seemed quite inspired, and we could not help being struck with the manliness of his attitude, and of his whole bearing. We never heard the music of the bagpipe in perfection till then. He played the tune with which the Highlanders were said to have marched into the battle of Culloden. We could see the gallant bands pass over the heath on which we were gazing through the open door. We could see the glimmer of their weapons, and the fluttering of their tartans, and feel, peaceful people as we are, the romantic spirit of heroism which had led them on their expedition into England, and now brought them here to destruction.

Our gallant piper never seemed weary of playing; and as it was a treat to sit in a Highland hut, and hear such a musician, we got him to play all the interesting airs that we could recollect. There scarcely was one that he was not the master of; and on no occasion did we ever listen to music that so powerfully and variously affected us. He played pibrochs and marches, and, spite of our better judgments, we could not help kindling into the admiration of clan warfare; but the celebrated dirge, of which he related the origin, with which Highlanders march to the shore when they are about to embark as emigrants to some distant clime*

Cha till, cha till, cha till, mi tuille.

We return, we return, we return no more!

-it was impossible to listen to it without tears. Let no one

This is called Mackrimmon's Lament. Sir Walter Scott has written words to this air, and gives the following as the origin of it; " Mackrimmon, hereditary piper to the Laird of Macleod, is said to have composed this lament when the clan was about to depart on a distant and dangerous expedition. The minstrel was

despise the droning of the bagpipe that has not heard it as we heard it that day.

We took leave of this simple, intelligent, and kind-hearted family, and walked back, on a delicious evening, a nearer way over the fields to Inverness; having passed one of the pleasantest days of our life on the Field of Culloden.

impressed with a belief, which the event verified, that he was to be slain in the approaching feud, and hence the Gaelic words::- Cha till mi tuille; ged thilles Macleod, cha till Mackrimmon.' I shall never return; although Macleod returns, yet Mackrimmon shall never return."

Wully Mackenzie had a different version of the tradition. That there was a cave in the isle of Sky which had never been explored to its termination. That Mackrimmon and another bard, Macleod, dared each other to explore it; and that Mackrimmon composed this lament on the occasion, and went playing it into the cave, from which neither of the bards reappeared.

THE Country about Stratford is not romantic, but extremely pleasant. The town stands in a fine open valley. The Avon, a considerable stream, winds past it through pleasing meadows. The country is well cultivated, and the view of wooded uplands and more distant ranges of hills, gives spirit to the prospects. The town itself is a good, quiet, country town, of perhaps four or five thousand inhabitants. In Shakspeare's time it could be nothing more than a considerable village; for by the census of 1801 the total of its inhabitants was but 2418. In that day,

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the houses were, no doubt, built of wood or of framework, such as the dwelling of Shakspeare's parents still remains. Fires appear, by the history of the place, to have been frequent and destructive. In the 36th and 37th of Elizabeth two furious fires occurred, and so reduced the property of the inhabitants as to compel them to petition parliament for a remission of subsidies and taxes, and for a portion of 36,000l., which had been granted for the relief of decayed cities and towns. The residence of Shakspeare himself narrowly escaped.

Stratford appears now to live on the fame of Shakspeare. You see mementos of the great native poet wherever you turn. There is the Mulberry-tree Inn; the Imperial Shakspeare Hotel; the Sir John Falstaff; the Royal Shakspeare Theatre: the statue of Shakspeare meets your eye in its niche on the front of the Town-hall. Opposite to that, a large sign informs you that there is kept a collection of the relics of Shakspeare, and not far off you arrive at another sign, conspicuously projecting into the street, on which is proclaimed," IN THIS HOUSE THE IMMORTAL BARD WAS BORN." The people seem all alive to the honour of their town having produced Shakspeare. The tailor will descend from his shopboard, or the cobbler start up from his stall, and volunteer to guide you to the points connected with the history of the great poet. A poor shoemaker, on my asking at his door the nearest way to the church containing Shakspeare's tomb, immediately rose up and began to put on his coat. I said, "No, my friend, I do not want you to put yourself to that trouble; go on with your work-I only want you