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misery in the Salmon Pool. Oh! that it had you-our Hearty-though not two feet long, | been our purse! Who cares for a dozen dirty certainly do the perpendicular to the tune of four sovereigns and a score of nasty notes? And from tail-fin to water-surface-your snout what's the use of them to us now, or indeed at being six nearer the sky than the foam-bells any time? And what's the use of this identi- you break in your descent into your native cal rod? Hang it, if a little thing would not element. Cayenne, mustard, and ketchup is make us break it! A multiplying reel indeed! our zest, and we shall assuredly eat you at The invention of a fool. The Tent sees not sunset. Do you know the name of the Fool us again; this afternoon we shall return to at the other end-according to Dr. Johnson? Edinburgh. Don't talk to us of flies at the CHRISTOPHER NORTH. "Tis an honour to be next village. There are no flies at the village captured by the Old Knight of the Bloody —there is no village. O Beelzebub! O Satan! Hand. You deserve to die such a death-for was ever man tempted as we are tempted? you keep in the middle of the current like a See-see a Fish-a fine Fish-an enormous mort of mettle, and are not one of the skulkers Fish-leaping to insult us! Give us our gun that seek the side, and would fain take to the that we may shoot him-no-no, dang guns bush in hopes of prolonging life by foul en—and dang this great clumsy rod! There-tanglement. Bravely bored, Gil Morrice. There let it lie there for the first person that passesfor we swear never to angle more. As for the Awe we never liked it-and wonder what infatuation brought us here. We shall be made to pay for this yet-whew! there was a twinge -that big toe of ours we'll warrant is as red as fire, and we bitterly confess that we deserve the gout. Och! och! och!

But hark! whoop and hollo, and is that too the music of the hunter's horn? Reverberating among the woods a well-known voice salutes our ear, and there! bounds Hamish over the rocks like a chamois taking his pastime. Holding up our LASCELLES! he places it with a few respectful words-hoping we have not missed it—and standing aloof-leaves us to our own reflections and our flies. Nor do those amount to remorse-nor these to more than a few dozens. Samson's strength having been restored-we speak of our rod, mind ye, not of ourselves—we lift up our downcast eyes, and steal somewhat ashamed a furtive glance at the trees and stones that must have overheard and overseen all our behaviour. We leave those who have been in any thing like the same predicament to confess-not publicly-there is no occasion for that-nor on their knees —but to their own consciences, if they have any, their grief and their joy, their guilt, and, we hope, their gratitude. Transported though they were beyond all bounds, we forgive them; for even those great masters of wisdom, the Stoics, were not infallible, nor were they always able to sustain, at their utmost strength, in practice the principles of their philosophy.

We are in a bloody mood, and shall not leave this Pool--without twenty mortal murders on our head. Jump away, TROUTS-without any bowels of compassion for the race of flies. Devouring Ephemerals! Can you not suffer the poor insects to sport out their day? They must be insipid eating; but here are some savoury exceedingly-it is needless to mention their name-that carry sauce piquante in their tails. Do try the taste of this bobber —but any one of the three you please. There! hold fast KIRBY-for that is a Whopper. A Mort! we did not suppose there were any in the river. Why, he springs as if he were a Fish? Go it again, Beauty. We ourselves could jump a bit in our day-nearly four times our own length-but we never could clear our own height, nor within half-a-foot of it; while

is as great difference in the moral qualities of the finny tribe as among us humans-and we have known some cowardly wretches escape our clutches by madly floundering in among floating weeds, or diving down among labyrinths of stone at the bottom, in paroxysms of fear that no tackle could withstand, not even Mackenzie's. He has broke his heart. Feeble as the dying gladiator, the arena swims around him, and he around the arena-till sailing with snout shore-ward, at sea in his own pool, he absolutely rolls in convulsions in between our very feet, and we, unprepared for such a mode of procedure, hastily retreating, discover that our joints are not so supple as of yore, and play cloit on our back among the gowans. O'Bronte tooths him by the cerebellum, and carries him up-brae in his mouth like a mawkin. About six pounds.

Had we killed such a mort as is now in Magog, fifty years ago, we should not have rested a single instant after basketing him, before rerushing, with a sanguinary aspect, to the work of death. Now carelessly diffused, we lie on our elbow, with our mild cheek on our palm, and keep gazing-but not lack-a-daisically-on the circumambient woods. Yes! circumambient-for look where we will, they accompany our ken like a peristrephic panorama. If men have been seen walking like trees, why may not trees be seen walking like men-in battalia—in armies—but oh! how peaceful the array; and as the slow silvan swimming away before our eyes subsides and settles, in that steadfast variegation of colouring, what a depth of beauty and grandeur, of joy and peace!

Phin! this rod is thy masterpiece. And what Gut! There she has it! Reel-music for ever! Ten fathom are run out already-and see how she shoots, Hamish ;-such a somerset as that was never thrown from a springboard. Just the size for strength and agilitytwenty pound to an ounce-jimp weight, Hamish-ha! Harlequin art thou-or Columbine ? Assuredly neither Clown nor Pantaloon. Now we have turned her ladyship's nose up the stream, her lungs, if she have any, must be beginning to labour, and we almost hear her snore. What! in the sulks already-sullen among the stones. But we shall make you mudge, madam, were we to tear the very tongue out of your mouth. Aye, once more down the middle to the tune of that spirited countrydance-"Off she goes!" Set corners, and

reel! The gaff, Hamish-the gaff! and the landing-net! For here is a shallow of the silver sand, spreading into the bay of a ford--and ere she recovers from her astonishment, here will we land her-with a strong pull, a long pull, and a pull altogether-just on the edge of the greensward-and then smite her on the shoulder, Hamish—and, to make assurance doubly sure, the net under her tail, and hoist her aloft in the sunshine, a glorious prize, dazzling the daylight, and giving a brighter verdure to the woods.

going to pull her through the first few hours of the night-along with the flowing tide-up to Kinloch-Etive, to try a cast with their long net at the mouth of the river, now winding dim like a snake from King's House beneath the Black Mount, and along the bays at the head of the Loch. A rumour that we were on the river had reached them—and see an awning of tartan over the stern, beneath which, as we sit, the sun may not smite our head by day, nor the moon by night. We embark-and descending the river like a dream, rapidly but stilly, He who takes two hours to kill a fish-be its and kept in the middle of the current by cunbulk what it may-is no man, and is not worth ning helmsman, without aid of idle oar, all six his meat, nor the vital air. The proportion is suspended, we drop along through the silvan a minute to the pound. This rule were we scenery, gliding serenely away back into the taught by the "Best at Most" among British mountain gloom, and enter into the wider sportsmen-Scrope the Matchless on moor, moonshine trembling on the wavy verdure of mountain, river, loch, or sea; and with exqui- the foam-crested sea. May this be Loch-Etive? site nicety, have we now carried it into prac- Yea-verily; but so broad here is its bosom, tice. Away with your useless steelyards. Let and so far spreads the billowy brightness, that us feel her teeth with our fore-finger, and then we might almost believe that our bark was held out at arm's length-so-we know by bounding over the ocean, and marching merfeeling, that she is, as we said soon as we saw rily on the main. Are we-into such a dream her side, a twenty pounder to a drachm, and might fancy for a moment half beguile herself we have been true to time within two seconds.-rowing back, after a day among the savage She has literally no head; but her snout is in islanders, to our ship lying at anchor in the her shoulders. That is the beauty of a fish- offing, on a voyage of discovery round the high and round shoulders, short waisted, no world? loins, but all body, and not long of terminating -the shorter still the better-in a tail sharp and pointed as Diana's, when she is crescent in the sky.

And lo, and behold! there is Diana-but not crescent-for round and broad is she as the sun himself—shining in the south, with as yet a needless light-for daylight has not gone down in the west-and we can hardly call it gloaming. Chaste and cold though she seem, a nunlike luminary who has just taken the veil -a transparent veil of fine fleecy cloudsyet, alas! is she frail as of old, when she descended on the top of Latmos, to hold dalliance with Endymion.. She has absolutely the appearance of being in the family way-and not far from her time. Lo! two of her children stealing from ether towards her feet. One on her right hand, and another on her left-the fairest daughters that ever charmed mother's heart-and in heaven called stars. What a celestial trio the three form in the sky! The face of the moon keeps brightening as the lesser two twinkle into larger lustre ; and now, though Day is still lingering, we feel that it is Night. When the one comes and when the other goes, what eye can note, what tongue can tell-but what heart feels not in the dewy hush divine, as the power of the beauty of earth decays over us, and a still dream descends upon us in the power of the beauty of heaven!

Where are all the dogs? Ponto, Piro, Basta, trembling partly with cold, partly with hunger, partly with fatigue, and partly with fear, among and below the seats of the rowers-with their noses somewhat uncomfortably laid between their fore-paws on the tarry timbers; but O'Bronte boldly sitting at our side, and wistfully eyeing the green swell as it heaves beautifully by, ready at the slightest signal to leap overboard, and wallow like a walrus in the brine, of which you might almost think he was born and bred, so native seems the element to the "Dowg o' Dowgs." Ay, these are seamews, O'Bronte, wheeling white as silver in the moonshine; but we shall not shoot themno-no-no-we will not shoot you, ye images of playful peace, so fearlessly, nay, so lovingly attending our bark as it bounds over the breasts of the billows, in motion quick almost as your slowest flight, while ye linger around, and behind, and before our path, like fair spirits wiling us along up this great Loch, farther and farther through gloom and glimmer, into the heart of profounder solitude. On what errands of your own are ye winnowing your way, stooping ever and anon just to dip your wing-tips in the waves, and then up into the open air-the blue light filling this magnificent hollow-or seen glancing along the shadows of the mountains as they divide the Loch into a succession of separate bays, and often seem to block it up, But hark! the regular twang and dip of oars till another moonlight reach is seen extending coming up the river-and lo! indistinct in the far beyond, and carries the imagination on-on distance, something moving through the moon--on-into inland recesses that seem to lose at shine-and now taking the likeness of a boat- last all connection with the forgotten sea. All a barge-with bonnetted heads leaning back at once the moon is like a ghost;-and we beat every flashing stroke-and, Hamish, list! lieve-Heaven knows why-in the authenticity a choral song in thine own dear native tongue! of Ossian's Poems. Sent hither by the Queen of the sea-fairies to bear back in state Christopher North to the Tent? No. 'Tis the big coble belonging to the tacksman of the Awe-and the crew are

Was there ever such a man as Ossian? We devoutly hope there was-for if so, then there were a prodigious number of fine fellows, besides his Bardship, who after their death figured

away as their glimmering ghosts, with noble | impossible-let all the inconsistencies and effect, among the moonlight mists of the moun- violations of nature ever charged against it tains. The poetry of Ossian has, it is true, be acknowledged-let all its glaring plagiar since the days of Macpherson, in no way isms from poetry of modern date inspire what coloured the poetry of the island; and Mr. derision they may-and far worse the perpetual Wordsworth, who has written beautiful lines repetition of its own imbecilities and inanities, about the old Phantom, states that fact as an wearying one down even to disgust and anger; argument against its authenticity. He thinks yet, in spite of all, are we not made to feel, Ossian, as we now possess him, no poet; and not only that we are among the mountains, but alleges that if these compositions had been the to forget that there is any other world in existgood things so many people have thought ence, save that which glooms and glimmers, them, they would, in some way or other, have and wails and raves around us in mists and breathed their spirit over the poetical genius clouds, and storms, and snows-full of lakes of the land. Who knows that they may not and rivers, sea-intersected and sea-surrounded, do so yet? The time may not have come. with a sky as troublous as the earth-yet both But must all true poetry necessarily create imi- at times visited with a mournful beauty that tation, and a school of imitators ? One sees sinks strangely into the soul-while the shano reason why it must. Besides, the life which dowy life depictured there eludes not our human the poetry of Ossian celebrates, has utterly sympathies; nor yet, aerial though they be— passed away; and the poetry itself, good, bad, so sweet and sad are their voices-do there or indifferent, is so very peculiar, that to imi- float by as unbeloved, unpitied, or unhonoured tate it at all, you must almost transcribe it. -single, or in bands--the ghosts of the brave That, for a good many years, was often done, and beautiful when the few stars are dim, and but naturally inspired any other feeling than the moon is felt, not seen, to be yielding what delight or admiration. But the simple question faint light there may be in the skies. is, Do the poems of Ossian delight greatly and The boat in a moment is a bagpipe; and not widely? We think they do. Nor can we be- only so, but all the mountains are bagpipes, lieve that they would not still delight such a and so are the clouds. All the bagpipes poet as Mr. Wordsworth. What dreariness in the world are here, and they fill heaven overspreads them all! What a melancholy and earth. "Tis no exaggeration-much less spirit shrouds all his heroes, passing before us a fiction-but the soul and body of truth. There on the cloud, after all their battles have been Hamish stands stately at the prow; and as the fought, and their tombs raised on the hill! The boat hangs by midships on the very point that very picture of the old blind Hero-bard him- commands all the echoes, he fills the whole self, often attended by the weeping virgins night with the "Campbells are coming," till the whom war has made desolate, is always touch-sky yells with the gathering as of all the Clans. ing, often sublime. The desert is peopled with lamenting mortals, and the mists that wrap them with ghosts, whose remembrances of this life are all dirge and elegy. True, that the images are few and endlessly reiterated; but that, we suspect, is the case with all poetry composed not in a philosophic age. The great and constant appearances of nature suffice, in their simplicity, for all its purposes. The poet seeks not to vary their character, and his hearers are willing to be charmed over and over again by the same strains. We believe that the poetry of Ossian would be destroyed by any greater distinctness or variety of image-vesting with apparent woodiness what an hour ry. And if, indeed, Fingal lived and Ossian sung, we must believe that the old bard was blind; and we suspect that in such an age, such a man would, in his blindness, think dreamily indeed of the torrents, and lakes, and heaths, and clouds, and mountains, moons and stars, which he had leapt, swam, walked, climbed, and gazed on in the days of his rejoicing youth. Then has he no tenderness no pathos--no beauty. Alas for thousands of hearts and souls if it be even so! For then are many of their holiest dreams worthless all, and divinest melancholy a mere complaint of the understanding, which a bit of philosophical criticism will purge away, as the leech's phial does a disease of the blood.

Macpherson's Ossian, is it not poetry? Wordsworth says it is not-but Christopher North says it is with all reverence for the King. Let its antiquity be given up--let such a state of society as is therein described be declared

His eyes are triumphantly fixed on ours to catch their emotions; his fingers cease their twinkling; and still that wild gathering keeps playing of itself among the mountains-fainter and fainter, as it is flung from cliff to cliff, till it dies away far-far off--as if in infinitude --sweet even and soft in its evanescence as some lover's lute.

We are now in the bay of Gleno. For though moonlight strangely alters the whole face of nature, confusing its most settled features, and with a gentle glamoury blending with the greensward what once was the gray granite, and in

ago was the desolation of herbless cliffs-yet not all the changes that wondrous nature, in ceaseless ebb and flow, ever wrought on her works, could metamorphose out of our recognition that Glen, in which, one night-longlong ago

"In life's morning march, when our spirit was young!" we were visited by a dream-a dream that shadowed forth in its inexplicable symbols the whole course of our future life-the gravesthe tombs where many we loved are now buried-that churchyard, where we hope and believe that one day our own bones will rest.

But who shouts from the shore, Hamishand now, as if through his fingers, sends forth a sharp shrill whistle that pierces the sky? Ah, ha! we ken his shadow in the light, with the roe on his shoulder. 'Tis the schoolmaster of Gleno, bringing down our quarry to the

boat-kilted, we declare, like a true Son of the Mist. The shore here is shelving but stony, and our prow is aground. But strong-spined and loined, and strong in their withers, are the M'Dougals of Lorn; and, wading up to the red hairy knees, he has flung the roe into the boat. and followed it himself like a deer-hound. So

bend to your oars, my hearties-my heroes the wind freshens, and the tide strengthens from the sea; and at eight knots an hour we shall sweep along the shadows, and soon see the lantern, twinkling as from a lighthouse, on the pole of our Tent.

In a boat, upon a great sea-arm, at night, among mountains, who would be so senseless, so soulless as to speak? The hour has its might,

and state of the stones over which we make such a clatter, we shrewdly suspect that the parliamentary grant for destroying the old Highland torrent-roads has not extended its ravages to Glen-Etive. O'Bronte,

"Like panting Time, toils after us in vain ;"

and the pointers are following us by our own scent, and that of the roe, in the distant darkness. Pull up, Hamish, pull up, or otherwise we shall overshoot our mark, and meet with some accident or other, perhaps a capsize on Bachaille-Etive, or the Black Mount. We had no idea the circle of greensward in front of the Tent was so spacious. Why, there is room for the Lord Mayor of London's state-coach to turn with its eight horses, and that enormous “Because not of this noisy world, but silent and divine !", ass, Parson Dillon, on the dickey. What could have made us think at this moment of London? A sound there is in the sea-green swell, and Certes, the association of ideas is a droll thing, the hollows of the rocks, that keep muttering, as and also sometimes most magnificent. Dancing their entrances feel the touch of the tide. But no- in the Tent, among strange figures! Celebrathing beneath the moon can be more solemn,now tion of the nuptials of some Arab chief, in an that her aspect is so wan, and that some melan-oasis in the Great Desert of Stony Arabia! choly spirit has obscured the lustre of the stars. Heavens! look at Tickler! How he hauls the We feel as if the breath of old elegiac poetry Hizzies! There is no time to be lost-he and were visiting our slumber. All is sad within us, yet why we know not; and the sadness is stranger as it is deeper after a day of almost foolish pastime, spent by a being who believes that he is immortal, and that this life is but the

threshold of a life to come. Poor, puny, and paltry pastimes indeed are they all! But are they more so than those pursuits of which the moral poet has sung,

"The paths of glory lead but to the grave!" Methinks, now, as we are entering into a sabler mass of shadow, that the doctrine of eternal punishment of sins committed in time-but

"Here's a health to all good lasses,
Here's a health to all good lasses,
Pledge it merrily, fill your glasses;
Let the bumper toast go round,
Let the bumper toast go round!"

Rest on your oars, lads. Hamish ! the quech!
give each man a caulker, that his oar may send
a bolder twang from its rollock, and our fish-
coble walk the waves like a man-of-war's gig,
with the captain on board, going ashore, after
a long cruise, to meet his wife. Now she spins!
and lo! lights at Kinloch-Etive, and beyond on
the breast of the mountain, bright as Hesperus
-the pole-star of our Tent!

the Admiral must not have all the sport to themselves; and, by and by, spite of age and infirmity, we shall show the Tent a touch of the Highland Fling. Hollo! you landloupers ! Christopher is upon you-behold the Tenth

Avatar incarnated in North.

But what Apparitions at the Tent-door salute our approach?

"Back step these two fair angels, half afraid So suddenly to see the Griesly King!" Goat-herdesses from the cliffs of Glencreran or Glenco, kilted to the knee, and not unconscious of their ankles, one twinkle of which is sufficient to bid "Begone dull care" for ever. One hand on a shoulder of each of the mountain-nymphs-sweet liberties-and then embraced by both, half in their arms, and half on their bosoms, was ever Old Man so pleasantly let down from triumphal car, on the soft surface of his mother-earth? Ay, there lies the Red-deer! and what heaps of smaller slain! But was there ever such a rush of dogs! We shall be extinguished. Down, dogs, down-nay, ladies and gentlemen, be seated on one another's knees as before-we beseech you-we are but men like yourselves

"Without the smile from partial beauty won,
Oh! what were man ?-a world without a sun!"

Well, this is indeed the Londe of Faery! A car with a nag caparisoned at the water edge!—and On with the roe, and in with Christopher and the fish. Now, Hamish, hand us the Crutch. After a cast or two, which, may they be successful as the night is auspicious, your presence, gentlemen, will be expected in the Tent. Now, Hamish, handle thou the ribbons-alias the hair-tether-and we will touch him behind, should he linger, with a weapon that might

"Create a soul under the ribs of death."

Linger! why the lightning flies from his heels, as he carries us along a fine natural causeway, like Ossian's car-borne heroes. From the size

What it is to be the darling of gods and men, and women and children! Why, the very stars burn brighter-and thou, O Moon! art like the Sun. We foresee a night of dancing and drinking-till the mountain-dew melt in the lustre of morn. Such a day should have a glorious death-and a glorious resur rection. Hurra! Hurra!

THE MOORS FOR EVER! THE MOORS! THE MOORS!

N 2

HIGHLAND SNOW-STORM.

WHAT do you mean by original genius? that fine line in the Pleasures of Hope

"To muse on Nature with a poet's eye?"

Why-genius-one kind of it at least is transfusion of self into all outward things. The genius that does that-naturally, but novelly—is original; and now you know the meaning of one kind of original genius. Have we, then, Christopher North, that gift? Have you? Yea, both of Us. Our spirits animate the insensate earth, till she speaks, sings, smiles, laughs, weeps, sighs, groans, goes mad, and dies. Nothing easier, though perhaps it is wicked, than for original genius like ours, or yours, to drive the earth to distraction. ours, or yours, to drive the earth to distraction. We wave our wizard hand thus-and lo! list! she is insane. How she howls to heaven, and

By | presence-if any mortal feeling be so-is sublime. Your imagination is troubled, and dreams of death, but of no single corpse, of for the Hut in which you thus enjoy the storm, no single grave. Nor fear you for yourselfis safer than the canopied cliff-calm of the its deepest and darkest foundations, and all eagle's nest; but your spirit is convulsed from that lay hidden there of the wild and wonderful, the pitiful and the strange, the terrible and pathetic, is now upturned in dim confusion, and imagination, working among the hoarded gatherings of the heart, creates out of them moods kindred and congenial with the hurricane, intensifying the madness of the heaven and the earth, till that which sees and that which is seen, that which hears and that which is heard, undergo alternate mutual at once substance, shadow, and soul-is felt transfiguration; and the blind Roaring Dayto be one with ourselves-the blended whole either the Live-Dead, or the Dead-Alive.

how the maddened heaven howls back her frenzy! Two dreadful maniacs raging apart, but in communion, in one vast bedlam! The drift-snow spins before the hurricane, hissing like a nest of serpents let loose to torment the air.

We are in a Highland Hut-if we called it What fierce flakes! furies! as if all the a Shieling we did so merely because we love wasps that ever stung had been revivified, and the sound of the word Shieling, and the image were now careering part and parcel of the it at once brings to eye and ear-the rustling tempest. We are in a Highland Hut in the of leaves on a summer silvan bower, by simmidst of mountains. But no land is to be seen any more than if we were in the middle of the ple art slightly changed from the form of the growth of nature, or the waving of fern on the sea. Yet a wan glare shows that the snow-turf-roof and turf-walls, all covered with wildstorm is strangely shadowed by superincum- flowers and mosses, and moulded by one sinbent cliffs; and though you cannot see, you gle season into a knoll-like beauty, beside its hear the mountains. Rendings are going on, guardian birch-tree, insupportable to all evil frequent, over your head-and all around the spirits, but with its silvery stem and drooping blind wilderness-the thunderous tumblings tresses dear to the Silent People that won in down of avalanches, mixed with the moan- the land of peace. Truly this is not the sweet ing, shriekings, and yellings of caves, as if Shieling-season, when, far away from all other spirits there were angry with the snow-drift human dwellings, on the dip of some great choking up the fissures and chasms in the mountain, quite at the head of a day's-journeycliffs. Is that the creaking and groaning, and long glen, the young herdsman, haply all alone, rocking and tossing of old trees, afraid of be- without one single being with him that has the ing uprooted and flung into the spate? use of speech, liveth for months retired far from kirk and cross-Luath his sole companion-his sole care the pasturing heids-the sole sounds he hears the croak of the 1aven on the cliff, or bark of the eagle in the sky. 0 sweet, solitary lot of lover! Haply in some oasis in the wilderness, some steadfast gleam of emerald light amid the hyacinthine-hue of the heather, that young herdsman hath pitched his tent, by one Good Spirit haunted morning, noon, and night, through the sunny, moonlight, starry months,-the Orphan-girl, whom years ago her dying father gave into his arms-the old blind soldier-knowing that the boy would shield her innocence when every blood-rela tion had been buried-now Orphan-girl no more, but growing there like a lily at the Shieling door, or singing within sweetlier than any bird—the happiest of all living thingsher own Ronald's dark-haired Bride.

"Red comes the river down, and loud and oft The angry spirit of the water shrieks," more fearful than at midnight in this nightlike day-whose meridian is a total sun eclipse. The river runs by, bloodlike, through the snow--and, short as is the reach you can see through the flaky gloom, that short reach shows that all his course must be terriblemore and more terrible-as, gathering his streams like a chieftain his clan-erelong he will sweep shieling, and hut, and hamlet to the sea, undermining rocks, cutting mounds asunder, and blowing up bridges that explode into the air with a roar like that of cannon. You sometimes think you hear thunder, though you know that cannot be-but sublimer than thunder is the nameless noise so like that of agonized life—that eddies far and wide around -high and huge above-fear all the while being at the bottom of your heart—an objectless, dim dreary, undefinable fear, whose troubled

We are in a Highland Hut among a Highland Snow-storm-and all at once amidst the

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