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"Birds" indeed, from the following passage in the "Clouds," it would appear that the bird "had become sufficiently celebrated to form a proverb." Strepsiades says-"Not if you would present me with the pheasants fed by Leogoras." Aristotle, Martial, and Pliny frequently speak of the pheasant. The last refers to it as a delicacy, of which the tables of the great could alone boast. Martial says

"Si Libycæ nobis volucres et Phasides essent,
Acciperes et nunc accipe cortis aves."

Martial also, in one of his epigrams, calls it " Phasiana Colchorum;'
the modern Italians call it "Fasiano;" the French, "Faisan;" and
the old English, "Fesaunt." In our own country, however, there are
no chronicles which enable us to judge when the pheasant first reached
it: we can trace it to the time of Edward the First (A.D. 1300); but
it is more than probable that it was introduced by the Norman followers
of William the Conqueror, to whom the bird must have been well known
in their native country. In Richard the Second's time the pheasant
was esteemed a princely delicacy, and valued at twelve pence each:
and when George Nevile was created Archbishop of York, in Edward
the Fourth's reign, "two hundred pheasants" appeared on the table as
one item in that goodly banquet. I have been somewhat disappointed
in not finding any allusion to the mode of taking the pheasant in that
beautiful work of Mr. Strutt's, on the "Sports and Pastimes of Eng-
land": the bird is once mentioned there, with reference to the term
applied to a brood of pheasants in hawking, such being a "nye of
pheasants" but with all deference to that learned antiquarian, I have
always held it to be more properly "a nide of pheasants," from the word
nidus, a nest. That the pheasant was hawked we are further assured by
Turbervile, in his "Booke of Falconrie;" but it must have been for the
sake of the table, rather than for the sport which such a running, cover-
loving bird could have shewn. Those who require information as to
the best mode of preserving this bird, and doing so without destroying
foxes, will do well to consult first Mr. Yarrell's History of British
Birds," and secondly, Mr. T. Smith's chapter on keepers, in his
"Diary of a Huntsman." Mr. Yarrell gives ample directions as to the
food which should be provided for pheasants during the winter season,
when they are very apt to rove and leave the covers in which they were
bred. He states that in order to keep them at home, beans, peas, and
buckwheat should be sown together, and left to stand through the
winter. The long stalks of the beans carry up and support the other
two, and thus all three together provide food and cover for a long time.
Mr. Smith says
"Where there is a will there is a way," and heads
the ninth chapter of the work above quoted with an admirable sketch,
which "is intended to represent a stoat being caught in a trap, baited
in such a way that a fox could take the bait without being caught by
the leg, as ninety-nine out of a hundred destroyed are caught-that is,
when these traps are covered over, and the bait is on the ground under
the trap independent of this plan of preserving the fox, it is the most
successful plan for all other vermin; and if all friends to fox-hunting
were to insist upon its being adopted, there would not be many blank
days."

66

Mr. Smith's suggestion is no doubt the result of a thorough expe

⚫rience in such matters: but why put such a dangerous engine as a steel-trap at all into the hands of a keeper? Why give him a gun and ammunition, and tell him he is not to shoot? Depend upon it, the work of destroying small vermin and cats is to be done as effectually by placing box-traps in the game-runs, at the mouths of drains, or in ditches by the side of walls or hedgerows, and a thousand times more securely as regards the safety of foxes.

I might be induced, from a love of the subject, to extend

"My tedious tale through many a page;"

but, for the present, I must beg to conclude, wishing the indefatigable editor of this work, and its many readers, a happy new year.

SIMON SORREL'S ADVENTURE WITH THE HERON.

BY CLIPPER.

Less than twenty miles from town is a little village on the banks of the silver Thames, as rustic in its character, and as hidden from the world in its pleasant quietude, as if it were among Scotch glens or Welch mountains, some hundreds of miles away. The smallest of cottages greet you on entering its precincts, and the largest of pumps, with the most impossible of handles, stands in your path as you leave it. There is an inn, bearing the external inscription of "Good Accommodation for Man and Beast!" but no man was ever seen to apply for the accommodation, and it is hinted that the only beast is the red-nosed pot-bellied landlord who, in respect to the consumption of beer, spirits, and neat wines, has no better customer than himself. Opposite this neglected retreat of Bacchus is a Baptist chapel, inscribed "Bethesda;" though what that sacred pool has to do with the little, square, ill-built edifice of red brick, has never been satisfactorily explained, and probably never will be. Being a fragment-though an insignificant one-of the kingdom of Great Britain, it may be imagined that the inhabitants are subject to the Queen of England as a ruling power; but this is not the case. This colony is governed by a despotism, of which the parson is the head, holding absolute sway, and next to whom come the churchwardens, overseers, and parish-beadle, in regard to rank. There are also inferior functionaries in the shape of one policeman, who overlooks the s:nall boys, ensuring morality at marbles, and also in the form of a retired watchman who, though out of office, still exercises peculiar privileges. As we have said, however, the parson is the Nicholas of all our Russias the absolute monarch of all he surveys within our little territory, And the mention of the parson brings us-in the way that ex

tremes meet-to Simon Sorrel.

Simon Sorrel was one of those numerous unfortunates among the children of men who come into the world under such peculiar circumstances, that their reception soon proves to their infant minds that they had much better have stayed away. This periphrasis might be con

siderably abridged, but we like to put things delicately. The father of Simon Sorrel could never be discovered.

Though directly after his entrance into this mundane state the beadle called in all the terror of staff, cocked hat, and gold lace, he failed in his errand. Though the overseers went and looked big; though the churchwardens went and looked bigger; though the parson brought up the rear with a tract in his hand, and a homily on his lip, still the poor fainting mother retained her secret, and it perished with her-for in two days after she died.

This event was a terrible scandal in our neighbourhood for some time. Nothing remained, however, but to make the best of it: so the parson determined to bring up Ellen Sorrel's child in such a spiritual school as should redeem the transgression he had committed in not knowing his own father and with this intent he liberally transferred the expense of his board and education to the parish authorities, undertaking himself the less costly duty of administering good advice.

Before, however, the infant foundling could avail itself of these advantages, the beadle bethought himself of the ceremony of the christening. Now the parson had a theory-old, it is true, but cherished no less fondly-that the character of the man depended upon his name. The profane cognomens of Byron, Shakspeare, and Thomas Moore, made their owners ribald writers: the appellations of Hannibal, Napoleon, and Marlborough, made their receivers mere warlike scull-crackers: it was the holy name of Jeremy that influenced to truth Jeremy Taylor the divine to the sober sound of Watts we owed the sweetness of the Doctor's hymns: so now he determined to give a proof of the truth of his theory, that should confound all sceptics past, present, and to come. "Simon" was the simplest name that occurred to the parson-a very type of innocence; a name arguing the possessor to be gentle as mother's milk; a very saintly name. "Simon" was resolved upon, and he became Simon Sorrel accordingly.

In spite, however, of the parson's "downyness" Simon Sorrel, as he grew up, brought daily discredit upon his favourite theory. There was nothing soft about Simon. He flourished amazingly upon the bread of the parish; but the advice of the parson never agreed with him. It is true he learnt any task that was placed before him with magic instinct. But no sooner was he released from the free-school than he was found up a tree bird's-nesting, or digging eels out of a muddy ditch with a kitchen-fork. As time advanced, he got possession of an old flint gun, which only went off on the average about once in three times when he pulled the trigger; but still, quaint as the implement was, he got his living with it, for he could stuff the birds as well as kill them; and realizing thus a munificent income of fifteen shillings a week from the neighbouring county gentlemen, he asserted his independence, and set the parson at defiance. So much for theories. The parson's sermon on the Sunday after contained a glowing picture of the depravity of the lower classes, which brought sympathetic tears to the eyes of those who were "well-to-do."

In the same village with Simon Sorrel dwelt, in a beautiful little cottage ornée, a young gentleman, who caused quite as much scandal among the higher class, as Simon did in a lower sphere. Mr. Augustus Slapbang was six feet two inches in height, twenty-seven years of age,

with an elegant person, a cultivated mind, as much money as he wanted, and as pretty a little bluc-eyed housekeeper as ever gave umbrage to the saintly. Bethesda Chapel was in an uproar at Mr. Slapbang. The parson called on him, but he got nothing by that except a quiet display of erudition that confuted his shallow arguments. "That creature"Mr. Slapbang's pretty housekeeper-was anathematized at every teatable in our village; but her blue eyes only laughed at it. Her sole revenge was to look prettier than ever. Followed by the most "owdacious" of terriers, and armed with the deadliest little "doublebarrel" in those parts, Mr. Slapbang was foraging about the meadows for amusement and health, from morning till night, and so he fell in with Simon Sorrel. Whenever any fun was afloat-a rat-hunt, a cathunt, or a pigeon-match, Simon had orders to inform Mr. Slapbang, who forthwith proceeded to the rendezvous, and became the life and soul of the sport. Thus it happened that on one fine moonlight evening in September, when the aforesaid Augustus sat discussing a bottle of port, Simon Sorrel was announced, and admitted into the cottage dining-room. "Well, Sim!" said Mr. Slapbang, filling a glass of port for the scapegrace, "what game is up now?"

"Why, sir,” replied Simon, who sat just on the edge of his chair, with his hat in one hand and his glass in the other, "I thinks I knows o' summut as might suit, if you ain't in a 'urry to go to bed!"

"It's nearly time something turned up in the way of excitement!" said Mr. Slapbang: "I am getting as soft as a sleepy apple. Let's see what was our last little specimen of Young England's Nights' Entertainments ?"

"Why, sir, we ain't had much to speak on since you drove the bathing-machine up here from Brighton with four donkeys, and me for one o' the postillions in red!"

"Ah! people took us for Batty's Circus, and treated us to beer all the way through the villages-not so bad, eh?"

"It wur an uncommon game, to be sure!" answered Sim, . and I don't think the race as is a-comin' off next week will be fur behind."

"No!" continued Mr. Slapbang, taping up a small printed hand-bill, and reading-"Open to all Surrey! walking-match-two miles out and two miles in, for a new dress! Every Irish lady engaged in the market-gardens is allowed to compete! The race to come off at two o'clock precisely!' I think it will answer."

"No end o' fun, sir! there's lots on 'em a-goin' in trainin'!"

"Difficult betting on the result-but fill your glass, Sim, and tell me your errand!"

"Why you see, sir," replied Sorrel, "I wur out on the river last night in the dingy a-lookin' out for summer snipes and kingfishers up the creeks, and what should I see about eleven-the moon being full, or werry nigh it—but that ere heron as we saw when we were arter the ducks the other day-there it stood, sir, right on the other bank, straight oppersite! So I pulls as gently, sir, at the boat as if I wur guiding a babby, for to get near the creatur', but just as I rested on the sculls, and got the old flint barking-iron dead on him, he took fright, and flapped his-self into the sedge. Now you see, with your rifle, sir, I make no more doubt of picking him off from this side of the stream than I make of knocking over a blackbird at thirty yards, 'cause about

twelve to-night the tide is low, and the distance not more than sixty paces!"

"Another glass of port each!" said Mr. Slapbang; "a couple of pipes; a twist or two of Cavendish; a box of lucifers, and a pocketpistol filled with eau-de-vic, and the heron may consider itself already stuffed and arranged in my smoking-room. We will go!"

"Servant at command!" answered Sorrel, touching the hair which hung over his forehead, with a respect that the freedom of their intercourse never seemed to impair: "It's a lovely night, and as warm as June by the river-side."

Mr. Slapbang took his rifle from its case, loaded it with studious care, made the arrangements formerly alluded to, consoled the pretty housekeeper with a kiss for his absence (at least, we presume so, judging from a stifled noise which issued from behind the door), and they started together lighted by a brilliant moon.

It was a lovely night, certainly-so calm, so pensive, so perfectly at rest, like a human heart reposing upon a love it cannot doubt. All things were softened down by that September moon, no matter how rugged their aspect by day. It shone upon the village stocks. -resort of drunken clowns at holiday time; but showed nothing save the reverend moss gathered round their base. It lit the tavernwalls, but the shutters were closed, the revellers were still. It lit many a rustic thatch, beneath which slept the villager, dreaming contentedly of fields, and herds, and harvest-time. It illumined the quaint old church with rich volumes of saintly light, that floated round it like the waves of an angelic hymn. It even smiled upon Bethesda Chapel that September moonlight; though nothing issued therefrom by day but groans, and grief, and hideous anathema. Bright and beautiful were its beams upon the stealing river as Simon Sorrel and Mr. Slapbang continued their course along its bank.

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Passing over a simple towing-path for some distance, they at length reached a point where the land jutted some yards into the stream. Here they paused; descended to the edge of the pebbled margin; made themselves comfortable seats among the dock-leaves and osiers, and were soon puffing away at their pipes in perfect tranquillity. The rays of the queen of night made the opposite bank as light as day. There was no heron visible yet, so they composed themselves into an attitude of quiet expectation.

Half an hour passed thus. Mr. Slapbang was listening for the stroke of midnight from the distant village-clock, when suddenly the sullen plaint of some old owl echoed past them it screamed a second time, and then a sound followed from the neighbouring preserve, that made Simon Sorrel prick up his ears like a charger at the battletrumpet

"There's a covey of partridges close by," he said after a pause, "over there in Squire Spitfire's place. I should like to have a bang at them, if 't was only to sarve him out for making me pay fine at sessions!"

"How much did he make you pay ?" asked Slapbang.

"Five shillings for a trespass!" answered Sorrel: "it warn't much, but I had only five-and-sixpence in the world, and it robbed me of dinners for a week or more arterwards!”

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