The Tub and the Portent [pp. 251-258]

THE TUB AND THE PORTENT.
formed into an ornamental water with lilies and ar- Cochoorn, the rival of Vauban, and Zwolle was then
tificial islands; the ramparts turned into a fine considered to be one of the most strongly-fortified
promenade, and the bastions planted with trees, towns of Europe. Of its nine gateways there now
flowers, and exotic plants; the whole forming a large only remains the Sassenpoort, which one might aland beautiful park, which is kept in admirable'order. most call a castle. It is a massive, square structure,
Of the seven gateways four are standing, all kept in with octagonal towers, rising high above the houses
excellent repair. which have taken the place of the ancient walls.
Two leagues from Kampen is Zwolle, another The towers, as well as the massive centre, are lightfine town, the capital of the province of Overyssel, ed with enormous windows, with large iron gratings,
situated in a region which one might almost call and over the fine portal is a niche which once conhilly, a striking contrast to all other parts of Hol- tained a statue of St. Michael, which we suppose was
land. Close by Zwolle was once the convent of St. broken in pieces in the iconoclastic rage which was
Agnes, in which for sixty-five years lived Hammerken, so destructive a feature of the early days of the Refbetter known as Thomas a Kempis, and where he ormation in Holland.
wrote his "Imitation of Jesus Christ," which, it is At Zwolle our month's tour upon and around the
said, has been translated into more languages than Zuyder Zee came to its end. Returning to Kamany other book except the Bible. Zwolle, like Kam- pen, our voyagers parted with their tjalk and its
pen, once had strong fortifications, and nine gates. pious skipper, and returned by railway to AmsterThe works were completed in I614 by the famous dam.
THE TUB AND THE POR TENT.
A STORY OF LIFE IN THE SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS.
HE following momentous events, which an in -ordinate love for the contemplation of the
sublime-ridiculous induces me to relate, occurred in
a remote district of the northern Highlands of Scot land, called Badenoch. The inhabitants of this
country are Gaelic-speaking Celts, and, though ex tremely superstitious, they are a hardy, intelligent,
and hospitable race. At one time, before the intro duction of the Highland railway, the district was
pretty thickly peopled by a few scores of frugal
"crofters," or small farmers who cultivated the same
wretched patches of land from generation to genera tion, raising scanty crops of oats, barley, and pota toes, rearing their own sparse stock of diminutive
sheep and poultry, never rich, but never in absolute
want; the men clad in rough kilted homespun and
corduroys, the women in coarse "winseys" and cheap
cotton; attending the same dreary, old-fashioned
kirk Sunday after Sunday, with sober Sabbath countenances, to hear the same denunciations of "fiery
wrath and judgment," and to listen to delineations of
the nether world more often than to the revelation
of Eternal Love. A letter from a relative in some
distant land, or the quiet observance of their festivals
of" Halloween," Christmas (or Nolic), and the yearly
sacrament, when great "lights" from more enlightened regions came to infuse something of novelty
into their customary spiritual fare, or, at long intervals, a funeral, the observance of which often resulted
in something more potent than tears and cold water
-these were the only incidents in the quiet tenor of
their lives. A marriage was as nothing; the usual
ceremony over, the small company betook themselves
to a barn or other out-house, and there-occasionally
refreshing themselves with oat-cake, cheese, and
whiskey-they indulged in the inevitable "Highland
Fling." Scotch reel, and "Tullochgorum," the bride
and bridegroom taking their parts in the violent per formance, until the "wee short hour ayont the twal,"
when they all quietly betook themselves to their re spective homes, and next morning the new Mrs.
Donald sank quietly and unnoticed into the routine
of household work, as if she had been married for
twenty years.
In a certain deep valley of the Grampians, where
are mingled in sweet and wild confusion stream and
forest, leafy dell and woody eminence, the haunts of
the wild-deer, the hare, and the woodcock, there is a
solitary "loch," or lake, of three miles in circumfer ence. This loch is nearly oval in shape, and sur rounded on all sides but one by lofty hills, here and
there dotted by patches of brown heather and clumps
of stunted birch, in which the whirr of the coveted
moor-fowl, and the bleating of hundreds of the small
mountain-sheep, are the only sounds that break the
universal stillness. Toward the south the mountains
diverge, affording an outlet for the mountain-stream
which, after rushing down the rocky crevices, flows
tranquilly through the lake, bearing with it the young
salmon and trout into a noisy, tumbling river, the
swiftest in all Scotland. In this direction the prospect is surpassingly diversified and beautiful, affording, as many scenes in Scotland do, all the elements
of a wild and beautiful landscape within a very limited boundary. Sheer precipices, crowned ky miraculous woodland, overhanging the stormy torrent;
here, a sharply-cut valley with tributary stream, bordered by greenish verdure; there, a bare hill destitute
of tree or shrub-but its sides flashing all the colors
of the rainbow-and, beyond all, the lovely woodland
glades of the Laird of R -'s estate, yield satisfaction to eye and heart.
Into the lake-the scene of my narrative-juts a
small and fertile peninsula, elevated and widening
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