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!
[Illustration]