ery
miserable little town after all. Our mess was established at the one
good inn of the one good street of the place, and I and two other young
subs fixed our residence at a grocer's, where a card of "Lodgings to let
furnished" was embordered in vine-leaves and roses.

As I was leaning out of the window smoking my last cigar before mess,
with Sydney and Mounteagle stretched in equally elegant attitudes on
equally hard sofas, I heard our grocer, a sleek little Methodist,
addressing some party in the street with--"I fear me I have done evil in
admitting these young servants of Satan into mine habitation!" "Well,
Nathan," replied a Quaker, "thou didst it for the best, and verily these
officers seem quiet and gentlemanly youths." "Gentlemanlike," I should
say we were, _rather_--but "quiet!"--how we shouted over the innocent
"Friend's" mistake. Here the voices again resumed. "Doubtless, when the
Aspedens return, there will be dances and devices of the Evil One, and
Quelps will make a good time of it; however, the custom of ungodly men I
would not take were it offered!" So these Aspedens were out--confound
it! But the clock struck six; so, flinging the remains of my cigar on
the Quaker's broad-brimmed hat, adorned with which ornament he walked
unconsciously away, we strolled down to the mess-room.

A few hours later some of them met in my room, and having sent out for
some cards, which the grocer kindly wrapped in a tract against gambling,
we had just sat down to loo, when the door was thrown open, and Captain
Fane announced. A welcome addition!

"Fane, by all that's glorious!"--"Well, young one, how are you?" were
the only salutations that passed between two men who were as true
friends as any in England. Fane was soon seated among us, and telling us
many a joke and tale. "And so," said he, "we're sent down to ruralize?
(Mounteagle, you are 'loo'd.') Any one you know here?"

"Not a creature! I am awfully afraid we shall be found dead of _ennui_
one fine morning. I'll thank you for a little more punch, Fitzspur,"
said Sydney. "I suppose, as usual, Fane," he continued, "you left at the
very least twelve dozen German princesses, Italian marchesas, and French
countesses dying for you?"

"My dear fellow," replied Fane, "you are considerably under the mark
(I'll take 'miss,' Paget!); but really, if women _will_ fall in love
with you, how _can_ you help it? And if you _will_ flirt with them, how
can they help it?"

"I see,