I am dying!’—but his feelings might, with truth, have been portrayed thus:—‘I perish in the noon of my fame; I have bought honour and distinction with my blood, but when they are within my grasp, death, with his cold hand, intercepts them, and cuts me off from the world for ever. “O Glory! thou art an unreal good.”’ Mingled with these reflections came, no doubt, thoughts of kindred and friends, whose face he was doomed never to behold; but the scene soon closed, and all that remained of the young and gifted Lloyd, was the inanimate mould which had enshrined a soul as generous and brave ‘as e’er burst its mortal control.’ My praise of Colonel Lloyd may appear, to some, hyperbolical; but I have no end to serve—he is himself gone, and his relations, if he have any living, I know nothing about. In giving vent to my feelings in portraying his character, I am sensible I only give a faithful transcript of those of my comrades who then composed the corps, and whose devotion to his memory proves how susceptible soldiers are of feelings of love and gratitude to those who treat them as they ought to be treated—with kindness. Furloughs were now granting to a certain number of men to go home to see their friends. Dennis, on the faith of some former promise, got one, but I was not so fortunate. He was quite delighted at the idea of going to see his mother and relations, and the evening previous to his intended departure he was very busy packing up his things. ‘Now,’ said he, when he had finished, ‘I will start very early to-morrow morning, and I think I will be able to manage the journey in four days.’ ‘Here’s some one asking for Dennis,’ said a comrade. An old woman, habited in a gray cloak, with a handkerchief on her head tied under her chin, entered the room, and looked round inquiringly at each face, until she found the one which was too deeply imprinted on her memory ever to forget. Then, springing forward, she caught Dennis in her arms, and almost smothered him with kisses. ‘Och, my poor child!’ said she, ‘do I live to see you once more? Jewel and darling! but this is a blessed day for your poor mother.’ Dennis was perfectly bewildered—so much taken by surprise that he could not utter a word for some minutes; at length he said— ‘In the name of God, mother, what brought you here?’ ‘Indeed, I just came to see yourself astore; and wasn’t that reason good enough? and I would have come for that same, if it had been twice as far, although I walked every foot of the road.’ ‘Well, well,’ said Dennis, ‘that beats Banacher and Balinasloe! Haven’t I my knapsack packed to set off home to-morrow? and here you have made all this journey for nothing, dragging the old limbs of ye.’ ‘What matter, child? can’t we go home together? we’ll be company on the road.’