The

compliment to that well-conducted worthy, Mr. Ramrod. devotees to the turf, the chase, and other pastimes, had then to bear up against far more of open abuse and sly satire than they have. even in the present almost glut of those two generally very marketable commodities: while, on the other hand, it would be difficult to find a line penned either in avowed hostility, or witty derision of any habit the SAFE SHOT owned to acquiring. And yet only mark the change! Give the scene but one sudden crack with Harlequin's baton, and let forty-five take the place of ninety-five. Behold the crowd of charges and condemnations now conjured up at the voice of Joe Manton or of Westley Richards; listen to the clamour now taken up by grave and gay, by nearly one and all, from friend Bright to friend Punch; and note the mixture of ridicule and regret the too SAFE SHOT's practices now give occasion for.

Still, surely, it cannot be all bad. We must'nt come for to go for to take, as the Bishop of Bond-street says, all this wholesale slander against the trigger as gospel. It cannot invariably have that sad tendency to effeminacy, selfishness, insipidity, injustice, and sheer pocket profit, that great and small talkers have so frequently and so lately been accustomed to associate with it! Of course it has'nt, we undertake at once to answer for everybody; and if so be this volunteer is not "generally and gratefully acknowledged," we would just wish to have one word with the objecting gentleman who wants to have it himself. We will take, for an example of the many varieties of shooting, the sample that happens to be before us-to wit, "THE SAFE SHOT" subject of our artist-and hang all your selfish, effeminate, insipid, unjust, and mere mercenary considerations thereon. Imprimis, did you ever taste a wild duck

Did I indeed! I should think I

Just stop one minute more, if you please. Did you ever taste a wild-duck that you had shot yourself? that you had sprung yourself, found yourself, marked yourself (with your own peculiar mark), and bagged yourself-many thanks to nobody-else beyond a couple of good water-proof black boots, and ditto, ditto, liver and white spaniels? Did you now really, honour bright, ever taste a bit of the breast with that Spartan sauce sort of flavour about it? If you can only put in one little soft maiden-like "yes"-in that tone and pitch of voice with which Sophia Matilda replies to Arthur Augustus's "will you be mine?" If you can only imitate cock sparrow, and say, "I killed wild-duck," you are no opponent of ours. If you have braved the frosts of February, the fens of Lincolnshire, or any-where else, and the hardy, invigorating toils and pleasures of the whole proceedings, you are not the man to need a rejoinder from us. In your eye, the eye of the true sportsman that is, wild-fowl shooting is as pure and fine a divarshun as ever it was, and "THE SAFE SHOT" a position any-one might glory in and no-one be ashamed of. In short, you mean to argue that a wild-duck is not a tame pheasant, and that killing one is not a battue.

And to show how ready we are to support you, we have put your impression into the magazine.

(The BERNARD BLACKMANTLE of "The English Spy," and the OLD TOM WHIPCORD of "The Annals of Sporting.")

In the last number of the Quarterly for 1845, there is an admirable article on Highland sports, commencing with a notice of Mr. Scrope's work on salmon-fishing, but abounding, as it proceeds, with original and powerful descriptions of Highland sports, in all their singularly attractive characteristics and varieties. The graphic style and delineations of the writer prove that he is one of a good sort,

who has enjoyed the noble pastime with no less energy of body than reflective, admiration of nature and power of mind.

The interesting journal of a week's perilous adventures in pursuit of the "magical hart of Benmore" suggested the following rhymes, which I have not the vanity to think worthy of more commendation than the inducement they may promote in others to read, and be delighted (as I was) with the invigorating freshness, descriptive power, and truthfulness to nature, in the admirably expressive original.

HIGHLAND SPORTS.

Introduction to Highland Scenery-Haunt of the Red-deer-Danger and Toil of the Sport-The Ptarmigan-Loch Awn and Cairn GormBreak of Day on the Mountains-The Cock Brig of Alergue-Troutfishing The Ancient Culdees The Forty-mile Don Invite to Southerns.

-

In this region of forest, lake, mountain, and moor,
He's a bold canny sportsman who'll think to explore,
Free from danger and toil, the lochs, corries, and streams,
Where the red-deer resorts and the sun never gleams-*
O'er the bold Alpine crags, where the tough lichen grows,†
And the granite-fed ptarmigant nestles and crows

Where the shelter-stone's capp'd with the moss of Loch Awn,
Or the snow lights the desolate range of Cairn Gorm:
How noble the forking of mighty Benmore,

Leaving grass, and then heather, the higher we soar!
Or, as cloud-capp'd we stand on its crown, to survey
The rose-coloured streaks of the new-opening day!
While the deepness of solitude, silent as death,
Yields not a soft stilly breeze or a breath,

Till the sun, beaming forth in his glorious light,

Brings the green glens, and hovels,§ and bare scalps to sight,
O'er the wide range dispensing his magical glow,
Reflected in gold on the valley below.

* Of all the glorious and invigorating pleasures of the field, the first in rank is the royal sport of deer-stalking. The noblest of hill craft is the chasing of the reddeer. The animal is unmatched in strength and speed and endurance; his sight is long and perfect; and his hearing is so acute that he can detect the taint of a human enemy at the distance of many miles. To succeed in deer-stalking, a man must be active and quick of foot, have a keen eye, a steady hand, and be capable of great endurance: he has to contend against the lord of the mountain in a district suited to the display of his extraordinary qualities; and it is only by the exertion of great skill and energy, and unceasing toil, that the deer-stalker can hope to triumph over the noble hart, in a region of rocks and lochs, and of moor and lake and mountain. + As you ascend the Alpine crags of the Highlands, you leave behind you, first, long grass, then heather, and, thirdly, find your feet dragging in the tough lichen, which leads to a surface covered with the debris of red granite. This is the haunt of the ptarmigan.

The Highlanders insist upon it that the ptarmigan feeds upon stones, as they are found in large quantities in the gizzard-taken, no doubt, to assist the digestion of his tough food (the lichen).

§ Called Black Towns.