ould at once pronounce from the tone of his conversation on what
precise bottle the major was then engaged.

Thus, in the outset he was gastronomic,--discussed the dinner from the soup
to the Stilton; criticised the cutlets; pronounced upon the merits of the
mutton; and threw out certain vague hints that he would one day astonish
the world by a little volume upon cookery.

With bottle No. 2 he took leave of the _cuisine_, and opened his battery
upon the wine. Bordeaux, Burgundy, hock, and hermitage, all passed in
review before him,--their flavor discussed, their treatment descanted
upon, their virtues extolled; from humble port to imperial tokay, he was
thoroughly conversant with all, and not a vintage escaped as to when the
sun had suffered eclipse, or when a comet had wagged his tail over it.

With No. 3 he became pipeclay,--talked army list and eighteen manoeuvres,
lamented the various changes in equipments which modern innovation had
introduced, and feared the loss of pigtails might sap the military spirit
of the nation.

With No. 4 his anecdotic powers came into play,--he recounted various
incidents of the war with his own individual adventures and experience,
told with an honest _naivete_, that proved personal vanity; indeed,
self-respect never marred the interest of the narrative, besides, as he had
ever regarded a campaign something in the light of a foray, and esteemed
war as little else than a pillage excursion, his sentiments were singularly
amusing.

With his last bottle, those feelings that seemed inevitably connected
with whatever is last appeared to steal over him,--a tinge of sadness for
pleasures fast passing and nearly passed, a kind of retrospective glance at
the fallacy of all our earthly enjoyments, insensibly suggesting moral and
edifying reflections, led him by degrees to confess that he was not quite
satisfied with himself, though "not very bad for a commissary;" and
finally, as the decanter waxed low, he would interlard his meditations by
passages of Scripture, singularly perverted by his misconception from
their true meaning, and alternately throwing out prospects of censure or
approval. Such was Major Monsoon; and to conclude in his own words this
brief sketch, he "would have been an excellent officer if Providence had
not made him such a confounded, drunken, old scoundrel."

"Now, then, for the King of Spain's story. Out with it, old boy; we are all
good men and true here," cried Power,