What a pleasant reminiscence is that of Irish quarters in old times! Everyone was kind and hospitable to the officers of the Army, from the squire in his ancient castle, to the squireen in his more modest house, the property of the latter being often so limited in extent that you could sit on the lodge gate and kick the front door open. We were welcome even to the dwellers in cottages, who, when I entered their lowly cabins, would shout, ‘Come in, captin; ye’re welcome, sorr;’ and, if I did stumble over something in the dark, what did it matter when I was re-assured by the voice of my host saying, ‘Niver mind, yer honor, it’s only a schlip of a pig?’ and truly the repeated grunt, grunt, which followed showed that I had disturbed somewhat unceremoniously the slumbers of that valuable animal, which was fed on the _lavings_, and, when fattened up, ‘sowld to pay the rint.’ Then the ‘quality’ were always glad to welcome a young, merry officer, and in the evening one of the ‘boys,’ who could ‘play the fiddle first-rate,’ was called in to show his talent, and dance after dance made the night seem too short. What a pleasant time to look back to! Poor old Ireland, with its fearful murders of men and women, and slaying of hounds and cattle, is wofully changed, and I fear the officers of regiments quartered there now do not receive such kindness as I did from high and low. I suppose there was something in the air in those days that made us all so light-hearted, for not a day passed that there was not some fun, and most of the venturesome acts in which we indulged were done for the pure love of sport. One evening, at Birr, a match, a sort of steeple-chase, was made between two of my brother officers. The night was pitch-dark, and they were to be mounted on their own horses, and to be led into a field about half a mile from the barracks. They were to get over the wall as well as they could, and the first of them who arrived mounted at the mess-room door was to be the winner. They got on their nags and were taken off to the starting-post, where they were invisible to us. We could only hear the word ‘Off!’ given by the starter. The difficulty was to get over the wall in the dark. One of the riders had a servant, a private in the Rangers, who, of course, was delighted with the sport. We were astounded to hear the voice of this man exclaiming, ‘Ride at me, Mr. John, ride at me, sorr!’ and all of a sudden a flash burst forth for a moment, and ‘Mr. John’ made for the light, got over the fence, and rode in triumphant as winner. Pat Casey, his servant, having made a ‘slap in the wall,’ had then cleverly lit a whole box of lucifers at the place, and thereby enabled his master to get out of the field and come in conqueror. CHAPTER II. IN THE WEST INDIES.