The General is a wiry, muscular man, of about fifty-four years of age;— his staff were mere boys, and yet he outlived them both. The characteristic which struck every one most was his courtly urbanity: every hat which was raised by passers-by was courteously acknowledged; and for every one whom he knew there was a pleasant, kindly word. He looks even brighter and more cheery this morning than usual, and, judging from the barely-suppressed merriment of his staff—when he is not looking—there is evidently some cause for cheerfulness. The joke is this. If James Pattison excels in one thing more than another, it is in correspondence. Last night had found him in a good vein, and his staff are still chuckling over some letters which they had copied this morning. Let three be selected, with a judicious blending of love and war, and let preference be given to the first. The General was, in the strongest and most benevolent sense, a father to his officers; there was no one in whose affairs he was not ready to take an interest; and his sympathy with all under his command is visible in every line of his correspondence. As the student sits among his letter-books, in the Dryasdust Record Offices looking out on the muddy Thames, there are times when, out of the yellow pages and faded writing, there seems to shape itself a figure, which, even at this distance of time, has such a loveable reality about it, that he seems to have known it as a dear friend. In return for the interest the General felt in and showed for his officers, he asked but one thing—their confidence; and the extent of his private correspondence shows that he did not ask in vain. But there had been an exception,—unconscious, perhaps, but not unnoticed. A giddy subaltern had fallen in love. The General hardly expected to be told of this. In those days, as now, it might be predicated of subalterns that "'tis their nature to!" But this youth resolved to marry, and did not tell his resolution. He was away in Florida; there were no regular posts; perhaps the General might not approve of it; and, besides, those sweet hours of bliss were too dear to be interrupted by extraneous correspondence. So he was married. At first all was happiness. Love was still in every room of the cottage; and the General, like everything else, was forgotten. But there came a day when, in that little cottage, there were "Rooms to let," for Love had taken umbrage at a threadbare ruffian, called Poverty, who had taken up his abode. So, like the Prodigal Son in the Parable, the mournful subaltern remembered his General, and, writing a doleful letter as to the expenses of the married state, suggested a happy arrangement by which his income might be improved. To which the General had overnight penned the following reply. The reader will bear in mind that the General, like St. Peter, was himself also a married man. "DEAR SIR,