There was, unluckily, a dead silence as H. R. H. put this question.

“Comment donc?” said H. M. Lo-is Ph-l-ppe, looking gravely at Count Mole; “le cher Major a quitte l’armee!  Nicolas donc sera maitre de l’Inde!” H. M——­ and the Pr.  M-n-ster pursued their conversation in a low tone, and left me, as may be imagined in a dreadful state of confusion.  I blushed and stuttered, and murmured out a few incoherent words to explain—­but it would not do—­I could not recover my equanimity during the course of the dinner and while endeavoring to help an English Duke, my neighbor, to poulet a l’Austerlitz, fairly sent seven mushrooms and three large greasy croutes over his whiskers and shirt-frill.  Another laugh at my expense.  “Ah!  M. le Major,” said the Q——­ of the B-lg—­ns, archly, “vous n’aurez jamais votre brevet de Colonel.”  Her M——­y’s joke will be better understood when I state that his Grace is the brother of a Minister.

I am not at liberty to violate the sanctity of private life, by mentioning the names of the parties concerned in this little anecdote.  I only wish to have it understood that I am a gentleman, and live at least in decent society.  Verbum sat.

But to be serious.  I am obliged always to write the name of Goliah in full, to distinguish me from my brother, Gregory Gahagan, who was also a Major (in the King’s service), and whom I killed in a duel, as the public most likely knows.  Poor Greg! a very trivial dispute was the cause of our quarrel, which never would have originated but for the similarity of our names.  The circumstance was this:  I had been lucky enough to render the Nawaub of Lucknow some trifling service (in the notorious affair of Choprasjee Muckjee), and his Highness sent down a gold toothpick-case directed to Captain G. Gahagan, which I of course thought was for me:  my brother madly claimed it; we fought, and the consequence was, that in about three minutes he received a slash in the right side (cut 6), which effectually did his business:—­he was a good swordsman enough—­I was the best in the universe.  The most ridiculous part of the affair is, that the toothpick-case was his, after all—­he had left it on the Nawaub’s table at tiffin.  I can’t conceive what madness prompted him to fight about such a paltry bauble; he had much better have yielded it at once, when he saw I was determined to have it.  From this slight specimen of my adventures, the reader will perceive that my life has been one of no ordinary interest; and, in fact, I may say that I have led a more remarkable life than any man in the service—­I have been at more pitched battles, led more forlorn hopes, had more success among the fair sex, drunk harder, read more, and been a handsomer man than any officer now serving her Majesty.

When I at first went to India in 1802, I was a raw cornet of seventeen, with blazing red hair, six feet four in height, athletic at all kinds of exercises, owing money to my tailor and everybody else who would trust me, possessing an Irish brogue, and my full pay of 120L. a year.  I need not say that with all these advantages I did that which a number of clever fellows have done before me—­I fell in love, and proposed to marry immediately.