To Mountain Tarn 



was not an all - round lover of nature. And 

 Marmion might have been all the lighter without 

 these depressing introductions to the cantos. Far 

 from welcoming the busy day and social night, in 

 the city, such weather would at once have allured 

 me to the wildest shooting within my reach. 



" I light my pipe," said another, "and look out 

 for the mallards. The bay is nearly half a mile 

 off, but I can see the ducks between me and the 

 sky, almost as soon as they leave it. At first a 

 solitary pair or two come silently and swiftly, 

 probably making their way to some favourite 

 spring further inland. With the help of a cart- 

 ridge I bring down a brace from a great height 

 as they pass over. In the hard frost I get a 

 number by waiting for the last hour of light, near 

 some open place on the loch or stream where 

 they come to feed. On my way home from 

 shooting, when I have been in the direction of 

 the swamps, I often do this, and generally succeed 

 in filling my bag with mallard and widgeon." 



This was written in 1848. All the freshness 

 and charm are in the passage, all the virility, all 

 the difference between wild and tame sport. 

 This is being slowly taken in. The eye is 

 brightening, the long breath being drawn that 

 fills the half-stifled lungs. The touch of nature 

 is here, that given time makes all kin. Your 

 ordinary man is usually sixty years behind. 



Indifference passed, sport entered on this 

 235 



