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commonly hard and sharp, and admirably adapted for digging. The bill is small, but its shortness adds to its strength, as it suddenly tapers to a point like a sailor's marlinspike, or rather like the points of a pair of fine compasses when closed. The bankswallow perforates the sand bank with its bill shut, it clings with its sharp claws and pegs in its bill as a miner does his pickaxe, till it has loosened a considerable portion of the hard sand, and tumbled it down among the loose rubbish below. Some of these swallows' holes are nearly as circular as if they had been planned out with a pair of compasses, while some are more irregular in form: but this seems to depend more upon the sand crumbling away than any deficiency in the original workmanship. It always scrapes out with its feet the sand detached by the bill, but so careful is this performed that it never scratches up the unmined sand or disturbs the plain of the floor which rather slopes upwards, and of course the lodgment of rain is thereby prevented. Bewick says that the nest of the Sand-Martin is carelessly constructed of straw, dry grass, and feathers; the female lays five or six white eggs almost transparent; it is said to have only one brood in the year.

DESPERATE STRUGGLE BETWEEN A MAN AND
A MASTIFF FOR LIFE.

HUNTING BY STEAM.

A friend of mine startled me a little by stating that he occasionally took the same horse ninety-miles to cover, and after a day's hunting, brought him home a like distance."Unless you hunt by steam," I exclaimed, "it is impossible!" "Why," says he, "that's the whole secret. I go with my horse on board the steamer at Quebec, and reached Trois Rivière in good time to breakfast, hunt with my father-in-law, who keeps a pack, and return to Quebec by the afternoon boat."Ferguson's Visit to the United States and Canada, in 1831.

SPEED AND STRENGTH OF IRISH HORSES.

The man who rode express from Cork to obtain Mr. O'Connell's assistance as Counsel, performed the journey on the same horse, in a most extraordinary manner. Mr. O'Connell lives in the wildest part of Kerry, and the country for half the journey is very mountainous. Burke left Cork at five o'clock on Saturday evening, and reached Mr. O'Connell's on Sunday morning at half-past eight o'clock. He rested and refreshed his horse two hours, and rode him back to Cork at eight on Monday morning; thus performing, within thirty-eight hours, a journey of 180 Irish miles, on very rough roads, upon the same horse. What say the Americans to this exploit. It resembles the flight of the wild animal that bore away Mazeppa in Lord Byron's beautiful poem.

"TO A WATERFOWL."

By William Bryant, an American Poet.

"Whither, midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean side?
There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast-
The desert and illimitable air-

A short time since, Mr. Somerwill, the proprietor of the Pettington Lime Kilns, North Devon, arose from a little cabin he has fitted up on the spot, to attend to the process of his kiln, and, having effected his purpose, he lay down again without undressing, having over his clothes a smock-frock. Soon after the door of his cabin, which he had neglected to fasten, was thrust open, which alarmed his little dog lying on the floor, and caused him to bark, when the intruder, which proved to be a very large mastiff dog, seized the little animal, and shook it with great violence. On loosing his prey, the little dog leaped up on the bed, and sought the protection of his master; thither the mastiff pursued him, and, placing his paws on the bed, he laid hold of, not the dog, but his master, whom he dragged from the bed to the ground, where he held him for a while; at length Mr. Somerwill caught his assailant by the throat, and regained his legs, but it was with the utmost difficulty he could withstand his powerful enemy. Fortunately for him, a piece of hoop iron was within his reach, which served him for a weapon, wherewith he continued to beat the head of his shaggy antagonist till he had cleft his skull, and finally destroyed him. Mr. Somerwill received no other injury than the alarm and fatigue occasioned by the contest, the thickness of his clothes having proved a protection from the fangs of his canine foe. Printed for Thomas Tegg, Cheapside, by J. Haddon, Castle Street, Finsbury.

Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fauned,
At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere,
Yet stoop not, weary to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end,
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest
And scream among thy fellows: reeds shall bend
Soon o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou'rt gone-the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart
Deeply hast sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.

He, who from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright."

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"Dr. Nowell died February 13th, 1601, being aged NINETY-FIVE YEARS, forty-four of which he had been Dean of St. Paul's Church; and that his age had neither impaired his hearing, nor dimmed his EYES, nor weakened his memory, nor made any of the faculties of the mind weak or useless." "Tis said, that ANGLING and TEMPERANCE were great causes of these blessings, and I wish the like to all that imitate him, and love the memory of so good a man.-IZAAK WALTON.

O! the jolly Angler's life, it is the best of any,
It is a fancy void of strife, and belov'd by many,
It is no crime, at any time, but a harmless pleasure;
It is a bliss, of lawfulness, it is a joy, not a toy,

It is a skill that breeds no ill, it is sweet and com-
plete

Adoration to the mind, it's witty, pretty, decent,
Pleasant pastime, we shall sweetly find,

If the weather proves but kind, we'll enjoy our

leisure.

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As we walk the meadows green, where the fragrant air is,

Where the object's to be seen, O! what pleasure there is ;

Birds do sing, flowers spring, full of delectation, Whistling breeze runs through the trees, there we meet meadows sweet,

Flowers find to our mind, it is a scene of sweet content
From the sweet refreshing bowers,

Living, giving, easing, pleasing, vital powers,
Exhaled from those herbs and flowers,

Raised by the falling showers, for man's recreation.

Thro' the shady forest, where the horn is sounding, Hound and huntsman roving, there is sport abounding; A hideous noise, is all their joys, not to be admired, While we fish, to gain a dish, with our hook, in the brook,

Watch our float, spare our throat,

While they are sweltering to and fro;
Tantivee, tantivee, the horn does loudly blow,
Hounds and huntsmen all a row, with their pastime
fired.

We have gentles in our horns, we have worms and paste too,

Great coats we have, to stand a storm, baskets at our waists too,

We have line, choice of twine, fitting for our angle,
If it's so, away we go, seeking out carp or trout,
Eel or pike, or the like, dace or bleak, what we lack,
Barbel, jack, or any more,

Gudgeons, roaches, perches, tenches, here's the jolly
Angler's store,

We have choice of fish galore, we will have our angling.

If the sun's excessive heat should our bodies swelter,
To bush or hedge we'll retreat for a friendly shelter;
If we spy a shower high, or the day uncertain,
Then we flee beneath a tree, there we eat victuals
sweet;

Take a coge, smoke and foge,

If we can no longer stay,

We go laughing, joking, quaffing, smoking,

So delightful all the way,

Thus we conclude the day, with a cup at parting.

NONE but an out-and-out Angler, we are well assured, can enter into the "Joys of ANGLING;" many persons, it is true, are pleased with it as a mere pastime; accept of an invitation, play with the rod and line for a few hours, and may, perhaps, be induced to have another trial, if they are lucky enough to catch a dish of fish! But to other persons, Angling proves any thing but pleasing, nay, tiresome; and we have heard several individuals exclaim, in the words of the late elegant, but fastidious Lord Chesterfield, who gave his opinion in the following terms respecting hunting: "Do they ever go a SECOND time?" Therefore, we again repeat the above assertion, that it must be nothing else than an out-and-out Angler, who can fully enter into the "JOYS OF ANGLING." Indeed, something after the adage, that a man must be born a poet to excel in his art; or, in other words, that a man must be born an Angler or he will catch no fish; there is such a peculiarity of thinking attached to the sport-a matter of taste altogether, and totally different from all other kinds of Sporting.

An Angler, at all events, must possess one of our greatest virtues, namely, PATIENCE; without patience, no man can become any thing like an Angler; and those persons who

are destitute of this most admirable quality belonging to human nature must give up all ideas of amusement to be obtained by the use of the line and rod. But we have known many persons, within the circle of our sporting acquaintances, who have been perfectly contented with only a nibble in the course of a very long summer's day, much more the lucky chance of experiencing a bite; and who have packed up their baskets with as much coolness and composure as if they had the most extraordinary luck in the world, and have caught fish enough to have supplied Billingsgate Market. But then it is said, according to the old proverb, that " the patient man not only endureth, but he overcometh all things!" Be it so the true Angler not only acts up to the extremity of the above sentence, but he also entertains a further opinion upon the subject, that however bad his luck might have been one day, he may experience better the next time he throws his line into the water.

Angling is most decidedly an art, and Anglers, in general, are entirely devoted to this contemplative pursuit ; in fact, they never appear to tire at it. After the day's sport is over, bad or good, we have found most of the Anglers truly pleasant, and perfectly goodtempered. Neither distance, nor weather, at times operate upon the feelings of the Angler; and he trudges towards the scene of his delight, some favorite piece of water, or river, perhaps twenty miles, with as much ease and indifference as if it was only a few yardscontemplating on the healthful exercise and the enjoyment which free air affords with the above sport to the Philosopher! Yes, we must use the term Philosopher! for such we believe them to be, and have no hesitation, generally speaking, that all true Anglers come under that denomination of character.

In the course of our variegated life we have spent many very harmonious evenings in the company of Anglers after they have retired from their day's sport, to enjoy the company of their friends and acquaintances over the glass, cigar, or pipe, and we never found them tardy in telling their tale, or giving their song, when required to contribute to the conviviality of the night. We well remember we were very much pleased with Mr. FLOAT'S song, who gave the following verses in the true spirit and taste of an Angler :

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The trout, the pike, the salmon,
The barbel, carp, and bream,
Afford good sport; and so the perch
And tench will do the same.

Then to angle, &c.

So let us now remember
To praise the smaller fish:
Bleak, gudgeon, roach, and dace,
Will garnish well a dish.

Then to angle, &c.

Through meadows, by a river, i
From place to place we roam:
And when that we are weary,
We then go jogging home.

Then to angle, &c.

At night we take a bottle,
We prattle, laugh, and sing:

We drink a health unto our friends,
And so God bless the King.

Then to angle, &c.

The above chant having been well received by the company present, and the toast having gone round, "May we float through life with pleasure and success!" Mr. ROD was solicited to favor his brother Anglers with a song to keep the game alive; to which Mr. R. readily consented:

Come Anglers, come, for work prepare,
The scaly-race demands our care;
The tears of morn in rain-drops fall,
Sweet tears of bliss to anglers all,
Bring forth your tackle, bait, and hooks,
The watery world divinely looks!
Come, anglers, come, nor longer stay,
We must, we shall have sport to-day.

See yonder trout, how proudly shy--
But on the stream-king keep your eye;
He must be taken, hook'd ere long-
To raise the smile, and laud the song;
The fly-line plays-the fish bite well-
And who kills most, boys, time will tell ;
Yes, anglers, yes, for truth to say,
Our sport, sweet sport, is good to-day.

How runs the time? Yet what care we
For care or time, while here we be.
Well caught ! that jack prolongs our stay :
We cannot, must not, yet away.
Bravo! that greedy perch too cries,
We must have more, to feast our eyes!
Yes, anglers, yes, for fame to say,
Our sport, sweet sport, is good to-day.

The owl-bird flies the shade-scene falls,
And "home, boys, home," the night bell calls;
There, there to chaunt the festive strain,
And drink old Isaac o'er again!
Great Walton ! whose piscatory skill,
Shall long a place in memory fill !
Shall live for truth's glad tongue to say,
Success to angling night or day."

Upon the conclusion of this song, Messrs. MINNOW, PISCATOR, and BREAM, were asked for the Fisherman's Glee: and after the following toast-" May we never fish in troubled waters!" had been drank with loud applause, the above glee singers commenced:

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The melody of the above glee delighted the company; when Mr. GROUNDBAIT, was asked to sing his sentimental song in praise of Angling, with which they had been so often delighted. Mr. G. said he had no objection as to himself, but he thought there was something too much about fishing," and a little variety might be more acceptable to the company. But this objection was over-ruled by all present, Mr. GROUNDBAIT being wellknown as a sentimental singer of the first class. After the chairman had given the following toast, "Success to the Jolly Anglers!" Mr. G. was listened to with the greatest attention, when he commenced the following song:

By purling stream, in shady dell,
The angler tunes his vocal shell,
And, hark ! invites the fair :
Soft and enticing are his lays,
And sweet of men of sense the praise-
Our smiles reward his care.

Chorus.-The jolly angler's sports we'll join,

And love with pastime shall combine.
Too long has foolish custom crept
Between the sexes-too long kept
Those form'd for bliss apart;
The bottle's rude intemp'rate noise,
The social charms of life destroys,
Which woman's born t'impart,
Chorus.-The jolly angler's sports we'll join,

And love with pastime shall combine.,
The chase ill suits our tender frame,"
Exposure brings the blush of shame-
Indelicate display!

But see the fair, with arm divine,
Spring round the rod and throw the line,
'Tis grace herself at play.

Chorus.-The jolly angler's sports we'll join,
And love with pastime shall combine.

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Chorus.-The jolly angler's sports we'll join,

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And love with pastime shall combine. An encore was almost insisted upon by the company, and Mr. GROUNDBAIT had some difficulty in not complying with their wishes: but, on Mr. Mac Gregor, a bonny Scotsman, being solicited to give his assistance to promote the cause of Harmony, he replied, "if they would not take it amiss, he would give them, for the sake of Auld Lang Syne,' a Scotch song in praise of Angling.' By all means," replied the chairman, "and, in order to give you a little time, I shall propose to you, 'May nothing scaly belong to any Angler except his fish!"" This toast produced much laughter, and was also drank with great applause, after which Mr. Mac Gregor sang the following song with so much good taste and feeling as to claim the approbation of every one present:

An' then fareweel!-dear Coquet-side!
Aye gaily may thou rin,
An' lead thy waters sparkling on,
An' dash frae lin to lin;

Blithe be the music o' thy streams
An' banks, thro' afterdays,
An' blithe be every Fisher's heart
Shall ever tread thy Braes!

IZAAK WALTON, the justly celebrated Angler, was born in Stafford in 1593, but the greatest part of his time he resided in London, carrying on the business of a wholesale linen draper in Chancery Lane. But he established his reputation as a literary character, and he was the biographer of Dr. John Dorme, Mr. George Herbert, Bishop Saunderson, Mr. Richard Hooker, and Sir Henry Woolton, whose lives obtained for him the universal applause or his contemporaries. But the greatest popularity Izaak Walton procured for himself was his "Complete Angler," the first edition of which he published in 1653, and he lived to see it go through five editions; the last of which, in 1676, was accompanied by a Second Part, written by his intimate friend and adopted son, Charles Cotton, Esq., of Beresford Hall, in the county of Stafford. Walton was also brother-in-law to Bishop Ken; father-in-law to Dr. Hawkins, prebendary of Winchester; and related also by marriage to the grand

THE AULD FISHER'S FAREWEEL TO COQUET. nephew of that "first and brightest ornament

TUNE,-" Grammachree."

Come bring to me my limber gad
I've fish'd wi' mony a year,
An' let me hae my weel-worn creel,
An' a' my fishing gear;

The sun-beams glint on Linden Ha',
The breeze comes frae the west,
An' lovely looks the gowden morn

On th' streams that I like best.
I've thrawn the flee thae sixty year,
Ay, sixty year an' mair,
An' mony a speckled Troutie kill'd
Wi' heckle, heuk, an' hair,
An' now I'm auld an' feeble grown,
My locks are like the snaw;
But I'll gang again to Coquet side,
An' take a fareweel thraw.

O Coquet! in my youthfu' days
Thy river sweetly ran,

An' sweetly down thy woody braes
The bonnie birdies sang;

But streams may rin, an' birds may sing,
Sma' joy they bring to me
The blithesome strains I dimly hear,
The streams I dimly see.

But, ance again, the weel-ken'd sounds
My minutes shall beguile,

An' glistering in the airly sun

I'll see thy waters smile;

An' Sorrow shall forget his sigh,
An' Age forget his pain,

An' ance mair, by sweet Coquet side,

My heart be young again.

Ance mair I'll touch, wi' gleesome foot, Thy waters clear and cold,

Ance mair I'll cheat the gleg-e'ed trout,
An' wile him frae his hold;

Ance mair, at Weldon's frien❜ly door,
I'll wind my tackle up,
An' drink "success to Coquet-side,"
Tho' a tear fa' in the cup.

of the Reformation," Archbishop Cranmer. It has been observed, by one of his biographers, "there is so much simplicity, and such a vein of good humour throughout his works, that it has obtained the praise of all parties, from the time of its first publication to the present day; and, though certain quaint passages in it may have occasionally furnished a theme for the punster, yet its moral instructions and pastoral descriptions, in prose and verse, will ever be acknowledged by men of true genius."

The above celebrated man, lived to a fine old age, having passed quietly through the vale of life till he counted NINETY-THREE years, and then dying in peace and harmony with all mankind. He died on the 15th of December, 1683, at the house of his son-inlaw, Dr. Hawkins, a prebendary of Winchester, in which Cathedral his remains were deposited.

The following observations respecting a person becoming an Angler, laid down by Izaak Walton, are well worthy of notice: "Now for the art of catching fish, that is to say, how to make a man that was none, to be an ANGLER by a book; he that undertakes it shall undertake a harder task than Mr. Halls, a most valiant and excellent fencer, who, in a spirited book, called A Private School of Defence,' undertakes to teach that art or science, and was laughed at for his labor. Not but that many useful things might be learned by that book, but he was laughed at,

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