to Thurso (20 miles) in a pouring rain. Never mind. I gloried in my ducking, for so steadily and heavily it came down, that I made sure I was bringing a spate with me, and should be hailed as a lucky genius. About half-way we passed Loch Watten, an excellent trout loch, of which Dunbar has the permission. The trout here often run up to two or three pounds, I am told; but it is not good until later in the season. At the Half-way house we stopped to bait, and I took a morsel of oat-cake (called here the Caithness loaf), and asked the landlord to share a yil o' whiskey with me. He was another old character, the original of that Highland peculiarity, mentioned in "Auld Lang Syne," as a "Right good Willie wat," Willie Wat being bis cognomen. Willie had been an old coachman, and cracked on greatly about his performances in that line. Speaking of "The Laird "

"An' I touls the laird, Laird,' says I, 'd'ye ken hoo mony ponies 'ave got to brak in the stibble?' An Laird ses, Naw a dunna' An' ses I, There's vourteen kepple.' And Laird ses, 'Sondie, you'll be wantin' a little recreatin. So tak them twa an sell um. An' a tuk em to Lane's. That's the 'pository to Edinbro', and thar a selt 'em for a hundr' poond; an thar a saw Teeger." By the way, the story was apropos of a villanously ugly fox terrier, whose father's name was Tiger or Teeger. And this was concerning the pedigree, performances, &c. "An' a was settin' on a cart. An' ses I till the mon, Mon,' ses I, what'll ye tak' for yon doggie?' 'Twenty schellen,' says he. Hey, man (terrific emphasis, and a sharp accent on man)-hey, man, it'll na fit (emphasis on fit). Bring him till Meester Mockintyre's loginsh, tha fourth flat, an' I'll gie ye five haif-croons.' An' he brought 'em. An' that's hoo a bocht Tiger, &c. Oh, yes, I've driven tandem doon Strand, an roon the Pairk, and Pell Mell, mony's the time; an unicorn, yes; an' a member in yon loch, when the sheriff-that's sheriff-not the Laird, was drooned, an' ad like to have been in the boat that day," and so on.

What a wretchedly poor country it is! Bleak, barren, and naked. Short withered grass, and black moss turf; stone walls or banks, and here and there a ragged bit of thorn hedge, for a great treat; not a tree anywhere. Patter, patter, patter went the rain, like needle-points into our faces. But the little runnels and gullies began to collect, and run down smartly; so that was satisfactory, if it would only continue; but, by the time we reached Thurso, it began to clear off. And as we crossed Thurso bridge, what was my horror, to see that the river was dead low! and not so much water running out at the mouth as would fill a respectable waterbut in a decent given time! But I soon got consolation from Dunbar, who was just going out fishing as I drove up, and who told me that the river fished better when dead low, than when full, and that the gentlemen up at Strathmore were catching their four or five fish a day, and one of them had taken as many as seven but a few days before. We had no flood, and the river kept getting lower and lower for five weeks after this, and the fishing was actually better towards the latter end of that time than it was at first. It is a singular river. With the exception of one part, called "The Rocks," it is a succession of long deep sluggish pools, called lynns, and they almost always hold water enough

for the fish to rise, if there be a good rough wind. Its a capital river to enter a young hand at, or for elderly gentlemen who have a horror of rheumatism and hard work, and is by far the easiest river I know.

I walked up the river with Dunbar, who was going to try a pool or two near the town, which being so near Strathmore, were seldom fished by the gentlemen, who were all collected together there.*

The first pool, which is the widest on the river, is called the "Cruive Pool." There were cruives at the head of it, formerly; but they are removed. The flies were ragged, lean, lanky, nondescriptlooking things, with spare silk bodies, and mixed wings.

first or second cast he rose a sea-trout, of about two or three pounds, but he wouldn't take. Then came a kelt of four or five pounds, which was promptly returned; then another kelt, for they were on their exodus. Then we rose a good fish of twelve or fourteen pounds, and he wouldn't take. And having whipped the pool pretty well, we changed the fly, and went up to the next pool, and at the third cast the reel rung right merrily, and he was in a sporting fish, who made good play. I took the rod, Dunbar had one of those little fold-up pocket-gaffs, wherewith he chopped at the fish two or three times, and missed it, when he took the rod again, and working the fish into the shore, tailed him up on the shelving rock. It was a fine, well-coloured fish of 11lbs. Five minutes afterwards he was fast in another, which got off, owing, I fancied, to his playing him too heavily. After this, we walked up to a pretty little pool, called "The Commissary," but did nothing there; so we returned to the Cruive pool, and caught two or three more kelts, and so home. A queer little town is Thurso, called by the Scots "Threshaw," with a tolerably comfortable hotel, which was at that time held by Dunbar himself.

The principal objects of attraction are Thurso Castle, the seat of Sir G. Sinclair, and Thurso Pump, which is probably one of the most remarkable pumps in the universe. It's a kind of round-house, and the handle sticks out of a sort of first-storey window. You pump away at the side of the house, and the water comes like a leet through a trough, out of what one may call a little front door. The queerest pump! A gem of pump! I fell in love with that pump; made a sketch of it, and used to go and see it every morning and evening while I was at Thurso. For it wasn't a pump exactly; but a typification of some pumpish deity, a temple erected to the Divinity of pumps. It was the Great Mogul, Cham, or Llama of all the pumps. "Let us see your idea of a pump, now," said Mr. Pecksniff to Martin Chuzzlewit. How astonished he'd have been, if Martin had struck out the idea of Thurso pump!

The next day was Sunday. I could not go on to Strathmore, as there was no bed ready for me; so I stayed at Thurso, and went to church. I noticed two remarkable old plates for voluntary donations, on the rims of which were carved "Kirk of Thurso, 1790,"

* Strathmore is a shooting lodge at the head of the river, some 18 miles off; but there is a better arrangement now. For Brawl Castle, which is now the head quarters, and was building then, is about midway.

and dropping my mite into them, I got within the church, which was the coldest I ever was in. Indeed, owing to the cold, and the length of the service, I got a severe cold, which I did not get rid of for a week or two. The repetition and tautology of the whole affair rendered it rather wearisome likewise.

(To be continued.)

ANGLING NEAR AND AROUND LONDON.

BY A SEPTUAGENARIAN.

There are many individuals residing in this metropolis, who have scarcely an opportunity of visiting the country, with a view to enjoy a piscatorial excursion, as the years roll on. Their labours are limited to the desk or counter dispensation of commercial business, and although in their early days they have probably been accustomed to traverse pleasantly by the side of rural streams, intersecting the green and refreshing aspect of the meads, yet the urgent duties of a mercantile course of life prohibit them from going far a-field, to pursue that recreation so ardent in the feelings and expressions of good Izaak Walton of old. I am acquainted with one of the most attached devotees to the exercise of the rod and line, now living in the metropolis, who has survived his seventy-sixth year, and the passion for his favourite pastime is still so strong and fervent in him that he is, annually, on the first day of May, in each succeeding year, accustomed invariably to invite a few Waltonian friends to dine with him (nearly as old as himself), and recount over the cheerful glass the many happy past hours each and all have experienced in carrying out the measures of their delight in the art and practice of angling. The veteran octogenarian, still full of life and vigour, looks upon the return of spring as a resuscitation of his former delights, and a joyful rehearsal of his past piscatorial events inspires him with a vigorous anticipation of the enjoyment of his angling pursuits on the anniversary of his hospitable entertainment.

London and its neighbourhood, he has observed, are not what they were from fifty to sixty years ago. A good country walk out of town in the jocund month of May did more good to a man who had been confined closely in a caged room during the winter, than all the medicine that, if swallowed, could be prescribed to him by a physician. "Many a time in early morn have I" (observed the old gentleman) "left Bridge-street, Blackfriars, with rod in hand, provided at the same time with a tin box of purged brandlings, and a ready complement of gentles, so early as three o'clock, to visit the little brooklet known as the Brent, which wends its rippling waters through the quiet village of Finchley, six miles from London, to amuse myself with a day's gudgeon fishing. At that period of time this piece of water contained some very fine perch,

dace, chub, gudgeon, stone loach, miller's thumbs, ruffs, or popes, &c. I have also taken some very fine silver eels from this brook, and occasionally, a tolerably-sized basket of well-conditioned jack. The Brent, eventually communicating with Father Thames at the town of Brentford, receives into its waters such classes of fish as are to be met with in our great metropolitan estuary, and as there are many extensive ponds. in the several localities through which the Brent wends its course, well furnished with carp, tench, roach, and other varieties of finny stock, strictly preserved, it happens that periodically, when the floods occur in the above neighbourhoods, great quantities of these fish escape into the gulleys intersecting the meadows, and ultimately being washed down into the lowlands, find a new and grateful habitation in the running water of the Brent.

"Few, very few persons, 50 years ago, were accustomed to haunt the above obscure spot in pursuit of a day's angling, and therefore the finny localities were rarely disturbed, and moreover, at the distance of time to which I allude, Finchley Common, which comprised some hundred acres of waste ground, the whole of which is now in a state of cultivation, was in existence, and the population of Finchley was then exceedingly limited. A few cowherd's or shepherd's boys might, perhaps, try their unskilled hands in an attempt to hook a minnow or a gudgeon, furnished with a rudelycut hazel-stick, which served as a rod, and a crooked pin that substituted the place of a hook; but no efforts beyond the latter were used at these times by the inhabitants of the neighbourhood, to capture the fish that tenanted Dollice Brook (for such was the name it then went under). When I arrived at Finchley, I was accustomed to enter a hospitable habitation on the left-hand side of the high road to Barnet, well known as the Green Man Inn, nearly opposite which stood, and stands to this day, a venerable looking oak, which, after having survived some centuries, is now in the last sad stages of decay. This monarch of the above farfamed wilderness (still received under the distinctive appellation of Finchley Common) is the only tree of its kind, out of many, which has survived the general wreck of time and circumstances. When the Commons

Enclosure Act came into operation some forty years since, this heretofore unprofitable and extensive tract of territory was brought into a state of cultivation, and the numerous varied features in its timbercomplexioned countenance were effaced, in order to make room for the operations of the plough and the harrow.

"Legendary and oral tradition would lend its voice towards assuring us that the oak under consideration furnished a nocturnal covert, in days gone by, to the many desperate highwaymen who at that period of time infested the Great North Road between London and the town of Barnet, among whom was included the notorious Dick Turpin, whose name and character are too well known to need a comment of mine in this place; indeed, the above isolated tree has been accustomed for generations past, and still continues to bear the name of Turpin's Oak. It was propinquent to this spot that the late Mr. Nuthall, the Ranger of Enfield Chase, and solicitor to the East India Company, was one night, whilst proceeding from Hadley to London, attacked by two highwaymen. Being seated in his carriage, provided with fire-arms, he resisted their attack upon his person, and shot one of them dead upon the spot. This

remarkable tree was about forty-five years ago struck by lightning, since which time it has been gradually degenerating into a state of decay.

'The withered oak its crest uprears,

Which, scathed by lightning's power,
Frets in the majesty of years,

Nor heeds the quickening shower.'

"Here it was that I used to sit down to recruit myself after my agreeable walk through the Highgate Woodlands, my ears being saluted throughout my solitary journey with the blithesome notes of numerous warbling nightingales, occasionally interrupted by the blackbird's more lusty song, and the plaintive monotonous intonations of the sylvan sheltered wood-pigeon. Here it was that I, having finished my morning meal, adjusted my fishing tackle, examined my baits, and having observed all to be correct, started off to Dollice Brook about a quarter of a mile off, to pursue my favourite pastime for the rest of the day.

"The usual locus chosen for the commencement of wetting my line was at the termination of the road which leads through the village to the hamlet of Hendon, leaving the inn known as the King of Prussia to the left. There was an extent of green waste pasture land that was neared by the rivulet at this spot, which hereabout contained many holes, varying from five to seven feet in depth. These recesses abounded in perch and gudgeon, and both of these fish arrived at a large size. I have taken (fifty-two years ago) out of these holes gudgeon that have weighed very little short of a quarter of a pound each, which is a rare incident attendant upon the above fish. Perch I have captured also, that have exceeded two pounds in weight. Continuing to fish down the stream towards Hendon, I have had occasion to pass a broad sheet of water formed by the Brent, and skirting a small park or paddock, (the estate is now the property of Lord Tenterden). This basin or lake is well furnished with dace and chub, indeed the largest fish of the latter description I ever secured was out of this reservoir. I struck it with a No. 6 hook whilst angling for dace; and upon landing it, I guessed its weight to have been five pounds, but on being placed in the scales, on my road home, it exceeded that weight by one pound one ounce. But times are much altered since those I speak of; nevertheless there is still good fishing now-a-days in the river Brent, as you shall hear."

The Hendon road now intersects the meadows here, and a bridge is constructed over the Brent, the arch of which is shielded by a strong iron grating on the paddock side, to prevent the possibility of the fish enigrating from his Lordship's estate. All the way on to Hendon the brook flows under hedge-rows, in some places not exceeding two inches in depth, but abounding occasionally in deep pits or holes, which contain some fair-sized chub and gudgeon.

One fine day during the month of June, in the summer of 1855, I took the advantage of a Finchley 'buss, which started from Scotland Yard, Charing Cross, and repaired on wheels (for my legs would not carry me) to my favourite fishing spot. I made up my mind to proceed as low down the stream as Hanwell near Ealing. Baiting my hooks all the way with brandlings and gentles, and the weather being somewhat cloudy, with a south-west wind prevailing, I experienced far better sport than I calculated upon. I contrived to take seven dozen of gudgeon,