beam of pleasure sparkled in the Captain's eye, and he at once adopted the faithful groom and valet's advice. He then wrote to Sir John Methuen Poore, the Lieutenant, and honestly told him that, as he was not concerned in Dyke's keeping up the price of his wheat, he should not attend at Salisbury, as he was going to Boreham, where he had particular business. Boreham was near Warminster, not more than 20 miles from Salisbury, and Everly was 16 miles. However, it was soon buzzed about that the Captain was from home, and that he _was gone to Boreham_--which was ever afterwards a _byeword_ amongst the members of the troop when any one had sneaked out of performing his duty; the exclamation then was, "he's gone to Boreham!" Sir John Poore took the hint, and wrote to his friend Cornet Dyke, to say that he had particular business that required his presence in London, where he was going the next day. This desertion in the hour of danger, of our Captain and our Lieutenant, flew like lightning through the district, and I shall never forget my father when he related the latter circumstance to me; he could not get it out for the life of him for laughing. "However," said he, "you have got the Cornet left, and he is a _prudent man_, and I'll warrant you there is no harm will come to any of you." At length the awful morning arrived, and by this time I really had imbibed a great deal of my father's notion of the thing, and began to think that it would, after all, turn out very little better than a hoax, or something for the public to laugh at. I own I did not like the object of the expedition much; neither did I relish the idea of going to draw my sword upon a defenceless, unarmed multitude; but my father turned it all into ridicule--he said we were only old-woman frighteners, and he quoted first some farwell lines of Pope's Homer, addressed by Hector to Andromache, before he went out to meet Achilles; then he quoted Hudibras, and then he would give a few lines of the character of Falstaff, the then again of Bobadil. The fatal day was, however, come, and I mounted in good time to proceed to the rendezvous at our Cornet's house at Syrencot.[12] As I rode along with some of my comrades, I could not avoid cracking a few jokes about the nature of our expedition, and the unsoldier-like service on which we were about to be employed. I shall never forget the serious or rather gloomy appearance of my neighbour and friend, honest John Coward, of Longstreet; his naturally long dark visage was extended to a more than usual length, and the tender pathetic way in which he took leave of Jenny at the door, as he mounted his charger, was a genuine specimen of the mock heroic. At length he entreated me not to make fun of such a momentous and solemn undertaking; then fetching a deep sigh, he said he prayed to God that it might all end well, and that no lives might be lost. In this mood we arrived in front of Mr. Cornet Dyke's house, where we found the horses