each with a piece of crape round one arm, and
drinking to the memory of the past. " In
silence," we should add; because, as no curfew-
bell is now rung, and no heads are cut off, it
might seem, to common and profane minds
having no reverence for the customs of our
ancestors, that such " places " are not exactly
wanted.

But every true lover of his country, and of
its glorious constitution, which admits of every
form of construction, and furnishes for everything
every justification that can be needed,
will see that such places ought always to exist.
While, therefore, we think that a nice little
antiquarian party, composed of the Gentleman
Headsman, the Curfew-Toller, the Grand
Falconer, and the Keeper of the Royal
Buckhounds, might be assembled in the curfew-
belfry (a quiet nook in its ruins, or a tent on
its ancient site) of the Tower, to celebrate
the days when their several salaries were
coloured, and sometimes very highly, by
corresponding duties, may we, at the same time,
seize the opportunity of suggesting that two
other places should be restored,— the representatives
of whom should be allowed to take
their seats at the convivial table; to wit—
the Court Fool, and the Gentleman Bear-
Keeper of the Tower?

For the revival of the place of Fool, we
need offer no justification, as his utility, in
conjunction with the others previously named,
is obvious; touching the Bear-Keeper, however,
a word or two may seem necessary. All
we have to do, is to show a "precedent,"
and then everything will flow in its natural
course.

In 1252, we find that the sheriffs of London
were commanded by the King to pay fourpence
a day—" for our white bear in the
Tower of London, and his keeper;" and the
writer of Zoological Anecdotes assures us,
that in the following year the sheriffs were
directed to "provide a muzzle and an iron
chain to hold him, when out of the water;
and also a long and strong rope to hold him,
when fishing in the Thames."

The curfew bell- rope, and the Tower-Bear's
fishing rope, each in a graceful coil, might
thus be hung up, as trophies and memorials,
against the walls of the wassail-room, side by
side with the Grand Falconer's gloves, a
buck's head and antlers, and the somewhat
rusty axe of the Gentleman Headsman.

THE HUNTER AND THE STUDENT.

THE authors of books on zoological subjects,
which have so frequently issued from the
press of late years, and which are continually
appearing, may be separated, for the most
part, into two classes— those who hunt
and slay, and those who observe and study.
The passion of the former is the excitement
of the chase to destroy; the great pleasure
of the latter is in the preservation of the
creature, and the accurate noting down of all
its characteristics. At the head of the former,
by way of instance, we must place Mr.
Gordon Cumming and Sir W. Cornwallis
Harris; at the head of the latter, no one will
hesitate to place White of Selborne, and
Professor Owen. If it be objected that White
is not an author of very recent date, then
we shall name the Reverend Leonard Jenyns,
to whose patient and indefatigable study,
during many years, we are indebted for his
delightful and instructive " Observations on
Natural History." Rymer Jones is another
name that instantly starts to our pen; we
have, however, sufficiently indicated the class
we mean. It is not to be understood that
either class is of an exclusive kind— that the
hunters never observe, and that the observers
never kill— since the labour of each is often
"a mingled yarn." We define the extremes
of these two classes.

Our taste by no means leans to the
sanguinary; nor do we think that the great
majority, who are not themselves hunters,
and who, at least, may be supposed to sit
down to read in " cool blood," can feel gratified
by stories in which remorselessness is
the most prominent characteristic; while the
narrator is so blinded by the very memory of
his ardour, that he does not in the least
perceive he is writing his own condemnation.
The compiler of a recently published book,
called Zoological Notes and Anecdotes, quotes
an account of a giraffe hunt, from the
"Portraits of the Game and Wild Animals of
South Africa," by Sir Cornwallis Harris, and
designates it as a " spirit-stirring adventure."
What sort of spirit it stirs in us, our readers
will not find it difficult to conjecture.

Sir Cornwallis Harris had for weeks sought
in vain to get a shot at the tallest quadruped of
the earth— a giraffe. One day he saw what he
took to be a large branchless stump of some
withered tree in the distance; but presently
it moved along above the tops of the thicket,
and he now distinguished a stately giraffe
gliding among the trees, " its graceful head
nodding like a lofty pine." He set spurs to
his horse, and soon found himself, " half
choked with excitement," close upon the
heels of the giraffe, who went " sailing before
him " with velocity, " like some tall ship upon
the ocean's bosom." The half-choked sportsman
dismounts to fire, and " the mottled
carcase presenting a fair and inviting mark,"
he has " the satisfaction of hearing two balls
tell roundly" upon the back of his towering
victim. They are not sufficient; so he remounts,
and again pursues. He and his
horse tumble into a hole, by which his rifle
is broken; he scrambles up again, however,
and binding his rifle-barrel to the stock with
a handkerchief, once more gives chase. Meanwhile
the weary and no less innocent giraffe
had stood still to allow of his approach. The
hunter is now in a state of wild excitement
at finding that the lock of his rifle will not act: