the animal. In addition to the classes mentioned, the meeting is often attended by merchants, tailors, and grocers, and others who have horses of their own. Even gipsies, who have commonly a good supply of old worn-out hunters, and broken-down stagers, often sally out to see the start. The hedger lays aside his hatchet, the ditcher throws down his spade, the mechanic leaves his handicraft, and the husbandman his tillage, each running as far as his legs will take him. The poacher takes advantage of the opportunity given him by the hounds, to disturb the game.

'It is his delight, of a shiny night,'

he sings, to pursue his vocation; but many a pheasant and hare disappears in open day, when the nobility and their keepers are too much excited with the chase, to think of foul play in their

preserves. Away they go to the wood, in pursuit of the fox! The whippersin are placed on the weather side, to give the 'view-halloo,' when Reynard escapes from it, as he is almost certain to 'break cover' on that side. The huntsman with the pack of hounds stands near to the wood, until he thinks they are at their post, and not a hound dare enter it, until he receives his order from him; but as soon as it is given, they all rush in, with their heads and tails up, determined to find their prey, if the wood contains him. Each hound hunts his ground true,' and as soon as the fox starts from his den, (which he perhaps made the same morning, being stopped out from his hole the night previous, by the earth-stopper,) one or other of the pack soon takes scent, and gives the first challenge, for which every ear, of man and horse, is open. The instant it is heard, it thrills through every vein, braces every nerve, and makes all 'eager for the chase.' No one can imagine the intense excitement of the moment, unless he has himself been engaged in the sport. Every hound, when he hears the challenge of the first, makes his way toward him, and all join in the cry. The music of a well trained pack of fox-hounds is more grateful to a sportsman's ear than even the finest notes of the immortal Catalani, particularly when they are coming toward him, and pressing the fox to break cover near him. Observe how his horse paws the ground, champs his bit, and stretches every limb with firmness, looking as stately and noble as his fearless rider! Suddenly you perceive he becomes perfectly still, as if a bullet had pierced him. He is listening attentively for the 'view-halloo,' while the rider's eyes look anxiously for the fox to break cover. He no sooner reaches the open fields, than the whippers-in discover him, and give the expected sound, the shrillness of which echoes through the air, and is heard at a great distance. Each horseman makes his way toward the direction whence it proceeds, and by the time they have nearly all arrived, the hounds break cover. Away they go across the fields, and those who keep nearest the hounds are the best fellows.

Many young students are random, bold riders, but with little judg ment. They often tire their horses before the run is over, by taking some unnecessary straining leaps, on purpose to boast of them; but the judicous rider evades such, unless he sees they are absolutely necessary to shorten his cut. There are very few horses that will leap a brook well. I have often been much amused to see them

reach one, and have had many a soaking from their short-comings. Some few horses will leap over well; others will come up at full speed, and halt suddenly at the edge; the bank will give way, and in plunge both horse and rider, head foremost. Another will come up, save not so near, in the same way, and throw his rider over his neck into the river. Another still will leap over, yet not go far enough to clear the bank that hangs upon the opposite side. That giving way, the horse and rider fall backward. Sometimes the latter can save himself by rolling on the bank, as the horse is falling. Some of the horses start off one way, and some another, but generally follow the hounds, as they like the sport as well as their riders. There are seldom any serious accidents happen, although a sportsman scarcely ever turns his head to see whether there is any danger in the leap he is about to take. There is as much jealousy existing among them as between two or three ardent lovers, courting a beautiful damsel.

The rear is brought up by the merchants, tailors, grocers, and other plebeians. When these worthies come to a fence, one or two will get off their horses, pull up the dead wood, and make a gap in the hedge. Some will say: 'Pray, Sir, take that other stake out, or my horse will lame himself.' They will all stand round the gap, and get every thing clear, when an old sportsman, who has been thrown out in some way, which will cause ill humor, seeing no other way of getting over the fence, but at the spot where these knights of the counter are industriously engaged, rides up among them, presses his horse through the crowd, and says, 'Get out of the way, you yard, apron-string, and thimble fellows!' 'Oh, yes!' they all respond, 'let him go first!' Then follow the counter-men, one after the other, as they came into the world; and as soon as each leaps the ditch, he looks back to see if the other horses leaped as far as his did; ride to the gates, open them, and never see the hounds again, until they come to a check; and it is seldom they do then, unless the huntsman should make his cast in the direction they are coming. When that is the case, they will be almost sure to ride across the scent, if the fox has taken the double. In such event, the duke or master of the hounds gives them a sportsman's lecture, as thus: 'D- n your tailoring crew! Go home and set cross-legged on your shop-board; you yardmen; go and measure your tape; and you grocery men, put on your aprons, and chew sugar, and not come here to spoil the sport of three hundred sportsmen !' While this lecture is being given, an old favorite hound, on a cold scent, will give his challenge! All eyes are on him. 'Hark to Trueman! - hark! hark!' is the cry. The hounds are cheered, and away they all go again. It is, however, generally slow cold hunting, until they come to a small cover, where the fox will wait for them. Off they start again, at top speed, for four or five miles. Toward the latter end of the run, you will see the injudicious riders tumbling over the fences, their horses being too tired to clear them; while the thorough sportsmen, who have saved their animals whenever they could, are forward, striving to be in first at the death, and to obtain the brush. The first in, takes the fox from the hounds, holds him up by the neck, and gives the 'view-halloo,' whoo-whoop!' and cuts off the brush, thus winning the honor of the day. The huntsman then comes, takes off the scalp, cuts off his four

'pads,' and presents them to those who come in, in succession. The music the hounds make, and the anxiety they show to devour the fox, would well nigh cheer a dying man, who loved the sport. When the fox is thrown among the hounds, they all rush for a share of him. He is literally torn to pieces. Not a piece of flesh, hide, or bone, is left. As soon as the run is over, if too late to try for a fresh fox, they return to their dwellings, or places of invitation, to meet the ladies of their families at dinner, discuss the affair over their wine, and spend their evenings cheerfully with the fair.

On one occasion, I attended rather a remarkable fox-chase. Two packs of hounds met at their appointed places, about fifteen miles apart. One fox crossed the other's track, and both packs arrived together, and pursued the same game. Each party was excited to the utmost, and bold riders were desperate. The scent was good, and the hounds ran breast high, and at a rapid pace. I was fortunate enough to be riding, and not over cautiously, one of the best horses my father ever owned. He has often told me he expected to see me brought home on a hurdle, with two or three broken limbs, as I knew not what fear was. On this occasion, certain death would scarcely have deterred the boldest of our party. The cheerful cry of both packs, the anxiety of each division, and the presence of a lady, who rode fearlessly, forced the nerve of every man to its utmost. But as the lady had ridden away from her attendant, one of our best riders had to take charge of her in his absence. Her beau had stuck in a bog,' though she, observing his course, had cautioned him against the danger. The damsel herself barely escaped. Being light, however, and her horse powerful, they pushed through it. In vain she exclaimed, with all her might, Warn bog! my lord! warn bog!' The caution came too late. My lord' jumped in, and was obliged to remain in, for some time. After giving a laborer a sovereign to extricate his horse, however, away he went, as fast as his beast could carry him. One spur was for the lady, and the other for the chase. Which was used the most, I cannot tell; but the follower and the followed pressed onward.

young

Toward the end of the run, there were but four of us who kept at the tail of the hounds. The remainder, about four hundred in number, were left on their winding way,' pressing their tired horses; some rolling in the ditches, others making their way to the roads, their horses being too fatigued to leap a fence. When we were in view of the fox, in his dying field, there was not one more man within a half a mile! Never did I feel so fearless, nor more joyful. I was the first man over the last fence, with the fox and hounds all immediately before me, and but one man close at my heels! We both leaped from our horses, with an eagerness utterly inconceivable, save to a true sportsman. Both of us reached the fox together, but I, fortunately, caught the brush, while Sir seized the head. tugged with might and main, the hounds baying uproariously all around us. I proved to be the stronger of the two; and when my antagonist found this to be the case, he relinquished his hold, fell backward among the hounds, with the fox upon me, his brush in my grasp. It seemed to me that the strength of Hercules could scarcely have forced it from me. One of the young hounds seized my prize, but I relaxed no whit of my

We

hold. Sir whipped him off, rubbed the fox over my face, as I lay on my back, smearing it with blood, and laughing heartily, as he exclaimed: Though a farmer, a true sportsman, by G-d!' I gave the 'death-halloo,' as soon as I gained sufficient breath, and cut off the brush. Our other two companions enjoyed our struggle, and would gladly have partaken it. The remainder came in as soon as their horses could bring them, the lady among the number. I delivered the fox to the huntsman, who scalped him, and gave it, with two pads, to Sir, and to the two others a pad each. My lord from the bog soon made his appearance. The lady no sooner saw him, than she cried out: Warn bog! my lord! warn bog!'and a hearty laugh ensued, in which my lord' joined as heartily as the rest. I presented the brush to the lady, apologized for my appearance, which, I must admit, was none of the nicest. She replied, graciously, that such an appearance, at the end of a run, was a sportsman's glory. I wound the brush round her bridle's front, sold my horse (at a respectable bargain) to her lover, and returned home, quite satisfied with my day's work.

DICK EASY'S BARGAIN.

DICK EASY was a man who loved repose;

His good wife Rachel led him by the nose,

That is, in other words, she wore the breeches ;

I would not say that Richard wanted spirit,

But t' oppose a woman, where's the merit?

Who fights with pouting airs or dinning speeches?

Dick had a dog, and Jowler was his name,
A cause of no small grievance to the dame,
For Jowler was as lazy as his master;
And in the kitchen, crouching, he would creep,
Lie on the hearth, or in the corner sleep,

With one eye open, plotting some disaster.

A joint of meat, unwatched, he 'd slyly snap it,
Or soup or gravy in a dish, he'd lap it,

And then, with tail between his legs, creep out;

Or else the dog was always in the way,

The maids fell o'er his carcass every day,

And then the kitchen was in such a rout!

'I do declare,' thus cried the honest wife,
This vile old brute will worry out my life;

'I wish the dog was dead, or else in Guinea!
'Get out!' and here she'd thump him with a stick,
'Were I a man,' and here she'd look at Dick,

'But what's the use to talk to such a ninny!'

Time after time, whene'er these ills befel him,

Dick straight would swear, 'Confound the dog! I'll sell him!
And then I hope to have some little quiet.'

Dick smoked his pipe, and still the threat grew cold;
He quite forgot that Jowler must be sold,

Until his wife would raise another riot.

At length one day Dick homeward came with glee,
'My dear, I've sold the dog!' 'How much?' said she:
'Ten pounds! ten pounds! where is it, honey?'

'I got no cash,' the loving husband said,

'But took Two PUPPIES, at five pounds a head,

'Which comes, you know, my dear, to just the money!'

THE EARLY ENGLISH WRITERS.

ARE they not hearty and cheerful? Do not their writings smack of the rough magnanimity of the old English vein? Do they not fortify like a cordial, enlarging the heart, and productive of sweet blood, and generous spirits in the concoction?'

CHARLES LAMB.

IT is in the literature of a nation that her best history is contained. Wide as her conquests may have extended over land and sea, they are but proofs of her strength, and often of her folly and blind passion; while the history of her political changes is but a ten-times-told tale of fraudulent power, overthrown by still greater fraud, or of violence overwhelmed by violence. But a nation's literature is her loftiest and purest remembrancer. In it we see mirrored forth those great minds whose names adorn her annals, and whose embodied thoughts the world has till now preserved, and will never willingly let die. The early English writers who preceded Dryden, were the authors of a literature second to but one of all that ever existed. A splendid galaxy of poets, orators, and statesmen, have given this verdict, and their testimony cannot be invalidated, on the ground of national prejudice. They belong neither to that class of small spirits, whose only means of elevating their own country is at the expense of others, nor to those half-bred intellects, who are acquainted with no language, feelings, or thoughts, save those which they see every day around them. The men of whom we speak, have not only, by familiarity with the Greek and Roman fountains, prepared themselves to compute the volume of the mighty rivers of mind flowing from those sources, but have made themselves adepts in the national literatures of Europe. Those who praise Milton, have followed the great Dante in his journey through hell and heaven, and, with no incurious eye, have viewed him crossing, with earthly footsteps, the burning marl; now listening to the sweet-toned and grave, though not sad words of the spirits of the heathen poets, or to the wild, unintelligible shouts of the tormented Nimrod, as his gigantic ghost stood waist-deep in the pit, with its huge companions, Briareus, and Typhæus, and Antæus, like the mast of some tall admiral,' and Ephialtes convulsed with agony, and in his frantic struggles rocking to and fro, like some huge tower, waving from its base in the earthquake; or dazzled with the effulgence that for an instant increased even the brightness of heaven, as his first and only love, Beatrice, looked with a smile upon him from her place among the choir of angels. The admirers of Chaucer and Spenser have familiarized themselves with the beauties of Tasso and Ariosto, and with the mirth of Pulci. And the readers of the English dramatists are acquainted not only with the Greek and Roman theatre, but also with the gorgeous arabesques of Germany, the sportive merriment of Lopez de Vega, and the graceful regularity of the French drama. Such are the qualifications for judgment possessed by those who pronounce the literature of which we speak to be surpassed alone by that of Greece, if indeed it have any superior. Even admitting the criti