his notice to quit” this world, and its pomps and vanities.  He felt “that he was dying,” to use Haines Bayley’s beautiful and apposite words, and meditated an exchange, but that, from circumstances, was out of the question.  At last, subdued by grief, and probably his spirit having chafed itself smooth by such constant attrition, he became, to all seeming, calmer; but it was only the calm of a broken and weary heart.  Such was Major Jones at the time, when, “suadente diabolo,” it seemed meet to Fathers Mooney and D’Array to make him the butt of their raillery.  At first, he could not believe it; the thing was incredible—­impossible; but when he looked around the table, when he heard the roars of laughter, long, loud, and vociferous; when he heard his name bandied from one to the other across the table, with some vile jest tacked to it “like a tin kettle to a dog’s tail,” he awoke to the full measure of his misery—­the cup was full.  Fate had done her worst, and he might have exclaimed with Lear, “spit, fire-spout, rain,” there was nothing in store for him of further misfortune.

A drum-head court-martial—­a hint “to sell out”—­ay, a sentence of “dismissed the service,” had been mortal calamities, and, like a man, he would have borne them; but that he, Major John Jones, D.G.S.  C.P.B., &c. &c, who had drank the “pious, glorious, and immortal,” sitting astride of “the great gun of Athlone,” should come to this!  Alas, and alas!  He retired that night to his chamber a “sadder if not a wiser man;” he dreamed that the “statue” had given place to the unshapely figure of Leo X., and that “Lundy now stood where Walker stood before.”  He humped from his bed in a moment of enthusiasm, he vowed his revenge, and he kept his vow.

That day the major was “acting field officer.”  The various patroles, sentries, picquets, and out-posts, were all under his especial control; and it was remarked that he took peculiar pains in selecting the men for night duty, which, in the prevailing quietness and peace of that time, seemed scarcely warrantable.

Evening drew near, and Major Jones, summoned by the “oft-heard beat,” wended his way to the mess.  The officers were dropping in, and true as “the needle to the pole,” came Father Mooney and the Abbe.  They were welcomed with the usual warmth, and strange to say, by none more than the major himself, whose hilarity knew no bounds.

How the evening passed, I shall not stop to relate:  suffice it to say, that a more brilliant feast of wit and jollification, not even the North Cork ever enjoyed.  Father Luke’s drollest stories, his very quaintest humour shone forth, and the Abbe sang a new “Chanson a Boire,” that Beranger might hav envied.

“What are you about, my dear Father D’Array?” said the Colonel; “you are surely not rising yet; here’s a fresh cooper of port just come in; sit down, I entreat.”

“I say it with grief, my dear colonel, we must away; the half-hour has just chimed, and we must be within ‘the gates’ before twelve.  The truth is, the superior has been making himself very troublesome about our ‘carnal amusements’ as he calls our innocent mirth, and we must therefore be upon our guard.”