ny Scottish
gentlemen of that day, had been bred in loyalty to the Jacobite cause.
He was one of the first to join the Prince when he had reached Perth,
and it was from the Prince himself that he received his company, after
the fight at Prestonpans. His life was all romance, but the part on
which it is our present purpose to dwell is the account he has left in
his memoirs of his escape from the field of Culloden, and the terrible
sufferings he went through for some months, till he finally made his way
safely to Holland.

'The battle of Culloden,' he says,[14] 'was lost rather by a series of
mistakes on our part than by any skilful manoeuvre of the Duke of
Cumberland,' and every Scot in arms knew too well the doom that awaited
him at the 'Butcher's' hands. The half-starved Highlanders were no match
for the well-fed English troops, and when the day was lost, and the rout
became general, each man sought to conceal himself in the fastnesses of
the nearest mountains, and, as long as he put himself well out of reach,
was not particular as to the means he took to purchase safety.

[Illustration]

Panics disclose strange and unexpected depths in men's minds, and
Johnstone was in no respect superior to his fellows. 'Being no longer
able to keep myself on my legs,' he relates,[15] 'and the enemy always
advancing very slowly, but redoubling their fire, my mind was agitated
and undecided whether I should throw away my life, or surrender a
prisoner, which was a thousand times worse than death on the field of
battle. All at once I perceived a horse, about thirty paces before me,
without a rider. The idea of being yet able to escape gave me fresh
strength and served as a spur to me. I ran and laid hold of the bridle,
which was fast in the hand of a man lying on the ground, whom I supposed
dead; but, what was my surprise when the cowardly poltroon, who was
suffering from nothing but fear, dared to remain in the most horrible
fire to dispute the horse with me, at twenty paces from the enemy. All
my menaces could not induce him to quit the bridle. Whilst we were
disputing, a discharge from a cannon loaded with grape-shot fell at our
feet, without however producing any effect upon this singular
individual, who obstinately persisted in retaining the horse.
Fortunately for me, Finlay Cameron, an officer in Lochiel's regiment, a
youth of twenty years of age, six feet high, and very strong and
vigorous, happened to pass near us. I called o