Jones went among his comrades by the name of Taffy, and certainly was not wronged by the legend, which says “Taffy was a thief.” Take a trait. On the march, he stole a Dutch cheese, sold it me for a dollar, and ate it himself. He was conversable, and couldn’t keep his own counsel: _e. g._ not satisfied with realising both dollar and cheese, he ostentatiously pleaded guilty to the original theft, walking by the side of my pony. Jones was no raw recruit:—had served in the Peninsula, if his word was to be trusted, through five successive campaigns; got his wound at Pampeluna, and was now returning from hospital to join his regiment. In active service, he had acquired all the good and bad qualities of an old campaigner; united with which were some of both sorts, that were properly his own. His oddities he did not attempt to hide, though they constantly exposed him to the jeers of his comrades. He was susceptible, touchy, testy—not quarrelsome. Felt ridicule very acutely; if laughed at, complained bitterly—expostulated—but was not to be laughed out of his own ways. He was somewhat undersized; a smart, wiry, hard-featured light-infantry man: had, to an excess, that wriggle in his gait, which was imparted to our foot-soldiers by the awkward set of their accoutrements—straightening their back, stretching their neck, fixing their head, projecting their chin, and throwing all the action, in walking, into their loins, thighs, and shoulders. His first appearance was by no means a letter of recommendation. He carried the gallows in his countenance,—in short, had that sort of look which helps to get “oudacious” boys a “larrupping;” desperate, dogged, abject, and impudent at the same time. He was capable of any sort of atrocity:—you might turn him by a word. Had a perpetual wolf—yet didn’t care much for eating, when he could get drink. Never refused a tumbler of wine—but preferred something short. His tact was considerable. He soon found out just what I disliked, and what I liked—accommodated his likings to mine. With a constant eye to self, was my intensely devoted humble servant. Never resisted—always gave up a point at once, when he couldn’t carry it—yet often contrived to have his own way. Much preferred riding to walking: seldom suffered a day to pass, without finding more than one opportunity to “get across” Sancho in the course of the march. If I was off, he was on. Took an amazing liking to “the pony,”—and sold his corn. Hated the French, but not so much as he hated our own horse-soldiers. Jones, often offended, was never saucy. Took a jobation as a matter of course. Looked savage at the moment; the next, was larking with the muleteers. The muleteers took to him amazingly. For endless neglects and trespasses, he had one plea, always ready—“Got a bullet in my leg, sir.”