in the wind, to give information at the camp. I was received accordingly. They were making hay. Their forks were soon in requisition, expecting I might have King's cutter-men in the rear. One old veteran of seventy brandished his fork round his head, and had not a deep river befriended me, I should have had a fork prong for my supper. I tried to explain but there was no English. I laid my hand on my breast and shook my head as an an assurance of friendship. It was no use. The old man danced like an Indian war dancer with rage; nor could I satisfy them of my non-excisemanship, until a man (who I understood had been brought up in Spain, for a priest, and who is as big a smuggler as the best of them,) came, and interpreted my English. These people defeated twenty armed cutter-men the other day. I have occasionally ventured to argue with them against their illicit practices, thus: government cut you roads for the facilities of agriculture; build you churches; enrich your country by army-pensions, and are they not entitled to your quota of contribution in the shape of taxation? They answer, we hold no land. The roads take our cattle away,

we

while the low country taxman pockets the money and retires into his own country, when rich enough, while we starve for want of animal food; and as to the church establishment, are generally Catholics in these parts. Smuggling is our birth-right; it was our father's before us. Rob us but of that, you rob us of existence; or, what is worse, you expel us our country, to seek livings where our want of a knowledge of the arts renders us useless, such generally are their answers,

But I must away to Loch Moiley, for I can neither get bed nor whisky, since their suspicions are not cleared up about me yet. They cannot believe that a man can come here merely for the purpose of viewing their native mountains such a thing was never known. So farewell to the brewers of poetry! Byron told his friend to drink gin and he would write poe try; but Byron was not always a conjuror. It will never create a poet, though it may make a poet create. But wilt thou climb that fearful Brae with me, with only these directions. "Follow the main bourn (never mind its twenty branches) N. W. till you come to a ruined Sheiling; then, go a mile, and take the

left branch of the bourn; then take the shoulder of the hill; then the poles-" Olympus high !"

Well here am I at the poles, after many a resting. The sun is just going down, like a mighty furnace, and throwing out his crimsoning streams through heaven and earth. The mountains, the stern, grim Alpine mountains forget to frown, yea, they smile at its loveliness! What repose! What harmony, and keeping! The perspective is mistless, save the idle fleececloud that rests on the mountain's side. The flake-clouds too, round the sun, terminated by first-star and feather-clouds, open out like a variegated fan into the heavens. The dark uncertain shadows of the glens, contrasted by their lakes, and rivers and snows on the mountain side; the bold foreground burning in its dark fire tints, and the perspective melting in the rim of the sea, is altogether no mean enchantment for the soul.

The clouds, in this land of mist; from the variety of air current occasioned by the highpeaked hills, assume the most splendid variety of shapes! An inverted world of themselves! I could talk as learnedly about them as M'Culloch would do, namely cirruscumulus,

stratus, cirrocumulus, cirrostratrus, cumulustratus, nibus, &c. yet I think hard words encumber description as much as rules and art do genius: but the coiners and users of them too frequently substitute sounds for sense as covers to their own foolishness, as doctors work their aberacadaberas by words they themselves do not understand. But you must always ask the sun when a scene shall smile or frown. Yet as I told thee before, smiling scenes do not suit my present mood; for they hold out that joy which is not for me. Sorrow is but known by comparison with joy-let all be gloom, then there is nothing to envy. I recollect this feeling as a lad of ten years of age, under similar circumstances. I was away from home, in a country, and with people, not congenial with my mind; when the setting sun (as if it of all things in nature should act as remembrancer) used to carry my young heart home to my companions; and the tide of affliction would teem into sensation as it does now, from caparison. It is an inexplicable principle in nature that the sun, that colours, should produce these differences. It seems to have a peculiar power to awaken sen

sation; the reverse of misty or gloomy weather. I have stood in stupid cogitation in a November fog, philosophizing upon the sensations of cattle while ruminating, and supposed they felt a stupor like myself. How this is, whether we measure the sensations of other sentient beings by the then sensations in ourselves, and they become lively or sad in our eyes accordingly; or, whether it be a principle in nature generally-is a question. I once flew into a passion at a bacon-faced Yorkshireman for not sympathizing with me on this point. It was on a dark Christmas morning. I asked him if he did not feel gloomy? He put an enormous piece of fried bacon in his mouth (for we were at breakfast,) and spluttered out that the weather made no difference to either him or his appetite. This rather shook my philosophy upon gloom.

Now sit down with me in this dingy hovel and I will relate to thee my disasters after my philosophy last night: "procrastination is the thief of time" it always was of mine. The want of promptitude and determination of character has ever been my curse. It was my birth right-it grew up with me-it will now