The colonels of Highland regiments, knowing the influence exercised over the men by the pipers, have usually treated them with a consideration due rather to that influence than to their mere rank. This has been specially the case when the colonels happened to be Highlanders themselves. Every mountaineer is passionately fond of the mountain pipe; it awakens a thousand associations of the past; it inflames the glow of patriotism; it speaks to his heart at once. It tells him of scenes of joy and sorrow where it has enlivened or soothed him in the far north; it recals the coronach that was played at his father’s grave, the pibroch to which his clansmen have ever marched to victory; it reminds him of the strains that shall welcome his return when the sword has been restored to its scabbard. In foreign lands, after years of exile, the rude sound of the mountain pipe rouses in the soberest Highlander a species of enthusiasm; his foot involuntarily beats time to the music; he can scarcely restrain himself from dancing as he used to dance in the days of his youth; often he throws aside his bonnet, and dances as if he were still a youth. He looks rather ashamed when the performance is over, and his grandchildren begin to congratulate him on his agility, but he cannot help it; the sound of the bagpipe, like the sting of the tarantula, sets him a-whirling at once. An amusing proof of this recently occurred within our knowledge at a semi-religious fête which was held in the open air, in one of our most distant colonies, for the purpose of clearing off the debt on a Scotch church. The Scotchman, like Froissart’s Englishman, takes his pleasure sadly; everything was as grave and decorous as possible, till all at once a venerable piper, an old pensioner of the 42nd resident in the colony, produced his bagpipe, and struck up a lively Scottish air. The thing was wholly unpremeditated; but in a moment every one, young or old, selected his partner, took his place on the green sward, and danced as if he had been possessed. The piper played his best, and the reels only ceased when the sun went down. In the enthusiasm of the moment, the people forgot the object of the meeting; the piper was the master of the occasion, to whom even the minister had to give place; his music blew away the load of cares and years, and made them all young again. We remember another instance: Some years ago we were residing in a certain town in the east where there were a good many Scotchmen. In truth, there are few towns, east or west, north or south, where Scotchmen are not to be found. The sound of the bagpipe had probably never been heard there before; but one night, at a late hour, the pibroch of Donuil Dhu was heard in the streets. It had the same effect on the Highlanders as the sound of the trumpet on the war-horse; it roused them from their midnight slumbers, and brought them into the street, where they formed an admiring