who occupy a station on the northern shore of Lake Sorell, I was fortunate enough to receive an invitation to spend some time with them. I had a month or two of leisure in the oppressive summer time, so, being in the enjoyment of good health, I shouldered my knapsack one fine morning in April, and clambered up the eastern face of the Western Tier, by a steep and rocky zigzag road which men and horses can travel, but no wheeled vehicle. The side of the mountain was covered with a dense forest, having an undergrowth of scrub and coarse grass, studded with huge rocks. The track was blocked up in several places by trees that were lying prostrate, and I found it difficult to make my way among their tangled roots or branches. The steepness of the ascent made the walk a somewhat laborious one. Surmounting all difficulties, however, I found myself, at the sultry hour of noon, sitting on my knapsack, on the very summit of the mountain, some three thousand feet above the sea, with an extensive shining lake spread out at my feet. Seated there, I was soon lost in dreamland, building sparkling 'castles in the air'—a habit to which I am, fortunately or unfortunately, rather strongly disposed.
I stay the progress of my narrative here, in order to say a few words about myself, which my generous readers will kindly excuse. I belong to that class of men who are styled 'visionary' by their wiser and more practical acquaintances, who never, in their imagination, see anything that may be on the top of a mountain, or at the other side of a haystack. Some use the adjective in contempt, others in derision, again, in profound pity. They say that a 'visionary' man cannot look after his proper business, but is certain to drop into the pitfall of irretrievable ruin. But I attended to my business for a great many years with fair measure of success, though now, as I am in the 'sear and yellow leaf,' I have handed it over to younger men. A 'visionary' man
