the 55th (Queen ELIZABETH'S Own) Hussars, was good enough to favour
me with his views the other day. I met the gallant officer, who is,
as all the world knows, one of the safest and best shots of the day,
in Pall Mall. He had just stepped out of his Club--the luxurious
and splendid Tatterdemalion, or, as it is familiarly called, "the
Tat"--where, to use his own graphic language, he had been "killing the
worm with a nip of Scotch."

"Early Scotch woodcock, I suppose," says I, sportively alluding to the
proverb.

"Scotch woodcock be blowed," says the Captain, who, it must be
confessed, does not include an appreciation of delicate humour amongst
his numerous merits; "Scotch, real Scotch, a noggin of it, my boy,
with soda in a long glass; glug, glug, down it goes, hissin' over the
hot coppers. You know the trick, my son, it's no use pretendin' you
don't"--and thereupon the high-spirited warrior dug me good-humouredly
in the ribs, and winked at me with an eye which, if the truth must be
told, was bloodshot to the very verge of ferocity.

"Talkin' of woodcock," he continued--we were now walking along Pall
Mall together--"they tell me you're writin' some gas or other about
shootin'. Well, if you want a tip from me, just you let into the
smokin' room shots a bit; you know the sort I mean, fellows who are
reg'lar devils at killin' birds when they haven't got a gun in their
hands. Why, there's that little son of a corn-crake, FLICKERS--when
once he gets talkin' in a smokin' room nothing can hold him. He'd talk
the hind leg off a donkey. I know he jolly nearly laid me out the
last time I met him with all his talk--No, you don't," continued the
Captain, imagining, perhaps, that I was going to rally him on his