brooks, all which empty themselves in the rivers.  At the latter end of the year, that is, the spawning season, the large trouts (which are become very loose and flabby) take to the small brooks to deposit their spawn; after which they return to the rivers.  At this time there are, in consequence, many young trouts, which remain, I should imagine, till next year, when I believe they go to the rivers; for during that time I have seldom caught trouts weighing more than from half a pound to a pound, though in such a “beck” as “Cannon’s,” which runs directly into the Eden, I have taken them at all times very large—­and this is how I account for the difference.  I should observe, that at the “back end” of the year, immensely large trouts may be caught, which come up to spawn; but they are generally, when caught, immediately thrown into their element again, as they are worth nothing, on account of the looseness of their flesh.

But to the subject. Trout binning is a name given to a peculiar method of taking trout.  A man wades any rocky stream (Pot-beck for instance) with a sledge-hammer, with which he strikes every stone likely to contain fish.  The force of the blow stuns the fish, and they roll from under the rock half dead, when the “binner” throws them out with his hand.

Night-Fishing.—­I have frequently gone out with a fishing party at about ten o’clock at night to spear trout.  We supplied ourselves with an eel spear and a lantern, and visited Cannon’s “beck.”  We drew the light gently over the water near the brink.  Immediately the light appeared, both trouts and eels were splashing about the lantern in great quantities.  We then took the spear, and as they approached, thrust it down upon them, sometimes bringing up with it three or four together.  One night we took nearly twenty pounds of trout and eels, which, for the short time we were out, may be considered very fair sport, and some of those were of a very large size.

Should you notice this, I may be led to recur to the subject in a future paper.

W.H.H.

* * * * *

A proud man is a fool in fermentation, that swells and boils over like a porridge-pot.  He sets out his feathers like an owl, to swell and seem bigger than he is.

* * * * *

THE TOPOGRAPHER.

AN EXCURSION TO THE RUINS OF RIEVAULX AND BYLAND ABBEYS; AND TO THE RESIDENCE OF LAURENCE STERNE, COXWOLD, YORKSHIRE.

(For the Mirror.)

  “The air around was breathing balm,
    The aspen scarcely seem’d to sway;
  And, as a sleeping infant calm,
    The river stream’d away—­
  Devious as error—­deep as love,
  And blue and bright as heaven above.”

  Alaric A. Watts.