enable him at once to decide upon the right course, and as promptly to pursue it. At a critical point-and there are many such on the best scenting days-it is not unusual to see huntsmen at the head of a pack collecting as it were their scattered brains, and summing up the various probabilities which have caused the check or affected the scent; and by the time the calculation has been made, the enemy steals a march upon his pursuers and secures his escape. But it is not thus with George Beers; he thinks and acts simultaneously: nevertheless he is not what is called "hurrisome" in his work, knowing that in those first moments of doubt and anxiety the natural cast of hounds is of all others the most important, and the most likely to be the right one; and that at all times man's judgment is required rather to assist than to be a substitute for the instinct of the hound. It has just been mentioned that more than an average share of sport has fallen to the lot of these hounds; but on December the 10th they had so remarkable a run that it cannot fail to be remembered as long as life lasts by all who had the good fortune to enjoy it: many did not see it, but the few who did agree in recording it as a first-class thing-a performance that could only be described over the mahogany, when men go their own pace, and imagination soars over ridge and farrow-over bars, quicksets, and brooks, without impediment and without danger. Suffice it to say that the bitches found their fox, ran and killed him in one hour and twenty-seven minutes, without a moment's check; every hound was up, and a more brilliant finish could scarcely be conceived.

The Quorn hounds have had a capital November, killing or earthing their foxes daily, and displaying a quickness in their work which could not be surpassed by any other pack. The neighbourhood of Lutterworth, perhaps the most central position in England for hounds, is not as fully occupied by hunting men as it has been in former years; still, on the whole, there is no lack of the old attendants at the usual favourite fixtures. There can be no greater drawback to the pleasure of a hunting run than an overcrowded field: the spirit of ambition is so predominant amongst hard-riders, that the comfort of a steady man is annihilated, and the sense of the hound utterly perplexed and paralysed. If the "large fields"-the hundred and fifty men, occupying at least two hundred horses, which are frequently seen in attendance upon a Midland pack, were reduced to one-tenth that number, there can be no doubt that the sport would be proportionately increased. To this cause is the loss of many a good run attributable; foxes are headed or chopped in their attempts to get away, and when they do get away hounds are baffled by the crowd, ridden over, or driven beyond the line: a check ensues, time is lost, and the fox gets a pull upon his pursuers-that pull is fatal, and he escapes with his life.

A country that has been hunted for a great number of years under the guidance of one man, whose whole business and delight it has been to show sport, to maintain the glories of the chase untarnished, and to uphold every privilege that relates to its welfare, would be unworthy of such advantages if it did not express, not only anxiety, but the utmost regret at the prospect of losing so efficient and so excellent a master. That prospect was lately the lot of the old Oxford

shire Hunt, and immediately that expression found a deep response from one end of the country to the other. It was, however, but a prospect, and not a reality-an alarm without a catastrophe. Mr. Drake does not quit the Oxfordshire country; the old blood of his kennel will still be perpetuated under his surveillance, and the old style continued precisely as it was under his penultimate predecessor, the renowned John Warde. Mr. Drake's pack is in very efficient form. Good kennel management, plenty of foxes, and a steady field are the requisites to ensure success; and few good countries can boast of a better share than his. On Wednesday, the 26th of December, Mr. Drake's hounds met at Stoke Village, and towards the afternoon had two beautiful finds, such as are rarely seen in one day. The first fox was lying in Fritwell Gorse, a short patchy cover, without rabbit-runs. The hounds were thrown in on the down-wind side, and drew steadily up; every hound got into cover and carried his nose high above the gorse, with the hope of catching one "sniff" of the tainted gale. The earnest expression of several hounds, as abreast they sprung over the straggling furze-bushes, was a picture that Landseer alone could have justly described; and, though the symptoms were unmistakable, not a tongue was heard before a private signal announced that the fox was "up"-then, immediately, the undulation of his body and brush, as he glanced like a meteor through the open spaces in the brake, caused many an eye to brighten. In an instant he was clear of the cover, the hounds dashed impetuously ahead, and the whole field swept forward with that fire and animation which invariably mark the first burst of the chase. Again, in drawing Cottisford Heath, a fox was found lying in the long grass. The action of every hound as he gradually approached his game was highly interesting, and, to a houndsman, a finer sight could scarcely be conceived. Up jumped the fox in front of twenty couple -a clean, bright, beautiful beast as ever was seen; and

"If to his lot some vulpine errors fall,

Look on his brush, and you'll forget them all."

He got well away, and finally beat his pursuers.

G.

THE BARBEL.

ENGRAVED BY J. WESTLEY, FROM A PAINTING BY WILLIAMS.

"TAKE NOTICE. ALL PERSONS FOUND TRESPASSING HERE WILL BE PROSECUTED AS THE LAW DIRECTS.

And on walks Piscator, of course in cheerful compliance with the open-hearted invitation so hospitably offered him. Having once got him there, we leave the stage to him and his soliloquy on the freshwater fare before us:

“The barbel is so called, says Gesner, by reason of his barb or

He is one of

wattels at his mouth, which are under his nose or chops. those leather-mouthed fishes that does very seldom break his hold if he be once hooked; but he is so strong that he will often break both rod and line if he proves to be a big one.

"But the barbel, though he be of fine shape and looks big, yet he is not accounted the best fish to eat, neither for his wholesomeness nor his taste; but the male is reputed much better than the female, whose spawn is very hurtful. They flock together like sheep, and are at the worst in April, about which time they spawn, but quickly grow to be in season. He is able to live in the strongest swift of the water; and in summer they love the shallowest and sharpest streams, and love to lurk under weeds, and to feed on gravel against a rising ground; and will root and dig in the sand with his nose like a hog, and there rests himself; yet sometimes he retires to deep and swift bridges, or flood-gates, or wears, where he will rest himself amongst piles or in hollow places, and take such hold of moss or weeds that, be the water never so swift, it is not able to force him from the place that he contends for."

On such authority we give the portrait of "this fish of a fine cast and handsome shape"-one of the most sporting the angler can put his long rod together for. There is no imputation of pot-hunting or dinnermaking out of him. To the fisher he is very much what the fox is to the hunter-strong and resolute, with a dash of bold stratagem to heighten your sport when once away, but whose glory ends with his capture. Without that celebrated sauce with which the French gentleman seasoned his own father, we would hardly counsel your attempting to eat him. If you have anything of a taste, he will not please you; and if you have an appetite, and go to make a meal of it, he may poison you.

Under these circumstances, we scarcely know how to advise. Throwing so fine a fish in again certainly would not sound well; while as to walking about like another Frankenstein, with a monster of your own raising, without knowing what to do with him, would be equally bad. Very possibly, though, the British worthy who stuck up the "TAKE NOTICE" may make you out presently, and sail down to ask what you mean, after that. Close with him at once; treat the old brute like the gentleman he isn't; apologize-say you couldn't resist-only fish for sport-and press your barbel upon him. It must make him ill one way or the other. Even if he does order it for the servants' dinner instead of his own, it will still drive the vent-peg deeper in, rather than taking off his anger, and send him back cursing soul and body to think he had thanked a chap" who made him a present of his own property.

66

If, however, old Holdhisown doesn't put in an appearance, and there really is nothing else for it, send it to the Sporting Magazine, of course, and so read in the next number of "the narrow escape of the muchesteemed editor, from partaking rather too freely of a very fine barbel, which had been sent up as a present from their highly-talented and justly-celebrated contributor,

THE OXONIAN."