Dennis and I were now left to ourselves, to act as we pleased, and the ‘knowing boys’ looked out for newer hands to fleece, some of them descending to very mean stratagems to get drink. I remember being in town with Dennis one evening, and having gone into a public-house to get a glass before we went home, one of those disgraceful animals came into the room where we were sitting, and after telling some rigmarole story, without being asked to drink, he lifted the glass from before us, and having said, ‘Here’s your health,’ swallowed its contents. I was confounded at his impudence, and sat staring at him; but Dennis was up in an instant, and knocked him down, and, as he said himself, ‘kicked him for falling.’ The fellow never made any resistance, but gathered himself up, and crawled out of the room. When he was gone,—‘By my faith!’ said Dennis, ‘I think I gave the rascal the worth of his money—that is the only cure for a “spunge.”’ ‘I wonder they have no shame,’ said I. ‘Shame!’ rejoined Dennis, ‘shame and they might be married, for any relationship between them!’ In a short time I began to recover my spirits, and when I had any spare time, I had recourse to my old favourites, which I obtained from a circulating library in the town. It is true I could not now dream so delectably of the life of a shepherd or a sailor; but I had the field of honour before me. To fight in defence of one’s country, thought I—to follow the example of a Bruce or a Wallace—must be a glorious thing. Military fame seemed the only object worth living for. I already anticipated my acts of valour, charging the enemy, driving all before me, and coming back loaded with honour and a stand of French colours; receiving the praise of my commanding officer, and a commission. On I went in my career of arms, and it was impossible to stop short of being a general. In these day-dreams of promotion and honour, I did not look particularly to the situation I was then in; or even very attentively at the intermediate ground I had to go over; but these were trifles in my estimation at that time. I must confess, however, that a damp was often thrown over these fine speculations by some harsh words from the drill sergeant, or some overbearing conduct of my superiors. Or when I saw a poor fellow taken out, and receiving a flogging for being ten minutes late from tattoo, I could not help thinking the road to preferment rather rough. Be that as it may, I believe I had by this time caught a portion of military enthusiasm; and ‘death or glory’ seemed very fine words, and often, when walking alone, have I ranted over the words which Goldsmith puts into the mouth of the Vicar of Wakefield, when his son leaves him to go into the army,—‘Go, my boy, and if you fall, though distant, exposed, and unwept by those who love you, the most precious tears are those with which heaven bedews the unburied head of the soldier.’