shew themselves, he feels a generous sympathy.

To

him, there is always the beauty of the season-for every season is beautiful-spread abroad with a bountiful hand. The wind may moan through the grove of fir, larch, beech, or sycamore; the storm-with its companions hail, snow, and sleet-may hurry past and obliterate the traces of his footsteps; he has sympathy with all-with the grandest, with the humblest. He delights in the graceful wave of each branch, in the breath of every breeze, in the tone of every sound. His mind turns not away from the contemplation of the simple dewdrop, whilst the commotion of the excited elements carries with it its wilder charm. The true sportman goes not out for the destruction of game alone his purpose is chiefly that of exercise and health -the greatest of all earthly blessings. He kills, with an unerring shot, what he conceives to be needful, and no more; and, contemplating the preservation of broods for another season, he returns homewards, delighted with his efforts and his exercise.

The pot-hunter sets out in the full belief that all is fish that comes to the net,—or rather, that all is game that comes to his bag and capacious pocket; he is animated with one idea to

no matter by what means,

get as much as possible;

only get it! He takes

every advantage which may be presented, whether in the cover among the pheasants, or in the fields among

the partridges. Your pot-hunter is seldom accompanied by a keeper. He, disinterested soul, generally selects one of the hangers-on of the tap-room, the beer-shop, or the wharf-the danglers at the skirts of the corn market or the tail end of the butchers' shambles-re

quiting his services with the generous gift of a mauled rabbit. The character of this rouster is enhanced if he can use a large stick in a dexterous manner for the purpose of knocking the game on the head, should an opportunity present itself. The pot-hunter, stealing behind a hedge, will fire at the birds on the ground. He will shoot at a hare upon her form. When the birds rise, he fires both barrels right into the covey, wounding far more than he kills. The genuine sportsman, on the contrary, singles out his birds right and left, and avoids wounding the others. The pot-hunter has not skill to kill a cock, or to bring down a snipe. He has no objection to set a snare in the morning, or to take it after sunset, exclaiming, if it has been discovered,— "I wonder what rascally poacher has done this!" He will not hesitate to kill the tame ducks that have strayed, in search of food, down a drain in the neighbourhood of the farm-yard.

Returning home, laden with spoil, he calls into exercise his talismanic powers, through the medium or instrumentality of the butcher. Thus, a pheasant is changed into a fillet; a brace of birds into slices from the buttock; a hare into a leg of mutton; a rabbit into a thick rib or so;-anything, and all things, provided it saves the weekly expenses. Such is the pot

W

hunter! Despicable and despised: the inflictor of torture; and, cowardly and unmerciful withal, he has no music in his soul.

HE pursuit of the beautiful inhabitants of the bleak and barren moors of England and Scotland, and especially of the latter, where hills rise above hills in im

posing grandeur,-forming those ravines and valleys which receive into their peaceful bosoms the roaring torrents, or the gently whispering rills, presents a striking contrast to the diversion which is enjoyed in the localities of the partridge and the pheasant. In the richly cultivated fields and luxuriant woods of the estate, adorned and protected by the family mansion, there is that high degree of security, comfort, and enjoyment,