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 alady, who rode fearlessly, forced the nerve of every man to its utmost. But as the young 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. 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. We 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 VOL. XII. 18 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; That is, in other words, she wore the breeches; I would not say that Richard wanted spirit, Who fights with pouting airs or dinning speeches ? Dick had a dog, and Jowler was his name, With one eye open, plotting some disaster. A joint of meat, unwatched, he'd slyly snap it, And then, with tail between his legs, creep out; And then the kitchen was in such a rout! 'I do declare,' thus cried the honest wife, 'I wish the dog was dead, or else in Guinea! 'But what's the use to talk to such a ninny!' Time after time, whene'er these ills befel him, And then I hope to have some little quiet.' He quite forgot that Jowler must be sold, Until his wife would raise another riot. At length one day Dick homeward came with glee, 'I got no cash,' the loving husband said, '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 cal superiority of the Grecian writers, the literature of England ought to receive still greater attention; for while these writings, (which bear the same relation to our contemporary literature that the lofty portals and long colonnades which the architects of Petra carved in the living rock, do to the plaster pillars and wooden cornices which sometimes adorn our tasteful edifices,) are models of our ownlanguage, productions of our own ancestors, and proud monuments of our own national glory, the literature of Greece refers to nations that have passed away; to men concerning whom history is almost silent, and to strange and unknown customs; insomuch that their serious productions are like the relics of their fortresses and temples, which were strong, and are beautiful, but are now neither fit for worship nor defence; while their gayety is like the wine-cups dug up in Pompeii, which once were garlanded with roses and ivy, and passed from hand to hand, at the feasts of Roman statesmen and soldiers, but now are 'sad sepulchral pitchers, which have no joyful voices, silently expressing old mortality, the ruins of forgotten times.' The long and bright first day of English literature, whose fervid noon-tide, and gorgeous though lurid and thunderous sunset, were well worthy of so fresh, dewy, and beautiful a morning, began with the father of our poetry, GEOFFREY CHAUCER. In speaking of this writer, as compared with his great followers, it may be said, that while sublimity is the characteristic of Milton, and the Faëry Queen of Spenser seems like some long and passionate dream, wherein the imagination had tasked itself to accumulate together all sights and sounds of loveliness, the characteristics of Chaucer are the mingled liveliness and beauty, humor and pathos, which give the world assurance of a poet. There is no writer so Homeric. There is none who so describes the court, with its press of knights and ladies, or the wild turmoil of the tournament, when trump and clarion have sounded, and the champions meet in mid space; when the bright swords strike fire from the armor, and the splinters from broken lance-shafts fly high into the air, and down go barbed war-horse, and plumed knight: 'Then might ye see loose steeds at random run, One should be himself a poet, to describe that wild, high excitement, and that rush of language, words flung out like sparks of fire, which narrates the story of Arcita's last battle. And more. There is no writer who can lay claim to a greater share of that noblest quality of a poet, a love of all things beautiful. Chaucer, in every part of his joyous, sweet-humored writings, seems to aim at binding his words to dwell in the reader's mind, in connection with all lovely things. His poems are replete with all pleasant sights and sounds; of the soft shining rain of spring, of the glittering dew at sun-rise, of the wild-flower in the meadow, and the song of the bird, as it flutters through the underwood. It was no weakness or timidity which occasioned it; for where the vices or the errors of the age were in question, not Frank Rabelais himself was a bolder jester. His highest praise I mention last. He lived in a licentious age, |