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See again. The same forest a mile off. No need of treessun and cloud make our visionary mountains sylvan: and the grandest visions are ever those that are transitory-ask your soul.

Buller. Your Manilla is out, my dear sir. There is the

case.

now.

North. Caught like a cricketer. You must ascend Cruachan. “This morning gives us promise of a glorious day;" you cannot do better than take time by the forelock, and be off

Say the word—and I will myself row you over the Loch. No need of a guide: inclining to the left for an hour or two after you have cleared yonder real timber and sap wood—and then for an hour or two to the right—and then for another hour or two straight forwards—and then you will see the highest of the three peaks within an hour or two's walk of you—and thus, by mid-day, find yourself seated on the summit.

Buller. Seated on the summit.

North. Not too long, for the air is often very sharp at that altitude—and so rare, that I have heard tell of people fainting.

Buller. I am occasionally troubled with a palpitation of the heart

North. Pooh, nonsense. Only the stomach.

Buller. And occasionally with a determination of blood to the head

North. Pooh, nonsense. Only the stomach. Take a calker

every two hours on your way up-and I warrant both heart and head

Buller. Not to-day. It looks cloudy.

North. Why, I don't much care though I should accompany you

Buller. I knew you would offer to do so, and I feel the delicacy of putting a decided negative on the proposal. Let us defer it till to morrow. For my sake, my dear sir, if not

SHP

intervening time slid away—and this were not a renewed but a continuous happiness.

North. And let it slide away into the still recesses of Memory--the Present has its privileges—and they may be blamelessly, wisely, virtuously enjoyed-and without irreverence to the sanctity of the Past. Let it slide away—but not into oblivion-no danger, no fear of oblivion-even joys will return on their wings of gossamer;—sorrows may be buried, but they are immortal.

Seward. I see not the slightest change on this Grove of Sycamores. Twenty years tell not on boles that have for centuries been in their prime. Yes—that one a little way down—and that one still farther off-have grown, and those striplings, then but saplings, may now be called Trees.

Buller. I never heard such a noise.

North. A cigar in your mouth at four o'clock in the morning! Well-well.

Buller. There, my dear sir, keep me in countenance with a Manilla.

North. The Herb! You have high authority-Spenser's for "noise.”

Buller. I said noise--because it is a noise. Why the hum of bees overhead is absolutely like soft sustained thunder,

and yet no bees visible in the umbrage. The sound is like that of one single bee, and he must be a giant. Ay—there I see a few working like mad—and I guess there must be myriads. The Grove must be full of bees' nests. North. Not one.

Hundreds of smokes are stealing up from hidden or apparent cottages—for the region is not unpopulous, and not a garden without its bives—and carly risers though we be, the matutinæ apes are still before us, and so are the birds.

Buller. They, too, are making a noise. Who says a shilfa cannot sing? Of the fifty now “pouring his throat,” as the poet well says, I defy you to tell which sings best. That splendid fellow on the birch-tree top--or yonder gorgeous tyke on the yellow oak-or

North. « In shadiest covert hid” the leader of the chorus that thrills the many-nested underwood with connubial bliss.

Seward. Not till this moment heard I the waterfall. Buller. You did, though, all along—a felt accompaniment.

North. I know few glens more beautiful than CladichCleugh!

Buller. Pardon me, sir, if I do not attempt that name.
North. How mellifluous !—Cladich-Cleugh !
Buller. Great is the power of gutturals.

North. It is not inaccessible. But you must skirt it till you reach the meadow where the cattle are beginning to browse. And then threading your way through a coppice, where you are almost sure to see a roe, you come down series of little pools, in such weather as this so clear that you can count the trouts; and then the verdurous walls begin to rise on either side and right before you; and you begin to feel that the beauty is becoming magnificence, for the pools are now black, and the stems are old, and the cliffs intercept the sky, and there are caves, and that waterfall has dominion in the gloom, and there is sublimity in the sounding solitude.

Buller. Cladick-Cloock.
North. A miserable failure.
Buller. Cladig-Cloog.
North. Worser and worser.
Seward. Any footpath, sir?
North. Yes—for the roe and the goat.
Buller. And the man of the Crutch.

North. Good. But I speak of days when the Crutch was in its tree-bole

upon a

Buller. As the Apollo was in its marble block.

North. Not so good. But, believe me, gentlemen, I have done it with the Crutch.

Seward. Ay, sir, and could do it again.

North. No. But you two are yet boys—on the sunny side of fifty—and I leave you, Seward, to act the guide to Buller up Cladich-Cleugh.

Buller. Pray, Mr. North, what may be the name of that sheet of water?

North. In Scotland we call it LOCH-AWE.
Buller. I am so happy-sir—that I talk nonsense.
North. Much nonsense may you talk.

Buller. Twas a foolish question—but you know, sir, that by some strange fatality or another I have been three times called

away from Scotland without having seen Loch-Awe. North. Make good use of your eyes now, sirrah, and you will remember it all the days of your life. That is Cruachanno usurper he-by divine right a king. The sun is up, and there is motion in the clouds. Saw you ever such shadows? How majestically they stalk! And now how beautifully they glide! And now see you that broad black forest, half-way up the mountain ?

Buller. I do.
North. You are sure you

do. Buller. I am.

North. You are mistaken. It is no broad black forestit is mere gloom-shadow that in a minute will pass away, though now seeming steadfast as the woods.

Buller. I could swear it is a forest.

North. Swear not at all. Shut your eyes. Open them. Where now your wood ?

Buller. Most extraordinary ocular deception.
North. Quite common. Yet no poet has described it.

See again. The same forest a mile off. No need of treessun and cloud make our visionary mountains sylvan: and the grandest visions are ever those that are transitory-ask your soul.

Buller. Your Manilla is out, my dear sir. There is the

case.

now.

North. Caught like a cricketer. You must ascend Cruachan. “This morning gives us promise of a glorious day;" you cannot do better than take time by the forelock, and be off

Say the word—and I will myself row you over the Loch. No need of a guide: inclining to the left for an hour or two after you have cleared yonder real timber and sap wood—and then for an hour or two to the right-and then for another hour or two straight forwards--and then you will see the highest of the three peaks within an hour or two's walk of you—and thus, by mid-day, find yourself seated on the summit.

Buller. Seated on the summit.

North. Not too long, for the air is often very sharp at that altitude—and so rare, that I have heard tell of people fainting.

Buller. I am occasionally troubled with a palpitation of the heart

North. Pooh, nonsense. Only the stomach.

Buller. And occasionally with a determination of blood to the head

North. Pooh, nonsense. Only the stomach. Take a calker every two hours on your way up--and I warrant both heart and head

Buller. Not to-day. It looks cloudy.

North. Why, I don't much care though I should accompany you

Buller. I knew you would offer to do so, and I feel the delicacy of putting a decided negative on the proposal. Let us defer it till to morrow. For my sake, my dear sir, if not

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