While in the act of crossing the temporary bridge, and at the same time regaling his olfactory nerves with a pinch of the best Irish, his famous coffin slipped from his grasp and floated away majestically down the swift-flowing waters of the sylvan Nith. The Doctor was a man of decision: he hesitated not even for a moment, but pitched himself headlong into the stream, from which he quickly emerged with his recovered treasure. It is but justice to my friend Dunlop, to remind the reader that his extravagant affection for his snuff-box is not without a parallel in history, since Louis XVIII has recorded with his own royal hand an attachment to his _tabatiere_, equally eccentric and misplaced. Scarcely had this Prince escaped three miles from Paris and its democrats, when, on putting his hand into his waistcoat-pocket, in order to take a consoling pinch, he missed his snuff-box, which, in his hurry, he had left upon his toilette, at the discretion of the mob. “Mon Dieu, ma tabatiere!” was his horrified exclamation, as he deliberated for a moment upon a misfortune so overwhelming. To go back to Paris was only to risk his life, while to proceed on his journey was to lose his snuff-box. His philo-tabatierishness triumphed: he returned, snatched up his beloved box, and made it the companion of his flight; and, in all his vicissitudes, from exile to a throne, he considered the possession of his favourite _tabatiere_ as his principal consolation. The Doctor was no less rash than the French monarch, and in recovering his _tabatiere_ equally fortunate. A good fire and some brandy soon made the Doctor all right again, after his cold bath in the Nith. We now prepared our camp for the night: this we had no trouble in doing, for we found plenty of poles and bark, which had been used by the labourers, whilst cutting out the road to the Huron tract. The Doctor’s man had brought a bundle of blankets and an axe, from Springer’s, and I, like Dalgetty, carried the provender. While Hinds was cooking the supper, I prepared our bed, by breaking a quantity of fine hemlock-brush to thatch the bottom of the camp, to keep us from the damp ground, which it did quite effectually. I have camped out, I dare say, hundreds of times, both in winter and summer; and I never caught cold yet. I recommend, from experience, a hemlock-bed, and hemlock-tea, with a dash of whiskey in it, merely to assist the flavour, as the best preventive.