SCOTTISH GARDENS 



that rolls, ridge upon ridge, away to the bleak 

 expanse of Monadh Lia. Every glen cherishes its 

 tradition of the terrible spring of 1746, when, after 

 the sun of the Stuarts had set for ever in blood 

 and tears on the fatal moor of Culloden, Cumber- 

 land's troops were dispersed in pursuit of the 

 broken clans. Scores of stout fellows, many of them 

 grievously wounded, were hunted down like hill- 

 foxes and butchered in cold blood. Their children's 

 children will still point out to you the very spots 

 where the horrid work went on, so grievously was 

 Lord President Forbes mistaken when he wrote to 

 Walpole "If all the rebels, with their wives, 

 children, and dependants, could be rooted out of 

 the earth, the shock would be astonishing, but 

 time wmdd commit it to oblivion." 



It were well, perhaps, could that month's work 

 be blotted from the records of the British army ; 

 but let us not forget another deed of blood com- 

 mitted in this district about the same time. Two or 

 three miles west of Lord Cawdor's shooting lodge 

 of Drynachan is the place of Pall-a-chrocain, whereof 

 the laird MacQueen died in 1797. He was of gigantic 

 stature, six foot seven inches, they say, in High- 

 land brogues (which have no heels), and a mighty 

 hunter before the Lord. In the winter of 1743-4 

 a woman was crossing the hill between Cawdor and 

 the Findhorn with her two children, when she was 

 set upon by a large wolf, which carried one of 

 them away. The alarm was sounded ; the laird of 



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