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The peasantry are simple, honest, and obliging; and, as they trudge along, a spirit of freedom sparkles in their eyes, and seems to animate every action of their unfettered limbs. Though their fare is humble, they enjoy it with an appetite to which the bracing air of their hills, and their happy ignorance of luxuries, gives an enviable zest. Drunkenness is a vice almost unknown among these primitive mountaineers: milk is their common beverage, oatmeal cakes, and potatoes, with a plentiful supply of trout from their native streams, form their chief summer food; while, in winter, dry salted beef and mutton serve to satisfy their utmost wishes.

“Though poor the peasant’s hut, his feasts tho’ small,

He sees his little lot the lot of all.

* * * *

Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms,

And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms.

And, as a child, when scaring sounds molest,

Clings close and closer to the mother’s breast,

So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind’s roar,

But bind him to his native mountains more.”