CHAPTER XXII.
Jog on, jog on, the footpath way, And merrily bend the stile-a, A merry heart goes all the day, A sad one tires in a mile-a.
-- Winter's Tale.
Let the reader conceive to himself a clear frosty November morning, the scene an open heath, having for the background that huge chain of mountains in which Skiddaw and Saddleback are preeminent; let him look along that BLIND ROAD, by which I mean the track so slightly marked by the passengers' footsteps that it can but be traced by a slight shade of verdure from the darker heath around it, and, being only visible to the eye when at some distance, ceases to be distinguished while the foot is actually treading it; along this faintly-traced path advances the object of our present narrative.

His firm step, his erect and free carriage, have a military air which corresponds well with his well-proportioned limbs and stature of six feet high.

His dress is so plain and simple that it indicates nothing as to rank; it may be that of a gentleman who travels in this manner for his pleasure, or of an inferior person of whom it is the proper and usual garb.

Nothing can be on a more reduced scale than his travelling equipment.

A volume of Shakspeare in each pocket, a small bundle with a change of linen slung across his shoulders, an oaken cudgel in his hand, complete our pedestrian's accommodations, and in this equipage we present him to our readers.
Brown had parted that morning from his friend Dudley, and begun his solitary walk towards Scotland.
The first two or three miles were rather melancholy, from want of the society to which he had of late been accustomed.