Some years ago, we travelled over the backbone of Scotland, and returned somewhat on its western fin, both on foot; and all our equipments were a travelling dress, a stout umbrella, and a parcel in wax-cloth strapped on our left shoulder, not larger than is generally seen in the hands of a commercial traveller—­that is, twelve inches by six or eight; and yet we never wanted for anything.  It is true we had generally the convenience of inns by the way; but if by our Traveller’s Guide (which we also carried) we saw the stage was to be long, an oaten cake, with a plug of wheaten bread for the last mouthful, to keep down heartburn, and a slice of cold beef or ham, or a hard-boiled egg, were ample provisions.  Drink?  There was no lack of drink.  Springs of the most beautiful water were frequent by the roadside, and constantly bubbling up, without noise or motion, through the purest sand, though heaven only was looking upon them; and a single leaf from our memorandum-book, formed into the shape of a grocer’s twist as wanted, served us as a drinking-cup throughout the journey.  Had we even been overtaken by night, it was summer, and a bed under whins, or upon heather, with our umbrella set against the wind, and secured to us, would have been delightful.  Once, indeed, we feared this would have been our fate; for on the very top of Corryarrick, and consequently nine miles or more from house or home in any direction, we sprained our ankle, or rather an old sprain returned.  To all appearance, we were done for, and might have sat stiff for days or weeks by the solitary spring that happened to be near at the instant.  But a piece of flannel from the throat, and a tape from the wondrous parcel, enabled us again to wag; and we finished our allotted journey to Dalwhinnie in time for dinner, tea, and supper in one—­and then to our journal with glorious serenity!

Our arrangements for the continent were equally simple.  When we were asked to shew our luggage, on entering France, we produced a portmanteau nine inches by six.  ‘Voila ma magasin!’ It was opened, and there were certainly some superfluities, though natural enough in an incipient traveller.  ’Une plume pour ecrire l’Histoire de la France!’—­’Un cahier pour la meme!’ And the intending historian of France, even with his imported pen and paper-book, and also three shirts and some pairs of socks, was allowed to go to his dinner, with his magasin in his hand, and start by the first conveyance; while his less fortunate fellow-travellers had to dine in absence of their luggage, and perhaps give the town that had the honour of being their landing-place, the profit of their company for the night.

But what is the use of all these insinuations of aptitude for colonisation, when there is not such another man in the world?  We beg pardon; but we have actually discovered such another, and to introduce him suitably has been the sole aim of our existence in writing this interesting preface.  In a most authentic newspaper, we find the following admirable history, copied from the New York Express:—­