which I pronounced "pootle", excited the enthusiasm of the audience.
I was then sent to bed with a bit of plum-cake, and was doubtless
awakened early next morning by the irritation of the dried crumbs of
the previous night's feast.

I am reminded, by reading over a letter of my brother Patrick's, of an
awkward circumstance that happened to me when I was six years old.
In his letter to my father, dated London, 22d September 1814, he says:
"I did get a surprise when Margaret's letter informed me of my little
brother Jamie's fall. It was a wonderful escape. For God's sake keep
an eye upon him!" Like other strong and healthy boys, I had a turn for
amusing myself in my own way. When sliding down the railing of the
stairs I lost my grip and fell suddenly over. The steps were of stone.
Fortunately, the servants were just coming up laden with carpets which
they had been beating. I fell into their midst and knocked them out of
their hands. I was thus saved from cracking my poor little skull.
But for that there might have been no steam hammer--at least of my
contrivance!

Everything connected with war and warlike exploits is interesting to a
boy. The war with France was then in full progress. Troops and bands
paraded the streets. Recruits were sent away as fast as they could be
drilled. The whole air was filled with war. Everybody was full of
excitement about the progress of events in Spain. When the great guns
boomed forth from the Castle, the people were first startled.
Then they were surprised and anxious. There had been a battle and a
victory! "Who had fallen?" was the first thought in many minds.
Where had the battle been, and what was the victory? Business was
suspended. People rushed about the streets to ascertain the facts.
It might have been at Salamanca, Talavera, or Vittoria. But a long