and, looking at them sternly in the face, he fell on his side and died. Upon examination, it was discovered that he had received more than fifty balls, some of which had only penetrated the skin, and travelled under it without piercing the flesh. Unless these powerful animals should be wounded in a vital part, or disabled by a shot in the leg, they will maintain their speed under an enormous quantity of lead; and inexperienced sportsmen, having so wide a mark, blaze away without considering how very ineffectual their fire must be, unless the ball can reach the seat of life. Horses that on their first expedition will allow their riders to load and fire upon their backs, are often found quite incapable of enduring a similar trial a second time: the very sight of a gun or the click of a lock will put them into an agony of fear, and they will rear and plunge at a most tremendous rate whenever reminded of their former peril, although at all other times quiet and gentle as lambs.

To the sportsmen of India we are indebted for many interesting facts relating to natural history: young and ardent followers of the chase plunge very frequently into the most frightful solitudes, and, associating with the natives tenanting a few straggling huts, or the fakirs, who are to be found in the most savage places, make themselves acquainted with the habits and manners of the brute denizens of the soil.

THE LADY OF BUSTA.

ABOUT ninety years ago, Busta, in Shetland, was the property and residence of a gentleman named Gifford, in whose family history some incidents of a remarkable character took place. The wife of Mr Gifford, usually designated Lady Busta, was a woman of vigorous mind, and of a temperament uncommonly proud and imperious, as the events to be related will sufficiently shew.

Lady Busta had borne to her husband four sons and several daughters. The eldest of these sons, John Gifford, had reached the age of twenty-five at the period to which our narrative refers. Some years before that period a new inmate had been added to the house of Busta in the person of Barbara Pitcairn, the daughter of an old and dear friend of the Giffords, and who had recently been left an orphan. Barbara had sprung up, in the course of the two or three years spent at Busta, into a lovely and blooming woman.

One day in the pleasant month of May Lady Busta entered the sitting-room in the mansion of Busta, where Barbara Pitcairn was seated alone, bending over her work. A storm was on the lady's brow as the orphan girl recognised at a glance; and when she recognised it, she trembled.

'Know you, Barbara Pitcairn,' were Lady Busta's first words as she seated herself opposite the object she addressed-'know you the pleasant news I have heard to-day?'

'I know not indeed, madam,' said Barbara, attempting to smile, though she could not help shrinking under the stern gaze which Lady Busta fixed upon her.

'I have heard, then,' continued the lady, that the heir of our house and name, John Gifford, has formed an attachment without my consent, and one unworthy of himself and his family.'

'Can it be, my lady?' said Barbara timidly, hearing rather than seeing-for her eyes were fixed on her work -that a reply was expected from her.

It can be, and is so, I am told,' continued Lady Busta. But mark me, Barbara Pitcairn - and you, I know, converse oft with John Gifford, and may tell him thismark me, when I say that, before I saw the heir of our house degrade himself by a mean alliance, I would prefer to have him stretched a corpse at my feet!' These words made her auditor shudder; but the lady went on, her voice rising into accents of sterner passion as she spoke: 'Ay, girl, though these breasts gave him food,

I would sooner see his comely body lifeless-bloodydisfigured before me, than see him disgrace the name he bears! Mark my words, Barbara Pitcairn!' The young lady raised her eyes to the speaker's face as these last sentences were uttered, but dropped them again instantly with an involuntary shudder at the expression which Lady Busta's countenance wore. The latter then, as if her mission was sped, rose slowly, and left the

room.

For some minutes after she was gone, Barbara sat motionless as marble, and with its hue upon her features. When she awoke from the stupor into which she had fallen, it was only to enter upon a state of more acute suffering. Her work fell at her feet, and she wrung her hands bitterly. The evil day, then, has come at last,' was her thought. 'Heaven help the destitute, and those who have no home!' For a time Barbara could do nothing but repeat to herself such expressions as these, while her tears fell fast. Yet can it be possible,' thought she, as she became a little more composed, 'that Lady Busta should have discovered all? Would she not have driven the object who had offended her from her doors? And yet why should I deceive myself?' continued she, relapsing into her grief; 'how can it be concealed long, even if yet unknown! How can it! No: something must be done instantly. I must see John immediately, ere this threatened storm breaks and involves us in ruin.' Barbara hastily rose as she spoke, dried the traces of her tears from her countenance, and gathered her work into its place. She then prepared her attire for a walk abroad.

Our story requires that we should follow the young lady whither she went. Not far from the house of Busta was a voe, or arm of the sea, of considerable extent, being above a mile in breadth, and running into the land for several miles. To the shore of this sheet of water Barbara took her way, and walked along it for some distance, until she reached a spot out of sight of the family mansion, where she sat herself down on the grass.

The day was a pleasant one of early summer, and at another time the orphan girl might have found pleasure in contemplating the smooth surface of a sea which rarely held a placid mood; but now her heart was too much occupied with other thoughts to enjoy the beauties of nature. Her eye and her mind were fixed on an angle of the hill, by the foot of which she had taken up her station. Nor had she waited long before the object for which she looked appeared. A young man in a hunter's dress, with a dog by his side and a gun on his arm, came round the end of the hill, and advanced towards her. In a few minutes the pair were folded in an embrace, which proved that John Gifford and Barbara Pitcairn were lovers-at least.

John heard from the young lady's lips the language which his mother had used respecting his formation of an attachment below his station, and the narrator's tears again flowed as she repeated the words. Though concerned to hear what had passed, the heir of Busta was also irritated by the unfeeling expressions of his mother.

'She has long governed all as she wished,' said he; 'but affections are not to be ruled. Nor have I placed mine on an unworthy object, but on one who by birth, and in everything else but wealth, is my equal-one, indeed, of whom I am unworthy.'

Such words as these were soothing to the ear of Barbara, but her alarm was too great to be quickly or easily removed.

'She can only suspect an attachment between us, dearest Barbara,' said Gifford; but long ere her anger can go further, I will have taken steps, with my kind father's help, to make it harmless.'

'There is more in it than suspicion, John,' was Barbara's reply: 'she has discovered or been informed of something?'

'Suspicion, dearest, is all, believe me,' said the young man: our confidants are all trusty, and I bear the written tokens of our affection ever in my bosom-close to my heart. See here, love,' said he, shewing the corner

of a few papers in the situation he spoke of. The converse of the pair continued for some time longer. At its close Barbara, with her heart partially lightened of its load, took the path homewards, while John remained behind for a space, in order that jealousy might not be further awakened by their return together.

On the day following these occurrences John Gifford and two of his brothers, William and Hay, with their cousin John Fiskin, a young clergyman, lately made assistant to his father, the minister of a neighbouring parish, left Busta House to cross the voe already mentioned, in order to spend the day with a gentleman on the opposite side. Barbara from her window saw them take boat on the voe. Her heart communed with her lover even in this separation. A motion made by him with his handkerchief was answered by her in the same way, and though unperceived by others, the signal gave joy to them. John's youngest brother James did not go with the rest by boat, but chose to ride round the head of the voe, to join the party at the same house. Cheerless was that day in the dwelling of Busta to some of its inmates. But the dusk came at length; and then the eight o'clock bell rung for supper, which was to be the signal for the return of the party across the lake. But an hour passed, and they came not: another hour-and still they did not appear. However, the night was so calm that no dread of an accident was felt at Busta. It was concluded by all that the party had been prevailed upon to stay all night.

Early in the morning, nevertheless, a horseman was sent from Busta round the head of the voe to ascertain the safety of the party. The man returned-his horse covered with foam-with the alarming intelligence, that on the previous evening the party had taken boat from the opposite side of the voe as soon as they heard the supper-bell rung! Who shall describe the alarm and agony of the father, or of the poor orphan whose life was bound up in one of the lost, though even her anguish she was forced to conceal! The cold, stern heart of Lady Busta was well shewn by her manner of receiving the