And it _was_ Mrs. Jenkins of the 48th. She, poor soul! was the victim of early impressions. She was cradled in romance, and nursed in air-built castles; she read of Ossian, and she became his adopted daughter; she read of Sir Walter, and she became his adopted niece; she was Lady Morgan's “sylph-like form,” and her voice was one of Tom Moore's “Irish Melodies;” she could delight the eyes of the rude with tambour-work and velvet-painting; she could ravish their ears with a tune on the piano; she could finish a landscape in Indian ink, and play the “Battle of Prague” without a stop. The admiration of her doating parents, the envy of her female acquaintances, angelic, charming Charlotte Clarke (now Mrs. Jenkins of the 48th) was all you could desire. Charlotte was bred at Portarlington boarding-school; there did she form her mind—there did she learn that she had “a soul above buttons,” and that love and glory were the “_be all and the end all_” of existence. Trade! fie,—contaminate not the ethereal soul—dim not the halo that surrounds such excellence, by the approach of such coarse and vulgar matter! Charlotte despised it, even as her father loved it and gave to it all his days. Dublin is a martial city; the view of the royal barracks is a royal sight. There did she love to go and gaze, and listen to the band, until the tears stole down her lovely cheeks. She would then walk home, and weep, and sleep, and dream of epaulettes both gold and silver, of scarlet coats, of feathers and long swords. Her days (until after tea-time) were passed in reading Newman's novels, and practising the “_run_” of Braham. “HE _was famed for deeds of arms_; SHE _a maid of envied charms_.” “_Young Henry was as brave a youth._” “_Hark where martial music sounding far._” These were her songs; she practised them in the morning with her hair in papers, and she sung them after supper, (whenever she was at a “_party_”) with her interesting curls upon her forehead, shading her blushes and the soft light of her languid eyes. She loved the Rotunda-gardens in the summer evenings, and she gloried in the ball, when winter hung upon the night; for both in gardens of Rotunda, and in light of ball-room, the red coats ever in her hopes, cut a figure in her eye, and a deeper in her heart. She went to the Dargle and the Waterfall, to _Pool Avoca_,[7] and Killyny (when ever she was invited), and among the Summer Sunday beauties of the scene, full well she did enact her part. Her life was one bright dream, beaming with sun-bright smiles and brighter tears. Her heart was tender, and her will was strong. Need it be said, that such a maid fell deeply in love? Alas! she did. The gentle Charlotte loved;—ah! deeply loved—but who she could not tell! It was a form and yet it was not matter, (no matter, indeed, whether it was or not); it was a hero, all epaulettes and scarlet, white feathers, and still whiter pantaloons, set out with sword and belt and sash and gorget; a hero at all points,