Sir Brook Fossbrooke, Volume I.

My dear Rose,—You have often stopped me when endeavouring to express all the gratitude I felt towards you. You cannot do so now, nor prevent my telling aloud how much I owe-how much I esteem you. These volumes were not without interest for me as I wrote them, but they yielded me no such pleasure as I now feel in dedicating them to you; and, with this assurance, believe me,
Your affectionate Friend,
CHARLES LEVER.
Spezia, October 20. 1866.
The mess was over, and the officers of H. M.'s —th were grouped in little knots and parties, sipping their coffee, and discussing the arrangements for the evening. Their quarter was that pleasant city of Dublin, which, bating certain exorbitant demands in the matter of field-day and guard-mounting, stands pre-eminently first in military favor.
“Are you going to that great ball in Merrion Square?” asked one., “Not so lucky; not invited.”
“I got a card,” cried a third; “but I 've just heard it's not to come off. It seems that the lady's husband is a judge. He's Chief something or other; and he has been called away.”
“Nothing of the kind, Tomkins; unless you call a summons to the next world being called away. The man is dangerously ill. He was seized with paralysis on the Bench yesterday, and, they say, can't recover.”
There now ensued an animated conversation as to whether, on death vacancies, the men went up by seniority at the bar, or whether a subaltern could at once spring up to the top of the regiment.
“Suppose,” said one, “we were to ask the Colonel's guest his opinion. The old cove has talked pretty nigh of everything in this world during dinner; what if we were to ask him about Barons of the Exchequer?”
“Who is he? what is he?” asked another.
“The Colonel called him Sir Brook Fossbrooke; that's all I know.”