Oh! it was not the spell of her dark ringlets wreathing Around the white neck so surpassingly fair, Nor the music that seem'd from that soft bosom breathing, It was not the calm of her brow's snowy whiteness, She waned not as light from the landscape at even, A flash from the cloud, or a ray from the rill. My sainted, my loved one, my lost earthly treasure- Thine, dearest! thine be my harp's latest measure, Old Cerberus. (With an agitated voice.) These are good verses! THE EDITOR. The same author strikes a different key in this short ballad, concerning one of the most romantichearted of England's kings: RICHARD COEUR-DE-LION. Brightly, brightly the moonbeam shines On the castle turret wall, Darkly, darkly the spirit pines, Deep, deep in its dungeon's thrall. He hears the screech-owl whoop reply To the warder's drowsy strain, And thinks of home, and heaves a sigh For his own bleak hills again. Sweetly, sweetly the spring-flowers spread But place his foot upon the plain, 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-horn. 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 -Baring their wavy bosoms to the gaze Of countless stars, that, with their sparkling rays, SONNET TO ESKDALE PEN. V. D. Thou parent mountain of my native dale, 42 Can fix, like thee, my fancy's wandering eye, Moffat, J. H. L. THE EDITOR. Here is a poet of whom you have heard us speak, who has already done well for so young a bard, and who will soon again be before the world, under the auspices of Messrs Constable & Co., and in the guise of "Eldred of Erin." He has a rich and ready fancy. If any one had doubts thereon, the following effusion would prove them erroneous: A VISION. By Charles Doyne Sillery. I stood within the thunder of the sea ;- As it drove life's red current through my veins ;- Of her own loveliness! while from her wings Nor did she ponder long-scarce had she spoken, THE EDITOR. From the far land of Caithness, even from the burgh of Thurso, has come unto us the next communication. It is the production evidently of a gentle and poetical mind: "I would not lose my recollections for all Mexico." Gone-and ne'er again to meet! Old Cerberus. Happy is it for him that his recollec tions are so valuable,-sad, but pleasant to the soul. There are those whose melancholy present is not to be so easily consoled by drawing upon the treasury of the past. THE EDITOR. In that frame of mind, here is a paper which will exactly suit you. It is an able and interesting one. THE SUPERIORITY OF FICTION OVER TRUTH. I propound it as an infallible axiom, that Truth is our greatest enemy. From our boyhood even to the present minute, the discovery of each new fact has occasioned the demolition of some air-built castle or other, more valuable to our happiness by an hundred fold, than the small particle of truth we found among its ruins. For my single self, I ask no greater happiness than to be well deceived. Give me back my boyhood, with all its errors and ignorance. Make me again believe the Universe to be comprised within my visual horizon,—the blue heavens to be a palpable dome, based on the surrounding mountains. Give me again to speculate on the stars, as so many lucid gems of nothing more than their seeming magnitude and distance. Let me again feel sublimity in the tiny cascade, that woke the echoes of my native glen. Set manhood again before me in prospective distance; and oh! let me once more believe that every soul who professes himself so is my sincere and trusty friend. These are the delightful fancies which your moral truths and scientific facts have deprived me of; and what have they given me in return? When I believed our little world comprised within so small a compass, I felt myself to be of some account; but your telescopic discoveries have dwarfed me to an insignificant reptile; and although you have enlarged my notions of the planet we inhabit, yet you have shown it, at the same time, to be a very atom of the mighty whole-a particle of dust, whose loss could scarcely be distinguished, were it swept from the circle of creation. Besides, many of your calculations, which claim the assent of my reason, are, nevertheless, of a magnitude which I cannot distinctly comprehend. What is it to me that the diurnal changes are produced by the revolution of the earth round its own axis, and not, as was supposed, by the motion of the sun? Has this opinion altered one jot the economy of life? has it added one iota to my happiness? How has it advantaged me to know that the moon is merely a satellite of our planet, that she is lighted by reflection from the sun,—that she has her rivers, hills, rocks, and valleys, and is, in all probability, inhabited? Does she look more lovely to me now, than when, without enquiring what she was, I used to emulate her speed of autumn nights, as she went careering through the drifting clouds? is her coming more 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 mystery of the rainbow? Is the rose lovelier or sweeter, since I knew that its delicate pencillings were nothing permanent 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 single 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 doing 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 be a boy?" Who would not willingly forget all that he Old Cerberus. There are some who may think much of this paradoxical; but to me it is not so. It is all 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. In ancient times, when Fairy Elves By which a " Wolf's throat"* entrance lay, He set his yads a bite to pluck, He wish'd to run-he tried to rise- Deep sunk in earth had tried to run! And smirk'd, and smiled, and smirk'd again; Full four feet high, or somewhat bigger, He oped his eye-it was his right one, • January-Wa fe-Moneth-Sax.: that is, Wolf's month, because this month is dark and dreary, as is the throat of a wolf when he yawns. The secrets of the Fairy train, No man might live to tell again. His eye he closed, o'ercome at last,— The knowe and cairn before him lay. May fairs and markets never cease Our eye-enlighten'd Ploughman bold, No limits when his purse he drew; MORAL. Who looks too far into a stone, Old Cerberus. I should like to meet with the author of that tale. I will lay my life that he is a social and delightful companion. THE EDITOR. He is, indeed; and could make allowance for even your eccentricities. Meantime, allow me to present you with a sonnet from Glasgow: SONNET.-TO THE STARS. Beautiful Stars, again assemble ye! Again together, on this Sabbath even, That in the hush of all things seems to lie Of life from a new source: For, o'er the sky ON THE ASCENSION. From the Spanish of Louis de Leon. And leav'st thou, Pastor Holy! Thy flock in this dark wilderness and maze, 'Midst fear and melancholy, Dost thou, in glory's blaze, Calmly ascend to the Infinite of Days? The wise, the good, the blest,— Rejoicing once, but now in mournful guise, The cherish'd in thy breast, Who now shall sympathize With them, or who shall charm their longing eyes? What shall those eyes behold, That saw the beauties of their Heavenly Lord, That can delight unfold? By whom that heard thy word, Will not the world's harsh discord be abhorr'd? This dark and stormy ocean Who shall control? What power the winds shall chide In their tempestuous motion? If clouds thy form now hide, What star the vessel to her port shall guide? Alas! thou envious cloud! Why with our short-lived pleasure interfere? Why in such haste to shroud Thy wealth and disappear? How poor, how blind, alas! thou leav'st us here! THE EDITOR. We think the following paper will be perused with interest. It is upon an interesting subject, and there is a great deal of truth to nature in it: REMINISCENCES OF SCHOOL-DAY SPORTS AND PASTIMES. Henry IV. Second Part. |