vember the sport was excellent. The following is a slight sketch of it:-Tuesday, 19. The hounds met at Pugedown; found in Hagleton brake, and ran into their fox, Derby-pace, in a spinny near Salperton. A second fox was found in a barley-field, near Salperton; but the scent failing, he was given up near Naunton Inn. On the 26th, found in Star Wood; went away over Compton Park, bore to the left towards Compton village, and then straight to Sowden and Cleveley covert. Getting "notice to quit," he again faced the open, crossing the brook near Frog Mile Inn; and after a splendid run of forty-four minutes, killed near Foxcote village. On the 27th, met at Naunton Inn; found in Wynniatt's brake, and, after a good hunting run, lost at Hawling. Dumbleton, also, furnished a good day's sport, as did the Broadway country; in short, there are few packs of hounds in England, if any, that showed more sport during the month of November, than did the above-mentioned pack. I must now give an extract from my sporting journal, which will detail the amusements of the field, during my séjour at the Castle. TUESDAY, Dec. 17, 1844.-We had a capital day's-or, rather, afternoon's shooting, at Butler's-grove and Bushy-grove. Our return of killed was 100 head; six guns, two of whom, I can answer for one, shot infamously. The noble owner, who is a thorough sportsman, disapproves of the modern system of two guns and a loader, and restricts his guests to one "fowling piece," as our ancestors were wont to call their pieces of ordnance. The beaters did their duty admirably; and if the "bag" was not as great as might have been expected, it was to be attributed more to want of skill in some of the Londoners, than to the scarcity of game. I, for one, plead guilty to having fruitlessly expended a considerable quantity of powder and shot, and fully realized the lines of a cockney sportsman, who gave the following poetic account of his own prowess : WEDNESDAY, Dec. 18, 1844.-The hounds met at the Kennels, found in Peddington-brake, and took him, with a very bad catching scent, round the park to Parham-brake, where he waited for us. There were a brace of foxes in the latter cover, one of which went away, while the other went to ground in a strong earth in the bank. Here a very extraordinary circumstance occurred. The fox was stifled in the earth, from the terrier being behind him; and the bitch was so high-couraged that she actually jammed herself so tight in the drain, in endeavouring to get at the fox, that she was literally squeezed to death by the pressure, and both fox and terrier were dug "Cocking snooks," a modern slang phrase, alias "taking a sight," which is accomplished by placing the extremity of the thumb to the end of the nose, and elongating the fingers. out dead. We then drew Fisher's willow-bed, as well as Hill's wood, blank, foxes supposed to be underground. THURSDAY, Dec. 19, 1844.-Met at Hurst's farm, drew Pennylane brake blank, found in Redwood, went away directly; very poor scent-better, however, than that of the previous day-took him up to the Breadstone-brakes, where he waited for us; then had a fine hunting but ringing run over the parishes of Berkeley, Cam, Slimbridge, Stinchcomb, and Coaley; and were finally defeated. FRIDAY, Dec. 20, 1844.-Met at the kennel, drew Cranless willowbed, found immediately, and went away at once. The fox made his first point for Breadstone, went through the coverts, and ran up to the railway, along which he went for a quarter of a mile, crossing, leaving Hengarton to his right, and on to Clinger; from thence to Lerridge-brake, which he left on the right, and then over some fine grass fields in the direction of Stinchcomb-hill; but, being hard pressed, he declined facing the hill, turned, and, recrossing the railway, went to ground in a drain at Lerridge-farm. From the drain he was quickly bolted, and then made his point at once for the cover where he was found, went through it, and on to Breadstone, over nearly the same line as the first ring. Here a long check occurred. The hounds hit off the scent again, and hunted him to Gossington, where he again crossed the railway; but, the scent failing, we lost him. It is impossible to speak in too high terms of the huntsman and whippers-in. Those who have been out in the vale of Berkeley or the Cheltenham country will bear me out in saying that men more conversant with their duty do not exist. Nimrod thus speaks of Harry Ayres, the huntsman; and I cannot do better than give his sentiments, which entirely concur with my own :-"Of Harry Ayres I cannot speak too highly, from all that came under my observation. As a horseman, he is perfect both in seat and hand; and he delighted me by the easy manner in which he took his fences, which, splendidly mounted as he is, must tell greatly in a run where they come so thick as they do in this Berkeley vale, and are strong to boot. As a huntsman, he does credit to his instructor, for such may Lord Fitzhardinge be said to have been, having taken him into his service at twelve years of age. He is quick when quickness is wanted, and patient when that virtue is required." Christopher Atkinson and Jem, the first and second whippers-in, are in every respect worthy of their situations, and do credit to the hunt. Lord Fitzhardinge has fifty-three hunters in condition, and most liberally mounted four of his friends every day during my stay at the castle. The above four, added to his usual complement of eight for himself and his men, made twelve horses in the field. There are few men who, from his youth upwards, have seen more foxes found, hunted, and killed, than the noble owner of Berkeley. He has now been a master of hounds more than thirty-six years, is a thorough good sportsman, and throws his whole heart and soul into the pursuit. Among some of his lordship's first-rate hunters * A train was expected every minute. This makes us exclaim "Hurrah for the road, and down with the rail!" may be mentioned Farmer, Imperial Tom, Pedestrian, Eliza, Pathfinder, Active, and Zenghi, a stallion by Saracen. Vandyke, a cream-colour, five years old, is a most promising looking horse; and Saphadin, a stallion by Saracen, half-brother to Zenghi, whom I rode upon one occasion, promises to be No. 1, letter A, and no mistake. The whole of the stud are in perfect condition; and Smith, the head groom, is a most valuable servant. From his height and personal appearance, he was selected to hold the champion's horse at the coronation of George IV. The Honourable Frederick Berkeley, R.N., whose services in Syria have not in the slightest degree damped his sporting ardour, went, as usual, in the first flight. He has two superior hunters, Prize-money, a grey horse; and Matchless, a brown mare, bred by Lord Ducie. His son Francis, who has just joined the "Blues," takes after his father; as does Lord Ducie's son, a worthy scion of a noble sire. In time they will both prove "good men," or I am very much mistaken. Among the field were James Maxse, Esq., who, among the heavy weights in Leicestershire, was second to none. "Maxse on Cognac❞ has already been immortalized in song. George Wombwell, too, of whom it may be said, "Time has not thinned his flowing locks." was riding as light-heartedly as when, some years ago, we were wont to see him in the uniform of the "Tenth." By the cover-side, or during a check, who so joyous or so full of anecdote as the above. mentioned ex-hussar! In conclusion, I will, with a slight variation, say of Berkeley Castle and its vale what the Irish bard wrote of Avoca : "There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the Berkeley hounds' meet; Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart Ere the 'runs' from that valley shall fade from my heart." A DAY WITH FATHER IZAAK. BY AUGUSTUS GUEST. In the early part of the summer of last year, we shook the dust of the great metropolis from our Hoby's, and ran down in the mail to the snug little rural retreat of a quondam bachelor friend-now, alas! no more with the full intention of devoting our time to the enjoyment of pastoral pleasures, but more particularly that of angling. Of the elegant sport of fly-fishing we avow ourself to be a devoted and enthusiastic admirer; and, albeit we throw not the taper and spider-like fabric, ornamented at the end with its three or four delicate-looking yet treacherous baits, but a few times during the season, yet do we forget the art we have acquired in our youth? Do we exist as if the Thames were the only river in "merrie Englelond," and its Tiber-like waters the only place whereon to throw a fly? Nay, do we not rather revel, mentally, in all the sweets of the fragrant valley? Do we not listen to the happy song of a thousand warblers-the music of the woods-and pluck the perfumed and gay plants from the very bosom of Nature herself? Ay, do we! and more than all, we stand on the bank of the clear and rippling stream, and cast our line into eddies, or drop it into shallows, and catch fish in idea. Nay, so mixed up is it with the purple that courses through our veins, that we e'en dream of landing fish in our sleep. "O laborum dulce lenimen!" be thou ever present to us; give us but the dancing, bubbling stream, the yearμa moraμr, and we are happy! With the reader's permission, we will just look round the house in which we are to be located for two months. Ah! well do we remember that day. 'Twas the beginning of June, and the tempera ture was high; and not a breath of air fanned the leaves. All nature appeared to be basking in the genial warmth of the sun's rays. Even our favourite retriever and constant companion, "Rose," who has something "varmint" about her, became lazy, and turned on her side, with a devil-me-care kind of air. Leaving her to dream about her own lovely black-satin dress, we bent our steps to a little eminence, not far from our friend M→'s hospitium, from which we reconnoitered the surrounding country. Beneath, lay the valley of rich meadow-land, intersected by its watercourses, which were fed by a fine meandering stream, whose clear and limpid waters ran merrily along-now hiding beneath the overhanging branches of the graceful willows which shaded its banks, and anon darting out with increased boldness into the green and fertile meadow. To the right, amidst dense masses of dark foliage, lay the little village-its roofs and chimneys here and there peering out in agreeable relief. A little to the left of the quiet hamlet might be seen, too, the grey, embattled tower of that sacred fane, where lord and serf had worshipped for six hundred years. There it stood, embosomed in the surrounding green, the protector of the dead, and the monitor of the living. Who can contemplate an ancient village church unmoved? What hurried, what complex thoughts crowd upon the mind! Scenes replete with historical interest rise before us, and carry us back into past ages. For a brief space we are identified with those moving events recorded in the annals of our country; and the imagination floats along the tide of time, until it is lost in the remote sea of uncertainty. Not far distant, we behold the mouldering walls of a once strong and formidable castle. Here dwelt Sir John de Monemew, a fierce and warlike knight, who was hung at his own castle-gate for the foul murder of one Adam de Gilbert, an unfortunate priest, who had drawn down his resentment. Where, now, are the strength of his arm and the mightiness of his power? On that spot where the wassail-bowl once circulated to the boisterous jest and merry laugh-where the clanking of armour and the neighing of caparisoned steeds resounded, all is now silent. The scene is changed, and cows depasture on the spot in peace. "Time's the king of men, For he's their parent, and he is their grave, And gives them what he will-not what they crave." Sweeping the eye along the green and luxuriant valley, it rests on a quiet and sequestered hamlet, partly hidden from view by the surrounding hills. This little nook possessed an interest peculiarly its own. In yon ivy-bound church sleeps our earliest friend and playfellow, whose mortal career was stopped in the very bud of youth. Peace to his manes! "Multis ille bonis flebilis occidit; Nulli flebilior, quam tibi, Virgili.” But we must descend from our stand, for we see an old and much valued friend, walking his old black mare over the extensive manor, of which he is both owner and cultivator. Now he stops; no doubt to "rate" those lazy, grass-cutting rascals, who have been leaning on their sythes and talking politics for the last ten minutes. Now he moves again; what a picture for a painter! Who would look on that tall and stalwart form, which, albeit bending slightly under the load of years, gives promise of much strength; and that handsome and sunburnt face, with just enough of wrinkle to give it dignitywho, we ask, would look on these, and then say that eighty winters had spent their fury in whitening that "frosty pow?" Aud the old black mare, too, like her venerable master, is growing grey with age; and her once flexible and well proportioned limbs are now stiff and swollen. But we pray thee, gentle reader, that thou wilt not fix upon our ancient friend the usual attributes of age, albeit time may have seared the "pith and marrow" of his youth! Behold him in the evening, sitting in his high-backed elbow chair, with pipe in mouth, telling some "auld warld" story-hazarding a conjecture on the origin of Stonehenge-disputing with the fervour of an habitual politician on the passing affairs of the country-nay, or even in his merrier moments, trolling his song; and then ask yourself if he be not the very form and type of a true old English gentleman! His jocund laugh, his instructive conversation-aye, and his song, too, have we often enjoyed, and have felt ourselves the happier for his presence. We love a jovial old man! so let us hear thereon the Anacreontic lyre “ Φιλῶ γέροντα τερπνὸν, And, by our halidom, we love thee, too, "right merrie" Anacreon, for thou art e'en as sweet a bard as "e'er our conversation cop'd withal!" But here comes our excellent friend, and not a little astonished does he appear to find our veritable coporeal essence blocking up |