invest them with a slight tinge of romance and excitement, which is
not unattractive. Let me say, that in practice, nothing can be more
dreary and disagreeable. I can fancy a canter through or canter over
some woodland paths, under the capricious light of a broad summer or
autumn moon, with one or more pleasant companions, being both
exhilarating and agreeable, but traverse the same number of miles in a
night of winter or early spring, when you have to blunder on at a foot's
pace in Indian file, thankful, indeed, when the snow or mud is only
fetlock deep, where, if you are in mood for conversation, you, dare not
often speak above a whisper (I never could see the sense of this, far
out in the wilds, but the guides are imperative), where the solitary
excitement is found in the possible proximity of a picket, or the
probable depth of a ford. I think you would agree with me, that the only
object in the journey on which your eyes or thoughts delight to dwell,
is the "biggit land" that ends it.

On that especial night we had one thing in our favor--the reflection
from the fresh white ground carpet would have prevented darkness, even
without the light of a waxing moon. But it was slow and weary traveling.
It would have been cruelty to have forced the horses beyond a walk
through snow that in places was over their knees; besides which, we
dared not risk a jingle of stirrup or bridle-bit, where an outlying
picket might be within ear-shot. Twice we passed within twenty yards of
where the fresh track showed that the patrol had recently turned at the
end of his beat; but the guide knew the country thoroughly, and
professed to have no fears. To speak the truth, I had heard him, when in
the ingle-nook, and warm with Old Rye, vaunt so loudly his own sagacity
and courage, that I conceived certain misgivings as to how far either
were to be relied on. That night, however, he fully maintained part of
his character by leading us safety and surely through a perfect
labyrinth of tracks, sometimes diverging across the open country, and
occasionally plunging into woodland where there was no vestige of a
path.

I ought to be nearly weather-proof by this time; but, in spite of a warm
riding-cloak and a casing of chamois leather from neck to ankle, I felt
sometimes chilled to the marrow; my lips would hardly close round the
pipe-stem, and even while I smoked the breath froze on my moustache,
stiff and hard. My flask was full of rare country whis