe may be to the Saxon the least or the most disagreeable of all sounds; it revives no past associations; it awakens no patriotic feeling; it rather repels by its harsh and discordant strains. Nor is this effect confined to any one race or class; it extends to all who have not been accustomed to the war-pipe from infancy. If you ask an Englishman, “Do you like the bagpipes?” he answers with a significant smile, “Yes; but I like them best at a distance.” Habit, however, is all-powerful in modifying this feeling of dislike; we have known English officers and soldiers serving in Highland regiments who came to prefer the pibroch to every other kind of music, and became, in this respect, more Scottish than the Scotch themselves. But we question whether a Frenchman, with all his acknowledged politeness, was ever betrayed into any expression bordering on admiration of Highland music. We have a lively remembrance of the expressive shrug which a Frenchman gave, when we asked him how he liked the bagpipes, and of the comical way in which he stopped his ears, as if still haunted with the horrible sound. A genuine Celt would attribute such symptoms of aversion to prejudice, affectation, or even to some worse motive; you could never convince him that the shrill notes of his favourite war-pipe could cause an unpleasant sensation on your tympanum.

An amusing illustration of this Celtic obtuseness of perception may be given. About half a century ago an accomplished young French nobleman, who recently held an appointment of importance at the Court of St. James’s, was fortunate enough to secure the hand of a Scottish lady, who was heiress to a title in her own right, and to extensive estates in the north. After his marriage, which was celebrated in England, the happy couple went to spend the honeymoon at an ancient castle belonging to the lady in a remote part of the Highlands. This was, perhaps, rather a mistake, as the French do not understand our English institution of the honeymoon, and consider that throwing two young people together for a month tends rather to make them tired of one another’s society. Be that as it may, they reached the Highlands in safety, and spent the first night in the ancient castle. The excitement and fatigue of the journey kept the Frenchman awake the greater part of the night, and he had just dropped quietly asleep at an early hour in the morning, when all at once he was roused to consciousness by a loud discordant noise beneath his window. Springing to his feet, he drew aside the curtains to ascertain the cause of this disturbance. It was a charming morning, the grass on the lawn was glistening with dew-drops, and the heath-clad mountains were tipped with the golden rays of the rising sun. But he had no eye for the beauties of nature; every other feeling was absorbed in indignation at being roused from his pleasant slumber by an old fellow in the Highland garb, who was strutting backwards and forwards on the lawn and playing “Hey, Johnnie Cope, are ye waukin’ yet,” to his own intense satisfaction. If the indignant Frenchman had stopped to inquire, he would have found this was old Donald, the family piper, who had been in the habit of waking the family by this morning serenade ever since he entered on his office; but his only thought was how to get rid of this nuisance, so he shouted, “_Allez, allez-vous en, tout de suite!_” “Sir!” said Donald, surprised at hearing himself addressed in a language which he did not understand. “Go, go away,” said the Frenchman. “Your music is execrable; it is murderous; it will kill me.” If the earth had yawned before him, Donald could not have stood more aghast than he did on hearing these words. The sound of the bagpipes was to him the most delightful of all music, and he could not understand how it could be otherwise than pleasing to everyone else. But here was a man who actually ordered _him_, the family piper, away; who pronounced his music murderous, and declared it would kill him. There must be some mystery in this, some secret cause for this unaccountable dislike. The bagpipes were silent; but Donald walked backwards and forwards on the lawn, holding his head erect, distending his nostrils, and sniffing with indignation at the insult offered to him. “Maybe the carl (fellow) does na like music,” he at length burst forth; “or maybe he does na like _me_. What ails him at the bagpipes? By my faith, I have it now; he heard a little too much of them at Waterloo!”

While our Scottish regiments have ceased to be composed exclusively of Scotchmen, they have still retained their pipers. They are not the only musicians attached to these regiments, for there are the brass bands besides; but the national music is always most appreciated by those who belong to the north. When the drum and the fife cease, and the bagpipes strike up some well-known pibroch or march, you can tell by their heightened colour and beaming eyes who are the Scotchmen in the ranks; cheered on by that music, they will rush on to danger or to death without dismay. It was a mistake to deprive these regiments of their pipers, as was done in some cases; and Scotland ought to cherish the memory of William IV. for restoring them to the Scots Fusilier Guards.

The number attached to each regiment was originally twelve, but it has now, in some instances, been reduced to six. While the pipers may be regarded as non-combatants, they have contributed largely to every victory gained by their countrymen, not only by the animating strains of their music, but by their coolness and self-possession in the hour of danger. Many instances of this might be given; in truth, the pipers imagined that the result of the day depended in no small measure on the unceasing shrillness of their war notes and their constant presence in the thickest of the battle. The 42nd Highlanders formed part of the attacking party which captured Fort Washington in 1777. Determined to have their own share of glory, they scrambled up the precipice, holding on by the brushwood and shrubs which grew out of the crevices of the rocks. The first to reach the summit was one of the pipers, who, as soon as he had made good his footing, began to play; he knew that he was thus concentrating all the fire of the enemy on himself; but what was death to him so long as his comrades secured the victory? His body, riddled with bullets, fell from point to point till it reached the bottom of the rock, mangled and disfigured; but the Highlanders went on with a ringing cheer, and carried everything before them. The piper had the soul of a hero, and who will say that he died in vain?

At the battle of Porto Novo, which was fought in 1780, Macleod’s Highlanders, now known as the 71st, or Glasgow Light Infantry, was the only British regiment on our side. The whole army under Sir Eyre Coote did not exceed eight thousand men, while the force under Hyder Ali consisted of twenty-five battalions of infantry, four hundred Europeans, between forty and fifty thousand horse, and above one hundred thousand matchlock men and peons, with forty-seven pieces of cannon. Notwithstanding their superiority of numbers, the enemy were driven from all their entrenchments, and compelled to retire. The 71st, or 73rd as it was then called, was on the right of the first line, and led all the attacks. Their unbending firmness and daring courage called forth the warm approval of General Coote, who acknowledged that he was mainly indebted to them for his victory. During the battle his attention was particularly attracted to one of the pipers, who never ceased to play, and gave forth his loudest and most warlike notes when the fire became hottest. This music was more eloquent than any words; it told them they must conquer, as their fathers had conquered before them. “Well done, my brave fellow,” cried the General, “you shall have a pair of silver pipes for this!” There was no Victoria Cross in those days, or he would have had it. When the battle was over Sir Eyre did not forget his promise; a handsome pair of pipes was presented to the regiment, with an inscription bearing witness to the General’s appreciation of their high character. Need we add that this gift has been sacredly preserved?

At the battle of Assaye, where the Duke of Wellington, then known as General Wellesley, established his character as one of the first leaders of the day, the 78th Highlanders acted a distinguished part. The British army was drawn up in a line of fifteen battalions, with the 78th on the right and the 74th on their immediate left. In the advance, the 78th had to attack a battery of nine guns which supported the enemy’s left; before they reached it a body of eight hundred infantry rushed forward with the apparent intention of forcing their way between the 78th and the 74th, and thus breaking the line of attack. In order to intercept them these two regiments obliqued their march, and moved forward with ported arms. On observing this movement, the enemy drew up on the other side of a muddy ditch and kept firing till their last man fell. They were impelled by religious fanaticism, and next morning upwards of five hundred bodies were found lying near the ditch. The loss of the British was trifling; the 78th, who were exposed to the hottest fire of the enemy, had only nine men killed and twenty-one wounded. At the commencement of the battle, the musicians of the 78th had received orders to attend to the wounded and to carry them to the surgeons in the rear. This office was usually entrusted to the members of the band, but the orders were not intended to include the pipers, who were expected to accompany the regiment and to animate the men by their war notes. One young piper, who had never taken part in a battle before, from a mistaken sense of duty, laid aside his instrument and devoted himself to the wounded. His conduct was regarded as a dereliction of duty by his comrades, and exposed him to their reproaches and ridicule. It was all very well for the flutes and hautboys to cease their music; they could well be spared; but who ever heard of a piper sinking himself to the same level, and doing work which specially belonged to them? It was his duty to be in front of the battle, in the hottest of the fight; to go to the rear with the _whistlers_, as the bandsmen were derisively termed, was contrary to all the proprieties of Highland etiquette. The poor fellow, who had erred from ignorance and was not deficient in courage, felt these reproaches very deeply, and longed for an opportunity to retrieve his character. He had not to wait long; the battle of Argaum soon followed that of Assaye; in the advance the young piper played with such animation and evoked such soul-stirring notes from his instrument, that the Highlanders could scarcely be restrained from breaking the line and rushing upon the enemy before the preparations were completed. The Colonel, in fact, could only restrain his men by silencing the musician, who thus recovered his good name, and led on his comrades in many a future fight.

The colonels of Highland regiments, knowing the influence exercised over the men by the pipers, have usually treated them with a consideration due rather to that influence than to their mere rank. This has been specially the case when the colonels happened to be Highlanders themselves. Every mountaineer is passionately fond of the mountain pipe; it awakens a thousand associations of the past; it inflames the glow of patriotism; it speaks to his heart at once. It tells him of scenes of joy and sorrow where it has enlivened or soothed him in the far north; it recals the coronach that was played at his father’s grave, the pibroch to which his clansmen have ever marched to victory; it reminds him of the strains that shall welcome his return when the sword has been restored to its scabbard. In foreign lands, after years of exile, the rude sound of the mountain pipe rouses in the soberest Highlander a species of enthusiasm; his foot involuntarily beats time to the music; he can scarcely restrain himself from dancing as he used to dance in the days of his youth; often he throws aside his bonnet, and dances as if he were still a youth. He looks rather ashamed when the performance is over, and his grandchildren begin to congratulate him on his agility, but he cannot help it; the sound of the bagpipe, like the sting of the tarantula, sets him a-whirling at once. An amusing proof of this recently occurred within our knowledge at a semi-religious fête which was held in the open air, in one of our most distant colonies, for the purpose of clearing off the debt on a Scotch church. The Scotchman, like Froissart’s Englishman, takes his pleasure sadly; everything was as grave and decorous as possible, till all at once a venerable piper, an old pensioner of the 42nd resident in the colony, produced his bagpipe, and struck up a lively Scottish air. The thing was wholly unpremeditated; but in a moment every one, young or old, selected his partner, took his place on the green sward, and danced as if he had been possessed. The piper played his best, and the reels only ceased when the sun went down. In the enthusiasm of the moment, the people forgot the object of the meeting; the piper was the master of the occasion, to whom even the minister had to give place; his music blew away the load of cares and years, and made them all young again. We remember another instance: Some years ago we were residing in a certain town in the east where there were a good many Scotchmen. In truth, there are few towns, east or west, north or south, where Scotchmen are not to be found. The sound of the bagpipe had probably never been heard there before; but one night, at a late hour, the pibroch of Donuil Dhu was heard in the streets. It had the same effect on the Highlanders as the sound of the trumpet on the war-horse; it roused them from their midnight slumbers, and brought them into the street, where they formed an admiring circle around the performer, an eccentric wanderer, who had travelled over the greater part of India and China. Goldsmith’s flute enabled him to visit France and Italy; the Highlander’s bagpipe had carried him over the greater part of the continent of Asia. Those who did not like his music bribed him to go away, so that in either case he found the means of subsistence. Need we add that every house was thrown open to him; that parties were got up to do him honour; that he was fêted and feasted for months, and at length dismissed with the means of continuing his travels without the aid of his bagpipe.

The Highlander will admit at once that the bagpipe is not the gentlest of instruments, nor the one best adapted to a drawing-room; but there is no affectation in the assertion that its effect upon him is different from that of any other music. The feelings which other instruments awaken are general and undefined; but the bagpipe speaks to his heart at once, and reminds him of his own romantic land. The colonels of our Highland regiments do well to encourage the pipers, for they have contributed by their music to almost every success which their comrades have won. In almost every field of danger, in many an hour of victory, the proud warlike strains of the pibroch have been heard; and often, when every other instrument has been silenced amid the din of battle, the war-pipe has been carried by its devoted bearer into the very thickest of the fray, where it was hushed at length by the hand of death.

We have always looked upon Colonel Cameron, of the 92nd Highlanders, who fell at Quatre Bras, as the beau idéal of a Highland officer; no one entered more warmly into the feelings of his men, or was more successful in gaining their confidence. They looked up to him as their natural chief and protector; they appealed to him when they had any grievance, and they never appealed in vain. They delighted to observe that he had all the tastes and feelings of a Highlander; that he was familiar with the accents of the mountain tongue, and was passionately fond of Highland music. He was proud of the pipers of his regiment, whom he always treated with the greatest kindness and consideration. When marching at the head of his regiment, it was his delight to see them around him, and to listen to their martial music. He thus acquired an influence over his men, which no officer, ignorant of their language, music, and most cherished associations, could ever have obtained. They were ready to follow him anywhere, and when he fell, they wept for him as a father. At the battle of Vittoria, he was ordered to seize the heights, and to hold them while he had a man left. No order could have been more welcome; he ordered the pipers to play the “Cameron’s Gathering,” and inspired by the war-notes of this favourite pibroch, the 92nd rushed up the steep declivity and carried all before them. They made good their position, and retained it, though exposed to a most destructive fire, which thinned their ranks, but failed to shake their courage or to silence the shrill notes of their favourite instrument.

At the battle of Maya, which was fought soon after, the Highlanders had to maintain the conflict for ten hours against five times their number. Napier, the historian of the Peninsular war, thus alludes to their conduct and that of their leader on this occasion: “That officer (Cameron) still holding the pass with the left wings of the 71st and 92nd, then brought their right wings and the Portuguese guns into action, and thus maintained the fight; but so dreadful was the slaughter, especially of the 92nd, that it is said the advancing enemy were actually stopped by the heaped mass of dead and dying; and then the left wing of that regiment coming down from the higher ground smote wounded friends and exulting foes alike, as mingled together they stood or crawled before its wasting fire. Never did soldiers fight better—seldom so well. The stern valour of the 92nd would have graced Thermopylæ. They held their ground till their ammunition was almost expended, and some of them began to hurl stones at the enemy, when General Burnes despatched a considerable body of troops to their assistance. Their strength was so reduced that they were forbidden to charge; but seized with a warlike enthusiasm, they rushed upon the enemy and drove them from the ground they had lost. The pipers contributed in no small degree to produce this enthusiasm; they headed the charge, and struck up the favourite war-tune, “The Haughs of Crowdale,” composed centuries ago to commemorate a celebrated battle in which the Highlanders took part. Their warlike music inspired their comrades with a fury which nothing could resist; but the loss was fearful. The strength of the regiment was about 750 men; nearly half that number fell, and nineteen officers were killed or wounded. Well might the poet exclaim, on hearing of such deeds of heroism—

“And oh! loved warriors of the minstrel’s land, Yonder your bonnets nod, your tartans wave; The rugged form may mark the mountain band, And harsher features and a mien more grave. But ne’er in battle throbbed a heart so brave, As that which beats beneath the Scottish plaid; And when the pibroch bids the battle rave, And level for the charge your arms are laid, Where lives the desperate foe that for such onset stayed!”

These redoubtable musicians exhibited occasionally a sort of grim humour in the tunes which they selected. When the 92nd and 71st surprised General Gérard with three thousand of the finest French troops in Spain, at the village of Aroys des Molinos, and took or destroyed more than two-thirds of them, the first intimation of their presence was given by the pipers playing, “Hey, Johnnie Cope, are you waukin’ yet?” a highly appropriate tune, composed originally on the occasion of the defeat of Sir John Cope by the followers of the Pretender at the battle of Prestonpans. There is an old song sung to the same air, of which we remember only one verse—

“Charlie wrote a letter from Dunbar, Saying Johnnie meet me if ye daur. And I’ll teach you the art of war, So early in the morning.”

After the defeat of the French, the Highlanders amused themselves by composing a song to the air of “Johnnie Cope,” with the refrain, “Hey, Monsieur Gérard, are you waukin’ yet?” which is more remarkable for patriotic feeling than poetical power. One verse may be given.

“Go and tell Napoleon, go, While Freedom’s laws he tramples low, That Highland boys will be his foe, And meet them all in the morning.”

No wonder that Cameron appreciated and respected a class of men who did more by their music than mere valour could have effected, and animated their comrades by the strains familiar to them from infancy. A characteristic anecdote is related by General Gordon, of Lochdhu, who served during the Peninsular war in the 50th regiment, and had frequent opportunities of witnessing the gallantry of the 92nd. He and Cameron were fording the river Nive, at Cambo; the French opposed their passage, and a hostile bullet struck down Cameron’s favourite piper, who was marching by his side. If his own brother had fallen, he could not have exhibited deeper feeling or anxiety. He stopped to render assistance, and, on finding that the poor piper was beyond the reach of all human aid, exclaimed, in a tone of deep emotion, that he had rather have lost twenty men of his regiment.

At the battle of St. Pierre, which was fought a few days after the passage of the Nive, the 92nd charged early in the day against two French regiments, which yielded and broke; but Soult brought such a storm of artillery to bear on them, that they in their turn were forced to retire. The 50th and the Portuguese held their ground and fought desperately till the 92nd had time to reform. Then Cameron gave the word to advance; the pipers sounded the charge, and the Highlanders rushed forward with colours flying and music playing. They were but a small force compared to the enemy, but nothing could resist their impetuosity; and they drove the French across the valley, remaining in possession of the field. Napier thus alludes to their conduct on this occasion: “How gloriously did that regiment come forth again to charge, with their colours flying, and their national music playing as if going to a review. This was to understand war. The man who in that moment, and immediately after a repulse, thought of such military pomp, was by nature a soldier.”

No one will question the justice of this remark; but some praise is also due to the pipers, who were as jealous of the honour of the regiment as Cameron himself. His last hours were soothed by the music he loved so well. He was present on the evening of the 15th of June, at the celebrated ball given by the Duchess of Richmond, and was requested by the Duke of Wellington to withdraw privately from the room, and to march with all speed to Quatre Bras. He lost no time in executing this order; animated by the martial strains of the Cameron’s Gathering, the 92nd were in front of the enemy by 2 P.M. Deserted by the Belgian horse, and assailed by fearful odds led on by the fiery Ney, the Highlanders and the Black Brunswickers repelled the attacks of the enemy again and again; many gallant officers and about three hundred privates were struck down, but they never dreamed of retiring. At length Cameron asked permission of the Duke, who was stationed among them, to charge the enemy. “Have patience,” said the Duke, “and you will have plenty of work by-and-by.” The French advanced, and took possession of the farm-house; the Duke waited till they began to push on to the Charleroi road, when, turning to the Colonel, he exclaimed, “Now, Cameron, is your time—take care of that road.” On hearing these words, the 92nd cleared the ditch at a bound, rushed upon the enemy, and drove them back; but, in the moment of victory, a shot fired from the upper story of the farm-house, passed through the body of their gallant leader, and his horse, pierced by several bullets, sunk to the earth. A wild wail of sorrow rose from his devoted followers, as they rushed madly on the house to avenge the death of one whom they loved as a father. Ewen Macmillan, his faithful foster-brother, aided by another private, bore him beyond the reach of the enemy’s fire, to a deserted house near the village of Waterloo, where they stretched him on the floor. His first inquiry was for his beloved Highlanders; on hearing that they had fought with their usual gallantry and success, he said: “I die happy, and I trust my dear country will believe that I have served her faithfully.” None ever served her better, or shed his blood more willingly in her defence.

His remains were hastily interred in the _Allé Nerte_, on the Ghent road. Next year they were conveyed in a man-of-war to Scotland, and buried in the aisle of the old church of Kilmallie, in Lochaber, where so many of his forefathers sleep. No less than three thousand Highlanders accompanied the funeral cortége, and the wailing notes of the coronach were echoed back from the heath-clad mountains, as they conveyed him to his last home. A monument was erected to his memory; the inscription was written by Sir Walter Scott, who tells us in his “Field of Waterloo” how

“Cameron in the shock of steel, Died like the offspring of Lochiel;”

and thus alludes to him in his “Dance of Death”—

“Apart from Aleyn’s war array, ’Twas there Grey Allen sleepless lay— Grey Allen, who for many a day, Had followed stout and stern, Where, through battle, rout, and reel, Through storm of shot and hedge of steel, Led the grandson of Lochiel, The valiant Fassiefern. Through steel and shot he leads no more; Low laid ’mid friends’ and foemen’s gore; But long his native lake’s wild shore, And Sunard rough, and wild Ardgour, And Morven long shall tell; And proud Ben-Nevis hear with awe, How, at the bloody Quatre Bras, Brave Cameron heard the wild hurrah Of conquest as he fell.”

It is a characteristic fact that his last prayers were offered up in his own mountain tongue, and that his last hours were soothed by that mountain music which was blended with his earliest associations and his proudest reminiscences. Other Highlanders have shown on their death-beds the same predilection for that music which, however harsh and unmeaning it may sound in the ears of a stranger, is dear to the heart of every mountaineer, animating him in the hour of danger, and soothing him in sorrow. A singular anecdote is related of Rob Roy, the celebrated freebooter, whose name is familiar to all the readers of Scott’s well-known story. The bold outlaw was often threatened with the gallows, but his cunning and daring enabled him to escape that fate. He died in his own house at an advanced old age. As his end was approaching he learned that a friend who had once been his foe, and was still regarded by him with suspicion, was about to pay him a visit; he roused himself at once, and prepared to meet him. No sign of weakness or approaching dissolution must be witnessed by his former rival; attired in full Highland costume, he seated himself in his arm-chair and ordered his piper to play his favourite tune. When the visit was over, he lay quietly down and died.

At the storming of Ciudad Rodrigo, which was captured on the 6th of April, 1812, after a desperate resistance on the part of the French, Lieutenant Alexander Grant, of the 74th Highlanders, leading the advance, was the first to enter the castle, but fell in the moment of victory. John M’Lauchlan, the regimental piper, particularly distinguished himself on this occasion. He was the foremost in the escalade, and on mounting the castle wall, began to play the regimental quick step, “The Campbells are coming.” Animating his comrades by the lively strains of this favourite air, he marched along the ramparts at the head of the advance, with as much coolness as if he had been on the parade ground. A shot from the enemy pierced the bag of his instrument, and stopped his music for a time, but John realized the importance of the occasion, and proved himself equal to it. If the music ceased, the courage of his comrades might flag, and the victory, already half won, might be lost: it should never be said that he failed in his duty; so he quietly seated himself on a gun carriage, and amid a hurricane of shot and shell, began to repair his instrument, which was speedily done. In a few minutes “The Campbells are coming” was heard again amid the roar of battle, and John had the satisfaction of witnessing the surrender of the fortress. If he attributed the success of the day partly to his own almost superhuman efforts, we must not be too hard upon him. “As proud as a piper” has become a proverbial expression in the north, and whoever has witnessed a contest of some score of pipers, and seen them strutting backward and forward on a raised platform, with inflated cheeks and waving tartans, will at once perceive its accuracy.

Much more might be said of our friends, the pipers, and we are almost loth to part with them. We might have told how one who was attacked by a French cuirassier at Waterloo took deliberate aim at him with his pipe, when the Frenchman, believing it to be some infernal machine, turned his horse and rode off at full speed, and how another, assailed by a tiger in India, blew such a blast on his instrument that the animal rushed into the thickest depths of the jungle to escape from the fearful sound.

But space fails us. The golden age of the pipers is gone for ever; the college of Skye has ceased to issue its diplomas, and the wail of the pibroch may be heard more frequently in Canada and Australia than in the Highlands of Scotland. The warlike race who fought our battles and shed their blood so profusely in our defence, has removed to other lands, and the bleating of sheep may be heard in the valleys they once occupied. Lowland lairds, without the shadow of a claim to rank as chiefs, without a drop of Celtic blood in their veins, have gratified their vanity and striven to enhance their importance by surrounding themselves with pipers, and have thus incurred the sarcasm of Bon Gaultier in one of his witty poems:—

“Fhairshon swore a feud Against the clan M’Tavish, Marched into their land To plunder and to ravish.

“For he did resolve To extirpate ta vipers, With four-and-twenty men And five-and-thirty pipers.”

It is easy to find players on the bagpipes; performers whose accent proves that they belong to the Highlands of Highgate or Holborn Hill, may be heard in any street of London; but the genuine race of pipers, with their chivalrous spirit, and their undying devotion to their own regiments, has died out. The pipers even of our Scottish regiments are rarely Highlanders by birth: they have generally been instructed in the use of the instrument after entering the army. Such men may play tolerably well, but they cannot be expected to have the old _esprit de corps_.

A favourable exception is to be found in Ewen Henderson, the pipe-major of the 1st battalion of the Scots Fusilier Guards, who is at once a good piper and a genuine Highlander. He is a son of Angus Henderson of Annat, who joined the 92nd when first raised, served with it till the battle of Waterloo, rose to the rank of colour-sergeant, and lived till a few years ago to enjoy his well-earned pension. Ewen is a worthy son of a worthy sire: a living representative of what the pipers once were; a favourable specimen of the Celtic race. He feels the dignity of his position as pipe-major of a gallant regiment, and the sound of his war-pipe has been heard at Alma and Inkerman. It has also sounded in more peaceful scenes. He had the honour of performing before the Princess of Wales at Buckingham Palace a few weeks after her arrival, and was rewarded with some kind words and a golden Napoleon, which he wears at his watch chain and will not part with till his dying hour. “Will you take five pounds for it, Henderson?” said an officer to whom he showed it. “No, sir, not five hundred!” said Ewen, with the chivalrous feeling of an old paladin. The intrinsic value of the coin was less than a pound, but who shall estimate its value in Ewen’s eyes? Long may he be spared to wear it!