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he now occupied, so he very slowly and carefully crawled along the top of the wall until he came to an angle where the wall rose higher. This was what he expected, and he still continued to grope his way along, feeling on the inner side of the wall with his hands, to ascertain if any part of the rooms remained intact ; at last he felt what were evidently some slates, which, he knew, must have fallen on the floor of one of the upper rooms.

He cautiously lowered himself, still keeping a firm hold on the wall with both his hands, until he tested the strength of his standing place. Finding it firm, he did not venture further, but sat down on the floor, under the slight shelter afforded by the fragment of wall left standing Fortunately, he had some matches in a tin box in an inner pocket which the water had not reached, so, striking one, he attempted to ascertain his position. He saw that he was in the ruins of a room in the upper story; nearly all the roof had fallen, and the floor on which he stood was covered with the debris. A few feet from where he stood was a great hole in the floor, through which he would have fallen had he ventured to move forward without a light. Although his situation was bad enough, he felt in comparative safety, especially as the gale was lessening in force, and the water evidently subsiding, so he made up his mind to stay where he was until morning, when he could see where to go. Body and mind had now been on the rack for, at least, five hours. The sense of safety took away the excitement that had acted like a stimulant while he was in danger, and, although drenched to the skin, and very imperfectly sheltered from the storm, he fell asleep. But, as may be readily imagined, his slumbers were very disturbed. He was still, in his dreams, stumbling over coffins and battling with floods. He dreamed of a precipice towards which he was being irresistibly hurried. He struggled wildly in this terrible nightmare, and woke with a cry of terror, as he felt himself falling through the hole in the floor, to which he had rolled in his disturbed sleep. He fell with a splash into the water which flooded the room below; but his fall was broken by his alighting on a soft substance. Putting out his hand to feel what he had fallen upon, he withdrew it with horror, for it had touched the face of a dead man.

Good God!” he cried, in terror, “are the horrors of this night never to cease?”

He staggered to his feet, and, when he had somewhat recovered from the great shock he had received, he struck a match, and, holding it down, saw, staring up at him through the surrounding darkness, the ghastly dead face of poor Mr. Campbell, made still more horrible by the look of wild terror that death had frozen on it.

“The widow's curse has been fulfilled," said Macneil, trembling and shaking with fear, yet afraid to move. Thus he stood for what seemed to him a long time, till at last the cold, grey light of coming day diffused itself over the pitiable scene.

But the faint light only increased poor Macneil's terror, for it only served to make darkness visible; and his over-strained imagination saw spectres on every side, while he could not take his eyes off the pale face of his late master, gleaming ghastly through the struggling light of early morn.

“If I do not get out of this I shall go mad,” said he, at last, making an effort to throw off a sensation of dread which chained him to the ground. He made a step forward, when he stumbled over some heavy object and fell, striking his head against some furniture so severely that, for a time, he lay quite stunned. When he recovered, the daylight was strong enough for him to see plainly his dread surroundings. On raising himself, and turning to see what had caused his fall, he nearly lost his senses again with horror, for what did he see but the body of Mr. Campbell with the head supported on a coffin, the broken lid of which revealed to his terror-stricken view the mangled remains of the widow Cameron.

" It is a judgment from heaven,” he exclaimed ; “better for me to drown outside than to stay amid these horrors.” So saying, he rushed out of the door, and, half wading, half swimming, he managed at length to reach the road leading to his own house ; but, as soon as he felt himself on firm ground, and in the open day-light, he fell insensible to the ground, utterly worn out with the varied emotions and dangers he had encountered. Thus he was found by some neighbours, soon afterwards, and carried home, where he kept his bed for some weeks, suffering from the effects of his exposure and fright during that never-to-be-forgotten night.

When the sun rose on Glenfalcon, its rays illumined as sad a

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scene as could well be found. The graveyard and the bridge had been carried away by the mad torrent, which tore up every object in its destructive career.

Several of the crofters' houses were levelled with the ground. Dead sheep and cattle were to be seen floating amid the waste of water; some were even washed right out into the bay. Mr. Campbell's house was a complete wreck, and around it lay scattered the contents of the graveyard. Coffins lay around in all directions, many of them broken, revealing their ghastly contents in all stages of decomposition. Human bones and skulls lay all around; but the most fearful sight was inside the house, where the people found Mr. Campbell lying, as Macneil described, with his head pillowed on the coffin of the victim of his cruelty.

A feeling of intense awe crept over the people at this fearful sight. “It is a judgment,” was the universal verdict, as they recalled the widow's curse. The excitement went down with the flood. The dead bodies were collected and reinterred, and things resumed their usual course. A new and more substantial bridge was built, and the estate passed into the hands of a distant relative of Mr. Campbell, who had the ruins of the ill-fated house levelled with the ground.

It is years since these events happened, but they are still fresh in the memory of the old people in the district, who yet relate the story of the dreadful flood, and some aver that the widow's curse still hangs over the place where the proprietor's house once stood, and that, on dark stormy nights, when the wind howls mournfully through the glen, the sheeted dead leave their graves and mingle their ghostly voices with the storm.

“THE MASSACRE OF THE ROSSES.”-A reprint of a very rare pamphlet, of about 40 pages, bearing the above title, has just been issued by A. & W. Mackenzie, Celtic Magazine Office, Inverness. This little work gives a detailed and thrilling account of one of the most heartless clearances ever carried out even in the Highlands of Scotland, and which, in point of official brutality, is without parallel in the history of evictions. The pamphlet has been for many years out of print, the one from which this edition is reprinted being the only one ever seen by the Editor. The author was the late Mr. Donald Ross, who recorded the atrocities of the Knoydart, Suishinish, Boreraig, and other evictions, in other pamphlets, largely quoted in Mr. Mackenzie's History of the Ilighland Clearances. The brutal proceedings described in this brochure occurred as recently as 1854! Mr. Ross procured his information at the time on the spot, and his statements are corroborated by several trustworthy and respectable persons, among them, the Rev. Dr. Gustavus Aird, then and now of Creich, whose letter on the subject, written at the time, forms part of the pamphlet. The edition is limited-price sixpence-By post sevenpence.

FROM NETHER LOCHABER.

Dear Mr. Editor,-Looking over a deskful of old papers this morning, I find another very happy rendering into Gaelic of a once popular song, by my friend, the late Rev. Dr. Macintyre, of Kilmonivaig.

Shortly after one of his daughters had emigrated to her brothers in Australia, the venerable Doctor somewhere heard sung the plaintively sweet song, “Do they miss me at home ?" and both words and air having, for the family at the Manse, a direct and particular meaning and appropriateness with reference to the absent one, the translation into Gaelic was the result.

It is now many years since I heard this song sung either in English or Gaelic, but my recollection is that the air was either the same or very similar to that better known, perhaps, as “Tam Glen."

Dear Mr. Editor,

faithfully yours, 8th March, 1886.

NETHER LOCHABER.
DO THEY MISS ME AT HOME ?
Do they miss me at home, do they miss me?

'Twould be an assurance most dear,
To know that this moment some loved ones

Were saying, We wish she were here,”
To feel that the group at the fireside

Were thinking of me as I roam,
Oh, yes, 'twould be joy beyond measure,
To know that they miss'd me at home!

To know, &c.
When twilight approaches, the season

That ever is sacred to song,
Does some one repeat my name over,

And sigh that I tarry so long ;
And is there a chord in the music,

That's miss'd when my voice is away,
And a chord in each heart that awaketh
Regret at my wearisome stay?

Regret at, &c.
Do they set me a chair near the table
When evening's home pleasur

sures are nigh,
When the candles are lit in the parlour,

And the stars in the calm, azure sky ?
And when the “Good Nights” are repeated,

And all lay them down to sleep.

Do they think of the absent, and waft me
A whispered “Good Night” while they weep?

A whispered, &c.
Do they miss me at home, do they miss me,

At morning, at noon, or at night?
And lingers one gloomy shade round them,

That only my presence can light ?
Are joys less invitingly welcome,

And pleasures less hale than before,
Because one is missed from the circle,
Because I am with them no more?

Because I, &c.
Manse of Kilmonivaig, March 23rd, 1859.

AM BHEIL IAD GA M'IONNDRAIN ?
A bheil iad' gam ionndrain o 'n bhaile ?

Bu ghaolach le m' chridhe 's an àm-s'
A’ chinnt gu bheil gràdhaich a' guidhe,

“Oh b' fhearr leinn gu'n robh i 'so 'n dràst'” Am fios gu'n robh 'n croilein mu'n teallaich

A’ smuaineachadh orm-s' tha air falbh,
Dearbh-bheachd

gu

bheil ionndrain aig bail' orm, B’àrd-sholas gun tomhas än sealbh !

B'àrd-shòlas, &c.
'Nuair 'chiaras am feasgar, an tràth sin,

'Tha coisrigt' do ’n dàn, cian nan cian,
'Bheil neach ann a luaidheas air m'ainm-sa,

'S a their “ 'S thad air falbh' uainn mo mhiann "?
'S am mothaichear meang anns an òran

'S gun mo ghuth-sa a' comhnadh na téis'?
No 'n dùisg e teud-bhròin anns gach anam
Mi 'bhi uapa air m'aineol, an céin ?

Mi 'bhi, &c.
An suidhich iad cathair aig bòrd dhomh

'N ’àm éibhneis an teaghlaich 'bhi dlùth ?
'N uair lasar na coinnlean a's' t-seomar,

'S na reultan 's a' ghorm-speur gu ciuin ?
'N uair' ghabhas gach aon cead d'a chéile,

'S a théid iad, fa leth 'ghabhail tàimh,
'M bi cuimhn' air an té' th' air a h-aineol,
'S an guidh iad, fo smalan, dhi “ slàint'”

'S an, &c.
'A' bheil iad' ga m'ionndrain o'n bhaile

Trà maidne, trı feasgair, tra nòin !
'S na thàrmaich neul dubhach mu'n cuairt doibh

Nach soillsioh ä ghruainn ach mo neoil-s'!
'Bheil súgradh 'us mànran cho taitneach,

'S a bhà cion a b' ait' bha mi leò ?
No' bheil iad fo cheal, o 'n nach dògh dhomh
'Bhi 'n caidribh a' chròilein ni's mò ?

'Bhi ’n caidribh, &c.

A LEGEND OF LOCH-EILD, BY “NETHER LOCHABER.”—The May Number of the Celtic Magazine will contain a Poem, by the Rev. Alexander Stewart, LL.D., “Nether Lochaber,” entitled, “ A Legend of Loch-Eild."

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