Lancers), and also at Alma, Inkerman, and Sebastopol. He has also the
Mutiny Medal and Good Conduct and Service one, so he is a good
specimen. Curious luck, he never had a _scratch_ (!). Says he has had
far "worse wounds" performing in Gyms., as he was a good swordsman,
etc. He told us some _dear_ tales of old Sir Colin Campbell. He said
his men idolized him, but their wives rather more so, and if any of
them failed to send home remittances, the spouses wrote straight off
to Sir Colin, who had up "Sandy or Wully" for remonstrance, and
stopped his grog "till I hear again from your wife, man."

On one occasion he saw a drummer-boy drunk, and a sergeant near. Sir
Colin: "Sergeant, does yon boy belong to your company?"

Sergeant: "He does not, sir."

"Does he draw a rum allowance?"

"He does, sir."

"Well, away to the Captain of his company, and say it's my orders that
the oldest soldier in this bairn's company is to draw his rum, till he
feels convinced it's for the lad's benefit that he should tak it
himsel'--and that'll not be just yet awhile I'm thinking."

Some brilliant tales too of the wit and gallantry of Irish comrades,
several of whom wore the kilt. And almost neatest of all, a story of
coming across a fellow-villager among the Highlanders:

"But I were fair poozled He came from t' same place as me, and a
clever Yorkshireman too, and he were talking as Scotch as any of 'em.
So I says, 'Why I'm beat! what are YOU talking Scotch for,
and you a Knaresborough man?' 'Whisht! whisht! Dickinson,' he says,
'we mun A' be Scotch in a Scotch regiment--or there's no
living.'"...

February 19, 1880.

I have been re-reading the _Legend of Montrose_ and the _Heart of
Midlothian_ with _such_ delight, and poems of both the Brownings, and
Ruskin, and _The Woman in White_, and _Tom Brown's Schooldays_, etc.,
etc.!!! I have got two volumes of _The Modern Painters_ back with me
to go at.

What a treat your letters are! Bits are _nearly_ as good as being
there. The sunset you saw with Miss C----, and the shadowy groups of
the masquers below in the increasing mists of evening, painted itself
as a whole on to my brain--in the way _scenes_ of Walter Scott always
did. Like the farewell to the Pretender in _Red Gauntlet_, and the
black feather on the quicksand in _The Bride of Lammermuir_.

March 1, 1880.

* * * * *

The ball must have been a grand sight, but I think, judging from the