This sudden change of countenance in the happy homely groups, who only a few minutes before were as grave as grave--in fact, morally and properly grave, exchanging peaceably word for word while upon deck, cannot be attributed to the walk down, nor to the temperature of the room, or even the charming architectural paintings upon glass which adorned the chief cabin of the _Robert Lowe_, nor the laying out of the table, “which was perfect.” No, not at all. It was the dinner--yes, the dinner!--which made me heartily second the opinion of my illustrious compatriot, Brillat Savarin, when he justly remarks in one of his immortal aphorisms, that if there is one hour spent more pleasantly than another in the course of the day, that one is the first hour at the dinner table. Though he intends his remark for epicures, it can easily be applied to all classes of society, according to the difference of time each man can afford from his occupations or peculiar habits. But out of this reunion of hilarity I will here give an anecdote which will probably amuse, if not interest, the reader. P. M. AND THE LOOKING-GLASS. On the eve of my departure from Scutari I fell in with a travelling gentleman named Peter Morrison, a personage of no small importance in his own estimation, who was very desirous of accompanying me through my Crimean campaign, and of making himself useful to me should his services be required. Remuneration was to him a secondary consideration. According to himself, “moving accidents by flood and field, and peril in the imminent deadly breach,” excited his martial ardour, and these had no terrors for him--while he was far removed from their sphere of action. He afterwards gave us to understand that he was courting a wealthy lady, who, being decidedly of opinion that None but the brave deserve the fair, had declared that none should wed her who had not both “fought and bled for his country.” P. M., as I shall designate this redoubtable hero, needed some such stimulus to risk his life in his country’s cause, as the sequel will show; for he preferred, with due regard to his complexion, albeit none of the fairest, the shelter of the _bays_ used in my kitchen, to any laurels he might reap on the field of Mars, as, when in front of the enemy, his courage, like that of Bob Acres, “oozed out at his fingers’ ends.” But to our anecdote. During a gale a few weeks before we went on board, a looking-glass had been broken in the cabin, the steward, as the ship made a heavy lurch, having sent his head through it while carrying a dish to the table. Probably the glass was not set flat in the frame, as his head had made a perfect star of a hundred jets. The circular hole looked just as if a shot had passed through it. Three small boards were fixed across to keep it together. Whilst at dinner, P. M., who was sitting next me, inquired how the glass had been broken.