"Unlimber!" thundered the chief; and, aided by his man, obeyed his own orders. "Load!" and "Fire!" followed in rapid succession. I saw and smelt that they used real powder. This over, the horses were made fast again, John, bestrode his nag, the General clambered on to his brazen seat and down they came at a tearing pace directly towards us. Luckily I had read "Charles O'Malley," and knew how to behave in such cases. I jumped from the wagon, and, tying my handkerchief to the ferule of my umbrella, advanced, waving it and shouting, "A flag of truce!" The General ordered a halt and despatched himself to the flag. As he approached I beheld a stout, middle-aged, good natured looking man, dressed in the graceless costume of Uncle Sam's army; but I must say that he wore it with more grace than most of the Regulars I have seen. Our soldiers look unbecomingly in their clothes,--there is no denying it,--a good deal like _sups_ in a procession at the Bowery. A New-York policeman sports pretty much the same dress in much better style. You hardly ever see an officer or private, least of all the officer, with the _air militaire_. I also noticed with pleasure that the General had not on his head that melodramatic black felt, feather-bedecked hat, which some fantastic Secretary of War must have imagined in a dream, after seeing "Fra Diavolo" at the opera, or Wallack in Massaroni. In place of this abomination, a cap covered with glazed leather surmounted his martial brow. When we met, I lowered my umbrella and offered my card, with the office pasteboard. He took them with great gravity, read the names, and requested me to fall back to the rear and await orders. Then rejoining his gun, he was driven slowly towards the house,--my peaceful _ambulance_ following at a respectful distance. When I reached the door, the six-pounder had disappeared behind a clump of evergreens, and the General stood waiting to receive me. His manner was affable. "How d'ye do, Mr. Shyster? Glad to see you, Sir. Walk into the library, Sir." I complied, and while the General was absent, engaged in carrying out some hospitable suggestions for my refreshment, I examined the room. It was large, and handsomely furnished. I looked into the bookcases: the shelves were filled with works on War, from Cæsar's Commentaries down to Louis Napoleon on Rifled Cannon. In one corner stood a suit of armor; in another a stand of firearms; between them a star of bayonets. On the mantelpiece I perceived a model of a small field-piece in brass and oak, and, what interested me more, a cigarbox. I raised the lid; the box was half full of highly creditable-looking cigars. My soul expanded with the thought of a probable offer of at least one. "None of your Flor de Connecticuts," I thought, "from the Vuelta Abajo of New-Windsor, but the genuine Simon Puros."