We will explain the meaning of the foregoing.-In the summer of 1835, the person who assumes the signature of “ Craven," took some liberty relative to our Newmarket correspondent, whereupon the editor criticized Craven's racing prophecies (vide vol. ix, p. 186). The August number of the Old Magazine contained an imaginary dialogue, wherein Craven indulged in some vulgar personalities upon the supposed writer, and shortly after, he made overtures for the transfer of his services to our pages. The answer was, that Craven had better wait the publication of our September number, which contained a letter, showing the difference between fair criticism and personal abuse, and demonstrating the ease with which names are called. Shortly after the publication, a note was received from Craven, requesting the editor to name a friend, and instead of stating who and what he was, he observed that the name of "Craven" would be sufficient for the purpose. The editor declined on the following grounds-First, Craven commenced the personalities, and having chosen that weapon, he was welcome to abide by it;— secondly, the editor thought he could not conveniently meet all rejected contributors;—and thirdly, he felt that no man could be expected to answer one who sent him an assumed name, and of whom he was perfectly ignorant. Craven's letter was therefore sent to his employers, and after a little vapouring and threatening, the matter ended. This, then, was the "gauntlet" Craven threw down, and" if he had not had to find it of himself," we think the editor would have been ill-advised. The roads soon will vanish, And fall to decay, On a coach-box alone! No. IV. AIR. "Love's Young Dream." Oh! the days are gone, when coaches light, Thro' turnpikes moved, When the roll of wheels, from morn till night, Was all I loved! New schemes may come, To bring us home In easier, swifter mode, But there's nothing half so sweet to me, As a trot along the road! Oh! there's nothing half so sweet to me, As a trot along the road! Tho' the engineer to fame may soar, And scour o'er the plain; Tho' he win old dames, who ne'er before, Would travel on a train; He ne'er can meet, Along a street, Despite his nasty steam, Bright forms which look from lattices, And eyes which pleasure beam; Oh! that four-in-hand is still the mode, Still it lingering haunts the Brighton road, It never lags, 'Twas Cotton's former team; "Tis a coach that never can be beat, Except by steam! "Tis a coach that never can be beat, Except by steam! THE SPORTING LOOKER-ON AND REFLECTOR. ALFRED SELBORNE'S JOURNAL. Continued. SELF-SENTIMENTALITY AND SONNET. -HERE am I,-Journalizing a life away,—and on subjects which would puzzle most men ;-for the philosopher would object to my sporting propensity; the poet would rebel against my prosing;-the critic would be opposed to my love of anecdote, and the delicacies of character, and the novelist or professed periodical writer would abhor my reviewing turn for "the bitters." Heigho!-I write as the whim giveth the rein,-or the gall spurreth ;-and to me it is nothing whether my observations ever encounter another glance than that of the writer,--or gratify another's pleasantry, sense of justice, or spleen. Neither care I,—should my observations be hatched in print,—whether I please or vex,-knowing that I honestly record the thoughts and feelings as honestly entertained at the moment. The game a foot,— I am alive to it :-out breaks a fox, and surely there is no stifling the view holloa!-up jumps a hare,-and can the halloo be repressed!The thrill at a rise in the sweet river will have the corresponding thrill in the nerve and heart-and the point of the favourite dog in the favourite stubble hath an effect, like that of an injunction upon the enraptured gunner. What too is a new poem,—a poem-upon a young heart!—what a Scot-like novel,—what the eye and form of fair women- —the breath of fame ?—the charm of eloquence?—a man alive to these, not merely "skyey influences,"-can but relieve his feelings through the safety-valve of a journal. On I go !-for matter awaiteth. And first-for I am in a demi-semi-sentimental mood ;first let me give a sonnet which I fear I have been guilty of writing, as the children say, "all out of my own head"-or heart!--which ?-It matters not, for it is caviare to most readers. As the New Sporting Magazine hath a privilege to take extracts at some time or other from these inestimable records,-I must say I should like to see the countenance of the editor when he stumbles on my compound of Bowles, Charlotte Smith, Kirke White, Capel Loft,—and water,(without a dash of Petrarch in it)—at a moment when perhaps he was counting upon reminiscences of badger-baiting,—or some passages in the life of the Game Chicken !—what a pang it is to feel that a sincere outburst of enthusiasm, or sorrow, or joy, cannot always meet with a tone of mind and heart in the same key!-but an epitaph may be read, with what theatrical people call a roar;—and a joke may be uttered in a mourning coach !—I must not look to have, to use dear Sancho's proverb "better bread than is made of corn!"—But let me get over my sonnet! SONNET. Oh youth!—oh beauty !—oh divinest dreams Of Fame and Rapture !—where are ye?—oh where? Gone!—like the morning-cloudless sweetest beams! The loss is awful-awful is the change For years have shown the world!—yet, the world shows Bright lustre out of darkness :—in the range Of thoughts, come reconcilings dim and strange! CHURTON'S ALMANACK. A. S. -Low spirits last night,—but why, I know not. Rose to day refreshed -with no symptoms of sonnet about me. I see my initials (A. S.) to fourteen lines in the last record-green tea,-bile,-a tiresome friend -or some other complaint affecting me. I ought to have added another capital S to the initials, to have completed the personage responsible for the whine!-To day I feel up,-in a garret-pair of stirrups !—alive,—muscles strong as Major Longbow's-spirits Midsummer-night's dreamish !-heart as large as a pictured one in a Valentine, but without any dart as a lodger!-mind as vigorous and resolute as the arm of Crib (in champion days!)—the eye of the lion-tamer,— or the refusal of a banker's cashier to an asset-less cheque. What a poor maudlin, milk-and-water thing is a sentimentalist; he is fit only to open an account with Aldgate pump,—to draw eternal drafts upon that renowned firm for current use, with unlimited permission to overdraw his account. "Water, water, everywhere!”—as Coleridge says. A letter is before me on the subject of Mr. Churton's Almanack,— accusing me (and I believe through the instrumentality of that gentleman) of having done him grievous harm ;-if it be so, I shall always look upon that part of my journal with sensible pain ;—because no man has a right to think wrong-and journalizing is thinking through pen ink!-substituting therefore in my person the "aut nullus" for the "aut Casar" I should truly say-in the words of Shakespeare, "If it were so, it was a grievous fault, And grievously hath Cæsar answered it!" I find that Mr. Churton has sent circulars to the masters of hounds,and has received several answers,—and I therefore did him injustice in supposing that he "filched" (not "golden opinions") from "all sorts" of Baileys, and Kings, and New Sporting Magazines. The singular fact however of all the omissions, all the blunders-(or nearly all) of the Oracle and the N. S. M. as to the lists of hounds, their masters, and huntsmen being continued in Mr. Churton's Almanack, misled me, and might have misled wiser men. It is pleasant to me to see that the owners and masters of hounds (for I love the N. S. M.) have made their returns to Holles-street from that Magazine's list or in strict confirmation of it. Jorrocks ought to be solicited to do an Almanack for sporting use ;-he would make up a mess of Murphy, Moore, Oracle, and Hannay, that would (bating grammar) be satisfactory to all readers. But seriously as to Mr. Churton :-His Almanack is more honestly composed than I gave it credit for;-but it is in all other respects, all that I said of it. There is a manifest ignorance in the department of editing. Unfortunately there are few sporting-men (thorough-bred) that can write-and consequently there are few writing men (thorough-bred also) that can sport!—If the public are to be taxed for a Sporting Almanack,-something better in the way of illustrations, more correct in the way of information,-and more absolved from the people connected with the questionable characters in the Beggar's Opera must be managed. BLOOD HOUNDS.-A MANLY SPORT. I was amused with the reading of the following audacious advertisement, inserted in Bell's Life, of the 2d of December. Stag-hounds— fox-hounds-harriers-beagles-otter-hounds, are occasionally submitted to public competition :-but professed man-hounds are new in these days,—and I very much question whether Sir Frederic Roe would sanction the sport; and whether it would not be highly desirable for a gentleman, who was bold enough to be in at the death, to secure the brush as quickly as possible. "BLOOD-HOUNDS.-For sale, a couple of pure-bred English Bloodhounds, dog and bitch. They are perfectly trained to run man—and warranted steady. Lowest price, 401.-Apply to the Waiter at the Black Bull, Holborn." The animals appear to have found a purchaser,-through the professional agency of that Dog-George Robins,-Frank Redmond; and a man has been turned out before this agreeable couple, who appears to have yielded fair sport. Mountjoy, the Pedestrian used on the occasion, must now have a lively sense of a stag's feelings; and I dare say, never ran better in his life than under this blood-hound inspi he |