solemn promise from me to wear carefully every night in all climates, and which, on the second evening of my sojourn in barracks, were so unceremoniously reduced to ashes in a noisy auto-da-fe.  These retrospective pictures were succeeded by others of more modern date, coming round in a progressive series, until I had painted myself up to within a few weeks of my present position, the foreground of my existence.  Then I remembered promises made by me of contributions to a certain album,—­further contributions,—­for I had already furnished several pages of it with food for mind and eye in the form of melancholy verses and “funny” sketches, with brief dramatic dialogues beneath the latter, to elucidate the “story.”  I particularly recollected having volunteered a translation or imitation of a pretty song in Ruy Blas; and as the fit was upon me, I produced my pocketbook, to commit to paper a version of it which I had mentally devised.  The leaves of my book were all filled, however; some with memoranda,—­a sort of savage diary it was,—­some with sketches of scenes in the wilderness:  there was not a corner vacant.  Turning towards the planking of my bulwark, I perceived that it was smoothly planed and clean, and to work on it I went, pencil in hand.  First I wrote “Zosime MacGillivray,” in several different styles of chirography, flourished and plain, and even in old text.  Then I sketched out a rough design for an ornamental heading, with a wreath of flowers encircling the words “To Zozzy,” and beneath this work of Art I inscribed the effort of my muse, which ran thus:—­

  Fields and forests rejoice
    In their silver-toned throng;
  I hear but the voice
    Of the bird in thy song!

  In April’s glad shower
    Flash petals and leaves,
  Less bright than the flower
    Round thy heart that weaves!

  Stars waken, stars slumber,
    Stars wink in the sky,
  Bright numberless number;
    But none like thine eye!

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

My mind being considerably relieved by this gush of sentiment, I felt myself entitled to unbend a little, and, turning my attention to artistic pursuits, principally of a humorous character, I developed successively many long-pent-up imaginings in the way of severe studies of sundry garrison notables.  There was “Bendigo” Phillips, with boxing-gloves fearfully brandished, appearing in the attitude in which he polished off young Thurlow of the R.A., under the pretence of giving him a lesson in the noble art of self-defence, but in reality to revenge himself upon him for an ill-timed interference in a certain affaire du coeur.  The agony of young Thurlow, pretending to look pleased, was depicted by a very successful stroke of Art.  To the extreme right you might have beheld Vegetable Warren, the staff-surgeon, slightly exaggerated in