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having to walk in my plaid I got very hot and fore I got to the loch, I sat down by a large thirsty. Stooping down under a small water- stone in the midst of the strath, and smoked fall to get a drink, my foot slipped into a deep a cigarillo, by which the reader will discover hole, and my strike-light pouch in the same that the soused tinder responded to the fint moment dropped out of my pocket into the and steel as if nothing had happened. bubbling water. I snatched it out as quick On again! taking the left shore of the loch, as I could and found that the water had not which proved to be about a mile and a half run in among the tinder.

long. I was now getting hungry, and reMy feet being now wet, as I had previously solved that if I did not see Monnar from the encountered great difficulty in finding any other end I would eat a scon and an egg on walkable ground, I tried wading up the burn the spot, and so I did, slaking my thirst at for a quarter of a mile or so, but it was hard the stream where it began to run down the climbing, besides being slippery and danger- hill-side out of the lake. After a while I deous work among great rocks and gushing scended a steep hill, from which I saw that waters. So I left the bed of the torrent and my south passage was cut off by a narrowscrambled up four or five hundred very pre-ended lake and a deep, impassable looking cipitous feet, in hopes of better walking on river. Another steep descent brought me to what appeared to be a ledge of more level the margin of Loch Monnar. ground.

Here were some bothies, out of one of which This was very stiff climbing any way, and I got a fiery-headed, red-eyed Yahoo, who had it was the worse from a painful stiffness in my but little English. After a tedious crossright hip, brought on no doubt by my thirty examination I made out of him that the lake miles yesterday. Besides which I had been was fordable, opposite a long, narrow tongue weakened a good deal by two days' severe of sand which ran into it from the other side. sickness in the yacht, being, into the bargain, My feet being already wet, “ accoutred as I suspected by my friends of a weakness in the was I plunged in" and waded about ninety lungs and heart. Here was a nice position yards in some trepidation lest I should blob for an invalid. Breathless and almost burst, over head and ears; but the bottom was good with a thumping heart shaking my ribs as if and the depth pretty regular, about three feet. I was a badly constructed little steamboat There were two cottages near where I caught in rough weather. This was really emerged. In one of them I found “no Enga short-cut of the most orthodox character. lish. In the other a pretty and hospitable

I felt somewhat distressed, but consoled young woman, whose husband was away to myself with a stanza of an Arabic poet, Kintail with wool. I sat before the fire to which (I will translate it to you) runs, rest, being somewhat weary, and made a little

conversation with my pretty hostess, by way Say to him whom troubles overburden,

of civility, while two great pools ran down Misfortune is not eternal ! Even as rapture passeth away,

from my wet legs upon the mud hearth, So shall anguish have an end.

“How long had she been married ?"

“ A quarter of a year.” I do not translate it into verse, but literally, “How long had the courtship been ?" meaning the ingenious reader to imply that I administered the quotation to myself in the “Did marriage, on experiment, come up to original tongue. Do you doubt me? Here her expectations ?" goes in Arabic :

She had not entertained very brilliant ex

pectations, and indeed attempted to make out Cúll le mén yachméeloo húmma Enna humma la yedoom

that she had married more to please her arMithlema yafn 'almasarra

dent suitor than herself— a statement which Hakaza tafu 'al hamoom.

I received with a polite incredulity.

She now began to cross-question me, and I “It shall have an end! it shall have an satisfied her where I was coming from and end !" so I climbed and plodded slowly on till going to. She asked me whether I had ever I topped a ridge and saw a small lake at the been the way before, and on my saying no, bottom of a long slope. Towards this lake she observed, that I'must have a very stroong (Lochmenlich) a stream rising in the ridge, haart to tak' the hills aloone.” ran down Strathmulich, a distance of about I said that, " on the contrary, I had rather three miles. First whisper in the moss, a weak heart, and weak lungs besides." then a murmur in the hollow, peaty channel, Hereupon she suddenly inquired then a babbling rili, and, lastly, a brawling, “Will you be married ?" roaring stream was the companion of my “No; I am not so fortunate.” steps, for, as down-hill is much easier work “ That is good luck. If I was your wife than up, I followed its example and ran down my heart would be very sore for you on the the hill too.

hill." Being somewhat tired and out of breath be She was going to have some tea, and in.

" A year.

vited me to take a cup, which I did, and its of a sudden, as if by magic, a bothy sprung warmed me up after my wade. Her hos- out of the hill. I wondered I had not seen pitality bad an independent dignity of man- it before. It seemed small, and there was no ner, by which I plainly saw it would be an smoke. Probably it was a shepherd's occaoffence to offer her any remuneration, so, sional, and now deserted, place of shelter. when I had done my tea, I shook hands and I resolved to take possession, even if I had to thanked her for her kindness, and I left the enter by the chimney. I would light a peatturf-cabin with more good-will and gratitude fire and dry my clothes, and gather myself a than is often carried away in splendid equip- heather bed. And I had three eggs and ages from the doors of great mansions. three scons to sup upon. And would n't sucha

Here there happened to be a shooting-box be a real adventure! of a gentleman I knew a little, and I called, Approaching still nearer in the instant anbut he was not there. I got some advice out ticipation of seizing it to my own use, it of his keeper about the way. He pointed to turned out to be a great stone; but so like a a nick in the top of a stupendous mountain- bothy, with a marked line for the eaves, and range, about five miles off, towards which I an irregular pent-house roof indicating thatch, toiled over bog and heather and hill and that even when I found out any mistake, I stream. As I approached it grew bigger and could not reproach myself with much stupidbigger; and as I labored up the long moun- ity. Petrified (like my abortive dwelling) by tain-flank, I had to remind myself several this melancholy discovery, I bounded away times that I was supposed to have a strong down the swampy slope, like a rolling stone, heart. The climbing became steeper and except that I gathered a good deal of moss in stoeper towards the top, so much so at last my shoes. that, as I was rather unsteady on my weary I now perceived a lake to the left, far belegs, I was in serious fear of losing my foot- low, and turned towards it, with the idea ing, and rolling down a few hundred feet of that at the end of it there would be houses. the almost precipice, which had, however, The sunlight was rising to the summits of the sufficient protruding jags of rock to tear me to hills. It might come on before I could get pieces long before I should have reached the down (and the head of the lake was yet three bottom. But the worst thing that could have or four miles off). I should have “ to sit down happened would have been to fall and break for a few hours," which, with my blood heated, a leg, in which case I should have had per- my feet full of puddle, and every rag of my fect leisure to starve to death, without hope clothes wringing wet with rain and perspiraof rescue. So I clung to the rough rocks as tion, was not a very cheerful prospect for a if I loved them, and bestowed all my atten- cons

onsumptive patient with a very light plaid. tion, with a painful effort, on my climbing. The sunlight was lifted from the last peaks, The reader will think that, with the alterna- and only lingered in the loftier clouds. Twitive of breaking one's neck, it cannot take light had begun. Though I was very hot, a much effort to keep a bright look-out for the cold shiver seemed to rise from my wet feet, safest steppings, but when the same degree and to creep all over my back, as if the dark of danger lasts a long while the attention be- ness was pursuing me, and one of the shadcomes wearied, and it is only when you stum- owy sheriff's officers that arrest people in Nable now and then, and nearly go over a preci- ture's debt, had laid his clammy hand upon pice, that the inconvenience of being dashed my

shoulder. to pieces affects the nerves with due serious 'I increased my pace, which was already

almost dangerous, and for some time ran at At length I did get to the top. The wester- about ten miles an hour, often slipping and ing sun was finging about his golden lights tumbling head-over-heels, but I was lucky aslant the clouds and peaks and lake which enough not to fall in hard places. But, indelay around my eminence, but I had not time pendent of imagination, I felt I had received a to stop and admire them.

dangerous chill, and it clung to me, though I As I plunged down into the shade behind got into a furious broil. the mountain, I was seized with a fancy that At last I was safe down to the river runthis might be the last time my shadow should ning into the lake-head. Here I found a boat, stand upright in the sunshine. So I got on a and rowed myself over. On the other side rock, and threw my likeness at very full was a smart new cottage, a shooting-lodge of length on the other side of the corrie. I now Captain Inge's. I presented myself and deturned to the right along the shoulder of the manded shelter for the night. The captain range, and then down a descent, if possible was away, but his keeper, a most kind and steeper than what I had climbed on the other civil man, gave me a change of raiment and side. After six or seven hundred feet of this, lit me a fire in a comfortable bedroom, and the slope of the mountain became more grad- took my wet things to dry. A bottle of ual. While running across this comparative - whiskey for gentlemen" (so ran the inscriplevel, I observed a peat-stack, and near it, all tion pasted on it) was uncorked. Good bot


tea followed, and, very much contrary to my milk. In proportion as I patronized him, his expectations, I am better off to-night than I respect for me began to increase, and he volwas last.

unteered some bread and cheese, After this The keeper calls the lake Loch Malardich, I sat some time, shivering and wretched and and says, the great pass I have come over is drowsy, in a hard, uncomfortable chair, bircalled Balloch na Bholla, and this very hospit- fore the kitchen fire, and had some difficulty able lodge, Luib na Damh.

Glen Q

in persuading myself to depart for Cluoj, which I may almost call home, is about thirty which is nine miles to add to the thirteen miles off. I shall not be able to get there to from Luib na Damh to Ard Bae. Luckily, morrow. I must go to bed, for it is late. I there was no great hill, only a slight rise up am to be called at five. To-day I have come a glen till balf-way, and then a fall. After about twenty-five miles.

the half-way there was no road, and bad

walking, soft and rough. Coming into Cluny, Wednesday, 11th.

I heard this glen was called the Currun Mor. At seven this morning I left Luib na Damh, This third day has taken the shine out of me. and followed the river Caunich up the glen I sit very weary before my bedroom fire at to Loch Loongar. Here I turned to the left, Rhiabuie or Cluny Inn. up a wearisome rising valley, which ended, as usual, in a precipitous corrie. Up this, how

Thursday, August 12th. ever, there was a decent path made by Cap Started at six on a pony, and turned off the tain Inge, between his shooting-box here and road up Glen Luyng. Very rough riding; that in Glen Affaric. To this last lodge (Ard often obliged to walk. Came at last in sight Bae) I descended by an equally tedious one of Archy's cottage. He is the forester of on the other side. The keeper did not re-Glen Q and his cottage only three ceive me with quite so much empressement as miles from the lodge. Here I left the pony, my friend of last night. Perhaps my appear- and walked on. Soon after I saw the blue ance was more dubious by daylight, now that waters of “ Loch Q that most beautitwo or three days' tramp had begun to tell on ful of lochs,” and my troubles ended with a the respectability of my outward man. pleasant welcome from my friends, who had

I, however, asked for what I wanted with begun to think I was lost for good. Such is a but ceremony, and told him to be seated, and short cut of about ninety miles in the Hightell me the way while I drank my brandy and I lands.

To interrupt with livelier strings,

The warblings of a Spanish lyre -
Had well beseemed some nobler knight,
And e'en in thee looks almost bright.

Thy stream is tainted at its source,

And, though henceforth its waters flow
In blameless fertilizing course,

We still must eye them as they go.
We dare not trust — we cannot bless,
And yet to-day we loathe thee less.

From Fraser's Magazine. ON THE MARRIAGE OF NAPOLEON III. We cannot raise our voice to swell

Her joy who mounts yon lonely throne,
Because the groans of Freedom's knell

Blend with thy triumph's every tone
A man who mowed his people down
As coldly as he wears their crown.
We cannot say “God speed” to thee,

Though now perchance less foul thy aim,
Because upon thy garb we see

The stains of blood, the stains of shame
Those broken oaths, that fell surprise,
Still float before our English eyes.
Let renal priests their organs blow,

And venal bards accordant sing,
(Oh! when will France the difference know

Between a tyrant and a king!)
We cannot speak, except to say
Thy darkness shows less dark to-day.
The mockeries of thy regal state,

(Oh, had those suffrages been free !) The empire's ghost, we needs must hate ;

But praise is on our lips to soe
A thing of silence and of art
Show something of a human heart.
The dull monotony of kings,

Who would not have thee in their quire,
* I fool indebted for this stanza to an article in
the Spectator newspaper.

Perchance thou yet mayst live to do

Good service to thy native land ;
And, though we ne'er may deem thee true,

Nor Treachery's virtues understand -
We yet may learn to praise, and say
“ His better life began to-day.”

Unless it be that sensual fire

That torch eccentric lit alone ;
Then soon the unwilling lord will tire

Of her who claimed to share his throne :
The maid, who Passion's hopes denied,
And rose to be an Emperor's bride.

Fair bride! whom yet we scarce may hail

As mother of a princely line,
For memory wakes a spectre pale,

Thy type — imperial Josephine :
A childless, loveless, outcast she -
Shall kings in France descend from thee?

From Chambers' Journal. enhanced the concern of these hereditary cul

tivators of the soil ; and many bright eyes AND THEN?

grew dim thinking of poor Miss Clara, who The oracle of the beautiful sequestered little would so soon be fatherless, and almost pennihamlet of Ambermead, was an old gentleman less. The estate of Ambermead was strictly of unobtrusive and orderly. habits, whose pe- entailed in the male line, and the next heir culiar taciturnity had obtained for him the fa- was of distant kin to the Harwells. A commiliar cognomen of Two Words. Mr. Canute, bination of misfortunes, and no doubt of imalias Two Words, dwelt on the outskirts of prudence in years long by-gone had reduced the the village, tended by an ancient housekeeper, present proprietor to the verge of ruin, from almost as chary of speech as her worthy which he was to find refuge only in the grave. master. It was surmised that Mr. Canute The Harwell family had lived for centuries had seen better days; but though his means in Ambermead. They seem so much to were straitened, his heart was large, and his belong to their poor neighbors, who always countenance expressed great benevolence. sympathized most fully in all the joys and Notwithstanding the brief mode of speech sorrows of the " Hall folk," that now, when which characterized him on all occasions, the there was a certain prospect of losing them advice of Mr. Canute was eagerly sought on forever as it seemed, the parting became more every subject whereon it was presumed advice than a common one between landlord and could be profitable ; and the simple rústics of tenant, between rich and poor —it was the Ambermead perhaps valued it the more, be- parting of endeared friends. cause, though delivered without a particle of They watched and waited for Mr. Canute pomposity, the terseness and decision of the passing to and fro, as he did every day, and words expended, left an indelible impression, more than once a day; and on his two words which long sermons often failed to convey they hung, as if life or death were involved in Mr. Canute lived on terms of intimacy with that short bulletin. the family at the old Hall - an intimacy “How is the squire to-day?" said one. cemented by early associations, for Mr. Harwell “No better,” replied Mr. Canute mildly, and Mr. Canute had been school-fellows; and without stopping. when a painful and lingering illness attacked “And how 's Miss Clara ?" inquired another the squire, his ancient friend and crony felt with deep pity in his looks. deep anxiety as to the ultimate fate of Mr. " Very patient,” responded the old man, Harwell's only child, the good and lovely still moving slowly on with the aid of his Clara Harwell. The disease was an incurable stout staff. one ; though the suffering might be pro “ Patient !" repeated several voices when tracted, there was no hope of ultimate re- he was out of hearing. "Yes, yes, patient covery, and an air of gloom reigned over the enough ; and Master Canute means à deal village of Ambermead, where once the sweet when he says patient. Bless her young sweet spring and summer tide brought only sport face! there 's patience in it if ever there was and glee. Ambermead was noted for a pro- in mortal's." fusion of rich red roses, exhaling delicious Mr. Canute's patience was sorely taxed by fragrance; and for the song, of innumerable questioning at all hours ; he was waylaid first nightingales, whose harmonious concerts re- by one, then by another, on his way from his sounded amid the umbrageous groves, shelter- own cottage to the Hall, but with unfailing ing the hamlet on every side, and extending good-nature and promptitude, he invariably beyond the old Hall of Ambermead. But satisfied the affectionate solicitude of his humnow, although the roses bloomed and the ble neighbors — in his own quaint way, cerbirds sang, serious faces looked from the tainly never wasting words, yet perfectly cottage doors; and while the younger villagers understood. forgot their usual pastimes, the elders con The summer-tide was waning into autumn, versed apart in whispers, always directing and the squire of Ambermead faded more their glances towards the hall, as if the sufferer gradually than autumn leaves, when late one within those thick walls could be disturbed evening a wayfarer stopped at Mr. Canute's by their conversation. This sympathy was cottage, which was on the roadside, and recalled forth, not only by the circumstances of quested permission to rest, asking for a draught Mr. Harwell being their ancestral landlord, of water from the well before the porch. the last of an impoverished race, but from “ Most welcome," said Two Words, scanhis always having lived among them as a ning the stranger, and pleased with his apfriend and neighbor — respected as a superior, pearance, for youth and an agreeable counte and beloved as an equal. Their knowledge nance are sure passports ; perhaps, too, Mr also of the squire's decayed fortunes ; and Canute discerned gentle breeding in his guest, that, on his death, the fine old place must despite travel-soiled habiliments, and a dash become the property of a stranger, whom of habitual recklessness in his air. At any rumor did not report favorably of greatly rate, the welcome was heartily giren, and as

man :

“ Don't go."

heartily responded to ; and when Mr. Canute “ The heir?" whispered Mr. Can’te mystetest his dwelling, in order to pay his usual riously. evening visit at the Hall, he merely said, ad "Well, well, suppose we say he is ; he's dressing his young visitor : “Soon back;" not altogether a bad fellow, though he is conand turning to Martha, the careful house- sidered a bit reckless and wild. "But he has keeper, added; "Get supper ;", while on heard of Clara Harwell's beauty and goodness stepping over the threshold, second thoughts from his cousin, Lady Ponsonby (she 's Clara's urged him to return and say to the young cousin too, you know ;) and he is really quite

sorry to think that such a lovely crenture “No, that I won't,” replied he frankly, should be turned out of the old Hall to make " for I like my quarters too well. I'll wait room for him. He wants to know what will till you come back, governor ; and I hope you become of her when old Harwell dies, for all won't be long, for iny mouth waters for the the world knows he is ruined. It 's a pretty supper you spoke of."

place this old Ambermead - a paradise, I Mr. Canute smiled, and walked away more should say. I know what I'd do, if I was briskly than usual ; and after sitting for ever lucky enough to call it mine." The youth some time beside the sick man's bed, and rubbed his hands gleefully. " I should be a bidding, "good-night” and bless you" to happy dog then!" Clara Harwell, he retraced his steps home « And then ?" said Mr. Canute smiling. wards, and found supper ready, and the hand Why, then, I'd pull down the rickety old some stranger so obviously ready to do justice house up there, and build a palace fit for a to the frugal fare, that Mr. Canute jocularly prince ; I'd keep nothing but the old wine ; remarked : “ Keen air ;" to which the stranger I'd have lots of prime fellows to stay with replied in the same strain : “ Fine scenery ; me ; and I should sport the finest horses and on which the host added: “An artist ?" dogs in the country.” The speaker paused, when the youth, laughing outright, said : “ An out of breath. indifferent one, indeed." After a pause, and " And then?" said Mr. Canute quietly. suffering his mirth to subside, he continued : " Why, then, I'd hunt, and shoot, and ride, Are you always so economical in words, and drink, and smoke, and dance, and keep sir ? Don't you sometimes find it difficult to open house, and enjoy life to the full — feastcarry on conversation in this strain ?"

ing from year's end to year's end the feast “ You don't,” replied Mr. Canute smiling, of reason and the flow of soul, you know, in and imperterbably good-natured.

old Ambermead !" “ Not I," cried the youth ; " and I want “ And then ?" to ask you a half a hundred questions. Will “Why, then, I suppose that in time I you answer me?"

should grow old, like other people, and cease “ I'll try,” replied Mr. Canute.

to care for all these things, so much as I did “I've not long to stay, for I'm on a when strength and youth were mine." walking tour with a friend; but I diverged " And then?" said Mr. Canute more to Ambermead, as I was anxious to see it. slowly. I've had a curiosity to see it for a long “Why, then" — and the stranger hesitated while ; but my friend is waiting for me at "then, I suppose, like other people, in the the market-town, eight miles off, I think, and course of nature, I should have to leave all the I shall strike across the country when the pleasures of this life, and, like other people, moon is up, if you 'll give me a rest till die." then.'

" And then ?'' said Mr. Canute, fixing his “Most welcome,” said Mr. Canute courte- eyes, glittering like diamonds, on the young ously.

man's face, which flushed up, as he exclaimed “Ah ha!" quoth the stranger, “ if that's with some irritation,the way you pursue your discourse, I don't “Oh, hang your and thens !' But the think I shall learn much from you. I hope, moon is well up, I see, so I'm off. Goodhowever, that I may get a wife who will fol- night, and thank you.” And, without further low your example - a woman of two words, parley, he started off on his walk over the in short; she 'll be a rare specimen of her hills ; and Mr. Canute silently watched his

guest's retreating figure, till in the deep “Ah ha!” ejaculated Mr. Cadute. shadows of the surrounding groves, he was

“ But come, tell me, for time presses," said lost to view. In the moonlight, in the darkthe young man, suddenly becoming grave - ness, in the valley, and on the hillside, these “ tell me all about Ambermead, and the words haunted the wayfarer, and he kept squire – how long he is likely to last. For, repeating to himself, " And then ?" Thoughts in fact, the friend I mentioned, who is with took possession of his mind that never before me during this walking tour, is vastly in. had gained entrance there, or at least they terested in all that concerns the place and arranged themselves in a sequence which gave property.”

them quite a new significance. His past life

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