shooting, and fly-fishing; and the unapproachable excellence which English gentlemen have attained in field sports renders them at the same time the envy, as well as admiration, of foreign nations. Whoever heard of a Frenchman traversing some hundreds of miles of a strange and all but desolate country, to catch a salmon? or riding an Osbaldiston match? or walking a thousand miles in as many hours à la Barclay? or going into training to row for a wager in a given time? Such feats are only performed by the hardy sons of perfide Albion; and it is only when our continental neighbours can rival us in our national pastimes that we shall have to look to our laurels. We have just been interrupted-and most pleasantly too-by a friend of Mr. Brettle's, who has borne us the gratifying intelligence that we may shortly have the pleasure of seeing, and being introduced to, the Norwegian travelier. This is a treat we had not anticipated so immediately. We can promise the reader that he shall benefit by our acquaintance; for it has been hinted that a store of sound practical information touching the resources of Norway, its woods, forests, and rivers, will be at our disposal; and we shall not be slow in availing ourselves of the treasure. We have already stated, on the ipse dixit of Mr. Jones, that Mr. Brettle is a sportsman at heart. This, we can undertake to say, will be proved beyond the possibility of doubt, to the reader's edification as well as satisfaction, before he is much older: in short, we have a treat in store for him; and we are not a little proud at having it in our power to be the organ of communication. Mr. Brettle returns to the Namsen again this year, although his sport in '46 fell very far short of that which he met with on the Alten in '45. We shall learn the reason for this determination in the course of a few days. As a proof that Mr. Brettle means mischief during the approaching season, he has erected a log-house on the banks of the Namsen, close to his favourite stands; for he experienced no little inconvenience during his former visits in having to walk a distance of three miles and back every day. This objection, as well as some others of a local nature, has been remedied; and we are told-for as yet we can speak but from hearsay-that he expects some unprecedented sport this year. We shall have occasion in a future number to recur to this subject to Norway, and to the journey in detail, and the expenses attendant upon it. About three weeks will be occupied from the time of starting before the voyageur will reach Alten copper-works, or the Namsen of this, however, more hereafter.

The above notes, quoted at random, have merely been given by way of preface to a succinct as well as explanatory narrative, which it is intended to submit for the information of the Piscator, who may feel disposed to visit this region. We may also state in confidence that Mr. Brettle, as a deer-stalker, stands pre-eminent; and we propose in the next number of " Maga" to devote a chapter to an adventure connected with this exciting sport.

We will only say in conclusion, that no less than nine red deer were killed in one day, and—but the reader shall know all about it next month.

T.

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Nearly two months ago I concluded that your appetite for information was fully satisfied at all events, I gave you credit for turning your mind to some seasonable occupation-fishing, cricket, or even the cultivation of tulips and dahlias: but no! your perseverance in the pursuit of knowledge is beyond all comparison. The British public itself, gullible as it is, is not more exigeant than you; and if I were writing for that many-headed [monster, I suppose I should get about the same amount of thanks that I do from you. With my horses turned up or out, as the case may be; all my hothouse plants in the open; and myself in white ducks and a shooting-jacket, you ask for some more news on the subject of hunting, with as much effrontery as if a cricket-bat were a hunting-whip, or your water-whipping parson a master of hounds.

Independently of all other considerations, you ought to remember that I am not a Frenchman; and that letter-writing is not our forte. Every one knows-and so ought you that until lately we have had no really good letter-writing in this country. France carried "epistolary literature" by a coup de main. Horace Walpole, Lord Chesterfield, and Lady Mary Wortley Montagu were brilliant exceptions. I think you at least ought to add me to the list. With my choice of subject, I would run a tilt at any Frenchman in the world; though I am not ashamed to admit that you might have a better English correspondent.

By the end of March or beginning of April the Pytchley, Lord Southampton, and indeed, every pack of hounds in this neighbourhood, had retired to the woodlands: but as I believe your happiness for half an hour is involved in a letter from me, I do not mind admitting that I went into Leicestershire, for one day, in the beginning of April. It might have been the first, as far as the result was concerned, though I think it was hardly so early. Be that as it may, I had an object in view-an object that would have roused the curiosity of any sportsman within thirty miles of the meet. Sir Richard Sutton had just taken possession of the Quorn Country; and his first day was to be at Shearsby. Now I never go from home: I love hunting, and I get it with Mr. Payne. I have been in Leicestershire, it is true; but I am not a bird of passage, and when I made up my mind to go to Shearsby, it was to see a new country, a new man (though an old sportsman), a new pack of hounds, and a new stud. The expectations formed were and are naturally great. This is one of the blessings of a great name. Sir Richard enjoys that distinction. That he deserves it, there can be no doubt. I made up my mind to see him; and with the prudence so characteristic of the real sportsman, I—got a mount.

There are many favours you may do a man in this world. You may have a third bottle with him, when you don't want it. You may continue to smoke for company's sake, when you feel a "leetle unwell." You may canvass for him at an election. You may stand godfather to his child. You may lend him a hundred or two. But of all the favours to be received in this world, commend me to the man who gives you a mount. He pays you the most flattering compliment that can be paid: he trusts you for the day with so much hard cash (and that's the least part of it, for he probably values his horse more than his money); and he does so at the worst possible security, and knowing that it is to be placed out at a risk; whilst he flatters your vanity by doing to you what he would not do for five men of his whole acquaintance; he gives you the highest proof of his belief in your competency. Such a very flattering compliment did I receive when I reached the sporting

little town of Lutterworth.

You don't know Lutterworth: it's worth the trouble of making acquaintance: I should think one of the very best sporting localities in England. The Pytchley, the Quorn, the Atherstone, are great inducements to a winter's sojourn. The Warwickshire and Lord Southampton are not very wide. A small town and a very good inn-the Denbigh Arms; first-rate stabling, and the most smiling of landladies. Misterton, one mile distant, is the great house (though a small one), and a Pytchley meet-generally taken by a sportsman. I can conceive nothing more perfect as a bachelor's quarter, from November to April, than the Denbigh Arms, Lutterworth; the brooks and bullfinches of Northamptonshire on one side; the big grass fields and flying fences of Leicestershire on the other with two such sportsmen as Mr. Payne and Sir Richard Sutton to show you the way across the one or the other. Everybody is more or less curious to know what a man does in the way of eating and drinking upon these occasions. It has much to do with the temper-more with the health. A small turbot, a leg of lamb, a sweet omelet, a pint of champagne (Moêt), and a bottle of claret, 1834, if you are alone, and you may retire in disgust as soon after as you please become a "downy" bird. If one hour's sleep is better than none, what must nine be? A cool head and a sensitive hand will assist you greatly across Leicestershire.

I rose with the-no, not with the lark! though at this time of the year it seems natural to say so-but when I rose I found a change in the weather most unexpected. Instead of the dry hard easterly wind, a gentle zephyr was breathing over the chimney-pots of Lutterworth, and a mild rain was watering its streets. I never saw any morning look so like hunting-but last winter was a most uncompromising kill-joyand not to lose the credit of its character before the end of the season, by ten o'clock the wind was back at its old quarter, and a perfect hurricane was the result. On the road to Shearsby tails were flying and teeth were set in the most determined manner-you know how a man grins with an easterly wind in his face whilst a very decided drizzle damped our leathers, and took the polish off our boots (overalls are almost unknown in Northamptonshire). At Shearsby the crowd was not very great and I think punctuality must be a virtue of the new master, for I met the hounds already on the road to Gumley at a few minutes after eleven o'clock. After an unsuccessful draw or two, we found in a beautiful gorse on the side of a hill near Gumley, and

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went away, certainly, with an appearance of running. The first fence in the bottom was a yawner: bound, and the ditch wide and away from you. "Come up, you brute!" I felt I was on a slow one, whatever might be his qualities as a fencer. They proved to be first-rate; but as we crawled up the opposite hill, I saw my chance was out for the day, if there was anything like pace. However, a run was not to be had, though Sir Richard tried his best for it. I regret to say that I envied him as I saw him ride down the hill to his hounds, and across the canal, on such a horse. "There he goes!" said a neighbour, as a man apparently fifty, dressed with due regard to the austerities of the season, in drab cords and knee-caps, passed us. "There goes Sir Richard Sutton! Look at his eye!" and it really is worth looking at. Its fire was worthy the cause he had in hand, and would have been thrown away upon anything less than the destruction of the varmint. But it won't do to-day you can't command the elements; and as he hasn't crossed the canal again, and you can make nothing of him on your side in the meadows, you must give him up, and be off to Bosworth gorse.

By this time the field had grown larger; but I believe most of the habitués of the Quorn were gone from the neighbourhood. There were some left:-Sir Edmond Hartopp, Mr. Crauford, and, I think, Mr. Gilmore; Mr. Green, of Rolleston, was himself out; Lord Maynard, and Lords Henley and Bateman, from the Pytchley, with many others. There was, at all events, a field-a mixed one certainly-shootingjackets and trousers, broad-skirted coats and cords, and a preponderance of stout gentlemen with very polished hats, and broad bands round them. Some from Leamington too, with their horses waiting at Rugby to go back by the train. Altogether it made a very respectable show by the time we reached Bosworth gorse. The servants, four in number, were most magnificently mounted, and turned out in every respect in first-rate style. Of Sir Richard himself I have already said. a word. His appearance is that of a perfect sportsman, in the best sense of the word; a close and forward seat near to his horse's withers ; his hands low and delicate in feeling his horse's mouth (at least, they look so); and with plenty of nerve for any country, and, I should suppose, for any pace. His hounds are beautifully under command-what a trainer once called "eyeable," something different and more extensive in its signification than "handsome," and as far as could be judged by this unsatisfactory day, packing most admirably.

We found a fox in Bosworth gorse-a matter of course, as I understand; but the hurricane continuing, running him was out of the question. The master, who was hunting the hounds himself, did make a fight of it; and the greater part of the field appeared to be engaged in keeping their hats on their heads, or getting them from behind their backs, where they dangled independently through the greater part of the run. It ended, however, in our giving up our fox and our amusement not very far from Sulby and Welford.

When a country receives a new master of hounds, there are so many considerations which force themselves upon the attention, that one is puzzled to select the most interesting for discussion. In the present case there is this to be at least remembered: that the character of Sir Richard Sutton as a sportsman, in the fullest sense of the word, stands so high, so far above all minor criticism, that it will require many untoward circumstances to shake our faith in him. May next season, and

the new master of the Quorn, only equal the last few winters in sport, and their late master in his anxiety and competency to give it, is a wish that can scarcely be declined as a compliment, even by so accomplished a sportsman and gentleman as Sir Richard Sutton. Meantime you like generalizing: so do I, my dear; it's quite as amusing as personality, and not half so dangerous.

Lord Widdicombe, Sir Grindall Hardup, Colonel Charger, the Hon. Frederic Makeshift have all of them fashion, or money, or tick, or something equivalent to it, which takes them at the beginning of winter to the neat little town of Milstone, in the centre of the Flybynight country. Now just fancy yourself one of these gentlemen for a season; and it's no more difficult and far pleasanter than any other stretch of imagination. You have come down with ten good horses to some comfortable quarters in Milstone: you have plenty of money or credit: you don't care very much about seeing hounds at work; but Milstone is the correct thing. The Flybynight hounds and country are the best in England you like riding, whatever may be your opinion of sport; and you rather flatter yourself you don't mean to be beat this season. You're like Widdicombe and the rest of your friends; and being really gentlemen, and intending to pay for your amusement, you don't so much care as long as you get it in your particular way. The Flybynight hounds have this year got a new master. Mr. Squareall is an excellent sportsman, first-rate horseman, of good family, large fortune, your equal in every respect, and he doesn't consider that he has done himself any great honour in taking a country at his own expense; his stud is firstrate; his servants, are numerous and well-appointed, and his intentions to show sport undoubted.

The Thorns is the meet; and being only one quarter of an hour behind time, and finding Squareall already "gone away," leaving you and Hardup to trot after him, your temper gets a little soured: however, with the innate generosity of a gentleman, you admit to yourself that you were in the wrong, and Squareall in the right. Still, if he'd only take your £200 or £300 a-year, he might have given you a few minutes longer and it's very little money for the indulgence. Squareall is perhaps a little irritable, and descending into that vale where one likes to be humoured somewhat: I mean the "vale of years." You've only heard him slang some snob of a retired tradesman from the county town, or some zealous lawyer, who ought to be using an ass's instead of a pig's skin; but he certainly did it in pretty broad language: there is nothing ambiguous in old Squareall's meaning :-Cum proximus ardet Ucalegon-Look out for yourself. Widdicombe got a taste of the squire's tongue from Shuffleton spinney, and his language was very nearly unparliamentary when Colonel Charger's Lanercost colt ran into the middle of the hounds with him. There's a gorse too in the midst of country right away from the kennels, which would suit your horse Slasher to a turn-nothing but grass; a rattling brook, with no run at it, out of the cover; and nothing within miles, in case of a blank. Squareall doesn't think quite so much of it as you do for hunting, though he admits its superiority as a bit of steeple-chasing ground. All these things have made little ruffle in the smooth current of your temper. Widdicombe, Hardup, Charger, and Makeshift are all willing to acknowledge that the squire's a "brick;" but then he's a trifle too "slow."