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Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher; all is vanity.
At the Court of the Caliph, Musa-al-Hadi, lived AlRaschid, a man upon whom the little contemptible creatures of courtiers exercised their paltry wit, whom the ladies regarded with but little affection, and who, during a period of six and seventy years, had been fourteen times banished from forth the presence of the Caliph, and why? because he ever bore upon his lips some unpleasant truth. He but laughed at his banishments: for in the garden of nature he always found himself amidst the choicest society; and fourteen times the Court recalled him from his exile, because it plainly perceived that banishment was no punishment to him, and that, although he could easily exist without the Court, the Court could not exist without him.
In one of those exile-epochs, as he was busied in tracing the path of wisdom, he succeeded in acquiring a knowledge of the language of which the animals make use, and from that moment it became his chiefest joy to listen to their conversations; and often did he discover that they talked far more sensibly and rationally than many a Lord of the bed-chamber.
One day he was observing, on the leaves of a shrub, a colony of those little insects, which are named Ephemeral—so named, because the Creator has destined them to exist only for an hour or two, for they are born and they die in one and the same day—and, softly approaching, he heard they were engaged in a violent dispute. So many of them were speaking together that it was some time ere he was able to discover what was the subject matter of their disputation; but, at last, after the loudest bawlers had cried themselves hoarse, he overheard that their talk was concerning a couple of newly-arrived foreign Virtuosi, an humble Bee and a Midge, and that the Ephemeral were divided in opinion regarding the comparative merits of these two performers—some of them maintaining that the Bee sang the finest bass that had ever been heard in the whole insect empire, others stoutly preferring the enchanting treble of the Midge!
"Happy little people," exclaimed Al-Raschid, " that, spite of the few and fleeting hours ye have to live, can divert yourselves with the treble of a Midge, and the bass of an humble Bee I"
Laughing, he turned his ear towards an old greybeard—one of the Ephemeral—who, perched aloft and alone upon a leaf, thus held commune with himself. "The most illustrious of our philosophers, who flourished many an hour before I came into existence, all have asserted that this world could not endure longer than eighteen hours at the very utmost; and, methinks, they must be right in their assertion; for, when I reflect how much, in mine own time even, yonder great and glorious sun, from whence nature derives all her vitality, has declined towards the sea which encircles this our globe, I cannot suppose but that there he will end his course, extinguish his torch in the waves, and thereby plunge the earth into everlasting darkness—a darkness which must naturally produce a complete extinction of life, a general annihilation of matter. Of these eighteen hours, I have lived to see seven, that is, four hundred and twenty minutes. What a great age! How few amongst us attain an age like this! I have seen several generations arise, flourish and vanish away; my present friends are the children and the grand-children of the friends of my youthful hours— hours, alas I that are long since gone bye—and soon, ah! soon, must I, too, follow them to the tomb. Old M I am, I yet, God be thanked, enjoy excellent health; but still, in the common course of nature, I cannot expect to survive, at the very outside, more than eight minutes longer. Then, what to me is now the use of all my pain and toil? What profit shall I—can I—derive from that store of sweet dew which, 'midst a
thousand cares and anxieties, I have stored up in this leaf? death, fast approaching, will not permit me to consume and enjoy it. In vain have I, in the thickest of the fight, oft affronted danger and death to benefit my kindred. In vain have I, remote from the turmoil of the busy world, oft essayed to frame a wise and enduring code of laws for the guidance and the government of this my native colony—what, although the fond and flattering voice of friendship assures me that I shall leave behind me an enduring frame, an imperishable renown, if, at the end of these eighteen hours, the sun shall be extinguished and this globe shall be resolved into its original chaos? If, indeed, I could be sure that my fame would endure for a term
of forty, or even thirty hours, then
Al Raschid laughed—but it was only for a momenta-he shuddered at his thoughtfulness—for hours or years, men or insects, does it not at last come to the very same thing?
THE ORIENTAL TATLER No. IV.
BY JAMES NOBLE.
From the breast of yen rose, which sweet perfume exhales,
I complained of my absence from thee for a night,
But now to complain I can challenge no right;
For, from thy sweet tongue, which accords with thine eyes,
A hundred glad welcomes unto me shalt rise.
Like Noah, the Prophet, in midst of the storm,
But, alas! to accomplish my anxious design,
Then say—" from the circle of fortune select
Dear maid! if a gale from thy locks shall but wave
* "By this affected, yet lively allegory," says Sir William Jones, "the poet only means that the cup-bearer will blush when he shall present the wine to the guests."
f In these Odes of Hafiz, every couplet in the orignal ends with the same word.
(From the Arabic. J Vfs—by the spring resplendent, and all his blooming flowers— The antbemis like eyes and teeth, and sweet Narcissus' powers— The jessamine of sickly green, who shows his verdant leaf Like some sad swain, rejected, overwhelm'd with love and grief; The anemone in colours gay, like bride in silk attire; And the rain-besprinkled violet, whose odours all admire; With the myrtle, like the down on the cheek of fruitful fawn, And the rose who, armed against his foes, all-conquering marches ou.
A Good deal of talk has been occasioned by the successful result of a wager, which two dashing fellows undertook, to go through a marriage ceremony, and ride through the town in a carriage, dressed in the gay attire of bride and bridegroom. The handsome looks of the postizo lady, and the gallant bearing of her soi-disant spouse, are said to have attracted general observation in St. Vincent Street.
In our occasional visits to the exhibition of Silhouettes in Queen Street, we find that the Glasgow public are at last patronising Monsieur Edouart with something like the liberality which his unrivalled talent deserves. As the number of visitors increases, the exhibition room necessarily becomes the scene of many curious conversations, which frequently owe a great deal of their amusement to the humour and versatility of the artist. The other day, a gentleman, with a lack-a-daiscal look, came in to enquire if Monsieur Edouart had taken the portrait of a lady whom he named. He was answered in the affirmative, and immediately desired to know if he might have a copy. "Certainly" replied the artist, "Name your price, then, and you shall have it," exclaimed the enraptured youth in his eagerness to possess a likeness of the lovely original, who had inspired him with it romantic passion. "Send it to No. —, in i Street," he added as he was retiring; but he was immediately stopped with, "No, Sail' ?"—" What I" resumed the youth in astonishment, "is my offer too little? Guineas will not prevent me front purchasing that portrait." "You raeestek, I will give you the Porto-" at the usual price of duplicates, but I must send it first to the ladee." "Why, Sir, that will never do, the lady must know nothing about it." "Oh! oh! then I must not give you it without the ladee's consent." "Alas !" sighed the love-sick swain, "she has already refused me her miniature, and she will never let me have her portrait."
Till within these few years past, it was the practice in Scotland to execute condemned criminals in the afternoon, generally about three o'clock. In addition to this custom it was usual, in a certain city, called, in the homely language of our forefathers, Auld Reekie, for the officiating magistrate to dine (and drink ?) at the expense of "the good town," after their disagreeable duty war over. On one of these occasions, it fell on a certain honourable Baillie of that city, (gathered to his fathers nearly half a century ago,) in his turn to officiate, nothing lout, for the sake of a feed, to undertake so unpleasant a duty. The day, the hour, had arrived, at which the unhappy criminal was to bid adieu to the world, and the gathering crowds warned the civic dignitary, that it was time for him to repair to the melancholy scene. As he went, it occurred to him that he might "drop in" in at the tavern where the feast was preparing for him and his brother-officials, and enquire what was for dinner. "A delicate knuckle of veal at the fire, Sir," was the waiter's reply to the Baillie's enquiry. "A delicate knuckle of veal!" Smack went his honourable lips, as he called for a biscuit and bumper of brandy, by way of whet, and away he set, his mouth watering in joyful anticipation of the delicious repast. The gown aud cocked hat were quickly assumed, and, with white rod in hand, he stood all impatient for the closing of the melancholy ceremony. The hapless criminal, however, was in no such hurry, but sought rather to employ every moment of the few allowed him, in those devotional exercises which were suited to one placed In his awful situation. The dismal solemnities excited little sympathy in the breast of our worthy Baillie. The knuckle of veal absorbed every other consideration, and he inwardly fretted that so much time should be wasted. Still the poor criminal was unwilling to lose aught of the consolation he so much needed, and which his spiritual attendant was equally ready to give, till at length the Basilic, tantalized beyond endurance, lost all command of himself and exclaimed, loud enough to be heard by those that were near him—" I wish the fellow would be quick, or that knuckle o' veal will be roasted to a cinder. *'
We understand that Mr. Rogers has made considerable progress in the embellishment of a second volume of his poems, to be a companion to bis splendid poem of" Italy."
A poem in twelve parts called the " Maid of Elvar," by Allan Cunningham, is in the press. The scene is on the Border, the time is the early reign of Queen Mary.
Heeren's Historical Researches Into the Politics, Intercourse and Trade of the ancient nations of Asia, is about to be published.
The following encouraging notice to our disconsolate correspondent B. B. we lose no time in communicating, aud we trust it will have the effect of inducing him to quit his anti-nuptial quarters in Willow- Bank, and look out for others in a place with a less ominous name. The lady's request respecting his rent-roll is quite natural, and authorised by the practice of the greatest bustled beauties of the age. We hope therefore he will submit with a good grace, and afford the information required. We have to inform our fair correspondent, that however anxious she may suppose our friend B. B. respecting the erasure of his name from the list of "single gentlemen," he has no connection whatever with the advertisement which appeared in our number for Monday. She has therefore two strings for her bow, or two beaux for her string, and if she misses tying the knot she will have no reason to blame the Council of Ten.
To the Editor of Tub Day. Sik,—I am quite captivated with the description Bachelor Benedict gives of himself, and of his wealth, and I would be delighted to close a matrimonial engagement with him, rather than let so worthy a man want a wife, or such a nice fortune go to build hospitals, of which, there are enough already. I have for a long time, whole two years, been pining in secret for some kind bachelor popping the dear sweet question, and the expressive "yes!" has been hovering on the very tip of my tongue, watching the first opportunity of escaping from the prison house of my mouth. Of my personal attractions, modesty, the ornament of our sex, forbids me to speak. But my friends flatter me very much, indeed, if the pretty stanza in Mr. B. B.'s letter, does not give an exact portrait of me. What then, should hinder Mr. B. B. and myself making a match of it; for I am so satisfied with him, from his letter, that I would consent to marry him without wishing to make more than one trifling condition? I will take his personal appearance, his mental qualifications, his moral worth, nay his very age, on his own word; but I must, for my own sake, first see a faithful inventory of his " long line of ancestorial goods, gear, and chattels," with the value stated after each article. I have no doubt Mr. B. B. is rich enough to leave money to build an hospital; but It is not to be expected that a female, in so important a transaction as her marriage, should take her intended husband's fortune for granted. Only conceive, Air. Editor, what a pitiable object a widow without a jointure is. If Mr. B. B. will therefore satisfy me that, on his bidding adieu to this vain world, "his old brass will be sufficient to buy me a new pan," I will at once close with him, and if you can lend a help to bring affairs to a happy issue, my influence will not be wanting, to send cake and
gloves to each Member of the Council of Ten I am, Mr. Editor,
your humble servant, J. L. Makryvou.
St. Vincent Street, 26th March. P. S—Why does Mr. B. B. send you both a letter, and an advertisement for a wife? Well, well, it only shows the dear fellow's eagerness.
NOTICE TO CORRESPONDENTS.
We have received another Epistle from our London Correspondent, who lately gave us an account of " Hogg in London," which will appear on Monday.
Lines to " Fair Louis" will not suit us. "Hair of the lightsome orey," although it rhymes very prettily with "play" is not quite the hue which young lovers worship.
"Tearing a Love Letter" is rather too passionate for our taste.
TO LET, entry at Whitsunday, that commodious SHOP, No. 76 and 78, in the New Buildings, Buchanan Street. The situation is peculiarly well adapted for a Jewellery or Grocery business. . ,
Also, To Let, the FIRST FLOOR above the said Shop; the premises are well adapted for an Extensive Retail Warehouse.
Apply at 205 or 20, Buchanan Street, or to the Proprietor, No. 3, Carlton Place.
Glasgow, 28th March, 1832.
FOR SALE FIVE SHARES of the CAPITAL STOCK of the CRANSTONHILL WATER COMPANY Apply to Mr. JOHN FINLAY, 9, Miller Street.
21th March, 1832.
Published, every Morning, Sunday excepted, by John Fixlat, at No. 9, Miller Street; and Sold by ,Jobs Wyux, 97, Argyle
Street; David Robertson, and W. R. M'phun, Glasgow; Thomas Stevenson, and the other Booksellers, Edinburgh : DaVid Dick, and A. Gardner, Booksellers, Paisley.- A. Laixs, Greenock; and J. Glass, Bookseller, Jiothsatj.
PRINTED BY JOHN OR J HAM, MELVILLE PLACE.
A MORNING JOURNAL OF LITERATURE, FINE ARTS, FASHION, &c.
GLASGOW, FRIDAY, MARCH 30, 1832.
A DAY WITH THE HOUNDS.
In vain mslljrnint steams and winter fogs
Load the dull air, and hover round our coasts;
The huntsman, ever gay, robust and bold.
Defies the noxious Tapnur. and confide*
In this delightful exercise, to raise
His drooping head, and cheer his heart with joy.
Before our Spectacles were assumed we had our own time of boisterous and exhilerating open-air enjoyment. The Six Feet Club and the Four Feet Club can equally bear testimony to our prowess, for being "between the two," we were an honorary member of both I We never excelled at " throwing the hatchet," " but in putting off," whether a stone or a Tailor's dun, we had then few equals. From archery, to be sure, we suffered more than we inflicted, Dan Cupid always surpasses even the Captain of the Kilwinning Papingo. We were a capital shot. The whole of the feathered creation fled, with an instinctive prescience of danger and death, at our approach; and then, in skating, we could make it Gordian knot as easy on the ice as on our cravat; and cut it too with as little difficulty as Shakespeare's pet character could it " unloose, familiar as his garter." Oar sideboard is loaded with coursing cups, which " have many a time and oft" slockened even the Crumbs at our table. Our brindled b. Zephyr, could outstrip its own classical name-fellow; and, as for our Star, though it was not a Young one, it was the very Sirius of this nether sphere. But our favourite pursuit was that which has been well designated, by way of pre-eminence and of distinction, " FollowIng The Hounds."
In the morning of our day, harriers were little known in this part of the world; and, as for Buck hounds, they were never seen, so that the sport alluded to was but another name for Fox Hunting. We were a regular member of the Rai.ds in its most high and palmy days, and have "fenced" with Mr. Baird of Newbyth, when he was master of the houuds in this "country." That gallant sportsman is now a Baronet, and has left the field, like ourselves; and Lord Kelburne is master of the small, but crack pack, that still hunts over the three counties, whose initial letters make up the extraordinary monosyllable to which we have alluded. When the characters of this new vocable—we positively forget whether we should call them demotic or enchorial—first met the eye of Champollion, on a stray button of the Club— even his sagacity was at fault; for, although he could read the Rosetta stone as easily as any of our readers can do it number of The Day, before breakfast, yet his ingenuity could not fathom the mystic meaning of this odd monosyllable. Even the Brummagem buttonfactors, who executed Mr. M'Kinnun's order for the "article," skilled as they were in symbolical combinations of the alphabet, could make nothing of it, but the "gross" of the order. It was as much a stumbling block to them, as to the English huntsman, who came down a few years ago, and, in a letter to the editor of The Sporting Magazine unburthened the wonder of what " Mr. Hoswell'" could mean by " such a queersome name." We were in the secret—a secret, which we are not sure if all the members of the hunt, who paid their annual twenty guineas, knew—that Raids was a enphonous combination of the initial letters of those
counties which are in their aggregate, called The West of Scotland, or .Renfrewshire, Ayrshire, .Lanarkshire, Stirling and Dumbartonshire; for certain districts of all these counties were hunted—both for foxes and subscribers.
That it should have required the ransacking of five counties, to make up a purse and a pack, will surprise English sportsmeu; but the fact need not be denied that fox-hunting has never been extensively popular in Scotland. As a sport, it has never taken root, kindly and firmly in the soil. Every now and then, in particular districts, it sinks into neglect; but, ever and anon too, it starts up again, as some youngster just come to his estate, returns fresh from Melton Mowbray, or Mr. Mostyn's country, and is fired with the ambition of becoming a master of hounds. The eclat of the visit of the king's son to our pack, and the perusal of an admirable article in the last Number of The Quarterly Review have served to revive our recollections of this noble sport—as doubtless it will those of "the old stagers," who have lately somewhat eschewed the "drawing of a cover." We should like too, that it would rouse up a race of young and high-spirited youths to succeed them; for, sooth to say, there is here at least, not a less costly nor a more healthful amusement for a young man, of moderate fortune, to indulge in. It is true a subscription pack of harriers has been got up, and conducted, we believe, with admirable spirit and liberality, by Mr. Meikleham of Carnbroe; but we must always regard the sport they can afford as secondary to that which a run after Reynard ever furnishes.
The article in the Quarterly Review, to which we have referred, has made it great sensation we are told; but this can only be among those who were not previously acquainted with the subject in any degree. It has astonished the weak minds of half the newspaper Editors in the kingdom, whose threelegged stool and favourite political hobby are the only things they have ever ridden. The article is an exceedingly clever one; but we are inclined to wonder how the deuce it got there, unless indeed it be meant to be an antidote to the late dolorous paper on Cholera which half filled that Journal..
To those who have paid attention to Fox Hunting, the article contains but little that is new. It is written we believe by a Mr. Apperley, who, for a series of years, under the signature of Nimrod was a stated and voluminous, and we must add, very attractive contributor to the Sporting Magazine. His letters on the Summering of Hunters, in that work, served to complete the revolution that had already begun, in regard to the treatment of horses, with a view to bring them into the highest possible state of " condition."
Apperley has, however, been not quite so favourably distinguished by some others of his contributions to the Sporting Magazine. The proprieftiVr of that work— for among all the odd literary anomalies, this is the oddest, that of a lady being sole possessor of the property of the Sporting Magazine—for years kept a dashing stud for Nimrod; a handsome allowance was made him for travelling charges and servants; and he was paid, after all, a price per sheet for his contributions which even Sir Walter himself might envy. These too often consisted of an odd but clever jumble of highlygraphicsketch.es of the different packs of hounds, and the peculiarities of different "countries," as the hunting districts are designated—and of the more distinguished of the riders there, or "toilers," and — handlers of the ribbons," upon the road, mixed up with an eternal toadying of those who had done him good service, in the shape of a week's grub and claret, or the present of a hunter. But, with all their faults, these papers for seven years have, formed the chief attraction of old Pittman's work.
A "split" has taken place between parties who were of so much use to each other; and the "New Sporting Magazine" has started up, and is conducted with very great talent indeed. To it, Apperley cannot directly write; for he is under indenture to contribute on no sporting subject but to the old one; and yet we think, we can trace his pen in more articles than the one in last number of the new, defending himself, and dated at Boulogne, whither he has gone, for the benefit of his health and his creditors!
We cannot guess how the Quarterly got hold of him as a contributor; but, suffice it to say, that he has furnished that Journal with an exceedingly quotable article; and that Mr. Murray knows full well, is, for all purposes of publicity and consequent profit, better than the best.
We have made this a somewhat long introduction to a quotation we mean to make from it, well-deserving of the title we have given to this article. It paints in a most vivid manner, a Day with the Hounds, in the finest country in the world, and we have no doubt, that to every one who has leapt from his couch, at the call of " shrill Chanticleer," to bestride a hunter, will thank us for it.
"To describe a run with foxhounds is not an easy task; but, to make the attempt with any other county than Leicestershire in our eye, would be giving a chance away. Let us then suppose ourselres at Ashby Pasture, in the Quorn country, with Mr. Usbaldeston'shounds. Let us also indulge ourselves with a fine morning, in the first week of February, and at least two hundred well-mounted men by the cover's side. Time being called—say a quarter past eleven, nearly our great-grandfather's dinner hour—the hounds approach the furze-brake, or the gorse, as it is called in that region. 'Hark in, hark /' with a slight cheer, and perhaps one wave of his cap, says Mr. Osbaldeston, who has long hunted his own pack, and in an instant he has not a hound at his horse's heels. In a very short time the gorse appears shaken in various parts of the cover—apparently from unknown cause, not a single hound being for some minutes visible. Presently one or two appear, leaping over some old furze which they cannot push through, and exhibit to the field their glossy skins and spotted sides. 'Oh, you beautiesy exclaims some old Meltonian, rapturously fond of the sport. Two minutes more elapse: another hound slips out of cover, and takes it short turn outside, with his nose to the ground and his stern lashing his side —thinking no doubt he might touch on a drag, should Reynard have been abroad in the night. Hounds have no business to think, thinks the second whipper-in, who observes him; but one crack of his whip, with ' Rasselas, Rasselas, where are you going, Rasselas? Get to cover, Rasselas;' and Rasselas immediately disappears. Five minutes more pass away. 'No fox here,' says one; 'Don't be in a hurry,' cries Mr. Cradock, 'they are drawing it beautifully, and there is rare lying in it.' These words are scarcely uttered, when the cover shakes more than ever. Every ■tern appears alive, and it reminds us of a corn-field waving in the wind. In two minutes the sterns of some more hounds are seen 'flourishing' above the gorge. 'Have at him there,' holloas the Squire—the gorse still more alive, and hounds leaping over each other's backs. 'Have at him there again, my good hounds—a fox for a hundred!' reiterates the Squire—putting his finger in his ear, and uttering a scream which, not being set to music, we cannot give here. Jack Stevens (the first whipper-in) looks at his watch. At this moment 'John White,' 'Val Maher,' 'Frank Holyoake,' (who will pardon us for giving them their noms-dechasse) and two or three more of the fast ones, are seen creeping gently on towards a point at which they think it probable he may break. 'Hold hard there,' says a sportsman; but he might as well speak to the winds. 'Stand still, gentlemen ; pray stand still,' exclaims the huntsman; he might as well say to the sun. During the time we have been speaking of, all the field have been awake—gloves put on—cigars thrown away—the bridle-reins gathered well up into the hand, and hats pushed down upon the brow.
"At this interesting period, a snob, just arrived from a very rural country, and unknown to any one, but determined to witness the start, gets into a conspicuous situation: 'Come away, Siry holloas the master, (little suspecting that the Snob may be
nothing less than one of the Quarterly Reviewers,) 'What mischief are you doing there? Do you think you can catch the fox?' A breathless silence ensues. At length a whimper is heard in the cover—like the voice of a dog in a dream: it is Flourishes and the Squire cheers him to the echo. In an instant a hound challenges—and another—and another. 'Tis enough. "Tattyko!" cries a countryman in a tree, 'He's gone,' exclaims Lord Alma- ley; and, clapping spurs to his horse, in an instant is in the front rank.
"As all good sportsmen would say, ''Ware, hounds!' cries Sir Harry Goodricke. 'Give them time,' exclaims Mr. John Moore. 'That's right,' says Mr. Osbaldeston, 'spoil your own sport is usual' 'Go along /' roars out Mr. Holyoake, 'there are three couple of hounds on the scent.' 'That's your sort,' says 'Billy Coke,' coming up at the rate of thirty miles an hour on Advance, with a label pinned on his back, 'the hicks;' 'the rest are all coming, and there's a rare scent to-day, I'm sure.' Buonaparte's Old Guard, in its best days, would not have stopped such men as these, so long as life remained in them.
"Only those who have witnessed it can know in what an extraordinary manner hounds that are left behind in a cover make their way through a crowd, and get up to the leading ones of the pack, which have been fortunate in getting away with their fox. It is true, they possess the speed of a race-horse; but nothing short of their high mettle could induce them to thread their way through a body of horsemen going the best pace, with the prospect of being ridden over and maimed at every stride they take. But, as Beckford observes, ''tis the dash of the foxhound which distinguishes him.' A turn, however, in their favour, or a momentary loss of scent in the few hounds that have shot a-head—an occurrence to be looked for on such occasions—joins head and tail together, and the scent being good, every hound settles to his fox ; the pace gradually improves ; vires acquirit eundo; a terrible burst is the result!
"At the end of nineteen minutes the bounds come to a fault, and for a moment the fox has a chance,—in fact, they have been pressed upon by the horses, and have rather overrun the scent. 'What a pity !' says one: 'What a shame !' cries another—alluding, perhaps, to a young one, who would and could have gone still faster. 'You may thank yourselves for this,' exclaims Osbaldeston, up at the time, Clashes, looking fresh ; but only fourteen men of the two hundred are to be counted,— all the rest coming. At one blast of the horn, the hounds are back to the point at which the scent has failed, Jack Stevens being in his place to turn them. 'Yodoit! Pastime,' says the Squire, as she feathers her stern down the hedge-row, looking more beautiful than ever. She speaks !' Worth a thousand, by Jupiter!' cries John White, looking over his left shoulder as he sends both spurs into Buxton, delighted to see only four more of the field are up. Our Snob, however, is amongst them. He has ' gone a good one,' and his countenance is expressive of delight, as he urged his horse to his speed to get again into a front place.
"The pencil of the painter is now wanting; and unless the painter should be a sportsman, even his pencil would be worth little. What a country is before him !—what a panorama does it represent!—Not a field of less than forty—some a hundred acres)— and no more signs of the plough than in the wilds of Siberia. See the hounds in a body that might be covered by a damask tablecloth—every stern down, and every head up, for there is no need of stooping, the scent lying breast high. But the crash !—the music !—how to describe these? Reader, there is no crash now, and not much music. It is the tinker that makes great noise over a little work, but at the pace these hounds are going there is no time for babbling. Perchance one hound in ten may throw his tongues as he goes to inform his comrades, as it were, that the villain is on before them, and most musically do the light notes of Vocal and far-famed Venus fall on the ear of those who may be within reach to catch them. But who is so fortunate in this second burst, nearly as terrible as the first? Our fancy supplies us again, and we think we could name them all. If we look to the left, nearly abreast of the pack, we see six men going gallantly, and quite as straight as the hounds themselves are going; and on the right are four more, riding equally well, though the former have rather the best of it, owing to having had the inside of the hounds at the last two turns, which must be placed to the chapter of accidents. A short way in the rear, by no means too much so to enjoy this brilliant run, are the rest of elite of the field, who had come up at the first check ; and a few who, thanks to the goodness of their steeds, and their determination to be with the hounds, appear as if dropped from the clouds. Some, however, begin to show symptoms of distress. Two horses are seen loose in the distance—a report is flying about that one of the field is badly hurt, and something is heard of a collar-bone being broken, others say it is a leg; but the pace is too good to inquire. A cracking of rails is now heard, and one gentleman's horse is to be seen resting, nearly balanced, across one of them, his rider, being on his back in the ditch, which is on the landing side.— 'Who is he?' says Lord Brudeuell to Jack Stevens. 'Can't tell, my Lord; but I thought it was a queerish place when I came o'er it before him.' It is evidently a case of peril, but the pace is too good to afford help.
"Up to this time, 'Snob,' has gone quite in the first flight; the 'Dons' begin to eye him, and, when an opportunity offers, the question is asked—' Who is that fellow on the little bay horse i" . 'Don't know. him,' says Mr. Little Gilmour, (a fourteen-stone Scotchman, by-the-bye,) ganging gallantly to his bounds— * He can ride,' exclaims Lord Bancllffe. 'A tip-top provincial, depend upon it,' adds Lord Plymouth, going quite at his ease on a thorough-bred nag, three stone above his weight, and in perfect racing trim. Animal nature, however, will cry ' enough,' how good soever she may be, if unreasonable man press her beyond the point. The line of scent lies right athwart a large grass ground, (as a field is termed in Leicestershire,) somewhat on the ascent; abounding in ant-hills, or hillocks, peculiar to old grazing land, and thrown by the plough, some hundred years since, into rather high ridges, with deep, holding furrows between each. The fence at the top is impracticable—Meltonlce, 'a stopper;' nothing for it but a gate, leading into a broad green lane, high and strong, with a deep slippery ground on each side of it. 'Now, for the timber-jumper,' cries Osbaldeston, pleased to find himself upon Clasher. 'For heaven's sake, take care of my hounds, in case they may throw up in the lane.' Snob is here in the best of company, and that moment perhaps the happiest of his life; but, not satisfied with his situation, wishing to out-Herod-Herod, and to have n fine story to tell when he gets home, he pushes to his speed on ground on which all regular Leicestershire men are careful, and the death warrant of the little bay-horse is signed. It is true he gets first to the gate, and has no idea of opening it; sees it contains five new and strong bars, that will neither bend nor break; has R great idea of a fall, but no idea of refusing; presses his hat firmly on his head, and gets his whip hand at liberty to give the good little nag It refresher; but all at once he perceives it will not do. When attempting to collect him for the effort he finds his mouth dead and his neck stiff: fancies he hears something like a wheezing in his throat; and discovering, quite unexpectedly, that the gate would open, wisely avoids a fall, which was booked had he attempted to leap it. He pulls up then at the gate ; and as he places the hook of his whip under the latch, John White goes over it close to the hinge-post, and Captain Ross, upon Clinker, follows him. The Reviewer then walks through.
"The scene now shifts. On the other side of the lane is a fence of this description; it is a new-plashed hedge, abounding in strong growers, as they are called, and a yawning ditch on the further side; but, as is peculiar to Leicestershire and Northamptonshire, a considerable portion of the blackthorn, left uncut, leans outwards from the hedge, somewhat about breast-high. This large fence is taken by all now with the hounds—some to the right and some to the left of the direct line—but the little bay horse would have no more of it. Snob puts him twice at it, and manfully too, but the wind is out of him, and he has uo power to rise. Several scrambles, but only one fall, occur at this 'rasper,' all having nearly enough of the killing pace; and a mile and a half farther, the second horses are fallen in with, just in the nick of time. A short check from the stain of sheep makes every thing comfortable; and, the Squire having hit off his fox like a workman, thirteen men, out of two hundred, are fresh mounted, and with the hounds, which settle to the scent again at a truly killing pace.
"• Hold hard, Holyoake /' exclaims Mr. Osbaldeston (now mounted on Blucher), knowing what double-quick time, he would be marched to, with fresh pipes to play upon, and the crown well shaken off; pray don't press 'em too hard, and we shall be sure to lull our fox. Have at him there, Abigail and Fickle, good bitches —see what a head they are carrying! I'll bet a thousand they kill him.' The country appears better and better. 'He's taking a capital line,' exclaims Sir Harry Goodricke, as he points out to Sir James Musgrave two young Furrier hounds, who are particularly distinguishing themselves at the moment. 'Worth a dozen Reform Bills,' shouts Sir Francis Burdett, sitting erect upon Sampson, and putting his head straight at a yawner. 1 We shall have the AVbissendiue brook,' cries Mr. Maher, who knows every field in the country, 'for he is making straight for Teigb.' ' And a bumper too, after last night's rain,' holloas Captain Berkeley, determined to get first to four stiff rails in a corner. * So much the better,' says Lord Alvanley, (I like a bumper at all times.' * A fig for the Whissendine,' cries Lord Gardiner ; ' I am on the best water jumper in my stable.'
"The prophecy turns up. Having skirted Ranksborough gone, the villain has nowhere to stop short of Woodwell-head cover, which he is pointing for; and in ten minutes, or less, the brook appears in view. It is even with its banks, and
'Smooth glides the water where the brook is deep.' 'Yooi, ovEa he goes!' holloas the Squire, as he perceives Joker and Jewell plunging into the stream, and Red-rose shaking hers elf on the opposite bank. Seven men, out of thirteen, take it in their stride; three stop short, their horses refusing the first time, but come well over the second; and three find themselves in the middle of it. The gallant ' Frank Forester' is among the latter; and having been requested that morning to wear a friend's new red coat, to take off the gloss and glare of the shop, he accomplishes the task to perfection in the bluish-black mud of the Whissendine, only then subsiding after a three days' flood, 'Who is that under his horse in the brook?' inquires that good sportsman and fine rider, Mr. Green, of Rolleston, whose noted old mare had just skimmed over the water like a swallow on a summer's evening. 'Only Dick Christian,' answered Lord Forester, 'and it is nothing new to him.' 'But he'll be drowned,' exclaims Lord Kinnalrd. 'I shouldn't wonder,' observes Mr. William Coke. But the pace is too good to inquire.
"The fox does his best to escape: he threads hedge-rows, tries the out-buildings of a farm-house, and once turns so short as nearly to run his foil; but—the perfection of the thing—the hounds turn shorter than he does, as much as to say—die you
shall. The pace has been awful for the last twenty minutes.
Three horses are blown to a stand-still, and few are going at their ease. 'Out upon this great carcass of mine; no horse that was ever foaled can live under it at this pace, and over this country,' says one of the best of the welter-weights, as he stands over his four-hundred-guinea chesnut, then rising from the ground, after giving him a heavy fall—his tail nearly erect in the air, his nostrils violently distended, and his eyes almost filed. 'Not hurt, I hope,' exclaims Mr. Maxse, to somebody whom be gets a glimpse of through the openings of a tall quickset hedge which is between them, coming neck and croup into the adjoining field, from the top bar of a high, hogbacked stile. His eye might have been spared the unpleasing sight, had not his ear been attracted to a sort of procumbil-humibos sound of a horse falling to the ground on his back, the bone of hit left bip Indenting the green-sward within two inches of his rider's thigh. It is young Peyton, who, having missed bis second horse at the check, had been going nearly half the way in distress; but from nerve and pluck, perhaps peculiar to Englishmen, but very peculiar to himself, got within three fields of the end of this brilliant run. The fall was all but a certainty; for it was the third stiff timber-fence that had unfortunately opposed him, after his horse's wind had been pumped out by the pace; but he was too good to refuse them, and his horse knew better than to do so.
"The -Eneid of Virgil ends with a death, and the chase is not complete without it. The fox dies within half a mile of Wool well head, evidently his point from the first; the pack pulling him down in the middle of a large grass field, every hound but one at his brush. Jack Stevens with him in his hands, would be a subject worthy of Edwin Landsecr himself; a black-thorn, which has laid hold of his cheek, has besmeared his upper garments with blood, and one side of his head and cap are cased in mud, by a fall he has had in a lane, bis horse having alighted in the ruts from a high flight of rails; but he has ridden the same horse throughout the run, and has handled him so well, he could have gone two miles farther, if the chase had been continued so long. Osbaldeston's who-hoop might have been heard to Cottesmore, had the wind set in that direction, and every man present is extatic with delight. 'Quite the cream of the thing, I suppose,' Says Lord Gardner, a very promising young one, at this time fresh in Leicestershire. 'The cream of everything in the shape of foxhunting,'observes that excellent sportsman Sir James Musgrave, looking at that moment at his watch. 'Just ten miles, as the crow flies, in one hour aud ten minutes, with but two trifling checks, over the finest country in the world. What superb hounds are these /' added the baronet, as he turned his horse's head to the wind. 'You are right,' says Colonel Lowtber, ' they are perfect., I wish my father had seen them do their work to-day.' Some of the field now come up, who could not live in the first flight; but as there is no jealousy here they congratulate each other on the fine day's sport, and each man turns his head towards home."
To a Lady, whom the Author had offended by some Remarks upon her Dress.
If vain presumption urge a youth to tell,
What fancy colours least become a belle;
Shall his rash crime no other forfeit know,
Than that which dooms him to a world of woe?
And must he ever, tortured with the pain
Which beauteous eyes inflict in their disdain,
Be smitten blind for having dared to see,
And mourn, in chains, that he was once too free f
O! think that one may gaze on Iris' bow,
Where seven bright hues their borrowed radiance shew,
And call it faint and poor, when with it vies
The native loveliness of summer skies.
No bolt of fire from angry powers descends,
To bid the mortal dread when he offends—
Then why should woman's gentle heart betray
More stern revenge than even Gods display?
Or seek to wound those eyes with passion's fire,
Which dared her beauty, not her taste, admire?
An angel form in tasteless garb to view,
Is pain enough—O! cease to torture too!
A wind moving three miles an hour is scarcely felt; if moving six miles, it is a pleasant breeze; if twenty or thirty miles, it is a brisk gale; If sixty it is a storm; and beyond eighty, it is a frightful hurricane, tearing up trees and destroying every thing.— Arnott's Physics