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out with your whinger, and carve him a dish | Yet, 'tis strange how the human soul can fit for the gods-in a style worthy of Sir Tris- descend, pleasantly at every note, from the top trem, Gil Morice, Robin Hood, or Lord Ra- to the bottom of passion's and imagination's nald. No; let him lie till nightfall, when we gamut. shall be returning from Inveraw with strength sufficient to bear him to the Tent.

But hark, Hamish, to that sullen croak from the cliff! The old raven of the cove already scents death

"Sagacious of his quarry from afar!"

A Tarn-a Tarn! with but a small circle of unbroken water in the centre, and all the rest of its shallowness bristling, in every bay, with reeds and rushes, and surrounded, all about the mossy flat, with marshes and quagmires! What a breeding-place-" procreant cradle" for water fowl! Now comes thy turn, O'Bronte

for famous is thy name, almost as thy sire's, among the flappers. Crawl down to leeward, Hamish, that you may pepper them-should they take to fiight overhead to the loch. Surefoot, taste that greensward, and you will find it sweet and succulent. Dogs, heel-heel!and now let us steal, on our Crutch, behind that knoll, and open a sudden fire on the swimmers, who seem to think themselves out of shot at the edge of that line of water-lilies; but some of them will soon find themselves mistaken, whirling round on their backs, and vainly endeavouring to dive after their friends that disappear beneath the agitated surface shot-swept into spray. Long Gun! who oft to the forefinger of Colonel Hawker has swept the night-harbour of Poole all alive with widgeons, be true to the trust now reposed in thee by Kit North! And though these be neither geese, nor swans, nor hoopers, yet, send thy leaden shower among them feeding in their

But where art thou, Hamish? Ay, yonder is Hamish, wriggling on his very belly, like an adder, through the heather to windward of the croaker, whose nostrils, and eyes, and bill, are now all hungrily fascinated, and as it were already fastened into the very bowels of the beast. His days are numbered. That sly serpent, by circuitous windings insinuating his limber length through among all obstructions, has ascended unseen the drooping shoulder of the cliff, and now cautiously erects his crest within a hundred yards or more of the unsuspecting savage, still uttering at intervals his sullen croak, croak, croak! Something crumbles, and old Sooty, unfolding his huge wings, lifts himself up like Satan, about to sail away for a while into another glen; but the rifle rings among the rocks-the lead has broken his spine-and look! how the demon, head over heels, goes tumbling down, down, many hundred fathoms, dashed to pieces and impaled on the sharp-pointed granite! Ere night-play, till all the air be afloat with specks, as if fall the bloody fragments will be devoured by his mate. Nothing now will disturb the carcass of the deer. No corbies dare enter the cove where the raven reigned; the hawk prefers grouse to venison, and so does the eagle, who, however, like a good Catholic as he isthis is Friday-has gone out to sea for a fish dinner, which he devours to the music of the waves on some isle-rock. Therefore lie there, dethroned king! till thou art decapitated; and ere the moon wanes, that haunch will tower gloriously on our Tent-table at the Feast of Shells.

at the shaking of a feather-bed that had burst the ticking, and the tarn covered with sprawling mawsies and mallards, in death-throes among the ducklings! There it lies on its rest-like a telescope. No eye has discovered the invention--keen as those wild eyes are of the plowterers on the shallows. Lightning and thunder! to which all the echoes roar. But we meanwhile are on our back; for of all the recoils that ever shook a shoulder, that one was the severest-but 'twill probably cure our rheumatism and-Well done-nobly, gloriously done, O'Bronte! Heaven and earth, how otter-like he swims! Ha, Hamish! you have cut off the retreat of that airy voyageryou have given it him in his stern, Hamishand are reloading for the flappers. One at a time in your mouth, O'Bronte! Put about with that tail for a rudder-and make for the shore. What a stately creature! as he comes issuing from the shallows, and, bearing the old mallard breast high, walks all dripping along the greensward, and then shakes from his curled ebony the flashing spray-mist. gives us one look as we crown the knoll, and then in again with a spang and a plunge far into the tarn, caring no more for the reeds than for so many winlestraes, and, fast as a seaserpent, is among the heart of the killed and wounded. In unerring instinct he always Shooting grouse after red-deer is, for a while seizes the dead-and now a devil's dozen lie at first, felt to be like writing an anagram in a along the shore. Come hither, O'Bronte, and lady's album, after having given the finishing caress thy old master. Ay-that showed a touch to a tragedy or an epic poem. "Tis like fine feeling-did that long shake that bedrizzled taking to catching shrimps in the sand with the sunshine. Put thy paws over our shoul one's toes, on one's return from Davis' Straits ders, and round our neck, true son of thy sire in a whaler that arrived at Peterhead with six--oh! that he were but alive, to see and share een fish, each calculated at ten ton of oil. thy achievements; but indeed, two such dogs,

What is your private opinion, O'Bronte, of the taste of Red-deer blood? Has it not a wild twang on the tongue and palate, far preferable to sheep's-head? You are absolutely undergoing transfiguration into a deer-hound! With your fore-paws on the flank, your tail brandished like a standard, and your crimson flews (thank you, Shepherd, for that word) licked by a long lambent tongue red as crimson, while your eyes express a fierce delight never felt before, and a stifled growl disturbs the star on your breast-just as you stand now, O'Bronte, might Edwin Landseer rejoice to paint thy picture, for which, immortal image of the wilderness, the Duke of Bedford would not scruple to give a draft on his banker for one thousand pounds!

He

living together in their prime at one era, would| have been too great glory for this sublunary canine world. Therefore Sirius looked on thy sire with an evil eye, and in jealousy

"Tantæne animis cælestibus iræ!"

growled upon some sinner to poison the Dog of all Dogs, who leapt up almost to the ceiling of the room where he slept-our own bed-room -under the agony of that accursed arsenic, gave one horrid howl, and expired. Methinks we know his murderer-his eye falls when it meets ours on the Street of Princes; and let him scowl there but seldom-for though 'tis but suspicion, this fist, O'Bronte, doubles at the sight of the miscreant-and some day, impelled by wrath and disgust, it will smash his nose flat with the other features, till his face is a pancake. Yea! as sure as Themis holds her balance in the skies, shall the poisoner be punished out of all recognition by his parents, and be disowned by the Irish Cockney father that begot him, and the Scotch Cockney mother that bore him, as he carries home a tripelike countenance enough to make his paramour the scullion miscarry, as she opens the door to him on the fifth flat of a common stair. But we are getting personal, O'Bronte, a vice abhorrent from our nature.

Not the best practice this in the world, cer tainly, for pointers-and it may teach them bad habits on the hill; but, in some situations, all dogs and all men are alike, and cross them as you will, not a breed but shows a taint of original sin, when under a temptation suffi ciently strong to bring it out. Ponto, Piro, and Basta, are now, according to their abilities, all as bad as O'Bronte-and never, to be sure, was there such a worrying in this wicked world. But now we shall cease our fire, and leave the few flappers that are left alive to their own meditations. Our conduct for the last hour must have seemed to them no less unaccountable than alarming; and something to quack over during the rest of the season. Well, we do not remember ever to have seen a prettier pile of ducks and ducklings. Hamish, take census. What do you say-two score? That beats cockfighting. Here's a hank of twine, Hamish, tie them all together by the legs, and hang them, in two divisions of equal weights, over the crupper of Surefoot

FLIGHT THIRD-STILL LIFE. There goes our Crutch, Hamish, whirling We have been sufficiently slaughterous for aloft in the sky a rainbow flight, even a man of our fine sensibilities and moderate like the ten-pound hammer from the fling of desires, Hamish; and as, somehow or other, George Scougal at the St. Ronan's games. Our the scent seems to be beginning not to lie well gout is gone-so is our asthma-eke our-yet the air cannot be said to be close and rheumatism-and, like an eagle, we have re- sultry either--we shall let Brown Bess cool newed our youth. There is hop, step, and herself in both barrels-relinquish, for an hour jump, for you, Hamish-we should not fear, or so, our seat on Shelty, and, by way of a young and agile as you are, buck, to give you change, pad the hoof up that smooth ascent, a yard. But now for the flappers. Pointers strangely left stoneless-an avenue positively all stir your stumps and into the water. This looking as if it were artificial, as it stretches is rich. Why, the reeds are as full of flappers away, with its beautiful green undulations, as of frogs. If they can fly, the fools don't among the blocks; for though no view-hunter, know it. Why, there is a whole musquito-fleet we are, Hamish, what in fine language is callof yellow boys, not a month old. What a pro- ed a devout worshipper of Nature, an enthu lific old lady must she have been, to have kept siast in the sublime; and if Nature do not on breeding till July. There she sits, cower- show us something worth gazing at when we ing, just on the edge of the reeds, uncertain reach yonder altitudes, she must be a gray dewhether to dive or fly. By the creak and cry ceiver, and we shall never again kneel at her of the cradle of thy first-born, Hamish, spare footstool, or sing a hymn in her praise. the plumage on her yearning and quaking breast. The little yellow images have all melted away, and are now, in holy cunning of instinct, deep down beneath the waters, shifting for themselves among the very mud at the bottom of the reeds. By and by they will be floating with but the points of their bills above the surface, invisible among the air-bells. The parent duck has also disappeared; the drake you disposed of, Hamish, as the coward was lifting up his lumbering body, with fat doup and long neck in the air, to seek safer skies. We male creatures-drakes, ganders, and men alike-what are we, when affection pleads, in comparison with females! In our passions, we are brave, but these satiated, we turn upon our heel and disappear from danger, like dastards. But doves, and ducks, and women, are fearless in affection, to the very death. Therefore have we all our days, sleeping or waking, loved the sex, virgin and matron, nor would we hurt a hair of their heads, gray or golden, for all else that shines beneath the sun.

The truth is, we have a rending headache, for Bess has been for some hours on the kick, and Surefoot on the jog, and our exertions in the pulpit were severe-action, Hamish, action, action, being, as Demosthenes said some two or three thousand years ago, essential to oratory; and you observed how nimbly we kept changing legs, Hamish, how strenuously brandishing arms, throughout our discoursesaving the cunning pauses, thou simpleton, when, by way of relief to our auditors, we were as gentle as sucking-doves, and folded up our wings as if about to go to roost, whereas we were but meditating a bolder flight-about to soar, Hamish, into the empyrean. Over and above all that, we could not brook Tickler's insolence, who, about the sma' hours, challenged us, you know, quech for quech; and though we gave him a fair back-fall, yet we suffered in the tuilzie, and there is at this moment a throbbing in our temples that threatens a regular brain-fever. We burn for an airbath on the mountain-top. Moreover, we are

seized with a sudden desire for solitude-to be | speak to the stranger. In such places he wiil plain, we are getting sulky; so ascend, Surefoot, Hamish, and be off with the pointersO'Bronte goes with us-north-west, making a circumbendibus round the Tomhans, where Mhairhe M'Intyre lived seven years with the fairies; and in a couple of hours or so, you will find us under the Merlin Crag.

be delighted-perhaps surprised-to find in uncorrupted strength all the primary elements of human character. He will find that his knowledge may be wider than theirs, and better ordered, but that it rests on the same foundation, and comprehends the same matter. There will be no want of sympathies between We offer to walk any man of our age in him and them; and what he knows best, and Great Britain. But what is our age? Con- loves most, will seldom fail to be that also found us if we know within a score or two. which they listen to with greatest interest, and Yet we cannot get rid of the impression that respecting which there is the closest commuwe are under ninety. However, as we seek nion between the minds of stranger and host, no advantage, and give no odds, we challenge He may know the course of the stars accordthe octogenarians of the United Kingdom-ing to the revelation of science-they may fair toe and heel-a twelve-hour match-for have studied them only as simple shepherds, love, fame, and a legitimate exchequer bill for "whose hearts were gladdened" walking on. a thousand. Why these calves of ours would the mountain-top. But they know-as he does look queer, we confess, on the legs of a Leith-who sowed the stars in heaven, and that porter; but even in our prime they were none their silent courses are all adjusted by the of your big vulgar calves, but they handled hand of the Most High. like iron-now more like butter. There is Oh! blessed, thrice blessed years of youth! still a spring in our instep; and our knees, would we choose to live over again all your sometimes shaky, are to-day knit as Pan's and forgotten and unforgotten nights and days! neat as Apollo's. Poet we may not be, but Blessed, thrice blessed we call you, although, Pedestrian we are; with Wordsworth we could as we then felt, often darkened almost into innot walk along imaginative heights, but, if not sanity by self-sown sorrows springing out of grievously out of our reckoning, on the turn-our restless soul. No, we would not again pike road we could keep pace with Captain Barclay for a short distance-say from Dundee to Aberdeen.

face such troubles, not even for the glorious apparitions that familiarly haunted us in glens and forests, on mountains and on the great sea. Oh! Gemini! but we are in high spirits. But all, or nearly all that did once so grievousYes-delights there indeed are, which nonely disturb, we can lay in the depths of the past, but pedestrians know. Much-all depends on the character of the wanderer; he must have known what it is to commune with his own thoughts and feelings, and be satisfied with them even as with the converse of a chosen friend. Not that he must always, in the solitudes that await him, be in a meditative mood, for ideas and emotions will of themselves arise, and he will only have to enjoy the pleasures which his own being spontaneously affords. It would indeed be a hopeless thing, if we were always to be on the stretch for happiness. Intellect, Imagination, and Feeling, all work of their own free-will, and not at the order of any taskmaster. A rill soon becomes a stream-a stream a river-a river a loch-and a loch a

sea.

So it is with the current within the spirit. It carries us along, without either oar or sail, increasing in lepth, breadth, and swiftness, yet all the while the easy work of our own wonderful minds. While we seem only to see or hear, we are thinking and feeling far beyond the mere notices given by the senses; aud years afterwards we find that we have been laying up treasures, in our most heedless moments, of imagery, and connecting together trains of thought that arise in startling beauty, almost without cause or any traceable origin. The Pedestrian, too, must not only love his own society, but the society of any other human beings, if blameless and not impure, among whom his lot may for a short season be cast. He must rejoice in all the forms and shows of life, however simple they may be, however humble, however low; and be able to find food for his thoughts beside the ingle of the loneliest hut, where the inmates sit with few words, and will rather be spoken to than

so that scarcely a ghastly voice is heard, a ghastly face beheld; while all that so charmed of yore, or nearly all, although no longer the daily companions of our life, still survive to be recalled at solemn hours, and with a "beauty still more beauteous" to reinvest the earth, which neither sin nor sorrow can rob of its enchantments. We can still travel with the solitary mountain-stream from its source to the sea, and see new visions at every vista of its winding waters. The waterfall flows not with its own monotonous voice of a day or an hour, but like a choral anthem pealing with the hymns of many years. In the heart of the blind mist on the mountain-ranges we can now sit alone, surrounded by a world of images, over which time holds no power but to consecrate or solemnize. Solitude we can deepen by a single volition, and by a single volition let in upon it the stir and noise of the world and life. Why, therefore, should we complain, or why lament the inevitable loss or change that time brings with it to all that breathe? Beneath the shadow of the tree we can yet repose, and tranquillize our spirit by its rustle, or by the "green light" unchequered by one stirring leaf. From sunrise to sunset, we can lie below the old mossy tower, till the darkness that shuts out the day, hides not the visions that glide round the ruined battlements. Cheerful as in a city can we traverse the houseless moor; and although not a ship be on the sea, we can set sail on the wings of imagination, and when wearied, sink down on savage or serene isle, and let drop our anchor below the moon and stars.

And 'tis well we are so spiritual; for the senses are of no use here, and we must draw

A

for amusement on our internal sources.
day-like night we have often seen about mid-
summer, serenest of all among the Hebrides;
but a night-like day, such as this, ne'er before
fel on us, and we might as well be in the
Heart o' Mid-Lothian. "Tis a dungeon, and a
dark one-and we know not for what crime we
have been condemned to solitary confinement.
Were it mere mist we should not mind; but
the gloom is palpable-and makes resistance
to the hand. We did not think clouds capa-
ble of such condensation-the blackness may
be felt like velvet on a hearse. Would that
something would rustle-but no-all is breath-
lessly still, and not a wind dares whistle. If
there be any thing visible or audible hereabout,
then are we stone-blind and stone-deaf. We

have a vision!

See! a great City in a mist! All is not shrouded--at intervals something huge is beheld in the sky-what we know not, tower, temple, spire, dome, or a pile of nameless structures-one after the other fading away, or sinking and settling down into the gloom that grows deeper and deeper like a night. The stream of life seems almost hushed in the blind blank-yet you hear ever and anon, now here, now there, the slow sound of feet moving to their own dull echoes, and lo! the Sun

"Looks through the horizontal misty air,
Sho'n of his beams,"

like some great ghost. Ay, he looks! does he
not? straight on your face, as if you two were
the only beings there--and were held looking
at each other in some strange communion.
Surely you must sometimes have felt that
emotion, when the Luminary seemed no longer
luminous, but a dull-red brazen orb, sick unto
the death-obscure the Shedder of Light and
the Giver of Life lifeless!

The Sea has sent a tide-borne wind to the City, and you almost start in wonder to behold all the heavens clear of clouds, (how beautiful was the clearing!) and bending in a mighty blue bow, that brightly overarches all the brightened habitations of men! The spires shoot up into the sky-the domes tranquilly rest there-all the roofs glitter as with diamonds, all the white walls are lustrous, save where, here and there, some loftier range of buildings hangs its steadfast shadow o'er square or street, magnifying the city, by means of separate multitudes of structures, each town-like in itself, and the whole gathered together by the outward eye, and the inward imagination, worthy indeed of the name of Metropolis.

character was given to the Hill by its green silence, here and there broken by the songs and laughter of those linen-bleaching lassies, and by the arm-in-arm strolling of lovers in the morning light or the evening shade. Here married people use to walk with their children, thinking and feeling themselves to be in the country; and here elderly gentlemen, like ourselves, with gold-headed canes, or simple crutches, mused and meditated on the ongoings of the noisy lower world. Such a Hill, so close to a great City, yet undisturbed by it, and embued at all times with a feeling of sweeter peace, because of the immediate neighbourhood of the din and stir of which its green recess high up in the blue air never partook, seems now, in the mingled dream of imagina tion and memory, to have been a super-urban Paradise! But a city cannot, ought not to be, controlled in its growth; the natural beauty of this hill has had its day; now it is broken all round with wide walks, along which you might drive chariots a-breast; broad flights of stonestairs lead up along the once elastic brae-turf; and its bosom is laden with towers and temples, monuments and mausoleums. Along one side, where hanging gardens might have been, magnificent as those of the old Babylon, stretches the macadamized Royal Road to London, flanked by one receptacle for the quiet dead, and by another for the unquiet living-a church-yard and a prison dying away in a bridewell. But, making amends for such hideous deformities, with front nobly looking to the clifs, over a dell of dwellings seen dimly through the smoke-mist, stands, sacred to the Muses, an Edifice that might have pleased the eye of Pericles! Alas, immedi ately below, one that would have turned the brain of Palladio! Modern Athens indeed! Few are the Grecians among thy architects; those who are not Goths are Picts-and the king himself of the Painted People designed Nelson's Monument.

But who can be querulous on such a day? Weigh all its defects, designed and undesigned, and is not Edinburgh yet a noble city? Arthur's Seat! how like a lion! The magnificent range of Salisbury Crags, on which a battery might be built to blow the whole inhabitation to atoms! Our friend here, the Calton, with his mural crown! Our Castle on his Cliff! Gloriously hung round with national histories along all his battlements! Do they not embosom him in a style of grandeur worthy, if such it be, of a "City of Palaces?" Call all things by their right names, in heaven Let us sit down on this bench below the and on earth. Palaces they are not-nor are shadow of the Parthenon. The air is now so they built of marble; but they are stately rarefied, that you can see not indistinctly the houses, framed of stone from Craig-Leith figure of a man on Arthur's Seat. The Calton, quarry, almost as pale as the l'arian; and when though a city hill-is as green as the Carter the sun looks fitfully through the storm, or as towering over the Border-forest. Not many now, serenely through the calm, richer than years ago, no stone edifice was on his unvio- Parian in the tempestuous or the peaceful Íated verdure he was a true rural Mount, light. Never beheld we the city wearing such where the lassies bleached their claes, in a a majestic metropolitan aspect.

pure atmosphere, aloof from the city smoke almost as the sides and summit of Arthur's Seat. Flocks of sheep might have grazed nere, had there been enclosures, and many nilch-cows. But in their absence a pastoral

"Ay, proudly fling thy white arms to the sea,
Queen of the unconquer'd North!"

How near the Frith! Gloriously does it supply the want of a river. It is a river, though

"Set as an emerald in the casing sea,

seeming and sweeping into, the sea; but a
river that man may never bridge; and though in triple union breathe as one,
still now as the sky, we wish you saw it in its
magnificent madness, when brought on the
roarings of the stormful.tide

"Breaks the long wave that at the Pole began."

"Then come against us the whole world in arms, And we will meet them!"

What is a people without pride? But let them know that its root rests on noble pillars; and in the whole range of strength and stateliness, what pillars are there stronger and statelier than those glorious two-Genius and Liberty? Here valour has fought-here philosophy has meditated-here poetry has sung. Are not our living yet as brave as our dead? Al. wisdom has not perished with the sages t whom we have built or are building monu mental tombs. The muses yet love to breathe the pure mountain-air of Caledon. And have we not amongst us one myriad-minded man, whose name, without offence to that high-priest of nature, or his devoutest worshippers, may flow from our lips even when they utter that of SHAKSPEARE?

Coast-cities alone are Queens. All inland are but Tributaries. Earth's empiry belongs to the Power that sees its shadow in the sea. Two separate Cities, not twins-but one of ancient and one of modern birth-how harmoniously, in spite of form and features characteristically different, do they coalesce into one Capital! This miracle, methinks, is wrought by the Spirit of Nature on the World of Art. Her great features subdue almost into similarity a Whole constructed of such various elements, for it is all felt to be kindred with those guardian cliffs. Those eternal heights hold the Double City together in an amity that breathes over both the same national look-the impression of the same national soul. In the The Queen of the North has evaporatedolden time, the city gathered herself almost and we again have a glimpse of the Highlands. under the very wing of the Castle; for in her But where's the Sun? We know not in what heroic heart she ever heard, unalarmed but airt to look for him, for who knows but it may watchful, the alarums of war, and that cliff, now be afternoon? It is almost dark enough under heaven, was on earth the rock of her for evening-and if it be not far on in the day, salvation. But now the foundation of that then we shall have thunder. What saith our rock, whence yet the tranquil burgher hears repeater? One o'clock. Usually the brightest the morning and the evening bugle, is beat- hour of all the twelve-but any thing but tified by gardens that love its pensive shadow, bright at this moment. Can there be an eclipse for it tames the light to flowers by rude feet going on an earthquake at his toilette-or untrodden, and yielding garlands for the brows merely a brewing of storm? Let us consult of perpetual peace. Thence elegance and our almanac. No eclipse set down for to-day grace arose; and while antiquity breathes over the old earthquake dwells in the neighbourthat wilderness of antique structurea pic-hood of Comrie, and has never been known to turesquely huddled along the blue line of sky journey thus far north-besides he has for —as Wilkie once finely said, like the spine of some years been bed-ridden; argal, there is some enormous animal; yet all along this side about to be a storm. What a fool of a landof that unrivered and mound-divided dell, now tortoise were we to crawl up to the top of a shines a new world of radiant dwellings, de-mountain, when we might have taken our claring by their regular but not monotonous magnificence, that the same people, whose "perfervid genius" preserved them by war unhumbled among the nations in days of darkness, have now drawn a strength as invincible, from the beautiful arts which have been cultivated by peace in the days of light.

choice of half-a-dozen glens with cottages in them every other mile, and a village at the end of each with a comfortable Change-house! And up which of its sides, pray, was it that we crawled! Not this one-for it is as steep as a church-and we never in our life peeped And is the spirit of the inhabitation there Merlin, 'tis wise of you to be flying home into over the brink of an uglier abyss. Ay, Mister worthy of the place inhabited? We are a your crevice-put your head below your wing, Scotsman. And the great English Moralist and do cease that cry.-Croak! croak! croak! has asked, where may a Scotsman be found Where is the sooty sinner? We hear he is who loves not the honour or the glory of his on the wing-but he either sees or smells us, country better than truth? We are that Scots- probably both, and the horrid gurgle in his man-though for our country would we die. throat is choked by some cloud. Surely that Yet dearer too than life is to us the honour-was the sughing of wings! A Bird! alighting if not the glory of our country; and had we a housand lives, proudly would we lay them all down in the dust rather than give-or see given-one single stain

"Unto the silver cross, to Scotland dear,"

on which as yet no stain appears save those glorious weather-stains, that have fallen on its folds from the clouds of war and the storms of battle. Sufficient praise to the spirit of our land, that she knows how to love, admire, and rival--not in vain-the_spirit of high-hearted and heroic England. Long as we and that other noble Isle

within fifty yards of us-and, from his mode of folding his wings-an Eagle! This is too much-within fifty yards of an Eagle on his own mountain-top. Is he blind? Age darkens even an Eagle's eyes-but he is not old, for his plumage is perfect-and we see the glare of his far-keekers as he turns his head over his shoulder and regards his eyry on the cliff. We would not shoot him for a thousand a-year for life. Not old-how do we know that? Because he is a creature who is young at a hundred-so says Audubon-Swainsonour brother James-and all shepherds. Little suspects he who is lying so near him with his

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