Fuente-Guinaldo was occupied by our Light Division, who made that town agreeable both to themselves and also to their brothers in arms, not only by their hospitality, but by the attraction of their theatrical performances, which were got up in a style quite astonishing, considering the place and the difficulties which they must have found in supplying themselves with suitable costume; but the Light Division had an _esprit de corps_ among them, whether in the field or quarters, that must be seen to be understood. Their _dramatis personæ_ were admirable, and Captain Kent of the Rifles, by his great abilities, rendered every performance in which he took a part doubly attractive. The 3rd Division, although unable to cope with the Light in this species of amusement, got up races, which, though inferior to those of the former year at Torres Vedras, were far from bad; amongst the jockeys was one, an officer in the Portuguese service, who, though an excellent horseman, was, without exception, the ugliest man in the division, or perhaps in the army. Major Leckie of the 45th took the greatest dislike to him on this account, and gave him the name of “Ugly Mug”—by which cognomen he was after known. Just as the horses were about to start for a tolerably heavy stake, I went up to Leckie, who was one of the most knowing men on our turf. “Well, Leckie,” said I, “who’s the winning jockey to-day?”—“Why look,” replied he, “I’ve laid it on thick myself upon Wilde’s horse, Albuquerque, and tortured as I am with this infernal attack of gout (to which he was a great martyr), I have hobbled out to witness the race; but, my dear fellow, I don’t care one rush who wins, provided _Mug_ loses.” However, _Mug_ won his race easily, and poor Leckie went home quite out of sorts. Whether from the effect of his favourite horse losing, or “Mug’s” winning, or that the exertion was too much for him, I know not, but upon his return to Aldea-de-Ponte, he was seized with a violent attack of gout; towards midnight he was a little more composed, and had just sunk into a gentle slumber, when he was awoke by a young Ensign who had lately joined, and who occupied an apartment in the house where Leckie was quartered. This officer played a little on the violin, and had a very good voice; he began to practise both, and commenced singing the little air in _Paul and Virginia_ of Tell her I love her while the clouds drop rain, Or while there’s water in the pathless main; but whether from being imperfect in the song, or that those particular lines struck his fancy, he never got beyond them. Leckie became very fidgety—every scrape of the violin touched his heart, but in a far different manner from that in which it seemed to affect the performer; a quarter of an hour passed on, and the same lines were repeated; at last the accompaniment grew fainter and fainter, until it died away altogether.