BEFORE Our Spectacles were assumed we had our own time of boisterous and exbilerating 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! 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 a 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." Our 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 RALDS in its most high and palmy days, and have "fenced" with Mr. Baird of Newbyth, when he was master of the hounds 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 Clubeven his sagacity was at fault; for, although he could read the Rosetta stone as easily as any of our readers can do a 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'Kinnon'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 Ralds was a euphonous 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 sportsmen; 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 a 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 proprietrix 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

highly graphic sketches 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 "toolers," 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 ourselves at Ashby Pasture, in the Quorn country, with Mr. Osbaldeston's hounds. 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 an 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 beauties!' exclaims some old Meltonian, rapturously fond of the sport. Two minutes more elapse another hound slips out of cover, and takes a 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 '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 stem 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 gorse. 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 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; be 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.

one;

ear,

6

nothing less than one of the Quarterly Reviewers,) What mis

chief 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 Flourisher, and the Squire cheers him to the echo. In an instant a hound challenges and another—and another. 'Tis enough. “Tallyho!” cries a countryman in a tree, He's gone,' exclaims Lord Alvanley; 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 as 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, she kicks ;' 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 hounds 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—allud. ing, 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, Clasher 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. 'Yo doit! 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 Euxton, 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 urges 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 élite 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 Brudenell 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 ?* 'Don't know him,' says Mr. Little Gilmour, (a fourteen-stone

Scotchman, by-the-bye,) ganging gallantly to his hounds.'He can ride,' exclaims Lord Bancliffe. 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-Meltonicè, 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 a 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 a 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 a 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 no 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. 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.

A

"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 kill 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. We shall have the Whissendine brook,' cries Mr. Maher, who knows every field in the country, for he is making straight for Teigh.' 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 gorse, the villain has nowhere to stop short of Wood well-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, OVER he goes!' holloas the Squire, as he perceives Joker and Jewell plunging into the stream, and Red-rose shaking herself 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,' answers Lord Forester, and it is nothing new to him.' But he'll be drowned,' exclaims Lord Kinnaird. I shouldn't wonder,' observes Mr. William Coke. But the pace is too good to inquire.

ease.

"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' '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 fixed. Not hurt, I hope,' exclaims Mr. Maxse, to somebody whom he 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 procumbit-humibos sound of a horse falling to the ground on his back, the bone of his left hip indenting the green-sward within two inches of his rider's thigh. It is young Peyton, who, having missed his 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 a chase is not complete without it. The fox dies within half a mile of Woolwell 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 Landseer 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, his 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 and 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 Lowther, 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."

ORIGINAL POETRY.

To a Lady, whom the Author had offended by some Remarks upon her Dress.

Ir 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?
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.

GLASGOW GOSSIP.

ALL who delight in seeing the grace and activity of the young, have been deprived of a privileged amusement, by the termination of Monsieur Dupuis' season. The morning assemblies of this gay and gallant foreigner have always been agreeable resorts for the parents and friends of his numerous pupils, and have often exhibited more elegant specimens of the polite art, of which Monsieur Dupuis is the tutelary deity, than are to be met with at private balls or public assemblies,

ARCHITECTURE.

To the Editor of THE DAY.

SIR, I was happy to see, some time ago, a communication in your journal regarding the iron-railing of the new Exchange, in Queen Street, and now request a place for a few observations on a subject somewhat similar, regarding St. Enoch's church.

Should the iron-railing, now erecting round St. Enoch's square, be continued on the south side of the square, on the same site it formerly occupied, the effect will be, to destroy the appearance of the façade of the church, and to make it seem low and unimposing.

A very different and superior effect would be produced, by continuing the new railing in a direct line to the southward, on the east and west sides of the church, turning it, at right angles, to the church at its southern extremity. A gate will be necessary to admit the exit of the congregation at the side doors, and a handsome gate will be required at each side in front of the church, through which carriages will enter from the west, draw up in front, and drive off by the opposite eastern gate.

I hope these remarks will meet with consideration; they are offered with the most disinterested wish to improve the appearance of St. Enoch's square, and to do justice to the work of the architect of the church.-Your obedient servant,

March, 1832.

VITRUVIUS.

GENUS IRRITABILE VATUM.

We subjoin two specimens of the angry communications we are in daily receipt of, from our rejected poetical correspondents, which, we dare say, will amuse our readers as much as they have diverted us :-

To the Editor of THE DAY.

SIR, I lately favoured you with a few lines of poetry, and you show your want of taste by its non-insertion. I have been twice at the expense of purchasing your paltry penny publication, and have not even had the trifling consolation of its receipt being acknowledged. Is it thus you encourage the first rays of genius? and you say hum-drum is out of place in The Day. I say, there is nothing but hum-drum in it from beginning to end. "Every dog has its day," and you have your's. You seem to put nothing in but the ravings of your own disordered imagination. If my effusion is not inserted by the 28th current, rely on my utmost displeasure.

March 26th, 1832.

W. M. D.

SIR, I beg to enquire if you are afraid the literary world will be too small to contain your poems and mine, that you advise me to discontinue writting. Till now, I conceived you considered the brightness of your's sufficient to burn up all the writtings that ever preceded them. You acknowledge that my song contains two or three pretty images-well, then, are these not enough to ensure its insertion in your Day? More than two or three dozen of jingles which have appeared there, that I could name, that have neither poetry, expression, originality, similie, image nor common sense-in fact, that are entirely destitute of every thing that constitutes poetry.

But I must thank you for the insertion of two of my pieces, one in an early number, the other, in a very late one, which, because they escaped your notice in stile of hand-writting, also escaped your fastidiousness. When I sent my last, I did not send it for criticism nor advice. Had I stood in need of these, I knew better than ask them from a source where I could expect no proper and no honest answer. But, Sir, I despise you and your criticisms, and if I should, at any time, perceive my "Pretty images" blended with yours, (a thing you are rather guilty of) I shall write a Sonnet that will burl a black cloud of disgrace about your ears and extinguish the little popularity you may have become possessor of.-I am, Sir, your's,

Glasgow, 29th March, 1832.

* PRINTER'S DEVIL.-Such spelling.

ALPHA.

LITERARY INTELLIGENCE.

MR. GALT has in the Press a new Novel, entitled, "Stanley Buxton, or the Schoolfellows."

There is a project now afloat of starting a Monthly Theological Magazine in this city.

NOTICE TO CORRESPONDENTS.

WE will be happy to hear, occasionally, from " A, Y." with any translations he may make from the German, but we will, at the same time, feel obliged to him, if he will point to the particular portion of any author's work which he has thought proper to transfer into our language, so that we may examine the work for ourselves. We are rather particular in our German department. "Alles Zum Guten" will be inserted if a more legible M.S. be sent us. As, also, "A Real Friend," from Herder. "A Peep at the Trongate" will not suit us. "The Queen Street Fire" wants "Fire" exceedingly. "H. H." may perhaps succeed in the difficult manufacture of verses, after another five years' apprenticeship.

We beg leave, respectfully, to decline the three volumes of "Unpublished Pieces, in Prose and Verse," placed at our disposal, by the gentleman who modestly hints, that, if they were published under the name of Sir Walter Scott, Southey, or Wordsworth, they would take amazingly. He may be right, they would, certainly, "take in" a few noodles, and but a few. His quartos lie at our publishers, and if not removed within three days, warehouse rent must be charged for them.

&

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MORAL POETS OF GREAT BRITAIN.-No V.

Z. BOYD.

We are not aware that the number of distinguished Authors, belonging to our city, is so great, as to permit us to consign even one of them to obscurity, and, yet, for almost two hundred years, comparatively nothing more has been known of Zacharias Boyd than his bust in the Court of the College, bis donation to the University, and his supposed authorship of certain doggerel verses, which are never recited but for the amusement or ridicule of the hearer. We trust our readers will have a juster idea of the merits of Boyd, before the conclusion of our remarks, and that, if they will not permit us to inscribe his name on the highest circle of the pillar, that records the glories of the Scottish muse, they will, at least, assign to it a station far above that to which they formerly considered him entitled.

It is proper to avail ourselves of the earliest opportunity of disabusing the reader, regarding Boyd's authorship of the absurd verses, that have been inserted in the jest books of the present day, and which are so frequently offered as specimens of his composition. Many of these are not to be found in his works at all, and others have been mutilated and altered to suit the false taste of the collector. "It is astonishing," says Dr. Jamieson, "what liberties have been taken with the memory of one of the principal benefactors of the University, good Zachary Boyd, in the extracts pretended to be given from the MS. of his poetical works, preserved in the College Library. Unpolished as many of his expressions are, they have been grossly exaggerated."

The first notice of our author will be found in a letter from David Boyd to Principal Boyd, wherein the following expression occurs :-" There is a friend of yours, Zacharias Boyd, who will pass his course at the College within two years." From Glasgow he went to Saumur, in France, under his relation, Robert Boyd. According to his own statement, he had been absent in France sixteen years," where it had pleased God to make him a preacher of the word, the space of four years." He returned to his native country in 1621. In 1623, he was ordained minister of the church of the Barony Parish of Glasgow, in which situation he continued till his death.

He filled the distinguished office of Lord Rector of the University, in the years 1634-35 and 1645.

That Boyd was a man of strong nerve, and courageous deportment, is evinced by the spirited conduct he displayed during Cromwell's visit to this city. It is related by Baillie, "that Cromwell and his army came by way of Kilsyth to Glasgow. The Magistrates and Ministers fled all away. I got to the Isle of Cumray with my Lady Montgomery, but left all my family, and goods to Cromwell's courtesy, which, indeed, was great, for he took such a course with his soldiers, that they did less displeasure at Glasgow than if they had been at London, though Mr. Zachary Boyd railed on them all, to their very face, in the High Church." On another occasion, when Cromwell went in state to the Cathedral, it so happened that Mr. Boyd preached in the forenoon, when he took occasion, severely, to inveigh against the Protector, so that his Secretary whispered him for leave "to pistol the

scoundrel." "No, no," said Cromwell, "we will manage him another way." He therefore asked the minister to dine with him, and the visit was concluded by prayer, which lasted three hours, even until three in the morning."

A man so conscientious in the discharge of ministerial duties, public and private, was not likely to be careless, either in his studies, or the employments with which he was intrusted. He appears to have risen early in the morning, from his reprimand to those "who are of a base spirit, who, sluggishly gaping and streching, lye buskinge on the downe," and he often quoted a Latin verse, which he translated thus,

"It maketh holie, whole and rich to rise early in the morning." Towards the termination of his life, he became debilitated, and attempted to curtail his public discourses; but, even under such circumstances, this gave offence to his congregation, and the session records bear upon them the following remonstrance on the subject-" Feb. 13, 1651, some are to speak to Mr. Z. Boyd about the soon skailing of the Baronie kirk on Sunday afternoon."

Of the last sickness of Boyd, there is no record, but we know nothing more touching, in biography, than the following words, written tremulously and indistinctly, in a manuscript he had nearly completed, "heere the author was neere his end, and was able to doe no more, March third, 1653."

Like other great men, Boyd had his aversions and peculiarities. His ire seems to have been highly excited, by the indulgence of the fair sex in the elegancies of the toilet, and the vanities of outward adornment; but what will some of our clerical friends say to the following anathema.

"There be now another sort of drunkards, who spoile their healthe with reeke and smoke; tabaccamen, who goe about to smoke the soule out of the body, as if it were a foxe chased out of his hole. What count shoulde such fierie pipers make to God, if death in an instant should seaze upon them with that fire I will not insiste against this pipe at their mouth?

sinne that was once a great stranger in this land, onely this will I say for the present: this takeing of reeke seemethe to be a graceless thing. If a man come into a house and take but a drink, he will first pray to God for a blessing. But there is no grace for tobacca, as if it were not a creature of God."

Of Boyd's poetical genius it is now our duty to offer an opinion. He appears to have had a vivid impression and relish for the beanties of nature, and whatever was presented to him, either in real life, or in the course of his reading, seems to have been indelibly impressed on his mind. In his prose works, there are passages of eloquence second to none in the works of our Scottish writers; yet in these, we find expressions, intermingled, that induce us to question the author's taste even when he is most splendid.

"It is now time to mind the things that are above. Fye upon clay and stones! What are all the royal palaces of the world to these stately houses above, whereof the floure or pavement glistens with thousands of starres, as with as many golden nails, or twinkling diamonds. There the sun and moone, the two great jewels of heaven, shall be under your feet, which are now above our head."—(Battle of the Soul.)