And he was answered by Hope, the Viscount, His Honour, of Ilay. Kitcat, a Trinity _coach_, has a party at Drumnadrochet, Up on the side of Loch Ness, in the beautiful valley of Urquhart; Mainwaring says they will lodge us, and feed us, and give us a lift too Only they talk ere long to remove to Glenmorison. Then at Castleton, high in Braemar, strange home, with his earliest party, Harrison, fresh from the schools, has James and Jones and Lauder. Thirdly, a Cambridge man I know, Smith, a senior wrangler, With a mathematical score hangs-out at Inverary. Finally, too, from the kilt and the sofa said Hobbes in conclusion, Finally, Philip must hunt for that home of the probable poacher, Hid in the braes of Lochaber, the Bothie of _What-did-he-call-it_. Hopeless of you and of us, of gillies and marquises hopeless, Weary of Ethic and Logic, of Rhetoric yet more weary, There shall he, smit by the charm of a lovely potato-uprooter, Study the question of sex in the Bothie of _What-did-he-call-it_. III _Namque canebat uti——_ So in the golden morning they parted and went to the westward. And in the cottage with Airlie and Hobbes remained the Tutor; Reading nine hours a day with the Tutor, Hobbes and Airlie; One between bathing and breakfast, and six before it was dinner (Breakfast at eight, at four, after bathing again, the dinner), Finally, two after walking and tea, from nine to eleven. Airlie and Adam at evening their quiet stroll together Took on the terrace-road, with the western hills before them; Hobbes, only rarely a third, now and then in the cottage remaining, E’en after dinner, eupeptic, would rush yet again to his reading; Other times, stung by the œstrum of some swift-working conception, Ranged, tearing on in his fury, an Io-cow through the mountains, Heedless of scenery, heedless of bogs, and of perspiration, On the high peaks, unwitting, the hares and ptarmigan starting. And the three weeks past, the three weeks, three days over, Nither letter had come, nor casual tidings any, And the pupils grumbled, the Tutor became uneasy, And in the golden weather they wondered, and watched to the westward. There is a stream (I name not its name, lest inquisitive tourist Hunt it, and make it a lion, and get it at last into guide-books), Springing far off from a loch unexplored in the folds of great mountains, Falling two miles through rowan and stunted alder, enveloped Then for four more in a forest of pine, where broad and ample Spreads, to convey it, the glen with heathery slopes on both sides: Broad and fair the stream, with occasional falls and narrows; But, where the glen of its course approaches the vale of the river, Met and blocked by a huge interposing mass of granite, Scarce by a channel deep-cut, raging up, and raging onward, Forces its flood through a passage so narrow a lady would step it.