A LEGEND OF TICONDEROGA.—­Mention has been made of the death of Major Duncan Campbell of Inverawe.  The following family tradition relating to it was told me in 1878 by the late Dean Stanley, to whom I am also indebted for various papers on the subject, including a letter from James Campbell, Esq., the present laird of Inverawe, and great-nephew of the hero of the tale.  The same story is told, in an amplified form and with some variations, in the Legendary Tales of the Highlands of Sir Thomas Dick Lauder.  As related by Dean Stanley and approved by Mr. Campbell, it is this:—­

The ancient castle of Inverawe stands by the banks of the Awe, in the midst of the wild and picturesque scenery of the western Highlands.  Late one evening, before the middle of the last century, as the laird, Duncan Campbell, sat alone in the old hall, there was a loud knocking at the gate; and, opening it, he saw a stranger, with torn clothing and kilt besmeared with blood, who in a breathless voice begged for asylum.  He went on to say that he had killed a man in a fray, and that the pursuers were at his heels.  Campbell promised to shelter him.  “Swear on your dirk!” said the stranger; and Campbell swore.  He then led him to a secret recess in the depths of the castle.  Scarcely was he hidden when again there was a loud knocking at the gate, and two armed men appeared.  “Your cousin Donald has been murdered, and we are looking for the murderer!” Campbell, remembering his oath, professed to have no knowledge of the fugitive; and the men went on their way.  The laird, in great agitation, lay down to rest in a large dark room, where at length he feel asleep.  Waking suddenly in bewilderment and terror, he saw the ghost of the murdered Donald standing by his bedside, and heard a hollow voice pronounce the words:  "Inverawe!  Inverawe! blood has been shed.  Shield not the murderer!" In the morning Campbell went to the hiding-place of the guilty man and told him that he could harbor him no longer.  “You have sworn on your dirk!” he replied; and the laird of Inverawe, greatly perplexed and troubled, made a compromise between conflicting duties, promised not to betray his guest, led him to the neighboring mountain, and hid him in a cave.

In the next night, as he lay tossing in feverish slumbers, the same stern voice awoke him, the ghost of his cousin Donald stood again at his bedside, and again he heard the same appalling words:  "Inverawe!  Inverawe! blood has been shed.  Shield not the murderer!" At break of day he hastened, in strange agitation, to the cave; but it was empty, the stranger was gone.  At night, as he strove in vain to sleep, the vision appeared once more, ghastly pale, but less stern of aspect than before. "Farewell, Inverawe!" it said; "Farewell, till we meet at TICONDEROGA!"