pidly hurrying up, then pressing through the brushwood beneath

me.

A bright glare of light was now flashed upon the trapper, evidently from a dark lantern carried by the stranger, and I had a perfect view of him. He was about the middle height, with an exceedingly large, heavy body, and short, thick legs, a little bowed outwards. His chest was very broad-his arms long and extremely muscular. He had a short, bull neck, and a large broad face, with coarse features, and bushy, dark eyebrows and whiskers. His head was bald, the white shining crown contrasting strongly with the deep, burnt, brown hue of his face. He stood with his fists doubled up in an attitude of defence, one of them being raised to shield his eyes from the light. At his feet lay the plaited wire of the snare, and a heavy broad cap of blue worsted stuff that had fallen from his head.

"Have I caught you at last?" said the stranger. "Yes, and you'll find me nothing but a Tartar." "It's no use-you must go down to the House." "If I do, you'll have to carry me."

And laughing in defiance, he made a sudden kick with his foot, and dashed the lantern to the ground. I thought it was extinguished, but it was only broken, and the oil escaping among the dry leaves, and catching fire from the wick, immediately shot up a bright fame, throwing a red, unearthly sort of light on every object around for a few paces back,-all beyond that being shrouded in a pall of thick darkness. The new comer, whom I could now see plainly, appeared from his dress to be an under-gamekeeper, or some such character. He was considerably taller than the other, very well made, and also an exceedingly powerful man. He had a gun in his hands, but it was evidently not loaded, for he held it clubwise, ready to strike down with the butt.

"Will you come quietly, or must I fetch you?" said he.

"Fetch and be was the reply, and the poacher sprang at him. He raised the gun, and it would have descended with fearful force on his antagonist's skull, but that it struck against the branch of the tree overhead, the very one by which I had swung myself up to my present position. The next instant both had grappled together, and a fierce struggle ensued, accompanied with curses, and hideous epithets applied to each other.

It was a most strange and terrific scene altogether. These two men of gigantic strength, locked in furious strife, their faces giving expression to every mad passion, while the red flame from the broken lantern threw its ruddy phantasmagorial glare upon them, making them look like fiends contending amid a region of fire.

I watched them with fearful yet absorbing attention, with feelings of awe, dread, and overpowering curiosity, tumultuous and scarcely bearable. I marked their sweating brows and straining muscles as they struggled hither and thither, now one, now the other seeming to have the advantage. I hearkened to their labouring breath, to their oaths, and horrible threats and denunciations; while, to add to the wildness of the picture, the dog, broken-backed and powerless, lay wriggling about on the grass close by, its eyes gleaming with pain and rage,

barking and yelling from out its foaming mouth, a fearful accompaniment to the conflict.

At once the gun, which appeared to be the immediate object of contention, flew from between them, and fell among the bushes a little to one side, while at the same moment a heavy blow was dealt upon the throat of the poacher, and he staggered back. It was but an instant, however, for the next he rushed upon his opponent with renewed ferocity, and they were again joined in mutual strife.

"You banished my boy!" was ground out from the compressed lips of the trapper.

"Yes, and I'll send you after the cub-if I don't-" an oath completed the sentence.

A bitter laugh was the response, accompanied by a powerful wrench of the other's body, that appeared almost to bend him double. He stood it out, however, and returned it by a second blow, dealt with his whole strength upon his opponent's neck. But in the act of doing this, he had laid himself fearfully open to him. The poacher grasped him at once round the middle, and, twisting him like a sapling across his haunch, with a wild cry of triumph, leaped high into the air, and they fell heavily to the ground, the keeper undermost and he over him, with his knee sunk into his stomach.

"Now," he cried out, "I'll make an end of this,-you have been the curse of my life-I'll be the finisher of yours."

But the keeper shortly appeared to recover from the stunning effects of his fall, and, grappling at his throat, struggled violently.

I thought he would once have changed places with him, but the poacher maintained his advantage and kept him down. After a while, gasping for breath, he gave up the attempt.

Let me up, Nathan," said he, " I will let you go."

A laugh of derision was the answer, as after several tremendous blows, knocked into his face, his adversary, while he held him down with one hand, thrust the other into a side-pocket, and drew forth a large clasp-knife. When the prostrate man saw this, he screamed aloud, and made another desperate attempt to dislodge him as he sat upon his chest, but without avail.

"Nathan-Nathan, don't murder me,-have mercy!"

"What mercy had you on my son that you banished?—eh, Judas, eh ?"

66

Oh, Nathan! spare my life-mind, when we were boys together!"

"Ay, and do you mind when we were men together?"

66

Yes, Nathan, I have been your ruin, I own it—but spare me in mercy-we are old men now-don't take my life!"

"If I don't, 'may God take mine! Ours has been a lifelong quarrel, and only death can end it. Think on Alice Woodward now,-I would have made her an honest woman-you made her a

Yes! you may rob a man of all his possessions, and in time he will forget and forgive; but come between him and her he loves, and he will pursue you to the grave. If one insult you, wound you, deprive you of your dearest friend, of your child even, your very firstborn, it is possible to pardon-to pray for him. But he has brought to ruin

for

the woman your heart loves-her whom your fond youth idolized-who was the star of your hopes for this world and the next! Can you give?-is it in man's erring nature?

While the dialogue went on, they struggled much, the brawny poacher holding down his victim, partly by pressing his chest against his, and partly with his left-hand, which grasped his throat. The knife he held in his right, making attempts to open it with his teeth, but desisting at intervals to utter the sentences above related. At length he got the blade partly open, when the keeper, by a desperate wrench, catching hold of his wrist, the spring went off, and with a loud snap the blade darted into its haft, making a hideous slanting gash in his under-lip, half severing it from the lower-jaw.

The warm blood spouted over their hands and faces, a kind of thin tiny vapour rising from it in the cold night-air, while the separated lip stood out from his face, protruding and quivering horribly, like another tongue, and streaming with gore. He tossed his head spasmodically back, and uttered a wild snorting groan of intense agony.

All this was shown me by the red, flickering, flaring light from the lantern, which was now beginning to die out. It was indeed a scene such as a man may be horrified with once in a lifetime. I looked down in a paroxysm of interest and wonder, curiosity and dread. I lost all consciousness of my own situation, and seemed to have become part and parcel of the deadly strife below. I kept craning forward, and stretching and twisting myself to get a complete view, when just as the poacher had, with both his hands, succeeded in opening the knife, and with a savage yell was waving it in the air prior to plunging it into the throat of his adversary, whose loud and despairing cry of "Murder!" was that moment piercing my ears, a small branch, to which in leaning forward I had committed my whole weight, snapped suddenly, and I was precipitated a height of ten feet right down upon them, and we rolled over and over, extinguishing the flame of the lantern in the confusion.

And now ensued a scatter, a regular panic seemed to have possessed the combatants. As for myself, I can avow I never was in such a mania of fear in my life. In a moment we were on our legs, and flying like the wind in different directions. One-the poacher probably-rushed crushing and tearing through the bushes, and was lost among the trees; the other fled along the avenue; whilst I, putting trust in a pair of heels that had often saved my head, coursed away out through the park, I knew not whither.

I ran on and on, never looking behind till I was brought to a stand by a broad piece of water. I paused here, and stooping, bathed my hands and throbbing temples with the clear, cold element,-a proceeding by which I was mightily refreshed.

There was now a considerable degree of light, the moon shining freely out between two clouds. Looking round, I could see no living creature. I listened-was that the wind?-the soughing of trees, or the distant rush of water? No; now it's over! Hark again! It is yes, the noise of a carriage-it is by Heaven! and I could now hear the sound of wheels and horses' feet galloping over gravel. I sprang forward again, and ran in the direction of the

sound. But presently it became fainter and less distinct. I am running from it!—where is it? I stood to listen, and again the murmur rose on the air. It is in this direction !—and I ran a little. No, it's the other way! Oh, how torturing was that feeling of uncertainty and suspense in the lonely park! I could have sat down and cried in very bitterness. At length came a breath of wind, bearing loudly and distinctly the sound. I ran against it with my utmost speed, and, in a minute or more, saw the moon shine on the bright yellow body of the chaise I had so strangely travelied by, and it appeared to be rapidly approaching me. A couple of minutes more, and I was seated securely in my former position on the hind axle, and we were out through the gate and careering along the road.

It was not long now, till, fagged and exhausted, I fell into a broken and dreamy slumber, from which I was only awakened by the hard jolting and rattling of the wheels over a pavement of stone, and found we were travelling along the identical street that had so bothered my brains five or six hours before. This street, by the rapidly advancing light of the morning, I was now enabled to recognise, and leaving my seat, I hurried home, tumbled into bed for an hour or so, and then posted off to morning lecture.

The whole events of the night appeared like a wild and troubled dream, but there was palpable reality in the fact, that poor puss lay along stiff and cold, but not a bit the worse of that, in one of the unfathomable pockets of my pea-jacket. Nor was it a matter for scepticism that she served for a nice supper to a select few, to whom, over a tumbler of punch ('toddy,' as other legends sing), I took the liberty of relating the adventure.

But not the least curious point was, that never to this day could I form the least idea as to where I was that night,-who were the parties to whose duello I had so singularly put a finis, or who was the gentleman on whose carriage I had enjoyed such an eventful ride.

Whether the poacher and keeper ever met again to settle their difference, I know not-I should like to know, I confess. But there was one of my friends, a serious, sedate, sanctified sort of genius,-Old Father Isaacson we used to call him, who told me that night I had merely been an instrument in the hand of Providence for the prevention of a great crime, viz., nothing less than Murder!"

June. VOL. LXV. NO. CCLVIII.

S

SOME ACCOUNT OF THE MACARONIC POETRY

OF

ENGLAND AND SCOTLAND;

WITH SPECIMENS.

CHAP. I.

The rise of ludicrous poetry-The word Macaronic-Specimens from the works of Skelton, Drummond of Hawthornden, William Dunbar, the Romish Rime, Leland, Ruggles, and the scholastic epic.

WHILST Dibdin was pedestrianizing in Cornwall, he chanced to meet a village choir going, one Sunday morning, from their own village to a neigbouring parish to assist their brethren of the pitch-pipe in the performance of a "Rorytory," as it was denominated, in honour of their new vicar.

"My good friend," said Dibdin to the violoncello, a thin, lanky tailor of the village of Trevery, " my good friend, whose compositions do you sing?"

"Handel, sir, of course-nothing like Handel," replied the owner of the big barbiton, rather superciliously.

"Indeed!" remarked Charles; "do you not find him rather difficult?"

"Oh dear! no, sir," replied the man, "not now-practice does much."

"Yes," replied Dibdin; "practice does much, but knowledge more."

Why, you see, sir," continued the violoncello, rather hard at first, but you see we altered him.”

we did find him

Thus was it with Tryphiodorus, and the other writers of verses in the sixth century of our era; who, being incapacitated by Nature from eliciting from their lyres the strains which had been called into existence by the fingers of Homer or Hesiod, altered the musical notation of poetry, and sang a new song on the old instrument to a new gamut. The trouble which was taken by these writers to prove, by evidence the most indisputable, the evidence of works, how inferior they were to the old lords of the poetic creation, how completely they had left the pursuit of the beauties of Nature and the glories of the ideal, is no uninstructive lesson for popular writers. They sought, indeed, the praise of their own time, of the men among whom they moved and lived-and they obtained it. They sought also to anticipate the verdict of posterity, and they gained nothing by their motion.

In such a spirit as this, Tryphiodorus composed an Iliad in twenty books, in which he compensated for its dulness by grammatical ingenuity. From each of the twenty books he excluded one poor letter of the alphabet; ousting the first letter from the lines of the first book; the second from those of the second, and so on through his entire composition. The pedants had more imitations than the master