"Some four, or thereabouts," was the cheering rejoinder. "'Tis one
of the last clearings on the line. If you are going back to Douro
to-night, you must look sharp."
Sadly and dejectedly we retraced our steps. There are few trifling
failures more bitter in our journey through life than that of a
tired traveller mistaking his road. What effect must that tremendous
failure produce upon the human mind, when at the end of life's
unretraceable journey, the traveller finds that he has fallen upon
the wrong track through every stage, and instead of arriving at a
land of blissful promise, sinks for ever into the gulf of despair!
The distance we had trodden in the wrong path, while led on by hope
and anticipation, now seemed to double in length, as with painful
steps we toiled on to reach the right road. This object once
attained, soon led us to the dwellings of men.
Neat, comfortable log houses, surrounded by well-fenced patches of
clearing, arose on either side of the forest road; dogs flew out and
barked at us, and children ran shouting indoors to tell their
respective owners that strangers were passing their gates; a most
unusual circumstance, I should think, in that location.
A servant who had hired two years with my brother-in-law, we knew
must live somewhere in this neighbourhood, at whose fireside we
hoped not only to rest and warm ourselves, but to obtain something
to eat.
