should get over the day, when my sister said
to Joe, "Clean plates—cold."

I clutched the leg of the table again immediately,
and pressed it to my bosom as if it had
been the companion of my youth and friend of
my soul. I foresaw what was coming, and I
felt that this time I really was gone.

"You must taste," said my sister, addressing
the guests with her best grace, "you must
taste, to finish with, such a delightful and delicious
present of Uncle Pumblechook's!"

Must they! Let them not hope to taste it!

"You must know," said my sister, rising,
"it's a pie; a savoury pork pie."

The company murmured their compliments.
Uncle Pumblechook, sensible of having deserved
well of his fellow-creatures, said—quite
vivaciously, all things considered—"Well, Mrs.
Joe, we'll do our best endeavours; let us have a
cut at this same pie."

My sister went out to get it. I heard her
steps proceed to the pantry. I saw Mr. Pumblechook
balance his knife. I saw reawakening
appetite in the Roman nostrils of Mr. Wopsle.
I heard Mr. Hubble remark that " a bit of savoury
pork pie would lay atop of anything you
could mention, and do no harm," and I heard
Joe say, "You shall have some, Pip." I
have never been absolutely certain whether
I uttered a shrill yell of terror, merely in
spirit, or in the bodily healing of the company.
I felt that I could bear no more, and
that I must run away. I released the leg of the
table, and ran for my life.

But, I ran no further than the house door, for
there I ran head foremost into a party of soldiers
with their muskets: one of whom held out a pair
of handcuffs to me, saying: " Here you are, look
sharp, come on!"

WAITING FOR CAPUA.

THIRTY-FOUR days, and little Capua is still
coquetting with her persevering, if not too pressing,
suitors; now affecting to sleep, but ever
keeping open one bright vigilant eye; now closing
her lips for days, only to startle the echoes of
the Campagna Felice with accents that would
outscold Xantippe; keeping us the besiegers (to
be plain) in a state of excitement and watchfulness
that goes near to render the siege, which
has hitherto been a pleasure, a scarcely mitigated
bore. What does the little vixen mean?
Well she knows that her intrepid lover, Giuseppe
of the victorious band, is, indeed, the soldier
of humanity, and that, though one hour's wooing
with his mortars might bring her to his feet,
she is safe from that stern summons.

Waiting for something to fall, that must fall,
whether it be tree, or city, or considerable
landed estate, has the invariable effect of clogging
the wheel of time; it accordingly seems
about two years since Capua, one fine October
morning, adventured a sortie, and threw Naples
herself into a flutter: when Giuseppe Garibaldi
appeared, and, with his own hand, flung her
back, clipping her tail feathers as she flew.

Since that memorable epoch, we have been
gradually fortifying against such another little
alarm, which caused a most wanton sacrifice of
tricolored flags and nascent opinions of freedom,
and beguiled persons of courtly leanings into
indiscreet prophecies not justified by the event.
I think it must have been about fourteen
months ago, that we placed another twelve-
pounder in position. It appears to have been
many weeks subsequent to this, that a new
battery was marked out, though not absolutely
begun. Within more recent recollection, two
boats, out of the twenty required to bridge
the Volturno, were noticed in a backward state
of unpreparation. And lastly—quite lately,
indeed—a Piedmontese soldier was clearly distinguishable
on the slopes of distant Teano.
Things are coming to a crisis. It will be well
to take up a position near the front, say at Santa
Maria, and with an occasional glance at Naples
when there is nothing doing, hold ourselves in
readiness for anything that may occur. And,
judging from our own note-book, we are in excellent
season.

Oct. 13. The enemy did a little firing at our
silent batteries, but could not draw them into
argument. They fired with great precision, but,
our people being under shelter, one only was
touched—shot through the arm. The enemy
apparently massing troops on the right and left,
their patrols and videttes being plainly visible.
A traitor on our side, last night, found means to
plant a long rod or wand in rear of Dowling's
guns, concealed on the road at St. Sorio, so that
their position might be visible to the enemy on
the opposite hill. A quantity of ammunition
was also scattered in the ditch. St. Dash's report
of the day, informs the general that "appearances
in general indicate an attack."

Oct. 14. The long-expected English battalion
arrived in two steamers, after a protracted voyage,
seven hundred and eighty strong; but were not
permitted to land, either because nothing was
ready for them, or (politer explanation) that the
authorities desired to afford time for the people
to get up an ovation.

Oct. 15. Last night the enemy walked off
with an entire picket, an officer and sixteen
men. Very early in the morning, two battalions
of riflemen came out, and attacked a
position near St. Angelo, hitherto occupied by
the division Medici. These had, however, been
withdrawn, and the enemy found himself in contact
with the flower of the Piedmontese army—
the Bersaglieri—who speedily drove them off,
taking twenty prisoners.

Our friend St. Dash had a narrow escape to-
day. He had stopped to speak to General Corti,
and was in the act of turning away, when a large
fragment of shell struck the general's horse on
the head. The poor animal's jaw hung down,
and he span wildly round and round, upsetting
the rider—who was happily untouched. Had the
conversation lasted a moment longer, St. Dash
could hardly have escaped.

The English battalion disembarked to-day,
half-stunned with applause, and half-suffocated