tle. There, now I am fairly ashore again I can gently bring him to the bank:-out with him!

JULIAN. What a lovely trout! he looks like a piece of beautiful enamelled work, studded with bright rubies, and his colours seemed heightened by the bright greens ward on which he lies. What is his weight?

SENEX. About two pounds; but he is unusually well fed, and no doubt has kept that shallow against all comers for some time pastlying in wait during the day for any fly that may sail over him, and at night supping on the shoals of minnows which abound in some parts of this stream. I am acquainted with a small stream which, towards autumn, is much contracted by the growth of weeds, causing the formation of pools, in each of which a large trout lies in wait for everything that comes down. I have seldom thrown into one of these pools without hooking its tenant, and his place is invariably taken by the fish next in size.

JULIAN. I have heard, that in the smaller streams in Scotland, the biggest fish take up their stations in these pools, devour their own progeny one by one, and then, like famished wolves, snatch at almost anything that may be offered them, to their inevitable destruction.

SENEX. A large trout is little inferior to the pike in voracity; but he is not so indiscriminate, nor so rash: the pike dashes at anything, animate or inanimate, that comes near him. I have heard of more than one instance of his seizing the plummet of the angler while trying the depth of the stream; and a friend of mine, while bottom-fishing some years since, caught a perch which, while landing, was seized by a pike, who, however, managed to get free again.

JULIAN. I have known instances of their seizing a hooked fish. This disposition of the pike to prey upon the hooked or helpless fish, is favourable to the troller.

SENEX. No doubt it is, if a fish is in any way crippled, or spawning, it must be an easy prey to its ferocious enemies. A very ludicrous instance of the voracity of the pike was related to me a short time since. A gentleman, in Northamptonshire, was seated quietly in a summer-house, by the margin of a large pond, watching the water-fowl feeding upon it. Suddenly the geese and ducks rose from the water and took flight with loud cries, one old goose making more noise than the rest. A large pike had seized her foot, and in her flight she had dragged the old tyrant clean out of the water and shaken herself free from his grasp.

SIMON. I do b'lieve nothing comes amiss to um. Last zummer, zome o' the bwoys was a rat huntin' up by the bridge, and the dogs started a girt rat, and off a went acrass the bruk, when, jist as a'd got to th' middle, up cum'd a pur o' jaaws as big as a gray-hound's, and down went the rat in a minnit! Owld Iles once cot a pike, and when a aupened hin a found a girt rat, dree callow wablins, part of a good-sized vish, and two other thengs as um couldn't quite make out.

SENEX. Ay, I remember that fish being caught and cut open. The "dree callow wablins" were the three unfledged nestlings of a yellow-hammer, and the wonder was how the creature had obtained them. The country-people, knowing that the yellow-hammer is a careless builder, and choosing a very low situation for its nest, sup

posed the pike had invaded it and kidnapped the young brood; but it is not improbable that some ruthless urchins had been a bird's nesting, and plundered a nest of its callow brood, which they afterwards threw into the river, where they were, of course, soon appropriated. And now, let us sit down and repair this rod of mine, which, in the last bout, showed symptoms of weakness that should be looked to in time. Let me see,-yes-here it is.

JULIAN. What do you use your knife?

SENEX. Yes: it is best to do so at once and splice the parts, which may be easily effected with a length of waxed silk. I am always prepared for such a contingency, and would advise you to follow my example; for, to break your rod at a distance from home and not have the means of repairing the damage, is a mischance which argues against the providence of the angler. See, by carefully adapting the severed parts, I bind them together thus, and the rod is as serviceable as ever.

JULIAN. I shall endeavour to profit by your advice and teaching. You are right in your prognostic of a wet day. The sun is already deprived of half its lustre, and there is a rainbow yonder, which is the herald of wet, I believe, when seen in the morning. What says Simon ?

SIMON. Eez, zur—it's allus a zign o' wet: as we zays in this country

But,

The rainbow in th' marnin'

Gies the shepherd warnin'

To car' his girt cwoat on his back;

The rainbow at night

Is the shepherd's delight.

JULIAN. How lovely the landscape looks beneath that splendid arc, while the birds seem to sing with tenfold vehemence as it brightens. The thrush's song, in yonder hawthorn bush, is delightfully sweet.

SENEX. Yes, he has already breakfasted on the snails which this humid morning has tempted to venture forth. The angler does not find a meal so readily, and I must presently entreat the hospitality of an honest miller, who has before now given me both food and shelter.

SIMON. The dreshes gwoin' a gogglin' afore it's light. When I was a bwoy, I used to find they was allus afore a body, get up when ye would.

JULIAN. I am a little at fault again. Pray, what does Simon mean by "gwoin' a goggling?"

SENEX. A goggle is a snail's shell. The word, though in a corrupt form, is one of the few in provincial use derived from the Norman-French-coquille. To go a goggling is to go a picking up snails' shells-a favourite pastime of country urchins. Simon alludes to the habits of the thrushes and blackbirds, who prey upon these snails, first cracking the shell by seizing it in their beaks and dashing it against a stone. In this way they destroy thousands of the most brilliant-coloured shells, which are always brighter than those the creature has vacated.

JULIAN. Yes, I am told that some of the dealers in foreign shells, in London, have a trick of varnishing what they call a "dead shell,"

so as to make it appear like one from which the snail has been extracted.

66

SENEX. Well, then you will easily see why Simon complains that he was always forestalled by the thrushes and blackbirds, when he went a goggling." You can seldom traverse a green lane at this season without disturbing some of these birds thus engaged, who testify their displeasure at your approach and fly off with a saucy sort of scream.

JULIAN. I believe it is White, in his delightful "History of Selborne," who remarks that the thrush, the blackbird, the woodlark and the willow-wren, become silent about Midsummer, and take up their song again in September. He seems to think that birds are then inclined to sing because the temperature of spring and autumn is about equal.

SENEX. His inference is a very natural one. The robin is a very good illustration of this, for he sings again in the autumn, even when the lime-tree-his favourite haunt-is denuded of its leaves. I have heard both the lark and the thrush singing delightfully on a warm day in January. These birds are moved to sing by various sounds you will often find them swelling their little throats, pent up in cages, in the noisiest thoroughfares in London. I remember a lark, at an oyster-shop, which I was once in the habit of passing, in one of the squalid-looking courts in the purlieus of Drury Lane, which used to sing till near midnight-the gas-light its bright sun in that murky and impure region, and the little patch of grass on which it stood and sang, an apology for its native meadows; no bad type of thousands of the young and healthy who quit the country to toil and perish in an hugely overgrown and overgrowing city! JULIAN. If I loved you less, I should envy you this return to and enjoyment of the scenes and habits of your youth.

SENEX. It appears to me to be the natural feeling of the healthyminded in advancing age. How many affecting instances are on record of persons returning, after a life of almost perpetual wandering, to seek a last refuge in the place of their birth and childhood. Shakspere quitted the company of all that were witty and learned, leaving the dissolute companions of his earlier days to strut and fret their hour, to die in his native town; and does he not picture to us old debauched Sir John, in his last moments, "babbling o' green fields?"

JULIAN. True, true: if you run on thus, I shall forswear the town, and betake me to a country life.

SENEX. Don't misunderstand me. I do not say that London is without its attractions-its antiquity-its noble river-its localities, consecrated by a thousand recollections and associations-render it one of the most interesting cities on earth. Its history is less bloody than that of Paris and other cities of the Continent; and, although it has often been the theatre of violence and cruelty, it has not witnessed the scenes which have rendered Venice for ever infamous; but a couple of months in London, in the winter, are sufficient for a man who really loves the country. See, the storm is coming over us. If you would avoid a wet skin, you had better cross the bridge, and seek shelter in the miller's house, which you will find at the end of the lane. I shall fish during the shower.

JULIAN. As my coat is a light one, I shall take your hint, and

run on to the miller's; but, first, tell me the name of the bird running up that tree yonder?

SENEX. That bird is the wryneck, the herald of the cuckoo in the spring, as the redwing is of the woodcock in winter. We have a great variety of birds in this district, and it is not surprising that they should love such a neighbourhood. I can easily imagine why birds haunt such scenes as these; but I confess I have occasionally been somewhat at a loss to account for our finding them in wild districts, where a patch of verdure is not seen for miles. I remember, when in Ireland some years ago, strolling out very early one beautiful summer's morning in the neighbourhood of Glenties, in the wilds of Donegal, and hearing at one and the same time the cuckoo among the hills, the corncrake in the scanty patches of long coarse grass, the skylark in the air, and the chattering of three magpies in a clump of small lime-trees-the only trees within miles of the spot, and certainly the only ones within sight-at the rear of a house near the town. In this wild and barren region, each of these creatures must have found its proper food. It is not surprising to see the gull, the hawk, the kite, and the hooded-crow in such desolate tracts; but it is difficult to learn how the smaller birds subsist upon them, and protect their young from birds of prey in places utterly destitute of shelter. See, the storm is upon you. You had better run to the miller's, while I fish up to the mill-head, for I have always taken fine fish during a shower.

[Exeunt.

THE BROOK.

BY ALFRED B. STREET.

MID-JUNE is blazing in its fiercest might;
But what delicious coolness here! its flowers
The laurel shows from its thick glossy bowers;
Trees twine an arbour o'er so dense, the sight
Sees the blue sky in speckles; and the light
Dances like golden insects on the water.
The snowy lily, that most delicate daughter
Of all the graceful offspring of the brook,
Stoops to the hair-foot of the velvet bee;
And now it dips, as from yon soft, dark nook
A furrow meets it by the wild duck's breast,
Raised as she launches dart-like from her nest
And seeks yon isle of water-cresses.
Yon gleaming shape, the snowy crane out dashes
From the soft marge where he so long has stood
Poising his neck for prey; his plumage flashes
An instant and is gone. How beautiful

See

Yon sight! the little timid musk-rat swimming
By that smooth greensward the full current rimming;
Nibbling yon plant, then giving hasty pull

To the long vine that hangs down its green trimming.
But now his keen black beads of eyes have caught

My form, and he is gone. Most sweet the purl

Of this small waterbreak, one rising curl

Of foam (a fairy Venus) from the plunge;
Whilst this sand-margin yields round like a sponge
Filling my tracks with silver. Oh, how fraught
With lovely things is every part and spot

Of nature! God hath made His world o'erflowing
In beauty; and with heart and soul all glowing
To Him, our praise should rise and weary not.

THE DECISIVE BATTLES OF THE WORLD.

BY PROFESSOR CREASY.

No. VIII. THE BATTLE OF CHALONS, A. D. 451.

"Those few battles of which a contrary event would have essentially varied the drama of the world, in all its subsequent scenes,-Marathon, Arbela, the Metaurus, CHALONS, and Leipsic."-HALLAM.

"The discomfiture of the mighty attempt of Attila to found a new AntiChristian dynasty upon the wreck of the temporal power of Rome, at the end of the term of twelve hundred years, to which its duration had been limited by the forebodings of the heathen."-HERBERT.

A BROAD expanse of plains, the Campi Catalaunici of the ancients, spreads far and wide around the city of Châlons, in the north-east of France. The long rows of poplars, through which the river Marne winds its way, and a few thinly-scattered villages are almost the only objects that vary the monotonous aspect of the greater part of this region. But about five miles from Châlons, near the little hamlets of Chape and Cuperly, the ground is indented and heaped up in ranges of grassy mounds and trenches, which attest the work of man's hands in ages past; and which, to the practised eye, demonstrate that this quiet spot has once been the fortified position of a huge military host.

Local tradition gives to these ancient earth-works the name of Attila's Camp. Nor is there any reason to question the correctness of the title, or to doubt that behind these very ramparts it was that 1398 years ago the most powerful Heathen king that ever ruled in Europe, mustered the remnants of his vast army, which had striven on these plains against the Christian soldiery of Thoulouse and Rome. Here it was that Attila prepared to resist to the death his victors in the field; and here he heaped up the treasures of his camp in one vast pile, which was to be his funeral pyre should his camp be stormed. It was here that the Gothic and Italian forces watched, but dared not assail their enemy in his despair, after that great and terrible day of battle.

The victory which the Roman general, Aetius, with his Gothic allies, then gained over the Huns, was the last victory of Imperial Rome. But among the long Fasti of her triumphs few can be found that, for their importance and ultimate benefit to mankind, are comparable with this expiring effort of her arms. It did not, indeed, open to her any new career of conquest,-it did not consolidate the relics of her power, it did not turn the rapid ebb of her fortunes. The mission of Imperial Rome was, in truth, already accomplished. She had received and transmitted through her once ample dominion the civilization of Greece. She had broken up the barriers of narrow nationalities among the various states and tribes that dwelt around the coasts of the Mediterranean. She had fused these and many other races into one organized empire, bound together by a community of laws, of government, and institutions. Under the shelter of her full power the True Faith had arisen in the earth, and during the years of her decline it had been nourished to maturity, it had overspread all the