The door was opened, and in a few moments an aged man appeared at the threshold, exclaiming “Soldiers, I am glad to see you--blessings upon you! It is a cold and a bleak night: I have yet four miles to go: will you give me a seat at your fire? I am a man of threescore and twelve years of age, and before now my shoulder has borne a brown bess in the service.” “Come in, come in, my old fellow!” was the answer from every man of the guard. The stranger’s venerable appearance was a _carte blanche_: he was not only admitted to the guard-house, but the old oak chair was resigned to him by honest Sergeant Dobson--no small compliment, considering the comfort and importance which it always afforded to the Sergeant of the Guard. The old man who was thus simultaneously honoured, was that sort of personage which a romantic poet would think his fortune made in getting a sight of; and in describing him would immortalize himself,--provided he were a true poet: the white beard would demand a dozen stanzas:--the Ossianic vapour of the morn curling in the breeze--the snow upon the skirts of a towering mountain--the surf whitening the base of the cloud-capped sea-rock--these, and a thousand other comparisons, would be called in to paint it. The bald and expanded forehead would be likened to the most polished work of ivory-turners; the eye add a new star to the heavens; and the figure of the man be handed down to sculptors as a model for the venerable grandeur of humanity! Now, as I am writing plain prose, I will say without metaphor, that he was a tall man of seventy-two years of age, with a long and silky white beard; a good-natured countenance, and as sound and healthy to all appearances as Corporal O’Callaghan; who, in point of age, might have been almost his grandson, and who took up his position beside him at the fire, the moment the old man sat down. “What the divil makes you wear your beard?” said the Corporal; “couldn’t you borrow a razor anywhere once a week?” “I have worn my beard,” replied the stranger, “for these many, many years. It is an old friend, and tells me a history. It was never cut since the mutiny of the Nore.” “What! are you a sailor?” demanded the Sergeant. “No, young man, I belonged to the Royal Marines.”