. And it does our heart good to hear
ourselves recite. Listen, ye Naiads, to the famous picture of the Ram:--

"Thus having reach'd a bridge, that overarch'd
The hasty rivulet, where it lay becalm'd
In a deep pool, by happy chance we saw
A twofold image; on a grassy bank
A snow-white Ram, and in the crystal flood
Another and the same! Most beautiful
On the green turf, with his imperial front
Shaggy and bold, and wreathed horns superb,
The breathing creature stood; as beautiful
Beneath him, show'd his shadowy counterpart;
Each had his glowing mountains, each his sky,
And each seem'd centre of his own fair world.
Antipodes unconscious of each other,
Yet, in partition, with their several spheres
Blended in perfect stillness to our sight.
Ah! what a pity were it to disperse
Or to disturb so fair a spectacle,
And yet a breath can do it."

Oh! that the Solitary, and the Pedlar, and the Poet, and the Priest and
his Lady, were here to see a sight more glorious far than that
illustrious and visionary Ram. Two Christopher Norths--as Highland
chieftains--in the Royal Tartan--one burning in the air--the other in
the water--two stationary meteors, each seeming native to its own
element! This setting the heather, that the linn on fire--this ablaze
with war, that tempered into truce; while the Sun, astonied at the
spectacle, nor knowing the refulgent substance from the resplendent
shadow, bids the clouds lie still in heaven, and the winds all hold
their breath, that exulting nature may be permitted for a little while
to enjoy the miracle she unawares has wrought--alas! gone as she gazes,
and gone for ever! Our bonnet has tumbled into the Pool--and
Christopher--like the Ram in "The Excursion"--stands shorn of his
beams--no better worth looking at than the late Laird of Macnab.

Now, since the truth must be told, that was but a Flight of Fancy--and
our apparel is more like that of a Lowland Quaker than a Highland chief.
'Tis all of a snuffy brown--an excellent colour for hiding the dirt.
Single-breasted our coatee--and we are in shorts. Were our name to be
imposed by our hat, it would be Sir Cloudesly Shovel. On our back a
wallet--and in our hand the Crutch. And thus, not without occasional
alarm to the cattle, though we hurry no man's, we go stalking along the
sward and swimming across the stream, and leaping over the quagmires--by
no means unlike that extr