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A CRUSTACEOUS TOUR. BY THE IRISH OYSTER-EATER,

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shower-shrouded—and rushes bleakly rustling as we plashed across the moors. There was no grandeur in the gloom -no hope of thunder. Clouds could not create themselves out of such a barren sky-the atmosphere was rain -as it was getting blacker and blacker the rivers rose-and coming to a stand-still, we naturally asked ourselves," to-night where shall we sleep?"

WHAT a day it has been, and what a night it is, and what a hurley-burley yet in heaven! The winds must be mad to keep howling in that way so long after sunset; and we fear to think-faroff as it is of the sea-God spare the ships. In this glen there is nothing with life the tempest can well destroy. The cattle may be eerie, but they are all lying in the lee of the hills—and so are the sheep-or in the hollows of those green waves that undulate along Providentially, at this juncture, a the glen, but are for ever at rest. storm, which, unknown to us blind morHours ago the shepherds left the tals, had been brewing in a sma' still mountains; and all its inmates are by in cloudland, began to muster strength the fireside of every household. As for a burst, and though we cannot say for this hut, it is as still within as a bit that "far off its coming shone," yet of moonlight, and seems to have no- we heard it in the distance, like a conthing to do with the storm. certo of cracked bag-pipes. The rain "Whare hae you been a' day, my boy and in an hour or less the night began had no chance with the whirlwind,

Kitty ?

33

We cannot tell. We know where we were yesterday-among the braes of Balwhidder. But to-day-a nightlike day-there was no sun of any sort -without mist there would have been darkness and such a mist there was, that the crags, side by side, could not see one another's faces. Yet at some times it was gloomier than at others and we kept walking out of one dungeon into another, like a prisoner vainly attempting to escape in his sleep. We passed along the edges of lochs-and heard them dashing as if they were wide; and often all at once saw a cataract. But no mountain tops-only black breasts of heather

VOL. XLIV. NO. CCLXXVII.

We

to break up-we had almost said beau-
tifully-into a regular storm.
were delighted to behold huge masses
of clouds rolling along, some with
brown, some with black, and some
with bloody edges, far above the re-
gion of mist; and would you believe
it! there, rushed out the great full
moon at the rate of a Locomotive, and
absolutely blazed along a line of sky
as blue as the day it was born!
had a glimpse-for miles down-of a
glen which we saw must be inhabited

We

and keeping a respectful distance from the river, " on the swelling instep of the mountain's foot"-like an old stag in search of provender-we erelong entered an enclosure,—and 20

heard a house laughing in a loun place, not as if in defiance, but in ig. norance of the storm.

Like a drowned rat we never can be so we stooped into the hut, unruffled as an eagle or a swan. No man ever saw a "drookit” eagle or a "drippin'" swan, even in a driving deluge; and no man ever saw Christopher North discomposed by the elements. The rain brings the roses into his cheeks, and the blast brightens them; through mist his eyes kindle like angry stars. The house is small, and we have called it a hut; but not small the household. What a dowgs! a decoction of bark! But they soon saw we were no tatterdemallion, and leapt whining up to our breast. One

colley, with a cross of the Newfoundlander-a -a devil, no doubt, at the ducks —we recognised, and he us, as an old acquaintance, and it was manifest he called to mind our having shaken paws with him in Prince's Street as he was on his way through Edinburgh, on a visit with his master to some friends in Fife. Men-women-children, of course-uprose at our entrance; and a better feeling, we hope, than pride expanded our breast when, on doffing our bonnet

"An eagle plume his simple cap adorns"and bowing like a chief-as we arewe heard a voice by name hail CHRISTOPHER NORTH. Pooh, pooh, for your fashionable assemblages-in London and Edinburgh, and Paris and Vienna, and Berlin and St Petersburgh, with all their literary lions-wheree'er we go-we are welcomed in the wilderness, and there is brightness of joy in the obscurity of our fame.

Who are they? Shepherds and herdsmen. That old man fought in Egypt and though "curst ophthalmy" killed his eyes, he has long forgot that he is blind. With both hands on his grandchild's head he sees she is fairnor think you that shines not for him on the mountains the morning light.

And here we have been for an hour or more-you may imagine not idlethough now we are beginning to take some repose. We are by ourselves now in the Spence-as dry as a whistlehaving dined and supped on bannocks of barley-meal, eggs, butter, and honey-while the household-it we had heard laughing, and not the house

-has said its prayers and gone to bed.

Where are we? We said we did not know-but we were lying-yet the world shall not be let into the secret-some spots in the Highlands are sacred still from the intrusion of tourists and this is felt to be as much our own as if it were one of our dreams. Is it selfish to keep to oneself-unnamed in outer air-the knowledge of the local habitations, in the mighty regions of nature, where not in visionary ministrations, but in real offices of humanity, the soul of an old wanderer, conducted by his good genius, who has never yet threatened to desert him, continues yet to find a happiness he had ceased to hope for-and in the midst of trouble unexpected visitings of peace?

We are comfortably and classically wrapt up in a blanket, like John Kemble in Coriolanus. Just look at our Library-arranged on the earthen floor before the peat-fire-to dry; for though the oil-skin linings of our Many-Pocketted are water-proof, as if Mackintoshen, some of the vols. were specky, and the damp has now exhaled. Tiny vols. one and all; and we should not be surprised to find in the morning that some of them had been stolen by the Faires. Diamond editions of twenty of our best English writers-in prose and in verse. We pick up one with our toes-as prehensile as our fingers-and what is it but-YOUNG'S NIGHT THOUghts. "Tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep!"

Why, we are not a whit tired-never were less sleepy in our lives—and, without winking, could outwatch the Bear. He must have rather a rough time of it to-night-" surlier as the storms increase." That must be an old pine groaning-but he has stood many a blast, and, steel to the backbone, will bend but not break. Well, let us commence with Old Youngfor though he be somewhat gloomyso at times are we, and we hope you

for is not "man born to trouble as the sparks fly upwards?" That reminds us that if we do not put on some more peats the fire will be out

and should this "brief candle" follow its example, we may break our shins against that cutty-stool on the

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