EEMINISCENCES OF THE LEWS. 173 



any sinner can be ; but often have I sat down, 

 forgetting there was such a thing as dog or 

 gun, till a cold nose, thrust into my hand, woke 

 me as from a dream. Yes, I loved that life, 

 and not the least that I never found myself 

 among those scenes without feeling a better and 

 a wiser man. It was then one practically 

 learnt the truth of Shakespeare's sermon, the 

 best and truest in the world, save one. The 

 very dogs seemed to enjoy it, and were better 

 and cannier dogs there than on the dull low 

 flats. 



But where am I going to ? I was writing 

 about woodcocks, and have wandered away. 

 Woodcock- shooting on the open muir, with 

 good pointers and setters, is very good fun. I 

 know the exquisite delight — the first two or 

 three fences happily got over — of feeling " we 

 are away ! " as you settle down to the hounds 

 on your favourite grey, that you know will 

 carry you like a bird. I have felt that inde- 

 scribable holding of the breath as the salmon 

 turns with your fly, and you feel him, and then 

 hold him in those awful summersaults he throws 

 aloffc, slapping his head and tail together ; drop- 

 ping your hand to him in the air, and picking 

 him up as he touches the water, just as a good 

 horseman rides over a fence. I have stalked 



