arrived with the general's despatches." I broke the
envelope at once, which bore the war-office seal, and as I did so, a
perfect avalanche of letters fell at my feet. The first which caught my eye
was an official intimation from the Horse Guards that the Prince Regent had
been graciously pleased to confirm my promotion to the troop, my commission
to bear date from the appointment, etc., etc. I could not help feeling
struck, as my eye ran rapidly across the lines, that although the letter
came from Sir George Dashwood's office, it contained not a word of
congratulation nor remembrance on his part, but was couched in the usual
cold and formal language of an official document. Impatient, however, to
look over my other letters, I thought but little of this; so, throwing them
hurriedly into my sabretasche, I cantered on to my quarters without delay.
Once more alone in silence, I sat down to commune with my far-off friends,
and yet with all my anxiety to hear of home, passed several minutes in
turning over the letters, guessing from whom they might have come, and
picturing to myself their probable contents. "Ah, Frank Webber, I recognize
your slap-dash, bold hand without the aid of the initials in the corner;
and this--what can this be?--this queer, misshapen thing, representing
nothing save the forty-seventh proposition of Euclid, and the address
seemingly put on with a cat's-tail dipped in lampblack? Yes, true enough,
it is from Mister Free himself. And what have we here? This queer, quaint
hand is no new acquaintance; how many a time have I looked upon it as the
_ne plus ultra_ of caligraphy! But here is one I'm not so sure of. Who
could have written this bolt-upright, old-fashioned superscription, not
a letter of which seems on speaking terms with its neighbor? The very O
absolutely turns its back upon the M in O'Malley, and the final Y wags his
tail with a kind of independent shake, as if he did not care a curse for
his predecessors! And the seal, too,--surely I know that griffin's head,
and that stern motto, _Non rogo sed capio_. To be sure, it is Billy
Considine's, the count himself. The very paper, yellow and time-stained,
looks coeval with his youth; and I could even venture to wager that his
sturdy pen was nibbed half a century since. I'll not look farther among
this confused mass of three-cornered billets, and long, treacherous-looking
epistles, the very folding of which denote the dun. Here goes for the
count!" So sa