another hour, and eating a meal between 12 and 1 which was called "dinner," I seated myself on top of the stage for Catskill Mountain House, a distance of 12 miles, during the last three of which the road winds up the mountain, and the whole journey is accomplished in about four hours. We had four horses and a light load; but the pace was (necessarily) so slow for the last three miles, and the stoppages were (not necessarily) so frequent, that I soon got off and walked the rest of the way to the summit, said to be 2,800 feet above the level of the Hudson. The view is magnificent, and one looks down upon a cultivated plain, stretching away in front for miles and miles, and cut through by the broad streak of the river; and here and there are hills, which seem mere excrescences on the great plain, whilst to the left the horizon is bounded by the loftier hills about West Point.

28th. This was a lovely day, more beautiful even than its predecessor, and warmer. In the early morning the valley of the Hudson was bathed in cloud and mist, like a white foaming sea. The inn is a large wooden structure of some pretensions, capable of containing nearly three hundred visitors, and even considerably more at a pinch. Breakfast is at half-past 7, dinner at 2, and tea at half-past 6, and you are boarded and lodged for what seemed to me the exorbitant price of five dollars a-day.

I wandered about the whole morning, climbing one hill, descending again, and so on, and spent a delightful day; and the next morning, after being favoured with a splendid sunrise, I returned by the stage to Catskill, and thence pursued my way in the steamer down the Hudson to New York,

REMINISCENCES

OF A COCKNEY.

BY FORWARD.

No. XIX.

SUNDAY MORNING IN THE COUNTRY.

What a contrast does a Sunday morning in the country present to the Cockney, when he compares it with the one he is accustomed to in his London haunts! If he be a Cockney pure and simple, born within the sound of the "bells of Bow," and living in the close, pent-up streets of the City, his first thought on waking will be as to the readiest mode for obtaining a supply of pure air, and making the most of this seventh day. With ninety-nine out of a hundred of the London 'prentices of my day-before the whirring engine conveyed some thousands of the citizens, at a moderate return-fare, to a score or two of miles from their sleeping-places, and brought them safely back to the nightly roost-the man was the happiest who could trust himself for accomplishing his dozen miles out to breakfast, either on some hired hack, or by the cheaper conveyance-the Marrowbone stage, or Shanks's mare.

In the latter case, the hour of five found him up and dressing for his walk, and anticipating the double enjoyment of a brisk march out, and the breakfast he should enjoy at his arrival, But, should

the morning be dull and the sky overcast with clouds, or perchance a heavy rain actually falling, his mind would sympathize with the weather, and the threatened drenching make him wish that no engagement had been made, and think that another day in the City would be preferable to any pleasures that might be obtained at such inconveniences. The youth who had invested his sovereign in the hire of horseflesh from the neighbouring livery-stables would curse his unlucky outlay. Conscious of his inability to make a display of horsemanship that would counterbalance the disadvantage of a drenched overcoat, and a hat with all the shine taken out of it by the dampness of the atmosphere, he almost hoped that the lady of his love would not be watching for his coming, and that he might be able to brisk himself up and make himself presentable before he arrived at his destination.

A clear, bright, frosty morning was indeed a godsend to the youth who, closely cribbed and cabined, and hardly worked, through the six days of the week, enjoyed his Sunday trip as an oasis in the desert of his life. Condemned to breathe a smoky atmosphere, his lungs became congested, and, unless he took to stimulants, his very blood seemed sometimes to stagnate; and dullness and heaviness characterised many a youth who had in his school-days promised to turn out a bright and shining character.

Against many disadvantages attending the running of Sundaytrains, the opportunity for London's hard-working population to enjoy the fresh air of a bright Sabbath-day may surely be placed in extenuation, although I much fear that many who plead this have not the excuse that it is the only day on which they can escape from thraldom, at the expense of entailing a seventh day of labour on those whom they thus doom to work for their enjoyment.

With the present Saturday Half-holiday movement, and the shortened hours of labour, the artisan, mechanic, and shopman of our day possess opportunities for bodily and mental recreation and improvement which their fellows of thirty bygone years had not; and it does seem to me most selfish that they should require others to work on that day which they claim for their own special enjoy

ment.

But, if such be the feelings of a London resident on the dawn of the Sabbath-day, how great must be his delight when he wakes up to the full enjoyment of a country Sunday morning! Having started by the evening train, and arrived in good time at his destination, he is well rewarded for his journey by the enjoyment of a cosy chat with his relative or beloved one in the quiet nook of some sequestered arbour or by the blazing fireside. A cup of tea, a jug of ale, or a glass of bright wine cheers his body, whilst mutual inquiries satisfy curiosity as to the past, the present, or the future.

The early hour of retirement contrasts favourably with the City custom; and, predisposed by the effects of his journey, the body and mind sink into rest, whose refreshing powers are aided by the pure air he now inhales.

The morning finds him at the window, enjoying the view of the homestead and of fields which, if in the autumn, are perhaps covered with cereals waiting for the garner, The lowing herds and neighing

cattle are gathering perhaps in clusters, or taking their morning gallop around the home-pasture; the fowls are cackling or on the feed; and men and maids are intent on those duties which even the Sunday cannot put aside. Throwing open the casement, he lets in the balmy breeze; and the rich fragrance he inhales adds another year to his life and another inch to his stature. His enjoyment is the greater when he remembers the scenes behind him, and is only damped by the remembrance that he must shortly quit his locus in quo, never to return perhaps, or at best after many days.

Such, at least, were my own feelings when, in my youthful days, I found myself, one Sabbath-morning, at Oddington, some sixty miles from the great Metropolis. I had been confined by professional engagements for many months in one of the eastern districts of London, when circumstances had induced to my being a visitor at a farm in the above locality. The friend whom I had gone down to had his bedrooms fully occupied, but had, in pressing his invitation, informed me that he had provided a comfortable sleeping-apartment, within a stone's-throw of his own.

I had travelled down by the stage to Oxford, and, after dining in that city, had completed my journey in time for an early supper, and an hour's conviviality with my friends. It was on the Saturday I bad arrived; and my host, after showing me my domicile, had requested me not to hurry myself in the morning. Breakfast was to be ready by ten o'clock, at which hour he expected my company; and afterwards we were to walk to the village-church, in company with his wife and another lady.

Retiring to rest, I never enjoyed more the company of my pillow than on that night, and slept most soundly until awakened by the flooding-in of the sun's rays through the window. Having drawn up the blind just before I went to my couch, a full stream of light saluted my opening eyes; and, fearful that I might have overlaid myself, I started up, to find that it was barely seven o'clock.

Throwing up the window-sash, I took in a full view of the adjacent scenery, and beheld the worthy farmer himself in his garden, from which he was overlooking his stock-yard, and watching the cows as they were brought up to be milked. He had a very fine herd, of some thirty cows, chiefly of the Devonshire breed, and made large quantities of butter as well as cheese. Their playfulness contrasted strongly with the usual sombre cast of our London animals; and their full udders promised a rich addition to his dairy.

Casting his glances in my direction, he saw me at the window, and, with a cheerful morning salutation, invited me down to have a draught of fresh milk. Telling him I would be down directly, I gave myself a good sluicing, and donned my habiliments.

Twenty minutes found me by his side, and with a glass of milk (not London mixture) at my lips. I enjoyed my draught of the pure fluid, although he urged me to flavour it with a dash of rum. I promised him I would taste it in his way another morning, and accepted his invitation to walk through his stables, and look at his horses, He had a couple of very nice nags for riding or harness, and some six or eight good team-horses.

We next proceeded to his swinery, where I found about a score of

hogs of the Berkshire breed, in various stages of fattening, besides two or three breeding-sows, and some young porkers. The skim milk from his dairy, with other offal, were hicreby dispensed; and, but little extraneous expense being incurred, his pigs became a source of profit on the farm. Geese, ducks, and fowls of various descriptions enlivened the scene, and made me almost covet a farmer's life.

Returning to the house, I was tempted to taste a rasher of his own curing, as the eight-o'clock meal would not interfere with my teno'clock engagement. I found his wife and young family of a very cultivated and cheerful disposition, and most anxious to do everything in their power to oblige and conciliate the friend of their friend. The younger members were inquisitive as to London habits and fashions; and before I was aware, nine o'clock had come and gcne.

I then returned to my bed-room, and proceeded to dress for the morning. My friend came across for me, thinking that I might have overslept myself; and as the clock struck ten we sat down to the appointed meal. My limited appetite was attributed by my hostess to over-fatigue on the previous day, although I considered I had done ample justice to her eggs and condiments.

When our meal was over, we took our way leisurely to the church, along fields ripe for the harvest, both in quantity and quality. The hedgerows, being unclipped that year, afforded shade from the sun's heat; and a steady breeze cheered and cooled us along our walk.

Used as I had been to the hard pavements and sluddy streets of town, I was highly delighted by the pleasures of our walk to the village-church, and felt more than usually disposed for heartfelt reverence to Him who was indeed the Lord of the harvest.

The lofty and decorated edifices of London worship, with their rich music and large congregations, formed a striking contrast to the low-roofed place of our present worship. The open belfry at the entrance, and the low-backed pews, not then fashionable, arrested attention. The absence of organ-loft and organ seemed strange to one who had been used to their presence; and the choir, with the fiddle, hautboy, and flute, might be supposed to afford but cheerless music, in comparison with the deep tones or soft cadences of the former instrument. But when the venerable minister rose, and commenced the service, in tones which, though broken by age, were impressive from their earnestness, I sympathised with his loving congregation; and seldom do I remember to have been more deeply imbued with the spirit of devotion. The ridiculous (if any), to my imagination, was utterly lost in the sublime; and I followed him through the service with rapt and intense attention.

This, though slightly broken in upon by a cracked bass in the intervening hymn, was resumed when from the pulpit he put forth the simple doctrine of the cross, and, in earnest yet loving tones, warned the sinner or cheered the fainting pilgrim. I was not surprised at my friend desiring I should attend the service, nor at the loving tones in which the pastor was spoken of by his people.

In the afternoon we again attended service; but there was no following address. The children were catechized, and christenings, churchings, or burials performed when required.

The evening found us discussing the subject of the morning's discourse; and a quiet cigar, with a glass of brandy-and-water, closed my first Sunday here.

Such was my experience of a Sunday in the country; and I be lieve mine is the sample of general feelings, when a Cockney is either fortunate enough to have a friend like mine, or to be able to spend his day of rest out of the purlieus of London's famous city.

SALMON CULTURE IN THE TAY.

BY NORVAL.

The salmon-fishing in the Tay came to the end of another season on the 10th of the present month (October), and a bad season it has been for both net and rod fishers: the fishing was so bad for some time before the nets were taken off, for want of water, that the rod fishers fully expected to have some glorious sport towards the end of the season when the river got into play; but they were disappointed, for although the river was everything that could be desired, and plenty of fish in it, they would not take. Some of the best parts of the river were fished day after day, and turned out blank, or perhaps a grilse or two, but the big fish were remarkably shy. Fishermen were at a loss to know the cause; they all seemed to think that there were plenty of fish in the river if they would only "take." There ought to have been plenty of fish, for last season was not bad for breeding; and the culti vation of salmon at the Stormontfield breeding ponds was conducted through last season very successfully, as shown by an able article which appeared in The Field, from the pen of "Peter of the Pools."

the

The usual quantity of eggs (about 300,000) was easily obtained during the latter part of November and the beginning of December, 1866, from fish taken out of the Tay, at the mouth of the Almond, where a great number seem to have congregated, waiting to get up Almond, which, at this time, was too small for even a trout to get up from the Tay. The fish were so plentiful that, at one shot with the net, there were 123 landed; and "Peter" was astonished to find such a vast disproportion between the males and females, there being about ten males to every female. The cause of this disproportion is another knotty point in the natural history of the salmon, which will be hard to solve. Peter seems to think that this may account for so many dead kelts being found in the river at the end of the spawning season, through the retention of the melt, causing discase, and also the males fighting on the spawning beds.

The experiments at Stormontfield have, no doubt, thrown much light on the natural history of the salmon, and clearly prove that to provide proper breeding-grounds will be the chief means of increasing the number of salmon. Mr. Frank Buckland, who deservedly is a guiding star amongst naturalists, says, "In proportion to the area of breeding ground, so will be the number of fish captured in the fishing below.'" Seeing that all the fish required to fill the ponds at Stormontfield were taken out of one pool, we have some idea of what a mere "drop in the