Vain would it be for us to retrace our steps, and conjure up again the eidolon of Mr Colquhoun in desperate battle with the fish. More happy than ourselves, he is doubtless at breezy Sonachan, whilst we are in the city, panting for a mouthful of refreshing air. But though we cannot remember him in person, we have his book beside us; and a better, more useful, or more entertaining companion for a sportsman cannot anywhere be found. Sporting treatises ought, generally speaking, to be received with considerable caution. Let any man, who is either an angler or a shot, reflect seriously on the enormous amount of exaggeration in which he has indulged whilst detailing the particulars of his prowess, and he will, if he has in him any candour at all, understand the force of our observation. Almost every one of us—and we are no exception—are in the habit of viewing our own exploits through the medium of powerful magnifying glasses. In doing so, we merely obey a law of nature which exhorts men to maintain their dignity and reputation; and there is no point whatever upon which people are so touchy as their success in sporting. To doubt, far less contradict, a gentleman who proffers for your acceptance the narrative of an enormous basketful killed a fortnight ago in the Tweed; or that of a red-deer, stopped at full speed in the Athole forest, at a distance of four hundred yards, by the rifle of the historian, and so huge that Crerar absolutely swooned at the sight of it; or of myriads of grouse, brought down right and left, without a single failure, is a hideous breach of manners. If, in your heart, you believe that your informant is a much inferior sportsman to yourself, you must meet him by overpowering statements; and it is very singular that, after having twice told a fabulous Iliad of your exploits, you end by thoroughly believing it. The boundary line between the realm of fact and that of fiction is very indistinct; we ought rather to say that it is nowhere absolutely marked, and that there exists a large tract of debatable land which may be plausibly claimed for either. For example, we are not at this moment certain whether we ever shot a hooper or not. We have, indeed, in our mind, a dream or vision of a star lit loch, with six beautiful white creatures feeding in a bay. We remember how we crept along, behind a dyke, our heart throbbing so hard as almost to choke us; and we can recall the agonising moment when a stick broke beneath the pressure of our knee, before we came within gunshot, and when the sentinel bird looked up as if conscious of the approach of an intruder. We remember how we levelled and fired. We remember also the dash in the water, and the whirr of wings; and if we do not remember having brought down a second swan, as it wheeled in circle, it is simply because we are somewhat dubious as to the real existence of the first. We should cut but a poor figure if we were questioned on oath as to that transaction. Sometimes the vision