_Col. Diamond_—(_reads_). “_Lady-a-um-compliments to the Officers of the Nonpareil Hussars._” Why, what's all this? The _Officers_ of the Nonpareil Hussars! I'll not go. _All the Mess._ Why not, Colonel? Why not? _Col._ I'm not invited. _All the Mess._ Not invited! _Col. Diamond._ No, I'm not invited, and of course will not go. “_Officers_,” indeed! the card should run thus—“_To_ COLONEL DIAMOND, _and the Officers of the &c._” Really it is a breach of etiquette that I cannot submit to. _Major Flowers._ 'Pon my honour, Colonel, I do not think there can be any offence meant: pray let me entreat you to come. _Col. Diamond._ No, Major, I feel—a—the—a—in short, it should have been to “the _Colonel_ and the Officers.” Don't you think so? _Major._ Perhaps it would have been more particular; but I do not think it is of so much consequence, as to make you forego the delightful society of Lady Fanny; for her ladyship will be there to a certainty. [_Colonel hums a tune._] Do pray come, Colonel. _All the Mess._ Yes, you must come, Colonel—come—come—come—Colonel! Do Colonel—do come! [_All stand up, except the Colonel._] _Col. Diamond._ Well, as you all so _particularly_ request it, I—a—will go; but, 'pon my honour! I am determined to notice the neglect in a proper manner to Lady Mary. _All the Mess._ Bravo! Colonel! Bravo! _Capt. Golding._ Pass the Madeira this way, Major; but first help yourself. [_Each now takes a glass of Madeira—a Babel call for the servants immediately follows—“Tom! John! Jack! James!” and exeunt omnes, whistling and staggering._] A DAUGHTER OF OSSIAN. “Il y a encore une autre espèce de larmes qui n'ont que de petites sources, qui coulent et se tarissent facilement: on pleure pour avoir la réputation d'être tendre; on pleure pour être plaint; on pleure pour être pleuré; enfin, on pleure pour éviter la honte de ne pleurer pas.”—_De la Rochefoucauld._ Who treads upon the field of death? Who sighs upon the winds of the night, like the mourning ghost of the warrior, mingling its melancholy tones with the shrieks of the passing owl, that lonely flaps his pinions in the moonlight? Who walks amongst the slain? See, where the figure glides with heedless step, its white robe streaming like a mist of morning when the sun first glances on the mountain; now gazing on the pale moon, now turning to the paler faces of the dead. Who walks upon the bed of sleeping carnage? Who wakes the frighted night from her horrid trance, and thus tempts her terrors? Is it the restless spirit of a departed hero, or the ghost of the love-lorn maid? Is it light, or is it air? Ah no! it is not light, it is not air; it is not the ghost of the love-lorn maid; it is not the spirit of the departed hero. No, no, no, no!—'tis Mrs. Jenkins of the 48th!!!