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an open part of the Forest, on a very warm day, waiting for some hounds to come up. "There is," said a bye-stander. "And a druggist's shop?" continued Mr. W. Fortunately, for his purpose, there was; so going up to Mr. Foljambe alike ripe for mischief he told him he would ride forward, and prepare two well-spiced tankards, one of which was to contain an ounce of jalap for the sole use of Mr. Wise, who was to follow, with him, in the rear. A few minutes' brought them all to the post. The day, as I said before, was hot; the exercise had been strong; the nauseous taste of the jalap was completely overpowered by the aromatic flower of the nutmeg, and three parts of the contents of the tankard were safely lodged in Mr. Wise's capacious stomach before it was taken from his lips. Strange to say, he was deceived, but nature was not. The effect but here I must stop. No ill consequences were the result, for as Hudibras says,


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"It was an amulet or charm,

That could do neither good nor harm." Mr. Wise took the joke as a wise man ought to have done, and all ended well. He did not, however, accept Mr. Wormwald's invitation to the Star at Southampton, and here I think he was even wiser than his name.

Mr. Wise's language is irresist ably amusing. On being asked one day whether he should go to some place, he answered, "Certain ly, Sir, nolus bolus"-meaning, I suppose, nolens volens. The story of Delenda est Carthago is still better, but it won't bear print.

During my visit to Mr. Nicoll, Mr.Bunce and myself went to meet the Hambledon hounds, about eight

miles from Southampton. Unfortunatelywe had a blank day, so I have nothing to say of the Hambledon hounds; but it gives me much pleasure to state, that an intimate friend of mine-a crack Leicestershire and Northamptonshire man, who has been spending some time this winter with one of our County Members, and hunting with this pack-addressed me thus, last week, in London. "That Mr. Smith," said he "is a sportsman. I consider him a very capital huntsman; and how well he rides to his hounds!" Now, although like the Evangelists, my province is to report what is past, and not to prophesy, yet I did venture to predict, some four years back, that this Mr. Smith would one day or other become signal. Like many other good fellows, he wants the means of doing the thing quite to his liking-his subscription being small; but he knows how, and I hope he will be better supported.

I have said that Mr. Warde was of our party. I have said enough, then, to assure my readers that mirth and good humour were the order of the day. His presence, indeed, always reminds me of Lucian's description of the Elysian Fields, where he makes it appear there are two springs-the one of laughter, and the other of joy; and it is almost needless to add, that those who drink of them are filled with mirth and hilarity for the rest of the day. The moral here is delightful to contemplate; for it is as much as to say, that, unless we bring a kind heart into society, we have no business there. Here Mr. Warde may be almost termed the miracle of his day. Courted, as he has been, for such a great length of years, we might expect to find him, like a way

ward child, wishing to have every thing his own way; but it is not so. No; his social capacities seem to expand as his age advances, and, like Saul, to be more glorious in his latter years.

It would be tantalizing to my readers to mention the name of this real old English gentlemanthis αναξ ανδρων, as ROUGH AND READY calls NIM NORTII-and not accompany it with an anecdote or two; so I hope I shall be pardoned for selecting the following.

It is well known that this far famed sportsman has ever been fond of having his hounds high in flesh, in their work. I partly place it to his having always hunted strong, wet countries, with rough woodlands; but I am not going to argue the merits of the case here. We are all fond of our own systems, and, like Pygmalion the sculptor, never fail to become enamoured of our own creations. Mr. Nicoll, on the other hand, feeds lightly in the spring months, and we well know that hounds which work on light food will look ligh: in warm weather. "There is one advantage," said Mr. Warde-as we were one morning passing away four hours in the kennel" in visiting my friend Sam Nicoll. No man need trouble himself to take his razors with him; for, only let him lather his face well, and walk down to the kennel, he might take any one of these bounds by the the head and tail, and shave himself to perfection with his back bone! These hounds," added he, "look as if they had just landed from Noah's ark."

Anecdote the second may surprise my readers, and for this rea

son:-I think it is Fielding who has told us, that there is an air of gentility about a real gentleman which dress can neither give nor conceal. Notwithstanding this, Mr. Warde told us, that a short time since he was taken for a butcher! and I will give it in his own words.

"I was driving down the road one day," said he, in his usual facetious style," when I saw a man I knew bargaining for some fat bullocks. Cannot you deal?' said I. Why, no, Sir,' replied the buyer; the gentleman is too hard with me.' Then let me try and put you together.' So, getting out of my curricle, and handling the beasts, I pronounced them to be worth a certain sum. The buyer doubted it. 'Well, then,' I said, here is a butcher coming, we will hear what he has to say. The butcher looked at the bullocks, and then at me; and after taking a second look, addressed me thus- Why, you are in business, ar'nt you?' Not at present,' I replied, pulling a very long face; I have been unfortunate. Worse luck! said the butcher; for you are a d-d good judge.""

Now, I can only account for this in two ways. Either the butcher was a better judge of beef than of a gentleman, which is by no means improbable; or, Mr. Warde having his box coat on, the knight of the cleaver did not see those neat boots and leathers for which his person has ever been so distinguished; neither do I think it possible he could have looked into his face. Mr. Warde, however, would make an excellent

On non-hunting days, the kennel at Lyndhurst is the lounge for the morning, and where all the science is concentrated. The lecture generally lasts about this time, and it is by no means the least entertaining part of the passing week.

master-butcher, in one respect; for, having been a very considerable stall-feeder of cattle for a great number of years, and paid much attention to the system, it must be a good judge that could get the blind side of him in a deal.

them a little beyond the truth, I am sure of pardon here. Au abler pen than mine would have executed the task better; but in one respect I am not ill-qualified for a traveller. I have neither antipathies, nor prejudices to manners, habits, climate, meat, drink, persons, or things, having long learned to take the world as it comes, making the best of every thing. I am now verging on those years in which I am entitled to confirm by practice what was taught me in theory,

and I have found most of those les

sons good.


My experience, however, has given the lie to one. was told,

There is wisdom in the proverbs of all nations; and "a nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse," says one. I remember a hint my facetious friend, George Fitzherbert, gave me one night last season at Melton Mowbray, after I had given them a chaunt at a certain sporting Baronet's. "Avery good song, and very well sung," said this king of chaunters, but it is a little too long. No run with hounds," added he (with his head on one side, and looking the picture Mere outward show! 'Tis like the harof jollity), "should be more than forty minutes, neither should any song exceed six verses." Now, this being, I believe, the sixth letter on the subject of my visit to the North, it is time to bring that subject to a close. Let me conclude it, then, with the following remarks:

In the first place, I have to thank all the Sporting World, and my friends in particular, for the kind dispensation granted me in the free use of their names, as, without this indulgence, my pen would have been cramped, and I should have fluttered like a bird with its wings-clipped, unable to soar above the ground. I hope I have taken no unfair advantage of this boasted privilege. I am not aware of having stained my paper with falsehood, neither have I dipped my pen in gall: but if it be said I have written in a spirit of partiality; if kind feeling and friendship have had too great a share in the characters I have drawn, and I have heightened

"You'll find the friendship of the world a show!


lot's tears,

statesman's promise, or false pa-
triot's zeal,

Full of fair seeming, but delusion all.”
I cannot say I have found it so!
Rather would I tell the snarling
cynic that the world to me has
proved a friend, and I am proud to
say "I owe thee much." Were I,
however, to allude for a moment to
the commendations bestowed upon
what little I have written, I should
account for them all in the language
of Swift. "It is the wise choice
of the subject," says he, "that
adorns and distinguishes the wri-
ter;" and mine, we know, is a po-
pular one. In the shape of a Tour,
however, this is my last attempt;
but it may serve for a model for
others to improve upon; and, per-
haps, more good than harm might
be the result. Society exists
amongst men by a mutual commu-
nication of their thoughts; and,
although I fear I have added little
to the stock, their reciprocal com-
merce is the chief source of know-

To conclude:-I shall never for

get the pleasure I derived in the perusal of a passage from the pen of Gibbon, wherein he describes the hour in which he completed that great monument of his fame -the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. "It was," says he, "on the day, or rather the night, of the 27th June 1787, between the hours of eleven and twelve, that I wrote the last lines of the last page, in a summer-house in my garden. After laying down my pen, I took several turns in a covered walk of acacias, which commands a prospect of the country, the lake, and the mountains. The air was temperate, the sky was serene, the silver orb of the moon was reflec'ed on the waters, and all Nature was silent. I will not dissemble the first emotions of jey on the recovery of my freedom, and, perhaps, the establishment of my fame. But my pride was soon humbled; and a sober melancholy was spread over my mind by the idea, that I had taken an everlasting leave of an old and agreeable companion; and that, whatsoever might be the future fate of my history, the life of the historian might be short and pre


Now mark the difference of NIMROD'S style, though I fear I we cannot exclaim, with Caesar," () dimidiate, Menander!" On the 22d of April, I left the Forest, and had the pleasure of driving my Leices .tershire friends, and a few others, in the "Nimrod" coach, which was taken for the purpose of conveying them to London; and I have reason to believe Messrs. Peer and Waterhouse would never desire a better load. Jack Wormwald acted as guard on the occasion; and the cheering view-halloos of himself and his friends had such a lively

effect on some old hunters that were in the coach, that, at times, we went a merry pace. In the evening of that day I returned home; and although my pockets were as empty as when they came from the tailor's, my spirits were good. I dwelt with pleasure on the scenes I had been a witness of, and indulged a hope that I might see something like them again. But this was not all. I echoed the words of an elegant writer, who so happily expresses himself on a similar occasion. "When we travel towards home," says he, "we return, as it were, to the arms of a friend; and BLESS THAT GOODNESS WHICH



P. S. When I have a leizure hour, I must run my eye over these letters, and correct a few errata, perhaps unavoidable at this distance from the press.



THE following is an extract

from the Journal of WESTERN ALOPEX, Esq.-

Saturday, March 1st.

March was wont to be stormy and wild;
But he enters now like a gentle child,
With the violet sweet, and primrose mild.
Although the wind is easterly,
It bloweth soft and pleasantly.
The throstle is singing on the fir tree,
And cock robin carols it merrily;
The woodquest is cosing away in the grove,
His song is love, and nothing but love.
That is delightsome to him and to me;
But thermometer stands at fifty-three,

So a hunting I must go.

Tuesday, 4th.-In my last I promised to have a fly at your horrible VVV stiles, if I could get any thing brilliant enough to

stir up the sans peur; and this day I have had that good luck. Mr. Russell's hounds met at Tetcott, and the ould well-known mansion would have crowed like a cock for joy, if the brick and mortar had not stuck in his throat, and spoilt his singing. The smile of grim delight played on his black-red unshorn countenance, and his ivy beard was shining with pleasure at the view of that quick-as-lightning, strong nerved, judicious sportsman, the Russell. He threw his hounds into Beardown Plantation, and soon the chirruping begau; soon they were at it ding dong; the covert rang again with the sweet merry voices of the hounds, and the exhilarating cheering of their master. Men stood up in their stirrups, with flashing eyes and beating hearts. "Tallyho! Pug has left the covert! Gone away, gone away!" Not a moment was lost; the hounds were clapped on by their quick and excellent huntsman. Away, away, through Dawes Wood, Peake, over Peake Moor, South Moor, Panson, into Panson Wood, where he went to earth. That earth afforded him but short rest; the terriers, those remorseless sons of bitches, came up, and soon drove him from his place of refuge-it was too hot to hold him. Gone away again; away through Henford Wood to Henford Town Place; then over Sladdon Hill, where the field began to look small and select. I saw the chosen ones, with the bold hearts and panting steeds, leading in turn: I saw Messrs. Russell, Phillipps, Coryton, Arthur Harris, T. Woolcombe, and Hyssett, springing away at the fences like tigers. The varmint, followed at a terrible pace by his merry destroyers, ran through Ashwater Wood, and far

into the parish of Virginstow, but not one of the very many holy virgins stood forth to give him sanctuary; so he turned back, poor persecuted devil! Toward home his head was bent; but home, sweet home, alas! he never saw it again. Well; he turned back through Panson Mill Wood, by Panson Town Place, almost to Chapman's Well, where he was headed from his point of safety, and urged on to the point of death; yet he went gallantly forward. Skirting the Launceston turnpike road, he turned to the left, through part of Saint Giles parish, into the parish of Bradwood Widger, where the scintilla vivax was quenched for ever; or, to speak plain English, the staunch and bloody-minded pack ran in to him, and ate him in quick time, blood raw. This chase of nearly twenty miles lasted one hour and forty-five minutes. The return to Panson let in the whole field to the death, and the payment. (Among the assembly was farmer Wofe: himself and horse make up the sum of one hundred years.)-Thus ended a most delicate chase, much to the credit of the master and his hounds, which are not one and twenty inches high; yet they can go fast enough, kill well enough, and eat their fox quick enough too, to please the most fastidious tod-hunter. large party of the right sort then assembled at the hospitable mansion of the Esquire of LanclueWhere they talk'd of, and joked over, the feats of the day, And Bacchus, with Comus, made terrible play,


Till Morpheus came in, and put Comus to And sent the lads snoring away for the flight,


And as I hope soon to join in the chorus, I bid you good night, my very good Mr. Editor.

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