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 30, 1863.] district. It is not to be supposed that Englishmen will go into such a malarious region, unless it can be shown to be more healthy than it now appears; but the hint shows what is thought of our tendencies and tastes: and I have a strong impression that not a few of my countrymen, in India and at home, are silently indulging in dreams of the delights of delivering Singapore and the Sonderbunds of their special curse, by the genial exercise of the hunt. If any two or three,—possibly if one were to offer, so as to save others from looking ridiculous, romantic, and so forth, there would, I doubt not, be dozens more eager to share the venture. While I write, Indian newspapers come in with paragraphs which tell of Englishmen having gone out against a tiger here, and wild elephant there, which have come after livestock and succulent crops; and of a leopard having scared some ladies by rushing into their presence, when wanting a young cow as a prey. It is plain that such tidings are particularly pleasant to Englishmen within reach of the spot.

In our cooler quarter of the world, we have not leopards, and tigers, and elephants to complain of; but we can direct our energies against more mischievous creatures than hares and pheasants, or even the red deer of the Highlands. The Italians do not want any help from us while they have a sporting king of their own. We saw, the other day, how Victor Emmanuel relieved a poor peasant of the enemy of his hen roost, and refused the fee that was offered; and how he rejoined his hunting staff with the fox dangling over his shoulder; and how appalled his employer was on discovering who it was that he had been making so free with. But there are worse marauders than foxes in countries so near us as France.

We have seen how the Duke of Beaufort’s pack of hounds was invoked to rid a district of Poitou of wolves. The news thrilled many a heart among us, no doubt,—so terrible are the wolf stories we used to hear in our childhood;—the story of the peasant girl who saved her little brother from a pack of wolves by putting him into the oven, and was torn to pieces the moment after;—and the cowardly mother in Norway, who, when her sledge was followed by wolves, flung her children to the pack, one after another, to give her time to escape; and who escaped at last,—with nothing left to live for,—and could never hold up her head again, under the contempt and pity of all who knew her. We were proud for the Duke of Beaufort that he should be the good knight to rid Poitou of these fearful enemies of children, and sheep, and horses, and cattle, that the people might never again have such a winter as the last to dread.

The experiment has not, so far, been as successful as was hoped. English dogs seem not to have so sure and lively an instinct of combativeness as English men; and the hounds looked complacently or indifferently on the wolves till they were roused and instructed by the dogs of the neighbourhood. They will do very well next year, for their passion was awakened; and if it had been weather for the scent to lie, they would have made a good beginning of their work. As it was, they learned what a wolf was, and how to pull him down.

If they had learned less, the expedition would have been worth while; for French men learned a lesson, as well as English dogs. The French notion of “sport” is—plenty of noise and bustle, and as much uproar as possible, with horns, and shouts, and hurry-scurry. With infinite surprise the spectators saw the business like way in which our countrymen went to work,—anxious about the scent alone, and careful not to distract the dogs’ attention from it. The people had the sense to see the superior promise of the quiet method,—its greater profit and dignity. English solidity asserted itself as usual; and it did no hurt to our reputation,—so well aware as the spectators were of the passion for sport which is a part of English nature.

One wonders whether it struck them that when a nation does not prostitute its war-instinct to the conquest of a remote, or inferior, or unwarlike people, it is no undignified use to make of that instinct to direct it against the natural enemies of Man. May it never be worse employed! 2em

of that dim legendary time When the gods talked with mortals, and could leave Their starry home to gaze on women’s eyes.

On a fair summer’s morn, when all was still, Save the reed’s rustling in the breeze, which fell Like distant voices murmuring on the ear, Or the shrill halcyon, which sailed slowly by, Tipping his wings with purple in the sun; Once ’neath the golden linden’s glimmering shade, Upon the deep-red summer grass there sat Numa, and near the beating of his heart, With velvet limbs, white as the ocean foam, A nymph of more than mortal mien, whose love Was all too great for heaven, and so she longed To perfect it with sorrow in this world. There, often, she would open Nature’s book, Interpreting its mystic eloquence, Telling him secrets of each living thing, From the grey torrent to the clinging moss,— Or listen, tremulous, in a bright excess Of rosy modesty, the while he spoke, With wistful eagerness; more often full Of gentler thoughts than any this earth knows She sang, Cassandra-like, with dim faint eyes, Whose lids dropped gathered nectar, while the leaves Of amaranth were waving on her brow, How the great golden age had passed away, And how the harmonious chords of peace and love Should be unstrung, and sound again no more.

So Numa, by the music of her voice, In such sweet sorrow was imparadised, That life was like a dream; till in his soul Those sacred germs of nobler birth than dust Grew strong beneath her smiling influence, And left fair deeds of fame to future time. Thus would they talk in language kind and low Like lovers watched, though there was none to hear, And heeded not the hours, till her grey eyes Grew darker in the twilight, and the dew Shone in her hair like drops of silver rain; Till the warm sunset faded, and the stars Peeped forth to watch the dying of the day. J. M.