Mr. Charles is now a captain--devil a less--and myself might be somethin’ that same, but ye see I was always of a bashful n and recommended the master in my place. “He’s mighty young, Mister Charles is,” says my Lord Wellington to me,--“He’s mighty young, Mr. Free.” “He is, my lord,” says I; “he’s young, as you obsarve, but he’s as much divilment in him as many that might be his father.” “That’s somethin’, Mr. Free,” says my lord; “ye say he comes from a good stock?” “The _rale_ sort, my lord,” says I; “an ould, ancient family, that’s spent every sixpence they had in treating their neighbors. My father lived near him for years,”--you see, Molly, I said that to season the discourse. “We’ll make him a captain,” says my lord; “but, Mr. Free, could we do nothing for you?” “Nothing, at present, my lord. When my friends comes into power,” says I, “they’ll think of me. There’s many a little thing to give away in Ireland, and they often find it mighty hard to find a man for lord-lieutenant; and if that same, or a tide-waiter’s place was vacant--” “Just tell me,” says my lord. “It’s what I’ll do,” says I. “And now, wishing you happy dreams, I’ll take my lave.” Just so, Molly, it’s hand and glove we are. A pleasant face, agreeable manners seasoned with natural modesty, and a good pair of legs, them’s the gifts to push a man’s way in the world. And even with the ladies--but sure I am forgetting, my master was proposed for, and your humble servant too, by two illigant creatures in Lisbon; but it wouldn’t do, Molly, it’s higher nor that we’ll be looking,--_rale_ princesses, the devil a less. Tell Kitty Hannigan I hope she’s well; she was a disarving young in her situation in life. Shusey Dogherty, at the cross road-- I don’t forget the name--was a good-looking slip too; give her my affectionate salutations, as we say in the Portuguese. I hope I’ll be able to bear the inclementuous nature of your climate when I go back; but I can’t expect to stay long--for Lord Wellington can’t do without me. We play duets on the guitar together every evening. The master is shouting for a blanket, so no more at present from, Your very affectionate friend, MICKEY FREE. P. S.--I don’t write this myself, for the Spanish tongue p out o’ the habit of English. Tell Father Rush, if he’d study the Portuguese, I’d use my interest for him with the Bishop of Toledo. It’s a country he’d like--no regular stations, but promiscuous eating and drinking, and as pretty girls as ever confessed their sins.