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to her silent resting place. There are two graves in the churchyard, lying together and alike ; Mary Sewell and Francis her son are side by sidethe green turf grows equally on both the village children sport over them the careless passer-by heeds them not.

The daily events of the world have left memory little trace of the departed; but the tale of their sorrows is deeply engrafted in the hearts of all who knew them.



* Brother electors ! worthy friends!

I'm sure it does 'nt rest with me
To say how much on you depends,

Or how you'll exercise that free
And independent”-hold, enough!

And more, of all this rabble rout,
Who vainly roar for blue and buff,

The Sheriff says we're counted out."
Odi profanum-clear the way

And only get us off from here,
Far from these patriots-that's to say

From all this horrid smell of beer.
Vale, oh, vale ! one and all,

To sharp-set cit and country lout
A long farewell, for go we shall

Because, you see, you've turned us out.
And where to fly, and where to lose

Of such a scene the every care ?
Apt August prompts you how to choose,

And breathe again the mountain air.
“Look on this picture !” study well

The tempting tribute spread about,
And as you read it, need we tell

How sure “ the twelfth "shall find you “out ?”
Health, spirits, crown the welcome hale,

That waits your step upon the moor ;
McSawney's smile, old Presto's tail,

Tell tales of your being here before.
Heart whole, hand firm, you meet the morn

That leads to packs both strong and stout,
How many, alas ! shall feel forlorn,

Ere yet your bag is counted out.



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It was on a bright and glorious day in the leafy month of June, in this year of grace '52, that we left our peaceful home on the banks of the rapid running Almon, to penetrate far, far into the land of mountain and of mist ; it turned out, too, a trip of the most pleasing description, accompanied as we were by a pleasant companion, and right good sportsman from the "modern Babylon " of merry England. In a few short hours after our departure we were progressing through the front range of the Grampians-through the romantic and solitary glen of the Almon. This glen itself is dreary, desolate, and wild. In one part of it, where lofty and impending cliffs on either hand make a solemn and perpetual gloom, is the “ Clack-na Ossian," or stone of Ossian, supposed to mark the burial place of the gifted son of Fingal. About three miles on in the - Corrie vair-lich,” or Glen of Thieves, is a large cave known by the name of Fians, or Fingal's Cave. Newte, who travelled through this district in 1791, says, “i have learned where

Ossian's stone' was moved, and the coffin containing his supposed remains discovered. It was intended by the officer commanding the party of soldiers employed on the military road to let the bones remain within the stone sepulchre in the same position in which they were found until General Wade should come and see them, or his mind be known on the subject ; but the people of the country venerating the memory of the bard rose with one consent and carried away the bones, with bagpipes playing and other funeral rites, and deposited them with much solemnity within a circle of large stones on the lofty summit of a rock (sequestered) and of difficult access, and where they might never be disturbed by mortal feet or hands, in the wild recesses of the Western Glen Almond.” The poet Wordsworth thus expresses himself on this dim tradition

“ Does then the bard sleep here indeed,

Or is it but a groundless creed ?
What matters it? I blame them not
Whose fancy in this lonely spot
Was moved, and in such way expressed
Their notion of its perfect rest.

A conventaeren a hermit's cell
Would break the silence of this dell.
It is not quiet-is not ease,
But something deeper far than these;

The separation that is here
· Is of the grave, and of austere,

Yet happy, feelings of the dead ;
And therefore was it rightly said,
That Ossian, last of all his race,
Lies buried in this lonely place."

But we must leave the wilds of Glenalmon and on to the Corrie, where we arrived before sun-down, fishing the lake in the evening, and killing four brace of prime yellow trout, average weight, over one pound. My friend from the sunny shores of the south was delighted with the sport, and being a true knight of the angle, he was soon au fait with the fly at lake fishing. On the morrow we rested from our labourssweet and pleasant labours as are Highland-lake trout fishing-it being the sacred Sabbath ; this, moreover, the sacramental Sabbath of the country, we prepared to attend the church situated in this lonely part of the mountains. The day was lovely, and my friend beheld for the first time a “hill-side preaching." There is something very solemn in the worship of the great Giver of all mercies by the mountaineer, with nothing but the canopy of the heavens about him :

6. An unfrequented mountain gorse

Received the trembling flock,
Their canopy was mist and clouds,

Their altar was the rock.
The eagle o'er their sanctuary

Majestically soar'd,
And screamed discordant, while the crowd

Most reverently adored.
The chilling win'd moan'd fitfully

Through groves of stunted pine,
And the torrents rushed and thunder'd

Through the desolate ravine."

At these preachings we met with many keepers and shepherds from the various glens in the district, and to all our inquiries about the " grouse family,” were answered that a more numerous and healthy stock of birds had not been seen on the mountains for very many years. The remainder of this day we spent in a long ramble among the mountains, seeing many numerous and fine broods of the moorgame, and at sundown returned to our inn, where a good dinner awaited us; which, with a moderate quantity of dew from the mountain, sent us confortably to rest. On the morrow we were up with the lark, and soon on the move for a famed lake some three miles distant. This lake is famed for its bright- speckled trout ; they are not very large about herring size ; but very plentiful and capital eating. Here we enjoyed ourselves right merrily, and returned to our inn with fifty brace of trout, my funny friend from the far south having basketed two brace of trout more than friend Hawthorne ; such is fate in these fast times. On the following day we were again on the move by early dawn, and had a long, but pleasant, drive through the country. Our route lay over mountains covered chiefly with heath, but occasionally on the one hand displaying sides and summits of naked rock, the other exhibiting à dress of lovely green verdure. Then, again, at short intervals you have chains of mountain ridges, and even solitary heights ; in forms of every variety, from the precipitous and pinnacled acclivity to the broad-based and round-backed ascent ; in general, however, they are sharp in outline, but sayagely grand in feature,

Having penetrated many a glen, forded many a torrent, and crossed many a moor, we found ourselves, late in the evening, at the base of that mighty mountain, named “Schiehallion"; the altitude of whose summit is some 3,600 feet above the sea. Here we took up our quarters for the night ; though before retiring we mounted our fly-rod and killed two brace of trout in the adjoining river. Once more at early dawn, we were on the move for the wilds of the west

“The land I like best"resulting in some most famous sport on a far-famed mountain lake the two panniers containing thirty brace of trout when brought to bucket in the evening. Next day found us again on the beautiful lake, and with equally good sport; but, alas ! kind reader, matters were not all of so "ploasing a nature," for the inn, or cabin, where we domiciled was one of a most wretched description, and the provender of the most queer providings. The boiled beef, as my friend remarked, was a bad cross between a pine log and granite boulder ; while the very mountain dew itself was but "dirty stuff.” On the morrow, fortunately, we had arranged to fish some lakes far away on the moors, and had accordingly provided ourselves with ponies, gillies, &c., for the foray. No words of mine can give a truer picture of these wilds than the beautiful description of the mighty ministrel of the north

A while their route they silent made,
As men who stalk for mountain deer.
Till the good H. to Hawthorne said
“ St. Mary! what a scene is here!
I've traversed many a mountain strand,
Abroad and in my native land,
And it has been my lot to tread
Where safety more than pleasure led.
Thus many a waste I've wandered o'er,
Clombe many a crag, crossed many a moor,

But, by my halidome!
A scene so rude, so wild as this ;
Yet so sublime in barrenness
Ne'er did my wandering footsteps press

Where'er I happ'd to roam.”
And wilder, forward as we wound,
Were the proud cliffs and lake profound;
Huge terraces of granite black

Afforded rude and cumber'd track.
For from the mountain hoar,
Hurl'd headlong in some night of fear,
When yelled the wolf and fled the deer,

Loose crags had toppled o'er ;
And some chance-poised and balanced lay,
so that a stripling arm might sway

A mass no host could raise
In Nature's rage in random thrown,
Yet trembling like the Druid's stone

On its precarious base.

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