stamp upon it an indelible stigma of the public abhorrence. And I again implore those holy prelates of our religion to do away these iniquities from among us. Let them perform a lustration; let them purify this House, and this country, from this sin.

My lords, I am old and weak, and at present unable to say more; but my feelings and indignation were too strong to have said less. I could not have slept this night in my bed, nor reposed my head on my pillow, without giving this vent to my eternal abhorrence of such preposterous and enormous principles.

THE RED DEER OF SCOTLAND.

66

[WILLIAM SCROPE, a famous sportsman, was born about 1771, published the "Art of Deer Stalking" in 1838, Days and Nights of Salmon Fishing," 1843. Died 20th July, 1852.] THERE is no animal more shy or solitary by nature than the red deer. He takes the note of alarm from every living thing on the moor-all seem to be his sentinels. The sudden start of any animal, the springing of a moorfowl, the complaining note of a plover, or of the smallest bird in distress, will set him off in an instant. He is always most timid when he does not see his adversary, for then he suspects an ambush. If, on the contrary, he has him in full view, he is as cool and circumspect as possible; he then watches him most acutely, endeavours to discover his intention, and takes the best possible method to defeat it. In this case he is never in a hurry or confused, but repeatedly stops and watches his disturber's motions; and when at length he does take his measure, it is a most decisive one a whole herd will sometimes force their way at the very point where the drivers are the most numerous and where there are no rifles; so that I have seen the hillmen fling their sticks at them, while they have raced away without a shot being fired.

When a stag is closely pursued by dogs, and feels that he cannot escape from them, he flies to the best position he can, and defends himself to the last extremity. This is called going to bay. If he is badly wounded, or very much over-matched in speed, he has little choice of ground; but if he finds himself stout in the chase, and is pursued in his native mountains, he will select the most defensible spot he has it in his power to reach; and woe be unto the dog that approaches him rashly. His instinct always leads him. to the rivers, where his long legs give him a great advantage over the deer-hounds. Firmly he holds his position, whilst they swim powerless about him, and would die from cold and fatigue before they could make the least impression on him. Sometimes he will stand upon a rock in the midst of the river, making a most majestic appearance; and in this case it will always be found that the spot on which he stands is not approachable in his rear. In this situation he takes such a sweep with his antlers that he could exterminate a whole pack of the most powerful lurchers that were pressing too closely upon him in front. He is secure from all but man, and the rifle-shot must end him. Superior dogs may pull him down when running, but not when he stands at bay.

The deer, like many other animals, seems to foresee every change of weather: at the approach of a storm they leave the higher hills, and descend to the low grounds; sometimes even two days before the change takes place. Again, at the approach of a thaw, they leave the low grounds and go to the mountains by a similar anticipation of change. They never perish in snow-drifts, like sheep, since they do not shelter themselves in hollows, but keep the bare ground, and eat the tops of the heather.

Harts are excellent swimmers, and will pass from island to island in quest of change of food. It is asserted that the rear hart in swimming rests his head

M

on the

croup of the one before him; and that all follow in the same manner.

When a herd of deer are driven, they follow each other in a line; so that when they cross the stalker it is customary for him to be quiet, and suffer the leaders to pass before he raises his rifle. If he were to fire at

the first that appeared, he would probably turn the whole of them; or if he were to run forward injudiciously after a few had passed, the remainder, instead of following the others in a direct line, would not cross him except under particular circumstances and dispositions of ground, but would bear off on end, and join the others afterwards. It must be remarked, however, that when deer are hard pressed by a dog, they run in a compact mass, the tail ones endeavouring to wedge themselves into it. They will also run in this manner when pressed by drivers on the open moor. But they are sensible that they could not pass the narrow oblique paths that are trodden out by them in the precipitous and stony parts of the mountain, or encounter the many obstructions of rock, river, and precipice, that rugged nature is continually opposing to them, in any other manner than in rank and file. If they did they must separate, and lose the wind, which is not their system. SCROPE.

SUNRISE AND SUNSET IN THE WOODS.

[WILLIAM GILPIN, Vicar of Boldre, was both a biographer and a critic. He was born in 1724. Our extract is taken from one of his works on picturesque beauty, entitled “Forest Scenery." He died 5th April, 1804.]

THE first dawn of day exhibits a beautiful obscurity. When the east begins just to brighten with the reflections only of effulgence, a pleasing progressive light, dubious and amusing, is thrown over the face of things. A single ray is able to assist the picturesque

eye, which by such slender aid creates a thousand imaginary forms, if the scene be unknown, and as the light steals gradually on, is amused by correcting its vague ideas by the real objects. What in the confusion of twilight perhaps seemed a stretch of rising ground, broken into various parts, becomes now vast masses of wood and an extent of forest.

As the sun begins to appear above the horizon, another change takes place. What was before only form, being now enlightened, begins to receive effect. This effect depends on two circumstances-the catching lights which touch the summits of every object, and the mistiness in which the rising orb is commonly enveloped.

The effect is often pleasing when the sun rises in unsullied brightness, diffusing its ruddy light over the upper parts of objects, which is contrasted by the deeper shadows below; yet the effect is then only transcendent when he rises accompanied by a train of vapours in a misty atmosphere. Among lakes and mountains, this happy accompaniment often forms the most astonishing visions, and yet in the forest it is nearly as great. With what delightful effect do we sometimes see a sun's disk just appear above a woody hill, or, in Shakespeare's language,

"Stand tiptoe on the misty mountain top,"

and dart his diverging rays through the rising vapour. The radiance catching the tops of the trees as they hang midway upon the shaggy steep, and touching here and there a few other prominent objects, imperceptibly mixes its ruddy tint with the surrounding mists, setting on fire, as it were, their upper parts, while their lower skirts are lost in a dark mass of varied confusion, in which trees and ground, and radiance and obscurity are all blended together. When the eye is fortunate enough to catch the glowing instant-for it is always a vanishing scene-it furnishes an idea worth treasuring

among the choicest appearances of nature. Mistiness alone, we have observed, occasions a confusion in ob jects which is often picturesque; but the glory of the vision depends on the glowing lights which are mingled with it.

Landscape painters, in general, pay too little attention to the discriminations of morning and evening. We are often at a loss to distinguish in pictures the rising from the setting sun, though their characters are very different both in the lights and shadows. The ruddy lights, indeed, of the evening are more easily distinguished, but it is not perhaps always sufficiently observed that the shadows of the evening are much less opaque than those of the morning. They may be brightened perhaps by the numberless rays floating in the atmosphere, which are incessantly reverberated in every direction, and may continue in action after the sun is set; whereas in the morning the rays of the preceding day have subsided, no object receives any light but from the immediate lustre of the sun.

Whatever becomes of the theory, the fact, I believe, is well ascertained.

The incidental beauties which the meridian sun exhibits are much fewer than those of the rising sun. In summer when he rides high at noon, and sheds his perpendicular ray, all is illumination; there is no shadow to balance such a glare of light, no contrast to oppose it. The judicious artist, therefore, rarely represents his objects under a vertical sun. And yet no species of landscape bears it so well as the scenes of the forest. The tuftings of the trees, the recesses among them, and the lighter foliage hanging over the darker, may all have an effect under a meridian sun. I speak chiefly, however, of the internal scenes of the forest, which bear such total brightness better than any other, as in them there is generally a natural gloom to balance it. The light, obstructed by close intervening trees, will rarely predominate; hence the effect is often