ies as very
interesting information to his sweetheart in Ireland. If such be the
case, I hope and trust she has taken the blunder in better part than
old Colbourn, who swears he'll bring you to a court-martial, under
Heaven knows what charges. In fact, his passion has known no bounds
since the event; and a fit of jaundice has given his face a kind of
neutral tint between green and yellow, like nothing I know of except
the facings of the "dirty half-hundred." [2]

[Footnote 2: For the information of my unmilitary readers, I may
remark that this sobriquet was applied to the 50th Regiment.]

As Mr. Free's letter may be as great a curiosity to you as it has
been to us, I enclose you a copy of it, which Hopeton obtained for
me. It certainly places the estimable Mike in a strong light as a
despatch-writer. The occasional interruption to the current of the
letter, you will perceive, arises from Mike having used the pen of a
comrade, writing being, doubtless, an accomplishment forgotten in
the haste of preparing Mr. Free for the world; and the amanuensis
has, in more than one instance, committed to paper more than was
meant by the author:--

Mrs. M'Gra,--Tear an' ages, sure I need not be treating he
way. Now, just say Mrs. Mary--ay, that'll do--Mrs. Mary, it's may be
surprised you'll be to be reading a letter from your humble servant,
sitting on the top of the Alps,--arrah, may be it's not the Alps; but
sure she'll never know,--fornent the whole French army, with Bony
himself and all his jinnerals--God be between us and harm--ready to
murther every mother's son of us, av they were able, Molly darlin';
but, with the blessing of Providence, and Lord Wellington and Mister
Charles, we'll bate them yet, as we bate them afore.

My lips is wathering at the thought o' the plunder. I often
of Tim Riley, that was hanged for sheep-stealing; he'd be worth his
weight in gold here.

Mr. Charles is now a captain--devil a less--and myself might be
somethin' that same, but ye see I was always of a bashful n
and recommended the master in my place. "He's mighty young, Mister
Charles is," says my Lord Wellington to me,--"He's mighty young, Mr.
Free." "He is, my lord," says I; "he's young, as you obsarve, but
he's as much divilment in him as many that might be his father."