with somewhat of the Northumbrian "burr," which, to my mind, gave a
Doric strength and simplicity to his elocution. His recitation of
poetry was, at times, magnificent.

I think it was in the course of this ramble that my friend Hamlet, the
black greyhound, got into a bad scrape. The dogs were beating about the
glens and fields as usual, and had been for some time out of sight,
when we heard a barking at some distance to the left. Shortly after we
saw some sheep scampering on the hills, with the dogs after them. Scott
applied to his lips the ivory whistle, always hanging at his button-
hole, and soon called in the culprits, excepting Hamlet. Hastening up a
bank which commanded a view along a fold or hollow of the hills, we
beheld the sable prince of Denmark standing by the bleeding body of a
sheep. The carcass was still warm, the throat bore marks of the fatal
grip, and Hamlet's muzzle was stained with blood. Never was culprit
more completely caught in _flagrante delicto_. I supposed the doom
of poor Hamlet to be sealed; for no higher offence can be committed by
a dog in a country abounding with sheep-walks. Scott, however, had a
greater value for his dogs than for his sheep. They were his companions
and friends. Hamlet, too, though an irregular, impertinent kind of
youngster, was evidently a favorite. He would not for some time believe
it could be he who had killed the sheep. It must have been some cur of
the neighborhood, that had made off on our approach and left poor
Hamlet in the lurch. Proofs, however, were too strong, and Hamlet was
generally condemned. "Well, well," said Scott, "it's partly my own
fault. I have given up coursing for some time past, and the poor dog
has had no chance after game to take the fire edge off of him If he was
put after a hare occasionally he never would meddle with sheep."

I understood, afterward, that Scott actually got a pony, and went out