132 DAYS OF DEER-STALKING. 



but certainly could not put faith in its actual existence. 

 Once taint him with this sort of philosophy, and you ruin 

 him for life ; he is a lost man to all intents and purposes. 

 An eager sportsman, I can understand ; the phrase is apt ; 

 but who ever heard of a patient sportsman ? Such a fellow 

 would take snuff when he ought to take a snap shot ; and 

 you would see him purgantem leniter ungues, when he 

 should be sweeping down a precipice like an eagle. But of 

 such as these discourse we no farther. 



Turn we now to Tortoise. Silent and abstracted he sat 

 on the gray stone, and, passing his hand across his brows, 

 began to brood over the scenes of his early days ; again he 

 roams over the rock-bound coast of Mull, and along the 

 desolate shores of lona ; again he chases the roe amongst 

 the slaty mountains and rude wildernesses of the Isle of 

 Mist ; once more he traverses the heathy Morven, and winds 

 his solitary way amidst the rocks and hoarse cataracts of 

 Glencoe. Here, in this birth-place of Ossian, rise up before 

 him, in his visionary mood, the heroes of other days, the 

 hunters of deer ; and thus again he muses on that blood- 

 stained pass : 



" Was it thy form, Fingal, that on the cloud 

 Strode on as the autumnal gust blew loud, 

 Deep'ning amid these rocks and glens forlorn ? 

 Was it the echo of thy distant horn ? 

 Or heard we his wild harp who drew his breath 

 In the dark pass, dark as the frown of death ! 

 Where Cona,* creeping through the mossy stones, 

 Along his gloomy way, forsaken moans, 

 As if remembering still the mighty dead, 

 Or mourning the fell deed that dyed his current red ? t 

 'Twas not, Fingal, the winding of thy horn ; 

 Twas not thy shade wrapt in the mists of morn ; 

 'Twas not, oh Ossian ! thy sad minstrelsy, 

 Heard o'er the mountains as the dead passed by ; 

 But here, as on the scene renown'd we gaze, 

 Where strode the awful chiefs of other days, 

 Wild fancy wakes. Sudden before our eyes, 

 As to the lonely seer that dreaming lies, 

 Pale shadowy maids, and phantom chiefs, arise ; 



* A river in the pass. 



t Massacre by the soldiers of William III. 



