like simplicity, or cruising in your yacht round Winterton Point, away from your fellow-men and the world. It is a fine autumnal evening; the sun is gradually setting, and its crimson rays colour the horizon far more enchanting than the most finished touch of Rubens or the best efforts of Reynolds; the beachmen have returned with their excursion parties, as it portends the coming storm; the jetty is filled with the neighbouring squirearchy, their friends and families; and on Sundays Norwich sends its thousands to embrace the sea breeze, and dispel the smoke of its bedizened artificers. The wind freshens from the eastward, and a thousand sail anchor in the roads; the pilot's long-boat rides heavily at the jetty, lashed to the piles at both ends with their stout cables, as the sea breaks over it in derision, almost paralyzing the efforts of these hardy tars. A schooner is seen beating up for the roads ; she has missed stays, and is hugging the Long Sand; in an instant she is on it, and signals of distress are flying; the yawls are manned by the different companies, each trying to outvie the other in feats of nautical skill and daring adventure; they near her just as she is settling down on this interminable shoal, and five men and a boy are rescued. Truly the only one of the numerous exploits we witnessed on this dreary coast; and long, long shall we remember the undisguised valour of the beachmen of Yarmouth.

The Forester! Here he is, sketched right in the heart of his own domain.

"Navarre, for forty years the head gamekeeper of the domain, was his master's right hand, his alter ego. He had never in his whole life been beyond his woods-had never seen the church-steeple of a great town. To him, the dark belt of firs that skirted the horizon was the limit of the world; and when told that the sun never set, and that when it sank behind the mountains, it was only continuing its course, to beam bright in other skies and on other lands, and to ripen other harvests, Navarre smiled, and did not believe a word. Happy Navarre ! what did it signify to him what was done, or what happened behind those hills? He was thin and dry as a match, and tall as a Norwegian spruce, with a face covered with hair; he smoked, and tossed off glass after glass of brandy, like a Dutchman. In addition to these peculiarities, Navarre was lame of the right leg, a boar having one day kindly applied his tusky lancet to his thigh, and gored him seriously, before, hand to hand, he managed to finish him with his hunting-knife."

Many of our readers will, no doubt, recollect Monsieur Crignelle, to whom we had the honour of introducing them some twelve months back. It is from his exciting records of the forest of Le Morvan that we borrow the above "character." It is not every man in these times that has the chance of seeing the wild boar fairly run into; but should he wish to do so, Le Morvan appears about one of the most likely finds he could send on to. Hark to our old acquaintance the officer, de Dragons,

again

"Le Morvan is a country that would delight an Englishman, for it is full of game; here the sportsman may vary his pleasures as fancy dictates. The forest abounds with deer; the plain with rabbits and the timid hare; and in the vineyards, during the merry season of the vintage, the fat red-stockinged and gray-clad partridges are bagged by bushels. Here the sportsman may watch in the open glades the treacherous wild cat and the bounding roebuck; and, should these sports appear too tame, he may, if foot and heart are sound, plunge into the dark recesses of the forest in pursuit of the savage and grisly boar, or the fierce and prowling wolf."

And here once more for a bit of a flourish to finish with

"But Le Morvan is certainly not a country for a petit-maître or a delicate lady to live in; to enjoy yourself there you must have the fire and energy of youth in your veins, a stout heart, the lungs of a mountaineer, and a sinewy frame. You must love a forester's life, the hound, and the rifle; you must be a Gordon Cumming in a small way. To the English invalid, I would recommend the ex-Chancellor's retreat (Cannes); but to him who in the full sense of the term is a sporting man, or a lover of nature, I would say: Go-explore Le Morvan!"

Just by way of a guide to any of our readers who may be inclined to try their hands at a bit of" pig-sticking," as John Company's people call it, we may add that Le Morvan is a district of France in which are included portions of the departments of the Nièvre and the Yonne, having on the west the vineyards of Burgundy, and on the east the mountains of the Nivernois.

over.

LITERATURE.

THE PROPER CONDITION FOR ALL HORSES. Newby, Welbeck-street. For a man who deals in simple matter-of-fact, and confines himself to one especial theme, we have few more prolific writers than Harry HieThis is another of his useful little volumes, in which the title, however comprehensive, is fully acted up to. We have, thus, wellconsidered advice on the proper condition of the race-horse, the hunter, the lady's horse, the hack, the carriage-horse, and the cart-horse. Finedrawn distinctions some of these, perhaps; but the line is generally well made out, and there is no lack of argument to show why even the hack and the lady's horse should be somewhat differently treated. Still condition, as here considered, means something more than the mere process of getting a horse into form; you gather many a hint how to manage him afterwards: "whether a hunter, hack, or racer," as the case may be. All Hieover's works are more particularly addressed to the young sportsman; and this last addition to their number will save the tyro many a sigh and many a shilling in making his first acquaintance with horses and horsemen.

The style of the work has almost all the recommendations of the author's previous productions; and, we may add, some of the same kind of drawback. The elaboration, for instance, with which many a selfevident point or actual truism is insisted on, weakens considerably the

effect of what is really important to be discussed. To make any impression in these days, a man must hit quick and straight.

As usual, the volume is illustrated with two companion, or rather antagonistic plates: "Fit to Go," and "Fit to Show." A horse that is fit to go ought to be fit to show; and certainly, by our author's own account, the show nag is fit for neither one thing nor the other. All his good points are lost, while you find nothing in their place but the flash airs of a dealer's yard. Man or horse never looks better than when he

is really fit to go.

THE STAGE AS IT IS.

BY RAMBLER.

"But so it is, and so it ever will be, that blame has more tongues than praise, and that when a mixed thing is offered, the good is accepted briefly, the evil resisted with all the arguments that can be brought to bear, and with anxious reiterations." MODERN ESSAYIST.

Do not start; I am not about to inflict a long string of tediosities upon you, having for an object that much-discussed, but not even-yet-quitesettled question, the decline of the drama. But I claim five minutes to say a word or two on the "vexed question," the agitation of which could not escape me in my rambles. The question of the press and its privileges has led the way for the discussion of many points affecting the stage as it is. With regard to the journalists' writing nightly orders, it is quite time that such a custom should be abolished, and how it could have been so long tolerated is the idea that at once occurs. Especially strange does it appear when it is considered how abominably in many instances this privilege has been abused. It would not be more outrageous for Mr. Brown, on making the purchase of a saddle, to request the favour of a hack, than for Mr. Green, in handing in an advertisement of his wares, to beg the publisher to grant him an order for the Haymarket. But of all instances of the abuse of the privilege for downright cool commercial dealing with it, I think it is difficult to match that which was once told me ; and mind you, my informant was not so addicted to fibbing but that credence might be attached to his reports without the addendum of an affidavit. It was no less than that the proprietor of a weekly newspaper farmed the theatrical orders for £200 a year. Granting the desirableness of discontinuing the order system, I cannot subscribe to the opinion expressed by some that the press should be on the same terms as the public. If the privilege of entrée were not accorded to the critics they would indirectly have it, as it is notorious that many of them are in the habit of contributing as authors to the stage. Assuredly it would be better to grant the privilege directly rather than indirectly. Independently of this, the day is gone when there is interest enough attached to the stage to warrant the chronicler of its doings to draw upon