EEMINISCENCES OF THE LEWS. 265 



done. Were I a poet, how should I endeavour 

 to describe what I so acutely feel ? '' The old 

 man's occupation's gone." But there is a con- 

 solation still. Do you remember that great 

 man's picture — great let me call him, for he 

 painted, and paints, dogs as they are — Land- 

 seer's, *' There's life in the old dog yet"? 

 There is much that I still could say which 

 might do in a book, but would not suit the 

 columns of the Field, to whose editor, for his 

 courtesy and kindness in allowing me scope to 

 express my real feelings about the Lews, I 

 take this public opportunity of returning my 

 sincerest thanks. There are visions passing 

 through the old man's brain, as old Whack lies 

 dreaming and whining at his feet over the 

 woodcocks on Dalbeg Hill, of, if time and op- 

 portunity permit, retouching and adding to 

 these sketches till they attain the form of a 

 book, and their writer going down to posterity 

 as having written one ; for '' it is a very great 

 performance," as a very clever woman once 

 said to me, ''to write a book at all, bad as it 

 possibly may be." For the present, however, 

 he feels, and with deep sorrow, that it is time 

 to draw his mantle round him. 



Before quitting the subject, however, allow 



