ves on either side to him,
as he has slowly paced, midway between, along the banks of the River of
Waterfalls; having been assured by the light struggling through the
mist, that it would not be long till there was a break-up of all that
ghastly dreariment, and that the sun would call on him to come forth
from his cave of shelter, and behold in all its pride the Glen
affronting the sea.

Some Tourists--as they call themselves--are provided with map and
compass; and we hope they find them of avail in extremities, though we
fear few such understand their use. No map can tell--except very
vaguely--how the aspect of the localities, looked at on its lines, is
likely to be affected by sun-rise, meridian, or sun-set. Yet, true it
is, that every region has its own happy hours, which the fortunate often
find unawares, and know them at once to be so the moment they lift up
their eyes. At such times, while "our hearts rejoice in Nature's joy,"
we feel the presence of a spirit that brings out the essential character
of the place, be it of beauty or of grandeur. Harmonious as music is
then the composition of colours and of forms. It becomes a perfect
picture in memory, more and more idealised by imagination, every moment
the veil is withdrawn before it; its aerial lineaments never fade; yet
they too, though their being be but in the soul, are mellowed by the
touch, of time--and every glimpse of such a vision, the longer we live,
and the more we suffer, seems suffused with a mournful light, as if seen
through tears.

It would serve no good purpose, supposing we had the power, to analyse
the composition of that scenery, which in the aggregate so moves even
the most sluggish faculties, as to make "the dullest wight a poet." It
rises before the mind in imagination, as it does before the eyes in
nature; and we can no more speak of it than look at it, but--as a whole.
We can indeed fix our mental or our visual gaze on scene after scene to
the exclusion of all beside, and picture it even in words that shall be
more than shadows. But how shall any succession of such pictures,
however clear and complete, give an idea of that picture which
comprehends them all, and infinite as are its manifestations,
nevertheless is imbued with one spirit?

Try to forget that in the Highlands there are any Lochs. Then the sole
power is that of the Mountains. We speak of a sea of mountains; but that
image has never more than momentary possession of us, becau