e traveller are seen like white streaks marking the dark surface of
the precipice. Scarcely a hut is to be seen for miles of this lonely
glen, and save for the herds of cattle and the flocks of sheep here and
there to be descried, it would seem as if the spot had been forgotten
by man, and left to sleep in its own gloomy desolation. The river
itself has a character of wildness all its own-now, brawling over
rugged rocks-now foaming between high and narrow sides, abrupt as walls,
sometimes, flowing over a ledge of granite, without a ripple on the
surface-then plunging madly into some dark abyss, to emerge again, lower
down the valley, in one troubled sea of foam and spray: its dull roar
the only voice that echoes in the mountain gorge. Even where the humble
roof of a solitary cabin can be seen, the aspect of habitation rather
heightens than diminishes the feeling of loneliness and desolation
around. The thought of poverty enduring its privations unseen and
unknown, without an eye to mark its struggles, or a heart to console its
griefs, comes mournfully on the mind, and one wonders what manner of man
he can be, who has fixed his dwelling in such solitude.

In vain the eye ranges to catch sight of one human being, save that dark
speck be such which crowns the cliff, and stands out from the clear sky
behind. Yes, it is a child watching the goats that are browsing along
the mountain, and as you look, the swooping mist has hidden him from
your view. Life of dreariness and gloom! What sad and melancholy
thoughts must be his companions, who spends the live-long day on
these wild heaths, his eye resting on the trackless waste where no
fellow-creature moves! how many a mournful dream will pass over his
mind! what fearful superstitions will creep in upon his imagination,
giving form and shape to the flitting clouds, and making the dark
shadows, as they pass, seem things of life and substance.

Poor child of sorrow! How destiny has marked you for misery! For you no
childish gambols in the sun--no gay playfellow--no paddling in the running
stream, that steals along bright and glittering, like happy infancy--no
budding sense of a fair world, opening in gladness; but all, a dreary
waste--the weariness of age bound up with the terrors of childhood.

The sun was just setting on a mellow evening, late in the autumn of a
year towards the close of the last century, as a solitary traveller
sat down to rest himself on one of the large rocks