ere they eulogized the chiefs, and sang
in extravagant verse the deeds of the favourite warriors. Before a
battle, they went from tribe to tribe, or from clan to clan, exhorting
and encouraging by prophetic sayings, in which success to friends was
foretold and the doom of enemies pronounced. In the tumult of fight,
when the bards' voices could not be heard, they were succeeded by
pipers, who with inspiring warlike strains kept alive the enthusiasm
the composers of verse had kindled. After the contest was sounded, the
bards were employed to honour the memory of the brave that had fallen
in battle, to celebrate the deeds of those who survived, and to excite
to future acts of heroism. The piper was called upon, in turn, to
sound mournful lamentations for the slain. In poetical language, the
people were told that the dead sympathized with the living left behind
to maintain the honour of their clans or country. Messages were given
to dying friends, that they might be delivered to the spirits of
relatives in another world. Highlanders imagined they heard, in the
passing gale, the voices of departed relatives, and in their solitude
they beheld the forms of their fathers in the bright clouds. In cases
of emergency, the spirit of the mountains gave friendly warnings,
which enabled cautioned ones to avoid dangers, that otherwise could
neither be foreseen nor prevented.

Traditional poetry is highly esteemed by the mountaineers. It is a
favourite pastime with the Highlanders, when seated round the evening
fire, to relate and listen to tales of witches, fairies, etc., and to
sing the soul-stirring songs of their native bards. Formerly, those
who could recount the deeds of Fingalian times were special
favourites. To such persons every door was open, and every table free.
Nothing but ignorance could lead inhabitants of towns to suppose that
Highlanders spend their winter months in gloomy solitude. Except where
poverty or sickness prevails, the winter evenings among the mountains
have something bewitching about them. The day's toil being over,
neighbours come in, and parents and children, masters and servants,
friends and relations, hold social intercourse in the same apartment,
where there blazes a hearty fire of peats and bog-fir. None of the
young women remain idle; for while the joke and merry laugh go round,
one knits, a second sews, a third spins, and a fourth handles a
distaff. Once the happy conversation has commenced, the win