I shall not attempt to describe the fall of the bright waters over a bed of shelving rocks, which just pent them up sufficiently at the head of the basin to give their progress through the whole of its depths a visible impetus. I shall not vainly essay to make present to the mind's eye of my reader the deep, clear, sandy bottomed cove, which was worn into the rocks on the right-hand side of the river, nor the dancing stream which leaped and kissed the overhanging alders on the left, nor the island of glittering gravel which about a hundred yards down from the fall divided the river into two streams, and thus enabled the angler to fish every portion of it perfectly.

Nothing mundane is, however, without its alloy. Great as the pleasures, and boundless as are the resources for angling in Canada, it has one very serious drawback-the flies-those volant leeches which surround the fishermen, creep up his trousers, and which, notwithstanding camphorated oil smeared over hands, face, and neck, suck the Waltonian's blood without compunction.

A fly is considered a stupid creature notwithstanding his powers of observation, but our Malbaie mosquitoes were insects of great, sagacity, for they appeared to watch their opportunity to take us at a disadvantage, and when they saw us occupied in playing a fish, they made play too, and had fifty spears in our skins in half a minute. The little invisible sand-flies, too, teased us extremely, and those insidious black wretches, who give no warning, like the honest mosquito-these crawled about our necks and up our sleeves, tracking their way with blood.

Our author is not satisfied with salmon and trout angling with Canadian voyageurs and their boat-songs, or with mosquitoes, black flies, and sandflies, he also introduces the reader to whale fishing off the Seven Islands in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, concerning which he has chat as entertaining and stories as strange to tell as ever enlivened a dull evening of the fraternity over Boswell's Quebec bottled beer in Canadian hut, or over whisky-toddy by Irish river or Scottish loch.

This brings us, with an easy transition, to the fact that there is angling with many more of its agreeable accompaniments and fewer drawbacks than almost anywhere else to be met with in the great metropolitan sewer -the Thames; but, be it understood, above the sewerage, and that, too, thanks to a wholesome conservative principle-which is as good for fish and fowl as it is for man-yearly improving. If any one doubts it, let him take up Mr. Arthur Smith's literary-artistic handbook of the Thames. He will there find Piscator, Venator, and Auceps modernised into Brown, a traveller; Jones, a wealthy party; and Robinson, a man about town, yore anent the who converse anent the Thames as the first party did of river Lea :

Piscator. Nay. Do you know Walton? Jones. I do; rather. There is an hotel at Oatlands adjoining, used by the quality. My family stay there when we are painting our house in Tyburnia. Piscator. It was Walton's Angler that I alluded to.

Jones. We tried him once. His name was Rogerson; he lives by the Ship Inn.

Piscator. It is the book, I mean. You will there find the joys of the angler's life well defined. It is, indeed, a great delight. I know of no pleasure like that which a day's sport affords.

Jones. It is lucky we differ in our tastes. A rise in the share market, I must confess, is my happiness.

Brown. And I, sir, think that waking first in the morning, in a continental

hotel, with a bright tour before you, and arranging your day, with nothing to think about but idle enjoyment, is the perfection of life.

Robinson. Give me a stall at the Opera, out of the draught, or a pit box with one agreeable companion, a full house, and the curtain just rising for "Trovatore" or 66 Fra Diavolo." What is equal to that supreme moment? Piscator. Gadso! would not a seat in a punt on a wet day at the barbel pitch under the second arch of Chertsey-bridge be better? Let us sit down on this soft dry turf, and look at that scene before us. Contemplate it, and tell me if the dingy office of a stockbroker, the salle-à-manger of a foreign hotel, or the best of Mr. Beverley's illustrations for Mr. Gye's management, can equal that! -and its enjoyment entails no risk, or expense, or disappointment.

[They sit down, and think a bit.

Robinson. A cider-cup wouldn't be a bad thing just now. Brown. Or a cool bottle of hock. Piscator. Or a tankard of home-brewed ale, which I do affect more than foreign wine.

Jones. I have some port in my cellars that cost me fourteen guineas a dozen. That's what I call wine. I can give a friend as good a bottle of wine as

Piscator. There! he has caught him, in that punt below-a roach that weighs a pound. See how he flaps upon the surface, and now is gently landed.

Robinson. It is wonderful to see how men can find pleasure in such dull occupation. My friend, young Witsend, has written this lyric of an angler, which is to be sung by Mr. Robson in the new burlesque. I have a copy, and it runs thus:

THE SONG OF THE UNSUCCESSFUL ANGLER.

I cannot tell the reason, it is really very odd,

My tackle is first-rate, and I've a most expensive rod—
Bought at the Silver Trout, the shop that's always selling off,
And yet with all my outlay, I've got nothing but a cough.

I think the fish are altered since old Walton wrote his book,
They shun the simple gentle, and mistrust it "with a hook;"
I think I mayn't be deep enough, in vain I move the quill,
For fish as deeply as I choose, the fish are deeper still.

No Pike I've seen-the only one was that unpleasant wicket,
Where threepence I was forced to pay, and now I've lost the ticket;
Nor yet a single Perch, for which my lucky stars to thank,
Except the perch I've taken on this damp rheumatic bank.
I can't pick up a Chub, though on the lock all day I stick
(They say it is impossible a lock of Chubb to pick);
À Flounder would be welcome, but unfeeling wags remark,
I shall get lots of them to-night, returning in the dark.
Upon that bobbing quill all day I've nothing done but gloat,
Till I've almost become one-as the song says, "I'm a float!"
Come Soles, Brill, Flounders, fresh or salt, however flat ye be,
Be sure you will not fail to find a greater flat in me.

It is not for us to tell of what may be caught in the Thames, where carp, roach, and dace do most abound, what lake-like reaches large pike do still haunt, or to describe the select and picturesque places where barbel take up their abode, or the simpering rapids where trout are yet to be found; nor is it for us to initiate the reader into the mysteries of Paternoster, kill-devil, ground-bait, spoon-bait, and disgorger, still less to hint that when an eel is hooked it is wise to stamp on him with the foot, and holding the line tight with one hand, to cut off his head with the other: our labour of love lies simply in pleasant places-fair Richmond, Twickenham Ait, Coway Stakes, Kingston-bridge, Magna-Charta Island, the Lock House at Pangbourne, Windsor, and so on, up to the first

bridge over the Thames, all prettily engraved in this tempting and cheap little book-places where no end of fresh and invigorating air may be breathed, exquisite scenery enjoyed, many matters seen calculated to awaken the most sluggish curiosity, and even good sport enjoyed, if the wild angler will only take pains-for it is not in the Thames as in streams that are never baited, the fish are every one of them as precociously sharp, wary, and distrustful as any "gamin de Londres"-and, above all, study Arthur Smith, who will tell all about it, from the A B C of the thing in prose and verse to the grand dénoûment of perch in water souchet, fillets of pike en matelote and sauce à la Hollandaise.

Still, angling and other field sports can only be looked upon philosophically as a means to an end. The enjoyment of healthful exercise and the cultivation of knowledge by reading in the great book of Nature, not the mere study of scientific natural history, but that which is much more mind-improving, the contemplation of the ever various and beautiful works of the great Creator. To quote the second series of Buckland's Curiosities of Natural History now before us:

In our leisure moments, when the business of the day is over, we can hardly walk along London streets-and certainly not along the hedge-rows and fields of the country, or the wave-washed shore of the ocean-without finding almost at every step something or other worthy of observation; may be our specimen is, and probably will be, common enough, yet, if it be rightly examined, it will be found to possess great interest, and to have an unwritten history of its own, which it should be our pleasure to interpret.

There is nothing so wearisome, or so destructive to the human mind, as the disease called "Nothing to do:" there is always and everywhere something to be done; there are no two places in this world exactly alike in their products, animal, vegetable, or mineral, and the objects you do not find in one place you will find in another.

If the eyes be instructed and trained to observe what is brought before their gaze, the mind is employed, and the feeling of weariness passes off: one fact follows another; a new observation may be tacked on to an old observation; the result being not only pleasure in discovery, but pleasure in recollecting and recording.

Take, for instance, that most remarkable instance of the Waterloo-bridge murder, where a number of human bones were found cut up, semi-pickled and boiled, put in a bag, and all placed on a jetty of the bridge:

By the kindness of the authorities I was enabled to inspect these bones, more than once, in company with Professor Quekett. The only things that could be predicated from previous observation were that the cuts had been made by a man accustomed to handle a saw; that it was not done by a person who had a knowledge of anatomy-the merest tyro with the scalpel would have gone to work differently; and that somehow a woman and a cat were mixed up with the affair-for Professor Quekett and myself found the long hairs of the former, and the short hairs of the latter, sticking on to the semi-pickled and afterwards boiled bones. There were also interesting conclusions to be drawn from the appearance of the clothes, &c., whereby it was made quite clear how the body was dissected; but it required quite a different series of reasonings to ascertain who committed the murder.

It is well known that after vast labour and much accurate observation, the late Dr. Buckland made the evidence of the former existence of hyænas in England quite complete:

So complete, indeed (his son tells us), that on one occasion, when surrounded

by the actual bones and specimens knocked out of the Kirkdale stalactite by his own hammer, and brought to Oxford by his own hand, and sitting in his professor's chair in his own museum, he appealed to one of the most learned judges in the land, who happened to be present at his lecture.

After having, with his usual forcible and telling eloquence, put his case, to prove not only the former existence of hyænas in England, but even that they were rapacious, ravenous, and murderous cannibals, he turned round to the learned lawyer and said, "And now, what do you think of that, my lord?" "Such facts," replied the judge, "brought as evidence against a man, would be quite sufficient to convict and even hang him."

Magpies can, it is well known, talk; Mr. Buckland says even better than some men:

I was told of a conceited young gentleman who naturally stammered, coming up to the owner of a magpie, who was a working man, and after rattling the bars of the cage with his gold-headed cane, he said, "I say, my man, can y-o-u-r mag-mag-mag-pie_t-t-t-talk?" "Yes," said the man, a precious deal better than you can, or I would wring his neck on the spot."

This reminds us of a parrot story told by Mr. Cornwall Simeon, of a bird of that description, which won a wager by exclaiming, when introduced to the other candidates, "What a lot of parrots!" with an expletive omitted for decency's sake. It is hard to say if some birds do not so far associate certain words with certain actions, as to almost understand what they give utterance to.

The next records a laughable accident, but one which might have proved serious to a philosopher:

Some years before I was born, a large whale was caught at the Nore, and towed up to London-bridge, the lord mayor having claimed it. When it had been at London-bridge some little time, the government sent a notice to say the whale belonged to them. Upon which the lord mayor sent answer, "Well, if the whale belongs to you, I order you to remove it immediately from Londonbridge." The whale was therefore towed down stream again to the Isle of Dogs, below Greenwich. The late Mr. Clift, the energetic and talented assistant of his great master, John Hunter, went down to see it. He found it on the shore, with its huge mouth propped open with poles. In his eagerness to examine the internal parts of the mouth, Mr. Clift stepped inside the mouth, between the lower jaws, where the tongue is situated. This tongue is a huge spongy mass, and being at that time exceedingly soft, from exposure to air, gave way like a bog, at the same time he slipped forwards towards the whale's gullet, nearly as far as he could go. Poor Mr. Clift was in a really dangerous predica ment; he sank lower and lower into the substance of the tongue and gullet, till he nearly disappeared altogether. He was short in stature, and in a few seconds would, doubtless, have lost his life in the horrible oily mass, had not assistance been quickly afforded him. It was with great difficulty that a boat-hook was put in requisition, and the good little man hauled out of the whale's tongue.

Mr. Dunlop's work is one of greater pretensions than any of those the notices of which have preceded it. The author hunts larger and rarer game, and that in more remote and little accessible countries. Elephant and tiger-shooting are imposing things, and even laying that aside, if the stories related are less curious and amusing than those of your quiet, humorous, and intelligent home naturalist, they have the advantage of presenting rare pictures of animal life, and they carry us into wild, little known regions, replete with the deepest interest.

Take the following remarkable generalisation at starting:

There is a great similarity in the kinds of game to be met with at the same

altitudes throughout the entire length of the hills; i. e. from Cashmere to Cachar. The only difference in birds is in the case of the loongee, or argus pheasant, one species only being found in Kumaon, another in Gurhwal, and a third in Kangra; as a general rule, too, the burrul, or wild snow sheep of the Kumaon and Gurlwal snows, gives place to the skene, or ibex, west of the Sutledge, which again gives place to the markhor, or spiral-horned wild goat, and the hangul, or twelvetined stag of Cashmere. I purpose, then, in order to familiarise the reader with the different kinds of Himalayan game, to take a cross section of the Hills, beginning with the slopes at the foot of them in the valley of the Dehra Doon, and passing in review the game of the several ranges to the table-lands of Thibet, beyond the Eternal Snows. Such a cross section embraces one hundred miles of territory in a direct line, but numberless deep descents and ascents, long circuits, and an immense amount of exercise to the pedestrian hunter, which, however, the gloriously inspirating air of those snowy altitudes, enables him thoroughly to enjoy.

This is a promise of great things, and it is honestly and ably fulfilled. If we might be permitted to generalise a little further, we should say that the first region was characterised by its great felines, its elephants and hogs, its stags and deer, its peacocks, fowls, pheasants, partridges, and quails; the second by its chamois, antelopes, stag, deer, and goats, its bears, martens, bright-coloured pheasants, francolins, and woodcocks; and the third by its wild yaks (Bunchowr), wild and snow sheep (Nyan and Burrul), its wild horses (Kyang), its snow leopards, white ounces, snow wolves, snow marmots, blue and white hares, snow pheasants, and snow partridges. Such are the great characteristics of animated nature in Thibet.

Mr. Dunlop, in treating of the sports of the first region, while he expresses his sympathy with Sir James Emerson Tennent's strictures on unnecessary butchery, does not quite coincide with that distinguished writer in his views as to the harmlessness and amiability of elephants. Yet the anecdotes he relates of viciousness on the part of these great quadrupeds are such as might be expected to arise from circumstances rather than from natural disposition.

Fishing in the Doon is described as excellent; and Mr. Dunlop, after noticing a fact known to most travellers in hot countries, that the only way to ensure fish, flesh, and fowl being tender is to cook it directly it is killed, adds, as an important recipe, the system before noticed of gipsy cookery in clay, only he applies it more particularly to porcupine, whose quills and skin come off nicely in the coating, leaving a juicy and edible body below.

When in the Hills, Mr. Dunlop used to wear the Highland kilt, which he says he found very convenient for traversing snow, as bare legs do not hold the wet like pantaloons! We must content ourselves with one little characteristic sketch of the Hill district:

My march from Kyungrung by the plains and nullahs around Tazang to Surkya led me through a country swarming with game. As a spectator stands on the elevated land south of these plains, he sees, to the north, the course of the river Sutledge running from east to west through a table-land which is fourteen thousand feet high, and intersected with ravines. The Himalayas, to the south, seem but an ordinary range of hills, scarcely so elevated in appearance as the range beyond the Sutledge, which bounds the view, and in which to the eastward the peak of Kailas rises conspicuous; there are a few groups of small hills here and there on the plains, and large herds of kyang all over them. The kyang are more asinine than equine in appearance, are of a light red colour, with