We had in my old corps, amongst other “characters,” one that, at the period I am writing about, was well known in the army to be as jovial a fellow as ever put his foot under a mess-table. His name was Fairfield; and though there were few who could sing as good a song, there was not in the whole British army a worse duty officer. Indeed, it was next to impossible to catch hold of him for any duty whatever; and so well known was his dislike to all military etiquette, that the officer next to him on the roster, the moment Fairfield’s name appeared for guard-mounting or court-martial, considered himself as the person meant, and he was right nine times out of ten. The frequent absence of Fairfield from drill, at a time too when the regiment was in expectation of being inspected by the general of division, obliged the officer commanding to send the surgeon to ascertain the nature of his malady, which from its long continuance (on occasions of duty!) strongly savoured of a chronic complaint. The doctor found the invalid traversing his chamber rather lightly clad for an indisposed person; he was singing one of Moore’s melodies, and accompanying himself with his violin, which instrument he touched with great taste. The doctor told him the nature of his visit, and offered to feel his pulse, but Fairfield turned from him, repeating the lines of Shakespeare, “Canst thou minister,” etc. etc. “Well,” replied the surgeon, “I am sorry for it, but I cannot avoid reporting you fit for duty.”—“I’m sorry you cannot,” rejoined Fairfield; “but my complaint is best known to myself! and I feel that were I to rise as early as is necessary, I should be lost to the service in a month.” “Why,” said the doctor, “Major Thompson says you have been lost to it ever since he first knew you, and that is now something about six years,” and he took his leave for the purpose of making his report.