“And as to difference—I'd be glad to know where that lay on the bullock-cars which carried down the wounded men from Busaco, after the bit o' business we had there. _You_ were amongst 'em, O'Callaghan, as well as me. _There_ was a pretty mess of English, Scotch, and Irish broken legs; _there_ was your national blood dropping from the cars—and it appeared all of the same colour. The cursed rough roads and broken wheels didn't spare _me_ more than _you_, Corporal; and the canteen that wet the Scotch and Irish lips, and kept life in them, was not ungrateful to the Englishman's at the point of death. We had no difference then, either on country or religion; every jolt of the wheels made us feel that we all suffered alike for our King and for our Country—Great Britain. I wish some of our talkative argufiers in London had got a glimpse of us all there, they wouldn't be inclined to make much _differ_ between the men, who, after all, must bear the brunt of their quarrels.” “Raight, Andrews, raight,” warmly cried the Sergeant. “The deil crack my croon, but ye speak like a mon; the pooliticians wha endeevour to mak diveesion amongst the three nations, are na friends to the King nor their ain country neither.” “Oh! the divel a doubt o' that,” said the Corporal. “And to talk about stupid recruits,” continued Jack Andrews. “You should see the yokels we picked up at Winchester fair last year. They were just as easy to be gulled—if not easier—than any Pat I ever caught. I'll just tell you how we worked the oracle there. The party was ordered out on the first day of the fair: it consisted of the Depot Sergeant-major, Sergeant Brown of ours, a Sergeant of the 76th, a couple of Corporals, and half a dozen privates, with a fifer as tall as a lamp-post, and a drummer not bigger than the drum he carried. I and a fellow of the name of Peters were supplied with coloured clothes, and smock frocks, so as to appear like country gawkies. All the officers of the Depot went disguised as coachmen, grooms, fancy covies, &c., so as not to be known by the townspeople. However, _they_ only went for a lark: _we_ went a fishing for gudgeons. The party mustered at nine o'clock, and marched out of the barracks with streaming cockades, to the tune of ‘The Downfall of Paris.’ The fat Sergeant-major took a position ten yards in front, and the party occupying at least a hundred yards in length. Peters and I mixed with the crowd, and followed with our mouths open, like the rest of the folk: _down_ the _high_ street—_round_ the _square_—the long fifer puffing his lungs out, and the pigmy drummer bumping his knees against his parchment box of wind: the Sergeant-major with the hilt of his sword in a parallel line with his bow-window belly, and keeping time to a nicety, while the motley group behind—some of the guards—some of the line—some of the rifles—all sorts of facings—marching as proudly as if they were triumphantly entering Madrid. When the party got to the fair, Peters