no puffer of Adam's apples, always joked me. After Smolensko's great winnings, I asked him whether he really thought his horse within ten pounds over the course, of such a one as was Piggott's Shark? His reply was, Why not as good at even weights? I believe, however, he subsequently changed his opinion. A-propos (April Number), though I knew and examined Smolensko in his colt-hood (why old Smolensko, since Sorcerer yet lives?), and I really do not recollect whether or not his cannon bones were comparatively small at bottom; but if it be so, it is, and cannot now be amended. The cannon or leg bones of Marsk, Gimcrack, Shark, and of many other capital racers which I have handled, were, in proportion, small. The sad fate of the Piggotts ought to have been a warning to our Turf aspirants-the bones I suppose were their ruin; assuredly Shark was

not.

My three old friends, to whom allusion was made in my last, and I, have returned NIMROD'S compliment heartily and comme il faut. The weather being chilly, I poured out a bumper of good old sound East India Madeira" Health and great luck, a merry life and green old age to him-the trump of the field, and leader of the Road!"

I feel myself honored by the approbation of SUSSEX (Number for March, p. 316), and am especially indebted to him for his restatement of my strong points. Let those be practically got over, and I will consent to stable the hunter in that genial, health-inspiring, and restorative season, and, with whatever degree of reluctance, keep him out of hearing of the enticing calls of nature. The arguments of SUSSEX appear

to me, and I think will prove, masters of high weights, and calculated for the B. C. of discussion. In short, I apprehend that, whatever might be the case during the last summer, should the ensuing prove seasonable and grassy, much about a similar majority of grazed hunters will then be found upon the sod. The late actual and practical evidences of SUSSEX are most important.

JOHN LAWRENCE.

P. S. The plan recommended by NIMROD, of a line of gravel on the near side down our steep hills, does him infinite credit, and shews that he has a mind turned to objects of utility. Little credit, however, will be reflected on those road surveyors who neglect so promising and easy an experiment.

readers, at least I can speak for myself; and the generality of your admirers only turn to the monthly index to find out the runs. Fifteen miles in forty minutes without a check:-twenty-five in an hour and a half, up to your horse's knees in ploughed land-four hours with a Berkeley hind, taking three swims across the Thames and five over the Brent-and, wondrous to relate, not a gate opened, nor a deer-hunt stop to catch wind-expecting, and koping also, their own country or district is the primary object of recital-not unaccompanied either with a wistful eye towards their individual feats. The Quorns, the Ansons, the Beauforts, the Hants, the Berkeleys, &c. &c. all eagerly turn the pages over to see what NIMROD says of them, whether anything or nothing-in other words, whether first, second, third, or last.

Still there are a chosen few (and fox-hunters withal) who are true Waltonians, who will smile with pleasure at this novel title, and who can enjoy, like me, (for I am of the same breed,) FISHING in its every character.

"Not sluggards though, who deem it but a foolish chase,

"And marvel men should quit their easy chair

"The marshy way and long long stream

stream in a fine sweep, forming a deep dark hole, over-hung by an old willow, with a sharp current at the edge, surrounded by bullrushes, water lilies, and other lovely weeds, tempting you to crouch upon your knees, fearful of exposure, knowing well a pike's concealment? What exceeds the anxious feeling of popping a wellordered bait on your hook just under the broad leaf of a lily? And what he thinks of a plunge that makes you jump again, and then a run of twenty yards across the river? I know he will out in ecstacy, "The devil take foxhunting" though he don't mean it. Ask him again-but no, I will refer you to another friend, the far-famed Knight of Pangbourne"On noble Thames, in glorious pride," with all its charms and wondersfoaming pools-mazy eddiesrapid currents-solemn depths, and dark deep holes-what is comparable to the skilful power of casting a shining bleak into the vortex of an over-shot?-what his feelings have been with rod in hand of a

cry

you must take an affectionate interest in many, many things. You must love the meanders of a limpid stream: you must love its windings and turnings, the dark green weed, the blooming flowers, the waving reed, the gurgling and bubbling upon the pebbly bottom: you must love to sit upon its banks, and watch its movements, still and ruffled. You must love the insect race, glory in its countless varieties; learn the climate, the sort of day, the very hour even, in which each one will tempt the watchful prey. You must love the whizzing swift, the softly skimming swallow. You must love the sun-shine, the heavy shower, the lowering cloudy day: you must love the evening dew, the flitting shadow upon the azure surface: even more than these, you must love to watch the May-fly, bursting from its chrysaled cell in all its beauties, marking its progress, till, with unerring aim, the quick-eyed trout "up-springs" upon it, opening the water with its spotted head-no sooner born, than gone. You must also, in temper quiet, and persevering patience, learn to guide the pliant rod; with delicacy to throw the line, and promptly strike the willing fish: and, when the quick struggling victim is within your power, to be careful of your strength-coercion won't suffice; the yielding arm alone secures the prize-giving well-earned harvest and rewardmany-speckled beauties spread out on grassy bank, such as neither tongue nor art can paint.

the

These are the delights of troutfishing-not easily attained, and but by few enjoyed. Give me the long-lived day, a well-stored bag with kind wife's care; let me hear the blackbird's warble, the cawing VOL. XX. N. S.-No. 118.

of the rooks, the cooing of the doves, the croak of frogs, the rustling of the waters: let me contemplate the landscape

"The trees on high, the willow-branch below, Mix'd in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow:"

let me bask the day through upon the banks of a trout-stream; and I can relinquish, with perfect ease, all other tastes or inclinations.

In days of yore, such are the scenes I have tasted. An intelligent friend your companion, how delightful are the reflections of these passing hours-never to be mentally impressed, without inspiring a sense of true religion! For who can view such beauties of Nature without a grateful heart, without a humiliating feeling of one's own fallibility, without a just and wondrous sense of their mighty and great Creator!-Now, Sir, I hope you are answered.

In the month of last September I had an excellent day's trolling in Wiltshire-my daughter, an ad. mirable sketcher, my pleasing companion:-she was on the opposite side of the river at the moment of my catching a fine pike of eight pounds. Her pencil already in her hand-the landscape traced-she finished the picture by the figures of myself and friend, both in anxious attitude watching the weighty runs of the fish. The plate speaks more than words, and I hope will be felt by all lovers of such sport. It was by mere accident. I discovered this drawing; when it occured to me that it might not be unworthy your acceptance. It has led to an unintentional discussion upon a subject very near my heart. Indeed, it seems as if I could not resist the pleasure of recalling long past scenes, and happy ones,