captured by “Joyett, a huge Virginian,”—instead of Manning, who was a small man—standing a horror-struck spectator of the tragedy. An equally brave man was Sergeant Ord, of Manning’s company;—in the surprise of the British at Georgetown, when a company of the Legion infantry had captured a house with its enclosures, the enemy made an attempt to regain it; the commanding officer calling out to his men, “Rush on, my brave fellows—they are only militia, and have no bayonets;”—Ord placing himself in front of the gate as they attempted to enter, laid six of them in succession, dead at his feet, accompanying each thrust with—“Oh! no bayonets here—none to be sure!”—following up his strokes with such rapidity that the party were obliged to give up the attempt and retire. But perhaps there could have been no two characters in the corps more the perfect antipodes of each other, than the two surgeons of the cavalry, Irvine and Skinner, for while Irvine was entirely regardless of his person, and frequently found engaged sword in hand, in the thickest of the fight, where his duty by no means called him, Skinner was as invariably found in the rear, cherishing his loved person from the threatened danger. Indeed he was a complete counterpart of old Falstaff;—the same fat and rotund person—the same lover of good cheer and good wine—and entertaining the same aversion to exposing his dear body to the danger of missiles or cuts;—not only was he a source of fun in himself, “but he was the cause of it in others.” He asserted that his business was in the rear—to cure men, not to kill them; and when Irvine was wounded at the charge of Quinby’s bridge, he refused to touch him, until he had dressed the hurts of the meanest of the soldiers, saying that Matthew Irvine was served perfectly right, and had no business to be engaged out of his vocation. At the night alarm at Ninety-six, Colonel Lee, hastening forward to ascertain the cause, met the Doctor in full retreat, and stopping him, addressed him, with—“Where so fast, Doctor—not frightened I hope,”—“No, Colonel,” replied Skinner—“not frightened—but I confess, most infernally alarmed.” His eccentricities extended not alone to his acts, but to every thing about him. Among other peculiarities, he wore his beard long, and unshorn, and upon being asked by a brother officer why he did so, he replied, that “that was a secret between Heaven and himself, which no human impertinence should ever penetrate.” Like Falstaff, and with similar success, he considered himself the admired of the fair sex,—“Ay!” said he, to Captain Carns, of the infantry, “Ay, Carns, I have an _eye_!” Yet Skinner was by no means a man to be trifled with, for he was not devoid of a certain sort of courage, as he had proved in half a dozen duels, in one of which he had killed his man. When asked how it was, that he was so careful of his person in action, when he had shown so plainly that he was not deficient in courage,—he replied,