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Roade, near Northampton, passes an immense amount of first-class carthorses, besides carriage and riding horses, through his hands in the course of a year. The Messrs. Painter, of Bicester; Mr. R. Chapman, of Cheltenham; and Messrs. Haines, of Highworth, are also constant attendants at the great fairs, and ever on the look-out for likely hunters and hacks. Mr. Murray, of Manchester, generally takes a large string of hunters northwards from Horncastle, and, with Mr. George Garwood, does a large business in hunters, hacks, and carriage-horses, in Manchester and Cheshire. These dealers, as well as Messrs. Ainger and Bretherton, of Liverpool, buy largely of Irish horses. In Norfolk, Mr. George Hill, of Serle; Mr. Robert Burt, of Rainham; and Mr. Coleman, of Norwich, have the leading business, which takes rather a first-class hack and not a hunting turn. Mr. Charles Symonds and Mr. Wheeler, of Oxford, deal exclusively in hacks and hunters, but the former seldom attends any other fairs than Horncastle and Lincoln, and purchases elsewhere through a commissioner. He horses Jem Hills and his whips during the Heythrop season, and sends the horses they have ridden up to Tattersall's each May. His stables are well known to every Oxford visitor as one of the most perfect things of the kind, and are quite as orthodox in their management and appearance as the venerable Alma Mater herself. Reverting once more to the North, we cannot pass over Mr. Robson, of Newcastle, and Mr. John Woffinden, of Malton, who buy extensively from breeders. Like the beau monde, the turf, and the bar, the horse-dealing profession has its "D'Orsay," whom it is not our intention further to indicate. The Messrs. Colton, of Eagle Hall and North Collingham, and Mr. Rawlinson, of Brant Broughton, near Newark, are in a very extensive way, and the former perhaps sell as many horses as any firm in the course of the year, a large proportion of which are Irish, and specially imported by themselves. Mr. Nat. Welton, of Breadfield, in Suffolk, is, we believe, rather a middle-man than a dealer, and does business almost exclusively with Mr. Collins and Mr. Cox; and, as graziers of embryo Clinkers and Clashers, no names rank higher in Lincolnshire than Welfitt of Louth, Fowler of Kirton Grange, Greetham of Stainfield Hall, Slater of North Carlton; Bartholemew, of Goltho; Grantham of Stixwould; Brookes, of Croxby; and Chambers, of Reasby Hall; nor in Yorkshire than Hall of Scorboro', and Wood of South Dalton. The first and last named, we believe, take out a license, and graze carriage-horses as well as hunters. Mr. Hall is the master of the Holderness, and grazes upwards of fifty young hunters, and nothing else, annually in the neighbourhood of Beverley. At the York show, in 1853, he exhibited twenty hunters of his own grazing, valued at 200 guineas each, which were allowed even by his critical countrymen to be perfect gems. Lord Henry Bentinck has, exclusive of kennel hacks, about fifty-five horses at Lincoln during the hunting season, and not a few of them have an early remembrance of Mr. Hall's pasture land, from which, in some instances, they have been transferred for a 400-guinea consideration.

DIARY OF AN IRISH SPORTSMAN.

Grouse-shooting! the 20th of August! how those words stir the sportsman's heart, like the cry of a favourite fox-hound at the cover side, or the headlong rush of a cavalry regiment sweeping past at a gallop. No matter in what part of the globe his lot may be cast, whether gasping beneath the fierce rays of an Indian sun, shivering at the pole, or cleaving the waves in some stately ship, "far, far at sea," he can never behold the advent of that day with indifference; old haunts and recollections, gorgeous panoramas of moor and loch, far-stretching blue mountains, and purple heath, keep thronging perpetually athwart his "inward eye," until he feels weary and home-sick as a Swiss soldier in a foreign land, at the sound of the ranz-de-vache. And if, like the writer, his evil stars have compelled him to dwell for many a long year far from home and friends, in the

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how he pants for a breath of the wild west wind then ranging at its "own sweet will," over his native hills, or a clear cold icy draught from one of the thousand streams that are foaming down their rugged sides! and oh! with what an eager throbbing heart, he looks forward to the time when, all his wanderings over, he shall once more take the field in pursuit of that most delightful amusement, to which no other fieldsport (deer-stalking alone excepted) can for a moment be compared!

Reader, are you a grouse shooter? and have you ever pursued your game upon the Irish moors? If you reply in the affirmative, then are we sure that our extracts will find favour in your sight; you would listen with interest while the most matter-of-fact individual of your acquaintance was holding forth upon the subject, and discover charms in an article penned in its praise by the dullest and most long-winded sportsman that ever drew a trigger on the 20th. Your body may be chained to the deck, the gun-room, or the barrack-yard; but if your soul is free, it will accompany us on our road. Should it happen otherwise however, we fear that any description we can write will give you but a faint idea of the exquisite pleasure it affords: nevertheless, if you are a lover of manly sport in any shape, come with us while we relate how we walked like "Christopher North"

"In glory and in joy,

Following our dogs' upon the mountain's side.”

We shall commence our extracts from the evening of the 19th. The sun is setting over the shoulder of Sleavileague mountain; its rays are lingering for a moment upon the summit of the huge "Boulder," beneath whose shadow our weather-worn gipsy-looking tent reposes. The small turf-built cabin to the right is our kennel: you can hear the

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dogs whining and scratching at the door to get free. One old pointer is permitted to remain outside, in consideration of his long services and general good behaviour; he is lying at our feet, dreaming of tomorrow's sport. A clear sparkling musical little stream comes rattling down the glen behind the tent, glides past the rock, and falls into a small mountain tarn, whose depths (so say the natives) no plummet has ever sounded; and as we gaze upon its dark leaden-coloured waters, sallow and motionless as those of the Dead Sea, we feel half-inclined to believe them. On such an evening every loch in the country is alive with the gambols of the young fly. We have watched this half-hour without seeing a solitary ripple there. One summer's morning “long, long ago, we kept threshing its surface with three of our best flies for more than an hour, and were about to abandon it in despair, when with a sudden jerk and a strong pull, away went some twenty yards of our line, cutting the waves as rapidly as if it had been attached to a sperm whale in the North Sea. Curious to see what kind of monster had got into our toils, we put forth all our skill, and after a contest "short, sharp and decisive," succeeded in landing a "fine bull-headed" trout, between five and six pounds weight, with a gizzard large enough to digest the contents of our fly-book, hooks and all; it was our first acquaintance with the celebrated" Gillaroo" trout. We have considerably improved upon it since, and although contrary to the general opinion, we don't much admire their flavour when cooked; they are free biters, give capital sport, and are by no means to be despised for the table when better cannot be had.

And now for our companions. The tall fair-haired young fellow yonder, with the foraging cap, and the bottle tied to his wrist, to prevent its being carried away by the stream (which he has converted into a wine cooler), is our only comrade-a better we would never desire; at home, everywhere, on the moor or in the shingle, the ball-room or the battle-field. Few men have seen more of life, without losing that freshness of heart and feeling which enables them thoroughly to appreciate and enjoy a scene like the present. The little foreign-looking man seated on a rock beyond him, and studying Gil Blas, is our "chef". —a hero of the "Barricades," who was compelled "to leave his country for his country's good," and come to London, that refuge for all the sinners of the earth, where he fell into the hands of an epicurean friend, and was solemnly bequeathed as a parting legacy to us. On that friend's departure for the Cape of Good Hope, where he is now "roughing" it on ration beef and new rum, two things which his soul abhorred, we have never parted company since; nor shall we, until "the old archer's shafts" separate us for ever. True, at times the venerable artist gets restless, and longs to return to his beloved Paris. Nor do we wonder that early associations should make him wish once more to view the scenes of his youth. He has stood beside Napoleon while reviewing the old guard in the "Champ de Mars," and felt the earth tremble beneath his feet as Murat, the hero " of the snow-white plume," went by, at the head of the cavalry of France; he saw the Cossacks bivouacked in the streets of Paris, and was one of the cooks employed by Very to dress the Allied Sovereigns' dinner during their brief sojourn there in 1814. Where are their majesties now? and the Little Corporal? and those "thunderbolts of war," his marshals? It would be considering per

haps "too curiously" to enquire; so we pass on to our gamekeeper (by courtesy), who has been standing for the last ten minutes, shading his eyes from the sun with his hand, and peering at something far up in the glen, which you cannot discern; his costume would not pass muster at a battue in Surrey: the freize coat, corduroy trousers, and rabbitskin cap, might present a singular and perhaps unfavourable contrast to the velveteen jacket, tight gaiters, and smart hat of a metropolitan keeper. Look closer at him, if you have a recruiting-sergeant's eye, and can separate the man from his outer garments; mark the well setup frame, deep chest, and muscular limbs; the clear grey sparkling eye, and knowing intelligent face very different from the stupid sensual countenance which too often distinguishes the English "clod." Scorn him not then, gentle cockney, because a tailor has not made him. In many things he is your equal; in some, love-making for instance, and fighting, infinitely your superior. Turn your eye now in the direction towards which he is gazing, and you will see some strange-looking animal moving about the rocks: it is a badger which he has been trying to capture for the last three nights, and he is now off again in pursuit, with a light bounding step a Highlander might envy; it will be a tight race there they go almost neck and neck. Con Doran is evidently gaining ground, when an unlucky stone trips him up, and he vanishes altogether from view, while poor Bruin scuttles into his hole with the speed of a hunted fox. How crest-fallen the fellow looks, as he picks himself out of the nettles! He wont come back to be laughed at, but shouldering his gun strolls up the glen, from whence the sharp crack of a double-barrel is heard echoing among the cliffs, and in a few minutes he re-appears, with a good-humoured smile upon his lips, and a brace of "graziers" "* under his arm, which he throws over to Monsieur Leroux

to examine.

But the sun has gone down while we have been taking our observations; the short twilight of an autumn evening is rapidly passing away: our friend has disengaged the bottle, and is watching it floating pensively down the stream; the red lurid glow from a half-burned cigar is throwing a strong "Rembrandtish" light across his manly features. What a picture of happiness they present! Yet the varlet "sighs like a furnace" as he flings away the weed, and goes off to consult with Monsieur Leroux about supper. Con Doran, who never sleeps, starts away, with a fishing-rod under his arm, for a famous stream somewhere in the neighbourhood. The night grows darker and darker; one by one the stars come stealing out from the blue sky above us; a smothered snort froin the lake, followed by a splash and a sharp cry, tell us that an otter has found his way up, and is diverting himself among the trout. How soothing, though mournful, is the deep monotonous roll of the surf as it breaks on the strand or thunders against the rocks! How clear and distinct too is the bark of that fox, from the neighbouring cliff's! and how rapidly it is replied to! The children of the night are all abroad. Slowly and unwillingly he seeks our tent, and leaves them to range the mountain

"Till down the Eastern cliffs afar,

Hyperion's march they spy, and glittering shafts of war."

* Young rabbits.

For the twentieth time, we go over all our sporting paraphernalia, to see that nothing is wanting, and, having satisfied ourselves upon that point at last, climb into our hammocks, and endeavour to sleep. The drowsy god, however, is too often like the negro servant-"the more massa call, the more he won't come." Twice have we started up from a momentary slumber, fancying we heard the rain pattering against the canvas covering of the tent, and, at the manifest risk of our necks, descended from the frail couch, to look out. The night is beautiful as ever; and we shrink back shivering, though delighted, to the blankets. Not so the Captain, whose long, deep, regular breathing denotes a clear conscience and sound digestion. Envying him his somniferous powers, and wearied by over-anxiety, we fall at last into a troubled sleep, from which we are awakened by a smart tap on the shoulder. It is Monsieur Leroux. With a benevolent smile, he puts a goblet into our hand, the contents of which we drain almost unconsciously, and in a moment are standing, wide-awake, and in the full possession of our senses, upon the floor of our tent. By what magic has he accomplished this miracle? We shall tell you. A small glass of the "water of life," two lumps of sugar, a little new milk, and the slightest "sketch" of nutmeg, have done it all. Sponge in hand, and dressed like Adam in Paradise, we emerge into the open air, and proceed to perform our toilette at the stream, where we are joined by our friend, who has imbibed such another potation, and upon whom it has had a similar effect.

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A savoury smell of broiled trout and fried ham soon induces us to return to the tent, at the door of which breakfast has been prepared during our absence. It is quickly despatched; and we set about getting ready for the road." How light, to be sure, the guns feel in our grasp now! We could perform any juggler's feat with a heavy doublebarrel-balance it upon our nose, or toss it in the air, and catch it coming down, as easily as we could a cricket-ball. There is six pounds of No. 4 in our shot-belt, and forty rounds of Ely's wire cartridge in the pocket of our shooting-jacket; yet it encumbers us no more than did Vulcan's workmanship the godlike Achilles. Aye, now we are ready to start, as Monsieur Leroux hands us a well-filled flask, and wishes us "good sport." From the green velvet jacket which he has donned, and the jockey-cap, with the gold tassel "pendant," we could almost swear the old man is bound "pour la chasse" himself. Nor are we mistaken. He will be in ambush all day behind a rock, until some unlucky rabbit ventures within range of that formidable-looking duckgun, which seems better adapted for elephant-shooting than anything else. Verily, the great nation" are "mighty hunters before the Lord;" but their game is man. No power on earth, or under the earth, will ever make a sportsman out of a Gaul.

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A vigorous kick from our impatient friend sends the kennel-door in with a crash. The dogs stream out, half-mad, like ourselves, with excitement; and away we go, bounding over the heather, towards a mountain, whose side we must ascend ere the shooting-ground is reached. It looms out awfully perpendicular in the clear morning air; but, putting "the stout heart to the stiff brae," we clamber up as we can, sometimes erect, but generally hand-over-hand, like sailors climbing a rope, until we reach the summit, where we halt for a few moments, to take breath, and sketch out the plan of our campaign. Far as the

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