o me, that while
one was the greatest favorite in the regiment, the other had not a
single friend amongst them. To me, Crofts manifested the most perfect
indifference, not ever mixing himself in any conversation in which I
bore a part. He rarely turned his head towards that part of the table at
which I sat; and by an air of haughty superciliousness, gave me plainly
to understand that our acquaintance, though confessedly begun, was to
proceed no further. I cannot say how happy I felt to learn that one I
had so much cause to dislike was a violent aristocrat, an ultra-Tory,
a most uncompromising denouncer of the Irish Liberal party, and an
out-and-out advocate of severe and harsh measures towards the people.
He never missed an opportunity for the enunciation of such doctrines,
which, whatever might be the opinions of the listeners, there was at
the time I speak of no small risk in gainsaying, and this immunity did
Crofts enjoy to his heart's content.

Slight as these few reminiscences of the mess are, they are the
called-up memories of days not to be forgotten by me; for now, what with
my habitual indecision on the one hand, and Bubbleton's solicitations
on the other, I continued to linger on in Dublin,--leading the careless,
easy life of those about me, joining in all the plots for amusement
which the capital afforded, and mixing in every society to which
my military friends had access. Slender as were my resources, they
sufficed, in the eyes of all who knew not their limit, to appear
abundant. Crofts was the only rich man in the regiment; and my
willingness to enter into every scheme of pleasure, regardless of cost,
impressed them all with the notion that Bubbleton for once was right,
and that "Burke was a kind of Westcountry Croesus," invaluable to the
regiment.

Week after week rolled on, and still did I find myself a denizen of
George's Street. The silly routine of the barrack life filled all my
thoughts, save when the waning condition of my purse would momentarily
turn them towards the future; but these moments of reflection came but
seldom, and at last came not at all. It was autumn; the town almost
divested of its inhabitants,--at least of all who could leave it,--and
along the parched, sunburned streets a stray jingle or a noddy was
rarely seen to pass. The squares, so lately crowded with equipages and
cavalcades of horsemen, were silent and deserted; the closed shutters of
every house, and the grass-grown steps