onged for in the Peninsula than by the most
eager crowd of a London coffee-room.

So I pass over the details of the retreat of the French, and the great
battle of Fuentes D'Onoro. In the storming of Ciudad Rodrigo, that death
struggle of vengeance and despair, I gained some notoriety in leading a
party of stormers through a broken embrasure, and found myself under
Lord Wellington's displeasure for having left my duties as aide-de-camp.
However, the exploit gained me leave to return to England, and the
additional honour of carrying dispatches to the Prince Regent.

When I arrived in London with the glorious news of the capture of Ciudad
Rodrigo, the kind and gracious notice of the prince obtained me
attentions on all sides. Indeed, so flattering was the reception I met
with, and so overwhelming the civility showered on me, that it required
no small effort on my part not to believe myself as much a hero as they
would make me. An eternal round of dinners, balls, and entertainments
filled up an entire week.

At last I obtained the Prince Regent's permission to leave London, and a
few mornings after landed in Cork. Hastening my journey, I was walking
the last eight miles--my chaise having broken down--when suddenly my
attention was caught by a sound which, faint from the distance, scarce
struck upon my ear. Thinking it probably some delusion of my heated
imagination, I rose to push forward; but at the moment a slight breeze
stirred, and a low, moaning sound swelled upward, increasing each
instant as it came. It grew louder as the wind bore it towards me, and
now falling, now swelling, it burst forth into one loud, prolonged cry
of agony and grief. O God, it was the death-wail!

My suspense became too great to bear; I dashed madly forward. As I
neared the house, the whole approach was crowded with carriages and
horsemen. At the foot of the large flight of steps stood the black and
mournful hearse, its plumes nodding in the breeze, and, as the sounds
without sank into sobs of bitterness and woe, the black pall of a
coffin, borne on men's shoulders, appeared at the door, and an old man,
a life-long friend of my uncle, across whose features a struggle for
self-mastery was playing, held out his hand to enforce silence. I sprang
toward him, choked by agony. He threw his arms around me, and muttering
the words, "Poor Godfrey!" pointed to the coffin.

Mine was a desolate hearth. In respect to my uncle's last wishes, I sold
out