which appeared to me to know his business, and also to be pretty fit to go. There was, however, I am sorry to add, nothing for him to do. The morning was wild; the foxes bad; and it would be a waste of words and time to give the result.

I must not here depart from my general practice of offering a few remarks upon the hounds and their huntsman. The general character of the Linlithgow pack may, I think, be summed up in a few words. They are not hounds to strike the eye, or exactly perhaps to please the eye of a nice observer of form and points. It is evident, indeed, that in the breeding and the drafting of them, appearances have not been allowed to preponderate much in the scales. There are some coarse hounds among them; nevertheless they are a very business-like looking pack, taken as a whole, and the character they bear is highly creditable to them. It is indeed from character-from report chiefly that I am enabled to speak of their performances; for with the exception of the finish to the first day's run, no circumstances could be more untoward than those under which it was my ill fortune to see them. But the man who wishes to see hounds in perfection, must first ask permission of the heavens.

Of their huntsman, Scott, I am also unable to say much except from general report, which speaks favourably of him. His condition. I thought good; but it is in the kennel that he is considered to shine. As a huntsman he labours under disadvantages-not those of age, for although he has the honourable appellation of " Old Scott," there is nothing against him on that score. But no man of his form can ride forward enough to see hounds in all their work, over any country that I have yet seen, much less over his, which is strongly fenced and deep. If, however as I said of Stephen Goodhall, when he hunted Sir Thomas Mostyn's pack-Scott could hover over his hounds in a balloon, or fly through the air like Pacolet on his wooden horse, no one would doubt the full value of his directing hand. It is hardly fair to pronounce an opinion on the merits of a huntsman, principally from common report; but the frequent mention I heard made of the one I have been speaking of, in part removes this objection. Scott's long experience, and general knowledge of hounds and hunting, make him often quoted in Scotland as authority; and, moreover, he has been the theme of many a good joke. In short-he is what is called a character, as the following anecdotes will show. Being some distance behind his hounds one day when they were running very hard, Mr. Maxwell (the son of his first master, Sir William) passed him, with the hope of being able to catch them. "It wont do, sir," holloas Scott to him; "'tis no use your haggrivating your horse in that manner; if you was on a heagle you would not catch 'em." On another occasion he missed some hounds

after a long run in a wild country, and they were eventually lost. On some one condoling with him upon what most huntsmen would consider rather a serious bereavement, Scott replied with a smile, "Oh-it's nought worth thinking about; it is a poor concarn that can't afford to lose a hound or two*." Here is philosophy for you, reader; "rough clad" if you like; but there is nothing like taking things coolly in this world. As Scott's List, however, only gives a sum total of thirty-five couples of working hounds, the concarn cannot afford many such trifling losses in the year.

ON CARP FISHING.

CARP is a very wary fish, and requires the angler's utmost patience to ensnare. They spawn in June: small carp may be very readily caught, but the large carp are difficult to catch; they seem to avoid both the bait and the net, the latter in a most singular manner, by diving into the mud and letting it pass over them. The biting time of this fish (particularly of large carp) is at day break in the morning. They delight in still water, where there are large flags and weeds with broad leaves. One of the best methods of angling for carp, is to gently drop in a line leaded with a single shot only, which will be sufficient to sink the bait. Do this in the following manner:-let the bait so fall that the shot may rest on one of the edges of the large leaves, whilst the bait hangs in the water under the edge; as the carp bite very gently, by watching the shot it may be easily seen. The best bait is a red worm, with a gentle to cover the point of the hook ;-when you observe the shot drawn from the leaf, give the fish time to swallow his bait. But if you are fishing with paste, green boiled peas, or any soft substance, strike instantly.

Let your tackle be strong, for the carp will afford you good sport. You are enabled to judge of their haunts, when you hear them smack, or suck, as it is often called. Throw in some slices of bread as ground bait, on the over-night; and cast in, whilst angling, some small pieces like peas, if you use paste: the ground-bait alone is sufficient to entice them to the place. Carp exhibit more or less colour, according to their age and the waters they inhabit; those taken from ponds will be greatly benefitted in taste, by being put into river water ten days or a fortnight. Carp feed upon the larvae of insects, worms, spawn, and young shoots of water plants; for which reason it is found beneficial to carp ponds, when the water is low, to sow grass seeds round the edges.

THE OLD ANGLER.

This reminds me of a story I heard of "Robert" somebody, formerly huntsman to the Northumberland hounds. A runaway horse dashed with his rider among the pack-" That's right, sir!" exclaimed Robert, "that's right-ride among em! kill a hound or two! we've plenty mair (more) at home!"

A RIDE.

I LOVE with pliant arm to cleave
The billow, and the crested wave,
As white above, and green below,
Surges on angry surges flow;
And the wild sea-bird hurrying past,
Was borne upon the wilder blast,
While o'er her wings the briny dew
In foam majestically flew.

Or in the noon-tide hour to glide
Upon the smooth and silver tide;
When, still the air, and clear the sky,
Glowed triumphantly on high.
But 'tis a greater joy to me,
As mounted on my courser free,
And borne along triumphantly,
We gallop on o'er vale and plain
Like billows rolling o'er the main.

See his eye with pleasure beaming,
And his long mane widely streaming,
See his glossy coat that vies,
With the brilliance of his eyes;
Mark that neck so proudly curved,
And that chest so strongly nerved;
See those hoofs that lightly sweep
Along the plain or mountain steep,
Spurning the ground o'er which they speed,
Say is he not a gallant steed?
Onward-onward see we fly

Like birds athwart the morning sky,
The turf rolls back beneath his feet,
Scarce is the timid doe more fleet,
Or chamois 'mid the alpine snow
Where summer breezes never blow;

Whose limbs their native air has strengthened,
And flight the hunter's chase has lengthened.

Away-away and on we go

Like arctic deer upon the snow,

Whose head with branching antlers graced

And nerves by northern tempests braced,

Defy alike the winged dart

That trembles-pointing to his heart,

And deep-mouthed dogs that vainly follow
Oe'r ravine and icy hollow;

Onward they go-as on he flies

Though froze the ground and froze the skies;

Unbounded is his savage might,
Alike unbounded is his fight;

So gallops on my noble steed,

For such his strength, and such his speed.

Away we go-ontstrip the wind

And leave the green woods far behind,
But what is that so brightly shining,
'Mid yonder hills its length entwining,
Yet seems an emblem of repose
Upon whose form the day-star glows?
It is a stream-whose silent course,
And current destitute of force,
In peace pursues its silvery way,
And mingles in the ocean bay;
It is a river passing wide
Though gentle is its flowing tide-
I see it plain-we near it fast,
How is the barrier to be past?

With eye-balls starting from his head,
With ears erect and joyful tread,
My horse surveys the stream before,
He views its width from shore to shore;
One mighty bound-one leap-and lo!
Behind us now the waters flow,
Scarce in that mirror as he past
His form reflected there was cast.-
Hast ever seen the swallow wing

Her flight athwart some eddying pool,
Whose rippling waters lightly fling
O'er her their silver dew so cool;
When the sun's last parting beam,

Smiled in the evening's closing eye,
And shed around a brilliant gleam
That told the vesper hour was nigh.

NO. LXIII.-VOL. XI.

Y

So flew my courser o'er that stream
That came and vanished like a dream,
So flew before-so flies he now,
Like arrow from a tartar bow-
But lo!-a wider flood appears,

Its

grassy bank he quickly nears,
He plunges in his deep bay chest
The waves oppose their foamy crest
With ease his sinewy limbs dividing,
See him through the current gliding,
The tide he stems-'tis traversed o'er,
He proudly gains the adverse shore;
Speed on my brave-my beautiful,
For thou wert ever dutiful;

Thy force unvanquished never failed,
Thy dauntless courage never quailed;
Oh may no harder hand than mine
E'er sway that fiery mouth of thine,
Oh may'st thou never learn to feel
The anguish of the armed heel;
And when time shall quench thy fire,
May none presume thy age to tire,
Or urge thy faultering steps along,
With angry goad and gory thong.

But hark away!-my gallant steed
For well I know thy oft-tried speed,
And bark away-o'er flood and dale,
O'er rocky steep and flowery vale;
The shades of night are gathering round
And darken o'er the distant ground.
Oh 'tis glorious to behold,

On the mantle of evening grey,

The crimson fading into gold,

Then mark the bright gold pass away;

When the sun's bright orb descending,
Shows that the hours of toil are ending;

Hark away! my courser fleet,
Soon shalt thou rest thy flying feet,
The goal's in sight-'tis nearly won,
Then shall thy noble task be done.
Such such is life-so fly our years,
Upheld by hope-bedewed with tears,