I wish the officers were.

The Indians have just broken up their camp, and retired in dudgeon, because the young officers were for ever drinking with the squaws--and--and--hum--ha." Here Mr.
Harry pauses, as not caring to proceed with the narrative, in the presence of little Fanny, very likely, who sits primly in her chair by her mother's side, working her little sampler.
"Pass over that about the odious tipsy creatures," says Madam.

And Harry commences, in a loud tone, a much more satisfactory statement: "Each regiment has Divine Service performed at the head of its colours every Sunday.

The General does everything in the power of mortal man to prevent plundering, and to encourage the people round about to bring in provisions.

He has declared soldiers shall be shot who dare to interrupt or molest the market-people.