of any of
his race, this phantom-warrior gallops along the sea-beach near the
castle, announcing the event by cries and loud lamentations. The doctor,
who attended the present chief's mother, declares that, while sitting
beside her bed during the silent watches of the night, he heard the
noise of the spectral horse just before the old lady's decease. The
natives of Mull can describe the ghost and horse with accurate detail.
The horse is a small, hardy, sure-footed animal of brown colour, and
Ewen is known by the smallness of his head, and by a long floating
mantle of green. He performed a weird and long-continued gallop round
the bay in 1815, before the news of the valiant Sir Archibald MacLaine's
death became known by official despatch from the seat of war.

Lochbuie, like so many other places in Scotland, has its Piper's Cave.
There is a remarkable similarity in all such tales--diversified,
however, by quaint local additions. MacLaine's piper, a foolhardy man,
determined once to test the allegation that a certain cave on Lochbuie
was connected with another cave at Pennygown on the Sound of Mull.
Attired in his official costume and having his dog at his heels, he
entered the cave, blowing his pipes triumphantly. Those above, on the
hills, were able to make out his line of passage by the sound of the
music. At a certain point the pipes ceased, and nevermore did the piper
come up to the shores of light. The dog got to the cave of Pennygown--a
limp and hairless parody of its former self.

Browning, in his "Pied Piper of Hamelin," has but poetised one version
of a world-wide tale. Often, in the Highland tales, it is money the
piper is after. There is a deep cave near Melvaig, in Wester Ross, into
which a piper is said to have led a band of men in search of gold, and
never returned. In this case the pipe-music is said to have continued
for years--some natives even asserting that it may be heard still by
those who have ears to hear.

In spite of all the legendary lore connected with the family of the
MacLaines, the chief interest of Lochbuie for a lover of literature,
centres round the visit of Boswell and Johnson. In one of the rooms of
the castle there is a fine portrait of Johnson. On looking at it, my
mind reverted to the amusing question addressed to the sage by the
"bluff, comely, noisy old gentleman" who was the laird of Lochbuie in
1773: "Are you of the Johnstons of Glencro or of Ardnamurchan?" "Dr.
Johnson," say