IN THE SHETLANDS 193 
rugged old mother that bore them.’ “Kill, kill, kill, 
kill, kill!” is their cry. Down with the raven, the 
eagle, the peregrine, gull, skua, cormorant, and let the 
soul of the gamekeeper live for ever in the wild 
Shetland Islands ! 
There is something, I verily believe, in a gun and 
cartridges, that dries up all poetry in a man’s heart. 
Of all the inventions that this world has ever seen, 
I most deplore that of gunpowder—not because it 
kills men, but because it kills beasts—and next to that 
I deplore railways, which take away all charm from 
the country, and kill the ballads and songs of a people. 
Would that I had lived before them, in the quiet days 
of Gilbert White! It is the absence, I believe, of all 
reference to railways in the writings of our grand- 
fathers and grandmothers that makes, or helps to make, 
them such pleasant reading. Who would care for 
Sterne’s Sentimental Journey, had he made it by rail ? 
and is it not delightful, when reading Miss Austen, 
to know that none of those dear little quiet-world 
circles, into which, for years, you have had the entree, 
and which have given you a thousand times more 
pleasure, through life, than you have derived from 
your real acquaintance—is it not delightful to know 
that they could none of them run up to town in an 
hour or a few minutes, as is the case now? How 
nice it is to have Highbury, through the whole of 
Emma, a quiet, untownified little place, and to know 
1 Not all, of course. To Mr. Lawrence Edmondston, of Unst, and to Mr. 
Hoseason, of Yell, all lovers of birds and wild nature are greatly indebted, 
O 
