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lost-it was not so with Donald-Mack's life was at stake. As soon as he observed the monster return from pursuing him, Donald faced about, and pursued him in his turn; but having, before this, from the horror of being all torn to pieces, run rather too far without looking back, the boar had by that oversight got considerably ahead of him. Donald strained every nerveuttered some piercing cries—and even, for all his haste, did not forget to implore assistance from Heaven. His prayer was short, but pithy—“O Lord! puir Mack! puir Mack!” said Donald, in a loud voice, while the tears gushed from his eyes. In spite of all his efforts, the enraged animal reached the mouth of the den before him, and entered! It was, however, too narrow for him to walk in on all-four; he was obliged to drag himself in as Mack had done before; and, of course, his hindfeet lost their hold of the ground. At this important crisis, Donald overtook him—laid hold of his large long tail-wrapped it around both his hands—set his feet to the bank, and held back in the utmost desperation.
Mack, who was all unconscious of what was going on above ground, wondered why he came to be involved in utter darkness in a moment. He waited a little while, thinking that Donald was only playing a trick upon him; but the most profound obscurity still continuing, he at length bawled out, “ Tonald, man ; Tonald! phat is it that'll aye pe stopping te light ?" Donald was too much engaged, and too breathless, to think of making any reply to Mack's question, till the latter, having waited in vain a considerable time for an answer, repeated it in a louder cry. Donald's famous laconic answer, which perhaps never was, nor ever will be equalled, has often been heard of—"Tonald, man ; Tonald! --I say phat is it that'll aye pe stopping te light?" bellowed Mack. “Should te tail break, - you'll fin' tat,” said Donald.
: Donald continued the struggle, and soon began to entertain hopes of ultimate success. When the boar pulled to get in, Donald held back; and when he struggled to get back again, Donald set his shoulders
to him, and pushed him in : and in this position kept him, until he got an opportunity of giving him some deadly stabs with his skene-dhu behind the short-rib, which soon terminated his existence.
Our two young friends by this adventure realized a valuable prize, and secured so much excellent food, that it took them several days to get it conveyed home. During the long winter nights, while the family were regaling themselves on the hams of the great wild boar, often was the above tale related, and as often applauded and laughed at.
1. Of the Literary Beau. This is a gentleman who decides quickly and peremptorily on works of the most scientific or erudite nature. A discovery of Herschel, or an emendation of Porson, is alike familiar and puerile to him. He has great personal activity, and loves to examine all booksellers' shops. Having made his first principal visit at Hookham's, he sallies to Murray's, to Egerton's, and to White's: his pockets are stuffed with magazines and reviews, and, as a lover of high-seasoned dishes, he prefers those of the latter, in which the Cayenne and Tewkesbury mustard predominate. His reading excursions never extend beyond the pages of the Quarterly or Edinburgh Review, from which he learns the names of popular books and enough of their contents to decide upon their merits. Sometimes too he ventures to write, himself, and takes up the critical pen to the sore annoyance of all grave and sensible authors,- he pounces upon his prey
with the ferocity of a vulture--though, in grappling with it, he betrays the impotency of the tom-tit. Gentlemen of this description always write upon a patent mahogany desk, with a Hudson's Bay quill, carefully dipped into a silver inkstand.
2. The Political Beau is of a more harmless description; though he is equally vebement and positive with the literary one. He levels his attacks against the operations of the enemy, who do not perhaps quite so much dread his censures, as does the ministry at home, which he is in the constant habit of abusing. I have known these political beaux declaim an hour upon the blunders of the allies, showing how Buonaparte ought to have been taken prisoner as well as defeated.
3. The Devout Beau I would designate as the gentleman who goes to church to save appearances, and thereby to obtain the reputation of a loyal, rational sort of a being. He uses his eye-glass more than his prayer-book, and smirks during the sermon, because he would not have it supposed that the preacher's admonitions can affect a man of his refined stamp. He is the first to sally out of church when the service is concluded, because his time is precious, and he is apprehensive the weather may change to rain before he shall have galloped twelve times up and down the park. Gentlemen of this description sometimes begrudge the yearly sum of a guinea for a seat in a pew, though they are never failing subscribers to Almack's, and the most magnificent patrons of French dancers, German quacks, and Italian quaverers.
4. The Operatical Beau is constantly seen at the King's Theatre, on the evening preceding the Sabbath -but never on a Tuesday, unless Ambrogetti or Bellocchi should happen to appear in a new character. He sometimes condescends to pay a visit to the pit; and after uttering one ' Bravo!' at the orchestra railing, returns through the allée, and joins some solitary dowager or enraptured miss in the fifth tier of boxes. When this intellectual treat is over, he retires, agreeable to invitation, to a snug supper coterie of twenty-five; and, just as the Sabbath dawns, reaches his home and his bed. He is probably prevented sleeping, by the sound of the first church bells—" And being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two, and sleeps again.'
5. The Theatrical Beau is seen more frequently be
hind than within the boxes; and generally prefers the conversation of others to that of his own party. He can just endure to hear Kemble deliver a soliloquy, or Kean utter a sarcasm, but to sit a whole play through, is an effort beyond the strength of his faculties to bear. Few beings are more restless than these theatrical beaux; and, what may be thought rather strange, if they reach their homes without a quarrel and its consequences, they are still more tortured than if they had been patient spectators of the entire play.
6. The Dashing Beau is a gentleman who deals in all sorts of carriages, horses, and dogs: to-day he is mounted aloft, to-morrow he is sunk below. It is of no consequence to him whether the vehicle which conveys him be square, or round, or oblong; or whether his companions be grooms or dogs.
“ He brandishes his pliant length of whip,
Resounding oft, and never heard in vain;" and, in a fearless, thoughtless mood, drives from one street to another, turning every corner with due angular precision--and darts through a county, before a sober traveller in his chaise and pair has changed his first horses. This Beau is a great disturber of your sober watchmen and poor old barrow-women, whom he is sure to dislodge from their quiet corners.
I have often remarked, that young gentlemen of this description are, in general, good-natured, pleasant, facetious sort of human beings; and have as often lamented that such a career, commenced in pure folly, should have terminated in nothing better than the possession of a few guineas for the sale of the last dog and gun--which a gaming debt, incurred the preceding evening, has in-. stantly swept away! When I see these dashing beaux', skimming, like summer swallows, along life's surface, I only hope that they have neither mothers nor sisters one can bear to see folly severely chastised, but who can bear to see a heart of sensibility and virtue cut in twain !
7. The Jolly Beau is a gentleman who frequents
taverns and coffee-houses, and is emphatically known as a lover of good eating and drinking. It would astonish a rational man, who is accustomed to dine in a quiet way with bis family, at a table illuminated by two good mould candles, to see one of these jolly beaux sitting down by himself, at seven o'clock in the evening, to dinner, barricadoed by four thick wax candles, and hemmed in by a bottle of each, fish sauces, and six smoking covers! What a brilliant triumph must that be, where the only spectators are a grinning waiter and a waggish butler! To be sure, there is a consolation in reflecting that some one knows how one's money goes.
8. The Dressy Beau is a gentleman of measured step, swinging gait, bright boots, trimmed whiskers, and composed features; this is his morning costume. In the evening, he puts on a thinner dress because it is colder; the tip of his handkerchief hangs out of his pocket, and under his arm is preserved, with the same care that a another protects her infant, a thin, semicircular, elongated, black, beaver ornament, projecting about six inches beyond each side of the profile of the body. This is meant for a hat, but is rarely used as such: or, when it assumes its natural character, has an appearance as monstrous and grotesque as any part of the dress of a gentleman of the Sandwich or Friendly Islands. The dressy beau is a harmless animal; he rarely bites--or, when he does, the bite is not attended with the same pain as is that of the literary or political beau.
9. The Old Beau. We come now to the ninth and last class, into which the modern beau has been divided. This gentleman is instantly recognised as well by his faded looks as by his dirty finery, and affected sprightliness. The aged beau is the most incorrigible of his species; he has become old in crime, and infirm from debauchery, Tottering from one rendezvous to another, he makes an effort (like the sun gleaming through the purple clouds of evening-though the simile is much too good for him) to shine with his wonted splendour, and congratulates himself that he still succeeds. He enters into all the wild schemes of youth, but executes them