KNAPSACK WANDERINGS IN MERRIE ENGLAND. BY LINTON. No. III. "The first physicians by debauch were made; God never made his work for man to mend." DRYDEN. Those who have ever experienced the pleasures of a rolling French screw-steamer, with a wind abeam, when crossing the Adriatic, will fully understand the utter impossibility of writing, still less thinking; and under such circumstances, I was compelled to come to a check in my last chapter, being precisely in that most disagreeable situationnot that I am a sufferer, that is to say physically, at sea; but in a few truthful words, I candidly confess that I consider nothing more hateful than that which poets, and not seldom those who probably have never experienced it, term a trip on the glorious ocean. And I would hope that I may not be trespassing (for I have ever considered it trespassing on the pages of Maga to write of aught save that which is characteristic of sport), inasmuch as there is unquestionably some sport in it, when I recapitulate that which I have read somewhere, as doubtless have many of my sporting friends, what I consider an admirable illustration of the realities of a sca voyage. It runs thus : "Alas! what a contrast between poetry and the real practical fact of going to sea! No man, the poet says, is a hero to his valet de chambre. Certainly, no poet, no hero, no inspired prophet ever lost so much, on near acquaintance, as this mystic, grandiloquent old ocean. The one step from the sublime to the ridiculous is never taken with such alacrity as in a sea voyage. In the first place, it is a melancholy fact, but not the less true, more particularly on board French mail steamers,' that ship life is not fragrant. In short, there is a most wonderful combination of grease, steam, onions, garlic, and dinners in general, either past, present, or to come, which floating invisibly in the atmosphere, strongly predisposes to that disgust of existence which in half an hour after sailing begins to come upon you that disgust, that strange, mysterious, ineffable sensation, which steals slowly and inexplicably upon you; which makes every heaving billow, every whitecapped wave, the ship, the people, the sight, the taste, sound and smell of everything, as matters of inexpressible loathing, man cannot utter." I may add, though, as I have already stated, physically I am no sufferer at sea-nay, my pipe smokes the more freely when the winds whistle and the waves roar-yet the above description is true to the very letter; and to such we may add the monotony of a sea life. For, be the weather what it may, time hangs heavily at sea: read, smoke, write, do what you will, there is ever the craving hope of getting there, the longing desire to reach the friendly port, and on no sea is the feeling more fully developed than on the Mediterranean, where the changes of weather for eight months of the year are brief and continual; a calm sea one hour, a stiff breeze the next, varied by the rolling of a screwsteamer or the tossing of a gale. And not seldom, in the midst of all these unpleasant contre-temps, among the varied passengers of a French mail steamer, while endeavouring to console yourselves that the longedfor port is not far distant, as you lie on the sofa endeavouring to while away the hours with the last publication of Tauchnitz, the last No. of Blackwood, or the Sporting Magazine, and half thinking, half reading, endeavour to calm your sensitive nerves, you hear an animated discussion, for the nine hundred and ninety-ninth time, on the Crimean war, with a shrug of the shoulders and a vain air of confidence and belief some Frenchman exclaims, Nous avons prie Sevastopol;" to which is now added "Canton." If you were on shore you would laugh or whistle; being at sea, it creates bile and disturbs your temper for the remainder of the day. Silly that it should do so; yet, in fact, it stagnates and annoys you-not, what has been uttered, but the insolent tone of belief in its truth. But we are now on shore again-on the land we love-at Dulverton; and so let us forget calm seas and rough seas. A few words more, and then over the moorlands far and away for Lyuemouth and Linton, the pearl of North Devon. I must, however, halt awhile more at Dulverton. I have said, and said truly, that Dulverton is the Melton of the West; and Devon is a true sporting county, and this would be more practically acknowledged were it known as it should be. Romantic and picturesque in the extreme, it is equally interesting to the lover of field sports of every kind, as to the lover of nature and the invalid. The ancient forest of Exmoor is identified with sporting in the West, the pure air of which, peculiarity of scenery, the bold romantic aspect of the country, have long been proverbial, and can scarcely be surpassed in all England or any other country. There, and there only (as fully detailed in a work which I published years since, entitled "Exmoor"), are red deer still found in their native lair. I also ventured to give a history of the stag hounds, from their earliest days, together with the accounts of many of their best runs. And I would still hope to see the day when they will meet with that support they so justly merit: with this hope I have ventured herein to insert a copy of a memorial which was, and I would feign hope still is, intended to be presented to Her Most Gacious Majesty. I may also add, that a proposal was on foot to establish a club during the hunting season, when these hounds hunt the forest; why not a permanent one? And, although I am decidedly of opinion that such club would answer far better at Lynemouth than at K Dulverton, yet, be it the one or the other, when known it will be well supported; and once more, as in days "lang syne," the forest and moors will echo to the huntsman's horn. Dulverton is by no means wanting in accommodation either for man or beast. Many a pleasant dinner have I discussed after a glorious day's sport, served by the worthy host of the Red Lion, which hotel has recently been greatly improved, and good stabling and good boxes are plentiful. The hotels of Linton and Lynemouth are, however, for choice; aye, none better throughout the land we live in. But I must cross the purple moors of Exmoor, and I will sketch alike its comforts as its natural charms. In the meantime I insert copy of memorial. May it still be placed in proper hands for presentation. Who better than Lord Carnarvon? Surely he must be greatly interested in the preservation of these noble animals on his estate. Let but Her Majesty's support, or that of the Royal Prince, our future sovereign, be obtained, and this glorious sport will again be pursued with unrivalled pleasure in the West. "To Her Most Gracious Majesty the QUEEN, and to His Royal Highness the PRINCE ALBERT, of Saxe Coburg Gotha. "THE MEMORIAL of the Members of the Devon and Somerset Stag Hunt. "The members beg most respectfully to represent to your Most Gracious Majesty and Illustrious Consort "That in the counties of Devon and Somerset the royal sport of staghunting has been enjoyed from a very early period, the red deer being found and hunted from their native wilds almost exclusively in those counties. "That the wild animals which are for the most part found in and about the forest of Exmoor (formerly a royal forest) received from ancient times the special protection of your Majesty's royal prede cessors. "That in the year 1598, during the reign of Queen Elizabeth, the deer were hunted by Hugh Pollard, Esq., the then ranger, and by the succeeding rangers of the forest, down to about 150 years ago. "That the hounds then passed in succession into the hands of Mr. Walter (an ancestor of the late Lord Rolle) and Lord Orford, foresters of Exmoor, under a grant from the Crown. "That Mr. Dyke (from whom the Acland family took the name) succeeded Lord Orford, and pursued this noble sport for a considerable period. "That the grant of the forest upon the death of Mr. Dyke descended to Sir Thomas Dyke Acland, the grandfather, and after his death to Sir Thomas Dyke Acland, the father of the present Baronet, and that under their liberal management the hunt attained great celebrity. "That upon the death of the late Sir Thomas Dyke Acland, Earl Fortescue, the late Lord-Lieutenant of the county of Devon, kept the hounds in their full splendour for several years, when they passed successively into the hands of several managers, and have been since, and are now, kept by subscription. "That whilst the forest of Exmoor continued a royal forest protection was afforded to the deer thereon, and within the purlieus thereof, by several Acts of Parliament, which made the destruction of these noble animals a capital offence; but in consequence of the sale of the forest by the Crown a few years since, Exmoor became disafforested, and the forest laws ceased to operate. "That notwithstanding the deer have lost the protection of these laws, they are still preserved in the forest by Mr. Knight the purchaser from the Crown, and by the Earl of Carnarvon, and other landowners in the neighbourhood. "That from its royal origin, character, and antiquity, this rare and gallant sport is highly esteemed in the western counties by the nobility and gentry, to whom it affords a strong inducement to remain on their estates and expend their incomes at home. "Your memorialists therefore beg leave most respectfully and humbly to solicit that your Most Gracious Majesty and your Illustrious Consort will be graciously pleased to vouchsafe your royal patronage and protection to the hunt, whereby security for the deer may be provided, and the ancient and royal character of the establishment restored." To be continued.) RAMBLES ALONG THE TROUT AND SALMON RIVERS AND LAKES IN THE SOUTH OF IRELAND. 46 See, see! the shooting verdure spreads around! DODSLEY. It is a glorious, a glad sight, to see the springing grass again. After eleven months' weary tramping over the hard flags of London, it is new life to find the elastic spring of verdure under your feet. The snows of Winter have departed, and the burnt appearance caused by the cold easterly winds of March and April, has given place to a lovely lively green. The grass is everywhere springing through the russet mat in which its roots have slumbered through the long winter, and the sun is quickening the mysterious principle of life in every living thing. On the edges of the banks of the rushing river exultant Spring is raising its verdant banner to welcome the Summer that is treading in its footsteps. The warm showers of April have descended, and the daisy-clad meadows produce a pleasing effect for the pencil of the painter. It is a charming scene to look upon-Nature's carpet spread out everywhere, girdling the lake, fringing the stream, bordering the woodland, and receiving the shadows of tree, and shrub, and flower, that lie nowhere so beautifully as on the fresh green grass. And what so tasteful a border to the walk, the carriage drive, or the flower bed, as the green turf? No country residence is complete without the lawn or grass plot. Here, in Ireland, once more on my native sod, with rod in hand, I will woo health to my side, and return with renovated constitution to smoky London. If those who are in the habit of paying an annual visit to foreign countries would, for one year, pay a visit to Ireland, to admire its wonders and its beauties-the Giant's Causeway in the north—the caves of Ballybunnion and the lovely Lakes of Killarney in the south-they would find a charm of woodland, mountain, lake and river in Ireland unsurpassed in Europe. As a fishing country Ireland has long been justly renowned there are few rivers in which salmon do not abound, and the smaller stream and its lakes are literally overstocked with trout. Few impediments are offered to the sportsman. Free leave to fish on all rivers is the rule in Ireland-preservation of a few spots the exception. Another year has rolled away since I last visited these streams. Another of those distinctly marked periods by which we measure an existence and chronicle events, is numbered with those that have preceded it since the commencement of time. In the future these years appear to us lusty and long-full of promises and freighted with enjoyments; but when gone, they sink into the dim past, and are soon lost in the night of ages with which they are now mingled. I sit down this year, as I did last year, to chronicle my fishing experiences in my native land. I will endeavour to lead my reader along with me into green pastures and beside pleasant streams. I will recount my battles with the noble salmon, or my success in capturing the wary trout. It is a labour of love, and I shall be well rewarded if I receive this year from the critics of the press the same meed of praise which last year they were kind enough to bestow on my "Month's fishing in Ireland." I arrived in Cork on the 9th of May, per the good steam-ship "Sabrina." commanded by that excellent sailor and most accomplished gentleman Captain Stevelly. On my voyage I was lucky enough to fall in with some excellent company: I do not speak of excellence in reference to aristocracy of birth, but of mind; and I enjoyed my passage over the St. George's Channel, which was as "calm as an unweaned child," most heartily. Amongst the passengers were Mr. C- of the Cork Branch Bank of and Mr. B- an old friend. There was also a newly-married couple, who certainly enjoyed one another's company completely, and to the entire exclusion of everyone else. The "bride was a little indisposed; not sea-sick, but queerish; and the bridegroom was attentive, more and more, as she became more squeamish, until at last, having run through the two first degrees of comparison in the attentive line, he became "most" attentive. I remarked to Mr. C that it was really very annoying to see the gentleman actually, as our friend Wright says, in Domestic Economy, "a slobbering of her. "Oh! my dear sir," said C, "let him alone; he will get tired of that game by-and-bye. He puts me in mind of a friend of mine who was married some thirty years ago to a very pretty young woman, with whom he afterwards did not lead a very happy life. When I saw him after some years, I said, there was a change in his feelings towards Mrs. Yes, said he; would you believe it? the first three |