IN THE SHETLANDS 213 
chance now to see the flight down—if it should not 
take place in the night—a parlous fear. I was away 
for some four hours, and during this time had a splen- 
did sight of seals. Quite near to where I watch the 
guillemots there is a little iron-bound creek or cove, 
walled by the precipice, guarded by mighty “ stacks,” 
and divided for some way into two by a long rocky 
peninsula running out from the shore. On the rocks 
in one of these alcoves were lying eight seals, which 
were afterwards joined by another, making nine, 
whilst in the adjoining one were four—also, as it 
happened, joined by another whilst I watched—mak- 
ing fourteen in all: such a sight as I had never seen 
before, except something like it as the steamboat 
passed a small rocky islet on my way to Gutcher. 
Here lay, indeed, some nine or ten seals ; but oh, the 
difference in the conditions! The horrid, vulgar 
steamboat, with the whistle blowing to frighten them ; 
the men, the women, the remarks—a stick pointed 
gunwise—oh, dear! Oh, the difference, the differ- 
ence! They were soon all in the water and, with their 
little oasis, left far behind. The sooner the better. 
Worse than “‘crabbed age and youth” “ together” is 
wild nature seen from amidst vulgar surroundings, in 
vulgar company—like a drive through paradise with 
the Eltons “‘in the barouche-landau.” But here—ah, 
here it is different. Not one human being save 
myself (and one excuses oneself), no tiresome prosaic 
figure— godlike erect ”—to break the sky-line above 
the mighty towering precipice that rises just behind 
