for their strength and ferocity. They were not at all successful, having neglected the common game in searching for these animals; and a little before sunset they returned homeward, without having shot any thing save one wild turkey. But when they least expected it, to their infinite joy they discovered a deep pit or cavern, which contained a large litter of fine half-grown pigs, and none of the old ones with them. This was a prize indeed; so, without losing a moment, Donald said to the other, "Mack, you pe te littlest man, creep you in and durk te little sows, and I'll be keeping vatch at te door." Mack complied without hesitation-gave his gun to Donald-unsheathed his skene-dhu-and crept into the cave, head foremost; but after he was all out of sight, save the brogues, he stopped short, and called back, "But Lord, Tonald, be shoor to keep out te ould wons." "Ton't you pe fearing that, man," said Donald.

The cave was deep, but there was abundance of room in the further end, where Mack, with his sharp skenedhu, now commenced the work of death. He was scarcely well begun, when Donald perceived a monstrous wild boar advancing upon him, roaring, and grinding his tusks, while the fire of rage gleamed from his eyes. Donald said not a word, for fear of alarming his friend; besides, the savage was so hard upon him ere he was aware, that he scarcely had time for any thing so setting himself firm, and cocking his gun, he took his aim; but, that the shot might prove the more certain death, he suffered the boar to come within a few paces of him before he ventured to fire. He at last drew the fatal trigger, expecting to blow out his eyes, brains and all. Merciful Heaven! the gun missed fire, or flashed in the pan, I am not sure which. There was no time to lose. Donald dashed the piece in the animal's face, turned his back, and fled with precipitation. The boar pursued him only for a short space, for having heard the cries of his suffering young ones, as he passed the mouth of the den, he hasted back to their rescue. Most men would have given all up for

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 á 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.

Hogg.

MODERN BEAUX.

His

1. Or 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. 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 vehement 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

He

hind than within the boxes; and generally prefers the conversation of others to that of his own party. 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 instantly 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 sistersone 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