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and the princes of the old historic families he early acquired that charm of manner and courtly air which commended him so strongly to those with whom he came in contact. was a welcome guest in the palaces of the nobility, and a frequent attendant at dinners and dances. The first hint of his intention to try his fortune in Scotland was given by his appearance at a ball, in the Palazzo Pamphili, in the Highland dress. The Prince was fond of music, and he and his brother, Henry, were in the habit of giving a concert once a week to the elite of the Roman world. One of his favourite recreations was golf. He played the ancient game in the grounds of the Villa Borghese, which is now the Bois de Boulogne or Hyde Park of modern Rome. It is said that the prince and his father, James, used to wander among the ruined places of Rome, talking over their plans for the recovery of their ancestral kingdoms.

James and his two sons, Charles and Henry, were naturally personages of much importance in Rome. "The King of England," says President de Brosses, in 1740, "is treated here with as much respect as though he were a real reigning sovereign. He lives in the Piazzo di Sant' Apostoli, in a large palace, not remarkable for beauty. The Pope's soldiers mount guard there, as at Monte Cavallo, and accompany him whenever he goes out, which does not often happen. It is easy to know him for a Stuart." The President adds, that his dignity of manners was remarkable, and his devotion excessive. The poet Gray, writing in the same year, states, "The Pretender I have had frequent opportunities of seeing at church, at the Corso, and other places; but more particularly, and that for a whole night, at a great ball, given by Count Patrizzii to the Prince and Princess Craon, at which he and his two sons were present. They are good fine boys, especially the younger, who has the more spirit of the two, and both danced incessantly all night long."

In January, 1744, at the age of twenty three, Charles left Rome to put his fortunes to the touch. He did not again take up residence in his birth-place till more than twenty years after. On New Year's Day, 1766, his father died, and Charles returned to the Palazzo di Sant' Apostoli, where he had spent his youth. "James the Third" had been recognized as King of Great Britain and Ireland by the Courts of France, and Spain, and the Pope. When he died, his son, Charles, requested that the recognition accorded to his father should be continued to himself. France and Spain, influenced by fear of Great Britain, refused, and the Pope followed suit. Charles displayed intense indignation and annoyance. He refused to mingle in

Roman society, and shut himself up in his palace, giving out that he wished only to be recognized as plain John Douglas. Cardinal Henry Stuart, Duke of York, vainly endeavoured to persuade the Pope to acknowledge his brother as a sovereign. He ostentatiously drove through the streets of Rome in his state carriage, having Charles seated on his right hand, a distinction which no cardinal should grant to any but a king or queen. But the Pope persisted in his refusal to recognize Charles as a king. The Rectors of the English, Scottish, and Irish Colleges, were banished from Rome, for treating the Prince as their sovereign. The Prince was left to hold his little mimic court, surrounded by a few faithful Jacobites who refused to desert him. Wretched and miserable, Charles yielded more and more to his besetting sin. He became a slave to "the nasty bottle," as Cardinal York calls it. So degraded did the once brilliant Prince become, that when his visitors came to know him, "they treated him without any ceremony." In his miserable seclusion he remained for a year and a half.

In the middle of 1767, Charles, "being tired," as the English ambassador said, "of living in the midst of the town like a hermit, or rather like one infected with the plague," decided to resume friendly relations with the Pope. He was accordingly formally introduced to Clement "as a private nobleman," and again took up his position as a member of Roman society, where he was known as the Comte d'Albanie. He became a frequent guest at the Vatican, and appeared at the balls and concerts with which he had been once familiar. But his existence was embittered by the refusal of the title of king. "He has a melancholy, mortified appearance," wrote a lady who saw him at this time. His life in society was unfortunately broken by those periodical disappearances, when he sought solace for his grief in Cyprus wine.

In the summer of 1770, Charles left Rome, and did not return till two years after. In March, 1772, he married the young and beautiful Princess Louise de Stolberg, and the newly wedded pair took up residence in the Palazzo di Sant' Apostoli. Charles again attempted to have his title as King of England acknowledged by the Pope. As soon as he had taken up his abode in Rome, he informed the Papal Secretary of State of the arrival of the "King and Queen of England." No notice was taken of his formal announcement, and the Princess soon made herself unpopular, by requiring from the Roman ladies a deference and precedence which they were not disposed to give. Charles was proud of his young wife, and under her influence, overcame, for a time, his besetting weakness. "She seemed made to

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turn everybody's head," said Bonsetten. Prince appears to have been fairly happy at this period. "He delighted," says Bonsetten, "to speak English, and spoke much and willingly of his adventures." "His young wife," he adds, "laughed heartily at the history of his having been disguised in woman's clothes, considering his mien and stature." But the happiness was not of long duration. The Prince and his wife were utterly unsuited to one another. In less than two years they left Rome, and after a stormy period of married life, they were amicably divorced.

Having parted from his wife, the Prince. invited to his lonely home his illegitimate daughter, Charlotte, whom he had not seen for twenty years, and who had been living in a convent with her mother, Clementine Walkinshaw, daughter of Walkinshaw, laird of Camlachie. Charlotte, who was attractive and affectionate, soon captured her father's heart, and he legitimized her, and created her Duchess of Albany. But he did not enjoy her society very long. In January, 1788, he was attacked by paralysis, and on the 31st, he died in the arms of his daughter. He was attended in his last moments by the Franciscan brothers, James and Michael MacCormick, two Irishmen from Leitrim. He was buried in St. Peter's, beside his father and mother, and there, in the Imperial City of the Caesars, he now rests. Seventeen hundred years before his death, the spot where he lies was a Roman Circus, in which Christians were torn to pieces by savage beasts. ground, which was stained by the blood of the martyrs, the Bonnie Prince Charlie sleeps. Beati mortui qui in domino moriuntur; so runs the inscription on the marble monument.

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The contrast between the beginning and the end of the Prince's life is sad in the extreme. The fatal habit which he first learnt when lying among the damp heather of the Highlands, made his later years a disgrace to himself, and a sorrow to his friends. The hope deferred, which maketh the heart sick, embittered his later life. It is said that he used to burst into tears when he heard the tune of "Lochaber no more." On one occasion, he was induced by an Englishman named Greathead, after some unwillingness, to speak on his enterprise in Scotland. He recounted his adventures with animation and eagerness, but when he came to describe the terrible penalties visited on his followers, he was choked with emotion, and fell convulsed on the floor. The noise brought into the room his daughter, the Duchess of Albany. "Sir," she cried, "what is this? You have been speaking to my father about Scotland and the Highlanders! No one dares to mention those subjects in his presence."

Not long ago it was the fortune of the present writer to be present at a great ecclesiastical function in St. Peter's. An excited mass of Italian pilgrims waited to receive the benediction of the Holy Father. The sound of their voices was like the sound of the waves breaking on the rocks of Mull. Leo the Thirteenth was borne in on his chair high above the heads of the people, and the pilgrims shouted and cheered, and again and again the famous cry was raised "Il Papa Re, Il Papa Re, the Pope King, the Pope King." The Noble Guards, and the Pope's Chamberlains, and the scarlet-robed Cardinals passed down the nave like a piece of mediæval pageantry. And as the writer listened to the sonorous Latin Litany sounding in the incenseladen air, he looked across to the monument of the Stuarts, with the marble effigies of James the Third, and Charles the Third, and Henry the Ninth, and there mingled in his ear, with the murmer of the Catholic prayer, the beautiful words of Andrew Lang:

Ah, my prince, it were well

Had'st thou to the Gods been dear-
To have fallen where Keppoch fell,
With the war-pipe loud in thine ear.

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DEATH OF A HIGHLAND CLAN HISTORIAN.-We regret to intimate the death at Inverness of Mr. R. S. T. MacEwen, Barrister at Law, Lincoln's Inn, and late Additional Recorder, Rangoon, Burma. Mr. MacEwen after a very successful career in India and Burma, returned to the old country to spend the evening of his life. He was greatly interested in Highland literature, and as a result of a conversation which the writer had with him, Mr. MacEwen decided to write a history of his own clan, the materials for which he had been collecting for many years. The MS. of "Clan Ewen" was completed sometime ago and is now in the printer's hands, and it is to be regretted that the author has not been spared to see the publication of his work. His sudden death will be lamented by a large circle of friends.

CLAN MACLEAN. -This Society will publish shortly a volume containing a complete collection of all the tunes associated with the clan, several of which had to be taken down specially from clansmen for the purpose.-The oil-painting of the chief, Sir Fitzroy D. Maclean, C. B., which the clan are to present to him at the social gathering in October, is making good progress, and promises to be a striking likeness.

THE PIOBAIREACHD OF ETERNAL

GOOD-BYES.

A TALE OF STRATHNAVER.

HERE was, before now, a swanky lad on Loch Naver side, who was better than the best at three things-the playing of a piobaireachd, the playing of a new-run salmon, and the playing with the heart of a maid. It is but a quiet place now, Loch Naver side, but when Dughall Donn sent the skirl of his pipes across the water it was a throng place, and no mistake. The Strath was green, and yellow, and white, as the seasons went from Spring to Autumn, and

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on a summer eve you would see the peat-reek curling up from the farm places, like the holy smoke from an altar, as the folk were sitting, at their evening meal indoors, and giving God grace for His mindfulness of their hunger. Faith! but it was a land of milk and honey, long ago. now! och, och, there is no manner of use to speak about these things, for in Strathnaver now, there is a shameful silence, and only here and there a wheen ruined biggings standing, with never a blue column of peat-reek at all to tell that yonder a man or a woman or a bairn will be thanking God for His mercies.

But it was down by Naver side that Dùghall Donn piped his piobaireachd. You might see his house standing still near the inn at

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Altnaharra, on a mound of green grass. was, as I was afore telling you, a swanky ladby which we mean in Sutherland, a long strengthy straight man that has the swing of a king about him when he walks, and the fearless look of the rover in his eye. Oh, but it was the bonnie brown eye that Dughall Donn had, with a soft deep danger about it when he went courting the maids of Mudale in the gloaming, and a red flash of fire about it when he was crossed or angered. Down by the lochside or up the banks of the Mudale river, you might hear his pipes at any hour, for Dughall was the roving chiel all his days. He would sit at his window and stare out at the loch and Ben Clebrig, as if they were just new come into the

world and had a wonder about them to see. And so they had for the swanky lad of Altnaharra. He would go dreaming along the hillside by his lone, and never see anything but the clouds, and the hills, and the loch. Some said he had the second sight and knew more than a man should ever know. But, no matter, he had a coaxing way with the maids, and when a man has that-well, that is the first sight and the best.

It fell on a day, when the corn was waving fine and yellow in the little fields that lie between Altnaharra hostelry and the loch, that Dùghall Donn took the bend of the road and went away to see the world that lies beyond Ben Clebrig and the Crask. It is always the

way with the brown-eyed ones-they cannot rest at home, but will ever be wanting to see, and know, and try things for themselves, as if the glen and the lochside had not been enough for their fathers and their fathers' fathers. So it fell, that when the swanky lad took the way the south, there was heard that night many a sound of weeping and lament on Loch Naver side, for the danger of the brown eyes had fallen on a woman's heart here and there, across the hills.

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And the days grew into weeks, and the weeks slid into months, and the months began to make a tale of years.

Then there was heard a strange and halfforgotten sound of piping up on Clebrig's side. For there is a trick in the good piping which a man, with a fine ear for the piobaireachd, never forgets, when once he has heard it lovingly.

"That is the piping of Dùghall Donn and no mistake!" said Angus Mackay, at the hostel door, one quiet gloaming.

"Och, you are dreaming, Angus," said young Ewan, the herd.

"Dream or no dream, my lad, there was never a piobaireachd like that put on the pipes but the swanky man, with the danger in his eyes, played it."

Then the two men listened. And down from the great scarred sides of Clebrig there came the sound of a smooth played piobaireachd that slid into the soul, and made them that heard it think, with a lump in the throat, of days long gone by, and old songs and courtings, and the tale of a heart-breaking good-bye for ever and a day.

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My God! it is too much. I'm for the hill," and away he went with a sob in his throat, and the restlessness that kills all astir in his soul.

"Aye," mused old Angus, "it is the piping of one who has seen for himself, but my old heart will be too dry and withered to beat faster at the sound of it. But waes me for the young ones. If they hear it, there will be empty hearths in Naver side the morrow."

That night, when all was still and quiet at Altnaharra, and the moonlight was lying like a fairy shroud on the loch, and the air was trembling all alive with the coming of the chilly life that thrills the world when Dawn begins to lift the eyelid of the Day-Dùghall Donn stood in front of the hostelry at Altnaharra, and blew the magic piobaireachd on his pipes. The sound went down the winds of Dawn, and every man and maid who had youth at all turned restlessly on the pillow, and wakened with a catching of the breath. Young Ewan heard the sound first, and came creeping from the barn behind the inn. He saw the swanky lad, that had gone away and seen for himself, standing like a king,

and piping before the door, with a look on the face of him like the dawn. And in the dimlight, Ewan saw sitting on the little round seat, beneath the great tree, in the garden oppositea woman weeping quietly to the music of the man. With a straightening of the back, and a fling of the shoulders, the piper wheeled about, and took the path to the highroad, playing all the while with a heart-breaking sob in every note. The woman rose and followed without a word, and these two, in the fast coming dawnlight, went along the road by the church, the man walking with the knees thrown out at every step, which is the mark of the piping Gael ever since the days of MacCrimmon, and before that.

At Mudale bridge they stopped—and, in the silence that followed, there were only two sounds heard the far off cry of a whaup, as it sent its first wild gurly cry into the mouth of day, and the gentle sound of the woman weeping, as she stood with her face buried in the piper's shoulder.

He was clad in a ragged coat and ragged trews. On his head of curly brown hair there was set an old bonnet of blue-set with a careless jaunty air about it that matched well the high look on the face below. But he was woesome to see, standing there in his rags, with that straight strengthy look of a king about him, that rags and ruin can never hide.

And the woman-she was small, and thin, and pale, with a shower of jet black hair falling over the man's shoulder when her face was hid. She had lily white hands, and soft feet that were all scarred and bleeding with the tramping of the roads. And the man and the woman stood still and silent there, on the bridge of Mudale, she weeping quietly, and he looking far away into the light of dawn.

"Will we be going back again, lamb of my heart, to where the knowledge of the sorrow is?"

"Ah, take me back again, my lord, for I canna thole the silence and the mystery of the glens. I am weary for the sounds and the laughter of my ain place. God Himself is looking at us here, where the winds come soughing from His home. Take me back to where you found me, play me over the hills again, and forget this place ye lived in, and the hearts ye loved so well. Come, my piper, come away from this land of silent men, and when we have crossed the hills, you'll forget that ever ye were here."

Then the swanky lad looked northward up the road, where the two tall pillars of stone marked the place that men set out for the salt sea smells and as he looked there was a hunger in his eye and a heaving in his breast. But the woman saw him looking northward, and with more tears and coaxings, she cried, "Not that

way, never that way, but back to my ain place yonder!"

And she pointed her lily white finger to the south, where Ben Clebrig had caught the pale wan light of day, and was waking up in his mighty silence from his long, sound, stony sleep. "Well and well-if it is to be, here's for the back o' beyond!" cried the swanky man. And stooping down, he bound her little feet where the rough travelling had cut them, and taking his own shoes from his tired soles, he tied them tightiy, but tenderly, on to the woman's. Then the fire and the danger and the wild light leaped in his eye again as he threw the drones over his shoulders, and, in his rags and shoeless misery, piped a piobaireachd of everlasting farewells to

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the loch, and stream, and glen. On and on through the trees of Altnaharra they went, back by the road they came, and the winds were full of the pipe music that seemed to tell of everything that had been and would never be again. Ewan, the herd, was watching them as they went by the hostelry, and he said, that when they took the bend of the road, the pipe music was heart-rending to hear, and the tears were running down the cheeks of the great strengthy man as he played, but the woman had stopped her weeping, and was laughing quietly to herself, and dancing strange steps of cheerfulness behind the man, as he played his piobaireachd of eternal good-byes.

TORQUIL MACLEOD.

HE motto of the Leslies, Grip fast, has been unchanged since the time of Queen Margaret of Scotland, by whom it was given to Bartholomew Leslie, founder of the family, under the following circumstances. In crossing a river swollen by floods, the queen was thrown from her horse and in danger of being carried away and drowned, when the knight, plunging into the stream, seized hold of her majesty's girdle, and as he brought her with difficulty towards the bank she frequently exclaimed "Grip fast," and afterwards expressed the desire that her preserver should retain the words as his motto in remembrance of the

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Occurrence.

Sir George Ogilvie was entrusted by William, Earl Marischal, in keeping the castle of Dunottar, in which were lodged the crown, sword and sceptre, the regalia of Scotland, which he carefully preserved from the English who forced him to surrender the castle, but missing the regalia they kept him and his lady in long imprisonment, of which she died. On the restoration of Charles II., Sir George delivered the regalia to the Earl Marischal again entire, for which King Charles honoured him with the title of knight-baronet, and allowed the thistle, the badge of the kingdom, to be carried on his arms. William Keith, son of the Earl Marischal, was also honoured with a coatof-arms of special concession for his loyalty to Charles II. in assisting to keep the regalia out of the hands of the English. The coat bears a sceptre, crown, and sword, on an orle of eight thistles. And here, as in all cases, when arms of special concession are marshalled next paternal arms, the arms of special concession have precedence.

The arms of the Robertsons of Struan are charged with three wolves' heads; the crest is a dexter hand holding an imperial crown; motto, virtutes gloria merces. The first of the family

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