My Dear Charley,--I joined yesterday, just in time to enjoy the heartiest laugh I have had since our meeting. If notoriety can gratify you, by Jove, you have it; for Charles O’Malley and his man Mickey Free are bywords in every mess from Villa Formosa to the rear-guard. As it’s only fair you should participate a little in the fun you’ve originated, let me explain the cause. Your inimitable man Mike, to whom it appears you intrusted the report of killed and wounded for the adjutant-general, having just at that moment accomplished a letter to his friends at home, substituted his correspondence for your returns, and doubtless, sent the list of the casualties as very interesting information to his sweetheart in Ireland. If such be the case, I hope and trust she has taken the blunder in better part than old Colbourn, who swears he’ll bring you to a court-martial, under Heaven knows what charges. In fact, his passion has known no bounds since the event; and a fit of jaundice has given his face a kind of neutral tint between green and yellow, like nothing I know of except the facings of the “dirty half-hundred.” [2] [Footnote 2: For the information of my unmilitary readers, I may remark that this sobriquet was applied to the 50th Regiment.] As Mr. Free’s letter may be as great a curiosity to you as it has been to us, I enclose you a copy of it, which Hopeton obtained for me. It certainly places the estimable Mike in a strong light as a despatch-writer. The occasional interruption to the current of the letter, you will perceive, arises from Mike having used the pen of a comrade, writing being, doubtless, an accomplishment forgotten in the haste of preparing Mr. Free for the world; and the amanuensis has, in more than one instance, committed to paper more than was meant by the author:-- Mrs. M’Gra,--Tear an’ ages, sure I need not be treating he way. Now, just say Mrs. Mary--ay, that’ll do--Mrs. Mary, it’s may be surprised you’ll be to be reading a letter from your humble servant, sitting on the top of the Alps,--arrah, may be it’s not the Alps; but sure she’ll never know,--fornent the whole French army, with Bony himself and all his jinnerals--God be between us and harm--ready to murther every mother’s son of us, av they were able, Molly darlin’; but, with the blessing of Providence, and Lord Wellington and Mister Charles, we’ll bate them yet, as we bate them afore. My lips is wathering at the thought o’ the plunder. I often of Tim Riley, that was hanged for sheep-stealing; he’d be worth his weight in gold here.