It is in my opinion no breach of manners to give a retort "in kind" to an uncourteous attack. "You have made out a very lame case, brother," said a learned judge who had a miraculously short and dumpy, I might also say, "deformed" nose, to a counsel with a "game" leg. It may be so," was the rejoinder, "but I think that I have made my case as plain as the nose on your lordship's face." Ready too was the retort of the sportsman, who having strayed by accident, and ignorantly, in pursuit of a broken covey of partridges, on to land where he had no "passport," was accosted by the owner with a rude "Holloa, you sir, where did you come from to steal my game?" "I really beg your pardon," was the reply, "I was not aware that I was a trespasser, but you may depend upon it my dear sir, that I shall not poach upon your manners!"

It is not a proof of good manners to seek familiarity with strangers, neither is it any more so, to drop an acquaintance like a hot potato. I once saw an approach very gracefully and wittily declined by a common-looking man in rusty black, who was accosted by an uncouth butcher-like-looking neighbour in an omnibus, with "Fine day, sir." "Very," was the short reply.

Well no

"Ah!-I've seen snow in June afore now-avn't you. perhaps you ain't so old-nor seen so much as I have. Ah! them as live long in the world see strange things-eh?" "They do indeed, sir," was the cool reply. "Some things are very strange-but, you are a stranger,”—and the point was so well put that "the monster" felt it, and held his peace.

Learning good manners, is an affair of time, and they are only to be rapidly acquired by constant hard rubbing against the world, wearing away and polishing man's rough exterior; to lay down fixed rules for LEARNING GOOD MANNERS, would therefore be preposterous, but at the same time, I may as well observe, that it is not generally considered good manners to tell a man who fancies himself a superior fisher, that he thrashes the water like a farm labourer; or to inform a friend who piques himself upon his seat on the pigskin, that he rides like a foot soldier; or to declare to a would-be crack shot, that he shoots like a corn " painfully badly;" or to express your opinion to a swell of the first water, that in spite of his out and out toggery, he looks like a policeman in plain clothes.

Thus have I galloped through my text, and now to wind up my discourse, let me test your CHARITY, by my prosiness thus far. Let me prove your HONESTY, by challenging you to follow me" to the end of the chapter." Show your love for TRUTH, by believing every word which I have written. Lay no claim to PATIENCE, until you can read the Racing Calendar, or the Old Sporting Magazine, through from beginning to end. And for GooD MANNERS-support the N. S. M.

Send your friends in the country a "double-barrel," not of" Egg's "but of " oysters," and your friends in London as many hares and pheasants as you used to do before the passing of the new Game Act. It is a popular delusion, that game is the less acceptable because it can be bought. Remember, the oysters are bought also. Finally, having

taken up the right line-PERSEVERE.

Talking of Perseverance, puts me in mind of an anecdote which I must tell if I die for it;" as tending to prove, what, by the bye, is pretty generally acknowledged, that no man is so ardent, so honest, so true, so patient, or so persevering in his particular pursuit as is the thorough bred sportsman,

One beautiful sunny day in July, business had detained me in a small village in one of our south-western counties, which shall be nameless. The affairs of the day concluded early, I had made up my mind to an evening stroll through the meadows, when as I issued from the door of "mine inn," (which, by the way, bore the sporting ensign of "the fighting cocks,") my ear was greeted by the unusual echo of a sounding horn. Again it rang—and this time, there could be no doubt. It was a hunting horn.

In another moment a mystery was enacted before my eyes. An elderly gentleman, clad in full hunting costume, coat, cap, and leathers, -with the one sole exception, that instead of boots, he wore a pair of white stuff gaiters,-and mounted on a steady old hunter, trotted slowly onto the village green, and taking his station under the two oak trees which grew directly in front of the inn door, began to blow his horn, as if he were collecting straggling hounds.

The natural conclusion which suggested itself to my mind, was, that this was some poor lunatic, who being "hunting-mad," pursued his monomania harmlessly, without regard to seasons.

Here, however, I proved to be on the wrong scent, unlike the Shaksperian spirits "called from the vasty deep," a multitude of forms did come in answer to the summons. In a short time every door gaped, and every cottage poured its contents out upon the village green, until that usually quiet spot became a scene of busy animation.

Thither came first the idle school-boys "just let loose from school," hurrying, scurrying, shouting, and tumbling over one another in their exuberant delight. Then might be seen the old grey-haired grandfather, with his ample coat, broad-shouldered hat, and thick stick, going his "best shuffle," with a cheery smile upon his face. The old wooden-legged butcher threw down his knife, tucked up his apron, and stumped away his bravest to the "rendezvous." The labourer

left his little cottage garden, sticking his spade hastily into the halffinished trench, lest he should be too late. The miller stopped his mill full half an hour earlier than was his wont, and hurried off without so much as brushing the fresh dust from off his coat. The Squire's

NO. XVI.-VOL. III.-NEW SERIES.

gamekeeper, with velvet jacket green, and gold-laced hat,-the cheerful cottage dame, with tasty chequered gown, and dainty cap,-the village good-for-nothing, whose frock, soiled and torn, told tales of deeds done in the dark ;-the old, the young, the middle-aged,-all answered to the challenge of that horn, as if well knowing what its noisy

summons meant.

For myself, utterly nonplused, I turned for information to a little shrivelled old cobbler, who clad in a waistcoat large enough to serve for all his family, was bawling, "Yoicks! yoicks! yoicks!" at the tiptop of his broken voice.

"What is the meaning of this, my friend?" inquired I. "Meaning! oh, yer honour, sir-surely it's owl night." "Owl night! what is that?"

Oh, sir! surely when the 'Squire has no other means of hunting, he makes up a chivey, by manes of his owl hounds, and that's us that's here. The man as finds the first owl has a crown, and him as catches the first owl has another, and all the rest has pints of beer a-piece, all round."

"And who is the best owl finder amongst you all!"

"Oh, surely, sir, Tom Barker there the butcher, has the best eye for a nesty, but his prop won't let him clomb the trees to catch 'em. 'Rollicking Jem,' the blacksmith's son, that one there, leaning against the tree, with the long stick, surely he's the boy for baggin' 'em."

"And who is the stout good-looking man, with the short jacket and black whiskers, standing between the butcher and the 'Squire as you call him ?"

“That, sir—oh, surely, that's Dick Thomson, Parson Wells's under gardener. The Squire always appoints him judge in case there should be any dispute as to the first find, or first catch. And that snubnosed fellow jest behind him, surely that's sour Barney Smith, the barber; he always says as it's a fool's game-yet he always comes to see, so I suppose it is."

With this laconic estimate of 66 sour Barney Smith's" virtues, the little cobbler set up another "Yoicks! yoicks! yoicks!" and the whole crew, having now gathered together, set off in the direction of a neighbouring wood, the 'Squire, cheering or rating them as he went, just as if they had been his hounds. "Hey there, Rollicking Jem, come back you-what are you getting so far forward for? come old Timbertoe, stump it along, you don't seem fresh to-day-has' sour Barney' been squeezing lemons into you? Hey you, Rusty Joe, keep within bounds sir-what's your meaning? Hoh boys!-now then here's the wood-fair play's a jewel. Yoicks over into cover! and you, Dick Thomson, keep your eye well on the leading hounds."

At this moment, a shriek of "Tally ho! Tally ho!" arose from the wood, followed by a cry of " A crown for Tom Barker !"-and in