r was a little, red-haired kern of the Campbell clan, who was
caught by Colkitto's men skulking in the wood, and dragged with pinioned
arms before the son of that bandit. Hector was about to be hanged
without more ado, but as preparations were being made he cried out:
"_Give me a sword and I'll fight any one of you. If I am beaten, kill me
then._" The Irishmen, to whom an "illigant foight" has always been
welcome, agreed to the proposal of Red Hector. They chose Phadrig Mor, a
fierce giant of a man, to fight with the little fellow. The latter, to
neutralise the advantages of Phadrig's stature, leapt nimbly on the sawn
stump of a tree, and, in an attitude of defence, awaited the oncoming of
his foe. The wee man parried most dexteriously every blow that Phadrig
wished to deal, and there was much mirth and excitement among the
spectators. At length, seeing a terrific blow coming his way, Hector
speedily leapt off the trunk of the tree, and the Irishman's sword came
fiercely down and was embedded in the timber. Now was Hector's chance:
he laid about the defenceless giant to such purpose that Phadrig was
soon a corpse.

MACPHAIL OF COLONSAY.

Leyden, the polyglott poet, has written a poem on an Argyllshire
tradition attaching to the whirlpool of Corryvreckan. Near that dreaded
tumult of waters, Macphail, a Colonsay man, was pulled out of his boat
by a mermaid, and taken down to her shell-strewn chamber at the bottom
of the sea. They stayed for years together, and five little, unbaptized
Macphails claimed him at length as their sire. By and by he grew tired
of the eternal swirling of the currents, the saltwater garden growths,
and the irritating deflection of the sunlight. His mind continued to
revert to Colonsay and the girl he had left behind him there. One day he
got the mermaid to take him near the strand of his native island,
whereupon he suddenly leapt ashore and escaped. In future years he
avoided the sea as much as possible, preferring to devote his time and
talents to cultivating the soil of Colonsay.

TALES FROM SPEYSIDE.

Part of my purpose in this chapter is to show to any of my readers who
may have poetical talents, that abundance of material for verse, and
that of the most pathetic, thrilling, and gruesome kind, is still to be
found in the North country. No one since Scott has thought fit to draw
much on traditions of the Highlands: and though Scott poetised a great
many of these, plenty of them still re