Edward Sterling¹ never shone in farming; indeed I believe he never took heartily² to it, or tried it except in fits. His Bute farm was, at best, a kind of apology for some far different ideal of a country establishment which could not be realized; practically a temporary landing-place from which he could make sallies and excursions in search of some more generous field of enterprise. Stormy brief efforts at energetic husbandry, at agricultural improvement and rapid field-labor, alternated with sudden flights to Dublin, to London, whithersoever any flush of bright outlook which he could denominate practical, or any gleam of hope which his impatient ennui³ could represent as such, allured⁴ him. This latter was often enough the case. In wet hay-times and harvest-times, the dripping outdoor world, and lounging indoor one, in the absence of the master, offered far from a satisfactory appearance! Here was, in fact, a man much imprisoned⁵; haunted, I doubt not, by demons⁶ enough; though ever brisk and brave withal,—iracund, but cheerfully vigorous, opulent in wise or unwise hope. A fiery⁷ energetic soul consciously and unconsciously storming for deliverance into better arenas⁹; and this in a restless, rapid, impetuous, rather than in a strong, silent and deliberate way.