may be ranked among the sweetest flowrets of the present spring
season." The Quarterly Review, commenting upon my "Observations on
the Pons Asinorum" (4to, London, 1836), called me "Doctor Gahagan,"
and so on. It was time to put an end to these mistakes, and I have
taken the above simple remedy.

I was urged to it by a very exalted personage. Dining in August
last at the palace of the T-l-r-es at Paris, the lovely young Duch-
ss of Orl-ns (who, though she does not speak English, understands
it as well as I do), said to me in the softest Teutonic, "Lieber
Herr Major, haben sie den Ahmednuggarischen-jager-battalion
gelassen?" "Warum denn?" said I, quite astonished at her R-l H-
ss's question. The P-cess then spoke of some trifle from my pen,
which was simply signed Goliah Gahagan.

There was, unluckily, a dead silence as H.R.H. put this question.

"Comment donc?" said H.M. Lo-is Ph-l-ppe, looking gravely at Count
Mole; "le cher Major a quitte l'armee! Nicolas donc sera maitre de
l'Inde!" H. M- and the Pr. M-n-ster pursued their conversation in
a low tone, and left me, as may be imagined, in a dreadful state of
confusion. I blushed and stuttered, and murmured out a few
incoherent words to explain--but it would not do--I could not
recover my equanimity during the course of the dinner; and while
endeavouring to help an English duke, my neighbour, to poulet a
l'Austerlitz, fairly sent seven mushrooms and three large greasy
croutes over his whiskers and shirt-frill. Another laugh at my
expense. "Ah! M. le Major," said the Q- of the B-lg-ns, archly,
"vous n'aurez jamais votre brevet de Colonel." Her M-y's joke will
be better understood when I state that his Grace is the brother of