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III.

A HIGHLAND FESTIVAL.

MIDNIGHT.

I sit down at this late hour to transfer into my diary the sights and sounds of this day. They may serve to illustrate one of the phases of Highland life.

I am at St. Fillans, at the foot of Loch Earn. This is the little village at which, on this day each year, assembles the St. Fillan's Highland Society. This society was organized in 1819. It consists of about three hundred of the gentlemen of Western Perthshire. Its professed object is to keep in existence the old Highland games, and the Highland costume. Since its organization, some hundred others have sprung up in various parts of Scotland, governed by similar rules, and having in view the same objects.

The Games commenced at twelve o'clock. They are always performed in the open air. Imagine yourself before a stage thirty feet square, and raised some eighteen inches from the earth. On your right hand and left, are tents filled with ladies, the nobility of this region. Opposite to you, on the other side of the stage, are numerous carriages likewise filled with ladies, and strangers, hither come from a distance of forty or fifty miles. Behind you rises, two hundred feet, an amphitheatrical hill, over whose sides are

distributed hundreds of the strong and the fair, damsels in their native tartan, and young men in hose and philabegs. Sir John Muir Mackenzie of Delvine, Bart. Chieftain, announces that the games will now commence. The first is a competition of bagpipes. The best performer of the pibroch selected for him, is to carry off as prize, a handsome full-mounted pipe with silver inscription plates. The second best performer will be presented with a handsome ́silver-mounted dirk.

'Jame McIntyre, piper to Sir Henry Bradistone,' shouted the herald. Forth walked the announced, in Highland bonnet, with a broad plaid sash curved over his left shoulder and tied beneath his right arm, richly belted, bearing two beautiful pistols under his belt, and a long dirk suspended therefrom. His sporan molach, a sort of convenient pouch, hung down before him from his waist. His philabeg, or petticoats, descended as far as his naked knees thence naked to the striped hose, which, concealing a well-developed calf, ran down into a delicate shoe, whose front shone with a silver buckle. James McIntyre having tuned. his pipe, walked struttingly up and down the stage, playing McIntosh's lament.

I had long wished to hear the great Highland bag. pipe well played. I have had enough of its sounds to-day. But whether they were well executed or not, my ear could hardly inform me. I can as yet make nothing of bagpipe music. The Scotch like it of

course.

This is their national instrument. It is asso

I

ciated with their youth, their homes, their parents, their heroic ancestors and with all the past. To me, having no moral influences to endear it, its voice is extremely unpleasant. What a horrid monotony ! can hardly distinguish one tune from another. They all seem to me but variations of the same hum-drum tiresomeness. And then what a looking instrument! That huge wind-bag, and those four long pipes awkwardly projecting out therefrom. I hate its sight; I hate its sound, and when it 'sings i' the nose,' I am quite ready to believe in that peculiar influence which, according to Shylock, it has been sometimes known to

exert.

James McIntyre having concluded his walk and his effort, touched his bonnet to the ladies and retired. George McPherson of the 49th regiment succeeded him. His costume was similar, his strut was similar, and to me his tune was the same, and so seemed his style of playing. There was, however, a certain flourish of fingers, and an air of self-confidence in the look which he bestowed upon the assembled throng, which seemed to say, 'I go in for the first prize.' After playing about five minutes, he gave way to another, who seemed to take up the droning tones just where his predecessor let them fall. Then came a fourth and a fifth. Not yet ended,' said I, in vexation, as a sixth advanced, and then, alas, a seventh, and to fill up the circle of monotonous concord, an eighth appears. 'I'll hear no more.'

When the contention of pipes was finished, the chief

tain, in a loud voice asked, 'who goes in for throwing the sledge-hammer?' A space was immediately cleared. Several men stripped for the contest. The prize for the best throw was a handsome sporan molach; that for the second best, a pair of stocking hose. The names of the competitors have passed from my memory. I shall get them near enough, however, by prefixing an Mc to any monosyllable. Well then, McNab took the hammer. It weighed twenty-two pounds. With both hands striving, he flung it easily fifty-eight feet. McDab followed. He strained hard, but alas, for want of bottom or breath, his cast fell short of the preceding about five inches. McGill now advanced. He was indeed a small body, but you had only to look at his walk, and the elastic style in which he made the pendulum-like swings preparatory to the grand fling, to feel yourself in the presence of muscle unusually condensed. His cast leaped over McNab's at least two feet. I readily joined in the 'hurra,' for McGill was a mere Lilliput by the side of McNab. McNab looked 'unconcerned, for each competitor was entitled to five trials. McBib now entered the lists. But he had evidently taken too much ale in his day. The contrast between the lean long handle of the hammer, and the bursting rotundity of his belly, set several in a roar. It is quite unnecessary to record his throw, or that of McMillin, or McMore. The competitors having each had one trial, McNab did girt himself once more for the prize. In his first effort he appeared strong; in this second he was mighty. As

he stood with his left foot somewhat advanced, his hands clenched around the hammer's handle, his eye intently fixed upon the distance before him, and every sinew seemingly strained up for the terrible feat, an old crone by my side whispered, 'aweel, he is a braw mon.' I felt sure that the sporan molach was for him. Out from his hands flew the twenty-two pounds. The fling was sixty-four feet and four inches.-Shall I attempt to depict the consternation upon the visages of McDab, McBib, McMillin, McMore? They showed the merit of ambition, however, and cheerfully exhausted their respective right of trial. But completely were they outdone by that Herculean throw of McNab. McGill was constrained to be satisfied with the pair of stocking hose; McBib winked something about another time, and the other competitors doubtless felt it sufficient glory to be beaten by so' braw a mon' as McNab.

Then came the throwing of the Putting Stone, an iron ball weighing, like the hammer, twenty-two pounds. To the best thrower thereof was to be presented a handsome silver-mounted snuff mull, and to the second best, a silver crest for the bonnet. The weight is taken into the right hand and, as it were, shoved forward. There is a vast deal of knack necessary here. I felt that McFillin would be successful. How admirably did he bring all the necessary muscular energies to act precisely at the instant when the ball was taking leave of his hand! He cast it thirtythree feet and two inches.