of those whose characters I
discussed.

Some of the battlefields I have gone over; of others, I have learned the
particulars from witnesses of the great struggles that have made them
famous. To the claim of this exactness I have, therefore, the pretension
of at least the desire to be faithful. For my story, it has all the
faults and shortcomings which beset everything I have ever written; for
these I can but offer regrets, only the more poignant that I feel how
justly they are due.

The same accuracy which I claim for scenes and situations, I should
like, if I dared, to claim for the individuals who figure in this tale;
but I cannot, in any fairness, pretend to more than an attempt to paint
resemblances of those whom I have myself admired in the description
of others. Pioche and Minette are of this number. So is, but of a very
different school, the character of Duchesne; for which, however, I had
what almost amounted to an original. As to the episodes of this story,
one or two were communicated as facts; the others are mere invention.

I do not remember any particulars to which I should further advert;
while I feel, that the longer I dwell upon the theme, the more occasion
is there to entreat indulgence,--an indulgence which, if you are not
weary of according, will be most gratefully accepted by

Your faithful servant,

CHARLES LEVER

Casa Capponi, Florence, May, 1867.

CONTENTS.

TOM BURKE OF "OURS."

CHAPTER I. MYSELF.

It was at the close of a cold, raw day in January--no matter for the
year--that the Gal way mail was seen to wind its slow course through
that long and dull plain that skirts the Shannon, as you approach the
"sweet town of Athlone." The reeking box-coats and dripping umbrellas
that hung down on every side bespoke a day of heavy rain, while the
splashed and mud-stained panels of the coach bore token of cut-up
roads, which the jaded and toil-worn horses amply confirmed. If the
outsiders--with hats pressed firmly down, and heads bent against the
cutting wind--presented an aspect far from comfortable, those within,
who peeped with difficulty through the dim glass, had little to charm
the eye; their flannel nightcaps and red comforters were only to be seen
at rare intervals, as they gazed on the dreary prospect, and then sank
back into the coach to con over their moody thoughts, or, if fortunate,
perhaps to doze.

In the rumble, with the guard, sat one whose burly figure an