F. G----N.

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THE NOVELIST

No. CXII.

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A MOUNTAIN STORY.


In one of the most picturesque parts of the western Highlands of
Scotland stands an inn, which is much frequented by travellers. This inn
itself adds considerably to the beauty of the landscape. It was formerly
a manor-house; and the sedate grandeur of its appearance is in such good
keeping with the scenes in its neighbourhood, and so little in
accordance with its present appropriation, that travellers more commonly
stop at the gate to inquire the way to the inn, than drive up at once
through the green field which is spread before its windows, and its fine
flight of stone steps. Very few dwellings are to be seen from it; and
those few are mere cottages, chiefly inhabited by the fishermen of the
loch. One of these cottages is my dwelling. It stands so near to the
inn, that I can observe all that goes forward there; but it is so
over-shadowed and hidden by trees, that I doubt not the greater
proportion of the visiters to the inn are quite unaware that such a