As I hurried to my quarters, I made a hundred guesses from whom the letter could have come; a kind of presentiment told me that it bore, in some measure, upon the present crisis of my life, and I burned with anxiety to read it. No sooner had I reached the light, than all my hopes on this head vanished; the envelope bore the well-known name of my old college chum, Frank Webber, and none could, at the moment, have more completely dispelled all chance of interesting me. I threw it from me with disappointment, and sat moodily down to brood over my fate. At length, however, and almost without knowing it, I drew the lamp towards me, and broke the seal. The reader being already acquainted with my amiable friend, there is the less indiscretion in communicating the contents, which ran thus:-- TRINITY COLLEGE, DUBLIN, No. 2, October 5, 1810. My Dear O’Malley,--Nothing short of your death and burial, with or without military honors, can possibly excuse your very disgraceful neglect of your old friends here. Nesbitt has never heard of you, neither has Smith. Ottley swears never to have seen your handwriting, save on the back of a protested bill. You have totally forgotten _me_, and the dean informs me that you have never condescended a single line to him; which latter inquiry on my part nearly cost me a rustication. A hundred conjectures to account for your silence--a new feature in you since you were here--are afloat. Some assert that your soldiering has turned your head, and that you are above corresponding with civilians. Your friends, however, who know you better and value your worth, think otherwise; and having seen a paragraph about a certain O’Malley being tried by court-martial for stealing a goose, and maltreating the woman that owned it, ascribe your not writing to other motives. Do, in any case, relieve our minds; say, is it yourself, or only a relative that’s mentioned? Herbert came over from London with a long story about your doing wonderful things,--capturing cannon and general officers by scores,--but devil a word of it is extant; and if you have really committed these acts, they have “misused the king’s press damnably,” for neither in the “Times” nor the “Post” are you heard of. Answer this point, and say also if you have got promotion; for what precise sign you are algebraically expressed by at this writing, may serve Fitzgerald for a fellowship question. As for us, we are jogging along, _semper eadem_,--that is, worse and worse. Dear Cecil Cavendish, our gifted friend, slight of limb and soft of voice, has been rusticated for immersing four bricklayers in that green receptacle of stagnant water and duckweed, yeleped the “Haha.” Roper, equally unlucky, has taken to reading for honors, and obtained a medal, I fancy,--at least his friends shy him, and it must be something of that kind.