e, and
whose destinies are cast for great events, thrilled through me; and in
all the warmth of my admiration and pride for our great captain, a secret
pleasure stirred within me as I whispered to myself, "And I, too, am a
soldier!"

I fear me that very little flattery is sufficient to turn the head of a
young man of eighteen; and if I yielded to the "pleasant incense," let my
apology be that I was not used to it; and lastly, let me avow, if I did get
tipsy, I liked the liquor. And why not? It is the only tipple I know of
that leaves no headache the next morning to punish you for the glories of
the past night. It may, like all other strong potations, it is true, induce
you to make a fool of yourself when under its influence; but like the
nitrous-oxide gas, its effects are passing, and as the pleasure is an
ecstasy for the time, and your constitution none the worse when it is over,
I really see no harm in it.

Then the benefits are manifest; for while he who gives becomes never the
poorer for his benevolence, the receiver is made rich indeed. It matters
little that some dear, kind friend is ready with his bitter draught to
remedy what he is pleased to call its unwholesome sweetness; you betake
yourself with only the more pleasure to the "blessed elixir," whose
fascinations neither the poverty of your pocket, nor the penury of your
brain, can withstand, and by the magic of whose spell you are great and
gifted. "_Vive la bagatelle!_" saith the Frenchman. "Long live flattery!"
say I, come from what quarter it will,--the only wealth of the poor man,
the only reward of the unknown one; the arm that supports us in failure;
the hand that crowns us in success; the comforter in our affliction; the
gay companion in our hours of pleasure; the lullaby of the infant; the
staff of old age; the secret treasure we lock up in our own hearts, and
which ever grows greater as we count it over. Let me not be told that the
coin is fictitious, and the gold not genuine; its clink is as musical to
the ear as though it bore the last impression of the mint, and I'm not the
man to cast an aspersion upon its value.

This little digression, however seemingly out of place, may serve to
illustrate what it might be difficult to convey in other words,--namely,
that if Charles O'Malley became, in his own estimation, a very considerable
personage that day at dinner, the fault lay not entirely with himself, but
with his friends, who told him he was such.