reckon this will almost be the last journey, eh John! grow

What! it's only two days and thou 'rt going to see if

ing pretty sweet on her, my boy. ago since I brought Mary down, she got home again, I reckon, eh! ah! ah! ha! Well she's a worthy wench, God bless her!" Meantime John would be showing his teeth, and feeling half-pleased, half-ashamed, and at last quite flattered, would only say, "Hey, Jemmy, you're a knowing old bird, and measure everybody's corn by your own strike." Then he would alight at the entrance of a green lane, a spot in which you sighed to spend the summer in, and Mary would be seen at a little distance, no doubt she had been waiting at the top some time; but thought it "would look as if one was so fond to be seen standing there :" so having heard the coach coming, she had walked back again a few yards, and just contrived to be seen approaching as the coach stopped. "Pretty punctual," said the Old Coachman, to the passenger next him; "great difference between marrying and courting, eh, sir?" Then he would just turn himself to have a peep at them, and perhaps Mary would wave her hand to him, and he would shake his head in reply, then say, " They are a happy couple." So the old man drives on, respected by all who know him, and with all his prejudices really bearing no ill-feeling towards any one. Long may he live to drive, without any jury from either railways or any other modern improvements. His jolly red face brings nothing but pleasant remembrances before us, the mottled lines thereon remind us of those winding foot-paths and pleasant roads which we have caught glimpses of, or passed over with him: and ere long he will be the only chronicler of road-side houses, pleasant inns, and picturesque villages, where our forefathers were wont to bait on their journey. Never may he be compelled to become guard on a railway! The very sight of those high-piled monotonous banks would kill him; he would miss

in

the steep hills and deep valleys, and the varied air which he inhaled. The smoke would drive the deep bloom from his cheeks, and the speed the breath from his body. Heaven grant that he may die as he lived, a bluff, honest, goodhearted Old Coachman !

BUT few works are fraught with more amusement than some of those ancient Treatises on Angling; there is such a simple cunningness about these fine old fellows that you can scarce refrain from laughing outright while perusing their most serious passages. I doubt not that many of these old-fashioned fishermen had prayers adapted to the different parts of their profession, brief and pious morsels, which they repeated on dropping in their lines, over a bite,

or having landed a huge jack, returned thanks in due form. I have seen an old book in which the angler is recommended "to be full of humble thoughts, not disdaining, when occasion offers, to kneel, lie down, or wet his feet and fingers as often as there is any advantage to be gained thereby." He is also advised to render himself skilful in music, so that whenever his spirits are melancholy, or his thoughts heavy, "he may remove the same with some godly hymn or anthem, of which David gives him ample examples." How religiously these old fellows set about the work of death! I have read somewhere, that Cromwell, in his younger days, was fond of angling. Then the angler is to be strong and valiant, not be amazed at storms, nor frightened at thunder; nor must he, like the fox which preyeth upon the lambs, employ all his labour and cunning on the smaller fry, but like the lion that seizeth elephants, think the greatest fish that swims a reward little enough for the pains he endures. He must also be patient, not feel vexed when he loses his prey, although it is almost in his hand;-full of love to his neighbour, giving away a portion of what he catches, and not working only for his own belly." He must also be of a thankful nature, "praising the Author of all goodness for the least satisfaction." He ought also to be "a scholar and a good grammarian;" have sweetness of speech to entice others to follow his art; have a knowledge of the sun, moon, and stars; be conversant with wind and weather; and have a constant and settled belief that where the "waters are pleasant and anything likely, there the Creator of all good things hath stored up much of his plenty." In short, an angler must be a good man: and beside having faith enough for heaven, must dedicate great store of it to fishing. Izaak Walton appears to be about the only one who ever lived up to this ancient fisherman's creed.

Angling, after all, is a pleasant pastime; there is a kind of

ed,

delicious laziness in the employment, so utterly unlike any other out-of-door amusement. It was one of the few rural sports that I ever cared to follow, but I neither possessed the affection nor the skill of a true angler for the profession; loving it more for the associations it awakened than a regard for the craft itself. It seemed such a pleasure to sit down upon some flowery bank in May, and listen to the river as it went singing to itself, and the sunshine along the shelving shores. You could scarce refrain from singing yourself when you heard the skylark raining down such a shower of music that the sunbeams seemed to throb again beneath the sound, as they quivered along the ripples of the river. Oh, I have jumped up in ecstasy at such sights, and exclaim"If this is the earth, where can heaven be!" No, I was no true angler: my rod would lie half-buried amid the daisies, and my float moored beneath the willows that hung over the shore to look at themselves and the sky in the water. I loved it and I loved it not, but for hours forgot that there was a fin in the river, or a care in the wide world, or aught worth living for but summer and sunshine, trees and flowers, and delicious streams to sit beside and dream about poetry. Then it was so sweet and peaceful to walk home in the twilight, or along with the bright and silent moon, that seemed to keep an equal pace with you across the starry steep of Heaven. chance the nightingale sang "somewhere" in the neighbouring covert, and you sat upon some rustic stile to listen to her song; then you lost her sweet notes for a moment, for the waves went sounding over the pebbly shore, and the willows whispered something to each other, until by and by you heard the sound again. But I am wandering from the subject of my present sketch. I have paid Nature many a tribute of my love, but not yet poured out half the feelings of my heart before her.

Per