Nothing can be more romantic than the situation of the kennel, which lies a little removed from the entrance of the valley through which flows the river Fowey, in which we "many a time and oft" have had a glorious day's fishing. Indeed, it was within a stone's throw of the kennel that we caught the first fish we ever hooked in our lives. How forcibly we recollect the circumstance even now; but if the whole truth must be told, our "catch" only measured an inch and a half in length, and weighed half a pennyweight, although it was a real salmon peel! With what delight did we rush to the old kennel, and hear the aforesaid Jemmy's congratulations! and how we inwardly cursed that old rascal "Growler," who, the very first moment we were off our guard, actually snatched at and bolted our fish before it was even quite dead! Didn't we send up a wail of lamentation with all the power of a nine years' lungs, until we were quieted by a promise of a ride with old James on the following day to visit some neighbouring earths, and by Growler (horrid cannibal!) getting a whopping for monopolizing our salmon peel? Little thought we at the time "hæc olim meminisse juvabit ;" but as we are on a hunting and not a fishing expedition at present, we must "return to our muttons," trusting that the reader will pardon this little digression into the realms of "Auld lang syne."

About a quarter of a mile from the kennel, on the opposite side of the valley, rises, in all its glory of moss and ivy-covered stones, Restormel Castle, the finest relic of olden times to be found in England. At the base of the hill on which the castle stands is the park and residence of a sportsman in every sense of the word-our excellent master of the hounds, Thomas Hext, Esq.; and about a mile down the valley lies the ancient town of Lostwithiel, and to the left

"Cut it short, and come to the hounds."

Oh! certainly. In the kennel, which is ably managed by the above-named gentleman and his aid-de-camp and factotum, the aforesaid Jemmy, are about thirty couple of foxhounds. None of your raff and rubbish of more aristocratic packs-" the Turks, infidels, and heretics," as they have been aptly termed by a noble master of hounds, but thorough good ones, possessing larger bone and a rougher appearance (all the better for the nature of the country) than the more fashionable portion of "caninity" in other parts of England; but in bottom, speed, "dash," and music, we would back them against the best. They, no doubt, have also a "touch of the romantic" in their compositions, from their frequent rambles through the scenery around; but whether this is or is not an advantageous characteristic in foxhounds we will not determine. Perhaps it causes them to penetrate into more unexplored regions than the less romantic of their species, or what else made old "Pilot," on our last hunting day, surprise Mr. Pug enjoying the scenery of the moors in a most secluded nook of his own among the rocks, where no other dog would ever have thought of poking his nose? However, we leave this point to the commentators, and proceed to the "meet."

Our place of meeting (we have not yet come to call it fixture) is Newbridge Wood, exactly opposite Glynn, the seat of the late Lord

Vivian, who, as a sportsman, was so well known at Beechwood, in Hampshire, when he hunted in the New Forest, and of whom those who have read "NIMROD'S TOURS" must have seen honourable mention made. Here we are pretty sure of finding a fox, and here we will fix our "meet," for the special benefit of our sporting reader.

Our field, though small, is decidedly trumpish-fifteen or twenty may be termed an average number, among whom glitter a fair quantum of the genus clericus, or, to speak more professionally, gentlemen of the cloth," who think nothing on earth gives such a relish to their old port (and is not the port of our Cornish clergymen proverbial?) as a nerve-strengthening run after a fox in the morning. There stands a specimen of the sort-the portly-looking gentleman in tops, white cords, and black coat, mounted on a slapping black horse, and looking on so blandly as the hounds are hallooed into cover; whose whole countenance, but more particularly that soft Templer eye, bespeaks the overflowing of the milk of human kindness within. We would give something to hear him preach on The foxes of the earth have holes," &c., no doubt a favourite text among our clerical Nimrods; but we dare not particularize them, in the first place, because we have not got their permission; and in the next place, our bishop is such a funny man, that if he reads the Sporting Magazine, we might get our field into a scrape, which we would not wittingly do even to get a bishopric ourselves.

66

But we shall be thrown out to a moral, if we stand "star-gazing" here. Hark! Even now is Melody beginning to "discourse sweet music!" Another takes it up! Another, and another, and another. He's off! He's off! Spur-spur-spur! and down the hill we go as if we were on Newmarket Heath! What is an angle of 45° to us now? "Tally-ho!" issues from fifty voices in the valley, and is reechoed from hill to hill! The hounds are in full cry, and are dashing up Glynn plantation.

Crashing through the wood-their heads on their horses' necks to escape getting entangled in the branches-burst our Nimrods into view! For a moment they are visible in the open; the valley and the river are passed, and now comes the hill. The hounds have run, full cry, through Glynn Park, for the especial amusement of the sojourners in that hospitable mansion. Cautiously we get over the "collar work"-the summit is gained, and we are on Pinchla Common, as smooth as velvet, as level as a railroad!

Hills, valleys, plantations seem to fly past us as chaff before the wind; our very horses, rejoicing in the pride of their might, shake their heads impatient of the restraining bit! Can railroad speed ever equal ours? Can the cup of human happiness be filled fuller without a case of spill? But talking of railroads, and whilst we are sweep

Those that knew the late George Templer, of Devon, can never forget that soft blue eye that so forcibly spoke the goodness of soul within. It may not be generally known that he has left a brother in Ceylon, who inherits not only the mild blue eye of the Templers, but also the sporting and amiable qualities of his deceased brother, and which we soon trust to see called into exercise in his native land, which can better afford to spare a better man.

ing over the plain at the rate of fifty miles an hour, let us just get a grip of you, gentlemen projectors and directors of railroads!-an imaginary grip at your necks, whilst we thus apostrophise you in our flight.

Oh! ye epidemics of four-horse teams! Ye antidotes to the chase! Ye dabblers in hot water! See ye these hills? You'll bring your monstrum horrendum informe engine here, will you? Try it ! The cui lumen ademptum (whose fire is out) would quickly follow, thank nature! You'll spoil our sports for us, will you? Try it !— do and then go and at once take out a patent (or whatever you term it) for carrying out a line from the Peak of Chimborazo to the Vale of Llangollen! Vanish!

The whole field, the hounds, the fox, and numberless spectators, are now in the open, with the scent breast high. What a beautiful common! Oh! that it were boundless as the ocean, and our steeds' endurance everlasting; but ploughed fields begin to loom large in the distance; woods begin to raise their heads on the horizon; a six-foot hedge presents itself, and the splitting pace is over.

The hedges in Cornwall are built of turf, earth, and stones, to the height of six feet and upwards, and are as solid and substantial as if composed of bricks and mortar; and where is the horse that would surmount them unless trained to them from his "colthood?" They fly at the top like a cat; the fore-legs once having obtained a footing, the hinder parts soon follow, and with another bound they alight again on terra firma. To bring it more forcibly to the reader's imagination, we must compare it to a goat leaping more than to anything else. Of course this sort of work requires experience in rider as well as in horse, for the double jump to one unaccustomed to it would prove a more efficacious mode of "unseating" than anything else we know of. But now we are approaching Cabilla Tor. Talk of Swiss scenes! Can you match this for beauty and grandeur?

As

Almost a precipice, its sides covered with huge blocks of granite, intersected every here and there with thick clumps of gorse and underwood, a miniature torrent boiling and roaring at its foot, stands CABILLA TOR! Well may a fox seek therein a refuge froin man and dogs; whether it avails him we shall hereafter see. for endeavouring to surmount the place ourselves it would be foolhardy to make the attempt, so we take the farm-road round to the summit, on the opposite side of the water, and await the issue. After crossing the stream there is a check, and lucky it is that it is so, for that awful pace across the common has already shown its effect in no slight degree upon our nags.

Throwing his rein to some "hobjonathan," with instructions to lead him to the top of the Tor, our huntsman dashes across the stream, and makes his casts in such places as he thinks most likely; but for a time it is all fruitless. Pug has evidently been practising some of his "artful dodges," and is now, perhaps, half way up the Tor, looking complacently on at affairs going on below, and humming "Follow, follow over mountain.' But whilst we are wondering if we are ever going to see our fox

again, the worthy owner of the farm and a staunch patron of our hounds, William Henwood, Esq., has sent one of his men to "the house" for a gallon of his "home-brewed," which we are now making the best of our time in doing justice to, as it is difficult to foretell when we shall next have an opportunity of refreshing our inward man.

How joyful-how delicious is the first faint challenge that we catch issuing from some old hound among the rocks, as the roar of the water below apparently stills itself that we may hear it! In a moment all is life again. Steeds are remounted; the eye and the ear is strained to its utmost. Again the chorus is taken up; they are running "Vulpes" up the rocks!

"Back! get back," cries our master,

66 or we shall head him. Give him time; let the hounds get out, then go-ahead.''

What a scene presents itself as each hound wends its way round the masses of granite in full chorus! The hill side is alive! It is a second edition of Birnam Wood in motion! All the workmen of the farm are following and hallooing the hounds over the impediments! The sun bursts out apparently to take a peep at us-when a rattling "Tally-ho!" from fifty throats on the hill-top welcomes our fox as he bursts from his cover, and "makes the welkin ring again.” Glorious sport! ennobling, mind-expanding sport!

"Is this a fancy which our reason scorns?"

Is "the exulting sense, the pulse's maddening play" an unforbidden pleasure, that ever mortal should utter a word against it? Can that be wrong which strengthens the mind and nerves the arm of man, and which, to borrow from "Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy" (no mean authority we should imagine)

"Brings health and sense,

And chaseth all ill-habits hence?"

Pug once fairly off, away we start again, and now comes the tug of war. The stiff fences that surround the farm are a good criterion whereby to test the nerve and powers of the rider and his beast; and it is here that a person, unaccustomed to Cornish hunting, would be pounded as firmly as if he were to take a flying leap down one of our tin mines in the far west of the county. As for "craning," it is out of the question, for, unless a person can see much further through a stone wall than human kind generally, it would puzzle him to say what was on the other side. There is one decided source of consolation to the incipient Nimrod, viz., there are no "blind shafts," some 200 fathoms deep, in this part of the county, into which he might vanish like a pea from under a thimble!

At length we manage to get through the heavy ground, and having topped a dozen stiff hedges in our course, a far, very far different scene than any we have yet gone through bursts upon us. We are now fairly on the moors-the goss-moors-that must be seen to be appreciated. No smooth Salisbury-plain-looking piece of turf, but, as far as the eye can reach, one wild and rugged waste! Here, in

deed, we have it all to ourselves, for there is not a house, a tree, or the remotest appearance of cultivation, for miles. Pools of water and blocks of granite, large and small, lie on all sides, and require some degree of skill and caution in steering our way through.

As we gain the heights of "Berry Castle," we turn our head for a moment to behold the "dark blue waters " of the English Channel on one side of the county, and the Atlantic on the other, glittering in the sun. We almost fancy we scent the sea breeze, so fresh and fragrant blows the freshening air upon our cheek. (Every one knows how different the October climate of Cornwall is to that of other counties: notwithstanding its bleak and barren moors, it possesses a summer clime, even in October, in comparison to the more northern part of England). In another instant the Atlantic is out of sight, and we are again skimming forward over an apparently boundless track. Dosmare Pool shews itself in the distance: we must introduce the reader to this piece of water, which, situated in the centre of the moors, is said to ebb and flow like the sea! It was this very pool that Tregeagle was sentenced by his Satanic Majesty to empty with a limpet shell, with a hole in it, by day; whilst by night he had to make a rope of the sand on its shore! Whether Tregeagle accomplished his task or not, we cannot say; but certain it is, that, as the wandering traveller wends his weary way near the spot at nightfall, inhuman noises rise upon the blast! The horn of the huntsman sounds louder and louder! the tread of horses-the shriek of the pursued-strikes nearer and clearer on his ear! and Tregeagle, in the guise of a stag, is seen pursued by Pluto and his hounds!! Here, then, the pace, they say, is awful.

It is broad daylight at present as we pass the spot, so we have not the pleasure of witnessing this "demon hunt," neither do we distinctly make out the prints of the horse's hoofs; but if you doubt the story for a moment, good reader, just make the best of your way to that solitary house yonder, the "Jamaica Inn," and ask Boniface about it. Won't he just make your hair stand on end?

But now we must part company for the present. We have shewn you all our lions," and if we run into our fox we will talk over the whole affair at this same hostelrie, on our way home, over a glass of "mine host's" best "October;" but from the present appearance of pug, we are in for a fearful day's work. So, "good bye" for the present.

"Now, then, go along, old horse!"