“Gentleman” Roach, a title given to him from his continually boasting of a long line of ancestors, was on this night more than usually facetious. He certainly had received an education far above his present station; but he did not rank among the best soldiers of the light company, not being a stout marcher, rather inclined to be a lawyer, and fighting his battles more poignantly with his tongue than with his bayonet. His incessant chatter annoyed the whole company, who, being anxious to enjoy a little repose, upbraided him for his loquacity. Being no longer able to bear with his noise and vanity, which always bent towards pride of ancestry, one of the men interrupted him by crying out: “Bad luck to you and all your ancisthors put together! I wish you’d hould your jaw, and let us lie quiet a little bit before the day comes, for we can hardly hould up our heads with the sleep.” The “gentleman,” always put on his mettle at the mention of his ancestors, with indignant voice exclaimed: “Wretch! you personify all the disproportions of a vulgar cabbage-plant, the dense foliage of whose plebeian head is too ponderous for its ignoble crouching stem to support.” “Faith, then,” replied the plebeian, “I wish we had a good hid o’ cabbage to ate now, and we’d give you the shrinking part,--that’s like yourself, good-for-nothing and not able to stand when wanted; and, damn your sowl, what are you like, always talking about your rotten ould ancisthors? Sure, if you were any good yourself, you wouldn’t be always calling thim to take your part. Be Jabers! you’re like a praty, for all your worth in the world is what’s down in the ground.” “Contemptible creature!” replied the “gentleman,” “if even the least of my noble line of ancestors were to rise from the grave, he would display such mighty feats of arms as would astound you and all the vulgar herd of which you appear to be the appropriate leader.” The conclusion of this contemptuous speech, being accompanied with a revolving glance, and his right arm put into semicircular motion, including all the men as it passed through its orbit, brought him many adversaries. One of his new antagonists bellowed out with a loud laugh: “Bury him, bury him! Since all the bravery that belongs to him is with his ould dads in the ground, maybe, if we buried him a little while to make an ould ancisthor of him too and then dug him up again, he might be a good soldier himself.” “Arrah! sure it’s no use,” cried out another, “to be loosing your talk with a dancing-masther like him. Wasn’t he squeezed up behind a tree, like the back of an ould Cramona fiddle, while I was bothering three Johnny Craps, when they were running down screaming like pelebeens to charge the bridge? And, after all that, I’ll engage with his rotten ould ancisthors that when we goes home he’ll have a bether pinshun than me, or be made a sergeant by some fine curnil that always stays at home and knows nothing at all about a good soldier.”