mind to try them, were vain enough to beset the banks of the Allier at a
very early hour in the morning. As they all fished with "flying lines,"
in order to escape the fine imposed on those that are _shotted_, and
seemed to prefer standing in their own light--a rare fault in
Frenchmen--with their backs to the sun; the reader will readily
understand, if he be an angler, what sport they might expect. Against
them and _their lines_, we quote a few _lines_ of _our own_ spinning:--

Now full of hopes, they loose the lengthing twine,
Bait harmless hooks, and launch a _leadless_ line!
Their shadows on the stream, the sun behind--
Egregious anglers! are the fishes blind?
Gull'd by the sportings of the frisking bleak,
That now assemble, now disperse, in freak;
They see not _deeper_, where the quick-eyed trout,
Has chang'd his route, and turned him quick about;
See not those scudding shoals, that mend their pace,
Of frighten'd bream, and silvery darting dace!
Baffled at last, they quit the ungrateful shore,
Curse what they fail to catch--and fish no more!
Yet fish there be, though these unsporting wights
Affect to doubt what Rondolitier[5] writes;
Who tells, "how, moved by soft Cremona's string,
Along these banks he saw the _Allice_ spring;
Whilst active hands, t' anticipate their fall,
Spread wide their nets, and draw an ample haul."

Our sportsmen do not confine themselves to the gentle art of
angling--they _shoot_ also; and some of them even acquire a sort of
celebrity for the precision of their aim. This class of sportsmen may be
divided into the _in_, and the _out_-door marksmen. _These_, innocuous,
and confining their operations principally to small birds in trees;
those, to the knocking the heads off small plaster figures from a stand.
The following brief notice of _them_ we transcribe from our Vichy
note-book:--

Those of bad blood, and mischievously gay,
Haunt "_tirs au pistolets_," and kill--the day!
There, where the rafters tell the frequent crack,
To fire with steady hand, acquire the knack,
From rifle barrels, twenty feet apart,
On gypsum warriors exercise their art,
Till ripe proficients, and with skill elate,
Their aimless mischief turns to deadly hate.
Perverted spirits; reckless, and unblest;
Ye slaves to lust; ye duellists profess'd;
Vainer than woman; more unclean than hogs;
Your life the felon's; and your death the dog's!
Fight on! whil