About eleven in the forenoon, the troops of c.u.mberland were observed upon the eastern extremity of the wide muir of Culloden, and preparations were instantly made for the coming battle. The army had been strengthened that morning by the arrival of the Keppoch Macdonalds and a party of the Frasers; but even with these reinforcements the whole available force which the Prince could muster was about five thousand men, to oppose at fearful odds an enemy twice as numerous, and heavily supported by artillery. Fortune on this day seemed to have deserted the Prince altogether. In drawing out the line of battle, a most unlucky arrangement was made by O'Sullivan, who acted as adjutant, whereby the Macdonald regiments were removed from the right wing--the place which the great clan Colla has been privileged to hold in Scottish array ever since the auspicious battle of Bannockburn. To those who are not acquainted with the peculiar temper and spirit of the Highlanders, and their punctilio upon points of honour and precedence, the question of arrangement will naturally appear a matter of little importance. But it was not so felt by the Macdonalds, who considered their change of position as a positive degradation, and who further looked upon it as an evil omen to the success of the battle. The results of this mistake will be explained immediately.

Just before the commencement of the action, the weather, which had hitherto been fair and sunny, became overcast, and a heavy blast of rain and sleet beat directly in the faces of the Highlanders. The English artillery then began to play upon them, and, being admirably served, every discharge told with fearful effect upon the ranks. The chief object of either party at the battle of Culloden seems to have been to force its opponent to leave his position, and to commence the attack.

c.u.mberland, finding that his artillery was doing such execution, had no occasion to move; and Charles appears to have committed a great error in abandoning a mode of warfare which was peculiarly suited for his troops, and which, on two previous occasions, had proved eminently successful.

Had he at once ordered a general charge, and attempted to silence the guns, the issue of the day might have been otherwise: but his unfortunate star prevailed.

"It was not," says Mr. Chambers, "till the cannonade had continued nearly half an hour, and the Highlanders had seen many of their kindred stretched upon the heath, that Charles at last gave way to the necessity of ordering a charge. The aide-de-camp intrusted to carry his message to the Lieutenant-general--a youth of the name of Maclachlan--was killed by a cannon-ball before he reached the first line, but the general sentiment of the army, as reported to Lord George Murray, supplied the want, and that general took it upon him to order an attack without Charles's permission having been communicated.

"Lord George had scarcely determined upon ordering a general movement, when the Macintoshes, a brave and devoted clan, though not before engaged in action, unable any longer to brook the unavenged slaughter made by the cannon, broke from the centre of the line, and rushed forward through smoke and snow to mingle with the enemy. The Athole men, Camerons, Stuarts, Frasers, and Macleans also went on, Lord George Murray heading them with that rash bravery befitting the commander of such forces. Thus, in the course of one or two minutes, the charge was general along the whole line, except at the left extremity, where the Macdonalds, dissatisfied with their position, hesitated to engage.

"The action and event of the onset were, throughout, quite as dreadful as the mental emotion which urged it. Notwithstanding that the three files of the front line of English poured forth their incessant fire of musketry--notwithstanding that the cannon, now loaded with grapeshot, swept the field as with a hailstorm--notwithstanding the flank fire of Wolfe's regiment--onward, onward went the headlong Highlanders, flinging themselves into, rather than rushing upon, the lines of the enemy, which, indeed, they did not see for smoke, till involved among the weapons. All that courage, all that despair could do, was done. It was a moment of dreadful and agonising suspense, but only a moment--for the whirlwind does not reap the forest with greater rapidity than the Highlanders cleared the line. Nevertheless, almost every man in their front rank, chief and gentleman, fell before the deadly weapons which they had braved; and, although the enemy gave way, it was not till every bayonet was bent and b.l.o.o.d.y with the strife.

"When the first line had thus been swept aside, the a.s.sailants continued their impetuous advance till they came near the second, when, being almost annihilated by a profuse and well-directed fire, the shattered remains of what had been before a numerous and confident force began to give way. Still a few rushed on, resolved rather to die than forfeit their well-acquired and dearly-estimated honour. They rushed on; but not a man ever came in contact with the enemy. The last survivor perished as he reached the points of the bayonets."

Some idea of the determination displayed by the Highlanders in this terrific charge may be gathered from the fact that, in one part of the field, their bodies were afterwards found in layers of three and four deep. The slaughter was fearful, for, out of the five regiments which charged the English, almost all the leaders and men in the front rank were killed. So shaken was the English line, that, had the Macdonald regiments, well-known to yield in valour to none of the clans, come up, the fortune of the day might have been altered. But they never made an onset. Smarting and sullen at the affront which they conceived to have been put upon their name, they bore the fire of the English regiments without flinching, and gave way to their rage by hewing at the heather with their swords. In vain their chiefs exhorted them to go forward: even at that terrible moment the pride of clanship prevailed. "My G.o.d!"

cried Macdonald of Keppoch, "has it come to this, that the children of my tribe have forsaken me!" and he rushed forward alone, sword in hand, with the devotion of an ancient hero, and fell pierced with bullets.

The Lowland and foreign troops which formed the second line were powerless to retrieve the disaster. All was over. The rout became general, and the Prince was forced from the field, which he would not quit, until dragged from it by his immediate bodyguard.

Such was the last battle, the result of civil war, which has been fought on British soil. Those who were defeated have acquired as much glory from it as the conquerors--and even more, for never was a conquest sullied by such deeds of deliberate cruelty as were perpetrated upon the survivors of the battle of Culloden. It is not, however, the object of the present paper to recount these, or even the romantic history or hairbreadth escapes of the Prince, whilst wandering on the mainland and through the Hebrides. Although a reward of thirty thousand pounds--an immense sum for the period--was set upon his head--although his secret was known to hundreds of persons in every walk of life, and even to the beggar and the outlaw--not one attempted to betray him. Not one of all his followers, in the midst of the misery which overtook them, regretted having drawn the sword in his cause, or would not again have gladly imperilled their lives for the sake of their beloved Chevalier. "He went," says Lord Mahon, "but not with him departed his remembrance from the Highlanders. For years and years did his name continue enshrined in their hearts and familiar to their tongues, their plaintive ditties resounding with his exploits and inviting his return. Again, in these strains, do they declare themselves ready to risk life and fortune for his cause; and even maternal fondness--the strongest, perhaps, of all human feelings--yields to the pa.s.sionate devotion to Prince Charlie."

The subsequent life of the Prince is a story of melancholy interest. We find him at first received in France with all the honours due to one who, though unfortunate, had exhibited a heroism rarely equalled and never surpa.s.sed: gradually he was neglected and slighted, as one of a doomed and unhappy race, whom no human exertion could avail to elevate to their former seat of power; and finally, when his presence in France became an obstacle to the conclusion of peace, he was violently arrested and conveyed out of the kingdom. There can be little doubt that continued misfortune and disappointment had begun very early to impair his n.o.ble mind. For long periods he was a wanderer, lost sight of by his friends and even by his father and brother. There are fragments of his writing extant which show how poignantly he felt the cruelty of his fortune. "De vivre et pas vivre est beaucoup plus que de mourir!" And again, writing to his father's secretary, eight years after Culloden, he says--"I am grieved that our master should think that my silence was either neglect or want of duty; but, in reality, my situation is such that I have nothing to say but imprecations against the fatality of being born in such a detestable age." An unhappy and uncongenial marriage tended still more to embitter his existence; and if at last he yielded to frailties, which inevitably insure degradation, it must be remembered that his lot had been one to which few men have ever been exposed, and the magnitude of his sufferings may fairly be admitted as some palliation for his weakness.

To the last, his heart was with Scotland. The following anecdote was related by his brother, Cardinal York, to Bishop Walker, the late Primus of the Episcopal Church of Scotland:--"Mr. Greathead, a personal friend of Mr. Fox, succeeded, when at Rome in 1782 or 1783, in obtaining an interview with Charles Edward; and, being alone with him for some time, studiously led the conversation to his enterprise in Scotland, and to the occurrences which succeeded the failure of that attempt. The Prince manifested some reluctance to enter upon these topics, appearing at the same time to undergo so much mental suffering, that his guest regretted the freedom he had used in calling up the remembrance of his misfortunes. At length, however, the Prince seemed to shake off the load which oppressed him; his eye brightened, his face a.s.sumed unwonted animation, and he entered upon the narrative of his Scottish campaigns with a distinct but somewhat vehement energy of manner--recounted his marches, his battles, his victories, his retreats, and his defeats--detailed his hairbreadth escapes in the Western Isles, the inviolable and devoted attachment of his Highland friends, and at length proceeded to allude to the terrible penalties with which the chiefs among them had been visited. But here the tide of emotion rose too high to allow him to go on--his voice faltered, his eyes became fixed, and he fell convulsed on the floor. The noise brought into his room his daughter, the d.u.c.h.ess of Albany, who happened to be in an adjoining apartment. 'Sir,' she exclaimed, 'what is this? You have been speaking to my father about Scotland and the Highlanders! No one dares to mention those subjects in his presence.'"

He died on the 30th of January, 1788, in the arms of the Master of Nairn. The monument erected to him, his father, and brother, in St.

Peter's, by desire of George IV., was perhaps the most graceful tribute ever paid by royalty to misfortune--REGIO CINERI PIETAS REGIA.

CHARLES EDWARD AT VERSAILLES

ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF CULLODEN

Take away that star and garter-- Hide them from my aching sight: Neither king nor prince shall tempt me From my lonely room this night; Fitting for the throneless exile Is the atmosphere of pall, And the gusty winds that shiver 'Neath the tapestry on the wall.

When the taper faintly dwindles Like the pulse within the vein, That to gay and merry measure Ne'er may hope to bound again, Let the shadows gather round me While I sit in silence here, Broken-hearted, as an orphan Watching by his father's bier.

Let me hold my still communion Far from every earthly sound-- Day of penance--day of pa.s.sion-- Ever, as the year comes round; Fatal day, whereon the latest Die was cast for me and mine-- Cruel day, that quelled the fortunes Of the hapless Stuart line!

Phantom-like, as in a mirror, Rise the griesly scenes of death-- There before me, in its wildness, Stretches bare Culloden's heath: There the broken clans are scattered, Gaunt as wolves, and famine-eyed, Hunger gnawing at their vitals, Hope abandoned, all but pride-- Pride, and that supreme devotion Which the Southron never knew, And the hatred, deeply rankling, 'Gainst the Hanoverian crew.

Oh, my G.o.d! are these the remnants, These the wrecks of the array That around the royal standard Gathered on the glorious day, When, in deep Glenfinnan's valley; Thousands, on their bended knees, Saw once more that stately ensign Waving in the northern breeze, When the n.o.ble Tullibardine Stood beneath its weltering fold, With the Ruddy Lion ramping In the field of tressured gold, When the mighty heart of Scotland, All too big to slumber more, Burst in wrath and exultation, Like a huge volcano's roar?

There they stand, the battered columns, Underneath the murky sky, In the hush of desperation, Not to conquer, but to die.

Hark! the bagpipe's fitful wailing: Not the pibroch loud and shrill, That, with hope of b.l.o.o.d.y banquet, Lured the ravens from the hill, But a dirge both low and solemn, Fit for ears of dying men, Marshalled for their latest battle, Never more to fight again.

Madness--madness! Why this shrinking?

Were we less inured to war When our reapers swept the harvest From the field of red Dunbar?

Bring my horse, and blow the trumpet!

Call the riders of Fitz-James: Let Lord Lewis head the column!

Valiant chiefs of mighty names-- Trusty Keppoch, stout Glengarry, Gallant Gordon, wise Locheill-- Bid the clansmen hold together, Fast, and fell, and firm as steel.

Elcho, never look so gloomy-- What avails a saddened brow?

Heart, man, heart! we need it sorely, Never half so much, as now.

Had we but a thousand troopers, Had we but a thousand more!

n.o.ble Perth, I hear them coming!-- Hark! the English cannons' roar.

G.o.d! how awful sounds that volley, Bellowing through the mist and rain!

Was not that the Highland slogan?

Let me hear that shout again!

Oh, for prophet eyes to witness How the desperate battle goes!

c.u.mberland! I would not fear thee, Could my Camerons see their foes.

Sound, I say, the charge at venture-- 'Tis not naked steel we fear; Better perish in the melee Than be shot like driven deer; Hold! the mist begins to scatter!

There in front 'tis rent asunder, And the cloudy bastion crumbles Underneath the deafening thunder; There I see the scarlet gleaming!

Now, Macdonald--now or never!-- Woe is me, the clans are broken!

Father, thou art lost for ever!

Chief and va.s.sal, lord and yeoman, There they lie in heaps together, Smitten by the deadly volley, Rolled in blood upon the heather; And the Hanoverian hors.e.m.e.n, Fiercely riding to and fro, Deal their murderous strokes at random.-- Ah, my G.o.d! where am I now?

Will that baleful vision never Vanish from my aching sight?

Must those scenes and sounds of terror Haunt me still by day and night?

Yea, the earth hath no oblivion For the n.o.blest chance it gave, None, save in its latest refuge-- Seek it only in the grave!

Love may die, and hatred slumber, And their memory will decay, As the watered garden recks not Of the drought of yesterday; But the dream of power once broken, What shall give repose again?

What shall charm the serpent-furies Coiled around the maddening brain?

What kind draught can nature offer Strong enough to lull their sting?

Better to be born a peasant Than to live an exiled king!

Oh, these years of bitter anguish!-- What is life to such as me, With my very heart as palsied As a wasted cripple's knee!

Suppliant-like for alms depending On a false and foreign court, Jostled by the flouting n.o.bles, Half their pity, half their sport.

Forced to hold a place in pageant, Like a royal prize of war, Walking with dejected features Close behind his victor's car, Styled an equal--deemed a servant-- Fed with hopes of future gain-- Worse by far is fancied freedom Than the captive's clanking chain!

Could I change this gilded bondage Even for the dusky tower, Whence King James beheld his lady Sitting in the castle bower; Birds around her sweetly singing, Fluttering on the kindling spray, And the comely garden glowing In the light of rosy May.

Love descended to the window-- Love removed the bolt and bar-- Love was warder to the lovers From the dawn to even-star.

Wherefore, Love, didst thou betray me?

Where is now the tender glance?

Where the meaning looks once lavished By the dark-eyed Maid of France?

Where the words of hope she whispered, When around my neck she threw That same scarf of broidered tissue, Bade me wear it and be true-- Bade me send it as a token When my banner waved once more On the castled Keep of London, Where my fathers' waved before?

And I went and did not conquer-- But I brought it back again-- Brought it back from storm and battle-- Brought it back without a stain; And once more I knelt before her, And I laid it at her feet, Saying, "Wilt thou own it, Princess?

There at least is no defeat!"

Scornfully she looked upon me With a measured eye and cold-- Scornfully she viewed the token, Though her fingers wrought the gold; And she answered, faintly flushing, "Hast thou kept it, then, so long?

Worthy matter for a minstrel To be told in knightly song!

Worthy of a bold Provencal, Pacing through the peaceful plain, Singing of his lady's favour, Boasting of her silken chain, Yet scarce worthy of a warrior Sent to wrestle for a crown.

Is this all that thou hast brought me From thy fields of high renown?

Is this all the trophy carried From the lands where thou hast been?

It was broidered by a Princess, Canst thou give it to a Queen?"

Woman's love is writ in water!

Woman's faith is traced in sand!

Backwards--backwards let me wander To the n.o.ble northern land: Let me feel the breezes blowing Fresh along the mountain-side; Let me see the purple heather, Let me hear the thundering tide, Be it hoa.r.s.e as Corrievreckan Spouting when the storm is high-- Give me but one hour of Scotland-- Let me see it ere I die!

Oh, my heart is sick and heavy-- Southern gales are not for me; Though the glens are white with winter, Place me there, and set me free; Give me back my trusty comrades-- Give me back my Highland maid-- Nowhere beats the heart so kindly As beneath the tartan plaid!

Flora! when thou wert beside me, In the wilds of far Kintail-- When the cavern gave us shelter From the blinding sleet and hail-- When we lurked within the thicket, And, beneath the waning moon, Saw the sentry's bayonet glimmer, Heard him chant his listless tune-- When the howling storm o'ertook us, Drifting down the island's lee, And our crazy bark was whirling Like a nutsh.e.l.l on the sea-- When the nights were dark and dreary, And amidst the fern we lay, Faint and foodless, sore with travel, Waiting for the streaks of day; When thou wert an angel to me, Watching my exhausted sleep-- Never didst thou hear me murmur-- Couldst thou see how now I weep!

Bitter tears and sobs of anguish, Unavailing though they be: Oh, the brave--the brave and n.o.ble-- That have died in vain for me!

NOTES TO