o the bargain.

My eldest brother, John, was drowned at St. Malo. He was unmarried, and
his profession was to do nothing as handsomely as he could.

James was in the 13th Light Dragoons, and subsequently in the 11th. He
saw no service, and was an excellent soldier at mess and off duty. I am
not qualified to speak with authority about his fulfilment of the
trumpery trivialities which fill up garrison life, but here is one
anecdote about him.

Soon after Lord Cardigan took command of the 13th Light Dragoons, a
great many of the officers left the corps, and a man wrote to the papers
to say that this was chiefly due to the great expense of the mess.

My brother retorted in print that for his part the reason was due to its
being 'incompatible with my feelings as a gentleman to remain in the
regiment as it is equally impossible to exchange out of a regiment that
has the undeserved misfortune to be commanded by his lordship.'

Edward lived at Dingle, and was much liked by the people there. He was
an active magistrate and a conscientious man. He married and left two
sons, one in the Horse Artillery and the other a colonel in the
Engineers. They have all joined the great majority.

Robert, who chose to be an army surgeon, died in India, leaving me
without a relation in the world of my own name.

It reminds me of the story in _Charles O'Malley_ about the old family in
which it was hereditary not to have any children. However, I altered
that by having eleven of my own, two sons, John and Maurice, and four
daughters being alive, at the present time. More power to them say I, in
the current phrase of good-will in Kerry.

My sister Mary died at Bath when I was born. It was her health which
prevented me from being by birth what I am at heart, a Kerry man.

Ellen was married to Robert, elder brother of the late Knight of Kerry,
and her grand-daughter is married to Colonel Thorneycroft of Spion Kop
fame.

Ellen's sister, Julia, married Sir Peter FitzGerald, Knight of Kerry.
The two therefore married brothers, and if there had been any more they
might have done the same.

I suppose I ought to give the date of my birth, but despite all the
efforts of those in Ireland, who loved me so much that they became
active agents to convey me to heaven, I cannot yet give you the date of
my death.

My friend, Mr. Townshend Trench, is, I believe, writing a book to prove
the world will come to an end in about thirty years' time, but that