found in the great lakes and their tributaries, some of which are common to the Eastern and Western waters; some others again are peculiar to this basin-such as the great Catfishes; Siluridae, three or four species-Carps and Suckers; Cutostomi, ten or twelve species-Sturgeon, Accipenser, three species. The dogfish, Amia Colon-the dread of Western anglers-we extract from the writings of a clever contributor to the Buffalo Commercial Advertiser: "The dogfish has a remarkable plate of bone below the mouth, and his fins are green. He is a heavy, sullen fish, frequently weighing from three to six pounds. His body, though long, is rounded and clumsy-his eye is small, his color dark olive, his whole appearance savage and suspicious; no one would ever think of eating him, and a prudent farmer would hesitate to throw him to his hogs. He has great force of jaw, and will frequently snap a strong hempen line. He bites freely at the worm, and resists the fisherman with a strong, heavy, and long continued pull."

It is a curious fact that old Father Isaac has found his best Editor in America. Doctor Bethune has brought to this labor of love great and various learning, an eloquent pen, profound love and regard for the Father of Anglers, and a practical knowledge of the art. What wonder, then, that he has eclipsed Browne, Hawkins, Sir Harris Nicholas, Major, or Rennie?

The origin of angling seems to be lost in the dimness of antiquity. Homer describes an angler standing on a rock fishing, with a rod and line, armed to preserve it from the teeth of the fish. Oppian describes the use of a gang of hooks, and the art of spinning a bait. Elian, A.D. 230, describes angling for trout with an artificial fly. This art. like most others, was lost in the dark ages. but appeared again on the revival of letters; for the first book printed in England was The Boke of Saint Albans (1486), a work on Hunting and Fishing, generally attributed to the Dame Juliana Berners. The American Editor, however, does not believe her to have been the author. Doctor Bethune brings us down through Gervase Markham and Thomas Barker to his, and our

favorite, Isaac Walton, whom some asses have called Sir Isaac !

The notes by the American Editor are very valuable. For instance, that on page 79, on the two schools of fly fishers; the routine, and the non-imitation. To the latter our Editor belongs, in common, as he says, with most American anglers; though he would not reject all the notions of the doctrinaires.

son.

The writer was once at the Sault St. Mary in June. There, where the cold, clear waters of Lake Superior rush furiously down their rocky bed, is the best trout fishing in America. In a bark canoe, managed by two Indians, in the heavy rapids, you may find trout of three, four, yea five pounds. Find, we say; but to take them is another matter, demanding great skill in manipulation, as well as steadiness of brain, and strength of nerve to resist the bewildering influence of the "hell of waters" which ever hurries by your frail canoe. The water was covered with the large and beautiful Ephemera so common in the great lakes at that seaThe fish were actually gorged. The writer had with him some clever imitations of this insect; clever, that is, as to color, for to imitate, to any extent, its beautiful organization, is not given to human faculties or fingers. As might be supposed, the trout, having the living fly in abundance, were not to be induced to take the clumsy counterfeit. They turned up the nose of contempt at it, and lashed it with the tail of scorn. We drew from our pocket book a red hackle, which certainly imitates nothing in air or water-a pound trout, satiated with the ephemera (his stomach and throat were full) by way of a desert, took the hairy nondescript, and was basketed. Our success was not great, but we found that the only fly to tempt the trout then, was something most different from the fly on the water.

We will close this article with an extract from Dame Juliana Berners; which is good advice in other things besides fishing:

"And whan ye have a suffycyent mese ye sholde covet no more at that tyme; which be occasyon to dystroye your oune dysportes and other mennys also."

YOU

OU will excuse me, if, this morning, I leave the temperate regimen of chocolate and venture upon something more substantial, as I have been engaged from Parisian sunrise, to wit, nine o'clock, until now, past twelve (for I heard the solar cannon fire to the delight of the loungers in the Palais Royal as I passed through its garden), undergoing my novitiate as a Parisian. What a trial the candidate must sustain! Shade of Pythagoras, how different from thine! I scarcely know which is the most tired, my tongue, or my legs, or my patience. I do not believe there is a single muscle in my body which is not overtasked; I am sure all my virtues are strained. It was in vain that I

tried to maintain my dignity, the fluid overmastered me, and soon involuntarily I reflected every gesticulation, grimace, and shrug I witnessed during the morning, until I began to feel that I must be attacked by Saint Vitus's dance: my eyes would roll, my shoulders would shrug above my cars, my face would distort itself into a labyrinth of grimaces, despite all of my efforts. I should have given myself up as possessed by the Terpsichorean Saint had not an old remark come to my help to exorcise the-Saint: man is an imitative animal; and not necessarily an itinerate hospital.

My pockets, purse and memorandumbook are crammed with notes, memoranda, and protocols of lodging-houses, for—need I tell you, that when fluent landlords and most fluent landladies got beyond tolerably plain soixante and rattled in my ears their quatre-vingt seize francs and quatre-vingt dix-neuf francs quatrevingt quinze centimes, I found Arabic less unintelligible than French, which I could not understand until I had persuaded them to translate their unintelligible gibberish into 96 fr. and 99 frs. 95 centimes.

And this is a Maison Meublée of Paris, this the enchanted palace which stole away so many of my college hours, whose ghosts now rise before me and point reproachfully to the wounds I gave them! Eheu! The castle in the air has tumbled. The reality has affrighted away the ideal. I shall never dream again of Maisons Meublées. I could not refrain from reflecting this morning, if entrance into one of these abodes demands so great an exercise of talents, (think of a man understanding instantly quatre-vingt dix-neuf

francs quatre-vingt quinze centimes, volleyed from the mouth of a landlady!) from one whose purse is so heavy as to enable him to keep on "the windy side of care,” what vast genius must be exerted by those whose wits are the only purse wherein they may draw their daily expenses. Does not Figaro say as much somewhere? "I was obliged to exert more science, and more calculation to obtain a bare subsistence, than has been expended in the government of all the Spains, these hundred years!" Egad! but I could never hope to rival the lowest porter in brilliancy of wit and repartee; the coruscations of the landladies' sparkling wit and the point of their epigrams I gaze on with an admiring despair. They say there is a God for the drunkards, let's hope there is a whole Olympus for penniless wits! After such an initiation and such reflections, excuse me if I push my expenses to extravagance this morning and test M. Eugene Sue's recipe, and send off care by summoning claret. "Waiter!"

Anon, sir! Anon, sir!" "Waiter!

A dozen oysters, chicken sauté aux champignons. Grave frappé!"

And I soon had the satisfaction of hearing the two first bawled to the presiding deity who reigned below (I don't know the distance, to judge from the bill it must be infernal), and hearing his responsive B-o-n in a depth of tone which Lablache would have envied in his palmiest day. I hope no reader will sayfor, give a writer a bad name and you might as well burn him-that no one can do any thing but sleep after such a breakfast, for that would be to commit a very great mistake and to sully the reputation of our cooks-artists (not mere physicians for all you think) whose greatness is founded on the genius they exert in aiding nature, and freeing man from the vulgar, the menial office of digestion.

*

But let us avoid our muttons, for I want to tell you the attempts made to fleece me this morning, while searching the Maisons Meublées for some place to rest my weary limbs. I am persuaded that twenty years' lucubrations over Saint Thomas Aquinas' "Somme" would not sharpen the mind to a finer edge than the amicable contests with Parisian roomletters. No man should ever venture to

please the court, and throw a client on his country, without having spent one day at the least in hunting an apartment in Paris. To say there is no variety of lie (they draw much nicer distinctions than ever entered poor Touchstone's head), no species of argument with which they are unacquainted, would be to seduce the unexperienced traveller into too low an estimate of these creatures' powers: they are equally at home in every sort of eloquence, in every figure of speech, in every logical formula (they loll in fallacies), their favorite being;

Gentlemen take rooms, or do not take

rooms.

Monsieur does not take rooms.
Therefore Monsieur takes rooms.

Here's the key, sir; only quatre vingt dix neuf francs, quatre vingt quinze centimes. Louise, Louise, get ready Monsieur's apartment. Tell François to go for the trunks. Monsieur must give fifteen days congé, when he wishes to leave the rooms (what no one has done yet except when they were summoned to their country); we have never had other than foreigners in the house (Frenchmen are so noisy) since it was opened, when the death of some near relation (à Dieu ne plaise that such a malheur should happen to Monsieur), and the porter, and the bonne, and the cook, and the water-carrier, and the coalman expect a gratification every month from Monsieur. Mais Louise, Lou-i-s-e, ah mon Dieu, mon Dieu, mon Dieu, who is killing my poor dear sweet Bibi, my own darling little dog. Fran-çois, François! (Your passport, Monsieur ?) and if you are so hardhearted and deaf as to resist their eloquence, figures of speech, logic, and smiles, forthwith they exhibit histrionic talents of the highest order. Cruel man, you have exhausted her. The fatigue of mounting all those steps, of unlocking all those doors, cupboards, wardrobes, drawers, desks, secretaries, night-tables, bidets, water and legionary closets has broken her down, she is almost fainting, she can scarcely speak! surely, Monsieur will not consent that a widow with eight fatherless children, the eldest of whom having drawn a bad number at the conscription is forced to go in the army, the two youngest are at the breast, and the rest are girls, should have killed herself to oblige him for nothing! It is in vain that you urge that the apartments are damp. Damp! heavens, such a slander on her house was never uttered before! Tears start from her eyes to confirm her assertion, (are fountains ever placed except in dry gardens ?) didn't a whole family move over to her house from the

Rue Three Stars expressly because her house was known by all the world in Paris, to be the driest place in town. Too high above the ground! that is the great advantage of the rooms; if they were a floor higher (didn't she wish they were), she would charge, at the least, fifty francs more for them; every body in Paris who can afford it, lives high. Unreasonable price! good gracious! before the revolution, which ruined everybody, she got one hundred and fifty francs more for the rooms than now, and the gentleman who had them, furnished his own bellows. She loses ten francs a month on them at her present prices. Monsieur would not see a widow and family (as aforesaid) starved.

Think of my fighting my way through all this for hours, and of the steps I mounted, and the beds I pressed, and the curtains I inspected, and I am sure you will not think me extravagant in my breakfast, even if I order further a mayonnaise de homard, and an omelette aux confitures.

After I have despatched them. I will tell you, while sipping my coffee, and arranging my sugar in the thimbleful of brandy, in the petit verre, what strange things these Maisons Meublées and indeed all houses in Paris are. They seem built as if especially contrived to give as many spectators, and as cheaply as possible, to Frenchmen while acting their parts in this life. It is quite awful to the Anglo Saxon retiring domestic disposition. Frenchmen, on the contrary, are never so happy as when they excite the attention of others. They long for spectators; they court attention in every possible manner. French houses should satisfy this desire to their heart's content. At the entrance of the porte cochère, is the porter's lodge, with a glass door looking on the coachway, and a glass window opening on the staircase; the porter is invested with full power to satisfy his curiosity about every person who enters the house-I leave you to imagine the use to which he puts these powers! He is the postmaster, too, of the thirty or forty families who live in the house. At night he holds his levee, which is attended by all the servants of the house with courtierlike punctuality. The news of the day is discussed: the comical scene between Monsieur on the first floor and his creditor; the dinner served on the second floor; Mon Dieu (repeated rapidly a dozen times) that people dressed so fine who fare so low as Madame of the third floor, and her kindness to her brother-in-law's second cousin, is made the canvas on which many a commentary is embroidered with occa

sionally a profound observation on the similarity of matrimony and blindness; the Porte's wife, who cleans up the rooms of those people on the fourth floor, communicates a flood of knowledge touching wrestles with necessity to keep up appearances, and the Porte himself occasionally interrupts the conversation to relate some past incident in the rent of the tenants, which illustrates or confirms the remark just made. We have read of the Hindostanee fanatic, who as penance for an involuntary homicide, vowed to spend the remainder of his days on a bed made of nails with the points upwards; I have sometimes thought the total absence of every thing like bashfulness, which is very observable in the French, may proceed from this public life they lead without intermission; those who do not breakfast in some thronged café, or dine in some crowded restaurant, spend every evening in the theatre or at a café, after living in the glass houses of Paris. What privacy is possible when a whole family lives on one floor, separated from each other by partitions of modern thinness? Is not this want of privacy one of the causes of Frenchmen having no home? As soon as the children fairly breathe, they are posted off to some nurse in the country; when they walk without falling, an infant school receives them, which is succeeded by a government institution, that turns out the young man to shift for himself in this great ocean, Paris.

There is no wind but blows some one good. These porters make Parisians the earliest retirers in the world. It is one of the strangest sights on the Boulevards in summer (when they are excessively dull) to observe how rapidly the immense throngs seated on the wicker chairs, on both sides of the right and left hand of the Boulevard, disappear shortly after half-past ten o'clock. No matter how thronged the Boulevard is, it is cleared before eleven o'clock. If you stroll in the streets near midnight, the few persons you meet will be found running home like boys while the school-bell is ringing. Wo to the tenant who disturbs the porter after midnight, without slipping a ten cent piece under the lodge door! The next night he is caught out, he will ring in vain, for, at the least, a half-hour, as there are some rings which put the porter to sleep instead of waking him. These are they which never gratify the porter. Unless the porter be kept on good terms the tenant may assuredly reckon upon losing half his newspapers, half his letters, half his visitor's cards. One day when looking out for unfurnished rooms, I met an VOL. II.-29

old French acquaintance as I was going into a porte coch re; when I told him my object, his smiling face became suddenly grave, and evinced the greatest consternation. You think of taking rooms there! Why, don't you see the porter is tailor? I had not then noticed a small tin sign announcing that the porter makes and mends clothes. The old Frenchman thought me little less than mad to enter a house where the porter was not only a porter but a tailor into the bargain: for, said he, in a tone which bore indications of experience, the fellow will never let you rest satisfied until he is appointed your mender, if not your tailor. He will try his ingenuity to find out petty annoyances which cannot be noticed until you give him your buttonless clothes, or your congé. Keep clear of tailor and cobbler porters: "there's not a more fearful wild beast flying."

But enough of your lodge disquisitions; is there nothing new in Paris? Complaints are as old as Cain, and, if porters were extinct, locks would be rusty or keys easily mislaid.

In Paris the fashions are always new, and I have rarely known them more elegant than they are now. To my taste, summer fashions, from their lightness, freshness, and brilliancy are much more attractive than those which come prepared to war against the winter's vicissitudes. What can be more graceful than the rich light-colored skirts, with lace-trimmed canezous of embroidered muslin? Take care, though, that the bottom row of lace be twice the width of the top, and that the canezous be made with basques. Don't forget to make the sleeves large at the bottom, cut in forms, and trimmed to match the basques; nor to close the front of the body with a row of fancy buttons, and to place a ruche of lace or tulle turned over the collar around the throat. Choose your gloves half-long, and of straw or blue colors. Avoid gold and jewelry of every description (at night you may wear large diamond drops in your ears . if you have them), and let your only bracelets be bunches of bows of very narrow ribbon to match the skirt; wear them immediately above your gloves. Let me describe a toilette I saw the other night in the Opera Comique, which, besides striking me more than any thing I have seen for a long time, has the advantage (as I understood from the lady by my side) of being as well for negligé as full dress, and may be made in any color. It was in pale white glacé taffetas d'Italie; on the front of the skirt were six rows of wide ribbon of the same color, plaited à la vieille, forming six columns, reaching across from

one hip to the other; the middle of the skirt was plain, over which the ends of the sash floated. The robe was high, and on each side the three rows of ribbon were continued, spreading towards the shoulders. The body was open en coeur from the sash, displaying a beautiful lace chemisette; the bottom of the body was terminated by three basques, and at the opening on the hips the sash was fastened under a large flat button; a ruche à la vieille was placed round the basques, and three rows of the same trimming ornamented the bottom of the demi-pagoda sleeves, having, between each row of ribbon, a bouillonné of lace; the sleeve was cut up to the elbow, and attached by bows of blue taffeta ribbon, with floating ends. With this robe, was worn a splendid light shawl, the ground of white tulle, entirely covered with embroidery in white silk; a very deep crimped fringe trimmed the edge. A small bonnet of alternate pink and white lisse bouillonnés; bunches of white and pink hedge roses entirely covered the inside, and some bunches fell from the ears and crossed the head.

Don't mention the theatres in this hot weather, purgatory enough. Although, even were the weather less tropical, I do not think I would go to the Français to see a child die of the croup, in Le Lys de la Vallée; or the Les Plaisirs d' Eté, at the Variétés. The Spanish dancers at the Gymnase are more attractive, and Les Filles de Marbre, at the Vaudeville

but I cannot sully these pages by describing the heartlessness of these unsexed creatures. The physician handles the putrid corpse only when he hopes to benefit mankind-what good may one hope from the dissection of the Daughters of Marble?" And so great were the mischiefs they did, that these isles of the Sirens, even as far off as man can ken them, appeared all over white with the bones of unburied carcasses: by which is signified, that albeit the examples of afflictions be manifest and eminent, they do not sufficiently deter us from the wicked enticements of pleasure."

Will you read me again that characteristic anecdote of M. Thiers, you said you quoted from the Constitutionnel's angry review, of M. Mignet's cloge of M. Theodore Jouffroy?

I cannot find the paper now, some one has taken it; but it described a meeting of the Superior Council of Public Instruction held some two years ago, while M. de Falloux was minister. The princes of the churches of France, the most celebrat-, ed jurists of the bench, the chiefs of the philosophical schools, and the most eminent statesmen of the country were discussing

the books which should be allowed to enter the schools and colleges. M. Thiers bore a prominent share in the debate, and with his wonted felicity and vivacity charmed and (as is also his wont), astonished the audience; for, he dwelt with great warmth upon the extent of the evil produced in the country by the accredited and popular histories of the French Revolution. The rising generation, he urged, were taught there deplorable political morals; odious acts were lauded, and abominable men applauded; dangerous paradoxes advanced, and deplorable illusions excited; measures inspired by an infernal genius, or dictated by a savage selfishness, adorned with the name of liberty, or disgusted by the specious pretext of political necessity. One of the members of the Council suggested to M. Thiers, that he, himself, was the author of one of the accredited and popular histories of the Revolution, whose tendencies he depicted as so pernicious: "I don't except in the least respect my history from the remarks I have made," he exclaimed, with that petulant vivacity of repartee for which he is so famous. "I am just as guilty as the rest; and I don't hesitate to confess it openly."

Is that not characteristic of the nation? They seem devoid of moral sense, and pass through life, slaves, from the cradle to the grave, of blind impulse, without once acting as agents of reflection. Let me repeat to you, what I think is one of the saddest pieces of prose in any lan guage: M. Jouffroy's sketch of his sceptical frame of mind, which the allusion to M. Mignet suggests to me; I spare you an account of his Eloge, which, although written in his elegant and correct style, offends me by its continual and contemptible war of allusions on the present government. I have the same aversion to the stiletto of the Venetian bravo in Paris, as on the Rialto.

"I was twenty years old," says M. Jouffroy, "when I began to study philosophy. I was then at the Normal School, and although philosophy was among the sciences, we might elect to devote ourselves to, with a view to teaching it hereafter, it was neither the advantages that science offered to its teachers, nor a decided turn for those kind of studies, which induced me to pursue them. I was led to philosophy by another path. Born of pious parents, and in a province where, at the beginning of this century, the Catholic faith was still full of life, I was early accustomed to consider the destiny of man and the care of his soul, as the great business of my life; and the whole course of my education had contributed