REMINISCENCES OF THE LEWS. 203 



as such he ought not to suffer. Thej look well 

 under arms ; and may it be long before their 

 prowess is tested. 



There is one custom in Stornoway that I 

 must allude to. Whenever any one has lived 

 some time there and is about to leave it, be he 

 a native or a foreigner, if he is popular, he is 

 invited to a farewell festival, not a dinner with 

 speeches, &c., but a festival, and so lugubrious 

 a one I never witnessed. A funeral is far 

 livelier, particularly if it be given in the Free- 

 masons' Hall, as it frequently is. The inviters 

 are all seated on the benches round reaching 

 up towards the roof. In the centre, or rather 

 before the benches, sits the invited by himself 

 in a high-backed chair, like a culprit. Nobody 

 says a word — nobody laughs — every one looks 

 as solemn and glum as at a Quaker's meeting 

 till they go mad. In solemn silence do the 

 entertainers imbibe their grog. At last on a 

 signal given or word spoken, the Benchers 

 arise, and in a tone more awfully solemn, and 

 more peculiarly grating even than the old 

 intonation of a psalm, without organ or key- 

 pipe, they drawl out ''Auld Lang Syne," till 

 one almost goes melancholy mad. I know I 

 nearly did — more particularly when I remem- 

 bered how in days of yore, at Cambridge, we 



