are uniformly of opinion that Ben-More is the highest, BenLeo, that rises between Strath-fillan and Glen-Orchey, the second, and Ben-Lawers, only the third. I dare not affirm that this is actually the case, but appearances were at this time rather in favour of the theory; perhaps the people around the base of the latter may think differently.

I cannot help mentioning here a circumstance, of the truth of which I have long been convinced; it is, that the highest mountains in Scotland, without exception, are some that are situated in the eastern division of the Grampian range, and which, as far as I know, no geographer or tourist has ever mentioned. I do not know the particular names which distinguish each of them, but they rise between the sources of the Dee, the Gairn, the Avin, and Glen-More. Cairn-Gorum is always allowed to be next to Ben-Nevis in height; but there are some to the south-west of it that appear to be much higher, the altitudes of which have never been taken;* I have crossed these mountains both at mid-summer and in April; a great extent of country in that quarter is a complete desert, where no human habitation is to be seen, nor human voice heard for three quarters of the year. Glen-Avin, which belongs to the Duke of Gordon, is nearly twenty miles in length, yet, I dare say, it is not known to above ten persons alive. It is a scene of the most gloomy grandeur, and well calculated to inspire notions of ideal beings, of terror and superstition, which are ascribed by the Highlander to its lonely dells. In its bottom is a fine lake at least ten miles in length, the surface of which is on an elevation of 1700 feet above the level of the sea; yet the mountains around it appear as high from their bases as any other in Scotland; though

* Since the writing of this, the height of these mountains have been measured by Dr Skene, and the highest, Ben-Macdui, found to be 15 feet lower than Ben-Nevis.

this is impossible, yet I conceive some of these mountains to be the highest in the kingdom.

I remained in this exalted station as long as the chillness of the atmosphere of that region would suffer me, and I flattered myself that I was in reality as much delighted with the country as any of those could be to whom it belonged; and as a proof of my supposition, concluded that none of them would have climbed Ben-More at such a season to get a view of it. I then began, not without considerable trepidation, to descend, keeping the south-east corner of the hill, the north side being all like a smooth sheet of ice. I soon discovered that the task of getting down from the hill was likely to be a much more arduous one than that of ascending it, for I was obliged to take such short steps, and before I could take them at all, had often to dig holes with my staff wherein to set my feet; so that after toiling an hour, I saw that I had not proceeded a quarter of a mile, I however felt no cold by that time; on the contrary, I never was warmer in my life. At length the steepest part of the hill seemed to be got over; all was white and smooth before me, and I determined to slide down the surface of the snow on my feet, judging myself to be exceedingly adroit in such achievements. The glaring whiteness had, however, deceived me. The hill turned out to be much more steep than I had conceived it to be. For some time I glided on, swiftly indeed, but with great ease; but at length I began to fly with such velocity, that my eyes fell a watering, and I entirely lost sight of my course. In my hurry, not knowing well what to do, I made a sudden lean backward on my staff; in doing which, my feet being posting on at such a rate, went faster than I could follow them, I lost my equilibrium, fell on my back, and darted down the side of BenMore,

"As ever ye saw the rain down fa',
Or yet the arrow gae frae the bow."

My staff, of which I lost the hold when I fell, quite outrun me; my clean shirt, which was tied neatly up in a red handkerchief, came hopping down the hill, sometimes behind and sometimes before me, but my hat took a direction quite different. I struck the snow desperately with my heels, in hopes to stop my career, but all was to no purpose, until I came to a flat shelving part of the hill, where I lay still at once, without being a farthing the worse. The first thing that I did was to raise my eyes towards the top of Ben-More, and was astonished at the distance I had come. As nearly as I could calculate, I had travelled post in that manner upwards of a mile in little more than a quarter of a minute. I indulged in a hearty laugh at my manner of journeying; with some difficulty picked up my scattered travelling accoutrements; and, proceeding on my way, reached Bovain in Glen-Dochart, the house of Robert M'Nab, Esq. about eleven o'clock at night.

I spent two weeks in that house and its neighbourhood, but never mentioned my adventures on Ben-More to any one, for fear of being laughed at. I viewed all the varied scenery of Breadalbine, traced all its rivers to their sources, and climbed all the mountains that commanded the most extensive or interesting views of the country, and at length returned to the south by the way of Loch-Earn-head and the pass of Lenny. I would have sent you descriptions of these districts through which I travelled, but I am afraid that I have already drawn out this letter to a ridiculous length.

HALBERT OF LYNE.

So thou❜lt not read my Tales, thou sayʼst Horatio,
"Because, forsooth, such characters as those
That I have chosen should ne'er be defined,
For when they are,-where's the epitome,
The moral or conclusion? What may man
Profit or learn by studying such as these ?”

Wo worth thy shallow, thy insidious wit,
Thy surface-skimming lore, Horatio!
Thou'rt a mere title-page philosopher,
A thing of froth and vapour, formed of all
The unsubstantialities of nature,
Nourished by concourse of the elements;
A man of woman born, of woman bred,
Of woman's mind, frame, fashion, and discourse,
A male Blue-stocking!-Out upon thee, girl!
Nay, do not fume nor wince; for, on my soul,
Let but thy barber smooth thy whiskered cheek,
With sterile but well-nourished crop besprent,
Scythe thy mustachio, and, by this true hand,
I'll hire thee for a nurse, Horatio.

Dost thou not know, presuming as thou art, That purest gold in smallest veins is found, And with most rubbish mixed, which thou must sift, And sorely dig for ?-Treasures of the deep,

The mine, the vale, the mountain-heaven itself,

Man needs must toil for, else he cannot win.
And wilt thou still be fashion's minion,
Reading alone what fashion warrants thee,
The calendar of women?-Wilt thou never
Learn for thyself to judge, and turn thine eye
Into that page of life, the human soul,
With all its rays, shades, and dependencies,
For ever varied, and for ever new?

O if thou dost, be this thy axiom, Not to despise the slightest, most minute Of all its shades and utterings, if they flow Warm from the heart but cherish such in thine ; The day may come thou may'st think otherwise Than thou dost now. Ah, hast thou never seen, The kindly flush and genial glow of spring, And summer's flower nipt by the biting blast Of chill unhealthful gale? Yes, oft thou hast; And could'st thou see as well into this breast, And note the toil and warfare there maintained By the fond weary sojourner within,

That pours this lay, its only anodyne !

Thou could'st not chuse but listen,-it is not

Thy nature to despise my rural lay.

I would be friends with thee, Horatio, For I have weaknesses, and foibles too,

Worse than thine own, and heavier far to bear!
Then say not thou, by desk or counter placed,
Or haply on the gilded sofa set,

By board of drawing-room, while some fair dame
Stretches her lily hand, with careless mien,
To seize my little book-O say not thou,
"This is our friend again; poor man! he is