the man that hears that caldron boiling.

*

It had snowed overnight. The fields were all sheeted up;
they were tucked in among the snow, and their shape was
modelled through the pliant counterpane, like children
tucked in by a fond mother. The wind had made ripples and
folds upon the surface, like what the sea, in quiet
weather, leaves upon the sand. There was a frosty stifle
in the air. An effusion of coppery light on the summit of
Brown Carrick showed where the sun was trying to look
through; but along the horizon clouds of cold fog had
settled down, so that there was no distinction of sky and
sea. Over the white shoulders of the headlands, or in
the opening of bays, there was nothing but a great vacancy
and blackness; and the road as it drew near the edge of
the cliff, seemed to skirt the shores of creation and
void space.

*

When we are looking at a landscape we think ourselves
pleased; but it is only when it comes back upon us by the
fire o' nights that we can disentangle the main charm from
the thick of particulars. It is just so with what is
lately past. It is too much loaded with detail to be
distinct; and the canvas is too large for the eye to
encompass. But this is no more the case when our
recollections have been strained long enough through the