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CHAPTEK III. 
There's not a nook within this solemn pass, 
But were an apt confessional for one 
Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone. 
That life is but a tale of morning grass 
Withered at eve. From scenes of art which chase 
That thought away ; tmn, and with watchful eyes 
Feed it mid Nature's old felicities. 
Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass 
Untouched, unbreathed upon. — Wordsworth. 
Through the Trossaclis — not walking or driving 
leisurely, stojDping here and there to admire, now 
dragging this wheel, now getting down for a lounge ' 
up that hill; but dashing, scrambling, tearing 
along on the outside of a rickety old coach, driven 
unicorn fashion, with a wild-looking "leader," 
having a mad gleam in her eye, called "Black 
Bess " by the coachman, who instead of minding 
his horses, kept quoting Sir Walter Scott, to the 
