In a dilapidated farm-house I found my future companions in arms seated at a comfortable dinner, although a stranger looking mess room was never occupied by gentlemen of the sword. It had been the grand apartment of the dwelling of a farm proprietor; the house was generally in ruins, but this wing had been judiciously selected for the _symposia_ of the gallant Twentieth, inasmuch as the roof was nearly weather-fast. The table was a collection of old doors placed upon temporary supporters; and as every member of the body politic furnished his own conveniency of sitting at “the board,” the especial method of accommodation depended on the ability or fancy of the individual. Some, in superior luxury, had deposited their persons on a camp-stool, while others were contented with a block of wood, a basket, or a broken arm chest. The table appointments were not unique, for every person found his own; and nothing was held in common property save the viands and the wine. But a lighter-hearted community than the gallant Twentieth could not have been discovered. The hardships of the retreat to the Huebra were still in vivid recollection; and now, anticipating similar privations, but attended by more glorious results, the present was their only care; and over the head of the master of the revels the apposite motto “_Carpe diem!_” had been inscribed with a burnt cork. Heralded by my loving countryman, I was introduced in terms of commendation that brought the colour to my cheek. I received, consequently, a warm and soldierly reception; and before I retired to a shake-down offered me for the night in the tent of the junior major, I called every man by an abbreviated name--or, at least, as many of the batch as a memory, slightly obfuscated, could manage to remember. “Upon my sowl!” observed a short and snub-nosed captain, with an accent redolent of “the far west,” “that’s dacent wine; and the divil that brings it should be encouraged.--Here’s your health, O’Halloran; and in return you’ll call me Philbin, if you plase;--and now that the owld colonel’s gone, may I live to see you senior captain of the regiment, and then I know who’ll command it,--and that’s myself.” To this delicate and disinterested compliment, I replied in suitable terms. “And what the devil keeps Peter Crotty?” inquired a second.