water at twenty-eight to thirty ounces; and in that of the manufactory in question, probably in consequence of the purity of the water, the charge was found to be thirty-two ounces of gas in each bottle. At the ordinary atmospheric pressure, water takes up its own volume of the gas; and these results show, that under the influence of a pressure equal to many atmospheres, it absorbs in addition two volumes more. Too much reliance, however, must not be placed on these results, in consideration of the frequent loss of gas by leakage.

The only other aerated water of any repute is the oxygenated water. An ingenious gentleman, noticing the volubility of laughing-gas in water, and believing that a remedial agent of great value might be thus prepared, took out a patent for the article. For some time it was in great repute; but although we have made diligent inquiries after it, in consequence of its value as a medicinal fluid, the manufacture appears now either to have been discontinued, or to be of a very limited extent. The gas was procured by heating the salt known as the nitrate of ammonia; and was then made by a process similar to that described above. The liquid had an agreeable sweetish taste, and sparkled like ordinary waters. If the Liebigian theory of the causes of several very common disorders is correct, the constant drinking of this water, thus supplying a large amount of oxygen to the system, is much to be recommended. In the account published of its effects some years ago, it was stated that several persons had derived the most marked benefit from its use. The expense of the preparation is probably the chief obstacle to its large adoption; the cost of the nitrate of ammonia being many times greater than the gas-producing materials employed in the other manufacture. It is perhaps hardly necessary to state that this gas is not oxygen itself, but an oxide of nitrogen, or nitrous oxide.

There are some mechanical ingenuities connected with our subject, which may be appropriately mentioned in bringing it to a conclusion. The early ligatures to tie down the corks were string; but this was quickly abandoned, in consequence of the pressure against the cork bursting the string. Wire was then used, and has been since most generally employed, of various kinds-copper, iron, tinned, and galvanised. Tinned wire is now beginning to be employed; and in a large manufactory, the consumption of wire alone will probably amount to some tons in the course of a year. We were lately shown an ingenious contrivance for this end. A hole was made in the neck of the bottle, and a metal pin thrust through the cork, so as to make its escape impossible. Another plan consists of a little plate with a couple of wire straps; this is slipped into the cork, and the straps embrace firmly the neck of the bottle. An elegant instrument, principally for metropolitan use, has been lately introduced in London, consisting of an earthen vase of artistic design, charged with carbonated waters, which are drawn in the required quantity by a clever mechanical tap at the top. The name of this instrument is the Syphon Vase. It forms an ornamental addition to the dinnertable; but from difficulties connected with the recharging, it is principally adapted for local use. A number of machines have been from time to time proposed for domestic use, of greater or lesser ingenuity; but that general proposition, applicable to so large a variety of subjects, obtains here also, that where the article is of large consumption, it is always best and cheapest to procure it of those who devote themselves to its exclusive manufacture. We suspect if there were invented a domestic tallow-candle-inaking machine, putting aside the excise difficulties, the most economical plan would be found to be to purchase the article ready-made.

It has long been a whim of ours, and we mention it because it may probably attract the notice of some one who has opportunities for practically making the attempt, that the elastic force of the carbonic acid generated in this manufacture might be economically applied, on the expansive principle of the steam-engine, to drive the machinery used in the manufacture. The gas might be generated in a powerful receiver, then be conducted into a kind of receptacle or boiler, from which it might

proceed, drive a small engine, and finally escape into the ordinary gas-holder to be used for the machine. If any one should think it worth his while to make the trial, we beg to present him with the idea gratis, although we are not over-sanguine as to a successful result.

AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A WORKING MAN. Mosr readers of newspapers must be acquainted with certain articles contributed to them during the progress of the free-trade movement, with the signature of One who has whistled at the plough. This person proves to be the same Alexander Somerville who created a sensation during the latter days of the reform movement (summer of 1832) as a private in the Scots Greys, who had been flogged indirectly for writing a letter to a newspaper, in which he expressed his belief that his fellow-soldiers would not support the Duke of Wellington in an effort to resist the national will as declared by the House of Commons. The child of a mason's labourer in Haddingtonshire, Somerville obtained some tincture of learning at a parish school. While, in boyhood and early manhood, working at laborious employments for small gains, he educated himself by reading and haunting the company of such intelligent persons as fell in his way. The final result is, his being a favourite and well-paid writer in the newspapers, and his publishing, at sevenand-thirty, a narrative of his life, possessing no small value as a report to one department of society of the feelings and workings which go on in another, that other being at present the subject of a problem charged with the gravest interest to present and prospective humanity.

The volume opens with sketches of the cottage economy of Scotland, under the care of a decent industrious couple, influenced by the religious feelings of our country, and inspired with the anxious wish to bring up their children in a creditable manner. With all the drawbacks of a somewhat stern discipline, the system has a certain moral beauty, for which, it is to be feared, there is no counterpart in much of the modern life of better-paid working people, whether in town or country. Somerville partook of the usual hardships of his class-was half-starved in dear years, tyrannised over by the farmers' children at school, and thrashed by the master for resisting; sent to tend cattle while yet a child, and persecuted by superstitious fears, against which no one could instruct him to defend himself. He was not yet a man when, like Burns, he had to do a man's work, breaking stones on the road, cutting drains, and acting as a sawyer-all of them most laborious employments. While thus engaged, intellectual pleasures came to him; and he details the delightful novelty of his sensations on first reading the Ayrshire poet, on seeing a play, and perusing a newspaper. By and by he had to move about the country in search of work, generally with companions. One of the difficulties attending this kind of life was to avoid joining his friends in their potations of whisky, to which he had no sort of liking, while, moreover, he desired to be able to return home with a good suit of clothes purchased by his savings. It is distressing to hear of the sacrifices made by Somerville's associates to the demon of liquor. On pay-days, he says, it was hardly possible for the most abstemious and resolute to escape spending money on liquor; meaning, we presume, that those who were most inclined, tempted and compelled those least so, to join them in their orgies. It was in the crisis of the accession of the Whig ministry in 1830, when the outcry for political reforms arose, that the following circumstances took place, strongly illustrating a point which we lately brought before the reader:

'A number of masons were hewing the blocks of stone, and each hewer had a labourer allotted to him to do the rougher work upon the stone with a short pick, technically to "scutch" it. The masons were intolerable tyrants to their labourers. I was in the quarry cutting the blocks from the rock when the tide was out: and when the tide was in, I went and scutched with some of the hewers, chiefly with my friend Alick. One day, when we had been reading in the newspapers a great deal about the

tyranny of the Tories, and the tyranny of the aristocracy in general, and some of the hewers had been, as usual, wordy and loud in denouncing all tyrants, and exclaiming Down with them for ever!" one of them took up a long wooden straight-edge and struck a labourer with the sharp edge of it over the shoulders. Throwing down my pick, I turned round and told him that, so long as I was about the works, I would not see a labourer struck in that manner without questioning the mason's pretended right to domineer over labourers. "You exclaim against tyranny," I continued, "and you yourselves are tyrants, if anybody is." The hewer answered that I had no business to interfere; that he had not struck me. "No," said I, or you would have been in the sea by this time. But I have seen labourers, who dared not speak for themselves, knocked about by you, and by many others; and by every mason about those works, I have seen labourers ordered to do things, and compelled to do them, which no working man should order another to do; far less have the power to compel him to do. And I tell you it shall not be done."

66

The labourers gathered around me; the masons conferred together. One of them said, speaking for the rest, that he must put a stop to this; the privileges of masons were not to be questioned by labourers, and I must either submit to that reproof, or punishment which they thought fit to inflict, or leave the works; if not, they must all leave the works. The punishment hinted at was, to submit to be held over one of the blocks of stone face downward, the feet held down on one side, the head and arms held down on the other side, while the mason apprentices would whack the offenders with their leathern aprons knotted hard. I said that, so far from submitting to reproof or punishment, I would carry my opposition a great deal farther than I had done. They had all talked about parliamentary reform; we had all joined in the cry for reform, and denounced the exclusive privileges of the anti-reformers, but I would begin reform where we then stood. I would demand, and I then demanded, that if a hewer wanted his stone turned over, and called labourers together to do it, they should not put hands to it unless he assisted; that if a hewer struck a labourer at his work, none of the labourers should do anything thereafter, of any nature whatever, for that hewer. (The masons laughed.) "And farther," said I, "the masons shall not be entitled to the choice of any room they choose, if we go into a public-house to be paid, to the exclusion of the labourers; nor, if there be only one room in the house, shall the labourers be sent outside the door to give the room to the masons, as has been the case. In everything we shall be your equals, except in wages; that we have no right to expect." The masons, on hearing these conditions, set up a shout of derisive laughter. It was against the laws of their body to hear their privileges discussed by a labourer; they could not suffer it, they said, and I must instantly submit to punishment for my contumacy. I told them that I was a quarryman, and not a mason's labourer; that, as such, they had no power over me. They scouted this plea, and said that wherever masons were at work, they were superior, and their privileges were not to be questioned. I asked if the act of a mason striking a labourer with a rule was not to be questioned. They said, by their own body it might, upon a complaint from the labourer; but in this case the labourer was insolent to the mason, and the latter had a right to strike him. They demanded that I should at once cease to argue the question, and submit, before it was too late, to whatever punishment they chose to inflict. Upon hearing this, I put myself in a defensive attitude, and said, "Let me see who shall first lay hands on me?" No one approaching, I continued, "We have been reading in the newspaper discussions about reform, and have been told how much is to be gained by even one person sometimes making a resolute stand against oppressive power. We have only this day seen in the papers a warning to the aristocracy and the anti-reformers that another John Hampden may arise. Come on, he who dares! I shall be Hampden to the tyrannies of masons!"

'None of them offered to lay hands on me; one said they had better let the affair rest where it was, as there would only be a fight about it, and several others assented; and so we resumed our work.

'Had it been in summer, when building was going on, they would have either dismissed me from the works, or have struck, and refused to work themselves. It was only about the end of January, and they could not afford to do more than threaten me.'

Against such a specimen of man's inhumanity to man,' it is delightful to place the following anecdote of humble benevolence. Somerville, with some companions, arrived in Kelso in search of work on the eve of a hiring fair day:- We could get no lodgings there, every place being filled with cattle-dealers and other strangers already arrived for to-morrow's fair. Thoroughly worn out, we lay down on the causeway of a narrow street where there seemed to be the least traffic, and the least danger of being run, ridden, or driven over in our sleep. Some of us were already asleep, when a weaver and his wife, opposite to whose humble cottage door we lay, came out and said they could not go to bed, nor rest if they were in bed, with the thought of fellow-creatures lying in the street. They had a large family of children, a small house, and were only poor persons, they said; still, if we would go inside, they would at least give us the shelter of a roof and a fire to sit by. We went in. The weaver and some of his children made a bed for themselves beneath the loom; his wife and the other children went to a bed in the loft, and four of us lay crossways on the bed which they had vacated in the kitchen. The other three stretched themselves on the clothes-chests and the chairs. In the morning, one of us went out and bought tea, sugar, and bread for breakfast, while the kind woman got us water and a tub to bathe our blistered feet; and the weaver gave his shaving razors to those who needed shaving, and took his other razor, which was past shaving, and pared such of our feet as had bruises; and took a darning needle and worsted and drew it through the blisters, leaving a worsted thread in the blisters-the best possible cure for them. When we had breakfasted, and were all bathed, doctored, and refreshed, the good woman, her heart overflowing with motherly generosity, said, "No, we must not offer to pay her; no, we must not speak of thanks even; we were no doubt some mother's bairns; she had bairns of her own, and the wide world was before them yet; it would be an awfu' thought for her to think it possible that they might ever be without a roof to sleep under. Oh no; we must not speak about paying her; she had done nothing, nor the guid man had done nothing but their duty, their Christian duty, whulk was incumbent on them to perform to their fellow-creatures."

In the Merse (Berwickshire), our author found there were some curious distinctions between the rural labouring class and those of his native district, though they are divided only by a rivulet. The people of the former province work much the hardest, but are perpetually changing masters, and they can never furnish forth their marriageable daughters so well as the Lothian labourers. As indicating some peculiarities of the maids of the Merse and of Lothian, I may report what their respective admirers may be heard saying of them. He from the Lothian side of the small rivulet beforementioned is told that he cannot get a lass for his wife in Lothian who can bake a scone.* He rejoins that he cannot get one who can "fill muck at the midden, and drive the muck carts, as they do in the Merse: they never," he says, "gar women drive carts in Loudan." And he says the truth. The Merse man next takes up what he calls the Loudan tone: he says, "In Loudan the women are so slow at their work, and have such a long tone to their words, that when they speak, they stop their work until the tone comes to an end, and in that time a Merse woman would work round about them." The apologist of the merits and manners of the lasses of Lothian cannot suffer this to be the last word; he retorts smartly

*Cake of barley-bread.

waur."

and without a very long tone, that "if the women o' Loudan dinna cut their words so short as they do i' the Merse, neither do they cut their claes so short: gin [if] the lasses o' the Merse would eik the Loudan tone to their short goons, their short goons would set them the better, and maybe the lads would like them naething the 'Should these disputants be shearing with the Merse women within hearing, as is most probable, the "Loudan louts," as they are ill-naturedly called, may reckon on a kemp [contention] which shall stretch their skin before they get to the end of the field. Their best agility and strength, and their worst and fastest work, cannot cope with these women as shearers. The men have not yet been born who are their matches at a kemp. They will be first at the land end, if they should slash the corn down, and trample over it without laying it in the bands for the bandsters to tie in sheaves. They must, and will reach the land end first. The Lothian shearers, let them do their best, must only follow. When the latter do reach the land end, they will be taunted by the others, and told that they must " sup another bow o' meal afore they kemp again wi' the lasses o' the Merse, or cast up to them about their short goons!""

After many changes of masters and of employment, Somerville enlisted in the Scots Greys, and the spring of 1832 found him a recruit of one-and-twenty in the Birmingham barracks. The men caught the contagion of the time, and some joined the political union. Somerville, from a sense of propriety, abstained from doing so, though as keen a reformer as any. At the crisis when it was apprehended that the Duke of Wellington was going to undertake an anti-reforming government, our hero wrote his famous letter-a proceeding, we humbly think, much to be condemned, but not so much so as that of his officers in punishing it. There seems no room to doubt that the first consequence of his authorship being suspected, was to force him into an act of disobedience. He was put upon an unruly horse, without stirrups, and obliged to ride it in the school, till, seeing that he must be thrown, he dismounted, and refused to resume his lessons. Placed under arrest for trial, he was brought before the commanding officer, Major Wyndham, who taxed him with a treasonous act in writing the letter, and told him he would repent of it. There was a hurried and irregular court-martial-a condemnation of course, and the infliction of a hundred lashes, which Somerville here describes in most vivid terms. As must be remembered, he became a martyr of the newspapers and clubs, and the case being noticed in the House of Commons, a court of inquiry sat upon it, and condemned the conduct of Major Wyndham as injudicious.' Somerville was enabled by the public beneficence to obtain his discharge, but he suffered much in delicacy of spirit, from the efforts of vulgar-minded partisans to parade him and his sufferings before the public. His value as a subject for the newspapers comes out in a strong and somewhat amusing light in these memoirs.

Much credit seems due to him for his refraining from all retaliatory measures against his oppressors. While remaining steadfast in his political prepossessions, he does not seem to have been provoked by his experience of the wantonness of power into any general feeling of bitterness against either classes or persons. The trades'-unionists of 1833-4, expecting to find in him one fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils, endeavoured to inveigle him into a conspiracy which it now appears had been formed, with objects not greatly different from the famous Gunpowder Plot; but he not only shrunk from the part assigned to him with horror, but gave the government such warning as enabled them to defeat the plan. He afterwards served in the Spanish legion, where he attained the rank of sergeant-major. On returning penniless, he wrote a narrative of that distressing episode-an extraordinary work, from the circumstances under which its composition was commenced. 'I might,' says the author, 'have found friends, and have got assistance in Glasgow. I would not, in the dirty regimentals I was clothed in, go to any person who had before known me. The person to whom

I offered my certificate of six months' gratuity for a quire of writing paper, and pen and ink, to begin to write my narrative of the legion, would give nothing for the worthless certificate, but made me a present of several quires of writing paper. I walked out of Glasgow, three or four miles up the Clyde, got into a field of beans nearly ripe, crept out of sight into the middle of the field; lay there three days and nights, writing the first chapters of my "Narrative," and living on the beans. I sent the farmer a copy of the work afterwards, as payment for what I had eaten.'

The style of this book is quiet, simple, and perspicuous. The writer tells much against himself; yet the general impression left is in his favour. In the humblest situations, he seems to apply himself to the duties before him with diligence; he resists debasing pleasures, for the sake of something better; he is content to be a loser, rather than fall the least grade in integrity. Many of his remarks on the position and interests of working men might be listened to with advantage by that class, and there are passages in the volume calculated to be of wider utility: for instance, the following:- An old cavalry soldier in Edinburgh gave me some words of counsel, to be observed in the stable and the barrack-room. İ refer to them now, because I have found them, or similar rules, useful elsewhere than in a stable or barrack-room. One was, to observe when the soldier's wife, who might be in the same room with me, was about to go for water to the pump, or was in want of water, I was to take her pail and say," Nay, mistress, let me go to the pump for you," and go instantly. Another rule of conduct was to anticipate a comrade who might require his clothes brushed, and rise and do it for him before he had time to ask the favour. And so in the stable, if I had charge of a comrade's horse in his absence, he on guard perhaps, to be as kind to his horse as to my own; and at any time, if I had nothing to do myself, to put forward my hand and help some one who had something to do. The same readiness to oblige may be practised in a workshop, in a literary office, or any other office, and is as necessary to be observed there as in a stable. But I fear that if there be not a natural inclination to be obliging, the desire of acquiring the good-will of associates will fail to make one always agreeable. Almost all men, probably all, who have risen above the social level upon which they were born, or who have created new branches of trade, or have been inventors, or have made discoveries, have been men who were ever ready to put forth their hands to help a companion in his work, or to try to do something more than what was allotted for them to do by their employers. The apprentice, or journeyman, or other person who will not do more than is allotted to him, because he is not bound to do it, and who is continually drawing a line to define what he calls his rights, with his fellowworkmen, or with his employer, or, if in the army, with his comrades, and the non-commissioned officers immediately over him, is sure to remain where he is, or sink to a lower level. He is not destined to be a successful master tradesman; to be a discoverer in science, an inventor in mechanics, a propounder of new philosophy, nor a promoter of the world's advancement, and certainly not of his own.

It may to some appear like vanity in me to write what I now do, but I should not give my life truly if I omitted it. When filling a cart with manure at the farm dunghill, I never stopped work because my side of the cart might be heaped up before the other side, at which was another man; I pushed over what I had heaped up to help him, as doubtless he did to help me when I was last and he first. When I have filled my column, or columns of a newspaper, or sheet of a magazine, with the literature for which I was to be paid, I have never stopped if the subject required more elucidation, or the paper or magazine more matter, because there was no contract for more payment, or no likelihood of there being more. When I have lived in a barrack-room, I have stopped my own work, and have taken the baby from a soldier's wife when she had work to do, and nursed it; or have gone for water for her, or have cleaned another man's

accoutrements, though it was no part of my duty to do 80. When I have been engaged in political literature, and travelling for a newspaper, I have not hesitated to travel many miles out of my road to ascertain a local fact, or to pursue a subject into its minutest particulars, if it appeared that the public were unacquainted with the facts of the subject; and this at times when I had work to do which was much more pleasant and profitable. When I have needed employment, I have accepted it at whatever wages I could obtain-at plough, in farm drain, in stone quarry, at breaking stones for roads, at woodcutting, in a sawpit, as a civilian, or as a soldier. I have in London cleaned out a stable, and groomed a cabman's horse for a sixpence, and been thankful to the cabman for the sixpence. I have subsequently tried literature, have done as much writing for ten shillings as I have readily obtained-been sought after, and offered-ten guineas for. But had I not been content to begin at the beginning, and accept shillings, I would not have risen to guineas.'

FIVE DAYS IN THE WILDERNESS OF NEW BRUNSWICK.*

On the morning of the 5th of last November we were encamped on the line of survey in the Tobique district, about five miles from the Little Gulquac. At eight o'clock, the party having struck the tents, and got their several loads in readiness, commenced their day's march along the line, when I left them, as I usually did, for the purpose of examining the neighbouring country. I took a course to the westward for about half a mile, behind a small mount, from the top of which I was led to expect an excellent view of the surrounding country, as observations from it of distant mountain heights had already been made by the surveying party during the summer's operations. After making a few notes and sketches, I went to the top of the bill, where I remained for a short time similarly employed. I next descended, with the intention of regaining the line of survey, and joining the party. This, however, I found to be no such easy matter. The country in this neighbourhood has to an immense extent been laid waste by extensive fires, and the trees, and even the soil, in some places are so thoroughly burnt up, that there is not a vestige of vegetation to be seen; in others, the naked trunks of the trees are left standing, like the grim ghosts of a stately forest race, chared by fire, or blanched by the storm; or they are tossed by the whirlwind into the most frightful heaps of confusion. These are termed 'windfalls,' and form some of the most formidable barriers to the progress of the traveller of the wilderness.

The surveyed line through this section of country, owing to the facts above stated, was merely traced out with small stakes, placed at long intervals, which, having become dark and discoloured, could scarcely now be distinguished from the surrounding dead-wood. I was not then in the least disconcerted at failing to find the line, but continued to advance in the direction which I knew it to take, stopping from time to time to make sketches and observations as before. As it was now getting late in the afternoon, and I felt confident I had gone quite as far as the party were likely to have advanced in their day's march, I again made an effort to discover them, by traversing the country both to the right and left for a considerable distance, whooping as loud as I possibly could but all in vain; I could neither hear nor see anything of them. Very little more than half a mile from where I stood I recognised a rocky height from which I had, the year before, made some observations, and immediately proceeded thither, in the hope of being able to discover from it the smoke of the camp. On reaching the summit, there stood the post which I had placed for my instrument exactly as I had left it a year

The hero of these adventures is Mr John Grant, employed in the Halifax and Quebec railway expioration survey.

ago. I carefully scanned the face of the country round in every direction, but the anxiously-looked-for smoke was nowhere to be seen; and I was at last most reluctantly compelled to relinquish my hope of finding the party for that night at least.

Not knowing whether the surveyed line lay to my right or left, I resolved on taking the direction in which I thought there was least personal risk, and therefore lost no time in getting on a line which had been run by my directions the year before, along which I kept to the northward, as, in case I did not in the meantime cross either the other line or tracks of the party, I should have at least made some progress towards Campbell's, the nearest settlement on the Tobique. I continued to press forward without discovering the objects of my search. I had reached the Beaver Brook, a branch of the Wapskihegan, when night overtook me, and it commenced to rain. It was now quite certain that for one night I must forego the comforts of food, fire, or shelter-having at the same time no doubt of my easily reaching Campbell's some time next day. My situation at that time, although but the commencement of my disaster, was one of no ordinary suffering. I had already undergone nearly twelve hours of the most harassing fatigue, without food or a moment's rest; and now, cold and wet, stood alone amid wind and rain, in a sterile and shelterless wilderness, and on a night so dark, that the very sky seemed black. What was to be done? To follow a course, and move forward in the dark, I knew was impossible. There were thirteen long hours until daylight, yet I dared not lie down to rest, for fear of perishing. I at length resolved to endeavour to follow the course of the Brook, in doing which, I had difficulties to surmount which would, I have no doubt, appear to many almost like impossibilities, even by daylight. Such a night of falls, wounds, bruises, scratchings, and fatigue, is, I confess, beyond my powers of description. On the morning of the 6th, I found I had got to within a short distance of the mouth of the Brook, which I crossed, intending to follow down the Wapskihegan river, until I came to a lumber road I had travelled the year before, leading by Shea's Mountain to the Campbell settlement, on the Tobique river. The waters were now much swollen, so that I could only scramble along a very steep bank, thickly wooded with underwood and trees. I had gone some distance down, when, thinking that a little way back from the bank of the river I might probably find the travelling easier, I took that direction, and again found myself in a seemingly open country of burnt lands. The surrounding highlands were distinctly seen on all sides in the distance, and amongst the most conspicuous was Shea's Mountain, which led me to the resolution of taking a direct course for it, not dreaming of the formidable difficulties I should have to encounter on the way. I toiled on with determined perseverance through a dreadful combination of windfalls, marsh, lakes, streams, &c., so that another day was nearly spent before I had reached the mountain. I at length found the lumber road, and now considered myself safe, and my journey nearly at an end, being only four miles from the settlement; but I reckoned without my host. I followed the road for a short distance, until I came to an old lumber camp and road leading off to the left, which I examined, and│ unfortunately rejected, as it appeared to pass on a different side of the mountain to that which I knew the proper road to take. From that moment I continued to go astray.

On travelling a little way further, I came to a second old lumber camp, where the road again branched into two. A snow-storm had now commenced, and night was once more fast approaching. On going about a mile and a half down one of the roads, I did not like its appearance, and returning, followed the other, which I found equally unsatisfactory, as it did not much resemble the road I had travelled during the summer of last year. I, however, endeavoured to console myself with the pro