inuating 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, down, many hundred
fathoms, dashed to pieces and impaled on the sharp-pointed granite! Ere
nightfall 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 is--this 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.

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!

Shooting grouse after red-deer is, for a while at first, felt to be like
writing an anagram in a lady's album, after having given the
finishing-touch to a tragedy or an epic poem. 'Tis like taking to
catching shrimps in the sand with one's toes, on one's return from
Davis' Straits in a whaler that arrived at Peterhead with sixteen fish,
each calculated at ten tun of oil. Yet, 'tis strange how the human soul
can descend, pleasantly at every note, from the top to the bottom of
passion's and imagination's gamut.

A Tarn--a Tarn! wi