all
over the really moun_taineous_ region of the Highlands, every glen has
its own indescribable kind of day--all vaguely comprehended under the
One Day that may happen to be uppermost; and Lowland meteorologists,
meeting in the evening after a long absence--having, perhaps, parted
that morning--on comparing notes lose their temper, and have been even
known to proceed to extremities in defence of facts well established of
a most contradictory and irreconcilable nature.

Here is an angler fishing with the fly. In the glen beyond that range he
would have used the minnow--and in the huge hollow behind our friends to
the South-east, he might just as well try the bare hook--though it is
not universally true that trouts don't rise when there is thunder. Let
us see how he throws. What a cable! Flies! Tufts of heather. Hollo, you
there; friend, what sport? What sport we say? No answer; are you deaf?
Dumb? He flourishes his flail and is mute. Let us try what a whack on
the back may elicit. Down he flings it, and staring on us with a pair of
most extraordinary eyes, and a beard like a goat, is off like a shot.
Alas! we have frightened the wretch out of his few poor wits, and he may
kill himself among the rocks. He is indeed an idiot--an innocent. We
remember seeing him near this very spot forty years ago--and he was not
young then--they often live to extreme old age. No wonder he was
terrified--for we are duly sensible of the _outre tout ensemble_ we must
have suddenly exhibited in the glimmer that visits those weak red
eyes--he is an albino. That whack was rash, to say the least of it--our
Crutch was too much for him; but we hear him whining--and moaning--and,
good God! there he is on his knees with hands clasped in
supplication--"Dinna kill me--dinna kill me--'am silly--'am silly--and
folk say 'am auld--auld--auld." The harmless creature is convinced we
are not going to kill him--takes from our hand what he calls his
fishing-rod and tackle--and laughs like an owl. "Ony meat--ony meat--ony
meat?" "Yes, innocent, there is some meat in this wallet, and you and we
shall have our dinner." "Ho! ho! ho! ho! a smelled, a smelled! a can say
the Lord's Prayer." "What's your name, my man?" "Daft Dooggy the
Haveril." "Sit down, Dugald." A sad mystery all this--a drop of water on
the brain will do it--so wise physicians say, and we believe it. For all
that, the brain is not the soul. He takes the food with a kind of
howl--and carries it awa