166 MACINTYRE'S DEATH. 



a custom, I believe, which all the old foresters have ob- 

 served. I was near hearing poor gallant Macintyre sing 

 his : you may remember when he was lying ill at Forest 

 Lodge, and I had my quarters there, how, in the midst of 

 his fever, he would rave about the deer ; how his spirit 

 was ever on the hills, whilst his body was lying on a sick 

 bed; how wildly he talked of Ben-y-gloe, Craig-crochie, 

 Glen Croinie, and all the glens and mountains that had 

 so often echoed to the crack of his rifle; you may bear 

 in mind how near he then was to the grave of his fathers. 

 It chanced I did him some little common act of kindness, 

 such as no one but an honest-hearted Highlander would 

 have thought about for a moment. He wished, he said, 

 he might get well, that he might have the pleasure of 

 taking me into the deer how fine he would do it ! 

 These were the last words I ever heard from his mouth, 

 and surely they were kind ones. Poor fellow ! on that 

 day I sent him down to Blair, in an easy carriage, to be 

 nearer the doctor : he lived but a short space afterwards. 

 Long before this, however, he was aware that his life was 

 ebbing ; for when Mr. Landseer painted his portrait, he 

 looked at it sorrowfully, and said, ' An' if that's like Mac- 

 intyre, he's no long for this world.' Too truly did he 

 prophesy, peace be with him ! 



" And now we will see if we can kill a hart in honour 

 of his memory ; and we will pour over the beast libations 

 of right Loch Rannoch, the fumes whereof will be grateful 

 to his shade." 



Peter Fraser (touching his cap), " That would be shame- 

 fu' waste, yer honour; Macintyre himsel aye poured it 

 intill his weem, and I'm thinking his ghaist would like to 



