Next is a prose sketch: 

THE FURLOUGH.—­AN IRISH ANECDOTE.

“In the autumn of 1825, some private affairs called me into the sister kingdom; and as I did not travel, like Polyphemus, with my eye out, I gathered a few samples of Irish character, amongst which was the following incident:—­

“I was standing one morning at the window of ‘mine Inn,’ when my attention was attracted by a scene that took place beneath.  The Belfast coach was standing at the door, and on the roof, in front, sat a solitary outside passenger, a fine young fellow, in the uniform of the Connaught Rangers.  Below, by the front wheel, stood an old woman, seemingly his mother, a young man, and a younger woman, sister or sweetheart; and they were all earnestly entreating the young soldier to descend from his seat on the coach.

“’Come down wid ye, Thady’—­the speaker was the old woman—­’come down now to your ould mother; sure it’s flog ye they will, and strip the flesh off the bones I giv ye.  Come down, Thady, darlin!’

“‘It’s honour, mother,’ was the short reply of the soldier; and with clenched hands and set teeth, he took a stiffer posture on the coach.

“’Thady, come down—­come down, ye fool of the world—­come along down wid ye!’ The tone of the present appeal was more impatient and peremptory than the last; and the answer was more promptly and sternly pronounced:  ‘It’s honour, brother!’ and the body of the speaker rose more rigidly erect than ever on the roof.

“’O Thady, come down! sure it’s me, your own Kathleen, that bids ye!  Come down, or ye’ll break the heart of me, Thady, jewel; come down then!’ The poor girl wrung her hands as she said it, and cast a look upward that had a visible effect on the muscles of the soldier’s countenance.  There was more tenderness in his tone, but it conveyed the same resolution as before.

“‘It’s honour, honour bright, Kathleen!’ and, as if to defend himself from another glance, he fixed his look steadfastly in front, while the renewed entreaties burst from all three in chorus, with the same answer.

“’Come down, Thady, honey!—­Thady, ye fool, come down!—­O Thady, come down to me!’

“’It’s honour, mother!—­It’s honour, brother!—­Honour bright, my own Kathleen!’

“Although the poor fellow was a private, this appeal was so public, that I did not hesitate to go down and inquire into the particulars of the distress.  It appeared that he had been home, on furlough, to visit his family,—­and having exceeded, as he thought, the term of his leave, he was going to rejoin his regiment, and to undergo the penalty of his neglect.  I asked him when the furlough expired?

“’The first of March, your honour—­bad luck to it of all the black days in the world—­and here it is, come sudden on me, like a shot!’

“’The first of March!—­why, my good fellow, you have a day to spare then—­the first of March will not be here till to-morrow.  It is Leap Year, and February has twenty-nine days.’