es narrower, and the scenery rougher. Granite masses crop out
here and there. The pretty dejected weeping birches become mixed with
stern, stiff, surly pines, which look as if they could "do any thing but
weep," and not unnaturally suggest the notion that their harsh conduct
may be the cause of the tears of their gentler companions. At last a
mountain thrusts a spur into the glen, and divides it into two: we are
here at the foot of Cairngorm of Derrie, or the lesser Cairngorm. The
valley opening to the left is Glen Lui Beg, or Glen Luithe
Little--containing the shortest and best path to the top of Ben Muich
Dhui. The other to the right is Glen Derrie--one of the passes towards
Loch A'an or Avon, and the basin of the Spey. Both these glens are alike
in character. The precipitous sides of the great mountains between which
they run, frown over them and fill them with gloom. The two streams of
which the united waters lead so peaceful a wedded life in calm Glen Lui,
are thundering torrents, chafing among rocks, and now and then starting
unexpectedly at our feet down into deep black pools, making cataracts
which, in the regular touring districts, would be visited by thousands.
But the marked feature of these glens is the ancient forest. Somewhere
we believe in Glen Derrie there are the remains of a saw-mill, showing
that an attempt had been at one time made to apply the forest to
civilised purposes; but it was a vain attempt, and neither the Baltic
timber duties, nor the demand for railway sleepers, has brought the axe
to the root of the tree beneath the shadow of Ben Muich Dhui. There are
noble trees in the neighbouring forest of Braemar, but it is not in a
state of nature. The flat stump occurs here and there, showing that
commerce has made her selection, and destroyed the ancient unity of the
forest. In Glen Derrie, the tree lives to its destined old age, and
whether falling from decay, or swept to the ground by the tempest, lies
and rots, stopping perhaps the course of some small stream, and by
solution in the intercepted waters forming a petty peat-bog, which,
after a succession of generations, becomes hardened and encrusted with
lichens. Near such a mass of vegetable corruption and reorganisation,
lies the new-fallen tree with its twigs still full of sap. Around them
stand the hoary fathers of the forest, whose fate will come next. They
bear the scars and contortions of many a hard-fought battle with the
storms that often