82 HOW I BECAME A FALCONER. 
people who look at them; and that I should be only wise were I to 
consider how I might finish the subject with something better 
worth reading. 
This, I think, is the last article of anything like a series which I 
ghall write on falconry. I am painfully conscious that I have worn 
the subject threadbare, and whether it be so or not, I write under 
an oppression in the conviction. Besides, I am beginning to tire of 
* the place in which I have learned the greater part of my lesson— 
certainly all the grouse-hawking part. The incumbent of a wretchedly 
poor living, who has been shut out of the world for twelve years, who 
has lived all that time in what are called “ the ‘wilds of Cheshire,” 
may well find an excuse for saying that he is not altogether satisfied 
with his lot. I remember how I revelled in the wildness of this place 
when I first came to it—how I thought that I could never tire of the 
hills and heather ; but the time has come when the wilderness begins 
to seem too wild, and when the isolation becomes painful. I should 
like to get back again to the midland or southern counties ; I should 
like to come a little nearer civilisation. Not but that Ishould leave 
with regret several friends here; friends who, living some miles from 
this place, have yet taken pains to give me many glimpses of society 
—have done more than that—have been most hearty, hospitable, 
and genial. My horse brings me to their houses, but not without a 
struggle; for these are not roads to-trifle with, and a beast must be 
sure-footed indeed who passes them without tripping. However, 
let me be thankful that I am not in a town. Matters might be 
worse; and one can’t help having some hope or dream, not very 
definite, but never quite absent, which pictures some good straggling 
house near a small village, where it is possible to have a little 
commerce with the civilised world. I wish some good Christian 
would offer me such a living. But can I, more than Sisyphus, place 
the stone on the top of the mountain? Itis the old tale—vetant leges 
Jovis. 
