TO THE SCAUKDALE. 77 



stout Highland pony, and starting for the scene of sport 

 in prospectu. It was a lovely morning, somewhat chill, 

 but with a sky cloudless, save where a small speck here 

 and there dotted the welkin, and from its rich roseate 

 fringe foretold the -coming of the yet invisible "lamp 

 of day." Such mornings however are frequently, 

 indeed generally, succeeded by a rainy day ; and we 

 began to fear dirty weather, and an increased " speyet." 

 The rivers were already sufficiently high ; and, as an 

 additional flood would not improve the fishing, the 

 prospect was not cheering ; but we hoped for the best. 



Of our route, pretty as it was, and characteristic of 

 the Highlands, I will endeavour to give the best 

 description I can. 



For the first half-dozen miles there was nothing very 

 striking ; but we then began to wind our way through 

 a birchen forest, the trees lining the road on either 

 side, almost meeting over our heads, completely shut- 

 ting us in, and imparting an air of seclusion, which, 

 with the deathlike silence that reigned around, un- 

 broken save by the clinking of the pony and the 

 rumble of the wheels, seemed to communicate itself to 

 our feelings and to cast a spell on our tongues. Occa- 

 sionally, as we got a glimpse along some glade in the 

 forest, we saw the black-cock stealing off to the shelter 

 of the ferns, or the roe in security straining its pretty 

 neck to reach the tenderest shoots on the birchen 

 bough. Altogether, it was such a morning as I never 

 saw before, and in all likelihood never shall see again ; 

 indeed a second such would not produce a similar 

 effect. There was something so new to me, a Southron, 

 in the combination of perfect peace and calm, the 

 thorough security of the frequenters of the wood, the 

 wildness of the district around, and yet the Devonshire- 

 like character of the lane we were following, that I felt 



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