was thought by many of the cognoscenti to be rather splinty in the near fore-leg; and Castor was more flashy to the eye than the other three. The above four were specially kept for Sir Watkin's use. Railway King. was a remarkably handsome hack, and the grey pony was a rare beauty, but still rather dear, if public suspicion as to his being a roarer was right. Crommaboo, by Harkaway, was a fifteen-two bay, very sound, and good; and it was said that Mr. Pennington was the purchaser. His half-brother, at Mr. Morrell's sale, was bought, it seems, by James Mason for Mr. Fullerton. The two last horses in the sale (Pongo, and a bay gelding, 6 years) remain, we are told, at Wynnstay; and Sir Watkin has, moreover, some very fine new young horses, one of them, a four-year-old, promising to be a second Cassio. The subscription to the above hounds for next season is about £1,800, in addition to Sir Watkin's £1,000. We are delighted to hear that Mr. Morrell has filled up several of the old Berkshire walks, and intends to have a hound-show next year, before passing on the puppies to the Vale of White Horse. The old Berkshire numbers have been filled up by some drafts from Lord Southampton's. There have been considerable changes among the huntsmen and whips. George Turner, now that the Earl of Portsmouth's establishment is broken up, goes with 20 couples of his old favourites to the Blackmore Vale, as successor to Dinnicombe. George Beers, Jun., the huntsman to the West Kent, died about a month since, and Boothroyd had the offer of the place. He, however, declined it, and he goes to Lord Doneraile's. John Dale, now with the Old Berkshire, is succeeded, at the Surrey Union, by Philip Tocock, late first whip to Lord Yarborough, who is whipped into by James Maiden, late first whip to the North Warwickshire. His father was first whip here for three seasons, under Kit Atkinson, some thirty-five years since. Crouch, the old feeder of that day, is alive, but nearly bent double with age, in Leatherhead. Sam Bacon, late first whip to The Quorn, is kennel huntsman and first whip to the Albrighton. Will Walker, first whip to the Duke of Beaufort, is, we regret to hear, very unwell, and Clark has been obliged to get a substitute pro tem. Will Boulton and Tom Day, who were first whips to the Cottesmore and South Berkshire in 1856-57, but not in commission last year, are now first and second whips at Brocklesby. John Jones is no longer huntsman to Lord Henry Bentinck, but is succeeded, as field huntsman, by the late first whip, Tom Powell, who is whipped into by Harry Sebright, late first whip to the Duke of Cleveland. Harry Sebright is succeeded at Raby by Tom Morgan, from Mr. Tailby's; and Henry Nason, the Linlithgow and Stirlingshire huntsman, goes in that capacity to the H. H. Dick Burton has left his Quorn home, and is now Lord Henry's kennel huntsman ; but the second whip there is not appointed. His predecessor goes to be under Barwick, at Mr. Arkwright's; and John Jones has gone to hunt a park in Scotland, the place he held before his Old Berkshire engagement, and taking Stacey with him. His son leaves the Kilkenny for the Meath. Mr. Theobald has abandoned his idea of hunting the Craven country; and hence, as Mr. Squeers has it, "an eligible opportunity offers."

A DAY'S FISHING ON THE THAMES.

FRIDAY, P.M., LONDON, '57.—And here I have been for the last, I don't know how many days, writing to Editor of this and that, and Publisher of the one and the other, and Proprietors of everything and anything, and taxing my fingers, eyes, back, brains, &c., &c., &c., till I am weary of, sick of, and in a passion with, all Editors, Publishers, and Proprietors (except you, sir-my old, long-standing friend the Sporting Magazine), at the dilatory replies to my communications; and astonished at the vast accumulation, on my library table, of M.S. about ornithology, conchology, alieuticosology, meteorology, and all other "ologies"-Botanyology and all others included. What a pity it is that those Editors, Publishers, and Proprietors will not feel some compassion upon us poor writers, or scribblers! Would that they would for one moment reflect on what they themselves, for the most part, have been-expectants, hopers of success or profit! Would that they would conceive the idea that every one, who takes the trouble (no matter the ultimate object) to put in pen and ink his lucubrations, suffers great hourly, nay, momently anxiety, to hear whether he shall " appear in print," or be a "rejected addresser!" or would that they would reflect for a moment that a man's hope of poor, bare existence on his literary exertions for his and his family's daily bread (thanks to God, I devoutly say, not my position), may hang on one day's, or "one post's" reply to his "communication!" Aye, then their conscience would strike them, and with themselves they would commune, " Well, I may as well put this poor d-1 out of his misery and anxiety at once, and say "yes "no." And then that ungentlemanlike practice of not answering at all, it ! But, whoa! I am in a savage, excited, heated state; I'll cool myself, in country air. Hang the pen. Aye, there's my rod I'll go out "a fishing.'

:

or

Out fishing! Yes, what a relief, after labour of mind-what a comfort to go out fishing, and "out of Town!" How it raises, soothes, and renovates spirits, mind, and body! So, tackle all ready in a trice, off I start by "buss to the train, Sou'-Western; and about 4 p.m., it safely drops me at that pretty, secluded, rural Thamesian village, Datchet. A few yards walked me to "mine inn," the snug, homely, "Morning Star," which owns the good old, industrious dame, Mrs. Brightwell, as its landlady.

Having secured beds, for I expected the next train would bring friend G-to fish with me, I sauntered about 100 yards, and sat me down on the river's edge, by side of the boatman's house.

"What! all the punts out?" I inquired.

"Yes, for the night. This one is engaged to take a gentleman out; all is ready," said the pretty obliging fisherman's daughter, returning

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in her skiff, after ferrying a friend over to the opposite shore. "Yes, I'll engage father will let you have two punts to-morrow. No, sir; no baits are to be had, except a dozen or so of worms, some gentles and greaves. The weather is so dry, that worms for ground-bait are not to be had for love or money. No, sir, barbel are not on feed; nothing has been done in fishing; water too bright, and yet so foul."

And

Well, well, I came out for pure air, and love to sit now and then in perfect idleness watching a float which will not bob from bite of fish, or watching the finny tribe, or watching for as much as I can observe of what so mysteriously goes on in the great depths of the waters. then I sat apart, contemplating how foul the Thames, even here!—how foul it must be at London !-and yet we mortal Londoners are perforce doomed to drink it in some shape! Bah! Halloa, was that a rise? No, it is only the dip of the darting swallow. Nothing stirring save the flock of geese grubbing on the opposite shallow, and the goose on this side, who was watching them.

The hour almost past, and off to the station. Down comes the train, but among its outpourings there is no fishing friend G. So I retire to mine inn, to enjoy (?)-swallow, because alone-the prepared-toorder, ham and eggs, and my pint of, oh, such Windsor ale! Anon, I walked me off towards the birth-place of the ale, and in ten minutes exactly reached the centre of the elegant Victoria Bridge, just twothirds of a mile. Night had commenced to throw her shadowy mantle on the water, and at my usual four-mile-an-hour speed I returned; checked for a moment by a modest petition from a respectably dressed man, accompanied by a boy, for "a trifle, I am weary and hungry." I passed, but turned; called him back, and gave him-a penny! He was thankful even for that. But I thought, as I walked on-I hate promiscuous charity!-"That man's respectable, tho' distressed. What's the use of one penny? To have given at all, it should have been 6d. or a ls." and I blamed my niggardliness.

The ginger-beer cart stood at the "Morning Star." My providentfor-to-morrow eye lighted on the wild rabbits which hung on its rail. "Ohoa! Mrs. B., capital pie for to-morrow ;" and in they were marched for the purpose-1s. 6d. per couple, to my hearing; how much discount I did not hear. Well, these innkeepers must make profit, to live and pay licence and the hundred etcæteras. The inn had not harboured a lodger all the week!

And now an easy-chair in the parlour held me in its arms, and my brains danced to and fro, under the soothing influence of a tolerably rolled Havanna, I was going to say, but perhaps it was an English cabbage leaf. My cogitations were soon interrupted by the entrance of three voices into the adjoining tap-room, evidently not the worse from sobriety. How horribly grating to ears polite is that low fashion of swearing constantly! I should mention that there had recently been discovered a robbery of four sacks of barley, and a high and spirited reward was offered for the felon. My adjoining pleasant neighbours conversed in low terms at first, but gradually louder tones told me they talked about the robbery; and then, "Those b-dy detectives -"b-dy police "-"I'd smash a dozen of those b-dy blue-coats." Their sentences were curt enough; but to every noun the accompanying epithet was attached, two or three b-dy's to every

sentence. I bethought me of Macbeth: "This my hand will the multitudinous seas incarnardine, making the green, one red ;" and of Alma, Balaclava, Inkermann, Sebastopol, and Indian massacres. But

"in vino veritas "When the wine is in, truth will out"-thought I; "what's the cause of all this hatred towards the police? Did they fear for themselves or their friends? Honest men support justice, and I concluded, "Go to, go to; you have known what you should not." I did not overhear anything positively criminating them. And now the village policeman came to the door, civilly warning the landlady," Ten o'clock, time to close;" and these three pot-valliant fellows, each able to swallow a dozen policemen ! slunk off, at the sound of that voice, like curs with tails between their legs.

call in so.

"Did you hear them?" said Mrs. B.; "The policeman don't often They are on a scent for the barley, for sure." I thought so too.

And now the scout entered: "Last train is in, but no Mr. G—— ;” but no sooner were his words uttered than we heard G's voice; and he and another fishing friend, R, stood before me.

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Greeting over, I gave them the cue, no large worms," and off they started-perhaps, also, for a small spree: they were too old to rob_orchards of course! I put in my "night cap and went to bed. Just thought, "How pleasant to tumble on a downy bed and pillow in the country, and in pure air!" and I fancy I must have fallen asleep.

We were all engaged to have been up at 4 a.m.; but so great was our anxiety about fishing, and so vivid our dreams of success, that we woke at-6 a.m. ! No! no! On my brains upwards of fifty summers have poured their rays of sun- and a few rather hot tropical ones and have rather cooled those nervous excitements; and though the years conjoined of my two companions did not equal mine, we were all three cool old anglers, acting on the proverb, "Blessed is he who expecteth nothing; for he shall not be disappointed." So we went steadily to work, making sure that, the state of things considered, we had little to hope for in fishing; but determined to do our best with patience, and at least to enjoy ourselves at the feast of pure country air and relaxation.

All being in readiness-(Oh! yes! all, EXCEPT the all-important groundbait lob worms)-off G-, an admirable and experienced amateur punter, shoved the punt; and down stream we glided past the graceful "Albert" iron bridge. We could not float down the narrow creek on the left bank, as the water was too shallow; so G-, the skilled in punting, shoved us down for the "Bucks," and with great dexterity safely poled us through the outermost interspace: fifty yards of strong current wafted us safely to below the Weir. By gentle coaxing degrees of persuasion, he at length "brought up the punt" at about the Weir's centre, where (the flood gates being closed) the stream was moderate, and we were planted stem and stern at right angles with the Weir, two or three yards lower than its treacherous boarding extends, with a current flowing under the punt at a right angle with it. A most excellent swim, and, of all others, one the most likely and best adapted for "sport."

R- - and I set to work, after throwing in a little greaves. G--had left his reel at our inn, and would return for it in the boat which was to

bring down our breakfast. R-- and I tried tripping fishing without floats, first with worm and then with greaves. One of us got a nibble, and the little fish played with my worm and destroyed its beauty. Cunning, merry little dogs! they would not come nigh enough to the hook's point! R-sat humming a tune, and I sat thinking of "nothing at all," like the "Jolly young waterman.' "Give them another handful of greaves, R-; I wish we had some worms."

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"Call them wums ?" said R--. "Don't you remember the old joke which was imported into America, and flourished off as its own native? No? Bill meets Tom at the waterside. What are you doing?' 'Nuin.' 'What's the stick for?' Tom looked as though he had a quid in his mouth, and turned it in order to speak more plainly, and replied, 'Fiffin.' 'What's fiffin?' Another turn of the quid: 'Fishing.' 'Why, what are you chewing?' Nuin!' What have you got in your mouth?' 'Wums.' And he drew from his mouth a handful of worms he was cleansing by this process!"

"Oh! oh oh! aha! haha! aha! Too bad!" "Oh! that's nothing."

"Do you remember the days," said I, "when bullocks' brains were spat into the water by knowing anglers as enticing ground bait? You are not over-squeamish, I hope; so I will give you an out-heroder which shall whet your appetite for breakfast. He was a funny fellow; but this I had from Sir A. C-'s own lips nineteen years ago. I drove down' he said, ' to Thames Ditton one fine fishing morning, and embarked in my punt, when, much to my chagrin, I found my favourite pitch pre-occupied by a bungling fellow. I waited some time cogitating revenge, and the restoration of my rights; and at last placed myself in contemplation alongside of his punt.' 'Ah! doctor, how d'ye do, sir,' said the boatman. Good morning,' said I to the angler, I hope they are biting well: any sport? No? Try some of my brains: they are quite fresh.' With thanks he took a mouthful, and in the usual way distributed them in the stream before him, and then another mouthful and another. The fish began to bite, and in exultation he caught a few.' 'Ah!' said I, I told you they were fresh; a patient died at the hospital last night, and I had to open his head this morning, and thought his brains would make capital bait, so I put them in my carriage. I am glad they will yield you sport.' What!' says he, have I been chewing human brains? Oh! boatman, take me ashore; I feel so queer.' Egad, he looked so; and before he got to shore I saw he was so. Never mind, it will clear his stomach for his breakfast. I got my favourite swim. But, bless your soul, how powerfully does imagination act! they were only bullocks' brains after all.'

Another roaring. 66 Oh! Oh! Aha! Haha! Give us a thimbleful of whiskey that story is too good. Hope they won't send us nothing but fried brains for breakfast. Halloa! R, something at your line: only a bleak!"

"What is it," I asked G-, "that has taken away the fish's appetite? True, there's an east wind; but it is not cold, and it gives its superficial curl to the waters. The sun is still veiled by a haze, and is not too bright or too hot. The river is not too low, or so very clear as to allow us to see quite to the bottom of this nine feet of water; the