This sonnet describes the 'exterior' of a Highland hut, as often 
      seen under a morning or evening sunshine. To the authoress of the 
      "Address to the Wind," and other poems, in this volume, who was my 
      fellow-traveller in this tour, I am indebted for the following 
      extract from her journal, which accurately describes, under 
      particular circumstances, the beautiful appearance of the 
      'interior' of one of these rude habitations.
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        "On our return from the Trosachs the evening began to darken, 
      and it rained so heavily that we were completely wet before we had 
      come two miles, and it was dark when we landed with our boatman, 
      at his hut upon the banks of Loch Katrine. I was faint from cold: 
      the good woman had provided, according to her promise, a better 
      fire than we had found in the morning; and, indeed, when I sat 
      down in the chimney-corner of her smoky biggin, I thought I had 
      never felt more comfortable in my life: a pan of coffee was 
      boiling for us, and having put our clothes in the way of drying, 
      we all sat down thankful for a shelter. We could not prevail upon 
      our boatman, the master of the house, to draw near the fire, 
      though he was cold and wet, or to suffer his wife to get him dry 
      clothes till she had served us, which she did most willingly, 
      though not very expeditiously.
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        "A Cumberland man of the same rank would not have had such a 
      notion of what was fit and right in his own house, or, if he had, 
      one would have accused him of servility; but in the Highlander it 
      only seemed like politeness (however erroneous and painful to us), 
      naturally growing out of the dependence of the inferiors of the 
      clan upon their laird; he did not, however, refuse to let his wife 
      bring out the whisky bottle for his refreshment, at our request. 
      "She keeps a dram," as the phrase is: indeed, I believe there is 
      scarcely a lonely house by the wayside, in Scotland, where 
      travellers may not be accommodated with a dram. We asked for 
      sugar, butter, barley-bread, and milk: and, with a smile and a 
      stare more of kindness than wonder, she replied, "Ye'll get that," 
      bringing each article separately. We caroused our cups of coffee, 
      laughing like children at the strange atmosphere in which we were: 
      the smoke came in gusts, and spread along the walls; and above our 
      heads in the chimney (where the hens were roosting) it appeared 
      like clouds in the sky. We laughed and laughed again, in spite of 
      the smarting of our eyes, yet had a quieter pleasure in observing 
      the beauty of the beams and rafters gleaming between the clouds of 
      smoke: they had been crusted over and varnished by many winters, 
      till, where the firelight fell upon them, they had become as 
      glossy as black rocks, on a sunny day, cased in ice. When we had 
      eaten our supper we sat about half an hour, and I think I never 
      felt so deeply the blessing of a hospitable welcome and a warm 
      fire. The man of the house repeated from time to time that we 
      should often tell of this night when we got to our homes, and 
      interposed praises of his own lake, which he had more than once, 
      when we were returning in the boat, ventured to say was 'bonnier 
      than Loch Lomond.' Our companion from the Trosachs, who, it 
      appeared, was an Edinburgh drawing-master going, during the 
      vacation, on a pedestrian tour to John O'Groat's House, was to 
      sleep in the barn with my fellow-travellers, where the man said he 
      had plenty of dry hay. I do not believe that the hay of the 
      Highlands is ever very dry, but this year it had a better chance 
      than usual: wet or dry, however, the next morning they said they 
      had slept comfortably. When I went to bed, the mistress, desiring 
      me to 'go ben,' attended me with a candle, and assured me that the 
      bed was dry, though not 'sic as I had been used to.' It was of 
      chaff; there were two others in the room, a cupboard and two 
      chests, upon one of which stood milk in wooden vessels covered 
      over. The walls of the house were of stone unplastered; it 
      consisted of three apartments, the cow-house at one end, the 
      kitchen or house in the middle, and the spence at the other end; 
      the rooms were divided, not up to the rigging, but only to the 
      beginning of the roof, so that there was a free passage for light 
      and smoke from one end of the house to the other. I went to bed 
      some time before the rest of the family; the door was shut between 
      us, and they had a bright fire, which I could not see, but the 
      light it sent up amongst the varnished rafters and beams, which 
      crossed each other in almost as intricate and fantastic a manner 
      as I have seen the underboughs of a large beech-tree withered by 
      the depth of shade above, produced the most beautiful effect that 
      can be conceived. It was like what I should suppose an underground 
      cave or temple to be with a dripping or moist roof, and the 
      moonlight entering in upon it by some means or other; and yet the 
      colours were more like those of melted gems. I lay looking up till 
      the light of the fire faded away, and the man and his wife and 
      child had crept into their bed at the other end of the room; I did 
      not sleep much, but passed a comfortable night; for my bed, though 
      hard, was warm and clean: the unusualness of my situation 
      prevented me from sleeping. I could hear the waves beat against 
      the shore of the lake; a little rill close to the door made a much 
      louder noise, and, when I sat up in my bed, I could see the lake 
      through an open window-place at the bed's head. Add to this, it 
      rained all night. I was less occupied by remembrance of the 
      Trosachs, beautiful as they were, than the vision of the Highland 
      hut, which I could not get out of my head; I thought of the 
      Faeryland of Spenser, and what I had read in romance at other 
      times; and then what a feast it would be for a London Pantomime-
      maker could he but transplant it to Drury-lane, with all its 
      beautiful colours!"--"MS."