every witness is who stands upon his dignity or importance, and gets upset from that high pedestal. The young lady whose affections the defendant has trifled with and blighted is generally of the order of female known as 'interesting.' And when she is interesting she always gains the day. A judge recently stated-almost complained— that there is no getting juries to find a young and interesting female guilty of anything-even whe guilt is brought home to her witho t the possibility of a doubt. Counsel know this well, and, I am told, always instruct a young and interesting female how to comport herself so as to make an impression upon the jury. The stage directions, I believe, are something like this. Enter the box (or the dock, as the case may be) with your veil down. This gives me occasion to tell you to raise your veil, and show your face to the jury. When you do this burst into tears and use your white cambric pocket handkerchief. Then let the jury see your pretty eyes red with weeping, and your damask cheek blanched with anguish and coursed with bitter tears. When you are hard pressed by the opposing counsel, begin to sob, and grasp the rail as if for support. You will then be accommodated with a scent-bottle and a chair; and the jury will think the cross-examining counsel a brute, and you an injured angel.' Observance of these directions by a young and interesting female never fails. She will get clear off, even if she have murdered her grandmother. In a simple case of blighted affection, there is no need to take so much trouble. Only let the lady be well dressed, and look pretty, and it is obvious at once (to the jury) that the defendant is not only heartless and cruel in the last degree, but utterly insensible to the charms of youth and innocence. Yet in nine cases out of ten this interesting female who weeps and sobs, and uses her smelling-bottle, is an artful schemer. Look at the gentleman who trifled with her affections. Is that the sort of person to kindle in any female breast the devouring flame of love? Is he the sort of person to love any one but himself, or to cherish anything but his whiskers? He is a trifler, it is true, but he has not trifled with * For the terms ary, rover,' ' mallet,' ' clip,' &c. &c., consult a Croquêt Classical Dictionor any young lady. + 'SHE'-viz. the heroine of this little tale. Because they are over-videsne ? § Put proper emphasis here, if you please. day. 'Chignon,'-a mysterious arrangement of hair common to young ladies of the present Ladies do not play Croquêt in slippers, I am told. Poetic liberty. **She knows how much it is best to show.'-Longfellow. tt 'Dirce-a fascinating young woman of olden times. At last the game was quite played out; And there, upon the smooth mown grass, Asked her through one more hoop to pass, And she consented; hooped we were We've had our ups and downs, of course,- A. J. T. PARTRIDGE DAY AS IT WAS AND AS IT IS. THE world advances - good, T Having accepted which feet, it would be unreasonable to deny that the pleasures and indulgences of the world advance also. Luxury is one of the pleasures and indulgences of the world. Therefore luxury advances. The syllogism is complete and sound; there is fault in neither major nor minor premiss; and we have therefore arrived at the ultimate conclusion that luxury is on the move, that is, has increased. I have seldom come across a more perfect illustration of my argument than in the early days of this month of September. I am not an old fogey; I do not set up pretensions to a claim for talking, with a kind of accompanying sigh, of the days 'when I was a boy,' when we managed things so much better,' &c., &c. Yet perhaps I am not exactly middle-aged either, and can at all events look sufficiently far back to note a material change in the manner in which old September is ushered in now as compared with its reception some years ago. There are probably few, who, if lacking experience of its pleasures, can duly appreciate the ardour with which a sportsman looks forward to the 'glorious first.' But let the appreciative observer note how manifestly that ardour has of late years abated. It has been my frequent custom ere autumn has made her final curtsey, to take up my quarters at the country house of a certain relative, and witness the unprovoked assault on, and reckless massacre of divers unoffending partridges in the ensuing month. The relative referred to is an elderly gentleman, and, in addition to the possession of lands of his own, and liberties to shoot over those of other people, is also the happy father of three stalwart sons, not to mention the complementary portion of the family with whom at present I have nothing to do. These three stalwart sons, beknown to me as mere brats, I have watched grow up with some interest, and that not only as regards their moral and intellectual training, but also as regards the physical culture of their frames, and the sporting bent of their mind. The youngsters were always fond of me. I have always been their fidus *I am not aware whether bully' is in general use as a Croquêt term. It is a peculiarly significant one, and very common in some Croquêt circles, Achates in their adventures by land and water, from teaching them to swim and row, down to setting night lines for eels, or traps for rats. Well do I recollect arriving, on the evening of the 31st of August, some years ago, at the old place in Lincolnshire, and finding all three in a state of wild exuberance of spirits in anticipation of the morrow's sport; Jack, the eldest, just then promoted to a gun of his own, of which he was enormously proud, and the other two contenting themselves with the exciting prospect of plodding after us the whole day in the hopes of being allowed to let off our charges at its conclusion. Everybody was eager enough then, and the Squire, after an evening spent-much to the disgust of the ladies-in discussing the all-engrossing topic of the birds,' sends us off early to bed, that we may all be up betimes in the morning. We wake at seven, or rather are awoke, for the boys have been up since five, 'chumming' (I know no word so appropriate) with the keepers; and even the Squire himself overhead I have heard stamping across his room to look out at the weather several times since four o'clock. We are awoke, then, at seven, and ere we have had time to take that fatal turn, the sure forerunner of a second sleep, a knock, or rather a thunderclap, is heard on the outer panels of the door, and Uncle Sam (they always call me Uncle Sam, though I am not their uncle, and my name is not Samuel) is summoned to 'look sharp, and dress. Too cognizant of the fact that Uncle Sam's only chance of peace is to obey, we splash into our tub forthwith, encase our person in an old velveteen and gaiters, and having gulped our coffee and hastily devoured our toast, find ourself at nine o'clock standing on the hall steps, and comparing guns with Jack previous to a start for the arable. Two keepers, a brace of perfect pointers, and a retriever, are awaiting, even at that hour, impatiently, our departure for the scene of action. Two miles' walk in the soft September air serves to brace our nerves for the work before us; and the head keeper and the Squire having conferred together like two generals, on our arrival at the seat of war, we at length find ourselves placed-I should perhaps rather say marshalled-in the turnips and ready for the fray. What a picture it is! how truly English! each sportsman's eye glistening with excitement and pleasure, as he poises his gun, each in his own readiest manner and favourite position, the Squire casting his eye along the line with the careful scrutiny of a field-marshal examining his forces previous to a final and decisive struggle; the two pointers, too well disciplined to show their ardour in gestures, standing mute behind the keeper; Jack with his gun full-cocked and ready to fire almost before the quarry is started; and his two brothers bursting with excitement, talking in hurried and ceaseless whispers behind the back of Uncle Sam, bearing no distant resemblance, as far as their halfchecked ardour is concerned, to the brace of pointers behind the keeper. But there is no time for indulging in reverie as to the scene; a low 'Hold up, then!' is heard from the head-keeper, the two graceful dogs bound forward, the line advances, and the action has commenced. A rabbit starts from under Jack's feet: Bang!-and the shot enters a turnip, a yard behind the little white stern hopping and popping to his burrow, despite the reiterated assurances of Master Jack that he is hit, and who forgets to reload, accordingly. 'Hold up!' to the crouching pointers, and away we move again, watching the graceful movements of the dogs as they work the field before us. Rake, a young dog in his first season, is breaking a little too much ahead; but ere the keeper's 'Gently, boy!" had reached him, he has suddenly pulled up, and, with tail stiff and leg up, is standing, motionless as a statue, over a covey. We advance, in the highest excitement:-whirr! goes bird after bird almost singly; and our first covey of the season leaves two brace and a half on the field. One o'clock comes; we have steadily beaten turnips and stubble, clover and mustard, and we spy a |