whose name, nevertheless, was not to be found in the army list: in short the being was a lovely paradox—a thing and yet a nothing, she saw it in her dreams, as well as in her wakeful hours; it never left her side waking or asleep; _there_ was the form of her darling lover, like Moore's “Knight of Killarney,” O'Donohue and his white horse on a May-day morning, “That youth who beneath the blue lake lies · · · · · · While white as the sails some bark unfurls, When newly launch'd thy long mane curls, Fair steed, fair steed, as white and free,” dancing and prancing on the winds; there he was in a splendid uniform, (some say with _buff_ facings, some say green,) and she woo'd it, and she woo'd it, till her cheek grew pale, and her eye lost half its brightness. Every officer she met on the Mall was likened to her lover in her “mind's eye;” but they were not her lovers. Captains Thompson, Jones, and Pentilton; Lieutenants Jacobs, Raulins, and Flagherty; Ensigns Gibbs, Mullins, and Mortimer; all resembled the object of her love, but she refused to acknowledge their identity with it. At length young Jenkins, an Ensign of Militia, realized the aerial form she so long had loved. Yes, he did actually embody it; and at the holy altar, even in spite of crusty fathers “Who make a jest of sweet affection,” the amiable and adorable Charlotte Clarke became the gentle Mrs. Jenkins. “War's clarion blew!” Napoleon and Wellington struggled like two giants for ascendancy. Ensign Jenkins volunteered into the line, and proceeded to the fields of Lusitania. Could Charlotte stay behind? No! the briny waters soon bore her, with her husband and seven other officers (all members of the mess), to Portugal. Ensign Jenkins was ordered to the front. Could Mrs. Jenkins stay behind? No! she braved the fatigues of the march and the horrors of the battle, like a true heroine: she loved the 48th, and she would go along with it, through thick and thin. The parching sun, the drenching storm, the unmoistened biscuit, and the chill damp bivouac alike she would endure.—“_Love and Glory_” carried her through all. It was a sight worth all the jewels of romance to see—a thought worth all heaven to contemplate—the sight of Mrs. Charlotte Jenkins, like a “ministering angel,” standing amidst the terrors of the field! The battle raged; the slain were many; the regiment covered themselves with glory—but poor Jenkins fell! The moon arose upon the field of battle, and shone upon the dead—the fight was over. Could Mrs. Jenkins rest without her husband? Oh, no! Forth she hied to search out the body of her Jenkins, dead as he was, at the dead hour of night. She gazed at the moon—she gazed upon the slain—and she thought upon the days of her teens, of Newman's novels, and Portarlington.