Stand all still for a minute--for not a bush the height of our knee to break our view--and is not that brattling burst up the brae "beautiful exceedingly," and sufficient to chain in admiration the beatings of the rudest gazer's heart? Yes; of all beautiful sights--none more, none so much so, as the miraculous motion of a four-footed wild animal, changed at once, from a seeming inert sod or stone, into flight fleet as that of the falcon's wing! Instinct against instinct! fear and ferocity in one flight! Pursuers and pursued bound together, in every turning and twisting of their career, by the operation of two headlong passions! Now they are all three upon her--and she dies! No! glancing aside, like a bullet from a wall, she bounds almost at a right angle from her straight course--and, for a moment, seems to have made good her escape. Shooting headlong one over the other, all three, with erected tails, suddenly bring themselves up--like racing barks when down goes the helm, and one after another, bowsprit and boom almost entangled, rounds the buoy, and again bears up on the starboard tack upon a wind--and in a close line, head to heel, so that you might cover them all with a sheet--again, all opened-mouthed on her haunches, seem to drive, and go with her over the cliff. We are all on foot--and pray what horse could gallop through among all these quagmires, over all the hags in these peat-mosses, over all the water-cressy and puddocky ditches, sinking soft on hither and thither side, even to the two-legged leaper's ankle or knee--up that hill on the perpendicular strewn with flint-shivers--down these loose-hanging cliffs--through that brake of old stunted birches with stools hard as iron--over that mile of quaking muir where the plover breeds--and-- finally--up--up--up to where the dwarfed heather dies away among the cinders, and in winter you might mistake a flock of ptarmigan for a patch of snow?