Hills where their generations sleep.
Their fountains slake our thirst at noon,
Upon their fields our harvest waves;
Our shepherds woo beneath their moon--
Ah, let us spare at least their graves!"

"Stop!" says a voice, "the quotation is utterly inappropriate--how can
there be flocks where not even a single sheep feeds--how can shepherds
woo beneath the moon where there are no damsels to woo?" Granted; but
the lines are pretty--they were the most appropriate that we could find,
and they blend in with one's feelings on this spot; for, if it be a
strange and melancholy sight in the Far West, beyond the Atlantic, to
alight upon the graves of a tribe of Indians whose history has become
extinct, is it not more strange still to look, in the centre of this
busy island, which has lived in history eighteen hundred years, on these
vestiges of an old extinct race, not turned up by the plough, or found
in digging the foundation of a cotton mill, but remaining there beneath
the open sky, as they were left of old, no successors of the aboriginal
race coming to touch them? Standing in Glen Lui, and remembering how
fast we are peopling Australia and the Oregon, one's mind becomes
confused about the laws of emigration and colonisation. Yet how soon may
all this be changed. Perhaps the glen may turn out to be a good trunk
level--the granite of Ben Muich Dhui peculiarly well adapted for
tunnelling, and the traffic something of an unknown and indescribable
extent: and some day soon the silence may be awakened with the fierce
whistle of the train, and the bell may ring, and passengers may be
ordered to be ready to take their places, and first, second, and third
class tickets may be stamped with the rapidity of button-making--who
knows? Nobody should prophesy in this age what may _not_ be done. We
once met a woful instance of a character for great sagacity utterly lost
at one blow, in consequence of such a prediction. The man had engaged to
eat the first locomotive that ever came to Manchester by steam from
Liverpool. On the day when this marvel was accomplished, he received a
polite note enclosing a piece of leather cut from the machinery, with an
intimation that when he had digested _that_, the rest of the engine
would be at his service. But the reader is getting tired of Glen Lui,
and insists on being led into more exciting scenery.

After being for a few miles such as we have tried to describe it, the
glen becom