Above the door of Dunderave, a ruined castle near Inveraray, there used to be a figure playing upon its nose. This suggested to J. F. Campbell, of Islay, the above design of “The Spirit of the Pipes.” Our national music has always lent itself to the caricature of the alleged humourist south of the Border. Thus a writer of perhaps two centuries ago:— “North-west of a line from Greenock by Perth to Inverness is the land of the Gael—of the semi-barbarous instrument the bagpipe, of wild pibroch tunes, or rude melodies, very little known and still less admired, and of a species of song which has rarely been considered worth the trouble of translation.” English writers who attend northern gatherings feel themselves in duty bound to be partly amused and partly terrified at the din of the pipes, and they often express the greatest wonder that our civilised ears can find pleasure in it. In the same way they used to look on our religion with contempt, and ridicule it on every opportunity. “Suffer Presbytery and bagpipes to flourish beyond Berwick” exclaims one in his wrath. The two seemed to be equally despicable. Butler, in putting this contempt into rhyme, works himself into a fine frenzy of mixed metaphor;— “Whate’er men speak by this new light, Still they are sure to be i’ the right; ’Tis a dark lanthorn of the spirit, Which none can see but those who hear it. · · · · · This light inspires and shines upon The house of saint like bagpipe drone.” How men can speak by light, how this light can be a lanthorn, how men can hear light, or how a bagpipe drone can shine upon a house, he does not stop to explain, but proceeds:— “See Phœbus or some friendly muse Unto small poets songs infuse, Which they at second hand rehearse, Through reed or bagpipe, verse for verse.” Needham, another Englishman, writing in 1648, after calling a typical Presbyterian such names as “a sainted Salamander that lives in the flames of zeal,” “an apocryphal piece of university mummery,” “a holy picklock,” “a gunpowder politician,” “a divine squib-crack,” “a pious pulpit-cuffer,” and “a deadly spit-fire,” winds up with— “The Scotch bagpipes, the pulpit drums, And priests sound high and big, Once more a Cause and Covenant comes To show ’s a Scottish jig.” And yet another seems to think the Separatists, a Scottish religious sect of the 17th century, would have been better at the bagpipe than at singing. They had, he thought, “need of somewhat as a bagpipe, or something never used by Antichrist, to tune them; singing in their own conventicles like hogs against raine.”