eous, generous, and good-natured; and my companion, to whose
regiment he had been chaplain, told me that nothing could exceed his
considerate kindness to the soldiers.

Albeit afflicted by occasional fits of depression, the reverend, as a
rule, talked very cheerily; but, ah! me, how sorrowfully he would sing!
There was one psalm--penitential I presume--of about twenty-two verses,
an especial favorite. This was probably, the most soul-depressing melody
that has been chanted since the days of The Captivity. The mournful tone
bore you down irresistibly; Mark Tapley would have subsided into
melancholy gloom, before the slow versicles were half dragged through.
But the parson was not the only musical culprit, nor the worse, by many
degrees. It would be absurd to expect much cheerfulness here; a hoarse
roar breaks out now and then at some coarse practical joke; but a frank,
honest laugh--never. Yet I do wish that imprisoned discontent would vent
itself otherwise than in discordant, dismal howling. At this minute a
cracked voice is droning out,

A little more cider;

it might be a Sioux chanting his death-song.

How well I remember, in what "stately home of England" I first listened
to that pleasant ditty. I hear, now, the leader's rich, round tones, and
I see quite plainly the fair faces of the youths and virgins that made
up the choir. _Basta!_ it don't bear thinking about. If mine enemy were
anywhere but round the corner, I would try if his music would stand a
volley of orange-shot.

For three days or so, I could scarcely take up a paper without seeing my
own unlucky name paraded in one or more paragraphs. As they all varied,
it was somewhat remarkable that, in all alike, facts should have been so
absurdly distorted. They were not content with drawing my own fancy
portrait--imagine, if you please, the caricature--but they built a
little romance about poor Falcon's assassin, giving him credit for much
suffering for his country's sake, particularly for long imprisonment at
Richmond, since which time he had devoted himself as an Avenger. I was
gratified to observe that his name was seldom, if ever, correctly spelt.
I did think of sending a contradictory note to one of the local
journals, but decided against wasting ink and paper. Besides, it is a
pity to abase oneself unnecessarily. "I ain't proud, 'cos its sinful,"
nor over careful with whom I try a fall; but I confess a preference for
more creditable antagonists tha