Their sabres all flashing,
Accoutrements clashing,
Their gallant steeds dashing

And charging amain.

Then hurra for the Germans! the Germans are there,

To the feast or the fray the same light hearts they bear!

That is about the meaning, but it is impossible to give in any language the dash and energy of the original, which I never heard sung with more effect and spirit than by these Hessians. Churchill and myself remained as it were entranced, listening to the bold martial ditty that was thus trumpeted forth by two hundred voices; and long after the troops had disappeared beyond a turn of the road, the breeze brought us down the Ha sa sa! of the chorus, that sounds of itself like a charge of cavalry upon some hard-fought field.

"A pleasant life, that of a soldier," cried Churchill: "almost the only one, in our matter-of-fact days, about which a ray of the poetical yet lingers."

"Yes," said I; " and the poor deserter? Black bread and a dungeon. Deuced poetical, that!"

"Pshaw!" replied Churchill" there are lights and shades in all things."

That night we slept at Heidelberg.

EXPERIMENTAL SHELLS-WARRANTED TO BURST, ON STRIKING THE OBJECT, WITH TERRIBLE EFFECT.

A WILD-GOOSE CHASE.

"Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour."-T. MoORE.

CHAPTER I.

MR. DAMON GRIMSBY was fat, fair, and forty-five years old. He dwelt at Finchley, and was well enough to do in the world to enable him to do nothing but just what he pleased. He had three hundred pounds per annum, paid quarterly; a pretty little cottage; no wife; a respectable old lady housekeeper; and a wheezy French poodle with one eye, that could do any thing but talk—at least so his master said. He certainly could sit up on his beam ends for a considerable period, begging for bread and meat. He could hold a pipe in his mouth, and look as wise as any smoker in the world. He could carry a stick or a basket in his mouth, and if it was not too cold he would plunge into a pond and fetch out a bung which his master carried about with him on purpose to display his dog's cleverness. Lion, as he was

called, was his master's constant companion-until his master took to shooting. He was then transferred to the companionship of Mistress Langsworthy, the housekeeper, and his master adopted a pointer in his place.

“Had Mr. Damon Grimsby never taken to shooting before he was forty-five years old?" inquires some curious reader.

"Yes! but not to the shooting of game. He had, ever since his retirement to Finchley, been addicted to the destruction of small birds and fieldfares, when they were in season. He could kill every

other one-sitting."

"Then how came he to take to game destroying?"

"Because he thought it gentlemanly, and was remarkably fond of partridges. A small manor, too, was advertised to be let in his neighbourhood. He went to view it. He saw two rabbits at play in a clover field, and heard something crow in a farm-yard which he really believed to be a cock-pheasant-so he hired the manor for the season, exchanged his single flint-gun for a double percussion, and bought a warranted staunch pointer."

Day after day did Damon walk over his beat, and although he had plenty of shooting he had but little success. He really had two coveys of birds in his manor, until one of them was netted; and at least a dozen rabbits in a hedge row. The one covey of partridges grew so wild from being constantly pursued, that the moment Ponto or his master entered the field, in which they were basking or feeding,

they got up and flew to the further end of the manor; and when he went after them, they flew back again. Damon always shot at them, although they were hundreds of yards from him-for he liked shooting, even if he did not kill. He got exercise too, and got through the long day, which was a great thing for a man to do who had no other in-door amusement but reading the daily paper.

It was a great fund of fun for the farmer and his labourers to watch Damon Grimsby and his dog Ponto, as they pursued the partridges. The master cried out "Heigh on, there!" as he had been instructed to do by the dog-merchant-but Ponto merely looked up into his face, gave a bit of a caper and sniffed the air. As the birds rose immediately, Mr. Grimsby gave Ponto credit for an exceedingly good nose.

One day the farmer and his men were astonished to hear, after the bang! bang! of both barrels, an extraordinary shouting, hallooing, and howling. They ran up to the hedge, fully expecting to see either the sportsman or his dog shot; but when they looked over into the next field, they saw Mr. Grimsby dancing about like a maniacal Dervish, throwing his hat up into the air, and screaming and shouting with delight. Ponto was sitting on his tail by his side with his head up in the air, and howling in that peculiarly doleful way in which dogs do howl when they are said to be "baying the moon.' "He's shot in the head," cried the farmer; " for they always spin round in that way when they are hit in the head."

"No, it's the spine: see, he's going to tower," said one of the men, as Mr. Grimsby gave a miraculous bound upwards.

Up ran the farmer and his men as fast as they could. Ponto ceased howling, and took to barking. Mr. Damon popped his hat on his head, and looked very sheepish for a minute-but then-he rushed at the farmer, shook him violently by the hand, and begged him earnestly to congratulate him.

"What upon?" said the farmer.

"I've killed three-three-all at one fire! - there they are," said Damon, and sure enough there were three partridges lying at his feet-dead.

The fact was, Mr. Grimsby was annoyed by Mrs. Langsworthy's constant inquiry, on his return home, "Where's the game?" and at being always obliged to tell her "he had had no luck." As he found it impossible to fill his bags in the regular way he was resolved to try what he called the "fieldfare dodge." He knew where the partridges came to roost; so he hid himself behind a tree, and the moment they lighted on the ground he pulled both barrels at the covey, and three birds lay weltering in their gore. This was the cause of his joy in which Ponto evidently participated.

"Killed them flying, of course?" said the farmer.

"I'll trouble you not to insult me," said Damon, as he bagged his birds and marched off with indignant looks.

How he did crow over Mrs. Langsworthy that evening! She grew so tired at last of hearing the description of how he had killed the

birds one after another without missing a single shot, that she took up her candle and retired to bed three hours before her time.

This was abominable! What was her master to do with himself, with no one to talk to, for the first time in his country life? He resolved to go out and spend his evening in a tavern. There was a snug house about half a mile from his cottage. As an excuse for entering it, he packed up his three birds, directed them to a friend in London, and begged of the landlord to allow him to sit down while he saw the parcel booked.

Jerry Worsem, the host, smelt a new customer in his highly respectable neighbour. He showed him into his own parlour within the bar, and treated him with the greatest civility and a glass of sherry negus. Damon Grimsby was flattered by such an unexpected generosity on the part of a landlord, and, to show his sense of his civility, spent the whole evening and a considerable amount of silver in his bar parlour.

Jerry was a sportsman, as far as shooting was concerned, although he shot but little, except at the pigeon and sparrow box. Of course, knowing that his neighbour rented a manor and went out daily, he did not omit to inquire the nature and amount of the sport he had met with.

Mr. Grimsby was somewhat shy at first, shuffled and prevaricated, and would not speak out. At length, warmed by the subject - his favourite subject, and a second glass of sherry negus, he confidentially told his host the result of his day's sport - but not of the illegitimate manner in which he had bagged his birds.

With every succeeding glass of negus the three unfortunate partridges were shot over again; and, considering that his inventive faculties were powerfully drawn upon in the description, the tales were very little at variance with each other. Jerry listened to each repetition as seriously as if it was a new story, and when his customer left, at a very late hour for him, he (the customer) told him that he was a pleasant fellow, and, as he shook him by the hand, assured him that he should often come down of an evening and spend an hour or two with him.

In spite of Mrs. Langsworthy's exhortations and entreaties — for she was dull by herself, and dreaded lest her master should become fond of "liquors and light company"- Mr. Grimsby kept his promise. As soon as he returned from shooting, and had his cup of tea, he slipped off down to Jerry's, and was not seen at home again till eleven at night. The only difference, however, that the faithful housekeeper could discover in her master was, that his clothes smelt very powerfully of tobacco, and that he was a little shaky in the morning, until he had had a little wee drop of brandy in his tea. These, with an abundance of game in the larder, were the only differences observable in his own establishment from the nightly visits of Mr. Grimsby to the house of his friend Jerry Worsem. How he came by all the game he brought home was a mystery- but what business was it of anybody's? The only observation Mrs. Langs

worthy made about it was, that "it was so nicely killed, she never hurt her teeth against a shot."

CHAP. II.

WINTER set in. A frost covered the ground with bright sparkling crystals. The fieldfares and redwings grew tame and approachable. Damon took the field against them. Here he was at home-up to his work, as he said. As he was creeping about along ditches and behind hedge-rows to keep himself out of sight of his game, he came suddenly on a pond. Whirr! up flew something. Grimsby did not know what it was, but he pulled boldly at it - both barrels at once, to insure hitting it; down it came, and when he went to pick it up he found it was a real wild duck! How his eyes did sparkle as he examined the rich purple hues on the neck of the mallard, and looked at his toe-nails to see if they were really black - that sure distinguisher of the wild bird from the common scavenger or gutterscraper. So great was his joy that he did not stop to load again, but pocketed his duck, and ran as speedily as eight lustra and one over would allow him to show his prize to his friend Jerry, whose congratulations at his success were so hearty and so grateful to the feelings of the successful sportsman, that Mr. Grimsby offered to purchase another wild duck, and to have the pair dressed at Jerry's house, and make a night of it afterwards.

The day appointed for the feast arrived in due course. The birds were roasted to a turn; and both Mr. Grimsby and the landlord asserted that the Finchley duck, which had been marked by having a bit of string tied round one of his legs, was by far the finest that had ever been tasted, and beat the other "by chalks."

Over their port wine - for Damon had read in his cookery book that all brown meats demanded red wines - of course the talk was limited to wild-fowl shooting. A stranger came in in the course of the evening; and, as it was very frosty and cold, was, with Mr. Grimsby's permission, allowed to take a seat in the bar-parlour. It so chanced that the gentleman was a great traveller, in the commercial sense of the word, and had frequently visited the coast and witnessed the method of shooting fowl in punts and from boats. He gave so vivid a description of the thousands of geese, ducks, widgeons, dunbirds, and other fowl that he had seen in one flock- of the immense guns that cut "regular lanes" through them and of the hundreds that the water-dogs picked up and brought to shore in their mouths, that Damon Grimsby longed to be "at them" himself. He thought of his one-eyed poodle Lion, and of the clever way in which he brought the bung out of a pond - could there be a doubt that he would plunge into the ocean and secure a wild-fowl? Damon thought there could not. He intimated to the traveller the longing which he felt to be a participator of such sport, and told him he was provided with a most excellent and well-proved water dog" a