Daventry, blank; then went to a small covert to the left of the road, and in about five minutes there was a challenge; in another they were all at him, and almost immediately Shirley gave one of his halloos, that sent all the cares and griefs of this world to Belzebub. He came out on the right of the covert, and at the same time a vixen went out at the upper end, and about four couple of hounds with the latter, and all the field, excepting two, who had gone to the side with Shirley, and who, consequently, had a good start.

The master of the pack blew his horn, and for a moment Tim was undecided what to do; but seeing he had the main body of the pack, and being quite sure his was the dog fox, he rode on, blowing his horn. The Squire as quick as lightning saw how things were, and, calling to Jack Stevens to stop the four couple, made the best of his way to the body; but though he certainly could not have been more than two minutes hesitating, such was the pace, that for twenty minutes Shirley and the two mentioned were the only men with the hounds. I know not the names of places, but it was not till they checked for a minute near a plantation, through which they hunted him rather slowly, that any could get up. Here Jack Stevens was the first who caught them, and I saw the Squire and about six others riding the upper ground, while they were running in the valley. On they went again, after clearing the plantation, along the bottom, with some very severe fencing; crossed a road, and were running him hard, when a couple of ploughed fields brought them

to their noses: however, they were so close to him, that though it saved his life for a time, they were enabled to hunt him over them, and getting on sound ground again, they ran him up to some gentleman's place into the pleasure grounds, where he was viewed dead beat. He then began running short, and was viewed every instant, and making a last effort to reach a small covert, they caught him crossing a field, after an uncommon good thing of forty minutes. Had it not been for the ploughed land, they must have killed him in twenty-five minutes. There were some very queer fences, and a good many falls. A Captain Young and a Warwickshire man had the best of it with Shirley for the first half hour. I saw the former go at a place in the bottom: most of those who were up made for a gate, but he jumped into the road and over the opposite fence. The next fence was a strong high one, with bad ground-the only practicable place, a bough of a tree was in the way; but he charged it, and though I observed him lean back almost on his horse's loins, it took him on the shoulder and pulled him down: he then took the lead. Shirley rode admirably. He came to a fence

the second or third, I think. It was a ditch with a black thorn hedge, and the ground bad to take off. To clear it was impossible: the only way was to pick a weak place, and charge; he went at it, but his horse would not have it. The man who was with him then tried, but with the same result-a second place was as bad. "By G-d, Sir," says Tim, we must get over somewhere, or we shall never see them

again ;" and cramming both spurs in, he went bang into the middle of it, and succeeded in getting through. His companion followed, and away they sailed. Two or three more fences were taken, and they were going as hard as they could, when Tim, turning towards him with delight in his countenance, exclaimed, "Egad, Sir, they go a merry pace, don't they!" at the same time charging a high rail with a ditch on the other side.

I never saw fellows so delighted as both him and Stevens are when they get a good thing; and they rattle along, certainly the happiest beings in existence for the time. I cannot conceive a greater pleasure in this world, than finding yourself first out of a large field with hounds running hard, and not above one or two men within a field: how you do ride! I have heard of men riding hard to make up ground, but I never ride so well as when leading. The anxiety to keep your place, and the knowledge that the field see what you are doing, make you go at places you would not think of otherwise. How many times have I come to a place, and been in doubt, when the consciousness of having the eyes of a good many on me has sent me at it, though in fear and trembling. The only way in such cases is to "harden your heart," string your nerves, and give him plenty of steel, and you will get over somehow or other.

Talking of the pleasure of being alone with hounds, a friend, who hunts a good deal near some Moors, said to me, "Fencing is capital fun, I grant you; and I like it as well as any man: but now and then in a season there is nothing I delight in so much as

to find myself galloping over an immense wild open, with not a human being or habitation to be seen, nor a sound to be heard except your own horse sobbing as he goes ;" and I can easily conceive the feeling.

But to return to our day's sport. The most extraordinary part of it was, that, just as we had killed our fox, a farmerrode up to say a couple of hounds had run the vixen to ground in a drain about half a mile off, so that both foxes must have been running parallel with each other for the whole time. A whip was sent to bring the hounds away. We then went a long way to a covert in the neighbourhood of Winnick, where we found instanter, close to the covert. The fox slipped away at the bottom, but a countryman espied him, and taking off his hat quietly, gave us notice, and in a second Stevens came dashing through the gorse, his horse springing like a buck over the prickles, to the spot, blowing his horn. The hounds were with him directly, and away we went across the valley up the opposite slope; thence on towards Winnick House, leaving it to the left, into the Crick country, the best in England, and were running hard, when a farmer, who had viewed, told us it was a vixen, and the hounds fortunately checking just after, they were stopped, and her life saved, as she was only just before them.

And now, ONEOFUS, adieu! the season is at an end. My thoughts are upon a Yatch, and perhaps I may visit your neighbourhood, when I shall be most happy to shake you by the hand, and talk over olden times. Commend me to all our friends, and believe me, yours, MILES.

SIR,

SEEING

EEING in one of your late Numbers a most interesting account of "the two last days of black game shooting," reminds me forcibly that the season for most animating sports is now drawing to a close; but ere they mingle with the stream of times gone past, I will give one "lingering longing look behind," and then hasten to the sportsman's only remaining consolation. Black game shooting, with "all appliances and means to boot,' so ably described in the aforesaid Number, that I will not venture to take the field after your able Correspondent, for not a feather re

mains.

was

It certainly is a long time back, but on looking over my game list, and the remarks that I made during the grouse season, I should say it was one of the most, unpropitious that has been for many years, the broods being both scarce and small-indeed many were not presentable for the fair sportsman. Then came the longlooked-forSeptember, thatbrought with it, not "death and destruction" to the birds, but to our hopes, also! and I fear, owing to the present system of Game Laws, the next season will not revive them. On that I could "spin a long yarn,” but I will not at present occupy your pages with a subject already so hackney'd.

The breed of pheasants, however, certainly was good, the nides being strong and numerous and as they are now pretty well established in almost every part of Great Britain, it is to be hoped they will not again decline,

although the prevalence of cock shooting is much against their increase, particularly in Wales. Of the last-mentioned delicious bird we have had a fair sprinkling; and even now there are some still remaining.

The hunting season never was known to be more favorable, and the sport has been beyond precedent, even from the beagles, collected together by the rough horn from their several homes, to the more patrician and well-appointed packs that keep the Meltonians hard at it. Some of the runs this season have been in length like the old stories of our ancestors, and true ones too, who used to find a fox at early dawn, and kill him towards the afternoon, going at a certain pace all the while, and for an excellent and obvious reason

......

because nei

we hear of runs this season of 15, 18, and 20 miles straight an end, at the tip-top pace," that which kills," we must exclaim as Dominic Sampson, Prodigious!

Well, Mr. Editor, all these sports are nearly at a finish. The thundering tube of destruction, or in plainer language the gun, is laid by for a time. Setters, pointers, and spaniels are either shot for being old, or quietly take their repose for another season. Hunters are either turned out, or loose-boxed; and what is the man who lives in the country to do? Those who love angling, and " do business in great waters," will exclaim, "what! nothing to do! when fishing, the most delightful of all sports, is now coming on!" Those who do not love it, let them spend a couple of sovereigns at any of the fraternity in Crooked Lane, and "to it forthwith."

There are certainly more grades in fishing than perhaps any other sport in the world—aye, there is as much difference between the punt-fisher in the Thames, whose wonderful stock of patience is measured and eked out by the diminution of his magots nicely put up in a tin box of bran, and the artist who knows when, where, and how to catch a dish of speckled trout by his superior skill, with flies of his own manufacture, and perseverance, but not patience, that would do honour to a better cause: as much, nay even more than an Osbaldeston or Ross riding a thoroughbred 'un (pretty fit to go) up to a pack of the right sort in Leicestershire, and the veriest cockney living at Paddington, who occasionally mounts his orse to take a view of the hounds near Croydon, or partakes of a little

diversion at the commencement of the partridge season near Tottenham or Edmonton.

I am a complete enthusiast in all sports; but I think there are few more delightful sensations than those created by the influence of a fine Spring morning, when you see the trout leaping in all directions-already fancying you have them safe in your basket. Now your hands cannot move quick enough to adjust your reel line properly; and even when with nervous haste you have put all in readiness, you cast your well-imitated fly gently over some likely stream, with what eagerness you watch the timid prey make a dart at the treacherous insect! with what disappointment you see him turn sulkily away! or perhaps, by so dexterous a movement, you succeed in striking him, how cautiously with 10d bent almost double do you baffle his ineffectual struggles to escape, and haul him with tender but tight hand within the verge of your landing net! To me this excitement is the most pleasurable of all sports, always excepting fox-hunting-the seeing and hearing of a fox found well being the sine qua non of sports. Who that has ever fished in Wales can be insensible to the additional charm which the contemplation of its lovely scenery raises in the mind! the rivers winding through valleys rich in their native loveliness, broken into a thousand sparkling falls, by rocks here piled in simple grandeur, and there lying scattered in picturesque negligence, as if they had been cast about in sport by the Titans of old. Even now so early in the season their banks resound with songs of birds, and exhale a thousand

perfumes from the flowers which recal those sensations of Spring so dear to every heart.

It was remarked by a great Statesman, that were he allowed only two books in his retirement, Izaak Walton would have been one of those he would have chosen. Who, indeed, can read his descriptions of the scenery on our more Southern rivers, uninteresting as it is in itself, without wishing to become his companion!

Fishing in many parts of England, although I grant (owing to the numerous preserves) larger trout are to be caught, I think is inferior to the wildness of Wales. The one may be compared to preserved or pheasant shooting,

and the other to cock or wild shooting; and the pleasure of each is doubly enhanced by the difficulties and skill required in filling the bag or basket. As I previously mentioned, there are many grades of fishing, and nothing can partake more of monotony and want of interest than the generality of bottom fishing, particularly from punts, where roach and dace are the only attainable prize, which are but coarsish food after all: but the extreme fondness for even this amusement needs no further remark.

I have fished in some of the lakes, and most of the principal rivers in South Wales, particularly the Usk, the Wye, and the Tivy. The finished artist would give the preference to the first; the salmon fisher would not be disappointed in the second; and all who throw the long line would find amusement in the last. should say the Usk trout were best and soonest in season, but

I

by far the most difficult to catch, and it is only the real fisherman that can get hold of the big 'uns.

Brecon contains more good fishermen than any town of its size in South Wales. One great inducement to the lower class is the good price and ready sale they always obtain for their industry. I used frequently to meet, in my piscatorial wanderings on the Usk, two brothers living at Brecon, who gained during the summer months a pretty pretty considerable livelihood by their perseverance and skill, and well did they deserve it. Wading up to their middle for hours together in all weathers, early and late, they seldom failed to fill their baskets; and, take them all in all, they were by far the best it has ever been my lot to witness. The Wye trout are bad to the taste, and cut quite white; but there is good salmon fishing to be obtained near Backwood Castle. wood Castle. But it is at the Tivy where the amateur can meet with the greatest general success; and the higher up, or the nearer the source, the better conditioned and larger are the trout to be found. To give you a description of the flies that are said to be good only on these three rivers would swell my present letter to a most immoderate length. I shall, therefore, at present conclude, promising to give you a list in my next of the flies that I have generally found most successful; and a short account of the Tivy pools, which I purpose shortly visiting.

I remain, Mr. Editor, your obedient servant,

March 29, 1832.

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