young Thurlow of the R.A., under the pretence of giving him a lesson in
the noble art of self-defence, but in reality to revenge himself upon him
for an ill-timed interference in a certain _affaire du coeur_. The agony
of young Thurlow, pretending to look pleased, was depicted by a very
successful stroke of Art. To the extreme right you might have beheld
Vegetable Warren, the staff-surgeon, slightly exaggerated in the semblance
of a South-Down wether nibbling at a gigantic Swedish turnip. Written
lampoons of the fiercest character accompanied the illustrations. But my
boldest effort was an atrocious and libellous cartoon of the commandant of
the garrison, popularly known as "Old Wabbles,"--I believe from the
preternatural manner in which his wide Esquimaux boots vacillated about
his long, lean shanks. This _chef d'oeuvre_ was executed upon a rather
large scale, and I imparted considerable force and breadth to the design
by "coaling in" the shadows with a charred stick. Then calling color to my
aid, as far as my limited means admitted, I scraped from the edges of the
moose-hide a portion of the red-streaked fat, and, having impasted
therewith the bacchanalian nose of my subject, I stepped back a few paces
to contemplate the effect. So ludicrous was the resemblance, that I
laughed outright in the pride of my success,--a transient hilarity, nipped
suddenly in the bud by the loud boom of a cannon, accompanied rather than
followed by a rushing sound a few feet above my head, and a thundering
bump and splutter upon the ice some thirty or forty yards beyond me, as
the heavy shot skipped and ricochetted away with receding bounds to its
vanishing-point somewhere in the neighborhood of the Island of Orleans.
Two strides to the front, and a glance at the broad, black ring emblazoned
on the hitherto disregarded face of my bulwark, and the truth flashed upon
my staggering senses.

I was encamped in the lee of the bran-new artillery target, and they were
just commencing practice, on this fine bright afternoon, by pitching