Still he came back to his favourite place, and I tried again, after giving my friends caution to be on the look out.  This time I was successful, I put my hand gently under his belly, and by a tickle, secured the rascal, by thrusting the fore-finger and thumb of my right hand in his gills.  I got him on to land, my friends ran about in exstacy, and I think I never saw a finer trout than he proved to be—­real Eden.  We gave a shout of triumph, after which we cut him on the nose to kill him.  From tail to snout he measured one foot four inches; but he was beautifully plump and thick-made.  We now began to wonder what caused the blood on my hand, when on examination, we found a large night hook in his side, which no doubt I had touched, and had thus given him pain, and made him restless.  I will not prolong the story, but tell you he weighed about two pounds and a half, and was acknowledged to be the plumpest trout ever caught in that county by the hand.[5] Shortly afterwards I caught the partner to it in the same place, but it was not so fine a trout, and I had not so much effort in catching it.  The largest trout ever caught in this county weighed four pounds and a half, but that was taken with the net.  I have no other recommendation for this paper but its originality.  I have enjoyed the sport, and can only half convey a description of it upon paper.

W.H.H.

    [4] This net is made differently from the other, there being no
    frame to it and having two handles.

    [5] The reader must consider the difficulty of holding a large
    fish with the hand.

* * * * *

THE ROSE.

(For the Mirror.)

  Mark, Laura, dearest, yonder rose
    Its inner folds are sad and pale, love;
  While blushing, outward leaves disclose
    A lively crimson to the gale, love.

  Yet as the secret canker-worm
    Preys deeply on its drooping heart, love,
  Soon from the flow’ret’s with’ring form
    Will all that vivid glow depart, love.

  Then turn to me those beaming eyes—­
    A blooming cheek although you see, love,
  Since hope is fled, then pleasure dies,
    And read the rose’s fate in me, love.

* * * * *

OLD WINE.

(For the Mirror.)

The passion for old wines has sometimes been carried to a very ridiculous excess, for the “thick crust,” the “bee’s wing,” and the several other criterions of the epicure, are but so many proofs of the decomposition and departure of some of the best qualities of the wine.  Had the man that first filled the celebrated Heidleburg tun been placed as sentinel, to see that no other wine was put into it, he would have found it much better at twenty-five or thirty years old, than at one hundred, had he lived so long, and been permitted now and then to taste it.