form any idea of the eagle in its highland home from these miserable, caged specimens ? Assuredly not. Far better were it to display a pair of stuffed eagles for the public to gaze upon, and beside them to place some photographs or pictures of the birds at their eyrie in some lonely glen, or sailing high above the mist-wreathed corries. How vividly would a sketch by, let us say, Thorburn or Millais, convey the eagle as it really is in the full enjoyment of health and liberty. And how much more instructive would it be, and how much more humane, than the miserable, spiritless birds the public sees at present. Perhaps some reader may exclaim, 'Surely it is indefensible, then, to keep any bird in captivity?' With this I do not agree. Some birds are not unhappy when confined to a comparatively small area. The ducks, for example, that one sees in the zoological gardens and the parks, are to all appearances as contented as in the wild state. Many small birds, too, seem perfectly happy in captivity. There must be many people who are saddened by the sight of imprisoned eagles. A few days ago I heard a small girl express the sorrow which the sight of a pair of captive eagles had given her, and this opinion was the more valuable as being entirely spontaneous. While I have treated especially of the eagle in this article, I recognise that there are other 'Raptores,' or birds of prey, almost, if not quite, as deserving of sympathy as the king of birds. The wild, impetuous, peregrine falcon must feel imprisonment as much as the eagle himself. O Sorrow! why dost borrow The lustrous passion from a falcon-eye? Then there are the erne, or sea eagle; the osprey from its ivy-covered ruined castle upon some highland loch; the farsoaring buzzard; and the impetuous merlin. To all the hawks imprisonment must be a dreadful thing, though perhaps, in the course of years, the feelings of depression and impotence become dulled. Of the golden eagle I have written to the exclusion of the other birds of prey, because I have spent so many days upon the high hills of Scotland, where the eagle is undisputed monarch of the air and sails easily from hill to hill, covering in a few minutes distances which would take even an experienced climber a long summer's day to walk. The fiercer the storm the more buoyant and masterful the eagle's flight. I have watched, while struggling in the face of a snow blizzard near the source of the Dee on Brae Riach, the marvellous wing power of this great bird of the mountains. With back-bent wings he has passed me on his unhurried flight, soaring grimly into the very teeth of the tempest, and I have marvelled that he should be able to see to steer his aerial course through the clouds of powdery snow. Imagine the joy of some eagle-a bird imprisoned not sufficiently long to forget his hunting-were he suddenly liberated from his cage. Leaning on the breeze, he mounts quickly upward. In five minutes, with never a flap of his wings, he has entered the clouds which are floating across the city of his captivity. There is a verse in Isaiah which reads, 'They shall mount up with wings as eagles,' and none except those who have studied the golden eagle at his mountain haunts know how singularly appropriate this metaphor is. I have seen an eagle, crossing a hill crest little above the pine trees, mount upward until he was lost in drifting clouds. Soon the clouds passed, and the eagle was still there, a small speck in the blue of the zenith. Ever upward he climbed, until he was invisible to the eye, but a pair of powerful glasses kept him in view some minutes longer. At last, however, even the binoculars failed to show him, for, after seeming like a soaring lark and then a minute black speck, the great bird, with his 7-foot wing-spread, had mounted where no eye could follow him. He must then have been a full 8000 feet above me, and the thing that most impressed me was that, although he had reached this great altitude in a very few minutes, he had not, so far as I could see, flapped his wings once. Having reached a height of perhaps 4000 feet, our liberated eagle, sailing in wide spirals, endeavours to find his bearings. At length, let us say, he decides that his course toward his ancestral hills and corries lies north. The wind blows fresh from the north-west, which is to our eagle's liking, for he is always at his best when beating into the breeze. He is, we may suppose, sadly out of training as a result of his captivity, but his great wings are so masterful in flight that this inconveniences him little. It is, indeed, a rare thing to see an eagle actually flap his wings. Speeding northward at, let us say, forty miles an hour, the eagle at length sights upon the distant northern horizon the snowy peaks of the Cairngorm mountains, the place of his birth. His pace quickens, and as he hurries northward over the high tops of Gaick and Glen Feshie he sees ahead of him the snowy corries of Brae Riach, the birthplace of the Dee. And as he makes his impetuous course a second eagle speeds towards him, none other than his mate, who has been soaring in loneliness above the glens since his capture. Eagles pair for life, and should mischance befall one of the pair, the survivor may linger unmated on the same ground for a number of years. I have known this happen on the island of The season is, we may Mull, where the eagle is now very scarce. presume, spring. In the glens the first breath of spring has stirred the birches, so that their scented buds are swelling, but in the remote corrie, where the eagles have their eyrie on the most outlying weather-scarred birch-tree, the snow still lies deep upon the ground. The great nest, that seems as though by its very weight it must bear the small tree to the ground, is itself free of snow. High above it the eagles soar joyously, from time to time uttering that sharp, yelping cry that is heard so rarely, except in the nesting season. Just under a mile distant stands the only pine-tree in all the glen. It the eagles quickly visit, for they line their eyrie always with green fir branches which they break from the parent tree. They are most particular in obtaining this outer lining for their nest, and equally careful are they to ensure that the two speckled eggs-laid late in March or early in April-shall lie upon an inner lining of a species of carex known as Luzula sylvatica, or, vulgarly, as 'sword grass.' 2 For six weeks the mother eagle broods her eggs. Then at last, one May day, two small eagles, clad in snowy down and gazing upon the world with comical pink eyes, lie side by side in the eyrie. For nine weeks they are fed by their parents. To the eyrie are brought mountain hares, rabbits, grouse and ptarmigan, and at times such unexpected animals as squirrels and stoats. Then at length, one July morning, the eaglets take their first flight. Brother and sister-for when two eagles are reared one is invariably a cock, the other a hen-sail down from the eyrie with unsteady flight, and perhaps drop perforce to the ground on the glen below. But next day they are stronger, and soon are able to soar and stoop earthward with the same ease as their parents. There is an old Gaelic legend that long long ago the birds decided to choose a king. That honour, it was agreed, should be given to the bird who mounted highest into the heavens. All thought that the eagle would be successful, and, indeed, it was not long before he had risen above all the other birds. He had reached a dizzy height when from the plumage of his back a tiny wren fluttered out. High into the air the small songster flew, and the eagle, exhausted by his effort, was unable to overtake it. Thus was the wren, and not the eagle, crowned king of birds. 2 On March 31 of the present year I crossed a frost-bound hill-top into a great corrie where each waterfall was imprisoned in a glistening sheet of ice. Here was the eagle's home, and already the bird was brooding close on her two handsome eggs, with their lining of Luzula. The grass was brown as midwinter, the heather was burned by the frost. Yet all around the nest were the rose-coloured blooms of Saxifraga oppositifolia, vivid patches of colour set in a scene of arctic lifelessness. SETON GORDON. A CONTINENTAL SUNDAY IN ENGLAND Two statements, it may be confidently expected, will be made in effect during any controversy which may occur upon Sunday observance. The first is that the greatness of England is due to its Sabbath,' the second that we must not introduce into this country a Continental Sunday.' Whether these statements are as axiomatic as they appear to the speakers may be doubted even by those who are convinced believers that the religious observance of Sunday is a matter of national importance. The greatness of England—and it may be assumed that this country possesses still an element of greatness-fortunately is not due to any one cause. If it were dependent upon Sabbath observance grave doubts might be entertained upon the stability of the foundations of our national edifice. The tide of public opinion and practice has set strongly against Sabbath observance as it was practised in the past, and as it is so often preached at present. The defenders are both honest and courageous, but they appear no more able to keep back the flood than was the redoubtable Mrs. Partington in her onslaught upon the intrusive sea. The prejudice against a Continental Sunday is deep and widespread, although not invariably well informed. There are things done abroad which those with long and intimate knowledge of European conditions would not like introduced into this country. Neither would they desire the spread of the indifference to religion which can be seen, not only in some English popular seaside place on the eve of the August Bank Holiday, but on almost every Sunday night in the West End of London. There is, however, a good side in a Continental observance of Sunday which is largely lacking in England. This side is not always seen by visitors to the Riviera nor by those who gain their impressions of Continental life under the grandmotherly tutelage of the personally conducted tours connected with Church and Nonconformist touring guilds. If the whole truth must be told, there is a good deal of humbug, and still more ignorance, beneath our condemnations of Continental Sundays, although on the other side of the Channel, it must be confessed, there are quarters in which Luther's maxim 'pecce fortiter' is applied without the Reformer's qualification, and where disregard of conventions is counted a virtue in comparison with British hypocrisy. The fallacy of comparing the best with the worst, and the worst with the best, is common among the least logical and the most logical peoples of the world. Faults of temperament are to be regretted everywhere, and somehow Things never turn out as they should, The good are so hard on the clever, Like other readers of this Review, I have spent abroad in the past many Sundays which I have observed after my own fashion, without much interest in other folks' concerns. The first four Sundays of this year, however, I had the privilege of spending in Italy, and a fifth in Geneva, which stands, so far as Sunday observance is concerned, half-way between Italy and England. On these several occasions I took particular notice of the way in which Sundays were spent, and what I saw certainly provided some food for reflection. The first Sunday was spent in Rome. In Rome, as is only to be expected, the religious side of life is much in evidence. The streets during the whole morning were well filled with people obviously going to or coming from worship. Perhaps women and children predominated, but this is not peculiar to the Eternal City. The day was one of those glorious combinations of bracing cold and brilliant sunshine which are common in January. The beautiful gardens of the Villa Borghese were crowded. The bands were playing, the zoological gardens were open, but the picture gallery was closed. It was impossible to assess how many of the crowds had been at church. Obviously some had, for they were carrying with them their manuals, and there were priests to be seen walking about and sitting among those listening to the music. There were crowds of young men, the flower of the Fascisti, walking and talking together in groups. All were well behaved, while in the afternoon the gardens and streets had the appearance of a domestic festival. There was the atmosphere of brightness and contentment, without any horse-play or noise, which is to be seen in the London parks on a sunny day in spring. Naples, of course, is unlike Rome both in conditions of life and in the characteristics of the people. No one who knows them would dream of suspecting the Neapolitans of conventionality. There is no city in Europe where everything is done more in public without reserve or self-consciousness. It would be a great mistake to assume that the Neapolitans are not sincerely affected by religion because they make no ostentatious parade after church, preferring to go to and fro in their lawful occasions on Sundays as |