to an old friend or two, who have not altogether forgotten them
in their obscurity. During the rest of the year, his only out-of-doors
amusement is an afternoon's angling, an art in which it is universally
allowed he excels all mortal men, both in river and loch; and often,
during the long winter nights, when the shepherd is walking by his
dwelling, to visit his "ain lassie," down the burn, he hears Allan's
fiddle playing, in the solitary silence, some one of those Scottish
melodies, that we know not whether it be cheerful or plaintive, but
soothing to every heart that has been at all acquainted with grief.
Rumour says too, but rumour has not a scrupulous conscience, that the
Schoolmaster, when he meets with pleasant company, either at home or a
friend's house, is not averse to a hospitable cup, and that then the
memories of other days crowd upon his brain, and loosen his tongue into
eloquence. Old Susan keeps a sharp warning eye upon her husband on all
such occasions; but Allan braves its glances, and is forgiven.

We see only the uncertain glimmer of their dwelling through the
low-lying mist; and therefore we cannot describe it, as if it were
clearly before our eyes. But should you ever chance to angle your way up
to HILLFOOT, admire Allan Easton's flower-garden, and the jargonelle
pear-tree on the southern gable. The climate is somewhat high, but it is
not cold; and, except when the spring-frosts come late and sharp, there
do all blossoms and fruits abound, on every shrub and tree native to
Scotland. You will hardly know how to distinguish--or rather, to speak
in clerkly phrase, to analyse the sound prevalent over the fields and
air; for it is made up of that of the burn, of bees, of old Susan's
wheel, and the hum of the busy school. But now it is the play-hour, and
Allan Easton comes into his kitchen for his frugal dinner. Brush up your
Latin, and out with a few of the largest trouts in your pannier. Susan
fries them in fresh butter and oatmeal--the greyhaired pedagogue asks a
blessing--and a merrier man, within the limits of becoming mirth, you
never passed an hour's talk withal. So much for Allan Easton and Susan
his spouse.

You look as if you wished to ask who inhabits the Cottage--on the left
hand yonder--that stares upon us with four front windows, and pricks up
its ears like a new-started hare? Why, sir, that was once a
Shooting-box. It was built about twenty years ago, by a sporting
gentleman of two excell