LETTER XVII. 115 



rattling volleys of icy shafts. Heaven waves its sable banners 

 overhead, and lets loose its dread artillery. The island shakes. 

 Its deep-rooted bastions of adamant tremble at the shock of the 

 fierce assaults of the raging billows ; but in vain. Thus far shalt 

 thou come and no farthur, and here shall thy proud waves be 

 stayed. And beaten, broken, dashed in pieces, and churned into 

 foam, they successively roll murmuring back submissive to the 

 eternal decree. 



Iona in winter is very favourable for those who love to see 

 nature in its sublime moods. A storm in a peopled district is 

 not seen to such advantage. Shattered chimney-pots, swinging 

 shutters, inverted umbrellas, &c, are not picturesque subjects. 

 The bleak storm-swept hill, the naked granite rock, and stunted 

 heather tufts are in keeping with the fury of the storm, which 

 roars and bellows over its undisputed dominions. The first is 

 like an over-driven ox creating a clatter in a china shop. The 

 latter is like the lord of the herd careering over his native plains. 

 There are not even trees in these islands, and therefore, as Dr 

 Johnson remarks, " all the noise of the storm is entirely its own." 



The Black and the White Puffins that you mentioned as being 

 at the museum are a most astounding phenomenon. I have 

 never seen any peculiarly coloured bird, except a Rock Pipit, which 

 I picked up dead on a small island. It was nearly white or 

 cream-coloured. Our talented proprietor, the Duke of Argyll, 

 who is also an ornithologist, saw it when visiting the island, and 

 at once mistook it for a Canary bird. 



The Woodcock is not numerous here, on account of the want 

 of proper cover ; but it breeds on the opposite coast of Mull. 



