The county of Kent affords a vast number of trout-streams, which are nowhere surpassed in England; and fish of extraordinary size and beauty have frequently been caught in them. Some years ago, at Farningham, (a village through which a noble trout-stream takes its course), stood a flour-mill, the proprietor of which informed my father, that he had often observed an enormous trout in the stream, near the mill-head, and that he would endeavour to catch it, in order to ascertain its real dimensions, as he was very desirous to have a picture done from it. My father having consented to undertake the picture, the proprietor caused the trout, though with much difficulty, to be caught in a stub-net. It appeared of a most beautiful colour, and was finely variegated with spots; but it possessed such exceeding strength, that the assistance of two men was necessary to hold it down on a table while the measurement was made. It proved to be twenty-six inches in length, and weighed _nine pounds_. The proprietor returned it to the water unhurt, for he would by no means suffer it to be killed, but caused food from time to time to be thrown into the stream. This food chiefly consisted of meal and flour, made into small balls, which allured the trout to remain near the mill-head. When the particulars concerning this remarkable fish were circulated, many persons came from different parts of Kent, and even from London, to obtain a sight of it. Numerous individuals now living at Farningham can attest the truth of this account; and, probably, the painting may still be seen at that place. _September_ 20, 1828. G.W.N. * * * * * INSCRIPTION FOR A BROOK (_For the Mirror_.) SUR UN RUISSEAU. Coule gentil ruisseau, sous cet épais fouillage: Ton bruit charme les sens--il attendrit le coeur. Coule gentil ruisseau, car ton cours est l'image D'un beau jour écoulé dans le sein du bonheur. J. J. ROUSSEAU. IMITATED FROM THE ABOVE. Flow, gentle stream, thy course pursue Beneath the shade of waving bowers, Where sunbeams lightly glancing through, The dew-drops kiss from off the flowers. Thy murmurs charm the list'ning ear, And soothe the senses to repose-- No wayward passion rages here, The heart no throbbing tumult knows. Thy waters, as they glide along, Reflect but images of peace, Emblem of days, too swiftly flown, Pass'd in the midst of happiness. Flow on, fair stream, thy course pursue Beneath the shade of waving bowers, Where sunbeams lightly glancing through, Kiss the bright dew from off the flowers. S.N. * * * * * NATIONAL VARIETIES. (_Continued from page_ 165.)