for the chase. Suppose a fine clear morning in December, a blue sky overhead, and the horizon fringed with a deep curtain of mist, which is gradually dispelling before the rays of the yet powerful sun; a faint breeze is abroad, which does no more than shake the remaining leaves from the almost leafless branches, and there is a slight frost, just enough to crisp the crest of the deep-ploughed field; a hoar-frost, too, lies on the timber and brushwood, the rays of the sun making it sparkle with a gorgeous brilliancy. The appearance of the horses and dogs is no less full of interest. The hunting-field is an admirable place for viewing the various attitudes of that noble animal, the horse. Here is seen a young horse, "his first appearance in any field," as may be discovered from his restless demeanour throwing himself back-plunging on allfours-tossing his head, and putting himself into fifty attitudes in an incredibly short time. There stands another, who knows how" fields are won," his arched neck and pawing foot showing his impatience of restraint ;— and here is an old veteran who has been in at fifty deaths in a season, and who contents himself with silently pricking his ears, and gazing earnestly on his companions in the chase the hounds.

yet young in the field are drawn up, and walked slowly home. Meanwhile, by

"Those of the true, the genuine sort,

Whose heart and soul are in the sport,"

as we see in one of Henry Alken's excellent sporting prints, the chase is gallantly held on, and Reynard leads his still numerous followers up hill and down dale with unabated vigour. After a few miles' farther run, the fox makes a sudden turn, and leads in the direction of the cover; the horses, breathed in the few minutes' check, rattle along after the baying hounds, while the fox makes rapidly for his old shelter. But he is destined never to reach it. After some severe running, the dogs are observed to get closer to their prey, and one or two stanch hounds are seen within a few yards of the brush of poor Reynard, who turns now and then, as they gain ground upon him, and snarls at them in savage desperation. The cover is all but gained, a high enclosure which surrounds it is leaped, but, at the same moment, three of the best hounds leap it also, and, in the twinkling of an eye, life is extinct.

Now the huntsmen pour in for the purpose of securing the brush, and being first in at the death; and while three or four are coming down the field with all the speed of which their horses are capable, and each one calculating on gaining the prize, lo! an old huntsman, well acquainted with the country, has taken a short cut, and, by a direct road through the wood, takes his last leap in the face of the other huntsmen, gallops up, and secures the trophy of the hunting field-the brush! The head and feet are given to the others in succession, and the remainder to the dogs, who make quick work with the remnants of poor Reynard. Once more mounted, the huntsmen pursue their various routes homeward, discussing the incidents of the day, and indulging themselves in anticipating the ORION.

In Dr Chalmers's admirable discourse "On Cruelty to Animals," he defends the lovers of the chase from the charge of premeditated cruelty, and favours us with the following glowing paragraph concerning the amusement itself:-"There sits a somewhat ancestral dignity and glory on this favourite pastime of joyous Old England, when the gallant knighthood and the hearty yeomen, and the amateurs or virtuosos of the chase, and the full assembled jockeyship of half a province, muster together in all the pride and pageantry of their great emprize, and the panorama of some noble landscape, lighted up with autumnal clearness from an unclouded heaven, pours fresh exhilaration into every blithe and choice spirit of the scene, and every adventurous heart is braced, and impa-pleasures of to-morrow's chase. tient for the hazards of the coming enterprise; and even the high-breathed coursers catch the general sympathy, and seem to fret in all the restiveness of their yet checked and irritated fire, till the echoing horn shall set them at liberty, even that horn which is the knell of death to some trembling victim."

The cover is at the top of a gently rising hill, planted with wood around the sides, but clear of every thing except furze and very low brushwood at the top, where a considerable space is open; a winding road leads to the cover, and as the huntsmen ride up, their red coats are seen glittering in the sun, while a partial glimpse is caught of each rider, as he canters to the place of rendezvous. The dogs are thrown in, and the old huntsmen trot slowly up and down the edge of the cover, cheering the pack with the cries of "Tally-ho! Tantivy ! Tallyho!" accompanied with an occasional blast of the hunting-born. A lounging dog or two are to be seen skulking outside, but are soon recognised and saluted with a Go along, Duchess!" "Get away, Ruby !" and a crack of the whip, which sends them yelping to the cover. The pack are now seen commencing at one end, and spreading gradually along the cover, snuffing at every bush. Reynard, thus pushed, creeps silently from furze to furze; but as the pack steal on him, he shows himself, looks about for a moment, and then bounds from the enclosure, while the hounds, now laid on the right scent, "break cover," with a yell which makes the welkin ring. The horses are restrained for a few minutes to keep the dogs clear, and then away pell-mell goes the whole field, the horses straining every nerve, and clearing the enclosures like birds on the wing. After the first burst of two or three miles, a few may be seen drawing up. From the corner of the wood on the right, out springs a young horse, his first debut on the hunting field, ridden by a groom, and covered with foam; the powerful bit has lacerated his mouth, and the snowy wreaths are tossed from his head, tinged deeply with blood. The horses

Old Cerberus. It is well written,-accurate and distinct. But there was a time-No matter.

THE EDITOR. We shall now treat you to a couple of sonnets, by different hands, but both good:

SONNET.

There was a silent spot, where I have been
In my blest boyhood, and my spirit caught
Its softer feelings and sublimer thought,
From the still influence of that thrilling scene.
The green-robed mountain, and the summer vale,
Were dim in the night's shadows; and the wood,
The wild and leafy haunt of solitude,
Held out its branches to the moonlight pale;
The noiseless waters slept beneath the sky,

Baring their wavy bosoms to the gaze

Of countless stars, that, with their sparkling rays,
Shed new enchantment o'er the scenery;
The birds gave forth no song, the winds no breath,
And all around seemed fading into death!

SONNET TO ESKDALE pen.

V. D.

Thou parent mountain of my native dale,
Thou'rt lovelier in thy nakedness to me
Than woods that wave in odorous Araby,
Or clustering flowers that spangle Tempe's vale!
Thou'rt lovelier!-for I saw thee touch the sky
In infancy, ere care my heart had wounded,
And deem'd that thy strong cliffs of dusky dye

Man's habitation and his wishes bounded!
Not the high Alps nor Andes, higher far,

Can fix, like thee, my fancy's wandering eye,
Whether the sunbeams on thy bosom lie,
Or clouds around thee roll, and tempests jar ;-
Whether thy brow be deck'd with heaven's bright bow,
Or crown'd with coronet of stainless snow.

My heart felt crush'd; and my fraught quivering soul gle self, I ask no greater happiness than to be well d

welcome to me now? does she serve my purposes better,
with all this added knowledge? Am I benefited by being
let into the secret of the formation of colours-the mys-
tery of the rainbow?
Is the rose lovelier or sweeter,
since I knew that its delicate pencillings were nothing per-
manent or abiding in itself, but merely produced by its
capacity of absorbing and reflecting certain rays of light,
that its scent is nothing positively sweet, that the
sensation is in myself, which a certain quality in the
rose has merely the power of exciting? What has the
stupendous discovery of Newton done for me, that I
should be grateful for it? Has it tempered the heats of
summer, or softened the rigours of winter,-given a sin-
gle additional blossom to the spring, or added a sheaf to
the harvest? Do the dews of heaven fall more kindly,
or the spring taste sweeter, that I know of how many
gases the element is compounded?

O! what a world of happiness has the knowledge alone of my own puny powers and faculties not destroyed! Those were blessed days indeed, when, straining like a bloodhound on the leash, I seemed to stand on the frontiers of Fame, feeling conscious of every faculty that was necessary to carry me to the highest honours, and only at a loss to choose which of the many paths I should pursue. What pictures did my youthful fancy not portray! annihilating time and space, and feeling the future in the instant. Nothing was to me impossible, because nothing had been tried. Surrounded, too, as I supposed myself to be, with the wise, the good, and the kind, the dark volume of humanity was to me a sealed book. Such were my dreams of youthful ignorance ;-how prodigious the expense at which I have purchased the little knowledge I possess !

After frequent and fruitless attempts in various directions, the conviction was at length forced upon me that I had mistaken my powers-that I was a very limitedly endowed mortal, after all-that in place of being fitted to excel in every thing, it was very questionable if I was calculated to excel in any thing. The suspicion and ultimate conviction of this have given me more pain than all the pleasure I shall ever reap from knowledge. It brought me down at one fell swoop to the level of my kind, and taught me to consider how, by painful industry, I was to make my way through this every-day world. It cost me coronets, military honours, literary and scientific fame, the supposed consciousness of lofty and commanding intellect, wealth and its gaudy additions, the power of do. ing generous and noble actions, the anticipated pleasure of befriending my friends, and receiving their grateful testimony of praise and admiration. Am I answered, by telling me that these were but the childish delusions of a heated fancy? The happiness they gave was surely no delusion, for it had a positive existence in my mind and body. My bosom warmed and throbbed to it-the tear started to my eye to it-it sent the life-blood in springtides through my heart-it shortened my hours to minutes, and my days to hours-it sent me to sleep without a care, and surrounded my pillow with visions of bliss. Could happiness, founded on the most solid truth, do more? What was it to me, that the coinage of my fancy was spurious, while I had no suspicion of the cheat? It answered all my purposes, the same as if it had been of actual value, with this immense addition, that, in place of being supplied like the penurious pittance of Truth, I had it in a profusion that the most unlimited prodigality could not exhaust.

The human heart, too!-I still clung to my belief in its purity. But Truth threw open this chamber-house of rottenness, dashed in pieces the mirror in which Fancy had portrayed its lovely pictures, and left Memory, like a child, to pick up and amuse herself with the broken fragments. Tell me, ye advocates of Truth, was this a gainful knowledge? I know that your own bosoms must echo the sentiment of the poet, "Again, who would not lie a boy?" Who would not willingly forget all that he

has learned, renounce all that he has acquired, and go
back to the land of hope and delusion, to inherit their
-to believe his powers equal to his
boundless patrimony,-
ambition, and mankind commensurate with his wishes?
Z.
Old Cerberus. There are some who may think much
It is all
of this paradoxical; but to me it is not so.
painfully correct.

THE EDITOR. We shall not, however, brood over it at present. Here is something of a livelier kind, redolent of Scotland, and her delightful traditions of Fairyland. It is the production of one whose name has long been well known, and known only to be respected and esteemed :

THE PLOUGHMAN AND FAIRY QUEEN.
A TALE OF MOTHERHOOD.

In ancient times, when Fairy Elves
Had house and hadden like ourselves,
But, 'stead of halls, in knowes of heath
Kept ben and kitchen underneath;
Baked, brew'd, and cook'd their Elfin dinners,
And lived like ony christen'd sinners:
At times by lawful arts subsisting,
Bringing at times unlawful grist in,
Just as we men of mortal make
Sometimes earn, and sometimes take,
Steal, labour, reave, or beg or borrow,
That we may live, and dine to-morrow ;-
In such old times, when spade and plough
Kept clear of cairn and Fairy knowe,
With reverential care respected

What Elves improved-though man neglected ;—
A ploughman wight (his name's unknown)
Came bump against a yird-fast stone,
And whilst his arms and shoulders dinnle,
He peeps into an open'd tunnel,

By which a "Wolf's throat"* entrance lay,
To what or whither, none might say;
Yet being hearty, young, and stout,
"I'll search," says he, "the secret out;
As oft, in quest of binks, I've found
The honey'd treasure' under ground."

He set his yads a bite to pluck,
And in his ploughman shoulders stuck,
Cork'd up the light, and like a mole
Crawl'd onward through the darken'd hole.
At length the floor beneath him rave,
And down he plump'd into a cave,
Not dank, and dark, and dreary seeming,
But all with light and splendour beaming,
Where green-coat, limber, pranky folks
Were making cheer, and cracking jokes,
Holding their Elfin carnival,
Within their subterranean hall.

He wish'd to run-he tried to rise-
But felt of an unwonted size,

As if a rock of fifty ton

Deep sunk in earth had tried to run!

Around him flock'd the Elfin train,

And smirk'd, and smiled, and smirk'd again;
At last a tall imposing figure,

Full four feet high, or somewhat bigger,
With finger salved his eye, and then
Back to her circle tripp'd again.

He oped his eye-it was his right one,
And now be sure it was a tight one.
He saw what never human eye,
All unassisted, might espy;

January-Wa fe-Moneth-Sax.: that is, Wolf's month, because this month is dark and dreary, as is the hat of a wolf when he yawns.