ment-far from it, we admire it much; nor is there a single house in town where we make ourselves more agreeable to a late hour, or that we leave with a greater quantity of wine of a good quality under our girdle. Few things would give us more temporary uneasiness, than to hear of any embarrassment in your money concerns. We are not people to forget good fare, we assure you; and long and far may all shapes of sorrow keep aloof from the hospitable board, whether illuminated by gas, oil, or mutton. down the whole Cottage would have been difficult-at least to build it up again would have been so; so we had to submit. Custom, they say, is second nature, but not when a dead rat is in the house. No, none can ever become accustomed to that; yet good springs out of evil-for the live rats could not endure it, and emigrated to a friend's house, about a mile off, who has never had a sound night's rest from that day. We have not revisited our Cottage for several years; but time does wonders, and we were lately told by a person of some veracity, that the smell was then nearly gonebut our informant is a gentleman of blunted olfactory nerves, having been engaged from seventeen to seventy in a soap-work. was visible. We heard, indeed, a whirring and revolving noise-and then suddenly Grizie swearing through the mist. Yet all this while people were admiring our cottage from a distance, and especially this self-same accursed back-smoke, some portions of which had made an excursion up the chimneys, and was wavering away in a spiral form to the sky, in a style captivating to Mr. Price on the Picturesque. But what we were going to say is this-that the head of such a house ought not to live, when ruralizing, in a Cottage. He ought to be consistent. Nothing so beautiful as consistency. What then is so absurd as to cram Smoke too! More especially that mysteriyourself, your wife, your numerous progeny, ous and infernal sort, called back-smoke! The and your scarcely less numerous menials, into old proverb, "No smoke without fire," is a a concern called a Cottage? The ordinary base lie. We have seen smoke without fire heat of a baker's oven is very few degrees in every room in a most delightful Cottage we above that of a brown study, during the month inhabited during the dog-days. The moment of July, in a substantial, low-roofed Cottage. you rushed for refuge even into a closet, you Then the smell of the kitchen! How it aggra- were blinded and stifled; nor shall we ever forvates the sultry closeness! A strange, com- get our horror on being within an ace of smothpounded, inexplicable smell of animal, vegeta-eration in the cellar. At last, we groped our ble, and mineral matter. It is at the worst way into the kitchen. Neither cook nor jack during the latter part of the forenoon, when every thing has been got into preparation for cookery. There is then nothing savoury about the smell-it is dull, dead-almost catacombish. A small back-kitchen has it in its power to destroy the sweetness of any Cottage. Add a scullery, and the three are omnipotent. Of the eternal clashing of pots, pans, plates, trenchers, and general crockery, we now say nothing; indeed, the sound somewhat relieves No doubt, there are many things very romanthe smell, and the ear comes occasionally in tic about a Cottage. Creepers, for example. to the aid of the nose. Such noises are wind- Why, sir, these creepers are the most misfalls; but not so the scolding of cook and but-chievous nuisance that can afflict a family. ler at first low and tetchy, with pauses-then sharp, but still interrupted-by and by, loud and ready in reply-finally a discordant gabble of vulgar fury, like maniacs quarrelling in bedlam. Hear it you must-you and all the strangers. To explain it away is impossible; and your fear is, that Alecto, Tisiphone, or Megæra, will come flying into the parlour with a bloody cleaver, dripping with the butler's brains. During the time of the quarrel the spit has been standing still, and a gigot of the five-year-old black-face burnt on one side to cinder. “To dinner with what appetite you may." It would be quite unpardonable to forget one especial smell which irretrievably ruined our happiness during a whole summer-the smell of a dead rat. The accursed vermin died Somewhere in the Cottage; but whether beneath a floor, within lath and plaster, or in roof, baffled the conjectures of the most sagacious. The whole family used to walk about the Cottage for hours every day, snuffing on a travel of discovery; and we distinctly remember the face of one elderly maiden-lady at the moment she thought she had traced the source of the fumée to the wall behind a windowshutter. But even at the very same instant we ourselves had proclaimed it with open ostril from a press in an opposite corner. Terriers were procured—but the dog Billy imself would have been at fault. To pull There is no occasion for mentioning names, but-devil take all parasites. Some of the rogues will actually grow a couple of inches upon you in one day's time; and when all other honest plants are asleep, the creepers are hard at it all night long, stretching out their toes and their fingers, and catching an inextricable hold of every wall they can reach, till, finally, you see them thrusting their impudent heads through the very slates. Then, like other low-bred creatures, they are covered with vermin. All manner of moths-the most grievous grubs— slimy slugs-spiders spinning toils to ensnare the caterpillar-earwigs and slaters, that would raise the gorge of a country curate--woodlice--the slaver of gowk's-spittle-midgesjocks-with-the-many-legs in short, the whole plague of insects infest that--Virgin's bower. Open the lattice for half an hour, and you find yourself in an entomological museum. Then, there are no pins fixing down the specimens. All these beetles are alive, more especially the enormous blackguard crawling behind your ear. A moth plumps into your tumbler of cold negus, and goes whirling around in meal, till he makes absolute porritch. As you open your mouth in amazement, the large blue-bottle fly, having made his escape from the spiders, and seeing that not a moment is to be lost, precipitates himself head-foremost down your throat, and is felt, after a few ineffectual struggles, settling in despair at the very bottom of your stomach. Still, no person will be so unreasonable as to deny that creepers on a Cottage are most beautiful. For the sake of their beauty, some little sacrifices must be made of one's comforts, especially as it is only for one-half of the year, and last really was a most delightful summer. to say, with the addition of a dozen purchased pounds weekly, you are not very often out of that commodity. Then, once or twice in a summer, they suddenly lose their temper, and chase the governess and your daughters over the edge of a gravel-pit. Nothing they like so much as the tender sprouts of cauliflower, nor do they abhor green pease. The garden-hedge is of privet, a pretty fence, and fast growing, but not formidable to a four-year-old. On going to eat a few gooseberries by sunrise, you start a covey of cows, that in their alarm plunge into the hot-bed with a smash, as if all the glass in the island had been broken-and rushing out at the gate at the critical instant little Tommy is tottering in, they leave the heir-apparent, scarcely deserving that name, half hidden in the border. There is no sale for such outlandish animals in the homemarket, and it is not Martinmas, so you must make a present of them to the president or five silver-cupman of an agricultural society, and you receive in return a sorry red round, desperately saltpetred, at Christmas. How truly romantic is a thatch roof! The eaves how commodious for sparrows! What a paradise for rats and mice! What a comfortable colony of vermin! They all bore their own tunnels in every direction, and the whole interior becomes a Cretan labyrinth. Frush, frush becomes the whole cover in a few seasons; and not a bird can open his wing, not a rat switch his tail, without scattering the straw like chaff. Eternal repairs! Look when you will, and half-a-dozen thatchers are riding on the rigging: of all operatives the most inoperative. Then there is always one of the number descending the ladder for a horn of ale. Without warning, the straw is all used up; and no more fit for the purpose can be got within twenty miles. They hint heather-and What is a Cottage in the country, unless you sigh for slate-the beautiful sky-blue, sea- "your banks are all furnished with bees, green, Ballahulish slate! But the summer is whose murmurs invite one to sleep?" There nearly over and gone, and you must be flitting the hives stand, like four-and-twenty fiddlers all back to the city; so you let the job stand over in a row. Not a more harmless insect in all this to spring, and the soaking rains and snows of world than a bee. Wasps are devils incarnate, a long winter search the Cottage to its heart's- but bees are fleshly sprites, as amiable as core, and every floor is erelong laden with a industrious. You are strolling along, in decrop of fungi-the bed-posts are ornamented lightful_mental vacuity, looking at a poem of curiously with lichens, and mosses bathe the Barry Cornwall's, when smack comes an inwalls with their various and inimitable lustre. furiated honey-maker against your eyelid, and Every thing is romantic that is pastoral-plunges into you the fortieth part of an inch and what more pastoral than sheep? Accord- of sting saturated in venom. The wretch ingly, living in a Cottage, you kill your own clings to your lid like a burr, and it feels as if mutton. Great lubberly Leicesters or South- he had a million claws to hold him on while Downs are not worth the mastication, so you he is darting his weapon into your eyeball. keep the small black-face. Stone walls are Your banks are indeed well furnished with ugly things, you think, near a Cottage, so you bees, but their murmurs do not invite you to have rails or hurdles. Day and night are the sleep; on the contrary, away you fly like a small black-face, out of pure spite, bouncing madman, bolt into your wife's room, and roar through or over all impediments, after an ad-out for the recipe. The whole of one side of yenturous, leader, and, despising the daisied turf, keep nibbling away at all your rare flowering shrubs, till your avenue is a desolation. Every twig has its little ball of wool, and it is a rare time for the nest-makers. You purchase a colley, but he compromises the affair with the fleecy nation, and contents himself with barking all night long at the moon, if there happen to be one, if not, at the firmament of his kennel. You are too humane to hang or drown Luath, so you give him to a friend. But Luath is in love with the cook, and pays her nightly visits. Afraid of being entrapped should he step into the kennel, he takes up his station, after supper, on a knoll within ear-range, and pointing his snout to the stars, joins the music of the spheres, and is himself a perfect Sirius. The gardener at last gets orders to shoot him --and the gun being somewhat rusty, bursts and blows off his left hand--so that Andrew Fairservice retires on a pension. Of all breeds of cattle we most admire the Alderney. They are slim, delicate, wild-deerlooking creatures, that give an air to a Cottage. But they are most capricious milkers. Of course you make your own butter; that is your face is most absurdly swollen, while the other is in statu quo. One eye is dwindled away to almost nothing, and is peering forth from its rainbow-coloured envelope, while the other is open as day to melting charity, and shining over a cheek of the purest crimson. Infatuated man! Why could you not purchase your honey? Jemmy Thomson, the poet, would have let you have it, from Habbie'sHowe, the true Pentland elixir, for five shillings the pint; for during this season both the heather and the clover were prolific of the honey-dew, and the Skeps rejoiced over all Scotland on a thousand hills. We could tell many stories about bees, but that would be leading us away from the main argument. We remember reading in an American newspaper, some years ago, that the United States lost one of their most upright and erudite judges by bees, which stung him to death in a wood while he was going the circuit. About a year afterwards, we read in the same newspaper, "We are afraid we have lost another judge by bees ;" and then followed a somewhat affrightful description of the assassination of another American Blackstone by the same insects. We could not fail to sympathize with both sufferers; for in the summer of the famous comet we ourselves had nearly shared the same fate. Our Newfoundlander upset a hive in his vagaries—and the whole swarm unjustly attacked us. The buzz was an absolute roar-and for the first time in our lives we were under a cloud. Such bizzing in our hair! and of what avail were fifty-times-washed nankeen breeches against the Polish Lancers? With our trusty crutch we made thousands bite the dust-but the wounded and dying crawled up our legs, and stung us cruelly over the lower regions. At last we took to flight, and found shelter in the ice-house. But it seemed as if a new hive had been disturbed in that cool grotto. Again we sallied out stripping off garment after garment, till in puris naturalibus, we leaped into a window, which happened to be that of the drawing-room, where a large party of ladies and gentlemen were awaiting the dinner-bell-but fancy must dream the rest. We now offer a Set of Blackwood's Magazine to any scientific character who will answer this seemingly simple question-what is Damp? Quicksilver is a joke to it, for getting into or out of any place. Capricious as damp is, it is faithful in its affection to all Cottages ornées. What more pleasant than a bow-window? You had better, however, not sit with your back against the wall, for it is as blue and ropy as that of a charnel-house. Probably the wall is tastily papered-a vineleaf pattern perhaps or something spriggyor in the aviary line-or, mayhap, hay-makers, or shepherds piping in the dale. But all distinctions are levelled in the mould-Phyllis has a black patch over her eye, and Strephon seems to be playing on a pair of bellows. Damp delights to descend chimneys, and is one of smoke's most powerful auxiliaries. It is a thousand pities you hung up-just in that unlucky spot-Grecian Williams's Thebesfor now one of the finest water-colour paintings in the world is not worth six-and-eightpence. There is no living in the country without a library. Take down, with all due caution, that enormous tome, the Excursion, and let us hear something of the Pedlar. There is an end to the invention of printing. Lo and behold, blank verse indeed! You cannot help turning over twenty leaves at once, for they are all amalgamated in must and mouldiness. Lord Byron himself is no better than an Egyptian mummy; and the Great Unknown addresses you in hieroglyphics. trace your approaching retirement from all the troubles of this life, to the dimity-curtained cubiculum on Tweedside. We know of few events so restorative as the arrival of a coachful of one's friends, if the house be roomy. But if every thing there be on a small scale, how tremendous a sudden importation of live cattle! The children are all trundled away out of the cottage, and their room given up to the young ladies, with all its enigmatical and emblematical wall-tracery. The captain is billeted in the boudoir, on a shake-down. My lady's maid must positively pass the night in the butler's pantry, and the valet makes a dormitory of the store-room. Where the old gentleman and his spouse have been disposed of, remains as controversial a point as the authorship of Junius; but next morning at the breakfast-table, it appears that all have survived the night, and the hospitable hostess remarks, with a self-complacent smile, that small as the cottage appears, it has wonderful accommodation, and could have easily admitted half a dozen more patients. The visiters politely request to be favoured with a plan of so very commodious a cottage, but silently swear never again to sleep in a house of one story, till life's brief tale be told. But not one half the comforts of a cottage have yet been enumerated-nor shall they be by us at the present juncture. Suffice it to add, that the strange coachman had been persuaded to put up his horses in the outhouses, instead of taking them to an excellent inn about two miles off. The old black long-tailed steeds, that had dragged the vehicle for nearly twenty years, had been lodged in what was called the stable, and the horse behind had been introduced into the byre. As bad luck would have it, a small, sick, and surly shelty was in his stall; and without the slightest provocation, he had, during the night-watches, so handled his heels against Mr. Fox, that he had not left the senior a leg to stand upon, while he had bit a lump out of the buttocks of Mr. Pitt little less than an orange. A cow, afraid of her calf, had committed an assault on the roadster, and tore up his flank with her crooked horn as clean as if it had been a ripping chisel. The party had to proceed with post-horses; and although Mr. Dick be at once one of the most skilful and most moderate of veterinary surgeons, his bill at the end of autumn was necessarily as long as that of a proctor. Mr. Fox gave up the ghost-Mr. Pitt was put on the superannuated list-and Joseph Hume, the hack, was sent to the dogs. We have heard different opinions maintained To this condition, then, we must come at on the subject of damp sheets. For our own last, that if you build at all in the country, it part, we always wish to feel the difference must be a mansion three stories high, at the between sheets and cerements. We hate lowest-large airy rooms-roof of slates and every thing clammy. It is awkward, on leap-lead-and walls of the freestone or the Roman ing out of bed to admire the moon, to drag cement. No small black-faces, no Alderneys, along with you, glued round the body and no beehives. Buy all your vivres, and live members, the whole paraphernalia of the couch. It can never be good for rheumatism -problematical even for fever. Now, be candid—did you ever sleep in perfectly dry sheets in a Cottage ornée? You would not like to say "No, never," in the morning-privately, to host or hostess. But confess publicly, and like a gentleman. Seldom or never be without a houseful of company. If you manage your family matters properly, you may have your time nearly as much at your own disposal as if you were the greatest of hunkses, and never gave but unavoidable dinners. Let the breakfast-gong sound at ten o'clock—quite soon enough. The young people will have been romping about the parlours or the purlieus for a couple of hours-and will all make their appearance in the beauty of high health and high spirits. Chat away as long as need be, after muffins and mutton-ham, in small groups on sofas and settees, and then slip you away to your library, to add a chapter to your novel, or your history, or to any other task that is to make you immortal. Let gigs and curricles draw up in the circle, and the wooing and betrothed wheel away across a few parishes. Let the pedestrians saunter off into the woods or to the hillside-the anglers be off to loch or river. No great harm even in a game or two at billiards—if such be of any the cue-sagacious spinsters of a certain age, staid dowagers, and bachelors of sedentary habits, may have recourse, without blame, to the chess or backgammon board. At two lunch --and at six the dinner-gong will bring the whole flock together, all dressed-mind that-all dressed, for slovenliness is an abomination. Let no elderly gentleman, however bilious and rich, seek to monopolize a young lady-but study the nature of things. Champagne of course, and if not all the delicacies, at least all the substantialities of the season. Join the ladies in about two hours-a little elevated or almost imperceptibly-but still a little elevated or so; then music-whispering in corners—if moonlight and stars, then an hour's out-of-door study of astronomy--no very regular supper-but an appearance of plates and tumblers, and to bed, to happy dreams and slumbers light, at the witching hour. Let no gentleman or lady snore, if it can be avoided, lest they annoy the crickets; and if you hear any extraordinary noise round and round about the mansion, be not alarmed, for why should not the owls choose their own hour of revelry? SO their source in reason; and our admiration is always built on the foundation of truth. Taste, and feeling, and thought, and experience, and knowledge of this life's concerns, are all indispensable to the true delights the imagination experiences in beholding a beautiful bonâ fide Cottage. It must be the dwelling of the poor; and it is that which gives it its whole character. By the poor, we mean not paupers, beggars; but families who, to eat, must work, and who, by working, may still be able to eat. Plain, coarse, not scanty, but unsuperfluous fare is theirs from year's-end to year's-end, excepting some decent and grateful change on chance holydays of nature's own appointment—a wedding, or a christening, or a funeral. Yes, a funeral; for when this mortal coil is shuffled off, why should the hundreds of people that come trooping over muirs and mosses to see the body deposited, walk so many miles, and lose a whole day's work, without a dinner? And, if there be a dinner, should it not be a good one? And if a good one, will the company not be social? But this is a subject for a future paper, nor need such paper be of other than a cheerful character. Poverty, then, is the builder and beautifier of all huts and cottages. But the views of honest poverty are always hopeful and prospective. Strength of muscle and strength of mind form a truly Holy | Alliance; and the future brightens before the steadfast eyes of trust. Therefore, when a house is built in the valley, or on the hillside be it that of the poorest cottar-there is some little room, or nook, or spare place, which hope consecrates to the future. Better times may come-a shilling or two may be added to the week's wages-parsimony may accumulate a small capital in the Savings bank sufficient to purchase an old eight-day clock, a chest of drawers for the wife, a curtained bed for the lumber-place, which a little labour will convert into a bed-room. It is not to be thought that the pasture-fields become every year greener, and the corn-fields every harvest more yellow that the hedgerows grow to thicker fragrance, and the birch-tree waves its tresses higher in the air, and expands its white-rinded stem almost to the bulk of a tree of the forest—and yet that there shall be no visible progress from good to better in the dwelling of those whose hands and hearts thus cultivate the soil into rejoicing beauty. As the whole land prospers, so does each individual dwelling. Every ten years, the observing eye sees a new expression on the face of the silent earth; the law of labour is no melancholy lot; for to industry the yoke is easy, and content is its own exceeding great reward. Fond as we are of the country, we would not, had we our option, live there all the year round. We should just wish to linger into the winter about as far as the middle of December -then to a city-say at once Edinburgh. There is as good skating-ground, and as good curlingground, at Lochend and Duddingstone, as any where in all Scotland-nor is there anywhere else better beef and greens. There is no perfection anywhere, but Edinburgh society is excellent. We are certainly agreeable citizens; with just a sufficient spice of party spirit to season the feast of reason and the flow of soul, and to prevent society from becoming drowsily unanimous. Without the fillip of a little scandal, honest people would fall asleep; and surely it is far preferable to that to abuse one's friends with moderation. Even Literature and the Belles Lettres are not entirely useless; and our Human Life would not be so delightful as that of Mr. Rogers, without a few occasional Noctes Ambrosianæ. But the title of our article recalls our wan-mily are in the fields, mother and all, hears the dering thoughts, and our talk must be of Cottages. Now, think not, beloved reader, that we care not for Cottages, for that would indeed be a gross mistake. But our very affections are philosophical; our sympathies have all Therefore, it does our heart good to look on a Cottage. Here the objections to straw-roofs have no application. A few sparrows chirping and fluttering in the eaves can do no great harm, and they serve to amuse the children. The very baby in the cradle, when all the fa cheerful twitter, and is reconciled to solitude. The quantity of corn that a few sparrows can eat-greedy creatures as they are-cannot be very deadly; and it is chiefly in the winter time that they attack the stacks, when there is sweep away as absolute nuisances. Perhaps the very depth of their affections—the solemnity of their religious thought-and the reflective spirit in which they carry on the warfare of life-hide from them the perception of what, after all, is of such very inferior moment, and even create a sort of austerity of character which makes them disregard, too much, trifles that appear to have no influence or connection with the essence of weal or wo. Yet if there be any truth in this, it affords, we confess, an explanation rather than a justification. much excuse to be made on the plea of hunger. | household, and which an awakened eye would As to the destruction of a little thatch, why, there is not a boy about the house, above ten years, who is not a thatcher, and there is no expense in such repairs. Let the honeysuckle too steal up the wall, and even blind unchecked a corner of the kitchen-window. Its fragrance will often cheer unconsciously the labourer's heart, as, in the midday-hour of rest, he sits dandling his child on his knee, or converses with the passing pedlar. Let the moss-rose tree flourish, that its bright blush-balls may dazzle in the kirk the eyes of the lover of fair Helen Irwin, as they rise and fall with every movement of a bosom yet happy in its virgin innocence. Nature does not spread in vain her flowers in flush and fragrance over every obscure nook of earth. Simple and pure is the delight they inspire. Not to the poet's eye alone is their language addressed. The beautiful symbols are understood by lowliest minds; and while the philosophical Wordsworth speaks of the meanest flower that blows giving a joy too deep for tears, so do all mankind feel the exquisite truth of Burns's more simple address to the mountain-daisy which his ploughshare had upturned. The one touches sympathies too profound to be general-the other speaks as a son of the soil affected by the fate of the most familiar flower that springs from the bosom of our common dust. Our business at present, however, is rather with single Cottages than with villages. We Scottish people have, for some years past, been doing all we could to make ourselves ridiculous, by claiming for our capital the name of Modern Athens, and talking all manner of nonsense about a city which stands nobly on its own proper foundation; while we have kept our mouths comparatively shut about the beauty of our hills and vales, and the rational happiness that everywhere overflows our native land. Our character is to be found in the country; and therefore, gentle reader, behold along with us a specimen of Scottish scenery. It is not above some four miles long-its breadth somewhere about a third of its length; a fair oblong, sheltered and secluded by a line of varied eminences, on some of which lies the power of cultivation, and over others the vivid verdure peculiar to a pastoral region; while, telling of disturbed times past for ever, stand yonder the ruins of an old fortalice or keep, picturesque in its deserted decay. The plough has stopped at the edge of the profitable and beautiful coppice-woods, and encircled the tall elm-grove. The rocky pasturage, with its clovery and daisied turf, is alive with sheep and cattle-its briery knolls with birds-its broom and whins with bees-and its wimpling burn with trouts and minnows glancing through the shallows, or leaping among the cloud of insects that glitter over its pools. Here and there a cottage-not above twenty in all—one low down in the holm, another on a cliff beside the waterfall: that is the mill-another breaking the horizon in its more ambitious stationand another far up at the hill-foot, where there is not a single tree, only shrubs and brackens. On a bleak day, there is but little beauty in such a glen; but when the sun is cloudless, and all the light serene, it is a place where poet or painter may see visions, and dream dreams, of the very age of gold. At such seasons, there is a homefelt feeling of humble reality, blending with the emotions of imagination. In such places, the low-born, high-souled poets of old breathed forth their songs, and hymns, and elegies-the undying lyrical poetry of the heart of Scotland. Generally speaking, there has been a spirit of improvement at work, during these last twenty years, upon all the Cottages in Scotland. The villages are certainly much neater and cleaner than formerly, and in very few respects, if any, positively offensive. Perhaps none of them have--nor ever will have-the exquisite trimness, the habitual and hereditary rustic elegance, of the best villages of England. There, even the idle and worthless have an instinctive love of what is decent, and orderly, and pretty in their habitations. The very drunkard must have a well-sanded floor, a clean-swept hearth, clear-polished furniture, and uncobwebbed walls to the room in which he quaffs, guzzles, and smokes himself into stupidity. His wife may be a scold, but seldom a slattern-his children ill taught, but well apparelled. Much of this is observable even among the worst of the class; and, no doubt, such things must also have their effect in tempering and restraining excesses. Whereas, on the other hand, the house of a wellbehaved, well-doing English villager is a perfect model of comfort and propriety. In Scotland, the houses of the dissolute are always dens of dirt, and disorder, and distraction. All ordinary goings-on are inextricably confused -meals eaten in different nooks, and at no regular hour—nothing in its right place or time -the whole abode as if on the eve of a flitting; while, with few exceptions, even in the dwellings of the best families in the village, one may Take the remotest cottage first in order, detect occasional forgetfulness of trifling mat- HILLFOOT, and hear who are its inmates-the ters, that, if remembered, would be found Schoolmaster and his spouse. The schoolgreatly conducive to comfort-occasional in-house stands on a little unappropriated piece sensibilities to what would be graceful in their of ground-at least it seems to be so-quite at condition, and might be secured at little expense and less trouble-occasional blindness to minute deformities that mar the aspect of the the head of the glen; for there the hills sink down on each side, and afford an easy access to the seat of learning from two neighbouring |