the world, and a certain jauntiness that I have never seen but in
Irishmen who have mixed much in society.

There was also a certain peculiar devil-may-care recklessness about the
self-satisfied swagger of his gait, and the free and easy glance of his
sharp black eye, united with a temper that nothing could ruffle, and a
courage nothing could daunt. With such qualities as these, he had been
the prime favourite of his mess, to which he never came without some
droll story to relate, or some choice expedient for future amusement.
Such had Tom once been; now he was much altered, and though the quiet
twinkle of his dark eye showed that the spirit of fun within was not
"dead, but only sleeping,"--to myself, who knew something of his history,
it seemed almost cruel to awaken him to any thing which might bring him
back to the memory of by-gone days. A momentary glance showed me that he
was no longer what he had been, and that the unfortunate change in his
condition, the loss of all his earliest and oldest associates, and his
blighted prospects, had nearly broken a heart that never deserted a
friend, nor quailed before an enemy. Poor O'Flaherty was no more the
delight of the circle he once adorned; the wit that "set the table in a
roar" was all but departed. He had been dismissed the service!!--The
story is a brief one:--

In the retreat from Burgos, the __ Light Dragoons, after a most fatiguing
day's march, halted at the wretched village of Cabenas. It had been
deserted by the inhabitants the day before, who, on leaving, had set it
on fire; and the blackened walls and fallen roof-trees were nearly all
that now remained to show where the little hamlet had once stood.

Amid a down-pour of rain, that had fallen for several hours, drenched to
the skin, cold, weary, and nearly starving, the gallant 8th reached this