with a country booby who could neither read nor write. For this reason Nick Muggins, the postboy, was a great favourite with him. Our worthy baronet could not see the use of reading, and he thought it a great piece of affectation for country gentlemen to have libraries. His own books, for he had a few, were huddled together in a light closet, where he kept his guns and sporting tackle. There was a Lady Aimwell, wife to Sir George; but this lady was a piece of still life, of whom the neighbours knew nothing, and for whom her husband cared nothing.

Everybody in the neighbourhood remembers the impressive admonition which Sir George gave to an old man who was convicted at the quarter sessions of having a bit of string in his pocket, and therefore strongly suspected of a design of a malicious nature against the game.

"John Carter," said the worthy baronet, "let me address to you a few words on the sin of poaching. Poaching, John Carter—is—is a sin of which too many are guilty, owing to the lenity of our most excellent laws. I think that if everybody thought, as I think, of the moral heinousness of this offence, nobody would be guilty of it. Poaching is not yet made felony; but there is no saying how soon it may be made so, if the crime be persisted in. It is a moral offence of the greatest enormity, and is one of those crying, national sins, which may one day or other bring down the vengeance of heaven on our guilty country. Now, John Carter, if you go to gaol for six months, I hope the tread-mill and the chaplain will work a thorough reformation in your morals."

Of course the contact of Sir George with such a man as Kipperson, affords great merriment: ex. gr. part of a dinner scene at Neverden Hall:—

Now Peter was a very literary man, who thought there was nothing worth living for but science and literature; and having somewhere read that it was impossible to take shelter in a shower of rain with such a man as Burke, without discovering him to be a man of genius, Peter was desirous of continually showing off, and was instant in season and out of season. Therefore when sitting at the table of the worthy baronet, he assailed the magistrate with various scientific subjects, but all to no purpose; there was no response from his worthy host. Endeavouring to adapt himself to the moderate talents and circumscribed reading of the baronet, he next started the subject of novels and novel reading, taking care to insinuate that, though Sir George might not read the trash of circulating libraries, he might be acquainted with some of our best novels. To this at last the baronet replied—"Oh, yes; I remember many years ago reading a novel called Tom Jones, written by a Bow Street officer. I recollect something about it—it was very low stuff—I forget the particulars, but it was written in the manner of servants."

Hereupon Mr. Peter Kipperson set it down as an indisputable fact that baronets and magistrates were the most ignorant creatures on the face of the earth, and he congratulated himself that neither he nor Sir Isaac Newton were baronets.

A scene between Lord Spoonbill and one of his victims, whom he meets in his father's park, has some fine touches of remorse:—

Agitated by distracting thoughts, he stood at the park gate, gazing alternately in different directions; and by the intensity of his feelings was at last rivetted in an almost unconscious state of mind to the spot on which he was standing. Suddenly his pulse beat quicker, and his heart seemed to swell within him, when at a little distance he saw the dreaded one approaching him. Had he seen her anywhere else his first impulse would have been to avoid her; but here his truest and best policy was to submit to an interview, however painful. Shall he meet her with kindness?— Shall he meet her with reproaches?—Shall he meet her with coldness? These were inquiries rapidly passing through his mind as she drew nearer and nearer. It was difficult for him to decide between cruelty and hypocrisy; but the last was the most natural to him, so far as custom is a second nature.

The afflicted one moved slowly with her eyes fixed on the ground, and she saw not her enemy till so near to him, that on lifting up her face and recognising his well-known features, the sudden shock produced a slight hysteric shriek.

Lord Spoonbill was not so lost to all feeling of humanity as to be insensible to the anguish of mind which she now suffered, who had once regarded him as a friend, and had loved him, "not wisely, but too well." He held out his hand to her with an unpremeditated look of kindness and affection; and which, being unpremeditated, bore the aspect of sincerity. The stranger at first hesitated, and seemed not disposed to accept the offered hand; but she looked up in his face, and the blood mounted to her cheeks and the tears stood in her eyes, and she gave him her hand, and covered her face and wept bitterly.

There are moments in which shameless profligates look foolish and feel that they are contemptible. This was such a moment to Lord Spoonbill. He was moved, and he was mortified that he was moved; and there was a general feeling of confusion and perplexity in his mind. What could he say? or how could he act? He began to stammer out something like gentleness, and something like reproof. But she who stood before him was as an accusing spirit, to whom apology was mockery, and repentance too late.

In the first volume too, there is a successful satire on the changes of sixteen years in the condition of the people of England—between Mr. Primrose, who had been absent for that period, and the egregious Peter Kipperson. It is quite in the forte of the writer, and we regret that we have not room to quote it at full length.

Such are the only specimens which our limits enable us to present to the reader; but we hope they will be sufficient to induce him to turn to the work itself—and we doubt not—for his further gratification. Digressions occur too frequently to suit the pioneering taste of a certain class of readers; they may serve as resting-places in an intricate plot, but they were not, on that account, wanted here. At the same time, they are recommended by plain sense, knowledge of the world, shrewdness, and harmless satire on the weak sides of our nature, and are therefore useful; whilst their terseness and vivacity will free them from the charge of dulness, or the sin of prosing.

DIALOGUES ON FLY FISHING.

By Sir Humphry Davy.

We continue our extracts from this "philosophical angler's" delightful little book. The present will serve such as are unacquainted with the mysteries of fly-fishing, and interest all who are fond of inquiries in natural history.

Management of Flies.

Hal—Whilst you are preparing I will mention a circumstance which every accomplished fly-fisher ought to know. You changed your flies on Saturday with the change of weather, putting the dark flies on for the bright gleams of the sun, and the gaudy flies when the dark clouds appeared. Now I will tell you of another principle which it is as necessary to know as the change of flies for change of weather; I allude to the different kinds of fly to be used in particular pools, and even for particular parts of pools. You have fished in this deep pool; and if you were to change it for a shallower one, such as that above, it would be proper to use smaller flies of the same colour; and in a pool still deeper, larger flies; likewise in the rough rapid at the top, a larger fly may be used than below at the tail of the water; and in the Tweed, or Tay, I have often changed my fly thrice in the same pool, and sometimes with success—using three different flies for the top, middle, and bottom. I remember when I first saw Lord Somerville adopt this fashion, I thought there was fancy in it; but experience