that
part of the country which is the scene of our story, of some dreadful
disaster having befallen the national regiment. No one could say of what
nature this calamity was; but a buzz went round, whose ominous
whispering of fearful slaughter made the friends of the absent soldiers
turn pale. Mothers and sisters wept, and fathers and brothers looked
grave and shook their heads. The rumour bore that, though there had been
no loss of honour, there had been a dreadful loss of life. Nay, it was
said that the regiment had made a mighty acquisition to its fame, but
that it had been dearly bought.

At length, however, the truth arrived, in a distinct and intelligible
shape. The well-known and sanguinary affair of Ticonderago had been
fought; and, in that murderous contest, the 42nd Regiment, which had
behaved with a gallantry unmatched before in the annals of war, had
suffered dreadfully--no less than forty-three officers, commissioned and
non-commissioned, and six hundred and three privates having been killed
and wounded in that corps alone.

To many a heart and home in the Highlands did this disastrous, though
glorious intelligence, bring desolation and mourning; and amongst those
on whom it brought these dismal effects, was M'Pherson of Morvane.

On the third day after the occurrence of the events related at the
outset of our narrative, a letter, which had come, in the first
instance, to a gentleman in the neighbourhood, and who also had a son in
the 42nd, was put into M'Pherson's hands, by a servant of the former.

The man looked feelingly grave as he delivered it, and hurried away
before it was opened. The letter was sealed with black wax. Poor
M'Pherson's hand trembled as he opened it. It was from the captain of
the company to which his sons belonged, informing him that both had
fallen in the attack on Ticonderago. There was an attempt in the letter
to soothe the unfortunate father's feelings, and to reconcile him to the
loss of his gallant boys, in a lengthened detail of their heroic conduct
during the sanguinary struggle. "Nobly," said the writer, "did your two
brave sons maintain the honour of their country in the bloody strife.
Both Hugh and Alister fell--their broadswords in their hands--on the
very ramparts of Ticonderago, whither they had fought their way with a
dauntlessness of heart, and a strength of arm, that might have excited
the envy and admiration of the son of Fingal."

In this account of the noble c