and to trace the road of run-away negroes, there does not remain a doubt. We learn from Rainsford's "History of St. Domingo," that they were trained to the scent of the human footstep, by being fed on blood, and rewarded at the end of their long chase, by being encouraged to pull down a figure representing a negro, stuffed with the blood and entrails of beasts. On the authority of Strabo, they did more than this; they were made the means of attack, in a body, on the Gauls, and within our own time, of bringing back the run-away negroes of Jamaica to their duty, having been hired, at a great expense, from Cuba, for the purpose. But there is as much difference between the dogs now alluded to, and that which we call the English blood-hound, as there is between an English foxhound and an Irish greyhound. In fact, we are well persuaded, that the animals hired on this occasion from Cuba, were, as nearly as possible, the sort of animal that the celebrated sportsman, Nimrod, saw, and gave a description of, in his " German Tour," at the seat of Count Hahn, in Germany; which are not altogether unlike the old Irish greyhound, with the exception of being possessed of still more power, as well as great apparent ferocity, which indeed, they stand in need of, as they are used for the chase of the wild hog. It may be recollected by some of the readers of this work, that he described the way in which these boar-hounds, as they are called, were kennelled, to guard against danger to strangers. They were chained to the walls of a long gallery-like building, at a certain distance from, and opposite to, each other, only leaving a sufficient space for persons to walk between them, quite secure from their gripe; for they were most of them savage, and exhibited sundry scars from the tusks of the beasts with which they had contended.

When speaking of those dogs, he thus expressed myself as to their kind: "They seem to be a cross of the old mastiff and the lurcher greyhound, but with more power than belongs to each individually;" whereas, the old and true blood-hound is supposed to have sat for the picture which Shakspeare drew of the dog of the highest repute in the sixteenth century :

My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind,

So flewed, so sanded; and their heads are hung
With ears that sweep away with the morning dew;
Crook-kneed and dew-lapp'd, like Thessalian bulls;
Slow in pursuit, but match'd in mouth like bells,
Each under each.

Mr. Tickell, the friend and fellow-laborer of Addison, thus introduces the blood-hound, in his "Poem on Hunting," and with the full license of a poet :

Thy care be first the various gifts to trace,
The minds and genius of the latrant race:
In powers distinct the different clans excel,
In sight, or swiftness, or sagacious smell.
By wiles ungen'rous some surprise the prey,
And some by courage win the doubtful day.
Seest thou the greyhound, how, with glance severe,
From the close herd he marks the destin'd deer:
How every nerve the greyhound's stretch displays,
The hare preventing to her airy maze;

The luckless prey how treach'rous tumblers gain,

And dauntless wolf-dogs shake the lion's mane?
O'er all the blood-hound boasts superior skill,
To scent, to view, to turn, and boldly kill;
His fellows' vain alarms rejects with scorn,
True to the masters' voice and learned horn.
His nostrils oft, if ancient fame sing true,
Trace the sly felon through the tainted dew;
Once snuff'd, he follows with unalter'd aim,
Nor odors lure him from the chosen game;
Deep-mouth'd he thunders, and inflam'd he views,
Springs on relentless, and to death pursues.

We do not, however, wish to be understood to assert, that a dog, known by the term "bloodhound," has not been made use of in Great Britain-in Scotland in particular, in the civil wars of Wallace and Bruce, for example, whose poetical historians relate very interesting anecdotes touching the service they rendered their masters; as, likewise, on the confines of England and Scotland, where the borderers were continually preying upon the herds and flocks of their neighbors; and in England as well, in the early part of the last century, when deer-stealing prevailed so much, and was accounted a capital offence. The celebrated Colonel Thornton, of Thornville Royal, Yorkshire, England, indeed, had a leash of these animals during his residence at Clapham, in Surry, within the last half century, which were the terror of the neighborhood, partly from the name they bore ;neither do I doubt that such dogs might have been, in the course of time, brought to hunt the dry foot of man, having been trained to hunt it when touched with something that left a stronger scent behind it.

But we must not give credit to all the marvellous stories handed down to us of dogs and their breeds. We read of those which were individually more than a match for the lion;-perhaps it was in honor of the memory of one of this description, that Alexander the Great gave his name (Perditas) to a city! Plutarch speaks of dogs of such courage as outstrips all we experience in our own breed of bull-dogs, forasmuch, as he says, they would suffer amputation of their limbs-aye, even of their heads rather than quit their hold!!

The two dogs on the right-hand in this picture, are what are called Deer-lurchers, in contradis

tinction to the term Deer-greyhound, and peculiar to Scotland. It is difficult to define this variety of dog; but we may conclude that he is mongrel bred, of great power; and resembling those which we are told pulled down sixteen bucks, one day after dinner, in Cowdry Park, Sussex, for the amusement of Queen Elizabeth. In fact, the word "lurcher" is not definable by the sportsman, farther than that it implies a fault-that of running foul-for which a thorough-bred modern greyhound is certain to obtain a halter. Perhaps the canis Gallicus, which is spoken of by Ovid, and held in such estimation among the ancients for his pot-filling accomplishments, was much such an animal as this, "as inferior in make and symmetry," as the editor of the " Courser's Manual" observes, "to the modern greyhound, as the hog-maned top-heavy cobs, which served as Hobson's choice of models to Phidias and his brother sculptors, were to Sorcerer and the Darley Arabian."

The following description of the lurcher is given by Laurence (not good authority) in a work called "Scott's British Field Sports," but acknowledged to be from his pen. "The lurcher, a breed some years since on the decline, is a mongrel (quere—if a mongrel, how can he call him of any particular breed? He should have said variety,) between the greyhound and shepherd dog, or the smaller and mongrel mastiff. He is a poacher's dog, or kept for the purpose of deception, under the pretence of not being of the hunting species. The lurcher will catch up hares in an enclosed country, and some of them, though slow, will run long and well." Some years back, a gentleman in North Wales had a breed of greyhounds, very raw-boned and wiry-haired, and so far resembling the lurcher in their propensities-indeed we may say excelling him-as to have been often known to go out by themselves, and, having killed their hare, to bring her home in their mouths. As we are always shy of the marvellous, these dogs were well known in the neighborhood of Pwllheli, a small market town in Carnarvonshire. That there did exist several varieties of the greyhound, is a fact well established; and that they chaced indifferently the fox, the hare, or the buck. They would, indeed, on the fattest and best buck in a herd being shown to them, pursue it by the eye, and if lost for a time, recover it by their singularly distinguishing faculty of sight, even should it have regained the herd; but we have reason to believe the species is now lost, and the Highland greyhound is become very scarce. The last-named dog is of great size and strength, covered with long rough hair, and was much esteemed by the powerful Highland chieftains in their magnificent hunting matches. The Irish greyhound, used in the chase of the wolf, is not now to be found in this part of Europe-at all events he is become rare.

THE SONGS WE USED TO LOVE.

BY CATHARINE H. WATERMAN.

THERE is a charm in music's breath

To chase the shades of care,

To bid the wrinkled brow of age
A gleam of sunshine wear-

A magic spell that makes us yearn
Again in joy to rove

Through those glad scenes where first we heard
The songs we used to love.

It brings us back our youth again,
The sunny days of life,

It strews fresh roses o'er our paths,

With blooming beauty life; The echo of a long loved voice Now swelling strains above, Comes whispering in gentle notes Through songs we used to love.

We hear the stranger's careless lip

The pensive numbers swell,
And the quick fluttering of our hearts
Attests its mighty spell.

And tears-thick tears, we fain would hide,
The power of memory prove,
And we call back the days of yore
In songs we used to love.

The songs, the songs we used to love,
Oh! we remember still

How oft their echoes sweetly stole
Around the grass-crown'd hill;
Like viewless wings, by spirits borne,
They seem'd through air to move,
Still flying faster than pursued,
The songs we used to love.

Then come, young spirit of sweet sound-
Bright soother-bring again

The faded days of long ago,

In thy remember'd strain.

And, hand in hand, mine early friends
Again with me shall rove,

And I will be a child once more,

In songs we used to love.

THE MAN THAT WAS USED UP.

A TALE OF THE LATE BUGABOO AND KICKAPOO CAMPAIGN.

BY EDGAR Ꭺ. POE.

'I CANNOT just now remember when or where I first made the acquaintance of that truly fine-looking fellow, Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith. Some one did introduce me to the gentleman, I am sure—at some public meeting, I know very well-held about something of great importance, no doubt-and at some place or other, of this I feel convinced-whose name I have unaccountably forgotten. The truth is that the introduction was attended, upon my part, with a degree of anxious and tremulous embarrassment which operated to prevent any definite impressions of either time or place. I am constitutionally nervous-this, with me, is a family failing, and I can't help it. In especial, the slightest appearance of mystery-of any point I cannot exactly comprehend-puts me at once into a pitiable state of agitation.

There was something, as it were, remarkable—yes, remarkable, although this is but a feeble term to express my full meaning-about the entire individuality of the personage in question. What this something was, however, I found it impossible to say. He was, perhaps, six feet in height, and of a presence singularly commanding. There was an air distingué pervading the whole man, which spoke of high breeding, and hinted at high birth. Upon this topic-the topic of Smith's personal appearance-I have a kind of melancholy satisfaction in being minute. His head of hair would have done honor to a Brutus-nothing could be more richly flowing, or possess a brighter gloss. It was of a jetty black-which was also the color, or more properly the no color, of his unimaginable whiskers. You perceive I cannot speak of these latter without enthusiasm; it is not too much to say that they were the handsomest pair of whiskers under the sun. At all events, they encircled, and at times partially overshadowed, a mouth utterly unequalled. Here were the most entirely even, and the most brilliantly white of all conceivable teeth. From between them, upon every proper occasion, issued a voice of surpassing clearness, melody, and strength. In the matter of eyes, my acquaintance was, also, pre-eminently endowed. Either one of such a pair was worth a couple of the ordinary ocular organs. They were of a deep hazel, exceedingly large and lustrous: and there was perceptible about them, ever and anon, just that amount of interesting obliquity which gives force to the pregnant observation of Francis Bacon-that "there is no exquisite beauty existing in the world without a certain degree of strangeness in the expression."

The bust of the General was unquestionably the finest bust I ever saw. For your life you could not have found a fault with its wonderful proportion. This rare peculiarity set off to great advantage a pair of shoulders which would have called up a blush of conscious inferiority into the countenance of the marble Apollo. I have a passion for fine shoulders, and may say that I never beheld them in perfection before. His arms altogether were admirably modelled, and the fact of his wearing the right in a sling, gave a greater decision of beauty to the left. Nor were the lower limbs less marvellously superb. These were indeed the ne plus ultra of good legs. Every connoisseur in such matters admitted the legs to be good. There was neither too much flesh, nor too little-neither rudeness nor fragility. I could not imagine a more graceful curve than that of the os femoris, and there was just that due gentle prominence in the rear of the fibula which goes to the conformation of a properly proportioned calf. I wish to God, my young and talented friend Chiponchipino, the sculptor, had but seen the legs of Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith.

But although men so absolutely fine-looking are neither as plenty as reasons or blackberries, still I could not bring myself to believe that the remarkable something to which I alluded just now— that the odd air of Je ne sais quoi which hung about my new acquaintance-lay altogether, or indeed at all, in the supreme excellence of his bodily endowments. Perhaps it might be traced to the manner-yet here again I could not pretend to be positive. There was a primness, not to say stiffness, in his carriage—a degree of measured, and, if I may so express it, of rectangular precision, attending his every movement, which, observed in a more petite figure, would have had the least little savor in the world of affectation,pomposity, or constraint, but which, noticed in a gentleman of his

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undoubted dimension, was readily placed to the account of reserve, of hauteur, of a commendable sense, in short, of what is due to the dignity of colossal proportion.

The kind friend who presented me to General Smith whispered in my ear, at the instant, some He was a remarkable man—a very remarkable man-infew words of comment upon the man. deed one of the most remarkable men of the age. He was an especial favorite, too, with the ladies— chiefly on account of his high reputation for courage.

"In that point he is unrivalled-indeed he is a perfect desperado-a downright fire-eater, and no mistake," said my friend, here dropping his voice excessively low, and thrilling me with the mystery of his tone.

"A downright fire-eater, and no mistake-showed that, I should say, to some purpose, in the late tremendous swamp-fight away down south, with the Bugaboo and Kickapoo Indians. (Here my friend placed his forefinger to the side of his nose, and opened his eyes to some extent.) Bless my soul!-blood and thunder, and all that!-prodigies of valor!-heard of him, of course?—you know he's the man"

"Man alive, how do you do? why how are ye? very glad to see ye, indeed!" here interrupted the General himself, seizing my companion by the hand as he drew near, and bowing stiffly, but profoundly, as I was presented. I then thought, (and I think so still,) that I never heard a clearer nor a stronger voice, nor beheld a finer set of teeth-but I must say that I was sorry for the interruption just at that moment, as, owing to the whispers and insinuations aforesaid, my interest had been greatly excited in the hero of the Bugaboo and Kickapoo campaign.

However, the delightfully luminous conversation of Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith soon completely dissipated this chagrin. My friend leaving us immediately, we had quite a long tête á tête, and I was not only pleased but really instructed. I never heard a more fluent talker, or a man of greater general information. With becoming modesty, he forbore, nevertheless, to touch upon the theme I had just then most at heart-I mean the mysterious circumstances attending the Bugaboo war-and, on my own part, what I conceive to be a proper sense of delicacy forbade me to broach the subject, although, in truth, I was exceedingly tempted to do so. I perceived, too, that the gallant soldier preferred topics of philosophical interest, and that he delighted, especially, in commenting upon the rapid march of mechanical invention. Indeed-lead him where I wouldthis was a point to which he invariably came back.

"There is nothing at all like it," he would say; "we are a wonderful people, and live in a wonderful age. Parachutes and rail-roads-man-traps and spring guns! Our steam-boats are 'upon every sea, and the Nassau balloon packet is about to run regular trips (fare either way only twenty pounds sterling) between London and Timbuctoo. And who shall calculate the immense influence upon social life-upon arts-upon commerce-upon literature-which will be the immediate result of the application of the great principles of electro-magnetics? Nor is this all, let me assure you! There is really no end to the march of invention. The most wonderful-the most ingenious-and let me add, Mr.-Mr.-Thompson, I believe is your name-let me add, I say, the most useful-the most truly useful mechanical contrivances, are daily springing up like mushrooms, if I may so express myself, or, more figuratively, like-grasshoppers-like grasshoppers, Mr. Thompson—about us and-ah-ah-around us!"

Thompson, to be sure, is not my name; but it is needless to say that I left General Smith with a heightened interest in the man, with an exalted opinion of his conversational powers, and a deep sense of the valuable privileges we enjoy in living in this age of mechanical invention. My curiosity, however, had not been altogether satisfied, and I resolved to prosecute immediate inquiry among my acquaintances touching the Brevet Brigadier General himself, and particularly respecting the tremendous events in which he performed so conspicuous a part-quorum pars magna fuit— during the Bugaboo and Kickapoo campaign.

The first opportunity which presented itself, and which (horresco referens) I did not in the least scruple to seize, occurred at the church of the Reverend Doctor Drummummupp, where I found myself established, one Sunday, just at sermon time, not only in the pew but by the side of that worthy and communicative little friend of mine, Miss Tabitha T. Thus seated, I congratulated myself, and with much reason, upon the very flattering state of affairs. If any person knew any thing about Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith, that person, it was clear to me, was Miss Tabitha T. We telegraphed a few signals, and then commenced, sotto voce, a brisk tête á tête.

"Smith!" said she, in reply to my very earnest inquiry; "Smith!-why not General John A. B. C.! Bless me, I thought you knew all about him! This is a wonderfully inventive age! Horrid affair that!—a bloody set of wretches, those Kickapoos!-fought like a hero-prodigies of valorimmortal renown. Smith!-Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C.!-why, you know he's the man".

"Man," here broke in Doctor Drummummup, at the top of his voice, and with a thump that came near knocking down the pulpit about our ears; "man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live-he cometh up and is cut down like a flower!" I started to the extremity of the pew, and perceived by the animated looks of the divine, that the wrath which had proved so nearly fatal to the pulpit had been excited by the whispers of the lady and myself. There was no help for it

so I submitted with a good grace, and listened, in all the martyrdom of a dignified silence, to the balance of that very capital discourse.

Next evening found me a somewhat late visiter at the Rantipole theatre, where I felt sure of satisfying my curiosity at once, by merely stepping into the box of those exquisite specimens of affability and omniscience, the Misses Arabella and Miranda Cognoscenti. That fine tragedian, Climax, however, was doing Iago to a very crowded house, and I experienced some little difficulty in making my wishes understood; especially, as our box was next to the slips, and completely overlooked the stage.

"Smith?" said Miss Arabella, as she at length comprehended the purport of my query; "Smith ?— why, not General John A. B. C.!"

"Smith?" inquired Miranda, musingly. "Never, madam; but do tell me"

"Or so inimitable grace?"

"God bless me, did you ever behold a finer figure?"

"Never, upon my word!-but pray inform me"

"Or so just an appreciation of stage effect?"

"Madam!"

"Or a more delicate sense of the true beauties of Shakspeare? Be so good as to look at that leg!"

"The devil!" and I turned again to her sister.

“Smith?” said she, "why, not General John A. B. C.! Horrid affair that, was'nt it ?—great wretches, those Bugaboos savage and so on—but we live in a wonderfully inventive age!—Smith? -O yes! great man!-perfect desperado-immortal renown-prodigies of valor! Never heard!! (This was given in a scream.) Bless my soul!-why he's the man".

"mandragora,

Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world,

Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep
Which thou owd'st yesterday!"

here roared out Climax just in my ear, and shaking his fist in my face all the time, in a way that I couldn't stand, and I wouldn't. I left the Misses Cognoscenti immediately, and went behind the scenes for the purpose of giving the scoundrel a sound thrashing.

At the soirée of the lovely widow Mrs. Kathleen O'Trump, I was very confident that I should meet with no similar disappointment. Accordingly, I was no sooner seated at the card table, with my pretty hostess for a partner, than I propounded those questions whose solution had become a matter so essential to my peace.

"Smith ?" said my partner, "why not General John A. B. C.! Horrid affair that, wasn't it?— diamonds, did you say?-terrible wretches, those Kickapoos!-we are playing whist, if you please, Mr. Tattle-however, this is the age of invention, most certainly-the age, one may say the age par excellence-speak French-oh quite a hero-perfect desperado !—no hearts, Mr. Tattle !—I don't believe it-immortal renown and all that-prodigies of valor! Never heard!!—why, bless me, he's the man”

"Mann?-Captain Mann ?" here screamed some little feminine interloper from the farthest corner of the room. "Are you talking about Captain Mann and the duel ?—oh, I must hear-do tell -go on, Mrs. O'Trump!-do now go on!" And go on Mrs. O'Trump did-all about a certain Captain Mann who was either shot or hung, or should have been both shot and hung. Yes! Mrs. O'Trump, she went on, and I—I went off. There was no chance of hearing any thing farther that evening in regard to Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith.

Still, I consoled myself with the reflection that the tide of ill luck would not run against me for ever, and so determined to make a bold push for information at the rout of that bewitching little angel, the graceful Mrs. Pirouette.

"Smith?" said Mrs. P., as we twirled about together in a pas de Zephyr, "Smith ?—why not General John A. B. C.? Dreadful business that of the Bugaboos, wasn't it?-terrible creatures, those Indians!-do turn out your toes, I really am ashamed of you-man of great courage, poor fellow-but this is a wonderful age for invention-O dear me, I'm out of breath-quite a desperado -prodigies of valor-never heard!!-can't believe it-I shall have to sit down and tell you-Smith! why he's the man"

Man-fred, I tell you!" here bawled out Miss Bas-Bleu, as I led Mrs. Pirouette to a seat. "Did ever any body hear the like? It's Man-fred, I say, and not at all by any means Man-Friday." Here Miss Bas-Bleu beckoned to me in a very peremptory manner; and I was obliged, will I nill I, to leave Mrs. P. for the purpose of deciding a dispute touching the title of a certain poetical drama of Lord Byron's. Although I pronounced, with great promptness, that the true title was Man-Friday, and not by any means Man-fred, yet when I returned to seek for Mrs. Pirouette she was not to be discovered, and I made my retreat from the house in a very bitter spirit of animosity against the whole race of the Bas-Bleus.