accompanied by his wife, in a small sledge. His profession or calling was readily discovered at some distance, not only by his high cap of fur and green velvet, but also by the long beard and hair which fell over his shoulders. To my utter astonishment, on perceiving him, not only my sporting companions, but the drivers also, became furious with anger. They cried with one voice, "Our sport is at an end!" For my part I could scarcely conceive how the accidental meeting with a Russian parish-priest could prevent our attacking a bear. But they very soon informed me that it was not only a most unlucky prognostic, but a positive and infallible proof of ill-fortune. So much for superstition ! In old England, many a good parson shows the way over a stiff country. In all similar cases, they observed, it is usual for sportsmen to retrace their steps, or, rather, turn back on the road from whence they came, if so be they cannot make the priest retrace his; which is not seldom the case, in distant provinces, where men of high estate give themselves little trouble as regards their ministers of religion and I fancy in Russia respect for the priest scarcely exceeds that evinced towards the monks in Spain. The same Russian whose superstition leads him neither to kill a cat nor a pigeon, who never passes the house of God (at whatever distance, if in sight) without lifting his hat or crossing himself, who fasts with the most exceeding severity during all the holy periods of the year, nevertheless snaps his fingers at the authority of his priest, and hesitates not to turn him into ridicule. On our parts, at least, we had the courage to pass the aged pastor on the road, and I had the courtesy to salute him; which salute he humbly returned while my companions, on the contrary, did not forget to spit three times over their shoulders-as they informed me, to drive away the ill-luck which the worthy gentleman's presence had entailed on us. Nevertheless they were cruelly punished for their temerity in thus endeavouring to break through the rules which superstition, if nothing else, had laid down. Scarcely had we proceeded fifty yards, when our sledge having encountered a huge stone (probably the only one for miles around (upset and pitched us in the snow. This little incident righted however, conceive my annoyance, on arriving at the village, instead of seeing, as we supposed, our beaters arranged in order of battle and ready for the hunt, to find our guide sitting before his door, with his head on his hands, and a face as long as his leg, who informed us, with groans and sighs, that some rival peasants had already driven the bear which he had marked from his retreat, into another neighbourhood, in order to sell it. "Nos galants y trouvaient double profit à faire In fact, our chance of sport was over we had no choice but that of returning whence we had come. Enraged, disappointed, and deceived, regretting alike our fatigues as our money, during the long journey homewards buried in the sledge and covered with fur (like a bear in his cave), with feelings of disgust I reflected on the uncertainty of human events, and hoped for better luck next time. The existence of the bear which had been so roguishly torn from our hands was reported the following week to an English gentleman, who nad long resided in Russia for the sole purpose of sporting on the larger scale. He was celebrated for his perseverance and courage, and a firstrate shot. Taking a hint from our disappointment, accompanied by a single peasant (who carried his ammunition and a second rifle), he boldly sought the bear's retreat. The animal had been so frequently disturbed in body as in mind, that he was found in a furious rage; and at once giving battle threw himself boldly on his enemy, who forthwith met the attack with two leaden balls. At each shot the bear recoiled for a moment, growling furiously; but, still undaunted, continued his attack. Mr. then sent two other balls through his body; but notwithstanding that he was thus actually riddled by four balls, and that his blood ran in rivulets, he nevertheless continued to show a bold front, and rushed on his enemy, who received him at the end of a long, sharp pike or spear, which, entering his body, broke off like a reed, and it was then only by boldly driving a dagger to the hilt in his heart that Mr. succeeded in killing an animal that appeared to be possessed of nine lives. Exhausted with overwrought powers and excitement, he then fainted himself; remaining insensible for several minutes after this terrible single-handed fight. Nevertheless bear-hunting is a sport from which he derived the truest and most exciting pleasure, even terming it "child's play." No sooner does the spring come, than he leaves the north for the south (Russia for India), to hunt tigers upon an elephant. Unhappily I bave never as yet tasted the real excitement consequent on the destruction of so large and savage an animal as the bear; though I have given sufficient proof that neither distance, fatigue, weather, nor expense has deterred me, whenever an opportunity has offered. It is, however my intention, God sparing my life, to pass another winter in Russia; and then, if necessary, I will visit even Novgorod and Moscow, that I may be enabled to add to my sporting journal the prize in European sporting. (To be continued.) FOX-HUNTING. BY BOB BULLFINCH. Hark to that challenge! 'tis a well-known hound: As each dog answers, and the echoing wood The first whip, on his steady steed is near; And joyful accents, while the pack In dappled colours stream across the park. B B And now the riders at yon loose stone wall That fence is past-another shows its head; They dare the darksome ditch, although Is sharply telling on their fiery soul; But now a "check" we come to, and a rest And loveliest spots the cunning fox His rapid course for distant "earths" has run. But, see the leading hound his tongue has thrown The pack in joy around the dead fox bay, The echoing horn proclaims the stirring news, IRELAND THIRTY YEARS BY ONE OF THE RAKES OF MALLOW. SINCE. "It is only a few years since the state of Ireland was the darkest blot of English statesmanship and the pet sore of hostile irritation. Was there ever such a state of things known since the sun of heaven shone upon the earth? Was there any other country in the world where rags were the normal clothing, potatoes the ordinary food, discord the social relation, and assassination the favourite diversion of the people? Yet with partial exaggeration this might have been said, and was said, of three parts of Ireland; and, without any exaggeration whatever, might have been predicated of the whole of two or three counties in Ireland. Property, forgetful of its duties and defrauded of its rights. Law dormant and cowed before the appalling tyranny of a rude sense of seeming "justice:" the traditionary imaginings of an unreal past fostering dreams of an impossible future. * * ** Such was the condition of Ireland-a burden and almost a curse to the Empire a theme of contumelious triumph to our worst enemies.". Times, March 31, 1856. The truth of every line of the above quotation will be apparent from the following sketch, all the main features of which the writer vouches for, and which must be in the recollection of those who were in Ireland in the year 1823 and five following years. The names of the principal parties and the localities given in Ned Dixon's narrative are true. It is only the names of those enjoying Ned's hospitality that are fictitious-out of the six who formed that party, one only, besides the writer, are now in the land of the living: the others are gone to where the "wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest." “Rain, rain, rain, nothing but rain since I came down here!" was the half-angry exclamation of Captain Melville, as he looked from his bed-room window on the scene before him, which consisted chiefly of bog and mountain enveloped in mist. "How on earth will we pass this day? Shooting is out of the question." Saying which he opened his bed-room door, and stepped into a comfortable parlour in which half-adozen gentlemen were busily engaged in their preparations for a day's shooting, while a tablecloth of snowy whiteness, spread on rather a rough-looking table, contained all the material for a substantial breakfast-kippered salmon, cold beef, toast, tea, coffee, and what astonished the captain's vision as being quite outré (but he made no remark) was a bowl of smoking-hot potatoes. "Good morning, General One-day-that-is-to-be," said the worthy host, Ned Dixon, on the captain making his appearance. "How is your caput this morning? You did go the last half-dozen tumblers of the whisky toddy,' as you call it, rather hard; and do you recollect you wanted to teach me the broad-sword exercise with the poker, saying, that as Fortune favours the brave, all I had to do was to purchase a commission, and if I had the luck to be sent to the Cape of Good Hope amongst the niggers, or even kept at home amongst the natives, plenty of opportunity would be given me for promotion." "I do not recollect a word about it, I assure you!" said Melville; "but I recollect your old servant hinted to me that taking a commission from Captain Rock would be more profitable, and promotion more rapidly follow than remaining in his Majesty's-th Foot; but the poor fellow was under the influences,' as he calls it. His legs were almost useless, unless to carry him at right angles, and his speech was not a bit too clear. But what are we to do this morning? there is not the slightest indication of the rain ceasing." "There I agree with you," said Ned; "for look at Mount Hilary with her nightcap on. Whenever that mountain keeps on that cap of mist, you may be certain that rain will continue; it is an infallible weather-glass-excuse the bull!-but I never yet found that sign of foul weather deceive me. We evidently have no chance this day; however, sit down; here is everything ready for breakfast." And now, while they are enjoying that meal, I must give the reader a short description of all assembled: the where they were located, and the why? Ned Dixon, the host, was a regular snipe-shooting, fox-hunting, steeple-chasing young Irish gentleman, a first-rate sportsman, and one who hated anything but fair sporting as he hated fish on a Friday. There was not a day in the three hundred and sixty-five that Ned was not up to some sort of fun, and he always contrived to have around him a set of choice spirits, even such as he had now assembled. The present addition to his family was the Captain, a friend—or, at all events, an acquaintance-whom he met him in Dublin at a party some six months previous; and finding him to be a "decent sort of a chap for a Saxon," who wished to see Irish life, he gave him "an invite" for three or four weeks' shooting to his box in the mountains. The remainder of the party consisted of Tom Dixon, Ned's brother, his very ditto; Harry Evans, of Potteenville; Dick O'Dell, the attorney (the same class who are now called solicitors), of Lattitat Lodge; and Tom Wrixon, of the Snipe Walk, as his cottage which was situated in the Red Bog, was called. It is almost needless to say that shooting was the aim and intent of the present party, and the where they were, was in one of those low thatched cottages so peculiar to Ireland. It was neatly kept, and was a strange contrast to the generality of dunghillpropped houses of the same description to be met with in the South; situated, as it was, on the side of a hill opposite to Mount Hilary, it commanded a very pretty view, and few sportsmen of the county of Cork, or Cork's neighbour, Limerick, but knew Spudville. The present domicile was kept in order by Ned's foster-father Tim Regan, the master never visiting it until the shooting season. Tim was a character, also, in his own way. Since he first was able to toddle, he was accustomed to take a drain of something every morning; he said his mother weaned him with a salt bone, and since then he never could get over his druth (Anglice, thirst). Hardly a day passed but somehow he contrived to get half, if not whole seas over; and although his master tried every means in his power, nothing could induce Tim to vow against drink. There was no Father Matthew in those days; and as the gentlemen set the example of hard drinking to those beneath them, the lower classes were too apt scholars but to follow the example, and ofttimes improve on it. An anecdote connected with Tim will show his originality, and will be a fair specimen, in persons of his sphere in Ireland, of the strange cunning which combines even with fear, in order to escape from an unpleasant situation. One morning his master, some time after the newspapers were brought into the room, called in Tim, and asked him "whether he had a sister Biddy living in Charleville?" "Then 'tis there she is, sir, God save us!" was the reply. "I suppose," said Mr. Dixon, " 'tis she is the person I read of in this paragraph, who was burned to death from spontaneous combustion ?" *Spud" is a vulgar Irishism for potato. |