I undertook to trap for that,--when,
suddenly, a diversion was created by a roar from Phillips, who had
proceeded to inspect my spoils behind the target, and now stood looking at
my portrait-gallery of living celebrities, his great chest heaving with
laughter; and before I could satisfy my inquiring friends, the whole crowd
had rushed pell-mell to the exhibition.

"Caught, by all that's lovely!" shouted Phillips, repeating my verses at
the top of his voice,--

"The bird-song and flower
And star from above
Combine in thy bower;
Their union is love!"

"Ritoorala loorala loorala loo, ritoorala loorala loorala loo!" chorused
everybody, as he sang the last verse to the vulgar melody of 'Tatter Jack
Welch,' knocking the poetry out of my constitution at once and forever,
like the ashes out of a pipe. "Hooray for Miss Mac! Who should have
thought it, Darby?"--That was _my_ pet name in the regiment.

"How like!--how very like!--That's Warren there, nibbling the turnip. And
there's Thurlow,--ha! ha! ha! how good! And that--that--that's me, by
Jingo!--he he! he! he!--not so good that, somehow,--neck too long by half
a foot. But the Colonel!--only look at his boots!--He must'n't see this,
though, by Jove!--Choke the Colonel off, boys!--take him round to the
front!--do something!" whispered good-natured Symonds, anxious to keep me
clear of the scrape.

But it was too late. The last objects that met my view were the ghastly
legs of the Commandant, as he strode through the circle in front of my
Art-exhibition. I saw no more. A soldier is but a mortal man. Rushing to
the nearest cariole,--it was the Commandant's,--I leaped into it, and,
lashing the horse furiously towards the town, never pulled rein until I
got up to my long-deserted quarters in the Citadel. There I barricaded
myself into my own room, directing my servant to proceed to the target
for my scattered property. I had still a month's leave of absence before
me, availing myself of which, I started next morning for New York,
subsequently obtained an extension of leave, sailed for England, and
there negotiating an exchange from a regiment whose facings no longer
suited my taste for colors, I soon found myself gazetted into a less
objectionable one lying at Corfu.

I have never seen Tankerville's famous picture of my triumphal entry into
Quebec.

I.--NOVEMBER.

The dead leaves their rich mosaics,
Of olive and gold and brown,
Had laid on the ra