1828.] Meditations on Mountains. 4 
the mazes of their own errors—fancy that virtue must go sorrowing and 
in tears—and imagine that, without the destruction of all moral restraint, 
there can be no volume of enjoyment. But that which mocks in a crowd 
what it trembles at in secret—that which supposes that the edge of wit 
consists in the rust of licentiousness with which it is covered—that which 
concludes that there can be no humour, if innocence do not turn away 
the head—is the very extreme of error and fatuity. A sound heart swells 
the laugh—a good ‘conscience gives sparkle to the anecdote—and the 
tale, in admiration of which all may joi, runs the most glibly from the 
tongue. : 
Thus you found it with Angus Gilchrist: as the generous bowl exhi- 
lirated him—as those powers of giving pleasure, which had lain dormant 
till the proper occasion and circumstances called them into play, gave 
fascination to his humble but happy board, as they crept over you like 
an inspiring spell, and even made the young divine draw upon the 
anecdotes of his professors, and the adventures of himself and his com- 
panions—the current run more rapidly, but it run equally pure as in 
the most tranquil moments ; and because it ran pure, it sparkled as it 
ran. 
As the mother of the “seven braw sons” came, and went, and came, 
in order to see that the hospitality of her house was not improperly or 
laggingly sustained, her presence shed over the scene a new lustre ; and 
there cannot be a more certain test that mirth is in the proper channel 
than when the presence of a modest and matronly female lights it up. 
The choicest hour on earth must, however, have an end ; and as both 
your mountain journey, and your hospitable, and (as you now found 
him) your intelligent and delightful mountain host’s labours were to 
commence with the dawn—the early dawn of a summer’s morn, you 
address yourself to your pillow. It is a comfortable one ; but you have 
no time to examine its comforts ; for the moment your head is down you 
are in a profound, balmy, and dreamless sleep, which lasts only for three 
hours, and yet you rise from it more refreshed and invigorated than if 
1 had tossed and tumbled upon a city bed, until the sun had been, 
lining in the west. You feel altogether a new man ; and are quite 
rised to find that you are well-slept, though the sun be not up, and 
here is no parching in your throat, or throbbing in your temples— 
one fiery pulse in your whole body, though Angus and you, with 
but scant aid from “the master,” and but a sip or two from Mrs. Gil- 
_ christ, drained the half gallon bowl, and once, though filled to the 
_ flowers on the rim. 
_ Wonder not at this. The nectar that you were quaffing was nowise 
allied to the “swipes,” adulterated in all its ingredients, with which 
you are poisoned where all is art. The spirit is clear from grains of 
aradise (sad prostitution of the name), and all the other abominations 
of the London peculiar : it is pure mountain dew, fresh from the native 
grain; and the flavour and aroma which shed forth such a perfume, 
and gave such delight to the palate, were not communicated by limes 
and lemons, pulled in an unripe, and therefore unwholesome state, and 
only mellowed by fermenting in the hold of a ship, while stewing for 
months in a warm climate—they are all from the rare and racy berries 
of the mountain, and fermentation of any kind—acetous or putrid— 
they have never undergone. Something, too, must be attributed to the 
