"Except the captain, I presume you are thinking," replied I.

"Oh! no, indeed, sir; I observed that you were very merry."

"I am, Mr B--, but not with wine; mine is a sort of intellectual
intoxication not provided for in the Articles of War."

"A what! sir?"

"Oh! something that you'll never get drunk upon, as you never look into
a book--beat a retreat."

"Ay, ay, sir," replied the first lieutenant; and he disappeared.

And I also beat a retreat to my sofa; and as I threw myself upon it,
mentally vowed that, for two months at the least, I never would take up
a pen. But we seldom make a vow which we do not eventually break; and
the reason is obvious. We vow only when hurried into excesses; we are
alarmed at the dominion which has been acquired over us by our feelings,
or by our habits. Checked for a time by an adherence to our resolutions,
they gradually recover their former strength, until they again break
forth, and we yield to their overpowering influence. A few days after I
had made the resolution, I found myself, like the sailor, _rewarding_ it
by writing more indefatigably than ever.

So now, reader, you may understand that I continue to write, as Tony
Lumpkin says, not to please my good-natured friends, "but because I
can't bear to disappoint myself;" for that which I commenced as an
amusement, and continued as a drudgery, has ended in becoming a