In those days, the guardrooms in Dublin were pretty generally ornamented with sketches, some of which were very well done. I may specify ‘The Kildare Hunt,’ round the wall of the upper castle guard; and a monument upon a wall facing the door in the lower castle guard, on which was the following inscription: IN MEMORY OF A Wigging received by a Subaltern of this Guard from ——. -------- May whose end be as his life has been—peaceful! That the above stung the officer in question, who was a well-known martinet, but, unfortunately, had seen no war-service, we soon had reason to know; for an order was issued that in future all commandants of guards were to certify in their guard Reports that the walls of their guardrooms had not been defaced during their tour of duty. One snowy, bitterly cold day in the winter of 1847-48, I found myself the occupant of the Bank Guard in Dublin, and in the proud position of commandant. The semi-darkness of the afternoon was fast verging on night, and I nodded, half asleep, over the huge fire which blazed on the hearth, when the door opened, and admitted, with a cold swirl of frosty air, the handsome, jolly face of a brother sub. and particular friend of mine, named Harry P——. The old room looked instantly bright and cheerful, and he sat until well after dark, smoking and chatting pleasantly. At length he rose to go, and told me that he was going to dine with his brother at Richmond Barracks; and that after mess, he, his brother, and another officer of his brother’s regiment, were about to visit the theatre, where some popular performer was starring it. ‘And I tell you what it is, old fellow,’ he added, ‘we’ll all come here afterwards; and you have some oysters in, and give us a supper.’