all the morning for
nothing; for, somehow, it turned out _it was neither of us!_"

What amused me most in this anecdote was the hearing it at such a time and
place. That poor Sir Harry's eccentricities should turn up for discussion
on a march in Portugal was singular enough; but after all, life is full of
such incongruous accidents. I remember once supping with King Calzoo on the
Blue Mountains, in Jamaica. By way of entertaining his guests, some English
officers, he ordered one of his suite to sing. We were of course pleased at
the opportunity of hearing an Indian war-chant, with a skull and thigh-bone
accompaniment; but what was our astonishment to hear the Indian,--a
ferocious-looking dog, with an awful scalp-lock, and two streaks of red
paint across his chest,--clear his voice well for a few seconds, and
then begin, without discomposing a muscle of his gravity, "The Laird of
Cockpen!" I need not say that the "Great Raccoon" was a Dumfries man who
had quitted Scotland forty years before, and with characteristic prosperity
had attained his present rank in a foreign service.

"Halt! halt!" cried a deep-toned, manly voice in the leading column, and
the word was repeated from mouth to mouth to the rear.

We dismounted, and picketing our horses beneath the broad-leaved foliage
of the cork-trees, stretched ourselves out at full length upon the grass,
while our messmen prepared the dinner. Our party at first consisted of
Hixley, Power, the adjutant, and myself; but our number was soon increased
by three officers of the 6th Foot, about to join their regiment.

"Barring the ladies, God bless them!" said Power, "there are no such
picnics as campaigning presents. The charms of scenery are greatly enhanced
by their coming unexpectedly on you. Your chance good fortune in the prog
has an interest that no ham-and-cold-chicken affair, prepared by your
servants beforehand, and got ready with a degree of fuss and worry that
converts the whole party into an assembly of cooks, can ever afford; and
lastly, the excitement that this same life of ours is never without, gives
a zest--"

"There you've hit it," cried Hixley; "it's that same feeling of uncertainty
that those who meet now may ever do so again, full as it is of sorrowful
reflection, that still teaches us, as we become inured to war, to economize
our pleasures, and be happy when we may. Your health, O'Malley, and your
uncle Godfrey's too."

"A little more of the pastry."

"