a cigarillo, by which the reader will discover that the soused tinder responded to the flint and steel as if nothing had happened. 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 hole, and my strike-light pouch in the same moment dropped out of my pocket into the bubbling water. I snatched it out as quick as I could and found that the water had not run in among the tinder. My feet being now wet, as I had previously encountered great difficulty in finding any walkable ground, I tried wading up the burn for a quarter of a mile or so, but it was hard climbing, besides being slippery and dangerous work among great rocks and gushing waters. So I left the bed of the torrent and scrambled up four or five hundred very precipitous feet, in hopes of better walking on what appeared to be a ledge of more level ground. This was very stiff climbing any way, and it was the worse from a painful stiffness in my right hip, brought on no doubt by my thirty miles yesterday. Besides which I had been weakened a good deal by two days' severe sickness in the yacht, being, into the bargain, suspected by my friends of a weakness in the lungs and heart. Here was a nice position for an invalid. Breathless and almost burst, with a thumping heart shaking my ribs as if 1 was a badly constructed little steamboat caught in rough weather. This was really a short-cut of the most orthodox character. I felt somewhat distressed, but consoled myself with a stanza of an Arabic poet, which (I will translate it to you) runs, Say to him whom troubles overburden, So shall anguish have an end. I do not translate it into verse, but literally, meaning the ingenious reader to imply that I administered the quotation to myself in the original tongue. Do you doubt me? Here goes in Arabic: Cúll le mén yachméeloo húmma Hakaza tafn 'al hamoom. "It shall have an end! it shall have an end!" so I climbed and plodded slowly on till I topped a ridge and saw a small lake at the bottom of a long slope. Towards this lake (Lochmenlich) a stream rising in the ridge, ran down Strathmulich, a distance of about three miles. First a whisper in the moss, then a murmur in the hollow, peaty channel, then a babbling rili, and, lastly, a brawling, roaring stream was the companion of my steps, for, as down-hill is much easier work than up, I followed its example and ran down the hill too. Being somewhat tired and out of breath be On again! taking the left shore of the loch, which proved to be about a mile and a half long. I was now getting hungry, and resolved that if I did not see Monnar from the other end I would eat a scon and an egg on the spot, and so I did, slaking my thirst at the stream where it began to run down the hill-side out of the lake. After a while I descended a steep hill, from which I saw that my south passage was cut off by a narrowended lake and a deep, impassable looking river. Another steep descent brought me to the margin of Loch Monnar. Here were some bothies, out of one of which I got a fiery-headed, red-eyed Yahoo, who had but little English. After a tedious crossexamination I made out of him that the lake was fordable, opposite a long, narrow tongue of sand which ran into it from the other side. My feet being already wet, "accoutred as I was I plunged in" and waded about ninety yards in some trepidation lest I should blob over head and ears; but the bottom was good and the depth pretty regular, about three feet. There were two cottages near where I emerged. In one of them I found "no English." In the other a pretty and hospitable young woman, whose husband was away to Kintail with wool. I sat before the fire to rest, being somewhat weary, and made a little conversation with my pretty hostess, by way of civility, while two great pools ran down from my wet legs upon the mud hearth. "How long had she been married?" "A quarter of a year." "How long had the courtship been?” A year. "Did marriage, on experiment, come up to her expectations?" She had not entertained very brilliant expectations, and indeed attempted to make out that she had married more to please her ardent suitor than herself- a statement which I received with a polite incredulity. She now began to cross-question me, and I satisfied her where I was coming from and going to. She asked me whether I had ever been the way before, and on my saying no, she observed, that I "must have a very stroong haart to tak' the hills aloone." I said that, "on the contrary, I had rather a weak heart, and weak lungs besides." Hereupon she suddenly inquired "Will you be married?” "No; I am not so fortunate." "That is good luck. If I was your wife my heart would be very sore for you on the hill." She was going to have some tea, and in vited me to take a cup, which I did, and it 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 had 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 thanked her for her kindness, and I left the turf-cabin with more good-will and gratitude than is often carried away in splendid equipages from the doors of great mansions. I resolved to take possession, even if I had to enter by the chimney. I would light a peatfire and dry my clothes, and gather myself a heather bed. And I had three eggs and three scons to sup upon. And would n't such be a real adventure! down the swampy slope, like a rolling stone, except that I gathered a good deal of moss in my shoes. Here there happened to be a shooting-box 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 my 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 heart. The climbing became steeper and steeper towards the top, so much so at last that, as I was rather unsteady on my weary legs, I was in serious fear of losing my footing, and rolling down a few hundred feet of the almost precipice, which had, however, sufficient protruding jags of rock to tear me to pieces long before I should have reached the bottom. But the worst thing that could have happened would have been to fall and break a leg, in which case I should have had perfect leisure to starve to death, without hope of rescue. So I clung to the rough rocks as if I loved them, and bestowed all my attention, 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 darkof 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 ness. At length I did get to the top. The westering sun was flinging about his golden lights aslant the clouds and peaks and lake which lay around my eminence, but I had not time to stop and admire them. I now perceived a lake to the left, far below, and turned towards it, with the idea that at the end of it there would be houses. The sunlight was rising to the summits of the hills. It might come on before I could get down (and the head of the lake was yet three or four miles off). I should have to sit down for a few hours," which, with my blood heated, my feet full of puddle, and every rag of my clothes wringing wet with rain and perspiration, was not a very cheerful prospect for a consumptive patient with a very light plaid. I increased my pace, which was already almost dangerous, and for some time ran at about ten miles an hour, often slipping and tumbling head-over-heels, but I was lucky enough not to fall in hard places. But, independent of imagination, I felt I had received a dangerous chill, and it clung to me, though I got into a furious broil. As I plunged down into the shade behind 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, alltion pasted on it) was uncorked. Good hot 66 tea followed, and, very much contrary to my expectations, I am better off to-night than I was last. The keeper calls the lake Loch Malardich, and says, the great pass I have come over is called Balloch na Bholla, and this very hospitable lodge, Luib na Damh. Glen Q which I may almost call home, is about thirty miles off. I shall not be able to get there tomorrow. I must go to bed, for it is late. I am to be called at five. To-day I have come about twenty-five miles. Wednesday, 11th. At seven this morning I left Luib na Damh, and followed the river Caunich up the glen to Loch Loongar. Here I turned to the left, up a wearisome rising valley, which ended, as usual, in a precipitous corrie. Up this, however, there was a decent path made by Captain Inge, between his shooting-box here and that in Glen Affaric. To this last lodge (Ard Bae) I descended by an equally tedious one on the other side. The keeper did not receive me with quite so much empressement as my friend of last night. Perhaps my appearance was more dubious by daylight, now that two or three days' tramp had begun to tell on the respectability of my outward man. I, however, asked for what I wanted without ceremony, and told him to be seated, and tell me the way while I drank my brandy and 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 toneA 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 – Let venal priests their organs blow, (Oh! when will France the difference know Between a tyrant and a king!) We cannot speak, except to say The mockeries of thy regal state, (Oh, had those suffrages been free!) The empire's ghost, we needs must hate; A thing of silence and of art The dull monotony of kings,* Who would not have thee in their quire, I feel indebted for this stanza to an article in the Spectator newspaper. milk. In proportion as I patronized him, his respect for me began to increase, and he volunteered some bread and cheese. After this I sat some time, shivering and wretched and drowsy, in a hard, uncomfortable chair, before the kitchen fire, and had some difficulty in persuading myself to depart for Cluny, which is nine miles to add to the thirteen from Luib na Damh to Ard Bae. Luckily, there was no great hill, only a slight rise up a glen till half-way, and then a fall. After the half-way there was no road, and bad walking, soft and rough. Coming into Cluny, I heard this glen was called the Currun Mor. This third day has taken the shine out of me. I sit very weary before my bedroom fire at Rhiabuie or Cluny Inn. Thursday, August 12th. Started at six on a pony, and turned off the road up Glen Luyng. Very rough riding; often obliged to walk. Came at last in sight of Archy's cottage. He is the forester of Glen Q and his cottage only three miles from the lodge. Here I left the pony, and walked on. Soon after I saw the blue waters of" Loch Q that most beautiful of lochs," and my troubles ended with a pleasant welcome from my friends, who had begun to think I was lost for good. Such is a short cut of about ninety miles in the Highlands. From Chambers' Journal. enhanced the concern of these hereditary cultivators of the soil; and many bright eyes grew dim thinking of poor Miss Clara, who would so soon be fatherless, and almost penniless. The estate of Ambermead was strictly entailed in the male line, and the next heir was of distant kin to the Harwells. A combination of misfortunes, and no doubt of imprudence in years long by-gone had reduced the present proprietor to the verge of ruin, from which he was to find refuge only in the grave. The Harwell family had lived for centuries in Ambermead. They seem so much to belong to their poor neighbors, who always sympathized most fully in all the joys and sorrows of the "Hall folk," that now, when there was a certain prospect of losing them forever as it seemed, the parting became more than a common one between landlord and tenant, between rich and poor-it was the They watched and waited for Mr. Canute passing to and fro, as he did every day, and more than once a day; and on his two words they hung, as if life or death were involved in that short bulletin. "How is the squire to-day?" said one. "No better," replied Mr. Canute mildly, without stopping. "And how 's Miss Clara?" inquired another with deep pity in his looks. Very patient," responded the old man, still moving slowly on with the aid of his stout staff. THE oracle of the beautiful sequestered little hamlet of Ambermead, was an old gentleman of unobtrusive and orderly habits, whose peculiar taciturnity had obtained for him the familiar cognomen of Two Words. Mr. Canute, alias Two Words, dwelt on the outskirts of the village, tended by an ancient housekeeper, almost as chary of speech as her worthy master. It was surmised that Mr. Canute had seen better days; but though his means were straitened, his heart was large, and his countenance expressed great benevolence. Notwithstanding the brief mode of speech which characterized him on all occasions, the advice of Mr. Canute was eagerly sought on every subject whereon it was presumed advice could be profitable; and the simple rustics of Ambermead perhaps valued it the more, be-parting of endeared friends. cause, though delivered without a particle of pomposity, the terseness and decision of the words expended, left an indelible impression, which long sermons often failed to convey. Mr. Canute lived on terms of intimacy with the family at the old Hall-an intimacy cemented by early associations, for Mr. Harwell and Mr. Canute had been school-fellows; and when a painful and lingering illness attacked the squire, his ancient friend and crony felt deep anxiety as to the ultimate fate of Mr. Harwell's only child, the good and lovely Clara Harwell. The disease was an incurable one; though the suffering might be protracted, there was no hope of ultimate recovery, and an air of gloom reigned over the village of Ambermead, where once the sweet spring and summer tide brought only sport 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 conversed apart in whispers, always directing their glances towards the hall, as if the sufferer within those thick walls could be disturbed by their conversation. This sympathy was called forth, not only by the circumstances of Mr. Harwell being their ancestral landlord, 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. rumor did not report favorably of greatly rate, the welcome was heartily given, and as "Patient!" repeated several voices when he was out of hearing. "Yes, yes, patient enough; and Master Canute means a deal when he says patient. Bless her young sweet face! there 's patience in it if ever there was The summer-tide was waning into autumn, and the squire of Ambermead faded more gradually than autumn leaves, when late one evening a wayfarer stopped at Mr. Canute's cottage, which was on the roadside, and requested permission to rest, asking for a draught of water from the well before the porch. At any "The heir?" whispered Mr. Canute myste riously. heartily responded to; and when Mr. Canute left his dwelling, in order to pay his usual 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 man: "Don't go." sorry to think that such a lovely creature should be turned out of the old Hall to make room for him. He wants to know what will become of her when old Harwell dies, for all the world knows he's ruined. It's a pretty place this old Ambermead -a paradise, I should say. I know what I'd do, if I was ever lucky enough to call it mine." The youth rubbed his hands gleefully. "I should be a happy dog then!"" "No, that I won't," replied he frankly, "for I like my quarters too well. I'll wait till you come back, governor; and I hope you won't be long, for my mouth waters for the supper you spoke of." Mr. Canute smiled, and walked away more briskly than usual; and after sitting for some time beside the sick man's bed, and bidding "good-night" and "bless you" to Clara Harwell, he retraced his steps homewards, and found supper ready, and the handsome stranger so obviously ready to do justice to the frugal fare, that Mr. Canute jocularly remarked: "Keen air;" to which the stranger replied in the same strain: "Fine scenery;" on which the host added: "An artist ?" when the youth, laughing outright, said: "An indifferent one, indeed." After a pause, and suffering his mirth to subside, he continued: "Are you always so economical in words, sir? Don't you sometimes find it difficult to carry on conversation in this strain?" "You don't," replied Mr. Canute smiling, and imperterbably good-natured. "Not I," cried the youth; "and I want to ask you a half a hundred questions. you answer me?" Will "I'll try," replied Mr. Canute. "I've not long to stay, for I'm on a walking tour with a friend; but I diverged to Ambermead, as I was anxious to see it. I've had a curiosity to see it for a long while; but my friend is waiting for me at the market-town, eight miles off, I think, and I shall strike across the country when the moon is up, if you 'll give me a rest till then." "Most welcome," said Mr. Canute courteously. "Ah ha!" quoth the stranger, "if that's the way you pursue your discourse, I don't think I shall learn much from you. I hope, however, that I may get a wife who will follow your example- a woman of two words, in short; she 'll be a rare specimen of her Bex!" "And then?" said Mr. Canute smiling. "Why, then, I'd pull down the rickety old house up there, and build a palace fit for a prince; I'd keep nothing but the old wine; I'd have lots of prime fellows to stay with me; and I should sport the finest horses and dogs in the country." The speaker paused, out of breath. "And then?" said Mr. Canute quietly. "Why, then, I'd hunt, and shoot, and ride, and drink, and smoke, and dance, and keep open house, and enjoy life to the full-feasting from year's end to year's end-the feast of reason and the flow of soul, you know, in old Ambermead!" "And then?" 66 Why, then, I suppose that in time I should grow old, like other people, and cease to care for all these things, so much as I did when strength and youth were mine." "And then?" said Mr. Canute more slowly. Why, then" and the stranger hesitated -"then, I suppose, like other people, in the course of nature, I should have to leave all the pleasures of this life, and, like other people, die." "And then?" said Mr. Canute, fixing his eyes, glittering like diamonds, on the young man's face, which flushed up, as he exclaimed with some irritation, "Oh, hang your and thens!' But the moon is well up, I see, so I'm off. Goodnight, and thank you.' And, without further parley, he started off on his walk over the hills; and Mr. Canute silently watched his guest's retreating figure, till in the deep shadows of the surrounding groves, he was lost to view. In the moonlight, in the darkness, in the valley, and on the hillside, these words haunted the wayfarer, and he kept repeating to himself, "And then?" Thoughts took possession of his mind that never before had gained entrance there, or at least they arranged themselves in a sequence which gave them quite a new significance. His past life |
