APRIL, 1842. 66 EMBELLISHMENTS. THE WATERING PLACE," ENGRAVED BY H. B. HALL, FROM A PAINT- ING BY J. F. HERRING. "LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM," DESIGNED AND ETCHED BY LEECH, CONTENTS. BY THE EDITOR. CHAP. XV. OLD ENGLISH SPORTS, BY THE HON. GRANTLEY F. BERKELEY, M.P. 249 TO READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS. WE shall be happy to receive the proposed Sketches from the Note Book that furnished the paper on the "Combats des Animaux." We are much obliged to the Secretary of the Waterloo Coursing Meeting for his politeness. The Map of Mr. Tudway's country in our next, if possible. The Editor regrets that several communications are unavoidably postponed, from want of room. Such as are not out of date shall appear in the next number. It is barbarous enough to beguile an unfortunate Editor into the perusal of inhuman doggerel; but to require that it shall be preserved and returned to the perpetrators, is the sublimation of impudence. Each Hunting Map that has appeared in this work may be had, printed on cloth, in a scarlet silk case, to fit the waistcoat-pocket, at 33, Old Bond-street, and of all booksellers; price half-a-crown. We shall have a few words to say about Mr. Mayhew's "What to teach, and how to teach it," next month. Vols. V. and VI. bound in fancy cloth boards, and lettered, are now ready. HYDE MARSTON ; OR, RECOLLECTIONS OF A SPORTSMAN'S LIFE. BY THE EDITOR. CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH-PARIS. 46 Nay, was it I who woo'd thee to this breast As in repayment of the warmth it lent? Didst thou not seek me for thine own content? SHELLEY'S JULIAN AND MADDALO. "VOYAGER," says Madame de Stael, "est, quoi qu'on puisse dire, un des plus tristes plaisirs de la vie." The imaginative Frenchwoman never wrote a more palpable truism. As the distance that separates us from kindred, friends, or country, increases, we "drag at each remove a lengthening chain," and when again we turn towards them, with how many anxieties, hopes, and fears, is the path strewn ! In the twilight of a glorious autumnal day, a noble frigate was winning her silent course through the purple waters that the land wind was now first awakening from repose. Every thread of canvass that could be set had been spread to catch the few light "catspaws" which, during the day, visited us with scarce the strength of lovers' sighs. Evening brought the breeze that sailors reckon upon at sundown, and, as the gallant vessel gathered way, a joyous sound was the merry music of her bows, and a sight to stir the heart her wake, as it grew from the semblance of a drowsy brooklet to the likeness of a furrow of mountain snow. Our destination was Milford Haven, whither we bore despatches relative to the reception of His Majesty, whose intention it was to have made that port the place of his debarkation from Ireland. I had the good fortune of an introduction to the captain, the veteran Sir A- G―, who, upon learning that I was about to return to England, offered me a passage with so cordial a good-will that a refusal would have been a discourtesy. All that a poet's dream could picture of a British sailor, was realized in that fine old man: frank, free, openhanded and open-hearted, as if the wild element upon which he lived had absorbed all the harsh, cold properties of humanity, leaving behind a spirit influenced alone by chivalrous bravery and kindness. All on board were busied with their several duties; the quarter-deck had no occupant but myself, save an officer who, with folded arms, paced and mused away his watch. The deep and dreamy stillness of all around was the more obvious from the contrast it offered to the scenes in which the last few months had been passed. There is, or was, a "whirl" in Irish life, if I may so express a routine of excitement that knew neither pause nor relaxation, infinitely more opposed to thought and reflection than anything I have ever experienced elsewhere. In Paris, pleasure resembles the libations poured upon its altars, it is bright and brilliant as champagne, but with intervals serene as when the sparkling spirit passes from the pride of the vineyard. In Dublin, fun and frolic are wild and burning as the whisky which— "Now melts into softness, now maddens to crime." The royal visit, too, was the signal for an outbreak much more akin to ordinary frenzy than the mere manifestation of national hospitality and welcome. With a heart replete with gratitude, and a head filled with far less agreeable sensations, I bade it adieu, and looked my last upon the hills thrown into relief by the crimson light that still lingered in the west. Then rolling a boat-cloak about me, with a gun-carriage for a couch, I surrendered myself to the idle influence of the hour and the place. Scarce had the palpable world faded from my senses, than the ideal arose; smiles its sunlight-peace and joy its ministers. There, again, was the home of my childhood, its old, familiar faces beaming with kindness, and each accustomed haunt fair and fragrant with summer's choicest offspring. But even in visions my spirit was a wanderer; anon, my father's roof was in the distance, and I sought the spot for which my heart yearned. Once more on the lucid river my boat floated in the silver moonlight; again upon its flowery bank stood the two fair sisters. All was bright, and, alas! brief as "love's young dream," for a friendly hand was laid upon my shoulder, and a voicethat spoke of grog and devill'd biscuits "Call'd back reality, and broke the spell." Soon after noon on the following day, we made Milford Haven, and the captain's gig forthwith landed me, as befitted the guest of one who commanded a crack British frigate. To find yourself on the Welsh coast, some twenty years ago, was a very different affair from being similarly situated in 1842. In the former era, the odds were that you underwent a three days' course of eggs and bacon, and an unknown tongue, as the coach only ran twice a week; in the present, you may get an appetite in the morning on Penmaenmawr, and get rid of it the same evening at Stevens's or the Clarendon. Even in that barbarous age, however, the savage population of the sea-board was tolerably enlightened as to the value of money. Having, with this potent agent, |